I Need Jealous / Possessive / Protective Ghost Plssss :)

biker ghost? biker ghost.

simon riley x fem!reader

cw: oral - f receiving, simon eating pussy to apologize!

18+ MINORS DNI

simon apologized with his mouth, and tongue, murmuring softly against the skin of your belly as he shoved down the fabric of your underwear.

“m’sorry, baby. just lost track of time.”

he had gotten home later than anticipated due to finalizing a mission report. cursing at himself as the clock read past 22:00. rushing home as quickly as he could, knowing how upset you’d be.

and when he saw you teary eyed and pouty he was immediately on his knees. kissing over every part of exposed skin he could see.

nipping at your thighs as he spread your legs further apart. his tongue flat against your clit as you squirmed beneath him.

“promise it won’t happen again.”

you just tugged on his hair, refusing to speak to him as you pushed him closer to your cunt.

“you’re not gonna talk to me, pretty girl?” and he laughed when you turned your face away from him.

running his tongue between your slick folds before circling your entrance. his nose pressed tight against your puffy clit.

he grunted softly as your fingers dug into his scalp, looking absolutely debauched as he gripped at your thighs, yanking you closer towards the edge of the bed as you began to squirm away from him.

mumbling about how pretty your pussy was, and how it belonged to him. drunk off the taste on his tongue as he devoured you.

“ain’t that right, baby? all mine, this pussy belongs to me?”

and you had been doing so good in giving him the silent treatment, but as he sucked and licked at your cunt, it felt as though you were about to explode.

so you gave him a short nod, the first moan ripping from your throat as your back arched off the bed, rolling your hips against his mouth.

“say it.”

you refused, biting down on your lip, but you were met with a soft slap to your clit that had your body jolting.

“say it, sweet girl.”

you whined softly, shoving his face deeper into your slick folds when you cried out the words, “yes, si’. this pussy’s yours.”

and you could feel him smiling against you before he refocused his attention on your clit.

your body tensing under his as you came. white hot pleasure that had your mind turning to mush and your fingers and toes tingling as you cried out his name.

your body loose and hot as he crawled over you. his chin shiny with your slick as his kissed you.

pulling away reluctantly but using the time to catch your gaze, “i really am sorry, love.”

and he knows you had forgiven him when you trailed your hands down to the waistband of his pants, tugging him closer as you kissed him again.

boyfriend!ghost who's just a little bit older. boyfriend!ghost who wears a black leather jacket. boyfriend!ghost who has a bad reputation. boyfriend!ghost who uses you to warm his bed. readers!mama who doesn't trust him. readers! mama who says, "he's only here for one thing," but, so are you. ˙ᵕ˙

"s'too big, si--!! wait!"

simon grips your chin and turns your head to face him, pressing a kiss to your pouty lips, thick cock spearing through your slick, gummy walls, his pierced tip nudging your spongey nerves. “you were jus' begging me earlier, hm? does it feel good sweetheart?”

your dripping cunt clings to him, a creamy ring of cum starting to form on his cock. you whine, lips parting and thighs shaking. your voice fails you, his cock bullying your cervix and punching the words from your throat, only a shamefully loud moan escapes your trembling lips.

simon snickers and covers your mouth with his hand. "don' want y'r mum to hear, do we?"

˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖

connected with this post!

There were very few sights that Simon Riley had engrained in his brain- but this one? This one had to be his fucking favorite.

You were lying underneath him, a thin layer of sweat coating your body, your mouth agape and eyes rolled into the back of your head. You were cock drunk.

His eyes were glued to you, and he honestly couldn’t remember the last time he blinked. Simon usually had quite the stamina, but the glorious sight of you underneath him had his orgasm rapidly approaching.

“Taking me so fucking good, sweetheart.” Simon groaned, his eyes threatening to squeeze shut in pleasure. “Feels so good around my cock.”

“Simon, please.” You moaned breathlessly.

“Please what?” Simon teased, leaning down to nip at your neck. “You begging me to make you cum?”

You gave a weak nod, unable to form a coherent thought. You loved sex like this with Simon- you loved when he grew possessive and dominant, as it was always something he included in the bedroom. You loved when he fucked you dumb.

“What my girl wants, my girl gets.” Simon growled, snapping his hips against you as hard as he could. “Go ahead, love, cum for me.”

You let out a guttural moan at his words as your pussy clenched around him. Your orgasm rippled through you, your body convulsing underneath Simon as you lost all sense of reality.

Simon let out a low moan of his own he struggled to hold himself above your frame- his cock spurting its seed inside your velvety walls. “Fuckin’ hell.”

He pulled out carefully, laughing softly at your whimpers. He pulled you close to him, not caring about the mess the two of you made- he just needed to feel you against him.

He pressed a kiss to your sweaty brow, a proud smile lining his lips when you gave a hum of approval. “Such a pretty little thing you are.”

Simon’s eyes still remained glued to your frame, his brain burning the image to memory. The sight of you right now, completely fucked senseless…maybe THIS was his new favorite mental image.

15 SECONDS OF FAME! — ☆ GOJO SATORU.

headline. fucking your client wasn’t on your bucket list. the famous popstar 'toru' says he can’t perform because of issues he’s having with his voice. but he finds another way to warm up his vocal cords—it involves being between your legs.

word count. 4.2k

warnings. fem! reader, popstar!gojo, pwp, unprotected sex, modern au, he's a whiney brat, overstim, degradation, praise, semi public, impact play, cunnilingus, fingering.

an. lol this was fun 2 write !! ty @osaemu as always for beta'ing

“…nono, you don’t understand. i can’t go out there, i just…can’t—!” gojo mutters, and he’s pacing back and forth. talk about a drama queen. to think you had to deal with this every day, being the infamous satoru gojo’s personal assistant was never an easy task. his attire was…quite enthralling to say the least. gojo was draped up in a sheeny black one-piece with rhinestones attached in a few places, he always had his outfits designed a certain way. not too tight, not too big.

you sat on the sofa, taking a sip of a latte he bought you as a thanks for saving him to deal with the hoards of paparazzi that practically lived outside the stadium back-way entrance.

“satoru, you do this before every show,” you sigh, glancing at him. you couldn’t lie to yourself, he was strikingly handsome. gojo’s hair was a tad bit messy and ruffled. it was a slight v-cut towards his chest to show a bit of skin. his fangirls always went wild over the most minimal things such as that. “you do realize you’re supposed to be performing in front of 10,000 people? canceling right before a show isn’t a good l—”

“i know…i know,” he pouts, and he’s so unserious, you sort of found it hard to believe this was a millionaire pop star who’s such a household name. gojo lets off a loud sigh before walking towards you with a sheepish grin. “these cough drops you’ve been givinʼ me haven’t done shit.”

“really...” you deadpan, casually giving him nothing but a sly eye roll.

gojo sulks and he’s just a few feet apart from you now. “mhm…really,” he says, and the slight rasp in his voice catches your attention. his earpiece was still on, as well with his mic that hung just barely underneath his chin. “i did research though. about other methods that help with heh, um vocal fry..”

you stare up at the popstar, and he’s returning the gaze…as if he was trying to hide the smile that was already forming against his pink lips. you don’t give him an answer and this time, he’s the one to roll his eyes.

“…well since you asked so nicely,” he grumbles, the same pout going against his face before he pulls out his phone. gojo scrolls a thumb down against his bright screen before clearing his throat. “hm, according to this totally accurate article, it says… to fully recover from vocal fry, a guy must uh, receive a special treat within a woman’s—”

you blankly stare at him, already second-guessing his fake response. “just say you want to eat me out, satoru.”

“wha— where’d you get that impression?” he plays dumb, furrowing his eyebrows and cowardly looks around the room. a few seconds go by before he shrugs, speaking quickly, defeated. “….fine i wanna eat you out. hmph.”

you turn your head for a brief moment, hearing the defending roars of the crowd just a few areas down from the dressing room the two of you currently stayed in. “maybe after your show, they're chanting for y—”

“they can wait,” he frowns, and he turns you around, two hands softly holding onto your shoulders. gojo remained with a pout, bottom lip just slightly tucking underneath the top one. “i can’t.”

the both of you grow quiet for a long moment, and gojo seems serious—dramatic, but serious. you and him both exchanged sensual eye contact, and you were so close to gojo that you could practically smell the strong cinnamon scent of his intoxicating cologne. the popstar smooths his lips together before briefly shifting his eyes down at the floor and then back up at you. 

“five minutes…five minutes, that isn't too long is it?” he stammers, and the gaze the two of you made starts to get more and more intense. “i won’t get into too much trouble if it's just five minutes right?”

“you’re insufferable.” you mumble, letting off a soft sigh. “okay, five minutes. if you say this helps with your—vocal whatever.”

not much to your surprise, five minutes turned into half an hour. 

you held back a moan the sudden second you felt gojo’s warm tongue swiftly lap against your drenched folds. he made you wriggle against him, and you maintained a rough grip against the laid-back sofa.

“s-satoru,” you’d whimper out, gasping at how sloppy he was. you were prompt up in such a position to where you were bent over the arm part of the couch, skirt lifted, fishnets just barely pulled down, and the most vulgar expression. “oh my g-goddd, you're gonna make the others outside h-hear.”

“you’ll just have to be a little more quiet, assistant,” he whispers, cool breath fanning against your pussy. perhaps this was unprofessional, no it was very unprofessional. a plethora of following consequences started to race through your mind. “what time is it?”

you moaned, reaching near the wooden half table for his watch and read the time, “um.. quarter past eight.”

“aw man,” he sulks, softly licking the your tender pulsating numb with the very tip of his tongue. with a quick second, he maneuvers circles all over your clit to feel you squirm and jitter against him. “that much time passed? can’t stand rushing…”

as you cling onto the fluffed couch, your black pencil skirt that was just sluggishly raised up and yet, you continued to gnaw the inside of your lip from the feelings of his tongue, entirely sloppy.

the slurps that exited from his mouth had your bottom lip quivering in such desire. you craved more, the way he swirled and curved the length of his tongue throughout your pussy earned umpteen gasps and whines from you. 

“s—satoru,” you’d croak out, and he’s casually taking the time to make out with your folds. languidly, your slick race down his chin, and between breaks to breathe, he'd lap up his tongue before diving back in. “fuck, ‘m gonna cum again, think ‘m gonna cum..”

“wait a little longer, yeah?” he murmurs, grabbing the fat of your ass with two rough hands. you felt bundles of butterflies stir inside your stomach, feeling gojo’s nose swipe against your folds for a few jiffs. “let me eat, haven't had a good meal all fuckin’ day.”

you swallowed, not even facing him but you could practically see the grin stretching across his lips. “and…and who’s fault was that?”

he chuckles, warm breath fanning against your cunt. “okay, you have a point,” and your thighs feel feverish—you’re so hot, and not because of the sudden humidity wafting around the small dressing room.

the popstar lolls out his tongue, humming before you moan, feeling him lick your pussy in a straight direction. “mhm, this is better than anything else though.”

you were about to speak, but all that did was make you let out a shaky whine. the smooth pads of his thumbs graze against both parts of your ass as he continued to eat you out like a starved man. it was as if time stood still, your mouth grew exceedingly dry and your legs felt like they could barely stand up on their own. 

“sa..satoru,” you once more repeated, not knowing how long you could last. simply, his tongue was dangerous—god, it was just the way he moved it in every direction.

he knew where to lick, where to suck, and even nibble. gojo found himself tickling his tongue against your little nub before sucking on it. all to hear you cry out in desperation. cacophonies of whimpers depart from your glossed lips such as, ‘satoru,’ ‘please-please,’ and ‘m gonna c-cum.’

there was no denying, gojo had you an entire stammering mess. you found yourself even questioning how this became, the two of you were never intimate. although, there's always been steamy moments between the two of you. 

for instance, there was a moment where gojo took you with him to the hot springs while he was on tour…which non-surprisingly led to a hot make-out sesh. that was a few months ago, and the two of you decided to not think much of it. of course though, there are always assumptions being made about the two of you—always from the nosy journalists and interviewers. 

each interview, it’d always be questions they’d ask about the precious little assistant that’s essentially attached by the hip to the famous gojo satoru.

“are you and that girl exclusive yet?”

“how long have you two seen each other?”

“please. describe to us. what’s she like in b—”

they’d get more perverted each time. alas, gojo always loathed it whenever the press referred to you as ‘that’ girl.

his jaw would always clench in sheer annoyance. perhaps he didn't have the right to feel that way, but he was somewhat protective over you. it wasn't like you were his bodyguard or anything clearly, but still. he always liked how you treated him just like you’d treat anyone else.

“satoru..” you'd cut him off from his deep thoughts. “your phone keeps beeping.”

“huuuuh?” he grouches, ears perking at the annoying screech of his device. gojo’s thumbs remain against both edges of your ass before he breaks off his lips, a long string of his own saliva running down your slit. “oh, can you hand it to me?”

he's so nonchalant, and with your back still arched, you lightly fling his phone towards him.

he grumbles.

picking up the phone, typing in his twenty one digit passcode of ‘sexymansexyspraycan69’ before with a click, it unlocks. gojo darts his eyes towards his phone and hums at the five messages left from his manager, kento nanami. 

‘Greetings. Where are you? Message me Ass.’

‘ASAP. Autocorrect.’

‘Your fans think your dead.’

‘Don’t tell me you're busy with that assistant of yours again.’

‘When your sales start going low, don't blame me.’

and many more unread, “blah blah yeah yeah,” gojo murmurs, skimming through the loads of unread gray bubbled messages. “nothing important. geez, can't have a single moment to myself.”

you were so close to orgasming and that's when gojo flips you over to face him—you're panting and he flashes you a soft smile, leaning in to kiss your forehead. “aw, waiting for me?” he whispers, bringing a gentle kiss towards the inner corner of your neck. his touch was immensely warm, something you just couldn't describe. “you wanna cum don't you, baby?

“m-mhmm.” was all you could manage out, wrapping your arms around him as he got right between you. gojo continues to trail kisses down your neck before chuckling. 

“use those words, c’mon. don't be shy. i wanna hear ya tell me what you want.”

the way he was such a tease, you couldn't stand him, then again you could. so annoying, gojo’s warmth of his performing outfit brushed against your skin. the perfectly knitted fabric of it dancing against your skin as he inched closer towards you. “tell me how much of a messy girl you wanna be.”

“i—” you started, and he took a moment to stare into your eyes. gojo looked so pretty, smug yes, but pretty. long lashes each time he blinked, fluttering against him. whenever he showcased that well-known cheeky smile of his, his dimples would poke right against his lips. “i-i wanna cum. please, lemme cum, ‘toru..”

“pretty girllll wants to cummmm,” he sings in a  playful melodic tune. again, you couldn't stand him. singing right in the middle of something so intimate. gojo runs a hand down your buttoned-up shirt before chuckling. “hm, i suppose. go ahead, let go fʼr me.”

once you do, immediately your vision turns dizzy. all you saw was a few blotches of white, and it feels so good that the feelings have you biting down on your lip. gojo leans into your neck, whispering sweet nothings against you while giving your ass a soft caress.

“good girl, just let go…yeah,” he purrs, giving your collarbone a gentle suck. you taste so sweet to him. you're addicting, simple as that. like candy he can't get enough of.

gojo satoru had a sweet tooth for you, there was no doubt about it. “fuck, i can just suck on you all day,” he utters in a low voice, and his warm hands part your thighs so he can get a bit more between you. “i need more…fuck the fans, i need you.”

“idiot, don’t say that..” you moan, and he's kissing all down the crevices of your neck again. gojo’s lips against your tender skin gave you chills. even still, you were so hot, from the neck down. it felt amazing, the feeling of him sucking and kissing against your skin to such a point that you're just throbbing. “t-they’re waiting for you.”

“they can keep waiting,” he smiles, leaning down to kiss near your chest, moving the exclusive backstage lanyard pass away with a slight grip. “damn, you don't know how hard i’ve been during rehearsal. i—i think about you, you know?”

you gawk up at him as his body towers over you, his costume glimmers in the light before he starts to peel it off carefully. you were taken by surprise so you mutter, “you…you do?”

“well yeah girl,” he rolls his eyes, such sass in his tone, following with the low rasp that hid underneath his voice. “you drive me crazy in the worst way.”

“the feeling’s mutual, popstar.” you utter, a glint in your eye.

“hmpf. now that i was nice enough to let you cum, you decide to be a brat, huh?” he raises a brow, using two fingers to brush his mic piece aside. 

a coyish grin goes against your lips. “sorry. are you gonna do anything about it?”

“…shut up..” he grumbles, and he does. 

pretty much, you then found yourself on your hands and knees on the couch, feeling gojo caress your ass briefly before meeting the mounds of your skin with a mean spank.

you suck in shortened breath. “ooh,” he says as you moan in unison of the light thwack. “you get off on spanks, huh?” he utters in a grouse, the feeling of his palm kissing against your skin making you continuously pulse. 

“n-no.” you spat. 

“liar,” he matches your snarky tone, and you let off a gasp once you feel him finally rub the tip of his dick against your folds. gojo grows abnormally quiet the minute your slick coats his length freely. “fuckkk,” he sighs, eyes closing for a short second. you teasingly wriggled your ass against him and he spanks you again. “you’re so impatient, wait.”

“do you even know how to fuck?” you slip out, and you held back a giggle. perhaps you shouldn't have said that, your thoughts did speak way more than they should anyway. 

gojo’s eyebrows curl into a furrow, and his voice genuinely sounds offended. “wha—?! of course i  do.”

“just asking.” you tease. 

“just asking,” he mocks your tone, completely butchering it purposely and gojo slowly starts to make his way inside of your tight pussy. he's gradually moving himself in, and you let off a moan before he continues, “yeah. shut the f-fuck up.”

a small grin stretches against your lips, because you hear how gojo stutters whilst sinking inches into you. even while trying to be mean and degrading, he was so close to moaning himself. it was simply adorable. you maintained a mere pristine arch while biting the inside of your cheek once more. 

“you're s-so wet ‘n sloppy,” he huffs out a groan, and the squelches your pussy made against him was simply enticing. for a second, you grew mute once you gave your own body a listen. just the faint sounds of gojo’s jagged breathing, “f-fuck, ‘s good. keep facing that way, just like that. good.”

gojo’s touch against your spine was purely gossamer. 

he was soft, gentle, delicate.

yet the minute he started to create a pace with his rollicked hips, he couldn't contain himself. the way his dick probed throughout your walls, you kissed your teeth in longing—just for him to just hurry.

gojo was always such a tease, the fat plump head of his cock dabbing against your pussy. 

“s-stop playing and just put it in.” you moaned, growing impatient by the mile. 

“heh, you know what they say,” he mumbles, you pulse even more once you feel him slide in about a single inch or two…only to then go right back out. “patience is a virgin.”

“…it’s virtue.”

“that’s what i sai—”

“just fuck me.” you whined. 

gojo giggles, and finally, he starts up his slovenly pace again. he grips onto your hips before sighing. he takes note of the way you progressively suck him in.

you linger over the couch, the fabric of your own pencil skirt just hovering over your waist before gojo starts to sway his hips. 

you had to stop yourself from being so noisy, executives were probably in the other room.

some kind of meeting perhaps occurring, yet here you were, happily entangled with your client. such thick inches he was dumping into you had nearly drooling. gojo’s base was rotund and fat, thwacking and thwacking against you to where you're so dizzy. 

“f-fuck, ‘toru.. ‘s good.” you whined, every few seconds he’d smack your ass to watch your ass jiggle with such recoil. it was one of his favorite moments to witness. as your lips stuck together, your thighs already felt weak and tremulous. 

“damn girl…didn't expect you to s-start throwin’ yourself back again me,” he sibilates, and for a concise moment his head goes back. a groan flies past his glossed pink lips as your ass continued to thrash against him. “you're such a needy girl. tryna…f-fuck me back..”

the way his voice unintentionally got low whenever he was in such a trance had you throbbing, such convulses making you nearly weak in the knees.

to you, the feeling was indescribable. such pools of heat ran between your legs the more his thrusts picked up.

his dick reached every spot, so much so being precise—you felt the curve of his length analyze all throughout your inner walls. it didn't miss a spot, he reached deep and you let off the cutest whimper. “god, r-right there. please, ‘toru. y-your curve, ‘s reaching me deep.”

“you f-flatter me,” he pants, trying to ignore his flusteredness. gojo’s right hand, the hand that had a half-cut open glitter glove that coordinated alongside his outfit ghosts against your ass. his lip quivers from his pace, and the way your pussy just sucks him dry, a few splotches of pre-cum cutely coated against the outer part of your ass. “fuck, dunno how much i can take with you movin’ your ass against me like that…shit, shit.”

“…s-satoru,” you breathed, biting down on your arm to suppress your moans a bit. not before long, he deepens the angle and you feel his sharped hips piston in utter contentment. “fuck, f-fuck. ‘s deep.”

gojo groans, swallowing the nonexistent lump in his throat before he feels himself coming close.

“think you’re gonna m-milk me dry,” he gasps, jerk after jerk his hips go against you at full throttle. the base of his dick, you hear the pap pap pap noises commence, and it’s so obscene. “shit, think ‘m in love,” and then you grow hot. it’s a long inelegant pause before he adds to his words, “…i-in love with your pussy.”

you were gonna comment something, but you were too fucked dumb to comprehend anything. you’re basically being fucked stupid into the cushioned sofa. the cottony bristles of the fabric went against your skin as your body lurched forward each time. 

splaying at an almost animalistic pace, gojo’s ears, the very tips of them at least grow incredibly hot, you’re making his body heat up, scorching. the way your pussy tightly hugged around him like a vice, he was obsessed.

he just couldn’t get enough. to think this was the first time he’s been this intimate with you—oh, how he could only imagine what it’d be like for a second time, or a third time, or a…

“s-satoru, your phone’s ringing..”

he grunts, glancing down to see the bright-lit screen display, and this time it’s geto. with an eye roll, he ignores it, still gripping your hips, he’s attaining his peak before he lets off a husky groan. “f-fuck, ‘m gonna cum.. can i—?”

“y-yes, jus’ do it, ‘toru,” you spoke, not even letting him finish his sentence—you knew what he was gonna ask though if he could shoot inside. you were so drunk from his dick, thoughts on your mind were straight mush. 

“okay, okay,” he breathes, and even his moans were pretty. figures, gojo was a soprano, so he was bound to sound angelic, even while moaning his head off. it had the perfect pitch to it, such rasp in it, almost breathy. 

you feel gojo’s pelvic bone thrust a bit more at a quickened pace, accelerating just a bit more and his nerves were just going wild. “fuck, f-fuck..” he grunts, and he starts to grow a bit whiney, his sloppy hits against your rear made out to be a tad bit voluntary, rhythm a bit more expedite, and he clenched his jaw. 

once gojo came, it's so much.

thick ropes that seeped right into you. you moan, and he pauses his hips just to watch, feeling himself pouring all inside. velvety ropes of the popstar’s cum fills you up to the brim. you're panting, he's panting, and gojo was in love.

was it love? he didn't know, but his pupils were dilated for sure. 

his breath hitches once he slowly pulls out, watching his own cum slowly spill out between your folds and he lets off a moan. “made me fuck such a mess into you,” he spouts, running a thumb down your slit to watch you cutely jounce against his touch. 

“you ruined my panties.” you whined, turning over to face him—gojo leans in for a kiss, and you return the favor, tasting yourself once more on his lips. the sweetened taste of your own slick that still remained all over his tongue. 

“baby, it's not like you need them,” he rasps, grabbing ahold of you, and he positions you to get on his lap. “besides, i was gonna ask to keep them.”

“why?” you mumble, wrapping your arms around his neck, slipping off a moan at his already sensitive tip hovering against your entrance as you realigned yourself. 

timidly, he runs a hand down his neck. “y’know. for uh…good luck? was gonna keep them in my pocket or something.”

“you're so—”

“shhh.” he hums, interrupting your words for another tender kiss. your tongue slides against his, and he tastes minty.

as his breath collides against yours, you playfully bite down on his lip. gojo grunts, and he’s making your way inside again. gingerly, you sink down against his thick base and he gives your ass a mean squeeze before spanking it once you start to move. 

“oh f-fuck…fuck, forgot how sensitive-” he hiccups, watching with half-lidded eyes at your hips rotating against him in an orderly fashion. you moan from his pleasure, taking a second to swallow before whimpering—softly, you kiss against his neck and he grunts. “you-you make me feel so good, baby.”

gojo’s almost at a lost for words, he’s had his fair share of women, but none could make him feel like this.

besides, he's never had the time. touring day in and day out was a hassle, and intimacy was a straight no due to his overly busy schedule. 

although, whilst the two of you were screwing around, making out and you're riding him cowgirl, that’s right when the wooden creaky door bursts open.

not to anyone’s surprise, it's no one other than gojo’s best friend and bassist, suguru geto.

“you've got to be joking,” he utters with crossed arms, immediately darting his eyes away. “everyone’s been calling you, there's a search party, and—”

geto pauses, tilting his head. “…is that my clothes you're wearing, satoru?”

“suguru…hey man,” gojo gasps, nervous laughter following his tone—you jump in surprise, and he wraps an arm around your waist. “i’m… kinda of busy here.”

“i don't give a fuck,” he grumbles. “by the way. your mic was on the entire time. you moan like a girl more than her.”

gojo’s eyes widen, reaching for the tiny button near the edge of his mic.

indeed, the switch was turned on and he awkwardly laughed, bringing the speaking part up to his lips.

“eheh…hey mic check?” and he could hear himself echo through the ear piece. embarrassing.

despite you still being inside, you just sat there—geto staring away, not even trying to comprehend what was happening before gojo coos out a subtle cheeky, “uh…i didn't know my mic was on. my bad.”

“you're so stupid...” you run a hand against your forehead in disbelief. an entire stadium practically heard the both of you. 

the heels of geto turned before gojo brings a finger against your lips to shush, and he pouts. “sugu wait,”

“what.” he mutters, turning back around. 

“wanna join…? don't think a few more minutes wouldn't hurt…r-right?”

“…….”

꒰ྀི 𝒲𝐻𝐼𝒫𝒫𝐸𝒟 𝒞𝑅𝐸𝒜𝑀 ꒱ྀི

꒰ 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐜𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 . . . ꒱ 3.8kay word count , fem reader , daddy kink , oral sex [ r. receiving ] , könig punches someone , pet name usage [ reader callz him koo , könig callz her little one , little girl , princess ] , mentions of reader bein physically smaller than him , pussy wedgie , creaming + squirting , size kink ? i dunno , he gets kind of jealous + possessive . .

𝜗ϱ 𝓁𝓊𝓋 𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒 𝒻𝓇𝓂 𝒷𝑒𝓁𝓁𝒶 . . . jus take dis ໒꒰՞ ܸ. .ܸ՞꒱ა . hvnt posted anythin in like , ovaaaa a month so 🧁 ennnnjoi ! ! Minors + Ageless Blogs Do Not Touch ! ! ! ! !

“sechsundachtzig . siebenundachtzig . achtundachtzig.”

you’re a sweet girl.

you know this. he knows this — everyone knows this. doesn’t mean that he necessarily likes just how chasmal your warmth and comity goes, but, könig supposes he can’t complain. he won’t complain. it was the very thing that drew him to you . . no, rather, wrenched him in to you. the sound of your laughter, a gentle, pleasant thing in which a cute snort, an eccentric titter counterbalances near the end of. it’s obvious that you may have gotten teased for it during your early years because it’s never overly loud, you snap your hand up to your nose and determinedly guard a pretty, gleeful gleam with your fingers before it can expel fully into the air, and könig will be honest, he’s not anything if he’s not an honest man, if there’s anything that he loathes about you, it’s that . . only that.

he’s seen you giggle at fawning children, an aberrant one liner he’d retort underneath the tide of his breath, from your favorite movie’s dialogue — he’s never really seen you give that cute, quirky huff of a snort anywhere else however, until tonight.

the annual modern military association gala.

“too many people,” he grumbled into that warm twill of skin beneath your neck the night before — that area that smells most like you, unrefined of perfume and lotions scented of gilded iris and praline amber, but just you. “fuck no.”

you had given him a short whine and clutched tighter onto the index finger of his hand that laid directly upon the area of your womb with a small fist, “they’re decorating you though — you’re gettin’ three medals koo’, y’gotta go.”

fuck the medals. ornate and encrusted with gold and silver, admired and respected for shoving a bk-1 claymore into the sweat ridden flesh of another soldier or bulling the barrel of 98k sniper rifle past their teeth until the slimy pads of their tongues got corded inside of the cable of their throat — könig likes to watch that split second of panic fill their eyes, gives him an refreshing kick of adrenaline, before his index finger is pulling back the trigger and making brains splatter against the canvas of a wall . . . a picasso of red and pink, no, a könig. made uniquely by him, for him, not anyone else.

getting a medal for doing so, sure, he’ll take it, however, not in front of six hundred people. ridiculous.

but, he’s forced to — by you and the general.

he’s forced to stand beside you and hear the incredulous whispers of his colleagues’ wives and friends ask if ‘that’s him?’ ‘is that really him?’

“he’s the one that . . — oh, oh wow.”

“jesus f. christ, why does he look like that?”

“you don’t talk to him, honey, right? do you?”

then there’s you. sweet, precious you. you remain a step ahead of him at all times, his own, select, darling bodyguard. your head reaches his mid torso, the difference span of his fingers against yours racks up to about three inches, and you’d probably tip over with the weight of it if he were to let you hold one of his guns but, you’re cute. you squeal and clap, bouncing on the tip of your toes after his medals are collected, outstretching your arms for him until he’s there, blanketed, within your embrace.

you give him a small kiss, a treasured one, over the fabric of his veil and murmur that you’re proud of him, you’re happy for him. and really, fuck the medals, they don’t compare to you. not by a long shot.

könig’s ready to go, and you see no point in staying after he’s gotten his praise, nevertheless, you’re stopped right before exiting through the doors.

by some fucking . . rookie — his name is something stupid. lars . . . lester . . laird. könig recognizes him sometimes on the field. he’s not bad, but he’s not good neither. the greens of his eyes twinkle when he looks at you. he congratulates könig, compliments his work, says something fairly funny because you give a giggle. könig notices it, but he doesn’t think you do, laird seems to like that — your laugh, that is. because he quips something else and you giggle a little louder, give that precious snort near the tail of it. shrewdness frays the edges of his smile . . it begins to teeter the blurred line of flirtation and könig feels the familiar skip of his heart. it starts to hammer against the cage of his ribs, sends his mouth dampening with an influx of saliva.

“—but i’m sure you’re used to it right? colonel here always gone, gets lonely, no?”

his inquiry makes you give a small hum. you genuinely seem to think about it. “sometimes. but i know he’ll always be right back,” you lean back into him after answering. könig’s a pillar — a man carven of stone. to establish a boundary, a strong arm circles around your hip . . his forearm rests within the sink of your waist, drawing attention to the flowing silk of your evening gown. it’s pink and flowing with a thigh high slit and cowl neck. könig waits . . and he waits, until he sees it — the flicker.

with the weight of his arm, your dress obeys the laws of gravity and the neckline dips a little lower, flaunting off the crease that splits your plump tits into two.

laird asks another question and waits until you hum again and lift your eyes up towards the ceiling to ponder an answer before his own gale down to take a small peek.

könig thanks him — truly, he does. he gives him a reason to draw both his arms back. his left, the one holding you rotates behind himself so that you’re shielded behind the great expanse of his shoulders and to protect you from the few feeble splatters of blood that shoot out into the air and onto könig’s cloak after his right arm ricochets back forward with enough strength to rival a bullet bouncing off of steel. the sound of knuckles colliding with a nose bridge is loud — soft music is screeched to a halt, the entire venue goes silent.

with a quiet spout, “dummer hurensohn,” könig takes hold of your hand and steps from over laird’s unconscious body, uncaring if a heavy boot knocks against the side of his head as he does so. your heels quickly pitpat after his strides, and weirdly, you’re quiet. you remain silent on the drive home, when you both step over the threshold, when you shower together, and as könig rubs an exfoliating sponge across the scope of your body. you don’t speak and könig doesn’t make you. he lowers himself up then down on the pull-up bar, muttering his count with each one. he sees you, seated upon your shared bed, both legs laid down and folded at the knee, soles of your feet pressed up against one another. you thumb with the dangling chain of your gold anklet, twirling it around and ‘round your little finger, prior to letting it go for just a second, then doing it again.

he keeps staring at you — your face is blank, eyes dim, muscles relaxed.

then the plump cushion of your bottom lip starts to billow.

“awh, no, no, no.”

it’s a demand.

mightily, he falls down onto his feet and is at the bed in two long strides. you’re still pouting when he leans down, swoops a sturdy arm underneath the bend of your knees and at your lower back. he takes a seat, you upon his lap, and like a babe, he holds you so, “no pouting. kein schmollen.” he touches it, with one large, scarred finger — delicately presses upon your lip, as if it were a peds candy dispenser, capable of slotting back to its normal shape.

“you shouldn’t have hit him, könig.”

“i did what needed to be done.”

“he’s probably dead.”

behind a hood of ink, eyes of blue waves glimmer with relish — akin to the golden rays of the sun against the foamy brine. “mm.” he says nothing more.

you huff and straighten yourself out until you’re seated upright, facing him and legs spread around his hips. “this is serious. what if you get fired?”

there it is — a smile. a big one. it creases the corner of his eyes. he stares at you as if you were but a wiseacre child, thinking you know everything. “not going to happen, kleine.”

“mm.” it’s your turn now. you look away from him, still frowning, still pouty.

könig doesn’t understand. why are you upset? his mouth twists in a firm scowl, “. . . looked at your tits. stupid fucker — i’d do it again,” he bites out.

“hittin’ him doesn’t make it right.”

“don’t care.” huffing, he looks down at your breasts himself. yeah, he can see why laird gravitated towards you. they’re pretty . . sit nice and full, even with no support. you wear just a camisole and shorts to bed tonight, both are textured with some sort of scallop fabric, and laced with pink along the edges with a bow threaded snug in the middle of the top trim. könig palms one and you give a small inquiring croon. when he starts to roll it within his heavy paw is when you go to smack his hand away. “no,” you grumble.

“ ‘s my tits,” he grouches in reply, lifting his hood a few inches above his lips. lowering his head, he then begins to suckle a line of wet, tongue filled kisses along the globes of them. “not yours, neither.”

“y’so,” your back curves in and you grasp for balance with your hands on his knees when he sharply tugs your camisole down so that they spill from over it and into his awaiting mouth and hands. “so mean, koo’.”

“es ist mir egal.” i don’t care.

he doesn’t get you. you’re nice, too fucking nice. you confuse him, bewitch him, mystify him, entrap him in your hold, your smile, your voice, your touch. he engulfs his mouth around your nipple — nearly devours your entire tit. it’s as though he’s trying to swallow you whole, you wouldn’t doubt that he is. you mewl as he frees it from his lips with a slick pop. he doesn’t even swallow his tongue back inside of his mouth, like a weir, saliva drips from the tip of it as he pants and hauls it over to your other breast to lave it across the opposite nipple. it’s soft, puffy . . cute. “mm,” you sigh and with a hand, coast it underneath his hood, scratching your nails across the short strands of hair near the nape of his neck. “b-be . . more . . nice.”

again, he pops off to murmur one word — a gruff “no.”

the fucking nerve of that guy. the nerve of you. there isn’t a person you belong to on this earth that isn’t solely him. könig’s put a lot of work into this, a lot of long nights and even longer days, trying to better the more worse parts of himself, all in efforts to have you. he’ll be damned if some rookie, some fucktwat of an amateur attempts to come in and mess it all up — innocent flirting or not. “my tits,” he shifts, turns on his side, lets you fall back against the bed with him atop of you. “my ass. my pussy. all of you, mine.”

his fingers find the crotch of your shorts. he slips them underneath the fabric at your mound until it squidges into a slim line and fits between the fat, pudgy lips of your cunt. your gasp is quiet, reflexes forces you to lift your legs up and hold them at the knees. “mmm,” he grunts at the sight and with his opposite index finger, stokes it quickly from left to right across the chubby skin of them, watching how your pussy jiggles and quivers. “pudgy. fett.” fat.

warmth whelms the surface of your cheeks, “you’re gross,” you whimper.

he knows.

decent, refined men don’t smack pussy just to watch it bounce off of their palm. they don’t lean their head down and make out with a clothed clit, suckle and nibble on labias until they’re a second away from nutting in their sleep bottoms. you’re a whiny thing — hiccuping and whimpering, pulling at his hood until it goes askew. it’s always sudden . . . you never know when he’s going to take it off because könig doesn’t ever know himself. he realizes that he needs to tonight though, if he wants to eat you out the way he wants to, fuck you the way he wants to, he needs all obscurities out of the way.

it’s torn off and tossed upon the lamp on the nightstand.

he hears you give a little coo of happiness. you’re tugging on him harder now, wrapping your legs around his neck, curling your pretty toes against his shoulders. “greedy thing,” a finger probes against the hole of your cunt through the fabric of these tiny, little sleep shorts. “feels good?” he drags it up to your clit then back down, pressure firm.

you inhale, eyes closed, palms weakly cupping your tits, “mhm.”

you’re so sweet. you’re so good. you need a man like him by your side . . someone a little bit more mean, more rough and vile. balances out, no? that’s how it goes. opposites attract and what not. könig knows he needs you, too.

when you relax again, he takes that split chance to pop another firm smack against your pussy, knocking you out of that space of contentment. you wince and give another sweet whine and really, okay, he’ll stop. tugs your shorts to the side, slips his tongue right where you need him most. he swallows the horribly sweet sap of your love within the back of his throat — fucks his tongue sloppily inside that little hole, splits it open, forces it to gape and take, take, take. the bulbous knob of his crooked nose knocks against your clit as he does, he makes sure to sway his head from side to side occasionally, nuzzles, makes sure she gets some well needed attention, too.

“o-oh,” your voice is stuck in your throat. you keep trying to speak but they sound like little squeals. “oh g— . . oh god.”

“mm ,” he coarsly murmurs. “süsse muschi . . rub it, princess. rub it on m’tongue.”

you know what he wants you to do. you’ve both done this before.

your legs fall, feet planted flat against the bed, and you rise to your toes and lift your hips when he elevates his head an inch then keeps it still. könig lets you do the work, makes you stroke your pussy across the open plane of his wide, long tongue, up and down. already so delirious — your mouth is brimmed with drool, eyes closed, you work shyly at first . . slow and careful, “h-hah,” you breathe, quiet and tender. “daddy . . mm, d-daddy.”

when he closes his mouth to swallow, he lets his lips enclose around your clit, nice and tight. “mmmm,” you whimper and push yourself faster, holding onto his hands that he gives for stability. “d-don’ stop . . koo, don’stop.”

“i won’t,” he breathes. he needs your cum on his tongue just as bad as you want to give it. with an extended opened mouth comes an immoderate amount of drool — it dribbles off of it, makes your pussy that much more of a mess, the sounds are disgusting. wet and slick, slimy and thick. “mmph . . fühlt sich gut . . . no? pussy’s crying,” the volume of his voice is but a mere rumble, he’s cautious of you, doesn’t want to fuck up your pace too much. “needs cock in her.”

your tummy trembles. your nails, layered with smooth acrylic, long, and sharp, burrow inside the stoutness of his flesh and soon, you’re cumming — thighs quivering and pussy creaming onto the welcoming mat of his tongue. he groans, you sob. “yeah, good girl,” fiercely, he swallows it, licks into you for more, similar to the way a person would bury their tongue inside of a canister for more meringue. “good girl, good girl.”

you fall flat onto your back and he’s on you without another second lost. sweat shorts are kicked down strong thighs and soon his hands are parting your legs wide enough to accommodate his stature. “ptuh.” you watch him spit . . marvel the mostly healed scar that runs about four inches diagonally across the thin skin of his lips flex as he does so. he polishes it across the thick, long column of his cock, smooths the pre cum down, cups his balls, “mm, keep still.”

one of your legs is thrown across the ridge of könig’s shoulders, the other remains pinned to the mattress. you watch as he strokes his cock between your lips, dowsing it with his saliva and your cream. “filthy, lil’ pussy . . cock hungry, isn’t she?”

you react to his words — clench and another ripple of slick blesses the tip of his cock. at his responding chortle, you cover your face and shake your head, “könig.”

“ja, ja . . i know. papa knows.”

when he first pushes into you, you groan and turn your face away to pull the fabric of the comforter between your teeth. big. so big. too big. his face dips in low in order to bury it against your neck and in him doing so, he effectively bends your leg back further against your shoulder — god, it burns. he doesn’t stop. he sheaths himself in, nice and deep . . basking in warm, gummy tightness. he feels at home. “oh f-fuck,” you sound about two seconds away from crying, soft, sweet voice thin and warbled. “ungh.” he suddenly slams in the last inch, lets his fat, woolly balls plop against your winking hole, indulges in the pulsing rigged cordage of your insides. “god, yes. fuck, yes,” he rolls his hips, nice and slow and this is where you melt and finally give in. “yes, yes, yes.” könig saves lovemaking for special occasions. anniversaries, your birthday . . veterans day.

he can never help his instincts — the ones that demand him to fuck and fuck and breed. with his weight, he keeps you still after his hips pick up an immediate, smooth, quick momentum.

god it’s so good. you feel so good.

his balls plap against the soft skin of your ass and he keeps you still with only a hand. he’s so big, in every sense of the word.

“f-fuck,” you sob, arm thrown across the back of his neck, face buried in the crook of it. “deep . . daddy— . . shit, awe.”

könig thinks of how pretty you are. how sweet you are, how kind, and precious and dear. he thinks of the looks you’re prone to receiving each time you step out of the house, how much you love him. “like that, eh?” he asks quietly, reaching a hand down and away to let it firmly fall back onto your ass. he smacks it again and again. “feels good for m’kleine, mm?”

your toes crack when they curl, it nearly hurts. “y-yeah,” you squeak beneath shallow breaths. “k-könig, please.” you don’t know what exactly you’re pleading for — him to slow down? no, you’re already on the brink of something phenomenal. you need him closer, you think. he’s already as close as can be, both your sets of tits pressed up against one another but, you need him even closer. you squeeze him tighter.

“muschi’s . . sloppy,” he huffs a heavy breath. “hear her? — n-nice an’ wet. ekelhaft.” disgusting.

the headboard pounds ceaselessly against the wall. you lift your hips, beginning to meet him halfway, making your pussy swallow him to the base. könig groans out a loud sound — similar to a snarl. “yes, yes, yes — good, little fuckin’ pussy . .”

the both of you feel you creaming — making a hell of a mess. it smears across the front of his balls, drips down the puckered button of your ass.

his breath is against your ear and yours against his. you whimper and cry and squeak. he pants and huffs and groans. the air seems vapid. you can’t suck in enough, even though you try your hardest.

his cock is fat, your pussy lips are fatter. they split far apart to take all that he provides and it leaves open access to the throbbing, wet nub of your clit which the thick patch of his pubes stroke against. “good girl,” he groans. “good, little girl — mm, jus’ give it . . give papa yr’cum. make me a mess.”

your eyes lift on their own accord — they lift and then they cycle back inside of your skull when you feel the fat mushroomy tip of his dick kiss the sensitive ridge of your cervix . . once, twice, thrice. “uungh god,” you breathe. you’re completely out of it, voice gone, brain empty, breath lost. he adores you like this and you know it. there isn’t another reason that’d make sense as to why he’d be fucking you this way. “m gonna . . d-daddy, ‘m gonna cum,” you sound scared almost, as though you’re fearful of it. so, könig kicks it into high gear — maintains his pace though implements a pivot of his hips with each stroke in to caress his cock across that tender of nerves angled near the roof of your squelching cunt.

that’s enough for your legs to seize, for your back to arch, arms squeeze that much tighter around him. forthwith, his cock is forcibly pushed out of your cunt with a lewd ‘pop!’ as a vulgar scene of liquid is gushed from out of your gaping, little hole. “aaaahh.” he drags it out through a low chuckle and taps his tip within the mess, willing more of it out. “mm, there it is. there we fuckin’ go.” he’s pushing himself back in before it completely diminishes — fucks you with more vigor, more strength. you’re so sensitive. tremble all over, bite onto your own fingers to muffle your squeals and blubbering of overstimulation.

“ja,” he heaves. “ready for it? . . gonna . . j-ja, fuck.”

with firm circles of his hips, könig presses himself up flushed against you, soon allowing his cock to erupt eight, long jets of cum deep inside your womb. “hng . . . mein gott.” my god. his dick swells with the influx of it, balls jump in time with each one that gets released and buried inside the warm depths that is you. and he doesn’t even stop there — continues to slowly sway his hips back and forth, as if he were trying to work it in deep, make sure it sticks. you feel the product of his love, of his adoration, and care, and sweetness. it’s thick and hot, white and runny . . dribbles out of your battered pussy when he pulls out with enough slowness to rival molasses off a spoon — seems like it hadn’t wanted to leave. he kisses you and you kiss him back, weak though enthusiastic. you feel how tight he holds you and he doesn’t have to say it because you know it regardless. mine.

don’t be scared to ask that person out. the worst they could do is say ‘no’ and then begin attacking you with their bare hands, ripping the skin off your face and tearing out chunks off flesh from your arms and disemboweling you

kinktober : oct 11th

simon riley x housewife kink

simons never really had anyone that was so willing to please him and serve him on their own free will, so of course it’s going to turn him on to no end.

it was the way you looked in the kitchen on a lazy sunday, his tshirt hanging off your shoulder, not aware of his hulking presence standing in the doorway watching you stir the gravy you’d made for the sunday roast you were making (which really makes him feel at home, god) he never thought about having anything this domestic, but you make that life look so good.

it was the way you can just sense when he’s had a bad day, greeting him in the living room when he drops down on the couch, huge body sprawled out, and you crawl between his legs and get to work, gagging on his thick length until the sour memory of his day is replaced by the feeling of your sweet mouth around him.

it was the way you look at him whenever he whips out cash to pay for whatever you want — those sweet adoring doe eyes. he made alot from the military, it’s true — but simon was never a big spender, and didn’t like to treat himself unless he really had to — so as you can imagine, the man let’s you go wild with his credit card. “whatever you want. s’not like i’m gonna spend it.” he gruffs, nonchalantly sliding his card into your hand when you’re rambling about an outfit you’d had your eye on.

he doesn’t want to rush into things, simons scared — and the thought of scaring you off with a proposal is constantly weighing on his mind, his true feelings towards the matter only coming out when he had you bedded, your sweet self having offered yourself to him after he’d had a long day. he’s got your legs over his strong shoulders, the base of his cock creamy from releases as you wail, his thick veiny hand pressing down on your lower stomach. this is where simon really gets vulnerable, a rare but delightful occurrence.

his vulnerability comes in filthy promises. “th’s it doll, taking me like a fuckin’ pro. could do this for the rest of my life. you want that, yeah? want me to stick a big shiny rock on that pretty little finger? make you my little wife? what would people think hm? sweet little thing like you lugging round a big old man like me. gonna know my pretty wife gets f’king destroyed every night. you want that don’t you, pet?” you can barely work out what he’s saying because he rambles it all into one breath, grunting into your shoulder as his balls slap against you, pushing you towards one final orgasm and himself toward his first release. you could barely think straight, but you knew a conversation was due after he’d finished emptying his balls into you.

Wifey!Reader who's always too tired for sex X Mafia!König

Konig wonders what the hell get you so tired all of the time. He is the head of the most famous mafia family in the city, he literally has daily executions of the enemies lined up as a bucket list, but he still gets home and has the energy to fuck his precious stay-at-home wife...only that the wife doesn't have energy for him. Now, we all know the jokes about mafia bosses and their wives fucking hot bodyguards and rookies from the gang, but Konig knows you're faithful - the cameras and tracking devices are prooving your loyalty, as you never have as much as a maid interacts with you throughout the day. You're just...tired. Exhausted. He got you the best doctors his money could buy, and his answer was to leave you to rest and hope that the lavish lifestyle of a stay-at-home mafia wife is going to somehow enhance your libido and ability to last under your husband. It's no secret that Konig is big - sometimes you want to initiate sex, but you get tired even thinking about all the prep you will need to have...you just go thank you, but no thank you - and you really, really want to be the best girl out here for him, but sometimes you fall asleep during the foreplay and he kinda has to respectfully lay you on the giant bed and go and blow the brains of one of the guys in a torture chamber. Konig won't hesitate to force you after some time, however. He wants you to make love to him, and soon enough, no excuses of you being too tired are going to work. He will have you spread your legs for his even if this is the last thing you're going to do - and no, you won't get to say in this, unfortunately. Konig is forceful and aggressive and you feel sore as he pounds into you, speaking of how much he missed the feeling of your cunt clinging to him...god, he fucking adores you. Too bad that a pretty thing like you thinks that you can just ignore his manly needs... He often makes you cockwarm him in case you're too tired for a regular sex - he likes the feeling of your pussy squeezing him and your body sitting lightly on his lap, so he would do his best to not fuck you too roughly while you're sitting on him, your head pressed on his chest like you're a small, precious little animal. God, you're fucking adorable - and even if some of his crooks are entering to ask whatever the hell boss was doing, Konig won't allow anyone to make you too embarrassed to cockwarm him.