#spicy readerinsert

[thevanillerose]

BLIZZARD II | GOJO x READER | JUJUTSU KAISEN

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The fire had dwindled to embers now, the room bathed in a dim orange glow that flickered across the rough wooden walls which had seen years of use.

Years of it, before you two oddballs somehow ended up holed in here together.

The howling storm outside pressed against the cabin like a living thing, but all you could focus on was the warmth beside you—Gojo’s arm still draped casually around your shoulders, his fingers drawing slow, lazy circles on your sleeve. It was such an innocent touch on the surface, but each pass of his fingers sent an unmistakable shiver down your spine, one that had nothing to do with the cold.

Before you’d even known it, the cautious walls you'd built up were scattered debris at your feet, and you were embraced in his arms. Your cheek was on the ratty sofa cushion. His arms were wrapped around your middle, keeping you against him. 

“Still shivering,” he said softly, his voice lower now, a murmur meant just for you.

You swallowed hard, trying to steady your breathing, though the way his body heat radiated against yours made it impossible to focus. “I-I’m not,” you stammered, though the tremble in your voice betrayed you.

This is a man who…definitely works out. A lot. A lot a lot.

You thought, sheepishly, your cheeks pink. No mistake, that well-chiseled form pressing taut to your back, was one which had been earned with a lot of sweat and effort. Hard-earned.

“Hmm,” he hummed, and his haughty tone dripped with that infuriating mix of something amusing, and something risky. “I’m not so sure I believe that.”

He shifted slightly, his body leaning closer, and the blanket slid down his shoulders, revealing the snug sweater that clung to his frame. Truly clung to it, like that blindfold did his eyes.

“Gojo,” you said, barely above a whisper, not even sure what you were trying to say. To stop? To keep going?

If you were being honest with yourself, him stopping was the last thing you wanted…

He tilted his head, his lips curling into a soft, near-predatory smile. “Yeah?” he replied, smugly.

“I…” You hesitated, every nerve in your body on edge. His fingers, which had been tracing your sleeve, moved up now, brushing the edge of your jawline so lightly it made your breath hitch. “This is—”

“Dangerous?” he interrupted, his smile widening, though there was a softness in his voice now that caught you off guard. “Come on, I told you before—you’re safe with me.”

The words should have reassured you, but the way he said them—low and deliberate, his thumb brushing against the curve of your jaw—only set your pulse racing faster. The air between was as tight and tense as a stretched rubber band. 

“You don’t seem safe,” you whispered, the words tumbling out before you could stop them.

Gojo chuckled, the sound deep and rich, vibrating through the small space between you. “No?” he murmured, leaning in so close now that the tip of his nose almost brushed yours. His voice dipped lower, sending a thrill down your spine. “Then why haven’t you pulled away? Why haven’t you tried to resist me?”

You opened your mouth to answer, but nothing came out. Because he was right. You hadn’t pulled away. Your body betrayed you, leaning closer to him without even realizing it, drawn in by the warmth of him, the pull of something you couldn’t quite name.

“You’re not the only one feeling this,” he said softly, his tone gentler now, though his hand didn’t stop its slow, deliberate caress against your jaw. “Deny it if you want to. But we’re after the same thing. So, tell me…” His lips hovered so close to yours you could feel the ghost of his breath.

“Are you going to stop me?”

The words hung in the air, heavy and daring. 

Were you?

Am I?

“No,” you whispered. Your heart roared so loud and brash in your ears, you barely heard your own meek little refusal.

Gojo’s lips quirked into a slow, satisfied smile. “Good answer,” he murmured, and then he closed the remaining distance.

The kiss was soft at first, almost tentative, as though he were testing the waters, giving you a chance to change your mind. As though, as intimidating as he was, he wanted to make it clear in some way that he would never torment you with force. 

But when you didn’t pull away—when you leaned into him, your hand clutching and curling the edge of the blanket under your knuckle as if it could keep you anchored—he deepened the kiss. His free hand moved to your waist, sliding under the blanket to rest just above your hip, his touch firm and grounding.

His lips were warm, impossibly soft, and the way he moved against you—slow but confident, like he knew exactly how to unravel you—made your knees weak, even though you were already laying down. 

He only got bolder.

You almost utterly unspooled when his hand on your jaw tilted your face slightly, guiding you closer, and his teeth grazed your bottom lip in a way that sent a shock of heat through your entire body. His hand, simultaneously, slipped low and tenderly enough that it was no mystery what he desired. 

As you gasped softly, he took the opportunity to slip his tongue against yours, the kiss turning deeper, hotter, until the world itself seemed to melt away. His hand on your waist tightened slightly, pulling you against him, and the sheer heat of his body made you feel like you might catch fire.

When he finally pulled back, his lips just barely brushing yours, you were left breathless, your heart pounding so hard you were sure he could feel it thundering in his own chest too.

“Still cold?” he asked, his voice a husky whisper, his lips curving into a smirk that was equal parts smug and devastatingly attractive.

You shook your head, unable to form words, and he chuckled softly, his hand slipping from your waist to trail up your spine.

“Good,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth, his voice dropping even lower. “Because I can keep this up all night.”

The storm outside raged on, the wind howling through the trees, but inside the cabin, your world was utterly consumed by this strange.

All you could feel was him.

Warm, overwhelming, and utterly impossible to resist.

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[finalfantasyxivwritings]

Titillating Torture

AO3 Version

Relationship: WoL!Reader/Ardbert

Rating: Explicit

Summary: During the worst time possible, Ardbert decides to take advantage of the fact that nobody else but you can see him, hear him, or touch him—or more accurately, that he can touch you.

There comes a time in any fighter’s life when, if only a little, they might start having regrets about some of the things they’ve done—actions taken, people missed, those kinds of thing. You as the warrior of light are still no exception to this, though the things you tend to regret don’t often seem like things a person would dwell on; you regret helping with that godsdamn banquet, for one, and… well, you don’t regret meeting Ardbert, but there are a times when he makes you wonder if you should.

Though he is still a shade in all manners of conventional meaning, Ardbert and you have found a semblance of peace between the two of you now that you technically share the selfsame body—a consequence of what he did to help you defeat Hades, assuredly, and not an action you would ever wish away. But being the only creature who can see him coupled with the fact that you’re the only person he can touch and be touched by, it…leads to some unscrupulous activities.

It’s just past the eve of battle. A mission had tasked you to the cold climes of Ishgard where it seemed that several rogue spellcasters and ex-knights had banded together to try and summon voidsent to claim the countryside. It didn’t work, obviously, and while they could have simply left the job to several of Ishgard’s finer knights or perhaps to Estinien himself, you had enjoyed the opportunity to see old friends.

If only someone would have told you about the ceremony for the completion of the firmament.

Not that it was much of a surprise—you had lent you hand in some of the procuring and refinement of the supplies for the new housing wards—but you never expected to be plucked out individually to take part. Thank the gods above that Aymeric hadn’t forced you to stand on the stage above the crowd, to give a speech or thensome. You weren’t terribly great with words, and are certain that your current predicament would have been worse tenfold.

“Quite the spectacle,” a low voice hums from just behind your ear. The sound might have been a surprise if his hands weren’t already stroking along your body, inethreal hands easily skimming below the layers of your armor and clothes as if they were illusions. “I remember being part of some. Saving a village or fending off a group of thieves—when we started taking on harder jobs, the fanfare was… frightening, honestly.”

“Not a fan of crowds?” Your whisper in reply is so soft and careful. Though there are a number of people around all paying more attention to Aymeric than you, the last thing you need is for someone to hear you apparently talking to yourself.

“Yes and no,” Ardbert continues, sweeping his fingertips up the sides of your body, and then to the gentle swell of your breasts. They are bare to his touch, which in itself is eager to explore and peruse. He pinched one nipple between a forefinger and thumb—and you are forced to swallow the gasp that nearly falls from open lips. “But I have to say I’m quite fond of them right now.”

“I’m going to kill you.”

“Unfortunately I don’t think that’s possible anymore,” Ardbert huffs amusedly, then pinches your other nipple with unrelenting eagerness. Rolls them both between leather-covered fingertips until they’re brought to a pert hardness. “And you once said we can try to make the most of this, correct? Eager to change your mind on that?”

You want to bite his words, to shift your body away from his touch… but you also don’t want him to stop. Be it from a combination of touch and the rumbling timbre of his voice or simply one or the other, there’s no denying the blossom of heat between your legs. The shade smiles in a kiss against the side of your neck, hands completely busied in toying with your breasts in ways that make your nerves buzz and shiver. So instead you simply let his touch continue unabated, until your nipples are sore and aching, until your legs feel like jelly and your heart is lifting itself right out of your chest with how quickly it beats.

“B-bastard…!” You hiss.

“I’ll have you know my parents were happily wed.” Ardbert presses another careful kiss to your throat. At this, his hands move, sweeping the warm planes of his open palms across your abused nipples—pleasure and pain fill you in equal amounts, as if your skin isn’t quite sure how to register it anymore.

He’s pressed up against your back, eager to feel you but still with a semblance of care to how your body moves to balance with his—you are, after all, still very much in view of half the people of Ishgard. Though Aymeric seems to have moved onto letting the others in charge of the reconstruction say their various parts (and all to a bustling crowd) you still can’t help feeling watched. Eyes, hard upon you, curious and cautious and—

That’s when out of the corner of the stage your gaze finally catches onto the familiar shape of dragoon armor. Estinien is barely visible beyond all the decorations and stone pillars, but he’s still discernibly there. For security or simply to witness the event, it doesn’t much matter the reason when he’s yet watching you all the same with that sharp focus and brooding state of his all the same.

Your eyes catch his. He raises an eyebrow. You hope to all the gods above that he hadn’t caught a moment of broken composure from you, else you’d have to either avoid the man for an entire season; otherwise, you’ll have to come up with a reason why it looked like you were getting sexually accosted by unseen forces during arguably one of Ishgard’s most important commemorations to date.

Desperately trying to seem casual, you lift a hand up and wave it in his direction with a smile poised ever so perfectly upon your lips. Even as Ardbert sighs in your ear and gropes at your chest with an almost boyish eagerness, years of battle-hardened constitution wins out long enough that your expression holds out until Estinien finally glances away from you. Whether content in your facade or simply deciding it wasn’t his place to press, you’re grateful all the same. The same can’t sense of contentment can’t be used to describe the shade who so needily kneads at your chest.

“So it seems the warrior of light can keep a steady composure in the face of pleasure and pain alike,” he murmurs, lips brushing against the sensitive skin of your neck. If you didn’t know any better in the moment, you might even call his tone a tad possessive. “But we both know how much you adore having your nipples toyed with, yeah?”

“Don’t act like you’re not the one who has a thing for-“

And just to prove something of a point, he suddenly pinches them in a rough and quick motion—so much that the softest noise of shock and pleasure slip past your tongue. Though it is easy enough to hide behind a sudden cough, you can’t help but fear that someone nearby is going to catch on. Even if the layers of your outfit cover up the way Ardbert is all but torturing your chest, the same can’t be said about your knees as they threaten to knock together, or the building heat between your thighs.

Satisfied with the reaction, Ardbert continues, “Do you think I could make you climax right here?”

It’s as much threat as it is a question of permission.

Though the word ‘no’ would be simple and easy to say, even in your current state, it never reaches your tongue. Instead you risk a moment of selfish sentiment and reach a hand up towards your chest. To an unwary onlooker it would seem as if you’re lifting a hand up to toy with a piece of your armor—but your fingertips graze across Ardbert’s knuckles, pressing his touch ever so against your skin. He sighs in satisfaction—more from the subtle consent than the actual contact—and becomes ever more forceful in his ministrations. He rolls and pinches your hard nipples between his fingers with the same fervent passion as he would touch the rest of your body. The pleasure seems to connect all the way down your chest, belly, and straight between your legs. It’s a tension all of its own right, a pleasure quite like and unlike when he has his hand between your thighs.

“Almost a shame that there’s a crowd,” Ardbert growls, voice low enough that each word is a rumbling of syllables than anything else. Or perhaps your mind is barely able to comprehend them as more than that. “I don’t get to hear all those pretty sounds you make when you cum. But I can still feel you trembling. The powerful warrior of light—even the warrior of darkness—made to shake like a leaf while I play with your nipples ‘till they’re sore. Hopefully that dragoon friend of yours won’t notice at all.”

It’s hard to think. Hard to even breathe. All your mind can focus on is how eager Ardbert’s hands are upon you, pulling and tugging and twisting—you realize all too suddenly that you can cum like this. Your legs would be shaking if it weren’t for your incredible force of will, and that’s nothing compared to the fire rolling in the pit of your belly. By the touch of his hands and the growing sense of debauchery in Ardbert’s voice, you feel it creep closer. The edge. Pleasure wells up in your veins as each word and motion seems to push you closer to it. The world around you has become little more than a muffled layer of noise and shapes settled just beyond Ardbert’s presence.

And then it all comes crashing down. Head over heel over the edge of pleasure’s precipice. It’s sharp and hot and tight and nearly overwhelming as it crashes across your body starting from your belly and echoing out, all the way to your fingertips and toes—but especially where the man’s fingertips continue to tease and torture the hard buds between them. All that escapes from your lips is a shaking sigh, but he is standing close enough to be nearly against your body, and thus he feels the gentle trembles that slide down your spine when sweet orgasm seeps through your bones.

“Gods above,” he murmurs, pulling his touch so that his hands are skimming up and down your sides again. “If I were a weak man, I’d have you on the ground and myself betwixt your legs after a little show like that.”

The words are sweet and taunting, but you scarcely have the energy to come up with a retort, and especially not one quiet enough that half of the crowd wouldn’t hear—it’s hard enough to control your sudden need for air. But Ardbert doesn’t chase the topic or try to continue teasing you; instead he merely settles his palms over your hips, keeping you steady even when your legs feel as if they want to give out.

Luckiliy enough, the ceremony only lasted another quarter-bell.