Imagine if he spread you open with his thumbs—slow, deliberate—and just looked at first. Like he was starving and you were the first meal he'd seen in weeks. Like he wanted to commit the sight of you to memory: the wetness gleaming in the low light, the way you twitch under his gaze, the flush spreading across your skin.

He leans in close. Close enough that his breath ghosts hot and damp against your folds. Close enough that his lips brush you without kissing—teasing, torturing.

"Look at you," he murmurs, and the vibration makes you jerk, makes your hips chase his mouth instinctively. He pulls back just enough to deny you, and you whine—actually whine—at the loss of heat.

"So wet," he breathes, and you feel every word as pressure, as intimacy, as something worshipful. "So fucking pretty. Did you make this mess for me?"

His tongue drags slow from your entrance to your clit—flat, deliberate, devastating—and he groans against you, the sound vibrating through your core. He pulls back, chin shiny with you, and his eyes find yours over the plane of your stomach.

"You taste like something I dreamed about," he says, and leans back in. His mouth seals over you, sucking gently, and you arch off the mattress with a cry that sounds torn from your throat.

He pulls back again. Always pulling back to speak to you there, like he can't help himself, like he needs to articulate what you're doing to him.

"Sensitive," he observes, like he's cataloging your reactions, like they're precious. He traces your folds with one finger, spreading your wetness, circling your entrance with teasing pressure that makes you ache. "That's good. I want you sensitive. I want you feeling everything."

He pushes two fingers into you—slow, thick—and curls them against your wall while his mouth returns, licking broad and filthy. He speaks between strokes, between sucks, his lips brushing your clit with every word.

"You're taking me so well," he praises, voice wrecked, muffled against your flesh. "Look how you grip my fingers. So tight. So needy."

The words are crude but his tone is reverent, intimate, like he's conversing with the part of you that needs him most. He nips gently at your inner thigh—sharp, grounding—and soothes it with his tongue, open-mouthed and greedy. "Can you come for me?" he asks, not to your face but there, like he's asking your cunt directly, courting it, coaxing it. His tongue circles your clit, relentless. "Will you let me feel it? I want to taste it. I want to feel you pulse against my tongue while you're screaming my name."

He sucks you into his mouth—hard, demanding—and you cry out, hips bucking, fingers tangling in his hair to hold him there, there, don't you dare move. He moans against you, the vibration pushing you closer, and the sound is filthy, grateful, desperate.

"That's it," he encourages, words slurred, breath hot. "Give it to me. Give it to my mouth. I want it—I want you—"

When you come, he stays there, drinking you in, murmuring praise against your trembling flesh like prayer, like promise, like he's never leaving.

Satoru Gojo stood in front of the chalkboard at Tokyo Jujutsu High, an unopened box of chalk in one hand and his phone in the other. Megumi Fushiguro sat in the front row, staring straight ahead with the hollow eyes of a teenager who knew he was about to waste two hours of his life. Beside him, Nobara Kugisaki was idly filing her nails, while Yuji Itadori sat upright, notebook open, pencil poised, tragically ready to learn.

"Alright, listen up, kids," Gojo announced, tossing the chalk into the air and catching it behind his back. "Today’s lesson is on the most critical, foundational, absolute apex concept in the entire jujutsu world. Something so profound it dictates the very balance of power in Japan."

Yuji leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "Is it domain expansion refined to a microscopic scale? Or the theoretical limit of reversed cursed technique?"

"No," Gojo said, his blindfold tilting as his grin widened to an almost terrifying degree. "It’s the fact that my wife is an absolute ten-out-of-ten, and none of you will ever attain this level of happiness. Open your notebooks. Take notes. This will be on the final."

Megumi let out a slow, agonizing exhale, resting his forehead directly onto his wooden desk. "I'm leaving."

"Sit down, Megumi, or I’m assigning you to exorcise a grade-one cursed spirit in a sewer using only a spork," Gojo said smoothly, pulling up a photo on his phone and tapping the screen against the whiteboard so hard it clicked. "Now, look at this. Look at her. Look at this smile. Yuji, tell me what you see."

Yuji blinked, squinting at the tiny phone screen across the room. "Uh... she looks really nice, Gojo-sensei? She’s pretty!"

"Pretty?" Gojo echoed, his voice dropping an octave as he slouched dramatically against the teacher's podium. "Pretty? Yuji, that is an insult to the universe. She’s divine. She’s an ethereal masterpiece walking among mortals. Do you know what happens when she walks into a room? The lighting improves. The air quality rises. Cursed energy itself probably neutralizes just out of respect for her facial symmetry."

"Is this really what we're doing today?" Nobara groaned, putting her nail file away with a sharp snap. "You brought us in here at eight in the morning on a Tuesday—after telling us it was a life-or-death tactical seminar—to show us pictures of your 'wife' ?"

"This is a life-or-death tactical seminar, Kugisaki," Gojo said, pacing across the front of the room with his hands tucked into his pockets. "Because if any of you ever disrespect her, your life ends and your death becomes a statistical guarantee. But let’s talk about personality first, because beauty like hers is just the outer shell of an incredible soul."

He stopped pacing and leaned against the edge of Megumi’s desk. Megumi visibly flinched away.

"She’s patient," Gojo declared, pointing a finger into the air. "Do you have any idea how much patience it takes to deal with me? I’m an absolute handful. I know it, Principal Yaga knows it, the higher-ups certainly know it. But her? She just smiles, shakes her head, and hands me a sweet treat. She’s kind. She’s hilarious. Her sense of humor is top-tier—she laughs at all my jokes, even the ones that Nanami calls 'a tragic waste of oxygen.'"

"Nanami is a wise man," Megumi muttered under his breath.

"And her mind!" Gojo continued, completely ignoring him as he spun around to face the board, grabbing a piece of chalk and violently scribbling a crude stick-figure diagram. "Brilliant. Sharp as a needle. She can read me like a book. I try to pull a prank, and boom—she’s already two steps ahead, setting a trap for me. It’s intoxicating. I’m the strongest sorcerer alive, and yet I am completely, utterly, beautifully wrapped around her pinky finger. And do you know what the best part is?"

Silence stretched across the classroom.

"I said, do you know what the best part is?" Gojo repeated, crossing his arms.

"What is the best part, Gojo-sensei?" Yuji asked dutifully, playing the straight man out of sheer pity.

"She’s obsessed with me too!" Gojo threw his hands in the air, a triumphant laugh echoing off the concrete walls. "It’s a mutual victory! I win at life! Every single day I wake up, look to my side, and think, 'Satoru, you incredible bastard, you’ve done it again.'"

Nobara gagged softly into her fist. "I think I’m going to be sick. Is it possible to die from someone else’s ego?"

"You wish you had an ego like mine, Kugisaki, but you don't have the backing for it," Gojo smirked. "Which brings me to section two of today's curriculum: the culinary arts. Or as I like to call it, Why My Wife Is Better Than Michelin-Star Chefs."

He wiped the stick figures off the board with his sleeve and wrote the word COOKING in massive, jagged capital letters.

"Now, as you all know, I have a refined, highly sensitive palate," Gojo said, adjusting his blindfold slightly. "My body requires an immense amount of sugar to keep my Six Eyes operating at peak efficiency. Most people throw some syrup on a pancake and call it a day. Not her."

He stepped closer to the students, his voice dropping into an almost reverent whisper.

"Yesterday morning. I wake up. The sun is just starting to hit the courtyard. I walk into the kitchen, and what do I smell? Freshly baked strawberry cream puffs. Light, airy pastry, dusted with powdered sugar that looks like fresh snow. The cream inside? Made from scratch. Perfect level of sweetness. Not too heavy, not too light. It literally melted on my tongue. I ate four of them before I even remembered to say good morning."

"That actually sounds really good," Yuji admitted, his stomach letting out a loud, traitorous rumble.

"It was legendary, Itadori!" Gojo barked, slamming his hand down on the podium. "And that’s just breakfast! Her dinners? Forget about it. Last night she made beef nikujaga. The potatoes were so tender they collapsed the moment your chopsticks touched them. The broth was rich, savory, perfectly balanced—it tasted like a warm hug from the universe. I almost used Limitless to slow down time just so I could savor every single chew."

"Okay, look," Nobara interrupted, leaning forward with her elbows on her desk. "If she’s such an amazing cook,and a real person why haven't you ever brought any of her food for us? You bring us souvenir snacks from your trips across the country, but never her home cooking?"

Gojo stared at her through his blindfold, his expression flattening into deadpan coldness. "Share her cooking with you? Are you insane? Do I look like a charity? That food was prepared with love specifically for me. If I caught any of you putting your chopsticks near her nikujaga, I’d send you straight to the shadow realm. Get your own incredible wife."

"I'm fifteen," Megumi said flatly.

"Age is no excuse for lack of ambition, Megumi," Gojo shot back without missing a beat. "When I was fifteen, I already knew the exact standard of excellence I required in a partner. And she exceeded every single metric. Her looks? Unmatched. Have I talked about her eyes yet?"

"You've talked about everything," Megumi sighed, resting his chin in his hand. "For forty-five minutes."

"Well, we're doing a deep dive on her eyes now," Gojo declared, pulling his phone back out and tapping frantically. "Look at this picture from our trip to Kyoto last spring. Look at how the cherry blossoms frame her face. Is that not art? Should this not be hanging in the National Museum of Modern Art? I actually considered buying the museum just to clear out a gallery for her portraits."

Yuji squinted at the screen again. "She really is super pretty, sensei. You're a lucky guy."

"Luck has nothing to do with it, Yuji, it's destiny," Gojo corrected, holding the phone close to his own face as if admiring it himself. "She’s got this incredible style, too. She can put on a basic oversized sweater and look like she just stepped off a runway in Paris. Then she wears a formal kimono and looks like an ancient goddess descended to grace us with her presence. Meanwhile, I’m standing next to her looking like a million bucks, which makes us, scientifically speaking, the most attractive power couple in human history."

"I'm leaving," Nobara declared, standing up and grabbing her bag. "I can take cursed energy training, I can take physical conditioning, but I cannot take another second of a grown man swooning like a middle school girl."

"Sit down, Kugisaki, we haven't even covered her laugh yet!" Gojo called out, waving a hand casually. A thin barrier of Limitless flickered into place right in front of the classroom door, gently blocking her path.

Nobara glared at the shimmering air, then turned around with a look of pure rage. "You are abusing your supreme power!"

"I am educating the future generation on what truly matters in life!" Gojo countered, resting his hands on his hips. "You think jujutsu is all about hand seals and cursed energy management? Wrong. It’s about having a reason to come home. And my reason happens to be an incredible, gorgeous woman who makes homemade matcha tartlets and leaves cute little notes in my coat pockets when I go on long missions."

Megumi slowly looked up, his brow furrowing. "Wait. Notes?"

"Yes, Megumi, notes. Little pieces of paper with sweet messages written on them," Gojo boasted, reaching into his uniform jacket and pulling out a small, neatly folded pink square. "Like this one right here. She snuck it into my pocket this morning before I left the house."

"What does it say?" Yuji asked curiously.

Gojo unfolded the paper with a dramatic flourish, flicking his wrist. He cleared his throat, adjusting his posture to read it with maximum drama.

Then he paused.

His eyes scanned the line of neat handwriting. The cocky, triumphant grin on his face slowly wavered, melting into a look of mild, sheepish realization.

"Gojo-sensei?" Yuji asked. "What's it say?"

Gojo quietly folded the paper back up into a tight little square and slipped it back into his breast pocket. He cleared his throat, adjusting his high collar.

"It says," Gojo began, his voice suddenly losing its booming bravado, "'Satoru, stop bragging about me to your students and actually teach them jujutsu today. I asked Megumi's shadows and they told me you did this last week too. If I hear you wasted another class, no sweets for a month.'"

The classroom went dead silent.

Megumi slowly raised an eyebrow. "Shadows are very good at eavesdropping."

Nobara burst into a loud, hysterical fit of laughter, slapping her desk. "Oh, my god. She knows. She knows you're a terrible teacher!"

Yuji puffed out his chest, trying and failing to hide a massive grin. "She sounds really smart, Gojo-sensei!"

Gojo stood frozen at the front of the room for three full seconds. Slowly, he reached out, picked up the eraser, and wiped the word COOKING off the chalkboard. He grabbed the fresh box of chalk, cracked it open, and turned back to face the class with a perfectly straight face.

"Alright," Gojo said crisply, tossing a piece of chalk to Yuji. "Open your textbooks to page forty-two. Today we're reviewing domain amplification. And if any of you tell her I didn't get to the practical demonstration, you're all doing three hundred laps."

Warm Winter: Sunday x gn!reader

Thinking about ice skating with Sunday, as beautiful flakes of snow land all around you. You would skate next to each other, hand in hand and Sunday would sneak glances at you every now and then, enjoying the way your eyes light up whenever a new snowflake lands on your outstretched palm.

Your hand would tighten around his whenever he slows down a little, making you fear that he’d fall. It seems you’ve channelled his mischievous side today, as he chuckles quietly into his unoccupied hand, his wings immediately giving him away too.

The sky keeps getting darker and the light that’s just coming to life shines so beautifully against the frozen ice. And suddenly, you’re being hugged from behind, and wings tickle your cheek ever so slightly.

You may not be skating now, but you’re enjoying the warmth Sunday engulfs you in.

Winter with Sunday is pure comfort. It’s drinking your favourite tea on a snowy afternoon as you sit with your head on his shoulder, sharing a blanket together. It’s eating your favourite cookies and cooking soups together. It’s the pure unadulterated love he has for you and he let’s you feel it every time you look into his mesmerising eyes.

Winter’s with Sunday are most intimate, for several reasons.

ft. Katsuki Bakugou, Izuku Midoriya, Shouto Todoroki, Eijiro Kirishima, Keigo Takami (Hawks).

( Matching the lip balm flavor to the summer memory )

# fluff. gn!reader. established relationship. summer isn’t over yet and that’s a warning on its own. oh and they kiss and hawks’ one is suggestive.

ᰔ KATSUKI BAKUGOU

— Spiced Peach & Mint

The heat inside the agency breakroom was stifling, but the tile against your back was blissfully cool. Out in the corridor, the AC was struggling against the 95-degree August afternoon, but in here, the real source of the climate crisis was sitting right across from you on the stainless steel counter.

Katsuki had his dark uniform jacket tossed over the back of a chair, the front of his black tank top soaked with sweat around the collar. He had just come off a three-hour summer raid downtown, and his body was still off-gassing the leftover heat of a dozen high-yield explosions. The room smelled heavily of him—that thick, caramelized-sugar scent of hyper-primed nitroglycerin, sharp and hot enough to make the back of your throat prickle. He was aggressively chugging an iced Americano, his throat working as he downed half the cup in one go, before slamming it onto the counter with a loud, metallic clink.

“Stupid-ass heat,” he muttered, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead, his red eyes dark and exhausted under his damp blonde fringe. “Pavement’s practically melting out there. Idiots don’t know how to handle a perimeter when it’s over ninety.”

“You’re radiating like a furnace,” you said, stepping into his space between his thighs as he sat on the counter edge. He didn’t pull back. Instead, his heavy, scarred hands automatically found your waist, his large fingers digging in just enough to pull you flush against him. The heat rolling off his chest hit you like an open oven door.

“Deal with it,” he grunted, though his eyes softened just a fraction as he looked down at you. You pulled a small, sleek tube from your pocket and popped the cap. Katsuki’s brows furrowed instantly, his gaze flicking down to the tube. “What the hell is that?”

“Lip balm. Spiced peach and mint,” you said, twisting the bottom. “Your lips are chapped. Probably because you’ve been blowing up city blocks in direct sunlight for three hours.”

He let out a sharp, flat scoff—that classic tch. “I'm fine. Don’t put that sweet-smelling crap on me.”

“Katsuki.”

“It’s stupid.”

“Hold still.”

He growled, a low rumble deep in his chest, but he didn’t move an inch. He just leaned his head back slightly, locking his red eyes onto yours in a glare that would have terrified a rookie hero, though his jaw relaxed just enough for you to work. You leaned in, gently dragging the balm across his lower lip. The contrast was immediate—his lips were warm, almost dry-burning, taking the slick moisture in instantly. The scent of sweet stone fruit and icy peppermint bloomed into the air between your faces, cutting right through the heavy smell of burnt sugar and ozone.

When you finished, you capped the tube, but before you could step back, his grip on your waist tightened. “Think you’re funny, huh?” he rasped out, his mouth twisting into that slow, dangerous, single-corner smirk.

“Just taking care of my hero.”

“Shut up,” he muttered. He tilted his head, leaning down to capture your lips in a slow, heavy kiss. It wasn’t rushed. It was hot, deliberate, and possessive—the cooling sting of the mint clashing wildly with the intense, radiating furnace of his mouth. When he finally pulled back, just an inch, his thumb brushed against your hipbone. His breath hitched slightly, carrying that fresh mix of cool peppermint, ripe peach, and the undeniable, lingering heat of his Quirk.

“Tastes ridiculous,” he grumbled against your mouth, though his smirk didn’t fade for a second. “Do it again.”