ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃 i'm just picturing being dad!robbys perfect little girl. always listening to him, so pliant, so eager to please, so soft and sweet.
but bro!frank is always huffy when robby so clearly coddles you instead of him :(
it often leads to frank acting out in jealousy; pinching your clit too harshly, biting too hard, pulling your hair too roughly when you're sucking him off. but that always leads to tears from you and running straight back to daddy.
you plop yourself right onto robbys lap while hes nursing a beer and trying to watch a late night game. he peers down and your teary face while you whine and squeak out about how frankie was being soso mean to you.
robby grumbles out, 'i'll deal with him later' and caresses your hair, soothing your laboured breathing until your chest is rising and falling steadily and you're drooling against his shoulder.
frank has recently learned that him acting up doesn't work and in fact makes his situation worse. so frank now has a mission to make you act up.
robby will be out of the house one day, and you two were on strict rules of no touching!! yourselves or eachother
frank was doing everything he possibly could to rile you up and make you crack. walking around the house in a tight, short top, stretching his arms up so you could catch a glimpse of his happy trail. picking you up and placing you somewhere else nonchalantly, knowing how much of a whore you are for some manhandling.
he can see the way your thighs are rubbing together and your pupils are becoming increasingly dilated as you watch him with need, but you don't act on it. he nearly scoffs out loud. the lengths you'll go to, to keep robby happy.
so frank will just have to push you a little!
you're snuggled up on the couch when frank grabs you under the arms and sets you on top of him. he watches the way a blush creeps its way onto your cheeks and your hips twitch slightly. his hands run down the sides of your body and settle on your hips, grabbing them and guiding you to rock on his thigh.
the needy whimpers you let out run straight to his cock, but frank has to remind himself he's trying to get you in trouble, not himself. "frankie.. we shouldn't" frank just flat out ignores you, tightening his grip on your hips and grinding you faster against the rough material of his shorts.
"frankie daddy said-"
"he said we can't touch. we aren't touching, you're just... rubbing"
your mind was too hazy to disagree, so caught up in the goal of cumming, you just let frank rock you back and forth. and right as you're about to climax, frank pushes you off.
you land on the side of the couch, peering up at him teary eyed and looking dejected. "frankie.. i was about to.."
he pushes himself up off the couch, an embarrassingly large wet patch on his thigh from where you were so needily humping him evident on his shorts. "finish yourself off" he shrugs and strolls back to his room.
you almost cry out of frustration, and with a mind all cloudy with the desperation to finish, you completely forget about the rule robby had set.
so right there on the couch, you pull one of robby's hoodies from the back of the chair, pull it up to your nose, and hike your leg over one of the throw pillows, needily grinding against it to reach what you so desperately desired.
when robby returns home, he walks into the living room to see you humping one of the new pillows. panties thrown haphazardly on the floor, his hoodie drowning your figure, and slick dripping down the pillow. robby squints and clenches his jaw. his good girl disobeying his rules? how strange.
he clears his throat and your head snaps to him, eyes widening in shock and you scramble backwards off the pillow.
"daddy i'm sorry!" you drop to your knees right in front of him, looking at him with pleading eyes. "i didn't mean to i just.." and as you're spouting bullshit you wrap your arms around his leg, resting your cheek against his thigh. "i'm so sorry" you're whining and whimpering now, and robby can tell you haven't even been able to make yourself cum because now you're hastily grinding against his boot.
"dumb baby" he tuts, gripping your hair and pulling you back. "humping on every surface like a mutt huh?" your cheeks burn with embarrassment.
by now, frank is in the doorway, watching the scene unfold with mischievous eyes (and a raging boner but he's ignoring that for now)
robby sighs, "i thought i'd get home to my pretty girl being good for me like always." shaking his head in disappointment
you yelp out, "i'm still good for you, im sorry"
robby shakes his head again. "you disobeyed my rules" he kicks you off his boot gently because he's always gentle with his favourite girl and turns towards frank, to whom he points to, and beckons over with a wiggle of his finger.
robby now turns back to you, "frank, for once, has been so good for me, and because im feeling nice, i'll let you watch and see what good kids get"
you watch from the floor as frank gets rewarded with robby's dick down his throat and you whimper needily. by now you were shamelessly grinding down on the fucking floor, desperate for any form of relief.
robby chuckles. his spoiled girl. can't even make herself cum anymore.
for the rest of the night you're forced to watch frank get rewarded, even though he's the one that started the whole thing :(
and frank hasn't ever felt happier, getting off to the desperate, pleading look you were giving him while he got to feel good.
!!! this is fully inspired by the wonderful @pinkandblueblurbs i loooooooove their stuff, go check it out!!
sorry i got a little carried away here... it was just supposed to be a blurb
𑣲⋆｡˚ rabbot love taking you at the same time p link
jack is grasping your hips from below you with an iron rip as your boobs press against his chest, dragging against him with each harsh thrust. he's looking straight up at your face, and you gaze down at him with bleary eyes, already so fucked out :(
he pouts sympathetically at the dumb look on your face and brushes some of the hair that had fallen in front of your eyes when your head lulled forward. you make sensual eye contact while he caresses your face in his big hand, gazing at you adoringly.
it would've been so romantic
if not for the absolute brute robby was, pounding into you from behind, with a harsh grunt from each thurst.
no wonder you were so dumb already, your poor pussy was struggling to fit both of their big cocks at the same time :(
robby readjusts and hikes his leg up to give him more momentum, gripping onto your shoulders to drag you right back down their lengths when you tried to squirm away.
the new angle caused you to let out a shocked squeal and then a defeated whimper when you realised robby wouldn't let up. jack tuts, "aw robby's being mean isn't he baby?"
you let out a dumb nod, making eye contact with jack again while they both plough into you. robby ignores the comment and just keeps going, and jacks hands drag up your body to squeeze the plush planes of your boobs, still holding eye contact while teasing your nipples.
you were a mess, bless your soul, spasming, drooling, your hole leaking. but they loved it. they revel in knowing they ruin you so good your brain can't function anymore and all you can think about is dick.
rabbot love ruining their girl at the same time ᥫ᭡.
hi angels!! im so sorry ive been on a little hiatus - i've been legit drowning in school work and i'm staying with my family at the moment so i've been super busy!
i've come back to my account and i just checked and i have over 1k followers!! 🥹
i'm so grateful to each and every single one of my angels i love you all so so much!
while i have been gone i've been watching the pitt with my family and im loving it soso much and im gonna start writing for it. lmk if that would interest u angels!!
nerd!gojo is the type to have you completely undone within ten minutes with just with his tongue and fingers. glasses slightly askew, that insufferable almost-smile, watching you fall apart as he experiments, paying attention to every little thing that makes you twich. you wouldn't be surprised if he had a notepad next to him. he will say "thought so" when he finds something that works, quiet and satisfied, and you want to be annoyed about it but physically cannot because he's right and he's always right with his stupid big brain.
frat!sukuna is the type to have you in his lap at a party with his hand underneath your skirt, completely unbothered, carrying on a conversation with whoever's nearby while his fingers work you open slowly and his face gives absolutely nothing away. he expects you to stay quiet. he knows you're struggling. he finds it very funny. he will only look at you when you're right at the edge, turning just enough to watch your face, and he'll keep you there for as long as he wants before he decides you've earned it.
professor!nanami is the type to wait until after class, until the room is empty, until it's just you standing at his desk with some question you both know isn't really about the coursework. and then he'll look at you over his glasses with that expression and say close the door in a voice that makes your panties dampen and your thighs squeeze together. methodical about everything, including this. especially this. the kind of thorough that makes you forget what day it is.
plug!choso is the type to turn soft and pliant the moment you put your hands on him, going completely still under your touch like he doesn't know what to do with being handled gently and is trying very hard not to show how much he wants it. will do anything you ask without hesitation and look at you the whole time with those dark eyes like you're the only thing worth looking at in any room he's ever been in.
goth!geto is the type to be slow and deliberate that borders on overwhelming. unhurried, with long fingers, a patience that feels almost meditative and eyes that stay on your face the entire time collecting every reaction and filing it away into his brain for later. has this low quiet voice that he uses specifically to say things in your ear that you'll be thinking about for days afterward. he knows exactly what he's doing. has always known.
athlete!toji is the type to have you pressed against the wall of the equipment room with one arm braced above your head and absolutely zero urgency about it, like he has nowhere to be and no interest in being anywhere else. he has that lazy smile while watching you come undone and he takes his time with it. he's still in his practice gear. he doesn't care. you've stopped caring too.
dean!higuruma is the type to have you bent over his desk after hours. door locked, glasses still on, one hand pressed flat between your shoulder blades keeping you exactly where he wants you arched up at the perfect angle for him to watch the ripple of your ass. he takes you apart with a methodical patience that borders on devastating. he won't speed up no matter how much you ask. he will only go harder when he decides to, not even when you beg for it, and he always decides eventually, just never when you expect it.
campus security!shiu is the type to have you in the security office after hours, luring you there under the guise that you had broken the rules somehow. the monitors are still running and he doesn't care even slightly. he's quiet and focused and completely sure of himself that is so fucking attractive. his hands are steady and deliberate, finding the things that work and repeating them without commentary until you're gripping the edge of the desk and making sounds that would absolutely carry if the building weren't empty. he says almost nothing the entire time. just a sly smirk while the pretty college student is unfolding in the hands of campus security.
skater!ino is the type to show up to yours still in his gear, beanie slightly ajar, and have you on the bed within five minutes of him getting home. his calloused hands spreading your thighs with this easy confidence (and borderline desperation), settling between them, and he takes his time, mouth warm and unhurried against your skin while you grip the sheets. he will come up grinning when you make a sound he likes, that easy grin, and go right back down before you can say anything about it. he's moaning like a whore against your pussy while he ruts against the bed in desperation.
"si com eget me plsd" and then, instead of a location pin, a screenshot of a map with your street barely visible in the corner, which tells him everything he needs to know about the state you're in. he stares at it for a moment. closes his eyes. gets his keys.
you're outside when he pulls up, leaning against the brick wall with your shoes dangling from one hand and your hair half out of whatever careful style it was when you left, and the moment you see his car your entire face brightens and you push off the wall and stumble toward him like he's the best thing you've seen all night.
"simon!!," you say, drawing his name out like it's something you've been saving.
"yeah," he says. "i'm here. come on."
you stumble and crash directly into his side, both arms winding around his waist, your face pressing into his chest with a contented sound that he feels more than hears. he stands with your shoes dangling against his back and your hair tickling his chin and after a moment of trying to help you to walk, he ends up picking you up bridal style and carrying you.
"you're so strong si" you mumble dreamily, staring at him in absolute awe. when he places you into the car and buckles your seatbelt for you, "you're responsible too"
you manage the passenger seat for almost a full minute before you migrate.
he's not entirely sure of the mechanics — one moment you're buckled in beside him, the next you're somehow mostly across the centre console, sideways, your chin on his shoulder and your hand warm and certain on his thigh before he's even made it out of the car park. he pulls over at the first opportunity and sorts your seatbelt properly, reaching across you, and you look up at him while he does it with an expression that has no business being that specific given the circumstances.
"you're so good to me," you tell him, with complete sincerity.
"sit still," he says, and pulls back onto the road.
you sit still for thirty seconds. maybe thirty five.
then your hand starts moving on his upper thigh. slow, idle, the kind of absent touch that might be accidental on anyone else but on you, right now, tilted toward him with your eyes tracking his profile you're gazing at him with pure lust.
he watches the road. says nothing. when your hand shifts onto his bulge he picks it up and deposits it back in your own lap without comment.
you put it straight back.
he lets it stay, this time, because clearly moving it isn't working and he's a practical man.
this turns out to be a mistake, because you start rubbing there too. he tries to stare straight forward and focus on the road, but his pants are undeniably getting tighter.
"simon," you say, in a voice that is different from your usual voice — lower, a little slow, the careful diction of someone choosing words through a pleasant haze.
"mm."
"you're so pretty" you say, very seriously.
"not the word most people would use," he says.
"well you are pretty. so pretty si." in some form of cuteness aggression, you lean over the console and softly bite his neck. then you decide its not enough and give sloppy kisses down his neck.
"lovie sit back."
"i am sitting back. i wanna sit on your face though siiii." you mumble against his neck and your nails drag lightly against his bulge. his jaw tightens incrementally. "simon."
"ten minutes," he says. "we're ten minutes away."
"i just want—"
"i know what you want."
"and?"
"and ten minutes."
you consider this for a moment, apparently decide ten minutes is a negotiating position rather than a statement of fact, and say something directly against his ear — low and unhurried and specific enough that every muscle in his body contracts simultaneously. the car remains in its lane. it takes more effort than he would like to admit.
"christ," he says, very quietly, to the windscreen.
"is that a yes," you say, settling back with the satisfaction of someone who knows exactly what they've done.
"it's a keep your hands where they are and let me drive," he says.
you keep your hands where they are. you also keep talking — which, as it turns out, is considerably worse than the hands. a steady, uninhibited stream of observations and suggestions delivered in the candid cheerful tone of someone who has temporarily misplaced their filter, all of it aimed at him, all of it landing exactly where you intend it to. simon drives. he keeps his eyes on the road. he responds to none of it, which he's aware is not the same as not hearing it, and the ten minutes stretch out into something that feels significantly longer than ten minutes.
he gets you inside.
the lift is its own specific trial. you're facing him with your back against the panel, arms loose around his neck, looking up at him with those eyes that have always been a problem. you're talking again, softer now, something about his hands and something else about what you'd like and he reaches past you and hits the button for your floor and keeps his eyes forward and breathes steadily and thinks about absolutely nothing at all.
"you're ignoring me," you say.
"i'm listening to every word," he says, which is true and is the problem.
you stop twice on the way to your door. once to tell him something about his shoulders that he files away against his better judgement, and once to make a suggestion so detailed and vulgur that he stops walking entirely for a moment, stands in the middle of the hallway, and takes a slow breath before continuing. you look pleased with yourself.
he gets you through the door. gets you to the bedroom. you sit on the edge of the bed and reach for him with both hands, expression open and warm and wanting, and he catches your hands gently and holds them.
"lie down," he says.
"come with me," you say.
"in a minute. i'm getting you water."
you lie back against the pillow with a small sound that does nothing helpful for the ache in his pants, and he turns and goes to the kitchen.
when he gets back he sees you face down on the pillow, one arm thrown wide, your shoes finally abandoned somewhere between the door and the bed. there you were, fast asleep in your dream world, a small pool of drool already forming at the corner of your mouth, breathing slow and even and completely, utterly unconscious.
and there simon stood, water glass in hand, watching you, while he was sporting a throbbing hard-on and nothing he could do about it.
he loves that you show him the moment you walk in, hand thrust in his face, and he'd look at it properly — actually look, which you know because his always eyes move — and he'd always say "suits you" or "in that flat certain way that means he means it completely.
you always giggle, wiggle your fingers and he always watches with that expression he gets, the one that has no name, the one that is just fond, underneath everything.
he loves when you sit on the couch and he puts his head in your lap and you run your fingers through his hair slowly. he makes no sound at all but his eyes close and his whole body goes loose in a way it almost never is anywhere else. he loves the new length of your nails when they scratch lightly at his scalp, the way he always ends up nuzzling further into your stomach without meaning to.
he loves when your hands move down to his neck and catch a particular spot and he has to work to stay still. he loves that you notice. he loves that you do it again.
he also loves the new colour of your nails travelling up and down his cock, stroking him and smearing precum all over your pretty designs. he loves when you look up at him with those eyes, so soft, so steady. he loves the way your hands look.
he loves, especially, the marks.
the way they come when he's got you desperate and close. when he's been taking his time with you long enough that you've stopped being careful, stopped being soft about it, stopped thinking about anything at all except him and the way he feels and the fact that you need more, need it harder, need him closer than he already is.
he loves that moment specifically. when you stop holding back.
your nails find his back and he feels a sharp and sudden paid, your fingers raked down from his shoulders to the small of his back. the sound he makes is low and involuntary. he loves the sting of it spreading warm under his skin. loves that it pulls something out of him he can't control. loves that you feel him groan against your throat and do it again, harder, because you felt what it did to him and you want to do it again.
he loves that you're greedy about it. loves that you've learned him well enough to know.
he drives deeper when you scratch and you cry out and your nails drag down again and it becomes a loop — him giving you something that takes your breath away, you giving him those marks in return, both of you chasing it — until you're shaking and he's got his face buried in your neck breathing hard and your hands are gripping him like you're trying to pull him closer even though there's nowhere left to go.
when you come apart you rake them down one final time without meaning to and he groans your name into your skin and follows you over and stays there, heavy and still, for a long moment after.
and then the next morning. he always checks. catches them in the mirror when he's pulling a shirt on — red lines standing out clear against his skin, vivid, yours — and he stops. presses two fingers to them. feels the tenderness of it, the specific pleasant ache.
he stands there longer than necessary and feels something that lives somewhere between pride and possession. he puts his shirt on, goes and makes coffee and gets excited for your next nail appointment.
not the slaughter — that's for him, the private satisfaction of it, the red-soaked silence after. no, what comes after belongs to you. or rather, you belong to what comes after. settled in his lap on the great stone throne while petitioners file through the hall below, small and warm and his, your back pressed to the broad expanse of his chest.
sukuna is vast. four arms, four eyes, the additional mouth that curves along his torso like a secret, and a presence that fills rooms the way storms fill skies. his petitioners flinch when they enter. keep their eyes down. fold themselves small.
none of them can look away from you.
that's the point.
"still." he demands against the crown of your head, when you shift.
"i'm not—"
"still." one of his hands finds your throat. not cruelly — just firmly, tilting your chin up so you can't drop your gaze to your lap, so you have to sit there and be looked at while the hall watches. "you're squirming."
"you know why I'm squirming," you say, very quietly, and feel the rumble of something satisfied move through his chest.
he does know. he knows exactly. he arranged it that way.
below, a lord from the eastern provinces is explaining something — taxes, tribute, some border dispute — and sukuna listens with the particular quality of attention that means he is only barely listening, most of him occupied with you. the way your walls feel gripping onto him so tightly. the soft sounds you're trying to suppress. the way your hands keep finding his forearm and gripping it all becomes too much.
"please," you breathe.
"mm." he turns his head and presses his mouth to your temple. his lower hands settle on your hips. "not yet."
you make a small, punched-out sound that you immediately try to smother, and he feels every petitioner in the room go still.
good.
let them see. let them understand precisely what you are doing — who you belong to, what that means, the scope of it. you are the one soft thing in a world he has burned and salted, and you sit in his lap above everyone, and they will lower their eyes when they look at you or they will lose them.
the eastern lord is still talking.
sukuna isn't listening anymore.
his hands begin to move to your clit, and you stop trying to be quiet.
all petitioners are either disgusted or aroused at the continous whimpers falling from your lips. as you near your release, you grind and bounce needily on sukuna, all coherent thought lost, and your robes are bumped askew.
anyone who dared look could see a perfect view of what was happening. you getting stretched out on one cock, while the other ruts against your ass, with skilled fingers precisely rubbing your clit.
"why did you go quiet? continue your proposal" sukuna rumbles towards the eastern lord who had stopped talking completely and had a slack jaw.
the lord cleared his throat and looked at his feet, bumbling his way thorugh whatever stupid proposal he had, that sukuna was clearly not listening to.
you hadn't meant to wander this far from the valley — but lamb hybrids weren't known for their sense of direction, and your soft ears had been too busy swiveling at every unfamiliar sound to notice how deep into the mountain territory you'd strayed.
but you noticed now.
ryomen sukuna uncurled from his throne of stacked boulders like a storm deciding to take shape. four arms. tattoos carved into grey-pink skin like brands. great horns swept back from his skull, and the tail that dragged behind him as he descended was thick as a tree trunk, scaled at the tip. his four eyes — all of them — fixed on you the moment you stumbled into the firelight.
he was enormous.
your little tail tucked itself flat against your lower back.
"well," he said, voice a low grind of gravel and smoke. "what's this that wandered into my den?"
"i... i'm sorry, i didn't know this was—"
"claimed territory." he was still moving toward you. unhurried. like there was no version of this where you got away. "every ridge, every stone for ten kilometers. mine."
you backed up until your shoulders hit the cave wall.
he stopped in front of you and simply looked — all four eyes dragging down your body with the lazy satisfaction of someone who had already decided. up close, the sheer scale of him was dizzying. his chest was level with the top of your head. when he raised one of his lower hands and tucked a knuckle under your chin, tilting your face up, you felt like something very small being handled by something that could crush you without thinking.
your ears flattened. a soft, involuntary sound escaped you — not quite a bleat, but close.
something shifted in his expression. his pupils, already blown wide in the dark, swallowed more of that red iris.
"do that again," he said quietly, "and i'm going to do something about it."
"can i go home?" you stutter out.
"no." the word was simple. final. his tail curled around your ankle — warm, heavy, possessive — before you could take a step. "you walked into a dragon's territory, little lamb. you know what that means."
you did. everyone in the valley knew the old rules.
what the dragon finds, the dragon keeps.
his lower hands bracketed your hips — big enough that his fingers nearly met at the small of your back — and lifted you off the ground as though you weighed absolutely nothing. a startled sound punched out of you, hands flying to grip his forearms for balance. he carried you to the flat-topped boulder at the cave's center and set you down on the edge of it, which brought you almost to his eye level.
almost.
he still had to look only slightly down.
"there," he said. "better."
you let out a bleat of protest.
"you're in my den." he stepped between your knees, spreading them wider with a simple press of his thighs, utterly unbothered by your sputtering. one upper hand fisted loosely in your hair. the other tilted your chin up again. his lower hands began working the ties of your clothing with a focused patience that was somehow more frightening than urgency would have been. "you're small and soft and you smell incredible, and you made that sound at me." he leaned down until his mouth was at your ear. "i'm going to ruin you. and you're going to let me."
the worst part — the part you'd never admit to anyone back in the valley — was the slick heat that spilled out of you at those words.
he felt it the moment his fingers slid beneath the fabric and found you bare and warm.
"oh." the sound he made was deeply satisfied. "there it is."
"that doesn't mean—"
"it means exactly what it means." he stroked you slowly — one broad finger tracing through your folds with maddening lightness — and watched your face like it was the most interesting thing he'd seen in a decade. "look at you. already."
you grabbed his wrist. his wrist was thicker than both your hands stacked together.
he let you hold it and kept moving anyway.
"sukuna—"
"you know my name." something dangerous lit in all four eyes. of course you knew his name. the feared dragon sukuna was well known all across the lands. he is what your herd used to warn you about as a child. never wander or you will end up a skeleton in his cave.
"say it again."
"sukuna." it came out wrecked, because he'd pressed his thumb to your clit at exactly the right moment.
the reminder of who he was should've left you shaking with fear. instead the fear added to the slick that was oozing out of your needy hole and you clenched around nothing "please—"
"please what?"
you couldn't say it. your ears were burning, your little tail was doing twitching embarrassingly.
he pressed deeper, one thick finger beginning to push inside, and the stretch made your mouth drop open.
"words," he said, merciless. "use them."
"please — more — i need—"
"i know what you need." he worked you open with devastating patience, one finger then two, watching you fall apart on his hand like he had all the time in the world. every time your sounds got too quiet he'd do something — curl his fingers, press his thumb in just the right place — until you were loud again. he seemed to require it. fed on it. "loud," he commanded, when you bit your lip. "i want to hear you."
by the time he finally stepped closer and replaced his hand with the thick press of his cock against your entrance, you were shaking.
and then you felt the size of him and grabbed his shoulders with both hands.
"wait—"
"breathe." his voice had dropped into something lower, rougher — the command stripped of mockery, suddenly almost careful. he held still, watching you. "just breathe, little lamb."
you did. he waited. one of his lower hands rubbed slow circles against your lower back.
"okay," you managed.
"good girl."
the praise hit your nervous system like a lightning strike.
he pushed in slowly — impossibly slow for someone his size, for someone who had seemed utterly disinterested in gentleness before now — and the stretch was overwhelming, but he watched you the entire time, reading every shift in your expression, adjusting. when you made a sharp sound he stilled. when you exhaled and your grip loosened he moved again.
by the time he bottomed out you were boneless and shaking and making soft, helpless sounds you had no control over.
"there," he said, voice ragged at the edges now. "take it. all of it."
"i can't—"
"you are." he leaned his forehead down to yours, four arms caging you in, surrounding you completely. "you're taking all of me. like you were made for it."
he started to move, and rational thought dissolved entirely.
he was relentless — rolling his hips in a deep, grinding rhythm that dragged against every nerve ending, that made your ears ring and your vision blur at the edges. your sounds became completely unrestrained, echoing off the cave walls, and he responded to every single one — a sharper thrust when you cried out, a possessive grip tightening when you whimpered.
"mine," he growled against your temple, and it wasn't a question.
your whole body clenched around him.
"say it."
"yours—" the word tore out of you. "yours, yours—"
he drove you over the edge with two more devastating rolls of his hips, and you shattered, clutching at him, clenching and shaking while he groaned low and followed you over — and his arms locked around you, all four of them, pulling you flush against his chest as he shuddered through it.
the cave was very quiet afterward.
he didn't let go.
you became gradually aware that you were being held — genuinely, securely held — against a massive warm chest, his tail curled around your legs, his chin resting on top of your head.
"...you're keeping me," you said, after a while.
"mm." not a question.
your ears swiveled. "like a trophy..?"
"like mine." he said it simply. like it was already settled. "rest. you'll need it."
you absolutely should have argued.
you tucked your nose against his chest and closed your eyes instead.
Hey I was thinking about a suguru x reader, reader is mostly working early and long mostly forgetting to take care of herself from time to time and Suguru helps out with this. But one day reader is home early and does something nice for Suguru.
suguru notices long before you say anything.
he sees the way you move is slower and heavier, like every step costs more than it should. he sees the missed meals, the cold cups of tea left forgotten on the counter, the way you mumble “i’ll rest later”.
he doesn’t push at first. just watches, quiet and observant like he always is, stepping in where you won’t notice, leaving food where you’ll see it, carrying you to bed when you fall asleep on the couch or at your desk, brushing your hair back from your face.
his care never goes unnotticed.
you often think of the way he’s been taking care of you without asking for anything back. the quiet consistency of it. the way he never makes you feel guilty.
and for the first time in a while, you stop.
really stop. work can wait. just this once.
you don’t tell him. you don’t text, don’t call—you just go home.
when you step into the apartment, it’s quiet.
when suguru gets home, the shift is immediate.
he pauses in the doorway, something in the air catching his attention before he even sees you. his eyes flick around the room, subtle, sharp—taking in the reorganised bookshelf and the smell of dinner wafting through the air
then he sees you. and that’s when he really stills. he watches you, fully in your own world. not like you normally are though, this time you have an absentminded smile on your face. there's a particular pep in your step while you dance between the stove and the counter. you look beautiful like this. carefree and joyful.
“…you’re home,” he says, not quite a question, but not entirely a statement either.
you try to play it off, leaning casually against the counter. “came back early.” there’s a beat of silence.
suguru steps inside, slower now, like he’s approaching something he doesn’t want to disturb too quickly. his gaze lingers on you longer than usual, searching—not suspicious, just… trying to understand.
“you skipped work,” he says.
you shrug, a little sheepish now that he’s looking at you like that. “just for today.”
another pause. then, quieter—“why?”
you hesitate because saying it out loud suddenly feels bigger than it did in your head.
“…i wanted to do something for you.”
suguru doesn’t respond straight away. for once, he doesn’t have something ready—no easy observation, no quiet remark. he just looks at you, something unreadable flickering across his expression before it settles into something… gentler.
“something for me,” he repeats, like he’s testing the idea.
you nod, a little unsure now. “you’ve been taking care of me a lot, so I just thought—”
he closes the distance between you in a few slow steps, stopping just close enough that you have to tilt your head slightly to meet his gaze. There’s no tension in him, no edge—just a quiet intensity that feels different from usual.
suguru lifts his hand, resting it lightly against your cheek—familiar, grounding, but softer than it’s ever been before.
“you didn’t have to do that,” he murmurs.
“suguru i need to give back for everything you've done for me. i want to express my gratitude"
something in his expression shifts again—subtle, but real. and then, suguru smiles. not the small, knowing curve he usually gives. not something calculated or restrained. something warm. something that stays.
his thumb brushes gently against your skin, gaze softening just enough to make your chest tighten.
"thank you angel" he looks at you with nothing short of adoration. you give him a peck on the lips, "ok now sit down and relax i'm gonna take care of you all night".
he smiles at the childlike excitement you radiate at the notion of giving back to him, and he watches in detail as you rush around the kitchen to get everything perfect for him.
and the thing that makes him happiest isn't that he doesn't have to do the work now, it's that you look happier, and more light as you hum to yourself.
he wasn’t the kind of person you noticed all at once.
it was slower than that. quieter.
you noticed him in pieces.
first, it was the way people moved around him - like there was a line drawn around him that no one crossed unless they were ready for consequences. then it was his voice, low and careless, like nothing ever really mattered enough to raise it. and then, finally, it was his eyes—dark, unreadable, always watching a little too closely.
toji fushiguro didn’t look at people.
he assessed them.
you should’ve stayed far away.
⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢
it starts small. it always does.
a conversation that feels a little too intense for a first meeting. a joke that cuts just enough to make you wonder if he meant it. a glance that lingers too long, like he’s already figured you out.
“you talk a lot,” he says the first time you properly meet him, leaning back like he owns the space, like he owns you just for standing there.
you laugh it off. “you don’t talk enough.”
his lips twitch—not a smile. “i don’t need to.”
and somehow, that sticks with you longer than it should.
he doesn’t chase you.
that’s the thing that makes it worse.
toji doesn’t text first. doesn’t call. doesn’t ask where you are or what you’re doing. he lets you come back. lets you fill the silence he leaves behind, like you’re the one trying to prove something.
and you don’t even realise you’re doing it at first.
you just… want to see him again.
when it finally turns into something—something more than passing conversations and heavy glances—it’s not romantic.
there’s no confession. no soft build-up.
he just shows up one night, unannounced, leaning against your doorframe like he’s always belonged there.
“you gonna let me in,” he says, “or just stare at me all night?”
and you let him in.
that’s your first mistake.
he strides into the room, gripping your face with a bruising force, leaning down and smashing his lips against yours. despite being rough, the way he kisses you is slow and deep, leaving you lightheaded and breathless.
he wraps his hand around your neck, and tightens his grip enough to cut off proper breathing. his other hand slithers round to the back of your head and yanks on your hair, causing you to jolt your head up and look at him.
with his hand still around your throat, he pushes you backwards until the back of your knees hit the bed and you fall flat on your back. toji crawls on top of you, placing his palms on either side of your head.
his head dips and he drags his nose along the column of your throat, then licking a stripe directly back up to your jaw. when you let out a whimper he chuckles slightly, "so sensitive baby".
he chuckles at your weakness, like it was a prize he had earnt. he loved being in control. especially of you.
one of his knees pushed between yours, demanding you to spread your legs and make space for him. while he's nudging your legs apart, his hands land on the hem of your shorts, and he tugs them down.
now settled between your legs, face-to-face with your drenched panties he spits on the fabric, further wetting the soaked material and he scoffs, "desperate"
he barely prepares you, half-assed fingering before he's pulling his cock out and bottoming out in you, stretching you out. and when you yelp, whine, and whimper, the sounds just feed his ego.
when he's finished, he leaves you spent and leaking, spread out on the bed, and he just leaves. aftercare doesn't exist with him. the second he's satisfied, he's gone.
boneless on the mattress, you think about how you shouldn't let this happen next time.
but you always do.
because being with toji feels like standing too close to the edge of something.
he’s attentive, but only when he chooses to be. some nights, he knows exactly how to pull you in—his hand at the back of your neck, his voice quieter than usual, like you’re the only thing grounding him.
“you think too much,” he murmurs once, thumb brushing your jaw. “just be here.”
and for a second, it feels… safe.
like you’ve been chosen. like you’re the exception.
but then he disappears.
not physically, always. sometimes he’s right there, sitting beside you, scrolling through his phone, barely acknowledging you exist. other times he doesn’t answer for days. leaves your messages on read. shows up again like nothing happened.
and when you call him out on it, he tilts his head, almost amused.
“you’re making it a bigger deal than it is.”
that’s the second mistake—believing him.
the arguments don’t start loud.
they start quiet and controlled.
“you were talking to gojo a lot,” he says one night, tone neutral, eyes anything but.
you blink. “he’s my friend.”
“didn’t look like it.”
there’s something in his voice—something sharp, possessive, but not in a way that feels protective. in a way that feels like control.
“i’m allowed to have friends,” you say, more defensive than you meant to sound.
toji hums, like he’s considering it. like it’s something he might allow.
“sure,” he says finally. “if that’s what you want.”
but it doesn’t sound like permission.
it sounds like a warning.
you start adjusting without noticing.
you text people less. you check your phone more. you reread your own messages before sending them, wondering how he’d interpret them, how he’d twist them, what mood he’d be in when he saw them.
and when he’s good—when he’s really good—it makes everything else feel worth it.
that’s the trap.
because when toji decides to be gentle, it’s overwhelming.
he’ll pull you close like he can’t stand the distance. rest his forehead against yours, quiet for once, like the world outside doesn’t exist.
“stay,” he mutters one night, voice rough with something that almost sounds like vulnerability.
popular!bitch!reader and suguru have a complex relationship...
you have an image to uphold. perfect. flawless. untouchable.
and suguru geto fits nowhere within that picture. he was your polar opposite. quiet, mysterious, a fucking geek. you're constantly the centre of attention. people want to know what you're wearing, who you're hanging out with, who you're fucking.
nobody wants to know anything about him.
including you. you don't care about his interests or hobbies or what he does in his free time. the only thing about him worth knowing is that he dicks you down so fucking good.
it had first happened on a whim. you had been ghosted by toji and went to a party to drink and smoke the pain away. choso, while handing you a blunt, introduced suguru to you. after sharing the blunt with him, and eyeing his admitedly pretty eyeliner, you had pulled him to a spare bedroom and rode the life out of him.
shirtless and panting he sits on the bed and watches you leave.
"don't tell anyone about this freak"
yet, you came crawling back to him every time you had a heat pooling in your lower stomach.
with his head buried between your thighs, you arch into his mouth, borderline humping his face, his eyes smudged with eyeliner peering up at you half-lidded. as you grow needier, your heels hit his back, forcing him impossible closer. "c'monn do the only thing you're good for" you spur him on.
"so fucking mean" he mumbles, fully against your pussy. he pulls back just enough to give it a mean spank and spitting right on your clit.
"just shut up and get me off" you grit out, already teetering on the edge of your orgasm.
he pulls back again and you sigh frustratedly at the loss of contact, "only if you beg" he jokes. you roll your eyes and scoff, "as if"
roughly gripping his hair and pulling his head back to make eye contact with you. "pathetic..." you tut, analysing his slick covered nose, chin and lips, before pushing his face back to where you needed him most. roughly tugging on his hair, you use his face to get off, and he's trying to hold back his whimpers and maintain dignity.
when you cum your thighs clamp around his head, and your fingers grip onto his hair for dear life. he groans at the rough treatment of his perfectly maintained hair, the vibrations spurring you on further.
and when you come back down to earth you detach yourself from him, pull your panties back on, and head for the bathroom (on slightly shaky legs no one had to know that).
he stands from where he was kneeling and watches you stupidly. "what are you looking at weirdo?" you scoff, "you can leave now."
but your eyes trail lower to where he was sporting a boner beneath his stupid emo cargos with all the chains and buckles. "aw no one to take care of you?" you feign sympathy with a little pout on your glossy lips.
then you throw a black t-shirt at him. "you left this here last time." you mumble. he catches it and looks back up at you. "don't let anyone see you leave."
and then you're gone. into the bathroom, probably to wash his 'freak' off you.
"fucking bitch" he murmurs
you are a bitch. but suguru loves it.
guys i would lovelovelove to turn this into a series/full fic. i'd love to do popular!reader warming up to him a bit, maybe opening up. hope u guys liked it <3
after carrying your son around in your stomach for 9 months, and pushing through 8 hours of intense labour, you are now staring down at your beautiful baby boy with tired eyes.
he is beautiful, but he looks exactly like his father.
you huff. "he looks exactly like you"
"don't sound too excited" sukuna jokes, smoothing over yujis scarce pink hair.
you inspect the baby further, peering at his pink hair, the exact same shade as his daddy's, as well as the same skin tone and his little mouth laying perfectly flat along his face while he sleeps. your eyes follow his chubby arms and fingers and belly, baby fat almost promising that he will get as big and strong as his dad.
then you look up to his father, kuna's face resting in the same serious line while you watch him watching yuji. you reach up and cup sukuna's cheek. when his gaze meets yours you take in the details of his pretty eyes, his tattoos, and his markings below his eyes.
you snap your head back to yuji.
"kuna he even has your little markings" you whine, "he looks nothing like me... i pushed out your fatass baby and carried him for 9 months the least he could do is look a little like me.." you continued on.
sukuna holds back a laugh and smooths over your hair, "the next one will look exactly like you.. maybe a pretty little girl."
you grumble a little more but inevitably settle down and lay back onto the pillow. with yuji in your arms, and sukuna leaning over you both, carressing yujis face, you all sit there for a while.
yuji babbles a little in his sleep and cracks a little smile. "he must be dreaming" you softly mumble with a smile.
sukuna looks back and forth between you too. "he has your smile"
if you weren't so tired, you would've jumped for joy. "really?" you tuck yourself against sukunas chest, nuzzling him slightly.
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