SATSU # SHE/HER. 21. LIMITLESS DARLING !

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minors do not interact. this piece is intended for 18+ audiences.

It had been a long day.

I unlocked my apartment door with my headphones still in, barely noticing how the wind pushed harder than usual against my back — like someone else was walking behind me. Still, I didn’t check. Just kicked off my shoes, tossed my keys in the bowl, and pulled my hoodie off over my head.

My little one-bedroom was quiet. Cozy. Just the way I liked it.

I lit a candle.

Microwaved leftovers.

Showered with my favorite vanilla scrub, wrapped up in a big, fluffy towel, and fell into bed with my phone in one hand and the other scrolling through random posts I’d already seen a hundred times.

But the feeling didn’t leave.

That watched feeling.

It had started a few nights ago — flickering lights, unlocked windows I swore I had shut, and the sound of creaking boards when I was dead still. I chalked it up to nerves. Maybe stress. Maybe ghosts.

But this?

This wasn’t a ghost.

It was a man with white hair, standing in the corner of my room.

No mask. No weapon.

Just a calm smile.

“I was starting to think you’d never look up,” he said softly, head tilted like I was a puzzle he already knew how to solve.

I froze.

Completely.

“What… what the fuck—” I backed up on the bed, reaching for my phone, but it was too late.

He was already there.

Big hands wrapped gently around my wrists, not hard enough to hurt — but strong enough to pin me.

“Don’t scream,” he murmured. “I won’t hurt you. I promise. I’d never hurt you.”

He smelled like clean soap and cologne. His voice was warm. Deep. Familiar.

“I’m not gonna lie to you,” he whispered. “I’ve been watching you for a while now.”

My breath caught in my throat.

“I know what that sounds like,” he added, eyes flicking between mine. “But I’m not here to scare you. I’m here to make you feel.”

I blinked, trying to gather myself, and he took advantage of it. Climbing on top of me — slow, almost reverent — like this was his rite.

“I think about you every night,” he whispered, mouth ghosting over my jaw. “You looked up at me once. Remember? On that rainy Tuesday. You were wearing that little green hoodie, and I knew. I knew.”

I didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

Because even as my brain screamed at me to fight, to run, my body…

My body was betraying me.

My breath hitched when his mouth grazed my throat.

My thighs clenched when his hands slid under the hem of my towel.

“You’re scared,” he said, “but you’re wet.”

I whimpered.

“Shhh,” he soothed, kissing just below my ear. “Let me take care of you.”

Even though I knew it was wrong… even though I should’ve pushed him away…

I gave in. I let it happen. I wanted it.

He started with his hands. Calloused and big, he cupped my thighs, spreading them gently — not to humiliate me, but to worship.

“Pretty little pussy,” he whispered. “You’ve been aching for someone to really see you, huh?”

His tongue licked a slow stripe up my cunt and I sobbed — because he was good. Devastatingly good. He sucked on my clit like it belonged to him. Like he’d practiced. Like he’d dreamed about this moment night after night and had already memorized what I liked before I even knew myself.

My back arched against the sheets, heat blooming from the center of me like a slow-burning fire. “F-Fuck,” I breathed, my voice catching somewhere between a whimper and a gasp.

He didn’t say anything at first — just looked up from between my thighs with that lazy, wrecked smile of his, lips slick, breath warm. His eyes were hooded and heavy, the glow of the moon casting a silver outline across his jaw as he whispered, “Go on, baby…”

His voice dropped, low and coaxing.

“…Let it out. You’re mine now.”

My pulse throbbed in my ears. My thoughts were soft and scattered, like falling petals, too slow to catch, too fast to hold. I writhed beneath his hold, trying to pull back — not to leave, just to breathe — but his arms wrapped around my thighs with a quiet strength that kept me grounded. That kept me his.

I swallowed hard, shaking my head, trying to hold on to something — pride, maybe, or just a thread of control — but it slipped.

It all slipped.

His mouth moved with a devotion that made it impossible to resist. Each kiss, each soft stroke of his tongue was so focused, so knowing, that I nearly came undone just from the sound of his breath syncing with mine.

“Gonna pretend you don’t love this?” he murmured between slow, teasing passes, smiling into me like he already knew the answer. “You always act like such a brat... but right now? You’re so sweet for me.”

I shivered.

My hand shot down on instinct — not to stop him, not really — just to feel. To confirm he was real. That this was real.

“Stay with me,” he whispered. “Right here.”

And I did.

I stayed, even as the tension inside me wound tight like a thread about to snap. Even as the stars blurred behind my eyes. Even as my voice gave out and my fingers curled into the sheets with a soft, aching cry.

He kissed the inside of my thigh once — slow and grounding — as I came down, heart stammering in my chest like it had nowhere else to go but him.

I blinked up at the ceiling, breath caught somewhere between relief and disbelief. My skin was still tingling, my pulse still thudding like a drumbeat between my legs. I didn’t even realize I was trembling until his hand curled softly around my knee, holding me open like I was something sacred.

I was too drunk on it to care that I didn’t even know his name.

But the thought lingered — hazy, lingering on my tongue like the taste of him.

“…Who,” I whispered, the question barely forming, “who are you?”

He looked up at me from between my legs, mouth slick with me, hair a mess of snowy strands falling into his eyes.

And then he smiled.

Not sweet. Not soft. But something wild. Like the ocean pulling back before a wave.

“Gojo Satoru,” he said, licking his lips with a casual, devastating confidence. “You don’t need to remember it, baby.”

His thumb stroked the inside of my thigh, just barely grazing the spot that still ached for him.

“You’ll be moaning it in a minute anyway.”

He kissed me full on the mouth, making me taste myself on his tongue, then tugged his shirt over his head and shoved his pants down just enough to free his cock.

It was thick. Flushed. Veiny.

I barely had time to breathe before he was pressing it against me, hot and heavy.

“No condom?” I breathed, mind already fogged and body trembling.

Gojo leaned in, lips ghosting the shell of my ear as he rutted his hips just enough to make me whimper.

“Don’t need one,” he murmured, voice low and sinful. “You’re mine… or did you forget already?”

Then he slid his entire length in.

I screamed into his neck.

Because nothing — nothing — had ever felt like this.

He bottomed out in one stroke, bullying my walls open with a force that felt more claiming than cruel.

“That’s it, baby,” he grunted, “take it. Take all of me.”

His hips snapped against mine, hands gripping my wrists above my head, pinning me down like a predator.

“You like this, don’t you?” he sneered. “Your whole body’s begging for me.”

I nodded, fucked stupid already.

“You wanna be fucked by the man who’s been watching you sleep?”

He sped up, the bed creaking beneath us.

“You wanna be fucked by the man who’s killed to keep you safe?”

My whole body clenched — not from fear, but from the honesty.

Because deep down… it turned me on.

“That’s right,” he purred, noticing the way I squeezed around him. “You like that I’d do anything for you.”

His hand came up to my throat — not choking, just claiming.

“I’ll fuck a baby into you, sweetheart,” he groaned. “So no one ever questions who you belong to.”

I cried out again, arching off the bed.

“Tell me,” he gasped, nearing the edge. “Tell me who owns you.”

“You!” I sobbed. “You do—fuck, Satoru!”

And that was it.

He came inside with a snarl, hips jerking as he buried every drop in me, cock twitching deep, pressing against my womb.

We lay there after, tangled.

Breathing.

He kissed my temple. Then my cheek. Then the corner of my mouth.

“You’re mine,” he whispered again. “And I’m never leaving.”

I didn’t argue.

Because somewhere deep in my chest…

I didn’t want him to.

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minors do not interact. this piece is intended for 18+ audiences.

The mirror rattled behind me.

Every hard snap of Gojo’s hips shoved me closer to the glass — cheek pressed against it, fog blooming from every ragged breath I couldn’t swallow.

“You’re quiet now,” he growled, hand fisting in my hair to yank my head back. “Where’s that smart fuckin’ mouth, huh?”

I whimpered, not from pain. From the way he was destroying me.

Ten minutes ago, I was mouthing off in the car. Bratty, hangry, annoyed that he dragged me through five different stores looking for Halloween shit. The final straw? Me laughing in his face when he dropped a ghost-shaped candle and muttered something about “ruining the vibes.”

“You done?” he’d asked. Calm.

I rolled my eyes. “You can’t handle me when I’m like this.”

That grin — cocky, calm, full of promise — had curled across his lips like a curse. “Oh, I can handle you, sweetheart.”

Now here I was.

Bent over the bathroom sink. Dress shoved to my waist. Panties long gone. Hair tangled in his fingers. Voice hoarse from moaning.

He didn’t start slow. Gojo never did when I acted like this. He took one look at me, back arched, still sassy, and muttered, “Brat,” before pushing in deep.

And god, it felt so good I almost forgot how to be annoying.

Almost.

I forced a smirk through a moan. “Y-You done yet, or—”

The slap echoed.

My ass stung where his palm had landed, skin blooming with heat.

“You really want to test me right now?” His voice dropped an octave. “You really wanna see what happens when I stop playing nice?”

I bit my lip. “Maybe.”

“God, you’re such a fuckin’ brat.”

His fingers slipped between my thighs, brushing over my swollen clit like a tease before gripping my hip so hard I swore he left marks. He adjusted his angle — deeper, rougher, faster — and the mirror thumped again as I cried out.

“Toru—”

“Yeah?” He sounded wrecked. Wild. Like he could lose it at any second. “Go ahead, baby. Cry it out. Let everyone hear how good I fuck you.”

He reached around and grabbed my throat — not tight, just enough pressure to make the room feel a little floaty. My hands clawed at the edge of the sink as I squeezed around him.

“Too much?” he panted against my neck, hips still drilling up into me like he couldn’t stop.

“Not enough,” I gasped. “Not even close.”

He laughed — dark and low.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

Then, without warning, he pulled out — just long enough to spin me around and lift me up, gripping behind my thighs. I barely had time to gasp before he slammed back in, mid-air, my back pressed to the bathroom wall as my legs wrapped tight around his waist. He groaned against my lips, walking us toward the bedroom like I weighed nothing — his cock still buried deep, thrusting slow and deep with every step.

When we reached the edge of the bed, he threw me down — my body bouncing, legs splayed. He didn’t give me time to think.

Just crawled over me, pinned my wrists above my head, and growled,

“Still got attitude, baby?” he growled, hovering over me, breath hot against my lips. “Let’s fuck that right outta you.”

I smirked, lips parted, chest heaving beneath him. “Big talk for someone who nearly came in his pants back in the elevator.”

His eyes darkened instantly — dangerous and thrilled.

“Eyes on me,” he snapped, one hand tightening around my wrists. The other grabbing my jaw so i looked him in the eyes. “You wanna be a brat? I’ll treat you like one.”

I tried to sass back — I swear I did — but then he pushed in again and I nearly screamed.

Every thrust was brutal — angled just right to make me see stars. His hand gripped my throat again, the other flat beside my head as he fucked me open like he owned me.

“You know what I’m gonna do?” he hissed. “Gonna fuck a baby into this pretty pussy.”

My breath caught.

He grinned.

“Oh, you like that?”

He slowed down — just a little. A punishing roll of his hips that made my toes curl.

“You want me to fill you up?” he purred. “Want me to cum so deep your body doesn’t have a choice but to get pregnant?”

“Toru—” I gasped.

He leaned in close. “Say it.”

“Ngh I— I want it,” I whimpered.

“Want what?”

“Want you to hahh– cum inside. Breed me. Fuck— please—”

That did it.

He growled low — like an animal — and slammed into me, deep and sharp and relentless. The headboard hit the wall. My thighs trembled. He grabbed my legs and folded me in half, pushing even deeper.

“You’re gonna cum,” he growled. “And I’m gonna, mmm– breed you. Gonna make you mine in every fuckin’ way.”

And I did — loud, messy, shaking all over as I clenched around him and soaked his cock.

He wasn’t far behind — hips jerking, moaning my name like a prayer. Then his weight dropped over me, and I felt it — all of it.

The heat. The fullness.

He stayed inside for a long moment — panting, shaky, still grinding slowly like he didn’t want it to end.

Then he looked down at me — flushed, smirking, hair damp and messy.

“You good?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I breathed, brain mush.

“Good,” he said. “Because I’m not done. Gotta make sure it takes.”

click here for more of satsu's kinktober ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖𓉸ִֶָྀི ִֶָ་༘࿐

minors do not interact. this piece is intended for 18+ audiences.

part 1 AND part 2

It wasn’t easy.

You had to wait for him to fall asleep—limbs tangled around you, his face soft in the dark. You’d never seen him look so human.

You almost didn’t do it.

Almost.

But when the first rays of dawn hit the curtains, you slipped free of his arms. Pulled on yesterday’s clothes. Walked barefoot to the door. Your heart thumped so hard it hurt.

You made it all the way down the elevator, out into the crisp morning air. The street was still quiet. You started running before you could change your mind.

You didn’t stop until your lungs burned.

You hid in a cheap hotel. No ID. Paid cash. The curtains stayed drawn tight. You tried to convince yourself you’d won—escaped the god whose hands had memorized every inch of you.

Days passed.

You started to believe it.

Until you opened your eyes in the middle of the night and found him sitting at the edge of your bed.

Watching you.

Your heart stopped.

“You really thought I’d let you go.”

His voice was soft. Too soft.

You tried to scramble back, but he caught your ankle—fingers wrapping tight, unhurried. He tilted his head, studying you like you were something fragile he hadn’t decided how to break.

“You didn’t even leave the city,” he murmured, sounding almost amused. “Do you know how easy it was to find you?”

You were shaking. “Satoru—”

“No.”

His grip tightened.

“You don’t get to say my name right now.”

He let go of your ankle only to lean forward, pressing his palm flat against your chest, shoving you back onto the mattress. You tried to scramble away again—another mistake. He climbed over you, knees bracketing your hips, one hand pinning both your wrists above your head.

“You’re going to listen,” he said, voice low and terrifyingly calm. “And you’re not going to run again.”

You stared up at him, throat dry. The room felt too small, too hot.

“I hate this,” you whispered. “I hate how you look at me.”

“I know,” he said softly. His free hand slipped under your shirt, palm dragging up your stomach, slow and warm. “And I love how you pretend you hate it.”

You gasped as his fingers brushed your breast—took your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, rolling until you arched beneath him.

“S-stop—”

“You think I’m going to let you pretend you don’t want this?” He laughed, quiet and mean. “After everything?”

He let go of your wrists to shove your shirt up, baring your chest to the cool air. You tried to cover yourself—he slapped your hands away, grabbing both in one big palm and pinning them over your head again.

“Look at me,” he ordered.

You tried to look away. He leaned down, mouth brushing your ear.

“Look. At. Me.”

Your gaze met his—blue and endless and furious—and your pulse stuttered.

“You’re mine,” he said. “You were mine the first night you let me touch you. The first time you came on my tongue. The first time you said my name like a prayer.”

His hand slipped between your legs, cupping you through your underwear. You tried to clench your thighs closed—he forced them apart with a growl.

“You’re wet,” he breathed, voice full of dark satisfaction. “Even now.”

His fingers moved—pressing, stroking, unhurried. You bit your lip so hard you tasted blood.

“You want me to stop?” he asked, mouth curving against your cheek. “Say it.”

You didn’t answer.

He pressed harder—rubbed slow, tight circles that made you shake.

“Say it.”

Your breath broke on a whimper.

“I…can’t.”

“Exactly.”

He let go of your hands, only to hook his fingers in your panties and tear them down your legs. In one smooth motion, he was naked, his body lean and pale and too beautiful, and he was pressing you into the mattress with his weight. You tried to brace yourself—he caught both your wrists again and pinned them to the pillow.

“You’re going to remember this,” he murmured. “Every time you think about running.”

You felt the thick heat of him pressing at your entrance—he didn’t ease in this time. He shoved inside with one hard thrust, filling you so deep you cried out. Your hips bucked, and he growled, teeth grazing your throat.

“Stay still.”

He started to move—slow, punishing drives that made your vision blur. Every drag of his cock felt like a reminder, a claim. Your body was too sensitive, too desperate. You hated how much you wanted it.

“Say it,” he panted, thrusts growing faster. “Say you’re mine.”

“Yours,” you gasped, voice ragged. “I’m—fuck—I’m yours.”

He buried himself to the hilt, groaning against your throat.

“That’s right.”

You were close—too close—and he knew it. His free hand slipped down to rub your clit, fast and relentless, and you shattered. Your body clenched around him, back arching as you sobbed his name.

He didn’t stop. He fucked you through it, chasing his own pleasure, hips snapping hard enough to rock the bed.

When he finally came, it was with a low, broken sound, his teeth sinking into your shoulder as he spilled inside you.

You lay there afterward, wrecked and trembling, feeling him soften inside you.

His arms slipped around you then—gathering you in close, pulling you against his chest.

“You’re not leaving again,” he whispered. “I won’t let you.”

You didn’t answer.

But you didn’t try to run.

Not this time.

minors do not interact. this piece is intended for 18+ audiences.

part 1 AND part 3

Your breath came in short, desperate little gasps.

His mouth didn’t slow.

Gojo tasted you like it was something holy — like he was worshipping and consuming you in the same moment. When you tried to twist away, hips jerking in overwhelmed panic, he just pressed one wide palm flat on your belly, pinning you easily.

“Stay,” he murmured against your skin, voice low and bright, like he was laughing at some private joke. “We’re not done yet.”

He sucked — slow, patient — tongue circling your clit until your vision blurred. You felt the wet heat of him everywhere, and your whole body was tight, strung up on the knife’s edge of pleasure and humiliation.

“Please,” you choked out. You didn’t even know what you were begging for.

He pulled back a little — just enough to look up, his hair falling over those too-bright eyes. His lips were slick. His grin, blinding.

“Can’t even finish one round without crying,” he teased, thumb dragging lazily over the mess between your thighs. “And you thought you were gonna leave me? Like this?”

Heat flooded your face.

He leaned up, pressing his body over yours. You felt him — hard, hot, pressing insistently against your thigh through his sweatpants. One hand found your jaw, tilting your face so you couldn’t look away.

“Say it,” he breathed, mouth brushing yours. “Say you belong to me.”

You tried to swallow, but your throat felt tight.

“I—”

His free hand drifted down, slipping between your legs again, two fingers sinking in so easily it made you whimper. Your hips jolted and he groaned into your mouth.

“Say it.”

You shuddered.

“Yours,” you whispered, voice breaking. “I’m… I’m yours.”

His eyes darkened — pupils wide, hunger shining out of them.

“Good.”

He kissed you — slow, claiming, tongue sliding over yours until you melted under him. He tasted like heat and want and something you couldn’t name. When he pulled back, your lips tingled.

“Turn over.”

You blinked, dazed. “What—”

His smile was soft, almost sweet.

“You heard me.”

Your body moved before your brain caught up, rolling onto your stomach. You felt the bed dip as he shifted behind you, the heat of him pressing along your back. His hands slid down your sides, thumbs brushing your waist, palms splaying over your hips to hold you in place.

“This,” he murmured, lips at your ear, “is how I want you. Laid out. Obedient. Ready.”

You felt his cock — hard, thick — pressing between your thighs, and your breath stuttered.

“Satoru—”

“Shh.”

He leaned down, kissed the back of your neck. Once. Twice. Then he sank his teeth in, just hard enough to sting. You gasped, whole body tensing, and he groaned.

“Mine,” he whispered against your skin. “Remember that when you’re tempted to run.”

Your heart was hammering, but it wasn’t fear anymore. Or maybe it was. A different kind of fear — the kind that tasted sweet, that made you ache.

When he finally pushed into you, slow and deliberate, you bit down on the sheets to muffle the cry.

“God—”

“God isn't here,” he growled, voice rough as his hips pressed flush to yours. “ It's just me.”

His pace was unhurried at first. Deep, rolling thrusts that made your legs shake. His hands held your hips so tight you knew you’d see fingerprints.

“You feel that?” he panted, leaning over you, mouth against your shoulder. “This is what you were trying to walk away from.”

You sobbed — wrecked, open, full in a way you couldn’t deny.

His teeth grazed your skin again, and he laughed low in his throat.

“Never happening again, pretty girl,” he whispered. “Next time you think about leaving… remember this.”

And when you came — hips bucking, voice breaking — he fucked you through it, steady and unrelenting, until you were trembling under him.

When he followed, he buried his face in your neck, groaning your name like a prayer.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Just the ragged sound of your breathing, the heavy press of his weight pinning you to the mattress.

Finally, he pulled out and eased you onto your side. You felt the mattress shift as he climbed over you, one arm sliding under your head to draw you in. His other hand found your wrist, thumb brushing over the spot where he’d pinned you.

“You’re staying,” he said softly. Not a question. A fact.

You were too tired to argue.

So you just closed your eyes and let him hold you.

And in the hush that followed, you realized: He wasn’t going to let you go. Not now. Not ever.

minors do not interact. this piece is intended for 18+ audiences.

We stood in line, the buzzing anticipation almost as thick as the October fog settling over the haunted attraction. Bakugo hovered just behind me, close enough to feel the warmth of him at my back, while Kirishima chatted in front of me, his easy smile cutting through the cold night air.

Our group was a tight cluster of five: Kirishima, Bakugo, Tsuyu, Shoji, and me. The staff member at the entrance — dressed like a plague doctor with glowing red eyes — silently took our tickets and waved us through with a gloved hand.

As the first set of rusted gates creaked open, we stepped into Section One: “The Meat Locker.”

It reeked of iron and rot. Fog hissed from vents along the floor, swirling around our ankles as if trying to grab us. Hooks dangled from the ceiling — some holding hunks of fake meat, others swinging ominously. Walls were splattered in what looked like dried blood. Overhead, a radio crackled with static and broken screams. A huge butcher figure lunged out of a corner, fake cleaver raised. I jumped — my body instinctively lifting a few inches off the ground, hair beginning to float from the static of my magic flaring in fear.

Bakugo's palm hovered near my back, but he didn’t touch me. Not yet.

Next was Section Two: “Killer Hospital.”

We stepped through plastic flaps into fluorescent flickering lights. Bloodied stretchers and broken wheelchairs lined the hallway. The walls were stained, and a mechanical heart monitor beeped slowly — until it flatlined. Suddenly, a figure in a bloodied nurse uniform dragged a body bag across the floor.

“You guys okay?” Kirishima asked, voice tight but amused.

“I’m good,” I whispered, forcing my feet back to the ground. My toes barely touched.

Bakugo scoffed, “Tch. This shit ain’t scary.”

But his jaw was clenched — I saw it.

Section Three: “The Clown’s Carnival.”

This one was worse.

Mirrors reflected warped versions of us. The air reeked of candy and smoke. Neon lights blinked in nauseating rhythm. Laughter — distorted and high-pitched — echoed from nowhere. Suddenly, a clown burst through the mirror to our right, and I screamed, my hand shooting out and grabbing the closest arm.

Kirishima.

He froze — just for a second — then laughed loudly as the clown scampered off.

“Damn, that got me too!” he grinned.

I blinked and quickly let go, heart pounding. “Shit— sorry, Kiri—”

Bakugo hadn’t said a word the whole section. Just walked behind me, quiet. Watching.

Section Four: “Barbed Hell.”

Rusty fake barbed wire wound around the floor. Chains clanked and dragged across the foggy ground, making it hard to tell if something was crawling toward us. The space looked like a mix between an abandoned prison and a barn. The haze was thick, nearly blinding. Then —

BRRRRMMMMMMM.

The chainsaw roared to life.

Everyone jumped.

I shrieked, stumbling into Kirishima again, only to immediately float back, heat blooming in my cheeks. My Quirk flared again — faint blue glow at my fingertips, hair lifting gently, anxiety manifesting like a rising storm.

“Sorry, sorry—fuck, sorry.”

Kiri just laughed again, trying to play it off. “Don’t worry about it. This place is brutal.”

But Bakugo?

He didn’t laugh.

We made it through the rest of the sections:

A possessed dollhouse where puppets turned their heads all at once.

A morgue where the corpses jolted upward from the drawers.

And finally, a haunted chapel with flickering candles and a whispering choir track that made my skin crawl.

By the time we stepped out into the night, I was buzzing with nervous energy. My shoes tapped softly against the pavement as we made our way toward the parking lot.

Tsuyu and Shoji hung back to grab snacks from the booth. Kirishima got pulled aside by someone he recognized. Which left me and Bakugo — alone.

I was still catching my breath, rubbing my arms. But before I could say anything, Bakugo stepped closer. Close enough to corner me between his body and a tall privacy fence behind the attraction.

His voice dropped, low and dark:

“Next time you grab someone…”

His palm settled flat on the wall next to my head.

“…make sure it’s the guy you’re fuckin’.”

My lips parted, breath catching.

“I—Katsuki—”

He leaned in more, eyes gleaming like twin sparks.

“You think I didn’t see that?” His jaw twitched. “You floatin’ over to fuckin’ Kirishima like he’s your safety blanket.”

“It was instinct, I didn’t—”

“I don’t give a damn what it was,” he growled, voice thick. “Next time something scares you, you hold on to me. You hear me?”

My heart thudded. Loud. Loud enough he could probably hear it too.

“…Yeah,” I said softly.

He stared a moment longer, then scoffed — but his gaze dipped down. Not angry anymore. Something else.

His fingers brushed a strand of floating hair away from my face. “You really levitated, huh?”

“I didn’t mean to,” I mumbled, flushed.

“Tch. Cute.”

Then he grabbed my hand — rough but warm — and tugged me toward the car.

“You’re ridin’ with me.”

click here for more of satsu's kinktober ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖𓉸ִֶָྀི ִֶָ་༘࿐

minors do not interact. this piece is intended for 18+ audiences.

The soft hum of string instruments and the gentle clink of champagne glasses filled the air, the upscale venue draped in twilight hues and sparkling chandeliers. Gojo Satoru stood tall and lazy beside me, the sharp cut of his tailored suit draped over a body I knew far too well — crisp collar open just enough to tease the base of his throat, snowy white hair pushed back like he hadn’t even tried.

But I knew better. He always tried. Especially when I was on his arm.

He held his drink loosely in one hand, the other settled on the small of my back like a brand. Occasionally, it dipped lower — subtle at first. But the longer the older sorcerer beside him spoke about some upcoming international summit, the more brazen Gojo’s hand became.

I was two cocktails in already, the warmth of alcohol licking beneath my skin like silk. My dress — a deep wine-red satin piece with a thigh slit and barely-there straps — felt more revealing under his hand. When his palm fully cupped my ass, hard and unapologetic, I downed the rest of my drink without a word.

Then I shook the empty glass slightly, a silent cue.

Gojo didn’t speak. Just nodded once. But his hand didn’t move.

I stepped away, walking across the sleek ballroom to the bar, fully aware of the heat crawling up the back of my neck from his stare. My heels clicked like temptation, my hips swaying just enough to be intentional.

“Shot of tequila. And a Bay Breeze, please,” I murmured to the bartender, setting my clutch on the counter.

The bitter shot burned down my throat like punishment. The sweet cocktail followed, softening the edge.

Then I felt it — the pressure of a warm hand sliding up my spine. I turned.

“Hey, princess,” Gojo grinned, eyes dark behind his pale lashes. “Once you’re done with that, wanna get outta here?”

I nodded, sipping faster. His palm smoothed over my back, thumb dragging a lazy, possessive line across my spine.

We didn’t speak again until we stepped into the elevator of our apartment building — away from the eyes of sorcerers and strangers.

The doors slid shut with a gentle chime.

And Gojo moved.

His lips were on mine instantly — hot, hungry, tongue sweeping in to claim me. One hand wrapped around the back of my neck, guiding me into the mirrored wall like I belonged there. The cool glass pressed against my chest, and his body caged me in.

I gasped into his mouth when I felt it — the thick press of his cock, straining through his dress pants, rubbing hard against my ass.

My hips shifted back instinctively — a slow, teasing grind.

Gojo growled against my lips.

“Keep rubbing that pretty little ass on me,” he muttered, voice low and strained, “and I swear I’ll finish in my pants before we hit the 10th floor.”

He bit at my lower lip — not hard, but enough to make me moan — then tugged it gently before licking over the sting.

“God, you’re such a brat,” he whispered, breath hot in my ear. “Showing up in that dress. Acting like you don’t know what it does to me.”

His hands were everywhere now — one gripping my waist, the other smoothing down the curve of my thigh, sliding the fabric of my dress higher as he rocked into me. My cocktail buzz had bloomed into a pulse between my legs, my panties already damp and clinging to me with every rut of his hips.

“I can feel how warm you are,” he groaned, teeth grazing my earlobe. “You want me to fuck you right here, don’t you?”

I gasped as his hand slid beneath the hem of my dress, cupping me through soaked lace. My hips jerked — needing more, wanting it all.

Gojo chuckled darkly, breathless.

“Look at you,” he murmured, kissing the side of my neck. “Ruined already. And I’m not even inside yet.”

The elevator dinged.

“10th floor,” he said, that cocky grin curling back on his lips. “Saved by the bell.”

But he didn’t move away.

No — he pulled me closer, lips brushing the shell of my ear.

“We’re not done.”

And I knew, deep in my core, that he meant it.

click here for more of satsu's kinktober ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖𓉸ִֶָྀི ִֶָ་༘࿐

fifteen nights of temptation — silk over his eyes, fire under his touch.

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 dry humpin' ༝༚ g.s.

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 jealousy ༝༚ b.k.

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 brat taming ༝༚ g.s.

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 obsession ༝༚ g.s.

author note: sorry that I have been gone for so long! I'm in the military and sometimes go to places with really bad wifi so it can become hard to post. but with all that time I have plenty of stuff ready for you guys! thanks for all the love and patience!

bakugo katsuki x reader

You hadn’t said a word in twenty minutes. Not since you came home, threw your bag down, and flopped face-first into the couch.

Bakugo watched you from the kitchen — chewing his lip, arms crossed. He hated not knowing what to say.

Hated seeing you look so small.

So instead of talking, he did the only thing he could think of.

He opened the cabinet, grabbed the one thing he knew you never turned down, and walked over.

You heard the crinkle of the bag before you even looked up.

“Here,” he muttered, holding it out without making eye contact. “Just… eat somethin’.”

You blinked at the chips in his hand. Then up at him.

He was staring hard at the wall like it owed him money.

You took the bag — quietly, carefully — and opened it.

Crunch.

Still silence.

Crunch.

Then… a soft laugh slipped from your nose.

Bakugo’s gaze flicked toward you immediately. His jaw eased.

“Tch. Finally.”

You smiled a little wider, chip still halfway to your mouth.

“You’re terrible at this.”

He rolled his eyes and sat down next to you — close enough to touch.

“Yeah, well. I’m tryna learn, alright?”

You leaned into him just a little.

“You’re doing okay.”

He didn’t say anything.

But he didn’t move away, either.

bakugo katsuki x reader

The sidewalk was cracked in places — just like Bakugo’s mood.

You were a few paces ahead of him, walking fast, arms swinging, a skip in your step like the late afternoon sun had personally charged your battery.

Bakugo lagged behind with his hands in his pockets, jaw tight, hood up, scowl deeper than usual.

“Why the hell are you speed-walking?” he grumbled. “This ain’t a damn race.”

You didn’t slow down. “Maybe if you kept up for once, old man!”

He huffed. Loudly. Dramatically. Then stopped walking altogether.

You noticed a beat later, turning around mid-step. “What now?”

Bakugo didn’t answer at first. Just stood there, eyes half-lidded, lips pressed into a flat line.

“You’re annoying,” he muttered.

You blinked, confused. “Okay? And?”

He stalked forward — slow, steady, all heat and quiet frustration. You thought maybe he was about to scold you again.

Instead, he grabbed your sleeve.

Not your hand. Your sleeve.

A soft tug. Subtle. Like he didn’t want to admit he was the one who moved closer.

Your breath caught, but you didn’t say anything.

So he did.

“Stay close, dumbass.”

You didn’t reply — just bit your lip and looked away, smiling like an idiot.

And if his hand stayed there — fingers curled around the cuff of your hoodie the whole walk home — neither of you brought it up.

Not even once.

yandere!gojo gets extra mean when he’s jealous — but don’t worry, he kisses it better after. sry I've been stuck in a yandere x reader mood! hope you enjoyed the chaos, sweetness ♡ reblogs and screams in the tags are always welcome.

gojo satoru x reader

minors do not interact. this piece is intended for 18+ audiences. contains the following: yandere behavior, hand-tying (with a blindfold), oral (fem receiving), rough possessive language, overstimulation, mild threat kink, praise kink, soft aftercare.

It started as a joke.

You were curled up on the couch beside him, laughing about your day, sipping wine, legs draped across his lap. He was loose-limbed and quiet, eyes half-lidded, lips curled into a lazy smile.

“He’s actually really sweet,” you said. “Like… surprisingly nice. Not weird or flirty. Just normal. Which is rare at work.”

Gojo’s fingers stilled on your calf.

You didn’t notice.

“He brought me a coffee this morning,” you added. “Exactly how I like it. No cream.”

He hummed — not a happy sound.

You blinked. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said, brushing his thumb over your ankle. “Just… wondering how he knows how you like your coffee.”

You shrugged. “I talk about it all the time. Probably overheard.”

His jaw flexed.

“Did you thank him?”

“Well… yeah?”

Gojo didn’t respond. Just leaned back, silent. Thoughtful.

You didn’t realize the shift until later.

You woke up to soft sheets and quiet tension. Hands above your head. Tied — not tightly, but firm enough. Gojo’s silk blindfold wrapped around your wrists.

“Satoru?”

He didn’t answer right away.

You felt him before you saw him — warm breath at your neck, one knee pushing between your thighs, bare skin pressing into yours.

“Was he sweet like this?” he murmured against your collarbone. “Did he make you feel special?”

You squirmed. “What—”

“I’ve let you off easy,” he whispered, tongue grazing your pulse. “Let you laugh, let you talk. But you don’t get to smile about other men. You don’t get to call them sweet.”

His hand slid between your legs — warm, confident, claiming.

“That’s mine.”

You whimpered as his fingers teased your slit, already soaked. He chuckled darkly.

“You say one thing,” he said, biting your earlobe, “but your body says another.”

“I wasn’t flirting—”

“I know.” His voice dipped, almost gentle. “But he thought about it. Bet he imagined what you sound like when you come.”

You tried to pull your hands free — instinct — but the blindfold held firm.

“Shh,” he murmured. “You don’t need those.”

Then his mouth was on you.

Hot. Wet. Starving.

He spread your thighs wide, tongue dragging through your folds, groaning like the taste alone was enough to anchor him.

“You don’t even get it,” he panted between licks. “You don’t see how good you are. How fuckin’ lucky I am.”

You gasped, hips rising.

He gripped your thighs tighter.

“No. Stay still.”

His tongue circled your clit, slow and intentional, then sucked — just once, hard enough to make you cry out.

“He’ll never see you like this,” Gojo growled. “Never get to hear these sounds. Never get this messy for him.”

Your orgasm hit like a wave, legs shaking, breath hitching as he kept licking through it.

He let you come down, slowly, gently. Pressed kisses up your stomach, over your breasts, to your throat.

You couldn’t see him. Could only feel the weight of his stare.

“Only I get this,” he whispered. “Say it.”

“Only you,” you breathed. “Only you.”

He kissed your lips then — deep and slow, like the fury had drained and left only reverence.

“Good girl.”

Later, your hands freed, you curled into his chest. His fingers ran through your hair, light and soothing.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “I just… don’t like sharing.”

You smiled against his skin. “You never have.”

“You’re mine,” he whispered again. “That won’t change.”

werewolf!bakugo is the kind of beast who doesn’t just take — he claims. oral, knotting, marking, possessive af energy. hope you enjoyed the chaos, sweetness ♡ reblogs and screams in the tags are always welcome.

bakugo katsuki x reader

minors do not interact. this piece is intended for 18+ audiences. contains the following: non-human (werewolf) smut, aggressive behavior, rough sex, knotting, oral (fem receiving), possessive language, threat kink, marking, predator/prey dynamics, slight dubcon vibes, minor clothing destruction.

The woods were quiet. Too quiet.

No birdsong. No wind. Just the heavy press of fog curling through the trees, thick enough to choke on. You’d tracked the creature for days — claw marks too large to be bear, snarls that echoed past midnight, livestock torn apart in seconds. Whatever it was, it didn’t just kill. It hunted.

And now… so were you.

Silver-tipped bolts. Moon-oil traps. Knife strapped to your thigh.

You were ready.

Until a voice snapped the air behind you like a wire pulled tight.

“You’re a long fuckin’ way from home, sweetheart.”

You spun, arrow drawn — but too late.

A blur of muscle, heat, and red eyes slammed into you, knocking the bow from your hands. You hit the ground hard, breath gone, the weight of something inhuman pressing you into the dirt.

Claws. Fangs. Broad shoulders and wild ash-blond hair.

You’d expected a beast.

But he was also… a man.

Sort of.

His grin was all fang and cruelty. Blood still wet on his jaw. His bare chest heaved above you, warm and streaked with dirt, his pants low on his hips, claws twitching at his sides.

“Another hunter,” he growled. “How cute.”

You kicked. He caught your ankle in one hand — tight.

“Feisty,” he muttered, dragging your leg higher. “Too bad you smell like fear. That ruins the taste.”

“You’re the one that’s gonna be dead,” you hissed, grabbing your dagger.

He slapped it away with a snarl. “No weapons. Not anymore.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs. “Just fucking kill me then.”

He laughed — dark, low, teeth flashing. “Kill you?”

He leaned down, nose brushing your cheek, inhaling deep.

“Nah,” he rasped. “You smell like mine.”

You froze.

“Don’t play dumb,” he snarled. “You came out here lookin’ to die or get fucked. Which is it?”

Your lips parted — to scream, to curse, you didn’t know — but then his mouth was on yours. Hot, rough, consuming.Tongue forcing past your lips like he had every right to it.

You bit him.

He growled, bit back — hard enough to draw blood.

“I like you,” he snarled. “I’m gonna ruin you.”

He yanked you up like you weighed nothing, pressing you to a tree. Bark scraped your back, but all you could focus on was the heat of him, the way his hands tore at your clothes with no patience, just raw need.

“Gonna mark you,” he growled. “Right fuckin’ here.”

His claws dragged down your thighs, leaving red streaks that burned. Your pants were gone in seconds. He shoved his nose between your legs and moaned.

“Fuck, you're already wet.”

You hated the way your hips twitched. The way your body betrayed you.

He noticed.

“Thought you came out here to kill me,” he sneered, dragging a claw up your inner thigh. “You sure don’t smell like it now.”

Then his mouth was on you — hot, fast, tongue lapping like a beast starved. He groaned against your cunt, buried his face deeper, arms locking around your thighs as you writhed.

“Stay still,” he snarled, voice muffled. “Wanna taste every fuckin’ drop.”

You cried out, legs trembling, grinding against him before you could stop yourself.

“That’s it,” he grunted, licking up your slick. “Give it up. Gimme what’s mine.”

You came hard, head thrown back, whimpering into the trees.

But he wasn’t done.

He stood, undoing his pants, cock thick and leaking — twitching with need.

“I ain’t gentle,” he growled, pressing the tip to your entrance. “You want soft, go find a human.”

Then he slammed in.

You screamed — from the stretch, from the burn, from the size.

He didn’t give you time to adjust. Didn’t want to. His hips pistoned into yours like a beast claiming a mate, hands gripping your waist so tight you’d bruise.

“You feel that?” he panted. “That’s mine. My cock. My fuckin’ cunt. Say it.”

You moaned, nails digging into his shoulders.

“Say it, or I’ll knot you right here in the dirt.”

“Yours—fuck—yours!”

He snarled, burying himself deeper. “That’s right. Gonna fill you up. Gonna leave you leaking and marked and mine.”

You came again — hard, crying out, body convulsing around him.

And when he came? It was with a roar, claws digging into the tree behind you, knot swelling as he locked himself deep inside your soaked heat.

You sobbed — overwhelmed, trembling.

He stayed there, panting, eyes wild and red as he licked sweat from your throat.

“You’re not leaving this forest,” he said softly.

“Why?”

“Because now…” he whispered, nose pressed to your pulse, lips curled into a grin. “…you belong to the fucking beast.”

i wanted this to feel like healing and hunger at the same time — soft praise, quiet obsession, and the kind of love that worships stretch marks and leaking skin. to anyone who’s ever felt unseen after giving everything: this one’s for you ♡

gojo satoru x reader

minors do not interact. this piece is intended for 18+ audiences. contains the following: postpartum body discussion, lactation kink, oral (fem receiving), soft obsession/yandere undertones, extreme tenderness, possessive praise, emotional vulnerability, and light breeding talk.

The baby is finally asleep.

Swaddled tight in his bassinet, little sighs puffing from his nose. One hand peeking out, tiny fingers twitching in dreamland.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, you sit down. A soft blanket draped over your lap. Shirt still unbuttoned from the last feed. Your body aches — warm and sore, stretched and softened in places you’re still learning to accept.

The apartment is quiet.

Until you hear the soft pad of bare feet and the quiet click of the bathroom door opening. Gojo steps out, shirtless, damp towel slung around his neck, hair dripping in soft silver waves. He smells like soap and warmth and everything safe. But the look in his eyes?

Starving.

He sees you — shirt rumpled, breast slightly exposed, stretch marks tracing your hips, belly still swollen and tender — and stops cold in the doorway. His expression shifts, like something in his chest just cracked open.

“...You’re fucking stunning.”

You scoff under your breath, self-conscious. “I haven’t even showered. I smell like spit-up and milk. My hair—”

“Stop.”

His voice cuts through, low and rough — like it hurts him to hear you speak that way about yourself.

He walks over slow. Like you’re sacred. Like he’s afraid to touch something so breakable.

Then he kneels in front of you, both hands coming to rest gently on your thighs, warm and grounding. His thumbs rub slow, reverent circles into your skin.

“Do you even know what you’ve done?” he whispers, looking up at you like you hung the damn stars. “You made our son. With your body. You carried him, fed him, loved him. Every single part of you right now—” his palm smooths over your belly, still soft, still healing “—is the most beautiful fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”

Your throat tightens. You blink hard, trying not to cry.

“You’re gonna make me cry,” you whisper.

He smiles. Kisses your forehead, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth.

“I already did,” he murmurs. “You should’ve seen me holding him in the hospital. I was a wreck.”

You laugh softly, burying your face in his damp hair as he leans in.

But when his lips trail lower—down your neck, across your collarbone, brushing the swell of your breast—you feel it. That familiar ache. That low, pulsing need you’ve ignored for weeks.

His hand slides under the blanket, up your belly. His thumb grazes under the curve of your breast, then stills.

“You’re leaking,” he whispers, gaze fixed on the tiny droplet forming at your nipple.

Your breath catches.

“I should go pump—”

“No,” he says, voice husky. “Don’t move.”

“Toru—what are you—”

“Let me.”

Before you can argue, his lips wrap around your nipple. Tongue warm, mouth soft and full. He licks the droplet away, then sucks — gentle, slow, reverent.

A gasp escapes you.

The stimulation is instant — not just physical, but deep, like something in you that’s been aching finally gives way. You whimper, thighs twitching beneath the blanket as he nurses with slow, deliberate care. Not for milk — but for you.

“Still so sensitive,” he murmurs, switching sides. “You were made for this. Look at you. Feeding our baby… and still tasting so sweet.”

Your fingers thread into his hair, the other hand gripping the edge of the blanket. Your whole body trembles, not from exhaustion this time — from the low burn of pleasure spreading under your skin.

“I’ve missed you,” you whisper.

He looks up, lips wet, pupils dark.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you,” he replies. “Every night you held him, every time you fell asleep in that rocking chair—I wanted you so bad I couldn’t fucking breathe.”

He rises slowly and lifts you like you weigh nothing.

“Toru—wait—”

“I know,” he murmurs. “You’re healing. I’m not gonna rush you.”

He lays you down gently, blanket falling away. Presses soft, patient kisses to your thighs. His mouth trails lower, until his tongue grazes your skin with aching tenderness.

“I just wanna love you,” he breathes. “Every inch. Every part. Nothing rough. Just this.”

Then he devours you — slow, deep, worshipful.

His hands grip your hips but never hold tight. His tongue moves with precision and reverence, drawing soft cries from your lips and tremors from your thighs. You try to stay quiet — the baby — but it’s no use. He’s too good. He always is.

When you come, it’s with a sobbed-out breath, your fingers curled into his hair, your chest shaking with relief.

He kisses your inner thigh, then crawls up beside you and gathers you into his arms.

One hand finds your breast again. His thumb gently strokes another tiny stream of milk.

“You’re gonna hate me for saying this,” he mutters, kissing the corner of your mouth.

“What now?”

He grins.

“…I already wanna knock you up again.”

You swat his shoulder. “Satoru—”

“I’m serious,” he hums against your neck. “I wanna fill you again. Watch you grow. Glow. Leak. Carry.”

“You’re absolutely insane.”

“Nah. I’m just in love,” he says. “Obsessed. And never getting over this body.”

He glances at the bassinet, where your son sighs in his sleep.

“We made him. With this.” His hand slides down to stroke your belly. “So yeah… I want more. As many as you’ll give me.”

You sigh, still catching your breath, still glowing from his touch.

“…Give me at least six months.”

His eyes gleam, wicked.

“Deal. But I’m not pulling out once.”

bakugo katsuki x reader

minors do not interact. this piece is intended for 18+ audiences. contains the following: explicit sexual content, collar kink, possessive yandere behavior, dominance/submission, oral (fem receiving), face-fucking, light choking, manhandling, control themes, and emotional intensity

It sat neatly on the dresser. A black leather choker — soft, minimal, sleek. At its center hung a tiny matte grenade charm. His.

You didn’t touch it when you saw it. Just stared. Part of you thought he was joking. Some twisted, clingy little joke masked behind that sharp mouth and even sharper hands.

But then he said it — dead serious.

“Wear it.”

You looked up, halfway through brushing your hair. “What?”

He leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. Shirtless, sweat still glistening on his chest from the gym. “The collar. Put it on.”

“Bakugo…”

His jaw ticked. “I’m not askin’ twice.”

You tried to brush it off with a scoff. “Come on, it’s a little much. I’m not walking around with a collar like I’m—”

“So they know you’re taken.”

His voice dropped. Low. Dangerous. He pushed off the doorframe and walked toward you — slow, steady, like a fuse hissing just before detonation.

“You’re mine,” he said. “That’s what it means. It’s not just a fuckin’ accessory.”

You swallowed. “Katsuki…”

But he was already behind you. His hand reached down to the dresser, fingers closing around the collar. You watched him in the mirror — the way his eyes narrowed, the way he pulled your hair aside and pressed the cool leather to your neck.

“You don’t wanna wear it?” he murmured. “Fine.”

He turned you around, shoved the brush out of your hand, and pushed you back toward the bed. You stumbled, caught yourself, and looked up to see him stripping off his sweats like you’d challenged him to a fight.

“I’ll remind you why you fuckin’ should.”

You barely had time to speak before he was on you — hands on your thighs, dragging you to the edge of the mattress. He pushed your legs apart, knelt down between them, and yanked your panties to the side like they offended him.

His mouth was on you fast — hot tongue, messy pressure, groaning like you were the only thing he wanted in the goddamn world. Your hands flew to his hair, fingers tangling in the strands as you gasped and writhed beneath him.

“Katsu—” you whined. “Oh my god—”

“Not god,” he muttered against you. “Me.”

You cried out when he slid two fingers inside you — rough, fast, curling them until your back arched and your thighs trembled. He didn’t stop. Didn’t slow down. When you came, he kept going — dragging it out until your legs twitched and your breath caught in your throat.

Then he was standing. Undoing his boxers. His cock was already hard, flushed, veins prominent and leaking at the tip. He didn’t stroke it — just looked down at you with something wild in his eyes.

“On your knees.”

You obeyed — breathless, body shaking, too worked up to think.

“Hands behind your back.”

You did.

“Mouth open.”

You opened it.

And when he slid his cock in — slow, deliberate, groaning as your lips wrapped around him — he grabbed the collar from the bed and looped it around your neck.

He buckled it while he was still inside your mouth.

“There,” he growled. “Now you’re mine. Like you fuckin’ should be.”

You moaned around him, eyes wet, throat full — and that just made him grin.

He didn’t pull out. Just tightened his grip on your hair and started moving — rough thrusts, deep and fast and greedy. He groaned when you gagged, when tears welled in your eyes, when you looked up at him helplessly, ruined.

“You shoulda worn it,” he panted. “Coulda been gentle.”

Later — after he bent you over the mattress and took you from behind, hand around your throat, collar clinking against your skin with every thrust — he pulled you into his lap.

You sat there, sweaty, dazed, still shaking.

He kissed your shoulder.

“Keep it on,” he murmured, voice suddenly soft. “Looks good on you.”

jealous!bakugo hits like a truck and i regret nothing 😌 i needed him feral, possessive, and just soft enough at the edges to make it hurt good. hope you enjoyed the chaos, sweetness ♡ reblogs and screams in the tags are always welcome.

bakugo katsuki x reader

minors do not interact. this piece is intended for 18+ audiences. contains the following: rough, possessive sex, dominant behavior, jealousy, yandere undertones, light restraint, name-calling, and some bruising-level grip

You knew he saw it.

The way that guy smiled at you in the parking lot — slow, testing, lingering just a little too long. You hadn’t even smiled back, just laughed nervously, muttered something about your boyfriend, and turned away.

But Bakugo had seen it.

He hadn’t said a word the entire ride home. Eyes straight ahead. One hand gripping the wheel, knuckles white. The air in the car had been thick with tension — heavy, sparking, like the silence before a thunderclap.

Now you were inside, door barely closed, when he finally spoke.

"Upstairs. Now."

You blinked, halfway through taking off your shoes. “Kats—”

“I said now.”

You followed him without a word, stomach fluttering, heart pounding. You could feel it — something dangerous rolling off of him in waves. Not rage. Not yet.

But something close.

He shut the bedroom door behind you and turned to face you slowly.

"You think that shit's funny?" he asked, voice low, almost calm.

“What—”

“That asshole. The way he looked at you.” His eyes narrowed. “You liked that?”

“No,” you said quickly. “I didn’t even flirt back—”

“That ain’t the fuckin’ point.”

He stepped forward. You stepped back. A mistake. He followed you until your back hit the dresser, until his hands were braced on either side of your waist.

“I don’t like when people look at what’s mine,” he said. “And I really don’t like when you don’t shut it down fast enough.”

“Katsuki—”

He cut you off by grabbing your face — not harsh, but firm. Fingers pressing into your cheeks, eyes locked on yours like he could burn the truth out of you.

“You mine or not?”

You hesitated — breath caught in your throat.

Bad move.

He scoffed and let go of your face only to grab at your clothes — shirt over your head, pants yanked down quick and rough, panties barely surviving. His mouth was on you in seconds — biting kisses against your throat, teeth dragging, lips bruising.

"Get on the bed."

You scrambled back, chest heaving, legs shaking as you climbed onto the mattress. He was on you before you could settle — large hands gripping your thighs, pushing them apart with no patience at all.

His mouth found your chest first — messy kisses, rough hands palming your skin, fingers rolling your nipples until you gasped.

“Say it,” he growled against your skin.

You shook your head, breathless, defiant just to test him. His eyes darkened.

"Say. It."

His fingers slid down your stomach, between your thighs, finding you soaked and needy and not hiding it well.

"Yeah," he muttered, smirking. “That’s what I thought.”

He slipped two fingers in without warning, rough and deep. Your back arched, a sharp cry leaving your lips as he curled them just right.

"Who's makin’ you feel like this, huh?"

"Y-You—"

He moved faster. “Louder.”

"You!"

“That’s right,” he growled, mouth ghosting over yours. “Me. No one else. You so much as smile at another bastard like that again—”

"I didn’t—ah—mean to—"

He pressed his forehead against yours, sweat beading at his brow, chest rising fast.

"You’re mine," he said again, slower this time. “You don’t look at them. You don’t let them look at you. You look at me.”

Then he was inside you.

No warning, no prep — just one sharp, needy thrust that made your eyes roll back. He didn’t stop. Didn’t pause. Just moved — rough, desperate, hips snapping into yours like he couldn’t get deep enough.

You clawed at his back, at the sheets, at anything to ground yourself, but he gave you nothing but his body and his voice and the sharp slap of skin on skin.

“You feel that?” he gritted out. “That’s what’s gonna be stuck in you for days.”

“Katsuki—”

"Say it again."

You were crying now — overwhelmed, full, overstimulated.

“Yours. I’m yours. Katsuki, please—”

He groaned — low, guttural — and shoved himself deeper.

“Good girl.”

And when you came — thighs shaking, voice wrecked — he held you down, forehead against your collarbone, whispering it again and again like a prayer he refused to forget:

“Mine. Mine. Mine.”

I wanted to write something that felt like a slow unravel — soft words, sharp intentions, and Gojo being terrifyingly calm in the way only he can be. just a lil treat for the yandere girlies ♡ hope it ruins you in the best way. mlist

PART 2 and PART 3

gojo satoru x reader

minors do not interact. this piece is intended for 18+ audiences.

The floor was cold beneath your bare feet as you tiptoed across the suite.

Gojo’s apartment was too clean — pristine white walls, muted city lights pouring through wide windows, and expensive silence that made your breath feel too loud. Your dress from the night before was clutched in one hand, wrinkled and still smelling faintly like sweat and cologne. You hadn’t even put your shoes back on yet.

He was still in bed, you were sure of it. He’d been wrapped in those dark gray sheets when you slid out, dead silent. You hadn’t dared to glance back.

Until now.

“Y’know,” a voice drawled behind you — slow, amused, terrifyingly awake. “If you really wanted to leave quietly, you probably shouldn’t have stolen my shirt.”

You froze mid-step, breath caught like prey in a trap.

He was sitting up now. Hair messier than before. One long arm braced behind him, the other pushing the sheets off his bare torso. His blindfold was gone, tossed somewhere on the nightstand, and his icy blue eyes caught the dim light like sharpened crystal.

You swallowed.

“It was cold,” you offered, lamely.

“Oh, totally,” he said, voice light and sarcastic. “That’s why you’re sneaking out like you killed somebody.”

You turned slowly. “I didn’t think you'd care—”

Gojo laughed. Not loud — just sharp, like a knife sliding across glass.

“You didn’t think I’d care?” he repeated. “Sweetheart… I’ve had your name circling my brain since the second you touched me.”

He stood, bare feet whispering across the hardwood as he stalked toward you — tall, loose-limbed, terrifyingly calm.

You backed up.

Bad idea.

He moved faster, one hand pressing against the wall just beside your head, caging you without even touching you.

“That’s mine,” he said softly, flicking the hem of the shirt you were wearing. His shirt — white, oversized, the one that hung just a little too low on you and hit just high enough on your thighs to drive him insane.

“You mean the shirt?”

His head tilted. “I mean you.”

You went quiet, breath shaky. “We hooked up once.”

“So?” Gojo smiled, slow and bright — but his eyes didn’t match. They burned. “You don’t do that with someone like me and leave. That’s not how this works.”

You opened your mouth, maybe to argue. But the words died on your tongue the second his fingers hooked under the shirt’s hem and pushed up — slow, deliberate, warm palms skating along the skin of your thighs.

“W-Wait—” You shifted, but he just stepped closer, pressing the full heat of his body into yours.

“Don’t run,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear now. “You’ll only make me chase you. And you won’t like how that ends.”

Your breath hitched. His fingers kept moving — slipping higher, thumbs brushing over the crease of your hips, teeth grazing the shell of your ear.

“I liked seeing you in my shirt,” he said softly. “But I like you better out of it.”

You shivered.

Then he tugged — not gently. The shirt lifted over your head, arms caught for a moment before he pulled it free and tossed it aside. You were bare beneath, breathless and pressed against the wall like you didn’t know what to say.

“Pretty little thing,” Gojo murmured, fingers trailing over your bare stomach. “You really thought you could disappear from me? After the way you moaned my name last night?”

You blushed — visibly. It made his eyes darken.

He kissed you. Rough, breath-stealing, like he was trying to taste every sound you’d ever made. You clutched at his shoulders — and it hit you all over again just how strong he was. How fast he could crush you. But he didn’t.

Not yet.

“Bed,” he said. “Now.”

He didn’t yell — didn’t need to. You obeyed without thinking, legs shaky as you moved. He followed like a storm.

The sheets were still warm when he pushed you down, straddling you easily. His hands roamed — over your breasts, down your sides, fingers memorizing every inch like he’d been given a test on it.

“You looked so cute sneaking out,” he murmured, lips grazing your skin as he moved lower. “But you’re not going anywhere now. You hear me?”

You nodded — breathless, wrecked, unsure if it was fear or desire curling low in your stomach.

Maybe both.

He kissed the inside of your thigh, slow and lingering, before glancing up with those impossible blue eyes.

“I’m gonna remind you exactly who you belong to.”

And when he finally lowered his mouth to you — all heat, tongue, and expert cruelty — you forgot your own name.

But you remembered his.

Over and over and over again.