♡ Mori Ougai ♡

𝐬𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐡𝐞𝐜𝐲 𝐬𝐚𝐲𝐬.

 pairing. anakin skywalker x f!reader 

synopsis. anakin finds loopholes in the jedi code.

warnings. 18+. this is sexually explicit, do not read this or interact with my blog if you’re a minor. do not copy my shit, i’ll find out. cock warming, p in v penetration but no movement. whimper-y anakin, if you move i'll leave the jedi order type beat.  

an. just a little something i wrote for the kinktober i never did. I thought i'd post instead of letting it collect dust in my drafts. the prompt was cockwarming! hope i did anakin justice<3 pls comment & reblog.

You find him at the window.

Sitting, with his thighs open and chest bare, staring out into the abyss. The night glints at the beads of sweat sliding down his chest, and his fingers drum endlessly against his thighs.

He heard you wake up, so he’s expecting your company, and has leaned back against the chair – thin black gown falling open – ready for you to climb all over him.

It happens often.

It’s not uncommon to wake up without him.

Most nights, you startle out of your slumber – as if even asleep, you’d sensed a shift – and blink at the space on the mattress beside you.

Finding him was easy.

You pad through the living room and wordlessly reach him in his post-nightmare state. His hair is tousled, sculpted chest is slick with sweat -- there’s an energy vibrating off of him, and you can taste it in the air.

Stepping behind him, you gently run the tips of your fingers over his shoulders, and the whirlpool in Anakin’s belly settles for a second. When you move into frame, it’s gone completely, replaced by a warm heat that has roots. He breathes a smile.

“Like clockwork.”

You give him a sheepish grin in return and fiddle with the fabric of your small nightgown. There’s a moment where Anakin gets to look at you – all sleepy and cuddly – and he’s ready to escape with you off of this forsaken planet.

His will holds strong.

“Are you waiting for an invitation?” he asks, raising a scarred brow, and despite your groggy state, you still manage to roll your eyes. Stepping closer, you use his broad shoulders as anchors to slip onto his lap.

“Don’t make that face,” Anakin hushes, and while you settle back onto his thighs, his metal hand comes up. He traces the line of your jaw, “You know I let you do what you want.”

His spare hand steadies your hips, and it’s still warm from his lightsaber. Calloused fingers run over your skin, reminding you of the fight that’s leaving scars – the war that’s brewing, both inside and outside of his mind.

In moments like this, though, there’s a subtle calm.

An impenetrable force that hums over the pair of you.

You lean into his palm and whisper, “Not everything.”

There’s a haunted edge to your gaze, and your words are loaded. Anakin knows what you mean, knows all the intricacies of your subtle dig, and yet, he still manages to smile.

Well, smirk.

“What do you want? Just say the word.”

You wouldn’t, and Anakin knows that. He’s caught your bluff, and you manage a bashful smile before gently leaning forward, dragging your hips against his lap.  

Anakin’s cloth-covered thigh nestles against the thin fabric of your underwear. Your smile falters, lips parting. You push your forehead against his, and whisper, “If I say the words, I’ll never forgive myself.”

“I know,” he breathes, “I know.”

I want more.

A life together, not stolen moments when the sun is down.

An attachment. A bond.

But it’s forbidden.

It’s why it can’t go any further than this.

“What’d you dream about?” you wonder. Anakin pulls his eyes away from you, instead looking to where his thigh sits. The silence is your answer.

“I’ll still ask, even if you never tell.”

He takes hold of your bare thighs, rubbing his hands up and down, and you hum his name, reaching out to push his hair behind his ears.

“Pretty boy.”

“Stop it,” he huffs, cheeks reddening.

But how can you? When he’s all sharp lines and long hair. You run your hands up the bare panes of his muscular chest, feeling the deft of his muscles, and the dampness on his skin.

The air changes – hums electric – and it buzzes as you push his gown off his shoulders.

Carefully, you lean forward and place a chaste kiss against his collarbone.

“That’s better.”

Anakin hums a laugh. His hands snake around to your lower back, dig into the fat of your ass, and using the grip there, he gently rocks you forward once, forcing your clothed cunt to drag against his muscular thigh.

You whimper. It’s quiet, but Anakin can hear it, even if it’s muffled by his shoulder.

“’ S’what you came out here for, huh?” he whispers. The electric flooding through the walls hums, but the room is still eerily silent. Anakin’s voice is a roar.

You lick your lips and drag your face up to see him. “No,” you whisper, pressing a soft kiss against his top lip, “I like being with you, even if we don’t do this.”

Anakin has to close his eyes. Words like those are fuel to the fire brimming in his chest, and it doesn’t help that you wrap your arms around his neck and fiddle with the tail end of his hair.

Arching your back, you slowly roll backwards, then forward, teasing the bulge between his legs.

Releasing a shaky breath, you repeat the motion, again, and again, near humping his leg.  

A familiar ache begins to swell, coiling between your thighs and up into your belly. It makes you clench around nothing, and you mewl quietly, wishing for more – always wishing for more.

Still, you continue, slick pooling into your underwear and against his thigh.

Anakin can’t look at you. If he sees your face, his resolve will falter.

His nerves are shot. If he couldn’t feel how wet you are, he could smell it, and it makes a groan bristle behind his teeth.

He buries his head into the crook of your neck and busies himself with kissing at the soft shell of your throat, careful not to leave marks.

Once, you left a mouth-shaped mark against his stomach, and he looked at it every day for a week.

Caught himself with his top up in the mirror looking at the reflection, eyeing the way the mark sat on the firm lines of muscle, fading away with time.

A dark part of him wanted the mark on the slope of his neck.

“Wanna be inside of you.”

His admission rests heavily against your throat, and you’re thankful that he can’t see the way you clench your eyes closed.

Though, he does feel you tighten your grip on the back of his head. Feels you shift up against his thigh, and the warmth pooling in your underwear burns against him.  

He can sense you’re hesitant.

“’ can be like last time. Just – Just --” he stutters, licking his lips and struggling to release the words from the back of his throat. Finally, he manages. “--Sit on it.”

“Anakin.”

He pulls away from your neck and looks up at you.

“We can use it as an exercise.”

A laugh bursts from your throat, “To test your will?”

He smiles, and because you have to, you push your cunt against his crotch, uttering, “Want me to make It difficult for you?” and white flashes through Anakin’s eyes.

He grabs your hips to steady you, tensely pushing his fingers into your skin.

“Hardest challenge I’ll ever encounter.”

“You eager to impress?”

He kisses your jaw, “Don’t I always?”

“Mm,” you hum, cradling his chin. You shift back so he can pull his trousers down, and when you take his cock in your hand, he melts. His commanding aura switches for a moment, and you watch Anakin still his breathing.

You push your underwear to the side, and as you lift yourself to sink onto him, Anakin breathes, “Just the tip – just a little bit, j-just—” and he chokes on his words, gasping as you brush the leaking head of his cock through your folds.

You halt. Whimper. Have to grip his shoulder to steady yourself, or you’ll push him inside of you all at once and hurt yourself.

You inhale steadily.

“Have to – have to go slow,” you spurt, trying to calm your tremors.  

“It’s been a while since…”

You don’t have to finish your sentence. Anakin knows, and he feels a mix of pride and guilt. Only me, he thinks, and then, like a flash, only me, he swallows. And I can’t give her everything.

This. This is as far as it’ll go. He knows he’s pushing it. Knows that he’s come up with some convoluted rule to both have his cake and eat it too.

If he fucks you the way he wants to, he’ll fall in love with you. As if it hasn’t happened already.

Anakin has made lying to himself a speciality.

You push against him once more, and the tip of his cock nudges between your folds, forcing an ache to shoot through your clit and make you dizzy. You stop. Pause and curse yourself.

A slow burn builds in your thighs, and you clench down to try and mediate the burn. Anakin grunts.

“Maker,” he utters. “Sorry—” you splutter, sucking in a tight breath.

Anakin wraps his metal arm around the back of your hips, hoping to steady you. “Lemme,” he mumbles, and gently, he flexes his hips up, slowly feeding his cock into your soaked pussy.  

Your lower abdomen immediately burns.  

He’s being calm about it – using all his training – but there’s nothing calm about the words trickling out of his mouth.

“Oh stars,” he groans, voice wrecked, “You gonna take all of me, sweet girl? Gonna let me fill you up?”

When you finally sink to the hilt, your resolve snaps. The pair of you moan out in unison, loud and high-pitched.

Anakin buries his face in your chest, and the heat of his mouth against your breasts adds to the tension coiling in your belly.

“Don’t – don’t move,” he grunts, and you shake your head, “I won’t – I’ll come on your cock if I do,” and you don’t mean to say it like that, don’t mean for the words to come out like that, but you feel Anakin pulse from inside of you, warm and hard and wet.

He manages to laugh.

“Tryna kill me,” he shakily breathes, shaking his head. His wet lips brush against your breasts, and you want more – want all that he can give you – so you clutch the back of his head, pulling him closer, hoping he gets the message.

His wet kisses make your skin prickle.

You’re full up. Can feel him stretching you out, this feeling something that’s only happened a few times before.

“If you move,” Anakin begins, out of breath, “I’ll leave the Jedi order and spend my days inside of you.”

“Don’t t-tempt me.”

He laughs, and you accidentally clench around him, causing him to groan deep and long against your tits.

“If you do that again, I’ll come inside of you.”

You imagine it. Imagine him spilling out, the wet white of it dripping out of your cunt and back onto his cock, and the mere image of it has your clit throbbing.

Keep still. Don’t move.

But he wraps his tongue around your nipple and begins to suck.

You cry out, and all of your muscles tighten, forcing you to clench tight around his cock. Anakin jolts and whines your name against your tits.

“S’your fault,” you mewl, moaning. You hang your head back, “Stars, Anakin.”

“Try and stay still,” he mumbles, and you stutter a laugh, “Impossible.”

“It can’t be,” he responds, and while he speaks in jest, his words are sincere. The line between love and lust runs thin, and if Anakin is being honest with himself, it’s close to snapping.

present for his beloved (mafia!dazai osamu)

warning(s): yandere themes, implied physical abuse, intimidation, broken darling

note(s): a little something i wrote for the lovely @vani-ya​, for her birthday 💕 I hope you like it!

You whimpered uncomfortably in his lap, heart threatening to beat out of your chest.

You hated being this close to him. His mere presence around you was suffocating, permeated with the scent of blood and gunpowder, and the scent of his cologne closing in on you from all sides. It made you sick to your stomach.

He was talking to someone across the desk, barking orders at them, as if you weren’t even there. One of his arms was holding your waist in place, while the other harshly gripped one of your frail wrists. That’s going to leave a bruise.

Out of the corner of your eye, you looked at the terrified man standing across from the wide mahogany desk. His skin had gone pale, and he looked ready to bolt at the first opportunity. You didn’t blame him. People don’t realize just how terrifying Dazai’s presence is until they actually face him.

He finished talking, and the man scurried out of the room as fast as his legs would carry him, leaving you alone with him once more. You trembled in his arms.

“Now, now, my belladonna. What’s the need to be so afraid?” he murmured into your ear, pulling you even closer, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

You didn’t allow yourself to relax, more out of past experience than anything else. And sure enough –

“If you behave yourself, that is.”

An expression of pure, unadulterated fear crossed your face, and he laughed. It was a deep, full laugh, and you could feel it reverberating throughout his chest from where he had you pressed flush against it.

Trying to get a better look at your eyes, he moved a lock of your hair away from your face and tucked it behind your ear. One of the many things you weren’t allowed to do was tie your hair. He liked it loose, framing your face, said it made you look even more angelic. That, and he liked to be able to grip it whenever he wanted.

“Let’s see now…what would my darling like as her present?”

“Present?” you asked meekly.

He laughed, “My, my, do you really not remember what day it is, belladonna?”

When you shook your head, his face lit up with a sadistic grin. Most days, you weren’t even allowed to leave your room, let alone the house you shared with him. You would never call it a home. The only time you did leave was when he took you out, and it was mostly to this dark monstrosity of an office, just so he wouldn’t get bored. There are windows but he always keeps them covered.

Neither his house nor the office have any clocks, so time seems to slip from you often. You’re lucky if you can tell night from day most of the time, and you know that’s exactly what he wants. He likes you that way: disoriented, compliant, and utterly helpless.

“How air-headed you are, my love.” He said in a patronizingly mocking voice, “It’s your birthday.”

“M-my birthday?”

“Mhm, and I want to let the love of my life know, burn it into you, just how much I love you. So, tell me, belladonna. What do you want for your present?”

There was a cigarette dangling from his left hand, and you hoped to God he wouldn’t just put it out on your skin like he always did. Thankfully, he actually used the ashtray resting on his desk this time.

The smile on his face was sickly sweet, completely out of sync with the harsh grip he had on your waist, fingers digging into your hipbones. Oh, well, what’s one more bruise to add to your collection? What do I want?

“I…I d-don’t know.”

He pouted in mock sympathy, “Really, now? Is there nothing you would like me to do for you? How about I loosen the collar?”

Your hand instinctively moved up to touch the metal adorning your neck. It was horribly constricting, and it used to hurt in the beginning too. It still did, but you had kind of gotten used to it.

“Or would you want to lose the cuff on your ankle? That would make your futile attempts to escape easier, wouldn’t it?”

The cuff on your ankle wasn’t attached to anything at the moment, but he never let you take it off either. It was convenient for him, in the way that he could fasten it up to whatever he wanted, and that it also served as a constant reminder to you of your own powerlessness.

Yet, when you looked down at the cold metal harshly gripping your ankle, your gaze was blank. What do I want?

You think you used to want to run, but…now you can’t see the point. Running will not help, because each time you have tried, he has caught in the blink of an eye, and each time he has caught you, he has made it hurt more than the last time. There is nowhere you can run where he won’t find you.

“No…” You whispered, curling up in his arms and trying to make yourself as small as possible.

“What’s that?” he asked, even though you know he heard you perfectly, “Did my belladonna say she doesn’t want to run?”

You shook your head slowly, and Dazai smirked. Forcefully gripping your chin with one hand, he turned your head to face him, “So, what do you want?”

You fumbled frantically through your head for the right answer, something that would satisfy him. You know there’s something specific he wants you to say. You also know what happens if you don’t say it.

“Y-you. I want…to be with you.”

He smiles and pushes your head down to rest on his shoulder as a lone tear leaks from your eye. Then he places a gentle kiss on your forehead.

“Good girl.”

i think the hottest look you can give someone after they commit acts of unspeakable violence is approval. like don't get me wrong if there's lust there too that's great, but staring at someone with gore dripping down their chin and coating their hands to the wrists with undisguised appraisal and admiration. maybe giving them a little nod as if to say 'well done'. THAT'S what says "yeah we're gonna fuck nasty later".

Fervency

Non-Ascended Astarion x F!Reader - NSFW

Synopsis: After falling into mysterious spores in the Underdark, you start to experience some... strange side effects. Astarion is more than happy to assist.

Warnings and tags: 18+ (and I cannot stress this enough), aphrodisiac/glorified sex pollen, established relationship, discussions of consent, fingering, oral sex (both giving and receiving), blood drinking, multiple orgasms. Takes place post-game and includes mild spoilers.

Word Count: 5.7k

There’s not much that surprises you anymore.

It’s true - being kidnapped by illithids, having a tadpole implanted behind your eyes, facing the gods themselves - all of that does make it difficult for mundane life to come anywhere close enough to truly shock you. Your days aren’t necessarily peaceful, but they never seem quite as exciting as that blind haze of companionship in the aftermath of the nautiloid, trekking through the wilderness and shadow-cursed lands and the city, finding yourself in the company of strangers but soon-to-be family.

Still, these days, there’s something every now and then that catches you off guard. The trouble is, you’re never quite left in a space to know how to handle it. Unlike your earlier adventures, things are rarely solved with a dagger in your hand or a dash of flattery in your words. No, the burdens of day-to-day life are much more complicated than that.

Falling into a patch of mysterious spores, for one.

The Underdark is full of various mushrooms. Poisonous. Explosive. Befuddling. You could go on and on. You’ve had your number of close calls with them, but the sensation coursing over your skin feels like nothing you’ve ever experienced - and it doesn’t help that you’ve never seen spores like this.

Hells. Of course this is where your day would end up. 

Just a little stroll, you’d told yourself. It’ll be harmless. And it had been, for the most part. There’s an unearthly beauty to the Underdark that you’ve never encountered anywhere else, one you’ve come to appreciate just as much as the upper surface. But halfway through your usual route, your feet had snagged on a branch and you’d gone tumbling, and now - now you’re in a patch of glowing, red spores, feeling like…

Gods, what do you feel? 

Hot. You feel very, very hot. Sweat trickles down your back. Warmth blooms like poppies in a number of strange places - your cheeks, your lips, your neck. The feeling is spreading fast, bleeding through your ribs as you get to your feet.

Alright, you think to yourself, ignoring the sharp, bleeding panic in your throat that’s threatening to take over. Situations like this call for a sense of rationality. You’re going to get out. 

It takes much longer than it should for you to slowly stumble back to familiar ground. Your movements are jerky, as if you’re being puppeted around, and it’s getting harder to think straight when you’re feeling as if - whatever this is - is slowly consuming you. The heat is in your lungs, coursing fire near your pounding heart, raging with every inhale. 

You need to get this off of you, and as quickly as possible. After that, maybe it will fade and maybe it won’t. You’ll… you’ll figure it out. 

By the time you make it to the river, your knees are trembling so much that you nearly fall in. The water barely scratches the surface of the fire when you splash it over your skin, but the coolness of it is euphoric. You go as quickly as you can, covering area by area - your clothing, your arms, your face and neck - until most of the spores are off, but the feeling pulses and throbs in you all the same. Whatever it is, it isn’t killing you, but it certainly isn’t pleasant. 

You could tell Astarion. He’d tease you a little, but he’d also be certain to search endlessly to find something to stop your discomfort. And you ache for him. His touch, his voice, the fondness in his eyes when he looks at you. 

Had it really been just this morning when you’d last seen him? It seems like lifetimes away - lost to a very, very different type of ache in your veins that won’t seem to fade. You’ve just made up your mind to go find him, rising to your feet again, when the heat rushes to a very specific place between your legs and all thoughts of looking for Astarion are instantly cast out.

Oh, you think, somewhere between dizzy, needy, and utterly humiliated. So that’s what this is.

You’ve read about things like this - plants, pollen, potions -  but most of them had been in bad romance novels, and none of them had ever come with any mention of an antidote. And, needless to say, you won’t be making your way to the Myconid Sovereign to learn more. It’ll have to be handled on your own. 

You could risk going home and pretending to be ill, but Astarion is far too perceptive for that. He’d see through your ruse immediately. Which leaves the only option: hiding in a cave and waiting this out, praying he won’t notice you’re gone and come searching for you before you’re back.

And really, how bad can it be?

Bad. It can be very, very bad. 

You’ve been sitting in this cave for who knows how long, and your sanity is fading more and more by the minute.

It had been manageable at first. The heat spread through you like warm cider on a cold night - a slow, steady increase, the way a candle gradually burns down to the wick. You’d thought it would stop at a certain point (it had to, didn’t it?), but no. It just… kept going. 

Now, every inch of your body feels like it’s on fire, and it’s not slow, or steady, or even remotely bearable. It’s a strange, pleasurable flame, but a flame nonetheless. You can’t even decide whether touching yourself would even help at this point. Even just grazing your hand along the length of your thigh sends the fire rising, and you’re not keen on experimenting at the moment.

Your hands have gone stiff from balling your fists. Your mouth keeps switching between being as dry as sand and overly salivating. Each breath ignites more warmth, and you’ve been trembling for so long that you don’t remember how it feels to be still.

Gods. If you trusted yourself to get to your feet, you’d go see the Sovereign - a lifetime’s worth of humiliation or not. You don’t have any clue what time it is. There’s no sun or moon down here to guide you, no mechanism to spell out the hour. Has Astarion noticed your absence? How long until he’s concerned?

You know enough to know that you should have been back by now - that it’ll be unusual for you to have been gone so long. At least this spot you’ve found for yourself is relatively private. A dark, dry little place with a stone floor; fluorescent ivy in shades of lavender and coral; remote enough that, if your willpower fails and you end up making some noise, no one will be around to hear. 

You attempt to swallow, but the action dies on your tongue. You attempt to breathe, but you can’t seem to suck in any air. You’re just thinking you really might die in this painful, mortified state when the pad of footsteps on stone hits your ears, and your whole body pulls as taut as a rope. 

Oh, gods. Please not him. Anyone else. The Sovereign. The Society of Brilliance. Anyone.

But it’s him, because of course it is. He slowly makes his way inside, pressing through the narrow entrance and around the corner, and when he sees you curled against the cave wall, his brows rise - alarm.

“Wait,” you blurt out, determined to speak before he can. “Don’t come any closer. Please.”

Astarion stays where he is, but his eyes start instinctively scanning you over, searching for ailment or injury. “What’s wrong?” he asks, tilting his head. “You aren’t hurt, are you?”

“I’m fine,” you tell him, even though you’re anything but. You want to say more, but your thoughts trail off as another wave of heat flares inside of you. You’ve started trembling again. Your fingers accidentally graze against your thigh, and you let out a small, involuntary noise.

Astarion hesitates, then takes a step closer. “Darling,” he starts, raising a brow, “you make a terrible liar.”

Of course you can’t fool him. Not even a little. You let out a laugh, but the sound hitches into a strange, choked sob. You pull your knees to your chest and let out a long, shaking breath, trying to get a grip. “I know,” you say softly. “Gods. I’m sorry.”

He takes another step closer, and concern writes itself into his expression. “Gods below,” he exclaims. “Er - my sweet, I don’t mean to be rude, but you look...”

“Horrible?” you finish for him. “I know.” 

“I… was going to say ill, actually,” Astarion replies, laughing a little. “This dark cave lighting looks beautiful on you, my dear.”

You can’t resist another laugh. It’s less burdened this time, but it fades away as you hesitate, very pointedly gazing down at your fingernails instead of meeting his eyes. “I may or may not have fallen into a patch of mysterious spores.”

“And?” Astarion says, lifting a hand into the air and giving a small, contemplative gesture. “Go on, darling. Seeing as you aren’t dead - I’m assuming they weren’t poisonous?”

You shake your head, swallowing hard. How the hells are you going to phrase this? “No,” you answer. “I just feel… hot. Not like the explosive ones, just… hot.”

“Well,” Astarion says, “That’s… interesting. Alright - let me take a look at you.”

Half of you wants to protest, but what’s the point? He’ll find out the truth sooner or later. So, instead, you nod.

He steps closer, kneeling down at your side, and you have to ball your fists to keep from doing something stupid. You’re expecting more flame at his touch - a painful flare, like when you’d grazed your thigh - but when the back of his hand meets your forehead, his touch is like a salve. Soothing, cool, sweet. It mellows out the fire, makes you feel sane again.

You shut your eyes in relief, staying as still as you can, and when you open them, you find him giving you a look you know all too well. Smug. Affectionate. A glint in his eye that can only mean trouble.

“My, my,” he purrs. “Darling, I’m no healer, but… a racing pulse, dilated pupils, feverish to the touch? That, I know.” He leans in, his voice low in your ear. “And I can smell how much you want me.”

A shudder runs down your back, betraying you. Astarion leans in to kiss you, his lips brushing against yours - soft and gentle and perfect - and it takes everything in you to pull away.

“Wait,” you protest. 

He instantly halts, pulling away from you and scanning over your expression. “What is it?” he asks. “Is everything alright?”

“Everything is fine,” you say quickly. “But you don’t… I mean - I can manage this on my own, you know.”

His brows rise. “My dear, you do realize I am very capable of helping you in this situation?”

“Gods, Astarion,” you say, biting back a delirious sort of laughter. “Believe me, I’m well aware. But I don’t want you to feel like you have to do this. I can manage this.”

A fondness enters his expression - the rare kind, reserved for the most meaningful of moments. He leans closer, placing a gentle kiss on your lips. “I know,” he says softly, the words tender and delicate. “Trust me. I want to do this.” He trails a finger along your thigh, and you shiver again. “I’ve missed you,” he murmurs. “And, unless I’m wrong, you’ve missed me, too.”

After searching his gaze and finding him entirely present, you let yourself relax into his touch. “I’ve missed you more than anything.”

“Good,” he says. “I was almost worried.”

He skims his knuckles over your jaw, leaning in to kiss you once more, and the flame in you seems to bend to his touch. It rages in you like a furnace, bellowing and cruel, but with every frigid brush of his fingers, the feeling subsides. Even the feel of his lips on yours seeps away the discomfort.

He’s slow with his actions, but he doesn’t tease, even though you can see the amusement in his eyes when he pulls away to look at you. He’s enjoying this, and if you’re honest with yourself, you are, too. If only it didn’t come at the price of your dignity - but if it’s going to fall away in front of anyone, it might as well be him. 

His hands slide down to your thighs, and your whole body pulls tight, torn between wanting him to touch you now and not wanting him to stop what he’s doing.

“Relax,” he murmurs, his lips ghosting against your ear. “I’ve got you, darling.”

You let out a shaky breath and try to coax your body into cooperating, shutting your eyes and letting the feel of him drown out the path of your thoughts. The sensation of his mouth, trailing down your neck, ranging between feather-light kisses and the barely-there sting of his teeth against the skin, making every inch of you melt into his touch like clay. His hands, sliding to the front of your top, deftly unlacing it and pulling it away from your skin.

Thank the gods no one is anywhere around this area - if anyone were to interrupt you, you’re sure you’d die right here and now. The simmering need that lies under your skin is bordering on painful, a white-hot delirium of impatience that will not be ignored any longer.

Astarion’s fingers skim across your sternum, further soothing the burning inside your chest, and his lips soon follow downward. You let out a soft noise from the back of your throat, something choked and desperate, and he hums against your skin in response.

When your eyes flutter open again, you find that he’s staring up at you as he kisses down your abdomen, eyes dark and hands curled lightly around your ribs, ardor and affection both palpable in the heat of his gaze.

Your instinct is to shut your eyes again - to shut out the intimacy and vulnerability that comes from holding his stare - but you don’t. Instead, you move the stiff muscle of your arm and coax your hand into working again, gently tangling your fingers into the silky-smooth, silvery curls in your lap.

He gives you a roguish grin, tugging on your bottoms until they finally, mercifully, pull away from your skin, leaving you in nothing but your smallclothes.

“Gods, you’re beautiful,” he mutters, the words dark and heavy on his tongue, but they feel more for him than for you. His brows crease together and his actions turn sure and firm and quickened - as if he can’t wait to have his mouth on you.

Beautiful. It’s the second time he’s called you that word tonight, but it doesn’t stop the heat from rising back into your cheeks, and that feeling of the warmth seems to spark a chain reaction. 

It’s as if his voice is stoking the fire - more heat, all rushing to the very place his lips are heading to now, only to be soothed by his touch. He gently pulls at your thighs, coaxing you to lay on your back, and you’re so desperate that you nearly knock your head against the hard floor laid out beneath you in your effort to obey.

Your mind isn’t processing things the way it usually does: in an even, progressing line of events, every moment spread out from one to the next. Rather, everything comes in bursts of feeling, flashing between being a thousand miles away and all too close, all too present. You barely feel the graze of fabric when he removes your smallclothes and leaves you entirely bare, but the gentle, wet press of his tongue against you feels amplified a thousand times over.

“Astarion,” you gasp, your hand tightening in his hair. 

He hums again, and the feeling of it has you shivering, muscles going slack in pleasure. Short, soft flicks of his tongue over your clit and you’re left a shuddering mess, not thinking to try to be quiet - not really thinking at all, anymore. He grips at one of your thighs, looping it over his shoulder as he pulls away for a moment, nipping at the tender flesh there. Soothing it with a gentle kiss, then returning to his work.

You’re a walking - or perhaps laying - contradiction. Your arousal is lava hot, but your pleasure is cold as ice. You can’t decide if you’re cold or hot or both or neither. You’re not in a place to think, not as blinding bursts of pleasure course up your spine, rendering you a lump of skin and bones and not much more. His mouth is nothing if not fervent.

You aren’t sure how long it lasts - your hand in his hair, his mouth against you, writhing in dizzying pleasure against the hard, stone floor and barely feeling the discomfort. It might not be very long at all - but it feels like hours before his fingers enter you.

You’re soaking wet. If you weren’t so focused on, well, everything else, it’d be humiliating. Still, when two fingers slip into you and meet no resistance whatsoever, Astarion groans. The pace he’s setting with both hand and tongue is torturous, slow and even, and it takes everything in you not to beg him for more. 

But when he goes a little faster, a moan pulls from your throat, and you look down to find him grinning as he pulls away, fingers still at work. “Look at you,” he says, praise lilting the words as he curls his fingers - sending your hips rolling. “You’ll come for me, won’t you, darling?”

And as if he’s flicked a switch in your mind, you’re coming around his fingers, gasping and shuddering and clenching. Electricity seems to coarse through your veins, hot and sharp, flaming and radiant, and when it’s gone, there’s only the slickness between your thighs, a slight breathless laughter that escapes from you without a thought, and the fading warmth of the spores.

For a moment, it seems as though there might be relief. Your thoughts clear and the heat wanes, but after a sparse second or two of relief, it comes back as strong as ever. 

You’d be disappointed at its reappearance, but then Astarion is crawling over you, using his knee to coax your legs apart for him, so how could you ever be disappointed? Everything else slips away except for him. His eyes, dark with want, his lips, molding against yours, his tongue, gently pressing into your mouth as he buries a hand in your hair.

He’s hard for you. You can feel it, and that realization has you grinding against him. He groans, cursing under his breath, then reaches down to undo his trousers. “Are you ready for me, love?” he asks, his voice half-broken with want.

You laugh, still trembling from your climax. “You know I am.”

“Mm,” he hums, his eyes glimmering in the dark. “But maybe I wanted to hear you say it for me, darling.”

Gods. He’s beautiful - always so beautiful - even here, in this dark, cold cave you’ve found. A work of art down to the dark circles under his eyes, the crow’s feet around his eyes, his smile lines. 

You could spend a thousand years studying the art of him and never, ever get bored; not of his voice, and the way his confidence sometimes, ever so rarely, breaks into something real and raw. Not of his hands: nimble fingers and the calluses from his blade and soft skin - and not of his eyes, which seem both dark and light depending on his mood, and which can seem so sharp and severe at times, but sometimes soften into something soft and round. Sometimes. When they’re looking at you.

You could spend a thousand years admiring him and never, ever get tired of him, and never, ever deserve him. And he’d never believe it.

He’s noticed you staring, because of course he has, and he tilts his head. “What’s going on in that pretty little mind of yours?”

You can only smile, deliriously happy and wanting and both hot and cold - hot where the warmth burns uncontained, and cold everywhere his skin meets yours. “I love you.”

Your words must catch him by surprise, because it’s shock that meets his expression first. It fades away into affection, placing itself on his lips in a soft smile. “I - I love you too,” he answers, brushing a stray strand of your hair out of your face. “More than anything.” 

He clears his throat and shifts, and as you feel his erection brush against you, only then do you remember the conversation you two had been having. Him between your legs. You, still needing him inside of you.

“I’m ready for you,” you breathe. “Please. I want you.”

“How could I say no?” he asks, leaning in and biting at the lobe of your ear.

He presses into you slowly, even though you don’t need it - not after the effects of the spores and your first climax still evident on your thighs. Only when he once again begins a slow, torturous pace do you realize that he’s doing it to tease you, and when you look up and find a certain amount of devious intent in his eyes, a shudder runs down your back.

He’s always seemed to enjoy watching you fall apart. How many times have you looked up in the middle of one of your late-night trysts to find his eyes on you, the darkened ruby gaze that seems as starved for you as his hunger for blood? 

How many times has he eased your arm away from your face when you felt the need to hide yourself, and how many times has he gently pulled your hand away from your mouth so he could hear the noises you made for him? 

There’s never really been a question about it; Astarion gets off on your pleasure, and the feeling is very, very mutual. Vulnerability aside, it does something beyond words to you to know how much he enjoys giving you pleasure. And, sure as the hells, you like to give it right back to him. So, keeping your gaze locked on his, you grind your hips down to meet him and let out a moan.

His jaw clenches and he swallows hard, his thrusts deepening as he props himself over you. You watch the lovely path of the action over the bob of his Adam’s apple, then flit your eyes back to his, letting out another noise.

“Gods,” he says, and his pace quickens. His hands wrap around your shoulders and he groans, panting as he rocks into you, his grip turning into something almost bruising. 

Part of you desperately wants him to keep going - but the other part of you wants to give him something, and now seems the proper time for it. So you tilt your head to give him access to your neck and murmur a few, soft words, and he slowly comes to a halt: breathing heavily, nails digging into your skin as he tries to regain some semblance of composure.

He kisses down your jaw, slowly drags his teeth along the skin, then sinks his fangs into your neck. You’re used to the sharp pain of his bite, but it’s different today. Intensified. It’s as if his mouth on your skin, the barely-there pain, is salving through that fire and every single limb of yours goes slack with…

What is it? Pleasure? Affection? Relief? It’s something in between, something warm but not scorching, something sweet but not overly-saccharine. He starts moving his hips again and you’re instantly on the edge, planting your hands on his lower back underneath his scars and resisting the urge to dig your nails into the skin.

He’s drunk from you enough times since you met to know where the limit lies, even on the cusp of his climax. He drains you until you’re sufficiently lightheaded, but not enough to harm you, then pulls away, planting a messy kiss on your mouth. 

Messy. It’s how you know he’s close. His actions are usually so graceful, his movements lithe and calculated. Only on the edge of orgasm do the pretenses fall away - his shaking thighs, soft moans into your lips, panting, blood smeared across his lips and almost certainly yours. 

There’s a blinding moment of pleasure as he thrusts harder, deeper, neither of you caring about the level of noise you’re making, and your nails dig into his back. He lets out a groan of approval, then - gods, you’re climaxing again, your whole body trembling with the waves of pleasure that crash over you. Overwhelming at first, then receding into the brief moment of clarity that lasts a minute or two this time. 

Then the spores start their work again.

The heat isn’t nearly as intense this time, but it’s still there. Part of you wonders if it’ll ever really fade. You lay still, gasping, as Astarion slowly pulls out of you. Then he brushes the damp hair out of your face and kisses you again. 

“Darling,” he starts breathlessly, flashing a mischievous grin at you, “if this is where we’ll end up, you should fall into mysterious spores more often.”

You laugh, sending a playful, light hit toward his shoulder. He catches your hand mid-action, pressing a kiss to your palm, holding your gaze the entire time. “You’re not the one who feels like they’re on fire, Astarion.”

He hums, kissing back down your neck, cleaning up the remnants of blood from his bite. “I wouldn’t say that,” he says, his voice gravelly with want. 

That gives you pause. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” he says with some effort, propping himself above you, “whatever those spores were - they seem to have entered your bloodstream, my dear. It’s - an interesting sensation, I’ll admit.”

You’re searching his face for a tell that he’s not being serious, but instead you find wide, blown out pupils, flushed cheeks, and nothing beside his usual mischievousness. Any blood left in your face quickly exits. “Gods, I didn’t even think. I’m so sorry-”

“Don’t be. I’m not.” He presses another soft kiss to your lips, and you see a small smear of your blood on his lips. When you lick your lips, you can taste the iron of it on your tongue.

Astarion is watching you. His gaze darkens, and he lets out another thin, broken groan. “Darling. At this rate, we’ll be going the whole night.”

And, honestly? With the rate the heat is returning - you don’t doubt it. 

Still, you gently ease him off of you to sit up, then make your way into his lap and wrap your arms around his neck. 

There’s something addictive about Astarion - there always has been. From the moment he’d had you against the dirt, a dagger to your neck, he’s been your fix.  

In those first days when you’d had to hide your want for him - not even lust or sheer desire, but want; the ache to run your finger through silver curls, the warmth in your cheeks when he held your gaze just a moment too long, and the rare moments of vulnerability that came more and more as you’d gotten to know him - it had been torture. 

And then he’d propositioned you. And all at once, you’d found yourself in a clearing under silver moonlight, alone with him, long before you ever knew the extent of what had been done to him - and after all this time, the craving for him, the need to lay beside him in the long nights and find him there come morning, has only ever gotten so much stronger.

The heat is somewhat bearable now. Enough to take a moment to admire him, head tilted as he gazes up at you, pure need simmering in his eyes. Dark, glinting rubies. His fangs, barely visible under parted lips. Flushed cheeks. That will fade before long; the rosiness of drinking never lasts more than a few minutes, but you admire it all the same. 

“You’re beautiful.” The words are hushed. You hadn’t even meant to speak them, but your mind isn’t really yours at the moment, not wholly, not as firm as it should be. You feel half-drunk, half-needy. 

The corners of his lips flick into a smile, and he raises a brow. “Oh?” he asks, clearly stealing for more flattery. “Do you think so?”

You lean in, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “You know I do.” 

You gather a single, loose curl in your fingertips and gently roll it between your thumb and index finger, admiring the softness of it. You could use the same soaps, wash your hair with the same things he uses a thousand times over, and it’d never matter. It’d never be as soft as his.

“Anything in particular?” he asks. His voice is particularly airy; he’s battling between begging you for what he needs, and the compliments he likes so much.

You think back to when you’d first described him - that night beneath the stars, when he’d tossed the mirror aside and asked how you viewed him. Words hadn’t been enough then, and they still aren’t, but you’ll try.

“Your eyes,” you start, running your finger over his crow’s feet. “They change color in the light. Right now, they’re dark. Hungry. I can tell you want me, and I like that.”

His hands, which have strayed to the back of your thighs, tighten against your skin. “And? What else?”

The heat’s strength is back, clawing its way up your abdomen. “The way your hair curls around your ears,” you murmur.

He frowns, and you know you’ve gone too poetic. To distract him, you lean in and nip at the lobe of one, and any of his upset disintegrates. 

“Gods,” he murmurs, bringing his hands up to your waist. “Darling, I can’t wait much longer-”

You’ve trailed down to his jaw, alternating between kisses and sharp little nips just like the ones he likes to give you, and the words die in his mouth in favor of a sharp inhale. 

You won’t keep him waiting much longer. In fact, you have a plan. A plan that’d hatched from the moment you’d realized that the spores were in his system, too. Since you’d seen the hungry look in his eyes - every inch a predator circling around its prey.

Only, you’re not content to be the prey. You want to disarm him, and if any of the time you’ve spent together means anything, you’ve gotten very, very good at that.

His shirt is still on, so your hands are quick to remove it, tugging it away from cooling porcelain skin, silky under your fingers as you drag them down his sternum. He shudders, and you remember how it’d felt when he’d first touched you. If it’s anything like that, he’s probably dying to beg you for more.

Your lips soon follow the path your hands are sitting, taking your time with the softness of his abdomen before you pull his trousers away. He’s panting now, and a frenzied sort of desperation lies in his gaze when you look up at him.

And he’s hard again. Leaking.

You lightly trace your nails down his thighs, silently relishing in the way his breath hitches - the way his hips unconsciously buck toward you. 

“Gods,” he says again, and though it isn’t a direct request, with the broken way it falls off his tongue, this time it is every bit a plea. 

And you’re in a mood to please.

You take his cock in hand, swiping your thumb over the head, where precum is slowly leaking, and he lets out a long, breathy noise. You hum in response, taking his length between your lips, and the sound becomes strained, more needy. His hand gently makes its way into your hair, very lightly guiding you where he wants, but not forcefully.

You alternate between things: long, even movements of your mouth as you drag your tongue down the shaft, swirling your tongue around the head, then sucking him hard and slow. Eventually, simply following the guidance of his hand. His grip tightens in your hair - not painful, just encouraging - and his noises become more drawn out, less coherent.

When you pull away for a moment, using your hand to continue what your mouth had just been doing, you find him dangerously close. You press a kiss to the head and take him in again, increasing pace, accommodating him as you take him in as far as you possibly can, and he starts whimpering. 

“Please,” he says, and if that isn’t a rare word to hear from him. 

On another day, you might tease him, but you don’t want to. Not now, while he’s begging to have you. Instead, you take him as deep as you can again and suck harder. Astarion tugs at your hair and his thighs shudder and you know he’s close.

“Please,” he says again. “Gods, don’t stop.”

And you wouldn’t dream of it. What you can’t take into your mouth, you use your hand to stroke, and that’s it. He’s coming.

There’s something artful about it - the tremor that runs through him, the salty taste of him in your mouth, and those seeking, breathless sounds that come out of him as he spills onto your tongue. A long, shaky inhale as he pumps his hips, still chasing out his pleasure, then the trembling exhale as his mind starts to come back to him.

He doesn’t soften, and you don’t take your mouth off him. Not yet.

Usually, Astarion can be counted on for two orgasms, but if those spores are doing anything remotely like what they were doing to you, there’s certain to be much, much more than that.

“By the hells,” he murmurs airily, running a hand down your back. “You’re going to kill me, darling.”

You pull away for a moment, kissing at his abdomen, keeping his eyes locked on his as you do. “Does that mean you want me to stop?” you ask sweetly, trailing your nails along the skin of his thigh.

He swallows hard. “Gods, don’t,” he pleads.

And you don’t.

The feminine urge to be fucked stupid by a bulky, dominant and protective fictional man with big tits.

who cares if i want to mentally live in my daydream universe while i physically rot away. that's my business

Overstimulation with Vampire Gojo - Kinktober Day Nine

Satoru Gojo x Reader (NSFW)

Synopsis: You stop by to pick Gojo up on your way to Shoko's Halloween party and, when the vampire invites you inside, things take an interesting turn. One you've been pretending for years that you never wanted. One he's been waiting years for.

Warnings: overstimulation, gojo being a total fuckin dominant asshole, teasing, dirty talk, gojo makes you beg...a lot, masturbation, fingering, mention of edging, "ice play" (except it's really just gojo's cold fingers & cock cause dude's a vampire), pussy slapping, cockwarming, multiple orgasms, unprotected sex

Word Count: 5k

A/N: Vampire!Gojo felt more fitting for the Halloween vibes. I also had way more fun writing Gojo being an asshole than I expected. Anyways, Happy Kinktober, I hope y'all like the fic!

Since you’d met him, it’d been all fang talk. At first, you tuned it out. He wasn’t the first vampire you’d interacted with. And given his power status, giving him any satisfaction in having any reaction beyond disinterest was off the table. So you ignored him. You ignored the way those sharp fangs glinted in the moonlight as his mouth tipped into a mischievous smirk. Especially the way his eyes sparkled as he goated you, trying to pull even the tiniest reaction from you.

Because he knew, beneath the surface, behind the eye-rolls and annoyed scoffs, you were intrigued. It came in an accelerated heart rate. Increased breathing. Dilated pupils. The way your breath hitched when he got close. How clearly your mind would wander when he’d tell you he could make you feel things you could only ever imagine.

Pure euphoria.

“Pretty sure I’ve felt that before,” you’d responded as nonchalantly as possible. Gojo simply laughed.

You’d been bitten before; you knew one of the side effects. You’d felt it, and Gojo knew that.

“But not from me,” he whispered. “Not from the strongest.”

You’d waved your hand in the air and ignored him, just as always. Just as you always would.

But the bastard, the amused, smug bastard wore you down. He was biding his time, waiting with hidden patience until you snapped. Watching with those eyes that bottled the summer sky and endless stars as you waited outside his apartment in a vintage nightgown. White. Innocent. The feedee to the feeder. His idea. Then he could go to the costume party without having to disguise his fangs. It was the perfect plan. Until he opened the door dressed in a white shirt, half the buttons undone, chest exposed, and tight black pants that left nothing to the imagination. His head cocked to the side as your stare lingered, and he knew he had his claws in you.

And so did you.

“Why don’t you come in?”

“I thought it was humans who had to invite the vampires into their home?”

“It is.” He chuckled, standing aside, barely giving you enough room to enter. You had to brush against him in the process, bare skin on bare skin. He wasn’t nearly as cold as you expected him to be. His laugh deepened, and you involuntarily flushed.

The loose cotton garment sashayed around you as you stepped into Gojo’s apartment, turning to face him as soon as you were three steps inside. The door closed with a quiet click behind Gojo as he perused your body. His eyes roamed over you as if the nightgown had melted to your frame.

“So? What is it you wanted me to come in for?”

The vampire smirked as he sauntered over to his cellarette and pulled out a bottle of red wine and two glasses. You crossed your arms. If you dilly-dallied, you’d never get to the party on time. That meant no wine.

Gojo seemed to read your expression.

“What? You worried about lowering your inhibitions around me?” He made a show of licking his fangs.

“I’m worried about being late to our friend’s party.”

Gojo dropped to his couch and poured one glass of wine. You followed suit. He shook the empty glass at you, and you simply held up your middle finger in response. A shrug later, and he had the bottle down on his coffee table next to the spare glass and lazily sipped the decadent drink. You frowned. You were going to be late.

“Really, Satoru, we’re going to be late.”

“Answer me one question.” He eyed his wine. “And then we’ll go.”

“What?”

“Why do you pretend to act so nonchalantly around me?”

Your heart skipped a beat, and you realized Gojo had leaned towards you. You held your breath as he let the tips of his fangs poke out from his smile. You needed to put distance between you, but with the armrest behind you, you had nowhere to go. He dragged a single finger down your cheek, trailed it along your jaw, beneath your ear, all the way down until he reached your pulse point. Sharp nails dug into your thighs, and you realized they were your own.

“What do you mean?” Your voice was tighter than you’d hoped.

Gojo canted his head to the side, eyes fixed on your neck.

“Your heart is racing,” he whispered almost tenderly. “Are you nervous, (Y/N)?”

“No,” you answered too quickly.

“Do I scare you?”

Deep down, yeah, he scared you. He was an insanely powerful otherworldly being. On some level, of course he scared you. But your heart wasn’t hammering against your chest out of fear. Not even slightly. Or, at least, not fear of him. But the growing ache you were feeling for him? That was worrisome. Especially since that resolve you’d had for the last few years was finally starting to deteriorate.

“No.”

“Then what,” he murmured as he leaned in and you felt his breath tickle your neck, “has your heart beating so fast?”

You couldn’t stop the image of Gojo lying you back on his couch, body pinning yours against the couch cushions, and sinking his fangs into your neck. Just one of many fantasies that have played out consciously or subconsciously. Whether his hands roamed your body, his hips rolled between yours, there was always one thing in common: Gojo bit you.

And you’d be damned if you didn’t do the same thing you always did when you thought about that. You mentally cursed the cracks in your resolve as you lifted your hand to your mouth, gently touching your canines, wondering what Gojo’s felt like.

“Whatcha thinkin’ about?” His mouth grazed your ear, and you sucked in a harsh breath.

“We should get going, we’re going to be-”

“If you say late one more time, (Y/N), I swear I’m going to sink my fangs into you and suck you dry.”

Curse the image that his words made you think of. Curse the ache that it made you feel.

Curse the delay that it caused because Gojo jumped on it.

“Oh.” He sat his glass down and brought his other hand up to your jaw, leaning forward until his chest pressed against yours. “Is that something you’d like?”

“Gojo.” His name was a warning.

“Usually, you have some retort, some smart-ass remark.” He dropped his mouth to your neck and pressed a feather-light kiss to it. “But it appears you’ve gone tongue-tied.”

You wanted to pull away. You wanted to push him off, but in your attempt, all you managed to do was lift your hands. Because as soon as they touched him, as soon as you felt that solid chest beneath them, all you could do was ball that soft fabric up in your hands.

For the first time, you were utterly hopeless under Gojo’s touch, and he knew it.

“Admit it.” He only hesitated a moment before you felt the faint scrape of his fangs against your skin. “You’ve been wanting me to bite you since we’ve met.”

And, damn it, you shuddered. Of all things you could’ve done, your hands tightened, your breathing grew heavy, and you shuddered.

“Party,” you blurted out.

“(Y/N).”

If Gojo’s name was a warning, yours was a promise. A promise of what he’d been saying since you’d met. A promise of pure euphoria.

“Tell me what you want.” A hand dropped to your waist and jerked you forward. Your legs parted around him. “And I’ll give it to you. You just have to tell me.”

You groaned, more frustrated than anything else. You’d already embarrassed yourself. You’d let him get this far. Fuck. Purely out of spite, you said nothing. Gojo had already gained too much satisfaction from this. From you finally starting to lose yourself in him. You wished you hadn’t accepted Gojo’s invitation to enter his apartment. That you’d bullied him until he gave in, joined your side, and the two of you made your scheduled appearance at Shoko’s Halloween party. You would’ve greeted your friends, maybe given in and danced with Gojo, gotten a tad too handsy after having a shot or two, and then gone your separate ways.

Instead, you were clutching onto his shirt like your life depended on it, trying to ignore just how fast your heart was beating--trying to slow it down, knowing Gojo was aware of it too. You shouldn’t have sat on his couch in his too-cold apartment with the last sip of blood-red wine left in his glass. You shouldn’t have thrown away years of pretending because this was going to change everything. Not just you wanting him to bite you. Just giving away that you wanted him to. That was already an arsenal accidentally gifted to the vampire. And he was always going to use it.

You had to get it together.

“The last thing I want is for you to bite me,” you spat.

But you didn’t move.

In fact, you were pretty sure you sighed as Gojo shifted until his mouth hovered over yours. His mouth that looked so damn soft. So damn tempting. Like the forbidden fruit, the Devil whispering in your ear, telling you to just take a tiny little taste. No. To let him take a taste. Let him feast. Let him take.

But you’d never admit it. Not to him. You’d never do that. But you didn’t push him away when he hovered there. And you certainly didn’t fight nearly hard enough when you felt yourself pressing up until your lips met his. You felt weightless as your mouths met. The kiss was the closest to chaste you’d imagined Gojo could muster.

He sighed against you, mouth parting just enough to tease what was going to come. He was restraining himself, barely able to hold back his grin as you held him against you, surely wrinkling his shirt. Then, when his own resolve crumbled, and your mind had just begun to process soft, delicious, addicting, he smiled, and you felt his fangs prick your lips.

If you’d known this was how good it felt to kiss Gojo, you would’ve done it ages ago.

And that thought grew tenfold when he let his grip slip, and he became hungry. Dominant. Determined. His teeth captured your bottom lip, tongue soothing the sting, as he tipped your head back. The hunger, it was like he’d been wanting this just as long as you had. Like he’d been waiting--praying, if vampires did that--for you to finally give in. You were sure you could’ve cracked a Dracula joke there, but all you could hear was Nanami’s monologues about Nosferatu, cinematic Dracula, and novel Dracula.

Gojo adjusted, tugging you onto his lap, legs splaying around him. Your head fell back as he kissed down your jaw, teasing your throat and lingering there, making your blood boil in all the best ways, and slowly undoing the tie of your nightgown. His slender fingers worked slowly, and you weren’t sure if it was to give you time to back out--which you knew was the smart decision, but since you were already in uncharted territory, you figured why not--or to drive you absolutely insane.

Most likely the latter.

His fingers grazed your chest, and you were thankful you’d decided to wear a bra. If you hadn’t, your chest would’ve given away just how needy you were. Although with all of Gojo’s keen senses and extraordinary abilities, the way he snickered as he kissed your neck told you that he was entirely clued in to how badly you wanted him.

“Let me touch you.” He toyed with the straps of your bra and pressed his hips up. “Let me show you what you’ve been missing out on for years.”

You, despite your common sense screaming at you to get up, nodded.

The groan of satisfaction and vindication that left the vampire grated on your ears, your nerves, your entire being. It was like you were drunk on him, and he hadn’t even done anything. You blamed the costume. Bastard donning some high-end version of a knock-off Dracula costume. Showed a little skin, wore some tight pants, flashed those fangs. You weren’t supposed to be this easy; you weren’t supposed to be like every other person who fawned over him.

But you hesitated. It was like you’d practically tilted your head to the side, brushed your hair away, and exposed your neck to the prick like a curious, aching dumbass you were. And he jumped on it. Pounced. You accidentally gave him an inch, and he was going to take all the miles he could. Run you ragged.

“Turn around.” You could feel his grin against your mouth and, just to spite him, you took your sweet time listening. Making sure to drag yourself over his lap in the process, rolling your hips to adjust, satisfied at the low grumble that escaped him.

But that only seemed to piss him off.

As soon as you situated yourself, his knees found themselves between yours, and he jerked your legs open. When your costume stopped him short, there was zero hesitation as he grabbed the thin fabric and tore a slit down the side. You blushed inadvertently at the action, cool air rushing your bare skin, and Gojo chuckled in your ear.

He kept your legs hooked open, holding you against him with an arm around your waist. His mouth danced over your neck, teeth caught your ear lobe, as his other hand fell between your legs. But there was no contact. He just hovered it there, the tips occasionally ticking your inner thigh. He hummed when he glanced over, eyeing your white lace underwear like you were a present waiting to be unwrapped.

“You wear those just for me?” He traced the delicate pattern of the lace, and you held your breath, trying to ignore how even just the faint touch ignited you.

“They were all I could wear with how thin the fucking costume is.”

“It’s funny,” he whispered. “They always have the maiden wear white in the movies. To symbolize innocence. Virginity of sorts before they’re bitten.”

You would’ve glared at him if you could’ve. But his fingers traded the feather-light touch that made heat pool between your legs for a pointed, purposeful one. Up and down over your cunt, sighing as he felt just how soaked you were. Your head fell back against his shoulder; each graze of your clit was agony. The momentary touch relieved the pressure only to double it when his fingers dipped lower once more. You tried to move your hips against him, chasing what he wasn’t giving you. And what was worse, you weren’t even aware that you were trying to do it until his hold tightened and he held you in place.

“Yet here you are, the image of pure desperation and need.” He slapped your cunt and you jumped. “Fucking soaked from all talk. I can only imagine how badly you want to relieve that almost painful ache.”

You thought about wrenching yourself from Gojo’s grasp, but you’d taken the first drag of that cigarette. Your entire body was shaking with need.

“Touch yourself.”

It was a command. One that was spoken in a tone as cool as his skin. Yet it made the flames erupting over your body rise.

“Give me a show, and maybe I’ll give you what you want.”

You bit your cheek as you moved. Your hand trembled as you draped it between your legs. When you didn’t move immediately, Gojo placed his hand over yours and guided two fingers over your clit. You gasped when he drew your fingers in tight circles over your clit, chin resting on your shoulder, gaze hot.

“What?” He withdrew his hand, wrapping his fingers around your wrist, making sure you didn’t move. “You needed someone to show you how? C’mon, (Y/N), I know you’ve touched yourself while thinking about me. No need to be shy.”

Each wave of pleasure you brought yourself seemed to rock your body. Gojo’s eyes on you egged you on just as much as it made your nerves spike. You couldn’t find a pace; you couldn’t get your hand to stop shaking. You tried to grind against yourself, chasing the pleasure you desperately craved, but Gojo’s arm around your waist still kept you pinned. Whenever you’d find the spot that made your eyes roll, Gojo would pull your hand away, fingers digging into your veins, no doubt getting high off of how fast your heart was racing.

You had to quiet your mind each time it wandered to what you were doing, especially who you were doing it in front of, and just how intensely he was watching you.

“Tell me,” he murmured as he pulled your hand away from your cunt for what you counted as the sixth time. “Admit that you’ve thought about me while fucking yourself.”

Never. Not in a million years.

“Do it, and I’ll reward you by making you cum until you physically can’t anymore.” He let his fingers intertwine with yours, and only his freezing skin gave away his touch mixed in with yours. “It’s easy; it’s just a few words. Here, I’ll show you.”

He licked a long stripe up your neck until his mouth brushed your ear.

“I’ve thought about you while getting off.” The arm around your waist loosened, and his hand came up to your chest. “Thinking about these tits bouncing as you ride my cock. Taking me like the good girl I know you are. Begging for me to give you more. Begging for me to bite you.”

For the first time since he’d sat you on his lap, you turned to try and see him, but a hand on your chin kept you facing forward. He’d thought about you? Like that? You thought your heart was going to explode from your chest.

“Well,” you croaked out. “Fantasies tend to be about what you can’t have.”

He barked out a laugh, dipping his hand beneath your gown, your bra, until his fingers skimmed a nipple. You didn’t need to see them to know they were hard. You arched your back as he ran slow circles around it, matching the speed he’d set between your legs. He’d retreated a tad there, however, making sure it was only you who was touching you. Free of his iron hold, you rolled your hips and unapologetically ground against yourself. Bits of cold hit you, and you chased after those. You chased after him.

“(Y/N).” He pinched your nipple. “Look down at yourself. Grinding against your hand like a fucking lust-drugged bitch. Don’t think I won’t tie you up and go to the party myself, leaving you in the agony you created for yourself. Soaked. Aching. Too proud to ask me to touch you.”

“If we’re talking about pride-”

“I’ve already admitted it, baby,” he said, voice as sharp as his fangs. “I want to see that pretty pussy take my cock, feel it squeeze around my fingers as you cum. I want to hear every sound you make when I pull another orgasm from you, even after you tell me you can’t give me another one.”

You clamped your eyes shut and groaned, your entire body shaking as you fought the internal battle. It was all pointed spears and splintered shields. You lost. You won. You spat out the words with bitter anticipation.

“I have.” But you didn’t think it was enough. The half a second pause where Gojo didn’t move solidified that. “Multiple times.”

His mouth, pressed beneath your ear, curled into what you knew was a sickening smile.

“Good girl.”

He treated the top of your costume with the same attitude as the bottom, the sound of the fabric tearing almost as jarring as his cold touch. The cups of your bra were pushed down as his hand groped and teased. His other threw your hand aside, cast away to grab onto his thigh as he snaked it beneath your underwear. You sucked in a harsh breath as his fingers grazed your swollen clit. It felt like he held an ice cube against you, and you tried to jerk away.

“Nuh-uh,” he tsked and shook his head. “Stay put.”

A throated whine left you as he pinched your nipples, going out of his way to run his fingers between your folds so every inch felt the freezing temperature before he ran tight, harsh circles over your clit. You would’ve fallen from his lap had his legs not hooked over you and held you in place. It felt incredible. It felt like too much. He already had you on edge. The last six almosts had brought you close enough, but it was embarrassing how he already had you dancing like a puppet on his strings along the crumbling edge.

“Ask for it. If you want anything tonight, you have to ask for it.” His fingers ran tighter circles, and whatever smart response you had turned into a groan.

“Can I?”

“Can you what?”

You wanted to kill him.

“Can I cum?”

“Did I hear a please?”

You cursed under your breath. You weren’t sure why you were trying to hold off your high as Gojo’s fingers worked that merciless pace, not seeming to care that you were moments away from coming undone. But you wanted to please him. The thought made your blood boil.

“Can I please cum?”

He hummed in contemplation and you wanted to scream.

“Go ahead.” He cocked his head to the side, and you felt his eyes roam over your body. The feeling tipped you over the edge. You refused to cry out his name as you came harder than you’d ever cum before, body buzzing, head light and floaty, muscles tense and sore.

Before you’d even finished, your walls still clenching at nothing as the stars you saw still sparkled in your vision, he slipped two fingers into your cunt. Your legs kicked out as they scissored and curled and stretched you. Slender, sure, but they were long. He hit places you couldn’t without a toy, and Gojo fucking knew it too. Your toes curled, and you tried to hide your face in his neck. It made him snicker.

“We’re not done yet.” His thumb swept over your clit. “Not nearly.”

You felt too hot as his too-cold fingers fucked you. You felt yourself squeeze around him, and the swiftness of your second orgasm approaching nearly threw you. The bastard really knew how to get people off. No. He knew how to get you off. The way his fingers slid into a specific rhythm. This was just for you. A personal torture he’d give just to you.

“C-Can I?” You hated that you asked him without much thought.

“Oh, already?” As if he didn’t know. “I don’t know, you got there pretty quick. You sure you want to cum again already? I don’t plan on stopping after this. You’re cumming until I get every last drop outta you, (Y/N).”

“Please,” you screamed. You couldn’t stave it off anymore. And you hated how your body tingled with excitement at what Gojo would do as punishment if you came without permission.

“If you’re that desperate.” He scoffed and slowed his fingers. “Then take it from what I give you.”

You did. You weren’t sure if he was trying to ruin the orgasm or delay it or knew exactly what his slow curls would do. But he strung you out, hard. Never, not once had your second orgasm been better than the first. Not fucking once. Yet the bastard had your head thrown back, toes curling, riding wave after slow wave as he seemed to wrap the puppet strings around your limbs and pull. You nearly bit your tongue as you ground your teeth together, unable to do anything else as you came around his fingers.

You huffed. You weren’t sure you could give him any more, and he’d only made you cum twice. But his fingers only paused for half a beat before starting up again. You let out a strangled no as his hand on your chest went to your clit. It was too much. You squirmed, and he laughed. Laughed. Then pressed on harder, faster. Tears slipped down your cheeks, nails dug into his thighs, teeth captured your bottom lip to stop the sobs.

“P-Please.” Your third orgasm was knocking on the door, waiting to enter. Or leave. It was all too much. You weren’t sure if you were begging for him to stop or to keep going.

“Ask.”

You hoped the one word would be enough of a response.

“Cum?”

Gojo’s body shook with laugher. It wasn’t.

“Full sentences, (Y/N).” He pinched your clit.

“Gojo.”

He slapped your cunt.

“Full sentences.”

“Can I cum again, please?”

“Yes.”

He rode you through your high. It almost hurt, his fingers fucking your cunt and rubbing your clit. Your throat felt raw by the end, and you weren’t sure if you’d screamed or if it was an accumulation from the last two orgasms as well. His fingers stopped and you thought you were free. Until he lifted you, angled you up on your shaky legs, and you felt him undo the button of his pants.

“Do you want it?” He pulled the crotch of your underwear to the side, pressing his tip against your dripping folds.

You hated that you nodded.

“That’s my girl,” he said, and you burned as he spread your folds. He lingered there a moment, surely watching as you dripped onto his lap, before he lined himself up. His fingers dug into your hips as he guided you down, groaning as you stretched around him. He fucking filled you. But your gasp wasn’t just from how fucking huge he was. You’d thought his fingers were impossible to handle with the cold. His cock was like when you’d left your dildo in the freezer before fucking yourself on it.

Even when he was sheathed entirely inside you, he didn’t move. He found your clit--puffy, swollen, sore--and his thumb ran over it with lazy strokes.

Three times. He made you cum around his cock three times without even moving his hips. You were jelly in his arms, soaked in your own cum, tears, and sweat. And the rare glimpses he gave you of his face told you he was obsessed with this version of you. You couldn’t give him anymore. You’d said that the last two times, but you were wrung dry. You were sure if he moved his hips, you’d combust like a vampire from Buffy with a stake in its heart.

But you wanted him to fuck you. So badly. With every fiber of your being you wanted him to fuck you. You just couldn’t lift yourself up to be able to fall back down onto his cock.

And then his fangs scraped your skin for the hundredth time that night.

“Bite me,” you blurted out. You hadn’t meant to. You’d been trying to ask him to fuck you. A Freudian slip.

He stopped over your pulse point and pressed his fangs against you. Just enough to let you feel the sharp prick.

“Beg for it.”

“Please.” It hurt your throat to talk. Your voice crackled with each word. “Please bite me. Please, Satoru.”

“You can do better than that. C’mon. Beg.”

“Fuck.” You clamped your eyes shut. “Please, I need you to. I need to feel it. That damned ‘pure euphoria.’ It’s all I think about whenever you flash your fangs at me. Please, I need it. I need to know.”

He pressed his fangs harder against you. Scraped them against your skin until you felt a satisfying burn.

“I’m so tempted--so fucking tempted--to leave you like this. A teary mess, begging for something I won’t give you.” Dread coursed through you at the thought. Silently, you willed him to keep speaking. “But I know whether I bite you or not, you’ll be back for more.”

He bucked his hips.

“Because nobody will fuck you like I will.”

He bucked again as you cried out as an almost painful wave of pleasure crashed into you.

“Nobody will get you off as good as me.”

Then he bit you. A searing hot pain, like a cold brand, focused at your neck. You sobbed, but you weren’t sure if that was from the bite or the way Gojo looped an arm around you and slammed his hips against you mercilessly. You’d been bitten before, but just as soon as you tried to recall the memories, you were hit with something you'd never gotten from other vampires. It felt like a wall of liquid pleasure. Or, in Gojo’s wording, euphoria.

It was like he’d injected it directly into your veins, and you laughed. You choked on the sound as another sob followed it, but it felt so impossibly good. Like you were floating on a cloud. Like you were stuck in a permanent state of almost that just kept getting better and better. Like you were dancing on the edge that never crumbled, leading you to a plummet that, as you eyed it, was waiting for you with billowing snow to cushion the fall.

“C-Can I cum? Please, Gojo, can I cum?”

Your voice sounded unfamiliar as you spoke. You weren’t even entirely sure that you had until Gojo responded a few moments later, his thrusts rough.

“Yes.” It was an order.

And you followed it.

You heard your scream leave you as if it weren’t your own. It was like two hands shoved you off the edge as you plummeted down towards the snow. It swallowed you; claimed you like a riptide does an inexperienced swimmer. Those puppet strings that had bound themselves to you earlier tightened and pulled like a torture device. Delicious, rapturous torture. Then they snapped. Like stray worn threads.

You came around his cock for the fourth time that night.

You didn’t even realize he came until you felt his cum leak out of you as you blinked up at the ceiling, coming to.

Gojo gave you a moment to catch your breath before he pulled out, licking over the two puncture wounds on your neck as he righted your underwear, either not caring that his cum was leaking out of you or extremely aware. Most likely the latter.

He laid you on your side as he got up and righted himself, his costume, his hair. He smirked down at you, eyeing your torn costume, tear-stained cheeks, and tangled hair. He knelt beside his couch and scoffed.

“C’mon, (Y/N), we’re going to be late to Shoko’s party.”

Half-Full, Half-Empty - Chapter 5

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Me when i was younger: i like horror movies cause gore!!

Me now; uh,,,,,stabby,,,,boy,,,,pretty

───A TOUCH OF LIGHTNING, AN OUNCE OF TRUTH.

Summary: cornered on a mission with Obi-Wan, a familiar face greets himself as both of your tormentors—revealing to you the one secret Obi-Wan has never uttered.

TW: mentions of torture (reader) and injury.

ONESHOT. 4,654 WORDS.

Ventilations are great for ventilating, but not so great for shimmying through, especially ones as tightly closed as these ones, and especially not when a whole other body is pressed to your side and trying to shimmy along with you. Your body springs back when his elbow slams into your side and his hand flies over your mouth when he can feel the yelp about to bubble out, surprisingly fast given the limited space. He’s hunched over like a pretzel in this new position; his knee pressed into your leg, your palm flat against his ribcage.

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