really, you didn’t!!! the plan was simple: try on the lingerie set you panic‑bought for your first ever tinder date this weekend, snap a quick photo of the lacy orange set in the mirror, and send it to mina for her honest opinion. easy.
except you weren't paying much attention. and now your phone screen is staring back at you in horror: Message sent to: Katsuki Bakugou.
you swear your heart might have actually stopped. The phone almost drops as you scramble to type WRONG CHAT before he can even open it, but the three little dots appear instantly. of course he saw it. bakugou’s annoyingly fast like that.
the call comes through 30 seconds later.
“you fucking serious right now?” his voice is low, rough, carrying that familiar mix of irritation and something else you haven't heard before.
you squeeze your eyes shut, pressing the phone to your ear. “imsosorry. it wasn’t for you, katsuki. I swear I was sending it to mina.”
“yeah, no shit?” he scoffs, but there’s a pause on the other end, long enough that you feel heat creeping all the way up your neck. “the hell you sendin’ her pictures like that for anyway?”
you freeze. “because she’s my friend? because i wanted an opinion?”
his exhale is sharp, static buzzing in your ear. “you’re wearin’ that for a date?”
you swallow, throat feeling strangely dry. “yeah. why?”
another beat of silence. and then, lower, almost like it slips out of him on accident. “he doesn’t deserve that.”
your stomach flips. bakugou never says things like that. not to you, at least. he’s your best friend, your anchor, the one who’s been around since forever. you try to laugh it off, shaky and thin. “it’s just lingerie, katsuki.”
“‘just lingerie,’ my ass.” his voice drops even further, rasping now, deliberate, pulling the words slow. “don’t go wearin’ shit like that for some random extra. he won't even know what to do .”
your chest tightens. the warmth in his tone makes you bite your lip without thinking. “and you would?”
there’s a pause. a faint chuckle. “don’t know. maybe.” his voice is low, teasing now, and you can almost feel him leaning closer.
your breath catches. you don’t answer for a minute. you can’t. because suddenly you’re replaying the picture in your head—except it’s not some faceless tinder dude seeing you in it anymore. it’s him. "katsuki?" is all you can comeuppance with when you finally do speak.
“don’t start something you can’t finish,” he mutters, quieter now, his voice rough in your ear.
and then the line goes dead. your phone feels impossibly heavy in your hand.
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You should've known what you were getting into the second you signed the lease. Gojo Satoru. You'd heard of him, of course. Everyone had. Tall, loud, impossible to miss. Half the campus either wanted to punch him, fuck him, or both. The moment you walked into the shared apartment and saw him shirtless, sprawled out on the couch, wearing sunglasses inside, and eating straight from a Costco-sized tub of cheeseballs, you knew living with Gojo Satoru would be a problem. Not a “he’s messy” problem (he is). Not a “he throws parties every other night” problem (which he also does). No, it’s the way he looked up and said, “You’re my new roomie?”, lips already quirking into a grin. “Oh, we’re gonna have fun.”
And he meant it. Fun, to Gojo, includes (but is not limited to) weekly keggers, drinking games, stripping shirtless every time he loses, blasting music at 3 a.m., and somehow always ending up in your personal space.
Like the time you were doing yoga in the living room and he sprawled out on the floor next to you, chin propped on one hand, sunglasses still on.
“Downward dog looks real good from this angle, angel.”
You hit him with a throw pillow. He winked.
You’ve developed a sixth sense for his presence. You can feel him behind you before he says a word; tall, warm, always standing way too close. In the mornings, when you shuffle into the kitchen in nothing but his oversized hoodie and fuzzy socks, you can feel his eyes trailing over you like it’s the first time. Every time.
“G’morning, sunshine,” he purrs, coffee mug in hand, white hair sticking up in every direction. “You always wake up this pretty, or is that hoodie just magic?” You never give him the satisfaction of an answer. Just sip your coffee with a flat stare and ignore how your pulse jumps.
Except it’s getting harder and harder to ignore the way Gojo really looks at you when you’re walking around in your big T-shirt and tiny shorts. The way he suddenly gets quiet when you’re laughing at something on your phone, biting your nail. The way he leans a little too close when you’re cooking.
His room is a mess. Protein shake powder dusted on the floor like it’s seasoning. Two different girls' earrings left on the nightstand (he swears he’s going to return them). Your room is off-limits. You made that rule clear on day one. “No parties in here. No girls in here. No you in here.” He’d raised his hands in mock surrender. “Wouldn’t dream of it, angel. Unless you invite me, of course.”And weirdly… he’s honored it. Even when he's drunk. Even when he's sleepwalking. “Sacred space,” he shrugs. But his eyes linger when your door is cracked. The one time you fell asleep with it open and he caught a glimpse of you curled up, wearing one of his old shirts you 'borrowed', he stood there for a full ten seconds, silent, before backing away like he just witnessed a crime.
Parties are weekly. sometimes his, sometimes Geto's down the street. You never intend to go. But he always pulls you in. “Just wear that little black top,” he says, leaning on your doorframe like it’s his full-time job. “You know, the one that makes all the other girls at the party mad.”
“Because they think I’m trying to steal their man?”
“Nah,” he grins. “Because you’re already have me.” (You don’t answer. But you wear the top.)
The teasing is constant. You argue about laundry, over his collection of identical, stupid sunglasses, about why he keeps using your expensive shampoo. “It smells like you,” he shrugs. “I like it.” One day, the arguing gets heated. Voices raised, faces inches apart. You’re glaring up at him, and he’s leaning in, chest heaving just a little. The air between you shifts. “You done?” he asks, voice lower now, eyes flicking to your lips. “Are you?” you fire back. He doesn’t kiss you. But he almost does. You feel it in the curl of his fingers at your hip. The way his jaw clenches like he’s physically holding himself back.
Sometimes you catch him staring when he thinks you’re not looking. But it’s not casual, it’s hungry. Like he’s imagining exactly what you’d sound like moaning into his pillow, or what you’d do if he slipped his hand between your thighs instead of the blanket you share during movie nights. He’ll tilt his head, tongue poking his cheek, blue eyes sliding over your lips like he’s already kissed them a hundred times in his mind. “What?” you ask, trying to keep your voice steady. He smiles, slow and shameless. “Nothing. Just... trying to remember if you always look this good when you’re ignoring me.” You throw a pillow at him. He catches it, still smiling. Later, you hear him groan through the paper-thin wall. You tell yourself you imagined it. But you know you didn’t.
One night, you almost say it. You're buzzed after a party, warm from the inside out, barefoot in the kitchen, eating cold pizza from the box. Gojo strolls in, shirtless again, hair wet from a shower, sweatpants slung low on his hips. He watches you for a moment. You're wearing one of his t-shirts with no bra underneath, and he knows it. You swear his gaze burns through the cotton. He corners you in the against the counter, hands braced on either side of hour hips. The scent of his cologne, rich and citrus-y, envelops you.“You keep looking at me like that, angel,” he whispers, voice rougher than you've ever heard it, “and I’m gonna stop pretending this is friendly." You swallow, hard. “Who says we’re pretending?” That’s when he touches your waist. Large, warm hands with enough pressure to make your breath catch. "You gonna let me kiss you yet?" He murmurs, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear. And you want him to. But you stop him. Barely. Fingertips curled into his shirt like a warning. “Not like this.”
He makes pancakes the next morning. No shirt. Just low-slung sweats and sleepy eyes. “Didn’t even touch you, and I’m still wrecked,” he mutters, flipping a pancake like he’s trying not to look at you. You’re standing there in your tiny shorts and one of his old hoodies, arms crossed, pretending to ignore the way his gaze keeps dropping to your legs. “You always cook for the girls you don’t fuck?” He grins, devilish. “Just because I didn’t hit doesn’t mean I’m not a gentleman." You tell him he’s insufferable. He tells you that you look really good in his hoodie.
You leave the hoodie folded on his bed later, along with a note that says:
if you’re gonna touch me, do it right next time.
And that night, you swear you hear him groan again, louder.
It’s the first thing he says, his hand already finding your wrist before you can protest. Izuku tugs, gentle but firm, and suddenly you’re falling into the space he’s created for you—his lap.
The room is buzzing, the kind of loud that only comes with too many people crammed into one place. Mina’s sprawled on the floor with a deck of cards fanned out in her hands, Kaminari’s whining about how unfair the rules are, and Bakugo is already threatening to leave if everyone doesn’t “play it right.”
There’s no space left on the couch, the floor is cluttered with shoes and your sprawled-out friends. There's nowhere else to sit. It makes sense! That’s what you tell yourself as Izuku settles back into the couch, one hand instinctively finding its place on your hip to steady you, the other propped against the armrest as he continues the conversation he’d been having with Kirishima.
But the truth is, your pulse is already tripping over itself.
Izuku's different now. All the years of training and patrol have been kind to him; carved new lines into him, broadened his chest, strengthened his thighs until they feel unyielding beneath you. His hand is bigger, rougher, warmer where it rests against you. He’s not the boy who stuttered his way through every sentence anymore. There’s an easy steadiness in the way he holds himself now, a confidence that grew slowly over time.
It shouldn’t throw you off. He’s still your best friend. Still the boy who once ran back three blocks just to return the umbrella you left behind. The one who texts you photos of stray cats because he knows they’ll make you smile. Your pulse shouldn't jump at the heat of him pressed against your back.
But now… now he rests his chin on your shoulder while he listens to the game, his breath fanning across your neck, and it makes your skin prickle in ways you definitely can’t ignore.
The game gets heated (Kirishima’s accusing Kaminari of cheating, Bakugo’s swearing loud enough to rattle the windows).And then the couch shifts, jostled by someone standing up too quickly. The motion tips you forward, and his hand comes up automatically to keep you steady, fingers splaying wide against your waist. It pulls you closer, your weight settling more firmly across his lap—right against the solid line of his thigh. He doesn’t notice how tight your breath catches, how all your muscles tense.
Your shorts press tighter, denim rough against your most sensitive spot, the seam resting just between your folds and against your clit. You try to ignore it, but every bounce sends another pulse of warmth curling low in your stomach.
He’s focused, nodding along to something Shoto says across the room. But his thumb is moving again, slow and thoughtless, rubbing a small circle into your side like it’s muscle memory as you discreetly rock yourself against his thigh.
It unravels you. Quietly, but completely.
“Hey,” he murmurs suddenly, low enough that it’s just for you. “You comfortable?” His voice vibrates against your back, warm and genuine.
You force a nod, a smile he can’t quite see. “Yeah. I’m good.”
And he believes you. Of course he does. Izuku’s always been like that—taking people at their word, absolutely clueless to the fact that you're growing wetter by the second in his lap. Unaware that your mind is currently filled with downright nasty thoughts of him, of how many times you've imagined yourself all pliant and desperate for him.
Later, when the night winds down and everyone stumbles out the door, you’ll catch a glimpse of him again. Izuku stacking stray cups in the kitchen, hair falling into his eyes, sleeves shoved up to his elbows. He’ll look up and smile at you softly.
And you’ll feel it again, that pull low of heat in your stomach, the memory of his hand on your waist and the warmth of his breath at your neck. You’ll take it home with you, heavy and sweet, and try to bury it.
Izuku doesn’t know. And you can’t bring yourself to tell him. Not yet, at least.
Jean's all talk until you're the one calling the shots. Watching him stumble over his words while you stay steady on top? Yeah, it turns out nothing flusters him faster than giving up control.
warnings: mdni!!!! explicit sexual content, kinda sub!jean??, riding, begging, power play, teasing + praise, a little degradation, creampie wordcount: ~1k
Jean Kirstein had always been a mouthy bastard.
He had that cocky little smirk, the sharp tongue, the constant teasing that usually left you flushed and biting back a glare. In his mind, he always had the upper hand. He was always ready with some smartass comment about how easily he could have you ruined, how fast he could make you beg. And to his credit, he usually backed it up. Jean had a way of taking control that left you dizzy, wrecked, and clinging to him.
But tonight was different.
Because you sat flush on top of him, straddling his hips, the solid heat of him filling you to the hilt. That confidence of his was slipping fast. And God, he looked gorgeous like this—sprawled out on the bed, jaw tight as he tried to keep himself together. His broad chest rose and fell in ragged breaths, stomach tensing every time you rolled your hips. Jean’s hands were on your waist at first, guiding, trying to keep some illusion of control. But every time you shifted, grinding down instead of rising up, the words caught in his throat. And eventually his grip faltered. You could feel him surrender in the way his fingers slid helplessly down to your thighs, just holding on.
“Fuck—” his voice cracked, and his head tipped back against the pillow. His eyes wide like he couldn’t believe you were doing this to him. “You’re—shit, you’re driving me crazy.”
It made you smile, leaning forward so your chest brushed his, lips ghosting over the column of his throat. “You always run your mouth so much,” you murmured, breath brushing his jaw as you leaned over him. Your pace never faltered; slow, deliberate, squeezing him in a way that made his legs twitch beneath you. “What’s the matter, Jean? Cat got your tongue?”
“You’re— shit— you’re not playing fair.”
You smiled sweetly, leaning back to drag your hips over him again, letting the angle hit just right. His chest arched, a low, broken sound slipping out that he immediately tried to swallow back, cheeks burning red. You felt the shiver run straight through him. That proud, smart-mouthed soldier was reduced to a mess under you. It was addictive.
“Not fair?” you repeated, tilting your head like you were considering it. “Feels pretty fair to me. You get to sit there, look pretty, and I do all the work.”
You kept him right there, right at that edge where his hands twitched and his hips bucked, but you never let him take over. The flush spreading down his neck, the way his jaw clenched and unhinged on every shaky exhale, it was everything.
“God, you feel—” His voice cracked again, dissolving into a broken moan when you pressed down harder, taking him even deeper. His hand came up, shaky and unsure, brushing your cheek before tangling in your hair like he needed to anchor himself to something. His pupils were blown wide, chest heaving, sweat trailing down the hollow of his throat where his pulse thundered.
Every thrust of your hips drew another sound out of him, low and unguarded, the kind of noises Jean would never make if he were the one in control. He tried to chase your rhythm, tried to bite back the whimpers, but you could feel him breaking apart beneath you.
“You’re so—fuck, you’re so beautiful,” he gasped, the words tumbling out raw and unpolished, nothing like his usual swagger. His hands tightened on your hips as if he could slow you down, but you just leaned into him, nails digging lightly into his chest.
“You like this, don’t you?” you whispered, your voice steady even while his was falling apart. “Being underneath me. Letting me use you.”
Jean’s lips parted, a soundless moan breaking into a desperate, “Y-yeah—fuck, yeah.” choked by the weight of his own pleasure. “Fuck, yes—don’t stop—please, don’t stop.”
The sound of him begging nearly undid you, but you held steady. His thighs jerked, his hips stuttered, and you knew he was close—so close he couldn’t hide it.
You slowed the pace, just enough to make him whine. The sound tore from his throat, rough and needy, his whole body bucking up as though he could force you faster again. You tightened around him, watching his entire body jolt, and his hands finally left the sheets, flying to your waist in a desperate grab. But you caught his wrists, pushing them back down to the bed with a strength that startled even him.
“Look at you,” you whispered, dragging your nails lightly down his chest, watching the way the muscles there tensed under your touch. “All talk until someone puts you in your place.”
His throat bobbed, a broken sound catching there, and you gave him exactly what he wanted. You picked up your rhythm again, hips snapping harder. The bed creaked beneath you, headboard tapping faintly against the wall with the force of his thrusts trying to meet yours. His skin was hot under your hands. Every sound he made was raw, moans and curses bitten off halfway only to crumble into whines.
“Oh, fuck—fuck, I’m gonna—” His warning was barely coherent. His hips bucked hard, muscles locking as his whole body arched against you.
You leaned down, capturing his mouth in a kiss that swallowed the rest of his words, and that was all it took. Jean shattered beneath you, hips jerking wildly, a strangled cry tearing out of him. His whole body tensed hard, veins standing out on his neck as his orgasm ripped through him.
He came hard, spilling into you in hot, pulsing waves, his hands clutching you like he was drowning. His moans were loud and broken, drawn out of him without shame now, his voice rasping raw with each sound. You could feel him twitching inside you, feel the aftershocks ripple through his body as he gasped against your mouth.
And fuck, if watching him like that —flushed and undone, sweat-damp hair clinging to his forehead, lips swollen from your kiss— wasn’t the hottest thing you’d ever seen. It was almost enough to push you over the edge on its own. He looked absolutely perfect.
You slowed your hips gradually, letting him ride out every last pulse of release. Jean slumped against the headboard, chest rising and falling in rapid, shaky breaths, his hands still gripping your thighs.
When he finally blinked up at you, eyes glassy and lips parted, you couldn’t help the satisfied little smile that tugged at your mouth.
chris doesn't need to say much–he just keeps you pressed close, hands on your hips, eyes tracking every shiver and gasp. His amused gaze makes it clear just how much he enjoys watching you squirm.
warnings: mdni!!!! explicit sexual content, thigh riding, size kink vibes, begging + whimpering, lowkey strength kink?, a lil possessive, praise, overstim undertones, chris is unfairly hot wordcount: ~1200
It started with his hands.
Big, calloused, steady—Chris Redfield had a way of holding you that made resistance feel impossible. Not that you’d ever want to, of course. One hand at your hip, the other spanning your thigh to anchor you exactly where he wanted. Just the weight of him was enough to keep you pliant in his lap, caged between his broad shoulders and the chair beneath you.
And then there was his thigh.
Solid muscle beneath rough cargo pants, spread wide to support your weight, flexing occasionally in ways that made you gasp. It was thick enough to press right where you needed it, the seam of his pants dragging against your clit each time you rolled your hips down. Every little movement set sparks under your skin, and the bastard knew it.
Chris doesn’t need to say much. Just sitting back, relaxed as if he wasn’t completely undoing you with nothing more than the press of his body. The silence made it worse (better).
“Chris…” It came out as a whimper, and you hated the way your voice trembled.
His hand tightened just slightly on your hip. Not stopping you. Just pressing you down, reminding you who had the strength here. His leg shifted beneath you, and suddenly the pressure doubled, the thick muscle of his thigh flexing hard against your cunt. You gasped, clutching his shoulders, nails dragging faint crescents into his broad shoulders.
He smirked then, just barely. Your forehead falls to his shoulder, but he tilts his head just enough that his mouth grazes your temple in a gentle kiss. The faint brush of his stubble has your stomach clenching even tighter than the friction alone.
You moved again, a slow grind of your hips, and heat flushed your cheeks at how easily your body gave in. He was so damn big beneath you, the sheer size of him swallowing you whole. Sitting in his lap like this made you feel small, pliant, like you could lose yourself in him entirely. His thigh was unyielding, every drag of fabric against your clit a reminder of just how powerful he was, and how utterly at his mercy you were.
Your pace quickened; you couldn’t help yourself. Chris leaned back slightly in the chair, spreading his legs wider to give you more room, his relaxed posture at odds with the sharp way his gaze tracked your every move.
“Please,” you breathed, the word tumbling out raw. You weren’t even sure what you were begging for. Release? Permission? Just anything he’d give you.
His thumb stroked a slow line across your hip, almost gentle compared to the roughness of your movements. The touch sent a shiver down your spine, and you rocked harder, chasing the heat pooling low in your belly.
The sound you made next was high, something between a moan and a sob. His eyes darkened at that, but he still didn’t say a word. Just watched, steady and intent. Then his grip clamps down, dragging you back to that slow, steady grind. A frustrated whimper slips out before you can stop it.
“Easy,” he finally mutters, low and quiet, voice rough like gravel. It rumbles through his chest beneath your palms, sinking straight into your spine. The word alone has you shuddering. Easy. As if you could be anything else in his hands.
His thighs flex beneath you as he shifts ever so slightly, angling you forward until the seam of your clothes hits just right. You gasp, nails digging deeper into his shoulders, and his eyes light up with amusement, like he’d been waiting for that sound. “Right there?” he asks, though it’s not really a question. He already knows.
“Chris, please—”
The desperate edge in your voice finally earns you a smirk, full and deliberate now, tugging at his lips in that way that makes him look even more devastatingly handsome. He leans in, lips brushing your ear as he breathes, “That’s it. Keep going.”
Your body obeys before your brain can catch up. You move against him, guided by his hands, lost in the steady pressure, the unbearable heat building with every pass of your clit against the thick muscle of his thigh.
The burn in your legs doesn’t matter anymore. The ache in your lungs doesn’t matter. All that matters is the way Chris is watching you, jaw set tight, like he’s holding himself back from doing so much more.
You could feel it coming—the slow, coiling build that made your toes curl and your breath hitch. Your nails dragged over his shoulders, leaving faint red lines against the spread of muscle there.
“Chris,” you gasped again, louder this time, the edge of desperation clear in your voice.
His hands tightened, anchoring you to him, pressing you down harder. His thigh flexed deliberately, and the jolt of sensation made you cry out, head tipping back as your rhythm faltered into shaky, frantic grinding.
The look in his eyes turned sharp, focused, almost predatory in the way he tracked every shiver, every sound. He looked like he could devour you with his stare alone, and it only made the heat pool lower, the pressure in your belly snapping tighter.
You tried to fight it, tried to hold on, but the pace was brutal now. His grip gave you no escape, no chance to slow down. You were trembling, gasping, moaning his name in broken little sobs until finally, finally it shattered.
“Fuck, fuck, I can’t—” Your voice cracked, tumbling into broken sobs of pleasure.
He didn’t say a word. Just watched as your body gave out, as the orgasm slammed into you with brutal force. It ripped through you, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your thighs clamped hard around his, your hips jerking in helpless, stuttering motions as wave after wave of pleasure tore through you.
Chris didn’t let you go. His hands kept you grounded, holding you steady as you came apart on him. His thigh stayed flexed, letting you ride it out.
Your body shuddered violently, clit throbbing against the seam of his pants. You were sure there was a wet patch soaked into the fabric of his pants as you ground against him helplessly. His eyes stayed on you, unwavering, memorizing the way your face twisted in pleasure.
When the peak finally ebbed, leaving you trembling and boneless, you slumped forward into his chest. His arms came up immediately, wrapping around you and pulling you close. His lips brushed against your temple before pulling back enough to look down at you again.
“You done?” His voice was rough, low, that gravelly edge sending another shiver down your spine.
You whimpered softly, shaking your head against his chest. “No… need more.”
A deep chuckle rumbled through him, the sound vibrating where your cheek pressed into his solid frame. His smirk returned, and his hands slid back down to your hips, thumbs pressing into your skin.
“Then keep going,” he murmured.
The way he said it: quiet, commanding, so sure of himself. It sent heat rushing through you all over again. You realize, dizzy and overwhelmed, that Chris Redfield hasn’t even started to show you everything he’s capable of.
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Giyuu doesn’t say much, but he doesn’t have to. The weight of his hand on your thigh already says enough, fingers inching higher like he knows exactly how badly you want him.
You breathe his name, soft and shaky, and he finally looks at you. That unreadable gaze of his pins you down harder than his hands ever could.
“Impatient,” he mutters, almost amused, though his voice is low enough that it rumbles against your skin when he leans in. His lips brush your jaw, light and teasing.
Your fingers curl into his haori, tugging him closer. You don’t mean to beg, but the quiet little sound that escapes you gives you away. He hears it, of course he does. Giyuu doesn't miss anything.
His hand slips beneath the waistband of your skirt, enough to make your breath catch, and his mouth hovers over yours like he’s still deciding whether or you’ve earned the kiss you’re so desperate for.
“I’ll give you what you want,” he whispers, thumb dragging slow, infuriating circles against your skin. “But you don't get to rush me.”
Then he finally kisses you. Deep and unhurried, stealing every bit of air left in your lungs until you’re clinging to him like he's the only thing still holding you upright.
It doesn't happen during a party. Or after one. It's late, just the two of you buzzed on cheap wine and whatever's playing softly from the speaker. Gojo’s sitting on the floor between your legs, half-draped across your thighs like a cat. You're wearing one of his oversized hoodies. Nothing else. He knows. And you know he knows, because his fingers keep trailing higher on your calf, casual but deliberate.
And then he looks up at you with those eyes, sharp, icy blue, and framed by lashes that should be illegal. His hair is tousled from running his fingers through it, he always does that when he's nervous. His mouth, pink and soft, pulls into a lazy grin. God, he’s stupid hot. Tall and lean, abs peeking from his loose shirt, veins on his big hands way too visible for your sanity. And when he tilts his head like that, all cocky and easygoing, you forget how to breathe.“You smell like me,” he murmurs, resting his cheek against your thigh. “It’s your hoodie,” you say. But your voice comes out too breathy. Too soft. “Nah,” he mumbles, thumb dragging a line just above your knee. “You smell like me.” Then he sits up straighter, lips just inches from your skin, and says it. “Can I taste you now?”
When you finally say yes, it's not with words. You just let your thighs part a little wider. A glance down at Gojo, where he kneels between your legs like he was made to be there, has you tangling your hand in that snowy hair and tugging, just enough to tell him yes. His breath stutters. His arrogant smile falters, just for a second. Like he wasn’t expecting you to actually give in. But then it's back. That hungry, smug look. “You have no idea,” he says, voice low and rough. He sounds wrecked, “how many times I’ve thought about this.” His breath catches as he pushes the hoodie up, slowly, like he’s unwrapping a present. Groans deep in his throat when he sees you, already warm and wet for him. “Angel, you’re gonna ruin me.”
Gojo is cocky with his mouth, of course he is, but he's also unfairly good with it. He doesn’t go straight for it, either. He teases. Slow, like he's testing how long he can keep you whining and squirming before you beg. Licks lazy circles on your inner thigh. Kisses just beside where you want him most. Smiles when you writhe. You try to glare at him. You really do. But he licks a stripe up your inner thigh and all that comes out is a broken whimper. "Patience, baby,” he whispers, mouth so close it burns. “You want me to take my time, right?” You nod. He raises an eyebrow. “Use your words.”
“Please,” you whisper. “Gojo—”
“Satoru,” he corrects, eyes half-lidded. “You call me Satoru when I’m between your legs.”
He doesn’t stop until your legs are shaking. Until you’re gasping for air, tugging his hair, babbling his name. “That’s it,” he coos against your skin. “So fuckin’ sweet. Knew you’d taste this good.”
You think he’ll stop when you come, but he doesn’t. Not right away.
He laps at you lazily, savoring it. Holding your thighs open like he owns them. When he finally pulls back, he wipes his shiny lips with the back of his hand and rests his head on your stomach.
Afterwards, you're limp on the couch, chest still heaving, legs sprawled over his lap. Gojo looks positively ruined. Hair a disaster, cheeks flushed, and eyes blown wide like he’s drunk on you. “Roomie benefits go crazy,” he grins, hand smoothing up and down your bare thigh. You go to smack at his chest. He just catches your wrist and presses a soft kiss to your palm. “Don’t get an ego-boost,” you murmur. “Too late,” he giggles. “You let me put my face in your pussy, there’s no going back.” You groan. "I hate you."
And after that? He’s insatiable. He’s on you all the time now. In the hallway. On the couch. In the kitchen when you’re just trying to make toast. “C’mon, angel." he murmurs, cornering you against the fridge “Just a little taste. Just one kiss.” His hand slips under your shirt. Finds your waist. Your heart hammers in your chest. "We just did this last night!" You hiss.
“What can I say?" he smirks. “I’m a hungry guy.”
He’s definitely still a frat boy. Still loud, still annoying, still leaves empty Gatorade bottles everywhere. But he doesn't bring girls home anymore.He doesn’t even look at other girls anymore. Not at parties, not even when they slide into his DMs with mirror selfies and fake homework questions. Gojo Satoru, the same man who used to flirt with the barista just to get an extra shot of espresso, is now very visibly obsessed with you. People notice. They whisper. “Isn’t that Gojo’s hoodie she’s wearing?”
“I thought he never hooked up with the same girl twice—” He just grins. Big, obnoxious, displaying all his perfect teeth. But this time, it’s different. There’s a certain pride behind it. Almost like possessiveness. He looks over at you, leans in close enough to kiss your jaw, and says it without blinking. "She's my girl." And later that night, when he’s got his hand wrapped around your throat in the dark, hips grinding slow against yours, whispering, “Say it. Tell me who you belong to."
“You.”
His breath stutters. His grip tightens. “Damn right.”
You meet him because he's failing. Hard. Like almost-suspended failing. Suguru Geto is every professor’s worst nightmare; tattoos half-visible under his uniform, earrings flashing when he stretches, cigarette tucked behind his ear. And you? Top of the class. Quiet. Responsible. Glasses slipping down your nose while you push your highlighters into neat color-coded rows. You weren’t expecting to be assigned to him. And he definitely wasn’t expecting you. Top student meets top disciplinary case.
First session, he shows up 20 minutes late. Sits backward in the chair. Looks you up and down like you’re the one wasting his time. You’re nervous. He’s amused. You’re wearing a cardigan and glasses. He’s wearing a black t-shirt that clings to his abs, hair pulled into a loose bun, silver ring glinting on his thumb. “You’re cuter than I expected,” he says, and God, his voice. Deep and smooth, with just a little rasp like smokes too often. "If I’d known that, I might’ve flunked sooner.” You want to tell him off. You really do! But then he stretches. Long arms over his head. Shirt riding up just enough to show the ink curling at his hips. And now you’re staring. He notices. “Like what you see, pretty?”
He doesn’t take tutoring seriously. Not at first. He spends the whole session watching you. He keeps flirting, keeps teasing, keeps getting closer. His excuse? “I'd focus better if you were sitting on my lap.” You shut that down real fast. But he starts testing your limits: Touching your knee under the table, sitting too close, whispering answers against your ear. “C’mon, baby,” he drawls one night, low and warm. “I’ll behave if you let me kiss you.” You drop your pen. He catches it before it hits the floor, eyes still on you.
Geto’s reputation is no secret. He’s the guy who hooks up with girls and never calls them after. The guy who makes it look easy. Geto’s never had a real reason to behave. Never had to try for anything. Until you. You make him earn it. Every second of your time, every shy smile you give. You’re the first one who tells him no. No, he can’t copy your answers. No, he can’t sweet-talk his way out of learning the material.
And no, you’re not going to sit in his lap while explaining conditional statements. The last one? “Worth a shot,” he says, biting down on his grin.
You start to notice little things. Like how he gets real quiet when you laugh. Or how he is even less focused when you wear a skirt to tutoring. Or how his jaw clenches when another guy stops by your study table just to say hi. “You think he’s smarter than me?” he asks later, tongue in his cheek. “Because I’ll start studying twice as hard if it means I get to fuck you first.”
One week, you get sick. He shows up outside your apartment with soup, a bottle of Motrin , and zero explanation. “Don’t read into it,” he says. “I just need you alive to pass psych.” You’re in pajamas. No makeup. Unbrushed hair. And he’s looking at you with an expression that you can't quite understand. He stays. Doesn’t touch you. Just leans against your desk chair while you nap, scrolling his phone like it’s the most natural thing in the world. When you wake up, there’s a hoodie draped over your blanket. It smells like him.
One night, it all finally snaps. You’re both tired, overworked, frustrated. He’s been actually trying lately, which shocks you, and clearly shocks him too. You’re leaning over the table, pointing out an error he made, when he grabs your wrist. Not hard. Just enough to make you pause.
“You know I want you, right?” he asks, eyes dark and steady. “I’ve been good. I’ve been trying. So if I kiss you right now-” You don’t stop him.
He kisses you like he’s starving. One hand in your hair, the other gripping your waist like he's been dying for it. Your glasses are fogged. Your head is spinning. And when he finally pulls back, breathing heavy, lips swollen.
“You taste better than I dreamed,” he says. “And I’ve dreamed about it. Like a lot.”
After that, he’s worse. He’s texting you at 2 a.m. with stupid math memes just to make you laugh. Leaning too close when you’re helping him with formulas, eyes on your mouth instead of the notebook. “If I ace this quiz,” he whispers, “do I get a reward?” You laugh flustered and breathless, but don’t say no. He gets an 87. You barely make it past the couch.
He’s filthy when he finally has you. Pinned under him in his apartment, your cardigan long discarded, his hands dragging your skirt up so slowly you swear he’s doing it just to watch you squirm.
He groans, kissing down your stomach.,“Bet you’ve been aching for this since day one.” You moan when he bites your inner thigh. He grins.
That night, he ruins you. And the next morning, he shows up early to your tutoring, coffee in hand, kiss bitten lips, and an essay fully completed. “See?” he says, flashing that devilish smile. “You are a good influence.”
