And surely all of what happened yesterday was a dream. Just like the morning of your wedding.
230 dinner plates, 250 butter knives, 210 chairs, 23 dinner tables, 210 thank you cards, call the florist and make sure she can get in the venue, call David’s mom and try to suck up to her, accept thr ‘something old’ with a smile, make your parents proud, and make sure Soap is making you waffles in the morning—
Ah!
That’s not— maybe it was your head ringing like an alarm, two heavy arms sling over you, nipples hard from the cold air hitting you, light from the shades blinking your face, your core aching— that’s when you manage to shoot up. Because none of that’s right. Should you be in your newly husbands hotel room. Not— fuck- where the hell are you runaway bride!reader?
The room you’re in is a mess, scattered clothes to the floor, curls now out and brushing against your neck, the veil tilting sideways on your head, big poofy white dress MIA in your tired eyes. You can see yourself in the mirror of the dresser now, little dark bruises all over your skin, makeup a mess, and you’re bug eyed now, eyes darting to the men who’s arms are still around you, a messy head of blonde hair mumbling for you to lay back down, a Mohawk lightly snoring— Ghost and Soap.
What did you— who did you screw last night? Your hand hits your face in anguish, trying to recall something- any-fucking-thing. You went to the bar after deciding you couldnt go through with the wedding. Met four men, they bought you drinks and food, food and drinks, and shots— you may have won two rounds of poker and won Gaz’s underwear, Ghosts shirt in the next round that was so warm on your body. John is a sick bastard of a cheater— him and Soap tagteamed you so fucking well you’ll have to steal the idea from them— you don’t know how they got you home— or where the dress is.
But you remember saying you needed to lie down. And that John’s bed was sooooo comfy.
Especially with Soap’s Cock in your mouth, your fingers running through John’s brunette locks while his tongue swirled around your buzzing clit, lapping you’re sticky cum through your folds till you started to get beard burn, bucking your hips in his face and slurping the side of Soaps cock to his heavy balls, let him fuck your mouth while John nezzled his girth between your slobbering hole— no- fuck
Gaz and Ghost folding you half between them, each of them taking their turn to thrust their dicks in you to the hilt, both knocking themselves against your g-spot till you were practically pissing your juices everywhere, velvety walls cleaning around Gaz’s length as he painted your insides, mouth latched the both of them in a sloppy in a heated and desperate kiss. Swiveled your hips back and forth on Soaps length, full lips wrapping around Johns hardened member, slapping the crown of Ghosts cock on yout tongue as Gaz used your plush ass cheeks like a pocket pussy—
Would God ever forgive you for such biblically accurate greed?
Maybe the heavens were already punishing you because you barley made it to the bathroom to pee, stumbling like a damn deer that got hit by a ca. silence filling the titled space with you and your thoughts, this was just the tip of the iceberg. What hell scape was your notifications in right now. No one knew were you were, your sure your mother was ready to damn you down to hell and try to salvage the “marriage.”
Maybe if your friends were true to you, they would’ve saved you a piece of the wedding cake.
Your goal is to get the hell out of this house, start over a state away or something, maybe community college while working part time— a normal life for once. One of your own.
You’ve got some money saved in a private account, you don’t need anybody, except your grandma. If you needed to talk to someone, she’d be there. Always.
Your dress is still missing, but you slide on someone’s jeans, your underwear ruined and added to the list of things youre missing. Easing the dresser drawer open and stealing a shirt and flannel, maybe a pair of socks too so you weren’t walking barefoot.
You attempt to sneak down the steps but your legs buckle at the last two, a yelp escaping your lips as you trip on your own legs.
“Here comes the bride~” John hums which has Gaz laughing.
“Mornin beautiful, hope we didn’t hurt you too much.” And Gaz goes to help you up and snatch yourself away, stumbling into the end table behind you but using it to steady yourself.
“No, nooooo. Never. You guys- shit- you guys—“ you’re at a loss for words, face palming once more as heat rises underneath your skin, remembering what happened last night. “I’m great, I’m perfect! Never been better!” You nod to yourself as if it would make it true.
John takes a moment, taking the state of you in, then checking in with Gaz.
Worry is in the older man’s eyes, ends of them crinkling, “Really need t’ leave so soon dove?”
“I’m sure you guys, have things to do. People to see.”
“Just you, sweetheart. Just— focused on you.” Gaz says softly.
And you can hear your ‘ker-thunk’ so hard in your chest, it shakes you even more. The attention you’d been dying for years, was so easily given to you last night, even in this moment. It’s, you, you, you.
You shake your head, “I’m sorry, I’ve really wasted your time.”
“Not at all.”
“…And the man, the ex-“ John clears he throat, “Did you two- really get married, on paper—“
“—It was supposed to happen at the reception.”
And theres a hint of relief on both of their faces, much easier to snag you with a man who’ll be gone from your existence when there are no legal documents you have to fill out. 
You give them both a forced smile, a chuckle, “I’ve gotta go! I’ve fucked a lot- I mean, I fucked up a lot in the past 24 hours. I don’t think I can hold up the hate [+] brigade any longer than I have, and you guys- must have-“ you finally swallow down a breath, “a life or something! The four of you, It’s about that time, I have an appointment at the laundry mat- with the dentist.”
You’ve got John smirking, arms folding across his chest, “Funny thing this one is, yeah Gaz?”
“Look,” Gaz starts but there’s a honk of your taxi outside.
“I have to go-“ and you take a step to leave but he grabs your arm in time. Not rough but enough for him to bend down to meet your pretty brown eyes, sliding a card in your hand.
“You call, we’re there. Anytime love, promise.” Gaz sighs, fixing the girl on your head before ever so lightly caressing your face, “Still the prettiest bride we’ve ever seen.”
“Ghost ‘nd Soap will wreck havoc that we’ve let you go dove, we’ll have to meet again. All five ‘f us.”
You suck in a breath, biting your lip, “I-sill think about it.” Your eyes flicker to the both of them, lifting the card along with your phone. “Thanks again.”
It’s easy to let a bird go, much easier to let you think youre free, track exactly where you’re going and move from there. Of course the 141 wouldn’t let someone as perfect as you go. Not when you had your way with them last night, too addictive.
You fit right in with the four of them, Thry couldnt let you go now.
If you weren’t the right bride for your stupid ex—
You definitely would be for the 141.
a/n: I love a morning after. Was Highkey waiting for that STOP THE WEDDING song to come out to write this but it played in my head so it’s okay.
呪術廻戦 ☃︎ grief swallows satoru’s widow whole, and perhaps, he regrets his sacrifice as well—and as for shoko, well, turns out she’s been keeping a few secrets
“satoru,” you call out and yet no one responds. you sigh deeply, hoping he’d speak to you—just this once.
your marriage isn’t out of love but of duty—duty neither of you wanted yet was cursed to bear. all because he was born powerful, while you, intelligent and extraordinarily beautiful.
you handled the arrangement well and so did he. though, he was a little cold and a little less present than you’d wanted him to be. you couldn’t expect the world of the strongest—the honored one. you just have to sit pretty and wait for the day he chooses to have you bear his heir;
however,
during cold winter nights, he’d hold you tightly. lovingly.
on hot summer days, he’d watch you swim by the lake. attentively.
when lazy afternoons roll around, he’d sit by you, read a book then quiz you. cleverly.
at dawn, as slow mornings overtake both your systems, he’d stare at your barely awake form and nip at whatever skin you’ve left exposed. childishly.
as sweet or adorable as he was, he never said much. but you remember one instance as clear as day. he wore a dark, fitted shirt and loose light trousers.
“you look handsome, toru,” you had said with a bright smile on your face, trying not to think of what the day actually entails.
“thank you, my angel,” he replied back while mimicking your adorable grin. you remember his expression—his face, and you so desperately fight not to forget it in your aging mind.
he walked you over to shoko, who welcomed you with open arms like many times before. both you and her were experienced in the medical field—and as such, the two of you were selected to aid members and students of jujutsu high with their medical affairs as the games went on.
you only watched as he left, leaving you with nothing but an ephemeral kiss. “his decision to go is selfish,” you announced. even the dead bodies that laid on steel beds would’ve shivered if they could.
“selfish?” the warm brunette asked, seemingly surprised at your words. who wouldn’t be? to call satoru’s determination to fight—selfish… it doesn’t seem right or like you at all.
at that moment, you turned to your friend, eyes darkened with your heart barely beating. “he won’t defeat him,” you laughed, tears rolling down your cheeks before shoko even thought of running toward you.
shoko didn’t get it before, but she understands it now.
she crouches by your side, where you’ve been refusing to get up for the past few days. letting you grieve is the right thing to do, but she knows that satoru’d come back as a horrible curse and take her with him if he somehow knew that she let you cry by his shrine for three days.
“c’mon, babe, let’s go,” she tries to force smile.
“satoru,” you call out again.
“he’s not coming back,” she whispers gently, but it blows just the same.
“but what if he does?” you murmur, “what if I leave, and at that moment, he needs me to pull him from the pits of heaven?”
“would you at least eat if I fed you at the foot of his shrine?” she asks kindly. “you need to feel the wind on your skin, and smell the grass as spring rolls around—like we used to.”
you turn at the sudden change in pitch. “shoko…?” you mutter nervously as her eyes seem to pulse a glowing cerulean.
she laughs, but it’s not airy or light—just familiar.
you move back as your brain yells commands for you to stand, but you can’t. you feel stuck to the ground.
then, you look around, trying to make a plan for your escape, but your mind only feels foggy.
your eyes catch on what’s supposed to be satoru’s framed photo atop the incense and mountains of carefully curated flowers. his likeness is no longer there, but the insignia remains.
“satoru—” your breath hitches as you call out to the body crawling towards you. every time you blink, it changes.
shoko.
satoru.
shoko.
satoru.
it’s absolutely terrifying and yet you want to succumb.
they hover over you, trapping you against the wooden floors, both hands on either side of your face. “shoko—” you frown as your eyebrows furrow in fear.
in her likeness, a deep voice comes, “oh, my sweet angel, I never knew my dear friend shoko took quite a strong liking to you…” satoru or a curse coos, leaning down to lick a long stripe from your neck to your ear.
it morphs. so you put your hands on his chest, trying to push your dead husband away. “you’re not him!” you yell, “and you’re not shoko…” you whimper as he only presses himself tighter against your struggling stature.
“just give in, babe. y’know you want to,” a brunette winks, and you realize that you’re almost cupping her breasts, so you let go and wriggle to the side.
he slaps his hand on the wood and it almost breaks. you scream and tremble. “satoru!” you shout.
a slender, manicured hand caresses your face. “satoru, you’re scaring her,” she says with a frown on her plump lips, mounds pressing against your own.
someone rasps from within, “shut up, traitor.”
“traitor?” she laughs, “I’m letting you see your wife!”
“because you want her too!”
they continue to argue in one body as you’re on the verge of passing out, utterly confused with not enough energy in your body to still keep you up.
uhhh the pitt fauxcest. call that pittcest HEAVY FAUXCEST. you’ve been warned. @loves-alibi (you inspired me heavyyy)
having a girls day with aunt!dana and she’s got you on her lap saying she’s gonna teach you how to make yourself cum. after you complained to her about how all the boys your age can’t do it right. but apparently either can you! explaining that you’ve never been able to make yourself come without your vibrator.
her explaining that this is an easy fix, putting her fingers between your thighs while she hums about how pretty your cunt is. gently walking you through what she’s doing to you. then when you come, thighs shaking atop hers she pulls back and smiles.
“now let me see you do it baby, you were listenin’ right? or do I have to show you again.”
uncle!robby letting you ride his thigh while he kisses you, his large hands gripping your ass as he drags your cunt over the rough denim of his jeans. panties off, causing your slick to dampen his legs.
your moans muffled against his lips, the course hair on his cheeks scratching over your face with each kiss he gives you. tongue sliding over yours while he greedily drinks down your whimpers. before pulling back and looking down at the mess you’re leaving on him.
“you young things get wet so easy huh? or is it just you?”
dad!jack laying you down while he stuffs you full of his fingers. cooing at the way you push down on him. cunt eagerly taking his thick digits in. stretching open so perfectly to accommodate him. he almost laughs at the display. pulling out to admire the webs of slick clinging to his skin all made by you.
before shoving them right back in smiling at how you squeal body trying to run from the pleasure while simultaneously opening up more for it. for him.
“what a desperate little girl you are..god you’re so cute.”
sitting atop older brother!dennis’s face while he holds you down by your thighs. tongue licking up into you unashamedly, drinking down all the slick you produce. lips latching onto your clit and sucking as hard as he can. just so you can make that one noise he always loves.
his hips bucking up searching for friction as you grind down on him unintentionally. fingers gripping his curls just right. muttering apologies for being heavy.
“sh-shit..it’s okay. you’re not heavy at all sis..m’strong you know. and—and you taste really good..” he pants.
sokka likes to lie back and watch you stubbornly do all the work until you need it. arms folded behind his head, blue eyes mirthy but not cruel, lips tight with the smirk so familiar and teasing it makes your tummy do backflips. his gaze travels downwards, over your soft stomach and chest that bounces with every lewd lift and drop of your cunt down on the stretch of his girth. how you struggle to make it to the hilt every time. how he can see himself kick deep inside you.
“atta girl,” sokka purrs with pout, kind of mocking you and the manner in which your face twists with frustration because just riding him isn’t enough. “look at you go, just aching for it.” he doesn’t mind when you switch from bouncing to grinding, swirling c shapes in his lap like the rush of water around a river bend — in fact, he prefers it, because sokka knows it feels so much better for you. fuller like a glass with a never ending pour of luxurious liquor, your movements are slicker and your thighs shiner as they bracket his lap — spreading your streaming arousal across his pelvis and abs filthily.
if even for a second, you slow down to catch your breath where its rhythm hiccups, sokka lands a cheeky tap to the curve of your ass. not harsh, not painful, rather encouraging — like you would to get a pretty show pony moving when it turns sluggish. “c’mon sweetheart, don’t give up now,” he coos with the air of someone who knows what he’s doing, pulling you to pieces and being the only one who can put you back together. “are you tired? need my help?”
i think riding sokka only goes on for so long, he gets impatient. hungry. finding your wrists where your palms brace either side of your head and slotting your fingers with his. he doesn’t take over, just adds to the motion — being the wave beneath your boat as he bucks up into you, languid and leisurely. pushing his cock past the right, clenching muscle of your entrance every time you push down onto him. his moans turn open mouthed, needy and follow your cadence — higher when he brushes against your g-spot, lower when you squeeze him and milky white runs down to his balls, marrying the fabric below your tangled bodies. he moans and whines and hiccups when you do, as though your pleasure is connected in an endless feedback loop.
when he really gets impatient, sokka’s fingers land at the nape of your neck and drag you down onto him. nipples brushing, stomachs contracting against one another — he bends his legs at the knee for leverage, pumping into you with short, deep thrusts that help his blunt cockhead glide against your sensitive walls, marrying your cunt with his claim of slick pre. you’re almost always squirting in sokka’s lap because he never lets up on the pressure spots you need him to find most…
Synopsis... While on vacation at Ember Island, your two best friends discover that you struggle with low self-esteem, and decide to cheer you up in the best way.
Pairing: Sokka x reader x Zuko
Warnings: Smut MDNI; FEM!Reader; threesome; size kink grrr; cervíx kíssing; p in v; pet names, swéaring; matíng presses; multiple positions; oral (m & f receiving), kissing both Zuko and Sokka; If you squint, the characters have a crush on the reader; dirty talk; fingering pssy; unprotected s; tummy bulges; creampiess; hEADLOCKS; hair pulling; squirting. —this is for the girls, the bi and their wifes (reader).
[ 🌸 ] brrr--my spirit animal is Toph because she also fall in love with the hot guy
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You shifted slightly with a soft hum, letting the warm sand sink beneath your feet. The murmur of the ocean was calm, steady—like it was accompanying the light conversation you were sharing with Zuko. Sitting on your towel, facing the quiet horizon, you could hear Aang and Katara laughing somewhere in the distance, probably chasing Momo through the waves.
Toph, meanwhile, was sprawled out on the sand with her arms and legs stretched wide, like a carefree starfish. You wondered, not without a hint of envy, if she had already fallen asleep. She probably had—the girl was calm, solid as a rock.
Zuko was sitting beside you.
It was… strange seeing him like this.
You had always known him tense, carrying the weight of being the Fire Lord even in the simplest moments. But now, with the breeze brushing through his dark hair and his expression relaxed, he seemed like someone entirely different.
“It’s a beautiful place, Zuko… thank you,” you murmured softly.
Your gaze lingered on his hands for a second too long—large, steady hands moving with unexpected gentleness as he brushed a few dark strands away from his face.
“You don’t have to thank me,” he replied with a small smile.
His golden eyes met yours, and for a moment, there was something there. Something warm. Soft.
Your heart skipped.
You probably imagined it… right?
Yeah. That had to be it.
You were about to say something—anything to fill the silence that suddenly felt too aware—but Sokka appeared out of nowhere, returning from the bar with three drinks in hand.
“Hope you didn’t miss me too much… although that would be flattering,” he said, winking at you dramatically.
The joke was terrible.
And precisely because of that, you couldn’t help the smile slipping out.
His hand trembled slightly as he handed you your drink.
“Here you go,” he added before turning to Zuko. “And this one’s yours. Hope you go completely wild tonight.”
Zuko blinked, visibly confused, unsure how to respond.
You bit your lip, holding back a laugh.
Their dynamic… never stopped being ridiculously entertaining.
…
You remained seated on the towel, drink in hand, watching the waves roll in and out… but not really seeing them.
Something inside you had dimmed.
Maybe it was the way Katara looked so radiant under the sun—so beautiful, so confident. Even Toph, lying there without a care in the world, seemed more… secure. More comfortable in her own skin than you had ever felt.
You let out a quiet sigh.
“Are you okay?” Zuko’s voice came closer than you expected.
You turned your head slightly. He wasn’t relaxed anymore—he was watching you with that quiet attentiveness of his, the kind that always seemed to see more than you said.
“Yeah… just tired,” you lied, lowering your gaze to the drink in your hands.
A brief silence.
“That didn’t sound very convincing,” Sokka added nearby.
You huffed softly. “Didn’t know you were an expert in emotions now.”
“I am,” he shot back without hesitation. “Especially when someone’s making that face.”
“What face?”
“That ‘I’m fine’ face when you’re clearly not.”
You rolled your eyes, though without much energy to argue. You took a small sip, the bitterness of the alcohol warming your throat uncomfortably. Zuko, meanwhile, stayed quiet.
Instead, you felt his hand brush against yours—just barely, like he was testing whether you’d pull away.
You didn’t. You didn’t have the strength to.
“You don’t have to pretend,” he said softly.
His tone was different. Softer. Closer.
Something in your chest tightened.
“I’m not pretending…”
“Yes, you are,” Sokka cut in, this time without his usual teasing tone. “And it’s weird, because you’re usually terrible at lying.”
You looked at him, ready to snap back—but the words didn’t come.
Because they were right.
You dropped your gaze again, that uncomfortable knot forming in your throat.
“It’s just that…” you started, but stopped.
What were you even going to say?
That you didn’t feel like enough.
That even surrounded by them, part of you still felt out of place.
Ridiculous.
You shook your head. “Forget it.”
But this time, Zuko didn’t let you slip away so easily.
His hand moved, covering yours completely. His warmth contrasted with the cool ocean breeze.
“Look at me,” he said.
You hesitated.
But you did. And there it was again—that look.
“You’re not out of place here. You know that, right?”
You blinked, startled, something inside you wavering.
“Then why does it feel like it?” you murmured.
The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable.
It was… heavy.
Sokka sighed softly beside you, rubbing the back of his neck. “Because your head is a terrible place to live sometimes. Trust me, I’ve got experience.”
That earned a small smile from you.
“But that doesn’t make it true,” he added, leaning closer.
Zuko didn’t look away. “If you could see yourself the way we see you…” he started, then trailed off.
“It’d be a lot harder for you to think like that,” Sokka finished with a half-smile.
Heat crept up your face. “You’re exaggerating…”
“No,” Zuko said firmly. His thumb brushed lightly against your skin—a small gesture, but enough to make you lose your train of thought. “We’re not.”
The air shifted.
Heavier. Closer.
Sokka rested an arm behind you, close enough for you to feel him without it being overwhelming. “Besides,” he added with a crooked smile, “if you weren’t amazing… why do you think we’re here with you instead of annoying someone else?”
A soft laugh escaped you—this time more genuine. “That proves nothing.”
“Of course it does,” he said. “I don’t share my time with just anyone.”
“Neither do I,” Zuko added, not breaking eye contact.
That didn’t sound like a joke.
…
You met Zuko through Sokka.
At first, it was… complicated. But slowly, you started to understand who he really was—beyond the rigid posture and intimidating stare, there was someone patient, restrained… deeply gentle.
And despite everything—the war, the title, the weight they both carried as friends of the Avatar—they still held onto something that completely disarmed you:
That simplicity.
That way they were with you, like… you were enough.
Even if you still struggled to believe it.
And yet, here you were now between them, in the beautiful bedroom Zuko ordered to prepare so you could rest, except you wouldn’t do that tonight—you kiss Sokka while Zuko trailed wet kisses down your neck, his hands exploring your body with a certain hesitance while Sokka worked at the knots of your bikini.
You pulled away from Sokka just enough to breathe, but he chased your lips, trying to drag the kiss out longer. A soft kiss brushed your cheek before a hand gently turned your head—Zuko’s lips grazed the corner of your mouth before claiming you fully, while Sokka pressed kisses along your jaw.
The sudden air against your now bare skin, paired with Sokka’s firm grip on your ass, tore a moan from your throat—one Zuko swallowed with a low, approving sound.
His movements were slow at first, almost unsure, like he was learning you—until he found the right angle and kissed you properly. Deep. Consuming. His tongue dragging against yours in a way that made your breath hitch. It was hungry—devouring you like a man starved, leaving you breathless.
God… you were almost certain your collarbones and chest were flushed red from the relentless attention of Sokka’s mouth.
Zuko pulled back, breath uneven, eyes dark with desire—just like Sokka’s.
“Are you okay with continuing?” Sokka asked against your neck, then looked at you seriously.
Zuko pulled back slightly, waiting.
Waiting for your answer. And spirits—you felt so heard. So cared for.
They wouldn’t do anything you didn’t want. They wouldn’t. You nodded first, flushed and breathless before managing, “Yeah… I’m sure.”
Sokka was the first to take control, guiding you onto the bed—and for a second, you wondered if all three of you would even fit, because for the first time you really noticed the difference in their builds.
Sokka was only a few centimeters taller than Zuko, a bit leaner, but his muscles were well-defined. Zuko, on the other hand, was broader—his sturdier frame sometimes made him seem taller than he actually was.
And then there was you—between them, feeling smaller.
You sat slowly on the soft mattress, your gaze flicking from Sokka to Zuko, their eyes dark as they took you in. You could feel the slick heat between your thighs, your arousal already soaking your folds and inner thighs.
Your hands trembled—just slightly—as you reached for the waistband of their shorts, pushing them down slowly.
Zuko wouldn’t admit it out loud, but this was the first time anyone had ever sucked him off.
He watched you carefully while Sokka settled behind you, his cock already hard, right in front of your face.
Your eyes lingered on Zuko first.
His cock was… intimidating. Thick, veined, the head flushed with need, a few drops of pre-cum already sliding down the length of him.
Sokka’s, in contrast, was prettier—slightly curved, slimmer—but something told you he’d still make you cry.
You felt him behind you, brushing against your entrance. For a moment, you thought he’d push into your wet cunt—but he didn’t. Not yet.
Your hand, steadier now, wrapped around Zuko’s cock, moving slowly, timidly at first, stroking up and down—trying not to miss a single inch.
Zuko—usually so composed—struggled to keep his breathing steady.
Then he felt your mouth.
Warm. Wet. Wrapping around him.
Spirits… your lips stretched around him, and you were sure the corners of your mouth would ache later.
You tried to focus, but Sokka’s hands roaming your body made it impossible. His fingers dragged along your skin before pinching your nipples lightly, his lips leaving wet kisses along your neck.
A moan slipped out of you—vibrating around Zuko’s cock—and he let out a low groan in response.
Sokka’s fingers slid lower, almost playfully, finding the wet heat between your thighs.
He didn’t hesitate.
His fingers circled your clit slowly, teasing, drawing it out—making sure your orgasm stayed just out of reach.
Your muffled moans pressed against Zuko, your lips wrapped around him.
“Look at her… so wet. Such a dirty girl,” Sokka murmured hoarsely against your ear.
Then his arm slipped around your neck—not tight, but firm enough to guide you—keeping you right where he wanted you, still sucking Zuko’s cock.
Your half-lidded eyes lifted to Zuko, and you could see it—his control slipping, the tension in his jaw as he tried to hold himself together.
Your saliva dripped down your chin, making a mess of you.
A pretty mess.
You sucked him a few more times before pulling back for air, your tongue dragging slowly along his length, licking up the saliva that had gathered there.
Then you turned toward Sokka—your gaze hungry.
Yeah.
You were completely worked up. His fingers left your heat only long enough to lay you back on the bed.
He followed immediately, a crooked smile on his lips. For a brief second, warmth bloomed in your chest—something soft you couldn’t quite place—but it vanished the moment you felt lips press against your soaked folds.
Zuko.
A curse slipped from your mouth before it turned into a moan against Sokka’s lips, because he was already kissing you again while Zuko’s large hands spread your legs wider.
Your hand—no longer shy—slid into Zuko’s dark hair, guiding him, pressing him closer as he kissed your clit.
Something he was more than willing to keep doing.
Sokka’s hands covered your breasts, kneading your flesh like he couldn’t get enough. His mouth left yours just long enough to kiss your nipples before he straightened slightly, bringing his cock closer to your lips.
His fingers tightened in your hair. You didn’t hesitate. You took him into your mouth while Zuko ate you out.
You weren’t going to last.
Not when Zuko’s fingers slid inside you, searching for the right rhythm to push you closer to the edge. Sokka wasn’t far behind either—the way his grip on your hair tightened, the way he fucked your mouth—you were a fucking sight.
“That’s it… come for us.”
You whimpered as your climax crashed into you, your senses overwhelmed.
Sokka cursed under his breath before pulling away, spilling across your face.
You were too dazed to even process the feeling of his cum on your skin, though you vaguely registered him yelping, apologizing as he scrambled for something to clean you.
Zuko looked up at you from between your thighs, a little awkward, a little concerned—but there was something warm in his gaze that made your cunt clench again.
Sokka came back with a cloth, gently wiping your face. “You okay?”
You nodded weakly, letting out a breath. “Yeah… that felt good.” You wanted to keep going.
Spirits, you really did. Who knew if these two incredibly attractive men would ever fuck you again? Zuko helped you stand up, then turned you around so your back faced him and—
You yelped when he suddenly lifted you, your legs spreading instinctively as his strong arms held you up. You were completely exposed in front of Sokka—your flushed, swollen clit on full display. You were a show. You felt the tip of Zuko’s cock press against your entrance, making you gasp. “Relax,” he murmured against your ear.
You tried.
You really did.
Because when he pushed inside, it felt like he might split you in half—but it felt so good. Your wet cunt swallowed him whole. He gave you a moment to adjust before starting to move—slow at first, each thrust deeper than the last. Your body stretched around him, adjusting, taking more and more.
The angle—
God, the angle—
He was so deep, hitting your cervix with every thrust, making your mouth fall open, drool slipping past your lips. You couldn’t stop the moan that tore from your throat when he shifted slightly and—
There.
Your G-spot.
Just when you thought it couldn’t get any better—
Sokka leaned in and started licking your clit. Your toes curled tightly, your whole body shaking from the overwhelming sensations crashing into you. You sobbed as you came hard, your body giving in completely—your release spilling out, soaking Sokka’s face. You squirt right in his face.
“Look at you… shameless. Getting him all messy too… is that payback?” Zuko murmured against your neck, amusement in his voice. You flushed harder—but before you could even try to apologize—
Sokka licked you clean. Completely.
Melting you all over again. “Did that make you clench? Fuck… such a dirty girl,” Zuko’s voice was strained now—he was close. Sokka’s hand slid over your stomach, pressing lightly, appreciating the bulge of Zuko inside you. You hadn’t even noticed it before. Spirits—it was too much. You weren’t going to last—
“I think she’s gonna come again… cute little thing,” Sokka murmured, kissing your stomach. Your vision went white as you came again, and Zuko followed right after, spilling inside you.
You felt dizzy, your breathing uneven as you tried to steady yourself. It had been a lot—but you weren’t complaining.
It felt too good. Zuko lowered you slowly, pulling out of you before pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder, letting Sokka catch you.
“That… was amazing,” you managed, breathless.
Sokka smirked. “Guess that means you want to keep going?”
“You’d be guessing right,” you replied weakly.
He pushed you until your back touched the bed, he put your legs up against your chest, your knees almost brushing your breasts, letting your legs rest comfortably on his shoulders as he slid back inside your still-sensitive cunt with ease.
He cursed. “Don’t think I’m gonna last… not after that show you put on earlier,” he groaned, kissing your neck, his hands gripping your chest, playing with your nipples until you whimpered as he start moving inside you—going deeper and deeper.
You weren’t going to last either.
The sounds of skin slapping, your soft cries—it all echoed in the room. You couldn’t focus on anything else. You were drunk on him. You trembled, pathetic, as you came again, tightening around him.
“Fuck… you’re so pretty. Look at you,” Sokka groaned, barely holding on before he finally came deep inside you.
You gasped when he pulled out, collapsing beside you. You didn’t need a mirror to know how wrecked you looked.
Zuko returned just then, holding a couple of damp cloths, already dressed in underwear—you hadn’t even noticed when he left.
“Did you bring one for me—” Sokka didn’t get to finish before Zuko tossed a cloth at his face, making him yelp indignantly.
That made you laugh softly, even if your body ached.
You tried to sit up, but Zuko stopped you, gently starting to clean you himself so tenderly.
you’re already shaking when satoru spreads your thighs wide on the couch, your skirt shoved up to your waist, panties long gone somewhere on the floor. suguru’s behind him, chest pressed to satoru’s back, long hair tickling your inner thigh as they both lean in like they’ve been starving for this.
“fuck, look at her,” satoru groans as he drags his tongue flat up your slit, slow and obscene, collecting every drop of you before flicking your clit.
suguru hums low, approving. “so wet already. been thinking about this pussy all day.” he nudges satoru’s cheek with his own, and then their mouths meet right over your cunt.
lips crashing messy and hungry. tongues sliding together, satoru moans into suguru’s mouth, the vibration hitting your clit directly. suguru answers with a deeper kiss, sucking satoru’s bottom lip, then dipping lower to lap at your entrance while satoru’s still latched onto your swollen bud.
they’re making out on you.
satoru’s tongue pushes into suguru’s mouth, messy strings of spit and your arousal connecting their lips when they pull back for half a second just to dive in again. suguru’s hand comes up, fingers spreading your folds wider so they both have better access. satoru takes the invitation—sucks hard on your clit while suguru’s tongue fucks into you, curling, thrusting, tasting deep.
“shit—sugu,” satoru gasps against your pussy, lips brushing suguru’s as he speaks. “she’s clenching so fucking hard.”
“yeah?” suguru smirks, filthy. he pulls back just enough to spit on your hole, watching it drip down before he licks it back up, tongue pressing flat. “open wider for us, baby. let us taste how much you love this.”
you can barely breathe. your hands fist in their hair—white and black strands tangled together—pulling them closer. their tongues meet again over your clit now, swirling together, flicking in tandem. satoru’s sucking, suguru’s lapping, then they switch—suguru’s lips sealing around your bud while satoru shoves his tongue inside you, fucking you with it like he’s trying to reach your soul.
the wet noises are disgusting. loud slurps, smacking kisses, their moans mixing with yours. spit drips down your ass, pooling on the couch. you’re dripping everywhere.
satoru breaks the kiss first, panting against suguru’s jaw. “she’s gonna come. feel her shaking?”
suguru grins, wicked. “then make her come while i kiss you stupid.”
they crash together again—full on making out. satoru’s fingers join suguru’s, two from each stretching you open while their mouths fight for your clit. they’re sloppy, uncoordinated, perfect.
your back arches hard. thighs clamping around their heads.
“fuckfuckfuck—!”
“give it to us,” suguru growls into satoru’s mouth. “come all over our tongues, pretty girl.”
you break. gushing and shaking, crying their names in broken whimpers. instead of stopping, they keep licking, kissing, sucking through it.
when you finally slump, boneless, they pull back slow. satoru licks suguru’s mouth clean first. then suguru returns the favor, sucking satoru’s tongue like he’s chasing the last of you.
“fuck,” satoru breathes, grinning like an idiot. “best meal we’ve had all week.”
suguru chuckles low, thumb wiping a streak of you off satoru’s cheek before pushing it between your lips for you to suck. “we’re not done yet.”
you whine around his finger, "can i get a kiss too?"
sum. new year, new you? well you definitely pick up a new kink or two after a visit to the ultra-trendy fitness club, limitless, with personal trainer!sukuna. but when you can't afford another session, will you get your fix with a new obsession?
cw. mdni. major scent kink + sweat kink. reader is down HORRENDOUS. semi-public sex. semi-public masturbation. humiliation. reader is a perv. stalking. reader is a lil degen towel stealing goblin. piv. minor choking/headlocks. gojo is a goof. creampies. unprotected. dry humping. dirty talk. [art by sab_xcvii & sakimenz]
an. so happy to say this was inspired by my bbgirl @sytorusdoll beautifully nasty toji sweat-kink fic so check it out! i know im supposed to be working on other things and tried to toss this over to @yenayaps but she told me i had to write it myself 💞😭 buuuut i am excited to post this on the day of the return of jjk s3 we are soooo back my lil ecchi angels! wc. 7.4k idk how.
The only reason your broke ass is stepping foot into Limitless—the ultra-chic, LED-lit, influencer-infested gym—is because your rich aunt gifted you a year-long membership for Christmas.
You clocked the look she gave you at Thanksgiving—that side-eye scrutiny of you squeezed into a dress that used to fit you perfectly last summer. Let’s just say... the turkey wasn’t the only thing stuffed at the table this year.
But whatever. You’re not complaining about anything that’s free‑99. As a struggling grad student, you’ve been surviving off ramen, iced coffee, and vibes for a year now.
But the second you walk through Limitless’s sleek steel doors, two things hit you—
You’re being sonically assaulted by the unce-unce-unce of euro-house bangers vibrating through the walls like some nightclub in Amsterdam.
The man behind the front desk is unreasonably hot.
Like, offensively hot.
Lounging behind the counter in a black dry-fit shirt that's cropped to showcase his washboard abs, while his toused white hair and stupidly perfect complexion make him look like he's headed to a photoshoot rather than a workout.
Tipping his sunglasses just low enough for you to catch the flash of icy blue eyes, his grin widens as you approach—like he already knows just how completely out of your depth you are.
“Welcome to Limitless!” he chirps. “I’m the owner, Gojo Satoru.”
Like you don’t already know.
Even a ramen-fueled, overworked shut-in like you knows about @ SixPackGod—TikTok’s reigning fitness thirst trap.
Gojo’s got 5 million followers and a cult-like fanbase—naturally, he monetized it by opening a gym. You’ve definitely seen his videos—stretching in ways that should get him banned and somehow making kettlebell swings look erotic.
As if on cue, a group of girls swish by in matching Lulu, Alo, and Vuori sets—tan, toned, and giggling as they wave at him. He winks back, weaponized charm turned up to 100 earning him shrill squees and coos as they exit.
It makes you want to book it the hell out of there. You clearly had no idea what you were getting yourself into, suddenly becoming painfully aware of your ratty anime tee and faded track shorts from high school.
Gojo turns back to you excitedly, completely unbothered by the fact that you look practically homeless. He launches into a rapid-fire tour, rattling off all the high-tech equipment and renovations—some already done, some still on the way.
You nod, clueless, too busy tracing the slope of his arms, the stretch of his shirt, the twitch of long fingers as he talks with his whole body.
Looking back, Gojo catches your totally glazed-over expression.
“Y’know,” he says, flashing you a panty-evaporating grin, “all new members get one free personal training session. Helps you get the most out of the place.”
Gojo steps in closer, charm dialed up to max and absolutely zero concept of personal space.
“Oh—no, thank you,” you say quickly, hands going up in half-surrender, half-subtle plea for him to back the hell up. “I—I can’t afford that. I mean, to continue after.”
You wouldn’t even be in here if your aunt hadn’t paid for your membership. One session probably costs your rent.
And in this economy?
You can barely afford to heat your apartment in the winter.
Gojo just shrugs, all smiles. “It’s freeeeee though! C’mon cutie.”
Cutie!? You!?
“I-I just don’t wanna waste your time,” you mumble, flustered and trying to keep your shit together.
“I don’t mind, you wouldn’t be the first,” Gojo flirts with a wink. “Buuuut, if it eases your worries, I’ll set you up with a girl trainer. Yuki. She’s great! Won’t yell at you… well, much. No strings. Promise. C’monnnnnn babe.”
The drawn-out plea and puppy-dog eyes are ridiculous—but the ‘babe’ seals it.
You fold faster than a wet paper towel in a hurricane, agreeing to sign up for a session on the spot.
What harm could one free session with a girl trainer do?
Except you don’t get Yuki.
Two days later, you show up—and Yuki’s “out sick.”
Instead, standing in front of you is Personal Trainer!Sukuna.
And holy shit—he’s fucking massive.
Like someone compressed chaotic aggression and carved it into pure muscle. Black tribal tattoos snake across his arms and chest, flexing under his tight “trainer” shirt like every inch of him is weaponized.
Your gaze drags from the cut of his shoulders to his chest—and lower, to thighs thick enough to crush a watermelon. And is that—? Oh fuck. There's a heavy print stretching his sweats.
You suddenly get what SZA meant about needing a big boy for winter.
What would it feel like—being pinned under all that weight? Back arched against the mat—
"AYE!"
Sukuna snaps your name like a whip, yanking you out of your fantasy and causing you to flinch so hard your heels lift out of your shoes.
He just looks at you like you’re stupid.
Which, to be fair, at this moment, you absolutely are.
You start babbling, fast and frantic—sputtering about how this is a bad idea, how you’re not going to book more sessions, how you’re probably just wasting his—
He rolls his eyes and gives you a look that screams: I don’t get paid to hear your bullshit.
That shuts you up immediately.
Sukuna’s red eyes then skim over you in a brutally clinical fashion. Unlike your ogling, his glance catalogs every weak point, every soft roll, every underdeveloped muscle in under fifteen seconds.
“Sukuna,” he says flatly. “Your PT.”
That’s it. That’s all the intro he gives you.
“You’re mine for the next sixty minutes—now move!”
You nod like a bobblehead, eyes wide—but he’s already walking away.
Scrambling after him, heart pounding, you try not to trip over your own feet Sukuna leads you deeper into the gym.
Not surprisingly, Sukuna’s intensity is so fierce that you can barely look at him the entire session. He runs you like a drill sergeant—efficient and merciless.
There's zero flirting, no coddling and definitely no encouraging bullshit beyond clipped commands.
When he needs to correct you, he does it physically—grabbing your hips, waist and shoulders with rough, unapologetic hands. Sukuna moves you into position like you’re a piece of gym equipment needing to be adjusted for his use.
His fingers press into muscle and bone like he already knows exactly how your weak little body is supposed to work for him, and it does, struggling yet ultimately bending to his will.
You can only sort of be thankful that Sukuna doesn’t seem to give a fuck that you freeze under his every touch. He certainly doesn’t blink nor acknowledge when you suck in a sharp breath or let out a shaky, humiliating little sound of anguish when his fingers trace over your ribs to correct your posture.
He just keeps going, dishing out relentless commands that push you harder than you’ve ever worked out in your entire life.
“Stop trying to cheat, brat” Sukuna growls, tapping your soft belly—right over your abs—with just enough force to make you squeak like the Pillsbury Doughboy.
“You’re weak here. Engage it. Squeeze tighter. That’s it, good girl.”
Good girl!?
Little does Sukuna know it’s not your core that’s responding but your pelvic muscles, your pussy fluttering wildly at the command like he's addressing her directly.
By the end of the session, every muscle in your body is cooked. Lungs on fire, like you’ve never worked out a day in your life.
And honestly—if this is what real training entails?
Then yeah. You definitely haven’t. Not even close.
Still, for a one‑off session, Sukuna gave you more than enough to continue on your own—form breakdowns, weak points to target, enough structure to build a routine from scratch.
Not that you’re thinking about fitness anymore. You just want to crawl out of here—and into bed.
You’re so worn down, so light-headed, that you don’t even notice you’ve grabbed the wrong towel—Sukuna’s, damp and still warm from use—instead of one of the cool eucalyptus-scented ones the gym provides. You sling it over your shoulders without thinking, wobbling toward the water fountain.
By the time you bend down for a much-needed drink, it practically slaps you across the face.
The aroma of salty sandalwood and heat, along with a musk so dark and undeniably masculine it makes your belly tingle.
Oh sweet fuck!
Warmth floods your senses, spreading through you all the way down to your toes. Your legs begin to quake once more—worse than they did during the three-minute wall squats Sukuna forced you to hold.
You’re no virgin—but you’ve never been affected by a man’s scent like this.
Ever.
You spot the laundry bin the moment you step into the women’s locker room—your rational brain whispering to just drop the towel and walk away.
Your hand hovers over the bin… but lingers a second too long. Voices now echo behind you as a group of women enter.
Snatching the towel back on instinct, your pulse spikes as you shove it into your locker like illicit contraband. There's no time to think more about it as you rush to the showers, hoping cold water can cool off whatever the hell is happening in your brain.
The shower soothes your muscles but it does nothing for the fire in your belly rapidly increasing.
Already weak, you slide down the cool tile. Water beats against your body as your fingers slip between your thighs on instinct. You circle your clit once, twice, then trail lower, pushing two fingers into your cunt with shaking hands.
You bite your lip hard, trying to stay quiet, acutely aware of how thin the walls are, how public and just wrong this is.
Yet no matter how hard you work your fingers, you can’t scratch the itch.
Even angling yourself so the water beats directly against your clit doesn’t get you there.
Shiiiit. You can’t even get off properly. Argh!
Frustrated and flustered, you finally give up. Shutting off the shower, you towel off in record time and book it out of the locker room—but not before stuffing Sukuna’s sweat-drenched towel deep into your duffel like contraband.
Glancing around you attempt to play it cool as you make your exit… only to duck your head a little too obviously as you pass the front desk.
Gojo, of course, spots you anyway. He waves at you cheerily and you try not to flinch as you force a smile and wave back, doing your best to look inconspicuous.
Nothing at all like the perverted little horn-dog thief you actually are.
You drive home like a woman possessed. The second your door clicks shut behind you, you’re already bolting for your room.
Shoes kicked off in a hurry, your duffel landed on the bed with a heavy thud. Your hands shake as you fumble with the zipper, pulse pounding with the insanity of what you’re about to do.
There it is.
The stolen towel, still damp and filthy, you lift it to your face and inhale like it’s oxygen itself.
God, that hits!
Your eyes lodge into your skull as the odor particles hit your brain, your mouth and pussy watering instantly.
This is wrong.
Disgusting.
Depraved.
And yet—you can’t remember the last time you were this fucking horny.
You don’t even undress properly—just shove your shorts down, kicking them off with your panties as you hurriedly reach into your nightstand.
Got it!
The suction vibrator hums to life in your hand as you collapse back against the pillows, towel pressed over your face.
The second the toy clasps over your clit, a gasp punches out of your chest, your eyes flying open.
Embarrassingly slick and oversensitive, your body reacts like it’s been waiting for this since his hands were on you. Your hips grind into the suction with helpless little thrusts.
The crumpled towel muffles your moans as your brain fills in the blanks—his voice, his hands, his tongue in place of the toy.
His gruff voice berates your thoughts.
Push harder, brat.
Hold it. Take it.
Good fucking girl.
As far as your delusions are concerned the soreness in your muscles isn’t from the workout, but from him folding you over the bench, stretching you open with this hefty cock and working you over until you’re shaking for an entirely different reason.
Trembling, your hand almost slips as your orgasm builds, causing you to arch into the vibrations.
Engage it! You hear him growl.
And you do—just like he taught you as you bury your face deeper into the towel and flick the button increasing the pulsing suction on your throbbing button.
When you come, it hits you all at once.
A breathless cry tears out of you as your body locks up—pleasure tearing through you. You cling to his scent, hips jerking as you ride the overstimulation until you finally go limp.
Lying there afterward, dazed, sweaty, staring at the ceiling in quiet horror because even through your shame the hard truth is—you want more.
And like an addict after the first hit—you’re already clicking the wand back on.
By morning, to your horror, the scent has already started to fade from the towel and the panic that claws up your throat is immediate.
You know you can’t afford another session...
But an unhealthy obsession?
That, you can manage.
After that, the gym doesn’t just become part of your routine—it is the routine. You start showing up religiously, like you’re worshipping at the altar of your own filthy fixations.
Well, for your workouts too. But mostly?
You come for him. Sukuna.
Like a fucking weirdo you start watching Sukuna from a distance.
In mirror reflections. From across the floor. From behind machines.
You just… observe—quietly and patiently—drinking him in like a thirst you can’t quite quench.
You never try to make eye contact though, nor dare to try to make conversation.
Hell no, you’re too terrified of him for that.
Plus Sukuna didn’t seem like the small talk type.
On the rare occasion your eyes do meet in the gym in close passing, you barely manage a stiff and squeaky, “Hi” before darting your eyes away, like you’ve been caught doing something illegal.
Which, honestly, feels kinda accurate.
But you weren’t really doing anything bad right?
You were a gym member. He worked there.
Of course you’d see him. It’s normal.
Super casual.
Just like you casually timing your workouts to use machines near wherever he is training clients. Hoping to get close enough to maybe, just maybe, catch another whiff of those musky pheromones that rewired your brain chemistry and wrecked your sense of normalcy in a single afternoon.
Your jealousy hits fast when those bubbly influencer girls, all high-ponytails and matching sets, laugh way too loud at things he definitely meant as insults and actually have the nerve to try to cling to his adonis-like form.
The only consolation is they are usually crying by the end and few rebook in return, making Sukuna's regulars mainly men who want him to tear them apart so they can have even a fraction of the physique he does.
Yet man or woman, Sukuna runs them into the ground. He doesn’t care how pretty they are or how hard they flirt or how much they protest.
It doesn’t take long to realize something else, either:
Sukuna’s harder to book than Gojo.
You only got him that day by pure fluke—Yuki was out, and someone canceled.
Sure, Gojo’s the golden boy. Content king, the face of the gym and the main draw to why people sign up for the ridiculously expensive membership in the first place.
But Gojo’s sessions are all vibes. He jokes, flirts, counts a few reps, and always films a cute reel for your socials—just as long as you make sure to tag him and the gym.
But Sukuna? Sukuna doesn’t even have social media.
You only go to Sukuna if you’re serious. Or masochistic.
Or just plain obsessed.
Like you.
No one leaves his sessions looking camera-ready. They leave wrecked.
And goddamn—that just makes you want him even more.
Once, while leaving the gym, you spot the personal trainer shift schedule—just left out on the front desk.
Plain as day, just sitting there in the open.
You don’t mean to look. You really don’t.
But the next thing you know, you’re pretending to scan a QR code on a sign advertising the gym app (which you downloaded weeks ago), while sneakily snapping a photo of Sukuna’s hours instead.
You nearly shit yourself when Gojo pops up out of nowhere.
Grinning, smoothie in hand, he starts chatting you up like you didn’t just commit a minor felony.
Panicked, you mumble something about catching your bus—
…while holding your car keys in plain view like a dumbass.
Then you bolt outta there like your name is Usain.
But minor mortification aside, from that day on, your visits become a lot more strategic.
You realize Sukuna comes in at the ass crack of dawn to train before his shift.
So, naturally, you start showing up even earlier—just to watch.
Today’s upper body, apparently.
You find Sukuna posted up at the shoulder press, casually repping weights that are triple your mass. His black tank clings to him, sweat-darkened and stretched across his chest like it’s trying to merge with his skin. You swear it looks just as desperate as you are to be pressed against him.
Getting visibly annoyed at the clingy fabric, Sukuna rips the tank off one-handed, yanking it over his head and tossing it to the floor like it had personally offended him.
You nearly fall off the elliptical at the sight.
His bare chest is on full display now—tatted pecs glistening, thick and meaty, bouncing slightly as he pumps out reps like it’s nothing.
You’re barely moving.
The machine beeps at you, flashing “INACTIVITY DETECTED.”
Chile, you don't even notice.
You’re too busy imagining burying your face in those muscular mounds, tits squishing against your cheeks while he presses you in deep and lets you suffocate in nirvana.
God, you just want to motorboat your face into them until you pass tf out.
Unknowingly, a soft whine slips out of you.
Louder than it should in the mostly empty gym, even with music pumping.
Sukuna’s eyes flick over toward you.
Fuckkkk.
Caught, your neck twinges from how fast you whip your head away.
You don’t dare look back, but you feel Sukuna watching you. His stare scorches a hole straight through your soul.
You don’t look anywhere other than the ellipticals display until Gojo’s obnoxiously loud voice calls Sukuna over from the back office, waving encouragingly like he’s summoning a particularly grumpy doberman.
Leaving all his stuff at the machine, there's a distinct growl of annoyance from Sukuna as he rolls his eyes and stomps away.
Alone now, your gaze slides back to the shoulder press machine.
The black leather shines under the overhead lights—drenched, shining like a fucking beacon, soaked through with Sukuna’s delicious man‑sweat.
Practically calling to you like an obscene siren song.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you’re already in front of the machine.
You’ve never even used it before—but that’s not about to stop you now.
Under the pretense of adjusting the weights, you crouch down and press your nose to the seat where Sukuna had been sitting.
A salty musk clings to the cushion.
Mmm, pungent. It’s so fresh. God, it’s been too long since you’ve smelled him this intensely.
A shudder rips through your spine as you inhale deep, chest stuttering.
Quickly, you glance around, checking to make sure the coast is clear. It is. Then you do something you never would have considered doing just a few weeks ago—you lean forward, tongue peeking out of your drool glossed lips and lick a lingering bead of sweat straight off the backrest.
Oh damn, Oh fuck!
This must be what heaven tastes like.
Suddenly, a door booms open from the back. You hear Gojo’s laughter, in near hysterics as and Sukuna’s grumbling something you can't quite make out.
Startled, you bolt upright, heart slamming into your ribs.
You don’t think, you just know you can’t get caught licking seats like a freakazoid so—you book it.
By the time you stumble into the locker room, panting you notice something in your hand—
It's practically saturated with sweat, beads dripping down onto your sneakers. Biting your lip, you know you just can't walk out there and give it back to him.
You'd look bonkers.
And worse—you can still feel his warmth in the fabric.
Shit! Darting into the nearest bathroom stall, you slam the door shut, sitting on the toilet lid as you stare at the dirtied tank in your hands.
You are absolutely fucking disgusting.
And you don’t give a solitary fuck.
Without hesitation, you wring the fabric out over your open mouth, catching the salty drip on your tongue. A moan fumbles from your lips as you lick them, before you stuff the fabric into your mouth and slurp it down glutinously like its holy water.
From there, it only escalates further.
A few days later, a long sock falls out of Sukuna’s bag in the lobby.
You bend down like you’re tying your shoe and swipe it when no one’s looking. At home, you loop it around your head—hands‑free—covering your nose while you grind against a pillow until your thighs ache.
You steal water bottles.
Sweatbands.
Once, you even snag a pen he’d been chewing on—lift it straight off his clipboard and stuff it into your pocket. Later, you suck on it like it’s his tongue while your fingers work between your legs in the women’s locker‑room showers.
Yeah. You get over the embarrassment of getting off in the private stalls pretty fast.
It goes on like this for weeks.
No matter how much you take, telling yourself it's the last time. It never is.
It's never enough.
When Sunday rolls around, you show up at 5:30 bright and early—well, not bright exactly.
The sun isn’t even out yet, but as expected the gym’s a ghost town.
Just Gojo behind the front desk, humming to himself as he uploads another fitness thirst trap video, sipping an energy drink he definitely doesn’t need.
“Morning, cutie. You’ve been looking good lately,” he calls out as you enter, flashing a devilish grin that throws you off before you’ve even cleared the threshold. “Reconsider any personal training yet? Sorry again about Yuki bailing. But you enjoyed Sukuna, riiiiight?”
You freeze mid-step.
Gojo hasn’t brought up training since that first—and only—session.
He doesn’t know anything… right? So then why bring it up now?
“Ah, um—no, I did,” you stammer. “It… it was great. Amazing, even. B-but like I said, budget is so tight it’s nonexistent.”
You laugh nervously and Gojo hums like he's thinking something he’s not outright saying. “Mmhmm. Got it.”
Before you can slip past the desk though, he continues: “Oh! We just installed an infrared sauna, you should check it out! No one’s even used it yet, give it a test go for me will ya?”
Gripping your bag tighter, you offer a weak noncommittal smile, eager to get away from Gojo’s amused eyes.
But upon entering the main workout area your mood dips immediately.
No sign of Sukuna.
Goddamn it.
Early Sundays are usually your favorite—You always get a front-row seat to Sukuna’s infamous leg day routine. Full of squats that show off just how dummy thick his ass is.
Still, if you dragged yourself out here, you might as well make it count.
Surprisingly, when you pick up the 25lb dumbbell you used to struggle with, it feels light. Stalking clearly is a workout—your gains speak for themselves.
Usually, your “sessions” don’t last long—mostly an excuse to ogle—but today you grab a towel and decide to hit the new sauna tucked in the back.
You might as well do Gojo the solid, your study group isn’t until noon.
Besides, you’ve never tried the regular Saunas—too self-conscious to sit half-naked next to glossy, influencer types. But the gym’s a ghost town and the new one is down a quiet, empty hall.
Perfect.
Stripping down in the locker room, you wrap the towel around yourself and head down the corridor.
There’s only one sauna, but a paper sign slapped on the door reads Women’s, so you don’t think twice.
Stepping inside, the noise from the main floor vanishes, sealed off by thick walls. The red glow of infrared lights paints the wooden heatbox in a soft, sultry rouge.
It’s oddly peaceful.
You breathe deep, lowering yourself onto one of the benches. Your limbs still ache from your half-hearted workout, but the heat is a balm. Eyes fluttering shut, you let it melt into your muscles, loosening tension you didn’t even realize you were carrying.
But your mind refuses to settle. Ten minutes, maybe less, go by, and all you can think about is Sukuna.
That wild pink hair. That gruff voice. Those hands. And of course—that stench.
You squirm slightly on the hard wooden bench, warmth pressing in from all sides. The silence thickens around you, humid and still. Your legs part just a little. A hand slips beneath your towel, nudging it up past your hips.
Sure, this is way more public than the showers… But no one’s around. Just Gojo up front—too busy refreshing his comments section to do any actual work.
Relaxing, as soon as your fingers dip into your folds—
Creak.
The door swings open.
Scrambling, you snap your legs shut, crossing them tight. Your hands fold in your lap like you’ve been sitting politely this entire time.
Adrenaline in overdrive, just when you think it can’t get worse—Sukuna steps in.
Shirtless, only in swim trunks, with a towel slung over one shoulder, Sukuna's torso gleams. The visible temperature of the sauna makes him look like a tempting mirage.
Pool? Since when does he swim? Also, you didn’t even realize the gym had one.
Breath stuttering you clutch your towel tighter around you.
“Um, e-excuse me, M-Mr. S-Sukuna?” you mumble, refusing to meet his eyes, “T-This is the women’s sauna”
Sukuna just looks at you incredulously.
“Cut that Mister shit out right now brat—tsk, but who the fuck said that?” he huffs, “There’s only one. It’s unisex.”
There’s plenty of room across from you, even on one of the upper levels. But Sukuna sits next to you, the bench creaking under his hefty bulk.
You swallow hard. “Ah, er… b-but the sign—?”
“What sign, you dizzy brat?” he smirks, flashing a single sharp canine.
Scrambling to your feet, you crack the door open and scan the hallway.
You blink at the walls, the floor, the door itself but the sign is nowhere to be seen.
Where the hell did it go!?
“Get your ass back in here and close the damn door,” Sukuna grumbles. “You’re letting all the hot air out.”
You straighten, nearly dropping your towel as you scurry back inside to avoid his wrath. Still mumbling apologies, you hover near the door—until Sukuna throws you a look.
You flinch, then shuffle back to your seat beside him.
Okay, girl, be calm.
But that's near impossible when you are internally freaking the fuck out.
Your thoughts race to find an excuse to leave. But the moment you turn toward Sukuna to speak, every thought evaporates—unlike the thick sweat beading along his tanned skin, your gaze zeroing in on a drop rolling lazily between his sculpted pecs.
You’d kill for a taste of that right now.
“You look good,” he finally says, causing you to jump, which only seems to amuse him.
You blink. He means you!?
Well… you suppose you can slip on your thanksgiving dress without a fight now. But you hadn’t really noticed—too busy splitting your time between school, the gym, and gooning yourself stupid over Sukuna.
Somehow, you’ve turned into a regular gym rat.
“You’ve been doing the sets I taught you, yeah?”
You nod quickly.
Sukuna doesn’t respond, his gaze unreadable as silence stretches between you. But you are stuck, frozen like a deer in headlights—fighting the urge to fidget under his scrutiny.
Unfortunately for you though, patience has never been a virtue of his.
“Tch.” Sukuna clicks his tongue, clearly fed up.
“Is that it? That all you’re gonna say for yourself?” His questions are intense as he eyes you down. “Didn’t take a freaky lil’ brat like you to be so damn shy.”
Hello!?
“Um, what—?”
Sukuna’s expression hardens further, his teeth sucking sharply as he leans in.
“Don’t bullshit me, brat. You’re into some kinda perverted stalker shit, right?”
Well…tea but damn, saying it like that makes you sound crazy.
“I—I don’t—what are you talking—”
“Careful.” Sukuna cuts you off with a sneer. “Lying’s not your strong suit.”
He shifts closer, thigh brushing yours, arm on the upper level bench draping behind you.
Dear god, he's so close you can smell him now.
The scent of his sweat curls around you like a chain, thick and oppressive in the heat, seeping into your pores.
The same scent that lives in the sock under your pillow. The tank you sleep in. The towel on your nightstand. The water bottle. All the stupid little trophies you stole like a greedy hoarding goblin.
“There are cameras in the gym,” Sukuna says casually—like he’s reciting policy, although his eyes never leave yours. “When my shit started going missing, I checked the footage.”
You would die on the spot right now if that was actually a viable option.
“I saw everything, woman” Sukuna spits, “You’re a fuckin’ freak. You should be locked up.”
Shitshitshit—is he actually going to call the cops!?
The sauna feels a thousand degrees hotter. Your instinct screams run—but you know you wouldn’t make it to the door if he decided to stop you.
“Ha, you know…Gojo called me into the office that day on purpose,” Sukuna adds, clicking his tongue, “He didn’t believe me that a quiet lil thing like you would be such a fuckin' weirdo at first, so he’d thought it’d be funny set a lil trap for ya.”
Your stomach drops… trap? Oh god, that day…
"Tch, a'course you fuckin' fell for it too—just like I knew you would…licked that groadie bench down like a slut."
But Sukuna, is unbothered by your falling apart, not softening his blows.
“You think I didn’t see you sniffing benches?”
“Licking the rim of my shaker bottle?”
“And that sock I dropped?” He snorts. “Wore that shit for five days straight. Smelled like rank ass.”
A broken sound slips out of you—half gasp, half whimper as you bury your face in your knees, trying to scrunch up in the tightest ball possible.
You can feel Sukuna looming closer though, his aura utterly overwhelming.
“Just admit.” Sukuna’s voice lowers, a bit gentler but not by much.
“You’ve been stealing my shit to flick your slutty little bean for three months straight. Figured you’d own it, now that I’m giving you a chance.”
Peer up at him from your knees, you look puzzled.
A chance??
“You, um… mean you're not mad?”
His grin widens, sharp teeth flashing.
“Oh, I’m fuckin’ pissed,” he says easily. “That some greedy, perverted brat’s too cheap to pay for more sessions, so she creeps on me and steals my shit like a freaked out leprechaun…”
You grip the edge of the bench, ready to run. Out of the sauna. Out of the gym. Out of the goddamn country. Nine months of prepaid membership? You’d flush it down the drain and never look back.
“…but,” Sukuna interrupts your spiral, licking his lips, “I’ve seen how hard you’ve been working. Like you’ve got my voice in that nasty little head of yours… telling you what to do.”
He leans in just slightly, voice dropping with heat.
“And that? That gets me hard as fuck.”
Your eyes drop. His shorts are tented—thick, obscene, stretching toward his thigh.
Pulling away from you, Sukuna leans back, spreading his arms along the bench behind you like he owns the place.
“Come here, brat.”
You freeze, just a beat too long—long enough to piss him off and before you know it Sukuna is grabbing you by the scruff of the neck, hauling you into his lap. Your towel slips in the process, falling around your hips.
But you don’t even notice as his thumb presses beneath your jaw, tilting your face up to focus solely on him.
“Look at me, woman.”
Your throat tightens, holding his gaze, forced and trembling as your palms press flat to his chest and your bare pussy rests on his thick cock, still caged in his shorts—yet you still feel the twitch of it through the material.
The contact hits you like a fever, soaking into your naked body like fire. At long last, you are skin to sin, you imagined this more times in the last few weeks than you can count.
You can’t help the tremor that ripples through you.
Sukuna’s lip curls.
“So…”
SMACK.
His palm cracks against your ass, the punishing blow, has you biting down on your lip not to scream.
“You like the way I stink, huh, slut?”
Your bottom lip quivers and sick of holding it in, your degeneracy boils over in your admission.
“Oh fuckfuckfuck… yesss!”
God, that felt good. Like confession—but instead of relief, all it does is stoke the heat rolling through your body. You’re no sinner seeking redemption—you’re reveling in your own depravity.
Sukuna chuckles, pleased at your admission as his grip tightens at the back of your neck, yanking you forward until your face is buried in the thick curve of his raised arm.
Right into his funky pit. The epicenter of everything you’ve been chasing.
“Then get a good whiff, freaky-ass brat.”
And you do. Eyes fluttering shut, you bury your face in the muggy pocket of sweat and inhale—deep, greedy lungfuls that make your pussy clench helplessly around nothing.
Sukuna reeks of unfiltered masculinity. No deodorant. No pretense. Just thick heady pheomones—raw, musky and pungent.
You don’t care that you’re naked. Don’t care that you’re in public.
All you care about is getting more. More of him. More of that addictive stench that’s already rewired your addict brain.
“That’s it,” Sukuna says, “Just like that. Fucking knew a nasty brat like you’d melt.”
You whimper against his skin, but shame doesn’t stand a chance anymore—choked out by sheer, throbbing need.
This is your sickest fantasy made flesh.
You nuzzle deeper, nosing through the soaked pit, surprised by how smooth the skin is—just a faint dusting of pink fuzz tickling your cheek. The texture alone makes your clit throb.
A needy moan slips from your throat as your hips roll forward on instinct, grinding against the fat stiff ridge straining in his shorts.
Already dizzy and feral, you rut shamelessly—slick soaking through the fabric—like you’ve long since forgotten what the concept of dignity even is.
Sukuna growls, teeth clenched as your soppy cunny smears across his thigh.
“Shiiit,” he grits out, voice rough as gravel. One big hand slips between your legs, fingers sliding languidly through your messy folds, far too composed compared to the frantic buck of your hips.
“You’ve been this wet the whole time?”
He snorts at the pitiful sound you make.
“What—never thought to get your fix straight from the source, huh? Fuckin’ scent junkie?”
You whine, helpless, hips jerking as he pushes a thick finger inside your perverted lil’ pussy.
“Where’s your shame, slut?” Sukuna jeers teasingly, “You want someone to walk in here and see you like this?”
You couldn’t care less.
You could die like this. And die happy.
Eager to show your gratitude your tongue drags wet and slow through the sweaty hollow of his pit, flicking, swirling and sucking at the flesh.
Your tongue swirls more obscenely at his praise—devouring the taste of him like you’ll never get another chance.
Exhaling hard, Sukuna knows if he doesn’t stop you, he’s going to fucking bust soon, just from your vulgar lil’ tongue in his pit and from the feral way you dry hump his cock like a deranged, funk-drunk perv.
“Say, brat?” Sukuna’s tone is laced with something dangerous but you’re too far gone to register, only groaning into his skin.
Sukuna loosens his grip on your neck just slightly to stroke the back of it, deceptively gentle.
“You do your warm-ups today? The ones I showed you?”
“Mmm—ah—” Your mouth breaks from his skin just long enough to mumble a blissed-out, “Always do~!”
“Good,” Sukuna chuckles, shaking his head “This shouldn’t break you then.”
Before you can blink, Sukuna yanks you from his pit.
He manhandles you face-down, ass-up on the bench, forcing your spine into a brutal arch.
There’s a rustle behind you—the sound of fabric hitting the floor.
That’s the only warning you get.
Then he slams in.
One brutal, bottomed-out thrust—balls deep—and the air rips straight from your lungs.
“Ngghh!—F-FUH!”
Your thighs spasm, cunt clenching tight as Sukuna rams straight into your G‑spot, slick pulsing out around his cock and soaking him to the heavy sack.
“Called it,” Sukuna snorts, smacking your ass, watching it ripple. “The crazy ones are always fuckin’ gushers.”
You don’t answer. You can’t.
Completely incapacitated, you quiver beneath him—already fucked too dumb by his veiny girth splitting you open. No time to brace. No chance to adjust.
Just reduced to a shell, a fucktoy for his use—and fuck, it feels sooo good.
“Quit squirmin’, woman,” Sukuna growls, landing another smack—harder this time—making even the cheek he didn’t hit jiggle.
You’re desperate to follow orders—but you barely know where you are anymore. The sauna’s heat blurs your vision, your brain melted by the fire in your core and the way Sukuna’s cock throbs inside you, turning your guts to mush.
“Tsk. Not stable enough—looks like you need a spot.”
Sukuna plants one foot, swinging the other up to plant on the center of your back, pinning you in a shape exactly to his liking. Locked into position at the perfect depth, angle, and tilt to pound into your spongy walls and pound straight into your womb.
“There,” he grunts satisfied, “Perfect fuckin' form.”
The sauna fills with the sound of sloshing flesh. You’re leaking from everywhere—sweat slicking your skin, tits dripping, cunt gushing around his cock. The bench beneath you is drenched, an obscene puddle collecting under your trembling limbs and dripping onto the floor.
It’s messy, it’s vile and it’s the hottest sex you'd ever had,
“Take it,” Sukuna roars. Spreading your ass cheeks wider, he hunches over you, crescent moons digging into your flesh for leverage lest he slips out of your slick cunt entirely.
“That’s it. Fuckin’—tight little thing, *puh*” Sukuna grits, spitting.
The fat wad of fluids hits the top of your crack, pooling with the sweat dripping off his brow and your own, rolling in rivulets down your back, dribbling down—all messily coalescing in the crack of your ass. The mixture bubbles over your hole as it flutters, struggling to take it in, but Sukuna’s thumbs keep it stretched open, ensuring it does.
Fuck what a filthy sight—it hasn’t even been that long and already his balls are tightening, wanting to explode in your crazy, stalker coochie.
“Look at you,” Sukuna pants, muscles twitching, the sauna’s heat finally catching up to even him. “This is the real training ya needed. Been too long since this freaked-out pussy had a good workout.”
“YESSSSS!” you cry, it feels so good, but it’s all too much. You’re seconds from blacking out.
Your hands claw at the bench, nails leaving streaks in the wood as Sukuna, removes his foot from your back, grabs a fistful of your hair and yanks you upright, putting you in a headlock.
Each brutal thrust snaps your body forward, cheeks stinging with every slap of his hips against your ass.
“Sniff,” he orders. Thrusting harder with each word. “Breathe. It. All. In.”
But his arm's tight around your throat—you can’t breathe.
Everything collapses into sensation: the choke of his hold, his scent pouring over you, the heavy weight of his body pressing down, the wet flick of his tongue in your ear before he bites the shell just to hear you squeal.
“You wanted this,” he mocks, voice ragged. “Earned every inch, creepin’ on me like a filthy lil’ perv.”
The moment his palm smacks your swollen clit, your orgasm detonates.
Bruttally ripping through your body, your pussy clenching around his cock like a vice.
You’re sobbing in pleasure, helpless, as Sukuna swears under his breath—but doesn’t slow.
He fucks you through the aftershocks, pussy squeezing him in erratic, wet pulses that has him coming undone.
With a final, guttural grunt, Sukuna’s cockhead presses flush to your cervix, thick, hot ropes of white flood your womb, searing your insides until you’re dazed and seeing galaxies behind your lids. Keeping you pinned in the headlock, Sukuna holds you there until the worst of your spams subside, finally pulling out with a wet, heavy pop.
You’re half-conscious, limp from exertion—but Sukuna isn’t finished.
He lowers you onto your back, spreads your trembling legs, and drops between them to survey the looks of your battered, swollen cunt, still plugged full of his cum.
“You know,” Sukuna smirks, “You’re not the only one into musky shit, slut.”
You shiver as he licks his lips—then dives in, hungrily sucking his own cum out of your pussy, groaning low as the cocktail of scents flood his senses.
You have no idea how much time passes. Surely there’s no cum left—yet Sukuna’s still down there face buried deep like your folds like your pussy juice was the much needed recovery electrolytes his body craved after fucking you into the bench.
If you had the strength, you’d push him away.
But you don’t.
You just lie there, ruined and twitching, as he rips another body racking orgasm out of you.
Click.
Unexpectedly, the sauna door creaks open.
You can barely see now with all the sweat dripping into your eyes—but the voice is unmistakable.
“…Well, well.”
Gojo.
He’s standing in the doorway, a green smoothie in one hand, shit-eating grin plastered on his face.
“Oh,” he says, sipping through his straw. “Thought I heard some suspicious moaning through the vents. Wanted to make sure no one was dying back here.”
Panicked, you try to sit up—but Sukuna doesn’t let you. His arms lock tight around your thighs, dragging your ass back down onto the bench with a scowl.
He doesn't even look at Gojo.
Gojo snickers, lounging in the doorway. “I know I of all people shouldn’t judge but, Sukuna, buddy. The women’s sauna?”
“Unisex,” Sukuna grunts into your cunt. “You labeled it wrong on purpose, dickhead.”
“Guil-ty~,” Gojo sing-songs. “But hey—look at you! Finally got your dick wet in some crazy stalker pussy. I definitely did you a favor.”
“The both of you actually,” he drawls on, swirling the straw of his smoothie like a martini, “I did leave that trainer schedule out on purpose. Didn’t think you’d go full gremlin though, girliepop, but hey—looks like it paid off!”
A pathetic sob escapes you—half humiliation, half pleasure—especially when Sukuna tightens his grip on your thighs, holding you down like a meal that won’t stay still.
“Shut the fuck up,” Sukuna snaps, surfacing just long enough to glare at Gojo’s smug ass. “You’ll scare her off. She’s jumpy enough.”
Gojo merely laughs it off.
“Nah, not this one,” he says, eyes glittering with mischief. “After indulging that freaky lil appetite? You’re the one who should be scared, Kuna~.”
But Sukuna clearly doesn’t give a fuck—he’s already back between your legs, this time sliding his thumb into your ass.
You jolt, thighs shaking violently, muffling a cry behind your hands as your body bucks against his mouth. Although, given the situation, you still are considering skipping town when all of this is over.
“Well, don’t stop on my account.” Gojo hums. “I’ll throw a cone outside so no one wanders in on your little… aroma therapy session~”
Just before disappearing, Gojo pauses in the doorway, faux-pouting.
“Oh—and next time, you fuck little miss agora hills? Invite me. Or I’m docking your pay for unauthorized client sessions—okay toodles~~!”
Click. The door swings shut behind him.
Sukuna doesn’t even look up.
Tch. Like hell he’s inviting that fruity-smelling bastard.
an. this was a hyperfocus brain obsession i had to thug out, soz. going back to work on elevator p2, freddy!sukuna and incel!naoya [if i didnt mention it no im not working on it right at this second, yes i do plan to finish it, please don't bug me about it :) ]
𝓵𝓲𝓴𝓮𝓭 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓼? then please 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 or 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠! you can also join my gen. 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 or contribute to the 𝐛𝐢𝐦𝐛𝐨$𝐟𝐮𝐧𝐝.
lieutenant simon ghost riley has a couple of piercings, actually, more than a couple, if to admit truthfully, but he ain't a man to go around and sun shine with his scarred mug, and especially not one to wear them behind the thick, grimy fabric of his work balaclava, but still, a little showing never hurt nobody.
simon prefers putting some jewelry only when he's out to the late night pub, let his face breathe a little, refresh the piercings with some simple, black titanium pieces, one at his eyebrow, one to the plump, pale bottom lip, one to the bridge of his a bit crooked nose, a couple more to the ears that barely have any place left when you see all those earrings on him.
you can't help but eye him, hiding your curious gaze behind the flutter of eyelashes, thinking you can disguise your pretty face behind this glass you hold, but your lieutenant has good senses, catching your eyes with his own, whiskey brown and squinted, grunting at you with a tiny wolfish smirk, waiting till you finally break out the question that rolls around your tongue.
“do you have more, sir?” comes out a small mumble, almost a lambs blea, your fingers twisting together, nervous, unsure if that's a question too personal or not, and this amuses simon so much, sharp fangs coming into view as his smile stretches, low, rumbling hum escaping out his throat, before he lolls his tongue out, long, pierced a little further than the tip, titanium circle gleaming right at you with the strings of saliva that stretch down his teeth.
you get a good view and an even better non verbal answer, while simon gets drunk on the way your throat moves slowly as you swallow again, this time, not from nerves at all, judging by the way your feet catches his under the table by sheer accident, while you wriggle, clenching your thighs together sheepishly, flustered and beyond aroused, exacerbating lieutenant's sudden hunger, ready to be his meal for after he'll finish some bourbon.
almost dad!simon has to remind you to breathe every time he fucks you cause you will forget. you do forget, too busy trying to un-blur your vision when he pushes in for the first time. his tip stretches you with a slight burn that digs your teeth into your bottom lip. when they pull away, you’re bleeding. not by much but enough to catch ghost’s attention.
“in ‘n out, yeah? just like we talked about…”
“hm?”
“breathe, love,” simon directs, sheathing himself halfway inside your warmth with a couple taps to your cheek. “or you’re gonna pass out like last time.”
finally, you exhale out a choked word of mush. not a full breath but better than nothing. there’s a look in your eyes, a watery glaze mixed with lost that makes simon question if you even know where you are.
“s-sorry… s’just, mm, really big, you’re really big,” you tell him—remind him—with small pants. “feels good. a l-little funny, too. but still good.”
simon licks his lips at that, snaking his hand down to place his palm just below your belly. he presses, gentle and firm at the same time, before grinding his hips until his tip finds your sweet spot. you wail, and simon just watches your face while doing it again. a little deeper and a bit harder, enjoying the strong wet he can feel collecting as your walls cling to him.
he fucks you this way, pulling back then stuffing you with half his length at whatever pace he feels like until you're crying. sobbing and overwhelmed and trembling beneath him as you whimper out blubbering mumbles. "think i... t-think i can feel you... 'n my stomach–fuck. ah, hasn't felt like this before."
"i know," simon grunts. "wanted to try somethin' your uncle told me about. uncle kyle, remember him?"
a lazy nod bobs your head, thinking of the pretty man you could barely say hi to without wanting to run and hide. his smile, his voice made your thighs want to clench, even when you tried to think of something different.
"told me i should push right here," simon tells you, adding more pressure where his palm is scolding your skin as he thrusts inside you again, causing a dizzying rush to overtake you. "then watch you go all dumb. said you'd get nice 'n slick f'me, too. think it's workin'. can feel you drippin' on my sheets, love. gonna have'ta help me clean 'em tomorrow, though. got some more people who wanna meet the reason i can't fuckin' think straight..."
for everyone asking for a part two of the Ghost putting reader in a headlock drabble. Here you go as a little treat for us because we deserve to be put in a headlock and fucked stupid:
He’s behind you, chest to your back, one thick, scar mapped arm looped under your chin and slanted up across your cheek, biceps and forearm flexed to cradle your throat enough to lock you in place, to let you feel every fiber and tendon, the brute heat of him all along your spine.
Ghost hooks you into him like you weigh nothing, spreads his thighs under yours, and sinks another inch just to hear the little noise you make.
You suck air in ragged little pulls, dizzy on the pressure and the way his bare skin slicks against your sweat. God, the size of him. Shoulder like a slab under your ear, bicep swelling against your jaw every time he flexes. His body is massive behind you; he dwarfs you, cages you. Your head is tipped back on his chest, eyes half lidded, lips parted, drool slipping over your tongue, because every time you suck a breath you get him: the underlying musk of man who’s been working, fighting, fucking for hours.
You’d have been happy with just the headlock while you grind yourself happy and stupid on his cock.
But Ghost doesn’t do “just.”
He ruts up into you from below; hips snapping, the thick length of him driving deep at an angle that knocks little ah-ah-ah sounds out of your open mouth. The headlock tightens as his forearm drags you tighter to his chest, forcing your head to the side until your tongue lolls, a slick line of drool sliding over his bicep. He groans when it hits his skin, low and pleased. “That’s it. Make a mess on me.”
Your eyes roll back on a hard thrust. You try to find the rhythm and he steals it, bucking up in short, brutal strokes that make your thighs shake. The hand at the back of your head holds you where he wants you; the heel of his forearm anchors you to his chest so there’s nowhere to go but down on him, again and again, taking every inch.
Ghost’s other hand is locked around your waist, palm spanning almost the entire plane of your stomach, blunt fingertips digging into the curve of your hip as he pins you back to him, thumb catching your clit. He’s rutting up into you from behind, cock thick and heavy, spearing deep with each brutal roll of his hips. Every thrust rocks your body forward, only for the choke of his arm to anchor you; keep you right where he wants you, strung out on the edge of pain and bliss.
“Look how you take me,” he grits, thrusting up, grinding when he bottoms out just to make sure you feel the whole width of him. “So fucking deep, yeah? Tell me.”
“So- deep,” you hiccup, voice wrecked, drool slicking his arm as your lips part around another helpless sound. “Feels- ngh- better than- than anything- ”
He laughs, quiet, gravelly, smug. “Better than your own fingers?” Up, in, drag- your walls clamp and his thumb circles meaner. “Better than your toys?” Another punch of his hips and you squeal; he covers your mouth with his forearm so the sound goes soft and filthy against his skin. “Thought so.”
You can barely do anything; arms trapped, hips locked, voice gone weak and high and wrecked. Your toes barely touch the floor; your body bows with every stroke, pleasure washing up your spine in wild, helpless bursts. You’re mewling, keening, so far gone that your tongue slips from your mouth, drooling, eyes fluttering back as he rails you, pressure at your throat and in your belly all tangled together.
You’d be happy to stay here forever; just his arm, his cock, the heat of his chest pressed to your sweat slicked skin. But Ghost is relentless. He leans forward, presses his mouth- half masked, his breath hot and damp- just under your ear.
“Look at you” His voice is a gravel scrape, thick and breathless, the growl vibrating through his chest and straight into your bones. “Fuckin’ ruined on my cock.”
You can’t even answer. You only manage a broken moan, saliva glistening on your lower lip, eyes glossy and rolling, body shuddering in the circle of his arms. His bicep bulges against your jaw, hard and impossibly strong. You try to move, try to twist, but he tightens just a little, crooking his elbow up so the world narrows, pleasure sparking white hot in your skull.
He fucks you rougher, rutting up into your cunt with a punishing rhythm that shoves you toward the edge, hips slapping, thighs flexing against your ass. The sound is filthy, echoing, the room stinking of sweat and the sharp, animal edge of his arousal. Your eyes roll back; you can’t help it. More drool slips from your mouth to his arm, and he only growls, pleased, hips snapping faster, chest sticky against your back.
“That’s it. Take it. Take all of it,” he grits out, arm flexing, forearm pressing into your cheek. “God, you look so fuckin’ pretty like this- just drooling, brain gone, tight as a fist around me-”
You feel the orgasm building, bright and wild, helpless. Your body clenches down around him and your vision swims, the pleasure too much to hold. He feels it, thrusts deeper, grinding into you, keeping you held in that perfect, inescapable hold.
You come undone with a scream, body bucking, muscles clamping down so hard he curses, his own release crashing through a moment later; hot and thick, pulse after pulse, hips jerking as he holds you pinned against him, nowhere to go but where he puts you as he empties his heavy balls into your cunt. Your body is limp, boneless, head lolling in the crook of his bicep, mouth open, drool streaked on his skin. You’re utterly, deliciously wrecked.
Only then does he ease the pressure a fraction, palm stroking your jaw where his forearm pinned. “Still with me?”
A dazed smile, a little gasp. “Yeah.”
“Good. Again.” He says, then tightens the headlock, wicked. “Still got more in me.”
never done a hybrid au or anything but I keep thinking about hare!Ghost and rabbit!reader
he's so big, limbs and ears stretched too long, scent eerily similar to something you could almost call familiar, his shape is uncanny, cousin to your own but corded with different muscles. his nose twitches differently, his ears stand too tall, his penchant for open spaces felt quirky at first but now you watch him lay out in an open field and the way he disappears against the ground sends a chill down your spine. he is so much like you and yet every inch of you knows he's different.
but no one else seems to care. they pair you up like alarm bells don't ring each time you stand next to him. they joke about leaving rabbits together and you swallow the need to scream that he's not like you, that it isn't natural, it doesn't work, that when his eyes slink towards you they read as foreign as a predator. it's like staring down a funhouse mirror of your species, some convergent evolution gone wrong, shifted for a harsher environment, your families separated enough that you never should have been faced with someone like him.
you thump your foot at him when he gets too close and your entire body heats in embarrassment. it's an empty threat, you're hardly fit for fighting without the guns and knives that soldiers carry but ghost- ghost studies you like an insect, like he can't quite figure out why you're so soft and round where he isn't. he stares at you in every room his existence corners you into. he tugs at one of your ears when you pass him in the hall, he gropes at the fat of your hips when you stand in line at mess, he grips your tail so hard you have to stop yourself from yelping. so you thump at him, because you're tired of whatever measurements he's taking, whatever comparisons he's drawing between the two of you, silent observer to your fear of him, using it to keep you quiet against the persistent harassment; his nose twitches.
he's faster than you, you already knew that, you shouldn't be surprised when he lunges at you the way he does. you still scramble to get away, launch yourself into movement, some hind-brain instinct propelling you forward, searching for somewhere small and dark to hide yourself. Even though you know he'll catch you, that his big hands will grip you hard and then, well, you don't have to think too hard about what he wants.
you'd seen the way his hard cock strained against his fatigues at every mention of fucking like rabbits.
Could you do a sinners story. That’s a Stack x Mary x Black!reader set now. Where they slowly fall in love with reader who’s baddie and include some jealousy.
three's trouble, stack & mary.
summary: stack had always had a thing for you. you never thought much of it because he was a huge flirt like that and also because of the other girl he was always entertaining. but maybe, just maybe, you could have a bit of fun with that?
pairings: stack x blackfem!reader, stack x mary, mary x blackfem!reader.
warnings: slight smut (one day i'll go the whole way), some descriptions of reader, mary being jealous of reader.
notes: this one is kinda long! i'm a smoke girly through and through but this request may have bumped stack up my ratings a little 😛 also by 'set now' i'm assuming you mean in today's era but if that's not what you meant then i wholeheartedly apologise 😭
It started off as a joke. When Smoke and Stack opened up their juke joint, you had originally gone there with a couple of your girls, until it became a routine place for you guys to meet up and debrief, letting loose as the night's events would take you away.
It wasn't until the fourth time you went there that you met Mary. You were on the dance floor with your girls when she almost bumped into you, turning around with an apologetic face. She hovered over her words as she spoke to you, taking in your face and that gorgeous two piece you had on you.
Something clicked in her head in that moment, it was all fuzzy, not quite connected, but she just knew she'd be seeing more of you.
And that she did.
It became a weekly thing, going to the joint. The first time you met Stack was no accident; it seems he had actually sought you out from the crowd. He wanted to know what it was about this girl that Mary kept going on about.
Mary wasn't infatuated to say, she was more... interested. There was something about you that drew her in, the way you laughed at her jokes, how effortlessly your body moved to the rhythm of the music as you both danced, the intense eye contact... It really drew her in.
Stack wasn't really what you expected. Perhaps you just thought he'd be like his brother, Smoke. Cold, tough, not interested in anything that doesn't benefit him in a way, or at least that's what you gathered from all that you heard.
But he wasn't like Smoke, at least not entirely. Stack was clearly the more chilled of the two, the one open to having a bit of fun.
The joke itself was based on how much of a liking Mary and Stack took to you. You'd be told that they didn't always tolerate people outside of their immediate circle, that there was just something special about you.
When Stack began to call you his girl, or when Mary started to affectionately show you off to anyone who would listen, you started to think there was more to your relationship with them than you suspected.
That being said, you weren't surprised when Stack greeted you with an arm thrown over your shoulders, pulling you into him every time he saw you since the say you met.
"There's my favourite girl," he'd drawl out with a huge smile, an icy pink drink in his hand waiting for you.
"Hey, Stack," you'd kiss his cheek, taking the drink from him and allowing him to take your hand in his, leading you to the section of the joint him and Smoke fixed up nice and neat for them and their special guests.
You felt the eyes on you as you walked behind him, albeit he was moving at a fast pace through bodies that parted so he could pass. He was respected like that.
"Where's Mary?" You asked when he sat you down right next to him, one of your legs resting over his lap as his arm lay low around your waist, holding you to him.
You had to lean up close to his ear to ask over the loud blues that was being played on the stage, presumably Sammie. Your new 613 styled hair tickled his face a little when he leaned closer to you to answer.
"She's around, I ain't too sure where," he waved you off, almost like it irritated him to answer. You came to the conclusion that Stack and Mary had a complicated relationship, it was pretty obvious to anyone who watched them for more than a moment.
At times you got caught up in the middle of their arguments or tiffs, where Mary would complain to you about Stack being Stack, and Stack would tell you to tell her to "ease off a lil'". It was always something with those two.
You stayed in his company like that for most of the night, mainly because Stack wouldn't exactly let you get up. You were a catch, he knew that and you did too.
He saw the eyes you'd get from every guy here and then, but none of them would make a move whilst you were with him. They'd wait until after, but even then, the fear of messing with Stack's girl would keep them away.
"Damn, Stack, save some girls for the rest of us," Melo laughed as he dapped him up. Melo was one of the guys that Smoke and Stack tolerated, for more reasons than just the fact that he was a funny guy. You thought it had something to do with the 'business' that they handled, and you were probably right.
Stack smirked, his hand subtly rubbing your ass over the skirt you wore. "Man, gone on," he gestured to Melo.
"Nah, real shit though, where Mary at?"
"I'on know, does it look like I got her on a leash? She's wherever she's at." He snapped. You frowned at that, coming to the conclusion that they had definitely gotten into it before you arrived.
Melo held his hands up in surrender, walking away to the bar. It was like he could feel you judging him, because when Stack looked down at you after reaching into his pocked for a prerolled blunt, he shook his head. "Don't you start on me too, ma" he mumbled, fumbling in his pockets for a lighter.
"Hm," was all you said. "I'm gonna go look for her."
He didn't stop you, try to make you stay. He let you go after her.
Mary was on the other side of the joint, laughing it up with some girls you'd never seen before. She spotted you just as you spotted her, her face brightening up at the sight of yours.
"Hey, there is she is right now! Look girls, this is the fine lil' lady I was talking to y'all about earlier," she held your hand as she brought you to the group. You smiled at them all, trying to fight away any awkwardness.
"You look good," Mary brought her arms to rest around your neck, intertwining them together. Yours rested loosely around her waist, the two of you almost flush together.
"Thanks, doll," you made a kissy face at her, not expecting her to actually kiss your lips. It was a short kiss, and she pulled away with a huge smile. Poor girl was gone. "What's up with you and Stack though? Y'all fighting again?"
Mary rolled her eyes, removing a hand from around your neck to pull her dress down a little. You recognised the dress, it was one you helped her pick out on the many shopping trips the two of you took together with Stack's money. It was a deep red, came up to her mid thighs and exposed her back at the behind.
"That man ain't shit," she groaned. "Talking 'bout I get on his nerves and don't know how to leave him alone. Maybe don't send mixed signals then?!"
You nodded as she ranted, her friends now dispersing across the joint to leave you two alone. This was nothing you haven't heard before, Mary and Stack always got into it about something along the same lines as their last argument.
"Maybe I should just have you be my new thing instead of him," Mary frowned, leaning her body on yours. You smiled at her words.
"I wouldn't mind that."
*
A couple days later, you assumed they'd be on good terms again but it seemed not. You were hanging around in your apartment when you heard the door open, confusing taking over your face because no one else had a key. Before you even had a chance to grab something incase you needed to defend yourself, you heard a voice call out for you.
"Where you at, baby?" Stack asked, taking his shoes off by the door.
"Elias, I told you to stop picking my damn doors," you kissed your teeth, exhaling a much needed sigh of relief after that small scare.
"Then start answering your phone," he said like it was the most obvious response. He kissed your lips briefly, mumbling a "hey" before he made his way to your kitchen, coming back to you with a bottle of water.
"What brings you here?" you asked, settling down on the sofa.
He didn't reply straight away, instead he took the time to admire you as he drank. You weren't wearing anything too special, a small, white spaghetti strapped tank top with light grey joggers that belonged to a lounge set. You looked good. You always did. Hell, you could be wearing the most basic thing ever and Stack would find you drop dead gorgeous.
A small smirk made its way to his face as his thoughts trailed off to other things, making you tilt your head at him.
"Hello?" you nudged him.
"Sorry, darling," he finally snapped out of his trance. "You got me a lil' distracted there."
You smiled, like you always did when he flirted with you. He put the cap back on his bottle, placing it down on the coffee table in front of him before his arms reached out for you, pulling you into him.
You let him guide you over his laps, straddling him with your palms resting flat against his chest. Stack's hands rubbed over your ass as he leaned further into the sofa, his eyes staring right into yours.
"You didn't answer my question," you looked back at him.
"I can't pay you a visit no more? Damn," he sighed, squeezing at your hip.
"I didn't say all that," you rolled your eyes. "You and Mary keep getting into it and then dragging me in your mess."
The day before, Mary had come over to yours. Originally she planned to convince you to come out with her, but you had had enough of partying for a couple of days. So she stayed in with you.
What started off as you two watching movies and making dinner turned into her hands caressing gently over your body, your lips on hers and a whole lotta noise.
"That ain't nothing new," He said.
"Yeah? Maybe that's a sign, I don't know..."
"A sign for what?"
"A sign that—" you were interrupted by the sound of the doorbell ringing, a puzzled expression on your face as you removed yourself from Stack's lap to answer it. There was nothing that annoyed you more than unexpected guests, but two? This was a new record now.
You opened the door, eyes widening at the sight of Mary.
"Hey, girl," she smiled at you. She looked down behind you for a brief moment, her eyes landing on Stack's shoes. She look back at you, eyes narrowed before she moved past you and inside.
"Yeah, come right in. No, I'm not too busy at the moment," you mumbled to yourself. It wasn't long before you were hearing raised voices and all sorts of cuss words being thrown.
"Really?! So you can be here, around her, but you can't be bothered to come see me?"
"Mary, calm the fuck down and watch who you talking to," Stack ran a hand down his face, his mood completely soured as he reached for a blunt in his pocket.
"No! Because you're such a fucking liar! I swear to God," she laughed bitterly, turning to face you now. "And when were you gonna tell me about this. Huh? After I slept with you again?"
Stack's brows piqued up at that, turning to you too.
"Mary, you knew Stack's been coming up here, I literally told you that—"
"What, y'all got something goin' on too?" She scoffed. It was insane to her how she was the one who introduced you two yet felt completely left out of the loop.
"I mean, shit, if you want," Stack smirked, clearly unfazed by the situation in front of him.
"Shut the hell up," you and Mary both said.
Sighing, you walked towards her. You could see the pout on her face, the crease in her brow that only appeared when she frowned. "You like him more than me or somethin'?" She asked you.
"No. I like you both. I also think you're both irritating as fuck," you spoke honestly, tucking a standing of your hair behind your ear that had fallen out of the ponytail you put it in before they both came.
Stack blew smoke out of his mouth from where he sat, watching you both. You wrapped your arms around Mary's waist, inching your face closer to hers. Her eyes flickered from your lips to your eyes, waiting for you to make the first move.
You broke your gaze away from her face to look at Stack, his eyes focused on you and what you would do next. A smile graced your lips, your attention back on Mary. You leaned in, feeling the softness of her lips welcome yours.
"Damn," Stack mumbled.
Mary kissed you back, a small moan escaping her lips as she did. When you parted your lips, her tongue didn't waste any time, exploring your mouth as you moaned shamelessly.
You broke away from the kiss, leaning your head on Mary's shoulder as you looked at Stack. "There are more ways to solve this lil' issue, you know."
Stack smiled, putting his blunt in the ashtray. You pulled away from Mary, pushing her gently towards Stack, who took her into his arms. He kissed her, slow and gentle.
"You know I love you," he mumbled against her lips.
"Yeah. I love you too," Mary sighed, glad she was finally being shown some attention by him.
They turned to look at you, Mary patting the spot on the other side of Stack. "And we love you too. Guess we'll just have to learn to share," she smirked.
You sat down, and it wasn't long before Stack's lips were on yours, his hand around your throat, pulling you closer. Mary watched on, her lip tucked in between her teeth. Why didn't she ever think of this before.
She kissed down Stack's neck, nipping and biting, letting up when you started to kiss her. Her hands grabbed at your top, breaking away from the messy kiss to pull it off of you. Stack took his top off too, his toned body on display. You almost drooled, you couldn't believe this was actually happening, or rather, that it was happening so late.
Stack leaned towards your neck, sucking and kissing wherever he could as you groaned, tilting your head back slightly. Mary was still on you, kissing you from cheek to cheek before she was back on your lips. You were overwhelmed a little, but the good type of overwhelmed.
Stack pulled away, his eyes lustful and full of want as he looked at both his girls. "I think we should take this upstairs."
Set in 1932
Reader x Bo Chow
(Smut | NSFW | 18+ | Kissing | Light Choking —barely | F!Receiving)
ᴡᴄ : 4ᴋ
The bell over the door gave a tired little jingle when you pushed it open, stepping in from the heat and dust of the street —
𝓑𝓸 𝓒𝓱𝓸𝔀 & 𝓒𝓸 𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐓𝐀 ɢʀᴏᴄᴇʀʏ & ᴍᴀʀᴋᴇʀ
Your shoes were worn thin. Your dress was simple cotton, sticking to the back of your knees.
And you were tired — bone-tired — from chasing one dead-end job after another across this godforsaken town.
You needed work.
Or a miracle.
Or both.
The store smelled like tobacco and dry wood, with a hint of something sweeter — maybe the candy in the jar by the counter, or the bright bruised apples piled up in baskets.
Shelves lined the walls, packed with everything from flour sacks to pistol rounds. It was the kind of place where a man could buy a loaf of bread, a hammer, and a coffin without walking more than twenty feet.
You adjusted your bag on your shoulder, wiping sweat from your forehead, trying not to look as desperate as you felt.
It was quiet inside, but not empty.
There, behind the counter, sleeves rolled up over strong forearms, stood a man.
And Lord Almighty.
You almost forgot how to breathe.
He was fine — broad through the shoulders, lean through the waist — and the worn suspenders crossing his chest did nothing to hide it.
Dark hair, a little mussed like he'd run his fingers through it a hundred times that morning already.
Sharp jaw.
Sleeves pushed up.
And a cigarette dangling careless between his lips.
He watched you over the top of the ledger he was scribbling in, one eyebrow tilting up slow, like he wasn't quite sure if you were real or a heat mirage rolling in off the road.
"You lost, darlin'?"
His voice was rough, low.
Not unfriendly.
But not soft, either.
You swallowed.
Your cheeks burned hotter than the sun outside.
"No, sir," you managed, clearing your throat. "I'm lookin' for work."
He tilted his head a little. The cigarette bobbed between his fingers as he tapped ash into a tin.
There was a long, heavy pause, stretching thin between you like taffy pulled too far.
He leaned forward, arms braced on the counter, and you caught the faint scar along the side of his throat — a rough, pale line disappearing beneath his shirt.
He smelled like leather and smoke and maybe something wilder, something you couldn’t name.
"Ain't much work left 'round here," he said finally.
"Dust's got more jobs than we do."
Your heart sank.
You started to thank him anyway — ready to turn, ready to leave with your pride shriveled up tight inside you —
But then he said, almost too casual:
"You know how to tally numbers? Take stock? Keep folks from stealin' when I ain't lookin'?"
You blinked up at him.
Nodded fast.
"Yes sir. I can read, write, count. And I can run a register."
(You prayed you didn’t sound as breathless as you felt.)
Bo Chow smiled then — real slow, real lazy.
Like maybe he hadn't smiled all day until now.
Maybe longer.
And damn if it didn’t feel like that smile was just for you.
"Might have somethin' for you after all," he said, nodding toward the back room.
"Mornings, couple hours. Pay ain't much, but it's clean work. And you get first pick if any more fruit comes in."
You tried to smile back, tried not to look like a fool.
"I'd be grateful," you said. "Truly."
"Name's Bo Chow," he said, holding out a calloused hand across the counter.
"Most folks just call me Bo."
You put your hand in his, and he squeezed it firm — just enough to make your stomach flip once, twice.
His skin was warm.
Rough in the right way.
Your name felt small and clumsy on your tongue when you said it.
He repeated it once under his breath — tasting it — like he was putting it away somewhere safe.
You heard boots scuffing behind you — a couple old-timers coming in, hats low over their faces — and Bo dropped your hand slow, like he hated letting go.
"Be here six sharp tomorrow," he said, voice dropping a little lower.
"Don't make me come hunt you down."
And Lord, the way he said it —
like it was a promise,
like it was a threat,
like maybe he wouldn't mind hunting you down at all —
You walked out of that store with your heart rattling around in your ribs, a stupid grin tugging at your mouth.
The dust hit your boots. The sun hit your eyes.
But you hardly felt it.
All you could think about was him.
About Bo Chow, the cigarette smoke curling around his smile. About how, maybe you'd finally found something worth staying for.
The next morning, you showed up just before six —
hair pinned back, boots polished best you could manage, apron folded under your arm.
The sun wasn’t even fully up yet, just a pale silver smear over the flat line of the fields.
The streets were empty except for a stray dog.
You hesitated at the door, heart hammering.
What if he changed his mind?
What if he realized you weren’t worth the trouble?
But the second you pushed inside, the warm smell of tobacco and cedar wrapped around you like an old blanket —
and there he was.
Bo Chow.
Behind the counter, sleeves rolled again over those damn forearms, shirt tucked messy into dark trousers, suspenders hanging low on his hips like he hadn’t bothered to fix them yet.
He was counting cash, cigarette stuck lazy between his teeth, the smoke curling up in slow silver ribbons.
He glanced up when he heard the door —
and you swear, you swear, for a half second he smiled.
A real one.
That soft kind, just at the corner of his mouth.
Just for you.
"You're early," he said, voice rough with sleep.
"Good."
You nodded, setting your things down behind the counter.
Your hands shook a little, but you kept busy — dusting, sweeping, checking the register like he told you.
He didn’t hover.
Just gave quiet instructions here and there, moving around the store slow and easy, like he had all the time in the world.
And it was the little things —
God, it was the little things —
that drove you crazy.
You noticed it first when he leaned down to pull a crate from under the counter —
how his shirt stretched tight over his back, fabric whispering against muscle.
How a lock of dark hair fell over his brow and he huffed it out of the way without even noticing.
You caught yourself staring.
Snapped your head down fast, pretending to reorganize the fruits and vegetables.
Then it was the way he stood —
shoulders wide, hips cocked lazy —
arms crossed over his chest as he watched you figure out how to load the till.
There was something about the way he moved — no wasted steps, no fidgeting —
like he didn’t have to try to own the space around him.
He just did.
And Lord, when he laughed —
Low, unexpected —
a real rough chuckle that rumbled from his chest when you nearly dropped the glass candy jar and caught it at the last second —
God, you felt it down to your toes.
"Careful, sunshine," he drawled.
"Ain't but one of you, and glass is expensive."
You ducked your head, face burning.
But you couldn’t help smiling.
Around mid-morning, after he nailed up a new shelf in the back, Bo wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.
You offered him the water you packed — nervous, feeling silly.
He took it with a little nod, mouth brushing the rim where yours had been without hesitation.
And when he handed it back — his fingers brushed yours.
Calloused.
Warm.
You felt it like a jolt of lightning, sharp and sweet under your skin.
"You doin' alright?" he asked, voice low.
"Ain't scarin' you off yet?"
You shook your head fast.
"No, sir."
That slow smile again — like he was proud of you, somehow.
It made your chest ache.
The rest of the day passed in slow, golden hours.
He showed you how to track inventory, how to read the order forms, how to spot the difference between good grain sacks and ones chewed through by mice.
And every little thing —
the way he squinted against the sun when he stepped outside, the way he twirled the pencil between his fingers when he thought, the way he touched the brim of his hat polite to the older ladies who passed by —
every little thing made you fall harder.
You were a fool.
You knew it.
But God help you, you couldn’t stop.
Near closing time, when the shadows stretched long across the floorboards, Bo lit the oil lamps and turned the sign to CLOSED.
The town settled into quiet outside, the cicadas starting up their low hum.
You packed up your things, heart heavy.
You didn’t want to leave.
He leaned back against the counter, cigarette smoke curling around his head like a halo, watching you with that unreadable look.
Not smiling.
Not frowning.
Just watching.
And before you left — just as you reached the door — he said:
"You did good today."
You turned, surprised.
He flicked ash into a tin, voice casual, almost too casual:
"Could use someone steady around here. Someone like you."
"If you want it — job’s yours."
You tried to speak —
tried to say yes, of course, yes, thank you, yes —
but all that came out was a breathless little whisper.
"I'd like that."
Bo nodded slow, eyes never leaving yours.
"Good," he said.
"Real good."
You just huffed and left the store.
You showed up early again the next morning.
Couldn’t help yourself.
You barely slept — just laid in your bed all night staring at the ceiling, heart banging around your ribs like a fist.
You kept seeing him —
that rough smile, that lazy slouch against the counter, the way his hands moved — big and calloused and sure — like he could tear the whole damn world down if he wanted, but he didn’t.
He was gentle with you.
You dressed careful — simple skirt, neat tucked-in blouse, hair tied back.
Nothing fancy.
But you caught yourself smoothing it down a dozen times on the walk to the store.
You weren’t scared of work.
You weren’t scared of Bo, either.
Not really.
What scared you — if you were honest —
was how badly you wanted him to look at you again the way he had yesterday.
Like he saw you.
The bell over the door jingled when you pushed inside —
and there he was.
Bo Chow.
Good Lord.
You almost had to grab the doorframe to keep from sliding down it.
Today he had the vest on —
rich brown canvas, snug over his shoulders and chest —
shirt rolled at the sleeves again, forearms out, tan skin dusted with faint scars like old stories he never bothered to tell.
Trousers fit firm around his slutty waist, boots scuffed from work.
He looked up from stocking the shelves —
and when he saw you, a flash of something warm crossed his face.
Almost hidden.
Almost.
"Mornin’, sunshine," he said, voice low and gravelly.
"Thought you might show."
You swallowed hard, managed a nod.
He stood up slow, dusting his hands off on a rag.
That damn vest hugged him in all the right places.
Made your stomach flip and knot in ways that felt dangerous.
You got to work without being told, moving behind the counter, checking the inventory list.
Trying to pretend like your heart wasn’t about to explode out your chest.
It didn’t help that Bo kept brushing close —
not on purpose, not really —
but every time you turned around he was there.
At one point, you bent to grab a crate from under the counter —
and when you stood up, you bumped right into him.
Hard, solid chest —
vest scratchy and warm against your back —
his hand catching your waist automatically to steady you.
Big palm.
Firm grip.
Fingers splaying wide before he yanked them back like he touched a hot stove.
You both froze.
For one wild second, the whole store was silent —
just the sound of the clock ticking on the wall —
his breath brushing the back of your neck.
Then he cleared his throat, stepping back.
"Easy, now," he said rough, almost scolding.
"Ain't tryna bust that pretty nose, are ya?"
You flushed so hot you thought you might catch fire.
Mumbled something — you didn’t even know what —
and ducked your head fast.
Later, you were coming out of the storage closet — arms full of ledgers —
right as Bo was striding in.
Instead of waiting — instead of shrinking back —
you moved right past him.
Real smooth.
Real bold.
Except —
the space was too damn narrow.
Your hip brushed his thigh —
your shoulder scraped his chest —
and your ass — oh, Lord —
your ass skimmed right up against his front when you slid by.
You felt him go still —
felt his hand twitch at his side like he had to physically stop himself from grabbing you.
You didn’t dare look up.
You just kept moving, pretending you didn’t notice, pretending your whole body wasn’t screaming at you.
Behind you —
you swore you heard him swear low under his breath.
Real soft.
Real dangerous.
You bit your lip so hard it hurt just to keep from smiling.
By noon, the air inside the store was thick and heavy with heat.
Bo shed the vest finally, slinging it over a hook near the door.
You caught a glimpse of the way his shirt clung to him —
the long line of his back, the strong slope of his shoulders.
You caught yourself staring again —
caught yourself wanting —
and forced yourself to look away.
But Bo must’ve noticed, because a minute later he drifted close —
reached past you for something on the shelf —
his hand landing light on your waist to move you out the way.
He didn’t even think about it.
Just did it.
Like you were his already.
Your breath hitched so fast you nearly dropped the jar in your hands.
"‘Scuse me, sunshine’," he said, real soft in your ear.
"You’re in the way."
You stood there dumb, blinking, as he brushed past —
close enough to smell the salt and sun and cigarette smoke on him.
It wasn’t until later — after closing —
when you were wiping down the counters and Bo was locking the door —
that he spoke again.
"You work good," he said, voice low and thick.
"Real good. Smarter than most the men that come through here."
You turned, heart hammering.
Bo was leaning back against the door — arms crossed — watching you.
Face unreadable.
Eyes dark.
You opened your mouth — to thank him, maybe — but he cut you off.
"How old are you, anyway?"
You stiffened.
You knew what he was asking.
Knew why he was asking it.
You met his eyes steady, chin tilting up just a little.
"Turned eighteen last month," you said.
"I'm grown, sir."
For a second —
just a breath —
something flickered across his face.
Something hungry and dangerous and real.
Then it was gone, shuttered behind that calm mask he wore like a second skin.
He nodded once.
Slow.
Like he was making peace with something ugly inside himself.
"Alright, sunshine," he said rough.
"Long as you know what you’re doin’."
You smiled —
small and sweet and secret —
because you did.
You really, really did.
And Lord help you —
you weren't planning on stopping.
The day dragged in slow —
hot and heavy, same as always —
but you didn’t mind.
Not when you got to watch him.
Bo moved like he wasn’t even trying.
Stacking crates, counting stock, slouching against counters —
and all you could do was sneak glances every chance you got.
The way his sleeves were pushed up to his elbows —
showing off strong forearms, tan and scarred, veins running beneath the skin like little rivers.
The way the muscles flexed under the fabric when he lifted something heavy.
His hands —
God, his hands.
Big and rough, palms calloused from years of work.
Knuckles scarred like he’d been in more fights than he’d ever admit.
You imagined what they’d feel like —
skimming your skin, wrapping around your throat, curling in your hair.
It got harder and harder to focus on anything else.
You were wiping down the counter again — pretending to clean when you were really just looking at him —
when you realized:
No customers.
None.
Just you and Bo.
Alone.
Heat swirling between you like smoke.
Your heart kicked up —
wild, reckless.
And before you could talk yourself out of it —
before you could remember to be scared or shy or good —
You moved.
Not too fast — a normal shaky pace.
You crossed the space between you in a few quick steps —
grabbed his hand —
and tugged him toward the back.
He let you.
No questions.
No hesitation.
Just a soft grunt, a half-smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he followed.
"What’s this, sunshine?"
His voice was rough, curious, amused.
"You stealin' me?"
You didn’t answer.
You just pulled him through the narrow back door — into the storeroom, dim and warm and empty —
and shoved him back against the wall.
You stood there, breathing hard.
Heart hammering so loud you swore he could hear it.
Bo looked down at you —
those dark eyes burning —
and for a second you thought maybe he’d laugh, maybe he’d brush you off, maybe he’d tell you to run along like the little girl you weren’t anymore.
But he didn’t.
He tipped his chin down —
lips brushing yours —
and said low:
"You sure, sunshine?"
You nodded.
Didn’t trust your voice.
That was all he needed.
He kissed you like he’d been waiting for it.
Hard.
Hungry.
Hands grabbing your hips, dragging you against him.
Your head spun.
The world tilted.
His mouth was hot and rough, teeth scraping your lower lip just enough to make you whimper —
and God, the sound you made must’ve lit him on fire because he growled low in his chest and kissed you harder.
You clutched at him — hands fisting in his shirt, dragging him closer —
and he let you, let you crawl all over him, like he was starving for it.
Like he’d die if you stopped.
At one point, you stumbled —
tried to pull back to catch your breath —
but he chased you, mouth claiming yours again, hands framing your face so careful, so tender even with how rough the kiss was.
You were dizzy with it —
with him —
with the feel of his body pressed against yours, all hard heat and steady muscle.
And then —
You did it.
Hands shaking, you grabbed his wrist —
guided it up —
placed his big, rough hand around your throat.
Gently.
Like a question.
Like a please.
Bo froze.
For one hot, crackling second —
everything in the room stopped moving.
His thumb brushed the side of your throat —
slow, thoughtful.
Not squeezing, just holding —
just letting you feel the strength there, the weight of him.
He pulled back just enough to look you dead in the eye —
something dangerous and filthy gleaming behind his gaze.
And he grinned —
slow, wicked —
all teeth and bad intentions.
"You into that shit, sunshine?"
His voice was dark velvet, wrapping around you, making you shiver.
You nodded — breathless — grinding your hips against him like you couldn’t help it.
(You couldn’t.)
His fingers flexed slightly, tightening just a fraction —
not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you who was bigger, stronger, in charge.
You whimpered — so soft, so needy —
and he laughed, low and rough, like you were the best damn thing he’d ever seen.
"Goddamn," he muttered, voice rough and reverent.
"You’re gonna be the fuckin’ death of me."
Then he kissed you again —
deeper, dirtier —
hand still cradling your throat, the other roaming down your spine to pull you flush against him.
You melted into him —
opened for him —
let him take whatever he wanted.
Bo’s hand stayed loose around your throat a moment longer —
thumb brushing the edge of your jaw, his breath ragged against your mouth —
before he finally let go.
Not because he wanted to stop touching you —
no.
Because he wanted more.
He gave you a rough, breathless little grin —
one you could feel in your knees —
then reached down and grabbed you by the waist like you weighed nothing.
Lifted you right up.
Set you down on the nearest wooden stool —
still warm from the heat of the barn outside, a little unsteady, but solid enough.
Your hands grabbed the edge of the stool instinctively —
steadying yourself —
eyes wide, heart pounding so hard you could barely hear.
Bo leaned back a half-step —
just enough to drink you in.
The way your dress rode up, baring the soft skin of your thighs.
The way you sat there all breathless, pupils blown wide, lips kiss-swollen and desperate for him.
He dragged a hand down his face —
as if trying to keep himself together —
and then just said low, almost to himself:
"Christ, you're pretty."
You didn’t even realize you were doing it —
but your eyes kept dropping.
To his hands.
Those big, rough, dangerous hands —
scarred and calloused and strong.
You could feel the strength of them from here.
Could imagine them wrapped around your hips, your waist, your throat —
holding you down, holding you up, whatever he damn well pleased.
Your mouth went dry.
And Bo noticed.
His mouth curled into a wicked, knowing smirk.
"Yeah?" he rasped, voice dropping.
"You like the look of my hands, sunshine?"
You swallowed hard —
nodded.
You didn't even try to hide it.
And that was all he needed.
Bo stepped between your knees —
crowding you close, body heat washing over you like a furnace —
and ducked his head down.
Started kissing along your jaw —
slow, wet, open-mouthed kisses trailing lower and lower.
You gasped when he found the spot just under your ear —
sucked there hard enough to leave a mark —
and he grinned against your skin when you tilted your head for him, helpless and wanting.
"Good girl," he muttered into your neck.
"Gimme that pretty throat."
You could’ve melted right then and there.
His hands were everywhere —
roaming up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts, dragging along the soft curves of your waist like he was memorizing you.
You arched into him —
not even trying to play coy anymore.
You wanted him.
All of him.
And Bo —
he was starving for you.
Before you could blink, he dropped to his knees.
Big, broad body sinking down in front of you —
pressing your knees wider apart with those strong hands, pulling your panties down — looking up at you with something almost feral in his eyes.
"Gotta taste you, baby," he rasped, voice half-broken with need.
"Been fuckin' dying for it."
You whimpered —
hand flying to his hair instinctively —
fisting in the thick dark strands as he shoved your dress up higher, higher, exposing you.
No hesitation.
Bo dove in like a man half out of his mind.
The first press of his mouth against you made you cry out —
sharp and sweet —
hips bucking up without you meaning to.
Bo groaned —
like it was the best thing he'd ever tasted —
and grabbed your thighs, holding you down, forcing you to stay right there for him.
His mouth was ravenous —
lips and tongue working you open, devouring you like you were his last meal.
Messy.
Loud.
Absolutely, devastatingly good.
You tried to pull away once —
overwhelmed, shaking, breath hitching in your throat —
but he groaned and pulled you back down harder.
"Nah, baby."
"You take it."
"You let me eat this pretty little pussy just like this."
"You fuckin’ taste how bad I want you."
You sobbed his name — it was pathetic, really.
Hips grinding helplessly against his mouth —
and Bo just groaned again, deeper, like he could come from this alone.
The wet slide of his tongue.
The scrape of his teeth just barely grazing.
The way he sucked your clit into his mouth and held it there until you were shaking.
He licked you like he owned you.
Like he wasn’t gonna let you walk outta this storeroom until you knew exactly who you belonged to.
And when you finally came —
loud and desperate, thighs clamping around his head —
Bo just kept going.
Didn’t stop.
Didn’t let up.
Made you ride it out —
every shudder, every whimper, every sweet little broken cry.
When you finally slumped forward, boneless and ruined, hands still fisting in his hair —
Bo looked up at you —
mouth slick with you, eyes dark and wild —
and said, low and rough:
"Ain’t done with you yet, sunshine."
"Not even close."
And you believed him.
You wanted him.
God help you —
you wanted everything Bo Chow was about to give you.
a/n: my obsession with this man has gotten worse so I had to write for him!! I apologize if these are messy, it’s very late here but I couldn’t resist putting this out lol.
Currently listening to: I Put A Spell On You by Nina Simone
- When he decided that you were ready to finally be turned, he cradled you as if you were a newborn baby. His sharp teeth punctured the softest point within the crook of your neck, maroon liquid seeping from your supple skin and squirting onto his lips. He shushed your pained whimpers and cooed at you with the sweetest words he could muster up, “shh, I know, darlin’, I know. It ain’t too bad now, hm?” His strong, scarred hands cradled the back of your head as he guided you through the experience, almost as if he was scared that you’d break if he teared himself away from you for even a second.
- The pain was temporary, he assured you, but you’d be his forever. If you were to ever decide you didn’t want him anymore, it wouldn’t matter, he’d always remind you of the day you asked him to turn you. Asked him to allow you to surrender. Asked him to make you fully his.
- On top of all that, he simply wouldn’t allow you to depart from him. If he were to ever allow you to leave his side, it’d be to teach you a lesson. You really think you can go on without him? Try. Any other lover who enters your life after him, man or woman, won’t be able to fulfill the hunger he planted deep within your soul. They’d just be a constant reminder that nobody could ever satisfy you the way he did. Nobody could understand you the way he does, and he’s made you come to terms with that.
- it’d feel incredibly easy to open up to him. He made it easy for you in the beginning because he wanted you open for him. But, his comforting presence remained even after he was able to sink his teeth into you. He wipes your tears with a mixture of sadness and turbulent rage within his eyes, hoping the person who left such a nasty stain on your heart is still alive so he can pay them a little visit himself. He holds your aching body as it shakes through tears, caressing your hair and placing a delicate kiss atop of your head.
- “oh, don’t cry, darlin’. Ya know I hate seein’ you like this. I’m here now, okay? Yeah, I’m here.”
- he listens to your stories of heartbreak & irreversible trauma and reacts to the tales as if he was the one who was hurt. He curses the names of those who’ve hurt you and validates your anger, your sadness, your grudges. He looks at you with eyes that have true understanding and compassion swirling within them, eyes that only ever soften when they fall upon you.
- when he gets you into bed, his hands & crimson red eyes never halt contact with your body. His hands are constantly squeezing your plush thighs when you’re on top of him, making their way up your back before they finally settle on the back of your shoulders, anchoring your hips to his before he begins to piston his hungry hips into yours. He makes you look at him and simply won’t have it if you try to look away for even a second. He’ll hold your chin between his thumb & index finger, continuing to comment on just how pretty you look. Cheeks flushed, lips bruised, eyes halfway closed because this man has worn you out, and your hair frizzy from the constant contact your head has made with the pillow beneath you.
- “ There she is, there’s my girl.”
- “ Why are you runnin’ from it, baby? C’mon, ya know you can take it, you’re just a lil stubborn.”
- constantly tells you stories from his time, whatever time that may be. You’ve heard stories of war, societal collapses , his travels, his witnessing of historic losses and wins. You carefully ask about his family, and wonder if he even remembers his family. You quickly realize that he does in fact remember them, and he fills you in on the fact that it hasn’t been that long since he himself was turned into what he is now.
- He had his eye on you way before he stepped foot on your front porch. He knew things about you that it’d take the average person at least a few months to discover. He knew if you had any siblings, who your friends were, who you were closest to out of all of them, what your favorite books were, what you enjoyed doing during your free time, what your favorite bath time scents were, who you wrote letters to, who you phoned most often, what music you enjoyed filling the emptiness of your house with. He knew all of this because he watched and he listened. He enjoyed doing so, and he knew he was doing it for a damn good reason.
- The day he entered your life, he knocked on your door ready to sing his little lies of, oh, I’m your neighbor! Figured I had to come by and introduce myself. Which wasn’t entirely a lie, he really did live close to you, but he didn’t knock on your door just to hand you a blueberry pie and shake your hand as if he didn’t know you better than all of your so-called friends & family. But, he had to be patient. He knew he’d eventually be able to tell you the truth, or you’d just figure it out yourself, he knows you’re a smart girl. But, this is how it needs to start off. He doesn’t wanna scare you off.
- compliments you on even the tiniest details of your appearance. The way your hair curls right above your eye, the way your skirt hugs your hips, how your scarlet red lipstick reminds him of the ripest berry, how your liner makes you look like “a little kitty cat”, everything about you is worth observing and commenting on to him.
- “Well, don’t you look pretty.”
- “You’re a whole lotta woman, ain’t you, darlin?”
- this man knows you inside and out, in every sense of the word. Did you guys see the way he said I know how you like to be licked ? Yeah, he knows everything he has to do to make you cum on his tongue and his cock. He knows all of your sensitive little spots, the ones that’d make you squeal and your hips quiver back to meet his unforgiving thrusts. The sound of your hips meeting, skin slapping, and the wet sounds of your flushed pussy creaming over his thick fingers is enough to make him drool like a rabid dog.
