I’m Always Like, “this WIP Will Be Finished This Week” And Then Six Months Later It’s Still Not

I’m always like, “this WIP will be finished this week” and then six months later it’s still not done

“Sooo..Date me” - a bakukami fic

Hey everyone, here’s another fic, this time a bakukami! I apologize for any grammar mistakes! Hope you enjoy!

Summary: Bakugo makes a blunt statement and Denki doesn't know how to respond or why Bakugo would say those words.

“So…date me.”

Denki blinks. He opened his mouth to speak, unable to find any words; he closed it again, unsure how to respond to that blunt statement. It wasn’t as if the curt tone threw him off—that tone was simply Bakugo’s regular voice—but the words themselves that made Denki’s swirling mind freeze and gape at Bakugo. His pencil fell from his grasp, and it rolled across the desk, and it dropped to the ground, a harsh clank against the flooring, it rang in Denki’s ears, breaking the echoing silence.

He stares at Bakugo, and Bakugo begins glaring at him, his lips turned down into a slight frown, almost like a pout, and Denki wants to reach across the desk and touch it and force those pink pouty lips into a smile, or at least the most equivalent version of a Bakugo smile. Either way, Denki wants a Bakugo smile thrown in his direction, whether it was the soft, fond one that plays at the edge of his mouth or the one that curls and his teeth are baring like a tiny chihuahua baring its mouth to a stranger—either one would still make Denki’s heart flutter at sight.

Tilting his head to the side, Denki laughs out his answer awkwardly, “What?”

Bakugo was leaning back in his chair, touching the desk behind him as his eyes flicker over Denki’s face. It shouldn’t be hot, but it is. His top buttons, as always, opened, showing off his glistening skin, and Denki swallows. His fingers twitch against his thighs, wanting nothing more than to run his fingers up Bakugo’s chest, linger against the skin and slowly button the shirt to its proper form. Denki clenches his hand, letting the nails dig into his palms.

His eyes flicker back to Bakugo’s, and he sees a growing, mischievous, cocky, smug smile that has Denki holding back a groan and his nails trying to break the skin. Denki hated how much he found Bakugo Katsuki attractive. He wants to kiss that smirk off his face and leave him breathless the same way Bakugo leaves him.

“I said,” Bakugo pauses, arching an eyebrow, a smirk plastered on his face that makes Denki’s breath hitch. He lets his chair fall forward with a sudden smack, and he leans across the desk, pushing the abandoned notebook and book across, creating a distance between the two. Red eyes never waver from Denki’s, and from beneath his eyelashes, Bakugo slowly enunciates the next words. “Date. Me.”

Denki stares at Bakugo, ignoring the flutter in his stomach from the way Bakugo’s tongue rolled out the words. The beats between the two and the deep growl he adds to it—it shouldn’t make Denki’s knees and breath quiver, but it does, and Denki’s grateful he’s already sitting down. The thumping of his heart from feeling the intense look from red eyes that makes his skin tight and burn from its intensity. And, the smirk that makes Denki want to reach over, grab Bakugo by the collar, pull him until their lips meet in a clash.

Denki swallows again and breaks eye contact. “Why…” he clears his throat and tries again, “why would you say that?”

“Didn’t you say that anyone would be lucky to have me?”

“That was weeks ago!” Denki splutters. “I-I obviously said that after y’know,” he flaps his hands, “After you confessed that you never dated anyone and in a moment of bro bonding, I said it to make you feel better, Kacchan.” His hands moved along to his words. Denki’s eyes flicker around the room, trying to avoid Bakugo’s eyes. “And…and why are you even bringing this up? I thought we agreed on what happened during bros nights stays at bros nights. How dare you break the sacred bro code?! An-”

Denki squeaked out the last word as Bakugo’s hands captured his hands, and Denki let the rest of the sentence die on his tongue. His cheeks burned.

“Oi, Dunce face, you’re rambling,” Bakugo let his hands go. “Nearly knocked me over with all those hand movements.” He fell back into his seat. “Date me. It’s as simple as that. You said anyone would be lucky to have you, so it’s your chance to be lucky.” Bakugo rolls his eyes.

“That’s not how it works. You can’t just say something like that out of the blue. You can’t expect me to accept it. Because this has to be a joke.” Denki stares at his fingers, afraid to look at Bakugo because if he does, he knows he’ll start crying.

Because here’s his crush giving him the opportunity to date, and Denki knows it’s all a joke. Almost every time Denki had been asked out was one, and how could this be any different.

He fiddles with his fingers trying to stop the bubbling of tears. He feels a foot press against his, and for some reason, it calms him enough that his leg stops its shaking motion (and if he presses the same amount of pressure back and the other foot tries to find Bakugo’s, well that’s between him, Bakugo and the gods).

“Bakugo, you can’t joke about things like that, especially to me,” Denki mutters.

“Oi! You really think I’m joking about this! Do you really think that low of me?” The foot moves away, and Denki does everything in him to stop his foot from chasing after it, wanting at least that small comfort, that small initiative of physical contact.

“Of course not!” Denki quickly says, a little bit too fast, a little bit too harsh. He throws a glare at Bakugo and he swallows before firmly saying “No, never. I would be a shitty extra if I did think less of you.”

Denki wants to reach over and grab Bakugo’s hands again, but he can’t. He can’t let him know how much he craves the small touches between them and how much he really wants to kiss him until they’re both gasping for air, and and and and how much he loves him.

Maybe love is a strong word to use, but, fuck Denki knows that whatever this feeling is for this pomeranian dog, gremlin of a person is extremely close to love.

“It’s just… it’s just..” Denki trails off, his eyes began to water, and he looked down at his fingers—the skin around his thumbs picked, a small dot of blood spilling across his skin, he pulls it up to his mouth and takes it in, trying to use it as a block to prevent him from saying anything else. Pulling it back out, he smiles at Bakugo and waves his hands as erasing the moments before. “Forget I said anything. But, Kacchan, I can’t date you anyways….”

Denki wonders if Bakugo will believe him about his next words or if Shinsou would mind using him as a deflective tool and avoid exposing his true feelings for Bakugo. He’ll make it up to Shinsou after this is over; maybe he’ll invite Deku along to the plans so the lovebirds could hang out. Yeah, Denki thought, a solid plan, and maybe he’ll manage to leave the outing and go sorrow in his misery and maybe cry over this whole ordeal.

“I’m kinda seeing Shinsou.” Denki breathed out. He fiddled with his fingers, trying to avoid Bakugo’s eyes, anything that would expose him for lying.

“Tch,” Denki’s eyes flickered up to Bakugo, who was watching him behind slitted eyes, and his lips curled into a sneer, “You may want to talk to Eyebags about that. Last time I checked, he and Shitty Deku were dating. Committed.” Bakugo narrowed his eyes at Denki’s groan.

Denki covered his face. Of course, Deku would tell Bakugo about his relationship—Bakugo may adamantly decline his and Deku’s friendship, but it was clear to anyone that the duo patched things over and could hold conversations again, but Denki hadn’t realized how close the pair had gotten.

Of course, now Denki is truly fucked.

Denki peaked between his fingers, and he could see the twitch at the corners of his lips. His lips still curled, baring his teeth, and his eyes narrowed, but Denki was one of the few people who could easily read Bakugo, and his red eyes twinkle with amusement, and Denki wanted to capture that small spark and hold onto it like a small speck of a flame.

“Are you laughing at me, Kacchan?” Denki’s words made Bakugo huff out a laugh, and the corners of his mouth twitched into a suppressed smile. Now, that is something Denki wants to paint across the walls, frame it in a gallery because that soft, shy smile made Denki warm.

It made Bakugo look softer. He is handsome, but once, Bakugo stopped making those forced anger, annoyed expressions—he still looked hot with those looks, but when Bakugo let his face relax into his natural demeanor, it made Denki want nothing more to engrave the image behind his eyelids or tattoo it against his skin—an exaggeration he knows, but goddamn, Bakugo is so fucking handsome that it made Denki go a little insane. His fingers twitched to grab his phone and capture the image, but doing so would kinda expose him—he does manage to capture some of those fond smiles Bakugo tries to hide behind his explosive demeanor, but Denki knows.

“Tch,” Bakugo leans forward, his fingers drumming against the desk, a smirk and mirth dancing in his eyes. “You’re a worse liar than Deku. But, I praise the attempt.” He huffs out.

“Kacchan.” Denki groans. “Can we just pretend none of this happened and go back to studying?”

“And, here, I thought you would want to… I don’t know…do anything but study. That’s the first, Sparky. Full of surprises.” He shakes his head. “But, Dunce face, I do actually mean it. Date me.”

Denki’s eyes roamed over Bakugo’s face, trying to find something that proves that he’s lying or something that’s a joke, anything to avoid getting hurt. But, he knows that Bakugo wouldn’t lie; he’s not someone to lie, whether meaningless or important. Bakugo was blunt as fuck, and he wouldn’t lie––at least that’s what Denki thinks.

“How,” Denki paused. He swallowed before speaking again, his fingers trembling against his thigh and his heart hammering against his chest. Knots forming in his stomach.

“How what? Spit it out.”

“How do I know if you actually do mean it?” Denki yelled out. He pressed his lips together, and he wanted nothing more than to run out of the room and pretend none of this was happening.

That Bakugo isn’t sitting before him with the most handsome face, and kissable lips, and and and….he rather pretend than face this head-on, and he knows that’s the opposite of what Bakugo deserves in a partner, but Denki is someone not worthy to be Bakugo’s partner. Anyone would be a better fit than Denki.

“Tch. Can’t believe I have to spell it out for you, Dunce Face.” But, Bakugo stopped. His eyes flickered over Denki’s face, and Denki knew he saw the unspilled tears building in his eyes and the way his lips began to tremble. Bakugo’s face softened.

“Hey, Denks,” Bakugo whispered. He brushed a finger against Denki’s cheek, and Denki closed his eyes and breathed in. “Can I…Can I kiss you?”

Denki’s eyes flung open. His throat was closing up, and he didn’t know what to do.

“Please, Denki. Can I kiss you?” Denki nodded, fingers gripping his cheeks, forcing him to look upwards into determined red eyes. “I need to hear you say it.”

“Yes.” Denki breathed out.

That’s all it took for Bakugo to sweep in and close the distance between the two. His lips were soft against Denki’s, and it felt amazing. It was softer than Denki originally thought kissing Bakugo would be like. He always imagined it being rough, aggressive, a flurry of explosions. He didn’t expect this softness. This spread of warmth throughout his body and fingers gentle against his skin.

Denki leaned further into the kiss. The desk dug into his stomach, and his fingers gripped against Bakugo’s shirt in a desperate hold. He wanted to close any distance between them. He wants to convey everything he feels for Bakugo in this kiss. He wants him to know that he genuinely cares and loves him. Because this may be the only chance he’ll get to kiss his crush, and he wants to make sure it’s worth the heartache.

Bakugo pulls back and Denki sighs. His eyes flutter open. “Stop thinking. I know you think this is a joke or whatever, but it’s fucking not. Denki Kaminari, I like you. I like the way you push me to be friendly or whatever. And, you bring out a side of me that I never expected. You’re never one to back down on telling me off. You just, fuck, Dunce Face. You gotta trust me, okay. I’m not one that uses words or shit. Just let me prove it to you.” Bakugo leans in and kisses Denki again.

Whispering against his lips, “So, date me, Denki.”

“Katsuki,” Denki breaths out. “Yeah, okay.”

“Good. Maybe you do have a brain in there.”

“Yeah, you think?”

“Yeah, it knows that you’re about to be the luckiest person in the world. Shitty extras are going to be jealous that you’re dating The Bakugo Katsuki.” Bakugo grins.

Denki huffs out a laugh, the edges of his lips twitching into a smile. “Shitty extras don’t know what they’re missing.”

Denki leans in again for another kiss. They continue kissing until they lose their breaths.

Denki may still think he’s not worth being Bakugo’s partner, but he’s sure as hell is going to enjoy being by his side as long as Bakugo wants him to. But that’s for another day to worry about; for now, Denki is enjoying the feel of Bakugo’s soft lips against his.

Overstimulation with Vampire Gojo - Kinktober Day Nine

Satoru Gojo x Reader (NSFW)

Synopsis: You stop by to pick Gojo up on your way to Shoko's Halloween party and, when the vampire invites you inside, things take an interesting turn. One you've been pretending for years that you never wanted. One he's been waiting years for.

Warnings: overstimulation, gojo being a total fuckin dominant asshole, teasing, dirty talk, gojo makes you beg...a lot, masturbation, fingering, mention of edging, "ice play" (except it's really just gojo's cold fingers & cock cause dude's a vampire), pussy slapping, cockwarming, multiple orgasms, unprotected sex

Word Count: 5k

A/N: Vampire!Gojo felt more fitting for the Halloween vibes. I also had way more fun writing Gojo being an asshole than I expected. Anyways, Happy Kinktober, I hope y'all like the fic!

Overstimulation With Vampire Gojo - Kinktober Day Nine

Since you’d met him, it’d been all fang talk. At first, you tuned it out. He wasn’t the first vampire you’d interacted with. And given his power status, giving him any satisfaction in having any reaction beyond disinterest was off the table. So you ignored him. You ignored the way those sharp fangs glinted in the moonlight as his mouth tipped into a mischievous smirk. Especially the way his eyes sparkled as he goated you, trying to pull even the tiniest reaction from you.

Because he knew, beneath the surface, behind the eye-rolls and annoyed scoffs, you were intrigued. It came in an accelerated heart rate. Increased breathing. Dilated pupils. The way your breath hitched when he got close. How clearly your mind would wander when he’d tell you he could make you feel things you could only ever imagine.

Pure euphoria.

“Pretty sure I’ve felt that before,” you’d responded as nonchalantly as possible. Gojo simply laughed.

You’d been bitten before; you knew one of the side effects. You’d felt it, and Gojo knew that.

“But not from me,” he whispered. “Not from the strongest.”

You’d waved your hand in the air and ignored him, just as always. Just as you always would.

But the bastard, the amused, smug bastard wore you down. He was biding his time, waiting with hidden patience until you snapped. Watching with those eyes that bottled the summer sky and endless stars as you waited outside his apartment in a vintage nightgown. White. Innocent. The feedee to the feeder. His idea. Then he could go to the costume party without having to disguise his fangs. It was the perfect plan. Until he opened the door dressed in a white shirt, half the buttons undone, chest exposed, and tight black pants that left nothing to the imagination. His head cocked to the side as your stare lingered, and he knew he had his claws in you.

And so did you.

“Why don’t you come in?”

“I thought it was humans who had to invite the vampires into their home?”

“It is.” He chuckled, standing aside, barely giving you enough room to enter. You had to brush against him in the process, bare skin on bare skin. He wasn’t nearly as cold as you expected him to be. His laugh deepened, and you involuntarily flushed.

The loose cotton garment sashayed around you as you stepped into Gojo’s apartment, turning to face him as soon as you were three steps inside. The door closed with a quiet click behind Gojo as he perused your body. His eyes roamed over you as if the nightgown had melted to your frame.

“So? What is it you wanted me to come in for?”

The vampire smirked as he sauntered over to his cellarette and pulled out a bottle of red wine and two glasses. You crossed your arms. If you dilly-dallied, you’d never get to the party on time. That meant no wine.

Gojo seemed to read your expression.

“What? You worried about lowering your inhibitions around me?” He made a show of licking his fangs.

“I’m worried about being late to our friend’s party.”

Gojo dropped to his couch and poured one glass of wine. You followed suit. He shook the empty glass at you, and you simply held up your middle finger in response. A shrug later, and he had the bottle down on his coffee table next to the spare glass and lazily sipped the decadent drink. You frowned. You were going to be late.

“Really, Satoru, we’re going to be late.”

“Answer me one question.” He eyed his wine. “And then we’ll go.”

“What?”

“Why do you pretend to act so nonchalantly around me?”

Your heart skipped a beat, and you realized Gojo had leaned towards you. You held your breath as he let the tips of his fangs poke out from his smile. You needed to put distance between you, but with the armrest behind you, you had nowhere to go. He dragged a single finger down your cheek, trailed it along your jaw, beneath your ear, all the way down until he reached your pulse point. Sharp nails dug into your thighs, and you realized they were your own.

“What do you mean?” Your voice was tighter than you’d hoped.

Gojo canted his head to the side, eyes fixed on your neck.

“Your heart is racing,” he whispered almost tenderly. “Are you nervous, (Y/N)?”

“No,” you answered too quickly.

“Do I scare you?”

Deep down, yeah, he scared you. He was an insanely powerful otherworldly being. On some level, of course he scared you. But your heart wasn’t hammering against your chest out of fear. Not even slightly. Or, at least, not fear of him. But the growing ache you were feeling for him? That was worrisome. Especially since that resolve you’d had for the last few years was finally starting to deteriorate.

“No.”

“Then what,” he murmured as he leaned in and you felt his breath tickle your neck, “has your heart beating so fast?”

You couldn’t stop the image of Gojo lying you back on his couch, body pinning yours against the couch cushions, and sinking his fangs into your neck. Just one of many fantasies that have played out consciously or subconsciously. Whether his hands roamed your body, his hips rolled between yours, there was always one thing in common: Gojo bit you.

And you’d be damned if you didn’t do the same thing you always did when you thought about that. You mentally cursed the cracks in your resolve as you lifted your hand to your mouth, gently touching your canines, wondering what Gojo’s felt like.

“Whatcha thinkin’ about?” His mouth grazed your ear, and you sucked in a harsh breath.

“We should get going, we’re going to be-”

“If you say late one more time, (Y/N), I swear I’m going to sink my fangs into you and suck you dry.”

Curse the image that his words made you think of. Curse the ache that it made you feel.

Curse the delay that it caused because Gojo jumped on it.

“Oh.” He sat his glass down and brought his other hand up to your jaw, leaning forward until his chest pressed against yours. “Is that something you’d like?”

“Gojo.” His name was a warning.

“Usually, you have some retort, some smart-ass remark.” He dropped his mouth to your neck and pressed a feather-light kiss to it. “But it appears you’ve gone tongue-tied.”

You wanted to pull away. You wanted to push him off, but in your attempt, all you managed to do was lift your hands. Because as soon as they touched him, as soon as you felt that solid chest beneath them, all you could do was ball that soft fabric up in your hands.

For the first time, you were utterly hopeless under Gojo’s touch, and he knew it.

“Admit it.” He only hesitated a moment before you felt the faint scrape of his fangs against your skin. “You’ve been wanting me to bite you since we’ve met.”

And, damn it, you shuddered. Of all things you could’ve done, your hands tightened, your breathing grew heavy, and you shuddered.

“Party,” you blurted out.

“(Y/N).”

If Gojo’s name was a warning, yours was a promise. A promise of what he’d been saying since you’d met. A promise of pure euphoria.

“Tell me what you want.” A hand dropped to your waist and jerked you forward. Your legs parted around him. “And I’ll give it to you. You just have to tell me.”

You groaned, more frustrated than anything else. You’d already embarrassed yourself. You’d let him get this far. Fuck. Purely out of spite, you said nothing. Gojo had already gained too much satisfaction from this. From you finally starting to lose yourself in him. You wished you hadn’t accepted Gojo’s invitation to enter his apartment. That you’d bullied him until he gave in, joined your side, and the two of you made your scheduled appearance at Shoko’s Halloween party. You would’ve greeted your friends, maybe given in and danced with Gojo, gotten a tad too handsy after having a shot or two, and then gone your separate ways.

Instead, you were clutching onto his shirt like your life depended on it, trying to ignore just how fast your heart was beating--trying to slow it down, knowing Gojo was aware of it too. You shouldn’t have sat on his couch in his too-cold apartment with the last sip of blood-red wine left in his glass. You shouldn’t have thrown away years of pretending because this was going to change everything. Not just you wanting him to bite you. Just giving away that you wanted him to. That was already an arsenal accidentally gifted to the vampire. And he was always going to use it.

You had to get it together.

“The last thing I want is for you to bite me,” you spat.

But you didn’t move.

In fact, you were pretty sure you sighed as Gojo shifted until his mouth hovered over yours. His mouth that looked so damn soft. So damn tempting. Like the forbidden fruit, the Devil whispering in your ear, telling you to just take a tiny little taste. No. To let him take a taste. Let him feast. Let him take.

But you’d never admit it. Not to him. You’d never do that. But you didn’t push him away when he hovered there. And you certainly didn’t fight nearly hard enough when you felt yourself pressing up until your lips met his. You felt weightless as your mouths met. The kiss was the closest to chaste you’d imagined Gojo could muster.

He sighed against you, mouth parting just enough to tease what was going to come. He was restraining himself, barely able to hold back his grin as you held him against you, surely wrinkling his shirt. Then, when his own resolve crumbled, and your mind had just begun to process soft, delicious, addicting, he smiled, and you felt his fangs prick your lips.

If you’d known this was how good it felt to kiss Gojo, you would’ve done it ages ago.

And that thought grew tenfold when he let his grip slip, and he became hungry. Dominant. Determined. His teeth captured your bottom lip, tongue soothing the sting, as he tipped your head back. The hunger, it was like he’d been wanting this just as long as you had. Like he’d been waiting--praying, if vampires did that--for you to finally give in. You were sure you could’ve cracked a Dracula joke there, but all you could hear was Nanami’s monologues about Nosferatu, cinematic Dracula, and novel Dracula.

Gojo adjusted, tugging you onto his lap, legs splaying around him. Your head fell back as he kissed down your jaw, teasing your throat and lingering there, making your blood boil in all the best ways, and slowly undoing the tie of your nightgown. His slender fingers worked slowly, and you weren’t sure if it was to give you time to back out--which you knew was the smart decision, but since you were already in uncharted territory, you figured why not--or to drive you absolutely insane.

Most likely the latter.

His fingers grazed your chest, and you were thankful you’d decided to wear a bra. If you hadn’t, your chest would’ve given away just how needy you were. Although with all of Gojo’s keen senses and extraordinary abilities, the way he snickered as he kissed your neck told you that he was entirely clued in to how badly you wanted him.

“Let me touch you.” He toyed with the straps of your bra and pressed his hips up. “Let me show you what you’ve been missing out on for years.”

You, despite your common sense screaming at you to get up, nodded.

The groan of satisfaction and vindication that left the vampire grated on your ears, your nerves, your entire being. It was like you were drunk on him, and he hadn’t even done anything. You blamed the costume. Bastard donning some high-end version of a knock-off Dracula costume. Showed a little skin, wore some tight pants, flashed those fangs. You weren’t supposed to be this easy; you weren’t supposed to be like every other person who fawned over him.

But you hesitated. It was like you’d practically tilted your head to the side, brushed your hair away, and exposed your neck to the prick like a curious, aching dumbass you were. And he jumped on it. Pounced. You accidentally gave him an inch, and he was going to take all the miles he could. Run you ragged.

“Turn around.” You could feel his grin against your mouth and, just to spite him, you took your sweet time listening. Making sure to drag yourself over his lap in the process, rolling your hips to adjust, satisfied at the low grumble that escaped him.

But that only seemed to piss him off.

As soon as you situated yourself, his knees found themselves between yours, and he jerked your legs open. When your costume stopped him short, there was zero hesitation as he grabbed the thin fabric and tore a slit down the side. You blushed inadvertently at the action, cool air rushing your bare skin, and Gojo chuckled in your ear.

He kept your legs hooked open, holding you against him with an arm around your waist. His mouth danced over your neck, teeth caught your ear lobe, as his other hand fell between your legs. But there was no contact. He just hovered it there, the tips occasionally ticking your inner thigh. He hummed when he glanced over, eyeing your white lace underwear like you were a present waiting to be unwrapped.

“You wear those just for me?” He traced the delicate pattern of the lace, and you held your breath, trying to ignore how even just the faint touch ignited you.

“They were all I could wear with how thin the fucking costume is.”

“It’s funny,” he whispered. “They always have the maiden wear white in the movies. To symbolize innocence. Virginity of sorts before they’re bitten.”

You would’ve glared at him if you could’ve. But his fingers traded the feather-light touch that made heat pool between your legs for a pointed, purposeful one. Up and down over your cunt, sighing as he felt just how soaked you were. Your head fell back against his shoulder; each graze of your clit was agony. The momentary touch relieved the pressure only to double it when his fingers dipped lower once more. You tried to move your hips against him, chasing what he wasn’t giving you. And what was worse, you weren’t even aware that you were trying to do it until his hold tightened and he held you in place.

“Yet here you are, the image of pure desperation and need.” He slapped your cunt and you jumped. “Fucking soaked from all talk. I can only imagine how badly you want to relieve that almost painful ache.”

You thought about wrenching yourself from Gojo’s grasp, but you’d taken the first drag of that cigarette. Your entire body was shaking with need.

“Touch yourself.”

It was a command. One that was spoken in a tone as cool as his skin. Yet it made the flames erupting over your body rise.

“Give me a show, and maybe I’ll give you what you want.”

You bit your cheek as you moved. Your hand trembled as you draped it between your legs. When you didn’t move immediately, Gojo placed his hand over yours and guided two fingers over your clit. You gasped when he drew your fingers in tight circles over your clit, chin resting on your shoulder, gaze hot.

“What?” He withdrew his hand, wrapping his fingers around your wrist, making sure you didn’t move. “You needed someone to show you how? C’mon, (Y/N), I know you’ve touched yourself while thinking about me. No need to be shy.”

Each wave of pleasure you brought yourself seemed to rock your body. Gojo’s eyes on you egged you on just as much as it made your nerves spike. You couldn’t find a pace; you couldn’t get your hand to stop shaking. You tried to grind against yourself, chasing the pleasure you desperately craved, but Gojo’s arm around your waist still kept you pinned. Whenever you’d find the spot that made your eyes roll, Gojo would pull your hand away, fingers digging into your veins, no doubt getting high off of how fast your heart was racing.

You had to quiet your mind each time it wandered to what you were doing, especially who you were doing it in front of, and just how intensely he was watching you.

“Tell me,” he murmured as he pulled your hand away from your cunt for what you counted as the sixth time. “Admit that you’ve thought about me while fucking yourself.”

Never. Not in a million years.

“Do it, and I’ll reward you by making you cum until you physically can’t anymore.” He let his fingers intertwine with yours, and only his freezing skin gave away his touch mixed in with yours. “It’s easy; it’s just a few words. Here, I’ll show you.”

He licked a long stripe up your neck until his mouth brushed your ear.

“I’ve thought about you while getting off.” The arm around your waist loosened, and his hand came up to your chest. “Thinking about these tits bouncing as you ride my cock. Taking me like the good girl I know you are. Begging for me to give you more. Begging for me to bite you.”

For the first time since he’d sat you on his lap, you turned to try and see him, but a hand on your chin kept you facing forward. He’d thought about you? Like that? You thought your heart was going to explode from your chest.

“Well,” you croaked out. “Fantasies tend to be about what you can’t have.”

He barked out a laugh, dipping his hand beneath your gown, your bra, until his fingers skimmed a nipple. You didn’t need to see them to know they were hard. You arched your back as he ran slow circles around it, matching the speed he’d set between your legs. He’d retreated a tad there, however, making sure it was only you who was touching you. Free of his iron hold, you rolled your hips and unapologetically ground against yourself. Bits of cold hit you, and you chased after those. You chased after him.

“(Y/N).” He pinched your nipple. “Look down at yourself. Grinding against your hand like a fucking lust-drugged bitch. Don’t think I won’t tie you up and go to the party myself, leaving you in the agony you created for yourself. Soaked. Aching. Too proud to ask me to touch you.”

“If we’re talking about pride-”

“I’ve already admitted it, baby,” he said, voice as sharp as his fangs. “I want to see that pretty pussy take my cock, feel it squeeze around my fingers as you cum. I want to hear every sound you make when I pull another orgasm from you, even after you tell me you can’t give me another one.”

You clamped your eyes shut and groaned, your entire body shaking as you fought the internal battle. It was all pointed spears and splintered shields. You lost. You won. You spat out the words with bitter anticipation.

“I have.” But you didn’t think it was enough. The half a second pause where Gojo didn’t move solidified that. “Multiple times.”

His mouth, pressed beneath your ear, curled into what you knew was a sickening smile.

“Good girl.”

He treated the top of your costume with the same attitude as the bottom, the sound of the fabric tearing almost as jarring as his cold touch. The cups of your bra were pushed down as his hand groped and teased. His other threw your hand aside, cast away to grab onto his thigh as he snaked it beneath your underwear. You sucked in a harsh breath as his fingers grazed your swollen clit. It felt like he held an ice cube against you, and you tried to jerk away.

“Nuh-uh,” he tsked and shook his head. “Stay put.”

A throated whine left you as he pinched your nipples, going out of his way to run his fingers between your folds so every inch felt the freezing temperature before he ran tight, harsh circles over your clit. You would’ve fallen from his lap had his legs not hooked over you and held you in place. It felt incredible. It felt like too much. He already had you on edge. The last six almosts had brought you close enough, but it was embarrassing how he already had you dancing like a puppet on his strings along the crumbling edge.

“Ask for it. If you want anything tonight, you have to ask for it.” His fingers ran tighter circles, and whatever smart response you had turned into a groan.

“Can I?”

“Can you what?”

You wanted to kill him.

“Can I cum?”

“Did I hear a please?”

You cursed under your breath. You weren’t sure why you were trying to hold off your high as Gojo’s fingers worked that merciless pace, not seeming to care that you were moments away from coming undone. But you wanted to please him. The thought made your blood boil.

“Can I please cum?”

He hummed in contemplation and you wanted to scream.

“Go ahead.” He cocked his head to the side, and you felt his eyes roam over your body. The feeling tipped you over the edge. You refused to cry out his name as you came harder than you’d ever cum before, body buzzing, head light and floaty, muscles tense and sore.

Before you’d even finished, your walls still clenching at nothing as the stars you saw still sparkled in your vision, he slipped two fingers into your cunt. Your legs kicked out as they scissored and curled and stretched you. Slender, sure, but they were long. He hit places you couldn’t without a toy, and Gojo fucking knew it too. Your toes curled, and you tried to hide your face in his neck. It made him snicker.

“We’re not done yet.” His thumb swept over your clit. “Not nearly.”

You felt too hot as his too-cold fingers fucked you. You felt yourself squeeze around him, and the swiftness of your second orgasm approaching nearly threw you. The bastard really knew how to get people off. No. He knew how to get you off. The way his fingers slid into a specific rhythm. This was just for you. A personal torture he’d give just to you.

“C-Can I?” You hated that you asked him without much thought.

“Oh, already?” As if he didn’t know. “I don’t know, you got there pretty quick. You sure you want to cum again already? I don’t plan on stopping after this. You’re cumming until I get every last drop outta you, (Y/N).”

“Please,” you screamed. You couldn’t stave it off anymore. And you hated how your body tingled with excitement at what Gojo would do as punishment if you came without permission.

“If you’re that desperate.” He scoffed and slowed his fingers. “Then take it from what I give you.”

You did. You weren’t sure if he was trying to ruin the orgasm or delay it or knew exactly what his slow curls would do. But he strung you out, hard. Never, not once had your second orgasm been better than the first. Not fucking once. Yet the bastard had your head thrown back, toes curling, riding wave after slow wave as he seemed to wrap the puppet strings around your limbs and pull. You nearly bit your tongue as you ground your teeth together, unable to do anything else as you came around his fingers.

You huffed. You weren’t sure you could give him any more, and he’d only made you cum twice. But his fingers only paused for half a beat before starting up again. You let out a strangled no as his hand on your chest went to your clit. It was too much. You squirmed, and he laughed. Laughed. Then pressed on harder, faster. Tears slipped down your cheeks, nails dug into his thighs, teeth captured your bottom lip to stop the sobs.

“P-Please.” Your third orgasm was knocking on the door, waiting to enter. Or leave. It was all too much. You weren’t sure if you were begging for him to stop or to keep going.

“Ask.”

You hoped the one word would be enough of a response.

“Cum?”

Gojo’s body shook with laugher. It wasn’t.

“Full sentences, (Y/N).” He pinched your clit.

“Gojo.”

He slapped your cunt.

“Full sentences.”

“Can I cum again, please?”

“Yes.”

He rode you through your high. It almost hurt, his fingers fucking your cunt and rubbing your clit. Your throat felt raw by the end, and you weren’t sure if you’d screamed or if it was an accumulation from the last two orgasms as well. His fingers stopped and you thought you were free. Until he lifted you, angled you up on your shaky legs, and you felt him undo the button of his pants.

“Do you want it?” He pulled the crotch of your underwear to the side, pressing his tip against your dripping folds.

You hated that you nodded.

“That’s my girl,” he said, and you burned as he spread your folds. He lingered there a moment, surely watching as you dripped onto his lap, before he lined himself up. His fingers dug into your hips as he guided you down, groaning as you stretched around him. He fucking filled you. But your gasp wasn’t just from how fucking huge he was. You’d thought his fingers were impossible to handle with the cold. His cock was like when you’d left your dildo in the freezer before fucking yourself on it.

Even when he was sheathed entirely inside you, he didn’t move. He found your clit--puffy, swollen, sore--and his thumb ran over it with lazy strokes.

Three times. He made you cum around his cock three times without even moving his hips. You were jelly in his arms, soaked in your own cum, tears, and sweat. And the rare glimpses he gave you of his face told you he was obsessed with this version of you. You couldn’t give him anymore. You’d said that the last two times, but you were wrung dry. You were sure if he moved his hips, you’d combust like a vampire from Buffy with a stake in its heart.

But you wanted him to fuck you. So badly. With every fiber of your being you wanted him to fuck you. You just couldn’t lift yourself up to be able to fall back down onto his cock.

And then his fangs scraped your skin for the hundredth time that night.

“Bite me,” you blurted out. You hadn’t meant to. You’d been trying to ask him to fuck you. A Freudian slip.

He stopped over your pulse point and pressed his fangs against you. Just enough to let you feel the sharp prick.

“Beg for it.”

“Please.” It hurt your throat to talk. Your voice crackled with each word. “Please bite me. Please, Satoru.”

“You can do better than that. C’mon. Beg.”

“Fuck.” You clamped your eyes shut. “Please, I need you to. I need to feel it. That damned ‘pure euphoria.’ It’s all I think about whenever you flash your fangs at me. Please, I need it. I need to know.”

He pressed his fangs harder against you. Scraped them against your skin until you felt a satisfying burn.

“I’m so tempted--so fucking tempted--to leave you like this. A teary mess, begging for something I won’t give you.” Dread coursed through you at the thought. Silently, you willed him to keep speaking. “But I know whether I bite you or not, you’ll be back for more.”

He bucked his hips.

“Because nobody will fuck you like I will.”

He bucked again as you cried out as an almost painful wave of pleasure crashed into you.

“Nobody will get you off as good as me.”

Then he bit you. A searing hot pain, like a cold brand, focused at your neck. You sobbed, but you weren’t sure if that was from the bite or the way Gojo looped an arm around you and slammed his hips against you mercilessly. You’d been bitten before, but just as soon as you tried to recall the memories, you were hit with something you'd never gotten from other vampires. It felt like a wall of liquid pleasure. Or, in Gojo’s wording, euphoria.

It was like he’d injected it directly into your veins, and you laughed. You choked on the sound as another sob followed it, but it felt so impossibly good. Like you were floating on a cloud. Like you were stuck in a permanent state of almost that just kept getting better and better. Like you were dancing on the edge that never crumbled, leading you to a plummet that, as you eyed it, was waiting for you with billowing snow to cushion the fall.

“C-Can I cum? Please, Gojo, can I cum?”

Your voice sounded unfamiliar as you spoke. You weren’t even entirely sure that you had until Gojo responded a few moments later, his thrusts rough.

“Yes.” It was an order.

And you followed it.

You heard your scream leave you as if it weren’t your own. It was like two hands shoved you off the edge as you plummeted down towards the snow. It swallowed you; claimed you like a riptide does an inexperienced swimmer. Those puppet strings that had bound themselves to you earlier tightened and pulled like a torture device. Delicious, rapturous torture. Then they snapped. Like stray worn threads.

You came around his cock for the fourth time that night.

You didn’t even realize he came until you felt his cum leak out of you as you blinked up at the ceiling, coming to.

Gojo gave you a moment to catch your breath before he pulled out, licking over the two puncture wounds on your neck as he righted your underwear, either not caring that his cum was leaking out of you or extremely aware. Most likely the latter.

He laid you on your side as he got up and righted himself, his costume, his hair. He smirked down at you, eyeing your torn costume, tear-stained cheeks, and tangled hair. He knelt beside his couch and scoffed.

“C’mon, (Y/N), we’re going to be late to Shoko’s party.”