In which you have reunion sex with hubby, Marine!Toji ;)
“You been letting other men touch this pussy?”
Delirious, you answer with a garbled no.
Toji’s chuckle is mean and condescending, and the dastardly sound shoots straight to your pulsing clit. You cream even more around his massive cock, which stretches you out beyond imagination.
“’course not. This tight,” thrust, “fucking,” thrust!, “cunt,” thrust!, squelch!, squeeeelch!,“only wants me, doesn’t it?” He looks down to where you’re sinfully connected, tongue wetting his bottom lip at the sight of the glistening white ring around his base. “Yeah, doll. Missed you too. Don’t worry, gorgeous -hngh, fuck- g-gonna take care of ya, alright? Sarge’s gonna fuck you real good. You want that, ma?”
“No,” you moan, ass rocking back into his pelvis, chasing the fullness. “Want Toji to fuck me.” A sudden whine escapes you; you swear his cock just got even bigger.
He hooks a thumb into your other hole, keeping you so full you can’t think of anyone but him. Toji drawls, “You got it, babygirl. Just don't be complainin’ when you’re too sore to lift a finger tomorrow.”
“Whatever, you’ll do everything for me anyway.”
Toji grins. “Damn right.”
His hips are relentless — pummelling into your pussy with no mercy, no respect, no consideration for how many orgasms he’s already rammed out of you. Nothing matters more to him than feeling every part of your body, both outside and inside: not the fact that you’re both drowning in sweat, not the stickiness of your combined juices, and especially not the creak in his bones warning him he should be resting, not fucking his wife into the next year.
Reunion sex always turns out like this: rough and messy and ruled by pure, animalistic instinct. Making love and cuddling come later—when you’re too tired to keep your eyes open, when your stomachs are grumbling, and the light filtering through the curtains shifts from streetlight to sunrise.
Hickeys and bite marks litter both your skins. You love covering his new scars with them — something about pretending he hadn’t been somewhere terrifying, doing things he’d never be able to speak of to another soul again, wondering if he’d ever see you.
Most times, he tires himself out and ends up dozing off on your tits or your back, drooling and still balls-deep inside you. Sometimes, however…sometimes he overstimulates himself into an absolute emotional trainwreck.
“Oh god, baby,” he rasps, scarred lips grazing the curve of your neck, tasting the salt on your skin. “I missed ya. Missed you so -hah-fucking much. Thought I’d —fuck, loosen up for me, baby, gonna make me cum too soon— t-thought I’d lose my mind without you. You ain’t mad at me, are ya mama? Ain’t gonna leave, right? Don’t know -ngh- what I’d do without you, baby. God, never gonna -hic!- leave you again. Promise, gorgeous. Ah s-shit, gonna cum.”
Maybe he cries into your hair. Maybe he doesn’t. Whatever the case, he’s here. He’s home. And he’s holding you like you might slip away.
In which you have reunion sex with hubby, Marine!Toji ;)
“You been letting other men touch this pussy?”
Delirious, you answer with a garbled no.
Toji’s chuckle is mean and condescending, and the dastardly sound shoots straight to your pulsing clit. You cream even more around his massive cock, which stretches you out beyond imagination.
“’course not. This tight,” thrust, “fucking,” thrust!, “cunt,” thrust!, squelch!, squeeeelch!,“only wants me, doesn’t it?” He looks down to where you’re sinfully connected, tongue wetting his bottom lip at the sight of the glistening white ring around his base. “Yeah, doll. Missed you too. Don’t worry, gorgeous -hngh, fuck- g-gonna take care of ya, alright? Sarge’s gonna fuck you real good. You want that, ma?”
“No,” you moan, ass rocking back into his pelvis, chasing the fullness. “Want Toji to fuck me.” A sudden whine escapes you; you swear his cock just got even bigger.
He hooks a thumb into your other hole, keeping you so full you can’t think of anyone but him. Toji drawls, “You got it, babygirl. Just don't be complainin’ when you’re too sore to lift a finger tomorrow.”
“Whatever, you’ll do everything for me anyway.”
Toji grins. “Damn right.”
His hips are relentless — pummelling into your pussy with no mercy, no respect, no consideration for how many orgasms he’s already rammed out of you. Nothing matters more to him than feeling every part of your body, both outside and inside: not the fact that you’re both drowning in sweat, not the stickiness of your combined juices, and especially not the creak in his bones warning him he should be resting, not fucking his wife into the next year.
Reunion sex always turns out like this: rough and messy and ruled by pure, animalistic instinct. Making love and cuddling come later—when you’re too tired to keep your eyes open, when your stomachs are grumbling, and the light filtering through the curtains shifts from streetlight to sunrise.
Hickeys and bite marks litter both your skins. You love covering his new scars with them — something about pretending he hadn’t been somewhere terrifying, doing things he’d never be able to speak of to another soul again, wondering if he’d ever see you.
Most times, he tires himself out and ends up dozing off on your tits or your back, drooling and still balls-deep inside you. Sometimes, however…sometimes he overstimulates himself into an absolute emotional trainwreck.
“Oh god, baby,” he rasps, scarred lips grazing the curve of your neck, tasting the salt on your skin. “I missed ya. Missed you so -hah-fucking much. Thought I’d —fuck, loosen up for me, baby, gonna make me cum too soon— t-thought I’d lose my mind without you. You ain’t mad at me, are ya mama? Ain’t gonna leave, right? Don’t know -ngh- what I’d do without you, baby. God, never gonna -hic!- leave you again. Promise, gorgeous. Ah s-shit, gonna cum.”
Maybe he cries into your hair. Maybe he doesn’t. Whatever the case, he’s here. He’s home. And he’s holding you like you might slip away.
synopsis: the thing is, gojo satoru has no intention of marrying someone his clan elders pick for him. there’s a simple solution, of course! why get married to a stranger when you can whisk your best friend away to las vegas for a weekend and elope?
tags: fluff, smut (oral sex, fingering, riding, unprotected sex, one orgasm denial), mild angst, best friends to lovers, vegas wedding!au. idiots to idiots in love, profanity, alcohol consumption, discussions of arranged marriage, attempts at humour, crack taken seriously, mutual pining.
word count: 7.1k
a/n: the art in the header is by m00__ry on instagram & the fic title is from the 2008 movie of the same name. thank you to @saezzi for beta reading!
WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, ITEM #1 – ARSON.
For the record, none of this is your fault.
It’s all Satoru’s fault, and you’re pinning all of this solely on him because he gets on your nerves and he’s also a liar. A compulsive liar with no concept of shame or mortification or guilt, because the whole world revolves around his thick head and you, unfortunately, are no exception to this rule. It was a nasty trick, really, coercing you into going on vacation with him.
You should’ve known something was up when he specifically bought only two first-class tickets to Las Vegas and your flight was at midnight. He’d insisted the two of you sneak out of the Kyoto Jujutsu Tech compound where you’d stayed for the duration of his visit to the Gojo clan, and hadn’t bothered to inform Shoko or Utahime or Yaga.
And so, again, you reiterate firmly and resolutely: none of this is your fault.
Your predicament—standing in a parking lot behind a Denny’s at nine in the night with a small fire going in a trash can nearby—is entirely, absolutely, positively Gojo Satoru’s fault.
“I want a divorce,” you tell him.
“We’ve been married for forty-seven minutes.”
“Forty-seven minutes too long.”
“You’re burning our wedding certificate!” Satoru says. “How are we supposed to file for divorce if there’s no proof we even got married?”
“I’ll figure it out,” you say, poking at the certificate with a stick you found on the ground. The corner of it curls and blackens satisfyingly. “I’m very resourceful.”
“You’re committing a crime is what you’re doing,” he says.
“You committed a crime first.”
“Getting married isn’t a crime—”
“Fraud is.”
Satoru opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again, at a loss for words. This is a rare and precious occurrence—Gojo Satoru, speechless! You would be savouring it more if you weren’t currently a married woman in a Denny’s parking lot in Las Vegas at eleven o’clock in the night.
Satoru had told you it was a vacation. He’d shown up at your room in the Kyoto compound at half-past ten with a bag tucked under his arm and said, simply, “Come on. We’re leaving.”
“Leaving where?” you’d asked.
“Somewhere that isn’t here,” was his cryptic reply.
You’d been in Kyoto for six days. Six days of watching Satoru navigate the Gojo clan and their elders with their careful smiles and careful words. Nearly a week of watching something tight and unhappy lodge itself behind Satoru’s eyes while he pretended, convincingly, that everything was fine. You knew he wasn’t; you’d watched him perfect his act for years, after all.
So, you went. You told yourself it was because you’d never been to Las Vegas. This, at least, is true.
You’d grabbed your bag and followed him out through a side entrance of the compound at nine forty-five, and you didn’t inform any of your friends or superiors. Because of this, your phone has been periodically buzzing in your pocket for the last several hours and you’ve been ignoring it, which is a problem that is also, for the record, Satoru’s fault.
The flight was actually wonderful. First-class seats entailed warm socks and warm food and a window seat, because Satoru had graciously sat by the aisle. When you were flying over the Pacific, he’d fallen asleep with his head tipped back and his sunglasses still on. He looked younger when he was sleeping, you’d thought. More like the version of him you’d met when you were both too young and foolish to understand what being a sorcerer actually meant.
After you landed, Satoru took you to a casino and then to a fancy place for lunch, and then to another two casinos—if he wasn’t careful, he’d turn into a gambling addict soon—and then he took you to a chapel on the Strip with fake flowers zip-tied to the pews and an officiant named Francis who had red hair and smelled like cigarettes and convenience store chewing gum.
Francis had cried a little during the vows, dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief. Satoru had found this enormously gratifying. You, however, had been in something of a dissociative state.
“It’s not fraud,” Satoru says now, in the parking lot, watching you cremate your marriage certificate. “We did actually get married. Francis witnessed it. There are photos.”
“There are photos?”
“Francis had a camera.”
“What?”
“I think it’s just something he keeps on him professionally.”
You stare at him. He has the grace to look slightly sheepish. His sunglasses are still on. His suit jacket is open, and his tie, which had been done up neatly for the ceremony (clearly he’d planned far enough ahead to wear a nice tie) is now loosened and slightly crooked. The cheap gold ring on his finger—wrong hand; he’d fumbled it in the moment and jammed it on before either of you could correct it—catches the light from the parking lot fluorescents.
“That’s it!” you say, snapping your fingers at him. “That’s our proof to file for divorce! Take me back to the wedding chapel, Satoru.”
“No way,” he says. “I’m taking you to dinner first. We need to commemorate our first night of being married.”
“We’re behind a Denny’s,” you point out.
“I know,” Satoru says. “Denny’s is a perfectly acceptable dining establishment, but I meant somewhere nice. There’s a steakhouse on the Strip that has a three-month waitlist.”
“Then we can’t go there.”
“I called ahead.”
You gape at him. “Three months ago?”
“No,” he says. “I called ahead on the plane. You were asleep.”
“I wasn’t asleep for that long—”
“Yeah, you were asleep for, like, four hours. You even snored a little.”
“I did not—that’s not the point! The point is, you planned this. You planned all of it, the chapel, the restaurant, the—” You gesture at the ring on his finger, the ring on yours, the dying fire in the trash can—“everything.”
“Not everything. I didn’t plan for you to burn our wedding certificate in a fit of rage.”
“That’s your fault by proximity.”
“That’s not a legal standard.”
“I’m making it one.”
Satoru smiles, quick and bright. You have a long and storied history of making Gojo Satoru laugh when he isn’t expecting to, and it used to feel like winning something. It still does, if you’re being honest.
“Come on,” Satoru says, nodding towards the street. “Dinner first, Francis later. We can get the photos after and then you can file for divorce. I won’t stop you.”
“You’d better not,” you say.
“I said I won’t.” He holds his hands up, the picture of innocence. “I’m a man of my word.”
“You’re really not.”
“I’m a man of some of my word,” he amends.
The steakhouse is situated on the upper floor of one of the larger casinos on the Strip, lined with dark wood and low, hushed lighting. You are seated by a window. The Strip sprawls below you in every direction, extravagant and relentless, all that light going nowhere at tremendous speed.
“Were you really that confident I’d say yes?” you ask once the menus have been set in front of you.
“I was… hopeful,” Satoru says. It’s not a word you can recall him ever applying to himself before, in all the years you’ve known him; it sounds odd. You pick up your own menu and look at it without reading it.
What you’ve learnt about Satoru and what most people tend to miss is that underneath all the grinning and grandstanding and carelessness, there is someone who wants things very badly and has learned not to show it. You’ve known this for years. You’ve watched him want things, and watched him bury it under layers of grandiosity until it’s almost invisible. Almost.
“The elders have been at it for two years,” he says finally, without looking up from the menu. “The meetings, the candidates. They’re all very suitable women from very respectable families. Good for the clan’s interests.”
“You never told me it’d been going on for that long.”
“Didn’t want to make it a thing.”
“Satoru—”
“It’s fine. It’s just—” He sets the menu down and looks out at the Strip, all that light below. “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life performing for someone who sees me as a resource. I do enough of that already. I knew it was going to happen eventually and that they were going to stop asking and start insisting. So. Vegas.”
“Vegas,” you echo.
“You were the obvious answer,” he says matter-of-factly. “You already know what you’re getting into with me. You don’t have any illusions. You—you’re my best friend. There isn’t anyone I’d rather be stuck with.”
“Stuck with,” you repeat. “Incredibly romantic.”
“I said what I said.”
The waiter arrives and Satoru orders for the two of you. You look down at the ring on your finger and think about how it came from the little rotating display by the chapel door, five dollars American. It fits almost perfectly except for being on the wrong hand.
“Er. You fumbled the ring,” you say.
“I was nervous,” he says.
Gojo Satoru, nervous. Gojo Satoru, who treats most of human experience as something happening at a slight remove, who has never, to your knowledge, shown up to anything in his life uncertain of the outcome—nervous!
“Were you,” you say.
“Briefly,” Satoru says, with great dignity. “It passed.”
“Of course.”
“It won’t happen again.”
“Of course.”
The fountains in front of the Bellagio are in the middle of their routine, water arcing up in great pale columns against the dark. The light from them moves across the window in slow, repeating patterns. Satoru’s eyes catch the shifting light. You swallow hard.
“We’re not arguing about the divorce, by the way,” you tell him.
“We’ll see.”
“Satoru.”
“We’ll see,” he says again pleasantly. You’re going to say something else, something firm and unambiguous, but he’s already put his cutlery down and is walking out, and you’re already following.
WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, ITEM #2 – BREAKING AND ENTERING.
The supposed 24/7 active wedding chapel has a sign tacked onto the front door when you arrive later, which reads, Under maintenance. We apologise for the inconvenience!
“Fuck,” you groan.
“Language,” Satoru says. “Maintenance at midnight. Huh. That’s strange.”
“That’s what I’m focusing on right now, yes, thank you.”
You press your face briefly against the chapel door’s small window. The lights inside are off. Through the glass you can just make out the shape of the pews, the flowers zip-tied to their ends, and the little altar at the front where Francis had stood several hours ago and wept openly into his handkerchief. How are you supposed to get the photographs of your husband—you are using that word provisionally under extreme protest—looking at you like you’re the only fixed point in the room?
“He might live here,” Satoru says.
“Francis?”
“Some of these places have a back apartment for the officiant. We could knock.”
“We’re not knocking on a man’s door at midnight,” you say.
“It’s nearly one.”
“That makes it worse!” You step back from the door and look at the sign again. There’s a narrow alley running along the left side of the chapel, squeezed between the chapel building and the 24-hour tattoo parlour next door. You only notice it because Satoru’s already walking towards it. “What are you doing?”
“Recon,” Satoru says. “Just looking.”
He disappears around the corner. You stand on the pavement with your hands on your hips before deciding to follow him. The alley is cramped and smells stale. There’s a dumpster and a stack of plastic chairs leaning against the chapel wall. Satoru stands with his hands in his pockets, looking upward with his head tilted back.
“No,” you say.
“There’s a window.”
“I see that.”
“It’s open!”
It appears to be a casement window on the chapel’s ground floor, propped out at an angle, about eight feet off the ground and just wide enough for a person to fit through.
“That could be a bathroom window,” you say. “We’d be breaking and entering.”
“The window’s already open,” Satoru says. “Technically we’d just be entering. The photos Francis took are currently somewhere in that chapel developing in a back room, unattended.”
“If we get arrested,” you say, “I’m blaming you entirely.”
“Obviously.”
“I will give a statement to the police and it will contain your full name and a detailed account of everything that’s happened tonight, starting with the chapel and working backwards to Kyoto.”
“Sure. Boost or be boosted?” Satoru asks, turning to the chairs. “I’d say I’ll boost you, but I want it to be on record that I think you’d make a better lookout.”
“I’m not being a lookout.”
“You just said—”
“I’m coming with you.”
He pauses, glancing at you, his expression softening just a little bit. Warm and amused—gone before you can fix it in place.
“Obviously,” he says, smiling, and starts stacking chairs.
The window is, in fact, not a bathroom window. It opens into a small storage room at the back of the chapel, with folding tables against one wall, boxes of artificial flowers stacked against the other, and a mop in a bucket in the corner. Through a door on the far side, you can see the chapel proper. The dripping you can hear means the maintenance situation is a ceiling problem, probably towards the front.
“There’s a whole back operation,” Satoru says, impressed.
“We need to find the darkroom,” you whisper.
“Why are you whispering?”
“Because we’re trespassing.”
“Right, yes,” he says, lowering his voice. “The darkroom will need ventilation, so it’s probably towards the back.”
“How do you know anything about darkrooms?” you ask.
“I went through a photography phase in my second year of middle school. It was a whole thing.” He opens the storage room door and peers through into the chapel. “All clear.”
You follow him through. The chapel at night, empty and dim, is a different place entirely from what it was several hours ago. Smaller, somehow. Without Francis and the lights, it’s just a room with cheap flowers and worn carpet.
“Back room’s through here,” Satoru says softly; he’s already at the door behind the altar. You cross the chapel quickly, not looking at the pews or the aisle, not doing anything so foolish as standing in the dark and sentimentalising about a five-dollar ring and a laminated vow card.
The back room is small and smells sharply of chemicals—developer and fixer, mostly. There’s a red safelight along the wall that Francis has left running, bathing everything in a dim glow. A long workbench runs along one wall, and on it, clipped to a line strung above the bench, are your photographs.
Four of them, hanging in a row, damp and gleaming slightly under the monochromatic light. Even from across the room, you can make out the chapel and the altar. Neither of you says anything for a moment, until Satoru walks to the bench and stands in front of the photographs. You make your way and stand beside him.
The first one is mid-ceremony. You’re both facing Francis, and you can see Satoru in profile—head tilted, shoulders set. The second one is the ring exchange; you can see immediately why it’s blurry. You’d both been laughing, actually, you remember that now, because Satoru had fumbled the ring and said something under his breath, and you’d bitten down on a laugh and not entirely succeeded. Francis had captured exactly that, the two of you with your heads slightly bent towards each other.
In the third one, Francis had asked you to face each other for a photo, and while you’re looking at the camera, Satoru’s looking at you. You look—Francis had said surprised, and yes, there is that, but there’s also something else, something you would rather not name.
Satoru is looking at you the way he was looking at you in the chapel, the way he’s been looking at you in these odd unguarded moments all evening.
“We look like idiots,” Satoru says.
“Francis was right,” you say. “We both look surprised.”
“Were you?” he asks.
“Yes. Were you?”
“No,” he says, then adds quietly, “Maybe. About—about other things.”
In the fourth photograph, you are outside the chapel, looking at the ring on your hand, and Satoru is looking at you looking at the ring. Francis had captured the angle so cleanly that you can see Satoru’s full expression, soft in a way his face almost never is in front of other people, private. You realise you’re holding your breath.
“We should take them,” Satoru says.
“We can’t just take them,” you say. “They’re developing.”
“They look pretty developed to me.”
“Satoru, they’re damp—”
“They’ll dry.” He’s already carefully unclipping the first photograph from the line. “Francis has the negatives. He can print more.”
“You don’t know that Francis has the negatives, and besides, we’re stealing from him.”
“We’re borrowing from Francis.” Satoru holds the first photograph carefully by its edge and looks at it in the red light before setting it down on the workbench. “Hand me something to put these in. There should be a folder or an envelope on the bench somewhere.”
There’s a paper envelope at the end of the bench, brown and flat. You pick it up and hold it open. Satoru slides the photographs in one by one.
“We need to leave Francis a note,” you say, “and money. For the printing. For—everything.”
“How much do you think midnight darkroom theft runs these days?”
“What?”
“I’m asking genuinely.”
“A lot,” you say. “Leave a lot.”
You find a notepad on the workbench next to a jar of pens. Francis, you write. We’re sorry for the unauthorised visit. We needed the photos tonight, so please print yourself copies. Enclosed is payment for the developing, the breaking-in, the trouble, and your time. Thank you for everything. It was a beautiful ceremony.
You fold the note and put it on the workbench. Satoru takes his wallet out, removes a quantity of cash that makes your eyebrows go up, and weighs it down with the jar of pens.
You go back through the chapel and through the storage room and back out the window into the alley. Satoru drops down behind you and lands easily on the ground. The night air is warm, and the Strip is still brightly lit not thirty feet away. You hold the envelope against your chest. The photographs inside are still slightly damp.
“For the record,” you say, “this is also your fault.”
“The chapel was closed,” Satoru says reasonably. “I didn’t plan that part. Plus, we have the photos, so. Seems like it worked out.”
You look at him with his loosened tie and ruffled hair and think, He’s going to be completely insufferable about this for years. You are going to have to hear about the Vegas chapel break-in for the rest of your natural life and possibly longer.
“Come on,” you say. “You said the hotel’s three blocks away.”
WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, ITEM #3 – VANDALISM.
There is only one bed. It’s not, on its own, an unusual situation. You’ve shared sleeping arrangements with Satoru before—field missions and overnight calls that left two sorcerers and one room. You’d use a pillow wall, most of the time.
The difference is that you are currently married to him.
“You booked a room with one bed?” you ask.
“They may have assumed, given that I made the reservation under a recently married couple’s names, that we would want,” Satoru says, gesturing at the bed, “the one bed.”
The bed in question is enormous, dressed in white linen and piled with decorative pillows. There’s a bowl of strawberries on the bedside table. The whole room smells faintly of roses.
“Did you request the honeymoon setup?” you say.
“The woman on the phone seemed very enthusiastic about it.”
“That’s not an answer!” You look around the room, hands on your hips. “Well, there’s a couch. You can use that.”
It’s one of those small, decorative couches present in hotel rooms to fill a corner, hold throw pillows, and look tasteful in photographs, but not to sleep on.
“I’m not going to sleep on it, but noted,” Satoru says, striding towards the minibar, shrugging his jacket off and draping it over the back of the chair by the window. “Whiskey or gin?”
“Whiskey,” you say. “We can put a pillow wall down the middle.”
“We’re married,” he says, crossing the room with two small bottles. He sits down on the other side of the bed. “It seems a bit prudish.”
You take the whiskey from him and twist the cap off. Satoru has his own bottle balanced between both hands, still unopened, and he’s looking out the window at the city below. You’ve spent enough years watching him, but it doesn’t seem to change anything; the flutter in your heart remains the same, as does the contentment you feel in your chest.
“I want to see them again,” you announce.
Satoru looks at you. “The photos?”
You reach for the envelope on the nightstand and slide the pictures out carefully, holding them by the edges. They’re drying, stiffening slightly. You hold them in your lap and he leans in slightly.
“You should’ve warned me,” you say quietly.
“About which part?”
“All of it.” You tap the third photograph’s edge, gently. “This.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “If I’d warned you, you’d have said no.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know you,” he says, not unkindly. “You’d have thought about it too long and decided it was too complicated, and then you’d have spent months being strange about it, and then we’d have gone back to normal, and—” He stops, turning the bottle in his hands. “…I didn’t want to go back to normal.”
“It’s still a bad idea,” you mumble.
“Probably,” he agrees. His hand shifts on the duvet between you, the tip of his little finger coming to rest against the back of yours. “Hasn’t stopped being true, though. Whatever it is. You know what I mean.”
You do. That’s the problem: you’ve always known what he means, even when he’s being deliberately oblique about it. You’ve known him too long and too well for any of it to not make sense anymore. Which means, you understand now, that you’ve also known you’re in love with him for longer than you thought.
You look at the fourth photograph—Satoru, standing outside the chapel, watching you look at the ring on your hand.
“You could’ve just said something,” you tell him. “At any point. Like a normal person.”
“I took you to Las Vegas and married you,” he says. “That’s me saying something directly.”
His hand turns over and covers yours, warm and assuaging, and whatever reservations you’d been carefully maintaining for years simply crumble.
You close the remaining distance. Satoru’s free hand comes up to your face before you’ve fully moved, which means he was thinking about it too—has been thinking about it, probably, for longer than tonight, longer than Vegas—and he’s kissing you.
He kisses you decisively. There’s a certainty to it that shouldn’t surprise you—this is Satoru, who does nothing halfway—but it does, a little. But what surprises you more is how easy it is. How it doesn’t feel like a change in anything so much as a long-overdue acknowledgement of something that’s been there all along.
When you pull back, his forehead drops to yours. His sunglasses are still pushed up on his head, and you reach up and take them off without asking. He lets you.
“Hi,” Satoru says.
“You’re still wearing your sunglasses indoors at midnight,” you chide.
“I said hi.”
“Hi,” you say.
He smiles; it reaches his eyes. “So,” he starts.
“Do not say ‘I told you so.’”
“I wasn’t going to. Probably.”
“Insufferable,” you say, and kiss him again, which is both a rebuke and a surrender but mostly just because you want to. He makes a sound against your mouth that might be a laugh, and his arms come around you properly this time.
The decorative pillows go first. There are seven of them, and they go in ones and twos without either of you paying much attention—one knocked off when his arm comes around you properly, two more when you shift closer, the rest sliding off the edge in a soft succession of thuds. One of the small whiskey bottles, empty now, rolls off the mattress and lands on the carpet. You don’t notice any of it; you’re somewhat preoccupied by Satoru taking your face in his hands and tilting it and kissing you until you forget what you were arguing about.
You suspect that he’s thought about this for a long time, the same way you have.
“You’re thinking,” Satoru says against your mouth.
“I’m not.”
“You are. I can tell. You get this little—” He pulls back just enough to look at you, and traces something between your brows with one finger. “Here.”
You stare at him. “I hate that you know that.”
“No, you don’t,” he says. He’s right, and you hate that too, so you tell him so by pulling him back down by the front of his shirt.
He lets you tug at him willingly—more than willingly, with an enthusiasm that sends you back against the pillows and makes you laugh, briefly, before his mouth finds your jaw, your throat, your collarbone, and the laugh turns into a gasp. His hands are at your waist, warm through the fabric.
His tie joins the pillows on the floor; you get the knot loose while he’s working on the matter of your buttons. His shirt is untucked and you run your hands on his waist, his ribs, the warm plane of his stomach. Satoru groans against the side of your neck, and you shiver. He tosses your shirt aside, too, and his eyes darken when his gaze lands on your chest. He takes his time with your nipples, rolling them around with his thumbs, before taking one of them in his mouth.
He moves lower, pressing kisses to the underside of your breasts, moving down to your navel. When he reaches the waistband of your jeans, he looks up, pupils blown wide and asks, “May I?”
“Yes, yes, please.” You nod frantically, helping him pull your jeans and panties off when he unbuttons it. You’re already wet and needy.
“You’re so beautiful,” Satoru says, gazing up at you before littering kisses on your inner thighs, so close to where you want him.
“Satoru, please,” you say. “I need you.”
He blows on your wet core, making you shiver. “Need me to what?”
“I need you to, hah, just—”
Satoru latches onto your clit, sucking and swirling his tongue around the bud. You moan, your hands flying to his hair and gripping the silver-white strands. He alternates between quick flicks and long, broad strokes, keeping your folds spread apart with two fingers while his other hand traces patterns along the underside of your thigh.
“Fuck, fuck—” You curse when his tongue moves in a circle right around your clenching hole. Satoru doesn’t stop. If anything, the sound of your voice breaking, the way you curse his name, only spurs him on. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you. He’s always known how to push your buttons. But this is different; this isn’t a playful tease during a mission.
He dives back in, his tongue flattening out to lap at you with broad, wet strokes that cover everything from your clit down to your opening. You arch your back, your hips lifting off the mattress instinctively, trying to press yourself harder against his mouth.
“Satoru… please, I’m—”
“You’re what?” he mumbles against your skin. He doesn’t wait for an answer, sliding two fingers deep inside you. You let out a strangled cry, your toes curling. His fingers are thick and warm, and he curls them, hooking them upward to find that sensitive spot that makes your vision blur. His thumb remains locked into your clit, rubbing circles on the engorged bud.
The sensation is overwhelming. It’s too much and yet not nearly enough. You can feel the tension building in your lower belly, a tight, simmering coil that winds tighter and tighter with every second.
“Right there,” you moan, your fingers knotting into his hair. “Right there, Satoru, don’t stop, please don’t stop.”
Your breath comes out in short, jagged gasps, your chest heaving. Just as you are about to orgasm, Satoru stops. He doesn’t just slow down; he pulls his fingers out of you with a sudden, wet pop and removes his mouth from your heat entirely. You freeze, your eyes snapping open. “Satoru, what the hell—”
He’s hovering over you, braced on his elbows, his hair messy and falling over his forehead. A slow, smug smile spreads across his lips, though his breathing is just as heavy as yours.
“Not yet,” he whispers.
“I hate you,” you groan, your hips twitching involuntarily, searching for the friction he just stole from you. “I actually hate you so much.”
“Liars don’t get to come,” Satoru teases, though his hand reaches down to gently stroke the skin of your inner thigh.
He shifts, moving upward to kiss you. He tastes like you, and you moan into his mouth, before he pulls away just an inch, his gaze dropping to your drenched core. “I want to feel you,” he murmurs. “I want to feel how tight you are around me.”
Satoru slides backward, just enough to strip off his trousers and underwear in one hurried motion. His cock springs out, thick and flushed. Your mouth waters simply looking at it, while he pumps it once, twice, thumb circling the tip. He doesn’t lie back down. Instead, he sits up, leaning his back against the headboard of the enormous bed, his legs spread wide. He reaches out, grabbing your waist with those large, strong hands and pulling you forward until you are hovering over him.
“Ride me?” he asks.
The need for friction, for fullness, for him overrides any lingering frustration. You shift your weight, guiding his cock to your entrance. As you slowly lower yourself down, the feeling of his cock filling you, stretching you open, sends a fresh wave of pleasure through you. You let out a long, shuddering moan as you sink down completely, inch by inch, your pelvis flushing against his. Satoru lets out a choked sound, his head hitting the headboard with a thud, his eyes screwing shut.
“Fuck,” he moans. “You’re—you’re so tight. I can’t—”
“Shut up,” you whisper, though there’s no heat in it.
You begin to move, a slow, grinding rotation of your hips. You watch his face—the way his jaw clenches and his nostrils flare, the way he looks at you with warmth and wonder. You quicken your movements, bouncing on his cock. Satoru’s hands move from your waist to your hips, fingers digging into your skin, helping you ride him. He thrusts upwards, tilting his hips and dragging his cock against your walls.
“Look at me,” he groans. You look down, your eyes locking onto his. “I love you,” he says.
You feel the coil in your belly snap. Your orgasm washes over you as you clench around his cock, milking him. Satoru moans, his back arching off the bed as he thrusts upwards one last time. “I’m going to come,” he says. “Let me—”
You slide off his cock and he comes, his release spurting onto his stomach, a little bit on your thighs. You collapse against his chest. He wraps his arms around you tightly, pulling you into the crook of his neck.
For a long time, neither of you speaks. Eventually, Satoru shifts slightly, kissing the top of your head.
“So,” he whispers. “Shower?”
You lift your head slightly, looking at him with tired, happy eyes. “Already?” you say with faux innocence. “I thought you’d want to fuck me on that stupid couch first.”
WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, ITEM #4 – EMBEZZLEMENT.
Hopefully Satoru didn’t mind you swiping his credit card from his wallet while he was fast asleep, one arm thrown over his face while the other was stretched out beside him. You’d wriggled out of his grasp carefully, pressing a gentle, barely-there kiss to the tip of his nose, before digging through his jacket’s pockets for his wallet and pulling out his black card.
It’s for a good purpose, you console yourself, hurrying through the streets of Las Vegas with a jewellery shop’s location pulled up on your phone.
Las Vegas in the early morning is a different city entirely from the one that had swallowed you whole last night. It’s not quiet, exactly—it’s never quiet, you suspect—but it’s quieter, the frenetic energy of the Strip mellowed into something slower. The crowds have thinned, at least.
You walk with your hands in your pockets, Satoru’s black card tucked safely between two fingers. The morning air is warm and dry, and the sky above the glow of the Strip is beginning to lighten from black to the deep bruised blue that comes just before dawn.
The jewellery shop is three blocks from the hotel, according to your phone. It’s a small, well-lit place that stays open through the night, catering to those Las Vegas visitors who find themselves in need of jewellery at unusual hours, which you now understand is a larger demographic than you’d previously considered.
You walk and think about the rings. The ones currently on your fingers are not adequate. They’re soft metal, the gold already slightly scuffed from one night of existence, and they’ll tarnish in a week. You’d noticed this morning, while Satoru was still asleep: the way your rings sat a little loose, the way it had already lost some of its shine. It’s more of a placeholder than anything else.
The thought of replacing them had arrived while you’d lain in Satoru’s arms, listening to him breathe and looking at the ring.
You aren’t scared, though you’d expected to be. You’d expected to wake up this morning with the full weight of what’s happened landing on you like a dropped beam, and to spend the subsequent hours dealing with the considerable wreckage of your own panic. It seemed like a reasonable response to having been married to your best friend in Las Vegas by a crying man named Francis and then having the matter become rather more settled than a marriage certificate alone would suggest.
But when you’d woken up with Satoru’s arm around you and the photographs on the nightstand, what you’d felt was something almost irritatingly simple: you’d felt like yourself.
The jewellery shop is small and bright, jewellery arranged in lit display cases along the walls, a pudgy man behind the counter. He looks up when you come in, takes in the look of you—your clothes from last night, slightly slept-in, your hair not fully combed—and nods pleasantly.
“Morning,” he says. “What are you looking for?”
“Wedding rings,” you say. “Two of them, please. Something that’ll last for a long time.”
He nods again. “Do you know the other person’s size?”
You think about Satoru’s hands—the ring sliding onto his finger in the chapel, his hand covering yours on the duvet last night, the warmth of his arm around this morning. “I can estimate,” you say.
He shows you to a case along the left wall. The rings inside are simple, for the most part—plain bands in gold and silver and white gold, some with small details, most without. You find two plain bands in white gold, clean-lined and unornamented, substantial enough to last.
“These,” you tell the man behind the counter.
He nods. You produce Satoru’s black card and spend a figure that makes you wince slightly but not reconsider, because the point isn’t the cost and you’re sure Satoru will agree with you about this when he wakes up and finds both you and his credit card gone. You leave the ship with the rings in a small white box and stand on the pavement outside for a moment in the warming air.
You pull your phone out and type in the search bar, Chapel of Eternal Love, and punch in the number attached.
“Hello, Chapel of Eternal Love, Francis speaking—”
“Francis,” you say, smiling. “I have a favour to ask.”
WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, ITEM #5 – MARRIAGE.
Francis, it turns out, is delighted. He’d gone quiet for a moment when you explained what you were asking, and then said, Give me an hour, and hung up before you could confirm the details.
You make your way back to the hotel with your ring box in your pocket and the morning brightening steadily around you. The casino lobbies you pass are still going—slot machines, a scattering of determined gamblers, staff moving between stations—but the Strip itself is relatively peaceful, the night’s crowd entirely dissolved and the day’s not yet arrived. You have the pavement to yourself. It’s a strange and pleasant feeling, Las Vegas in the interstitial hour.
Satoru is awake when you get back, sitting up in bed with his hair in complete disarray and the duvet bunched around his waist. When you open the door he looks at you blankly.
“Morning,” you say.
“My credit card,” he says.
“Is fine.” You cross the room and hold it out. He takes it without looking at it, still watching you. “I needed it for a purchase.”
“What kind of purchase requires you to leave the hotel room at—” he glances at the clock on the nightstand—“six forty-seven in the morning?”
“The important kind.” You sit down on the edge of the bed and take the white box out of your pocket, setting it on the duvet between you.
Satoru picks the box up and opens it, and doesn’t say anything at all, which is the loudest thing Gojo Satoru can do. “You stole my credit card,” he says finally, “to buy us wedding rings.”
“I borrowed it,” you say. “To replace the ones we got from a spinning display rack for five dollars each.”
“I liked those rings.”
“They were tarnishing,” you say. “There’s more, by the way.”
You tell him about Francis. He looks surprised at first, and then warm, so utterly warm when he tugs you closer to him and kisses you again, and again, and once more for good measure. Satoru closes the ring box and holds it in both hands, the way he’d held the whiskey bottle last night before he’d covered your hand with his.
“I thought you wanted a divorce last night, and now you’ve stolen my credit card and called Francis.”
“Yep.”
He looks at you for a long moment. The morning light filters through the curtains and he looks extraordinarily, unfairly beautiful, even just woken up.
“Okay,” he says.
“Okay?”
“Yeah.” Satoru sets the ring box on the nightstand, next to the photographs. “Okay.”
Francis has decorated the chapel when you arrive. You’re not entirely sure when he found the time—it’s been barely two hours since your phone call—but the maintenance issue has apparently been resolved, because the lights are on when you arrive. The door is unlocked; when you step inside you find that Francis has replaced the zip-tied artificial flowers on the pews with fresh ones, white and small. There are candles lit along the windowsills. The worn carpet, in the warm light, looks less worn somehow, or perhaps you’re simply disposed to see it differently today.
Francis himself is standing at the altar in a clean shirt, his red hair combed and his camera in his hands. “You came back,” he says.
“We came back,” you confirm.
Francis looks at the two of you—Satoru in a fresh shirt with his tie done up neatly again, you in the best thing you could assemble from your bag on short notice—and grins. “The rings, did you—”
You produce the white box.
“Right,” Francis says. “Right, yes. Let’s—shall we?”
Here is what you think about, standing at the altar of the Chapel of Eternal Love for the second time in less than twenty-four hours:
You think about the first time, yesterday, and how you’d stood here in something close to a dissociative state, your brain running through the situation at high speed. You think about the parking lot behind the Denny’s and the small fire in the trash can. You’d meant it when you said you wanted a divorce, though you realise now that you were frightened of what being married to your best friend entailed.
Satoru had let you burn it, too. He hadn’t argued because he’d known you’d come around. Not from arrogance, but because he knew you, the same way you knew him, all the way down to the things you didn’t say aloud.
You think about the darkroom, the four photographs drying on the line in the red light. Climbing back out through the chapel window into the warm Las Vegas night and holding the envelope against your chest, the photographs still damp inside it. You think about the rings in the spinning display by the door—you can still see them from where you’re standing, the little rack with the remaining rings. They were the beginning, it turns out.
You turn to look back at Satoru. He’s smiling at you.
Francis clears his throat gently. “Shall we begin?”
The vows are the same ones from the laminated card. Francis offers alternatives—he has a small binder with options—but Satoru shrugs, so you use the same ones. When Francis gets to the rings you open the white box yourself. You take Satoru’s ring out and hold it; he holds out his right hand out of habit before catching himself and switching to his left, and you both laugh helplessly. Francis gulps and pulls out his handkerchief. You put the ring on the correct hand this time.
Satoru takes yours from the box and looks up at you—there’s that expression, the one from the photographs, the one you have a name for now. He slides the ring onto the correct finger and holds your hand for a moment after.
Francis is fully crying now. He dabs at his eyes without embarrassment and beams at the two of you over his handkerchief with radiant approval.
“I’ve never had anyone come back,” he tells you. “In twelve years, you’re the first.”
“We forgot something the first time,” you say.
Francis tucks his handkerchief away and straightens up. Smiling, he announces, “You may now kiss,” and so you do.
a/n: the real mvp of this fic is francis who was also unironically my favourite person to write. thanks for reading!
sukuna knows women. he knows how to please them. how to make them moan, whine, cry. but knowing how to please a woman doesn’t mean he knows women. aka a woman’s cycle. in simple terms, sukuna has mainly grown up with men, his gramps, his brothers, toji — all he knows is a girl has a period, but he has never bothered to stay with a girl long enough to actually address her period.
well until his fuck buddy, you, open your door for him.
his arm wraps around your waist, tugging you towards his chest, lips locking with yours in moments. “Mmm,” he groans, tongue pushing past your lips, just to feel you press a hand to his chest. your lips break, air filling his lungs in disdain, eyes narrowing at you for pushing him away.
“you didn’t text me, dude,” you say, letting him pull away to drop his backbag on the floor, plastic bag in hand as he kicks his shoes off.
“got outta the gym late. lost track of time,” he walks two steps to the kitchen pulling out two energy drinks, a protein drink, and a couple protein bars. “fuck,” he cups his crotch, palming himself through his low hanging sweats. he opens his shake. “accidentally swiped on that video ya’ sent me from the summer. I watched the whole thing between my sets.” his hand tips back, throat bopping as he chugs the shake, eyes closing as he sees the video play back in his mind, hand still on his bulge.
you’re leaning against the column between your smaller than small living room and kitchen, eyeing the way he’s shamelessly groping himself in front of you, men. you sigh, internally.
“hey,” he suddenly appears in front of you, towering. his musky scent fills your nose as he cups your neck, the other resting on your hip. he slowly lowers himself, tilting your chin up with a thumb as his lips connect with yours again. “haah,” he sighs, kissing your lips like it’s his saving grace, his sweats hang low on his hips as he presses himself against you. “remember that video?” he husks, “the one with ya’ spreading your legs out for the camera—“
you gently press a hand to his chest again, cheeks flushed, but stomach churning uncomfortably. “ryo—“
“wanna see this pussy,” he doesn’t even hesitate, he drops his head to your neck, kissing the exposed skin before dropping to a knee, hands on your hips. “wanna smell how good she is—“
“ryo,” you press a hand to his forehead, face aflame, as you push him back. your heart hammers as he frowns up at you, jaw tight and hands tightening around your waist. “I got my period yesterday.”
….
a silent beat passes.
then.
FUCK!
sukuna is horrible at controlling his face.
you immediately notice his dilated pupils dissipate, and the excitement die behind his eyes. your lips purse, making a my bad king type of face. but sukuna looks absolutely destroyed, his head drops forward, desperately trying to control his eye roll, but you catch it , along with the way he presses his face into your stomach, and groans. loud. uncontrolled.
“sorry…I forgot to text you, and you came all the way here,” you pat his shoulder apologetically, though you’re not super sympathetic since it’s not your fault.
“ya’ have cramps or some shit?” he grumbles against your sleep shirt.
“had crazy cramps this morning, but just like…not in the mood right now,” you cringe while saying it, but sukuna just sighs.
you bite your cheek as you watch him sit back on his heels. his black sweats straining against his thighs, his bulge shameless as it presses up against the material. your eyes flick over him again, wetting your lip as you reach for his hair. hesitant. but eventually…your manicured nails run through the slightly damp, salmon colored hair. you watch in silent awe as his lashes weigh down, and his jaw tightens like he’s holding himself back. your nails scratch his scalp, lightly, but enough to elect a raw groan from the back of his throat.
you bite your lip, eyeing the dark flush crawling up his neck, and dusting his cheeks a light pink. his large palm rests on your outer thigh and the other flexing as it grips his erection. how far will he—
“not cumming in my fucking sweats,” he suddenly barks, getting to his feet. your hand drops as he walks towards the bathroom, pulling his shirt over his head, he kicks the door shut behind him.
your lips purse again, biting your cheek as you hear the shower turn on. men.
that was how sukuna dealt with his fuck buddy being on her period. somehow always finding out last minute that you’re bleeding, and in no mood for action — except for those very rare occasions, well he can’t divulge too much now since you never want him to mention it again — and he’s forced to take care of his problem in your shower. his rough calloused palm — a contrast from your soft smaller ones — jerks his painfully hard throbbing cock to the images of you floating in his mind until he’s finally shooting his thick white load all over your shower wall. haze clearing up as he watches the cum slide down. and then he’ll step out of the bathroom, usually wearing a pair of sweats he’d forgotten here, along with a plain black tee, and crash on the couch as you do your homework. he’ll eye you a bit, but eventually shift his attention to the tv and knockout.
it would be difficult for those five to seven days, especially when you would be slightly more clipped with him, or just plain bitchy and short tempered (like him). but it’d get him all hot and bothered, especially since he can’t act on it.
that was sukuna’s perception of a woman’s cycle. before he never cared, now he cares just a little more because he can’t have sex with you when you’re on your period.
but as smart as sukuna is, it takes a little more brain power for him to realize what this is.
this being, how he’s wound up because he’s trying to get through this studying for an upcoming exam. he’s far from prepared for and the best way for him to study is to be around someone who takes it seriously— you. and yet…
and yet, you won’t stop moving!
at first you were sitting across from him in the library. then you shift to the seat at corner of the table, and then you move to sit directly beside him.
“you need help?” he suddenly cuts. you’re shifting beside him stops, brows pulled in confusion.
“was just uncomfortable, am i disturbing you?”
his brow twitches, but you were completely innocent. your brow pulled up, like he’s the crazy one, and not you, who’s moved around like ten times in the last hour!!
“just a little,” he mutters, putting his headphones back on and turning back to his work. luckily, you seem to have settled down, attention back on your own studies. engrossed in your review sheets and notes, as sukuna reviews for his own exam.
however, what the fratboy did notice was even when shoko stopped bye to chat, and utahime came to whisper some gossip to you between her class, you didn’t move once. his brow quirked briefly when utahime chatted across the table, and instead of getting up and going to the hallway to talk freely, you remain seated, right beside him, and right against him.
what’s going on?
“I swear I told the girl I didn’t even know who she was talking about it—but she didn’t even care. girl! I wasn’t talking to your ex,” utahime rambles in hushed whispers, similar to the whispered conversations at other tables.
your brows furrow in shock, “what the hell?? why the heck is she even confronting you in the middle of class though? that’s so weird.”
“that’s what I’m sayinggg!!!”
sukuna has every reason to snap at you both right now. to tell you two to shut the fuck up or go outside. seriously, it was distracting as fuck. but his mind was short circuiting and stumbling around all because of how fucking close you are to him.
his arms are leaning over the table, biceps bulging from his tshirt, scribbling practice equations and notes. and you’re leaning over in an identical position, but your side is fully pressed against his arm. your zip up hoodie resting around your hips after you’d shrugged it off, and your usual cold skin was searing hot against his. skin to skin. and it’s been like that for the past twenty minutes.
usually when your friends stop by to ramble you have the curiosity to step away so he can study. but not this time— well you did a similar thing a month ago too. sticking to him like glue. brushing your fingers over the veins of his forearm—
“okay, I’ll update you later, but thanks for letting me borrow your airpods!” utahime concludes her rant with finally returning your airpods and running off to her next class. sukuna lets out an air of relief, relaxing beside you.
finally, some peace and quiet in the library.
…shift…
well, it could only last so long.
his brows furrow as he glances over at you, your cheek is now resting on his arm, mindlessly reading your notes like this is normal. is it because he’s finally anxious about an exam after so long, that he’s noticing how touchy you’re being? or maybe you’re not in the mood to do your work and in the mood for something else—
tch, he doesn’t have time to find some room to fuck you in though. it’s the middle of the day and the library is packed. the last thing you’d want is for someone to see you both. however, he can’t even tell if you want any action right now. it just looks like you’re tired…and clingy…?
sukuna exhales, thumb pressing against his jaw in thought, while you shift again, oblivious to his internal turmoil, cheek smushed against his arm…
“you hungry?” he interrupts, desperate for his mind to quiet down.
“not really,” you mutter, focused on your homework.
his lips downturn, pen tapping the desk, “I’m gonna grab another celsius.” he suddenly stands, startling you for a moment, noticing the way your pretty lashes blink in surprise. you’re definitely just focused on school…but last month you were acting the same-ish…if he’s right, then when he comes back…you’ll…
he places a celsius in front of you, eyes flicking over you as he sips his drink. you hum in distracted appreciation, like you can’t even see him sliding back into his seat, legs spread, and arms coming up back to the table to grab his pen. but like glue, you’re sliding yourself right beside him, pressing your cheek to his shoulder, and taking a subtle inhale.
what the hell?!? it’s like he can predict you’re every move now?!
it didn’t stop there. the puzzle pieces are starting to come together slowly. especially when you subtly kept a grip on his arm muttering how he can finish studying at your place, without the distraction of the frat—which you rarely pressure him to do a night before an exam. except instead of going straight to the bathroom to shower, you followed him to your couch and sat beside him.
“do you mind if I turn on the tv?” you ask with such an unnerving amount of gentleness, glancing at him with your full undivided attention.
his brow quirks, why’re you looking at him like that? “it’s your place, woman.”
you hum, relaxing back, albeit pressed to his side and your knees tucked up, as he leans over on the coffee table (aka your only desk in your small ass apartment) reviewing more work. but just moments later he’s sliding to the floor for more comfortability—
“why’d you move?” your voice cuts through the quiet apartment.
“huh?”
sukuna glances back, brow quirked with confusion at the frown you’re wearing. “leaning over is fucking with my back,” he tsks, earning him an uncharacteristically quick attitude switch from you — your eyes roll, your entire body slumps further back on the couch that you’re basically laying across it, and your cute bottom lip juts out in an irritated, subtle pout. seriously? sukuna scoffs internally. you’re acting like such a brat??? for real this time.
your cheeks press against the cushion. your hypnotizing eyes flick between his, then eventually settle on his lips. they’re slightly chapped, pink…pretty…kissable…
“ya need something?” he snaps without any bite. you’re zoning out again. your eyes drift off, and your lips part lost in thought. “zoning out—“ are the words that you here before you feel an aggressive (light in his mind) flick to your forehead. “again!”
“ow!” you groan loud, face quickly turning and pressing into the cushion in annoyance. “what the hell!” your muffled yell barely comes out.
“what the hell me?” he tsks, rough hand landing on your head, and turning your face back for air. “I was talking and you did that shit again—“
“what thing?!” you scoff, brows pinched in anger as you stare into his eyes….his deep…dark…lidded…crimson eyes…..haah—
“that,” he exhales, hand softening on your temple, and irritation slipping away with your usual antics. “how do you even zone out that fast?”
your glossy lips part, manicured nail brushing your bottom lip, heat pooling between your legs, and eyes half lidded… “was thinking about your eyes.”
the softness of your tone was more shocking than the actual words that came out of your mouth. or it was the combination of both. or the bluntness of your gentle honey sweet voice that took sukuna by surprise…
but he blinked. once. twice—
“first it was your lips,” you whisper with a breathless sigh. your finger carefully reaching out and touching his lips. you mimic the way he parts his lips with your own. his thick brows creating a shadow over his lidded eyes. “then your eyes.” you explain with such clarity, it had sukuna short circuiting as he tries to rationalize why you’re acting this way—
“that’s why i zoned out,” you conclude, shifting closer to the edge of the couch, closer to him. your eyes dot up at him, brushing his bottom lip, pulling it down with a thumb. “you distract me sometimes.” you’re tired…it was a long day of classes and it was the middle of the week. that has to be the reason, sukuna thinks.
by now, he knows that look.
you wanna fuck.
“Mmm,” you whine the moment he presses his lips to yours. your tongue immediately finding his as your nails course through his hair. tugging. “make me cum, ryo.”
he snorts in your mouth, rough hand pushing your shirt up, thumbing your bra before hooking his thumb under and lifting up. “should’ve just told me ya want your pussy wet—“
“it’s already wet,” you cut, “been wet all day.”
shiit, he groans into your lips, pushing his hand down, past your waistband. “fucking slut.” a breathy gasp slips out as he cups your wet sticky pussy. “fucking drenched, dirty brat.” his teeth sink into your bottom lip as you whine louder, unaware how sukuna’s neck is unbelievably red. why do you taste sweeter?
“Mmm lift your hips up,” he husks. you don’t get the chance to react when he’s suddenly yanking your pants and drenched panties off. “spread ‘em.”
your tongue pokes your bottom lip, opening your legs for your fuck buddy. his huge palms press against your thighs, grabbing fistfuls and licking his bottom lip as your sticky pussy comes into view. his pupils dilate as he watches your hole twitch. and your scent immediately hits his nose. “you’re gonna taste so good today.” he mutters to himself, but your brow lifts.
“what’s different about today?”
he leans forward, eyes flicking up as he exhales. is he drunk? his eyes roll back, cock throbbing in his pants and he inhales again—fuuck, you smell so much sweeter, “nothin.” his tongue shuts you right up as he licks a long wet lewd strip up your folds. your back immediately arches off the couch, nails digging into his scalp as his beefy arms lock around your thighs, moaning. your sweet honey floods his taste buds…this pussy has always hypnotized him, aroma consuming him and taste intoxicating him…but now that he thinks about…this small little difference in taste and scent, a bit sweeter, happened last month—
“ryo—haah ah mmh ya like my pussy?” your eyes flutter as you keep them on sukuna’s flushed face.
his eyes roll back, completely falling apart between your thighs as he groans a deep husky, “fuck yeah.”
your stomach burns hot at his voice, and voice pitching higher as his tongue delves inside your hole. “haaaah—your mouth is so good, baby—ngh been wet all day,” you confess in your pleasure. “was staring at your hands all day, ryo—they’re so big…l-like your di—ahh—“ fuck you’re talking a lot, sukuna groans, annoyed how worked up your voice is getting him.
his tongue laps and sucks, his salvia creating an even bigger mess. he pulls away, cheeks dusted a deep red as he spits directly onto your puffy clit, pupils dilating as he spreads the mess all over your swollen clit. “these hands,” he runs his calloused palm over your lower stomach. your pupils grow black with lust. pupils blown as you stare at the way his hand encompasses the entire surface. his crimson irises dilate once he sees the lust all over your face. “want them inside ya?”
you nod, immediately.
he doesn’t wait.
two long, thick fingers push past the initial tightness, feeling the gummy walls of your pussy hug his digits with delight. your jaw falls slack, drool slipping as he leans down to plant wet kisses along your lower stomach, forearms and biceps flexing as he pistons his fingers in n out. the squelching fills his ears as you moan above him.
“ngh! fuh ryo, feels good, kiss—kiss me down there—“ you push his head down until his lips connect with your clit again, sucking. rough. mean. teeth sinking just hard enough to make your eyes water and a choked cry slip your lips. “ryo,” you mewl with such lewd sweetness that this huge 6’5 hunk is practically moaning in response. “ry—my pussy—ahh gun —mmm c-close—gun cum—“
but sukuna has already lost all sanity with how good your slick tastes. his eyes roll back pushing you over the edge. “mmm fuck!” you cry, lashes wet as they flutter from the pleasure coursing out of you. his throat bops swallowing and lapping your sweet slick like it’s a drug — which it might as well be with the way his cock is throbbing in his boxers just from eating his fuck buddy’s sweet pussy. “taste like fucking honey,” he groans, cleaning you up like a dog. he pants, catching his breath as he climbs up to your lips like a starved animal. he smashes his lips against you, kissing your spit slicked lips with a loud groan. how do your lips taste sweet too?
“gonna be a good brat and let me fuck this tight pussy?” He grunts, unbuckling his belt and pushing his jeans down along with his boxers, freeing his painfully erect cock.
your tongues collide, dumb whine coming from the back of your throat, and hands running up and locking around his neck. “f’course.”
fucking you rough and fast on the couch as you babbled like a dumb slut, drunk on his cock, had him seeing stars. he was desperately trying to figure out how you're handling him with how uncharacteristically rough he’s being, but you haven’t told him to stop.
"ry—aa-haah!"
shit. he'd flipped you onto your stomach, grabbing your hips , ass in the air as he slams his thick throbbing cock in from behind. his rough palm is pressed into your lower back keeping you in that deep arch he loves, and hand cracking the nth spank to your sore ass. "feel good?"
"so good ryo—wanna cum again -cum-ngh haah please please-"
unbelievable.
and it’s not until he’s panting on the couch, your limp body resting across it, completely and utterly spent, does he realize just how rough he was being. his jaw tenses, as the fog clears up.
“hey…” his voice treads lightly, cautious as he turns on the couch, glancing at your resting form. your shirt covers your breasts after he finally came and let you lay back on the couch. but his spend leaks out of your abused hole, and your ass is still burning from his mean spanks. “hey…” he leans over you, hand brushing your waist. grounding. “you okay?”
he watches carefully as you turn on your side, eyes heavy as you blink up at him. “yeah…you okay?”
“you okay with how we fucked?”
you don’t blink, “yeah.”
yeah, somethings up. he was rough, even he knows that much. and you took it well. more than well, you were begging for me.
all of those should’ve been signs. the closeness, the slight sweetness spike in your slick and saliva. how unbelievably heavenly you smell, all the time. how you didn’t mind how rough he was. but the cherry on top was the party friday.
the frat is lit up like a damn fever dream. neon strips line the railings, glow paint smeared across walls and skin, bass from the dj bleeding through the floors as the pool outside shimmers under colored lights. it’s packed, but not suffocating. invite-only for once. people actually have room to breathe, but it was mainly because they didn’t want any complaints so early in the semester.
sukuna is sat back on the patio couch, shirtless, skin still damp from the heat, a thin sheen of sweat catching the lights every time he moves, tattoos flexing over his well defined muscles. gojo was loud beside him, geto half-listening while scrolling on his phone, a couple other guys scattered around with some girls mingling between them. but sukuna isn’t paying attention to any of it.
he has a drink in his hand, untouched. his eyes keep drifting. back to you. somewhere near the edge of the pool, laughing at something utahime is saying, glowing under the neon like it was made for you. your bikini hugged your tits so well he’d pop a boner if he stares too hard. the droplets run down your soft skin, as he sees you fix your necklace as you say something to your friend.
he clicks his tongue, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “you ever notice they act different sometimes?” he mutters, low enough that it doesn’t carry past the music.
nanami, sitting beside him in swim shorts, thick legs spread open for all to eye and an open button up putting his defined abs on full display, along with the sneaky patch of blonde hair peaking out of his waistband, doesn’t even look up from his phone. “that’s a very broad statement.”
sukuna exhales through his nose. “nah, like—” he pauses, frowning slightly, like he’s trying to piece a puzzle together when he doesn’t have all the pieces yet. “it’s not random.”
nanami studies him for a second, then follows his line of sight, and finds you immediately. is he starting to realize his feelings for you?— “not random how?”
sukuna tilts his head, “just… different. clingier. or—” he gestures vaguely with his drink. “more into it.”
nanami raises a brow. “into what.”
sukuna gives him a look like don’t be fucking stupid.
nanami hums, finally catching on, taking a slow sip. “you’re asking if there’s a pattern to women’s behavior.”
“i’m saying there is one,” sukuna mutters aggressively. “i just don’t know what the hell it is.”
“you know,” nanami says calmly, “they have cycles.”
there’s a beat. then sukuna leans back, jaw ticking slightly, still watching you. “yeah I fucking know that,” he mutters. “It’s annoying.”
nanami glances at him again, lost. “what is.”
sukuna doesn’t answer right away. just takes another sip, eyes narrowing faintly. “the way it’s not consistent.”
nanami huffs quietly, amused now . “if you’re starting to notice now then it is consistent.”
sukuna side-eyes him. nanami is no better than gojo or geto, he’s just more subtle about his innuendos. “I’m not noticing shit—“
nanami shrugs, setting his glass down. unaware that gojo and geto have agreed on teams.
“okay! water volleyball!” gojo’s voice cuts clean through the bass, already halfway to the pool as he grins like he’s been waiting for this all night. a cheer ripples through the patio. of course it does. a house full of athletes, half-naked, girls in bikinis, a competition handed to them on a silver platter? yeah, they’re moving before the rules are even explained.
geto stretches his arms above his head as he stands, “hey! the love of god,” he mutters, loud enough for the frat president t to hear him, “try not to break anyone’s teeth this time.”
gojo laughs, already hopping to his side of the pool because obviously he’s one of the captains. “no promises.”
sukuna’s already up, taking the second captain title and just like that — whatever train of thought he was stuck on snaps clean in half. gone. replaced with something sharper, more familiar. his shoulders roll once, loose, eyes narrowing as he sizes up the space, the people already splitting into sides. his team or gojo’s team. they’re always on opposite teams. it makes it more fun.
“don’t get in my way,” he tosses to gojo as he steps around to his end of the pool, his hand brushing his stomach as he crack his neck.
“you wish,” gojo shoots back.
people start gathering, some hanging back to watch, others eager, slipping into the water, calling out sides, laughing as they pick teams. a younger pledge scrambles to the middle, already trying to take control after geto shoves him in to the play referee, whistle in hand like this is some official match.
and of course, even as chaos takes over the yard. your eyes find him. instinctive, like something in you locks in and refuses to look anywhere else.
sukuna stands at the edge, skin still glistening under the neon, muscles flexing lazily as he stretches his arm over his head. his back, his shoulders, the deep v- line that has your eyes following down to the tuft of light hair peaking out the same one you always find yourself caressing during foreplay— it’s too much. it’s always too much, but tonight it sits heavier in your chest, lower in your stomach, something warm and insistent that doesn’t let up between your legs.
your clit throbs.
“wait—” utahime grabs your wrist, staring at you like you’ve lost your mind. “you hate this stuff.”
you don’t even look at her. “it’ll be fun,” you murmur, already pulling away. and then you’re moving. slipping from your seat on the edge of the pool and jumping in.
the water hits cool against your skin, a sharp contrast to the heat that’s been building under it. you swim to sukuna’s side, breath catching slightly as you orient yourself to the chaos around you, because normally, usually, a crowded sweaty pool was something you’d avoid, but—he’s already looking at you. your thighs press together.
his eyes are not casual, not passing, he’s looking. his gaze drops first. slow and deliberate, catching the faint mark on your neck, the one he left last night, barely visible under the colored lights. his jaw ticks. then lower, just for a second, the way your body shifts in the water, the ripple of movement as you steady yourself, the rise and fall of your breasts threatening to spill out. the water calmly rocks underneath them. then his gaze shifts back to your face, and you’re still staring at him. you’re not even trying to hide it.
something about that makes his brow twitch.
because you’re not looking away. not when he meets your eyes. not when the noise around you spikes, not when someone splashes too close. your focus stays locked, heavy, almost… expectant.
it lingers a second too long. then—
“teams set!” the pledge yells, blowing the whistle way too aggressively. “first to ten— no cheap shots—“ he glances around before catching geto lounged on the other side of the pool, some girl already pressed against his arm. “OH! no punches or choking!”
“shut up and start it,” gojo calls from the other side, already grinning, bouncing lightly in the water.
sukuna doesn’t take his eyes off you for another beat. then he exhales through his nose, turning slightly, shoulders squaring as the ball is tossed into play and he’s in the pool.
the game starts rough. the second the ball is tossed, two guys are already lunging for it. water splashing high, bodies colliding mid-air before someone spikes it hard across the pool. girls moved out of the way, squealing as huge men fight. a chorus of shouts erupts from the sidelines, music still blasting behind it, neon lights flickers over wet skin and moving bodies.
gojo, the ever responsible fraternity president, grins like a man possessed on the other side. sukuna, the very responsible vice president, is barking like a mad man.
and of course, the competitive idiots fall into rhythm with each other. fast, aggressive, locked in, and every hit gets harder, a slightly more violent. every return is sharper and people start gathering closer to the edge, phones out, recording, yelling their names like it’s a real match instead of a drunk frat game.
“c’mon, kuna!” someone shouts.
“gojo! spike that shit!”
water slaps against tile. everything is moving fast, bodies move out of the way so they’re not hit by the aggressive spikes from the frat hosts. but they still refuse to leave the pool because it’s fun, messy, loud, and heated.
and then the ball comes your way. your eyes widen, barely able to think, so you just react. your hands come up, fingers pushing against it just right, and somehow, you’re sending it up in a clean arc, right to him.
sukuna moves instantly….he jumps, sculpted body cutting through the air, arm pulling back before he slams the ball down with violent force, sending it crashing into gojo’s side of the pool.
a winning point. a cheer explodes. and when he lands, water dripping down his shoulders, he glances at you, canines on display, as his deep voice cuts through the chaos to say, “good girl.” it’s low, automatic, and it slips out without thought, just like how he’d praise you when you’re alone, and his voice is raspy as he whispers it in your ear, cock usually deep in your guts as he gives you another mean thrust that you take with pride, pussy clamping when he bottoms.
something fast, hot, and dizzying rushes through you. your chest tightens, skin buzzing as your breath stutters for a second. your thighs press together instinctively under the water, pulse kicking up in a way that feels almost overwhelming. and from that moment on, you stick to him. you try to chase the ball for him, pushing it back into his reach every chance you get, doing your best to avoid the large men playing the game. but your focus narrows, locked in on your hot fuck buddy like nothing else exists. every movement feels sharper, more urgent, your body reacting before your brain can catch up.
on the sidelines, people notice. how can they not? most of the girls “playing” cling to the perimeter. and then there’s you, being an idiot, but a very hot one, throwing yourself in the middle. your bikini clings tight from the water, fabric hugging every curve, shifting every time you jump or twist. a few guys on the edge of the pool don’t even bother pretending they’re watching the game anymore. their eyes track you instead, murmurs passing between them. someone whistles when you jump to set the ball, breasts bouncing freely in the flimsy bikini top, your nipples hard underneath as water cascades like some playboy ad.
but sukuna, is too locked into the game to notice.
the first round ends with his team winning, and the second starts almost immediately, louder than before. people are picking sides now, chanting, recording, some still dancing on the grass behind them, focused on the dj, drinks sloshing as the party refuses to slow down around the chaos of the pool’s game.
you’re still right there again when it starts. you doubt you’re even playing anymore, but you wanted to see him, watch him jump high and spike the ball. watch the ink on his back ripple with his muscles. the same defined lines that you caress at night, and hug—
your attention is so narrowed, that you don’t even notice the guy at first. bodies are moving like a blur that you don’t focus on another moving behind you. until it’s too near, too familiar for someone you don’t know. then, a hand brushes your bare side under the water, lingering just a second too long making your blood run cold.
your eyes snap wide. “what the fuck!” you twist instantly, shoving him off hard, water splashing between you as your stomach turns. only a few people notice, the rest too consumed by the game until you’re moving straight towards a certain captain.
“THAT’S A FUCKING FOUL GOJO—what the—“
your arms wrap around him from behind without hesitation, pressing into him, chest flush against his back as you cling to one familiar form. tight, and instinctive.
it catches him off guard, just for a second. his body tenses slightly under your grip. his muscular arms lift, head turning halfway to see, “who the fuck—“ grabbed him in the middle of game! but then he sees you. and his eyes glance down at your familiar hands holding his chest. your name slips out of his lips, confused what you’re doing, but then the ball’s already back in play. and somehow he keeps going.
even with you wrapped around him, weight clinging to his back, he still moves, still blocks, still lands a hit that sends the ball flying back over the net. it’s messy now, uneven, but he’s too competitive to stop, jaw tight, focus split but still sharp. water splashes everywhere. people are yelling. gojo laughs from the other side. “what the hell is that— you got a handicap now?”
sukuna clicks his tongue, annoyed, shifting slightly to keep his balance with you still latched onto him. you don’t let go. not once. “you drunk?” he tries to talk to you mid-game.
“yeah,” you mutter over the music. but as more people fill the pool, and the third round feels much more chaotic, sukuna begins to notice. your grip tightens every time someone gets too close, every time someone accidentally touches you, every time your head spins just a little from the alcohol and the heat and everything. your cheek presses against his back, breath uneven, body still buzzing in a way you don’t fully understand, other than the fact that you can feel how hot it is between your legs. he smells so good…
the game drags on— until finally— gojo’s team takes the last point. a loud cheer erupts from his side, people splashing into the pool, celebrating, phones still up capturing everything.“told you,” gojo grins, pushing his wet snowy hair back, muscles flexing for the cameras as he sticks his tongue out.
sukuna exhales sharply through his nose, annoyed, shoulders tense— he doesn’t shake you off. but unfortunately, he doesn’t get the chance.
you’re suddenly ripped away.
“wha—! what the fuck!” you yelp as a pair of hands grab you from underneath, a drunk junior dunking under the water before popping up with you lifted high onto his shoulders. just for the crowd to erupt.
“OH SHIT— chicken fight!”
“LET’S GO!”
“get her, get her!” other guys in the pool dunk under and lift a few laughing girls up. but you’re not one of them. your thighs clamp instinctively around the stranger’s head just to keep from slipping, heart racing, balance completely shot as water drips down your legs and chest. your hands fly to his hair, trying to steady yourself, panic flashing across your face. you didn’t agree to this. your eyes lock with sukuna immediately. wide. confused. he’s not your boyfriend— but he’s still…
something in him snaps. he straightens, fast. too fast. the playful edge from seconds ago gone completely, replaced with something sharp and violent, jaw tightening as his eyes drag over the way the guy’s hands are gripping your thighs— and the whistles from the crowd don’t help, especially when your hand reaches to adjust the way your bikini top had shifted.
“damn!”
sukuna’s fist curls. “get your fucking hands off her,” he bites out, already moving forward through the water, splashing hard as he closes the distance.
the guy just laughs, drunk, clueless and not listening. “relax, man, it’s just a chicken fight. ever heard of those?”
he doesn’t get to finish. sukuna’s already pulling his arm back, when you squeak.
“wait—!” you gasp, trying to shift your weight, panic spiking as the situation spirals way too fast—but before anything can land another pair of bodies crash into you. a second drunk chicken fight slams into your side, bodies colliding, completely losing balance. and then everything goes under. water rushes over your head in a blur of limbs and noise, the guy beneath you losing his footing as you both go down. you barely have time to register it before a hand grabs you. hard.
sukuna’s arm wraps tight around your waist, yanking you up and out of the water in one sharp motion. you cough, sputtering slightly, fingers clutching onto him as he steadies you against his side. he doesn’t even look at you at first. he’s glaring past you.
“what the fuck is wrong with you?!” he snaps, voice low and dangerous, water dripping from his hair as he stares down the guy who just broke the surface, coughing. “you fucking grab girls without permission and I’m fucking snapping your arm in half!”
the junior lifts his hands, half-laughing, half-defensive. “yo, chill— it’s just a game—”
“i said don’t touch her,” sukuna cuts in, sharper this time, stepping forward like he’s ready to swing anyway.
the energy shifts instantly. people nearby start stepping in, hands coming up.
“aye, chill, chill—” one tries to come between them. sukuna doesn’t even notice that you’d managed to slip from his grip, still coughing as you swim to the steps of the pool, heart pounding as utahime, having seen the entire interaction helps you out.
“you okay?” she sits in front of you on the edge handing you water.
you nod, chugging half the bottle, before breathing again, “swallowed like…” you gag, “a disgusting amount of that pool water.” utahime cringes as she glances at the pool. the interaction growing even more heated, as a crowd watches sukuna curse out the junior.
“anyone else fucking grab a girl without her permission is getting fucking banned from this frat permanently!” sukuna shouts. murmurs break out across the crowd, a few glance towards you, as utahime notices, but you’re too busy washing your mouth out to care.
gojo’s aloof attitude steps in after coming back with a sweet juice in hand. “okay, okay, we’re clear on consent aren’t we guys?”
people hum, cheering for the games to continue. but then…
“didn’t know she was your girlfriend.”
it lands this time, cutting through the noise and sticking just long enough for a few whistles and low laughs to ripple through the crowd. the kind of comment meant to poke, to stir, to see what the hot headed vp will do with it. but what’s worse is that a majority of the crowd has no clue what your relationship is with sukuna. aside from the frat members.
sukuna doesn’t even look at him, and he doesn’t correct it. it’s not because he wants to claim you. not because it’s true. but because it’s annoying—because explaining it, denying it, entertaining it at all feels like more effort than it’s worth. he’s your fuck buddy, he knows that, you know that, and thats all. his jaw tightens once, eyes already elsewhere, done with the conversation before it can grow legs because then he’ll really break his fucking arm.
the party moves on like it always does. music swells back up, as gojo and geto thank the heavens that sukuna was in a good mood before the argument that he wasn’t tempered to continue the fight. luckily the drinks are raised again. gojo’s already laughing, pulling attention away, and just like that the moment dissolves into noise.
sukuna’s focus shifts and lands on you.
you’re still on the edge of the pool, legs dangling in the water, skin slick and glowing under the neon lights. your bikini clings tighter now, nipples pebbled under your soaked top, every curve on display, highlighted by the shadows of the lights above. it makes it impossible not to look. droplets trail down your thighs, catching the light as you tilt your head back slightly, still rinsing your mouth out, brows furrowed in clear disgust.
utahime sits in front of you, just as eye-catching to the hungry men around, her own bikini hugging her frame, water beading along her collarbones as she watches you with a mix of concern and amusement.
and people are staring. not subtle glances—staring like you’re something to watch. something to linger on. like the game earlier just shifted into something else entirely and now you’re part of it without agreeing. no wonder you hate these parties.
it irritates him, fast.
sukuna clicks his tongue under his breath and pushes forward through the water, tall enough that even standing in the pool, he closes the height between you easily. the neon catches on his skin too. his broad shoulders still damp, muscles flexing as he moves, water sliding down his torso in slow lines. he’s not unaware of the way people look at him either—girls nearby pausing mid-conversation, eyes dragging over him openly—but he doesn’t care. not right now. not when he reaches you.
his hand comes up without hesitation, settling on your exposed thigh where it hangs over the edge of the pool. his palm is warm even against your wet skin, fingers spreading slightly, firm enough to ground, possessive. the contact is immediate. deliberate.
the shift is noticeable. a couple of those lingering stares drop off instantly. only then does he look at you. his gaze flicks over your face, still a little flushed, still catching your breath, before settling. his gaze is steady, assessing the way your glossy lips part with an exhale after chugging an entire bottle of watet.
“you good?” he asks, voice lower now, rougher around the edges from the leftover tension. his thumb moves slightly against your skin without thinking, a small, absent motion that doesn’t match the sharpness in his expression.
utahime has to hold back an eye roll, especially when his gaze flicks over your face, then your lips. unbelievable. what’s with him? what’s stopping him from asking you out if he gets so hot headed and possessive—ughhh…utahime holds back her anger, because she was pissed when someone suddenly grabbed you and then had you dunked in the water. why does sukuna have to be so fucking weird though?! she internally curses out sukuan for being the person that always protects her best friend, but acts like a complete jerk another second.
“how much sweat did you drink?” sukuna asks, tone laced with amusement .
your eyes snap, face grimacing, “shut the fuck—up,” you gag again, hand coming up to your mouth just for utahime to snort and sukuna to bark with laughter.
“did i tell ya why we had to drain the pool last year—“ sukuna starts, utahime’s eyes widen.
“oh my god I remember!”
your face pales, nails digging into sukuna’s shoulder while the other still covers your mouth. “don’t you dare tell me.”
sukuna grimaces with an amused expression remembering what happened at last years pool party. but distracting you has somehow managed to isolate everything else around him and have his sole focus on the way you wipe your mouth with a napkin utahime — and now nanami and geto at her side — comes back with, and the way your fingers shift from his shoulder to his forearm resting across your damp lap. and the conversation flows afterwards.
gojo was still on the dance floor, completely in his own world, some girl is pressed to his side as neon lights strobe over him laughing, loud, untouchable in the way he always is. meanwhile, the edge of the pool has settled into something more intimate and funny. the conversations around overlap as you all joke loudly and throwing around slight bickering, cooling off from the chaos, but still very much alive.
and with all that, you hadn’t left. even after everything, you’re still sitting where you are, leg still dipped in the water, skin dewy under the lights, bikini keeping your pretty tits in view for a certain salmon haired man. your hair is slightly damp, pushed back from your face, exposing the curve of your neck—the faint mark sukuna left the night before still visible if someone looks close enough. and you smell heavenly. fuck if you’re alone, he’d bury his nose closer to your breasts to smell the sweat clinging.
but people are looking. they always are now.
they just don’t linger as long anymore. not with him there. sukuna leans into the edge of the pool, upper body braced beside you, his arm draped behind your back like it naturally falls there. his other hand rests lazily against your thigh, fingers tapping absently against your skin as he takes a sip from his beer. his shoulders are broad, still slick with water, veins visible along his arms as they flex with every small movement.
he looks just as much of a problem as ever. and the attention doesn’t stop, girls nearby still steal glances, whispers, watching the way he’s positioned so close to you, the way his hand hasn’t moved from your leg once. but what’s more interesting, is that you don’t move either.
you don’t push him off, don’t shift away. if anything, you lean just slightly into his space, your fingers absentmindedly tracing along his forearm where it rests across your lap, like it’s second nature. you like it there.
and sukuna notices. of course he does, with how touchy and clingy you’ve been these past few days. yes, he’s shocked you haven’t left, or haven’t asked him to go upstairs with you. instead you’re being so uncharacteristically attached.
his gaze flicks down for a second, watching the way your fingers move against his skin, something unreadable passing through his expression before he looks away again, taking another sip like it didn’t just register. his stomach churns when you lean forward slapping nanami’s stretched out hand after he said something funny.
“why the fuck are you guys sitting here?” gojo’s voice cuts in suddenly, dripping with disbelief as he approaches, hair damp, grin lazy. he looks down at your little group, then at the pool like it personally offended him. “this is embarrassing.”
utahime snorts. “she almost drowned, idiot.”
“she’s alive,” gojo shrugs immediately, already grabbing a drink from someone nearby. “get in the hot tub. it’s waaaay better!”
a couple girls attached to him nod eagerly, already following his lead as he starts heading that way without waiting for an answer. utahime glances at you. “you wanna stay out or…?”
you don’t even hesitate as you hum, soft. “yeah, why not.”
sukuna catches it.
the group starts moving, the energy shifting with them as they make their way toward the hot tub. somewhere along the path, nanami and utahime get pulled into another conversation, stopping off to the side, leaving you and sukuna to keep going without them. your skin burns as sukuna keeps a subtle hand in your lower back, biting his lip when you reach the hot tub and you step in front of him. his gaze drops to the movement of your ass, your bikini was so skimpy it’s definitely clinging on to your pussy lips too. fuck,
by the time you step into the hot tub, the heat hits instantly. you sigh without meaning to, tension melting from your shoulders as the warmth wraps around you, soaking into your skin. your body relaxes almost immediately, the contrast from the cooler pool making everything feel heavier, slower.
sukuna steps in right after you. and immediately shoves two guys aside with a sharp nudge of his shoulder. “move.”
they do quickly without argument, clearly frat members. he settles in beside you, close again, like earlier, like he didn’t just create that space for you.
gojo drops in for half a second, splashing water everywhere before grimacing. “it’s too hot,” he complains, already climbing back out. “i need another drink.”
and just like that, he’s gone again. leaving you, sukuna, and the rest of the group laughing, talking. the conversation easy as the night keeps rolling around you. especially when geto comes back with some girls and red solo cups for beer pong.
“don’t spill any in the hot tub!” sukuna barks as the girls organize the cups in place on the edge. geto slides into the pool with the ping pong balls.
“shh shh i know,” he zips his friend up as he takes aim. and as the party is brought back to the hot tub, you’re all swept up again. and your eyes are following every movement of your friend beside you. the way he’s shouting and laughing with his frat brothers, the conversations turning to fog when sukuna flexes his large bicep, the ink that wraps around it highlights how big they are. you can’t even recall the context of this sudden flex off, but you’re not complaining.
you watch his throat bop as he throws back another cup of beer, standing beside geto. your eyes trail over his sculpted chest. you suck in your bottom lip as sukuna falls back beside you. his arm draped behind you along the edge of the hot tub, barking another laugh at some crap geto is spewing, completely distracted.
“I swear TO GOD, you told me to go for that dive!” geto throws his hands up, flabbergasted.
“nah nah nah—“ sukuna shouts over, shaking his head with an amused expression, “I told you—“
“nah—satoru!!” geto looks over his shoulder, waving down the president. “SATORU!”
gojo’s head whips around. however, the debate is the furthest thing from your mind, honestly you can’t even understand what these idiots are talking about. but— there’s one idiot that smells heavenly.
sukuna distracted, doesn’t notice how much closer you’re pressed to him, how your lashes flutter at the mix of cologne and chlorine flooding your nose, and dizzying your mind. he’s so—uh..when men— your brain is short circuiting. literally. mind so consumed by how big and strong this man beside is, that all you can think about is how he protected you. he pulled you out of the water. snapped at that guy…for you.
you’re not normally this moved. but it was the series of events that unfolded, all in the last few hours, that has you doing what you do next.
“please! you know i did not agree to that!” geto tsks, pointing his finger at gojo who’s laughing, sitting at the edge of the hot tub, legs in. and the two — along with the rest of the group involved in the debate — are distracted, and unaware of the fact that the pretty girl that sukuna almost started a fight over, is slipping her pretty hand inside his swim shorts.
sukuna tenses. breath hitching.
his eyes snap to you, stomach clenching. “what’re you—“ he chokes when you squeeze his thick base without warning. your cheek casually presses against his shoulder, wetting your bottom lip. your leg is tucked against his side, as the other swings over his knee, pretty tits squished against his arm. your wrist rolls, stroking his flaccid cock alive.
“ryo…” you speak low enough so that only sukuna can hear. “was jus’ thinking about you.” his jaw tenses, hand clenching at the edge of the tub, leaning his head down.
“you’re the one that doesn’t like this shit,” he husks, throat bopping as you bat your lashes up at him, bitting your lip as you give his cock another squeeze, pushing your wet tits against his arm. “there’s people—“
“then be normal, ryo,” you say, all while nuzzling him like a clingy g— “just wanted to feel how big you are.”
his heads tips back, what’re you even saying?
you keep your cheek pressed against his shoulder, lip tucked between your teeth as you stroke the vp’s fat throbbing cock in the middle of a party and in a hot tub full of his close frat friends.
it wasn’t difficult for his dick to fully harden within seconds of your hand making contact. you let out a soft exhale, pressing your practically naked body against him like you could get any closer than you already are. but to make matters worse, he was so unbelievably turned on that you were touching him in public! fuuck, his stomach flexes, biting back a groan when your thumb swipes his bulbous tip, the water made it difficult for you to keep a fast pace stroke, but his skin was still prickling with heat.
“ryo, is this okay?” you softly pant in his ear, a hum like moan escapes your lips just by the way he exhales through his nose, turning his head to you, aroma engulfing you.
to anyone else it just looked like you were having a private conversation with each other. the hot tub and pool, a few feet away, booming with chaos, no one was paying attention to you guys. but even with all that information, sukuna — who spreads his legs further apart in the water, biting his lip when you kiss his neck now, sucking a light bruise on his flushed skin — knows that you’d never do this. you get touchy when you’re drunk, whispering dirty shit in his ear. but you’ve only had a couple drinks to make you tipsy enough to enjoy the party and remember, not black out drunk to jerk him off in public.
“yeah—it’s okay,” his head drops forward, hot red flush crawling up his neck and stinging his cheeks as he nudges your head with his.
“yeah?” you repeat with a coo.
he bites back a pathetic groan, arm sliding to your waist under the water, gripping your flesh like his life depends on it. you’re intoxicating.
“yeah baby.”
a flush of heat runs between your legs at his deep bedroom voice. sukuna is so hot, he’s so hot, so pretty, so sexy! you squeal internally, leaning closer to press your lips against his sharp jaw, whining just low enough for him to hear. your wrist twists down his cock. you hadn’t even full realized that you’d taken him out of his swim trucks, to possessed to care as his fingers dig into your waist, while the other balls into a fist against the tube’s edge.
“are you close, ryo? is your big cock gonna cum?”
unbelievable.
sukuna’s jaw tenses, abs tightening just by your voice. you’ve been hanging up on how big he is. how big his hands are. how big his dick is — scratch that, you’re using the word cock now. yeah he’s gonna fuckin’ cum soon if you keep talkin’ like that.
“there’s so many people around ry,” you shy quietly, “you don’t think they know I’m playing with you?” your slightly tipsy eyes bat up at him, pupils completely dilated. his eyes briefly sweep around him, the alarms flashing in his mind don’t seem to phase him as he drops his lips down to brush yours.
“what if they are aware?” he husks, lidded eyes boring into yours. “does that make y’r pussy wet?” he wets his lip, thighs flexing when you give his cock a squeeze as he speaks. “ya like knowing that there’s eyes everywhere…watching your slutty self jerk me off.”
your brain short circuits. face burning hot.
“I’m not a slut,” you whisper, just as you’re practically straddling his thigh now, with the way you’re inching closer to him every second. his hand slides from your waist to your ass, gripping the flesh as he pulls it apart letting you feel the warm tube water touch your heated pussy.
“you’re gettin on top of me—“
“to protect your dignity,” you attempt a frown, but your eyes keep flicking to his lips, brushing your lips against them again, just for him to pull back, again.
“didn’t take you as someone so generous,” he quips, hips angling up, subtly telling you to keep stroking him, even if it’s starting to feel like edging. “but,” he bites back another groan, “but to me, ya just look like another slut that wants to get her little pussy stuffed.”
you blink. once.
sukuna can see the lust burst behind your eyes. your thighs clamp around his beefy thigh, your hand squeezing his tip, and your lips parting. “is that so bad?”
ah fuck.
“you can’t say those words to a man,” sukuna’s rasps.
you pout, pressing your wet breasts against his chest, trapping his cock between your bodies. your hot breath fans against his face, scent invading his mind, and your lips brush against his, this time licking his bottom lip. once. twice. your tongue strokes his bottom lip, waiting for him to invite you in, whining a little louder when he refuses. “ryo.”
his large palms grip your ass. your flimsy bikini could easily be pulled to the side, exposing you just like him. your cheeks flush, arching even more, your arms are tossed around his broad shoulder, fingers tangling in the hair at his nape, desperate. needy. “I’ve been holding myself back ryo,” you quietly speak, unaware how much like déjà vu this feels. memories of last month flashing in his mind about those exact words coming from your lips as you climbed into his lap in the middle of a party. “you have to take care of it.”
“i have too?” he quips with a sharp edge in his tone.
your flush with embarrassment, lips parting as your lashes flutter shut, “please…please can you take care of it.”
unbelievable.
his cock twitches violently against your stomach. his muscular thigh flexes under your pussy making your lips part.
as you and sukuna speak in hushed whispers. a good group of people have take notice of the awkward shifting in the hot tub and the unrecognizable look on sukuna’s face. but specifically the girl that the sukuna let attach herself to him during a violently competitive water volleyball match and almost pick a fight with. he’s smirking as she whispers in his ear, her lips even pressing his lobe, making the intimidating vice president blush?!
“her tits are all over him,” one whispers, taking a sip as they watch from a distance, both sitting at the pools edge watching the events unfold a few feet’s away in the hot tub. it’s not obvious unless you’re staring as hard as these guys, or if you’re a certain man laughing as you stand up at the edge of the tub, face dropping for a millisecond when you catch your vice president getting off by a hot girl.
fucking animals, geto shakes his head, eyes flicking to gojo, easily communicating with him about you know.
gojo’s brows pinch glancing over from his seat at the edge of the tub, to— “oh shit!”
geto elbows him. “idiot!”
gojo’s hands fly to his mouth, laughing hysterically as he stares at the way his short tempered friend is blushing like crazy, and making it obvious to anyone that he’s getting his dick touched right now. “do they know what they’re doing?” gojo speaks in hushed whispers.
“obviously,” geto sits beside gojo, the tub water doesn’t seem to be appealing anymore. and yet there’s still a few people on the sides laughing, too drunk to notice.
“fucking pervs,” gojo snickers.
a beat passes.
then gojo turns, eyes wide when he sees geto staring blankly at him. “what?”
“you’re worse!” geto slaps him upside the head. gojo gasps in shock. “I can’t even remember how many times you fucked someone in here and in the pool—“
“hey,” gojo frowns, cheeks flushed from the alcohol. “that was…b-because they were hot.”
geto scoffs, “you weren’t even subtle about them, everybody knew you were fucking them. YOU’RE the biggest perv.”
gojo nods, “yeah…”
your whine flows directly into sukuna’s ear, lips coming back to his. “why won’t you kiss me?” you quietly demand.
his dimples press into his cheeks as he bites back a smirk. “we’re jus’ talking,” he says your name, but in that deep way he does when he’s stuffing you with his cock…which he’s not.
you sit up closer, sliding higher up his thigh, knee rubbing harshly against his cock — “ah!” you squeal suddenly straddling his lap instead of his thigh. his red irises sink into yours, watching the way your glossy lips part glancing at the surface of the hot tub trying to make out how close his cock is to where you need him. “you’re hard ryo.”
“and?”
your eyes flick up to him, pretty brows pressing together, “and we’re not jus’ talking—“
“y’know—“ he suddenly chokes.
you’ve moved your bikini to the side, and pushed his cock down, fully sitting on his cock and sliding across it, hips shaking, stimulating your needy clit.
your name cuts through the air, his grip moves to grab your hips, trying to keep you still, but his body betrays him as he bucks against you. “fuck, woman.”
your lips press against sukuna, whining like a desperate slut when he finally kisses you back. and this was why he didn’t want to entertain you this quickly. the sweet taste of your lips immediately sends a rush of heat down to his cock, his arm wraps around your back, holding the back of your head as the other grips your ass, groaning as your lips smack in wet hungry kisses. your tongues collide, spit collecting in your mouth as he groans in response.
sukuna has to be responsible. he has too. but you’re such a fucking slut— touching his cock, stroking him in public, rubbing your body (his biggest weakness) against him like you’re alone together. and now you’re humping his cock like you can feel something with the water’s friction.
all of it was a factor, and for some unexplainable reason, all the dots seemed to have connected at this exact moment—like a huge light bulb going off in his head.
“shit.”
you hum at the way his deep voice sends a warm heat blooming in your stomach. “are you turned on, ryo?” your lips purse, kissing his, unaware of the sudden realization he’s come too. “keep kissing me.”
your fingers thread through his short locks, gripping him as you keep his lips moving yours.
but sukuna’s palm splays across your spine, groaning at the way you don’t stop to catch your breath. then his grip tightens. his mouth drags slower this time, more deliberate. he’s testing something, and the way you react—how quick you melt back into him, how your nails press into his shoulders like you’re holding on and the pitched whine that leaves your lips when he tries to pull away.
“how bad d’you need me?” he murmurs, voice low, rough, right against your pretty lips.
you don’t hesitate. “so bad,” you breathe, almost frustrated, because it’s obvious.
his eyes flick over your face, searching, calculating—then narrowing slightly. “yeah?” he hums, thumb pressing into your waist, grounding you as you shift again, his cock snug between your folds. “why,” he asks, tone not soft or gentle, but testing.
you shake your head slightly, breath catching, fingers tightening on him. “because— i just—” you exhale sharply, frustrated, needy, “i just want you to touch me.”
that’s all he needs. a quiet, almost amused exhale leaves him, something darker settling behind his eyes now. nanami’s little comment about “noticing now” makes his stomach churn uncomfortably. it doesn’t mean anything that you’ve had this friend with benefits deal long enough for him to start noticing a pattern every month. especially when this part of the cycle comes around and you’re practically begging him to just touch you. he highly doubts that you even notice it.
“been like this all night,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, but his grip doesn’t loosen. if anything, it gets firmer. “can’t keep your hands off me, huh?”
you don’t even deny it. you just pull him back in. and this time he lets you. let’s you kiss him like it’s your last time, let’s you tug his hair like he belongs to you. let’s you pull away… you’re panting at him through glossy, lidded eyes.
and then sukuna notices.
the shift.
your breathing breaks. shallow and uneven. you can’t quite catch it as your lips part, soft, glossy, letting out these higher, breathier sounds that you’re not even trying to hold back anymore. it’s quieter than the music, but he hears it. feels it.
his grip tightens instinctively.
your hips are moving without any rhythm now. they’re slow, needy, desperate. your body chasing something it can’t reach fast enough. your fingers press into his lower stomach, clutching there like you need something solid to hold onto, your head tipping forward, lashes fluttering like a fucking angel. and your mouth falls open. a soft, pitched sound slips out of you—one you don’t even seem aware of—and it’s enough to make something dark flicker across his expression.
“…fuck,” he mutters under his breath, eyes locked on your face now, watching every little change his cock twitching uncontrollably.
your brows pinch, then your body tenses, then softens, like a wave hitting and pulling back all at once. your grip on him tightens, thighs pressing in, grounding yourself on his cock without even thinking about it.
and he doesn’t move. doesn’t interrupt it. he just watches. because now he knows. and all he can think is how unbelievably hot you look in his eyes—like something wired wrong in his brain just flipped on. women that are ovulating mean they’re more likely to get pregnant. fuck. why is his brain latching onto that part? you’re his fuck buddy. this is simple. it is simple. it’s perfectly reasonable—completely normal, even—for him to get turned on thinking about how much you cling to him, how much you crave him, how much you need him, how your body reacts to him like this. that doesn’t mean he wants to get you—
absolutely the fuck not.
but still…fucking women. you’re insane. his brain is short circuiting while you’re coming undone on his lap, in a hot tub, in the middle of a packed party.
and the way you’re panting, your breasts pushed together as you keep a hand on his lower abs, pussy spasming as your orgasm rocks through you, has something low and satisfied settling in your fuck buddy’s chest. his hand slides up your back again, slower this time, more deliberate.
“yeah…” he murmurs, almost to himself, thumb pressing lightly into your side as your breathing tries to steady. “that’s what i thought.”
his lips ghost over you.
then he feels it…the eyes.
his dark gaze flicks up. meeting the dilated blue and black ones, along with the others in the crowd. they all saw, didn’t they. witnessed something that had his jaw tightening and his pupils returning to their size.
“fuck me,” you pant quietly, arms lazily coming back to his shoulders coming down from your climax. you kiss him deeply, unaware of the mess you’re causing inside his brain. “I’ve heard people say hot tub’s make you orgasm better,” you lick his tongue, “because of the hot water.”
his grip tightens around you, eyes open and staring past you at the people eyeing the arch in your back as you make out with him like you didn’t just hump yourself to an orgasm in public.
“do you wanna cum too ryo?” your mischievous smile would’ve made any man buckle, but sukuna wasn’t any man. and he sure as shit isn’t a fucking cuck.
“no.”
his sudden tone shift had you pulling back, wet hand touching his damp cheek. sukuna’s thick brows were pulled tightly, clearly angry, at what? you’re not sure. but you’re too lax to think much of it as you squish his cheeks between your fingers. his tatted arm possessively hugged you, eyes briefly leaving the not so subtle audience behind you, to meet your glass eyes.
“you mad I came before you?” you tease, head tilting in mockery. cute. “it’s okay, I’ll make ya cum,” you whisper, smile gracing those sinful lips of yours. “I’ll let you choose too…”
you shrug biting your lip, batting your pretty lashes at him. “you always call it that. I’m just using your vocabulary, mister suh…ku…nuh.”
that was his final straw, because in a blink of an eye, sukuna’s tucking himself and pushing off the tub’s seat, standing up. water cascades down the sharp planes of his abs, his swim trunks clinging low on his hips—leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination.
and people notice.
of course they do.
your jaw drops for half a second, eyes going wide before heat floods your face so fast it burns. you shoot up right after him, fist clenching at your side, brows pinching tight. “what’re you doing?”
“we’re going upstairs,” he says simply, like there aren’t a million eyes on him, more specifically on his thick bulge. girls are openly staring now, not even trying to hide it as their gazes drag over him, over the obvious outline pressing against his trunks.
your stomach twists. uncomfortable. sharp. ugly. you don’t name it. you won’t name it because it’s stupid. you have no claim, no say, no right to feel any type of way about who looks at him or how they look at it. but still, your jaw tightens because the way they’re staring is making your blood boil and it’s like they’re in on something they’re not supposed to be. they’re looking at something that has nothing to do with them and everything to do with you. just you.
your eyes flick back to him, to the way the water trails down his body, down the dark wet hairs of his happy trail. the way he stands there like he doesn’t give a single fuck about the attention. and it only makes it worse. he looks like he’s been carved out of stone. something untouchable. and everyone’s fucking touching him with their eyes.
your lips press into a thin line, pulse uneven, heat sitting low in your stomach now for an entirely different reason as you step closer to him without even realizing it, hand settling on his stomach blocking the view from the onlookers. your fingers twitch. and you hate…hate how much it bothers you.
“you’re hard,” you huff, pushing him to step out of the tub, heart beating uncontrollably.
sukuna snorts, leaning down, “yeah no shit.”
“people are staring,” you grit.
your pulse stops. the air shifting around you, then you feel it. sukuna’s eyes bore into you, as his palm cups the side of your neck. your lips part in confusion when his gruff voice cuts.
“they’ve been staring.” the muscles on his jaw flex, pupils moving over your face as his gaze drops to your body. “they all…” his words trail off. he can’t say it…he can’t tell you they all fucking saw you cum, or the way your entire form looked like something straight out of every guys wet fantasy. all because of that unspoken tug that twists in his chest as you look up at him.
his head tips back in defeat.
unaware of the turmoil, you continue pushing him back, glancing briefly over your shoulder to see a few eyes not on the party but staring at sukuna.
“can you walk faster,” you mutter.
sukuna suddenly grabs your wrist after another push backwards, almost making him trip. his grip is firm and fast, yanking you back toward him before you can take another step, your body colliding lightly into his chest. water still drips from both of you, heat clashing with the cool night air as he steadies himself, jaw tightening for a second.
“watch it,” he mutters, low, though there’s no real bite to it. if anything, there’s something else there. his hand doesn’t leave your wrist. instead, it slides up, fingers curling tighter as he pulls you closer. closer. until there’s barely any space left between you. you barely get a word out before he leans down and kisses you.
hard.
it’s sudden. messy. all teeth and heat, like he’s cutting off whatever rush of thoughts were building in your head. your hands come up instinctively, gripping into his shoulders as he angles you just right, one hand now firm at your waist to keep you there. your lips part, immediately tasting his skilled tongue.
and around you, the party doesn’t stop. it never does when it’s grown this chaotic. but there are pockets, small ones, where people notice. gojo, still leaning back against the hot tub’s edge, lets out a low laugh. “zero awareness,” he mutters, clearly entertained. geto just shakes his head, amused, watching the scene unfold like it’s expected. neither of them have the energy tonight to call their friend out, but they’ll be sure to give him shit tomorrow.
but off to the side, a couple girls lean into each other, whispering behind their solo cups, eyes flicking between sukuna and the very obvious situation he’s not bothering to hide. further back, a few of the same guys from earlier in the pool linger, their stares a little too heavy, a little too interested, but sukuna doesn’t register it.
he’s too focused on you. too focused on the way you kiss him back just as hard. how you’re still letting out those fucking whines and moans into his hot mouth. too focused on how quickly you fold into him like he’s the oxygen keeping you alive. to him, this urgency and impatience, just reads as one thing. you want him so bad.
he pulls back just enough to breathe, lips still brushing yours, his gaze dropping to your face, slightly dazed, flushed, and lips parted from the kiss.
“…yeah,” he exhales, almost amused, thumb pressing into your waist like he’s grounding himself. “you taste so good.”
your fingers tighten around his bicep, the other around his shoulder, breath uneven as you blink up at him, still catching up.
“can we—” you swallow, then try again, quieter but more urgent, “can we go upstairs now?”
there’s a beat. then his hand slides down to yours again, grip tightening as he turns, already moving toward the house without another word—pulling you with him. he pushes straight through the noise that follows inside, the lights, the bodies still dancing in the kitchen like nothing. all the way up to his room, and immediately kicking the door shut.
and within a blink of an eye, your tongue is lolling out as sukuna sits behind you, fingers digging into your ass and face buried from behind.
“fuh—fuck yeah,” you drawl, lips wet at the feel of sukuna’s tongue dragging inside your pussy, lapping up and toying with your rim before going back to suck your slick juices. “c’mon ry, haah…” you’re pushing his head back, so you can sit up. you move to tug his wet trunks off, crawling onto his lap once he discards them. unbothered by the tick in his jaw at your stubbornness, because in seconds, your head is tossed back, and your back is arching as you sink down on the nine thick fat inches. “a….ah—“
your lashes flutter, eyes rolling back at the unbelievable stretch. your pussy swallowing every inch like the slut he loves.
“there ya go,” he praises, fingers digging into your ass as you stare at his lips. his sharp teeth sink into his bottom lip as your slick lubricates his cock. your pussy a generous fountain as you roll your hips, letting his cock stuff deep inside you. “take this fuckin’ cock like a good bitch.”
“ry…haah…” you’re moaning in choked gasps, drool peaking at the corner of your lips as you finally sit back on his thighs.
the man’s pupils dilate as you stroke your lower stomach, feeling the bulge as you bat your lashes up at him. “you’re inside me now, ryo.”
fuck you. seriously.
his brain short circuits in seconds. and now all he sees is you.
his body reacts like a dog with his master. obeying your needs like he’s wired to do that. and he’s not complaining. his hand falls on your ass, beefy thighs spreading, as he meets your bounces with rough snaps of his hips. your ass claps against his thighs with each bounce, gasps piercing the air as he fucks up into you with full force. and you let him.
“look like a fuckin’ porn star on top of me,” he grunts, swallowing a moan when you clamp around him, finger tugging on the knot around your neck letting your bikini finally fall off, freeing your gorgeous tits. “fucking brat—“
his tongue falls out, licking your tit that bounces in his face, lips wrapping around your nipple and sucking desperately. and he’s not nice about it. because now he knows. he knows you’ll let him. knows when you’re ovulating you’ll let him be a little harder, meaner, because it feels good. it feels good to feel his teeth bite down on your nipple possessively. it feels good when he spanks your ass for the nth time until your eyes are rimmed red and flooding with tears.
it feels good to have him obsessed with you, because all you’re begging for is…
“cu—uh—cum.”
an electric current runs down his spine, jaw clenching and head tipping back, flooding your tight pussy with his thick load.
“shit—nghhh fuuuck—fuck baby,” he’s gripping your hips as you press against his stomach, rocking on his cock. he doesn’t fully realize his back is laying against the bed. not when you’re milking his cock like he’s some fucking cow…and yet… “shit keep goin, baby—yeah ya want m-Mmm shit.”
“feel so good ryo.” you shake your ass, feeling his cock twitch inside you when his arm wraps around you, tugging you down to his chest.
“you can keep going?”
you smile, hand touching his cheek, as your tongue strokes his bottom lip. “yeah.” you sigh, whining so softly he would’ve missed it. and you continue like that, kissing him over and over, sighing and calling his name as he pulls out, his fingers push inside your pussy from behind.
“y’r killing me with this tight pretty pussy,” he coos, sending a wave of heat through your veins.
you mewl against his lips, earning a mean spank to your ass, just for his middle and ring finger to slip back inside you. and he does that for god knows how long, until you finally spasm around his digits. he’s then flipping you over, easily getting on top.
“keep em open cmon.” his low voice has your pussy pulsing, pushing his previous load out right in front of his eyes. he must know his voice’s affects on you.
you hold your legs open, bottom lip between your teeth as you watch sukuna stroke his member over you. the room smells of chlorine, you, and him. “theere we go,” he groans, palm pressing against your knee as he kneels closer to your open legs, dilated pupils staring at the mess between your legs as he slaps his hard cock on your puffy pussy. “what a dirty fuckin’ girl,” he drags his cock between your slippery folds, exhaling through his nose when his engorged tip catches your sore clit.
“ryoomen,” you call softly, like you haven’t been all over him these last two days.
he snorts, “what happened to mister sukuna? don’t tell me you’ forgot how you humped yourself to an orgasm in the pool—“
“hot tub.”
“my bad,” he remarks sarcastically, tip pushing inside then pulling out again, teasing. “still rubbed this pussy raw, look,” he slaps his cock again, thumb rubbing your little bundle of nerves making you let go of your legs— “ah—keep em open.” he spanks the inside of your thigh. “dirty girls need to be taught a lesson.”
“please,” you scoff, sitting up on your elbows, “you were literally slapping everyone around with your hard dick.”
sukuna barks out a laugh. “my dick’s that big?”
you glance down at him, then back up. “I wasn’t being dirty. you were dirty too.”
“me?” he’s baffled, you’ve been throwing yourself at him all night!
you raise a brow at him, relaxing back on the pillows pressed against the headboard, eyeing him. “you never took your hands off me.”
sukuna scoffs, “as if, you latched onto me on the pool.”
“then i went to hime to wash my mouth out, and you—“ you point at him with emphasis, “came swimming to me, touching me, stroking my thigh, my back.” your brow quirks again, and sukuna goes mute. his jaw ticks, glancing over your face as your calf subtly hooks over his thigh, stroking up as your hands lay on your stomach, waiting.
“you…” he licks the back of his teeth, sharp eyes threatening, but… “so what if I had my hands on you?” oh, he admits it. your cheeks sting, wetting your lip as you shrug.
“well,” you tilt your head again, slightly embarrassed now, glancing down at his inked chest. “like…you can’t blame me for getting turned on then.”
“because I’m touching you?”
you nod.
“like this,” his palm trails from your knee, slowly up your thigh. the warmth of his skin feels burns a trail up your body.
you nod.
his hand reaches your waist, eyes boring into yours. his cock throbbing at this point, he can feel the slick of your arousal costing his cock as it rests against your pussy.
turning to some light foreplay after just fucking you was messing with his head…because….it feels so good.
“what about when I’m touching your waist,” his thumb strokes the soft skin. “it’s not your ass.”
your breath is uneven. your heart beats against your rib cage. “still,” you exhale.
“still turns you on?” he clarifies, catching the way your lips part, breathless just by the way he’s flirting with you. his cock twitches…you’re gorgeous.
you nod.
his free hand caresses your hips, moving it up your body in feather-like-caresses. his other arm is pressed beside you, keeping himself up as he watches your arms lay bent on the bed. his hand lightly brushes the side of your breast before trailing over your collarbone. “still?”
you nod, wetting your bottom lip, blown pupils maintaining eye contact.
his thumb caresses your collarbone, eyes flicking between your eyes and the way your chest is rising and falling in uneven breaths. “how about now?” his palm glides over your bicep, then down your arm, before threading his fingers with yours.
you squeeze his hand, eyes unable to tear away from his, cheeks hot. his face inches closer to yours, exhaling against your lips. “I think you’ve jus’ proved how horny you’ve been these past few days.”
your breath stutters, angling your chin up, “obviously,” you mutter against his lips. “I’m pretty sure I’m ovulating.”
something dark and electric flashes through his eyes. a low exhale leaves him, almost a laugh, but there’s no humor in it, just heat, thick and immediate. his grip on your hand tightens to the point it almost borders on rough.
“yeah?” he murmurs, voice dropping, rougher now, like it’s scraping out of his throat. his forehead nudges against yours for a second, grounding himself, but it doesn’t work. if anything, it makes it worse. “tell me you want me to stuff you then.”
“I want you to stuff me, ryo,” you repeat, breathless as his jaw slacks finally rocking his hips into yours, slick cock massaging your folds. “with your cock…your cum….”
“keep going,” he husks.
your free hand trails up his bicep, the other still holding his hand like an anchor. “I want you to fuck me. hard. use me. cum in me.”
“ah fuck—“ he slips his hand between your bodies, pushing his cock down and snapping his hips into yours, sheathing his entire length inside. your jaw drops, broken cry slipping out. “y’ really know how to make a man fucking hard.”
your lips are glossed with spit as he presses his lips against yours. he swallows your moans, snapping his hips with a mean hard thrust, picking up a brutal pace without warning.
and you love it.
the base downstairs shakes the bedroom walls, the laughing and chatter outside is nothing compared to the way you’re panting and crying in his ear. the lights flickering from the pools strobe lights, only serve to illuminate your flushed face as you cum.
“fuck, you still want more,” he’s already kissing you again, and again. spit mixing together against your tongues as he pulls away. he pants over your face, his cheeks flushed pink and his cock rubbed raw. “fuck gunna cum…ngh yeah fuck fuck—“ he pistons his cock inside your poor cunt, dilated pupils zeroing on the mess that’s gushing from you. his chuckle is broken with his groan as he fucks you through it all. “keep squirting baby, it won’t make me stop.”
and he doesn’t. his thrusts are rough. engorged tip bruising your cervix with every snap of his sharp fit hips. he’s harder than usual, and even as you’re gasping, back of your hand raised to your mouth, pussy spasming as sukuna slams his body weight into each thrust — you don’t push him away.
“gunna cum…shiit, shit it’s coming—“ his voice breaks, and it feels like a damn crashing. his cock pulses inside you, squirting buckets inside your poor cunt. “haah fuh—“ his abs flex, body weight dropping on top of you, hugging you tight as he rocks his hips into lazy harsh humps, burying himself deep inside you, you’re sliding against the mattress. the rasp in his throat has you holding onto him tight, unbothered by how unbelievably heavy he is on top of your smaller body.
and sukuna stays like that. face buried in your neck, arms clutching onto you, and brain fried.
“you also smell sweeter,” he mutters. “when you’re ovulating.”
“I don’t. you’re just a freak.”
he buries his nose deeper in your neck, inhaling sharply. “haah fuck, nah you definitely smell good.”
your brain short circuits, cheeks flooding hot as you wiggle underneath him. “you can’t—“
“you humped me in the hot tub.”
your brows scrunch together. “so?”
he licks your neck, “then you can’t blame me for still being turned on by you.” he licks a strip up to your ear, a tingle runs down to your pussy, squeezing around him.
he smirks.
of course he does. and why wouldn’t he? you’re already nudging him to your lips, kissing him again, like you aren’t stuffed with loads of his cum.
“you’re cute,” he mutters between kisses, and even if that makes your stomach flip, your face burn, and your heart skip a beat…you don’t comment on it. you don’t address it. and you sure as shit don’t think about it.
and the simple answer is, he’s kissing you right now and that’s all you want to think about it.
more frat!kuna here
a/n: I’m blaming the grammar errors on you guys for the rush (I also hate proof reading). but I hope u guys enjoyed it. believe me when I say, I was not expecting it to be that freaking long, I just really wanted to write sukuna and reader kinda skinny dipping, without losing their dynamic or doing something super uncharacteristic, so I dragged out the plot. but still I hope u guys liked it!
and thank you for the wait. I really put most of my free time into this so I can’t tell u when I’ll finish the next chapter of the series, so bare with me for another possible week of agony :’(
tags: drabble, alcohol, sfw, fluff, drunk! sylus, clingy! sylus, love confessions, sylus cries (he’s being a little dramatic), basically you babying sylus for the entire fic
you’re not quite sure how it ended up like this.
you know that sylus’s alcohol tolerance is average (he had told you so himself), but you didn’t imagine that it’d be anything lower than yours. it had started as a joke, while the both of you were slightly tipsy; you had said something about wanting to see him drunk, curious about if he was sleepy, clingy, or whatever else while in that state.
and now, you’re here with your giant, six-foot-three boyfriend who is hanging his head over your shoulder and clinging to you like a weighted blanket.
“sy, baby, you’ve got to get up,” you rub his shoulder, “i think you need some water, honey.”
sylus grumbles in that low, frustrated tone that you only ever really hear when he fails to get a plushie for you at the claw machine.
“no,” he says, stubbornly, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck as if he can avoid responsibility by hiding there.
you have seen sylus tipsy before, but not quite as drunk as he is now. he’s flushed from the tips of his ears and down to his chest, mumbling and groaning like a tired kid after a full day at the amusement park. not only has he been stubbornly sitting on your lap for the past two minutes, but he’s been leaving little wine-stained kisses all over you face.
“i’m serious, sylus. i think you’re a little too far gone.”
“ ’m right here, kitten,” he slurs. “how can i be far?”
“exactly my point, my love.”
with a heavy head, sylus looks up at you, gaze a little unfocused from the buzz. there’s an almost youthful innocence to him, his eyes round like a big cat; the complete opposite of the internationally-wanted criminal the world knows him as. you’re tempted to call him adorable.
“i could never be far away from you, ever. it’d kill me, kitten.”
you raise a brow at him, “that was quite dramatic there, sy. are you sure you don’t need the water?”
sylus frowns, “don’t.”
you laugh, “don’t what? give you water?”
he purses his lips in a way that looks like you’ve offended him. soon, unsteady, large hands come up to cup your face, staring into your eyes with a softness.
“my feelings are real. i belong with you in every lifetime.”
sylus has always had a habit of confessing his love to you at the most random time of day–you like to call it his shakespearian impulse–but you didn’t think it’d stay while he was intoxicated.
“oh gosh,” you laugh, truly taken aback. “even when you’re drunk, you’re a romantic! this is so cute.”
sylus, however, does not find this situation to be cute at all and frowns at you, his brows squished in frustration. at first, you think that he’s just pouting, the way drunk people tend to. but when you see the watery shine in his eyes, you soon realize that you are completely wrong.
“oh my god, sylus, are you crying?” you panic, grabbing a small napkin from amongst the mess of half-eaten steak and sticky wine glasses and bringing it to his face.
“no… it’s the sun. it hurts my eyes,” he mumbles, despite the fact that you are, in fact, wiping away the tears running down his cheek.
“the sun, right…” he is way, way too far gone. “why are you upset, my love?”
sylus stares at you in an almost accusing way. you’re sitting there in silence for an awkward five seconds before he leans in, pressing his face into your chest.
“yudisayit.”
you blink, “say that again for me, baby?”
he sighs as he pulls back, just enough to look you straight in the eyes. there’s a very determined look on his face, though you still feel like you can’t quite figure out what’s going on in his mind.
“you didn’t say it,” he repeats, “say you belong with me.”
the serious tone of his voice makes it near impossible to stifle the laugh that comes out of you. that’s what he was so upset about? thank goodness no one has ever seen him drunk but you.
“oh, sylus,” you coo, tilting your head so that you can plant a soft kiss to his cheek. “of course i belong with you. i’m sorry i didn’t say it back quickly enough.”
“in every lifetime,” he insists, “together.”
he’s so terribly cute.
you pull him in for a hug, kissing his forehead, then nose, then lips. he stares at you in awe, like you put the stars in the sky and the ocean on earth, full of love for you, like he always is.
summary: in which the lads boys drunk text (annoy) you.
ft. xavier, zayne, rafayel, sylus & caleb
notes: MDNI / NSFW, xavier is pathetic (again), zayne is mmmmmm, rafayel is my dramatic king, sylus is overly going, and caleb is well...strange. only explicit mentions of fem! reader in raf's (the others are gender neutral however!), allusions to stalking...and obviously drinking/intoxication, as well as dubcon elements (? if you squint? because they're technically drunk? but it's also left open so not rlly but kinda?)...that's it (i think)
p.s. this won on the poll and i kinda put my own spin on it but i hope you enjoy ^^ (all spelling errors are intentional as well LOL)
a/n: this was lowkey really fun to make but i also think i'm discovering in real time that i really like putting men in Situations...embarrassing fictional men town population me ig? yay! ty for reading (- -)(_ _)
summary: at your request, sylus ventures out of his comfort zone to indulge your degradation and humiliation kinks
pairing: sylus x reader
rating: explicit 🔞 (mdni)
word count: 750
tags: sylus POV, fem!reader, verbal degradation (sylus calls reader a 'slut'), humiliation kink, thigh riding, implied D/s dynamic, implied aftercare, sylus is down horrendous (as usual)
note: ladstwt pissed me off one too many times talking about fic icks and what the LIs would/wouldn’t do with a consenting mc, so here we are; also available in my love & drabble-space collection on ao3
“Greedy little slut.” The word feels foreign on Sylus’s tongue. Inelegant. But the way your eyes light up and a pleasured whine spills past your lips is all the encouragement he needs to stay the course.
It seems you weren’t exaggerating when you said you enjoyed this type of play.
You’re straddling him, fully bare as you grind against his clothed thigh— another one of your ideas. You’ve been at it for not even two minutes and already your skin is glistening, blood pumping hard through your veins as you work yourself back and forth, each rock of your hips putting more wrinkles into Sylus’s trousers. He has half a mind to get them framed afterward.
“Look at you,” he continues, “so desperate for my cock and I haven’t even touched you yet.” Sylus squeezes the back of the couch to keep from doing just that. You’d be so pliant under his palms right now, eager as you are to be fucked. He can picture it clear as day: the way you’d moan for him as he maneuvered you beneath him. Made you feel small. Pushed your knees to your shoulders and sank into you slow enough to have you both groaning.
But far be it from him to cut your fun short.
Tonight is about you.
Your desires. Your fantasies.
“Pathetic,” he adds, forcing an indifference he doesn’t feel into his tone.
And you reward him with another whine.
If you keep that up, he’s going to break character. “Such a filthy thing,” he says, mostly to distract himself from the sounds you’re making, “making a mess on my thigh.” Mess is an understatement. He’s never seen you get this wet this quickly. “Who said you could do that, hmm?”
“S-Sorry,” you choke out.
“You don’t seem sorry.” Yesterday, when you asked him to do this—to degrade you, to call you a slut, to stir up feelings of shame and make you earn his cock—he’d been stunned to silence. But to not indulge you would be to deny you, so an hour ago, when you were readying yourself for bed, he’d summoned you to his office and told you to strip. “Perhaps I should teach you a lesson,” he finishes.
The noise you make in response—a stifled, needful whimper—goes straight to his cock.
“Oh, but you’d like that, wouldn’t you…” Sylus tightens his grip on the couch frame. Never has he ached to put his mouth on you more than he does right now, at this very moment. To taste your arousal— drink it down like ambrosia. “If I put you over my knee?”
You bite your lip, your hips stuttering as you struggle to maintain your rhythm. What a magnificent creature you are.
“Has my perfect little slut forgotten how to speak?” Again, the word snags on the way out. But it’s getting easier. “Answer me.”
“Y-Yes.”
“Yes, you’ve forgotten how to speak?”
You shake your head, all but manic with desire. “No.”
Sylus goes in for the kill, finally attuned to the flavor of humiliation that quickens your pulse. “Pity that such a pretty head is apparently so empty.”
Your eyes flutter shut, and your breaths turn shallow, and your lower stomach tenses in anticipation.
“Well go on, then,” he says, trying his best to sound bored even as his cock strains painfully against his trousers. “I don’t have all day.” A lie. For you, he has an eternity.
Your release is a violent thing. Loud. Quaking through you like the birth of a mountain range. You nearly fall off of Sylus’s lap, but he catches you. Folds you against his chest. Fuck, he can feel you fluttering against his thigh. And your skin— so warm beneath his hands. Heated from the pleasure he gave you.
When your convulsions slow and a satisfied hum resonates in your throat, Sylus sneaks a kiss to your forehead.
“May I worship you properly now?” he asks, voice soft. Hopeful. Next time, he’ll play along longer. Next time, he’ll keep you dancing like a puppet on a string until the only thoughts in your head are the ones he chooses to put there. But right now? Right now he needs to be inside you, kissing you in earnest. No roles. No bravado.
You shiver in his embrace and tilt your head to press a kiss to the base of his throat. And your voice is equally soft when you reply, “You may.”
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