ash 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

shota is the type to dote; he is quiet, calm questions at the end of a long day. he’s always attentive— with deep mhm’s rumbling out between pauses in your emphatic re-tellings — while he listens. shota is a man of action who knows you struggle to ask for what you need, so he leads with a gentle hand.

shota fills your water bottle when he notices it’s empty. he helps you into your coat every morning. he does the dishes — not because he’s a fan of chores, but because he knows you hate doing them and knows you always feel better with a clean home & an empty sink.

shota is a man who yearns with enough weight that it feels like he’s drowning at times. he thinks about you often — bandage-wrapped fingers and bruised knuckles send messages during the lulls on patrol. you wake to messages attempting to dictate a fraction of his longing.

[txt] i miss you very much, little angel

shota is devoted — intense and purposeful in his demonstration of love. you manage to puncture his usual apathetic, unethused exterior. you are the only person who he trusts with this version of himself; with you, it’s a hand on the middle of your back, a tight smile that always reaches his eyes, and a bundle of compliments that tumble out unburdened.

shota chases your reactions — the ones where you explode with uncontainable adoration. he never thought he’d be the type of man to fixate on your key-smashed reply to a hazy, half-exposed picture of his body, but here he is. he never thought he’d willfully strip himself down, in both body and soul, for another person. but, he does it over and over for you.

shota pours it all into his hands on your skin, his mouth on yours. he pours it all into whispered filth while he’s buried to the hilt inside you: promises of a future & praise, praise, praise — because in the mess of sex he can let it all tumble it out between tongue and tension. he fucks you right, and he murmurs promises of things he wants while he does; a ring, a winter wedding, a home.

(minors dni)

"what the fuck."

it's obscene, actually. fucked up and horrible, too, to see what you're seeing right now. bearing witness to the absolute devastation occurring in the seat next to you.

michael stares at you.

Boyfriend!Kaiser who was hesitant in dating you at first. He’d never felt such… foreign feelings to another human being before, not even his own family (for obvious reasons). Whenever he’s with you, he feels alive—like he can be himself without the constant weight of the expectations for him laying on his shoulders, like he can finally take a breath of fresh air. You’re his breath of fresh air.

Boyfriend!Kaiser who never fails to make sure you know you’re loved. With the way he had grown up, he wants to make sure you’re given all the love and care you deserve—he knows what it feels like to be neglected, and the last person he’d want that to happen to is you.

Boyfriend!Kaiser who won’t go out of his way to give any grand, overdramatic gestures to prove his love—no. His devotion to you is kept quiet, private; but you know it’s there. From the way he touches you, worships every inch of your body like it’s a sacred temple needed to be kept all to himself, untouched by the lingering terrors of the world he knows.

Boyfriend!Kaiser who loves spoiling you by buying you gifts. Smaller ones; like a plushie of your favourite character or a new food trend you’ve been dying to try. To more expensive ones; a brand new designer handbag or an all-expenses-paid trip to the Maldives. Those are his favourite—hidden getaways where he can keep you all to himself on some remote island, watching as your smooth, tanned skin bakes under the sun while your pretty lips wrap around the straw of whatever drink you’re sipping on.

Boyfriend!Kaiser who loves taking you out on dates. From an extravagant Italian restaurant in the heart of the city to a night in cuddling on the couch, watching Netflix and eating popcorn (your idea). He enjoys taking time to relax between matches, letting the stress of the football world be forgotten for a few sacred moments as he rests his head between your thighs, long eyelashes fluttering closed and casting shadows on his cheeks as he lets himself melt into the embrace of the one person he trusts most in this world. You.

shidou loves when you walk around the house with no underwear. you’d be wearing only his shirt, or sometimes, he’d ask you to wear just a tank top, so that he can see your bare pussy on display. it’s a bit embarrassing, but you know it saves him the trouble of having to tug aside any bottoms or panties, giving him easier access whenever he wants to fuck you silly. and secretly, you love it. it always excites you knowing that he could just sneak up on you and pump his thick dick inside you.

so when he comes up behind you as you’re cutting fruit, his arm thrown around your waist as you giggle, “what’re you doing, ryu?”, he’s already lifting your baggy shirt up, revealing no panties as he starts rubbing circles on your pussy, feeling how wet you easily get. he lines himself up, pushing his cock into your tiny cunt, “aren’tcha so cute, sweetheart.”

it’s not long before you’re reduced to a whiny, babbling mess from shidou’s cock pounding your poor pussy stupid like a brute. you’re bent over, and you have him laughing behind you as you’re whining the most incoherent sounds, "so big, mmmuh! feels s'full, ahh—ah! ryuuu, mmn—haa~! uhnn~!”

“ya love this, huh? look at’cha, your pussy’s clenching ‘round me like a slut, baby.” he hums. and you do love it; you think you’d be completely content if you could stay like this forever.

and when he starts to groan, his thrusts getting harder and a little sloppier, asking you, “ryu’s gonna cum, baby. ya want that? c’mon, tell me.” but he doesn’t even give you time to answer before you his cock is twitching deep inside you, his warm cum spilling and flooding your pussy. his body tenses, “shitttt, take it, sweetheart.”

your back arches uncontrollably, and you’re practically crosseyed and becoming a drooling mess, “"aaaahngh, mmnnnn, r-ryuuuuu! s'too goood, mmnn-! wanna keep it, wan’ it all, hhhaaah, ‘s-sticky inside meee!”

he leans down to coo against your cheek, “ya can’t even talk, huh, stupid girl? got’cha all dumb...”, and you nod hastily, “aaah! haaah… mmmf, wanna—wanna—”

“wanna what, baby?” he kisses the side of your face, so amused from how desperate you are. “c’monnn, use your words, tell me.” you squirm in his grip, making the tiniest sound, “wanna.. bed… p-pleaseee..”

his hand slides down between your legs to press the mess in deeper. “ooohh, ya wanna get fucked again in bed? that it?”

“mhmmh!”, you’re completely gone, and you can feel him growing harder again, and it’s unbearable. you’re antsy for him to just fuck you again.

“ya too cute like this, baby.” he teases, picking you up effortlessly, arms under your thighs. “so dumb for my cum. ‘course i’m takin’ ya to bed.”

inspired from this

satoru’s pushing himself up and down with one hand because, according to you, normal push-ups weren’t enough. but even then, he’s barely breaking a sweat. and he’s grinning, while you stand over him, watching with your arms crossed.

his uniform jacket is folded over the back of a chair, leaving him in his compression shirt, arm bulging and back tensing with each lift and fall of his body.

“i upset my-- hah beautiful, smart-- hah strong, gorgeous, perfect wife,” he pants, “punishment fits the crime.”

he really is right where he wants to be.

megumi doesn’t even bat an eye - this was the least unusual thing that you and satoru do. he slides into a chair with a sigh.

“how many does he have to do?”

“a hundred,” you say. satoru lifts his head to look up at you, mouth parted, little pink hearts in his eyes peering at you over the rim of his glasses. “he’s on seventy-two.”

his grin widens. “you know, this isn’t a challenge for me. why don’t you sit on my back, sweetheart?”

you crouch down in front of him and his eyes light up. “i know what you want, and you don’t deserve my touch.” you push his head down so he’s facing the floor again, and he grunts when you press extra weight, forcing his body down. “only twenty-three left. you can do it, my love.”

if his heart wasn’t beating fast enough before, it definitely was now. especially with the saccharine tone you used at the end of your sentence.

god, was he down bad.

“… call us when you’re done,” megumi says, already out of the classroom.

ᦸ cunnilingus. pet names. munch! & lovesick! gojo. fingering. squirting. aftercare.

"Toru—oh my god—baby, slow down." Your whines were music to Gojo's ears—with your fingers tugging tautly on his messy white locks. "You have to slow down."

Gojo hummed against your clit, glazed eyes meeting yours as his fingers squeezed your thighs. "Not happening, honey," he purred, pulling back to show off the glistening slick on his chin. "You taste too good."

He pressed a sloppy kiss over your trembling clit before pressing the flat of his tongue over your slit to leave a torturously slow lick.

"Oh! Nonono," your thighs closed around his head instinctively with a choked moan, tugging once more on his hair. "Don't do that."

"But baby!" He crooned, tearing off from you, jutting his lip out in displeasure. "You taste like heaven." Gojo grinned at the blush scattered across your cheeks. "You don't really want me to stop... do ya'?"

It took everything in you to keep your voice steady as you admitted, "No." You didn't want him to stop.

That's all it took; the glint in his eye was maddening as Gojo latched his lips back onto your swollen clit, sucking slowly.

He kept his eyes trained on how your expression twisted in pleasure—rubbing your thighs softly as he groaned at the taste.

"Oh damn it." You mewled out, jerking a hand to cover your mouth as Gojo teasingly went in circles around your clit, laughing softly at the flustered state he had you in.

He choked momentarily as your hand shoved him deeper into you; the squelch from wet-on-wet skin had his hips rutting down against the mattress with a muffled "Baby" as your hips arched into his mouth, chasing the vibrations his voice brought.

"How is your jaw not sore?" You hissed out, hips bucking helplessly, fingers tangling down to Satoru's scalp as tears began to prick the corners of your eyes.

The coiling heat burrowing itself low in your stomach felt like it was going to snap any second.

"I don't pay any attention." He pulled back, just enough to tease your clit with the tip of his tongue. "Why, honey, want me to stop, ice my jaw & finish later, hmm?"

The sentence barely made it to your ears before your hand tugged him back down, flush into your soaked pussy; he groaned lowly before getting back to work.

It felt like he was making out with your cunt—lips, tongue, nose, and everything pressing perfectly into your sinful flesh as he feverishly lapped at your slit.

His own sobbing moans escaped with each sweep of his tongue, fingers tugging your thighs tighter around his ears.

He trailed one hand down the back of your thigh with a cruel slowness, shifting just enough that he hissed against your aching clit in sync with his neglected cock rubbing the mattress.

"Hey, hey," you whimpered, thighs clenching tightly around him. "Careful."

"M'sorry, honey." He cooed, slowly sliding two of his sweet, sweet fingers around your entrance before sinking them inside you. "Does that make you feel better?"

"Mm-hmm," you purred, tugging his hair softly, Gojo's fingers slowly sinking deeper into your pulsating cunt with a needy groan as he slurped over your clit once more.

He could feel how your body trembled: shaky thighs, hips struggling to stay against your mattress, and fingers toying with his hair; hell, even the sinful noises that bubbled out of your mouth were a show of how close you were.

Every last detail was driving him mad as he began scissoring you open; his thick fingers were doing God's work to please you, & you both knew it.

With a final teasing kiss to your clit, he pulled back. "C'mon, baby, I've got you; it's alright." His fingers curled almost perfectly, grinning as your hips bucked up. "There you go, c'mon."

Gojo darted his tongue out to lick the sweet slick off his lips with a sharp flick of the wrist—white-hot pleasure ripping through you as your hips bucked off the bed.

The evidence of your orgasm soaking Gojo's face & arm—and your poor satin sheets—as he let out a laugh of pure glee.

What a fucking sight.

"Well... good mornin' to you too, princess." He rasped, pressing rapid, teasing kisses to your knee—his free hand rubbing softly against your shaking skin.

"Baby, I see stars. You're evil." You whimpered, thighs trembling as he slowly pulled his fingers free, slowly slipping his tongue between them to lick off your juices. "Nonono, Satoru, that's gross."

"Bullshit." He purred, leaning down to kiss up your stomach slowly. "I'll have you know, that both my meal—" He paused to press chaste kisses up your breastbone, stopping only once he reached your collarbones. "—and my pretty girl are absolutely delectable."

He burrowed his face into the crook of your neck with a near-silent hum.

"You're such a prick," you groaned, curling a hand to latch onto his hair again, grudgingly scratching his scalp. "And sticky."

"You're still okay, right?" Gojo whispered, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze, his fingers trailing up & down your sides in an attempt to soothe.

"Yes. I'm fine, you idiot." You grumbled out, leaning up to press a soft kiss to his temple & subtly adjusted your hips under his. "Give me a minute?" Your free hand tangled into the back of his shirt. "Just… just lie with me though."

"Yes, ma'am, I've got you." He assured, pressing a quick kiss to your neck. "Just breathe, baby."

gojo satoru is addicted to filming you.

it started innocently enough—or as innocent as anything ever is with him. one lazy sunday morning when you were still half-asleep and riding him slow, he grabbed his phone from the nightstand with that mischievous grin and whispered, “just one video, baby. for my eyes only. i wanna watch how pretty you look when you come on my cock.”

you said yes.

now it’s become a ritual.

every time he fucks you, the phone comes out. sometimes he sets it up on the tripod in the corner of the bedroom so it captures everything in wide angle. sometimes he holds it himself, filming close-ups of his thick cock stretching your pussy open, the way your tits bounce with every thrust, the messy slick coating his shaft when he pulls out just to push back in deeper.

he loves the sounds most of all.

“listen to that,” he’ll groan, angling the camera down between your bodies so the microphone catches the wet, filthy squelch every time he bottoms out. “hear how sloppy your pussy gets for me? fuck, baby, you’re dripping down my balls.”

he always makes sure to get your face too—the way your eyes roll back, the way your mouth falls open when he hits that spot inside you, the broken moans and whimpers of his name that spill out when you’re close.

“say it louder,” he’ll demand, voice rough as he fucks you harder, free hand gripping your thigh to spread you wider for the camera. “tell the camera who’s making you feel this good. who owns this tight little cunt.”

you always give in. “you do, satoru—fuck—only you—”

he saves every single video.

they’re stored in a heavily encrypted folder on his phone titled “private collection🤍” with a little heart emoji he thinks is subtle. there are dozens now. some are short clips of you sucking him off in the back of the car after a mission. some are long, hour-long tapes where he edges you for ages before finally letting you come. there’s even one from the time he fucked you against the floor-to-ceiling window in his penthouse while the city lights glittered behind you.

he watches them when you’re away.

when you’re on a solo mission, or visiting family, or just busy with work that keeps you late. he’ll lock himself in his bedroom, pull up the folder, and pick one at random. sometimes it’s the one where you’re riding him reverse cowgirl, ass bouncing as you take every inch. sometimes it’s the one where he has you folded in half, legs over his shoulders, pounding you so deep the camera catches the bulge in your lower belly.

he strokes himself slow at first, matching the rhythm on the screen, groaning your name under his breath. “fuck, look at you… taking me so well even when i’m not there.”

his hand speeds up as the video gets filthier. he loves the parts where you beg—when you’re crying and whimpering “please, satoru, fill me up, i need your cum.” he always comes hard to those, thick ropes spilling over his fist while he watches himself breed you on the screen.

after he finishes, he doesn’t delete anything. he just saves the new load of cum on his fingers and sends you a quick text:

“miss you. watched our video from last thursday. you looked so pretty crying on my cock. can’t wait to make a new one when you get home.”

you always reply with something flustered and needy, and he grins like an idiot, already planning the next tape.

sometimes he gets bold.

he’ll send you short clips while you’re at work—a ten-second snippet of him thrusting into you from behind, his hand fisting your hair, the sound of skin slapping skin loud and clear. the message always comes with the same caption:

“thinking about you. hurry home so we can film the sequel.”

he never pressures you to let him post them or share them. these videos are strictly for him—his private collection, his dirty little secret. he watches them when he’s stressed after a long day, when he’s horny and you’re not around, when he just wants to relive how perfect you feel wrapped around him.

and every time he films a new one, he makes sure to whisper against your lips right before he starts recording:

“smile for the camera, baby. gonna watch this one later when i’m all alone and missing this tight pussy.”

then he fucks you like he’s trying to make sure the next video is even better than the last.

because gojo satoru doesn’t just love fucking you.

he loves keeping every single moment of it forever.

so he can watch you fall apart for him again and again.

who knows exactly: what you like, why you’re asking him to do this - that’s why, oh god, that’s why he’s so fucking mean about it.

“‘m i being loud enough for you, baby?” he asks, his tone dripping in utter condescension. he dips his head lower, almost burying himself into the crook of your, exposed, neck. “can you hear me? yeah? that’s what you wanted — mh, fuuuck“ your boyfriend shamelessly groans, submerged into the depth of your skin, putting on the filthiest of performances, just for you. “huh? to hear your old man in pain — fuck, baby. fuuuck — all groanin’ and pantin’ in your pretty lil’ head?”

your body trembles beneath his. your hips buck and grind into the air, as his words, his tone, his voice feel like the meanest of hands in between your legs.

“you’re all wet f’me, aren’t you?” and you know — oh, you know, it’s not even a question at this point. he’s just teasing you, torturing you with nothing but his filthy, promiscuous words. “ooh, shiiit — my nasty, nasty fuckin’ girl” he groans, louder, rougher this time. the vibrations of his pleasure, forcing a barbaric shiver to run down your spine. “gettin’ all worked up, all needy ‘n fuckin’ soaked, from my voice alone — yeah baby, fuck. aaghh!”

you whine - gasping like a wounded soldier, on the verge of death, the second his hips collide with yours.

puppyboy!yuji who’s crushing on you??

the comment just slips out of nobara’s mouth like it’s nothing. “honestly, he’s like a dog.”

you blink. “who?”

she levels you with a bland look. “who do you think?”

she nods her head to yuji, who’s walking past with megumi. he’s all smiles and as if summoned by the universe itself, he looks up, eyes landing on you. his smile softens, he waves.

your heart does an embarrassing little somersault.

nobara leans in. “exhibit a.”

“i don’t see it,” you say weakly.

“if he had a tail, it’d be wagging right now. he likes you.”

“…no, he doesn’t,” you mumble unconvincingly.

“please. he’ll start bringing you sticks if you asked.”

you feel heat creep up your neck. “you’re exaggerating.”

nobara snorts. “am i? call him a good boy, see what happens.”

“i am not doing that,” you choke.

she just hums, already bored with your resistance. “suit yourself. you’re missing out on prime entertainment.”

so, naturally, later, when you and yuji are asked to pick up supplies from storage (extra training mats? you weren’t quite sure), nobara’s words linger in the back of your mind.

he grabs the boxes without complaint, and reaches over to add the ones you had in your arms to his pile.

“i got those,” he says, easy and bright.

“yuji, you’re already carrying like—five.”

he grins. “six isn’t that different.”

your chest does that stupid flip again, and: “thanks,” you say softly. “you’re such a good boy.”

silence.

yuji freezes mid-step, and you immediately regret everything.

“i didn’t mean—i mean, i did mean it, but not like—i just—” you start rambling, heat flooding your face.

he turns to look at you, and oh.

if nobara had been exaggerating before, she isn’t now.

his ears are bright red, eyes wide, and his smile, that usual easy grin of his, has gone all shy around the edges.

“i—what—” he stammers, voice cracking. “wha—did you just….”

you briefly consider faking your own death. “i just meant—”

his expression softens, deepens, turns warm and a little dazed. “say it again,” he blurts.

you blink. “what?”

“th-that,” he says, flustered. “what you just said.”

your pulse is loud in your ears. “…good boy?”

if possible, he gets even redder.

“man,” he laughs nervously, ducking his head. “that—uh—felt really nice.”

your heart melts, reduced to a puddle on the floor.

“it wasn’t, like…weird?”

“no!” he blurts immediately. “i, uh—you can say it again. only if you want to! just—yeah.”

he looks at you with those soft brown eyes, that gentle smile.

nobara was right.

you smile despite it. “c’mon, good boy. let’s drop these off.”

you don’t miss the way his entire face lights up this time “right!” he says, grinning. “i got it!”