Sleeping With The Jjk Boys

— sleeping with the jjk boys

♡ fushiguro m., itadori y., okkotsu y., inumaki t. -> jjk masterlist

♡ y’all sleeping on yuuta while i sleep with him

megumi fushiguro’s hand draws patterns along your spine, his other hand placed over his eyes. it’s dark, other wise, you’d be able to see the ghost of a smile on his lips. he’s giddy, even more than he normally is with you; knowing you trust him enough to allow yourself to be in this vulnerable state with him makes him want to smile until his cheeks burn. 

itadori yuuji kisses up your jaw, behind your ear and on your nose before allowing himself to fully embrace you. he can’t exactly make out your features in the room, so he’s beyond thankful for his photographic memory. this way, he’s able to memorize the way your face looks before you sleep — your eyes in a haze and lips slightly parted, he mumbles, “you look like home.” 

okkotsu yuuta snuggles silently against you. he places his hand gently on your head while he mumbles sweet nothings into your hair. his heart blooms when you giggle into the safety of his chest. he pinches your cheek before placing a quick kiss on it, waiting until he hears your labored breathing as a sign for him to give into sleep too.

inumaki toge’s breathing evens shortly after you place your fingers into his hair, with his head laying gently on your chest, ear placed to the sound of your heartbeat, he thinks this is the happiest he’s ever been. a content sigh leaves his lips as his arms wrap tightly around you.

i didn’t know if you’d care if i came back ｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

gojo satoru x reader | wc: 1k | L’s FOLKLORE event

“I can’t believe you.”

You’ve heard these words from him before, but not like this. They usually drip like honey from his silver tongue, with faux and teasing disbelief weaved in and around them. 

But right now, they sound cold, like a knife’s blade clinking against a glass table. He sounds hurt, you think, though you’re not sure what that sounds like coming from him. 

“Well, hello to you too, Gojo.”

“Don’t call me that,” he immediately heaves, as if your words burned him like a child touching a hot stove, “what is going on with you?” 

He stands a mere few feet away from you, but something far creakier than the wooden floorboards separates the space between the two of you, making it feel like lightyears rather than a few measly strides. 

His blindfold is off, it’s the first thing you notice. You can see his eyes—they’re just as beautiful as they were when you left, but something about them now appears weary. Slightly bloodshot, sulking into the bags that weigh beneath his eyelids, he looks exhausted. You can only imagine the headache pounding away behind his flesh. 

“Why didn’t you tell me you were back?” his question is desperate, almost as if he can’t believe he’s actually asking it to you right now. 

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For kinktobber can you write temperature play + overstimulation with Kyojuro?

so, i decided to go with strictly overstim i hope you don’t mind lovely!

𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒻𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉𝒶𝒾𝓃 ⎹ 𝓚.𝓡.

❝ ғᴀɴᴅᴏᴍ ⤻ demon slayer / kinktober 2022 / never hard to catch au / @dollsanime-library

❝ ғᴇᴀᴛᴜʀᴇᴅ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀs ⤻ kyojuro rengoku x airhead!consort!reader ( f! )

❝ ʀᴀᴛɪɴɢ ⤻ nsfw! none of my writings are meant for anyone under the age of 18, and any minors interacting will be blocked on site.

❝ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢs ⤻ all smut, oral sex ( f ), overstimulation, squirting

❝ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ ⤻ 1.3k / mini musing

❝ ʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴍᴇ ⤻ i do not consent to having my work reposted / translated / stolen in any capacity for any reason. please reblog and leave a comment to support content creators! my work is very rarely proof read so mistakes may be present. all characters / pairings i write for are 18+ with no exceptions.

there was so much pressure.

an elastic stretched too far, and ready to snap.

a bubble blown too wide, about to pop.

you felt like you were going to explode.

and still, he wasn’t stopping.

and you knew, deep down, you didn’t want him to, but you didn’t know how much more your body could take before it gave out all together.

“K—Kyojuro—!” you cry, clamping your thighs tighter against his ears. it didn’t seem to matter how hard you squeezed, he wasn’t going to move, and you had nowhere to go. your legs were made of jelly, so climbing off of him would’ve been impossible. “I don’t know if I can cum again…” but his tongue was merciless in it’s lapping at your sensitive core, and no matter how you tried to shift, you were destined to rub yourself into his face. pressing your palms against his shoulders, you try to ease up, hover above him. “Too… too much…”

“Already?” Rengoku smiles wide against the slickness of your skin, breathing against it in hot, quick puffs.

you nod, pushing your lower lip out in a childish pout and batting your lashes.

“Even the puppy dog eyes, eh? Poor thing, you must be really sensitive.” before he grips both of your thighs, pulling you back down flush against his face. the abruptness and strength behind his movements clued you in — he wasn’t about to let you give up. the sharp dip of his nose bridge grinds into your throbbing clit. “I’m sorry, pretty girl, but your soft pussy just tastes so much sweeter when it’s swollen and tender. So let’s not hold back, hm? Let me see you scream for me once more.” he demanded, baritone thick with lust and slurred against your cunt.

you can’t even begin to argue with that. your nails bite at the broad, heavily muscled shoulders and your back arches, rubbing yourself against him, riding his face even though every nerve in your sex was kicked into overdrive. you were panting, grinding your teeth, the knots tied in your guts pulling taut as your next climax quickly approaches, and your eyes widen in surprise— crying out as if in complete shock: “Cumming… I’m cumming again!” it was incredible to you that it was even possible. your limits had been thoroughly tested during your time with the Hashira, sure, but never to this extent. you’d cum so many times already that you’d lost count, and somehow— somehow, Rengoku was able to pull another one from your spent frame.

Kyojuro laughed. it was a booming, hearty laugh, and he smacks his lips, glossy with your essence, fiery eyes flickering up the length of your sweat-sheen torso to meet your gaze. you had to dip your chin into your chest to hold the eye contact, biting down on your lip, but it didn’t stop the moan that escaped your lips. just seeing him like this, the powerful Flame Hashira, a walking, breathing legend, with his face buried between your thighs and his face shiny with your juices, was enough to send you into a tizzy. one hand frees itself from your supple thigh and the thumb pad glides over your clit, eliciting a tremble. “Not yet… just a little more…”

one of your hands flies to clamp a fist around his wrist, starting to shake your head. the very touch of the rough pad against your swollen clit has you jerking atop him, but you’re too swept up in the whirlwind of torturous euphoria to make a sound, and tell him that you can’t take it.

this one was, by far, the most intense climax you’d ever experienced, and you were helpless, unable to stop it, unable to ease that pressure that just kept building.

“I might just break you with this one.” he purrs, thoughtful as he watches you thrash, but he’s grinning, ear to ear, tongue hanging out so you grind your tender core against his tastebuds while you squirm, which only heightens every electric sensation shooting through you. you squeezed his wrist, but he only chuckles and flips his wrist, turning his hand over to take yours and give it a firm grip— fingers interlacing with yours. his other arm hooked over your thigh, holding you down against his tongue but freeing his fist to rub your clit with this one instead. “Go on, pretty girl, show me.”

“Kyojuro!” you mewled, over and over, until your throat was hoarse from screaming for him, and your body was quivering, “I’m going to burst, it’s so much!”

in a way, you did.

that bubble popped.

the elastic snapped.

and you lost what little resolve, what little control of yourself, was left.

you’d never cum like that before. you were screaming his name, at the top of your lungs, and squeezing his hand, whole body spasming, shaking, and to your absolute disbelief— you erupt like a geyser. a weak cry from your slack lips is all the warning Rengoku gets before you gush, soaking his face.

humiliated, you long desperately to apologize, but before you could find the words, he dives in, relishing the shower, licking fat stripes between your nether lips and teasing your clenching hole until you’re whimpering, sagging backwards. if it wasn’t for his grip on your hand, you would’ve collapsed completely, but you were certainly limp, head dropped back, staring at the opposite wall with a hazy eyeline and panting. “O—oh, my god… Kyojuro!”

once he’s had his fill and left you quivering, too weak to sit up, he shifts under you, allowing you room to crumble on your back on the bed, snapping your trembling knees closed. you could feel the dampness from sweat and cum against the sheets, and your cheeks were hot with a blush. you’d have to go wash them in the lake before you could sleep. craning your neck, you watch Rengoku sit up on his knees, and you notice just how hard his cock is. it’s engorged and red-tipped, begging to be tended to, and pointing towards his rippling abdomen. you take one look at it, and then another at his face— droplets of your release raining down on to his heaving chest, clinging to his temple, wetting his hair, and you bite down, harshly, on your lower tier, and force your legs to spread apart, again. it wasn’t the most elegant of poses, your shaking thighs sore and splayed open, exposing your much too sensitive cunt to him again.

“I want—“ your chest rises and falls with heavy breaths, and you could hardly find the words. your body didn’t want you to say them. your body wanted you to beg for time to recuperate. “I want to do that again…”

his blazing gems house two blown out pupils, and they zero in on your treasure, offered to him, even though every muscle jumped under your skin. he smiles, leaning over you to fit right into the gap provided, and ran his fingertips over your quivering core in butterfly strokes, lips whisking across yours. “Now I’ve spoiled you, have I? You’ll beg me to drink from your sweet fountain until you can’t even form words?”

you nod, whimpering. his touch was a raging wildfire over your intumescent sex, but now you needed to see just how much more you could give him.

i remember thinking i had you ｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

levi ackerman x reader | wc: 0.7k+ | L’s FOLKLORE event

“I can’t believe you don’t remember the name of the restaurant.”

Your accusation isn’t one of malice or irritation—if anything, there’s a hint of competition laced into your words. A tone of challenge that sparks a fire inside of Levi’s chest. 

Your husband glances up from where he sits across the table from you, eyes unimpressed as they eventually return to the annotated novel before him. 

“It was years ago,” he states unenthusiastically, “and from what I recall, the food was subpar at best. We never went back there again.”

You watch him fiddle with the ballpoint pen in hand before scribbling something into the header of a page. You note the black ink smeared on the side of his pinky finger, trailing upwards towards his wrist. You fight off the sudden urge to kiss the bone that protrudes from where his forearm meets his hand.

“But it was our first date,” you emphasize with a whine, for clarification, “that’s supposed to be something you remember.”

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۪۪۫۫ ༄ؘ ˑ ᴍɪᴅɴɪɢʜᴛ ᴍᴜsᴇ - ᴀʀᴛɪsᴛ!ᴊᴇᴀɴ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

༄ؘ ˑ contains: 2.5k of artist!jean, shower sex, creampie, pottery clichés, black coded!reader being a nude model bc i forgot to explicitly mention that oops, hc format + a lil oneshot<3

༄ؘ ˑ a/n: not proof read T^T

artist!jean who insists that you’re his muse. he’d been in a rut for what felt like aeons but in reality was probably only a couple of months before he met you. still, the way jean describes it as a transformative spark of inspiration sounds so poetically exaggerative that you find yourself with an involuntary grin whenever he mentions it.

artist!jean who uses oil, the first time. oil paints in fiery coppers and springtime golds to capture the exposed skin of your body. the flick of a wrist, the turn of a waist. the curve of a pelvic bone. he wasn’t lucid when he painted you, he swears. swears he still feels fuzzy working on some pieces even now. you were artwork. artwork that inspired artwork. that made him frantic to smear carefully calculated streaks of colour across his canvas in a lustful burst of creativity.

artist!jean who you approach after the class, slipped into sandals and a silk robe and trotting over to ask to see his work. he’d been sheepish, adrenaline from his fervent work wearing off and leaving him with the feeling of hummingbirds in his belly. you’d modelled a few times, never really interested in any of the students work, they were all either creepy, indifferent or desperate for a passing grade. but he’d made you.. beautiful. captured a playful sensuality that you didn’t even realise was there.

artist!jean who hangs the piece in the entryway to his studio—even if now he has the real thing to inspire him everyday. his studio smells of woodsy canvas paper and earthy terracotta clay, usually. sometimes it’s the headache-pine of lingering turpentine seeped into scattered rags. other times its simply his own sweet scent. in the summer, he foregoes a t-shirt and unbuttons his paint-stained overalls to hang loosely around his waist. (you love watching him work in the summer).

artist!jean who likes to use you as a canvas. and he’s never told you that, but it’s obvious in the way that his tongue feels like brush strokes against the silky depths of your cunt. in the way his strong hands mould the flesh of your ass with deft fingers. in the way he frantically pumps his cockhead, head thrown back and panting to send himself over the edge and paint your pussy with the milky globs of his seed. you’re always a little oversensitive, twitching when his lithe fingers trace the puffy lips of your cunt, ghosting over your swollen clit to fully coat you in the pearly mark of his arousal. you call it fingerpainting. he says you just look good covered in his cum.

artist!jean who often gets the insatiable urge to just fucking make something at the most inconvenient hours. his fingers will twitch against their place on your stomach, his brain far too awake for well past midnight. he always relents, reluctantly leaving your orbit and quietly padding downstairs.

tonight, you find him hunched over on the kitchen floor, caked to the elbows in drying terracotta. there’s a gentle hum from the pottery wheel and the vaguely soil-like smell of unfired porcelain.

the sound of your bare feet padding across the tile floor makes him glance in your direction. you’re a rough sleeper—a few braids have slipped from the satin of your scarf and are framing your tired face. jean gets the sudden urge to smush your sleep-puffed cheeks and kiss the sleep from your eyes.

you give him a dreamy smile and a kiss on his head as you pass him to grab a glass of water.

“can’t sleep?” he asks softly, as if any remote volume will disrupt his work and disturb your peace. you mumble something that sounds a lot like not without you and jean feels his insides heat and liquify inside of him.

he pauses his ministrations with his partial vase and dips his arms into the bucket of water next to him, sloshing off the dried clay and re-slicking his hands.

you’re craving the cloak of unconsciousness, resigning yourself to a lonely hour or two in your shared bed. you do sleep better with him, but you’ve been together long enough to know that you’ll always wake up with the weight of his arms draped around you. but jeans making impatient, semi-clean grabby hands in your direction.

“baby. c’mere.”

you groan around the glass and shake your head in defiance.

“babyyy.” he sings.

“jean, it’s 3am.”

“c’monnn.” he pouts.

“aren’t you tired of this yet? you do this every single time.” you’re huffing, trying to fight the smile that manifests over stupid, fond, repetitive memories.

when jean got into pottery, he made the completely predictable and cliche move of dragging you in between his legs and guiding your hands along the damp clay. the patrick swayze to your demi moore. he had even started humming the chorus of that godforsaken song, unchained melody, that had you booing and fighting off giggles. but it was cute, in a sickeningly romantic way.

and yet jean had kept on doing it. every time you walked into his studio and saw him sorting through bricks of clay or re-dipping his hands, you’d bolt for the door only to be chased down by jean who’d drag you back with soiled hands and a wicked grin. he called it ‘ghosting’ you.

“it never gets old!” he insists, waggling his fingers at you. “c’mon you love it.”

“goodnight, jean.” you say, putting away your glass and rushing to sidestep him.

nimble fingers wrap around your wrist just as you pass him. damn his long ass limbs.

you groan and writhe in his grip as he stands to embrace you. “ugh you’re all wet!” he ignores you, grin dripping with mirth as he buries himself in your neck and shuffles you both in front of the vase.

“i just showered right before bed! i can’t shower again this late.. you’re so annoying you know that?” you’re grumbling as jean drags you down to sit with him, you’re mildly irked but revelling in his blanketing heat behind you. jean punctuates the kiss to your pulsepoint with the glide of his hands over yours. air haults in your lungs as long fingers slip between your own and the clay smooths beneath your palm.

you huff again. “i hate you.”

jean breaths a laugh through his nose, tickling your neck, making you smile.

you give in. melting against him and letting him guide your hands to smooth out the sides of the vase, making dips and curves with the clefts of your palms. all the while making a wet trail of his lips across your skin. suctioning behind your ear. blowing along your collar bone. fucking teasing.

“don’t start.” you warn him.

“hm?” he feigns innocence, resting his chin on your shoulder and turning a fraction to peck the side of your mouth.

you scoff, slipping your hand from his and smearing a streak of clay on his nose.

“forget it.”

“hey!” he gapes at you “that was uncalled for.” he grumbles. your remaining hand caged around his own suddenly feels crushed under his increasing weight. clay starts to collect between your fingers, thick globs of rust caking your digits and jeans.

you raise a brow. “don’t you dare.”

but oh he dares.

his filthy hand shoots up the expanse of your forearm, making you screech into the night. jeans laughing as you recoil, almost elbowing him in the ribs. “you started it.” he states with a loud, wet kiss to your cheek that you try to swat away.

“i’ll fucking finish it you asshole.” you grunt, dipping into the water and flicking it at him.

jean yells at the unexpected attack, quickly recovering and grabbing your retreating wrist. “oh so now you wanna make a mess?” he asks, guiding your hand back to the sad excuse for a vase.

your bubbling laughter dies into nothing as jean claws his fingers around yours. “then let’s make a mess, baby.” he rips a chunk of clay from the side, cradled in your fingers and in a flash it’s smushed against your clavicle.

an incredulous, breathy laugh erupts from you. the cold smear of sienna on your body definitely warranting a shower now.

“you’re dead, kirstein.” you say calmly, a menacing smile on your pretty face as jean tries to cage you further between his legs to hinder your movements.

the next few minutes are a flurry of attacks. jean nearly knocks over the bucket in his attempt to scoop up the gross, soggy remnants at the bottom of the water and smear it on your cheeks. you’re both yelping and laughing as clay gets smeared along your exposed skin. you even manage to drop some onto jeans plaid pyjama bottoms in the ultimate revenge ploy. eventually you scramble up from the floor and jean relents, hands up in surrender as the misshapen blob of clay spins aimlessly on the pottery wheel.

“truce!”

“truce.” you smirk, offering a hand to your temporary foe and dragging him up from the floor. he’s got that stupid horny look in his eye as he reaches full height and stares down at you. soft eyes droopy under the weight of his arousal and pupils blown in lust.

you resist the urge to roll your eyes, whether over his blatant neediness or your feathery resolve to give in to him, you aren’t sure. being pressed against his broad form for so long hadn’t exactly been satiating enough.

on your tiptoes, your arms circle his neck and you kiss him, uncaring of the dot of clay that somehow ended up on his perfect little cupid’s bow. “how ‘bout that shower?” you mumble as you pull back, lidded gaze boring into his.

the lifting of your body serves as his answer. reflexively your legs lock around his trimmed waist, and you indulge in the taste of him as he blindly makes his way to the bathroom.

the journey from the kitchen to underneath the spray of the shower is full of tongue and teeth. lips on his neck. a flurry of clothes shed. the cool slate of the wall against your back makes you shiver, but they’re swallowed into the heat of jeans mouth almost immediately.

“you sure you don’t want head or something?” he muses against your lips. jean always tends to be unabashedly direct when he’s in a dizzying state of arousal.

“i’m good.” you assure him, scratching lightly at the sensitive spot above his nape and watching him shiver. “jus’ go easy.”

he hums, taking the plush of your bottom lip between his teeth as he pumps himself to full mast under the scalding stream. you’re propped up between the wall and his body when his thick tip traces your clit. his skin is flushed, pink cheeks and swollen cock dancing around your engorged nerves and down to your slit. he’s got one palm gripping the meat of your ass, the other lining himself up with your hole as he props you open with one knee.

instinctively, you clench and try and snap your thighs shut when his tip sheaths inside of you, hot and heavy and splitting you open. his thumb settles on your dripping clit, drawing slippery circles with a delicious pressure. he couples it with sucking on your tongue, you like to be distracted at the preface to pleasure that comes with taking his girth.

“ngh—i f-forgot that water makes the worst fucking lube—shit—” you’re moaning into his mouth, but not in the way that he wants.

“complaining a lot tonight, aren’t we angel?” he teases, nipping at the velvety flesh of your jugular.

“i’m not complaining, i’m jus—fuck!” he cuts you off with the snap of his hips to bottom out into the welcoming heat of your gooey walls. he shudders as you clench and flutter around him, brain already foggy with desire.

“you’re complaining.” he repeats, slow drags of his cock melting into a steady pistoning of his hips. “you were impatient weren’t you? wanted to go straight for my cock.” you think you mutter something in agreement, too focused on the way you can feel every fucking ridge of his shaft swelling and trailing against your pocket of nerves as jean shifts his angle. that gorgeous twisting vein along his shaft pumping with blood and throbbing against your sensitive flesh. he knows what he’s pressing against. you can feel the bump of his pelvic bone against your hips with each precise thrust as he relentlessly aims for your g-spot.

being with jean is a fucking sensory experience. the friction from the trail of hair below his navel. the constant flutter of his fingertips across your slick skin. heated breaths. washboard abs that pull taut with each ravenous connection of your sexes. full balls churning with his load that slap against your ass from the force of his hunger. he’s broad and firm and soft and everywhere and everywhere—

“shit, shit right there, baby. ‘s so good, you’re so good.” he can taste the sweetness from your mewling coating his tongue and sliding down to his stomach. the feel of your skin under his hands, god, he could swear you were made for him. moulded from divine clay, or made from his rib. that’s how the story goes, isn’t it?

as quickly as the foamy white ring of your cream forms around the base of his cock, it’s being washed down the drain under the constant stream of water. a waste, he thinks. there are so many possibilities when you cum. still, he can’t really focus on that now, the frayed rope in his stomach coiling tighter by the second, the blissful feeling of you reaching your high spurring him on to the peak of his own.

familiar fingers tug on the hairs at the base of his head, punching a serrated breath from his lungs and jean practically hauls you against him as thick spurts erupt from his twitching member.

adoration manoeuvres your bodies, afterwards. the careful combing of fingers through his tawny strands, melded together with clumps of dried clay. the smooth sweeping of suds over the peak of your chest. hushed apologies for the fingertip-bruises that pepper your hips, for the crescent scratches that decorate his nape and shoulders; we’re even, like you always are.

and when you finally crawl back into bed, dark streaks of lilac in the sky signalling an invitation for dawn, jean ponders the way you fit so perfectly against him. the way your back curves against his chest and his arms settle into the soft flesh of your bare stomach. he can barely feel your gap in his ribcage.

you drift off easily in his arms. peaceful, dreamless sleep beckoning you. when daybreak peeks through the cracks in the blinds, you smile at the feeling of jeans comforting weight firmly draped around you. you wriggle around to face him, one side of his face squished against the pillow and boyish serenity dousing his handsome features.

and in the virtuous light of the morning, you can’t help but think that he’s artwork.

#: @luvkun4 @sheluvzeren

so, should we bang or…

what a terrible title

so, let’s imagine that right before being exorcised, a curse releases some sex pollen, and now you have to fuck your partner to avoid dying I need therapy (you’re already in a relationship with them)

genderneutral!reader

trigger warning: sex pollen, mention of dying, smut but not really detailed, it’s more funny than smutty (well I hope so ;-;)

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