I feel so understood on here, so free. I love you. I hope i make people feel the same. It is that deep. The phones can be depressing soul sucking or a catalyst for you,, your art
I feel so understood on here, so free. I love you. I hope i make people feel the same. It is that deep. The phones can be depressing soul sucking or a catalyst for you,, your art
not even gonna lie, some of y’all are so weird about black people on here.
just notice how it’s always black men being written as toxic, or cheaters, or “ghetto”.
jude bellingham, michael jackson (like, how??), jaafar jackson, lewis hamilton etc etc
just skimming the jude bellingham tags, there so many fics where people write him as some ghetto, toxic, messy, nasty guy, like are we talking about the same jude? the same jude who’s sweeter than grandma’s cookies? who comforts his opponents after matches, who gives his kid his coat when they’re doing anthems and it’s cold?? like what the fuck?
of course, yes it’s fiction, but this toxic narrative is always being pushed on black men.
it’s like white bitches have some fetish for black men and them being toxic, d’you know how fucking weird that is?? y’all heard jermajesty jackson say the n word once and people are pushing the agenda that he’s some toxic guy, what the hell is wrong with you?
and, the other side of the coin - black female characters.
notice how people will label a character as “butch”, and then you look at them, and they’re just black, or bigger, or muscular, or indigenous, or a mix of them all? notice how when people make “feminine” oc’s, they’re always white or light-skinned, and their butch oc’s are nearly ALWAYS black women?
white women need to be studied for their fetishises with black people.
tagging my only two mutuals 😭 : @plumppies @bambijackson
sum. new year, new you? well you definitely pick up a new kink or two after a visit to the ultra-trendy fitness club, limitless, with personal trainer!sukuna. but when you can't afford another session, will you get your fix with a new obsession?
cw. mdni. major scent kink + sweat kink. reader is down HORRENDOUS. semi-public sex. semi-public masturbation. humiliation. reader is a perv. stalking. reader is a lil degen towel stealing goblin. piv. minor choking/headlocks. gojo is a goof. creampies. unprotected. dry humping. dirty talk. [art by sab_xcvii & sakimenz]
an. so happy to say this was inspired by my bbgirl @tojiscreampie beautifully nasty toji sweat-kink fic so check it out! i know im supposed to be working on other things and tried to toss this over to @yenayaps but she told me i had to write it myself 💞😭 buuuut i am excited to post this on the day of the return of jjk s3 we are soooo back my lil ecchi angels! wc. 7.4k idk how.
The only reason your broke ass is stepping foot into Limitless—the ultra-chic, LED-lit, influencer-infested gym—is because your rich aunt gifted you a year-long membership for Christmas.
You clocked the look she gave you at Thanksgiving—that side-eye scrutiny of you squeezed into a dress that used to fit you perfectly last summer. Let’s just say... the turkey wasn’t the only thing stuffed at the table this year.
But whatever. You’re not complaining about anything that’s free‑99. As a struggling grad student, you’ve been surviving off ramen, iced coffee, and vibes for a year now.
But the second you walk through Limitless’s sleek steel doors, two things hit you—
You’re being sonically assaulted by the unce-unce-unce of euro-house bangers vibrating through the walls like some nightclub in Amsterdam.
The man behind the front desk is unreasonably hot.
Like, offensively hot.
Lounging behind the counter in a black dry-fit shirt that's cropped to showcase his washboard abs, while his toused white hair and stupidly perfect complexion make him look like he's headed to a photoshoot rather than a workout.
Tipping his sunglasses just low enough for you to catch the flash of icy blue eyes, his grin widens as you approach—like he already knows just how completely out of your depth you are.
“Welcome to Limitless!” he chirps. “I’m the owner, Gojo Satoru.”
Like you don’t already know.
Even a ramen-fueled, overworked shut-in like you knows about @ SixPackGod—TikTok’s reigning fitness thirst trap.
Gojo’s got 5 million followers and a cult-like fanbase—naturally, he monetized it by opening a gym. You’ve definitely seen his videos—stretching in ways that should get him banned and somehow making kettlebell swings look erotic.
As if on cue, a group of girls swish by in matching Lulu, Alo, and Vuori sets—tan, toned, and giggling as they wave at him. He winks back, weaponized charm turned up to 100 earning him shrill squees and coos as they exit.
It makes you want to book it the hell out of there. You clearly had no idea what you were getting yourself into, suddenly becoming painfully aware of your ratty anime tee and faded track shorts from high school.
Gojo turns back to you excitedly, completely unbothered by the fact that you look practically homeless. He launches into a rapid-fire tour, rattling off all the high-tech equipment and renovations—some already done, some still on the way.
You nod, clueless, too busy tracing the slope of his arms, the stretch of his shirt, the twitch of long fingers as he talks with his whole body.
Looking back, Gojo catches your totally glazed-over expression.
“Y’know,” he says, flashing you a panty-evaporating grin, “all new members get one free personal training session. Helps you get the most out of the place.”
Gojo steps in closer, charm dialed up to max and absolutely zero concept of personal space.
“Oh—no, thank you,” you say quickly, hands going up in half-surrender, half-subtle plea for him to back the hell up. “I—I can’t afford that. I mean, to continue after.”
You wouldn’t even be in here if your aunt hadn’t paid for your membership. One session probably costs your rent.
And in this economy?
You can barely afford to heat your apartment in the winter.
Gojo just shrugs, all smiles. “It’s freeeeee though! C’mon cutie.”
Cutie!? You!?
“I-I just don’t wanna waste your time,” you mumble, flustered and trying to keep your shit together.
“I don’t mind, you wouldn’t be the first,” Gojo flirts with a wink. “Buuuut, if it eases your worries, I’ll set you up with a girl trainer. Yuki. She’s great! Won’t yell at you… well, much. No strings. Promise. C’monnnnnn babe.”
The drawn-out plea and puppy-dog eyes are ridiculous—but the ‘babe’ seals it.
You fold faster than a wet paper towel in a hurricane, agreeing to sign up for a session on the spot.
What harm could one free session with a girl trainer do?
Except you don’t get Yuki.
Two days later, you show up—and Yuki’s “out sick.”
Instead, standing in front of you is Personal Trainer!Sukuna.
And holy shit—he’s fucking massive.
Like someone compressed chaotic aggression and carved it into pure muscle. Black tribal tattoos snake across his arms and chest, flexing under his tight “trainer” shirt like every inch of him is lethal.
Your gaze drags from the cut of his shoulders to his chest—and lower, to thighs thick enough to crush a watermelon. And is that—? Oh fuck. There's a heavy print stretching his sweats.
You suddenly get what SZA meant about needing a big boy for winter.
What would it feel like—being pinned under all that weight? Back arched against the mat—
"AYE!"
Sukuna snaps your name like a whip, yanking you out of your fantasy and causing you to flinch so hard your heels lift out of your shoes.
He just looks at you like you’re stupid.
Which, to be fair, at this moment, you absolutely are.
You start babbling, fast and frantic—sputtering about how this is a bad idea, how you’re not going to book more sessions, how you’re probably just wasting his—
He rolls his eyes and gives you a look that screams: I don’t get paid to hear your bullshit.
That shuts you up immediately.
Sukuna’s red eyes then skim over you in a brutally clinical fashion. Unlike your ogling, his glance catalogs every weak point, every soft roll, every underdeveloped muscle in under fifteen seconds.
“Sukuna,” he says flatly. “Your PT.”
That’s it. That’s all the intro he gives you.
“You’re mine for the next sixty minutes—now move!”
You nod like a bobblehead, eyes wide—but he’s already walking away.
Scrambling after him, heart pounding, you try not to trip over your own feet Sukuna leads you deeper into the gym.
Not surprisingly, Sukuna’s intensity is so fierce that you can barely look at him the entire session. He runs you like a drill sergeant—efficient and merciless.
There's zero flirting, no coddling and definitely no encouraging bullshit beyond clipped commands.
When he needs to correct you, he does it physically—grabbing your hips, waist and shoulders with rough, unapologetic hands. Sukuna moves you into position like you’re a piece of gym equipment needing to be adjusted for his use.
His fingers press into muscle and bone like he already knows exactly how your weak little body is supposed to work for him, and it does, struggling yet ultimately bending to his will.
You can only sort of be thankful that Sukuna doesn’t seem to give a fuck that you freeze under his every touch. He certainly doesn’t blink nor acknowledge when you suck in a sharp breath or let out a shaky, humiliating little sound of anguish when his fingers trace over your ribs to correct your posture.
He just keeps going, dishing out relentless commands that push you harder than you’ve ever worked out in your entire life.
“Stop trying to cheat, brat” Sukuna growls, tapping your soft belly—right over your abs—with just enough force to make you squeak like the Pillsbury Doughboy.
“You’re weak here. Engage it. Squeeze tighter. That’s it, good girl.”
Good girl!?
Little does Sukuna know it’s not your core that’s responding but your pelvic muscles, your pussy fluttering wildly at the command like he's addressing her directly.
By the end of the session, every muscle in your body is cooked. Lungs on fire, like you’ve never worked out a day in your life.
And honestly—if this is what real training entails?
Then yeah. You definitely haven’t. Not even close.
Still, for a one‑off session, Sukuna gave you more than enough to continue on your own—form breakdowns, weak points to target, enough structure to build a routine from scratch.
Not that you’re thinking about fitness anymore. You just want to crawl out of here—and into bed.
You’re so worn down, so light-headed, that you don’t even notice you’ve grabbed the wrong towel—Sukuna’s, damp and still warm from use—instead of one of the cool eucalyptus-scented ones the gym provides. You sling it over your shoulders without thinking, wobbling toward the water fountain.
By the time you bend down for a much-needed drink, it practically slaps you across the face.
The aroma of salty sandalwood and heat, along with a musk so dark and undeniably masculine it makes your belly tingle.
Oh sweet fuck!
Warmth floods your senses, spreading through you all the way down to your toes. Your legs begin to quake once more—worse than they did during the three-minute wall squats Sukuna forced you to hold.
You’re no virgin—but you’ve never been affected by a man’s scent like this.
Ever.
You spot the laundry bin the moment you step into the women’s locker room—your rational brain whispering to just drop the towel in and walk away.
Your hand hovers over the bin… but lingers a second too long. Voices now echo behind you as a group of women enter.
Snatching the towel back on instinct, your pulse spikes as you run to shove it into your locker like illicit contraband. There's no time to think more about it as you rush to the showers, hoping cold water can cool off whatever the hell is happening in your brain.
The shower soothes your muscles but it does nothing for the fire in your belly rapidly increasing.
Already weak, you slide down the cool tile. Water beats against your body as your fingers slip between your thighs. You circle your clit once, twice, then trail lower, pushing two fingers into your cunt with shaking hands.
You bite your lip hard, trying to stay quiet, acutely aware of how thin the walls are, how public and just wrong this is.
Yet no matter how hard you work your fingers, you can’t scratch the itch.
Even angling yourself so the water beats directly against your clit doesn’t get you there.
Shiiiit. You can’t even get off properly. Argh!
Frustrated and flustered, you finally give up. Shutting off the shower, you towel off in record time and book it out of the locker room—but not before stuffing Sukuna’s sweat-drenched towel deep into your duffel.
Glancing around you attempt to play it cool as you make your exit… only to duck your head a little too obviously as you pass the front desk.
Gojo, of course, spots you anyway. He waves at you cheerily and you try not to flinch as you force a smile and wave back, doing your best to look inconspicuous.
Nothing at all like the perverted little horn-dog thief you actually are.
You drive home like a woman possessed. The second your door clicks shut behind you, you’re already bolting for your room.
Shoes kicked off in a hurry, your duffel lands on the bed with a heavy thud. Your hands shake as you fumble with the zipper, pulse pounding with the insanity of what you’re about to do.
There it is.
The stolen towel, still damp and filthy. Lifting it to your face, you inhale like it’s oxygen itself.
God, that hits!
Your eyes lodge into your skull as the odor particles hit your brain, your mouth and pussy watering instantly.
This is wrong.
Disgusting.
Depraved.
And yet—you can’t remember the last time you were this fucking horny.
You don’t even undress properly—just shove your shorts down, kicking them off with your panties as you hurriedly reach into your nightstand.
Got it!
The suction vibrator hums to life in your hand as you collapse back against the pillows, towel pressed over your face.
The second the toy clasps over your clit, a gasp punches out of your chest, your eyes flying open.
Embarrassingly slick and oversensitive, your body reacts like it’s been waiting for this since his hands were on you. Your hips grind into the suction with helpless little thrusts.
The crumpled towel muffles your moans as your brain fills in the blanks—his voice, his hands, his tongue in place of the toy.
His gruff voice berates your thoughts.
Push harder, brat.
Hold it. Take it.
Good fucking girl.
As far as your delusions are concerned the soreness in your muscles isn’t from the workout, but from him folding you over the bench, stretching you open with this hefty cock and working you over until you’re shaking for an entirely different reason.
Trembling, your hand almost slips as your orgasm builds, causing you to arch into the vibrations.
Engage it! You hear him growl.
And you do—just like he taught you as you bury your face deeper into the towel and flick the button increasing the pulsing suction on your throbbing button.
When you come, it hits you all at once.
A breathless cry tears out of you as your body locks up—pleasure tearing through you. You cling to his scent, hips jerking as you ride the overstimulation until you finally go limp.
Lying there afterward, dazed, sweaty, staring at the ceiling in quiet horror because even through your shame the hard truth is—you want more.
And like an addict after the first hit—you’re already clicking the wand back on.
By morning, to your horror, the scent has already started to fade from the towel and the panic that claws up your throat is immediate.
You know you can’t afford another session...
But an unhealthy obsession?
That, you can manage.
After that, the gym doesn’t just become part of your routine—it is the routine. You start showing up religiously, like you’re worshipping at the altar of your own filthy fixations.
Well, for your workouts too. But mostly?
You come for him. Sukuna.
Like a fucking weirdo you start watching Sukuna from a distance.
In mirror reflections. From across the floor. From behind machines.
You just… observe—quietly and patiently—drinking him in like a thirst you can’t quite quench.
You never try to make eye contact though, nor dare to try to make conversation.
Hell no, you’re too terrified of him for that.
Plus Sukuna didn’t seem like the small talk type.
On the rare occasion your eyes do meet in the gym in close passing, you barely manage a stiff and squeaky, “Hi” before darting your eyes away, like you’ve been caught doing something illegal.
Which, honestly, feels kinda accurate.
But you weren’t really doing anything bad right?
You were a gym member. He worked there.
Of course you’d see him. It’s normal.
Super casual.
Just like you casually timing your workouts to use machines near wherever he is training clients. Hoping to get close enough to maybe, just maybe, catch another whiff of those musky pheromones that rewired your brain chemistry and wrecked your sense of normalcy in a single afternoon.
Your jealousy hits fast when those bubbly influencer girls, all high-ponytails and matching sets, laugh way too loud at things he definitely meant as insults and actually have the nerve to try to cling to his adonis-like form.
The only consolation is they are usually crying by the end and few rebook in return, making Sukuna's regulars mainly men who want him to tear them apart so they can have even a fraction of the physique he does.
Yet man or woman, Sukuna runs them into the ground. He doesn’t care how attractive they are or how hard they flirt or how much they protest.
It doesn’t take long to realize something else, either:
Sukuna’s harder to book than Gojo.
You only got him that day by pure fluke—Yuki was out and someone canceled.
Sure, Gojo’s the golden boy. Content king, the face of the gym and the main draw to why people sign up for the ridiculously expensive membership in the first place.
But Gojo’s sessions are all vibes. He jokes, flirts, counts a few reps, and always films a cute reel for your socials—just as long as you make sure to tag him and the gym.
But Sukuna? Sukuna doesn’t even have social media.
You only go to Sukuna if you’re serious. Or masochistic.
Or just plain obsessed.
Like you.
No one leaves his sessions looking camera-ready. They leave wrecked.
And goddamn—that just makes you want him even more.
Once, while leaving the gym, you spot the personal trainer shift schedule—just left out on the front desk.
Plain as day, just sitting there in the open.
You don’t mean to look. You really don’t.
But the next thing you know, you’re pretending to scan a QR code on a sign advertising the gym app (which you downloaded weeks ago), while sneakily snapping a photo of Sukuna’s hours instead.
You nearly shit yourself when Gojo pops up out of nowhere.
Grinning, smoothie in hand, he starts chatting you up like you didn’t just commit a minor felony.
Panicked, you mumble something about catching your bus—
…while holding your car keys in plain view like a dumbass.
Then you bolt outta there like your name is Usain.
But minor mortification aside, from that day on, your visits become a lot more strategic.
You realize Sukuna comes in at the ass crack of dawn to train before his shift.
So, naturally, you start showing up even earlier—just to watch.
Today’s upper body, apparently.
You find Sukuna posted up at the shoulder press, casually repping weights that are triple your mass. His black tank clings to him, sweat-darkened and stretched across his chest like it’s trying to merge with his skin. You swear it looks just as desperate as you are to be pressed against him.
Getting visibly annoyed at the clingy fabric, Sukuna rips the tank off one-handed, yanking it over his head and tossing it to the floor like it had personally offended him.
You nearly fall off the elliptical at the sight.
His bare chest is on full display now—tatted pecs glistening, thick and meaty, bouncing slightly as he pumps out reps like it’s nothing.
You’re barely moving.
The machine beeps at you, flashing “INACTIVITY DETECTED.”
Chile, you don't even notice.
You’re too busy imagining burying your face in those muscular mounds, tits squishing against your cheeks while he presses you in deep and lets you suffocate in nirvana.
God, you just want to motorboat your face into them until you pass tf out.
Unknowingly, a soft whine slips out of you.
Louder than it should in the mostly empty gym, even with music pumping.
Sukuna’s eyes flick over toward you.
Fuckkkk.
Caught, your neck twinges from how fast you whip your head away.
You don’t dare look back, but you feel Sukuna watching you. His stare scorches a hole straight through your soul.
You don’t look anywhere other than the ellipticals display until Gojo’s obnoxiously loud voice calls Sukuna over from the back office, waving encouragingly like he’s summoning a particularly grumpy doberman.
Leaving all his stuff at the machine, there's a distinct growl of annoyance from Sukuna as he rolls his eyes and stomps away.
Alone now, your gaze slides back to the shoulder press machine.
The black leather shines under the overhead lights—drenched, shining like a fucking beacon, soaked through with Sukuna’s delicious man‑sweat.
Practically calling to you like an obscene siren song.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you’re already in front of the machine.
You’ve never even used it before—but that’s not about to stop you now.
Under the pretense of adjusting the weights, you crouch down and press your nose to the seat where Sukuna had been sitting.
A salty musk clings to the cushion.
Mmm, pungent. It’s so fresh. God, it’s been too long since you’ve smelled him this intensely.
A shudder rips through your spine as you inhale deep, chest stuttering.
Quickly, you glance around, checking to make sure the coast is clear. It is. Then you do something you never would have considered doing just a few weeks ago—you lean forward, tongue peeking out of your drool glossed lips and lick a lingering bead of sweat straight off the backrest.
Oh damn, Oh fuck!
This must be what heaven tastes like.
Suddenly, a door booms open from the back. You hear Gojo’s laughter, in near hysterics as and Sukuna’s grumbling something you can't quite make out.
Startled, you bolt upright, heart slamming into your ribs.
You don’t think, you just know you can’t get caught licking seats like a freakazoid so—you book it.
By the time you stumble into the locker room, panting you notice something in your hand—
It's practically saturated with sweat, beads dripping down onto your sneakers. Biting your lip, you know you just can't walk out there and give it back to him.
You'd look bonkers.
And worse—you can still feel his warmth in the fabric.
Shit! Darting into the nearest bathroom stall, you slam the door shut, sitting on the toilet lid as you stare at the dirtied tank in your hands.
You are absolutely fucking disgusting.
And you don’t give a solitary fuck.
Without hesitation, you wring the fabric out over your open mouth, catching the salty drip on your tongue. A moan fumbles from your lips as you lick them, before you stuff the fabric into your mouth and slurp it down glutinously like its holy water.
From there, it only escalates further.
A few days later, a long sock falls out of Sukuna’s bag in the lobby.
You bend down like you’re tying your shoe and swipe it when no one’s looking. At home, you loop it around your head—hands‑free—covering your nose while you grind against a pillow until your thighs ache.
You steal water bottles.
Sweatbands.
Once, you even snag a pen he’d been chewing on—lift it straight off his clipboard and stuff it into your pocket. Later, you suck on it like it’s his tongue while your fingers work between your legs in the women’s locker‑room showers.
Yeah. You get over the embarrassment of getting off in the private stalls pretty fast.
It goes on like this for weeks.
No matter how much you take, telling yourself it's the last time. It never is.
It's never enough.
When Sunday rolls around, you show up at 5:30 bright and early—well, not bright exactly.
The sun isn’t even out yet, but as expected the gym’s a ghost town.
Just Gojo behind the front desk, humming to himself as he uploads another fitness thirst trap video, sipping an energy drink he definitely doesn’t need.
“Morning, cutie. You’ve been looking good lately,” he calls out as you enter, flashing a devilish grin that throws you off before you’ve even cleared the threshold. “Reconsider any personal training yet? Sorry again about Yuki bailing. But you enjoyed Sukuna, riiiiight?”
You freeze mid-step.
Gojo hasn’t brought up training since that first—and only—session.
He doesn’t know anything… right? So then why bring it up now?
“Ah, um—no, I did,” you stammer. “It… it was great. Amazing, even. B-but like I said, budget is so tight it’s nonexistent.”
You laugh nervously and Gojo hums like he's thinking something he’s not outright saying. “Mmhmm. Got it.”
Before you can slip past the desk though, he continues: “Oh! We just installed an infrared sauna, you should check it out! No one’s even used it yet, give it a test go for me will ya?”
Gripping your bag tighter, you offer a weak noncommittal smile, eager to get away from Gojo’s amused eyes.
But upon entering the main workout area your mood dips immediately.
No sign of Sukuna.
Goddamn it.
Early Sundays are usually your favorite—You always get a front-row seat to Sukuna’s infamous leg day routine. Full of squats that show off just how dummy thick his ass is.
Still, if you dragged yourself out here, you might as well make it count.
Surprisingly, when you pick up the 25lb dumbbell you used to struggle with, it feels light. Stalking clearly is a workout—your gains speak for themselves.
Usually, your “sessions” don’t last long—mostly an excuse to ogle—but today you grab a towel and decide to hit the new sauna tucked in the back.
You might as well do Gojo the solid, your study group isn’t until noon.
Besides, you’ve never tried the regular Saunas—too self-conscious to sit half-naked next to glossy, influencer types. But the gym’s a empty and the new one is down a quiet, empty hall.
Perfect.
Stripping down in the locker room, you wrap the towel around yourself and head down the corridor.
There’s only one sauna, but a paper sign slapped on the door reads Women’s, so you don’t think twice.
Stepping inside, the noise from the main floor vanishes, sealed off by thick walls. The red glow of infrared lights paints the wooden heatbox in a soft, sultry rouge.
It’s oddly peaceful.
You breathe deep, lowering yourself onto one of the benches. Your limbs still ache from your half-hearted workout, but the heat is a balm. Eyes fluttering shut, you let it melt into your muscles, loosening tension you didn’t even realize you were carrying.
But your mind refuses to settle. Ten minutes, maybe less, go by, and all you can think about is Sukuna.
That wild pink hair. That gruff voice. Those hands. And of course—that stench.
You squirm slightly on the hard wooden bench, warmth pressing in from all sides. The silence thickens around you, humid and still. Your legs part just a little. A hand slips beneath your towel, nudging it up past your hips.
Sure, this is way more public than the showers… But no one’s around. Just Gojo up front—too busy refreshing his comments section to do any actual work.
Relaxing, as soon as your fingers dip into your folds—
Creak.
The door swings open.
Scrambling, you snap your legs shut, crossing them tight. Your hands fold in your lap like you’ve been sitting politely this entire time.
Adrenaline in overdrive, just when you think it can’t get worse—Sukuna steps in.
Shirtless, only in swim trunks, with a towel slung over one shoulder, Sukuna's torso gleams. The visible temperature of the sauna makes him look like a tempting mirage.
Pool? Since when does he swim? Also, you didn’t even realize the gym had one.
Breath stuttering you clutch your towel tighter around you.
“Um, e-excuse me, M-Mr. S-Sukuna?” you mumble, refusing to meet his eyes, “T-This is the women’s sauna”
Sukuna just looks at you incredulously.
“Cut that Mister shit out right now brat—tsk, but who the fuck said that?” he huffs, “There’s only one. It’s unisex.”
There’s plenty of room across from you, even on one of the upper levels. But Sukuna sits next to you, the bench creaking under his hefty bulk.
You swallow hard. “Ah, er… b-but the sign—?”
“What sign, you dizzy brat?” he smirks, flashing a single sharp canine.
Scrambling to your feet, you crack the door open and scan the hallway.
You blink at the walls, the floor, the door itself but the sign is nowhere to be seen.
Where the hell did it go!?
“Get your ass back in here and close the damn door,” Sukuna grumbles. “You’re letting all the hot air out.”
You straighten, nearly dropping your towel as you scurry back inside to avoid his wrath. Still mumbling apologies, you hover near the door—until Sukuna throws you a look.
You flinch, then shuffle back to your seat beside him.
Okay, girl, be calm.
But that's near impossible when you are internally freaking the fuck out.
Your thoughts race to find an excuse to leave. But the moment you turn toward Sukuna to speak, every thought evaporates—unlike the thick sweat beading along his tanned skin, your gaze zeroing in on a drop rolling lazily between his sculpted pecs.
You’d kill for a taste of that right now.
“You look good,” he finally says, causing you to jump, which only seems to amuse him.
You blink. He means you!?
Well… you suppose you can slip on your thanksgiving dress without a fight now. But you hadn’t really noticed—too busy splitting your time between school, the gym, and gooning yourself stupid over Sukuna.
Somehow, you’ve turned into a regular gym rat.
“You’ve been doing the sets I taught you, yeah?”
You nod quickly.
Sukuna doesn’t respond, his gaze unreadable as silence stretches between you. But you are stuck, frozen like a deer in headlights—fighting the urge to fidget under his scrutiny.
Unfortunately for you though, patience has never been a virtue of his.
“Tch.” Sukuna clicks his tongue, clearly fed up.
“Is that it? That all you’re gonna say for yourself?” His questions are intense as he eyes you down. “Didn’t take a freaky lil’ brat like you to be so damn shy.”
Hello!?
“Um, what—?”
Sukuna’s expression hardens further, his teeth sucking sharply as he leans in.
“Don’t bullshit me, brat. You’re into some kinda perverted stalker shit, right?”
Well…tea but damn, saying it like that makes you sound crazy.
“I—I don’t—what are you talking—”
“Careful.” Sukuna cuts you off with a sneer. “Lying’s not your strong suit.”
He shifts closer, thigh brushing yours, arm on the upper level bench draping behind you.
Dear god, he's so close you can smell him now.
The scent of his sweat curls around you like a chain, thick and oppressive in the heat, seeping into your pores.
The same scent that lives in the sock under your pillow. The tank you sleep in. The towel on your nightstand. The water bottle. All the stupid little trophies you stole like a greedy hoarding goblin.
“There are cameras in the gym,” Sukuna says casually—like he’s reciting policy, although his eyes never leave yours. “When my shit started going missing, I checked the footage.”
You would die on the spot right now if that was actually a viable option.
“I saw everything, woman” Sukuna spits, “You’re a fuckin’ freak. You should be locked up.”
Shitshitshit—is he actually going to call the cops!?
The sauna feels a thousand degrees hotter. Your instinct screams run—but you know you wouldn’t make it to the door if he decided to stop you.
“Ha, you know…Gojo called me into the office that day on purpose,” Sukuna adds, clicking his tongue, “He didn’t believe me that a quiet lil thing like you would be such a fuckin' weirdo at first, so he’d thought it’d be funny set a lil trap for ya.”
Your stomach drops… trap? Oh god, that day…
"Tch, a'course you fuckin' fell for it too—just like I knew you would…licked that groadie bench down like a slut."
But Sukuna, is unbothered by your falling apart, not softening his blows.
“You think I didn’t see you sniffing benches?”
“Licking the rim of my shaker bottle?”
“And that sock I dropped?” He snorts. “Wore that shit for five days straight. Smelled like rank ass.”
A broken sound slips out of you—half gasp, half whimper as you bury your face in your knees, trying to scrunch up in the tightest ball possible.
You can feel Sukuna looming closer though, his aura utterly overwhelming.
“Just admit.” Sukuna’s voice lowers, a bit gentler but not by much.
“You’ve been stealing my shit to flick your slutty little bean for three months straight. Figured you’d own it, now that I’m giving you a chance.”
Peer up at him from your knees, you look puzzled.
A chance??
“You, um… mean you're not mad?”
His grin widens, sharp teeth flashing.
“Oh, I’m fuckin’ pissed,” he says easily. “That some greedy, perverted brat’s too cheap to pay for more sessions, so she creeps on me and steals my shit like a freaked out leprechaun…”
You grip the edge of the bench, ready to run. Out of the sauna. Out of the gym. Out of the goddamn country. Nine months of prepaid membership? You’d flush it down the drain and never look back.
“…but,” Sukuna interrupts your spiral, licking his lips, “I’ve seen how hard you’ve been working. Like you’ve got my voice in that nasty little head of yours… telling you what to do.”
He leans in just slightly, voice dropping with heat.
“And that? That gets me hard as fuck.”
Your eyes drop. His shorts are tented—thick, obscene, stretching toward his thigh.
Pulling away from you, Sukuna leans back, spreading his arms along the bench behind you like he owns the place.
“Come here, brat.”
You freeze, just a beat too long—long enough to piss him off and before you know it Sukuna is grabbing you by the scruff of the neck, hauling you into his lap. Your towel slips in the process, falling around your hips.
But you don’t even care as his thumb presses beneath your jaw, tilting your face up to focus solely on him.
“Look at me, woman.”
Your throat tightens, holding his gaze, forced and trembling as your palms press flat to his chest and your bare pussy rests on his thick cock, still caged in his shorts—yet you still feel the twitch of it through the material.
The contact hits you like a fever, soaking into your naked body like fire. At long last, you are skin to sin, you imagined this more times in the last few weeks than you can count.
You can’t help the tremor that ripples through you.
Sukuna’s lip curls.
“So…”
SMACK.
His palm cracks against your ass, the punishing blow, has you biting down on your lip not to scream.
“You like the way I stink, huh, slut?”
Your bottom lip quivers and sick of holding it in, your degeneracy boils over in your admission.
“Oh fuckfuckfuck… yesss!”
God, that felt good. Like confession—but instead of relief, all it does is stoke the heat rolling through your body. You’re no sinner seeking redemption—you’re reveling in your own depravity.
Sukuna chuckles, pleased at your admission as his grip tightens at the back of your neck, yanking you forward until your face is buried in the thick curve of his raised arm.
Right into his funky pit. The epicenter of everything you’ve been chasing.
“Then get a good whiff, freaky-ass brat.”
And you do. Eyes fluttering shut, you bury your face in the muggy pocket of sweat and inhale—deep, greedy lungfuls that make your pussy clench helplessly around nothing.
Sukuna reeks of unfiltered masculinity. No deodorant. No pretense. Just thick heady pheomones—raw, musky and pungent.
You don’t care that you’re naked. Don’t care that you’re in public.
All you care about is getting more. More of him. More of that addictive stench that’s already rewired your addict brain.
“That’s it,” Sukuna says, “Just like that. Fucking knew a nasty brat like you’d melt.”
You whimper against his skin, but shame doesn’t stand a chance anymore—choked out by sheer, throbbing need.
This is your sickest fantasy made flesh.
You nuzzle deeper, nosing through the soaked pit, surprised by how smooth the skin is—just a faint dusting of pink fuzz tickling your cheek. The texture alone makes your clit throb.
A needy moan slips from your throat as your hips roll forward on instinct, grinding against the fat stiff ridge straining in his shorts.
Already dizzy and feral, you rut shamelessly—slick soaking through the fabric—like you’ve long since forgotten what the concept of dignity even is.
Sukuna growls, teeth clenched as your soppy cunny smears across his cock.
“Shiiit,” he grits out, voice rough as gravel. One big hand slips between your legs, fingers sliding languidly through your messy folds, far too composed compared to the frantic buck of your hips.
“You’ve been this wet the whole time?”
He snorts at the pitiful sound you make.
“What—never thought to get your fix straight from the source, huh? Fuckin’ scent junkie?”
You whine, helpless, hips jerking as he pushes a thick finger inside your perverted lil’ pussy.
“Where’s your shame, slut?” Sukuna jeers teasingly, “You want someone to walk in here and see you like this?”
You couldn’t care less.
You could die like this. And die happy.
Eager to show your gratitude your tongue drags wet and slow through the sweaty hollow of his pit, flicking, swirling and sucking at the flesh.
Your tongue swirls more obscenely at his praise—devouring the taste of him like you’ll never get another chance.
Exhaling hard, Sukuna knows if he doesn’t stop you, he’s going to fucking bust soon, just from your vulgar lil’ tongue in his pit and from the feral way you dry hump his cock like a deranged, funk-drunk perv.
“Say, brat?” Sukuna’s tone is laced with something dangerous but you’re too far gone to register, only groaning into his skin.
Sukuna loosens his grip on your neck just slightly to stroke the back of it, deceptively gentle.
“You do your warm-ups today? The ones I showed you?”
“Mmm—ah—” Your mouth breaks from his skin just long enough to mumble a blissed-out, “Always do~!”
“Good,” Sukuna chuckles, shaking his head “This shouldn’t break you then.”
Before you can blink, Sukuna yanks you from his pit.
He manhandles you face-down, ass-up on the bench, forcing your spine into a brutal arch.
There’s a rustle behind you—the sound of fabric hitting the floor.
That’s the only warning you get.
Then he slams in.
One brutal, bottomed-out thrust—balls deep—and the air rips straight from your lungs.
“Ngghh!—F-FUH!”
Your thighs spasm, cunt clenching tight as Sukuna rams straight into your G‑spot, slick pulsing out around his cock and soaking him to the heavy sack.
“Called it,” Sukuna snorts, smacking your ass, watching it ripple. “The crazy ones are always fuckin’ gushers.”
You don’t answer. You can’t.
Completely incapacitated, you quiver beneath him—already fucked too dumb by his veiny girth splitting you open. No time to brace. No chance to adjust.
Just reduced to a shell, a fucktoy for his use—and fuck, it feels sooo good.
“Quit squirmin’, woman,” Sukuna growls, landing another smack—harder this time—making even the cheek he didn’t hit jiggle.
You’re desperate to follow orders—but you barely know where you are anymore. The sauna’s heat blurs your vision, your brain melted by the fire in your core and the way Sukuna’s cock throbs inside you, turning your guts to mush.
“Tsk. Not stable enough—looks like you need a spot.”
Sukuna plants one foot, swinging the other up to rest on the center of your back, pinning you in a shape exactly to his liking. Locked into position at the perfect depth, angle, and tilt to pound into your spongy walls and pound straight into your womb.
“There,” he grunts satisfied, “Perfect fuckin' form.”
The sauna fills with the sound of sloshing flesh. You’re leaking from everywhere—sweat slicking your skin, tits dripping, cunt gushing around his cock. The bench beneath you is drenched, an obscene puddle collecting under your trembling limbs and dripping onto the floor.
It’s messy, it’s vile and it’s the hottest sex you'd ever had,
“Take it,” Sukuna roars. Spreading your ass cheeks wider, he hunches over you, crescent moons digging into your flesh for leverage lest he slips out of your slick cunt entirely.
“That’s it. Fuckin’—tight little thing, *puh*” Sukuna grits, spitting.
The fat wad of fluids hits the top of your crack, pooling with the sweat dripping off his brow and your own, rolling in rivulets down your back, dribbling down—all messily coalescing in the crack of your ass. The mixture bubbles over your hole as it flutters, struggling to take it in, but Sukuna’s thumbs keep it stretched open, ensuring it does.
Fuck what a filthy sight—it hasn’t even been that long and already his balls are tightening, wanting to explode in your crazy, stalker coochie.
“Look at you,” Sukuna pants, muscles twitching, the sauna’s heat finally catching up to even him. “This is the real training ya needed. Been too long since this freaked-out pussy had a good workout.”
“YESSSSS!” you cry, it feels so good, but it’s all too much. You’re seconds from blacking out.
Your hands claw at the bench, nails leaving streaks in the wood as Sukuna, removes his foot from your back, grabs a fistful of your hair and yanks you upright, putting you in a headlock.
Each brutal thrust snaps your body forward, cheeks stinging with every slap of his hips against your ass.
“Sniff,” he orders. Thrusting harder with each word. “Breathe. It. All. In.”
But his arm's tight around your throat—you can’t breathe.
Everything collapses into sensation: the choke of his hold, his scent pouring over you, the heavy weight of his body pressing down, the wet flick of his tongue in your ear before he bites the shell just to hear you squeal.
“You wanted this,” he mocks, voice ragged. “Earned every inch, creepin’ on me like a filthy lil’ perv.”
The moment his palm smacks your swollen clit, your orgasm detonates.
Bruttally ripping through your body, your pussy clenching around his cock like a vice.
You’re sobbing in pleasure, helpless, as Sukuna swears under his breath—but doesn’t slow.
He fucks you through the aftershocks, pussy squeezing him in erratic, wet pulses that has him coming undone.
With a final, guttural grunt, Sukuna’s cockhead presses flush to your cervix, thick, hot ropes of white flood your womb, searing your insides until you’re dazed and seeing galaxies behind your lids. Keeping you pinned in the headlock, Sukuna holds you there until the worst of your spams subside, finally pulling out with a wet, heavy pop.
You’re half-conscious, limp from exertion—but Sukuna isn’t finished.
He lowers you onto your back, spreads your trembling legs, and drops between them to survey the looks of your battered, swollen cunt, still plugged full of his cum.
“You know,” Sukuna smirks, “You’re not the only one into musky shit, slut.”
You shiver as he licks his lips—then dives in, hungrily sucking his own cum out of your pussy, groaning low as the cocktail of scents flood his senses.
You have no idea how much time passes. Surely there’s no cum left—yet Sukuna’s still down there face buried deep like your folds like your pussy juice was the much needed recovery electrolytes his body craved after fucking you into the bench.
If you had the strength, you’d push him away.
But you don’t.
You just lie there, ruined and twitching, as he rips another body racking orgasm out of you.
Click.
Unexpectedly, the sauna door creaks open.
You can barely see now with all the sweat dripping into your eyes—but the voice is unmistakable.
“…Well, well.”
Gojo.
He’s standing in the doorway, a green smoothie in one hand, shit-eating grin plastered on his face.
“Oh,” he says, sipping through his straw. “Thought I heard some suspicious moaning through the vents. Wanted to make sure no one was dying back here.”
Panicked, you try to sit up—but Sukuna doesn’t let you. His arms lock tight around your thighs, dragging your ass back down onto the bench with a scowl.
He doesn't even look at Gojo.
Gojo snickers, lounging in the doorway. “I know I of all people shouldn’t judge but, Sukuna, buddy. The women’s sauna?”
“Unisex,” Sukuna grunts into your cunt. “You labeled it wrong on purpose, dickhead.”
“Guil-ty~,” Gojo sing-songs. “But hey—look at you! Finally got your dick wet in some crazy stalker pussy. I definitely did you a favor.”
“The both of you actually,” he drawls on, swirling the straw of his smoothie like a martini, “I did leave that trainer schedule out on purpose. Didn’t think you’d go full gremlin though, girliepop, but hey—looks like it paid off!”
A pathetic sob escapes you—half humiliation, half pleasure—especially when Sukuna tightens his grip on your thighs, holding you down like a meal that won’t stay still.
“Shut the fuck up,” Sukuna snaps, surfacing just long enough to glare at Gojo’s smug ass. “You’ll scare her off. She’s jumpy enough.”
Gojo merely laughs it off.
“Nah, not this one,” he says, eyes glittering with mischief. “After indulging that freaky lil appetite? You’re the one who should be scared, Kuna~.”
But Sukuna clearly doesn’t give a fuck—he’s already back between your legs, this time sliding his thumb into your ass.
You jolt, thighs shaking violently, muffling a cry behind your hands as your body bucks against his mouth. Although, given the situation, you still are considering skipping town when all of this is over.
“Well, don’t stop on my account.” Gojo hums. “I’ll throw a cone outside so no one wanders in on your little… aroma therapy session~”
Just before disappearing, Gojo pauses in the doorway, faux-pouting.
“Oh—and next time, you fuck little miss agora hills? Invite me. Or I’m docking your pay for unauthorized client sessions—okay toodles~~!”
Click. The door swings shut behind him.
Sukuna doesn’t even look up.
Tch. Like hell he’s inviting that fruity-smelling bastard.
an. this was a hyperfocus brain obsession i had to thug out, soz. going back to work on elevator p2, freddy!sukuna and incel!naoya [if i didnt mention it no im not working on it right at this second, yes i do plan to finish it, please don't bug me about it :) ]
𝓵𝓲𝓴𝓮𝓭 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓼? then please 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 or 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠! you can also join my gen. 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 or contribute to the 𝐛𝐢𝐦𝐛𝐨$𝐟𝐮𝐧𝐝.
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