Dilf!Gojo happened, now (IF YOU LIKE THE IDEA) Dilf!Geto, you just joined his cult with your kid and he originally speaks to you about setting up a playdate with his two daughters and he like starts worshipping you slowly, or however you want to do it! <3 Just a silly thought!
DILF!Geto who...
didn’t expect to get fucked sideways by Cupid while arranging a goddamn playdate.
Not when he saw the new cult recruit with her soft smile and permanent eye-bags and kid hanging off her hip like a purse she couldn’t put down.
Not when she looked like she hadn’t slept in seven years but somehow still walked like sin in skin form.
He’s got standards, okay? He doesn’t chase just anyone.
But you?
You walked into the compound like you were running from ghosts.
Eyes dark, soul darker. Not interested in redemption—just somewhere quiet to raise your daughter and not fall apart again.
And you... you didn’t even know who Geto was.
Didn’t care.
Didn’t ask.
You’re not here to climb ranks, not here to praise him, not even here to pretend. You got a little apartment, a job organizing curse-user schedules, and enough cursed energy to put up a barrier so strong it’s like telling God ‘no thanks’ every time someone comes too close.
You're good at keeping people out.
Except the kid.
Seven years old, nose always runny, questions like bullets, clings to you like she’s scared you’ll vanish like daddy did.
(And you might’ve, once. Back then. Before the curse ate him. Before you smiled.)
DILF!Geto who...
catches you outside the compound garden, crouched beside your daughter, cleaning jam off her chin with your sleeve, swearing under your breath like a sailor with a doctorate.
You’ve got one tit half out your shirt because you forgot to do the buttons back up after nursing, and your hair’s all up in a broken clip, and he stares like a starving man at a meal that’s too hot to touch.
He’s calm. Regal. Messianic to the masses.
But one look at you and he’s thinking about bruising your knees on temple floors and tongue-fucking your trauma away.
You don’t notice.
You thank him politely when he introduces himself as “Suguru,” ask him if it’s alright if you repaint the unit walls (‘they’re an awful beige’), and when he says something about “his daughters,” you blink.
“Oh, you’re just a dad here too?”
And the man who people call King, Leader, Prophet, nearly chokes on air.
And you.. well you don't think you're pretty anymore.
Not after him. Not after that.
Your husband told you you were lucky to have him so many times, you believed him.
Told you your cursed technique was useless if it couldn’t protect you from him.
Told you you’d never be wanted after him, never be touched again, never be loved again.
(So what if he was eaten by a curse? Who’s asking?)
You are broken-glass sweet and built from survival, and Geto sees it. Smells it.
He’s a man who wants to save people like you. Wants to fuck people like you.
Wants to undo you one safety pin at a time.
DILF!Geto who...
casually suggests a playdate.
Says it’ll be “good for the girls.”
Says it’ll be “nice to talk to another parent.”
Says it with a smile so soft you don’t see the way he’s eye-fucking the curve of your throat.
And you agree. Oblivious.
Because he’s just a dad, right?
Just another tired parent with too much weight on his shoulders.
You don’t know he runs this place. Don’t know his name strikes fear like thunder.
To you, he’s just Suguru.
The guy with long hair and two daughters and a weird habit of showing up wherever you are.
Next time he sees you?
You’re in a tank top, sweatpants, and flip-flops, sipping coffee like you’ll die without it, while your daughter builds a curse out of mud in the garden.
You say “Hi Suguru,” with a smile so casual it gives him a semi.
He tries to flirt.
You blink.
“Is there something on my face?”
And he knows, then.
He’s in trouble.
You don’t even see it yet.
But you’ve already got him.
DILF!Geto who...
starts simping so hard he basically commits war crimes for your convenience.
starts moving mountains in secret, just to make sure the woman who still doesn’t know who he is sleeps a little better at night.
Like yeah—he’s running a radical cult, shaping the fate of jujutsu society, committing mass murder when he feels spicy—but he’s also checking your plumbing reports and personally assigning a top-tier medic to monitor your kid’s seasonal allergies.
You don’t even notice.
You just blink one day and realize your apartment's been upgraded. Walls no longer that crusty beige—someone painted them soft sage green.
A new mattress, too. One of those orthopedic memory foam ones. The cult doesn't do new mattresses. Except, apparently, for you.
Weird.
You thank “whoever’s in charge.”
Geto hears about it and almost creams his robes. Again.
keeps organizing playdates. But they start getting oddly frequent.
Like, how often do children need to “socialize,” really?
Three times a week, apparently.
He keeps showing up at your place with juice boxes and little bento lunches like he’s a PTA mom, like his hands haven’t crushed the skulls of sorcerers.
And every time, he sits a little closer. Talks a little slower. Drops a compliment like a bead of sweat down a spine.
“You look really good today,” he murmurs, voice like honey poured over a knife.
You blink. “Huh? Oh. Thanks. It’s just this old shirt.”
And he wants to die.
Wants to bend you over the counter in your “old shirt” and make you scream until your knees buckle and the walls forget who painted them.
But you just hand him a cookie your daughter made.
He eats it like it’s communion.
He is so painfully, pathetically horny for you he starts dreaming about you domestic.
You, in his kitchen.
You, bent over his desk.
You, wearing his robe and nothing else.
You, yelling at him for tracking mud inside.
You, whispering “I didn’t know I could still be wanted” into his neck after he ruins you for anyone else.
It's you, you, you, you- always. Always you. You obscure the sun, you are the star he gravitates around.
He’s got murder in his bones and worship in his hands and all he wants is a chance to earn your sighs.
But you still doesn’t know who the fuck “Suguru” is.
One day you offhandedly mention something about “the cult leader”— like “do you think he’s weird? I bet he’s weird. I bet he doesn’t even know what a diaper genie is.”
And Geto has to physically bite his tongue not to laugh because you’re insulting him.
To his face.
With that soft little scowl and your kid’s hair clip still stuck in your own.
And it only makes you hotter.
DILF!Geto who...
keeps trying.
He offers to babysit. (You say no—too much trouble.)
He offers to bring dinner. (You say you already ate.)
He offers to help with laundry. (You give him socks and forget about it.)
He is actively losing his mind.
He’s seen curses devour men whole, seen beauty in death, tasted godhood in violence— But nothing prepares him for the pure, violent thirst of watching you bite into a peach over the sink.
You’re half-asleep. You don’t notice him staring.
But he watches the juice drip down your wrist and thinks about licking it off like communion wine.
Of course, you don't flirt back. Not because you don’t want to—but because it never even crosses your mind that he might be serious.
You’re focused on your daughter.
On healing.
On survival.
You’re too busy remembering how it felt to be unloved to believe someone like him could want you without hurting you after.
And Geto sees it.
He sees the cracks.
Sees the way you flinch when someone raises their voice.
Sees the way you thank him like you’re bracing for a slap.
Sees the way you laugh, but never fully. Smile, but always guarded. Move, like you're still wearing invisible chains.
And he wants to undo every lie your ex ever fed you.
Wants to burn the memory of that man out of your body with his mouth.
DILF!Geto who...
walks around hard for hours after seeing you in a sundress.
Who jerks off in the dark, forehead against the wall, muttering your name like a prayer and cursing his own patience.
Who wants you so bad it makes him stupid. Makes him soft.
Makes him human again.
You’re gonna kill him.
And you don’t even know it yet.
DILF!Geto who...
loses his mind, soul, and dick to one oblivious milf in a kimono.
He starts pulling rank so subtly it’s practically foreplay.
You don’t even notice it at first. Not when your schedule lightens, not when the highest-grade curse-user starts treating you like her own niece, not even when you get reassigned to a private quarters suite with soft lighting and an actual bathtub.
But it clicks when you go to pick up your daughter's rationed meds and the staff bows.
Bows.
You blink. “...Did I get promoted or something?”
They smile like you're a princess.
You walk out, confused and mildly alarmed, and later—on a garden bench while your kids chase dragonflies—you tell Suguru about it.
“They were treating me like a cult wife or something,” you say, wrinkling your nose. “It was weird.”
He doesn’t even look up from peeling a tangerine. “You kinda are.”
You snort. “What, you know the leader or something?”
He pauses. Peels slow. Blinks.
“Yeah,” he says eventually, handing you a segment. “Something like that.”
He somehow lets it slide. Doesn’t tell you yet. Doesn’t need to.
Because he’s got bigger plans.
Like the Summer Firework Festival.
Which, normally? Wouldn't get a single flick of his attention.
But you mentioned once, absently, that your daughter’s never seen fireworks up close.
And suddenly Geto’s personally funding the entire fucking display, building a paper-lantern path through the mountains, and having a custom kimono couriered in from Kyoto for both you and your daughter.
(“There’s no tag,” you say, running your fingers down the silken sleeve. “Do you think it was a mistake?”
“No mistake,” he says, not looking at you. “It was made for you.”)
DILF!Geto who...
watches you walk up the temple steps, the lanterns painting your skin in flickering golds and reds, and he feels it in his teeth.
The kimono hugs your waist. Your collarbone gleams. There’s a flower in your hair and your daughter’s hand in yours and you look like something holy—something that could finally put his violence to sleep.
He’s not used to being nervous.
But his palms sweat when he asks, “Want to watch from the shrine roof? Best view.”
You glance at the crowd. “Do you have access up there?”
He smirks. “You could say that.”
And of course you sit beside him, the kids giggling nearby with sparklers, and watches the first explosion of color split the sky.
You gasp, hand flying to your mouth, and Geto looks at you instead of the sky.
“You really love pretty things, huh?”
You hum, still dazed. “When they’re not dangerous.”
He tilts his head. “What if something’s both?”
You blink. Turn. “Then I guess I’d have to be careful.”
He leans in. Too close. “You’re not afraid of me.”
“I would be,” you say, quiet now. “If I thought you wanted to hurt me.”
And he kisses you.
Finally.
After weeks. Months. Dreams.
His mouth is soft, then it’s rough, then it’s a promise. You melt. He groans like he’s dying. All while fireworks bloom behind you like celestial orgasms.
“You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours.
“I really don’t,” you whisper back.
And you don’t.
You don’t know this is the man who founded it all. Who built the cult. Who bends gods and monsters to his will.
You just know his mouth feels like hope and hunger at the same time.
And you kiss him again. With a whimper and a grip on his sleeve like you’re drowning.
Like you’ve been waiting for someone to touch you like you’re real.
Like you’re wanted.
LATER. The kids are asleep. Festival embers dying in the dark. The sanctum is quiet. Sacred. Empty.
You’re half-drunk, half-dizzy, laughing breathlessly as he leads you by the wrist through shadowed halls.
He opens the main shrine doors with a wave of his hand.
And you pause. “This is—this is the worship altar.”
He nods.
Smiles like a demon.
“No one comes here but me.”
You whisper, “It’s so beautiful in here…”
“Not as beautiful as you,” he says.
(Your face turns crimson. And this time, you believe it.)
DILF!Geto who...
fucks you in the temple like he’s breaking a vow.
Rough. Reverent. Ravenous.
One hand around your throat, the other pressed to your lower back, dragging your body into his like it’s the only thing that will ever make him whole.
He fucks like he’s both starving and merciless.
Like he’s waited centuries for the taste of you.
Like he needs to punish you for every second you didn’t know you were his.
He doesn’t undress you—he unwraps you. Slowly. Tenderly. Kimono sliding off your shoulders like silk melting in sunlight.
Kisses down your spine while pulling the obi loose.
Sinks in slow and deep like he’s carving his name inside you.
“You wore this for me,” he growls, kissing the curve of your shoulder. “Didn’t even fucking know it. Did you?”
You moan. “Suguru—”
“No,” he snaps. “Say it right.”
You blink, breathless. “...What?”
“My name. All of it.”
And you do.
“Geto Suguru.”
Everything freezes.
The name hits your tongue and the world spins. You stare up at him, stunned, the truth crashing into your chest like a flood.
And he just smirks.
“Now you know.”
He eats you out on the altar.
On his knees.
Tongue deep, cruel and slow, holding your thighs open while you sob his name, thighs trembling, mouth gasping his title now like a prayer.
“Suguru, please—”
“Try again,” he purrs, licking a stripe up your cunt. “What am I, sweetheart?”
“Geto—Geto-sama, fuck—”
He chuckles. “Close enough.”
He fucks you raw.
Over the altar.
Against the altar.
On top of the seal meant to protect his world.
He’s brutal with it—filthy and unrelenting—but the whole time, he keeps touching you like you’re precious. Kissing your tears. Praising your body like it’s divine.
And you? You’re spread out on crimson cushions, kimono peeled down to your hips, mouth open in a gasp as he splits you open on his cock like he’s carving his name into heaven.
He’s cruel.
He’s slow.
He makes you beg.
Fingers digging into your thighs, voice like crushed velvet and damnation.
“You’re mine now,” he groans, hips snapping against you. “You hear me?”
You nod, dumb with it, eyes rolled back.
He spanks you. “Say it.”
“I’m yours,” you gasp. “I’m yours, Geto-sama—!”
He comes so deep it’s spiritual.
DILF!Geto who...
lays there after, both of you tangled in discarded silks and heavy breathing, stroking your hair with bloody-knuckle hands and smiling like a man finally at peace.
He finally gets what he’s been aching for since the first time he saw you.
Not just your body.
Not just your sighs.
But your trust.
Your surrender.
Your love.
And you whisper, “Was this a bad idea?”
And he says, “Sweetheart. I built a religion just to find you.”
A/N: okay so i realised i've never written a fic like strictly for geto so this is a first... i hope it's alright. thank you very much for the request, i hope i honoured it. also this wasn't beta read so my apologies if it's not great.
Spoilers for Luna II, An Elegy for Faded Moonlight !! Please do not read under the cut if you do not want to be spoiled. You have been warned.
Thinking very hard about the concept of Reader meeting Varka for the first time and finding him charismatic, witty, and mighty. You literally have sparkles in your eyes as you talk to the Grandmaster of the Knights of Favonius, and long before you know it—after his “super duper cool monologue of fighting stronger opponents and other unworldly beings” — Varka is not only flexing his great sword, but also flexing his arms and muscles at you.
“Hahahaha see this? This is REAL hard work right here!!”
“AWESOME!” You lift a hand in anticipation. “Can I touch it!?”
“Uh yeah sure!”
As Varka leans down to your height ( he is a very big man, after all! ), someone clears his throat. Flins is suddenly behind you, and you and Varka pause.
The room has suddenly gotten a little colder, and the Ratnik is smiling politely. Too politely, in fact, a shiver runs down your spine. It’s Varka who remains composed, and blinks confusingly.
“Hello, everyone. Enjoying yourselves?”
“O-oh, Flins!” You wonder why you feel nervous all of a sudden when he appeared. This usually happens, since Flins did have an off-putting aura to begin with, but something feels different.
“Ah, if it isn’t Mr. Flins!” Varka rambles something that you’ve tuned out—and instead, you focus on how Flins seems a bit rigid. Very uncharacteristic of him, when he’s always coolheaded.
You can ransack your mind to find out why he’s acting like this, but instead you opted for something easier. You, being you, plans to try in lightening up his mood. Perhaps this is his way of seeking out comfort. Maybe you should distract him for a bit. He does have great timing right now, since you and Varka had clicked quite well. Your conversation with him might be something Flins would love to listen to.
“Flins, listen to me — Sir Varka is so cool!! Did you know a hundred of people lined up to arm wrestle with him in Natlan and yet he still defeated them all?”
“Oh?”
Flins does appreciate a good tale, after all, so you continue. “Aaand – he even went against with the First Harbinger! Isn’t it mind blowing? The Captain was the strongest, so for Varka to even face him in battle!? Commendable!”
“Is that so?”
“Yeah!” Varka hollers, joining in. A huge amount of pride emanates from him. “I can tell you how it happened! We clashed swords. The earth shook. I got all day to narrate from the exposition to the resolution!”
That sounds a great idea! You fail to notice Flins’ smile becoming tight-lipped, though. You gaze up at Varka again with sparkles in your eyes. “Really?!”
“Really, really!”
But before you can even delight yourself with many more stories, Flins clears his throat again. “Forgive me for my intrusion, but as much as I love to hear your praiseworthy and admirable tales, and for my dearest to spend more time with our well-esteemed Grandmaster, I’m afraid that it is time for us to go. We do need to rest as it is an essential in enacting our plan.”
What. You turn to Flins with a pout. “But we’re about to hear the most exciting part!”
He meets your eyes, and he puts his hands gently on your shoulders. He frowns, but something tells you that this isn’t genuine. “Ah, that is quite unfortunate, isn't it?”
“But Flins—“
“Mhm.” Flins then turns you to the other side, directing you to where the door is at. “We shall take our leave now.”
“Wait, Flins, I haven’t said goodbye to Sir Varka yet—“
Flins looks at Varka, his smile still on his lips. “Goodbye, Sir Varka.”
“NOT YOU! Me! Flins, hey, wait— what seems to be the hurry! Flins!”
And the door shuts.
Varka, being left alone, still waves goodbye anyway. He’s still perplexed over the whole thing. Then, he crosses his arms. “Hm.”
“What’d you expect?” Nefer steps beside him, and puts a hand on her hip.
Varka laughs loudly. “Nah, I saw this coming. Considering his nature, this checks out.”
“So you know too, huh?”
“Yep. Mr. Flins knows the value of his treasures, so of course, he knows how to guard his treasure well.”
You were careful when you first started dating Toji. You always wore your best underwear around him, always made sure you saw him on hair wash day 1 or 2, at most. You avoided staying overnight around his apartment when you were on your period and sprayed at least half of bottle of perfume on your clothes before you met with him.
However, it seemed that Toji could not care less. You’d excuse yourself to the bathroom with a pair of synchronised footsteps behind you. Without a knock, he’d open the bathroom door and stand in there while you were peeing. He’d unashamedly stare too, as if you were eating food and not taking a piss.
Or you’d drop something off at his apartment after an intense gym session, gym-wear sticking to your skin and cheeks still red. But then, he’d drag you in, push you down onto his bed and push his face in between your thighs. You’d squeal, try and kick at him to move because you knew you hadn’t had a shower yet.
“Come on, doll. Let me love my girlfriend.” Then he’d press his nose into your crotch and deeply inhale.
“Toji!” You scream. “You are such a freak!”
“Ouch, ma. That hurts.”
“Well it’s true.”
You let him eat you out anyway. You can’t say no to those devilish eyes and handsome smirk.
Sadly, you can’t say no to anything that Toji wants. You let him steal your dirty underwear, you let him sit in the bathroom with you whilst your bent over on the toilet seat with period cramps.
And he loves it.
He fights back a grin whenever you let him join you in the shower (after insistent begging), knowing you’ll let him wash your hair even if it’s greasy (because he begs you even more).
He gets a boner whenever you stretch your feet over his lap and silently command him to give you a foot massage, or when you let him eat you out on your period.
He may have been a bit weird; but it was clear he loved you through his freakish ways.
⟡ (MDNI/18+) CAMBOY!NERDJO realizes his own crush is watching him jerk off on a stream
"Uhhh, fuck! That's craaazy... it feels like my fuckin' dick is melting, haha... oh god that feels so good... that feels... uh-huuuh, I'm so close already, fuck... so much for edge training last sesh, m'dick's already as dumb as it always used to be."
Fist a blur, squelching swip-swip up and down his lube-lathered dick, CAMBOY!NERDJO erupts with yet another explosive orgasm that leaves him gasping and writhing live on camera for thousands of people to see.
"Oh, fuuuuuck... just like that, just like that, watch me make a mess all over myself—mmn!" he lurches forward, air sucked right out of his lungs and hair falling in his pretty, dozy blue eyes... so puffy, lips and cheeks reddened from beating his dick so aggressively for the past thirty minutes.
His face is just out of frame.
But neck-down? Butt. Booty. Naked. Legs spread, pink balls out and bouncing with every lethal pump of the fleshlight which he enjoys smacking loudly on his cock wayyy too much.
dickgobbler666 donated $60!
omggg i literally love u sm my pussy on fire 👅
"Thank you..." he squints, then chuckles, "...dickgobbler666... very poetic name—ngh! Fuck. Almost came again, I need to chill, I need to chiiiiill..."
He lets go of his cock, letting it bob about, all pink and pretty and visibly throbbing. He scoops up his plump balls and gives them a little much-needed attention, and coincidentally the donations splurge in a little faster when he does that, almost like praise—or at least his dick takes it as praise. What could bring him to orgasm but money? Well, besides making other people cum from watching him.
gojospinkballs donated $20!
OK I'M SO WET?! my bsf recommended you to me and you did NOTTT disappoint 😋🤤
sugurugaytoes donated $50
That dick is literally perfect wtf I want it inside me sooo bad!! 😿
"You're right, my dick is perfect, isn't it?—chat, am I a narcissist if I think my own dick looks suckable? Shit, I mean, just look at it... now listen I know I failed last time at sucking myself off but... lowkey... what if I tried again... okay okay, I won't attempt it again, I'm sorry for bringing it up."
therealryomensukuna donated $1
Bro why do you moan like that. Performative much? LOL
"YO, 'therealryomensukuna'... your mom's a bitch and I know you just wish you had moans as pretty as mine. Keep hating, loser! And since you don't like my moans..."
He pulls the mic closer to him, then continues stroking his fat dick with a fistful of spite, releasing even even more obnoxious moans that the mic picks up loud and clear.
"Ohh, fuck, uh... uh, uh, uh...!—"
sugurugaytoes donated $100
What an asshole. Your moans are literally ethereal, they just made me cum.
"Yeah I know right, what an asshole... my moans are pretty as hell. Mhm, bet that loser secretly wishes he could hear them up against his ear, hehe..."
Then another comment comes in, and another—each one successively more outrageous and lewd than the last, about people rubbing or stroking along with him, which honestly? Makes his dick throb so hard. Just knowing that other people are getting off to him has precum oozing from his pale, stiff cock, adding to the mess of frothed-up cum that's clinging to his fingers and balls already from all his previous cumsplosions—yes, his own wording.
Satoru continues stroking carefully, slowly, whimpering sweetly and shifting his legs around as he reads off each comment, using all those lewd confessions to get himself off.
His forearm twitches, draped over the arm rest of his black-blue gaming chair, veins popping all over his overstimulated dick.
"Fuuuck, you guys are so generous tonight, aren't you? Thank you," he smirks, though nobody can see it.
dickcheesetastetester donated $45!
fireofmygroins donated $5
literally i'm broke but ilysm this is for u and ur pretty dih 🫶
"Oh— fuck, th-thank you." he whimpers, "Every comment mean means so much to me, doesn't matter how much money. You don't even have to donate at all, I'm just happy th-that you're enjoying watching me, getting off to it... ahhh fuck... fuck, I literally can't touch anything anymore my hands are all slippery."
NO.1GOJOGOONSLUT donated $55!
can you do another stream where you edge yourself talking about quantum physics pls it was weirdly hot
Satoru grins, pretty cheeks glowing.
"Haha... what, do you have a physics kink? I mean, sure, if you guys wanna hear me talk about the shit I study... I'll do it next stream, promise. Just for those of you who love my nerdy ramblefap."
therealy/nbitch donated $15
i should be studying for my test tomorrow, but instead i'm rubbing myself dumb watching some guy recite fucking physics bullshit lmao. ily tho!!! <3
His hand stutters, voice too.
Satoru squints at your name, and then instinctively hides his forearm so as not to show his tattoo—but there's no way it's you, right?
Surely, it's just someone who happens to have your name and also happens to have a test tomorrow... yeah. It's impossible, right?
therealy/nbitch sent you a message
wait are you satoru from chess club??? omg
He sees this DM slither into his notifications, and his dick quivers in fear.
"Fuck. Um. Um. Um."
His hips cave inwards, then jerk crazily. Satoru squeezes his cock tight, completely stilling his movements to save himself from cumming, but he can't stop his cock from frosting his abs.
"S-sorry everybody," Satoru swallowed thickly, knuckles whitening as he squeezes his cock tighter before letting it go, "uhhh, I gotta end stream early today."
A flood of comments rush in, upset that he's leaving so suddenly—everyone asking where he's going, complaining that they didn't get to see one more cumshot, some begging him to stay because they've been edging this whole time and really didn't plan on him ending stream twenty minutes early.
"Sowwyyyy, tummy ache." he lied. "Major tummy ache. Ok bye!"
He ended the stream, dick drooping like it's sad not to be in the limelight.
Satoru rolled out from his desk and looked up at the ceiling for a moment, before parting his lips and releasing a long, long groan.
"Well fuck."
AN────I'm sorry this was a product of ovulation. Good fics coming soon. I just didn't want this to sit in the drafts and be forgotten hehe!! @cupidstrace u know what's up
an. requested by anon !! i rlly loved writing this one since i’m jirai myself :3 btw lol, dead dove: do not eat
✦ KINICH
blood doesn’t scare him. you do.
kinich never flinches when he sees the fresh cuts.
he doesn’t ask why. doesn’t try to stop you.
he just sits beside you on the cold tile floor, eyes on your shaking hands, and mutters,
“that one’s deeper than usual.”
his fingers brush your wrist. not to clean the blood — just to remind you he’s still there.
no lectures. no panic.
he treats your scars like they’re part of you.
like poetry.
he kisses the newest one and whispers,
“next time, do it with me.”
you smoke in silence. he memorizes your mouth.
you’re both stretched out on the rooftop. his hoodie around your waist. your legs in fishnets and dried blood.
you pass the lighter back and forth like a secret.
kinich smokes slow. always watching you from the corner of his eye.
he never says you look pretty.
he just takes the cigarette from your lips and presses his mouth where yours was.
he lets the smoke linger on his tongue.
“tastes like you,” he says.
you blow ash into the sky and mutter,
“maybe i’ll disappear tonight.”
he exhales.
“not without me.”
he doesn't beg. but he waits.
you ghost him for two days.
no texts. no stories. not even your usual drunk posts.
he doesn't call. doesn’t panic.
but when you crawl back through your window at 2:47am, mascara wrecked, you see him —
asleep on your bed, phone still in hand, a pack of cigs and a candy bar on your desk.
he doesn’t wake up until you slide under the blanket with him.
his voice is scratchy when he mumbles,
“you smell like smoke and perfume. and i missed you.”
you don’t reply.
you just press your face to his chest and think, this is what being found feels like.
he fucks like he’s trying to memorize the way you break.
it’s never fast.
it’s never loud.
he pushes your thighs open and kisses every scar like a signature.
he fingers you slowly — two fingers hooked up, wrist flexing steady — while your eyes roll back and your voice breaks on his name.
he’s still got his hoodie on.
his cigarette burns in the ashtray next to your leg.
“you gonna cry for me?” he murmurs.
and when you do — body shaking, mouth open, hips trembling under his hand —
he says,
“good girl.”
you fall apart against him.
he kisses your damp cheek and keeps going.
he writes your pain in his notebooks.
you leave your journal open on purpose.
he always reads it.
he doesn’t say anything.
but then you find your words — scrawled in tiny, angry handwriting in the corner of his math notes:
“i think i’m in love with dying slow.”
he tears that page out and folds it into his wallet.
carries it like a photo.
when you ask why, he says,
“if you’re gone, at least i’ll still have the ugliest part of you.”
and for some reason…
that makes you love him harder.
💬 CHAT MSGS
kinich:
didn’t see u in class
are you alive or just pretending again
you:
both lol
slept on the floor. woke up ugly.
kinich:
you’re always pretty when you’re miserable
i mean that in a fucked up way
you:
i know.
that’s why i sent the pic.
kinich:
gonna carve my name on your thigh if you keep looking like that
you:
promise?
bring cigs ^_^
kinich:
i’m already outside
open the door baby
i’ll kiss you til you forget your name
✦ XIAO
he sees everything. even when you think he’s not looking.
you post your usual 2am photo dump — ashtray, bandaids, thighs half-covered in lace and dried blood.
caption: “rotting pretty again. don’t look if u care.”
you get no likes from him.
but twenty minutes later, he’s at your door.
silent. hood up.
he doesn’t ask what happened.
he just sits on your floor, lights a cigarette, and says,
“you left your window unlocked again. that’s dangerous.”
you crawl into his lap.
he lets you.
he always lets you.
you make him feel like dying. but in a good way.
xiao never smoked before you.
now he does it just to feel your lips when you press your cig to his mouth and say, “don’t waste it.”
he coughs on the inhale.
you laugh.
he stares at you like he’s memorizing the moment.
like if you disappear tomorrow, he’ll still know the exact shape of your smile when you’re three pills deep and calling him your “little ghost boy.”
“you’ll haunt me, won’t you?” you murmur.
he flicks ash into the dark and replies,
“i already do.”
he reads your scars like they’re lines in a book he’s afraid to finish.
you pull your hoodie off.
he sees the new ones.
doesn’t gasp. doesn’t flinch.
just breathes in slow and traces one gently with his thumb.
“does it hurt?”
you shrug. “it helped.”
he nods once.
kisses it, barely there.
“then it’s part of you.”
he never asks you to stop.
he just wishes he could take it for you.
he fucks you like he’s scared it’s the last time.
you climb into his lap wearing torn tights and cherry lip gloss.
you tell him, “hurt me nice, baby.”
he swallows hard. doesn’t speak.
he pulls your panties aside and fingers you slow, eyes locked on yours like he’s watching you fall apart in real time.
he mouths at your chest. your neck. your thighs.
kisses every old wound, every bruise, like apology.
when you come — legs shaking, lips bitten raw — he presses his forehead to your belly and says,
“stay alive for me. just a little longer.”
he would die if you asked. but he’d rather live if it means holding you.
xiao doesn’t believe in love.
didn’t, until you.
now he carries your lighter in his pocket.
sleeps in your fishnet hoodie.
texts you at 4am with nothing but:
“still breathing?”
when you answer, “barely,”
he replies:
“good. don’t leave me yet.”
you tell him he’s sick for loving you.
he leans in, eyes tired, mouth soft,
and says,
“then let’s rot together.”
💬 CHAT MSGS
xiao:
did u eat today
you:
vodka
does that count :D
xiao:
not really
but it’s better than disappearing again
you:
u sound worried
xiao:
i am
you scare me
but i love you anyway
you:
then come scare me back ;3c
come over
hurt me a little. not too much.
xiao:
i’ll hold you til you stop shaking
then fuck you like you asked for it
✦ KAZUHA
he smells the blood before he sees it.
you show up to class with a ripped sleeve and dried crimson flaking off your wrist.
you smile like nothing happened.
he doesn’t say a word.
just takes your hand under the desk and holds it tight — thumb grazing the edge of your newest scar, like punctuation.
you feel him trembling.
he writes you a haiku later:
you cut your own skin
but never carve out the ache.
i would hold it all.
you press it to your chest and don’t cry until he leaves.
he never judges. but he always sees.
you post another filtered photo — smeared eyeliner, cherry lollipop in your mouth, thighs bruised on purpose.
the caption reads: ♡ maybe if i die pretty they’ll love me ♡
ten minutes later, kazuha texts you:
“do you wanna come over?”
no lectures. no shame. just a soft place to land.
you show up in fishnets and a half-unbuttoned cardigan.
he makes you tea. wraps you in his blanket. reads you rimbaud until you fall asleep on his chest.
when you wake up, he’s still holding you like you’ll disappear if he breathes too hard.
you’re not a poem. you’re a confession.
kazuha has a notebook he never lets anyone read.
you find it once while he's showering.
inside are pages of your name, over and over.
your voice, your smell, your laugh, your pain — written like scripture.
one page just says:
i think she wants to die. i think i’d let her, if she asked sweet enough.
when you confront him, he doesn’t deny it.
he just whispers,
“i’ve never loved anything this much. it scares me.”
and you kiss him like a sin.
soft hands, rough intentions.
he touches you like you’re breakable, but fucks you like you want to be ruined.
he fingers you slow, tracing the scars on your thighs with his free hand, whispering:
“you hurt yourself so often… let me do it sweeter.”
he eats you out like it’s penance.
lets you ride his thigh with your fishnets still on, the friction just enough to burn.
when you whimper, “i’m close,”
he pulls you down by your hips and says,
“then fall apart for me.”
you do.
he moans your name like a vow.
you bleed. he writes.
kazuha keeps every cigarette you crush in half, every matchstick you break, every candy wrapper from your 3am walks.
he turns them into collages.
little altars to your pain.
once, you catch him gluing one of your bandaids into a notebook.
he looks up, cheeks pink, and says,
“it’s the first thing that ever touched your cut. i wanted to keep it.”
you tell him he’s crazy.
he kisses your wrist and replies,
“only for you.”
you both believe it.
💬 CHAT MSGS
kazuha:
did you eat today or just breathe in smoke again
you:
smoke tasted better than food
i didn’t feel like existing in public (^_^;)
kazuha:
you don’t have to
i’ll bring you tea and let you rot in my bed
just be here. still breathing.
you:
u say the sweetest shit
when i look like death
kazuha:
death has never looked so lovely
send me a photo
so i can write another poem i’ll never show anyone
you:
sent.
my blood looks pretty in this one
kazuha:
it does.
i want to kiss every part you hate
til it bruises differently
you:
do it then ;3
bring the wine. bring your mouth. bring the bandages.
✦ SCARA
he calls you pathetic. but he’s the one sleeping in your bed every night.
you post another blurry mirror pic: fishnets, cuts peeking past your thigh strap, smudged eyeliner.
caption: “woke up ugly again lol <3”
ten minutes later he texts:
“you’re disgusting.”
twenty minutes after that, he’s at your door.
he kisses you like he’s starved.
fingers digging into your hips like you belong to him.
when you pull back and whisper, “you don’t mean it,”
he scoffs,
“yeah? then stop posting shit like that if you don’t want me to get hard in public.”
you smile.
you both know he’d burn the world if someone else called you names.
he’d rather die than admit he cares.
you show up to his dorm wearing your usual: short skirt, ripped sleeves, bruises like accessories.
he looks you up and down and mutters, “you look like hell.”
but later, when you’re asleep on his couch — eyeliner streaked, arms covered in fresh band-aids —
he tucks a blanket over you and stares for too long.
“idiot,” he whispers.
then, quieter:
“don’t leave me too.”
he makes you cry on purpose. then wipes your tears with his hoodie sleeve.
you’re drunk.
you say something about wanting to disappear.
he snaps:
“then go already. no one’s stopping you.”
you flinch.
he sees it.
you leave.
ten minutes later, he’s blowing up your phone.
“don’t ignore me.”
“get back here. now.”
you come back and he’s pacing, furious.
he pulls you into his chest so hard it knocks the air out of you.
“say that again and i’ll never fucking forgive you,” he growls into your neck.
you sob.
he lets you.
he fucks you like a punishment. then kisses you like he’ll never get the chance again.
you wear his hoodie with nothing underneath.
say, “bet you don’t even want me.”
he slams you against the wall and grits out,
“you have no idea what i think about when you’re dressed like this.”
his hands are rough. his mouth is mean.
he fucks you against the mirror you take your selfies in.
moans low, possessive.
“you’re mine. you hear me? if anyone else even looks at you, i’ll kill them.”
you claw at his back and whisper, “yes, baby.”
he comes instantly.
later, he lets you fall asleep on his chest.
he doesn’t let go.
you’re a mess. he likes you that way.
you light a cigarette with your shaking fingers.
he grabs it, takes a drag, then says,
“you need help.”
you raise a brow. “gonna save me, then?”
he exhales smoke into your mouth, kisses you hard.
“no. i’m gonna keep you like this.”
you should be scared.
you’re not.
you’re in too deep.
he stares at your scars and mutters,
“at least now you match me.”
you laugh.
then cry.
he stays.
💬 CHAT MSGS
scaramouche:
why the fuck would you post that pic
are you trying to piss me off or just be a whore
you:
can’t i be both
thought you liked me like this
scaramouche:
i like you better with your mouth full and your phone off
keep playing and i’ll ruin you
you:
promise?
i want your fingerprints around my neck again
scaramouche:
you want everything
my hands
my knives
my fucking attention
you:
mhm.
want your spit in my mouth too.
been bad again.
scaramouche:
pathetic.
i’m outside. open the door.
on your knees when i walk in.
you:
bring gauze
i bled for you today
thought you’d like it :3c
scaramouche:
i do.
i’ll kiss it better after i make you cry
credits to @cafekitsune for the animated border lines!
˖ ࣪૮₍ 𝓑.𝐔𝐋𝐋𝐘 𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐃𝐉𝐎 𓂃 ⭒ bounces you on his cock cause he thinks you're stupid
⤿ ꒰ he's always seen you as nothing but a stupid, pretty girl :: college au :: slight angst :: smut :: mean satoru :: degradation :: f. oral :: fingering :: riding :: dumbification :: overstimulation ꒱
꒰ BULLY NERDJO ꒱ has been your worst nightmare since highschool. belittling you, shaming you, making you feel like you were the dirt beneath his shoe. unlike other bullies, he didn't have to push you around and slam you into lockers to make your gut twist. no, all he had to do was toss you a smug smirk over his shoulder whenever your mathematics exams were handed back. his red-circled A++ crumpling your hopes into your measly B-. you thought things would be different in college.
꒰ BULLY NERDJO ꒱ was nothing if not dedicated. to his valedictorian status and his relentless belittling. hell, the second you stepped foot into your quantum physics class— he scoffed. then grinned as you reluctantly made your way to the only empty seat. . . right beside him. “my, what's the bimbo doing here? daddy's money must be doing wonders.”
꒰ BULLY NERDJO ꒱ rolled his eyes as he passed by you in the hallway and saw you talking up a male classmate. muttering under his breath, “no wonder your grades are falling.” only to send you a wink when he catches your crestfallen look.
꒰ BULLY NERDJO ꒱ was not impressed when you were both paired for an assignment together. he actively tried to protest against the professor, but soon settled for it. before you knew it, he was in your dorm and grumbling over a textbook. shuffling over his laptop with an cooing tongue click and condescending head tilt. “aww. you really don't get it, do you?” then grinned mockingly as you shook your head with big eyes and a trembling lip. “silly girl. looks like I'll be carrying us again.”
꒰ BULLY NERDJO ꒱ rolled his eyes when you came to him all teary because— he was right. your grades were slipping. hell, you never wanted to be in astrophysics. your parents forced you. and now here you were with a crumpled up paper in your hands and crying to your bully, begging him to tutor you. he agreed with slumped shoulders and a groaning, “fine, whatever. just don't waste my time.”
꒰ BULLY NERDJO ꒱ was awful the entire time, no matter how hard you tried. he'd explain things that your brain couldn't process and lecture you when you wouldn't get it. and when he had enough of your tears? he snatched your chin, thumb swiping below your eye. “stop it.” he muttered. “stop it. stop crying. you can't help that you're stupid, now can you?” and when you didn't? well. . . let's just say he was inclined to make you cry in a more pleasurable way.
꒰ BULLY NERDJO ꒱ soon enough, had you sprawled over the table. textbooks and stationary strewn all over as he thumbs on the soaked fabric between your quivering thighs. creating a perfect friction against your trembling clit as you bucked and whined into him. another hand dwarfed your inner thigh as he pressed it down, keeping you wide open with a grinning, “now what did I say? keep those legs open for me. you can do that, right? not too dumb for that?”
꒰ BULLY NERDJO ꒱ took great pleasure in making you pay for wasting his time. he sucked on your clit through your panties until they were drenched with his saliva and your messy cum. allowing you to grip his hair only when he yanked your panties down and latched his mean mouth onto your pussy. licking, suckling, ruining you on his tongue while he glared at you from over his glasses. “suuuchhh a slut,” he huffed, fogging his spectacles. “no wonder those grades are slipping.”
꒰ BULLY NERDJO ꒱ fingered you open with two long digits. lips fixed to your clit and assaulting it with his tongue as he surged you through yet another sticky orgasm. fingers slow, steady and cruel while his mouth was ravenous. switching between your slit and throbbing nub. doubling down when you clung to his hair and whimpered out his name. he wouldn't admit to how hard he throbbed when you whined it like that. instead he dragged his tongue from your slit to your clit and groaned into the stringy mess.
꒰ BULLY NERDJO ꒱ leaned back into the chair and let you bounce on his cock. it was the least you could do after wasting his time, right? “stupid girl,” he huffed, swallowing a groan as he tweaked on your nipple. grinding his hips up filthily. once, twice, until you were clinging to his shoulders and humping on him like a pitiful slut. he clicked his tongue and watched as your pussy stretched. squelching and squirming all over him. “maybe you should just drop out, huh? drop out and be a slut for a living. you're better at it.” as he spanked! your ass. then gripped tight.
꒰ BULLY NERDJO ꒱ who toppled you over him when your bounces became weak grinds. hands fisting your ass and squeezing you on his thick cock as he pounded up until you were whining and drooling in his ear. leaving behind a gooey ring of cream round his base and bubbling your webbed mess all over. his name was on your lips like a lewd prayer. desperate pleas and whines as his pubic bone caught your clit with every rough slam. “just can't do anything right, can you sweetheart? fuck, stupid little girl with the prettiest pussy.”
꒰ BULLY NERDJO ꒱ lost himself when you creamed him for the nth time that day. a hand fixed to the back of your neck as he rolled his hips up in jagged thrust. making you whimper. squirm. and all he did? grin. “there ya go. that's it. take it. fucking. take it.”
꒰ BULLY NERDJO ꒱ was not prepared for your lips crashing onto his. for your hands clinging to his hair and your whines spilling into his mouth. and most definitely not for your spluttered little: "I love you— I love you satoru— toru, toru I love you, I love you!”
꒰ BULLY NERDJO ꒱ had to leave the second he'd cleaned you up and tucked your sleeping form into bed. stumbling back to his dorm, slamming his door shut. he white knuckled the counter and hunched over. heart pounding in his ears as he replayed your words over, and over again. I love you. I love you satoru. he scrubbed a hand down his face. cupped his mouth and nose as he breathed heavily, then looked into the mirror. hair disheveled. eyes puffy. no, no, no no no no no. what the fuck did he just do?
synopsis. deadpool!gojo pushes you till you break (him)
content warnings. semi-proofread, fem!reader, gojo’s annoying, blowjobs in an alley, oral f!receiving, car sex, hate-fucking(?), she hates him and he loves that, cumming early, dirty talk, cowgirl, gojo whines gojo whimpers gojo cums, seriously he cums a concerning amount of times, overstimming gojo, dumbification (him), lots of male crying, he calls reader mommy, threats of murder/killing, descriptions of intended violence
MINORS DO NOT INTERACT
Deadpool!Gojo is the bane of your existence, constantly annoying you with his smartass jabs, perverted comments, and terrible jokes.
Deadpool!Gojo hears the words “Fuck off, Gojo” at least 7 times daily from any given person, especially you.
Deadpool!Gojo turns off Infinity around you. He wants to feel your touch even if it’s just a shoulder graze or a punch to the face (the latter is a daily occurrence).
Deadpool!Gojo punches the air in triumph when he finds out he’s been assigned a mission with you, sprinting through the halls of the X Mansion straight to your room and bursting in.
“Heyyyyy, partner,” he sings as he skips into the room and over to your bed, flopping down on it like a child, “Ready to fuck up some bad guys?”
You groan, like you’d been doing a lot that day, ever since you found out the Infinity-wielding pain in the ass would be your mission partner. “Just my luck. Fuck me,” you mutter, packing your gear.
Lying on his stomach, he props his face in his palms, feet kicking in the air, “Oh, trust me, pumpkin. I’ve been trying. But let’s save that for after the mission, hm?” Even through his mask, you could practically hear his annoying smirk.
“Although since you brought it up,” he continues, not letting your clear disinterest deter him, “Maybe we could sneak in a quickie before the ball-busting begins? Pre-fight sex helps me focus. Specifically, doggystyle— backshots are great for an ass-kicking mindset. Cleanses the soul. Realigns the chakras n’ all that good shit. It’s science. Look it up. P-O-R-N-H-U—”
You shoot him a venomous glare that screamed, “Shut. Up.”
He immediately holds up his hands in mock surrender, chuckling sheepishly, “Or don’t. You’re right, saving it for after is smarter. Sort of a celebratory homecoming. Speaking of cumming—“
Your fist cuts that comment short, meeting his face with a satisfying crack!
Deadpool!Gojo stares unabashedly at your ass while scaling the side of a building, even throwing in an “awooga,” much to your disgust.
Deadpool!Gojo doesn’t let a time-sensitive situation like you defusing a bomb stop his sardonic commentary.
The room is silent, save for the periodic beeping of the contraption in front of you. You sit hunched over the deadly-looking device, sweat creeping on your brow, trembling fingers clutching the wire-cutter, “Red or blue?”
The white-haired mercenary lounges nearby, doing nothing to help, “You ever think about how turtles could be doing more for this country?”
“Red or blue wire, Gojo.”
“I mean, they come with their own armor! But those weird little fuckers just choose to chill in a lake all day.”
“I swear to god—“
“Imagine the damage you could do if you chucked one of ‘em at the enemy’s head, shell first.”
You grit your teeth, “They’d die. Just tell me the color.”
“The enemy or the turtle?” He shrugs, “Eh, doesn’t matter. Point is, we underestimate those green snails. Didn’t one of them paint the Sixteenth Chapel?”
“It’s Sistine, and that was Michelangelo.”
“Exactly.”
Your jaw muscles tense with barely-restrained frustration. You open your mouth to retort before you decided the device, whose timer had jumped from three minutes to one, needed your attention more.
“Here, let me help—“ he starts.
“You can help by shutting the fuck up.“
“Ooh, someone’s cranky. Is it the bomb? It’s the bomb, isn’t it?”
“It’s you, actually,” you hiss, jittery hands held over the red wire.
He throws a hand over his chest and mock-gasps, “I resent that! I’m plenty helpful—”
You whip around, grabbing his collar and slamming him into the nearby wall, the wire-cutter now hovering dangerously over his crotch. You let it close slightly, the metal jaws just barely touching him, eliciting a low moan from him— half from pain, half from something else.
A low, menacing growl leaves your mouth, tone dripping with threat, “One more word and you lose a testicle.”
“…hot.”
And then you punched him in the face again.
(You do end up defusing the bomb, with seconds to spare at that, no thanks to him.)
Deadpool!Gojo compromises your stealth when he leans against a very obvious “CALL SECURITY” button.
Alarms blare, red lights flash, and within seconds, a swarm of armed men flood the room.
He rubs the back of his neck with a sheepish look, “Oops…? Hehe.”
Fucking idiot. You contemplate feeding him to the enemy.
Deadpool!Gojo relies on his katanas and martial arts more than Infinity or other powers in battle—purely to impress you. He swings dramatically, flips unnecessarily, flexing his “raw skills.” It’s like he’s performing rather than fighting.
Mid-battle, covered in blood (not his), he frantically waved at you, “Y/N! Did ya see the finishing move I pulled on that guy? Fuckin’ sick, huh?!”
You do not respond. He pouts.
Deadpool!Gojo wolf-whistles when he sees you nail a villain with a kick to the nuts.
“Ngh- oh yeah, me next.” he likes CBT for sure
You nearly drop your weapon, “What in the fuck—“
Deadpool!Gojo takes the time for a dance break, mid-fight.
“I’m Every Woman” blares through the speaker system— when the hell did he get control of the comms— as he full-on belts the song, complete with hair flips and hip swings. (songs also on that playlist: tell it to my heart by t. dayne, wannabe by spice girls, 10 minutes by lee hyori, baby one more time by b. spears, love don’t cost a thing by j. lopez)
You seethe, yelling from a far corner as you take down another guard, “GOJO, TURN THAT SHIT OFF OR SO HELP ME, I WILL RIP OFF YOUR DICK AND FEED IT TO YOU!”
He loudly moans from under his mask, “Hngh- oh yeah, keep talking about my dick, babe— I’m nearly there—”
Deadpool!Gojo is smug as hell after knocking out a final thug that had you in a headlock.
He drawls, self-satisfied, and points finger guns at you, “You’re welcome. I’ll take my thank you blowjob now.” To which you give him a murderous scowl.
Deadpool!Gojo makes it so you both have to abort the mission to escape. Turns out pressing a “CALL SECURITY” button brings, well, security. A fuck ton of it.
“If we survive this… pant… I’m strangling you with your own mask,” you snarled, sprinting alongside him, dodging bullets and hellfire.
“Aw, babe, you’re so cute when you wanna kill me,” he pulls up his mask to flash you a grin.
You punch him a third time, mid-run.
At Sister Margaret’s, Deadpool!Gojo watches you dejectedly explain to the team how you fled enemy territory empty-handed.
Deadpool!Gojo then pulls the very item you were after out of nowhere, revealing dramatically that he’d pocketed it when you were busy fighting. (vague ass mission, pretend “item” is sumn important pls)
He doesn’t miss your fuming face in the crowd— but pretends to.
Should he have said something to spare you the frustration? Probably.
Was his way more fun? Definitely.
Deadpool!Gojo has an innocent look but is internally giggling he’s dragged him by the collar to the alley behind the bar.
“Woah, easy with the threads, sugarplum. This stuff’s custom-made.”
“You absolute pain in my ass,” you growl, yanking his mask off to reveal his annoyingly attractive face.
His piercing blues glinted with mischief, a smirk playing at his lips, “Oh, sweetheart. if you wanted me in your ass, you could’ve just asked—“
“You had the artifact THE WHOLE TIME?!”
“Oh! Great twist, right? Did you see their faces? They were all ‘omg gojo! gojo’s so smart and cool, we love him! he deserves several blowjobs as thank you! and I volunteer to be first! no, I volunteer. no I voluntee—‘“
“SHUT. UP! You made me think we FAILED, asshole! You humiliated me in front of everyone, you insufferable, selfish, reckless, piece of—“
“Oh sweet, I love a good hate-fuck prelude.”
You surge forward, crashing your lips against his, effectively silencing whatever bullshit would leave his mouth next.
Deadpool!Gojo is speechless when he suddenly finds you on your knees, his cock halfway down your throat, and has to physically fight from cumming too quickly—your loud, wet sucks and gags not helping the fight at all.
Deadpool!Gojo has extreeemely sensitive balls and is a congenital yapper. Not a good combo for when the person sucking his dick is also someone who thinks of ripping out his larynx every time he opens his mouth.
He groans, letting his head fall back against the brick wall, fingers fisting in your hair for support. True to his nature, he tries and fails to keep composure with sarcastic quips, “Ah, there’s my thank you blowjob. Cuz’ I was beginning to wonder— ngh!”
He doubles over with a choked gasp, his cock jerking in your mouth when he feels your teeth graze the sensitive vein along the underside—deliberate and warning. The message in your eyes was crystal clear: Shut up or I will bite.
And he wisely obliged. For about ten seconds before—
“If you’re hah- trying to get me to ngh- apologize for the mission, you sure picked a hnghh- h-hell of a way, babe. s-shit- i did technically save your ass, y’know- oh wait no- not the balls- they’re sensitive- seriously, anything but the balls- wait wait don’t— fuck! shit! fuckshitfuckshitfuuuuuuckkkkk!”
He spills down your throat embarrassingly fast, his chest heaving, throat catching on a half-choked moan, “Ah- hah- t-t-told you- *cough*—“
But it’s fine because the sight of you gulping down every drop of his cum has him immediately hard again.
Deadpool!Gojo eats you out like a man starved— on his knees in the back of your Honda Odyssey, of all places.
Not that he’s complaining. He’s quite happy to be suffocating between your thighs, his nose buried deep in your pussy folds, licking and slurping like it’s his last meal. (mf the type to go “nom nom” or “gobble gobble” or sum shit while eating kitty)
The most pathetic whimpers and mewls leave him as he aches to touch his cock, which is dripping leaky faucet, globules of precum bubbling at the tip, but he can’t— courtesy of you tying his hands behind his back.
He’s also a messy eater, slobbering and drooling all over your clit like a rabid animal. At one point, he tries to motorboat your pussy, the man is unhinged.
And somehow, even with a mouth full of pussy, he’s still.
fucking.
talking.
“Mmh- fuck you taste so sweet- *lick* pussy’s so delicious- *suck* could eat you all night- mmmh- shit you gettin’ close? yeah yeah cum for me, baby- cum on my tongue, pretty please? squirt all over my face with this pretty lil cunny- mmh pleas—“
You cringe. Christ, his dirty talk sucks. You’ll have to fix that for next time—
Next time? Why the hell were you thinking of a next time?
On the brink of orgasm, you tighten your grip in his hair, yanking hard enough to make him groan, “God- ngh- do you ever stop talking?”
In frustration, you forcefully buck into his mouth, hoping to shut him up. Jokes on you though. That just made him cum.
Hands-free.
Just from eating you out.
He shudders, a choked moan ripping from his throat as hot, thick ropes of cum shoot out onto the backseat carpet.
He doesn’t let up, however, making sure to take you over the edge with him, tongue-fucking you through your high and his own. Your gasps and moans are sweet music to his ears, your clit pulsing against his tongue as you drench his face.
And still, he doesn’t stop. He slurps up your juices, his tongue invading every crevice of your cunt, greedy for every last saccharine drop.
God, he fucking loves your pussy.
Deadpool!Gojo cries and whines like a bitch while you ride him into oblivion.
His blue eyes are locked onto your bouncing tits, pupils blown wide in awe. He’s drooling, hands roaming aimlessly—gripping your love handles, palming your ass, cupping your breasts—unable to decide where to settle.
God, he wishes he had more hands.
Your pussy is heaven to him. Hot, wet walls squeeze his cock like they were made to ruin him. It’s so good, so unbelievably good, his vision blurs with tears.
You’re so fucking beautiful.
So so so beautiful…
THWOP!
And so fucking cruel.
THWOP!
You slam down on his cock with a cruel force, the skin of your ass slapping against his thighs.
THWOP! THWOP!
The lewd schlick-schlick’s of your pussy swallowing him echoes in his ears, mingling with his breathless, broken moans.
He’d be well past his fifth orgasm by now—if you weren’t such a sadistic, heartless bitch who hates happiness.
…his words.
Because for the past hour or so, you’ve been fucking him like his dick owes you money, always stopping right as he’s about to cum.
Like right now.
You hover over his swollen tip, eyeing him smugly. He’s a mess. Flushed cheeks, damp lashes, glassy azure eyes pleading up at you.
Oh, but the real sight is what’s below— his cock twitches desperately, every individual vein begging for friction. His balls? Overloaded. Heavy. Drawn tight. Concerningly big. How the fuck does he still have cum left to give?
Gojo swears you hold his life in your hands. If you didn’t let him cum right now, he’s pretty sure he’ll die.
Pride shattered and dignity obliterated, he wails, voice cracking, “Hnghhh- fuck- OKAY! ALRIGHT! I’M SORRY! I’m sorry about the artifact! I thought you’d think it was cool—I was wrong! I’m sorry for humiliating you, I’m sorry I’m a dumb fucking cock-for-brains idiot who only thinks with his dick— IMSORRYIMSORRYIMSORRYIMFUCKINGSORRYYYY!!!”
His hips desperately rut upward, chasing the last bit of movement he needs to finally, finally cum. “Now please! Let me cum! I need to cum! I NEED TO CUM! PLEASE LET ME CUM! PLEASE, MOMMYYYY!”
You paused.
…did he just say Mommy?
Oh, he is gone.
You mentally file this moment away— prime blackmail material for the next time he gets smart with you.
For now, you’re content. You got what you wanted: an apology from the Merc with a Mouth and the pleasure of watching him fall apart.
A Cheshire grin curling your lips, you give a single, permitting nod—then slam down onto his cock, hard.
Gojo damn near ascends.
Deadpool!Gojo moans like a girl when he cums in the loudest, sluttiest, most pornographic way.
His eyes roll back, mouth falling open. His entire body convulses, back arching off the car seat, muscles locking up as the orgasm annihilates him.
He cums harder than he ever had, the air ripping from his lungs as he shoots his creamiest load yet. His cock pulses with every desperate burst of sticky, gooey seed—your gummy pink walls now sprayed white. His abs flex violently, spent, while your greedy pussy yanks him deeper, intent on milking him dry.
And then, the worst thing happens.
You keep moving.
Deadpool!Gojo pleads with you to stop fucking him, fully sobbing through the overstimulation.
It’s too much. His nerves are fried, he’s slowly going stupid. Hell, he just might be already. His cock is helplessly quivering inside you and his whole body’s shaking. Pearly tears slip down his cheeks as he begs you to stop moving on his cock.
He chokes on a sob before his cock pitifully spurts out another empty load.
Having had your fill of his miserable begging, you generously oblige. You dismount, lazily glancing back at the wonderful mess you made.
Deadpool!Gojo is left ruined, utterly destroyed after you’re done with him.
His head lolls to the side, tongue hanging out, drooling as he stares at nothing. His limbs shudder weakly, his cock now soft and limp, still giving the occasional pathetic shiver.
A stupid, cum-drunk grin stretches across his face as he meaninglessly babbles like an idiot, “c-cum… c-came… s’ m-much… ah… can’t f-feel my d-dick… love it… t-thank you…“
Gone is the bravado of the cocky, sharp-mouthed antihero.
Lying there, wrecked beneath you, is your broken little bitch—Satoru Gojo aka Deadpool.
a/n. women bullying men during sex>>> originally wrote this with hawks from mha in mind then realized he n gojo are the same person in different fonts. it was tough writing this tbh cuz i had to balance both personalities. i still think he ended up more gojo than dp anyway sighhh. i hope people like it and if you don’t, that’s ok but please be kind :)
synopsis. deadpool!gojo pushes you till you break (him)
content warnings. semi-proofread, fem!reader, gojo’s annoying, blowjobs in an alley, oral f!receiving, car sex, hate-fucking(?), she hates him and he loves that, cumming early, dirty talk, cowgirl, gojo whines gojo whimpers gojo cums, seriously he cums a concerning amount of times, overstimming gojo, dumbification (him), lots of male crying, he calls reader mommy, threats of murder/killing, descriptions of intended violence
MINORS DO NOT INTERACT
Deadpool!Gojo is the bane of your existence, constantly annoying you with his smartass jabs, perverted comments, and terrible jokes.
Deadpool!Gojo hears the words “Fuck off, Gojo” at least 7 times daily from any given person, especially you.
Deadpool!Gojo turns off Infinity around you. He wants to feel your touch even if it’s just a shoulder graze or a punch to the face (the latter is a daily occurrence).
Deadpool!Gojo punches the air in triumph when he finds out he’s been assigned a mission with you, sprinting through the halls of the X Mansion straight to your room and bursting in.
“Heyyyyy, partner,” he sings as he skips into the room and over to your bed, flopping down on it like a child, “Ready to fuck up some bad guys?”
You groan, like you’d been doing a lot that day, ever since you found out the Infinity-wielding pain in the ass would be your mission partner. “Just my luck. Fuck me,” you mutter, packing your gear.
Lying on his stomach, he props his face in his palms, feet kicking in the air, “Oh, trust me, pumpkin. I’ve been trying. But let’s save that for after the mission, hm?” Even through his mask, you could practically hear his annoying smirk.
“Although since you brought it up,” he continues, not letting your clear disinterest deter him, “Maybe we could sneak in a quickie before the ball-busting begins? Pre-fight sex helps me focus. Specifically, doggystyle— backshots are great for an ass-kicking mindset. Cleanses the soul. Realigns the chakras n’ all that good shit. It’s science. Look it up. P-O-R-N-H-U—”
You shoot him a venomous glare that screamed, “Shut. Up.”
He immediately holds up his hands in mock surrender, chuckling sheepishly, “Or don’t. You’re right, saving it for after is smarter. Sort of a celebratory homecoming. Speaking of cumming—“
Your fist cuts that comment short, meeting his face with a satisfying crack!
Deadpool!Gojo stares unabashedly at your ass while scaling the side of a building, even throwing in an “awooga,” much to your disgust.
Deadpool!Gojo doesn’t let a time-sensitive situation like you defusing a bomb stop his sardonic commentary.
The room is silent, save for the periodic beeping of the contraption in front of you. You sit hunched over the deadly-looking device, sweat creeping on your brow, trembling fingers clutching the wire-cutter, “Red or blue?”
The white-haired mercenary lounges nearby, doing nothing to help, “You ever think about how turtles could be doing more for this country?”
“Red or blue wire, Gojo.”
“I mean, they come with their own armor! But those weird little fuckers just choose to chill in a lake all day.”
“I swear to god—“
“Imagine the damage you could do if you chucked one of ‘em at the enemy’s head, shell first.”
You grit your teeth, “They’d die. Just tell me the color.”
“The enemy or the turtle?” He shrugs, “Eh, doesn’t matter. Point is, we underestimate those green snails. Didn’t one of them paint the Sixteenth Chapel?”
“It’s Sistine, and that was Michelangelo.”
“Exactly.”
Your jaw muscles tense with barely-restrained frustration. You open your mouth to retort before you decided the device, whose timer had jumped from three minutes to one, needed your attention more.
“Here, let me help—“ he starts.
“You can help by shutting the fuck up.“
“Ooh, someone’s cranky. Is it the bomb? It’s the bomb, isn’t it?”
“It’s you, actually,” you hiss, jittery hands held over the red wire.
He throws a hand over his chest and mock-gasps, “I resent that! I’m plenty helpful—”
You whip around, grabbing his collar and slamming him into the nearby wall, the wire-cutter now hovering dangerously over his crotch. You let it close slightly, the metal jaws just barely touching him, eliciting a low moan from him— half from pain, half from something else.
A low, menacing growl leaves your mouth, tone dripping with threat, “One more word and you lose a testicle.”
“…hot.”
And then you punched him in the face again.
(You do end up defusing the bomb, with seconds to spare at that, no thanks to him.)
Deadpool!Gojo compromises your stealth when he leans against a very obvious “CALL SECURITY” button.
Alarms blare, red lights flash, and within seconds, a swarm of armed men flood the room.
He rubs the back of his neck with a sheepish look, “Oops…? Hehe.”
Fucking idiot. You contemplate feeding him to the enemy.
Deadpool!Gojo relies on his katanas and martial arts more than Infinity or other powers in battle—purely to impress you. He swings dramatically, flips unnecessarily, flexing his “raw skills.” It’s like he’s performing rather than fighting.
Mid-battle, covered in blood (not his), he frantically waved at you, “Y/N! Did ya see the finishing move I pulled on that guy? Fuckin’ sick, huh?!”
You do not respond. He pouts.
Deadpool!Gojo wolf-whistles when he sees you nail a villain with a kick to the nuts.
“Ngh- oh yeah, me next.” he likes CBT for sure
You nearly drop your weapon, “What in the fuck—“
Deadpool!Gojo takes the time for a dance break, mid-fight.
“I’m Every Woman” blares through the speaker system— when the hell did he get control of the comms— as he full-on belts the song, complete with hair flips and hip swings. (songs also on that playlist: tell it to my heart by t. dayne, wannabe by spice girls, 10 minutes by lee hyori, baby one more time by b. spears, love don’t cost a thing by j. lopez)
You seethe, yelling from a far corner as you take down another guard, “GOJO, TURN THAT SHIT OFF OR SO HELP ME, I WILL RIP OFF YOUR DICK AND FEED IT TO YOU!”
He loudly moans from under his mask, “Hngh- oh yeah, keep talking about my dick, babe— I’m nearly there—”
Deadpool!Gojo is smug as hell after knocking out a final thug that had you in a headlock.
He drawls, self-satisfied, and points finger guns at you, “You’re welcome. I’ll take my thank you blowjob now.” To which you give him a murderous scowl.
Deadpool!Gojo makes it so you both have to abort the mission to escape. Turns out pressing a “CALL SECURITY” button brings, well, security. A fuck ton of it.
“If we survive this… pant… I’m strangling you with your own mask,” you snarled, sprinting alongside him, dodging bullets and hellfire.
“Aw, babe, you’re so cute when you wanna kill me,” he pulls up his mask to flash you a grin.
You punch him a third time, mid-run.
At Sister Margaret’s, Deadpool!Gojo watches you dejectedly explain to the team how you fled enemy territory empty-handed.
Deadpool!Gojo then pulls the very item you were after out of nowhere, revealing dramatically that he’d pocketed it when you were busy fighting. (vague ass mission, pretend “item” is sumn important pls)
He doesn’t miss your fuming face in the crowd— but pretends to.
Should he have said something to spare you the frustration? Probably.
Was his way more fun? Definitely.
Deadpool!Gojo has an innocent look but is internally giggling he’s dragged him by the collar to the alley behind the bar.
“Woah, easy with the threads, sugarplum. This stuff’s custom-made.”
“You absolute pain in my ass,” you growl, yanking his mask off to reveal his annoyingly attractive face.
His piercing blues glinted with mischief, a smirk playing at his lips, “Oh, sweetheart. if you wanted me in your ass, you could’ve just asked—“
“You had the artifact THE WHOLE TIME?!”
“Oh! Great twist, right? Did you see their faces? They were all ‘omg gojo! gojo’s so smart and cool, we love him! he deserves several blowjobs as thank you! and I volunteer to be first! no, I volunteer. no I voluntee—‘“
“SHUT. UP! You made me think we FAILED, asshole! You humiliated me in front of everyone, you insufferable, selfish, reckless, piece of—“
“Oh sweet, I love a good hate-fuck prelude.”
You surge forward, crashing your lips against his, effectively silencing whatever bullshit would leave his mouth next.
Deadpool!Gojo is speechless when he suddenly finds you on your knees, his cock halfway down your throat, and has to physically fight from cumming too quickly—your loud, wet sucks and gags not helping the fight at all.
Deadpool!Gojo has extreeemely sensitive balls and is a congenital yapper. Not a good combo for when the person sucking his dick is also someone who thinks of ripping out his larynx every time he opens his mouth.
He groans, letting his head fall back against the brick wall, fingers fisting in your hair for support. True to his nature, he tries and fails to keep composure with sarcastic quips, “Ah, there’s my thank you blowjob. Cuz’ I was beginning to wonder— ngh!”
He doubles over with a choked gasp, his cock jerking in your mouth when he feels your teeth graze the sensitive vein along the underside—deliberate and warning. The message in your eyes was crystal clear: Shut up or I will bite.
And he wisely obliged. For about ten seconds before—
“If you’re hah- trying to get me to ngh- apologize for the mission, you sure picked a hnghh- h-hell of a way, babe. s-shit- i did technically save your ass, y’know- oh wait no- not the balls- they’re sensitive- seriously, anything but the balls- wait wait *don’t—* fuck! shit! fuckshitfuckshitfuuuuuuckkkkk!”
He spills down your throat embarrassingly fast, his chest heaving, throat catching on a half-choked moan, “Ah- hah- t-t-told you- *cough*—“
But it’s fine because the sight of you gulping down every drop of his cum has him immediately hard again.
Deadpool!Gojo eats you out like a man starved— on his knees in the back of your Honda Odyssey, of all places.
Not that he’s complaining. He’s quite happy to be suffocating between your thighs, his nose buried deep in your pussy folds, licking and slurping like it’s his last meal. (mf the type to go “nom nom” or “gobble gobble” or sum shit while eating kitty)
The most pathetic whimpers and mewls leave him as he *aches* to touch his cock, which is dripping leaky faucet, globules of precum bubbling at the tip, but he can’t— courtesy of you tying his hands behind his back.
He’s also a messy eater, slobbering and drooling all over your clit like a rabid animal. At one point, he tries to motorboat your pussy, the man is unhinged.
And somehow, even with a mouth full of pussy, he’s still.
fucking.
talking.
“Mmh- fuck you taste so sweet- *lick* pussy’s so delicious- *suck* could eat you all night- mmmh- shit you gettin’ close? yeah yeah cum for me, baby- cum on my tongue, pretty please? squirt all over my face with this pretty lil cunny- mmh pleas—“
You cringe. Christ, his dirty talk sucks. You’ll have to fix that for next time—
Next time? Why the hell were you thinking of a next time?
On the brink of orgasm, you tighten your grip in his hair, yanking hard enough to make him groan, “God- ngh- do you ever stop talking?”
In frustration, you forcefully buck into his mouth, hoping to shut him up. Jokes on you though. That just made him cum.
Hands-free.
Just from eating you out.
He shudders, a choked moan ripping from his throat as hot, thick ropes of cum shoot out onto the backseat carpet.
He doesn’t let up, however, making sure to take you over the edge with him, tongue-fucking you through your high and his own. Your gasps and moans are sweet music to his ears, your clit pulsing against his tongue as you drench his face.
And still, he doesn’t stop. He slurps up your juices, his tongue invading every crevice of your cunt, greedy for every last saccharine drop.
God, he fucking loves your pussy.
Deadpool!Gojo cries and whines like a bitch while you ride him into oblivion.
His blue eyes are locked onto your bouncing tits, pupils blown wide in awe. He’s drooling, hands roaming aimlessly—gripping your love handles, palming your ass, cupping your breasts—unable to decide where to settle.
God, he wishes he had more hands.
Your pussy is heaven to him. Hot, wet walls squeeze his cock like they were made to ruin him. It’s so good, so unbelievably good, his vision blurs with tears.
You’re so fucking beautiful.
So so so beautiful…
THWOP!
And so fucking cruel.
THWOP!
You slam down on his cock with a cruel force, the skin of your ass slapping against his thighs.
THWOP! THWOP!
The lewd schlick-schlick’s of your pussy swallowing him echoes in his ears, mingling with his breathless, broken moans.
He’d be well past his fifth orgasm by now—if you weren’t such a sadistic, heartless bitch who hates happiness.
…his words.
Because for the past hour or so, you’ve been fucking him like his dick owes you money, always stopping right as he’s about to cum.
Like right now.
You hover over his swollen tip, eyeing him smugly. He’s a mess. Flushed cheeks, damp lashes, glassy azure eyes pleading up at you.
Oh, but the real sight is what’s below— his cock twitches desperately, every individual vein begging for friction. His balls? Overloaded. Heavy. Drawn tight. Concerningly big. How the fuck he still have cum left to give?
Gojo swears you hold his life in your hands. If you didn’t let him cum right now, he’s pretty sure he’ll die.
Pride shattered and dignity obliterated, he wails, voice cracking, “Hnghhh- fuck- OKAY! ALRIGHT! I’M SORRY! I’m sorry about the artifact! I thought you’d think it was cool—I was wrong! I’m sorry for humiliating you, I’m sorry I’m a dumb fucking cock-for-brains idiot who only thinks with his dick— IMSORRYIMSORRYIMSORRYIMFUCKINGSORRYYYY!!!”
His hips desperately rut upward, chasing the last bit of movement he needs to finally, finally cum. “Now please! Let me cum! I need to cum! I NEED TO CUM! PLEASE LET ME CUM! PLEASE, MOMMYYYY!”
You paused.
…did he just say Mommy?
Oh, he is gone.
You mentally file this moment away— prime blackmail material for the next time he gets smart with you.
For now, you’re content. You got what you wanted: an apology from the Merc with a Mouth and the pleasure of watching him fall apart.
A Cheshire grin curling your lips, you give a single, permitting nod—then slam down onto his cock, hard.
Gojo damn near ascends.
Deadpool!Gojo moans like a girl when he cums in the loudest, sluttiest, most pornographic way.
His eyes roll back, mouth falling open. His entire body convulses, back arching off the car seat, muscles locking up as the orgasm annihilates him.
He cums harder than he ever had, the air ripping from his lungs as he shoots his creamiest load yet. His cock pulses with every desperate burst of sticky, gooey seed—your gummy pink walls now sprayed white. His abs flex violently, spent, while your greedy pussy yanks him deeper, intent on milking him dry.
And then, the worst thing happens.
You keep moving.
Deadpool!Gojo pleads with you to stop fucking him, fully sobbing through the overstimulation.
It’s too much. His nerves are fried, he’s slowly going stupid. Hell, he just might be already. His cock is helplessly quivering inside you and his whole body’s shaking. Pearly tears slip down his cheeks as he begs you to stop moving on his cock.
He chokes on a sob before his cock pitifully spurts out another empty load.
Having had your fill of his miserable begging, you generously oblige. You dismount, lazily glancing back at the wonderful mess you made.
Deadpool!Gojo is left ruined, utterly destroyed after you’re done with him.
His head lolls to the side, tongue hanging out, drooling as he stares at nothing. His limbs shudder weakly, his cock now soft and limp, still giving the occasional pathetic shiver.
A stupid, cum-drunk grin stretches across his face as he meaninglessly babbles like an idiot, “c-cum… c-came… s’ m-much… ah… can’t f-feel my d-dick… love it… t-thank you…“
Gone is the bravado of the cocky, sharp-mouthed antihero.
Lying there, wrecked beneath you, is *your* broken little bitch—Satoru Gojo aka Deadpool.
a/n. women bullying men during sex>>> originally wrote this with hawks from mha in mind then realized he n gojo are the same person in different fonts. it was tough writing this tbh cuz i had to balance both personalities. i still think he ended up more gojo than dp anyway sighhh. i hope people like it and if you don’t, that’s ok but please be kind :)
Synopsis: Satoru Gojo is of the highest caliber of lineage. So how can you blame him for wanting to give you his cubs at any given moment? His sweet little Goat Hybrid can’t refuse him for too long~!
Warnings: Smut, Breeding, Reader is a Goat!Hybrid, Knotting, Overstim, sort of dub-con but reader secretly wants his cubs, drooling, degrading, praising.
A/n: This request was sent to my inbox by @nanamitiddiechomper . I love how many JJK requests I’m getting now. Remember you can always request Commissions to get your request super personalized and at the top of my ‘to-do’ list!
You somehow ended up mated to the most insufferable, dramatic, and desperate Snow Leopard Hybrid in existence—Satoru Gojo. The man is obsessed with the idea of you having his cubs, and he won’t-
Shut. Up. About it.
Every day is a new ridiculous attempt to convince you. Bribery, theatrics, fake tears, seduction and even outright begging. You, however, remain unbothered, casually dodging his advances like a pro.
You’re lounging on the couch, flipping through a magazine, when Satoru dramatically flops onto the floor in front of you, his tail flicking impatiently. His ears are perked up, his big blue eyes wide and pitiful. Like a kicked puppy.
*"Y/nnn,” he whines, dragging out your name like it’s a tragedy. “Just think about it! Tiny, adorable little cubs! With my eyes! And your fluff! They’d be perfect!"
You don’t even glance up from your magazine. “Mhm."
He huffs, rolling onto his back and stretching out like a spoiled housecat. “I’ll do all the work! You just have to sit there and look cute—which you already do!”
“Still no."*
Satoru gasps, clutching his chest like you’ve wounded him. “You’re killing me. Slowly. Painfully." He rolls over again, pressing his face against your leg. *"What if I promise to be extra nice? I’ll hunt for you! I’ll groom you! I’ll—"
You finally lower the magazine, raising an eyebrow. “You already do all that."
Satoru curses under his breath. He can’t keep living like this. He’s not above using dirty tactics.
…Like trying to kick-start your Heat early.
On Monday, Satoru wakes up extra early, stretching his long limbs in bed beside you, his tail lazily curling around your waist. “Morning, sweetheart~" he purrs, voice still rough with sleep. His fingers trail along your side, way too casual. “You smell extra nice today… like, really nice. Like, heat nice."
You blink at him, deadpan. “It’s Monday."*
He pouts. *"So?"*
“So, my body doesn’t run on your delusions."*
On Tuesday, Satoru spends the entire afternoon ‘educating’ you on ‘natural hybrid biology’. Which is just him making up facts while lounging shirtless on the couch.
“See, scientifically speaking, sheep hybrids go into heat when their mate really wants them to." He nods sagely, tail flicking. “It’s basic instinct."
You toss a pillow at his face. “That’s not a thing."
“It is now!"
On Wednesday, Satoru leans against the doorway, muscles flexing, his fluffy ears perked up. “You know what’s really hot? Responsible parenting."
You don’t even look up from your book. “Gojo, I swear to god—"
“Just picture it! Tiny little paws! My eyes but your nose! They’d be so spoiled—"
You throw a sock at him.
On Thursday, it’s bribery.
“I’ll buy you that expensive wool conditioner you like."*
"No."
“I’ll hunt a whole deer for you."
“Still no."
“I’ll let you win at wrestling."*
“...Tempting. But no."
He collapses onto the floor in defeat.
The final straw, more like Satoru’s last choice, is inviting Nanami over with his new little lioness. The lion Hybrid cub is all round eyes and wild blonde hair. Blinking up at you both like she’s just discovering the world for the first time.
The second Satoru laid eyes on that tiny, perfect hybrid cub something in his brain snapped.
His cerulean eyes were locked onto the little bundle in Nanami’s arms.
“That’s… a baby.” Satoru whispered, as if he’d never seen one before.
You sighed. “Yes, Gojo. You asked me to bring Hikari.”
Satoru’s pupils dilated. His claws flexed. His tail lashed.
“WHY DOES NANAMI GET TO HAVE A BABY BEFORE ME?!" he wailed, throwing himself onto the couch like a spoiled child. “I’M BETTER LOOKING! STRONGER! MY GENES ARE SUPERIOR!”
Nanami pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is why you don’t have one."
The moment Nanami handed his tiny lion hybrid cub to you, just for a quick cuddle, Satoru’s entire existence imploded
Satoru dropped to his knees in front of you, his tail flicking as he cooed at the baby in a voice so high-pitched it could shatter glass.
“Ohhhh, look at you! So smol! So precious!" He poked the cub’s tiny paw, his ears twitching violently. "You’re just a wittle girl, aren’t you? A wittle Nanami girl!"*
Nanami sighed. “Gojo, stop."
Satoru’s eyes flicked up to you, his pupils blown wide with desperation.
"Y/n," he whispered, voice cracking. “Look at how tiny her paws are. Ours would be tinier.”
You snorted. “That’s not how genetics work—"
“THEY’D BE SOFT,” he insisted, pressing his forehead against your knee like a dramatic Victorian widow.
All of this did nothing to trigger your Heat. But Satoru Gojo is a lucky bastard.
It happened in the stupidest way possible.
Nanami had finally had enough of Satoru’s theatrics and reached to take his cub back. Satoru, being the overgrown kitten he is, instinctively dodged, twisting away with a playful growl.
And then it happened.
In his dramatic evasion, Satoru’s tail, thick, fluffy, and ridiculously strong, swiped right across your scent glands. The sensitive spot just below your horns where sheep hybrids release pheromones.
A direct hit.
Your breath hitched. Your skin prickled. A jolt of electricity shot down your spine.
HEAT.
Full. Blown. Instinct-driven heat.
Your pupils dilated. Your body burned. Your scent exploded into the room. Sweet, thick, and undeniably fertile.
Satoru’s nose twitched. His ears shot straight up. His tail puffed to twice its size.
“Oh," he whispered, voice suddenly rough with realization.
Nanami, still holding his cub, took one look at your face, then Satoru’s, and immediately turned on his heel.
“I’m leaving. Good luck." The cub hybrid made a sticky grabby hand as if she were waving as Nanami bundled her up.
The door slammed shut.
Satoru’s grin was feral.
“So," he purred, stalking toward you, his claws flexing. “About those cubs—"
You didn’t let him finish.
The second your heat hit, Satoru moved, inhuman speed carrying him across the room before you could even blink. His body pressed flush against yours, his muscles coiled tight, his breath hot against your ear as he growled.
“Knew you’d finally break.”
Then his hands locked onto your horns, fingers curling tight around the smooth, sturdy curves. Just rough enough to make you gasp. He used them like handles, tilting your head back, exposing your throat as he yanked you against him.
“Finally," he panted, his voice dripping with filthy satisfaction. His hips rolled against yours, the thick, hot length of him already rutting impatiently against your thigh. “Gonna fill you up so good, Y/n, gonna breed you right this time.”
You whimpered, legs shaking, but Satoru didn’t give you a chance to collapse. In one fluid motion, he hauled you up by your horns, he lifted your hips with brute strength, lining himself up—
You didn’t feel the poky barbs when he fills up your guts in the first thrust. But oh, do you feel each and every one on the pull-out.
You screamed.
Satoru groaned, his forehead dropping to the back of your head, his fangs bared in a wild grin. “Fuck—knew you’d take me perfect,” he rasped, already pulling out just to slam back in, his grip on your horns unrelenting. “Gonna put so many cubs in this sweet pussy. Gonna ruin her for anyone else.”
His pace was merciless, every snap of his hips driving you higher. His claws pricked at your scalp as he used your horns to fuck you deeper.
Your orgasm barrels through you right on the living room floor. You feel the ache in your tummy building far too fast but you can’t slow it down. “Satu!” Is the only warning you can give last second.
Your slutty walls clamp on his pulsating length, and Satoru sinks his long fangs into the healed over mating mark on your throat.
The second Satoru’s fangs sink into your body, your entire body locks up. Your instincts SCREAMING.
Your pupils go wide, black swallowing your vision as adrenaline floods your veins. Every muscle tightens, your sheep hybrid instincts howling at you.
PREDATOR. PREDATOR. PREDATOR.
A whine claws from your throat, high and desperate, as you thrash wildly beneath him, hooves scrambling against the floor. Your horns jerk violently in his grip, trying to buck him off, to escape.Satoru just purrs down at his flailing mate.
“Shhh, shhh—" His voice is nearly a chuckle, hot against your ear as his hips snap forward, burying himself deeper. “I know, sweetheart. I know it’s scary.”
You bleat, a panicked, trembling sound. Your tail wiggles, your legs kicking out, but he catches your thigh. He’s yanking you back against him. His knot pops in with the new leverage.
“C’mon, Baby," he soothes, licking a line up your throat. His fangs graze your mating mark again. "You want this. You need this."*
And then he bites down again.
You cry out. Your back arching, your body betraying you as pleasure crashes through the fear.
Satoru laughs as he fucks you through it.
“Poor little prey. Can’t take it anymore? Where is that smart mouth now?”
The deeper Satoru pounds into you, the more your mind unravels. You are heat-drunk, drooling, and babbling nonsense between broken moans.
Your mouth goes slack. A thin trail of drool spilling down your chin as your tongue lolls uselessly. Your eyes are rolling back with every deep thrust.
“S’toruuu—nngh—t-too biiiig!” you slur, your words mushy and half-formed, your hooves twitching uselessly against the floor.
Satoru grins. His fangs glinting as he watches you melt.
“Oh? What was that?" he taunts, slowing his hips just to drag his cock out. The barbs along his cock stimulate your weeping walls. He thrust back in unexpectedly. Strings of drool sputter from your mouth.
You whimper. Your thoughts are soupy. Your voice a wreck as you try to form a coherent thought.
“M-make—nnn—make stooop!” You don’t mean it.
“P-please—hah—p-please more—" You definitely mean that one.
Satoru laughs. His thumb swiping through the drool on your chin. He pushes it back into your lips, spreading it over blunt teeth where his is violently sharp.
“God, you’re pathetic,” he coos, his tail flicking in delight. “Dripping everywhere. Can’t even speak right."
You bleat weakly, your body convulsing as he fucks the last dregs of coherence out of you. It leaves you a shaking, slobbering mess. You are mumbling half-formed pleas into the carpet.
Satoru kisses your temple.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll fix you."
He does not fix you. He makes it worse.
“Sooo," he purrs, voice dripping with obscene satisfaction. “After all that fighting me…after all that ‘no, Satoru, not now’-“ He nips your horn. "You really want my cubs now, don’t you?"
You whimper and still try to shake your head. Your body is clenching around him on instinct, betraying you immediately.
"Oh? That’s your answer?" He pulls out of the three knot-messes he’s already left in his wake, making you squeak. “Because your pretty little cunt is screaming yes."
After 5 rounds, he takes a water break. He leaves you in the nest of the bedroom he had someone dragged you too mid-fuck. You try to army crawls to the bathroom, Hell bent on not feeling sticky anymore.
"Goin' somewhere?"
His voice is a mocking purr, his tail lazily flicking.
You shoot him a glare, still struggling to get your legs underneath you. "Bathroom."
His eyes gleam with amusement as he watches you try and fail to stand up. He hums in fake thought, rubbing his jaw. "Hmm. I don't know. You seem a little... wobbly. You sure you don't need some help?”
He absolutely does not help. He’s on you in seconds. He’s pinning you face down into the carpet. His hips rut against yourself. His still-soaked cock bumps your stretched hole, missing by mere centimeters before slipping up through your ass cheeks like a horny stray.
"Oops~"
His voice drips with fake innocence as his cockhead catches on your rim, smearing slick messily between your cheeks before grinding up your spine. Like he just can’t help himself.
His fangs dig into your shoulder as he laughs. "Fuck, look at you. You are still dripping with my cum. Can’t even walk but your greedy little hole’s twitching for more, huh?"*
You whimper, face pressed into the carpet, your legs trembling as he ruts against you.
“S’not—nngh—fair!” you slur, voice wrecked.
You lose count of how long he keeps you on that ridiculously fat knot.
The second his rut-brain haze finally clears, Satoru freezes. His eyes are widening as he takes in the absolute wreck he’s made of you.
Your hair is matted with sweat, your legs still twitching, your throat littered with bite marks. And worst of all?
You’re crying.
Not loud, not dramatic. Just quiet, exhausted little sniffles, your cheeks damp.
Satoru’s ears flatten. His tail droops.
"Oh. Oh, my pretty girl.”
And then he panics.
He scoops you up like you’re made of glass, his claws retracted as he cradles you against his chest. His tongue is already lapping at your tears.
“Shit—shit, Baby, I’m—fuck.”
He licks your forehead.
“I’m sorry."
He licks your horns.
“I’m so sorry."
He licks your cheeks, your chin, even your elbow. As if he grooms you enough, he can literally lick away his sins.
You whimper. You are too drained to protest as he drenches you in snow leopard spit.
"I’ll—fuck! I’ll get you water. And food. And—shit. A heating pad? Do you need a heating pad?”
You blink up at him, your voice a hoarse whisper. “…Shower."
Satoru nods frantically, his ears pinned back.
You try not to slap him when for the entire shower, he’s picking out baby name.
As a young girl, you did a love spell - nonsense, really. He'll have amethyst eyes, long dark hair... but it never happened for you. Cursed truly - the moment you date someone they just find their true love and it's never you. Giving up on that, and living in your quaint little town as the resident witch when you run into a set of adorable twins and their dad living across the street. That's when you see him - Suguru Geto - is he the man you summoned all those years ago!? If so... will he fall into the same curse?
pairings - Girl dad! Suguru x witch! reader
warnings- rom com vibes, sweet little cozy autumn story, reader falls bad, Sugu is a girl dad, reader sucks at being a witch, the twins are matchmaking. tension and teasing, finding love again, so sweet it's tooth rotting hehe, explicit sex - fingering, oral, p in v sex, masturbation, love confessions, them being cute. - oneshot - 11.2k
This was a commission from one of my amazing supporters, based on the movie Practical Magic! I so appreciate you love and thank you so much
Some might call you a witch.
Maybe you are – cursed they all say, some old family tales of the women in your line never finding true love. Always some disaster befalls you, and you start to think it was real, think that you must be truly cursed. Dabbling in some spells in your youth, you shied away from them after every love spell just seemed to turn into them falling in love with someone else.
Friends of yours called you ‘magic’ because every guy you met and cared for seemed to fall for someone else. You suppose you’re happy for them in your own way, that you bring everyone else love and happiness, even if you’re alone you're okay with it.
You’re living a peaceful life, running your own little shop, it’s a small town – so small that you’ve known everyone your whole life.
It’s odd to get anyone new, but you know that even if it happens, that there’s no chance really, a few weeks or months of fleeting fun, before they move on. You also are just a really bad witch, you suck at every spell, clumsy in life and in witchcraft, you never excelled like your sister - the most you can ever manage are some healing herbs and tinctures.
Your love spells are really only for finding everyone else’s love, never you.
It's a quaint little life, but you find a lot of peace in it, even if you do get a little bored at times, you’re used to it. It’s home after all, the home where everyone knows you, from the owner of every little store in town, down to every neighbor you walk by.
They say your name with a curious, friendly smile as you walk by in your cardigans and jeans through the fall weather, some of them curious, others a little apprehensive.
Everyone knows your family are witches, and you're the last one left here, your old home is damn near a Halloween attraction.
It's the week before Halloween too, you love to get dressed in your ‘witch gear’ and hand out candy, so the kids can run and tell all their friends - they met the town witch!
The leaves are crunching beneath your heeled boots this time of year, shivers of the chill air slipping through the soft fleece sweater. You carry a bag of little herbs you’ve gathered in your hand when you pause by the home that’s been empty for months. An old home, many assume are ‘haunted’ and they weren’t wrong, it was indeed a haunted home but you were used to that sort of thing.
At least the spirits there were pretty cool, every now and then they say hi to you.
God no wonder men run for the hills, saying you see ghosts is definitely not a topic for a hot date, now is it?
Curse or it's you ugh.
Curious who bought the old three story manor, you can’t help but walk a little closer, observing the dusty old windows, bending over at the waist to peer at just who is inside. You hear giggling of what sounds like two little girls, who run right past you as you stand awkwardly in the yard, pausing as they see you.
A little blond girl and a little brunette with matching bangs and ponytails grin happily, sucking on lollipops happily in the chilled air, each grabbing your hand now and tugging. “Hi there!”
You smile at them, they speak at the same time as if in sync, cute little girls that are tugging at your affection even just meeting them. “I’m Mimiko!”
“I’m Nanako!”
“Oh hello,” you smile at them both, as they eagerly tug you along. “Where are you taking me?”
“To meet dad!”
“You’ve gotta say hi!”
“You're pretty!”
“Oh, thank you…” You can’t help but smile curiously as they drag you inside, but when you see him you pause, faltering just a bit.
The man that's turned with his back to you is massive. He’s got a blueprint laid out on a desk, still dusty and old – left over from long ago. You see a bare back then, muscled and chiseled, hunched over slightly with his hand in his dark, silky locks, scribbling away.
Your heart races in its chest, remembering the silly spell you made as a little kid in your herb garden.
‘A tall man, long dark hair, amethyst eyes, he’ll be quiet and kind, oh and he’ll want children, he’ll want family. He’ll be strong and smart, and just a little on the eccentric side – we can’t have him too boring.’
Your sister had giggled at you, when you had picked up purple petals that you imagined of his eye color, grinning as your sister ran over.
‘Amethyst, that’s such a crazy color!’ She'd said, touching the petals with you.
‘Well, he’s not real so – he can be as beautiful as I imagine.’
It’s just long black hair you tell yourself, you're being ridiculous! So he's tall, okay… that’s the only similarities.
Your heart is racing just a bit in your chest, nervously shifting as the girls tug you along even closer, into the living room just dusted a bit from drywall and sawdust.
“Papa, papa!”
He’ll have a deep, husky voice.
“Girls,” he turns around then, and you pause in your tracks, thighs trembling, breaths quickening just a bit.
His eyes.
They’ll be amethyst.
You’d said it dreamily as a little girl underneath the full blood moon, but even then you never thought, never imagined that maybe it could be real. It can’t be surely, even if his eyes are amethyst, even if his dark silky hair falls a bit over his shoulders, and you see his bare chest, chiseled and cut, your eyes trail down it before you can stop yourself, flushing hotly.
He pauses as he eyes you, seeing the heat on your cheeks, something about you making him – Suguru Geto – falter just a moment, a man never lost for words and completely at ease, paused.
You’re dressed casually, soft and cozy, smelling like the autumn itself, hints of the apple orchard and cinnamon, but mostly, it’s how you just look at him like that.
Who are you?
Suguru long ago gave up on women, he had love once long ago, to the mom of these two little girls, and he couldn’t help but focus solely on them. She was lost so tragically.
Not that he doesn't see women as beautiful – especially you. He loves beauty, after all, yet nothing has stopped him in his tracks like this.
How can he pinpoint it? You're beautiful but it's not that… it's something around you, real and tangible, making his fingers twitch with the need to just touch your skin.
Mimiko is giggling and tugs you down to whisper in your ear - “Papa must think you're pretty.”
You blush even more, clearing your throat a bit, finally taking a breath and holding out your hand. “Hey new neighbor, I'm the witch next door.”
He chuckles then, a sound he's hardly made in ages it feels like, aside from when the girls do something too adorable. Little troublemakers that have him wrapped around their little fingers, always batting their lashes and looking too adorable to punish.
But to chuckle from someone else?
He sobers a bit then, realizing how easy that had been, how pretty your necklace sits between your collacollarbone. Some pendant he can't quite place, tilting his head a bit to study it, before realizing his attention was right on your breasts.
The girls run around now giggling and you smile just a bit, leaning over and touching the necklace ever so delicately. “Do you like it?”
“A witch talisman, huh?” He smirks a little and then turns, snatching up a sweater and sliding it over his head, abs flexing when he moves it across his chest. You heat up at the action, managing to stay casual instead.
“Of course it is,” you tease. Yet it was indeed just that – rose quartz, glittering a soft pink. “So your name?”
“Suguru Geto,” he's trying to be friendly, holding out a hand for you to shake, yours rests in his now, biting down on your lower lip and staring. His hand overtakes yours, swallowing it in his calloused grip.
Something about the touch lingers in his mind that night after you leave. He can't help but toss and turn, looking out the window after pacing around his room for a while. In the quiet he thinks too much, sighing and pressing aside the blinds, just to see you under the glittering light of the almost full moon in your garden.
“Hmm,” he tilts his head, sighing when you look over toward him, as if you can see the crack in the blinds. You smile just a little, turning in a little circle before bouncing back in. “Maybe she is a witch.”
****
You may or may not dress just a little sexier with hot dad neighbor across the street - it certainly isn’t intentional at all!
It’s also just coincidental that you put a little charm spell on yourself to look just a bit more ‘enchanting’ if you will. That you bat your lashes that have a little bit of mascara on them lately when you borrow a cup of sugar, or come over with extra donuts for the girls.
It’s just to be a friendly neighbor! It has nothing to do with the fact that Suguru Geto is the epitome of that love spell you made when you were a little girl, down to the smirk and how his eyes get just a bit lidded in amusement when you show up. The house is progressively coming together more and more every day you walk by, Suguru seems to be quite the handy man.
Aside from some workers most of the restoration seems to be done by his own hands, and you sure can’t complain while sitting on the front porch in your little swing after work and sipping your favorite tea.
It may or may not be a little magical brew of your own – you’re not that good at witchcraft but this one is to attract… wealth or something of course!?
Not that man putting a coat of paint on his outer wall, with leafs fluttering around him, he smiles back at you for just a friendly moment and you wave, going back to pretending to read. Then you eye him again, when his attention is off you, and the girls are laughing and running around in the leaves, crunching all underneath their feet.
You can’t help but move your fingers a bit, making the leaves swirl for them, they’re clapping and giggling as they move in the air, and your finger moves in a circle motion. Suguru peeks over at the girls and his smile melts your heart, chuckling a bit and watching curiously as they keep swirling in a figure eight motion.
He eyes you on that porch, your finger moving with them.
You’re not really a witch, are you?
Your eyes meet his and widen, then the leaves stop swirling, instead scattering all across the girls, who are jumping up and down excitedly. You hastily look back at your book, your hair falling a bit in front of your shoulders, looking so pretty in that white swing, like you need him right next to you.
Suguru wonders if you’re casting some spell on him, but he knows the moment he locked eyes with you there was clear desire, but the affection that builds every time you come by is hard to ignore. The girls adore you, frequently running over to your house to bake something with you or help you mix up herbs for your shop, shit they want you more than him sometimes.
He notices your cute little dresses and your boots, like you are the town witch how you carry on, something magical about you that’s hard to ignore. But he does ignore it a bit, because he has to focus on the girls, on getting the house together, on his business. He doesn’t have time to fall for cute little witches next door, even when they start to make him ache at night.
Even when he’s jerking his cock remembering you bending over in front of him in some little dress that’s way too little clothing for this weather earlier that week, he can remember the smooth expanse of your thighs, the curve of your ass. The hint of your black panties that had peeked right between them, made him long to grip your hips and drag you against him.
He’s peeking out that window even as he starts stroking his cock under the covers, sucking in a breath. Suguru hasn’t been with a woman in a long time, not that he couldn’t but he’s picky, and you’re this particular brand that’s driving him insane. Cute and giggly where he’s serious and quiet, warm and soft where he was a bit colder and hard to read.
Suguru wasn’t always this way, but it’s how it went, and now he’s desperately stroking his veiny length thinking of slipping his cock inside you, his cute little witchy neighbor. Bending you over and making you arch for him, a hand slammed over your mouth to keep your moans quiet when he bottomed out, stretching your perfect little cunt out.
He’s so sure it’s perfect.
All of you must be.
You’re in your room which is directly across from his, doing some little dance – surely some other spell of yours – as you get undressed, just your silhouette alone has him leaking pre. He sits up and exhales, spitting on his cock and watching the saliva drip down his tip, mixing with the pearly pre that’s coming out of his tip in spurts, making him suck in a breath.
He should feel like a pervert, watching you slip on a baggy tee shirt, the curves of your body suddenly hidden by it, when you walk over towards the window to flick off the lights, and he swears he sees the curtain move for a moment, as if you were peering at him. You flick them off and it’s dark then, his pretty show gone, but his eyes slam shut and he pictures everything.
Stroking faster he murmurs your name softly under his breath, groaning as his big hand strokes up and down faster until he busts at the thought of fucking you in a baggy shirt in your bed, shoving it up your hips and using it to yank you down his length. White ropes spill all across his hand, his eyes rolling back, breaths coming too quickly, trying to calm himself down.
You’re just pretty, he’s just being a whole pervert, he can control himself better than this.
Surely he doesn’t jerk off again that night.
****
The next morning he’s knocking on your door, he has to look at you and know he jerked himself off to you, stammering almost with a little flush on his cheeks that you’ve never seen, across the bridge of his nose and his high cheekbones as he stands there in front of you, business suit on making him look far too attractive, black and sleek following the sharp lines of his body.
You’ve seen him in one before, but this close to him makes you blush yourself, eyes flitting down his starch white dress shirt he’s still tucking into his belted waist, as if he’s in a rush. His hair’s down falling across his face rather than thrown up in his typical pony tail, making him look like he’d just jumped out of some fucking romance novel cover.
“Hi!” Your voice literally squeaks, you try to compose yourself, wrapping your cardigan around your shirt and shorts you’re wearing, the girls hug each of your thighs and you laugh softly. “Hi girls.”
“We’re coming to play!”
“You’re babysitting us!”
“Huh?” You’re laughing softly, looking over at Suguru curiously, who rubs the back of his neck, smiling a bit.
“Hey there, girls,” he admonishes, they pout all cutely. “We haven’t even asked her if she can yet.”
“Sorry!” they're pouting as they speak in unison, too cute to ever be mad at.
“You’re fine, pretty girls,” you pat their heads as they just run into your house then. “Um, come in?”
“Sorry,” he sighs. “Girls! Manners!”
They’re already familiar with your home so they’re running around and sitting on your cozy couch, Suguru hasn’t been inside your home just yet though. He eyes it carefully as you shut the door behind him, seeing a cauldron on your kitchen counter, a kitchen that has original seventies counter tops and cabinets mind you.
“You are really into this witch thing.”
“It’s for my shop! Aha…” You’re standing in front of it, waving your arms as Suguru smirks a little, hands in his pockets, looking at the old wooden cabinets.
“Have you ever considered renovating?” He walks up and touches the old press wood that is close to falling apart, humming to himself. “Some updates would really open it up.”
“I haven’t no, my parents left me this place and I’m afraid I didn’t do a thing to it,” you touch the old formica countertops that are peeling. “Haven’t even taken down the old wallpaper.”
“Well I can help if you get the materials,” he offers, the girls are climbing up onto the tall chairs, swirling around the mixture in the cauldron as he assesses the kitchen with a sharp eye. “I actually have a good buyer if you want me to order them for you.”
“How much would you charge to put it all in?” You ask, trying to see in your mind if your budget will allow.
You are doing a wealth spell tonight with the new moon though, so maybe it’ll manifest itself just like Suguru did, those amethyst eyes looking at you again, flashing back to that vivid memory. You keep telling yourself that you’re looking too much into it, that it’s nonsense.
But it’s hard to even breathe when he’s near.
“How about you help me out and watch the girls a couple times a week, and I’ll gladly put it all in for free? Fix this place all up.”
“Oh! Of course I can…” they’re giggling and talking amongst themselves, petting your cat who slinks by and jumps up on the counter, purring. “Is it okay if I bring them to the shop? I do go in a couple hours on the weekends.”
“Perfectly fine, I do most of my work at home but I have to go to a bunch of meetings the next couple weeks,” he sighs, snatching a band off his wrist and tying his hair up as he speaks. “It would help me out so much, just on the weekends if you could, the week will be fine because they have school but if you could let them hang out a little bit if I’m not here?”
“It’s no worry at all,” Suguru watches you light up as Mimiko shows you a drawing she’s done. “Oh it’s beautiful!”
The way you are with the girls makes him falter, the affection tearing at him, something he never knew he could feel. Of course he was aware of the fact that they loved you already but he’s never seen them like this. Usually his little ‘troublemaker twins’ as he called them – would chase away any nanny, any babysitter in the world. Yet they adore you.
“Will you be good for her?” He asks them now, leaning down to their level and narrowing his eyes, they nod and giggle behind their hands. “No crossing your fingers.”
“We’re not!” Mimiko says.
“No way!” That's Nanako, he rolls his eyes at them.
“Yeah you are,” he snatches their hands playfully, and they sigh. “Be good for her or I’ll get a mean babysitter instead.”
“No, no we love her!” Mimiko says, eyeing you and holding your hand. “She’s a witch!”
“Girls…”
“No, I am,” you shrug a shoulder and raise a brow now. “And I’ll put a spell to turn you both into frogs if you’re bad!”
They just laugh at you, as does Suguru, standing and realizing how close you are, when they run off, already making themselves at home. You turn to him and smile just a bit, realizing you’re still just in a tank and shorts, and your cardigan has fallen open, soft and tan against your skin.
Suguru’s eyes lower before he can stop himself, seeing your nipples perked up and pressing against the fabric, his heart races in his chest at the sight. He can even see the curve of each breast under the thin cotton, his hands twitch just slightly with the need to grip them, to mold them to his palms.
You seem to notice, they rise and fall, your breaths quicker and quicker, Suguru clears his throat and flushes more, looking back up into your eyes, faltering. “Shit, I’m sorry…”
“No, no I am wearing nothing and it’s cold,” you murmur, but you don’t close the sweater, you bite down on your lower lip instead, stepping a little closer. “It’s cold in here, isn’t it?”
“A little,” he murmurs, looking back at your old counters and touching them, trying not to act like he doesn’t want to brush those nipples with his fingers. “Thank you so much for this, really.”
“Of course, I’d love some help around here-”
Crash.
“Shit…” Suguru grimaces, as the girls crash a face, gasping out simultaneously. “I’ll buy you a new one!”
“It’s all right,” you walk over and sigh, you’ll have to try to fix it with magic a little later, you can’t scare Suguru off when he’s finally coming over. “No worries, just be careful okay?”
****
The girls were not careful.
As adorable as they are, they’re breaking and crashing anything and everything, to the point you do start trying to piece them together with your rusty magic, but you can’t even keep up with them. The cat is even joining in and scratching your old wicker furniture instead of his scratching post, being a little menace to society right along with the girls.
They’re truly exhausting even for you, but they’re so freaking cute it’s hard to stay mad, you instead try to divert their energy with the enticement of a spell.
“What kind of spell!?” Mimiko asks excitedly, while you take them out to your greenhouse, letting them run around and explore the many, many herbs that grow here.
“We’ll do a love spell!” Nanako chimes in, giggling and touching a petal.
“A love spell, hmm?” You ask, gathering some of the mugwort carefully, praying they don’t crash all of your plant pots too. “You have a crush, Nanako?”
“No, yuck!” You smile in relief. “But for dad… he really needs a push.”
“He does,” Mimiko agrees, giggling and then looking at you. “Do you like dad?”
“I mean,” you blush now, brushing your hair behind your ear. “I don’t know him very well. I’d… like to?”
“We’ll help!”
*
It’s the evening when Suguru comes back, looking a little exhausted and leaning in your doorway, smiling just a bit before he sees the mess the kids have made of your kitchen. “Oh god, how bad is it?”
“I mean… they’re rambunctious?”
“Girls!”
“No, no,” you tug him inside now, shaking your head and putting a finger to your lips. “They’re finally calming down, we’re cooking dinner.”
“Oh…” the scents hit him then, some stew that makes his tummy grumble. “Fuck, I didn’t eat.”
“What, not all day? Come on please, it's almost done!”
“Are you sure?” You just nod and take him by the hand, leading him into your cozy little dining room.
Suguru’s not sure anything you own is newer than the eighties, truly, you must love thrifting or have kept everything original.
Though something is so homey and comfortable about it all, it's still a shame to look at as a man who literally has spent years building homes.
“It’s no imposition, the girls wanted to eat dinner here too. One less thing you have to do today, hmm?”
Suguru’s stunned for a moment, just a small gesture of help is more than he’s had in… as long as he can remember since he’s had the girls on his own. What exactly are you doing to his mind?
It's cozy, the four of you in the outdated kitchen as you scoop another helping of stew into his bowl. The way the girls devour your meal makes him wonder if he's ordering out too much, it's hard sometimes being a single father.
On days he works Suguru barely sees the girls sometimes, and he's tired some days for their boundless energy.
With you they almost seem a little calmer, showing some actual table manners which surprises him, before they start to yawn and look a little sleepy. “You two can watch a show while we clean up,” he says softly, eyeing the bottle of wine you've pulled out.
“One glass?” You tease, after they get snuggled up under one of your afghans, it looks like you had a crochet habit judging off all the little balls of yarn and hooks on your living room table.
“I'd love one, what kind you got?”
“A nice cabernet,” you pour him a glass slowly, letting dark red liquid half way fill up the glass you hand him. “It's a little strong.”
You put the crystal wine glass to your lips, you’re flushing just a bit as he watches you sip it, hands around the stem of the glass, sipping it and letting the rich flavor dance along your tastebuds. It’s quiet in the kitchen, the girls are already yawning and snuggling when Suguru stands, sipping his wine and coming a little closer.
“Thank you so much for today,” he murmurs, tense a bit when you look up at him under your lashes. Fuck you’re pretty. “They love you.”
“I love them too, I mean… is that totally weird to say? I feel like they’re my little nieces or something already,” you say affectionately, tugging at his heart then. “Please know I don’t mean to overstep.”
“No, that makes me happy.” He smiles and picks up his bowl then. “Let me help you with dishes.”
“Oh you don’t have to!”
“You have witch magic for them?” You smile and giggle behind your glass, grabbing your bowl as well and carrying it in with him.
“I do, look…” You pop open the dishwasher. “Tada!”
Suguru snorts and laughs, the sound so pleasing to your ears you melt just a bit more for him, looking back over your shoulder and smiling. “I’ll grab the girls’ bowls.”
It’s quiet aside from the running water and the gentle clicking of the dishes as you rinse them, taking little sips while Suguru helps you pop them in the dishwasher, you shut it and start it, leaning against the counter and brushing your fingertips across the counter. It feels perfect having them in your home, you can’t really describe it.
You don’t want to scare him away completely, so you temper it a bit. “I loved having you over for dinner.”
“Yeah?” You nod shyly, the breeze from your little kitchen window blows in gently, tousling your hair around your face.
“You three are welcome any time, truly I get a little lonely since my sister moved out.”
“Where’d she move to?” Suguru brushes a little tendril back, fingers accidentally brushing your skin, you gasp out, teeth sinking into your lower lip to bite back an embarrassing noise. He falters, clearing his throat. “Was in your face, m’sorry.”
“No, no,” his hand falls and he takes a gulp nervously. “Don’t apologize, um she found her true love and moved out of state.”
“That’s cute.”
“I dated him.”
“Huh?” Suguru blinks in confusion, and you sigh, sipping a little more wine and eyeing the two sleeping little girls on the couch snuggling. “You dated him?”
“Everyone I date, they find their ‘true love’. It’s some curse, but don’t worry – even being near me means you’ll find it.”
Suguru laughs then and you glare. “Are you serious?”
“Dead serious,” your lips pout now, looking down and sighing. “It really is true, she’ll fall right into your lap.”
“You’re not cursed,” he shakes his head a bit now. “You’re still young.”
“Twenty five and never dated longer than two weeks, that’s usually the magic number. They find their loves, don’t laugh!”
“That’s nonsense, how much of this curse do you believe?” He finishes his drink and takes both of your glasses, eyeing your pretty lip print on the glass, rinsing it and washing it for you.
“It’s all factual, I assure you, just wait.”
Suguru just laughs at you, and you wish it wasn’t real, but you’re absolutely sure some pretty girl will end up on his doorstep tomorrow.
You carry Mimiko as he carries Nanako over to his home once they’re tuckered out, she’s snuggling to your neck all cute and precious, when Suguru looks over at you in the moonlight you’re so pretty in that moment. All smiling against Nanako’s hair, the soft white light illuminating your skin, when he quietly shows you up to their room.
The entire house looks beautiful, all redone from the new vinyl plank to the soft gray paint on fresh drywall. The girls room is everything you’d dream of as a girl, so pretty and done up with their beds, both sides of the room have their own unique little touches too. Mimiko’s has darker colors, blacks and blues with plushies, Nanako’s room is brighter and sunnier, pastels and sunny yellows.
“Suguru it’s so pretty,” you whisper, eyeing the fairy lights dancing across their ceiling, it’s beautiful and swathed in color. Suguru beams with pride and it’s adorable, as he brushes back their hair and kisses their foreheads. “I want to live here.”
“I’ll make your place just as nice,” he promises, walking out of their room and shutting the door behind him with a quiet click, the hallway is dark, still smelling of fresh paint. “You pick a color scheme and I’ll work with it.”
“You really don’t have to,” you murmur, as he’s suddenly too close to you, and you inhale his scent - fresh with just a hint of musk. “It’s not a problem to watch them, I enjoy them coming over.”
“Your kitchen is going to be a work of charity, it’s that bad.”
“Hey!” You playfully shove him by his chest “They aren’t that horrible!”
“Mhm,” his hands rest on your shoulders now, you’re trembling a bit. “You’re living fifty years in the past like a little time bubble.”
“Well maybe I like the seventies,” you tease, the wine warming your bloodstream and making your cheeks flush by his proximity. “It’s retro.”
“Ancient,” he corrects, tapping your nose then, making it scrunch just a bit, his breaths slowing down then, eyes drifting to your lips. “Does your nose twitch side to side too?”
“And you’re hating on retro…” you twitch it all cutely then, making him chuckle, as he brushes his thumb across your lips without thinking.
You’re too cute, your body so warm he can feel it with his fingertips burning through the softness of your sweater with his other hand. He swallows nervously – it’s been a long time since Suguru has been with someone, and he has vivid memories of stroking it to you last night, that ache worse in your presence.
You both just stand there, eyeing each other in the darkness of the hallway, your heart hammering in your ears, pulse racing in his neck, the two of you unsure of what to do, how to move. Him, nervous after years of being alone – you terrified that the moment you kiss him, he’ll be on his merry little way with a pretty new neighbor.
Was it a curse?
Was he the one you summoned that night?
You step a little closer, his hand slides to your waist, briefly brushing across the curve of your breast, your nipples press up aching and needy underneath that top, as he steps closer to you. He’s so tall your head falls back, his shadow overtaking yours when his lips are just a breath away, tickling your own and shooting hot desire from his big hand cupping your cheek.
You feel so small next to him, the feeling is heady, making you even more needy, but all the same so scared.
Your lips part for him now, as he starts descending, your eyes flutter shut – imagining a first kiss, only for one of the girls to cry out suddenly. Suguru panics, pulling back and opening the door. You see Mimiko has had a bad dream, up hugging her knees then calling your name too.
“Oh,” you come to her and sit on the bed, Suguru watches carefully as you soothe her back to sleep. “It’s all right, sweetheart.”
He has never felt this.
Their mom passed a very long time ago, when they were born, so he hasn’t even seen someone with them, especially like you, making him long to capture that moment forever. Your gentle smile as if you’ve cast a spell of calm, he’d almost believe all of it if he wasn’t such a skeptic, that you calmed the very energy all around you all.
You look back and ease up finally, letting him walk you down the stairs to his door, opening it for you, letting the breeze sweep in over both of your overheated bodies, all flustered by the sensations of what had almost been a kiss. “Suguru… I’m not sure my budget on things-”
“I get great deals, I’ll just buy the materials.”
You blink then, shaking your head. “No, no that’s far too much for just some babysitting!”
“Really to see them like that? I…” He rubs the back of his neck, eyes so vibrant in that moment that you drown in their depths. “Worth anything.”
“Suguru…”
God, the way you say his name.
For every bit of him that wants to drag you up to his room and spread your thighs, bury himself in your cunt, another part of him is terrified to take it that far, too ruin something beautiful you have with his girls already. So he hesitates, instead kissing your forehead as sweetly as he does the girls, you let your eyes flutter shut, leaning in close to him.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, we’ll go over some options,” he says then, pulling back and brushing your tendrils back one more time. “Thank you for tonight.”
“Of course…”
You walk home and he watches you, waiting for you to wave at him, smiling and giggling when you walk inside, leaning back against the door.
Fuck you really, really like your neighbor, it’s past like really, a word you’re too terrified to think but that keeps echoing in your ears.
True love.
Love spell, amethyst eyes, dark hair, the smile – was Suguru Geto the man you conjured up as a little girl?
****
Suguru coming over every day almost to work on your house was far too attractive, shirtless and sweaty, while you dress the most skimpy you can, bouncing around and giggling. He acts nonchalant like he doesn’t notice, even when the girls are at school and he’s over, and you’ll lean and bend over to grab a tool for him, or a cold beer at the end of the day.
It’s easy being near you, that’s all Suguru keeps thinking, amusedly watching as you just accidentally let a strap slip off your shoulder, and he’ll adjust it right back for you, letting his fingers brush just a bit against your skin. You’d pout all cute, never directly saying what you want, though you make him jerk it every night to you like it’s just what he does now.
A routing, remembering every time you brush against him, as he starts to tear out your old ugly cabinets, replacing them piece by piece when he gets time – until it all starts to come together. What was an ugly yellow kitchen was now becoming a beautiful modern creation.
Suguru is great with his hands.
So great you can’t help but wonder how they’d feel against you, how those fingers feel inside your cunt, the thoughts alone make you touch yourself all night, knowing it’s hopeless, no matter what you try he just kisses your forehead, pats your head like you’re a little puppy.
He’s sweet, he’s caring and fun, the days blend into something that almost feels like family, the girls over constantly during the renovations, and you three get even closer than before. Showing them little healing potions and protection charms you all make for Suguru, it’s like they become more than neighbors.
They’re everything to you now.
In the span of a few months it’s become what you look forward to the most, quiet dinners after Suguru works so hard, the little talks as you catch glimpses of his life before he moved to this tiny town. A little vague and mysterious, he eventually shares more, so much more every day with you.
His wife that passed away, some of the pain he felt, a new love it was really snatched too soon. How hard it’s been alone with the girls, but how they have him wrapped around their fingers.
Yet you don’t realize one thing, because Suguru doesn’t show you yet.
You’ve got him under your spell, too.
Every time he grabs Boba for the girls, he grabs you one too, every time he gets some pretty little piece of jewelry they ask for, he makes sure to find something for you. Tiger’s eye, rose quartz, amethyst just like his eyes, wrapped in some expensive gold you know isn’t just casual.
Yet he doesn’t say it, not out loud, stopping himself every time he’d watch the girls hug you, so scared to ruin that for them.
Suguru’s not a perfect person, what if he messes up, what if you two end up done, and the girls suffer?
Yet how can he keep going on acting like he’s unbothered, like he doesn’t constantly think of you, intoxicated by your very presence, by the energy surrounding you just as much as he is your beauty, your humour, the determination as you pass by every day with your little herbs in your bag.
“Daddy, can we stay again for dinner!” Mimiko asks once things are complete almost in your kitchen – just a couple touch ups of paint to go.
“Well we don’t want to keep making-”
“Nonsense,” you bend down, hands on your knees as you get to eye level with the twins, smiling at each of them. “You all are welcome any time.”
Your eyes meet Suguru’s over the girls’ heads, smiling carefully, wondering if you should just stop trying. This isn’t some rom com, there’s no fix to your ‘curse’ truly, he may not have found a love yet, but he would.
You have to enjoy him while he’s here.
When Suguru eats with you all that night, he can hardly take his eyes off you, prompting Nanako to run up to you and whisper in your ear –
“That spell worked, dad is in love.” You laugh softly, entertaining her and whispering conspiratorily back.
“You and Mimiko are witches!"
She giggles with delight, and you feel his gaze, wondering just how long you have until he moves on, as the curse goes.
But that night as a kid keeps replaying in your head, picking those petals.
Amethyst eyes.
*****
“It’s all done,” Suguru says a couple of weeks later, nothing has happened since that night alone, when you two had been so close to kissing.
Was it the curse in action?
You panic a bit knowing he may not come over much anymore, plastering on a smile you don’t really feel. “It is all done! Suguru, how could I ever repay you, really? It’s all so beautiful…”
“No need to thank me, you’ve done so much for the girls,” he looks over to where they’re sleeping on your couch again, snuggled up all cute. “They love it here a little too much, huh?”
“I love them here too much,” you look up then, taking a breath for courage. “I love you all here too much.”
It’s quiet, then.
Suguru’s eyes lock on yours, wearing one of those thin little dresses and your big open sweater, he can see your nipples press up through that thin material, making him ache to suck them, to feel them. He’s barely able to keep his sanity, to keep his control anymore, so afraid to open up again…
That he may lose this chance, a chance at you.
“I’m so sorry,” you whisper, shaking your head and looking down at the sweet tea glass set on the table, condensation cooly dripping. The fan overhead does nothing to cool you down, neither does the sip of that golden iced tea, even if it’s cool outside – you’re burning up. “That’s too far.”
Suguru steps closer as you back a bit, into the kitchen, hidden in the darkness so that his shadow’s cast over yours along the wall. He cups your face carefully, like you’re special, like you’re so delicate, while his other hand grips a hip, his chest rising and falling with his nerves.
“I haven’t felt this in a long time… I haven’t ever felt this,” his words make you melt, your eyes blinking back tears while he gently speaks, his voice just a breathy whisper. “I want to break your ‘curse’ you think you have, okay?”
“The ‘never finding love’ curse?” He nods, smiling just a bit, you inhale his musky scent and let it fill your senses, his body heat seeping against yours.
Every breath, every movement, every look is special to him.
It’s you.
“But what if now that we… fall in love… you find your-”
Suguru kisses you quiet.
The first uninterrupted kiss from Suguru Geto was the sweetest thing you’ve ever had in your life.
It tastes of that sweet tea you’d brewed him, mixed with something distinctly Suguru. Like velvet against your tongue, your hands slipping up over his chest, slipping around his neck – fingers entwining in those silky locks. Your lips part, gasping as he slips his tongue in your mouth, slowly exploring the depths of it.
His kiss is slow and lazy, like he had all the time in the world with you, not something that shocked you though, no, everything about that first kiss felt perfect, the warmth spreading through your body slowly, burning through your veins. The ache in your tummy was sweet and building, like the sugar on his lips from the drink, still just a little cool.
His hand comes to press on the small of your back, tugging you closer as Suguru loses himself in that moment, in this kiss. He’s moaning softly, pressing you against that table now, long fingers cupping your face while his head tilts, and the kiss gets hungry. You’re desperately arching, craving friction as his thigh presses up between your swollen folds, making your clit twitch as you start dripping.
He moans out softly, lifting you so quickly you gasp out, biting down on your lower lip to try to keep your noise down. His lidded eyes gaze down at you, your swollen lips and dilated pupils meeting his. “Should we slow down?”
“God no, I mean!?” He laughs softly, his hands slipping up the sides of your thighs and dimpling the skin under his touch, lips pressing over and over as you roll your hips, thighs now on either side of his. “Mmm, don’t slow down.”
“I’m not gonna stop if we keep going,” he whispers hoarsely, a hand behind you on that table, the cool wood pressed against your skin. “Been wanting you for too long.”
“Me?”
“Yeah, you,” his lips press a hot trail down your neck, moaning softly against your neck, grinding you against his length underneath his jeans, watching your pretty eyes roll back. “Of course it’s you.”
Suguru’s kissing you again, sucking down your every bit of saliva like he’s thirsty for it, tongues dancing together with that deliberate slowness, his cock leaking and waiting to press up inside you, fill you. He’s aching to taste you everywhere, taste your sweet skin, your pretty cunt, the roundness of your breasts and those nipples pressing against his chest..
“This slutty little dress,” he murmurs then, shocking you for a moment at the change of tone. Your breath catches when he leans back, slipping the straps down your bare shoulders, the thin nylon flimsy as it falls. “You wear them to torture me, huh princess?”
“Princess,” you whisper softly, kissing him again when he lifts you in his arms like you’re nothing, walking you carefully towards your room, the door shutting behind you quietly, only for him to press you against it.
“Mhm…” He pulls back, holding you by your ass, your cunt dripping and needy. “Princess.”
“I’m more of a witch than a princess.”
Suguru chuckles and brushes your hair back ever so gently, leisurely, like he wants to savor every moment. Even as you arch and wriggle, craving his nearness, his touch, Suguru teases you with calloused fingers, rough from how he works with those hands across your skin. His fingers grip your hips, thumbs pressing your pelvis, your back against the door.
“A witch, hmm?” You giggle softly, looking up at him under your lashes, he lifts your dress up your hips now, slipping a finger inside your panties. “Well, little witch, you're just soaked."
“Mnh… you should know one thing about me,” you gasp as he laps his tongue against your neck, tracing the curve delicately. “Before we…”
“What is it?” You tremble as he presses you closer against him, carrying you over to your bed, unmade with so many pillows he has to shove them off, earning your soft breathy laugh. “Besides the fact you have a messy little room.”
“I didn’t know you’d be up here,” his lips trail across your collar bone, your hands entangle in his silky locks that are falling against your skin, caressing it while his fingers tug down your dress.
“Wearing the most easy little dresses to mess with me,” he slips it off in one motion, leaving you in just panties, exhaling when he sees your body. You should feel a little nervous but instead you’re arching for him, breasts begging for attention, as he studies you. “What do I need to know, hmm? Before I have you cumming so hard you fall apart for me?”
“Oh… mnh!” Suguru’s gripping those panties now, easing them down your trembling thighs, savoring every inch of your body with his darkened gaze. “Well… I may have made a love spell and… I think it was you.”
You expect him to laugh, but you’ve already woven so much magic in his life, he leans back, slipping off that soft sweater to show his body to you, those thick arms with bands tattooed around the biceps, flat brown nipples with those chest muscles pressing up. You suck in a breath when his gaze hits your cunt, watching it drip.
“You made a love spell, little witch?” He asks, stepping closer and undoing his belt, the clink echoing, opening it to reveal a hint of that dark patch of hair right above his cock. “What kind of spell?”
“I was young,” you sit up, a hand slipping down every rippling abdomen, hearing his soft moan in response as you trace every one, your hand tugging his zipper, looking up at him under his lashes. “Amethyst eyes. Dark hair. And a laugh, soft and deep. He’ll be loving and caring, want a family.”
Suguru halts then, his cock straining as you lower his boxers, he lets you watch it spring free, falling heavy and thick, leaking pretty pearly spurts. He sucks in a breath as you stroke him, leaning over and lapping some of it up with your tongue as he stands before you, hands entangling in your hair.
“A spell, I knew it,” he murmurs, while you wrap his tip with your lips and he tries not to bust then and there, moaning softly at the warmth of your mouth. “As addicted to you as I am.”
You pull back, saliva dripping down your lips now. “Addicted?”
His answer is pressing you down on that bed, hovering over you, big hands taking over every inch of your body. “You think I don’t notice every little thing you do? Hah…” he laughs softly, shaking his head, scooching you up your bed so that he can lay between your thighs, his body laying hot over you. “Show me a little spell then, let me see.”
“Yeah? You sure you won’t get spooked?” you raise a brow, he shakes his head. “I’m not the best witch but…”
You see flowers by your bed, the ones the girls had picked and brought over because he thought they were pretty. You lean up on your elbows, concentrating and moving your fingers, Suguru watches as you make them swirl up.
“Oh shit,” he watches in wonder, he’d had a feeling you were the one doing the leaves, but this just confirms it all, you let them fall gently, grinning over at him now. “You got impossibly sexier.”
You giggle but it’s cut off when he’s all over you, your bare cunt soaking his abdomen in need, making it slick. Suguru’s whispering your name mixed with – little witch – mouth trailing kisses down the valley between your breasts, mouth bolder, hands kneading the soft flesh of your tits. You arch and whimper out, just how good he feels, descending lower and lower.
Those raven tresses brush against your bare thighs, hand pressing on your tummy where there’s so much pressure, until he’s nestled his shoulders between your spread thighs, breath ghosting your clit. It jumps at attention when he parts your lips with two fingers, watching that drool just pool out of your little hole now.
“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he murmurs, your thighs are shaking, breaths coming in little pants while your hands clench his shoulders – nails pressing into his skin. “Look at you.”
“Sugu what are – ah!” He’s pressed a filthy kiss right on your hood, tongue dipping in a tease just to gather some of that slick, you’re gripping his shoulders so hard they leave marks, body trembling underneath him in need.
“I’m gonna taste your pretty cunt,” he murmurs, cooing almost and smirking as he strokes your folds with his two fingers, the backs of them brushing up and down your slit. “See how many times you cum, but…”
He puts your hand on your mouth, and you nod.
“Stay a little quiet for me this time, but as soon as I have you alone? You’ll scream so much you can’t even talk.”
Fuck.
You’re soaking wet and hot when his fingers tease up that slit again, making you jerk with the touch, your free hand grips his hair, hips arching up. “Yeah, you want it princess? My mouth?”
“Please…” You whisper then, gasping and covering your mouth once more when he makes his first filthy lick, from your drooling hole to your teeny little clit, groaning out at your taste.
“Fuck, sweeter than anything,” he’s sinking two fingers inside you, and he curls them just right, while his tongue flicks that clit, making stars explode behind your eyelids.
"Fuck," you whimper right back, barely able to keep it down, biting on your lower lip and looking at the amethyst eyes you’ve dreamed of, already pussy drunk off a couple sips of your messy cunt. “Ngh…”
“S’tight, f-fuck…” Suguru’s losing his calm, lazy demeanor, pumping your cunt up and down with so much pressure you can’t take it. “That’s it, you’re taking them so well, even though it’s such a stretch.”
“Mhm!” Your answer is a jerky little nod, as you writhe underneath him, body covered in a thin sheen of sweat while he sucks your clit in his hot mouth, juices just pouring down his pretty face.
“Too tight,” he whispers, your cunt gripping his fingers like a vise, he eases the strokes, flicking his tongue up and down your clit over and over, pushing you over the brink, you cling to the blankets to try to stay stable.
“It’s… been a while,” you admit breathlessly, arching into his touch, hearing the embarrassing squelching of your cunt just echoing in your quiet room, his eyes lock with yours then, his fingers curling as he speaks – methodical, knowing just where to press inside you.
“For me too,” he admits, you’re surprised then, lips opening and closing like you just don’t know what to say. “You’re worth waiting for, would fucking drown in it, die just like this.”
“Sugu…” He pauses at the nickname, the affection tearing at his chest before he dives back down, lifting your ass up and dragging you even higher as his mouth descends, sealing over your clit with ruthless suction – slurping sounds obscene.
You’re slamming a hand down on your mouth, back arching, your tits bouncing as he watches you under dark lashes, mouth ruining you right with his thick fingers. Your cunt spasms around them as you’re closer and closer, and he can simply feel it, you don’t have to say the words.
Suguru knows you’re cumming.
He pulls back for a quick breath with strings of saliva and your arousal dripping between your cunt and his swollen mouth, eyeing you fucking hungrily while his cock presses against your matress, just aching for release. Suguru works you relentlessly, knowing every part of you like he’s the magical one, and you’re barely able to keep in any way quiet.
Your hips shift and move side to side so much he pins them, your thighs on his shoulders while his tongue moves in broad, flat strokes up your slit and then quick flicks on your clit, mixing with a sharp little nip of his teeth that makes your eyes roll back in your skull. Your toes curl and press into the soft blankets as that tension tightens in your tummy, pushing you right over the edge.
“Cum,” he orders softly, and how can’t you, when he adds his fingers back inside you – three now with one just barely inside at the fingertip, thickness just stretching you obscenely right along with his tongue relentless on your clit.
Of course you cum, of course you shatter.
You have to cling to him with one hand – nails pressing in and leaving crescent moons on his skin, as those fingers fuck you right with his tongue’s rhythm, your eyes shut as the release rocks you, and Suguru drinks it all up, lapping every squirt of arousal gushing as you scream into your palm.
It’s so hot, like the room is suddenly a humid summer afternoon, with the sweat dripping as it rushes through your veins. He presses every bit of that orgasm out of you, greedy and smirking when he finally pulls back just a bit, watching you twitch and whine out, your cunt still shooting up his forearm with those spasms.
“One,” you gasp out.
“One!?”
“Need more, so much fuckin’ more,” your eyes roll back once more as his mouth is lapping at your now messy, sloppy cunt. "Look at me."
The order, soft and lazy like his previous kisses makes you snap your eyes open quickly. Hair damp with sweat clings just a bit in strands to your brow, as he watches the little mess he’s made you, dying to fuck into you.
But he wants that first stroke for you to cum right around him, to milk his cock – he can’t wait to put so much cum deep inside you.
“Wanna see those pretty eyes when they roll back f'me,” he’s back down, fingers scissoring now past the point of overstimulation while his tongue keeps flicking faster and faster. “Mmm…”
He can’t help but almost cum just from your sweetness, like your cunt is just as magical as all of you, heady and addictive. His fingers and tongue along your already sensitive and swollen clit is too much, you barely remember to hold back your cries as your back arches off the bed, and Suguru Geto is drinking your squirting release like a man dying of thirst.
He finally lets go of his suction, seeing the weak and boneless mess he’s made of you and relishing in it, kisses just a little softer and easier now, his soft laugh making you jerk. “Need something, little witch?”
“Inside me,” you gasp out then, he languidly kisses your inner thighs, teasing and ghosting his breath and relishing in how you react. “Please, f-fuck…”
“Needy witch,” he leans up finally, face embarrassingly coated in you, arms on either side while his fingers ease out with a messy pop. He puts those fingers to his mouth, not wasting a single drop of your perfect cunt, as you watch him, lips parted, cunt spurting out even more as you eye his pretty, thick cock again. “Need my cock inside, three fingers not enough?”
Your answer is to yank at him, tugging him up your body, and kissing him deep and messy, not the ease he takes kissing you – no.
You’re frantic, desperate, never having felt anything like the pleasure he’s just brought you, tasting yourself on his tongue as he drools right in your mouth and moans out. His cock is heavy and hot against your inner thigh, decorating your skin in pretty little patterns, spurts of white trailing down as your fingers slip down his body.
You grip his cock in your little hand, earning his choked out breath, moving them up and down as he moans, losing control at the feeling of your fist. He lets you position it against your slick cunt, rubbing it up and down that messy slit that just echoes with every movement.
“Want me to cum inside you, huh?” He asks, husky and deep, his eyes gone black and narrowed lazily, while his fingers are digging into the meat of your hips. “I won’t leave that perfect little cunt once I’m in there.”
“I want it,” you say – even as you’re blushing in the dark. “Fuck me Sugu, please.”
Your little plea ruins him.
He lines himself up, kissing you again slow and gently, as he presses that thick head against your soaked hole – even so wet and ready it’s tight and gripping him so good he almost busts inside. He curses quietly, just holding there, no amount of jerking his cock to you prepared him for this, for the way your cunt grips him with that tight ring of muscles.
“Fuck you’re perfect,” he says hoarsely, and pushes in slowly, stretching you wide and deeper than even his thick fingers could ever manage. Suguru is thick, and far bigger than you’ve had.
You cry into his mouth and try to take him, feeling that fullness from just an inch or two, pretty blushed tip just leaking and pressing on that spongy spot in your walls. “Ah!”
“Shh, relax f’me,” he orders, as your legs are locking around his hips, trembling. “Relax, princess.”
“Witch,” you tease, managaing to laugh ever so softly, when he pulls back and smirks.
“Be a good witch,” he taunts softly – then he fills you completely, inch by thick inch buried inside your cunt so deep. “And take all of me. Can you?”
You nod even as you’re completely unsure, your cunt milking him instantly for all he’s got, as he pulls back and lifts your hips up, moaning at the sight of your tummy just bulging with him. “Fuck,” he groans out at the sight. “Look at us.”
You do just that, heating up at the sight and gasping out, watching it move when his cock just drags along your inner walls, the ones that spasm as hips snap forward sharply.
“Mnhh!”
“That’s it,” he murmurs as he bottoms out, grinding his hips so that he’s leaned back over you, hairs tickling and pressing your twitchy, oversensitive clit. You try to breathe, to take him, nails sinking into his well muscled back and scratching. “Can you take me really fucking you?”
“I can… I can…” He teases more, just rolling his hips, letting you adjust to his sheer massive size, smirking a bit as you wriggle – finally gasping out – “Move, please. W-want you to.”
“Anything for my pretty witch,” he whispers, as he pulls out slowly, dragging himself against your spot, making you whine at the loss before slamming back in hard. “Feel you takin’ me, s’good….”
“Ngh!” Your pornographic moan rips from your throat when he lifts your thighs, his dark hair falling across your breasts, eyes locking.
You take his breath away.
He takes your breath away.
There’s this moment, this perfect moment where your eyes meet, and everything that’s ever not made sense does.
His hands press up your thighs, leaning over you and giving you the sweetest kiss, as if he realizes it to.
Then…
“Gonna fuckin’ ruin you, princess, gonna be my little witch,” his words barely make it to your ringing ears when he begins to really move.
Suguru Geto is no longer lazy and teasing - no he’s fucking into you at a brutal pace, thrusts fast and hard and just filthy as you’re so wet it’s mesys, it’s damn near embarassing. Sliding in easier and easier with each push, balls slapping on your ass harder and harder, the smacking and squelching sounds mixing with your muffled little cries, his lips swallowing them as he folds you in half.
You’re whining out desperately into his lips, already close to shattering again underneath him, when he moans your name and pauses, biting your neck and letting your thighs fall to the side. “Turn over.”
You’re eager to obey, turning around and pressing your ass up in the air for him, pretty cunt already pushing out his milky cum, earning his desperate moan as he runs his fingers up and down your slit.
“That’s it, been fuckin’ dreamin’ about you,” Suguru says, all needy now as he grabs your hips, bringing your ass against him. “Use that pillow, you’re gonna need it like this.”
You take his hand and he obeys, shoving you into those pillows and beginning to fuck you from the back – so deep it’s painful, your cries muffled against the bed while his cock works, slamming inside of you and bruising your cervix. His leaky tip is just pouring spurts onto your cervix as he leans over you, prone position.
“Need to see your face,” he murmurs, studying you with his thumb slipped inside your mouth to keep you hushed. “Pretty little witch, gonna take all this cum?”
“Y-yes, yes - ngh!” He slams his mouth on yours to drink your cries, your orgasm wrecking you, blackness making you dizzy as he starts stuttering his hips, murmuring your name over and over.
“Take all of it, hah - can you?”
You’re nodding, biting down on his fist he offers as he slams into you one last time, burying himself against your snug cervix, hot white ropes just flooding you, hot and thick. You clench around him in response, pushing your own pleasure over the edge, both of you falling off it.
“S-Sugu…” You’re trembling, your cunt still milking every drop, you’re breathless, dizzy, when he collapses on top of you, still buried deep inside, his breath tickling your neck in hot little pants.
“Fuck…” He’s kissing across your shoulder, teeth nipping teasingly, hands roaming your body greedy, like he wants to remember every moment. “Good girl.”
You giggle and blush, as you both pant against each other’s skin. His lips find yours again in a slow, lazy kiss, tasting of sweat and sex.
“I mean good witch,” he murmurs against your mouth, he tugs you to him on your side now. Studying you as you both come down. “I actually believe you now.”
“I told you, but I'm like… diet witch? Witch lite?” He chuckles and shakes his head, your hand rests over his chest, feeling his heart beat beneath your palm. He's still embarrassingly sliding out of your hole slowly, dripping onto his thigh.
“I want to break your curse,” Suguru Geto says lovingly, holding you close against him while his hands move soothingly up and down your back. You look up at him, tremulously smiling, tears swimming and making your vision blur.
“You do?” You ask, leaning up to kiss that cleft on his chin, your own hands pressed on his chest.
“I do, your little spell more than worked,” you giggle, feeling blissful in his arms, sticky hot cum dripping down your thighs, you’re languid as he pulls you so close, feeling so safe and right with him. “Got me bad, too.”
“Mimiko and Nanako helped,” you admit, giggling again. “They did another spell for us.”
“I’m raising witches?” His brow rises and he observes your grin. “So I’ll have a family full of witches then?”
“Call it a coven,” you whisper, kissing his hand and taking it, pressing it against your chest. “You’ve already got a witch's heart.”
“Three witches with me wrapped around their fingers,” you’re crying then, he swipes a tear with his fingertips, studying you and sighing now. “I didn’t think I’d ever find…” He trails off.
“Love.” You finish, carefully, quietly.
He nods, swallowing nervously now, before pressing you on your back, hand sliding up the curvature of your frame achingly slow. You’re sore and throbbing from him, as he brushes your cunt again, feeling your cunt twitch around him and smirking now.
“I do love you, little witch,” he whispers against your ear, lips tickling the shell of it. “Fallen in love from your spell.”
“Well I summoned you,” he laughs softly, shaking his head. “I did!”
“I kind of believe you…” He leans up and tilts your chin with two fingers, tears slip from the corners of your eyes.
“I love you, Suguru Geto. I want you and them to stay… for as long as you ever want to.”
“Oh my pretty witch,” he leans up and presses against you again, cock coated in your entrance, it spasms – already fucked out and sore, but needy for more. “I’m never letting you go.”
As he enters you achingly slow, and you lose yourself under his heavy weight, you realize that curse wasn’t a curse at all.
You were just meant to wait for him –
for the boy with amethyst eyes.
I hope you all enjoyed thisss !!
Patreon here for extra fics <3 - commissions info here
WARNINGS: NSFW / Explicit Sexual Content, Masturbation (multiple POVs), Objectification, Scent kink undertones, Delusional Thinking, Obsession, Stalking tendencies, perversion, Public indecency, Crude language and sexual metaphors, Humor with dark or unhinged sexual tones
Squirt count - 6k squirts
“Fucking bitch wrote all over my essay,” Sukuna growled, stomping into the quad like he was ready to commit a crime.
From under the shade of the tree, Geto snorted loud enough to scare a nearby pigeon. Gojo lazily lifted his sunglasses, while Choso blinked up from his sketchpad, unbothered.
Toji didn’t even flinch—he was practically part of the earth, arms crossed behind his head, one leg propped lazily over the other, chewing gum like he had no plans to move ever again.
“Who pissed in your existentialism this morning?” Gojo called out, a grin already tugging at his lips.
Sukuna dropped his bag directly on Toji’s stomach, earning a choked cough and a middle finger. “The fuck is wrong with you?!”
“She is!” Sukuna snapped, yanking a crumpled essay from his folder like it personally offended him. “‘This does not apply to the bundle theory’—what the fuck is a bundle theory?! I wrote three paragraphs on Descartes and now it’s just red ink and attitude!”
Gojo burst out laughing so hard he nearly knocked over his iced coffee. “Isn’t the bundle theory that thing where like…objects are just a bunch of traits stuck together?”
“Bro,” Geto muttered, “that’s literally a chicken nugget.”
Choso looked up from his sketchbook, blinking slowly. “I thought bundle theory was a phone plan.”
“Exactly!” Sukuna waved the paper around like it personally betrayed him. “She writes like I’m supposed to know this shit already. She wrote, and I quote, ‘Your argument is too personal and emotional which lacks analytical depth.’ I almost set fire to the English department.”
“Sounds like someone got schooled by the campus cryptid,” Geto drawled, twisting a cherry lollipop in his mouth. “Remind me—what’s her name again? The one who only appears at twilight and grades in riddles?”
“Toji’s dream girl,” Gojo added with a grin.
“Oh fuck off,” Toji grunted from the ground. “My dream girl doesn’t correct my grammar in green pen.”
Sukuna raked a hand through his hair and flopped down beside them like a man defeated. “She acts like a librarian possessed by Nietzsche. Literally told me ‘you can’t quote Nietzsche if you spell it Neechee.’ Bitch.”
“Keep bitchin’ like that and you’re gonna end up writing her love letters,” Suguru smirked.
“Please,” Gojo groaned, draping an arm dramatically over his face. “She tutors me for Lit, and she’s so mean it gives me PTSD. I told her I liked The Great Gatsby and she asked me to define ‘symbolism’ with a straight face.”
“She made me rewrite my thesis because I used the word ‘vibes,’” Choso muttered, shading in an eye with surprising aggression. “I was being creative and she said it was AI.”
“She called me a ‘walking red flag’ and said my critical thinking skills were ‘nonexistent,’” Sukuna sneered.
Gojo cracked open one eye. “...And you’re obsessed with her now, huh?”
“Eat shit.”
“You are!” Geto sat up, pointing. “Oh my god. He’s got it bad. You hate her guts, she edits the soul out of your essay, and now you can’t stop thinking about rearranging her guts!”
“Yeah?” Sukuna snapped. “Why don’t you go try seducing her then, huh? See how far you get before she corrects your pronunciation of cunninglingus.”
A moment of silence passed.
Then Toji let out a low whistle. “Bet I could hit.”
Everyone paused.
Gojo blinked. “You what?”
“I said what I said,” Toji shrugged, not even looking at them. “I bet I could pull her.”
“Oh, now that’s rich,” Suguru grinned, fully invested. “You think she’d fall for you after she literally called you ‘a slab of meat with daddy issues’?”
“That’s not a no,” Toji replied smugly.
“Oh my god,” Gojo laughed, slapping his knee. “Alright, alright—bet. First one to sleep with the pretty little nerd wins $100 from each of us.”
“You’re all degenerates,” Choso said without looking up.
“And you’re in,” Geto smirked.
Choso sighed. “…Yeah, okay.”
Sukuna rolled his eyes, but his jaw tightened ever so slightly. “Y’all are dreaming. She hates us. All of us.”
“To be fair,” Gojo said, “we are annoying.”
“That’s what makes it fun,” Suguru grinned. “May the worst man win.”
Sukuna just sat there, arms crossed, eyes on the red pen scars on his essay.
He wasn’t going to lose to them.
Especially not to Toji. Broke ass.
And that’s where it all started.
You’d always assumed college would be a slideshow of bad coffee, half-hearted hookups, and the slow rot of your motivation.
But lately, it was the staring that got to you.
Every time you walked into Fine Arts West, you felt eyes on you—too intense, too focused. The kind that were unblinking, obsessive, hungry—like a pack of over-educated zoo animals who’d just been told your bones were made of cocaine and artisan pastries.
Case in point: Gojo.
Gojo had insisted you tutor him thrice a week now. He even went so far as to beg you to leave your stationery and notes at his house, citing efficiency, proximity, and something about “aesthetic motivation.”
(You did not. You left behind a single dying pen out of pity—and perhaps, to keep the peace.)
Then there was Geto. A mystery in every sense, given that he wasn’t even in any of your classes. You only ever saw him orbiting around Gojo like a handsome, slow-moving planet.
Still, the moment you accepted his follow request on social media, your notifications burst into song. Like. Like. Like. It was as if he’d taken it upon himself to curate your entire feed with little hearts. A connoisseur of selfies, apparently.
Choso remained, as ever, a quiet constant—albeit with a small behavioral shift. You began to notice that whenever he became stressed during your tutoring (which was often), he’d start tugging absentmindedly at his long hair like a Victorian governess on the verge of tears.
Concerned for both his mental well-being and his hairline, you offered him your spare hair tie. He accepted it solemnly, as though you’d knighted him, and has worn it on his wrist ever since. You've since realized it may as well have been a promise ring.
Sukuna—oh, Sukuna—was the worst offender of them all. One might argue he initiated the madness. One thundery afternoon, after forcing you to stay late and assist him in deconstructing what could only be described as a manifesto masquerading as an essay, he casually offered you a ride home.
You accepted, mostly because you feared the wrath of pneumonia from the frigid rain. He made it seem as if he were doing you a favor, despite the fact that you saved him from submitting something that began with “According to me—”
And don’t even get started on Toji.
Toji, who had no business being near your classroom, let alone loitering outside it. And yet, there he was, leaning against the wall like a delinquent in juvie. The moment you stepped out, he snatched your bag like it was a sacred artifact and took off running. You, in all your academic dignity, were forced to chase him—around the campus.
By the time Sukuna tackled him to the ground (grumbling something about “fucking idiot” and “give it back, jackass”), you were dripping in sweat and the very picture of academic ruin. Toji, grinning from the pavement, had the audacity to offer you a towel. As if that somehow made up for the cardio.
Sweet, right?
Absolutely not.
Because unbeknownst to you, they had been jacking off to every single essence of you.
You didn’t ask to haunt these men, but here you were: worming your way into the darkest recesses of their brains, gnawing through all logic until only the rotten core of need remained.
Maybe you should have felt bad. Maybe you should have stopped doing such horribly slutty things such as: lending a pen, wearing deodorant, tying up your hair, existing on Instagram, or sweating in someone’s car. But you didn’t, because the universe is cruel and so are you.
If only you knew the monster you’d unleashed in each of them.
Gojo was the first to spiral.
Your mistake was agreeing to tutor Gojo one-on-one.
Gojo’s apartment was exactly what you’d expect from a rich kid pretending to be broke: Scandinavian furniture, meme décor, and lighting that made everyone look like a vampire in a porno.
The centerpiece? A massive oil painting of shirtless Gojo, painted in what could only be called Terry Crews from White Chicks. Suspiciously dust-free too.
He opened the door in a silk robe patterned with naked cherubs, sunglasses still on. “Hey, genius. Come in. Don’t make yourself at home—I like to keep the place unsullied by normalcy.”
“You know I’m not your TA, right?” you said, sidestepping a kitchen island stacked with protein pancake boxes.
“Yeah, but you’re the only one on campus who gets irony. Also, you never bore me. Also also—” He cut himself off, stared at you for three whole seconds. “Nevermind. You're so distracting.”
You barely opened your laptop before he was leaning over your shoulder. “You smell good,” he said, like that was relevant.
“So. You wanted help with—”
“I wanted help with so much more,” he replied gravely, sliding into the seat next to you until your knees knocked. “But mostly? Quiz me.”
“You know this one,” you said. “We literally covered it in class.”
“Humor me. You explaining things is hot.” He snatched a highlighter, his fingers grazing your wrist with an obviousness that might as well have been a handjob in a crowded subway.
You glared, weakly.
An hour in, it hit you: he’d been getting every answer right before deliberately screwing it up.
“You’re not failing,” you accused. “You just want attention.”
Hand to his chest, wounded. “That hurts. I was hoping you’d tutor me out of the goodness of your overflowing heart. Or at least pity for my tragic, lonely handsomeness.”
“Tragic, lonely handsomeness only counts if you shut up for more than thirty seconds.”
He grinned, leaned in until your foreheads almost touched. He smelled like aftershave, sugar cereal, and something sharp, electric. For a second, you thought he might actually kiss you.
Instead, he looked at your pen, then at you, then at your pen again. "You’re using a Pilot G-2," he murmured, as if it was a sin or a secret.
"I like them," you said, instantly defensive.
"Leave it here," he said, soft and grave, like it was his dying wish. "I want to remember you every time I write an answer so wrong that it makes God cry."
He took the pen and cradled it in his palm, caressing it with his thumb. "It’s warm," he said, then locked eyes with you. "Because it was just in your hand." He bit his lip—fully, unironically, like a high school musical parody of a boy in love.
"You’re so weird," you said.
"You into it?" He shot back, and for once, his tone was sober, almost hopeful.
You gathered your things, sensing this would be your only exit window. "Do you need any actual help?"
"Just the pen," he said, and then, as you walked out, "Wait. Y/N."
You turned. Gojo stood there in the robe, clutching your G-2, and for a flash, you saw a hint of panic under the swagger.
"Don’t forget your phone," he said, and handed it to you like it was a rare gem, his fingers deliberately brushing yours.
Outside, the evening was cold and disorienting. For the rest of the walk home, you had the ghost sensation of Gojo’s eyes, fingers, and very probably other body parts, fixed firmly on you.
By the time you checked your phone, he’d already sent you seven texts. All of them were photos of your pen, artistically staged around his apartment: on a pile of manga, tucked into a cereal bowl, wedged between his bare toes.
The last one said, “I miss you already.”
You did not reply.
And you did NOT want that pen back.
Back at home, Gojo went to town on your pen.
He waited until you left before tiptoeing to his room, cradling the bent Pilot G2 you’d once chewed to death in class. It was obscene how you treated stationery, like every pen was a substitute for something else in your mouth.
He gripped it between his fingers, flicking the clicker with the same rhythm he imagined your tongue would use, all the while muttering variations of your name like a prayer or a curse.
He propped your notebook open (that you left... Or maybe he stole it), admiring the violence of your cursive and the way you looped your y’s: little nooses.
He was already halfway hard, but Gojo didn’t jerk off like a normal person; it was all performance art. He set the scene: lights down, sunglasses on, a jazz playlist that made it feel illegal.
The pen went into his mouth—he tried to get the same bite marks you’d left. It tasted like ink and forbidden knowledge. By the time he actually touched himself, he was already moaning your name into the pillow, eyes rolled back so far he swore he could see into the future.
You featured heavily. Maybe it was you straddling his lap in the library, reading dirty limericks off your phone while crushing him in place.
Maybe you were a schoolteacher, rapping his knuckles and threatening “detention” if he came too fast. The scenarios grew more deranged by the second.
But in every single one, you wielded a pen like a weapon, using it to scrawl the dirtiest phrases imaginable along his trembling cock.
When he came, it was embarrassingly loud, and he caught himself painting a quick “I heart Y/N” on his thigh in the aftermath.
Geto was no better.
If Gojo was a firework, Geto was a gas leak: colorless, odorless, but the damage lingered for weeks. He’d tell himself he was too mature for this nonsense.
He’d pour a drink and read articles about “emotional detachment” and “parasocial relationships.” But then your latest Instagram post would drop—a mirror selfie, captioned with something mindless like “#wokeuplikethis”—and the entire philosophical argument crumbled.
He truly felt like a victorian man seeing ankles for the first time. He swore he was a respectable man—until your Instagram stories turned into softcore porn.
He’d double-tap so hard he left a dent in the screen, then click through the photo set in a trance.
It started innocently enough: a mirror selfie, your book covering your face, but your tits—God, your tits—subtly pressed between your arms.
Then came the backless dress. You, arms raised toward the golden sky, back glistening under sunlight. It wasn’t even raunchy—it was elegant—but it had Geto palming himself with the desperation of a man possessed.
The way the light kissed your shoulder blades? The gentle curve of your spine? The tease of skin? He was panting into his fist before he even realized.
And then the bikini shot dropped.
A bikini photo that made his hands tremble and his soul leave his body. The way you cocked your hip and smiled, self-aware and dangerous, was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen. Geto would spend a few minutes trying to convince himself that he wasn’t going to jerk off to it, that he was above this sort of base-level reaction.
He always lost that battle. Sometimes it took two minutes. Sometimes it took six shots of whiskey and a full hour of prelude: scrolling your feed, analyzing old comments for hints of interest, decoding every emoji like it was Morse code for “please break me in half.”
He liked to tease himself, to edge until his whole body was one nerve ending. But he didn’t even make it to the second slide. Just one look at the way the fabric clung to your hips and Geto was bent over his bed, rutting into the mattress, breathless.
When he finally gave in, it was a humiliating flood. He’d come with his fist wrapped around the phone, then stare in horror at the mess on his own bed, muttering “pathetic” under his breath even as he scrolled up for one more look.
Geto fancied himself immune to modern lust. But all it took was a notification on his phone—a stupid little ping—to bring him crawling back to base humanity.
It was, of course, you.
Geto tossed his phone aside, flopped back on his bed, and tried to will himself into calm. He made it maybe a minute before the first intrusive thought hit: you, bare-legged, lounging on his sheets, asking him to take photos "for a new post," all faux-casual before turning it up to eleven and demanding he get you wet for real.
The scenario played out like a fever dream. In his mind, you posed, twisted, taunted. When you looked at him, you never smiled—not a real one—but your gaze bored into him, flayed him with the promise of ruin.
You’d order him to direct, but then ignore his instructions, flipping the script and mounting him, pinning his wrists while you balanced your phone above and snapped photos of him coming apart beneath you.
He was hard, fully and violently, without having touched himself. His jeans were suffocating. He undid the fly and palmed himself, the first groan slipping out before he could even try to bite it back.
He checked the time—ten minutes before his next class. No time to be thoughtful, just enough for the most desperate, hungry wank of his life.
Geto propped the phone up on his knee, eyes glued to your photos as he jerked off again. He scrolled with his free hand, jumping from mirror selfie to backless dress to bikini, each image seared into his retinas, his mind layering them with more and more obscene variations.
You straddling his face, grinding down until he choked. You whispering a command into his ear—“Don’t cum unless I say so”—and then ghosting him, leaving him to leak and whimper and edge for hours.
He moaned your name into his pillow, hoping the soundproofing was as good as the dorm brochure claimed. The fantasy careened out of control: you recording a private video, sending it to him with a "for your eyes only" note, then forcing him to reenact every moment while you watched from the foot of the bed, cold and brilliant, loving every second of his humiliation.
He came faster than he wanted, a shameful, full-body seizure that left him arching off the mattress and clutching the phone like it might float away.
The orgasm lingered, hollow and sweet, as he stared at the screen in a daze, your final selfie grinning down like the Mona Lisa of perverts.
He lay there, sticky and panting, for a long, long time.
Eventually he cleaned up, but not before saving the whole set to a private folder. He even liked the post, just to see your name pop up in his own notifications. He nearly commented, but thought better of it. Next time, he promised himself. Next time he’d be braver.
Because there would always be a next time.
Choso was doing no better.
It wasn’t even intentional.
He kept his obsessions small and sacred, like religious relics. He found a single strand of your hair caught in the hair tie you offered him that one study session.
At first, he tried to ignore it. But then he started carrying it everywhere: tucked behind his ear, slipped inside his sketchbook, even pressed against his lips when no one was watching.
He couldn’t throw it away. He couldn’t even think about throwing it away. The more he fixated, the more perverse it became.
He’d sneak off to the bathroom, tie the hair around his finger, and stroke himself while picturing you kneeling in front of him, your hair trailing over his thighs as you looked up at him with those dark, glassy eyes. The idea of you noticing him at all—of you wanting to touch him, to ruin him—sent him over the edge every single time.
Sometimes he’d wrap the hair around his cock and get off in ten seconds flat, only to collapse in a post-orgasmic spiral of shame and longing.
He told himself it was a one-time thing, but he knew he was lying. The hair lived on, passed between new hiding places as the days went by. It became his most treasured possession, second only to the memory of your smile.
And the hair tie itself? It smelled like you.
Choso spent the whole day debating whether to touch it.
It sat in his jacket pocket, a soft coil of faded brown, already saturated with your scent. He found it that morning, abandoned on a common room table, forgotten like a molted snake skin.
He’d meant to return it—to leave it somewhere you’d find it, maybe even slip it into your backpack in a moment of social competence—but by midday, he’d failed, and by sundown, he knew he never would.
He thumbed the elastic absently, running it over his lips, his cheek, the sensitive edge of his ear. Each pass released a hit of your shampoo, plus the mineral-salty funk of your scalp from that brutal group run.
It was intimate in a way nothing else was. More than a photo, more than a shared secret. This was physical proof you existed, and for the briefest moment, you’d belonged to him.
By midnight, he’d stopped pretending. He stripped down to boxers, climbed into bed, and cradled the hair tie like a rosary. If anyone could see him, he would die. But no one could, so he pressed it to his nose and inhaled, long and slow, until the ache in his chest migrated lower.
And the scent—fuck, the scent—was intoxicating. It clung to his skin, settled in his bloodstream like an aphrodisiac. It was floral, warm, slightly musky—like sin basking under a sunset.
He pressed the band to his nose. Once. Twice. Then again. His eyes fluttered shut, body slouched on the couch, pants shoved down. His cock was rock solid, flushed dark and twitching with need.
Precum dribbled steadily from the tip with each inhale. He wrapped the band around his shaft, hissing at how tight it squeezed, how real it felt.
It was like you were there—your breath ghosting down his chest, your lips dragging lower, your head bobbing between his thighs. He fucked into his own fist like it was your throat.
He closed his eyes, let the fantasy bloom. You’d come to his room to ask for it back. He’d offer it—polite, nervous—but you’d see the desperation in his face.
Instead of taking it, you’d crawl onto his lap, straddle him, pin his wrists to the comforter. You’d yank your hair free and demand he brush it out, tugging it over his face, smothering him in warmth and sweetness until he was hard and dizzy and incapable of speech.
He shuddered, hips jerking up against nothing. He wrapped the elastic around his palm, flexing his fingers so it bit into his skin, a perfect reminder of your control.
In his mind, you’d notice the effect you had on him. You’d laugh—not cruel, but knowing—then slide down his body, dragging hair and heat and your whole terrifying presence over every inch of him.
The scenario rewrote itself: you wrapped the tie around the base of his cock, yanking it tight, using it to guide him into your mouth. He moaned into his pillow, bit his forearm to keep from making noise.
It was too much, too soon, but he couldn’t stop. He stroked himself in rough, desperate bursts, every pass pushing the scent deeper into his skin.
The rubbery pull of the hair tie was just enough pain to keep him present, but the real torment was knowing you’d never, ever see how wrecked he was for you.
His hips stuttered. He grunted, barely catching himself before a full-out sob. He imagined you watching, unimpressed, tapping your foot and threatening to take back the hair tie if he couldn’t finish like a grown-up. The shame made it so much hotter.
He spilled over his fist, white and hot and endless, painting his stomach and the hair tie and the bedsheet with proof of his devotion.
And the hair tie was still wrapped around his base.
He wouldn’t take it off.
He knew he wouldn’t. But in the morning, he’d wash the tie, dry it in the sun, and start all over again.
Sukuna was a freak.
He lived in a world of skin and sweat, and nothing got him going faster than evidence of you invading his territory. You’d left a sweat print on the passenger seat of his car after chasing Toji down.
He’d noticed it as soon as you left: a perfect crescent of dampness, the ghost of your ass imprinted into the faux leather.
He didn’t mean to notice it. But he did.
And then he leaned in. Just a little. Just to confirm.
And suddenly, he was face down in his car, hard as a rock, sniffing around like a pervert in heat. Your scent hit him like a truck—salt, sweetness, you.
The heady ghost of your deodorant hung in the air, clinging to the seatback like a dare. He pressed his face to it, inhaled so hard his eyes watered. Under the chemical top note, it was you: sharp, slightly sour, rich with evidence of your existence.
It made him dizzy.
He was hard in seconds, the kind of hard that didn’t care about consequences or common sense. He unzipped, palmed himself, already leaking from the thought alone.
In his mind’s eye, you were sprawled on the backseat, shorts shoved down, slick with sweat and arousal, egging him on with every hissed insult and moan.
A sniff. A moan. A sloppy, desperate stroke. And then he was licking the seat like it owed him something, groaning like a man possessed.
He jerked himself with one hand, nose still mashed to the seat, rocking the entire car with every violent pump. It was fast, dirty, and shameless. Exactly the way he liked it.
He imagined you riding him, grabbing the seatback for leverage, soaking both of you in a haze of sex and heat. He’d mark the leather with you forever if he could.
When he finally came—thick, hot, and embarrassingly fast—he had to brace a hand against the dashboard to keep from collapsing. Later that night, he texted Toji:
keep making her run. trust me.
Then, for the sheer thrill of it, he leaned back, cradled the headrest, and fantasized about the day he’d press you into this very seat and make you scream for real.
And remember that towel Toji offered you?
That towel—the one he oh-so-helpfully offered after he made you run laps like a goddamn P.E. teacher—was now pressed firmly against Toji's face. He’d waited until he got home, locked his bedroom door, then flopped onto his mattress like a man on a mission.
The moment he got a whiff of your sweat, his hips bucked. His cock throbbed against his palm, and his mind spiraled into sin.
What if you were on top of him? Panting. Soaked. Grinding against his tongue.
He tried not to think about the way your legs looked, wrapped around his waist and kicking like you actually thought you could escape. He failed.
Toji’s favorite mental movie was the imagination of your thighs squeezing his ribs, the heat of your body soaking through both your shorts. He could almost hear your breath in his ear, angry and desperate, begging him to let go.
He never would. Not in fantasy, not in real life.
His hips started moving on their own, rutting against his bed, towel, mattress, anything. He was too stubborn to touch himself directly—he liked the challenge, the power play of getting off hands-free, like he was showing off for an invisible audience.
In his head, you took control. You sat on his face and dared him to breathe. You rubbed your whole self over his mouth until he was drunk on you, desperate for every drop. He could feel your hands in his hair, the scrape of your nails down his chest, the sound of your voice as you told him to fucking take it.
He stuffed the towel between his face and the mattress, braced himself with one hand against the headboard, and humped the bed so hard he thought he might break it.
It didn’t take long. When he came, he didn’t make a sound; he just bit down on the towel and ground his hips into the sheets, leaving a mark he’d have to explain to the laundromat lady later.
“Fuck—fuck,” he growled, stroking himself so fast it was like he was trying to win a race. The towel was balled up over his nose, your scent overwhelming every sense.
Then his phone dinged.
A text from Sukuna. keep making her run. trust me.
Toji chuckled darkly, his abs tightening. He swore he was going to text Sukuna back. One of his hands swiping across the screen to reply while the other held onto the towel above his nose.
And then he was hit with a thought.
Just the idea of you running from him, breathless and flushed, had him cumming untouched—thighs tensed, cock spurting buckets of cum across his chest, the towel still clutched in his fist like a trophy.
May God bless their souls, they truly have no idea what they’re getting themselves into.
there was a list of things your boyfriend hated; the first thing being cursed spirits. everytime he’s assigned a mission to take down a cursed spirit or object, he believes it takes away time from being with you.
the second thing being his annoying best friend suguru geto. he’s always calling him during the most inconvenient times. during meetings or even while he’s busy fucking your brains out.
but there was one thing your boyfriend hated the most.
and that was when you would look away from him during sex.
satoru was the type of guy to manhandle you, your back against his broad chest while he wraps his big arms around your small waist, aggressively pounding into you. and even though he’s the one who put you in this position, he would still get upset that you’re not looking at him.
“yeahh— take this fat dick. you’re such a dirty girl.”
he would forcefully grab your chin to face him while purposely arching your back so he could hit that spot. “mama? why are you looking away?”
you were definitely looking straight at him now. teary eyed with glossy lips and drool slicking down not just from your pussy but also from your mouth, you were unable to form any sort of sentence or word. “cause’ i can’t take— fuuckk satoru”
“can’t take this dick? this faatt fucking dick in that tight pussy? it’s okay baby i got you. satoru’s got you. just keep looking at me with those pretty eyes.”
You’ve been in Tokyo for thirty days and every lecture, every delayed bus, every awkward coffee run has been a tiny war of glances with Satoru Gojo. He’s the nerd in your business class. Shy, always with headphones, the kind of guy who looks like chaos in a sweater. You told yourself you were here to study, to build something real, not get wrecked by a white-haired boy with way too many conspiratorial smiles.
But tonight, the campus is empty, your bag heavy with notes, and the building’s fluorescent lights are humming like they can’t believe this is happening either. You duck into the janitor’s closet to tie your shoe and find him already there, leaning against the mop bucket like he planned the whole thing. Glasses down his nose, hair messy and white, sweatshirt just-the-right amount oversized. He looks… dangerously domestic. You should walk out. You don’t.
He watches you the way someone watches a storm about to break — with hunger and a little bit of math. “You okay?” he asks, voice smaller than his grin.
You smile like an idiot and lie. “Fine.”
“Bullshit.” He steps forward; the door clicks closed behind you like the world just locked you in. One of his big hands slides to the small of your back and presses you against the cold cinderblock. Your heart is doing that stupid drum roll again.
You press your palms into the soft cotton of his sweatshirt and scrunch it between your fingers, trying to keep your knees from folding. He makes a sound — low, amused. “You’ve been staring at me for a month and still act like you don’t know what you want.”
“Shut up,” you breathe. Your voice betrays you; it comes out wet, because yes, you know exactly what you want.
His glasses sit crooked now, and his eyes….God, those pale, mean eyes — shine hungry. He hooks two fingers under your chin and tilts your face until you have no choice but to meet him. “You wanted this,” he says slow, like a dare. “You wanted me to fuck you. All that staring? It wasn’t for my homework, love.”
You swallow. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I wanted you.”
A grin, sharp and bright, splits his face. “Good. Because I’ve been wanting you. For thirty days. For every lecture you doodled my name in the margins. For every time you pretended not to hear the way my laugh sounds when you walk in late.”
Then he moves. His hands cup your ass exactly the way someone who’s thought about this a lot would cup your ass. Firm. Devouring. Baggy jeans dip low around his calves — and holy God, the sight of him half-dressed, sweatpant strings loose, headphones still looped around his neck like a remnant of his old life, makes your knees go weak.
“You wanna be nerdy, or you want to be savage tonight?” he murmurs, thumbs tracing just below the hem of your skirt. You don’t answer with words. You bunch his sweatshirt harder, wanting more to hold onto something real than to be swallowed by the heat in your veins.
He bites. Not his lip, but the side of your neck, sharp and hot, and you gasp. He licks the sting, slow and possessive, tasting the salt you didn’t know was there. “God, you’re soft where I like you”.
You laugh, a broken sound, hands clawing at his shoulders. “Stop saying—stop saying things that make me melt.”
He hums against your throat. “Don’t tell me you didn’t want me to say them.” His fingers find your zipper and slide it down with sticky, impatient expert motions. “You wanted me. Say it.”
“I want you,” you pant. “Satoru—please.”
“Please?” He grins and the grin is all teeth. “Please what, babe? Tell me how bad you want it.”
“You—fuck—want me to take you, yeah?” The words tumble out, breathless. You feel ridiculous and electric all at once.
He laughs, and the sound is half-promise, half-warning. He pushes you back to the metal shelf and lowers himself, one leg braced between yours. His hand slides up the inside of your thigh with a confidence that’s almost obscene. The weight of him — warm, solid — anchors you, and the world narrows to the press of his mouth near your collarbone and the tug of his jeans.
He kisses you like he’s been imagining this exact motion in a thousand small, private moments: deep, claiming, with a little bit of rough around the edges. Then he whispers, breath hot and close, “You wanted me to take you like this. Admit it.”
“God, yes,” you moan, fingers tangling in the soft cotton, breath hitching when he nudges his hips, pushes forward. He slides inside you with slow, deliberate pressure first — long enough to make you ache — then pulls almost all the way out, thumb rubbing your clit until your knees quiver.
“Damn,” he says, voice raw. “You’re made for me.”
You hate how true that sounds. Your legs wrap around his hips, desperate for more of him. He chuckles against your mouth and his hand goes to the back of your head, thumb brushing the place where your neck meets shoulder. “You wanna pull my headphones off and never let me listen to music again?” he murmurs, teeth grazing your ear.
You rip them off his neck in one frantic motion and toss them to the floor like a sacrament. “Yes,” you gasp. “Take me, Satoru. Don’t stop.”
He obliges. The janitor’s closet is small, the air sticky with cleaning solution and the scent of him. It becomes an altar. He fucks you with a steady, forceful rhythm that’s equal parts careful and wild, leaning between being tender and being cruel. Your breath shortens, moans cutting into the concrete air, and he whispers every filthy reason he’s wanted you — the math of his longing, the diagrams of your hands on him in the dark.
“You like when I call you mine,” he says between thrusts, voice hoarse. “You like my mouth on you, don’t you? My hands, my breath? Don’t lie to me.”
“No,” you choke, the world tilting. “I like it. I like you.”
He laughs, rough and bright. Then, just a hair softer, he pins your wrists above your head with both hands, thumb tracing your pulse. He bites the tender spot under your ear until tears leak warm, and he licks them away like worship. “You gonna leave again?” he asks suddenly, lips brushing the shell of your ear like a promise and a threat at once.
“No,” you manage. “I’m not leaving. I’m yours.”
He stills for half a second — something almost like shock, then something fierce and foolish and utterly his. “Good,” he says. Then he slides back in deeper and harder, like telling the truth with his hips.
The closet fills with the sound of you — the shaky, hungry music of your surrender — and his harsh, delighted pants. When it’s over, he presses his forehead to yours, breath fogging, hair sticking to his damp skin. He straightens your shirt, adjusts his glasses crooked as ever, and grins, the nerd gone soft for a beat. “See?” he says, ridiculous and tender. “Studying abroad suits you.”
You snort, dizzy, fingers still curled in his sweatshirt. “You’re a show-off.”
“And you’re mine.” He kisses you, small and reverent, then teasing, then all fire again. “Come on — don’t tell me you’re too embarrassed to go back to class. We have lectures tomorrow.”
And just when you think he’s done with the filth, his voice dips low, lazy and teasing, like he owns you now, like he’s been waiting for this line all month:
“By the way,” he smirks, fingers sliding under your skirt as your thighs twitch helplessly, “I like your strawberry-printed panties.”
guys im so desperate right now does anyone have the link to that gojo x reader fic where sukuna and reader were bestfriends and reader was lowkey in love with him and they're at a party and he goes off with another girl and reader gets upset and gojo swoops in (evil) and takes reader to his room!! gojo and sukuna are supposedly rivals in this and its a college AU if that wasn't already obvious!!
