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˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ masterlist

daredevil

╰┈➤ matt murdock

covenant (chapter 1) (18+)

outer banks

╰┈➤ rafe cameron

hates everyone but you (18+)

like him (drabble)

act a fool (18+)

dark side (18+)

homesick (18+)

bad religion (18+)

party animal (18+)

╰┈➤ jj maybank

giving him head (18+)

shameless

╰┈➤ lip gallagher

starving (18+)

teen wolf

╰┈➤ thiam

old habits die hard (18+)

✧.* taking requests for characters from media i am the most familiar with (the o.c., attack on titan, the vampire diaries, the originals, teen wolf, supernatural, true blood, game of thrones, a knight of the 7 kingdoms, house of the dragon, outer banks, the walking dead, shameless)

✧.* taking requests for any and all genders, races, ethnicities, etc. please be mindful of what themes and plots you incorporate! i'll gladly include nsfw themes, as long as the person requesting is 18 and over. with that being said, don't request some freak shit ik damn well i'm not gonna write abt jon snow pissing in ur ass!!

i’m starting to think some of you people are the antichrist because every time nanami’s written as a mean and aggressive power dom who’s kind of an asshole and lowkey kinky abusive toward his s/o an angel loses its wings before it can reach malaysia

i genuinely cannot believe the lack of empathy and common sense post-obsession. the amount of people sympathizing with bear and swearing up and down that he isn’t the villain is genuinely concerning. and yeah, this applies to the people who stopped sympathizing with him only after the “what’s so bad about being with me?” scene. that man kept pills around his cat, threw his dead cat in the trash, was fine with taking nikki’s autonomy away from her, raping her, cheating on her, and ignoring all of the signs that something was up so as long as he could keep having her all to himself and rationalizing his own expedient delusion, and inceluprising69 or moidraper555 will still tell you that he was just a poor, awkward guy who had no idea what he was getting into. his choices tell you he’s the villain. the script tells you he’s the villain. johnston tells you he’s the villain. barker tells you he’s the villain. and you still deny him being the villain! this movie is a litmus test and a concerning amount of men have failed because they can’t wrap their heads around a concept as simple as consent.

ladies, please stay safe out there.

omg i would hate it if someone wrote a witch!reader x gojo fic where they’ve been dating since high school and she defies her ancestors by resurrecting him from the dead a week after shinjuku after refusing to let them cremate his stitched-up body post-funeral and keeping it in shoko’s infirmary because reader’s just incapable of letting go but the price for bringing him back is absolute amnesia and zero recollection of who he is so he has to fall in love with her all over again while she helps him craft his identity based on the kind of person he is and not based on how strong of a sorcerer he is so that he can truly know happiness instead of performing as a weapon to be used by everyone else I SAID OMG I WOULD HATE IT IF SOMEONE WROTE

please wear your masks guys it’s a birdbrain!reader epidemic on this app

stillnaomi

just been reading an article about a woman in Gaza who's been collecting burnt cooking oil and hunting markets for sodium hydroxide so she can turn it into soap, to reduce the skin diseases the children in neighbouring tents are suffering from. so anyway, death to Israel and don't tolerate Zionists. which includes anyone who thinks Israel should exist

time for a yearly rewatch of filmbuff’s aot reactions

#filmbuff #reaction video #aot #attack on titan #snk #shingeki no kyojin #eren yeager #mikasa ackerman #armin arlert #holy foreshadowing #anime #manga #freedom #rumbling #return to shiganshina

ervvinz

Missing the 104th’s cadet days like I was there personally

sometimes i forget that liking the ending of aot is lowkey a hot take... i be assuming everyone agrees that it’s a top 5 work of fiction oat like shi mb

#aot #attack on titan #snk #shingeki no kyojin #anime #aot season 4 #declaration of war #eren jaeger #eren yeager #armin arlert #mikasa ackerman #sasha we miss you #hange we miss you #eren we miss you #erwin we miss you #damn evb dead

the sukuna harem headcanon reeks of mischaracterization idgaf 😭 20 concubines? sukuna? come on now 😭😭

#i dont care if its fanon im irritated #holy mischaracterization #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #ryomen sukuna #sukuna #historically impossible btw #sukuna smut #sukuna x reader

enviedear

GOTHAM STREETS AND FOGGED WINDOWS

₊ ⊹ JASON TODD

in which gotham is in the middle of one of the coldest winters in recent years, and your boyfriend has you freezing your ass off in a garage. he warms you back up though, fogging the car windows in the process. MDNI it unnerves me u will be blocked

CW | jason & fem!reader, smut w plot, exhibitionism: car edition, bickering which leads to sex, condom usage (user enviedear promotes safe sex), name calling in good faith, winter (yes that’s a warning), and established relationship, 3.5k words 🎧ྀི

“baby it’s cold.” you whine, for probably the hundredth time. eyes dead set on your boyfriend.

said boyfriend, a red-nosed jason todd, grunts as answer. gloved hands still working a wrench, trying not to strip a bolt on his bike.

you roll your eyes at him—or rather—the entire situation. gotham has been bound by winter. cloaked in freezing temperatures, grey snow, and black ice. it’s absolute hell. frozen hell. and, since you’re blessed with a man who actually enjoys this weather…you’re stuck in an open garage with no heater while he works on his bike.

a bike he can’t even drive for the time being.

you let out a groan, breath turning into fog.

finally, jason peers over at you. his stare could be equated to that of tired acknowledgement, but acknowledgement nonetheless. he drops the wrench down with his other tools, “what?”

your scowl is immediate, “wrong tone, asshole.”

poniadeaur

Sugar-husband

When a rushed morning leads to an accidental wallet swap, a fiercely independent woman finds herself spending her husband's money for the first time. Smut

The wallet had been his idea from the start—a matched set, cognac brown for him, softer caramel for you. You'd smiled when he presented them on your first anniversary, the paper crisp and the leather smelling of luxury and intention.

"Nanami," you'd teased, running your thumb over the embossed initials, "are you marking your territory?"

He'd only adjusted his glasses, that familiar, maddeningly calm expression on his face. "Practicality," he'd said. "Matching wallets mean we can find each other's things easily."

But you'd seen the way his fingers lingered on yours when he handed it over, the way his throat worked when you immediately transferred your cards, your cash, your small treasures into its folds. He'd watched you like a man starving, and you'd known— even then— that this meant something else entirely to him.

That was three years ago.

Now, the morning light filtered through the curtains in thin, desperate strips, and you were running late. The project— that beast of a contract that had consumed six months of your life— had finally, blessedly concluded at 2 AM. You'd collapsed into bed without washing your face, without setting your alarm properly, without doing any of the things a reasonable adult should do.

And now your phone screamed at you: 8:47 AM. Your spa appointment was at 9:30. Across the city.

"Shit, shit, shit," you muttered, stumbling out of bed, yanking on the first dress your hands found— a simple navy wrap dress that didn't require thought. You didn't bother with makeup. You didn't bother with coffee. You grabbed your bag, flew to the entryway, and snatched what you assumed was your wallet from the small ceramic dish where you both kept them.

They looked identical from above, after all. The same size. The same shape. The same worn-soft leather that had molded to each of your lives.

You pressed a kiss to Nanami's cheek— he stood at the counter in his undershirt and dress pants, buttering toast, his hair still damp from the shower— and you were out the door before he could turn around.

"Have a good—" he started, but the door slammed.

The taxi ride was torture. Traffic crawled. You checked your phone every thirty seconds, watching the minutes slip away, calculating whether you could still make it, whether they'd still take you if you were ten minutes late, fifteen. Your heart hammered against your ribs. Your skin felt too tight, still carrying the stress of the project, the lack of sleep, the persistent ache between your shoulder blades that had become your constant companion over the past month.

When the taxi finally stopped outside the spa— a sleek, minimalist building with bamboo accents and the kind of reputation that required bookings three months in advance— you fumbled in your bag for your wallet, ready to pay and run.

Your fingers closed around leather. You pulled it out.

And you froze.

The smell hit you first— sandalwood, something him. The weight was wrong. Too heavy. When you flipped it open, there was his ID photo staring back at you, Nanami Kento, 31 years old, with that severe expression and the little furrow between his brows that you knew softened when he looked at you, when he thought you weren't watching.

"Shit," you whispered.

The taxi driver cleared his throat. You looked up, panicked, then back down at the wallet. You could see your own, presumably, sitting in the ceramic dish at home. You could see Nanami finding it, realizing the mistake, maybe bringing it to you at lunch.

But you were here. And the cancellation policy was draconian— you'd lose the deposit, lose the appointment, lose the one thing you'd been looking forward to for ninety days.

And god, you needed it. You could feel it in your bones, in the tension headache pulsing behind your eyes, in the way your hands shook slightly as you held his wallet. You'd aged five years in six months. You deserved this.

"I'll pay him back," you muttered, more to yourself than anyone. "Every yen. I'll transfer it the second I get home."

You pulled out his black credit card— the one he never used, the one he'd told you was for "emergencies" though you both knew he had enough in checking to buy a small apartment outright— and handed it to the driver.

The charge was ¥2,400. You watched the driver's machine print the receipt, your stomach twisting with something that wasn't quite guilt, wasn't quite excitement, but lived somewhere deliciously in between.

"Keep the change," you said, because Nanami always tipped well, and you were using his money, so you should use it properly.

Inside, the spa enveloped you in scent— eucalyptus, lavender, something expensive and clean. The receptionist smiled, professional and serene.

"Welcome back," she said. "I see we have you for the standard package today?"

You opened your mouth to confirm. Then you looked down at the wallet in your hands, at the cards inside, at the small fortune sitting in Nanami's accounts that he never touched, that grew and grew while he wore the same suits, ate the same lunches, lived with the same careful restraint that had defined his entire adult life.

"Actually," you heard yourself say, "I'd like to upgrade. To the premium package."

The receptionist's smile didn't waver. "Of course. That's an additional ¥25,000."

"And the hot stone therapy," you added, emboldened by the way she simply nodded, entered numbers, didn't judge. "And the caviar facial. And the private steam room extension."

"Excellent choices," she said, and swiped Nanami's card.

The machine beeped approvingly. Somewhere across the city, Nanami's phone buzzed in his pocket, and you had no idea.

Nanami realized the mistake at 8:52 AM, standing on the platform at Shibuya Station, reaching for his train pass.

His fingers closed around soft leather. Wrong leather. When he pulled it out, the caramel color glowed in the fluorescent lights, and he knew immediately.

"Damn it," he said, softly.

He turned the wallet over in his hands. He should go back. It would make him late— very late— for the budget meeting with the higher-ups, but he should go back. You needed your cards, your cash, your identification. What if something happened? What if you needed to buy something, to prove who you were, to—

He opened it.

Just to check. Just to make sure you had what you needed. Just to see if there was emergency cash he could take out and leave for you, somehow.

The first thing he saw was the photo booth strip, tucked into the clear plastic window where most people kept their ID. But his wallet had his ID there. Yours had this— four frames of memory from the arcade in Harajuku, six months ago. Frame one: you making a peace sign, tongue out, while he stared stoically ahead. Frame two: you trying to make him laugh, hands on his cheeks, pulling his face into a ridiculous expression, his eyes wide with surprised offense. Frame three: him finally breaking, the corner of his mouth twitching upward, you triumphant beside him. Frame four: him kissing your temple, his eyes closed, you grinning at the camera like you'd won something precious.

Nanami's chest tightened.

He flipped past it. The pressed lavender— from their first date, the botanical garden in Kyoto, the flower you'd tucked behind your ear and he'd stolen when you weren't looking, pressing it later in one of his heavy law books. The small stone from Okinawa, smooth and gray, that you'd found on the beach and declared your "lucky stone," carrying it everywhere since. A receipt from the café in Shinjuku where he'd told you he wanted to marry you, the ink faded to gray but the date still legible, the total still showing the two coffees he'd barely tasted because he'd been so nervous.

A fortune from Meiji Shrine, folded and unfolded so many times the creases were soft as fabric. A hair tie, black and elastic, that had probably been in your hair a hundred times. A sample of your perfume, sprayed on a tester strip, still faintly floral after weeks.

You were everywhere in this small space. Your scent. Your memories. Your life, folded and tucked and carried close to his heart even when you weren't there.

He was hard before he even understood why.

His phone buzzed.

He pulled it out with shaking hands, expecting a message from you, some explanation, some apology for the mix-up.

Instead: Premium Spa Package - ¥45,000. Card ending in 4821.

His card. His money. You were spending it.

He should have been concerned. Should have called you, checked that everything was alright, made sure you knew what you were doing, that you weren't confused, that you hadn't—

Another buzz. Hot Stone Therapy Add-on - ¥12,000.

Nanami's breath left him in a rush. He leaned back against the station pillar, suddenly dizzy, his cock throbbing against his zipper with an intensity that made him lightheaded. You were spending his money. Willingly. Taking what he'd wanted so desperately to give you.

He thought of you at the spa, naked on a table, someone's hands on your skin, working out the tension he knew lived in your shoulders. His money paying for it. His card buying your relaxation, your pleasure, your peace.

Another buzz. Luxury Facial Treatment - ¥28,000.

"Sir?" A station attendant paused, concerned. "Are you alright? You look pale."

"Fine," Nanami managed, his voice rough. "Just— fine. Thank you."

He needed to sit down. He needed to— god, he needed to touch himself, needed release, needed something to take the edge off this sudden, overwhelming arousal that was making it hard to think, hard to breathe, hard to do anything but stare at his phone and will more notifications to come.

He made it to the office on autopilot. Sat through the budget meeting in a daze, your wallet open on his lap beneath the conference table, his thumb running over the worn leather, over the photo booth strip, over the small treasures you'd collected. His phone sat face-down on the table, but he could feel every vibration like a physical touch, each one sending a jolt of pleasure straight to his groin.

At 12:45 PM, during the lunch break he couldn't eat, the notification came: Boutique Purchase - ¥86,000.

Clothes. You were buying clothes with his money. Trying them on, looking at yourself in mirrors, deciding what you deserved, what you wanted, and using his card to get it.

He excused himself to the bathroom— the single stall on the seventh floor that no one used because it was out of the way— and locked the door. He leaned against it, shaking, and freed himself from his trousers with trembling hands.

He came in thirty seconds, biting his fist to keep from crying out, spilling over his fingers while he thought of you in a dressing room, sliding fabric over your skin, spending his money with every swipe of the card. It was the fastest, most intense orgasm he'd had in years, and he was still hard, still wanting, still desperate.

He cleaned himself up with shaking hands, straightened his tie, looked at himself in the mirror. His eyes were wild. His face was flushed. He looked like a man who had been thoroughly, completely undone.

And he couldn't stay here. Couldn't sit through another meeting, another discussion of fiscal quarters and resource allocation, when you were out there spending his money, taking what was his to give, finally— finally— letting him provide for you in the way he'd always dreamed.

He found his assistant, a young woman named Mori who had worked for him long enough to know he never took sick days.

"Mori," he said, and his voice sounded strange even to himself, too low, too rough. "I'm not feeling well. Migraine. I need to go home."

"Of course, Nanami-san," she said, her eyes widening slightly at his appearance. "Should I reschedule your afternoon?"

"Please. And—" he paused, considering. "Cancel tomorrow as well. I think I'll need the rest."

He didn't wait for her response. He was already moving toward the elevator, toward the train, toward you.

You were floating.

The spa had been transcendent— every knot in your shoulders worked out by skilled hands, every worry steamed away in the private room, your face glowing from treatments that used ingredients you couldn't pronounce and didn't care to. You'd emerged loose-limbed and hazy, wrapped in the silk robe you'd bought (¥12,000, added to the growing total), carrying the overnight bag (¥8,500) because it was soft and the color suited you.

The boutique next door had called to you like a siren. You'd told yourself you'd just look. Just browse. You weren't really going to buy anything.

But the dress— navy silk that caught the light like water, cut to skim your curves in a way that made you look expensive, sophisticated, like someone who deserved to be taken care of— had been impossible to resist. And when you'd tried it on, and the saleswoman had gasped, had said "Your husband is a lucky man," and you'd thought of Nanami seeing you in it, paying for it, knowing that you were wearing something he'd bought—

You'd bought the shoes too. Cream leather pumps that made your legs look endless. The handbag, structured and elegant, that replaced the worn tote you'd been carrying for three years.

Your phone had buzzed constantly. You'd stopped checking after the first hour, the guilt giving way to something headier, something that felt like power and indulgence and the delicious wrongness of taking what you never allowed yourself to want.

You caught a matinee— a romance, something with beautiful people and sweeping music and a happy ending that made you cry in the dark theater. You bought the wine, the overpriced popcorn, because you could, because it was his money and he had so much of it and for once you weren't going to be the responsible one, the independent one, the woman who never needed anything from anyone.

By the time you stepped out of the taxi in front of your building, the sun was setting, painting the sky in strokes of orange and pink. You carried three shopping bags. Your skin still smelled of lavender oil. You felt, for the first time in months, like yourself again.

And then you saw him through the window.

Nanami sat on the couch in the dark, still in his work clothes though he'd loosened his tie, undone his collar. Your wallet sat open on the coffee table in front of him like an altar. His hands were clasped between his knees, and he was looking at the door with an expression you'd never seen before— hungry, desperate, almost feral.

You froze, your hand on the doorknob, suddenly aware of every purchase, every yen, every notification that had buzzed across his phone while you indulged yourself.

"Nanami," you started, pushing the door open, "I can explain—"

He moved.

You'd never seen him move like that— fast, predatory, crossing the space between. He didn't speak. He just reached for you, his large hands framing your face, and then his mouth was on yours, hot and demanding and nothing like his usual careful kisses.

"Nanami—" you tried again, but he swallowed the word, licked into your mouth with a groan that vibrated through your chest.

"Do you know," he breathed against your lips, his voice wrecked, unrecognizable, "how many notifications I received today?"

"I was going to pay you back," you gasped, stumbling as he walked you backward, his body pressing against yours, solid and warm and trembling. "I swear, every yen, I just didn't want to cancel the appointment—"

"I don't want you to pay me back." His hands were at your coat, yanking it off your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. "I want you to tell me. Every. Single. Thing."

He pushed you back onto the couch, following you down, pinning you with his weight in a way that made your breath catch. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, his usual composure shattered into something raw and needy.

"Tell me," he commanded, his hand sliding up your thigh, pushing the silk of your new dress higher, "what you bought. How much it cost. Who paid for it."

"I—" you started, but his fingers found the edge of your underwear— also new, also expensive, lace that you'd bought because the saleswoman had said they matched the dress— and he made a sound like a wounded animal.

"These too?" he asked, his voice rough. "Did you buy these with my money?"

"Yes," you whispered, and the admission sent a thrill through you, hot and shameful and electric.

He groaned, pressing his forehead to yours, his hand moving to tear at the buttons of your dress. "Tell me everything. Start at the beginning. Don't leave anything out."

"The spa," you started, your voice shaking as he ripped the dress open, buttons scattering across the hardwood with small, sharp sounds. "The premium package—"

"How much?" He was kissing your throat now, your collarbone, his teeth grazing the skin with just enough pressure to make you arch.

"Forty-five thousand," you gasped. "And the hot stones— twelve thousand more—"

He made a sound against your breast, his hand palming you through the lace of your bra. "Keep going."

"The facial!" You clutched at his shoulders, nails digging in as he set a brutal pace, snapping his hips against yours. "Twenty-eight thousand— caviar— oh god—"

"Expensive." He bit your jaw, your neck, leaving marks. "You're so expensive. My expensive girl."

"The dress—" you choked out as he hit something deep, something that made stars burst behind your eyes. "Eighty-six thousand—"

"More." He pulled out and slammed back in, making you see white. "What else?"

"Shoes— forty-two— handbag— sixty—" You were babbling now, lost in the stretch of him, the filthy satisfaction in his eyes. "Chocolates— wine—"

"All mine." He hooked your leg over his shoulder, driving deeper, harder. "My money. My girl. Spending what's mine."

"Yours," you agreed, voice breaking. "All yours."

"Louder." He slowed, cruelly, until you were whining, trying to grind against him. "Tell me whose money you spent."

"Yours!" You shouted it, desperate, clawing at his back. "Nanami's money— my husband's— please—"

He rewarded you with a thrust that rattled your teeth, and another, and another, fucking you into the couch cushions with abandon, the leather creaking beneath you.

"Again," he demanded, hand wrapping around your throat, not squeezing, just holding, claiming. "Tell me what you are."

"Expensive," you sobbed, the pleasure building to a breaking point. "I'm so expensive—"

"My expensive wife." He was losing rhythm, getting sloppy, chasing his own release. "Spending all my money— taking everything—"

He snarled and drove into you one final time, grinding against you as he came, hot and endless, and you followed, screaming his name, your vision going black at the edges.

After, when you were both trembling and sweat-cooled on the ruined couch, he gathered you close, pressing kisses to your temple, your eyelids, the corner of your mouth.

"I'll transfer it all back," you mumbled, half-asleep against his chest.

He laughed, low and dark, and you felt him stir against your hip again.

"Don't you dare," he whispered. "Tomorrow, we're going back. You're buying the other dress. The one you didn't get."

"Nanami—"

"And then," he continued, hand sliding down your stomach with intent, "you're going to tell me about every single thing you try on. In detail."

You shivered, already nodding, and he smiled against your hair, happier than he'd been in years.

Finally, he thought, pulling you closer. Finally, she was letting him spend.

honeysucklewatr

tears of pleasure

smut | size difference | big, beefy loverboy!jason

everything about jason todd is beyond hot.

though one of the sexiest things about him is his mind. how much he knew, like random facts that would win you a grand prize in a game show about books or historical events. or even about you and what makes you tick. where you liked to eat and how you’d crack your knuckles. he always knew.

his attention to detail was unmatched because he is an amazing observer.

he knew you so deeply that it was like he studied you in the same way he searched for information. kept your image close to his heart and burned it to memory like a brand.

but you hadn’t yet gotten further with jason other than making out hard and panting even harder, you knew he was the type to prioritize your pleasure over his. when you started touching more intimately, he saw how much you liked him and felt more confident in how heavily he felt for you. he’d hold those moments with the same tenderness he held your hand with on your first date, devotion leaking from his pores.

but jason wasn’t prepared to see how he could completely ruin you when it translated to bed. he didn’t even know he was capable of it, though once he got a taste, he knew he was unconditionally yours. mapping out roads around your body and marking the spot that made you make the most noises. memorizing the map that led to what he really wanted.

the first time was after a week that was horribly cold and you clung to jason like a second skin. overtime, his warm hands fell to between your thighs and when you didn’t stop him, he continued. shakily, more afraid of hurting you than anything else. though entirely skilled, he knew exactly what makes you tick. every single button he pressed made the experience all the more memorable. every touch and every praise, jason made it comfortable and safe like it was his priority because it is.

now its getting hot and heavy. he’s got you pinned under him hand running up your side while he just barely restrained himself. taking your panties off of you so slowly, unwrapping you like a gift he is oh so grateful to receive.

as though he’s afraid of hurting you somehow.

dragging his heavy, weeping tip through your folds. letting the weight rest against you after prepping for what felt like eternity. the resistance is hardly there at this point, but even now, jason’s bigger than anyone could gauge. what you’d imagined in your mind was ten times fold with him and the girth he harboured was a little daunting.

“i got you princess.” he breathes. “will you let me in?”

eyes staring into his as heart shapes form in the thin air, you nod breathlessly.

you’re not one to back down from a challenge, right?

killshotx

walk with me on this one . . . DDBA!Dex has erectile dysfunction. for sure. at least a little bit. that man was on so many medications, they had him on enough benzos to drop an elephant for 8 years and then Vanessa Fisk cuts him off cold turkey, he’s suicidal, depressed, and anxious. sometimes he just can’t get it up ok?

this does not bother him so much because it gives him an excuse to finger you until you come and then curl up against you and fall asleep without worrying about performing himself. he’s inexperienced and a little insecure about it, and I headcanon him to be on the ace spectrum, so he’s more than happy to just give you three orgasms and hear you tell him how good he makes you feel. he honestly does not need you to return the favor. he just wants to be useful to you.

however. when he is in the mood to come, or when you’re in the mood to make him come, it’s a very intimate experience that almost overwhelms him. you never pressure him to perform when he can’t or doesn’t want to. you never make him feel inadequate or disappointing when he struggles to get hard. you work him up slowly, gently, letting him take as much time as he needs and showering him in praise and affection. you kiss the tears off his cheeks when he finally does tip over that edge.

bebecitanati

drunk in love

satoru gojo x reader. girls night is both satoru gojo’s least and most favorite night of the month.

warnings! 18+ mdni! p in v, squirting, doggy style, missionary. gojo loves youuu. shit is filthy.

note : second (kinda) drabble. gulp.

wc : 2.7k

“angel? i’m home!” gojo’s voice was heard throughout the apartment along with the heavy sound of your front door closing.

“in the room!” you called back out from the large bathroom in your en suite. various makeup products lined the dual sink of your shared space, all an essential element in your routine to look your absolute best for girls night.

“i’m sorry i'm so late. you won’t believe how bad this goddamn mission went. ijichi’s getting exorcised after this—“ your boyfriend paused mid sentence after walking through your bedroom’s door, standing in the entrance of the bathroom. you turned to look at him once you didn’t hear his voice continue on with his rant.

piercing blue eyes not occulted by his usual headband laid heavy on you, looking up and down at you with a gaze that you distinctly recognized as hungry. you smiled at the white-haired man brightly, attempting to ignore how he was clearly checking you out with a signature starved smile he reserved only for you.

“hi, baby! i’m sorry the mission went south, tell me more about it?” you turned back to the mirror, continuing with the finishing touches to your makeup look. your lips pursed slightly in concentration as you blended out any harsh lines of your eyeliner and waterline, the smoky, sultry look you were going for seemed to be successful after hours of diligently following a tiktok tutorial.

you saw your boyfriend finally push off from the doorframe to step right behind you, his hands coming up to rest on your hips that were adorned by a lacy, black mini dress. it was perfectly tight and short, resting well above mid thigh.

”y’know what? fuck the whole mission, baby. it went amazing, no need for me to explain. you on the other hand, where’ya going all dolled up like this, hmm?” his breath ghosted your shoulder as he leaned down and into you, lips closing in to place a warm kiss on the curve. his hands began rubbing up and down the fabric of the sides of your dress, leaving a tingling trail that you fought to ignore. it was proving difficult once his lips strayed from your shoulder and journeyed into the slope of your neck.

“toru, remember i told you i was going out with the girls tonight? it’s the second weekend of the month, you know we always go out,” your voice wavered near the end of your sentence as your man’s kisses went from barely innocent to wet, open mouthed kisses. you were trying your hardest to continue applying your lip combo, finishing the look with a shiny gloss. you absolutely loved when he got like this. he’d become so attention starved and lacked the ability to focus on anything but you. although you would usually indulge satoru’s (and your own) needs, you were serious about being considerate of shoko and utahime’s time.

you gasped at the feeling of satoru’s rock hard erection pressing into the back of your thigh, the heat and print evident through the fabric of his pants, “of course, pretty girl, how could i forget? you always get ready and leave me alone with nothing but this to deal with,” he murmured, hips twitching slightly to emphasize exactly what he was referring to.

“don’t be dramatic, toru. you know i always take care of you when i get home,” you responded in a sweet voice, bringing your hand up and behind you to cup his pale cheek, looking at him with what you though was a loving look, until you heard and felt your boyfriend’s deep groan vibrate into your neck, along with his hands that had now traveled to the front of your dress, toying with the hem on your thighs.

”don’t look at me like that, angel. those fuckin’ eyes of yours are driving me crazy,” he seemed to finally snap and grab your hips tightly, turning you around quickly to face him. you didn’t have time to react before he was letting go to pluck the open gloss and applicator wand from your fingers, nice enough to properly close and seal the product before his hands came back up to cup your jaw. “so, so, beautiful, baby,” he whispered before leaning in to press a wet kiss on your glossy lips. his hands angled your face up to his, forcing you to reciprocate his love. not that you’d ever reject his kisses.

“mmph, toru—“ you tried to get the words out, but his lips pressed even harder against your own, words gasped out between smooches, “they’ll be—here—mm—a-any min—minute.”

your hands came up to close around his own that rested on your face, hoping the touch would snap him out of his hungry state. it seemed to only rile him up, however, as his thigh moved to slip between your own plush thighs, dress riding up to forcefully make room for your now slightly spread legs. you let out a small squeak as his muscular thigh pressed perfectly against your throbbing clit, covered by lacy, black fabric. although it felt like one of your toughest missions to this date, you knew if you didn’t get the situation under control, you either wouldn’t make it out tonight or you were about to traumatize your friends.

you brought your fingers to run through white strands for a moment before you tugged at them, the action causing satoru to pull away from you only enough for you to speak, “c’mon, baby. i have to fix my lips now. can you grab my new heels, pretty please?”

your hand moved to wipe your nude lipstick that had transferred onto his lips, his mouth puckering to peck your thumb as you did so. he finally and reluctantly stepped back once you finished, not before swatting your ass when you turned back to the mirror to re-apply your lip gloss. he snickered at your yelp, “toru!” before walking out and into your walk-in closet to grab the shoes he knew you were referring to. sleek, tall loboutins that he had bought you a random afternoon this week as a surprise.

you finally exited the bathroom to see him waiting already for you near the bed, his hand patting an empty space for you to take a seat. you followed his directions, sitting on the luxurious comforter. he then kneeled before you with the heels in his hands, bringing your right foot up to slide the heel on. once he was done with the first, he placed a sweet peck to your ankle, doing the exact same process with the other. before he could go any further with his affection, you heard a knock at the door, signaling your friends’ arrival.

“just a minute!” you called out, standing to your now increased height, moving around to spritz your favorite perfume and grab your purse. satoru simply sat on the bed with a pout and watched you intently. his erection hadn’t gone down for a single moment since he first laid eyes on you.

”thank you, baby. i’ll be back later, okay?” you walked back up to him and pecked his cheek innocently, pulling back giving him a sultry smile you knew he’d love, “wait up for me,” you winked and ran out of the room, leaving behind your boyfriend who let out a loud groan at your sexy expression.

the next couple hours were about to feel like an eternity.

“t-toru, right th-ere!” you moaned out loudly and shamelessly, your senses completely overwhelmed by your sorcerer boyfriend. he had you kneeling with your legs spread as wide as possible on the couch cushions, bent over the arm. your feet were up, heels locked behind his thighs to keep him pressed inside you as much as deeply as possible. his clothed chest was pressed to your back, dress pulled over your plump ass just enough for him to slip inside and be able to watch it bounce back against him. his arms were resting on either side of yours that were gripping the leather arm of the couch. your head was thrown back against his shoulder, allowing him to closely listen to any and all noises you’d let out.

“so perfect, baby. fuck, been waiting hours to feel this tight cunt around my cock. felt like you were gone forever. did you make me wait longer on purpose, angel? wanted to see just how needy i could get?” his deep, sultry voice in your ear had you keening, unable to do anything but take his sharp, hard thrusts into you. the noises you were both making were absolutely obscene, wet squelches echoing throughout the dark living room along with a combination of grunts and high pitched moans.

satoru hadn’t even waited for you to make it to the bedroom once you made it back from dinner and drinks, instantly pouncing on you and taking you right in the first room of your shared apartment.

“c’mon, baby, answer me. did you—“ he pulled his hips back enough for his thick length to almost slip completely out of your dripping hole, teasingly leaving in his weeping tip, “do it—“ he slammed back in roughly, making you let out a scream, eyes rolling back, “on purpose?” he resumed his hard, fast thrusts.

“n-no! i—fuck! wanted to come b-back to you, toru! miss—missed you so much!” you wailed, turning your head to the side to look at him. your jaw was slackened, unable to keep in any noises. not that you’d want to—you knew how much satoru loved when you were loud, confirming just how much you loved him and his cock.

“you’re such a dream, angel. missed you too, never want to let you out of my sight,” he responded, thrusts becoming somehow faster as he leaned in to kiss you sloppily, finally free to ruin your lipstick without a care in the world. your lips would connect for a moment before you were moaning into each other’s mouths, though you never separated far. it was like you were each other’s oxygen, needing to breathe each other in to survive

“m’so close, toru!” your eyebrows were furrowed as you pulled back enough to speak, a strand of saliva connecting your lips to his own, “more! n-need more, please!” you sobbed, unsure of what more you were exactly asking for. however, having the strongest as your lover meant he somehow knew exactly the push you needed to send you over the edge. his arm moved to wrap around your neck, essentially placing you in a headlock. he leaned back and pulled you with him, bringing you both into a praying position. your hands came up to dig your nails into his bicep and forearm, high pitched moans leaving your parted lips when his other arm came around to rub circles on your puffy, aching clit. you felt as if you were floating, euphoria completely transcending you into an abyss you never wanted to leave.

satoru let out a deep groan at the feeling of your walls tightening around him, signaling your impending orgasm. “s-so tight, baby. cum for me, angel. i know you want to let go. you know i’d never deny you, so do it, cum all over this cock,” he breathed out against the side of your face, placing sloppy kisses on your jaw and cheek. the words alone sent you hurdling over the edge, slack jawed and eyes crossing in pleasure as you felt your peak overtake you, gushing out clear liquid that ran down his balls that were slapping against your ass, dripping all the way down your thighs and essentially ruining the sofa.

you let out a scream of pleasure, satoru’s name barely understood through your continuous wails. he kept fucking you through your orgasm, barely able to hold back his own once he felt just how much liquid you were pouring at his thrusts. you were barely blinking back to life when you suddenly found yourself on your back, feeling the soft comforter underneath you. you knew you were now in your bedroom. your dress was completely gone, leaving your naked body to arch off the bed as you were sent into a state of overstimulation.

“t-toru? did you just t-teleport?” you stuttered out, hands coming up to now run over his bare abdomen, trailing up to wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him down to press against your front.

”needed to watch your pretty face cum with me, angel. you can give me one more, right?” he angled his hips downward to ensure his pelvis was grinding his happy trail against your clit, causing you to flinch hard.

”dunno if i can cum again, toru!” you panted out. his hand shot down to grab the back of your knee, bringing it up to open you up wider to his cock’s abuse. you whined at the combination of the stretch plus the way his hair was rubbing deliciously against your swollen nub.

“i know you can, pretty girl. tell me what you need and i’ll do it. fuck, i’d do anything you asked me to. you’re my life,” his thrusts grew sloppier as he neared his own peak.

“closer, toru!” you moaned, feeling the tightening of your lower stomach coil rapidly at his sweet words.

he grabbed your ankle to bring it over his shoulder, then wrapped his arms around your back and middle to press your entire body against him, tits pressed firmly to his hard chest, your clit rubbing all over his lower abdomen. the feeling of his hot body against yours, arms wrapped securely around you and lifting your upper body off the bed while his cockhead jabbed against your g-spot was enough to have you gripping his hair to press his mouth against yours, slanting your lips over his to press a filthy kiss on his own.

not even a moment later, you were squirting clear fluid all over his pelvis, abs, the bed, everywhere. the headboard was slamming against the wall, but it was no comparison to your high pitched scream of his name plus satoru’s loud moans as he felt your walls squeeze him impossibly tight, milking his cock entirely. the pornographic noises of your pussy squelching around him and the wet slaps of skin against skin rang throughout the room. the moment he felt the first bit of liquid hit his abdomen, he was cumming hard, unable to do anything but let his milky seed drip out of your hole and continue fucking you both through your highs. your face was a sight to behold; sultry eyes that he loved so much were scrunched shut, head thrown back with your hair splayed perfectly around you, mouth open in a perfect ‘o,’ he was hypnotized. he was unsure how long you were both letting ecstasy wash over you, but it felt like a lifetime.

he finally slowed his pace before stopping completely, hearing your whimpers of overstimulation. your eyes were locked on his, eyebrows still slightly pinched as your tongue darted out to wet your lips. your skin was glistening with sweat, chest heaving from exertion just as his did the same. satoru felt his cock twitch at the sight, unable to fathom just how perfectly angelic you were. hence, your nickname.

he allowed your leg to slip off his shoulder, the appendage shaking as he brought it down to rest. you both let out breathy laughs at the sight, looking at each other with pure devotion and adoration. you felt your chest tighten with post-coital bliss, your fingers in gojo’s hair bringing his face closer to your own, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. he instantly reciprocated, both of you in a bubble of love.

which is why, when he suddenly felt your shaky legs come up to press against his sides, suddenly flipping you both over so that you were now on top of him, he was caught off guard. he understood the moment he sensed cursed energy flow through the room that you were restoring your strength to keep going. he looked up to see your angel face turned devilishly hungry, hands gripping his own to press them next to his head and into the mattress. his cock instantly hardened at the sight.

“now, i told you i’d take care of you once i got home, didn’t i?”

satoruswetgf

streamer!jo mid-sentence, leaning back in his chair, headset slightly crooked, the soft click of the door barely registers over the sound of his stream when you walk in. he stops, just for a second. his eyes flick over you. your tight, soft pajamas, the way they hug you just right, the faint scent that follows you in. his whole expression shifts into something quieter.

“hey,” you hum softly, walking over like it’s nothing.

the chat explodes and he doesn’t even glance at it.

voidking99: BROOOOO WHO IS THAT satorusimp420: HE GOT A GIRL?????? angelmilk: she’s so pretty what 😭 gojosleft_toe3: WHY IS SHE IN HIS LAP LIKE THAT IM SICK

“oh my fuck,” he says instantly, voice lower now, already reaching for you.

you don’t question it—you never do. you just step between his legs and sit in his lap like it’s your spot, because it is. his arms wrap around you immediately, pulling you close, one hand settling at your waist, the other resting along your thigh.

“you look so gooooood,” he murmurs, nuzzling lightly into your shoulder for a second before straightening again, like he just remembered he’s live.

his hand doesn’t move though. it drifts. slowly. absentmindedly. down your thigh, fingers brushing soft circles like he’s not even thinking about it. then back up, resting at your waist again.

the twitch chat is going insane.

you notice quickly

you’re already leaning forward slightly, eyes scanning the stream, curious. “what are they saying?”

“nothing important,” he mutters quickly, tightening his hold on you just a little.

too late.

you squint, reading out loud, confused, “I usually skip this part…?” your face still contempt, you tilt your head, genuinely puzzled. “what does that mean?” and then you shift. just a little. trying to get closer to the screen. but it makes you press back into him.

torus breath catches, just barely but enough.

you’re still focused on the chat, completely oblivious, squirming slightly again to get comfortable. “wait, there’s more—”

his arm tightens around your waist. not rough, just firm.

grounding.

his other hand stills on your thigh, fingers pressing in just a little like he’s trying to anchor himself. “hey,” he says suddenly, sharper now—directed at the screen.

the chat floods faster.

softgirlcult: she’s literally clueless this is insane domainexpansionTHIS: “i usually skip this part” LMAOOOOOO gojoswifeREAL: GIRL DONT READ THAT OUT LOUD blueeyeaddickt: HE TENSED UP DID YALL SEE THAT

he exhales through his nose, jaw tightening slightly before he leans forward, voice dropping into something more commanding.

“alright, that’s enough,” he says, tone lazy. “don’t read that stuff,” he murmurs, voice softer now.

you blink, looking back at him. “I was just asking—”

“don’t worry about them,” he murmurs, softer now, eyes locked on yours. way too focused, way too intense. his arms tighten around you again, pulling you flush against him, chin resting lightly on your shoulder as he leans back into his chair.

chat? forgotten.

game? paused.

and satoru? completely, helplessly distracted by you.

megumislostdad: stream is over guys pack it up sukunaIRL: move chat i’m watching this KING.naoyazenin: embarrassing. stand up bro LimitlessGojo banned KING.naoyazenin

no reproduction, translation, reposting, or Al use (including feeding into Al platforms or bot creation) is permitted without my permission.

lilikoiyu

gojo is addicted to filming you while fucking !

gojo satoru was addicted to filming you.

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

you had said yes.

now it had become a ritual.

every time he fucked you, the phone came out. sometimes he set it up on the tripod in the corner of the bedroom so it captured everything in a wide angle. sometimes he held it himself, filming close-ups of his thick cock stretching you open, the way your body moved with every thrust, the slick mess coating his shaft when he pulled out just to push back in deeper.

he loved the sounds most of all.

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

he always made sure to get your face too—the way your eyes rolled back, the way your mouth fell open when he hit that spot inside you, the broken moans and whimpers of his name that spilled out when you were close.

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

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

he saved every single video.

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

he watched them when you were away.

when you were on a solo mission, or visiting family, or just busy with work that kept you late, he would lock himself in his bedroom, pull up the folder, and pick one at random. sometimes it was the one where you were riding him reverse cowgirl, your body moving as you took every inch. sometimes it was the one where he had you folded in half, legs over his shoulders, pounding you so deep the camera caught the bulge in your lower belly.

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

his hand sped up as the video got filthier. he loved the parts where you begged—when you were crying and whimpering “please, satoru, fill me up, i need your cum.” he always came hard to those, thick ropes spilling over his fist while he watched himself on the screen.

after he finished, he didn’t delete anything. he just wiped his hand off and sent you a quick text:

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

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

sometimes he got bold.

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

toru: thinking about you. hurry home so we can film the sequel.

he never pressured you to let him post them or share them. those videos were strictly for him—his private collection, his dirty little secret. he watched them when he was stressed after a long day, when he was horny and you weren’t around, when he just wanted to relive how perfect you felt wrapped around him.

and every time he filmed a new one, he made sure to whisper against your lips right before he started recording:

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

then he fucked you like he was trying to make sure the next video was even better than the last.

because gojo satoru didn’t just love fucking you.

he loved keeping every single moment of it forever.

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

even when you weren’t there.

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