Jujutsu Kaisen Nsfw Links

“Ivy. Ivy Pepper. Mrs. Ivy Pepper Zsasz. Oh, that sounds good.”  (Ivy Pepper 3.0, Victor Zsasz | Gotham 5x09) 

Okay so...we gonna talk about Bruno?

HENRY CAVILL as MARSHALL Night Hunter (2018) | dir. David Raymond

precious idiots

Compilation of Sukuna True Form in the Manga because in this profile we love that crazy man

Yes, I skipped the image where he is with Yorozu for personal reasons.

People call it ugly, to me it's fucking beautiful.

Victor Zsasz for @nohomo-hank

*Casually gives you screenshots of Bruno I found in Youtube*

Two days left in my country yeeee

Dead end street

Keegan x female!reader (call sign ‘Turk’ used)

Warnings - smut, 18+ only, fingering, dirty talk, p in v sex, outdoor fucking

Word count - 4k

Tag list - @mykneeshurt @luminousbeings-crudematter

It’s cold out. Frigid and sharp as it nips at you, like cruel gnashing teeth as it stings the ends of your fingers and the tips of your ears. Your neck gaiter saves your face from the burn of the chilly breeze, even through the fabric, your breath plumes and carries before your eyes like a storm cloud.

Night watch was yours tonight, how lucky, barely a few hours in and you already ache, the below freezing temperature screaming at you to take shelter inside, to curl into your sleeping bag and savour what warmth your body can muster.

That’s what the enemy is counting on, you reminded yourself.

The rooftop provides a good visual. Wide expanse of the concrete streets below naked to your eye, every entry point within reach of your rifle, cocked - poised and ready.

Your team sleeps inside. Only a storey below. Slumbering under the guise of an old sugar beet factory, reality warped with the true military intentions, here in the belly of Russia - with an authority to execute given the opportunity.

You lean back, cracking your neck, the brittle cold settling into your bones. You’re kneeling down, knee pads slipping on the ice that lays in a paper-thin sheet across the concrete, frost catching in the material of your trousers as it scrapes up against them.

From your vantage point, you can see clearly, it’s dead as a doornail, the only sound is the whispering of the breeze as it catches in your jacket.

‘She jumps in headfirst, only thinks after the fact, sarg. Somethin’ only a Turk would do’.

You inhale sharply, ice cold air filling your lungs as you hold it in, letting it go in a fog of vapour that crests over your face. It wasn’t the cold or the solitude that you hated most about taking the nightshift, it was the silence that allowed your mind to run free. When you’re dodging stray bullets out in the field or jumping headfirst and blind out of a plane; there’s little room for thought, a lack of space to consider anything beyond instinct, that was what you thrived upon. You hated the lull in between, the pulling drag of silence that stifled the hours, letting your head dictate the fixation of doubt and second guessing.

For the first time in hours; you creak to a stand, knees locking and popping as you do. The stretch of your muscles twinge, bunched up and taught from the position you’d remained in for hours on end. You keep your eyes trained forward, irises darting through the narrow streets as you step back a few paces, rolling out the tension from your shoulders.

It’s when the sound registers in your ears that you realise it’s already too late, crunching ice, fractured under boots that aren’t your own. You’re quick, but not quick enough, body only able to swivel an inch before heat is at your back, pressing into you. It’s not hot- it’s burning, searing you like coals as your mouth is smothered by a gloved palm, another firm arm bracketed over the entirety of your torso as it keeps your biceps pressed tight against your body.

‘Spitfire that one, mate, more disciplinary actions on her file than I’ve had hot dinners’.

All you can do is thrash and jerk, make it awkward for them to keep a firm hold; your hands snatch for the wrist of their hand that covers your mouth, clawing at it. You had every incentive to sink your teeth into their digits, bite their fingers clean off if needed; but it isn’t, because the low resounding laugh that drifts into your ears is one you know well. Too well.

It makes you still, his hold on you slackening to the point you’re able to lodge the point of your elbow into his stomach, he catches the movement half way, softening the blow as he snatches your arm and tugs you roughly toward him. “Careful kid, shit like that’ll come back to bite you in the ass” he’s endearing, even behind the mask, his smirk is palpable - you can nearly taste it.

Your feigned grimace is hidden behind your gaiter, the knit in your brow is enough to convey your annoyance to him, “counting on it, Russ” you spit, tugging your arm from his grip.

You create some space, stepping away to hook a finger into your gaiter and pull it to your chin so you can breathe, chest coiling with something you know is never good, and it only comes knocking when Keegan Russ is within arms reach.

He laughs again, it whistles through his nose, muffled by the balaclava. His boots hit the concrete in languid steps, slow and methodical as he closes the space again. It’s as if the cold around you dissipated, now you’re burning up, skin searing as the hair prickles at the base of your neck.

A warning.

‘You’re a sergeant, Russ’ your tone is flat, his head tilts against the pillow, ‘your point, Turk?’ He presses his lips against the shell of your ear, wisps of your hair fanning from his breath, it stirs something in your gut.

You’re standing at the edge of the rooftop, lipped edge of concrete that stands at your hip keeping you from the street below, partially hidden in the pitch-black midnight. Your arms are limp at your sides, fists balled as your mind thrums into overdrive, more rambling thoughts skipping through like a playback. There isn’t enough time until he’s there again, standing to your immediate right, barely a hairsbreadth away, eyes following your gaze as you stare at nothing below.

He’s something different. Keegan doesn’t regard you in the same way the rest of them do, doesn’t frown down at the history in your files or listen to the whispers thrown around about you from table to table in the base canteen. Frankly, he doesn’t give a shit, unless you’re jeopardising his mission or his team, it doesn’t matter. He sees you as the soldier; the sniper with a critical aim and master precision, the one who passed her probation period with flying colours and a handful of new records to boot. He didn’t acknowledge the red ink that stained your paperwork, the warnings, the past haunting you like a phantom as it loomed. Russ saw you for what you were, an asset, a valued soldier that did more good than harm.

You don’t flinch when his fingers trace the back of your neck, index finger looping into the chain of your tag as he twines and untwines it around his digit, a little ritual of sorts for him. “I can hear you thinking” the softness of his voice cracks the peaceful silence, his breath fanning across the air in front of your eyes, drifting on the breeze. You half dare to wonder if that softness is reserved only for you.

He continues to fiddle with the chain around your neck as you move to lean forward, palms flattening against the wet stone as you bow your head between your arms, a choked groan striking from your chest.

“I hate taking watch” you admit, swerving the topic that was really sitting on your tongue, he hums in acknowledgment.

“I know, that’s why I make you do it” his tone doesn’t shift, almost a seriousness to it as it draws a faint laugh from your chest. You shake your head, “you’re a bastard” he can’t see it, but you’re smiling to yourself, albeit faintly. That makes him huff something that holds semblance to a laugh, “I know, Turk”.

‘What the fuck does it even mean anyway?’ You gag after you knock back your drink, salt from the glass rim of your tequila shot crusted on the top of your lip, Russ is sat beside you and he’s quick to run his thumb over the salt before he sucks his thumb into his mouth, it makes you gape at him. ‘What does what mean?’ He’s humouring you, as sober as he was when he walked in, he’s driving the truck back to base after the team has had their fill of a few rounds of pool, stale peanuts and pissy beer. You’re frowning as you twirl the glass between your fingers, ‘the nickname’ your expression looks sour, he likes to think it’s from the tequila, ‘you don’t like it?’ He asks, genuine, it makes you side eye him. ‘I might like it if I know what it means’ you bite at him and it makes him smile, because that’s exactly what it means. He mulls over the words, thinking of how best to word it for you, ‘a Turk is someone who is stubborn, someone who’s hard to deal with’ Russ is regarding you fully now, eyes searching your expression as the understanding slots into place. He’s not sure what he sees, he can’t tell if you’re relieved or hurt, he’ll be sure to avoid telling you what you could have been stuck with if not for your Captain’s interference. Your lip juts and you continue to fiddle with the glass in your palm, he nudges you with his elbow, ‘it’s what they call their prize fighters in Ireland’ that alone catches your attention, you can hear it now, the drawl of your old Captain’s Donegal accent wrapping around the name. It puts your mind at ease.

You lift your chin from where it’s lowered between your arms, daring to let your eyes cross over to his, that striking shade of cerulean blue taking root deep down in the marrow of your bones as you lock gazes. Neither of you look away. “Why aren’t you asleep?” You ask, a thought rearing in your head that skates along the line of wondering why he wouldn’t take watch if he was going to stay awake anyway. Russ cocks his head, “couldn’t” the word is clipped, “too much on my mind” his gaze flits down your body, raking down and back up, you nod your head.

Then, the cold is long gone, replaced with the warmth of Keegan’s breath as it fogs over your neck, teeth worrying a bruise into your throat as his palms clamp over the tops of your thighs. Holding you impossibly close.

He’s perched you on the ledge and he’s snug between your knees, mask pulled up over his nose to press into your skin as he grinds his hips into the juncture of your thighs where he knows the sweetest part of you is, perhaps the only sweet part of you.

You’ve pushed your fingers up past the hem at the back of his mask, nails raking through his undercut there, knowing it makes him shiver. It earns you a harsh welt that’s sucked into your neck, soft-sore skin soothed by his tongue as he admires his work. You tug the back of his mask so he’s forced to meet your eye, his lips are parted, ragged breaths pluming in the air as they mix with your own, clouds of ecstasy.

“I hope you’re keeping your eye on the street” it’s all molasses on your tongue, thick and rich as you drip it onto his tongue, curling your own against his teeth till he’s choking back a moan in his chest. “It’s not my watch” it’s practically a growl that brims from his throat, catching in yours as he draws your bottom lip between his teeth.

The urge to rip into him is there, on the tip of your tongue, begging to chastise him, call him a hypocrite for all of the times he told you how distracting you are. Those hadn’t been while on watch, while lives are on the line, the risk of blowing your cover looming and completely possible. Yet, right now, you can’t bring yourself to break away; can’t think of anything other then him and the way he feels against you. There’s nothing else, nothing more that matters, as selfish as that is - he seemed to feel the same.

Keegan cants his hips into you, his pent up arousal more the evident as his cock bulges beneath the fabric. You’re reeling, losing yourself, one hand fisting the jacket covering his shoulder while the other grips the back of his neck, not allowing him to break his lips from yours. “We’ll have to be quick” he whispers it, ghosting your lips, a secret held between your bodies. You smile slyly against his mouth, “shouldn’t be an issue for you” it’s a quip that earns a rough myriad of teeth marks sunk into your jaw, the gesture makes you tip your head back with a strangled moan. He lets the skin go with a wet pop, “I see why that mouth gets you in so much trouble” his chest is heaving, breathing ragged as he tries to focus his eyes on you, pupils blown wide with lust.

The sergeant is right, you’re not one to bite your tongue, never have been; but he didn’t seem to mind half the time. You sit up straighter, grinding friction against his crotch as you shift - making him hiss through his teeth, you loop both your arms around the back of his neck till your fingers are interlocked. Keeping him as close as is physically possible. “I thought you liked my mouth” your tone is sweet and false, a coy smile slanting your mouth, it makes him cock his head at you with a pointed glare. He huffs again, “I like it when it’s stuffed full of my cock, sweetheart” there’s little to no playfulness in his tone, a serious admittance as he watches the way you screw your eyes shut - a steady roll of arousal seeping through your core. Any patience you held was long gone, thrown away on the cold breeze, no longer able to maintain the teasing. “Fuck me already” you gasp.

It’s as if he takes it as an order, dutiful soldier he is, tugging you from the wall and spinning you till your spine is flush with his chest. Pressing a huge palm between your shoulder blades till you’re forced to bow forwards, elbows braced on the slick concrete ledge in front of you. He chuckles something low in his chest, prideful, “knew there was an obedient streak in you somewhere” Russ is close again, rutting into you smoothly as his fingers curl into the hair at the nape of your neck, sharply pulling till you crane your neck to meet his eye.

He’s dowsed in moonlight, framed by it, the violet-indigo hues of it bleaching his skin, the only light you can catch is the fire behind the silvery-blue of his eyes. Burning.

Something slots out of place in your head, teeth exposed as you smirk, you’re delusional already. “Pot calling the kettle black” it’s husked from your mouth, plucked from your lungs as you struggle to stay rooted in place. His smirk replaces yours as he crowds forward, crushing you against the brick, “be sure to keep it quiet, sweetheart, don’t want you waking the boys up” his hand is looped around your hip as he speaks, tugging harshly at your belt until it falls agape at each side. Your zip is ripped down next, then you feel the sting of the cold as it caresses the newly exposed skin of your ass and thighs, trousers and underwear pulled to your knees as Russ uses one of his boots to kick your feet further apart.

Any smart remarks you were thinking of voicing are gone, dead on the wind, thrown over the ledge you’re so tightly pressed against. You can do little more than bite your tongue, fingernails scraping over wet stone as you feel him shift behind you, the sound of his belt clanking ripping through you like shrapnel. You were shaking. Shivering in anticipation, not from the cold, waiting for him to touch you again.

It’s when he presses two warm-gloveless fingers through your folds that your silence is broken, a strangled whine spilling past your lips, the sound of your arousal slick on his fingers as he curls them into your pussy. “Fuck-“ you’re gasping, pushing your hips back into his hand, wanting him to get on with it, needing him inside of you yesterday.

“So fuckin’ wet for me doll, look at you” his voice is pitched low, tone smouldering you.

You hate what he can draw from you so easily. You’re stone-faced, hard to read and even harder to reach; but Keegan, he has a competent ability to flay you open, split you till there’s nothing more to hide, an open book for him to so easily flip through the pages. He’d evidently ripped a few out, stuffed them in his pocket to study later, that was the only explanation for how well he gaged you and your reactions.

Russ always reads you so well; doesn’t waste time because he knows neither of you have enough of it. You’re limited. He’s still a sergeant, still heading this assignment, he won’t jeopardise it for the sake of getting his cock wet; but he’ll indulge you both for now.

He takes himself in his fist, jerking a few times before he’s pressing the swollen-leaking head through the searing heat of your cunt, catching your juices over the length of himself before he’s smearing it around crudely. You jerk, “shit- Russ please” it’s strangled, punched out of your lungs when he gives you no warning, sinking himself all the way into you. Pressing home.

He groans and you whine, practically cry as he starts to fuck into you with abandon, deliberate thrusts crushing your ribs into the sharp edge of the concrete. His cock is too much - too soon, he’s stretching you open, ripping you at the seams. The heavy width of him pressing at your walls, velvet of his skin smooth and hot inside of you.

It’s rough and tender intertwined. While his hips bruise you, his hands hold you still, almost as if you’re something sentimental, crooked in his palm like an inherited keepsake.

The sounds that crest from the depths of his chest only serve to drive you further past the point of return, he’s grunting as his hips piston in and out of you, pussy sucking him like a vice, enveloping his cock so perfectly as if he was moulded to you, cut from the same cloth. He leans close, whispers in your ear, “keep your eyes on the prize, sweetheart. You’ve still got a job to do” his teeth sink into the shell of your ear and you tip your head back as his mouth skates from your ear to your cheek, wet lips kissing your skin. You try your best to meet his thrusts, to press your hips back into him, seeking more of him, never getting enough of the way he drives his cock so deliciously inside of you.

He continues to fuck you good, so good your eyes are rolling like marbles to the back of your skull, you sound so wet and desperate as his skin meets yours, the clap of your flesh meeting his resounding out into the night air around you. Russ is sly when he slips an arm around your waist, fingers skating up your thigh until he presses them between your legs, rubbing friction over your clit till you have to bite your tongue to silence the noises that threaten to break from your chest.

You tighten around him, cunt fluttering as your orgasm begins to loom, spotting your vision at the seams. “F-fuck - fucking hell” you sigh, wanting to press your pelvis forward into the delightful swirl of his talented fingers on your clit but not wanting to let up even an inch of his cock from where he fucks it into you. He preens, moaning into the base of your neck when his teeth worry another bruise there, “you feel so fucking good” he grunts as he knocks a particularly brutal thrust into you, your ass slapping against his pelvis in a way that has him near enough drooling, desperate to sink his teeth into your flesh.

It’s rising, crests and rolls like a tidal wave- no, a fucking tsunami. Knocking you off your feet, washing away anything but him, only Keegan remains rooted and unmoving. Despite the force in which your orgasm hits you, lighting a fire down your spine like a paraffin spill, he keeps fucking you through it. Brutal and painful. It’s overstimulating, sending your limbs heavy like rubber as he frees up a hand to wrap around the base of your throat, forcing it up till the back of your head rests against his shoulder. His breath fans your ear, broken moans drilling into you in the same ferocity his cock does, spilling down your ear canal till they send your brain to mush. “Thaaaat’s it - gorgeous” he shudders, “fuck” his hips never let up, his other hand snatches you back so you’re upright, scooping up both your wrists till he’s got them pinned to the small of your back. With the force he fucks you with, you’re having to raise yourself onto the tips of your toes, it’s too much and still not enough.

Tears slip freely over your cheeks now, your mouth agape with the need for more air, he’s fucking the oxygen right out of you. “Keegan- please” you whine, “fuck-“ it’s a cry that’s hoarse and brittle, broken as it manages to rattle from your throat. Molten heat washes through you, wringing you out, nothing more left to give but the way your cunt flutters and tightens around him still. He slows, thrusts beginning to lose rhythm as his hips stutter, “shit” the curse slips between gritted teeth, hissing out, and then he’s cumming in you. It’s sticky-hot, painting across your insides with a fever that sends your stomach into knots. You shouldn’t admit it, but it’s a feeling you never tire of.

His hold on you doesn’t give, only tightens, hoarse grunts muffled in your hair as your pussy milks him for all he’s worth, for all he can manage. Your chests are heaving in unison, the same unison in which your breaths mingle and carry away before your eyes, fleeting toward the star-hung sky.

You lean back into him, bones turned to jelly under your skin, unable to comprehend moving just yet. He doesn’t move either, doesn’t even pull out of you for fear his cum will slip out too, he’d have to fuck it back into you with his fingers, letting you clean off his digits with your tongue afterwards. If the situation were different he might have done, but for now, he’d enjoy this.

His nose nudges your cheek, his head pressed to the side of yours as you look at the sky, drinking in the moon and the stars. This is where the tenderness stemmed, in the afterglow, as the adrenaline and lust dissipates, all that is left is the sergeant and his soldier. His little Turk.

Air heaves through his nose and you try to turn your head, only your eyes are able to flit across his face. “Something funny, sergeant?” Your tone is softer then it had been before, tensions and worries washed away, mind still too hazed to think about much else but the way his cock stirs again inside of your cunt as he presses forward.

“Just thinking of how I’ll enjoy watching you work tomorrow knowing my cum is stained between your thighs”.