[iheartfratboyeren]

[sixeyesonathiel]

THE ARCHIVE OF AFFECTION (AND OTHER CRIMES)

— ongoing case files, tooth-rotting exclusives, and other crimes against literary sanity. updates are irregular, but the delusion is consistent. read tags and descriptions on your own risk.

౨ৎ FRONT PAGE EXCLUSIVES .ᐟ

— red string of fate collection

౨ৎ HIGH-PROFILE CASES: LONG FICS .ᐟ

— free throws and figure drawings , told the nerd to film it and he exported inside me instead! , diet pepsi , a treatise on inconvenient attraction , the curious case of satoru gojo , in case of academic emergency, kiss me

౨ৎ ONGOING INVESTIGATIONS: SERIES .ᐟ

— a guide to ditching the world’s most persistent nerd! , love comes in small sizes , love thy neighbor , kill switch , wanted: dead or wed

౨ৎ LOCAL DISRUPTIONS: SHORT FICS .ᐟ

— roses bloom the prettiest in ruin , no one else needed to notice , all’s fair , love & war , wherever you want it, baby, i’m taking you there! , bet on blue , ivy , panopticon , illicit affairs , warmth waits here , skip me again and i’ll glitch your heart , shy girls suck the best , infinite void? more like infinite errands! , even softer than expected , co-parenting? no. co-pettying. , bite your tongue, i like it better bloody , call it first aid , you ever draw someone so hard you ride them? , your goddess loves you this much , something warm and golden , this love survives bad haircuts

౨ৎ PSYCHE PROFILE: SATORU GOJO .ᐟ

— rich boy roommate satoru , frat boy satoru , roommate satoru , clanhead satoru , pirate satoru , nerd satoru , academic rival satoru , sugar daddy satoru

౨ৎ OFF THE RECORD: DRABBLES .ᐟ

— satoru x oblivious reader , making satoru blush , satoru’s pint sized copy fails the quiz satoru helped him review , satoru being a tease , yandere satoru w/ servant reader , isekai’d game protag nerdjo x not so npc saintess reader , lost princess reader x etiquette teacher satoru , satoru ’helping’ you take a pregnancy test , satoru vs your period mood swings , temporarily genderbent satoru showing up on ur first date , satoru bakes cookies , magical girl reader x satoru , delulu & yearning nerdjo x shy reader , kid satoru and shikigami reader <- pt. 2 , pt. 3 , basketball player satoru drawing his artist girlfriend reader , childhood friend satoru carrying you so your socks don’t get wet , satoru accidentally tasting your mascara while comforting you , satoru and the five second rule , ragebaiting nerdjo , satoru taking too big of a bite on your cheeseburger , married off to the mysterious gojo heir , cowboy satoru saving you from bandits (you’re one of them) , brushing time with satoru , luxury shopping with satoru , male manipulator satoru and girl failure reader <- pt 2 , satoru and correction kink , soldier satoru and nurse reader , knight satoru and princess reader , photography club pres satoru and journalism club pres reader <- pt 2 , vampire satoru and gf reader <- him eating u out on ur period , love is war: divorce edition , i love you more competition with first year satoru , satoru overdoing it in his first date with you , so-called village guardian satoru and vampire reader , testing a sex toy while satoru watches, corruption + ntr w/ tutor satoru , a whisker away au

[fukiouh]

Tap Out! | fighter!gojo x reader

Late night at the gym. You, Satoru, and absolutely zero supervision. You're both tired, disgustingly competitive rivals who would rather die than tap out to each other. So what can possibly go wrong with his unhinged idea of strip jiu jitsu?

pairing: Gojo Satoru x reader

warnings: 18+ (mdni!!), explicit sexual content, afab!reader, reader and Satoru are both brazilian jiu jitsu fighters, pwp, rivals to lovers, stripping game, sexual tension, banter, fingering, oral (f receiving), piv, choking, creampie, them doing actual BJJ, lowkey a sweat kink ??, chokeholds, he's lowkey pussy-drunk, light degradation, praise kink, semipublic sex

word count: 6.5k+

a/n: been getting so many bjj horny reels and tts on my fyp and this is the outcome. you're welcome and i'm sorry. 

The gym closes at ten. You know this, have known this for the few years you've been a member. Also you have a key because Yaga liked you because you offered to help with inventory three times before, so that's why you now have the key.

It was also the point of you staying this late. You, alone, your own playlist finally blasting through the gym speakers, instead of the ear rape the coaches usually play, while you tortured yourself with some plyo box jumps. Oh well, it wasn't exactly torture, but you understand. Get the quads fired up, dynamic training to get better footwork on the mats.

You were sweating, lungs burning, perfectly in your little sweaty and focused bubble.

You heard the locker room door open. Huh. You landed wrong off the box. Not badly, just startled. You regained your footing and whipped your head around. Did someone forget something?

But it was Satoru leaning in the doorway. He was fresh out of the showers, his hair dripping and falling messily into his eyes, the fresh undercut even more prominent like this, towel slung around his neck.

Between the grappling shorts and the fitted rash guard, it was fucking unfair how hot he looked just standing there. You hated him for it. But that's just between us, 'cause it doesn't change the fact that he was just a cocky jerk.

You dropped your hands to your knees, panting. "The hell you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing." He uncrossed his arms, drying the hair on his nape into the towel. "I was planning on getting some late-night mat work in."

And yeah, Satoru had a key too. That's what you get for being the two best fighters from the same gym. Privileges and all. Though you saw it more like a discipline thing, but different people, different opinions. All that jazz.

You rolled your eyes as you took a sip of your water. "Great. I was planning on closing up," you shot back, fiddling with your water bottle. "So, leave. You had enough time till ten."

Satoru looked at you for a second. Then he looked around the gym — the speakers still on, the plyo box still in the middle of the stretching zone, your bag half open by the wall — and back at you.

"Doesn't look like closing up to me."

You opened your mouth to curse him out like usual. Closed it. Not tonight, he is NOT going to ruin your feng shui. Enough that he manages to do that daily during standard training hours.

"Am getting there," you said with great dignity.

He smiled. Not the big performative one he used to annoy referees and opponents and you. The smaller one. The worse one. "Relax, I'll just work around ya. You won't even know I'm here, sweets."

And then he walked past you onto the mat like the conversation was over, which it was not, you had several more things to say, except he'd already dropped his towel over the rack and was rolling his neck and you were suddenly very busy looking at literally anything else in the room.

Never mind then, you would resume your plyo workout, you still had more sets to go before moving to rope jumping and then you'd be off. And he said you won't even know about him, but it's Satoru we are talking 'bout, so you did exactly one and a half jumps and you could feel his pretty, and ANNOYING eyes on you.

You two had rather interesting dynamics. At first you were crushing on him like crazy — okay, the crush might still be ongoing. But that doesn't change the fact that once you got to actually know him, he turned out to be a massive, cocky jerk with an even bigger ego. Though he was a great fighter, easily the best, well the best in the gym and probably in the entire city, you still couldn't stand him and his big puppy eyes. Ugh.

You turned around.

"What."

"Nothing?" He was doing shoulder rolls now, not even looking at you, lying through his teeth. "Dunno what you're talking about."

You glared at him and went back to your own workout, but one jump later and he was still staring a hole through your — not even your head! You could feel his measly eyes on your legs, ass, everywhere. An annoying pervert on top of that.

"Can you, like, stop?"

"I'm not doing anything." His voice laced with lazy amusement, sounding so infuriatingly unbothered, still half turned away.

"You're STARING at me."

Satoru then turned to face you fully and had the absolute nerve to look confused about it. "I'm allowed to look at things. It's a free country. Plus I'm only stretching?"

You blinked at him a few times. He only stared back, looking innocent, fully serene. The most tiresome person alive and he was your rival. Just your luck.

He stopped with his arm stretches as he tilted his head. His damp white hair caught in the artificial lighting and the smirk that crawled onto his face had absolutely no business looking so malicious, so predatory for a late-night gym session.

"Well," he drawled as he took a deliberate step toward the center of the mats. "If you're just going to stand there STARING at me, we might as well roll."

Absolutely the fuck not, your brain screamed. You knew his stats. You knew he had a reach advantage that basically made him a super muscular human spider, and his raw strength was infuriating. Satoru didn't just spar, he dismantled people. You were the person who claimed size difference is never that MUCH of a big deal, but with him you always stood fucking corrected. His six-foot-three frame and his muscular legs were real and unfair and you had brought this up multiple times and he always nodded very seriously and then put you on the mat in under a minute. You had the bruises to prove it on multiple occasions.

So naturally, agreeing to this was a terrible idea. Not because of the power imbalance, just because of his annoying audacity.

"Fine," you heard yourself say.

Competitive streak was a sickness, really. That's why. And you would rather die than back down. Obviously.

You abandoned your tall — okay, moderately tall, okay, manageably tall — plyo box, kicked off your trainers and met him on the mat. Fist bump and stance.

And twenty-eight seconds later, you were staring at the fucking ceiling.

That's all it took. You knew because you were counting, humiliated and furious that you were counting. He folded you like cheap laundry.

Satoru had slipped your initial grip effortlessly, used your own momentum against you, and swept your leg. You had about zero time to comprehend the lack of purchase on your grip and then his arm was hooked under your neck, his hips pinning you in flawless side control, his long legs had yours completely trapped. He was suffocatingly warm.

You slapped the mat three times. "What the fuck, Gojo?!"

Satoru just laughed. Still hovering even as he let you go, close enough that you could still see a few droplets caught in his hairline, and he had the cosmic nerve to look amused.

"Sloppy footwork, sweets."

You furrowed your brow, looking annoyed as you rolled away.

"You good?" He sat back on his heels, checking up on you just in case.

You only glared at him, now more annoyed at yourself than him, as all you could focus on was the scent of his warm skin and his body wash, making your head spin. More than usual.

"Lucky round," you deflected as you stood up, ready to go again. He might have won the fight, but you're not losing the war.

"Then I must have been lucky quite a few months in a row, sweets, but I'll admit," he sighed dramatically, "the size difference makes this a little unfair. Doesn't it?"

But as you answered "duh," something changed in his expression and it was weirdly, infinitely more dangerous than the signature smirk of his before.

Satoru had a plan. A very good plan, a very reasonable plan, a very stupid plan. A very new and dangerous plan that had just flashed right in front of his eyes and had about only two possible outcomes: it working out and finally getting the girl, or him getting his membership revoked and probably even his BJJ registration alongside it. But hey, game is a game. Hate the game, not the player kinda situation.

And you smelled so, so sweet, a mixture of your sweat and whatever body spray you always used. And so forgive him that his horny brain had done something deeply unhelpful, and I'm not going to explain WHAT, and now he was sitting in front of you looking like an idiot.

He cleared his throat, shifting his weight slightly so his knees were drawn up, hiding a bit of obvious evidence of his poorly timed lapse in judgment.

"So, let's make this more fun, more daring? Give you the motivation to whoop my ass," Satoru said. His voice was suddenly a little lower, smooth and entirely too cheeky, and you were already fearing what would come out of his damn mouth.

You chuckled, offended. You didn't need any special rules to want to whoop his cocky ass, but you'd also be lying if you said you weren't intrigued. Or maybe it was just the exhaustion of the day that made you delirious.

And when he explained his oh so fun, more daring rules, he said it like he had not just proposed something completely insane.

"You're disgusting," you sneered, looking around just in case someone heard. No one did. The poor equipment did though — now you'd feel weird walking around your precious and reasonably tall plyo box. "Strip jiu jitsu? What the hell is even that, Satoru?"

Satoru looked around right after you did, sweeping the empty dojo, checking the corners for cameras. He knew Yaga didn't have cameras in here, only at the entrance. You two were the only ones here, so it wasn't even that crazy of an idea. Well, okay, it was. It was a stupidly crazy one, if we're being completely honest, but he just had to shoot his shot — because yes, he was hot, but also only a horny loser, with heavy emphasis on the loser.

"Roll with strip rules." He smiled, and there it was — the absolute worst, most arrogant smirk in his arsenal, the one showing off his little canines. "The loser of the round takes off a piece of clothing."

Every single alarm bell in your head went off at once. You knew exactly what he was doing. This was the most transparent, audacious, thinly-veiled excuse to get you half-naked in the history of the universe. He was an absolute degenerate for not even being able to ask you out like a normal human being. You would say no anyway, trust. You should tell him to go to hell, grab your stuff, and lock up.

"So?"

You hated him. You really, truly did.

The part of your brain that had been training alongside this man for two years, that had never once backed down from anything he put in front of you, that would genuinely rather die than let Satoru Gojo think you were scared of him —

"You're on."

Round One was a bloodbath.

You fought like your actual life depended on it. You were NOT losing your clothes to this absolute degenerate of a man.

Satoru was being infuriating as per usual, playing defense — heavy on the word playing, what a bastard — and clearly holding back just enough to tease you. He was slipping your grips by mere inches, his still-damp hair falling into his eyes as he dodged a sweep.

But then he got cocky, thinking he had you. He shifted his weight too far to the left trying to grab your wrist. But you had operational eyes and saw the textbook mistake, the kind that a guy makes when he's fucking staring at the way your hips are moving instead of focusing enough on his own center of gravity.

So you shot your hips up, locked your legs tightly around his neck, and dragged his arm across your chest, sinking in a picture-perfect triangle choke.

You squeezed, calves burning with the effort, glaring down at him.

Satoru blinked up at you from his trapped position. He didn't even look mad! The jerk actually looked a little too suspiciously proud before his hand came up and tap tap tapped! your thigh three times.

You released him immediately, scrambling back.

"Man, your little perverted game doesn't seem to be going as planned," you teased, pointing a victorious finger at his chest. "Shirt. Now."

Sitting up, he grabbed the hem of his rash guard. And in true Gojo fashion, he took his sweet, deliberate, absolutely criminal time pulling it over his head.

The tight fabric clung to his damp skin, resisting for a beat before he pulled it free and tossed it off the mat.

You tried not to stare at his deliciously carved muscles, the sharp V-lines dipping below his grappling shorts. You really did, but he caught you, and the predatory stupid smile was back in full force.

"Are we going to bump fists for round two or do you need more time?"

You tore your hypnotized eyes away from his abs, crossing your arms. "Shut up and put your hands up, loser."

Round Two went, well, less well.

Every time you tried to establish a grip, your hands slipped against his chest. How were you supposed to grab him when he wasn't wearing anything!

The friction, the disarming heat radiating off him, the way his muscles flexed under your hands — you couldn't really focus. You were cooked from the first ten seconds and you knew it. And worse, Satoru totally knew it too, because he didn't even try to play nice this time.

He was more precise with his movements now, overpowering you with perfect timing, and every hold lasted just a second longer than it needed to. It drove you frustrated and fucking crazy. And when he finally, finally swept your legs and pinned your wrists to the mat, his chest pressed completely flush against your rash guard.

The air left your lungs in a heavy rush. Only because he was obviously really heavy —

Ah. Your old friend. The ceiling.

He hovered, a wicked gleam in those stupidly pretty blues, waiting. You didn't even fight the pin. No point in it. And there went your hopeful plan of not giving up any piece of clothing…

You tapped.

Satoru immediately sat back on his heels, extremely satisfied, crossing his arms. He didn't need to say a word — the expectant, cocky tilt of his head said it all.

You sat up too. Grabbed the hem of your rash guard, pulled it over your head and tossed it to the edge of the mat.

Sports bra. Grappling shorts. That's what was left, and that's what would stay on. The cool gym air hit your heated skin, feeling weirdly exposed.

You lifted your chin, refusing to break eye contact, trying to project unbothered bad bitch confidence. "Happy?"

His eyes were a bit darker than they were a moment ago as they shamelessly dropped from your face to your chest, to your stomach above your waistband, and then slowly back up. Could he be any more obvious? It gave you this weird tingly feeling all over.

"Happy," he said through his lashes, and raised a hand.

You bumped fists.

Round Three meant war.

Something had shifted in the air and you both felt it, the pretense of this being a normal spar completely gone. You were fearing how this session would end, but not necessarily mad about it ending any way. But you were mad about your bruised pride and your rash guard coming off, so you fought sharper this time around. Watching every one of his damn movements like a hawk, turning the anger into focus. One dodge here, one grab there, and you caught him in a rear naked choke with his own momentum and squeezed until he tapped with zero ceremony about it.

Satoru peeled himself off the mat, hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his grappling shorts right away, sighing very obviously fake, and pushed them down, which left him only in a pair of black boxers.

And you WERE going to ignore the very obvious outline of something you had already been ignoring since the last round when he pinned you down. You risked one look though, just to check why the fuck it looked so — okay. Moving on. Glad you would not have to do anything with it, because you were going to win the next round, win his little pervy game overall and go home!

Until you lost Round Four in fifteen seconds and we are not discussing it.

What I will say is that fighting a man in only his boxers when you are also mostly undressed is not a cognitively accessible activity and anyone who says otherwise is lying.

So now you were standing in the middle of the mat in only your sports bra, cursing yourself for why the fuck you had decided to put on your old underwear with teddy bears on them today. But hey, who would have thought that your hot jiu jitsu rival was actually a pervert who would corner you in an empty gym and bully you into stripping for his own entertainment!

"Cute," he smirked, oh so obviously eyeing your lap, though you weren't entirely sure if he meant the panties.

"Shut up," you snapped, feeling a furious blush spread all the way from your cheeks down, down, down to your clothed cunt. It was sweat. It was JUST sweat.

"Fists up."

Round Five was not jiu jitsu anymore. Let's just call it what it was — a desperate scramble for survival.

The pretense of technique went completely out the fucking window. At this point it was an excuse to grab, to hold, to drag your bodies against each other, both slick with sweat, making grips impossible anyway. You were fighting to keep your precious dignity intact. He was fighting to get you naked.

You scrambled for leverage and did the one thing you'd promised yourself you wouldn't do. You pulled guard.

He swept you clean in no time, rolled you onto your back, and suddenly he was above you, your wrists pinned either side of your head, his hips settled between your thighs. And he looked so frenzied he was unconsciously pushing into you, his erection pushing the wet fabric of your panties against your folds. Wait. Since when were you this wet? And apparently you were THAT wet, because the slick had penetrated through his boxers too, judging by the half-lidded look he was giving you.

Your heart started to hammer even harder. Now hyperaware of the minuscule roll of his hips, how he was holding back but failing, as he just couldn't help himself anymore. The heat between you becoming unbearable.

The way he held your wrists with one hand, streeetching you out, as the other snaked to your waist, feather touches hiking up dangerously close to the band of your bra, making your breath hitch. He started to lean down, eyeing your half-open mouth, you eyeing his — almost, just almost getting lost in his touch. Literally reconciling with the jarring fact that you might be the loser after all, mentally handing him your panties for him to do whatever he wanted with them, for all you cared.

But then you realized. He hadn't secured your legs.

He was too busy pressing himself into you, desperate for contact, to actually remember to pin your legs.

"Well, looks like the size difference won after all. You don't have to tap now — we'll do enough tapping right after—"

You batted your eyelashes up at him, distracting him from the fact that the reason you wrapped your legs tightly around his waist wasn't exactly to make the friction rougher.

He shifted his weight, smirking, taking your movement as accepting your loss like the good sport he is, rutting into you instead — already thinking about the far better win, tapping you out from the inside, filling your pussy so, so full of his cum. Clearly satisfied you'd complied with whatever the hell he was thinking, leaning down further, licking his lips —

And that was his fatal mistake.

You loosened your arms in his grip, letting him think you had completely given up resisting. Then, using that split second where he was entirely focused on his self-imposed slow-mo of leaning toward your lips and the delicious friction of your hips pressed together, you struck. Unlocking your ankles from around his slutty waist, you planted one foot on the mat, humped your hips right back at him, bridging, and trapped his forearm.

You pushed and before he could close the distance, you flipped him onto his back. Now he was the one staring at the ceiling.

"The fuck—"

You scrambled up and sank a kimura on his arm before he could recover, your weight pinning him to the mat.

He tried to shift. You squeezed your knees tighter. He tried to roll. You dropped your weight down completely on his straining dick and watched his jaw go tight.

His chest heaving, a deep furious red flush creeping up his neck and over his ears as he stared up at you in absolute, mortified disbelief. The strongest fighter in the gym had just practically lost because he couldn't keep it in his pants.

"Sweets—"

"Nuh-uh." You rolled your hips against his, slow and deliberate. And it was nobody's business whether that part was strategic or desperate. "Now your boxers, Satoru."

His eyes widened, fucking bewildered that you'd just used his own rules against him. Not that he didn't want to get rid of the boxers finally — you could tear them off his aching dick for all he cared — he'd only envisioned HIM saying a similar phrase while having YOU in a kimura underneath HIM instead. And he refused to lose. Because not even physical torture would force him to tap this crusty ass mat right now. His arm could fall off first.

So he rolled into it.

Into the pressure, toward you. He managed to get his knee under him, lifting both of you slightly, and shoved. The kimura lock broke and then he was moving, fast, catching you before you could counter, flipping you back to square one.

He pinned both of your arms behind your back, making you arch into him as he looked absolutely feral. Pupils so dilated you couldn't see any blue anymore, and he was so close, so close his damp bangs were tickling your forehead.

Both of you panting like hell. Your eyes wide because what the fuck just happened. He'd broken out of your submission lock. Him and his freaking strength. His arm was already aching from the escape he'd absolutely feel tomorrow and did not currently care about at all. He hoped there would be more things aching tomorrow morning anyway.

He searched your face and your flushed cheeks told him every answer he wanted.

"Can't give you my boxers if I didn't tap, sweets. And since I made such a great comeback—" the eye-crinkling smile had absolutely no business being that devastating, "—I'll take both your bra and panties. Please 'n thank you."

"That's—" you sputtered, heart hammering wildly against your ribs. "T-that's TWO items! I did not TAP yet, you didn't win this round, you're violating the established rules of—"

He kissed you to shut you up.

Hard.

And it apparently worked, which was the most humiliating part, because one second you were mid-argument and the next your brain was sooo full of him.

He kissed like he fought, like he had a point to prove and all night to prove it. One arm pinning yours under you, simply lifting you from underneath to free your hands, confident you wouldn't be fighting anymore.

Your hands immediately went to his slick hair, pushing him closer as he laid you back on the mat. You bit his lip on principle. He made a sound low in his throat that you felt in your sternum and kissed you harder for it, one hand sliding up to your jaw while the other finally snaked under your sweat-drenched bra and slid his fingers over your peaked nipple.

He then lifted you and started pulling the fabric off your body.

"Satoru," you panted, resisting. "Don't! I haven't tapped, so nothing is coming off yet!"

"You can't be serious right now," he nipped at your jaw and stopped, grabbing one of your hands and tapping it against the mat himself.

Tap. Tap. Tap. The hell?! Quick and absolutely unbothered.

"There. You tapped."

"That's NOT — that doesn't COUNT, you physically moved my—"

And before you could finish he had your bra over your head, lowering himself to mouth at your nipple, but you shoved at his chest on instinct. Rude.

He stopped and looked up at you from where he'd landed. Not exactly off you. More like south of you.

The smirk he gave you from down there was straight up diabolical. "Okay then," he said pleasantly. "Can't say I wasn't invited."

"Satoru." You tried to pull him back up. "I'm dead serious, it's disgusting, I'm sweaty, this is not—"

He pressed a single kiss to your inner thigh and wasted no time hooking his fingers into the flimsy waistband of your already ruined panties.

"Exactly," he said, and pressed his face right against your core, licking against the fabric. And Holy fucking shit, you could feel the warmth of his tongue even through the soaked cotton and your pussy spasmed before he'd even done anything properly. Talk about embarrassing.

He practically tore the fabric off and wasted absolutely zero time. One second he was eyeing your pretty, blushing cunt and the next he was nose-deep in your slick. No rhythm whatsoever at first, just inhaling you in, tasting you — and god fucking help him, because you tasted so, so sweet. If THIS was how you tasted sweaty and supposedly "disgusting," he would devour you fine dining style every single. damn. evening.

He attacked your clit as one hand kept you pinned by your hips, while the other came to either rescue or double the assault, depending from which angle you looked at it,  dragging lightly up and down your inner thigh at first, tickling, making you squirm, before sliding up to play with your wet folds.

"S-Satoru—" the only thing you somehow managed as he licked into you mercilessly, up and down, up and down, from your hole to your clit and back. Fucking hell, you stood corrected — he didn't kiss like he fought. He ate you out like he fought.

"Mmm?" he hummed into you, sucking at your folds, cheeks hollow, the vibrations going straight to your core.

"C-can't make me naked when — nggh — when you still have your boxers on."

Honestly, bravo. Truly. Remarkable sentence construction given the circumstances.

He pulled back just enough to look up at you. Lips slick and eyes absolutely feral.

Shook his head. Girl… Then hooked his thumbs into his waistband and shoved his boxers down without breaking eye contact, kicking them off somewhere.

"Better?" Rhetorical. Because god, it was better — his tip already aching from the friction, slick and twitching with pre. He pumped himself once, just for the show, while you stared dumbfounded.

You nodded like crazy and he settled right back. Now free, he stroked himself to the taste of you.

This time his other hand fully joined in — while he dismantled your swollen, twitchy clit with his smart mouth, he took two fingers and pushed them into your walls with no ceremony. Doing exactly what his tongue had done before, stroking, tickling on the inside. Up and down. Up and down.

It was maddening how well it worked, how fast you got wetter, so much slick pooling in his hand and dripping onto the mat beneath you. Your hands found his hair and you arched into it helplessly.

Oh, how good it felt — him not only destroying your fighting dignity but doing this too, with his mouth alone. Skilled man through and through.

You were so wound up from the entire night that it didn't take long. Embarrassingly not long. Your thighs shaking either side of his head, fingers twisting in his hair —

Satoru groaned into you, the sound hot and vibrating, pushing the orgasm even deeper as he tried to catch every drop, his tongue lapping at your entrance — eyes rolling back, yours and his —

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Satoru, so completely lost in the sauce, tapped out from eating you out.

He looked up at you with literal heart eyes. Almost as wrecked as you were. Flushed all over, watching you come down from the high — the prettiest sight he'd ever seen. You had no idea, no idea, how many times he'd imagined you ruined like this.

But his imagination hadn't done it justice. No. No. No. Not even close. You were lying warm and wrecked, chest heaving, everything on display, right in the middle of your gym and all for him. He felt like a pervert every time he did imagine this — during your spars, during watching you work out or stretch. When he had you locked down, your pretty face always so close, yet so far — how he always wanted to throw you on this damn mat and just pounce without ceremony, your pretty eyes looking down at him just like they did now. Feeling like a massive perv, sporting a stiffy every time you two accidentally dry humped just to try to win the roll. But he owed his perverted side a massive, massive debt for the hail mary that got him here.

You caught your breath and looked him in his possessed eyes. He was back on his heels, cock aching against his stomach, leaking so much you weren't sure if it was precum or if he'd just come on his own.

You sat up and shoved him back.

Tap out is tap out. Gotta follow the rules. The bastard didn't even do it on purpose! It was just an automatic biological response. But hey, he wasn't going to resist if it meant you on top of him.

Wasting no time, you straddled him, dragging your slick heat all over his lap, his cock sliding right through your folds as you stroked your thumb across his mushroomy tip.

Satoru dropped back onto his forearms and threw his head back, throat exposed, jaw tight.

You took your time on purpose. Rolling your hips just enough to feel him twitch against you without giving him what he wanted, dragging your slicked pussylips along his shaft, watching his throat work as he swallowed. His hands found your thighs and gripped but he didn't push — just held on, knuckles white, letting you set the pace and hating every second of it.

"You're doing that on purpose," he said to the ceiling. "But god, please don't stop, you feel so warm against me."

"Doing what?" you asked innocently, rolling your hips, showcasing your superb leg control.

He lifted his head and looked at you. The expression on his face was genuinely pained, but probably the prettiest thing you'd ever seen on him. "Don't."

You smiled. "Dunno what you're talking about," you mocked, and let his cock settle right at your entrance.

"Buut since you tapped so graciously, I guess I'll take the win." And sank down.

His fat tip stretched you ooopen, your walls pulsing around him, drowning him in.

His forearms gave out. Flat on his back now, one hand pathetically thrown over his face, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, holding himself back from dragging you all the way down.

"Fuuuck, sweets—"

You felt yourself running out of room and he wasn't even halfway in! His hilt bullying its way in, barely fitting, your thighs shaking — superb leg control, my ass. Your pussy crying for help when you felt him kiss your cervix and still asking for more room.

Satoru looked up at you from under his arm and you could hear the smirk even from there. "Need help, big girl?"

"I don't need—"

You sank all the way down. Out of spite. Completely out of spite.

The sound you made was embarrassing. The sound he made was worse — punched out of him, his whole body going rigid, abs clenching.

Then he laughed. Low and delighted and completely smug, the fucker, even now as he finally had your pretty pussy around him. And that's perhaps why you gushed around him like craaazy.

He stopped laughing, solely focused on the warmth, the softness, the wet heat of you.

You looked at him half gone and started to move. Rolling your hips slowly, but his slightly curved cock hit the right spot with every rotation, stealing every damn breath from your lungs.

He made a sound you were saving for later and his hands gripped your hips mean. You rolled your hips, his grip unforgiving, searing the skin underneath, and watched his eyes flutter. You felt so, so thoroughly powerful for about thirty seconds —

And then he rutted up into you from pure instinct, the movement felt in your freaking womb, and your pussy fluttered around him without warning, thighs locking, your whole rhythm falling apart. The sound you made was something between a wail and a whimper and you refused to acknowledge whatever it was.

His eyes went dark. "So, so cute," he chuckled, watching your flushed cheeks and cute little ‘o’ coming out of your pretty open mouth.

And what happened in the next ten seconds — him sitting up, his cock bullying your cervix even further, his arm snaking around you —

"Come 'ere, baby."

Hand in your hair. His mouth on yours, kissing you filthy, spitting into your mouth, and as you tasted him all over your tongue, all salty and sweet and so perfect —

His other arm came around your throat from behind, hips still rolling, slick all over his and your inner thighs, and then he flipped you.

You ended up stomach to the mat, him behind you, his chest pressing into your back, arm locking you in the most wicked chokehold imaginable.

"There," he said against the back of your neck, pressing a wet stripe of kisses up your spine. "Be a good girl and finally stay, will ya. No more games. We clear?"

His voice alone was making goosebumps break out all over your skin. His cock rolled against your ass as you arched into him from your locked position, hands digging into the mat beneath you.

"Mmm," — you didn't know if that was supposed to answer his question or a reaction to his cock slipping back into you from this angle.

The new depth made you cry out into the mat. Nowhere to go. Nothing to push against except him, everywhere.

"My black belt champ has n-nothing to say except pathetic little whimpers?" He blew a hot gust of air against your ear. "Where did all that attitude go?"

Your hips only met his halfway anyway.

His hips found a rhythm and it was relentless. No more teasing, no more playing, just him taking you completely apart on the mat. His arm around your throat cutting off just enough air to make you see little stars, his mouth assaulting your neck and shoulders, leaving bite marks one after another, shamelessly licking the sweet sweat off your skin.

You couldn't even feel humiliated about your mouth falling open, drooling right onto his forearm, because you could practically feel him in your stomach, dragging against your walls with every thrust.

Cocky bastard that he was, he pulled back just far enough to watch himself — completely drenched in your slick, his own mixing with yours — before rutting back in like he was spellbound by it.

You grabbed his forearm and held on, because he was genuinely fucking you into the mat and you stood corrected, again, for the absolute last time tonight. This man fucked like he fought.

He pressed his lips to your temple.

"Tap out, baby," he murmured. The absolute nerve.

You held on tighter. No matter how thoroughly you were getting split apart on his thick cock right now, you were not giving him that satisfaction.

Satoru didn't push it. Your walls fluttering fast around him gave him the answer he wanted anyway. You were close.

And close you fucking were — him with the meanest chokehold, your back arched so deeply that every thrust hit a hat trick. G-spot, cervix, g-spot again. Overfilling you completely as you milked him so, so well.

The coil in your stomach pulled tighter and tighter —

"T-Toru," you drawled, your cheek pressed into his big bicep. "I — I can't—"

"You milk me so well, sweets, let go for me," he said against your ear.

And it was either his words or the way his arm flexed under your neck making you totally bleary-eyed, or the way his cockhead kissed your womb  one last time — but you came haard.

His name wrecked in your throat, your whole body shaking through it, walls clenching so hard around him that he choked on a curse against the back of your neck —

"Fuck — sweets, I'm—"

And he followed practically right after — embarrassingly fast, but you couldn't blame the poor guy at this point. He'd been giving himself pathetic handies after every single practice because your training shorts always fit you so freaking nicely. He was honestly surprised he hadn't come earlier just from the sight of you. This felt like a fucking dream come true. He buried himself so deep you felt every single pulse of it, grip going white-knuckled, hips stuttering through it until he emptied out with capital E.

Completely sweat-slicked, he collapsed against your back, both of you absolutely destroyed on the nasty gym floor. He released you from the chokehold, palm moving to rest against your cheek instead, supporting your heavy head.

He pressed one single kiss to the side of your neck as he shifted.

"Soo," he said eventually, voice raspy and spent. "I guess you really won this one too." And you giggled at that.

Satoru helped you turn over to finally face him again. His softening cock slipped out and the frothy mess spilled out of your hole before he could stop it with his fingers.

"Well, the mat is kinda ruined," he scrunched his nose, eyeing the absolute state below you both. "Yaga will be mad big times at you."

"Me?! Why me?!"

"Well, last time I checked, you were the one closing?" he said it so saccharine sweet, planting a kiss to your forehead as he cradled your head.

And well. He kinda had you there.

You tapped out.

── Dividers from cafekitsune!

[sukunahs]

to distant lands - masterlist | ryomen sukuna

pairing: ryomen sukuna x fem!reader (medieval fantasy au)

summary: It’s expected for a princess to have a personal guard, especially when you’re an only child and heir to the kingdom. The knight who has watched over you since childhood is retiring and, much to your dismay, your father decides to put his best soldier on the job as his replacement - Ryomen Sukuna, the Kingdom’s most vicious warrior and far from your biggest fan.

Little did you know that Sukuna would end up tangling himself in your life in ways you never could’ve anticipated. 

word count: 144k

content: 18+ mdni, smut, princess!reader, enemies to lovers, slow-burn(ish), forbidden relationship, medieval fantasy setting, fluff, angst, protective sukuna, fingering, spanking, sex dreams, violence, parent death, grief, confusing emotions, reader is chaotic, graphic violence, combat, bullying, anxiety, arranged marriages, references to child loss/misscarriage (not by the reader!), parental neglect, jealousy, depression, suicidal ideation, kidnapping, attempted sexual assault, injury, piv sex

chapter one: nightmare

chapter two: dirt

chapter three: denial

chapter four: blossom

chapter five: temptation

chapter six: fear

chapter seven: all yours

chapter eight: discretion

chapter nine: implosion

chapter ten: potential

chapter eleven: loss

chapter twelve: bad luck

chapter thirteen: despair

chapter fourteen: freedom

epilogue

[yenayaps]

defiance masterlist | king!sukuna x servant!reader

summary: a psychic shares her vision with the king, saying that his soulmate would replace all 5 of his concubines one day. he had her banned from the premises for that absurd prediction. it wasn't until months later when he started believing the old bitch, after one cute yet disobedient servant started working at the shrine. TL;DR: sukuna's a sorcerer in this one, still ooc but not too much. mc pretty much ran away from home for being a hoe, and went to work at sukuna's shrine lol.

genre: female reader, heian era au, 18+, grumpy x sunshine, fluff, smut, crack, angst, no he wont have two sets of arms, and no he wont have two dicks, i'm really sorry

fic warnings: profanity, explicit smut, graphic depictions of violence, death, pregnancy, war

wc: 106k (complete)

side stories: delicate

Ko-fi link for those who are feeling generous and wanted to show extra support ❤️

One: Did I give you permission?

Two: Flower festival

Three: The King of Curses

Four: Temper

Five: Depraved

Six: My Little Dove

Seven: Counting the Rings Inside of the Willow Tree

Eight: White Silence

Nine: Say Yes to Heaven

Ten: Hidden Letters

Eleven: A True Blessing

Twelve: Energy Shift Part One

Thirteen: Energy Shift Part Two

Fourteen: Prelude

Fifteen: A Sharp Turn

Sixteen: Dream’s Over

Seventeen: Beneath The Lotus; A Devils Cleanse

Eighteen: I Can Clean Impurity

Nineteen: Climbing up the Walls

Twenty: Sumire

Twenty One: Sayomi

Epilogue

extras:

king!sukuna headcanons

dovey’s style

what ryuko looks like

the concubines

playlist

All rights reserved © 2024 yenayaps. Do not copy, repost, translate, or modify my works in any platform.

[madamechrissy]

❉ On Thin Ice ❉

Satoru Gojo - hockey Star- loves three things - hockey, coke and women. Which is the reason his coach Sukuna wants to make sure he stays as far away from his niece - you - as possible. Raised by Sukuna after your parents passed, he is almost like a dad to you. Satoru can't help but become obsessed the moment he sees you spinning on the ice. But there's one big problem - an overbearing, grumpy one named Uncle Kuna. Is he right to protect you, or is there more to Satoru than what's on the surface?

❉pairings- hockey star! satoru x figure skater! reader

❉warnings - eventual smut, eventual angst, drug use, grumpy but loving Uncle Sukuna, shy/innocent reader, down bad Satoru - he's a bit of a hot mess at first. this chap - kissing, dry humping, mentions of sex, coke use, weed use, masturbation, obsessed Toru. wc-10.6k

this is a commissioned series for my bb @strychnynegirl ahh I am so excited! Art is a comm made for this story by @veroniicannot on IG - so no reposting, go follow her!<3

❉ headcanons ❉ playlist ❉ chapter two (soon)

chapter one

Satoru Gojo was the top hockey player there was – and with that came a ton of responsibility, when it wasn’t pressure from his parents for him to get into a pro team all of college, now it was making sure his teammates won. They were all experienced too, but Satoru was just made for the rink, he could glide on the ice like it was nothing, but he sure put in the time for it.

He was the captain of the pro team now, when their head coach was gone he was the one set to guide the other players, who all happened to be little stubborn shitheads. Satoru was leaning against the rink, watching his teammates run drills with his baby blue eyes that caught every movement, practiced and experienced, lashes as white as the ice below him taking it all in.

The sounds of blades scraping across the ice echo in his ears, mixing with the grunts of the players and the giggles of the girls who come practice figure skating, some of the boys ate it up. Satoru himself had a pretty large fanclub and even now blows them a little kiss, they all freak out and giggle, especially when Suguru executes a perfect slap shot into the top corner of the net.

“Shit, good job Sugu,” Suguru blushes when the girls start calling his name. Satoru always loves the attention but he’s a little more shy. “Kento, you’re going on offense now.”

Satoru has been on the ice since early morning as usual, yawning just a bit as he joins in, he’s pushing himself harder than anyone else as always – some nights he stays after everyone is gone and it’s all quiet, only his skates cutting through the ice making noise. Everyone saw how great he was, how natural things were to him, but it also came with thousands of hours of practice.

Day in, day out, Satoru was a perfectionist. Yet, he loved it – something freeing about focusing on the precision of his moves, wearing his body down until it’s exhausted and he can blissfully crash out for that two or three hours he gets. He loved the feeling of being utterly sore and spent, only to get up and push himself all over again – he was the best for a reason.

He glides across the ice to grab a drink, when he sees a girl he never has – not one from the ‘fanclub’ she’s completely different, quietly spinning in a pretty pirouette, He can’t stop looking at her, with those graceful movements that make it look effortless, blades carving delicate patterns on the of the ice as you glide along and make a series of jumps and spins.

Satoru can’t get his gaze off you – but then, he’s not the only one. It’s eerily quiet as the men eye the new girl, some of them commenting how pretty you are, some a little impressed with a spin you land like it’s nothing. Satoru had seen plenty of talented figure skaters before, but there was something about you that froze him in place, the cute little smile on your face when you landed a move.

The boys clap and you blush then, realizing you have an audience, a quiet little smile and wave, before going back to focusing. Satoru’s lost though, he can’t stop staring – yeah, you’re a pretty little thing, but he’s always got pretty girls in his bed. It’s not that, is it?

“She’s hot, right?” Comes one of his teammates, Satoru instantly gives him an irritated glance.

“She is pretty,” Suguru says then, smirking over at Satoru. “Oh shit, I know that look of yours.”

“What look? She’s… talented, mmkay?” They’re laughing just a bit, when Satoru sighs. “Fine, she is hot.”

“She’s my niece,” all of them turn around to see their hockey coach Sukuna skating up, crossing his arms and glaring at them now.

“Shit, your niece is hot-”

“Toji I’ll fuck your face up more,” Sukuna says, raising a brow and glaring at all of them. Sukuna used to be a hockey player himself, but now he coaches in his early thirties, he was pretty notorious for training the winning team. Everyone found him intimidating due to just how huge and angry he was, but Satoru simply raised a brow himself.

He knows he’s damn near better than Sukuna was. Sure, maybe he’s cocky, but… it was accurate.

“She’s your niece? Where’s she been?” Satoru asks curiously, you’re skating over, your eyes locked on Sukuna for a moment until you see his stance.

“Kuna –”

“Don’t call me that in front of them!?” They’re snickering, you pout just a bit, and are apparently so cute Sukuna sighs, ruffling your hair. “Don’t pull the puppy dog eyes on me, brat.”

“Be nice, hmm?” He sighs, Satoru has never seen Ryomen Sukuna soft whatsoever.

“Fine, they were saying how talented you were, right?” They all stand at attention nodding quickly, you look down shyly at all the attention, hugging your arms a bit, before smiling and looking at Satoru.

God you’re pretty.

The minute your eyes hit his, he can hardly handle whatever the fuck you’re doing to him, holding your hand out now. “You’re the captain, right?”

“Yeah that’s me,” he takes your hand with a cocky little smile, it swallows your tiny one as you tilt your head back a bit to look at him. “You are really talented out there.”

“Oh thank you so much,” a pretty blush dances across your cheeks now, your eyes looking back down. Fuck you’re cute. “You’re talented too, I’ve seen your videos all over.”

“Yeah?” Satoru grins now, skating a little closer. “You have?”

“That’s enough,” Sukuna cuts in, practically unclasping your hands now. “Let’s go talk for a minute, kid. I’ll be back to coach you little shits in a bit.”

“Sure, it was nice to meet you,” you say to Satoru, smiling a bit at him and then skating off, but you peer over your shoulder for a moment at him.

“Get your jaw off the floor, buddy.”

“Fuck off, let’s get to work…”

“Uncle Kuna, you were rude!” You’re saying, eyeing the handsome white haired player who gives you a little smile. “He seems sweet.”

“Tch, you don’t know that boy, any of those boys,” Sukuna hands you a drink and you take it thankfully. “It’s my job to look out for you, just trust me.”

“All right…” But how can you focus, when eyes that blue peer at you across the rink?

Gojo watches as you begrudgingly glide across the rink, but he just can't get that dopey grin off his face, Suguru shakes him out of it, Sukuna skates up and fucking glares at him. Yet he can’t stop looking, how you glide along the ice, spinning in pretty little circles, waving a little when you think Sukuna can’t see, just to have him standing right in front of Satoru again.

“Get to running those, now.”

“Calm down Kuna,” Satoru smacks his shoulder, grinning as Sukuna turns bright red.

“Stay away from her.”

“Why tell me that?” He raises a brow at Sukuna now. “Go tell Toji.”

“I just know your type, fuckin’ act all sweet and then not be serious, you won’t hurt her if I have anything to do with it.” Satoru sighs, grabbing his hockey stick and skating back over to his group.

If anything is known – it’s that Satoru Gojo was an absolute slut, he just loved to fuck, loved women, he loved getting his dick sucked. Why wouldn’t he enjoy all the perks of being a famous hockey player? Which absolutely included partying, snorting coke up his nostrils, having a good blunt and letting girls make out over his tip.

That didn’t mean Satoru was somehow against the idea of love or dating – he just was enjoying himself, Sukuna’s right in that he would corrupt a cute, innocent little thing like yourself. Fuck corrupting you would be so pretty though, imagining how cute you’d look learning how to take his cock – the thoughts have him hard in the middle of the fucking ice rink.

Satoru wishes anything Sukuna threatened ever sunk in – it didn’t.

*****

It’s been a week since he first saw you.

How can Satoru not come in early to watch you practice every morning, just acting like he needs more time himself, when he’s literally in peak performance. How can Satoru not just peer at you before he gets on the ice, when no one else is there, watching you so cute as you focus, as you fall and get yourself back up.

You’re goddamn adorable, he can’t stop the smile on his face anytime he catches sight of you, but he doesn’t really say anything, just waves as he practices, and the two of you are in a comfortable silence on either side of the giant ice rink. Satoru relishes every time you come by him, when you’ll skate by and ask him a question, tell him you admire his form.

Admire his form.

Satoru admires yours too, those outfits leave little to the imagination, and you’re achingly pretty, the way he can imagine wrapping his hands right around your waist… even when you practice with someone he gets furious. He hates seeing his pretty figure skater have another man spot or spin with her.

His figure skater? Has he really lost it?

He loves when you answer his questions, your shy but reserved conversation – some of the girls he hears call you stuck up, but it’s clear you’re not – even if you don’t really make friends. It’s more you’re achingly shy, and he knows it takes a lot in those moments you talk to him, when you hardly talk to anyone else.

Satoru can't help but picture you every night after you give him a little wave goodbye, when you’re in your cute little tracksuit and he gets just a hint of your tummy in his sight, a little dip of cleavage. God just your collarbones and how your hair falls when it’s out of that tight bun fuck him up – so much so fuck he strokes it to you like it's his own form of worship.

Every time he thinks he can have just a few moment with you, fucking Sukuna is there. Stomping around all angry, scowling right at Satoru, he makes sure to leave no space for Satoru to even find out more than your name and where you’re from. He’s gathered that you love to skate – of course – and that you like to read, by the books you bring in.

Old books, too, ones he googles when he gets home so he can have a hope to talk to you. Wuthering Heights is the one you always bring, so of course he studies all he can about it, bringing up oh so casually what he thinks of Heathcliff. You brightened up so pretty this morning, and he thinks that was the first time he heard your laugh, a soft little cute one.

Your nose scrunched up, all fucking adorable, and your eyes lit up as you softly agreed with him about Catherine, Satoru’s acting like he read a goddamn book from the eighteen hundreds to impress a girl. He's not sure when he got so pathetic, nor when the sight of a cute nose scrunching up started making him leak pre - but oh, it did.

He catches a glimpse of you as you’re leaving today, almost bumping right into him, your hands on his chest, his on your waist, thumbs pressing into the nip of it, the two of you pausing, eyes meeting. You get lost in his, your heart hammering in your chest, the feeling of his fingers on your skin almost intimate.

You’ve not had anyone even touch you – thanks to Sukuna always being absolutely insane about protecting you – if it wasn’t him, it was your brother Yuuji. Sukuna had practically raised you both together. He’s been off at school for a bit but he was also extremely protective of you, even though he was actually your little brother by a year.

“Hey,” he says softly, your lips part as you look at where your hand rests, feeling the beat of his heart steady underneath it. “You all right?”

“Um, y-yeah,” you can hardly talk, you’re so damn shy in general but especially around Satoru Gojo and his pretty blue eyes just looking right at you. “I’m all right, sorry…”

“Don’t apologize sweets,” you blush at the little name, he eases his hand off and you realize yours is still on him, yanking it back, he laughs just a little at that. “Headed home?”

“I am, um… it was…” Shit, you can’t talk at all, it was a little different with everyone on the rink, but just Satoru made it more difficult.

You hate being awkward.

That’s the thing about figure skating – you can be elegant, delicate and lovely, but in real life you stammered, you couldn’t talk half the time, it was all just too much, too overwhelming. Then you overthought every single word you said, replaying it over in your head, sometimes the dumbest shit that would come out of your mouth when you’re nervous would keep you up all night.

Even now he’s looking curiously and you still can’t talk. All you can think of is that cologne he’s wearing, the scent of him, how he feels so warm against you. How tall he is especially without the boost of your skates, the way he looks at you. Uncle Sukuna said all these things about him, partying and this and that, but it doesn’t deter you like it should.

He just… seems like he has a good soul.

You think you’re a good judge of that?

“I’m just standing here oh god,” he chuckles again, brushing a little lock of your hair back delicately, your heart hammers faster at the brush against your skin, feather light. “I’m sorry I’m not that um… I don’t talk alot. I know you’re trying to be friendly this week, I hope you don’t think I’m rude?”

“Not at all.” You exhale in relief. “I talk too fucking much,” you giggle then, so precious Satoru can’t stand it, hugging your body just a bit.

“No, you talk just enough, it’s nice to… I like talking to you,” you would have thought you said you wanted to kiss him, how flustered you get, trembling.

“Cold?”

“We are in an ice rink.”

“Right, that, I’m always warm,” he swipes his brow, a hint of his abdomen showing, that little v cut that almost ruins your senses. “You look flushed.”

“Oh I guess I am,” you’re shivering from being near him, trying to play it off then. “You are so great out there, especially helping Uncle Kuna.”

“I still can’t believe he’s got a little nickname,” you smile, looking down just a bit, making Satoru ache to tilt your chin up, to have a look into your pretty eyes, he almost fucking does it too, barely keeping his composure.

Since when is he nervous like this?

“There’s a party tomorrow, you should come.”

“Oh, no, I don’t do crowds and parties.”

“You… compete in front of hundreds of people?”

“Yeah, but I’m kind of alone when I do?”

“That makes sense,” he murmurs, curious about you more and more, as you put a hand tentatively to his shoulder. “Maybe another time?”

“If Uncle Kuna would ever let me,” he rolls his eyes.

“Uncle Kuna goes to those parties,” you gasp, Satoru grins. “He does it to ‘watch us’ like he’s so much older. He’s only in his thirties.”

“I know it’s hard to remember, he acts so grown up doesn’t he?”

“Nah, I’ve seen him playing beer pong, he screams grown frat boy,” you’re laughing again.

“He was one!”

“Fuckin’ called that shit,” Satoru takes your hand then and presses a little kiss to the back of your knuckles.

He’s never done that but it feels like the right move, you’re so damn pretty and sweet like some girl at a ball in the eighteen hundreds, none of that really makes sense but it does in his own mind. Plus watching you blush and your eye lashes flutter is probably the cutest thing he’s seen.

“Uncle Kuna didn’t say you were a gentleman.”

“I’m so not,” he lets your hand go, smirking and slipping his hands in his pockets then. “I am probably not that bad as he says though. He always has it out for me.”

“He seems really proud of you too though! Don’t tell him I said it,” Satoru pauses, cheeks reddening a bit.

“Are you in town for a while?”

“I’m staying with him and my brother for a bit. Actually, I was living in the dorms during college, but I want to try to get more practice, more… professional?”

“You look like a pro,” you smile and giggle all fucking cute. “You do.”

“Thank you Satoru,” you both walk towards the front doors now, the air is even chillier with the winter breeze, both of you slinging on your jackets. Satoru looks almost ethereal with the way the moonlight hits his face. “Good night.”

“See you uh, tomorrow?” You smile and wave, and Satoru can’t take that damn dopey grin off his face.

*****

Satoru's snorting a line up his nose as the music hums and the room is filled with everyone dancing that night. He's got a girl on either side of him giggling, both of their hands just touching on him, they’re pretty and he enjoys them usually, but for whatever reason he feels…

Off.

“Gimme a line, shit,” Toji’s big ass sits next to him and Satoru rolls his blue eyes, snatching one of the girls right onto his lap. “Wanna snort one off her.”

“My premium coke? You owe me,” Satoru watches as Toji lines that snow up on the girl, the other one leaning close with her lips against Satoru’s ear.

“Mmm, can you do one off me?”

“I can,” he’s chuckling and sprinkling powder right on her, leaned over with his nose brushing her skin, hand on her waist.

That’s what you walk into – so nervous to go to a party, but your friends on the team convinced you how fun it would be, just to catch sight of Satoru Gojo’s tongue lapping up a pretty skater’s neck. You know her somewhat, she’s pretty and sweet, giggling so loudly you can hear her even over the music rushing in the large house.

Suguru’s house apparently.

“Hey there,” he is the one who greets you, standing in front of the view you have of Satoru and those girls, the feeling so odd.

You don’t even know Satoru, how could you care if he was with someone?

“Hi, Suguru, right?” He smiles and takes your hand, a little kiss on the back of it making you flush. “I don’t think we formally met.”

“We haven’t yet, I’m glad you came,” he gestures around. “Please help yourself to  anything at all, would you like a drink?”

“Yes please,” he nudges his head and you follow him around, Satoru’s gaze catching yours as he’s laughing, snorting another line off her, he falters just a bit, his lips parting. You just sort of give a small smile and avert your gaze – something about seeing him like that feels a little too intimate to witness.

You didn’t know he had a girlfriend or…

Two girlfriends?

“Here, something sweet,” Suguru pours you a little glass of wine, much different than the beer in everyone’s hands or the liquor lined up.

“How’d you know I’m not a drinker?” You ask, he just shrugs a shoulder, corking the bottle.

“A guess is all, I know these parties get a little crazy, just tell me if anyone bothers you, yeah? I’ll kick them out.”

“Thank you,” you place a hand on his shoulder, before clearing your throat and smiling, noticing Satoru walking your way, the girl tugging at his light blue jersey. “Is that his girlfriend?”

“Girlfriend? Oh, no he doesn’t…”

Satoru’s right in front of you, hands in his pockets, smiling in that way only he can, you see the smallest hint of residue on his plump lips, which he laps off with a flick of his tongue. “You came! I didn’t uh… think you would?”

“I did come,” you look down a bit nervously, clearing your throat and smiling now, sipping on the wine. “You look like you’re having fun.”

“Eh I guess,” he rubs the back of his neck, shifting a bit and looking at Suguru. “Got her the good stuff, huh?”

“Mhm, I’ll let you two talk,” he smiles at you as he walks away, Satoru is close to you – too close, you can inhale that scent in your nostrils, something just him.

You can’t be jealous of someone you don’t know.

You plaster on a pretty smile now, sipping the sweet drink. “You don’t have to come entertain me.”

“I invited you and it’s not… I don’t have to…” Fuck, why does he get tongue tied like this? “I uh… I really wanted to see you.”

“You did?” His big grin is your answer, leaning on the counter and ignoring the girls who try to call him over. “I think you’re kind of popular.”

“Yeah well they’re fine,” he takes your drink and sips it, putting his lips right where you had, his eyes darkening as they study you over the rim. “Mmm, yummy.”

Fuck.

Gojo’s licking his lips and doing insane things to your tummy, fluttering like there’s a million butterflies, he steps closer to you, brushing your hair back. “You really came.”

“I did,” you laugh softly when the music shifts.

“Wanna dance?”

“Oh um,” you flush and sip your wine, clearing your throat just a bit. “Are you sure you wanna dance with me?”

“That’s why I asked,” he sets his cup down, taking your glass and putting it in the fridge, you blink curiously. “Safer in there, a lot of people here tonight.”

You blink a bit curiously, tilting your head. “Safer?”

“From…” He trails off, taking your hand. “Guys can drug drinks, no one on my team would but other players? There’s some really horrible men, even if I haven’t personally seen it happen – I've heard shit.”

“You’re keeping my drink safe,” you melt as he shrugs as if that’s just something normal – so caring you ache.

Sukuna and Yuuji care for you but they’re family – Satoru is still a stranger.

“No big deal sweetheart.”

“It’s really sweet of you,” he gets a little flustered, tugging you into the enormous living room, with vaulted ceilings and fancy, modern chandeliers hanging. You look up in wonder at them, so pretty then, they’re glowing right along your face, and for a moment his breath is smacked out of his lungs.

Satoru could just stare at you all day.

“It’s so pretty,” you sigh now – blinking just a bit as your gaze is captured.

To be engrossed in a chandelier when everyone around him was just snorting coke, drinking, smoking…

“It’s very pretty,” he agrees, looking right at you. You catch sight of it and look back down nervously, biting your lip. “Hey, look at me.”

You raise your eyes, your heart hammering in your chest. “I suck at eye contact.”

“I’ll help you,” he turns you around in a little circle, tugging you against his hard body, making you melt. “It’ll help with skating when you’re competing, being able to look at the crowd.”

“That’s true, oh sorry!” You stumble a bit so he just picks you up, you gasp at that, you’ve had partners pick you up countless times but not like this, just spinning you and holding you up with your feet dangling.

“A figure skater who can’t dance? That’s insane baby,” you laugh as he sets you down on your feet, feeling the eyes of those girls now. “What is it?”

“I don’t think they like me,” you murmur, Satoru looks back at them and frowns just a bit. “They’re scowling.”

“Nah, they just…” He doesn’t even know what to say, he’s forgotten their names again. “Just curious about you.”

“You’re so different from what Sukuna says,” he snorts now, rolling his eyes and turning you, tugging your back against him. “He says you’re a menace.”

“Well I am,” you snort a bit, and he chuckles, feeling the curve of your ass pressing on his thighs. “You don’t think I’m a menace?”

“You just seem thoughtful and kind,” he pauses now, those words aren’t typically what people say.

Even though Satoru was kind, they typically just saw the confidence, the arrogance, the ego hiding so much. He pauses a bit and then grips your hips, moving them, his lips brushing against your ear as he bends down. “Move those hips like you do on the ice.”

You’re so nervous – people are looking at you two, if Sukuna found out he’d probably lock you up in your room, but you’re not going to tell Satoru no, you want to listen to him. His soft little commands are overwhelming, hips rocking back against him and then around with his guidance, your head falling back against his chest as you move with him.

“There you go,” his words are like honey, sweeter than the wine on your tongue, just those few sips already rushing through your body, heated up by him. “Turn and show me what ya got.”

You turn and look at him in those pretty blue eyes, earning his pleased grin, his lashes lowered as he leans down, tugging you against him again. “Everyone’s looking at us.”

“Mhm,” you start moving with him, finding his own rhythm, every little brush of his fingers igniting something inside you. “Feel the music, like you do in a routine.”

You close your eyes and feel it like he says, the music thrumming, the tingles that shoot out from the way his hands grip your hips, you’re rolling your hips without his help soon enough, body moving right with him. As if he’s your partner lifting you and guiding you during your moves, the way he spins you makes you dizzy, having you face him once more.

Your eyes flutter open and this pretty smile hits your face, making Satoru grin right with you, laughing softly just a bit, the girls are still murmuring about you, but at the moment you really can’t care. You feel so pretty with how Satoru just looks at you, though you wonder…

How much of this is just him?

Just charming Satoru Gojo who does this with everyone? Were others used to or immune to it? You find it nearly impossible to be.

“You’re doing it on your own, see? Look at you moving like that,” the way he’s talking hits something inside you, making your core burn up, your thighs clench together, every word shooting right between them. “Doing s’good.”

He’s muffling his words, spinning you again, lips now pressed against your cheek as he leans down, brushing against your skin. “You think so, Gojo?”

“Call me Satoru,” he corrects, his hand splaying your tummy, picturing how he’ll be able to see himself inside it, feeling fucking filthy. “Of course I think so.”

“I um… really…” The song comes to a halt and Toji steps up on the table, you swear it’ll break he’s so damn big, shouting at everyone.

“All right you drunk fucks,” everyone laughs at him, Satoru simply rolls his eyes, hands falling off your waist ever so slightly. “Time for us all to chug.”

“Chug?” You ask softly, Satoru sighs, fucking Toji ruining his moment with you for him to chug beer – Satoru hates beer.

“Yeah, I’ll be right back though okay?” You nod and he rushes over, as if he’s dying to get it over with, when the two girls who had glared daggers at you are on either side of him. He seems a little tense, but he doesn’t move, he just takes the can Suguru hands him, putting it to his lips.

You just met Satoru Gojo. You can’t go having all these feelings for a man who is a stranger, especially the gnawing jealousy as the girls all half naked are bouncing around, making you question your attire. Were you too prim and proper? Was Satoru into a more… bold woman?

Why do you care so damn much already?

Satoru, of course was in his element, he finishes his beer with a speed faster than everyone, slamming the can down before anyone else could – even Toji. “Hah, won like always.”

“Swear you take dick down your throat,” Toji grumbles, Satoru snorts in laughter, blowing him a kiss.

“You wish, baby boy.”

“Ugh,” everyone is laughing and cheering, you’re just watching ever curiously, smiling when his eyes find yours in the crowd, all twinkling and so pretty you forget the girls next to him.

The girl in the crop top on the left fists her hands in his jersey, pulling him down for a messy kiss.

You saw him kissing that girl earlier and… it was fine, you guess, but something about this one after he danced with you…

Fuck you think too much into things.

He was having fun, you’re planning some romantic love – you’ve always had your head in the clouds, you suppose now is no different, your heart just fucking hurts though. He pushes her off him and clears his throat as you rush over to the kitchen, dying to drink that wine suddenly.

What was wrong with you?

“Hey… easy,” Satoru’s annoyed as shit, but how can he explain to a girl he just had in his lap grinding on him that you’re here, and he only wants to talk to you, to look at you.

It’s insane, whatever it is you do to his mind, he feels bad for a moment when she pouts. “But Satoru, I was hoping you’d come home with us.”

“Both of us,” the other girl bounces over right next to her, and normally Satoru would be all about fucking two pretty women, seeing them fuck.

What was wrong with him?

His eyes go to find yours and he sees you over there talking to Suguru, who brushes a lock of your hair back, it’s nothing lewd or forward – it’s sweet if anything, but it stabs him right in the fucking chest. Your eyes meet his and lower when these girls kiss on him, something he’s never felt embarrassed or ashamed about. It’s not like Satoru has ever even dated a girl.

All he does is party, fuck, play hockey, repeat. Countless girls on him, underneath him, sucking him down, fighting over who could swallow his cum first, never has he had a moment to question it. Anything to fill those lonely times, those thoughts when he’s all alone in his home, and he feels that loneliness, that exhaustion.

Never has he felt so goddamn mad his friend is laughing with a girl, the friend he’s fucked girls with, he wants to smack his goddamn hand.

“I gotta go, not tonight,” he mumbles, rushing toward the kitchen, hands in his pockets and smiling at Suguru and you, as if everything is fine. “Sorry about that, they’re fucking clingy.”

“They like you alot,” you murmur, Satoru just blinks a bit, lips parted. “You don’t have to hang out because you invited me, have fun.”

“What!? No, not at all,” his phone starts buzzing like crazy, he puts it on silent, reading all the messages from girls asking him to come over.

“Satoru’s the most popular,” Suguru says, not in a mean way, it’s sweet if anything. “Me not so much.”

“What? Everyone was gushing about both of you,” Suguru blushes and you giggle, you’re not used to someone blushing as bright as you do.

“I am not as good with attention.”

“I love attention,” Satoru grins and you giggle just a bit, before noticing the lipstick stuck to his mouth – an obnoxious glitter. “Have something on my face?”

“Yeah,” you lean forward and swipe the glitter off his lips, he sucks in a breath at the act, before he sees all the glitter on your finger. “Your girlfriends are sparkly.”

“Not girlfriends,” he grabs another drink and downs it, cursing internally, feeling like he’s already fucked it up somehow, even if you’re smiling and just sipping your drink. Suguru is enamored with you, he doesn't even look Satoru's way.

Maybe when Suguru asked if he thought you were pretty he should have admitted it and not deflected.

“Well I'm glad if I didn't ruin your fun or anything,” he curses internally. He invited you here but he didn't take into account who you are.

You're different from anyone here and he'd never want to change that, but how did he think you'd fit into such a crowd? Of course you'd talk to a much calmer person like Suguru amidst the chaos.

Yet he wanted you here.

“Not at all, I'm always partying. I promise I'm not missing out,” he clears his throat now, when Choso walks over to them. He's related to Sukuna so of course he knows you, immediately giving you a hug.

“Hey! Oh god, Sukuna is gonna kill you,” you sigh and nod, covering your face.

“I know, don't tell him!” He holds up two fingers.

“Secret is safe from me, plus it'll do you some good to get out,” he looks at Satoru and Suguru now. “I'm glad you're with them and not some randoms though, in that case I'd have to snatch you out of here.”

“If you're Sukuna's nephew…” Suguru – stoned already – tries to put two and two together as he looks between you both. “And you're his niece… How many does Sukuna have?”

“A lot,” Choso admits, lips twitching up with amusement. “Our family is all over the place,” he sighs now. “You know Yuuji is joining the team soon?”

“Yes he's so excited! Choso you should come over for dinner sometime?”

“I can soon,” he tugs out a blunt then, smirking. “Do you partake or is this too crazy?”

“I haven't before,” you blush a bit. “Will it mess me up?”

“Nah it's more calming, but I'll leave it up to you,” someone starts shouting for him, Choso was absolutely the plug of the hockey team. “Here, give it to them or smoke it, no pressure. Just be careful when you get home. Sukuna used to cuss me out when he caught me.”

You smile at him and nod, taking the blunt curiously, looking at the two men. “Um have you all…”

They chuckle. “Maybe every night before bed?” Suguru says, you giggle at that, handing it to him.

“I also partake, but it can make you a little dizzy,” Satoru says softly, looking over at Suguru. “We should do this in private, she's already got a couple fan girls and I don't want any drama for her.”

“Fangirls?” You ask, Suguru tops off your wine then gestures for you to follow them both.

“As in – they're jealous of you,” Suguru answers, leading you up the stairs into his room. “Try not to let that all get to you too much.”

“I do feel they think I'm stuck up,” you mumble, heart racing when Satoru's hand rests on the small of your back for a moment, helping you avoid a very drunk partygoer stumbling all around. “Thank you.”

 “Of course,” his touch feels far too good – but a part of you tries to remember the kisses he got, the glitter on his skin. He is probably someone who doesn't date, and your heart couldn't take anything casual. Even if it's difficult not to react to any touch or look.

“It'll be quieter in here,” Suguru looks at you then. “Are you comfortable coming in my room?”

“Yes,” you murmur. You've heard only good things about Suguru – a gentleman by even Sukuna's words, and you already feel comfy with Satoru.

Sukuna would kill you if he knew you were gonna smoke a blunt at a party in their room. Something about that mixes you with panic and a little thrill – you're always such a good girl, a little fun is exciting as it is scary.

“Have a seat,” Suguru takes the chair, you and Satoru sit at the edge of his bed – your thighs brushing against each other as Suguru takes the blunt and lights it up, inhaling and tilting his head back a bit. “What do you think – first party and all?”

“I don’t know if it’s really my scene,” you admit softly, Satoru feels just a little bit of guilt for inviting you, but you’re quickly smiling at him. “I’m glad I came, though.”

“Yeah?” He exhales almost in relief when you nod, smiling a bit, your legs crossing, that cute little skirt slipping up your thighs.

“Good, though I’d suggest being very careful,” Suguru says, leaning forward and handing you the blunt. “I don’t want Sukuna to lose his shit, but also parties other than ours? Get really rowdy, especially Naoya’s.”

“Oh, is that the blonde guy? He’s…”

“A dick?” Satoru finishes, you blush now. “It’s okay, we all hate him too, just a hell of a player.”

“He was kind of lewd with his… he hit on me and…”

“What?” Satoru glares, Suguru clears his throat, standing and holding your hand in his, smiling.

“Want me to show you how?” You nod, realizing that you’re still holding the burning blunt in your fingers. “Put it to your lips and suck, just enough to fill your mouth – not so much that you feel sick, all right?”

“Yes,” with his help you wrap your lips around the blunt, inhaling just a bit, the smoke filling you too thick, you immediately cough. “Oh!”

“You all right?” Suguru and Satoru both touch your back carefully, you nod and pass it to Satoru, he takes a big drag of it, filling his lungs – even that is attractive honestly, your heart is racing just being so close to him.

“When did Naoya hit on you?” Satoru asks, passing the blunt back over to Suguru, blue eyes focusing on you.

“The other day, ‘nice ass new girl’ and he asked me to come over, got all offended because I didn’t respond… I was just too nervous and it made me…”

“Surprised Sukuna hasn’t beat him,” Suguru says, handing it to you with a frown.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“I’ll say something,” Satoru’s words make you inhale just a little too much of the blunt this time.

You’re coughing all delicate, even that’s cute, Satoru notices, Suguru curses then when his phone starts going off. “What is it, Sugu?”

“The same shit as always – speaking of the little shit, Naoya and Toji are fighting.”

“Again?”

“Yep, I gotta go break the shit up before they destroy my place.”

“Fuck,” Satoru tenses just a bit, seeing you still coughing a little. “Need me to help?”

“Nah it’s fine,” Suguru leans down a bit. “Are you all right here, love?”

“Yes,” you clear your throat and smile. “I don’t think I can handle smoking very well.”

“You took a hit like a champ,” he ruffles your hair affectionately, before doing the same to Satoru, making him glare. “I’ll see you two downstairs, but wait a bit – that shit is gonna get rowdy. Just let me know if you need anything, okay? Water, food, a ride – don’t be shy to ask me or Satoru.”

“Oh,” you blush at how thoughtful the two men are. “Thank you, Suguru.”

“Good luck with ‘em,” Satoru grumbles, Suguru walks out and shuts the door behind him quickly, you faintly hear just a bit of the rowdiness in the huge home Suguru has, muffled once more by the door.

You’re alone with Satoru Gojo.

“Are you all done, sweetheart?” He asks, holding the blunt to his lips and inhaling the thick plume of smoke, blowing it upward after holding it in.

“I think I suck at taking hits,” he smiles and shakes his head, a hand brushing back a little tendril of hair. “It’s very new to me.”

“You don’t suck at all, here you can… I can breathe the smoke in your mouth, it’s less that way? But only if you’re okay with it,” you blush furiously, and he notices.

“Wouldn’t that be a kiss?”

“It would be a kiss,” he whispers, leaning closer now, fingertips brushing against your cheek.

“I don’t want to kiss that glitter,” you glare a little and he laughs, shaking his head and slipping chapstick out of his pocket, swiping it on. “Hmm, I don’t know, I think I see a little bit.”

“I swear I don’t want their glitter on me,” he pauses, lips parted just a bit, taking your hand in his. “Wipe it all off real good, the slutty glitter.”

You giggle, the smoke and drinks rushing through your system, coming close and swiping the remaining sparkles off his lips, until you’re achingly close, your thigh almost over his on the bed. His hand brushes against it, swallowing nervously as you lean close to him, and the blunt is still in his hands, burning out slowly.

Should you tell him you’ve never kissed? What would he think, you in your early twenties and not a single one? A lot of it was Sukuna, but a lot of it was your shyness, the way you didn’t open up to people easily. Yet thinking of kissing those soft lips has butterflies rushing through your tummy, has you so dizzy as he looks into your eyes the way only Satoru Gojo can.

But could you remember that he’s not serious like that? Could you just kiss him to do it, when you’re a little hopeless romantic?

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want,” he murmurs then, hand slipping higher, thumb brushing little circles on your thigh, making you soaking wet – to the point it’s embarrassing. His gaze flickers down your body for a brief moment, sighing just a bit. “I didn’t invite you here to get anything like this from you, I get that you’re…”

“What, Satoru?”

He swallows again, leaning closer. “Innocent, sweet, off limits… I want you to have some fun but I don’t want you to think that’s what I asked you here for.”

“Why did you ask me?” You ask then, he sighs, nose almost brushing against yours.

“Call me very curious about you, who you are, what makes you tick… I am achingly curious about you, pretty little figure skater,” you blush even more, and he chuckles a bit. “Your cheeks are burning hot.”

“You think I’m…”

“Pretty? Yeah,” his lips press your cheek, feeling the warmth against them, and you ease even more onto his thigh, until he can almost feel your heat. “Who doesn’t think you’re pretty?”

“I um… wanna try the…”

“Shotgun?”

“It sounds like trouble,” he laughs softly, bringing the blunt to his lips and looking at you under those white lashes.

“I’ll inhale it and blow into your mouth, you keep it in as long as you can, but don’t make yourself dizzy,” you nod and he tugs you firmly on his lap now, your hands on his shoulders, breath caught at the proximity.

You’re on Satoru Gojo’s lap – you, top figure skater, achingly close against the top Hockey star.

But right now, you’re just a boy and a girl, and Satoru for all his experience looks very boyish right now, blushing himself as he inhales the smoke, and his hand entangles in your hair. You lean down, your lips against his for the first time, feeling the smoke blow into your mouth in a cloud, his hand snaking around to the small of your back as he blows.

Your first kiss is with Satoru Gojo.

He pulls back and you blow the smoke out, but his eyes are different – lidded and sultry, his lips parted just so, glossy from your own. He kisses you once more, tugging you even further on him, and your eyes flutter shut, rocking into the sensation of him, getting high off his kisses, when his tongue swipes in, you pause – pulling back and gasping.

“Too far?” He murmurs, setting the blunt on the ash tray near the bed, leaning just a bit as you cling to him, you fall just a bit further as he loses his balance, now on his back with you on him.

“I’m so sorry…” You whisper, he leans up on his elbows, hands on your thighs, taking them over. “I um… it wasn’t too far.”

“No, you sure?” He asks softly, you’re pushed to the center of the bed looking down at him, feeling just how hard he is.

You’ve seen things, read things, but you don’t know what’s real and what is for fiction or for show, suddenly so nervous, but you lean forward and kiss him again, intoxicated from his lips. The cherry chapstick seeps onto your tastebuds, when he flicks his tongue against yours again, moaning.

“I haven’t kissed,” you whisper, shutting your eyes in embarrassment, Satoru’s quiet. “I know, how haven’t I? It’s so… em-”

“It’s cute,” he cuts you off and answers softly, cupping your face with one hand as he sits up. “Hey, look at me.”

You do just that, and suddenly Satoru feels something he can’t place, some sort of protective feeling towards you – just as much as he wants to corrupt you, have you arch for him, ride his face. Another part wants to make sure you’re sweet like this forever, to not ruin that part of you, the little innocent one that’s looking at him so trusting then.

Was Satoru any good for you? Sukuna was right about one thing, he wasn’t serious about anything but hockey, but how can he not want to show you how to kiss? How can he not want to claim your lips first and drink your sighs, feel the gentle weight of you on his hips, your thighs pressing tightly – all those years of training he can feel underneath his fingertips.

“You’re precious,” he muses out loud, you giggle and shake your head. “Why’d you pick me, for the first kiss? Isn’t that a big deal to you?”

“Yeah it is,” your words are soft and breathy, he can feel your heat rushing against his cock, the one aching to slam inside you – but he can hold himself back, he has to hold it all down. “It feels right to kiss you, is that really odd to say? Am I sounding high already?”

He laughs softly, shaking his head and letting his lips brush against the tip of your nose. “No sweetheart, I think if you feel something you should be able to say it to me. Do you want me to show you how to kiss?”

“Could you?” You ask carefully, biting on your lip and drawing his attention to it. “I am afraid I won’t be very good at it like…”

“Yeah no need to compare yourself,” he already knows you’re beyond those girls – he should feel bad that he suddenly doesn’t care about the fun he had with them, maybe he will later.

Right now he just wants to kiss every inch of your cute little body – but for this very moment, he leaves it to your lips, pressing again and sighing, precum leaking and making his cock stick to his boxers. You exhale and lean into the kiss, rocking your hips and then pausing.

“I don’t know why they’re doing that,” he laughs softly, drunk off just the way you’re looking up at him.

“Dancing like earlier,” he whispers, hands coming to rest on them, his thumbs pressing against your pelvis and feeling you rock once more. “Does it feel good?”

“Too good,” you pause your hips with a shaky breath. Satoru looking at you like this, kissing you like this? How badly could it hurt you, if you fall the way you think you already are? “Um how do I… your tongue… I’ve only seen people do it.”

“Ah, you just move it along till we find a rhythm,” he kisses you again, tongue slipping in your mouth, tilting his head as his snowy lashes flutter shut, tickling your cheeks, they’re so long. “Try to move it.”

“Okay,” you tentatively move your tongue against his, matching the movements – his tongue is long compared to your little pink one, taking your mouth over like he’s drinking you. “Mmm…”

It's awkward at first when you try, going too fast, too slow, like a routing where you’re just learning the movements, but Satoru is patient, he doesn’t push it, pulling back and laughing softly, pressing kisses on the corners of your lips. He guides you, his tongue stroking yours in a slow, deliberate rhythm that takes your breath.

You’re mad that anyone ever kissed Satoru – and you know that’s toxic, you know it’s insanity when you both aren’t together, but you feel it anyway, as your hips start moving again, grinding against his cock which just keeps thickening. You can feel every inch of him through the thin fabric of your panties, already soaked, dripping onto his dark blue jeans.

Satoru groans into your mouth, his hands tightening on your hips bruisingly, pulling back to gasp for a breath, his pupils blown out. "Fuck…”

“Good? Bad?” He laughs and shakes his head.

“Little too good,” he winces when you move again, knowing he’s going to be aching when you leave, gonna have to jerk his cock to you.

Not like he hasn’t already.

Several times.

“You’re a natural at it,” he murmurs, kissing your chin, down your jaw, your lashes flutter shut when his lips touch the nape of your neck, making you cry out – this sexy sound that fucking ruins him. “You sound like that from a kiss on the neck?”

“Mnh,” you whine out again, his lips burning hot on your skin, like he’s kissing little memories all over them, your hands entangle in his white locks, soft and fluffy in your touch, his hand slipping up to grip a breast. “Ah!”

“You have no idea what you're doing to me sweetheart,” he’s damn near babbling, so lost in your natural sensuality, you don’t even realize the chokehold you have him in with every breath. The weight of your pretty tit feels perfect in his palm, thumb brushing a circle around your nipple as he teeth nip your ear. “Wonder how you sound if I kiss you here, and here, and here….”

Satoru’s lips trail down, your bare shoulder, his other hand slides up your back, underneath that top, his long, calloused fingers tracing patterns on your skin. You arch into his touch, your nipple so sensitive, you’re getting dizzy from him, head falling to the side for more of his hungry kisses, the flicks of his tongue, the scraping of his teeth.

“Satoru…”

“God,” he murmurs your name before he finds your lips, searing a kiss right on your mouth once more, until the both of you can’t breathe. “Do you want me to make you cum?”

“M-make me…”

“You don’t have to touch me,” he whispers, hands slipping back down to your thighs, eyeing the slick that’s dripping down them. “You’re soaked, baby.”

Baby.

Fuck.

You’re so dizzy now, it can’t just be Satoru – not when the room is starting to whir, and you gasp out, pausing with your nails pressing into his shoulders, Satoru looks up at you now, brows drawn together. “Hey, are you all right sweetheart?”

"Everything's... spinning a little,” you whisper, his hands are on your face instantly, his expression shifting from heady desire to worry immediately.

"Hey, look at me, I’m right here, yeah? Am I spinning too?”

You try to focus on his pretty blue eyes, but they even seem to be swirling. "Yeah, just... maybe the blunt? Or wine? I feel a little dizzy."

His thumb is stroking your cheek gently in little circles, as he takes a breath, willing his cock to go so he can focus on making sure that you’re all right. "Okay, that's enough for tonight, yeah?”

“Oh but I… wanted to…”

Satoru smirks now, easing you off his lap, little gossamer strands of slick pulling and dissolving from your panties to his cock where you’re connected. When you see the mess you made and cover your face, horrified, Satoru just looks at you curiously, brushing back your hair.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m so sorry, oh god,” he looks down at the wet patch you left and grins, a devious little grin then.

“That?” He uses his thumb to brush the slick you left, glistening with an embarrassing amount of your arousal.

“Don’t make it worse! It’s already – ah… hah you’re… um…” You can’t speak when he sucks your arousal off his fingertip, lips wrapping around it, moaning and shutting his eyes as his cheeks hollow.

He’s tasting your cunt right off his pants.

“Fuck,” he’s looking right at you again, lids heavy like he’s as fucked up as you are on him. “You’re so sweet.”

“I am?” He laughs again softly, nodding. “You tasted me?”

“Mhm.”

“Can I taste you?”

“Dear god,” you blush now as he groans, laying back on the bed for a moment and covering his eyes. “You can’t say that, looking all pretty and fucked out already, I’m trying to do the right thing.”

“I just thought if you taste me –”

“Come here,” he tugs you down for one more kiss, you land on his chest and he tilts your chin, exhaling, his breath tickling your lips. “Another time maybe, yeah? Driving me insane.”

“Am I?” You’re so fucking cute you clearly don’t know you have Satoru Gojo of all people about to cum in his damn pants. 

“Very,” his hand runs down your arm carefully. “Lemme take you home.”

“You’ve been drinking though?”

“I don’t drive,” you blink curiously and Satoru chuckles. “Driver, he takes me wherever. I can take you home and head to my place.”

“Is it out of the way?”

“Not at all, you’re staying with Sukuna, yeah?”

“For a bit, till I get my own place out here yeah,” he nods and soon he’s fixing your outfit so no one could tell you’d had it scrunched up, tugged down.

“Did you eat today?”

“Uh,” you frown when you all step into the cool air after leaving the party and saying good bye to Suguru. “I think I ate a string cheese.”

“What now?” He frowns at you. “And you trained?”

“I ate some cereal this morning!”

“No wonder you’re dizzy, your girl dinner shit,” you laugh at that, stepping into the back of the car with him. “You have to eat if you drink, and you really should eat with how much you train.”

“I kind of forgot,” you admit softly, fiddling with your skirt, you’re so close to him in the backseat, and you can feel those butterflies all over again. “So those girls… they’re not your girlfriends?”

“No sweetheart, and no deflecting from the fact I’m getting you food,” he leans forward and pulls aside the partition, telling him where to go.

“Do you um… date, Satoru?”

“I um,” he rubs the back of his neck now, sighing. “Not really, but it doesn’t mean I wouldn't, I just… haven’t.”

“Same I haven’t either,” he smiles softly at you. “Though I didn’t have fun quite like you.”

“That’s okay, no need to be a slut like me,” you giggle and the sound is so cute he thinks he’d like to hear it every damn day. “How about if you eat really good all week for me, we sneak a date next weekend? It will be a first for us both.”

“A date?” You’re a blushing mess now, his own heart is racing.

Satoru hasn’t gone on a date – he’s fucked so many women, he’s had drinks, gone to their place, had them over. Small talk, not just sex, aftercare of course, but he’s never just gone out. Where would he take you, what did you like? And most importantly, how the fuck could he not let Sukuna know?

He’s a walking dead man if he knew his niece had her cunt soaking Satoru’s clothed cock tonight.

“A date, I’d like it,” you frown a bit then. “But Uncle Kuna…”

“Yeah, we’ll have to be pretty discreet,” he mumbles, you two stop and he orders you both food out the window quickly. “I think he’ll kill me if he knows we take one.”

“He will,” you sigh and take the fry he hands you, nibbling it from his fingers. “Oh I never get fast food! Sukuna’s always making healthy, protein-filled blah blah.”

“That’s good but for the weed munchies? Greasy fries,” you’re giggle as he feeds you carefully, and Satoru doesn’t know how the fuck he’ll not take every bit of time you want to give him.

He wishes he felt bad that you’re Sukuna’s niece.

He really doesn’t though, not when you’re taking a little bite of a burger and he’s dabbing your lips, smirking at you. “You’re stoned, baby.”

“Shit, I am,” you sigh and shake your head, sipping on the coke now. “I don’t think I’ll smoke again.”

“That’s probably a good idea, especially if you’re not used to it,” he sips from the same drink, lips wrapping the straw, you swipe a little drop off his lips, making him pause. “Dangerous, sweetheart.”

“Dangerous, hmm?”

“Very,” he sets down the food and cups your face, kissing your lips, sighing. “Not much is stopping me from having you cum on my fingers tonight aside from you being dizzy.”

“Oh? Oh,” your mind is flitted with filthy images as the car stops.

“And Sukuna killing me, but I think it’d be worth it to hear you moan,” you bite down on your lower lip, earning his frustrated little moan, tugging it from the grip and kissing you once more. “Get some rest, yeah? No date if I catch you calling a string cheese a meal.”

“Yes, sir,” your words about fuck him up more, sneaking one little kiss and smiling. “Tonight was so much fun, Satoru, thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” he shouldn’t be thanked when he wants to drag you right back on his lap. “Good night sweetheart.”

“Good night.”

You’re all giggling and blushing when you walk inside – just for Sukuna and Yuuji to be sitting at the dining room table, both looking at you. Yuuji, with worry, Sukuna is fucking scowling at you.

“Uh, Yuuji, you are here! Yay!”

“Yeah I flew in tonight,” you rush over and hug him, and get a little dizzy once more, he frowns, leaning back and looking at you. “Are you all right?” He whispers, as if Sukuna won’t hear.

“She’s drunk, are you drunk young lady!?”

“No sir!” You stiffen up and he snorts, rolling his ruby red eyes, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Are you lying, brat?”

“Yes sir,” you mumble now, shoulders falling just a bit. “I only had two glasses of wine, I’m just a lightweight.”

“Wine at that party?”

“How’d you know?”

“So you did!”

“Ugh,” you go over to the fridge and grab a cold water, downing it in greedy gulps, for your uncle to scoff. “What?”

“You’re stoned too?”

“How do you know!?” 

“Okay – I’m gonna sleep guys, aha,” Yuuji waves and rushes off, leaving you to the wolves, Sukuna walks right up to you, grabbing the water.

“Uncle Kuna…”

“Don’t Uncle Kuna me and bat your lashes,” his jaw tenses, filling your water with electrolyte powder. “I won’t have you hungover tomorrow.”

“Oh,” he shakes it up then hands it back, you take it gratefully, pouting and looking at the bottle. “I am sorry I went to the party, just I’ve never been to one, and I wanted so badly to see what it was all about.”

“And did you enjoy it?” You smile now, and he scowls again. “Let me guess – Satoru Gojo invited you.”

“No!” Sukuna raises a brow, making you roll your eyes. “I hung out with him and Suguru, but they were very polite.”

“Uh huh I’m sure, I swear if they harm a hair on your head–”

“I’m not a baby,” your words hit then, he frowns and looks away, making you sigh, shutting your eyes and hugging the big man tightly. “Uncle Kuna, I know you just care.”

“I have to take care of you kids,” you nod and swallow down emotions, as he pats your back. “You’re still a baby, you just think you’re grown.”

“Says such an ‘old wise man’.”

“I am.”

“You’re not much older than me,” he frowns and ruffles your hair.

“You smell like loud ass blueberry weed, I know that was fucking Choso, I’ll beat him too.”

“No you won’t,” you glare and he just tugs you tighter, squeezing you to death in his form of affection. “I won’t smoke again, but can I get credit for being twenty-two before I did?”

“No you can’t,” you’re unceremoniously shoved off him now. “Get your ass to bed, I will not let you sleep in, you have that new trainer.”

“All right, fine…” You kiss his cheek and he hides his smile, before he thinks of how he’ll kill Satoru tomorrow.

You lay in your bed and giggle, taking your phone out to see Satoru has texted you good night, you text him back with a little heart.

A date with Satoru Gojo.

The Satoru Gojo who couldn’t wait to get home, the moment he does he’s leaned against the door, he’s got his cock in his hand, spitting on it and moaning out, stroking it up and down in filthy motions, 

The Satoru Gojo who couldn't even wait to get home before he's got his cock in his hand, spitting on it and moaning out, stroking it up and down in filthy motions, is picturing you. His thumb smears the precum drooling on his pretty blush tip, making him jerk, as texts from others go unnoticed, ignored – instead looking at the cute little heart you sent.

"Fuck, sweetheart," he whispers to nothing, his eyes squeezed shut, imagining if he did get to make you cum for the first time. God, imagine getting to have his mouth on you, to taste your cunt from the source, make you shake, tremble – fall apart on his tongue.

His grip tightens, his hips thrusting up into his slick palm, he’s embarrassingly close in a few strokes – whatever the fuck you’re doing to him, cum pulsing in white ropes, spilling down his palm, wondering if you’re touching yourself. You probably would need him to show you how, just that thought makes his cock twitch, has him whimpering as he lays his head back.

Fuck.

He wishes Sukuna’s threats would be some sort of deterrent, but as he’s looking you up like a batshit crazy psycho, not sleeping when he has practice in the morning, he knows he really doesn’t fucking care. When he’s jerking it again to your pretty little professional ice skater photos… Well, Satoru Gojo might just be obsessed with Sukuna’s niece.

He may be a walking – or jerking – dead man.

****

part two will be in a couple weeks, where things will get very complicated hehe, I'm going to have so much fun! plz be respectful as this is a commission of the character/personality chosen in the comments <3

Patreon for more exclusive fics <3 comms closed for the moment!

[madamechrissy]

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[reignpage]

Read Between My Thighs

Synopsis: your plan is to avoid your rival, now that you’ve both been hired as assistant librarians, to minimise the chances of getting into hours long debates and committing murder. the problem is that he's everywhere — helping you carry heavy boxes, scoffing at your choice of literature, eating you out in the back corner between the We Shouldn't Do This and the We'll Never Speak of This Again shelves. in all the bickering and orgasms, you're left with one question:

is the smell of books an aphrodisiac?

EPILOGUE - this marks the end of the librarian!nanami fic. thank you so much for keeping up and for reading. you all have the patience of saints. your love and support for this series means the world to me, and I will forever be grateful to each and every one of you for loving this version of Nanami. I love you all.

Warnings: no spoilers (contains smut, fluff, and angst) :) Word Count: 5.3k Canto IV - Masterlist

“Oh, Kento,” you whisper, hugging your coat tighter around yourself. “I wish you could be here.”

Leaves crunch under your boots. You bury your face a little deeper in your scarf. 

Campus smells the same as you remembered it. That’s the first thing you notice. Cold air, damp bark, something faintly sweet from all the coffee shops that have popped up on and around the area. 

So much is familiar, and of course it is — things don’t change that much, even if it has been years since you graduated. The same oak tree everyone used to fight over in the summer stands tall. Same hedges, same brick walls, and cobblestones. Same mascots and crests plastered on banners and plaques. 

But, as you’d expected, things are different too. New faces, naturally. A wing was added to the Psychology building after the department received greater funding for their contribution to mental health research. The old noticeboards have gone digital, glowing screens cycling through events you can’t decipher. You don’t see many older professors; you wouldn’t be able to tell who’s a professor and who’s not anymore when professors and students have grown closer in age.

“Time really does fly, huh?” 

In spite of any changes, however, you still feel right at home here. The steps you took from building to building are embedded in the soil. The phantom of your laughter echo in the halls, overlapping with generations before and after you. Even if you graduated a while back, you’ll always be a child of academia.

Although you’re elated to be back, you can’t help but feel melancholy.

A trip down memory lane doesn’t feel right without one of the people that took prime real estate, after all. 

It just isn’t the same. 

“Stop ignoring me.”

Shuddering, you sigh wistfully. “It’s like I can still hear him.”

“You can kill me in your mind all you like,” the voice begins, dryly, “it doesn’t change the fact that you know I’m right; Kindles cannot ever be superior to a good, old, physical book.”

You scowl, and turn to look back at the man trailing behind you. “They say wisdom comes with age but you’re proving them all wrong, aren’t you, babe?”

Kento’s rubbing his glasses clean from the slight fog that’s made the lenses difficult to see through. His cheeks are ever so slightly pink from the cold, and they’re the only markers that he’s bothered by the weather. Unlike you, who’s missing the warmth of Malaysia. He barely even tanned.

He reminds you, “We’re the same age, my love.”

“Yeah, well, I wear it better,” you respond haughtily. 

Sliding his glasses back on, he blinks a couple times before hastening his steps to reach your side. He holds your hand in his and tucks it into his pocket, where a handwarmer lies waiting. A thumb rubs your knuckles. Kento smiles to himself. “I’m inclined to agree on that front.”

“Okay, so you can also agree with me about how Kindles are a fine alternative to physical books. I really don’t know why you look down on them so much — they’re so practical. You can have multiple books all in one place, they’re smaller and more portable than a book, they weigh much less, and you can adjust the font and page colours. They’re more accessible, Ken. You need to get with the times.”

He nods. “I see your points, and I’m not saying Kindles are to be scoffed at. I simply mean that, if given the choice and you have no accessibility needs, one ought to choose physical copies, and support the ever-dying paper industry.”

“You mean the paper industry that’s killing trees?”

Kento glances down at you. “Are you arguing that the manufacturing of Kindles has zero environmental impact?”

It’s a trap, you recognise it. He’s trying to bait you. It’s not going to work.

Squeezing his hand, you tug him to the direction you want to take him: down the scenic route as opposed to the shorter path to your destination. He doesn’t put up a fight. 

Casually, you say, “No, of course not. Everything has a carbon footprint. But it’s all about minimising your impact, and decreasing the number of books, and pages, that have to be printed in favour of having them digitally available, supports that. I don’t think you can argue against the point that Kindles are more environmentally friendly than physical copies.”

“So being environmentally conscious and friendly is the goal. That’s your main point? It’s the underlying reason for any decision you make regarding what you read and in what medium you read it in?” 

Without waiting for a response, Kento continues, “Would you say owning three Kindles, two more than you really need, is environmentally friendly? And if so, what would your response be to me pointing out that since you bought your first Kindle, barring the fact that you bought two more, the rate at which you purchase physical copies hasn’t decreased.”

In a flash, you yank him inside a random building. It’s in the process of renovation. The alumni newsletter said it’s going to be a ‘Wellness Centre’, whatever that means. 

There’s no one here. The lights aren’t even on. Only the natural light from the gloomy sky lights the hall full of caution tapes and unemptied boxes. 

You shove Kento against the wall and kiss him.

His hands fall upon your waist reflexively. 

Lips move together so easily, so comfortably that you grow dizzy already. There’s nothing careful about the way he kisses you. No measured distance, no polite hesitation. Just heat, and the sharp edge of something that could be likened to deep satisfaction.

Kento exhales against you, fingers tightening at your waist to anchor himself. Your hands curl into his coat, tugging him closer and closer still, until there’s no space left between you at all.

Every breath, every shift, every small sound echoes back at you.

A thigh of his parts yours. The apex of yours meets it unhesitatingly. You’re wearing jeans, and despite the layers between you, you can feel the hardness of his muscular thigh. Your hips grind down on him with a gasp. 

“Distracting me with your body?” he breathes out. “This must be an admittance of defeat.”

Your hand finds the bulge you knew would be there. When you grip him, he sucks in a sharp breath and throws his head. A light thud resounds. “You wish, Kennypie,” you whisper, rubbing his already-hard clothed cock in time with how you rub your clothed clit on his leg. 

Truth is, you believe physical copies are superior to digital. Always. You were a Classical Lit student, and forever a snob, you’ll happily admit. 

What you won’t ever admit is that Kento is right.

You’ll take any camp opposite his just to feel the thrill of debate.

Faster than you had snatched him to the dark, he spins the both of you around and pins you to the wall. He sucks your bottom lip, then your neck where your pulse is. Kento untangles your scarf, pulls down the zip of your coat along with his descent, and comes to kneel before you. 

“No, darling,” he exhales. Your thighs squeeze together. “My wish is to taste you.”

Threading your fingers through his hair, you let him unbutton your jeans and pull them down. Goosebumps rise. He soothes warmth into your skin with his palms. With a giggle, you ask, “Again? You just ate me out this morning, Ken.”

Rare mornings where you could sleep in are usually spent with him settled between your thighs, or you between his. Why wouldn’t they be?

As he guides one foot out of the jeans, he nuzzles your thigh. The tip of his nose grazes the frilly hem of your panties. “Who said I’m limited to only once per day?”

The both of you really shouldn’t be doing this. If you get caught, you won’t be expelled; that’s not the punishment non-students face. It’s jail time. But there’s no one here, and there are no cameras. The campus is near empty because of the gloomy weather, and the way he’s started mouthing at your pussy through your panties feels too good to stop. 

“Fine, but be quick, okay?” you tell him. “Our friends’ll be waiting, and after we scolded Sho for being late at the last dinner party, it’ll be a bad look if we’re late now.”

Kento hooks his finger on the gusset and pulls it aside. He makes a dreamy sigh at the sight of your puffy lips, glistening with your juices. A thumb of his parts the lips so he can see your clit and press a kiss to it. 

You jolt.

“I’ll be quick,” he mutters, sounding wholly unconvincing. “She’ll get over it if we’re late just this once.”

Then, he’s licking a stripe up your slit, collecting your wetness on his tongue. “So sweet,” he says. “Always so sweet for me, for Kento, aren’t you, sweetheart?”He’s burying his face deeper between your thighs, desperate to get as close to you as possible.

 You squirm against the wall, panting. “We’re not going to be late,” you insist. 

The end of your scarf tickles his forehead. You move it away, wanting to have an unobstructed view of his face as his tongue flicks the sensitive bundle of nerves over and over again. 

Nodding absentmindedly, he agrees, “No, we won’t be late…but it won’t be so bad if we are.”

Groaning, both in frustration and in pleasure, you repeat, “We’re not going to be late, Kento. I swear to God, you better not mess around.”

Two fingers worm their way inside your entrance, stretching the tight ring of muscle out. You feel the long digits reaching deep. They force your gummy walls to expand around them. You’re flushed, pulse racing. If anyone were to catch you now, there’d be no explaining your way out of this. 

His glasses have fogged up again. It irritates him. He takes the thing off with a hasty hand and pockets it. You like him with his glasses, but you like him with his eyes drinking you up more.

Kento curls his fingers over that spot he knows well. You moan, hips stuttering onto his face. His words come out muffled when he says, “That’s up to you, sweetheart. Admit I’m right, and you’ll get your orgasm and your high horse.”

Tempting, you think. 

He knows you so well. 

But not well enough.

Throwing your leg over his shoulder, you fully commit to getting your orgasm one way or the other. “I would rather be late to every event we have for the rest of our lives than admit you’re right in any capacity, Kento,” you announce resolutely. 

He chuckles. “Of course you would. My stubborn, stubborn girl.”

That’s the last you hear from him before he’s wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking hard. The pressure inside builds and builds. You can’t deny his skilled tongue and years of knowing your body in and out, perhaps even better than he knows his own. 

You cum with a slap of your palm over your mouth, stifling the scream. “Fuck, Ken,” you groan.

Through it, he keeps sucking and curling his fingers. He’s elongating your pleasure, making sure you can ride your high, and his tongue, to your heart’s desire. 

And just when it starts to get too much, you shove him away from your pussy. He doesn’t let you create too much distance — greedy hands grip your hips. He presses himself close, covering your body with his body heat. 

Movement heavy with the remnants of your orgasm, you fight to release his cock from the tight confines of his tailored pants. It lands heavy in your palm, tip flushed and leaking. You feel the rush of his blood, the way it makes the length pulse and his veins prominent. You stroke him a couple times just to hear him murmur your name in that slutty voice of his. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” he rasps. His hips are rutting into your hold. 

“Are you gonna fuck me, Ken?” you purr. “Are you going to christen this building before it’s even been built?”

Kento nods. He kisses you, as though unable to bear being apart from you for too long. The taste of you lingers on his tongue, and you don’t mind it. He pulls away enough to reply, “Yes, darling. I want to feel you, want to make you feel good.”

You kiss him again, smiling. “You always do, Kento. Go on, I permit you to put it inside.”

He lets out a low laugh. “How kind.”

Kento hikes your leg up on his hip, allowing his cock glide through your swollen, slick lips first. He coats the length with your juices. Lewd noises squelch, and upon the initial contact, you both gasp into each other’s mouths. 

Soon, he can’t wait any longer, and the fat cockhead is prodding your pussy as though knocking politely. It enters you slowly. Inch by inch. Being careful of the fact that he hasn’t been able to give you as much foreplay as he would have wanted. 

The stretch is so familiar, so good that your back arches off the wall. “Oh, fuck, Ken.”

“I know, my love,” he murmurs. “Me too.”

Under the layers, you sweat. You’re aware of the fibres of his sweater you borrowed brushing your skin, of the hairs sticking to the back of your neck, of how his clothes and yours makes the closeness feel dull. It’s not like being in the comforts of your own home, of being naked and in bed, and feeling skin on skin. 

Restless, you whine, “Ken, put it all in.”

A kiss to your forehead and he’s doing as you asked. 

The two of you moan when his pelvis meets yours. You’re flushed together, and it’s glorious. There’s a slight sting but nothing that doesn’t make your eyes roll back.

Kento croaks, “You feel so warm, so tight, so -hngh- soft. God, sweetheart, you’re perfect. So, so perfect.”

Your hips rock together. It’s not like the purposeful, drawn out lovemaking you do at home. You’re not teasing, playing games, or rutting against each other knowing there’ll be more rounds after this. 

This is quick. It’s fast, it’s uninhibited, it’s animalistic. You’re merely racing towards your peaks, humping each other like dogs, and grunting and moaning like so. There’s nothing sophisticated or elegant about the slapping of skin, about the clash of lips with teeth, or of the way your fingers dig in whatever body parts you can latch onto. 

“Is it nice to be back, Ken?”

Panting, he flexes his jaw as he tries to ground himself enough to think. “Y-yes, darling. It’s nice to see what’s changed and what hasn't.”

In between kisses, you respond, “Right? I mean, things have changed, but being here makes me feel like I’m a student running late for class. It’s lovely.”

He grinds his pelvis into yours, rubbing your clit till you’re almost drooling. “Yes. It is. It reminds me of the old times with you, and our -ah fuck- friends. It gets h-harder and harder to see them every year.”

“I know,” you say, hips working down on his cock. “Thank you for arranging this reunion, Ken. It’s so desperately needed after all the travelling.”

Kento cups a tit through your clothes. He kneads the fat and you jut your chest out for him. “They’d all been wanting to see you after all your success, sweetheart. It was pretty easy to organise when they want to see the award winning star in our circle.”

You grin and clench down on him. He hisses. “Oh, stop you. It’s not like you’re hiding in my shadows.”

“Someone h-has to keep these big-ego writers in place,” he responds playfully.

“My place is sitting on your face or riding your -ngh! keep going- c-cock, right, Ken?” you ask, batting your lashes up at him.

He kisses your forehead. “Whatever you say, my love.”

Something about the fact that he’s more dressed than you are has your eyes rolling to the back of your head. It’s the way he looks composed, but you know better: his cock pulses every time your walls clench down on him, and he throws his head back, Adam’s apple bobbing. It’s how you lick up the sweat beading on his neck when he does, and he grips you harder. 

The rate at which he’s fucking inside you is increasing. You’re being jostled against the wall, feeling every bump and grind as if your senses are heightened. You no longer feel cold or conscious of being caught. All you can think and feel and taste and hear and see is him.

“I’m close,” you grit out. “I’m so close, Ken!”

“I’ve got you, my love,” he promises. He grabs the back of your other thigh. You’re held up in the air by his hands, boots dangling and jeans dragging on the floor. Like this, he reaches even deeper.

Your tits bounce with every rutting, and you wish he could be sucking on one. You wish you could rub yourself all over him. You wish there weren’t layers keeping you from him. That you could be as loud and wild as you want. 

Combing your fingers through his hair, you yank his head back and command, “Yield, Kento. Submit to the -hah- love of your life and tell her she wins.”

His eyes narrow. “Or what?”

You grin. “Or I won’t cum.”

And he knows you mean it — you’re far too stubborn to succumb to pleasure, especially when there’s victory on the line. So he shakes out of your grip and rushes to dive his face forward. “You’re right,” he whispers to your ear, breathing warmth to the heated skin. “You’re always right. Kento’s wrong, about whatever we were arguing about this time, about everything.”

A breathless laugh carries into the humid air. “Damn right.”

One particularly perfect thrust against your g-spot has your vision spotting, your legs shaking, and toes curling. You cum with a silent moan. Kento groans into your neck, grip bruising as your clenching milks him to his own orgasm. 

This will be somewhere between your sixth and eight orgasm of the day and it’s just as strong as the first. 

Sex with Kento — wherever, however, whenever — is always mindblowing and mindmelting, a fact you rejoice in after concerns of age getting in the way. Of course neither of you are objectively old; your backs and joints are just fine. But you’ve been together for years now, and people often talk about how the chemistry fizzles. 

Thankfully that has yet to happen.

“Oh, s-sweetheart,” he murmurs.

“Mm, Ken,” you say when the pleasure begins to subside. “We didn’t wear a condom again. Now your cum’s gonna be dripping out of me and onto my panties.”

He throbs. You laugh again. 

“I’ll clean you up, darling,” he replies. 

Kento presses a kiss to your cheek and pulls out. The shift is abrupt enough that you both suck in a breath, the cold air rushing back in where there had only been heat a second ago. An emptiness fills you. Your cunt clenches around nothing.

You land a little unsteadily when he sets you back on your feet. 

He’s about to get onto his knees. You stop him. “No, Ken, we’re going to be late.”

He looks conflicted for a second before he checks his wristwatch and reluctantly nods. “Yes, you’re right. Again.”

“Naturally.”

Like trained criminals, you quickly fix your clothes back up and get rid of any evidence. He tugs your jeans back up, giving you some time to replace your panties with a wince at the coldness. His hands zip your coat back up, then tucks your scarf inside. He fixes your hair, and you his. Kento slides his glasses back onto his nosebridge and blinks furiously to adjust his sight.

With last checks, you two give the other satisfied nods and head on out, though not without him sneaking a kiss and you smacking his ass.

“I can’t believe we’ve been on campus not even half an hour and we’ve already desecrated a building. We haven’t matured at all,” Kento mutters under his breath when you get back on the right path and near your destination. 

Looping an arm through his, you reply, “I know. Isn’t it great?”

Amused, he glances down at you and holds your hand. He brings it up to his lips and presses a kiss on your knuckles. “The greatest.”

You laugh. 

Then stop.

Up ahead stands a woman you could never forget. And when Kento stills too, you know he’s thinking the same thing. 

Mrs. Collins doesn’t look like she’s aged a day — there’s sprinklings of colour in a head of greys, in spite of the wrinkles she bears her skin is still tight, and there’s a sharpness in her eyes that hasn’t faded away. 

She’s wrapping her scarf around herself. Without needing to ask, you know where she just came from. It oddly brings you some peace to know she hasn’t left.

You don’t know if she remembers; it’s been some years and you only worked for her for a couple months. Or if she does remember, would she say anything? Would she pretend she doesn’t know you, never did anything, and you’re just another passing figure?

“Well, hello, my dears.”

So she does.

It’s impossible to tell if that brings you comfort or not. 

“Hi, Mrs. Collins,” you say. Nanami cuts you a look but you give him a reassuring squeeze. “It’s been a while.”

“Has it?” she asks, not sarcastically, but rather genuinely, as though she finds it hard to keep time and it was just this morning that she stepped inside the library with the intent of setting you up, and she’d now stepped outside. 

A part of you is surprised she’s talking to you, that she’s entertaining this conversation, when she could walk away and go about her day. There’s no obligation to talk to you at all. You’re no longer students, no longer employed by her, no longer young and naive.

Her eyes slide over to Kento. “Mr. Nanami, are you not going to greet me?”

You’ve never spoken to him about her since before you graduated; neither of you bring it up. And you never found that fact odd — there were almost much more interesting and pressing things to talk about. 

“Good afternoon. We don’t wish to keep you. Please don’t mind us,” he replies, coldly. Well, it would seem warm enough to anyone who didn’t know him well. To you, however, you might as well be standing next to a glacier. 

She hums. “Still haven’t forgiven me, I take it.”

No, Kento doesn’t seem to have; he’s as rigid as can be, as distant as possible, and paler than ever. You squeeze his hand. He doesn’t squeeze back.  

It must haunt him more than it haunts you.

You don’t think about her and what happened very much, to be frank. You’re too busy to do so. It would be a lie, though, to say you don’t sporadically recall how you were used. Sometimes when you’re staring out the window and drinking coffee. Sometimes when you’re getting in a car. You’ve thought about what you would do and say if you saw her again, if she would ask for an apology, if you would cuss her out, blackmail her. 

Right now, when the opportunity has risen and there’s no better time, you can’t seem to do any of that.

Because the person you see in front of you isn’t this cruel, callous monster of cosmic proportions who deserves to be dragged by the hair. She isn’t going to turn you to stone or tip your boat over. She’s not the devil, the mother of all demons, the shadow under your bed.

She’s just a woman who loves books. 

And you’d do anything for the things and people you love too.

“I forgive you,” you tell her suddenly. The words leave your lips without you realising it.

Mrs. Collins purses her lips. If she’s surprised by your words, she doesn’t show it. “I never asked for forgiveness for what I did.”

“I know,” you say. “I know, and I forgive you. What you did, what happened, didn’t stunt my growth, didn’t stop me from graduating, from entering the real world with pride and confidence, and didn’t stop me and Kento from being together. What you did made me stronger. I forgive you.”

Maybe you were never even really mad at her. Maybe you’d forgiven her a long time ago, around the same time that Kento asked you to be his girlfriend and you never looked back.

The older lady processes your words for a second or two. She even looks you up and down. Then she looks at Kento, and asks, “And you?”

“I can’t.” 

Does disappointment flicker in her eyes or mere acknowledgement? Does either in yours?

Whatever the case may be, that’s all there is left to be said here. At least that’s what you think until she opens her mouth again as though the act is an afterthought.

“I read your book, dear. It’s a rather popular stock in the library.”

“Thank you,” you say automatically, a reflex you’d picked up on the book tour. 

“It’s not a compliment,” she replies. “It’s just a fact.”

It lands like a compliment, and you take it as such.

“I’ll be looking forward to the sequel,” she says. With a final, acknowledging nod, she turns. Mrs. Collins doesn’t strut off immediately though; she pauses and adds casually, “Best of luck, Mr. Nanami.” Then she goes and disappears around the corner, leaving behind a mist of warm air. 

For a moment, the two of you just stand there under the dark clouds. As far as interactions with someone you once knew and who fucked you over goes, that wasn’t so bad, right?

You rub Kento’s arm and lean your head on his shoulder. “Are you okay, Ken?”

“I’m sorry.” You look up at him. His shoulders are still tense. His gaze fixed ahead. “I know it’s unfair to resent her, especially when you’ve graciously forgiven her and I have no right to hold any moral high ground, but I just can’t. I’m sorry.”

You figured as much — he can’t forgive himself, and so he can’t forgive her, because forgiving her means forgiving himself. It’s too soon and he’s as stubborn as you so your reassurances will only go in one ear and out the other.

“No, Ken. It’s okay. Really. Process things however you need to.”

Kento replies with some heaviness, “I’ll forever be grateful you forgave me, when you shouldn’t have.”

Sighing, you grab his face and force him to meet your eyes. “Kento, it was so long ago. You’ve apologised a millions times back then, and couldn’t even get it up for the first month or so when we started dating out of guilt, remember? I know you’re sorry, hon, and I know you’d never do anything like that again. We’re not going to spiral over something that happened eons ago.”

He leans into your touch and sighs too. “You’re right, sweetheart. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to bring down the mood.”

“Better now than later, at lunch,” you say, shrugging. “Remember not to let Shoko’s teasing yet the best of you, ‘kay, Kenny Benny Bear.”

At the old nickname, he grimaces but otherwise says nothing. 

Looping your arm back through his and marching on, you add, “Plus, I can’t say I didn’t deserve it even just a little bit. Remember when I swapped your copy of The Iliad before the exam and your average went down by a couple points?”

Kento smiles at the memory. “You only did that because I changed the time zone on your laptop in the study room when you weren’t looking and made you late for the guest lecture with Phicshonal Lehjendaree Dyrektore.” 

You throw your head back and chortle. “Oh my god, yeah! I was so mad. I’d been looking forward to that for weeks.”

“It was a good lecture too,” he notes fondly. “You really missed out.”

A smack on his chest does nothing but make him smile harder. 

“Ugh, whatever, asshole,” you say though you’re smiling too. “We were both stupidly childish, weren’t we?”

“Very,” he agrees.

The two of you cuddle close together, one could say for warmth or for comfort. In spite of the weather, of the dip in the mood, you walk on feeling light. Campus is really quite beautiful in Autumn, with the vibrant reds and oranges and browns of the leaves, and the emptiness of the streets between buildings.

It’s a good day to be with friends, you think. 

Soon, the library comes into view. 

Whereas many buildings have had some tweaks done to them, the library remains just as you remember it. Marble pillars, tall doors, golden lettering, stone stairs, and a welcoming glow to it that you’re sure only you and other nerds can see.

You were a little surprised that the meet up point would be here, especially when Kento was in charge of making the plans, but now that you’re at the foot of the stairs, you’re glad it’s here. Now it really feels like coming home.

A ping alerts you both. Kento checks his phone, and clears his throat. He stiffens again. “We’re going to be late. Let’s head inside.”

You nod and follow him up. He grips your hand tight to make sure you don’t slip on the stairs.

The doors open with a soft push.

For a second, you don’t understand what you’re looking at.

Then— faces.

Familiar ones. 

Needa and Frend, grinning too wide. Shoko beside them wriggling her brows at you as Haibara jumps excitedly behind her. Your parents, his, family and friends scattered in little clusters, all turned toward you with that same unmistakable look. Expectant. Bright. Soft in a way that makes your chest tighten before your mind can catch up.

You blink.

The library — the same one you spent years in, arguing and studying and fighting — has been transformed. The harsh overhead lights are gone, replaced by a gentler glow. Lamps lit up. The dreary, old curtains have been swapped for lush velvet. There are no students. No quiet shuffling, no turning pages, no whispered conversations.

Just melodic music.

A string quartet is tucked near the far end where the reading tables used to be. Bows glide over strings, slow and aching and beautiful threading through the air and tickling your skin, which is growing warmer from both the attention, the shock, and the protective temperature of the indoors.

There’s bouquets of flowers on mahogany tables. Petals littering the floor, thickest where you come to stand in the centre of the huddle under a chandelier of twinkling lights. Soft whites, pale pinks, a few deeper hues woven in. They curl around the ends of shelves, rest along tables, and climb just slightly where they shouldn’t.

Your heart starts to pound, hard enough that it drowns out everything for a moment. 

Slowly, you turn.

Kento is there.

On one knee.

The music, the light, the people — everything fades at the edges until it’s just him, steady and sure despite the way his hands shake just slightly around the small box. 

The ring catches the light. 

Your breath leaves you in a quiet, startled exhale.

“I’d ask if you would do me the honour of making me the happiest man in the world,” he starts, staring only at you, “but you already have, so I suppose the better question is…”

Tears well up in your eyes and you already have the answer at the tip of your tongue pleading to be screamed. 

“Do you hate me enough to marry me?”

[simplygojo]

Friend-Of-A-Friend ── Masterlist

series summary ⸺ You and Gojo have been best friends ever since you met him in university, through your long study nights with Gojo, you met his other best friend, Suguru Geto. Although the two of you never really became close, the three of you spent a lot of time together at school. About a year or so after graduation, you had found yourself working a corporate job for some big shot insurance company in the city. Geto, on the other hand, had always been more of a background presence, he was a friend-of-a-friend. That’s why it caught you off guard when, out of nowhere, he reached out to you asking you to catch up, one-on-one. What started as a simple catch-up soon became something else, shrinking the distance that had always existed between you. pairing ⸺ Suguru Geto x Reader series content warnings ⸺ this is an 18+ series - mdni, platonic-bestie!gojo, corporate-worker!reader, reader uses female pronouns, reader has a v*gina, alcohol use, smoking (both cigs and weed), drug use, p in v intercourse, oral sex (both ways), semi-public sex, size kink, ROUGH sex, themes of substance abuse & high functioning addiction, a bit of emotional manipulation, exhaustion from working, burnout, corporate world bs, mildly anxiety inducing. taglist ⸺ check latest chapter divider credit: @/toastray ୨୧ art credit: @/juziluohai ୨୧ simplygojo masterlist ୨୧ Ao3 series link ୨୧

chapters ⸺ Chapter One; Chapter Two; Chapter Three; Chapter Four; Chapter Five; Chapter Six; Chapter Seven; Chapter Eight; Chapter Nine; Chapter Ten; Chapter Eleven; Chapter Twelve; Chapter Thirteen; Chapter Fourteen; Chapter Fifteen

**All rights reserved 18+ © simplygojo. Do not copy, repost, translate, or modify my works in any platform**

[xingxinggi]

Heavenly Done ˚⟡˖ ࣪

⋆˚࿔ Tattoo Artist!Choso X College!FemReader

-Genre: Smau Series, fluff, evental angst, strangers to lovers, slow burn.

-Synopsis: As finals grow closer, your love life is still pathetically horrible. That's until your friend, Shoko, invites you to some l party not knowing meeting the local tattoo boy would change the love curse you so dearly hold.

-Warnings: expletives, smoking/drinking, mentions of NSFW but there is none, jokes about su!c!de.

-Taglist : Open

-Status : Ongoing

Profiles- Fame club ! Ink buddies ! Kids table

Chapters-

01. Let me in!

02. Party is on

03. Final countdown

[spideyyeet]

➷ Unspoken Conditions ── ♪♪ ✦ ♪♪

[ SERIES SYNOPSIS ] — it was obvious when this started, it was simply a mutual understanding between two horny college students — with very high libidos, and didn’t want any random stds — that this was purely a sexual relationship only. and yet, both of you are unintentionally toeing the line between that and something else. [ frat!kuna fwb series ]

[ TAGS ] — MDNI. 18+ nsfw. contains explicit sexual themes and content. piv. angst. friends with benefits. toxic frat culture. hazing. fraternity/sororities. hurt/comfort. hurt/no comfort. SLOW BURN. fluff. spit. ráw. rough. heavy spanking. degradation. dacryphilia. slight exhibitionisim. pda. soft sukuna. choso + yuuji r his younger brothers. every position. heavy creampies. violence. depression/anxiety. anger issues. squirting. cockwarming. alcohol. family death. family trauma. reader slightly oc. sukuna is a football (soccer) player too. HAPPY ENDING. tags will be updated as series continues.

✮ ch 1 || how it all started ✮ ch 2 || miss me already?

✮ ch 3 || call me ✮ ch 4 || two worlds

✮ ch 5 || conditions ✮ ch 6 || cracks

✮ ch 7 || summer break ✮ ch 8 || tbd

✮ ch 9 || tbd ✮ ch 10 || tbd

✮ ch 11 || tbd ✮ ch 12 || tbd

✮ pt 1 — sukuna is starting to toe the line

✮ pt 2 — you’re desperate to prove this is just sex

✮ pt 3 — cockwarming him for the first time

✮ pt 4 — sukuna’s brothers visit unexpectedly

✮ pt 5 — pregnancy scare with sukuna

✮ pt 6 — sukuna has a stash of naked polaroids of you

✮ pt 7 — halloween special: scare actor!sukuna

✮ pt 8 — sukuna’s noticeable bulge at the gym

✮ pt 9 — high stakes no nut november edition

✮ pt 10 — holiday special: grinch!kuna naughty or nice

✮ pt 11 — sukuna leaves his door open when you’re over

✮ pt 12 — sukuna realizes you’re ovulating. skinny dipping

✮ pt 13 — tbd

✮ visuals ✮ ig ✮ bts lore ✮ playlist ♪ ✮ tiktok tag ✮

✮ pinterest board ✮ ask tag ✮ main masterlist ✮ ao3 ✮

[ INFO ] : the chapters are the actual series. it begins mid-spring semester JUNIOR year. the parts exist in the same story, but as stand alone canon oneshots and will not be mentioned in the chapters. they take place between sept-nov fall semester of their SENIOR year [parts and chps can be read separately]

THERE IS NO SERIES TAGLIST ✦ age should be visible on your blog - (art: @/xhealer_ tiktok, dividers: @/lariesographic )

all rights reserved to ©spideyyeet

[suku-enthusiasts]

Halo & Ink || Ryomen Sukuna

ryomen sukuna x f!reader

❝A shy, church-on-Sunday future book editor marries the campus menace with tattoos and a mouth that needs baptism. Between hymns and headboards, they learn vows are holy, communication is filthier, and love is just blushing your way through both.❞

cw ; mdni • 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol. smut . anxiety. serious fluff

word count ; 12.7k

main masterlist | part two | part three | part four

You heard them before you saw them—the messy tangle of Shoko’s laughter and Utahime’s theatrically scandalized gasp—right as your apartment door thunked shut behind you. Thursday had dragged you across campus by the collar: seminar, TA hours, a thundercloud of comma splices and insecure first drafts. You still wore your student ID like a badge and your hair like a storm—long ringlets you kept smoothing down without much success. Somewhere under the noise of your thoughts there lived the quiet little hum of the rules you’d grown up with: keep your voice gentle, your skirt longer than your fingertips, your knees together, your head down, and your mind fixed on higher things.

“Finally!” Utahime called from the couch. “Our modest little mouse returns.” You toed off your shoes. “I’m not a mouse.”

“She’s a bunny,” another voice said, low and amused, and the sound of it combed straight through your rib cage. You glanced up. Sukuna sat half-slouched on the far end of the sectional like the furniture had auditioned and he’d chosen the angle that made his shoulders look obscene. Pale pink hair like a rumor, red eyes too bright for the living room lamplight, tattoos scalloped along his throat and jaw as if constellations had wandered down to see what trouble felt like. He wore a black hoodie zipped just enough, a chain you pretended not to notice, and a lazy grin like he’d eaten something sinful and intended to again. “Bunny,” Shoko repeated thoughtfully, twirling a chopstick. “Soft. Startles easy. Bites if cornered.”

“I do not bite,” you said, clutching your tote to your chest, then regretted how it sounded. Utahime made a saintly face. “No, she doesn’t. She writes sonnets about bread and forgiveness.” You opened your mouth to argue—and then remembered your poem, “Ode to a Sourdough Starter,” still taped to the fridge because Utahime said it made her feel holy about carbs. You stopped arguing. “We were educating Sukuna,” Shoko went on, shoving over to make room for you. “About the tragic underfunding of my snack budget.”

“And about positions,” Utahime said at the exact same time, which made Shoko choke on a noodle, you froze on the rug. “Positions?”

“Yoga,” Utahime deadpanned, and then ruined it with a grin. “Obviously not yoga.” Heat shot up your neck. “I—oh—um.” You made the mistake of glancing at Sukuna, who tipped his chin at you like he already knew the shade your blush had turned. “Don’t scare the bunny,” he told them, but he didn’t sound sorry. He sounded entertained. “We’re not scaring her,” Shoko said, scrolling through something on her phone with terrible innocence. “We’re educating her. The schools have failed her. Her parents gave her the ‘if you hold hands you could spontaneously combust’ talk.”

“That’s not what they said,” you murmured, mortified. “Then what did they say?” Utahime asked, wicked-prosecutor sweet. You searched the carpet pattern like it might hatch an answer. “That… the body is a temple. And that we should wait. And that… these things… aren’t for—public discussion.”

“Oh my God, you’re red,” Shoko said, delighted. “Why are you red, sweetheart?” You flapped a hand, useless. “Because you said positions like it was… like it was—”

“Recreational math,” Utahime supplied. “An extreme sport,” Sukuna added, and that didn’t help at all. You sat, carefully, on the far cushion and kept a cushion between you and the scandal. Your heart tripped over itself like it had never been on stairs before. Shoko beamed and waggled her phone. “Okay, but for science: reverse cowgirl.”

“Shoko,” you squeaked. “What? It’s empowering.” She showed Utahime, who made a considering noise. “Looks like a Pilates move,” Utahime mused. “Core strength. Flexibility. She’d die.”

“I’m right here,” you said, miserable and fascinated. “And I won’t die.”

“Have you even heard these words before?” Shoko asked, and it wasn’t unkind; it was curiosity with a bow on it. You swallowed. You could hear your pastor’s voice from childhood like a hymn echoing in an empty church: Modesty is a garment you never take off. You lifted your chin, which trembled a little, and said the truth. “No. Not… really.” Utahime’s eyes went round with glee. “Are you—oh, sweetheart, are you a virgin?”

“Utahime,” you hissed, grabbing a throw pillow like it could block the question from landing. Sukuna barked a laugh, sharp as a match flare, and sprawled a little more. He looked like sin on sale. Your face went from warm to solar. “I—school is my focus,” you said, tripping on the words. “And I’m waiting until marriage.” You cleared your throat. “That’s—um—the plan.” Shoko pressed her mouth to her knuckles to hide a smile. Utahime didn’t try to hide hers at all. “Marriage, she says,” Utahime purred, bumping Shoko’s knee with her own. “Imagine being that patient.”

“Imagine being that lucky,” Sukuna said, not quite under his breath, and you couldn’t decide if that made you safer or more in danger. The conversation went everywhere at once after that, like it always did when those two were up too late with a takeout bag and opinions. Shoko mimed scandal in your general direction; Utahime rolled her eyes like a chandelier; Sukuna tossed in commentary that should have been illegal indoors. They were vulgar, yes, but they were also infuriatingly funny, and if your mother had seen you there, pink as a peony and trying not to laugh while Utahime used a soy sauce packet to illustrate leverage, she would have prayed so hard a new saint might have been born.

It scattered into comfort eventually. The noodles vanished. Someone put on a playlist that made the walls sway just a little. Shoko leaned against Utahime’s shoulder and finally admitted she was tired. Utahime announced she was taking her girlfriend to bed like a victorious raccoon. There were goodnight kisses. There was a door clicking shut and the apartment rearranged itself around the quiet they left behind.

You found yourself still on the couch, holding the pillow like a shield you’d forgotten to lower. Sukuna hadn’t moved far. He’d tipped his head back and watched the ceiling like it had said something funny, then looked over at you slowly, and the look said he’d been waiting for the quiet to see what shape you were in when the noise wasn’t keeping you brave. “Hey,” he said, softer. “Bunny.” You tilted the pillow down an inch. “Hi.” He slid a little closer, not invading so much as leaning into the same air. “You really haven’t, then.” You knew what he meant. The blush came back like it had paid rent. “No.”

“Huh.” He didn’t say it like a judgment. He said it like he’d found a rare coin in a couch cushion and was enjoying the surprise. “And you’re waiting.”

“Yes.”

“Because you want to,” he clarified, not because anyone told you. You thought about it honestly. “Both,” you said, and your voice surprised you by not shaking. “Because I was raised that way. And because it feels… safer. I don’t know the rules. I don’t even know the words half the time. I don’t want to—” You made a small helpless shape with your hands. “Break anything.” He watched your hands, then your mouth, then your eyes, like he was lining up stars. “You won’t break,” he said quietly. “You bend.”

You didn’t know what to do with that, so you folded it into your chest for later. He shifted closer again, close enough that you could smell whatever soap he used, something clean with a warm edge, like cedar and trouble. “C’mere,” he murmured, you blinked. “What?”

“C’mere,” he repeated, and his hands were on your waist before you could argue—big, warm, patient, like he’d been fitted for them—and then you were in his lap. It happened in two motions and an apology that got lost on your tongue. “I’m heavy,” you blurted, mortified. His mouth went crooked. “You’re perfect.”

“I’m squishing you.”

“Do I look squished?” He spread his knees a little and eased you closer, so careful you could have said no and he would have stopped without letting the word bruise. The hoodie under your palms was soft and his chest was hard and your ringlets tumbled forward and brushed his jaw. “I like the weight,” he added, voice dropping in a way that made your stomach fall through a trapdoor. “Stay.”

The word stayed did something to you it probably shouldn’t have. You gripped his shoulders and tried to remember that air was free. “What are you doing?” you asked, because your mother had always told you to ask questions when you didn’t understand. “Being close to you,” he said, hands loose at your waist like he didn’t want to scare off a skittish animal. “You’re skittish.” He leaned in, not a kiss, just the suggestion of one. “You talk soft. You tilt your head like you’re listening to the room to see if it’s safe. You make me want to be the kind of noise that doesn’t startle you.”

“That’s not—” You swallowed. “That’s not vulgar.”

“It can be,” he offered, amused. “If you want.” You made an embarrassing sound and hid your face behind your hand. He didn’t remove it. He just waited. When you peeked, he was closer. His breath warmed your cheek. “Do you want to know more about it?” he asked, and he made the word it sound like a door he’d hold open and guard while you looked inside. “About sex.” You were already nodding before your mouth remembered how to say things. “Yes,” you whispered. “I… don’t know anything. Only vague warnings. And metaphors.”

“No metaphors tonight,” he said. “Just basics. Just… maps.” His thumb swept an idle line over your waist, barely pressure at all. “If I say something you don’t like, say stop. If you want slower, say slow. If you want more—” His eyes flicked down and back up. “Say more.”

“Okay,” you breathed, dizzy with the kindness of guidelines. He hummed. “First lesson,” he said, and you hated that your pulse jumped like a skip on vinyl. He lifted his hand—your breath followed it—and brought it toward his mouth, then paused, brows tipping as if asking a question only your eyes could answer. “Let me have your fingers.” You stared at his mouth, then your hand, then his mouth again. “Why?” His smile broke, quick and bright. “Because it’ll feel good,” he said, honest as a dare. “And because you’ll see what happens to your stomach when you watch me.”

“That’s—” You had no vocabulary for how that sounded. “Vulgar,” he supplied, and the tip of his tongue touched his canine like he’d sharpened it there. “A little.” You should have said no. You should have quoted a proverb. You should have run a bath and prayed in it. Instead you offered your hand slowly, like you were handing him glass and he took it like you were handing him light. He lifted your fingers to his mouth and waited one more beat, long enough for you to say stop, and when you didn’t, he closed his lips around your index finger and sucked. Your entire body tightened like a bowstring. He didn’t move fast. He wanted you to feel every small thing: the heat, the wet, the way his tongue pressed along the pad of your finger and coaxed it deeper. Your breath went thin. Your knees fell a little wider around his hips without your permission, and he made a sound you felt more than heard, a pleased hum that vibrated along the length of you.

“Look at me,” he said around your finger, not an order, a request. You looked. His eyes were half-lidded and unfair; his lashes were too pretty for the things he was thinking. He slid your finger deeper against his tongue until your knuckles kissed his mouth, then retreated, then took you deeper again, like he wanted your hand to learn his rhythm. He sucked, slow and shameless, and the heat that unspooled in your belly shocked you with its honesty. Your fingers tingled. Your thighs went weightless. Your heart felt like a bird that had discovered a window was actually a door. “Why does that—” you tried, voice fraying, and had to clear it. “Why does that feel like—”

“Like I’m doing it somewhere else?” he asked, obscene and gentle. He drew your finger free with a wet pop that made your ears ring and licked the tip, lazy. “Because it’s practice. For trust. For how it feels to be paid attention to.” You forgot how to blink. He took your middle finger next, the pad of his tongue decisive and slow, the suction just a bit firmer, and your breath did that helpless stutter that told on you more than your words ever could. He watched your face carefully, slowing when your lashes fluttered too hard, easing when your shoulders crept up, going deeper when your mouth parted on a tiny, grateful sound you hadn’t planned to make. He guided your hand so you pressed past his lips on your own, and the way he groaned for that—like you’d done something brave—made your lower belly clench in a way that scared and thrilled you at once.

“Sukuna,” you whispered, shocked at how his name tasted now. “Mm,” he said, not letting go. He sucked you deeper, cheeks hollowing, and you felt the pull in your spine, down low, like a tide that wanted you close. Your free hand slid up his chest in panic or prayer; he covered it with his own, big and grounding, and squeezed. “Slow?” he asked, releasing you for the word, you shook your head, blush searing. “More.”

He smiled, wrecked and proud. “Good girl.” Your eyes fluttered closed in self-defense. He brought your hand back and made you feed him two fingers, urging your wrist with a patience that made you ache. He licked between them, sucked around them, breathed through his nose as if the taste of your skin was enough to keep him warm all winter. Your hips made a tiny, helpless circle against his lap—mortification shot you full of light—and he caught your waist with both hands and held you still, not to stop you, but to let you know he felt it, that you weren’t falling alone. “Feels weird,” you breathed, shaky laugh folded into the words. “And—good.”

“That’s the secret,” he said, mouth slick against your knuckles. “Weird and good live in the same house. You just keep knocking until the right room opens.”

“That’s not very scientific,” you said faintly. “I’m in engineering, not medicine,” he murmured, which somehow made you laugh and then gasp at the same time, because he sucked suddenly a little harder like he wanted to hear what sound lived under the laugh. You gave it to him without meaning to. His eyes went half-closed, pleased, and he let your fingers go slowly, like he hated to surrender them, then kissed the tips reverently before bringing your damp hand down to rest against his chest. He didn’t press it lower. He didn’t trap it anywhere. He just let your palm settle on the steady thud of his heart and watched the way your mouth parted when you felt how fast it went. “See?” he said softly. “You’re not the only one who’s new at this part.”

“You’re not—” You swallowed. “New.”

“With you I am,” he said, and the way he said it put something fragile and defiant under your ribs. His hands were still respectful at your waist. His knees still bracketed you, offering balance instead of a cage. “We go how you go. You say stop, we stop. You say slow, we breathe. You say more—” He tipped his head, smile crooked. “We learn.” You stared at his mouth and thought of hymns and then forgot every lyric you’d ever known. Your ringlets fell forward again, curtaining your heated face, and he lifted one curl and let it spring back with a fascination that made you feel like a miracle instead of a project. “More,” you said, quieter than a prayer, braver than a dare. “Okay,” he answered, like the word was a promise and a map, and the night in your small living room leaned closer to hear what your yes would sound like next.

A week had made you a scholar of avoidance. After the night you’d whispered more— Utahime had wandered out for water and you’d practically levitated off Sukuna’s lap, hand switching hands because your fingers were wet and you didn’t know where to hide the proof—you’d declared, strangled and prim, that you were going to bed. Sukuna had only smirked like a man who knew the exact page number you’d stopped on and felt no urgency to dog-ear it. You slept badly. You prayed badly, too—half apologies, half thank-yous you refused to name.

For seven days you moved like a rumor across campus. If you saw black hoodie and pink hair at a distance, you rerouted with the ruthlessness of a GPS that hated you. You learned the back stairs of the grad building; you became a ghost in the stacks; you discovered the one bathroom on the second floor of Engineering that girls apparently didn’t use because they were sensible, which you were not. It didn’t matter. He found you anyway.

“Bunny,” he’d say, appearing at the end of a hallway like a secret you’d left open on your desktop. “When are you inviting me over?”

“Never,” you’d answer, cheeks on fire, and then you’d run, which only made him grin and call, “Tomorrow works!” while an undergrad with a nose ring giggled like she’d just watched wildlife documentary footage in the quad. You told yourself it wasn’t personal. Sukuna was the campus catastrophe of choice. People loved to pretend they hated him until he made eye contact; then they remembered their schedules were flexible. He was always photographed with a different girl’s fingers laced into his belt loops, always exiting a party with a new shadow. It wasn’t that you thought he was cruel; he looked like a man who ate his sugar straight from the bag and told people thank you on the way out. It was that your heart had been raised in a glass house with stained windows, and you had no idea how to live in a place where stones were a sport.

You kept it together right up until you didn’t.

You came home from the library with a migraine made of semicolons and found him on your couch between Shoko and Utahime, long legs kicked out, one arm thrown along the backrest like the furniture existed to outline him. Shoko was mid-story, Utahime was heckling, and Sukuna was laughing with his head tipped back, the chain at his throat flashing like sin had invented jewelry. “Hi,” you said, too bright. “Shower, then study.”

“Shower, then study,” Shoko echoed gravely, saluting with a chopstick. “Shower, then… whatever,” Utahime added, sending Sukuna a look that was one part sisterly warning, two parts instigation. You fled. Hot water helped until it didn’t. You replayed every campus ambush in the steam and tried to decide if running had been coy or cowardly. By the time you padded to your room in a soft tee and sleep shorts, hair damp, skin warm, you’d convinced yourself of nothing except that you could memorize your textbook by osmosis if it lay close enough to your face.

You put it on the bed and didn’t absorb a single word. The door clicked. Quietly—too quiet for Shoko or Utahime. You looked up. Sukuna stepped in and shut the door with the kind of unhurried care that made your breath catch because it meant he’d thought about the sound it would make. He didn’t lock it. He didn’t have to for your pulse to react like it had seen a sign that said “bridge out” and sped up anyway.

“Hi,” he said, voice rough velvet, like it had remembered your name and wasn’t ready to say it yet. “Hi,” you breathed, and your mouth went paper-dry. Your textbook was open to a page on narrative distance. He was the wrong kind of example. He took you in—the damp ringlets, the bare knees under the hem of your shorts, the way your fingers had tightened around a highlighter you weren’t using—and his mouth tipped into that smug slant that made you simultaneously want to hide and hand him a trophy.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he observed, as if noting weather. “I’ve been… learning the long way around things,” you said primly. He huffed, pleased in that unhelpful way. “You gonna keep making me hunt you on campus, or are you finally going to invite me over like a civilized bunny?”

“I live here.”

“I know,” he said, glancing at the fairy lights like they were an admission. “Invite me.” You swallowed. “You’re here.”

“Mm.” He came a little closer, eyes on you like you were a handout with all the answers if he just tilted it right. “If you want to feel something even better,” he murmured, low enough for the sentence to sit where your shirt met your skin, “close the book.”

Everything in you went incandescently embarrassed. The old rules lifted their heads like hounds. But your body remembered his mouth around your fingers, remembered the way he’d said more like a map and not a command. You closed your textbook. The highlighter rolled to a stop on the duvet like it had witnessed a crime. He smirked without gloating and climbed onto the bed slow, one knee, then the other, caging your thighs without touching. The mattress dipped under his weight; your breath hitched hard enough to be audible. He went over you like a question you wanted to answer correctly. One palm braced by your hip, the other came up to cradle your cheek, thumb sweeping a barely-there line that felt like a decision. “Good?” he asked, soft, you nodded. “Yes.”

He leaned down and kissed your cheek like a gentleman at the end of a scandalous letter. Then your jaw—slow, tasting the warm line where pulse lived. Then the corner of your mouth, teasing, as if he enjoyed the moment before the moment even more than the moment itself. When he finally kissed you, it wasn’t a raid; it was a warm, steady hand at the small of your back, guiding you across a threshold. You had never been kissed. Your mouth knew anyway. It learned him fast: the heat, the weight, the way he fit your softness with a care that made you shake more than any roughness could have. His tongue brushed your lower lip. He pulled back a millimeter, eyes heavy. “Open,” he whispered, then, wicked and tender, “and suck.” Your blush exploded so hot you were sure it lit the room. “I—I don’t—”

“I’ll show you,” he murmured, easing his tongue into your mouth slowly, like he was walking you through the shallow end. “There you go. Soft. Close around me.” His thumb stroked your cheek again, steadying. “Good girl.” You closed around his tongue, tentative, then firmer when he hummed his approval into your mouth. You sucked gently—obedient, uncertain—and the sound he made shattered something fragile and careful in you. He moaned into you, low and pleased, hips pressing down just a fraction. It was subtle, the grind of his body over yours, but your back arched like a bow to meet it, shocked at your own eagerness, more shocked at how right it felt. “That’s it,” he breathed, letting you feel the praise against your tongue. “You’re perfect. Just like that.”

He kissed you deeper, guiding your pace with the tilt of his mouth, teaching without hurrying, making a study of every shy little sound you couldn’t hold in. Each time you sucked, he answered with a soft, helpless noise that said he wasn’t pretending for you; he was unraveling with you. His weight settled more fully, careful of where your thigh met the mattress, careful of your soft stomach, careful in every place that mattered, and then he rolled his hips again—more this time—and you gasped into his mouth because the pressure lined up where you were warm and aching and so very new. “Slow?” he asked, breaking just enough to speak, you shook your head, glassy-eyed. “More.”

He smiled against your mouth like you’d given him the right password and pressed again, a measured grind that let you feel him and not panic at the feeling. You curled your hands into his hoodie because you didn’t trust them to do anything smart; he caught one wrist and laced your fingers with his, pinning your joined hands above your head on the pillow, not to trap, but to anchor. The other hand stayed at your cheek, a calm palm, coaxing your jaw open when you forgot how to exhale. “You’re doing so well,” he murmured between kisses. “You taste sweet. You always taste sweet.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you confessed, wild-honest, and the words came out broken on a whimper when he rolled his hips again and you felt the length of him through his sweats and your thin shorts and every rule you’d ever been handed trembled like paper. “You’re doing exactly what I tell you,” he said, not arrogant—reassuring. “And that’s perfect for tonight.” He kissed your throat, open-mouthed, slow. He learned the spot that made you gasp and went back to it like he’d marked it on a blueprint. He mouthed along your collarbone and said your name into your skin like he wanted to see what it sounded like there. When you squirmed, overwhelmed, he eased the pressure and kissed your cheek again until you steadied, then took your mouth like he was grateful you’d come back to him. “Words,” he reminded gently, grinding just enough to make words difficult. “Tell me.”

“It’s—” You swallowed a helpless sound. “Good. Hot. I feel… floaty.”

“Floaty is good,” he said, clearly delighted, and kissed you for saying it like it was a prize you’d earned. “If it gets too floaty, say slow.”

“Slow,” you tested, to prove you could. He slowed immediately, hips easing, kisses gentling until your fingers uncurled from his hoodie. He smiled, wolfish and proud. “See? You say it, I do it.”

“More,” you whispered, the minute your ribs remembered the rhythm. “There’s my girl,” he said, voice dropping, and picked the pace back up, a careful roll that dragged heat through your center in a way that made your toes curl in your socks. He shifted his weight and the angle changed and you made a sound you’d never made in your life, shocked at yourself and at the way his answering groan sounded wrecked.

“I—oh,” you whispered, eyes flying wide. “There?” he asked, instantly focused, and did it again, shallow and slow, watching your face like it was a lab readout. “There,” you breathed, clinging to his hand over your head, body arching into him because shyness had retreated in the face of feeling this immediate, this undeniable. “Please.”

“Please what?” he coaxed, pushing a fraction harder, a fraction slower, like he wanted the syllables to catch in your throat so he could hear them again. “Please—more,” you said, blushing even as you begged. “Please don’t stop.”

“I’m not stopping,” he promised, mouth curving, and you felt it against your lips when he kissed you again. “Not until my good girl forgets every rule she never wrote for herself.” You whimpered at that, a tiny sound that embarrassed you and made him growl all at once. He let your pinned hands go to slide that palm down, large and hot, fitting over the curve of your waist like it belonged there. He gripped, gently, possessively, and rocked into you with a rhythm that made the mattress squeak a little and your breath come apart in pretty pieces. You clung to his shoulders—muscle under soft cotton, heat under ink—and opened for his tongue when he asked without words, sucking when he offered, learning the give-and-take on instinct because he praised you every time you did exactly what he wanted. “Good,” he kept saying, like a rosary. “So good. So sweet. That’s it. Let me have it.”

You were hardly dressed and still somehow felt naked, bared by the precision of his attention. Each roll of his hips pulled that cotton friction over your center until your thighs trembled and your lower belly drew tight with a new-dangerous urgency that frightened and lured you in equal measure. “Sukuna,” you whispered, and his name broke on your tongue. “I—something—I think—”

“I’ve got you,” he said immediately, forehead to yours, breath hot and ragged. He slowed just enough to keep you from tipping too soon, then deepened the pressure with a precise little grind that made your knees fall a fraction wider around his hips. “Ride it. Use me.”

“I don’t—know how,” you admitted, wretchedly honest, and he laughed softly, lovingly, like he couldn’t believe his luck. “You just did,” he said, and did it again so you could feel the proof. “Again.”

You rolled up to meet him—awkward, shy, desperate—and he groaned like you’d put your mouth on his soul. He met you there, again and again, until the floaty feeling condensed into heat and the heat sharpened into light and the light spilled in your bones. You made a soft, broken sound and he swallowed it and whispered yes into your mouth like he’d been waiting to say it since the first time you blushed at the word positions. “Slow?” he checked, even then. “Don’t,” you begged, shaking, braver than you’d ever been. “Please—more.” He gave you more without taking anything you didn’t offer. The rhythm went liquid; your body took over; you clutched his shoulders and let him kiss you through the part where words stopped being shapes and started being sound. When it crested you made a noise so small and sincere you would have been embarrassed if you’d been anywhere but here, in his hands, with his mouth on your jaw and his praise in your ear and his hips still rocking you through it as if moving any other way would be disrespectful to the feeling he’d put into your body.

“That’s it,” he breathed, almost reverent. “There you go.” You softened like cloth under warm water. He didn’t roll away. He eased the pace until you could breathe again, then stilled, forehead against your temple, chest heaving against your ribs. He kissed the corner of your mouth as if he’d been hungry for that tiny, private gratitude more than anything else. “Okay?” he asked, last of the night, thumb still stroking your cheek because he’d learned it calmed you. You nodded, dazed, smiling without meaning to. “Okay,” you whispered, and then, because you could, “More—later.” He chuckled, wrecked and triumphant and gentler than you’d ever expected him to be. “Later,” he agreed, and the fairy lights hummed like a chorus while your textbook lay forgotten, and footsteps murmured in the hall where Shoko and Utahime pretended they were not absolutely listening at the door, and nothing in you felt like an ending when he kissed you again, slow, patient, like a man unwrapping the rest of a week he’d already decided you could spend however you wanted.

Morning had the nerve to arrive like nothing scandalous had happened at all. Your alarm chirped its cheery little hymn and you surfaced from sleep with your face in a pillow that smelled like him and strawberries, which was unacceptable. The memory snapped into focus a breath later—the weight of him, the way he’d said good girl like a promise he planned to keep—and mortification lit through you like a match to tissue paper. You were still wet. From the night before. You discovered that fact the instant you shifted your thighs and your whole body went into full red-alert embarrassment. You scrambled upright, got tangled in your comforter, nearly face-planted, saved yourself with a graceless lunge, and did a high-speed tiptoe to the bathroom as if shame had a motion sensor.

The shower was too hot and you let it be, standing there with your forehead against the tile while steam fogged the mirror and your conscience. Warm water slid over your shoulders; your ringlets stuck to your neck; your heart kept time with the drip-drip at the corner of the curtain. It wasn’t guilt, exactly. It was the feeling of having crossed a line you hadn’t seen until you were on the other side and liking the view too much to pretend you didn’t. You washed, you breathed, you tried not to replay the way he’d said open and then later, softer, more. You definitely did not think about the way your body had answered him without asking your brain first. By the time you padded back to your room, the apartment was in its usual weekday shuffle. Shoko knocked on your door and slid in without waiting, hair in a lopsided bun, travel mug clutched like medicine. She clocked your pink ears immediately.

“You’re a color chart today,” she observed, sipping. “You good?”

“I’m fine,” you lied brightly, dragging a sweater over your head and nearly dislocating a shoulder on the hem. “Totally normal. Class.”

“Right,” Shoko said, patting your arm with faux sympathy. “Class. What a wholesome and entirely non-suggestive word. Text me if you need me to run interference on the hallway menace.”

“Who—”

“The hallway menace,” she repeated, eyes sparkling. “Pink hair. Sinful laugh. Engineering hoodie. Answers to ‘Sukuna’ and ‘you, stop that.’”

You made a noise that might have been a whine and escaped out the door. Campus had that early-class crispness—coffee steam ghosting from lids, backpacks thumping, someone longboarding like they were late for a destiny. You kept your head down and your binder tight to your chest, the model citizen of Literature 602: Developmental Editing and Not Thinking About Anyone’s Tongue. The plan worked for three minutes. He leaned off the brick just outside your building like the architecture had put him there for scale. Hoodie, chain, grin. Pale pink hair turned to gold by thin winter sun. Red eyes on you like you were the only item on his syllabus. “Morning, bunny,” he said, and your pulse tripped over an invisible curb, you aimed for breezy and landed on breathless. “Hi.”

He raked a look over you—sweater, skirt, the nerves you wore like perfume—and his mouth curved like he’d found the exact line in the book he’d been hoping to quote. “Why do you look so flushed?” You clutched your binder harder. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Mm.” He pushed off the wall and came close enough for warmth but not so close you had to back up—he always hovered that line like he enjoyed respecting it. He dipped his head, mouth almost to your ear, voice the kind of low that didn’t belong on a weekday. “I keep wondering,” he murmured, “if you taste as sweet as you look. And sound.” You went scarlet so fast you felt it in your scalp. A week ago you would’ve blinked, wide and uncomprehending. A week with your search history turned into a cautionary tale meant you understood exactly what he meant by taste. Your brain flashed unhelpful snippets: an article with clinical diagrams that had somehow been both terrifying and bland; a forum thread where a girl named mothgirl420 insisted “it’s about enthusiasm, not technique”; one very earnest blog that used the phrase “kiss her there” and made you shut your laptop like it had misbehaved.

Your mouth moved before your dignity could wrestle it down. “I… I have class.” It came out more like a squeak than the firm boundary you’d intended. His eyes warmed anyway, the smirk softening into something like approval. “Go to class,” he said, leaning back and giving you the space he’d pretended to steal. “Be brilliant. I’ll see you”—he paused just long enough to make your stomach drop—“later.” He put extra ink on the word like a teacher underlining an essay note, and your body misread it as a promise. You nodded too fast and fled into the building, where the stairwell smelled like pencil shavings and dust and your own heartbeat. Class tried to save you. Your professor launched into pacing and pacing—literal and narrative. You planted yourself in your usual seat, uncapped a pen, and wrote, with terrible focus, the words: sensory detail, tempo, control. Every time your mind wandered, it wandered directly into the exact definitions you didn’t need: taste; slow; more. You stared very hard at a slide about scene modulation and thought, with rising hysteria, about modulation of a very different kind.

Your phone buzzed. You didn’t look; you absolutely looked. One text from an unknown number you now unfortunately knew by heart.

— door cracked tonight?

You flushed so hot you had to pretend to adjust your scarf. You typed, erased, typed again, erased harder, put the phone face down like it could learn shame by osmosis, then turned it over and wrote back with thumbs that felt like they belonged to someone braver.

— i have to study

A beat.

— i’ll quiz you

Another beat.

— comprehensive oral exam

You made a sound that earned you a glance from the girl with the gel pens. You typed: stop. Then, because you were learning the power of the next word, you added: later. The three dots arrived like he’d been waiting with his mouth already open to say something he shouldn’t. They disappeared. They came back. Finally:

— later, bunny.

You tried to breathe like a person who had lungs and not like a nineteenth-century heroine. The professor asked a question about cutting a paragraph that “feels beautiful but doesn’t move,” and you thought about last night, about how nothing in you had felt cuttable, about movement and heat and the way he’d said ride it and you had without meaning to. You raised your hand and said something smart about momentum. The professor beamed like you’d handed her a rare orchid in bloom. Between classes you saw him across the quad, talking to two people at once with his hands and a crooked grin. A girl touched his sleeve; a boy laughed too loudly; he tipped his head like sin had manners now. You could have arranged your jealousy on a plate and called it lunch. Instead you reminded yourself what he’d done in your room—how carefully he’d listened; how quickly he’d slowed when you tested the word; how he’d said later last night like he didn’t plan to take anything you weren’t ready to give.

You made it to your next lecture with dignity mostly intact. You took notes. You ate a granola bar that tasted like sawdust and self-control. You got through the afternoon on caffeine and the quiet thrill of the text sitting in your pocket like a pebble you kept touching to make sure it was still there. When the day finally limped off and the sky turned the color of paper left on a radiator, you shouldered your bag and told yourself you’d go home, make tea, and study in the loud, safe presence of other people’s voices. The wind toyed with your curls. Your phone buzzed once more, a single, patient chime.

— later starts whenever you say it does

You looked up at the grad building windows reflecting the dusk, at the path you knew by heart, at the tiny, anxious rules that had run your life and realized they were very quiet right now. You typed back: i’m walking home. His reply came fast.

— i’ll take the long way and still beat you there

You didn’t ask how he always did that. You walked, anyway, sweater pulled tight, cheeks warm from the cold and from everything else, and the day didn’t feel like it ended when your building came into view; it felt like a breath held at the edge of something you were finally brave enough to step into. The hallway light made everything look like a confession. You turned the corner and there he was, leaned against the frame of your front door as if the building had grown him there—hood up, chain catching the last smear of dusk, that smirk like he’d won something you hadn’t realized you were playing for. Your cheeks betrayed you before your keys even found the lock.

“Hi,” you managed. “Hi,” he returned, eyes doing the slow, appreciative slide they always did, like he was taking inventory not to spend you but to take care. “Bunny.”

“Study only,” you blurted, unlocking the door so fast you fumbled it twice. “I mean it.” He followed you in with a soft laugh that made the air warmer. “Absolutely. Flash cards. Responsible choices.” Shoko and Utahime weren’t home—the apartment had the comfortable hush of shoes left by the door and a throw blanket half-fallen off the couch. You didn’t let yourself look at the couch. You led him down the little hall, your pulse loud in your ears, and into your room where fairy lights softened the corners and the stack of books on your desk looked like good intentions built into a fort. “Study,” you repeated, because you needed to hear yourself say it again. “Study,” he echoed, amused, and sat on the edge of your bed like sin in a hoodie.

You pulled a textbook free, flipped to your flagged chapter, and climbed onto the bed cross-legged, the mattress dipping closer to him than your composure preferred. You tried to focus on margin notes. You failed immediately when he tipped his head, cataloguing your sweater, your skirt, the way your damp ringlets clung to your nape, and said, almost idly, “You look flushed.”

“I walked fast,” you lied, which became unforgivable a second later when he lowered his voice and said, “I’ve been thinking all day how you taste.” Your throat closed on the first syllable of a protest. Your thighs pressed together as if they could hide your blush. “Sukuna,” you whispered. He smiled like you’d said please. “You should let me taste you while you fill your head with books,” he murmured, shameless and gentle. “Two kinds of studying.” Your fingers tightened on the paper. Curiosity got there before caution could trip it. “How would you—” You swallowed. “How would you do it?” The smirk sharpened at the edges, but there was nothing mean in it. “Do you want me to answer,” he asked softly, “or show you?” You bit your lower lip; the little sting steadied you just enough to nod.

“Okay,” he said, and the way he said it was patient and certain and warm enough to make the small animal in your chest settle. “Then here are our rules.” His hands found your knees and rested there like promises. “If you want me to slow down, say slow. If you want me to stop, say stop. If you want more—” his smile turned private—“say more.” You nodded, breath catching. “Okay.”

“And you,” he added, eyes flicking to the open book, “are going to read to me. Out loud. Helps you stay focused.”

“I can’t— I’ll—” You broke off on a nervous laugh. “I’ll get distracted.”

“That’s the experiment.” He squeezed your knees once. “Feet here.”

He guided your feet to the mattress, planting them so your knees rose like two soft peaks; the skirt you’d put on for decency felt suddenly conspiratorial. He eased you back against the headboard, pulled one pillow behind your shoulders, and looked up like he was checking the fit of something he’d built. Then he slid his hands under your knees and opened you. Heat flashed everywhere at once. “Slow,” you blurted, testing and needing it. Instantly, he paused. “Like this?” he asked, easing the angle, watching your face. You tried breathing. It worked better than thinking. “Yes. Okay.”

“Good girl.” He bent, shouldering gently at the hem of your skirt, and disappeared under it like a secret. The faint weight of his head on your thigh made your breath go thin. You couldn’t see him—the fabric turned everything into shadow and suggestion—so you felt him instead: his knuckles grazing the outside of your leg; the careful hook of his thumb under the waistband of your panties; the soft, slow drag to the side that bared you to air and the warm ghost of his breath, you gasped, tiny and helpless. “Read,” he said from under the fabric—voice muffled, wickedly calm. You stared at the page like it might take pity on you. “P—pacing,” you began, and then forgot every word you’d ever known because his mouth touched you: a single slow stroke of tongue that learned, adjusted, slid again with more intent like he’d found north and loved it. The sentence shattered in your throat. You slapped your palm over your mouth to muffle the sound that escaped.

“Read,” he reminded, a hum against you that you felt low and deep. “I’m listening.”

“‘Pacing is—’” You sucked in breath. “—‘is the— primary— modulator of—’” He licked in a precise circle that made your foot flex, your heel digging into the mattress. “—‘of reader—’ Sukuna.” Your head tipped back against the headboard, eyes squeezed tight. He pulled away just enough for air to cool where he’d been, and you almost whined, shocked at yourself. “Use your words, bunny.”

“More,” you whispered, and the word felt like it left your lungs and slid into his mouth because he groaned, pleased, and sealed his lips to you with reverence. It wasn’t hurried. He licked, learned, adjusted, like a man committed to getting the lab practical right. He found the exact pressure that made your thighs tremble and held it, only easing when you forgot to breathe, only adding when your hips chased him. The skirt turned him into a shape and a heat and a promise, and that was somehow worse and better all at once. You remembered the book because he broke away—one slow inch—and said, “Read.”

“I can’t,” you whispered, ruined, honest.

“You can,” he said, mouth brushing where you were slick. “Try.”

You tried. “—‘modulator of— of reader attention,’” you managed, voice wrecked and soft. “The— the goal is to— to maintain a—” His tongue flattened, dragged, and you lost the word like a dropped spoon. “—‘a sense of— momentum— without—’” He sucked, slow and sure, and your hand flew to his hair through the skirt, fingers burying in it because you needed something, anything, to hold. You gave up on shadows. You fumbled the hem and flipped your skirt up and over his head with both hands. Light met him. You did, too—eyes, pink hair mussed, those red eyes darker now, his mouth wet and shiny with you. The sight made a sound fall out of you that you couldn’t name. He smiled into you, shameless, and went back to work like a man proud of the mess he was making.

“Eyes here,” he murmured against you without looking up, as if he could feel your gaze skitter away from the intimacy of watching. “Learn what you like.” You watched. You learned the way his tongue flicked—gentle, then firm—how he sealed his lips and drew, how he pressed two fingers at the edge and paused, waiting for your nod before easing one inside, slow, shallow, letting you take him. Your breath turned into little broken prayers. He curled just enough and your hips lifted without your permission and he made a hoarse noise that said he liked you greedy. “Slow?” he checked, the instant your thighs went taut. “Don’t,” you begged. “Please—more.” He slid the second finger in when you softened around the first, patient, coaxing. He set a rhythm that matched your breath, then led it; every time your voice broke on a moan he eased, then pressed, then eased again, keeping you with him, keeping you learning, keeping you safe while he wrecked you.

“Read me something,” he asked, wicked and adoring, and flicked his tongue just so. You dragged the book closer with shaking hands and read the first sentence your eyes could focus on. “—‘Cut the beautiful line if it doesn’t move the scene,’” you stammered, which was so on the nose you almost laughed until he sucked a little harder and you couldn’t do anything but gasp. “Sukuna—”

“Cut nothing,” he said, smiling against you. “Everything here moves.” It built without warning and with all the warning in the world: heat banding low, a tremor starting in your thighs and walking into your spine, breath going uneven, the word more catching on your tongue until you said it out loud because he’d taught you to. He answered with a sound that turned feral at the edges and pressed his fingers deeper, exactly where you needed, tongue steady at your clit, the rhythm steady-steady-steady until the tightness pulled, then broke, and you came with a soft, astonished cry, thighs closing on his ears, hand fisted in his hair like you could anchor the sky.

He didn’t stop just because you did. He gentled, drew you down slow, mouth easing, fingers easing, praise a warm, constant thread—good girl, that’s it, I’ve got you—until your breath remembered itself and your body sank boneless into the pillows. He kissed the inside of your knee on his way up. Then the tender place high on your thigh. Then your hip through the cotton of your panties, skewed to the side, the wet press of his mouth a stamp that made your skin shiver. He settled on his elbows between your knees and looked at you, amused and proud and—somehow—soft. “Okay?” he asked, thumb smoothing along the top of your thigh where your pulse ran wild. You nodded, dazed, blinking at him like you’d never seen him before in your life even though you were pretty certain he’d just studied you in a language he spoke fluently. “Okay,” you breathed, and then, because the word lived under your tongue now like a coin you could spend whenever you wanted, “More… later.”

His grin went wolfish. “Later,” he agreed easily, like time obeyed him. He eased your panties back into place, tugged your skirt down like he cared about your modesty after he’d learned your immodest sounds, and crawled up to kiss you slow. You tasted yourself on him—sweet and salt, new and shameless—and your blush came back with a vengeance. He swallowed the noise you made and smiled against your mouth like he’d been waiting to introduce you to the taste of your own yes. “Study,” you said weakly when you could think again, and realized your textbook was splayed on your stomach like a scandalized chaperone.

“Study,” he echoed, rolling onto his side beside you, one arm sliding under your shoulders to tuck you in. He tapped the open page with a clean knuckle. “Read me that sentence again. The one about cutting the line.” You did. Your voice steadied a little on the period. He hummed, satisfied, and turned the page for you, as if he had no intention of leaving, as if the night was wide and patient and yours to fill however you wanted, as if “later” could happen over and over again while the fairy lights glowed and the apartment stayed quiet and you learned—slowly, greedily—that focus wasn’t the absence of want; it was the decision to keep choosing both.

Sunday had dressed the world in soft light and starch. Your mother had fussed with the hem of your church dress—white with tiny blue flowers that made you feel like an apology someone could wear—and your father had said grace in the car before the engine even turned over. The sanctuary smelled like hymnals and lemon oil, and the choir’s first note went up like a clean sheet snapped over a bed. You knew the order of service the way you knew your own walk to campus; your hands found the fold of the bulletin at the same time they always did, and you let the familiar carry you.

It carried you straight into a sermon you weren’t ready for.

The pastor paced gently, voice careful, and spoke about bodies as temples; about patience; about promises; about how fire warmed a home but ruined a field. He didn’t say your name, but it felt like he did, each sentence landing on your ribs like a palm pressed there to still you. Your cheeks burned. Your chest ached with a guilt that didn’t quite fit—too big in the shoulders, tight at the throat—because what you felt about last night wasn’t shame; it was… joy with the edges still sharp. You tucked your chin and nodded at the right places, and afterward you hugged your mother in the foyer and told your father you’d see them Wednesday for dinner, and both of them smiled, proud of your dress and your degree and the way you bowed your head. You held it together until the apartment door closed behind you.

He was already there.

Sukuna rose from the couch like sin had been caught napping and didn’t care. Pink hair, red eyes that clocked you head to toe—dress, cardigan, the necklace your grandmother had given you at sixteen—and went a little lazy at the corner as soon as he saw the flush that had never quite left your cheeks. He didn’t say hi. He just stepped into your room on the permission of your silence and put his palm flat on the door to swing it shut behind him with a soft click that made your breath hitch like a caught thread. “Come here,” he murmured, not a command, just gravity, and when you didn’t flee he closed the small distance like he’d been growing into it all afternoon. He dipped his head, mouth warm at your jaw, a careful kiss that tasted like restraint and wanted more. You gasped, hand curling in his hoodie, and then remembered the sermon all at once and felt the floor come up fast.

“I can’t,” you blurted, voice thin. “We can’t.” He stopped immediately—mouth lifting, hands easing, space offered like a gift. He tipped his head, unreadable. “Tell me why.”

“I’m not—” You tried to swallow around the lump in your throat. “We aren’t married.” The rest tumbled out in a rush. “And the sermon today—pastor said—pre-marital sex is—wrong—and I—” You shook your head, miserable. “I promised.” He huffed a laugh, not cruel but incredulous, and dropped back onto your bed like he was choosing a new angle to think from. “You really believe in that shit?” he said, blunt as a match.

You flinched. He saw it. His expression softened, then pinched—annoyed at himself, not you. He scrubbed a hand over his face and let it fall, palm open on the comforter. “You believe it,” he corrected, quieter. “Okay.”

“I don’t—” You wrapped your arms around yourself, fingertips cold from nerves. “I don’t know everything. I just know I made a promise.” You met his eyes and felt like you were stepping onto ice that might hold. “I like you. I… more than like you. And I like what we do. But I don’t want to—break myself in a way I can’t fix.” He groaned, head tipping back to stare at your fairy lights like they’d personally conspired against him. “Fine,” he said, and the word was a growl and a surrender and a sigh, and then, without drama, “Okay.” He looked back at you, mouth twisting. “Then we do it your way.” You blinked. “What?”

“My way is fun,” he admitted, because he couldn’t not, “but it doesn’t go anywhere if you’re hating yourself after.” He spread his hands. “So. Your way.” Silence stretched—soft, bright, a little stunned. He watched you absorb it. Then he huffed something that might have been a laugh and rapped his knuckles once on the mattress like he was calling a meeting to order. “You wanna be my girlfriend?” he asked, shameless and sudden, like he’d meant to say it all week and only just remembered how simple it could be. “For real. Not the ‘I lurk outside your grad building and make you fail at walking’ version. Official. Me and you. No other girls. No other anyones.” Your brain did the paperwork in a single bolt of light. Girlfriend. The word felt like a door opening to a room that had always existed and you hadn’t known you were allowed in. “Are you—” You swallowed. “You… you don’t do girlfriends.”

He grimaced like you’d poked a bruise. “I don’t do lying to you either.” He patted the mattress beside him. “C’mere and listen to me be honest.” You went, because you always did when he asked like that—open palms, voice low, room already rearranged around the possibility. You sat, hands folded in your lap, knees a polite distance from his. He waited until you looked at him and then anchored the moment with the smallest touch: his pinky linked with yours. “I like being wanted,” he said, simple. “I like the chase. I like the noise. I liked it because none of it asked anything of me I didn’t already plan to give.” He shrugged. “Then you looked at me like I wasn’t a sport. And you said more and meant safe. And now I don’t feel like eating sugar out of the bag when I’ve got you.” He pulled a face at the metaphor, then owned it anyway. 

“You’re better than sugar. I want to be around you when I’m not touching you. I want your texts about commas. I want to sit in church with you and try not to laugh when you sing off-key.”

“I don’t sing off-key,” you protested, pink and startled. “You do.” A small crooked smile. “It’s very cute.” Silence again, but not empty. His thumb brushed your pinky, a tiny back-and-forth that steadied your heart more than any hymn ever had. “So,” he said, and his eyes went serious, red darkening like the room had dropped a shade. “Be my girlfriend. I’ll be your boyfriend. We can kiss and be filthy with your skirt on and your rules on the table.” His smile flashed, quick and wolfish, then softened. “No sex. Not until you say we’re married, whether that’s vows or City Hall or you looking at me at three a.m. and saying it and me believing it because it’s you.” Your throat wobbled. “You’d wait?”

“I’d complain,” he said, honest-to-God honest, “a lot. I’d ask for creative assignments. I’d try to bribe you with strawberries and torque jokes. But I’d wait.” He tipped his head. “And if you decide no—if church says no forever and you agree—then I learn how to be the guy who keeps his hands warm in his pockets and his mouth respectful and finds different ways to make you blush.” A pause. “And if you decide yes later, I’ll still be here. That’s the point of the question.” Tears prickled, humiliating and beautiful. You blinked hard and looked down at your joined pinkies because the sight made your heart stop trying to run in circles. “My parents…” you began, then faltered. “They’ll want to meet you.”

He swallowed a laugh that was mostly panic and disguised it as bravado. “I’ll wear sleeves,” he said, glancing at the ink that couldn’t be covered by anything but a turtleneck and divine intervention. “I can say sir and ma’am without choking.”

“You’ll hate it,” you whispered, almost apologizing. “I’ll like you in your little church dress,” he countered, low, like a secret. “And I’ll like the part where I walk you home after and you decide whether I get to kiss your jaw or shake your hand like a Victorian.”

“You’d shake my hand?” you asked, scandalized and delighted. “I’d kiss it,” he said promptly, and did—just a brush of lips over your knuckles that made your stomach flip like a page in a breeze. “So. Girlfriend? Yes or no.”

“Yes,” you said, soft but steady, and the way his grin hit you felt like dawn under your skin. “Okay then.” His voice gentled. “Ground rules. You tell me stop, I stop. You tell me slow, I breathe. You tell me later, I get good at patience. We don’t hide it from the people who matter to you unless you want to wait to tell them; you set the pace. I’m yours, and I’ll prove that by being there on days when the only thing I touch is your coffee mug.”

“That’s very romantic,” you said, laughing a little, watery and relieved. “It is,” he agreed solemnly. “I’m extremely romantic. Don’t let the tattoos fool you.” You leaned into him then, not with lust, not even with the dizziness he always shook loose in you, but with the soft confidence of an answer you didn’t regret. He went still for half a heartbeat, like a big cat hearing a new sound, then wrapped his arm around your shoulders and pulled you in under his chin. His hoodie smelled like laundry and the faintest ghost of your shampoo from last night; his chest was a steady wall your ribs were happy to lean on. “I’m scared,” you admitted into the cotton, letting your body be as small or big as it needed to be in his hold.

“I know,” he said, low. “We can be scared together. That’s very rock ’n’ roll of us.” You huffed a laugh, and he squeezed, once. He kissed the top of your head, careful, reverent. “For the record,” he added, conversational devilry sneaking back in, “I do still want to taste you anytime you let me. But I can also make out respectfully like a youth group leader at a winter formal.”

“That’s a terrible image,” you groaned, laughing helplessly now. “Then give me a better one,” he teased. “Say, ‘boyfriend, you may kiss my jaw.’” You rolled your eyes and tipped your face up anyway, heart out where he could see it. “Boyfriend,” you said, the word strange and perfect, “you may kiss my jaw.” He did, slow as Sunday, careful as a vow, lingering at the hinge where last night had taught him you were softest. “Girlfriend,” he said into your skin, like he wanted to hear how it tasted, “you may make me go slow.”

“I will,” you murmured, smiling into his hoodie, and he kissed you again, not asking for more, not pushing, just letting the room learn the new shape of the two of you while the afternoon light slid across your carpet and the apartment stayed quiet and the future felt less like a cliff and more like a path that would keep appearing under your feet as long as you kept walking it together.

Five months behaved themselves only on paper. In practice they were a montage with bad boundaries: study dates that turned into mouth-on-mouth detours, “slow” whispered like a prayer and “more” answered like one, your new boyfriend learning your new rules and then getting very good at exploiting the space they left him. He didn’t push past what you’d said; he just pressed up against the edges until the edges felt like something you had chosen instead of inherited. He met your parents at week three because Utahime said cowards lived shorter lives. You wore a blue dress and hope. He wore a white button-up to be respectful and then ruined it by rolling the sleeves. Your father, who believed in modesty and full-coverage forearms, caught a flash of ink when Sukuna reached across the table to refill your mother’s tea and went very still, like someone had opened a window in winter.

“Sir,” Sukuna said evenly, because he’d promised you ma’am and sir without choking, “there’s more of it under the sleeves.” Your mother kicked you under the table so delicately you doubted she’d admit to it even in confession. Your father cleared his throat with centuries behind it. “You’re an… engineer,” he said, as if testing whether such people were permitted in restaurants. “Yes, sir.”

“And you… attend church.”

“When she invites me,” Sukuna said, not looking away from your father, “I sit and I listen and I don’t make faces.”

A tiny, traitorous smile hit your mouth because he absolutely did make faces, just small ones that only you could see. Your father’s gaze cut to your hand where Sukuna’s pinky sat curled around your pinky on your lap, and something like dismay crossed his face—fast, unfixable. You went home after dessert and lay on your bed with your shoes still on, and Sukuna lay beside you on top of the covers, his chain cool against your arm, and said, “He loves you so much he’s scared of the part where I exist.”

“I know,” you whispered. “I won’t give him reasons,” he said. “Only time.”

Time behaved like a prankster. By month two you had a whole vocabulary you hadn’t been raised with, and a boyfriend who treated your no like a magic word and your yes like a feast day. You kept your hands out of trouble in public (almost), did your readings (mostly), and discovered that nothing on earth was holier than the way he kissed your wrists when you were anxious. He started showing up to church beside you, watching the ceiling like he was trying to count how many angels could fit on an HVAC vent. Your mother clutched her purse; your father stared at a hymnal like it owed him money; Sukuna leaned close and murmured, “You’re singing off-key,” and you elbowed him and felt wildly, dangerously happy.

By month four your resolve had the texture of tissue paper on a humid day. There were nights he left your room with his hoodie half-zipped and his mouth swollen and his eyes wrecked and you stared at the ceiling and thought, I want—in words you’d never said out loud to anyone but God. He lay on his back beside you fully clothed like a brick wall had learned manners, took your hand, and whispered into the dark, “If you ask me, I’m going to say yes and then spend the rest of my life earning it.”

“So don’t ask me,” you breathed, half laughing, half crying. “Then marry me,” he said, shocking even himself. The room went still. The word hung there like a ladder lowered into a pit, you blinked at him, heart a trapped bird. “You’re—joking.”

“I am so bad at jokes,” he said, hoarse. “City Hall. Paperwork. A line. A pen. I own one tie and I hate it, so I won’t wear it. We tell your parents before so they can decide whether to kill me on site or after, but we don’t wait for their permission. I’m not asking you to run; I’m asking you to choose.” You didn’t sleep that night. You lay awake, rings of tradition and hope and fear spinning like haloed planets, and by morning the choice felt less like a cliff and more like the path you were already walking, only wider. You told your parents over coffee. Your mother’s mouth trembled; your father said “no” like he could punch the word back into your throat; you said “yes” with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking and a voice that did, and Sukuna stood beside you and took it like a man who’d learned to love impact.

“Respectfully,” he said, steady, “I’m not taking your daughter anywhere she doesn’t want to go.” He looked at you then, not them. “Where do you want to go?” You said, “City Hall.” Shoko took the pictures because she had the steadiest hands and the least regard for decorum. You bought a modest white dress from a department store because it zipped and you could breathe in it and you liked the way the skirt swung when you spun once, secret, in the changing room. He wore a white button-up—a few buttons undone because nerves made him hot—black slacks, and no tie, because he’d told the truth about hating it. His tattoos climbed from his cuffs when he signed the license, and you watched your new last name bloom on paper and felt that strange, tender grief that comes with good change: the goodbye that helps build the welcome.

The clerk said, “Congratulations,” in a voice like she meant it for you in particular. Shoko made you stand under the carved “CITY HALL” and took shot after shot: you both laughing, you both a little crying, the one where Sukuna couldn’t stop looking at your mouth and the world around you blurred like it had decided to stop eavesdropping, the one where you were walking out, his hand at your waist, your modest department-store skirt catching the light like satin anyway. You posted three of them because you were young and happy and in possession of a phone. Your parents nearly died in the comments. Your aunt used the phrase “pray on it.” Your father texted, We will talk on Sunday, and you wrote back, We will, and then put your phone face down and let the ring on your finger stop being imaginary.

You didn’t make it to dinner.

The apartment had flowers because Utahime couldn’t help herself and there was a note from Shoko on the counter that said, “We bought you a cake but I am holding it hostage until you hydrate.” Sukuna picked you up the way a man carries someone he wants to set somewhere soft and never move again unless she asks. He put you on the bed and stepped back and looked, hands in his pockets like if he touched too soon he’d figure out how to start a fire with them. “Wife,” he said, and the word knocked something loose in both of you. “Husband,” you said back, pink and bold, and then he was kissing you like the five months had been an inhale and now—finally—this was the exhale. You made a little helpless noise he drank like water. He was careful even in his hunger, as if he was remembering every rule you’d ever set while intentionally breaking the only one that still needed breaking.

“Safe word still counts,” he murmured, mouth at your throat, hands reverent and sure. “Stop means stop. Slow means breathe. All the old maps still work; we just built a house on the field.”

“Yes,” you said, and found out what it meant to be wanted by someone who wasn’t in a hurry unless you asked. You didn’t catalog it in clinical detail; you didn’t need to. You learned the way his hands shook the first time he had all of you and didn’t have to pretend he didn’t want to devour you whole. You learned the soft swear he bit into your shoulder when you pulled him deeper with your legs, wedding band cool against his back. You learned how your own sounds changed from shy to certain when he listened like a student and moved like a man who finally got to take the test he’d been studying for since the night you put your fingers in his mouth. You stopped keeping inventory of time. You came apart, and he watched you like worship, and then you learned how to do it again, slower, with giggles caught in the sheets when he tried a line and it didn’t work and you both redid the math together.

At some small hour he lay on his side and smoothed your damp hair from your forehead with the palm of his hand, eyes heavy and stunned.

“What?” you asked, voice sanded down to something soft. “I knew I’d love you like a problem,” he said, chest heaving, smile wrecked. “Didn’t realize I’d love you like an answer.” You blushed so hard you had to hide your face in his chest, which was rude, because it was sweaty. He laughed and kissed your hair and then remembered he could kiss anywhere. You did, in fact, fuck nearly all night, though “nearly” had to include hydration breaks, a stolen piece of Shoko’s cake in bed that got frosting on your shoulder and Sukuna took off with his tongue while you said, “That is unsanitary,” and he said, “I married you; this is legal.” It was greedy and it was tender and it was awkward in places and perfect in others, and at dawn you woke blushing so hard you had to burrow under the comforter and squeal into your pillow while he lay there on his back with his arm flung over his eyes like a man who had been hit by joy and needed a second to recover.

“Church,” you mumbled from under the blanket, because habit was a muscle. “We said Sunday.” He dragged his arm down and stared at you. “You want to face your parents on zero hours of sleep and seventeen hours of sin?”

“Yes,” you said, mortified and defiant. “With my husband.” He stared another beat and then grinned like a bad idea had just been promoted to tradition. “Okay, wife. Let’s get scowled at.” You showered on shaking legs and wore a dress your mother would approve of except for the way it made your ring look even more serious. He put on the same white shirt and actually buttoned one more button than yesterday because he loved you and because he could tell your stomach had started doing theologian cartwheels. You walked into the sanctuary together. Every head turned because stories walked in pairs. Your parents sat in their usual pew like they’d been nailed there since Thursday. Your father saw your joined hands and then the thin gold bands and his mouth went to a line a carpenter would have been proud of. Your mother’s eyes shone with a thousand quiet heartbreaks and something like fierce pride warred through them anyway.

Your father didn’t shake Sukuna’s hand at the peace greeting. He didn’t have to; Sukuna nodded like a man who knew he’d have to win ten small battles for every one surrender. You sang (off-key) and tried not to cry, and Sukuna didn’t make faces at the ventilation, and when the pastor prayed blessings on “new unions in our community” you reached for your husband’s fingers and felt him lace them with yours, knuckles steady, tattoos under cuff, a whole future inside a word you’d spoken where the ceiling might actually have angels if you squinted.

Afterward your parents cornered you by the big fake ficus. Your father said your name like a question and a warning; your mother said, “You could have told us before,” and then touched your cheek with two fingers and didn’t pull away. Sukuna said, “Sir, ma’am,” and didn’t flinch when your father looked at the bands and back at his face.

“It’s done,” your father said finally, tired and stubborn, and you nodded because that was true and also not the point. “So we will… do as the Lord asks, and love.”

“Thank you,” you whispered, and meant it like water. You walked home with Sukuna’s hand on the small of your back, your ring catching the sun and throwing it back at the world like a dare. He stopped at the stoop and kissed your jaw—just your jaw, slow as Sunday school—because he’d promised to learn your version of holiness and because he was good at keeping his mouth respectful when you needed it to be. “Wife,” he said again, tasting it, tasting you, smiling into your skin. “Husband,” you answered, dizzy and new and shameless, and the day didn’t end so much as tilt into a longer one, city hall behind you, hymnals in the morning, Shoko’s hostage cake still missing a corner, your parents learning the shape of this new room you’d invited them into, and you and Sukuna headed upstairs to study and absolutely not study with the door not-quite-closed and the future no longer waiting for permission to arrive.

authors notes; should I do a super small one shot series of this?????

[beaniesayshi]

𝗧𝗛𝗨𝗥𝗦𝗗𝗔𝗬𝗦 masterlist

tags: modern AU, Sukuna x f!Reader, graphic designer!Reader, tired girl x tired man, Sukuna's soft and quiet, reader's a bit of a yapper, reader exhaustion realism, quiet intimacy, slow burn, slice-of-life, subtle yearning, emotional restraint, short chapters and minimal dialogue (at the beginning), eventual angst

You shop at the same store every week at the same day and at the same time. He does so too. And it all just happens that you’re no longer strangers one day, enjoying each other's company one grocery run at a time.

wc: 73k

main masterlist ◦ ao3

READER POV (original) Week One Week Two Week Three Week Four Week Five Week Six Week Seven Week Eight Week Nine Week Ten Week Eleven Week Twelve Week Thirteen Week Fourteen Week Fifteen Week Sixteen Week Seventeen Week Eighteen Week Nineteen Week Twenty Week Twenty One Week Twenty Two Week Twenty Three Week Twenty Four Week Twenty Five Week Twenty Six Week Twenty Seven Week Twenty Eight Week Twenty Nine Week Thirty Week Thirty One Postscript (ending notes, contains spoilers)

SUKUNA POV important: do not read this side-by-side with the original. you’ll miss the entire slow burn if you move between chapters.

the correct order is:  1. read the full reader-POV story (weeks 1–31)  2. then return to sukuna’s POV

this side is meant to answer questions, but only after you know the whole story.

Week One Week Two Week Three Week Four Week Five Week Six ...

notes: this is something i started writing when work got overwhelming, so the reader’s work frustrations mirror mine in a way. i’m not actually a graphic designer, but i used that profession because it’s easier to explain the kinds of issues i deal with in my real one. it’s not a one-to-one translation, just the closest way to put it into words for the sake of the story.

banner by my amazing friend @graphic0rn

[andypantsx3]

WAR PAINT : MASTERLIST

PAIRING: Bakugou Katsuki x Fem Reader SUMMARY: Desperate times force you to disguise yourself and join the King’s Guard. When a suspicious string of crimes strike the palace, however, Captain Katsuki Bakugou starts paying extra close attention. CONTENT: mulan elements, fantasy AU, hidden gender/secret identity, romance, aged up characters, some violence, eventual smut, afab fem reader, 18+, spin off of in cinders LENGTH: 28k, STATUS: complete

CHAPTERS

one

two

three

four

five

six

seven

eight

nine

ten

READ ON AO3

DELETED SCENES (requests for short drabbles related to the fic)

What was chapter 5 like from Bakugou’s point of view?

What is domestic life like for them after the fic?

Did they get married? What did Bakugou’s family think?