‎

[faeloresha]

. ౿ FAELORESHA ─.✦

╰─ 8teen . s/her . P!NK ╭₊˚๑

brown on brown, with hair that

☁️₊˚੭ falls in quiet waves.

GOJO'S PARTNER | HIGURUMA'S CRIME ୨୧₊˚

» 0.01 masterlist 𑣲⋆｡˚

˚⟡˖ ࣪ » 0.02 playlist 𓏵ㅤ﹔ ㅤ｡ㅤ｡

(つ﹏<)･ﾟ｡ » 0.03 ae thoughts

© 2026 faeloresha. All content is owned by @faeloresha. Do not repost, edit, translate, or copy in any form across any platform.

[faeloresha]

Pagsinta (Passion)

╰─ Higuruma Hiromi x f!reader

After a long week of court cases and negotiations, Hiromi returns to your shared Manila apartment seeking solace in your arms. What begins as tender lovemaking quickly escalates into raw, desperate passion as the normally composed lawyer lets his guard down, revealing the hungry, primal man beneath the suit.

content: Explicit sexual content (smut), strong language, dirty talk, missionary, oral sex (female receiving), clitoral play, light breath play/choking, established relationship, Filipino characters, code-switching to Tagalog during sex.

word count: 1,423

song: So Bad by GRA The Great

masterlist ୧₊˚ playlist

The ceiling fan spun lazy circles above your bed, its steady whirring the only sound breaking the humid Manila night air.

You lied on your back, thighs spread, watching Hiromi shrugged off his wrinkled button-down with deliberate slowness. The lamplight caught the sheen of sweat on his chest—he had barely made it through the door before his mouth was on yours, tasting of coffee and the faint bitterness of a long day.

“You have no idea,” he murmured against your throat, voice rough, “how many times I thought about this today.”

His weight settled over you, familiar and grounding.

The mattress dipped beneath his knees as he positioned himself between your legs, forearms caging your head against the pillow. His eyes—those calculating eyes that could dismantle a witness on the stand—were dark now, pupils blown wide, stripped of all pretense.

“I miss your taste, baby,” he said, and it wasn't a question.

Before you could respond, he was already sinking down, mouth trailing hot kisses down your sternum, over your belly, pausing to nip at your hip bone hard enough to make you gasp. His fingers hooked into the waistband of your underwear and pulled, dragging the fabric down your thighs with agonizing care.

“Lift,” he commanded, and you obeyed.

The air hit your exposed skin, raising goosebumps that had nothing to do with temperature. Hiromi settled on his stomach between your legs, breath ghosting over your wet folds, and for a moment he just looked. His thumb traced a feather-light line through your slit, collecting the moisture, bringing it to his lips.

“Fuck,” he breathed, the word almost reverent. “You're already soaked for me, hm?”

Then his mouth was on you.

The first stroke of his tongue was broad and flat, dragging from your entrance to your clit with deliberate pressure that made your hips buck.

“Baby...”

He laughed against you, a low, vibrating sound that sent sparks through your nerves. One hand pressed down on your lower belly, pinning you to the mattress, while the other slid beneath you to grip the curve of your ass, pulling you closer, deeper into his mouth.

“Shit, ang sarap mo—”

His words dissolved into nonsense as he dove back in, lips sealing around your clit, sucking hard enough to make you cry out.

“Ahm... Hiromi!”

The switch between languages happened without thought, a sign of how far gone he was. The measured, articulate lawyer was gone; in his place was a man driven by hunger.

“Hiromi—”

You threaded your fingers through his disheveled hair, tugging, and he groaned against you, the vibration pushing you closer to the edge.

“Don't,” he pulled back just long enough to command, chin glistening, “don't hold back. I want to hear you. I want to feel you come on my tongue.”

He worked you with methodical precision that betrayed his profession—every lick, every suck, every circle of his tongue was deliberate, calculated for maximum effect. Two fingers slid inside you without warning, crooking to find that spongy spot on your front wall, and you saw stars.

“Fuck...” you gasped, echoing his favorite curse, and he laughed against your thigh.

He pressed his thumb against your clit, rubbing tight circles while his tongue lapped at your entrance, and the combination was too much. Your orgasm crested suddenly, a wave that crashed through you without warning, and you felt yourself clench around his fingers, hearing yourself moaning his name like a prayer.

“Ohh... Hiromi—baby...”

He worked you through it, gentle now, until your hips stopped twitching and your breathing evened out. When he surfaced, his mouth and chin were slick, and he wiped them on the back of his hand before crawling up to meet your eyes.

“Gusto mo pa?” (Do you want more?) he asked and the question was a dare.

You answered by pulling him into a kiss that tasted of yourself, salty and sharp. He groaned into your mouth as you reached between your bodies, wrapping your hand around his cock. He was hard, leaking, the tip slick with pre-cum, and the sound he made when you squeezed was something between a moan and a curse.

“Yes, please,” you whispered against his lips.

He didn't need to be told twice.

He positioned himself at your entrance, teasing, rubbing the head through your folds until you were trembling with anticipation. Then he pushed in—slow, inch by inch, giving you time to adjust to his thickness. Your walls stretched around him, welcoming, and when he was fully sheathed inside you, he paused, forehead pressed to yours, sharing breath.

“Damn...” he shuddered. “You feel—shit—good.”

He began to move.

The first few strokes were languid, deep, meant to savor. His hips rolled against yours, grinding, finding a rhythm that had your toes curling. But soon, the pace shifted. Need took over, and he was fucking you in earnest, each thrust driving him deeper, harder, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the room.

“Ohh—yes... Ngh...”

“Oh, fuck...”

You wrapped your legs around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, pulling him impossibly closer. His hand found your clit again, fingers slippery with your arousal, rubbing in time with his thrusts.

“Look at me,” he demanded, and you obeyed.

His eyes were wild, pupils blown, a sheen of sweat on his brow. The controlled facade he wore like armor was completely shattered. This was Hiromi raw, Hiromi undone, a man drowning in pleasure and desperate to drown you with him.

“Ang ganda mo,” (You're beautiful) he whispered, and the sincerity in his voice made your chest ache.

He shifted his weight, one hand leaving your hip to wrap gently around your throat. Not squeezing—not yet—just resting there, a reminder of his presence. His thumb traced the line of your jaw as he continued to thrust, the pressure of his palm against your windpipe a constant, grounding weight.

“Tell me...” he breathed. “Tell me what you want, baby.”

“Don't stop... Mhm...” you managed. “Please—don't stop.”

He rewarded you with a harder pace, driving into you with renewed urgency. The hand on your throat tightened fractionally—just enough to make your vision swim, just enough to make the pleasure sharper, edged with danger.

“Ahh... Ahm...”

“Close...” he groaned, and you could feel it too—the coiling tension in your belly, the way your inner walls began to flutter around him. “Cum for me. Fuck—sabay, baby—" (Together, baby).

His thumb pressed harder on your clit, rubbing frantic circles, and that was all you needed. The orgasm hit you like a freight train, stealing your breath, making you arch off the mattress. You felt yourself clench around him, felt his rhythm stutter, felt the precise moment he lost control.

“Yes... Ohh, yes... Baby...”

“Tangina—” (Fuck) he cursed, voice breaking, “shit—shit—”

He buried himself deep, hips pressed flush against yours, and you felt the hot pulse of his release filling you. Wave after wave, he spilled into you, his body shaking, his face buried in your neck as he rode out the aftershocks.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

The ceiling fan still spun.

The night air still clung to your skin. But the world had shifted on its axis, and you lay in the aftermath, tangled in each other, breathing as one.

Hiromi pulled out slowly, carefully, and you felt his cum leaking from you, warm and wet against your thighs. He flopped onto his back beside you, one arm thrown over his eyes, chest heaving.

“Fuck,” he said, and the word was an entire sentence.

You laughed, weak and breathless. “That's good?”

He turned his head to look at you, and despite the sweat and the mess and the wild hair, he was beautiful. A slow grin spread across his face, the first real smile you'd seen from him all day.

“Mhm,” he said, reaching for you, pulling you against his side. “That was good.”

You pressed a kiss to his shoulder, tasting salt. His hand traced lazy patterns on your back, and you felt the tension drain from his body, the sharp edges of the day finally softened.

You settled your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow. Outside, Manila hummed with its perpetual night life, but in this room, at this moment, there were only the two of you.

“I want to take you again, so bad.”

© 2026 faeloresha. All content is owned by @faeloresha. Do not repost, edit, translate, or copy in any form across any platform.

A/N: idk if it is good.. pls bear with it..

[faeloresha]

The Echo of Six Eyes

╰─ Gojo Satoru x f!reader

In the devastating aftermath of Shinjuku, the world mourns the fall of its powerful protector. But for you, Gojo Satoru wasn't an invincible deity—he was your husband. Left alone in a quiet, hollow home, you must navigate the suffocating weight of grief while carrying the final, living piece of his legacy: a child who inherits the very features that made him the strongest.

content: SPOILER ALERT ! Heavy angst, grief themes, depression, mourning after character death, canon-typical character death referenced (Gojo Satoru vs. Ryomen Sukuna), pregnancy, and impending childbirth. SPOILER ALERT !

word count: 2,099

song: Mr. Loverman by Ricky Montgomery

masterlist ୧₊˚ playlist

The world did not end with a bang.

It ended with a quiet, polite knock on the engawa.

Ijichi stood there, his shadow long and warped against the paper screen by the setting afternoon sun. He didn't look at you. His eyes were glued to the polished wooden floorboards, his shoulders trembling so violently that the clipboard in his hand rattled like dry bones.

He didn't need to speak.

The silence that filled the sprawling Gojo estate was thick enough to suffocate.

“Where is he?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

It sounded small, fragile, entirely out of place in the grand house that Satoru had insisted on buying for the two of you—a place far enough from Jujutsu High to pretend, even for just a few hours a week, that you were normal.

“The Shinjuku battle...” Ijichi’s voice cracked, a devastating, ragged sound. “The reversal technique... it wasn't enough. Shoko is... Shoko is doing everything she can to preserve what's left, but...”

He broke down entirely then, burying his face in his hands.

You didn't cry.

Not then.

You simply stood frozen, your hands automatically dropping to rest against the heavy, round swell of your stomach. Beneath the fabric of your sweater, a gentle, rhythmic flutter responded to your touch.

A kick.

A sign of life in a world that had just been drained of its brightest light.

The Strongest.

That was the title they gave him. A curse disguised as a crown. To the jujutsu world, Gojo Satoru was an insurance policy, a weapon, a ceiling that kept the monsters from breaking through. To the higher-ups, he was an annoyance; to his students, an eccentric but invincible wall.

But to you, he was just Satoru.

He was the man who left sticky fingerpricks of sugar on the kitchen counters because he couldn't eat pastry without making a mess. He was the man who would complain like a dramatic child about a minor scratch from a low-grade curse, demanding your undivided attention and a kiss to “make it heal faster,” only to smile brilliantly when you saw right through him. He was the man who, on the night before he left for Shinjuku, lay his heavy head directly on your lap, pressing his warm cheek against your pregnant belly, whispering ridiculous secrets to the unborn child about how they were going to trick Megumi together.

“I’ll be back before the cravings hit again,” he had laughed, his brilliant blue eyes crinkling at the corners as he kissed your forehead. “I promise.”

Satoru had never broken a promise to you.

Until now.

The weeks that followed were a blur of gray.

The funeral was a hollow, heavily guarded affair. The higher-ups wanted a political statement; the students wanted a chance to mourn their mentor. You sat through it like a ghost, wrapped in a black mourning kimono that felt heavier than lead. People offered their condolences—Yuji looked hollowed out, his eyes red and raw; Megumi was silent, carrying a quiet, crushing guilt; and Shoko simply smoked one cigarette after another, her hands shaking for the first time in her career.

They all looked at you with a mixture of profound pity and desperate, lingering hope. Because everyone knew. Everyone could feel the faint, spark-like residual energy radiating from within you.

When it was over, you locked the gates of the estate.

You refused the guards the clan tried to send.

You refused the well-meaning visits from the students.

You needed the silence, even if it was killing you.

Every corner of the house held a ghost.

In the kitchen, the mug he bought you—the one with a ridiculous, badly drawn cat on it—sat untouched in the cupboard. In the living room, the oversized sofa still bore the indentation of where he used to stretch out, draping his long legs over your lap while he played games on his phone.

The worst part was the bed.

It was too big now.

Every night, you curled into a ball on his side of the mattress, burying your face in the pillows, desperately trying to inhale whatever faint scent of him remained. A trace of expensive cologne, sweet vanilla, and that distinct, clean ozone smell that always accompanied his Infinity.

But scents fade.

Within a month, the pillows just smelled like laundry detergent and your own tears.

“You liar,” you whispered into the dark, your voice cracking as the grief caught in your throat, squeezing until you couldn't breathe. “You absolute liar. You said you were the strongest. You said you couldn't lose.”

The loneliness was a physical ache. It clawed at your chest, a relentless, dull throb that made even the simple act of inhaling feel like swallowing glass. You found yourself staring at the front door for hours, waiting for it to burst open, waiting to hear that loud, obnoxious, beautiful voice call out your name. You waited for the familiar, comforting pressure of his cursed energy to wash over the house, signaling that he was home, that the nightmare was over.

But the air remained cold. The warding talons on the gates remained still.

He wasn't coming back.

The grief didn't come in waves; it was a stagnant pool you were drowning in. There were days you didn't leave the bed, days where the only movement you made was to press your hands against your stomach, listening to the only heart that was still beating for you.

“Don't leave me too,” you whispered to the dark. “Please, just stay.”

As the months bled into winter, the physical toll of the pregnancy became impossible to ignore. Shoko began visiting the house, bypassing your locked gates entirely through her own means. She didn't press you to talk. She would simply walk in, set down a bag of groceries, check your vitals with a quiet, practiced tenderness, and sit with you on the engawa while the snow fell over the garden.

“You need to eat more,” Shoko said one afternoon, watching you stare blankly at a bowl of soup. “The baby is drawing a lot of energy. More than a normal child would.”

“I know,” you replied softly.

You could feel it.

The cursed energy pooling in your womb was growing denser, sharper, carrying a terrifyingly familiar weight.

Shoko looked out at the snow, a rare, soft expression crossing her tired face. “He would have been insufferable right now. He’d probably have bought out an entire baby store by now. Three times over.”

A bittersweet smile tugged at the corner of your lips, the first one in months, though it felt heavy, coated in ash. “He already ordered a custom stroller. Before Shinjuku. It arrived last week. It has... it has custom shock absorbers so the baby ‘doesn't feel a single bump.’ It’s ridiculous.”

“That sounds like him,” Shoko murmured, her eyes softening. “He was an idiot. But he loved you. More than anything in this miserable world.”

When she left, the silence returned, but it felt slightly less heavy. You looked down at your hands, noting how pale you had become. You realized then that you couldn't keep drowning. For the past months, you had been mourning the man you lost, but you had forgotten the promise you made to him—to protect the future you had built together.

The labor began on a stormy night in early spring, just as the first cherry blossoms were struggling to bloom against the bitter cold.

It was a grueling, agonizing process that lasted well into the dawn. Shoko stayed by your side, her Reversed Cursed Technique a soothing balm against the tearing pain, but she couldn't take away the sheer exhaustion. In the peak of the contractions, when your vision blurred and your breath hitched in your throat, you found yourself reaching out, your fingers clawing at the empty air beside the bed.

You wanted his hand.

You wanted that large, warm, calloused hand to hold yours. You wanted him to lean down, press his lips against your sweat-slicked temple, and tell you that you were doing great, that he was right here, that his Infinity would protect you from the pain.

“Satoru...” the name tore from your throat, a desperate, broken sob that cut through the sterile sounds of the room. “Satoru, please...”

The grief didn't vanish.

The hole in your heart where your husband used to be was still wide, bleeding, and permanent. You knew there would still be nights where you would stare at the empty side of the bed and weep until your throat was raw. You knew there would be milestones he would miss—the first steps, the first words, the moment this child realized the burden of the eyes he carried.

But looking down at the beautiful, quiet boy in your arms, you realized that Satoru hadn't entirely left you. He had given you a piece of his soul, wrapped in white hair and limitless blue skies, to keep you safe in the dark.

“Hi there,” you choked out a wet, breathless laugh, leaning down to gently press your lips against the baby's soft, white head. “I'm your mommy. And your daddy... your daddy was the strongest man in the world.”

The baby blinked up at you, his brilliant blue eyes reflecting your face, and for the first time in months, the cold, quiet house felt like a home again.

As you held your son close to your chest, a memory suddenly cut through the quiet of the room—vivid, sharp, and laced with that unforgettable voice. You could almost feel the phantom warmth of his arms wrapping around your waist from behind, his chin resting lazily on your shoulder as he pulled you close.

“You look at other guys too much,” he would complain dramatically, his lips brushing against your ear as he whined like a child just to see you roll your eyes. “You don't need them anyway. Remember, I'm your only Mr. Loverman!”

A/N: I miss my man and I'm not ready to watch the next season </3 (I'm sorry for hurting y'all, I'll write gojo fluff on my other acc @aeresha < pls follow)

© 2026 faeloresha. All content is owned by @faeloresha. Do not repost, edit, translate, or copy in any form across any platform.

[faeloresha]

Paid and Bought For

╰─ Zenin Naoya x f!reader

Zenin Naoya takes you to an exclusive jewelry store to buy a necklace, but the real purchase is your submission. The price of the necklace is nothing compared to the cost of your dignity.

content: Explicit sexual content (smut), public sex toy play, control, humiliation, exhibitionism, dom/sub dynamics, power imbalance, use of vibrator, orgasm denial, potential for public exposure.

word count: 1,278

song: Acquainted by The Weeknd

masterlist ୧₊˚ playlist

The store smelled of polished marble and old money. Crystal chandeliers dripped light over glass cases that held necklaces worth more than most people's homes. You stood beside Naoya, your hand trembling slightly as you adjusted the hem of your dress—a simple black sheath that hugged your thighs, chosen specifically because it gave easy access.

But you hadn't known about the other accessory.

“Relax,” Naoya murmured, his voice a low, amused drawl. His hand found the small of your back, fingers pressing firmly against the fabric. “You're going to ruin the experience.”

You couldn't relax.

Not when the silicone plug inside you was a constant, unyielding presence.

It had been his idea, of course.

“We're going shopping, and I want to feel you clench around nothing. Well, not nothing.” He'd slid it into you before you left the car, his fingers cold and deliberate, twisting the base until it sat snug against your entrance.

The remote was in his pocket.

Now, as you stood in the middle of a high-end jewelry boutique, surrounded by polished salespeople and silent security guards, you felt every centimeter of that plug. It filled you, stretched you, a constant reminder of who owned you tonight.

“May I help you with something?” A saleswoman approached, her smile professional and sharp. She looked at Naoya first, then at you, dismissing you as a pretty accessory.

That was fine.

You were too busy trying to breathe normally.

“We're looking for a necklace,” Naoya said, his tone casual, almost bored. He let his hand slide down from your back, grazing your ass before he pulled away. “Something elegant. For my companion.”

The saleswoman nodded and led you toward a display case. Your legs felt unsteady. Each step made the plug shift inside you, pressing against your walls, teasing your g-spot.

You gripped the edge of the glass counter to steady yourself.

“Perhaps this one?” The saleswoman pulled out a delicate chain with a small sapphire pendant. It was beautiful, understated. The kind of piece that whispered wealth rather than screamed it.

Naoya glanced at it, then at you. “What do you think?”

You opened your mouth to answer, but the words died in your throat. The remote. You felt it. A low hum started deep inside you, barely perceptible at first, like a distant engine.

Your eyes widened.

“Cat got your tongue?” Naoya smiled, cold and amused. He turned to the saleswoman. “We'll take a look at that one. And the one with the emerald, please.”

The saleswoman retrieved the pieces, laying them on a velvet tray. You couldn't focus on the jewelry. The vibration was still there, a gentle thrum that made your thighs press together. You clenched around the plug, trying to ease the pressure, but it only made it worse.

“I'm sorry,” you managed, your voice tight. “I need to—”

“Need to what?” Naoya interrupted, his hand landing on your shoulder. He squeezed, a warning. “You're fine. Just a little overwhelmed by the choices, isn't that right?”

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

The vibration increased, just a notch.

Your breath hitched.

“Let's try it on,” the saleswoman said, oblivious. She lifted the sapphire necklace and gestured for you to turn around.

You couldn't.

If you turned around, everyone would see the flush spreading down your neck. The way your nipples had hardened beneath the thin fabric of your dress. The way your hips were already starting to rock, just slightly, seeking more friction.

But Naoya's hand was on your back again, guiding you, forcing you to turn. “Go on. Let her put it on you.”

The saleswoman fastened the clasp around your neck. The cold metal touched your heated skin, a stark contrast to the molten heat pooling between your legs. The vibration was steady now, a constant, maddening pulse that made your clit throb with need.

“How does it feel?” Naoya asked, his voice low and intimate. He stepped closer, his chest brushing against your back. His hand found your hip, fingers digging in. “Do you like it?”

“Yes...” you breathed. You didn't know if you meant the necklace or the plug.

“Good.”

He clicked the remote again.

The vibration doubled, humming through your entire body. Your knees buckled, but he held you upright, his body a solid wall against your back.

The saleswoman's eyes flickered with concern. “Is she feeling unwell? Perhaps some water?”

“She's fine,” Naoya said smoothly. “Just a little overwhelmed by the occasion. We'll take the necklace. And the emerald one too.”

He released your hip and pulled out a black card, handing it to the saleswoman without a second glance. She took it, clearly impressed, and moved toward the register.

The moment she was out of sight, Naoya leaned down, his lips brushing your ear. “You're doing so well. But I'm not done with you yet.”

He twisted the remote. The vibration shot to maximum, a brutal, relentless assault on your clit through the plug's shape. A sound escaped you—a broken moan that you tried to pass off as a cough, but it didn't work.

“Ahh—”

The security guard at the door looked at you sharply.

Naoya's hand was on your mouth, pressing your lips together, muffling any further noise. “Shh. You don't want to make a scene, do you? Imagine the headlines. ‘Wealthy Heir's Companion Arrested for Public Indecency.’”

You shook your head, tears welling in your eyes. The pleasure was too much, too sharp. You were so close to orgasm, hanging on the edge, every muscle in your body taut.

“Look at me,” he commanded.

You did. His eyes were dark, hungry, utterly in control.

“You're going to cum right here, standing in this store, while I buy you a necklace worth more than you'll ever make in a year. And when you do, you're going to thank me. Understood?”

You nodded frantically, desperate for release. He removed his hand from your mouth.

“Thank you...” you whispered, your voice cracking.

“Louder.”

“Thank you, Naoya.”

He smiled, and it was the most beautiful, cruel thing you'd ever seen. “You're welcome.”

He pressed the button one more time, and the vibration pattern changed—a pulsing, building rhythm that pushed you over the edge. Your orgasm crashed through you, a violent, shuddering wave that made you grip the counter for support. Your vision went white. You heard yourself moan, but it was distant, muffled by the roaring in your ears.

“Ahm—fuck...”

Naoya held you steady, his hand firm on your waist, as you trembled through the aftershocks. The plug continued to hum, prolonging the sensation, until you were gasping, boneless, leaning against him.

The saleswoman returned with the receipt. “Everything is in order, sir. Would you like to wear the necklace now?”

“She'll wear it,” Naoya said, his voice calm and satisfied. “And she'll wear it tonight, when I fuck her in the back of the car.”

The saleswoman's smile faltered, but she said nothing. She handed him the bag with the emerald necklace, and Naoya pushed the sapphire pendant into your hand.

“Put it on,” he said. “You earned it.”

You fumbled with the clasp, your fingers still shaking, and finally fastened it around your neck. The sapphire rested against your collarbone, cool and heavy.

A reminder of what you'd just done of what you'd become.

Naoya took your hand and led you out of the store, the remote still in his pocket. The plug was still inside you, still vibrating at a low, teasing hum.

He wasn't done with you yet.

“After all,” he whispered against your ear as the heavy glass doors closed behind you, “we’ve only just become acquainted with what you can really handle.”

© 2026 faeloresha. All content is owned by @faeloresha. Do not repost, edit, translate, or copy in any form across any platform.

[faeloresha]

Where The Night Takes Us

╰─ Toji Fushiguro x f!reader

After a late-night party at a high-rise penthouse, you step onto the balcony for air, only to be followed by Toji Fushiguro. The city sprawls below as tension ignites into raw, wild encounter against the railing, then riding him on a lounger under the stars.

content: Explicit sexual content (smut), consensual, public setting, balcony, cowgirl, standing doggy style, rough sex, dirty talk, age gap (implied), swearing.

word count: 1,659

song: The Party & The After Party by The Weeknd

masterlist ୧₊˚ playlist

The penthouse was suffocating.

Music thrummed through the walls, voices overlapping in a drunken symphony that made your head ache. You slipped away from the crowd—acquaintances you didn’t care to remember, small talk that tasted like ash—and pushed open the glass door to the balcony.

The cool night air hit your skin, and you exhaled, letting the tension in your shoulders drop.

The view was dizzying.

The city sprawled beneath you like a circuit board of light, skyscrapers jutting into a sky bruised with stars. You gripped the cold metal railing and leaned forward, letting the wind tug at your hair.

You didn’t hear him come out. But you felt him—a presence that crackled against your awareness like static before a storm.

“Hiding?”

His voice was low, rough, with a lazy drawl that sent a shiver down your spine.

You didn’t turn.

You didn’t need to. You knew exactly who it was.

Toji Fushiguro.

You noticed him the moment you walked into the party. Tall, broad-shouldered, with that scar tugging at the corner of his mouth. His black shirt strained over his chest, and his eyes—dark, predatory—had tracked you across the room all night. Every time you glanced his way, he was already looking. No smile. No nod. Just that cool, measuring stare, like he was deciding how to take you apart.

And now he was here, right behind you.

“Not hiding,” you said, finally turning. “Just… taking a break.”

He stood in the doorway, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a half-empty glass of whiskey. The light from inside painted half his face in gold, the other half in shadow.

He didn’t drink. Just swirled the amber liquid, watching you.

“You’ve been watching me all night,” you said, surprising yourself with the boldness.

A slow grin spread across his face—lazy, wolfish. “Maybe I have.”

He stepped forward, the glass door sliding shut behind him with a soft click. The music muffled, the party became a distant hum. Now it was just you, him, and the vast city below.

“What’s your name?” he asked, though his tone suggested he didn’t really care.

He just wanted to hear you say it.

You told him.

He repeated it once, rolling the syllables around his mouth like he was tasting them.

“Pretty.” He set his glass on a small table beside a lounger. “Pretty girl.”

Your breath caught.

He was close now, close enough that you could smell the whiskey on his breath, the faint musk of his skin. He didn’t reach for you. He just stood there, a hand’s breadth away, letting the tension build.

“You came out here for something,” he said, his voice dropping lower. “Was it fresh air? Or did you want me to follow?”

You swallowed. “Maybe both.”

His hand came up—slow, deliberate—and brushed a strand of hair from your face. His fingers grazed your jaw, light as a whisper, before cupping the back of your neck. He tilted your head up, forcing you to meet his gaze.

“I don’t play games,” he said, the warmth in his voice undercut by something harder. “If you want this, tell me now. Once we start, I’m not stopping until I’m done.”

Your heart hammered against your ribs.

The city lights blurred at the edges of your vision. All you could see was him, all you could feel was the heat of his palm against your skin.

“I want this,” you said, your voice steadier than you expected.

That wolfish grin again. “Good doll.”

He kissed you.

It wasn’t soft. His lips crashed into yours, demanding, hungry. His hand tightened in your hair, pulling your head back as his tongue swept into your mouth, tasting, taking. You gasped against him, and he swallowed the sound, his other hand sliding down to grip your hip, yanking you flush against his body.

He was hard.

You could feel the thick length of him pressing through his jeans against your stomach, and the knowledge sent a pulse of heat straight between your legs.

He broke the kiss only to trail his lips down your jaw, your throat, biting at the sensitive skin just above your collarbone. You moaned, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

“Mhm...”

“On your knees,” he muttered against your neck.

“What?”

He pulled back, eyes dark and amused. “You heard me. Get on your knees. Show me how much you want it.”

Your knees hit the cold concrete before you could overthink it. He stood over you, a predator surveying his prey, and slowly unbuckled his belt. The rasp of the zipper was loud in the quiet night.

He pulled his cock out—long, thick, already slick with precum at the tip. He wrapped his hand around the base, stroking idly.

“Open.”

You parted your lips, and he fed the head past them, watching your face as you took him in. His taste was salt and skin, his weight heavy on your tongue. You hollowed your cheeks, bobbing your head, and he groaned low in his chest.

“Fuck... Yeah. Just like that, baby...”

His hand found your hair again, guiding your pace.

Not forcing, just directing.

“Ohh—shit...”

You let him, taking him deeper, sucking harder, until your eyes watered and your jaw ached. He let you work for a long minute, his breathing growing ragged above you.

Then he tugged you off.

“Enough.” His voice was rough, strained. “Get up. I need to be inside you.”

He pulled you to your feet, spun you around, and pressed your chest against the railing. The cold metal bit into your palms. The city stretched out before you, infinite and indifferent, while his hands roamed your body—up your sides, over your ass, squeezing.

He hiked your skirt up, exposing your bare skin to the cool air. His fingers found the waistband of your panties and pulled them down just enough.

“No underwear?” He chuckled darkly, a puff of air against your ear. “Filthy girl. You came to this party already ready for me, didn’t you?”

You could only whimper as he pressed his cock against your slit, sliding through your wetness, coating himself in you.

“Ngh... Toji...”

“Tell me you want it.”

“I want it.. Please, Toji—”

He didn’t make you wait.

He pushed inside you in one smooth, brutal thrust, filling you completely. The stretch was blinding, delicious. You cried out, your knuckles white on the railing.

“Ahh—! Fuck...”

He didn’t give you time to adjust. He set a punishing pace, his hips slamming against your ass, his cock driving deep into your cunt with every stroke. The sound of skin slapping skin echoed off the building, mingling with your moans and his guttural grunts.

“That’s it... Take it—fuck... You’re tight—squeezing me so good—”

His hand came down on your ass, a sharp slap that made you jolt. He did it again, harder, and you bucked back against him, meeting his thrusts.

“Ahh... Yes—yes...”

“Yeah, you like that, don’t you? Like being fucked like a whore on a balcony where anyone could see?”

“Mhm... Ohh...”

The thought made your pussy clench around him. He grunted, feeling it.

“Dirty girl.”

He fucked you standing, bent over the railing, the city glittering below you like a captive audience. His balls slapped against your clit with every drive, building a pressure deep in your belly.

“Ahm—Toji... Ahh...”

You were close—so close—when he slowed.

“Not yet,” he growled, pulling out completely.

You whimpered at the loss. “Please...”

He turned you around, grabbed you by the hips, and lifted you onto the wide lounger. The cushion dipped under your weight. He climbed over you, looming above, his cock slick and angry against your thigh.

“You said you wanted cowgirl earlier—when you were eye-fucking me from across the room.” He smirked. “Prove it.”

You didn’t need encouragement. You shifted, straddling him, positioning the head of his cock at your entrance. You sank down slowly, watching his face as your walls stretched around him.

His eyes fluttered shut, his jaw tightening.

“Fuck… Yeah… Just like that.”

You started to ride him—slow at first, a gentle rock, then faster, harder. Your hands braced on his chest, your body rising and falling, taking him deep. The city lights framed you like a halo, the wind cool on your heated skin.

“Ngh... Shit—baby...”

Toji’s hands found your hips, guiding you, controlling the rhythm even as you rode him. He watched you with heavy-lidded eyes, his mouth slightly open, and you never felt more powerful.

“You’re so beautiful,” he rasped, and the raw honesty in his voice made your heart stutter.

“Ahh—mhmph!”

He sat up, catching you off guard, his arms wrapping around your waist. The new angle drove him deeper, hitting a spot that made stars burst behind your eyes. He buried his face in your neck, his breath hot against your skin.

“Toji... Fuck... Please...”

“Cum for me...” he murmured. “Cum on my cock. Let me feel you.”

The combination of his voice, his thickness, the burn in your thighs—it shattered you. Your orgasm crashed through you, your body convulsing, your pussy milking him as you cried out his name.

He followed a moment later, a guttural groan muffled against your shoulder, his cum flooding you in hot, thick pulses. He held you tight, burying himself to the hilt, grinding as he emptied.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of your mingled breathing, the distant hum of the city, and the erratic beat of your hearts.

Toji pulled back, a lazy grin playing on his lips as he brushed a stray strand of hair from your sticky forehead.

“Not bad for a balcony break.”

You laughed, breathless, and leaned up to kiss him softly.

He caught your lower lip between his teeth with one last, playful tug, before glancing back toward the glowing glass doors of the penthouse with a dark chuckle.

“Forget the party and the after party inside, you're coming home with me.”

© 2026 faeloresha. All content is owned by @faeloresha. Do not repost, edit, translate, or copy in any form across any platform.

A/N: hey...? it's been a while... :3

[faeloresha]

Sovereign’s Waltz

╰─ Sukuna Ryomen x f!reader

Boundaries, treaties, and rival suitors vanish under the candlelight of a masquerade ball. When an Empress locks eyes with the King of Curses, a crowded ballroom becomes a private battleground of desire and absolute possession.

content: Romantic angst, heavy tension, light jealousy, possessive/dominant behavior, implied violence/threats to rival suitors, minor canon-typical arrogance.

word count: 2,045

song: He's My Man by Luvcat

masterlist ୧₊˚ playlist

The Grand Ballroom of the Jujutsu Empire was a dizzying kaleidoscope of gold leaf, velvet, and the suffocating perfume of the high aristocracy. Crystal chandeliers hung like frozen galaxies from the vaulted ceilings, casting a warm, deceptive glow over the sea of masked faces.

Tonight, the realm celebrated the birth of its absolute ruler, Emperor Sukuna Ryomen.

It was a political masquerade—a dangerous game where identities were thinly veiled and intentions were razor-sharp.

You stood at the periphery of the ballroom, your fingers wrapped tightly around the stem of a crystal flute filled with amber wine. Beneath your ornate lace mask, your expression was a mask of cold, unyielding composure.

You were the Empress of a neighboring realm, a sovereign power in your own right.

By all laws of diplomacy, your presence here was unofficial, a well-kept secret buried beneath the guise of an enigmatic noblewoman.

But you always came.

For years, you had snated moments in the dark, crossing borders just to breathe the same air as the man who held your kingdom’s fate—and your heart—in his calloused hands.

But tonight, the air tasted like ash.

Because across the polished marble floor, Ryomen was dancing.

He did not wear a mask.

He had no need for one; his four crimson eyes and the striking black tattoos carved into his skin were a declaration of his absolute authority. He wore heavy, midnight-black silk robes pinned with gold, his broad chest partially exposed, radiating a suffocating, lethal pressure. And in his arms was a scouted empress from a western territory—a woman handpicked by the high council to be presented as a potential bride to bridge a new alliance.

She smiled up at him, a delicate, fragile thing, her hand resting against his massive shoulder. Ryomen's expression was unreadable, a bored, lazy smirk playing on his lips as he moved her through the steps of the waltz.

He wasn’t looking at her.

He was looking through her.

But you couldn’t stop staring. Your gaze, sharp and burning with a quiet, lethal possessiveness, pierced through the air. You didn’t care if the council saw. You didn’t care if the whole world knew. Your eyes locked onto the back of Ryomen's head, your intent so heavy, so fiercely demanding, that it felt like a physical weight in the room.

As if feeling the sudden spike of cursed energy, Ryomen's head turned. His primary eyes narrowed, and then, his lower set of eyes shifted, scanning the crowd until they locked directly onto you.

The air between you instantly turned to static.

Ryomen's smirk widened, growing sharper, more dangerous. He recognized you instantly, mask or no mask. He knew the curve of your shoulders, the tilt of your chin, and the specific, intoxicating aura of your power.

He had been waiting for you.

“Your Imperial Majesty?” a smooth, baritone voice interrupted your thoughts, shattering the suffocating connection between you and the Emperor.

You blinked, tearing your gaze away to find a foreign emperor standing before you. He was a handsome man, draped in furs and silver embroidery, holding a masquerade mask of polished obsidian. He bowed deeply, offering a hand gloved in pristine white silk.

“The music is far too beautiful for a lady of your stature to be standing alone,” the foreign emperor murmured, his smile dripping with political ambition. “Would you do me the honor of a dance?”

You felt Ryomen's gaze burning into the side of your face—a sudden, violent heat that promised ruin to anyone who dared step too close.

A wicked, rebellious spark ignited in your chest.

Let him watch. Let him see what happens when he plays along with the council’s little games.

“The honor is mine,” you replied softly, your voice a cool melody as you placed your hand in his.

The orchestra transitioned into a darker, more melancholic rhythm. The violin strings cried out, a haunting melody that mirrored the heavy tension thrumming through the ballroom. It was the song of predators circling each other.

Your partner led you into the center of the floor, his movements practiced and rigid. You kept your posture perfect, the picture of regal grace, but your soul was entirely detached from the steps. Every few bars of the music, the choreography of the grand waltz forced the circles of dancers to rotate, bringing you closer and closer to the center of the floor—closer to Ryomen.

Every time your paths crossed, the atmosphere grew heavier.

You passed Ryomen as he spun the scouted empress. His hand was on her waist, but his eyes were entirely fixed on you, tracking the way your foreign partner’s hand rested on the small of your back. You saw the subtle flare of Ryomen's nostrils, the tightening of his jaw, the way his four hands twitched with a primal urge to tear the ballroom apart.

‘He’s mine’, the thought echoed fiercely in your mind, a possessive mantra beating in time with the drums of the orchestra. ‘Let them parade a hundred women before him. He is my man.’

Your partner pulled you into a tight turn, cutting off your view of the Emperor.

“You seem distracted, my lady,” the foreign emperor noted, trying to draw your attention back to him. “Is the heat of the ballroom too much for you?”

“Not at all,” you murmured, keeping your voice smooth, though your heart was hammering against your ribs. “I am simply admiring the majesty of the host.”

The man chuckled, a sound filled with misplaced confidence. “The King of Curses is a brute. A powerful one, yes, but a beast nonetheless. A woman of your refinement deserves a court that values elegance over bloodshed.”

A cold, dangerous smile touched your lips beneath your mask. ‘If only you knew, you thought. If only you knew that the beast you speak of has tasted my lips and held my crown.’

The music began to build, reaching its grand crescendo. The tempo quickened, signaling the traditional exchange and twirl—the moment where the dance demanded the men to spin their partners outward before pulling them back in.

Your partner gripped your hand, stepping back to execute the grand twirl. “Allow me,” he said smoothly.

He raised his arm, and you began to spin, the silk of your gown billowing around you like a storm.

One turn.

Two turns.

The world became a blur of gold, candlelight, and masked faces. You braced yourself to be pulled back into his chest to finish the song.

But the universe had another plan. Or rather, Sukuna Ryomen did.

As you completed the final rotation, the white-gloved hand holding yours was suddenly ripped away with a brutal, commanding force. Before you could even gasp, a massive, calloused hand clamped around your wrist.

A second hand—warm, heavy, and utterly unyielding—slammed against your waist, arresting your momentum so violently that your breath hitched.

You didn't fly outward.

Instead, you were violently, seamlessly pulled backward, your spine crashing flush against a broad, muscular chest that felt like solid stone. The scent of expensive incense, blood, and ozone flooded your senses.

Ryomen.

The foreign emperor stumbled forward, his hands empty, his face morphing from confusion to utter horror as he realized who had just stolen his partner. Across the floor, the scouted empress was left standing alone, looking bewildered and humiliated as the Emperor of the realm completely abandoned her mid-dance.

A collective, terrified gasp echoed through the surrounding nobles.

The music faltered for a fraction of a second, the musicians trembling under the sudden, suffocating pressure of Sukuna’s unleashed cursed energy, before scrambling to keep playing.

“What is the meaning of—” the foreign emperor began, his voice shaking as he took a step forward.

Ryomen didn't even look at him.

He merely shifted his upper left hand, a casual, flicking motion of his fingers. A localized burst of invisible force slammed into the foreign emperor’s chest, sending him skittering backward across the marble floor, crashing into a table of champagne towers.

“Speak another word in my presence, and I’ll flay you alive in front of your court,” Ryomen's voice boomed, low and gravelly, vibrating directly against your back. It wasn't a threat; it was a simple statement of fact.

The ballroom fell into a dead, terrified silence, save for the frantic, weeping melody of the strings.

No one dared to move. No one dared to breathe.

Ryomen turned you in his arms, his grip on your waist tightening until it was almost bruising, forcing you to look up at him. His four eyes burned down into yours, wild, possessive, and dripping with an dark, intoxicating heat.

“You took your sweet time getting here,” Sukuna growled, his thumb digging into your hip through the expensive fabric of your gown. “And you let that trash touch you.”

“You seemed well-entertained, Ryomen,” you countered, your voice a hushed, dangerous whisper as you rested your hands against his massive chest. You refused to show fear. You belonged to him, and he belonged to you; this was your arena. “The council’s choice of an empress is quite... delicate. Did she dance to your liking?”

Ryomen let out a dark, booming laugh that sent shivers straight down your spine.

He began to move, forcing you into the steps of the waltz, completely ignoring the ruined decor and the terrified court watching them. He moved with a feral, predatory grace, dragging you along with him as if the two of you were the only living souls left in the world.

“A fragile doll that would break if I gripped her too tight,” Ryomen sneered, his lower eyes narrowing as he leaned down, his breath hot against your ear. “She doesn't have your fire. She doesn't have your venom. You think I’d settle for a pebble when I already held the crown jewel?”

He spun you fiercely, his movements entirely uncoordinated with the actual etiquette of the court, replacing traditional elegance with raw, dominant power.

Yet, because it was him, it was mesmerizing.

You kept pace with him perfectly, your bodies moving in a seamless, violent harmony that had been perfected in the shadows of your secret meetings.

“You played your part well,” you whispered, looking up into his eyes, your fingers curling into the silk of his robes. “Letting her believe she had a chance. Letting the council think they could control you.”

“They are ants playing in the dirt,” Ryomen muttered, his grip shifting as he pulled you closer, leaving absolutely no space between your bodies. His chest rumbled against yours. “I let them have their little festival because I knew you’d come. You always do. You can’t stay away from me, Empress.”

“And you can't breathe without me tearing at your throat,” you retorted, a breathless, wicked smile spreading across your lips.

“Exactly.” Ryomen's eyes flashed with an insatiable hunger. He dipped you low, his massive hand supporting your spine, his face inches from yours. The scent of him was intoxicating, a drug that wiped away the rest of the world. “Let them look. Let them see who rules this empire. Let them see who holds the King.”

As he pulled you back up, the music reached its final, crashing chord. Ryomen didn't let you go. Instead, his hand traveled up to your face, his rough fingers hooking beneath the edge of your expensive lace mask. With a single, dismissive jerk, he ripped it off, tossing it carelessly to the floor.

Your face was exposed to the entire court.

The Empress of the neighboring realm, caught in the iron grip of the Tyrant.

A murmur of shock rippled through the crowd, but Ryomen silenced them instantly by angling your head up, his thumb pressing firmly against your chin. He leaned down and claimed your lips in a bruising, possessive kiss that tasted of wine, fire, and absolute submission—not of you to him, but of both of you to the maddening, inescapable bond you shared.

You melted into him, your arms wrapping around his neck, abandoning all royal decorum.

Let the kingdoms whisper.

Let the councils plot.

He was your emperor. You were his empress. And tonight, the world belonged to no one else.

“Let them look all they want, for it is time they finally know that he's my man.”

© 2026 faeloresha. All content is owned by @faeloresha. Do not repost, edit, translate, or copy in any form across any platform.

[faeloresha]

Дорогая (Dear)

As your fiercely devoted, hopelessly indulgent Russian boyfriend, Gojo Satoru, he genuinely believes that treating you like the center of his universe is just the absolute bare minimum.

content: Pure romance, heavy fluff, mutual pining realized, Gojo being aggressively generous, very brief mentions of exhaustion/burnout from work.

word count: 2,516

song: Bare Minimum by SABI (ft. MIA BOYKA)

masterlist ୧₊˚ playlist

(Hello, my joy). Are you home yet? (I miss you.)

(Poor baby.)

My poor girl. (Do not move.)

(I'll be there soon. I love you, sun.)

You let out a soft sigh, dropping your phone onto the plush cushions of your sofa. Even through a text screen, Satoru’s energy had a way of cutting through the heavy, grey fog of your exhaustion.

Wrapping yourself in an oversized knitted blanket, you curled your legs up against your chest. Your shoulders ached, and your mind felt entirely fried from a relentless nine-to-five cycle that seemed designed to drain every drop of your joy. In moments like this, your apartment felt a little too quiet, the shadows a little too long.

You closed your eyes, letting the silence settle around you. But with Satoru, silence never lasted very long.

Exactly twenty-three minutes later, the distinct, frantic clicking of the front door lock echoed through the small hallway. You didn't even have time to sit up straight before the door swung open, and a whirlwind of cold winter air and high-end cologne swept into your living room.

Satoru practically glided inside, kicking the door shut with his heel.

He was a towering, impossible presence, wearing a sharp, tailored black overcoat that made him look straight off a Milan runway, his signature dark sunglasses pushed up into his unruly, snow-white hair. His striking, crystalline blue eyes immediately locked onto you, softening instantly the moment he registered the tired slump of your shoulders.

In his arms, he was juggling an absurd number of bags.

There was a massive, pristine white paper bag from that ridiculously expensive pastry shop downtown, a heavy grocery tote practically bursting with fresh ingredients, and a sleek, velvet-textured box from a high-end boutique you’d only ever dared to look at through a window.

​“Satoru,” you breathed, blinking rapidly as you took in the sheer volume of stuff he was carrying. “What is all this? What did you do?”

“Что значит ‘что я сделал’?” (What do you mean ‘what did I do’?) Satoru scoffed playfully, dropping the bags onto the kitchen counter with a dramatic flourish. He shed his heavy coat, tossing it carelessly over a chair, and marched straight toward the couch. “Я пришёл заботиться о моей любимой. (I came to take care of my favorite.) Is that a crime now?”

Before you could offer a counter-argument, the cushions dipped violently. Satoru gathered you into his arms, blanket and all, pulling you onto his lap as if you weighed absolutely nothing. He buried his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply, his silver hair tickling your skin. His hands, large and warm, rubbed soothing circles into your back, immediately finding the exact knots of tension in your muscles.

​“Моё сердце,” (My heart.) he murmured against your skin, his voice dropping into that low, rumbling register that always made your chest tighten. “Ты такая уставшая. (You are so tired.) It breaks my heart to see you like this. Who do I need to fight? Give me names.”

You couldn't help the small laugh that escaped your lips, the heavy knot in your chest finally beginning to loosen. “You can't fight my corporate deadlines, Satoru.”

​“Посмотри на меня,” (Look at me.) he countered, pulling back just enough to look down at you, his blue eyes fierce with playful conviction. “I can buy the company. I can fire your boss. I can burn the building down. Выбирай, любимая. (Choose, my beloved.)”

​“Buying the company seems like a bit of an overreaction,” you smiled, reaching up to gently trace the sharp line of his jawline.

​“Ничего не слишком, когда дело касается тебя,” (Nothing is too much when it comes to you.) he stated matter-of-factly, as if he were stating a fundamental law of physics. He leaned down, pressing a lingering, warm kiss to your forehead, then to the tip of your nose, and finally, a soft, sweet pressure against your lips. “А теперь, сиди смирно. (And now, sit still.) Do not wiggle out of this blanket. Your boy is going to take care of everything.”

You watched from the safety of your blanket cocoon as Satoru moved around your small kitchen.

It was always a slightly comical sight—this impossibly tall, striking man moving through a thoroughly average space, humming a cheerful Russian pop tune under his breath as he unpacked the groceries.

He didn't just buy a quick takeout meal.

He had gone to an upscale market to get everything required to make Syrniki—those sweet, pillowy Russian cottage cheese pancakes you had mentioned wanting to try weeks ago in a passing conversation.

You hadn't even realized he’d remembered.

“Satoru, you really didn't have to cook,” you called out, leaning your head back against the sofa. “We could have just ordered a pizza. You've been working all day, too.”

Satoru paused, turning around to lean against the counter. He looked at you with a mixture of disbelief and gentle amusement, crossing his arms over his chest.

​“Заказать пиццу? Моей девочке, у которой всё болит?” (Order pizza? For my girl, who hurts all over?) He shook his head, a silver strand falling across his eyes. “Ни за что. (No way.) You deserve a fresh, hot meal cooked by the hands of the most handsome man in the world. Besides, pizza doesn't have the vitamins to restore your energy.”

“But it's so much work,” you murmured. “You're always doing so much for me. Buying things, cooking, driving across the city the second I text you... it feels like too much sometimes. I don't want to spoil you into being exhausted.”

Satoru stared at you for a long, quiet moment.

Then, he let out a soft sigh, walking back over to the couch. He knelt down on the hardwood floor right in front of you, bringing himself to your eye level. He took both of your hands in his, his grip warm, steady, and entirely grounding.

​“Посмотри на меня, котёнок,” (Look at me, kitten.) he commanded softly.

You looked into those impossible blue eyes, feeling entirely exposed beneath their intensity.

​“You think this is ‘too much’? Солнышко (Sunshine), this is nothing. This is the bare minimum. Loving you, making sure you are fed, making sure you are happy and comfortable after a hard day—это просто база. (this is just the baseline.) It is standard human decency for the person who holds my whole world in their hands.”

“Satoru...”

​“Нет, я серьёзно,” (No, I'm serious.) he interrupted, kissing the knuckles of your fingers one by one. “In Russia, we know how to treasure our loved ones. But even without that... it is you. You give me a place to come home to. You look at me and see just Satoru, not whatever anyone else wants from me. Заботиться о тебе — это моя любимая часть дня.” (Taking care of you is my favorite part of the day.)

He stood up, giving your cheek a playful pinch. “Всё, никаких грустных мыслей. (That's it, no more sad thoughts.) Let me cook. Oh, and by the way, that velvet box on the counter? Открой его.” (Open it.)

“Satoru, what did you buy?” you asked, a note of panic rising in your voice.

​“Ничего особенного!” (Nothing special!) he called out over his shoulder, already back to mixing the batter. “Just a little something.”

You cautiously unwrapped yourself from the blanket and walked over to the kitchen island.

You picked up the heavy, luxurious velvet box and lifted the lid. Rested inside, gleaming softly under the kitchen lights, was a stunning, delicate gold bracelet, intricately woven with tiny, brilliant sapphire stones that perfectly matched the color of Satoru's eyes.

Your jaw dropped.

You knew this brand.

This wasn't ‘nothing crazy.’ This was a piece that cost more than two months of your rent.

“Satoru!” you gasped, turning to him. “This is insane! I can't accept this for no reason! It's not my birthday, it's not our anniversary—”

​“The reason is that it is Tuesday,” he countered smoothly, not even looking up from the frying pan as a delicious, sweet aroma began to fill the apartment. “Я увидел его в витрине и подумал, что он будет красиво смотреться на твоей руке. (I saw it in the shop window and thought it would look beautiful on your hand.) So I bought it. End of story.”

“You can't just buy luxury jewelry because it's Tuesday!”

Satoru turned around, a golden-brown, perfectly formed pancake balanced on his spatula. He smirked, that confident, breathtaking expression that always made your heart do backflips. “Я могу, и я сделал. (I can, and I did.) Slip it on. If it doesn't fit, I'll just have them custom-make a new one.”

You stared at the bracelet, a wave of profound, overwhelming affection washing over you.

It was impossible to argue with him.

When Gojo Satoru decided he was going to cherish you, there was no force on earth that could stop him. He didn't see these grand gestures as grand at all; to him, it was just the natural standard of how you should be treated.

A half-hour later, you were sitting at the small dining table, staring down at a plate of perfectly golden Syrniki, dusted with powdered sugar and served with a generous side of fresh sour cream and raspberry jam.

Satoru sat across from you, his chin resting in his hands, watching you with an eager, expectant grin. He hadn't even poured a plate for himself yet; he was entirely focused on your first bite.

You scooped up a piece of the pancake, dipping it slightly into the jam and sour cream, and popped it into your mouth. The texture was incredibly light and fluffy, melting instantly on your tongue with a perfect balance of sweet and slightly tangy flavors.

​“Oh my,” you mumbled around the food, your eyes widening. “Satoru, this is incredible.”

He practically beamed, a triumphant laugh echoing through the room. “Конечно вкусно! (Of course it's delicious!) Prepared by chef Satoru himself. Eat up, eat up. Кушай много, тебе нужно восстановить силы.” (Eat a lot, you need to restore your strength.)

You ate happily, the warmth of the food radiating through your body, finally washing away the last lingering remnants of your stressful workday. Satoru chattered away, telling you hilarious, exaggerated stories about his day, making wild gestures with his hands, and doing everything in his power to keep a smile on your face.

Every time your water glass got even a quarter of the way empty, he was pouring more.

When a tiny bit of powdered sugar got caught on the corner of your lip, he didn't just tell you—he reached across the table, gently wiping it away with his thumb, his gaze incredibly tender before he licked the sugar off his own finger with a wink.

By the time you finished, you felt completely spoiled, full, and thoroughly loved.

You started to stand up to gather the dishes, but Satoru was already on his feet, gently pushing you back into your chair by your shoulders.

​“Так, стоп. Что я говорил?” (Right, stop. What did I say?) he chided softly, taking your empty plate. “No cleaning. Go back to the couch. Put on that show you like.”

​“Satoru, let me help at least a little bit,” you pleaded. “You cooked the whole meal.”

He leaned down, pressing his lips firmly against yours to cut off your protest. The kiss was deep, warm, and tasted faintly of raspberries. When he pulled away, he had that stubborn, immovable look in his eyes.

​“Иди,” (Go.) he ordered playfully, pointing a finger toward the living room. “Или мне придётся нести тебя на руках?” (Or will I have to carry you in my arms?)

Defeated—but entirely happy about it—you walked back to the couch, sinking into the cushions. The apartment felt entirely different now. It was warm, alive, filled with the scent of sweet vanilla and the comforting background noise of Satoru clinking dishes in the sink, still humming his familiar tunes.

Later that night, the apartment was dark, illuminated only by the soft, ambient glow of a small lamp in the corner of the bedroom. The cool night air brushed against the windowpanes, but inside, it was perfectly warm.

You were lying in bed, curled onto your side. Satoru was stretched out beside you, his massive frame taking up a significant portion of the mattress. He had shifted closer, wrapping one long, heavy arm securely around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest. His breathing was slow and steady, a rhythmic rise and fall that acted as a perfect lullaby.

You looked down at your wrist.

The gold bracelet caught the dim light, a beautiful, sparkling reminder of his ridiculous, unmatched generosity.

You shifted slightly, turning around in his embrace to face him. Satoru stirred slightly at the movement, his long white eyelashes fluttering open to reveal those brilliant, sleepy blue eyes.

A soft, groggy smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

​“Не спится, моя маленькая?” (Can't sleep, my little one?) he whispered, his voice thick with sleep, rough and incredibly intimate in the quiet room.

​“I'm just thinking,” you murmured, reaching up to gently brush a stray lock of white hair away from his forehead. “About everything you did today. The food, the bracelet, cleaning up... you really make me feel like a queen, Satoru.”

Satoru let out a low, amused rumble deep in his chest, pulling you even closer until there was absolutely no space left between you. He tucked your head underneath his chin, his hand resting flat against your lower back, holding you like you were something incredibly precious, something made of the finest glass.

​“I told you already,” he mumbled into your hair, his voice fading back into a sleepy haze. “Это не подвиг. (It's not a heroic feat.) You deserve to be worshipped every single day. If I am not doing all of this, then I am failing as your man.”

​“It's not the bare minimum, Satoru,” you whispered against his chest, your heart aching with a profound, terrifying amount of love for him. “It's so much more.”

You closed your eyes, listening to the steady, calm beating of his heart beneath your cheek.

Safe, completely protected, and overwhelmingly cherished, you finally let yourself drift off to sleep.

Just before your consciousness slipped away entirely, you felt him press a final, soft kiss into your hair, his lips lingering as he breathed out a soft, final truth into the dark:

“Это самый минимум, любовь моя. (This is the bare minimum, my love.) It’s just the very beginning.”

© 2026 faeloresha. All content is owned by @faeloresha. Do not repost, edit, translate, or copy in any form across any platform.

A/N: idk if it is canon but I imagine Gojo having a Russian blood like look at him

[faeloresha]

Other Side

╰─ Choso Kamo x f!reader

Under the glow of multicolored LED lights, Choso Kamo takes you on the wild, rough, messy ride you've been craving—clothes torn, bodies tangled, hungry mouths never breaking contact.

content: Explicit sexual content (smut), rough sex, messy sex, hungry kissing, body fluids, biting, hair pulling, dirty talk, penetration, fingering, oral (implied), intense emotional rawness.

word count: 1,744

song: Wild Side by Normani (ft. Cardi B.)

masterlist ୧₊˚ playlist

The LED strips lining the ceiling of Choso's bedroom bled neon red, blue, and purple across the walls, casting his pale skin in shifting shades of sin. The bass from the speaker on his nightstand thrummed low and deep, a heartbeat under the floor.

Neither of you had bothered to turn on the main lights.

The glow was enough—enough to see the hunger in his dark-rimmed eyes, enough to catch the glisten of sweat already forming on his brow.

He had you pressed against the door the second it clicked shut. His mouth found yours before either of you could speak, and there was nothing gentle about it.

This wasn't a kiss.

This was consumption.

His tongue slid past your lips, hot and demanding, tasting like cheap whiskey and something darker—something that made your knees buckle. He caught you, one hand fisting the fabric of your shirt, the other cupping your jaw, tilting your head back to deepen the invasion.

You gasped into him, and he swallowed the sound.

“Been thinking about this all night,” he muttered against your mouth, his voice rough, frayed at the edges. “Watching you move. Watching you look at me.”

His hips ground into yours, and you felt the hard length of him through his jeans. No shame, no hesitation. He wanted you to feel exactly what he was thinking.

You answered by grabbing the back of his head, fingers threading into the messy dark hair that fell past his shoulders, and yanking him closer. He groaned—low, guttural—and that sound shot straight to your cunt.

“Then stop thinking,” you breathed, biting his lower lip hard enough to taste copper. “Just fucking do it.”

That was all the permission he needed.

His hands dropped to your shirt, and instead of unbuttoning it, he gripped the collar and pulled. Buttons popped, skittering across the floor like tiny casualties.

You didn't care.

The fabric sagged open, and his mouth immediately latched onto the curve of your neck, sucking a bruise into the skin just below your ear. His teeth grazed, then bit—just shy of too hard—and you arched into him, a cry spilling from your throat.

“Ahh—!”

“Yeah? You like that?” His lips dragged down to your collarbone, leaving a wet trail. “I'm gonna mark you up. I want everyone to see exactly who you belong to tonight.”

The possessiveness in his voice made your pussy clench.

He didn't wait for an answer—he never did when he was like this. His fingers found the clasp of your bra, and within seconds it was on the floor, joining the scattered buttons. His palms cupped your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples, already hardened from the cool air and his relentless mouth.

“Perfect,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. He lowered his head and took one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, flicking his tongue across the peak before pulling back and blowing cool air over the wet skin.

You shivered, your fingers tightening in his hair.

“Choso…”

He hummed against your skin, the vibration traveling straight through your chest to your core. His hand slid down your stomach, past the waistband of your jeans, and you felt his fingers brush over the soaked fabric of your panties.

“Fuck, you're already wet,” he growled, pressing the heel of his palm against your clit through the cloth. “Is this all for me? All because I looked at you a certain way tonight?”

You couldn't form words.

“Ngh...”

Your hips bucked against his hand, chasing the friction. He smiled—a dark, knowing smile—and pulled his hand away.

“Get on the bed.”

It wasn't a request.

It was a command, low and final.

You obeyed, crawling backward onto his mattress, the sheets cool against your heated skin. The LED lights painted your body in shifting colors—blue across your thighs, red over your stomach, purple in the hollow of your throat. Choso stood at the foot of the bed, watching you with hooded eyes, his chest heaving.

He stripped off his own shirt slowly, intentionally.

The fabric peeled away from his tattooed skin—those dark bands that wrapped around his arms and torso, stark against his pallor. His jeans followed, kicked aside to join the growing pile of clothes on the floor. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed, the tip already slick with precum.

He crawled onto the bed, boxing you in with his arms. His body hovered over yours, heat radiating from him like a furnace. The scent of him—sweat and something floral, a hint of his cursed energy—filled your lungs.

“Spread your legs for me,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “Show me how much you want this.”

You obeyed without hesitation, knees falling apart, opening yourself to him completely. The air hit your wet cunt, and you saw his eyes darken, his pupils swallowing the irises.

He didn't touch you right away.

“Please, Choso...”

Instead, he lowered his head, his breath ghosting over your inner thigh. He kissed a path from your knee inward, slow and deliberate, teasing, until his mouth hovered just above your pussy. His tongue darted out, tracing the seam of your lips, and you gasped, your hips jerking.

“Mhm...”

“You taste so fucking good,” he rasped, and then he dove in.

His tongue was broad and flat, licking a long stripe from your entrance to your clit. He circled the sensitive nub, applying just enough pressure to make your toes curl, before sucking it between his lips.

You cried out, your hands fisting the sheets, your back arching off the mattress.

“Ohh... Fuck—more...”

He didn't let up.

He ate you like a man starved, his tongue fucking into you, his nose grinding against your clit, his fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs to keep you spread open.

“Ahh—yes... Yes...”

The sounds—wet, sloppy, obscene—filled the room, mixing with the heavy bass of the music and your own ragged breaths. He pulled back only to spit onto your cunt, then used his fingers to smear the saliva around before sliding two digits inside you. You were so wet that they sank into the knuckle with no resistance.

“Fuck, Choso—”

“Hmm, take it,” he growled, curling his fingers against that sweet spot inside you, making your vision blur. “I want to feel you cum on my fingers before I fuck you.”

“Baby—ngh...”

His thumb pressed against your clit, and his fingers pumped faster, harder, the wet squelch of your arousal echoing off the walls. You were close already—too close—the coil tightening in your belly. He felt it, felt the flutter of your walls around his fingers.

“Cum,” he commanded. “Now.”

And you did.

You shattered, your orgasm ripping through you with a force that left you gasping, your body convulsing against his hand. He worked you through it, slowing his pace but not stopping until your hips stopped twitching.

“Ahm... Shit...”

He withdrew his fingers, slick and glistening, and brought them to his lips. He sucked them clean, never breaking eye contact.

“Delicious,” he murmured.

Then he grabbed your hips, flipped you onto your stomach, and yanked your ass up into the air. You heard the crinkle of foil—thank god he had the presence of mind for a condom—and then the blunt pressure of his cock against your soaked entrance.

“Ready?” he asked, but he didn't wait for an answer.

He thrusted.

The first push buried him to the hilt, and both of you groaned in unison. He was thick, stretching you in a way that bordered on pain but melted into pure pleasure a second later. He didn't give you time to adjust. He pulled back and slammed into you again, harder, the sound of skin slapping skin sharp and wet.

“Fuck me, please...”

“Baby, you feel so good...” he hissed, his hand coming down on your ass with a sharp slap. The sting bloomed across your skin, and you pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts. “Yeah, like that—take it, take all of it.”

He fucked you rough, animalistic, his rhythm erratic and desperate. His hands gripped your hips hard enough to leave bruises, his fingers digging into the soft flesh as he pounded into you. The bed creaked beneath you, the headboard knocking against the wall. Sweat dripped from his forehead onto your back, and his breathing grew ragged, punctuated by grunts and curses.

He leaned forward, pressing his chest against your spine, his mouth at your ear.

“Ahh—ahh... Harder...”

“Look at us...” he panted. “Look at this mess.”

He reached around, fingers finding your clit again, rubbing in circles as he fucked you from behind. The dual stimulation was too much. Your arms gave out, and you collapsed onto the mattress, your face buried in the sheets, your ass still raised for him. He didn't miss a beat—just adjusted his angle and kept going, deeper now, hitting that spot that made you see stars.

“Ohh... Choso... Yes...”

“Cum again...” he growled, his voice breaking. “Cum on my cock. I want to feel you squeeze me...”

You couldn't hold back.

The second orgasm crashed over you, harder than the first, your walls clenching around him in rhythmic waves. He groaned, long and low, and you felt his hips stutter, felt his body tense.

“Fuck—I'm gonna—”

He pulled out at the last second, ripping off the condom and stroking himself twice before hot ropes of cum painted across your lower back and ass, spilling onto the sheets beneath you. He kept stroking until every drop was out, then collapsed beside you, breathing hard.

“So fucking good—shit...”

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

The music played on, the LEDs cycled through their colors, and the only sound was your labored breathing.

Then Choso rolled onto his side, pulling you into his arms, his cum still cooling on your skin. He kissed the back of your neck, soft and lazy, a stark contrast to the violence of moments before.

“That was…” he started, but words failed him.

You chuckled, burying your face in his shoulder as you felt the heavy, satisfied rise and fall of his chest.

​Choso tightened his arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest, his thumb idly stroking your hip. He looked down at you through hooded eyes, the neon purple light catching the sharp, dark line across the bridge of his nose. A slow, bruising smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

“You really bring out the wild side in me.”

© 2026 faeloresha. All content is owned by @faeloresha. Do not repost, edit, translate, or copy in any form across any platform.

[faeloresha]

Fool’s Gold and Velvet Ribbons

╰─ Gojo Satoru x f!reader

In a court built on rigid tradition and cold diplomacy, Crown Prince Gojo Satoru is expected to be a flawless, untouchable sovereign. The only person who dares to shatter his pristine mask is the royal court jester. When an official betrothal ball threatens to seal Satoru's fate in a political marriage, a late-night confrontation in the throne room blurs the lines between royal duty and beautiful, chaotic madness.

content: Light angst, brief mentions of arranged marriage tropes, canonical Gojo arrogance, mutual pining, heavy fluff, and chaotic romantic tension.

word count: 2,394

song: She's Crazy But She's Mine by Alex Sparrow

masterlist ୧₊˚ playlist

The Grand Hall of the Solis Empire was a suffocating sea of white silk, gold embroidery, and the stifling perfume of high-society desperation. Tonight was the Crown Prince’s Betrothal Gala—a formal exhibition where the continent’s most eligible noblewomen paraded themselves before the throne, hoping to catch the eye of the empire's ultimate prize.

At the center of it all sat Crown Prince Gojo Satoru.

He looked exactly as a future emperor was meant to look: breathtaking, untouchable, and profoundly bored. He wore a high-collared coat of midnight blue, heavily weighted with gold braided epaulets and a cascading white cape that pooled elegantly over the side of his velvet throne. His silver hair was swept back with immaculate precision, and his eyes—those striking, limitless blue eyes that poets wrote entire epics about—were half-lidded, tracking the crowd with a cold, detached amusement.

To the lords and ladies curtsying until their knees ached, he was a god in human form.

To you, he was just an oversized child who couldn't sleep without a specific brand of imported sugar plums.

You stood a few paces to the left of the dais, leaning casually against a marble pillar that cost more than your ancestral village. As the official Court Jester, your attire was a sharp, chaotic contrast to the monochrome elegance of the nobility. Your tunic was divided into asymmetrical panels of deep crimson and midnight black, the hemlines jagged and adorned with tiny, polished brass bells that chimed with your every breath. Your face was painted with sharp, dramatic geometric lines that accentuated your eyes, giving you an expression of perpetual, mocking glee.

While the rest of the court walked on eggshells around the prince, fearing the devastating weight of his political authority, your entire job description was to make fun of him.

A particularly pompous Duke from the northern territories stepped forward, bowing so low his nose nearly brushed the polished floorboards. He began a grueling, ten-minute monologue about his daughter’s impeccable lineage, her mastery of the harp, and her deep devotion to the crown.

Satoru didn't even look at the girl. Instead, his gaze flicked lazily to the left, catching your eye behind his opaque silk blindfold—a garment he wore to temper the sensory overload of his inherited magic, though he had raised it just enough tonight to let his eyes pierce through the room.

He let out a long, theatrical sigh, his head tilting back against the throne. He caught your gaze, his fingers subtly tapping a rhythm against the gold armrest.

‘Save me,’ his expression pleaded, though his lips remained set in a practiced, regal line. ‘If I have to listen to one more speech about a harp, I’m going to exile this entire family.’

You smirked, shifting your weight. With a dramatic flourish, you stepped out from the shadows of the pillar. The brass bells on your boots jingled loudly, instantly cutting through the Duke’s monotonous speech. The entire hall went dead silent. Infringing on a noble's audience with the prince was a punishable offense for anyone—except the fool.

“Ah, Your Imperial Highness!” you cried out, your voice carrying perfectly across the vaulted ceilings. You threw your hands in the air, your silk ribbons fluttering. “Forgive my intrusion, but the sheer weight of the Lady’s virtue is causing the very foundations of the palace to groan! Either that, or the Duke’s corset is laced so tightly his lungs are about to surrender to the gods!”

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd. The Duke’s face turned a spectacular shade of plum.

“How dare you—” the Duke began, his voice trembling with outrage.

But before he could demand your head on a spike, a rich, booming sound echoed from the dais. Satoru was laughing. It wasn't the polite, measured chuckle he gave to foreign ambassadors; it was a genuine, chest-deep laugh that threw his head back and sent his silver bangs falling into his face.

“Now, now,” Satoru said, his voice dripping with smooth, unbothered arrogance as he waved a dismissive, gloved hand. “The jester has a point, Duke. Your posture does look terribly strained. Let us spare your lungs further torment. My ministers will review your proposal.”

The Duke, thoroughly humiliated but unable to argue with the future ruler of the realm, bowed stiffly and dragged his red-faced daughter back into the crowd.

As they retreated, Satoru shot you a brilliant, blinding grin over the top of his high collar. He mouthed two words to you: ‘Thank you.’

You merely tipped your three-pointed jester's hat, the brass bells ringing in a small, mocking salute.

‘She was crazy,’ the court whispered.

A mad little creature allowed too much freedom in the presence of royalty. But as Satoru’s gaze lingered on you, completely ignoring the next duchess stepping up to the altar, it was blindingly clear to anyone paying attention: ‘she was crazy, but she was his.’

By the time the moon reached its zenith, the grand gala had degenerated into a blurry haze of drunk aristocrats and hushed political scheming. Satoru had slipped away under the guise of an ‘urgent council matter,’ a classic lie his advisers could do nothing to dispute.

You had retired to the empty throne room hours later, having stripped off the heavy, bell-laden jester's coat, leaving you in your simple black undershirt and trousers. The makeup was still partially painted on your face—sharp diamond shapes over your eyelids and a dark tint on your lips—giving you the appearance of a fragmented porcelain doll in the moonlight.

The throne room was massive, cast in deep shadows and illuminated only by the silver beams pouring through the stained-glass windows.

“You know, it's treason to sit on that,” a voice smooth as velvet echoed from the darkness near the balcony.

You didn't jump.

You were far too used to his sudden appearances.

Turning your head, you looked up at the dais. Satoru was leaning against the side of his father’s massive gold throne. He had discarded his formal cape and epaulets. His white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, the cuffs rolled up to his elbows to reveal his pale, scarred forearms. The blindfold was completely gone, leaving his eyes wide and glowing in the dark like twin stars.

“Then call the guards, Your Highness,” you scoffed softly, leaning back against the plush velvet of the Crown Prince's chair, swinging your legs over the armrest with a complete lack of decorum. “Let them drag the poor, mad fool away. I'm sure the court would love the entertainment.”

Satoru chuckled, stepping out of the shadows. He didn't look like a prince right now; he looked like a ghost, his pale hair shimmering in the moonlight. He walked up the steps of the dais with a slow, deliberate grace, his boots making no sound against the marble.

“They wouldn't dare touch you,” Satoru murmured, stopping right in front of the throne. He leaned down, placing his hands on both armrests, effectively trapping you between his broad shoulders. The scent of expensive cologne, cedarwood, and sweet wine washed over you. “Mainly because I’d turn anyone who laid a finger on you into fine dust. But also because you’re the only source of sanity I have left in this miserable place.”

“Sanity?” You raised an eyebrow, looking directly into the endless blue of his eyes. “Satoru, I am paid to wear bells and juggle fruit. I am literally certified insane by royal decree.”

“Exactly,” he whispered, a sharp, crooked smile spreading across his lips. It was the smile of a man who knew he held the world in his palm, yet only wanted the one thing he wasn't supposed to have. “The rest of them fake their smiles and hide their daggers behind polite nods. They’re the crazy ones. You? You look at me and see a man, not a crown.”

He reached up, his long, gloved fingers gently tracing the painted diamond over your right eye. His touch was incredibly light, almost hesitant, a stark contrast to the overwhelming power he possessed.

“They chose a bride for me tonight,” Satoru said softly, his tone shifting into something heavier, darker. The playful prince vanished, replaced by the prisoner of the state. “Lady Utahime of the Southern Houses. It’s a perfect political alliance. The elders are ecstatic.”

Your chest tightened, a cold weight dropping into your stomach. You kept your face perfectly still, drawing on years of theatrical training to hide the sudden ache in your heart.

A jester did not weep.

A jester did not fall in love with the prince.

That was a tragedy meant for a different kind of play.

“She is beautiful,” you said, your voice remarkably steady. “And very clever. She will make a fine empress, Satoru.”

Satoru’s eyes narrowed, a flash of irritation crossing his handsome features. He didn't like your composure. He wanted you to fight. He wanted you to break the rules, just like you always did.

“I don't care about a fine empress,” he snapped softly, his face dipping closer to yours, his breath fanning across your lips. “I want a menace. I want someone who mocks my ministers, who sneaks into the kitchens to steal sugar plums with me at midnight, and who looks at a room full of lords and calls them idiots to their faces.”

“Satoru...” you breathed, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. “You are the Crown Prince. You have a duty.”

“Screw my duty,” he muttered, his gaze dropping to your lips.

Before you could utter another word of reason, Satoru grabbed your waist and hoisted you off the throne in one fluid, effortless motion. You let out a sharp gasp, your hands flying up to grip his broad shoulders for balance. Instead of setting you on your feet, he spun you around, his laughter echoing through the empty, cavernous room.

“Satoru! Put me down, you absolute lunatic!” you hissed, though a breathless laugh escaped your lips.

“No,” he grinned, his eyes sparkling with a wild, dangerous energy. He slowed his spinning but kept you held tightly against his chest, your bodies flushed together in the moonlight. “If I am to be bound by gold chains for the rest of my life, then tonight, I am going to dance with my fool.”

He didn't wait for your permission.

He began to move, guiding you through a grand, sweeping waltz across the polished marble floor of the throne room. There was no orchestra, no music—only the rhythmic clicking of his boots and the faint, residual chime of the single brass bell still tied to your wrist.

But in your head, a frantic, upbeat rhythm was playing.

A melody of absolute chaos and undeniable attraction.

Satoru moved with impossible grace, his large hand resting firmly on the small of your back, guiding you through turns that made your head spin. He was looking down at you with an expression that no king should ever wear for a commoner—an expression of pure, unadulterated adoration.

“Look at you,” he teased, his voice dropping to a gravelly, intimate register as he spun you beneath his arm and pulled you sharply back against his chest. “No shoes, half-washed paint, and completely reckless. You’re entirely out of your mind.”

“And you're the one dancing with me,” you retorted, your fingers gripping the lapels of his midnight-blue coat. “What does that say about you, Your Highness?”

“It means I'm completely helpless,” he whispered.

The playfulness vanished from his face, replaced by a raw, burning intensity that made your breath hitch. Satoru stopped his movement, trapping you against one of the massive marble pillars. He leaned his weight against it, shadowing you completely from the moonlight.

His gloved hand came up to cup your jaw, his thumb wiping away a streak of the dark paint on your lip.

“Let them marry me to whoever they want,” Satoru murmured, his voice laced with a terrifying possessiveness that sent a shiver down your spine. “They can have the prince. They can have the titles, the land, and the political alliances. But Satoru? Satoru belongs right here.”

“You're playing a dangerous game,” you whispered, your hands sliding up to frame his neck, your fingers tangling in the soft silk of his white hair. “If anyone sees us...”

“Let them look,” he growled softly. “Let them see that the greatest sorcerer in the empire is completely brought to his knees by a girl with bells in her hair.”

He leaned down, closing the remaining distance between you.

The kiss was not royal, nor was it polite.

It was a chaotic, brilliant collision of hidden desires and months of stifled longing. Satoru kissed you with a desperate hunger, his lips moving against yours with a fierce intensity that stole the air from your lungs. He pulled you higher against him, his arms locking around your waist as if he were trying to fuse your soul into his own.

You melted into him, throwing all caution to the wind.

For tonight, there was no court, no political marriages, no boundaries of class and crown. There was only the heat of his mouth, the solid weight of his body against yours, and the beautiful, intoxicating madness of loving Gojo Satoru.

When he finally pulled back, his chest was heaving, his blue eyes blown out and dark with passion. A strand of your dark hair was caught on his damp lips, and the paint on your face was beautifully ruined, smeared across his cheek like a badge of honor.

He looked at his own reflection in your eyes, a breathless, triumphant smile stretching across his face.

“See?” Satoru whispered, pressing his forehead against yours, his thumb tracing your cheekbone. “Completely crazy. Both of us.”

“You are more than me,” you breathlessly replied, a genuine, radiant smile breaking through your ruined makeup.

He laughed, a bright, beautiful sound that filled the empty throne room, banishing the cold solemnity of the palace. He might wear a crown tomorrow, but tonight, he was just a boy, utterly ruined and entirely captivated by his magnificent, chaotic fool. And as he pulled you back into another deep, lingering kiss, you knew that no matter what the future held, the Crown Prince would always belong to you.

A breathless chuckle escaped his lips against yours, murmuring, “She's crazy, but she's mine.”

© 2026 faeloresha. All content is owned by @faeloresha. Do not repost, edit, translate, or copy in any form across any platform.

A/N: hmm, what about Jester Gojo Satoru..?

[faeloresha]

Caught in the Act

╰─ Geto Suguru x f!reader

The heavy silence of the apartment was supposed to be your safety net. With Geto Suguru away—or so you thought—the living room became your sanctuary, a place where you could finally let go of the rigid restraint you maintained around him every single day.

content: Explicit sexual content (smut), graphic detail, masturbation, voyeurism, rough sex, fingering, toy play, size kink, dirty talk.

word count: 1,091

song: Genie In A Bottle by Christina Aguilera

masterlist ୧₊˚ playlist

You sprawled naked across the couch cushions, legs spread wide, the cool air kissing every inch of your exposed skin. Your nipples had already tightened into stiff peaks from the chill and the filthy thoughts running through your head.

In one hand you clutched your thick silicone dildo, the one you had bought because it reminded you of him—long, veined, with a slight curve that promised to hit deep. In the other you held your small bullet vibrator, already buzzing low against your clit.

“Fuck, Suguru…” you breathed, dragging the fat head of the dildo through your slick folds.

You were soaked, had been since the moment you pictured his long black hair falling over his shoulders while he pinned you down. You circled your entrance with the toy, teasing yourself the way you imagined he would, then pushed the head inside. Your pussy clenched greedily, sucking the silicone deeper as you moaned his name again.

“Ahh... Yes, Suguru...”

The living room was quiet except for the wet sounds of the toy sliding in and out of you and the soft hum of the vibrator. You didn’t bother keeping your voice down; you thought he had left for the evening. Your hips rolled up to meet each thrust, chasing that perfect angle that made your thighs shake.

From the hallway, Geto Suguru stood frozen, one hand braced against the wall, the other pressing hard against the growing bulge in his sweats. He had only stepped out to grab his phone from the kitchen counter. Instead he would walked straight into the sound of your desperate whimpers and the obscene squelch of silicone stretching your cunt.

Every filthy moan of his name went straight to his cock.

“Mhm—shit... Ohh...”

He listened for another minute—heard you gasp when you shoved the toy deeper, heard the wet slap of your palm against your clit as you worked the vibrator faster.

His restraint snapped.

The floorboards creaked under his sudden weight. Your eyes flew open just as strong hands grabbed your waist and hauled you up like you weighed nothing. The dildo slipped free with a wet pop, leaving your pussy empty and fluttering.

Suguru’s dark eyes burned down at you, hair loose, jaw tight.

“Couldn’t fucking wait, could you?” he growled, voice low and rough. “Moaning my name while you fuck yourself on that toy like a desperate little slut.”

Before you could answer he slung you over his shoulder, one large palm gripping your bare ass. You yelped, legs kicking uselessly as he carried you down the short hallway to his bedroom. The door slammed behind him. He dropped you onto his bed, and the mattress bounced under your naked body.

Suguru stripped fast—shirt gone, sweats shoved down, cock springing free, thick and flushed dark at the tip, already leaking. He was bigger than your toy, longer, veins pulsing along the shaft. Your mouth watered even as your pussy clenched around nothing.

He climbed onto the bed, grabbed your ankles and yanked you down until your ass hung off the edge. Two thick fingers shoved straight into your soaked cunt without warning, scissoring you open.

You cried out, back arching.

“Suguru!”

“Already dripping,” he muttered, pumping his fingers hard and fast. Wet sounds filled the room. “This pussy’s been waiting for me, hasn’t it? Not that plastic shit you were using.”

“Ahh... Please...”

He pulled his fingers free, sucked them clean, then lined his cock up. The blunt head pressed against your entrance, stretching you wider than the toy ever had. He didn’t ease in—he drove forward in one brutal thrust, burying every inch inside you until his hips met your ass.

Your scream cracked into a broken moan. Suguru’s hand clamped over your mouth.

“Keep it down or the neighbors will hear how loud you get when you’re actually getting fucked.”

He pulled back and slammed in again, setting a punishing rhythm that made the headboard slam against the wall. Each thrust punched the air from your lungs and forced another wet squelch from your cunt. Your juices coated his cock and dripped down your crack onto the sheets.

He hooked your knees over his elbows, folding you nearly in half so he could pound deeper. The new angle made his cock drag across that spongy spot inside you with every stroke.

Your vision blurred.

You clawed at his shoulders, nails leaving red lines.

“Fuck—Suguru... Too deep...”

“Take it,” he snarled, sweat dripping from his hair onto your chest. “You wanted this. Been thinking about my cock while you played with yourself out there. Now you’re gonna take every inch until I fill you up.”

He reached between your bodies and rubbed your swollen clit with his thumb in tight circles. Your orgasm crashed over you fast and hard. Your pussy spasmed around his thick shaft, milking him, gushing around his cock.

Suguru groaned, pace faltering for only a second before he fucked you through it, chasing his own release.

When he came he buried himself to the hilt and stayed there, cock pulsing as thick ropes of cum flooded your cunt. You felt every hot spurt, felt it leak out around his shaft and trickle down your ass. He didn’t pull out right away. Instead he rocked his hips in shallow thrusts, pushing his cum deeper while you whimpered beneath him.

“Ohh... Yes—fuck...”

Finally he eased out.

A thick strand of cum followed, connecting his cock to your puffy, used hole. Suguru watched it for a moment, then scooped some onto his fingers and pushed it back inside you.

“Stay right there,” he ordered, voice still rough.

He disappeared into the bathroom and returned with a warm cloth, cleaning you gently even as his eyes stayed dark with hunger. When he was done he climbed back onto the bed and pulled you against his chest, one hand possessively cupping your ass.

“Next time,” he murmured against your hair, “you don’t use the toy. You come find me.”

You shivered, already feeling his cock twitch against your thigh again.

“Or maybe,” you whispered back, “I’ll just be louder next time so you come find me faster.”

Suguru’s answering growl vibrated through your body as he rolled you beneath him once more, already hard and ready to prove he could fuck you better than any toy ever could.

“Careful what you wish for,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your ear as he gripped your hips, “because you don't get to just rub a genie in a bottle to make me appear whenever you're lonely.”

© 2026 faeloresha. All content is owned by @faeloresha. Do not repost, edit, translate, or copy in any form across any platform.

[faeloresha]

Riding the Judge

╰─ Higuruma Hiromi x f!reader

Exhausted after a grueling case, Hiromi returns home to find you waiting. Seeking a complete escape from the stress of his work, you pull him onto the bed and consume his attention entirely, grounding him in the intense, physical heat of the moment as you lose yourself in pleasure over and over again.

content: Explicit sexual content (smut), oral sex (female receiving), face-sitting, nose-riding, multiple orgasms, passive Hiromi, dirty talks.

word count: 1,401

song: Girl You Loud by Chris Brown (ft. Tyga)

masterlist ୧₊˚ playlist

The door clicked shut and the sound of his briefcase hitting the floor echoed through the quiet space. A heavy thud followed, then the rustle of fabric as he shrugged off his coat.

Higuruma Hiromi didn't announce himself.

He never did.

He just appeared in the bedroom doorway, tie loosened, sleeves rolled to his elbows, dark eyes already tracking you from head to toe.

You were lying on the bed, propped against the headboard, naked.

You had been waiting.

He didn't ask any questions. He crossed the room, climbed onto the mattress, and settled on his back with his head on the pillow, looking up at you with that half-lidded, patient expression he usually saved for the most interesting cross-examinations. His hands lay slack at his sides, waiting for them to take what they wanted.

You climbed over him without a word. Your knees sank into the mattress on either side of his head, and you hovered, feeling the warmth radiating from his face. His breath ghosted across your thighs, slow and even. He blinked once, long lashes brushing his cheeks, and the corner of his mouth twitched.

“You’ve had a long day,” you said, more statement than question.

“Mhm.” He tilted his chin up, offering himself. “And you’re going to make it better, darling.”

You lowered yourself slowly, deliberately. The first point of contact was the tip of his nose pressing between your folds, still dry, still cool. You paused there, letting him feel the shape of you against him. His nostrils flared, taking in your scent, and his tongue darted out to wet his lower lip. You rocked forward an inch, and his nose slid deeper, settling against your clit.

Then you started to move.

Slow, grinding circles dragged your pussy across the bridge of his nose. The sensation was immediate—firm cartilage pressing into your most sensitive spot, rubbing exactly where you needed it. His face was slick within seconds, your arousal coating his skin in a thin, glossy layer. He breathed through his mouth, warm air puffing against your labia, and you felt the vibration of a low hum in his chest.

“Hiromi...”

His hands came up to rest on your thighs, thumbs stroking the insides, not guiding, just touching. Holding you steady without impeding your rhythm.

You picked up the pace, rolling your hips in short, tight motions that mashed your clit against him again and again. The wet sounds started—soft, sticky, obscene—filling the quiet room. Each pass of your cunt over his nose left a trail of slick that glistened in the dim light.

“Mhm... Fuck...”

You could feel yourself getting wetter, hotter, the glide becoming smoother with every rotation.

Higuruma’s tongue flicked out, dragging along your entrance when you tilted forward enough. He licked a long, slow stripe up to your clit, then back down, tasting you while you kept grinding. The combined sensation of his nose against your nub and his tongue teasing your opening sent a shiver through you.

“Ahh—yes... Yes...”

Your hips stuttered, and his hands tightened, holding you in place.

“Don’t stop,” he murmured against your skin, the words muffled but clear.

You didn’t.

You ground harder, dropping your weight onto his face until your pussy was pressed flush against him, smothering him. His nose dented into your flesh, his lips brushed your inner thighs. You rolled your hips in desperate, frantic circles, chasing the pressure that was building low in your belly. Your thighs started to quiver.

Your breath came in short, sharp gasps.

“Ohh... Fuck—yes...”

He flicked his tongue again, quick and precise, right at your entrance, and that was enough.

You came with a sharp cry, your whole body tensing as waves of pleasure crashed through you. Your cunt pulsed against his nose, hot liquid gushing out, soaking his upper lip and cheeks. He groaned beneath you, the sound vibrating through your sensitive flesh, and his fingers dug into your thighs.

“Hiromi... Baby... Ngh...”

You kept moving through the orgasm, grinding slow and sloppy, drawing out every last shudder until your legs gave out and you had to brace yourself on the headboard.

When you lifted off him, his face was a mess. Your slick coated his nose, his lips, his chin, pooling in the hollow of his throat. He licked his lips slowly, eyes dark and hungry, and then his hands were guiding you back down.

“Again,” he said, his voice rough.

You settled over him once more, this time angling forward so the tip of his nose pressed directly against your clit from the start—no preamble, no teasing. You started grinding immediately, short, fast circles that made your breath catch. His tongue found your entrance and pushed inside, curling against your walls while you rode his face.

The double sensation was overwhelming: the firm pressure of his nose on your clit, the wet warmth of his tongue fucking you.

“Ahh... Shit, baby...”

Your second orgasm built fast.

You could feel it coiling tight, tightening like a spring, and when you came it hit you like a wave, your cunt clenching around his tongue, your slick flooding his mouth. He lapped it up greedily, never stopping, his nose still rubbing against your clit even as you shook above him.

“Fuck—ahh...”

You collapsed forward, palms flat on the mattress beside his head, and ground through the aftershocks. His tongue kept moving, licking and sucking at your entrance, cleaning you while you continued to ride.

The sound of your wetness was louder now, a constant, rhythmic wetness.

When the sensitivity became too much, you lifted off again. His face was glistening, utterly drenched, your arousal dripping down his jaw and onto the pillow. He didn’t wipe it off. He just looked at you, that same patient, hungry gaze, and waited.

“You’re not done, love,” he said. It was not a question.

You shook your head, already lowering yourself again.

This time you took it slower.

You settled over his face, letting his nose nestle between your folds, and started a lazy, rolling grind. You savoured the sensation of cartilage sliding against your clit, the way his breath hitched when you pressed down harder. His hands slipped to your ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh, guiding your movements in long, circular sweeps.

“Baby... So good—mhm…”

The wetness was constant now—your pussy was slick and dripping, coating his face with every pass. You could feel yourself getting close again, the pleasure building in slow, heavy waves. You tilted your hips, changing the angle, and the tip of his nose caught your clit just right. You gasped, hips stuttering, and he groaned against you, the vibration pushing you closer.

“Ahh—ngh... Ahh…”

You came with a low moan, your body shuddering as your cunt pulsed against his face.

This one was deeper, more drawn out, your slick gushing out in a hot rush that dribbled down his chin and pooled in the hollow of your collarbone. He lapped at you through it, tongue sweeping through your folds, catching every drop.

You didn't stop.

You kept moving, grinding through the orgasm and into the next buildup. Your hips moved in tight, focused circles, clit grinding against his nose with desperate precision. He was completely passive now, letting you use him, only occasionally flicking his tongue against your entrance to spur you on.

“Please… I'm close…”

You lost count of how many times you came. Each orgasm bled into the next, your body trembling and oversensitive, but you couldn’t stop. The feeling of his nose buried in your cunt, the slick friction, the sounds of your wetness filling the room—it was addictive. You ground harder, faster, chasing the next peak.

When you finally lifted off him for good, your thighs were shaking so badly you could barely support yourself. Higuruma’s face was completely drenched—your slick covered his nose, lips, cheeks, and jaw, dripping onto the pillow in gleaming rivulets. He opened his eyes slowly, dark and satisfied, and licked his lips.

“Better now?” he asked, his voice rough and low.

You nodded, breathless, and slid down his body to curl against his side. He turned his head to look at you, a lazy smile spreading across his slick mouth.

“Good,” he said, brushing a stray hair from your forehead as his smile widened slightly. “Because I’m not done with you yet—and girl, you were loud tonight.”

© 2026 faeloresha. All content is owned by @faeloresha. Do not repost, edit, translate, or copy in any form across any platform.

[faeloresha]

Half-line of Promises • three

╰─ Zenin Naoya x f!reader

Three years after leaving the penthouse, a rainy afternoon brings the reader face-to-face with the past. After a bittersweet coffee date with Maki Zen'in regarding an upcoming wedding, the reader is left waiting out a sudden downpour, only for a familiar silhouette to alter the landscape of the afternoon.

content: Heavy lingering angst, processing of long-term relationship stasis, emotional growth, and bitter-clean closure.

word count: 2,552

song: Thru These Tears by LANY

series

It took precisely eighteen months for the smell of expensive cedarwood to stop making you feel like you were suffocating.

Healing from a seven-year lease on your youth wasn't a sudden, cinematic breakthrough. It was a slow, mechanical process of re-calibration. It was buying groceries for one without feeling a sharp, phantom pang of guilt at the checkout counter. It was leaving the television on for background noise until the silence of a smaller, cheaper apartment stopped sounding like an ultimatum.

Three years later, the city was exactly the same, but the way you moved through it had changed entirely.

The cafe down the block from your new creative agency was small, smelling of roasted hazelnut, damp wood, and the bitter, comforting oil of fresh espresso. It was a stark contrast to the sterile, high-end establishments Naoya used to frequent—places where the waiters bowed too low and the menus didn't feature prices. Here, the floorboards creaked under the weight of wet boots, and the windows were perpetually misted by the heat of the kitchen and the cold rain outside.

You sat by the glass, a half-empty matcha latte cooling between your palms.

Today, you wore a deep forest-green trench—a color that belonged entirely to your own palette, chosen simply because you liked the way it felt against your skin. Your hair was shorter, cut into a low-maintenance style that danced in the damp breeze. On your right middle finger, a simple silver band caught the dim light of the cafe's Edison bulbs.

It wasn't a promise to anyone else.

It was just a heavy piece of metal to remind you that your hands belonged to you now.

“You're staring into space again,” a sharp, familiar voice cracked across the table.

You blinked, pulling your gaze away from the rain-streaked window to look at Zenin Maki.

Maki looked incredible.

The three years had treated her with a fierce, blooming kindness. Her dark hair was pulled back into a sleek, efficient twist, and she wore a tailored linen blazer that completely ignored the traditional, stifling aesthetics of the family she had effectively detached herself from. On the table between you lay a heavy, cream-colored envelope with gold wax sealing the back.

“Sorry,” you said, offering a soft, genuine smile. “Just watching the downpour. It caught me without an umbrella today.”

Maki snorted, taking a slow sip of her black coffee. She tapped her index finger against the elegant envelope. “Don't change the subject. I didn't drag you down from your office just to give you premium cardstock. Are you coming or not?”

You reached out, your fingers tracing the elegant embossed lettering of the wedding invitation.

Maki and Yuta.

It felt real.

It felt earned.

It was a monument to a love that didn't require secrecy or five-year negotiations.

“Of course I'm coming,” you murmured, looking up at her. “I wouldn't miss it for the world, Maki. I’m incredibly happy for you.”

Maki’s expression softened, the sharp, defensive edge she usually carried around her shoulders dropping just a fraction. She leaned back in her chair, her dark eyes evaluating you with a quiet, analytical precision.

“I was worried it might be... weird for you,” Maki admitted, her voice dropping into a rarer, gentler register. “With the family name on the registry. Even if I don't use their money, the politics of it are still a headache. And I know what seven years of that name did to you.”

You shook your head, the silver band on your finger catching the light. “Naoya is his own entity, Maki. You aren't your family. You never were. Your wedding is about a partnership. It’s about a real future.”

Maki paused, her fingers wrapping around her mug. She looked out the window for a brief second before locking her eyes back onto yours. “And what about your plans? I know it’s been three years since you broke the lease on that glass cage downtown. Are you... thinking about it? Marriage, I mean. With anyone else?”

The question didn't sting the way it used to.

It didn't send a wave of hot panic through your chest or make you feel like a failure for being thirty-four and single.

“I think about it sometimes,” you said honestly, your voice steady and light. “But my perspective changed. For seven years, I thought marriage was the prize at the end of a long, exhausting race. I thought it was the only thing that would make me visible to the person I loved. Now? I realize a ring doesn't create security. If I ever do it, it won't be because I’ve been waiting for someone to finally choose me. It’ll be because we’ve already chosen each other, completely out in the open.”

Maki watched you for a long moment, a slow, proud smile spreading across her face. She reached across the table, her calloused hand giving your wrist a brief, firm squeeze. “Good. You were always too large for that penthouse anyway.”

She glanced at her watch, letting out a sharp sigh as she gathered her coat. “I have to run. Yuta is meeting me at the caterer's across town, and if I’m late, he’ll try to accommodate their ridiculous upcharges just to be polite. You're going to be okay getting back to the office?”

“I'll wait out the rain for a few minutes,” you said, gesturing to the gray sheets of water slamming against the pavement outside. “Go. Don't let the caterers rob him.”

With a final wave and a promise to text you the details for the dress fittings, Maki stepped out into the afternoon, her umbrella snapping open with a crisp, efficient movement as she dissolved into the pedestrian traffic.

The cafe grew quieter after she left. In the background, from the hidden speakers near the espresso machine, a familiar synth-pop melody began to drift through the warm air. The rhythm was a steady, pulsing heartbeat, accompanied by a vulnerable, aching vocal line.

You listened to the lyrics with a faint, distant smile. Two years ago, a song would have made you change the radio station in a panic. Now, it just felt like an old friend recounting a story you both used to know by heart.

You had survived a hundred sleepless nights.

You had made it to the other side of the rain.

You picked up your paper bag containing two new poetry volumes and a small tin of jasmine tea, tucked it under your arm, and stepped out onto the narrow pavement beneath the green canvas awning.

The storm had intensified.

The rain was coming down in thick, vertical sheets, blurring the corporate high-rises down the avenue into long, gray monoliths. The wind was cool, blowing fine mist against the hem of your green trench coat. You pulled your collar up, leaning your back against the brick wall of the coffee shop, deciding to give the weather five more minutes before you gave up and ran the three blocks back to your agency.

Then, the light changed.

The ambient gray glow of the afternoon was suddenly obscured as a tall, broad silhouette hovered over you, blocking out the spray of the wind.

You didn't look up immediately, assuming it was a hurried commuter trying to share the shelter of the small awning. But the person didn't move past. They simply stopped, standing exactly two paces away, their shadow falling heavy and absolute across your boots.

You raised your eyes.

The man standing before you didn't have an umbrella. He was completely drenched, the expensive charcoal cashmere of his coat heavy and dark with rainwater. His blonde hair—now styled slightly softer but still maintaining those sharp, dark roots—was plastered against his forehead, water droplets tracing the sharp, geometric lines of his jawline and dripping onto his collar.

Naoya.

The universe didn't halt its rotation.

The synth music from the cafe didn't swell into a dramatic crescendo. The world simply kept moving, indifferent to the fact that eighty-four months of history had just collided on a wet sidewalk down a random commercial block.

He froze, his pale, sharp eyes locking onto your face. For a fraction of a second, that absolute, terrifying stillness came over him—the exact body language he used when a business acquisition didn't go according to plan, or when a variable entered his field of vision that he hadn't accounted for in his spreadsheets.

You didn't look away.

You didn't drop your gaze to the pavement, and you didn't feel the sudden, erratic thumping of your heart against your ribs. Your chest remained steady. The air in your lungs felt clean.

“You're still in Tokyo,” he said.

His voice was a time capsule.

It carried the exact same smooth, patronizing cadence that used to dictate the boundaries of your life, but it was slightly breathless from the weather. Hearing it now, removed from the sterile luxury of the penthouse, you realized something that the tears had hidden from you for seven years: it wasn't the voice of a superior.

It was just the voice of a man who looked completely out of his depth in a common downpour.

“I am,” you said, your tone clear and even. It didn't shake. “My new office is just three blocks from here.”

Naoya’s eyes tracked down your profile, his gaze lingering on the green coat, the paper bag, and finally, the silver ring on your right middle finger. A subtle twitch passed through his jawline—a fraction of an inch of tension that anyone else would have missed, but your memory still held the syntax of his anatomy.

“You look different,” he said, his eyes scanning the shorter cut of your hair. “The green suits you.”

“A lot of things are different, Naoya,” you replied softly.

A silence settled between you, but it lacked the suffocating weight of your final anniversary dinner.

This silence was light, almost transparent. It was the vast, empty space that existed between two people who used to know the exact layout of each other's minds but had now become nothing more than a pair of matching names in an old ledger.

“My father passed away last winter,” Naoya said, water dripping from his chin onto his dark scarf. He delivered the news casually, as if summarizing a quarterly board report, but his fingers were tightly curled into fists inside his pockets. “I took over the primary seat on the executive committee in March. The southern district development is fully operational now. The family estate has been... reorganized.”

“I saw the announcement in the papers,” you said, offering a small, polite nod. “Congratulations. It's exactly what you spent seven years engineering.”

He looked at you for a long, unblinking moment.

In the past, you would have spent the next forty-eight hours decoding that look, trying to figure out if he was lonely, if he was angry, or if he wanted you to ask him to come inside. Now, you just let the look exist. His expressions were his own property; they no longer had the power to change the climate of your day.

“I saw Maki step out of here a minute ago,” Naoya said, his voice dropping into a lower, rougher register as the rain continued to beat against the canvas above your heads. “She was holding an envelope. A wedding invitation.”

“Yes,” you said.

“Are you going?”

“Of course I am.”

Naoya let out a short, dry sound that was supposed to be a laugh, but it lacked any of his old, mocking venom. It just sounded tired. “A Zenin wedding. Out in the open. I suppose that's the sort of ‘commitment’ you were always chasing me for.”

The question was designed to find a crack in your armor, a classic negotiation tactic from his old playbook meant to lower your value and justify his past choices. But as the words hung in the damp air, they didn't touch you. They fell flat against the pavement, as meaningless as the water rushing into the storm drains.

You looked past his wet shoulder, watching the cars pass on the avenue, their headlights slicing through the gray mist.

“I won't go to Maki's wedding to find a title, Naoya,” you said, turning your eyes back to his pale, hollow irises. “And I didn't leave you because I was chasing a traditional little family. I left because I realized that for seven years, I was the only one standing at the table. I found myself after I walked out that door. It turns out that was the only commitment I actually needed.”

A small, genuine smile tugged at the corner of your lips.

It wasn't a smile of triumph.

It wasn't meant to mock his drenched appearance or prove that you had won. It was simply the quiet, breathtaking clarity of someone who could finally see through the tears and realize the storm had passed.

Naoya looked at your smile, and for the first time since you had met him at twenty-five, he had absolutely nothing to say. The vocabulary of his privilege failed him completely. There were no corporate clauses to invoke, no financial security to offer as leverage, and no threats of changing the locks that could force you back into the glass cage.

He was thirty-five now.

He had the seat on the board, the multi-million-dollar portfolio, and the absolute authority over his father's legacy. He had built the perfect fortress, completely secure from his family's interference.

But as he stood on a crowded street corner, drenched to the bone while the synth music from the cafe faded into the background, he looked entirely, profoundly solitary.

He was a man who owned everything, yet held absolutely nothing.

“I see,” he said quietly.

He stepped back, moving out from under the slight protection of the awning and back into the vertical sheets of rain. He didn't have an umbrella to open, no mechanical click to seal himself away this time.

He was just a man standing in the weather.

“Take care of yourself,” he said, his leather shoes shifting on the wet concrete.

“You too, Naoya,” you said.

He turned and walked down the avenue, his posture perfectly straight despite the weight of his soaked coat, effortlessly navigating the crowd of ordinary commuters.

He didn't look back.

He wouldn't.

He was a line on a motherboard, moving along a predetermined path toward a destination that required him to be completely alone.

You watched his blonde hair disappear into the gray mist for three seconds—not out of longing, but as a final acknowledgment of a chapter that had completely run out of pages.

The music from the boutique next door changed, a new, lighter rhythm bouncing off the brick walls.

You adjusted the paper bag under your arm, feeling the solid, comforting weight of the books against your ribs. Pulling your green collar up against the damp breeze, you stepped out from under the awning and into the rain. The water was cool against your face, but you didn't hurry.

You walked slowly, deliberately, matching the steady, beautiful pace of a city that was moving forward.

The lease was over, the keys were gone, and the tears had dried.

You walked toward the subway station, entering the crowd, entirely free, entirely clean, and completely your own.

© 2026 faeloresha. All content is owned by @faeloresha. Do not repost, edit, translate, or copy in any form across any platform.

[faeloresha]

Sentence and Submission

╰─ Higuruma Hiromi x f!reader

A slow, hazy morning in Hiromi’s bed transitions from quiet comfort into a deeply intimate, breathless encounter when he pulls you flush against him for a lazy yet intensely possessive side-fuck.

content: Explicit sexual content, explicit language, side-lying position/side fuck, morning breath/morning intimacy, praise, deep penetration.

word count: 1588

song: Drowning by Two Feet

masterlist ୧₊˚ playlist

The early morning light filtered through the heavy drapes of Hiromi’s bedroom, casting long, soft amber geometric patterns across the tangled sheets. It was a rare, unstructured morning. No early court dates, no pressing client briefs, and no alarm to shatter the quiet.

​You woke up slowly, shifting against the mattress, instantly met with the comforting, heavy weight of a broad arm draped securely over your waist. Hiromi was flush against your back, his large frame acting as a shield against the rest of the world. His chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm, his warm breath fanning softly against the nape of your neck. He was still wearing the dark gray boxer briefs he’d slept in, his skin radiating a deep, sleepy warmth that was completely intoxicating.

You shifted slightly, wanting to turn and face him, but the movement caused his grip on your waist to tighten immediately. A low, gravelly rumble vibrated in his chest—a warning that he wasn't ready to let go of his anchor just yet.

“Stay,” he murmured, his voice incredibly deep and thick with sleep, the gravelly edge of it rougher than usual. He buried his face into your hair, inhaling deeply. “Don't move yet.”

“Hiromi,” you whispered, a soft smile touching your lips as you relaxed back into him, your spine curving perfectly against his chest. “We have to get up eventually.”

“Eventually,” he agreed, but his actions completely contradicted the word.

His hand slid down from your waist, his large palm catching the hem of your oversized t-shirt and slowly bunching the fabric upward until it rested at your hips, exposing your bare skin to the cool morning air. His touch was warm, his long fingers trailing light, deliberate strokes over the curve of your hip and down the outer edge of your thigh.

The casual intimacy of it sent a sudden, sharp jolt of heat straight to your core. You were already waking up soft and slightly damp, your body reacting to his proximity before your mind was even fully alert.

Hiromi felt the slight hitch in your breathing. He pulled back just enough to look down at you, his dark eyes heavy-lidded but tracking the sudden flush on your cheek with absolute precision.

A small, knowing smile touched the corner of his lips.

“You're awake,” he noted, his voice dropping into a low, quiet purr that sent a shiver straight down your spine. “And you're already reacting to me.”

He didn't wait for an answer.

Hiromi shifted his weight, sliding one of his long legs between yours, hooking his knee over your thigh to spread you open from behind. The friction of his thick, rigid length—already fully hard from morning arousal—pressed heavily through the thin fabric of his boxers right against the seam of your pussy.

You gasped, your hips automatically tilting back into his heat, silently begging for the barrier to be removed.

“Look at you,” Hiromi murmured, his hand sliding between your thighs to check the evidence. His long fingers parted your slick folds, easily finding the thick, wet cream you were already producing for him. He smeared it over your hyper-sensitive clit with a slow, heavy stroke that had a needy whine escaping your throat. “Completely soaked for me first thing in the morning.”

With a practiced, effortless movement, Hiromi reached down and slid his boxers off, tossing them blindly over the edge of the bed. He returned to you instantly, his bare, burning skin pressing flush against your backside. He didn't lift you or turn you over; he kept you lying on your side, completely bracketed by his weight.

He positioned the thick, blunt head of his cock right at your dripping entrance. He paused there for a agonizing second, letting you feel the sheer size of him, before he pushed forward with a slow, heavy thrust.

“Ahh—Hiromi...” you cried out, your head throwing back against his shoulder as his length slid into your tight, burning channel.

Because of the side-lying angle, the penetration was incredibly deep, his cock hooking perfectly against the sensitive upper wall of your pussy with a tight, full friction that made your vision instantly blur. He buried himself to the absolute root, his lower stomach pressing hard against your ass, trapping you completely.

“Shh, take it easy,” Hiromi guided, his voice a soothing, deep vibration against your ear as he held his hips still inside you, letting your tight walls stretch and adjust to the sudden fullness. He reached forward, his large hand wrapping around your stomach to pull you even tighter against him, his fingers digging into your skin. “Breathing down, love. Let me all the way in.”

You panted, your hands clutching at the sheets beneath you as your inner muscles convulsed around him, milking him frantically.

Once he felt you relax, Hiromi began to move.

The pace of a morning side-fuck was entirely different from the frantic, desperate sex of the night before. It was slow, heavy, and intensely possessive. Hiromi withdrew slowly, pulling almost all the way out until only the head of his cock remained inside your soaking wetness, before plunging back in with a long, deliberate slide. The wet schlick of your combined juices echoed loudly in the quiet room.

“Mhm... Yes...”

“You feel incredible like this,” Hiromi whispered, his composure completely intact but his dark eyes burning with a heavy, primal hunger as he watched the way your body took him. He angled his pelvis slightly, using his upper leg to pin yours down, forcing his cock to rub ruthlessly against your G-spot with every single thrust. “So tight. Squeezing me so perfectly.”

“Hiromi, it's... It's hitting right there,” you gasped, your body twitching as the friction built a blinding, electric heat at your core.

The lazy, rhythmic pounding was catastrophic, building an unbearable wave of tension that you couldn't escape. You couldn't move away from him; you were entirely locked into his rhythm.

“I know it is...” he murmured, his thumb finding your clit again, adding a crushing, steady pressure that synchronized perfectly with the heavy thrusts of his hips. “Don't fight it. Just lie here and take it. Let me ruin you before the day even starts.”

“Ahm... Ngh...”

The dual stimulation was overwhelming.

The side position allowed him to bottom out inside you with minimal effort, his thick shaft stretching you open while his hand ruthlessly worked your exterior. You were completely at his mercy, trapped between his heavy frame and the mattress, feeling every single ridge of his cock slide deep into your melting core.

“Ahh—yes... Hiromi...”

Your breathing turned into broken, ragged sobs as the peak rushed toward you like a tidal wave. Your inner walls began to lock up, clamping down on his length like a vice as you hovered on the precipice.

“Hiromi, I'm going to—I'm gonna cum...” you whimpered, your fingers burying into the mattress, your toes curling against the sheets.

“Do it, darling...” he commanded, his voice hardening with authority as he increased the pace just a fraction, his thrusts becoming heavier, hitting that internal sweet spot with brutal accuracy. “Cum for me. Tighten up around my cock and take everything I have.”

The absolute permission broke you.

“Fuck... Ahh—!”

With a loud, choked cry, your pussy spasmed violently around him, a massive, convulsing orgasm ripping through your entire lower body. Your walls clamped down on him in tight, frantic waves, milking him ruthlessly.

The intense, crushing friction of your climax was the final straw for Hiromi. He growled—a deep, low, animalistic sound that tore from his throat—as his usual iron control completely shattered. He locked his arm around your waist, anchoring your hips flush against his, and delivered three more deep, brutal thrusts, driving his cock to the absolute hilt inside your pulsing wetness.

With a heavy, shuddering groan, Hiromi threw his head back, his entire body locking up as he came deep inside you. You could feel the hot, thick torrent of his cum pumping into your core, filling you to the brim as his length pulsed in tandem with your fading contractions.

The room fell into an absolute, heavy silence, save for the sound of your combined, ragged breathing.

Hiromi didn't move for a long time, keeping himself buried deep inside you, his chest rising and falling heavily against your back as the aftershocks of the orgasm slowly rippled through both of you.

Slowly, his grip on your waist softened. He leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the bare skin of your shoulder, then another to the side of your neck. His breathing gradually slowed, returning to a steady rhythm.

“Perfect,” he murmured, his voice thick and entirely satisfied against your skin. He gently stroked your hip, his long fingers trailing over your flush skin. “An immaculate start to the day.”

You swallowed hard, your body completely spent and melting into the mattress, a soft sigh escaping your lips. “I don't think I can get out of bed now, Hiromi.”

Hiromi chuckled, a low, rich rumble in his chest that vibrated right through your spine. He pulled you a little closer, wrapping his arms securely around you as he slowly slid his softening length out of your dripping core with a wet click.

“Good,” he whispered, pulling the heavy comforter up over both of your shoulders, shielding you from the morning light. “Then we stay right here, because I have absolutely no intention of saving either of us from drowning in this bed today.”

© 2026 faeloresha. All content is owned by @faeloresha. Do not repost, edit, translate, or copy in any form across any platform.

[faeloresha]

Birthday

╰─ Choso Kamo x f!reader

Tying him to your bed and giving him a birthday present he'll never forget. He's all yours, bound and submissive, as you take your time pleasing him with your mouth.

content: Explicit sexual content (smut), bondage (silk scarves, rope), dominant reader, submissive Choso, oral sex (male receiving), intense teasing, birthday surprise, power dynamics, dirty talk.

word count: 1,077

song: Freak by Doja Cat

masterlist ୧₊˚ playlist

The door clicked shut behind him, and before he could even set down the bag of takeout he brought, you were on him—pushing him against the wall, kissing him deeply, your hands sliding under his shirt. Choso laughed against your mouth, warmed and surprised.

​“Thank you, baby,” he said, grinning. “You're being extra affectionate tonight.”

​“Happy birthday,” you murmured, pulling back just enough to see his face. His eyes were bright, his cheeks flushed from the cold outside and the sudden affection.

“Just wait.”

You took his hand and led him toward the bedroom. He followed without question, trusting you completely. That trust made your pulse quicken.

Inside, the room was dim, lit only by a few candles you had arranged earlier. On the bed, laid out neatly, were four silk scarves—deep burgundy, matching the one you were wearing as a robe.

Choso raised an eyebrow.

“Birthday surprise?” he asked, his voice dropping an octave.

“Mhm.” You pushed him gently onto the bed. He went willingly, sitting on the edge, looking up at you. “I'm going to tie you up. And then I'm going to give you the best birthday present you've ever had.”

His breath caught. “What kind of present?”

“You'll see.” You smiled, slow and wicked, and reached for the first scarf.

He lay back without resistance, arms stretched above his head. You worked methodically—looping the silk around his left wrist, then the right, cinching them to the headboard posts. The knots were secure but not painful. He tested them, pulling gently, and the scarves held firm.

“Comfortable?” you asked, running a hand down his chest.

“Yeah.” His voice was already rough. “This is… Really hot.”

“Good, because I'm not done yet.”

You grabbed another scarf and tied his ankles, spreading his legs apart and anchoring them to the bottom corners of the bed. He was completely spread out now, vulnerable and exposed. His cock was already pressing against his jeans.

You stood back, admiring your work. “You look so good like this, baby. Helpless. Waiting for me.”

“Waiting for my present,” he corrected, a teasing lilt in his voice, but his eyes were dark with need.

“Patience.”

You climbed onto the bed, kneeling beside him. Slowly, deliberately, you unbuttoned his jeans and pulled them down along with his boxers. His cock sprung free, already half-hard, thickening as you stared.

“Happy birthday, Choso.” You leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to the tip.

He shuddered. “Fuck… That's a good start.”

You grinned against his skin. “Oh, I'm just getting started.”

You took your time, circling your tongue around the head, tasting the salt of precum already beading at the slit. His hips bucked instinctively, but the restraints held him in place.

He groaned, frustrated, but you shushed him.

“Stay still. It's your birthday, but I'm in charge.”

“I know—fuck... I know, just—please...”

You took him deeper, sliding your mouth down his shaft, feeling him twitch against your tongue. He was huge, he filled your mouth perfectly, and the weight of him was heavy and warm. You bobbed your head slowly, savoring every inch, your hand gripping the base to steady him.

Choso's head fell back, a long, low moan escaping his lips. “Yes... Just like that—don't stop...”

You didn't.

You took him as deep as you can, until your nose brushed his pelvis, and you swallowed around him. His thighs tensed, a sharp gasp cutting through the air.

“Shit... Please..”

You hummed in response, the vibration making him cry out. His hands clenched into fists, tugging at the scarves, but they held firm. He was completely at your mercy, and you loved it.

You pulled off slowly, letting your tongue drag along his shaft, then swirled around the head again. Precum gleamed on your lips.

“You tastes amazing. Happy birthday, babe.”

“Best birthday ever,” he breathed.

You teased him for a while—long, slow strokes of your tongue, shallow sucks that barely took him in, then a sudden deepthroat that made him see stars. His moans grew louder, more desperate, his body trembling with the effort of not thrusting.

“Please...” He begged, voice cracked. “Please, I need to cum—”

“Not yet.” You pulled away entirely, licking your lips. “I'm gonna make you wait a little longer. It's your birthday, so I'll make it last.”

He whined, actually whined, and it was the hottest sound you have ever heard. “You're so mean, baby...”

“You love it.”

“I do.” He swallowed, eyes glazed. “I love everything you do to me.”

You leaned up and kissed him, letting him taste himself on your tongue. He kissed back desperately, moaning into your mouth. When you pulled away, you whispered, “I'm going to suck your cock until you're a trembling mess. And then I'll let you cum down my throat. How does that sound?”

“Perfect.” His voice was ragged. “Please. Do it.”

You smiled and lowered your head again.

This time, you were relentless. You took him deep and fast, your hand working at the base in rhythm with your mouth. Saliva dripped down to your chin, but you didn't care. The only thing that matters was the sounds he was making—those broken moans, that desperate keening when you swallowed around his length.

“Close... Fuck... I'm so close—please...”

You doubled your pace, your free hand cupping his balls, rolling them gently. He sobbed, back arching off the bed, the ropes creaking.

“Please please please...”

You hummed, and that was the final push. His orgasm slammed through him, hot and thick, flooding your mouth. You swallowed greedily, milking every pulse, not letting go until he was completely spent.

When you finally pulled off, his cock was slick and softening, and your lips were swollen. You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, grinning down at him.

“Happy birthday, baby.”

He was panting, eyes half-lidded, a goofy, blissed-out smile on his face. “That was… Incredible. Best present ever.”

“Good, because I have more plans.”

He blinked. “More?”

“Mhm.” You crawled up his body, straddling his chest. “I'm going to ride you until you can't think straight.”

He laughed, weak and happy. “I think I'm already there.”

“Then let me help you lose the rest of your mind.”

You leaned down and kissed him, slow and deep. As your lips parted, Choso let out a low, breathless chuckle, looking up at you with pure adoration.

“I knew you were affectionate, but I didn't realize you were such a total freak.”

© 2026 faeloresha. All content is owned by @faeloresha. Do not repost, edit, translate, or copy in any form across any platform.

A/N: she's a whole different animal :0

[faeloresha]

Heavy Rotation

╰─ Toji Fushiguro x f!reader.

The thrill of the risk, combined with the overwhelming physical presence of a man who knows exactly how to break you, turns a quiet afternoon into a desperate, breathless encounter.

content: Explicit sexual content (smut), age gap, illicit relationship, risk of discovery, rough sex, dirty talk, praise/degradation, public/semi-public setting.

word count: 2,413

song: Older by Isabel LaRosa

masterlist ୧₊˚ playlist

The house was too quiet, the kind of silence that felt heavy and expectant. Your father was in his study, the muffled sound of his voice on a conference call drifting through the vents, a constant reminder of the danger you were playing with. But the danger was exactly why your skin felt like it was humming, a low-voltage current vibrating under your surface every time you caught Toji’s eye.

Toji didn’t belong here—not in the way your father thought.

To your father, Toji was the reliable, rugged old friend, a man of few words and a violent history that had long since been smoothed over by time and mutual respect. To you, Toji was a predator who had spent the last six months teaching you exactly what it felt like to be owned by a man who didn't care for rules.

He was leaning against the doorframe of the kitchen, his massive frame nearly filling the space. He was wearing a tight black t-shirt that clung to the slab-like muscles of his chest and shoulders, the fabric straining every time he shifted. He wasn't looking at your father; he was looking at you, his dark eyes hooded, tracking the way your chest heaved under your thin summer dress.

He didn't say a word.

He didn't have to.

He just tilted his head toward the narrow corridor that led to the back bedrooms—a blind spot in the house where the shadows lingered even at noon.

You didn't hesitate.

You slipped away from the living room, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. The moment you stepped into the dim hallway, a large, calloused hand shot out from the darkness, gripping your wrist and yanking you backward.

The impact with the wall was sudden and hard, knocking a small gasp from your lungs. Toji was there instantly, his body a wall of heat and muscle pinning you in place. He didn't kiss you—not yet. He just hovered, his breath hot against your ear, the scent of expensive tobacco and something primal filling your senses.

“You're shaking,” he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated straight down to your thighs. “Is it because you're scared he'll hear us, or because you're desperate for me to fuck you?”

“Toji...” you whimpered, your hands clutching at the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer.

“Shh,” he commanded, his hand sliding down from your wrist to grip your throat—not enough to choke, but enough to let you know who was in control. “You know the rules. Not a sound. If your daddy walks out that door, I'm just the family friend, and you're just the good little girl.”

The contrast was intoxicating.

The “good girl” image was a lie you wore like a costume, and Toji was the only one who knew how to rip it off.

He shifted his weight, pressing his hardness firmly against your hip, letting you feel the sheer size of him through his trousers. He was older, stronger, and possessed a confidence that bordered on arrogance—a confidence that came from knowing he could have you whenever he wanted, and that you would crave it.

He reached down, his large hand bunching up the fabric of your dress, sliding it up your thighs until the cool air hit your skin.

He didn't waste time with finesse.

His fingers found your panties, hooking into the lace and ripping them to the side with a sharp snap that sounded like a gunshot in the quiet hall.

You gasped, your back arching against the wallpaper, but Toji immediately pressed his palm over your mouth, stifling the sound. His eyes were dark, predatory, watching your expression with a cruel sort of hunger.

“Good girl,” he whispered, his voice dripping with a dark satisfaction. “Stay quiet for me.”

He didn't use his fingers to prep you; he knew you were already soaking, the mere presence of him and the risk of the situation having turned you into a mess.

He reached for his belt, the metallic clink of the buckle sounding deafeningly loud. He freed his cock, and you caught a glimpse of it—thick, veiny, and pulsing with a need that matched your own.

Toji grabbed your thighs, hoisting you up. You instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist, your heels digging into the small of his back. He groaned, a deep, guttural sound, as he aligned himself with your opening.

“Ngh...”

He entered you in one singular, brutal thrust.

“Mhmph!”

You screamed into his palm, your eyes widening as he filled you completely, stretching you to your absolute limit. He was too big, too much, but it was exactly what you needed. He didn't give you time to adjust; he began to move, his hips slamming into yours with a rhythmic, punishing force.

“Ahh—mhm...”

The sound of his body hitting yours and your back hitting the wall echoed in the narrow space. Every thrust felt like it was reaching your soul, the sheer power of his movements shaking your entire frame. Toji wasn't being gentle; he was fucking you with a raw, possessive intensity, as if he were marking every inch of your insides as his own.

“Ahm... Ngh...”

“Look at me...” he commanded, pulling his hand away from your mouth just enough for you to breathe, but keeping his grip tight on your jaw.

“Toji—ohh...”

You looked up into his eyes, seeing the raw lust and the flicker of amusement. He loved this—the taboo of it, the fact that he was stealing you right under the nose of a man who trusted him.

It added a layer of dominance to the act that made your head spin.

“Does it feel good?” he grunted, his pace increasing, his breath coming in heavy heaves. “Having your father's friend stretch you out? Knowing he's just a few rooms away while I'm balls-deep in his daughter?”

You couldn't even answer; you could only nod frantically, your head tossing back against the wall.

“Ahh... Fuck—ahh!”

The friction was overwhelming, the heat building in your core until it felt like you were going to combust. You clung to him, your fingers digging into his shoulders, your nails leaving red crescents in his skin.

Toji shifted his grip, one hand staying on your throat while the other slid down to grip your ass, squeezing the flesh hard, pulling you even tighter against him. He began to hit your cervix with every plunge, a deep, blunt sensation that sent sparks of pleasure exploding behind your eyelids.

“Yes—please... Yes...”

“You're so tight...” he growled, his voice dropping an octave. “Fucking pathetic how much you want this. You're just a little slut for an older man, aren't you?”

The degradation only fueled the fire.

You let out a moan, your body tightening around him, the walls of your pussy pulsing in a desperate attempt to draw more of him in. You were on the edge, the tension coiled tight in your stomach, your breath coming in short, jagged gasps.

“Ohh, Toji... Ohm... Shit...”

Suddenly, the sound of a door opening echoed from the end of the hall.

“Toji? You still in there?” your father's voice called out, sounding confused.

The world stopped.

You froze, your heart leaping into your throat, your eyes wide with terror. Toji didn't stop. If anything, his expression darkened, a smirk playing on his lips. He didn't pull out; instead, he drove himself into you one more time, deep and slow, making sure you felt every ridge of him.

“Toji—”

He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear, his voice a ghostly whisper. “Don't. Make. A sound.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, biting your lip so hard you tasted blood. You could hear your father's footsteps approaching, the slow, steady rhythm of his shoes on the hardwood.

Every second felt like an hour.

You were suspended in a state of pure agony and ecstasy, pinned against the wall by the man who was ruining you, while the man who raised you walked toward the scene.

Toji began to move again, but this time it was slow, agonizingly deliberate. He was teasing you, pushing you closer to the edge while the danger peaked. He watched your face, enjoying the way you trembled, the way you fought to keep your moans trapped in your throat.

“Mhm...”

He was playing a game, and you were the prize.

Your father stopped just around the corner. “Toji? I thought I heard something.”

Toji didn't even flinch.

He shifted his hips, hitting a sweet spot that made your entire body shudder. You let out a tiny, high-pitched whimper, a sound so small it was almost silent, but in the stillness of the house, it felt like a scream.

“Mhmph!”

“Just a loose floorboard,” Toji called out, his voice perfectly calm, perfectly steady, even as he continued to fuck you with a slow, grinding motion. “I'll be out in a second.”

“Right. Well, the drinks are poured. Come on over.”

As your father's footsteps receded, the tension snapped. Toji let out a low, triumphant laugh and suddenly accelerated. The slow torture was over; he returned to the brutal, fast pace of before, his body slamming into yours with renewed vigor.

“Ahh—yes...”

“He has no idea...” Toji hissed, his voice thick with lust. “He has no fucking idea what I'm doing to you.”

The realization pushed you over the edge.

The combination of the near-miss, the dominance, and the sheer physical sensation of Toji filling you triggered a violent orgasm. Your internal muscles clamped down on him in rhythmic waves, squeezing him tight. You sobbed into his shoulder, your body shaking with the force of the release, your vision blurring.

“Please... Please...”

Toji groaned, his own composure finally breaking. He let out a guttural roar, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he delivered several more powerful thrusts. He surged deep inside you, his body locking up as he came, filling you with a hot, thick flood of seed that seemed to go on forever.

“Fuck... Baby...”

He stayed there for a moment, panting, his forehead resting against yours.

The silence returned to the house, but it was different now—charged, heavy, and stained with the scent of sex.

Slowly, he slid out of you, the wet sound of his exit making you shiver. He didn't immediately let you down. He held you for a second longer, his eyes scanning your flushed face and swollen lips.

“You're a mess,” he murmured, though there was a trace of affection in his voice.

He set you on your feet, his large hands lingering on your hips. He reached down, smoothing out your dress with a casualness that was almost insulting, as if he hadn't just spent the last twenty minutes destroying you against a wall.

He stepped back, adjusting his clothes and buckling his belt with a metallic click. He looked like the “family friend” again—composed, rugged, and untouchable. But as he turned to leave the hallway, he paused and looked back over his shoulder.

“Clean yourself up,” he commanded, a predatory glint in his eyes. “And put on a smile. Your father is waiting for us.”

You leaned against the wall, your legs still shaking, the feeling of him still warm and dripping inside you. You watched him walk away, the broad set of his shoulders and the confident stride of a man who knew exactly how much power he held over you.

Having an older boyfriend was a dangerous game, especially when he was a man like Toji Fushiguro. He didn't offer the sweetness of a peer or the stability of a partner; he offered a descent into something darker, something raw and unfiltered. He taught you that there was a thrill in being owned, a luxury in being completely overwhelmed by someone who knew exactly how to break you.

As you straightened your dress and wiped the stray tear from your cheek, you knew you would do it again. You would follow him into any shadow, risk any discovery, just to feel that crushing weight of him against you once more.

You walked out into the living room, where your father was smiling, holding a glass of scotch.

“There you are,” your father said, glancing at you. “Everything okay? You look a little flushed.”

You looked past him to Toji, who was already leaning back in a leather armchair, a smirk playing on his lips as he watched you.

“I'm fine, Dad,” you replied, your voice slightly breathless. “Just a bit warm in the hall.”

Toji raised his glass to you in a silent toast, his eyes promising that the afternoon was far from over.

“You've got to watch out for the heat, sweetheart—an older man like me knows exactly how dangerous it gets when you let it make you lose your cool.”

© 2026 faeloresha. All content is owned by @faeloresha. Do not repost, edit, translate, or copy in any form across any platform.

[faeloresha]

Mirror Mirror

╰─ Nanami Kento x f!reader

After a long, stressful week, your boyfriend Nanami Kento decides to unwind with you in the most intimate way—by bringing you to the mirror and reminding you exactly who owns every inch of your body. With slow, deliberate fingers and that deep, measured voice, he takes you apart piece by piece while you're forced to watch.

content: Explicit sexual content (smut), fingering, mirror sex, clitoral stimulation, dirty talk, praise kink, mild dominance, established relationship, possessiveness, orgasm control, slight voyeurism (self-watching).

word count: 2,471

song: Scott and Zelda by BIBI

masterlist ୧₊˚ playlist

The first thing you noticed was the weight of his presence behind you.

It was not his hands—not yet—just that steady, solid warmth that Nanami Kento carried everywhere like a second skin. His chest brushed against your bare shoulder blades, the cotton of his button-down a rough contrast to the naked curve of your spine. You are standing in front of the full-length mirror in his bedroom, the one he had insisted on keeping despite its ornate, slightly outdated frame because “it functions perfectly fine, there's no reason to replace it.”

Right now, you are grateful for his pragmatism.

His palms came to rest on your hips, fingers splaying wide over the jut of bone beneath your skin. The touch was light, grounding, a question more than a demand. You watched his reflection, the way his amber eyes dragged from your face down the length of your exposed body—languid, unhurried.

It was like he was memorizing every inch.

“Look at yourself, honey,” he murmured, his voice that low, gravelly thing that settled behind your ribs and made your thighs press together. “Just look.”

You did.

The woman in the mirror was already flushed, nipples pebbled tight, breath coming in shallow little bursts that made her chest rise and fall in an uneven rhythm. She looked desperate, and you hate how much that turned you on.

Kento's mouth found the curve of your shoulder. His lips parted, tongue dragging hot and wet against your skin, and you shivered so hard you had to brace your hands against the dresser beneath the mirror.

“I've had a long week, my love,” he said against your shoulder, words vibrating through your bones. “Meetings. Paperwork. People who should know better ask questions with obvious answers.” His teeth scraped your skin, just enough to stung. “And all I could think about was coming home to you.”

His hands moved.

Slowly—agonizingly slowly—they slid from your hips around to your stomach, palms flat against the soft part of your belly before drifting lower. Not quite to where you need them. Just tracing the waistband of your panties, fingertips skimming the lace like he was testing the texture.

“Kento…” you breathed, and you could even hear the plea in it.

His reflection smiled.

It was not a kind smile. It was the kind of smile that knew exactly what it was doing, that understood the power coiled in those deliberate, patient hands of his. The kind of smile that made your cunt ache.

“Why the rush?” he asked, innocent as sin. His fingers hooked into the waistband of your panties, dragging the fabric down your thighs. You stepped out of them when they pooled at your ankles, bare now from the waist down, completely exposed under the warm bedroom light. “We have all night.”

The mirror didn't lie.

You saw everything—the dark blonde of his hair, slightly disheveled from the day. The way his forecorded arms flexed as his hands came to rest on your hips again, guiding you just a fraction wider apart. The hungry glint in his eyes as he took in the sight of your naked body framed against his clothed one.

“Hands on the dresser,” he instructed, and you obeyed immediately, palms flat against the polished wood.

The position arched your back just enough, pushed your ass back against the thick seam of his trousers. You felt him through the fabric—half-hard, growing heavier by the second.

“Good girl.”

The praise sunk into you like honey, warm and sweet and addictive.

His right hand left your hip, trailing a path down the curve of your ass, around the swell of your thigh, and then.

There.

His fingers found your folds like they have been searching for them all day, like this was the destination he has been walking toward since he stepped through the front door. He didn't push inside. Not yet. He just explored, dragging the pads of his fingers through your slickness, gathering the wetness that has been building since he first pressed himself against your back.

“You're so wet for me,” he observed, the same tone he might use to comment on the weather. A simple fact. Irrefutable. “Have you been thinking about this all day too?”

“Yes...” you admitted, because there was no point in lying. Your body has already told him everything.

His middle finger circled your clit, featherlight, and your hips jerked forward like you had been shocked.

“Ngh...”

A low, frustrated sound escaped your throat.

“Eyes on the mirror,” he reminded you, and you dragged your gaze back up to meet his reflection. “I want you to watch what I do to you. I want you to see the way you fall apart for me.”

The first finger slid in with no resistance.

“Ohh—!”

You were so wet that it glided smoothly, sinking into your heat until his knuckle pressed against your entrance. He held there, letting you feel the stretch, the fullness of even that single digit inside you. Your walls clenched around him instinctively, trying to pull him deeper.

“Desperate little thing,” he murmured, but there was no cruelty in it.

Just affection. Just wonder.

He added a second finger.

“Ahm... Fuck...”

The stretch was sharper, fuller, and you gasped at the sensation, your knuckles going white against the dresser's edge. Kento gave you a moment to adjust—he was always so careful with you, even when he was taking you apart. His lips pressed a soft apology against your shoulder blade while his fingers remained still inside you, letting your body learn the shape of him.

“Breathe,” he said quietly. “You can take it. You've taken so much more.”

You exhaled, forcing your muscles to relax. He felt you loosen around him and rewarded you with a slow, deliberate thrust—fingers sliding out almost to the tips before pressing back in, filling you completely.

“Kento... More...”

“Just like that,” he praised, and his voice has dropped an octave, rougher now. “Look at you. Look at how beautifully you take my fingers.”

You looked.

“Ahm—ahh... Yes...”

The image in the mirror was obscened.

Your legs were spread, your cunt on full display, and between your thighs you can see Kento's hand working, his fingers disappearing inside you with every thrust. Your skin was flushed pink from your chest all the way up to your cheeks, and your mouth was parted, tiny sounds escaping with every breath

“Yes, baby... Please..”

“I want to taste you,” he said, almost conversationally, while his fingers curl inside you, searching. “I want to bury my face between your thighs and drink every drop you give me. Would you like that?”

“Yes... Mhm...” you whimpered.

“But I can't stop watching you.”

His fingers found the spot—that rough, spongy patch inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids. He pressed against it, firm and steady, and your knees buckled. He caught you easily, his free arm wrapping around your waist to keep you upright.

“Shit—ohh... Keep going...”

“Not when you look like this. Not when you're this perfect.”

His fingers started a rhythm.

It was devastating.

“Ahh... Ahh—mhmph!”

He slid in and out at a pace that was maddeningly controlled, each thrust pressing against your g-spot before pulling away, building a pressure that coiled tighter and tighter in your gut. At the same time, his thumb found your clit, rubbing firm circles that made your vision blur.

“Kento... Fuck—ahh...”

“You're close,” he observed, because he knew your body better than you do. “I can feel it. Your walls are fluttering around me.”

The room was full of sound—the wet, obscene noise of his fingers moving inside you, your gasps and moans, his low, steady voice murmuring encouragement against your ear.

“I want you to cum for me,” he said, and his voice was strained now, his composure cracking just slightly. “I want to feel you squeeze my fingers. I want to watch you lose control in that mirror.”

His thrusts quickened.

His thumb pressed harder.

And you shattered.

The orgasm crashed over you like a wave, pulling you under, dragging you down into something dark and warm and overwhelming. Your mouth opened but no sound came out. Your body tensed, arched, trembled, and through it all you kept your eyes on the mirror—on the sight of your own face contorted in pleasure, on Kento's arm wrapped around your waist, on his hand buried between your thighs, working you through every pulse and clench.

“That's it,” he groaned, watching you come undone. “That's it. So perfect. So fucking beautiful.”

“Can't—fuck... Ahh...”

He didn't stop.

“Ohh... Kento...”

His fingers kept moving, drawing out the orgasm, pushing you past the point of sensitivity into something almost too much. You whimpered and tried to squirm away, but his arm locked tight, holding you in place.

“One more, baby,” he said, and his voice went rough, commanding. “One more, and then I'll give you what you really want.”

“I can't…” you gasped, even as his thumb resumed its circles on your overstimulated clit.

“You can.” His fingers curled again, pressing deep, finding that spot that made your toes curl. “You're going to cum for me again, and I'm going to watch you do it.”

The second orgasm built faster, sharper, and crests before you were ready. You sobbed as it breaks, your body convulsing against his, your vision went white at the edges. He held you through it, murmuring praise, telling you how good you are, how perfect, how he has never seen anything more beautiful than you coming apart in his arms.

When the tremors finally subsided, he pulled his fingers out slowly, carefully. You watched in the mirror as he brought them to his mouth, his lips parting, his tongue sliding out to taste you.

Your legs were shaking.

He guided you away from the dresser, turning you around to face him properly. His hands cupped your face, tilting your head up, and he kissed you—deep and slow, letting you taste yourself on his lips. His cock pressed against your stomach, hard and insistent through his trousers.

“Now,” he said, pulling back just enough to look at you. His tie was crooked. His hair was falling into his eyes. He looked undone, and you have never seen anything more beautiful. “Do you want to take this to the bed, or do you want me to fuck you right here against the mirror?”

The question hung in the air.

Your eyes drifted to the mirror beside you, to the reflection of your own ruined expression, to the way his hands were already reaching for his belt.

“Mirror,” you breathed. “I want to watch.”

His smile was sharp and dark and full of promise.

“I was hoping you'd say that.”

He turned you back around, bending you forward until your palms pressed flat against the cool glass. Your breath fogged the surface, obscuring your reflection for a moment before it cleared. Behind you, you heard the slide of his belt, the rasp of his zipper, the rustle of fabric as he freed himself.

His hands found your hips, positioning you exactly how he wants you. The head of his cock pressed against your entrance, slick with your wetness, teasing, not yet pushing in.

“Fuck… So beautiful,” he said, and his voice wrecked, desperate, nothing like the composed salaryman the world sees.

“Fuck me.”

“Where?”

You met his eyes in the mirror. “Everywhere. I want you everywhere.”

He gave you a single nod, and then he pushed in.

“Ahh...”

The stretch was everything—fullness flooding through you, spreading through your belly, your chest, your limbs. He filled you completely, seated to the hilt, his hips pressed flush against your ass. You both froze, breathing hard, letting the reality of it settle.

“Oh, fuck...” he breathed. It made you clench around him.

He started to move.

Slow at first. Long, deep strokes that dragged against every sensitive spot inside you, that made the glass fog with your breath and your palms slide against the surface. The rhythm built, grew faster, grew rougher, until he was fucking you with a desperation that matched the pounding of your heart.

“Mhm... Ohh—yes...”

“Look,” he commanded, and you teared your gaze from the ceiling to meet his in the mirror. “Look at what we are.”

You saw it.

“Ahh—baby... Harder...”

The way your body yielded to his. The way his hands gripped your hips hard enough to bruise. The way his jaw clenched, his eyes dark, his chest heaving behind you. The way your cunt swallowed his cock with every thrust, slick and hungry.

“Ohh... Shit... Mhmph...”

You're beautiful like this. Destroyed. Claimed.

“I'm close...” he warned, his rhythm faltering. “Where do you want it? Tell me.”

“Inside...” you managed. “Please...”

He groaned, deep and animal, and drove into you one final time. You feel him pulsed, feel the hot rush of his release flooding you, and the sensation is enough to trigger your own climax—a third wave that wracked through you, pulling him deeper, milking every drop.

He stayed inside you for a long moment, both of you trembling, catching your breath. His forehead pressed against the back of your neck, his arms wrapping around your waist, holding you close.

When he finally pulled out, you felt the emptiness like a physical ache. He turned you around, cupped your face, and kissed you slowly and sweetly.

“Bathroom,” he said against your lips. “We need to clean up.”

You were too boneless to argue.

He helped you walk, his arm steady around your waist, his lips pressing soft kisses to your shoulder. In the bathroom, he ran a warm cloth between your thighs, gentle and careful, pressing a kiss to your knee when you hissed at the sensitivity.

You caught your reflection in the bathroom mirror—smaller, less ornate, but still clear enough to see the flush on your cheeks, the contentment in your eyes.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

Kento looked up from where he was crouched at your feet, cloth in hand, his hair a mess, his shirt untucked, his tie long abandoned somewhere on the bedroom floor.

“Thank you for what?” he asked, genuine confusion in his voice.

“For the reminder.”

He stood, tossing the cloth in the sink, and pulled you into his arms. His chin rested on the top of your head, his heartbeat steady under your ear.

“Any time,” he murmured. “I'll always remind you.”

Outside, the world was still spinning. The meetings and the paperwork and the noise will be there tomorrow.

But tonight, there was only this.

Only him.

Only you, reflected in his eyes.

“Let the world rush tomorrow, honey. Tonight, we'll just be Scott and Zelda, hiding away from the rest of it.”

© 2026 faeloresha. All content is owned by @faeloresha. Do not repost, edit, translate, or copy in any form across any platform.

[faeloresha]

Ryomen Says Strip

╰─ Sukuna Ryomen x f!reader

A heated game of truth or dare between you and Sukuna Ryomen takes a twisted turn when he introduces his own rules. The stakes escalate from teasing questions to desperate, naked kisses, leaving both of you aching for more.

content: Explicit sexual content (smut), nudity, power dynamics, teasing, domination/submission undertones, language, oral sex (female and male receiving), fingering, dry humping.

word count: 1,351

song: Simon Says by YC Banks (ft. B. Smyth)

masterlist ୧₊˚ playlist

The air in the dimly lit room was thick with tension and the scent of sake. You sat cross-legged on the floor, facing the King of Curses himself, Sukuna Ryomen, whose crimson eyes gleamed with amusement. A half-empty bottle of expensive liquor stood between you, and two empty cups.

“Truth or dare, little human?” he drawled, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down your spine.

You chose the truth, not trusting his mischievous grin.

Ryomen leaned forward, his fingers drumming on the tatami mat. “What’s the filthiest thought you’ve had about me today?”

Your cheeks flushed hot. “I… um… imagining your fingers inside me while you whispered threats in my ear. Now my turn,” you managed, trying to regain control. “Truth or dare?”

“Dare.” He said it was like a challenge.

He rose from his seat, moving with predatory grace. His hand cupped your chin, tilting your head back. His lips met yours—not gentle, but demanding, tasting of sake and power. His tongue swept into your mouth, claiming you. When he pulled away, you were breathless.

He chuckled darkly. “Good. My turn. Truth or dare?”

You dared.

He smirked. “Take off your shirt. Slowly.”

You complied, fingers trembling as you unbuttoned your blouse, letting it slide off your shoulders. The cool air kissed your bare skin, and Ryomen's gaze traced every inch of your exposed torso.

“The game continues,” he said, settling back. “But I’m adding a twist. Every time you lose a round, you remove an article of clothing. And if you refuse, I will take two.” His eyes glinted. “And the dares become… more intimate.”

Your heart hammered. “What about you?”

“Same rules apply. I never cheat.” He poured more sake. “Now, truth or dare?”

You chose the truth.

“Describe exactly what you want me to do to you right now, in explicit detail, without euphemisms.”

Your throat went dry. “I want you to pin me down, spread my legs, and fuck me with your fingers until I cum, then lick me clean.”

His smile widened. “Vivid. I’ll remember that.”

“Now you,” you said. “Truth or dare?”

“Dare.”

“Take off your pants.”

He stood slowly, undoing his obi, letting his hakama drop to the floor. His cock pressed against his fundoshi, thick and half-hard. Your mouth watered.

“Truth or dare?”

You dared again, emboldened by the alcohol and his intensity.

“Remove your bra.”

You unclasped it, letting it fall away, your nipples hardening in the cool air. Ryomen's gaze burned.

“My turn. Truth or dare?”

“Dare.” You were no coward.

He leaned forward, his voice a whisper. “Stand up and turn around. I want to see your ass.”

You obeyed, turning your back to him, feeling his hot gaze on your jeans. He hummed appreciatively.

“Now you,” you said, turning back. “Truth or dare?”

“Dare.”

“Take off your underwear.”

He rose again, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his fundoshi. He pulled it down, his cock springing free, fully erect, glistening at the tip. You stared, barely breathing.

“Satisfied?” he asked, sitting back down.

You nodded, your underwear damp with arousal.

The game continued. You chose the truth.

“What would you do if I tied you to the bed and used you all night?” Ryomen asked.

“I’d beg for more. I’d let you do anything.”

He groaned. “Fuck. Truth or dare?”

This time you dared.

“Remove your jeans and panties.”

You shimmied out of your jeans, then pushed your panties down your legs. Now you were completely naked, and he was only in his fundoshi—which he’d already removed—so you were both fully exposed.

“Last round,” Ryomen announced, his voice rough. “Truth or dare?”

You met his eyes. “Dare.”

He stood, stalked toward you, and grabbed your wrists. “I dare you to let me fuck your mouth until I come, then I’ll eat your pussy until you scream.”

Before you could respond, he was on his knees in front of you, one hand fisting your hair, the other guiding his cock to your lips. You opened your mouth willingly, and he pushed inside, filling your throat. He set a brutal pace, thrusting deep, grunting with each stroke. Tears streamed down your face, but you didn’t resist.

“Ohh... Fuck…”

You took him, gagging but desperate for more.

“Shit—yes…”

After long minutes, he pulled out, strings of saliva connecting his tip to your lips. He stared down at you, breathing heavily.

“Perfect.” He said, “Lie down.”

You lay back on the tatami, spreading your legs without being told. Ryomen crawled between them, his face hovering over your wet slit.

“You’re soaked,” he murmured. “Good.”

He lowered his head and licked you from entrance to clit in one long, flat stroke.

“Mhm... Please…”

You gasped, your hips bucking.

“Ngh... More…”

He did it again, then again, until you were writhing. He focused on your clit, circling it with his tongue, then sucking it into his mouth. His fingers found your hole, sliding in without resistance—one, then two, curling against that sweet spot inside you.

“Ryomen… Please…” you begged.

He didn’t stop.

“Ahm—fuck... Ahh…”

He fingered you while eating you out, his mouth and hands working in perfect rhythm. Your climax builds, coiling in your belly. He felt it—your thighs tightening, your breath catching—and he doubled his efforts, pressing his tongue flat against your clit while his fingers pumped faster.

You came with a scream, your body arching off the floor, your juices flooding his mouth. He lapped it up, not pulling away until your shudders subsided.

He crawled up your body, his cock pressing against your stomach. “Now I want you to kiss me. Desperately. Like you need it to breathe.”

You cupped his face and pulled him down, your mouths meeting in a messy, hungry kiss. Tongues tangled, teeth clashed, you tasted yourself on his lips. He groaned into your mouth, rolling his hips against yours, his cock sliding through the slick mess between your legs.

“I want to be inside you,” he growled against your lips.

“Then take me.”

He positioned himself at your entrance, but didn’t push in. Instead, he kissed you again, deeper, his tongue mimicking what he wanted to do with his cock. Your hips bucked, trying to impale yourself on him, but he held still.

“Enter…”

“Beg,” he whispered.

“Please... Fuck me. I need your cock inside me…”

He thrust in one smooth motion, burying himself to the hilt. You cried out, nails digging into his back. He started moving—slow at first, then faster, harder, each stroke driving you higher. The kiss never broke; you were fused together, mouths locked, bodies slapping.

“Mhmph!”

He fucked you with a rhythm that bordered on brutal, his pelvis grinding against your clit with every thrust. You were seconds from another orgasm when he pulled out.

“Fuck—”

“Turn over.”

You rolled onto your stomach, presenting your ass. He entered you from behind, pressing your face into the mat. One hand gripped your hip, the other wrapped around your throat, pulling your head back.

“Ahh—!”

“You’re mine...” he hissed. “Every drop of pleasure you feel comes from me.”

He drove into you, deeper from this angle, hitting spots that made you see stars. Your moans turned into incoherent pleas. He reached around to rub your clit, and you shattered again, clenching around him, your cum soaking his cock.

“Ahh... Ohh, Ryo—”

He didn’t stop.

“Fuck... Fuck—close…”

He kept fucking you through it, chasing his own release. When he came, he buried himself as deep as possible, pumping hot load after load into you, groaning your name like a curse.

He collapsed on top of you, both of you slick with sweat and cum. He rolled off, pulling you onto his chest, his softening cock still nestled against your thigh.

“That was the best game of truth or dare I’ve ever played,” you murmured.

Ryomen chuckled, his hand running through your hair. “I never lose. But I’m willing to call it a draw.” He kissed the top of your head.

You smiled, exhausted but satisfied.

“Next time, I’ll teach you Simon Says. The rules are even less forgiving.”

© 2026 faeloresha. All content is owned by @faeloresha. Do not repost, edit, translate, or copy in any form across any platform.