summary: sukuna has loved you since you were in high school, and when he finally gets his chance with you, four years after graduation, he's the perfect boyfriend.
he treats you like you're worth more than the entire world, devoted solely to you, committed to keeping you healthy and happy in his arms for all eternity.
if only he wasn't killing people behind your back.
content: 18+ mdni, smut, dub-con in the later chapters, rough sex, yandere sukuna, obsession, stalking, murder, blood, gore, manipulation, deception, unhealthy dynamics, jealousy, cheating (reader cheats on her bf with sukuna), sukuna is awful in this but he's LOVELY to reader exclusively, more tags to be added on a chapter by chapter basis!
Cw 𝜗𝜚 Stalking, Obsessiveness, Controlling Behaviour, Love Bombing, Afab, Murder, Fluff, Kidnapping, God Complex, Smut, Toxic Sukuna, Yandere Sukuna? Readers a Sweetie pie (Touch her you die… like actually…) Stockholm Syndrome, Manipulation, Pathetic Sukuna
Summary 𝜗𝜚 You’ve already infested Sukunas' mind, you're like a parasite, infesting every inch of his body. His brain, his heart, his soul, everything. You’re infecting him. Why? Who are you and What's your deal?
♡ TW: kidnappning, captivity, vore-ish, cannibalism, gore, nonchalant nihilistic reader, casual mention of asexuality, dark humor but leaning more toward what I'd call morbid absurdity?
♡ FEM reader
♡ AN: normal au, idk this is more comedic than what i normally write, originally a gag response to this post, put it got long...
You wake up groggy somewhere clean and classy.
The ceiling is tall, the furniture expensive—marble floors and Egyptian sheets—and none of it is any familiar whatsoever.
“Hello?” you call out, despite not seeing or hearing the hints of anyone, clutching the comforter to yourself with eyes still adjusting, blinking as you take everything in, getting more concerned as you do.
Did you get fucked up yesterday or what?
Surely not so fucked up you can’t remember booking yourself into a five-star hotel, right?
And yet, by the looks of it, you must have.
It should be more concerning, and yet, “Please, God, don’t let it be in my name,” is the prioritized thought. You’re so broke, you couldn’t even afford a fucking motel room right now, let alone whatever the fuck kind of grand suite this is.
You get up, only then noticing you’re dressed in a silk night gown—which only further distresses you with thoughts about the bill. Clothes nowhere in sight—at least not anything you can recognize as your own. But, laying on the dresser is a pretty little number, with a tiny little note on top.
“Wear me,” you read out loud. Face puzzled with a grimace, before further talking to yourself out loud, mumbling, “What the fuck Alice in Wonderland type shit is this? Did I go home with a freak?”
Confused as shit, you leave the dress where it is while looking around some more. The more you do, you start noticing things that make you start thinking this might be someone's house rather than a hotel room.
Walking into what you thought might be a bathroom, you discover a walk-in closet instead. Fully stocked with clothes. Expensive shit. Classy. And a little creepy, how it’s all solely in different shades of red. Your pajamas too, and the dress laid out. Someone must have a serious preference.
“Where the fuck am I at right now…”
Starting to freak out just a bit, you don’t try any more doors in favor of quickly finding the stairs. Soft in your step, you make your way down them warily. And on your way, you start hearing the tell-tale noise of another’s presence.
Cooking noises—pots and pans and the sound of a whirring fan. It smells good too.
You don’t think he—whoever he is—notices you. But standing with his back to you, shirtless, you sure notice him. He’s got broad shoulders and a toned back stocked with muscles, his waist snatched in a black apron. Hair dyed baby pink of all colors.
Yeah… you definitely got fucked up yesterday because who the fuck is this guy?
You decide against sticking around to find out. One-night-stands are only made weirder when they progress into the day thereafter, and you think you might just be able to make your way over to the door without being heard if you tip-toe it.
You throw it a glance from where you’re hiding around the corner. You can’t spot any shoes.
Shit, how’re you supposed to—
“Door’s locked,” the man informs over his shoulder, switching off the fan before turning around. He then walks up to the breakfast bar placed in the forefront of the kitchen, tray in hand full with a arrangement of bacon, eggs, juice and other morning classics.
He sets out two plates before sitting down.
He’s got face-tattoos—crazy ones that would be impossible not to notice. And yet, crazy as they are, they seem somewhat familiar—though not familiar in the sense that you remember going home with last night—no, that is still a complete mystery to you as you keep appraising at him, hoping to somehow trigger your recollection. He's got more tattoos on his upper-body, some hiding beneath the apron he's sporting—thick tribal-like markings you're not sure if hold any significance, but are sure as fuck very memorable. And still, none of it proves to be a good reminder. Other than that, he looks clean-shaven, with newly washed hair hanging in wet bangs just above a pair of eyes that lean more toward the burn in auburn, but are all in all jaded as he starts eating without further acknowledging you.
“I’m sorry—” you squeak as you pop out of hiding, suddenly reminded of how you're still just standing there. “Sneaking out’s not usually my style, but–” A nervous laugh only seems appropriate as you start explaining yourself with theoretic excuses, “I must have taken something weird yesterday ‘cause I don’t remember how I got here at all. I don’t even remember going out—”
“You were on your way home from that shitty burger joint you work at,” he says, mouth full of toasted bread. “I took the liberty of burning your uniform. It was an offence to the art of cuisine.”
You’d just taken a seat on the opposite side of him, having accepted the awkward morning for what it was worth—a funny story for later, you’re sure. However, while the food is a good distraction, making your mouth water and your eyes wander, it’s not enough for you to disregard the unattended confusion left by your utter blackout of the night prior—and neither is his sloppy efforts of helping you navigate it.
“I’m sorry, what?”
He, on the other hand, seems more interested in the food, negligent when explaining, “I laid out a dress for you. I won’t force you to wear it, but you won’t be getting that retched thing you were wearing back, so you might as well—”
“Yeah, no, whatever—” you dismiss, shaking your head with a muddled expression—as if your uniform is the thing on your mind right now. “That doesn’t really explain how I got here?”
Again, helping you with your amnesia doesn’t seem to be too much of a priority to the man as he shrugs with a “There isn’t much to know.”
For all his looks, he doesn’t really have the charm to compliment them. What a shame, you think disappointedly to yourself, watching him with a wrinkle between your brows, wondering why and when chivalry died, and why on earth you’d ever choose to go home with a guy so lacking in it.
“You finished your shift and were on your way home,” he continues, and you’re glad to finally be getting somewhere. “But you never made it, because, while still in the parking lot, I knocked you out with some chloroform, put you in my trunk, and took you here.”
Yeah, that’s the point your throat closes shut.
Left choking on a “What?”
A shiver rushes through you and you get out of your chair quick. Was that a joke? What, is he a fucking comedian suddenly?
“What the fuck’s going on?!”
He doesn’t acknowledge your hysteria, still just sitting there, eating breakfast as though a woman screaming at him is just another day in his life.
“Do I have to spell it out for you? It’s easy. I kidnapped you. End of story.”
Your mouth hangs open, staring at him, but alas, with the same lack of urgency as he’d had since the beginning, he just ignores your state of shock like it’s something he can’t be bothered to deal with.
Instead, ordering you to “Now come. Sit. Eat,” as if that was more important than explaining himself. “Your system’s still full of chemicals. Gotta eat to flush ‘em out.”
Is he seriously asking you to eat breakfast?
“No drugs this time. Promise,” he adds shortly, as though you’d had the time to form the concern, while still busy trying to make sense of him offering breakfast in the first place after having confessed to kidnapping you.
The more you repeat it, the less sense it seems to make.
“And before you get any wild ideas. No, I’m not going to force myself on you either. That’s not the reason you’re here.”
Yet another thought that hadn’t had the time to cross your mind.
Just a short moment ago, you’d thought this whole thing was a drunk one-night-stand and now you’re learning that not even one part of that was true. Your brain isn’t able to keep up with the new reality, leaving you to stand there, finding little to no answers wracking your brain, making you feel at a loss like an insect trapped in a mason jar—with the only viable option being to bash you body against the walls and prey you were just having a psychotic break
In the end, you’re only able to come up with reiterations of the same question, pertaining to “Then what the fuck? Why? What do you want?”
But even that seems to annoy him, only answering you with an unsympathetic “Not important for you to know,” before repeating himself, more sternly than before, “Now eat before it gets cold.”
Standing there a moment longer, your thoughts wander back to the door behind you and your shoeless feet and the possibility of you outrunning him, then remember his first comment about the locked door and how it meant you’d probably have no luck in getting out even if you could make it there first.
And then, in the midst of your train of thought regarding your next move, utterly unprompted and with seriously questionable timing given the current predicament, your stomach decides to growl.
You earn his eye-contact with that, the both of you staring at each other for a moment that ends up bordering on a while.
And in that while, you decide to table all ideas about trying to run, fight, or hide.
Sure, they’d have been more reasonable reactions, but none seemed like they’d bear any good results at the moment. And so, going against all reason, you end up doing as he had suggested.
Indeed, eating would do you some good, you agree while sitting back down, fork in hand as you start begrudgingly piling up your plate.
Chewing gingerly on a scone, you steal a look at him once or twice. He doesn’t return it—content with you eating while still equally busy stuffing his own face.
You don’t know… outside the fact that this stranger had just admitted to kidnapping you and divulged his intentions of keeping you hostage here, there’s something even odder going on. And that is that he doesn’t seem like a complete stranger at all…
Yeah… something about him is extremely familiar, but you can’t quite put your finger on it. You’re sure you haven’t met him—not face to face at least—but you can’t shake the feeling as if you’ve seen him somewhere before…
And that’s when it hits you.
“Wait… I know you!” you exclaim once it finally clicks, pointing a finger at him. “You’re that chef—the one who hosts that cooking show that makes all the contestants cry. What’s it called… Kitchen something…”
You snap your fingers, trying to trigger the memory. Whether the method is due credit or not is anyone’s guess, but in any case, you end up remembering.
“Malevolent Kitchen!”
You knew you’d seen those tattoos before. Of course! It’s honestly kind of odd it didn’t come to you any sooner. But you’ve never seen him with his hair down like that, nor were you ever a big fan of the show either.
Still, you recall the name after a few more snaps with your fingers. “Sukuna—Ryomen Sukuna. Right?”
“Correct.” He doesn’t give you more credence other than that, nor does he seem to care much that you figured it out either.
You weigh the possibility of all this being some new type of prank show, but the thought quickly proves too unikely—even when competing with the likelihood of him having kidnapped you off the streets for no good reason. But who knows? All prank shows start off with a shitty premise, after all…
You continue eating. Thinking about the show. You’re not sure if it’s still running. But you do recall hearing something about it a few years back.
There’d been a scandal or something, you think. Or no, not a scandal—more like a bad rumour. One of those stupid Tiktok trends. What was it again? You remember your friends discussing it—some saying it must have been some ploy designed by his rivals to make him run out of business, while others were certain it was actually a clever marketing trick designed to make more people check his restaurants out for themselves.
It was something stupid, and so you hadn’t given it much thought back then, but…
“Holy shit…” you announce once you remember.
True crime tiktokers—you remember now—missing girls and satanic cannibalistic shit.
“No way...” you accuse, dropping your scone onto your plate with a rattle. “Are you really a—”
Your head spins, unable to settle. And when it does, it proves only further unsettling, striking you with a sense of nausea.
“A cannibal?”
You’d hoped he’d laugh. Tell you that was crazy, then say something like you’ve just been pranked and prove to you that this really was all for some dumb reality show.
But he doesn’t.
No, he doesn’t say anything at all, like there’s no merit in even trying to deny it. Rather, he more or less confirms it, looking at you with a moderately impressed expression, like he’s surprised you figured it out so fast.
It fully dawns on you then.
“Oh God, that’s what this is, isn’t it?”
The sense of sickness deepens, making you look down at your plate in something akin to disgust.
And yet, while there should be a million other thoughts and regrets running though your mind, you can’t help but fret, wondering if breakfast was really going to be your final meal—a thought so depressing, it makes you throw your head back with a you-must-be-joking type of scoff, examining the ceiling above only to notice it being clinically white like in an asylum.
“Oh man, that’s just my luck,” you mutter to yourself more than anyone. “Fucking livestock.”
And then, you don’t know exactly why—it’s undefendable given everything at stake—but you snort as though it was all some big joke.
Suppose, the utter insanity of the morning had reached a summit then spilled over, staining you with it, because not before long you’re laughing, hands clutching the counter so that you don’t tip backwards while you fullheartedly cackle until you're left out right wheezing in your chair.
“Well…” you sigh after a while, with regards to the silver lining, “At least it's a nice cage.”
The man finds it odd, by the way of him, looking at you in silence, having ceased his eating with his hands kept passive beside his plate—not sure what to make of you.
You, on the other hand, reverse the roles and resume eating. Now, all but shoveling the contents on your plate into your mouth before looking up and further chirping, “Is there a jacuzzi in this place? It seems like the type of place to have a jacuzzi.”
Somewhat baffled, though not overly expressive, the man appraises you.
Then, with a pause, answers, “Upstairs.”
You push your barstool out after your final bite, cheering with the food still in your mouth “Score—” as though the reality of the situation went forgotten. “I'm gonna go check that out for a few hours.”
You’ve never been in a ritzy place like this before—it would be stupid not to reap the benefits while you still could. Given he’d just chowed down breakfast, he must not be planning on having you right this second. Besides, if he’s planning to kill and eat you, letting you use the jacuzzi first is the least he could do.
You’re halfway to the staircase, when he calls out, “Just be done before dinnertime.”
You turn around and look at him at that, now with a new inquiry, “You’re cooking?”
So, is it safe to say he isn’t eating you at that point either? Maybe it’s more of a nightly thing? Suppose a thing like cannibalism would be better suited after midnight, given its satanic connotations and all, but you wouldn’t want to assume.
In any case, he nods his head, and you can’t think of anything to do but take it as another silver lining, saying, “Double score,” with a shrug before continuing on your path to the stairs.
But not before you’ve taken another step, he calls out again, this time with a question, as though feeding the utter absurdity of the situation, “Any preferences?”
To which you just wave your hand, making your way to the second floor without stopping this time. “Nah, not really. ‘M not a foodie. Anything’s good!”
—
You’re in there for a while, he notes without bothering to check on you.
Even after several hours have passed by, all without a single sign of you, he decides to let you be.
He doesn’t mind being left undisturbed while cooking, but he won’t deny this type of behavior is new to him.
But perhaps it isn’t so strange. Maybe you’re just biding your time, thinking up ways of escape. A reasonable endeavor—though it won't do you any good. Try as you might, no one has ever come close.
He’ll enjoy watching your attempt nonetheless—all part of the fun.
And yet, despite expectations, you return on your own. Hair wet, skin flush, and fingers pruned as you go, looking refreshed of all things.
Not only that, but he can’t sense even a smidgen of ulterior motives in you—no fight or flight whatsoever. It’s exceedingly strange. None of his victims so far have ever approached him willingly after understanding their circumstances.
But then again, none of them had ask to use the jacuzzi either.
You just take a seat before the decked dinner table, silently eyeing the bondage he’d typically have to use left around the chair’s arms and legs with mild interest, probably curious about how many had sat in the seat before you. And yet, you don’t ask him about it.
By the look on your face, it’s impossible to say if it even bothers you.
You’ve changed out of your pajamas into the dress he’d laid out. Bloodred on the darker side. Just according to the ritual. You’re certainly making things a lot easier than his previous victims. But he won’t say it’s any boring this way—at least not yet. Just for now, he’ll admit he’s even a little intrigued by you.
“Smells good,” you announce, breaking the silence, and he can’t help but further wonder over what an odd thing you’re revealing yourself to be, as he walks up and places your plate in front of you.
Usually, he’d have to threaten or force you—or the person in your place—to indulge him. You however? Not only are you willingly sitting there, you’ve already got cutlery in hand.
“Hmph,” he expresses in mild amazement, thinking, if you really weren’t going to make a fuss, he might as well just sit down as well.
It puts him out of sorts—makes him feel a little fidgety even—unable to make sense of your behavior as he is.
But then, despite looking ever ready to do so, you hold off on digging in. Instead eyeing the meat with a soft furrow between your brows as though assessing something.
It makes him halt. Thinking perhaps he was wrong—maybe he’ll have to force you after all.
Biting your lip, you look up at him through your lashes, eyeing him sheepishly for a small moment like you wanted to inquire about something, before you suddenly seem to banish the idea. Announcing with a shrug, “You know what? I’m not even gonna ask.”
You then cut yourself a piece of the steak. And after gathering a bit of everything on your fork, you proceed to put it in your mouth without any further ado.
He observes you while you swish it about on your tongue—though isn’t sure exactly what he’s looking for. He knows he’s an excellent chef, and so the idea of someone liking his food isn’t a foreign concept to him.
Still though, it’s unfamiliar to watch one of his victims enjoy themselves so much.
“Mh—mmmh!” you hum, pointing to the meat with your fork. “Okay, if this is what human tastes like, I think I might honestly get it.”
Oh, so that had been your concern.
He supposes that’s not such a strange thing to suspect given you’d pieced his whole plan together so early…
Your worry is unfounded though. It’s not human meat. “It’s wagyu.” Even so, you’d eaten it despite not knowing. Forget surprised, he’s even a little impressed.
“Oh, so you don’t just eat women?” you ask then, putting another fork–full into your mouth.
He halts. “What?”
Carelessly, you continue eating while making what he hesitantly would refer to as small talk, “I thought the reports only said missing women?”
Oh, right. He chuckles.
“What’s so funny?” you ask.
This time, he’s the one to break into laughter as he finally takes his own seat opposite from you.
“Hello? What’s so funny?” you ask again.
“Wagyu isn’t a name. It’s a type of beef,” he informs.
You blink at the revealed information, then look down at your plate, a small “Oh,” leaving you, sounding almost a little disappointed. Which only further spurs his amusement with an even louder cackle, causing you to pout as you look back up, whining, “Man, shut up, I told you I wasn’t a foodie.”
Then you laugh as well, at yourself, “Well, whatever it is, it's really good!” before continuing to eat.
“It better be,” he states, beginning to eat as well. “It retails for three-hundred bucks.”
You choke then—just as expected of someone like you with seemingly no knowledge of finer foods—cutlery seizing all movement upon your plate, clutched tightly in your grip. “Excuse me, what?” Eyes wide, you gawk at him from across the table, loudly exclaiming, “That’s even crazier than being a cannibal!”
It’s entertaining to say the least. The way you eye the meat again, now with an incredulous expression, and a bit of hesitantancy—perhaps due to shame for having scarfed it down so fast without properly savoring it.
“I mean, it’s good, don’t get me wrong,” you begin saying after a moment of thoughtful silence. “But three hundred big ones, really?”
Looking up again, your eyes as big as the dinner plates, seeking answers from him as though he could somehow explain a refined palate to you.
But not before long, your stare narrows into a suspicious squint instead, cocking your head sideways with a slow shake. “Nah… you’re fucking with me again, aren’t you?” you accuse, pointing your fork at him with a grin as though you’re onto him about something. “It’s actually just—like—racoon meat or something. You didn’t really buy beef for three franklins as feed for the livestock—that would just be plain crazy.”
He grabs the wine bottle stationed between you with a soft disapproving grunt—you really don’t know the first thing about food at all, do you? Popping the cork, he then fills your glass, explaining, “The best farmers buy the best feed. I wouldn't wanna fatten you up with anything less than what I’d put in my own mouth.”
You keep a look of disbelief on your face for a moment, mulling it over in your head. Whether you understand it or not is all the same to him. Still, it surprises him to see you grab your glass with another shrug, followed by an agreeing, “Right, when you put it like that, I guess it only makes sense.”
You really are an odd one… He’s still waiting for you to snap out of whatever false calm you’d fallen under, to watch you break down and be left as hysteric as all his prior prey had been. But nothing of the sort ever happens.
No, not at all.
Throughout the dinner you make a few more efforts at small talk, inquiring about what wagyu is amongst other things, accepting his curt answers for what meagre back-and-forth they offer. And in the end, after declaring your fullness, you straightforwardly ask him if he’s going to eat you that night or if he’s planning to save you for another day.
And after hearing him say no, you only say as much as “Right then,” with a big yawn, before further announcing, “If that’s all, I think I’ll go to bed. If that’s okay with you?”
It’s unusual for the evening to end so soon, given how much time he’d been prepared to dedicate to ensure its progression and completion. With all his prior prey, he’d have to all but forcefeed them—a process that would sometimes take up to several hours. But, given you’d cleaned your plate all on your own, he could see no reason to keep you any longer.
And so he dismisses you with a nod and a short “Sure.”
“I’m guessing the room I woke up in is still up for grabs?” you ask, being polite of all things as you carry your plate over to the sink, rinse it, and place it neatly in the dishwasher.
He doesn’t know how else to answer but return your casualness with his own. Saying, “Knock yourself out.”
You celebrate with a tiny “Nice!” before setting your sights to the stairs, then an even more peculiar exclamation of “Good night!” before finally disappearing.
Leaving him to sit there and mull in your wake. Grimacing once noticing too late how you’d hidden a few vegetables in the folds of your napkin…
—
True to his word, he doesn’t kill and eat you during the night.
The next couple of days pass just the same. You sleep alone in the same room you’d woken up in, you utilize the luxury during the day, he makes food, you eat together, and then you go back to sleep.
Strange as it is, it’s not so different from being on a vacation—or well, aside from wondering when he might decide to suddenly eat you, of course.
Still though, just the same as with vacation, the longer it lasts, the more not doing anything gets you feeling a little antsy.
Which is why, “Want any help?” you ask. Sitting by the breakfast bar, elbows propped on the counter, head resting on both palms, kicking your feet while staring at him rummage around, doing the work of five people.
He’s so wrapped up in it, you thought he didn’t notice you, but, similar to your first encounter, he keeps his back turned while addressing you as though he might have known you were there all along.
“You know how to cut an onion?” he asks.
To which you roll your eyes with a scoff, “I mean, I did work at a burger joint, so I would hope so.”
You decide to overlook his audacity and take it as an invitation, even though you’re sure he’d meant it as the opposite.
You ignore his side-eye as you relieve the onion of its coat and start cutting. Even as the man fully stops his own ministrations just to stare at you with arms crossed, you don’t bother.
In the end he doesn’t stop you, just mutters “Your technique is pitiful,” before returning to what he’d been doing—allowing you to continue despite his clear aversion.
“Man, whatever, I got paid minimum wage,” you dismiss with a laugh, finding his dourness funny. “Chopped onion’s chopped onion anyway, so don’t be a dick. And besides, that’s not what you should be worrying about.”
“Oh?” he retorts absentmindedly, without bothering to look at you.
You snicker, setting your hip to the counter, twirling the blade around with your hand while giving him a sly look. “If I were you, I’d be more worried about how I just armed the livestock with a knife.”
You’re being playful, of course, not serious. Even still, you know you’re pushing it. Given the man’s your cannibalistic captor, you shouldn't exactly be goofing around with him. But you can’t seem to help yourself. “I mean, how do you know I won't cut you?”
He still doesn't offer you a glance, but returns your snicker with his own. “You know what? I’d love to see you try.”
“Oh really? You have that much faith in yourself you can dodge a blade with absolute certainty?”
You’re bantering. You’re bantering with the man who plans to kill and eat you. And despite all logic, it’s fun. And, if you didn’t know any better, you’d say he’s enjoying it too, because, finally his head turns to look at you, grin on his face, and says, “Try it.”
Your smile grows wider, laughing now, “Alright, well, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll take back those nasty comments regarding my onion-chopping skills—”
You’re only barely pointing the knife in his direction as a mock threat before you’re face-first with the pristine black marble of the kitchen counter, arm bent behind your back.
“See?” his voice wreaks heat upon your ear, bent over you from the back, low and gritty, “I’ve handled all types of animals—many of ‘em far more trouble than a brat with an onion knife.”
You don’t know if he notices, but you do—the way his lower half grinds against your ass with bulge and all. Maybe he’s just big, but you swear you can feel a certain stiffness.
“Yeah? I can tell, you really know how to handle someone.”
He releases you instantly upon your comment as though the very words had burned him, even taking extra measures to back up away from you—a sudden grimace on his face as he glares at you like he’s trying to keep you at arm’s length.
“If you're trying to make yourself interesting in the hopes I'll spare you, you should save yourself the embarrassment. As I said, I’m not interested in that shit.”
You had half the nerve to tell him that he could’ve fooled you with the way he was just acting, but you decided to save it. Instead, you just chuckle with a sarcastic “Aw shucks, my masterplan,”
Still though, despite your efforts of disengaging, he stands there, a little guarded, if you were to describe it, as though not convinced you weren’t effectively trying to seduce him.
You shake your head, thinking it all ridiculous. Like, if you were actually trying to seduce him you wouldn’t lead with onions and death threats, now would you?
“Trust me, chef, I understand my circumstances,” you declare with a hand to your chest and a dull look on your face. “I might be livestock, but I'm not dumb like one. I know there’s no reality in which you decide to let me go free. I mean, you’ confessed to being a cannibal, for crying out loud—there’s no way back from that.”
You lean yourself against the kitchen island you’d been pinned against not too many seconds ago. “And I know I'm supposed to be freaking out or whatever. But honestly, freaking out’s just never been my style.”
With both hands flat against the cool marble you tip your head backwards to look up at the ceiling, once again assessing the clinical whiteness of it all, before continuing, “Besides…. in a way, I’ve always had this gut feeling that I'd end up in a situation like this, so I’ sorta came to terms with it ages ago.”
You spot the funny look he gives you in your peripheral, and you restate, “Well, not like this, of course, but you know… In trouble somehow. So, I figure I should just try to enjoy myself as much as I can before I can’t. You know?”
He doesn’t give you any sign that tells you he understands what you’re talking about, but it wasn’t as though you were expecting one either. To be honest, you don’t understand it yourself. By all accounts, you should be losing your marbles right now, and by all means, you probably are—you just never knew it would feel the same as faking a sick-day just to get out of work.
But anyways. “You should be happy, chef.” At least that’s what you think. “I heard fear spoils the flavor. Who knows? Maybe you’ll get your first ever taste of untainted meat.”
His unrelaxed countenance doesn’t fully change as he cocks a brow, all but interrogating you, “Thought you said you weren’t a foodie.”
You chuckle. “I just heard it somewhere, is all.” It’s funny how that’s the part he chooses to arrest you on and not any of the other shit you’d just said, but nevermind. “Anything else I can help with?”
He still looks a bit wary. But after a moment, he nods towards the dining room, with regards allowing you to, “Deck the table.”
You smile at his weirdness, wondering if he’s asexual, abstinent or scared he might actually grow attached while answering, “Sure thing, chef.”
—
A couple of more weeks pass just like that. You help him make dinner despite his efforts to discourage you. Other than that you continue to try and enjoy the luxuries that come with being a lamb raised for slaughter—taking long baths and watching movie marathons in the home cinema you found during your exploring of the house.
He’s gone most of the day, but not everyday. Even so, he’s busy—prepping things in the kitchen, or on the phone in his office. That, his bedroom, and the meat locker in the basement are the only three rooms with a lock in the entire house—except the outer door, of course—and the only three rooms you’ve yet to have seen the inside of.
In your sleep your mind wanders to what he keeps down there—and his bedroom for that matter. Imagining skinned bodies and heads in jars. It’s all you can do to entertain yourself after having run out of things to occupy your need for stimuli.
Today is one of those days especially, where restlessness has taken hold of you in such a way you don’t know what to do with yourself.
He comes home to find all the dining chairs mangled beyond repair, having been tossed a dozen times against the windows and walls.
“Shatterproof glass,” you state without acknowledging his arrival, lying still on the floor in the splinters. “I figured. But it was worth the try—if only to inspect your livestock safeguards. Everything seems to be in perfect condition.”
He doesn’t do anything but stand there, taking in the crime scene.
“You gonna punish me?” you ask after a moment’s time.
“No,” he answers shortly.
To which you sigh, feeling as though it hadn’t been the answer you were looking for even though that doesn’t make much sense. A little miffed, you prop yourself up on your elbows to look at him, “You’re not even the least bit disappointed?”
He starts making his way to the kitchen, six grocery bags, three in each hand, saying, “It’s only natural. I’m more surprised it took you this long to try.”
You drop back down with a pout at the boring response, staring at the ceiling once more—still clinically white like you’ve been locked inside an asylum. At this point you might start believing it could be true. Mumbling, “Yeah, well, maybe I have an Icarus problem or whatever they call it…”
Another heavy sigh leaves you then. “Not gonna lie to you, chef. I'm starting to freak out a little.” You try making it sound like a warning, though you’re not sure he takes it as such. “Or maybe I'm just bored. Not sure which…”
He ignores you and you pout. And then, just a moment later, with spectacular timing as usual, your stomach decides to growl.
“Oh, really?” you question, looking down your chest to eye your belly-button.
“How ‘bout that…” you scoff. “I guess trying to break windows is hungry work.”
You veer your head backwards to where your unlikely roommate stands, packing out of the grocery bags in a slow meticulous manner, like he’s taking his time to enjoy himself, thinking about all the cooking possibilities at his disposal.
Curiosity piqued, “What's for dinner?” you ask as you jump up on your feet and walk over to take your seat by the breakfast counter—it’s become your designated spot.
Standing before the fridge, he’s just finished packing the last item away when turning around and leaning against the door. Asking “What do you want?” while trying to act casual. But you can tell—he’s eager, wanting you to solve his luxury of choice for him.
But alas, it’s questions like those that you hate. And so, clutching the counter, you tilt backwards and make a show of rolling your head against your shoulders, before laying yourself dead against the marble, looking up at him, saying “Oh, come on, chef, you know I don't have the answer to that. Your kitchen might as well be a space station.”
With a sly smile, you bat your lashes at him as though saying pretty please “Decide for me?”
Since that time he’d pinned you against the counter, he’s been more guarded when it comes to your suggestive and flirty ways, standing there, straight and stiff, with only curt “Fine,” leaving him.
It’s beyond boring, making you pout to no one but yourself as he rolls up his sleeves and starts picking ingredients.
But then, ingredients in hand, still with his back turned towards you as he makes his way to the stove, he mumbles, just loud enough for it to be meant as an offer and not some joke, “If you’re bored, come help.”
You lift yourself up from your slump, burning holes in the back of his head with your stare. This would be the first time he’s ever spared you any such consideration.
You have to giggle a bit, feeling excited as you jump out of your seat and follow behind him. “The word please ain’t in your vocabulary, huh, chef?”
As though embarrassed to look at you after having requested you in such a way, he even turns his cheek when you get too close, mumbling once again, now lower and gruffer, “I ain’t heard you say thank you yet, either.”
It makes your smile grow wider. “Hmph—I guess we’re bad company.”
—
More weeks pass.
The only thing you ask of him is to rent you a movie you’d been dying to see.
Other than that, you make yourself about as high maintenance as a housecat. He just feeds you three times a day and you never complain.
Over time, you get more and more comfortable—which he hadn’t thought possible—and more and more bratty, inviting him into discussions, coaxing him into indulging you by showing interest in his cooking, spanning from acting deeply invested to fleetingly so. He can’t blame you for trying. Still, he can’t reward your efforts either.
Exercising restraint, he maintains an instrumental distance. The more familiarity you show him, the more he pulls back. After all, he mustn’t forget what you are. In the end, despite how much you act like it, you’re not his pet or partner or imaginary friend. You’re meat. He just needs to figure out what to make with you. That’s all. The only reason behind him keeping you around this long.
Admittedly, your slaughter date was supposed to be ages ago. He’s never kept another victim this long, not by a long shot. Usually, the entire ritual only lasts the weekend, with an entire week at most. Meanwhile, your stay is coming up on a whole month now…
And still, he lets another two weeks pass. And with the additional time, you’ve grown the audacity to sit and pick at his food—right in front of him, no less.
“Not up to your standards?” he questions.
You’ve been unusually quiet this evening. Normally, you’d talk his ear off about this and that and everything between heaven and hell, but right now, if he were to close his eyes, he wouldn’t even know you were there with him.
During your month and a half, you’d yet to have gotten sick. Not that there was any reason for you to get sick, what with you staying safe indoors and him cooking all your meals. Really, you should be brimming with life like you would any other day.
But then again, he had noticed a change in you lately. Mere boredom had evolved into something else, something worse. Sitting there, silently, your expression isn’t only dull, but something even more hushed.
Lonely is the word that comes to mind.
“I don't mean to offend you, chef…” you mumble. “But right now I kinda just wish I had some cup noodles—or maybe a big mac or something else simple like that—a frozen pizza—anything but this gourmet stuff…”
He’s not sure what to say to that. Though many of his prior victims had refused to eat his food or even gone to such lengths as to throw up after eating it, he’s never, not once, witnessed one request junk food instead.
“I’m sorry, that was rude,” you apologize. Then, releasing a heavy sigh, you pick your gaze up, setting those pitifully downcast eyes in his direction. “When are you gonna kill me?”
Your expression is blank, and yet it has a certain presence—demanding an answer.
It wasn’t a question he was expecting to hear from you.
“Haven’t decided,” he dismisses. He doesn’t let it show, but it sends a chill down his spine. He then begins to eat without you in an attempt to shrug it off. Ignoring the way you stare at him by pretending to have his full focus on his plate, even when he can barely taste the food on his tongue.
“I think you should do it soon. Before my meat goes bad,” you add, unsatisfied with his response—or, at least, he thinks he can detect a certain sharpness in your tone he’s never heard there before.
It proves more of a reason for him to keep eating—half his plate already gone while yours remain untouched. Answering you with his mouth stuffed full, “I don't know what to make of you yet.”
“Tch—aren’t you a chef?” you huff to that. He can spot your grip tighten around your utensils, wringing the silver in your grip. “Figure it out already.”
He’s not sure what this feeling is. Something weird in his gut, making the food not sit right. He’s never experienced it before, but something tells him its nervousness. What else can it be? What else would have the power to make him lose appetite as well as make it near impossible to return your glare?
“You haven’t given me anything to work with…” he argues, as though this was a simple matter. “I can’t cook if I'm not inspired.”
Even as he says it, he knows it’s all bullshit—knows it won’t satisfy the frustration he can feel emanating from you.
“Excuse me?” you bark then, voice raised even higher, even sharper, “I’m here waiting to become food, and you’re talking about inspiration?”
You scoff then, incredulously. “Last time I checked, the beef doesn’t tell the chef it wants to be a fucking burger.”
In situations like these, he’d typically resort to the restraints. You hadn’t yet given him any reason to, but still, they’ve remained around the chair’s arms and legs all this time, just waiting to be put to use.
Usually, he wouldn’t bat an eye doing it, but for some reason, with you, he’d like to avoid it.
“Eat,” he says instead, halfway as a command, but otherwise as a measure to diffuse the tension.
But efforts be damned, you won’t have it, throwing your cutlery on the clothed table with a clatter in clear demonstration. “I'm not fucking hungry. How about that?”
Another chill straightens his spine, his jaw clenched, throat tight, repeating “Eat,”
And you, challenging him, stand your ground with a sound “No.”
He throws his cutlery too, then slams both fists down on the table, making everything do a jump. “Either you eat, or I forcefeed you. Pick.”
“Fine,” you return right away, throwing your hands up in a mock gesture of surrender yet make no advancements towards your utensils or the food on your plate. Instead, you make a show of crossing your arms over your chest while slouching down in your seat like a brat, before further pushing your luck with an equally testy “What's for dessert?”
Your plate remains picked to pieces, getting colder by the second, with none of it having seen your mouth. What’s more, not only have you had enough nerve to have asked him for fast food instead, now you’re taking it further by ordering “Dessert?”
“Yeah.” Assessing your nails, you switch between having your fingers pressed into your palm to turning your hand around and stretching them out. Lips pursed before you smack then, “I've been meaning to tell you this for a while now actually, it’s criminal to have dinner without dessert.”
Swallowing thick, he finds the need to gather himself as the magnitude of unrecognizable emotions floods his body and brains, so much his eye twitches receiving them all. “Is that right?”
Meanwhile, you just cock your head to the side, continuing to push him with an assertive “Sure is.”
Teeth clenched, he takes a breath, then relays “Hate to disappoint, but I don’t make dessert,” still trying to put the argument to bed by thwarting your stubbornness.
But you remain determined. In fact, you remain downright unabashed, shooting him a pointedly snarky “What type of chef doesn’t know how to make dessert?”
Yet another chill nearly makes him shudder. Brows lowered, stating, “I know how.”
By all accounts, he’s giving you enough warnings for you to back off and apologize, but you do no such thing. “Then why don’t you?” you inveigh instead, now with a sneer no less.
“Eat,” he repeats again, as if saying for the last time.
But you refuse to let it scare you. “No!” you roar, abruptly standing up with a stomp. “In fact, fuck you! I'm done eating on death row without dessert! It’s ridiculous!”
He gets up too, with a growl no less, “Sit down.”
His fists balled up, placed with knuckles cracking against the table in clear threat you still don’t bother heeding.
You just ball your own fists and mirror his stance. “Are you deaf? I said, not without dessert.”
“That’s it.”
It’s just like the last time he put hands on you—it happens before he can think.
One second, he’s staring at you from the other side of the table, and in the next, he’s already rounded it and planted you flat against it. Though that’s not to say he didn’t have control. No, his actions are perfectly calculated despite his head being anything but—having placed you down, belly-up, just shy of the food, like you’re part of the feast.
“Don’t you get it?” he rasps, clutching your upper arms harshly enough to make you shut your mouth—but too late. With the damage already done, you needn’t push him any further to make him blurt it out, “You’re supposed to be dessert but you’re making it fucking impossible!”
And still, it’s not the outburst you’d been waiting for.
“Excuse me?!” you gasp. “I’m making it impossible?” With a big scoff, you seem to forget how he’s got you pinned beneath him against the table with the way your hands fly up and ball his shirt in two tightknit fists. “Fuck are you on? I’ve been nothing but cooperative since the start, you asshole!”
“You’re not supposed to be, you brat!” he counters, and then with his head bowed and voice lowered into a whisper adds “I’m fucking starving beacuse of you.”
Your eyes meet his, unwavering in their pursuit, and he can’t defend calling you his victim or his prey any longer.
“Well… if you’re so fucking hungry, go on and eat me already,” you dare, a provocative curl upon your lips drawing him in. “Unless you’re too much of a pussy to try.”
—
“Well, well, well…” you croon, lying beneath his sheets, on top of his chest like it’s your rightful place. A smug look in your eyes, biting your smile, before completing your taunt, “Looks like you fell for my master plan after all.”
He sighs heavily. Hands connected just beneath the small of your back, on top of all that plump flesh he thought he’d have in his stomach, but instead ended up in his bed.
No one could have predicted these turn of events. And so, “Don't flatter yourself... We both know you never had any plan.”
You just giggle, continuing to tease him, “And still, the livestock lives on.”
Shifting, you push yourself up into a seated position, straddling him. “I mean, not to judge or anything, but…” Running your hands down his chest, he watches you admire all the little bitemarks you’d left before your eyes meet his again, as unapologetic as ever. “You’d be a real freak if you ate me after we did all that.”
summary: sukuna has loved you since you were in high school, and when he finally gets his chance with you, four years after graduation, he's the perfect boyfriend.
he treats you like you're worth more than the entire world, devoted solely to you, committed to keeping you healthy and happy in his arms for all eternity.
if only he wasn't killing people behind your back.
content: 18+ mdni, smut, dub-con in the later chapters, rough sex, yandere sukuna, obsession, stalking, murder, blood, gore, manipulation, deception, unhealthy dynamics, jealousy, cheating (reader cheats on her bf with sukuna), sukuna is awful in this but he's LOVELY to reader exclusively, more tags to be added on a chapter by chapter basis!
summary: sukuna has loved you since you were in high school, and when he finally gets his chance with you, four years after graduation, he's the perfect boyfriend.
he treats you like you're worth more than the entire world, devoted solely to you, committed to keeping you healthy and happy in his arms for all eternity.
if only he wasn't killing people behind your back.
content: 18+ mdni, smut, dub-con in the later chapters, rough sex, yandere sukuna, obsession, stalking, murder, blood, gore, manipulation, deception, unhealthy dynamics, jealousy, cheating (reader cheats on her bf with sukuna), sukuna is awful in this but he's LOVELY to reader exclusively, more tags to be added on a chapter by chapter basis!
summary: sukuna has loved you since you were in high school, and when he finally gets his chance with you, four years after graduation, he's the perfect boyfriend.
he treats you like you're worth more than the entire world, devoted solely to you, committed to keeping you healthy and happy in his arms for all eternity.
if only he wasn't killing people behind your back.
content: 18+ mdni, smut, dub-con in the later chapters, rough sex, yandere sukuna, obsession, stalking, murder, blood, gore, manipulation, deception, unhealthy dynamics, jealousy, cheating (reader cheats on her bf with sukuna), sukuna is awful in this but he's LOVELY to reader exclusively, more tags to be added on a chapter by chapter basis!
✧ summary the kingdom has sunk into a violent civil war, and you and your family, the lighthouse keepers, tried your best to stay out of it. that is until a group of rebels show up injured on your doorstep, begging for shelter you can't refuse.
✧ content mdni!; historical au; angst; slow burn; eventual smut; enemies to lovers sort of; mutual pining; hurt and comfort; yearning; dark themes; fighting; depictions of blood, injuries and treatments; will add more tags as we go
✧ a/n one thing about me is asoiaf is my favourite book series and since the dunk and egg show trailer came out i've been inspired! also pls forgive any historical inaccuracies
Part One - Part Two - Part Three - part four - part five - part six - part seven - part eight
Status - Ongoing - current WC -81k
pairings- Emperor! Gojo x arranged! Empress reader
summary - you've been set to marry the new emperor Satoru Gojo, but he wants nothing to do with all of that, he doesn't even come to your first meeting - rude! No, he must bathe with his concubines, but when he sees you for the first time and doesn't even know you're his wife? Everything shifts, but it turns out he doesn't know that you're not happy to be here either. Leaving your past love behind and everything you know for a foreign country, just to be unwanted by your new 'husband' is almost enough to break you. You're ready to go through the motions, play your role, but do you really know who Emperor Gojo is?
contents/warnings - heavy angst, depression, enemies to lovers, longing, mutual pining, explicit smut, back and forth games, court tactics, Satoru being a hoe, reader missing her lover Suguru, he falls hard playlist - Ao3 link
headcanons below!
Emperor! Gojo who loves all of his pretty concubines equally, he loves to please them, to tease them, to fill them up. To be a concubine of Satoru Gojo's was the utmost position in the empire, women fought hard to climb the ranks for such a chance. Satoru recently took over the position after his father passed away, and has pushed off marriage proposals left and right, why not just have fun with all his beautiful ladies?
Emperor! Gojo however is now being forced into marriage, he's played a foolish bachelor too long, and the higher ups have brought a perfect match from another land, a young princess who has been brought here just for him. Gojo is completely uninterested in meeting her, why should he be excited, the duties of being an emperor were taxing enough without having to meet some stranger and have to sleep with her, have babies with her. He ignores the meeting he's supposed to attend in favor of spending time with his favorite concubines at once, quite scandalous even for an Emperor.
Emperor! Gojo is a stranger to you as well, as you sit there sipping tea, your ladies in waiting are strangers, everyone you knew was back home, and here you are, made a fool of. There are whispers amongst them all, you can hear them as your teacup clinks on the little ceramic dish, and Emperor Gojo's mother comes in to apologize for his absence. She's a beautiful lady, you wonder if he looks like her errantly, but smile in a feigned politeness, nodding along. After all, it's not as if you were looking forward to this either.
Emperor! Gojo takes a bath with all his women, when you decide to join the bathhouse after quite a long time without one, your mind drifting to the boy you loved when you were forced to leave your home. You remember your kisses, your promises, and the moment you got sent away here, with a man who's currently being fed grapes in the clear bath waters by many women. They're giggling, touching him, and you barely see him as your attendant helps you undress.
Emperor! Gojo has brilliant blue eyes that catch you across the enormous, steamy bathhouse then - he's pausing as he sees you, just wearing a thin white slip of material, curious just who you are. You take some of the soap you've brought, and your attendant washes your hair while he can't take his eyes off you, your curves in that thin material, the way the smooth skin of your thighs is lit up but the lanterns above. You're so beautiful he must know who you are.
Emperor! Gojo feels his mouth go dry when you step into those waters now, standing a bit so that he sees the full outline of your breasts, making his cock twitch under the water, he can't focus on anything but how those droplets of water fall from your skin as you methodically wash yourself. You peer at him just a bit, before lowering your lashes, when he can't help but look at one of his favorite girls, asking - 'who is she?'
Emperor! Gojo doesn't get an answer, no one knows what you look like yet, so he assumes you must be one of the new girls in a position to become a concubine. and fuck if he wouldn't love that opportunity, imagining fucking a baby into you ruins him then. One of his major duties is to have as many babies as he can, to strengthen the empire of course. Yet he tends to be a little apprehensive, he dares to admit he doesn't cum in any of the concubines yet, he doesn't know if he wants children right away. He's young, but of course the pressure is there, and he knows it will be soon, especially with him having to marry. He shoves that annoying thought away.
Emperor! Gojo was supposed to meet his wife today, should he feel bad? maybe. Does he? no, he does not. He steps away and walks across the water, giving you a good look at him then, his chiseled body, narrow torso, pale skin glimmering under the warmth of the room. The stream rises as you look slowly up his body, carved like a statue, then finally make it to his face, truly beautiful. He does look like his mother, those white locks with just a hint of lavender, the beautiful blue eyes even more intense than hers, his body glistening as he walks closer, plump vermilion lips curved in a smile as he murmurs a - 'hello, there, are you new here?'
Emperor! Gojo has a reputation of being kind and fair, though on the battlefield he was ruthless, tales of him were regaled worldwide, and you knew of his military prowess of course. You tremble just a bit as he gets closer, his eyes slipping down your body like a caress. 'I am new here, your majesty' he smiles now. 'No need to be so formal,' the emperor brushes a hand across your hair, marveling in the silkiness now. 'Are you here to be a concubine? I assure you, I have a position opening very soon' he acts as if that's a compliment, as if you should be thrilled your husband to be is willing to fuck a stranger while he ignores your meeting. But you smile, shaking your head. 'ah, you're mysterious, hmm?'
Emperor! Gojo is enamored when he touches you under the water, big hand on the small of your back, taking it over as he steps closer, so tall and imposing in the water. Your breasts brush against his abdomen, as your breaths quicken, a mix of irritation and something more you don't want to admit. 'You know who I am?' you nod a bit, biting your lip when he leans down, pressing you along the warmth of the hard wall behind you. one of his long thighs presses against your heat, and you hate how your body reacts, it feels like such a betrayal of the one you loved, and for a man who doesn't want to even know you? You bite back a sigh when he leans down, an arm on either side of you.
Emperor! Gojo murmurs the words - 'so fucking pretty, god,' and earns your blush, he chuckles as he sees it, flushed color on your cheeks, when his lips hover over yours. 'Can you at least tell me your name, mysterious girl?' when you say it he immediately recognizes it, faltering and stepping back, eyes wide. You smile, meanly then, batting your lashes. 'was such a shame you couldn't meet me for tea, hmm? I see you were otherwise occupied' you eye the girls behind his shoulders, whispering to each other wildly, when you push him back, hands on his chest. 'It's rude not to even meet me after I got dragged on a five day journey on ship, you know.'
Emperor! Gojo sputters, eyeing your hands on his chest that he now pins there for a moment. 'You're my... you can't be... you...' a sigh escapes your lips, as you tug your hands back. 'Yes, I'm your betrothed, I suppose this is our first meeting. I'll leave you to your pretty concubines, I'm afraid I don't intend on becoming one,' you turn and climb up those steps, the slip forming to you like a goddess, as you turn him down. No one has ever turned Emperor Gojo down!? yet here you are, turning and giving him a little smile as your attendant hands you a towel. 'Perhaps you'll make it to the wedding, your majesty'
Emperor! Gojo is wracked with confusion, part of him doesn't even believe you, concubines were known for their beauty and assets, but wives were much different. They were always from some long line of weak women, usually only there for their duty, his own mother was quite an exception, but her and his father never loved each other. He hoped himself to never have to marry, but now he feels just the smallest twinge of guilt for not meeting you. Even for him it was quite the talk, he could hear the rumors of how he doesn't have interest in his bride to be as he walks through the corridors of his opulent estates.
Emperor! Gojo sees glimpses of you here and there that week, but you bow and say no words to him, avoiding him until it is your wedding day. And to say you were beautiful before, now it leaves him speechless, throat dry as you were those beautiful sky blue ceremonial juunihitoe, layers of blue and white, embossed with silver flowers just flowing from your body. He's wearing his thick dark blue sokutai, the robes altered to reveal far too much of his muscled chest, as Satoru liked to do. His heart hammers as you clutch your hands together, feeling the stoic eyes of so many on you. You focus on the tall, handsome man that clearly doesn't want this any more than you do, stepping closer and closer, until you're in front of him.
Emperor! Gojo is still reeling when you both sip on each of the three cups of sake, he places his lips on one end of the little dish, then hands it to you, eyeing the red painted on your lips. Your makeup has been done clearly, there's color under your eyes, blush along your precious cheeks. Precious, why did he think that? the thought irritates him, when you two continue the ceremony. Soon, it's night time, and he's prepared in just a thin Kimono, loosely tied, walking over to your chambers now and entering them, seeing you sitting in front of the vanity, your attendant brushing out your hair. 'You may go,' he orders her, the doors shutting with a loud echo as he inhales the sweetness of your scent, mixing with the incense you've lit.
Emperor! Gojo has a husky tone as he says your name, and you stand up now, wearing just a thin blue robe, he can see your breasts rising and falling with your breath, as the two of you stand across the room. 'The sooner I have a baby, the less you'll have to see me, or do this,' you say then, shocking him. His mouth opens, then closes as he smirks at you. 'And you think that you know how that's done?' you tilt your head just a bit, letting your robes fall then, covered in nothing, completely bare for his eyes. His breaths come far too quickly, heat rising on his cheeks. He's been with countless women, but nothing prepared him for this, for you, when you step up to him slowly, a hand on his chest. 'Should I prepare you, your majesty?'
Emperor! Gojo is furiously blushing now, annoyed you have whatever odd effect this is, he tries to save face, trembling as your fingers dance across the silk of his robe. 'you think you're adequate at it?' he says then, you smile just a bit. 'I've had instruction on how to please my future husband, there are many books that show it,' he laughs, trying to play it off, when he undoes his tie, and he's just in a fundoshi, showing his cock straining while his robes land on the floor. 'Let's see it, then,' he gasps when you're on your knees, glaring as he thinks that maybe you've done this before, and why should that bother him!?
Emperor! Gojo has his cock free then, slapping his stomach as it does, thick and already hard from just seeing you, you bite your lip as the cool stone floor hurts your knees, stroking him slowly, from the base where he has tufts of white hair, to his pink tip leaking milky drops. 'I thought I'd have to get you in this state? the books didn't mention it being ready...' he glares now, you're insulting him without even knowing it, calling out his desperation. He entangles a hand in your hair then, pulling it as you lap at his tip, almost making him cum from that. 'Let's see what you've learned, hmm?' you're stroking him then, little hand up and down in gentle twists, as you suck him into your mouth, deeper and deeper, his eyes roll back in his head as he fucks your hot mouth then.
Emperor! Gojo has never felt anything better even from the most practiced girls, your suction, the way your tongue swirls, as he fucks your throat deeper and deeper, moaning. But mostly, those eyes looking up at him. He's whispering filthy things - 'slutty fucking throat' - then sweet things - 'doing s'good, sweetheart...' a conundrum of a man. You feel your tummy clenching, something you didn't expect, snowy lashes casting shadows on his cheeks, while you taste him, hands pressing on his muscled thighs. He pulls you off him then, saliva dripping from your mouth. 'Was I not adequate?' he laughs without humor, standing you up now. 'Not adequate?' he is lifting you and slamming his lips on yours, tasting himself, before carrying you on your enormous bed, decorated in more blues, the color of the Gojo clan, the colors of his eyes.
Emperor! Gojo has elegant long fingers, they slip down your body as he feels it tremble, fingers touching your slick cunt then. You gasp as he kisses down one of your breasts, sucking a nipple in his mouth, moaning and rutting his cock on the silk blankets as you cry out. 'Your majesty, you don't need to do all of that, just... get it done,' your words make him pause, looking up and seeing you then, lips swollen from his kisses. He pauses and looks down your body, dying to be inside you, but your words fuck him then. All of the concubines wanted Satoru, and you were just 'doing your duty'. He pulls back then, raising a brow at you. 'Do I need to suck you more?' he shakes his head, clearing his throat then - 'tonight, we will not consummate the marriage' - the words hurt you deeply. 'did I displease you?'
Emperor! Gojo doesn't know what it is, but the thought of a woman not wanting him, especially you, infuriates him. He shoves you up the bed then, making you blink in confusion, when he kisses down your tummy, watching it tense as he dreams of making it bulge with his cock. 'Are you untouched?' he asks, you blush then. 'I have not lain with a man, no, but I'm not untouched.' Satoru's furious anyone saw your pretty body, but he makes no comment, he surely hates tradition and wouldn't care if you were or were not a virgin. In fact he prefers experience, but when he sees your pretty pussy, glistening and soaked, he moans softly, the prettiest one he's seen. 'Your majesty, that's not... in the books!? ah!'
Emperor! Gojo has his tongue slipping up your slit then, smirking against your cunt as your mouth is wide. 'Not everything is in your books, sweetheart,' he laps up your slit again, and you whine out, gripping his shoulders, your nails pressing in. 'I'll have you cum on my face tonight,' his words are now muffled as he buries his face in your sweetness, letting the juices drown him, moaning as he works your body. He feels you tense, feels your cunt pulsing around his tongue when he fucks into your tiny hole, holding your thighs apart. You're lost in how good it feels, you've cum before but never have you done this, felt this, so intense, so much pressure. You're screaming out, hips arching as he makes filthy sounds with your squelching cunt.
Emperor! Gojo almost cums from just this, he's never enjoyed this so much, he can't help but pay attention to every little thing. You yank on his hair, as if to tug him off, he clamps down then, sucking your twitchy little clit into his mouth. 'ah! y-your majesty!' he wants you to call him Satoru, he can't say it though, for now he just devours your pussy, until you shatter. There are no words, just filthy, messy sounds, slurping and squishing echoing in your brand new chambers, while you cum all over your new husband's face. You're shaking as you come down, as the orgasm leaves aftershocks, pulsing around nothing, pleasure making you dizzy, blinded. Satoru presses one more kiss on your pretty cunt, smirking down at you now, pressing a kiss to your lips, when you taste yourself you're a blushing mess. 'a lot of talk, I don't think you're ready f'me yet, sweetheart'
Emperor! Gojo is getting up then, as you catch your breath, sitting up and looking at the man you barely know, his eyes linger across your body as he swipes his chin, embarrassingly coated with your slick. 'And where will you go, your concubines to cum?' he chuckles then, leaning low, tilting your chin up as you look at him. 'would that bother you, sweetheart?' you shake your head, it can't bother you, it shouldn't, this will be your life now. 'Ah, you're not the best liar, that won't help you play the court, you know,' he turns and walks away then, leaving you alone, to contemplate it all.
Just who was Emperor! Gojo!?
hehe I hope ya'll enjoy I can't wait to finish up a couple stories and get to this (or be chaotic and do it anyway lmaoo)
You run into your mom's ex right before your older sister's wedding, the golden child of the family. You never could stand him when he was around the brief few years he dated her, and nothing's changed now. The fact is you never fit into your mom's bougie, country club life, you're a hot mess and the black sheep of the family, so.... what better way to solidify that position than to get shitfaced drunk and let her ex fuck you in a bar bathroom? There won't be any problems from that when you all head to that wedding... right?
pairings- mom's ex-boyfriend! sukuna x fem! reader
warnings - MDNI - Kuna is 35, reader is 25, messy dynamics, not stepcest but they joke about it, drinking, degradation, sadistic Sukuna, semi-public sex, oral (f receiving) creampie, finger sucking, they hate e/o, reader has SO MANY mommy issues, she's a hot mess and needs therapy tbh but dick works for now - Sukuna enjoys reader's damage </3
this is fully finished, I'm sharing here weekly (six parts) Every Monday night. be warned this is freaky lmao
art in the divider is by my sweet, talented mootie @winterrbluess so go follow her rn!
chap one
Your older sister was getting married, your mom’s pride and joy – fuck, everyone in your family saw her as that. A lawyer, successful, kind, fuck she does charity in her free time. Everyone who meets her absolutely loves her, and how can you blame them when you love her just as much? Even if you resent being the clear ‘least favorite’ from your mom, you can’t ever blame her.
You however?
A hot mess to put it nicely – you have two degrees which is pretty cool but you aren’t using either, instead trying to make a career out of your music which is basically a fucking pipe dream. ‘All that wasted potential!’ your family says constantly, at any get together you have, for the fact you chose to live alone and drop out of college to pursue your dreams.
You get it, you’re broke and struggling in a family of rich people, ones who have country club memberships and never worried for a fucking thing. You’re not up to their standard, throwing back a tequila shot the night before your sister’s rehearsal dinner. Fuck you’ve barely had the money to stay in one of their dumb suites they reserved for everyone, so this shot thankfully was on the house.
You smile and thank the man next to you, who asks you to throw in on a game of pool. Forever ‘single’ that’s another reason for the family to worry, you’re twenty four now, shouldn’t you be at least engaged? Your sister is only one year older and getting married this weekend, already four years into a relationship.
Problem is, you don’t really like people, and you sure the fuck don’t like many men.
You fuck, you’re not without your needs or anything, you have a couple friends that take care of you, and you return that. But it’s casual, it’s easy. There’s not a connection with either of them and no feelings, you get dick and you sort of just move on from it with a friendly hug goodbye, moving on to whatever city you’re performing in that week.
You’ve made a little bit of a name for yourself, you even have a following, but shit like that wouldn’t make ‘mommy dearest’ proud, and you’re not sure you really care if you do or not. You never fit in growing up as it was, the outlier, the outsider really, never even getting along with her string of ‘step dads’ or whatever you’d call the men she brought around - except one, of course.
Her last one was the worst.
Sukuna.
Just the thoughts of that arrogant man make your blood pressure rise, remembering just how much you hated him when you’d had to stay at your mom’s for a few months. Arrogant, cocky and overall so rude, you weren’t sure how she even got with him with his gruff nature aside from that man’s body.
Swimming in the same pool at eighteen near him had been absolutely brutal to your psyche at the time, no one needed that many slutty tattoos all over their fucking body, surely! You sigh now, thinking of that while some man walks up near you, and a familiar scent hits your nostrils.
Musky, heady, something you can’t quite place, a rolex glinting off a tattooed hand, business jacket adorning some man’s body. It takes you a moment to register it, dumb from his cologne, whatever it was fucked up your senses, the poor guy who bought you the drink is babbling on while your cunt is dripping from a scent.
The fuck sort of pheremones are in this shit!?
You clear your throat, he’s too close to you, this tall man, with tattoos that you just can’t rip your eyes away from, adorning huge hands with raised blue and purple veins underneath taut skin. The music and lights of the bar all fade, like some dumb movie you’d watch, your thighs pressing together, trying to rip your gaze from him and focus.
“I’ll have a whiskey on the rocks,” you hear it then, there’s no mistaking that voice, the one that used to make you so fucking angry, the man who’d had your mother dumb in love. You glare up then, for him to look down at you, taking his glass and smirking, ruby eyes lidded as he studies you. “Ah, it’s the brat.”
“The brat? Excuse me?” You roll your eyes at him, while Sukuna studies just how fucking sexy you look right now.
You’re a little older now, you lost some of that baby face, becoming even more pretty, a sharper jut to your chin, narrowed eyes with your lips all glossy and pursed together in irritation. Your hair falls against bare shoulders, you’ve got a different style than you did then to it, silky against your bare skin in that slutty little excuse for an outfit you’re wearing.
He drifts his gaze down to breasts begging for his hands, nipples pressing against pathetic fucking material, some velvet and lace bodice that should be in a bedroom only. He resists the urge to throw his coat over you, before eyeing the boy behind you trying to make conversation.
He gives him such a look that the boy literally fucking runs away, much to Sukuna’s amusement, smirking when you look over your shoulder. “Huh, looks like he got annoyed by you finally.”
“You’re still such a dick, nothing’s changed, huh?” You scoff, rolling your eyes then, he sits down casually, eyeing your empty glass.
“Want a drink?” You pause then, his thigh is brushing against yours, he’s close - too close again. “You’re old enough now, yeah?”
“Twenty-five. And you? Fifty yet?”
“You’re still bitchy as ever,” he rolls his eyes at you, leaning back on the seat a bit, sipping his glass, you watch his adam’s apple bob, the dark lights glinting off his frosty pink locks. “Thirty five.”
“I forgot mom was a cougar,” he chuckles a bit, the sound throaty and doing too much. “You still talk to her?”
“Yeah, I do. She invited me to your sister’s wedding. Me and her were pretty cool with each other – you were the little brat.”
“Yeah well sorry I didn’t want you trying to tell me what to do,” he leans forward, a fist under his chin, elbow on the bar.
“Your mom still a bitch to you?”
You pause, blinking a bit. “She’s always disappointed, if that’s what you mean, she’ll always be her favorite.”
Sukuna pauses a bit, the reason he and your mother didn’t work out had a lot to do with how stuck up and pretentious she was, of course she was beautiful and fun for the time, but she also just didn’t give a fuck. Especially about you from what he can briefly remember sticking around when you were eighteen and trying to figure out college.
“You got invited, huh?” He blinks a bit, the past slipping some. “Mom want some dick again?”
He laughs then, a husky, throaty laugh, running a hand through his hair. “If she does, I sure won’t be giving it to her.”
“What are you dating? My condolences to her.” His eyes narrow at your mean little smile.
“Nope,” he taps your glass again. “Do you want a drink or not?”
“I dunno, former step-dad.”
He scowls now, you’re giggling until he leans far too close, lips a breath away from yours. “Never was your fucking ‘step dad’. Unless,” his fingers drift across your cheek now. “You wanted me to be, ya got that many mommy issues?”
“You fucking wish,” you slap his hand, scowling up at him, meeting his energy in that moment. “Get me one then.”
“What little bitch drink are you having?”
“Dirty shirley.”
He laughs at you again, you shove his big ass, feeling those biceps under your hand. “The bitchiest of drinks.”
“Oh fuck you,” he chuckles and orders you one anyway, judgy as fuck when the bartender pops in a pretty cherry. “Thanks I guess.”
“Yeah, whatever,” you brush your hair back off your shoulders, exposing far too much of your pretty shoulders, lips wrapping around the straw. “Drinking your sorrows?”
“What do you care?”
“We’re both here, might as well catch up with my former almost step daughter.” You shove at his big body, he snorts in laughter, irritating you to no end. “Thought this was your kink.”
“Psh, you’re so annoying I swear. I’m doing music and busy being the family disappointment.” You raise your glass in a toast, he can’t stop the grin on his face.
“Could disappoint them more.”
“You think so?” He leans back, putting the crystal glass back up to his lips.
“Of course you can. You could become a stripper, they'd love that.”
“Shit, I could, maybe dance at the bachelor party?”
“There you go, that’d really get ‘em going,” you laugh then, the sound too pleasing to his ears. “You’re failing at being the disappointment.”
“I am, truly,” something feels almost comfortable about Sukuna in that moment, you try to ignore how sexy he looks when he loosens his black tie, swallowing more of your pink drink down. “I never liked you.”
“I know,” the lights flit a bit, casting shadows on a face that looks a little too fucking good to your buzzed senses. “I didn’t like you much, just a little brat. You still are it seems.”
“You’re still a dick it seems,” Sukuna just winks at you. “And pretentious.”
“Any other words?”
“Obnoxius, rude, annoying-”
“Just say you wanna fuck me already,” you shove at him again. “You ready for the wedding then? Gonna be in some ugly bridesmaid dress?”
“Of course I will be, it’s the ugliest thing I’ve seen too.” You pick up your phone, showing him a picture of you in it.
“Disgusting.”
“I know!”
“You’ll look like a fucking yellow bird in that thing.”
“It’s so ugly, I have to wear it to the rehearsal dinner too. Are you going to that?”
“I am, I’m not looking forward to seeing your mom again.”
“Aw,” you trail your fingers up his chest teasingly, a pout on your face. “Poor Sukuna, did she break your wittle heart?”
“You’re such a little brat,” he snatches your wrist then, big fingers entrapping it, leaning close to you. “You know your mom.”
“Not quite like you.”
“We’ve both been inside her tech– shit come back!?” You’re already hopping your drunk ass off the seat.
“I’ll deal with you tomorrow,” you mumble, so done with him then, yet he’s following you. “Are you bored?”
“Are you mad?” You scowl at him now, standing towards the entrance, your jacket slung over your arm. “Upset it isn’t you?”
“You’re trying to piss me off, doesn’t make any sense either, I won’t get you hooked back up with mommy.”
“You keep bringing her up,” he leans low, brushing your hair back, you tremble just a bit at the proximity. “You look good as fuck, y’know that?”
“Oh shut up,” you shove at him again. “What, do I look like mom?”
“Much hotter,” you scoff then, but the words have their fucked effect, his big hand on your waist with his lips against your ear when you phone rings. He pulls back and you take a step away, outside catching your breath. The fucker follows you out, lighting up a cigarette casually.
“Yeah, what’s up mom?” You ask, eyes flitting over to Sukuna’s form, leaning against the brick wall.
“What are you doing, I need you to help with plans! This is your sister’s wedding, you know!” Your jaw sets, hands clutching the phone tightly.
“Mom I’ve helped a ton, I just really needed a break.”
“And where are you – let me guess, drinking?”
“And?”
Her sigh of disappointment is louder than anything. “Get yourself together, your sister at your age was already engaged! She was in charity events and-”
“Yeah, I’m aware she’s perfect,” your voice is quiet, but Sukuna hears it, taking a drag on his cigarette, poking around on his own phone. “You don’t have to constantly remind me.”
“Maybe it will be motivational,” you almost laugh at her then. “Fine just don’t show up hungover to this rehearsal, the entire family will be there.”
“And they’ll all be drinking anyway, but sure I will be bright eyed and bushy tailed.”
“I’ll see you then.” She hangs up, you look up at the night sky for a moment, seeing the soft twinkling of the stars, before looking back.
“You smoke now?”
“Bad habit I picked up,” he murmurs, lips wrapping around it to take another drag, puff of smoke rising into the air, he flicks it quickly, hands back in his pockets. “Does mommy want you to leave?”
You laugh a bit without humor then, eyeing the time. “It is eleven, but I have my own suite, she just wants to have plenty of control.”
“Ya gonna give it to her?” You walk over then, shaking your head and brushing past him to the door.
“Wanna play darts?”
He grins, and soon the two of you are going head to head, and fuck Sukuna is competitive at it. They fly with expert precision, zooming past and landing bulls eyes over and over, your own join and meet his, red and black darts scattered all across the board. He’s got you another drink, you’re throwing back a shot with him and laughing, it’s far, far too easy to be around him.
Something you really never expected was that, Sukuna being easy to be around, he was intelligent and sarcastic as can be, but ultimately just fun. You’re laughing so much you almost forget the shitty mindset you were in before, a little too close to him when it’s your turn, soon people are watching you two, seeing the insane back to back competition.
“Hah, I owned your ass!” You flip him off as you pull back your last dart on the board, a big grin on your face that Sukuna finds far too attractive, it’s entirely impossible to register you as the same girl who used to piss him off all the time.
When he dated your mom you hated him, but you also seemed to not be able to stand your own mother. At first it seemed you were just a little brat or something, but he realized that there was clearly more to it in time. You never failed to stick your tongue out at him or
“I guess you did win,” Sukuna leans too close, chest right against your face as he pulls out your winning dart, you inhale that cologne, tummy tightening with his every movement. “What do you want for winning?”
“I get something, huh?” He nods, his hand slipping across your bare shoulder, leaving goosebumps in its trail.
“What would you want me to do, huh brat?”
“You’re at my mercy?” You raise a brow, body thrumming with a heady mix of desire and how fucked up this would be, to do what you’re thinking of with him.
“Never mind, you look scary as fuck, whatever you’re thinking,” he goes to pull away when you tug at his tie, pulling him down to you. “What is it?”
“Make me cum.”
Sukuna doesn’t spend another minute before he’s kissing you right there, lips mean and messy, hands slipping up your hips to tug you against him, leaning you against the wall with his hard body pressed against you. You gasp out, letting his tongue slip in, the faint taste of cigarettes and whiskey lingering on his lips. Sukuna moans and his hands grip your ass right there.
“Not here, are you insane?” You pull back and see his grin plastered on his face now.
“Make you cum, been a while?” He cups your face in a way that’s anything but delicate or sweet.
“Maybe,” you admit, his thigh pressing against your heat, pressing up so that you’re right against him.
“Fingers or mouth?” You blink in surprise then, flushing and looking down, Sukuna chuckles. “Cock? All three?”
“You’re slutty.”
“You’re slutty,” you kiss him again, the alcohol making your head swirl, any decisions being made in your brain shoved away for just how wet you are. “Slutty and soaking wet.”
“Shh,” you grab his wrist, navigating your way through the sea of bodies until you’re both stumbling into a bathroom, he tugs down your top, moaning.
“Filled out-”
“I will hit you,” he snorts and picks you up like you’re fucking nothing, dragging you over to the counter and spreading your thighs. “Mnh!”
“Shh, keep it shut,” he murmurs, your hands grip on his pink locks when he shoves up your dress, slipping your panties aside and groaning out. “Fuck…”
You arch your hips for him, when he laps up juices that have already spilled down your inner thigh, they’re trembling on either side of his head, cunt already pulsing from his breaths. Some odd, fucked up part of you wonders if your mom had him like this, and you try to feel some guilt, but the moment he parts your folds and flicks his tongue up your slit, the thoughts vanish.
“Oh fuck!” He chuckles and covers your mouth, hovering over you, looking down at you fucked out eyes.
“Keep it down, brat, ya that pathetic? Gonna cum from a lick?” You’re just desperately whining against his palm, when he’s back down there, tongue flicking mean while your head presses against the mirror.
“Sukuna…” You’re gushing down his mouth, ecstasy shooting straight through everywhere his tongue dives and slips, fucking you with it then. Your walls grip his wet muscle, the man you couldn’t stand who was with the woman you can’t stand, worshipping you right in the club bathroom. “Ah!”
“Mmm,” he’s slurping up all of your juices then, gummy walls gripping his tongue so tightly he can’t stand it. You’re so sweet then, for the mean little brat you usually are, all pliant and needy. He can’t help but look up at your already fucked out face and grin against you. “Prettier than moms.”
“You’re so fucked up,” you’re wetter though, he notices when his fingers slip up inside your hole, curling up and down, stretching you so much. “Tighter?”
“You’re the fucked up one,” he flicks his tongue on your clit. “Mommy issues out the ass.”
“Shh, get back down,” you shove his face back against you, and he’s so hard it hurts, throbbing and leaking pre, dying to be back inside you. “Mnh! There, there…”
He pulls back right before you’re about to cum, earning your soft whine, he keeps his two fingers pumping up and down, gripping your hair and pulling you to him. “Open, brat.”
You don’t know why, but you easily obey his command, doing just that and opening for his spit, mixed with your flavor, you swallow it down and get even wetter, so wet his fingers slip out, earning your frustrated whine. “Lemme cum, please.”
“You will,” he yanks them out again, shoving them in your mouth so deep you almost choke, sucking yourself off them desperately. “Good little whore.”
“Fuck you,” he just chuckles, pulling you down, you hear the unzipping of his slacks as he turns you to face the mirror then. “Watch your face while I make you cum, huh?”
You would say something smart, but you’re aching, soft moans escaping your throat – nodding quickly as he slips his spit soaked fingers down and into your snug little hole again. He moans against your ear, your taste soaking his mouth now, stroking his cock with his other hand, dying to slip it inside you, but also noticing your face is just too pretty.
He’d thought so years ago, you first met him the summer before college, in some tiny little outfit that had him feeling fucked up, but he promised then he’d avoid that. Yet he couldn’t help himself, finding you on instagram later, jerking it to your pictures long after he split up from your mom, and your body was better than he could imagine, he almost whispers it to you.
No way he gets that vulnerable though, you clearly want to cum and have some serious issues with your mother, and he’s glad to enable if it means he can fuck your pretty cunt at least once. You’re gasping out the quicker they go, teeth clenched together with the stretch, trying desperately not to make much noise though your cunt is loud enough with every movement.
Your hazy mind wonders just how you got here then - With Ryomen Sukuna’s fingers scissoring in and out of your slick cunt - the man who dated your mom for years, the one you can’t fucking stand, arrogant smirk devious as he moves them up and down. The pressure is too much, your head falls back, for his tattooed hand to grab a tit and squish.
“Ah!” You can’t stop that noise from escaping, before biting your lip, trying to hold back the noise.
“Such a little slut, already squirting down my fingers,” you looked in the mirror, Sukuna’s thick digits coated in your slick slipping into your mouth again, while his cock started rubbing up and down your slit. “Hah - fuckin look at you, ya want this inside you brat? Should beg for it.”
You shook your head, even as you arch your ass out for his cock, letting his tip glide between your folds, making lewd and wet noises that echo in the club’s bathroom, teeth nipping his fingers. “No, sure won’t – can’t stand you.”
“Ah, really? Why ya so soaked then, huh?” he’s grinning with a sharp flash of white teeth, lifting your thigh up so a knee was on the counter, pressing in then, hearing your gasp. “Fuck, feel her gripping me. You really hate your mom this much?”
“Just fuck me and shut up already - ah!” Sukuna needs no further urging, his cock is stretching you out so much you can’t take it, screaming out and earning a hand clamped around your mouth.
“So tight, loosen the fuck up,” he grumbles, you scowl even as your hole is quivering, gushing liquid all down his shaft, his fingers sink into your thighs, shoving his cock in so deep you can’t take it. “Feel her grippin’ me, tryna make me bust quick?”
“No, want you to make me cum first,” you take his hand off your face as you speak, slipping it down to touch your clit, he groans, fucking you harder, your hand guiding his to get that perfect angle, your legs are shaking, your vision blurring.
"Feel better than her too," you're desperately crying out at that, clamping down on his thick, veiny cock. "That get you closer? Fucked up little girl, aren't you?"
"Fuck you," you are but right now you just want every thought fucked out of your head, and Sukuna’s cock is so big it’s hard to get irritated with his snarky grin in that reflection. He pulls his finger off and you gasp. “Put it back!”
“Not till I say so,” he smacks your clit hard instead, lifting you when your knees buckle like it’s nothing. “Think you tell me what to do?”
“Lost darts, such a l-loser -hah!” He scowls and fucks you harder, which was exactly your goal, pretty grin on your face that makes him pulse inside you - tightest little grip he’s ever felt.
“Crazy little brat,” he huffs, but he’s lost in you, in not just how good you feel on his cock, his tip slamming that cervix, but your little sounds, your movements, your eyes rolling back in your skull. Sukuna loves to fuck, but he’s never felt whatever psycho witch magic you’re putting on him, burying his face for a moment. “Feel s’perfect.”
“Huh? Ah!” You think you hear something, but Sukuna just bites the fuck out of your neck instead, your head falls to the side, crying out to let him finally toy with your needy, twitchy clit. “Please, there, there.”
“Needy whore,” he is spitting the meanest words but all it does is make you closer, tummy clenching with hot need, his cock ruining you for anyone – even if you’d never fucking say it. “Need it?”
“Yes, f-fuck just, keep going,” your voice is a hoarse little whisper, one of his hands is toying with a nipple, the other working your clit while his cock drags on your spot, blinding you. “Oh god…”
“That’s it, cum on your stepdad’s cock,” you glare at him, even as he chuckles against your skin, ruby eyes lit up in the mirror. “Cunt is pulsing, you love that nasty shit, admit it.”
“You’re n-nasty, shut the fuck up and – oh my god,” you’re shattering with one more thrust and roll of his rough fingers, desperately whining out while he keeps pumping. Sukuna is holding you there in that sweet spot, making you shake and quiver while your orgasm shuts off your damn brain. “Ngh!”
“Look at that, the stepdad got you squirting,” you would glare if you weren’t trembling, he’s thickening inside you, slowing his movements, letting you ride it out on his slick cock. “Damaged fucking brat, feel this good?”
“It’s the m-mental issues,” he grins and you weakly laugh, for a moment you don’t know why you hated him so much, but only a moment. "Fuck me harder."
God Sukuna thinks he’s in love right now.
“Freaky slut, just wanna get used?”
You nod, he grabs your throat and chokes you, slamming into you like he owns you, like you're just a toy for his pleasure. He's relentless, his cock hitting you in all the right places, making you feel so full, his filthy strokes so loud they’re echoing.
"F-fuck... you're gonna make me cum," he grunts, his grip on your hips tightening. "You want it?"
"Y-yes," you pant, throat constricted, your eyes wide with lust. You want to feel him fill you up, to know that you've made him lose control just like he's made you.
“Can you take it all?”
“Shut up and cum, stepdad,” you tease, but he moans then, kissing your lips all sloppy, saliva dripping with the drool that’s pooled down the side of your lips, his hot cum flooding your pussy.
For a moment, you're lost in the haze of pleasure, the world outside the bathroom forgotten completely, so warm and dripping him already. But reality quickly crashes back in after he pumps a few more times, murmuring your name, pastel locks damp and sticking to his brow. You start to come to a bit, even drunk, and you realize what you've done. What you're still doing.
Maybe you feel just a little bad that his cum is starting to drip from your hole, but only the tiniest bit. He pulls out with a wet, suctioned pop and leaves you so empty you have to bite back the whine. You struggle to get your breath, shaking your head to clear your mind and grabbing at napkins, he smacks them out of the way, smirking and turning you to face him.
“Lemme clean up, weirdo,” he chuckles, slipping his two fingers down to where his milky seed is dripping, swirling around it until he shoves it back inside you. You gasp, head falling back, lashes fluttering shut and the soreness you already have, he just presses that cum right back in. “What are you doing?”
“Don’t waste it, you won it you know,” he pumps it up again, curling his fingers so that you almost cum again, pushing it even deeper, before pulling them out with a filthy wet squelch, sucking his own white ropes and you arousal off his fingers. He moans then, pink lashes fluttering shut, cheeks hollowing.
You stare, mouth open, waiting for red eyes to focus on you. “Wh-what are you doing?”
“Tasting us,” he tilts your chin up and kisses your lips, mixing both of your flavors on your tongue in the sluttiest fucking action. “Mnh…”
You both pull apart quickly when someone opens the bathroom, Sukuna has your tits put up but they’re stumbling drunk and giggling, staring at their phone. Your reality does start to hit, cursing yourself and rushing out then, adjusting your dress that he had up your thighs.
Fuck that felt too good.
Your sister calls you now, you answer as Sukuna unhurriedly steps out of the ladies room. “Yeah sis?”
“Oh my god, did you hear Sukuna is coming? Ah I loved him! I wish mom had stayed with him, you know?”
You frown, eyeing Sukuna and his shit eating grin. “Um… yeah I guess he was okay.”
“Mom still has the hots for him, wouldn’t it be romantic if she got back with him?” You almost laugh out loud at the absurdity of it, the smallest guilt seeping in more and more, but you throw back another shot, drinking it down. “Also if you got with someone finally!”
“Yeah, I dunno about mom or me, but I’m glad for you sis,” she sighs. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”
“Yes, love you!”
“Love you too,” you hang up the phone, Sukuna leans over the bar then, handing the bartender his card.
“Pay for hers too,” you raise a glass to him, his lips twitch up at the corners. “You got a ride back?”
“I’ll get an uber.”
“It’s nothing to -”
“There, got one,” you smile at him and wave the screen. “But thank you for offering.”
“Yeah,” he wants more of you, that could not be enough. He won’t say that shit out loud though. “See you at the..." he smirks now. "Rehearsal.”
“Yeah, um…” you awkwardly stand there, looking down as he looks too intently at you. “Night.”
You rush off without another word, inhaling the night air and wondering just how bad you fucked it all up.
hehe the full version is on Patreon but I am converting this story to here - so l will have these every week <3 (I am thinking of an epilogue too!) tags open <3
themes: COLLEGEAU, drinking, popular girl/loner, grumpy/sunshine, quick romance, eventual smut, modern au.
summary: Megumi Fushiguro doesn’t have time for distractions. Between his pre-law coursework and the weight of promises he made to a sister who isn’t here anymore, his life runs on discipline and detachment. So when his roommate Yuji’s bubbly, designer-clad friend starts showing up at their dorm constantly, Megumi writes her off immediately. Brielle is everything he resents: privileged, carefree, complaining about problems that aren’t real problems. She’s shallow. She has to be. And he doesn’t like shallow.
Brielle Johnson has never met anyone who seems so determined to dislike her. Megumi is cold, blunt, and frustratingly unreadable…but she can’t stop trying to crack him. She’s used to winning people over. She’s used to guys falling at her feet. But Megumi barely looks at her, and when he does, it’s with something close to disdain. For the first time, she finds herself second-guessing every word out of her mouth.
Forced together through mutual friends and shared spaces, they circle each other warily, until Megumi starts noticing the cracks in his own assumptions. Brielle isn’t shallow. She’s sheltered. And underneath the expensive clothes and easy smile, she’s genuinely, disarmingly good in a way that reminds him of someone he lost. By the time he realizes he’s falling for her, it’s already too late to stop it. But Megumi doesn’t do feelings. He doesn’t do relationships. And he definitely doesn’t deserve someone like her; someone warm and open and soft in all the ways he isn’t. Brielle will have to learn that loving him means reading between the lines, accepting actions over words, and holding space for a boy who’s never let anyone stay.
synopsis: it's 12:00 a.m. in a deserted parking lot, your phone is at 5%, and your tire is flat. you're halfway through a practical breakdown when the campus bad boy with the pretty eyes and the not so amazing reputation actually stops to help. he doesn't want your money, he doesn't want to talk, and he definitely doesn't want your coffee, but you're not letting him go that easily.
wk: 1.6k masterlist
the library closes at midnight during finals, which is the only reason you were allowed to stay that late, and the only reason you’re now standing in a mostly empty parking lot at 12:09 a.m. with a very flat tire and a phone that reads 5%.
you don’t know how to change a tire.
you’ve never needed to. whenever something’s gone wrong with your car, you call your dad, or one of the guys from the team, or literally anyone else, because people help you and it’s never been a problem before. but it’s late now, your dad’s three states away, the group chat hasn’t responded, and the tire is actually flat. not low, flat, the rim sitting on asphalt, and you’ve been standing here for ten minutes doing nothing because you genuinely don’t know what you’re supposed to do.
you’re crying a little. not a lot. just the frustrated kind that happens when you’re exhausted and nothing is going right and you spent four hours studying calculus and you still don’t get it and now you’re stranded and your phone is about to die.
“you good?”
you turn around, swiping at your face quickly. the wind catches the back of your neck, making you shiver in your thin hoodie. it takes you a second to place him.
dark hair. dark blue eyes. taller. good-looking in a way that almost sticks with you. you’ve seen him at parties…always in the corner, usually smoking a joint, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. you don’t know his name, but you know the vague details: gets into fights, keeps to himself, runs with the kind of people who are always getting into trouble.
he’s looking at you with a face that’s a total blank, like a steel shutter pulled down over whatever is going through his head. most people would find it intimidating, but if calculus isn't your forte, reading people definitely is.
“oh my god, hi.” you gesture at your car. “my tire’s flat. i literally have like no idea what to do, my phone’s about to die, no one’s answering…it’s like a whole thing. can you like, help? please. i’ll do anything.”
he looks at the tire, then back at you. “you have a spare?”
“um.” you think about it, biting your lip because you’re really not sure. cars are supposed to have spares right? so the chances are pretty high. “probably? i’ve never looked.”
he doesn’t say anything, just walks past you to the back of your car and opens the trunk. you step aside and watch him move your gym bag, a blanket, a bag of trash that you swore you were going to throw away…two months ago. he pulls up the bottom panel and there’s a smaller tire underneath, plus some tools.
“you have one,” he says.
“oh, perfect. i didn’t even know that was in there.”
he’s already pulling things out, crouching near the flat tire with one of the metal tools, and you realize he’s just going to do it. no discussion. no waiting for you to ask.
the night air is biting, making your ears sting, and every time a distant car engine revs, you jump a little. but megumi is like a localized pocket of calm. he doesn't seem to notice the cold or the creepy silence of the campus this late in the evening.
“oh. uhm- thank you so much,” you say. “seriously. you’re like totally saving me right now.”
he doesn’t respond. he’s loosening something on the tire, working fast like he’s done this a hundred times.
you lean against the side of your car and watch him. the parking lot’s quiet, mostly empty except for a few cars scattered near the other buildings. his eyes look focused and you notice how thick his eyelashes are, and the way his dark hair falls across his face as he works.
you should probably let him focus, but silence has never really been your thing.
“i was studying,” you say. “i have a calc test tomorrow and i’m literally going to fail. like, actually fail. my professor’s so bad, he just talks and doesn’t explain anything, and i’ve gone to every class but i still don’t get any of it.”
he pulls the flat tire off and sets it aside. doesn’t look up.
“i’m y/n, by the way. i feel like i’ve seen you around, like at parties and stuff?”
“megumi,” he says, not looking at you.
“megumi.” you repeat it back, testing how it sounds. “that’s cute. i like that.”
he’s putting the spare on now, and you notice his hands. nice hands, actually, kind of unfairly nice, and the way he moves like this is boring to him. easy. like he’s trying to get this over with as fast as he possibly can.
“you don’t talk much, do you?”
“no.”
“that’s okay. i talk enough for two people anyway.” you pull your phone out to check it. 4%. “do you live on campus or off? i’m off, like two miles that way. my roommate’s probably asleep, she has an eight a.m., which like ew, could never be me. i would simply not survive.”
he tightens something, his shoulders shifting under his jacket.
“are you in a frat? wait, no, you’re definitely not in a frat. i don’t know why i asked that. you don’t have the vibe. not in a bad way. just like, you’re kind of—” you wave your hand vaguely. “i don’t know. you don’t look like a douche or whatever. not that all frat guys are douches, like some guys are super cool obviously i hang out with them and—“
he stands up, brushing his hands off on his jeans and cuts you off. “done.”
you look at the tire. it’s on. it looks normal. you have absolutely no idea what he just did, but your car has four functioning tires again and that’s all that matters.
“oh my god, thank you. seriously. that was so fast. do you just know how to do that? like, is that a thing people know?”
he’s putting the flat tire and the tools back in your trunk, and when he reaches past you to toss the jack in, you catch the scent of him…cold air, laundry detergent, and a faint, earthy trace of something like sandalwood. for a split second, the space between you felt very small, and very warm. but then you look up, making the briefest eye contact with him, and you can tell he’s about to leave. just fix it and disappear.
“wait.” you push off from the car. “let me get your number. i wanna thank you for real. coffee or dinner or something. i could even pay you.”
“you don’t have to do that.”
“i want to, though.”
“i’m good.” he closes the trunk.
“okay, but i’m not, because you literally just helped me and i can’t just let you walk away like it didn’t happen. that’s weird. i have to repay you somehow.”
“it’s a tire.”
“it’s a tire that i would still be staring at and crying over if you hadn’t shown up.” you hold your phone out toward him. “just put your number in. please? i’ll buy you food. you look like you eat food.” you smile, big and white and pearly. the kind of smile that always has you get your way.
he looks at your phone, then at you. something flickers across his face, annoyance, maybe, but also something else. like he’s trying to figure out why you’re still talking.
“i don’t need you to buy me food.”
“it’s not about need, it’s about like thanking you. do you not let people thank you? that’s kind of rude, actually.” you’re smiling when you say it, you don’t mean it in a bad way it’s just when someone does something nice you thank them…it’s the order of things. “come on. one coffee. you can even ignore me while you drink it. i don’t care.”
he stares at you for a second. you keep the phone extended between you, not backing down.
“you’re not gonna let this go,” he says.
“nope.”
he doesn’t take the phone immediately. he just looks at you…not at your car, or the tire, but at you, for a beat too long. his eyes are like the ocean at night, dark and impossible to see the bottom of. then, with a sigh that sounds like he is losing a war, he snatches the phone from your hand, typing something in, then hands it back without looking at you.
“there.”
you glance at the screen. megumi, and a number. no emoji, no last name, nothing extra. very on brand.
“thank you.” you’re smiling again, genuine. “i’ll text you.”
“you don’t have to.”
“i’m going to, though.”
he’s already stepping back, putting distance between you, and he does that thing, the lazy wave without looking, dismissive, like this whole interaction is already fading from his memory.
“get home safe,” he says, and it sounds almost sarcastic, except it also sounds like he might actually mean it.
“i will. thanks to you.” you wave at his back. “bye, megumi!”
he doesn’t respond. rounds the corner. gone.
you stand there for a second, looking at the new contact in your phone. the battery warning flashes, 3% now, but you don’t care.
your phone buzzes. the group chat, finally: sorry babe we were asleep!! are you okay???
you look at the corner where he disappeared, then back at your screen, then at your car with its new tire.
When you accidentally get caught in the crossfire of an attack on the new clan head, Megumi Zenin, your world gets flipped upside down. Suddenly, you are part of his dark world and are getting much closer to the Yakuza boss than you both ever wanted. But living together with Megumi lets you see the man behind his cold mask, and what starts as an arrangement to keep you safe becomes a lot more.
Chapter 1 - Met you in a bar
Chapter 2 - You make everyone disappear
Chapter 3 - Gold cage, hostage to my feelings
Chapter 4 - Back against the wall
Chapter 5 - See you in the dark
Chapter 6 - I'm yours to keep, and I'm yours to lose
Chapter 7 - Wear you like a necklace - coming soon -
Warnings: 18+, female reader, fluff/smut/light angst. Modern AU, Yakuza-related crime and violence, Megumi kills to protect the people he cares about, alcohol, smut, forced proximity. Happy ending. Megumi and Reader are both in their mid/late twenties. Minors don't interact. I will put individual warnings before each chapter.
Playlist: Yakuza AU feat. Megumi Zenin
The fanart in the header was used with permission from the artist koonya911 on Twitter. Credit for the divider @/cursed-carmine.
If you want to get added to the taglist, please leave a comment or send me an ask. 18+ only!
about. you work a dead-end job at a bank until one night a heist goes sideways. instead of knocking you out, one of the robbers—quiet, tall, and way too pretty under the mask—makes you a deal. you keep quiet, you get a cut. simple, right? except now you can’t stop thinking about him… and he clearly can’t stop thinking about you either.
pairings. Robber!Choso x Bank Teller!Reader
words. 11.52k
content. smut (mdni!!), gun involvement + forced entry (it’s a bank heist duh), rough sex, biting, gun kink / gunplay (non-lethal), size kink, face reveal kink, power dynamics, dirty talk, humiliation but funny, criminal activity (obviously), and adult mentions everywhere. basically hot masked stranger holds you down, and you let him.
notes. well... hope you enjoy, i haven't read this FOR MYSELF but hey gon post it anyway because i loooveeee choso.
The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting that sickly, too-white glow that made the whole bank feel like a fish tank. You sat behind the counter, your chin propped in your palm, eyes flicking between the clock on the wall and the lobby that had been dead for the past twenty minutes.
Five more until closing. Five minutes until you could leave this miserable, low-paying excuse for a job and collapse into bed.
But five minutes was still too long when your manager was watching you like a hawk. “Try to look alive, will you?” Mr. Carver’s voice grated from the far end of the counter. He was the kind of man who smelled faintly of stale coffee and had a way of making every sentence sound like an insult. “If a customer comes in and sees you slouched like that—”
“They’ll what?” you muttered, not looking up from the computer screen you weren’t even using.
“They’ll think we’re unprofessional. Which, frankly, you make too easy.” You bit your tongue. No point in arguing; you knew from experience that if you so much as breathed wrong, he’d write you up. He already hated you— not for anything you’d done, but because you weren’t one of his golden employees who laughed at his dry jokes and stayed late without pay. You just did your job, collected your check, and left. That was apparently a crime.
A low whistle broke the tension, and you didn’t even have to turn to know who it was. “Evening, sweetheart.” The security guard, Brent, leaned against the counter by your station, his posture casual but his eyes doing that slow up-and-down that made your skin crawl. “Place is dead tonight, huh? Guess it’s just you, me, and your pretty face keeping me awake.”
You forced a tight smile. “Almost closing time, Brent.” Which was your polite way of saying leave me alone.
But Brent was immune to hints. “Hey, when’s your shift end again? We could grab a drink, you know. Loosen you up after a long day.”
You swore you could feel Mr. Carver’s smug gaze on your back — he always seemed entertained by Brent’s flirting, like it was harmless fun instead of unwanted attention. Like you were the uptight one for not giggling back. You reached for a stack of deposit slips, shuffling them just to keep your hands busy. “I’m good. Got plans.”
Brent chuckled, low and persistent. “One day, you’re gonna run out of excuses.”
“Mm,” you hummed noncommittally, already tuning him out. Outside, the streetlights flickered on, their glow stretching long shadows across the empty sidewalk. Through the front windows, you could see the dark sky swallowing the city, the kind of quiet that always made you uneasy. Something about being in a nearly empty bank after dark… it felt like waiting for something to happen.
You just didn’t know yet that tonight, it would.
The clock finally hit closing time, and you were on your feet before the second hand finished its sweep. Your back cracked in protest as you stretched, muscles stiff from sitting too long in that same uncomfortable chair. Mr. Carver was already fussing over his briefcase, muttering under his breath about tomorrow’s paperwork, while Brent gave a lazy salute from his post near the door.
“Lock up tight, huh?” Brent said, flashing you a grin.
You didn’t bother answering — just slung your bag over your shoulder and made your way into the narrow staff lounge. The space smelled faintly of burnt coffee and cleaning chemicals, the kind of scent that clung to your clothes and hair no matter how quickly you left.
You headed for the old punch clock mounted on the wall, fumbling for your ID badge. The sooner you clocked out, the sooner you could step outside, breathe real air, and not have to hear your manager’s voice for another blessed twelve hours. You were just sliding the card into the reader when you heard it.
A sharp, muffled thud from somewhere out in the lobby. Followed by a grunt — low, pained — then a cut-off groan.
You froze. Your fingers hovered uselessly over the clock-in machine, heart stumbling in your chest. The sound hadn’t been loud enough to be an accident— not the clumsy clatter of someone dropping something heavy. This was… heavier. Denser. The kind of noise a body makes when it hits the floor.
Your first thought was Brent. Maybe he’d tripped, maybe— No. That was stupid. Brent was obnoxious, sure, but not clumsy. And the sound… it was too quick, too sudden. Like someone had been put down.
You strained to listen, breath caught in your throat. The hum of the fluorescent lights suddenly seemed louder, the walls pressing in.
Nothing.
No voices. No footsteps. Just the eerie kind of silence that makes your skin prickle— the kind you knew meant something. Slowly, you set your bag on the counter beside the clock. You weren’t sure if you were about to step into something dangerous… or if you already had.
Your hand was already on your bag again when the air shifted — that subtle change in pressure you only notice when you’re being watched.
Before you could even turn toward the door, a shape filled the frame.
Tall. Broad. A shadow at first, until the dim lounge light caught on black fabric — a tactical mask covering the lower half of his face. His hair was messy, falling into his eyes, dark strands loose and careless like he hadn’t even tried to tie it back. But his eyes…
They weren’t wild. They weren’t frantic like you’d expect from someone in the middle of a robbery. No, they were half-lidded, dark, almost… sleepy. And locked directly on you. Your gaze dropped, catching the sharp black tattoos curling over the column of his throat and the backs of his hands. The gloves he wore looked heavy, built for grip. This wasn’t some cheap stick-up — whoever he was, he’d done this before.
“A staff is back here,” he called, his voice low and deep, carrying into the lobby. It was casual, like he was letting someone know there was an extra carton of milk in the fridge, not another living person who could scream for help.
It hit you then. You were being robbed.
The realization sank hard in your gut, but it wasn’t the money you worried about — you could barely make rent with what you earned here. It was you. Your body. Your safety. You took an instinctive step back, every nerve in your body screaming to move, to do something.
“Look, I don’t want any trouble,” you started, your voice sharper than you intended. “You can have whatever the hell you want, just—”
“Not here for you,” he interrupted softly. It was almost disarming, the way he said it. Not defensive. Not threatening. Just… factual.
“Good,” you snapped, though your pulse was still hammering. “Then keep it that way.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t close the distance. Just stood there, his eyes steady on your face like he was memorizing it.
“What?” you barked after a beat. “Never seen someone pissed off before? You gonna stand there staring, or are you gonna do your little—whatever—robbery thing and get the hell out?”
His gaze flickered, just slightly, like you’d surprised him. And for some reason, that pissed you off more.
“Seriously,” you kept going, the fear twisting into adrenaline and spilling out as heat. “If you’re gonna kill me, do it quick, because I’ve had the worst day and I swear to God I don’t have the patience for some masked freak playing games.”
You expected anger. A shove. Something. Instead, his eyes softened. Not much — barely noticeable. But enough for you to catch it. Enough to make your breath hitch, because what the hell kind of robber looks at you like that? Like he’s stunned. Like maybe he forgot why he was here in the first place.
You shifted your weight, heart hammering, and made a break for the door.
Big fucking mistake.
You moved first.
A sharp inhale, then you lunged, shouldering past him with every ounce of momentum you had. But he was faster. A hand closed around your waist, the grip solid, gloved fingers digging just enough to make your ribs protest. You let out a startled shout, half-growl, half-scream, twisting hard in his hold.
“Let me go—!”
“Shh—” His voice was low, urgent, close enough that you felt the warmth of it at your ear. You weren’t listening. Your elbow shot back, connecting with something solid — his chest — and he barely grunted. That only made you thrash harder, nails clawing at the thick fabric of his sleeve, heels digging into the grimy linoleum.
“I said—let—go!” you snarled, your voice cracking under the strain.
He caught your wrist before you could take another swing. “Stop—”
“You stop!” You twisted again, trying to wrench free, but his other arm had already wrapped fully around your middle, dragging you flush to his body. The solid wall of his chest at your back made your breath hitch, though you refused to admit why.
“Calm down,” he murmured, as if that was the simplest thing in the world.
“Calm down?” you barked, still fighting him. “You’re in a mask—there’s a body out there—you expect me to—”
Your words cut off with a sharp gasp when he caught your other wrist mid-swipe. In one smooth motion, he pivoted, pressing you forward until your hips bumped the edge of the staff lounge table. You tried to kick back, but his legs bracketed yours, caging you in without crushing you.
“Quit it,” he said, still maddeningly calm, even as you bucked in his hold. “Get your hands off me!”
“You’re gonna get yourself hurt,” he warned, tightening his grip as you jerked. “I’m not here for you—”
“Then let me go!”
“—but I will hold you here if you don’t shut the hell up,” he finished, his tone dropping to something harder.
The fight in you spiked again, but every time you pulled, he countered, steering your arms behind your back until both wrists were pinned in one of his hands. The position left you bent over the table, your cheek mushed against the cool surface.
And that’s when you felt it.
The heat of him at your back. The unmistakable press of something hard against the curve of your ass — unintentional, maybe, but there all the same. You froze for a split second. He did too.
His breath caught, then he shifted like he was about to step back, but you twisted again, and the movement dragged you against him just enough to pull a low, quiet sound from his throat. Your pulse hammered. “You’re disgusting,” you spat over your shoulder, trying to mask the way your stomach was flipping.
“Wasn’t—” His jaw flexed. “Wasn’t tryin’ to—”
“Sure you weren’t.”
“Hey,” he snapped softly, leaning down until you could feel his breath against your ear, the mask brushing your cheek. “I said I’m not gonna hurt you. You need to believe that.”
“You think I’m just gonna—” You broke off with a startled hiss as his gloved fingers adjusted on your wrists, firm but not painful, holding you steady while your body still tried to wriggle free.
“Just breathe,” he urged, and though his voice was low, there was something almost pleading in it. “I don’t want you hurt. I just… need you quiet.”
“Quiet for what?” His silence was worse than an answer.
You yanked again, but the hold stayed firm, his chest pressed to your back, the solid weight of him keeping you pinned in place. Every shift, every attempt to pull away, only reminded you of the heat radiating from him — the steady heartbeat you could feel through his sternum, the way his breath kept hitching like he was as aware of the proximity as you were.
“You’re insane,” you muttered, but your voice had lost some of its bite.
“Maybe,” he said. And you hated the way his tone dipped, just enough to make it sound like he was smiling under the mask.
Your wrists were still locked behind your back, cheek pressed close to the cold table, Choso’s chest solid against your spine. You could feel every shift of his breathing, every twitch of his muscles when you tried to jerk free.
“Fucking let me go!” you shouted, thrashing again.
“Stop moving—”
“Stop touching me!”
“I’m trying not to—”
A sharp voice from the doorway cut in, “The fuck are you doing?”
Both of you froze.
You craned your neck just enough to see two more figures in black masks, both holding bags that were clearly stuffed to the brim with cash. One had a baseball bat, the other had a duffel slung over his shoulder.
The one with the bat was huge— not just tall, but built like the kind of man who could lift a safe by himself if he felt like it. His black hoodie was stretched tight across broad shoulders, and the sleeves were shoved up to reveal forearms roped with muscle, veins standing out like they had their own pulse. Dark hair stuck up in a messy, spiked disarray, and even under the mask, you could tell he was wearing that lazy, cocky grin that belonged to someone who enjoyed making people nervous.
The other guy— the one hauling the duffel— looked almost too put-together for this kind of work. His mask sat neatly over his face, and long black hair was tied back at the nape of his neck, not a single strand out of place despite the chaos. He carried himself with an easy, deliberate calm, like the weight of the bag didn’t even register, like he was here because he’d planned every second of it and nothing could throw him off.
The one with the bat let out a low whistle. “Choso… what the fuck am I looking at right now?”
“She was screaming,” Choso said quickly, not loosening his grip.
“Yeah, no shit,” Bat Guy scoffed. “Why didn’t you just knock her out like a normal person?”
You barked a bitter laugh. “Normal? Oh, so you do know you’re all fucking psychos—”
“Shut up,” the duffel guy snapped.
“She’s pretty,” Choso muttered, like it explained everything. There was a beat of silence.
“...Jesus fucking Christ,” Bat Guy said flatly. “We’re robbing a bank, not speed dating.”
“Look, I didn’t want to hurt her,” Choso mumbled, sounding almost defensive.
“That’s sweet,” you said, dripping sarcasm. “Now maybe you can sweetly let me the fuck go so I can call the cops—”
“Woman, if you don’t shut the hell up—” Duffel Guy stepped forward, but Choso shifted his weight, subtly keeping himself between you and the others.
“She’s fine,” Choso said firmly. “Fine? She’s loud.” Bat Guy pointed his bat at you. “Do something to shut her up before she wakes the whole goddamn city.”
“I will wake the whole goddamn city,” you shot back. “Hope you like prison food—”
“Oh my fucking god.” Duffel Guy rubbed his forehead. “Manager’s out cold, security’s tied up in the car, we’re basically done here. This is literally the easiest fucking robbery we’ve ever pulled, and you’re back here—” He gestured vaguely between you and Choso. “—playing grab-ass.”
“It’s not—” Choso started.
“It fucking looks like grab-ass,” Bat Guy said. “Let her go or knock her out, man, we don’t have time for your… thing.”
You twisted enough to glare up at Choso. “What thing, huh? You got a weird little hostage fetish? You wanna explain that to your boyfriends over there?”
“Boyfriends—?!” Bat Guy nearly choked. “You are lucky I’m not the one holding you right now.”
“You wouldn’t last thirty seconds,” you shot back.
Choso made a small sound— almost a laugh — before clearing his throat like he didn’t want to be caught enjoying himself. “I’m not gonna hurt her. I said that.
“We don’t need her hurt, we need her quiet,” Duffel Guy stressed.
“Yeah, well,” you snapped, “you should’ve thought of that before you busted into my shitty minimum-wage job and—”
“Oh my god,” Bat Guy groaned, turning to leave. “I’m going to the van. If she’s still yelling when I come back, I’m gagging her with the deposit slips.”
“Romantic,” you muttered. Choso’s grip finally loosened, just enough for you to shift upright, though he still kept your wrists in his hand like he wasn’t ready to let you bolt. His eyes— those dark, half-lidded ones— were still fixed on your face like you were some kind of puzzle he couldn’t stop staring at.
The two other men — Bat Guy and Duffel Guy — exchanged a look that said we’re so done with this shit and turned toward the door.
“We’ll be in the van,” Bat Guy said, jerking his chin at Choso. “Five minutes. If she’s still alive, great. If not… also great.”
“Don’t make me come back in here,” Duffel Guy added, calm but edged.
The door swung shut behind them, leaving you and Choso in a thick, tense silence. He finally spoke, his voice low but careful. “If I let you go… can you be quiet?”
You glared. “Depends. You gonna fuck off?”
“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he said, and for some reason, it didn’t sound like a line — it sounded like he actually meant it. “I just… need to talk.”
You narrowed your eyes, but his grip on your wrists eased. And the second you felt freedom— You launched at him. It was pure instinct: nails first, catching the side of his neck, then teeth, because apparently you’d gone fully feral. You got a solid bite in, and his grunt was half-pain, half-disbelief.
“The fuck!?” Next thing you knew, you were bent back over the staff table, a hand flat on the back of your neck, his weight pinning you in place. The sharp click of a gun’s safety being flicked off rang right by your ear.
“You bit me?” he demanded, voice low but vibrating with irritation.
“You grabbed me!” you snapped back, still wriggling even with his front pressed against your ass. “We’re even—”
“Even my ass,” he growled. “You think I’m just gonna let you chomp on me like some rabid—”
“Okay, okay! I’m sorry!” you cut in, because the gun barrel was suddenly feeling very real. He stayed there for a beat, chest rising and falling against your back, before finally exhaling hard. “Jesus Christ…” You could hear the scowl in his voice. “I was trying to be nice.”
“You call this nice?” you shot back, cheek still pressed to the table.
“Wasn’t gonna gag you,” he muttered. “That was my version of nice.”
“That’s a low fucking bar, dude.”
“Yeah, well,” he said, finally straightening but keeping one hand firm on your shoulder, “you bit me. So we’re lowering the bar even more now.”
Somewhere outside, Bat Guy’s voice carried faintly through the door. “Yo, Choso! You fall in love back there or what?!” Choso didn’t answer. But you felt the faintest twitch of a laugh through his hand before he shoved you gently — but firmly — back upright.
Choso’s hand was still firm on your shoulder, keeping you angled toward the table. “Alright,” he said finally, voice low but with that lazy drawl that made everything sound slower than it was. “Here’s the deal. You shut the fuck up… I’ll give you a cut.”
You blinked. “A… cut?”
“Money,” he clarified, like you were slow. “Cash. Your share of what we just pulled.” You scoffed, but your voice faltered. “And why the hell would I take dirty money from—”
He leaned in just enough for his voice to skim your ear. “Because I don’t think you like this job. And I don’t think you like these people. And I know for a fact they’re paying you shit.” Your lips parted, ready to deny it, but the truth hit you square in the chest. Barely scraping by. Crappy coworkers. Manager who hated you. Flirty guard you couldn’t stand. You thought of the rent due at the end of the week.
“...How much?” you asked, your voice sharper than you intended.
He chuckled under the mask. “Enough to make this dump the last place you ever have to clock in.” You hesitated — really hesitated — but your mind kept circling back to Mr. Carver’s smug face and Brent’s sleazy grin. Finally, you muttered, “...Fine.”
“Good girl,” he said, and for some reason, it didn’t sound patronizing — it sounded like approval. He finally stepped back, letting go of your wrists. You turned slowly, straightening your clothes, but your gaze snagged on his. Those eyes. Heavy-lidded, dark, like they’d been watching you this whole time and were still seeing way too much.
You tilted your head, crossing your arms. “Let me see your face.”
His brows lifted a fraction. “What for?” “I’m not making a deal with someone whose face I don’t know.” “That’s the point of the mask,” he said flatly.
He didn’t break eye contact as he hooked a gloved finger under the edge of his mask. The motion was slow, deliberate, like he was making you wait for it. Then, with a faint scrape of fabric against skin, he pulled it down.
Your breath stuttered. The first thing you noticed was his mouth— full, with the kind of shape that could turn sharp if he was pissed or lazy and soft if he wasn’t paying attention. The shadow of stubble traced along his jaw, cutting up to cheekbones that were criminal all on their own. His skin caught the dim light in a way that made you wonder what it would look like in daylight— or closer.
Your eyes followed the messy fall of his hair, dark strands curling against his temples, the rest spilling haphazardly down, like he’d shoved a mask on without bothering to fix it. The tattoos on his throat peeked higher now that the mask wasn’t hiding them, black lines curling against warm skin like they’d been meant to be seen.
And those eyes— heavy-lidded, dark brown with an almost amber sheen near the center— stayed locked on yours like there was no one else in the room, like you were the first thing he’d seen in years worth remembering.
You felt it low in your chest first — that uncomfortable, traitorous skip of your heartbeat. Then higher, crawling up your throat, heat settling under your skin. It wasn’t like he smiled at you or softened; it was the opposite. He just looked. Steady. Patient. And that made it worse.
“...Goddamn,” you muttered before you could stop yourself. His mouth tilted up, slow and deliberate. “Yeah?” You blinked, fighting the heat crawling up your neck. “I didn’t say it was a compliment.”
“Sure didn’t sound like an insult, either,” he murmured, and you hated — hated — how right he was.
He took a step closer — close enough that you had to tilt your head back to keep his eyes in view. And god, he was tall. You’d noticed before, but with no table between you now, it was ridiculous how much he could loom without even trying. He lifted one gloved fist, slow and deliberate, and tapped it lightly under your jaw. Not rough — just enough to tip your chin up another inch. A soft tsk clicked from behind his teeth, his mouth tugging into a grin that was all heat and trouble.
“See you soon, pretty girl,” he murmured, his voice low enough that it skimmed warm down your spine. “Learn not to bite anyone.”
You swallowed, your pulse doing double-time, but before you could form a comeback, he was tugging the mask back up over his face. “...You’re welcome, by the way,” he added, adjusting it over his nose.
Your brows knit. “For what? For dry humping me into a table?”
The bastard chuckled — actually chuckled — the sound deep and warm. “No. For knocking the shit out of that cocky security guard who keeps flirting with you.”
Your mouth opened, then shut. “...You—”
“He won’t be bothering you again,” Choso cut in, already stepping back toward the door. And just like that, he was gone, leaving you in the staff lounge with your heart pounding, your wrists still faintly sore… and the most confusing mix of fury and something-you-refused-to-name thrumming under your skin.
You couldn’t stop replaying it in your head.
Not the robbery part — not the adrenaline, not the fear, not the fact that you’d been held against a table with a gun pressed to your neck.
No, your brain had chosen the insanity of realizing that the man robbing the very place you worked at… was hot. Stupidly hot. And instead of calling the cops the second he and his crew ran, you’d—what?—agreed to a deal? Lied for him? And now here you were, still riding the rush and grinning to yourself like an idiot.
You kept replaying it in your head like some fever dream.
Not the gun. Not the robbery.
Not even Choso bending you over the breakroom table to keep you from clawing his eyes out.
No — the real insane part was that you’d looked that man dead in his masked face and, instead of screaming for the cops, agreed to a goddamn deal.
Keep your mouth shut, get a cut of the take.
Which was why you were now sitting in a hard plastic chair at the police station, posture loose, eyes drooping just enough to sell “I got knocked the fuck out.” You kept pressing your fingers into the back of your head like it hurt — even though the only ache you had was a faint bruise on your hip where Choso had pinned you.
Across the room, Brent was slouched like a sulking teenager, ice pack pressed to his jaw. His right cheek was swollen, lip split. You didn’t have to try too hard not to feel bad.
And Mr. Carver — your manager — was pacing, all huffy in his cheap dress shirt like he’d been the one assaulted. “I told corporate she was trouble,” he muttered, loudly enough for the entire room to hear. “Always on her phone, always late—”
You bit your tongue. Hard. If you let one word slip right now, it’d be about him pocketing “extra” tips from the coin counter, and you weren’t trying to start that fire while the cops were still in earshot.
One of the officers slid into the chair opposite you, notepad ready. “Miss, can you tell us what happened tonight?”
You put on your best dazed blink. “Uh… I don’t… remember much. I was in the lounge, then I heard shouting. Next thing I know, someone’s grabbing me, and then—” You made a vague wave near your head. “Everything went dark.”
“So you were unconscious during the robbery?” You nodded, lowering your voice like it was hard to speak. “Yeah. Woke up after it was over. Brent was on the floor, and Mr. Carver was yelling.”
“That’s not what happened,” Brent piped up from across the room, voice muffled against the ice. “She was up the whole time. I saw her.”
You turned your head slow, letting your eyes narrow like you might bite him. “Oh, really, Brent? You saw me? You mean when your face was getting introduced to the tile floor? Or maybe when you were crying about your jaw?”
“I wasn’t crying—” “Looked like crying.” The officer cleared his throat, fighting a smile. “Miss, did the suspect say anything to you before you blacked out?”
“Uh…” Your mind flickered back to the heat of Choso’s breath in your ear, his hand locked around your wrists, the grin in his voice when he’d called you pretty girl. You swallowed. “No. Nothing I remember.”
Mr. Carver finally stopped pacing. “This is ridiculous. She’s lying. I know she saw their faces. She probably helped them.”
You let out a sharp laugh, leaning forward so your elbows hit the table. “Helped them? Carver, I make eight-fifty an hour and I can’t even get a lunch break without you breathing down my neck. If I wanted to help anyone, it’d be OSHA.”
The officer scribbled more notes, clearly amused, but kept the questions coming until you’d repeated the “I was unconscious” line enough times it sounded pathetic. Perfect. By the time they let you go, you knew the investigation would drag on. Carver would bitch about police check-ins, Brent would limp around like a war hero, and you’d smile through all of it. Because you weren’t fired. Yet. And even if you were, you had a payday coming that none of them could touch.
Bag. Secured.
The van smelled like sweat, leather, and that faint trace of gasoline that always clung to Toji’s jacket. Bills were spread across the bench seat like a green ocean, Suguru’s hands moving smooth and methodical as he counted, Toji leaning back with a cigarette hanging from his lips.
Choso was still leaning against the door, mask shoved up onto his head, neck throbbing where her teeth had sunk in. He hadn’t decided yet if he was pissed or impressed.
Toji flicked an ash into an empty fast food cup. “So,” he drawled, “you gonna explain why we didn’t have to knock out that girl in the staff room?”
Choso shrugged, keeping his eyes on the floor. “Made a deal with her.”
Suguru’s hands didn’t pause on the bills, but his eyebrow arched. “A deal.”
“Yeah. She keeps quiet, she gets a cut.”
There was a beat of silence, then Toji barked out a laugh that filled the van. “Jesus Christ, we’re getting swatted for sure. You realize if the cops bust in here ‘cause your little pretty girl got cold feet, I’m cuttin’ your dick off, right?”
Choso scowled. “She’s not—”
“She bit you, didn’t she?” Suguru said, smirking without looking up.
Toji slapped the dash, grinning wide. “Oh, she bit him. Look at him, sitting there like a kicked puppy. Our Choso, all whipped after one shift with Miss Bank Teller.”
Choso muttered, “She’s not a teller.”
“Doesn’t matter what she is,” Suguru said, voice silky. “What matters is you didn’t do what we usually do with witnesses, and now you’re making us partners with one.”
“She’s not gonna talk,” Choso said flatly.
Toji gave him a long, slow once-over and smirked. “Oh, I believe she won’t talk. Probably too busy thinking about how you bent her over the table.”
Choso’s jaw tightened. Suguru finally finished his stack and tossed it into the duffel. “You know what kills me? Out of all the banks in the city, you had to pick the one with the worst security. That guard—what’s his name? Brent?” He snorted. “One punch and the guy folded like a folding chair.”
Toji added, “Yeah, and the manager? Carver? I’ve seen Girl Scouts put up more of a fight. Only thing that man’s protecting is his stapler.”
They both laughed, Suguru leaning back with that lazy smile. “She’s too pretty for you, man. Way too pretty. If she had any sense, she’d be calling the cops right now instead of daydreaming about your sad, emo ass.” Choso just rolled his eyes, but his mind betrayed him — replaying the way she’d tilted her head at him, the spark in her eyes when she’d said, Let me see your face.
Suguru noticed the look and smirked. “Ohhh yeah. He’s done for.”
Toji grinned like a wolf. “Better hope she likes her cut, Choso. Otherwise, we’re all fucked.” Choso didn’t answer. He just pulled his mask back on and started loading mags, ignoring the heat crawling up his neck.
The slam of Carver’s office door still rang in your ears by the time you hit the sidewalk.
Fired. Not “let go,” not “downsized.” Flat-out, smug-as-fuck fired.
You could still see his smug little rat face, lips curling like he’d just done you a favor. “We can’t have employees who compromise security.” Compromise security, my ass. You were the one who got manhandled by a masked lunatic while Brent the Walking Boner took a nap on the tile, but sure — blame you.
You’d lasted exactly three seconds after he said it before you’d gone off. Every petty thing you’d been holding in for months came spilling out — about how he stole tip jar money, how he timed your bathroom breaks, how he smelled like burnt coffee and sad desperation. You called him a dickless control freak. Loud enough for the entire front lobby to hear.
Best three seconds of your week.
Now here you were, stomping down cracked pavement with your bag slung over one shoulder, muttering curses under your breath like a goddamn crazy person. The air was heavy — sticky with the end-of-summer heat and exhaust from passing cars — but it wasn’t the weather making your shoulders tight.
It was that feeling. The one where the back of your neck prickles like a live wire. The one that says something is just out of your peripheral vision.
You told yourself it was paranoia. That you were just still wired from unloading on Carver. That maybe you’d watched too many late-night crime docs where women get stalked in dark alleys.
But every step you took, you swore you heard another. Just a fraction behind yours. Soft. Unhurried. Your grip tightened on your bag strap, pulse climbing. You risked a glance over your shoulder — quick, casual, like you were just checking traffic.
And then your stomach dropped. Because there he was. Tall as hell. Broad enough to take up the whole damn sidewalk if he wanted. Hoodie up, shadowing his face — but not enough. Not enough to hide the sharp lines of his jaw or the messy fall of his hair spilling out over his forehead.
No mask this time.
And Jesus fucking Christ, he was still hot. Stupid hot. Like, can’t-even-be-mad-properly hot, which only made you more mad. Those same dark, half-lidded eyes locked on you like they had back in the bank — not frantic, not rushed. Just watching. Your chest tightened, but your brain? Your brain short-circuited straight to what the fuck. Because if the robbery had been a fever dream, this was the part where the fever came back twice as bad.
You stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. Just stood there like six feet of unbothered trouble, hands in his hoodie pocket, that lazy slouch in his shoulders like he had all night to stare you down.
You turned fully toward him, chin high. “Well, well, well. Look who’s too pretty for prison.”
The corner of his mouth twitched — barely. “You kept your end of the deal.”
“Damn right I did,” you shot back. “I didn’t even tell the cops you breathe too loud, let alone that you bent me over a breakroom table.”
That almost-smile deepened, but he didn’t bite at the jab. “Which means I’m here to give you yours.”
You blinked. “My what?”
“Your cut.”
You actually laughed — loud enough that a couple walking by gave you side-eye. “You’re telling me you’re about to hand me a thick-ass load of dirty cash right here on the street, while I just got fired for ‘compromising security’? Yeah, that’s not suspicious at all.”
He just shrugged, eyes still pinned on you. “I said I’d pay you. I’m paying you.”
“Uh-huh.” You took a step closer, voice dripping smug. “C’mon. My apartment’s a block away. Unless you wanna risk handing me a fat stack where Karen-with-a-stroller can watch and call the cops.”
“You’re awful cocky for someone who was screaming in my ear a week ago,” he said, voice low enough to slide under your skin.
“Yeah, well,” you smirked, “you’re awful smug for someone who got bit like a chew toy.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, but there was heat in them — the same slow-burn heat that made your stomach twist back in the lounge. “You gonna keep running your mouth the whole walk?”
“Probably,” you said sweetly. “If you don’t like it, you can fuck off back to wherever you keep your robbery fan club.”
That earned you the tiniest huff of a laugh. He tipped his head, finally breaking eye contact just long enough to glance down the street, then back to you. “Lead the way, pretty girl.”
The words hit like they had no business hitting, but you just rolled your eyes and started walking. You didn’t have to look back to know he was following — you could feel him there, a solid, shadow-heavy presence eating up the space between you, every step making your pulse spike for reasons you’d rather chew glass than say out loud.
The lock clicked behind you, and you tossed your bag onto the couch like you hadn’t just let a wanted man into your shoebox apartment.
Choso stood in the doorway for a beat too long, eyes sweeping over the space — not in that judgmental “wow, you’re broke” way, but like he was memorizing it.
“You really just let me in,” he said finally, his voice rougher in the quiet.
You kicked off your shoes, shrugging like it was no big deal. “Yeah. Shocking, right?”
He leaned a shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why trust me?”
That one hit sharper than you expected. You paused halfway to the kitchen, then turned to face him, expression flat. “Truth? I hated that job. Carver was two inches from making me commit a felony anyway. Losing it was the best thing that’s happened to me all month.”
One of his brows arched, slow. “That’s it?”
You tilted your head, lips twitching into a smirk. “You really think I’m gonna stand here and tell you you’re hot, so you can strut around with your ego bigger than your dick?”
Something dark flickered in his eyes — and you couldn’t tell if it was amusement or something more dangerous. “So you’re lying.”
“Obviously.” You stepped closer. One step, then another, until you were close enough to smell the faint smoke and something warmer clinging to his hoodie. “So, tell me…” Your voice dipped. “Why didn’t you knock me out that day? Would’ve been easier. Cleaner. I was screaming in your ear, remember?”
He didn’t look away. Didn’t even blink. “Thought about it.” His tone was low, almost conversational — but every word landed heavy. “But then you looked at me. Not the gun, not the mask. Me. Like you wanted to figure me out.”
Your breath caught, but he kept going, his gaze locked like he was pinning you in place.
“I’ve had people look at me scared, angry, ready to fight — never like that. You didn’t see what I was doing. You saw me. And for a second…” His jaw flexed. “For a second, I didn’t give a fuck about the money. Couldn’t stop staring. Couldn’t stop thinking about how you looked with your mouth open, ready to curse me out. How your voice sounded saying my name— and you didn’t even know it yet.”
You swallowed, pulse hammering in your throat.
His voice dropped further, just for you. “So no, I didn’t knock you out. I couldn’t. You were the only thing in that room I didn’t want to take by force.” The air felt thick enough to choke on.
Your chest rose and fell, each breath tighter than the last. The space between you felt like it was shrinking on its own, pulled taut like a wire ready to snap.
He hadn’t moved, but somehow he was everywhere— the smell of him, the weight of his stare, the memory of his hands locked around your wrists.
You didn’t think about it. You just stepped forward, closed the last few inches, and grabbed the front of his hoodie.
The first press of your mouth to his was nothing like you expected. It wasn’t desperate or messy — not at first. It was slow, firm, a deliberate claiming. He inhaled sharply against you, and you felt it, the way his chest expanded under your hands.
Then his own hands were on you. One came up to cradle the side of your jaw, the other sliding low to the small of your back, pulling you closer until your body molded against his. The kiss deepened, his lips parting just enough to drag his teeth over your bottom lip before he caught it between his, sucking once, slow enough to make your knees weaken.
You made a sound — low, involuntary — and it seemed to light him up. His fingers tightened at your waist, the heat in his body bleeding into yours.
“Fuck,” he murmured against your mouth, the word half a groan. “Knew you’d taste good.”
You shivered, tilting your head to chase his mouth as he kissed you again, harder this time. His tongue brushed yours, coaxing, teasing, until your nails were digging into the cotton of his hoodie.
When he broke for air, it was barely a breath before he leaned back in, kissing you like he’d been starving for it. You could feel him smiling against your lips, and it made you grab a fistful of his hair, yanking just enough to draw a sharp hiss from him.
“Shit,” he exhaled, his voice gravel. “Do that again.”
You did — twisting your fingers in those messy black strands, tugging him down to you. His hands slid lower, cupping your hips, his thumbs digging in through the fabric of your jeans as he guided you back toward the couch.
The backs of your knees hit the cushions and you fell into them, pulling him down with you. His weight covered yours, pressing you deep into the seat, his mouth never leaving yours except to trail heat along your jaw, down the side of your throat.
He bit once, gentle but enough to make your breath catch, then soothed the spot with his tongue. “You have no idea what you do to me,” he muttered, voice low and ragged against your skin.
Your hands roamed without thinking — over his back, down to the solid muscle under his hoodie, back up to his hair. He groaned into your neck when your nails grazed the base of his skull.
“Choso,” you breathed, and he shuddered like the sound of his name out of your mouth had physically hit him.
“Say it again,” he rasped, lips moving against your collarbone, his fingers already sliding under the hem of your shirt, skin to skin. “Say it like you mean it.”
You grabbed his chin, forcing him to look at you. His pupils were blown wide, his lips slick from kissing you raw. “I do mean it,” you said, your voice low and sure, before pulling him back down to kiss him until you forgot where you ended and he began.
You didn’t even remember moving. One second, you were kissing him like you meant to drink him down, the next, you were climbing into his lap.
Choso leaned back into the couch, wide legs spreading automatically to make room for you. His hands locked onto your hips, steadying you as you straddled him, your knees braced against the cushions on either side of his thighs.
The shift made your chest brush his, and his gaze flicked down immediately — not even pretending not to stare.
“Fuck…” His voice was low, almost reverent. “Been thinking about these since you yelled at me.”
That pulled a short laugh from you. “My tits?”
“Mhm.” His hands slid up your sides, slow but sure, until his thumbs skimmed the underside of your breasts through your shirt. “You were bent over that table, screaming in my face, and all I could think about was getting my hands on you like this.”
Your pulse kicked hard. “You’re insane.”
“Yeah,” he said, grinning up at you. “And you like it.”
Before you could bite back, he cupped you fully, big hands molding around you like he’d been waiting for this exact fit. His thumbs circled over your nipples through the fabric, teasing them into peaks until you bit your lip and arched just slightly into his touch.
“There she is,” he murmured, watching your face. “Knew you’d be soft. Knew you’d fill my hands perfect.”
You leaned down, kissing him again, slow and wet, while his palms kneaded at you like he couldn’t get enough. When he broke the kiss to mouth at your throat, you rolled your hips over his lap, dragging yourself over the solid line of him beneath his sweats.
He groaned into your skin, one hand slipping under your shirt without hesitation. The heat of his palm against your bare breast made you gasp, the contrast of his rough fingers against your softer skin shooting straight down your spine.
“Fuck, you’re warm,” he said, his thumb brushing over your nipple in a lazy circle before rolling it between his fingers. “You’re gonna kill me, you know that?”
You smirked, rocking your hips again, slower this time, making sure he felt every inch of you against him. “Maybe that’s the plan.”
“Not before I get my mouth on you,” he shot back, tugging your shirt up just enough to bare you to the cool air. His gaze locked on your chest like it was the only thing in the room worth looking at. “Jesus, look at you…”
His head dipped, and when his mouth closed around your nipple, you let out a sharp, startled moan. He sucked hard, tongue flicking, while one hand kept working the other breast, pinching and rolling until you were squirming in his lap.
“You like that?” he asked against your skin, voice vibrating over your breast. You grabbed a fistful of his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. “Shut up and keep going.”
He did — switching to the other side, biting just enough to make you gasp before soothing the sting with his tongue. His hands slid down to your ass, squeezing, pulling you tighter against the thick heat pressing up into you.
“God, you were so fucking wild that night,” he said, kissing up your chest to your collarbone. “Thrashing, swearing at me, and all I could think was how good you’d feel if you were moving on me like this instead.”
Your hips ground down harder at his words, and his grip on you tightened like he was holding himself back. “Careful,” he warned, voice low. “Keep that up and I’m not stopping.”
Your hips set the rhythm first.
Slow at the start, just enough for your clothed core to drag over the thick length straining against his sweats. The friction was dizzying — denim on cotton, heat building with every pass.
Choso’s head fell back against the couch, his eyes half-lidded but locked on your body as you rolled over him. “F-fuck… ngh—” His breath stuttered when you rocked down a little harder, and his fingers dug into your hips like he was trying to fuse you there.
You leaned forward, letting your breasts press into his chest, your mouth brushing his ear. “That sound you just made? Keep doing that.”
He groaned, low and rough, but it cracked halfway through. “Ah— fuck, you’re— ngh—” His head tipped back further, exposing his throat to you, and that’s when you saw it.
A faint purple bloom on the side of his neck. Right where your teeth had sunk in earlier.
You grinned. “Is that my bite mark?”
His gaze flicked to you, dark and half-guilty. “…Maybe.”
You slowed your grind to a lazy, deliberate roll, your hand coming up to cup his jaw. “You like walking around with that? Letting people know I put it there?”
His lips parted, his breath shivering out. “Yeah… I— ah— ngh— fuck, yeah.”
That little confession made something hot coil in your belly. You picked up the pace, grinding harder, dragging your clit over him through the layers of fabric. He met you halfway, hips lifting in short, sharp thrusts that made you gasp.
The room was filled with it now — the rough drag of clothes, the wet little sounds building between your thighs, the way Choso’s moans broke every time you found just the right angle.
“Shit— ngh— keep— keep going,” he rasped, one hand slipping up under your shirt to palm your breast while the other stayed locked on your ass, pulling you down into every thrust. His thumb brushed over your nipple and you jolted, the movement grinding you right over the thickest part of him.
His head tipped forward for a moment, mouth dragging over the top of your chest, sucking marks into your skin like he couldn’t help himself. “You’re— ah— fuck— you’re killing me.”
“You’re the one whining,” you teased, rolling your hips in a figure-eight that made his breath hitch.
“’Cause— ngh— you feel so fuckin’ good,” he admitted, voice wrecked. His thighs tensed under you as he snapped his hips up, his cock pressing hard against you through his sweats. “Keep— ah— just like that, please—”
The “please” was what got you.
You tangled your fingers in his hair and yanked, making him groan deep in his chest. “God, you’re a loser,” you breathed, and you felt him shudder under you. “Letting me use you like this.”
“Y-yeah,” he panted, hips stuttering. “Only you— ah— mm— only wanna be your loser.”
Your mouths crash again, messy and hot, teeth clacking until he groans into you. His tongue slips past your lips and it’s all spit and desperation, his big hands roaming—squeezing your tits, palming your ass, tugging at your shirt like he can’t get enough of touching you everywhere at once.
You slide a hand down his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his rapid breathing. The sweat-damp fabric of his hoodie clings to him, and when your fingers toy with the waistband of his sweats, his hips jerk up into your palm like instinct.
“Fuck— ngh—” he mutters against your mouth. You smirk, pulling back to look at him properly. His cheeks are flushed, lips kiss-swollen, eyes heavy with lust. He’s so gone.
“You want it that bad, Choso?” you tease, tugging at the drawstring.
He groans, tipping his head back against the couch. “Don’t— ngh— don’t fuckin’ tease me right now.” Then his gaze cuts back down at you, sharp, hungry. His thumb drags across your lower lip, pulling it down. “Get on your knees for me. Wanna see that pretty mouth wrapped around me.”
The way he says it—low, commanding, but almost trembling with need—has you sliding off his lap without a second thought. You sink to the floor between his knees, hands running up the inside of his thighs until you hook your fingers into his waistband.
“Pants off,” you murmur.
He lifts his hips obligingly, helping you drag his sweats and boxers down in one go. The moment his cock springs free, your breath catches.
“Holy shit…”
It’s big. Too big. Thick and heavy, flushed at the tip, veins running all the way up the shaft. It smacks against his stomach as it springs out, precum already smearing his skin. Your mouth goes dry.
Choso watches your expression and lets out this smug, breathless laugh. “Yeah? That big, huh?”
You swallow, eyes glued to it. “You’re— fuck, you’re huge.”
His hand cups the back of your head, guiding you closer. “Pretty little thing, already starin’ like it’s gonna break you.” His voice drops, rough and teasing. “But you’re gonna take it, right? Gonna make me disappear down that throat?”
Your thighs squeeze together at his words. You lick your lips, finally wrapping your hand around the base. He hisses instantly, his hips twitching.
“God— your hand looks tiny on me,” he groans, watching the way your fingers don’t even meet around him. “Fuck, that’s hot.”
You give him a slow stroke, precum smearing under your thumb. He’s thick enough that your jaw aches just imagining it.
“You’re gonna split me in half with this,” you mutter, leaning closer to drag your tongue over the tip. The taste of salt and heat blooms on your tongue.
Choso’s groan rattles out of his chest, his head falling back against the couch. “Ah— fuck— don’t say shit like that, I’ll lose it.”
You swirl your tongue around the head before pulling back just enough to murmur, “Lose it for me.” The sound he makes when you take him into your mouth—messy, broken, needy—is almost better than the weight of his cock stretching your lips. Your lips part wider, tongue flattening against his cock as you inch further down. He’s so thick you can feel your jaw protesting, spit pooling instantly and dribbling down your chin. You’ve barely swallowed half of him and already your throat flutters helplessly around the intrusion.
“Fuck— look at you,” Choso groans, fist curling in your hair as he keeps his eyes pinned on the sight of your lips stretched around his cock. His chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths, sweat beading at his temple. “I knew it. First second I saw you in that room—sittin’ there all sweet—fuck, I knew I was gonna end up here. With this mouth chokin’ on me.”
The filth makes your stomach clench. You gag softly when you push down further, throat spasming around him. He hisses through his teeth, thighs tensing under your palms.
“Yeah—just like that. Let me feel you struggle on it.” His voice drops to a ragged whisper, but his hips betray him, jerking upward. Suddenly the thick head is pressing deeper, forcing past your gag reflex. Tears spring at the corners of your eyes.
He groans low, eyes fluttering shut. “Goddamn—your throat’s so fucking tight. Can’t—shit, can’t stop myself.” You claw at his thighs, spit soaking your chin and dripping to your chest. The sound is obscene: messy gulps, wet slurps, the slick slide of his cock down your throat. He’s fucking you raw like he can’t hold back another second.
“You hear that?” he rasps, voice breaking. “That’s your throat takin’ it. All for me. Jesus, I’ve been thinkin’ about this—ever since I saw you smilin’ in that dress. Thought about draggin’ you somewhere dark and just—fuck—ruin this mouth.”
Your eyes roll up to look at him, watery and desperate, and that’s what finally shatters him.
“Don’t—don’t look at me like that,” he groans, pushing your head further down until your nose is flush against his pelvis. You gag, choking around the sheer size, throat convulsing. He throws his head back, a guttural moan ripping from his chest. “Oh, fuck yes. You’re killin’ me, baby. Throat’s squeezin’ me like a damn fist.”
His hips stutter, rutting sharp and fast, using your throat like it’s the only thing that’ll save him. His thighs tremble under your hands, his grip in your hair tightening until your scalp burns.
“I should stop—fuck—I should stop but I can’t,” he pants, voice breaking into a rough, feral groan. “Been wantin’ this—been dreamin’ about this. Pretty little mouth takin’ me like a cockslut. You love this shit, don’t you?”
Your muffled moan vibrates around him, and he damn near sobs, hips bucking deeper.
“Shit—shit—don’t do that—don’t—fuck—” he growls, pulling your head down hard as he ruts into you with reckless abandon, lost to the feeling. Your throat aches, spit dripping messily over your knuckles, but his filthy groans and the way his abs tighten above you make it worth every gag. Your throat flexes helplessly around him, slick and raw, spit bubbling past your lips with every brutal rut of his hips. You’re crying now, tears streaming down your cheeks, but the look in your eyes when you peer up at him makes Choso growl like an animal.
“Fuck—fuck, baby—don’t look at me while I’m doin’ this to you,” he pants, voice breaking as his abs clench. His cock twitches deep in your throat, heavy veins dragging against your raw walls. “You’ll make me—shit—you’ll make me cum faster—”
You gag when he pushes down harder, the swollen head bruising your throat. Your nose is buried against his pubic bone, lips stretched wide and wet. You’re choking on him, but you moan around it—moan like you want him to ruin you. And he just snaps.
“God damn it—” Choso’s voice cracks into a desperate growl, his hips jerking with ragged force. “Been thinkin’ about this mouth since the second I laid eyes on you. Couldn’t get the image outta my head. Knew you’d look so fucking pretty choking on me.”
Your gagging becomes sloppy, loud, spit spilling down your chin, soaking your throat and chest. The sound of it drives him insane. His grip in your hair shakes with how hard he’s holding you.
“Ahhh—fuck, I’m gonna cum—gonna fuckin’ cum down your throat, baby,” he moans, throwing his head back. His eyes screw shut, jaw clenched so hard it aches. “Take it. Take every drop—lemme ruin you like I’ve been wantin’.”
His cock throbs violently, then he’s spilling—hot, thick ropes of cum shooting down your throat. He groans raggedly, whole body trembling as he fucks into you through it, rutting shallowly to milk every drop.
“Yesss—fuck yes—swallow it, don’t waste a single fuckin’ drop,” he grits out, chest heaving as he watches your throat bob around him. “You’re mine now. My perfect slut.”
The mess is obscene. His cum leaks past your lips, dribbles from the corners of your mouth, streaks down your chin to join the slick spit already painting your chest. Choso looks down at you—tear-streaked, throat raw, face a ruined mess—and his cock twitches again, still hard even as he softens. He groans low, almost a whine, pushing your head back just enough to let him slide free with a wet, sloppy pop. Strings of spit and cum cling to your swollen lips.
“Shit,” he breathes, voice hoarse. He cups your face with a trembling hand, thumb smearing the mess across your cheek. His eyes are blown wide, pupils dark with lust. “Look at you. Never seen anything so pretty. You don’t even know what you do to me.”
Then his thumb presses your bottom lip down, smearing more of his cum into your mouth as his cock twitches weakly. “Open up—yeah, just like that. Lemme see that tongue.” He groans when you do, messy and obedient, showing him everything you’ve swallowed. “Holy fuck. You’re perfect. Perfect.”
Your body is still twitching when Choso hauls you up, chest heaving, cock still standing hard and angry against his stomach. He doesn’t even look at it—his eyes are locked on you, pupils blown wide, hair sticking to his forehead with sweat.
“Up here,” he rasps, dragging you into his lap before laying himself back on the couch.
You’re breathless, lips swollen. “Choso—what are you—”
He doesn’t answer. His hands hook into the waistband of your shorts, tugging them down in one slow pull until they’re around your ankles. Your panties go with them—thin, soaked, sticking to your pussy as he peels them away.
“Fuck…” he mutters when the fabric clings before snapping off your skin. He lets the ruined underwear fall to the floor, staring at the wet patch like it’s a trophy. “You’ve been dripping for me all night, huh? Knew it.”
“Choso…” you murmur, shy, but your voice breaks when he spreads your thighs, dragging you higher up his chest.
He settles flat against the couch, hair splayed across the cushions, and grips your hips. “Sit,” he orders, dark and raw.
“Wait, you just—” Your protest dies in a sharp gasp because he yanks you down, nose pressing against your clit, tongue swiping a long, wet stripe through your folds.
“Fuck!” you cry out, hands flying to his hair for balance.
Choso groans into your pussy like it’s oxygen, his voice muffled. “Goddamn—so sweet—been wantin’ this since the second I saw you.” His hands flex hard on your thighs, nails digging crescents into your skin as he locks you in place.
You whimper, trying to wriggle back from the intensity. “Cho—it’s too much—”
“Shut up,” he growls against your cunt, spit dripping down his chin as his tongue plunges into you. “Don’t run from me. Stay fuckin’ still and let me eat.”
He’s everywhere—tongue lapping, sucking your clit, shaking his head like he wants to bury himself inside you. You can’t stop the choked cries ripping out of you, hips grinding helplessly against his face.
“Choso—oh god—ahhh—”
He moans like you’re feeding him, hips rutting up against nothing. He’s sloppy, messy, absolutely drunk on you—licking, sucking, groaning, spitting into your folds just to lap it back up.
“Cum for me,” he snarls, breaking only for a second to drag his tongue flat across your whole pussy. “Drown me, baby. I wanna choke on it.”
That’s all it takes—you shatter on his tongue, thighs clamping around his head as he growls and keeps licking through it, drinking down every drop, until you’re sobbing his name into the empty room. When you slump back, trembling and overstimulated, Choso drags his mouth off you with a filthy pop. His lips, chin, even his cheeks are wet with you, glistening under the dim light. He licks slow across his mouth, eyes blown out, cock still twitching hard against his stomach.
“You taste like fuckin’ heaven,” he rasps, voice ruined. Then he smirks, tugging you back down by the thighs. “And I’m not done.”
Your body is still twitching when Choso finally pulls back from between your thighs, lips and chin shiny with you. His chest heaves, hair damp with sweat, and yet his cock is still raging hard—angrier now, flushed to the tip, leaking against his stomach like it’s been aching for years.
You try to catch your breath, but he’s already dragging you down into the cushions of the couch. His big hands press into your thighs, urging you to lie back.
“C’mere,” he mutters, voice hoarse and needy.
You blink up at him, flushed and still trembling, but let him guide you down until your back sinks into the couch. He cages you in, bracing a forearm by your head, his other hand sliding beneath the hem of your shirt.
“Wait—” you start, voice shaky.
He doesn’t take it off—he just pushes it up, slow, baring your chest until your breasts spill free. The look on his face when they do is almost reverent.
“Fuckin’ knew they’d be perfect,” he whispers, eyes locked on the soft curves, pupils so wide you can barely see the brown. He leans down, kissing over the swell of one, then catching a nipple between his lips, sucking until you arch up with a gasp.
“Choso…” your voice breaks.
He smirks against your skin, kisses messy and wet across both breasts. “Love these, baby. Could stay here all night.” His teeth graze your nipple just enough to make you whine. But then he shifts—one hand sliding between your thighs, guiding himself down to your soaked entrance. The blunt head of his cock brushes your pussy and you jolt, body clenching around nothing.
“Cho—wait, you’re—” You glance down, eyes widening at the sheer size of him. Thick, flushed, dripping precum, the tip nudging against your folds and making your walls spasm already.
“I—I don’t think—”
“Shhh,” he coos, leaning in to kiss you soft, swallowing your protest. “You can take it, baby. You’re mine, yeah?”
You whimper into his mouth, nodding, but when he pushes the tip inside, your nails dig into his shoulders.
“Choso—ahh—it’s too much, too big—”
He groans deep in his chest, forehead pressing to yours. “Fuck—you’re so tight, so warm—baby, just a little more. I got you. I won’t hurt you.”
You shake your head, thighs trembling as he stretches you inch by inch. “It’s not fitting—”
“Yes it is,” he murmurs, kissing you again, slow and messy. “It’s yours. Just relax. Breathe for me, pretty girl.”
His hand strokes up your side, over your breast, thumb brushing your nipple while he rocks his hips, feeding you more of him.
Your body fights it, walls gripping him so tight he groans and has to still. “Fuuuck—you’re squeezing the life outta me.”
Tears prick your eyes at the stretch, and he catches them with kisses at the corners. “Don’t cry, baby. You’re doing so good. You’re taking me so fuckin’ good.” Your thighs twitch, back arching, and little by little, he pushes deeper until you’re half full of him. He pauses again, chest heaving.
“Halfway there,” he whispers against your lips, like it’s a promise. “You can take the rest. You’re perfect for me.” He kisses your jaw, your throat, your breasts again, every inch of you worshipped as he pushes slow, steady, filling you with another thick stretch. You moan, broken, clutching at him. “Choso—too much—”
He shushes you with another kiss, thumb circling your clit in soft, coaxing circles. “Just a little more, baby. I’ll make it feel so good. Let me all the way in. Wanna be inside you—every inch.”
Your body gives, walls fluttering around him as he sinks in deeper, until you’re gasping against his mouth, stretched so wide you swear you’ll split, but every kiss and every whisper keeps you grounded. Choso’s voice is a husky rasp in your ear, his cock buried nearly to the hilt. “See? Told you. You can take it. My pretty girl, made for me.”
When the last thick inch finally pushes in, your walls clamp down so hard around him Choso curses, head dropping to your neck.
“Fuuuuck—baby… I’m all the way in. You feel that? Took me so good.”
You’re whimpering, legs trembling where they cling around his waist. Your mind is hazy, nothing but stretch and fullness and the overwhelming heat of his body over yours.
Choso doesn’t give you long to adjust. He pulls back, dragging his cock out slow, and then slams forward again. The sound that rips from your throat is broken, helpless.
“Choso—!”
His hips snap into yours again, harder this time, the couch creaking under the force. Sweat drips from his temple onto your chest, and he kisses down your throat between every thrust, messy and desperate.
“God, I love this pussy,” he groans, hips rolling deep. “You’re squeezin’ me so fuckin’ good, baby—made for me, yeah? Fuckin’ perfect for me.”
You can’t answer—your voice catches in half-formed cries every time he pounds into you. He smirks against your skin, licking sweat from your collarbone before sucking a mark just above your breast.
“Can’t even talk, huh? My dumb baby,” he pants, his words warm and sticky in your ear. “Dick got you all fucked out already.”
Your nails claw down his back, dragging over slick skin. He hisses but thrusts harder, faster, the slap of skin-on-skin echoing through the living room.
Your head lolls against the couch cushion, mouth falling open, drool slipping from the corner of your lips. Choso notices—of course he does—and his cock twitches inside you at the sight.
“Messy little thing,” he coos, kissing the saliva off your chin. “Look so cute when you’re gone like this. My pretty baby—love you like this.”
The sweat on his chest smears against your shirt where it’s bunched under your arms, his abs flexing with every brutal thrust. He pulls back enough to watch himself sink in and out of you, your slick coating his length.
“Fuck, look at that. You hear that?” He thrusts hard, sharp, making the squelch obscene. “That’s you. That’s how wet you are for me.”
You moan so loud it cracks, tears welling again, body arching up to meet him. Your pussy clamps down like it’s trying to pull him deeper, and he groans, nearly undone.
“Baby—shit—you’re gonna kill me. Feels too good.” His forehead presses to yours, his thrusts still rough, but his kisses are soft, clumsy, wet against your lips.
“Love you, baby,” he murmurs between thrusts, words slurring with pleasure. “Love this pussy. Can’t stop, don’t wanna stop.”
His hips slam faster, sharper, driving the air from your lungs, leaving you a babbling mess under him. Every thrust makes you squeal, whine, sob—until you can’t even think, can’t even speak, just claw at his slick back and let him use you.
Choso is dripping sweat now, hair sticking to his forehead, jaw slack with ecstasy. “So good, baby. You’re mine. All mine. Say it—say it’s mine.”
You choke on a moan, nodding frantically, and he rewards you with a punishing thrust that makes you see stars.
“That’s right,” he growls, kissing you sloppy, tongue pushing past your lips. “My pussy. My baby. Fuck, I love you.”
And he doesn’t stop—keeps fucking you like he’s starving, like the only thing keeping him alive is being buried inside you, messy and desperate and sweet all at once.
While arranged marriages are not uncommon in the jujutsu community, it was strange to receive a proposal from none other than the Zen’in’s, nonetheless your clan accepted and before you knew it, you were married off to Naoya.
Your new purpose was clear: to serve and submit, to be seen and not heard. To forget any sense of individuality in favor of obeying your husband.
Will this marriage ever flourish into something else? Will it change…for better or for worse?
Status:
Active ❤ but on hiatus!
Schedule:
Bi-Weekly, Sundays.
Warnings:
Arranged marriage. Misogyny. Explicit sexual content. Violence. Minors, DO NOT INTERACT.
Side stories — Small scenarios happening either during the main story, or before.
Hinata takes Satoru horse riding.Y/N’s first kiss. When Hitomi met Naohiko. Naoya’s and Y/N’s honeymoon. The wedding from Naoya’s POV. Reacting to Naoya’s scar (AU) What if Y/N was a peasant? (AU) Naoya asks Y/N to marry him (for real).
Asks — Just people sharing their love + some extras.
Your roommate grew up on a ranch before moving to the City and now she INSISTS that you come along with her to one of the biggest rodeos around. Having moved in not too long ago, you reluctantly agree even though dusty, wide open spaces are a foreign concept to your polished City girl demeanor. By chance, you meet one of the biggest names in pro-rodeo complete with a belt buckle as big as his ego. A cowboy through and through, he hates the City and the people that reside it. Little does he know that lasting eight seconds on a bull is easy compared to fighting feelings for a girl he’s supposed to hate.
Content Tags/Warnings Throughout Work: slight enemies to lovers, eventual smut, Sukuna is a rodeo cowboy, reader is a city girl, slight mentions of blood/injury from rodeo activities, happy ending, more to be added
AN: This was inspired by @indiewritesxoxo's He's (Not) My Man, it made me wanna take a stab at cowboy Sukuna! LMK if you wanna be on the taglist!
Pt. 1 - Long Haul
Pt. 2 - Out of the Blue
Pt. 3 - This Cowboy Breaks Horses not Hearts
Pt. 4 - Let Me Taste What I Need Most
Pt. 5 - Who Do You See When Your Eyes are Closed?
Pt. 6 - Her Evaluation of my Cowboy Reputation had me Beggin' for Salvation all Night Long
AN: alright so I was away for a few months…a few things had happened. But come to find out when i come back to reread my fanfic to continue with the story– i hated it. So i revamped it. Thank you for the love and support and some of the not so supportive comments haha. Please keep in mind that this is a free fic coming from my own time and energy. I love the sweet comments but the pressure can be so real dawg.
Also if you want a mini update...in this time…i have: switched jobs, moved to a new apartment, lost a few relatives, went through a sticky depressive state from the new work environment (a bit toxic but thats ok), aged up a number, and i have finally started reading again. I hope to reinstill some of my hobbies i had before and hopefully i can find some of that passion i had all those months ago. If you don’t wish to reread then that is okay! Im fleshing out some character dynamics and deleting small chunks i dont like. ill be updating as i see fit and as my fragile mental can tolerate!
Ciao, my friends
Warnings: yandere, obsessive behavior, possessiveness, mommy kinks, mommy issues, arranged marriages, forced marriages, angst, eventual smut, clan politics, age gap (5 years from meg, and a little over 10 with toji), toji aint the best dad, mentions of child abuse, slowww build. This is meant to be somewhat toxic, so if youre sensitive in any way to this please be advised and dont read. Spelling errors or possible plot holes. Were not cannon here, we free balling
Short summary: Your arranged marriage to Toji Fushiguro had been sudden and unexpected, but now you found yourself living under his roof alongside his moody stepson. Your only directive from your clan head before moving in was clear: keep a close eye on Toji, the notorious Sorcerer Killer, and his son, a potential sorcerer prodigy.
Lets Begin wk 5k
The black sheep of the Zenin clan wasn’t exactly known for his well-rounded reputation, teetering on the edge of severing all ties to his family at any given moment.
He hadn’t been in contact with them for years, and financial support on their end was nonexistent. He assumed it was retaliation for marrying outside the clan—without their approval. He was constantly broke, especially after Megumi was born. But when his late wife passed, he had already taken on her surname, somewhat severing himself from the dingey clan he had once called "family."
After her death, he picked up side gigs, earning just enough to provide for the two of them. Megumi was older now, around thirteen, which made it easier to leave him alone for longer periods. Toji often took days long "business" trips just to keep them afloat.
Word of Megumi's birth sparked much interest within the Zenin clan, despite Toji's attempts to keep his birth under wraps. More and more inquiries from differing clan members arrived once Megumi reached seven, demanding updates on his son’s abilities. Demanding to know if he inherited the ten shadows technique or showed any promise. Offering assistance with raising him as the next Zenin heir. Buy outs to just sell the boy.
And Toji will admit it. He wasn’t a great father, but at least he had kept his promise of keeping Megumi away from his late clan and that sorcerer bullshit.
Until he received an official notification from the Zenin clan head. A summons.
The pompous bastard had never formally reached out in years, only now to be met with a request—a demand, for his compliance in an arranged marriage. He couldn't help b ut scoff at the audacity. And initially, he planned to refuse. He wasn’t interested in an arranged marriage, wanted nothing to do with the sorcerer world, and even less to do with the Zenin clan.
Hell, the only reason he bothered showing up at the clan house that day was to set that fucker straight.
Then he saw you—a pretty little thing. Really, you couldn’t have been more than seven–no, maybe ten years younger than him. Likely just turning seventeen, maybe eighteen. He couldn’t say for sure. He hadn't bothered with the file that was sent over with the official summons. But one thing was for sure.
You were much too young for this shit.
They’d already brought you along for the proposal, as if they knew hed refuse–as if they knew he would change his mind the moment he saw you. And, fuck, if they weren’t right. Was it attraction?
You were beautiful. Polished and respectable. Speaking in low tones like the proper little housewife he was sure they’d trained you to be. He could see the endgame here. The reasoning behind pushing this arrangement on him. It wasn’t subtle in the slightest.
The higher-ups–his late clan heads, likely wanted a presence in his home. Someone to keep tabs on him and Megumi, no doubt. They hadn’t explicitly stated as much, but Toji wasn't dumb. With his own tendency to remain elusive, (and maybe just possibly with his notorious reputation of him being nicknamed as the “Sorcerer Killer”) he wouldn't be knocked off his feet if it came out that they wanna to keep a closer watch on him, too.
But the thought of them using a young girl–someone barely older than Megumi to achieve those goals left a bitter taste in his mouth, reminding him exactly why he left in the first place.
Toji didn’t give a rats ass about his reputation, but it was clear they were fishing for confirmation. Likely hoping to uncover all of the unconfirmed truths. He really was about to spit in that old mans face and walk off. Maybe spew a few nasty words.
But then he caught your eyes.
blank.
You looked nearly indifferent to the situation, but he could tell this wasn’t what you wanted. It couldn’t be. He understood the clan system all too well—how they saw their women, how they treated them. You really are just a child. And yet, that dead expression of yours sealed the deal.
He accepted it in a breath.
Fine.
His eyes never left yours when he muttered out that final word. The sighs of relief from the elders only background noise as he studied your reaction. Waiting to see what you'd do.
Call it generosity if you wanted. But if he were honest, it wasn’t that. He soon realized, those emotionless eyes reminded him eerily of his late wife—the fearlessness bordering on defiance. The sheer willpower it must’ve taken to show up in the first place. Most girls in your situation would have cried or begged, pleading not to marry some old geezer, especially one as infamous in the community. A killer to your kind.
But you didn’t cry. Didn’t beg.
And he could respect that.
Sure, it was another mouth to feed. Another brat to deal with. But he tried to rationalize it to himself. Maybe, just maybe, you’d be able to help keep Megumi in line while he was out working.
better that than leaving you to the wolves.
He studies the way you stepped into his apartment for the first time.
Overanalyzing your moves. Your gaze sweeping the room with a calm, measured air. There was no unease in your face.
No hint that you resented your situation.
This arrangement.
Him.
Hell, he wouldn't have even blamed you if you were actively planning your escape. You hadn't exchanged a single word with him since you left the clan house. Hadn't bothered sparing him a single glance.
He could practically see the gears turning in that pretty little head of yours. Assessing his space.
Your space.
He felt an unwavering itch to see a change in your demeanor. Any hint of a reaction. Anything. Your affect stirred old painful memories he immediately had to shove back down.
Before he realized it, you’d easily found your way to his bedroom (not that the two bedroom apartment was that difficult to navigate). Setting your things down, and touring the house easily on your own, as if you'd lived there for years.
Toji was never good with words, but he felt he had to provide some explanation. But as he had opened his mouth, the words died almost instantly on his tongue when he saw that you immediately began cleaning.
No requests, no word exchanges, and no questions.
It was like you’d already claimed your space, like you’d accepted the role handed to you without a second thought. He wasn't necessarily gonna demand your servitude, but he sure as hell wasn't going to complain about. The space undeniably needed a woman’s touch.
Toji didn’t linger.
He slipped out quietly, already lost in his thoughts about the oncoming job he had to handle. He’d be gone for two days—maybe one, if he played his cards right. He contemplated telling you how long he’d be gone, but on second thought he didn't want you knowing too much about him anyways. You were here to stay put, to take care of things while he was gone. Simple as that.
As he rounded the corner outside the apartment, that nagging feeling crept in—a vague itch at the back of his mind, like he was forgetting something.
He paused mid-step, frowning as he patted his pockets. Wallet? Keys? No, he had those.
He faltered for a moment, but he quickly shrugged it off, muttering under his breath, "Can't be that important."
Megumi had taken the long way home today.
Several boys in his class had been pissing him off to no end, and he’d been itching to punch something–anything to burn off the frustration knotting in his chest. He needed a distraction, something to cool him off before he did anything stupid. He really couldn’t afford to get into another fight. The pitying looks from his teachers were humiliating enough, especially when Toji never bothered to show up and pick him up afterward.
So he took the long way home. it was scenic. Calming in a way that nothing else in his life ever was. Trees lined the path, offering some peace as he trudged along. Leaves spiraled around him, as he felt a small chill in the air.
Letting out a sigh, vaguely similar to a huff, he inched closer and closer to his neighborhood. He wasn’t sure whether Toji would even be home when he arrived. He never really knew for certain.
And honestly, he wasn't sure he even wanted Toji there. He wasn’t in the mood for the blaring TV shows, the obnoxious phone calls, or the condescending teasing that never felt quite like affection. Ever since his mother died, whatever thin thread of connection they had snapped. He’d been too young to remember her clearly, but he remembered the mornings…too many of them, spent cleaning up after his father’s messes when he stumbled in from a job.
Still as useless as Toji could be, the only real comfort in him being home was that the place didn’t feel like such a cold, empty shell. The days he wasn’t there always felt a little more…hollow.
Either way, it didn’t matter.
What Megumi did care about right now was dinner. His stomach growled in earnest as he passed by the local smoked meat shop. His eyes glazing over as he contemplated spending his sad little stash of pocket change on a few skewers.
He thought back to whether or not he had made a grocery run this week. If what he had at home would be enough to scrounge up a passable dinner. Getting Toji to give him money for groceries was like pulling teeth. And the though of asking for more money felt out of the question.
Every conversation with his father had the potential to turn into a blow up. Raised voices, screaming matches, more attitude than you'd ever expect from a grown man, and if he was lucky then maybe a few extra yen that were fished out of his father pocket by the end of it. It was always easier to ignore him and handle it on his own.
Megumi had been scraping by, finding ways to earn enough extra cash for food. Sometimes he’d deliver things for the neighbors or help them with spring cleaning for a fair price. Those odd jobs usually kept him going, but lately no one needed anything. The sudden drought in work only served to fuel his frustration.
Climbing the stairs to his apartment, something made him stop mid-step.
The kitchen window was open.
Toji wasn’t the kind of man to leave windows open, even when the weather was good. A strange detail to remember, but Megumi was always like that. He eased the door open and slipped inside, moving slowly, quietly, every sense on high alert. When he peeked around the corner into the kitchen, he froze.
Someone was in the kitchen—a girl. No…a woman.
Your back was to him as you worked at the counter, slicing onions with quick, practiced motions. His initial burst of panic ebbed as he blinked, narrowing his eyes to study you more closely.
You were young—maybe only a few years older than him.
Definitely younger than Toji’s usual type.
Toji bringing women home wasn’t unusual, but they never looked like you. And they never stayed long. Most were gone before breakfast, offering a stiff smile and an awkward “bye” when they realized Megumi was sitting at the table.
He watched the blade flash as you chopped, catching the glint of a ring on your finger. So you were married–
“You can come out from there, y’know.”
Megumi flinched before he could stop himself. A flicker of embarrassment—spying and getting caught really wasn’t a good look, but he forced the feeling down, reminding himself.
This was his home.
He had no reason to feel embarrassed. Straightening his posture, he stepped out from behind the doorway, his sharp eyes fixed on you as you casually wiped your hands on a towel.
You turned to face him, and the first thing he registered was how pretty you were.
Tall and poised, you stood at least a head above him. The modest, traditional clothes you wore looked completely out of place in this shabby apartment, their neatness almost absurd against peeling paint and mismatched furniture. There was something elegant about you, a kind of refinement that felt worlds away from the usual sleaziness of his father’s one-night stands.
“Who are you? Why’re you here?” His tone came out harsher than he intended. Unintentionally huffy and childish, the immaturity of it made him falter for half a beat.
You looked him over with calm, assessing eyes, strangely gentle, as if his scowl was more cute than threatening. Then, with that same soft smile, you introduced yourself, explaining, simply, that you lived here.
Megumi’s brow furrowed, and he crossed his arms defiantly, his voice on edge, no doubt pushed from the shitty day he just had. “You don’t live here, you psycho. Leave.”
The attempt at a threat might’ve carried more weight if his stomach hadn’t chosen that exact moment to growl, and quite loudly at that. The sound shattered whatever tension had been building between the two of you.
He watched as you tried to hold back a laugh, your hand flying up to cover your mouth, but the amusement still slipped through your eyes, unbearably warm and impossible to hide. The sight made his heart give a faint, uneasy jolt.
“Ah,” lightly, your tone as soothing, “but I’m in the middle of cooking. Why don’t we eat first, and then we can talk?”
Your voice was gentle, your smile genuine, and Megumi couldn’t sense any malice from you. Besides, whatever you were making smelled incredible, and his stomach had been growling from the moment he walked in.
His gaze shifted to the counter, where ingredients and half-prepped dishes were laid out. He hesitated. Toji brought women home, sure–but none of them ever cooked. And definitely not for him.
Against his better judgment, he gave a small, reluctant nod.
Before long, the two of you were sitting at the kitchen table, three plates set neatly on the small table. It was late, but you still held onto the idea that you husband might come home. As you and Megumi ate, you made light conversation, trying to get a genuine feel for the boy you understood to be your stepson.
You’d been briefed by your clan before arriving. Told about Toji, told about his son, instructed vaguely to “watch the two” and “get on their good sides.” No one had bothered explaining why. They didn’t need to. Even with the change in scenery, you were still a prisoner regardless. A pawn.
Still, you wanted a real connection with this new “family,” false as it was. The man who’d approached you that day. Broad shoulders, muscle-packed arms, scar across his lip, If you were any other lady in the clan house you may have swooned at his chiseled face.
But you knew better than to trust a man, especially one who seemed perfectly comfortable with the rumors that followed him. Especially one who could easily crush your windpipe should you give him the reason to.
But at least your stepson was cute.
The way he stood there, furrowed brow and stubborn glare, reminded you of a fussy kitten. All bristling attitude and misplaced bravado. It was clear he wasn’t used to strangers lingering in his space, and his prickliness only served to make him seem all the more adorable.
You’d worked with enough children in the clan house to know how to properly care for them, one of the few things you were ever encouraged to do. There were plenty of reasons to be resentful, but you’d always had a soft spot for the younger ones. The ones who had no idea of the hell they were growing up in.
They followed you and your siblings everywhere, tiny shadows clinging to your sleeves, trusting you completely. You remembered buying them sweets at the corner store, patching up scraped knees, brushing dirt from their hands after a fall. Those moments were some of the only fond memories you had of that place.
You were reminded time and time again by your nursemaids that every prowling, nasty man had once been a child just like that. to just be a little more careful. to keep your distance... But it was hard to associate Megumi’s pouty, irritated face with the ones that stained your nightmares.
You'd admit. He looked so much like Toji. Same sharp features, same brooding energy, minus the flat hair and scar. You'd have no trouble figuring out whos kid he was. But despite it all, you couldn't find it in yourself to be formal with him.
As the meal went on, you started picking up little things about him. He stayed quiet, of course, his answers clipped and blunt, like he was rationing out his words. But the warmth of a real meal and the soft smile you kept giving him seemed to chip away at his walls. Just a little.
Eventually, he let his guard slip enough that you managed to coax his name out of him. And though he said it without much fanfare, it felt like a small victory. You already knew who he was, of course, but hearing it from him was…different. Comforting, in a strange way. You hoped maybe you could build some kind of friendship with him.
Even the smallest bit of closeness would make you feel a little less alone.
It wasn’t much.
But it was something.
And so you spent the next night in his home, without much fuss from him. He’d watched you quietly walk into his father’s room, the door closing softly after you wished him goodnight. You were a stranger, yes, but you seemed… kind. A little weird, sure, but undeniably kind.
He didn’t know how to feel about it. Some strange woman inviting herself into his home, staying without warning, claiming she lived there. But after everything you’d done so far, he found he didn’t really mind if you were some crazy stalker inserting yourself into their lives.
What unsettled him more was the golden band on your left hand. Your wedding ring.
Why were you here?
He’d gone to school that morning feeling more energetic than usual. Maybe it was the leftovers you’d boxed for him the night before. Maybe it was the faint scent of your fabric softener clinging to his clothes. He wasn’t sure how you managed so much in so little time. He was even more surprised you’d bought groceries, probably with your own money…your husband’s.
Did you even work?
You didn’t seem like the type.
You felt more like a housewife.
Questions swirled in his head throughout the school day, taking his mind away from the douchey kids causing a fuss. You plagued his mind.
And on his way home, he felt that familiar dread creeping in, the heavy certainty that the apartment would be empty again. He’d caught the scent from down the block through the open window and found himself walking faster, needing to see for himself that you hadn’t disappeared. And when he stepped inside, he was met with the same sight as the day before.
You.
Standing in the kitchen, chopping vegetables, the warm smell of dinner drifting through the tight hallway.
The floors were scrubbed, everything neatly in place. It was like you brought a clean breath of fresh air into his crippling home. The space vastly different from how he’d left it that morning.
And the thought hit him, reluctant but so very real, that if his father tried to send you away, he might actually go with you.
If you let him.
He couldn’t explain it, but he had a feeling that if he asked to go with you, you’d say yes. You just seemed like the type who would.
Night settled in softly, and your second day felt like a small success. You figured Megumi would be around the house tomorrow, with the weekend coming up. Maybe you could invite him out to do something fun. You were sure there was something around the area.
As you finished cooking, your gaze drifted to the third, untouched plate at the table. Toji’s. You wondered, just for a moment, if he’d show up at all. He hadn’t bothered the night before, and it wasn’t like you had a phone to check where he was or when he planned on returning.
“He probably won’t be back tonight,” Megumi said, breaking your train of thought. His voice was matter of fact, as if he had long since grown used to this routine. He shoveled another spoonful of food into his mouth before adding, “Probably be gone for a few days.”
This surprised you, sure, but no one would hear you complaining anytime soon. As long as you didn’t have to go back to that horrid clan house, you could put up with a missing husband. In fact, you kind of preferred it this way.
You let out a soft laugh when you noticed Megumi’s puffed-up cheeks, his ears tinting red as he swallowed too quickly. He was practically inhaling his food. Your constant smiles still seemed to catch him off guard, and you couldn’t help poking a little light fun at him.
The conversation flowed easier than you expected, much easier thank last nights. He was much more responsive, with you two bickering and throwing lighthearted questions on both ends. And surprisingly, Megumi seemed very curious about the random woman that suddenly showed up in his home.
“What’s the ring for?” he asked suddenly, his gaze flicking to your hand. His tone was casual, innocent even, as if the question wasn’t invasive at all.
As if he hadn’t noticed the simple gold band until now.
Or as if he didn’t truly understand what a ring like that usually meant.
Your fingers instinctively twisted the warm metal as you glanced down at it, the question catching you completely off guard. You almost forgot your situation. your predicament.
“Ah…well, I’ve just married,” you say softly, your voice carrying a faint melancholy despite your attempt to sound neutral. Your eyes zone out as you stare at the heavy band.
“It’s still new…” you murmur, “...an arrangement by my family.” You hadn’t meant to let that much slip, but the truth clung to the edges of your words. You hadn’t planned on trauma-dumping your shitty arranged marriage onto a kid, especially one who didn’t even seem to realize you were married to his father. It was almost comical, sitting across from him so casually like this.
Quickly, you forced a lighter smile, unwilling to let the mood sink. You reached over and gently ladled another spoonful of food onto Megumi’s empty plate, trying to shift the focus.
“Arranged marriage? With who?” he asked, the concept not foreign but undeniably unsettling. You seemed like such a genuinely nice person—gentle, calm, nothing like the women who drifted in and out of his home. Except you were sitting in his kitchen, cooking dinner, smiling at him. And you were married.
It didn’t make sense. Not at first.
Then his mind caught up, the pieces clicking together one by one.
“…Not…Toji. Right?”
His voice faltered, cracking just slightly. If you found it strange hearing him refer to his own father by his first name, you didn’t comment on it. You let out a soft laugh at his stunned expression.
“The one and only.”
His brows shot up, his mouth hanging open just a little, but beneath the initial shock, something else settled in.
Something heavy.
A faint unease tugged at the corners of his frown, tightening his expression. He looked wary, guarded, every instinct bristling.
He didn’t like this.
Not one bit
After dinner, you sent Megumi off to bed, tidying up the plates left behind. He didn’t wait for you to finish cleaning, retreating to his room with his thoughts spinning too fast to settle.
Lying on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, he kept replaying everything you’d said. His father was married—to you, of all people. Supposedly.
And for some reason, the thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.
It was strange. He’d left the house empty and returned to find you there. He should’ve pieced it together sooner, especially after everything you’d said…and the fact that you were wearing a damn wedding ring.
If you were telling the truth, you were about to take over as his stepmother. He wouldn’t put it past his shitty father to suddenly show up married out of nowhere—it was exactly the kind of impulsive, reckless thing Toji would do.
But still…he couldn’t shake the suspicion that Toji had somehow ordered a mail-order bride. There was no way his father had enough charm, stability, or basic human decency to win over a woman like you. Not willingly.
Arranged.
Arranged.
The entire situation felt off. An arranged marriage wasn’t impossible—especially when he considered your gentle, polished behavior.
He’d heard rumors about prim, traditional clan women. The ones kept tucked away from the public, raised with formality and strict rules, pushed into arranged marriages for their family’s benefit.
You had that same quiet grace, that same softness. You definitely didn’t seem like someone who would choose Toji on your own.
But Megumi knew almost nothing about technical clan hierarchy or how arranged marriages between sorcerer families even worked. And if you really came from a sorcerer family… did you even know about the Jujutsu world at all?
Did you come from somewhere like the Zenin clan?
He couldn’t sense any cursed energy from you—nothing significant, at least. And from the little Toji had ever let slip about his own family, Megumi already knew they were shitty people, but powerful ones. Strong cursed techniques, overwhelming cursed energy, a whole lineage of wicked, cunning, twisted individuals.
And there was your age.
You were young, too young for his dad. Closer to his age than Toji’s. Was that considered normal? Or was Toji even more of a pervert than Megumi already assumed? Why would he have agreed to something like this in the first place? Toji never seemed like the type to settle down.
So what was this supposed to be?
A maid?
Someone to cook and clean while he ran off on his so-called business trips?
It didn’t seem fair. What were you getting out of this arrangement? You’d said your family set it up…but what could have possibly convinced you (or them) to agree to you marrying someone like Toji? His father couldn’t have the best reputation, considering the way he lived. And with even less cursed energy than you had, the whole situation felt backwards.
The more Megumi thought about it, the more wrong it all felt. There wasn’t any reason for you to be here. No reason for you to marry his father. You seemed too kind, too proper, too normal for any of this to make sense. There had to be something else behind it. Maybe you were being forced into it. Maybe you had your own reasons you weren’t ready to share.
But there was always the chance you were lying.
People lied all the time. Maybe you were some psycho ex-girlfriend forcing your way back into Toji’s life. Or a manipulative stranger with motives that had nothing to do with him at all. Maybe you’d rob the place blind, and Megumi would wake up to an empty apartment and no explanation.
You seemed nice now, but Megumi couldn't take everything you said at face value.
He sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the wall, thoughts spiraling. He didn’t know what to make of you. Didn’t know whether to believe the sincerity you seemed to radiate or see it for what it might really be…a practiced, carefully crafted mask.
One thing was certain—he wasn’t letting his guard down anytime soon.
He would wait, watch you closely, and see what happened when Toji finally dragged his ass back home.
p.2?
AN: Thank you for reading! Please reblog and like if you enjoy this series!
