FAVORITE POSITION

FAVORITE POSITION

「 content warning 」 ft ༝ getou, toji, gojou, choso & higuruma. usage of pet names ‘sweetheart, angel, honey’. let me know if i missed anything!

GETOU SUGURU

spooning

large calloused hands that start at your waist then down to your hips, slowly sink you down into immense pleasure. suguru places intimate kisses below your ear as he soothes you into taking all of him at once despite the amount of times you’ve done it before.

he’ll purposefully moan into your ear as he would near his orgasm just to send you on edge, eyebrows furrowed as he rubs tight circles to your clit, “feels so good, sweetheart… love you… love you and this pussy so much…”

his breathless panting would be the only thing to ring in your ears when he shudders, small whimpers leaving the premise of his lips, feeling you continuously clench as he holds you down, to assure that none of what he had given to his sweet angel would go to waste.

TOJI FUSHIGURO

kneeling missionary

he’ll coo, squeezing at your skin. his eyes carefully watch the way your pussy pulses around nothing, desperately waiting to be filled. toji sucks in a breath when you claw at his wrists, whining at how slowly he’s sheathing in.

his palms trace the outline of your body, stopping at your hips to use for leverage, beginning a decent pace. the words that’ll fall from his mouth are nothing but praise, ensuring that you’re doing such a good and nobody could take him as good as you.

toji will grin evilly, picking up the pace of thrusts, one hand thumbing slow circles to your clit whilst the other presses down on your stomach, delightfully watching the way he enters in and out of your pussy.

GOJOU SATORU

doggy style

“fuck,” he’ll capture his lips between his teeth, unable to contain how you feel as he sinks into you from behind. satoru’s hands push the skin of your ass, allowing an astonishing view of what you looked like sucking him in.

he’d laugh, striking his palm against your ass before pressing down on your arch. it’s clear how well he’s enjoying himself, head thrown back and adam’s apple bobbing when he swallows.

when he’s nearing his orgasm he’ll pull you up by the throat, back flushed against his chest, whiny moans vibrating against your ears as he holds you down, chuckling at the way drips of his cum leak down your thighs.

CHOSO KAMO

missionary

he’ll dip his head down into the crook of your neck once he’s finally buried himself deep in your walls. he has his hands caressing the skin of your waist as if it was to say he loved you, and how he oh so loved the way you felt around him.

when your legs encircle him, choso will use that opportunity to lean forward, his chest pressing closely yours as he intertwines your hands together.

his moans echoing the space around you when he gets close, body becoming stiff and halting as he pants relentlessly along the shell of your ear.

HIGURUMA HIROMI

cowgirl

absolutely loves it when you’re on top. hiromi enjoys watching your face slowly contort into pleasure as you sink down with his guidance. he whispers praises along the shell of your ear, a hand pressed to your lower back, “doing so good, honey… s’good.”

as if his hips would have a mind of its own, they buck up as he nears his orgasm, grunts and breathless panting filling the air and sending chills down your spine.

“eyes on me,” he huffs, wanting nothing more than to see how you look creaming around his cock. he doesn’t break eye contact, a sly smile dressing his features watching you convulse, “atta girl.”

© teefushi ༝ do not copy, translate, modify or repost any of my work on any platform, or claim it as your own.

need a man whose cock does 100hp damage

hello can i request 49. stolen kissses + ushijima? thank u 💓💓

hq!!reqs temporarily: closed ; all other reqs: open

send me a number a character and i’ll write you a drabble ;

49. stolen kisses ushijima ; nsfw, 1,530 words

a/n: man, yall rly like this prompt dontcha  

he kisses you hard enough to bruise. hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs, hard enough for your head to knock against the wall of the gymnasium behind you – you realize a moment later it’s the only way he knows how to kiss. you kiss him back just as hard, harder, even. you kiss him till he grunts, his hands finding your skin beneath your untucked uniform, his palm meeting the skin at the small of your back. 

you squeak against his lips, gasping as he pulls back. 

his chest is heaving against yours, and there’s a look in his eyes – a wildness you’re not sure could be tamed. but you don’t want to. you curl your fingers in his hair and pull him back down. and you’re drowning all over again. 

“t-toshi –” 

“mm.” 

Keep reading

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

being fucked so hard from behind that you collapse forward and then they lean over you and use their weight to keep you completely pinned so you can’t do anything but whine and take it

Irrevocably, Yours

pairings: timeskip(stripper)!osamu x f!reader

word count: 2.6k

contains: best friends to almost-lovers, stripper!osamu, roommate!au, flowery prose, mutual suppressed → realized feelings, no verbal love confessions, mutual pining, intimacy comes in many forms, lap dance -> heavy petting (consensual), sexual tension, highly suggestive, osamu has body hair + stretch marks, overall sweet & desperate osamu

warnings: minors dni

a/n: this was inspired by @somisamu's series Little Piece of Heaven! (this is not a part of my bsf!osamu drabble series)

[more stripper!osamu content here]

Laughter and conversation fill your mouths and ears, tenured friends reunited for the sake of a birthday.

Beside you, Atsumu shifts. “Is there anythin’ else you were wantin’?” he asks, smiling, pinching your arm in jest.

“Not that I can think of,” you say as you mildly hit his hand away. Sitting in the apartment living room as well, Suna, Aran, Osamu, and a pair of friends from university mull over your response, taken away from their discussions in favor of outwardly wondering what you might’ve wished for as you had blown the flames from your candles prior.

You shake your head, appease them with the modest answer of, “If I told you, it wouldn’t come true.” Suna snorts impishly at this, before he begins to postulate your wish, listing each possibility with laze.

Until he reaches a particular one. “Were you hoping for Osamu to give you one of his lap dances?” Immediately, Suna devolves into a fit of mirth, though you sit across from him, wholly stunned.

Few knew of Osamu’s secondary occupation at a gentlemen’s club, an unassuming building enveloped deep within the city. He worked his nights there, returning to your shared apartment at dawn with quiet footfalls and a gentle, ‘Mornin’,’ when he found you in the kitchen only beginning your day. And then Osamu would bathe as you dressed, returning to you with wetted hair and a tired body in the living room before you left for work.

‘Go to bed,’ you would tell him, taking your coat from its hook, because Osamu had a tendency to want to keep you company in the early morning, knowing that this time with you was limited. He felt that, as your closest friend and present roommate, the moments you truly spent together had become scarce as of late. His primary, part-time job of a chef-in-training ensured he remained busy.

Osamu also never spoke about his work at the gentlemen’s club; in turn, you didn’t ask.

However, he watches Suna now, then you. He’s trying to gauge your expression as you look on, dumbfounded at the former’s comment. You stiffen, falter minutely. Your friends have already migrated to the kitchen with Atsumu and Aran, for which he’s grateful.

Suna continues, lightheartedly. “I’m joking.” His eyes move to Osamu, head tilting in suggestion, though he speaks to you. “Unless you want him to—might be fun.” He shrugs, casual.

Lounging in an armchair, Osamu huffs a short laugh. It’s meant to be dismissive, wry, but it comes as tense and rigid. He knows what Suna is prodding for, having figured out a year or so ago that Osamu’s affections for you were no longer platonic.

A similar laugh comes from you. “Very funny, Rin.” 

“Hilarious,” says Osamu. He finds some strange solace in your reaction, at least. You hadn’t curled your lip or protested loudly. He isn’t sure what to make of that, if there’s anything to be made of it at all. By some whim, he asks with false bravado, “Would you even want that?”

There’s a play to be had in the gentlemen’s club. It goes as such: a finger is crooked toward Osamu, keeping a bill between the knuckles until their lips ask something of him. ‘Give me a dance,’ they whisper. ‘Give me a show with that pert body of yours,’ they say. And the bill is taken with his teeth, or tucked within what little clothing he wears. Then there are those who aren’t sure what to tell him, blundering over their requests, paying too much or not enough. But they’re all predictable, in some manner or another, Osamu always finds a way to cater.

Even so, he can’t predict you. The repetition of knowing someone only remains a repetition until you begin to know them too well. People and animals alike find patterns in what they don’t understand, because creatures of habit need habit for their survival. And when something becomes known, it’s no longer an enigma in need of being diluted into simpler pieces like vague proclivities. 

“What?” you ask and your question is small, eyes widened at Osamu.

Atsumu peers around from the kitchen, ill-timed. “What’s goin’ on? Why’s everyone so quiet?”

Before you can offer a lie, Suna says, “Osamu is gonna give her a lap dance.”

“You know what—I shouldn’t have asked.” Atsumu frowns, displeased, returning to Aran and your friends to take up his place in the conversation.

And you’re thoroughly flushed now at Suna’s twisting of the situation, mangling the context into something else entirely. You shove at his shoulder. “Why did you say that?”

“Is that not where this is going?” he asks, holding his arm.

You sigh, the sound sharp. Osamu rises from his seat, coming toward you when you meet his eye, pressing yourself further into the couch.

“We’re doing this here?” Your voice is near panicked.

Was that an agreement? he wonders. Osamu says, instead, “No, we can go somewhere more private, but only if ya’ want to.” And he’s standing in front of you, arms folded along his chest patiently.

Suna watches with silent, rapt glee at the events he’s unspun. “You should definitely say ‘yes,’” he murmurs, only for you to hear.

But Osamu catches his words, fixing him with an inscrutable face. “Let her make the decision for herself.” He returns to you.

And you’re overwrought, Osamu can tell, even as you tamp it down. Hesitance also resides there, unsurety and trepidation, but curiosity beneath it all. Of course, he sees it, pulls it from your very being when he puts out a hand and finds that you place yours within it.

For you, he sets himself in the clinical mindset of work as he guides you to his bedroom. You’re simply a patron in this moment; a customer who knows his every tell, who he shares a home with, grown up alongside, who says his name softly and suddenly and angrily and happily.

He doesn’t know if he can do this.

“Here, sit down.” Osamu pulls the chair from his desk once the door is closed, turning it on its leg to face you.

“Are we actually…” you settle yourself in the chair, slow “...gonna do this?”

“Did you think I was bluffin’?”

“Yes.”

Your quick response leaves him quiet, before he asks, “Do ya’ still wanna do this? You can tell me ‘no.’”

You say, “I trust you,” and it’s a response he’s always known innately, but hadn’t expected to hear.

Osamu hums, walking around you, observing and noting.

“What’re you doing?” You adjust yourself in the chair, fingers fussing with the bottom hem of the dress you had worn to dinner earlier. It’s only him and you in this bedroom, as it has been many times before, but not for something of this nature.

“Tryin’ to figure out what to do with ya’,” he murmurs, a hand folded over his mouth in thought while the other tucks itself beneath his arm.

You laugh a little.

You’re nervous, he thinks and comes behind you, placing a palm over your shoulder. Your body reacts with a restless quiver. “I’m gonna need ya’ to relax a bit, okay? ‘S just me.”

“Just you,” you repeat, as if it had meant to be mocking, a deflection. “And I’m just another one of the people you work for, right?” Your question isn’t unkind.

“No,” he admits, “you’re not.” And that makes it all the more difficult.

He works his hands along both shoulders, pressing and easing the tight line there, until his fingers move up your throat, thumbs tipping your chin back gently.

“Look at me.” 

He sounds lovely, you think. You open your eyes, head tilted to stare up at him.

“‘M not gonna do anythin’ you’re uncomfortable with. You tell me to stop and I will.”

You nod, feel the warmth of his hands that had only ever given you demured touches before. 

He tells you that you can close your eyes if you’d like; he hopes you don’t; he almost asks why you agreed to this, why he had, as if you could give him an answer and he’d be satisfied with it nonetheless.

You ask, abruptly, “Don’t you usually have music for this?”

Osamu smiles, fond. He knows you’re trying to lighten this odd atmosphere. “I doubt you’d want to hear what they play. Either way, we’re doin’ somethin’ a little different.”

“What kind of different?”

“The kind I pick out for ya’.”

There’s something intimate in those words alone, the idea that Osamu, with his ever-expanding knowledge of you, has chosen to do something he thinks will fit your tastes. 

Will he be right? you wonder. Is this how he pleases others while he works?

His hands are elsewhere now, letting your head come forward again. In spite of this, the tips of his fingers lower, tarrying briefly on the chain of your necklace—the one he had given to you in high school, another birthday gift. And though you’re unable to see his expression, his own breathes begin to even; he remembers handing it to you in a discreet gift bag when he was younger, asking you to open it when you got home, and how you had sought him out the next morning, catching him in a tight hug as you said, “I wanted to wait to thank you when I could see you.”

He pulls away, that hand catching in your hair as he moves to stand before you. Osamu almost wants to say, facetiously, ‘Isn’t this ridiculous? You’d probably laugh if you saw what I usually have to do with people in those tight fuckin’ shorts they make me wear that barely cover what they need to.” Because when he works, he often makes mindless complaints to let the night become a bit more bearable. He doesn’t make the remark, however, because you’re looking up at him carefully, your own hands kept in your lap, and Osamu is staring.

He’s large above you, even more so now that you’re sat. The lamplight of his bedroom cuts softly against his face, his body, his hair that seems a bit more tousled than usual. “‘Samu,” you say, drawing his attention from wherever his mind had scurried to. He swallows, mumbles something you don’t catch; an apology, perhaps.

And then he leans down, bracing a palm on one of the armrests. His unoccupied hand rests on your left knee, the sensation unfamiliar enough to elicit a small start from you. He brushes his thumb there, an attempt to soothe.

“Talk to me,” he says, though it feels less of a request than it does a directive.

Your focus flits from around his bedroom, to him, away again. “About what?”

“Anythin’.” He pushes his touch upward, heedful like you might bolt. “Tell me your favorite part of today.”

Osamu is only trying to keep you from working yourself up too much, as he often does for clients with restless hands and darting eyes. 

“When you woke me up with breakfast in bed,” you say, “and then almost spilled my coffee all over my clean sheets.”

Conversely, he hadn’t realized that asking you to do such would only result in working himself up—an inadvertent mistake. Because with the way you speak, breathless and hitching when he reaches the end of your dress where your fingers had twisted into the fabric, he wonders how long he’ll be able to keep the façade he so easily wears around anyone but you.

“In my defense, I tripped on the shirt you left on the floor.” He edges along the dress, loosening your hands with placating movements, his head turned down to watch where he touched.

Soon, he’s taking both of your knees and spreading them. You grab for your dress, pushing the middle section into the chair to cover yourself.

“Keep talkin’ for me,” he encourages, veiling over the disbelief, the dazedness he feels.

You inhale shakily, and you know Osamu hears it. “You scheduled reservations at that restaurant I’ve been wanting to try. I don’t—I don’t understand how you even got those.”

He continues to work his hands along your thighs, your calves, easing you into being touched like this by him.

“And then the dessert you made,” you breathe. “Sometimes, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

The sentiment burns into his heart, painfully, lovingly. He’s reminded that this moment with you won’t last, as no moments ever do.

Osamu retracts himself from you.

“I didn’t think lap dances could be so tame.” It’s your attempt at a jest, but you quickly close your mouth when he moves to stand over you, taking his shirt from his body and tossing it at your face with a huffing laugh. It falls to your lap, revealing a frown on your pretty features.

“I can give you a strip-tease if that’s what ya’ want.”

You return to that tenseness from before at his offer, and then at his bare torso. The musculature is less pronounced, less lithe than when he was a teenager, but he’s only gotten bigger. Pale stretch marks run stark on the skin beneath his arms and around his hips—a product of a growth spurt many years ago—and a dark line of hair beginning below his navel, down the remainder of his stomach.

He takes your hand in his, lifting it. “You can touch me.”

“Are you sure?” It’s a whisper, spoken on an uncertain breath.

Please, he thinks, God, please. But Osamu simply lowers his body, pressing your palm at his chest, guiding it downwards, wanting you to feel everything, wanting himself to feel everything. Your nails brush along his skin, the small dips and curves of muscle, the trail of hair above his jeans. He stops leading your hand when he reaches his belt.

He’s thankful for the dimmed lighting here because he can feel the blush that rends his face, the hard-on that he now has tightening in his jeans. If you notice either, you don’t say a thing.

This back-and-forth continues for some time; Osamu wanting you to touch him, wanting to touch you. Heavy hands and hesitant breaths, he watches you react to him, wanting more of the gasps he barely hears, how you simultaneously shy away and bow toward him. He would do this all night, if you let him.

Osamu tucks his head to your collarbone, feeling as you hold onto his shoulder.

This is no longer some menial lap dance like the ones he gives to those strangers who sit in their plush seats and dangle money in his face. This is years of unrealized pining, frustrated yearning, finally pacing like a deranged creature.

He takes your necklace between his teeth, tongue brushing your warm skin. And you make this fucking noise that nearly causes him to fall to his knees in front of you as he pulls the necklace taut with his mouth and you, in turn, tug at the nape of his hair, making him groan lowly and shut his eyes.

When he finds that beautiful face of yours again, almost panting and flushed just as his, he brings you closer by the necklace, his nostrils flaring with reined control. He lets go, watching it fall to the crease of your breasts.

He’s just done something irrevocable to your friendship.