becertainlust

[becertainlust]

Hi! I hope you're having a good day today! This is my first time requesting a drabble (?) I recently started watching mha for the first time, and katsuki and shoto caught my eye ><

I really reallyyy love your fics! Especially the bakugo ones 🧎‍♀️ I was wondering if you could do a drabble of katsuki and shoto with this type of scenario that I saw on insta. [https://www.instagram.com/reel/DGfb89xTp59/?igsh=MWR5cW1reTg3aWJ1dg==] It's just soooo giving katsuki and shoto 😭 You could add more twists into it if you like to! I'd love to see how you would fit the scenario for each of them ^ ^

Thank you in advance if ever you accept this request >< (It's also fine if you don't want to !)

LOVE YA! | Katsuki Bakugo

synopsis: Mirror me baby.

content: fluff.

You knew you shouldn’t have gone.

High school reunions were a recipe for disaster. Especially when the same fake-nice girls who used to whisper behind your back now acted like they were doing you a favor by acknowledging you at all. They hadn’t changed—not really. Just more polished now. More venom behind the veneers.

“So, you say you have a boyfriend?” That was the moment the whole night went downhill.

Oh?” They leaned in, saccharine curiosity dripping from every word. “Funny we haven’t seen him. Must be... long distance?”

“Nah,” you said coolly, “he’s real. He’s just not into this fake crap.”

They laughed like you’d said something adorable. Like you were making him up.

You clenched your jaw, rage bubbling in your chest like a firework ready to blow. And then—like the gods heard your prayers—the distant rumble of a motorcycle echoed through the lot outside the banquet hall.

One of the girls frowned. “What the—”

You didn't even bother responding.

You grabbed your purse, manuvered through the crowd, and stepped outside just as a sleek black motorcycle rolled into view, engine snarling like a beast on a leash. The rider pulled to a smooth stop, boots scraping against the asphalt, and pulled off his helmet.

Blonde hair, sharp eyes, familiar scowl.

Katsuki Bakugo.

“Hey, baby,” he growled, voice low and lazy as his crimson eyes locked on yours. “Sorry I’m late.”

Bakugo swung one leg off the bike, the engine growling low before cutting to silence. He pulled off his helmet, tousled blond hair sticking up in all directions, and set the helmet on his thigh like he had all the time in the world. His crimson gaze locked onto you, sharp and unreadable—until the corner of his mouth tugged up.

He leaned against his bike, and you neared just close enough that the smell of smoke and sweat and something sharp—him—wrapped around you like armor.

Without a word, he reached up and gently swept your hair back, fingers brushing your temple like he owned the moment. Then, quick and sure, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

You blinked, heat rushing to your cheeks as his lips ghosted your skin.

"You're messing up my hair," you muttered, but your voice was soft—traitorous.

"Hah," he drawled, cocking a brow. "You’ll live."

From behind, the soft chorus of stunned, hushed gasps was everything you needed.

Bakugo handed you the spare helmet like it was part of the show, the picture of unbothered authority.

“You coming or what?” he asked, throwing his leg over his bike, "They look boring too"

You smiled, throwing a teasing fist into his shoulder, turning just enough to catch the stunned expressions frozen on their faces.

"Sorry for my sudden leave, get home safe"

You slid on the helmet and didn’t look back.

The bike roared beneath you, a living, breathing machine as Bakugo tore through the city streets like they were his to command. Neon lights blurred into streaks of color—red, blue, gold—reflected on wet asphalt, the rush of wind curling around your body, tugging at your clothes, ripping laughter straight from your lungs.

You clung to him, not out of fear, but want. The kind of grip that said, don’t slow down.

He weaved effortlessly through traffic, every turn sharp and smooth, every stoplight a suggestion he didn’t feel the need to obey. You felt alive—more than alive. The cold night air stung your cheeks, but your chest burned with adrenaline, heat, and something wild.

Then his voice crackled through the small speaker embedded in your helmet, low and rough.

“Still think I messed up your hair?”

You huffed a breathless laugh, pressed flush to his back, your chin brushing the collar of his jacket.

“You did,” you shot back, lips curling. “And I’m not forgiving you just because you look hot doing it.”

“mmm. That so?”

The bike surged forward faster—like it reacted to his mood, his ego, his everything. You yelped, but your grin stretched wider.

“Katsuki!”

“Hold on, princess,” he drawled through the comm, that smugness laced with something dangerous. “If we’re gonna show off, might as well really show off.”

You tightened your grip, heart hammering. Street signs whipped by, your laughter tangling with the roar of the engine and the beat of the night. Behind you was a banquet hall full of ghosts. But right now? You were fire in motion.

And Bakugo? He was the spark that lit the fuse.

The city flew by in a rush of sound and color, the cool night air tangling your hair, the scent of rain-slick pavement mixing with the burn of Bakugo’s speed. Streetlights and signs blurred past, but you didn’t care—not when you were pressed against his back, not when the world felt this alive.

Then, through the comms, his voice cut in—gruff but calm, like this speed was nothing to him.

“I was thinkin’... we swing by the park.”

You blinked, still catching your breath. “Huh?”

“The one near the bay. Celebration night. Happens every fourth Friday—fireworks, food stalls, dumb shit like sparklers and dance tents.”

You smiled against the inside of your helmet, his version of romantic showing itself in fragments. “You wanna take me on a date?”

“What if i do?.”

But you could hear the smirk.

He turned off the main road, slowing as the hum of music and laughter floated through the air, glowing lights up ahead signaling the celebration already in full swing. The park shimmered—lanterns strung through the trees, families gathered on blankets, vendors hollering over grills.

Bakugo pulled into a shadowed edge of the lot and cut the engine. The sudden quiet was jarring, but your heart still thundered.

The park celebration buzzed in the distance—music thumping faintly beneath the chatter of families and friends, lanterns swaying above the crowds like lazy stars. Bakugo had parked just out of sight, the low rumble of the bike finally going quiet beneath you both. The night air was still, heavy with the scent of grilled food and fireworks waiting to be lit.

He moved to take off his helmet.

“Wait,” you said quickly, lifting a hand. “Don’t take it off yet.”

He stilled, brows furrowing beneath the visor. “What now?”

You gaze down into his visor, wincing at your wind-tossed reflection. Your hair was everywhere, and your lip gloss? Practically a memory. You fished a compact and tube of gloss from your bag like a girl on a mission.

Bakugo huffed beside you, leaning back on the seat with exaggerated impatience. “We’re just goin’ to a dumb park, not the Vogue”

You didn’t answer, too focused on swiping gloss back over your lips, fluffing your hair with quick fingers. Once satisfied, you clicked the gloss shut and turned to him.

“Alright. Now you can take it off.”

He scoffed, lifting his hands—but you reached first.

Carefully, you stepped between his legs, fingers brushing his wrists as you tilted his helmet up for him, slow and deliberate. His breath hitched just slightly when your eyes met through the lifting visor.

Your hands lingered on the edges of the helmet as you pushed it up and off, revealing his face inch by inch—the strong cut of his jaw, the flush creeping just beneath his cheekbones.

Oh.

He was blushing.

It wasn’t much—just a faint warmth rising to his ears, but for Katsuki Bakugo, it was practically neon.

You blinked, amused and smug. “Are you blushing?”

“mm—shut up,” he muttered, yanking the helmet the rest of the way off and setting it down hard on the bike. “It’s hot in there.”

You grinned, stepping back just enough to appreciate the view. The cuts of his glowing skin and broad shoulders almost making you want to chew him up.

“Sure it is.”

He didn’t look at you right away, rubbing the back of his neck. “You done fixin’ your damn lip gloss?”

“Yeah.” You slid your hand into his. “Let’s go my blushing boy”

He rolled his eyes, but let you lead the way, hand tight in yours.

Still blushing.

_________

a/n: sorry i took so long. I feel like this might have triggered a fic idea hold on...

[becertainlust]

I fear no reader insert fic matches or will ever match my freak🤷‍♀️(I'm beyond help)

[becertainlust]

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[becertainlust]

HIS FAVOUR | Gojo Satoru

synopsis: In a world where men can become Courtesans, Courtesan Gojo is the crown jewel in a velvet box no one dares to open too quickly. Gojo Satoru—pale blue-eyed, silver-tongued, with a smile that drips honey and arsenic.

You, a low-ranking maid working in the same establishment, are meant to blend into the walls. Invisible. Obedient. Quiet. But Gojo sees you—and that’s where the trouble begins.

When a twist of fate forces you into his orbit, the line between servant and temptation begins to blur. He’s fascinated by your restraint, your silence, your eyes that look through him instead of at him like the others. And you—despite every instinct to stay out of his way—find yourself drawn to the man behind the velvet mask.

But there are rules in places like this. Power games. Watchful eyes. And secrets that can destroy the both of you.

Because in a house built on illusion, the greatest danger is truth

content: Romance, Gojo Satoru x reader, courtesan! Gojo, Gojo Satoru is whipped, forbidden love, Drama, Slow Burn, Slow romance, Graphic Violence

Follow up on my Ao3 page

CHAPTER ONE

With practiced ease, you rhythmically tapped the gold incense shovel against the matching seal. The fragrance of calm sandalwood and rich amber—elegant, grounding—drifted into the air, even before a flame was added. You smile lightly now, as the flame takes, and the scented fumes rise through the incense burner’s ornate cover, curling like whispers into the stillness.

This was your morning ritual. Every dawn, without fail, you scented the hallway with care, allowing the fragrance to lead the day like a silent overture. The maids stood respectfully to the side, hands folded, heads slightly bowed, as the familiar blend perfumed the air—warm, steady, composed.

Once the incense had taken its place in the burner pot, you stepped back, and formation began. You moved at the head, and up the wide hallway, the Four Delicate Flowers—graceful, tranquil—glided into place, their movements fluid as Poetry.

And then—he appeared.

Gojo.

You often wondered if this was what the great Haiku poet Matsuo Bashō meant with his piece "a bee / staggers out / of the peony." Because that’s what it felt like, every time he entered— An elegant disruption. A creature drunk on beauty, too wild to sit still, too exquisite to ignore.

He didn’t walk so much as unfold, all languid limbs and impossible ease, as though the world had been made too narrow for him and he found it endlessly amusing. His silvery hair caught the golden light in defiant strands, and his blindfold—a silken navy today—clashed deliciously against the serenity of the morning. You frowned at that. Internally. Outwardly, you didn’t flinch.

Not when his boots clicked just a little too loud against the polished stone. Not when his smirk, half-lidded and lazy, swept down the hallway as if it belonged to him.

He paused. Always, just before he reached you. Letting the moment stretch. Letting your composure be tested in that invisible tug-of-war he so loved.

You didn’t give him the satisfaction. Not today.

“Good morning, Lord Gojo,” you intoned, bowing your head just enough to mark the gesture, not an inch more.

He tilted his head, a glint of something unspoken behind the veil of silk. “And a very fragrant morning to you,” he drawled. “You really do outdo yourself. The hallway smells like divinity and discipline had a child.”

A maid coughed lightly, stifling a laugh. You would address that later.

You turned, walking forward without offering him more than the barest nod. “The household moves on a precise rhythm, my lord. I trust you’ll keep pace?”

His chuckle was low, delighted. “You wound me. Haven’t I always kept pace with you, little temple bell?”

Your spine stiffened.

That name. That nickname, plucked from some long-forgotten moonlit festival and tossed casually back into the daylight like it meant nothing.

The Four Delicate Flowers gilded ahead, none betraying emotion, but the air seemed to still again—not from incense this time.

Gojo followed. Of course he did.

He always followed.

And yet… you never could tell if he was behind you.

Or circling. Or leading you somewhere you couldn’t see yet.

Like a bee, yes. Drunk on fragrance. Staggering.

But never lost.

Never harmless.

And certainly never just passing through.

After the procession concluded and the hall returned to stillness, you retreated to your private quarters. The incense still lingered in your sleeves and hair—faint sandalwood and amber, grounding you even as your thoughts threatened to drift where they shouldn’t.

You sat now beneath the latticed window, morning light dappling the low table set before you. The tray was prepared precisely as always—pickled plum, soft rice still steaming, delicate slices of sweet egg, and the miso with your preferred sliver of ginger root resting at the bottom.

You took your time, as you always did. One bite, one breath, one pause. Order, after all, was sacred. Until—

A tiny snicker cracked the air like a hairline fracture.

You glanced up. Mari, the youngest maid, stood to the side with her hands behind her back, rocking slightly on her heels. To her left, Aya was studiously looking at the ceiling, lips twitching. Kiko, the tallest of the three, cleared her throat too pointedly to be anything but suspicious.

“…What is it?” you asked coolly, letting your chopsticks rest gently in the dish.

Mari grinned, all dimples and no shame. “Nothing, my lady. You just look very… focused. Like the rice offended you personally.”

“I am focused,” you said, lifting another bite. “It’s called mindfulness.”

“It’s called eating your emotions,” Aya muttered, just loud enough to be heard.

Kiko added with faux solemnity, “Especially after someone’s Lord Gojo incident this morning.”

You didn’t answer immediately. You chewed. Swallowed. Set your chopsticks down with ceremonial grace.

And then, calmly, “The incident was that he arrived at all. Loud. Unwelcome. Unfiltered.”

“But pretty,” Mari said with a grin, not missing a beat.

“I didn’t say he wasn’t pretty,” you muttered, almost to yourself.

The maids howled—or would have, if they weren’t so well-trained. Instead, they all pressed hands to lips, shoulders shaking with barely contained laughter.

“Oh, she said it—she admitted it,” Aya sang in a whisper-shriek, dramatically fanning herself.

“I did not admit anything.”

“You did,” Kiko said, voice bright with mischief. “It’s okay, my lady. Even temple bells can chime for a pretty face.”

Mari, emboldened now, knelt beside your mat, her eyes shining. “Tell the truth. Do you light the incense hoping he comes around?”

You gave her a slow look. “If anything, I light it to keep him at bay. Perhaps next time I’ll try clove and mugwort.”

That earned another round of muffled giggles, but the mood had shifted—no longer teasing, but companionable, affectionate. These were your girls, your guards in the shadows, your second spine. They were allowed this softness. Even from you.

The day was set to be busy. More than 200 guests each day to cater to is no easy feat.  The most obnoxious collection makes haste on a Monday night.

Kiko began twisting her hair up, the way she always did before duty—tight coils pinned like armor. Mari reached for your robe, brushing imaginary lint from the sleeve before draping it over your shoulders with reverence more felt than shown. The sun had not yet created the ridge, but already, the air tasted of motion—hot rice, whetted blades, sandalwood smoke curling through the lattice windows.

A sharp knock at the outer screen broke the quiet.

“Enter,” you called, voice smooth.

A boy no older than twelve slipped in, eyes wide beneath a too-large helm. He bowed low, then raised his head just enough to speak.

“Madam Sora sends word—there is muddle from the southern lady who arrived with inquiry about Lord Satoru”

Your breath did not hitch, but Mari’s hands stilled on your sash.

“Here we go,” Kiko scoffed, already rising.

“She was turned from the Cypress Hall,” the boy went on, wringing the hem of his tunic, “but she insists she won’t leave until she’s been heard. Said her offering is—” he glanced up nervously, “of great feeling and worth.”

Kiko snorted. “If it jingles, it’s not love. It’s leverage.”

Mari smoothed your sash the rest of the way, more gently now. “Shall we escort her out?”

You shook your head. “Not yet.”

With a nod, Kiko disappeared down the corridor, the soft jingle of her blade rings trailing behind her like the rattle of warning beads.

You turned to Mari. “Have them bring her to the east veranda. No guards, no show of force. Just tea.” You paused, then added, “And incense. Mugwort. For clarity.”

Mari gave a faint smile, already anticipating the reason.

The woman was no longer content with the veranda.

She entered your office with the grace of someone used to owning rooms. Her robes were brocade—excessive in this heat—and her scent followed like a herald: lotus and saffron, expensive enough to sting.

You did not stand.

She did not wait for invitation.

Instead, she placed the lacquered box on your desk with the same finality a general might drop a war map. “A token of appreciation,” she said. “From my house to yours.”

You gave it a glance. The lid had already shifted slightly in transit—enough to show the glint of gold coins inside. Real ones.

“Bribery,” you said flatly.

“Assurance,” she corrected, smiling sharp. “I’m aware Lord Satoru is… difficult to reach. But influence, as you know, requires initiative.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Influence implies understanding. Do you understand him?”

She did not blink. “I understand power. And men like him rarely bother with courtship. So I thought I’d make the effort… practical.”

Your gaze lingered on her for a long, silent beat.

“You think he can be claimed as a blade from the smithy. Paid for. Polished. Hung on your wall.”

“I think,” she replied, tone careful, “that you are the wall. And gold is a universal language.”

You stood now, slow and unimpressed. “Gojo Satoru is not some provincial swordsman looking for a patron. He is a storm wrapped in a smile. And not once has he been led by purse strings.”

Her smile faltered—just a flicker.

You stepped around the desk, closer. “He walks through your kind of coin like it’s dust. Try to purchase his regard, and you will lose both the gold and his gaze.”

She raised her chin, defiant still. “Then what does he respond to? Because I’ve seen how this house protects him—how you keep him hidden like a shrine relic.”

You met her eyes. “Because he is sacred to us. And like all sacred things, he answers to no one.”

Silence.

“I see,” she said, tone clipped. “Then consider the gesture withdrawn.”

“As you wish,” you replied.

She turned, spine straight, but her exit lacked the confidence of her entrance.

The scent of saffron lingered after she left—but it could not mask the faint, bitter curl of disappointment.

Mari stepped in moments later, expression unreadable. “Do we return the gold?”

You looked at the box for a long moment, then shook your head. “Deliver it to the treasury”

You lingered by the incense stand long after the woman had gone, fingers resting on the gold shovel, mind alight with a thousand unspoken words.

“You let her get under your skin,” came a voice, warm and weightless, like a smile sliding into forbidden places.

Gojo.

“I’m surprised,” he added, stepping into the light with the slow reverence of a man entering his favorite shrine. “You usually play these rejections like a koto—tight, clean, tuned.”

“She brought gold,” you said quietly.

“Tacky,” he replied. “If she knew anything about me, she’d have brought something shinier. Like honey.”

He was too close now. He always was. And yet the space between you felt like a battlefield neither dared cross.

You didn’t look at him.

Your fingers brushed over the incense grains in the shallow brass bowl, leveling the surface with idle precision. Each motion was controlled, casual—just enough to suggest indifference.

“Why have you come out?” you asked, voice even, gaze fixed on the soft gold shimmer beneath your fingertips.

He didn’t answer at first. Of course he didn’t. Gojo Satoru was allergic to straight lines—conversation, intention, emotion. Everything with him came in arcs and spirals, sweet detours that led you nowhere and everywhere all at once.

The silence stretched like silk—light, deceptive. And then:

“Can’t I simply want to bask in your company?” he said, with that draw like velvet dragged through mischief.

You scoffed softly, not unkindly. “Try again. But with less poetry and more honesty.”

A step closer. You felt it rather than heard it—his presence, big and bright and utterly irreverent. It always pressed into a space like it belonged, as though rooms were made to contain him, not the other way around.

You backed up, footsteps soft against the polished floorboards, a wordless protest—delicate, but firm. A quiet insistence that he not cross that invisible line you had drawn between presence and intrusion.

But he always pushed boundaries like they were made of silk.

Your hand brushed against warmth—solid, alive. The smooth line of his chest beneath the fabric of his robe. Your eyes lifted instinctively, catching the pale column of his throat, the relaxed set of his jaw, the quiet tilt of his head as if he were watching a candle flicker rather than watching you retreat.

Your gaze flicked up. Blue. Too much blue. His eyes were exposed tonight—no glasses, no blindfold, no layers to separate you from the searing weight of them.

And maybe that was the problem.

Your breath hitched. The contact had been brief, unintentional. But still too much. You withdrew your hand like it had been scorched, fingers curling in a half-fist before you forced them to still.

“You’re not supposed to be out as of now,” you said, quieter than you meant to. Not because you were afraid. But because something in his presence had always made noise feel unnecessary—irrelevant, even.

He blinked slowly, like a cat indulging amusement. “And yet,” he murmured, “here I am.”

There was no triumph in it. No smirk. Just the truth.

You tilted your chin, eyes narrowing. “You can’t keep showing up like this.”

“I don’t do it often,” he said, almost thoughtfully. “But when I do…”

“You upset the balance.”

He chuckled, low and soft. “I am the balance.”

“You’re the storm,” you corrected. “I’m the balance.”

The air thickened between you, scented with sandalwood and something unnameable—something distinctly him. His gaze flicked briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes.

“You didn’t answer me,” you said suddenly, swallowing the tremor in your voice. “Why are you really here?”

This time, the silence between you felt different. Not weighted. Not heavy. Just… still.

And when he spoke, his voice was quieter than before.

“I’m tired of watching you pretend not to see me.”

You look out across the balcony into the red light district. No matter the day, it thrums with life—glowing, breathing, seducing. A siren calls for the lonely, the lost, and the damned.

You exhale, sharp and quiet, like the breath had been hiding in your lungs too long.

Still, you don’t face him. You keep your eyes on the glow below, on the bodies slipping in and out of doors like shadows with skin.

“And what,” you ask, voice steady but soft, “are the benefits of my gaze?”

Now the silence turns heavier—thick, alive. You feel it press against your spine.

He doesn't answer right away. When he does, his voice is closer. Closer than before.

“When you look at me, I feel like I exist.”

That stops everything. The lights, the music, the echo of sin below—it all fades beneath the weight of his words.

“And when you don’t…” he pauses, and the hush that follows is devastating. “I start to wonder if I ever did.”

You stand there for a moment, letting his words settle. Letting them reach the part of you that had tried so hard to stay untouched.

“When you look at me, I feel like I exist.” “And when you don’t… I start to wonder if I ever did.”

Your grip tightens on the railing. Then loosens.

Finally, you turn. Slowly. Your gaze meets his—not soft, not cold, but steady. Controlled.

“You need to get a grip,” you say quietly, no venom, just truth. “Not everything you feel needs to be acted on.”

He doesn't flinch, barely—but you catch it. His jaw works, like he wants to argue. But he doesn’t.

“You’re tired. And this…” you gesture to the space between you, the unspoken ache hanging in the air, “this isn’t clarity. It’s exhaustion wearing perfume.”

You step past him, calm and purposeful, the scent of amber and rosewater trailing in your wake.

“Go get some rest,” you add over your shoulder. “Before you make a mistake.”

[becertainlust]

HIS FAVOUR | Gojo Satoru

synopsis: In a world where men can become Courtesans, Courtesan Gojo is the crown jewel in a velvet box no one dares to open too quickly. Gojo Satoru—pale blue-eyed, silver-tongued, with a smile that drips honey and arsenic.

You, a low-ranking maid working in the same establishment, are meant to blend into the walls. Invisible. Obedient. Quiet. But Gojo sees you—and that’s where the trouble begins.

When a twist of fate forces you into his orbit, the line between servant and temptation begins to blur. He’s fascinated by your restraint, your silence, your eyes that look through him instead of at him like the others. And you—despite every instinct to stay out of his way—find yourself drawn to the man behind the velvet mask.

But there are rules in places like this. Power games. Watchful eyes. And secrets that can destroy the both of you.

Because in a house built on illusion, the greatest danger is truth

content: Romance, Gojo Satoru x reader, courtesan! Gojo, Gojo Satoru is whipped, forbidden love, Drama, Slow Burn, Slow romance, Graphic Violence

Follow up on my Ao3 page

CHAPTER ONE

With practiced ease, you rhythmically tapped the gold incense shovel against the matching seal. The fragrance of calm sandalwood and rich amber—elegant, grounding—drifted into the air, even before a flame was added. You smile lightly now, as the flame takes, and the scented fumes rise through the incense burner’s ornate cover, curling like whispers into the stillness.

This was your morning ritual. Every dawn, without fail, you scented the hallway with care, allowing the fragrance to lead the day like a silent overture. The maids stood respectfully to the side, hands folded, heads slightly bowed, as the familiar blend perfumed the air—warm, steady, composed.

Once the incense had taken its place in the burner pot, you stepped back, and formation began. You moved at the head, and up the wide hallway, the Four Delicate Flowers—graceful, tranquil—glided into place, their movements fluid as Poetry.

And then—he appeared.

Gojo.

You often wondered if this was what the great Haiku poet Matsuo Bashō meant with his piece "a bee / staggers out / of the peony." Because that’s what it felt like, every time he entered— An elegant disruption. A creature drunk on beauty, too wild to sit still, too exquisite to ignore.

He didn’t walk so much as unfold, all languid limbs and impossible ease, as though the world had been made too narrow for him and he found it endlessly amusing. His silvery hair caught the golden light in defiant strands, and his blindfold—a silken navy today—clashed deliciously against the serenity of the morning. You frowned at that. Internally. Outwardly, you didn’t flinch.

Not when his boots clicked just a little too loud against the polished stone. Not when his smirk, half-lidded and lazy, swept down the hallway as if it belonged to him.

He paused. Always, just before he reached you. Letting the moment stretch. Letting your composure be tested in that invisible tug-of-war he so loved.

You didn’t give him the satisfaction. Not today.

“Good morning, Lord Gojo,” you intoned, bowing your head just enough to mark the gesture, not an inch more.

He tilted his head, a glint of something unspoken behind the veil of silk. “And a very fragrant morning to you,” he drawled. “You really do outdo yourself. The hallway smells like divinity and discipline had a child.”

A maid coughed lightly, stifling a laugh. You would address that later.

You turned, walking forward without offering him more than the barest nod. “The household moves on a precise rhythm, my lord. I trust you’ll keep pace?”

His chuckle was low, delighted. “You wound me. Haven’t I always kept pace with you, little temple bell?”

Your spine stiffened.

That name. That nickname, plucked from some long-forgotten moonlit festival and tossed casually back into the daylight like it meant nothing.

The Four Delicate Flowers gilded ahead, none betraying emotion, but the air seemed to still again—not from incense this time.

Gojo followed. Of course he did.

He always followed.

And yet… you never could tell if he was behind you.

Or circling. Or leading you somewhere you couldn’t see yet.

Like a bee, yes. Drunk on fragrance. Staggering.

But never lost.

Never harmless.

And certainly never just passing through.

After the procession concluded and the hall returned to stillness, you retreated to your private quarters. The incense still lingered in your sleeves and hair—faint sandalwood and amber, grounding you even as your thoughts threatened to drift where they shouldn’t.

You sat now beneath the latticed window, morning light dappling the low table set before you. The tray was prepared precisely as always—pickled plum, soft rice still steaming, delicate slices of sweet egg, and the miso with your preferred sliver of ginger root resting at the bottom.

You took your time, as you always did. One bite, one breath, one pause. Order, after all, was sacred. Until—

A tiny snicker cracked the air like a hairline fracture.

You glanced up. Mari, the youngest maid, stood to the side with her hands behind her back, rocking slightly on her heels. To her left, Aya was studiously looking at the ceiling, lips twitching. Kiko, the tallest of the three, cleared her throat too pointedly to be anything but suspicious.

“…What is it?” you asked coolly, letting your chopsticks rest gently in the dish.

Mari grinned, all dimples and no shame. “Nothing, my lady. You just look very… focused. Like the rice offended you personally.”

“I am focused,” you said, lifting another bite. “It’s called mindfulness.”

“It’s called eating your emotions,” Aya muttered, just loud enough to be heard.

Kiko added with faux solemnity, “Especially after someone’s Lord Gojo incident this morning.”

You didn’t answer immediately. You chewed. Swallowed. Set your chopsticks down with ceremonial grace.

And then, calmly, “The incident was that he arrived at all. Loud. Unwelcome. Unfiltered.”

“But pretty,” Mari said with a grin, not missing a beat.

“I didn’t say he wasn’t pretty,” you muttered, almost to yourself.

The maids howled—or would have, if they weren’t so well-trained. Instead, they all pressed hands to lips, shoulders shaking with barely contained laughter.

“Oh, she said it—she admitted it,” Aya sang in a whisper-shriek, dramatically fanning herself.

“I did not admit anything.”

“You did,” Kiko said, voice bright with mischief. “It’s okay, my lady. Even temple bells can chime for a pretty face.”

Mari, emboldened now, knelt beside your mat, her eyes shining. “Tell the truth. Do you light the incense hoping he comes around?”

You gave her a slow look. “If anything, I light it to keep him at bay. Perhaps next time I’ll try clove and mugwort.”

That earned another round of muffled giggles, but the mood had shifted—no longer teasing, but companionable, affectionate. These were your girls, your guards in the shadows, your second spine. They were allowed this softness. Even from you.

The day was set to be busy. More than 200 guests each day to cater to is no easy feat.  The most obnoxious collection makes haste on a Monday night.

Kiko began twisting her hair up, the way she always did before duty—tight coils pinned like armor. Mari reached for your robe, brushing imaginary lint from the sleeve before draping it over your shoulders with reverence more felt than shown. The sun had not yet created the ridge, but already, the air tasted of motion—hot rice, whetted blades, sandalwood smoke curling through the lattice windows.

A sharp knock at the outer screen broke the quiet.

“Enter,” you called, voice smooth.

A boy no older than twelve slipped in, eyes wide beneath a too-large helm. He bowed low, then raised his head just enough to speak.

“Madam Sora sends word—there is muddle from the southern lady who arrived with inquiry about Lord Satoru”

Your breath did not hitch, but Mari’s hands stilled on your sash.

“Here we go,” Kiko scoffed, already rising.

“She was turned from the Cypress Hall,” the boy went on, wringing the hem of his tunic, “but she insists she won’t leave until she’s been heard. Said her offering is—” he glanced up nervously, “of great feeling and worth.”

Kiko snorted. “If it jingles, it’s not love. It’s leverage.”

Mari smoothed your sash the rest of the way, more gently now. “Shall we escort her out?”

You shook your head. “Not yet.”

With a nod, Kiko disappeared down the corridor, the soft jingle of her blade rings trailing behind her like the rattle of warning beads.

You turned to Mari. “Have them bring her to the east veranda. No guards, no show of force. Just tea.” You paused, then added, “And incense. Mugwort. For clarity.”

Mari gave a faint smile, already anticipating the reason.

The woman was no longer content with the veranda.

She entered your office with the grace of someone used to owning rooms. Her robes were brocade—excessive in this heat—and her scent followed like a herald: lotus and saffron, expensive enough to sting.

You did not stand.

She did not wait for invitation.

Instead, she placed the lacquered box on your desk with the same finality a general might drop a war map. “A token of appreciation,” she said. “From my house to yours.”

You gave it a glance. The lid had already shifted slightly in transit—enough to show the glint of gold coins inside. Real ones.

“Bribery,” you said flatly.

“Assurance,” she corrected, smiling sharp. “I’m aware Lord Satoru is… difficult to reach. But influence, as you know, requires initiative.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Influence implies understanding. Do you understand him?”

She did not blink. “I understand power. And men like him rarely bother with courtship. So I thought I’d make the effort… practical.”

Your gaze lingered on her for a long, silent beat.

“You think he can be claimed as a blade from the smithy. Paid for. Polished. Hung on your wall.”

“I think,” she replied, tone careful, “that you are the wall. And gold is a universal language.”

You stood now, slow and unimpressed. “Gojo Satoru is not some provincial swordsman looking for a patron. He is a storm wrapped in a smile. And not once has he been led by purse strings.”

Her smile faltered—just a flicker.

You stepped around the desk, closer. “He walks through your kind of coin like it’s dust. Try to purchase his regard, and you will lose both the gold and his gaze.”

She raised her chin, defiant still. “Then what does he respond to? Because I’ve seen how this house protects him—how you keep him hidden like a shrine relic.”

You met her eyes. “Because he is sacred to us. And like all sacred things, he answers to no one.”

Silence.

“I see,” she said, tone clipped. “Then consider the gesture withdrawn.”

“As you wish,” you replied.

She turned, spine straight, but her exit lacked the confidence of her entrance.

The scent of saffron lingered after she left—but it could not mask the faint, bitter curl of disappointment.

Mari stepped in moments later, expression unreadable. “Do we return the gold?”

You looked at the box for a long moment, then shook your head. “Deliver it to the treasury”

You lingered by the incense stand long after the woman had gone, fingers resting on the gold shovel, mind alight with a thousand unspoken words.

“You let her get under your skin,” came a voice, warm and weightless, like a smile sliding into forbidden places.

Gojo.

“I’m surprised,” he added, stepping into the light with the slow reverence of a man entering his favorite shrine. “You usually play these rejections like a koto—tight, clean, tuned.”

“She brought gold,” you said quietly.

“Tacky,” he replied. “If she knew anything about me, she’d have brought something shinier. Like honey.”

He was too close now. He always was. And yet the space between you felt like a battlefield neither dared cross.

You didn’t look at him.

Your fingers brushed over the incense grains in the shallow brass bowl, leveling the surface with idle precision. Each motion was controlled, casual—just enough to suggest indifference.

“Why have you come out?” you asked, voice even, gaze fixed on the soft gold shimmer beneath your fingertips.

He didn’t answer at first. Of course he didn’t. Gojo Satoru was allergic to straight lines—conversation, intention, emotion. Everything with him came in arcs and spirals, sweet detours that led you nowhere and everywhere all at once.

The silence stretched like silk—light, deceptive. And then:

“Can’t I simply want to bask in your company?” he said, with that draw like velvet dragged through mischief.

You scoffed softly, not unkindly. “Try again. But with less poetry and more honesty.”

A step closer. You felt it rather than heard it—his presence, big and bright and utterly irreverent. It always pressed into a space like it belonged, as though rooms were made to contain him, not the other way around.

You backed up, footsteps soft against the polished floorboards, a wordless protest—delicate, but firm. A quiet insistence that he not cross that invisible line you had drawn between presence and intrusion.

But he always pushed boundaries like they were made of silk.

Your hand brushed against warmth—solid, alive. The smooth line of his chest beneath the fabric of his robe. Your eyes lifted instinctively, catching the pale column of his throat, the relaxed set of his jaw, the quiet tilt of his head as if he were watching a candle flicker rather than watching you retreat.

Your gaze flicked up. Blue. Too much blue. His eyes were exposed tonight—no glasses, no blindfold, no layers to separate you from the searing weight of them.

And maybe that was the problem.

Your breath hitched. The contact had been brief, unintentional. But still too much. You withdrew your hand like it had been scorched, fingers curling in a half-fist before you forced them to still.

“You’re not supposed to be out as of now,” you said, quieter than you meant to. Not because you were afraid. But because something in his presence had always made noise feel unnecessary—irrelevant, even.

He blinked slowly, like a cat indulging amusement. “And yet,” he murmured, “here I am.”

There was no triumph in it. No smirk. Just the truth.

You tilted your chin, eyes narrowing. “You can’t keep showing up like this.”

“I don’t do it often,” he said, almost thoughtfully. “But when I do…”

“You upset the balance.”

He chuckled, low and soft. “I am the balance.”

“You’re the storm,” you corrected. “I’m the balance.”

The air thickened between you, scented with sandalwood and something unnameable—something distinctly him. His gaze flicked briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes.

“You didn’t answer me,” you said suddenly, swallowing the tremor in your voice. “Why are you really here?”

This time, the silence between you felt different. Not weighted. Not heavy. Just… still.

And when he spoke, his voice was quieter than before.

“I’m tired of watching you pretend not to see me.”

You look out across the balcony into the red light district. No matter the day, it thrums with life—glowing, breathing, seducing. A siren calls for the lonely, the lost, and the damned.

You exhale, sharp and quiet, like the breath had been hiding in your lungs too long.

Still, you don’t face him. You keep your eyes on the glow below, on the bodies slipping in and out of doors like shadows with skin.

“And what,” you ask, voice steady but soft, “are the benefits of my gaze?”

Now the silence turns heavier—thick, alive. You feel it press against your spine.

He doesn't answer right away. When he does, his voice is closer. Closer than before.

“When you look at me, I feel like I exist.”

That stops everything. The lights, the music, the echo of sin below—it all fades beneath the weight of his words.

“And when you don’t…” he pauses, and the hush that follows is devastating. “I start to wonder if I ever did.”

You stand there for a moment, letting his words settle. Letting them reach the part of you that had tried so hard to stay untouched.

“When you look at me, I feel like I exist.” “And when you don’t… I start to wonder if I ever did.”

Your grip tightens on the railing. Then loosens.

Finally, you turn. Slowly. Your gaze meets his—not soft, not cold, but steady. Controlled.

“You need to get a grip,” you say quietly, no venom, just truth. “Not everything you feel needs to be acted on.”

He doesn't flinch, barely—but you catch it. His jaw works, like he wants to argue. But he doesn’t.

“You’re tired. And this…” you gesture to the space between you, the unspoken ache hanging in the air, “this isn’t clarity. It’s exhaustion wearing perfume.”

You step past him, calm and purposeful, the scent of amber and rosewater trailing in your wake.

“Go get some rest,” you add over your shoulder. “Before you make a mistake.”

[becertainlust]

Synopsis: Jerking off Sanji Vinsmoke+ making out

There are countless ways to describe Sanji. And somehow, you find yourself discovering new ones every day. His smile—boyish, tender, and dazzling—might just be the cutest thing you’ve ever seen. The way he dotes on you, completely and without hesitation, sends your heart rocketing past the stars. It’s in the little things, too—how your chest tightens when he lazily lifts your hand and presses soft kisses to your fingers during quiet moments together. With Sanji, even silence feels like poetry.

The main cook—or better yet, the cook—of the Straw Hats is nothing short of priceless. Sanji doesn’t just hold the title; he cherishes it. With every dish, he pours in pride, precision, and heart, nourishing his crew not just back to strength, but to full percentages, as if refueling their very souls.

You held an important place on the crew—just like everyone else. But your favorite role, by far, was carrying out your girlfriend duties: smothering the blond in warm hugs and sneaky kisses when he least expected them.

Sanji would prance around from kitchen to drawing room, immersing himself tirelessly into accounting books, head pounding as he worked out the food list for the next three months. Whether believing ,he was human. He was. He was just as flawed, just as real, and just as breathtakingly beautiful.

Now, in the quiet dark of night, his fluffy golden hair is pinned back, revealing his face more clearly than usual. His stunning blue eyes are cloudy, heavy with exhaustion and more heat, as he struggles to steady his breathing. Even undone, he’s a vision. One only you get to see like this.

You held his cheek softly and like a prayer you whispering filth softly against lips, only wanting him to hear. You pulled back, smiling softly, this was all fun and honor in your eyes—getting to take care of your love.

Human like anyone else he needed care. You kissed his nose and forehead watching him writhe under your teasing touches—menace to the leaking head of his weeping dick, so pretty and so pink, and pearling prettily at the tip-top.

He could feel himself trembling softly against your touch, his body burning with fever and his senses drowning in a delicious mix of heat and pleasure. Every soft caress felt like a soothing balm against his burning skin, a sweet and blissful torture that made him shiver and moan softly. His blue eyes fixed on you, clouded with desire and heat, as he tried to focus on your lips and the sweet words you were whispering.

Every inch of him was on fire, the fever coursing through his veins like molten lava, the heat making his skin feel almost too tight for his body. He couldn't help but give into the sweet sensation of your touch, his body arching up involuntarily at the feel of your fingers tracing a gentle path down his chest. "Please," he gasped, his voice hoarse and choked with want. "More."

You could see the desperation in his lust-filled eyes, how his breath hitched and his body trembled underneath your touch. His skin was burning hot, as if he had a fever that only you could soothe. You could see the way his lips parted to let out a soft moan of pleasure as your touch became bolder, a shiver running down his spine when you kissed a sensitive spot on his neck. He wanted, no, needed more. He needed you. "Please," he gasped again, "More. Don't stop."

You were spoiled. Seeing him in every way imaginable. Whether it be ravishing you or loving on you you were always satisfied. But this ache to witness him beg remained on your mind, and he too saw how much you wanted to help—making efforts to initiate something but you would pathetically backout.

He had been waiting, watching as you shy away from him, holding back the want that you clearly felt for him. And now, with him laid bare and vulnerable before you, there was nothing to hide behind. He was at your mercy.

The air was thick with heat, the silence between you heavy and charged. He could see the way you were looking at him, the way your eyes flickered, dragging your gaze over his body, taking in every inch of him, and he could feel the hunger growing in them with every passing moment. He couldn't remember the last time he had felt this raw, this vulnerable, and yet here he was.

His breathing was ragged, his heart pounding in his chest as he waited, his eyes never leaving your face. He could feel the heat radiating off of you, the electricity crackling in the air between you as he sits there, twitching under your strokes.

Every movement you made sent a jolt of pleasure through him, his breath catching in his throat as he gripped your thigh even tighter. He looked up at you, eyes hazy with lust, a silent plea in his gaze. He bends forward, his slender fingers squeezing at your thigh every turn under the head of his dick.

You lean your face before him, oh-so sweetly, "Do you feel good Sanji?" you whispered, heat rising into your cheeks by the minute.

You tried your best uphold the front, that was leaking away the more you pushed his reactions, a growing warmth spreading in your lower stomach.

He watched, his eyes hazy with desire, as you made a mess of him. He loved seeing the pleasure he caused, the way your face burned at his intense gaze, the way your breath hitched at his touch. He knew he was the one in control, but at the same time, he knew he was entirely at your mercy. He knew that you could make him fall apart with a single touch, and he loved every moment of it.

He swallowed hard, his throat dry from how quickly his breathing had become. He could feel himself slowly losing control, completely at your mercy, as you continued to make a mess of him. He could see the look in your eyes, the hunger and desire for him, and it made his heart race even more. He knew that you were enjoying this just as much as he was, and that only fueled his desire even further.

You leaned forward, capturing his lips in a short kiss. Your soft lips molding to his own. Teasing and hot. His breath would hitch when you experimentally squeeze the the base of hiss cock dragging it firmer up.

Truly he couldn't take it anymore. He leaned into you, leaning into your pillowy lips. Carving into you, a deep kiss holding your bottom lip hungrily with a small groan escaping his chest.

"You're doing so well" he praised, smoothing your hair with both hands, cupping the back of your head tenderly. You increased your efforts, the pace of your actions matching the rhythm of his kiss, your own body responding to his touch with a soft bite of your lip. You craved more, needed to hear him more.

He cursed softly letting his forehead rest to yours. His body was way to hot, his head spinning with the heat of it all. He then smiled so beautifully like his cares were being lifted. He hooked his hand in your hair softly, "you're making me feel so good" he captures your lips in another kiss and whispered 'I love you' like prayers.

You licked your lips, pacing faster his eyes falling to a close as you felt prominent jerks into your slick palm, you pushed him upright, allowing saliva to fall onto his strained dick, another curse muffled with his hand unwoven from your hair.

"Fuck" his eyes rolled back, head bobbing forward. You stroked him a tad bit tighter thumbing over the head where you added more spit, so slippery and easy to pass through your palm, you, in awe at the wetness that tricked down his balls onto the sheet below.

You groaned at the sight before you, his hip bucked up, a hand finding grounding at the back of your neck and his warning faltering behind the bold shots of cum to his chest, and an obscene amount coating your hand and you continued your ministrations, carrying him through the sparks in his vision, jerks erupting from his core where then, he began to groan deeply, "enough my—fuck, love enough" he weakly pushing your hand away.

[becertainlust]

FUCK.

୨୧﹕fem!reader, shy while ichi dirty talks

ichigo's mouth is filthy.

that’s the part you hadn’t prepared for—the part no one warns you about when they talk about how protective he is, how noble, how hotheaded and stubborn and impossibly good. no one tells you that once he’s inside you, once your legs are around his waist and your pussy’s clenching down on him, that mouth unlocks and he turns into something dark and dangerous.

“you feel that?” he pants against your throat, hips grinding deep, his cock dragging against every swollen nerve inside you. “so fuckin’ tight, baby—gripping me like you’re scared i’ll leave.”

you whimper, covering your face with your hands, because the words are too much, the heat behind them unbearable. you're wet and trembling and so sensitive you're barely hanging on—but ichigo doesn't stop. if anything, your bashfulness just makes him worse.

“you embarrassed?” he growls, nipping your jaw, lips trailing down to your collarbone as he thrusts again—slow, deep, every movement precise. “that it? too shy to hear how good you’re taking my cock?”

you nod into your hands, body writhing beneath him, hiding your face like it’ll do anything to muffle your moans.

but he grabs your wrists—gently, but firm—and pulls them away from your face. forces you to look at him, cheek to cheek, eyes locked.

“don’t hide from me.” his voice is low, rough, wrecked.

“wanna see how fucked-out you get for me. wanna see those pretty eyes roll back when i hit that spot.”

you whimper, mouth trembling, and ichigo grins, cock twitching inside you as he thrusts up again, harder this time—slow and intentional.

“that’s it,” he whispers. “you feel it, don’t you? how deep i am. how soaked you are for me. you’re dripping, baby.”

“ichi—p-please—” you gasp, overwhelmed, your whole body shaking as the rhythm gets faster, rougher, the wet sounds of your pussy clenching around him echoing between the sheets.

“please what?” he murmurs, voice teasing, cruel in the gentlest way. “please stop? please more? you gotta say it, baby. gotta let me hear that sweet little voice.”

you try. you try, but the words die in your throat, caught somewhere between a sob and a moan.

so ichigo grabs your face, kisses you hard, deep, tongue sliding in like he’s starving for it.

and then he pounds into you.

“fine,” he groans. “i’ll talk enough for both of us.”

“you’re perfect.”

“best pussy i’ve ever had.”

“made to take me, weren’t you?”

and when you cum—body locking, toes curling, cunt spasming around him so hard you scream—he doesn’t even stop. just fucks you through it, kissing your cheeks as tears stream down them, whispering: “gonna fuck you until you can’t be shy.”

“until the only word you know is my name.”

[becertainlust]

Being DEADASS now, the AOT fandom is lowkey interlinked at this point. It be 4 months that pass in the AOT tag and straight tumbleweed, Then out of NOWHERE?

Someone drops a 10k smut fic about Levi and Armin blowing the reader’s back out, and suddenly the entire tag is moving. You open AO3 or TikTok and everyone’s just collectively feral again. Like??? Is the horny synced?? 😭

[becertainlust]

What are ur rules?

Heyyyy, these are my rules💌

✅ I Write:

x Reader fics (fem!reader, gn!reader, )

One-shots, headcanons, drabbles

Romance, smut (18+ only), angst

AU settings (modern, fantasy, etc.)

Slow burns, enemies-to-lovers, secret relationships, and more

Characters from series I’m currently writing for (masterlist!)

❌ I Don't Write:

Non-con/dub-con, incest, pedophilia, underage NSFW

Heavy gore or overly graphic violence for shock

Kinks I’m uncomfortable with (feel free to ask politely if unsure)

OC x canon (reader inserts only)

Character x character ships (unless otherwise specified)

📬 Requesting Guidelines:

Include the character, reader gender (if relevant), and a clear prompt or idea.

I write at my own pace. I’m not a machine—thank you for being patient.

🗂️ a/n:

I reserve the right to decline a request for any reason.

Feel free to chat, ask questions, or send thirst posts—I love interacting!

[becertainlust]

can you PLEASE write where law and reader are doing it raw for the first time and he’s struggling to last (they’ve done it many times before just with a condom)🌚🌚🌚🌚

PURE HONEY | Trafalgar Law

synopsis: 'Talm bout in it'

content: smut.

You both had done this before — over and over, across stolen moments carved out of time and space. Always with love, always with hunger. Law knows your body better than most things in this world. He knew the way your breath hitched just before you moaned, the shiver that rippled through you before your body seized. He was no stranger to the way you fit against him.

But tonight was different.

There was no barrier between you. No latex buffer, no flimsy illusion of distance. Just your heat — raw, unfiltered, and real — wrapped around him like it had always been meant to be there similar to that of a missing puzzle piece.

The moment he pushed into you bare, his mind blanked. You were everywhere. All heat and softness and this impossible tightness, pulling him in and locking him down. It wasn’t just physical. It never really was — but now, it was undeniable. This was something else. Something he was losing his mind to because the grip you had on him wasn’t just with your body — it was in his blood now, in his bones.

He tried to keep control, tried to keep the rhythm measured, deliberate, but he was failing— failing miserably. His hips faltered, stuttered. The tempo grew messy, erratic — a battle between discipline and pleasure, and pleasure was winning fast. You felt every twitch, every strained breath, every groan he swallowed down. You knew what it meant when his thrusts turned sharp, frantic. You knew him too well — and you weren't helping either.

You talked him through it all, filth spilling from your lips like it was scripture, like you wanted him to come undone.

And he did. Almost.

“Baby,” you breathed, your voice a velvet blade against his cheek. Gentle and devastating. “It’s okay. You can cum in me.”

His gaze dropped to your hand, hovering just above the faint bulge in your belly where he was buried so deep it was obscene.

A low, guttural sound tore from his chest— not just a moan, but something deeper than a groan. Something like indulgence. Something starving. He surged into you, deeper than before, chasing that high, the crash of need he couldn’t outrun. His grip tightened on your thighs as he shoved them back, folding you beneath him in a desperate mating press that had your ankles brushing your ears.

“Shit—fuck, fuck—” he gasped, the curse bitten between his teeth as he rutted into the tight, slippery heat that gripped him like a vice.

His rhythm was gone — lost to instinct and need. Sloppy, deep, punishing thrusts that drove him harder into the mess he’d made. Skin slapped against skin, loud and wet, your bodies sticking together with sweat and come. He never looked away from your face — not even when he bit down on his bottom lip so hard it almost split.

And then he broke.

He came with a curse, hips locked tight against you, emptying himself in hard, helpless pulses as he collapsed forward, forehead buried in your shoulder. His breath hitched against your skin, damp and uneven. you held him, fingers threading through his hair as his body trembled through it.

But even as the last waves of orgasm passed, Law didn’t move.

He didn’t soften.

Didn’t pull out.

Didn’t stop.

Instead, his hand slid under your thigh again, lifting it, spreading you wider as he rolled his hips slowly — deliberately — into the mess he’d just made.

Still hard. Still inside.

“…I’m not done,” he rasped, voice rough and dark against your ear. “I need more.”

The air between you both thickened. The kind of heat that didn’t fade with release, only rooted deeper. Law hadn’t moved far. His weight was still pressed to you, chest rising and falling against you, and yet his hips… they never really stopped.

Still buried inside you, he moved again.

You gasped — a sound half-shocked, half-wanting — as he rolled his hips again, deeper, slower this time. A grind that dragged him against every sensitive part of you, forcing your body to react even when you thought you had nothing left to give.

“You feel that?” he muttered, voice like sandpaper and honey, catching in the hollow of your throat. “How warm you are… how wet…”

You whimpered, nails digging into his back. He was still trembling — not from weakness, but restraint. Barely tethered. His heart beat like a war drum against your chest, and you could feel it — not just the physical thrum, but the storm it masked. The way he clung to you like you were the only real thing left.

His hand cupped your face, tilting your head so your eyes met. His gaze was molten, pupils blown wide and dark. The mask he usually wore — of control, calculation,— had cracked completely. Now you saw what lay beneath: hunger, yes, but something softer, something that scared him even more.

“I should stop,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “But I don’t want to. I can’t.”

You didn’t answer with words. You pulled him down into a kiss — deep, consuming, tongue meeting his in a way that said mine. And he groaned into it, hips stuttering again, this time less restrained.

He started to move — slow at first, then harder, like he was chasing the ghost of the last orgasm, like he needed to be closer. Needed to be in you, with you, as much as humanly possible. There was no space between your bodies. No light. No air. Just heat and the wet slide of skin on skin, his name on your lips like a litany, and his breath hitting your throat like a promise.

“I love you,” you whispered, because it was true and you needed him to know. “Even when you're like this. Especially when you’re like this.”

His body jerked — not from pleasure this time, but from the weight of your words. He stopped for a moment, just a second, staring down at you like he couldn’t believe you’d said it.

Then, with a growl, he melts his mouth to yours and drove himself into you again.

Hard. Deep. Like he was answering you without saying it.

He didn’t let up.

If anything, the need clawing under his skin grew sharper — raw and reckless. His hips rolled with a newfound desperation, grinding into the mess he’d already spilled inside you, thick and wet and obscene. The sound of it, slick and sinful, filled the room in time with your gasps.

And still, he stayed buried. Still pulsing. Still impossibly hard.

Your thighs trembled, overstimulated, but his grip was unrelenting — fingers bruising into the soft flesh just beneath your knee as he folded you deeper, pushing your legs up until your knees brushed your chest.

A mating press.

That’s what it was. He was fucking you into the mattress now, deeper than before, every thrust grinding into a place that made your vision spark. His body caged yours completely, chest flush to yours, the heat of his skin smothering, grounding, anchoring you to the moment.

“I love you,” he groaned into you chest. Like something sacred. His voice was gravel against your throat, and then his lips followed, dragging down your neck in hungry, open-mouthed kisses.

And then came the hickeys.

Hot, wet, possessive kisses that turned sharp — teeth grazing, lips sucking. He marked you without shame, like he needed proof that this was real, that you were his. A constellation bloomed along your collarbone, down the slope of your breast, over your ribs — his mouth everywhere, relentless, reverent.

He groaned when you arched into him, your body too raw to bear it and yet begging for more. The overstimulation curled inside you like a live wire — every thrust, every suck of his mouth pulled you higher, dragged you closer to the edge you thought you already fell from.

“You feel that?” he murmured against the skin of your throat, voice hoarse. “That mess I put in you? I can feel it too — every time I fuck it deeper.”

Your breath hitched — a broken sound. His words sank into you like a match to kerosene. You were soaked, swollen, trembling beneath him, your body betraying you with how desperately it still wanted, needed.

He pulled back just enough to look at you — hair damp with sweat, lips parted, golden eyes blown black with lust. And he smiled. Just a little. Just enough to show his control was slipping.

“You gonna give me another one?” he rasped, rocking into you slow, deep. “Let me feel you tighten around me again, baby. Let me ruin you properly.”

You nodded, mouth too slack to form words, only sobs and yeses falling from your lips as he pistoned into you harder now — not fast, but precise. Each thrust angled, punishing, drawn from memory and need. He kissed you through it — messy, tongue-heavy, like he couldn’t get enough of you, not even now.

And just before the world shattered again, just before your body broke open a second time, he whispered:

“I’m not stopping until you’re leaking me for days.”

And then you did.

You came with a cry that ripped the air open, and he groaned — feral and low — following you over the edge again, hips locking down, cock twitching inside you as he emptied himself one more time. Less controlled this time. Sloppier. Deeper.

But still, he didn’t pull out.

His hand cupped your face again. Gentle now. Thumb brushing along your cheekbone as he kissed your forehead — slow, deliberate, grounding you as the aftershocks rippled through you both.

“…Still not done,” he muttered, more to himself now. “Not until I’ve filled you so much you dream of me.”

[becertainlust]

As I live and breathe, Gojo Satoru—he talks like he’s untouchable, like he’s seen and done it all, but when you’re on your knees for him? That man falls the fuck apart. That pale, snow-white skin betrays him instantly. His whole face flushes pink—ears, throat, even the tips of those pretty fingers gripping your hair like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

He starts cocky, lounging back with that smug smirk, but the second your mouth wraps around the head of his cock, it dies on his tongue. His breath catches, and his eyes go wide for a moment—just a flash of disbelief that you feel that good. Then the lashes lower, his jaw goes slack, and he sinks into it with this filthy groan that doesn’t sound anything like the cocky little shit you met ten minutes ago.

You make it sloppy on purpose—drool sliding down your chin, his dick slick and shiny as your hand works the base and your mouth takes the rest. He’s panting now, hips twitching every time your throat flexes around him. His grip in your hair tightens, not to guide, not to push—just to hold on. You can hear him whispering curses under his breath, a breathless, “fuck, fuck—baby—” slipping through gritted teeth.

And when he starts to come undone, you feel it. His thighs go tense, his stomach spasms, and his grip turns shaky. He tries—tries—to lift your head, fingers fumbling against your skull, voice cracking with a desperate, “Wait—shit, m’gonna—fuck, baby—”

But you don’t. You stay. And he gives up. His hips jerk once, twice—and he moans. Quiet, broken, like the sound gets caught in his throat. His cock throbs against your tongue and he spills into your mouth, hot and thick and a lot, like he’s been holding back for hours.

You hold him there the whole time, lips sealed around the head, tongue teasing just to hear him whimper. And when he finally dares to look down at you, ruined and gasping, cheeks flushed and eyes blown wide, he breathes out, voice low and fucked out:

“Open your mouth. Let me see, baby. Show me how good you took it.”

a/n: I was literally scrolling on tiktok and saw this dialogue prompt and instantly though of this man!

[becertainlust]

Do you plan to continue courtesan gojo?? Sorry if this seems rude but I’m genuinely looking forward to how the reader and his’ relationship would develop 😅 your writing is just delectable and I cant get enough of it

aww you're so sweet thank you🫶, I will be fleshing this idea out, However, I have a really bad habit of having a idea spark which can create so many writing projects so it might be a pretty wait

[becertainlust]

In a world where men can become Courtesans, Courtesan Gojo is the crown jewel in a velvet box no one dares to open too quickly. Gojo Satoru—pale blue-eyed, silver-tongued, with a smile that drips honey and arsenic.

Courtesan Gojo whose presence is silk on bare skin and ice in wine. He moves like poured cream—fluid, languid, deliberate. Every gesture, every glance, is practiced and perfect, yet never feels rehearsed. There’s an artistry to him, a cultivated elegance that makes the air around him bend in reverence. When Gojo enters a room, it does not matter who else is present; the light itself seems to seek him, casting a glow on his powder white body sculpted like sin.

Courtesan Gojo who to spend a night with means to bankrupt a season's worth of silk shipments, to outbid duchesses and heiresses in silent wars fought with coin, precious stones, and influence. His body is his temple — available, yes, but never cheap. Every moment, every sigh, every flicker of touch is curated. Perfection has a price, and with Gojo, that price is ruinous.

Few can pay. Fewer survive what it costs.

A selection leave with the scent of him forever folded into their hair . Others spiral — selling lands, losing husbands, begging for second nights that never come. His availability is a myth tangled in truths; he takes one client a month, sometimes none. Not even the Empress herself could summon him without offering something he truly wanted.

Courtesan Gojo who you work for. Like a loyal maid, you see to the little things—the letters, the linens, the tea just how he likes it. You arrange the candles, adjust the lighting, select the silks. You guard the perimeter of his chaotic grace, smoothing out the ripples he causes without ever expecting thanks. You've memorized the moods behind his smiles and learned to decode the meaning in the slant of his eyes.

But he makes your life difficult. Complicated in ways that no amount of organization can fix.

Because Gojo Satoru is a flirt.

“You’re like a flower,” he murmurs one evening as you tighten the clasps on his robe, the scent of sandalwood clinging to him like a second skin. His voice is low, lazy, velvet-thick. His hand holds the back your head.

You still for a second before breathing out and continuing your work.

“Ah,” he says, “you take things so seriously. I was only joking,"

His fingers linger at the back of your head—just a little too long. Not tight. Not cruel. Just aware of the pulse beating there beneath your skin. His thumb drags, slow and unhurried, against the delicate nape of your neck, a casual caress dressed up as nothing at all.

Your breath stills, suspended somewhere between disbelief and danger.

Gojo Satoru doesn’t touch without meaning. Doesn’t speak without layers. Behind every lilt of his tongue is a test, a tease, a trap—laced in honey, laced in smoke. To work for him is to navigate the sharp edges of seduction without ever falling in.

You step back.

You always do.

And still, the echo of his smirk follows you—like perfume in the folds of your clothes, like the whisper of silk across your skin.

“Gojo,” you murmur, adjusting the hem of his robe with hands that betray none of the fluster in your veins, “your client will be here in twenty minutes.”

He watches you. Lounging in that faintly imperial way of his, robe half-parted, collarbones like pale crescent moons. Eyes sharp as shattered glass, glinting.

“Do I look ready?” he asks.

No. He looks dangerous. Divine and enticing.

But you school your features. Smooth the fabric. Avoid the wicked curve of his mouth.

“You always do,” you reply gently.

A silence stretches. Then, like always, he breaks it—not with kindness, but with something worse.

“I wonder,” he hums, leaning in just enough to make you forget the shape of your own name, “do you call all your employers beautiful? Or am I your favorite?”

Your hand freezes mid-fold.

He grins.

You say nothing.

Because to answer would be to lie.

[becertainlust]

I just be writing for any character to be honest so don't be surprised when that dead fandom from 2015 gets a update

[becertainlust]

Hello!!!

I looove your Katsuki fics and couldnt help but shoot my shot at requesting this!

Girl reader with a half cat quirk that makes her experience heat and her suppressant meds are nowhere to be found!!!

Turns out Katsuki wanted to help relieve her this time around. He approaches the topic cautiously with great sensitivity at first, but once reader caves in, she's sensetive and needy, and Katsuki wants nothing more than to satisfy her needs!

I would love to read this in your writing!!! :D

HEATED | Bakugo Katsuki

synopsis: Today was supposed to be your last college party, However mother nature didn't seem to care. Your best friend Katsuki has something he wats to say.

content: smut

The party was supposed to be loud enough to drown your thoughts. That was the plan.

Music, dancing, the thump of bass-heavy speakers rattling the cheap windows of whatever rented venue they’d picked this time. Maybe a drink or two. Flirting across the room with Bakugo until he finally cracked and walked over like he always did—scowling, tense, trying too hard not to stare.

Instead, you were home. Wrapped in a fleece blanket on your couch. Hoodie zipped to your neck but riding high on your thighs, heat prickling beneath your skin like a second pulse. Your tail twitched beneath you, too restless to stay still, too sensitive to stop moving.

The silence in your apartment felt heavier than usual.

The suppressant pills had run out last week. You meant to get more. You really did.

But life got fast. Assignments stacked. You forgot. And now your body was reminding you in the worst way possible—with insistent warmth pooling low in your belly, your skin hypersensitive, your thoughts crawling toward one person and one person only.

Katsuki.

Of course it was him. It was always him.

You hated how often your heat cycled around thoughts of him. The way he moved. The cut of his pretty eyes. The way he never looked at you directly for too long, like he knew what it might do if he did.

Your phone buzzed with a message from Mina—something about your absence being tragic, your outfit being missed, and how 'Katsuki kept looking at the door'

You didn’t open the message.

Didn’t want to.

You curled further into yourself instead, hoodie bunched at your waist now, the fabric clinging to overheated skin. Your cheeks felt too warm. Your body was too aware. You swore you could still feel the ghost of his stare, even from miles away.

There was a low, aching kind of hunger curling in your belly. It didn’t demand food or sleep or even comfort.

You pressed your thighs together again. Hissed through your teeth. It was no use.

Your phone buzzed again.

Then—knocking.

Three short taps. Familiar. Solid. Too deliberate to be a neighbor.

Your heart stuttered.

You paused. Listened.

A voice followed—low, unsure.

“…You alright in there?”

Katsuki.

You sat up too fast. Nearly lost the blanket. “Shit.”

“…You in there?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Your heart was already moving faster than your thoughts.

Another knock. Sharper. Frustrated.

“You’re never this quiet.”

You closed your eyes and sank further into the couch, shame prickling under your skin like sweat. You shouldn’t have said yes to the night if your body was going to betray you. Shouldn’t have flirted with him so recklessly if you couldn’t see it through. Shouldn’t have—

The wooden figurine from coffee table falling to the wooden floor in such a dramatic manner.

“—I’m coming in,” he said.

The lock clicked. He’d helped you fix the janky bolt weeks ago. You’d never re-set the passcode.

The door creaked open.

He stepped in like he wasn’t sure he should. Like he half-expected to be yelled at or blasted back outside. But all he found was quiet.

You were curled small on the couch, hoodie sleeves hiding your hands, eyes glassy with heat and embarrassment.

Katsuki stilled.

You saw the moment it hit him—when his eyes narrowed and the air caught in his chest. Not because you looked sick. But because you didn’t.

“You’re not coming down with anything,” he said slowly. “Are you?”

You tried to lie. It caught in your throat.

“…It started early,” you murmured, voice brittle. “Didn’t have my meds.”

He said nothing at first. The air between you tightened, thick with something unspoken but very alive.

His gaze flicked to the blanket tugged over your legs. Your bare thighs beneath it. The subtle twitch of your tail. The way your hoodie didn’t quite hide the fact that you weren’t wearing much underneath.

Then, slowly, his voice softened—lower than usual, careful like he was speaking to a bruise.

“…You want me to go?”

You didn’t. God, you didn’t. You were humiliated, needy, and ashamed of how you kept squeezing your thighs just to feel something. And yet, part of you was also aching to see what would happen if you didn’t pretend anymore. If you let the tension between you go where it had always wanted to.

You looked at him, eyes wide and wet and unsure.

And then—just barely—you tugged the blanket down an inch, letting the hem of your hoodie ride up over your thigh.

“...What if I wanted you to stay?” you whispered.

His eyes darkened. Jaw clenched.

Still, he didn’t move. Not until you reached for him—fingertips curling around the fabric of his shirt, quiet but clear.

“You sure?” he asked, low and rough.

You nodded once. Then again. More desperately.

He sat on the edge of the couch, one palm cupping your knee, the other brushing a sweat-damp curl from your forehead. His touch was careful. Reverent.

“You want help?” he asked, thumb brushing your cheek like you might burn him.

You nodded.

“Say it ,” he whispered, eyes dropping to your lips and you notice it, instinctively you licked it. A thin layer of saliva giving you a gloss effect on your lips.

Your throat bobbed. “I need you, Katsuki.”

He’d be lying if he said it didn’t get to him—the way you said his name like that.

Soft. Fragile. A little breathy, like it slipped past your lips before you even meant to say it.

He’d heard his name plenty of times—screamed across training fields, barked from opponents, snapped in irritation by people who thought they knew him. But coming from you? Like that?

It hit different.

God, it always did.

He tried not to show it, tried to keep his face unreadable, but his breathing stuttered. Just a hitch, small enough to deny if you ever called him on it. But it was there. It always was when it came to you.

You weren’t usually like this.

Usually, you were stubborn and sharp-tongued, doing shit that got under his skin—on purpose, half the time. Rage-baiting. Eye-rolling. Acting like his ego was too big to fit through a door. You’d sass him just to see him twitch.

And the worst part? He liked it. Liked you. All of you.

But this?

Seeing you curled up on your couch, hoodie riding high on your thighs, tail twitching like you couldn’t get comfortable in your own skin… it made something deep in his chest go stupid and warm.

You looked up at him with glassy eyes, flushed cheeks, skin practically humming with heat, and you still had the nerve to look embarrassed.

Still tried to play it cool.

Still tried to act like he wasn’t the one person you’d been thinking about since your suppressants ran out.

And when you finally caved and said his name like that, voice all quiet and unsure, like you were afraid he wouldn’t want you the way you wanted him?

Yeah, he was done for.

Completely fucking done for.

“Yeah?” he said, voice low, almost shy. “I’ll take care of you,” he murmured.

His voice was low—firm, but shaking just a little at the edges, like he was holding something back. Like he had to pace himself, even now, even with you already half melting under his touch.

You expected him to dive in. To act on the tension that had always thrummed beneath every glance you two had ever shared. But instead, he stayed still for one long moment, his hand resting heavy and warm on your thigh, grounding you like an anchor.

“You sure?” he asked again, softer now. “This isn’t just your heat talkin’, right?”

That broke something in you. The way he could still ask—when you were trembling under your skin, pupils wide, your whole body practically begging for him—and yet, still… still he asked.

You reached for the lapels of his suit, fingers twisting into the fabric like it might keep you from unraveling completely. “It is my heat,” you admitted, voice breathy, lips barely forming the words. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want you.”

That was enough.

His mouth met yours in a kiss that started gentle—but didn’t stay that way.

It deepened with every second, hunger bleeding through restraint. His hands moved—up your sides, over your waist, careful but hungry, like he was mapping something he’d spent too long imagining. His lips tasted like heat and need and something you didn’t know how to name yet.

You whimpered into his mouth when his fingers found the bare skin of your thigh, sliding higher beneath the hoodie you hadn’t realized had bunched up further. Your tail flicked nervously at your side—he caught it mid-swish, holding it gently, almost reverently.

“This okay?” he asked again, voice lower now, gravelly. “Sensitive?”

You nodded, dizzy from the feel of him—how his calloused palms were somehow still tender, how he smelled like smoke and spice and Katsuki, how his mouth never stopped moving over yours like he was making up for lost time.

“More than okay,” you breathed, grinding down just enough for friction. “Feels—fuck—it feels better with you.”

He groaned, hands tightening just slightly.

You felt it—how badly he wanted to let go. But he held on. For you.

“You tell me when it’s too much,” he said against your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. “Or not enough. Got it?”

“Got it,” you whispered.

And then he stopped holding back.

He shifted you into his lap, hoodie riding up, skin flushed and hot against him. His hands explored every inch of you he could reach—your hips, your waist, the small of your back. His mouth followed close behind, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.

He murmured things you’d never heard from him before. Pretty. Soft. Perfect. Things he didn’t say when there were people around. But here, in your apartment, while the world outside pulsed with music and lights and the party you were supposed to be at… he gave you everything.

And when your body trembled, when your voice broke with the weight of it all, when you pulled him closer like you’d fall apart otherwise—he held you tighter, like he could piece you back together with touch alone.

His breath was shaky against your neck, equal parts restraint and reverence, and his voice—rough, low, just for you—whispered your name like a secret prayer.

“You don’t have to hold back,” he said, voice caught somewhere between a plea and a promise. And neither did he.

The moment stretched, thick with heat and want and something tender beneath it all. Fingers tangled in his hair, you met him halfway—every kiss, every gasp, every shiver a language only the two of you knew.

His mouth was on you again—lower this time—tracing kisses down the curve of your neck, across your collarbone, until he found that place that made your breath hitch. He lingered there, sucking gently, tongue flicking over flushed skin, leaving a mark you’d feel in the morning and think about for days.

Your hips shifted in his lap, searching, needing, and the friction pulled a groan from deep in his chest. One of his hands slid under your hoodie, fingers grazing your bare stomach, then higher—slowly, like he wanted to memorize every reaction.

When he finally cupped your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple, your gasp was swallowed by his mouth crashing back into yours. Desperate now, tasting of heat and hunger and everything you’d both been holding back for far too long.

“You have no idea…” he murmured against your lips, voice wrecked, “how long I’ve wanted this.”

You rocked against him, feeling the hard length of him through his jeans, and it was his turn to shudder. “Then show me,” you whispered.

That was all it took.

He gripped your hips and lifted you just enough to rid you of what little you had left on, hoodie discarded, bottoms peeled away with impatient fingers. You were bare in his lap now, exposed in every way, but never once did he look away from your eyes.

“God, you’re perfect,” he breathed, hands spreading across your thighs, thumbs tracing slow, dizzying circles against your skin. “I want to take my time… but I don't think I can.”

You didn’t want him to. Not tonight. Not like this.

When he slid his hand between your legs and found you already wet for him, his curse was soft and reverent. “You’re soaked,” he said, almost in disbelief, “for me.”

You nodded, grinding into his hand.

He kissed you again—messy and hungry—as he pushed two fingers inside you, curling just right, while his thumb rubbed slow, steady circles against your clit. Your nails dug into his shoulders, head falling back with a moan that only made him work harder.

And when you started to fall apart, trembling against his hand, he didn’t stop. He watched every second—eyes locked onto your face, lips parted, like the sight of you coming undone was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

His fingers slid through your slick folds with reverence, like he was exploring something sacred. He groaned under his breath at how wet you were—how easily you parted for him. One finger teased your entrance, circling slowly, gathering you on the tip just to feel how much you wanted him.

“Look at you…” he whispered, his lips brushing your jaw as he spoke. “So ready. So soft. So fucking responsive.”

He slipped one finger inside, and your body immediately clenched around him, greedy and hot and pulsing. You arched against him, breath catching in your throat as he started to move it—slow and deep, feeling every inch of you, dragging his fingertip along your walls like he was mapping you out.

“Fuck, you feel…” He couldn’t finish. He didn’t need to.

His free arm stayed locked around your waist, holding you steady as you writhed in his lap. His finger curled just right—testing, pressing against that spot—and when your whole body jolted in response, he chuckled low against your neck.

“There?” he murmured.

You nodded quickly, too breathless for words. So he did it again. And again. Curl, pull, push—finding a rhythm that had your thighs trembling and your fingernails digging into his shoulders for balance.

Then he added a second finger.

You cried out, hips jerking. The stretch, the pressure—it was maddening in the best way. He was slow with it at first, easing in, letting you adjust, but you didn’t want slow. Not now. You needed more. Needed him to lose control the same way you were.

“Please,” you breathed, not caring how desperate it sounded. “Faster…”

He growled in response—deep and guttural—and gave you what you wanted. His fingers pumped harder, faster, deeper, the wet sounds of your arousal mixing with your breathy moans and the soft curses he whispered against your skin.

“God, listen to you,” he muttered, watching your face, watching your body twist and rise to meet every thrust of his hand. “You’re dripping. So fucking tight around my fingers. You love this, don’t you?”

You moaned, head falling against his shoulder, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. Not when you looked like this—glowing, undone, eyes fluttering closed as your pleasure built and built, coiling tight in your belly like a live wire.

His thumb pressed to your clit again, this time with intent. Tight circles. A perfect rhythm that matched the pace of his fingers inside you. Your thighs shook around him. Your breath came in short, ragged bursts.

“I’ve got you,” he said, voice low, almost soothing. “Don’t hold back. I wanna feel you come just like this—falling apart on my fingers.”

And you did. The wave slammed into you, white-hot and blinding, your cry raw and unfiltered as your body clenched around him. He kept moving, working you through it, watching you fall apart with reverence in his eyes.

You collapsed against his chest, panting, twitching, overstimulated and aching for more. And he held you close, fingers still inside you, still slow and gentle now.

He slowly pulled his fingers from you, dragging them out inch by inch, savoring the way your body clung to him, reluctant to let go. A slick sound followed, and then a small, needy whine slipped from your lips before you could stop it.

That sound—soft, desperate, utterly wrecked—sent something primal crashing through him. His grip on your waist tightened for a second, and then he nearly stumbled as you shifted in his lap, the weight of you shifting just enough to make him falter.

“Shit—” he caught himself with one hand, but his palm pressed against something unfamiliar beneath the cushion.

He froze.

“What the…” he muttered, glancing down, brow furrowed. His fingers brushed over it again, trying to figure out what he was feeling—smooth, firm, and definitely not part of the couch.

He looked up at you, curious, breathless. “What… is this?”

You flushed, cheeks burning, but there was a mischievous spark in your eyes that made you smile softly. You looked up at him with an almost innocent expression, tilting your head slightly like you were about to explain something simple yet private.

“It’s a rose...vibrator,” you said quietly, your voice a little shy but steady. Then, with a teasing glint, you leaned closer and let your fingers trace slowly down the curve of your thigh.

“Here,” you murmured, your gaze flickering up to meet his as you gently guided his hand, placing the toy right at your clit.

He stared down at the delicate rose-shaped vibrator resting just at the entrance of your slick folds, his fingers still lightly brushing over your thigh. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, searching—soft, curious, and utterly captivated.

“Do you want me to use it on you?” he asked, voice low and rough with something like reverence.

There was a pause—electric, filled with promise—before your breath hitched. Your cheeks flushed deeper, but you nodded, biting your lip shyly.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I want you to.”

His grin was slow, wicked, and full of heat. “so greedy.”

He moved his hand carefully, lifting the rose toy and pressing it gently against you. The petals—soft and warm—began to pulse, and you shivered at the sensation, your body trembling in his lap.

His gaze never left yours, watching every little reaction, every flicker of your expression as the waves of pleasure rolled through you.

He glanced down at the delicate rose-shaped vibrator nestled against your slick skin, fingers brushing its smooth petals. A slow, wicked smile spread across his lips as he pressed the small button at its base, and the vibrations shifted.

A low hum began—gentle at first—but then he increased the setting, the buzzing growing stronger, deeper, pulsing with an intensity that made your whole body shudder.

You gasped, eyes fluttering shut, a soft quivering starting in your thighs. The sensation was overwhelming—sweet, sharp, electric—and the way the deep vibrations of the rose’s petals teased every sensitive curve left you breathless.

He watched you carefully, voice rough and husky as he murmured, “You feel that? You like it when it’s turned up?”

You could barely form the words, trembling as the waves of pleasure built inside you. A soft, involuntary hum escaped your lips, vibrating along with the toy, your body responding to every surge.

“Yes…” you whispered, warm eyes holding his gaze and voice thick with need. “I want more Kastu…”

His fingers gripped your hips a little tighter, steadying you as the rose pulsed relentlessly, driving you closer and closer to the edge. You quivered in his lap, humming low and needy, lost in the delicious torment.

“Damn, you’re really fucking with my head” he breathed a chuckle against your chest, placing a soft kiss and when he eased a bright bruise was left. “And I’m not letting you forget this.”

The vibrations thrummed on, each wave crashing over you with more power than the last, until your body finally trembled uncontrollably, and you came undone—soft, shattered, humming your release into the quiet of the room.

He kept the rose vibrator pressed firmly against your clit, the high setting sending relentless waves of pleasure pulsing through you. Your moans spilled out—soft, breathy, utterly mesmerized—but to him, they were like a distant melody, barely registering over the storm of desire raging in his own mind.

His grip on your hips was still strong, steadying you, but his focus was so intense on watching your body that he didn’t realize how completely undone you’d already become.

You trembled and hummed around the vibrations, your breath hitching and your body softening beneath him—signs he somehow missed.

It wasn’t until your hands tightened around his shoulders, your muscles slackening in surrender, that he blinked and looked down, eyes wide.

He takes the vibrator from you swiftly, switching it off. You fall into him arms wrapped around his tuxedo's pants leg soaked under your arousal. You mewl grinding onto him littering kisses to his neck. Praises of how you love him going straight his head.

It wasn’t until your hands clenched tightly around his shoulders, your body going limp in surrender, that he blinked and finally looked down—eyes wide with realization.

Without hesitation, he slid the vibrator away from you and switched it off. The sudden absence of the buzzing sent a small gasp from you, but before you could say anything, you melted fully into him.

Your arms wrapped around his neck, your arousal seeping into the fabric of his tuxedo pants, clinging to him like a lifeline. A soft mewl escaped your lips as you ground yourself lightly against him, seeking more friction, more connection.

You littered kisses along his neck—gentle, desperate, worshipful—whispering praise between soft breaths. “I love you… I love you so much,” you murmured, voice trembling but sincere, the words sinking straight into the pulse of his head, making his heart thud in a way that no touch could replicate.

His breath hitched at the feel of your lips trailing across his neck, the way your body pressed so needy and warm against him. Every soft mewl, every whispered “I love you,” wrapped around his heart tighter than any hold he’d ever had.

He tangled his fingers in your hair, pulling you up just enough to capture your mouth in a slow, deep kiss—hungry, but tender. The heat between you didn’t fade; it only grew, a wildfire stoked by every touch, every breath.

His fingers loosened their grip on your hair as your whispered praises caught him off guard. A flicker of something—surprise, maybe even a little bashfulness—flushed across his face, coloring his cheeks in a way you rarely saw.

“Shit,” he muttered, voice rough and quieter than before. “You really mean that?”

Before you could answer, he bent down slightly and lifted you up without any hesitation. Your arms curled around his neck naturally, and he supported you easily with his hands under your thighs.

Carrying you like you weighed nothing, he walked steadily toward your bedroom. When he reached the door, he used the side of his foot to nudge it open just enough, then stepped inside without letting go of you.

Once inside, he closed the door behind him with another gentle push of his foot, the soft click sounding final.

He paused just outside your bedroom door, a soft breath catching in his throat as a sweet, intoxicating scent drifted out to greet him. For a moment, he thought you must’ve been baking—something warm and comforting like cinnamon or vanilla filling the air.

But this was different.

The scent wrapped around him, deeper and more addictive than any baked good he’d ever known. It pulled at him, stirring something raw and urgent inside.

He inhaled again, eyes closing briefly as the fragrance settled over him. “Damn,” he muttered, voice thick. “I thought you were baking or something... but this—this is something else.”

Still holding you firmly in his arms, he pushed the door open with his foot, stepping inside while that sweet scent clung to both of you, wrapping the room in a quiet promise.

He shut the door behind him with another push, his eyes dark and hungry as he looked down at you cheeks warmer than by the second as he stared into your doll like eyes “Why do you smell so good?”

He carried you effortlessly to the edge of the bed, his hands steady and sure as he settled you down. The cool sheets beneath your skin were a sharp contrast to the heat radiating off his body. His eyes locked onto yours, dark and intense, as he peeled off his jacket, the fabric falling away to reveal the hard planes of his chest.

His white buttoned down followed, slipping over his broad shoulders and disappearing somewhere behind him. You couldn’t look away as his muscles flexed with every movement, the tension in the room thickening like a living thing.

Slowly, deliberately, he unbuttoned his pants, sliding them down his hips and stepping out of them, leaving him bare and exposed to you. The sight made your pulse quicken, your body already aching for him.

Without hesitation, you spread your legs wider, welcoming him back in, your fingers sinking deep inside yourself once more, as if what he’d just done wasn’t nearly enough to satisfy the ache he’d stirred.

Your breaths hitched, trembling under the weight of his gaze as you whispered, voice shaky and desperate, “Please… don’t stop. I need more. "

He didn’t waste another second. With a swift, practiced motion, he freed himself completely, shedding the last barrier between you. His thick length pressed firmly against your entrance, teasing the sensitive skin before slowly, deliberately sinking deep inside you.

You gasped, the fullness stretching you perfectly, his warmth flooding every inch as he settled in.

He held you steady, his hand gripping your hip tightly while his other rested against your thigh, anchoring you both as he began to move—slow at first, savoring the feeling of being inside you, before gradually picking up pace, driving deeper with each stroke.

His eyes fluttered to a close, the moment he registered just how soaked you were—warm, slippery, and completely ready for him. A low, guttural sound rumbled from deep in his throat, rough and full of hunger.

“Fuck,” he growled, voice thick as he pressed even deeper, letting the heat of your pussy swallow him whole. The wet, slick sounds of your bodies moving together filled the room—the messy slide, the soft gasps, the sharp catch of breath when he hit just the right spot.

He couldn’t hold back any longer. Every sound you made—your moans, your shaky breaths—drove him wild, making his thrusts harder, more demanding, as if trying to claim every part of you with the force of his desire.

Bakugo leaned over you, one hand steady on your thigh as he spread you open again, eyes flicking down with sharp focus. The heat between you made the air feel heavy, thick with tension and want.

He parted you with his fingers, gaze locked on the way you glistened in the low light. “So damn wet…” he muttered under his breath, voice rough, reverent.

Then, without breaking eye contact, he let his head tilt just slightly—allowing a slow string of spit to fall from his lips, landing warm and deliberate on your clit. The sudden slickness made you jolt, a soft whimper escaping before you could stop it.

He smirked at your reaction, thumb sliding through the mess with practiced ease. And then he began—drawing slow, deliberate circles over your swollen bud. Not fast. Not teasing. Just pressure—perfect and steady.

Your back arched as the sensation sank in, every nerve firing at once. His name tumbled from your lips like a plea, but he didn’t stop—watching the way your body responded with a hunger that nearly matched your own.

Bakugo watched every twitch of your body, every flutter of your lashes and the way your breath stuttered when his thumb circled just right. But he wasn’t done—not even close.

“C’mere,” he muttered, voice thick with need.

With gentle but commanding hands, he lifted your hips and adjusted your angle, hooking one of your legs over his forearm. The shift let him press deeper—his next thrust hitting a spot so sensitive it pulled a sharp gasp from your throat.

Your hand flew up to your face instinctively, trying to muffle the sound, to hide the expression you knew was painted all over you—wide eyes, trembling lips, that overwhelmed look you couldn’t help but wear whenever he touched you like this.

But Bakugo noticed. Of course he did.

His grip didn’t waver, his pace deep and deliberate now, each movement drawing a broken whimper from you. “Don’t hide,” he said, his voice closer to a growl as he leaned in. “Wanna see all of it. Every damn bit you try to keep from me.”

You whimpered again, face still buried in your hands, but your body betrayed you—arching into him, clinging, craving every second.

And he gave it to you.

Bakugo leaned into you, his lips finding the curve of your shoulder, then the space just below your collarbone. He left slow, reverent kisses in his wake—each one deeper, more deliberate than the last. His breath was hot against your skin, uneven, like he was barely keeping himself in check.

“You smell so good…” he murmured against you, voice rough and breathless. “Swear, the second I walked in, I thought you’d been baking somethin’. But this…” His nose brushed your neck, and he inhaled deeply, groaning low in his throat. “This is better than anything I’ve ever tasted.”

You trembled beneath him, your face buried in the space between his neck and shoulder, body clinging to him like gravity had given out.

Then his hand curled gently into your hair, anchoring you there—pressed close, skin to skin, breath to breath.

And then he moved.

Not with the careful restraint from before—but with a need that finally spilled over. His hips snapped forward, each thrust purposeful, deep, and intense, hitting a place inside you that made your breath catch with every motion.

You couldn’t speak—only whimper, only hold on—his scent, his voice, the way he said your name like it meant something sacred.

Every movement of his hips had purpose now—intentional, relentless, and aimed straight for that spot inside you that made your vision blur and your hands grasp for anything to hold onto. And the only thing there was him.

Bakugo.

Sweat glistened at his temple, his jaw tight, his body coiled above yours like a live wire. But his eyes—those fierce, red eyes—stayed locked on your face, watching the way your mouth fell open, the way your lashes fluttered, the way your whole body seemed to unravel for him.

Again and again, he drove into you, never losing that rhythm, never letting you come down from it.

And then it happened.

Your thighs tensed around him, your nails dug into his shoulders, and your breath hitched like the air had left the room. The pleasure overwhelmed you, cresting in a wave so sharp and perfect it stole your voice. You came hard, a cry catching in your throat as your body pulsed around him—tight, hot, trembling.

He groaned, a guttural sound from deep in his chest. “Fuck… you’re squeezing me so tight—”

Your climax dragged him under, the way your body clung to him tipping him past the edge. His rhythm faltered—just for a second—then he thrust deep, one last time, burying himself inside you as he spilled everything he had into you. He gasped your name, low and hoarse, forehead falling to your shoulder as he held still, letting the moment crash over him.

His arms wrapped around your back, breath shaky, the heat of you wrapped so tightly around him that he couldn’t tell where he ended and you began.

Neither of you moved at first. Your bodies pressed together, breathing in sync, still flushed and trembling.

You felt him kiss your shoulder—soft, reverent. As if after all that, you were something fragile.

His breath was still ragged, forehead resting against yours, but even after release, Bakugo didn’t stop. His hips moved slowly now, deliberately—drawing out every last bit of sensation as if he couldn’t bear to let go of the heat between you. You could feel the way he trembled against you, how sensitive he was, yet still lost in you—drunk off the way your body held him.

He kissed you then. Deeply. Not rushed or fevered like before, but slow—hungry in a different way. Like he was memorizing your mouth, savoring the taste of your praise still lingering on your lips.

As his movements began to still, his hands cradled your waist, the gentleness in contrast to how fiercely he’d held you before.

“I should pull out,” he murmured, voice hoarse against your skin, laced with hesitation.

But before he could move, you shifted.

Your hand pressed to his chest, guiding him to lie back against the mattress. And in one smooth motion, you rolled your hips forward, slipping above him—his length still buried deep inside you. He gasped softly, the sensation of you moving with him again pulling a choked sound from his throat.

Your thighs settled around his hips, your palms resting on his chest. You were flushed, trembling slightly, but your eyes locked on his—full of him.

“Fuck…” he whispered, voice cracking. Eyes rolling back for swift moment.

His moan deepened, breath hitching as his eyes fluttered shut, lashes brushing his cheek. “ Fuck—wait, I’m still too sensitive,” he quipped, voice rough, low—almost leaning into a whine.

His head tilted back slightly, and you saw it happen again—his eyes rolling back just like before, a flash of raw vulnerability and fierce desire mixing in that moment. His nails pressed into the skin of your hips , anchoring himself as your movements sent waves through him.

“You’re gonna, kill me,” he groaned, lips parting, chest rising and falling in uneven gasps.

Even with his eyes closed, lost in the rush, every sound and shudder told you he was utterly captivated—caught between need and surrender, and not ready to let go.

His breath hitched again as you ground your hips down against him, the heat between you building with every deliberate motion. Your hands found his neck, fingers curling just enough to feel the quick pulse beneath his skin—light, teasing pressure that made his breath stutter. His head tilted back, exposing the tense line of his throat, and you saw the flush deepen on his cheeks as his mouth parted before he bared them.

The way he looked so helpless beneath you, every shudder and moan, told you just how much he was caught in the moment—torn between wanting to give in and holding on tight. Your gaze locked on his, burning and unyielding, as you kept moving, controlling the pace, savoring the way his body trembled beneath your touch.

[becertainlust]

BECERTAINLUST - Ao3 SMUT MASTERLIST

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Bakugo Katsuki 𖥔 TAPE IT | BIRTHDAY SUIT | INTENSE | UNDONE | POUND TOWN | FREAK YOU | DEVOTION | LAZY SEX |

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[becertainlust]

SLOW MOTION | Sanji Vinsmoke

synopsis: pussy drunk.

content: smut

He swore he’d stop after the third round.

You were trembling, flushed, soaked with sweat and stickiness as he held your legs up like you were fragile porcelain—but his cock was already hard again. Hard again just from watching it.

Your pussy, swollen and dripping with his cum, fluttering around nothing, practically begging for him to fill you again.

Sanji was on his knees between your legs, thick golden hair clinging to his forehead, his lips parted as he watched his release ooze out of you. That creamy white drip sliding down the seam of your folds made his cock twitch violently—he groaned like it physically hurt to not be inside you.

"Sanji—” your voice broke around the syllables, drunk on pleasure and face ruined with tears, “you said… y-you said one more…”

“I know,” he whispered—like he hated how much he was about to break that promise. “I know, I did, but—look at you, sweetheart. Look what you’re doing to me.”

You followed his gaze.

His pretty cock was already standing tall again, flushed in such a lewd pink, twitching against his stomach just from seeing how messy you were—how well you’d taken him.

A whimper slipped from your lips, your body tensing involuntarily as another wave of heat rolled over you. You tried to close your thighs, but Sanji groaned, pressing kisses to them whilst pawing them apart, legs wide open with shaking hands.

"You're driving me insane," he groaned, leaning down to press his forehead to your belly as he slowly stroked himself, hand messy and desperate. "You’re addictive. Every part of you—your sounds, your pussy, the way you squeeze me when you're about to cum—fuck, it's too much."

And then—without warning—he pushed back in. Deep. All the way.

Your body arched like it had been struck by lightning.

Your head fell back against the pillows, mouth falling open in a breathless moan that never quite made it to sound. Just a sharp inhale. A jolt. Your eyes fluttered, glassy and dazed, jaw slack as the stretch and fullness bloomed inside you.

Your hands fumbled to find him—grabbing blindly at his shoulders, then his face—pulling him down into a kiss that was less lips and more instinct. Mouths dragging, hot and wet, as you pawed at his cheeks like you needed to feel something real. You kissed him like you were drowning, drunk off the depth of him, the heat, the pressure.

Your legs wrapped around him without thought. Your heels dug in. He groaned, muffled against your lips, hips stuttering from how tight you clenched when he kissed you back.

“F-fuck,” he whimpered, barely pulling back an inch. “You feel—so good, baby—so warm, so full—don’t stop holding me like that.”

You moaned this time—audibly—soft and strained, like the only thing you could give him now was a cry.

And he devoured it.

“God—yes, just like that,” he whispered against your lips, trembling. “You look so beautiful”

He started thrusting again—slow and deep—watching your eyes roll back and your mouth fall open each time he bottomed out. His hand found your cheek, cradling it like you were precious even as he fucked you with a filthy hunger.

"Squeezing me so good—" he plops his head into the groove of your neck.

And every time your cunt fluttered around him, every little cry that escaped, it made him twitch and curse and moan like he was the one being undone.

He started to move again.

Not with the slow, teasing rhythm from before. It was deeper now. Steady. More honest. Like he wasn’t performing for your pleasure anymore—just feeling it. Feeling you.

His breath was hot against your skin as he sank his weight into the bed, his hips rolling into yours with quiet groans punched out of his chest. You gasped softly every time he bottomed out, your hands tightening on his shoulders.

“You feel too fucking good,” he mumbled, forehead pressed to your jaw. “I should stop. I meant to stop.”

But his body said otherwise. His cock throbbed inside you, every twitch making your walls flutter involuntarily. You could feel your own slick mixed with his cum dripping down your thighs. It was messy—so messy—and that just seemed to make him harder.

“Sanji, please” you whispered, a breathless edge to your voice. You didn’t even know what you were asking for. Maybe to slow down. Maybe to keep going. both.

He kissed your cheek, then your neck, then lower—trailing his lips wherever your skin was warm and trembling. “I know, baby. I know. But look at you. How can I stop when you’re this perfect? You’re still dripping for me.”

You turned your head, eyes locking on the way his hips moved—how deep he was, how wet the slide sounded. You should’ve been wrecked by now. Maybe you were. But you still needed more. Just like him.

Your legs hooked around his waist again, and he groaned at the feeling.

“You’re killing me,” he muttered, pushing deeper. “I’m not even sure I’m alive anymore. Just… floating in you.”

You choked out a soft laugh against his mouth, breath hitching when he hit that sweet spot again. “Then don’t stop.”

He stilled for a second. Just looked at you.

Eyes a little wide. A little awestruck. “You sure?”

You nodded. “Don’t stop, Sanji. Please.”

And that was it.

He buried his face in your neck with a low moan, like he couldn’t handle it. His thrusts picked up—deeper, a little faster. Still gentle, still careful, but full of raw want.

Every time he pulled back, your body tried to follow. You were soaked and aching and clinging to him like your life depended on it. He kissed you hard—lips sloppy, breathless, like he needed to taste the sounds you made just as much as he needed to feel your body wrapped around him.

“I’m gonna cum again,” he warned, almost helplessly. “I—fuck—I’m gonna fill you again, baby, I can’t hold it—”

You clenched around him and he whimpered. That soft, broken sound made your whole body light up.

“Do it,” you whispered, tugging at his hair, pulling him closer. “I want it, Sanji—cum inside, please—”

His hips stuttered hard, then slowed—deep, grinding thrusts that made your toes curl. And then you felt it again—his warmth flooding you, his body shuddering above yours, breath catching as he moaned your name into your skin.

You didn’t even realize you were crying again until he looked at you—sweaty, dazed, completely wrecked—and cupped your cheek.

“Hey,” he murmured, brushing the wetness from your lashes. “Too much?”

You shook your head, lips parted. “No. Just… a lot. I feel full.”

He kissed you softly—no rush, no heat. Just gentle lips, soft and sweet and grateful. “I’ve got you,” he whispered. “We’re okay. I’ll take care of you.”

You stayed like that for a while—your legs still around him, his cock still buried deep, the room warm with the heat of sex and sweat and something neither of you could quite name.

Then, quietly:

“You’re staying in bed all day tomorrow,” he said, pressing another kiss to your temple. “I’m not letting you walk after this.”

You laughed, weak and flushed. “Bold of you to assume I can walk.”

He smiled against your skin. Smug. Soft. A little in love.

“Good.”