Your car breaks down right in front of the garage, and you’re already steeling yourself for the usual routine: a sky-high bill, too much time wasted, and a mechanic who barely looks up. Instead, you get Sukuna, who gets personally offended on your behalf after realizing your regular shop has been scamming you. Once he figures that out, he takes it upon himself to teach you enough to make sure it never happens again. Unfortunately for him, fixing your car is a breeze, but getting you out of his head? Not so much.
cw: mechanic!sukuna x f!reader, mostly sukuna pov, sukuna has a crush, yearning sukuna, pining sukuna, sukuna is bad at feelings, kinda slow burn
wc: 10.4k, one shot
notes: based on these two asks: first and second!
main masterlist ◦ ao3 ◦ sukuna art by @/hunnismokah
It's barely past dawn, and as Sukuna drags the shutters up, the ungodly morning air hits him with a brisk, damp chill, cooling the coffee in his hand. He’s banking on a quiet hour to sort through the mess of inventory, maybe even enjoy the silence, before the first scheduled appointment pulls him away.
Down the road, maybe a hundred meters away, hazard lights blink through the gray mist. A hatchback sits stranded on the shoulder with its hood open. You’re there beside it, looking entirely defeated, with your shoulders hunched as you rub your arms against the biting chill that cuts straight through your jacket. You're pacing in small circles, your breath blooming in white puffs that vanish into the fog.
Taking a long sip of his coffee, Sukuna watches the scene for a beat. It’s obvious that this mess is about to become somebody's problem, and with how close you are to his driveway, that somebody's him. He lets out a resigned grunt, sets the mug aside, and starts the slow, reluctant walk down the slick, dark stretch of asphalt.
By the time he gets to you, you’re prodding at the battery terminal with pure confusion, clearly out of your depth. He stops by the driver’s side fender, his shadow stretching over the engine bay and swallowing up what little light the morning offers.
"Get in and try to crank it," he rumbles, his voice still rough from sleep.
You flinch slightly, nearly dropping your keys, as you turn to find the massive mechanic who’s just materialized out of the fog. Stumbling through a rushed, embarrassed explanation about how the dashboard lit up like a christmas tree before the steering went stiff, you slide behind the wheel, fingers trembling as you twist the key. The engine coughs out a pathetic, sluggish click-click-click before dying completely.
Sukuna leans over and scans the open engine bay with narrowed eyes. He brings his hand down to the alternator, then straightens and wipes a streak of grease off on his thigh.
"Alternator's shot," he diagnoses, pinning you with a flat stare through the windshield. “It stopped charging your battery while you were driving. That's why your steering went stiff, and all those warning lights came on. Battery's flat now."
He glances down the road toward his garage, jerks his chin in that direction, then flicks his gaze back to you, waiting. "Not fixing it out here. I can tow it in and take a look, if you want.”
You blink at him, hesitation suddenly tightening your chest. He's a huge, imposing stranger with eyes that seem to see right through you. You have no clue what his garage charges, and for all you know, he’ll tow your car a few meters and hand you a bill big enough to drain your entire savings account. Biting your lip hard, you look down the foggy road toward the distant city lights, debating whether freezing out here for your usual mechanic is worth it.
"Really?" you ask, your voice thin and cautious.
"You got a better plan?" Sukuna asks, raising a skeptical eyebrow. He doesn't look like he's got the patience for a long deliberation this early in the morning.
Your eyes flick from the dead dashboard to the shutters of his garage down the road again. Waiting for your own mechanic could mean hours out here, and you’re already running late. Shoulders sagging, you let out a shaky, resigned sigh and nod. "No, not really. Okay, yeah. Please tow it."
True to his word, ten minutes later your car is hooked up to his truck and rolled right onto his hydraulic lift. He works quietly, hooking up a diagnostic scanner and testing the voltage. You stand on the side, nervously watching him work through the tangle of wires and metal, while the smell of old coolant and burnt oil fills the air.
Finally, he wipes his hands on his coveralls. He glances up, meeting your gaze with a flat, unreadable look before speaking. "Alright. It's definitely the alternator. Parts and labor, you're looking at around two hundred, maybe two-fifty if the belt snapped when it seized up."
He braces himself for the usual routine: the hesitant sigh, the defensive wince, maybe a drawn-out complaint about how expensive car parts are these days. He’s seen it all before, a thousand times over.
None of that happens, though. You just blink at him, completely speechless, like he’s started speaking a foreign language.
"Are you..." You swallow hard, eyes darting between your car and the man in front of you. "Are you undercharging me out of pity? Did I really look that pathetic standing on the side of the road?"
Sukuna freezes, and the rag stops mid-wipe against his palm. He stares at you, his brow knitting into a dumbfounded, deep scowl, entirely derailed by the accusation. "What? No. That's the price of the part and half an hour of my time. I don't do pity discounts.”
"Seriously?" A breathless, half-disbelieving laugh escapes you, as your hand comes up to press against your forehead while you try to make sense of the numbers. "My mechanic charges me a small fortune every time I bring this thing in. Like... last year I paid almost three hundred for an oil change, so I figured something that actually stopped the car from running would be..." You trail off, your eyes wandering up to the underside of a different car on the lift. "Honestly, I have no idea. Just… more."
Disbelief hardens his stare, and a sharp, sudden outrage flares in his chest at whoever’s been fleecing you, quickly followed by a heavy wave of disappointment. He can't quite believe you’d just hand over a small fortune for basic maintenance without so much as a second thought.
"An oil change," he repeats in a low rasp. "He charges you three hundred dollars for an oil change?"
"Well... yeah? And..." Shifting your weight from one foot to the other, you wince as your sneakers squeak against the slick concrete. Your hand waves uselessly in the air when you’re trying to remember the items from the invoices you received. "Some other things? He always says there are other things."
Silence settles over the garage, broken only by the steady drip of fluid into a drainage pan nearby, each drop echoing like a ticking clock.
Sukuna tosses the rag aside, leans against the workbench and folds his arms across his chest. His eyes narrow, studying you with a look that grows more troubled by the second, like you’re some puzzle that refuses to make sense.
"You know what those other things were?"
You frown, your shoulders pulling in slightly under the weight of his intense stare. "Not really."
That stare doesn’t budge, flat and unblinking, and it makes you want to sink straight into the concrete floor.
"And you paid anyway."
It's not a question, but a flat statement, paired with a slow, disappointed shake of his head that twists your stomach.
Heat crawls up your neck, embarrassment prickling across your skin. You wrap your arms tightly around yourself defensively, trying to salvage a scrap of dignity. “He’s a mechanic, so like… why wouldn’t I trust him about… mechanic stuff?”
"So you just pay whatever he puts on the invoice?"
After a beat of hesitation, your eyes flick toward the garage exit before you force yourself to meet his gaze again. "I mean..."
The irritation in him doesn’t fade; if anything, it settles in deeper. The more you talk, the clearer it gets that this wasn’t just one bad invoice. It’s a pattern.
"How long you been taking your car to this guy?"
A startled blink, caught off guard by the rapid-fire questioning. "A few years?"
A muscle jumps in his cheek as his jaw flexes. "Christ." His arms drop, one hand coming up to rest flat against the workbench behind him. "You don't know anything about cars, do you?"
You open your mouth, ready to stammer out some flimsy defense, but he cuts you off with a sharp, impatient wave.
"No, don't answer that." He pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut for a long moment. "I already know." When he lowers his hand, his expression darkens. "And he knows it too. That's the problem." He takes a slow step toward you, his towering height making the small garage feel instantly crowded. "He knows you don't know what you're looking at. He knows you won’t question the invoice. He knows you’ll just nod, pull out your card, and pay whatever number he pulls out of thin air."
His words hit with bruising accuracy, uncomfortable in their honesty. Swallowing hard, you feel the bitter reality of years of being scammed settle like a stone in your stomach. Sukuna clicks his tongue, the sharp, dismissive sound echoing off the concrete walls.
"And he's been taking advantage of it, overcharging the hell out of you.” He shakes his head again, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "It's disgusting."
—
The last clink of metal fades, giving way to the low, steady purr of your car’s engine. Sukuna lingers, listening to the alternator hum, his attention fixed on the sound until he’s sure everything is running just right. Only then does he cut the ignition and shut the hood.
At the sink, he scrubs at the thickest layer of grease on his hands and forearms, while each pass of the soap gives him a moment to stew. The whole time he’d been working on your hatchback, the audacity of your last mechanic kept simmering in the back of his mind, needling at his sense of professionalism and refusing to let go.
He dries his hands on a clean rag, then heads back to where you’re waiting by the office door. The invoice comes off the clipboard, and he holds it out to you along with your keys.
"Alright, you're good to go," he rumbles, his voice level and calm. "It was just the alternator. Parts and labor came out to two hundred, exactly like I said."
You take the keys and the paper, relief washing over you as your eyes land on the total. Exactly what he quoted. No hidden fees, no sneaky line items, no surprise charges, nothing lurking in the fine print.
Sukuna stands there, his large hands settling loosely on his hips. His gaze flicks from your face to the paperwork in your hands, brow furrowing slightly as he hesitates. Then, the words slip out before he can stop them.
“If you want, you can bring your old receipts by sometime. Dig 'em out of your glovebox or whatever." He clears his throat, the sudden offer surprising even him as it leaves his mouth. This isn’t something he does. He doesn’t take work home, and he sure as hell doesn’t do clerical charity for strangers. Still, he pushes through the awkwardness, keeping his tone flat and businesslike. "I’ll look through 'em and write down what you actually should have been paying for that basic stuff. That way you have a baseline reference sheet next time you go back to your guy, and you'll know if he's trying to pull a fast one."
There's no pressure behind his words. He leaves it entirely up to you, offering a casual favor simply because he despises seeing someone get taken advantage of.
You blink at him, completely caught off guard. You look up to his face, and gratitude cuts through your usual wall of caution.
"Really?" you ask, a soft smile breaking across your face. "You'd actually do that?"
Sukuna gives a short, dismissive shrug, shifting his weight like he’s trying to play down the gesture. "Takes me ten minutes. It's no big deal."
"Thank you. Seriously, that’s... incredibly nice of you," you say, genuinely touched by the gesture. You fold the invoice carefully, tucking it into your purse. "What day would work best for you? I don't want to interrupt your business."
Sukuna rubs the back of his neck, eyes drifting toward the calendar tacked to the garage wall as he does the math in his head. "Day after tomorrow," he decides, looking back down at you. "I usually wrap up around six. Come by then. The shop's quiet after hours."
"Six on Wednesday. Perfect," you nod, your smile widening slightly. "Thank you again. I really appreciate you fixing the car so fast, and for... well, everything else. I'll see you Wednesday."
"Yeah," he mutters, his voice dropping a fraction softer as he nods back. "See you then. Drive safe."
He stands in the open bay, watching as your hatchback backs out of the driveway and pulls into the morning traffic. Only when your taillights disappear down the street does he finally let out a low breath, turning back to his tools and wondering what possessed him to volunteer his free time to look at old paperwork.
——
Just like he promised, the shop is mostly quiet when you pull up to the garage on Wednesday. With the bay doors rolled halfway down, the usual street noise is muffled, leaving only the clink of a wrench against metal to let you know he’s still inside.
Pushing open the side door, you’re greeted by the soft chime of the bell overhead. Sukuna appears from the back a moment later, dragging a clean rag over his forearms. His crimson eyes catch yours before flicking down to the stack of papers in your hand and the box tucked securely under your arm.
"You actually found 'em," he rumbles, a faint quirk tugging at the corner of his mouth before his expression smooths back into that usual, unreadable mask.
"Every single one I could find." Stepping up to the high counter that separates the office from the shop floor, you set the invoices down and nudge the box toward him, careful not to jostle what’s inside. "And I brought this. As a thank you."
Sukuna glances down at the cardboard box but doesn’t reach for it. He folds his arms across his chest, and his brow instantly furrows into a stubborn, defensive scowl.
"I don't need cake," he snaps, voice blunt and dismissive. Shifting his weight from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable, he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else than accepting a gift. "I fixed the alternator, you paid the invoice. We're even. You don't owe me anything."
"It's not cake. It’s an apple pie. And it’s homemade," you counter softly. Before he can get another word in, you reach out and pop the lid open, letting the sweet scent of baked apples and cinnamon spill into the grimy, oil-scented room. You shoot him a small, stubborn look that dares him to refuse. "And you're taking it."
For a split second, Sukuna freezes, his eyes darting from the warm pie back up to your face, looking completely out of his depth. The tension drains from his broad shoulders, and he lets out a low, grudging grunt, realizing he’s being difficult for no good reason.
"Fine," he mutters, reaching over. He grabs the box and carries it to the small, cluttered desk in the corner, sweeping aside a stack of part catalogs to clear a spot. Pausing, he peeks into the box again, then nudges a metal stool toward the desk for you with his boot. "Sit down. Let me wash up."
While he heads over to the sink to scrub the grit from his hands, you pull the pie out of the box. Only as you glance around the cluttered office does the realization hit you. You look down at the pie, still warm in its baking dish, then at your empty hands.
When Sukuna walks back in, drying his hands on a paper towel, he finds you perched on the stool, mortification written all over your face.
"Um," you manage, cheeks burning with embarrassment that creeps up. "I just realized... I forgot plates. And forks. I was so focused on getting the pie out of the oven and not showing up late that I didn't even think about it."
Sukuna stops, staring at your flushed face, and a slow, amused smirk tugs at his lips. He opens a filing cabinet, rummages through a plastic bin in the top drawer, and pulls out two plastic forks he clearly hoarded from a takeout order.
"Don't worry about it," he says, dragging a second stool over and settling in beside you. One fork is pressed into your hand, while he plunges his own straight into the pie, breaking off a steaming chunk. "We can eat it out of the dish. Problem solved."
A relieved laugh slips out as you take a bite for yourself. The pie is actually good—better than you hoped and the relief from that is almost dizzying. Watching this massive, intimidating mechanic quietly savor a dessert you’ve made in his own garage fills you with a sudden, unexpected warmth.
A few bites in, Sukuna reaches for the stack of invoices you brought along. He fishes a battered yellow highlighter from the drawer, uncapping it with his teeth, and drags the first sheet closer. Instantly, his whole demeanor sharpens, focus narrowing as he scans the lines of text.
"Two hundred for an air filter?" he mutters, jaw clenching so fast you can almost hear his teeth grind. Flipping the page back a little too sharply, he scans the top of the sheet, eyes narrowing. "When was this?"
"Last… three months, I think?" you offer, leaning in to peer over his elbow, the edge of his sleeve brushing your arm.
"Three months ago," he confirms, voice dropping into a dangerously low, tight register. The highlighter clicks against the paper, and a muscle jumps in his cheek. "I looked at your air filter on Monday when I was checking the belt. There is absolutely no way a filter looks that bad after ninety days of city driving. He didn't even change it. He just wrote it down and charged you for the part."
Your fork stalls halfway to your mouth. Staring at the highlighted line, you feel disbelief crash over you, cold and sharp, prickling along your skin.
"Wait... what? He just... left the old one in there?" You shrink down on your stool, while both embarrassment and genuine offense burn in your chest. "I actually remember sitting in his waiting room for an hour because he said he had to go fetch the specific part from the back warehouse."
Sukuna lets out a sharp, cynical grunt that cuts through the room and makes you wince. "Yeah. He was probably back there taking a nap on your dime." He flips to the next invoice and scoffs loudly. "A hundred and fifty for a 'diagnostic fee'? Your car doesn't even have a complex computer system. You plug the reader in, it takes two minutes. He's padding the numbers because he knows you’re not gonna question it.”
You blink, eyes glued to the number on the page, the math slowly ticking through your head. "Two minutes... for a hundred and fifty...?"
He’s working himself up again, but his eyes keep flicking to you, making sure you’re following every step of his explanation on why it's a scam. He breaks down the mechanics in plain English, laying out the real labor time versus what was billed, and you find yourself keeping pace with him, asking about parts, checkup schedules, and why on earth a single fluid could ever cost that much.
Sukuna’s highlighter hovers over a line, pausing as he takes in the questions you’re firing back at him. Whatever assumption he had about you being gullible is gone now. He sees you're not stupid or careless, just someone who did what anyone would: you trusted a professional because you didn’t have the background to know better. The way you’re sitting here, eagerly learning, determined to protect yourself, earns a flicker of respect in his eyes.
"You're tracking this fine," he says, irritation melting away into something unexpectedly gentle. "You just needed someone to actually layout the baseline for you."
"Yeah," you murmur, smiling a little self-consciously. "Nobody ever really explained it before."
Any trace of your nervousness has vanished. Settled into his office, you absentmindedly swing your legs beneath the stool, taking another bite. Eating straight from the baking tin, you instinctively leave the best pieces of crust for him. It’s a small, polite habit that doesn’t go unnoticed, and Sukuna finds it oddly endearing.
Powdered sugar dusts your thumb as you hold the dish steady while digging your fork in again, and without thinking, you lick it off while scanning an invoice. The gesture is so unselfconscious, so normal, but it catches his attention and draws his gaze to your face.
This close, he can’t help but notice the small things: the way your eyes crinkle at the corners when you’re focused on the paperwork, the little smile that appears each time you taste the pie, how small you look perched beside him. For a moment, his mind just goes completely blank.
The realization hits him square in the chest—you’re beautiful. And you went out of your way to bake a pie for him.
All at once, the office starts to smell different. The sharp tang of oil and metal slips away, replaced by the sweetness of apple and cinnamon, and beneath it all, your perfume.
You point to a line on the invoice, but his attention drifts to your hand resting next to his on the desk. His own fingers are thick and calloused; yours look impossibly soft and small by comparison. The urge to see how your hand would feel in his is so distracting he nearly loses track of what you were saying.
For a moment, the usually unshakeable and confident mechanic is thrown completely off balance, his thoughts tangling so fast he almost forgets what he’s supposed to be doing. Somehow, he keeps his face neutral, handling the rest of the paperwork with a steady voice, but underneath, panic is already clawing at him. He has no clue how he’s supposed to get your number before you walk out that door.
Hesitation or tentativeness have never been his style. If he wants something, he takes it; if he likes someone, he just tells them. It’s always been that simple. But with you leaning over his desk, a crumb of crust clinging to the corner of your mouth, something unfamiliar creeps in and stiffens his limbs. It isn't shyness—he doesn’t have a shy bone in his body, and he certainly doesn't embarrass easily. Still, this strange, careful caution settles in his bones, making every movement feel intentional and new.
For once, he actually cares about the reaction he’s going to get, and that shift in the stakes makes his usual straightforwardness feel too rough, too heavy-handed for this. The thought that messing this up could mean never seeing you again roots him to the spot, every instinct to act suddenly tangled up in hesitation. His hands feel too big, his words too blunt, and the risk of screwing this up presses in until he feels almost clumsy.
Ideas tumble through his head, each one worse than the last, none of them good enough. Sliding his business card across the desk? Too impersonal, like he’s just angling for another job. Handing over his phone and asking you to put your number in? That’s too aggressive, too much like he’s trying to corner you in his own shop. Even making up some excuse about needing to text you a follow-up on the alternator warranty feels cheap, and the idea of playing a game just to get your number makes him feel ridiculous.
The whole thing leaves a sour taste in his mouth, every option making him feel more foolish than the last. Frustration builds until his jaw aches from how tightly he’s been clenching it, tension crawling up into his temples. He can’t remember the last time he was this stuck on something so simple.
At last, he forces his jaw to unclench, loosening his grip on the highlighter before setting it down. Glancing around the cramped office, something cuts straight through his frustration. Here you are, sitting in a garage after hours with a man twice your size you barely know, just because he offered to help. You trusted him enough to walk into his shop after closing, carrying a homemade pie as a thank-you that feels so genuine it almost hurts.
The last thing he wants, and the absolute last thing his pride will allow, is to make you feel like he used a professional angle just to corner you. If he pushes for your number now, after spending an hour showing you how vulnerable you’ve been to a scam, it’ll feel like an ambush. It’ll undo every bit of safety you felt sitting next to him and ruin any chance he might have had. The thought hits him like a splash of cold water, cooling his temper.
Drawing in a sharp breath, Sukuna reaches past you for a pen resting on the clipboard. He pulls the top invoice toward him and scrawls his phone number across the margin of the page.
"Look," he rumbles, his voice steady and stripped of the chaos in his head, sliding the stack of paperwork back across the desk to you. "You're gonna have to find a new shop now or keep dealing with that idiot down the road. If he—or anyone else—hands you a quote and it feels even a little bit off, you text a photo of the invoice to that number." He taps his thick thumb against the handwritten digits on the page. "That's my personal cell. I’ll look at it and tell you if they’re trying to rip you off."
Blinking down at the paper, you’re completely oblivious to the war he just waged with himself. The gesture is so unexpectedly kind that warmth blooms in your chest and a soft smile tugs at your lips as you glance back up at him. "Are you sure? I don't want to bother you any more than I already did."
"It's not a bother," he mutters, keeping his face carefully blank even as his pulse hammers a little harder against his ribs. "Just think of it as a backup plan. I can't stand watching people get scammed."
"That… actually makes me feel a lot better. I’ll make sure to save it," you murmur, glancing up to meet his unreadable gaze. The papers fold neatly beneath your fingers before you tuck them into your bag and rise from the stool. "Thank you. Seriously. For the alternator, the invoices, all the explanation and… for the company."
"Yeah," he mutters, his throat suddenly tight as he gives a single, gruff nod. "Don't sweat it."
Once your empty baking dish is tucked back into the box, you offer him one last warm smile that squeezes his chest uncomfortably tight. He pushes himself up to walk you to the door, the bell above your head chiming bright as you step out into the cool evening air.
"Goodnight, Sukuna."
"Goodnight," he calls back, standing entirely still as he watches you walk toward your car.
The warmth lingering in the office vanishes, leaving only a cold, hollow ache in its place. Through the glass, Sukuna watches your car start up, headlights slicing through the dusk as you ease out of the driveway and disappear around the corner. The instant your taillights blink out, frustration slams into him, heavy and relentless.
"Damn it," he barks into the empty shop, slamming his hand flat against the workbench.
Never in his life has he felt this powerless. Control is what he prides himself on—knowing exactly how a machine or a situation will play out because he’s the one steering it. But right now? He’s handed over his only leverage, left the whole gamble in your hands, and the lack of control is enough to make him want to tear his hair out.
He has no name saved in his phone, no confirmation. Nothing. He’s got no way to reach you, which means he’s stuck waiting, and everything now hangs on whether you decide to text. What if you lose that paper? What if the number gets buried in your purse and you forget about it until your car dies again months from now? What if you just think he was being polite and have no intention of ever using it?
The weight of not knowing gnaws at him, driving him to pace the shop floor, muttering curses under his breath for being so damn careful.
Two hours later, fresh from the shower, he sinks into the couch with a cold beer he hasn’t even opened yet. Usually, Sukuna finds the quiet of his apartment a relief after a day spent surrounded by noise, but tonight the silence feels heavy and irritating.
His phone lies face-up on the coffee table. By ten, he’s already picked it up and set it down more times than he cares to admit, each glance met with nothing but the glow of the lock screen and the relentless crawl of minutes. By eleven, frustration curdles into something uglier—doubt.
Doubt isn’t something he’s ever felt before, but alone in the dark, his mind starts tearing apart every second of that hour you spent in his office. The memory of your shoulder brushing his lingers. He can still hear your laugh when you realized you’d forgotten the plates, see how easily you followed his explanations, and how you smiled. He’d been so sure there was something there. He’d bet on it.
But as midnight approaches without a single vibration, his thoughts twist, turning defensive and sharp. Maybe he’d read the whole thing wrong. His brow knots as a heavy, sour thought appears and settles right in his gut. You didn’t feel a connection. You were just being polite, bringing an apple pie to thank a mechanic for doing his job. Sitting on that stool, chatting with him, you were just well-mannered, not interested. He’d blown it all out of proportion, let himself believe there was a spark when, to you, he was just the guy who fixed your alternator and handed out some advice.
—
Sukuna arrives at the shop in the worst mood humanly possible. Sleep barely touched him last night, and whatever patience he might have had for the rest of the world has been ground down to nothing.
Fingers curling around the cold iron handles, he wrenches the shutters up, and metal slams against the top of the frame so hard the glass windows in the office rattle. Not that he gives a damn. His jacket lands carelessly on the hook as he storms inside, and the paper coffee cup hits the workbench hard, sloshing the dark liquid over the plastic lid. It tastes like battery acid, but he drinks it anyway, needing the bitterness to match what’s inside of his chest.
He sets his personal phone right at the edge of the workbench, telling himself it’s just so it won’t get crushed in his pocket while he works. He knows that’s bullshit. Each time he reaches for a tool or crosses the bay for another socket, his gaze flicks back to the black screen, searching for a flicker of light that stubbornly refuses to appear.
Around nine, the shop's cell rings, echoing through the empty bay. Sukuna’s heart lurches, a ridiculous, frantic leap before his brain can rein it in—maybe you lost his number but found the shop’s online. The wrench clatters to the floor as he strides into the office, snatching the phone off the desk with a grip that’s just a little too tight.
“Ryomen’s Automotive," he grunts, his voice a rough, impatient gravel.
"Hey, man, just checking if you got those brake pads in for the pickup?"
Disappointment slams into him right beneath his ribs. His jaw locks, knuckles whitening around the mobile. "Yeah. They’re here. Come get 'em," he snaps, hanging up before the customer can get another word in.
Storming back into the bay, he grabs up his phone and shoves it deep into his pocket, as if that’ll keep the urge to check it all the time. The impact gun roars as he goes after a stubborn lug nut, the booming racket finally loud enough to drown out the chaos in his head. That’s it. He’s done checking. If you haven’t texted by now, you’re not going to. You probably tossed the paper, and he needs to get over it.
By one, Sukuna is elbow-deep in the greasy undercarriage of an old sedan, forearms streaked with black smears, his expression locked in a scowl so forbidding that even the delivery drivers have been giving him a wide berth all day.
He’s just reaching for a torque wrench when his phone vibrates on the workbench.
Bzzzt.
The sudden vibration catches him off guard, freezing him mid-reach. For a moment, he doesn’t move at all, letting the faint clicks of the cooling engine overhead fill the silence. It’s probably just spam, he tells himself. Or some useless data plan alert. Or a wrong number.
Peeling off his gloves, he slides a hand into his pocket, pulls out the phone, and swipes the screen awake. There’s a text from an unknown number—except the first line of the preview makes his chest seize up.
[You]: Hey! Sorry for the late text, I didn't want to bother you last night since it was way too late. Just wanted to send this so you have my contact too. Thanks again for looking through those invoices with me, the pie was a small price to pay for saving my bank account!
Relief hits him in a bone-deep wave, draining the tension from his shoulders. He draws in a slow breath as he stares at the words glowing on the screen. It takes a moment for his brain to catch up and register the gap between his own spiraling and your ridiculously polite message. You were just being considerate, that’s all.
OH THANK FUCK.
Clearing his throat, he uses a clean patch of his forearm to wipe the grease off his thumb before he even thinks about typing. Something clever would be good, something that proves he’s not rattled by any of this, but his fingers feel thick and awkward on the keys. Finally, he settles for something short that won’t give him away.
[Sukuna]: No worries. Pie was great, by the way. Just let me know if you get any more of those invoices.
He taps send, eyes glued to the delivery confirmation, then instantly adds the number to his contacts. Your name appears at the top of the chat, and for the first time all day, a smirk tugs at his mouth, breaking through the hard set of his jaw.
The phone disappears back into his pocket, and he turns to the sedan on the lift, with a jolt of energy running through him. As he grabs his wrench, the reality of the situation hits him from a completely different angle: you texted just to be polite and acknowledge the professional favor, and he just capped his own response by telling you to let him know if you get more invoices, boxing himself right back into being the helpful mechanic. Now what? How is he supposed to ask you out without trampling all over the boundaries you just so carefully respected?
By Friday night, that pitiful text thread on Sukuna’s phone has become a full-blown obsession. Sitting on a kitchen stool, he ignores the bowl of dinner going cold on the counter, his attention fixed on the glow of his screen. The chat is as embarrassingly short as it was the previous day: your polite thank-you, then his own awkward reply about the pie.
With a low, frustrated rumble in the empty apartment, he taps the empty text box. He’s never had to plan a conversation in his life, but suddenly, the weight of actually caring what you think drags every word through mud.
Hey, you free this weekend?
He glares at the six words. The line looks all wrong, like something a teenager would send on a dating app, hovering over his phone, waiting around for a girl he barely knows to throw him a bone. Sukuna is a grown man; he doesn't do vague, open-ended checking-in. And if you say no, or tell him you have plans, that’s it. Conversation over. No way to push back without looking like a desperate idiot.
Worse, you texted him because he'd offered to help with invoices, not because you'd expected him to use your number for anything else. With a heavy, irritated sigh, he holds down the backspace key until the box is wiped clean.
Saturday evening drags in after a brutal ten-hour shift, wrestling with stubborn leaf springs and rusted exhaust bolts. As he’s slumped on his couch with a cold beer in his hand, his muscles ache, but his mind is still stuck on the same loop. He pulls out his phone again and opens the chat. All he needs is an excuse—something car-related, since that’s the only ground you both actually somewhat share.
Let me know if that alternator’s making any noise.
His thumb freezes before he can hit send, and he scowls at the message, a sharp spike of professional irritation cutting through the haze. If the alternator was making noise, that would mean he’d screwed up the belt tension. He knows it’s perfect. He checked it twice before you left the bay. Asking about it now is basically calling his own work sloppy, and his pride won’t let him insult himself just to get a text back. With a shake of his head, he deletes the line and takes a long pull from his beer, trying to rework the phrasing, still clinging to the car angle but making it less about his own hands.
Make sure you check your oil this week.
He drags his hand over his face, catching himself immediately. If he sends that, he’s just barking orders at a customer who already admitted she doesn’t know a thing about cars. It sounds bossy, too gruff, and leaves you nothing to say except a flat agreement.
"What the fuck am I doing?"
He clears the text box again and tosses the phone face down onto the cushion beside him, ready to bang his head on the wall.
Monday night is the worst. The silence of the last few days feels like a personal insult. Standing by his kitchen window, looking out at the dark street, he’s completely fed up with his own uncharacteristic hesitation. He’s Sukuna. He doesn’t sit around overthinking a three-line message like some awkward kid. Enough. He’ll just give it to you straight, no games or professional excuses. He snatches the phone off the counter and types, fingers jabbing at the screen.
I'm heading to the diner by my shop for lunch tomorrow. Come with me.
He stares at the message, breathing heavier as his thumb hovers over the blue arrow. For a split second, he almost hits it. But then your reaction flashes through his mind—opening your phone and seeing a blunt lunch demand from the mechanic who fixed your car last week, suddenly wondering whether the man who seemed so put-together had been working an angle the whole time.
"No. That's fucking creepy."
He’s completely trapped by his own respect for you, stuck suffering the consequences of having zero organic reason to reach out. He can rebuild a transmission blindfolded, but figuring out how to move a text thread from professional advice to I want to see your face again without being an asshole? That breaks his brain entirely.
A low, bitter curse slips out as he clears the message. He throws the phone onto the kitchen table, furious that one person has managed to jam his gears so completely without even lifting a finger.
“Pathetic,” he mutters, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
By Tuesday afternoon, the frustration has cooled into a quiet, stubborn determination. Leaning against the workbench during a lull in the shop, he stares at your name in his contacts. One more try to find a middle ground that feels natural but actually gives him an opening.
Found another complaint about that shop online. Thought you’d wanna see it.
Sukuna deletes it before he even finishes the sentence, dragging his hand down his face. Thought you’d wanna see it. He sounds like he’s trying way too hard to find an excuse to talk to you. It’s not a lie, but he’d rather die than let you catch on.
"For fuck's sake."
By Wednesday afternoon, Sukuna’s completely done with himself, and he’s become absolutely insufferable to be around. Leaning against the tool board, he glares at the calendar pinned crookedly to the office wall, his thumb drumming a relentless rhythm against his thigh.
Every scenario he plays out in his head ends with him looking like an idiot. If he’s going to make a move, it has to be on his own terms, in his own space, where he actually knows what the hell he’s doing. Turning back to his tools, he forces himself not to spiral into another round of pointless drafts. Finally, his mind clears—he doesn’t need a smooth pickup line. He just needs a real, professional reason to get you back in the garage. Maintenance. That’s it.
I’m closing up the shop tomorrow around 6. If you wanna swing by, I can show you how to check your fluids and oil so you aren’t just guessing. No worries if you’re busy.
He stares at the message for a moment. There. Completely professional. Nobody in their right mind could mistake that for flirting. Another second passes. Perfectly reasonable text to send a customer.
With that, his thumb slams the send button, heart thudding stupidly against his ribs. The phone disappears deep into his pocket as he turns back to his tools, pulse racing, completely irritated by his own anticipation and already hooked on the slow, torturous wait for your reply.
Meanwhile, you’re at home, finally sinking into the couch after a long day, when your phone buzzes against the coffee table. His name flashes across the screen, and your heart gives a small, unexpected flutter. You read his invitation twice, and a soft smile tugs at your lips. Fingers hovering over the keyboard, you tap out your reply, keeping it light and trying to match his tone:
[You]: I'd love to! Need me to bring anything? (I promise I'll actually remember the plates this time if there's food involved!)
Down in the garage, Sukuna’s been organizing the same shelf of oil filters for the last four minutes, trying to distract himself, when his pocket finally vibrates. He freezes mid-reach. He deliberately finishes placing the last filter on the rack, forcing himself to move at a normal pace, refusing to look like a lunatic to his own reflection. Only then does he step back, dig out his phone, and unlock the screen.
Reading your text, the tight, stubborn knot in his chest unravels all at once. Relief hits so fast it’s almost dizzying, and a rush of heat crawls up his neck. You didn't say no. You didn't find an excuse, you didn't think it was weird, and you explicitly said you'd love to come back. And that little joke about the plates instantly crumbles the remaining walls of his stubborn frustration.
A massive, genuinely victorious smirk spreads across his face, eyes crinkling at the corners as a low, rough chuckle rumbles out of his chest. Energy surges through him, ridiculous and electric, like he’s just rebuilt a blown engine in record time.
Then his gaze snags on that last sentence, and his thumb freezes over the keyboard.
Food. You’re asking about bringing food.
For you, it’s testing the waters for a little more time together. But to him, it's enough to send his thoughts careening straight off the rails of the maintenance lesson and into a chaotic spiral of logistics. Does he buy something? Does he tell you to bring something? If he says no, does that mean you’ll just learn how to check a dipstick and drive away immediately after? He doesn't want you to leave. He wants you back on that metal stool, right where he can see you.
Pacing a short line next to the workbench, he types out a response, frowning as he slams straight into a wall of overthinking that’s completely foreign to him: I’ll grab some burgers. No, that’s too much like a date. Don't worry about food. No, that sounds like he doesn't want to eat with you at all. Or worse, you’ll eat before you come, and he’ll miss his chance entirely.
Frustrated with his own hesitation, he deletes the drafts, grunts, and decides to handle it the only way he knows how: blunt and completely practical.
[Sukuna]: Just bring the car. I’ll order a pizza. Pepperoni alright?
He hits send, tossing the phone back onto the bench with a sharp exhale. The message is demanding, a little aggressive, and leaves zero room for negotiation. Still, it guarantees you're staying for dinner.
A wide grin splits his face as he spins around and surveys his empty shop, eyes scanning the bays with sudden, critical focus. Twenty-four hours. That’s all he’s got to make sure his office looks halfway respectable before you walk through the door.
—
Rolling into the gravel driveway with five minutes to spare, you idle near the entrance just as the side door swings open and Sukuna steps out into the cool evening air. He’s in a plain black tee stretched across his broad shoulders and dark grey sweatpants. The change catches your eye immediately because he looks ridiculously good out of his coveralls. You can’t help but wonder if the wardrobe swap was just a coincidence, or if he actually cared about making a good impression tonight.
He walks over to the front of your car, waving his hand to guide you forward. "Bring it straight into the second bay," he calls out.
Following his gesture, you shift into drive and ease the car forward into the bay. The engine clicks softly when you shut it off, and as you step out, Sukuna’s already at the front bumper, nodding at you.
“You’ve made it," he rumbles, stepping up to pop the latch and lift your hood into place with a practiced, heavy thud.
"Told you I would," you say, glancing over the open engine bay with curiosity. "So, where are we starting? Am I going to get entirely covered in grime?"
Sukuna lets out a low, amused huff, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips, and pivots toward the rolling tool cabinet. "Not if I can help it."
He reaches into a cardboard box on top of the cart and pulls out a pair of thin, black single-use gloves. His size is impossible to ignore when he steps in close, suddenly crowding the space, and hands them over.
"Put these on first," he instructs, his gaze locking onto yours for a heartbeat. "The alternator's fresh, but everything else under that hood isn’t. No reason for you to ruin your hands."
You take the gloves, smoothing the black rubber over your wrists before looking up at him with a playful smile, tilting your head. "Very thoughtful. I didn't think a tough mechanic like you cared about a little dirt."
"I don't care about it on me," Sukuna mutters. His eyes linger on your hands for a second before he jerks his gaze back down at the engine bay, clears his throat, and points into the tangled mess of metal and hoses. "Alright, come here. We’re skipping the basic fluid check—you’re smart enough to know how to read a dipstick. I want to show you more interesting stuff."
Stepping in close, you slide the gloves over your hands, your shoulder brushing his for just a second. It's barely a touch, but enough to make both of you hyper-aware of the space you share.
"See this belt right here?" Sukuna asks, leaning over the grille. His deep voice drops into a steady, confident cadence as he gets into his element. "This is your serpentine belt. In case someone tells you it’s about to snap, I'll show you how to check the tension yourself, and how to spot actual dry rot versus regular wear."
He tugs on his own gloves, then reaches down. He navigates the cramped space around the engine block with ease, and you find yourself briefly distracted by the contrast between the size of his hands, the precision of the movements, and how gentle they look as he grips the heavy rubber belt. Then, with a twist, he exposes the underside to the light.
"Get your hand in right here," he says, glancing sideways at you, his eyes dark and intense in the low light. "Feel the edge of the rubber. Tell me what you notice."
For the next hour, Sukuna guides you through a standard oil change, patiently talking you through each step. He doesn't do the work for you; he has you reach beneath the chassis with a socket wrench to feel the exact point of resistance on the oil pan drain plug, his hand covering yours to adjust the angle, explaining the difference between a secure seal and stripped threads.
When he shows you a spark plug, he holds the tiny ceramic piece beneath the shop light, pointing out the faint color differences that separate a healthy engine from one that's burning fuel too rich.
All the while, Sukuna stays at your shoulder, keeping you grounded. Each time your gloved fingers falter over a stubborn clamp or an unfamiliar valve, his hand is there, nudging your wrist or guiding it with a confidence that makes it impossible to feel foolish. He answers every question thoroughly without a hint of impatience, pleased with your curiosity. By the time you peel the gloves from your hands, the machinery that once felt so intimidating is just a puzzle you’ve learned how to solve, and the satisfaction settles deep in your chest.
A sudden chime of the office bell cuts through the quiet, shattering the spell. Sukuna pulls his hand back from the engine block, his head snapping toward the front door.
"Pizza's here,” he rasps.
He strips off the gloves, tossing them in the trash before heading to the glass door to pay the delivery guy. You follow suit, peeling yours off and grabbing the plates you stashed in your trunk earlier. Stepping into the dim office, you find Sukuna already setting the steaming pizza box dead center on his desk.
"Look at that," you tease softly, sliding the plates onto the desk. "Real plates this time."
Sukuna glances down at them, and a faint, genuinely amused smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.
"Fancy," he mutters, eyes flicking up to catch yours for a split second before his hand moves to the cardboard lid. “Bringing the good stuff to a garage."
The moment he flips the lid open, the rich, savory scent of hot cheese and pepperoni floods the room, instantly smothering the stubborn trace of motor oil that still clings to the air. He slides a massive, steaming slice onto your plate before grabbing one for himself. "Eat up before it gets cold."
For the first twenty minutes, conversation just flows easily, and to his immense relief, not a single word about car parts comes up. You ask about the shop, how long he’s been running it, and whether he always wanted to be a mechanic. He tells you how he likes working with his hands, how machines make sense in a way people never do, because if something’s broken, there’s always a reason, and always a fix.
After a while, Sukuna starts tossing questions your way. One answer leads to another, and before long you're deep in a story about that trainwreck project at work and the latest chaos your friends managed to stir up over the weekend. He doesn’t interrupt, his crimson eyes fixed on your face, watching your eyes crinkle with laughter, how your hands sketch wild shapes in the air, and the tiny smile that sneaks out when you mention your friends.
Some part of him is convinced this should be awkward. Or, at the very least, harder than this. But it feels completely natural, and before he knows it, he’s talking more than he ever does. And that’s exactly when the invisible trap closes right back around his throat.
Ask her, his mind orders, the thought landing in his chest with a sudden, heavy thud. Eight words. Do you want to go out with me? Just say the damn words.
You finish your slice and lean back a little on your stool, thumb brushing a stray crumb from your lower lip without thinking.
Do it now. She's sitting right here. She likes talking to you. Just open your stupid mouth and ask for a real date.
Sukuna shifts his weight on the metal stool as his large hand tightens around his napkin.
Don't be a coward. It's a question, not a marriage proposal.
He opens his mouth, but his throat locks up tight. He isn't actually afraid of hearing the word no—he has plenty of pride, but a rejection wouldn't break him. What paralyzes him is the fiercely protective boundary he’s drawn around you in his own head.
And then what? She realizes the mechanic who helped her has been working an angle the whole time?
He’s desperately trying not to abuse the trust he’s built with you. The sheer weight of wanting to keep this clean and respectable for your sake completely jams his gears.
"Hey," he blurts out anyway, his voice a little rough, cutting right through the middle of whatever you were saying.
You pause, blinking at him with curious eyes. "Hm?"
Sukuna freezes as his brain goes completely blank again under your direct gaze. His eyes drop to your mouth, staring at the soft curve of your lips in the dim light of the desk lamp, his mind scrambling for any kind of escape hatch.
For fuck's sake, Sukuna. You've started already. Just finish it.
Instead, his throat stays bone dry, jaw clenching so hard a muscle jumps in his cheek. The words just refuse to come, and the surge of internal fury that follows nearly knocks him sideways.
“Never mind.”
You study him for a long moment, and a small, knowing look flickers in your eyes as you set your crust down on the plate.
"Well," you say softly, with a playful little tilt to your head. "I guess I officially know enough about drive belts now. At this rate, I won't have an excuse to bother you anymore."
The words hit like a bucket of ice water. The thought of you just fading back into the real world, never showing up at his garage again, triggers a raw, defensive panic that steamrolls right over his hesitation.
"You don't need car trouble to stop by," he quickly says.
It comes out too blunt, his voice rough and a little too sharp in the quiet room. He winces inside, bracing for you to pull away, but you just look at him, a soft, slow smile spreading across your face.
"You know," you murmur, your voice dropping into a gentle, teasing tone as you lean just a hair closer over the edge of the desk. "Most people just ask for a date."
Sukuna goes utterly still. The words hang in the air, and the silence that follows is so thick you can hear the faint, steady hum of the fluorescent bulb overhead. He doesn’t answer right away—he can’t. The gears in his brain lock up as he stares at you, completely stunned that you’ve just outmaneuvered him without even trying.
But then the sheer absurdity of it all hits him, and the tension in his chest snaps like a rubber band.
A low, rough chuckle shakes his chest, half frustration, half pure captivation. He drops the crumpled napkin onto the desk, and suddenly his eyes are burning with that hyper-confident heat he’s been holding back all week. The cautious, hesitant mechanic is gone in a blink.
"Yeah?" he rumbles, his voice dropping an octave.
Before you can blink, he closes the distance between the stools. That massive hand of his finds the back of your neck, thick fingers curling gently, thumb pressing into the warm skin along your jaw. His sheer size blocks out the rest of the office, casting you in his shadow as he leans down, tilting your face up to meet his gaze.
His eyes drop to your mouth, and the intensity of his stare makes your breath catch.
"Been trying real hard to be polite all week," he mutters with a wicked smirk right against your lips, tracing a slow line along your jaw with his thumb. "But you're entirely right. I'm taking you out tomorrow night."
He pauses, giving you one last chance to pull away if you want to. When you don't move, matching his smirk with one of your own, he closes the last bit of space without a single shred of hesitation.
The moment his lips meet yours, a ragged breath escapes him, a sound so raw it sends a shiver tearing down your spine. He’s been starving for this all week, and the force of it knocks the air from both your lungs.
Sweet vanilla and tobacco from his perfume flood your senses, drowning out everything else. Sukuna tastes exactly like he smells: warm, intense, and utterly intoxicating. Any coherent thought vanishes beneath the rush of it. Your hands find the soft cotton of his shirt, fingers twisting the fabric at his chest and bunching it tight in your fists as you pull him closer. Every bit of hunger he pours into the kiss, you give right back.
Feeling you lean in and your hands on him, a low, gravelly groan rumbles from deep in his chest. His grip at the nape of your neck tightens, thick fingers slipping higher into your hair until they're tangled in the strands at the base of your skull, leaving no room for doubt about how badly he's wanted this. His other hand leaves the desk, sliding up to cup your face, calloused thumb sweeping hard over your cheekbone as he tilts your head back, searching for a better angle.
Slow, insistent pressure parts your lips, and his mouth moves over yours in a rhythm that makes your head spin. The heat pouring off him is overwhelming, swallowing up the entire office until there's nothing left but his lips and the rough drag of his hands against your skin.
Sukuna pulls back just a fraction, barely a breath of space between you, so you can both drag in ragged breaths. Eyes closed, his forehead drops against yours while his chest heaves. But staying away isn’t an option. He leans right back in, catching your lower lip between his, sucking on it with a slow pull that rips a quiet gasp from your throat.
That deep drag is followed by a series of quick, hot pecks—one to the corner of your mouth, another firm press at the center of your lips, and finally a lingering kiss that seals your mouths together all over again.
Every tiny, breathless break just makes him hungrier. He presses in deeper, tongue tracing the shape of your lips, completely taking over the pace. Your heart hammers stupidly against your ribs, your body turning to liquid on the metal stool, kept upright only by the iron grip of his hands. He’s kissing you like he wants to leave a permanent mark, making up for an entire week spent talking himself out of this.
Even when he finally tears his mouth away, he refuses to let you go. His breath comes in short, heavy rasps that tangle with your own, crimson eyes fluttering open to find you—dark, hooded, and completely blown wide as he stares at your swollen lips. His thumb sweeps over your lower lip, wiping the dampness away with a slow, heavy pressure that makes your chest ache.
For a moment, neither of you says a word. The office is silent except for the sound of both of you trying to catch your breath. His chest rises and falls close to yours, and you can feel the lingering warmth of him, the tension that hasn’t left either of your bodies.
A smirk slowly tugs at the corner of his mouth. He savors the silence every bit as much as the kiss itself.
“Text me your address,” he rumbles, his voice incredibly low and rough. His hand is still tangled in your hair, fingers threaded deep enough that when you instinctively try to lean back and get a better look at him, his grip tightens just enough to stop you. It isn’t rough, but it’s firm, keeping you exactly where he wants you as his fingers shift slightly against your scalp. “And be ready at seven.”
Blinking up at him through the haze of the kiss, you tilt your head as much as his grip allows, brows lifting as you study him. The corner of your mouth twitches, caught somewhere between amusement and disbelief.
"Pretty sure that wasn't a question, Sukuna."
His smirk deepens as he looks down at you, completely unfazed by your tone. That arrogant confidence in his eyes is impossible to miss now, and somehow it only makes your stomach flip harder.
"Neither was taking you out tomorrow night," he murmurs.
You don’t bother answering. Instead, your fingers curl tighter into his shirt as you drag him down, crushing your lips into his. He chuckles deeply into the kiss as his hands slide from your face to your waist. Before you can think about what he's doing, he's pulling you off the stool and into his lap. Deepening the kiss, you bury your fingers in his hair, drawing a low groan from him that sends a shiver racing down your spine and straight between your legs.
notes: sukuna. buddy. my man. my brother in christ.
> sukuna: somebody has been scamming this woman
> sukuna: she baked me a pie
> sukuna: i need her phone number or i'm going to lose my fucking mind.
You were a touchy couple, always had been. Your friends constantly complained that you were always hanging off his arm, throwing your legs over his knee when you sat beside one another, or pressing over the top wet kisses to his cheek between sentences. He’d always scowled - harsh lines working their way between his thick brows, but he was exactly the same in return, only a touch subtler.
He was always finding some excuse to wipe at your face with his thumb, or pull you under his arm when you walked down the street under the guise of protection. You were grown enough to admit that on certain occasions in the comfort of your own home this even devolved into playfighting.
It would start small - with you poking and prodding at him with the tip of a manicured fingernail, and he’d simply grumble about personal space and push your hand away. Except this time when his hand wrapped around your wrist in a lazy grapple, you leaned down and bit him. His response to the sinking of your teeth was reflexive - a quick slap to your cheek, the way you’d tap the hind quarter of a wayward gelding who was playing up. Gentle, corrective.
You’d gone quiet then, frozen with your teeth still embedded in the fleshy curve of his bicep. In the wake of the strike you’d ceased your riot against the grip of his hands and sort of… melted into him instead. Lifting your head, you’d blinked up with wide watery eyes, a slightly dazed expression painting your face. He’d nudged you a little, expression unreadable, and you’d soon resumed your onslaught, giggling and poking at him again. Distracting him enough with your teasing that he didn’t bring up the way you’d basically rag-dolled at the slap.
From that point, the seed had been planted, and in the dark depths of your mind, hidden in the deep recesses - it festered.
The second time he’d hit you was a little more intentional - a loving pat to the side of your face, fingers tracing the plump fat of your cheek, hollowed while you sucked him off.
“Let me see,” he’d murmured, fingers tapping gently at your cheekbone.
You’d leaned your head back, jaw slack and tongue lolled out to show him the milky cum pooling there. He’d cursed sharply, carmine eyes blown wide and dark, and you’d grinned in reply. Curling your tongue back into your mouth before you drooled the mess down onto your bare tits, and watched with a grin as he craned his head to catch the rogue dribbles with his tongue.
The third time, well, the third time you’d begged him for it.
“Hit me,” you panted, peering up at him with wide wet eyes as you grasped desperately at his wrists. Clawing at where they were planted firmly into the mattress either side of you.
He had you on your back, writhing in the messed sheets as he split you apart on his heavy cock. He’d spent the last twenty minutes coaxing slow brain melting orgasms out of you. It was soft, sweet. Too sweet.
“Hit you?” He echoed, eyes widened in mild surprise.
You nodded frantically, thighs clenching tighter around him at the mere promise of the words slipping from his lips.
“On the face,” you clarified, expression screwed up tight in desperation, lower lip wobbling so much he thought you might actually cry. “Slap me, please.”
The second the last syllable left your lips he’d lifted a hand and lowered it over your face in a quick slap. It was undeniably gentle, a little hesitant - barely more than a pat.
You frowned deeply, huffing a frustrated breath through your nose as you shook your head.
“Harder ‘kuna, want it harder,” you whined.
You watched the slow bob of his Adams apple for a few moments before he lifted a hand and slapped you again, hard enough this time that you heard the impact as well as felt it, head turned to the side with the force. Tears sprang to the edges of your eyes, and your ear closest to his palm rang hot. You blinked a few times, slow, indulgent - and then opened your mouth and moaned.
Before you could quite recover, or utter another demand his palm came down to strike you again, square across the cheek. You must have clenched around him, or maybe it was just the dumb fucked out way you peered up at him afterward with your mouth slack and face burning where his hand had made contact. Whatever it was he cursed sharply under his breath and slipped a big hand up to rest across your throat, in an action that read as decidedly possessive.
“Fuck, that’s really doing it for you, isn’t it?” He groaned, sounding equal parts awestruck and breathless. “Like it when I slap you, huh?”
“Love it… oh… fuck-… I love it…” You agreed, head lolling with each pump of his hips, utterly empty aside from the sensation of him stuffing you full, and the searing heat blooming over your cheeks in the shape of his palm. You felt him throb at the sound of your voice, so breathy and broken beneath him.
“Yeah. My sweet girl wants it nice and rough, is that right?”
You were nodding before he even finished, eyes half lidded and unfocused, peering absently at the blur of him moving above you, locked on where his hips were grinding into yours.
The rhythm he set was steady - not weak by any account, but subdued enough that you could tell he was actively making an effort to hold back for your comfort. But seeing the way your eyes rolled back a little, hand wrapped limply around his wrist while his fingers closed around your throat - all that delicacy went out the window.
His hips rolled in sinful thrusts now, smacking into yours with stern sticky slaps.
“Yes yes yesyes….oh fuuuuck….” You moaned, and swallowed against the curve of his palm where his fingers were pressed to your throat.
“Still want it harder baby?” He panted, deep groans of his own slipping free.
“Ngh-uhuh…” You babbled, head nodding.
“Greedy girl,” he teased, though his thrusts didn’t slow, and you swore you felt him throb nice and deep where he was kissing your cervix. “You’re such a fuckin’ brat, know that?”
If you’d been coherent enough to string a sentence together you would have replied back that he loved it, and if you’d had the strength to peer up you’d find that it was true - maroon eyes all but heart shaped, lowlidded and blown dark as he watched you come apart beneath him.
────────────────
clearing out my drafts and found this lil drabble, enjoy <3
summary. “my voice isn't deep but my throat is. . ” ; tutorial on how to be stupid and ruin your man’s slash your throat day
trigger / warnings. Explicit, F/M, Reader-Insert, Female Reader, Second Person POV, Established Relationship, Married Couple, PWP, Smut, Deepthroating, Oral Sex, Face-Fucking, Throat Bulge, Messy Blowjobs, Dominant Male Characters, Submissive Reader, Brat Taming, Risky Sexting, Dirty Talk, Praise Kink, Degradation, Possessive Behavior, Size Kink, Power Dynamics, Coming Home Horny, Office Sex (implied), Spit Play, Drooling, Light Choking, Multiple Pairings, Bratty Reader, Husband Kink, Cock Worship, Modern AU.
A/N. credit to the person who make this on tiktok (couldn't remember the username)
Gojo Satoru
the vibration of his phone against the polished wood of his desk is what pulls satoru gojo's attention away from the stack of mission reports he was absolutely not reading. he was staring at them, sure, but his mind had been elsewhere—on the way you'd looked this morning, sleep-rumpled and soft in his oversized shirt, pressing a kiss to his jaw before he left. he'd been thinking about coming home early.
then the phone buzzed.
he reaches for it lazily, one long finger swiping across the screen without much thought because who else would be texting him at nine in the morning but you? probably another picture of the cat doing something stupid or a complaint about the coffee machine. he's already smiling, a small private curve of his lips that nanami, sitting across the conference table, pointedly ignores.
but then he reads it.
my voice isn't deep but my throat is
the words sit there on the screen, innocuous little black pixels against white, and satoru gojo—the strongest sorcerer alive, the man who has faced down special grade curses without breaking a sweat, the honoured one himself—feels his entire body go rigid. his smile freezes and then dies. his eyes, usually hidden behind the dark lenses of his blindfold, narrow behind the black fabric. his cock, traitor that it is, twitches hard against the seam of his slacks.
he reads it again.
and again.
"something wrong, gojo-san?" ijichi's voice is hesitant, nervous, because everyone in this room can feel the sudden shift in his cursed energy. it's not threatening, not exactly, but it's heavy. it's thick and warm and pressing down on the air itself, making nanami shift in his seat and ijichi's pen clatter against his notepad.
"nope," gojo says, and his voice is too light, too airy, the way it gets when he's about to do something unhinged. "everything's fine. just got a very... interesting message from my wife."
nanami makes a sound low in his throat, something between disgust and resignation. "please do not elaborate."
"wasn't planning to," gojo chirps, but his thumb is already moving, typing out a response with a speed that would be impressive if it weren't so ominous.
you have ten minutes to get to my office and prove it.
he hits send and then sets the phone down carefully, face-up, watching the little delivered notification turn to read. the three dots appear. disappear. appear again. he can picture you on the other end, standing in the kitchen probably, still in his shirt, coffee going cold on the counter, reading his text and realizing exactly what you've done.
you text back: or what?
oh, you brat.
satoru doesn't dignify that with a response. he simply leans back in his chair, crosses one long leg over the other in a way that does absolutely nothing to hide the growing situation in his pants, and waits. ijichi is still talking about budget allocations for the kyoto exchange event but the words are just noise, static fuzz in the background of the singular focus that has narrowed his entire existence down to the door of this office.
seven minutes and thirty-two seconds later—he's counting—the door opens.
you're standing there in one of his dress shirts, the white one he wore to the last clan meeting, and it's buttoned wrong. one button off, making the collar sit crooked against your throat, and underneath it he can see the edge of your sleep shorts, the ones with the little strawberries on them. your hair is a mess. your lips are slightly parted from the jog up here. you look like you just rolled out of his bed and came straight here, and the possessiveness that roils through his chest is almost violent.
"sorry to interrupt," you say, and your voice is sweet, so sweet, dripping with fake innocence like honey laced with poison. "i was just looking for my husband. have you seen him? tall, annoying, thinks he's funny?"
ijichi chokes on air. nanami stands up so fast his chair scrapes against the floor. "i'm taking my lunch break," he announces to no one, and then he's gone, dragging a sputtering ijichi behind him, the door clicking shut with damning finality.
and then it's just you and satoru and the thick, charged silence between you.
"funny," he echoes, and his voice has dropped, the playful lilt gone and replaced by something lower, rougher, a gravel drag that makes your thighs press together involuntarily. "you think you're funny, sweetheart? sending me that filth while i'm in a meeting? while i'm supposed to be working?"
you shrug, one shoulder lifting, the too-big shirt slipping to bare the curve of your neck and collarbone. "i was just stating facts."
satoru uncrosses his legs slowly, deliberately, and leans forward in his chair. his blindfold is still on but you can feel the weight of his stare regardless, six eyes boring into you from behind black fabric, seeing everything—the quickening of your pulse in the hollow of your throat, the way your nipples have pebbled against the thin cotton of his shirt, the subtle shift of your weight from foot to foot. you're nervous. you're aroused. you're exactly where he wants you.
"come here."
not a request. you cross the office floor, bare feet silent against the expensive rug, until you're standing in front of his chair. he's still seated, long legs spread wide, hands resting on the armrests like a king on a throne, and the power differential of it makes your stomach flip. he's so big like this, towering even when he's sitting, and you feel small in the best way.
"on your knees."
the words are soft, almost tender, but there's steel underneath them. you sink down obediently, the plush carpet cushioning your knees, and now you're eye level with the very obvious bulge straining against his black slacks. your mouth waters. you can't help it. months of marriage and he still makes you feel like this, like you're drowning in him, like you'd do anything just to hear him groan your name.
"you know," he says conversationally, reaching down to trail one knuckle along your jaw, feather-light, "i was having a perfectly boring morning. reading reports. pretending to care about nanami's opinions on curse classification. and then my pretty little wife decides to send me that." his thumb presses against your lower lip, dragging it down, and you open for him without being told, letting the tip of it rest against your tongue.
"my voice isn't deep but my throat is," he quotes, and his voice cracks on the last word, just slightly, betraying the iron control he's clinging to. "you've got a dirty fucking mouth, baby. anyone ever tell you that?"
you suck on his thumb, hollowing your cheeks, and watch his jaw clench above you. the blindfold is still on and somehow that makes it worse—better—the anonymity of it, the way he becomes less human and more force, a presence rather than a person. your husband is in there somewhere but right now he's just hunger given form.
"was thinkin' about you," you murmur around his thumb, and his breath hitches. "woke up and you were gone and i was... empty. wanted you to come back. wanted to feel you."
"so you thought you'd text me that you've got a deep throat." his laugh is breathless, incredulous, a little bit wrecked. "my god, you're a menace. a fucking menace. and i married you. what does that say about me?"
"that you've got good taste."
he pulls his thumb out of your mouth with a wet pop and uses the same hand to cup your chin, tilting your face up further. "prove it, then. prove what you said. show me how deep that pretty throat goes, sweetheart."
your hands come up to his belt, fingers trembling slightly—not from fear, never from fear with him, but from anticipation, from the sheer overwhelming want that's been building since you sent that text. the leather slides through the buckle with a soft hiss, and then you're popping the button of his slacks, dragging the zipper down tooth by agonizing tooth. he lifts his hips to help you, just a little, and the casual cooperation of it makes something warm bloom in your chest. even like this, even when he's playing at being demanding, he's still taking care of you.
his cock springs free, heavy and flushed, the head already slick with pre-cum that catches the office light. he's big—you knew that, you married that—but it still steals your breath every time, the sheer length and thickness of him, the way he curves slightly to the left, the prominent vein that runs along the underside that you've traced with your tongue a hundred times and will never get tired of.
"there he is," you breathe, and satoru makes a strangled sound that might be a laugh or might be a groan.
"don't talk to my dick like it's a person."
"but he's my favorite person." you wrap one hand around the base, not even close to meeting your fingers around his girth, and squeeze gently. his hips jerk, just once, an involuntary response that he can't control. "aren't you? aren't you my favorite?"
"i'm divorcing you."
"no you're not." you lean in and press a kiss to the tip, soft and chaste, tasting salt and skin and him. "you love me."
"i love you," he agrees, and his voice has gone rough, raw, stripped of all pretense. "i love you so much it makes me stupid. now please—fuck—"
you take him into your mouth before he can finish the sentence.
the first few inches are easy, familiar territory, your tongue flattening against the underside as you sink down. his hand flies to the back of your head, not pushing, just resting there, fingers threading through your messy hair with a gentleness that contradicts everything about this situation. he's always like this—demanding and soft in equal measure, rough words and tender touches, a contradiction wrapped in expensive fabric and supernatural power.
"that's it," he breathes, and you can hear the strain in his voice, the way he's holding himself back. "that's my good girl. look at you. look at what you do to me. can't even—ah—can't even function when you send me shit like that. whole meeting went to hell. nanami's probably filing a complaint with hr right now."
you hum around him, a wordless acknowledgment, and the vibration makes his thighs tense beneath you. his fingers tighten in your hair, just slightly, just enough to make your scalp prickle.
"deeper," he says, and it's not a command, it's a plea. "come on, baby. you said your throat was deep. prove it to me. let me feel it."
you breathe through your nose and relax your jaw and push.
the stretch is intense, the familiar burn of taking him past your comfort zone, past the point where your gag reflex usually protests. but you've been practicing—god, have you been practicing, every chance you get, because making him fall apart like this is your favorite thing in the world—and you take him deeper than you ever have before. your nose brushes against the fine white hairs at his base, and your throat constricts around him, and satoru whines.
the strongest sorcerer in the world whines like a wounded animal, high and desperate, and the sound goes straight to your cunt.
"fuck, sweetheart, fuck, that's—how are you—hah—" his words are fragmenting, falling apart, and you can feel him twitching against your tongue, can taste the steady leak of pre-cum sliding down your throat. "you weren't lying. you really weren't lying. my perfect girl, my perfect fucking wife, taking me all the way down like you were made for it—"
you pull back just enough to breathe, a thin stream of saliva connecting your bottom lip to his cock, and look up at him through your lashes. his blindfold is still on but his mouth—his mouth is parted, lips wet and red from where he's been biting them, and his cheeks are flushed pink above the black fabric.
"told you," you rasp, and your voice is wrecked already, hoarse and rough. "my throat's deep."
"yeah," he agrees weakly. "yeah, you definitely—you definitely proved that. fuck. come back. come back, i need—"
you swallow him down again before he can finish, and this time you don't stop. you set a rhythm, slow and deep, pulling back until just the tip rests on your tongue and then sinking all the way down until he hits the back of your throat. your jaw aches. your eyes are watering, mascara probably running in dark tracks down your cheeks. you don't care. you can't care, not when he's making those sounds above you, those broken little gasps and moans that he'd deny to his dying day.
"your mouth," he's babbling now, his composure completely shattered, hips rolling up in tiny aborted thrusts that he can't seem to control. "your perfect fucking mouth, baby, it's like—it's like you were custom-made for me, like someone designed you just to ruin me, and it worked, it fucking worked, i'm ruined, i'm absolutely—nngh—"
his thumb finds the corner of your mouth, stretched wide around his girth, and presses against the seam where your lips meet his skin. he groans like he's dying.
"feel that? feel how full you are? look at you. look at my good girl, taking every inch like it's nothing. you love this, don't you? love being on your knees for me, love choking on my cock while i tell you how perfect you are."
you moan around him, a wet garbled sound, and his answering curse is filthier than anything you've ever heard from him.
"yeah, you do. you love it. love being my pretty little cocksleeve, my perfect warm mouth, my—ah, ah, right there, sweetheart, right fucking there—"
you hollow your cheeks and suck hard, and satoru's entire body bows forward, his forehead dropping to rest against the top of your head. his breath is hot and damp against your hair, coming in ragged pants that fog the strands.
"i love you," he says into your hair, muffled and desperate. "i love you i love you i love you, you absolute menace, texting me that while i'm in a meeting, making me hard in front of nanami, making me—making me feel like this, like i'm going to crawl out of my own skin if i'm not inside you, like—"
you pull off him with a slick sound, stroking him with your hand instead, twisting your wrist on the upstroke in the way you know makes his toes curl. "you are inside me," you point out, voice wrecked and smug. "well. part of you."
"brat," he gasps. "mouthy little brat. i should—i should bend you over this desk and—"
"and what?"
his blindfold comes off. you don't see him move, don't see him reach for it, but suddenly it's gone and his eyes are there, those impossible blue eyes, pupils blown so wide they're nearly black, the six eyes swirling with something ancient and hungry and entirely focused on you.
"and keep you here all day," he finishes, voice dropping to something dark and promising. "keep you on your knees under my desk while i take meetings, let you warm my cock with that pretty throat, see how long you can last before you're begging me to let you come. before you're dripping down your thighs and everyone in the room knows, knows what a desperate little thing you are for me."
your cunt clenches around nothing. you whimper.
"yeah," he says softly, reaching down to cup your jaw, thumb wiping through the tear tracks on your cheek with devastating tenderness. "that's what i thought. but not today. today you're going to get back to work, sweetheart, because i'm not done with you."
his cock is still hard, still wet from your mouth, still pressed against your cheek where he's holding your face. he doesn't seem to care. doesn't seem in any hurry to finish what you started.
"what?" you breathe, and it comes out confused, desperate, aching.
satoru smiles, and it's the smile of a man who has all the time in the world and intends to use every second of it.
"you heard me. back to work." he tucks himself back into his slacks—still hard, still blatant, not even trying to hide it—and zips up with infuriating calm. "i have reports to finish. you have... whatever it is you do all day. we'll pick this up tonight."
"you can't be serious."
"deadly." he leans down and presses a kiss to your forehead, chaste and sweet, a mockery of everything that just happened. "you wanted to play games, baby. texting me filth while i'm working. so now we play. you're going to think about this all day. about my cock down your throat. about what i'm going to do to you when i get home. and by the time i walk through that door, you're going to be so wet i could slide in with one thrust."
you're still on your knees. your jaw aches. your throat is raw. and he's dismissing you like you're an employee who's overstayed their welcome.
"you're evil," you whisper.
"i'm your husband," he corrects, and kisses the tip of your nose. "now get out of my office before i change my mind and keep you here. i have a meeting in twenty minutes and i need to figure out how to sit through it without nanami murdering me."
Geto Suguru
the buzz of your phone against the marble countertop had been your first warning. the second had been the three little dots appearing and disappearing beneath suguru geto's name, a sure sign that whatever he was typing was being rewritten, reconsidered, chewed up and spat out by that razor-sharp mind of his. you'd been lounging on the velvet chaise in the living room, one leg dangling off the edge, the afternoon sun slicing through the blinds and painting stripes of gold across your bare thighs. you knew his schedule.
you knew he walked into that pristine, minimalist office of his at exactly 1:55 pm, set down his leather briefcase, and took exactly three sips of the pour-over coffee his assistant had waiting before he even glanced at his personal cell. you had timed it perfectly.
you'd typed it out with a sort of languid cruelty, your thumb hovering over the send button while you imagined the scene: suguru, long black hair half-tied back, suit jacket draped over the back of his ergonomic chair, the sharp line of his jaw tightening as he read the words. my voice isn't deep but my throat is. such a stupid, juvenile text. something a brat half your age would send to get a reaction.
but that was the point, wasn't it? you weren't half his age, but the gap was there, a decade plus of experience and composure that you loved to pick at like a loose thread on an expensive sweater. you wanted to see the composure fray. you wanted to yank that thread until the whole damn thing unraveled.
you sent it.
the silence that followed wasn't silence at all. it was a vacuum. it sucked the air out of the room, replaced it with a heavy, pressurized static that made the hair on your arms stand up. no ellipsis. no read receipt, even though you knew he had read previews turned on. just the cold, delivered timestamp staring back at you.
you bit your lip, a flicker of genuine fear igniting low in your belly. good fear. the kind that pooled wet and warm between your legs. you had poked a sleeping dragon. no, worse. you had walked up to a meditating monk and flicked him right between the eyes. you stayed on that chaise for the next three hours, not moving, not reading, not watching anything. just existing in the charged atmosphere you'd created, waiting for the storm to roll in.
you heard his key in the lock at 6:47 pm. usually, he texted when he was leaving the office. usually, you'd meet him at the door with a soft kiss and a glass of wine or a witty comment about his day. tonight, the door opened and closed with a soft, deliberate click that was somehow louder than a slam. you didn't move.
your heart was a frantic, hummingbird flutter against your ribs. you heard the soft thud of his briefcase being set down—not in its usual spot by the console table, but on the floor, right by the door, as if he couldn't be bothered to walk the extra three steps. then the slow, measured tread of his oxfords on the hardwood floor. each step was a countdown, a metronome ticking off the seconds until your judgment.
he appeared in the archway of the living room, and the sight of him made your throat click dry. he'd shed the jacket and loosened the tie, the top two buttons of his crisp white shirt undone to reveal the pale column of his throat and the sharp cut of his collarbone. his hair was fully down now, a sleek black curtain framing a face that was utterly, terrifyingly blank.
but his eyes. god, his eyes. they were dark, hooded, the pupils blown so wide they'd swallowed nearly all of that deep violet iris. he looked at you lying there, draped over the chaise like some pampered pet, and he didn't smile. he just tilted his head, a slow, predatory cant of his chin.
“get up,” he said. his voice wasn't loud. it was soft. it was the soft, silken rasp of a blade being drawn from its sheath. it was worse.
you swallowed, the sound audible in the tense quiet. “suguru, i—”
“i said,” he cut you off, the same quiet tone carrying an edge that could have sliced diamond, “get. up. and come here.”
you moved. you didn't scramble, you weren't that far gone yet, but you didn't dally. you rose on legs that felt a little too much like jelly and crossed the space between you. the late afternoon sun had faded to a bruised twilight blue outside, the room now lit only by the dim glow of a single salt lamp in the corner, casting everything in hues of amber and shadow.
you stopped a foot away from him, close enough to smell the remnants of his expensive cologne—cedar and bergamot—and underneath it, the clean, warm scent of his skin. he didn't reach for you. he didn't touch you. he just looked down at you from his considerable height, and the corner of his mouth twitched—not a smile, but an acknowledgment of the situation you'd put yourself in.
“my voice isn't deep but my throat is,” he repeated your text back to you, letting each word hang in the air, slow and deliberate, tasting them like a sommelier sampling a wine he'd already decided was flawed. his gaze dropped from your eyes to your lips, then lower, to the column of your throat, before snapping back up.
“do you have any idea what that sentence did to my afternoon? i was in the middle of a conference call with the kyoto branch when my phone buzzed. i opened it under the table, thinking it was you reminding me to pick up milk or telling me you loved me. and i read… that.”
his hand came up then, not to your face, but to your hair. his long fingers slid into the strands at the nape of your neck, and he didn't pull, not yet. he just gathered a fistful, tightening his grip incrementally until you felt the roots protest, a dull, grounding ache that tilted your chin up to meet his stare.
“i had to sit there for two more hours,” he continued, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin just behind your ear in a gesture that was deceptively tender given the steel in his grip.
“hard as a fucking rock behind my desk, nodding along to quarterly projections, while all i could think about was your pretty little mouth and the filthy, disrespectful things that come out of it. you made me a liar today. i had to excuse myself and tell takeda-san that i had a migraine. a migraine.” he let out a breath that was almost a laugh, but it held no humor. “the only thing throbbing was my cock, and it was all your fault.”
you tried to speak, to offer some clever retort or a whimper of apology, but the words died in your throat as his grip tightened fractionally. he used that hold to guide you downward, a firm, insistent pressure. you went willingly, your knees hitting the plush area rug with a soft thud. this was the proof he'd demanded.
this was you proving your words. and looking up at him from this angle, his tall frame looming over you, the evidence of his "migraine" straining obscenely against the fine wool of his dress pants right at your eye level, you felt a wave of dizzying, submissive heat wash over you.
“there she is,” he murmured, the first hint of real warmth—or was it condescension?—coloring his tone. with his free hand, he reached down and traced the curve of your jaw, his thumb coming to rest on your bottom lip, pressing down just enough to part them.
“my sweet, dumb little thing. you really don't think, do you? you just get a wicked idea in that empty little head of yours and your fingers type it out before your brain can catch up and remind you who you're talking to. you forget that i'm not one of those boys you could bat your lashes at. i'm a man who remembers every single debt. and you, baby, just racked up a very large one.”
he pulled his thumb away from your lip, a thin string of saliva connecting you for a second before it broke. he used both hands now to unbutton his pants, the sound of the zipper being drawn down obscenely loud in the quiet room.
he didn't push them down, just opened the placket enough to free himself. he was thick and heavy, the head flushed an angry, neglected red. he held himself at the base, not stroking, just presenting. a statement. an expectation.
“now,” he said, his voice dropping to a husky, intimate murmur.
“you made a promise, albeit a very crudely worded one. you claimed your throat was… what was it? something noteworthy? show me. show me just how noteworthy it is. and i swear to you, if you even think about using those little hands of yours to do the work your mouth should be doing, i will pull you over my lap and turn that pretty ass of yours the same shade of pink as that lipstick you’re not wearing. do you understand?”
“yes, suguru,” you breathed, the words ghosting against the sensitive head of his cock.
“good girl,” he praised, the words a soft, dark caress. he let go of your hair only to slide his fingers back along your scalp, cradling the back of your head now instead of restraining it. “open up for me, baby. let's see if you can take it. i've had a long, frustrating day. i'm not feeling particularly patient. so be a sweetheart and prove that mouth of yours is good for more than just getting you into trouble.”
you opened your mouth, letting your jaw go slack, and leaned forward. you didn't start with your tongue on the tip, like you normally would, teasing and coy. that wasn't what this moment was for. he wanted the proof of your text, the crude, visceral reality of it.
so you took him. you pushed forward, letting the smooth, hot skin of his shaft slide over your flattened tongue, past your teeth, and toward the back of your mouth. you felt the spongy head nudge your soft palate and you gagged, just slightly, a wet, choking sound that was swallowed by the flesh filling your mouth.
“mmm,” he hummed, the sound vibrating through him and into you. his hips didn't buck, he was too controlled for that, but you felt the muscles of his thighs tense under his pants where your hands rested on them for balance. “there's that throat. struggling already and i'm not even halfway in. what happened to all that confidence from your text, hm? lost it along with your ability to form a coherent thought?”
his words were a low, steady stream of filth that made the fire in your belly blaze higher. he kept the hand on the back of your head, not pushing, just… guiding. a silent reminder that he could, at any moment, take over. you breathed through your nose, focusing on relaxing the muscles of your throat, letting the weight of him rest heavy on your tongue.
you pulled back, a long, wet slide, until just the tip rested on your lower lip, and then you dove forward again, taking him deeper this time. the wet sounds were lewd, a slick, obscene squelch that filled the quiet room.
“fuck,” he hissed, the curse drawn out and sharp. “look at you. my pretty little cocksleeve. you were so bored today you had to text me that? you needed attention this badly? needed to feel useful?” his hips gave a tiny, involuntary twitch forward, just enough to make you gag again, your throat constricting around the intrusion. “you're drooling all over your chin, baby. it's a good look for you. much better than the clever brat on my phone. you're so much sweeter when that mouth of yours is full.”
you moaned around him, the sound a muffled, desperate vibration. your own arousal was a damp, insistent throb between your legs, your panties clinging to your folds. you shifted on your knees, trying to alleviate the ache, and the movement made you take him even deeper, until your nose was pressed against the crisp fabric of his open pants, the scent of clean laundry and his musk filling your senses. your throat worked around him, fluttering and gripping, proving the truth of your words with every wet, struggling inch.
“that's it,” he groaned, his composure finally starting to crack. his voice was a rough, wrecked thing now, all that smooth control scoured away by the feeling of your throat. “just like that, baby. take it. take all of it. you wanted to wreck my concentration? you wanted to make me sit in that office and burn for you? well, now you get to feel what you did to me. you get to feel how fucking hard you made me. there's no rush, sweetheart. we have all night. i'm going to use this greedy little throat of yours until you can't talk, until the only sound you remember how to make is that pretty gagging noise. then maybe, just maybe, you'll think twice before you send me a text like that again.”
he pulled your head back gently by your hair, letting him slip from your mouth with a wet pop. a thick strand of saliva connected your swollen lips to the ruddy, glistening head of his cock. your eyes were watering, your mascara smudged just so, and your lips felt bee-stung and used. he looked down at the mess he'd made of you and a slow, genuine smile finally touched his lips—a dark, possessive curl of satisfaction.
“we're just getting started,” he said softly, his thumb wiping the drool from the corner of your mouth before pushing it back inside, making you suck the taste of him off his own skin. “you wanted to prove your words? you're going to be on your knees proving them for a very, very long time tonight, baby. until that smart mouth of yours forgets every word but my name.”
Toji Fushiguro
toji fushiguro doesn't do mornings. he does the cold weight of a blade against his palm, the satisfying click of a suppressor being threaded into place, the mathematical certainty of a contract fulfilled. he does stale coffee from a vending machine and the grimy leather of his beat-up sedan. what he absolutely does not do is walk into the shitty little "office" he rents under a fake name in shinjuku—a place he only uses to clean weapons and avoid the landlord at his actual apartment—and get hit with a text message that makes him stop dead in the doorway with his keys still dangling from his scarred lip.
he'd only glanced at the screen because he'd felt the buzz against his thigh, assuming it was shiu with a new job file. it wasn't. it was you. and the words on the cracked screen made the blood in his veins reroute so violently he had to brace a hand against the doorframe, the wood groaning under his grip.
my voice isn't deep but my throat is.
he stared at it for a solid thirty seconds, the overhead fluorescent light flickering and buzzing like a trapped fly. his jaw tightened until the scar tugged painfully at the corner of his mouth. you'd timed it perfectly.
he'd just sat down in the creaky swivel chair, the one that groaned like it was dying every time he leaned back, and now he was staring at the concrete wall trying to figure out if he wanted to strangle you or fuck you into a coma. both. definitely both.
the worn fabric of his black cargo pants suddenly felt two sizes too small, the heavy zipper pressing uncomfortably against the rapidly swelling length of his cock. he palmed himself through the thick material, a low hiss escaping through his teeth as he read the message again, your name glowing like a taunt at the top of the chat log.
"fucking brat," he muttered to the empty room, the words a gravelly scrape of sound. his thumb hovered over the keyboard, the urge to type something threatening and vile warring with the sheer, blinding lust that was fogging up his peripheral vision. he had a hit scheduled for two o'clock. he needed to strip his glock, re-oil the slide, and do a range check on the scope for the rifle.
instead, he was sitting here with a dick so hard it could probably be used as a blunt force weapon, all because you'd decided to be a smart-mouthed little cocksleeve from the comfort of your shared bed.
he didn't text back. toji fushiguro wasn't a man who wasted words when actions would do. he let the silence stretch, let the anticipation curdle in your gut while he spent the next eight hours in a state of absolute, agonizing torture.
every step he took as he moved through the city to scout the location, the seam of his pants rubbed against the sensitive head of his cock, keeping him in a constant state of half-arousal that made him even more irritable than usual. being an assassin is ninety percent waiting and ten percent violence, and waiting while you're rock hard because your girl sent you a fucking pornographic text is a special kind of hell.
he nearly blew the whole job when his mark, some yakuza underboss with a sweat sheen on his brow, walked out of the pachinko parlor early. toji had been adjusting himself in the stairwell, hissing as the friction sent a jolt of pleasure-pain up his spine, and almost missed the clean headshot window. he had to compensate, the rifle kicking against his shoulder as he took the shot through a dirty windowpane, the suppressor spitting a quiet cough.
by the time he kicked the door of the apartment open at half past ten, he was a live wire of frustration and pent-up need. the apartment was dim, lit only by the blue glow of the tv playing some show you'd fallen asleep watching on the couch.
you weren't asleep. you were sitting up, wrapped in one of his old hoodies, looking up at him with those wide, faux-innocent eyes that knew exactly what you'd done to him. he didn't say hello. he didn't ask about your day. he dropped his duffel bag with a heavy thunk that rattled the floorboards and crossed the room in three long strides. his hand, still smelling faintly of gun oil and cordite, fisted in the collar of the hoodie and hauled you upright off the couch cushions.
"you think that shit is funny?" his voice was a low rumble, devoid of any humor, his green eyes dark and flat as they bore into yours. "do you have any idea what it's like trying to line up a four-hundred-yard shot with a hard-on because my girl wants to act like a cheap whore over text?"
he didn't wait for an answer. he used his grip on the hoodie to drag you down, your knees hitting the cheap tatami mat floor with a soft thud. he stood over you, a wall of muscle and menace, his shadow swallowing you whole. his free hand went to the button of his fatigues, popping it open with a flick of his thumb. the sound of his zipper lowering was obscenely loud in the quiet room, a metallic hiss that made your stomach clench.
"you're gonna prove it," he growled, fishing his cock out of his boxer briefs. it sprang up, thick and heavy, the vein on the underside throbbing visibly in the low light. he wasn't fully hard anymore—the hours of walking had softened him just enough to be frustrating—but he was getting there fast just looking at the way your lips parted. "you said your throat is deep. let's see if you can take it all without choking like the last time, yeah? you're gonna sit there on your knees and earn that text."
he let go of the hoodie only to cup the back of your head, his fingers threading through your hair and twisting, not enough to truly hurt, but enough to establish exactly who was in charge here. with his other hand, he slapped the heavy, warm weight of his cock against your cheek. once. twice. the sound was lewd, a soft thwack of skin on skin that left a faint trail of pre-cum glistening on your cheekbone. "open up, baby. daddy had a real long fuckin' day because of you."
the moment your jaw went slack, he pushed in. he didn't ease into it. toji wasn't built for gentle. he fed you the first few inches with a grunt, watching your eyes widen as the blunt, flared head of him pressed past the barrier of your lips and bullied its way onto your tongue. the taste of him was salt and musk, a day's worth of frustration made tangible. "thaaat's it," he groaned, the word drawn out and rough like tires on gravel. his head fell back for just a second, his adam's apple bobbing as he savored the wet heat of your mouth. "fuck, look at you. already droolin' all over my dick like a hungry little puppy. this what you wanted all day? huh? wanted my fat cock stuffin' your throat while i was out there working?"
his hips gave a lazy, testing roll forward, pushing another inch deeper. he could feel the flutter of your palate against the underside of his shaft, the instinctive gag reflex that you were fighting to suppress. his grip in your hair tightened, holding your head steady as he began a slow, devastating rhythm. he wasn't fucking your face—not yet. this was just a preview. this was him savoring the view of his cock disappearing between your swollen lips, the way your tongue flattened against the sensitive ridge of his frenulum every time he pulled back.
"yeah, you like that, don't you?" his voice was a low, affectionate drawl now, the earlier anger bleeding away into pure, lazy dominance. praise dripped from his lips, sticky and sweet like honey mixed with sin. "look so pretty like this, princess. prettiest thing i've seen all day. those idiots at the office don't got a clue what i got waitin' for me at home. a sweet little thing with a throat made for wrecking."
he pulled out completely, his cock bobbing wetly against his stomach, a thick string of saliva and his own slick connecting the tip to your bottom lip. he reached down and used his thumb to smear the mess across your chin, a satisfied hum rumbling in his chest. "stick your tongue out. flat. want to see where i'm gonna put it."
you complied, and he let out a shaky exhale, something akin to awe flashing in those usually dead green eyes. he placed the heavy length of his shaft on your extended tongue, letting it sit there, letting you feel the weight and the heat of him. "this is what you own, baby. this is what you made hard all day. feel that? that's your fault. every fuckin' throb."
then he slid back in, this time deeper. his hand on the back of your head pulled you forward as his hips pushed in, a slow, insistent pressure until your nose was flush with the dark, coarse hair at the base of his groin. your throat constricted around him, a wet, fluttering vise that made his toes curl in his boots. he held you there, his abdomen flexing with the effort of not coming on the spot, listening to the choked, guttural sounds you made as you struggled for air through your nose.
"there it is," he panted, his voice strained and full of filthy reverence. "there's that deep throat. fuckin' knew you could take it. good girl. such a good, dumb girl for me. lettin' me use this pretty hole however i want."
he let you breathe for a second before doing it again. and again. he established a languid, possessive pace, using your mouth like his own personal toy. he'd pull out until just the tip rested on your lips, letting you suckle on it greedily, lapping at the slit with desperate flicks of your tongue, and then he'd push back in, burying himself to the hilt with a wet, obscene squelch. the room filled with the sound of it—your wet gagging, his low, breathy moans, the slick sound of flesh meeting flesh.
"fuck, listen to you," he grunted, his hips rolling in a slow grind against your face. "sound so messy. sound like a fuckin' dream, baby. makes me wanna just... stay here all night. just keep my cock warm in this throat while i watch tv. you'd let me, wouldn't you? you'd sit here on your knees for hours just to keep me happy 'cause you're my sweet little cocksleeve."
he pulled out again, this time using his hand to tap the wet, heavy head against your lips repeatedly. tap. tap. tap. "open wider. jaw's gettin' tired? too fuckin' bad. you started this. you don't get to tap out 'til i say so."
he pushed back in, but instead of the usual rhythm, he just... stayed there. he seated himself fully, his balls resting snugly against your chin, and he let out a long, shuddering sigh. his hand in your hair loosened, his fingers gently massaging your scalp as he just stood there, buried in the wet heat of your throat. the tension from the day, the frustration of the missed shot window, the irritation of the train ride home—it all melted away as he focused solely on the feeling of your throat muscles fluttering helplessly around his invasion.
"yeah," he breathed out, his voice barely a whisper now, soft and almost tender. "that's the spot. right there. just keep me warm for a minute, baby. just let daddy rest his cock in that pretty throat. you feel so fuckin' good. so soft. so hot. my good little girl."
his thumb stroked over your cheekbone, wiping away a stray tear that had leaked from the corner of your eye—a physiological response, nothing more. he looked down at you, his expression unreadable but undeniably soft in the dim light. the big, scary assassin was gone. this was just a tired, horny man who'd been thinking about this exact moment for nine hours straight.
"next time you send a text like that," he murmured, his hips giving a tiny, involuntary flex that pushed him a fraction of an inch deeper, making you gurgle softly around him. "you better be in this position waiting for me when i walk through the door. maybe bent over the arm of the couch with a plug in that other tight hole too. give me a full-course meal to come home to after a hard day. you understand me?"
he slowly, achingly slowly, began to move again. just a few inches, a shallow, lazy glide in and out of the snug ring of your lips. he wasn't chasing anything. he was just enjoying the ride, enjoying the control, enjoying the wet, sloppy sounds of your mouth as he used it to soothe the ache he'd been nursing all day. his head lolled back, eyes falling half-closed, his lips parted around quiet, deep groans of satisfaction.
"fuckin' hell, baby. your mouth is a goddamn national treasure. should be illegal to feel this good. 's like... warm honey and fuckin' silk." his words were slurring now, drunk on the sensation of you. "could do this all fuckin' night. just... lazy like this. not even fuckin' you hard. just... feelin' you."
he pulled out one last time, letting his cock rest on your swollen lips, slick and shiny in the tv light. he rubbed the head back and forth across your bottom lip, smearing your own saliva across the sensitive skin. "keep your mouth open."
he didn't give you a reason. he just stood there, stroking himself slowly, the wet sound of his hand on his shaft filling the space. his eyes were locked on your open mouth, on the dark cavern of your throat waiting for him.
"want to see it one more time," he said, his voice rough with a need that had nothing to do with climax. "want to watch you swallow me down on your own this time. show me how much you missed this cock, baby. show me how sorry you are for making me hard at work."
he waited, his chest heaving, his cock twitching in his grip, ready to slide back into the only place he'd been thinking about for eight goddamn hours. the night was young, and he was in no rush at all.
Shiu Kong
the buzz of your phone against the polished wood of shiu kong's desk was a sound he normally ignored until he'd finished reviewing the morning's case files. but it was 9:47 am, precisely thirteen minutes before you usually texted him a picture of whatever cute bento arrangement you'd packed for his lunch, and he found his thumb swiping across the screen before his brain could tell him to focus on the arbitration clause in front of him.
he read the message once. then twice.
his tie suddenly felt like a noose.
my voice isn't deep but my throat is.
shiu exhaled slowly through his nose, setting the phone down face-up on the stack of manila folders as if it were a live grenade. the leather of his office chair groaned as he leaned back, palming the sudden, insistent ache straining against the fly of his tailored slacks. he was a man who dealt in information, in leverage, in the careful application of pressure over time. he didn't do impulsive. but you—his sweet, much younger wife who still blushed when he called her a good girl in public—had just lobbed a fucking missile into his meticulously ordered morning.
he didn't text back. that was the first rule of shiu kong's personal code of conduct: never negotiate with terrorists via sms. instead, he let the image fester in his mind. the image of you typing that out in the kitchen, still in his oversized shirt from last night, biting your lip with that specific blend of nervousness and bratty defiance you only got when you'd been reading those filthy romance novels you hid under the guest bed. he imagined the way your throat would constrict around the words if he made you say them out loud. that's when his hand moved to adjust himself under the desk, a rough, frustrated squeeze that did nothing but make the throbbing worse.
he waited.
the clock on the wall ticked with the slow, deliberate patience of a man who had spent years cultivating informants. by the time the door to his office clicked open at exactly 12:02 pm, the scent of your perfume and warm rice wafting in ahead of you, shiu was hard enough to drill through the mahogany.
"hi, baby," you chirped, holding up the thermal bag with a smile that was a little too innocent, a little too knowing. "i made those pork katsu rolls you like—"
"lock it."
his voice wasn't loud. it never was. it was the specific timbre of calm that preceded an earthquake, and it made your step falter for just a half-second before you caught yourself. you turned, the soft click of the lock sounding deafeningly loud in the soundproofed room. when you faced him again, he hadn't moved from his chair. he was still leaning back, one elbow on the armrest, fingers tracing the line of his jaw, his dark eyes fixed on your mouth.
"put the food down on the table," he instructed, his gaze dropping deliberately to the front of his slacks where the outline of him was obscene and undeniable. "then come here. you've been running that mouth from across town all morning. i want to see if the rest of it lives up to the marketing."
you set the bag down carefully, your hands trembling just enough for him to notice, which only made the corner of his lip twitch. that was the thing about shiu—he didn't get loud when he was angry or aroused. he got lazy. he got comfortable. he leaned further back in his chair, legs spreading a fraction wider as you approached the edge of his desk, and he pointed lazily at the floor between his oxfords.
"on your knees, sweetheart. we both know why you sent that text. you wanted me distracted all morning, thinking about those pretty lips stretched around me instead of reading contracts. well, congratulations." his hand came down to palm himself openly through the fabric, a low, satisfied hum vibrating in his chest as he watched your pupils blow wide. "you won. now you're going to sit right there on the floor of my office and prove that this smart little mouth is good for more than just giving me migraines."
there was no hesitation in the way you sank down. the carpet was plush, expensive, the kind meant for long meetings with wealthy clients. it felt sinful against your bare knees. shiu watched the descent with hooded eyes, his fingers working the buckle of his belt with a metallic jingle that filled the quiet room. the zipper came next, a slow, deliberate rasp that made your mouth water before you even saw him.
"look at you," he murmured, freeing himself from the confines of his boxer briefs. he didn't rush. he let the weight of his cock slap against the fine wool of his pants, thick and flushed an angry red at the tip, a single bead of precum already catching the overhead light. "you're drooling already and i haven't even touched you. you've been thinking about this since you hit send, haven't you? sitting at home, playing with your little clit while imagining how pissed off i'd be?"
"shiu..." your voice was a whisper, a plea.
"shh. don't use that voice unless you're planning on wrapping it around me." he leaned forward just enough to run his thumb across your bottom lip, pulling it down before letting it snap back wetly. "open up. and keep those eyes on me. i want to see the exact moment that smart mouth of yours realizes it's too much to handle."
he didn't shove. shiu wasn't a teenager in the back of a car. he fed you the tip first, just the blunt, hot head of him pressing past your lips. the taste of him—clean skin and salt and that specific musk that was just him—flooded your senses. his hand didn't fist in your hair; it cupped the back of your skull, fingers threading through the strands gently, a stark contrast to the filthy, heavy weight settling on your tongue.
"there we go," he sighed, the sound drawn out and utterly satisfied as he watched your lips seal around him. "look at that stretch. god, look at you. you talk so much shit for someone who can barely fit the first two inches. you said your throat was deep, baby. i'm waiting."
you took more. it was a concentrated effort, relaxing the reflexive gag, breathing through your nose as you slid forward. his hand remained steady on the back of your head, not pushing, just present. a reminder that he was in control of the pace whether you liked it or not. his hips stayed perfectly still in the chair, letting you do the work, letting you struggle against the thickness of him as you tried to take him down.
"fuck," he breathed out, the curse soft and reverent. "that's my good girl. you're trying so hard to prove you weren't lying, huh? but you're shaking. your little hands are gripping my pant leg like you're on a rollercoaster."
he leaned forward slightly, the movement pressing him just a hair deeper, enough to make your eyes water and your throat constrict reflexively. the sound that came out of him was a low, guttural groan—the kind of noise that vibrated straight through your chest and settled wetly between your thighs.
"that's it. that's the sound i wanted. not that sharp voice you use when you're telling me i forgot to take out the trash. this wet, sloppy, pathetic little gurgle." his thumb stroked the corner of your stretched mouth. "you feel that? that's your throat trying to swallow me. it's trying so hard to be good for me, even when you're choking on it. you're so dumb right now, aren't you? brain empty. just a warm, wet hole for me to fuck because you couldn't keep your phone in your pocket."
he pulled back just enough to let you breathe, a string of saliva connecting his tip to your swollen lip. his eyes were dark, almost black, and he tilted your chin up with his knuckle. "deeper. relax your jaw. stop fighting it and just let me use it."
you nodded, dazed, and opened wider. this time, he didn't let you set the pace. his hand tightened in your hair—not painfully, just firmly, like a tether—and he guided you down. his hips finally rolled upward in a slow, lazy thrust that pushed past the barrier of your soft palate and into the tight, velvet clutch of your throat. the sound you made was a strangled, wet glk that echoed in the quiet office.
shiu's head fell back against the chair with a thump, a ragged groan tearing from his chest. "oh, fuck. there it is. there's that deep throat you promised me. took you long enough to find it. you get so lost when i'm in your mouth, don't you? can't even remember how to breathe unless i tell you."
he held you there for a three-count, feeling the rhythmic clench of your throat muscles trying to swallow around the intrusion. it was heaven and hell wrapped in the soft, warm cavern of your mouth. when he let you up for air, you were a mess—spit shining on your chin, eyes glassy and unfocused, a soft, whining moan escaping your lips the second they were free.
"look at the mess on my floor," he chuckled, the sound dark and affectionate. he used his thumb to wipe the drool from your chin before sucking it clean off his own skin. "you're leaking through your leggings, aren't you? bet if i touched you right now, you'd soak my hand. all this just from having your throat stuffed full. you don't need a deep voice, baby. you need a cock to shut you up."
he didn't give you time to recover. he pulled you back down, this time setting a steady, languid rhythm. his hips rolled up to meet your descent with a practiced, lazy precision. the office filled with the wet, obscene symphony of your mouth working him over—the slick glide of saliva, the soft, breathy grunts he made each time he bottomed out, the choked, gurgling sounds you couldn't hold back.
"that's it, just take it," he cooed, his voice a low, hypnotic rumble. "you're doing so well for an old man like me. such a sweet little throat. i should keep you under my desk all day. just have you warming my cock while i take conference calls. you'd like that, wouldn't you? you'd sit there and drool all over my balls while i talk about liability insurance, just happy to be used."
he leaned forward again, his chest pressing against the back of your head as he buried himself to the hilt and held. your nose pressed into the coarse hair at his base, your throat bulging obscenely around his length. you gagged, hard, your hands flying up to grip his thighs for stability.
"shh, shh, breathe through your nose," he murmured against your hair, his voice softening for just a second before the dark edge returned. "no, don't tap out. you wanted to prove you could take it. so take it. feel me right here?" his hand moved from your head to press gently against the front of your neck, feeling the rigid shape of himself through your skin. "i can feel myself in your throat. that's insane. you're such a filthy little thing, letting your husband do this to you in his office."
he pulled back, letting you gasp and sputter, a mixture of saliva and precum dripping down your chin and onto your shirt. you looked ruined. your mascara was starting to smudge, your lips were puffy and red, and you were moaning softly even without him inside you, your hips shifting unconsciously against the floor.
"you love this," shiu stated, not asked. he was stroking himself slowly now, using your spit as lubricant, watching you watch him. "you love being put in your place. you love it when i get that look in my eye and remind you who owns this throat. say it."
"i love it," you rasped, your voice hoarse and wrecked, barely a whisper.
"louder. and look at me while you say it."
you lifted your chin, meeting his heavy-lidded gaze. "i love it when you fuck my throat, shiu."
the corner of his mouth curled into a satisfied smirk. "good girl. now be quiet and open up again. i'm not done proving my point. and when we're done here, you're going to sit on my lap and feed me those pork katsu rolls with your fingers while i'm still hard and wet inside you. because this is what happens when you text me porn at nine in the morning."
he guided himself back between your swollen lips, sighing at the familiar heat. this time, he was slower, savoring the way your tongue flattened against the underside of his shaft, the way your throat fluttered in welcome. his hips rolled like a gentle tide, pushing deep, retreating just enough to let you gasp, then pushing back in before you could fully recover. it was a lazy, possessive fuck, the kind that said he had all the time in the world to ruin you.
"listen to that," he whispered, his voice thick with arousal. the room was a chorus of soft, wet sucking sounds and his own low groans. "that's my favorite sound in the world. better than any settlement check. you, gagging on my cock, crying because it feels too good to stop. you're so pretty when you're dumb. your eyes get all glossy and you just... float."
his thumb brushed away a fresh tear that had escaped the corner of your eye. the gesture was so tender, so at odds with the way his hips were now thrusting up into your throat with increasing need, chasing the tight heat of you. "you're okay," he cooed, even as he held your head steady and fucked up into your mouth with a wet, sloppy squelch. "you're doing so good. just a little more. let me feel that throat squeeze me again. yeah, fuck, just like that. choke on it, baby. let me hear it."
the sounds you made were filthy. pure, unadulterated, pornographic bliss. and shiu kong, the most composed man in the building, was falling apart in his office chair because his wife had sent him a text about having a deep throat. he watched the way your lips stretched around him, the way your nose flared for air, and he knew he'd never be able to look at his desk the same way again.
Nanami Kento
“my voice isn't deep but my throat is.”
the message blinked up at him just as he set his leather briefcase down on the polished mahogany of his desk, the morning light still thin and grey through the blinds of his corner office. nanami kento had barely had time to remove his blazer, to let the familiar weight of another tedious workday settle onto his shoulders, before his phone had vibrated with that singular, devastating notification.
he had expected a reminder about his ten o'clock meeting, perhaps a query from a junior associate regarding the quarterly projections. what he received instead was a sentence so crudely, brilliantly obscene that it short-circuited every rational pathway in his brain and rerouted all available blood flow directly south with a force that made him grip the edge of his desk, knuckles going white against the wood grain.
for a long, suspended moment, he simply stood there, his tie suddenly feeling like a noose around his thickening throat, the crisp cotton of his dress shirt an unbearable friction against the sudden, rigid heat straining against the front of his tailored slacks.
he could feel his pulse hammering a frantic, angry rhythm in his temples and, more treacherously, in the heavy, throbbing length now trapped and aching against his thigh. he was a patient man, a man who prided himself on his stoicism, his ability to compartmentalize. he could endure mind-numbing board meetings, inane small talk with clients, the soul-crushing bureaucracy of corporate finance.
but this? this was a specific, targeted assault on his composure, a deliberate act of sabotage perpetrated by the one person he allowed past his carefully constructed defenses. you. his much younger, impossibly bratty, and utterly irresistible wife. you knew his schedule. you knew he had back-to-back meetings all day, starting with the partners' briefing in exactly seventeen minutes. and you had sent that text anyway.
he didn't text back. there was no response adequate to the crime you'd just committed. words felt flimsy, impotent in the face of the relentless, pulsing demand now governing his every thought. he spent the next nine hours in a state of agonizing, hyper-aware purgatory. every step he took was a conscious negotiation with the insistent ache in his groin, a constant, low-level throb of frustration that made his jaw clench and his usually placid demeanor sharpen into something far more dangerous. during the partners' meeting, as old man saito droned on about risk assessment metrics, nanami sat ramrod straight, his gaze fixed on a point just above saito's balding head, his mind a million miles away.
he was picturing you, not as you were when he'd left you this morning, sleep-rumpled and soft in his bed, but as you would be later. on your knees. he shifted almost imperceptibly in his chair, the heavy drag of his cock against the inside of his thigh a secret, maddening torment. he was so hard it bordered on painful, a dull, spreading ache that radiated outward from his core, making his trousers feel obscenely tight and his skin feel too small for his body.
lunch was a tasteless ordeal, a bento box he pushed around with his chopsticks while his cock throbbed a persistent, muffled drumbeat against the confines of his pants. he could feel the damp heat of his own pre-cum soaking into the fabric of his boxer briefs, a constant, sticky reminder of your vulgar, wonderful promise. you had said your voice wasn't deep but your throat was. such a simple, dirty little boast. and now he was going to make you prove it.
not because he was a cruel man, but because he was a man pushed past the brink of his considerable patience, a man whose carefully ordered world had been gleefully upended by a single, salacious text message. by the time the antique clock on his office wall finally, mercifully, clicked over to six-fifteen, signifying the end of his day, he was a tightly coiled spring of pure, undiluted want.
he drove home in a fog of anticipation, the city lights blurring past his window into streaks of meaningless color. he didn't bother with the radio. the only soundtrack in the car was the heavy sound of his own breathing and the relentless, pounding need between his legs. when he finally shouldered open the front door of your shared apartment, the quiet click of the lock sounded like a gunshot in the silent space.
he found you exactly where he expected you to be, curled on the plush sofa, a book in your lap, the very picture of domestic innocence. you looked up at him with those wide, deceptively guileless eyes, a small, knowing smile playing at the corners of your lips. the smile of a woman who had spent her entire day basking in the knowledge of the chaos she had unleashed.
“welcome home, ken,” you said, your voice as sweet and light as honey. that voice. the one you claimed wasn't deep.
he didn't return the greeting. he simply crossed the room in three long, deliberate strides, his movements unhurried but charged with a quiet, implacable force. he stopped directly in front of you, his tall, broad-shouldered frame blocking the light from the standing lamp, casting you entirely in his shadow.
his hand came up, his movements still slow, almost tender, as he undid the perfect knot of his speckled tie with one hand. he pulled the length of silk free from his collar and let it drop to the floor, a soft whisper of sound against the hardwood. then, he reached down and unbuckled his belt, the metallic jangle of the clasp echoing in the quiet room. he didn't unzip his trousers yet. he just loosened them, a subtle but unmistakable signal of intent. his cock was a rigid, insistent shape straining against the dark grey fabric, a sight he made no move to hide.
“you have a very big mouth for such a little thing,” he finally said, his voice a low, gravelly murmur that was utterly devoid of the patient, professional tone he used all day. this was the voice of a man who had been thinking about nothing but the hot, wet clasp of your mouth for hours. “i read your text this morning. i had to sit through a three-hour budget review with a hard-on so severe i thought i might crack a tooth from clenching my jaw. all because my sweet, filthy wife decided to be a tease.”
he reached down and gently, but with an undeniable firmness, took the book from your unresisting hands and set it aside. then his fingers found your chin, tilting your face up to meet his heavy-lidded, golden-brown gaze. “you said your throat was deep. i've been thinking about it all day. measuring it in my mind. wondering if you were just being a brat, or if you were actually prepared to back up such a claim. so here's what's going to happen, sweetheart. you're going to get on your knees right here on this rug, and you're going to prove it to me.”
there was no command in his tone, only a quiet, absolute certainty. he guided you down with the barest pressure on your shoulder, and you went willingly, the plush fibers of the rug meeting your knees. he watched you descend with an almost clinical fascination, his gaze tracing the line of your neck as you looked up at him.
“that's my good girl,” he breathed, the praise a warm, intimate caress. “so obedient now. couldn't be this good for me this morning, could you? had to send me a message designed to make my cock ache all day.”
he finally unzipped his trousers, the sound sharp and decisive. he didn't pull himself out. instead, he reached down and brushed a stray strand of hair from your forehead, his touch infinitely gentle, a stark contrast to the raw, throbbing need pulsing just inches from your face. “i'm going to take my time now, darling. you stole my focus for an entire workday. you made me sit in meetings with a dripping, aching cock that wouldn't soften, no matter how many times i mentally recited the quarterly depreciation figures. you owe me. you owe my cock a very long, very thorough apology.” his thumb traced the curve of your bottom lip, pressing down just slightly, feeling the plush give of it.
“open up, sweetheart. let me see that deep, talented throat of yours.”
when your lips parted, a shaky exhale escaping you, he let out a low, rumbling sound of approval from deep in his chest. “ah, there it is. so pretty and pink. it's a shame you use it for such wicked things as texting your husband filth while he's trying to work.” he finally freed himself from the confines of his boxer briefs, his heavy cock springing forth, the thick, flushed head already slick and glistening with the evidence of his day-long torment.
he was long and undeniably thick, the kind of size that required patience and care, a fact he was well aware of. he held himself at the base, not aggressively, but with the casual ownership of a man who knew his own body and yours.
“i'm not going to fuck your face,” he stated plainly, his thumb still resting on your lower lip, keeping your mouth slightly agape. “not yet. you're going to do all the work. you're going to show me just how sorry you are. i want to feel that clever little tongue first. i want you to taste what you did to me all day. taste it.” he guided the broad, weeping head of his cock to your waiting lips, smearing the slick, salty fluid across them in a slow, deliberate glide.
“that's it. get it nice and wet. you made this mess. you clean it up. such a messy, needy little thing you are, sending your husband dirty texts while he's at the office. did you touch yourself thinking about it? did you rub that needy little cunt while you imagined me reading it, getting all hard and frustrated?”
he didn't wait for an answer, because the question was rhetorical. he knew you did. he eased the head of his cock past your lips, just an inch, and let out a hiss of pure, agonized relief. “f-fuck,” he stuttered, the profanity torn from him, his carefully constructed composure finally cracking at the first wet, silken touch of your mouth. “that's… god, that's good. your mouth is so warm. it's been so cold in that office all day. all those numbers. and all i could think about was this. this exact heat.”
he let you set the pace, his hand moving from his base to cradle the back of your head, not pushing, just… resting there, a heavy, warm, reassuring presence. his other hand remained on your chin, his thumb still hooked over your teeth, keeping your mouth open and relaxed for him.
“that's it, baby. take your time. we have all night. i've been hard for nine hours. you can spend at least a few minutes making it feel better. use your tongue more. yeah, just like that. right on that little spot on the underside. you know exactly where, don't you? you know my cock better than i know my own portfolio. smarter than you look, aren't you? or maybe you just look dumb when you're like this, with my cock stretching your pretty lips. a little dumbification looks good on you, sweetheart.”
he watched you with a hooded, intense gaze, his breathing deepening as you worked him over with your tongue, lavishing attention on the sensitive head, tracing the thick vein that pulsed along the underside. “mmhm, that's my good fucking girl,” he praised, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper.
“so eager to make it up to me. you should be. i had to excuse myself from the afternoon meeting. pretended i had an urgent call. went to the restroom and just stood there in the stall for five minutes, palming myself through my pants like a desperate teenager because of you. because you whispered that filthy little promise in my ear from across the city. you're a menace. an absolute, wet-mouthed menace.”
he allowed you to take him deeper, inch by agonizing inch, his jaw going slack as he felt the head of his cock nudge against the soft resistance at the back of your mouth. “oh,” he breathed, the sound barely audible. “there it is. that's the spot you were bragging about, isn't it? feels tight. feels like it wants to swallow me whole. i'm not going to make you do it all at once. i'm not a monster. i'm a patient man, remember? i'm going to let you get comfortable. i'm going to let you drool all over my cock until it's a sloppy, slick mess. i want it messy. i want to hear it. i want to hear how wet your mouth is for me. i want to hear those little gagging, choking sounds when you try to take a little more than you're ready for. because you will try, won't you? because you're so desperate to prove you're my good, deep-throated little wife.”
he pulled back slightly, just enough to let you breathe, a thick string of saliva connecting your swollen lips to the glistening head of his cock. “breathe, sweetheart. through your nose. nice and slow. there's no rush. i've been aching all day. a few more minutes of this lazy, perfect torture won't kill me. it might, actually. you look so fucking beautiful like this. on your knees, in my shadow, your mouth all messy and wet just for me. my cock is the only thing that exists in your world right now, isn't it? all those silly little thoughts are gone. just the weight of it on your tongue. the taste of me. the need to please me. that's all you need to think about. just being a warm, wet, willing place for me to rest my cock after a very long, very hard day. you did this to me. now you get to fix it.”
his hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk, pressing just a fraction deeper, and you gagged softly, a wet, choked sound that made his eyes flutter shut and a low, guttural moan vibrate in his chest. “nghhh, yeah. just like that. that sound. i've been replaying a fantasy of that sound all day. the sound of my cock hitting the back of your throat. you have no idea. you have no idea the power you wield with that mouth.
but you're learning, aren't you? you're learning that for every bratty text, there's a consequence. and your consequence is kneeling on this rug for as long as it takes for me to feel that every last inch of your throat is properly acquainted with my cock. not to come. no, we're not there yet. this is just… an introduction. a long, slow, lazy fuck of your pretty face. just to remind you, and this greedy cock of mine, exactly who it belongs to.”
Higuruma Hiromi
the courtroom of your shared apartment is silent except for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the distant wail of a siren somewhere in the city that never cared about the war crimes about to be committed on your throat. you're on your knees on the cold hardwood because he'd pointed once, just once, finger crooked like he was calling a recess, and your body understood the verdict before your brain could file an appeal.
the wool of his suit trousers scratches against your cheek when you nuzzle forward, inhaling the scent of him—starch, sandalwood, the faint metallic tang of old paper and older justice—and above you, higuruma hiromi exhales a sound that is not quite a sigh and not quite a groan, something caught in the docket between contempt and wanting.
“two hours,” he says, and his voice is the same one he uses when he's dismantling a witness on cross, low and measured and absolutely devastating. “you sent that text two hours before you were supposed to leave. did you think i would forget? did you think i would read those words—'my voice isn't deep but my throat is'—and simply file it away as evidence pending review?” his hand finds your hair, not gentle, not rough, just there, fingers threading through the strands like he's flipping through case notes, like he's searching for the precise paragraph where you admitted guilt.
“you knew exactly what you were doing. premeditation. malice aforethought. you wanted me hard in the middle of a deposition. you wanted me shifting in my chair, recrossing my legs, clearing my throat while opposing counsel droned on about easements and property lines, all because my pretty little wife decided to commit an act of domestic terrorism via text message.”
you try to speak but his grip tightens just slightly, a warning, a judicial order to remain silent while the court is in session. “ah, no. the time for testimony was before you hit send. now we're in the sentencing phase. and i've been thinking about your sentence for one hundred and twenty excruciating minutes. do you know how long that is to sit with an erection in a three-thousand-dollar suit? do you know how many times i had to excuse myself to the restroom just to stand in a stall and breathe through my mouth and recite the civil procedure code backwards until i could walk without limping?” his thumb traces the shell of your ear, deceptively tender, the way he might handle a piece of evidence he's about to tear apart on the stand.
“you're going to make it up to me. you're going to show the court exactly what that clever little throat can do. and i'm going to talk you through every second of it because that's what you wanted, isn't it? you wanted my voice. you wanted the words. you wanted me to lose my composure so completely that i'd have no choice but to take you apart with language alone.”
his belt buckle is cold when your fingers find it, and he lets you fumble because the fumbling is part of the punishment, part of the exquisite torture of watching you struggle with the leather and the clasp while he remains perfectly still, perfectly composed, a marble statue of a man who has sentenced men to death with less emotion than he's showing right now. “there you go,” he murmurs, and the praise drips down your spine like warm honey, sticky and sweet and utterly condescending.
“such a good girl when you're not being a menace to my professional reputation. do you have any idea what i had to endure? nakamura from across the table asked if i was feeling unwell because i kept pressing my palm against my thigh under the table, trying to will away the image of you typing that message with a smirk on your face, knowing, always knowing exactly what you do to me.” the leather slides free with a whisper and then the zipper, that metallic purr that makes your mouth water even before you see him, even before you feel the weight of him against your lips.
“the prosecution would like to enter into evidence exhibit a: the text message in question, sent at precisely 4:23 PM, reading 'my voice isn't deep but my throat is' followed by a winking emoji that i will personally see burned at the stake for its complicity in this crime.” his voice has dropped half an octave, still controlled but fraying at the edges like old rope, and you can hear it, the strain, the way he's holding himself together through sheer force of legal will.
“and exhibit b: the defendant's current position, on her knees, mouth already open, pupils blown wide, looking up at me like i'm the one who committed a felony when we both know who the real criminal is here. the court finds the defendant... guilty. guilty of being an insufferable little tease. guilty of making a grown man, an officer of the court, contemplate faking a family emergency just so he could come home and fuck that smart mouth until it forgot how to form words.”
you take him into your mouth and the sound he makes is not a moan, not yet, it's a punched-out exhale, a hiss of air through clenched teeth, the noise a man makes when he's been holding his breath underwater for too long and finally breaks the surface. “that's it,” he breathes, and his hips twitch once before he locks them down, iron control, the same control he uses to keep his face blank when a witness lies through their teeth.
“that's my girl. that's my sweet, filthy girl who thinks she can say absolutely anything to me and get away with it. but you don't get away with it, do you? you end up right here, every time, on your knees, with your mouth full and your eyes watering, and you love it. you love being put in your place. you love when i talk to you like this, when i use all these big words and long sentences to tell you exactly what a desperate little thing you are.” his fingers flex in your hair, not pushing, just holding, anchoring himself to the reality of your warm wet mouth and the obscene sounds starting to fill the quiet apartment.
“the court would like to note for the record that the defendant has exceptional technique,” he continues, and there's a tremor in his voice now, a crack in the judicial facade, and you work harder for it, take him deeper, let your throat relax around him the way you've learned, the way he taught you with patient hands and increasingly unraveled praise.
“exceptional. truly. i've seen a lot of things in my career, defendants who could lie with a straight face, prosecutors who could twist a narrative until it sang, but i have never, in all my years, encountered anything as devastating as the way you hollow your cheeks and look up at me like you're waiting for a grade, like you need me to tell you you're doing well, like my approval is the only verdict that matters.” a wet sound escapes around him and he groans, actually groans, the noise dragged out of him against his will, and his head tips back for just a moment before he forces it forward again, forces himself to watch.
“see? see what you do? two hours i sat there, professional, composed, the picture of legal decorum, and all the while i was thinking about this. about the way you'd look up at me. about the sounds you'd make. about how wet your cunt gets just from having your mouth used, don't think i don't know, don't think i can't see you pressing your thighs together right now like that's going to help anything.”
he's right, of course he's right, he's always right, and your thighs are pressed together so tight you can feel the tremor in your own muscles, the ache of emptiness between them, the way your body is begging for attention you know you won't get until he decides the sentence has been served. “the court recognizes the defendant's... discomfort,” he says, and there's a smile in his voice now, dark and amused and terribly fond, the smile of a man who has spent twenty years finding loopholes in the law and is now applying that same creativity to making you squirm.
“but the court also recalls that the defendant chose to send a sexually explicit text message during business hours, knowing full well that the plaintiff—that would be me, darling, keep up—would be forced to endure two hours of uninterrupted arousal before he could address the situation. so really, the defendant's current state of... need... is self-inflicted. poetic justice. the scales don't lie.” his thumb traces your stretched lips, feeling himself through the thin barrier of your skin, and his breath catches audibly.
“god, look at you. look at you taking all of me. my perfect girl. my perfect, ridiculous, infuriating girl who texts me filth while i'm trying to work.”
you make a sound around him, something desperate and muffled, and he shushes you with a gentleness that contradicts everything else about this moment, his thumb stroking your cheek now, wiping at the tears that have started to track down from the corners of your eyes. “i know, sweetheart, i know. it's a lot, isn't it? all that cleverness, all that bravado in a text message, and now look at you. can't even speak. can't even form a coherent objection. overruled, by the way, whatever protest you were trying to lodge.
the court has heard enough from the defendant today. the court would much rather hear these sounds instead, these wet desperate little sounds you make when you're trying so hard to be good for me, when you're trying to make up for being so very, very bad.” his hips move now, shallow thrusts, barely there, just enough to feel the flutter of your throat around him, just enough to make you work to keep up.
“and you are being good now, aren't you? you're being so good. my good girl, finally, after two hours of being an absolute menace to my sanity. i should keep you like this always, you know. just on your knees, mouth available, all those sharp words swallowed down where they belong. think of how productive i'd be at work if i knew i was coming home to this. think of how quiet the apartment would be without you running that pretty mouth about anything other than my cock.”
the condescension should make you angry, should make you pull back and snap at him, but it doesn't, it never does, it just makes you wetter, makes you take him deeper, makes your eyes roll back a little as you surrender to the role he's assigned you: dumb little wife, pretty little mouth, nothing but a warm place for him to empty all those hours of frustration.
“there she is,” he breathes, and the approval in his voice is a physical thing, a warmth that spreads through your chest even as your jaw aches and your throat burns. “there's my girl. stop thinking. you don't need to think. you just need to take what i give you and be grateful for it. that's your sentence, by the way. in case you were wondering. the court sentences you to stop thinking, stop scheming, stop sending me messages designed to ruin my entire day, and just... exist here, on your knees, with your mouth full of me, until i decide you've learned your lesson.” his thumb presses against the corner of your lips again, feeling the stretch, and he makes a low sound of pure masculine satisfaction.
“though we both know you never learn. you'll do this again next week. next month. next year. you'll find some new way to crawl inside my head and set up camp there, and i'll let you, because i am weak, because i am utterly, pathetically devoted to you, because even two hours of torture is worth it if it ends with you looking up at me like i'm the only thing in the world that matters.”
the rhythm builds slowly, inevitably, the way his cases build toward closing arguments, every thrust a new piece of evidence, every wet sound an exhibit entered into the permanent record of your marriage. he's talking continuously now, a stream of legal jargon and filth and praise all tangled together, his composure finally crumbling around the edges as his hips lose their perfect control and start to move with real need.
“the defense rests,” he says, and it comes out ragged, “no, the prosecution rests, i don't even know anymore, i can't think when you do that thing with your tongue, yes, that thing, exactly that thing, you know exactly what you're doing, you always know, you're so smart except when you're being so dumb for me, so perfectly dumb, letting me use this clever mouth like it's nothing but a—” he cuts himself off with a groan, deep and resonant, and his hand in your hair tightens to the point of pain, the point of perfect, the point where everything narrows to this moment, this act, this absolute surrender of everything you are into his keeping.
“i'm going to keep you here,” he tells you, voice wrecked, “i'm going to keep you right here for as long as it takes for that message to stop playing on a loop in my head. could be minutes. could be hours. the court has tremendous discretion in sentencing, and i intend to exercise every last bit of it.” his eyes meet yours and they're dark, so dark, all that judicial restraint burned away to reveal the man underneath, the man who loves you, the man you drove crazy with eleven words and an emoji.
“you wanted my voice. you have it. you have all of it. every word i couldn't say in that deposition, every filthy thing i thought while pretending to care about zoning variances, every single syllable of how much i want you, how much i've always wanted you, how you ruin me daily and i let you, i beg you to ruin me, i sentence you to ruin me for the rest of our lives together.”
and on your knees, with your mouth full and your mind empty of everything but him, you accept the verdict.
Ryomen Sukuna
the lock screen of sukuna's phone glowed face-up on the polished mahogany of his desk, a single notification slicing through the silence of his corner office like a scalpel. he had been mid-scowl, staring at a quarterly earnings report that bored him to the point of physical pain, his jaw tight enough to crack granite. the message preview was from you, his pretty little wife, the one who was supposed to be at home resting that delicate, spoiled throat of yours with tea and honey after you'd complained of a tickle this morning. instead, the text read: my voice isn't deep but my throat is.
his thumb hovered over the screen for a solid three seconds. the air conditioning vent hummed overhead, and the distant click of his assistant's heels faded into white noise. sukuna's jaw unclenched, but only so he could bite down on the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste copper.
a dark, predatory stillness settled over his broad shoulders, the kind of calm that preceded a category five hurricane. the tailored wool of his slacks suddenly felt like sandpaper against his skin, the fabric straining as his cock twitched violently against his thigh, fattening up with a speed that was almost painful.
you were a menace. a fucking brat wrapped in cashmere and his last name, sitting somewhere in his house, bored, and deciding to ruin his concentration with six words that made his vision swim with red. he didn't text back. he never did. words like that deserved an answer in person, delivered with the kind of weight only his presence could provide. he stood up so abruptly his chair rolled back and slammed into the credenza, the echo a gunshot in the empty room. meeting adjourned. afternoon cleared. he grabbed his keys with a violence that said he intended to use them on something other than the ignition.
the drive home was a blur of white-knuckled fury and aching need. every red light was a personal insult. every slow driver was a conspirator in your torture. by the time he shoved the front door open hard enough for the handle to dent the plaster of the foyer wall, he was a live wire, humming with a singular, obscene intent. the house smelled like you—vanilla and something clean, something soft.
it was a stark contrast to the burning, primal energy rolling off him in waves. he found you exactly where he expected, curled on the sectional in the living room, looking up at him with those wide, falsely innocent eyes over the rim of a ceramic mug. you were wearing one of his old band tees, the neck hole stretched and frayed, hanging off one shoulder. you knew. you fucking knew what that shirt did to him, and you wore it while sending a message that filthy.
“sukuna,” you breathed out, and your voice was a little scratchy, a little hoarse, playing up the sick card. “you're home early. did something happen at work?”
he didn't dignify that with a verbal response. he just crossed the room in three long, silent strides, the heavy thud of his dress shoes on the hardwood the only warning you got before he was standing over you, blocking out the light from the bay windows. his hand came down, not to strike, but to cradle—his large palm fitting around the column of your throat with a terrifying, familiar gentleness. his thumb stroked over your pulse point, feeling it jump and flutter under his touch like a trapped bird. his skin was hot, calloused from the gym, a stark contrast to the soft, vulnerable skin of your neck. he could feel the faint vibration of your nervous swallow against his fingers.
“read me the text you sent,” he ordered, his voice a low, gravelly scrape that had absolutely nothing to do with your fabricated sore throat. it was the voice of a man pushed past the edge of his patience, a man who had spent twenty minutes in traffic with a dick so hard it threatened to punch a hole through his zipper. “i want to hear it out loud. since you seem so proud of your writing skills, little wife.”
you swallowed again, and this time he felt the full, tight contraction of your throat muscles working against the cage of his fingers. you set the mug down with a shaky clink on the side table, your eyes locked on his. “my voice isn't deep,” you whispered, your own breath hitching as his grip tightened a fraction, just enough to make you aware of how easily he could crush the air from your lungs if he wanted to. “but my throat is.”
the second the words left your lips, the last thread of his composure snapped. his free hand went to the back of your head, fingers twisting roughly in the baby hairs at the nape of your neck, pulling your head back to expose the long, elegant line of your throat. “filthy mouth,” he growled, leaning down so his lips brushed the shell of your ear, his breath hot and damp.
“wasting my time with spreadsheets when i could've been here watching these lips stretch around me. you think that's funny, don't you, baby? making a fool out of me at work? letting everyone in that goddamn building see me storm out with a hard-on because my wife doesn't know how to act right when she's left alone?”
he didn't wait for an answer. he didn't want one. he wanted you to prove your thesis statement. with a firm, unyielding pressure on your shoulder, he pushed you forward off the couch. the floor was thankfully covered by a thick, plush shag rug he'd bought specifically because he liked you on your knees and he didn't like seeing bruises on them unless he put them there with his mouth.
you went willingly, eagerly, sinking down onto the soft fibers as he stepped back just enough to work at his belt. the clink of the metal buckle was deafening in the quiet room, a tolling bell for the debauchery to come. you looked up at him from your knees, that innocent facade melting away into something hungrier, something that matched the fire burning low in his own belly. this was the you he married—the one who could look like an angel while thinking thoughts that would make a porn star blush.
“open your mouth,” he commanded, his voice tight with restraint. he freed his cock from the confines of his boxer briefs, and the sight of it made your lips part instinctively before his words even registered. he was thick, veined, the tip an angry, flushed red and glistening with a bead of pre-cum that had been leaking steadily since you hit send on that godforsaken text.
he was heavy in his own hand, and he gave himself a slow, languid stroke, tapping the wet head against your waiting bottom lip, smearing the slickness there like gloss. “there she is. my pretty, dumb little wife with a throat that's just begging to be used. you wanted my attention so bad, didn't you? couldn't stand the thought of me thinking about numbers and contracts instead of this wet, warm fucking mouth.”
“mhm,” you hummed, the sound vibrating against the sensitive crown of his dick, and his hips jerked forward involuntarily, a guttural groan tearing from his chest. he let you take him in slowly, watching with hooded, predatory eyes as your lips stretched wide to accommodate his girth. it was a tight fit, always was, and the sight of you struggling just to take the first few inches made his balls draw up tight and heavy.
your tongue flattened against the underside of his shaft, a wet, welcoming heat that made his knees feel weak for just a split second. he fisted his hand tighter in your hair, not pushing, just anchoring himself in the reality of the moment—his sweet, mouthy little wife, on her knees for him, making good on her filthy promise.
“thaaat's it,” he drawled, his voice dropping an octave, becoming a lazy, rolling purr of satisfaction. he was still pissed, the anger simmering just beneath the surface, but it was tempered now by a bone-deep, possessive pride. “look at you, already drooling all over my cock and i haven't even moved. such a good girl when you're quiet, aren't you? you just needed something heavy in your mouth to shut that clever little brain off. is that it? you needed daddy to come home and fuck the thoughts right out of your head?”
you moaned around him, a wet, garbled sound that was more vibration than noise, and your eyes fluttered shut as you started to bob your head. he let you set the pace for a few blissful seconds, savoring the slick, tight glide of your throat. but he was still too wound up, the image of that text message burned into his retinas. he needed more. he needed to feel the proof of your boast. his grip on your hair tightened, and he pulled you back until just the tip rested on the cushion of your bottom lip. a thick string of saliva connected you to him, glistening in the afternoon light.
“nah, baby,” he murmured, shaking his head slowly, his lips curling into a cruel, affectionate smirk. “you said your throat was deep. you didn't say anything about your mouth. that's just the warm-up. i want what you promised. i want to feel these tonsils. open up wider. relax that jaw for me. c'mon, be a big girl.”
he pressed forward again, and this time he didn't stop at the entrance to your throat. he pushed past the resistance, groaning low and long as the head of his cock nudged into the impossibly tight, velvety heat of your pharynx. “ffffuuuck,” the word was drawn out, a hiss of pure, unadulterated pleasure. your eyes were watering, tears spiking your lashes, but your hands were gripping the fabric of his slacks at his thighs, pulling him closer, not pushing him away.
you were such a fucking marvel. so eager to please him, so desperate to prove you could take all of him. he held himself there for a beat, letting you adjust, letting you feel the heavy, throbbing weight of him lodged deep inside your neck. his thumb swiped under your eye, catching a tear. “that's my girl. look at you, crying all pretty on my dick. you love this, don't you? you love being my little throat warmer while i'm supposed to be making million-dollar deals.”
he started to move then, but it wasn't the frantic, face-fucking pace his anger initially craved. no, this was something lazier, something more intimate and degrading all at once. he kept his thrusts shallow, just barely pulling out of the tight clutch of your throat before sinking back in, a slow, wet, gliding rhythm.
each time he bottomed out, your nose pressed into the coarse, trimmed hair at his base, and he'd hold it there for a long, torturous second, letting your throat muscles flutter and contract around him in a desperate attempt to swallow or breathe. the sounds were obscene—a wet, rhythmic gluck-gluck-gluck that filled the living room, punctuated by his own deep, satisfied groans.
“that's my deep-throated little wife,” he praised, the words dripping with condescending affection. his hand was still at your throat, feeling the obscene bulge of himself through your skin. the tactile feedback made his own eyes roll back for a second.
“feels so fucking good, baby. you have no idea. sitting in that meeting, all those stuffy old bastards talking about market volatility, and all i could think about was this. this exact, tight, wet spot right here.” he pressed down on your throat where he was buried, and you gagged beautifully, the contraction making his cock jump.
“shhhhh, easy. i know. it's a lot, isn't it? too much cock for such a small, pretty throat. but you're doing so well. you're proving your point, aren't you, sweetheart? you've got the deepest, greediest little throat in the whole damn city.”
he pulled out completely, letting you gasp and sputter, a waterfall of drool spilling from your swollen, red lips down onto the front of his tee shirt. you looked wrecked, absolutely debauched, and he hadn't even gotten his pants all the way off. he liked it that way. he liked you messy and dumb for him, your brain turned to static from the lack of oxygen and the overwhelming sensation of being so completely filled. he crouched down, his face level with yours, and his expression was a complicated mix of sadistic glee and genuine adoration. he kissed you, licking into your mouth and tasting himself on your tongue, a guttural sound of approval vibrating in his chest.
“don't think this is over because i let you breathe,” he murmured against your wet lips. “i'm still pissed. you owe me an afternoon. i'm going to sit on this couch, and you're going to stay right there on that rug, on your pretty knees, and you're going to keep my cock warm in that deep throat of yours until you forget what words even are. until that clever, bratty little brain is just a puddle of nothing but 'yes, sukuna' and 'thank you, sukuna'. understand?”
he didn't wait for a verbal confirmation. he just stood back up, dragging you with him by the hair to position you between his spread thighs as he sank back onto the sectional. he guided your mouth back down onto his spit-slicked, aching length, sighing in pure contentment as that wet heat enveloped him again. he grabbed the remote from the side table and turned on the tv, settling back as if he didn't have his wife's throat stuffed full of his cock.
his thumb stroked idly over the damp skin of your cheek, a silent, affectionate counterpoint to the filthy, lazy degradation of the act. “there we go. nice and deep. just like you promised, baby. good girl. just breathe through your nose and let daddy enjoy his afternoon off.” and you did, kneeling there on the soft rug, your world narrowed down to the heavy weight on your tongue and the quiet, possessive hum of the man who owned every inch of you, proving with every slow, lazy pulse of his dick in your throat that some promises were definitely meant to be kept.
The afternoon sun beat down on the marketplace, casting long shadows across the dusty ground where merchants hawked their wares. You stood behind the wooden booth, a smile on your face as you held up a beautifully crafted bow, demonstrating its balance to a hesitant customer.
Behind you, Sukuna loomed.
He didn't need to do anything—his presence was enough. Four arms crossed over his massive chest, muscles rippling beneath tattooed skin, he stood like a wall ready to hit down at the slightest disagreement. You watched the customer's eyes dart nervously toward him before snapping back to you.
"As you can see," you continued smoothly, your voice warm and light, "the draw is perfectly balanced. Your son will find it much easier to learn with quality equipment like this." You tilted your head, smile brightening to ease the customer. "Unless you want him complaining about sore arms all summer?"
The man swallowed hard, his gaze flickering to Sukuna again for a second. He shifted his weight, the sudden movement making the customer flinch. Sukuna rolled his four eyes, leaning back against a pillar.
"I-I'm not sure—"
"We also have arrows," you interjected quickly, reaching for a quiver, "Fletched with hawk feathers. They fly true, and..." you leaned in conspiratorially, voice dropping to a playful whisper, "between you and me, I’ll offer a discount if you purchase both together. Although don’t tell my partner—he hates when I'm generous."
Behind you, you could hear Sukuna grunt at the proposal, not quite agreeing, but not quite disagreeing either.
The customer's shoulders relaxed slightly at the offer. You had that effect on people, your genuine warmth, the way you made even standing in the shadow of something monstrous to them feel somehow safe. Natural charm, probably the reason Sukuna had agreed to bring you along with him to sell.
"I'll... I'll take them both," the man finally said, fumbling for his coin purse.
"Excellent choice." You wrapped the bow and quiver carefully, accepting his payment with thankful hands. He then hurried away, clutching his purchase like it might bite him, you counted the coins and added them to the lockbox. "See?" you said over your shoulder, not even looking at Sukuna. "Generosity pays."
“Sure woman.” He looked down at you, your hands already displaying a new bow to sell.
You'd been doing this for weeks now, ever since you'd pointed out that his attempts at selling were driving away more customers than they attracted.
"You can't just glare at passers and expect them to hand over their money," you'd told him, laughing at the affronted look on his face, shocked at how bold you were with him. "Well, you could, but that would be considered robbery, not commerce."
He'd scoffed at your bold remark, but the next market day, he'd found you in the crowd of buyers, then jerked his head toward the cart, his way of inviting you in.
You'd been his voice ever since, the bridge between his fearsome reputation and the coin purses of nervous customers. In return, he kept you fed, sheltered, and somewhat safe in a world that wasn't particularly kind to women traveling alone.
Through your stay though, you’d also soon come to realize that tending to his needs seem to tame his temper, making sales easier… at least a little.
You grinned to yourself, already scanning the crowd for the next customer. This was your domain, selling, charming, dancing your way into customer’s hearts and pockets. He was the muscle, the fear factor that paradoxically made people trust that the weapons were legitimate.
The afternoon continued in much the same pattern. You smiled, demonstrated and won people over easily while Sukuna stood like a leashed threat behind you. A young samurai bought three quivers of arrows, trying not to stare at the way Sukuna's four arms moved independently. An older woman purchased a small hunting bow for her grandson, at the end of the transaction you threw in a few extra bowstring for free.
"You’re too generous," Sukuna remarked, his first words in over an hour.
"Mm, perhaps," you agreed cheerfully, waving as the woman left. "But she'll tell everyone in three villages about the nice merchant girl and her terrifying partner. Free advertising."
He clicked his tongue at you, “Always have a word to beat mine.” You only shrugged with that same smile you gave everyone else, god you annoyed him at times.
By the time the sun began to sink toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple, your lockbox was pleasantly heavy.
"Good day," you announced, beginning to pack up the remaining inventory.
Sukuna helped without comment, his four arms making quick work of breaking down the display.
The caravan waited at the edge of the marketplace, exactly where you'd left it that morning. It was large enough to house your inventory and provide sleeping space, pulled by two sturdy oxs.
You climbed inside first, immediately moving to light the small oil lamp that hung from the ceiling. The warm glow filled the cramped space, illuminating the organized chaos of your unprobable shared life. Weapons lined one wall, sleeping mats laid out in the corner—yours and his, side by side. A small chest held your clothes, mostly the layered kosode and hakama, the bare minimum.
Sukuna followed, his bulky figure making the caravan feel smaller than it already was. He settled onto the floor with a quiet huff, crossing his legs before him as he reached out for his smoking pipe, watching as you moved across the space.
You began your evening, counting the day's earnings, making notes of inventory that needed restocking, humming softly to yourself as you tidied. You could feel his eyes on you as you moved, those four crimson eyes following the curve of your hips, the way your spine curved.
“Rest.” You suddenly called out to you.
You turned towards him, his intimidating frame loosely sprawled sitting up on his mat. He waved his pipe towards the mat which layed beside his, in which you obliged.
You walked towards him and kneeled on the soft mat, hands on your thighs as you watched the smoke escape his mouth. You couldn’t help but press your thighs together, feeling your heart race as you finally took in the sight of him.
His grey Yukuta fell loosely around his frame exposing the defined muscles and bold marks covering him. He’d been patient, hearing you talk all day, those fearful eyes watching him every passing minute.
He needed release.
He exhaled one last cloud of smoke before setting the pipe to the side, his lower hand reached out, fingers catching the edge of your kosode. Not grabbing, just... touching, examining the texture of your clothes with his thumb.
Your breath hitched just slightly, but enough that you knew he noticed. Heat crept up your neck already even though this had happened countless times before.
"Still trembling at my touch?" Sukuna asked, amusement coloring his tone, yet his face remained stoic, his upper hand joined the first, finding the tie of your outer layer as he turned his body towards yours.
"I'm not—" you started, but the words caught when he pulled the fabric loose. "It's just..."
"Hm?" He tugged the outer kosode from your shoulders, your face heating up further.
"Nothing," you whispered, your eyes falling to his hands, his arms marked by tattoos and bulging veins which had you forgetting whatever thought you had in mind before.
This was how it always started—him undressing you piece by piece while you tried and failed to maintain your usual ease. A routine that had settled, but one that still made your heart race.
His hands found the next tie, working it loose with ease, his palm slid across your stomach, fingers splaying wide as if measuring the softness there. The delicacy of his touch didn’t match the view, goosebumps rising wherever his hand travelled.
The fabric of his clothes parted further, his sleeve slipped from his shoulder as he leaned closer. He made no move to remove it entirely, just freed himself enough, the tunic draping open across his tattooed chest.
"That samurai will definitely be back," you blurted out, trying to form some type of conversation, but landing somewhere closer to sounding breathless. "Did you see how he looked at the arrows? He'll want more."
"Mm." Sukuna's fingers traced the edge of the next layer, then slipped beneath it to cup your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple with the lightest pressure. "Your tongue loosens further when you're flustered." He remarked, eyes not leaving your body.
"I'm not flustered," you protested weakly, your voice coming out shaky and uncertain as he dragged his roughened hands across the sensitive buds.
His hand followed the path of exposed skin, palm dragging down your ribs, across your belly, mapping every curve he’d been devouring with his eyes earlier. "No?" His eyes finally looked up at you.
You huffed, quickly looking away from the intimidating sets of eyes. "It’s just, you barely spoke three words all day."
"No need to speak when you fill the silence well enough." His hands continued their work, peeling away yet another layer, tracing the underside of your breast.
"How unkind" you managed, your voice growing smaller.
He didn't react to your comment, his hands roaming across your skin as if examining a feast laid before him (which you sometimes feared you'd actually be). The lamplight cast warm shadows across your skin, accentuating your hardening nipples with the darkened shadows, his gaze dragged over you with undisguised hunger.
"There," he said, satisfaction in his voice as the last layer slipped away, "Much better."
He shifted back against the caravan wall, settling himself with his upper arms braced behind him, legs spread. His tunic hung loose and open, exposing the expanse of his tattooed body, that cruel mouth. Both of his lengths stood tall and hard already, the tip matching the color of his hair, only a bit darker, you never seemed to get used to it.
His lower hands gestured lazily toward his lap, hurrying you on over and you obliged right away, your body fully entranced by him.
"You know," he hummed, watching you crawl towards him, "this makes the trip tolerable."
Your heart hammered in your chest, straddling his thighs without stumbling over this time from how thick they were. "My company's that bad?" You breathed out, hands unconsciously covering your chest, feeling overly exposed all of a sudden from being ontop of him.
"Your company is... adequate." His lower hands gripped your hips, guiding you into position above him. You were soaked—slick arousal coating your inner thighs already, only from his touch. His upper cock stood thick and throbbing beneath you, the blunt head dragging through your folds.
His upper set of arms grabbed your wrists, pulling them away from your breasts with a growl to get a full view, he enjoyed how defeated you looked in those moments. "Although, this I quite enjoy from you." He huffed out a low laugh, watching your face twist in pleasure as you sank onto him, the stretch was huge, thick. Your body yielding to accommodate him inch by inch as you lowered yourself onto his considerable girth.
"Ah!—" The sound punched out of you, helpless.
His lower cock pressed hot against your cheeks as you settled fully in his lap, the weight of it a constant reminder of what could be. You could feel the heat radiating from both of them, the pulse of blood through thick veins dragging along the bottom side of both of them.
The mouth on his abdomen opens up.
Heavens.
The tongue extended and dragged flat directly over your sensitive bud, you could never truly get used to it, wet and textured in the best of ways. You felt it lapping at you slooowly, tasting the slick mess you were making around his girth already from the sheer stretch of it.
Your eyes were focused on his chest slowly rising and falling, abs clenching lightly at how tight you were squeezing him. His eyes taking in the sight before him with a rather pleased smirk.
You jerked in his lap, a whimper tearing from your throat. "Hah—Sukuna—"
"Just so," he hummed raising arching up his brows clearly waiting for you to start moving, which you obliged immediately rolling your hips in a steady rhythm. The drag of his cock against your inner walls sent sparks up your body, the curve of it dragging his swollen tip along that spot that made you roll your eyes back. "Ever so yielding."
The mouth worked carefully on your swollen bud, tongue circling, flicking your sensitive flesh as you rode him. You could hear how obscene it all sounded, and Sukuna seemed to drink up all of it, a pleased look plastered all over his face.
"Mmgh—" You were already at the point where forming words was a task in itself, hands leaving the grip he had on you so you could cling on his broad shoulders for leverage, your nails digging into his tattooed skin.
That’ll definitely leave a mark.
"Tell me," he continued, voice rough from you squeezing him, but still as collected as he always was, "did you see that merchant's face when I picked up the full crate with one hand?"
You blinked down at him a little confused, brows knit together as you tried to focus on your pleasure building. "W-what?"
"The one selling rice. Thought he might soil himself." His lower hands gripped your hips harder, guiding you onto his length properly now, making you take him deeper, that painful pleasure you went crazy for. "You smiled at him after, put him right at ease."
"I—ah—I didn't notice," you managed breathlessly, the words breaking apart in between thrusts.
The tongue pressed hard suddenly against that sensitive bundle of nerves making you cry out, clenching around him involuntarily as tears bordered your lids. Slick warmth gushed between your bodies, making the next slide smoother than the one before. He was making sure you gave him a show worthy of his time, that’s the least he could do.
"You never do." One of his upper hands moved to cup your face, thumb brushing your cheek with surprising gentleness even as you fucked yourself on his cock. "Too busy giving a show." For a second you swear there was a ting of jealousy, eyes half lidded and hard to read as always.
The caravan rocked with your movements, you didn't bother being quiet—people wouldn’t address it anyways, too scared of the bulky man they saw as a curse. The most you’d get would be apologetic looks, small ‘reassuring’ smiles which you didn’t quite get, you clearly sounded like you were enjoying it.
At least you knew you were.
"You could truly sell anything," he adds on, his eyes locked on yours determined to keep this conversation going, his face inches away from yours. The mouth at his abdomen worked frantically now, stroking in rhythm with your movements. "If you put this body behind it, auctioned it like you do with my bows,” he digged his fingers, definitely piercing flesh, “you'd make a fortune."
Heat coiled impossibly tight in your gut at his words, at how easily he talked about your body. "Nnh—p-perhaps," you mewled, voice high and desperate, your rhythm growing erratic as you tried to reach that sweet sweet high. "But then who'd—hah—sell your bows i-if I did?"
He let out a surprised laugh—an actual one, his jaw hanging loose all the while. "Always talking back." He leaned back against the wall of the caravan, both upper arms crossed behind his head while the others kept you going on him, letting you satisfy him.
Your pace grew quicker, frantic almost at how close you were. The wet slap of skin meeting skin filled the small space so easily. Your inner walls began to flutter around him, squeezing rhythmically, he groaned low in his chest, brows knitting together.
"So soon?" he mocked.
"I—ah—I can't—" The words broke apart, your thighs trembling with effort.
"Oh you can." His lower hands gripped your hips harder as if it were even possible, his upper hands now resting on your waist as well, forcing you down onto him, making it impossible for you to even try to get off. "Or at least I’ll make you." He was so so close, his breath fanning your face with that low growl of a voice, lips literally a nudge away.
Your inner walls clenched around him like a heartbeat, squeezing his cock tight as pleasure burst white-hot behind your eyelids as the to tongue lapped one last time at your clit.
"Too much— Sukuna!" His name tore from your throat as slick warmth gushed between your bodies—you could feel it, the wet release of your climax coating his twitching cock, dripping down to soak his thighs and the sleeping mat beneath you both. The obscene squelching sound of it made your cheeks burn even as another wave of pleasure rolled through you, forbidding you to take a break.
"Fuck," Sukuna breathed, cock throbbing inside you, feeling the way your contractions tried milking him. His hips jerked up wanting to feel the entirety of your orgasm, the mouth at his abdomen lapped frantically at the mess, not letting anything go to waste, working through the slick wet evidence of your climax.
You were still trembling around him in aftershocks, but he wasn’t done, both hands pulling you up from him in one swift movement.
"What—"
"Turn over," he ordered, his hands already guiding you to your knees. "On your hands and knees.”
You obeyed with shaky limbs, positioning yourself on the sleeping mat, feeling the damp fabric beneath your palms and knees, you were a complete mess for him.
A pair of rough hands found your hips, caressing the soft skin there as if prepping a meat cut. As for the other hands one roamed up your spine, dragging his nails along the sensitive skin before laying his hand flat between your should blades.
“Down.” You yelped as he pushed down with his hand, your chest now touching the mat beneath you, ass up and on full useful display for him.
His lower cock this time pressed against your entrance, whilst his upper cock glide between your cheeks—a slow, teasing drag that had you gasping, almost hoping he’d push right in, even though fear coursed through you at the thought.
"One of these days," he lowered himself over you, lips right at the crook of your neck, arrogance dripping through his every word, "you'll be taking both of them at once."
“P-please Suku—ah!”
Your breath hitched in your throat, feeling the his tongue poke out to drag along your neck and to your ear, making sure to bite down as he finally thrusted his lower cock inside. The new position made you cry out, you could feel him impossibly deep, filling you up completely, hitting spots that made stars burst behind your eyelids.
"Better?" he asked, though the satisfaction in his voice said he already knew the answer.
"Yes," you whimpered, fisting the sleeping mat beneath you until your knuckles turned white.
His pace was brutal now, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the small space with haste. One of his upper hands tangled in your hair, keeping you down just the way the wanted, while the other traced patterns on your back.
His upper cock dragged between your cheeks in a maddening rhythm through it all, the friction sending sparks of sensation through you as it glided onto that new discovered bundle of joy.
His lower set of hands pressed firmly against his own upper length whilst still holding your hips, pushing it harder against your fold, watching it as it slid so easily through your spread cheeks, using every part of you to pleasure himself.
"Feel that?" he rasped, his lower hands applied more pressure. "Feels amazing doesn’t it?"
His bulky frame was invading you fully, body and mind blank and only able to register the feeling of him inside you and the occasional grunts coming from the man above you.
"You seemed put together today," he started, engaging in pleasant discourse as if he wasn’t absolutely rearranging your guts at the moment. "That blue kosode—it brings out your eyes."
You could only give him your desperate whimpers in response, not sure where he was going with this.
"No one looks at you when I'm there." He dragged his nails across your back, dark marks blooming on your skin. "They're all too busy trying not to meet my eyes, this you’re aware of."
"I-I don’t—"
"Who were you try to impress if not the clientele?" His chest rested against your back, shifting the angle further as both upper set of arms wrapped around your frame, caging you completely. "You must try harder to impress me."
Tears were welling in your eyes, you weren’t sure if they were from his harsh abuse on your cervix or the cruel words he was sharing with you. "I’m s-sorry—too much—"
"You can take it," he assured you. "the one thing you’re capable of doing properly."
Even that double sided praise made your chest tight, another orgasm building rapidly—fast, coiling tight in your core, bordering painful.
"Just like that," he encouraged, one hand sliding away from your hip, fingers finding that sensitive bundle of nerves and pressing painfully hard.
"Ah—hah—I’m done p-please—" The words broke apart, your right hand grabbing onto his tattooed wrist, trying to push it away.
"One more," he commanded, you could hear the grin in his voice. "Give me one more."
The pressure built tight, pleasure coiling white-hot at the base of your spine. His fingers circled faster, matching the rhythm of his thrusts, his cocks completely using you in different ways.
Then it hit.
The third wave of pleasure tore through you like an painful shock, knees completely giving out under you. "Nnh—god please—S-Sukuna—" You sobbed his name, your inner walls clenched around him, squeezing his cock in desperate pulses, trying to pull him impossibly deeper.
Sukuna's hands held your hips in place, keeping your ass up even though your legs had abandoned you, chasing his own release. You were trembling under him, a mess, but he loved the sight of you like that, completely fucked out, completely used by him.
"Shit—" The curse punched out of him with a growl. "Absolutely fucking gorgeous."
His rhythm became erratic, powerful thrusts losing their steady pace from before. You could feel his lower cock throbbing inside you, the thick length pulsing as his climax built. His breathing grew ragged, heavy, almost like an animal’s growl.
"Hah—" He moaned unguardedly, losing his composure for a split second before his own release caught up to him.
His lower cock pulsed inside you, feeling the first rush of his hot release flooding your inner walls—thick and warm filling you up completely. Another pulse, another surge of heat, his upper length spilled across your lower back in thick ropes,
"God," he groaned, his jaw clenching as another rush hit him. His hips jerked, cock twitching inside you—the sheer amount of it, hot and slick, beginning to leak out around where he still stretched you open.
For a moment, there was only your breathing mixing together —his heavy and uneven, yours shaky and thin. The air was thick in the caravan, the sleeping mat beneath you damp and rumpled.
You would definitely need to switch it out.
He pulled out slowly, settling onto his side next to you on the mats as he watched his release escape you. His hand—the lower right—rested on your hip as you lay there catching your breath, still face-down and boneless on the mat.
"Catched your breath yet?" He questioned as he reached for his pipe from earlier.
"Barely," you mumbled into the fabric, voice completely spent.
"You should go bathe in the river near," he commented, his thumb brushing across your hip where his release still clung to your skin. "You're a mess."
You turned your head to look at him, a tired look on your face. "And you aren’t?"
His clothes hung from his frame in complete disarray. His hakama sat low and loose around his hips, clearly hastily pulled back on a few seconds ago. His hair was disheveled, falling across his face in dark wet strands, there was a rawness to him, the way he looked, almost animal like now that the post-coital haze was settling—the fearsome merchant from the marketplace returning to the surface.
"I'm not the one dripping," he said flatly blowing out smoke, though there was an edge of amusement in his tone. His gaze was sharp again, looking up and down at you. "Go. You need to be presentable for the customers when morning comes."
"How considerate," you teased, pushing yourself up on shaky arms. "Though I notice you're hardly presentable yourself. Don’t you think you scare them enough already?"
His expression hardened—that familiar look of authority settling back into his features. "Now watch it, I’m the one to give commands here."
It wasn't with cruel intent, there was something in the way he said it that suggested he wasn't entirely unmoved by your teasing. This was the dynamic you had after all, he kept you around for his benefit, not because he necessarily wanted to.
Which sounded like a lie to you but you went along with it.
"Of course not," you hummed, reaching for your robe.
You wrapped the thin robe around yourself, wincing slightly at the soreness between your thighs as you stood. The fabric clung to the mess still coating your skin, but it would have to do for the short walk to the river.
It wasn't far—you could hear it, the gentle rush of water over stones once you passed the door of the caravan. You made your way through the sparse trees, careful of your footing in the darkness.
You'd barely made it halfway there when you heard heavy footsteps behind you.
You glanced over your shoulder to find Sukuna following, his yukata hanging loosely from his frame still, he hadn't bothered to fix it properly.
"Changed your mind?" you asked, unable to hide the smile in your voice.
"The river's dangerous at night," he said, as if that explained his change of heart. "Wild animals. Bandits."
"Of course," you replied, turning back toward the water. "How foolish of me to think I could manage alone."
”I wouldn’t want my investment to go to waste,” He looked at your with those cold eyes as usual, “that’s all.”
(i really love writing about true form sukuna gimme more)
synopsis: You ran from your arranged marriage in a torn white wedding dress, desperate to escape the cruel lord your family sold you to. By midnight, you’re on your knees in front of the village butcher, begging for shelter.
Toji Fushiguro doesn’t help runaways.
But when you blurt out that he’s your husband in front of the biggest gossips in town, suddenly the whole village believes you’re his. Now you’re trapped in a fake marriage with the terrifying butcher — a massive, rough, possessive man who has decided that if you’re going to call yourself his wife… he’s going to make it very, very real.
pairing: butcher!toji fushiguro x runaway bride!reader
mdni | warnings: smut, first time, size kink, breeding kink, creampie, cum play, rough sex, possessive/jealous Toji, dirty talk, spanking, manhandling, strength kink, overstimulation, oral (f receiving), fingering, spitting, multiple orgasms, multiple positions, fake marriage
word count: 14.8k
a/n: im kinda obsessed with this ngl... also lmk if your enjoying these longer fics!
The great hall of your family estate felt more like a tomb than a place of celebration.
Thick beams of dark oak loomed overhead, and the air was heavy with the greasy smell of over-roasted venison, spilled sour wine, and your father’s desperation. Two massive iron chandeliers flickered with dying candles, casting long, distorted shadows that danced across the walls. Servants had long since been dismissed, leaving only the three of you: your father, Lord Kato, and you — the silent prize being traded away.
Your father slumped in his carved high-backed chair, cheeks bloated and flushed deep red from too much drink. His once-fine tunic was stained with grease and wine. With a trembling hand, he slid the sealed parchment across the table. The wax bore your family’s broken crest.
“She’s untouched,” he slurred, trying and failing to sound proud. “Barely nineteen summers. Fertile. She’ll give you strong sons, I swear it. Obedient when properly disciplined. This marriage settles every debt between our houses — the gold, the eastern lands, the failed harvests… all of it wiped clean.”
Lord Kato sat across from him like a spider in human skin. Tall and unnaturally pale, with sharp cheekbones and eyes the color of frozen ink. His lips curled into a thin, cruel smile as he let his gaze crawl over your body without shame. He studied the swell of your breasts beneath your gown, the narrow dip of your waist, the way your hands clenched into fists at your sides. The way you trembled.
He took a slow sip of wine, then spoke, voice smooth and cold as winter steel.
“She’ll do nicely. The ceremony will take place tomorrow night at my estate. I expect her delivered in the finest white lace and silk… and nothing beneath it.” His smile widened, revealing teeth that seemed too sharp. “I want easy access the moment the guests leave. I’ve waited long enough for my new bride.”
You stood motionless in the center of the hall, heart pounding so violently you could hear it in your ears. Your skin crawled as if his eyes were already peeling the gown from your body. Nausea twisted in your stomach. This man had already buried three wives. Whispers spoke of bruises, broken bones, and screams that echoed through his halls at night. And now your own father was selling you to him for coin and land.
No one asked if you agreed.
No one asked what you wanted.
No one ever had.
You kept your face blank, eyes lowered like the obedient daughter they expected, while inside your mind screamed.
Later that night, when the household finally fell into drunken slumber and the torches burned low, you moved.
You had planned this in secret for weeks. A plain dark wool cloak stolen from the stables. A small bundle of hard bread, dried cheese, and a waterskin. Soft leather shoes you hoped would last. But the most valuable thing you owned was the wedding gown itself. You had decided to wear the half-finished white dress during your escape — the expensive satin and delicate lace might fetch enough coins in a distant village to buy you passage far away from here. It was risky, but you had nothing else of real value.
You slipped out through the narrow servant’s entrance at the back of the kitchens, the heavy door groaning softly behind you like a warning. The moment your feet touched the cold, dew-soaked grass, terror and fragile hope surged through you in equal measure.
You ran.
The forest swallowed you whole.
Ancient trees loomed like silent judges, their branches clawing at your white gown as if trying to drag you back. The delicate satin — still only half-finished, with pins and loose threads — snagged mercilessly on thorns. You heard fabric tearing again and again: sharp rips that sounded far too loud in the darkness. The long lace veil caught on a low limb and nearly yanked you off your feet; you tore it free with shaking hands, leaving half of it fluttering behind you like a surrendered flag. Mud and wet leaves caked your bare feet. Sharp stones and roots sliced into your soles until every step left bloody prints in the dirt. The cold night air burned your lungs. Sweat soaked your back and chest despite the chill, making the torn gown cling obscenely to your skin. Your legs screamed with exhaustion after only an hour, but fear kept you moving. Behind you, distant shouts echoed through the trees — your father’s guards, torches flickering like angry fireflies. Dogs barked. They were coming.
You pushed harder.
Branches whipped your face, leaving stinging cuts across your cheeks. Your hair fell loose from its elegant pins, wild and tangled. Tears streamed down your face, mixing with blood and dirt. Every shadow looked like a man ready to grab you. Every snap of a twig made your heart seize. You ran until your vision blurred and your chest felt like it would burst. You ran until the shouts grew fainter and the trees finally began to thin.
Hours had passed. The moon hung high and merciless overhead, bathing the world in cold silver light. Your legs trembled violently as you stumbled out of the treeline onto a wide, muddy road. In the distance, warm golden lantern light glowed between clusters of simple wooden buildings. A village.
You nearly collapsed with relief.
The main street was deserted, shutters closed tight against the night. Only one building still showed signs of life. Warm light spilled from its open front door onto the dirt road, carrying with it the thick, metallic scent of fresh blood and raw meat. A weathered wooden sign creaked overhead in the cold breeze:
Fushiguro Meat Co.
You limped toward it, every cut and bruise screaming.
A massive man stood under the wooden awning, illuminated by the lantern light. He was enormous — broad as a barn door, easily over six feet tall, with shoulders and arms so thick with muscle they looked carved from stone. He wore a blood-streaked leather apron tied low on his narrow hips. Beneath it, a simple white tank clung to his sweat-slicked chest, the thin fabric molded to heavy slabs of muscle and dark, scattered scars. His black hair was damp and messy, strands falling across his forehead. A deep, jagged scar twisted the corner of his mouth, giving his face a permanent, dangerous smirk even when he wasn’t smiling.
Thick veins stood out on his forearms as he slowly wiped a long, wicked boning knife clean on the edge of his apron. The blade gleamed.
He looked like violence given human shape — raw, brutal, and utterly terrifying.
You didn’t know his name. You didn’t know anything about him except that he was the only soul still awake, and you were completely out of options.
Your legs gave out the final few steps. You dropped hard to your knees in the cold dirt right in front of him, the torn white satin of your ruined wedding gown pooling around you like spilled milk mixed with blood and mud. Your chest heaved. Fresh tears cut clean tracks down your filthy cheeks.
“Please—” Your voice came out cracked and hoarse, barely more than a whisper. “Hide me. Just for one night. My family… they sold me to Lord Kato to settle their debts. He’s going to break me. Hurt me in ways I can’t even speak of. I’ll do anything you ask — scrub floors until my hands bleed, haul carcasses, sleep in the cold room with the meat, be your servant, your cleaner… anything. Just please… don’t let them take me back.”
You bowed your head, trembling, and clutched desperately at the bloody hem of his apron with both hands, staining your fingers red.
The man stopped moving. He looked down at you slowly, sharp green eyes narrowing as they took in every detail: your torn and filthy wedding dress, the cuts on your face and feet, the desperate tears, the way you knelt before him like a supplicant before a god of slaughter.
He flicked the long knife shut with a loud, metallic click that echoed in the quiet street.
“Not my problem, princess,” he rumbled. His voice was deep, low, and rough — like gravel being dragged across stone. There was no pity in it. “I don’t hide runaways. Go beg somewhere else before you bring trouble to my shop.”
You stayed on your knees, fingers still twisted tight in the bloody hem of his apron. Tears kept falling, mixing with the dirt on your cheeks. “Please… I have nowhere else. They’ll find me by morning. Lord Kato will—”
Footsteps. Soft, quick, coming from the narrow alley beside the butcher shop.
Three women emerged into the lantern light, their shawls pulled tight against the night chill, each carrying a small lantern. They stopped short at the sight of you kneeling in your ruined white gown in front of the massive butcher.
“Gods above,” the tallest one gasped. “Is that a wedding dress? Child, what in the world happened to you?”
The women hurried closer, lanterns swinging. Warm golden light spilled over your torn satin, the mud-caked hem, the blood from his apron smeared across your bodice and hands. One of the younger women pressed a hand to her mouth. “She’s bleeding… and look at her feet!”
You looked down at yourself — the once-beautiful dress now filthy and shredded — then up at the stranger towering over you. His green eyes were narrowed in clear irritation, jaw clenched like he was seconds away from shoving you into the street and bolting the door.
A wild, desperate plan came to your mind.
You pushed yourself up on shaky legs, ignoring the sharp pain in your cut feet. Before he could step away, you grabbed his large, calloused hand with both of yours, clinging desperately. His palm was warm, rough, and still faintly sticky with dried blood.
Turning to the three women with the most exhausted yet radiant smile you could force, you announced clearly:
“This is my husband.”
The words rang in the quiet night air.
The women froze.
You kept going, voice trembling but determined. “We were married in secret this evening. My family didn’t approve — they tried to sell me off to a cruel lord to settle their debts. So I ran away through the forest to reach him. The dress… it got ruined on the way, but I’m here now. I’m exactly where I belong.”
Silence stretched for a heartbeat.
Then the women erupted.
“The butcher got married?!” the tallest one exclaimed, eyes wide. “Toji Fushiguro actually took a wife? I never thought I’d live to see the day!”
One of the younger women clapped her hands together, beaming. “Look at her, even all torn up she’s lovely! Brave thing, running through the woods in the middle of the night just to get to her husband.”
The third woman laughed warmly. “We’ll bring fresh bread and some stew first thing in the morning for you newlyweds. Can’t have Toji’s new wife going hungry on her first day here!”
Toji.
So that was his name. Toji Fushiguro.
You felt the man — Toji — stiffen beside you. His massive hand twitched hard in your grip, muscles flexing like he was fighting the urge to rip free and deny everything. His sharp green eyes burned into the side of your face, dark with fury and silent threat. But the women were watching excitedly. The whole village would know the story by sunrise if he contradicted you now.
You squeezed his hand tighter, nails digging into his skin in a silent, desperate plea. Please. Just play along.
Toji’s scarred jaw flexed. A low, dangerous growl rumbled deep in his chest. For one terrifying second you thought he might expose you.
Then, in the flattest, most reluctant voice you had ever heard, he grunted:
“…Yeah. She’s mine now. Wife.”
The women squealed with delight. They offered more congratulations, promised gifts for the “newlyweds,” and finally bustled away down the dark street, lanterns bobbing and their voices already carrying the juicy news.
The moment their footsteps faded, Toji’s grip turned bruising. He yanked you forward so hard you stumbled against his broad, solid chest, then dragged you roughly through the open door of the butcher shop. The heavy oak door slammed shut behind you with a resounding thud that rattled the walls.
Inside, the air was thick and heavy — cold iron, raw meat, woodsmoke, and the faint metallic tang of fresh blood. A single lantern burned low on the wooden counter, casting long, flickering shadows over heavy chopping blocks, hanging meat hooks, and rows of sharp knives.
Toji spun you around and shoved your back against the closed door. One thick, powerful forearm braced beside your head, completely caging you in. His massive body loomed over yours, heat rolling off him in waves. The scent of blood, sweat, and raw masculinity filled your lungs.
His green eyes were dark with fury… and something much darker, much hungrier.
“What the fuck was that?” he snarled, voice low and lethal. “You just told half the goddamn village you’re my wife. You got any idea what you’ve done, little runaway?”
Your heart slammed against your ribs. You could feel the hard press of his chest against yours, the sheer size of him making you feel tiny and trapped.
“It was the only way,” you whispered, breathing fast. “They would’ve dragged me back to Lord Kato by morning if they knew the truth. Now they think I belong to you. No one will question it. Please… just let me stay the night. I’ll disappear at dawn, I swear it.”
Toji stared down at you for a long, heavy moment. His scarred mouth twisted into a slow, dangerous smirk. His free hand came up and gripped your chin firmly, tilting your face up so you had no choice but to meet his intense green eyes.
“Disappear?” he growled, thumb pressing hard into your jaw. “Too late for that, princess. You just tied yourself to me in front of witnesses.”
He leaned in closer, so close his breath ghosted hot across your lips. His voice dropped even lower, rough and full of promise.
“You owe me now. Big time.”
His gaze dragged slowly down your body — over the torn white lace barely clinging to your curves, the bloodstains, the way your chest heaved with fear and adrenaline. He just held you there, pinned against the door, letting the heavy tension coil tighter and tighter between you.
“Upstairs,” he finally ordered, voice like gravel. “Now. We’re gonna have a long talk about what you just got yourself into.”
Toji didn’t give you time to argue.
His massive hand clamped around your upper arm like a steel band and he hauled you away from the door. You stumbled after him on aching, bleeding feet as he dragged you through the back of the shop. The scent of raw meat grew thicker near the cold room, but he turned toward a narrow wooden staircase tucked behind a heavy curtain.
“Move,” he growled when you hesitated at the bottom step.
You climbed. Each step sent fresh pain shooting up your legs, but you bit your lip and kept going. Toji followed close behind, his heavy boots loud on the old wood, one hand still gripping your arm so you couldn’t possibly run.
The stairs opened directly into a small, sparse apartment above the butcher shop. It was surprisingly clean for a man who spent his days covered in blood. A single main room served as both living space and kitchen — a sturdy wooden table with two chairs, a stone hearth with dying embers, a few shelves holding jars of preserved meat and dried herbs. A narrow hallway led to what you assumed were the bedroom and washroom. Moonlight spilled through two small windows, painting everything in cool silver.
Toji kicked the door at the top of the stairs shut behind him and finally released your arm. You immediately backed up a few steps, the torn hem of your wedding dress whispering across the floorboards.
He folded his thick arms across his broad chest, blood-stained apron still tied around his waist, and stared at you like you were a problem he was deciding how to carve up.
“Start talking,” he said flatly. “And don’t leave anything out. Who the fuck are you, why is a lord hunting you, and why the hell did you decide to drag me into your mess?”
You swallowed hard, still catching your breath. You introduced yourself by name, then continued quietly, “My family is in debt. Deep debt. They sold me to Lord Kato yesterday to settle it. He’s a cruel man. Three wives before me, and none of them lasted long. He told my father in front of me what he plans to do on our wedding night.” Your voice cracked. “I couldn’t stay. I ran in the only thing of value I had — this dress. I thought maybe I could sell it in a village for enough coin to disappear.”
Toji’s green eyes flicked over the ruined white lace clinging to your body — torn, muddy, bloodstained. He let out a low, humorless snort.
“And instead of keeping your mouth shut and hiding somewhere quiet, you decided the best plan was to announce to the biggest gossips in the village that you’re married to the local butcher.” He took one heavy step closer. “You realize what you’ve done?”
You nodded quickly. “They won’t hand me over now. Not if they think I belong to you. The whole village will protect the butcher’s wife… right?”
Toji laughed — a short, dark sound that sent a shiver down your spine.
“Protect?” He shook his head. “You just painted a target on my back too, princess. Lord Kato isn’t the type to let his property run off. When he comes looking — and he will come looking — he’s going to hear all about how the village butcher stole his bride.”
He dragged a large hand down his face, clearly pissed off, but there was something else in his expression now. A glint of dark amusement. Maybe even reluctant interest.
“You’re either the bravest idiot I’ve ever met… or the most cunning.”
You stood there trembling in the middle of his living room, arms wrapped around yourself. The torn bodice of the dress had slipped dangerously low on your shoulders, but you didn’t dare fix it.
“I’ll leave at first light,” you promised again, softer this time. “I won’t cause you any more trouble. Just… let me stay until sunrise. Please, Toji.”
Hearing his name from your lips made his eyes narrow.
“Don’t,” he warned. “You don’t get to say my name like we’re actually married.”
He turned away from you and walked over to the small hearth. He crouched down, added two fresh logs, and stoked the fire back to life with practiced efficiency. The warm orange glow slowly filled the room, chasing away some of the chill.
When he stood again, he looked even bigger in the firelight — shoulders impossibly wide, muscles shifting under the thin tank top, the scar at his mouth pulling as he scowled.
“Sit,” he ordered, nodding toward one of the wooden chairs at the table. “You’re bleeding all over my floor.”
You obeyed, lowering yourself carefully onto the chair. The moment you sat, exhaustion crashed into you like a wave. Your feet throbbed. Every cut and bruise ached. You were filthy, terrified, and running on nothing but fear and adrenaline.
Toji disappeared down the short hallway and returned a minute later with a metal basin, a clean rag, and a small jar. He set the basin on the floor in front of you, then dropped into the chair across the table, watching you with those sharp green eyes.
“Clean your feet,” he said gruffly. “I’m not carrying you around if they get infected.”
You dipped the rag into the water and started wiping away the mud and blood as carefully as you could. The silence stretched between you, thick and heavy. The fire crackled. Outside, the village was completely quiet.
Toji leaned back in his chair, arms crossed again, studying you like livestock.
“You really think this marriage story is gonna hold?” he asked after a long minute. “Village folk love to talk. By noon tomorrow everyone’s gonna want to meet my mysterious bride.”
You kept your eyes on your injured feet. “I just need a day or two to figure out where to go next. I can… I can work. I’m not useless. I can clean, cook, help in the shop—”
Toji’s low chuckle cut you off.
“You? Working in a butcher shop?” He shook his head. “You look like you’ve never touched anything bloodier than a sewing needle in your life.”
He watched you struggle to clean a deep cut on your sole for another moment before he made an irritated sound and leaned forward.
“Give me your foot.”
You hesitated.
“Now,” he growled.
You slowly lifted your leg. Toji took your ankle in his huge, rough hand — surprisingly gentle despite the calluses and dried blood on his fingers. He pulled the basin closer and started cleaning your wounds himself with careful, efficient movements.
The contrast was jarring: this terrifying mountain of a man, covered in someone else’s blood, carefully tending to your torn-up feet.
“You’re staying the night,” he said quietly, not looking up from his work. “Not because I’m kind. Because if I throw you out now, those three hens will ask questions I don’t feel like answering. Tomorrow we figure out what the hell to do with you.”
He finished cleaning one foot and moved to the other. His thumb brushed accidentally over a sensitive spot and you hissed softly.
Toji’s eyes flicked up to your face for a second, something unreadable flashing across his expression.
“After that…” He set your foot down carefully and leaned back again, voice dropping into a low, dangerous rumble. “You’re gonna start paying off the trouble you just caused me.”
He didn’t explain what that meant.
But the way he was looking at you — slow, heavy, possessive — made heat crawl up your neck despite the fear.
Toji held your gaze for another long moment before he finally released your ankle. He pushed the basin aside with his boot and stood, towering over you once more. The firelight danced across the hard lines of his face, catching on the jagged scar at the corner of his mouth.
“Stay there,” he muttered.
He disappeared into the back room again. You heard the sound of water splashing, then heavy footsteps returning. When he came back, he carried a thick wool blanket and a tin cup. He set the cup in front of you — it was filled with cool water — and dropped the blanket over the back of your chair.
“Drink,” he ordered. “You look half-dead.”
You obeyed without thinking, your hands still trembling slightly as you lifted the cup. The water was clean and cold, soothing your raw throat. Toji watched you drink the entire thing, arms crossed, before he spoke again.
You lowered the empty cup. “Thank you… for the water. And for cleaning my feet.”
He made a dismissive sound in the back of his throat, like thanks made him uncomfortable. Then he leaned against the edge of the table, close enough that his thigh nearly brushed your arm.
“You really thought this through?” he asked, voice low. “Running in a fancy white dress, announcing yourself as my wife in front of the nosiest women in the village… What’s your actual plan once the sun comes up?”
You stared down at your bandaged feet. “I didn’t have time for a real plan. I just knew I couldn’t let them marry me off to that monster. I thought if I could get far enough away, maybe sell the dress, I could buy passage on a cart or a boat. Start over somewhere no one knows me.”
Toji exhaled through his nose, almost a laugh but darker. “Selling that dress would’ve gotten you robbed or worse before you even reached the next town. You’re lucky you only made it as far as my doorstep.”
Silence settled again, broken only by the crackling fire. You pulled the blanket tighter around your shoulders, suddenly aware of how exposed you still were — the torn bodice of the wedding gown hanging loosely, the lace ripped in several places, dirt and dried blood streaked across your skin.
Toji’s eyes drifted over you again, slower this time. They lingered on the curve of your shoulder where the dress had slipped, the rise and fall of your chest, the way the white fabric clung to your thighs.
“You look ridiculous,” he said bluntly. “Like a bride who lost a fight with a pack of wolves.”
Despite everything, a tiny, tired smile tugged at your lips. “That’s… not far from the truth.”
He pushed off the table and walked over to a wooden chest in the corner. He rummaged inside and pulled out a large, worn linen shirt — clearly one of his. It looked big enough to reach your knees.
“Here.” He tossed it to you. “Can’t have you walking around my place looking like that. Change. There’s a washroom down the hall if you want to clean up more.”
You clutched the shirt to your chest. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” he warned. “You’re still in my house. Still wearing that damn dress that’s going to bring trouble to my door.”
He turned his back to give you a moment of privacy, busying himself by adding another log to the fire. You quickly stood, wincing at the pain in your feet, and slipped behind the partial wall that separated the washroom. You peeled off the ruined wedding dress with shaking hands, letting the torn fabric pool at your feet. The cool air kissed your bare skin as you pulled Toji’s shirt over your head. It smelled faintly of smoke, soap, and something unmistakably masculine. The hem fell halfway down your thighs.
When you stepped back out, Toji turned around. His eyes darkened the moment they landed on you in his shirt.
“Better,” he grunted, though his voice sounded rougher than before.
He gestured toward the narrow hallway. “Bedroom’s at the end. Only one bed. You take it tonight. I’ll sleep out here.”
You hesitated. “I can sleep on the floor. I’ve already caused enough—”
“Don’t argue,” he cut you off. “My house, my rules. Get some sleep. You look like you’re about to fall over.”
You walked carefully down the short hall, every step still painful. The bedroom was small and simple like the rest of the apartment — a large wooden bed with thick blankets, a single chair, and a window overlooking the dark village street. You climbed onto the bed, pulling the covers over yourself.
Toji appeared in the doorway a minute later, leaning one broad shoulder against the frame. The firelight from the main room silhouetted his massive form.
“Door stays open,” he said. “And don’t even think about sneaking out in the middle of the night. If I have to chase you down, I won’t be in a generous mood.”
You nodded, sinking deeper into the mattress. Exhaustion was pulling at you hard now, but sleep still felt far away with him standing there watching you.
“Toji…” you whispered.
He raised an eyebrow.
“Thank you,” you said again, softer. “For not throwing me out.”
His expression didn’t soften, but something in his eyes shifted. He pushed off the doorframe and turned to leave.
“Get some sleep, runaway,” he muttered. “You’re gonna need it.”
He left the door wide open. You heard him moving around in the main room — the creak of the wooden chair as he sat down, the quiet clink of a cup. The fire continued to crackle.
You lay there in his bed, wrapped in his shirt, the weight of everything that had happened pressing down on you. The fake marriage. The village women who now believed you were his wife. Lord Kato still out there searching. And the terrifying, strangely careful butcher who had just tended to your wounds and given you his bed.
Sleep finally claimed you, but even in your dreams you could still feel the heavy weight of Toji’s gaze on your skin.
You woke to the sound of knocking.
It was loud, cheerful, and relentless — three sharp raps on the shop door downstairs, followed by muffled feminine voices. Sunlight streamed through the small bedroom window, warm and golden. For a brief, disoriented moment you forgot where you were. Then everything crashed back: the forest, the blood-stained butcher, the lie you’d told.
You sat up quickly. Toji’s oversized linen shirt had ridden up your thighs during the night. Your feet still ached, but the bandages held firm. You heard heavy footsteps downstairs, then Toji’s low, irritated growl as he opened the door.
“Morning!” a cheerful woman’s voice called up. “We brought breakfast for the newlyweds! Fresh bread, stew, and honey cakes. Don’t tell us you’re still in bed on your wedding night!”
Another woman giggled. “We’re dying to meet your bride properly!”
Toji’s heavy footsteps came up the stairs. He appeared in the bedroom doorway, looking imposing in the daylight. He wore a clean black tunic stretched tight across his chest, the same blood-stained apron tied around his waist. His hair was messy, jaw set with clear annoyance.
“They’re here,” he said flatly. “Three of them. Loaded with food.”
Your stomach twisted. “What do we do?”
Toji’s green eyes dragged over you — bare legs, wearing nothing but his shirt. Something dark flickered across his face.
“You sold us as newlyweds,” he reminded you, voice low. “So act like it. Smile. Look happy. Keep the story straight.”
He stepped closer and tugged the hem of the shirt down your thighs possessively. “There’s a spare skirt and blouse in the chest. Change. Quickly.”
You moved fast, wincing at the pain in your feet. Toji turned his back while you dressed in the simple dark green skirt and cream blouse. They were a little loose but far more practical.
When you were ready, Toji gave you one last look and jerked his head toward the stairs. “Downstairs. Remember — you’re my wife.”
The three women had already let themselves into the front of the shop. They had laid out a generous spread on the wooden counter: warm bread, a pot of hearty stew, honey cakes, and spiced cider. The moment you appeared behind Toji, their faces lit up.
“Oh, here she is!” the tallest, round-faced woman exclaimed. “Look at you, dear. Much better than last night. I’m Mrs. Sato, by the way! My husband runs the bakery just down the street.” She gestured to the other two. “This is Mira and little Hana.”
The younger women smiled warmly.
“You clean up beautifully,” Mira said. “You already have that newlywed glow!”
You felt heat rise in your cheeks. Toji’s large hand settled heavily on your lower back, warm and claiming.
“Thank you,” you said, offering a shy smile. “You’re all so kind. I’m sorry for how I looked last night… the journey through the forest was harder than I expected.”
Mrs. Sato waved her hand. “No apologies needed! Running away from a bad match to be with the man you love? It’s the most romantic thing to happen in this village in years.”
Toji grunted, his thumb slowly stroking your spine. “Wasn’t exactly planned,” he said dryly. “But here we are.”
The women laughed and chattered while you helped serve the food. They asked how you met, how long you’d been secretly courting, and whether you planned to stay in the village. You answered carefully, sticking close to the story. Toji added short, gruff confirmations, never moving far from your side.
Just as the women were gathering their empty baskets to leave, a loud, sharp knock echoed through the shop.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
This knock was different — heavy, authoritative, and impatient.
Toji’s hand tensed on your back. His expression hardened instantly.
Mrs. Sato glanced toward the door, curious. “Are you expecting more visitors already?”
Toji didn’t answer. He moved toward the door, positioning himself so his broad frame blocked most of the view inside. You stayed behind the counter, heart suddenly hammering.
He opened the door.
Two armed men stood outside, wearing the dark crimson and gold colors of Lord Kato’s household. Swords hung at their hips. Their eyes scanned the interior of the shop coldly.
“We’re searching for a missing girl,” the taller guard announced. “Runaway bride. White wedding dress. She fled the lord’s estate last night. Anyone matching that description come through here?”
The air in the shop grew thick. Mrs. Sato and the other two women turned to look at you with wide eyes, then back at the guards.
Toji’s voice was calm but ice-cold. “No one like that here.”
The second guard tried to peer past him. “Mind if we take a look inside?”
You stayed frozen behind the counter, heart hammering. Before Toji could answer, Mrs. Sato stepped forward with the confidence of someone who had gossiped through every scandal the village had ever seen.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she said brightly, waving a hand. “You boys are wasting your time. That right there is Toji Fushiguro — our butcher for the last fifteen years. We’ve known him since he was a surly teenager dragging whole pigs through these doors!”
Mira immediately jumped in, nodding eagerly. “And he has a wife! They’ve been happily married for two whole years now. We were at their quiet little wedding ourselves. Very romantic.”
Hana clapped her hands together dramatically. “Yes! They’re the sweetest couple. Toji can barely keep his hands off her even when he’s covered in blood. Always canoodling right outside the shop like they’re still courting!”
Mrs. Sato leaned toward the guards like she was sharing precious village lore. “Honestly, if some runaway noble girl in a fancy white dress had shown up here last night, the entire village would’ve known before sunrise. This dear girl has been living above the shop for ages. Helps Toji with the accounts and everything. She’s no fugitive — she’s the butcher’s wife, plain and simple.”
Toji finally moved. He reached back with one thick arm, caught you around the waist, and pulled you forward against his side in one smooth motion. His grip was firm and possessive, his large hand resting heavily on your hip as he held you close.
The guards blinked, clearly thrown by the united front.
The taller one squinted at you. “But the missing girl was wearing a white wedding dress…”
Mira let out a theatrical laugh. “Plenty of white dresses in the world! Our girl here has been wearing plain village clothes for years. Look at her — does she look like some pampered noble who ran away last night?”
Hana nodded vigorously. “Exactly! She even makes the best meat pies in the village. We’d know if she was some lord’s bride.”
The two guards exchanged uncertain glances. Between Toji’s intimidating size, the three women’s absolute certainty, and the perfectly domestic scene in front of them, their suspicion melted away.
The shorter guard cleared his throat. “Seems like a false lead, then. Sorry to bother you folks.”
The taller one gave a reluctant nod. “Apologies for the intrusion. If you hear anything about a girl in a white dress, send word to the lord’s estate.”
Mrs. Sato smiled sweetly. “Of course, dears. Safe travels back!”
The guards turned and walked off down the street without another word.
The moment the door clicked shut, Mrs. Sato burst into laughter and fanned herself. “Well! That was more excitement than we usually get before noon.”
Mira winked at you. “Don’t worry, love. We’ve got your back. No one’s taking the butcher’s wife anywhere.”
Hana grinned. “We’ll spread the word. The whole village will keep an eye out.”
Toji gave them a short, gruff nod. “Appreciate it.”
The women gathered their empty baskets, still buzzing, and finally left with more promises of future visits and gifts.
The shop fell quiet again, morning sunlight streaming peacefully through the windows.
Toji slowly turned to face you. His hand was still on your waist, heavy and warm. For a long moment he just studied you, green eyes dark and intense.
“You’re damn lucky those three are the nosiest women alive,” he muttered. “They just sold that story better than we could’ve.”
He stepped closer, backing you gently against the counter. His voice dropped low, rough around the edges.
“So the whole village’s got our back it seems.” His thumb brushed slowly over your hip bone. “This lie keeps growing. Whole village thinks you’re mine now.”
His gaze dropped to your lips for a heartbeat before returning to your eyes.
“So tell me, runaway… how long do you plan on playing my wife? And how far are you willing to go to make everyone believe it?”
You swallowed, suddenly very aware of how close he was. The counter pressed into your lower back, and Toji’s broad body blocked out most of the morning light. His hand remained heavy on your hip, thumb still tracing slow, absent circles that made your skin prickle beneath the thin blouse.
“I… I don’t know,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t think past getting away from Lord Kato. I just wanted to survive the night.”
Toji hummed, low and thoughtful. He tilted his head slightly, studying your face like he was trying to decide whether you were worth the growing headache you’d brought him.
“Surviving isn’t enough anymore,” he said. “Not after this morning. Those guards will report back. When they don’t find you, Kato will send more men. Maybe even come himself.” His fingers flexed on your hip. “And the whole village now believes you’re mine. If the story breaks, they’ll look like fools. They won’t forgive that easily.”
You met his eyes, heart thudding. “Then what do we do?”
For a moment he didn’t answer. Instead he reached up with his free hand and brushed a stray lock of hair behind your ear, the gesture surprisingly gentle for someone so rough-looking. His calloused fingertips lingered against the side of your neck.
“We lean into it,” he finally said. “Hard. You stay. You act like my wife in public — every smile, every touch, every time someone knocks on that door. No slipping up. No running off when it gets hard.”
He leaned in a fraction closer, voice dropping. “And in private… we figure out the real terms.”
Your breath caught. “Real terms?”
Toji’s scarred mouth curved into a slow, dangerous half-smirk. “You cost me peace and quiet, runaway. You cost me the simple life where nobody bothered me. So you’re going to start paying me back.”
He didn’t elaborate, but the heat in his green eyes made it very clear what kind of payment he had in mind.
“I won’t force you,” he continued, surprising you. “Door’s right there. You can still walk out and take your chances on the road. But if you stay…” His hand slid from your hip to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. “Then you’re mine until this blows over. Or longer. Depends how good you are at pretending.”
The solid wall of his chest pressed against you, warm and unyielding. You could smell faint traces of smoke, soap, and the metallic hint of blood that never quite left him. Your hands came up instinctively, resting lightly on his abdomen.
“I’m not pretending right now,” you whispered.
Toji’s eyes darkened. For a second you thought he might kiss you — really kiss you — but he held back, letting the tension stretch until it was almost unbearable.
“Good,” he murmured. “Because the village expects a devoted wife. They’ll be watching. Bringing food. Asking questions. Asking when we’re going to have little butchers running around.”
Your face burned. Toji chuckled, deep and rough, clearly enjoying your reaction.
“Don’t worry. We’ll give them a good show.” He finally stepped back, giving you room to breathe again, though his hand lingered on your waist a moment longer. “For now, help me open the shop. Act natural. If anyone else comes asking, you know what to say.”
You nodded, still flushed.
As he turned to start his morning routine — sharpening knives, hanging fresh cuts, preparing the counter — you moved to help where you could. Every time you passed near him, his hand would brush your lower back or arm — small, deliberate touches that looked casual to anyone watching but felt heavy with intent.
By midday, a few villagers had already stopped by “just to say hello” and congratulate the newlyweds. Each time, Toji played his part perfectly — gruff, possessive, pulling you close with an ease that made the performance feel dangerously real.
An older man dropped off a small basket of eggs and clapped Toji on the back. “Didn’t think I’d live to see you settle down, Fushiguro. She must be something special.”
Toji’s arm tightened around your waist as he gave a low grunt. “She is.” His fingers flexed against your side, warm through the fabric of your blouse. You leaned into him instinctively, playing along, and felt the solid wall of muscle beneath his tunic.
A young mother came next with her toddler in tow, offering a jar of preserved berries. She smiled at you brightly. “You two look so good together. How long have you been hiding her from us, Toji?”
“Long enough,” he answered, voice rough but carrying a hint of smugness. He pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to the top of your head right in front of her. The casual affection made your stomach flutter.
By early afternoon the steady trickle of visitors finally slowed. Toji flipped the shop sign to “Closed for the Day” and locked the front door with a heavy click. The sudden silence felt louder than all the chatter combined.
You let out a shaky breath and leaned against the counter, arms wrapped around yourself. “They really believe it. All of them.”
Toji wiped his hands on a rag, watching you from across the room. He tossed the rag aside and stalked toward you, slow and deliberate.
Gods, he was huge.
Up close like this, in the quiet afternoon light, the sheer size of him hit you all over again. Broad shoulders that seemed to stretch the fabric of his black tunic, thick arms corded with muscle from years of hauling heavy carcasses, a powerful chest that rose and fell steadily. The jagged scar at the corner of his mouth only made him more striking — dangerous, rough, and strangely, undeniably attractive. Those sharp green eyes pinned you in place, intimidating as ever, yet there was something magnetic about the way he moved. Like a predator who knew exactly how much power he held and chose not to use it… yet.
He stopped right in front of you, so close you had to tilt your head back to meet his gaze. One large hand came up to cup your chin, thumb brushing along your jaw.
“You’re handling this better than I expected,” he said quietly.
You felt your pulse quicken under his touch. “I feel like I’m going to faint every time someone looks at me.”
His thumb stroked slowly over your skin. “You’re not fainting. You’re standing here in my shop, wearing my clothes, letting me touch you like you belong to me.” His voice dropped lower. “Looks pretty convincing from where I’m standing.”
The air between you thickened. You could smell the faint mix of blood, woodsmoke, and clean sweat that clung to him. His sheer physical presence was overwhelming — the heat rolling off his massive frame, the way his broad chest nearly brushed against you with every breath.
“What happens when the guards come back?” you asked, voice softer than you intended.
Toji’s expression darkened. “Then we give them the same show. Or I handle it my way.” His hand slid from your chin to the back of your neck, fingers threading gently into your hair. “But right now? Shop’s closed. No more visitors. No more pretending for a little while.”
He didn’t move away. Neither did you.
Instead, you found yourself leaning into his touch, exhaustion and adrenaline twisting into something warmer, heavier. Your hands rose to rest on his chest, feeling the hard, solid muscle beneath your palms.
“Toji…” you started, unsure what you even wanted to say.
He cut you off with a low sound. “Careful. You keep saying my name like that and I might start believing this marriage is real myself.”
His grip on the back of your neck tightened just slightly — not painful, but enough to remind you how easily he could pull you in. His green eyes dropped to your mouth, lingering this time, dark with hunger.
“You still haven’t answered my question from earlier,” he murmured. “How far are you willing to go, runaway?”
The shop was quiet except for the distant sounds of village life outside. No one was watching now. It was just the two of you, the weight of the lie, and the growing, electric heat between you.
You wet your lips, heart racing.
“I’m still here,” you whispered. “That should tell you something.”
Toji’s scarred mouth curved into a slow, hungry smirk.
“Yeah,” he said, voice rough. “It does.”
The silence that followed felt heavier than before. The shop was quiet now, the afternoon light cutting sharp lines across the wooden floor and the rows of knives hanging on the wall. Toji didn’t step back. He stayed right there, towering over you, one hand still gripping the back of your neck while the other rested heavy on your hip.
He really was massive up close.
Broad shoulders that strained his tunic, thick arms veined and scarred from years of brutal work, a chest so solid it looked like it could take a hit from a horse and keep going. The scar at the corner of his mouth gave his face a permanent edge, dangerous and rough. Yet there was something about the way he looked at you — intense green eyes, half-lidded, focused — that made your stomach tighten in a way that had nothing to do with fear.
Toji noticed you staring.
“Eyes up here,” he muttered, but the corner of his scarred mouth twitched like he was amused. “You keep looking at me like that and I’m gonna get the wrong idea.”
You swallowed. “I’ve never been this close to someone like you.”
“Someone like me,” he repeated, almost mocking. He leaned in a little more, voice dropping low. “Big, ugly butcher covered in blood half the time?”
You shook your head. “Not ugly.”
The words slipped out before you could stop them. Toji paused, eyes narrowing slightly like he was trying to decide if you were lying. Then he let out a short, rough breath.
His thumb brushed slowly along the side of your neck, calloused and warm. You could feel the strength in his hand, how easily he could tighten his grip if he wanted. The contrast between that raw power and the way he was holding back made the air feel thick.
“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he said quietly. His gaze dropped to your mouth for a second before flicking back up. “I’m not a patient man, runaway. And I’m definitely not a gentle one.”
Your hands were still pressed against his chest. Under your palms, his muscles were firm and warm, shifting slightly with each breath. You didn’t pull away.
“I know,” you whispered.
Toji’s jaw flexed. For a moment his control looked strained — shoulders tense, fingers pressing harder into your skin. He leaned down until his face was inches from yours, close enough that you could feel the heat of his breath.
“If you stay,” he said, voice low and deliberate, “this stops being fake whenever I say it does. Behind this door, you won’t be playing a role. You’ll be in my bed. Under me. Taking what I give you.” His thumb dragged across your lower lip. “And you’ll moan my name like you mean it.”
Your breath caught.
Toji held your gaze for another long second, then slowly released you. He stepped back, rolling one shoulder like he needed to shake off the tension. The sudden space felt colder than it should have.
“But not right now,” he added gruffly. “You’re still half-dead on your feet and I’ve got work to finish before the meat spoils.”
He turned toward the back counter and picked up his sharpening stone. The steady scrape of metal filled the shop as he worked on one of his larger knives. You stayed by the front counter, watching the way his back and arms moved — powerful, efficient, every motion reminding you exactly what kind of man had just offered to claim you.
Every so often he glanced over at you, eyes dark and unreadable.
The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable. It was charged. Heavy with everything neither of you was saying out loud.
After a while, Toji spoke without looking up from his work.
“You hungry?”
You blinked, surprised by the sudden normal question. “A little.”
He jerked his head toward the stairs. “There’s leftover stew from this morning in the pot upstairs. Heat it up if you want. Or stay down here. Doesn’t matter to me.”
You hesitated, then moved to help him organize the counter instead. Every time you passed close by, his arm would brush yours — deliberate, not accidental. Small reminders that the tension hadn’t gone anywhere.
The afternoon stretched on like that. Quiet work. Occasional glances. The weight of his presence never really leaving you.
By the time the sun had fully set and the village outside grew dark and quiet, the tension between you had only thickened. Lanterns flickered in distant windows, but inside the butcher shop everything felt hushed and intimate.
Toji locked the front door with a heavy click and killed most of the lanterns, leaving only a single low one burning near the stairs. The warm glow followed you both upstairs, casting long shadows across the wooden beams.
He grabbed a spare blanket from the chest and headed for the worn couch against the far wall without a word. The piece of furniture looked comically small beneath his massive frame as he tossed the blanket over it. Then he reached back and pulled his tunic off in one smooth motion.
Your mouth went dry.
Firelight danced over his bare back and shoulders — thick slabs of muscle shifting under scarred skin, powerful arms flexing as he folded the tunic. His waist tapered into a sharp V, disappearing beneath the waistband of his trousers. Every inch of him looked hard, battle-worn, and undeniably masculine. The sight made something low in your belly tighten.
You stood frozen in the bedroom doorway.
“Wait,” you said, voice barely louder than a whisper.
Toji glanced over his shoulder, one dark brow raised. The movement made the muscles in his chest and abdomen flex visibly.
You twisted your fingers in the hem of your blouse, cheeks already burning.
“You don’t have to sleep on the couch,” you offered shyly. “The bed is… big enough for both of us. I don’t mind sharing.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
Toji slowly turned around to face you fully. The low firelight carved deep shadows across his torso, highlighting every ridge of muscle, every old scar, the faint trail of dark hair disappearing into his trousers. He looked even bigger like this — raw power barely contained, green eyes locked on you with dangerous intensity.
He took one slow step closer, then another.
“Careful what you offer me, runaway,” he said, voice low and gravel-rough. “I’m not the type to hold back.”
You swallowed hard but didn’t back away.
“I just… it doesn’t feel right making you sleep on that tiny thing after everything,” you murmured, eyes flicking involuntarily down his bare chest before snapping back up. “We’re supposed to be married. At least to everyone else.”
Toji stopped just inches away from you. The heat radiating from his body wrapped around you like a cloak. You could smell him — smoke, clean sweat, and that faint metallic trace that always clung to his skin. His sheer size made you feel small and fragile in comparison.
He tilted his head, studying you like prey.
“You offering to share my bed isn’t about being polite,” he murmured. “If I get in that bed with you, I’m not staying on my side. I’ll pull you against me. I’ll have my hands all over that soft little body. And if you keep looking at me with those wide, needy eyes…”
He leaned down, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he spoke.
“I won’t be able to stop myself from spreading those pretty thighs and finding out exactly how wet pretending to be my wife has made you.”
Your breath hitched sharply. Heat flooded your face and pooled between your legs. You pressed your thighs together instinctively, but Toji noticed — of course he did. A dark, satisfied sound rumbled in his chest.
He pulled back just enough to look at your face again, eyes heavy-lidded and hungry.
“I’m not gentle,” he continued, voice dropping even lower. “I fuck hard. I take what I want. And right now, I want to ruin that shy little runaway who dropped to her knees at my door and turned my whole life upside down.”
His hand came up, knuckles lightly dragging down the side of your neck, over your racing pulse, then lower until they brushed the neckline of your blouse. Not quite touching skin, but close enough to make you shiver.
“So think very carefully before you offer again,” he warned. “Because once I’m in that bed, the only pretending left will be how long you can keep quiet while I’m buried inside you.”
The air felt too thick to breathe.
Toji’s scarred mouth curved into a slow, predatory smirk as he watched the effect his words had on you.
“Still want to share a bed with me… wife?”
Toji’s words hung heavy in the air.
You didn’t answer with words.
You looked up at him, heart hammering so hard you could feel it in your throat, and gave a small, shy nod.
That was all it took.
Toji’s control snapped. A low, almost feral sound rumbled in his chest as he moved. In one fluid motion he scooped you up, one thick arm under your knees and the other around your back, lifting you like you weighed nothing. Your breath caught at how easily he carried you — his biceps flexing hard against your body, the heat of his bare chest pressing into your side.
He carried you the few steps to the bed and laid you down on your back with surprising care, but the look in his eyes was anything but gentle. The mattress dipped deeply under his weight as he climbed over you, caging you in completely with his massive frame. His broad shoulders blocked out most of the firelight, leaving you in shadow beneath him.
“You a virgin?” he asked, voice low and rough, green eyes searching yours like he was looking for any hesitation.
You nodded again, cheeks burning with embarrassment.
“Fuck,” he breathed, the word almost reverent. His gaze darkened as it dragged slowly down your body. “Gonna have to take my time with you then. Can’t wreck this tight little virgin cunt on the first thrust.”
He kissed you deeply, tongue claiming your mouth in slow, filthy strokes while his rough hands explored every inch of you. He took his time peeling your clothes off — first tugging your blouse over your head, then sliding your skirt down your legs, and finally hooking his fingers into your soaked panties and dragging them off. When you were completely naked beneath him, he sat back on his heels and just stared, drinking in every inch of your exposed body like a man who’d been starving for weeks.
“So fucking small,” he muttered, almost to himself. His large hands ran up your thighs, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin on the inside, then spread your legs wide open. “Look at this pretty virgin pussy… already glistening and I’ve barely touched you.”
The cool air hit your wet folds and you shivered. Toji’s eyes were locked between your legs, dark and hungry, as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
He lowered himself between your spread thighs like a man on a mission. The first slow, hot drag of his tongue from your entrance all the way up to your clit made your entire body jolt. Toji groaned deeply at your taste, the sound vibrating straight through you.
“Sweet as hell,” he rasped, voice thick with lust. “Could eat this pussy for hours.”
Then he devoured you.
His tongue worked in slow, broad strokes, licking every inch of your soaked folds before focusing on your swollen clit. He sucked the sensitive bud into his hot mouth, flicking it rapidly with the tip of his tongue while two thick fingers teased your entrance, circling and pressing but not pushing in yet. When you started whimpering and rolling your hips, he finally pushed one thick finger inside you — careful, but relentless.
“So goddamn tight,” he growled against your pussy, the vibration making your toes curl. “This little hole is gonna fight my cock the whole way in.”
He curled his finger slowly, searching, until he found that spongy spot that made your back arch. He rubbed it firmly while sucking harder on your clit. The wet, obscene sounds of his mouth and fingers filled the quiet bedroom — slick, filthy, and loud. Your thighs started trembling around his head as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your belly.
“Toji— oh gods—”
He didn’t let up. He ate you out like he was starving for it — messy, hungry, and completely focused on pulling every sound out of you. He added a second finger, stretching you open carefully, scissoring them while his tongue flicked fast and firm over your clit. The pressure built unbearably fast.
Your orgasm crashed over you without warning. Your back arched clean off the bed as you came hard on his face with a broken, sobbing cry of his name. Your walls clamped down around his fingers, pulsing wildly.
Toji licked you through every wave, slow and thorough, drawing out every last tremor until you were twitching and oversensitive, whimpering softly. Only then did he pull back. His chin and lips were shiny with your slick. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes dark and satisfied as he looked up at your flushed, panting face.
Then he shoved his trousers down.
His cock sprang free — thick, heavy, veined, and longer than anything you’d ever imagined. The flushed head was already leaking steadily.
“See this?” he said, stroking himself slowly. “This is gonna stretch you wide open, baby. But I’ll make it fit.”
He climbed back over you, pushing your legs up and folding your knees toward your chest. The position left you completely exposed. He rubbed the fat head of his cock up and down your drenched folds, coating himself in your wetness, teasing your clit with every pass.
“Deep breaths,” he warned. “Gonna go slow.”
He pushed in.
The stretch was intense. You gasped sharply, a high-pitched whimper escaping you as just the thick head popped inside. “Ah—! Toji… it’s so big…”
Toji groaned, jaw clenched tight as he fought the urge to slam forward. “Fuck— so tight,” he hissed. “Relax for me, baby. Let me in.”
You whimpered softly, fingers clutching at his shoulders. “It burns… but— ah— don’t stop…”
He worked himself in inch by slow, careful inch. Every time you tensed, he stopped, leaning down to kiss your neck or suck on your tits until you loosened again. Sweat beaded on his forehead from the restraint.
Halfway in, you let out a shaky moan, eyes fluttering. “Oh gods… I can feel you so deep already…”
Toji looked down at the bulge already forming in your lower belly. “Shit… look at that,” he groaned, pressing a big hand over the swell. “My cock’s barely halfway and I can already see it inside you.”
When he finally bottomed out, hips flush against your ass, you felt so full you could barely breathe. A broken whimper left your lips. “T-Toji… you’re all the way in… I feel so full…”
Toji stayed still, buried to the hilt, letting you adjust while he kissed you slow and deep. “Good girl,” he praised, voice strained. “Taking every inch of my cock on your first time. Such a perfect little wife.”
When your whimpers turned into soft, needy moans, he started moving — slow, deep rolls of his hips at first. The wet drag of his thick cock against your walls made you cry out.
“Feel that?” he growled. “Feel how deep I am? Gonna breed this cunt so full tonight.”
“Ah—! Yes… I feel it,” you moaned, voice trembling. “It’s so deep… Toji—!”
His pace gradually picked up. The bed started creaking rhythmically as he fucked you harder, deeper. Your tits bounced with every thrust. You couldn’t stop the desperate sounds spilling from your mouth.
“Gonna fill you up,” he panted. “Pump this tight womb full of my cum until it takes. Want you walking around the village with my kid growing inside you. Everyone’s gonna know exactly who fucked you first.”
The filthy words sent you spiraling. “Please— Toji— I’m gonna—!” You came hard around his cock, walls fluttering and squeezing him like a vice as you screamed his name, “Toji—! Ahh—!”
Toji snarled and fucked you through it, pace turning brutal. The wet slap of skin on skin echoed loudly.
“Fuck— gonna cum,” he groaned. “Gonna breed you— take it all—”
You whimpered and moaned beneath him, voice hoarse, “Cum inside me… please— fill me up—!”
He slammed in deep one final time and came with a long, guttural moan. Thick, hot ropes of cum flooded your pussy, pulse after heavy pulse. There was so much it leaked out around his cock despite how tightly you were stretched around him. Toji kept grinding deep, pushing every drop into your womb, hand pressing down on the bulge in your belly like he wanted to keep it all inside you.
You let out a soft, overwhelmed whimper at the feeling of being so full of him.
He stayed buried inside you for a long moment, chest heaving against yours, both of you slick with sweat.
Then he leaned down, kissed you slow and possessive, and murmured against your lips:
“This cunt belongs to me.”
Toji stayed inside you for a while longer, gently grinding and kissing your neck, before he finally pulled out with a low groan. A thick trickle of his cum leaked from your abused hole onto the sheets. He looked down at the mess with dark satisfaction, then rolled onto his back and pulled you against his chest.
“Rest now,” he said quietly, voice rough but surprisingly gentle as he wrapped a heavy arm around you. “You’ve had a long day, runaway. Close your eyes.”
He pressed one last kiss to the top of your head, his large hand resting possessively on your lower belly.
“Go to sleep.”
-
You woke up to warmth.
A heavy, solid arm was draped across your waist, pinning you to a broad chest. Toji’s body was curled around yours from behind, one thick thigh wedged between your legs. His breathing was slow and deep, but the moment you shifted even slightly, his grip tightened possessively.
The room was still dim, early morning light just beginning to creep through the small window. Your body ached — a deep, satisfying soreness between your thighs, faint bruises on your hips from his fingers, and the unmistakable sticky warmth of his cum still leaking out of you.
You tried to move again, but Toji’s low, sleepy growl stopped you.
“Stay,” he muttered against the back of your neck, voice rough with sleep. His hand slid down to cup your lower belly, pressing lightly. “Not done holding you yet.”
Heat rushed to your face. You stayed still, letting him pull you tighter against him. His cock — already half-hard again — rested heavy against your ass.
After a few quiet minutes, Toji sighed and finally loosened his grip. He rolled you onto your back so he could look down at you. His hair was messy, eyes still heavy-lidded, but the smirk on his scarred mouth was fully awake.
“Morning,” he said, voice gravelly. His hand stayed on your stomach, thumb stroking slow circles. “How’re you feeling?”
You shifted, wincing a little at the soreness. “Full… and sore,” you admitted softly.
Toji’s smirk widened into something darker, more satisfied. He leaned down and kissed you — slow and lazy at first, then deeper, tongue sliding against yours. When he pulled back, he dragged his hand lower, fingers brushing through the mess between your thighs.
“Still leaking my cum,” he murmured, almost proud. “Good.”
He pushed two thick fingers back inside you, slow and careful, fucking his dried cum deeper. You whimpered, hips twitching.
“Toji—”
“Shh,” he soothed, kissing your temple. “Not fucking you again right now. You’re too sore.” He kept his fingers inside you anyway, lazy and possessive. “Just keeping you full.”
You stayed like that for a while — his fingers buried inside you, his mouth brushing lazy kisses along your neck and shoulder. The morning was quiet except for the occasional creak of the bed and your soft sounds.
Eventually he pulled his fingers out, brought them to his mouth, and licked them clean while watching your face.
“Breakfast,” he said simply. “Then we open the shop.”
He got up first, completely naked and shameless. You couldn’t stop yourself from staring at the powerful lines of his back, the flex of his ass and thighs as he moved. He caught you looking and chuckled.
“Keep staring like that and I will bend you over the table downstairs,” he warned.
You quickly looked away, cheeks burning.
He tossed you one of his clean shirts and a fresh skirt. While you dressed, he pulled on his usual trousers and tank top, tying his blood-stained apron around his waist.
Before you left the bedroom, he caught your wrist and pulled you close one more time. His hand cupped your jaw, thumb brushing your bottom lip.
“Last night wasn’t pretend,” he said quietly, eyes serious. “Not for me. You’re mine. Understand?”
You swallowed and whispered, “I understand.”
He kissed you again — hard, claiming — then rested his forehead against yours for a second.
“Good.”
He led you downstairs, his hand firm on your lower back the entire way.
The village was waking up outside. And for the first time since you’d run away, you didn’t feel like running anymore.
Toji unlocked the front door and flipped the sign while you tied on a clean apron. The morning air carried the smell of fresh bread from Mrs. Sato’s bakery and the distant clang of the blacksmith’s hammer. A few early customers began drifting toward the shop.
The first hour passed in a surprisingly calm rhythm. You helped weigh portions, wrap cuts of meat in clean paper, and hand them over with a shy smile. Toji stayed close the whole time — sometimes reaching past you for a knife, sometimes resting a hand on your waist as he moved behind you. Every touch felt deliberate, like he was marking his territory even when no one was watching.
Then the bell above the door rang again.
A tall, sun-tanned man with kind eyes and an easy, friendly smile stepped inside. He looked to be in his late twenties, with the strong build of someone who spent his days working the fields. He greeted Toji with a familiar nod.
“Morning, Fushiguro. The usual shoulder cut, please.” His gaze shifted to you behind the counter and softened with genuine interest. “You must be the new wife everyone’s been talking about. I’m Haru. I run the big farm past the mill.”
You returned his smile politely. “Nice to meet you, Haru.”
He watched as you carefully wrapped his order, your hands still a little clumsy with the butcher paper. “It’s good to see a new face around here,” he said warmly. “You seem really kind. Gentle. The kind of person who makes a place feel brighter just by being in it.” He rubbed the back of his neck, almost shyly. “If you ever need anything — extra vegetables from the farm, help carrying something heavy, or just someone to talk to when things get quiet — my door’s always open. Wouldn’t want you feeling lonely so soon after moving in.”
You tilted your head, completely oblivious to any hidden meaning, and gave him a grateful smile. “That’s very kind of you. Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind.”
Before you could say anything else, the air behind you changed.
Toji’s large hand settled heavily on your hip, fingers digging in with clear possession as he pulled you back firmly against his chest. His other arm slid around your waist, locking you in place.
“She won’t be needing anything,” Toji said, his voice low and dangerously even. “I take care of my wife.”
Haru blinked, the friendly smile faltering as he finally registered the tension rolling off the butcher. “Of course. I was just… being neighborly.”
Toji’s grip on your hip tightened. “Neighborly is saying hello. The rest sounded like something else.”
The silence that followed was thick and uncomfortable. Haru swallowed hard, quickly paid for his meat, and muttered a polite goodbye before leaving without another word. The door swung shut behind him with a soft jingle.
The second he was gone, Toji spun you around and backed you against the counter. His green eyes were dark, jaw clenched tight with barely-contained jealousy. One big hand came up to cup your jaw, thumb pressing lightly against your bottom lip.
“You really didn’t notice?” he muttered, voice rough.
You shook your head, genuinely confused. “He was just being nice…”
Toji let out a short, irritated breath and leaned in closer, forehead almost touching yours. “He wasn’t just being nice. He was testing the waters. Seeing if my wife might be open to something else. Offering you a soft place to land if you ever got tired of me.”
His other hand slid under your skirt, fingers brushing between your thighs and finding you still slick from the night before. You gasped softly as he pushed two thick fingers inside you without warning, curling them slowly.
“Toji—”
“Mine,” he growled quietly against your ear, pumping his fingers in a lazy rhythm. “This pussy is mine. You are mine. I don’t want you smiling so sweetly at other men. Understand?”
You whimpered, clutching his shoulders as pleasure sparked through your still-sensitive body. “I understand…”
He kissed you then — hard, possessive, and hungry — while his fingers continued their slow, deliberate strokes. When he finally pulled back, his eyes were still dark with jealousy.
“Next time someone talks to you like that,” he said, voice low, “you let me handle it.”
He reluctantly withdrew his fingers, straightened your skirt, and stepped back like nothing had happened. But the tension in his shoulders and the dark look in his eyes remained.
“Back to work,” he said gruffly, still clearly worked up.
You nodded, legs shaky, heart racing, and turned back to the counter.
The rest of the morning passed with Toji staying even closer than before — a constant, heavy, possessive presence at your side. Every time another customer entered, his hand found your waist or lower back, silently reminding everyone (and you) exactly who you belonged to.
The rest of the morning dragged on with the same heavy tension.
Every time a male customer stepped through the door, Toji’s demeanor shifted. His hand would find your waist, your hip, or the small of your back — a silent, unmistakable claim. He answered questions in short, clipped tones and watched the men with sharp, warning eyes. You tried to focus on wrapping orders and smiling politely, but the constant possessiveness was becoming impossible to ignore.
By early afternoon, when the shop finally quieted again, you couldn’t hold it in anymore.
You turned to him while he was wiping down the counter.
“Toji,” you said softly, “you’re being too much.”
He paused, setting the rag down slowly. When he looked at you, his green eyes had gone dark.
“Too much?” he repeated, voice low and deceptively calm.
You swallowed but stood your ground. “Yes. The constant touching, the glaring at every man who even looks at me... They’re just customers.”
Toji stared at you for a long, heavy beat. Then he slowly walked around the counter, backing you up until your hips hit the edge. He caged you in with his massive frame, one hand braced beside you on the wood, the other coming up to grip your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes.
“You think I’m being too possessive?” he murmured, thumb brushing your bottom lip. “Tell me something, wife… What kind of husband would I be if I let other men think they can have access to what’s mine?”
His voice was rough, low, and dangerous. “If I smiled and stepped aside while they flirted with you? While they offered you help and soft words like they had any right to you?”
He leaned in closer, breath hot against your ear. “I’d be a fucking joke. A weak man who doesn’t know how to protect what belongs to him. And I’m not weak.”
His free hand slid under your skirt without warning, fingers pushing between your thighs. You were bare underneath. The moment his calloused fingertips brushed your folds, he groaned softly — low and rough — when he found you already wet again.
“Already soaked,” he muttered, voice thick with satisfaction. “Complaining about me being too possessive, but your pussy is dripping the second I touch you.”
“Toji—” you whimpered, hips twitching as two thick fingers pushed inside you in one smooth motion. The stretch made you gasp, your walls still tender and sensitive from the night before.
He curled his fingers slowly, deliberately, stroking that spongy spot deep inside you while his thumb found your swollen clit and rubbed tight, firm circles. His mouth latched onto your neck, sucking hard enough to leave another mark, teeth grazing your skin as he worked you open.
You moaned, loud and broken, clutching desperately at his broad shoulders. Your legs trembled around his wrist as pleasure sparked hot and fast through your body.
“You can tell me I’m too much,” he growled against your throat, biting down lightly before soothing the sting with his tongue. “But we both know the truth. You like it when I act like this. You like knowing no one else can touch you. You like being mine.”
His fingers pumped faster, curling with every thrust, the wet, obscene sounds of your arousal filling the quiet shop. Your hips rolled against his hand instinctively, chasing the pleasure even as your thighs shook.
“Ah— Toji… please—” you moaned, voice cracking. Your head fell back, exposing more of your neck to him. He took full advantage, sucking and biting along your skin while his fingers drove deeper, faster.
You were right there — teetering on the edge, muscles tightening around his thick fingers — when he suddenly pulled his hand away completely.
You let out a desperate, needy whine, hips chasing his fingers uselessly. Your core throbbed, aching and empty.
“Toji…!” you whimpered, voice hoarse and frustrated, eyes glassy with unshed tears of need. “Please— I was so close…”
Toji smirked, dark and satisfied, eyes gleaming with lust as he watched you squirm. He brought his glistening fingers up between you, holding them in front of your face so you could see how wet they were — coated in your slick right up to his knuckles.
“Open,” he ordered, voice low and commanding.
You obeyed instantly, parting your lips. He pushed his fingers into your mouth, letting you taste yourself as you sucked them clean, tongue swirling around them obediently. His green eyes darkened further, pupils blown wide as he watched you.
“Good girl,” he murmured, voice rough with arousal. “Look at you… so fucking eager. Whining because I stopped, sucking my fingers like you’d do anything for my cock right now.”
He pulled his fingers free with a wet pop and leaned in, kissing you deeply, tasting you on your own tongue. When he pulled back, his breath was ragged.
“You can complain about me being possessive all you want,” he said, voice dark and low, “but your body doesn’t lie. This pussy knows exactly who it belongs to.”
He suddenly lifted you onto the counter with ease, as if you weighed nothing. The wood was cool against the backs of your thighs as he shoved your skirt all the way up to your waist in one rough motion, baring your dripping pussy completely. He stepped between your spread thighs, his broad body forcing your legs wider apart until your knees were nearly touching your shoulders.
His hands gripped your hips hard enough to bruise, fingers digging deep into your soft flesh with unmistakable ownership. With his other hand, he freed his cock — thick, heavy, and already throbbing. The veined shaft glistened as he stroked himself once, slowly, eyes locked on your exposed, glistening cunt.
“Since you think I’m too possessive,” he said, voice rough and dangerous, “I’m going to remind you exactly why I am.”
He rubbed the fat, leaking head of his cock up and down your soaked folds, coating every thick inch in your slick. He teased your swollen clit with every slow pass, tapping it lightly until your hips jerked and you let out a needy whimper.
“Toji… please—”
Without another word, he pushed in with one deep, powerful thrust.
You cried out sharply, back arching hard off the counter as the thick head forced its way inside, stretching you wide open. The sudden, overwhelming fullness stole your breath. Toji groaned deeply, burying himself to the hilt in one smooth stroke, his hips flush against your ass.
“Fuck… still so tight,” he growled, voice strained with pleasure. “Even after I filled you last night. This greedy little cunt keeps sucking me in like it doesn’t want to let go.”
He didn’t give you any time to adjust. He started fucking you hard and deep, the heavy wooden counter creaking loudly under the force of every brutal thrust. Your moans echoed shamelessly through the empty shop as he claimed you right there in the middle of the day.
“Mine,” he snarled against your neck, biting down hard enough to leave another dark mark. “Say it.”
“I’m yours— ah— Toji—!” you moaned, voice breaking as your legs wrapped tightly around his waist, heels digging into his lower back.
He fucked you even harder, hips snapping forward with powerful, punishing strokes. The wet slap of skin against skin filled the room, loud and filthy. One of his big hands reached between your bodies, his thumb finding your swollen clit and rubbing fast, tight circles.
“That’s right,” he panted, breath hot against your ear. “My wife. My pussy. No one else gets to look at you the way I do. No one else gets to touch you. No one else even gets to fucking think about you.”
Your moans grew louder and more desperate, your walls fluttering around his thick cock with every deep thrust. The counter shook beneath you. Your tits bounced wildly inside your blouse with the force of his movements.
He suddenly leaned back slightly, gripping your thighs and spreading you even wider as he drove into you. The new angle made him hit even deeper, the bulge in your lower belly becoming visible with every thrust.
“Look at that,” he groaned, eyes fixed on the spot where his cock disappeared inside you. “You’re taking me so fucking deep. This tight cunt was made for my cock.”
You cried out, nails digging into his shoulders as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter inside you. “Toji—! It’s too deep— ahh—!”
“You can take it,” he growled, fucking you harder. “You’re going to take everything I give you.”
Your orgasm crashed over you without warning — fast, violent, and overwhelming. Your walls clenched hard around his cock, fluttering and squeezing as waves of intense pleasure tore through your body. You screamed his name, thighs shaking violently around his waist.
Toji snarled like a beast, his rhythm turning erratic and savage as he fucked you through your climax. He kept pounding into you, chasing his own release, hips slamming against yours with wet, filthy sounds.
But he didn’t cum.
Instead, he suddenly slowed his thrusts, grinding deep and slow, keeping you right on the edge of overstimulation. His breathing was ragged, sweat glistening on his chest and neck.
He leaned down, capturing your mouth in a messy, possessive kiss while still buried deep inside you.
“You’re not done yet,” he murmured against your lips, voice dark and full of promise. “We’re nowhere near finished.”
Before you could catch your breath, Toji pulled out of you with a wet, obscene sound. You whimpered at the sudden emptiness, your pussy clenching around nothing, already missing the thick stretch of him. But he didn’t give you any time to protest.
In one swift, powerful motion, he flipped you over onto your stomach across the counter. Your chest pressed against the cool, smooth surface, your cheek resting on the wood as he yanked your hips back and up, forcing your ass high in the air. Your skirt was still bunched uselessly around your waist, leaving you completely exposed — bent over like a whore in the middle of his shop.
Toji kicked your legs wider apart with his foot, then pressed one large hand firmly between your shoulder blades, pinning you down hard against the counter.
“Fuck, look at you,” he growled, voice thick with raw lust. “Bent over my counter like a proper little wife. Ass up, pussy dripping for me.”
He spread your ass cheeks wide with both hands, exposing your swollen, abused pussy completely. Without any warning, he spat directly onto your folds — a thick, warm glob of saliva landing right on your clit and dripping down. You gasped sharply at the filthy sensation, your hips twitching.
Toji groaned at the sight and used two thick fingers to rub his spit into your pussy, mixing it with your own slick, pushing it inside you. Then he brought his palm down hard on your ass with a loud, resounding smack.
The sharp sting bloomed hot across your skin. You cried out, jolting forward on the counter.
“Stay still,” he ordered, voice rough. He smacked the other cheek even harder, watching the way your flesh jiggled and turned pink under his hand. “This ass is mine too. Every fucking inch of you is mine.”
You moaned helplessly, pushing back against him despite the sting. Toji lined up the thick head of his cock again and thrust back inside you in one brutal, deep stroke.
The new angle made him feel impossibly bigger, reaching even deeper. You moaned loudly, fingers scrambling for purchase on the smooth wooden counter as he immediately started fucking you hard and fast.
The counter creaked loudly under the force of his powerful thrusts. Each snap of his hips drove his thick cock impossibly deep, the wet slap of skin against skin echoing through the empty shop. Toji’s hands gripped your hips in a bruising hold, pulling you back onto his cock with every stroke like he was using you.
“Fuck— this pussy feels even better like this,” he groaned, voice rough and strained. He smacked your ass again, harder this time, watching the way your flesh rippled red under his palm. “So fucking wet. You like being bent over and used like this, don’t you?”
“Yes— ah— Toji—!” you moaned, cheek pressed against the cool counter, eyes fluttering shut. Every brutal thrust made your breasts press harder into the wood, your sensitive nipples dragging against it.
Toji reached forward and fisted a hand in your hair, pulling your head back slightly as he fucked you even harder. His hips slammed against your ass with wet, filthy sounds. He spat on your pussy again, right where his thick cock was stretching you open, and used his thumb to rub the saliva into your swollen clit.
“Such a messy little wife,” he panted, smacking your ass repeatedly between thrusts — sharp, stinging slaps that made you clench tighter around him. “Dripping all over my counter. Taking my cock so deep like you were made for it. Look at this greedy cunt swallowing every inch.”
Your moans turned into broken sobs of pleasure. The combination of his brutal pace, the stinging heat on your ass, and the filthy words pushed you right to the edge again.
Toji leaned over you, his broad chest pressing against your back, his breath hot and ragged against your ear as he kept pounding into you without mercy.
“Tell me who this pussy belongs to,” he growled, smacking your ass one more time, hard enough to make you yelp.
“You—! It belongs to you— Toji—!” you cried out, voice hoarse and desperate.
He snarled in satisfaction and fucked you even harder, the counter shaking beneath you. His hand slipped between your legs again, rubbing your clit fast and rough.
You came with a broken scream, your walls clamping down hard around his thick cock, thighs shaking violently as intense pleasure tore through you.
Toji groaned loudly as your orgasm triggered his own. He slammed in deep one final time and came hard, flooding your pussy with thick, hot spurts of cum. He kept grinding into you slowly, pushing every drop as deep as possible, his hips pressed tight against your reddened ass.
For a long moment, the only sounds in the shop were your heavy breathing and the faint drip of his cum leaking out of you onto the floor.
Toji stayed buried inside you, leaning over your back and kissing the back of your neck possessively.
“Still think I’m being too possessive?” he murmured against your skin, voice dark and satisfied.
You could only whimper in response, too overwhelmed to form words. Your body was trembling, pressed against the counter, pussy still fluttering weakly around his thick cock. Every small shift made you feel the mess he’d left inside you — warm, sticky, and so full it was leaking down your thighs.
Toji let out a low, rumbling sound of approval. He stayed deep for a long moment, grinding slow and lazy, pushing his cum even deeper as if he couldn’t stand the thought of any of it escaping. His large hand smoothed over the reddened skin of your ass where he’d spanked you, almost soothing now, before giving one last firm squeeze.
“Answer me,” he said quietly, lips brushing the shell of your ear.
“…No,” you breathed, voice hoarse and shaky. “I don’t.”
He hummed, clearly pleased. He finally pulled out slowly, watching with dark eyes as a thick trail of his cum dripped from your abused hole onto the floor. The sight made him groan softly.
“Fuck, that’s a pretty sight,” he muttered. He used two fingers to push some of the leaking cum back inside you, then straightened your skirt with surprising care.
Toji helped you stand on shaky legs, turning you to face him. He cupped your jaw with one hand, thumb brushing your flushed cheek as he studied your expression — eyes glassy, lips swollen, hair messy.
“You’re going to feel me for the rest of the day,” he said, voice low. “Every step. Every time you move. I want you thinking about who fucked you over this counter.”
He leaned in and kissed you — slower this time, but still deep and possessive. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours for a brief second.
“Clean yourself up a little,” he told you, pressing one last kiss to your temple. “We’ve still got half a day left.”
Toji stepped back, tucking himself away and adjusting his apron like nothing had happened, though the dark, satisfied glint in his eyes remained.
You stood there on unsteady legs, heart still racing, feeling the unmistakable warmth of his cum slowly leaking down your inner thighs.
And somehow, you couldn’t find it in yourself to complain.
a/n: aren't the old hags kinda iconic? lmk what you think and if you'd be interested in a part two! likes and reblogs appreciated!!
── .✦ summary || Before we had Toji 'I love my wife' Fushiguro, there was Toji 'I love my girlfriend' Zenin...
── .✦ overall content & warnings || MDNI. wc. 16k. a bit of angst-- Toji and Reader's childhood. mentions of child abuse. friends to lovers. roomates. Toji is sweet and awkward the whole time. so much fluff. first kiss. first love. sexual tension. Reader and Toji are inexperienced. sexual content. making out. dryhumping. vaginal fingering. period cramp relief (he's a good friend like that). handjob. mutual masturbation.
── .✦ author's note || omg, I've been sitting on this one for a while, debating if I should post or not. There was supposed to be a part two (it's called Shadow Puppets for a reason, i swear), but I haven't even started on it. Anyway, if sweet, awkward, inexperienced Toji isn't your thing, this one prob isn't for you. But if that's up your alley, I hope you enjoy <3
The Zenin Clan’s property sat on a large plot of land, spanning miles upon miles of rich farmland, with the closest city being an hour's commute to Kyoto– and that’s only if you were lucky enough to have a car to use. Public transportation never reached this area, and your family lacked the funds to own a car, which meant you were stuck in place, like the stagnant air you breathed in your tiny home, all while knowing how well the Zenin Clan prospered.
To say you were bitter was an understatement, but you knew better than to think that they had a life you truly wanted.
When you were younger, you would sneak away from your home, travel through a strip of trees and a thin creek to observe them in the back gardens of their estate. You always wondered why the women were forced to walk a few paces behind the men, and why everyone moved around with perfectly straight posture like they had a stick lodged up their asses. Your mother told you it’s how proper folk held themselves, but if being proper meant carrying around a holier-than-thou mentality, you weren’t interested.
Aside from being unfamiliar with their status, you really had no reason to dislike them. They’d never done anything to you. In fact, you were sure they didn’t even know you were there, always perched on the wooden fence, watching them from between the cedar trees. The branches always kept you hidden, so as long as no one ventured this far away from the gardens, you knew you’d be safe.
And you got away with it for a while– for years, to be exact. It became your secret hobby, observing the notorious Zenins like they were animals in a zoo. And in some cases, they acted as such. Aggressive, possessive, always fighting for dominance with each other while forcing the women to maintain the home and watch after the kids. They bred like rabbits, you noticed. You thought that maybe they needed a new hobby of their own.
Your parents told you to keep your distance from them, though they had no idea that you liked to sneak off and get as close to the family as you could. If they had, you’d no doubt be punished for your idiocy. Even as a child, you knew your parents had a good reason for ordering you to stay away from the Zenins, but it wasn’t until you saw the true extent of how cruel they could be that you finally understood it for yourself.
Aggressiveness, fighting for dominance– those weren’t things the adult men reserved for use against each other. No, they involved the children, too, not only forcing them to fight for their entertainment, but retaliating against them as well.
But why? What was the purpose? As an eight-year-old little girl, you couldn’t figure it out; it confused you. Your parents were strict at times, doling out punishments as they saw fit, but… never to this extent.
The boy running through the garden looked terrified, glancing over his shoulder as the other chased him down. The one in front tried his best not to trample the flowers, yet the one behind him didn’t seem to give it another thought as he ruined them. Both of their yukatas were smudged with dirt, even ripped in a few places, too. It was evident by just their appearance alone that they had been doing this for a while, only now deciding to bring it outside.
While trying to mitigate flower damage, the boy ended up tripping, and just as quickly, he turned over to defend himself from the other, muttering, “Jinichi, I never-” A harsh kick to his ribs had the boy groaning and curling in on himself. “Whatever Ogi said isn’t true-”
“No?” Jinichi questioned in monotone and laid another kick to his ribs. “Hear that, Uncle? Toji says you’re a liar.”
A man who you hadn’t noticed stepped into view, spectating the debacle with a critical glance. The boy– Toji, as you learned– shook his head, raising his eyes to meet Ogi’s. “I didn’t say you’re a liar, but whoever told you that I-”
Before you could blink, the man moved so quickly, pressing to Toji’s mouth the end of a long cane he was toting around. The boy fell silent, eyeing the wooden stick with a bit of fear.
“Are you calling my attendants liars, then?” Ogi never gave Toji the chance to answer before he handed off the cane to the other boy and said, “You may continue as we’ve practiced. I trust that you won’t kill him, but don’t be gentle either. The conniving runt isn’t worthy of your mercy after what he’s done to you.”
As the man stalked off in the opposite direction, heading back toward the house, you watched Jinichi reaffirm his grip on the cane with a determined look on his face. Toji used his arms to pull himself backward, but not far enough that the tip of the wooden rod couldn’t ram right into his face when Jinichi finally swung for him.
You gasped a quiet sound, heart thumping faster and faster in your chest when you heard his pained groan. He angled his face toward the other, scared but not backing down. Blood dripped from his temple, down his reddened, battered cheek to fall off his jaw– the sight of it made you feel sick. To the other side of Toji’s face, Jinichi gave him a matching wound, then stood back to assess his work.
He twirled the cane with a precise, practiced move, gruffly offering, “I’ll make it quick if you just confess.”
With the back of his hand, Toji wiped away the blood that had dripped into his eye, smearing it down his face. “We’ve been brothers for ten years now. How long do you think that lie is going to work on me?”
His brother didn’t respond and instead swung the cane for his side, hitting his target with a loud cracking sound. The noise that left Toji was painful, calling to you like a cry for help, yet you were frozen. Never in your life had you witnessed such violence. You gripped the fence just a bit tighter, noticing then how shaky your hands were.
Toji rolled onto his stomach, curling into himself to protect his injury, but in doing so, he was risking his back to an attack. When Jinichi took the opportunity, whipping the cane across his spine, you had to bite your own tongue to stop from making a noise. The boy fell flat on his front with a cry of agony, sobbing, “I didn’t do it, Jinichi. I haven’t been in your room since the last time you caught me, I swear.”
“I don’t believe you,” his brother insisted, taking the cane to his back again, and then once more. A redness began seeping into the white yukata Toji wore. “Uncle Ogi wouldn’t lie-”
“Uncle Ogi,” Toji began, voice lifting a few decibels, “does whatever the hell he wants to keep himself entertained, and if you think for one second that doesn’t apply to you, then you’re an idiot.”
Even you knew that for a boy in Toji’s position, saying something like that wasn’t the right move. Unsurprisingly, it earned him three more lashes before his brother managed to snap the cane in half. While the boy writhed on the ground, Jinichi inspected the jagged end of the broken wood, contemplating something before tossing it away, only to bend down and grab Toji by the back of his yukata.
The boy groaned in pain, pleading for him to stop, and fighting against Jinichi with what strength he had left, which wasn’t much. He dragged him across the yard, ripping up what flowers hadn’t been destroyed during their chase, and dropped him on the edge of the koi pond.
If you felt sick before just to see them fighting, it was nothing compared to the churning in your stomach to see his brother step over Toji’s body and stand above him. All too quickly, Jinichi guided Toji’s head to the water and held him under. He fought against his brother, digging his nails into his ankles to draw blood, yet Jinichi never stopped.
If he kept going, Toji would surely die.
Somehow, some way, you defied your own fear in that moment, and in the next, your hands were pushing at Jinichi’s back with such a force that he toppled forward, into the pond. How you managed to cross the field so quickly, you weren’t sure– running was never your strong suit, but then again, you’d never tried while hopped up on so much adrenaline.
You lowered yourself beside Toji, careful not to touch his back or move him in a way that might cause him pain. Though, really, it wouldn’t have mattered after the beating he had taken. Deeming his shoulders safe, you grabbed him there, helping to bring him off the ground until he could balance himself on shaky arms.
Jinichi broke the surface of the pond while Toji worked on catching his breath, keeping his head cast down as the water droplets fell from soaked tufts of his black hair. The clear water took on a reddish hue as it rinsed the blood from his face. He spat out what collected in his mouth, heaving in deep breaths.
“Didn’t go in your room,” he muttered, spitting out more bloody water. You assumed he thought you to be his brother, hence his rambling, but Jinichi was actually standing on the other side of the pond, staring at you with a bewildered expression. “Ogi is a liar. Not me.”
You reached down, placing your hand over the back of his own. “I believe you.”
The heavy breathing stalled instantly, Toji going stalk still when he heard your voice– one that doesn’t sound like his brother’s at all. Clearly, you had startled him, but that was something you could apologize for later, after you dealt with the Zenin across the pond, who had yet to move.
“You could have killed him, you know? What is the matter with you?” you snapped with enough bite that Jinichi flinched and took a step back. Then another, and another, until he fully turned around to run into the house. You watched him go with a disapproving shake of your head before giving your attention to the one who needed it the most. “Are you okay?”
He didn’t respond to you, but he did move, shakily pulling his hand out from beneath yours. When he pressed it into the dirt, he tried to push himself to stand. He stumbled around a bit, but managed it eventually. There were a few seconds when you both were unmoving, still reeling and trying to adjust to what just happened.
Then, Toji spoke. “You shouldn’t be here.”
You stood, too, taking a moment to dust off your yukata and smooth it out straight. “I know, but he was hurting you.”
He never once spared you a glance, keeping his eyes cast away as he moved on the same path as his brother. The most you received from the interaction was a few words that sounded a lot like a threat.
“You should leave before they hurt you, too.”
You took a few hurried steps toward him, latching onto his wrist to make him stop. “But what about you. Your back is-”
“I know you like to watch us,” he interjected, shaking off your touch. “You sit on the fence. You think no one can see you through the branches, but I can. So I know that you know what happens to girls here.”
Only then did you start to feel scared. After all, you had just been caught. If your parents found out, they’d be pissed, but worse was whatever the notorious Zenins might do to you for such an offense.
With nothing else to say, nothing for you to deny, you apologized.
“I’m sorry.” It came out as a whisper, barely loud enough for you to even hear it. “Please, don’t tell anyone.”
Sensing your fear, Toji turned around. He didn’t smile, his face seemingly stuck in a flat expression, but the look in his eyes changed. It was a subtle difference, but one that you noticed. Toji blinked a few times before saying, “I don’t mind. You’re not hurting anything. Besides, I know what it’s like to be somewhere you’re not supposed to be. I go into my brother’s room all the time.”
A quiet gasp passed your lips, causing a smile to form on Toji’s mouth. You could tell that with the amount of pain he was in, it was forced, but it was a smile nonetheless.
“As long as you don’t tell on me, I won’t tell on you. Okay?”
You swallowed thickly, giving a firm, singular nod. “Okay.”
Slowly, his smile fell. “You should go now.”
“But what about your back? It’s bad– you’re bleeding-”
“I’ll be fine. They’re nothing but a few scratches.”
But they weren’t just a few scratches; they were deep, seeping wounds that Toji felt throb in time with his heartbeat while he watched you walk away, making sure you made it back between the cedar trees before letting go of the pained whimpers he had been holding back. The boy stumbled into the home before being swept up by one of the attendants to have his injuries assessed. Just as the woman finished cleaning the wound, the shoji door slammed open to allow Ogi to enter.
He didn’t speak– neither of them did. It wasn’t needed, for they both knew what was in store for Toji. He wasn’t only in trouble for his fight with his brother, but also for letting you walk away. While he had talked with you, he felt their eyes stabbing into his back, waiting for Toji to make the right move, yet he didn’t.
And for that, he would be punished along with you, though you weren’t aware of that yet.
“What did you do?” your mother hissed quietly, dragging you out of your room and into the living area, which you noticed was taken up by a few familiar faces– Zenins, to be exact.
Jinichi sat between two men, stoic, just as you remembered him to be. The one on his left, Ogi, and the one on his right was someone you’d never seen before. Though with a mustache like that, you doubted that you’d ever be able to forget him. Naobito was his name, as you had soon learned just after your mother forced you into a deep, respectful bow.
The conversation didn’t come as a surprise to you; you had screwed up, got caught by this powerful family, and were now about to reap the consequences of your actions. However, the action they were accusing you of wasn’t trespassing, as you had assumed it to be. Instead, it was something they must’ve manifested in their minds. In other words, it was a lie.
“It seems there was an altercation a few days ago. Your child stepped onto our property and tried to drown our Jinichi,” Ogi spat, earning the room two horrified gasps from your parents.
Unable to help yourself, you were quick to argue, “I never did that!”
“You didn’t push him into the koi pond?” A tense silence fell over the room as you slumped back down, trying to come up with something to defend yourself, yet you had nothing. You had, in fact, pushed the boy into the pond, though you weren’t trying to drown him.
You brokenly sputtered, “H-He was the one trying to drown someone. He held Toji’s head under the water-”
“Why would he do that to his own brother, hm? Jinichi, you love Toji-kun, don’t you?”
“Very much,” Jinichi replied, meeting your stare unyieldingly. “I would never try to hurt my own flesh and blood.”
“Then why did you whip his back with that cane? You made him bleed.”
It didn’t matter what you said; no one believed you, not even your parents. They brushed it off on you, spending too much time in the sun that day, confusing brotherly roughhousing for an attack, but you knew better.
Your parents promised them that a proper punishment would be doled out, and the Zenins warned them against letting you wander too far again, for they wouldn’t be so lenient next time. You were spanked for your crimes that night, sent to bed with a sore behind and an empty stomach, with a long list of chores for you to complete the next day.
You gave it a few months before curiosity got the better of you and led you back up the hill toward the gardens of the Zenin property, only this time, there was a tall privacy fence in place. You paced the perimeter of it, running your fingers along the sturdy, wooden grooves until boredom struck, and you retreated back to your own home.
Months continued, turning into years.
Sometimes you’d venture up the hill just to have a walk through the woods when you needed to clear your mind. And sometimes you found yourself lingering a little too long near the fence, just listening to what went on on the other side. Maybe that was creepy, but as always, you were just curious. You lived so close to the Zenins– everyone in the area knew them, everyone talked about them, and you were lucky enough to be within walking distance of their home.
Besides, what else was there to do? Your little farmhouse could only keep you entertained for so long, and it had since run out of inspiration– about ten years ago, actually. Life in your childhood home was boring, stale, so… dull. So, yes, you indulged your curiosities every once in a while, prying into the lavish life of the Zenins, even if it would end up getting you in trouble.
Autumn had struck, the leaves were dying, but the sun reflecting off of them cast an orange hue in the air. All life had been stunted, it seemed, save for the green moss growing on the wooden fence. You ran your finger over it, picking off some sprigs and letting them sprinkle to the ground. The wind carried a chill, rustling the dead leaves, but the scent it brought was a nice one. You wondered if the city smelled just like this, and you found yourself hoping it did, for it would be the only thing you’d miss about your home if you ever moved away.
You ventured further away that day, straying too far from the normal path, which you would need to take to get home. The distance made you feel a little giddy, and the uncharted territory felt fun. You wondered why you hadn’t done it sooner, until you were reminded of why– staying on the normal path ensured a quick escape back to your home, should you ever get caught stalking the Zenin’s property again.
And, unfortunately, you had just been caught. You were sure of it the second you locked stares with familiar green eyes that were perched at the very top of the fence. While yours widened in shock, his remained the same– dull, almost lifeless, yet you knew he was seeing you because they followed your movements, unblinkingly.
You weren’t sure what to say as you looked up at him, wondering how he took on such a relaxed, nonchalant position while balancing on top of a tall privacy fence. It scaled taller than your own house and would definitely ensure a few broken bones if you were to fall, though he seemed to be at ease.
“You usually don’t come down this far,” he said, breaking the silence with a voice that was far deeper than you remembered. Granted, it’s been years, so you suppose it checks out.
“You were watching me?”
“Only sometimes,” he offered with a shrug, standing to his feet on top of the fence.
“Hey,” you gasped, “be careful!”
But he was already moving, jumping from the top of the fence and catching himself on a thick branch of a tree. He let himself dangle there for a moment before dropping to his feet, landing with grace right in front of you. And as he stood to his full height, you were made aware that his voice was not the only thing that changed about him, but his body, too; most notably, a wicked scar on his upper lip. Part of you wanted to ask about its origins, but another part of you knew better than to pry for that information– it seemed personal.
“That’s really dangerous! A fall from that height could have broken a bone!”
“But I caught myself on the tree,” he argued playfully.
“And if you hadn’t?”
He glanced up at the fence, gauging its height before shrugging. “I’d reckon I’d still be fine. I’ve fallen from higher places.”
You held a chastising finger at him, muttering, “That’s bad. Very bad.”
“M’not a dog, so don’t scold me like one.” He rolled his eyes, though he didn’t sound too irritated. “Anyway, what are you still doing coming up here? Ain’t you tired of looking at the same old fence yet?”
“No. The area is nice and peaceful.”
“And it isn’t nice and peaceful on your own property?”
With a tilt of your head, you asked, “Why does it feel like you’re trying to make me go home?”
“Maybe I just don’t like you being this close to my home. If you were smart, you wouldn’t like being this close either. Especially, after what happened last time.”
“You still remember that?”
“‘Course, I do. And probably just as vividly as you do, too,” he scoffed. “You shouldn’t come this close anymore. You’re just gonna get in trouble again if you get caught.”
You placed a hand on your hip, entirely unthreatened. “Are you going to snitch on me?”
He exhaled a quiet laugh. “No. So long as you stay on your side of the creek from now on, I’ll have no reason to.”
“Hmm…” You dropped your hand from your hip to cross your arms. “Well, I’m not going unless you come with me. I’ll need an escort back.”
“An escort?”
“Yes,” you stated firmly. “As you know, I’ve never been this far from my usual path. Who knows if I’ll be able to find my way back, rather than wandering further onto your property?”
He chuckled, bewildered by your suggestion. “Need me to hold your hand, too?”
“Yes, actually.” You held it out for him to take, making him lose his grin. He eyed your extended palm, watching as you flexed it, wordlessly prompting him to grab it, yet he didn’t. “Come on. We don’t have all day, do we?”
His eyes slid up to meet yours. “But I was only kidding-”
“I wasn’t.”
Toji’s lips parted to spew some kind of excuse, but nothing came out, and his mouth closed, opening once more to bite out, “Fine.”
Hesitantly, he grabbed your hand, taking it in a tight fist. It wasn’t enough to hurt you, but it did startle you a little, especially when he tugged you to follow him. With a huff, you wrangled him back and forced him to take your hand properly.
“Never held someone’s hand before or something?” you asked, interlocking your fingers. You let your connected hands fall between you. “There we go. That’s how you do it.”
When you looked back up, he was glaring down at your hands, confused more than angry. And when he started pulling you away again, you didn’t miss the way the tips of his ears were starting to turn red.
“You want to be friends?” Toji questioned you one night, brows furrowing deeply as he pointed to himself. “With me?”
You frowned, thinking back on the week you both had, where you’d meet every evening at the creek to hang out, wondering if you’d read the situation incorrectly– weren’t you two getting along? Or was he really just coming here out of some obligation?
“Why wouldn’t I want to be friends with you? You’re cool.”
“You really think so?”
“Of course, I do.”
His confusion was palpable as he questioned again, “Really?”
You scoffed and reached over to flick his cheek. He reeled away with a surprised hiss, rubbing the growing red mark. “You’re cool, Toji. How many times do I have to say it?”
His hand went still on his face as he stared at you, probably trying to figure out if you were being genuine or not. Finally, he dropped his hand. “Okay. Yeah, sure. We can be friends. If you want.”
When silence ensued, inching toward something awkward, you reached forward and poked his cheek. “Hey. Don’t be all weird now. That’s not cool at all.”
With a smushed cheek, he mumbled, “I’m not being weird.”
“Swear?”
“Swear.”
“Good.” You dropped your hand with a satisfied smile and relaxed back on the ground, closing your eyes and paying no mind to the crunch of the leaves below your head. “Lay down, too.”
You didn’t see him move, but you heard the leaves crunch as he relaxed beside you, just close enough to barely brush your shoulders together.
After a few minutes of quiet autumn breezes, he asked, “You really think I’m cool?”
“Toji, the fact that you keep asking is making it weird.”
In only a few months, the two of you had grown close. No longer were you two just friends; you were best friends.
Even as the season chilled into winter, you two would still frequently meet at the creek, though when the snow started falling, your hangouts were often cut short due to the cold, and sometimes, you didn’t meet at all.
But that was fine; you missed him, of course, but you knew that he didn’t want you trekking through the snow, just like you didn’t want him to do that either.
Toward the end of that year, a winter storm blew in. He told you the week before it happened that you shouldn’t meet at the creek. And you agreed with him, with the exception being the evening of his birthday, of course. He implored that it was fine, that you didn’t need to risk your health and safety for such a stupid reason, but you insisted, and finally, he relented. Toji promised to meet you out there on his birthday.
Yet, as you stood at the creek on the 31st of December, bundled up and shivering, you realized Toji might’ve forgotten– which was fine. It was his 16th birthday, after all, and he was probably busy with family obligations.
Okay, it hurt a little bit that he forgot, but you tried your best not to let it get to you. You only wanted to give him the gift you made for him– granted, it was a silly gift, but you thought he’d appreciate it.
But it was fine. You could always give it to him another time.
You retreated back to your house, stopping just inside the door to peel your many layers off. You snuck past the living room, where your parents were bringing in the new year with their friends, playing card games, drinking, eating, laughing. You crossed your fingers, hoping they didn’t stop to ask why you were back so soon. As far as they were concerned, you were going out with a friend– a friend who was a girl you met at school, and not an infamous Zenin boy, who you were forbidden from talking to.
Once you made it to your room undetected, you changed into your pajamas, turned on quiet music, and started working on the project you left behind a few hours ago: a half-knitted sweater. Well, half was an overstatement; you’d barely finished one of the sleeves. Knitting wasn’t your strong suit, and it wasn’t all that fun, but it kept your hands busy.
Entirely immersed in your work, you were almost dead to the world, which is why when your bedroom window was abruptly pushed open, you screamed–
Until you realized it was only Toji, with a finger to his lips, telling you to be quiet. Quickly, you slapped your hand over your mouth, and your other over your racing heart. You both stayed silent, listening for your parents' concerned questions, but the loud chatter of them with their friends let you know they hadn’t heard a thing.
Only then did you speak, and it was to harshly whisper, “Jesus! You scared me!”
“I was throwing pebbles at your window for five minutes. Should’ve known you were… knitting?” He waved a confused hand at the mess of tan yarn in your lap. “Since when have you known how to do that?”
“Since two weeks ago, but that’s not important. What are you doing here?”
He drew his eyes away from your lap. “You didn’t wait for me at the creek.”
“I did. For two hours. Figured you were busy with your party or something, but it’s no big deal. You didn’t have to come all the way down here on your birthday. I could’ve given you your gift later.” You placed your yarn and knitting needles aside to slide off your bed and retrieve his present.
When you stood in front of him, holding a small box behind your back, he eyed you suspiciously. “You got me a gift?”
“Of course, I got you a gift. It’s your birthday. Now, close your eyes.” He cocked a brow, hesitating until you snapped, “Close them. Now.”
And he did.
Once you placed the gift box in his hand, you added, “It’s nothing crazy. You might even think it’s stupid-”
“What? No, I– shut up, you didn’t-” Your brows furrowed, and he instantly backpedaled. “Sorry. Don’t shut up. That’s not– I just-”
“Open the damn box, Toji.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He pulled the lid away, placing it on your nightstand before reaching in to grab the gift. Between his two fingers, he held up the woven tendril of green strands, inspecting it with a frown. “A bracelet?”
You nodded and held up your own wrist, displaying the one you made for yourself. “A friendship bracelet.”
“Oh,” he murmured, still looking it over with curiosity.
Your stomach started to churn with nerves, which led to you blurting out, “I told you it wasn’t anything crazy, I said it was stupid-” His eyes flicked to yours, widening just enough as you continued, “You’re probably used to the fancy stuff– gold and silver and diamonds, which is fine. I mean, your family is loaded, so that’s to be expected. Just give that back, I’m sorry-”
When you went to grab it, he jerked it out of your reach. “No way. It’s mine.”
“It’s stupid, Toji.”
“It’s not stupid at all. It’s cool.” You slowly dropped your hands. “I’ve never had a friendship bracelet before; no one has ever… you really made this for me?”
“Well, yeah. And for me, too.” His eyes slid to your wrist, and he took your hand, bringing you closer so he could look at yours, too. The contact brought warmth to your face. “You like them?”
“Mhm, I do. You did a good job on them.”
“Thank you.” The warmth on your face only got hotter, but the praise was nice. “Do you want me to help you put yours on? They can be a pain in the ass sometimes.”
He lowered your hand back to your side and handed his bracelet to you, offering you his wrist next. After securing it, you glanced at his face, taking note of the small smile that was on his mouth as he ran his finger over the woven pattern.
“Thank you. For the gift.”
The slight nervousness in your chest faded, and you smiled, too. “You’re welcome! I was really hoping you’d like it! I wasn’t sure what else to get you. I know you probably have everything you could ever want already.”
“...almost everything.”
“Hm?”
You tilted your head in question, but he didn’t respond. Instead, he glanced at the clock on your nightstand, then looked back at you.
“My family is doing fireworks for the New Year.”
Your eyes lit up with excitement. “I love fireworks!”
“Wanna go watch them?” he asked. “The roof would be the perfect spot.”
“The roof? Like, the roof of my house?” When he nodded, you asked, “How are we supposed to get up there?”
He slipped out of his coat, handing it to you, then moved toward the open window. As you slid your arms into the warmth, sufficiently wrapping yourself up in it, he inched outside, far enough that it worried you.
“Hey, Toji, that’s not safe. You could fall-”
But your warning was too late. He somehow managed to pull himself off the windowsill using the gutter of your house, and then proceeded to defy gravity by vaulting onto the roof. Naturally, you were concerned and rushed over to the window, only when you peered up at the roof, he leaned over the edge and offered you his hand.
“You’re insane if you think I’m doing that.”
“Come on,” he tutted teasingly. “Don’t be a chicken.”
“You could drop me.”
“I swear, I won’t. And if I do, I’d be down there to catch you before you hit the ground.”
Your eyes widened, head shaking in disbelief. “What? You think you’re a superhero, or something?”
He snorted. “Definitely not, but I trust myself enough not to let you fall.”
“You can trust yourself all you want, but I’m the one who needs to trust you right now. And I definitely do not.”
He clicked his tongue. “You should.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because you mean a lot to me, and I’d never suggest anything that would get you hurt.” You stared at his hand again, watching him flex it open. “Come on. You made me a friendship bracelet and everything. You have to trust me at least a little bit, right?”
“Toji-”
“And it’s my birthday, so you kinda have to do everything I say.”
Your lips pressed into a flat line as you eyed the distance from your window to the ground.
“Damn you.”
With a groan, you grabbed his hand, squeezed your eyes shut, and braced for the ground, but the fall didn’t come; Toji lifted you onto the roof as if you weighed nothing, letting you stumble right onto his lap. You gripped the fabric on his shoulders, peering behind you and over the edge of the roof– such a long way down.
“You’re very bold, you know that?”
He chuckled and pulled you off his lap, placing you beside him. “One day, you’ll finally trust me.”
“Maybe so, but that day is not today. You’ll have to prove yourself a few more times.” You moved closer to his side, noticing his thin, long-sleeved shirt. “Hey, aren’t you cold?”
“I’m fine, really-” You slid back onto his lap, sitting back toward his knees so it wasn’t entirely inappropriate. “Really, I’m not-”
“Do you want to catch a cold? No, you don’t. So put your arms in here.” You opened the jacket, shivering as the cold air chilled you through your pajamas. “Hurry before all the warm air gets out.”
Sounding flustered, he muttered, “Where am I supposed to-” You grabbed his arms, led them inside the jacket, and wrapped them around your waist. “Oh.”
“Isn’t that better?”
You heard him swallow before humming, “Mhm.”
He relaxed into your touch after a few moments and even pulled you forward to get closer. Despite your initial thoughts, straddling his lap this closely didn’t feel inappropriate at all. It felt comforting and safe, like you wouldn’t mind staying there for the rest of your life.
The fireworks started a little while later, lighting up the sky with bright flashes of vibrant colors. Both of you watched them in contented silence– it was nice. Really nice, even.
“You know, these are really good fireworks, but have you seen the ones they do in Osaka. For the summer festival?”
“No. Have you?”
You giggled, “No, but I saw them on TV last year. They’re super cool. We should go sometime.”
Through the sound of the distant explosions, you heard your parents and their friends count down from ten, and when the clock hit midnight, you didn’t hesitate to press your lips to Toji’s cheek. It wasn’t much, a gentle peck at most, but it was something that meant so much to both of you.
Though at the time, neither of you was truly aware of the significance.
“Happy New Year,” you whispered when you pulled back to rest your cheek on his shoulder.
You weren’t sure if he said it back.
If he did, you definitely couldn’t hear it over the sound of the blood rushing through your head.
Toji moved off the Zenin property a few months after he turned 18. He came to see you when he could, but after being cut off from his family’s funds, he was stuck working a few part-time jobs, barely giving him any time off. You pretended it didn’t bother you too badly, but the reality of it was that without Toji there to keep you company, the place felt small and lonely. You were going stir-crazy, and the subtle comments from your parents, suggesting that you look for a place, were grating on your nerves.
Which is why when Toji came to pick you up the night of your 18th birthday, you slumped down in his car with a box of items. He eyed them suspiciously, gaze flicking to you and your pleading look. Hesitantly, he asked, “What’s wrong?”
“Mind if I stay with you for a few days?”
He blinked a few times, inhaling deeply to ask, “Um, like… starting tonight?” He worried his bottom lip between his teeth when you nodded. “I’ve only got one bedroom. And it’s not on the nice side of town either.”
“Toji, if you don’t want me to stay, just say so-”
“No! That’s not it,” he rushed to say, scratching at the back of his neck. “It’s just that… it’s kind of a shitty place, and I’m messy, and you’re not gonna like it.”
Catching sight of his reddening cheeks, you offered a soft smile. “You don’t have to be embarrassed. It can’t be that bad. Besides, it’s just for a few days. I trust you to take care of me for a few days. And since it’s a one-bedroom, I can take the couch.”
“Well, I don’t have a couch. When I left the estate, I only brought a few changes of clothes, and the new place didn’t come furnished.”
“So, where do you sleep?”
The answer to that question: the fucking floor.
“Toji,” you sighed, taking a look around the bare space that was somehow messy, despite being almost empty. “You couldn’t have grabbed a futon before you left the estate?”
“Was kinda in a rush,” he sheepishly said. “Figured I’d get whatever I needed when I had time, but… sort of short on that, too. Plus, s’not like anyone else lives with me anyway, so it doesn’t bother me.” When you cast him a cool look, he winced. “Well, it bothers me now that you’re here.”
You let your eyes slip around the room. A dirty old rug, a basket of unfolded clothes, a foldable, metal chair, a scratched-up side table he probably picked up for free on the side of the road, and a gun– wait-
“What is that for?!” You pointed at the weapon, and Toji followed your direction until he, too, spotted it. Quickly, he grabbed the gun and slipped it behind him, tucking it into his waistband as if that would magically erase the last two seconds from your mind. “Toji.”
“What? It’s a bad part of town, I told you already.”
“So, you have a gun, to do what with? Shoot people?”
He blinked a few times, lips parting in surprise before he forced them closed, throat bobbing as he swallowed. “No. I would never.” He eyed your unimpressed glare, offering up his hands in a surrendering gesture. “I swear.”
You chewed on the inside of your cheek, frown deepening before you dismissed it, muttering, “You better not. It would piss me off.”
Toji let out a sigh of relief and moved aside, letting you venture deeper into the apartment. He let you explore, not that there was much of that to be done anyway. You found the bathroom– small and dingy– the kitchen was just the same. And when you were finished, you stood in front of him again, hand on your hip.
“You were right. This place is shitty.” You gave the room another glance. “I’m not leaving until it’s at least somewhat suitable.”
“What?”
“What?” you countered, directing your stare at him. “You can’t live like this.”
“Yes, I can. I’ve been doing it for months now.”
“Well, I can’t live like this,” you argued, catching the way confusion flickered in his eyes.
“You?”
“Me.” With a lazy wave of your hand, you explained, “My parents not-so-subtly suggested that I move out.”
Toji’s face slackened. “They kicked you out.”
“No, they suggested it was time for me to get my own place since I’m an adult now, so I thought I’d stay with you until I find an apartment. Just a few days.”
Toji cocked a brow. “You think you’re going to find a nice apartment to move into in just a few days?” When you nodded, he asked, “With what money?” With pursed lips, you shrugged, bringing him to sigh, “You’re not going to find a place in just a few days with no money.”
“Why not? You did.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“What do you mean, you didn’t? We’re in your apartment right now-” It clicked for you then. “This isn’t your apartment, is it?”
“It is.” He swallowed. “Kind of.”
“Kind of?”
He chewed on his bottom lip. “Well, not officially.”
“You’re squatting here,” you surmised, making him wince again.
“Yes.”
It wasn’t the most ideal situation, but you couldn’t be mad at Toji for it. It wasn’t like he expected you to throw yourself and all of your problems into his lap. However, that didn’t mean you could continue letting him live this way, squatting or not.
You let out a huff and rubbed at your eyes, feeling tired already. “Okay. It’s fine. We can just… figure it out tomorrow.”
“We?”
“Yes, we. You need a place to live– a real place that is your own– and so do I, so we can start looking tomorrow. Or better yet, I can start looking tomorrow, since you’re keen on living in squalor. But once I find a place, you’re moving in with me. No more of… this.” You motioned to the space around you. “Now, is there anything else you wanna tell me? You’re technically homeless, are you jobless, too?”
“No. I… work.”
His tone was hesitant– less than trustworthy now that you’ve seen all of this.
“Is it ethical?” He didn’t answer, but he did look guilty, and you had a sneaking suspicion it had something to do with the gun tucked into the waistband of his pants. “Do I even want to know?”
“Probably not.”
“Okay,” you sighed again. “Last question, do you have enough money to buy dinner? I’m broke.”
You moved into a new apartment only a few weeks after leaving your house. It wasn’t much better than the previous place, but at least it was in a better part of town.
You quickly found out that living with Toji wasn’t bad at all. You both respected each other’s privacy and kept communication open to voice concerns about your living arrangement. When you had friends over, you made sure to keep out of Toji’s way, and he kept out of yours. However, he never brought people over– you suspected he didn’t have any friends other than you, but there were a few times you overheard him talking on the phone to someone named Shiu.
The bills were split equally, with you handing over your share to Toji, so he could pay them off with the landlord. At first, your friend insisted that he could cover the expenses, but you wouldn’t let that slide– you couldn’t just live with him and not contribute; this was a shared space.
You each had your own bedroom, which was sort of a moot point, as Toji so rarely slept in his room, often opting to crash on the couch when he’d come back from work instead. He usually stayed out all night and slept all day, and while that concerned you, you didn’t bring up what his job consisted of again– ignorance is bliss, and all that.
Well, as it turns out, ignorance is bliss until you’re forced to see first-hand the very thing you’d been turning a blind eye to.
You had left work early that day, not feeling the greatest after having just gotten over a cold. You attempted to tough it out since your job wasn’t really grueling at all– the little antique shop didn’t get that much business, which left you sitting at the counter, bored out of your mind as you worked through your puzzle book. But after listening to you sniffle and groan one too many times, your boss sent you home with strict orders to rest up.
With a headache pounding behind your eyes and a grumbling stomach that was practically begging for something warm, you relented. Miso soup, a bit of knitting, and a nap sounded heavenly. But when you stepped into your apartment, you quickly realized that a relaxing afternoon was not in store for you.
The first clue was the trail of red droplets staining your rug, leading you toward the kitchen. The next clue was the bloodied wrap and towels lying on the floor, and next, pieces from the first aid kit strewn across the counter, as if someone had messily searched for what they needed and left the mess behind.
You weren’t dumb. You knew what all of this was, what it meant, and who had caused it. And all of that was proved correct when you found him in the bathroom, standing and leaning back against the sink, shirt pulled up his torso and held secure in his mouth, as he sewed up the large, seeping gash in his abdomen.
Time froze for a moment.
You stared at him; he stared back. Both of you were equally as shocked as the other.
And then he opened his mouth, his shirt falling to cover the wound as he broke the silence to ask, “What are you doing here?”
“I– um…” You continued to stare at his torso, even if you couldn’t see the marred skin anymore. “Came home early. Wasn’t feeling well.” You raised a shaky hand, pointing at his abdomen. “What happened?”
“Just had a little accident. Nothing to worry about.”
Your bottom lip quivered from the stress. “Don’t lie to me.”
“Not lying, it’s really nothing.” The guilt on his face only worsened. “Please, don’t cry. I’m fine-”
“You’re bleeding.”
“It’s not as bad as it looks. I swear-”
Neither of you had realized you crossed the bathroom until you stood right in front of him, holding a tight hand over his mouth to make him shut up. His eyes widened, but he didn’t try to push you away. With your other hand, you pulled his shirt back up to inspect the wound.
“Wh-Who did that to you?” You removed your hand so he could answer, yet the most you got was a choked-back groan. “Answer me-”
“I don’t know. You think he gave me his name before he shoved a knife in my side?”
You felt tears roll down your cheeks when you blinked, which Toji wiped away with his knuckle, muttering, “It’s okay. Really.”
“It’s not-”
“It is,” he insisted, pulling his shirt out of your hand to cover the wound again. “Trust me. Please.”
Doing so was a mistake– you knew that.
But you couldn’t help it. You did trust him.
So, when he asked you to forget about it, when he told you that it wouldn’t happen again, you believed him.
You trusted his promise to you, knowing that it was empty.
You knew that it would happen again, but you also knew that when the next time came around, you wouldn’t be there to see it.
Toji would make sure of it.
“How’d you get that scar on your lip?” you asked him one evening after years of wanting to know its backstory. Originally, you thought it might be too personal, but with a few drinks in your system, the question came out easily.
Thankfully, Toji didn’t seem to mind it either. He nursed his nth beer bottle in one hand, the other resting behind you on the back of the couch as you both watched some stupid TV show you’d heard about from your friends. Without taking his eyes off the screen, he answered, “I tripped and fell. Smacked my face off the wall.”
“Mm. Seems pretty tame compared to the other scars on your body. I thought that one would be more… significant, you know?”
“Significant…” he mused, leaning forward to set his bottle on the coffee table, dragging back with him a new one. “I think you mean dramatic.”
You shrugged. “Maybe.”
As he twisted off the bottle cap, he chuckled. “Okay. What if I said that my family threw me into this special room? And that this room was filled with things that want to hurt you, but they’re invisible.”
“Like ghosts?”
“Mhm, like ghosts. And what if I said that these ghosts are how I got this scar? Would that be significant and dramatic enough for you?”
Your nose crinkled. “That would be too much, actually. Ghosts aren’t real. And your family sucks, but… they’re not that cruel, are they?”
He snorted. “You tell me. You stalked our backyard for years.”
“Yeah, but I never saw anyone get dragged into any haunted dungeon.”
“Right,” he mused, bringing the bottle to his lips. “A haunted dungeon isn’t very realistic. The walking into a wall thing makes way more sense.”
You squinted at him as if that would help decipher what he was trying to say. “You’re being weird tonight.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s fine.” You leaned into his side, soaking up the warmth.
Minutes later, his arm inched off the back of the couch to rest over your shoulders. When his arm dipped lower behind you, his hand splayed against your waist, you tried to pretend like it didn’t bother you much.
But the reality of it left you with heated cheeks and a heartbeat that was too fast to be normal.
It was only in this moment that you realized the feelings you harbored for your friend strayed far past platonic.
The revelation of your new feelings was nearly debilitating. No longer could you talk to Toji for longer than five minutes without stuttering over your words or blushing like an idiot. If he noticed, he never pointed it out– thankfully, and in turn, you never pointed out when he was flustered either, which happened more often than you’d think. It used to be over the little things, like a simple hug, an accidental touch of hands, or when he’d let you borrow his jacket because you were too stubborn to grab your own, even after he told you it was cold outside.
But things escalated, much like they always do.
You were running late that morning. All you needed was your work outfit, which you’d forgotten to grab from the dryer before taking your shower because again, you were running late, leaving you in a frazzled state. You did remember your underwear, though– lucky you.
Your washer and dryer unit occupied a small alcove in the hallway beside the bathroom. Depending on where you stood in the kitchen, you would be able to see down the same hallway.
With this knowledge in mind, you made sure to call Toji’s name before you stepped out of the bathroom, just to make sure he had enough time to cover his eyes.
When you received no response from him, you hurriedly rushed to the dryer, holding an arm to your bare chest for coverage. Bent at the waist, you filtered through the mess of dried clothes to find your outfit, freezing in place when you heard his sharp intake of air. You stood straight just in time to see him pulling his earbuds from his ears and turning around.
“Jesus,” Toji breathed, “Warn a guy next time.”
“I called your name.”
“Apparently not fucking loud enough since I just had to see your tits.”
“Oh, like that’s such a bother,” you scoffed, bending over to look for your clothes again.
“It is a bother. It’s going to bother me for the rest of the day now. Maybe even the rest of the week.”
“I had them covered with my hand!”
“Barely!”
You snorted, mumbling, “God, you act as if you’ve never seen boobs before.”
“I haven’t. Not in person anyway, and definitely not yours-”
“Wait.”
“What?”
You slammed the dryer door shut, clothing in your arms, and stood straight to face him, though he couldn’t see you with his back turned to you. “You’ve never seen boobs?”
“Not in person,” he reiterated tersely. “I mean, I used to have this magazine-”
“Stop. I don’t need to know that.”
“Okay, so…”
“Are you a virgin then?”
Redness crept up the back of his neck as he defensively said, “So are you.”
“How do you know?”
“Maybe because we’re from the middle of bumfuck nowhere, so unless you managed to screw one of my cousins without me knowing about it, you’re still a virgin, too.”
“I could’ve brought someone over here, you know? It’s not like you’re here during the night that much anyway. How would you have known?”
Toji’s shoulders tensed.
Suddenly, you didn’t feel like arguing anymore. It was stupid to begin with. Now, you were just poking the bear and wasting time when you’re already late for work.
Lowly, he asked, “Have you had someone over?”
“No. Not for that.”
“Good. Don’t. Ever.”
Your frowned. “Why not?”
“Because this is our apartment, meaning it’s my place just as much as it’s yours. How would you like it if I brought over a woman you didn’t know, and I didn’t run it past you first?”
“I don’t know.”
You hated the idea, actually. Loathed it, even.
“Okay, well, I do know that if I catch some man in here, it’s going to piss me off. So, just… just tell me, or something. I’ll make sure I’m not here, and you can let me know when he’s gone.”
“Or we could just-”
You cut yourself off before that word vomit could spew from your mouth. But the beginning part was already out there. Toji heard you.
“We could just, what?”
Fuck. We could just fuck. Each other. Together.
But you were smart enough to know why saying that would be idiotic.
“Nothing! I didn’t mean to say that! And I’m late for work! So, I have to finish getting ready!”
You trapped yourself in the bathroom after that, making sure that you heard Toji’s bedroom door shut before even thinking of leaving for work for the day. You had wasted an extra half hour in the bathroom, so by the time you made it to work, almost an hour late, to say your boss was less than enthused would be an understatement.
The realization of your crush on Toji, paired with the acknowledgement of just how attractive this man was, was a lethal combination for your sanity. You tried your best not to let it bother you, and for the most part, you had succeeded. But there were moments where you couldn’t help it– you would end up flustered beyond the normal amount, and having him watch you stutter your way through some half-assed explanation as to why you were suddenly going shy on him only made it worse.
Thankfully, he never picked on you for it– not excessively, at least. Most of the time, it was a subtle acknowledgement that he noticed you acting timid, and then he’d allow you to escape from the situation with the small bits of your dignity that you had left– a simple kindness, really. It was the least he could do, or so you thought.
However, there were times when your friend wasn’t feeling very merciful at all.
You had been sitting on the couch, knitting away with a blank mind, when you heard him call out your name from the hallway.
“Yeah?” you responded, not even looking up from your knitting needles.
“Remember that shirt I let you borrow last week?”
One of his work shirts that you had taken to sleep in that night. You were feeling bloated, and your tight pajamas weren’t the least bit comfortable.
“Uh huh.”
“And do you remember when I said not to dry it?”
Your hands went still as you thought back on the interaction you’d had with him a few days ago– did he tell you not to dry the shirt?
“Uhh-” You looked up when a shadow fell over you, wide eyes settling on Toji’s exposed abdomen, which the shirt– the very tight, very small shirt– didn’t cover. “Oh.”
“Yeah, oh,” he retorted. “You ruined it.”
“Ruined? I wouldn’t say that.” When you finally managed to drag your eyes up to his face, you were met with an amused look. It was only then that you realized your mistake– openly checking out your best friend. It brought a scorching heat to your face. “That’s not– I didn’t– what I meant– I just-”
No mercy wasn’t granted then.
Toji let you stutter it out, watching you nearly combust in front of him with a grin on his face.
You just barely managed to collect yourself enough to choke out, “It doesn’t look bad. Really. It’s… fine.”
“Just fine?” he pried for more, knowing you were too embarrassed to realize it for yourself.
“It’s good. Really good. Great, even.”
“Yeah?”
“Mhm. Yeah.” You swallowed thickly and forced your shaky hands to start knitting again.
“Well, if that’s the case, maybe I should just wear it to work then. Since it’s not as bad as I think it is.”
“Oh, you should. You definitely should.”
You pretended you didn’t hear his quiet laughter as he grabbed his zip-up hoodie from the front door. He slid on his shoes and grabbed his keys.
“I’ll be back later than usual. Probably after midnight.”
“Mhm. Okay.”
“You know who to call if you need me, right?”
“For sure.”
You heard his laughter one last time before he stepped out the door, closing it behind him. Once you were alone, you dropped your knitting needles and covered your face, letting the mortification creep in while muttering, “Oh, my god,” into your palms.
You weren’t the only one getting flustered in that apartment. Toji had his fair share of moments, too, and you ate each one up like it was candy.
Like the time you were cutting his hair and flashed your chest on accident.
Or the time when you were bent over in the kitchen, cleaning out one of the lower cabinets, and he happened to walk in behind you.
Or when the electricity in your apartment had cut out during winter, and you asked for cuddles to keep yourself warm.
All of these moments were innocent– mostly innocent, at least.
The only time it wasn’t completely innocent was the day you asked to kiss him.
It was out of the blue, a spur-of-the-moment type of deal– you were feeling impulsive and curious, and Toji was just there, oblivious to the thoughts going through your head as you approached him in the kitchen.
With a light tap on his shoulder, he briefly glanced back at you and smiled before returning to the task of restocking the first-aid kit– something that happened quite frequently.
“Need something?”
“Possibly.”
He hummed, “Well, if it’s a plain, boring bandage you’re looking for, I hate to disappoint.” He reached into the drug-store bag on the counter, pulling out a box of themed bandages. “They only had pink princess ones, so-”
“I don’t need a bandage.”
“Something from the cabinet then? Just gimme a second, and I’ll move out of your way-”
“Toji.”
Hearing your tone, he paused and then set down the first-aid items to turn and face you. When you stayed quiet, his brows raised in concern.
“What’s wrong?” he asked cautiously.
“Nothing’s wrong. Not yet, anyway. I suppose it depends on how you take this.” Your short explanation seemed to only concern him more. “I just… well, I wanted to talk to you about something. And if you’re not okay with it, that’s completely fine. I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable, or upset, or– or… ruin our friendship– I don’t want you to hate me, or think I’m weird, or crazy-”
“Did you do something bad?” he interjected, placing a hand on your shoulder. “If you did, it’s okay. Just tell me what happened, and I’ll take care of it.”
“Huh?”
“You look guilty. If you killed someone, just let me know where the body is, and I-”
“Toji, I– no! That’s not-!”
“Then you need someone taken care of? All I need to know is what they look like-”
“No! No one is dead, no one is dying!”
He raised his voice just a little to ask, “Then why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?!”
“Like you need me to do something for you. Whatever it is, I can get it done. You don’t have to be afraid to ask. I won’t be mad at you-”
“A kiss! I was going to ask for a kiss!”
There. It was out in the open for the universe to mock you for.
You wanted to kiss Toji.
And now he knew that you wanted to kiss him, too.
The silence that ensued was terrifying.
The bewildered eye contact might’ve been worse.
“I– um…” He laughed nervously. “What?”
You took it back. The silence and eye contact were the least of your worries.
“A kiss, Toji. You kiss me.” You pointed between yourself and him. “Unless you don’t want to-”
“Didn’t say that.”
“Well, you didn’t say much of anything, actually.” While you stood there, watching such a redness bloom over his cheeks, you sighed, “I’m only curious. I’m twenty and have no idea what it’s like.”
“And you think I do?”
“I– no? I guess not. Look, it doesn’t have to mean anything. If you’re saving it for someone else, that’s fine. Just say so. Or if you don’t want to do that with me, I understand. I just thought that since we’re friends, it would be easier to do it together. More comfortable and stuff.”
You watched his throat bob as he swallowed. “No, that uh– that makes sense. We should… do that.”
You smiled, trying your best to be as comforting as possible, but really, you were freaking out on the inside. You’re sure Toji was feeling the same, though he was less subtle about it than you were.
“Okay. Go on,” you prompted.
“Go on and do what?”
Your face slackened. “Kiss me, stupid.”
“S-Sure.”
You couldn’t remember the last time you heard him stutter– if he’s ever even done it before. You also pretended not to notice him not-so-subtly wipe his palms off on his pants.
To help, you took the initiative of wrapping your arms around his neck to reel him in closer, letting him almost stumble into you and place his hands on your waist to steady himself. You felt the tips of his fingers sink into your skin, and you swore you could see his heartbeat in his chest.
“You seem nervous,” you lilted, hoping to lighten the mood, but it didn’t. Not for Toji, anyway; he was still just staring at your mouth.
And then, “I have no idea what I’m doing.”
You snorted, “Really? I didn’t know.”
His green eyes flicked to yours. “It’s gonna be bad.”
You shrugged. “Probably, but I’m not expecting fireworks or anything, okay? If it’s the worst thing ever, then who cares? It’s not like there’s anyone here besides us, and I’m not going to judge you for a bad kiss. But if it’ll make you feel better, I can close my eyes.”
He nodded, entirely serious. “Okay. Do that.”
“I was joking, Toji.”
“I wasn’t.”
You giggled, “Fine. I’ll close them.”
You felt him lean in closer. You felt the lightest bit of breath brush over your face. You felt his hands tighten on your waist.
You felt his lips against your cheek.
With a small grin, unable to help yourself, you mumbled, “You needed me to close my eyes for that?”
And then you felt his lips press against your own.
It took you a moment to realize it for yourself, to process that this was it, you were kissing him. And once you came to terms with it, you kissed him back. Soft and slow, timid almost, like you were both too shy to push for something more.
But that was okay; this pace was perfect. As a matter of fact, the whole thing was perfect.
When you parted from one another, you forced your eyes to open and were lucky enough to witness the deepest blush known to man covering Toji’s face.
“Oh.” You stifled your laugh behind your hand. “Your cheeks are so red.”
“Shut up,” he groaned, tugging you forward with the hands on your hips, only to press his face into your shoulder.
“It’s okay,” you cooed condescendingly. “No need to be embarrassed.”
“You’re the worst.”
You sighed in content, leaning into him for a sloppy sort of hug. “It was a good kiss, though.”
“Really?”
“Really.” You smiled, though he couldn’t see it. “I liked it a lot.”
“Me, too,” he said quietly, voice muffled in your shoulder. Just barely, he leaned back to ask, “Can I– can we, um… do it again?”
You wrote it off as practice; it’s what kept your friendship intact, to make sure that the kisses, while intimate, would never damage what you already had together. And after a few months, you were certain your plan was flawless. A few pecks here and there– in the morning, before bed, random ones throughout the day if you were feeling confident enough; it was nothing crazy, but it was nice.
The kisses also seemed to be a gateway to be more… touchy-feely. Of course, the touches weren’t inappropriate in the slightest. Cuddling on the couch, leaning into his side in the checkout line at the supermarket, holding his hand as you walked around the block, it was all so innocent.
The kisses couldn’t change the fact that he was still your best friend.
They could, however, make you question why you two were still only friends after everything you’ve done together, but you didn’t like to think about that part very often.
You were sprawled out on the couch, legs resting over his thighs as you flipped through the channels. You’d been at it for ten minutes, and you’re sure Toji was getting tired of your indecisiveness. If you were being honest, so were you. With a sigh, you swung your legs off his lap and tossed the remote down beside him.
“You pick something while I’m gone.”
He clicked his tongue and grabbed your arms as you passed him. “Where are you going?”
“I gotta pee. Let go.”
And he did let go.
Right after tugging you back down onto the couch just to be annoying.
“Ass,” you cursed without any real heat, getting up once more and only making it as far as you did last time before he pulled you back again. This time, he brought you down for a kiss, a quick one.
“I can pick whatever I want?” he asked so nicely, sliding his grip on your arm down to your hand.
It caught you off guard– the sweetness of it.
“Huh?”
“On TV,” he amended, moving your hand, pressing the tips of his fingers to yours.
“Yeah. Sure. Whatever you want.”
“Really?”
He traced the tip of his finger up the inside of your wrist while waiting for your answer.
“Really.”
The look in his eyes when you said that turned into something smug, knocking you out of your stupor.
You realized your mistake then.
“Wait, no. It’s Saturday.”
“It is Saturday.” Toji grinned and let go of you completely to grab the remote. “Which means the horse races are on all day-”
“No!” you protested, launching over him to grab the remote, forgetting entirely about your full bladder. “Horse racing is sooo boring!”
“Come on now, it’s so cool.”
You writhed in his lap, fighting for the remote that was always just out of reach. “You don’t even bet on them! What’s the point?!”
“I bet on them. Mentally.”
“Oh, my god, you’re twenty-one. Stop acting like such an old man-”
His movements were always too fast for you. There was no way for you to get the remote out of his hands unless you caught him off guard, which you had learned wasn’t that difficult.
With a hand on his jaw, you angled his face enough to lean forward and kiss him. You didn’t wait to slip your tongue into his mouth the first chance you had, knowing that would only throw him off even more. And your plan worked well.
Seconds after you kissed him, he was kissing you back, pulling on your waist to situate you over his lap. You let him think you had no other intentions with the kiss, allowing him to slide his hand to your hip and squeeze just enough to feel it. Though he still held onto that remote with his other hand.
Feeling a bit daring, and maybe curious, too, you rolled your hips forward against his slowly. His mouth went just the slightest bit slack on yours, and he groaned when you moved against him again.
From beside you, you heard the remote hit the couch cushion, followed by his hand settling on your hip, sliding down to guide you to move again. You felt him getting hard between your legs– this was nothing new for you. There were many times when you were simply kissing that you accidentally brushed against it.
This, however, was intentional.
You let him do it again and again until you were sure he was so caught up in you that he forgot about the horse races completely. Once you were certain he was distracted, you pulled back, grabbed the remote, and slid off his lap to stand in front of him.
“No,” he whined, leaning his head back and covering his face with both hands. “That’s not fair.”
“Life’s not fair. Especially when your best friend was going to subject you to horse racing torture.”
“It’s interesting! And you promised!”
You clicked your tongue and tossed the remote into his lap. “Fine. But my favorite show comes on at two, and we’re watching it. Got it?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He picked up the remote and started flipping through the channels.
You gave the top of his head a few pats.
“Good boy.”
As you made your way to the bathroom, you didn’t notice the way his face warmed at those two words.
The kissing was good. It was great, even.
But it wasn’t satiating that urge, which left you outrageously horny.
It usually wasn’t an issue. Toji wasn’t there most nights, so you were free to do whatever you needed to without the fear of being overheard.
Unfortunately, it seemed that Toji’s job– whatever that was– didn’t require him at the moment, which meant he'd been there for three days and three nights, giving you no time at all to get the job done yourself. And to top it off, PMS was kicking your ass with the cramps, so there were no orgasms to help with that, nor did you have your heating pad because it finally kicked the bucket.
“I can go get you more pain relievers. It wouldn’t take that long,” Toji offered from the threshold of your room. He had come to check on you after you disappeared just before dinner, finding you on your bed, curled up on your side to hold your stomach.
“It’s fine. They aren’t the worst. They’re just making me tired and nauseous.”
“Is there anything else I can do?”
“Mm, you can lie down with me. We can take a nap.”
He exhaled a laugh. “Alright.”
Cuddling on the couch wasn’t a new concept. Lying down in a bed together definitely was.
He didn’t even get underneath the blanket, and made sure he kept a couple of inches of distance between you to maintain some friendly boundary. But boundaries be damned– consensually, of course.
“You can come closer if you want to,” you said, looking back at him to see that he was staring at the ceiling, his hands folded on his stomach. “You know I don’t bite.”
“Just… trying to be respectful,” he defended lightly, moving closer until his shoulder brushed your back.
“I appreciate that, but come closer. Like how we do it on the couch.” It took a moment, but you finally felt the bed shift behind you, and then his hand was sliding over your waist, pulling your back to his chest. You let out a sigh, wriggling back to get even closer. “This is nice.”
“Mm, it is.”
His thumb stroked your waist, right at the bottom hem of your shirt. The sound of his breathing was light, comforting in a way. Had your guts not been trying to rip your insides apart with cramps, you almost could have enjoyed the moment.
When you sucked in a breath on a particularly sharp cramp, the tips of his fingers dug just a bit deeper into your side, a show of his concern.
It was cute. You appreciated it.
But you wanted more.
Taking his hand, you guided it to your lower abdomen, letting it slip under your shirt to settle on your skin.
“Can you hold me right there? Is that okay?”
His face leaned into your shoulder, warm cheek pressed to your neck. “If it helps you, I don’t mind.”
“Thank you.”
Rather than replying verbally, he pressed a kiss to your shoulder.
And that contact was great.
For all of five minutes before your hips twitched, arousal was building between your legs, and all from a simple, innocent touch.
You squeezed your thighs together, squirming a bit in search of friction. If only you could slip your hand between your legs to grind against your fist, you’d be fine.
But Toji would definitely notice that.
You tried to keep the squirming to a minimum; you didn’t want him to take his hand away.
“I know you don’t mean it,” Toji finally choked out, trailing off as your writhing slackened. “You’re moving around...”
“S-Sorry, it’s just…” With no excuse, you added, “Sorry.”
“S’okay,” he mumbled, probably growing tired in the warm, dim room, just like you were. “It’s just frustrating for me, too.”
“Sorry,” you said again, and stopped moving.
That is, until another cramp had you tensing up, and that hand on your lower stomach smoothed over your skin, just barely dipping into the waistband on your shorts before settling in the right spot again. You couldn’t help it; your thighs squeezed, and you squirmed.
“Baby-”
“I-” You swallowed down the whine building in the back of your throat before reaching back for his cock. He jerked at the feeling, thrusting toward you with a choked groan. Slowly, you tilted your hips back, pressing against him before cautiously asking, “Can we? Just this once?”
You couldn’t see his face, but you knew it had to be beet red. But teasing him about his inexperience wasn’t what you wanted to do at that moment. What you wanted was to get off, to stop the cramps for at least a little while, and to sleep.
A tired, nervous chuckle vibrated against your shoulder blade as he pulled his hand away, tilting his hips away from you. “Um, I don’t know how to do… that-”
You drew back, the sting of rejection prickling all over. “Sorry. You’re right, that’s a lot-”
“Don’t be sorry. I want to help, but I don’t know what I’m doing, and I don’t… want to screw it up.”
“O-Okay.”
Awkward silence gathered quickly in the room.
“Can we try something else?” he asked quietly, reaching out for you again.
You frowned. “What do you mean?”
His hand trailed out from behind your legs, moving to your hip to give it a gentle nudge– not to push you away, just to tilt them in a way that he had more access to your ass. He grabbed the waistband of your shorts, stopping to ask, “Can I take these off?”
You swallowed thickly, still feeling confused, but you nodded anyway. Toji helped you out of them, tossing the pair aside and situating you again. You were nearly lying on your stomach, but with your hips still propped on your side. You grabbed your pillow, pressing your face into it to hide your embarrassment– you’d never been this bare in front of anyone, let alone Toji.
And he was still right behind you, holding himself up on his side while running his other hand up and down your bare thigh. His touch disappeared for a moment before coming back with two wet fingers swiping up and down your slit. You tensed, gasping quietly as he leaned his forehead onto your shoulder, groaning under his breath, “fuck me.”
“T-Toji.”
“Can I?” He traced his fingers over your entrance. “Right here?”
“Please,” you begged, “please, please, please-” He started with one, pressing inside before drawing back out to add the second, reaching so much deeper than your fingers ever would. With a whine, you brought one of your hands between your legs to play with your clit, circling it slowly to match the pace of his fingers. “Yes, fuck…”
You felt his heavy breaths against your shoulder; he was getting himself worked up, too, despite receiving not a single touch in return. He wasn’t even grinding against you, but just the sounds he was making clued you in that he was feeling good, too.
It was cute how easily you affected him, but this didn’t occur to you in the moment.
You arched your back just enough to prop your ass up more, taking his fingers in an angle that was just a bit deeper. The movement must’ve flared a little insecurity in him because he stopped to ask, “Is this okay?”
You barely managed a nod and slurred into the pillow, “M-Mhm. S’good, Toji.”
He hummed, pleased with your response, and lowered his face to your neck again.
After so long in your position, your hand began to cramp, but with you being so desperate for an orgasm, you needed something more.
“Can you talk to me?”
“Um, about what?”
“I-I don’t know.” You swallowed thickly, suddenly very self-aware of your predicament and really nervous about it. “Anything. Your voice. It sounds nice.”
You heard him groan behind you, felt his exhale brush over your shoulder, creating goosebumps in its path. And then, against your skin, he mumbled something that you couldn’t hear.
“What?” Your fingers on your clit slowed.
He anxiously laughed, and then a little louder, repeated, “Can’t talk– I mean, I shouldn’t…”
Your brows furrowed, confusion sinking in. “What do you-”
“I just… I don’t know what I would say– sorry-”
You smiled into the pillow. “It’s okay. Can you kiss me instead?” And then to specify, “My neck. It’s sensitive. Feels nice.”
Toji followed through with your request, pressing his lips to the side of your throat, gently sucking and nipping his way to just below your ear. Your limbs softened, insides going gooey.
The second you really started sinking into the moment, your pussy tightening around his fingers, pressing your ass back into his hand for more, you felt his shuddering breath on your neck and then his teeth sinking in just a bit deeper than before. You tensed, whimpering out a soft sound, clenching your thighs together when it stirred up butterflies.
Having obviously felt it, Toji snickered quietly and jokingly muttered over the bite, “Freak.”
You couldn’t help it– his voice, his breath hitting the wet indents his teeth left behind– you moaned, clenching around his fingers once again. As if realizing just the effect his voice had on you, the playfulness in him receded with a whispering, “Oh.”
“Oh?” you shakily questioned.
“You just…” He pulled his fingers out just enough to thrust them back in, which was a different feeling entirely than the gentle internal petting he had been doing.
You sucked your bottom lip into your mouth, taking it between your teeth when he did it again, and then again. The sound of your arousal wasn’t very subtle– Toji practically stopped breathing when he pressed them inside again, listening to the slick noise.
He groaned and moved his hand quicker, just to hear how wet you were.
You weren’t sure if he knew what he was doing, other than mapping you out and learning from the moment, but his innocent exploration of your body was getting you off.
Quickly. Very quickly.
You arched into it, pressing your ass up to take his fingers, while you angled your face into the pillow. Maybe it was to hide or to stifle any sounds that would knock him out of the moment.
Or maybe it was to save yourself from spontaneously combusting– because, holy shit, your best friend was fingering the fuck out of you and it felt otherworldly, but also, holy shit, this was Toji, your best friend.
“So fucking wet,” he breathed, “Feels so good, baby. You feel amazing.”
Your eyes widened, and you froze, because, again, this was your best friend. Your best friend, who now knows what your wet pussy feels like. Your best friend who thinks you feel amazing inside.
“T-Toji,” you stammered, using both hands to grab at the bedding.
He seemed to realize the situation for himself, too, and immediately pulled his hand away from you, apologies instantly falling from his lips.
“S-Sorry, I didn’t-” During his rambling, you flipped onto your back to face him. The abrupt movement and close, face-to-face proximity had him reeling back, but before he got too far, you fisted the front of his shirt to drag him back. He winced away from you, as if you might hit him. “That was too far, I know-”
“Toji-”
“M’sorry. I won’t say those things again-”
To make him shut up, you kissed him. Hard.
He gasped and hesitantly kissed you back for all of two seconds before you pulled away just enough to speak. Your tongue traced over your bottom lip, swiping up your combined saliva. He followed the action with his eyes, nearly panting.
“You didn’t have to stop.”
His lips parted to take in a breath, his brows furrowed in confusion, and he looked at you as though you were speaking a different language. “What?”
Rather than saying anything else, you gently guided his hand back down between your legs. You even pressed his two middle fingers to your entrance, just barely pushing the tips of them inside. Still, he didn’t move– even if your gesture was an obvious invitation.
“Toji,” you began, bucking up into his hand. “I want you to keep going.”
You couldn’t blame him for his hesitation– he was just as new at this as you were; he was just as scared to fuck up, too. But in this moment, the only thing that could ruin anything was if he pulled away and didn’t finish what he started.
You leaned in, tracing your lips over his own, hoping he’d just kiss you.
“Please, Toji.”
The redness on his cheeks flared, but rather than succumbing to his nervousness, he endured it. Without the kiss, he pressed his fingers inside, watching your face with widened pupils as if searching for anything that would tell him to stop. But he could search for as long as he wanted; he’d never find anything on your face that said you didn’t want this.
“Yes,” you cooed, dragging your fingers through his hair. “Just like before– it was good. You were doing so well.”
It took only a few pumps of his fingers inside of you before the heat of the moment caught back up to both of you. With you practically panting against his mouth, he groaned and finally– finally– kissed you again.
The angle of his fingers, with you now on your back, was so much better than before; the curl of them now inching so close to something new, something you’d never felt on yourself. And all it took was you spreading your legs just a bit more for him to find it.
All at once, you tensed up, gripping his hair tighter, moaning loudly into his mouth.
“Again,” you keened, “do that again.”
He listened without hesitation, pressing right into that spot– pressing right into it every single time.
You broke away from his mouth with a sharp gasp and propped yourself up on your elbows to watch his hand between your legs. The way his forearm flexed, the way his palm was glistening with your arousal, the way he was watching it happen with you–
“Fuck, Toji. T-That feels so f-fucking good.”
“Does it, baby?”
And the way he said that– it wasn’t insecure, it wasn’t hesitant or apprehensive. It was sarcastic, borderline condescending, but in the best way possible. It was confident, smug, like he knew he was making you feel good, and fuck, he really was.
You dragged your hand down between your legs, rubbing your fingers over your clit, and that combination was so mind-numbingly good.
The realization that you were going to come– that Toji was about to make you come on his fingers– was jarring, but at the same time, it’s like this was what you had been waiting for for so long.
“So tight,” he murmured, more so to himself than you, but you heard it. And then he asked, “Are you close?”
“M-Mhm. Please, please-”
“Please?” You felt his grin against your neck. “I should be saying that to you; show me, please.”
You were practically writhing, right there at the edge, and despite that, you brokenly giggled, “You wanna see me come?”
“God, yes.” You felt his hips shift toward you, wishing desperately to grind against your thigh, but unable to reach you. “Fuck, please show me. Please.”
Your head tilted back lazily, letting you take in more air for those gasps and cries and whines that you couldn’t help.
When your breathing turned into short, quick pants, and your thighs started to twitch, hips bucking for more, eyes daring to roll back in your skull, finally, your orgasm washed over you, brutally good and unrelenting. You clamped down around his fingers, thighs closing shut on his hand and your own as you rode out the blissful feeling.
Somewhere in that moment, you pulled Toji in, eagerly slotting your mouth right over his, and he responded just the same, kissing you hard until the orgasm faded, leaving behind only the residual beads of dopamine and oxytocin that flooded your brain. Your legs parted, and you drew your hand back, using it to hold onto his shoulders to keep him anchored at your side.
His lips slowed, but the heat never wavered; the tension was still there. When you broke for air, he moved the tentative kisses down your jaw to your neck, gently fingering you in slow strokes to coax you back down from the high.
You panted, squinting and blinking in the dim room, thinking nothing but holy shit, you just did that. And then you felt his hips shift beside you, a subtle and probably subconscious grind of his cock against the inside of his pants to ease the tightness.
“Thank you,” you whispered to him, all while staring at the bulge in his pants.
“Mm,” he hummed over your pulse, soaking up his own dose of endorphins– the oxytocin he was definitely drowning in from just being this close to you. You wondered if he somehow felt high just like you, even without the orgasm.
And speaking of his lack of orgasm.
You pulled him over you, which was surprisingly easy given how pliant he was. Thankfully, his bones were entirely made of jelly, so he still kept himself from crushing you. He pulled his fingers from between your legs, pressing that hand into the bed to hold himself up. While guiding his mouth back to your own, you trailed a hand down his torso to tug at his waistband.
Instantly, he tensed and grabbed your wrist, pulling it away. He parted from your lips to ask, “What are you doing?”
“You’re hard.”
You weren’t sure if he assumed you just hadn’t noticed, like he hadn’t been rutting it against you the whole time, but he flushed at your words.
“Sorry.”
You grinned. “Don’t be sorry. Just… can I return the favor?”
His eyes widened. “Oh. You don’t have to-”
“Toji,” you huffed, a borderline scold, “I want to. If you’ll let me.”
After everything that just transpired, he still hesitated in his answer. “Okay. Yeah. If you want, just…”
While waiting for him to finish, you brought your hand back down to his waistband, but before slipping inside, you prompted, “Just, what?”
“Uh… just don’t expect me to last that long.” You held a straight face for as long as you could before you broke out into a series of giggles, earning his groan. “It’s not funny.”
“Hm.” You kissed him once, leaning back just enough to mumble, “It’s a little funny,” before kissing him again.
You hooked your thumbs into the waistband of his pants, slowly pushing them down, along with his boxers, until his cock sprang free. It dipped low with its weight, tapping your stomach. You pulled back from his mouth to look between your bodies at him, which he let you do for all of five seconds before he pressed you down, blocking your view of his cock.
“Don’t stare.”
“I just wanted to see really quickly.” Your lips twisted, holding back a grin. You reached down to wrap your hand around him. “You’re pretty big.”
His pupils dilated more as he sputtered for a response to that, but you didn’t give him the chance to form words before you stroked the entire length of him. And when he finally found something to say, it was a groaning, “God– yes,” as he leaned his face into the crook of your neck.
You bit back a smile. “Is this good?”
“Mhmm.”
“Good enough to make you come?”
He chuckled, then rasped, “Fuck, you could probably make me come by just breathing on it.”
You snorted. “That easy, huh?”
“You have no idea, baby.”
You knew you had to be doing something right because the precum dripping from his tip coated your hand; it was plenty to keep the friction to a minimum.
He pressed a hand to your waist, just to slide over your skin, squeezing at the soft curve of your hip. It slipped underneath your shirt, trailing up the side of your ribs, stopping right at the swell of your breast before retreating. You only let him do it once more before slowing your hand on his cock and asking, “Do you want to see them?”
“Hm?” He raised up from your neck. You pulled your shirt up to your chin, letting him get a look at your bare chest. “O-Oh.” His cock twitched in your hand, so you started stroking him again, just to hear another, softer, “o-oh…”
It was cute.
“You can–uh… touch them. If you want. Just be easy; they’re sore. You know, ‘cause of PMS and stuff–” The man gave you no time to process it; quicker than you could fathom a human being ever moving, he had moved down your body and taken one of your nipples into his mouth, making you gasp out in surprise. “O-Okay, yeah. That’s… good.”
You couldn’t reach his cock anymore, but apparently, you didn’t need to. With one hand between his own legs, he started jerking himself off while mouthing at your tits.
Unsure of what to do with your hands, you propped yourself up on one elbow and carded your fingers through his hair, gently pulling on the strands to bring him closer. His eyes closed, and he exhaled a shaky moan, clearly getting off on the hair-playing. “Fuck,” he cursed when he pulled back, only to switch to the other.
When he accidentally sucked just a bit too hard, you jerked beneath him, giving his hair a harsh pull, and scolding, “Easy.”
And Toji faltered, looking up at you, eyes laden with so much lust. He listened, slackening his tongue to soft, wet caresses, but still watching your face to make sure what he was doing was okay.
To spare him the worry, you smiled, nodding and brushing your fingers through the hair that hung over his forehead. “Good, Toji. Much better.”
His eyes widened just a bit, cheeks flushing red, his movements slowing for only a moment before he abruptly pulled back. He looked down at himself, stroking his cock faster, breathing harder. The hand he was holding himself up with fisted the bedding so hard, you almost wondered if he could rip it that way.
And then you felt it, hot ropes of cum hitting your bare stomach, pooling over your abdomen. He groaned, a guttural sound, something so sexy and primal that it had arousal flaring between your legs again. As his hand started to stop, you noticed the tension in his shoulders, which were barely moving as he breathed.
Before he could start to overthink– because you knew that was bound to happen with him– you placed both your hands on the sides of his face and forced him to look at you.
There was the usual flush to his cheeks, and his eyes were still blown wide, but there was a new lax look to his features that you really liked. You thumbed at his swollen lip, feeling yourself smile as you asked, “You okay?”
His breathing stopped when his eyes flicked to your mouth. And then, he snapped out of it, clearing his throat. “Yeah. M’good.”
“You sure?”
He nodded and pressed forward, claiming your mouth once more. During the series of kisses, when both of you were still coming down, trying to get comfortable, you felt his hand slide through the cooling cum on your stomach, making him reel back.
“Shit. Sorry.” He was already pulling himself off the bed, tugging up his pants. “I’ll go get something-”
“Don’t bother,” you quipped, pulling your shirt off over your head. You messily wiped off your stomach before tossing it away. “Now, get back here. We’re supposed to be napping.”
He gaped at you, mouth wide open. Toji was quick to point out the obvious. “You’re naked.”
“Yes. But is it anything you haven’t already seen and/or jizzed on? No. So, get into bed.”
His nose crinkled. “Don’t say jizz.”
“Toji.”
He relented then. “Fine.”
author's note: First, I want to thank everyone who sent me messages and asks during my break-- you all are so sweet. There were quite a few, so I won't respond to each one, but just know I truly appreciated them <3!
Second, there was supposed to be a part two to this, but I don't know that I'll get around to writing it, nor do I think that anyone would want to read it anyway. It's canon compliant, so... we know how that ends. But if I cut it off right here, no one has to be sad, and it's a happy ending :)
And third, updating of any kind will be kinda slow for me right now as I work on other projects, so I really appreciate your patience. It means the world to me <3!! If you're interested in the other things I'm working on, they're on my ao3-- they are not x reader fics, but they are JJK, so please keep that in mind :)
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