yuri-min

[yuri-min]

LAY DOWN THE LAW — 五条悟 GOJO SATORU

PLOT 𐙚 Gojo Satoru is the city's hottest attorney and your maddeningly smug boss. Ten years of will-they-won’t-they office tension come to a head when a late night at the firm finally pushes you both over the edge, right onto his desk, and then some. You might be the secretary, but tonight? You’re the one running the court, with your hand shafted around a very big . . . gavel.

FEATURING Gojo Satoru x Reader

CW 𐙚 afab!reader, MDNI, Workplace AU, Boss x Secretary, Suits!AU, Lawyer!Gojo, power plays, possessive language, desk séx, couch séx, semi-public, oràl (f), cowgírl, swítch!Gojo, líght restraínts, praisé kínk, bíting/màrking, mànhandling, unprotected séx, GOJO IS A YEARNER

WC 𐙚 5.1k

NOTE 𐙚 one of my friends started watching suits for the first time and it got me thinking of the good old days...

The firm's office was quiet. Eerily so. The sterile kind of silence that only settled after sunset, when the junior associates had scurried off and the city skyline outside blurred into a sea of flickering lights and taxi horns.

Nights like this always felt heavier somehow, thick in your chest like an aching, hungry fog. Not because of the overtime, hell, you practically lived in this building and wore your stellar competence like a badge of honour, but because after hours meant only one thing.

You were alone. With him.

Satoru Gojo.

Senior partner. The best closer in the city, a hotshot lawyer snug in designer suits. A certified dream and nightmare wrapped into one tall, toned package.

And the worst part? You didn't even mind craving his presence, like a moth to a sparkling, blue flame.

Your gaze always lingered past the edge of your desk when Gojo strolled by in the mornings, leaving you with that casual wink as though gravity bent around him, and you just happened to be in its pull. His stupidly expensive Armani suits, his smug, whiny quips and that sharp-fanged grin that made you want to slap and straddle him in the same breath.

Which is exactly why your heart stuttered when the intercom crackled to life, and his voice slid through, smooth as a neat pour of whiskey, "Doll, can you come in here for a second?"

You knew the drill. Some last-minute filing. A deposition draft he suddenly had to review. Gojo would pour you a crystal glass of scotch, pretend to talk business, and shiver when you leaned in far too close behind his oaken desk, eyes lingering on the swan-curve of your neck.

And like always, you would pretend not to notice, pressing your thighs together to relieve the wayward tension he wrought in you.

But tonight? You were in no mood to play the pretty secretary as diligently as you had been for the past few years. You grit the tips of your heels into the soft carpet to heave open the heavy glass door to his office, not bothering to knock.

Gojo glances up from a stack of clean paper, leaning back in his pristine chair with the ease of a man who brought in millions upon millions of dollars in merger deals each year for the firm. His navy tie was loosened, top button of his starch-white shirt undone.

White hair tousled as though he had run a frustrated hand through it one too many times, and judging by the way his blue eyes greedily dragged up your frame and snagged on your collarbone, you were the reason.

"Late night?" You ask, tone clipped as you watch how the city lights spilled through the high-rise windows behind him, painting him in gold, and blue, and deep, dangerous shadow.

"Thought you could help me with something," Gojo tosses a crisp folder your way, and your nails snag into the thin cardboard without blinking, "Couple of items that needed sorting."

"You couldn't have done this tomorrow? This is just copy-room administration."

Gojo tilts his head, lashes pale as snow, and unfairly long, "You were still here," he shrugs with a casual indifference that doesn't match the tension gnawing at his jaw, "Figured I'd make use of your talents."

The bob of his Adam's apple clearly gave away the flimsy excuse, for Gojo Satoru has always been hungry for the sight of you, even when he was pretending otherwise.

Tonight, though, that smug smile and velvet tone hits different, like a match dragged too slowly across the box, and your jaw clenches.

Gojo had always hovered right there, just shy of indecent in the silent hours of the night. Just enough innuendo to make your thighs clench, but never enough to tip over.

Like he got off dragging the two of you to the edge, and then walking away.

No more.

You step forward, scuffing your heel into the soft weave of the floor, and slapping the folder flat on his desk, "You always do this."

Gojo blinks, jewel-blue eyes owlish and flicking innocently, "Do what?"

"Treat me like I'm yours. Flirt with me. Buy me expensive shit, –" You lean in, meeting the defensive scowl in his eyes, "You took me shopping privately for a Hermès bag this morning, apparently just because."

You know Gojo Satoru enough to recognise the twitch in his expression, the flicker of something real and not cloaked in his endless bravado.

You refuse to let up, "So tell me, Gojo. Are you ever actually going to do something about it?"

"I thought you were seeing that investment banker from the 46th floor," Gojo mutters, jaw tight as his eyes tear themselves away from you, the swell of your chest with considerable effort.

Ah. Nanami Kento.

That fling was brief, for while you liked your men strong, you didn't quite like them silent.

No hard feelings, of course.

"That ended six months ago," you say coolly, "And when I first told you about him, you didn't speak to me for a week. What was that about?"

Silence. You can't hear anything else but the hard, pounding beat of your pulse, and the faint hum of electricity running in the background, keeping parts of the office lit.

Gojo stands, not abruptly nor angrily. Just deliberately, like a man who already made up his mind long ago.

You inch back automatically, the edge of the desk pressing against the small of your back, below the crux of your spine. Gojo follows, close, too close. Heat radiates off your boss like static, and his scent, mint and cedar, curls in your lungs.

A large hand cups your jaw, and his touch isn't rough. Gojo uses just enough pressure to make you tilt your chin up to meet those storm-blue eyes. Darker now, dilated and devouring.

"Say the word," Gojo murmurs, voice thick with something you could even mistake as longing, "And I'll show you that I'm yours right here."

Your throat bobs, a hot flush beginning to kiss the tips of your ears, "What? Here, Gojo, –" You're hissing, even though you knew the building was entirely empty, and it was well past midnight.

Gojo's index finger is pressed to your lips, "You want me to be an honest man?" A wicked but almost bashful smile ghosting over the mouth of the most confident and self-assured man that you know, "Fine. I want to kiss you."

You don't give him the chance to ask again.

Grabbing the finely tailored lapels of his suit, and pulling the attorney down into you, kissing him hard. Tasting mint, coffee and the ghost of lemon candy on his tongue as his hand slams back against the desk, and you can swear he whimpers.

Gojo chases after you like a man starved. The press of his lips both hot and urgent, his clever tongue teasing until you groan, biting his lower lip hard enough to taste the tell-tale tang of iron.

That earns you another sound from deep in his throat, something that sounds almost grateful, and he pulls you closer. Looping a strong around your waist, already tugging at the hem of your top.

You think that the only downside of having Gojo Satoru like this, is the human need to pull back for oxygen.

But he seems almost magnetically drawn to you, eyes lingering on the glossy sheen coating your mouth, his breath shallow as he heaves a sharp breath, "Always wanted to know what you would taste like."

"Oh, yeah? Got your answer?"

"Well, one part of my answer," Gojo's large hands are running along the silky seam of your stockings, and you involuntarily shiver as you push against the firm planes of his chest, snaking your manicured hand lower.

"You're already hard."

Gojo gives you a faintly embarrassed, dull look, but it's true enough. There's a rock solid tent in his dark slacks, aching for friction against your thigh, as he murmurs against your jaw, "What, you think if I put my hands up your skirt, you're not gonna' be wet?"

What use is there in denying cold, hard facts?

Gojo's hands run down to your waist, spinning you around so fast that your palms slam against the hard surface of his desk for balance.

The wood is cold beneath your skin, spotless and severe, and each pen on his desk is lined up with military precision, not a page out of place.

For now.

You can feel the white-haired man behind you, his body heat pressing into your back as he leans over, pink lips brushing the delicate shell of your ear, "This desk's seen a lot of action," he murmurs, "But nothin' like this."

Your heart is thudding as soft, suckled marks are bruised gently into your neck, "You ever bend a client over it?"

"No," Gojo scoffs, dragging his hands up your sides once more, slow and reverent as though he wants to commit your form to memory, "Only ever thought about my favourite secretary."

You're gasping, lips slack, as he kicks your legs slightly apart at the knee, and then, fuck — his fingers are sliding up your inner thigh. Bold, skilled and confident.

When he find the wet heat, slick and searing between your legs, Gojo groans against your neck, "God, you really are mine, huh?"

"Check the paperwork, then, S-Satoru," You're hissing, trying to stay snide, even as your hips hungrily rock into his touch. Ensuring that you grind your dripping, plump folds against his fingers, coating his knuckles with your arousal.

"Oh, I will," Gojo purrs, "In fact –"

Gojo keeps a solid arm snug around you, holding you up as his other hand reaches for something on the desk, and before you can question what on earth he's doing now, you hear the rustle of paper.

He's got your file, that faded résumé that you had dropped in his lap when you had first demanded he hire you. You twist your head to blearily glare at him just as he flips it open.

"You had excellent references," Gojo muses, as though he's reading aloud to a jury. Meanwhile, two long fingers are filthily sliding into you, slow and deep, curling just right in pursuit for a sweet spot, "Punctual. Detail-oriented. Loyal. Mhm, tight too. Didn't see that in the résumé."

"S-Satoru," You choke out, nails already curling half-crescents into the polished wood. His palm now roughly angled so you can drag your throbbing cunt over his hand, and still catch enough friction to soothe your aching clit.

"Ah-ah," The white-haired man clicks his tongue, hooking his middle finger so a fresh wave of slick clings to the fine dusting of pale, white hair on his hand, "That's Gojo during business hours."

"It's past m-midnight."

"Heh, you're right," Gojo snickers, battering his fingers against that roughened, sweet spot, "In that case, call me whatever ya' want, doll."

You arch into his tender touch, breath hitcing as his fingers fuck you with the kind of steady rhythm that says he's had this moment planned, fantasised and rehearsed.

His other hand warmly slips under your top, pushing the fabric side just enough to tug your bra down, and palm your breast, thumb brushing your pebbled nipple as you whimper.

"You like this?" Gojo asks, the liquid-smooth tone of his voice now tinged with a hungry rasp, and his lips continue to delicately press kisses over the nape of your neck, "Letting your boss finger you over his quarterly earnings report?"

You try to respond, but your pleas come out more as a garbled moan, stifled as he probes his fingers against the elastic walls of your cunt.

Gojo grins, "Didn't catch that, sweet girl. You're gonna' have to say it like you mean it."

"F-fuck, yes, yes," you gasp, back arching as your thighs strain with the most delicious ache, "Want more, p-please."

Gojo stills, not all the way, just enough to make you squirm, hips rolling helplessly into the hand that no longer moves, breath catching in your throat as the heat and rhythm disappear.

His touch lingers, taunting, maddening, and you whine before you can stop yourself, the sound slipping past your lips like a plea you didn’t mean to give him.

He huffs a quiet laugh, the kind that curls down your spine like smoke, "More?" he echoes, faux-innocent and infuriating, his voice that same low, slick tone he uses when convincing clients to sign over the promise of ten million dollars, "You think I just give it away, doll?"

Your response is instant, breathy and heated, punctuated by the steady drip of your slick against his desk, "I earned it, didn't I?"

And that, that does something to Gojo. You feel the change. Like a muscle coiled too tight finally snapping loose.

It's in the way his warm grip tightens on your hips, the way he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years, the guttural sound he lets out as he drops to his knees with a heavy thud, slacks creased, like a man possessed.

In one fluid motion, your translucent, sopping panties are around your ankles, torn down so fast the elastic snaps, and Gojo's murmuring a kiss of apology against your thigh, and his broad hands are dragging your thighs apart like he's carving out space for worship.

"Consider this your bonus," Gojo murmurs, voice dark with promise, ruined at the mere sight of your glossy, winking pussy, and then his mouth is on you.

Your gasp punches out of you like it's been yanked from the base of your spine. His tongue is hot and wet and obscene, sliding through your folds with the kind of deliberate slowness that makes you tremble. He licks you like he's determined to learn you, like he's done the theory, read the case notes, and now it's time for oral arguments.

And God, he's good at it. Gojo is really good at it.

He flicks his tongue over your swollen clit with practiced ease, teasing little circles that send white-hot pulses of pleasure through your gut. Every time your hips buck, he anchors you tighter, one arm locking around your thigh while the other drags you closer by the small of your back, forcing you to stay still and take it so perfectly for him.

"You're so w-wet," Gojo groans into your cunt, lips slick and voice reverent, like he’s drunk off the taste of your sweet pussy, "What's the matter, baby? Can't focus when someone's actually giving you what you need?"

Your fingers scramble for purchase on the desk’s edge as he sucks your clit into his mouth, tongue rolling against it with maddening rhythm. Your eyes flutter, head tipping back, your entire body buzzing with pleasure.

Your knees nearly buckle when he hums, hums, as though he's tasting vintage wine.

When Gojo pulls back at last, his mouth is shining, and he looks positively wrecked in the best way. Flushed cheeks, jaw damp, pupils blown wide. The front of his suit is creased, rumpled beyond salvation. His deep-blue tie's hanging off one shoulder. And his blinding grin is nothing short of smug.

"Gonna' bend you over this desk now,” Gojo says casually, like he's scheduling a client call, "Heels on. Hands flat. Keep your voice down unless you want HR to catch the encore on security footage."

You barely hear the rest of the sentence, you're already moving, limbs moving on instinct, spine arching as you brace yourself against the desk.

And you don’t even realise you're obeying until your palms hit the polished wood and you feel the weight of Gojo behind you again, hot and solid and absolutely unrelenting.

And when he finally pushes into you, all thick, hot, and utterly unforgiving inches upon inches, it knocks the breath straight from your lungs.

There's no teasing now, no soft wind-up or slow drag. Just the blunt, overwhelming stretch of his fat mushroom-tip probing and filling you in one deliberate thrust that has your back arching and your mouth falling open in a wordless moan.

You gasp, the sound stuttering against your forearm as you brace yourself on the desk, eyes squeezing shut from the sheer intensity of it.

Gojo's big. Oh, he knows it's big, and he fucks like he's trying to remind you of it with every single stroke. Ensuring that you never forget the sticky slap! of his thighs tacking against your own, dribbling with arousal and the prelude to his seed.

The white-haired man's hands clamp down on your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh there with a bruising grip as he snaps his hips into yours, relentless and smooth, like he’s been waiting years for this.

The desk jerks with every thrust, drawers rattling. Loose pages scatter to the floor. Gojo's gilded nameplate goes flying with a clatter, landing somewhere near your pricey heels, and the coffee mug you brought him earlier tips over, soaking a stack of contracts you'd spent the whole afternoon organising.

Neither of you care.

"Fuck," Gojo groans, whiny voice fraying at the edges, rough and low and needy, "Look at you. Taking it so f-fucking well. Like this pretty pussy was made to be bent over my desk."

You let out a strangled moan, fingers scrabbling for purchase on the slick wood surface, the edge biting into your hips with every push forward. Your legs are trembling, heels still on, body taut with sensation, overstimulated already and aching for more. And you try to speak, to respond, but the words break apart in your dry throat, "Y-you are so –"

"Charming?" Gojo grits out, breath hot against the back of your neck as he leans forward to press his chest to your spine, one hand leaving your hip to curl around your throat, not tight, just enough to tilt your head up, "Devastatingly handsome? Ridiculously good at fillin' you up? You're gonna' have to be more specific, doll."

You let out something between a sob and a laugh, even as your eyes roll back at the next thrust. And Gojo's voice lowers to a murmur, but there's nothing soft in it, just heat, possession, a hint of desperation bleeding through the snark, "C'mon, baby. Say it. Say you're mine. Please."

You manage it on a gasp, voice wrecked, pleasure-drenched, "I'm —f-fuck, I'm yours."

That does it. Gojo groans like you just handed him a verdict in his favor, like your words scratched some raw, aching itch inside him that nothing else could reach, "Y-yeah, you are,” he growls, "All f-fucking mine."

He fucks you harder after that, messy, frantic, a little feral. One hand back on your hip, the other dragging down your back to press between your shoulder blades, holding you down, keeping you right there as he takes you like a man who’s been dreaming about this for far too long.

You can feel every solid, veined inch of him. The way he stretches you open, the obscene slick sounds between your thighs, the way his cock hits deep and perfect on every roll of his hips. His pace is devastating, measured and punishing and so fucking good it sends white sparks bursting behind your eyelids.

You must be drooling into the desk, heat curling in your belly, orgasm building again, fast and dangerous and unstoppable. And behind you, Gojo's voice breaks on a groan as he mutters against your ear, "You gonna' come for me again, pretty girl? Wanna feel you s-squeeze me while I fill you up. You gonna' let me, yeah?"

Your answer is a breathless, wrecked moan, because yes, fuck, yes —

And that’s all he needs. You barely manage to stay standing.

Your legs are jelly, trembling under the weight of overstimulation and everything he's just done to you, your thighs slick with him, your blouse clinging to sweat-damp skin, buttons half-torn and collar askew. Your breath comes in short, uneven pants, chest heaving against the edge of the desk like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

Gojo's still behind you, spurting cock slowly being dragged out of your puffy, twitching folds, not touching, but there, looming, panting, shirt untucked, white hair wild and matted with sweat. He looks ruined. Flushed. Like he’s just sprinted all sixty floors of the high-rise with you on his mind.

And then Gojo sees it.

The faint red imprint of his hand blooming across your hip. The angry mark his Prada belt buckle left above the curve of your ass. The glimmer of your slick smeared across his cock, still hard, twitching against his abdomen, and soaking into the fine dusting of white hair crawling over his groin, glistening like proof of what he just did to you.

Gojo's pupils dilate, and whatever blue was left in his eyes vanishes beneath the darker, more reverent hunger, "Mine," he murmurs, half to himself, voice hushed and hoarse, like he has to say it out loud to believe you're real, "You're mine."

You twist to look at him, wobbly on your heels but a faint ghost of a smile paints your lips all the same, "Yeah, Satoru?" you say, voice still a little wrecked, "Then sit down."

Gojo blinks, stunned for just a second, the most in-demand lawyer in the city whipped into flushed silence from the command. But you just jut your chin toward the couch, charcoal-grey leather, sleek and smooth.

"I said sit."

There's a pause. A flicker of something wild in Gojo's incredulous expression, like he wants to fight it. But then his lips part into a grin that borders on worshipping, like he's never been bossed around in his life and is so damn into it, "Yes, ma'am."

Gojo drops onto the couch, milky and muscular thighs spread wide, weeping cock hard and glistening and flushed an angry red from base to tip. White-haired head lolling back against the cushions as he exhales like a man undone. His tie is half-off, collar loose, suit beyond salvation.

You straddle him before he can get cocky again, knees pressed into the cushions, ruined skirt hitched around your waist, heat still pulsing between your legs as you slide over his broad lap. Gojo's hands fly to your hips automatically, gripping tight, like his body's already memorised every inch of your skin like a precious canvas already.

"I'm still ya' boss, you know," Gojo says, looking up at you through those sinfully pale lashes, trying for cocky and failing, it comes out breathless and wanting.

You roll your hips down slowly, grinding against Gojo's lap, until the head of his spurting cock slips against your entrance, snagging against your walls, and his head thunks back with a guttural groan and a raspy, "Fuck."

"Don't think so, 'Toru," you murmur, voice low, syrupy, and you can feel his cock twitch against your inner thigh, jumping at the abbreviated name, "Right now? I wanna' be in charge."

That does it. Whatever minuscule control Gojo had snaps.

He grips the plush flesh of your ass, and yanks you down as he thrusts up into you, burying himself to the hilt in one sharp, perfect stroke that leaves you gasping and mewling at the tip of his cock swabbing deeply within you.

It's so utterly messy and wet, and filthy, your bodies crashing together with the raw sound of sex, of urgency, of months, no, years of restraint finally shattered.

Gojo's hungry mouth finds your neck, open and greedy, licking and biting like he wants to leave a roadmap behind, a pattern he wants to follow forevermore. You gasp, manicured nails clawing down his chest, raking through the remnants of his tailored dress shirt.

"You like that?" You're whining, voice catching as your hips start to rock once more, adjusted to the sheer girth of him, pace steady and punishing, "Getting m-marked?"

"Fuck, yeah," Gojo groans, snapping his hips up so hard your breath stutters, and a steady plap! plap! plap! echoes in the empty office. "Want you to w-wreck me, doll. Wan' the whole d-damn firm to see I belong to you."

You're certainly not gentle when you kiss him again. You slam your mouth to his, teeth and tongue and something that tastes like vengeance and victory. He kisses back like he's still starving, like he hasn't eaten in weeks and you're his last meal, what he's been craving the most.

Somehow, somewhere in the chaos, his silky tie ends up wrapped loosely around your wrists, a makeshift restraint anchoring your hand to the back of his neck, keeping you steady as you bounce in Gojo's lap, feeling him sway the thick bulge of his cock in and out of you. You can feel the thrum of his pulse there, frantic and wild, syncing with yours.

"I dream about this, you know?" Gojo mutters against your mouth, nibbling on your glossy lower lip. "Y-you. Riding me and using m-me. Fuck, I wake up hard just thinking about your voice."

Your pussy must be drooling all over his lap, and your walls tighten around him and Gojo chokes, his blue eyes rolling back for a second as his chest flushes a pale shade of strawberry red.

"Then wake u-up, 'Toru," you whisper, lips brushing his jaw, gently nipping at the soft skin, "And t-take it."

And Gojo does. He thrusts his cock up into you, hard and deep, pace brutal and beautiful all at once. His hands are everywhere, gripping your hips, palming your breasts, fingers sliding down your spine to hold you in place while he slams into you with the rhythm of a man unhinged.

Gojo's mouth latches onto your collarbone, biting down hard enough to bruise, and when you do the same to his shoulder, he whines, "More," he begs, "Give me more. F-fucking ruin me. Leave your teeth in me, I'm yours."

His hand slips between your bodies, calloused thumb rubbing tight, fast circles over your clit as you ride him, and the pleasure builds fast, white-hot and sharp, until you're shaking with it, your moans dissolving into ragged gasps.

"Gojo, –" you breathe, barely above a strangled whisper as his cock carves out loud squelches and leaves you both boneless and breathless. Jewel-blue eyes snap up to yours like you’re divine.

"That's it," Gojo growls, lower lip slack as he watches the sticky, gluey strands of your arousal cling to his thighs, "C-come for me. Come allll over my cock n' be a good girl and fall apart, my girl."

And you do.

Your orgasm hits you like a freight train, sudden and seismic, your whole body spasming, thighs locking around him as you cry out his name. Gojo watches, utterly spellbound, as you unravel, sweat-slick and stunning and trembling on his lap.

"F-fuck, fuck, sweetheart," Gojo gasps, hips stuttering, and soft strands of white hair falling over his eyes, "Holy shit, gonna come, fuck, I'm c-coming, –"

He spills inside you with a ragged moan, all thick, pearly seed and the rhythmic pulse of his cock's release as he thrusts deep, clinging to you like he never wants to let go. The aftershocks roll through both of you, sticky and breathless and all-consuming.

You collapse against his chest, both of you panting like you’ve run a marathon. Gojo's arms wrap around your back immediately, hands splayed across your spine, holding you like something sacred.

"Don't you dare quit on me," Gojo murmurs, voice hoarse and broken, "Swear to god, if you hand in your resignation, I'll follow you into retirement and eat you out every morning like it’s my full-time job. We can get a nice, shiny penthouse and, –"

You snort, still dazed, chin tucked into his shoulder, enveloped by the sheer, searing exertion rolling off him, intertwined with his signature, smoky scent, "You're insane."

"What?" Gojo breathes, that indignant tone creeping back up into his voice, as he trails long fingers up and down your back with slow, reverent strokes, "I'd make a hot trophy wife."

[yuri-min]

18+ MDNI | ovulation horny makes you a total menace

you’d been at him since morning.

first, it was climbing into his lap while he skimmed the hit file on his laptop: guard rotation, timestamp marked down to the precise second. you weren’t exactly being subtle, either: pelvis tilting, you humped his thigh, chasing friction along the firm ridge of muscle. you could feel your arousal seeping through your panties and you wanted him to feel it too. his dick, semi-hard beneath dark cotton, stayed tantalisingly within view at the corner of your eye. toji clicked his tongue and bounced his leg once, a silent reprimand.

a few hours later, toji was standing near the door, phone balanced between his shoulder and jaw. as he was discussing points of entry in that baritone, impassive yet infuriatingly sexy drawl of his, you were back at it again. arms hooked around his thigh and started grinding on the arch of his foot, while he ignored your hopeful gaze entirely. unfazed, you reached down to untie the knot in his sweatpants, fumbling with the fabric.

“target’s tagged. extraction’s clean if we don’t—”

the drawstring came loose. bingo. your prize was so close… but before you could do more than graze your palm along the waistband, his free hand dropped to the crown of your head, palm splayed wide, trying to guide you off without looking down. like you were a cat interrupting his paperwork.

“—nah, never mind. background chatter,” toji muttered into the phone, tone soured. “i’ll handle it.” he hung up a moment later, and when his gaze finally met yours, it was stony and irritable. underneath his sweatpants, his cock hung half-hard against his thigh—proximity alone had dragged him halfway there.

“you need to cool it,” he warned. you were panting into the floor. aching, slick soaking the crotch of your panties. your answer came as another lazy grind, cunt clenching around nothing.

by evening, he decided he’d had enough of your antics.

you were straddling him again—feverish, panties soaked transparent. that hormonal, molten need throbbing in your pelvis like it had a heartbeat of its own.

“you’re worse than usual,” he muttered, eyes narrowing. “what—your pussy got a death wish or somethin’?”

“m’ ovulating,” you sniffled. “need you so bad i can’t think straight. hurts.” and it did. your body was starving for him—aching in that particular, feral way only he could remedy.

toji stared at you for one long second. rolled his neck—vertebrae popping under the stretch—then turned his head toward the far wall, eyes narrowed as if he was weighing the pros and cons of fucking his ovulating, sex fiend of a girlfriend stupid right then and there.

he pinched the bridge of his nose. sighed.

then stood.

grabbed you by the waist. bent you over the table like it was the only conclusion that ever made sense. your thighs clenched on instinct, trembling with anticipation. panties were soaked see-through from hours of teasing contact that never delivered what you needed. the edge of the table bit into your knees as toji hauled your hips back, yanked the fabric aside unverifiable. he spat into his hand, wrapped it around the base of his hardened cock, gave it a few short, punishing strokes, then he drove into you in a singular, vicious thrust.

your hands flew to the table’s edge, scrabbling for purchase as the legs skidded forward across the floor with an ear-splitting scrape. your breasts flattened to the surface, the friction harsh, but nothing compared to the stretch tearing through your cunt. you keened, partly from the shock of the stretch, but mostly from raw, unfiltered relief of finally, finally being filled.

he froze inside you. cock buried to the hilt.

“you alright?”

the words were rough and clipped. but laced with something that almost sounded like concern. you nodded weakly, sweat-damp forehead pressed to the wood.

“m’fine. need it—please—” you tried to show him, spine arching into a feline curve, hips rolling in languid figure eights. he was so thick your body clenched around him involuntarily, greedily, swallowing him deeper as if eager to prove it could take more. the wet schlick schlick noise that accompanied by your movements ricocheted off the walls, lewd and rhythmic, underscored by the broken moans caught between your teeth.

he muttered something dark under his breath and reared his hips back again, before slamming himself to the hilt. his heavy balls slapped against your cunt, a heat-flush crack of contact. toji fucked you like a release valve. pent-up aggression funneled into rhythm, cock hammering up into your body.

“hghm,” you choked on a gasp, the words tumbling out between sharp, broken moans as your cunt spasmed around him. “fuck—ohmygod—keep going—don’t stop—”

he pulled out so suddenly your body pitched forward, empty and confused. a displeased whimper sounded from your lips—until he grabbed you by the nape and hauled you upright. in one breathless pivot, he turned you to face him, his hand stayed curled around the back of your neck, fingers spread like a collar, steadying you as he speared back in with the same brute force that had you seeing stars.

“that’s better,” he muttered, eyes locked on yours. “wanna see that pretty face.”

then he started fucking you in earnest. full weight behind each thrust, his breathing never faltering while yours broke apart in fragments. pleasure broke you open in white-hot flashes, your orgasm hitting like a seizure, walls clamping down so tightly he hissed through his teeth. slick gushed around the base of him, forming a ring of milky come.

he stayed buried inside as you pulsed around him, velvety walls gripping him so tightly that, in your delirious haze, you were half-convinced he’d stay inside forever. that your body might refuse to let him go. eventually he pulled out, cock hanging flaccid and gleaming against his thigh.

“you done beggin’?”

you licked your lips.

“for now,” you rasped. “check back in five.”

toji made a sound that was somewhere between a chortle and a scoff—and bent to gather you up in both arms, bridal style. your combined spend leaked from between your thighs, dripping to the hardwood floor.

“hell of a fuckin’ distraction,” he muttered, as he carried you towards the shower.

[yuri-min]

Arrogance and Affection - taglist

art in the banner by @scarlettismm on x

Pairings - Satoru Gojo x F! reader

Summary- There is just one man you cannot stand, infuriating you even as your family is vacationing in the pretty English countryside before the season starts, and that man is Mr. Gojo. From a high up family of great means, a life vastly different from the provincial life you grew up with, he is by all means 'the catch of the season'. He's arrogant, he's irritating, he's pretentious - as all the ladies flock to him, you hold just no interest - but the thing you don't know is he's hopelessly in love with you.

Contents/warnings- Cute and full of witty banter, lil bit of enemies to lovers, Satoru being a little arrogant hottie, fluffyyy, smut at the end - gonna be a long oneshot! (Based on Pride and Prejudice, Gojo is basically Darcy)

A/N- this is a oneshot to go with my mootie @lily-bisque's adorable summer bash event!

Preview below, taglist opennn- should be out soon! <3

Mr. Gojo leans against the pillar, watching as you quite literally frolick around the dance floor on the arm of another gentleman. After making sure to let him know what you think of him. Your carefully coifed hair bounces as you dance along with your friends while the set changes, hands joining as you all dance in a circle, your eyes catch his for a moment, he makes sure to quickly look away.

"She told me I'm arrogant," he complains to Mr. Geto, who is sipping on his crystal glass of brandy next to him. "And she told me I'm conceited, would you believe that!?"

"Ah, no indeed, Satoru. You, conceited?" Satoru glares, narrowing his blue eyes at his 'best friend' Suguru now. "Perish the thought!"

"Oh, you could at least disagree with her?"

"For telling the truth?"

"Tch," Satoru sighs now, jaw tensing when he looks back at you, having single handedly made him furious and further intrigued, with your bratty, witty little mouth. "She could have been kinder, doesn't she know she has my heart?"

"Have you told her you even like her, let alone are utterly infatuated with her?"

"No!? Why would I?" Suguru rolls his violet eyes, snatching up a glass from one of the butlers, handing it over to him.

"You look like you need it," Satoru indeed does need a drink, slipping his hand against the coat pocket, where that letter he's had for months sits. "What is it?"

"I may have penned her a letter, letting her know all the reasons she should desire me," he grins, and Suguru snorts. "What!?"

Your eyes catch his again, spinning in a gentleman's arms, he's kind and sweet and not at all infuriating like Satoru Gojo is, but for some reason, you can't stop thinking about him. You can't help but want the man that drives you insane - not that you'd ever admit it to him.

"Is something wrong, Miss?" Your partner asks, you shake your head and smile, while Satoru's bright blue eyes burn holes into your back.

"Just a little parched is all," you murmur, he offers to get you a drink, a hand on the small of your back, while you try to clear your mind of Mr. Gojo's arrogant words.

"Should I do more than list these reasons," Satoru asks eagerly, unfolding the letter now. "Should I include all the reasons I'm amazing?" He smirks, and Suguru pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Good luck with that, Gojo."

[yuri-min]

chapter five.

pairing: snow leopard hybrid!gojo x bunny hybrid!femreader

keep up here

you wake up sticky.

your furred ears twitch, the soft insides a little too warm. your skin feels too hot, too tight, like you’ve been sweating out something that doesn’t want to leave you. and for a second, you think maybe it was a dream—that your heat hit, but you made it through alone.

but then you move.

and everything aches.

between your legs. in your lower back. your neck, your thighs, the delicate skin beneath your breasts. even your tailbone, where your soft little puff tail flicks involuntarily.

you shift under the blankets and feel the soreness bloom, spreading through you like bruises in the shape of him. satoru. his mouth, his hands, his cock. the way he held you open with a possessive growl low in his throat. the way he looked at you when you begged him not to stop, pupils blown wide and slitted like a predator locked on his prey.

your chest tightens.

the sheets still smell like him—musky and warm and faintly like ozone, that unique wild-laced scent that always seemed to curl behind your sinuses and short-circuit your thoughts.

you drag yourself out of bed, muscles protesting with every step, legs trembling faintly with the leftover echo of instinct. the pads of your feet are sore—probably from all the heat-induced pacing you don’t remember doing. you make your way to the bathroom. there’s a toothbrush already on the counter—his. it’s electric and stupidly expensive-looking. blue, of course. probably one of three he owns, because he’s satoru and he lives like a hot idiot dragon who collects luxury essentials and then loses them immediately.

you stare at it for a beat longer than you should, your ears drooping slightly, then wordlessly reach for yours.

you’re mid-rinse when you hear footsteps.

you freeze, mouth full of mint foam. your ears perk straight up.

then his voice, rough with sleep, from just outside the doorway: “morning.”

you glance at him in the mirror.

he’s shirtless. of course he’s shirtless. hair sticking up like he lost a fight with the pillow. eyes bleary, but still that impossible glacier blue. his spotted tail flicks once behind him, betraying the calm facade. his sweatpants hang low on his hips—too low—and for one stupid second, all you can think about is what it felt like to grind against him yesterday. how he grabbed your waist. how he swore under his breath when you clenched around his fingers.

you spit. rinse. force your face to stay neutral.

but he’s already looking at you.

not just at you—at what you’re wearing. one of his shirts. big and soft and worn at the collar, slipping off your shoulder with every tiny movement. the hem just barely covers the curve of your thighs, your little tail poking out beneath it.

you hadn’t even realized you grabbed it.

he raises a brow, eyes trailing over you slowly, but doesn’t say anything. just reaches for his toothbrush and starts brushing, like this is normal. like the air between you isn’t charged with leftover pheromones and tension, thick enough to choke on.

you leave before you can do something stupid.

you’d think fucking your roommate at your most vulnerable—at the peak of your heat—would make things a little awkward between you.

but it wasn’t.

at first, anyway.

it was just… mental warfare.

not that you two made some silent pact to never talk about it again or anything. you did talk about it. sorta.

“so—um—thanks, you know. for… that.” you blushed furiously, handing him his freshly washed bedsheets (and a couple shirts you stole). okay, maybe you kept one. 

“right…” satoru trailed off, looking like he was debating between jumping out a window or saying something stupid.

he chose the latter.

“so, does this mean you’re like… in love with me or something?”

you scowled and smacked at him while he cackled, baring sharp little canines, dancing out of reach.

“no! i just—” you shrugged lamely, at a total loss. “i don’t know.”

“uh huh, suuure.” satoru made a face like he didn’t believe you for a second, then lifted the folded bedsheets as evidence against you.

you huffed. “oh yeah? what about you, huh? you were awfully quick to offer your services,” you said, aggressively air-quoting “help.”

satoru gasped like you’d just insulted his ancestors. “i was just trying to help my poor little roommate! but sure, let’s villainize the guy who volunteered his dick out of the kindness of his heart.”

“says the guy who literally said if he fucked me, he wouldn’t be able to stop.”

“says the one who begged for my cock or else she’d die,” he shot back, scoffing.

“yeah, well, here i am. alive. guess i didn’t need your magical dick after all,” you said, ears twitching in frustration.

he paused. then grinned. “you think my dick’s magical?”

you groaned, spun on your heel, and stormed off to your room. the door slammed. his laughter echoed down the hall—a rumbling sound low in his chest that made your nose twitch in spite of yourself.

so, yeah. you two talked about it. sorta.

then life just… went on.

you went back to work, finally relaxed, finally not on the verge of spontaneously combusting. your scent glands finally calmed, your mood stopped swinging like a pendulum, and you stopped gnawing at everything that wasn’t nailed down. satoru moved back into his own apartment—said living with nanami was like staying with a grumpy grandma who judged his cereal choices.

one morning, you bumped into the blonde himself in the hallway. he looked you over, head to toe, as if looking for any signs of mauling. then just said, “good.” and walked off.

so things were… normal.

kinda.

except, they weren’t really.

there’d been a few lowkey moments between the two of you lately. stuff that hadn’t really happened before. barely-there things—so small they could’ve meant nothing to anyone else.

but you noticed.

like when satoru’s hand brushed your lower back as he reached past you. not intentional. not not intentional, either. you were just making coffee, standing a little too close, and he leaned in to grab something—his hand lingering just a second too long, his tail curling slightly in interest before he caught himself.

or when your landlord stopped by to lecture you about the electric bill again.

you were both trying not to laugh. and across the room, your eyes met—just for a second. you grinned. he grinned back.

it felt like… something.

or when he came home late from work and tossed you that weird instant ramen you always get. no comment, no explanation—just a lazy underhand throw before he headed to bed. you hadn’t even realized he remembered.

they probably didn’t mean anything.

but you lingered on them anyway.

and in the quiet moments—the ones where your brain had nothing better to do—you kept thinking about him.

about satoru’s desperate eyes when he offered to help. the way you flinched when his rough tongue flicked your clit, sharper and stronger than any human tongue. how he growled into your cunt like he was starved, pinning your hips with brutal strength only a snow leopard hybrid could manage.

the way his veiny hand stroked his cock, fist flying, his cum spilling across your stomach in thick, hot ropes.

he was huge. thick. long. exactly the kind of thing that shouldn’t be stuck in your head mid-shift, but there you were—ringing up a customer while your ears twitched like radar dishes, thighs clenched.

the worst part? you weren’t the only one acting weird.

sure, satoru was still loud and annoying and said unhinged shit daily. but there were moments.

moments where he looked at you too long after a joke. where his smile faltered, jaw tight, whiskers twitching. moments when you’d step out of the bathroom in nothing but a towel and his eyes would drag across you before he forced himself to look away, tail lashing behind him.

you knew he thought about it. there was no way he didn’t.

but what now? just ignore it until the next time your heat hit? or—god forbid—until his rut?

you choked a little on your water at the thought.

because if that was him holding back, you didn’t want to imagine what he’d be like when he completely lost control.

(no matter how badly your stupid brain wanted to.)

you were frustrated. but mostly with yourself.

why were you thinking about this so much?

why did remembering the way he whispered “please” in your ear make your heart race more than the orgasm itself?

…that was the part you didn’t want to unpack.

you yawned as you unlocked the front door to your shared apartment, tossing your keys in the bowl and dropping your bag with a heavy thud. your shift had been long, your feet were killing you, and you were this close to collapsing on the couch when—

“hey,” satoru called from the kitchen. “i’m hungry.”

you blinked, confused. “okay?”

he appeared around the corner, keys in hand. “wanna hit up the convenience store on the corner?”

you groaned, every inch of your body aching at the thought of going back out. “satoru, i just got home and it’s almost midnight. can’t you go yourself?”

but he just waved you off, grabbed your arm, and tugged you out the door before you could argue.

the streets were quiet. your footsteps tapped against the cracked pavement while the neon sign of the shop ahead buzzed like a dying cicada.

satoru walked close—closer than usual. your hands kept brushing. your nose twitched, ears flicking in his direction, catching the faint scent of unease on him.

“so like… i’ve been meaning to ask,” he said, trying to sound casual but failing miserably.

your ears perked. “ask what?”

he rubbed the back of his neck, eyes locked on the flickering sign. “about the whole… heat thing. you doing okay?”

you nodded a little too quickly. but he didn’t drop it—just kept staring, unreadable.

“i just—i dunno,” he muttered. “i feel like maybe we should talk about it. not in, like, a fighting way. i just... i don’t want you thinking i took advantage of you.”

your heart stuttered. you bit your lip, caught off guard by how genuinely serious he sounded.

“i guess i made it seem that way, huh?” you mumbled. you chewed on the inside of your cheek before adding, “you didn’t take advantage, satoru. you really did help me. i don’t even know what the hell was going on with my body, but i wasn’t lying when i said it freaked out when you weren’t around.”

you looked down at the concrete, too flustered to meet his eyes.

“but when you… helped... it felt like i wasn’t on fire anymore. like, for the first time, i could breathe.”

when you finally looked up, he was smiling softly. no teasing. just something raw and sweet. his tail curled slightly around his leg.

“i meant what i said too,” he murmured. “that it was hell being away from you.”

you stopped walking, startled, and satoru did too. you stared at each other under the glow of the flickering convenience store lights.

“satoru…” you started.

but before the words could leave your mouth, a hand landed on your shoulder. and it wasn’t his.

“oh hey, if it isn’t my favorite little bunny waitress.”

you jumped, your ears flattening instinctively, turning quickly. satoru went rigid beside you—shoulders tight.

the guy was a regular at the sushi place—something like fuchi or oro or tochi? you couldn’t remember. big, broad-shouldered grizzly hybrid with choppy black hair and a scar that ran down his lip. scary as hell at first, but you’d gotten used to his… vibe after serving him so many times.

“oh, hi,” you said, giving him a polite bow.

“nice seeing you outta that uniform,” he said, eyes dragging over you like he owned the sidewalk. “though i gotta say, that little skirt you wear’s the highlight of my night.”

you laughed lighly. “pretty sure the highlight of your night is our happy hour specials.”

he snorted. “can’t argue there. see you around.”

he walked off, and just like that, he was gone.

you barely thought about him again as you turned to ask satoru what snack he wanted—

only to find him staring at you. hard. blank-faced. his tail was twitching, rapid and sharp.

the back of your neck prickled. you tried to lighten the mood. “you good?”

“peachy,” he said, tight smile on his face. “let’s get our stuff and go.”

he walked into the store without waiting for a response.

back at home, the walk having been tense and silent, you were putting your melon soda into the fridge when you turned and—

satoru was right there, leaning against the counter, tail swishing low and agitated behind him. his ears were upright, twitching—like he was trying to look casual but couldn’t quite.

“so,” he said, eyes a little too sharp, “who was that?”

you blinked. “huh? oh, he’s just some regular at the restaurant. pretty harmless.”

“mmm. the kind of ‘harmless’ who likes seeing you in tiny skirts and nothing else?”

you stared at him. “what?”

“you heard me.” he was smirking—but his fangs were showing, and there wasn’t a single ounce of humor in his voice.

“what are you talking about?” you snapped. your ears twitched defensively, flattening a little. “i don’t even know his full name!”

“nothing,” he shrugged, tail flicking hard. “just think it’s funny how you’re suddenly so friendly with other guys after, i dunno, crying for my dick a few days ago.”

your jaw dropped. “excuse me?”

“you heard me.”

you stared at him, chest rising and falling rapidly. you were trying to scent the air for clarity, for calm, but it was full of him—sharp snow and clean cotton and something hot, something feral, underneath it all.

“who the hell do you think you are?”

his eyes darkened, pupils dilating fast. “i think i’m the fucking guy whose face you came all over—and now i get to watch you flirt with someone else right in front of me.”

your ears flattened fully against your scalp. “you’re such an idiot. i can’t believe i actually thought for a second that maybe—” you stopped, biting your tongue before the truth could spill.

satoru’s voice dropped lower, like a growl pressed into syllables. “that maybe what?”

you blinked away tears and shoved past him, brushing against his chest. you didn’t miss how he flinched—like your scent was setting him off.

you cried silently in the shower. the hot water wrinkled your fingertips while your chest ached with the weight of everything unsaid. you felt stupid. stupid for thinking maybe—maybe this was more than just instinct and pheromones. that maybe he felt it too.

you missed when life was simpler. when your biggest worry was whether the harvest would last the winter. when your only daily stress was the exact angle of the sun on the carrot beds. when there wasn’t a snow-haired man with a stupidly fluffy tail and predator instincts pacing your thoughts like a caged animal.

you debated going home. but that wasn’t an option. not really.

maybe it was time to move out.

you sighed, turned off the water, and stepped out, towel wrapped tight around your body—and nearly walked straight into satoru.

he was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, tail low and still. his ears flicked forward when he saw your face.

“move,” you croaked, voice hoarse. your ears were drooping, betraying everything you didn’t say.

“no,” he said gently.

you sighed, exhausted. “satoru, please just—”

he reached out and cupped your face in both hands. his palms were warm—almost too warm.

your eyes fluttered up to meet his.

“i’m sorry,” he murmured. “for being an ass.”

you tried to pull away. “sorry doesn’t fix this.”

his grip tightened just a little. “please.”

you froze. that word. the way he said it. the need in it.

“i don’t know why i said that shit—well, i do, but it’ll sound dumb if i try to explain.”

“try anyway.”

he was quiet for a moment. his ears drooped, tail curling close to his calf.

“something comes over me when i’m around you. like—like my whole body’s tuned into yours and nothing else. and when you’re gone, it’s like my senses won’t shut up. it hurts.”

his laugh was low and self-deprecating.

“that day, when i said being away from you was hell, i wasn’t exaggerating. when you let me help you through your heat, it took everything in me not to—fuck, not to lose it. because my instincts? they’re not soft. they’re not gentle. they’re made for biting and pinning and claiming.”

you stared at him, stunned.

“i’ve never felt like this before,” he admitted. “and i know our relationship is messy as hell, but when you come home smelling like someone else, even just a little—it makes me feel like i’m gonna snap.”

and he didn’t need to finish.

because you were already kissing him.

soft at first. confessional. honest.

you pulled back just a little. “you’re stupid.”

“i know,” he whispered, kissing you again.

it got hotter fast—his hands gripping your towel-wrapped waist, pulling you flush against him. you whimpered when his canines tugged at your bottom lip. he growled, chest rumbling deep in his throat, fingers digging into your plush hips like he could mold them into memory.

then—he jerked back abruptly, panting. his tail lashed behind him like a whip.

you flinched, startled. “what—?”

his pupils were blown wide, his breath ragged. “maybe we shouldn’t do that. not right now.”

“oh.” you wrapped your arms around yourself, your ears drooping.

“it’s not you,” he rushed. “it’s just—shit, i think your heat pushed my rut forward. and this... definitely isn’t helping.”

“oh.”

you chewed your lip. your stomach fluttered with nerves. “i could help you.”

his gaze snapped to yours, pupils near-black. “no. absolutely not.”

his voice was low. commanding. there was a dangerous edge to it that made your knees weak.

“bunny,” he said, deadly serious, “i’d hurt you. i don’t think i’d be able to control myself during a rut—i’d tear you to shreds.”

a shudder slid down your spine at the threat veiled in warning. your ears pinned flat. the heat pooling between your thighs deepened. you should be scared—maybe you were—but not enough.

satoru’s nostrils flared. he caught your scent in an instant. and he leapt back like he’d been electrocuted.

“okay. no. seriously, don’t do that.”

your eyes went wide. “s-sorry.”

your heart was racing. you were trembling slightly. but… not entirely from fear.

“just, um—could we kiss some more?” you asked quietly, voice small, eyes dropping to the floor. you felt so stupid asking. so bunny-coded it hurt.

but satoru was on you before you could blink. he kissed you hard, his lips crashing into yours with the kind of force that made your knees buckle. his hands were everywhere—pushing your towel up, gripping your waist, your stomach, your thighs. you whimpered into his mouth and he groaned, the sound gravelly and raw.

he fisted your hair, tilting your head back. his nose buried into your throat and he licked.

you gasped. your whole body jolted.

he hissed—your scent was too much. a drug. a trigger.

then—he bit.

not hard. not enough to draw blood. but enough to sting. enough to make your body go rigid in shock.

your eyes went wide. every part of your prey instincts screamed: freeze. run. hide.

satoru jerked back instantly. his chest was heaving. his eyes were dark and wild.

“oh, fuck.” his voice was raw, full of panic. “i—i think i need to get a motel. for the next couple days.”

you nodded numbly, brushing your fingers against the graze on your neck. it wasn’t even bleeding. but it felt like a brand.

“don’t come out of your room tonight,” he said sharply. “better yet—lock the door.”

he laughed bitterly, the sound hollow. “i’m not sure i trust myself.”

“i trust you, satoru,” you whispered. your voice wavered—but you meant it.

his eyes softened, just a fraction. his jaw unclenched. he leaned in again, slowly this time, like he was afraid to scare you.

he kissed you—gentle. chaste.

you could still feel him trembling.

“goodnight, little bunny.”

[yuri-min]

MIRROR, MIRROR, ON THE WHORE

feat. gojo, geto, nanami, toji, sukuna, shiu, higuruma, choso

summary. what’s the point of having an expensive vanity your older boyfriend (sugar daddy) bought for you? to see you making yourself pretty for him? nahhhh... to make you watch yourself getting rāwdog from him? 100% fat yessss!

trigger/warnings. non-sorcerer au, rich men w/ mean streaks, mirror $ex, bent over expensive furniture (vanity), hardcore daddy-kink, rough $ex, dumbification kink, pu$$y drunk behavior (they’re obsessed), soft brat taming, submissive reader, praise kink, degradation (verbal, consensual), power imbalance (older man / younger woman), age gap dynamics, possession/ownership themes, unprotected vaginal $ex, internal ejaculation, creampie kink, mirror voyeurism, emotional overstimulation, affectionate aftercare, swearing / explicit language, oral fixation (biting, drooling), overstimulation, folded positions, forced eye contact via mirror, breeding kink references (implied), lingerie obsession, class/power fantasy dynamic, furniture fucking, controlling behavior framed as devotion.

GOJO SATORU

the vanity he bought you was from some ridiculous french brand neither of you could pronounce right, all lacquered ivory and gold trim, real marble top and mirror framed in brass. it sat too big for your little apartment, arrogant and gleaming like it knew what it cost, what it was for. “spoiled brat needed a place to sit her fat ass and pout,” gojo had said when it arrived, all smiles, shirt undone, tie dangling, while you squealed and climbed his lap in nothing but socks.

now you were bent over it, ass red and jiggling under his palm, his cock buried so deep inside you your reflection looked vacant, drooling, empty. you couldn’t stop staring. you tried to drop your gaze, but he caught your chin with his fingers and tilted it up, forcing you to look yourself in the eye while your insides spasmed around him with every thrust.

“what’s wrong, bunny?” his voice dripped syrupy sweet. “too hard? too deep? or is it that this mirror’s showing you what i see every fuckin’ night? dumb, needy baby who begs for it and then cries when she gets it.”

you whined. not even a real word—just some helpless sound stuck in your throat, the air punched from your lungs every time his hips slammed against your ass, every time the base of his cock dragged hard through your soaked, swollen folds. the whole vanity shook with it, perfume bottles rattling, your makeup scattered from earlier when you’d been trying to look cute for him, fresh gloss and curled lashes. he’d smudged it all off.

“look at that tongue,” he sneered, eyes gleaming cruel through the mirror. “can’t even keep your fuckin’ mouth shut. s’just hangin’ out like a bitch in heat. you droolin’ for me or you too dumb to remember how to swallow, sweetheart?”

“d-daddy—” it slipped out hoarse and helpless, and his whole body stilled for a beat, cock twitching inside you.

“oh, baby,” he said, and it came out thick, rough, almost fond, before his grip bruised tighter on your hips and he pulled out only to slam back in full force, making your stomach knock into the vanity edge, your cry turning into a breathless wail.

“there she is. my dumb little bunny,” he purred. “can’t speak. can’t think. just bend over and take it like i taught you. like the pretty little thing you are.” he gave your ass a stinging slap, then kneaded it like it was his. “fucked you so stupid you forgot how mirrors work. they’re for watchin’. c’mon—eyes up. wanna see you fall apart.”

you sobbed, eyes flicking to your reflection. you were wrecked. cheeks streaked with tears and drool, mouth swollen, lipstick long gone. your tits bounced with every thrust, pushed up against the vanity edge. your cunt was visibly puffy, stretched wide around him, glistening in the soft warm light he insisted on putting over the mirror because “his baby needed the perfect glow.”

“see that?” he leaned down, chest flush against your back now, voice whispering right at your ear, filthy and slow. “see how your pussy’s suckin’ me in? i don’t even gotta try. she loves me. she’s fuckin’ obsessed. just like you.” his lips brushed your temple, mock-sweet, and then he bit down, making you yelp and jolt under him.

“that’s right. you love this. love gettin’ fucked like some little thing i bought along with the vanity. all pretty and dumb and made to sit still and take cock.”

“ah—h-hhngh—”

“can’t even make words anymore,” he cooed, and grabbed your throat, pulled your head back till your mouth hung open uselessly. “just noises. my perfect, brainless little toy.”

you nodded, or tried to. your knees were barely holding. slick coated your thighs, dripped onto the parquet floor, smeared against the pristine edge of the vanity he bought, the expensive one you weren’t allowed to touch unless he said so. now you were bent over it like you belonged there, like you were part of the furniture.

he pulled out just to slap the head of his cock against your folds, watching how you flinched and whined at the loss, how your hole clenched on nothing.

“that’s pathetic,” he said softly. “can’t even take a second without it. look how empty you are. how desperate.”

“please—” you sobbed. “wan’ it—please, daddy, please—”

“fuck,” he muttered, and the sound of it was nearly reverent before he pushed back in, slow and deep and mean, making sure you felt every inch, grinding into you so deep your breath hitched into a broken cry.

“that’s it. good girl. my perfect little cumdump. you want daddy to fill you up, huh? fuck this dumb cunt full so you leak all night?”

“yes—yes, yes please—wan’ it, need it—”

he chuckled, and the sound was cruel and soft at once. “you’ll get it. of course you will. you think i bought this vanity for makeup? nah. this is where i ruin you. again and again. every time you act up, every time you get clingy—right here. fuck you stupid till you forget your name and remember who you belong to.”

your legs gave. he caught you, held you bent, weightless against the slab of marble, one hand bruising your hip and the other tangled in your hair, jerking your head back to make sure you never looked away from the mirror.

“that’s it,” he grunted. “take it. like a good fuckin’ girl.”

and you did, you took it, took every snap of his hips, every mean word, every breathless praise he slipped in when he thought you couldn’t hear. his pace turned brutal, unforgiving, slamming into you again and again until the only sound in the room was your wrecked moans and the filthy slap of skin on skin. your nails scraped down the mirror but you didn’t fall. not with him holding you. not with him still talking, still owning you—

“you’re mine. mine, baby. every inch of this dumb little body. you get that? you understand who fuckin’ owns you?”

you nodded hard, blubbering through the sobs and drool. “y-you, you do—daddy—”

“good girl,” he hissed, and came deep inside you with a growl, jerking forward and grinding as his cum spilled hot and thick into your twitching cunt. he didn’t pull out. just stayed there, pressed to the hilt, panting against your spine, hands still gripping you like he couldn’t let go.

“fuck. love you so much, baby,” he murmured, soft again, and kissed the back of your neck like he hadn’t just destroyed you. “gonna clean you up, ‘kay? then we’ll do it again. want you nice and full for bed.”

GETO SUGURU

your legs were already trembling before he bent you over the vanity, before his fingers pushed down between your shoulder blades and forced your back into a perfect arch—like you were presenting, like you knew what he’d spent on this thing and were eager to show gratitude with every inch of your body. he didn’t say a word at first. he just stared. ran one hand down your spine slow, possessive, and hummed like you were some sculpture he was debating whether to ruin or worship.

“you’re such a fuckin’ brat,” geto muttered, finally, voice thick with that contemptuous affection that made your stomach flutter and your cunt clench. “this what you wanted? new mirror, new vanity, so you can watch yourself get used like the dumb baby you are?”

you nodded, flushed and already whining, grinding back against his cock through your panties because you knew better than to beg outright—he liked you messy but obedient, whimpering but pliant. still, he didn’t move. just kept his hand heavy between your shoulders, making you hold the pose, making you see yourself in the mirror: spread, panting, wide-eyed, lips parted and glossy from how you'd been sucking on them trying not to cry.

“so spoiled,” he sneered. “you think i spend ten grand on this bullshit furniture so you can play princess? nah. i bought it so i can bend you over it and fuck the brat outta you. so i can remind you what you are.”

his hand slipped between your legs then, two fingers pushing aside your panties to find your pussy dripping, hot and sticky and already clenching around nothing. he clicked his tongue.

“pathetic,” he muttered, and shoved the soaked fabric aside completely. “you’re soaked and i haven’t even touched you right. what is it, baby? you that needy?”

you nodded again, gasping when he slapped your cunt, just hard enough to make the ache spike and your knees buckle. his palm caught your hip, steadying you.

“so needy you’ll cream on my fingers just from talkin’ mean?” he slid two thick fingers in without warning and you moaned, high and wrecked, face pressing against the cool marble top of the vanity. your hips twitched, tried to chase the thrusts, tried to roll back onto him like your body had a mind of its own.

he grinned, leaned down until his lips brushed your ear, his voice a dark, amused rasp. “you hear that? that squelch?” he pumped them in deep again, slow and rough. “that’s what you are, princess. wet little hole. dumb and greedy and easy.”

“nnnhh—g-geto—”

“try again.”

“d-daddy—”

“there she is,” he chuckled, kissing your temple like you were sweet and innocent while his fingers curled and dragged through your soaking cunt. “my dumb little doll. you ready now?”

“please,” you sobbed, face hot and eyes glassy.

he pulled his fingers out, dragged them up between your cheeks to smear your own slick along your ass, then grabbed your hips with both hands and lined up his cock, fat and heavy, and pushed in slow, deliberate, like he had all the time in the world to ruin you.

you cried out, body jolting with the stretch, but he just held you there, cock halfway in and grinding slow so the pressure didn’t ease for a second. “c’mon, baby. you wanted this. don’t act shy now.”

he shoved the rest of the way in with one deep thrust and you screamed, your hands scrabbling uselessly at the vanity’s edge, knuckles going white.

“look at that,” he said, staring at your reflection. “look at my good little cumrag. taking every inch like she was made for it.” he started moving then, slow but punishing, each thrust rocking you against the marble, your tits bouncing, your mouth open and drooling against the cool surface.

“you’re gorgeous like this,” he growled. “all fucked out. all mine.” he slapped your ass, made the meat jiggle, and grinned when you yelped. “this vanity’s not even paid off and you’ve already made it yours. every time i see it now, i’m gonna remember this sloppy little hole creaming all over my cock.”

you whimpered. you were sobbing. the sound of your cunt clenching and sucking around him filled the room along with the sharp smack of his hips and your choked moans.

“fuckin’ drooling,” he muttered. “look at you. mouth open. tongue out. brainless. you get this cock in you and there’s nothin’ left up there, is there?” he reached under, found your clit, and started rubbing hard, fast, mean.

“nnhhnn—daddy—i—it’s—”

“say it. you’re gonna come? gonna cream all over daddy’s cock like a good little fucktoy?”

you nodded so fast your hair whipped into your face, and he groaned, hand tightening on your hip. “then fuckin’ come,” he growled, and slammed into you harder, deeper, rougher.

you broke.

your legs gave, your pussy clenched tight and wet and milking him, your whole body convulsing with the force of your orgasm. you sobbed, loud and broken, a string of daddy’s and yes’s and thank you’s pouring from your mouth like prayer.

and he didn’t stop. didn’t slow. just kept fucking you through it, watching your face in the mirror with open pride.

“that’s it,” he muttered, voice dark and hoarse. “that’s my girl. my stupid, beautiful, perfect fuckdoll. gonna fill you up. pump this pussy full and watch it leak down your thighs.”

you whined, still twitching, still clenching like your body refused to let go of him.

he fucked you three more strokes and came with a grunt, cock buried deep, hot and thick inside you. you felt it fill you, felt it spill as he pulled out, as he watched it leak and drip down your thighs with a satisfied hum.

he kissed your shoulder, soft and lingering. “that’s what the vanity’s for,” he murmured, gentle now. “now sit pretty for daddy. let me see that mess.”

NANAMI KENTO

the vanity was quiet luxury, old-world curves and champagne lacquer with dark bronze handles, the kind of understated wealth nanami preferred—custom-built, heavy as sin, carved legs and solid marble top. he’d ordered it for you because you'd spent weeks sitting on the floor doing your makeup like some poor little thing, and that had annoyed him more than he’d admitted. now it was exactly where he wanted it: under you, behind you, holding you steady while he dragged his cock deeper inside you with every ruthless stroke, not once letting you look away from your own reflection.

“you look ridiculous,” he said, low and steady, like it was a fact. “drooling on the marble. face all pink. eyes gone glassy.”

your cheek stuck to the cool stone surface, mouth open, tongue just visible. your lashes fluttered, tears threatening to slip out. you moaned—high and thin and broken—and he didn’t ease up. didn’t pause. nanami never rushed, never got sloppy, even when you were sobbing underneath him. his hand pressed between your shoulder blades, guiding you down, forcing your back to arch deeper, the angle leaving you open and trembling.

“no,” he said when your eyes flicked down. “up. you look at what you are when i fuck you like this. every time you act bratty, every time you whine, i want you to remember what you look like bent over the furniture i bought, crying for cock.”

you hiccuped, sobbing as he fucked into you again, slow and so deep you felt it drag against every soft, oversensitive inch. “d-daddy—”

he grunted, fingers bruising into your hips. “again.”

“daddy,” you gasped, shuddering. “please—too—”

“it’s not too anything. this is what you begged for, isn’t it? got all dolled up, sprayed perfume on your thighs, posted some idiotic pouty selfie, and then waited for me to come home and handle you.”

he thrust in deep, sharp, made you squeal. “you’re lucky i have patience. lucky i love you enough to keep you.” his voice dipped then, rougher now, more breath than word. “you act like a needy little whore, and still, i take care of you.”

you nodded frantically. couldn’t even speak, couldn’t form a thought around the way his cock filled you, thick and perfect, dragging slick out of you with every stroke. the room smelled like sex and perfume and something richer, deeper. your thighs were shaking, sweat running down the backs of your knees, your fingers slipping against the vanity edge, trying to find purchase. he didn’t help you balance. didn’t let you fall, either. just kept you right there, back arched, ass high, cunt stretched and wet and fluttering around every inch he gave you.

“you think anyone else would do this?” he muttered, voice a rasp against the nape of your neck. “spoil you, break you in, fuck you dumb just to keep you calm?”

you whimpered, unable to speak.

“you know better. say it.”

“y-you, only you—”

he groaned low, satisfied, and let his hand slide up from your back to your throat, fingers pressing there, not choking—never choking—but reminding. reminding you who kept you, who taught your body to respond like this, who owned every cry, every drip of slick. he didn’t even need to squeeze; your breath hitched the moment he touched you.

“this vanity,” he said, thrusting in slow and cruel. “is not for makeup. not for pouting. it’s where you learn what you’re for. what you belong to.”

his other hand slipped between your legs, found your clit swollen and soaked. he rubbed it in steady, mean circles, the kind that made you tremble and squeal and jerk against him. “you’re leaking,” he muttered. “your cunt’s drooling. look at the mess you’re making.”

you cried out, shaking all over.

“you wanted this,” he said, faster now, breath ragged. “you dress up, you beg, you cling like a brat all day, and now you get to see what it means.”

you couldn’t answer, not with the orgasm cresting through your legs, crashing up your spine like lightning, white-hot and humiliating, your body going stiff then limp all at once. your mouth opened on a silent scream and your walls clenched down around his cock, slick gushing down your thighs. he didn’t stop.

“that’s right,” he gritted out. “make a mess. ruin the marble. i’ll replace it. i’ll fuck you over a new one tomorrow.”

he slammed into you, hard, once, twice, then again, groaning when he spilled deep inside, cock twitching, body curling over yours. the moment dragged—hot, pulsing, soaked in breath and sweat and the thick stretch of him staying inside while your cunt tried to milk every drop.

then, softer, as his hand slid to cup your cheek: “there’s my girl. beautiful. messy. mine.”

TOJI FUSHIGURO

the mirror was a wide pane of clean glass rimmed in sleek matte black, fixed above the vanity you couldn’t even pretend you’d paid for—dark-stained oak, thick marble slab, drawers deeper than necessary, every detail something toji had picked out with a sharp look and a hand around your waist while you trailed behind him all doe-eyed and breathless in some overpriced showroom.

now it groaned faintly beneath you with every slam of his hips.

“goddamn,” he muttered, voice low and amused behind you, one big palm spread across your lower back, pinning you down flat while the other squeezed your ass hard enough to leave imprints. “all that whining, all that fuckin’ baby talk, and now you’re silent?”

you weren’t silent. not really. you were gasping, sobbing, drooling, lips parted against the marble while your reflection stared back at you—wrecked, flushed, hair clinging to sweat-slick skin. your tits squished against the stone, one leg twitching helplessly as his cock pounded deep into your cunt, obscene and wet and endless.

“what happened, huh?” he huffed a dry laugh, voice going darker as he leaned forward, weight settling heavy over your back, cock pushing deeper with the change in angle until your fingers scrambled for purchase against the slab. “thought you wanted it. you were fuckin’ beggin’—daddy, please—”

“ahhh—!”

“yeah, that.” he ground in, cock thick and hot, dragging against your insides so slow and so mean it made you twitch. “that noise. like you’re surprised. like your pussy didn’t soak through your fuckin’ panties the second i looked at you.”

you sobbed, words catching behind your teeth. you’d been teasing him earlier, fresh lipstick and the tiniest skirt you could find, sitting on his lap like you weren’t going to make it a problem. he’d let you play—watched with that usual smirk, calloused hands gripping your thighs while he told you to go wait at the vanity like a good girl.

and now you were bent over it, shaking, empty-brained, moaning for him like it was your job.

“y’know what’s sad?” he grunted, giving your ass another slap, loud and hard enough to echo. “this thing—” he tapped the marble with his knuckles. “cost more than your car. and you’re gettin’ it dirty. all that slick drippin’ down your thighs, leaking on it like you forgot what furniture is for.”

you cried, hiccupped, tried to squirm, but his hand landed hard between your shoulders again.

“nah. stay.” his voice was a growl, low and lazy. “you wanted the mirror, right? wanted to see yourself get ruined. take a fuckin’ look.”

you didn’t want to—but you did. your head turned on instinct, eyes dragging up to the reflection, where your cheeks were red and wet and your thighs were spread wide, toji’s cock slamming into your messy, twitching cunt from behind.

you whimpered again.

“that’s it,” he muttered, lips brushing your ear now. “watch. watch daddy use you like you’re nothin’ but a hole. that’s all you are when you’re like this, yeah?”

you nodded, and he chuckled low, the sound all smug satisfaction.

“knew you’d agree. you love this shit. love getting folded over pretty things and fucked dumb. you’d let me fuck you on the kitchen counter, the couch, hell—on the fuckin’ hood of my car if i told you to.”

“y-yes,” you sobbed, eyes blurring again.

“mmhm,” he grunted, picking up speed now, hips snapping into you with that hard, brutal rhythm that left your knees buckling, your body melting under him. “look at that. this pretty little cunt clenching around me like she owns me. like she doesn’t know i’m just lettin’ her have it.”

he wasn’t. you both knew it. you were only ever like this for him—so wet it dripped down your legs, so cockdrunk your eyes glazed over, so empty your thoughts curled up and disappeared the second he laid his hand on your back.

“say it,” he ordered. “say what you are.”

“d-dumb,” you gasped. “dumb baby—daddy’s baby—need it—need your cock—”

“fuck yeah you do,” he growled, and slammed in harder, groaning as your walls fluttered around him. “so fuckin’ needy all the time. gotta ruin you every night or you get bitchy. can’t even function without it.”

you nodded again, tongue sliding out, breath catching on a broken cry. the sounds between your thighs were filthy, every thrust pushing slick out around the base of his cock, the marble catching the worst of it.

“gonna come,” he rasped, voice all grit and heat, hand sliding from your back to your throat, just enough pressure to hold your head up, force your eyes to stay on the mirror. “gonna fill this fuckin’ pussy. make it drip. you want that, baby? want me to breed this cunt?”

you couldn’t even speak. you wailed.

he took that as a yes.

“good girl,” he grunted, and came deep, hips jerking against your ass, cock pulsing hot inside your cunt as he spilled into you, groaning low and deep through clenched teeth.

you collapsed against the vanity, still twitching.

he stayed buried in you for a minute, breathing hard, hand soft now on your hip.

then, voice softer—low, warm, filthy and fond: “mirror’s not goin’ anywhere, baby. next time i wanna see you touchin’ yourself in it. moanin’ for me.”

he kissed your shoulder like you were the only thing that mattered. like he hadn’t just fucked you raw over five grand of designer furniture.

RYOMEN SUKUNA

the vanity was blood-red lacquer with gold inlay, too decadent for the room it sat in, carved with sharp angles and claw-foot legs, decadent and obscene just like the man who’d ordered it delivered without asking—without giving you a choice. “looked like you,” sukuna had said with that lazy, cruel smirk, one hand fisted in your hair while the other scrolled through his phone. “shiny. dramatic. too much.”

and now you were bent over it, wrists pinned at the small of your back in one massive hand, thighs spread, cheek mashed to the polished surface that was fogged from your panting. your reflection stared back at you, ruined and wide-eyed, spit slick on your chin, tears catching in your lashes, breasts flattened against the cold marble, while sukuna rammed his cock into your cunt with vicious, steady precision.

“there we fuckin’ go,” he drawled, voice thick and amused, the other hand resting heavy on your spine to keep you down, holding you where he wanted you. “now this is what it’s for. not your fuckin’ makeup. not your jewelry. this whole thing? it’s a fuckin’ altar for my cock.”

you sobbed, high and ragged, trying to move, to meet his thrusts or escape them, you didn’t even know—but he held you still, ground in deep with every snap of his hips until your moans turned into broken, wet little cries.

“too much?” he mocked, voice dropping darker, crueler. “you were beggin’ for it. climbed into my lap all pretty, rubbed your thighs together like you couldn’t breathe without me.” he dragged his cock out slow, teasing, just the tip still stretching your hole, making you mewl from the emptiness. “you looked so fucking pathetic, baby. what, thought i’d be gentle just ‘cause you’re cute?”

“d-daddy—!”

he laughed, loud and mean, slammed back in hard enough to shove your whole body up the vanity, the impact shaking the mirror.

“don’t ‘daddy’ me when you’re drippin’ like this,” he growled, cock buried to the hilt, not moving. “you’re clenching so tight it’s like your pussy’s scared i’ll leave.” he leaned down then, mouth right at your ear, hot breath spilling over your skin. “like you don’t love gettin’ ruined.”

you whimpered, tears spilling over.

“aw, poor baby. crying already?” he kissed your jaw, then nipped your earlobe hard enough to make you jerk. “you wanted the whole thing. wanted daddy’s cock till your brain melted. wanted to see yourself cry. so here—” he forced your chin up with two fingers until your eyes met your reflection. “look at what you are.”

you stared. you couldn’t look away. your mouth was open, face blotchy, your body trembling as he started to fuck into you again, deeper now, slower and crueler, like he wanted you to feel every thick inch slide through your swollen cunt.

“this what you get for bein’ needy,” he murmured, watching your face in the mirror while he kept pounding into you. “get fucked stupid and sob on the vanity like a little toy. you even know what you’re sayin’ anymore?”

you didn’t. you couldn’t. the words were gone. you were drooling, sniffling, eyes half-rolled, your thighs twitching as he hit that spot inside you that made the whole world go white.

“nnhhn—fuck—d-daddy, please—”

“please what?” he snapped, hips snapping forward. “you want it harder? want me to break this pretty little cunt open so you can brag to your fuckin’ mirror tomorrow?”

you squealed, legs trembling, slick pouring down to your knees. he chuckled again, low and delighted, and gripped your throat from behind, tilting your head back.

“say it,” he said, breathless and filthy. “say what you are.”

“d-dumb—dumb baby—daddy’s—”

“fuck yes you are.” he fucked you harder then, every thrust brutal, relentless, dragging another helpless moan from your throat. “stupid, wet little thing. made to take cock. made to cry and come and beg.” his free hand slid around to your clit, rough fingers rubbing tight, fast circles that made your legs give out entirely. he held you up with brute strength alone, slammed into you with a growl, cock thick and hot, filling every part of you like it was his.

and it was.

“gonna come in this cunt,” he rasped, panting against your ear. “gonna stuff you so full it leaks for hours. want you waddling to the bathroom with my cum dripping out. want you smelling like me. lookin’ like this.”

you moaned, high and thin and lost.

“yeah. yeah, there it is. come for me,” he ordered, and your body obeyed. you shattered around him, cunt spasming and milking, moans choking into sobs as he fucked you through it, kept pounding until you went limp.

he came with a sharp grunt, cock twitching deep inside you, hips jerking as he emptied himself in hot, deep pulses. you could feel it, dripping already.

he stayed pressed against you, breathing rough, one hand rubbing circles into your back now, like he hadn’t just reduced you to nothing.

“that’s my baby,” he said, and kissed your shoulder like a brand. “mirror’s gonna remember this more than you do.”

SHIU KONG

the light hit you hard in the mirror, that golden kind of glow he liked to leave on even when it was past midnight, when you were already trembling and pliant and flushed all over, bent over the matte black vanity with your mouth open, tongue wet against your lip. it was sleek, heavy, modern—the kind of piece shiu never explained the price tag on, just had delivered. “aesthetic purposes,” he’d muttered with a shrug, but you knew the real reason the second he pushed your knees apart in front of it the first time.

and now you were back there again, legs shaking, elbows slipping against the polished surface, and him behind you—shirt rolled up to his elbows, tie discarded, belt still looped through his slacks and jingling softly every time his hips snapped forward into your soaked cunt.

“you look like a fuckin’ mess,” he said flat, calm, cruel. “and you love it.”

you whined, soft and high-pitched, and the sound made his hand snap up to grip your hair, yanking your head back until your reflection snapped into view again—glassy eyes, face smeared with tears and spit, lips parted around some gasping broken plea you hadn’t meant to make.

“there she is,” he sneered. “daddy’s baby. already drooling. already dumb. and we’re not even halfway done.”

you moaned, your knees dipping, and he slapped your ass, firm and quick and perfectly placed to make your back arch again, your pussy fluttering around the thick stretch of him. you could feel how deep he was, every stroke rubbing through the sore, swollen heat he’d been teasing for an hour before this—fingers, tongue, everything slow and cruel while he made you cry about how badly you wanted it. he’d made you lay out your makeup before that, made you get ready like it was a photoshoot.

“you think i bought this for you to look at yourself?” he grunted, grabbing your hips and slamming in again, sharp, brutal. “this is my mirror. my view. my dumb little girl getting wrecked on furniture she didn’t pay for.”

“nnh—f-fuck—shiu—”

“wrong,” he barked. “say it right.”

“d-daddy—!”

his groan was rough, aroused, fingers digging in harder, rhythm picking up until your thighs were quivering, the wet slap of your cunt against his hips loud and constant.

“you don’t even know what to do without me, do you?” he spat, fucking into you mean, relentless. “spend all day texting me about how bored you are, sittin’ around like a spoiled brat, waitin’ for me to come home and use you.”

you sobbed out something like yes, eyes rolling in the mirror.

“yeah, that’s what i thought. dumb bunny. too fuckin’ soft to handle real life, but this?” he slammed deep. “this you can do. get stuffed full and cry on my cock. it’s the only thing you’re good at.”

your cunt squeezed around him and he laughed, breathless. “fuckin’ knew it. you love when i talk to you like this. love when i make you watch yourself fall apart.”

your hands scrabbled on the vanity, nails slipping over glass and lacquer, your forehead pressed to the mirror now as your moans got higher, pitchier, slurred through drool and sobs. your legs were shaking, knees trying to collapse, and he didn’t let you—not once. just grabbed you tighter, moved rougher, until you were babbling, until the only word you could get out was daddy and even that sounded wrecked.

“tell me what you are,” he snapped, breath against your ear. “say it.”

“your—your little baby—so dumb—just need cock—need yours—”

he grunted, deep and primal, and slammed in harder. “fuck. knew you were a mess but this? this is another level. i oughta record this shit. frame it right next to the mirror.”

you squealed, and your orgasm hit you like a train, pussy spasming around him, gush soaking his thighs, your body jerking and curling over the vanity in a wave of heat and overstimulated sobbing.

he didn’t stop. he never stopped when you came. just used it, fucked you harder through it, held your hips still while you twitched and wailed, the marble cold under your tits, your reflection glazed and mindless in front of you.

“gonna fill you up,” he growled, nearly there. “make you feel it all night. let it drip down those thighs you’re always showin’ off like a fuckin’ tease.”

you nodded, shaking, wrecked.

he groaned, deep and low, and came hard, cock buried to the hilt, warmth flooding you and spilling down immediately, his hand rubbing your ass while he caught his breath.

then, like it wasn’t filthy, like it wasn’t obscene, his voice went soft: “you did good, baby. perfect even when you’re dumb.” he kissed your shoulder, slow. “next time you sit here to do your makeup, i want you to remember this. remember how you look when you’re mine.”

HIGURUMA HIROMI

he always started with your hair—fingers threading slow through the strands at first, tender, careful, like the gentleman you clung to so pathetically. but tonight, it had turned into a fist, tight at your scalp, dragging your head back so your breath hitched against the marble-top vanity he'd bought you months ago. “for your mornings,” he’d said, voice smooth and polished, a rare smile touching his lips as he watched you gasp at the gift. you hadn’t known then he meant every morning.

“open your eyes,” higuruma muttered now, voice rougher, darker, tight with restraint as his hips pressed flush against your ass, cock buried so deep in your cunt it throbbed. “i said—open.”

you did. barely. they fluttered at first, hazy with tears and arousal, then lifted heavy to stare at your reflection—your cheek smushed to the cool marble, makeup smeared from the first time he’d made you cry tonight, mouth parted, drool slipping from your lips in a wet string down the gleaming surface. your thighs trembled where he held you spread wide, and your eyes, god, your eyes looked so empty.

he smiled at that. not cruel—just pleased. content, in that terrifyingly calm way only higuruma could pull off. “look at you,” he murmured, dragging out slow. you moaned, eyes rolling up for a moment before snapping back when he tugged your hair harder. “messy already. how long’s it been? three minutes?”

“p-please—”

he grunted, cutting off your breath with another sharp thrust, hips meeting your ass with a clap that echoed off the bathroom tile. “i don’t think you understand the position you’re in, sweetheart.” he leaned down then, breath warm against your ear, hand sliding from your hair to your neck, holding—not choking, just enough to pin, to own. “this vanity? my money. that necklace you’ve got on? my taste. the cock in you? mine. so if you’re gonna beg, you better sound a hell of a lot more grateful.”

you sobbed, and it only made him hum, pleased.

“you love being like this, don’t you? fucked stupid on marble, mouth open, brain turned off.”

you nodded frantically.

“of course you do.” he kissed the back of your shoulder then, slow and affectionate, almost sweet—and shoved in deep again, making your legs twitch. “because this is the only time you shut up. when i’ve got your cunt stretched around me and your face dripping on furniture that cost more than your tuition.”

your hands scrambled for something to hold onto, slipping over gloss compacts and brush handles and one of the little velvet boxes he'd filled with jewelry. he knocked one aside when it got in his way, sent gold spilling over the marble, and didn’t even look down.

he only watched you in the mirror. watched your thighs shake. watched your body fold perfectly beneath him, his cock pumping into you slow and punishing while your cunt clenched and fluttered helplessly around the stretch.

“i ought to make you watch a playback,” he murmured. “this pathetic little face you make every time i call you dumb. how your mouth falls open like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.”

“nnhh—”

“shh. you’ll speak when you’ve earned it.” his hand slid lower then, thumb brushing between your folds, slick and pulsing. “not when you’re crying like a brat.”

you came hard. no warning—just a sudden high-pitched sob, a tremble so sharp your whole body jerked forward against the marble as you clenched around him, spasming, leaking. your orgasm splashed down your thighs in hot, messy pulses, and he hissed, low and dangerous.

“goddamn,” he muttered. “listen to that. like a faucet.”

your legs gave. he caught you, steadied you again without so much as a grunt, and didn’t pull out.

“you done?” he asked softly. his voice, unlike everything else, stayed calm. polite. full of terrifying patience.

you whimpered. shook your head.

“good girl.”

his thrusts picked up—faster now, meaner. the slap of skin echoed louder than your cries, his grip unforgiving as he fucked you harder against the edge, chasing something deeper than just his own release. your moans were high, breathless, vowels stripped of language. drool spilled freely. your body bounced helplessly between the vanity and the hard muscle behind you, your reflection going hazier with every wet smack of his hips.

“this is how it should be,” he muttered, not to you, but to himself. “you, like this. pliant. silent. wrecked.”

“d-daddy—”

“mm. finally.” he slapped your ass, let the sound linger. “you always remember eventually. sweet little thing.”

he came deep, silent, jaw clenched as he emptied inside you with slow, grinding thrusts, holding your hips tight to feel every spasm of your cunt around him. his cum spilled hot and heavy down your thighs as he pulled out, letting it drip, watching you slump against the vanity in a whimpering heap.

then, quiet again: “clean yourself up. use the mirror. i want you to see exactly what you look like when you’re being good.”

CHOSO KAMO

you couldn’t even remember how he got you bent over like this—one moment you’d been perched on the velvet stool, brushing your lip gloss on slow, thighs squeezed tight in your little sleep shorts, and the next you were splayed across the vanity he’d bought you just last month. a gift “because you’re always sitting on the floor like some stray,” he’d grumbled, red-faced, as he set the delivery down himself with those big, calloused hands that now held your hips like you were something breakable only he was allowed to bruise.

“you’re always actin’ like you need somethin’,” choso muttered behind you, voice gone low and lazy with heat. “touchin’ my arm, whinin’ about attention. then i give it to you, and you forget how to fuckin’ act.”

you were trying to answer, really—but your jaw just worked open on a breathless moan, drool smearing against the cool marble as your cunt clenched hard around the thick stretch of him inside you. he was all heat and weight, cock pulsing as he bottomed out again, the thick curve dragging against every nerve inside you until your thighs shook.

his grip on your waist tightened. “you hear me?”

you nodded, eyes fluttering up to your reflection like you’d been trained—like you knew he’d check. the mirror didn’t lie: your face was already ruined, lips red and swollen, lashes stuck together from tears. you looked like you’d been crying for hours, but it had been barely ten minutes since he’d shoved your shorts down and bent you over the pristine marble.

“look at that,” he said, breath catching in his throat as his hips rolled, thick cock grinding deep into your soaked, fluttering pussy. “already got you dumb. haven’t even done nothin’ yet.”

you whimpered. drooled a little more.

“such a needy baby,” he muttered, sliding his hand up your back, then curling into your hair to yank your head back, slow and careful, just enough to keep your eyes locked on the reflection. “you wait for me all day just to get fucked like this, don’t you?”

“y-yes—” you gasped.

“'course you do. little thing like you can’t help it. always runnin’ around in those stupid little outfits, askin’ for it.” he snapped his hips into you then, sharp and sudden, and your voice broke on a cry. “always starin’ at me with that look. all glassy-eyed and stupid, like you want me to bend you over any surface i pass.”

you nodded frantically. the wet slap of his thrusts echoed through the apartment, each one forcing you tighter against the vanity, tits squished to the marble, breath fogging the glass. the room smelled like sweat and sex and that sugar lotion he always teased you for. his cock filled you to the brim, heavy and so fucking deep, dragging out slow just to shove back in and leave you sobbing.

“you know what this mirror’s for?” he whispered then, breath brushing your cheek. “it’s not for gettin’ ready. it’s so you can see what you look like when i’m inside you.”

your whole body shuddered. your eyes locked on the reflection again, dazed and ruined.

“you wanna see it, baby?” he murmured, voice quieter now, filthier. “watch this pussy take it like it was made for me?”

you whined, your hands scrabbling at the marble edge, nails scraping grooves into the surface.

“good girl,” he said, like you’d answered. “fuckin’ perfect. you always are when you’re like this.”

he reached down, fingers brushing over your clit, and you choked on your breath, hips jerking as your cunt spasmed around him.

“tight fuckin’ grip,” he hissed. “like she doesn’t wanna let go. like she knows she’s mine.”

you couldn’t stop it—you came hard, all at once, cunt fluttering around him, your knees giving, body twitching helplessly as a wet gush spilled down your thighs. your reflection went hazy through the tears and fogged breath, mouth hanging open like you couldn’t even remember how to close it.

choso groaned, deep and rough, slamming in once, twice more before he held you flush, cock throbbing as he came inside you, hot and slow and heavy.

“fuck,” he breathed. “look at that. made for me. made to be filled.”

he didn’t pull out—not yet. just stayed there, pressed against you, hands gentle now as he brushed your hair back from your face and pressed a kiss to your shoulder. “you did good,” he murmured. “gonna keep this mirror clean, though. want you to see every time i break you.”

[yuri-min]

˚₊‧꒰ა gojo satoru ﾉ f. reader ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ 𓂃 cruel vortexes

⤿ ꒰ inappropriate use of limitless ⭒ brat taming ꒱

"torrruuuu I can't —" you hiccuped. hips stirring in pitiful little bucks. "please, please I can't."

"god you're so whiney." and he was so cruel. rubbing on your poor pulsing clit with a spiralling, mini vortex on his thumb.

date the strongest, they said. it would be fun, they said— until he started bending atoms on your clit.

the suction coupled with his callouses perked your tits and slicked your untouched, neglected slit. pooling in your sticky mess. enticing. begging.

but satoru? he was in a mood. edging wasn't usually on his agenda but a certain brat even has him making exceptions. "oh I'm sorry pretty," he crooned above you. one strong arm steeled tight around your middle. his thumb circled faster. the suction suckled harder.

you choked. whined. your head tipped back and he stole the opportunity to lay hot, open-mouthed kisses down your throat. "fuck, so wet." you think he's granting you mercy when his thumb swiped down. you gushed around it, hoping he'd swap for long fingers stroking on your sweetspot instead.

alas, that grin tells you otherwise. shlap! you jolt at the spank and grip the sheets. your only support since your cruel boyfriend prefers pinching on your oversensitive clit.

"baby," you sobbed.

"aww so I'm 'baby' now?" his thumb grew ruthless. you squirmed and arched. two fingers traced your spine. as if he cared for your tears or orgasm. "I'm 'baby' when you want something? yeah you fucking brat?" satoru grinned, deranged and mean as the vortex spun so vigorously your eyes looked back.

you clenched around nothing. sobbed and clung around his blue shirt. "fuck— toru- toru 'm sorry please please I'm gonna—!"

cry. that's all you're gonna do when his mean thumb retracted and the devil flashed his grin above you.

"gonna cum?" he crooned, stroking your side in faux comfort and smearing your slick on the curve. no stimulation, whatsoever.

"go on sweet girl. cum for me. cum for me like a good girl, hmm?"

© 𝒆𝒅𝒆𝒏𝒔𝒓𝒐𝒔𝒆 . no copying, translation or plagiarism authorised

[yuri-min]

minisode 02

pairing: snow leopard hybrid!gojo x bunny hybrid!femreader

keep up here

your dreams don’t just come near your heat—they crash into you, violent and electric, dragging your body into a tide of burning need you can’t fight.

you’re barely conscious, but the coming heat inside you is already stirring up a storm, licking at every nerve, every inch of sensitive skin. your pulse pounds in your ears. your scent is going sticky sweet with want, and your thighs rub together on instinct, chasing friction even in your sleep.

and there he is—satoru. not just your obnoxious, teasing snow leopard roommate, but him, raw and magnetic, glowing with power and danger like some untouchable apex. the embodiment of everything your bunny body shouldn’t want, but does.

his hands are big, rough, and warm, gripping your hips tight like he’s trying to mold your curves to his claws. you’re straddling him, your knees pressed against the mattress, your slick inner thighs brushing his furred skin. you sink down slowly, every inch making your body quake, the stretch delicious, unbearable. his strong thighs cradle you from beneath, the steady thrum of his heart syncing perfectly with your own frantic beat.

your bare chest presses to his, where a thin trail of snowy fur clings damp to his skin with sweat. he’s fever-warm, the heat of him scorching, addicting. the scent he gives off—dark, heady, danger—wraps around you like a drug. it’s dominance, unfiltered and primal, suffocating in the best way.

you grind down on him slowly, chasing that friction, aching to stoke the blaze pooling low in your belly. every drag of your slick folds against his cock has your ears twitching, back arched like you’re offering yourself up.

his breath hitches, ragged and guttural, brushing hot against your neck. you feel the sharp flick of his tongue, tasting the salt of your skin—right at the base of your ear where you’re most sensitive. your ears flatten against your hair, helpless and twitchy, betraying the wave of heat crawling down your spine.

he bites down gently on his lower lip, fangs piercing the plush skin, holding in the low groan rumbling in his chest.

“fuck,” he growls, voice a low, animalistic rasp. “you’re mine.”

the words ripple through you like a command, a promise, a dangerous claim. it makes your breath hitch and your nails dig into his shoulders, needing something to hold onto.

you arch into him, rolling your hips harder, chasing something that’s so close it aches. slick drips between your thighs, and his claws flex into your skin—not breaking, but close, the silent warning of a beast letting you know you’re being held.

you bounce, slowly at first, and then faster. the slap of skin, the obscene wet noises from between your legs, the heavy panting—it all blends into one feral rhythm. your breath tangles with his, chest to chest, mouth to jaw. his ears twitch at every sound you make, tail lashing like he’s barely holding on.

he smells like home. like heat and sex and something your body wants even though your brain says no.

every movement is fire and silk, rough and tender, desperate and starving.

and then— a sharp pulse. a rush that floods your entire body.

your back arches, a soft whimper falling from your lips as your orgasm crashes into you, white-hot and mind-numbing. your body jerks, trembling in his lap, as everything melts into nothing but gasps, heat, and need sated—barely.

when the dream finally slips away, you wake with a flush blazing across your cheeks, your thighs sticky, breath shaky, every nerve still lit up from the inside out.

and even in the dark quiet of your room, heart still racing, you swear you can feel the ghost of his hands on your hips. the heat of him, the rasp of his voice still echoing in your ears.

you’re mine.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱₊˚⊹

taglist: @satorupied, @mashtura, @auucz, @littlemissfix-itfic, @luv3nti, @sukunawhores, @nx-0w, @rh-tg1, @sugacor3, @victoria1676, @arabellasolstice, @qardasngan, @entr4p3, @maddy24207, @maah-sama, @izzybluebells, @penguingirlanzu, @levislug, @moonlight-inthe-sea, @coffeeluvr96, @surethingmoto, @shokosbunny, @kaboomkayla, @ddumgum, @nanam1nz, @universal-s1ut, @sixtiesweetheart, @sleepyyammy, @ilovebeansyay, @mxlktae, @gojousatoruswifey, @haithamsbb, @storuhrts, @satorugirlie, @aldebrana, @00anymous00, @lilychan176, @xxwelshqueenxx, @misswonderfrojustice, @thikcems, @pickledsoda, @19catspiledontopofeachother, @fanf1ctionislife, @hastletea, @cupc4keics, justachillgirllui, @kageyamasboxmilk, @thesmithseatmealive, @momoewn, @fawnfaer, @staygoldsquatchling02, @anthastudios

[yuri-min]

chapter three.

pairing: snow leopard hybrid!gojo x bunny hybrid!femreader

keep up here

the days leading up to your heat have been nothing short of torture. you’re hot—constantly. even with the apartment’s a/c blasting like it’s mid-winter, you keep swiping sweat from your hairline and upper lip, burning from the inside out. your fur-lined ears twitch in irritation, and your fluffy tail keeps flicking like it’s trying to shake off the tension simmering under your skin.

the worst part? satoru offered to stay over at nanami’s earlier than planned.

“y’know, i don’t mind crashing with nanamin if you want some time… alone.”

alone.

you both knew "alone" meant you, probably failing miserably, trying not to hump everything in sight.

neither of you has brought up what happened after the grocery trip. not the quiet tension. not the way you’d shuffled off to bed and turned on your vibrator like you weren’t absolutely feral. but he knew. his ears were massive—fluffy snow-leopard things that twitched at the slightest sound. and with the way he kept sneaking glances at you the next morning? yeah. he definitely knew.

at least he didn’t know that he was the one on your mind during it. and you intended to keep it that way.

“it’s okay,” you huffed, waving off his offer. “i’ll be fine.”

satoru just nodded and dove back into his rare ribeye steak like it was the most natural thing in the world.

and that was that.

to say it’s been tense between you two would be a criminal understatement. you're constantly tiptoeing around each other—him, surprisingly, not wanting to cross any lines, and you desperately trying not to pounce. your instincts are going haywire. bunny brain going brrrrr. you’re practically vibrating.

not that you’re attracted to him. no. definitely not.

…it’s just that your brain goes rogue when heat’s coming. all you can see is a tall—very tall—muscular predator hybrid who oozes sex appeal even when he’s sweaty and half-asleep. especially when he’s sweaty and half-asleep.

and the way he refuses to wear real clothes at home isn’t helping.

you were getting ready for work one morning when he wandered out of his room, freshly woken, arms stretching high over his head. your gaze trailed along the fuzzy white happy trail that peeked out above his pajama pants—and you nearly buckled from the sheer wave of arousal that hit.

your ears shot straight up. tail twitched. whole body stiff.

satoru noticed. of course he did. his own snowy ears gave the slightest flick—like a radar catching prey movement.

he didn’t say anything, but you know he was dying to make a teasing comment.

you didn’t let him.

“you look like shit,” you blurted, and bolted for the door.

work? that was its own hell. you were practically shoving scent blockers down your throat and drowning yourself in perfume. the idea of some sleazy customer catching even a whiff of your pre-heat state? immediate homicide. you were already sensitive to touch, jumpy at loud noises, constantly fidgeting with your ears. and your tail? it refused to cooperate. kept twitching and fluffing up in defense like a pissed-off little pompom.

your manager, utahime—a black cat hybrid—shot you a sympathetic look once as you popped in yet another blocker.

you’d only asked for one week off, even though she said you could take more. but you didn’t want to lose any more pay. you were already living off rice and frozen dumplings.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

when you get home, the apartment’s quiet. satoru’s gone—doing god knows what. you’ve never even asked what he does for work. something late at night that pays him enough to splurge on imported wagyu and fancy sake. whatever.

not really hungry, you decide to knock out some laundry instead.

you gather your basket and head for the door, only to curse under your breath when you remember—satoru still hasn’t made you a copy of the building laundry room key. you huff, drop the basket by the door, and head into his room to look for it.

the second you open the door, your ears flatten.

his scent hits you like a freight train—heavy, rich, and pure. the whole apartment always smells like him a little, but this? this is different. there’s nothing mixed in. just him. raw and undiluted. a snow-leopard hybrid’s natural musk, tinged with power and danger, makes your instincts go haywire.

you take shallow breaths and tiptoe to his desk, trying not to drown in it. eyes scanning for keys. focus, dammit.

but then—your gaze catches on the pile of laundry near his dresser.

it’s stronger there. heavier. muskier.

your ears twitch. your nose flares. your thighs press together.

you whimper, barely.

you stand there, locked in place, chewing your lip—and before your brain can yell bad idea, your hand darts out and snatches up a plain white tee.

you bury your face in it. inhale deeply. moan, just barely.

his cologne. his sweat. his natural scent. it floods you. fills your lungs. swirls in your brain like smoke. your tail curls in tight, and your ears tremble from the stimulation.

you don’t know how long you stand there, just breathing him in—until a sudden, humiliating warmth drips down your inner thigh, seeping through your shorts.

you gasp. ears shoot upright. eyes go wide.

fuck.

you yank yourself away from the shirt like it burned you, grab the keys from his desk, and bolt—nearly faceplanting as you stumble out of the room, body aching and slick and mortified.

he comes home around 1 a.m., kicking the door shut quietly behind him. he blinks at your laundry basket still by the door, confused. you’re usually a laundry-and-bed-by-midnight type.

then he walks into his room.

stops.

sniffs.

and freezes.

you were in here. he knows that scent. knows how it smells when it’s just barely starting to shift toward heat. knows it’s you. his tail swishes once—slow and deliberate.

you’re still awake. you’ve been staying up until nearly 3 a.m. lately. he knocks on your door twice.

“you alright?”

no answer.

he cracks it open and peeks in.

you’re sitting on your bed, dazed, holding something white. he moves closer to sit next to you.

“…that’s my shirt,” he says softly.

you don’t respond at first. then your lips move on their own.

“i took it.”

satoru raises a brow, waiting for more. you don’t give it. so he asks gently,

“uh huh. can i know why? i mean—i don’t mind, but… why?”

you finally look at him. and he nearly chokes.

you look wrecked. flushed. pupils blown wide. ears drooping low and twitching. mouth parted like you forgot how to speak.

“i don’t know…” you whisper.

satoru’s throat works hard. his snow-leopard tail flicks once. fuck.

“y/n… did your heat start already?”

you shake your head no.

“no. but… i’m close. really close.”

silence.

he can hear your heartbeat hammering through the room. your scent is getting sweeter. thicker.

he stands abruptly, nervous laugh spilling out as he runs a hand through his hair. his ears keep twitching like he’s trying to shake off a very dangerous idea.

“okay. i’m gonna go to nanami’s. like, now. doubt he’ll be thrilled about me showing up in the middle of the night, but—oh well.”

as he turns to flee, your hand shoots out and grabs his.

he jolts. like you’ve burned him.

you try to speak. but your voice doesn’t come. only a whisper of breath.

“i—…”

he stares at you, jaw tight, terrified of what he might do if he lets his guard drop. his tail lashes once behind him—his whole body tense and alert.

then, after a beat, he gently brushes his thumb over your hand.

“you can keep that,” he murmurs. “and… you can go to my room.”

your head snaps up.

“if you need,” he adds, voice strained, refusing to meet your eyes.

and then he’s gone.

you’re left in your room, sweaty and dizzy and clutching his shirt. your ears droop as your body shudders.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

you don’t sleep.

you can’t.

you try. curling up under your own covers, burying your face into the shirt you stole—his shirt. it still smells like him. not quite as strong now, but enough to soothe your instincts just a little. your tail stops twitching. your breathing slows.

but then… it starts again.

the throbbing low in your belly. the ache crawling under your skin. your inner thighs are sticky again, your body pulsing like it’s warming up for something devastating.

you flip your pillow over, trying to find a cool spot. tug the blankets off. press your palms to your burning cheeks.

nothing helps.

you’re not in heat yet—but you can feel it coming, like a wave swelling just offshore. building. creeping up.

it’s too much. you’re too aware of your body. your scent. the way your ears droop and flick. the way your tail can’t stay still. the way your thighs keep clenching.

you’ve done this before. you should be used to it by now. should be able to handle it like a normal person.

but this time is different.

this time, there’s a scent curled up in your lungs. him. satoru.

snow leopard hybrid. apex predator. the very last person your poor bunny brain should be obsessed with right now.

and yet…

your eyes flick toward your bedroom door.

“just five minutes,” you whisper, already lying to yourself.

you tiptoe down the hall. quiet. hesitant. every nerve buzzing.

his door creaks open, and the scent hits you all over again—warm and deep and dizzying. your knees go weak. you step inside anyway.

his bed is massive. big enough for two people and then some. the blankets are a mess. pillows everywhere. the soft hum of his scent makes your mouth water. you don't even try to fight it anymore.

you climb in.

carefully.

slowly.

just to lay down. just for a moment. that’s all.

the sheets are warm. heavy. safe.

you curl up on his side of the bed, bury your face into his pillow, and breathe. a soft sound escapes your throat—half-sigh, half-whimper. your body starts to relax.

and for a few minutes… it works.

the ache dulls. your nerves settle.

you finally close your eyes.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

you don’t know how long you’re out.

but you know exactly what wakes you.

it hits like a truck.

a white-hot bolt of pain-pleasure straight through your spine, knocking the wind from your lungs. you jerk upright with a gasp, clutching the sheets, heart hammering.

your ears snap up. your tiny tail—short, soft, and fluffy —twitches hard against the sheets, like your body’s trying to work out the overwhelming pressure building inside you..

your body is on fire.

there’s no gentle lead-up this time. no warning. your heat crashes into you full-force, primal and unrelenting. you feel soaked—panties clinging to you like wet fabric, your thighs trembling. everything hurts. you’re throbbing. aching.

your nipples are stiff, sensitive against your tank top. your skin feels too tight. you’re panting like you just ran a marathon.

“no no no—fuck—”

you press your legs together, trying to soothe it, trying to breathe, but that just makes it worse. the pressure between your legs flares white-hot. your hips twitch. your cunt pulses helplessly, slick drooling onto satoru’s bedsheets.

his bed. his scent.

your body wants him. no—it needs him. desperately. mindlessly.

you bury your face in his pillow and sob.

tears bead in your lashes as your hips roll against the mattress—your body chasing friction all on its own. you’re too far gone. there’s no turning this off. you can’t wait this out anymore. you’re a mess of slick and sweat and want.

“satoru,” you whimper, voice cracking. “need—fuck, i need…”

you clench the sheets in your fists, nose still buried in his scent, body wracked with wave after wave of need.

you know you should get up. call someone. do something responsible.

but all you can think about is how warm this bed is.

how big it is.

how easy it would be for him to pin you here and take you apart.

your plush little tail twitches again. your ears press flat against your head. you're mewling now, gasping into his pillow like it’s the only thing keeping you sane.

“please…”

the word slips out before you can stop it.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱₊˚⊹

a/n: *rubs hands together very very evily*

[yuri-min]

chapter four.

pairing: snow leopard hybrid!gojo x bunny hybrid!femreader

keep up here

a/n: this ones a big one so buckle up!

the first two days of your heat are torture, and you don’t stay long in satoru’s room.

the first couple of hours were spent with your face buried in his pillows and sheets, grinding your bare pussy against his comforter until the scent of him and the friction of the fabric soaked into your skin like sin. you were feral, mind fogged and drooling, leaving the soft material wet and sticky as orgasm after orgasm rolled over you. you didn’t even recognize your own voice anymore—just muffled sobs and gasps of his name.

it was like your body had been hijacked.

like something bigger than you had taken over, reducing you to a panting, dripping mess desperate for your snow leopard roommate.

visions flickered behind your eyelids like a reel on repeat. satoru, snarling as he pinned your hips down with brute strength, his thick body pressing you into the mattress as he fucked the breath out of you.

or worse—him teasing you. cruel and smiling, leaning close to whisper filth in your twitching ears while his fingers just barely grazed your inner thighs. dragging it out. watching your sweet little tail tremble as you begged for him to do something—anything.

would he slam into you with a growl, stretch you open all at once, or sink in slow, dragging every inch out like torture?

you sobbed, practically feeling the veins on his cock. you could see it. taste it. your cunt clenched around nothing, throbbing with need.

there was no way he wasn’t packing something unreal. you knew it. there was too much muscle, too much confidence, too much raw, snowy predator in him.

you lost count of your orgasms somewhere around the fourth. the next thing you remembered was blinking awake hours later in the dying amber light of sunset, thighs sticky and sore.

day one was already over.

and all you’d done was rub yourself raw across satoru’s bed.

embarrassment crept up your flushed neck. you whimpered, forcing your trembling limbs to peel off the sheets. you stumbled into the shower, cranked the dial to cold, and stood there shivering, trying to scrub away the heat.

it helped—for about twenty minutes.

you guzzled four bottles of water straight from the fridge, pressing the plastic against your cheeks as your body simmered with renewed arousal.

but the fire in your belly was back, and this time it was worse.

you didn’t go back to his room.

you limped to your own and tried to be strong.

day two was hell.

you were armed with every toy in your arsenal. vibrators, dildos, lube (thought you really didn't need any). but nothing filled the aching void the way his room had. the way his scent had.

the vibrator felt like a whisper. the dildo, no matter how deep, was too soft. too plastic. too fake. your body wanted real weight. real heat. real cum.

you cried through another pitiful orgasm, shaking on your sheets, a silicone toy buried in your dripping hole as your arm went numb from overuse. your thighs trembled from repeatedly bouncing yourself onto it, slick squelching in the air.

you didn’t want to do the work. you didn’t want to move.

you wanted to be split open and held down.

you wanted someone to grip your hips so tight the bruises stayed for weeks, and fuck their cum so deep inside you it ached.

that was the cruelest part of this all.

every hybrid’s instinct during their cycle was the same: breed or be bred. and it was worse for rabbit hybrids. your biology screamed for it. marking. claiming. ownership.

that milky, messy release was more than physical. it was symbolic.

you cried out as another aftershock hit you, your plush bunny tail twitching against your sheets. you could barely keep your thighs apart. could barely stay conscious.

would satoru cum in slow, burning strokes that stretched your insides, or in fast, desperate spurts while gripping your ears tight?

you wanted to know. you needed to know.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

across the hall, satoru was losing his damn mind.

he paced nanami’s apartment like a caged animal, ears flicking, tail puffed and swinging erratically behind him. his breathing was uneven, and he looked wrecked.

“she had my shirt,” he muttered for the sixth time.

nanami sighed, not bothering to look up from the book he’d been pretending to read. “it’s natural for someone going through their heat to need comfort from the opposite sex. scent helps.”

“but that’s, like... for people who are together, right?” satoru was near spiraling now. “you don’t just... grab someone’s clothes unless—unless it means something!”

“you two live together,” nanami said flatly. “i doubt her brain is worried about the semantics of your relationship right now.”

satoru stared at the wall like it owed him answers. his pants were getting tight.

he hated this.

he hated pretending to be normal in someone else’s apartment while you were across the hall, dripping and needy and probably still crying.

he couldn’t jerk off here—nanami would smell it. and he’d die of shame. and probably get murdered.

and work? forget it. he couldn’t even think straight, much less function while on the clock.

so the only time he allowed himself any relief was in sketchy public restrooms scattered across the city.

and every time, he felt a little like a creep.

but your scent haunted him.

nanami said he couldn’t smell it, but satoru could. the sweet, dizzying tang of your arousal had soaked into his clothes, lingered in his brain.

he knew you’d been in his room. he knew what you were doing.

were you in one of his shirts, thighs spread, fingers deep inside yourself while you bit down on his pillow?

fuck, what would his bed smell like when he finally went back?

half of him prayed you’d washed the sheets.

the other half hoped they still reeked of your slick.

because if they did—if they still smelled like you—he didn’t know what he’d do.

satoru groaned into his bowl of ice cream like it personally wronged him, sexually and emotionally frustrated and one dumb thought away from exploding. this was the longest he’d gone without seeing you.

he missed your sarcasm. the way your cute nose would twitch when you were annoyed with him. the way you’d pull at your ears when you vented about work like you didn’t even notice you were doing it. god, he missed you. you. not just your body—though that too, holy shit—but your voice, your presence, your everything.

“do you have feelings for her?” nanami asked flatly, prepping yakitori like it was just another wednesday.

“what—no, obviously not,” satoru shot back instantly. too fast. “it’s just…”

he trailed off. couldn’t finish it. couldn’t lie, but couldn’t say what was actually going on in his chest, either. at first, it might’ve been a heat thing. biological. animal shit. but now?

now he wasn’t so sure it was just that.

nanami didn’t let up either.

“she has options, you know. could’ve spent her heat with someone else. a friend. someone from home.”

satoru’s fur bristled before he could stop it. his pupils narrowed into slits.

“why the fuck would she do that?” he growled, something guttural and angry rising from his gut like smoke.

nanami raised an eyebrow and turned back to the stove, like that answer told him everything.

satoru didn’t want to think about it. he tried not to think about it. but that was impossible when you were literally across the goddamn hall. a few hundred feet away. going through that. in your bed. with no one.

the thought made him shift uncomfortably, cock twitching. he eyed his phone.

still nothing from you. it had been days. no texts. no passive aggressive post-it notes. no sarcastic remarks about the way he chews gum too loud. just—silence.

you had to be nearing the end of your heat, right? probably. maybe. hopefully.

his thumb hovered over your contact before he could stop himself. he didn’t think. he just typed:

u ok?

and then he stared at the screen like it owed him something. a read receipt. a reply. a goddamn sign from the universe. something ugly and anxious crawled up his throat, tightening.

a minute passed. then two.

nothing.

he scowled and shoved his chair back, dragging himself toward the sink to wash his bowl—

ding!

his head snapped around like he’d been shot.

no.

just that. one word.

his heart skipped. no? no, you weren’t okay? no, you were still in heat? no, you didn’t want to be alone?

or maybe the apartment was on fire. could be. wouldn’t be the first time.

but it didn’t matter. because you texted back. and if you were in trouble—or if you weren’t and just wanted to talk—he had to check. had to see you.

he was already halfway to the front door when nanami appeared in his path, arms crossed and expression tight.

“where are you going?”

“geez, mom, what—can’t i step outside for some air?” satoru chuckled a little too nervously.

nanami sighed. “i don’t care where you go, gojo. but if you’re heading back to your apartment, i feel responsible to tell you it’s probably not a good idea.”

satoru rolled his eyes and patted nanami on the shoulder as he breezed past him. “relax, man. i’m just making sure there’s not, like, a gas leak or something.”

nanami made a face, but let him go.

the second satoru opened his front door, he froze.

the scent.

it hit him like a truck, thick and wet in the air, so heavy it curled around his tongue and lungs like smoke. his knees almost buckled. he slapped a hand over his nose and mouth, but it was too late. his entire body responded.

you weren’t even in the same room, and his cock was already hardening against the front of his pants, needy and twitching.

he stumbled forward, teeth clenched. it was dizzying, intoxicating, like walking through a cloud of your need. the primal part of his brain roared awake, hungry and starving and possessive.

your scent was everywhere.

he moved carefully down the hall toward your room, covering his face and trying—failing—to keep it together. he raised a hand and knocked.

nothing.

even with his hybrid hearing, he couldn’t catch a single sound.

he was just about to turn and check his room—fuck, if you were in his bed he might actually lose it—when—

creeaak.

your door cracked open.

and there you were.

eyes hazy. lips swollen. skin flushed and glowing. your entire body radiating heat and scent and desperation.

you looked like a fucking mess.

“s-satoru? what’re you doing here?” you whispered, your eyes were widened looking up at him. 

“i-you said you werent okay,” satoru whispered back, his voice a little muffled behind his hand.

you shifted from one foot to another, nails curling into your palms.

“i—i didn’t think you’d actually come,” you said quietly.

satoru let out a shaky breath, still covering half his face with his hand like that might somehow protect him. like he wasn’t already drowning in the scent of you—sweet and sharp, like something ripe and forbidden. his body ached in places he didn’t want to admit.

“yeah, well… you said you weren’t okay,” he mumbled. “i couldn’t just ignore that.”

you blinked, lashes fluttering. you looked exhausted. there were beads of sweat along your temples, your lips parted as if breathing was hard. you weren’t wearing much—just a tank top clinging damply to your skin and a pair of sleep shorts that might as well have been nonexistent. satoru swallowed hard and looked away.

“i’m fine,” you said, weakly. “or—i will be. you should go.”

“right,” he said, stepping back a little. “yeah. you’re right. i shouldn’t be here.”

but neither of you moved.

seconds ticked by, both of you breathing too hard, the air between you heavy and humid. your scent was practically curling around his limbs, dragging him deeper into some dangerous headspace.

“unless…” you said suddenly, barely audible. “unless you—have, like, any tips? for getting through this. i’ve tried everything.”

satoru let out a sharp laugh, rubbing a hand down his face. “yeah, well, trust me, if i had a tip that didn’t involve either of us doing something really fucking stupid, i would’ve given it to you already.”

you made a frustrated noise and slumped back against the doorframe, head thudding against the wood.

“it’s so bad this time, satoru,” you whispered. “i think my body’s reacting to yours. to you being gone.”

that word—yours—sent a jolt through him. he clenched his jaw.

“you’re not wrong,” he muttered. “it’s been hell on my end too.”

you both stood there for a moment, like you were toeing the edge of something you couldn’t walk back from.

“i can’t fuck you,” he said suddenly, voice tight. “you know that, right? i can’t—not when you’re like this.”

your eyes snapped up to his, wide and glassy. “i didn’t ask you to.”

“i know,” he said. “i’m just saying it so i don’t forget.”

another pause.

“but,” he added, stepping forward just slightly, “i could maybe… help. a little. not—not with sex. but something.”

you blinked up at him, heat crackling in the air between you.

“what kind of help?”

he swallowed.

“let me use my mouth,” he said, and it came out as more of a plea than he meant it to. “just that. you can stop me whenever. but i can smell how much it hurts. you’re not gonna make it through another day like this.”

you hesitated—really hesitated. you were stubborn. you didn’t like feeling weak. you didn’t want to give in.

but your thighs were trembling uncontrollably, and your eyes were full of desperation, and his scent—his stupidly delicious, snow-wild scent—was making you lightheaded. he smelled like something you wanted to bury your nose into. like comfort and cold air and mate.

“okay,” you whispered. “just… just your mouth.”

“just my mouth,” he agreed, voice pitched low, careful, like approaching a skittish animal. “that’s it.”

his fingers brushed your waist.

your breath caught—then broke—and your whole body seized, thighs trembling. it was like the dam shattered. a pulse of molten heat shot through your core, raw and punishing, and your knees buckled like your bones just gave up. you sobbed into his shirt, your whole body seizing up just from the feel of him—solid, warm, here. finally, finally—

he caught you before you hit the floor, arms wrapping tight around your waist and chest like he knew you were about to fall apart.

his purr rumbled in his chest, a low, steady hum meant to soothe—but it only cracked you open more. like your heat recognized him and screamed mine.

“let me help you, bun,” he murmured against your ear, his breath hot and shivery. the sound of his voice alone made your spine arch.

you nodded, dazed. desperate.

satoru eased you onto the bed, your sheets already tangled and soaked with your scent. your body twitched when he touched the mattress—like it knew what was coming. like it had been waiting for this.

he laid you back gently, but there was tension in every movement. urgency simmering under his skin. his tail twitched like a whip behind him, lashing sharp and fast.

he started slow—kissing down your thighs, dragging his nails over overheated skin. his nose twitched. the scent of your slick filled the room, thick and sharp and feral.

you couldn’t stop squirming. your legs shook even though he hadn’t even touched you where you needed it. your body was starving.

when he pulled your shorts down, his breath hitched audibly.

“fuck,” he breathed, eyes locked between your legs. “bunny, you’re soaking wet.”

he spread you wider, and slick dripped onto the mattress.

his pupils dilated—wide, round, blown black.

“is this because of me?” he asked, voice all rough edges, something wrecked leaking through.

you whimpered, arm thrown over your face, too embarrassed to look at him—but you nodded, trembling. “p-please, satoru…”

he didn’t wait.

he devoured.

his tongue dragged through your folds like he was starving. your back arched off the bed so hard it nearly snapped, your fingers flying into his hair, grabbing fistfuls, scratching behind his ears like you were trying to ground yourself in something.

but you couldn’t. you were already gone.

he growled low in his throat when your hips bucked against his face. it was possessive. primal. the sound of a man who liked being overwhelmed by you. his claws dug into the plush of your thighs to hold you open—keep you open—for him.

his lips latched onto your clit and sucked, groaning into you like it fed him.

you screamed, grabbing the sheets like they could help.

then—fuck—two of his fingers slid inside you and you lost it. your whole body bowed off the bed. the sound of your slick, the way it squelched loud and messy—it would’ve made you flush if you weren’t already delirious.

he curled his fingers just right, dragging along that devastating spongy spot inside you until your ears rang.

“shit—” you gasped, tugging his hair, eyes rolling back. “satoru—ohmygod—satoru—please—”

he didn’t answer. just kept licking, sucking, slurping, tongue lapping at you like you were his only damn source of water. your thighs clamped around his head—he shoved them back open.

“stay open,” he growled suddenly, voice rough. one of your legs had instinctively tried to close around his head, and he shoved it back down. “you want my help or not?”

“i am—i’m trying—” you sobbed, brain barely forming words. your body was burning, clenching around nothing, twitching every time his tongue circled your entrance like a cruel little tease.

he shoved his fingers in again—crooked them with surgical precision—and you wailed.

“yeah,” he muttered to himself, more animal than man. “this heat’s got you soaked, bunny. dripping.”

you couldn’t even care. your thighs were shaking, your hips jerking up like you were chasing something you didn’t know how to ask for.

“more,” you begged, voice cracked and wrecked. “please—i need more—i can’t—I need you, satoru—please—”

“what, this?” he murmured, flicking your clit with his tongue until you cried out. “or this?” another finger. another stretch. another wave of unbearable heat.

you clawed at his shoulders, panting, writhing beneath him. “you—i want you. your cock—i need you inside me—please, i’ve been waiting—i’ve needed it for days, i’m gonna die—”

he froze.

his head snapped up. his eyes locked onto yours—wild, glassy, dangerous.

his chest was rising in shallow, ragged bursts.

“you don’t get it,” he said, low and hoarse. “i fuck you right now, i’m not gonna stop.”

“then don’t,” you whispered, voice shaking. your thighs trembled against his arms. your whole body screamed yes.

he let out a strangled, half-wrecked laugh. something in him snapped.

but he didn’t give you what you wanted. not yet.

he went back down—hungry now, tongue ruthless, fingers fucking into you faster, harder, chasing your orgasm like he needed it.

“satoru—satoru—satoru—” it was all you could say. your name for him and his name for you. your whole world collapsed down to his mouth and your heat and this endless, endless ache.

his purr deepened.

he sealed his lips around your clit and sucked, hard, over and over, until your body clenched so tight around his fingers it forced your orgasm to tear out of you like a scream.

you didn’t even feel it build.

you just shattered.

you were crying again. couldn't stop.

your hips rocked, overstimulated and burning, but you didn’t push him away. you couldn’t. you needed it—needed him—like air. like life.

he pulled back only to lick you slower, gentler now—but still desperate, still not done.

and then, he pulled out—fingers gone, tongue gone, mouth lifting as his hand gripped his cock rough and fast.

“no—n-no, please—” you whined, hips stuttering forward, chasing his mouth.

he groaned low and long, and came hard—thick ropes splashing across your belly while you trembled underneath him, twitching and empty.

you blinked up at him, dazed and tear-streaked, chest heaving.

you lay there, ruined. limp. belly sticky. cunt clenching around nothing, still pulsing with need that wouldn’t fully die down. the heat was finally fading, but your body still ached for him.

satoru dropped beside you a moment later, arm flopped over his eyes, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a marathon. neither of you spoke. the only sound in the room was the slow, exhausted drag of your breathing, and the echo of everything unsaid.

your hand was sticky. his thigh brushed yours. he didn’t move away.

silence.

then, after a long, long pause—barely above a whisper, like he regretted it halfway through asking:

“…uh. is my room clean?”

you blinked at the ceiling.

then laughed. breathless. hysterical. maybe on the verge of tears.

he groaned into his arm.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱₊˚⊹

[yuri-min]

⚡︎ loser!gojo says he’s had sex before, swears it even, but you're not entirely convinced. especially when he’s lasting about as long as a virgin.

“it’s literally you,” he groans, burying his face into the crook of your neck. you’re straddling his lap, cupping his face in your hands. his foggy glasses are slipping, but he’s too hard to care.

“what’s that supposed to mean?” you pout, jutting out your lower lip. his breath hitches as you barely roll your hips over his crotch. “it’s not my fault you nearly cum in your pants just from some kissing.”

he manages a weak protest, muttering, “i just mean, you’re really sexy. and also, i haven’t cum in my pants.”

“yet,” you correct, a knowing look on your face. you haven't been dating him for long, and honestly, you don't really mind. not when he’s more than making it up to you later, with his face between your thighs.

gojo digs his fingers into your waist, doing his absolute best to ground himself. he really does want to last for you. he’s been reciting mathematical equations and listing digimon characters in his head.

but his dream girl is right here, in his lap, sitting on the noticeable tent in his pants. it’s too much to ask for. besides, it’s like you’re doing it on purpose, grinding down on his throbbing cock. he’s squirming beneath you, choked whines leaving his throat.

you’re practically riding his bulge with your wet heat, your chest pressed against his face as he gropes at you. you don’t even get a warning before gojo makes a sticky, hot mess in his boxers.

“told you.”

he waves you off. “just means i’ll last longer next time.”

with the way his dick is already twitching against you, it looks like “next time” might be in about thirty seconds.

[yuri-min]

18+ husband!nanami loves cuddle fucking his wife (,,>﹏<,,)

it’s the morning, you two are barely awake, his warm, muscular arm around your body, his bare chest against your back that’s covered by one of his shirts, your panties pushed to the side…

you’re soaked, but you can barely even open your eyes. kento lets out loud grunts as he fucks you from behind, slowly, nearly falling asleep with his cock bottomed out inside of you, like the pink, sensitive head is best friends with your cervix.

then he slooooowly drags himself out of you, a small, needy whine leaving your sleepy lips. kento lets out a soft chuckle, “be patient.” he mumbles into the back of your neck, voice still deep and full of sleep.

only for him to stretch you out once again as he pushes into you painfully slowly, so slowly you’re suffering.

but whenever kento starts hearing you let out soft snores that tell him you’re sleeping again, he sloooowly pulls himself back. only to snap his hips against forward, waking you up with a startle.

“oops. did i wake you, darling?

[yuri-min]

Molecular romance

One awkward smile, two 'study mates', and a love story that’s chemically inevitable.

Synopsis: You only stopped at his science fair booth out of pity—but the tall, nervous guy with crooked glasses and a galaxy model has other plans.

Satoru Gojo is brilliant, awkward, and talking a mile a minute about black holes like it’s the most romantic thing in the world. You weren’t looking for a tutor. Or a crush. But he’s got stars in his eyes—and maybe, now, so do you.

Pairing: Nerd!Gojo Satoru x reader

Genre: MDNI, College AU, Fluff, Slow-burn-ish, Smut

Prologue: Space boy down bad

Part 1: Tinder and other forms of torture

Part 2: Extra credit

Part 3: Loading...

Part 4: Loading...

Taglist is open

[yuri-min]

ever since you gave birth to your baby girl, which was 3 months ago now, your husband kento would not detach himself from your tits.

the baby sleeps soundly in the other room, while your dedicated husband latches to your left boob—sucking like his life depends on it.

“k-ken, not too much…aahh..”

milk drips from your nipple down his chin, his shirt growing damp from how long he’s been sucking. “mmh— i know baby, but you said they‘re sore right? and our little angel is still—mngh—asleep. so… why don’t you just let me help you, mkay?”

soft, hushed whimpers fill the room as kento lays his head on your lap and sucks on your tit. his left palm massaging your right boob and honestly? it does work wonders.

“so good f’me, always—fuck—spoiling me, my love. iloveyousmuch.” his breathy moans were enough for you to look at the tent forming in his pants, your gaze softening as you realize how much he had been holding back.

slowly but carefully, you unzip his khakis and take his dick out through the zipper. the tip—red and pulsating as if calling your name.

in one swift motion, nanami suddenly hovers above you with both arms pinning you to the bed. his nose finds your neck, taking in your scent.

“stop it before we start making baby #2.”

[yuri-min]

chapter two.

pairing: snow leopard hybrid!gojo x bunny hybrid!femreader

keep up here

while you’re not fully adjusted to city life yet, it’s getting easier. you don’t think you’ll ever be completely accustomed to living with gojo satoru, but that’s getting a little easier too.

you’ve learned some survival tricks. like always showering before him. and always putting on a sweatshirt—or at least a bra—before you leave your room, because he loves keeping the ac cranked to arctic tundra levels. another thing?

don’t try to befriend him. because he will take it too far.

you’d figured, since you're stuck living with this guy until you can afford your own place, you might as well try to get along. you can’t help it if your rabbit instincts scream predator every time he so much as glances your way—but you can try to ignore them.

it starts with dinner. you’ll never forget the first time you sit across from him at the little kitchen table, sliding over a plate of leftover sushi rolls with a shaky little “thanks for letting me crash here” smile.

satoru freezes mid-bite, blinking like a cartoon character. then he flashes you that grin that makes your fur stand on end.

“aww, how sweet. bunny girl’s finally coming around.”

now… dinner becomes routine.

you still flinch when his knee bumps yours under the table, but the urge to flee has dulled into a low, steady thrum instead of a full-blown siren.

dinner was tolerable. then satoru started insisting on tagging along for errands. he called them “roomie bonding days.” grocery shopping. helping you lug a new dresser up five flights of stairs. even walking with you to the landlord’s office to drop off rent checks.

it was weirdly domestic. and the rabbit part of you—wired to crave comfort and routine—secretly loved it, no matter how hard you tried to stifle it.

like now, when you’re checking out at the grocery store and satoru swipes his card before you even unzip your wallet, the old lady cashier squints at the two of you and makes a little noise.

“you and your boyfriend make quite the pair,” she says, nodding as she bags up satoru’s absolutely unholy mountain of meat.

you laugh politely. “he’s not my boyfriend, ma’am.”

satoru’s already grinning. “nah, but she wishes.”

you scowl, but the old woman completely ignores him.

“oh, that’s a relief,” she says, casual as anything.

you both blink. “…oh?”

she hesitates, then continues, “well… the world’s different now, i know that. but a small hybrid like yourself should really be with others like you. biology is biology,” she adds, like she’s saying something wise, not offensive. she flashes gojo a tight little smile. “it just wouldn’t work.”

you open your mouth to laugh awkwardly—keep the peace, be nice—but then something warm wraps around your waist.

you freeze. it’s satoru’s tail.

it curls around you like it belongs there.

“oh, it works, lady,” he says, dangerously smooth. “matter fact—”

he reaches toward the display near the register, grabs something, and slams it on the counter with a smirk.

“—ring this up for me.”

you look down. your brain short-circuits. a box of extra extra large condoms stares back at you.

the cashier sputters like she’s choking on air.

your mouth opens. no sound comes out.

then satoru hums, looking thoughtful. “hmm… actually, we don’t need ’em.” he grabs your hand and the rest of the bags in one go, then drags you out of the store before you can even breathe.

satoru, to his credit, doesn’t say anything about the deep flush still burning across your cheeks as you storm down the sidewalk, fuming and trying to match his long-legged stride.

“she was an old lady, satoru! you could’ve just ignored her!”

he shrugs, cool and unbothered. “i don’t stand for discrimination.”

“no, you just love humiliating me!”

“humiliating?? that old hag should be the one humiliated.”

“oh my god—the condoms, satoru!”

he stops walking abruptly, turning to face you. there’s that little smile again—and even with his sunglasses on, you can feel the glint in his eyes.

“huh. so that’s what this is about. you mad i didn’t actually buy them?” his voice drops an octave. “don’t worry, little bunny. i’ve got some back home.”

your eyes go wide. "you're an idiot!" you hiss, dropping your grocery bags to the hot concrete. “and you can carry these yourself!”

you whirl around and storm off toward the apartment, small fists clenched at your sides, ears twitching in agitation. your face is burning so bad it practically sizzles under the sun.

you’re back at the apartment, curled up on the sofa and angrily flipping through channels, trying not to feel guilty about ditching him to carry all those bags in the heat.

when he finally walks in, he’s glistening with sweat, white bangs plastered to his forehead, tail swishing like an agitated metronome.

he drops the bags on the kitchen counter with a dramatic sigh. “do you not know what a joke is?”

you scoff. “a joke? it’s a joke to imply you’re having sex with me?”

gojo groans, dragging a hand down his face. “that wasn’t about you. i was putting that crusty old fossil in her place.” he mutters the next part under his breath, “clearly we’re not having sex…”

you don’t hear it.

you frown. “you kept going, even after we left the store!”

he sighs again, this time deeper. “okay. yeah. that was too much. my bad.”

you blink. he looks—ugh—actually guilty. which is disarming. and yeah… he’s still sweaty. you sigh.

“it was a lot. but… i get it. in your own ‘satoru’ way, you were just standing up for yourself. or… for us, i guess. it’s not easy dealing with people like that.”.”

he doesn’t respond, just gives a vague nod, and you grimace.

“also,” you say quickly, “not to excuse your behavior or like… totally erase my anger, ‘cause i am still upset—but i get kind of extra sensitive when my heat’s coming. around certain themes.”

gojo’s expression flickers.

“themes?” he echoes, but his voice is suddenly lower. throatier.

you wave your hands like a maniac. “like—sex themes! i mean—not like sex-sex, just… the concept. and it’s hot! like, the weather is hot! it’s just… a bad combo!”

he lets out a slow exhale and makes a small “oh” sound, lips forming a perfect o. but there’s a tightness in his jaw you didn’t notice before. you think he’s looking at you, but you can’t really tell behind those stupid sunglasses.

“gotcha,” he says a little too fast. “so—no more sex jokes for now.”

“forever,” you deadpan.

“right. yeah.” he waves you off vaguely, turning around and practically bolting toward the hallway. “i’m gonna shower. i’m all sweaty thanks to you. don't bother me.”

he disappears into the bathroom before you can blink.

you frown. that was weirdly abrupt.

later that night, you’re buried in your sheets, eyes wide open as you stare at the ceiling in the dark.

you’ve flipped your pillow three times. turned on the fan. turned it off. even pulled out your phone and scrolled mindlessly through apps you weren’t even looking at.

but nothing helps.

because all you can think about is that damn box.

extra. extra. large.

you groan and bury your face in the pillow.

did he grab it just to mess with the lady? or… had he actually known exactly what size to reach for?

you shift in bed, thighs pressing together as an ache begins to settle deep in your belly. it’s stupid. hormonal. biological. you’re pre-heat, and your body’s craving comfort, intimacy—touch. but even knowing that, your brain still clings to the memory of gojo’s smug grin, his tail wrapped protectively around your waist.

your ears flatten in frustration. you are not going to think about him while you do this.

but ten minutes later, you're digging in your nightstand, grabbing your little pink vibrator. the second it buzzes to life, your breath catches.

you bite your lip and carefully pull your thin shorts down, exposing skin that’s already flushed and damp from the heat. the vibrator presses against your inner thigh first, teasing your sensitive skin as you close your eyes, trying to drown out every noisy thought.

your breath hitches when you finally slide it between your folds, soft and slick. the vibration throbs in waves, teasing your clit, sending sharp jolts of pleasure that make your toes curl.

your free hand grips the sheets tight as your hips start to rock involuntarily, seeking that perfect angle, that perfect pressure. your body trembles with each pulse, hot and sticky with sweat and desire.

you try not to think about him—his long legs, the way his tail sways, those mischievous dark eyes behind the sunglasses—but every memory is like a spark that sets your skin on fire. you imagine his fangs sinking into your neck, his rough tongue flicking over your skin, and your knees clench tighter.

the buzzing grows louder in your ears, mixing with your ragged breathing and the faintest whimpers that escape your lips. your ears flatten, cheeks burning as you squeeze your eyes shut, picturing the way your nose scrunches when you glare at him, how your floppy ears pull back in fear or frustration.

you’re so close now, hips trembling with the delicious tension, your heartbeat pounding in your ears like thunder.

you don’t know it, but just a wall away, satoru’s eyes snap open.

his ears twitch.

and then flatten back against his head.

the low, steady hum of your vibrator is faint—but he hears it. he can’t not hear it. his hearing picks up everything. the way your breathing catches. the soft shuffle of your sheets.

and that tiny, nearly inaudible moan.

gojo clenches his jaw so hard it aches. his fists twist in his sheets. his cock is already hard, throbbing against the band of his sweats, angry and hot and desperate.

but he doesn't move.

he just lays there, teeth bared, tail flicking in agitation.

this is your fault.

you're the one touching yourself.

you're the one being unbearably cute and annoyingly sexy without even trying.

and he's the one losing sleep over it.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱₊˚⊹

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[yuri-min]

❀ In which you beg husband!nanami to skip the foreplay

“Please, Ken? Just do it. Just fuck me.”

You’ve been begging your husband to forego the foreplay and take what he wants from your more-than-ready body for what feels like hours now, but, ever the gentleman, he refuses again and again. Groaning initially, he shook his head and tried to get his hands delving into your panties, insisting that you needed attention before he could even think about letting your pretty pussy take his cock whole. 

Kento sighs. “Sweetheart, you know it’ll hurt.”

“It won’t! I’m already wet, I told you.”

Straddling his big thighs, he can hardly fight you off when you’re pushing your panties to the side and aiming his pretty pink tip to your hole. You have your bare breasts shoved in his face and he has half a mind to succumb to the pillow-like softness of your body. Still, he argues, “That may be so but you haven’t been loosened at all, darling. It’s going to hurt.”

“Don’t you want to, Kenny? Don't you want to make love to your wife? Oh, I get it. Maybe you’re just trying to make excuses not to fuck me.” Twirling a lock of his blond hair, you pout, really pushing the theatrics on him just as you pump him once and twice. “Maybe I’m not pretty enough for you anymore – my tummy hasn’t bounced back as quickly as I’d hope and all these stretch marks make me look like a tiger. Is that not your thing, Ken? I bet you wish I was younger and hotter and tighter everywhere, right? I’m sure you want to upgrade to the latest model.”

His brow twitches. Jaw flexing, he throws his foggy glasses off to the side and grabs your hips firmly, a fiery resolution boiling in those eyes off his. You clit twitches at the sound of his deep timbre, taking a threatening pitch. Oh, how you love this side of him; Mean Ken you call it. Mean, Scary Ken.

Kento growls, “That’s enough. You’re playing dirty again. You want my cock that bad? You want to be filled up, to be fucked, so badly that you’d let filthy lies leave these lips of yours? Well, then, here you go, honey.”

In one harsh tug, he’s inside you. Inches are shoved into your pulsing pussy, forcing your doughy walls to stretch suddenly, accommodating that thick girth of his that never fails to leave you panting for mercy. It’s too much too fast. Fuck. He was right. He’s always right. Shit. Your nails dig into his broad shoulders, back arching, thighs threatening to snap shut around his hips, head thrown the fuck back. 

“Ah! S-stop, Ken. It -hah- hurts. Stop. Please.”

Kento shakes the overwhelming lust making him stupid. He got carried away. And, though he vowed to satisfy you, to fulfill every whim and desire, and to spoil you rotten, he should have had the wisdom and control to know this could only end one way. But his wife sounds so pretty and angelic when she begs. Now, look. His darling wife is wincing, body shaking like a leaf, and biting back tears. Something tightens in his chest and he has to resist the urge to stand in the middle of oncoming traffic – a dramatic habit to self-sabotage he never fully left behind from his teen years. 

Cooing, he says, “Oh, sweetheart. I’m so sorry. Look at me. Let Kento see your pretty face. Hi, darling. I’m sorry. I hate seeing you like this. Fuck. I told you, didn’t I? I told you, you needed to be loosened properly. Foreplay is important and I shouldn’t have skipped it. I’m sorry. Forgive me, darling.”

“No, I’m sorry, Ken. It was stupid. Ugh, I just wanted to make you feel good; you came back home looking more tense than usual. And I hate feeling useless when you’re working so hard to provide for us.” 

He clutches you to him, calloused hand rubbing circles into your back as the other grips your bare thigh and thumbs at the crease where your leg and hips meet. “How many times do I have to tell you, honey? Making you feel good makes me feel good; I could spend hours tending to you, never touching myself, and I’d be more than happy. Don’t you know by now how much I love eating your cunt? Don’t I show it enough? Have I not been a very good husband lately?”

You shake your head. “No, you’re the best, Ken. Always the best.”

“Hmm, aren’t you sweet?” Kento nuzzles your cheek, teasingly scratching your skin with his growing beard the way you like and slowly pushing his hand up and up until it’s squeezing a tit tight, flicking your nipple on the way to listen to your sharp intake of breath. “If your husband is as great as you say, don’t you think he deserves a reward?”

His cock slides out of you with a pop! and you’re laid out on his desk, papers crinkling under your body, faster than you can say ‘yes.’

With your pussy lips spread for his viewing pleasure, he teaches you the importance of patience, foreplay, and letting your husband take what he needs from you the way he wants and not how you assumed. That evening, you learn a valuable lesson: listen well.

After all, Kento always knows best. 

[yuri-min]

"matter fact i want your friend im allowed to switch."

when it came to sex, satoru was really good at it; he was slow when you wanted it and rough as well. he always listened to you and knew how to move his hips to hit that spot you liked, but...

his pussy-eating skills were not good.

satoru tries; he really does, but it doesn't hit the same way, not like suguru does it.

suguru does it so well you can't even think afterwards; it leaves you speechless and wanting more.

the way suguru can eat you up like no other is what keeps taking you back to him.

he takes his time, but he’s desperate with it; he moans into it and makes eye contact that feels way too intimate. that’s what you like.

he knows you from front to back and how to keep you finishing all over his tongue to the point it was slipping out his mouth and rolling down his chin.

the sheets were wet, your heart beating so fast that’s the only thing you hear, but you still want orgasms on top of orgasms when it comes to him.

satoru can hit all your spots with his dick; you’ll take that, you love it, but sometimes you just need suguru to do the job with his tongue, and he does without fail.

when you wanted someone to hit spots inside of you, no one could, and for you to be clutching the sheets, balking your fists, satoru was who you were going to.

if you wanted someone to overstimulate you with their tongue and have you gushing with the sheets damp and wet beneath you, suguru was your guy.

it all came down to preference and what you were feeling, and most days it was suguru because he paid attention; he knew secret spots that you didn’t even know or could get to.

pussy eating was his specialty, and you couldn’t ask for easier access. it was a lucky strike. he was your man’s best friend, and he was down with whatever, so when it came time for you to want actual good head, he was right down the street.

satoru was unfortunately a lost cause, and that was okay—just another great excuse to go see suguru.

"oooo, look who came to see me again. should I lay down a towel?"

suguru was always excited to see you; you always made it worth his while. when going down on you, he could eat you for hours. there was something about the way you tasted that made him want more.

he would even purposefully give satoru bad tips on eating you out because he wants your taste all to himself. it was shitty, yeah, but suguru never proclaimed to be a good or the better person.

it was comfortable in between your thighs, and all he wanted was you and that sweet taste that slipped in his mouth and down his throat any chance he got.

there was something about the way you gripped and pulled his hair from the ends, balling it in your fists, and squirmed around when you got overstimulated; it only made him want you more, like a bad habit he couldn't put down.

talking to you while his nose was pressed against your clit and his tongue moved around and then back to it again, all in a good rotation and rhythm.

"there you go, let it out." while slipping two fingers inside of you, pumping them in and out to make you go even more crazy, your toes curling and your back arching while crying for him while you finished.

suguru didn't stop either; he did it again and again until your eyes were glazed over and tired.

no one could compare; you knew that, and he knew that.

[yuri-min]

ᓚᘏᗢ ⦂ your boyfriend is not home, that’s the perfect opportunity for his dad to eat your cunt. — likes & reblogs are appreciated!

his tongue is deep in your cunt.

nanami is not teasing. he’s not licking pretty along the outside. he’s got you open, one hand anchoring your thigh against the bed, the other wrapped tight around your hip. and he’s fucking you with his tongue proud.

you don’t know how long he’s been down there. you lost track of time somewhere between your second orgasm and the wet sound of him moaning into you like he’s starving.

his nose nudges your clit every time he thrusts in. you twitch. whimper. try to move, but he just presses you down like you’re not going anywhere until he’s satisfied.

“stay still,” he mutters into your cunt, voice low and rough, hot breath washing over your slick folds. “you keep running and i’ll just have to start over.”

you whimper again, because you can’t stay still, not when he’s curling his tongue like that, not when your pussy’s so wet it’s dripping down his chin.

his mouth is slow but deep, maddening. he fucks into you with thick, measured strokes, tongue dragging along your walls like he’s tasting for something specific.

you gasp sharp when he flattens his tongue inside you and grinds his face up against your clit, letting your cunt pulse around his mouth while he hums low, satisfied.

“tight little hole,” he breathes, pulling back just enough to spit down onto your pussy before diving in again. “sloppy already.”

your legs tremble, one hooked over his shoulder, the other spread wide and shaking by the edge of the bed, toes curling against the mattress.

you’re soaked. soaked. the kind of wet that’s messy, pornographic, shameful. the kind of wet that makes his brows furrow and his eyes flick up to yours, just once.

“you need more?” he asks, voice flat but not unkind. more like he’s taking inventory. like your body is his to manage.

you nod fast, embarrassingly needy and barely able to speak.

“use your words.”

“yes,” you pant. “more, please—fuck, don’t stop—”

he doesn’t. he doesn’t even blink.

his fingers come up, sliding into the mess of your folds, spreading you open while his tongue pushes back in. two fingers press down just above your clit while he tongues you harder, deeper, face flushed against the slick mess of you.

you can feel it building tight in you. it’s so sharp and knotted, like something’s going to snap and nanami knows. of course he knows. he’s too precise not to.

he shifts his grip, presses two fingers to your clit in slow, heavy circles while he tongue-fucks you through the slickest, most humiliating orgasm of your life.

your back arches. thighs shake. your mouth falls open and nothing comes out but a broken little cry as your cunt clenches around his tongue and gushes wet down his chin.

and he doesn’t stop.

not until you’re twitching, boneless, soaked and spent under his mouth. not until he’s sure you’ve felt everything.

he finally pulls back, breath steady, eyes dark.

wipes his mouth with the back of his hand before he calmly adjusts his watch. and that’s when you realize.

you’re dating the wrong blood line.