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Anglerfish Choi Su-bong (Thanos) x F!Reader

following this request! tysm @asappywriter for requesting, I had a lot of fun creating this :) I hope you will enjoy it

summary (basically the very well detailed request): Thanos and you go to the aquarium. after reading something interesting about anglerfishes, you try to confess using it as a metaphor, but, well, it is quite fair to say that both of your states make it difficult to communicate.

warnings: none lol they're both geeked out

a/n: i have never done edibles/any substances so it's purely from my imagination and some research. hope it works fine!

Anglerfish are deep-sea creatures with a distinctive feature: the male, much smaller than the female, bites and permanently attaches himself to her body, providing sperm for her throughout her life. They dwell in total darkness, using bioluminescence at the tip of a filament on their heads to lure prey.

You leaned forward, your vision slightly clouded by the effects of the edibles, and fixated on the small wooden frame hanging from an elevated beam.

"The anglerfish bites... the female anglerfish for mating."

You squinted, repeating the words softly, almost incredulously. "Bites? The fish... bites for... what? Mating?"

Your eyes slowly lifted to the massive aquarium, its blue expanse of water and light swallowing the room. Schools of fish drifted serenely beneath the surface, like a giant-screen.

Fish of vibrant colors - indistinct in your current state - swam through the tank. The light cast faint blue reflections on the floor and your faces; you had to blink. Fatigue was making you feel heavy, almost weightless.

You frowned, your thoughts trying to connect those strange fish biting to reproduce with your own disoriented state. A sudden thought crossed your mind: were you and Thanos something like these fish?

You shook your head, murmuring in confusion. "It’s... it’s like you and me?"

You turned to find Thanos beside you, but he was already lost in the shifting lights, a dazed expression playing on his face as he stared into the water, clearly absorbed in his own world. He suddenly got up.

You exhaled, curling your fingers around your phone, stifling the urge to laugh. Your body felt sluggish - almost like it had melted.

"Thanos? Where are youuu?"

You barely caught a glimpse of his violet head disappearing into another room. You hurried to catch up, breathless, only to find him admiring two massive sharks, a blissful grin on his face.

"Hey, señorita, it's crazy - it’s almost like it’s real."

You grabbed his arm. Your body felt stiff, like you were moving through syrup. You clung to him, and another arm wrapped around your shoulders. He nearly pulled out his vape, but you whispered, "It’s forbidden."

"You... you know the anglerfish? For mating... the male bites the female?" you tried again.

"Hm?"

Thanos didn’t look at you. His arm dropped. "Yo, take a pic girl. This will be perfect for my new album."

"Thanosss. I’m talking to youuu."

He gave a small, distracted smile, eyes far away. "Ah, yeah, jellyfish. What did you say?"

"ANGLERFISH. For mating. The male bites the female."

Thanos let out a laugh. "They’re kinky too?"

That man! You gave a light tap on his shoulder, but he pulled you closer with his arm again. "Take the picture from behind, the lightning's better. WAIT NO, the shark’s getting close!"

He released your arm, stepping back, but you followed him, like a puppy. "Thanos. Thanos. Thanos. We’re like the anglerfish," you kept repeating like a lullaby, so much so that your brain got lost and confused your thoughts.

Without looking back, he pulled out his vape, trying to snap a picture on the yellow rectangle, and then shook his head, muttering to himself. "Thanos-su Min-su blrblrlbl." Why was he referencing your friends?

"Señorita, I can’t find my phone. Take a picture with yours, please," he said, putting back the vape into his pocket.

You grimaced, leaning closer. "Your phone’s in the other pocket, idiot."

Dipping a hand into his left pocket, you handed him the device.

He extended the phone, draped an arm around your shoulders, and pressed the button. "Smile."

Then, he clicked the off button. "Great."

"Thanos, you didn't take a selfie. You took a picture of the ceiling. Now, listen to me, or I’ll leave."

He shook his head.

"Nah, stayyy. I'm sorry." He took your arm and embraced you quickly (like everytime after messing up). "What’s up?"

Summoning your courage, you repeated yourself. "WE’RE LIKE THE ANGLERFISH. You and me."

"Huh?"

"We’re the anglerfish."

"Huh? Since when did we become fish?"

You buried your face in your hands in despair. Thanos let out a small "Oh!" and disappeared, only to return moments later, shouting, "HEY! COME SEE!"

You followed him, feeling weak in the legs. You entered a darkened room surrounded by a simple curtain, where glowing fish and tiny shrimp swam.

"What’s this?"

A female voice was speaking, and you listened.

"...epipods, or mysidaceans, are small marine creatures, usually translucent. They reflect light and move slowly in the water. The glowing fish you see emit bioluminescent light, a natural phenomenon that helps them navigate in the dark."

The voice paused, and the quiet of the room took over, with soft music playing in the background before the facts were repeated. The sound was a bit muffled. Thanos stared at the screen, wide-eyed, counting things on his fingers, looking repeatedly up at the aquarium then down at his hand. "Two. One, four, nine."

"Thanos?"

He didn’t look up.

"This music is awful. I should send them one of my tracks to play on repeat."

You grimaced, then felt your legs weaken and let yourself drop to the floor, crouching against the wall.

"Nine, ten, eleven… fourteen."

Shaking your head, you listened to your heartbeat in your ears. "What are you counting?"

"Twelve little shrimp."

"They’re not shrimp, the voice said they’re epipods."

"Huh? You’re weird today. Saying non-existent words and that we're fish."

He crouched down and put a hand on your forehead. "No fever."

His hand was very warm. And in his eyes, you could see the blue light of the little aquarium reflected. You pouted, hoping he’d care for you, but he immediately stood up and walked out, sending a voice message to Nam-gyu.

You got up and kept following him like a little dog on a leash as he marveled at the octopuses. "Hey, they have eight legs? They’re actually giant spiders." Or at the sharks, heading toward them.

"Thanos? Can you listen to me?"

He dropped down, wrapping his arms around you.

"Ugh, my needy girl. Yeah. I’m here."

You smiled dreamingly. The both of you collapsed onto a small bench, facing the sharks that fascinated him.

"The anglerfish," you gave it a last try.

The room began to empty as people left to watch the dolphin show.

"They mate by biting each other. Then they stay attached for life."

Thanos tilted his head. "They’re those super cool fish with lights and giant teeth?"

You nodded. "We’re like them. You know, for mating, the male bites the female? Hm?"

Thanos let out a little laugh.

"You wanna mate with me?"

Normally, you would’ve blushed, but the frustration was stronger. "You’re not listening to me! Stop picking out only what you want to hear. I'm trying to say that I lik-"

"There’s no one here," Thanos suddenly interrupted you.

Then he rummaged through his pocket and pulled out his vape, exhaling a tangy lemon puff. "Ahh, damn, that feels good. Been waiting forever. Want some?"

You shook your head.

"Too bad," he smirked, taking another heady puff.

He let himself fall against you, head on your shoulder, looking tired, with heavy eyelids, and traced lines on your knee.

"Like them. You, and me," he whispered, feeling his eyelids grow heavier.

The lemon scent continued to fill your nostrils, and you let yourself lean back against the backrest of the small bench. Even if he defeated you today, you could at least enjoy the warmth of his side pressed against yours while it lasted.

The confession would be for another time.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

It wasn’t until the next morning, very early, when Thanos was putting on his pants to go to the gym, that he had a huge revelation.

"Wait. Was she tryna confess?"

He groaned, smacking a helpless hand over his face, and uttered in a defeated voice.

"Fuuuck bro.”

i hope you like this! There might be some mistakes as I'm a bit tired

@breakmeoff @asappywriter

asappywriter

Me the whole time reading this:

stxr-lilac

Me patiently waiting for everyone to start publishing Alice in borderland season 3 x reader fanfics.

jiimeniita

j3llyc4kes-deactivated20251111

summary: your criminal boyfriend sukuna who absolutely rocks your world in the best way possible. now you’re in ur prison gf arc?

wc: uuhhh, 7k? i think..i yapped

cw: angsty, fluff, smut, mentions of guns, prison, drugs, etc. comfort at the end, pinky promise :3

you met ryomen sukuna through some mutuals. back when you were still smart. still cautious. some house party with peeling paint, shitty music. way too many bodies and way too many red solo cups.

you went with one of your girls yuki tsukumo—well, got dragged along. she was pointing people out, talking fast, already tipsy. you were half listening, half not giving a fuck.

then she leaned in, whispered over the rim of her drink,

“and that’s ryomen. don’t. he’s like crazy. like—jail time type shit.”

your ears perked up like a dog.

“jail time?” you asked. and then you saw him.

sitting on a shitty couch, red eyes. black tattoos on his face, crawling down the back of his neck, his arms, clearly all over. all ink and muscle and attitude. dragging a hand through a soft pink buzzcut, smoking a blunt. shirt half unbuttoned (thank fuck). tatted hands in his pockets like he could kill you or kiss you and you’d say thank you for both.

and to your surprise, he looked in your direction as you mindlessly walked to up him like you’d been shot by cupid. he smirked, looking you up and down—like he already knew you’d walk over.

“you lost?” his voice was low. rough. amused.

you shook your head. “nope.” sitting on his lap anyways.

and you swore it was just you being dumb. wanted a quick fuck, nothing more. you weren’t actually gonna fall for him.

after the first time you met him, it started slow. drinks, texts, late nights that blurred into mornings. you never asked what he did—not really. he never volunteered it. but the cash came easy. so what the hell right?

“you scared of me yet?” he asks you one night, voice low, fingers brushing your thigh while you sat in his lap, his gun cold against your lower back while it was tucked in his waist band.

you shake your head. “dunno, should i be?”

he grins. all teeth. “nah. i’d never hurt you.” and he meant it.

you always looked the other way when he left in the middle of the night. didn’t feel the need ask why he always checked the blinds twice. why he had two phones. why he flinched when a black SUV passed too slow.

because sukuna…he was surprisingly gentle. always held the door for you. always touched you like he meant it. he made you laugh when you didn’t want to, made you feel like the only girl in the world. took you out and never let you pay. took you home and made you feel safe, somehow, even with a gun or two on the nightstand.

you know he’s not a good man. you’re not stupid.

but he just looks so goddamn fine when he leans against the hood of his car, blunt between his lips, black hoodie clinging to his frame. the kind of man people cross the street to avoid.

i mean come on, he’s a criminal. a real one. not some fake ass who shoplifts and smokes mids. sukuna moves product, handles money, kills when he has to—cold, smart, ruthless.

but with you? he’s just so soft. always puts his gun on the counter before dinner. keeps his voice low when you’re tired. kisses the inside of your wrist and tugs you into his lap when you’re mad at him. carries you to bed when you fall asleep on the couch. rubs your feet without asking.

he kisses you so sweetly. calls you baby in that low voice like it’s a threat. you argue like you want to kill each other and fuck like you’re trying to bring each other back to life.

so when he comes home at night, blood on his clothes and that dead-calm look in his eye, and mutters, “need you to say i was with you tonight,”

you don’t ask. you just say: “yeah. course you were.”

(fuck it, we ball)

and some months later, he’s still in your bed. still eating all of your snacks, washing your dishes sometimes, kissing your neck with a kind of possessiveness that should be a red flag—but feels so green.

the thing is? he never lies to you. doesn’t even try to.

“i’m not clean,” he says one night, tracing tattoos along your thigh while the tv plays something neither of you are watching. “i do bad shit. and i’m not gonna stop.”

you probably should’ve left then. but instead, you kissed him.

and by the end of year one, you’re living in his apartment—scratch that, your apartment, because his name’s not on the lease. “can’t leave a paper trail, princess.” the place is cozy and yours. you got loud neighbors and a pitbull named akuma—big, gray, dumb as hell, and completely obsessed with sukuna.

“he’s gonna be a little menace to society,” you said when he brought the puppy home.

sukuna just smirked, kneeling down, scratching behind the dog’s ears. “takes after his dad.”

the three of you are like some fucked-up little family. your neighbors always side-eye you. your mom knows but chooses not to say anything anymore. and now your friends have stopped trying to talk you out of it.

and you stopped pretending you wanted out a loooong ass time ago.

fast forward to two years in: the fridge is covered in dumb polaroids. you brushing your teeth. him flipping off the camera. akuma in the middle, tongue out, wearing the stupid, gucci harness you swore was too expensive until sukuna said, “yeah, and?” and bought it anyway.

and now sukuna’s even got your name inked into the thick muscle of his forearm. right above those bold lines on his wrist.

“seriously? this isn’t like sharpie or something?” you’d asked when he came home from the tattoo shop that day.

he just smirked. “dead serious.”

when akuma jumps into bed and crushes your legs and sukuna tells him to get off but doesn’t mean it, when he presses his inked hand to your thigh while you’re watching a movie and says “gonna put a ring on it, you know that?”

you believe every word.

one day, you see the red and blue lights flash by in a blur out the window when he comes running inside the apartment—breathless—you don’t question him. idiot move but it’s because he always comes home. always throws his wallet and his keys on the counter and kisses your cheek like nothing happened. cooks dinner shirtless, muscles flexing while he flips the steak and washes his hands off in the sink.

you clean his knuckles. you patch his ribs. you kiss the crown of his head while he falls asleep on the couch with his arms around you and that’s all that matters.

but you notice how he’s been on edge. more late nights. tighter grip on your waist when you’re out. more checking the windows. more guns on the table.

“you trust me?” he asks later that night, voice low in the dark.

you’re in bed, curled against his side, tracing the black ink on his chest. akuma at your feet. his heart’s beating too fast.

you nod. “always, kuna.”

he exhales, fingers brushing over your spine.

“then no matter what happens—no matter who says what, or what you hear—you remember that. alright?”

you look up at him. search his face. “baby, what’s going on?”

he doesn’t answer. just kisses your forehead, holds you tighter.

a week goes by after that conversation. everything is almost perfect and then it’s not. it all happens so fast. it’s 2:26 a.m. quiet, maybe a little too quiet. then it’s not.

one minute you’re on the couch, hoodie on, legs tucked under you, sukuna’s head in your lap while a movie plays low in the background. he’s half-asleep, arm curled around your thigh, breathing slow like—for once—he’s letting himself rest.

then a crash. your front door kicked in. boots pounding down the hall. shouting—sharp, cold, barked like war commands.

“CLEAR.”

“LEFT SIDE.”

“MOVE MOVE MOVE—”

“HANDS WHERE WE CAN SEE THEM!”

akuma is the first to react—your gray pittie, big and gentle and stupidly loyal—howling, barking like he’s ready to kill. but there are too many of them. someone yells to grab the dog. you scream his name, but they’ve already got him by the collar, dragging him back while he thrashes and whines. red and blue lights flash across the walls. guns drawn.

you’re frozen, shaking, the room is spinning.

you’re still processing—still trying to understand why there are rifles in your face. why they’re screaming your name. why they’re tearing through your drawers, your closet. why they’re grabbing sukuna’s burner phone, the rolled cash, the duffel bags, the box under the bed he told you never to touch.

sukuna’s already standing—calm. too calm. hands raised. jaw tight.

his gun’s on the coffee table. he doesn’t move. he just looks at you.

“listen to me. breathe. look at me. i told you—don’t forget, alright?”

you’re crying now. shaking. choking on air.

his eyes—sharp, red, unreadable—don’t move.

you lunge for him, but two officers grab you first and shove you against the wall. you’re screaming just trying to see him, but they’re in the way, shouting over you.

“wait—please, don’t hurt him!” you shake your head, blinking through tears, “he didn’t—he—what the fuck is going on?!”

“ryomen sukuna, you’re under arrest for organized crime, weapons trafficking, drug trafficking, assault with a deadly weapon—”

the words don’t sound real and it’s not like you didn’t know. you weren’t stupid. you just loved him too much to say it out loud.

as they read him his rights. he doesn’t flinch. doesn’t blink. he lets them cuff him—wrists behind his back, shoulders loose. they slam him into the wall and he still turns to find you.

and he’s smiling.

the cuffs are tight. your apartment’s destroyed. your dog is howling like he’s mourning a death.

but sukuna just smiles. like this is nothing. like he knew it was coming. which in hindsight, he tried to warn you something was coming.

his eyes stay on you, even through the flashlight beams, the chaos.

“it’s okay, baby,” he says, soft, just for you. “don’t cry.”

“sukuna—please, no—”

he keeps smiling. even as they start pulling him toward the door.

“i’ll be alright. i promise.”

and just before the hallway swallows him, just before the sirens drown it all out.

“baby,” he calls out again, louder this time. “look at me.”

you do, through the blur of tears, you do.

he’s got a split lip from how they man handled him, bleeding. his arms tensed behind his back. his face still calm.

“don’t worry, yeah?” voice steady. “they’re just doing their job. i’ll be fine.”

“b-but you promised—” your voice breaks. “you promised me—”

“i know.” he nods. and for the first time, the smile slips. just for a second. “i know, baby. i’m sorry.”

they drag him out towards the squad car. akuma’s losing it—thrashing against the grip on his collar, trying to follow him. you collapse to the floor, sobbing. akuma finally escapes from one of the officers and pushes his head into your side, whining like his heart’s breaking too.

as you look around, they’re bagging everything. phones. files. guns. bricks. a woman in a black blazer reads off inventory like she’s listing groceries. her voice is calm. efficient. it makes you want to scream.

while you’re left on the floor—sobbing, shaking, clutching your dog while your whole life gets zipped into evidence bags. and all you can hear is his voice, still yelling from outside:

“don’t fuckin’ touch my girl or my dog—you hear me?!”

you stare past the officer crouched in front of you, not even hearing him anymore—just watching sukuna get shoved into the back of a squad car.

and just before the door slams, he shouts, “i love you, y’know that? i’ll come back.”

the door closes.

all that was left was the mumbling of officers as they raided your apartment. after that, they take you down to the station. they question you for hours but they don’t have anything on you nor do they any info from you.

you were smart. loyal. quiet. just his girlfriend, just the love of his life. you didn’t know a damn thing. you were with him on this day. and that day. you gave them alibis for everything they tried to pin on him.

never flinched. never snitched. you held the line.

and when they finally let you go, hours later—bleary-eyed, fingers trembling, walking back into the wreckage of what used to be home—akuma’s waiting by the door. his tail thumping, eyes wide, like he doesn’t know how to stop looking for him.

and neither do you.

couple months down the line, it’s his court date. it’d been painfully long. phone calls, visits here and there but it was finally time for his sentencing.

you had gotten there early. standing in a corner, speaking with his defense attorney.

but as the time passed, the courtroom felt cold and quiet in that fake, choking way.

you’re sitting stiff in the second row, all black—tight dress, heavy coat, heels loud on the tile when you walked in. hands gripping the edge of the bench, white-knuckled as you waited.

your eyes lock on him the second he steps into the room.

sukuna walks in wearing shackles like they’re fucking jewelry. orange jumpsuit unzipped just enough to show the ink crawling up his chest. wrists cuffed, ankles too, chain connecting them down the middle.

he’s smirking like this is a joke. like he already knows how it ends. then his eyes land on you. his girl.

“hey, baby. you look good.”

“shut the fuck up,” one of the guards snaps, yanking the chain forward.

you don’t flinch. you don’t even speak. you just watch him walk to his seat like he owns the place.

he sits back like it’s a poker game. his leg bouncing, smiling. those red eyes scan the room once, like he’s bored.

then it begins. and soon enough, the judge starts reading the charges.

violent, serious shit. none of it exaggerated even a little bit.

organized crime. trafficking. assault. illegal weapons.

which again, you know what he did. you knew before the cops ever did. meanwhile everyone in the room looks at him like a monster but not you.

you don’t even blink when the jury says “guilty” after every charge and neither does he.

the judge ends the trial with his sentence, “twenty-five years. eligible for parole in seven.”

the courtroom breathes in like it just took a punch. and sukuna? sukuna just laughs. real fucking loud, ugly and real. he throws his head back like he’s in on some joke no one else gets.

the judge bangs the gavel. some man yells at him to shut up and stop laughing, the guards move fast.

he just grins through all of it then turns his head toward you, mouth split in that same damn smirk.

“still gonna write me, baby?” he calls, smug, voice booming off the walls.

you nod once—sharp. you could care less who sees.

the guards haul him up, start dragging him toward the side door. he doesn’t resist. just keeps smiling at you like he already knows you’ll be there tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. and he’s right.

the truth is, the charges could’ve been a hell of a lot worse. they had enough to bury him alive but you? you were a fucking godsend. every little lie was perfect. you lied through your goddamn teeth. all the fake alibis, timelines, pretending not to know what half the shit in your apartment was—had worked. even after they grilled you for hours. days. tried to shake you, to get you to break.

but you never gave them shit. you kept your voice steady, your story straight and your love for him ironclad.

and it worked. it could’ve been 40 years to life. it could’ve been no parole. it could’ve even been you, too. but here you are—still free. he’s not. but he’s still yours.

and seven years later? he’s still yours.

sure, he’s missed holidays. birthdays. every new year’s kiss. but every thursday at 3:00pm? you’re there.

you’re used to the routine now. first your ID, patdown, metal detector. pretty boring stuff.

at that point, you knew every guard by name.

you’ve done this a hundred times—plastic chairs, shitty vending machine coffee, body searches.

you don’t care because the second he walks into the visitation room everything else fades out.

he’s bigger now. broader. face leaner, eyes sharper—darker in a way that says time has passed, and prison doesn’t change people so much as refine them. orange jumpsuit rolled to the waist, white tank clinging to his chest, black ink crawling up the back of his neck like smoke.

and that grin—dangerous. crooked. just for you.

“fuck, baby,” he drawls, sliding into the seat across from you. “you get hotter every time i see you. is that a new lip gloss?”

you roll your eyes. “you gonna flirt or ask how i’ve been?”

he shrugs, smirking. “same thing.”

still cocky. still loud. still him but the edges are tighter now. more controlled like every second without you has been simmering under his skin.

there were times you’d talk. about nothing. about everything. he tells you about prison like it’s high school drama. you tell him about bills, work, new TV shows, keeping the bed warm for him. he listens like every word matters. like you’re the only real thing in his world.

“are you wearing that chain i sent you?” he asks.

you tug it out from under your hoodie—a little silver bar with his name engraved.

his grin widens. “of course you are, don’t know why i even asked.”

and sometimes, when the guards aren’t looking, he leans in close. voice low, filthy, just for you:

“you gonna let me fuck you in the conjugal trailer next month?”

“still think about that pretty little body when i fall asleep.”

“i’m gonna come home and ruin you. you know that, right?”

you squeeze your thighs together. he sees. smirks. and of course the smug bastard is proud of himself.

and sometimes it’s quiet. just the sound of your fingers tapping on the metal table. he stares at your hands like they mean something.

“seven years,” he mutters. “and you’re still here.”

you shrug. “you’d do it for me.”

he lifts a brow. “would i?”

you give him a look.

he laughs—low, warm and real. “yeah,” he says. “yeah, i fuckin’ would.”

there’s no kissing here. no touching past a handshake, a goodbye but the way he looks at you?

you feel it everywhere.

and one day, just as the guard calls time, just as he stands and stretches and leans in a little closer than he’s supposed to—

he murmurs, voice quiet, steady. “marry me when i get out.”

you blink. “what?”

but he’s already turning away, that same old grin tugging at his mouth, shouting something crass to another inmate, hands cuffed behind his back.

the door slams shut behind him.

and you’re left sitting there, heart pounding, chain warm between your fingers, replaying those words in your head.

the next time you see him, he walks in wearing that ugly-ass orange jumpsuit as usual, smile already stretching across his face the second he sees you.

“look at you,” he says, voice low and filthy despite the guards. “dressed all nice for your criminal boyfriend.”

you roll your eyes. “you asked me to.”

“yeah. and you listened. you always do” he leans in. “always such a good girl for me.”

the tension’s thick. his wrists are cuffed, but his eyes are on you like he’s already got his hands around your throat.

“heard the news?” he asks casually, voice like honey dipped in gasoline. “early release. next month.”

your breath catches. “wait, are you serious?”

“mmhm.” he leans back, tongue flicking over his teeth. “good behavior.” he grins. “just for you.”

he’s been cleaning up—no fights, no smuggling, no stabbings in the yard, even though he wants to. because he wants to see you again. wants his hands on you. his mouth. wants you under him, not across the table.

“been thinkin’ about what I’m gonna do to you first,” he says, voice lower now, eyes burning. “once i get out.”

you swallow and shift in your seat. “are you gonna behave?”

he laughs. full-bodied, dark. “fuck no. i’m gonna ruin you.”

he leans forward, chained wrists clinking on the table, eyes locked on yours.

“i’ve been locked up seven years, princess. do you know how much time i’ve spent thinking about that sweet little body under mine?”

you feel your cheeks heat, but you don’t look away.

“you better be ready,” he says, voice rough now. “’cause i’m gonna spend the first night out fucking you like i’m tryna get sent right back.”

so thankfully, he’s the kind of inmate that runs the damn yard but keeps his nose clean just enough to qualify for early release. he did beat someone’s ass in the showers last month for talking sideways about you—but still managed to earn “good behavior” by bribing the guards and running literacy programs like a deranged philanthropist.

next time you hear from him he calls you from the jail phone with that lazy, smug tone:

“two more weeks. then i’m home. you ready for that, princess?”

“depends. are you gonna kill anyone again?”

“no, baby. i’m a changed man, pinky promise.”

a pause. “unless they touch you.”

but life as a prisoner’s girlfriend had been interesting to say the least. some your favorite memories though?

the video call visits. the video calls hit different.

you answer from the bed, in his hoodie that thankfully still smelled like him, all soft lighting and skin and love in your eyes.

the screen flickers—and there he is.

inmate #966666. your man. arms crossed, face lit by the shitty fluorescent light in the visiting block. buzzed short on the sides, salmon pink thick on top. face tattoos sharp even in pixelation. smirking. cocky. starved.

“there’s my girl,” he rumbles, leaning in like he’s trying to reach through the screen. “lookin’ all cozy in our bed.”

you smile, soft. “missed you today.”

he leans back, legs spread, grinning. “yeah? say it again.”

you roll your eyes, giggling. “missed you.”

“mm,” he hums. “missed you more, baby. how’s our place lookin’? bought anything new for me to come home to?”

and you have—so you flip the camera around, showing off the new record shelf, the little framed photo of you two from before, and the rug you’ve been saving for.

“can’t wait for you to see it for real,” you say quietly. “can’t wait till you come home.”

his face softens—just barely. eyes half-lidded.

“me neither, princess. every night i picture it. you. the apartment. our bed. my hands all over you again.”

you bring the camera back to yourself, and akuma sits up on the floor beside your bed, tail thumping.

sukuna lights up like a kid on christma.

the dog perks up at his voice, sniffs the screen, tail going harder.

“yo, come here, big man,” he coos. “you takin’ care of my girl, huh? keepin’ her warm at night? …better not be sleepin’ on my fuckin’ pillow.”

you both laugh. but you already know when sukuna gets out, he’s picking that big soft baby up in his arms like it’s nothing, and probably crying into his fur when no one’s looking.

and the letters? worth framing.

he sends them folded perfectly, sprayed with just a hint of your favorite cologne. immaculate. front-and-back, always. tight, clean handwriting. detailed as hell—how he’s doing, what he’s thinking about. sweet shit like “wish i could hold you right now. need it bad.” and spicy shit like: “wanna fuck you face-down ass-up the minute I’m out.” “was dreamin’ about you last night. woke up hard. you owe me.”

one of his first letters had said:

hey baby, how are you? miss you real bad. i woke up thinkin’ about your laugh. that one that comes out when you’re tryin’ not to snort. i miss it. miss you. drawn your face from memory like four times now. don’t tell nobody, they’ll say i’m gettin’ soft. been missing your smell. you smell like home. that sweet vanilla shit you always put on. i look at your pictures every night. even got one under my pillow. even when they toss my cell, i hide it like it’s fuckin’ contraband. you’re my peace. can’t lose you princess.

then they’d switch, just like that.

you know, i thought about that one night. you dancing in the kitchen, making soup, wearing those little shorts. you remember the ones? yeah. me too. that’s why i wrote this with one hand. also last night i laid in this goddamn bunk and imagined the sound you make when you take your bra off after a long day. hard as a rock. you’re such a fuckin’ problem. do you still wear that lacey one i like? the one that barely holds anything? bet your titties are sittin’ real pretty in it right now. fuck me.

i miss how you say my name when you’re tired. i miss how you say it when you’re on top. i miss your thighs around my neck. i miss your mouth. i miss being inside you so deep you forget your own fuckin’ name.

but more than that? i miss watching you eat dinner across from me. i miss you bitchin’ about your coworkers. i miss your fingers in my hair when i can’t sleep. i don’t give a fuck how long it takes, you’re it for me.

and he always had a sketch tucked inside. sometimes it’s little things—your side profile, your body. or sharp, shaded tattoos—ones he designed for you. (something he did on the side when he was still a law abiding citizen). his name in kanji. a snake coiled around a katana surrounded by lilies.

this one’s for your spine. wanna see it when i fuck you from behind.

then, right under that like he didn’t just make you cry and wet at the same time:

…also. take it easy at work. remember to eat. and kiss akuma for me. shit, also, can you put some extra on my books? tryna get you something for your birthday. don’t ask what. it’s not a weapon, swear.

and you do—put money on his books, no hesitation. commissary’s got nothing on you. he’s got honey buns, decent ramen, and the best soap on his block. your man is moisturized and fed. period.

and at the end of a long, loving, slightly filthy letter, he always signed in that perfect script: “ryo. always yours.”

you kept every letter in a shoebox under your bed, every sketch on your corkboard. you read them on bad days. and good ones.

you always wrote back, too— keeping him updated with everything. little doodles, lipstick kisses on the envelope, spritz of perfume here and here. snuck in polaroids of you and akuma. even some spicy ones for his eyes only. always signed with “your/name, always & forever <3.”

oh and those conjugal visits? they most deeeefinitely take the cake.

you had waited weeks for them, marked off in red hearts on the calendar.

one of the first visits:

you walk into that little cold-ass private trailer with a bag packed—cute pajamas, your favorite lotion, that perfume he likes. he’s already there when you arrive, looking like sin in his real clothes. not that orange jumpsuit he’s usually in. eyes glued to you the second you step in.

then he softens. just a little.

you stand. don’t even say anything. just walk straight into his arms. he buries his face in your neck, breath catching like it’s the first inhale he’s had since they locked the door behind him.

“fuck,” he mutters. “you smell good. gonna feel even better.”

his hands are everywhere. rough palms on your waist, your thighs, your ass. lips dragging over your skin like he’s starved—and he is.

he grabs your waist fast, pulls you in for a kiss that’s all tongue and teeth, rough like he’s been starving for you.

“got something to show you,” you whisper, breathless already.

you turn around, pull your dress up, and tug the side of your thong down just enough to show him—

small script. his name. right cheek. close to the curve of your hip.

he goes still. his hand on your ass, thumb dragging right over it. then he finally speaks.

“nah, what the fuck,” he laughs, eyes wide, voice shaking. “you got my name tatted on you?”

you look back over your shoulder, smiling.

“been had it. waited to show you in person.”

his hands are now rubbing all over you, gripping that ass with both hands like it’s his last meal. but then, he’s got you onto the bed so fast the mattress groans. pulls your dress over your head and yanks your panties down. he stares like he’s looking at something holy.

“missed this mouth,” he groans, spreading your legs, licking up your slick with a filthy moan. “missed how fuckin’ sweet you are when you’re beggin’.”

you gasp, already squirming.

he fully buries face between your thighs, hands gripping your waist like he’s starving and hasn’t had a real meal since he got locked up. moaning into your cunt, licking like it’s his last day alive.

“taste like fuckin’ heaven,” he groans. “missed this fuckin’ pussy so bad. missed how you sound when i’m inside you.”

after a two or three orgasms from his tongue and fingers, he finally fucks you. it’s deep, rough, desperate. your legs around his waist, your back arching off the mattress while he pounds into you like he’s making up for lost time. his tip hitting that sweet spot repeatedly in your pussy that makes your body take a fucking screenshot. teeth on your neck, fingers digging into your hips right below where his name is inked into your skin.

he just mutters filthy shit in your ear:

“you got my name on you, and now you’re gonna take all of me.”

“this ass? mine.”

“gonna fuck you so good you dream about it ‘til the next visit.”

then he flips you both, makes you ride him, sucking your tits while they bounce, eyes half-lidded.

“shiiiit, sweetheart—gonna fuck a baby into you in this nasty little room if you’re not careful,” he grits.

and you just moan louder, hands in his hair, riding the edge of pure bliss.

“missed you,” you whisper, staring up at him, cradling his face.

he kisses you. hard. filthy. then soft.

he pulls away breathless. jaw slack, panting like a dog in heat.

“fuck, baby—come on. gimme that shit. come all over my dick. show me how much you missed it.”

you do. messy. loud. milking him for all he’s got.

and he follows right after, hands gripping your ass so hard they’re sure to leave bruises as he cums deep and desperate.

and when he’s done, he kisses your neck, arms wrapped around you.

“gonna marry you when i get out,” he whispers. “i swear.”

you both lie on the tiny mattress after some much needed TLC. tangled up, his head between your tits, your fingers in his hair. he traces your tattoo with his fingers.

“gonna take care of you right, when i get out,” he murmurs, voice rough. “no more bullshit.”

you kiss his jaw. whisper back. “i know.”

and when you left that day, sore and glowing, your man watched you walk away as the guards put the cuffs back on him, mouth curled into a grin, voice low like a promise:

“keep my side of the bed warm, baby. i’m comin’ home. promise.”

and the day he gets out, you’re already there.

you’re standing by the gate before the sun’s even up. his hoodie on, necklace with his name around your neck. you’re trying to play it cool, but your hands won’t stop shaking.

and when that gate finally opened, when ryomen sukuna steps out, a free man, tattoos gleaming in the morning light, black tee hugging his chest, hair grown out just a little, grin already forming.

you don’t even get a word out before he grabs you, spins you around like a goddamn princess. his hands firm on your waist, lifting you like you weigh nothing, face buried in your neck.

“fuck, baby,” he breathes. “missed you so fuckin’ bad.”

you’re laughing. crying a little. arms wrapped around his shoulders so tight it hurts.

he sets you down, but barely. just enough to kiss your cheeks, your jaw, your nose, and then he pulls back, still holding your face like it’s precious.

“you ready?”

you blink. “for what?”

he grins. big. so sure.

“courthouse. thirty minutes away. judge’s on lunch break. said he’ll squeeze us in.”

you blink again. “wait, the fuck? are you—you’re serious?”

“sweetheart,” he says, already dragging you toward the car, “i’ve been locked up seven fuckin’ years. i’m so serious.”

cut to an hour later: courthouse.

fluorescent lights. ugly tile. fake bouquet from the clerk’s desk in your hand. cheap rings in a little box you picked up from the nearest pawn shop on the way there. you didn’t even have time to change. he didn’t care. not even a little.

“you look perfect,” he mutters, adjusting your hoodie like it’s designer couture. “i’m gonna wife you up in my hoodie. that’s so hard.”

you roll your eyes. “you’re such a dumbass.”

“your dumbass now,” he grins emphasizing the your. “permanently.”

you say your vows that came straight from the heart in a cheap government office, between a sleepy officiant and a laminated “no food or drink” sign.

but he looks at you like you’re in a white dress on a mountaintop.

he kisses your hand when he slides the ring on.

says “’bout fuckin’ time,” loud enough that the clerk snorts.

and when they say “you may now kiss—”

he doesn’t wait. he pulls you in, kisses you like he’s trying to breathe through you. it’s deep and messy and a little bit desperate.

you giggle against his mouth.

he presses his forehead to yours, still grinning.

“mrs. ryomen fuckin’ sukuna,” he says proudly. “finally.”

you walk out as husband and wife.

he pulls you in by the hips and kisses you again in the parking lot, hands low, grin wide.

“made good on that promise, yeah?”

you decide not to do anything fancy. no champagne. no five-star dinner.

you celebrate the only way you know how—greasy as hell.

just burgers and fries at that little place you used to talk about in letters and phone calls—the one with the neon sign and checkered floors. sukuna orders double everything, and he’s across from you in sweats and an ankle monitor, eating like a man who forgot what real food tastes like.

he steals your fries when you’re not looking. you slap his hand.

he smirks. “married now, baby. my fries too.”

you share a milkshake. vanilla. extra whipped cream. two straws.

he stares at you across the table like he still doesn’t believe you’re real.

“you know i dreamed about this?” he says, voice rough from grease and emotion. “used to lay there and think about you, right across from me, doing this exact same shit.”

you smile. press your foot against his under the table.

“dream about the milkshake or me?”

he snorts. “both. obviously.”

he takes your hand and kisses your ring finger, red eyes locked on yours and filled with so much love.

and when you finally drive home—real home—his leg’s bouncing the whole way. you both get off the car and head up the steps and you unlock the front door.

“you sure he’s not gonna bite me?”

you snort. “you’re the one who taught him to go for the ankles.”

the apartment is quiet when you pull up. it’s familiar to him, but different. newer furniture. he’s seen it all in video calls but it’s different in person now. his shoes aren’t by the door anymore, but everything else—everything you—is still here. still home.

he hesitates at the threshold. just for a second. like he’s afraid it’ll vanish if he walks in. but then—

“AKUMA!” you call out, voice soft but firm.

and there’s the sound of scrambling paws, claws on the hardwood, and then akuma’s there—gray, stocky, a little older, but still full of love and joy.

the pitbull barrels into the room like he’s about to tear through the walls, skids to a stop, and freezes when he sees him.

sukuna kneels down, slow, whispering. “…yo.”

akuma just stares at first—like he’s short-circuiting. akuma sniffs the air. tail wags once. then again. and then he launches.

sukuna catches all 70 pounds of him like it’s nothing, falling back onto his ass with a grunt as akuma licks at his face like he’s trying to put seven years of love into one minute.

“fuck—okay, okay—goddamn—” sukuna’s laughing, arms tight around the dog’s back, fingers gripping his fur like he’s afraid he’ll disappear again.

akuma’s whining, tail a blur of chaos, body wriggling like he can’t get close enough.

and sukuna—your big, bad, tatted-up, ex-convict husband?

he fucking cries. silent at first. then not. (expected)

his shoulders were shaking, arms wrapped tight around the dog, forehead pressed to his fur.

you just watch from the doorway. hands over your mouth. heart splitting. he looks up at you, eyes wet.

“fuck, baby,” he says, voice cracking. “i didn’t think—i didn’t know if—”

you kneel beside him. touch his back. “he never stopped waiting,” you whisper. “neither did i.”

he pulls you both in—you and akuma—his whole world in his arms now. big, calloused hands around your waist. akuma draped across your laps like a living blanket.

you sit beside him. curl against his side.

“god, y/n, you—fuck—i…,” he whispers into akuma’s fur. “didn’t think i’d get to see you again.”

and for the first time in seven years, sukuna lets himself feel safe.

after you both settle in, it’s quiet now. real quiet. not prison quiet.

no locks clanking. no cell doors slamming. no count. no cold tile or shitty mattress. home quiet.

you’re both clean—fresh from a hot shower, towel-dried hair, his hands all over you the entire time like he couldn’t believe you were real. when he brushed his teeth, he kept making jokes about “first night as a free man, i’m getting minty for my wife.”

his wife.

he’s got everything he dreamed about for the last seven years. sheets that smell like you. a real bed. a dim lamp in the corner next to a photo of you, him & akuma.

and you—standing in the doorway, wearing nothing but one of his old shirts and a look that says finally.

the ring glints on your finger in the dark. he exhales like he’s never really breathed before. he sits on the edge of the bed for a while. just stares at the wall.

you don’t rush him. you know what’s going on in that handsome head of his. this is the place he got arrested in. the same room they tore apart. same windows, same shadows.

“seven years,” he murmurs. “first night back in my bed.”

you walk over. slow. crawl into his lap and wrap your arms around his neck.

“our bed,” you whisper.

he swallows. hard. hands settling on your hips.

eyes drinking you in like he can’t believe you’re real. like maybe he’s still dreaming in some concrete box.

“you’re my wife,” he says, voice thick. “fuckin’ wife.”

you smile against his lips. “so make me feel like it.”and that’s all it takes.

he kisses you hard—mouth desperate, like he’s catching up for all the years he couldn’t. he pulls your shirt over your head, kisses the top of your chest first, then lower. his hands are everywhere. reverent. hungry. he grabs your thighs, flips you onto your back, crawls down between your legs like he’s starving.

and he is.

he pulls your panties off with his teeth. kisses your inner thighs like he’s praying. then licks into you, slow and deep, groaning when your fingers tangle in his hair.

“sweetest fuckin’ thing,” he murmurs against your pussy. “missed this taste every night. used to jerk off thinkin’ about this right here.”

he eats like he’s got time to worship. not rough. not rushed. just…grateful. long licks, fingers curling inside, nose pressed to your clit until your thighs are shaking and your hips are grinding into his face.

“go ahead, baby. be a good girl and come on my face. it’s your first night as my wife. i got shit to prove.”

you come hard. breathless. crying out his name.

and he doesn’t stop. not until your thighs are twitching. not until he’s satisfied.

then he crawls back up, drags your mouth to his, lets you taste yourself on his lips.

“sit on it,” he rasps, voice wrecked. “wanna watch you ride me. wanna feel all of it.”

you straddle him, slow, sinking down onto his cock until you’re full—so fucking full it steals your breath.

he moans, head tipping back, gripping your hips, watching every inch disappear.

“my fuckin’ wife,” he breathes. “look at you.” you move slow at first, hands on his chest, grinding your hips like you’ve got nowhere else to be for the rest of your life.

and he loves it.

he’s got his hands all over you. one on your waist, the other cupping your breast, thumb brushing your nipple.

he fucks up into you, matching your pace, mouth dragging across your throat.

“seven fuckin’ years,” he pants. “you know how many times i dreamed of this?”

you’re shaking now. gasping.

“show me,” you whisper. “show me how bad you wanted it.”

he flips you fast—so fast—lays you down on his bed for the first time in seven years, and fucks you deep, slow, deliberate. the room filled with the most obscene sounds. bed creaking, the sweet, wet squelch of your pussy and his balls slapping against your ass.

he kisses your fingers. your mouth. your ring.

“mine,” he whispers into your neck. “forever. mine.”

you come again. this time with his name in your mouth and his hand locked with yours.

he follows right after—groaning low, buried deep inside you, face pressed to your chest. (definitely pregnant after that)

you collapse on top of him. he wraps you up. presses kisses to your hair. just lays there, breathing with you, forehead to yours, thumb brushing your cheek.

“thank you,” he whispers. “for waiting. for staying. for not giving up on me.”

no more grainy phone calls. no more visits. no more letters. just the two of you home with nothing between you but peace.

he rubs his hand over your back, voice soft.

“we’re good now, yeah?”

you nod, half-asleep. “mhm.”

“told you i’d come back.” he whispers.

after that, it gets quiet again. except akuma’s snoring in the corner like a damn freight train. the door’s locked. the city’s asleep.

and you’re in bed, legs tangled with your husband’s, skin warm from hours of sex and laughter and most of all—relief.

sukuna’s on his back, one arm around your waist, the other tucked behind his head.

he’s watching the ceiling like it owes him something, blinking slow, chest still rising a little too fast. like he can’t quite believe any of this is real.

you lean over him, kiss the ink on his collarbone.

he smiles—lazy and smug—as usual.

“what?” you murmur, tracing a line down his stomach.

he glances at you, eyes half-lidded. “just thinking.”

“oof, that’s dangerous.” you tease.

he huffs a laugh. “yeah.”

you wait and then he says it—quiet, almost like a joke.

“remember the party?”

you blink. “the one where we met. over some shitty, warm beer that toji picked up at the corner store?”

“mmhm.” he smirks, but softer now. “the one where yuki told you not to talk to me.”

you laugh. full and real. “‘don’t. he’s crazy, jail-time type shit.’”

“and you came and sat on my lap anyway.”

“i meeean, you were hot.” you shrug.

“and you’re an idiot.”

you smile, curl into his side, cheek resting on his shoulder.

he presses a kiss to your forehead, knuckles brushing your bare spine.

“guess i should thank your dumbass friend,” he mutters, voice low, already fading into sleep. “she’s the reason i met my wife. my ride or die.”

you smile and don’t say anything. you just hold him tighter, like you’re afraid he’ll disappear all over again.

two years in, then seven apart.

crime. then courtrooms. then shitty vending machine coffee. hundreds of letters and visits.

and now he’s here, tucked against your side, finally. fully.

yours in a way no one ever thought he should be.

you whisper, barely a breath. “guess you’re not so crazy after all, huh?”

he stirs—doesn’t open his eyes—but he hears you and with a rough, half-asleep laugh, he mutters.

“still fuckin’ crazy.”

then he kisses your shoulder, presses closer, and falls back asleep with his hand curled around your wedding ring.

you’re just starting to drift off—his breathing slow against your skin, your fingers still tangled in his hair—when the mattress shifts with a heavy thud.

then a groan.

“no. absolutely the fuck not—” sukuna mumbles, voice hoarse.

akuma, in all his 70-pound glory, launched himself onto the bed. sprawling across both of you like he’s claiming his spot. head wedged on your stomach, paws kicking into sukuna’s ribs.

you laugh, half-asleep. “aw, kuuuna. baby, he missed you.”

sukuna sighs, glaring at the ceiling.

“seven years in prison, and i come home to my traitorous cockblockin’ dog.”

akuma lets out a loud sigh and promptly starts snoring. loud and obnoxious.

you kiss his little boxy head and then sukuna’s temple, still grinning.

sukuna grumbles something under his breath—but his arm curls tighter around both of you.

and you’re pretty sure you heard him mutter the words, “thanks…whoever’s out there.”

:3 please check out my other works! here’s the master list! <3

a/n: this was pretty long! been sitting on this for about a month now, hopefully you all enjoyed it! let me know if i should continue this or leave it as is! t

moontabi

OFF LIMITS

namgyu (player 124) x fem! reader

summary: your younger brother minsu has always kept shitty friends but none worse than junkies thanos and namgyu. this time, namgyu makes his move on you.

warnings: 18+ content ahead including dubious consent, sniffing panties, very light knife play, bathroom sex, power imbalance, pet names, noona kink, dirty talk, degradation, praise, objectification, some pet play (?) (he makes reader crawl to him and calls her a mutt), fingering, blowjob, unprotected sex, and creampie. perv! namgyu, heavy use of “noona”, mentions of thanos x reader

a/n: soo i blacked out and this happened. it’s rlly unhinged. shoutout to my friend for suggesting he call her noona because now all i can think about is namgyu noona kink

The bass from the TV shakes through the floorboards, rattling the cheap wooden trim and humming up through your bare feet. Gunshots and explosions stutter in quick bursts over the speakers. The living room stinks of weed, boy-sweat, and leftover takeout souring in open containers.

Thanos slouches on the battered couch, one leg thrown over the other, smoke curling from the joint pinched between his fingers. His eyes are low and half-lidded as he tiredly smirks at the game on the TV.

“I said left. Left, my boy. You cross-eyed or what?”

Minsu, your younger brother, who’s curled on the floor by the coffee table, doesn’t answer. He grips the controller, trying to keep his fingers from shaking.

He’s always tense around Thanos and Namgyu, shrinking smaller with every word. Like he knows one wrong comment could get him mocked or worse.

Thanos laughs, slow and airy, the blunt hanging from the corner of his mouth now, the ember flaring with each chuckle as he cuts a glance your way—brief, but heavy.

“Can’t even blame you, bro. With your sister walking around with legs like that? I mean, shit, I’d be missin’ my shots too.”

Minsu stiffens, but he doesn’t dare look at you. “Shut up, Thanos.”

Thanos lifts both hands, grin crooked. “What? She’s hot as fuck.”

Through their banter, all you can notice is Namgyu.

Off to the side, he lets out a soft, amused scoff.

He’s sprawled on the floor beside the couch, leaning back on one elbow. His band tee rides up his ribs, showing a slice of pale skin dusted with freckles and faded bruises. His sweatpants hang low on his hips, the waistband dipping under sharp v-lines, revealing a dark trail of hair disappearing beneath the cotton.

But he’s not playing the game.

His eyes are on you.

You move quietly through the room, a glass of water cradled in your hand and suddenly your sleep clothes feel thinner than ever. An old white tank top hugs your chest, the cotton just sheer enough to show the shape of your nipples in the glow from the TV screen. Your pajama shorts are patterned with tiny Hello Kitty faces, cut short enough to bare nearly all the curve of your ass. No bra. No underwear. You hadn’t thought twice slipping them on…but now, under Namgyu’s stare, you suddenly feel naked.

Part of you wants to vanish, to escape the heat crawling up your neck, the vile things they say when they think you’re not really listening. You don’t want to hear it—don’t even want to know how your brother’s nasty friends look at you, how they talk about you like you’re just another thing to fuck—but something sick keeps you rooted in place for a second.

Maybe it’s the way Namgyu’s stare pins you down, slow and deliberate, like he’s already imagined the shape of your mouth around his dick countless times, like he’s cataloguing how your skin would taste beneath his tongue.

Or maybe it’s the soft metallic flick of his knife, over and over, in a rhythm that feels almost hypnotic. Or maybe it’s how Minsu just sits there, small and silent, knuckles white on the controller, too afraid to speak up.

You hate how they treat him.

How Thanos talks to him like he’s a child. How Namgyu never even bothers to hide the way he laughs when Minsu flinches. You’ve tried to bring it up before, to ask why he keeps letting them walk all over him.

But every time you mention it, Minsu shuts down. Gets defensive. Upset. “They’re just messing around,” he’ll mutter, face flushed, voice brittle. “It’s not a big deal.”

It is, though. You see it in his shoulders. The way he tenses. The way he won’t look anyone in the eye when they speak to him.

But he won’t let you fix it, so now you just watch as Namgyu’s gaze tracks you, unblinking. His lips curl into a shit-eating grin, the small switchblade in his hand flicking open and shut, the sound like a ticking time bomb counting down to your demise.

Click. Click. Click.

Slowly, he sets the small pocket knife down beside him on the carpet. Then, with a mocking glint in his eyes, Namgyu lifts both hands, curling his fingers into a circle and holds them over one eye like a fake telescope, twisting his wrists and squinting through it as he blatantly scopes out your chest and hips.

“She’s always strutting around, Minsu.” Namgyu murmurs, voice dipping into something low and taunting. “Practically begging someone to look. Bet it fucks you up, huh? Seein’ your own sister like that?”

Minsu’s voice cracks. “D-don’t talk about her.”

Namgyu doesn’t even glance at him. “Or what?” he says bitterly, licking the edge of his lower lip, eyes locked on you.

Heat rushes up your neck, your stomach twisting tight.

Before you can hear another word, you pivot and rush down the corridor, your heart pounding and your skin still burning beneath the weight of Namgyu’s stare.

By the time the game fades into background noise, you’re pacing in your room, the cold press of the water glass doing little to soothe the heat coiled in your chest. It’s not even the way Namgyu talked about you—low and mocking, too intimate for a casual joke—it’s the way he looked at you. That heavy, lingering stare. The way he mimed staring earlier, not bothering to hide how he pictured you. As if your body was nothing more than entertainment. A toy. Something meant to be ogled at and handled and ruined.

Your chest tightens. You want to be angry. Furious, even. But all you can think about is the way his tongue flicked out to wet his bottom lip, how lazy and possessive his stare felt. As if he already knew what you looked like underneath your stupid shorts. As if he’d played this scene out in his head a thousand times and tonight, he was just getting cocky about it.

You hate it.

You hate how your thighs press together as the warmth between them grows thick and shameful.

You hate how your skin still prickles where his eyes touched it. How much of you he’s gotten without ever laying a hand.

You should’ve said something. Done something.

Instead, you let him look. You stood there.

And now it feels like he knows what he does to you.

The water glass leaves a wet ring on your dresser as you set it down and creep toward your door, fingers curling around the handle. You ease it open and slip out into the hallway, hoping to make it to the bathroom undetected. Maybe splash cold water on your face. Maybe breathe.

But you don’t get far.

You slam straight into someone’s chest and stumble back with a startled gasp.

Namgyu.

He’s standing in the dim hallway light, shirt rumpled, eyes dark and blocking your path completely.

But that’s not what makes your stomach drop.

Dangling from his fingers is something soft and bright pink. Something unmistakably yours.

Your panties.

Your breath catches, mouth falling open as your cheeks flush in disbelief. “Namgyu, what the fuck?!”

He doesn’t even flinch.

Instead, a slow, filthy grin spreads across his face. He lifts the panties to his nose and inhales deep. His eyelids flutter, his nostrils flare, and a low, contented sound rumbles from the back of his throat—something close to a purr.

“Still fresh.”

Heat explodes in your cheeks and your voice comes out in a harsh whisper. “Ew, you perv! Where the hell did you get those?!”

“Took ‘em after you showered yesterday.” he says casually. “Been driving myself insane thinking about how warm your pussy must’ve been to leave them smelling like that. I even thought about jerking off with them last night…but I figured I’d savor them first.”

He steps in close. You try to shrink back, but there’s nowhere to go. His knuckles brush the hem of your Hello Kitty shorts, fingers skimming your thigh. His gaze drops to your legs, then back up.

“You walk around like this, y’know.” he mutters. “All cute and clueless in these tiny shorts, acting like you don’t know what you’re doing.”

“You’re disgusting.” you snap.

He just laughs under his breath. “And you like it.”

You glare at him. “Give them back.”

Namgyu lifts the panties just out of reach. “What? Gonna cry to Minsu? Think he’s gonna come save his poor older sister? He barely says shit when I call him a fucking loser to his face. You think he’s gonna man up for you?”

Your stomach twists, the TV still blaring in the other room.

Minsu’s right there.

“Don’t act so shy now…you’ve been waiting for me to say something. Looking over your shoulder every time you bend over in front of me and pretending you don’t notice.”

“Stop!” you whisper. “Minsu will hear you—”

He huffs out a laugh. “So be quiet before I make you myself.” His hand drags slowly over your shorts, just enough for you to feel it—his palm grazing your cunt. He brings his lips to the shell of your ear, whispering, “Bet you’ll beg me like a pathetic little whore when I finally play with this pussy too.”

Shame flashes hot across your skin, your breath catching as your thighs press together instinctively—too slow to stop the way your hips twitch toward his touch.

Before he can do anything else, you grab his wrist and yank him into the bathroom.

The second the latch closes, he’s on you again.

Namgyu slams you against the bathroom door, his mouth crashing down on yours—hot, messy, tasting like marijuana and something chemical that makes your head spin. You shove at his chest with both hands, but it’s like pushing a wall. He doesn’t move. Just groans into your mouth, frantic already,

“Get off—” you start, but then there’s suddenly cold steel at your chest.

Namgyu’s switchblade flashes up between you, the flat of it gliding slow beneath the hem of your tank top. His hand trembles—not from fear of hurting you, but from the strain of holding back. He’s wanted this too long. Needed it. The moment buzzes in his bones, filthy and inevitable.

“Shhh…” he coos, almost gentle. “Lemme see these perfect tits.”

The blade flicks, slicing your shirt straight up the middle.

You gasp as the fabric splits, peeling off your chest. The cold air hits your skin, goosebumps rising across your bare breasts. The knife clatters to the tile, forgotten, and then he’s on you—grabbing, hands rough and thumbing your nipples until you’re gasping despite yourself.

“Fuck,” he groans, burying his face in your neck, nuzzling, sniffing, “You’ve got no idea how long I’ve waited for this.”

His hand dives into your shorts, greedy and quick while the other still gropes one of your peaks.

He doesn’t even tease—just plunges his fingers down.

He finds your cunt warm and soaked.

“N-namgyu…” you whisper, dizzy. He smells like his musk and it drowns you.

He groans the second he feels you. His hips thrust forward instinctively, his hard cock pressing against you through his sweats. “This for me, noona?”

His voice cracks around the word. It sounds hungry, the honorific cutting through your haze. You flush instantly, and his smile widens.

“Ohh, you liked that, didn’t you?” he giggles, breathless.

“Y’like it when I call you noona?”

You whimper in response, and he twitches, eyes darkening as he kisses your jaw, again and again, murmuring sing-song between each brush of his lips, “Noona…noona…” His voice lingers on the syllables, almost lilting, half-mocking and half-adoring, like he’s testing the weight of it on his tongue—trying it out.

“I’ve never called you that before, have I?” he hums, sweet and cruel, dragging his fingers slow through your folds. “Noo~na.” he croons softly, almost to himself now.

“Shoulda known you’d go all dumb for it.”

He laughs under his breath, lips still brushing your skin.

“Didn’t see the point, Thought it was stupid. But if I knew you’d be shaking for me like this…?”

His voice dips, “I’d’ve said it the first day I met you.”

Your breath hitches, your hips twitching toward his hand without meaning to.

He notices. Of course he does.

His palm presses flat against your pussy, grinding slow and heavy. “Look at you,” he breathes, delighted. “Already falling apart for me.”

“F-fuck you.” you spit—but it’s weak, and his eyes visibly darken.

“Mouthy little bitch,” he sneers. “Don’t worry noona, I’ll shut you up.”

His hand slaps over your mouth, firm and fast.

Your moans die under his palm, strangled and soaked in heat. His fingers push into you, slick and deep, each piston into you angled to ruin. The cramped bathroom echoes with the obscene sound of your cunt sucking him in and out.

Namgyu groans, low and guttural, hips grinding against your front again, rutting into the soft curve of your lower belly. You try to twist away, shame prickling down your spine—but he crowds in tighter, pinning you between his chest and the door, breath hot and filthy against your cheek.

“C’monnn…be quiet for me, noona. Don’t want your baby brother hearin’ how much you love getting touched by someone younger than you, do you?”

Humiliation spreads under your skin and your eyes squeeze shut. You can hear it—the wet, obscene sound of him knuckle-deep in you, the way your hips stutter into his hand no matter how hard you try to hold still.

He feels it. The way you clench—and it only spurs him on. His grin presses against your cheek as his pace turns brutal, every thrust of his fingers knocking a breath from your lungs, until your knees buckle hard against the doorframe.

Then his voice lowers, turning mean again.

“Or maybe it’s not Minsu you’re worried about.”

Your breath hitches behind his palm. He leans in close, his nose grazing your temple.

“Maybe you want Thanos to see you like this.”

Your whole body jerks and you shake your head wildly, but it doesn’t matter.

“You don’t even know half of what he says about you,” Namgyu goes on, teeth clicking. “Think dude’s obsessed with your tits. Bet he’d shove you down on your knees and fuck ’em right there in front of your brother.”

A muffled sob punches from your throat, eyes wide, legs trembling beneath you.

Namgyu groans again, deeper, fucking his fingers into you with renewed force. “But you don’t want Thanos, right?” His voice splinters with need. “This pussy’s not for him.”

You whimper under his hand, hips jolting into his palm, betraying you.

“No—” you gasp against his fingers, barely audible.

He slows, keeps his fingers buried deep, grinding them with deliberate pressure. “No?” His breath is sharp against your ear. “Just for me then, huh?”

Your head slumps back against his shoulder, thighs shaking. Humiliation coils low in your gut—but your cunt squeezes around his fingers, so wet it sounds desperate.

He releases your mouth finally and seizes your lips in a rough, claiming kiss, tongue pushing deep, devouring every sound you make.

“Say it, noona.” he pants between kisses, voice unraveling. “Say it’s mine.”

Your lips part, gasping. Your voice cracks, broken. “It’s yours.”

Namgyu groans, shattered, the sound rasping from his throat. “Good fucking girl.”

“You gonna cum on my fingers?” You attempt to hold it back, but it’s already crashing over you—your thighs trembling as you let out sharp little gasps of pleasure. Your pussy flutters helplessly around him, right at the edge. Namgyu whispers in your ear, “Please, noona…be a good little slut and make a mess f’me.”

“Oh fuck—Namgyu!” Your orgasm hits hard—sharp and blinding—your pussy pulsing around his fingers with a filthy, wet suction that makes him groan deeply in his chest. Your hands slam against the door, nails scraping the wood as your hips twitch against it.

Namgyu pulls his fingers out slowly, relishing the slickness as it stretches in glistening strands. He brings them to his mouth, sucking one clean, eyes rolling back at the taste of you.

Before you can even recollect yourself, Namgyu seizes your wrist and yanks you down to the ground. You crash hard onto your knees, dazed, and he leans back against the tub’s edge, legs spread and sweatpants now pushed down past his hips. His cock is flushed and hard, glistening with the mess he created while teasing you, already twitching with anticipation. “Get that pretty little mouth on me, noona.”

“C’mere and show me how badly you want it.”

You gaze up at him—lips slightly parted, chest rising and falling rapidly. His smirk twists cruelly as he sits back, his cock heavy in his fist.

“That’s it…now crawl to me.”

Heat floods your cheeks. Your thighs quiver as you drop down onto your hands and knees, slickness still dripping between them, knees squeaking against the cold tile. You inch forward slowly, your eyes fixed on his cock—his gaze locked onto you.

He strokes himself lazily as you move, enjoying the show. “Cute little noona. Crawling for my cock like a fucking mutt.”

He grins. “Open.”

You shoot him a look, lips tight. You hesitate just a second too long.

His smile fades, replaced by something darker. His fist knots in your hair, yanking your head forward.

“I said open, noona.”

You bare your teeth, but you do it—mouth wide, tongue out—and he slaps his cock against it, once, twice, wet and heavy.

“Fuuuck, there we go,” he pants, rocking his hips forward. “Just like that.”

You choke as he feeds more in—your throat tightening, drool spilling from the corners of your lips. He moves slow at first, savoring every inch until you gag around him. “Shit, you sound so good choking on it," he groans, his grip on your hair tightening. "You fucking love this don’t you?”

You moan, more in frustration than pleasure, your nails digging into his thighs. He tastes salty, like something you shouldn’t crave, but you arch towards him anyway, greedy.

“You’d let me cum on your face, wouldn’t you noona?” he pants, his cock twitching against your tongue. “Or right on your tongue…yeah, I just know you’d take it so well.”

You whimper, and he lets out a ragged moan, hips stuttering.

“W-was about to coat this pretty face,” he grits out, dragging you off his cock with a wet pop. You gasp, coughing, spit trailing from your lips. “But right now…”

He hauls you up, spins you, and lifts you onto the bathroom counter. He shoves your shorts down just far enough to make room, The porcelain biting into your bare ass. You yelp at the cold, and then again when his hands shove your thighs apart.

“This pussy’s still leaking,” he mutters, stroking himself once before dragging the swollen tip through your soaked folds. “I think you need a good dicking.”

You glare at him, breath ragged. “Just s-shut up and fuck me.”

“Fuck…don’t gotta tell me twice.”

He lines up and drives in—one brutal thrust to the base, splitting you open with a loud, wet slap.

You cry out, nails digging into the edge of the counter. The mirror behind you rattles.

His grip bruises your hips as he starts pounding into you—deep, rough, no rhythm, just raw need. Each thrust knocks you back, cunt gushing with every slap.

“You hear that?” he spits, breath catching. “Listen to that sloppy pussy—fuck, you were made for this.”

You sob into your arm, overwhelmed and aching, but your hips still chase his. It’s pathetic.

“Cockdrunk noona, stuffed like a whore on her own fucking sink.”

His hand slips between you, thumb finding your clit to rub it hard and ruthlessly. Sparks shoot through you, your body already trembling from the next orgasm building low in your gut.

“Say thank you, Namgyu,” he growls.

You shake your head and his grin turns feral.

“Fine. I’ll make you say it.” He thrusts into you harder, crueler, his thumb grinding down against your clit without mercy. Your body jerks with each snap of his hips, loud wet slaps echoing in the room as he fucks you through your resistance. You choke on a moan, teeth gritted, fingers clawing at anything you can reach.

He doesn’t let up. Just pounds into you, deep and brutal, your walls clenching around him with every thrust. He drags his cock out slowly—almost all the way—before slamming back in hard enough to knock the air from your lungs. Again. And again.

“Fucked stupid and still begging for more. look at you suck me in,” he hisses, watching your face twist in helpless pleasure. “You gonna cum again? Be a good little fuckdoll for me?”

You try, God, you try, but your body gives out first. your orgasm rips through you without warning, raw and violent, soaking his cock with a loud, messy gush. You scream, back arching, thighs shaking where he holds them open. Your cunt pulses hard around him, fluttering and clenching with every wave crashing through you.

“T-thank you, Namgyu…” you choke out, voice wrecked.

“That’s it. That’s fucking it,” Namgyu groans and slams in one last time, spilling inside you with a sharp curse. His cock pulses deep, stuffing you full.

He stays buried, panting against your neck, both of you trembling, skin sticky with sweat.

When he finally pulls out, he cums all over your pussy—thick, hot spurts painting your folds and leaking down onto the counter beneath you. His release drips from your swollen cunt in obscene trails, pooling messily.

“Can’t waste a drop,” he huffs, gaze locked on the mess. Then he grabs your bunched-up shorts and tugs them back up over your thighs, sealing it in. “Keep it in, noona.” Then a slow, filthy pat between your legs. “Want you to feel me on you.”

You look at him—glassy-eyed, ruined. “You’re sick.”

Before he can respond, Thanos’ voice drifts in from the hallway. “Yo, Namsu! You good in there?”

Namgyu’s cock twitches against your thigh as he leans in, teeth nipping at your earlobe.

“Go on, pretty. Answer him for me.”

⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚ tags: @mashtatosworld @loveesiren @szonyix6277 @seungttttop @xxtoptaexx @tabibabib @s4intkwon @heartubeatusalon @breakmeoff @gdinthehouseee @septywitch @aizshallnotbefound @namsgyu @thanosspills @flymetothexmoon contact me if you want to be added to or removed from my permanent taglist

namsgyu

the ending had me gagged

3racha-agustd

When you look for a fic on Tag Reader and the main character already has a name and social security number...

toxycodone

$lostfracturess blog's avatar$

lostfracturess

THE STRANGER ON LINE 4 — SATORU GOJO

pairing — ceo!satoru gojo x artist!reader

summary — for 713 days, you've been sketching strangers on your morning commute, giving away portraits to brighten their day. when a missed train puts you on an unfamiliar route, you draw a white-haired man who's impossible to ignore. you think you'll never see him again—until he plasters half of tokyo with posters trying to find you.

word count — 16.4 k

genre/tags — modern AU, ceo x artist, strangers to lovers, mutual pining, slow burn, soft romance, fluff, so much fluff, banter, provider!satoru gojo bc goddamn yes & him being a very dramatic puppy in love, misunderstandings

warnings — 16+ ONLY. contains suggestive sexual content, brief mention of financial stress and reference to past cheating experience.

author's note — put on your favorite taylor swift playlist and get cozy for the fluff. i squeeeezed every tiny bit of fluff that i have out of my heart into this. side note, the idea came to me after seeing a tiktok of someone handing out sketches on a train hehe. hope it makes you smile <3

masterlist + support my writing + artwork by @3-aem

Your alarm goes off at exactly 5:45 AM, the same time it has for the past three years. You silence it with a tap (or try, anyway) and slip out from under your warm blankets before the urge to just stay there and call in sick becomes too stong to withstand it.

Your small one-bedroom apartment is quiet, save for the distant early morning traffic of the city outside your window and your groaning as you make your way to the bathroom.

Your morning routine was more muscle memory than anything other at this hour. Shower (seven minutes), hair (five minutes, more or less), makeup (eight minutes), and outfit—already sorted from last night (smart you)—coffee and an avocado toast.

By 6:30, you’re checking your bag if you’ve got everything: laptop, planner, phone charger, and most importantly, your sketchbook—a simple Moleskine with cream-colored pages that are perfect for graphite—and a few spare pencils.

You flipped open to a new page in your sketchbook and wrote “Day 713.” Tomorrow’s entry would be 714.

mammonsrockstargf

“Whatcha doing?”

“I’m hiding,”

...

“Can I join?”

It looks comical, the way Mammon tries to fit inside your closet as well. There’s barely room for him, but somehow he manages to squeeze his long limbs into the small space. Once he’s sat, he turns his head slightly to look at you.

“Who are we hiding from?”

His blue eyes practically light up the place, and you can feel the heat radiating from him. Tentatively you inch a little closer and he opens his legs so you can slot between them, your back against his chest. You lean into the embrace, letting him wrap his arms around you. You can feel the beating of his heart next to your ear.

“I don’t know,” you mutter. You watch the wall of the closet, eyes trailing the curves and patterns of the wood. “Everyone,” you say.

Mammon hums. He presses a gentle kiss to your hair. You grab a hand from your waist, deciding to play with his fingers instead. In difference from his usual white, they’re painted the colour of your eyes. Yours matches with a mix of blue and yellow. All stolen from Asmo of course.

(He let you steal them. Mammon was not very discreet. You had to make up for it with a spa day the next weekend.)

Slowly you interwine your fingers with Mammon’s, leaning back to rest your head on his chest and closing your eyes.

“Were ya hiding from me too?”

...

“No, I would never hide from you.”

thangyus

happy pride month to this gay ass scene 🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈

spikedfearn

As if It’s Heaven’s Gate

one-shot

Remmick x fem!reader

summary: You take a job as a live-in nurse for the town’s most infamous recluse—Remmick, the strange, soft-spoken man hidden away in a rotting Victorian farmhouse no one dares approach. Locals warn you not to touch him. Not to linger after dark. But when you meet him, he’s all big eyes and broken manners, trembling hands and gold chain glinting at his throat. Touch-starved, tender, and ruinously ancient. He flinches when you reach for him—and sobs when you don’t. You drop to your knees, and he forgets the taste of blood. He’s already yours before you ever put your mouth on him.

wc: 8.5k

a/n: holy 2k followers batman!! I wanna thank everyone for the outpouring of love and support my work has gotten over the last month, truly insane, still processing, gonna release something soon as a massive thank you <333 based off this post, I'm sure I'm not the first but I haven't come across any fic of reader going down on Remmick yet and I have a great need to suck that man's dick until his stomach caves in like a Capri-sun (someone revoke my internet access) so here we are. Thank you to @ddlydevotion for finding my photo refs. Dedicated to Sam @matrixfangs for not only beta reading this but also requesting I incorporate Jack's cross tattoo into one of my fics!! title from the song too sweet by hozier.

warnings: vampirism, oral sex (m!receiving), d/s dynamic, begging, spit kink, hair pulling, praise kink, humiliation kink (soft), drool, overstimulation, ruined man behavior, touch starvation, religious imagery, cross kink?, control kink, sub!remmick, somniloquy, emotional degradation (tender), slight dacryphilia, mildly unhinged reader, dark romance, southern gothic atmosphere, implied violence, implied murder (offscreen)

I am doing away with my tag list because it's getting a little long so I recommend turning on notifications if you don't wanna miss when I post c:

likes, comments, and reblogs always appreciated, enjoy!!

mrsducky

KYLE GALLNER in DINNER IN AMERICA 2020, dir. Adam Rehmeier

loveridden1999

which ao3 tag are you?

#praise kink #yeah that tracks

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