Aurorakingsley - AuroraKingsley

DO THESE BOYS IN FURIN ACTUALLY HAVE CLASSES?? Where are the teachers?? Are they getting an education? Do they just hang out in this abandoned school and wear school uniforms? I am worried about their future.

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part eighteen —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 3.3k tags: death. blood. cannibalism mention. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. there will be sex but it isn’t here yet. slow burn!!! enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival.

Over the next four days, you find yourself panting in exhilaration each morning you spar with Ghost. Every slam of your hand into his ribs feels strangely better than the last. He goes harder on you. He'd been holding back, too, apparently— an unfortunate fact for your ribs. The pain seems to motivate you more, even if he is still beating the shit out of you.

Blue also motivates you. "Hit his nose again!"

Of course, that is the one part of him you purposely avoid.

The sun returns and sweat glides down your face. You knee his stomach. It's less vulnerable than swinging a kick, but still, he attempts to grab you by the waist. You quickly skirt away, the ground firmer beneath your feet, only for his hand to latch onto one of your braids, instead. A sting pulses through your scalp as he tugs hard, wrenching your ear close to his mouth.

"Quicker. Good. But don't get too cocky."

"I thought you wanted me to be more confident," you retort between ragged breaths. 

"Yes, but you can't forget who has the advantage here." There is the slightest bit of arrogance in his voice that makes your teeth grit.

"How could I ever forget?" Your head tilts and he releases the braid. Suddenly, the thought of smacking his nose again doesn’t seem so bad.

His eyebrow quirks. "Get some water, Twix. You need it."

The water caresses your tongue as you gulp it down without abandon. Unsurprisingly, Blue has disappeared somewhere in the treetops. The lack of more broken bones has waned her interest.

When Ghost lifts his mask to drink, you steal a glance at his nose, noticing that the swelling has gone down significantly. The fact he is still wearing that thing with a broken nose upholds your theory that he is at least slightly insane— as if the fact that he once shoved a gun into your fresh wound wasn’t already evidence of that.

Out of nowhere, he materializes beside you and places a hand on your stomach. Your sore muscles spasm under the surprise of his touch, his long fingers stretching from one side of your ribs to the other.

"Your strength starts here,” he explains in a hoarse murmur. “Keep it tight and you will deliver more damage."

You purse your lips to hide a wince and tap your nose. "Don’t I already deliver enough damage?"

"The nose is fragile. You may be landing more hits on me, but I still hardly feel a thing from them."

He allows you to pry his hand off, but the pressure of it seems to linger. Ghost studies you in a way that turns you translucent before demanding, "Lift your shirt, Twix."

Exhaling through your nose, you hesitate before peeling it up, revealing the collection of bruises you have earned from him. A myriad of pink, purple, and yellow skin flares up under his gaze. They have been giving you a hard time lacing your boots and tying your hair in the morning, but once you get moving, the ache becomes easier to ignore.

He has already seen your stomach and more, yet, your skin itches from the exposure. You shove the shirt back down.

His expression shifts. "You should have said something."

"They're just bruises. I'm not bleeding or anything."

"Still."

"Still what?"

He looks irritated. "You need to fucking communicate."

"I don't see why it matters. No coddling, right?"

"That doesn't mean I'm interested in breaking you."

You jerk your chin up to meet his stare. “You won't."

Blue swings down from a tree, plopping between the two of you and unintentionally—thankfully—putting an end to the subject. "I'm glad you two are finally getting along. It's good for the team." She nudges her dad. "But are you done with her yet? You can't just hog Twix all to yourself."

He clears his throat and the air between your bodies breathes wider. "If you're getting bored maybe we need to find something for you to practice."

"Nope!" she says quickly. "Not bored at all." 

He nods to a tree. "Go on. Practice your knives. You haven't done that in a while. Then, you can have her."

With a groan, she trudges away. 

The sparring continues.

Ghost's fists soften by a smidge.

"He annoys the shit out of me sometimes."

Blue rips up a tuft of grass as you inch back to admire the swipe of color on her eyelids. It was her idea to use the bold-colored flowers for makeup— just like the models in her magazines. You did your best to mash the petals and mix them with some creekwater, but the result is kind of patchy and not nearly as smooth as the stuff you used to put on years ago. 

"Hold still. I'm doing your cheeks next."

The sun highlights the splash of freckles on her cheeks and you try to recall if Ghost had them. Her nose is nothing like his. A dainty button. Another trait she must've gotten from her mom. 

"Did you used to wear makeup?" she asks curiously, eyelashes fluttering down. 

"Sometimes. Especially when I went out."

"Went out where?"

Concentration nudges between your brows. "To clubs and stuff. It's where people would... dance."

Her lips spread as she cocks her head to the side in a manner that emulates her dad. You have to remind her again to stop moving. “Oh. Sorry. You danced?"

"I mean, not good dancing. Just dancing for fun,” you murmur, shrugging at the faint memories of being sandwiched between strangers, alcohol flowing through your veins rather than fear and adrenaline. Back then, mornings were spent nursing a hangover before class rather than earning bruises from an ex-lieutenant. 

Humor dances in her eyes when they reopen. "I don't think Ghost ever went to a club. I cannot imagine him dancing."

The images in your mind morph into something utterly laughable— him standing there like an immovable tank as people try to dance around him. "No, probably not."

"He never really tells me about his life before shit happened," she says thoughtfully. 

This piques your curiosity, but you keep your voice light. "No?"

"Well, he tells me the simple stuff. Mostly about his job. But never... never the small things, you know? Like I have no idea what he used to do for fun or what his life was like when he was a kid." She pauses a moment before adding, "He had a brother. That much I know."

You glance up. "Had?"

"He died before the virus. His mom and dad, too. But every time I ask how they died, he just says," she deepens her voice, "'Doesn't matter how, kid. Dead is dead.'"

"Oh, um, yeah, that sounds like something he would say." You tap your fingers under her chin. "I can put some on your lips, too."

Her eyes close again as she puckers her lips out. When you're done, she continues. "He also never talks about my mom." Her face twists. “I think he thinks talking about her will hurt my feelings."

For a few seconds, you struggle to find a response. The rare mention of her mom always makes your heart stutter, but this time, your broken, callused hand reaches out to brush a strand of hair behind her ear.

"It's okay to feel hurt, you know."

Blue shrugs and looks up at the cobalt sky. "I don't think I remember her enough to feel that hurt anymore. She feels so... far away. I remember small things, like the sound of her voice and her old apartment where I lived, but sometimes I wonder if I am making up those memories, you know what I mean?"

"Yeah, I know what you mean." A terrible urge sits on your tongue to ask her more about her mom, about what exactly her relationship was like with Ghost, but Blue changes the subject before you can.

"Does the makeup look good?" A shy blush clouds her cheeks.

You stand up with a faint smile. "I think I did pretty damn good. Come on. I want you to go look in the mirror."

Music.

It pounds so hard you feel it in your chest.

Neon walls enclose you as someone touches your backside, dancing against you. There is a man's voice in your ear that you think you recognize but it's hard to hear him through all the laughing and chatter. Your hair falls in loose curls down your back, free of braids, and you swipe it from your sweaty skin before excusing yourself to the bathroom.

You push through the people. The narrow hall is shrouded with different doors... so many doors. Where is the bathroom? It must be a Friday night on Oxford Street with how fucking crowded and stuffy this place is. Someone knocks into you roughly and your footsteps quicken. A sense of urgency drags you into the next door you come across, a large one made of grey oak.

The smell is horrendous but you feel relieved to see urinals and stalls. Immediately, you press into the granite counter and grip the edge as you catch your breath. The scratched, warped mirror houses a face covered in makeup. Youthful eyes. Flushed cheeks. How much have you had to drink? You need to go home. You will pee and then go home, you tell yourself. Over and over, you repeat this as you relieve yourself in one of the graffiti-doused stalls where condom and tampon wrappers crinkle beneath your heels.

When you're done, you try for the large door you came through, but it doesn't budge. The muffled music outside has faded. Panic sears your chest. You press your back against the door. The bathroom has changed. The stalls are gone. The walls feel like they are closing in, and the smell of piss turns into something even worse. You are alone. Where is the man you came with? You look down. Dead bodies. Strewn limbs. You're standing on a pile of them.

You start screaming. Banging on the door. Digging your fingers into the wood until the flesh rubs down to bone. 

It's not a room anymore, but a box. The fluorescent lights replaced by sheer darkness.

The edges of the door disappear.

A sickening silence replaces your screams.

And then—

"Twix."

You sit up, wild-eyed. You grip onto something—fabric—and a foul taste travels up your throat without warning. You heave several times, your entire body shuddering. 

When awareness settles in, you wipe your mouth and blink up. Ghost. He is... here. Hovering over you. His shirt is tightly bunched between your fingers and you have just vomited into it. The realization smacks you awake and you recoil sharply, staring at his moonlit mask with an expression that must be just short of mortified.

"I... Fuck. I am so sorry. I don't know why— I just..."

When you dare to look at the mess you've left on him, you nearly vomit again. Hands shaking, you rub at your clammy face and begin to ramble unthinkingly as his stare flickers between you and his soiled shirt.

"I've been trying so hard not to hold back like you said, but I think it is fucking me up a little and letting out some things— memories, I guess. I was pretty good about keeping it all in my box because I've been too tired to even think about it, but now I just..." You trail off, realizing your words must make little sense. 

"You've certainly let something out," he rasps.

Your hands drop against the sofa and you cringe. "I'll wash it for you. I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing."

You inhale. "I just fucking threw up on you."

"I'm aware."

Ghost straightens. He pinches the collar of his shirt and carefully hoists it over his head. Then, you're looking at his bare chest. Slivers of moonlight caress rigid brawn and mountainous scars that capture your gaze for a few heartbeats before you tear it away. 

"I'll, um, hang it outside and... wash it in the morning." 

Your legs are unnervingly steady when you stand up and take the shirt from him, carefully grabbing it by a dry spot. You are relieved to get away from him, draping it over the porch and swallowing gulps of fresh air before you go back inside, praying he's gone back to bed.

Luckily, he has. When the empty living room greets you, you sink to the sofa and palm your eyes. Then, you notice something left on the pillow. A cigarette. You pick it up and recall the few times you smoked whenever your friends offered one. The taste never sat well with you. 

You rummage for your lighter. The first inhale burns terribly, but you cough into the pillow and try again. It starts to calm you down after a few times, and only when you've gotten to the butt of it do you go back to sleep.

"No wonder you're not getting stronger if you throw up like that every night."

Not even five minutes into training the next morning he brings it up. The rest of your sleep ended abruptly when he got you up at an unearthly time, probably to avoid having Blue as an audience. You are too winded to even scowl, your fists held tight in front of your face as you try to predict where he will aim next.

"I told you. That was the first night in a while." 

"Right. Something about a box, huh?"

"Can we just forget about it, please?"

"Hard to forget when my shirt still smells."

"I washed it the best I could."

The next dodge has your head flying down fast enough to undo one of your braids. Hair slips over your face and you huff, holding your hand up. "Hold on. Give me a minute."

As you undo the other one and opt for shoving your hair into a tight bun instead, he watches you strangely. The feel of his stare ignites a spark of irritation and you flash him a sideways glance. "Look, thank you for the cigarette and everything else you have ever done for me, but you can stop looking at me like that. Like you... pity me. I'm not going to break, I'm not going to ask you to kill me again. Everyone left in this world has nightmares and mine probably aren't the worst of them."

"I don't pity you," he says. "I am just trying to understand you."

"Why?" You finish the bun and drop your arms awkwardly at your sides. 

"It's important to understand your ally."

"Oh. Is that what we are?"

His eyes narrow. "Obviously. I wouldn't bother wasting my time with this every day if we weren't."

"Good to know you aren't doing it because you owe me."

"You know what I mean, Twix," he growls. 

"No, I don't." You throw your arms up. "I don't know what you mean and I don't know why you never killed me because you had every reason to, and I definitely don't understand you, so I guess we make terrible allies, Ghost."

"What is with you?" He cocks his head to the side, tone mild with curiosity. "So talkative all of the sudden."

"I have no problem talking when the other person isn't blatantly ignoring me."

His brows lift. "Fair enough."

A deep inhale flares your nostrils before you spread your stance. "I'm ready now."

Despite your claim of readiness, he quickly backs you into a defensive position that has you frustrated once again. You don't understand why, but your progress slips. You keep having to adjust your stance and all of your attempts to hit him fail. It's not long before he locks you against a tree with a tattooed forearm against your neck. 

"You aren't focused today," he accuses.

"Damn, you're observant," you breathe out. 

"Jesus fucking Christ. If I wanted to listen to someone mouthing off, I'd get Blue out here." He presses a bit harder and your throat twitches. "I'm not going to threaten you anymore, but clearly, you think straighter when you channel your anger, so whatever you were dreaming about last night— get it out of your head."

He's right. You breathe deep and try sorting through everything in your head, focusing on just the anger, but it's like fishing in murky water. When he releases you, more of the same happens. This time, you end up on your butt. Ghost glares down at you, circling like a vulture.

"You were doing good the past few days. What the hell is this?"

"I told you," you say through your teeth, brushing off the dirt from your jeans. "Letting out my anger means letting everything else in the box out and it is... confusing me. Making my head fuzzy, I guess."

His chest expands with a deep breath and his pointed stare turns meticulous. "Explain this box to me."

You hesitate for a moment. "It's just... where I put away all of the shit that would otherwise make me insane."

"And what is wrong with being a little insane, Twix? This world is insane. Might as well match it."

Your mouth opens, then closes. You struggle for an answer and rub your temples. "I don't know. Being insane means losing myself completely. I mean, I have already changed so much in the past five years. Like I said, I was never meant to be this person."

"What person? A person who survives? A person who does what she has to?"

"A person who hurts others," you grit out. "A person who kills." 

"You've killed people, right?" he roughly asks and you nod. "Then you're a killer. You were always meant to be a killer. End of story." His words strike you, and you begin to shake your head defensively, but he continues before you can muster a reply. "The past five years haven't changed you, they have revealed who you are. Now—" he raises his fists, "—open the stupid box and turn everything you feel into anger. All of it. It is valuable fuel that will continue to keep you alive."

He swings.

A kaleidoscope of long-ignored memories flashes through your brain when he hits your sore stomach. Your family. Your friends. The life stolen from you. 

And then— you recover your footing and slam a boot into his knee. It loosens his stance just enough for you to throw yourself at him, effectively knocking him over. The ground welcomes your bodies again, but this time, you grip his shoulders and wind up on top, practically laying all of your weight on him. A few harsh breaths expel from your nose before you become fully aware of the position, the heat from his chest pressing into your breasts.

Quickly, you splay your hands flat against him and sit up straight, thighs spread over his narrow hips. Ghost could easily flip you over and pin you if he wanted. But instead, he crosses his arms behind his head. 

"Comfortable?" you ask him breathlessly, raising a brow.

"Quite. Though, if this were real, I suggest an elbow to the neck once you've got them down."

"So you admit it, then. I got you down."

"I allowed it."

"Sure." Your teeth snag on your lip and you lightly brush a finger over his masked nose, detecting a tick in the hinge of his jaw. "Then I will 'allow' you to keep this for now, but next time, I might do more than just break it."

His eyes widen imperceptibly before he quickly recovers. "Ah. So you are a person who hurts others, then. Someone was trying to tell me otherwise."

Your lips twitch at the corner on their own accord. "Shut the fuck up."

He simply stares at you for a pregnant pause before clearing his throat. "I did allow it, but that was good. You focused on the anger, didn't you?"

You nod. "Yeah, I did. Is that what you do all the time?" you ask curiously. "Just get angry and kill people?"

"Pretty much."

By the tone of his voice, a deep brass that reverberates through all the places your bodies touch, you are certain he's joking. Realizing that you are still on top of him, you push off his chest and swing a leg over, careful not to knee his face or let him see the deep flush that crawls over every inch of your skin. 

hi!! could u do married life with gintoki plz?? hcs or scenario whichever u prefer i just want to think about what its like to be miss sakata >////< thx!

I was going to make it into pure married life, but I really wanted to include how the whole proposal and wedding happened. So yay for freebies ^^

Being Gintoki's Wife Headcanons

Warning: slight nsfw towards the end.

Congratulations, you married the protagonist of the anime. That's the equivalent of hitting the jackpot, except you wouldn't be so broke after guessing the winning numbers to the lottery. Hey, no one said that being Yorozuya Gin's wife wouldn't have its disadvantages!

Proposal

The way he proposed to you was... quite interesting. He was a nervous mess and tried to calm down by going down the booze route, which led to him being both inebriated and awkward. You'd been dating for quite a while and he was certain that he could finally tie the knot with you (Thank Kagura, Shinpachi and Otose for pushing him to it). With you he felt comfortable to be who he is, knowing that you loved him despite his flaws. He was always at home whenever you were around, though actually proposing was nerve wracking.

If he was left alone to do it, perhaps he'd just toss you a ring and leave it at that. But, because communism exists, his marital business is Yorozuya's marital business and they'd sit him down and explain that unless he tries to at least be a bit romantic, you'd be disappointed. In reality, Kagura said that you'd leave with another man if you did that, a fact that managed to get him all stressed up in the first place.

And so, Gin really did his best planning a memorable proposal. He took you out to a fancy restaurant, wore his *rented* tuxedo, bought a ring worth of 10 rents which he placed into the champagne glass (courtesy of Otae). It was the perfect night! Or... so it was, until he started chugging glass after glass, eventually forgetting that a ring was placed in one of them and... yes. He swallowed the ring.

I wouldn't be surprised if he hadn't noticed and went along with his proposal, voicing the little speech he had prepared with the guys the previous night, though be it half slurring and messing up halfway. It was a wonder you said yes, but it was a bigger wonder that he had managed to swallow a wedding ring without even being aware of it. Of course, that was something he kept hidden from you, and will probably keep it hidden even until after your children have children of their own. It's embarrassing, don't blame him!

At the end, he admitted leaving it at home, a far less shameful option. You parted ways and no one really asked why he spent the next 6-8 hours in the bathroom. The next day, you had a gorgeous shining ring around your finger, and an exhausted Gintoki by your side.

The wedding

Most likely Gintoki wished for a simple ceremony with those closest to you. Mainly because it would cost less but also because he isn’t one for extravagant parties. A wedding is a union and while he never hid your relationship, he’d be a bit flustered about saying such important words in public.

He did tell Kagura and Shinpachi, as those closest to him. And of course, Shinpachi told Otae, who told Kyuubei and then the entire Yagyuu clan had to pay their respects. Perhaps Gin also let Katsura know, not actually expecting him to show up, though he did and so did the Shinshengumi. At the end of the day, the entire cast was standing before you, some arguing and throwing bombs at one another, while others were too busy stuffing food in bento boxes. The quiet wedding you dreamt off turned into a bit of a fiasco, but everyone enjoyed themselves and so did you and Gin.

Honeymoon Period

I doubt that Gin could afford a proper honeymoon vacation, but perhaps Otose chimed in a bit, giving him enough money to take you somewhere decent as a wedding gift. Don’t think Hawaii or Paris or anything, but he did take you to an idyllic little fishing village or to a lovely mountain settlement.

The time you spent there was quiet and peaceful, unlike your everyday life in the city. It was a welcoming change and for once, you found yourself wishing that it would last more than a few days. Before you knew it, vacation time was over and you were back at Kabukicho.

Married Life

During the first few months, Gintoki would probably put on his good face. He'd be sweeter than usually to you, even going as far as to plan "romantic pizza nights in front of the tv" with candles all around. That would be his basic idea for a date night, but don't worry, he'll keep it up in the future too, minus the candles.

Another type of date time would probably be board game nights, either with just the two of you or his friends. If you end up winning too much, I wouldn't be surprised if Gin decided to flip the table or go as far as to cheat. If you catch onto him and scold him about his behavior, then he'd try to use other means to "win" ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) He is shameless, after all.

Surprisingly enough, Gin isn't bad at doing chores, though he does complain about it. Considering the nature of his job, it's not too uncommon for him to have days off, and so, if you are the one with a more stable 9 to 5 kinda job, he doesn't mind taking over the housework. Mostly to keep cockroaches at bay ;-;

If he is the only one to do chores, he'll start nagging about how you married him just to turn him into a housewife. Bribing him with something tasty, whether that is food or you, is bound to make him forget about it, for the time at least.

Speaking of food, a fun activity Gin would enjoy, is cooking with you. He mostly enjoys eating whatever it is that you make for him (supposing it's not burnt tamagoyaki or rice with egg on a daily basis), but if you suggest making something together, he'll find it just as fun and exciting. He doesn't always follow the recipes and a lot of the time he ends up slacking off, tossing ingredients such as flour on your bare face just to get a laugh out of it. In no time, such a notion would lead to an all out kitchen war. Just make sure that he cleans the mess afterwards, considering it's his fault.

Despite Gin picking up on chores, he can be very messy, turning your house into a dorm. Half finished ramen, jump magazines scattered around, tissues and cans, he leaves disaster in his trail. He will clean when he realizes you need a boat to pass through each room, or, if you order him to.

Perhaps at one point, you both tried to better yourself and engage into some more sophisticated hobbies, such as wine tasting or museum touring. Every couple gets to a point when they look at other couples and wonder if they are doing things wrong. But neither expensive wines or impressionism did it for you, and so you went back to your old habits in no time. It's better when you don't have to pretend around each other.

After a quick detour, back to Gin's messiness we go. He is the type to spend an awful long time in the bathroom, not because he is doing anything weird, but because he takes his jump with him. He can sit on the toilet for hours on end, not even realizing how long it's been.

Whenever he showers or baths, you will definitely know because of the endless stream of water and hot steam following after him. It looks as if someone copy-pasted Venice in your house and Gin isn't apologetic in the slightest over it. The main cause of it, is because he refuses to dry himself up, choosing to wander around the rooms with just a towel. Now if you scold him, he has no issue jumping on top of you with the sole intention of drying his body against your clothes.

Naturally, it doesn't take long for things to get heated, and I can definitely imagine him smirking while saying "Now I'm not the only one who's wet". Shameless, I told you. Besides, he is also the one who jumps into the shower with you if he is in a hurry, without even bothering to ask if it's fine.

Gin isn't against self care. He doesn't admit it, but in order to keep his hair tamable, he uses A LOT of products. Could have an entire shelve dedicated to hair products only, no surprises here. He might tease you if he sees you using a face mask sheet, though if you offer him one, he'll allow you to pamper him, asking you to check how soft his skin is 24/7.

A nice thing Gin does from time to time, is massages. If you come back tired from work, he'll have no issue rubbing your feet, your shoulders, and anywhere else you need him to *wink wink*. Again he'll bring up the "housewife" argument, but he is more than happy to take care of you.

On the contrary, a nasty thing Gin most definitely does, is start calling you old hag. Even changes your contact name to that and acts as if you are some old lady, despite being of similar age to him. Don't, just... don't ask.

Generally, you don't argue a lot and your fights consist of really petty and childish arguments, such as who gets to watch what on the tv. Usually it ends with him sitting on the remote to prevent you from touching it. Or, on cold winter nights, he ends up hoarding the blanket, leaving you to shiver alone while playing tug war with his sleepy self.

At times, Gin experiences severe nightmares about his past. It's something he can't let go off completely, and although he chooses to ignore it in his daily life, he can't control his subconscious. There isn't much for you to do, as he won't be willing to talk about it. However, wrapping your arms around him, assuring him that it's fine, that you are there and that he did his best, will definitely help.

His sex drive does die a bit after you get married, but it's not much of an issue. If you initiate things, he'll almost always be up for it, and he definitely has his "hornball" moments. If you are doing the dishes, he'll be doing you. If you are in it for a relaxing bath time, he'll have you sit between his legs. If he sees you all dressed up for a work event or an outing with a friend, he'll most likely undress you first.

Randomly slaps your butt from time to time whenever you pass before him. If you scold him, he chuckles while giving you the look to know that if you are up for it, he is also up for it. Lots of heated times on the couch, considering he is sometimes too lazy to move things to the bedroom.

Finally, kids is not something in his immediate plans. In fact, he'll try to postpone such talks until you enter the second year of marriage, if not more. He'll always go "La la la la la" at the mention of such things, but if you sit him down and ask him to have a family, he'll groan and take you to bed right away. After all, how can he say no to you?

Stress relief 18+

Your tongue swirls on the his salty tip, fat cock twitching and half hard as you tried to coax it to full mast, dragging your tongue down to the base to suck softly at his balls.

Kenji Sato, the man himself whines, sucking a sharp breathy gasp as he glances down at you with teary eyes.

Brows drawn and pouty lips pursed, he looks like he would actually cry.

Its not like you've been teasing him.

You've got a sadistic flare but you're not cruel. Besides, you were trying to relieve his stress.

He had trudged into your shared bedroom after a hectic day of back to back interviews, baseball practice and saving the city, or at least as much saving he could do half asleep before the KDF came.

A sob and a wail here, a sulky tantrum when you hadn't catch what he said, he's winded himself up even more after an overwhelming day.

So you had to take things into your own hands.

"Are you listening to me at all? Emi's asleep finally, and-"

He goes on and on and on as you smile and nod, walking him to the couch, leaning him back and sliding down between his thighs as if you're going about the day like normal.

It wasn't until you clicked open his belt that he pauses, eyes flicking in confusion from your face to hands before your mouth nips gently over his briefs, taking in his musky scent.

He yelps, flushing red as he struggles between irritation and lust.

"What're you doing...?"

Which brings you to now as you pull off his cock sloppily with a wet pop, finally red and hard as it glistened from your spit.

It swirls with his pre, thick globs dribbling down to the couch.

Your mouth twitches up into a smirk at his whines when you stop.

Eyes glazed and loopy, his mouth lolling open, he definitely looks stress-free right now.

"Feels good, Ken?"

You murmur against his swollen tip, hot breath causing him to flinch and twitch.

"Yea...s'gud baby..."

Making out with Kenji. 18+

Make out sessions with Kenji is like running a marathon. He's got some sort of oral fixation exclusive to you, his mouth needing to be against yours, against you, without breaking apart for as long as possible.

Doesn't matter if you're breathless, and seeing spots, the moment you try to pull away it's as if you've snatched his gold trophy from him.

"Get back here,"

His voice practically drags out in a snarl, guttural and feral as he squeezes your face in one large palm to yank you back.

Right, how inconsiderate of you to try to catch your breath.

You wince as your teeth clacks roughly against his, his tongue already slipping into your mouth.

He's got you pushed down on the bed, body weight crushing yours as his hips grinds on you. His elbows digs into the mattress on either sides of your head, fingers laced on the top of your head as if to hold you in place and your own small hands gripped onto the sides of his shirt for dear life.

Your muffled whines of protests were lost on him, too busy eating your face to care. All he hears is your cute little mewls and whimpers under him, moaning into your mouth whenever you gag.

When he finally, finally, pulls back, you're throwing your head back to gulp for air, sweat beading on your forehead and chest heaving.

Kenji clicks his tongue, dragging the back of his hand over his spit-covered chin.

"S'dramatic,"

You hear him mumble, earning a swat from you despite the smirk playing on his lips.

He likes seeing you like this, winded and choking for air. The power trip of reducing you into a goopy mess like this turns him on like crazy, though he'll never admit it.

And here comes the punchline.

"You're all worked up over a kiss?"

The smugness practically oozes from his tone, eyes glittering with glee as he runs a cold hand up the column of your neck.

He squeezes lightly, a promise for what's to come, before sliding down your body as your eyes follows him curiously. Your breath hitches when he swings your thighs over his shoulders.

"Since I've tired your lips out up there, I think I'll pay attention to the ones here, kay' baby?"

His shit eating grin tells you he's gonna do it anyways.

He's got you wrap around his little finger and all you can do is spread your thighs a little wider in answer.

(Bro is a mouth breather. He breaths through YOUR mouth fr)