yappi

A soft moment between you and Chris, where he likes the feeling of your nails scrapping across his scalp..

Chris sturniolo x reader

Warnings: none just soft sugary fluff<3

The air in his room was cold as the day slowly settled into night, the morning traffic replaced by the occasional sounds of passing cars racing to get home and the glittering light of the moon shining through the curtains.

Your fingers were threading through Chris’s hair as the fan blew softly across your intertwined bodies, the t.v. playing some random sitcom.

You then stop scratching his head to reply to a message from Tara asking if you wanted to hangout tomorrow and all you hear is a tiny grunt,

“Chris?”

You said softly looking down at Chris as his face was plastered between the valley of your breasts.

“Did I say you could stop?”

You widen your eyes at his attitude,

“Who are you talking to like that?”

Chris whines and sits up, having his arms extend to cage you between his now toned arms. Chris’s face is inches from yours and you smile softly,

“Keep doing what you were doing…”

You raise an eyebrow in confusion, before smiling at him.

“You’re such a baby, I was texting Tara..”

Chris scoffed and laid back down on your chest pushing his nose into your skin.

“I’m more important..”

You roll your eyes and continue scratching his scalp as he groans at the soothing feeling of your nails scrapping across his head. The feeling making his spine shiver,

“You’re so dramatic and I’m telling Tara about this..”

Chris lets out a lazy agreement, obviously not listening.

“Yeah whatever I don’t care…”

misplaced pt.2 | m.s

⚠︎ - smut. oral (m receiving). pnv (unprotected). lwk both sub&dom!matt. panties used as gag. bsf!matt. bsf!reader. swearing. pet names.

wc: 1.4k

matt’s pulse hammered in his ears as he stood frozen by the fridge, the cold pepsi can sweating in his grip. he could feel you watching, your eyes lingering on him for a little too long. he shifted his weight, trying to angle his body so the delicate white lace didn’t peek out any further.

you sat up a little straighter on the couch, blanket slipping down your bare thighs. the oversized hoodie you’d stolen from nick’s room hung loose on you. your gaze still abiding right to that flash of fabric.

“matt,” you said softly, “what’s that in your pocket?”

his stomach dropped. heat flooded his face all over again as he placed the can on the table, one hand flying behind him to cover the evidence. “nothing. just… laundry shit.”

you tilted your head, a small smirk tugging at your lips. "laundry shit? that looks a lot a lot like my thong.”

matt’s throat went dry. he could still feel the ghost of that same fabric wrapped around his cock minutes ago, the way he’d stroked himself while breathing in the faint scent of you left on the lace. his spent cock twitched again at the memory, already half-hard despite the panic.

“i—i didn’t mean to grab it,” he stammered, voice cracking. “it was mixed in with my stuff. i was gonna give it back.”

you rose from the couch slowly, blanket falling away completely. the hoodie barely covered the tops of your thighs as you padded toward him barefoot. every step made his heart race faster. when you stopped right in front of him, close enough that he could smell the faint trace of your perfume still clinging to your skin, you reached around and plucked the thong from his pocket yourself.

the white lace dangled from your fingers between you. matt’s eyes locked on it, then flicked up to meet yours. shame and raw want warred in his chest.

“you were in your room for a while, hm?” you murmured, voice low. “what were doing?”

matt’s breath hitched. his cock pressed insistently against the front of his sweatpants now, the thin fabric doing nothing to hide the growing bulge. he tried to step back but the counter trapped him.

“nothing i—”

“i heard you,” you cut in, stepping even closer until your body nearly brushed his. your free hand came up to rest lightly on his chest, feeling how fast his heart pounded. “while you were jerking off with my thong.”

a broken sound escaped him. his hands gripped the edge of the counter behind him, knuckles white. the confession hung heavy in the air, and the way your eyes darkened told him you weren’t disgusted—you were intrigued.

you lifted the thong higher, letting the delicate fabric brush against his lower lip. “did it feel good?” you asked, almost teasing. “using something that was between my legs?”

matt’s hips jerked forward involuntarily. his cock throbbed, a small wet spot forming at the tip of his sweatpants. “fuck… yes,” he admitted, voice hoarse. “i couldn’t stop thinking about you. about how you’d look wearing just that.”

you smiled at first, teasingly. then pressed the lace against his mouth. “open.”

he obeyed without thinking, parting his lips so you could push the thong inside. the taste of fabric and faint traces of his and your arousal hit his tongue. his eyes fluttered shut as a moan vibrated around the lace.

your hand slid down his chest, over his stomach, and lower until your palm cupped the hard line of his cock through his pants. you gave a slow, firm squeeze that made his knees buckle.

“still hard for me,” you whispered, leaning in so your breath ghosted over his ear. “even after you already came.”

matt nodded hesitantly, hips pushing into your touch. you rubbed him through the fabric, feeling every twitch and throb. precum soaked through, making the material slick under your fingers.

you pulled the thong from his mouth with your other hand, strings of saliva connecting it to his lips for a second before it broke. then you dropped down, your knees hitting the cold floor right there in the kitchen.

matt’s eyes widened. “wait—what if nick or chris—”

“they’re not here,” you said simply, hooking your fingers into his waistband. you tugged his sweatpants and boxers down in one motion. his cock sprang free, thick and flushed, still glistening from his earlier release.

you wrapped your fingers around the base, giving one slow stroke from root to tip. matt’s head fell back against the cabinet with a dull thud. a low groan tore from his throat as you leaned forward and dragged your tongue along the underside, collecting the fresh bead of precum.

“fuck—your mouth,” he gasped.

you took him deeper, lips stretching around his girth. your tongue swirled around the head before you sank lower, taking half of him in one smooth motion. matt’s hands flew to your hair, not pushing, just holding on as you bobbed your head. wet sounds filled the kitchen—your mouth working him, saliva dripping down his shaft onto your chin.

you pulled off with a pop, strings of spit connecting your lips to his cock. “what did you think about?” you murmured, pumping him with your fist. he brought his head back up, giving you a look of confusion. “did you cum thinking about fucking me?”

“yes,” matt panted. “every time. i’ve wanted you for so long.”

you stood up suddenly, pressing your body against his. the hoodie rode up as you grabbed his hand and guided it between your legs. his fingers met bare, slick heat—no panties, just your dripping pussy.

“feel how wet i am for you?” you breathed. “hearing you moan my name did that.”

matt’s fingers slid through your folds, gathering your arousal before circling your clit. you rocked against his hand, a soft moan escaping you. he pushed two fingers inside without warning, curling them against that spot that made your thighs shake.

you reached down and grabbed his cock again, lining him up.

“fuck me right here,” you ordered. “against the counter.”

he didn’t hesitate. gripping your hips, he lifted you onto the edge of the counter. your legs wrapped around his waist as he notched the head of his cock against your entrance. one thrust and he buried himself to the hilt inside your tight heat.

both of you groaned at the same time.

“fuck, you’re so tight,” he hummed. “…feel so good.”

matt’s forehead dropped to your shoulder as he started moving—hard, but still gentle strokes that made the counter creak. your pussy clenched around him with every thrust, slick and hot. the wet slap of skin on skin echoed through the kitchen as his hips met the backs of your thighs.

you clawed at his back, pulling him closer. “harder,” you gasped. “don’t hold back.”

matt obeyed, pounding into you with desperate force.

“matt—oh my, fuuuck.” you moan in response.

one hand slipped under your hoodie to pinch your nipple, rolling it between his fingers while his mouth found yours in a messy, open-mouthed kiss.

you broke the kiss first, nuzzling into his neck to muffle your moans as your orgasm built. matt felt your walls flutter and tighten, signaling you were close.

“you close?” he questions you, receiving an immediate nod from you. “go ahead, sweetheart. make a mess all over my cock.” he reached between you, thumb rubbing tight circles on your clit until you came with a sharp cry, pussy pulsing around his cock.

the sensation pushed him over the edge. “fuck y/n, where do you want me?” he groans.

“inside, please.” you whine, wrapping your legs around his waist, holding him closer to you. he buried himself deep one last time and came hard, flooding your insides with thick ropes of cum. his hips jerked with each pulse, emptying everything he had left.

for a long moment, the only sounds were your ragged breathing and the distant hum of the fridge. matt stayed buried inside you, forehead pressed to yours, both of you trembling.

eventually he pulled out slowly, cum dripping from you onto the counter. he reached down, scooped some onto his fingers, and brought them to your lips. you sucked them clean without hesitation.

you smirked, sliding off the counter and adjusting the hoodie. “next time,” you said, voice still husky, “don’t hide in your room. just come find me.”

matt stared at you, chest heaving, cock still half-hard and glistening with your combined release. the white lace thong lay forgotten on the floor between you.

he swallowed hard, a shaky smile breaking across his face. “yeah… okay.”

author’s note: idk if i like ts but here’s your part two

18+ After practice in the empty locker room, your boyfriend Rintaro catches you staring at his muscles and forces you onto your knees gagging on his cock.

cw: Unprotected sex, oral sex (deepthroating/gagging), hair pulling, dirty talk, teasing/degradation, size kink, semi-public sex.

note: I've been posting daily my drafts and I've been loving itttt! btw I need to update my masterlist I will try to do it today.

The locker room was quiet after practice, the distant echoes of slamming doors and fading footsteps long gone. Most of the Inarizaki team had already cleared out, leaving just the humid scent of sweat, the faint metallic tang of lockers, and the low hum of the overhead lights. You sat on the wooden bench, pretending to scroll through your phone. But your eyes kept drifting.

Suna Rintaro stood a few feet away, back to you, peeling off his damp practice jersey. The muscles along his spine flexed and shifted as he shrugged it off—broad shoulders tapering into his athletic build. His skin glistened faintly with sweat, the lines of his back dipping into the waistband of his shorts. You couldn’t look away.

He paused, then glanced over his shoulder. Those sharp, half-lidded eyes caught you instantly. A slow, cocky smirk tugged at his lips.

“Take a picture,” he drawled, voice low and lazy like he couldn’t be bothered to put any real effort into the tease. “It’ll last longer.”

Your face burned. “I wasn’t—”

“Yeah, you were.” He turned halfway, giving you a better view of his toned chest and the faint trail of hair disappearing beneath his shorts. He didn’t rush to cover up. Instead, he hooked his thumbs into the waistband and pushed his shorts down just enough to tease, watching your reaction with that signature bored-but-amused expression. “Staring like you’ve never seen a guy change before. What’s the matter?”

You swallowed, trying to play it cool. “You’re the one taking forever. Hurry up so we can leave.”

Suna chuckled softly, stepping closer until he was right in front of you. “Nah. I think you like the show.” His hand came up, lazily brushing a strand of hair from your face before gripping your chin. “Eyes were glued to my back. You into backs now? Or just mine?”

He kept talking in that slow, mean drawl, making you squirm on the bench. Every denial just made his smirk widen. Before you knew it, your hands were on his thighs, and he was guiding you down.

“On your knees, then,” he murmured, voice dropping. “If you’re gonna stare, might as well make yourself useful.”

You sank to the cool tile floor, heart hammering. Suna leaned back against the lockers with a lazy sigh, one hand threading through your hair. He didn’t yank—yet. He just held you there, looking down with those sleepy eyes that hid how sharp he really was.

“Pretty like this,” he commented, almost offhand. He freed himself, already half-hard from the teasing and the power trip. “C’mon. Open up.”

You took him into your mouth, slow at first, tongue swirling around the head. Suna let out a low groan, fingers tightening in your hair. “Fuck… yeah, just like that. You’ve been thinking about this, haven’t you?”

He was thick, heavy on your tongue. You worked him deeper, hollowing your cheeks, and he hissed through his teeth. “Good girl. Deeper—ah, shit.”

You pushed further, and when he hit the back of your throat, you gagged softly. Suna’s grip turned firmer, pulling your hair just enough to guide you. “Easy. Breathe through your nose. You can take more than that, can’t you?”

Another gag as he rocked his hips forward lazily. He didn’t thrust hard—he never needed to with that effortless control—but the pull on your scalp and the way he filled your mouth made your eyes water.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice rough but still so fucking lazy. He leaned down a little, catching your watery gaze. That cocky smirk deepened. “Can’t understand you with your mouth full. What were you trying to say? ‘Too big’? Or ‘more’?”

You tried to answer around him—something muffled and wet—and he groaned again, eyes fluttering half-shut in pleasure. “Yeah… keep making those sounds. Feels good when you gag like that. So eager.”

He kept talking you through it, mean little praises mixed with commands. “Slower—fuck, yeah, swirl your tongue right there. You’re drooling everywhere, messy girl. You like sucking me off in the locker room? Risky. What if someone walks in and sees you on your knees for me?”

Your thighs pressed together, heat pooling low. Every gag earned another tug on your hair and another smirk when he tilted your head up to watch your face. “Eyes on me. Yeah… just like that. You’re doing so good.”

After a few more minutes of his lazy thrusts and filthy commentary, he pulled you off with a wet pop, breathing heavier but still looking far too composed. Strings of saliva connected your lips to his cock. He wiped your chin with his thumb, almost gentle.

“Up,” he said, tugging you to your feet and turning you toward the bench. “Bend over. I’m not done with you.”

You braced your hands on the bench, shorts and underwear shoved down in one lazy motion by him. Suna pressed up behind you, rubbing his slick cock against your entrance. He was still talking, voice low against your ear.

“I know, I know,” he murmured, that cocky smirk audible even if you couldn’t see it. “It’s big. But you can take it, can’t you? You got this far.”

He pushed in slowly, stretching you open. You gasped, fingers curling against the wood. “Suna—fuck, slow—”

“Shh. Relax.” He sank deeper, groaning low in his throat. “So tight… good girl. Look at you, taking every inch. Knew you could.”

Once he bottomed out, he paused, hips flush against your ass, letting you adjust while his hands roamed lazily over your back and hips. Then he started moving—long, deep strokes that were unhurried but relentless. The slap of skin echoed softly in the empty locker room.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he grunted, one hand sliding up to grip your hair again, pulling your head back slightly. “So wet for me already. Been wet since you were staring at my back, huh?”

You moaned, pushing back to meet his thrusts. “Yes—ah—Suna, harder…”

“Harder?” He laughed softly, mean and breathless. “Greedy. Thought you were struggling with how big it is.” He picked up the pace just enough to make you cry out, hitting that spot inside you with infuriating precision. “Say it. Tell me how much you like it.”

“I like it—fuck, I love it,” you gasped, voice breaking on a particularly deep thrust. “You’re so deep—”

“Yeah? Feel me here?” He pressed a hand to your lower stomach, grinding in. “That’s me. Filling you up.”

The teasing never stopped. Every time you moaned too loud, he’d smirk against your shoulder and whisper, “Quiet. Unless you want the team to come back and see how well you take my cock.”

He fucked you like that for a long time—deep, steady, lazy strokes mixed with sharp snaps of his hips when he wanted to hear you whine. His free hand slipped between your legs, rubbing lazy circles that made your knees buckle.

“Come on,” he groaned, voice getting rougher. “Cum for me. Wanna feel you squeezing me.”

You came clenching around him with a broken moan of his name. Suna hissed, thrusts faltering for the first time as he chased his own release.

“Fuck… that’s it.” He buried himself deep and came with a low, satisfied groan, hips twitching against you.

He pulled out slowly, helping you straighten up with uncharacteristic gentleness for how mean he’d been minutes earlier. But the smirk was back as he handed you your clothes.

“Clean up quick. Or do you want to walk out of here looking like you just got railed in the locker room?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“it’s fine.”

“you said it tastes like cardboard last week.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

A loud knock interrupted sleep, well your attempt at falling asleep. You turn over, eyes peeking at the clock on your side table, 2:12AM.

A knock rings through your room once more, slower this time, heavier, as if whoever was standing on the other side of the door was putting their weight into it.

You groaned, running your red-rimmed eyes and dragging yourself out of bed and towards the door. Who was up at this time? There's no way your neighbours were out this late and locked themselves out — especially not on a weeknight.

You straightened your night shirt and shorts, the shirt wasn't even yours, it still smelt of him yet you couldn't bear the shame of returning it.

“Satoru?”

Gojo swayed in the doorway, tall frame hunched beneath the dim hallway light. His white hair was a mess, cheeks pink from alcohol and the cold night air. His designer jacket smelt of cheap alcohol and expensive cologne.

And his usually bright, blue eyes looked… wrecked as if he hadn't slept a wink in days.

The moment his eyes met yours something in him cracked.

Before you could even question him on why he was at your dorm at this hour he slumped into your arms, his large frame nearly knocking you over. “Missed you… S’much,” he slurred into your hair, nuzzling his face closer and inhaling your shampoo.

Something in your stomach twisted. You shouldn't be bitter about it, not really, it's not like you two were official or anything. But it still hurt.

It hurt because he was the first guy to really see you, not just as the ‘quiet kid’ or the ‘nerd,’ Satoru saw you for you, despite being a frat brother, all those late night drives, those cafe study dates, even the lingering kisses.

Then one day he stopped answering your texts, started avoiding you in the library, and eventually told you he had lost feelings on some random Tuesday.

You cried for an entire week, beating yourself up for believing he would want to be with you.

“Satoru,” your voice came out shakier than intended, “are you drunk?”

“Only jus’ a little.” he slurred out, drool starting to pool at the corner of his mouth. “Why are you drinking, I thought you didn't like it?” He giggled at your words, “You always know me too well, pretty girl.”

He stayed clinging to you, backing you up until he was fully inside your dorm and the door clicked shut behind him. It was silent for a moment — except for Gojo’s breath in your ear, then something wet dripped onto your neck.

“Ew are you drooling —” you pulled him off you, finally meeting his gaze again, a soft gasp escaped you, “— why are you crying?” His eyes were redder now, soft tears spilling onto his pale cheeks.

He hiccuped, pulling you closer once more. “I lied… I messed up s’bad, I didn't get bored, fuck I could never get bored of you. You're so funny, and pretty, and you smell really good. Like a cupcake.” His rambling continued as fresh tears welled in his eyes.

nom nom nom

for the next move in your relationship with bakugou katsuki, he gave you the key to his apartment. it’s a fancy word, apartment. not flat, not your student shared house you lived in a few years ago or your family home with your tiny bedroom and snacks that will be snatched by your siblings.

your boyfriend’s apartment. it’s a skyscraper bachelor pad which, with the integration of you in his life, has become a home of more. or really katsuki’s house, with mini shrines to you all over it.

your favourite cereal and fruit bars in the cupboards, your favourite biscuits you dip in your tea and the fridge with a tub of the only yoghurt you eat. his living room which before had no blankets, has four. all chosen by you every time you go shopping with him and his inability to say no. then about three books you’re currently reading, your nintendo switch you leave at his house. his bathroom with your spare toothbrush, makeup wipes and a duplicate skincare selection of the one you have at home.

however, even though it might look like you live here for half of your week, your boyfriend still loves to treat you like a guest.

fratjo never goes down… unless its you, of course ! (⸝⸝> ω <⸝⸝)

the first rule of being satoru gojo was simple: you never, ever went down on a girl.

“it’s undignified,” he declared, leaning back in the worn-out frat house armchair, one leg slung over the arm. a bottle of cheap beer dangled from his fingers. “like, biologically, it makes no sense. you’re putting your face in a swamp. a swamp.i have standards.”

his friends—a chorus of nodding, beer-addled bros—laughed and clinked bottles in agreement. “preach, man!”

“seriously,” gojo continued, warming to his theme, his white hair glowing under the shitty fluorescent light. “what’s in it for me? the view is mid. the taste is questionable. naaah. my talents are better utilized elsewhere.” he gestured vaguely with the bottle. “let them worship me. that’s the natural order. i’m a giver, sure, but that’s just… not in my repertoire. ever.”

he said it with such absolute, unshakeable conviction that it became gospel in the frat house. gojo doesn’t eat pussy. it was a known fact, like the sky being blue or his ego being planetary in size.

cut to three hours later.

the same satoru gojo is currently buried so deep between your thighs he might need a rescue team. the arrogant smirk is gone, replaced by a look of single-minded, desperate devotion. his glasses are discarded somewhere on your bedroom floor.

“fuuuhhck,” he slurs, the word muffled against your skin as his tongue—that clever, wicked tongue he claimed was too good for this—lashes your clit in tight, frantic circles. “fuck, fuck, fuck… mmmh, so good…”

he’s not just doing it. he’s feasting. one large hand pins your hip to the mattress, the other is tangled in the sheets like he’s holding on for dear life. the wet, obscene sounds filling the room are coming from him as much as from you— slurps, groans, hungry hums that vibrate straight to your core. each flick of his tongue draws a new, breathy moan from him, a symphony of whines and low, possessive growls.

you card your fingers through his sweaty white hair, tugging gently. “t-thought you didn’t do this,” you gasp, arching into his mouth.

he pulls off just enough to growl, his lips and chin glistening. “shut up,” he breathes, pupils blown wide, looking utterly pussydrunk. a string of saliva connects his lower lip to your folds. “you taste like fucking heaven. ‘s different.” he nuzzles back in, inhaling deeply with a shuddering sigh. “god, you smell so good… mmph…” then he dives back in with a needy whimper, his nose pressing against you as he laps at your entrance, drinking you down like a man dying of thirst. every swallow is punctuated by a soft, satisfied groan from the back of his throat.

he’s lost all composure, all his cool, frat-boy posturing dissolved into a primal, whimpering mess. he moans into you, a continuous, low-pitched moans synced with the thrust of his tongue, his hips grinding uselessly against the mattress. when your legs start to shake around his head, he lets out a muffled, encouraging “yesssss, c’mon, baby, g-give it to me— n-need it s'bad—”

when you finally come, crying out his name, he doesn’t pull away. he rides out every pulse with his tongue, swallowing every drop, a deep, resonant sigh of pleasure vibrating against your oversensitive flesh until you’re pushing his head away, trembling and spent.

he collapses beside you, breathing raggedly, a dazed, blissed-out smile on his slick lips. he looks ruined, triumphant, and utterly, completely yours. he lets out a long, shaky exhale that’s almost a laugh.

“…okay,” he pants after a minute, turning to nuzzle your shoulder. he presses a lazy, open-mouthed kiss to your skin. “maybe i do go down. but only for you.” he licks his lips, still tasting you, and lets out another soft, involuntary sigh. “and you better not tell anyone.”

"we'll see about that," you just smile, running a thumb over his swollen lower lip.

princess treatment w/ choso ! (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)

choso is a firm believer that pretty girls like you shouldn’t have to do anything.

it’s not something he’s ever said out loud, not in those exact words, but you see it in the way he kneels at your feet when your evening slippers are pinching, in the way his hands steady your ankles as he slides them off. 

you see it in the careful, reverent way he unties the laces of your dress at night, his knuckles brushing your spine, his breath warm against the nape of your neck.

"cho, i can do that myself," you protest for the hundredth time, reaching for the hairbrush on your vanity. you’ve just returned from a work dinner, your face aching from smiling, your scalp tender from the weight of your responsibilities.

"don't be like that," he says softly, taking the brush from your hand. he’s already behind you, his reflection meeting yours in the mirror. he’s wearing a simple black sweater now, his pigtails undone, but he still looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room worth seeing. "let me help you."

"you’re going to spoil me rotten," you murmur, but you’re already sinking back against him, your eyes drifting shut as he starts working the brush through your hair in slow, even strokes. the bristles scrape gently against your scalp and you make a small, involuntary sound of pleasure.

"that’s the point," he says, his voice low. he sets the brush down and reaches for the cloth and cleansing oil. "you're too beautiful to even lift a finger, baby."

he’s wiping the rouge from your cheeks now, the kohl from your eyes. his touch is so gentle, so methodical, like he’s polishing something precious. you let him tilt your chin up, let him clean away the day’s mask. when he’s done, he presses a gentle kiss to your forehead.

"cmon, bed." he commands. not harshly—never harshly—but with the quiet authority of a man who knows exactly what you need.

you stand, your hand in his, and let him lead you to the mattress. he undresses you slowly, layer by layer, the silk pooling at your feet. when you’re down to your thin shift, he pulls back the covers and tucks you in like you’re something fragile.

"sleep," he whispers.

but you catch his wrist. you’re not sleepy. not anymore. the tiredness has shifted into something else, something warm and heavy low in your belly.

"stay," you plead.

he hesitates. "you’re tired."

"i want you," you clarify, your thumb stroking the inside of his wrist. "but i’m... i’m exhausted. but— but i want you— but i don't want to do anything—"

something dark flickers in his eyes. understanding. hunger. devotion.

"then don’t," he says. he climbs onto the bed, fully clothed, and crawls up your body until he’s hovering over you. "don’t do anything. don’t even think. just let me make you feel good."

-🐞

down in the basement is where you and rodrick spend most of your nights. sometimes he steals his susan's projector to 'corrupt' it with slasher and zombie movies. but most of the time he's smashing hi-toms to medium toms with his battered drum sticks.

you sit across the room on the couch, watching his toned arms peak out of his shirt. rodrick was never the one to exercise. he'd rather listen to his cds or eat mountains of hot dogs instead. but ever since he got loded diper together he's been doing his own kind of exercise. and god, is it working.

the sound of booming bass simmers into silence. rodrick looks at you expectantly, eager to hear your praise. "do you like that version better?"

you hum, his words going in your ear and pouring out the other, seeping down your neck. your eyes glued to his arms made your legs move under you. you pad over to him, "yeah, 's good." you murmur.

he tilts his head, "just good?" he notices how your eyes have practically glazed over. "is anyone in there?" he grins as he follows your gaze. you paw at him, your palms squeeze the firm ridges of his forearms. "arms are pretty."

"yeah? wanna see how pretty they can get?" he purrs as he pulls you into his lap.

~

you're draped over his lap, his legs keeping your legs spread. his thick arms wrap around your hips, his palm slips into your jeans. the pad of his finger feel your clothed bundle of nerves.

he murmurs close to your ear, "so beautiful. getting all worked up from my arms, hm?" you nod, grabbing at the muscle. "love your arms." he hums, "but you love my fingers more, don't you pretty?" his hand slips down under your panties, his pointer and middle finger swipe through your damp folds. the corner of his lips curl as he watches you gasp. "i knew it."

he's curling his digits, caressing your gummy walls. crying out, your head dips as moans spill from out your lips. his knuckles deep inside nudges your walls making you feel how truly deep he is.

leaning back in his stool, your back is pressed up against his chest, he spreads your legs wider, his fingers caress your sweet spot. a scream gets caught in your throat. you tense, feeling a knot tying in your lower stomach.

"you gonna cum? hm? all over my fingers?" he kisses down your throat, "or are you gonna cum all over my drums?" he grins at the look of your face: eyes and eyebrows scrunched up in ecstasy. "depends how good it feels. huh?"

in the matter of seconds, the knot tightens and blooms into release. the warmth settled in your bones. spurts of cum decorated rodrick's arms, dribbling down onto his jeans forming wet patches. you whimper, chasing the high.

rodrick heffley and his plastic girlfriend !

bf!rodrick who swore he'd never in a million years fall for one of the plastics. if you asked him who he fancied last year, he'd shrug and say, "dunno.. someone who'd wanna tour with the band. oh, and they can't wear pink. löded diper policy."

bf!rodrick who'd see you strutting down the hall, heels clicking as you transformed the linoleum floors into a runway. he'd sneer from his locker and chuck a spitball at you, muttering a snarky, "chicks dig bad boys!" to his bandmates.

bf!rodrick who asked you to be his girlfriend on prom night. he stood outside your house in formal clothes (in his definition, formal means anything that isn't pajamas) holding up a handmade sign that said, "you löded my diper when no one else would. will you let me be your böyfriend?" in sharpie. you scoffed at the sight, because did he seriously think he'd have the chance with you? get real.

bf!rodrick who thought he'd blown it big time seeing your initial reaction. he switched off the speakers, turned around and was ready to chuck the sign into the back of his van. you waltzed over to him, whispering a sarcastic, "as if" before grabbing his face and pulling him into a long kiss. "i'll be your girlfriend if you promise not to be a jerk."

bf!rodrick who treats you like an absolute goddess. he'll drive you around, blowing off his bandmates during practice saying he needs, 'girlfriend time'. he's actually started cleaning out his van regularly now to accommodate you.. and also because he's learnt a new concept called hi-jean or something. whatever, there's too many letters.

bf!rodrick who's grown used to the inevitable bling you've brought into his life. your stuff is cluttered around his room, juicy couture taking over his closet and adding a burst of glitter into his monochrome life. at his house parties, he'll have you attached at the hip the entire time because he likes showing you off ♡

bf!rodrick who will write corny love songs for you even if you make fun of him. he gets most of his songwriting inspiration from your relationship. his first album titled, "löve is an open dore" featured your voice in the background for an artistic touch, he said. if he really can't get out of practice, he'll let you sit on his lap and try his best not to bang your head with a drumstick.

bf!rodrick who lets you do his makeup before going on stage. he'll giggle as you pat down a generous amount of foundation on his cheeks, saying, "mom's gonna kill me.." as he passes you a stick of cream eyeliner. "she likes me, don't worry," you smile, placing a chaste kiss on his face and staining his cheek with bright red lip gloss.

bf!rodrick who's parents have become incredibly fond of you. they'll invite you to family dinners, on christmas, easter, you name it. greg considers you part of the family now. they'll often joke and say, "we don't know what he'd do without you!" but there's a hint of sincerity in their words. they've never seen rodrick so happy.. and clean.

bf!rodrick who still wonders how he pulled you. one of the plastics dating a lanky drummer boy certainly wasn't on anyones bingo card this year, but here's the 4-1-1.. you and rodrick make such an oddly compatible couple that everyone else can only dream of a relationship like yours.

a/n "i'm not gonna write for any more fandoms" also me:

you have been pleasuring megumi for hours. he randomly came up to you, needy and whiny, asking you to help him out.

and you did.

you hold the vibrator against his length, watching his tip grow red as precum spills out. megumi squirms all over the place, but never pulls away from the wand.

you're shocked that he's still hard after everything. you gave him the best blowjob of his life, then gave him the trusty handjob, when that didn't help you moved onto the vibrator.

he's cum so many times, yet he's still so hard and whiny. you're not complaining though.

the vibrator feels electric on his cock, it vibrates on him perfectly, making him let out pathetic whines. sweat rolls down his temples as he breathes harshly from the sensitivity he's feeling.

it almost hurts. the delicious type of pain that makes you want more.

you lean down, licking the precum that's leaking from his burning tip. he lets out a whiny moan, gripping your hair harshly as he rubs his tip against your tongue. he tastes so good and you can't help but give a small suck to his tip.

he nearly shoots cum in your mouth. "oh, fuck! don't do that! gonna make me cum."

you laugh at him. "isn't that the goal, pretty boy?"

he doesn't say anything. his chest heaves as he feels his high coming. he tightens his grip on your hair and pushes you closer to his tip. you're still holding the vibrator against his length.

"suck, please!" he whines, whimpers, and cries out. you listen to him, never ignoring his beautiful pleas. you lick his tip softly before sucking his tip harshly. his hips lift off the bed as he cums in your mouth.

he cries out in pleasure, pushing his cock deeper into your mouth, fucking your mouth sloppily.

when he pulls out his eyes are dazed. he pants, slumping against the headboard of the bed. he sighs softly.

"one more time. please. i'll be a good boy."

you can't say no to him.

megumi presses his lips against your inner thigh, kissing the plush skin softly. he knows you're nervous, he's even more nervous. he's never done this before, he doesn't even know how.

he watched tutorials on youtube, though he would never admit it. he even asked yuji, who was no help.

but now laying here with you, he thinks he's got this. his nose brushes your clothed mound gently as he looks up and meets your eyes.

"just trust me, yeah?"

you nod, cheeks flushed. he smiles and kisses the mound softly before hooking his finger and pulling the fabric away from you. you gasp, still nervous.

he kisses your bare mound, taking his sweet time with getting you to calm down.

"lift your hips, sweets."

you do as he says and he slides your panties off. now you're bare in front of him, stomach curling in knots of nervousness. he stares at your pretty pussy, wet and pretty, just for him.

he reaches a hand up and intertwines his fingers with yours.

"it's okay." he kisses your thigh. "are you sure you want this? we don't have to."

you nod. "please, gumi."

he hums, sliding a finger over your slit. you twitch, letting out a deep breath. its a new feeling.

megumi presses a kiss to your slit, slipping his tongue inside. his tongue is warm as he licks your slick. it feels good, the warmth, the wetness, his nose pressed on your skin.

he kisses your clit gently, giving it kitten licks that make you squirm. you whine softly, hips unconsiously trying to get more friction.

he keeps his fingers intertwined in yours, enjoying the warmth your provide. his tongue dives deeper, spit mixing with your arousal. his chin gets messy and he licks all over.

your whines and sighs start to get into his head as he licks faster, now learning to suck on your clit. it makes you gasp loudly and megumi figures out pretty quickly that it feels good for you.

he gives harsh sucks on your clit, hand squeezing yours softly, a promise that he's still there.

you start to get extra squirmy, rutting your pussy on his face and he can tell you're close. your whines come out more frequently and then you stop, toes curling and hips trembling softly.

he smiles against you, giving sweet sucks on your bud, kissing and licking till your hand meets his forehead and pushes him away.

his lips are messy but he looks in awe of you.

"you're sweet." he whispers. you smile, dazed.

he lays next to you, licking his lips clean and pulls you into his chest.

he thinks he might have to start doing this every night.

࿁ 𑄹 ˙ . Satoru Gojo doesn’t do “no contact” . . .

:: cws :: hurt to comfort to fluff, established relationships, something short and sweet. 𓏲˚ ۪

The static on the line vibrates right against your eardrum. It’s 2:14 AM, and you’re tired. It’s been three weeks, twenty-one days of dead silence from your situationship slash talking stage slash man that’s not really your man. Your phone burns a hole through the dark on your nightstand. You don’t even say hello. You press the glass to your ear, listening to the heavy, uneven hitch of his breathing.

"Hey," he whispers.

The sound is raw, similar to sandpaper over silk. There’s none of that blinding, obnoxious Gojo Satoru theater in his voice, it’s the quiet, hollowed-out weight of a man who hasn't slept in a month.

"Satoru?" Your voice is small, thick with sleep.

the kitchen smells like garlic, butter, and whatever expensive seasoning satoru bought last week because apparently “regular salt is boring.”

you’re standing at the stove stirring dinner while quietly regretting ever teaching your husband how to cook.

not because he’s bad at it, unfortunately, he’s annoyingly good.

but because now he treats the kitchen like his personal playground whenever you’re inside it.

“whatcha makin’?” satoru asks for the fourth time in ten minutes.

you don’t even turn around. “food.”

“woaah,” he gasps dramatically behind you. “really?”

you sigh.

already, you can feel him hovering nearby.

he never just stands normally either. no. he leans against counters dramatically, stretches himself over your shoulder unnecessarily, or wraps himself around you like an oversized cat who thinks personal space is offensive.

today seems to be one of those days.

before you can react, long arms slide around your waist from behind, pulling you flush against his chest.

“satoru,” you warn immediately.

“what?” he hums innocently against your shoulder.

“i’m cooking.”

“and?”

“and you’re attached to me.”

“exactly.”

you close your eyes briefly. this man.

“go sit down.”

“don’t wanna.”

of course he doesn’t.

he rests his chin on your shoulder now, white hair tickling your cheek while he watches the pan like he’s genuinely interested in what you’re doing.

“…yer stirring too aggressively.”

you stop mid-motion, then slowly turn your head toward him.

“i’m sorry?”

“mhm,” he nods seriously. “the vegetables are scared.”

you stare at him flatly, he grins immediately.

there it is.

that stupid grin that says he knows exactly how annoying he’s being.

“you’re unbearable,” you mutter, turning back toward the stove.

“but ya love me.”

and you can’t even argue against it. because you do, way too much honestly.

you try focusing again, ignoring the way his fingers lazily tap against your stomach while he sways both of you side to side slightly.

for exactly twelve seconds.

then, 

“baby.”

you sigh. “what.”

“kiss.”

“i’m cooking.”

“multitask.”

you snort despite yourself. instantly, he notices.

“there’s the laugh i wanted,” he says proudly.

you roll your eyes. “you’re acting like a child.”

“yeah, but i’m your child.”

“that is absolutely not romantic.”

“worked though.”

before you can respond, he suddenly steals the spoon from your hand.

“satoru-”

he takes a dramatic taste directly from it, humming thoughtfully like he’s judging a five-star restaurant.

“…needs more love.”

you blink.

“love?”

“mhm.”

“that’s not an ingredient.”

“sure it is.” he points the spoon toward you accusingly. “yer cooking while annoyed at me. the food can tell.”

you laugh again, quieter this time.

he’s impossible.

and somehow fully aware that making you laugh is exactly how he gets away with everything.

he beams the second he hears it, immediately tightening his arms around you.

“there it is.”

“you’re insane.”

“and yet ya married me anyway.”

fair.

you shake your head, reaching for the spoon again, but instead of giving it back immediately, he lifts it higher out of reach.

“satoru.”

“say please.”

you narrow your eyes. “i’m going to hit you with this pan.”

“violent. scary. terrifying even.”

“…satoru.”

he grins,  then finally hands it back only to immediately steal a kiss from your cheek while you’re distracted.

you let out an annoyed sound, but he just laughs softly against your skin.

“worth it.”

you swear he gets clingier the longer you’re married. not less.

because now he follows you everywhere around the apartment like he physically cannot handle being more than three feet away from you.

and the worst part?

you’re used to it now.

used to the random kisses, the constant touching and the dramatic whining whenever you don’t give him attention immediately.

“baby,” he says again suddenly.

you point the spoon toward him threateningly. “if you ask for another kiss while i’m holding hot oil, i’m divorcing you.”

he gasps loudly.

“wow. so this is what our marriage has become?”

“you caused this.”

“false,” he says immediately. “i’m adorable.”

you finally turn toward him fully, raising a brow.

“…adorable.”

“mhm.”

“…not annoying?”

“both can exist.”

you hate that he’s right.

satoru notices your expression immediately and lights up like he’s won something.

“you think i’m cute.”

“i think you should leave my kitchen.”

instead of listening, he pulls you closer again, large hands settling against your hips this time.

then, without warning-

he buries his face into your neck dramatically.

“missed you today,” he mumbles.

your expression softens instantly.

ah.

there it is, underneath all the teasing, he just wanted attention.

you sigh quietly, setting the spoon down before reaching up to run your fingers through his hair.

immediately, he melts against you, completely.

“you saw me this morning,” you murmur.

“too long ago.”

“…you’re needy.”

“only for you.”

his voice is quieter now, warmer.

and suddenly the teasing husband act slips just enough for you to see the softer part underneath it.

the real part.

you smile despite yourself, scratching lightly against his scalp.

“okay,” you whisper. “you can stay.”

he lifts his head immediately, grinning like he just won the lottery.

“sick. what’re we making?”

a/n : first time writing for gojo 👀👀 yall is this mic on 👀👀. tysm for reading and other than that theres nothing more to add !!

𝐤𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐞, 𝐭𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐫, 2026. 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞, 𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲, 𝐨𝐫 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐢.

asking them if they've ever...you know... ft. stoner!sugawara, enemies to lovers!kita, loser!kuroo, and bully!osamu

<- back to masterlist

CHAPTER FOURTEEN: hearsay

the only shocking thing about ryomen sukuna was that he was a surprisingly good boyfriend. like, embarrassingly good to you.

he was still the occasional dickhead, obviously. but at least he nice about it. he always went at your pace, never pushed when you got shy or overwhelmed, never made you feel stupid for needing reassurance. hell, he even showed up with a bouquet of lilies for your first “official” date with him.

and the date itself wasn’t anything extravagant either. no fancy rooftop reservation, no over the top attempt to sweep you off your feet. just a quiet little restaurant tucked between buildings, warm lighting spilling across wooden tables while soft music played somewhere overhead.

simple. intimate. perfect for you.

a secluded booth in the corner, sukuna sitting across from you with an unfairly soft look in his eyes whenever you got shy and toyed with your food.

and you were doing fairly well. right up until the date ended that is.

because now here you were, heart hammering violently against your ribs, butterflies wrecking your stomach as you hurried, nearly ran, toward your apartment door, leaving behind one very confused sukuna standing a few steps away.

which, in hindsight, probably wasn’t the smoothest way to end a date with your boyfriend.