the moonlight is a messenger of love.

꒰ summary : satoru gojo has a terrible habit of ruining the things she finds pretty.

꒰ content warnings : mdni. fem!gojo x fem!reader, toxic yuri, college au, rich mean girl gojo, bullying, panty stealing, hate sex, jealousy, humiliation, degradation, marking, bruising, biting, rough sex, strap-on, fingering, fingers in mouth, corruption kink. word count 1.9k art creds @cakkezzz on x

fem!satoru!gojo is a bitch, a heinous bitch, some might even say. her family is ridiculously rich. she’s beautiful with snowy white hair, glossy and shining, cut into long layered strands that always look effortlessly messy—but the kind of messy that’s sexy, not unkempt. her eyes are an alluring cyan blue, like uncharted oceans, varying in icy hues and depths, cold enough to make anyone freeze beneath her stare. her skin is a vast expanse of milky porcelain, supple and smooth, utterly flawless without a single blemish.

fem!satoru!gojo is beautiful, feared, and sought after by everyone… yet she’s too busy staring at the shy, quiet girl who rarely speaks, face buried in her phone, earbuds always plugged in—a perfect target for satoru, a new fixation for her.

so wherever you go, satoru follows. annoyingly bitchy as ever and a complete bully, purposely causing you to trip and spill your papers right outside chem—stacks of white sheets scattering across the hallway—just so she has a reason to bend down and help you gather them, sneaking a glance at your soft, dewy tits in that pretty shirt—way too revealing for her liking. i mean, seriously, the guys around here are pigs. she’s just looking out for you.

which is exactly why, during gym next period, she shoves the top you left in your locker—completely unknowing of her malicious plans—as she steals it and shoves it into her bag with every intention of burning it once she gets home… or maybe rubbing it against her aching cunt first. either way, she’s getting rid of it.

fem!satoru!gojo would’ve never expected the effect you have on her, though. so easy to bend to her will, so soft for her, so easy to rile up—yet somehow liking such dirty things, liking when she uses you, leaves you all pretty with marks from her teeth and lips :( cute, really. don’t let that fool you though, you’ll get bitchy with her from time to time, bratty in ways that have her sighing through a nasty grin. satoru just knows how to smack it right off you, in the only way she’s good at.

fem!satoru!gojo who bullies and ridicules you daily.

every time the professor assigns partners, it’s the same thing—papers rustling, names being called, and then her chair scraping back like she already knew. sometimes you think she pays the professor just to partner you together. that, or she has annoying, absurd luck.

“stupid girl,” she mutters as she sits down beside you, not even bothering to look at your face yet, already flipping the assignment over with rough, careless fingers, annoyance clear in her tone. “you really can’t do anything right. you know that’s why we’re always partnered together.”

your skin hums with nerves, tension tightening under the strain in her voice. she notices, like a predator hunting prey—her eyes narrowing on you with something sharp and eerily similar to bloodlust, with her need to ruin you. she’d never admit it, but seeing you all scared and nervous makes her clit tingle with anticipation for when she has you fucked dumb and squirming beneath her, fingers shoved in your mouth as you drool around them like a dumb slut.

a lazy sigh escapes her pretty, glossed lips that always carry a faint sheen of glimmer. her voice is loud enough to carry across the room despite it being merely a lackluster sigh.

“aw, c’mon,” she drawls, leaning back in her chair, long limbs stretching out like she owns the space, nearly kicking the person sitting in front of her. “you’re really gonna stick me with her again, teach?” she rolls her eyes, pointing at your frame as her lips form a bored pout.

people whisper to their respective groups, snickering cascading down the rows of students, disdain reaching your ears. their voices are shrill as they laugh without restraint, full of imprudence and ignorance. not surprising, though—laughter always follows when satoru speaks, even the stupidest of things; everyone here kisses the ground she walks on.

she tilts her head toward the professor, all faux annoyance and boredom, like this is some personal stain to her name.

“she’s just too stupid, really. it’s a shame she’s unteachable, bottom of the barrel, the lowest of them all,” she says casually, like it’s obvious to anyone with eyes. then she glances back at you, a smile forming—shifting into something sharp, vampire-like in the catch of the light, canines pearly white, the grin stretching long and wide, curling into something almost sinister, a full cheshire grin—“isn’t that why you always stick her with me so she can copy whatever the smartest one does and get an A? pfft. that’s low even for you, y/n.”

“don’t worry, though,” she says absentmindedly toward the professor, already leaning in, her perfume cloying and sweet, smelling like something sugary, almost like whipped vanilla and tart berries. sweet yet bitter, perfectly emasculating her sweet tooth, and the sourness that coats her tongue and lingers in her words, her breath skittering down your warm flesh in its feverish wake—spoken like a warning—before she finishes her sentence: “i’ll handle her, professor.”

fem!satoru!gojo who gets meaner when she’s jealous. someone glances at you too long, and she’s already there—cutting in with that lazy smile that never reaches her low, dead-set eyes.

“don’t,” she says simply, like it’s obvious you’re her pet. she should really get you a collar—maybe bedazzle it. she’s thinking a fifteen-carat flawless white diamond set into a pastel leather leash, only the best for her baby. she lets out a small snicker to herself, then pauses—nah… that’s too much.

she can’t stand when another person even throws a glance your way. last time a guy hit on you, she got him expelled. surprisingly easy when you have her money, status, and a last name professors practically bow to.

fem!satoru!gojo leaves bruises where her fingers dig into your flesh, teeth sinking in and puncturing skin in her wake. make her jealous, and it becomes your punishment.

fem!satoru!gojo sees you as something she can have whenever she wants—something she can use, take, ruin. corrupt under her gaze, her fingers knead into your soft doughy skin, as she pulls you into some secluded room, your skin sick with need, goosebumps crawling up your arms. she’s not even bothering to be gentle as she strips you bare.

her touch is confident; she knows she’s in control as her fingers skitter across the skin between your inner thighs, coming to a halt at your clothed core, fingers slipping through and working through your cunt, aware of all your sweet spots, your pussy swallowing her slender digits down to the knuckle as she curls and pumps into your heated core.

and you don’t fight it.

if anything, your body leans into her. chasing her touch.

this weird, hostile, hate-fueled thing between you and satoru is something you willingly take part in. you hate her—her attitude, the way she’s rude, snobby, so stuck-up it makes your blood boil—but she’s also the only one who can fuck three orgasms out of you back-to-back and leave your thighs clenching just from the sight of her sharp, smug grin, too cocky, and all teeth.

and don’t even get started when she pulls out the strap.

she’s mean about it—ruthless, sadistic.

your face is shoved deep into the pillow, barely able to breathe between shallow gasps as her hips snap forward again and again, the brutal force knocking the air from your lungs. the plastic cock drives deep inside you, your panties shoved to the side, your body already sensitive from the way her long fingers teased your clit beforehand. this position she’s got you in—she knows exactly what she’s doing—lets her hit that spot perfectly, every thrust dragging a scraped, broken sound out of you.

the room fills with it. the soft, wet, obscene squelching sound, the constant echo of your greedy cunt taking everything she gives.

“pathetic,” she mutters, voice low and mocking. “going dumb over my cock like this.”

she really believes it, too. she talks like it’s hers, like it’s real, like if she wanted, she could come inside you and leave you completely ruined, full of her seed, leaking with it. god, what a nerd, you think.

“fucking slut for this cock, aren’t you?”

you grip the sheets, nails digging into the fabric, your voice muffled into the pillow. “ngh—fuck, s’toru, it’s too much… i hate you.”

she’s got a crooked smile, teeth dragging over her bottom lip, all need. “nah, baby, your pussy’s telling me different. she’s a real bigggg talker, you know.”

satoru slowly eases the baby blue strap from your tight heat, and your cunt clings—desperate, greedy, almost rotten in the way it sucks her back in. when she finally pulls out, the ridges are coated, slick with your creamy release.

“mm.” she hums, satisfied, a little amused. “see that? you’re painting my shit.”

something shifts in her at the sight—something sharper, more carnivorous—and suddenly she’s rutting into you harder, faster, pushing you up the bed with the force of it. then she slows, dragging it out, letting you feel every inch as your pussy clamps down around her.

she flips you over without warning, forcing you onto your back so you have to look at her.

her white hair is messy, pushed back, strands sticking from sweat. her eyeliner is smudged, lashes pale and catching the light, her expression wrecked in a way she’d never admit you’re the cause of.

her voice comes out rough as she leans in, thumb pressing against your lips before pushing inside your mouth, forcing past your teeth. the second you feel her, you bite down hard, leaving behind tooth-marked petals.

something dark flashes through her sky-kissed eyes—she’s quick with her movements. her hand snaps across your face, sharp and sudden, a sting that burns hot against your skin without quite tipping into real pain.

you just grin at her like a crazy woman. your eyes are glassy, wet with tears pooling along your lashes, your cheeks flushed and overheated from everything she’s dragged out of you. your body’s still trembling, ruined from the way she’s pulled orgasm after orgasm out of you, damp strands of hair clinging to your skin, mascara faintly smeared beneath your eyes.

“cocky, aren’t we,” she murmurs.

her fingers shove deeper into your mouth this time, pressing against your tongue, pushing far enough to make you choke, your eyes watering as tears finally spill over. at the same time, her other hand slides down your body, dragging along your slit before slipping your lace panties off completely.

she brings them up, pressing the soft lace to her face, inhaling slow.

“mm… yeah. think i’m gonna keep these,” she says, almost casually. “you don’t mind, do you?” she bats her eyelashes at you, long white lashes fluttering softly, deceptively sweet. yeah, you don’t mind. even if you did, it’s not like you could say anything when she’s looking at you like that—so sickly saccharine it’s almost suffocating.

she doesn’t wait for an answer—just tucks them into her bra like they’re hers now, just like you are, already looking back down at you with that same awful, knowing smirk. yet you catch the way it frays at the edges, faltering beneath your held gaze.

꒰ྀི১ ໒꒱ིྀ masterlist - kofi - emergency comm info!

note . . i love evil women hello !! @kamislop this is for u 😈

izuku is addicted to porn—now, before you turn your head, hear the man out. he’s not hooked like most men are, chasing a quick goon session, getting off purely for the sake of getting off, fapping their dick to any pussy scattered across the internet.

see, izuku has collections of porn.

starting with his hentai collection first—meticulously organized, color-coded, even ranked from worst to best by an absurdly intricate ratio of how much they made him cum. how many orgasms. how quickly the orgasm hit. whether he had to work for it or if release came embarrassingly fast. if his hand grew tired halfway through. details like that.

he has twitter on his phone too, entirely full of grainy pictures and low-quality videos—various girls getting fucked into couches, women gagging around cock, glossy leather leashes and collars cinched tight. izuku was almost certain he could get off to anything.

the way izuku watches porn is different from those guys.

izuku observes it.

first, he has to watch it. listen to it.

he listens to the sounds spilling from breathless girls’ lips, every strained gasp and broken moan, trying to see if maybe—just maybe—her voice sounds anything like yours.

he’ll even pause the video sometimes.

freezing the frame, right where the guy is rutting his fat cock into her pretty hole, the way her greedy pussy clings and swallows him whole, her body yielding around him while he watches with an almost unsettling focus, gaze flickering between every detail, studying the way she reacts, the way she trembles, the way she takes him.

his hand is already on his own cock, palming the hardened length, slow at first, then tighter, stroking as he watches the way she’s stretched open around him, slick and messy, imagining it’s your hole instead, your cunt taking him, sucking him in just like that.

he can’t help the way his hips twitch into his hand, grip tightening, breath going uneven, eyes locked on the screen while his mind replaces her with you, your face, your sounds, the way you’d look getting fucked like that.

it doesn’t take much after that—he’s jerking himself off faster, sloppy, hand slick, until he’s coming hard, painting his fingers and palm in thick milky streaks, chest heaving, face flushed, verdant colored curls sticking to his damp heated skin.

and it doesn’t help that the girl looks like you—just like you—taunting him and his thin hold on restraint, practically forcing him to cum :(

masterlist - kofi - emergency comm info!

note: this came to me while half asleep also ik twitter is x now but idc divider creds @/ cursed-carmine

cw: mdni, exes reunion, first time seeing each other in six years, slight angst, praise, dirty talk, p in v, pet names, light dry humping.

he’s got you grinding against his strained bulge, your clothed cunt rubbing against his aching cock. you’re a babbling mess beneath your ex boyfriend’s touch—yuji itadori, a man you haven’t seen in six years since he became the strongest. you and him ended shortly after jujutsu high. he disappeared. word was yuji itadori was immortal, unaging—his curse. you tried to linger beside him, to be his hope, his forgiveness, but that didn’t matter to yuji.

he still left you.

he’s looking up at you now, like you’re something fragile, something he doesn’t quite deserve to touch. salmon-hued hair falls in uneven strands around his face, brushing against scarred skin that’s lost some of its warmth. dark purple shadows sit heavy beneath his eyes, exhaustion carved deep into his features. a shell of the man he used to be, of the boy you knew.

he’s got his mouth on you, fingers digging into the plushness of your thighs.

“fucking missed you so bad, baby… m’such an idiot, fucking stupid.” he’s nearly slurring against your spit-slicked lips.

your breath stutters, your body giving in so easily it almost makes you ache. you let him move you, let him mold you, pliant beneath his touch like no time has passed at all.

you hadn’t expected to run into anyone today—let alone your ex boyfriend at a fucking cafe. and still, part of you wonders if he knew you’d be there. you heard things from nobara. you know yuji watched you all these years—not in a way that felt creepy, but lingering, noticing the things you like, keeping an eye out in case anything tried to hurt you. watching from a distance, learning the shape of your life without him in it.

“lift up a little for me?” he asks, eyes heavy and bloodshot but soft in that stupid familiar way, like coffee mixed with milk, warm even when everything else about him looks worn down. his fingers curve into your skin eagerly, yanking you up by the fat of your ass, lifting your hips. your panties are soaked with desperate need, the wetness slick and causing the fabric to grow sheer.

“shit…” his breath hitches, almost a laugh, almost something weaker, “you’re so wet… did you miss me that bad, sweets?”

two fingers hook into the side of your panties, pushing them aside, fabric creasing against the plush cheek of your ass. your hands fumble toward his boxers, tugging them down, glossy lips parting as his hard cock springs free against his defined abdomen, flushed and heavy, twitching slightly. precum beads at the tip, trailing down the length of him. the soft petal-pink line of hair leading below his navel only makes it worse—makes your mouth water, makes your thighs tighten around him without thinking.

“need your cock so bad, yuu…” you beg, slightly dazed from pleasure, head hazy with longing and need.

he lets out a breathy chuckle, shaking his head slightly.

“need you more.”

he lines himself up with your heat, pushing in, slow at first—your walls welcoming him, clenching tightly, your cunt greedily swallowing his cock. a low groan tears from his throat as you take him in.

“i know things ended badly… shitty of me. i’m sorry.” he groans, low and broken, forehead dropping forward as his hips press up into you.

his voice is rough, regret threaded through it, but distant—like he doesn’t know how to hold it properly anymore. your fingers bury into his pink hair as he starts to move, hips snapping forward, cock driving deep enough to kiss your cervix. the force of it pulls a loud moan from you, your body jolting beneath him as he moves again, sharp, desperate thrusts.

yuji throws his head back, adam’s apple bobbing as the hood of his light grey hoodie slips down his shoulders.

“oh my god—” he groans, voice ragged, “i missed her… gripping me like this.”

he drops his head into the crook of your neck, breathing you in—your strawberry shampoo, the warmth of your heated skin, the little mewls spilling past your lips.

“missed you… i missed you…” he repeats, voice breaking into soft, wrecked sounds, “missed this…”

his thrusts grow sloppy, desperate, messy squelching sounds filling the space between you.

“c’mon… coat my cock… wanna feel you—cum on it, baby…”

he captures your lips in a sharp kiss, tongue pushing past them, dragging along the roof of your mouth, tasting every bit of longing you’ve held onto. his hips stutter, then still deep inside you, your cunt fluttering and tightening around him, milking him down to the base of his balls.

your nails dig into his shoulders, carving crescent moons into his skin as pleasure crashes through you.

he lets out a broken whine, collapsing forward, his forehead falling against your chest.

“i missed my baby… my pretty baby…”

his cock twitches inside you once—twice—before he pulls out, breath shuddering, and spills thick, hot ropes of white, painting you with his milky seed, scattered across your lower stomach and inner thighs.

note: i haven’t read modulo so sorry if it’s inaccurate also this is acc the worst thing I’ve written but i had to hurry and write after seeing him animated like omg. anyways !! masterlist

warnings ⋮ ⌗ ┆mdni, brief mention of 18+ content !!!

toji isn’t a sentimental man, he doesn’t cry, he doesn’t let himself feel any negative emotions, if he feels something he simply turns it into anger, into seething rage that he displays in the boxing ring, a wicked grin and piercing eyes, a snarl so cruel it sends a grown man to his knees and leaves you very turned on..

but there’s one thing toji is, and that’s determined to win every match, he’s never left without a victory, and that train of good luck only started when you came into his life.

you both had just started seeing each other, it was casual, nothing more nothing less, and without thinking, when he came up during a five minute break all glistening with sweat and a grin that displayed his sharp teeth, chest rising and falling from exertion, your brain short circuited and you kissed him.

his brain also went haywire although he’ll never admit it to you.

“what the hell was that for?” he’d muttered, brows pinched together, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward like he was trying to fight it.

you shrugged, suddenly shy. “good luck kiss?”

he stared at you for a second, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek before he huffed out a quiet, “tch. dumb.” though he didn’t move away.

he won after that night, and the next after, and after that, a constant loop of victories under his belt.

all because of you, as long as he kisses you, he wins.

sure your kiss probably isn’t magical or anything, but it pumps his body full of adrenaline, makes him want to win, chasing the victory because he has to, because he wants to win when you’re watching, wants to see that look on your face when he walks back victorious.

which is why he’s currently in the ring with his coach beside him, anxiously looking towards the crowd to see if you’re there, you’re not.

toji is not a dramatic man, yet he’s panicking, utterly fucking panicking. he doesn’t think he’s ever been this anxious, leg bouncing up and down in a nervous tick, jaw tight, eyes scanning the crowd every second like if he looks hard enough you’ll magically appear.

“quit lookin’,” his coach mutters, arms crossed. “fight starts in a minute.”

toji clicks his tongue, annoyed. “shut up.”

minutes pass, and he’s about to start, and just when he’s sure you won’t arrive, sure you got caught up in something, that’s when he sees you walking towards the seats. toji looks at the timer, then at his coach’s displeased face because he already knows what toji is about to do, giving him a tiny disapproving nod. toji’s lips curl into a slightly lifted smirk as he stares at the timer now counting down to thirty seconds on the clock.

then he’s jumping off the ring through the ropes, the white rag still clutched between his calloused hands, large body barreling through the unassuming crowd, gripping you with feverish hands, movements urgent as he cages you against him inside a burning kiss, breath hot against your lips as he mutters against your mouth, “need my damn kiss.”

the crowd cheers as he pulls away, lips slick with saliva, deep obsidian blue eyes narrowed, raven hair painting his devilish features in sweat slick strands, lips tugging into a cruel smirk.

“you make me crazy, stupid woman.”

then he’s looking out to the crowd cheering, all while heat pools low in your stomach and something deep at your core tingles.

he wins that match, left with a slight gash to his chapped lip that you’re left to clean, and he’s thanking you afterwards with the brutal snap of his hips, pressed into a mean mating press, his large hands wrapped around your ankles, determined to make up for every victory you’ve handed him.

masterlist - kofi - emergency commissions

note - prob dookie, from the queue.. i wrote this four months ago lol

your ass is pushed into the bed, your thighs spread wide, pinned down with one large, ghostly pale hand, fingers dimpling into your skin with firm pressure. the cool air hits against your exposed pussy, slick with arousal, glistening as choso draws in a breath, his voice ragged and edged with strained control. a tight rasp coats his words,

“tell me about your day, my love.”

he asks it completely devoted, even as his fingers push into your pussy lips, thumbs pulling them apart. a soft tsk sound leaves his lips, dark eyes glancing up at you, waiting for a response.

you desperately want to clamp your thighs shut and ride the pleasure out. with how slowly choso is moving, fully inspecting your hole with gentle fingers and touches that barely graze your clit, you just want him to give in and shove you full of his fat cock—but you know you have to lay here and let him examine you. you know he won’t rush this.

the pad of his thumb presses slow, controlled circles into your swollen bud, his head tilting slightly as he studies you, chestnut strands slipping past fragile porcelain skin and those deep-etched purple eye bags.

you go to speak, but that’s when he inserts a finger into your hole, curling it almost immediately, feeling—mapping—the way your walls respond to his touch. you gasp, your body jolting beneath him.

“it—was fuck—good.”

choso hums softly, almost in acknowledgment, slipping another finger into your greedy hole. you clench around him, your cunt swallowing his digits, and he stills for just a moment before slowly curling them deeper into your heat.

“you’re right,” he breathes, watching your pussy as he pumps in and out of you, holding back his own groans and whines.

“i can tell,” he murmurs, voice quieter now, more absorbed than teasing, eyes fixed between your thighs as he begins to pump his fingers in your needy pussy in slow, dragged strokes.

“you’re more sensitive than usual… did something excite you?”

he leans closer, lowering himself, breath warm against your slick heat, but his dark muted violet gaze flicks up to your face again—still expecting an answer, still focused on your words as much as your body.

“tell me properly,” he adds, softer this time. “i want to hear everything about your day.”

“um, i went shopping with—”

his tongue flicks out, slow and intentional, tracing a careful line over your swollen clit. you gasp sharply as he closes his mouth around it, sucking just enough to make your hips twitch before pulling back again.

his brows scrunch slightly, fondness etched there.

“shopping?” he asks, voice low and hushed.

“what’d you get, angel?”

his fingers pause inside you for a brief second, then resume, working deeper, while his other hand gathers the slickness from your folds, rubbing it thoughtfully between his fingers tracing slow, tantalizing circles around your tight hole.

“cho…” a breathless moan spills from your lips.

“focus,” he murmurs, not unkindly. “you can answer me.”

your voice breaks into scattered sentences as he inserts a third finger, pumping into you steadily.

“fuck—um—that new perfu—”

wet, squelching sounds fill the room as his fingers move inside you. his breath is warm against your flushed pussy, voice like gravel against your skin as his tongue drags long, slow swipes over your folds and clit, circling and pressing with deliberate attention.

“the one you mentioned before?” he asks softly against your skin, voice rough, intent, as if this matters—like he’s cataloguing every detail of you, inside and out.

masterlist

note: first time writing for choso do u guys hate this be honest

brat taming with choso ! 𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯 in which you refuse his princess treatment !? (smut)

you’re on one knee in the hallway, fingers fumbling with the laces of your left sneaker, when you hear choso’s footsteps stop behind you.

“princess?” his voice is soft, confused. “what are you doing?”

you glance over your shoulder. he’s standing there in his usual black hoodie, hair loose, brows drawn together like you just announced you were moving to another country. you finish the knot, double it, and stand up.

“tying my shoes,” you say, brushing your hands off on your jeans. “we’re gonna be late if we don’t leave soon.”

he blinks. “i always do that for you.”

“yeah, well.” you grab your bag from the hook by the door. “i can do it myself today.”

choso doesn’t move. he just watches you, quiet, like he’s trying to solve a puzzle with missing pieces. you’re already reaching for the doorknob when he finally speaks again.

“did i forget something?” he asks. “did i do something wrong?”

you pause, turn around. his face is open, genuinely worried, and it makes your chest twist. “no, baby. you didn’t do anything wrong. i just… wanted to do it myself this morning.”

he nods slowly, but the crease between his brows doesn’t smooth out. “okay.”

you make it all the way to the kitchen before he appears again. you’re standing at the counter, pouring cereal into a bowl, when he stops in the doorway.

“princess,” he says again, softer this time. “i made you breakfast already. it’s in the fridge. the good yogurt. the one with the strawberries you like.”

you look at the bowl in your hands, then at him. “i know. i just felt like cereal today.”

he stares at you for a long moment. “you hate that cereal.”

“it’s fine.”

“you said it tastes like cardboard last week.”

you sigh, setting the bowl down. “choso, it’s okay. i can make my own breakfast. you don’t have to do everything for me.”

he doesn’t argue. he just watches you eat three bites of the cardboard cereal before you give up and push the bowl away. he doesn’t say anything when you grab a banana instead. instead, he keeps watching, quiet and thoughtful, like he’s cataloging every small rebellion.

by the time you’re in the car, he’s still quiet. his hand rests on your thigh like it always does, thumb stroking absent circles, but his mind is clearly somewhere else. you don’t push it. you just let the silence sit between you, warm and familiar.

he doesn’t ask again until you’re home that night.

you’re in the bedroom, changing out of your work clothes, when he appears in the doorway. he’s been home for an hour already—long enough to shower, long enough to make dinner and leave it covered on the stove. but he doesn’t mention any of that. he just leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching you pull a t-shirt over your head.

“sweetheart,” he says, and there’s something different in his voice now. lower. “come here.”

cw: 18+ knight!bakugo x princess!reader, yona of the dawn vibes.. and a tiny bit bridgerton inspired, p in v, angst and comfort, forbidden love, arranged marriage.. unrequited love (not really) majorrrr yearner katsuki, maybe a bit ooc?? but it’s wtv he’s a knight.

a/n: made this with the lovely @dienamiight in mind !! masterlist link here. emergency comms open. if you want to help support me and my work here is my buy me a kofi. <3

The ballroom feels narrow, twisting you this way and that, you feel like a prized pig at auction—the way suitors crowd in, their abnormally large noses hovering far too close, every mumbled comment feeling like it’s sneered directly at you.

Your palms grow clammy. Your eyes scan the vast room for a familiar tuft of blonde hair or piercing red eyes, but you find nothing. Not even a flicker.

Hopelessness settles heavy in your chest as you retreat to your chambers. It feels almost silly, you think, to always be looking for him—waiting for the comfort of his footsteps trailing behind you, never able to fully rest unless you catch the sound of his presence, or the soft murmur of curses under his breath.

He always knows where you are; he moves like a shadow at your side. That’s how it should be—partnership, companionship, or whatever strange thing the two of you share.

A harsh, urgent knock rattles your door just as your hair slips free from your stays, spilling messily over your nearly bare shoulders, where your corset sits loose and untightened.

Then—a soft click.

“Someone left the party awfully fast.” he drawls.

You hold your breath. “Someone never joined the party.”

The corners of his mouth twitch, curling into an amused smirk.

He steps closer. And with every pace he takes, the room grows heavier, thicker, until your thoughts melt into something warm and dizzying. He stops mere inches from you—close enough that you feel the heat radiating from him.

“What’s got the princess hiding from her own ball?” he murmurs.

You scoff and turn away. “Oh, a ball where I’m paraded about like a pig at auction, awaiting my eventual death.”

His brow twitches—a flicker of something soft, almost wounded—but he buries it beneath a veil of sardonic humor. “And that death is marriage, I assume.”

“Don’t mock me,” you reply, your voice flat but trembling at the edges.

He exhales—a sigh rough in texture, but softened where it edges into fondness. “Is marrying some extra really all that bad?”

Your fingers tighten on the corner of your vanity. “Bakugo.” You say his name with sternness, a warning, a plea.

He ignores every layer of it. “Y/n,” he breathes back, low and steady.

You inhale, exhale, counting to three because if you don’t, you might break. “I do not love them. And I never will. I could never love another.”

There it is. The reminder. The truth he knows and tries to run from. Where you fight tooth and nail to love him, he retreats—because he knows his place, his rank.

Even though he’s so painfully in love with you he feels it corrodes him from the inside out, rusting through armor and bone. Yet he flees, not because he does not feel for you, but because he knows his place. His rank. What is expected of him. his reflexes, split him open.

He believes your love is something he cannot hold—fragile, forbidden, too precious for someone who grew up beside you with dirt under his nails and a sword forced into his hands.

Not a boy who played knight.

Not someone who grew up beside you and accepted the armor only because his father passed him the reins.

He’s grown into the role, grown to love the duties, the armor, the hero he became. And he has grown to love you too—terrifyingly so. Your beauty makes him lightheaded in the way a dog chases a bone, powerless to instinct.

You are the bane of his existence and, contradictorily, the object of his every desire.

You are the longing of his every waking moment.

So he shoves it all down. Buries it deep. Crushes it with clenched fists and a bitten tongue. He tenses and leans away. “You’ll get married.”

You tense too, hoping—praying—maybe this is his confession. You tilt your nose into the air. “What makes you so sure, when I have clearly stated I will not?”

He lets out a short laugh—half scoff, half something bitter. “You’re a romantic. You love the idea of love. I’m sure one of those wealthy men will sweep up your naive heart.”

Your body stills. The way it falls from his lips so smooth and easy—cruel in its simplicity—sends shivers crawling up your skin. “You speak in such a crude way,” you manage softly. “I will forgive your rudeness, since you’re only unknowing.”

He scoffs, disbelief curling through his voice. “This childhood fantasy you’re chasin’ isn’t fuckin’ real. It’s fake. It’s a fantasy. It’s naive to think we could ever fuckin’ happen. So just do everyone a favor and drop the act. Marry one of those bozos.”

The end of the sentence burns him. It shows in the rigid set of his shoulders, the way he can’t look at you. The cruelty hurts him more than you.

But he already knew—minutes before the ball began, he was informed of your arranged match. A nobleman traveling far to make your acquaintance tomorrow evening. That was why he stayed in the corner all night, fists clenched, chest tight. Why he chased after you the moment he learned you’d fled early.

He needs you to understand.

That you and him—

Won’t ever happen.

Your eyes sting. Tears threaten. You swallow them down, refusing to break—not in front of him. Not now.

You will prove him wrong.

Because you’ll never love another.

Because you are forever, irrevocably, in love with Katsuki Bakugo—your knight.

It is a fact of life.

You are a princess in love with her knight, who grew into a man beside her.

You steady your posture and turn toward him, your voice starting shaky but calm, seething at the edges into something louder.

“Are you so dense? Are you such a martyr you cannot fathom your own being? Are you so absorbed with what’s around you that you’re unable to perceive your own self—unable to grasp that you are loved? By me. I am so in love with you it crawls up my throat and suffocates me in my sleep. I walk with such sorrow in every step, and you consume it with your shadow.”

Your breath breaks. Your voice fractures again, quieter now.

“You dare sit here and say my belief in love is what makes me naive—so much so that I’ll accept any love—when you can’t see that love is the foundation of all. And loveless forced marriages breed grotesque families and cruel leaders. I’m not sorry if fighting for a love I desire makes me stupid in your eyes.”

Bakugo slams his hand on the table. The sharp crack echoes through the room. His head throbs with the back-and-forth—because you keep twisting the knife, keep fighting for something he thinks cannot happen.

The sound startles you. You freeze, silent.

He breathes deeply and sighs, voice gravelly.

“You’re engaged. To some pompous fuck overseas.”

The air leaves your lungs. He waits a beat before continuing.

“The king’s tired of you refusin’ every damn suitor, so he took it into his own hands. That’s the word goin’ around, at least.”

“That can’t be.” Your voice cracks, fragile.

He speaks again, louder, rougher, as if dragged out of him by force.

“I love you. You know that. It’s why you push. And as much as I burn myself tryin’ to bore hatred for you, I can’t. I want you to quit me, because every time you push, you drive me into agony. I am half agony, half hope. My existence is spent chasin’ after you and the other half punishin’ myself for it.”

His breath shudders.

“There’s not a damn corner of this earth I can run to, to rid myself of the torment. I’m a knight—raised by my father to be a gentleman, to protect the king’s daughter. I carry that honor. But it’s hangin’ on a thread that grows tenuous every second I spend in your presence.”

His words seize your body. You hiccup through sobs—frustration, heartbreak, desperation blending until you can hardly breathe.

His entire frame snaps alert, instinct overriding thought. His voice softens in a way he never allows anyone else to hear.

“Baby…” he exhales. “C’mere, princess.”

His body is rigid, unsettled—as if he cannot, will not rest until he knows you’re all right. Only then does the armor around his heart stop rattling.

You let yourself fall into his chest, the cool metal of his armor against your flushed cheek. His hand flexes once, twice—like he’s afraid to fully hold you. You take his gloved hands, guide them around you, and lift your gaze to his bare face—those narrowing red eyes watching you like you’re the only thing he’s ever learned to cherish.

“I shall never be in love,” you whisper, “unless it is you I love.”

His restraint snaps.

His hands cup your face, fingers trembling. “Say it’s a lie. Tell me I’m a fool. Don’t let me love you, princess. I am selfish when it comes to something I truly want.”

He swallows hard.

“I want so much of you that I cannot bear havin’ only parts. I’ll want so much I won’t be able to stop.”

You lean in, your eyelashes brushing his cheek like a vow.

“I’ve always been yours.”

The last thread of his restraint breaks.

He surges forward, armor clattering as he sheds it, gripping your face with too much force before gentling it—because it’s you. Because he could never hurt you.

His lips crash onto yours.

Your mouth opens easily, desperately, granting him everything. His tongue sweeps the roof of your mouth, tasting the longing you’ve carried like a wound.

Each time your lips ghost away for a breath, you let out soft, breathless whines—sounds that twist something feral inside him. Bakugo chases your mouth with an abandon that betrays all the walls he tried to build, all the duty he tried to hide behind.

He kisses you like he’s drowning

and you’re the first breath he’s had in years.

He pushes your back gently against the vanity, guiding you onto the wooden table as if you’re something delicate he’s afraid to break. His mouth finds your neck in open-mouthed breaths—warm, shaky, almost desperate—dragging slow stripes of heat up the length of exposed skin. His forehead bumps yours lightly between kisses, as though he keeps losing himself and needing to find you again.

When he steps back, his fingers flex uselessly at his sides before he starts removing his armor, each polished plate catching the flickering candlelight. You should probably reach out and help him… but you don’t. You can’t. You want to watch him—memorize the subtle twist of his wrist, the roll of his shoulders, the quiet sigh he makes as a piece finally loosens. There’s something so profoundly human about seeing him unmake himself like this, piece by piece, and you crave it. You crave him.

He turns to you, slipping his hands beneath your thighs to lift you effortlessly.

“May I?” he asks, voice low, uncertain in a way that makes your heart ache.

You nod, and he hoists you up, your thighs curling instinctively around his waist as if your body has decided for you. Your hands find his shoulders, sliding up to cling around his neck. His skin is warm—so warm it sends a shiver of dizzy pleasure down your spine.

He lays you atop the plush mattress with intense concentration, brow furrowing as though positioning you is some sacred responsibility. His breath leaves him in a soft rasp.

“Got ya,” he murmurs. “Always gentle for you, my princess.”

Your breath stumbles. Your fingertips brush his jaw, drifting up the side of his face. He’s above you completely, broad and steady, sandy-blonde tufts of hair sticking up like he’s too distracted by you to smooth them down. The boyishness of it twists something tender in your chest.

His head lowers to your shoulder, then drifts down to your thigh where your nightgown has loosened. He rests there, face pressed to your skin, breath unsteady. His armor lies scattered in a pile on the floor, where he discarded his honor, His hands settle on your abdomen—warm, trembling, like he’s the one overwhelmed.

“Every bone in my body aches for you,” he whispers, each word heavy with restraint. “Every pulse longs for your touch. Princess… I am not a man who begs. But I’d be a damn fool not to beg for you.”

“Bakugo…” you murmur.

“Katsuki,” he corrects—quick, but soft, like the name costs him something to ask for.

You smile, letting the sound of it linger as you try again.

“Katsuki.”

It tastes sweet, the way it rolls off your tongue so smoothly.

His fingers tighten slightly around your thigh—not in hunger, but in feeling, as if he’s anchoring himself to you.

“Let me touch you,” he breathes. “Let me care for you… let me love all of you. Every inch you’ll allow me.”

You hold his face gently in your hands, thumbs brushing the uneven scar along his cheek, feeling the way he leans into your touch as if it steadies him. “My noble knight,” you whisper in your best royal tone, “you have my full consent.”

His lips twitch in the tiniest, most helpless smile. Your laughter bubbles up—soft, startled, warm—and his face lifts, eyes tracing the crinkle of your eyelids, the bloom of color in your cheeks, as if your joy were a sunrise he’s lucky enough to witness. Then he laughs too, quiet little huffs that brush against your skin.

Something intimate settles over you both—light at first, then deepening, warming, into something tangible.

He kisses you again—slow, searching—his hands cupping your jaw before sliding into your hair, fingers threading through the strands like he’s afraid to let go. They drift down your sides in wandering lines, as if he can’t choose where to linger because every part of you pulls him in. His mouth follows the trail of his touch, brushing along your throat, across your collarbone, each kiss soft and trembling with devotion.

His hands move in restless passes over your body, unable to settle—like he’s torn between needing to feel all of you and not knowing where to start. There’s a hunger in the way he leans in, the way his breath stumbles as he bows his head, his mouth finding its path down your neck again, slower this time, steadier, as if he’s memorizing the map of you.

You feel every place he leaves and every place he arrives like separate heartbeats—little shocks of awareness that spread through your chest, your stomach, your whole body. Your skin prickles at the sensation of being wanted so thoroughly, so openly, as though he’s seeing every inch of you at once and still choosing to come closer.

When he finds the soft swell of your breast, he pauses, almost reverent, breathing you in before pressing featherlight kisses over your skin, his lips barely there, making you lean into him for more.

His tongue traces slow patterns around your nipple, teasing and retreating, until his mouth finally closes around it, the warm pull of his suck making your breath stutter and your fingers curl in his hair.

Your body squirms under him, not from impatience alone but from the overwhelming rush of being worshipped like this, from the terrifying and thrilling truth that you like it.

Pleasure surges through you in waves, hot and insistent, pooling low in your belly as your thighs fight the urge to clamp shut and hold on to every drop of sensation.

Your pussy throbs with each drag of his tongue, a needy ache that leaves you torn between wanting to tug him higher and wanting to push him lower, greedy for all of it at once.

He makes soft, helpless whines against your breast, the sounds vibrating through your skin and straight into your chest like a confession he can’t voice.

His free hand kneads your other breast with almost clumsy devotion, fingers spreading as if trying to memorize its weight and shape.

His eyes stay fixed on you whenever he can bear to look up, dark and heavy with awe, like he still can’t believe he’s allowed to touch you, let alone taste you.

There’s a kind of desperation in the way he moves, as if pleasing you is not just desire but purpose, as if every approving sound you make writes a new law into his bones.

You can feel his breath grow ragged against your skin, not from his own pleasure but from the strain of holding himself back, of keeping his focus entirely on you.

“My princess,” he murmurs against your breast, lips brushing your damp skin, saliva and reverence clinging to your nipples as his fingers toy with them

His voice drops, thick with emotion and want, every word shaped around a vow. “I exist to serve—to kneel, to be molded by your desires. Let me give you everything, in ways words will never touch.”

Something tender and dangerous unfurls in your chest at his confession—power, yes, but also a fierce protectiveness for this man who offers himself so completely.

You smile, feeling the warmth in your gaze sharpen into something commanding, your fingers threading through his hair not just to hold him there but to claim him.

“Then show me,” you say, your voice soft but leaving no room for doubt. “Show me how far you’ll go to please me, my brave knight.

He takes it as a command the instant your breath falters. He sinks lower between your legs, hands locking around your hips to pin you to the bed. His devotion is absolute. Tongue first—slow, hungry—lapping at your folds like he’s been denied this for years.

It’s forbidden, punishable by death. A knight worshiping his princess like this. But what crime is there in a loyal man needing to tongue-fuck the woman he was sworn to? What’s so wrong with wanting to please her exactly how she aches to be pleased?

Serving the princess is his duty. He just can’t help that this is the way he was always meant to serve you.

He kisses the soft flesh of your pussy reverently before shifting lower, his tongue circling your clit in slow, teasing loops. Two fingers slide into you, pumping in a steady rhythm, curling just right as they move in and out of your tight heat. Your breath stutters, hips lifting to chase every stroke.

Warm pressure coils inside you like nectar, thick and dizzying.

“K-Katsuki… Suki—gonna cum,” you moan, the nickname falling out in a mess of need. Suki. A slip. A mistake. But the second it hits his ears, it twists something inside him, his whole body nearly lurching to hear it again.

“Say it again,” he breathes—almost a demand, but not quite. Still frayed enough at the edges to accept refusal… not that you’d ever deny him.

You whisper it again. “Suki.”

Smooth. Sweet. Too easy on your tongue. You say it once more, then again, breathless, until it barely sounds like a word at all.

It’s a confession in its own way.

His fingers speed up with every soft sound you make. Your hips lift from the mattress as the tension snaps, and you whine, flushed and trembling, “m’close.”

He watches the way your face tightens in pleasure, cheeks tinted red, stray strands of hair clinging to your skin. You look ruined and lovely and his.

You fall apart around his fingers.

He follows soon after, shuddering as he spills into his own hand.

And here is where his greed settles in. He should stop. He’s had enough.

But once he’s tasted you, he can’t quit you.

Your head feels heavy, your throat dry, but your mind clings to one thought alone—his cock filling you, stretching you open, making you cum so much you’re dripping down his length, coating him in your sweet sticky release.

You look up through your lashes, rising onto your elbows as you murmur, “I want more.”

You don’t need to elaborate. Knights are trained to know their princess’s needs before she speaks them. He rises over you, capturing your mouth in a kiss that’s bruising and starved, no gentleness left in him at all.

His hands slide beneath your thighs, spreading you open. He guides his tip to your entrance, pausing just long enough to look at you with something close to worship.

“Are you wanting this, princess? It’ll hurt,” he says softly, like the gentleness itself is a vow.

You breathe out yes—again, and again—and he pushes in slowly, inch by inch, until your warmth swallows him whole.

His hands shake as they cradle your face, brushing hair from your eyes while he thrusts slowly, savoring your warmth as your body adjusts to his size, to the fullness of him.

“I’ve dreamt of this,” he whispers, breath hot against your cheek. “Selfishly so.”

The confession makes your pussy ache around him.

“You feel so fuckin’ good,” he rasps in your ear. Your moans grow breathless with each thrust, your whole body trembling beneath him.

“Faster,” you demand, voice loud and broken.

He obeys instantly, hips snapping forward, ramming into you with full force. His breathing grows ragged, dragging with each thrust as he murmurs my princess, my princess—like he’s praying, like you’re the only god he knows.

Your head falls back as he drives into you faster and faster until the heat overtakes you both and, with a final shudder, he pulls out—his cock twitching as he spills his warm release across your lower stomach.

You’re both slightly gasping when he collapses onto your shoulder. His voice is bitter, fragile around the edges as reality creeps back in.

“You’re to be married to another.”

You catch his face in your hands, guiding him into your touch.

“No,” you whisper, steady and sure. “I am to marry you.”

He smiles—a small, aching thing. Like in another world, that truth exists. In this one, he’s still your knight, bound to fate he cannot touch.

He presses a soft kiss to your temple, voice low and steady as he breathes,

“I love you, my princess.”

kirishima won’t let you look away, tangled within his muscular frame, all sweaty limbs and breathless gasps wrapped up in pure ecstasy. his body hovers above yours, casting shadows in the dim light spilling through the loose curtains and cool evening air. the sweet smell of vanilla wafts through the room, soft ribbons of smoke curling lazily from the incense he had lit only moments prior.

kirishima always makes sure the moment is sensual, wrapped in a lovesick haze—he’s a very romantic man at heart. and he holds yours with large, calloused hands adorned with various scars that trail up his arms, across his back, and toward his chest like inked medals, tributes to his life as a hero—a man very much capable of violence, yet all soft lips and hushed reassurance when he’s buried beneath the covers with you. his favorite place, he thinks. tucked away with you, lapping at your spoils, while you squirm beneath him, all pretty whimpers and trembling limbs.

the head of his cock traces your slick folds slowly, your pussy aching for his girth to finally stuff your needy hole full. his voice is low, a rasp that settles warm against your skin. you’re feverish underneath him, body practically molded to his, the way he keeps you close. voice rough yet it holds a softness reserved only for you, he’s demanding too—every time you squirm or let your gaze drift to the ceiling, nerves curling tight in your chest during this intimate, overwhelming moment.

“look at me.” he says it like a mantra with such authority that it only makes the wetness between your thighs pool further, the ache inside you growing louder. you shake your head weakly, but his cock pushes through your entrance now, your hole greedily welcoming him, swallowing him down to the base. he’s warm inside you, full in a way that sends a rushing sensation rushing through your body. you need him to move, need him to fuck you dizzy.

“mphm, kiri i need you to mo—”

he thrusts once, rutting his hips into you slowly—just enough to graze your sweet spot, sending a rush of white-hot pleasure through your body, before stilling almost immediately.

“like that?” he asks, voice strained, and you can tell it’s taking everything in him not to keep going.

his grin is wild, sharp, shark-like teeth glinting as the edges of his lips curl cruelly. he waits, blood-red eyes fixed on you, and even through the haze of lust you can feel the weight of his stare.

he’s waiting for you to cave.

you know he won’t give in until you look at him.

despite the urge to curl away and hide, you slowly turn, your eyes catching the velvet softness hidden within his stare. your heart—the very organ tasked with keeping you alive—beats so rapidly you fear it may give one final pump and finally surrender as you weakly meet his devoted gaze.

his soul seems to brim in the irises of his eyes, to spill from the pads of his fingertips—the same ones that catch your jaw the moment you falter and turn away again, burying yourself in the plush pillow where the faint scent of lilies lingers in the fabric from the detergent you’d washed it with.

his touch is warm as he cups your jaw, fingers pressing gently into your skin, thumb tracing idly over the softness of your bottom lip.

“look at me, i wanna see that pretty face.”

your cheeks bloom a deep red under his honeyed words. “shut up, you’re so dumb,” you mutter, completely flustered, shoving his hand away—but it only makes him chuckle. his face drops into the crook of your shoulder, deep crimson locks spilling forward, bangs falling into his eyes before he brushes them aside. he looks slightly disheveled, completely open for you.

his thumb presses against your lips before slipping past them, kneading gently at your gums as a boyish grin spreads across his face. “you’re so cute. you have no reason to be shy, baby… just keep looking at me, hm?” he murmurs. when he pulls his thumb free, saliva glistens along the pad of it. you bite down lightly, leaving behind faint marks from your teeth.

“she bites,” he says, something wild flickering across his expression.

his hands find yours, fingers interlacing as he pins them above your head, hips rocking into you with a steady, building rhythm. your eyes stay locked on him, both of you slick with heat, the sounds of him filling you echoing in the tight space between you. his thrusts turn fast, erratic—until he slows just enough to drag against your g-spot, chasing the way your breath stutters at the curve of him.

his forehead falls against yours, maroon strands spilling around you both like a curtain shielding you from the world outside your windows. one hand slips free to cup your face, thumb tracing soft circles into your skin. kirishima’s lips find yours again, his tongue brushing along the seam of your mouth, asking—before taking. you melt into him, breaths tangled, shared, stolen, given back all at once, inhaling each other’s oxygen, greedily consuming it. a perfect depiction of love.

his other hand leaves yours, drifting lower, finding the swollen bud of your clit. he rubs slow, light circles—barely there—but paired with the heat of his mouth, the wet press of his tongue, and the steady thrust of his cock, it’s enough to make your thighs shake. he smells like warm cedarwood and clean soap, layered with something faintly musky and lived-in, like he’s just stepped out of training, and it clings to him in a way that’s completely intoxicating—you’re drunk off his scent.

his movements falter just slightly, hips stuttering as your body tightens around him, pulsing.

“fuck…” he breathes, pulling back just enough to look at you. “she’s gripping me.”

his forehead presses harder to yours, almost too much. “you feel so good… look so pretty when you finish on my cock, my sweet baby,” he coos.

your nails dig into his broad back, crescent marks forming as you cling to him.

“gonna spill,” he mutters under his breath.

you wrap your legs tighter around him, pulling him deeper, refusing to let go. he glances down at you, breath catching, a half-laugh breaking free.

“you’re sure you don’t want me to pu—”

you only tighten your hold, thighs squeezing his torso.

he laughs, breathless, grin sharp and besotted with fondness, “greedy girl.”

꒰ྀི১ ໒꒱ིྀ masterlist - kofi - emergency comm info!

@tokkushin pushing the shy!gf agenda (≧◡≦) ♡ !!

note : i may have went overboard with the detail but i really hope u guys can feel the intimacy i was trying to portray. . i listened to cinderella by mac miller while writing this and i love that song sigh. reblogs, likes and comments are so appreciated and make my day 🫶