Xreader Is My Guilty Pleasure

Hi, I’m k. I write x reader content, daydream prompts, and imagines :)

This blog is a mix of:

💌 Reader-insert fiction and suggestive ideas

🕯️ Slow burns, emotional mess, and fictional power dynamics I’m too shy to ask for IRL

📬 Ask box is open!

Send me:

— Your fave characters + reader ideas

— Tropes with teeth, softness, or tension

— Prompts you’ve never seen written but always wanted

Anons welcome. Be kind, be clever, be gentle.

(Nanami Kento x Reader | Praise Kink | Daddy Kink | Neck Kissing | Hair Pulling | Creampie | NSFT | 18+)

You’re already gasping before he’s fully inside.

Nanami’s lips are at your neck again—pressing, tasting, leaving heat in their wake—and one hand is in your hair, guiding your head back so he can see you.

See all of you.

“Such a good girl,” he murmurs against your throat. “Always so responsive for me.”

You whimper. He pushes deeper.

And when you moan—soft, helpless, raw—

He exhales like it’s the first real breath he’s taken all day.

“God, you’re so pretty when you moan.”

You shiver. He presses his forehead to yours.

“Don’t hold back now,” he says, dragging his hips slow, deep, perfect. “Wanna hear all of it. Every little sound you make for me.”

You do.

And he eats it up like it’s holy.

⸻

You’re a mess under him—sweat-slicked, lips parted, hands trembling where they clutch at the sheets.

But Nanami looks at you like you’re divine.

“My pretty baby,” he whispers. “So good for me. Always so good.”

You moan again, and his eyes flutter like he might come from that alone.

“That’s it,” he growls, pace faltering just once. “That’s it, pretty girl. Just like that.”

His hand wraps around the back of your neck, the other gripping your hip as he fucks you deeper, hips rolling slow and reverent.

Then: “Can I fill you up?”

You nod, desperate.

He pulls your hair just enough to make your eyes snap to his.

“Use your words, baby.”

“Yes, Daddy—please, I want it, I want you—”

He groans—deep and wrecked—and buries himself to the hilt as he comes, his voice a low chant against your shoulder:

“Mine. Mine. Always so fucking pretty for me.”

⸻

After, he doesn’t pull out right away.

Just kisses your bruised skin. Keeps his fingers between your legs to hold it all in.

“Still dripping,” he mutters, like he’s both proud and possessive.

You blink at him, dazed and smiling.

He leans in. Kisses your temple.

(The Doctor x Reader | Sick!Reader | Caretaking | Soft Hurt/Comfort | Tenderness | SFW)

⸻

You don’t even remember crawling into bed.

But you wake to the sound of whirring. Distant, muffled. Familiar.

Then footsteps.

Then her voice.

“Oh, good—you’re awake. Ish.”

You groan softly. “Mmph. Want to die.”

A pause. Then a dry little hum as she sits beside you, careful not to jostle the blanket cocoon you’ve made of yourself.

“You’re not dying,” the Doctor says gently, pushing hair from your forehead. “Just running a very dramatic fever.”

Your eyes crack open. She’s holding a mug of something warm. Steaming. She offers it without a word.

“You’ve been here all day?” you rasp.

She shrugs. “Time machine. I can be here forever if you need.”

You blink.

“…You’re hovering.”

She softens. “Of course I am.”

⸻

She sets the mug down and presses her forehead to yours briefly—cool, grounding, impossibly close.

“I’ve fought monsters in five dimensions,” she murmurs. “I can handle a sick human.”

You smile weakly.

She smiles back.

(Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader | Disciplinary | Brat Taming | Hair Pulling | Control | NSFT | 18+)

“You don’t listen,” Ghost says quietly, almost like it’s a fact on a report. “You never fucking listen.”

You’re naked in his lap, thighs spread wide over his—pinned open by the sheer size of him, his combat pants rough against your skin. One of his arms is looped behind your waist, keeping you flush to his chest. The other?

Inside you. Slow. Unrelenting.

Two fingers deep, dragging steady, practiced circles with each curl like he’s re-mapping your body for compliance.

And he’s not even looking at you.

He’s staring straight ahead. Mask still on. Chest rising steady.

“You disobeyed three orders in two days,” he mutters. “Cut the comm line. Broke formation. Talked back in front of Price.”

You whimper. His fingers curl. Your hips twitch.

“Still mouthing off when you’re already fucking up.” His voice tightens slightly. “You need correction. Proper correction.”

His hand grips your hair—just hard enough to make you hold still.

Your breath stutters.

“This isn’t just punishment,” he growls. “It’s training. You’re gonna learn to stay where I put you. Gonna learn what happens when you test me.”

His fingers drag out, slow and wet.

You try to close your thighs.

His legs shift—pressing yours wider.

“Don’t.”

The command is low. Firm.

You obey.

“Good,” he murmurs. His thumb brushes your clit, lazy and maddening. “We’ll keep going until you remember how to behave.”

Your eyes flutter. Your nails grip his sleeves.

And Ghost—composed, unreadable—leans down and murmurs:

(All Might | Toshinori Yagi | Hurt/Comfort | Symbolism | Post-Retirement | SFW)

⸻

He buys the flowers in secret.

Nothing grand. Just small wildflowers—sun-colored and a little scraggly. Things that remind him of summer and growing up and days when his bones didn’t ache in the morning.

When he gets home, he doesn’t set them in a vase.

He walks to the mirror instead.

Not the one in the hallway. The one in the back room, where no one else goes. Where the Symbol doesn’t live. Where only he stands.

Thin. Scarecrow-thin.

A version of himself he used to flinch from. Still does, some days.

He sets the flowers down at the base of the mirror. Kneels slowly.

“…For you,” he murmurs. “For staying. Even when I didn’t want to.”

The man in the mirror looks back, tired and soft and a little surprised.

Toshinori smiles.

(Gojo x Geto x Reader | Slow Build | Voyeurism | NSFT | Tension-heavy)

The first time it happened, it was an accident.

You were coming back from the trail—hands cold from your thermos, cheeks flushed from the hike—when you opened the door and froze.

Gojo and Geto were sitting a little too close on the couch. Shoulders pressed. Gojo was laughing, pink in the cheeks. Geto didn’t say anything—he just reached up, calm as ever, and wiped something from Gojo’s lip with his thumb.

Their eyes snapped to you in the doorway.

You blinked. “Sorry,” you mumbled. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Not at all,” Gojo said brightly, scooting an inch away. “We were just talking about you.”

⸻

The second time, it was the hot tub.

It was late. You’d been reading in the lounge chair, nearly asleep, when a splash jolted you up.

You sat upright—and saw them.

Chest-deep. Steam curling from their shoulders. Geto had Gojo pinned to the edge of the tub, water lapping at his throat. His hand was on Gojo’s jaw. They weren’t kissing. Not quite. But their mouths hovered close.

You tried not to make a sound as you stood and slipped away, legs shaking like you’d been caught doing something wrong.

You weren’t sure what.

Not yet.

⸻

But now—now you’re in the bathroom. Sweater still in hand.

And you should not be here.

You meant to grab it and go, but you heard it. Gojo’s voice. Just a whisper, sweet and sinful.

“You like watching, don’t you?”

You hadn’t meant to open the door a crack. You really hadn’t.

But when you did…

Geto’s hand was wrapped around Gojo’s cock—slow and cruel. Gojo was laid out on the bed, hair damp, shirt unbuttoned. The window was open. The room smelled like cedar and skin and cologne.

You should leave. You should turn around.

Instead, you hold your breath and lean closer.

“Shit,” Gojo gasped, hips twitching. “You’re so fucking mean.”

“You like it.”

Geto pressed a kiss to his throat. Gojo arched into it like he was starving.

“I bet she’s watching,” Geto murmured. “Bet she’s behind that door right now, touching herself.”

Gojo laughed, wrecked and shining. “Wouldn’t blame her.”

You cover your mouth. Your thighs press together instinctively.

Then—softly—Gojo turns his head.

Right to the bathroom.

Eyes bright. Expression unreadable.

And he smiles.

“Hey, baby,” he calls, too casually. “You coming out, or should we just drag you?”

You freeze.

Geto’s gaze follows. “Didn’t think we’d notice?” he murmurs. “That’s cute.”

Your body buzzes.

(Remus Lupin x Sirius Black | Wolfstar | Fluff | Sharing Noodles | Softly Chaotic Romance)

⸻

It’s two in the morning, and they’re hunched over one bowl of instant noodles like it’s the last meal on earth.

Sirius slurps a strand loudly. “We’re romantic, yeah?”

Remus stares. “This is a packet of beef ramen.”

“Imported,” Sirius says, mouth full.

“From the corner shop.”

“Exotic corner.”

Remus laughs despite himself.

They both reach for the next noodle at the same time—same one. It stretches, golden and slick, a glistening lifeline between their mouths. Their eyes meet. Sirius’s brow lifts.

“Don’t you dare,” Remus warns.

Sirius leans in.

Remus groans. “This isn’t Lady and the Tramp, Pads—”

But Sirius slurps anyway. Remus gives in with a reluctant grin.

They meet in the middle. Lips brush. The noodle snaps.

“Disgusting,” Remus mutters.

Pretty things get curious. So go on—

Tie me to a trope. Drape me in tension. Make it a little messy.

Send in:

🎀 X Reader ideas (angsty, teasing, or just too much)

🔗 Power dynamics, soft control, brat energy

💌 Your favorite character + a prompt you wish someone would write

🕯️ Gothy tenderness, royal pettiness, daydreams with bite

(Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader | Hair Pulling | Grinding | Overstimulation | NSFT | 18+)

His hand is in your hair before you finish your sentence.

You don’t even know what you were saying—something smart, something sharp, something you shouldn’t have dared to tease him with. And now your head’s tilted back, scalp tingling, your mouth open in a gasp as he drags you against him like you belong there.

“You’ve been mouthy all day,” Ghost growls into your ear. “Thought you wanted to be good.”

You do. You do—but your thighs are already shaking from the way he’s grinding against you, thick denim pressing between your legs in slow, brutal friction.

No thrusts. No mercy. Just his thigh between yours, his belt buckle biting into your hip, and his grip—tight, pulling you by the hair every time you try to squirm away from the pressure.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, like it’s an insult and a reward at once. “Already can’t keep your eyes open.”

You’re trying—God, you’re trying—but your eyes roll back when he shifts just right, the seam of his pants dragging exactly where you need it. Your mouth drops open in a moan, head lolling against his shoulder.

“Takin’ what I give you,” he mutters. “No cock. No fingers. Just this. And you’re already dripping like a fuckin’ mess.”

You nod, broken, desperate.

“You like that?” he growls, tugging your hair hard enough to make you whine. “Grind on my thigh like the needy little thing you are. That’s all you’re gettin’ ‘til I say otherwise.”

You rock harder—shameless now. Breath stuttering. His mask brushes your temple, heat radiating off him in waves.

“Good girl,” he breathes, voice low and wrecked. “Make a mess. Show me how bad you want it.”

You do.

And when you come—shaking, soaking through your panties—he doesn’t stop you.

(Nanami x Reader | Service Kink | Cunnilingus | Collars + Leashes | NSFT | 18+)

“You know,” Nanami says dryly, “when I agreed to let you put a leash on me, I didn’t think you’d actually use it to drag me to my knees.”

You’re already flushed, bare legs trembling where they rest over the edge of the bed. The collar sits snug and simple around his throat—no tag, just a matte black band with a small silver ring you’re holding onto.

“And yet here you are,” you murmur, thumb brushing that ring, “on your knees like you want to be good for me.”

He gives you a look—half reverent, half amused.

“Not want,” he corrects, voice steady as ever. “Am.”

Then he leans in and kisses the inside of your thigh, slow and lingering. One kiss, then another. Your hips shift restlessly, aching for more. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t need to. His hands settle on your thighs like they’ve always belonged there, thumbs stroking gentle circles into your skin.

You tug lightly on the leash.

His lips curve. “Needy little thing.”

“Three years,” you gasp, tilting your head back as he finally, finally mouths over your soaked center. “You’re still such a smug bastard—”

He hums into you, and your breath punches out of your lungs. One long lick—then two. Then he settles in like he’s got nowhere else to be, tongue moving slow and thorough, one arm wrapping under your thigh to keep you open for him. The leash tugs slightly as your grip tightens.

You try to speak. You really do. But your hips are already stuttering, thighs trembling under his mouth.

“‘M close,” you whimper, tugging on his hair this time. “Kento, I—”

His voice is a growl against your skin: “Come on my tongue like a good girl.”

You do.

Hard.

Your moan breaks into pieces. Your back arches. He keeps going, gentler now, licking you through it like worship. When you finally collapse, panting, he presses a kiss to your thigh.

“You’re the reason we even have those damn collars,” he mutters, dragging the leash from your hand with practiced ease. “And yet somehow I’m the one on my knees.”

You grin, dazed. “I like the view.”