#becertainlust

[becertainlust]

Bakugo katsuki refusing to fuck his incredibky horny pregnant wife because he's afraid the strain would hurt her, so he eats her out and fingers her like it's all he's ever known instead?

UNDONE | Bakugo Katsuki

Pairing: Husband! Bakugo x Pregnant ! Reader

Content: Smut.

It starts with a dream.

No—several dreams.

Every night this week, you’ve woken up throbbing, flushed, and wet beneath the sheets, aching for something your husband refuses to give you. Not out of cruelty—but out of caution. He’s been cautious ever since your bump started to show. Ever since his eyes landed on your swollen belly and something primal, protective, and deeply stubborn took over.

You don’t blame him. Not entirely.

But it doesn’t stop your body from burning for him.

You can’t help it—the dreams, the fantasies, the slow grinding of your thighs against the pillow after he leaves the bed in the morning. It’s gotten to the point where just hearing his voice, raspy and low from sleep, has you clenching around nothing. Even now, as you step into the steamy bathroom and peel off your shirt, your nipples pebble from the memory of his mouth. From imagining what it would feel like if he just stopped holding back.

You let out a soft, frustrated sigh.

Your body has never felt more sensitive. Or more neglected.

“Hey,” Katsuki’s voice rumbles from the hallway, breaking your haze. “You need help in there?”

You freeze with your hands on your shorts. Shit.

“No,” you call out quickly, maybe a little too sharply. “I’m fine.”

There’s a pause. You can hear it—the way he hesitates like he knows something’s off. But you step into the shower anyway, shutting the glass door behind you before he can poke his head in.

You don’t want him to see the frustration painted across your face. Or the way your thighs are rubbing together again. Or how your eyes sting a little because you just want your husband to touch you—not like you're fragile, not like you're breakable, but like you're still his.

You rest your head against the tile, hot water cascading down your back, and sigh through your nose.

He’d turned you down again last night. Gentle about it, sure. Pulling you close in bed, holding you like glass, but still shaking his head with that stubborn tone you’ve come to hate.

“Not right now, baby. Not like this.”

You hadn’t said anything back. Just turn over and let him spoon you, hiding the tears of frustration behind slow breathing and a tight throat.

Baths on your own have been lonely. Everyday you would waddle in and waddle out, you’ve made up your mind to just deal with it. Get dressed, keep quiet, stop pushing. You wrap the towel around your chest and start to waddle back into the bedroom—only to find Katsuki standing there, arms crossed, brow furrowed.

His eyes sweep over you. Slowly. Too slowly.

“Thought you said you were fine.”

“I was,” you mumble, tightening the towel more securely around you. “Didn’t need help.”

Katsuki doesn’t answer right away. He just studies you like a puzzle, eyes lingering on your flushed cheeks, the way you won’t quite meet his gaze.

“You’re pissed,” he mutters finally.

You shrug, heading toward your dresser. “I’m not. Just tired.”

“The hell you’re not,” he snaps gently, following behind you. “You’ve been actin’ weird all damn week. You barely looked at me this morning.”

"Katsuki!" wow you shouted, clutching your wardrobe doors closing your eyes before taking in a breath. “Maybe I’m just trying not to get turned down again,” you mutter under your breath.

Silence.

When you glance over your shoulder, he’s still standing there—still watching, but now his expression has shifted. His jaw is tight. Not from anger. From realization.

You turn away again, trying to ignore the heat in your face. “Forget it.”

But Katsuki doesn’t let it slide. Not when it comes to you.

In two strides, he’s behind you, hand wrapping gently around your wrist to stop you from walking away again. “You think I don’t want you?” he asks, voice low, dangerous in the way it always gets before he does something intense.

You swallow, but say nothing.

“Fuckin' Look at me.” he begs

You do.

His gaze is fire. And something else—guilt. Regret. Lust, buried under layers of self-control.

“I turned you down to protect you. Not ‘cause I don’t want you,” he growls. “You’ve been on my mind every damn second. The way you moan in your sleep. The way you squeeze your thighs together when you think I’m not looking’. You don’t think I notice?”

You feel your breath catch.

“Katsuki…”

He steps closer. His hands cradle your hips. Warm, large, careful. “I miss you,” he murmurs. “Miss the way you taste. The way you fuckin’ sound when you come on my tongue.”

You shudder.

“But I’m not about to risk your body—or our kid—by losing control”

He leans in, pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder. 

His lips are warm, and soft, and it’s the most maddening thing about him—how someone with so much strength, so much power in his hands and voice and body, can still touch you like you’re made of glass. Like he’d worship you with a whisper if it meant keeping you safe.

“But I can still take care of you,” he breathes against your skin. “Still make you feel good.”

You’re already trembling, nails digging into the edge of your towel. His words sink into you like warm honey, thick and sweet and so close to what you need—but not quite there.

“Katsuki…” Your voice is soft, shaky. “It’s not enough.”

He pulls back slightly, searching your face. “What isn’t?”

“This—these soft kisses, the way you’re tiptoeing around me like I’ll break.” You suck in a breath, thighs pressing together again. “I want your mouth. I need it. Please…”

You don’t even realize you’re begging until his hands flex on your hips, a quiet groan escaping his throat.

“Say it,” he rasps. “I need to hear it, baby. Say what you want.”

Your cheeks burn, and your lip trembles, but your pride is gone.  Melted away by weeks of wet dreams, aching thighs, and empty, aching nights. You rested your hand on his taunt arms, they looked strong enough to press into a mating press allowing a view to watch his cock sink into you. But that's asking for too much.

“Please, Katsuki,” you whisper. “Eat me out.”

His eyes darken like a switch flipped. The guilt, the hesitation—it all crumbles beneath the weight of your words.

“Yeah?” he growls, voice thick with want. “You want my fuckin’ tongue, baby? Want me to lick this sweet pussy until you forget your own name?”

You nod helplessly, towel falling loose as he backs you toward the bed. His hands cradle your hips, your belly, guiding you like he owns you. And when you hit the mattress, he doesn’t hesitate.

He sinks to his knees.

“Lay back,” he murmurs, voice reverent now. “Lemme show you just how much I fuckin’ want you.”

And you do. Because you’re already trembling—already soaked—because finally, finally, your husband is about to put that filthy mouth to work.

Katsuki kisses down your belly with a reverence that nearly undoes you. His hands are gentle as they guide you back against the pillows, but his eyes—his eyes are hungry. Locked between your thighs, like he’s starved for this, for you.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” he mutters, voice gravel rough. “Swear to god, baby, you’re drivin’ me insane.”

Your breath hitches when his hands part your thighs. He eases you open carefully, reverently, and his eyes drop to your glistening core.

“Shit,” he breathes, jaw flexing. “You’re already so wet.”

You whimper when his fingers glide over your folds, feather-light and teasing.

“You’ve been this needy for me, huh?” he growls, dragging the tip of one finger along your slit. “Wakin’ up drippin’ and thinkin’ about my mouth?”

“Yes,” you breathe, voice cracking. “Katsuki, please—please don’t tease—”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he murmurs, eyes flicking up to yours with a wicked glint. “Daddy’s gonna make it all better.”

Then he lowers his head and licks a long, deliberate stripe up your soaked core.

Your hips jerk.

A sharp gasp tears from your lips as his tongue flattens and presses in deeper, tasting, exploring. His hands anchor your thighs down as he groans into your pussy, like you’re the first drop of water in a desert.

“Oh my—Katsuki—fuck—”

He hums against your clit, the vibration shooting straight through you. He’s relentless—thorough. Every swirl of his tongue, every slow drag over your sensitive bundle of nerves, is practiced.He eats you like he’s memorizing you all over again.Like this is a devotion, not an act.

Like you’re his altar.

And then—then—he eases a thick finger into your soaked heat, slow and gentle, curling up just right.

Your head falls back. Your mouth opens in a silent cry.

“Mmm, kats–” You’re nearly sobbing now. “You make me, feel so good—feels so fucking good—”

“Yeah?” he growls, slipping in a second finger. “You gonna come for me, baby? Gonna come on my fuckin’ tongue like a good girl?”

You nod frantically, hands flying to his hair, gripping tight as he sucks your clit, tongue flicking in tight little circles. His fingers curl perfectly, stroking that spot inside you that makes your toes curl, and your thighs start to shake.

“That’s it,” he murmurs against you. “Good girl” 

You come with a sharp cry, arching into his mouth, walls pulsing around his fingers as he works you through every second of it. He doesn’t stop—doesn’t let up—keeps licking and sucking like he needs to drink down every wave of your pleasure.

Only when your legs are twitching and you’re whimpering for mercy does he finally ease back, lips and chin glistening.

You’re panting, flushed, wrecked.

He crawls up your body and presses a kiss to your forehead, then your lips—letting you taste yourself on his tongue. Hands gently cupping your face. He pulls back slowly, his body leaving a trail of warmth across yours as you tremble beneath him. The taste of your kiss lingers on his lips, deep and hot, as he watches you with a look of self control thrumming in his mind.

Don't be stupid katsuki.

 His breath comes in soft, measured gasps, the faint sheen of sweat on his skin reflecting the dim light.

You’re left breathless, a wild mix of exhaustion and yearning swirling inside you. His hands, once fierce, now glide gently over your skin, tracing the curve of your cheek with a tenderness that contrasts the intensity of what just happened.

Leaning down, he presses his forehead to yours, his voice low and soothing. “Still with me?” His breath brushes your lips, a gentle contrast to the heated clash moments ago.

You blink up at him, feeling both undone and whole in his presence. Your body still thrums with the aftershocks of what he’s done to you, but there’s something comforting, almost protective, in the way he holds you now.

You’re shaking, body spent, but your hips are still lifting off the sheets—needy, desperate, slick and aching. The orgasm’s barely faded, and yet the hunger’s worse now. Throbbing between your legs like an ache in your soul.

“Mmm, more” you whisper, voice broken, strung out on the edge of something more. “Please…”

He’s hovering above you, lips swollen and glistening, jaw slick with your release. His eyes burn molten hot, raking down your body, zeroing in on the way your soaked pussy clenches around nothing.

And he smirks—cocky and condescending, like he knows just how ruined you are. Just how fucking needy you’ve become under his tongue.

“Still twitchin’ for me?” he murmurs, thumb sliding through your mess with a slow, deliberate press. “Didn’t I just make you come”

Your hips jerk against his hand.

He tsks, sliding that same thumb up to your clit—barely brushing it, but it’s enough to make you try to grind against his hand.

“Greedy little thing,” he growls. “Could come a dozen times and you’d still be beggin’ me for more, huh?”

You nod—wild, breathless, clutching at his wrist.

“Please,” you whimper, voice catching. “Please eat me again—I need your mouth—please, Katsuki, I need it—need you—please make me come again—”

His jaw tightens, and something dark flickers in his eyes.

“You really are a filthy fuckin’ slut for it,” he growls, grabbing your thighs and forcing them wide open. “Look at this mess. Soaked and twitching’, just begging’ for my mouth again.”

You can’t answer—not when he’s spreading you wide, dragging your hips to the edge of the bed, not when his breath ghosts over your drenched cunt and you feel how hard he’s breathing. Like he’s barely holding back.

And then—

He dives in.

No teasing. No warmup.

Just tongue and heat and raw hunger—licking into you with a groan that vibrates through your whole body. He’s ravenous now, devouring you like a man lost in the desert. His mouth locks on your clit, lips sucking hard enough to make your vision blur, then soft again, tongue swirling, flicking, dragging through your folds.

Your thighs try to close around his head, but he grips them down hard, keeping you open, helpless.

“Take it,” he growls into your cunt, voice rough, soaked in filth and fire. “You begged for it, now take it.”

You sob.

He flattens his tongue, licking you in slow, deep strokes, and your back arches off the bed—hips grinding against his face as your body loses control again. He slips two fingers back inside you, crooking them right against your sweet spot, and you scream—hands tangled in his hair, dragging him deeper.

You’re not moaning anymore.

You’re wailing—loud, unashamed, wrecked.

“That’s it,” he growls, voice muffled against your soaked folds. “Sound so fucking beautiful”

And then he sucks—hard—tongue curling just right, fingers stroking just right—

You shatter.

Body jerking, crying out as your orgasm rips through you—messy, raw, soaking his fingers, his face, the sheets. Your vision goes white. Your whole body seizes and melts, like he’s pulled the soul right out of you with his mouth.

But even as you twitch, he’s still licking.

Still cleaning you up.

Still moaning like you taste better than anything in the world.

When he finally lifts his head, he’s got that wild look in his eyes again—hair messy, face soaked, lips red and glistening. His smirk is pure filth.

[becertainlust]

BIRTHDAY SUIT | Bakugo Katsuki

synopsis: Bakugo never made a big deal about birthdays—just another day in his book. But you're not letting this one slide. As his partner, you know better than anyone that under that explosive exterior lies a man who deserves to be worshipped. And tonight, that’s exactly what you plan to do. Dressed in nothing but a gift-wrapped surprise, you give him a present no one else ever could—you.

content: smut, shameless smut, established relationship, lingerie sex, birthday sex, reader takes the reins, blowjob, sloppy, cowgirl , orgasm,

Bakugo never cared about birthdays. For once, he'd let you celebrate him.

No grumbles, no sarcastic muttering under his breath about “dumb-ass traditions” or “waste of time.” No disappearing off to train. No flinching when his friends shouted “Happy Birthday, Katsuki!”

He actually stayed. Enjoyed it.

The apartment had been buzzing earlier with close friends, laughter, drinks, and too many snacks. But now, it was just you and him. The glow of warm lights filled the room, soft music playing low from the speaker. The scent of buttercream and spiced candles lingered in the air.

“Sit,” you said, nudging him down onto the couch.

He dropped onto it with a tired, satisfied huff, one arm slung over the backrest as he watched you crouch beside the small stack of gifts left on the coffee table.

“Ya didn’t have to do all this, y’know,” he muttered. “Just havin’ you around is—”

“Shut up,” you smirked, passing him the first box. “You can get sappy after we’re done with presents.”

He rolled his eyes, but the blush on his ears gave him away.

One by one, he opened them. A couple of gag gifts from Kaminari, a surprisingly thoughtful book from Todoroki, custom gloves from Kirishima. A shirt from you he’d side-eyed in a store window a few weeks ago but pretended not to like. He’d mumbled, “Not bad,” when he saw it then—but the way he smiled when he saw it again tonight? That soft, flickering look in his eyes?

Yeah. He remembered.

But the last gift made him still.

He turned the box in his hand like he didn’t quite recognize it, even though you knew he did. You watched his fingers move slower—more careful. He lifted the lid and saw it:

A first edition, limited-run All Might training journal.

Something he’d mentioned in passing once during a midnight walk months ago. Something he said he always wanted but could never find. He stared at it in silence, thumb brushing over the embossed edges.

“…You remembered that?” he asked, voice suddenly quieter. His eyes lifted to yours.

You smiled gently. “Of course I did.”

Bakugo swallowed hard, cheeks warming up in a way that had your heart blooming in your chest. “You’re insane,” he muttered. “You know that?”

You kissed the corner of his mouth. “A little.”

He blinked hard, then cleared his throat.

“Alright, alright—cake. Let’s get this over with before I start feelin’ like a damn Hallmark card.”

You brought over the cake, candles already lit, your face glowing in the soft flicker as you sang the most off-key, dramatic “Happy Birthday” you could manage. He groaned, but he didn’t stop you.

He blew out the candles.

You sliced two pieces, handed him a fork… then stole it right back.

“Say ah.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You really gonna hand feed me right now?”

“Our wedding reenactment,” you smiled, lifting a bite to his mouth.

He opened it, still scowling—but barely—as you fed him a chunk of cake. He chewed, crimson eyes on you the whole time.

“Good?” you asked.

He gave a slow, appreciative nod. “Yeah. sweet.”

"that so..."

You leaned in, swiped a little frosting from the corner of his mouth with your thumb. His lips looked so soft, gilding your frosted coated thumb onto them, then kissed it off his lips, pressing your own into the softness of his. It started soft.

But when your lips brushed his again—slow, and achingly warm, and just a little longer—his hands naturally found your waist, pulling you closer until you were nearly in his lap. He kissed back, gentle but hungry, lips parting to taste more of you.

You murmured between kisses, breath hot against his mouth: “Birthday kiss.”

He blinked slowly, his lips still parted from the kiss, eyes dazed and focused only on you. His hands anchored warm on your waist, thumbs stroking slow, thoughtless circles into your skin through the thin fabric. His gaze trailed over your face—your lips, your flushed cheeks, your eyes so full of mischief and adoration.

“You’re everything,” he murmured, almost like it slipped out without permission.

You kissed the tip of his nose, giggling softly. “Thank you.”

And then?

His hold tightened. Just slightly. And he pulled you into his lap.

“You keep lookin’ at me like that,” he muttered, voice thick and low, “I’m gonna forget we were takin’ things slow tonight.”

You leaned in, straddling him without hesitation, your thighs hugging his hips as you settled against him. His body welcomed you instantly, his hands sliding up your sides, fingertips dragging the fabric of your top slightly—like he wanted less of it between you.

“I was never planning to go slow, birthday boy” you whispered, brushing your lips just barely against his jaw. “especially tonight.”

His breath caught—sharp, audible. You felt it in his chest, the way it stuttered under your palms. His reaction was subtle, but every part of him twitched with anticipation: his hands, his legs beneath you, the slight lift of his hips like he was already imagining how this night would end.

“Got one more present for you,” you murmured into his ear. “The real one.”

Bakugo’s brows lifted, suspicious. “Thought that damn journal was the real one.”

You grinned, climbing off his lap for just a moment—enough to walk toward the bedroom with that sway you knew drove him wild.

He watched, chin propped on his hand, eyes darkening the second your fingers dipped beneath the hem of your top as you disappeared down the hall.

“Oi,” he called. “What kinda present needs you to change for it?”

You didn’t answer.

But when you reappeared in the doorway—lingerie clinging to your curves like a second skin, chosen with him in mind—Bakugo sat up so fast he nearly knocked the fork off the coffee table.

Your name left his mouth like a groan.

“Holy shit…”

You were wrapped in delicate black lace, the kind of thing he never thought he’d see outside a magazine, and even then—never on you. Never just for him.

His mind blanked.

No words, no witty comeback. Just the shape of you silhouetted in the soft golden light. The way the sheer material clung to your curves, catching every dip and swell like it had been tailored with him in mind. The way your thighs moved when you walked, slow and sure, like you knew what that sight alone was doing to him.

His mouth had gone dry.

And still, he sat back—frozen on the couch, like his body had been rooted to the spot. Only his eyes moved, dragging over you with almost painful reverence.

Your presence wasn't just seen. It was felt. In the sudden hush of the room. In the way the air itself seemed to shift as you crossed it. There was a softness to it—like watching a flame flicker behind glass. Dangerous, but so goddamn beautiful.

Something in his chest ached.

It didn’t matter how many times he saw you like this—wanting him like this. That wide-eyed, breath-stolen reaction always snuck up on him.

His gaze caught on your collarbones, then drifted lower—hesitating on the swell of your breasts barely veiled by lace, down the soft line of your stomach, until it settled between your legs, where the thin strip of fabric left far too little to the imagination.

The sight knocked the wind out of him.

One of his hands, resting uselessly on his thigh, curled into a fist. The other—he didn’t even realize—had wiped itself discreetly on his jeans, sweat clinging to his palm.

Not from nerves. No. Never that.

Except maybe this time, it was.

Because you were walking toward him now, hips rolling, eyes locked onto his, and he could feel his body respond before his brain had even caught up. His mouth parted. Breath shallowed.

God, the way you moved. Like you were pouring yourself into every step. Like you weren’t just walking to him—you were offering yourself.

It made his pulse stutter.

And when you climbed back into his lap, warm skin settling over the growing heat in his jeans, he couldn’t think. All he could do was feel. Your nails dragging against the nape of his neck in ghost trails feather-light, his body withered under the touch. Your perfume mingling with his senses what scent was that? and why cant he stop sniffing you.

"You smell really good baby...really good" his nose ghosted your neck, hips pulling you closer. Your thighs oh so soft to him, bracket him so warmly.

He didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

He just looked.

Admiration wasn’t something Bakugo handed out easily—not to friends, not to strangers, and definitely not out loud.

But he was looking at you now like you were everything. Like you were a dream made real. Like he didn’t know whether to kiss you, worship you, or fall to his knees for you.

He couldn’t stop drinking you in.

How had he gotten this lucky?

You kissed him again. Slowly, reverently. The kind of kiss that curled toes and short-circuited nerves. You would use a hand to pull him by the shirt, and when you pulled back just enough to murmur, “Happy birthday, Katsuki,” his lashes fluttered low, heat gathering in his face as he let the words sink in.

His breath hitched when your hands found his chest.

Just fingertips at first, dragging over the fabric of his shirt like you were memorizing him all over again. You didn’t rush—just let your palms glide across solid muscle, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath as your thumbs brushed the edge of his ribs.

He was already warm under your touch. And you hadn’t even done anything yet.

Leaning in, you pressed a kiss just beneath his jaw.

Then another—lower, slower. Your lips parted against his throat, leaving open-mouthed kisses in a trail that dipped down the curve of his neck. His skin twitched under each one, the breath in his lungs turning shallow, rough.

“who knew you’d do something like this,” he murmured, but the strain in his voice made it sound more like a will to give in than a tease.

You didn’t answer. Just smiled against his skin, your teeth grazing lightly before you sucked. Gently—just enough to make him feel it. And then again, lower. His hands tensed at your waist.

You tilted your head to kiss along the other side of his neck, scattering another series of soft hickies—like you were branding him in lace and affection.

A groan vibrated in his chest.

Your fingers slipped to the hem of his shirt. He didn’t resist. Didn’t even move.

He just watched you. Quiet. Obedient in a way only you got to see.

You peeled his shirt up, inch by inch, revealing the planes of his stomach—warm, lightly flushed, his abs tightening beneath your gaze. You kissed his chest slowly as you exposed it, lips brushing across firm muscle, leaving kisses that lingered just a little too long.

You didn’t break eye contact.

Not once.

Even as you sank further down, mouth worshipping the path beneath his sternum. Even as your nails lightly scratched up his sides, drawing out a low hiss from between his clenched teeth.

His body was buzzing now—caught between restraint and surrender.

And it was beautiful to watch him come undone like this. Strong and scarred and still, somehow, soft for you.

His head tipped back slightly, jaw clenched, one hand gripping your hip while the other fisted into the couch cushion. His thighs flexed beneath your hands.

“Fuck,” he muttered, the word half breath, half plea.

You hummed softly, letting your lips hover just above his waistband.

“You’re warm,” you whispered, voice sultry and low, like you were letting him in on a secret. “All over.”

And he was.

Buzzing. Flushed. Waiting.

With his chest bare, his breathing ragged, and his eyes glassy with anticipation—he looked up at you like you were the only thing that mattered.

Your lips hovered just above the waistband of his sweats, breath brushing against the faint trail of hair disappearing beneath the fabric. The muscles in his abdomen tensed again.

And still—you didn’t touch him where he wanted you to. Not yet. Instead, you lifted your gaze, locking eyes with him as your mouth curved in the faintest, knowing smirk. There was power in the way he was watching you. Tension in the way his thighs shifted restlessly beneath yours. Every inch of him buzzed. For you.

“Can I take these off Kats?” you asked, voice honey-slow.

Bakugo grunted, half-dazed. “… yeah.”

I mean what the hell were you asking him. If anything he just wanted on him immediately but it was all for you to watch him be a completely different person He sounded so obedient watching every moment like a patient puppy. His beautiful crimson eyes shimmering under the soft glow of the room.

Your fingers dipped under the waistband and dragged it down slow. The fabric caught on the hardened outline of him, and he hissed through his teeth as you freed him from the restraint.

His cock sprang up, flushed and heavy, already leaking at the tip. His hips twitched upward involuntarily, like his body was pleading before his mouth could catch up.

You made a sound of appreciation in the back of your throat—soft, reverent—before leaning in to press another kiss, just above the base. Your tongue flicked out, tasting the warm skin there. "You want me this much suki"

His whole body shuddered.

“Y-you're really gonna take your time with this, huh?” he muttered, voice rough, but low with awe.

You didn’t answer.

You just looked up again, lips parted, pupils blown, hands pressing to his thighs to steady him—before licking a slow, flat stripe from the base to the tip.

Bakugo cursed under his breath, his hand flying to the back of your head on instinct—but it never pushed, never forced. Just tangled in your hair, holding on for dear life.

Your mouth closed around him, warm and wet and unforgiving.

And he melted.

His head tipped back, jaw slack, a ragged moan slipping past his lips. You sucked him down slow—sloppy and deep—letting your tongue trace every sensitive vein, letting your spit drip down over your hand as you worked the base.

He was a mess.

Every time you hollowed your cheeks and sank lower, his thighs tensed. His breath hitched. His hips jerked upward before he caught himself, groaning through clenched teeth.

"Fuck... baby… you—goddamn."

You pulled back just enough to swirl your tongue around the head, then sank down again, deeper this time.

And he twitched in your mouth, body locking up as you moaned around him.

The sound went straight to his spine—he was pulsing now, barely holding on.

When you pulled off with a wet pop, spit connecting your lips to him in a string, you wiped your mouth slowly with the back of your hand, lips swollen, eyes hooded.

“Wanna ride you,” you whispered, climbing back up into his lap. “Can I?”

Bakugo was panting. Eyes glassy. Completely undone.

He swallowed hard, leaning into your chest to whisper "Please.”

You hovered over him, your hair framing your face so bewitchingly. You lined him up with your entrance, already soaked and pulsing for him. And as you sank down, inch by inch, his eyes rolled back and his hands grabbed your hips like he needed something to anchor him to this earth.

You moaned low as he stretched you open.

“Shit—so full,” you breathed, resting your palms on his chest.

“Look at me,” he rasped, voice trembling. “Wanna see your face.”

You did. And when your eyes met his—when he saw the way you looked at him, like he was the only one you ever wanted—his whole expression softened.

His hands caressed up your waist, slow, reverent.

“You’re fuckin’ perfect,” he whispered, voice shaking.

You didn’t move right away.

Not really.

Instead, you hovered just above him, your entrance brushing the slick, sensitive head of his cock—barely letting him in, just enough to tease. Just enough to let him feel the heat of you. Your thighs flexed slightly, hips rolling in slow, agonizing circles that dragged your soaked folds over the tip again and again.

A soft, wet sound filled the space between you. Your juices clung to him, thick and sticky, smearing across his shaft with every grind.

“Fuck,” he groaned, head thunking back against the couch. “You’re—fuckin’ killin’ me.”

You smirked, gaze flicking up to watch him.

And god… the way he looked right now? His chest rising with every ragged breath, his lip bitten raw, his knuckles white where he clutched your hips. Every muscle in his thighs was trembling beneath you. Twitching with the restraint it took not to thrust up and bury himself in you.

You leaned forward, your chest brushing his while your hips stayed in motion—rocking slowly, teasing him with slick, hot friction.

“I thought this was your birthday,” you purred into his ear. “Shouldn’t I be giving you what you want?”

Bakugo grit his teeth, his jaw tight with tension.

“I do want this,” he growled. “You drivin’ me fuckin’ insane like this—teasin’ me—makin’ me feel like I’m gonna explode just from the tip—shit…”

You giggled, soft and wicked, and sat back just enough for him to watch.

One of your hands reached between you, guiding him so the head rested right at your entrance again. You gave a few slow bounces—just the tip sliding in and out, each time making him curse louder.

“S-shit! Baby—fuck—fuck, just let me in—” His voice cracked, his fingers digging into your skin like he was about to lose it.

You finally pressed your hips down a little more, letting him sink in halfway.

His mouth fell open, a deep, guttural curse ripping out of him. His head snapped forward to look at where you were taking him in, flushed and wide-eyed.

And you just smiled at the desperation in his gaze.

“are you feeling good baby,” you whispered, dragging your nails lightly down his chest.

“God—yes—fuck yes,” he hissed, eyes fluttering as you dropped down another inch. “You feel so fuckin’ good, baby. You always do. Always…”

You leaned in again, letting your breasts press to his chest as you kissed the corner of his mouth.

“Then you better hold on,” you whispered, breath hot, “because I’m not gonna stop until you’re a mess for me.”

And with that, you finally sank down fully. All the way. His entire body jerked like he’d been electrocuted.

He let out a strangled sound—somewhere between a moan and a gasp—his head rolling back, hands gripping your ass like he was holding onto sanity itself.

You didn’t move for a moment.

Just stayed there, so full of him, clenching around him until he twitched helplessly inside you. And then—slowly, sinfully—you started to ride.

Your hips began to move again—slow, like honey melting in warm sun, like a wave building over time until it crashes. You circled them, let your walls flutter around him just to feel the way he shuddered beneath you. His eyes opened halfway, heavy-lidded and glazed, following every sensual sway of your body like it was the only thing in the world that mattered.

And to him—it was.

“Katsuki…” you whispered, your palms gliding up his abdomen. “You’re so deep.”

A sharp breath hissed between his teeth. He looked like he was trying to hold something back, but his hips bucked once—shallow, needy. You kept your pace measured, deliberate, grinding down into him with that same velvet friction that made his head roll back again.

“Shit,” he groaned, the sound low and desperate. His hands were clutching at your waist now, not to guide, but to ground himself. “You’re squeezin’ me so good, mmm"

You leaned down slowly, dragging your lips across his collarbone. Then lower—pressing open-mouthed kisses to his chest, his nipple. As you moved, your body rolled into his, your rhythm never faltering, hips undulating in a steady, torturous rhythm.

Every time you sank down, he twitched inside you, groaning louder.

“I love the way you sound baby,” you whispered, licking the salt from his skin. “All desperate and sweet. My perfect birthday boy.”

He looked at you like he’d melt.

One of his hands slipped up your back, tangled into your hair, tugging lightly as you nuzzled his neck. You licked a stripe just beneath his ear, then suckled gently at his skin, your teeth dragging slightly—leaving soft, loving hickeys along his neck and collar.

And every one had him groaning, his cock jerking inside you.

“Gonna mark you up tonight,” you murmured. “So everyone knows who you belong to.”

“I already do,” he rasped, voice nearly broken, “fuckin’ been yours.”

You smiled into his skin and sat back again, palms braced against his chest as you began to bounce now—slow, deep, full bounces that had him clenching his jaw and moaning through his teeth. His abs flexed beneath your hands. His hands gripped your hips tighter.

Your name left his lips like a prayer.

Your hips found a rhythm—delicious, sticky, sinful—and the way he filled you, the way he responded to every little grind, made your legs start to tremble.

He felt it. His hands slid down to cup your ass again, helping support your movements as he watched you from beneath heavy lashes.

“Baby,” he breathed. “You’re—fuck—you’re gonna make me come—just like this?”

You leaned forward again, kissed him deep, then pulled back just enough to whisper:

“Yes. Inside. Don’t hold back. I want you to come just like this.”

He let out a wrecked moan, his hips finally thrusting up to meet yours, matching your rhythm.

Faster now.

Deeper.

You clung to his shoulders, your mouth falling open as the coil inside you tightened and tightened—

And then he gasped—eyes rolling to close, mouth open and his cock twitching violently inside you as he spilled, deep and thick and hot, fingers bruising your hips while he cursed your name like a confession.

You didn’t stop.

Not even then.

Still slow. Still steady. Still riding out every aftershock as he moaned beneath you, overstimulated and undone. His eyes fluttered open, glassy and soft as they met yours. His hair stuck to his forehead. His chest heaved. His hands slid up your spine, arms curling around you as he held you close.

Your chest heaved against his, his heart pounding against your ribcage like a war drum. He was still buried deep, twitching, oversensitive—but you didn’t move. You just cradled his face, tilted it up so he had no choice but to look at you.

“Listen to you,” you whispered, voice sultry and sweet as sin. “Mouth full of curses… all because I couldn’t help creamin’ all over this fat cock.”

Bakugo groaned through clenched teeth, face flushed and jaw tight like he was holding onto the last thread of sanity.

“You heard it, didn’t you?” you murmured, grinding just enough to make him jolt, to let another wet, obscene squelch fill the space between you. “God, the noise we made—bet our neighbors think I was drowning in it.”

He groaned louder, head falling back against the couch.

You leaned down, kissed the corner of his mouth, slow and lingering, then whispered, “Soaked you, Katsuki. You feel how messy I made you? Look at your lap—look at what you did to me.”

He peeked down—eyes glassy—and let out another hoarse, broken curse when he saw the slick still glistening between your thighs, watching how you both were still connected before you lift your hips to show him, with such a sly smile it did something to him, watching his cum dripping slowly out of you onto him.

You guided yourself back in, rocking your hips again, so delicately, and he twitched inside you, helpless. His whole body shivered with a groan, his head collapsing on your shoulder "fuck enough"

You grinned. “You liked it when I sat there and shook my ass on it, didn’t you? Teasin’ you right on the tip ‘til you were cussin’ like you were about to lose your damn mind, yeah?” you grind.

“You’re—fuckin’ evil,” he gasped, fingers twitching against your waist.

You kissed his jawline this time, biting lightly just below his ear. His hands gripped you tighter again, like he was about to flip the script—but he was still spent, still weak from how you dropped your ass on him, He just held you there instead, breathing ragged, letting you purr filth against his skin.

"A little"

[becertainlust]

Lingeriemaker! Suguru who is whispered about with the kind of reverence usually reserved for legends—think Galliano meets Alexander McQueen, but darker, smoother, and infinitely more elusive.

He didn’t go to fashion school. He didn’t intern under anyone. He emerged out of nowhere—an underground gem of a debut show held in an abandoned cathedral in Florence. Ten looks. Ten models. Candlelit. Every piece hand-stitched, laced with real silver thread and monograms only visible under moonlight. People thought it was a myth until Vogue Italia dropped an exclusive feature titled:

“The Lingerie Saint Has Arrived.”

Lingeriemaker! Suguru who is more than a designer — he is an artist of intimacy, a storyteller through silk, lace, and silhouette. With every piece he creates, Suguru weaves emotion into fabric, tailoring not just to bodies, but to souls. He believes that beauty speaks many languages — and his mission is to make women feel beautiful in all of them.

From Tokyo to Paris, Lagos to São Paulo, his creations have turned runways into temples of self-love. Each design is a love letter to femininity — powerful, soft, wild, sacred. His talent quickly caught the attention of the world, landing him on magazine covers, international talk shows, and fashion panels. But despite his meteoric rise, it’s his humility and warmth that continue to captivate everyone he meets.

Lingeriemaker! Suguru who is so deep in the art medium pulling ethereal designs that catches many off guard and cause him to rise above the rest and whose inbox is flooded with an offers to take the creative directors seat by various fashion brands. He has a right to become picky but in the end decides to establish his own name.

Lingeriemaker! Suguru who attends events after event, never growing tired of meeting new faces and hearing fresh ideas and conversing with new people. Quite the extrovert in the midst of his interests. God forbid he's actually excited 'You're really a conversative person Mr. Suguru' the interviewer giggled and he would have the prettiest smile that the viewers would gush much about across the media #suguru'ssmile trending for an entire month.

Lingeremaker! Suguru who when he sees you—you, gliding effortlessly through the chaos of the room, framed by golden light—who stops dead in his sentence brows knitting in frustration, hushing up the white haired model, that never seems to learn the word silence at crucial times Gojo screws his face up as Suguru claims he can't see you properly as he yapped on. 'who is that'

With a raised brow he pushes his hand away from his line of vision, 'Marketing agent, one of the best in the fashion world' he would whip his head back to Gojo in disbelief 'not a model?' Gojo would scoff throwing his hand around the male 'what you like what you see, I can set you up"

Lingeriemaker! Suguru who rejected Gojo's help, downplaying his interest in you on the spot. But he should have known better than leave his personal sketches and scribbles around his studio unguarded mentally punching himself for not storing latest works higher and further from his lanky ass.

Lingeriemaker! Suguru who later that night, long after the champagne glasses clinked and cameras dimmed, he’d find himself at his sketch table again, candles flickering, Gold thread unraveling beside him. Your silhouette haunts him. Not in a ghostly way—but in the kind of way muses do.

Pages fill. The collection changes. The theme shifts from “Divinity” to “She Who Walks Like Daybreak.”

When asked on a French morning show what inspired the shift, Suguru simply says: “I saw someone who reminded me that beauty doesn't beg to be seen—it just arrives, and the world rearranges around it.”

Lingeriemaker! Suguru who receives a message for Gojo late at night as he is sorting his pallet for the collection, 'i told you I got your back' which Suguru responds with a question mark before concluding that he was weird for the gazillion time shaking his head then turned his attention back to his computer screen, the soft light lit hitting his face.

Lingeriemaker! Suguru who the next morning would be woken up by his blaring door bell throughout the condo and when he switches on his camera and see's your face his eyes, done pops out of his head. 'what the fuck'

thinking of making this a fully fleshed fanfic series with smut on both ao3 and here.

[becertainlust]

Like a brother i never had, using our humor to mask our trauma. Drowning ourselves in sweet treats.

[becertainlust]

Squirting with Aizawa?

NEW TRICK | Shota Aizawa

synopsis: Let him take care of you.

content: established relationship, shameless smut, stomach pusher, softdom! Aizawa x , squirting.

You’re quite open-minded when it comes to sex. There are countless things that you and Shota have done—or plan to do. But it’s never about chasing extremes for the sake of it. With him, it’s about discovery—understanding how every reaction you give him is a language of its own. Your boundaries are never pushed without care, never crossed without reverence. He never just touches your body—he reads it.

And yet, no matter how many times he’s touched you, kissed you, made you come undone in the safety of his arms—you still melt. You still soften for him like wax held too close to a flame. Whether it’s in a moment drenched in desire or something as simple as the press of his palm against the small of your back while passing in the hallway, your body remembers him.

There is something you wanted to experience, an experience stirring at your conscience. What does it it feel like to squirt?

That thought had been with you for a while now—lingering quietly at the edges of your curiosity. Not from anything you’d seen or read, but from the way your body seemed to almost get there sometimes. A flicker of something intense, right on the edge of release, but you’d never truly let it go.

Until now.

Shota ran his fingers up your inner thighs, slow and grounding.

“I want you to focus on feeling, not finishing,” he murmured. “No pressure, alright? If it happens, it happens. If it doesn’t—we still get to spend the night making you feel good.”

Your stomach fluttered at the warmth in his voice. “Okay,” you whispered.

He started with kisses—low on your belly, down your hips, until his mouth settled over you with practiced ease. His tongue was soft, coaxing. No rush. He tasted you like he always did—like it was a privilege.

By the time he slipped two fingers inside you, you were already slick, hips gently rising to meet him.

“You’re always so responsive,” he muttered against your thigh. “I could do this all night.”

His fingers moved slowly at first, then began to curve, searching deeper, until—

“There,” you gasped, hand flying to his wrist. “Right there.”

Shota’s eyes flicked up, locked onto yours. “Got it.”

He adjusted himself and leaned in between your thighs, dragging his tongue flat against your pussy—slow, deliberate, and devastatingly good. The pressure of his fingers never wavered, curling just right with each stroke, coaxing that pleasure from deep inside you like a secret only he knew how to unlock.

Your thighs trembled as the sensation gathered, a warm, swelling tide that lapped at the edges of your control. Every sound he pulled from you was met with a soft hum of approval, like he was cataloging every moan, every shiver, storing it for later.

“Doing so good,” he murmured, lifting his head for just a breath. His lips were glossy with you, eyes dark and tender. “You feel that? You’re close.”

You nodded, breath catching. “It’s—different. Intense.”

“I know.” He kissed your inner thigh, then pressed his palm a little firmer against your stomach. “Don’t hold back. Let it come.”

He dipped his head again, tongue flicking and flattening in rhythm with his fingers. That spot inside you, the one he’d found and refused to let go of, throbbed with each pass. Your hips bucked helplessly, your body chasing every bit of contact.

The pressure was sharp now—almost overwhelming. You felt stretched taut, like a bowstring pulled to its limit. Your fingers gripped the sheets, the tension in your core coiling tighter and tighter.

“Shota—” you choked out, voice breaking.

His hand on your stomach moved, spreading to hold you steady. His fingers didn’t stop. Neither did his mouth. You couldn’t think. Couldn’t speak. Just a spiraling rush of heat, of something unfamiliar, something on the brink.

And then—

It broke.

With a startled gasp, your body surged, hips lifting clean off the bed. The release wasn’t neat, wasn’t tidy—it was wild, liquid, overwhelming. You felt it gush, felt the heat of it on your thighs, your stomach. Felt Shota’s hands grounding you as you sobbed out a breathless moan, overwhelmed by the intensity of it all.

You were still shaking—still gasping in little stuttered breaths as your body slowly remembered how to be whole again. Your thighs twitched, clenching around nothing, and your fingers were curled so tight in the sheets that your knuckles ached.

Shota looked at you like you were the most mesmerizing thing he’d ever seen.

“Fuck,” he breathed, eyes dragging down your stuttering body. “You’re perfect. Do you even know what you just did?”

A whimper caught in your throat, soft and needy. You squirmed into the sheets still reveling in the aftershocks. “I—I don’t know.”

He smirked, but it wasn’t cocky. It was reverent. Like he was in awe. His hands caressed your trembling thighs, slick and glistening. “You let go for me. Completely. You looked so beautiful.”

A shaky moan fell from your lips as he leaned back down, pressing kisses along your thigh, up to your hip, over your pelvis where your skin was still damp and flushed. He licked slowly at the mess between your legs—groaning softly into you, like he couldn’t bear to waste a drop.

Your back arched with a startled cry. “Shota—!”

He hummed. “Still sensitive?” Another kiss. Another lick to your pussy. Another trembling sound from your throat. “I know. But listen to you. You sound so good when you moan like that.”

You covered your face with your hand, torn between shame and arousal. But he gently pried your fingers away, kissing the palm.

“Don’t hide from me,” he said softly. “Let me clean you up" he pressed one last kiss to your hand, before locking fingers. Tremors returning to your system as he adorned your thighs in purple hues, swiping his tongue over them.

A groan slipped out before you could stop it, high and breathless. “Please…”

“Please what,?” he asked, and his voice was velvet now. Dangerous in the sweetest way.

“I—I don’t know,” you whimpered. “I want you shota”

He slid up your body, leaving a trail of kisses, brushing your hair away from your face as he hovered over you.

“That’s because I’m still touching you here,” he said, placing a hand right over your fluttering core, pressing lightly, Sinking his fingers into you “You’re still open for me. Still dripping for me.”

You moaned, loud this time, hands flying to his shoulders.

“There she is,” he whispered, grinning. “That sound. I’d chase it forever.”

His lips feathered you own before he finally kissed you, deep and slow, as if to soothe the fire he’d lit. But his praise didn’t stop—not when he touched your cheek, not when he murmured how good you were, how proud he was, how much he loved the way you responded to him.

He didn’t pull away. Just slowed, kissed your neck, then your shoulders, then up to your lips as your body calmed withered in his fingers ministrations.

[becertainlust]

I love your writing queen/king, keep it up, but can you pls give us more Tokyo override fics, specifically spoke, like you can do anything, the fandom is dying of hunger and you are the only one who can feed us 🥹🥰🥰

CITY OF STARS | Spoke

synopsis: 3am things.

content: fluff.

Spoke’s apartment wasn’t what you expected. It was cleaner, quieter… kind of minimal, but not in a cold way. A few posters were stuck to the walls with tape, mostly tech-themed or from old underground racing movies. There were half-built drone parts on the side table, a controller balanced on the edge of the armrest like it lived there permanently.

You sat on the couch, pulling your knees up slightly as the opening credits rolled. Spoke handed you the drink you’d asked for—ginger beer, cold, already sweating—and settled beside you. Not too close, but not distant either.

"You ever seen this one?" he asked, nodding toward the screen as the synth-heavy soundtrack started.

You shook your head. “No. You?”

He let out a half-laugh. “Couple times. Thought you’d like it.”

You didn’t answer right away, just took a sip. He was watching you. You could feel it. Not in a weird way, just… observant. Like he was trying to guess your reaction before you had one.

The movie started slow. Some old racer trying to win one last time before retirement. Gritty streets, neon lights, way too many shots of tires skidding in slow motion.

Spoke leaned back, arms folded across his chest. “I forgot how dramatic the intro is.”

You smiled. “So it’s not just me.”

“No, it’s definitely trying too hard. But it gets better. Trust me.”

You nodded, eyes back on the screen. There was something easy about sitting next to him like this. No pressure. You didn’t have to fill every silence. He didn’t either. Still, you caught yourself glancing his way more than once. Wondering if he was doing the same.

Halfway through the movie, your legs stretched out a little more, brushing against his. He didn’t move.

Didn’t even flinch.

Then after a minute, his knee shifted—just enough that it rested next to yours.

You pretended not to notice.

He pretended he didn’t do it on purpose.

The movie got louder as the chase scene started—engines roaring, tires screeching, bass vibrating through the floorboards. You reached for your drink again, only to realize it was already empty. Spoke noticed.

“Want another?” he asked, shifting slightly like he was ready to get up.

“Nah, I’m good.” You shook the ice in the cup lazily. “Didn’t expect that chase to go on that long though.”

He laughed under his breath. “Yeah. They could’ve cut that scene in half and no one would’ve noticed.”

You turned toward him a little, tucking your legs under you. “So if you’ve seen this before… why’d you pick it?”

He shrugged, not looking at you at first. “It’s kinda dumb, but… I like the vibe. Neon, old tech, people betting everything on one moment. Felt like the kind of chaos I used to think was cool growing up.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Used to?”

He finally looked at you, eyes catching yours just long enough to make your chest tighten slightly. “Now I think it’s just… noise.”

You nodded slowly. “Still nostalgic, though.”

A pause settled between you. Not awkward—just thoughtful. Outside, a bike zipped past the window, engine fading into the night. The glow of the screen painted both of your faces blue and gold as a quiet scene played—a character patching up their car, licking wounds, refusing to quit.

You leaned back again, this time just a little closer to him. Not touching, but closer. You weren’t sure who moved first—but at some point, your shoulders were brushing.

Neither of you said anything about it.

“You always this quiet during movies?” he asked, voice low like he didn’t want to break the moment.

“Only when I’m watching with someone I don’t want to annoy.”

He glanced at you with a raised eyebrow and shrugged with a smile. “I wouldn’t mind.”

You tilted your head slightly. “You sure? I talk a lot.”

He chuckled, eyes back on the screen. “I’ve noticed. I don’t mind that either.”

The credits started to roll. Neither of you moved.

You reached for the remote but paused when his hand got there first. Fingers brushed. A heartbeat skipped. Both of you stilled.

He glanced at you again, softer this time.

“You wanna watch something else?” he asked.

Or maybe he meant: Do you want to stay a little longer?

Your answer was easy.

“Yeah. I do.”

The movie marathon continued. You spoke gradually giving your your two cents and he entertained your theories and bets that you'd mostly lose. Your own your fifth 'I'm sure' and it would be best to do well further in the future as gambling wasn't an option.

The movie's atmosphere continued to build up, and a wave of confidence washed over you. "I'm sure of this one spoke"

A head flopped on top of your own "She's-"

"Spoke, spoke?" you whispered then came soft snoring. You tuned your head slightly and he snorted your body jerked at the sound. A laugh threatening to spill out.

you reached for your phone, ensuring not to shift too much. You unlocked it opening the camera. You faced the back camera towards you checking the quality of the photograph. His cheek squished to head oh so cutely. You smiled to yourself sending it to him in the future, but you had the present one to deal with.

It wasn't everyday you got to spend time together. His talent for the mechanics shone bright and like a moth to a flame he was quickly recruited like a medicine of high demand, guaranteed to heal. He spent most of his days couped up in labs.

At some point, the movie faded into the background completely. You hadn’t noticed when it ended—only that the screen had gone dark and the room had fallen into a quiet that felt deeper than before.

Spoke was still asleep, his head having slipped down from yours as you adjusted slightly, and now… now you were face to face.

He looked so at peace like this.

There was a softness to him you didn’t usually get to see. The kind that only came out in sleep, when no one was watching—except, well, you were. Carefully. Quietly.

His pretty lashes fanned out across his cheeks, casting the faintest shadows. His mouth, usually set in some pasted frown or caught mid-thought, was relaxed now. Just slightly parted. He breathed slow and even, like his whole body had finally given itself permission to rest.

It made you ache a little, in a way you couldn’t quite name.

You’d seen him absorbed in work before—hyper-focused, lost in some schematic or drone repair with tools balanced on his knees and oil smudged on his fingers. You’d seen him crack a joke, roll his eyes, dodge a compliment like it was incoming fire. But this? This was different.

This was Spoke, quiet and unguarded. The kind of stillness that didn’t come easy to someone whose brain always seemed to run like an engine, whirring and calculating.

Your eyes traced the slope of his nose, the faint scar near his temple, the way one hand had found its way between the two of you, palm half-curled like he was reaching for something even in sleep. You could almost imagine reaching out, linking your pinky with his.

Almost.

But instead, you just stayed where you were—still, watching, listening to the sound of his breath and letting your own slow to match.

It wasn’t every day you got to see him like this. It wasn’t every day you got to feel this close.

And right now, you didn’t want to move.

Didn’t want to blink, even, in case it broke whatever fragile spell had wrapped around this moment.

Then—just the faintest twitch.

His brow creased slightly. Lips pressed together like they were testing the air.

You didn’t shift, didn’t speak. Just stayed there, watching as his eyes fluttered slightly… and slowly, slowly began to open.

Neither of you said anything at first. The screen behind you had dimmed, casting everything in a soft bluish hue. His eyes looked gentler in the low light, lashes brushing against his cheek as he blinked slow, like he hadn’t quite decided whether to fully wake up or fall right back asleep.

“You okay?” you asked, voice hushed.

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. Just… forgot where I was for a second.”

You smiled. “Couch. Movie. Ginger beer. Me.”

That got a quiet laugh out of him—barely there, but real.

“I remember now.”

He shifted, adjusting the pillow behind him, and when he settled again, the two of you were facing each other. Close. Not even a full cushion of space between you now. He blinked at you, and for once, he wasn’t calculating something, or scanning the room, or thinking ten steps ahead.

Just… present.

He looked so at peace like that.

The sharp lines of focus he usually wore had softened in his sleep. No furrow between his brows. No tension in his jaw. Just the quiet ease of someone letting their guard down completely. His hair was slightly tousled from resting against you, one piece sticking out at an odd angle that made your chest flutter.

You reach to him smoothing the soft strands, a focused look on your face as you tucked the strays. He smiled lifting his hands to your own grasping your hand, the warmth surrounding your own.

“You always do that?” he asked, his voice low, barely above the hum of the credits.

You glanced at him, confused. “Do what?”

He looked down at your hand still in his, then back at you with a small, tired smile. “Fuss over me like that.”

You huffed a little laugh, brushing your thumb over the back of his hand. “You had a piece of hair doing its own thing. I had to intervene.”

“Mmm,” he murmured, eyes dropping to your lips for a second before returning to your face. “You intervene a lot.”

You leaned in slightly, your forehead nearly brushing his. “Only when I like someone enough to care if they look ridiculous.”

His fingers tightened gently around yours. “That so?”

You nodded. “That’s so.”

A quiet fell between you again. Comfortable. The kind of quiet that only happens with someone who already knows how your laugh sounds, who already knows how you take your ginger beer.

Then he reached behind him and flicked the lamp off, letting the soft glow of the TV wrap around the room. Blues, golds, purples dancing across the walls.

You tilted your head. “Why’d you do that?”

Spoke shrugged, his free hand coming up to tuck another invisible strand behind your ear—more of an excuse to touch you than anything else. “Just wanted to see you in this light.”

You looked at him, really looked. He was tired. Not exhausted, just… soft around the edges. Less guarded. His shoulders had dropped. His voice had gone quiet, like he didn’t need to be anywhere else but here.

“You good?” you asked gently.

He nodded. “Now I am.”

You smiled, and his eyes dropped again, lingering a second longer this time.

“You gonna kiss me, or just keep staring like I’m a science experiment?” you teased, your tone light but warm.

He let out a soft laugh, nose brushing yours. “Bit of both, honestly.”

And then he kissed you.

Not all at once, not like it was burning a hole through him—but slowly, sweetly, like he already knew you’d still be there after. His hand slid to your cheek, thumb brushing your skin like he didn’t want to miss a single second of it.

When he pulled back, he didn’t say anything right away. Just rested his forehead against yours, breathing you in.

You whispered, “You taste like ginger beer.”

He chuckled. “You taste like home.”

You swatted him gently. “That was so cheesy.”

“Yeah,” he said, smiling. “But you like it.”

[becertainlust]

For most husbands, the best way to calm their wives when they see them crying after a bad day would be to hug them and stroke their backs or hair.

Husbands!Shoto Todoroki and Katsuki Bakugou do something similar, only instead of stroking back or hair, they caress their shared wife's clitoris while sobs. They don't know if it's from the horrible day before or from overstimulation, whatever it is... Surely making her squirt will make those tears disappear, right? They just have to make her feel **good**.

MELT | Bakugo Katsuki & Shoto Todoroki

Pairing: Shoto x reader x Bakugo

Content: Smut, Hurt to Comfort, fluff

it started with your keys slipping from your fingers.

They clattered to the floor of the entryway, louder than they should’ve been. You froze, standing in the doorway like you were still outside—still carrying the day’s weight like it was strapped to your back.

The house was warm. It smelled faintly of something sweet—maybe Shoto and bakugo had been baking again. But none of it registered properly.

Your shoulders dropped. And then, without warning, so did the tears.

You didn’t mean to cry.

It wasn’t like something awful happened. Just… a hundred little things piling up until one sharp word from your boss cracked something deep inside. You held it together through the rest of the day. On the ride home. Even when you opened the door and heard the soft hum of life inside your home.

But the moment you saw Shoto in the kitchen, barefoot in joggers, stirring something on the stove like it was any other evening—you fell apart.

You dropped your bag by the door, and the sound must’ve caught his attention.

He turned, took one look at your face, and the wooden spoon clattered into the pot.

“Baby?” he asked, already stepping over.

“I’m fine,” you said too quickly, your voice watery and unconvincing. You pressed the heel of your hand to your eyes.

Shoto didn’t say anything else—just closed the space between you and pulled you into his chest. He smelled like vanilla and spices, something warm, something simmering. His arms wrapped around you like they knew exactly how heavy today had been.

And for the first time all day, you breathed.

Just breathed.

The tears came slower now, spilling silently down your cheeks as your forehead pressed against his collarbone.

Footsteps came up behind you. Heavier. Familiar.

“What’s goin’ on?” Bakugou asked from behind you. You didn’t need to turn around to hear the frown in his voice.

“She’s had a rough day,” Shoto said softly.

“I said I’m okay,” you tried again, but it was half-hearted, and everyone knew it.

Bakugou sighed. Not annoyed. Just… the kind of sigh that came when he hated seeing you hurting and couldn’t punch what was responsible. You felt his hand settle on your lower back, warm and steady.

“Let’s get you to bed,” he murmured. “You don’t need to explain shit. We got you.”

The walk was quiet, and no one turned on the overhead lights when you got there. Shoto helped you out of your shoes. Bakugou tugged back the covers.

You crawled into bed like someone in a fog. Heavy. Worn out. Still sniffling but no longer trying to hide it. Shoto slipped in behind you first, chest to your back, pulling you into him like a slow exhale. One arm under your head. The other around your waist. You melted, just a little.

Bakugou came in next, lying in front of you on his side. His hand moved to your thigh, pulling you to rest your leg over his hip.The three of you tucked into each other like puzzle pieces.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” Shoto whispered into your hair. 

“And if that means cryin’ in our arms while we keep you warm,” Bakugou added, swiping his thumb under your eye.

You swallowed thickly, wiping under your nose with the back of your hand. “I just… I feel like I can’t win lately. Like I keep trying so hard and everything still goes wrong.”

Shoto’s lips brushed your temple. “You're doing your best.”

“And your best ain’t nothin’ to be ashamed of,” Bakugou said, voice quieter than usual. “You hear me?”

You nodded.

And then, maybe it was instinct, or maybe it was your body looking for a different kind of release—but your thighs shifted. Pressed together. You didn’t mean to, not really. It wasn’t supposed to turn into anything. But they both noticed.

Shoto’s hand skimmed over your hip, careful, unassuming.

Bakugou’s eyes flicked to yours.

“Can we…?” he asked. Not demanding. Not teasing. Just offering.

You nodded again. “I think I need it.”

“Okay,” Shoto murmured, soft and sure. “We’ll be gentle.”

His fingers moved first, skimming down your stomach, past the waistband of your sleep shorts. They found your clit like they’d done a thousand times before—but this time you felt so soft, He circled it slowly and steady, warming you up like he was coaxing you out of your own head.

Bakugou leaned in, his forehead against yours. “Look at me,” he whispered. 

You let out a shaky breath, and when your hips shifted again, Shoto hummed behind you, pleased. “That’s it,” he said quietly.

Your eyes fluttered. “Feels good,” you whispered, burying your face in Bakugou's chest, your body curling into Shota's warm fingers to your clit.

Bakugou’s hand moved with purpose now, warm and solid against your thigh, his thumb drawing slowly, grounding circles into your skin. Shoto's fingers kept their steady rhythm, soft and attentive, like he was trying to replace every heavy thought in your head with something gentle—something that made you feel good again.

“You’re already so warm,” he whispered, lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “Let us take care of you.”

You moaned softly, caught between them. Shoto’s touch was smooth and practiced, but reverent—he wasn’t rushing you. Just easing you back into your own body, your own needs. Every slow stroke of his fingers over your pussy sent soft pulses of pleasure down your spine. And Bakugou—he was right there, his forehead still pressed to yours, watching every flicker of expression cross your face like he could memorize them all.

"You're okay," he murmured again. "We're right here."

Your hips rolled toward Shoto’s hand without thinking, the tension inside you slowly unspooling with each pass of his fingers. Bakugou kissed your cheek, then the corner of your mouth, his hand shifting to your waist, anchoring you as he moved closer.

"Feeling good?," he whispered, a cold breath tickling your ear peppering kisses to your ear and neck "You deserve this."

You reached for Bakugou blindly, fingers curling in the front of his shirt, tugging him closer. He caught your mouth with his gentleness at first—softer than he usually kissed, like he didn’t want to overwhelm you. But when your lips parted for him, he deepened it, slowly, carefully, like he was pouring everything he couldn’t say into it.

Behind you, Shoto’s lips found the curve of your neck. He kissed you there, tender and unhurried, his hand dipping lower. His fingers slid through, your leaking now, slipping into you with ease. You gasped softly, the stretch familiar, comforting.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Just like that.”

Bakugou’s forehead pressed against yours again. His breath was warm on your face. “You're beautiful baby.”

You felt like you were floating—caught in the space between them, surrounded by warmth and love and the kind of touch that didn’t ask anything of you except to feel. Their care was a balm, their touches a promise: you are safe here. You are loved.

Shoto curled his fingers inside you, and your body arched instinctively. Bakugou swallowed your soft moans with a kiss, his hand sliding down to your hip, grounding you again.

“Doing so good,” he said, voice thick with affection. “You always do.”

Your breathing hitched, pleasure blooming low and deep in your belly. Shoto’s rhythm never faltered, his other arm tightening around your waist. Bakugou kissed your jaw, cheek, and lips again. You were trembling now—close.

“I’ve got you,” Shoto whispered. “We’ve got you.”

And with a soft cry, you let go—melting into the heat and the safety of their bodies, the weight of the day finally breaking apart into something tender and good. They held you through it, arms wrapped around you like armor, touches never leaving your skin.

You lay there afterward, tucked between them, the quiet hum of their breathing anchoring you.

Bakugou brushed your hair from your face. “Feelin’ a little better?”

You nodded, voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah. Thanks to you guys.”

Shoto kissed your shoulder. “mmm.”

“You don’t have to be strong all the time, y’know,” Bakugou added softly. “Not with us.”

You curled in closer, surrounded by warmth and softness and steady, grounding love.

“I know,” you whispered. “I’m really lucky.”

Bakugo tips your chin and pecks it. “We’re the lucky ones idiot

[becertainlust]

PRETTY BOY~ | Shota Todoroki

synopsis: Isn't he a pretty boy.

content: smut, shameless smut, dick riding, shoto is a mess, ride that dick, sub! shoto, top!reader, handjob, blowjob, creampie, dacryphillia

You stared up at him from your knees, eyes glinting with wicked satisfaction as you watched him try not to fall apart. Shoto Todoroki—Japan’s golden boy—looked so fucking wrecked, and you hadn’t even really gotten started yet.

You had him right where you wanted him.

Shoto sat back against the headboard, legs parted just the way you instructed, his cock hard, flushed, and twitching from the buildup alone. His chest was rising and falling faster than usual, breath uneven—and his hands? Gripping the sheets like they were the only things grounding him.

You sank to your knees, dragging your nails slowly up his thighs as you met his gaze. His lips parted, already trembling, his mismatched eyes wide and locked on you.

“You look so pretty when you’re holding back,” you said, stroking him once, slow and tight, your thumb circling the tip. His hips jolted with a choked gasp, precum already pooling at the head.

You leaned in, pressed a soft kiss to the very tip—just a kiss.

He visibly shuddered, thighs tensing under your grip.

“Sensitive, hm?” you teased, eyes twinkling. “Already leaking for me and I’ve barely touched you.”

You kissed it again. Then again. Then let your tongue flick over the slit, gently, collecting the precum and moaning like it was the sweetest thing you’d tasted. Shoto’s head fell back with a quiet groan, one of his hands reaching toward your hair—

“Ah ah,” you said, grabbing his wrist and pushing it back to the bed. “No touching unless I tell you to.”

His fingers curled into the sheets again, knuckles white.

You took your time. Let your lips trail down his shaft, kissing, licking, worshipping. Your hand gripped him tight at the base, and you watched—watched his body fight to stay still, his thighs flexing under your palms, his breathing turning ragged.

Finally, you opened your mouth and sucked—just the tip. Wet, hot, slow.

His reaction was instant: a broken moan, hips jerking despite himself, and his eyes fluttering shut.

“No no,” you cooed around him, pulling off just enough to speak. “Keep your eyes on me, baby. I wanna see them roll when I ruin you.”

He obeyed, and fuck, the look in his eyes—the desperation, the raw need—it sent a pulse straight between your legs.

You took him deeper, inch by inch, your spit coating him in slick heat as you worked your tongue around him. Every time you went down, your hand stroked what your mouth couldn’t reach, wrist twisting, pressure just right.

It didn’t take long.

His head hit the headboard with a soft thud, lips parted in a breathless cry. His eyes rolled back, as you swallowed him deep and fast and you then ease up.

“Look at you,” you purred, licking a slow stripe up his shaft, You let spit gather on your tongue, then opened wide and let it fall in slow, messy strands over his cock, letting your fist pump him slowly as the slick dripped between your knuckles.

“Fucking soaked, and I haven’t even really sucked you yet.”

He groaned, head tilting back, but you grabbed his thigh—hard.

“No,” you said firmly, voice sharp. “Eyes on me. I want you to watch.”

He obeyed instantly, those mismatched eyes glazed over, cheeks flushed, mouth slightly parted like he didn’t know what to do with himself.

You licked the head once, slow and teasing, then looked up at him with mock sweetness.

“Don’t you dare cum until I say so.”

His eyes rolled back—just like you told him to—as you swallowed him once more.

“F-fuck—your mouth, I can’t—” he babbled, completely wrecked.

You moaned around him—loud and lewd—sending vibrations straight through his cock. Strings of saliva stretched from your lips to his skin every time you pulled off, only to slam right back down.

Sloppy didn’t begin to describe it. Your chin was wet, spit dripping onto your chest, the obscene sounds of sucking echoing in the room. You wanted it messy. You wanted him ruined.

And he was so close.

His thighs were trembling now, his abs flexing under the strain of holding back. You looked up at him, lips swollen, eyes dark, voice low and commanding.

“You wanna cum?”

He nodded desperately, but you didn’t stop sucking, didn’t slow down, letting your hand stroke him faster, tighter. You wanted it on your tongue. Wanted him to fall apart for you.

“Say it.”

“Please—please let me,” he gasped. “I wanna cum—fuck—I need it so bad—”

You sank down deep, your throat tightening around him, and that was it.

He cried out, high and raw, as he came hard—eyes rolling back, hips twitching despite your grip holding him down. You swallowed every last drop, still sucking through it, not letting up until he was shaking, overwhelmed, overstimulated.

Only then did you pull off, slow and deliberate, lips glistening with spit and cum. You looked up at him, breathless and smug.

“Goddamn,” you murmured, licking your lips. “You make such a pretty mess for me.”

His chest heaved, face flushed and utterly wrecked, hair clinging to his forehead from sweat. His eyes met yours—glazed, awestruck, and still hungry.

You leaned in, kissed the inside of his thigh, and whispered against his skin:

“Hope you didn’t think we were done.”

He was still panting, flushed, and slack-jawed, barely recovering from the way you’d just sucked the soul out of him, when you straddled his lap like a predator stalking weakened prey.

Shoto blinked up at you, dazed. You could see the tremble in his thighs, the light sheen of sweat clinging to his temple. His cock twitched beneath you—already hard again, despite the fact that he’d just emptied himself down your throat.

You smiled.

“Still hard pretty boy?” you teased, rolling your hips so your wet folds dragged against him. He whimpered—whimpered—and his head tilted back, exposing his throat. You leaned in sucking at the soft spot a beautiful bloom of purple on his neck.

“You can’t help it, can you?” you cooed, guiding his cock to your entrance. “I get you this desperate. This needy. You’re lucky I’m not done with you yet.”

“N-no wait—” he gasped, voice shaky. “I just came, I—fuck, I can’t—”

But it was too late.

You sank down onto him in one slow, deliberate motion, walls clenching tight around his overstimulated cock. His back arched, a strangled moan escaping him as you seated yourself fully on his lap.

He was deep—hot, thick, and still pulsing inside you, already too sensitive for the stretch and squeeze of your body wrapped around him again.

His hands instinctively flew to your waist, gripping hard, fingers digging in like he could stop your hips from moving.

“S–stop—please,” he breathed, voice cracking. “fuck-”

You leaned forward and grabbed his face, pressing his head into your chest. Your lips brushed the shell of his ear as you rocked your hips in slow, delicious circles.

He was trembling beneath you.

Skin flushed, chest heaving, sweat glistening across his collarbones—Shoto looked like a man on the verge of short-circuiting. His cock had just painted your insides for the second time, twitching and softening between your soaked thighs, his eyes glassy with overstim tears as he slumped against the headboard.

You brushed a hand through his hair gently, mock-sweet, cooing like he was your favorite toy.

“You still with me, baby?”

He nodded weakly, cheeks pink, lips parted as he sucked in a shaky breath. He was limp under you—exhausted, ruined—but his hips still twitched the moment your hand slid down your belly to rub at your clit while you sat on top of him.

“Mmph—don’t,” he breathed, then whimpered. “Y-you’re gonna break me.”

You leaned in close, lips brushing his ear.

“Maybe I will,” you whispered. “Maybe I want to see what you look like when your mind completely gives out.”

He gasped—and then it happened.

His cock twitched again beneath you, still sensitive, still soaked in cum and spit and slick—but you felt it start to get hard. Slow. Unwilling. Desperate.

That pathetic, aching sound left his throat as his head lolled to the side, cheeks flushed a deep crimson, his body betraying him with every pulse of blood into his overstimulated length.

Your hips rolled once—just enough to make him jolt—and his hands flew to your thighs, trembling like he didn’t know if he wanted to push you off or hold you there forever.

“I can’t—I can’t—” he whined, biting his bottom lip, voice cracking. “But—fuck—please let me—let me f-fuck you—please—”

You smirked and tilted your head. “You want me to ride you again, baby? You’re still leaking inside me.”

His jaw trembled. “yeah—no—fuck, I—I don’t know, I can’t think—”

His head dropped to your shoulder, hands sliding up your back like he was trying to ground himself. But his hips moved—just a twitch—seeking friction even though his cock was throbbing with hypersensitivity.

“Tell me what you want,” you said, grinding your hips slow, your slick dripping down onto his thighs. “You want me to stop? Or you want to cum again while crying in my arms?”

“I can’t,” he whimpered, voice strained, “but I—I need to—I wanna feel you again—inside you, please—but it hurts, it hurts—”

You kissed his neck gently, and he sobbed into your shoulder, rocking his hips up into your heat like he couldn’t help himself.

“Oh, baby,” you purred. “You’re so fucked out you don’t even know what you’re begging for. But your cock’s still trying to fuck me, isn’t it?”

He nodded, a soft, broken noise escaping him.

“Good,” you whispered, sinking down just a little more. His body twitched violently. “Then you’ll take it.”

And just like that—you started moving again. Slow, cruel, deliberate.

Shoto cried out, forehead pressed to your collarbone, his fingers digging into your back like he was drowning in the sensation.

“Please,” he whispered, voice shaking. “Please—just—use me.”

Your breath hitched, the words searing down your spine like a shot of heat straight to your core.

You pulled back just enough to look at him—really look at him. Shoto Todoroki, Pro Hero and national sweetheart, was trembling beneath you, tears beading at the corners of his eyes, cock red and twitching inside you from the unbearable overstimulation. His lips were kiss-swollen, parted with every ragged breath, and his chest rose and fell like he’d just run through a war zone.

And still—still—he wanted more.

“You’re such a good boy,” you murmured, brushing damp strands of hair from his flushed face. “Letting me fuck you like this… cry all over me… beg with your pretty voice.”

He whimpered, a raw, needy sound that made your walls clench around him.

You started moving again—slow, purposeful rolls of your hips that dragged a shaky sob from his throat. His hands clutched your hips like lifelines, torn between trying to hold on and letting go completely.

His body was shaking, thighs jerking with every thrust as your tight heat milked every last bit of sensitivity from him. He was past the point of reason now—his head lolling against your shoulder, breath hitching with every rock of your hips.

“You feel that?” you whispered, pressing your forehead to his. “How you’re still hard inside me? Even after I made you cum down my throat like a desperate little slut?”

He nodded, eyes barely open, mouth moving uselessly as if trying to respond but too wrecked to speak.

You reached between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, rubbing slow, tight circles that made your inner walls flutter around him. He jerked again, another broken moan spilling out of him, the veins in his neck straining as he tried—and failed—to keep quiet.

“Bet you’re gonna cum again before I do,” you teased, licking a stripe along his jaw. “You gonna let me feel you fill me up one more time, pretty boy? You gonna make a mess in me like you were made for it?”

“I-I—can’t,” he gasped, even as his hips bucked helplessly beneath you. “I—don’t know how—I’m still—”

His words broke off into a sob as you clenched around him, your pace picking up, chasing your own high now with reckless abandon. The lewd slap of skin on skin, the squelch of slick between your thighs, the desperate, wrecked noises Shoto made—it was a symphony of filth, and you were its conductor.

“Give it to me,” you hissed, rolling your hips faster, your own breath catching now. “Cum in me again—don’t hold back—don’t you fucking dare—”

His body stiffened beneath you, and you felt it—the stutter of his thrusts, the twitch of his cock deep inside you, the helpless, keening moan that left his lips like a prayer.

And then he broke.

Shoto came with a sob, spilling hot inside you for the second—third?—time that night, his entire body arching off the bed as he shook apart beneath you. You clung to him, fucked him through it, chased your own climax with ruthless determination until it hit you like a wave—legs trembling, nails digging into his shoulders, vision blurring with stars.

You collapsed against him, both of you slick with sweat, panting and trembling, bodies still joined and twitching from the aftershocks.

He was shaking. You were glowing.

And in the quiet, broken only by your mingled breathing, he whispered—

“Fuck… I love you.”

You blinked, chest still heaving, and pulled back just enough to look at him.

Shoto looked utterly wrecked. Tear-tracked, flushed, sweat-drenched—and completely sincere.

You stared at him for a beat.

Then you smiled.

“I love you too sho,” you whispered, brushing your lips against his with a softness that felt almost cruel in contrast to what you’d just done to him. “And you’ll keep loving me… won't you sho"

His breath caught. And even in his exhausted haze, his cock twitched once inside you. "yes"

You smirked, letting your thumb brush over his swollen bottom lip.

[becertainlust]

NEVER EVER LOSE ME! | Sanji Vinsmoke

synopsis: take care of him like you always do.

content: smut.

The dim glow of Sanji’s lamp cast long shadows across the galley, flickering against stacks of neatly organized receipts and scribbled-down figures. He sighed, fingers threading through golden strands as he rubbed at his temple, the weight of the crew’s weekly grocery budget heavy on his shoulders. Between Luffy’s endless appetite, Nami’s high expectations, and Franky’s outrageous cola needs, every berry had to stretch beyond reason.

You lingered in the doorway, watching him, the soft scratch of his pen filling the quiet space. His cigarette burned low at the edge of his lips, the cherry barely flickering as he barely remembered to inhale. He was in the zone, lost in numbers and calculations.

“Sanji,” you called gently, stepping further inside. He hummed in acknowledgment, but his eyes never left the budget notes. His eyebrows knitted in adsorbed concentration.

“You’ve been at this for hours,” you murmured, placing your hands on his shoulders. “You should take a break.”

He exhaled through his nose, flipping to another page in his ledger. “Just a little longer, sweetheart. I have to make sure we have enough for the next supply stop.”

You kneaded at the tight muscles beneath your palms, feeling the tension wound deep in his frame. “You always make sure. It’s okay to rest.”

His fingers stilled for a fraction of a second before he resumed his work. “I know, but if I don’t do it right now, I’ll be thinking about it all night.”

You smiled softly, leaning down to press a slow, lingering kiss to his cheek then to his neck. “Then let me give you something else to think about.”

He let out a shaky breath, his free hand coming up to rest to cover his neck. “You’re trouble, you know that?”

You grinned against his skin. “And you love it.” you peck his hand holding his tired gaze.

Finally, he turned his head, looking at you through his pinned up hair. “Yeah. I do.”

His voice was softer now, the weight of his work temporarily forgotten. You could still see the hesitance in his posture, the way he wanted to let go but was still tethered to his responsibilities.

You guide his eyes tilting his gaze to you. “You trust me, right?” you whispered, your fingers tracing the buttons of his shirt.

Sanji swallowed his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Always.”

You moved lower, taking your time, watching the way his breath hitched a bit. “Then let me take care of you for once.”

The air in the galley felt charged, the faint sound of the ocean waves outside the only thing that could compete with the quiet tension between you and Sanji. His breath caught in his throat as your hands slid lower, inching past his waistline, gently brushing the fabric of his pants. His fingers tightened on the pen, knuckles going white as if he were holding on to something just as tangible as his work.

“Darling,” he murmured, his voice a mix of desire and hesitation, “this... this really isn’t—”

“It is,” you interrupted softly, placing a finger to his lips. “You’ve done enough for everyone. Let me give you this.”

Sanji’s eyes softened, the tension from earlier stubbly melting away in your presence. He let out a quiet, resigned sigh as his hands dropped to his sides, finally giving in. “You’re impossible,” he said, but there was no heat in his words, only affection.

You smiled, pulling him gently away from the desk, the sound of the chair scraping against the floor almost louder than the pulse in your ears. The cool night air, tinged with the faint smell of barley dried ink and paper, wrapped around you both as you settled in front of him.

You climbed into his lap, placing soft kisses along his jaw, tracing a path up to his lips, savoring the way he melted into your touch. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you up, pulling you close, until there was no space left between you. His lips were warm, urgent but sweet, like he was trying to convey everything he couldn’t say out loud.

With slow, deliberate movements, you unbuttoned his shirt, the fabric sliding off his shoulders with ease. His breath hitched again as you scoot closer, your hands tracing the line of his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips. Every little detail of him was carved into your memory—the way his body tensed, the way his gaze softened when he looked at you.

“Relax,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, but it was enough to make him exhale in a long, slow breath.

You slipped from lap to in between them and his eyes widened a bit. You took your time, savoring the moment, your fingers gliding over his skin as you worked to free him from the confines of his pants. His body twitched slightly, but he didn’t stop you, didn’t pull away. The only sound was the rhythmic beating of his heart, a steady reminder of how much he trusted you in this vulnerable moment.

His hands reached for you, fingers brushing over your arms as if he were grounding himself. His voice was low, almost pleading. “You’re making it so hard to focus.”

“Then stop trying to,” you murmured, your lips grazing his clothed thighs. “Let me help you sanji.”

Sanji let out a hushed groan, his hands slipping into your hair as when leaned in, dragging your tongue flat against the underside of the weeping head of his dick. Your hands moved over him, tracing the contours of his thighs, feeling the muscle tense beneath your fingertips. His breath hitched when your fingers grazed higher, his body subtly jerking under your touch. 

Was he always this sensitive?

His eyes never left you, a mixture of desire and lust in his gaze, but there were no words—only the soft rise and fall of his chest, and the quiet hum of his breath in his chest.

The quiet of the galley seemed to fade away as you focused on him, giving him a moment of peace, away from the numbers and responsibilities that always seemed to weigh him down.

You leaned back with a smile watching as his cock twitched up, your hands skimmed up his sides, lightly dragging your nails against his heated skin. His gaze followed your every move, his lips parted slightly, but his body was no longer tense. You could feel the slow relaxation in the way he leaned into your touch, the tension slowly easing from his shoulders.

You continued to move, steady and slow, your lips brushing against his inner thigh, the warmth of his skin almost intoxicating. Sanji’s breath grew quicker, his fingers twitching as if he wanted to reach for you, but he held himself back, letting you guide him.

With each movement, you leaned closer, closer still, feeling the heat of his body as you settled fully between his legs. You met his gaze once more, holding it for a beat longer before your lips brushed against the bright pink head of his dick once more. He seemed more sensitive, more under the underside as he practically leaked from the tip. His hands gripped the edge of the desk, as if trying to ground himself, his breathing uneven.

“You’re too good to me,” he murmured against your lips, his forehead resting against yours.

You smiled, rising up letting go of him brushing your fingers along the nape of his neck as you seated yourself in a striped lap. “Then let me be good to you a little longer.” You reached between you both and grasped him in your soft palm, pressing your thumb to the slippery head of his cock peppering kisses to his face before he gave in, pitifully resting his head on your shoulder in rugged pants.

Sanji sighed, the fight leaving his body as he finally let himself lean into your touch. 

The space between you both was filled only by the sound of his breathing, the way his hands gripped the chair for balance, and the soft press of your fingers against him. You watched him closely, the way his body responded to each touch, the way his gaze softened as if giving you everything he had in that moment.

Sanji’s breath slowed, a soft, almost contented hum escaping his lips as his fingers traced the curve of your back, pulling you closer still. “Fuck, feel so good baby” His body, which had once been coiled with tension, now melted into the rhythm of heat. The sound of the ocean outside and the gentle hum of the ship were the only reminders of the world that existed beyond the galley, but for now, it felt as though there was nothing else but the two of you.

You pressed your palm to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingertips, grounding you in the moment. He rose from your shoulder to your neck with kisses, “Keep going please”  He crashed his lips on you, slow and deep, as if he were trying to memorize the feeling of you—of this shared intimacy. He pulled away slightly, his forehead resting against yours, his hands caressing your skin in gentle, loving strokes.

"You always know how to make me forget," he whispered, his voice a mixture of gratitude and vulnerability. "I can’t tell you how much I needed this... how much I needed you."

You smiled softly, running your fingers through his hair, the golden strands slipping through your touch like silk. "I’ll always be here when you need to forget," you murmured. "When you need someone to just take care of you."

Sanji’s eyes softened, a flicker of something deeper passing across his gaze. "I don’t deserve it," he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. "I spend so much time making sure everyone else is alright... I forget about myself, i neglect you"

You cupped his face gently, tilting his head so that he had no choice but to look into your eyes. "Sanji, you deserve everything good. You give so much of yourself, you’ll be busy, just talk to me about it….” you plant a kiss to his lips “that’s all I ask” He leaned into your touch, his breath shaky your deep drag against his dick making speech a difficult feat. 

"You’ve carried so much for everyone, and now, it’s your turn to let go. Let me help you carry that weight, even if just for tonight."

You kissed him again, this time with a gentleness that mirrored the calm between you. Slowly, you pulled away, guiding his fingers to rest against your tongue as you leaned into him. 

You slipped from his lap once more, your gaze overwhelmed him, like a magnifying glass picking apart his every reaction. You place a kiss to his palm before you thread your fingers with his own free hand bringing his dick on your tongue wrapping around the . He mumbles curses into the air, and his flurry of praises sends flutters in your stomach, “You're so good”

You grew warm from his velvety voice, leaving you you hooked. He makes you a bit greedy right now. You rise a bit over his oozing tip, allowing your spit to dribble over him before forming a makeshift hole with your hand, tightening it snug against him while having the audacity to call out to him as you show him no mercy twisting and licking at his tip of his strained dick, a sharp shiver wracking his body.

 “Sanji”

You sound so sweet too

“Sanji, I wanna see you cry”

But just filth pours out. His eyes flutters open, his gaze soft, his head light as you hollow your mouth around him, twisting at the base. Releasing him with a pop.

“You make me feel so– fuck-” he whispers, gently squeezing at your arm. You watched as his eyes rolled back, his hips twitching slightly. “Sanji you look so pretty” you tightened rolled your palm over the head of his cock a few moans slipping by and he fought you as you slapped his hand away.

“Mmm, slow down-” his body withered, and your mouth is back on him, taking him deeper keeping the exact firm tempo at the base holding his fucked out gaze, his crystal blue eyes filling with water at the lash line.

Sanji’s breathing turned ragged, his chest heaving with each unsteady inhale as you pushed him further, deeper into the abyss of sensation. His fingers, trembling against the armrests of the chair, flexed and curled, struggling to grasp at control that was slipping like sand through his hands. He was always so composed, so controlled—until now. Until you.

A strangled groan tore from his throat as his head fell back, exposing the vulnerable column of his neck, golden strands of hair clinging to his damp forehead. His lips, parted in a breathless gasp, quivered as he fought for air. The sight sent a wicked thrill down your spine, knowing that you were unraveling him, stripping him down to raw, unguarded need.

The taste of him was intoxicating—salt and heat, a heady mix of desperation and pleasure. His thighs tensed beneath your palms, the muscles flexing as he fought against the wave threatening to overtake him. His breath hitched sharply, and then—

"F-fuck—" he choked out, voice rasping with something between agony and bliss. "You're… you’re gonna kill me."

A low hum vibrated against him, and he jerked, his fingers snapping shut into fists so tight his knuckles turned stark white. His whole body shuddered, his legs spreading wider as if surrendering, as if pleading for more.

Your lips left him momentarily, tracing slow, deliberate kisses along his inner thigh, teeth grazing over sensitive skin. The sharp inhale he gave in response sent a pulse of satisfaction through you. He was teetering on the edge, his body taut like a bowstring, straining, waiting—

"Sanji," you whispered against his flushed skin, your fingers ghosting up the trembling expanse of his thigh. "fall apart for me."

His breath came in ragged bursts, his hands moving at last—one diving into your hair, threading through with a desperate grip, the other latching onto the chair, his entire frame taut with restraint. His gaze met yours—dark, hooded, burning with something primal, something that made your stomach tighten with anticipation.

When you took him back into your mouth, sinking down with slow, merciless precision, the reaction was instantaneous. His back arched, a harsh, broken moan spilling from his lips. His grip tightened, his fingers twisting into your hair, hips twitching like he wanted to thrust forward, to chase more, but he held himself back, even now, even when he was falling to pieces in your hands.

"Shit—baby—" his voice was wrecked, barely more than a gasp. "I—"

You didn't stop. You didn't even slow. The soft suction of your lips, the languid stroke of your tongue, the steady rhythm of your hands—each sensation layered over the next, pulling him higher, dragging him deeper into the overwhelming tide. His thighs trembled violently now, his breath coming in short, desperate pants, his muscles rigid beneath you.

His head snapped forward, dazed blue eyes locking onto yours, pupils blown wide with helpless need. "I—" he tried again, voice shattering mid-word.

You quickened, tightening your grip, pushing him that last, torturous inch toward oblivion. His breath stuttered, a strangled noise catching in his throat, and then he was unraveling—completely, utterly, violently. A choked cry ripped from him, his body jerking as pleasure overtook him in waves so intense his hands lost all their strength, falling from your hair as he slumped back, boneless and trembling.

You pulled away slowly, wiping the corner of your mouth as you sat back on your heels, taking in the sight of him—utterly wrecked, chest heaving, strands of  golden hair damp and sticking to his forehead, his usually refined composure shattered into something raw and beautifully human.

His eyes fluttered open, still heavy-lidded, still unfocused. He blinked at you, lips parted as if trying to speak, but no words came. Instead, he reached for you, pulling you up and into his lap, wrapping himself around you like he needed to anchor himself to reality.

"You…" he swallowed hard, his voice still hoarse, still trembling. "You’re unreal."

You smiled, leaning in to press a soft, lingering kiss to his lips, letting him taste himself on your tongue. His fingers traced slow, reverent circles against your back, as if memorizing every inch of you, as if grounding himself in your presence.

"You always take care of everyone else," you murmured, brushing a damp lock of hair from his forehead. "Let me take care of you."

Sanji exhaled shakily, his forehead pressing against yours, his grip around you tightening like he never wanted to let go. "You already do," he whispered, voice thick with emotion. "More than you know."

[becertainlust]

PATIENCE | Roronoa Zoro

synopsis: zoro's is pretty patient, isn't he?

content: smut

It was a contradiction only Zoro could embody so effortlessly—being patient and impatient all at once.

He hovered over you like a storm cloud, muscles drawn tight with restraint, as though every fiber of his body screamed to lose control. His jaw was clenched, his breath coming in warm, ragged bursts against your ear, and yet… he moved slow. So deliberate.

His grip on your thighs was possessive—firm, grounding—thumbs digging into your soft flesh to keep you spread wide for him as he pressed his chest to yours, caging you beneath him. The heat between your bodies was stifling, sweat beginning to bead along his neck and your sternum, slick and hot where skin met skin.

Then he pushed in—deep.

You gasped. The stretch of him was devastating. Your pussy opened around him with sinful ease, clenching down with desperate greed as inch after inch filled you. He was thick, pulsing, and impossibly hard, and it felt like your body could barely take him—yet refused to let him go. Your walls fluttered around his cock, suckling him deeper, wetness gushing so freely it slicked down to your ass, pooling beneath you in a hot mess of arousal.

And Zoro groaned.

A low, gravelly sound that vibrated from his chest to yours as he buried himself to the hilt. He stilled, forehead dropping to yours, eyes clenched shut, and you could feel him trembled against you . His entire body stuttered—shoulders tense, thighs flexing, his cock twitching deep inside your slick, pulsing pussy.

“Fuck…” he hissed, voice strained, ruined. “You’re so fuckin’ tight—so wet…”

You moaned, breath hitching as you tried to move, to roll your hips, to take him even deeper, but his grip on you tightened. “Zoro,” you gasped, nails biting into the muscle of his arms, “I can’t… I need more.”

His green eyes snapped open, pupil's blown dark with lust and unreadable. Without a word, he leaned back just enough for his hand to slide between your bodies, fingers trailing over your swollen, slick folds until they found your clit—engorged and aching. He rubbed slow, lazy circles at first, watching your face twist with pleasure as his thick cock throbbed deep inside you.

“Look at you,” he muttered, voice ragged, half-gone. “Creaming all over me… fuckin’ soaking my cock.”

You were. The mess was obscene.

Your pussy gushed around him with every tiny shift of his hips. Slick, creamy arousal coated his shaft and his thighs, spilling down to the sheets beneath you. Every inch of him came out shiny with it, only to be swallowed whole again the moment he thrust back in. You could hear it—smack, squelch, drip—the lewd music of your bodies meeting, of your cunt milking him like it never wanted to let go.

“Zoro—!” you gasped, body jolting as he pressed down harder on your clit, rougher now, rubbing tight, fast circles with his calloused thumb while his cock slowly dragged out… then slammed back in.

A breathy moan escapes your swollen lips, your back arching off the bed, thighs twitching in his grasp. Your pussy clamped down around him with brutal force, fluttering and squeezing, flooding him with even more slick. The sensation made him groan—deep and guttural—like the feel of your cunt spasming around him nearly undid him.

“You’re drivin’ me crazy…” he groaned, grinding into you, his hips grinding in slow, punishing circles that made you see stars. “You feel that? You’re fuckin’ dripping—you’re makin’ a mess of me.”

You were soaking him. His cock slid in with barely any resistance now, gliding effortlessly through your creamy slick, the wet sounds loud and unrelenting. Your arousal smeared across your inner thighs and his lower abdomen, sticky and hot, coating his fingers as he continued playing with your clit—rubbing, flicking, pressing—all while never stopping the slow, maddening thrusts of his hips causing your eyes to roll back.

And Zoro? Zoro was wrecked.

His forehead pressed to yours again, breath shaking against your lips as he tried to keep his pace steady. But the way you pulsed around him, the obscene slickness soaking his cock, the way your body bucked beneath his—he was barely hanging on.

“You feel that?” he growled against your mouth, voice dark and wrecked. “How wet you are for me?”

You whimpered, nodding, mouth falling open in a broken moan.

“Good,” he breathed. “Then take it.”

And then—he snapped. His hips slammed forward, hard and unforgiving. The rhythm turned savage, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room alongside your cries. His thumb never left your clit, rubbing fast, desperate circles as he fucked you into the mattress, each thrust drawing more slick, more moans, more of everything you didn’t know you were starving for.

You could barely think, barely breathe—your body consumed by him, your mind spiraling as the pleasure surged higher, hotter, wilder. Your thighs mindlessly hooked around him with a small stutter. And zoro fucked you like he had something to prove, like he needed to carve himself into your body so deeply you’d never forget the feel of him. His voice was low, broken, murmuring curses and half-spoken praise against your lips as he chased both of your ends.

And somewhere, tangled in the sheets, in the heat, in the mess of it all—your orgasm crested, overwhelming, blinding.

You shattered around him, body convulsing, thighs clamping around his waist, the loudest moan spilling from your lips as your pussy gushed around him in thick waves of cream. Zoro groaned—loud and feral—and buried himself to the base, his own release slamming into him like a freight train.

Your body trembled beneath him, flushed and limp, every nerve still singing in the aftermath of your release. Your chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven breaths as Zoro hovered above you, his own form tight with the last tremors of orgasm.

He was still inside you—buried to the hilt, thick and pulsing—his breath ghosting over your mouth as he groaned through the final waves, hips twitching with each aftershock. His release was hot, thick, and so much. You could feel it flooding you, coating your insides in molten spurts until there was no space left to hold him.

When he finally stilled, he didn’t move right away. Just laid there, forehead resting against yours, arms trembling with the effort of not collapsing onto you completely.

“Shit…” he whispered, voice hoarse. “You feel that?”

You did.

The warmth of him spilling out of you, slow and heavy, slicking the inside of your thighs. His cock twitched one final time before he slowly, reluctantly, pulled out. The stretch of him leaving you was almost as intense as the stretch of him entering—your swollen pussy fluttering weakly around the absence, still clenching like it didn’t want to let him go.

The moment he slipped free, his cum followed in a slow, obscene rush—spilling out of your gaping pussy in thick, creamy streams. It clung to your folds, your inner thighs, sticky and warm and utterly messy. Your body twitched at the sensation, too sensitive, too overwhelmed, and yet it made your breath hitch in your throat.

Zoro watched it happen, eyes dark and half-lidded, expression wrecked and possessive.

“Fuck…” he muttered again, almost reverently. “Look at this mess.”

He dragged his hand down your thigh, slow and firm, before bringing it between your legs. Two fingers dipped into the mess—slick with both your arousal and his release—then he swiped them upward, catching the thick, white drip that threatened to spill further. His fingers were rough, hot, confident. You gasped softly when he pushed them back in—slow and deliberate—pressing his cum back into your sensitive, swollen pussy like he couldn’t stand to waste a drop.

“You’re not losing a fuckin’ thing,” he murmured, eyes fixed on the way you twitched around his fingers. “Gotta keep it all in.”

You whimpered, a weak protest caught in your throat, but your body betrayed you—hips giving the tiniest, involuntary roll against his hand. He chuckled low under his breath, the sound raspy and smug.

“You like that, huh?” he teased, fingertips pushing a little deeper, curling slightly just to feel the way your walls pulsed weakly around them. “Still so greedy… even after I’ve filled you up.”

You hid your face against his chest with a soft groan, and he smiled, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead—gentle, grounding, the smallest hint of tenderness after such ferocity.

His fingers lingered a moment longer, pushing, curling, letting you feel the weight of his release inside you again before he finally pulled them free—slow and careful. He looked at the mess on them, slick and glistening, then brought them to your lips.

“Taste it,” he said softly, already brushing them against your mouth. “Taste what we made.”

You parted your lips without thinking, tongue flicking out to meet his fingers. The taste was heady, salty and sweet, and the moment your mouth closed around them, Zoro’s breath caught in his throat.

“Shit,” he muttered, voice low and wrecked again. “You’re gonna kill me.”

[becertainlust]

OPEN YOUR EYES | Roronoa Zoro

synopsis: In the heart of an unforgettable night aboard the floating bar, a lingering gaze from a stranger stirs a fire within Zoro that he struggles to contain. When you, unknowingly brush off the intense stare, Zoro’s protective instincts flare to life. is this jealousy?

content: smut

You should’ve known the way that man was looking at you would come back to bite—or fuck—you later.

It wasn’t your fault. You were just walking past the bar counter when some random guy gave you the kind of look that lingered, like he was trying to memorize the shape of your hips under your dress. You didn’t even notice it at first. But Zoro did. Of course he did.

You clocked the subtle way his jaw flexed, the twitch of a vein on his temple. Still, he didn’t say a word. Just reached for his drink, took a slow sip, and let his arm casually slide around your waist as if to say she’s taken, back off—without ever saying it out loud.

It was hours later, back in your shared room on the Sunny, that you started feeling the tension coiling in the air like a live wire.

You’d barely closed the door when he was on you. His hands firm on your hips, turning you around and pushing you gently against the wooden wall.

“Zoro—” you started, breath catching when his lips dipped to your neck. You leaned into him giggling over the feather-like tickles.

“Didn’t like how he looked at you.” His voice was low, like gravel and thunder, but there was no malice in it. Just raw need. “Didn’t like how you didn’t even notice.”

Your laugh was breathless. “What was I supposed to do? Punch him for existing?”

His teeth grazed your nape. “Could’ve at least looked at me after.”

Then his lips were on yours—hungry, needy, possessive—and it shut down any comeback you might’ve had.

His hands slid under your thighs, lifting you up like you weighed nothing. You wrapped your legs around his waist instinctively, your back still pressed to the wall as he ground his hips into you. The hardness of his dick pressing against your dampening shorts made you moan into his mouth.

His kiss deepened, and you could feel the restraint snapping thread by thread. Zoro wasn’t usually this unhinged. Sure, he was intense, but this? This was something else. And god, it had your whole body singing.

He pulled back just enough to look at you—eyes dark, brows knit like he was trying to hold himself together with sheer willpower.

“You think this’s funny?” he asked, voice low as his hands slid beneath your top, calloused thumbs brushing over your ribs.

Your breath hitched. “A little.”

He growled. Actually growled. And then he rolled his hips into yours again, harder this time, enough to make your head fall back against the wall with a soft thud.

“Keep teasing me,” he muttered against your throat, “see where that gets you.”

You smirked, threading your fingers through his hair and tugging just enough to make him hiss. “Maybe I want to see.”

His grip on your thighs tightened, and in one fluid move, he carried you across the room and dropped you onto the bed—rough, but careful. Always careful. Zoro hovered over you, hands braced beside your head, eyes scanning your face like he was reading the map of a battlefield.

"You really didn’t see him looking at you like that?"

You blinked up at him, softening a little. “Zoro… I only ever look at you.”

His breath caught, and just like that, the fire shifted—less rage, more want.

Before you could even process the shift, his arms wrapped around your waist and lifted you again—strong, steady, effortless. Your legs instinctively wrapped around him, hands gripping his shoulders as he carried you those few steps to the bed like you weighed nothing.

He laid you down gently, but there was a tension in his touch, like he was holding back from pinning you to the mattress right then and there. His hands didn’t leave your body—one slid up your thigh, the other cupped your jaw, angling your face toward his as he kissed you again, slower now, but just as intense.

His belt clinked open with that low, metallic snap that always made your stomach tighten. Zoro tossed it aside without ceremony, then leaned forward, his chest pressed to your back, his mouth at your ear.

“But not like this,” he murmured. “Wanna see you.”

You moaned into his mouth, hips lifting to meet his as he settled between your legs, still fully clothed from the waist down. The rough fabric of his pants rubbed against your bare skin, maddening and delicious.

He gently pulled back just enough to look at you—really look at you—his thumb brushing your cheek, his gaze softening in a way that made your chest ache.

“You’re mine,” he said, like a fact, not a question. “Only mine.”

Your fingers slid into his hair again, tugging just enough to make him groan.

“Then take me like I am.”

His lips curved into a grin—feral and sweet all at once.

“Oh, I plan to.”

Zoro's hands slid down your body with reverence and heat, stopping at your hips where his fingers curled to pull your shirt over your head. You lifted your arms without a word, letting him strip you bare under the golden, late-night lamplight of your shared room. His eyes never left you—not when he removed your bra, not when he tossed it aside, not even when you shivered under the weight of his gaze.

Then he sat back on his heels, admiring you for a breathless moment.

"Turn over," he said again—low, commanding, but laced with something deeper. Need. Worship.

You obeyed, your chest flush with the mattress, ass lifted, legs parting just enough to invite him in. The cool air brushed against your slick heat, but it was his hands you craved—rough, calloused palms smoothing over the curve of your ass, down your thighs, like he was grounding himself in your body.

“Look at you,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Dripping, and I’ve barely touched you.”

You gasped when he spread you open gently, thumbs dragging over your folds. The next thing you felt was his mouth—hot, greedy, and so precise it nearly undid you.

His tongue flattened against your clit, then circled it in slow, teasing swipes that made your hips jerk forward. But he held you still, hands tightening around your thighs as he dove back in, lips sealing around you like he couldn’t get enough.

You buried your face into the pillow, whimpering. “Z-Zoro—”

A low groan rumbled from behind you, the vibration echoing through your core. Then you felt one of his fingers slide into you, thick and slow, curling just right as his tongue never stopped working you.

The combination made your knees tremble, your body trembling under the weight of pleasure.

He added a second finger, scissoring them inside you while his mouth kept you pinned in that perfect, maddening place between control and unraveling.

He didn’t dive in—not yet. Instead, he teased. Licked a path down your folds, then stopped. Kissed the inside of your thigh. Then back again. Just when you thought he’d give you what you needed, he’d shift—just enough to leave you aching.

“Zoro—” you breathed, pushing back instinctively, chasing his mouth.

But he held you still, one hand gripping your hip, the other splaying across your lower back. “Mm-mm. You don’t get to rush this.”

He finally brought his mouth back to your pussy, but only to hover. Hot breath ghosting over your soaked skin. “You were teasing me earlier, remember? All those smartass comments. Now I get to tease you.”

Then his tongue finally slid between your folds, slow and steady, a moan escaping him like you were the best thing he’d ever tasted. But he didn’t give you enough to tip over—just enough to make your thighs tremble and your chest tighten with every swirl.

He alternated between shallow flicks and deep, lazy strokes that had your whole body coiling tight with need. You whimpered, arms shaking as you held yourself up, hips twitching toward his mouth every time he paused.

“Please,” you murmured, breathless, dazed. “Zoro, I—I need—”

His mouth left you entirely, and you almost cried out in frustration.

“You’ll get what you need,” he said, voice low and rough, fingers grazing the inside of your thigh again. “But not until I feel you begging.”

Then two fingers slid inside you—slow and deep. You gasped, walls clenching around him, but it wasn’t enough. Not with the way his mouth stayed just shy of your clit, not with the way his fingers worked you open without ever quite giving you the push over the edge.

You moaned into the pillow, your whole body trembling now, heat and pressure building like a wave that just wouldn’t break. “Zoro, please—mmm”

He hummed, mouth returning to you, but still holding back, just enough to make you lose your mind.

“That’s it,” he murmured against your skin, tongue sliding flat and slow over your clit now, finally starting to build a rhythm. “Just a little longer.”

Your thighs were shaking. Your arms were barely holding you up. You were soaked, overstimulated, your mind foggy with nothing but him—his fingers, his mouth, his voice.

And he loved it. The way your body writhed. The way your moans cracked into whimpers. The way your hips twitched under his hands, so desperate for release but still waiting for him to allow it.

“You feel that?” he whispered, voice a rough caress. “That edge you’re on? That’s mine.”

You let out a broken sob of a moan, nails digging into the sheets. And still—he didn’t let you fall.

Zoro didn’t start with that wild rhythm again—not this time.

Instead, he pressed back into you with a deliberate slowness, the thick head of his cock stretching you open inch by inch. You gasped, trembling as the heat of him filled you once more, the drag of every ridge and vein sending sparks down your spine.

“Feel that?” he murmured against your neck, voice barely more than a growl. “That’s me—deep as I can go.”

He didn’t pull back right away. Stayed there, buried to the base, his hips flush against your ass, grinding in slow, teasing circles. His cock throbbed inside you, pulsing with each heartbeat, sending little aftershocks through your already trembling walls.

And then—then—he started moving.

Each stroke was slow, dragging all the way out until just the tip of him lingered inside, only to slide back in with devastating precision. You moaned helplessly, the stretch painfully good, your whole body arching to meet him.

“Z-Zoro—” your voice cracked as you tried to speak, but your words melted into a whimper when he bottomed out again, grinding his hips in deep, slow circles that made your toes curl.

He leaned over your back, mouth brushing your ear. “You wanted to tease, right?” he breathed. “Now you feel every inch.”

His thrusts stayed unhurried—leisurely, almost cruel in how thorough they were. He made you feel every second, every slip and slide of his cock inside you. The slow rhythm forced your body to stay on edge, like every nerve was exposed, sensitive, needy.

And Zoro? He was watching you.

Eyes half-lidded, teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he watched you squirm, watched your hips jerk back into him with every measured thrust. His hands roamed your back, your waist, down to your ass where he gripped you firmly, keeping you spread and open for him.

“You’re clenching so hard,” he groaned, voice strained. “Like you’re trying to keep me in.”

You whimpered, fists curling into the sheets as he rolled his hips in another slow, deliberate grind. “I need you, Zoro—please—go faster—”

But he only chuckled darkly, breath hot against your shoulder. “You said you wanted it… so I’m gonna give it to you. All of it. Slowly. Until you forget how to say anything but my name.”

And he meant it.

He fucked you like he had all night to worship you. Every stroke slow, deep, claiming—his pelvis brushing your clit just enough to tease, just enough to keep that pressure building in your gut, tight and hot and frustratingly close. You writhed beneath him, sweat slicking your skin, the need clawing up your spine like fire.

You were babbling now—his name, pleas, curses—anything to make him move faster, take you harder.

But Zoro only growled again, hips moving with infuriating control. “No. I told you,” he whispered, voice gravel and sin, “you don’t get to rush. I’m gonna fuck you slow until your legs don’t work.”

He thrust again—long, slow, deep—and your eyes rolled back, voice muffled by the pillow.

“Good girl,” he murmured, lips brushing your back. “your doing so good.”

And you did. Every devastating stroke, every inch dragged along your throbbing walls, every maddening grind of his hips that kept you right on the edge without letting you fall.

Your climax was close again—so close it made your thighs tremble and your core tighten like a vice. But Zoro was playing with you. Watching the rise and fall of your body, the way you fell apart for him, only him.

And as your moans dissolved into broken gasps, he finally whispered, “Now.”

His pace shifted.

No longer slow.

No longer merciful.

Just deep, hard thrusts that slammed into that sweet spot over and over, stealing the breath from your lungs as your climax tore through you like lightning.

You eyes rolled to a close, your body—shaking, twitching, clenching around him as pleasure ripped you open from the inside.

Zoro didn’t stop. He chased his own high through the fluttering grip of your orgasm, fucking you through every tremble until with a rough, strangled groan, he came deep inside you—hips pressed hard against yours, cock pulsing as he filled you.

And this time, he collapsed over you, sweat-soaked and panting, his body heavy and warm on top of yours.

“Fuck…” he breathed against your shoulder, lips brushing your damp skin.

You turned your head, barely coherent, eyes hazy. “That… was evil.”

Zoro chuckled, voice soft now. "One more"

You tried to scoff—but another aftershock of pleasure fluttered through you, making you twitch.

“Sadistic bastard.”

“Only for you.”

[becertainlust]

BECERTAINLUST - Ao3 SMUT MASTERLIST

𖥔CHARACTERS𖥔

My Hero Academia

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

Shoto Todoroki 𖥔 TEMPERATURE | PRETTY BOY~ | LOOK, ALL CLEAN

Shota Aizawa 𖥔 NEW TRICK

One Piece

Sanji Vinsmoke 𖥔 NEVER EVER LOSE ME

Roronoa Zoro 𖥔 PATIENCE | OPEN YOUR EYES

Trafalgar Law 𖥔 [Loading....]

Jujutsu Kaisen

Gojo Satoru- [Loading....]

Nanami Kento- [Loading....]

[tootiecakes234]

WOW😭

I’m feeling things🤭🙂‍↕️

Squirting with Aizawa?

NEW TRICK | Shota Aizawa

synopsis: Let him take care of you.

content: established relationship, shameless smut, stomach pusher, softdom! Aizawa x , squirting.

You’re quite open-minded when it comes to sex. There are countless things that you and Shota have done—or plan to do. But it’s never about chasing extremes for the sake of it. With him, it’s about discovery—understanding how every reaction you give him is a language of its own. Your boundaries are never pushed without care, never crossed without reverence. He never just touches your body—he reads it.

And yet, no matter how many times he’s touched you, kissed you, made you come undone in the safety of his arms—you still melt. You still soften for him like wax held too close to a flame. Whether it’s in a moment drenched in desire or something as simple as the press of his palm against the small of your back while passing in the hallway, your body remembers him.

There is something you wanted to experience, an experience stirring at your conscience. What does it it feel like to squirt?

That thought had been with you for a while now—lingering quietly at the edges of your curiosity. Not from anything you’d seen or read, but from the way your body seemed to almost get there sometimes. A flicker of something intense, right on the edge of release, but you’d never truly let it go.

Until now.

Shota ran his fingers up your inner thighs, slow and grounding.

“I want you to focus on feeling, not finishing,” he murmured. “No pressure, alright? If it happens, it happens. If it doesn’t—we still get to spend the night making you feel good.”

Your stomach fluttered at the warmth in his voice. “Okay,” you whispered.

He started with kisses—low on your belly, down your hips, until his mouth settled over you with practiced ease. His tongue was soft, coaxing. No rush. He tasted you like he always did—like it was a privilege.

By the time he slipped two fingers inside you, you were already slick, hips gently rising to meet him.

“You’re always so responsive,” he muttered against your thigh. “I could do this all night.”

His fingers moved slowly at first, then began to curve, searching deeper, until—

“There,” you gasped, hand flying to his wrist. “Right there.”

Shota’s eyes flicked up, locked onto yours. “Got it.”

He adjusted himself and leaned in between your thighs, dragging his tongue flat against your pussy—slow, deliberate, and devastatingly good. The pressure of his fingers never wavered, curling just right with each stroke, coaxing that pleasure from deep inside you like a secret only he knew how to unlock.

Your thighs trembled as the sensation gathered, a warm, swelling tide that lapped at the edges of your control. Every sound he pulled from you was met with a soft hum of approval, like he was cataloging every moan, every shiver, storing it for later.

“Doing so good,” he murmured, lifting his head for just a breath. His lips were glossy with you, eyes dark and tender. “You feel that? You’re close.”

You nodded, breath catching. “It’s—different. Intense.”

“I know.” He kissed your inner thigh, then pressed his palm a little firmer against your stomach. “Don’t hold back. Let it come.”

He dipped his head again, tongue flicking and flattening in rhythm with his fingers. That spot inside you, the one he’d found and refused to let go of, throbbed with each pass. Your hips bucked helplessly, your body chasing every bit of contact.

The pressure was sharp now—almost overwhelming. You felt stretched taut, like a bowstring pulled to its limit. Your fingers gripped the sheets, the tension in your core coiling tighter and tighter.

“Shota—” you choked out, voice breaking.

His hand on your stomach moved, spreading to hold you steady. His fingers didn’t stop. Neither did his mouth. You couldn’t think. Couldn’t speak. Just a spiraling rush of heat, of something unfamiliar, something on the brink.

And then—

It broke.

With a startled gasp, your body surged, hips lifting clean off the bed. The release wasn’t neat, wasn’t tidy—it was wild, liquid, overwhelming. You felt it gush, felt the heat of it on your thighs, your stomach. Felt Shota’s hands grounding you as you sobbed out a breathless moan, overwhelmed by the intensity of it all.

You were still shaking—still gasping in little stuttered breaths as your body slowly remembered how to be whole again. Your thighs twitched, clenching around nothing, and your fingers were curled so tight in the sheets that your knuckles ached.

Shota looked at you like you were the most mesmerizing thing he’d ever seen.

“Fuck,” he breathed, eyes dragging down your stuttering body. “You’re perfect. Do you even know what you just did?”

A whimper caught in your throat, soft and needy. You squirmed into the sheets still reveling in the aftershocks. “I—I don’t know.”

He smirked, but it wasn’t cocky. It was reverent. Like he was in awe. His hands caressed your trembling thighs, slick and glistening. “You let go for me. Completely. You looked so beautiful.”

A shaky moan fell from your lips as he leaned back down, pressing kisses along your thigh, up to your hip, over your pelvis where your skin was still damp and flushed. He licked slowly at the mess between your legs—groaning softly into you, like he couldn’t bear to waste a drop.

Your back arched with a startled cry. “Shota—!”

He hummed. “Still sensitive?” Another kiss. Another lick to your pussy. Another trembling sound from your throat. “I know. But listen to you. You sound so good when you moan like that.”

You covered your face with your hand, torn between shame and arousal. But he gently pried your fingers away, kissing the palm.

“Don’t hide from me,” he said softly. “Let me clean you up" he pressed one last kiss to your hand, before locking fingers. Tremors returning to your system as he adorned your thighs in purple hues, swiping his tongue over them.

A groan slipped out before you could stop it, high and breathless. “Please…”

“Please what,?” he asked, and his voice was velvet now. Dangerous in the sweetest way.

“I—I don’t know,” you whimpered. “I want you shota”

He slid up your body, leaving a trail of kisses, brushing your hair away from your face as he hovered over you.

“That’s because I’m still touching you here,” he said, placing a hand right over your fluttering core, pressing lightly, Sinking his fingers into you “You’re still open for me. Still dripping for me.”

You moaned, loud this time, hands flying to his shoulders.

“There she is,” he whispered, grinning. ���That sound. I’d chase it forever.”

His lips feathered you own before he finally kissed you, deep and slow, as if to soothe the fire he’d lit. But his praise didn’t stop—not when he touched your cheek, not when he murmured how good you were, how proud he was, how much he loved the way you responded to him.

He didn’t pull away. Just slowed, kissed your neck, then your shoulders, then up to your lips as your body calmed withered in his fingers ministrations.