It's A Post-game "it Was All A Simulation And Now We're Stuck In A Hospital" Kind Of A Situation.

i will go feral if i can find a well written fic for a trans masc reader in my fandoms.

let me have a bit of the spotlight.

NSFW. Aizawa x reader (reader has breasts and a pussy but no gendered pronouns used for reader). Oral (reader recieving.) Missionary p in v. Established relationship. Just loving on your sleepy man and tiring each other out. Approx 1500 words

Nightcap

It's late and Shouta is exhausted when he gets home. That shouldn't be remarkable; you've often joked together that he's the sleepiest man alive, but this is different. This isn't just high school teacher weariness. It's deeper than bone-deep; the kind of exhaustion caused by constant battle and life or death worry.

"I can't tell you what's going on," he sighs, his gravelly voice soft as he sits on the edge of the bed and brushes your sleep-tousled hair back from your face. "The more you know, the greater the danger I put you in. I won't let that happen."

It worries you. Of course it does. It's clear this is bigger than anything he's faced before. But all you can do is offer him comfort and a place to just be. Not Eraser Head, not Aizawa Sensei. Just Shouta. 

"Come to bed?" you say, tracing the scar on his elbow. "I need to hold you." 

"I- later. I have papers to grade–"

"I'm sure the kids won't mind."

His throat flexes as he looks away, fighting a different kind of battle; the war between his dedication to his students, and his desire to crawl into your arms and let you make him forget his worries for a while.

“Shouta… please?”

“Alright.” His lips slant into a weary half-smile. “Give me a minute to shower and I’ll join you in bed until you fall ah–” He falters as you wrap your arms around his chest and pull him down beside you, throwing your thigh across his and holding him in place. “-sleep. Good tackle.”

“Thanks.”

“Not a good idea though. I stink,” he mutters as you guide his arm around you, nuzzle into him and inhale; that fresh, earthy scent of being outside in the cold, the tang of sweat, and the unmistakable muskiness of Shouta that tickles the primal part of your brain. 

“You smell so good.”

“Weirdo.”

That's about all the protest you get out of him. He closes his eyes, his chest rising and falling slowly, and falls completely silent.

Minutes tick by as you lay in each other's arms, wondering if he dozed off. It's likely. Shouta has always been able to fall asleep instantly, anywhere, and in any position. And you will have to wake him eventually so he can wash up, but for the time being you simply watch him, appreciating his beauty and–

“You're staring at me, aren't you?”

You hide your smile, pressing your face into his chest. “No…”

He peeks, his momentary glance conveying amusement and despair in equal measure. “You're supposed to be going back to sleep. You have work tomorrow.”

He's right, but hell, you've gone to work on less sleep for worse reasons. And he smells so fucking good. “I'm not tired.”

“Not tired, huh?” he hums, the slight taunt in his tone letting you know he fully knows what's up. “Fine. Guess I'd better tire you out.”

Exhaustion be damned, Shouta always has at least a little energy in reserve for fighting or fucking. He sits up, grabbing a hair tie from the nightstand and holds it between his teeth while he pulls his long black hair up into a ponytail. 

Butterflies surge in the pit of your belly at the sight, not just because of the flex of his biceps or that look in his eye that tells you he's going to make damn sure you sleep heavily tonight, but because whenever he pulls his hair up like that, you know exactly what he plans to do. And no sooner is his hair up and out of his face, than his face is between your legs, wrapping his arms around your thighs while you squirm out of your underwear.

Rough hands slide down your thighs, his palms warm and broad, strong fingers squeezing the fat and muscle and causing your skin to dimple beneath their ravenous touch. 

Every caress you tingle, the warmth of his breath, the hunger in his eyes, the tip of his nose teasing your clit. 

“See,” he says, his voice so low you barely catch it, “you're the one who smells good.”

And then he licks a fat stripe between your pussy lips before slowly, deeply, hungrily making out with your clit. 

The sudden intensity of it leaves you breathless, your hands darting down to grasp at his messily pulled-back hair. He groans, eyes closing, savoring your taste, his tongue hot, wet and so fucking greedy. 

“Fuck, Shouta…There… Don't stop. You're… perfect.”

Any other time he shrugs off praise like the weight of it sits uncomfortably on his shoulders, but not with this. He loves to know he's doing well for you, loves to hear how good he's making you feel. He pauses just for a moment to grin to himself before he flattens his tongue and drags it over your clit. Over and over and over until you buck up against his mouth, demanding more of those deep, hungry kisses he can never deny you.

As he devours you, he can't help but grind his hips against the mattress, deep rumbling moans vibrating through your core and driving you closer to the edge. He licks you relentlessly, insatiably, pressing his thumb into the wet heat of your pussy just so he can feel the way he makes you throb.

And the moment you gasp that you're close, he latches on, licking, sucking, breathing hard and heavy through his nose, unable to tear himself away from your pussy even for air. He isn't satisfied until your essence is coating his throat inside and out. The wet suckling sound of his lips and tongue accompany your cries and shaking breaths, and the unmistakable moans of pleasure that rumble out of him as you cum against his mouth.

He only stops when you tell him, pushing his torso up off the bed and crawling on top of you. In the post-orgasmic haze, the weight and warmth of his body is intoxicating. His hips slot so perfectly between your thighs, his lips coating yours with your slick as he kisses you and grinds his aching cock against you. 

“Keep going?” he asks, a groan vibrating in his throat when you nod. “Mm… Need you so bad.”

His hand slides beneath the hem of your shirt, skimming over your belly to the plush of your breast, lifting his hips for you as you inch down his trousers, taking his boxers down with them. His cock is thick and wet, surrounded by a dense black thatch of hair that thins ever so slightly to trail up over his abdomen and chest. 

It doesn't matter how long you and Shouta have been together, the moment he pushes his cock into you and arches back with a bitten off moan, your fingers are trailing through the hair on his belly, feeling his muscles twitch and shudder beneath your palm. Every damn time. 

The feeling of him inside you makes you breathless, but for him it's heaven. He raises his face to the ceiling, murmuring something incoherent about how wet you are, how good you feel, how much he fucking loves you. His throat leaps as he fights the urge not to cum right then and there. 

You roll your hips for him, trying to drive him over the edge. “Come for me, Shouta. Just let go.”

His jaw clenches as a breathless whisper of a laugh escapes him. It takes him a moment to ground himself before he can rock forward so he's practically laying on top of you. He needs that; the closeness, the intimacy, the reassurance. His lips seek yours, pulling you into a slow and lazy kiss to accompany the languid roll of his hips. 

“Wanna make you feel good first,” he murmurs against your lips between lazy kisses.

“You already did. You always do. I want you to cum.”

“Mm…”

A stray strand of jet black hair falls from his sloppy ponytail, tickling your cheek until you put it back behind his ear. He leans into that gentle touch, stubble rasping against your palm, followed by a quick and desperate kiss. 

He won't last much longer, not tonight. He can hardly keep his eyes open as he tucks his face into the crook of your neck, hot breath tickling your skin. “Sure?”

“Yeah,” you say, wrapping your arms around him and stroking his back as muscles flex beneath your palms. Slowly, deliberately, you undulate beneath him, lazily fucking him from below. 

Shouta's quiet moans are muffled against your shoulder, his hands seeking yours and fingers interlocking when he comes undone. He bares his teeth, gasping your name as his dick pulses inside you. 

Your combined slick leaks onto the mattress beneath your ass, and he'll insist you sleep with him on his side later on. But right now Shouta is completely spent; a dead weight on top of you. If not for the tickle of his breath against your neck or the occasional twitch of his cock as it softens inside you, he'd be totally still. 

“Tired us both out, huh?” you whisper, pressing a kiss to his temple.

And he simply snores in agreement. 

moriarty — cottonflower

i ain't nothing but a lonely rider i do not know who is right, who is wrong sing this song for you to sing when i'm gone

my courier oscar sees himself as a very ordinary person in extraordinary circumstances, surrounded by one of a kind, exceptional people. it's a burden and a marvel for him to decide their fates. arcade’s very special too, even if he’s been trapped in mundanity for most of his life. his fate is yet to be decided

chapter four

i heard you take nsfw requests, can you do hagakure x a ftm reader whos very self concious abt his body during their first time?

Hagakure Yasuhiro x FTM S/O (NSFW)

Ofc!! Yikes this might SUCK but I hope you likey likey

I ALSO MADE IT HC-ISH BECAUSE I DO NOT KNOW ENOUGH ABOUT BEING FTM TO WRITE A STRING OF WORDS ABOUT IT 

-Mod Souda

He’s not one to admire your body when you’re getting dressed, because the thought of it making you uncomfortable makes him uncomfortable too.

He is a touchy person, though. He’ll kiss your shoulders whenever you’re just around or touch his long fingers to your stomach.

When it came to actually having sex, it’s a lot different. 

His kisses get rougher, and as he bites his lips, he trails his hands up your pajama shirt.

“Wait.” You interrupt.

He blinks, waiting for you to elaborate while slowly moving his hands back down. When you don’t continue, however, he leans in. “We can keep your shirt on if you want.” The word please slips from your mouth before you can even stop it. He grins with contentment.

There’s a beating in your chest that’s even more aggressive than before. Right, you console yourself, normal people won’t force you to do things.

His kisses get the sloppier the longer they go on. Absolutely breathtaking, he thinks you are. There’s no way he can, with your underneath him, not express his intense desire for you.

There’s also a buzz of curiosity that spreads throughout you. It’s a heat that pools at the bottom of your stomach, somewhere you’ve never experienced such an sweet anxiousness before.

Your fingers trace up and down his muscles, to his thick arms, and then his fingers, which you kiss individually while making eye contact with him.

You read this in a book once. Is this how you do it?

Just don’t let him see how horribly nervous you are. Just don’t let him see how horribly nervous you are.

“Are you nervous?” He asks in a soft growl. Damn. While speaking, he takes both of his hands and places them on the bands of your pants. 

“Are you not?”

The words linger in the air for a second. He doesn’t stop his movements, though, and lets you bask in the tension.

“Not exactly. What is there to be nervous about?”

Everything. Your fists clench at his words. Unbelievable. 

“Just,” you put your hand over your underwear, blocking his view, “Just don’t look, okay?”

A small smile forms on his lips. “I won’t look. But I’ll have to feel, okay?”

With a bit of playfulness in your voice, you respond. “You have to?”

In your head thumps all of the ideas you have for ways to avoid him looking. Even the thought of it is horrific. You take matters into your own hands then, and as he busies himself with taking off his own pants and underwear, you take off your boxers (if you wear briefs then why).

He keeps his eyes on yours. “Briefly. If you want me to put it in, yes.”

The sharp smile he sends you makes you giggle, for a second, until he leans in and kisses you silent.

You can feel your heartbeat getting louder the closer he gets to in between your legs. His fingers trail up and down your legs, and even though his head tilts down, his eyes remained locked on your expression.

It’s all so hot. So hot.

“You can... put it in.” You say with a flush to your face.

Your head falls as the feeling of being filled overpowers any other possible things you could have felt. It is like you can just fell into the bed and float for eternity. Heat even rises up into your spine and vibrates against your gut.

With your breathing now loud enough to fill the room, you let your eyelids fall shut as your head rolls against the pillow. 

He practically starts massaging your insides while he moves back and forth, your heart beat creating a pulse that grabs onto him with a quick rhythm.

Your hands grasp onto your shirt, squeezing it tightly to release some of the pressure trying not to moan is giving you. It all just makes you spread your legs wider for more access. Go deeper, you want to scream.

And with his lips coming down to your neck, he lets himself utter only a few words. “Good boy.”

Pleasure drips against your skin like hot wax, heating up the parts in your body that matter. The parts that usually make you uneasy to think about.

You focused in on the spark that light in your stomach. Concentrate, you remind yourself. It feels to good to let drift away.

You can’t even stop yourself from opening your mouth and letting out a lewd noise.

His ears are captivated by the sounds of your moans. Nothing matters more to him in that moment. Even when when his thigh muscles start to spasm, and the build-up gets a little uncontrollable, he tries to hold on for you.

He clenches onto the headboard above your head, flexing his bicep and bringing his bottom lip in between his teeth. 

And, to throw you off the edge, he places the pad of his thumb against your sensitive bundle of nerves, rubbing in clock-like motions.

All you can feel is both of the sensations - the pulsing of your pearl and the bucking of his hips. Your fists clench around his forearms as a new wave of pleasure swarms over you. It makes you tense, holding on to every new feeling like you’ll never get it again.

You don’t even realize you’re holding your breathe until you are practically gasping for air. 

“I’m-” you speak late, the feeling of his lips on yours interrupting your words. He buries his tongue into your mouth while his hips become uneven in their movement, happy that he could at least last a little longer than you. 

A deep groan leaves his lips.

bada baboom that’s all I will do

because i’m a tiny bit scared of writing this inaccurately teehee

🎶 What music do you listen to when you write?

i don't actually listen to music when i write. i have a fan that plays nonstop in the background tho. if i'm writing in a library, i listen to rock (mostly) or whatever genre hits the vibes.

Day 18 -- Deacon

The (nsfw) details for Kinktober, Day 18 are just below the cut!

Minors, please don't interact.

Voyeurism with Deacon x g/n! Sole

Whoops, big surprise, this got angsty. Sorry Deeks! I just can't help it with this man, I don't know why 😅 but hopefully y'all still enjoy it regardless!

Here is the link to my Kinktober 2022 Event list so you can stay up-to-date, or re-visit these works as you please.

Included: Voyeurism, (non-consensual voyeurism), masturbation, angst, wishful thinking, pining.

1.6k words.

--

Yeah. This is cute. 

Deacon’s mind said to him dryly. 

This is a healthy response to this situation. This isn’t weird. Sole will understand. They’ll get it. 

The spy shook his head, eyes closed tight as his brain spewed unwanted words of restraint, of undesired and unneeded common sense. 

What the hell is sensible about any part of this situation? We’re in an abandoned ice cream shop that Sole used to visit on weekends before giant bombs blew everything to hell, and they took a nap for 200 years. We’re surrounded by packs of super mutants on one side, and raiders on the other, and I’m biting into the back of my hand to keep quiet as they moan through the fabric of their shirt on the other side of this thin, crumbling concrete wall. Nothing about this situation is even remotely expectable. 

He could hardly fucking stand it. 

You’re both doing the same damn thing, if you’d just talk to them about it, maybe, the two of you could finally–

Deacon hissed through his teeth, his uncomfortably dry hand stroking too harshly over his erection as the frustration built up in both his mind and body. 

This isn’t the same. Another side of his mind refuted. I’m over here, pining the skin off my cock for them, while they’re undoubtedly thinking about their late spouse-- Or… anyone else, even. --at the feel of their own hand.

He didn’t know.  

I should be thinking of Barbara. Or of someone– anyone, but them. Right along with them.

They’re the only fucking friend I’ve got. I’ve had, in… what? A decade? Maybe more? I can’t count right now. 

Deacon’s head fell back against the wall, a grimace coating his expression, even as his blue eyes hazed over with climbing bliss. 

I can’t lose them over… what? Wanting to engage in a little hanky panky with them? Wanting what? A close connection? Intimacy? Vulnerability? When– in what universe would that ever happen? 

We both know I could never have anything like that again. 

A deep breath escaped him, throaty and louder than he would’ve liked as his thumb grazed over his slit, collecting some of his slick pre-cum and stroking it over his length as the only way to ease the friction of his rough hand. 

A noise sounded through the thin wall behind him, and Deacon ceased his movements., holding his breath. 

Shit. Did they just hear me?

Just as he was contemplating trying to zip his jeans up over her cock, to hide the evidence; just as some half-assed story was forming on his lips about why he was sitting back here against the wall, rather than out where he should be, out on watch, another sound interrupted his train of thought. 

He felt his cock throb at the sound, as he heard Sole’s moan fill the air around him. A gasp followed shortly after, and then a bit of silence, but Deacon could still feel them there, somehow, he could feel Sole’s lingering presence just on the other side, and he knew they were just worried. Worried that someone would hear what they were doing. Worried like he was. 

What am I doing? Deacon asked himself for the upteenth time that night, and so many nights before now. 

This is wrong. It’s gross, and it’s wrong, and it’s not fair, for you to hear them like this without earning it, without them knowing. It’s wrong to be out here doing this in response to it. 

Deacon’s hand stilled on his cock, refusing to stroke himself, but gripping tight enough to hurt as his mind flooded with thoughts like these. He wasn’t unused to self-loathing, nah, he and that go waaaaay back, but this? This seemed low. Even for the likes of him.

Sole wasn’t some stranger in a pub, not some escort or one-night-stander, not someone he didn’t know on the other side of a hotel room, who just happens to be engaging in the same fun little activity as him. No, Sole was the reason for this… activity. They were in his thoughts, always, even when they weren’t in front of him, or by his side, on the days he went out on his own, they were still there. 

And he fucking hated it. 

That they were reduced to this. 

They’re his best friend, his partner, the reason his smiles aren’t so forced, the reason he feels he might still, after all this time, all these years, have the capacity to love someone when he thought that had all died long ago. 

His body jolted as another breathy sound left his partner from the other side of the wall, and his eyes rolled back in his head. 

Goddamn, if I could see what they look like when they make that sound. 

With that very image coming unbidden to his mind, Deacon’s hand unwittingly was back to stroking over his cock. He worked himself slowly, savoring the feeling, allowing his mind to wander to the possibility of him being the one to make them sound like that, to make them look as he imagined they would. Their gorgeous eyes rolled back in their head, their lips spread as they moaned his name, their skin glistening, their hair wild. Their skin would be flushed, eyes hazy as they blinked them open to steal a glance at him as he ravished their body, as he used his silver tongue to work towards a goal more worthwhile than any other. As he did as they deserved, as he worshiped them like he were one of the deacons of the old world and they were his God, shepherding their release like all the poor sinners those men would bring to the light. 

Sole’s gasps were leaving them more rapidly now, building to a crescendo that Deacon would give all that he had left to be a part of. Hell, he’d throw his choice shades off the top of trinity tower to be the one to bring about their thunderous release. 

But he was doomed to be a bystander. Invisible, as he always was, as he heard them groan out from the other side of the wall. A thud sounded against the concrete as he imagined their head falling back at the overwhelming feeling of their release. 

It was the sound that got him.

Deacon hadn’t thought he was close, he’d been so caught up in his own fantasy, all of his tormenting thoughts, he couldn’t feel his body’s signs, and now, he was caught completely off-guard. The spy bit hard into his wrist as a low grunt escaped him against his will, his light eyes prickling with tears of pleasure as he finally felt that pressure release within him.

His seed sprayed down onto the dirt, leaving him in enthusiastic spurts that had his hips writhing and his head knocking against that same wall Sole was surely collapsed against. 

The next battle came in the form of his breath, as Deacon pulled his hand away, he realized how fucking loud he was still being, even as the last white rope of his cum was emptied onto the floor. He released himself, forcing his mind to rally, to focus on easing his breath, as his cock softened where it laid over the lip of his boxers. 

“Fuck me.” He whispered, eyes closed tight as the guilt all came swirling back into his mind with a vengence. 

Again? I just did this again? One of these days, you know–

“Deacon?” 

His eyes shot open as Sole’s voice carried from the other side of the wall. 

“I-is that you?” They asked, uncertain, their voice almost shaking. 

Every thought entered his mind at a million miles a minute, swirling together in a confused traffic jam of ‘what do I say’s?’ and ‘what the hell do I do’s?’. 

“Ahh,” The sound escaped his throat, as a way of aiding his thoughts, but he hadn’t meant for it to be verbal goddamn it. 

“Ahem, uh, yeah. Deeks here.” He bit his tongue, tasting metal from the pressure. 

Sole’s silence scared him more than their call of his name had. 

“How, uh, how’s it hanging?” 

Oh my god. One part of his mind panicked, while the other tried to grasp onto some form of sanity, of common sense. But that part of his mind, he didn’t know what it was, but it always seemed it’s hands were wet, or that common sense was made of ice and sanity was liquid water, always managing to slip frustratingly from his hold.

There’s no god out there that can save you, you buffoon. Nothing can. That was it. You finally did it. Finally managed to get caught. 

He almost told his thoughts to ‘shut up’ out loud, but thought better of it at the last moment. That likely wouldn’t go over well with Sole. Especially after they hadn’t said a damn thing. 

“You heard me, huh.” 

The blood drained from his face. It wasn’t a question from their end, but worse than their certainty was the shame that he heard drip from every word. 

“That… uh, that I did. Yeah.” 

If he was gonna be the creepy asshole sitting out here while they did their personal business, he at least could own up to it. Deacon may be a liar, but Sole, Sole wasn’t dumb. They’d know he was lying, and that would make it even worse. 

“But, um…” He closed his eyes, taking a breath. “But you heard me too, so, you know. Guess we’re, uh, even. Right?” 

“Yeah…” They said quietly, almost too quietly to hear with the wall in the way. Deacon didn’t have time to try to make what repairs he could before they were speaking again, this time louder than before. 

“I won’t tell you about it, if you won’t tell me.” A light humor touched their voice. 

Deacon let out a dry laugh, his chest aching for a reason he refused to acknowledge. 

“Won’t tell you about what?” He said back, hoping they couldn’t hear the strain in his voice, the strain to sound humorous and light in return. 

He heard their laugh from the other side, a lovely sound that tugged at the sides of his mouth, despite the lingering throb in his chest. 

“Yeah, exactly. Good talk, partner.” 

“Yeah.” He whispered, his brows creased beneath his shades. “Partner.”

so much trouble over something so small an eternity in that mirror is not that long now, is it?

i know people give Leon a lot of flak for his murder bc he claims it was in "self-defense," but let's be real with ourselves. What the fuck else was he supposed to do? If he just left, what, he has to go next day and be like yeah we both tried to kill each other and i broke her wrist. Can you pass the salt? Also Sayaka 100% would've turned everyone against him bc like she's Sayaka. So yeah I kind of have more sympathy towards this guy. Like Sayaka was going to straight up murder him. For literally zero reason. Like, I kind of get why she wanted to murder someone but it is never explained what made her choose Leon specifically.

Day 7: (Self)Destruction

Kokichi and Kaito both have a sort of self-destructive tendencies. But not from self-hatred, but from the desire to take a hit so that others do not have to. They would rather get hurt themselves than allow others.

They both have blood on their hands because of some terrible decision they made to benefit more people. And they would both really like not to, but they had little choice, and time was running out.