💋

I gotta stop reading these fanfic man

[fireladylisa]

— the arrangement masterlist ∬ ֗ ₊

ა ˙˖ summary → there’s no one you hate more than satoru gojo. he’s arrogant and entirely too full of himself. when you agree to be strictly enemies with benefits, gojo takes this as the perfect opportunity to finally make you his.

⤳ warnings: this mini series will feature adult content and is not recommended to anyone under the age of 18

intro

❦ chapter one: the fuck buddy proposal

❦ chapter two: you're not my type!

❦ chapter three: the conclusion

꒰ I've already got a taglist going but you can also sign up for tags here! under others just type in: the arrangement series ꒱

© art creds: gojouify

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[fireladylisa]

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[poniadeaur]

Gym dates with Sukuna

The first time Ryomen Sukuna told you he spent eight hours a day at the gym, you thought he was joking.

You were lying in bed, tangled in his sheets, watching the morning light filter through the blinds and catch on the ridiculous topography of his abdomen. The man had a twelve-pack. You'd counted. Twice.

"Eight hours?" you'd repeated, tracing a finger down the valley between his pecs. "Sukuna, that's a full workday. You don't even work."

"I do work," he'd rumbled, rolling toward you with the predatory grace of a man who deadlifted small cars for fun. "I work out. It's different. It's sacred."

"You're paying rent to a building full of metal."

"I'm investing in the temple of my body," he'd said, dead serious, catching your wandering hand and pressing a kiss to your palm. "And baby, you should see the equipment they just got in. There's this cable machine—"

You'd shut him up with a kiss, mostly because hearing him talk about cable machines with the same reverence most men reserved for their firstborn child was making your brain short-circuit.

That was three months ago.

Now, you were standing in the doorway of your apartment, watching your boyfriend—your ridiculously jacked, terrifyingly strong, absolutely obsessed-with-protein boyfriend—do his pre-gym ritual in the living room. He was currently shaking his third shaker bottle of the morning, wearing a stringer tank that looked like it was struggling to survive against the sheer mass of his shoulders.

"Babe," he said, not looking up from his phone where he was undoubtedly tracking macros or watching some fitness influencer scream about mind-muscle connection. "You sure you don't wanna come? I could show you the new squat rack. It's black. Matte black. Looks like it was forged in hell."

You adjusted your oversized hoodie, clutching your coffee like a lifeline. "I walked three miles yesterday. To the grocery store and back. Twice. Because you ate all the chicken and I had to go again."

"Walking isn't the same as training," Sukuna said, finally looking up. His eyes did that thing they always did—dropping from your face to your legs, then slowly dragging back up with the kind of appreciation that made your toes curl. Even buried in layers of cotton and fleece, he looked at you like you were the only meal he'd ever need. "Besides, I just… I wanna spend more time with you. And I'm at the gym all the time. It could be like… a gym date."

"A gym date," you repeated flatly.

"Yeah! Couples who train together stay together. I saw it on a t-shirt at the supplement store."

"Sukuna, I don't want to pay money to be miserable in public. I get enough of that at the DMV."

He set down his shaker bottle and crossed the room in three strides, all coiled power and bare arms that looked like they were carved from mahogany. Before you could protest, he'd lifted you onto the kitchen counter—effortlessly, like you weighed nothing—and caged you in with his hands on either side of your hips.

"Listen," he said, voice dropping to that register that always did dangerous things to your blood pressure. "I'm not saying you need to change anything. Fuck, if I could spend every waking hour with my hands on you, I would. You're perfect. You're obscenely perfect. I just…" He paused, actually looking bashful for once, which on a man with his jawline and his reputation was almost comical. "I see these other couples there. Spotting each other. Taking videos. Matching outfits. And I get… I don't know. Jealous?"

You stared at him. "Ryomen Sukuna. King of Curses. The strongest. The undisputed. You're jealous of couples doing leg presses together?"

"They look happy," he muttered, ducking his head to nuzzle your neck. His stubble scraped deliciously against your skin. "And I like being happy with you. Plus, think about the possibilities. You, bent over a bench. Me, standing behind you, 'adjusting your form…'"

"Oh my god."

"—or you, on the hip thrust machine—"

"You're shameless."

"—or the stretching area. Very private. Very… flexible."

You pushed at his chest, which was like trying to move a wall. "You're going to injure me."

"I would never," he said, offended. "I'd warm you up first. Dynamic stretches. Foam rolling. Very professional. Very hands-on."

He was ridiculous. He was six-foot-four of pure muscle and pure ridiculousness, and he was looking at you with those dark eyes like you'd personally hung the moon for him.

"Fine," you sighed. "But I'm not wearing one of those tiny sports bra things. I have dignity."

Sukuna's grin could have powered a small city. "Wear whatever you want. I'll still be the luckiest bastard in the building."

You'd made a mistake.

Not in agreeing to go—though as you stood in front of your closet, staring at the limited options for "athletic wear that doesn't make me feel like a sausage," you were questioning your life choices. No, the mistake was letting Sukuna see you in the outfit you'd eventually settled on.

It was just a pair of high-waisted leggings and a fitted longline sports bra. Nothing special. You'd worn it to clean the apartment before. But when you walked out of the bedroom, grabbing your water bottle, Sukuna dropped his phone.

It hit the floor with a crack that you hoped was just the case.

"Nope," he said, immediately. "Absolutely not. We're staying home."

You looked down at yourself. "What? You said wear whatever—"

"That is criminal," he said, striding toward you with a look in his eyes that made you take a step back. "That is a felony. You're going to get us arrested. I'm going to have to fight someone. Multiple someones. I'm going to have to bury bodies under the squat rack."

"Sukuna—"

He was already on you, big hands spanning your waist, thumbs brushing the strip of skin between your leggings and your top. His jaw was actually slack, his eyes dark and blown wide as they roamed over you with embarrassing thoroughness.

"Turn around," he commanded, voice rough.

"Excuse me?"

"Turn. Around."

You rolled your eyes but complied, spinning slowly. When you faced him again, he looked genuinely dizzy.

"The back," he said, almost reverently. "The back of those leggings. Do you know what you've done? Do you understand the physics of what I'm seeing right now?"

"Are you having a medical emergency?"

"I'm having a spiritual emergency," he corrected, stepping close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him. His hands slid down to grip your hips, then lower, palming the curve of your ass with a familiarity that made you flush. "You look… fuck, you look like every fantasy I've ever had. Like you were designed in a lab to ruin me."

"You see me naked every day," you reminded him, though your voice was breathier than you'd like.

"Naked is different. This is… this is suggestion. This is potential energy. This is 'look but don't touch unless you want to get destroyed by my boyfriend who benches four plates.'" He was already leaning in, his mouth finding the curve of your neck, your jaw, the shell of your ear. "We should skip the gym."

"Sukuna, you literally booked—"

"I'll pay them to stay closed. I'll buy the building. We can turn it into a sex dungeon."

"We are GOING to the GYM," you said firmly, pushing him back with both hands. He allowed it, but his eyes remained fixed on you with unsettling intensity. "You wanted a gym date. We're having a gym date. Now move."

He moved, but he moved like a man in a trance, following you to the door, to the elevator, to the car—staring at your ass the entire time with the focus of a sniper acquiring a target.

The gym was empty.

Not quiet. Not sparse. Empty.

You stood in the lobby, looking around at the deserted check-in desk, the silent weight room visible through the glass doors, the complete and total absence of any other human life. Even the music was off.

"Sukuna," you said slowly. "Did you…?"

"I booked it," he said, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Swiped his keycard with a flourish. "Whole place. Four hours. Just us."

"You booked an entire gym."

"For our first gym date," he confirmed, beaming. "No distractions. No waiting for equipment. No random dudes asking how many sets I have left when I'm clearly mid-set and would have to commit murder to answer them."

"You booked," you repeated, walking through the doors into the vast, echoing space, "an entire commercial fitness facility. For a date."

"I wanted it to be special." He was behind you again, because of course he was, his hands finding your waist as he guided you deeper into the temple of his obsession. "And I wanted to be able to do this."

He spun you around and kissed you, deep and filthy and completely inappropriate for a public space—which, you reminded yourself, wasn't public right now because he'd rented the entire building. His hands roamed freely, sliding up under your sports bra, down into your leggings, mapping territory he already knew by heart but was apparently desperate to re-survey.

"Sukuna," you gasped against his mouth, "we're supposed to be working out."

"This is my warm-up," he rumbled, lifting you effortlessly onto the check-in counter—again—and stepping between your legs. "Gotta get the blood flowing."

"The blood is definitely flowing," you agreed, feeling the evidence against your thigh. "But you paid for this. We should… use the equipment. Or something."

He pulled back, looking genuinely torn. "But you're wearing that. And I have access to the locker rooms. And the showers. And the—"

"Gym date," you reminded him, pushing at his chest. "You promised me a gym date. Spotting. Form checks. Couples fitness. Get it together, Ryomen."

He groaned, a sound of pure suffering, but he stepped back. Ran a hand through his hair, which was already falling out of its bun. Took a deep breath that made his chest expand to truly ridiculous proportions.

"Fine," he said. "Gym date. But I'm warning you now, I'm going to be insufferable."

"You were already insufferable. This is just… concentrated."

He started with the tour, which was mostly an excuse to keep touching you.

"And this," he said, standing behind you at the cable machine, his front plastered to your back, his arms reaching around you to adjust pins you didn't need adjusted, "is the cable crossover. Great for… everything. Chest. Delts. Core stability."

"Are you explaining the machine or just enjoying the view?" you asked, feeling his chin rest on your shoulder.

"Both. Definitely both." His hands slid down your arms, guiding them to the handles. "Now, when you do a fly, you wanna keep a slight bend in the elbow… like this…"

He was demonstrating proper form, supposedly. What he was actually doing was pressing his entire body against yours, his breath hot against your ear, his hands lingering on your wrists, your forearms, your waist—anywhere he could justify touching in the name of "coaching."

"You're not even looking at my form," you accused.

"I'm looking at your everything," he countered, not denying it. "Your form is perfect. Your form is angelic. Your form is making me reconsider my stance on public indecency."

You laughed, turning your head to catch his mouth in a quick kiss. "Show me something else, coach."

He showed you everything.

The free weights, where he loaded up a barbell with more plates than you'd ever seen and deadlifted it with a grunt that should have been illegal—his back muscles rippling under his tank top, his jaw clenched, his entire body a study in controlled power. You found yourself staring, mouth slightly open, as he set the weight down with a controlled crash and winked at you.

"Like what you see?" he asked, smug and sweating and absolutely divine.

"That was…" You searched for words. "That was a lot of weight. That was like… a small car."

"Four hundred fifty pounds," he said, casually, like he hadn't just moved half a ton of iron. "Warm-up weight."

"Show-off."

"Only for you, baby." He grabbed his water bottle, throat working as he drank, and you watched a bead of sweat trace down his neck, over his collarbone, disappearing into the valley of his chest. "You gonna just stare, or you gonna spot me?"

"I don't think I could spot you. I think if that fell on you, I'd just have to accept my new life as a widow."

"Come here," he laughed, catching your hand and dragging you toward the bench press. "You don't have to lift it. Just stand there and look pretty. Motivate me."

"How do I motivate you?"

He laid back on the bench, gripping the bar, and looked up at you with dark, heated eyes. "Tell me I'm strong. Tell me I'm big. Tell me you can't wait to feel these arms later."

"Sukuna—"

"Do it," he teased, lifting off the rack. "Or I'll drop this on my own chest out of despair."

You leaned over him, your hair falling like a curtain around your faces, and whispered, "You're the strongest man I've ever seen. You're enormous. You're ridiculous. And if you drop that, I'm calling an ambulance and telling them you were doing CrossFit."

He laughed, the bar wobbling dangerously, and then proceeded to pump out twelve reps like they were nothing—his pecs flexing, his triceps bulging, his entire body a symphony of strain and strength. And he never broke eye contact with you, not once, his gaze burning with something that had nothing to do with the weight in his hands.

By the time he racked it, you were both breathless for entirely different reasons.

"Your turn," he said, sitting up and grabbing you around the waist, pulling you into his lap.

"I thought we were working out."

"We are. You're doing squats." He patted his thighs. "Bodyweight. Very advanced technique."

"Sukuna, that's not—"

"Sit on me," he commanded, low and rough. "And then stand up. Repeat. Great for the glutes."

You should have argued. You should have insisted on actual exercise. Instead, you found yourself settling onto his lap, facing him, your knees bracketing his hips, your hands on his shoulders—which were, admittedly, spectacular.

"Now," he said, his hands settling on your waist, then sliding down to grip your thighs, "up."

You stood, shakily, feeling his eyes on every inch of movement.

"Down," he ordered.

You lowered yourself back onto him, feeling the hard press of his body against yours, the heat of him through your clothes.

"Again."

You did it again. And again. Until you were breathless, until his hands were gripping your ass, until his mouth was on your neck and he was muttering filthy encouragement about your depth, your control, your perfect fucking form.

"This is not," you panted, "what I signed up for."

"You love it," he countered, nipping at your jaw. "Admit it. Admit you love watching me lift. Admit you love feeling small."

"I don't love feeling small—"

"Liar." He stood up in one smooth motion, lifting you with him, and deposited you on the bench he'd just vacated. "Stay there."

He walked—stalked, really—to the dumbbell rack and selected a pair that looked comically large. Then he returned, standing over you, and handed you one.

"Time for chest presses," he said, all business now, though his eyes were anything but professional. "Lay back."

You did, holding the weight above you, and he knelt beside the bench—ostensibly to spot you, but really so he could lean over you, his face inches from yours, his hands hovering near your wrists.

"Down slow," he instructed, his voice soft. "Control the eccentric. Feel the stretch."

You lowered the weight, feeling the pull in your chest, and his eyes tracked the movement with frightening intensity.

"Good," he murmured. "Now up. Explode."

You pressed it up, and his hands finally made contact—not with the weight, but with your sides, sliding up under your sports bra, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts.

"Sukuna—"

"Just checking your bracing," he said, utterly unconvincing. "Core tightness is essential."

"You're essential," you shot back, "ly going to get us banned from this gym you rented."

"They can't ban me. I own the next four hours." He was leaning closer, his weight on his hands now, caging you in. "And you're not even sweating yet. We need to fix that."

He took the weight from you—one-handed, casually—and set it aside. Then he hooked his arms under you and lifted you off the bench, carrying you toward the back of the gym like you weighed nothing.

"Where are we going?"

"Functional training area," he said, his voice vibrating against your chest. "Foam mats. Very comfortable. Very… versatile."

"Sukuna—"

"Gym date," he reminded you, his grin wicked. "You said gym date. I'm just following through."

He set you down on a stack of mats and followed you down, his body covering yours, his mouth finding yours with a hunger that made your head spin. Around you, the empty gym echoed with the sounds of your breathing, his occasional low growl, the rustle of fabric as his hands explored every inch of you with the same dedication he gave to his training.

"Best gym date ever," he muttered against your skin, and you laughed, arching into his touch, already knowing you'd be coming back tomorrow.

After all, you had to get your money's worth.

The second gym date started with promise.

You'd actually been excited—surprisingly so—pulling on your leggings with a little shimmy in the mirror, packing your water bottle, even looking forward to the post-workout protein shake Sukuna swore by (which tasted like chocolate chalk but he'd make the most obscene noises while drinking it, so it was worth the price of admission).

"Public gym today," Sukuna said, checking his reflection in the hallway mirror for the fifteenth time, adjusting the strap of his tank. "Real atmosphere. Real energy. You'll love it."

"I thought you hated people asking how many sets you have left."

"I hate that," he agreed, grabbing his gym bag—an enormous duffel that looked like it could hold a body. "But I love the vibe. The grind. The collective suffering. Plus, I wanna show you off."

He said it casually, but there was something underneath—pride, possessiveness, the same tone he used when he talked about his PRs. You were his PR now. His personal record in girlfriend form.

The gym was buzzing when you arrived. House music thumped through the speakers, weights clanged, treadmills whirred, and everywhere you looked, people were sweating with intention. Sukuna walked in like a king returning to his castle—chin up, shoulders back, nodding at regulars who called out greetings.

"Ryomen! Where you been, man?"

"Booked the place for a private session yesterday," Sukuna said, not slowing down. "Had business to attend to."

"Business," you muttered, remembering exactly what kind of "business" had happened on the functional training mats.

He squeezed your hand, leading you toward the stretching area. "Alright, warm up solo first. Gotta get the blood flowing before we hit the heavy stuff. I'll be over there"—he pointed to a rack of dumbbells that looked like they belonged in a strongman competition—"doing activation work. You good with dynamic stretches?"

"Youtube certified," you assured him.

"Show-off." He kissed your forehead, then your nose, then apparently decided that wasn't enough and kissed your mouth, slow and thorough, right there in front of the ellipticals. "Thirty minutes. Then we lift together."

He strutted off, and you found a corner near the mirrors to begin your warm-up.

That's when you noticed the stares.

At first, you thought it was because you were doing something wrong—your form was definitely questionable, your high-knees more enthusiastic than coordinated. But then you caught the reflection in the mirror: guys on the bench press, guys by the water fountain, guys everywhere, looking over with expressions that ranged from appreciative to calculating.

You were used to attention when you were with Sukuna. He was impossible to miss—six-four, built like a heavyweight champion, with a resting face that looked like he was contemplating which wall to punch through. But without him beside you, claiming territory with his presence, you apparently looked like something else entirely.

A target.

The first approach came during leg swings.

"Hey, you new here?"

You nearly kicked yourself in the face. A guy in a cutoff tee—decent arms, overconfident smile—was standing way too close, holding a water bottle like a prop.

"Uh, sort of," you said, switching to arm circles. "Second time."

"Second time? You look like you could use a spotter." His eyes dropped to your chest, then lower, then back up with a smile that made your skin crawl. "I'm Jake. I could show you the ropes. Maybe some… private instruction?"

"I'm good, actually. My boyf—"

"Beginners really shouldn't lift alone," Jake continued, stepping closer. "Easy to get hurt. I could take you through a full-body routine. My place has a pretty nice setup too, if you—"

"She's taken," a voice rumbled from behind you, low and dangerous and vibrating with barely controlled violence.

Sukuna materialized like he'd teleported, one massive arm sliding around your waist, pulling you back against his chest. He wasn't even looking at you—he was looking at Jake with an expression that suggested he was calculating how many pieces he could break the man into.

"Oh, uh, hey Ryomen," Jake stammered, holding up his hands. "Didn't know she was with you."

"Now you do."

"Right. Right. Cool. I'll just… bench press."

"Do that."

Jake fled. Sukuna's grip on your waist tightened, his thumb stroking possessively over your hip bone.

"Okay," he said, his voice artificially light. "New plan. Less crowded area. Follow me."

He led you to the back corner, near the treadmills, where the lighting was worse and the foot traffic was lighter. He pointed to a machine. "Treadmill. Walk. Incline. Nice and safe."

"Sukuna, I can handle—"

"I know you can," he said, but his jaw was tight. "I just… I need to focus. And I can't focus when every dude with a gym membership is trying to sell you on his 'home setup.'" He made air quotes with one hand, the other still not leaving your waist. "Thirty minutes. Then I'll be done with my trainer and we can do circuits together. Okay?"

You nodded. He kissed you again—harder this time, claiming, obvious—and stalked off toward a man in a polo shirt who was waiting by the free weights with a clipboard.

The treadmill was boring. You set it to a brisk walk, incline moderate, and tried to look occupied. But you could feel eyes on you still—not as many, but enough. A guy on the rower kept glancing over. Someone doing cable flies had his mirror angle suspiciously adjusted.

You focused on your breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. The way Sukuna had taught you.

Apparently, Sukuna could hear your breathing from across the gym.

You saw it happen in the mirror's reflection—Sukuna, mid-conversation with his trainer, suddenly going still. His head turned, slowly, like a predator scenting prey. His eyes found you on the treadmill, tracked the rise and fall of your chest, the slight part of your lips as you exhaled.

He wasn't holding anything heavy at that moment, which was the only reason he didn't drop it. Instead, he just… stopped talking. Mid-sentence. His trainer waved a hand in front of his face. Sukuna didn't blink.

You increased the incline. Your breathing got heavier.

Sukuna swayed on his feet.

The squats were a mistake.

You'd moved to the squat rack after your cardio warm-up, deciding to try the thing Sukuna had been raving about—"ass to grass," he'd called it, with a wink that should have been illegal. You loaded the bar with just the bar, no weights, figuring you'd practice the movement.

It felt awkward. Your stance was too narrow, then too wide. You couldn't get the depth. You were frowning at yourself in the mirror, adjusting your footing, when you heard the crash.

It sounded like a gunshot. Like a car accident. Like someone had dropped a refrigerator from a second-story window.

You spun around. Sukuna was hopping on one foot, his face a mask of agony, clutching his other foot with both hands. A dumbbell—the size of a small planet—was on the floor beside him, having apparently met his toes at velocity.

"Ryomen!" His trainer—a compact man named Mike who looked like he could deadlift a truck—rushed over. "What happened?"

"Nothing," Sukuna hissed through his teeth, his eyes finding yours across the gym, dark and desperate. "Fine. Totally fine. Just… lost focus."

"That was a ninety-pound dumbbell," Mike said, incredulous. "You were doing lateral raises. How did you—"

"Slipped."

"Sukuna," you called out, concerned, stepping away from the rack.

"STAY THERE," he commanded, holding up a hand. "Keep doing what you're doing. I'm good. Just… keep squatting."

"Keep squating?"

"For form!" he added, his voice cracking slightly. "Practice your form!"

Mike looked between you two, suspicion dawning on his face. But Sukuna was already shaking out his foot, picking up the dumbbell with his other hand like it weighed nothing, nodding for Mike to continue the session.

You returned to your squats, confused. You went down for your first rep, trying to remember Sukuna's instructions—chest up, core tight, drive through the heels.

From across the gym, you heard a strangled noise.

You looked up. Sukuna had apparently attempted another lateral raise and had frozen halfway through, his arm extended, his face locked in an expression of pure concentration that was failing spectacularly. His eyes were fixed on your reflection in the mirror.

"Sukuna," Mike said slowly, "you're shaking."

"Pre-exhaustion," Sukuna lied, his voice strained. "Advanced technique."

"You're holding a twenty-pound weight."

"Time under tension."

"Sukuna, you're staring at—" Mike followed his gaze. His eyes landed on you, mid-squat, breathing hard, leggings doing that thing that leggings do. He looked back at Sukuna, who was now sweating profusely and not from exertion. "Oh."

"Don't," Sukuna warned.

"She's the girlfriend," Mike realized. "The one you never bring around. The one you've been talking about for months."

"Mike."

"She's doing squats, man. You gotta focus."

"I am focused," Sukuna growled, finally lowering the weight with exaggerated care. "I'm extremely focused. I'm the most focused I've ever been."

"You're a liability right now," Mike said, with the resigned tone of a man who had seen too much. "You almost crushed your own foot. You're going to tear a rotator cuff staring at her. The other members are going to notice."

"Let them notice," Sukuna said, but even as he spoke, another guy was approaching you—you could see him in your peripheral vision, a tall dude with a man-bun and a tank top that said "SQUAT BECAUSE NO ONE RAPS ABOUT LITTLE BUTTS."

"Oh no," Sukuna whispered.

"Hey there," Man-Bun said, leaning on the rack next to you. "Form check?"

"I'm good, thanks," you said, racking the bar.

"You're actually breaking at the knees first," he continued, undeterred. "You wanna break at the hips. Here, let me show you—"

His hand reached for your waist. From across the gym, Sukuna made a sound like a kettle boiling over.

"MIKE," he said, his voice carrying across the entire facility. "I need to go over there."

"Ryomen—"

"I NEED TO GO OVER THERE."

"Take a breath, man."

"I AM BREATHING. I AM BREATHING AND I AM WALKING AND I AM—"

He was already moving, abandoning his weights, his training plan, his dignity—stalking across the gym floor with single-minded purpose. Other gym-goers turned to watch. This was Ryomen Sukuna, after all, the guy whose deadlift videos had thousands of views, the guy who trained like a demon, the guy who never broke focus.

Until today.

He reached you in seven strides. Man-Bun's hand was still hovering near your hip. Sukuna inserted himself between you with the precision of a missile defense system, his back to the interloper, his hands framing your face.

"Hi," he said, his voice too high.

"Hi," you said back.

"I missed you."

"It's been eight minutes."

"Eight minutes too long." He kissed you. Hard. In front of everyone. When he pulled back, he didn't turn around—just spoke over his shoulder, his voice dropping an octave into something that made Man-Bun take two steps back. "She's taken. She's mine. And if you touch her, I'll use you as a warm-up set."

"Ryomen," Mike called out, approaching with the weary tread of a man whose paycheck depended on this lunatic. "Can we talk? Privately?"

Sukuna didn't move. "No."

"Ryomen."

"NO."

"You're causing a scene. You're causing hazards. You dropped a dumbbell on your foot and then almost took out the mirror wall because you were distracted."

"I was focused!"

"You were drooling!"

Sukuna's ears went red. You bit your lip to keep from laughing.

Mike sighed, rubbing his temples. "Look. You've been coming here for three years. You're our best member. People literally join because they see you training and they want to be like you. But right now? You're a menace. You're a walking OSHA violation. And it's because of"—he gestured at you—"the distraction."

"Don't call her that," Sukuna said, his voice dangerously soft.

"I don't mean it as an insult! She's lovely! But you can't focus when she's here, and if you can't focus, you get hurt. And if you get hurt, you can't train. And if you can't train…" Mike trailed off, the economics of the situation hanging in the air.

Sukuna was quiet for a long moment. His hands were still on your face, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones. You could feel the tension in him, the war between his possessive instincts and his rational brain.

"So what do you suggest?" he asked finally.

"Exercise separately," Mike said, relieved. "She comes mornings, you come evenings. Or vice versa. Or…" He hesitated. "You train her somewhere else. Privately. Away from… all this."

Sukuna's hands stilled. You saw the moment the idea took hold—the shift in his eyes, the slight curve of his mouth.

"Privately," he repeated.

"Yeah. I mean, you've got that home setup, right? The garage gym? State of the art?"

"State of the art," Sukuna agreed, his voice taking on a tone you recognized. The tone he used when he was planning something. When he was hungry.

"Sukuna," you said, suspicious.

He looked down at you, and his smile was pure sin. "Home gym, baby. Just you and me. No distractions. No interruptions. No random dudes trying to correct your form."

"That sounds—"

"I'll teach you everything," he continued, his hands sliding down to your waist, pulling you closer. "Personal attention. Hands-on instruction. Very… intensive."

"Intensive," you repeated, dryly.

"Hours of one-on-one training," he said, his mouth near your ear now, for your hearing only. "Just the sound of your breathing. Just the sight of you, sweating, working hard, pushing your limits. And me, right there, spotting you. Touching you. Guiding you through every rep."

Your knees felt weak. You weren't sure if it was from the squats or the promise in his voice.

"Mike," Sukuna said, not looking away from you. "Cancel my membership."

"Ryomen, you don't have to—"

"Upgrade it," Sukuna corrected. "Lifetime platinum. I'll pay for the year upfront. But I'm training her at home from now on. Can't have distractions."

"That's… that's not what I meant—"

"Thanks for the advice, Mike. Really appreciate it. Changed my life."

He was already steering you toward the exit, his hand on the small of your back, his body radiating heat and intention. You looked back once to see Mike standing in the middle of the gym floor, holding his clipboard, looking like he'd accidentally unleashed something he couldn't control.

You had a feeling he was right.

Sukuna's home gym was in the basement—a space he'd described as "modest" but which turned out to be larger than most commercial facilities. Rubber flooring, mirrors on every wall, a full rack of weights, machines you'd never seen before, and a stereo system that looked like it belonged in a nightclub.

"Welcome," Sukuna said, spreading his arms wide, "to the real Iron Temple."

You walked down the stairs, taking it in. It was impressive, no doubt. Everything was top-of-the-line, pristine, organized with the kind of obsessive attention to detail that only a true gym rat could manage. There were posters on the walls—motivational quotes, anatomy charts, progress photos of Sukuna from years ago that made you realize he'd always been ridiculous.

"So," you said, setting down your bag. "When do we start?"

"Start?" Sukuna repeated, locking the basement door behind him. The click echoed. "Oh, baby. We're not starting with a workout."

He turned around, and the look on his face made your breath catch. In the fluorescent lights of the gym, with the mirrors reflecting him from every angle, he looked enormous—broad shoulders filling the frame, muscles rippling under his tank, his jaw set with predatory focus.

"Sukuna—"

"You know what the problem was today?" he asked, stalking toward you. "It wasn't just that they were looking at you. It wasn't just that they wanted you." He reached you, his hands finding your hips, pulling you flush against him. "It was that I couldn't touch you. I couldn't claim you. I had to stand there, ten feet away, watching you breathe, watching you move, and I couldn't do anything about it."

His hands slid down, gripping your thighs, lifting you effortlessly onto a weight bench. You gasped, your legs automatically wrapping around his waist.

"But here?" he continued, his voice dropping to a growl. "Here, there's no Mike. No Jake. No Man-Bun with opinions about your squat depth. Just you. Just me. And all the time in the world."

He kissed you, and it was different than before—unguarded, unrestrained, his hands roaming with complete freedom. He pulled your top up over your head, tossed it aside, his mouth tracing down your neck, your collarbone, the valley between your breasts.

"Sukuna, we should warm up," you managed, though your hands were already in his hair.

"Oh, we're warming up," he promised, his breath hot against your skin. "Dynamic stretching. Increased heart rate. Getting the blood flowing." He looked up at you, his eyes dark and wild. "I'm going to train you so hard, baby. So thorough. By the time I'm done with you, you won't be able to walk straight."

"That's not—"

"Shh." He pressed a finger to your lips, then replaced it with his mouth, his tongue, his entire devastating focus. "First lesson? Proper breathing technique. In through the nose…"

His hand slid lower, his touch deliberate, expert, making you arch against him.

"Out through the mouth."

You moaned, and he smiled against your skin—a predator's smile, a conqueror's smile, the smile of a man who had finally gotten exactly what he wanted.

"Good form," he praised. "Very good form. Now, let's work on your endurance."

It wasn't what you expected.

It was so, so much better.

[tays-writing]

Where he draws the line | p1

Satoru Gojo x Reader

Being loved by the strongest is complicated. Being married to him as a sorcerer from a despised clan makes you dangerous. But no one is foolish enough to cross the line of an utterly devoted man, right?

cr: @_3aem on X

CW / Fic tags: NSFW. Married couple/Established relationship. Plot & Smut. Possessiveness. Vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, praise kink, creampie, oral sex (f and m rec), inappropiate use of cursed technique, fluff, hurt/comfort. Satoru Gojo goes insane

The first week after the wedding, Satoru Gojo stopped pretending he had any self-control. Not that he’d had much to begin with. But now? Now he didn’t even try. 

He was fairly certain he was going to live in a permanent honeymoon state forever. And honestly, he wasn’t complaining.

“You’re being obnoxious” you murmured under your breath, keeping your tone carefully neutral as he leaned down behind you, his chin settling comfortably on your shoulder. His weight was lazy, both arms draped around your waist like he’d decided this was his new default position.

“Mmm-no,” he corrected lightly, breath warm against your ear “I’m being a married man” 

You kept your eyes forward, expression composed, because the second you acknowledged the fact that Satoru Gojo was practically purring into your neck in front of the entire staff, you would lose whatever dignity you still had left.

You met him at Jujutsu High, back when you were nothing more than two stupid teenagers with too much power and even less sense. It hadn’t been instant. Not even close.

You were a year younger, and he behaved like he owned the place—which, in hindsight, maybe he did. Still, that wasn’t the point.

Then came shared missions. Long nights. Close calls. Feelings you hadn’t planned on—feelings Satoru had made very sure would take root.

And now here you were. Married. Seven days in.

He squeezed your waist once — absentmindedly possessive. You pinched his wrist in retaliation.

He grinned. You didn’t need to see it, you could hear it in the way his shoulders shifted, smug and pleased with himself.

You finally slipped out of his hold just enough to turn and look at him.

“Didn’t you have a class to teach or something?”

“Hm?” one hand came up to his chin, thoughtful “I don’t th—”

“Sensei.” Megumi’s voice cut in before he could finish — flat, cold, and deeply unimpressed. 

He stood a few feet away, posture straight, expression carved from stone as always. His dark eyes are fixed squarely on Gojo’s face.

“Stop behaving like a teenager and come teach the class” he says evenly. “We’re waiting.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Slowly, you look up at your husband.

Megumi’s gaze shifted then — just slightly — and softened when it landed on you.

“Mrs. Gojo” he says, bowing his head a fraction.

“In my defense,” Satoru says thoughtfully, “I forgot.”

Megumi exhaled through his nose.

“You didn’t forget,” he replied flatly. “You ignored it.”

Satoru grinned, shameless.

“Details”

Megumi looked like he was reconsidering every life decision that led him here.

“Sensei” he said again, warning creeping into his tone.

You stepped back, folding your arms. “Go. Teach.”

Satoru sighed like he’d been asked to endure something truly unbearable — but before moving, he leaned down and pressed a quick, warm peck to your lips.

Casual. Unapologetic. In front of Megumi.

“You’re doing that on purpose” you muttered

“Of course I am” Satoru replied brightly.

He finally stepped away, squeezing your hand once more. You smiled, shaking your head as you watched his broad back stroll off toward the exit without a care in the world.

“Let’s go, Megumiiii” he sing-songed as he passed his student.

But Megumi didn’t follow immediately.

He lingered by the doorway, posture relaxed, expression unreadable.

“Mrs. Gojo.”

You looked at him, resisting the urge to tell him he didn’t need to be so formal—neither you nor Satoru cared—but Megumi was endearingly respectful, so you let him have it.

“Megs” you answered, tilting your head.

“He’s worse lately.”

You blinked once. Then raised an eyebrow. “Worse?”

“More…” He hesitated, searching for the word. “…attached.”

A soft huff escaped you before you could stop it. “He’s always been attached.”

Megumi’s gaze dropped for half a second, then returned—sharp. Certain.

“This is different.”

The words settled heavier than they should have, and you didn’t answer right away.

He wasn’t wrong.

There was something different. Something that had crept in quietly beneath the teasing and theatrics, beneath the hands on your waist and the shameless affection.

Something denser. More deliberate. Protective, yes—but not playful. Watchful. Like he was constantly counting exits. Like he was listening for threats that hadn’t arrived yet.

You straightened without realizing it, shoulders squaring.

“Don’t worry,” you said, offering Megumi a small smile. “I’ll fix it.”

It was only half a joke.

You’d known Megumi since he was six years old—played with him, walked him to school, watched him grow. You knew him well enough to recognize concern when he buried it. And the last thing you wanted was for him to feel responsible for something that wasn’t his to carry.

He studied you for another second, then nodded once. Without another word, he turned and headed inside.

You stayed where you were.

And for just a split second—you felt it again.

That distant awareness.

Like someone, somewhere, was watching.

—

Nanami found you where he always did when your thoughts grew heavy.

A quiet corner of the campus, far enough from the main buildings that the noise faded into something distant. You’d started coming here years ago, back when you were still students—back when you and Nanami were simply classmates learning how to survive the system.

Same year. Same rank. Same expectations.

Your friendship had been built in silence, shared exhaustion, and the unspoken understanding of what it meant to be useful to the wrong people.

You were leaning against the railing when he approached, his glasses catching the late afternoon light before he removed them.

“You’re thinking too loudly” he said, resting his forearms beside yours against the cool metal.

That earned a quiet huff of a laugh. “That obvious?”

“With you?” he replied. “Yes.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Nanami didn’t push—he never did. He waited, patient as always.

He was the person you trusted most after Satoru. And right now, the only one you could speak to freely.

“I feel like the higher-ups have been circling,” you said eventually. “Not openly. Just… watching.”

Nanami turned his head slightly, jaw tightening almost imperceptibly.

“They’re unsettled.”

“Because of Satoru,” you said.

“Because of you” he corrected gently.

You closed your eyes for a moment.

Your technique had never been flashy—no explosions, no spatial distortions. Just amplification. Pure. Terrifying. When you touch another sorcerer, their attacks become absolute. No misfires. No wasted effort.

And power like that had always made people nervous.

Your clan had never fit neatly into jujutsu politics either. Old, but not obedient. Powerful, but uninterested in tradition for tradition’s sake. They’d refused council seats that demanded compliance. Refused marriages arranged for optics.

The higher-ups had done everything they could to keep the Ataru at the edges.

Until you married Satoru Gojo.

“An Ataru married a Gojo” Nanami said quietly. “And not just any Gojo —him. ” he paused only a fraction before adding “They won’t forgive that” 

“No” you murmured, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

Silence settled again—heavier this time.

“They don’t like that an Ataru now has access” Nanami continued

You nodded. 

You weren’t just married to a Gojo. You were married to Satoru. The strongest sorcerer alive. A man the higher-ups couldn’t control, punish, or touch.

But you?

You were reachable.

“I won’t abandon my clan,” you said. “And I won’t apologize for my marriage.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to.”

From somewhere deeper in the campus, Satoru’s voice carries—loud, dramatic, unmistakable.

Nanami’s gaze flicked briefly in that direction. When it returns to you, it lingers.

“He will protect you” he says. Not reassuring. Just stating a fact.

You don’t answer. But he notices the way your shoulders have gone rigid. The way your hand tightens against the railing, knuckles paling slightly. Your gaze drops, lashes lowering as your brow knits without you meaning to.

He exhales quietly. He has always been good at reading what people don’t say.

“You don’t want him to” he says after a moment.

The words catch you off guard. You look up at him, surprised —Because he’s right, and because you hadn’t let yourself put it into words yet.

Megumi’s voice echoes in your head. 

This is different.

Not the affection. Not the attention. The weight behind it. The way Satoru’s presence sharpens when he’s around you.

“He already carries enough,” you say “Just.. being who he is.”

You vaguely hear Nanami say your name, but it barely registers.

“I don’t want to be another thing he needs to get his hands dirty for.”

Nanami studies you for a second longer.

“If you can’t—or don’t want to—talk about it with him,” he says evenly, “at least trust me. Don’t fight this alone.”

You hesitate.

It’s brief. Barely noticeable. But it’s there.

“Thank you” you say quietly.

Nanami inclines his head once, accepting it without comment.

When you finally turn and walk back toward the building, your gaze drops to the ring on your finger.

Proof.

And the terrifying reminder of what Satoru Gojo is capable of when something matters to him.

Morning light poured in through the penthouse windows, catching on bare skin, rumpled silk sheets, and the solid weight of Satoru above you.

“Toru” you warned, already breathless, hands still tangled in his hair.

“Yes, wife?” he replied, lifting his head just enough to look at you, those devastatingly bright eyes fixed on your face from where he was settled between your ribs, completely unbothered.

He’d already fucked you as a good morning, and then decided you wouldn’t be escaping the bed. Or him.

“I have a meeting” you grumbled, palms pressing uselessly against his shoulders. He was all lean muscle and stubbornness. “If I’m late because my husband decided to be a menace before breakfast, I’m blaming you.”

“What are you talking about?” he said, shamelessly grinning “I’m having breakfast exactly right now.”

Then his tongue dragged in one slow, deliberate lick along your sternum.

“Four years together and I still can’t get enough” he murmured against your skin—and proved it a second later, shifting just enough to press himself into you. 

You gasped, before you could stop yourself, fingers tightening in his nape.

God. He was addictive.

And you’d known exactly what you were signing up for when you married him.

His mouth found your neck, warm and open, while one large hand slid down to your hip, fingers spreading possessively, grounding himself while keeping you still.

“Are you bored of me yet?” he murmured, grinding once more, a low sound slipping from his throat as his nose brushed your jaw.

This was the side of Satoru the world never saw—the raw, needy hunger of a man who spent his life being treated like a god and only felt human when he was tangled in your sheets. Infinity off. Blindfold gone. A small, fragile bubble where he was just a husband enjoying his wife.

“I could never” you breathed, caressing his cheek “But I have to go” 

He leaned into your touch before resting his forehead against yours, breath warm, familiar. For a moment, neither of you moved. Then—reluctantly—he eased back

“Just because it’s sexy,” he said, smirking, voice low and lazy “you going to work while I stay home playing housewife, begging you to stay.”

You snorted softly, thumb brushing along his jaw.

“That’s crazy. Anyone would think the Six Eyes user might actually have a lot of work to do.”

“Never heard that before” he replied smoothly, unfazed.

You laughed, the sound light, and tugged the robe closed as you finally stood. His eyes followed the movement with open appreciation, head tilting slightly like he was committing the image to memory.

You leaned down again, unable to help yourself, capturing his mouth in one last slow kiss. He responded instantly, hands coming up to your waist, pulling you closer like he still wasn’t done with you. 

“You’ll be late too” you warned lightly against his lips, half a tease, half genuine.

“I’m the strongest,” he said easily, mouth brushing yours again. “I can afford it.”

“Arrogant.”

“You married me anyway”

You sighed, forehead dropping briefly against his shoulder, smiling despite yourself.

“Can’t argue with that”

When you finally pulled away, you felt it—the warmth, the safety. The last uncomplicated moment of your day.

—

You’d already finished reading the folder by the time you spoke. The papers now lay closed on the desk between you and Yaga.

“A support assignment,” you said, eyes still on the folder.

Yaga remained quiet, hands folded on the desk.

“For a grade one sorcerer” you added, skepticism threading your voice.

You lifted your gaze.

“Why me?” The question lingered in the air for only a heartbeat before you shook your head once—a small, humorless motion.

“No,” you corrected yourself quietly. “Actually, I know why.”

Yaga didn’t interrupt. He simply waited, eyes steady, as if he already knew the shape your thoughts would take. As if he’d watched you learn to trace them years ago.

“My cursed technique almost guarantees success for any sorcerer’s strike” you continued, almost absentmindedly. 

Yaga didn’t react. He didn’t need to—you’d had this conversation in pieces years ago. He had been the one to help you understand it in the first place—back when you were still clumsy with your cursed energy

“But it’s most effective when paired with lower-grade sorcerers,” you continued. “It corrects their cursed energy output. It removes the margin for failure.”

You paused, fingers curling slightly against the arm of the chair.

“With Nanami,” you went on, more carefully, “there’s nothing to compensate for. He’s more than capable of handling this alone.”

Silence settled between you—heavy, but not uncomfortable.

“Not only that,” you added, because accuracy mattered, “I’d be a nuisance. This assignment doesn’t require me.”

“I know,” he said.

Two words. Flat. Honest.

“The order came with specific instructions,” he continued. “They requested a sorcerer.”

A pause.

“By name.”

Your jaw tightened, just slightly. It was a reaction you didn’t bother hiding. It wasn’t a surprise for either of you.

“The mission is in a few days. I can’t cancel it or alter the assignment” Yaga said. “But I can make sure you’re not walking in blind.”

You looked down at the folder again, though there was nothing new to see. You hesitated—just barely—before speaking.

“They think they’re subtle,” you said. “But this doesn’t look procedural.”

“That’s exactly why I’m worried,” Yaga replied. You understood immediately what he meant.

“I don’t want Satoru to know” you said, voice low but steady. “I don’t want him intervening.”

A breath.

“Please.”

He studied you for a long moment—not as your principal, not as your superior, but as someone who had watched you grow from a reckless first-year into something far more dangerous. And far more exposed.

“You’re asking me to withhold information that concerns you from Satoru Gojo” he said evenly. “Are you aware of that?”

“I’m asking you to trust me,” you replied.

Another pause.

“And I do,” Yaga said at last.

The words weren’t light. They carried responsibility.

“But you won’t underestimate them,” he continued. “If anything changes—”

“If this stops being manageable—”

“I’ll tell you,” you said immediately. No hesitation.

He studied you a moment longer, searching for cracks that weren’t there. Then he nodded once.

“Good.”

The meeting ended.

But the quiet understanding that something had begun moving—carefully, deliberately—whether any of you liked it or not, lingered long after.

—

You rested two fingers against Inumaki’s shoulder—just long enough for your ritual to take hold—then stepped back.

You’d been working like this for weeks. Inumaki’s technique had always been particularly brutal on himself; every command exacted a price, every word tore something from his own body. Precision mattered. Control mattered. And today—finally—it held.

He inhaled.

“Blast away.”

The command detonated through the training grounds with surgical accuracy. No backlash. Nothing wasted. Nothing misaligned.

When it was over, Inumaki’s hand flew to his throat on instinct.

Then he froze.

No pain. No tearing burn.

He looked at you, eyes wide, and relief washed over his expression—soft, unguarded.

“Salmon?” you said, smirking as you spoke his language.

“Salmon” he replied, cheeks faintly flushed.

You laughed softly. “Perfect. Go rest.”

He bowed quickly, a little clumsy with excitement, before hurrying off toward the dorms.

You watched him go, warmth settling in your chest—quiet pride, simple and deeply satisfying. Beyond exorcising curses, moments like this were exactly why you stayed. Why you kept doing this job.

Your phone rang, the sound cutting cleanly through the calm you hadn’t realized you were holding onto.

Nanami’s name lit up the screen. You closed your eyes for a brief second before answering.

“I was informed this morning,” he said once you picked up, skipping pleasantries entirely, “that your name was added to my upcoming assignment.”

You knew that tone. Years of friendship had taught you how to recognize when his anger was carefully restrained.

You turned slightly, lowering your voice out of habit, even though no one else was close enough to hear.

“Yeah,” you said. “I figured you’d find out.”

“This isn’t standard procedure,” Nanami continued. “They know very well I don’t need an amplifier.”

You exhaled through your nose.

“I’ll go. They want me there” you said, already anticipating where this was headed. “I’m not going to disappear. I can fight. I can exorcise. I can handle myself.”

“I’m aware.”

“For them, it’s a win either way,” you went on “They’ll discredit me if I don’t do my job well—call it inefficiency—even when they know they’re sending me to a mission I’m not needed in the first place. And on the other hand,” you added, more bitterly “they get the chance to see me hurt.”

“It’s not fair. And I won’t let—”

“I want you to treat me like I’m not there” you cut in.

Nanami went quiet.

“If you prioritize me,” you continued, firmer now “if you adjust your movements or your decisions because of me—then they get exactly what they want.”

A long breath came through the line.

“You understand” Nanami said slowly “that the moments you’re amplifying me, you won’t be able to defend yourself.”

“I do.”

“And you’re still intending to amplify me,” he went on, voice tight, “while asking me not to cover you.”

A pause.

“Yes.”

Another beat of silence.

“If I’m going,” you said quietly, resolute “then I’m going to do my job.”

Two days had passed since your meeting with Yaga and the call with Nanami.

Two days during which you had tried—really tried—not to let the conversation replay itself in endless loops inside your head.

You buried yourself in routine. Morning classes. Stacks of mission reports waiting for your signature. Faculty meetings where the same three voices dominated the room while everyone else nodded and pretended to take notes. Familiar motions. Predictable rhythms. Things you could control.

That morning, you had finally spoken to Satoru about the upcoming mission.

You had left out the part where your name appeared on the support roster—not because anyone needed your particular skill set, but because someone had requested you specifically. You omitted the detail that you’d be supporting Nanami unnecessarily, assigned to a role that didn’t actually require you.

On paper, it was clean.

In reality, you knew exactly how it would look through your husband’s eyes. And you knew he would be right.

I don’t want him to be another thing he needs to get his hands dirty for.

You had said those words to Nanami without hesitation. And you had meant them.

Still did.

By the time the sky began to dim into early evening, exhaustion had settled into your bones. It was almost six when you finally left the building, mentally listing the groceries you still needed to pick up before heading home.

You were halfway when a figure detached itself from the covered walkway.

“Mrs. Ataru.”

You stopped, and slowly turned.

You recognized the intermediary immediately—one of the elders who never quite reached the inner circle but carried their messages with almost religious precision. 

You offered a courteous nod and ignored the deliberate omission of your married name. They had all done it at first. Some still did. A quiet, stubborn refusal. A reminder that, in their eyes, Ataru's blood still ran in your veins and that was all that mattered.

“We will be requiring a formal review,” he continued, tone measured and unhurried, “of your operational role moving forward.”

You tilted your head just enough to signal curiosity rather than alarm.

“My role?”

“Your marriage constitutes a significant shift in existing power alignments.”

Ah.

You understood immediately. Satoru and you were expecting it since the wedding announcements went out. 

Of course they were going to keep an eye on you. To make sure an Ataru who now belonged to the Gojo family didn’t interfere more than expected. To keep a rein on an amplifier who had married the strongest sorcerer alive—a man who already stood at the pinnacle of power without any amplification at all.

“You’re concerned about a conflict of interest,” you said calmly, almost conversationally.

The elder didn’t deny it. He inclined his head a fraction—confirmation and dismissal wrapped into one small gesture.

“We believe a reassessment is appropriate.”

You felt the shift before you saw him.

Not a sound. Not a footstep. Just a sudden density in the air behind you, like the atmosphere itself had thickened.

Satoru stood several paces away, white hair catching the dying light, dark glasses firmly in place. He had clearly been on his way home.

Now every line of him radiated something lethal, leashed only because he want it to be. The elder clearly stiffened at the new unexpected presence

“My values and my judgment haven’t changed.” you said firmly

The elder recovered quickly, though his eyes flicked once to Satoru before returning to you.

“That remains to be evaluated.”

Satoru laughed, stepping closer with lazy confidence.

“Evaluate me instead,” he suggested lightly, as if recommending a restaurant. “Since I’m the conflict, clearly.”

“We are well aware of your position and capabilities, Gojo.”

“Are you?”

Two words. The Infinity flexed. The courtyard lanterns flickered once, as if the bulbs had momentarily forgotten how electricity worked.

You moved without thinking, your hand lifting toward Satoru’s chest—right over his heart. Infinity stopped you just short of contact, but it didn’t matter. The message landed anyway.

He looked down at your hand first. Then at your face.

He knew somewhere beyond the quiet campus, behind closed doors and carefully measured conversations, men with too much authority began calculating risk. But here, in the fading light, with his attention wholly—dangerously—focused on you, Satoru Gojo wasn’t thinking about politics. He was thinking about you, and the catastrophic mistake of anyone who mistook you for a weakness.

So he smiled again—slow and deliberate— and let the pressure ease.

“Of course,” he said brightly, voice slipping back into its familiar lightness. “Oversight. Committees. Reports. Love that for us.”

The elder bowed stiffly—more reflex than respect—and retreated down the walkway, his measured pace doing very little to disguise how quickly he wanted distance between himself and the two of you.

You waited until the sound of his footsteps disappeared completely.

Only then did you lower your hand.

“Don’t.” 

The word left your mouth softer than you intended, but it didn’t tremble.

“Don’t what?” he asked.

“Escalate.”

The courtyard felt too open all of a sudden. Too exposed. You were aware—acutely—of how easily he could turn this into something irreversible. How thin the line was between restraint and spectacle.

You knew, and you had expected it. The scrutiny. The political recalibration. The quiet attempts at pressure disguised as procedure. You had known they would try to test you. Test him. Test the space between you.

You had walked into it willingly.

“They’re underestimating you.”

You held his gaze.

“And you?” you asked softly. “Are you underestimating me?”

You asked because it mattered. You weren’t shrinking. You weren’t flinching. And you needed to know that he saw that.

His eyes sharpened immediately.

“Never.”

You stepped closer—closing the last of the distance so there was no ambiguity left between you.

“This is manageable,” you said. “It’s annoying. It’s intrusive. But it’s manageable.”

He studied you for a long moment. The way he sometimes looked at unfamiliar cursed techniques right before dismantling them

“You knew this would happen,” he said quietly.

“Yes.” you answered without hesitation.

“And you married me anyway.”

There it was. A confirmation.

“Yes”

Something flickered across his expression, and you barely had time to breathe before the world folded.

There was no warning—just the sudden, disorienting snap of space collapsing. The penthouse materialized in a blur of glass and twilight, and before your mind could catch up, Satoru had you pinned against the cool glass of the floor-to-ceiling window.

Tokyo glittered thousands of feet below—distant, irrelevant. All you could feel was the radiator heat of his body pressed flush against yours.

“Satoru—”

You really looked at him then. At the tight set of his jaw. At the sharp, dangerous focus behind the lenses of his glasses. At the way all that power narrowed until it was only you.

“What did we talk about,” you said breathlessly, “teleporting me home without warning?”

“Right now, I don’t care.” His voice dropped into a rough register that sent a sharp ache straight through you. “They don’t get to touch you.”

He still hadn’t used his hands. Just his weight. His chest rising and falling against yours.

“They don’t even get to look at you like you’re something they can put on a scale.”

“I handled it,” you said, pulse finally catching up. Your fingers trembled as you hooked them into his collar. “You saw that.”

“I saw a dead man walking,” he corrected. He leaned closer, mouth hovering inches from yours, breath warm—coffee and something rawer beneath it. “You were too polite. Too professional. You’re too good for them.”

“You don’t get to go feral preemptively,” you said, trying—and failing—to ground yourself.

His mouth curved into a sharp, dangerous smirk. “Feral?”

“Yes. I can see it building.”

You said it lightly. Almost teasing.

Inside, you were deadly serious.

He laughed under his breath.

“You have no idea how feral I am right now. Seeing them omit your name. Seeing them treat my wife like a line item in a budget.”

That was when he finally moved.

His hands came up—not to your waist, not yet—but to your wrists, pinning them above your head against the glass. The cold at your back and the furnace of him in front made your thoughts blur.

“You married a monster,” he murmured, nose tracing the line of your jaw.

“No,” you corrected, breath hitching as his mouth brushed sensitive skin beneath your ear. “I married a man.”

Something in him broke.

Just for a second.

Raw. Unguarded.

He pulled back enough to look at you, blue eyes burning brighter than any cursed energy—stripped of every shield he wore for the world. You felt the exact moment his control wavered.

His grip loosened.

You slid your hands free and cupped his face, lifting his glasses away.

“And I love that man so much it hurts,” you whispered, thumb brushing his lower lip. “So let me take care of you tonight, Satoru.”

His breath stuttered.

And even as your thoughts churned—the conversation with Yaga, the call with Nanami, the mission in which you had never truly been necessary—is this the right thing to do? Am I making this worse? Should I have handled things differently?—deep down, the truth was that you didn’t regret it.

You had chosen to protect him from one more thing that might demand blood.

You didn’t want this weight on his shoulders.

Didn’t want him thinking that marrying you had turned your life into a liability.

Didn’t want him carrying guilt for decisions you had made on your own.

If you could give him even a moment of peace before everything shifted—before the mission, before the scrutiny, before whatever came next—then maybe, just for tonight, that would be enough.

if you’re thinking “wait, didn’t you already post this?” no ❤️ you didn’t see anything. It's not on my masterlist🤫

reblogs are always appreciated!! <3 -> next part masterlist

[rambld]

sukuna is offended when his girlfriend uses her toys instead of him | 18+

contents: mdni, established relationship, reader's lowkey a nymphomaniac, use of toys, marathon sex, rough sex, he edges himself to last for hours, slight choking (sukuna puts reader in a headlock), he puts her to sleep lmfao

art by innaillus on x!

Sukuna has never been laid out before and he's honestly dumbstruck right now as his vision swims, seeing rainbows, crashing turquoise waves and dolphins fucking chirping.

The heavy silence of the bedroom is broken only by the rhythmic ticking of the clock and the sound of Sukuna’s ragged, uneven breathing. He's sprawled across the king-sized mattress, limbs weighed down by bricks and buzzing with that specific, bone-deep exhaustion that follows hours upon hours of physical exertion.

Now, Sukuna is a big man—broad-shouldered, a regular at the gym, and possesses a stamina he’s always been quietly proud of—but right now, he feels like a battery drained to 1%.

Beside him, you shift, covered in a shimmering layer of sweat like he is. He expects you to curl into his side or fall into the kind of dead-to-the-world sleep he's currently craving. Instead, the mattress dips as you sit upright.

“That was incredible,” you sigh, your voice clear and bright, showing absolutely no sign of the fatigue currently pinning him to the sheets. You lean over, pressing a lingering, soft kiss to his sweaty temple.

“Yeah,” Sukuna croaks, his eyes barely cracked open as the cool rush of adrenaline sinks into a warmth in his bloodstream. “Incredible. I think my heart is actually trying to exit my ribcage.”

A huff of laughter leaves you at that. You find it so amusing that a man who hardly gets winded after a run or hike is left boneless when he's fucked you for a couple of hours.

Meanwhile you don't look spent or feel it, rather you are revitalized. Your skin is flushed, your eyes sparking with an energy that seems almost supernatural given the hour. With a dream sigh, you stretch, your back arching like a feline that makes Sukuna’s tired muscles ache in sympathy.

“You okay?” he asks, watching as you slide off the bed.

“Better than okay,” you reply, flashing him a playful, slightly predatory grin. “But I'm really sticky so I'm gonna hop in the shower and clean up.”

Sukuna watches, flabbergasted, as you gather your hair into a messy bun and saunter toward the bathroom with a bounce in your step, not a limp.

He’d known you had a high libido—you’d mentioned your collection of bedside drawer companions early on—but he’d foolishly thought his own athletic endurance would be the ultimate match. He is a tough guy, the kind of man who could hike twenty miles with a pack, yet here he is, conquered by a woman who looks ready to run a marathon.

He heard the shower turn on. A moment later, over the hiss of the water, he heard the familiar, muffled gasp that you make when—

Were you really using the shower head to get off even after he nearly rubbed his dick raw inside you? Geez, most women would have passed out by now but you're still going.

Sukuna stares at the ceiling, a dizzying mix of admiration and genuine shock washing over him. He had given you everything he had—seven rounds that would have sidelined most people for a week—and you're in the next room, effectively topping off your tank because he’d run out of gas.

He can't sleep now, deciding to go shower himself in one of the other bathrooms and change the bedding before you get back. And somehow, you're still in there when he's done.

When the water finally stops, you emerge wrapped in a towel, looking radiant and utterly satisfied. You climb back into bed, smelling of jasmine and steam, and tuck yourself under the duvet.

“All good now?” Sukuna asks, his voice filled with a mixture of awe and playful defeat.

“Perfect,” you hum, snuggling into his chest. “You’re the best, Ryo. Seriously. Sleep now.”

He wraps a heavy arm around your, feeling your heartbeat steady and calm against his. He's definitely going to need to start doubling his cardio sessions if he wants to survive the month.

The flickering blue light of the television illuminates the darkened living room as the muffled roar of a stadium crowd fills the air.

Sukuna's sunk deep into the sofa, his eyes glued to the screen during the final quarter of a high-stakes game. He's focused on his favorite team and the ball, but he isn't ignoring the weight of you.

You're straddling his thigh, your hips rolling slow and deliberate grinds against the muscular limb. This has been going on for about twenty minutes, your hands gripping his shoulders as you try to find the right angle, the right pressure.

Your boyfriend, ever the team player, had reached down a while ago with his free hand, his fingers working rhythmically under the hem of your silk shorts to help you along. Pumping in and out of the puddle of slick that's pooling at your hole in tacky squelches.

He's trying to be present, but his body is still recovering from your fuck this morning that carried well into the afternoon. Still, he's a good sport and wants to help even if it means multitasking while watching the match.

“Ryo,” you huff, your voice strained and brows knotted as you buck against his hand for more, grinding your aching clit against his rough palm.

“I've got you, baby,” he assures you, pressing the heel of his palm closer as he fucks you on his fingers faster, letting you ride them.

Shifting, you bounce on them, trying to use them to reach your elusive orgasm. Your breathing is shallow, hitched with a desperation that's starting to border on frantic.

Sukuna doubles his efforts, his fingers moving with practiced precision, but he can feel the tension in your legs isn't the good kind—it is the kind born of mounting frustration.

Suddenly, you halt. You don't collapse against him in a post-climax haze. You sit bolt upright, your chest heaving, and shove his hand away.

“I can't,” you snap, sharp enough to make him finally look away from the TV.

“What? Did I do something wrong?” your boyfriend asks, genuinely concerned as you shimmy out of your shorts with a grumble. “I thought we were getting there.”

“We’re 'getting there' for a normal person, Sukuna, but I’m not getting there,” you retort, gesturing vaguely to your body.

You look genuinely frazzled, your hair wild and your eyes bright with unspent nervous energy. “Your fingers are great, you’re great, but it’s like trying to put out a forest fire with a garden hose. I’m vibrating under my skin and it’s actually starting to hurt because it’s not enough.”

And you have tried, really tried to solely rely on him for your pleasure since your relationship got serious, not wanting to hurt his feelings by using your toys. But you can't take it anymore, not when your body is burning for more.

You are after all a sexual creature and you'd prefer not to drain your boyfriend of his energy like some insatiable succubus.

Sukuna blinks, ink on his face stretching as m his jaw drops slightly. “I thought... I mean, we've been at this for a while. You didn't finish?”

“I finished twice, but it didn't stick,” you whine, sliding off him and standing up. There's a mix of apology and raw need on your face when you look at him then. “I love you, but I can't do this manual labor anymore. I need heavy machinery. I'm going to the bedroom.”

“The toys?” Sukuna asks, dumbfounded as you kiss his forehead.

He feels like a handyman who had just been told his entire toolbox was obsolete and been replaced by a robot.

“The toys,” you confirm, already halfway down the hall. “Enjoy the game, okay?”

You disappear into the bedroom and shut the door. A moment later, even through the heavy wood and the sound of the sports commentator, Sukuna hears a low thrumming start up.

He slumps back on the couch, the remote forgotten in his hand. He looks down at his glistening fingers, then at the door, then back at the TV. For the first time in his life, he feels completely outmatched.

The muffled, rhythmic thump-thump-thump from the bedroom is a taunting buzzing now—a mockery of his failure.

Sukuna sits on the sofa, the sports commentator’s voice fading into background noise as a prickly, hot sensation crawls up his neck. It isn't just male ego but a sudden, sharp sense of displacement. He is a man who prides himself on being able to handle anything, yet he feels like he’d been benched for a machine.

“Fuck this,” he curses as he stands up, the remote clattering onto the coffee table, and marches down the hallway, not bothering to knock as he barges in.

The sight that greets him makes his blood pressure spike.

You're sprawled in your ergonomic office chair, your head lolling against the top of it with your face cast in a dewy glow, lips parted and your eyes droopy, brows scrunched in that almost worried look of pleasure.

A sleek, powerful piston-style machine is suctioned to the mahogany desk your legs are draped over, the silicon, realistic cock driving in and out of you with relentless precision. It's lined with ridges and veins you're surely feeling rubbing back and forth inside you as you squirt some lube over the length of it as if your pussy isn't drooling enough already.

Sweat-slicked skin is bare, the only part of you clothed being your socked feet that bow when your toes curl, your supple tits wobble in circles on your chest as your soft tummy dips and dives with each sloppy thrust of the dildo between your thighs.

The noises spilling out of you—the sharp, high-pitched hitches in your breath and the low, raspy moans—are the exact ones he’d spent the last hour trying to coax out of you. Seeing a piece of hardware do effortlessly what he’d sweat through his shirt to achieve feels like a slap in the face.

"Are you fucking serious right now?" Sukuna barks, startling you.

Your half-lidded eyes snap open, dilated and glazed with heat. “Ryo! I told you, I just needed—”

“You need me,” he cuts in, crossing the room and slapping the power switch on the machine. The whirring dies instantly, leaving a deafening silence in the room.

“Hey!” you protest, voice shaky like it tends to get when you're on the brink of coming as you reach for the toy. “I was almost—”

“Change of plans,” Sukuna drawls, not looking offended anymore, just determined.

Scooping you out of the chair, ignoring your surprised squeal, he carries you a few feet to the bed. Then he tosses you onto the mattress, stripping hastily and following you down before you can even find your breath.

“You think a toy can do it better?” he growls, his hands pinning your wrists above your head. “Watch this.”

Heavy pumps of blood rush to his aching cock, fattening it until it's flushed an angry red, bobbing between his thighs. Spreading your legs, he all but shoves it inside you, eye twitching at how there's little to no resistance after that damn toy but he's bigger so a bit of a stretch is needed.

That does nothing to soothe his battered and bruised pride as he pulls all the way back, reveling in how you buck and lift your hips to try and get more of him in you like the glutton you are.

“Greedy whore, nothing's ever enough of you, is it?”

A fussy, needy whine comes from you as your brows bow and your lips purse. “Ryo, don't be a dick. You took away the toy, the least you could do is—Ah!”

Slamming his hips back down, his cock punches you in the stomach, kicking a wrecked moan out of your lungs as your pussy convulses at the unexpected intrusion, slick seeping out of you and pooling on the sheets. The force of the thrust pushes you further up on the bed and you can't even grip onto anything because he's got your hands in his.

A grin full of sharp teeth graces you though it's more like a sneer as his crimson gaze bores in yours with every intent to repossess your soul. The man is far gone, no longer the caring, attentive one who's always putting your pleasure first.

No, he's going to fuck you through the mattress and your stomach is swooping at the thought.

Freeing your hands, his big palms slam down on your sides, groping and kneading your plush flesh as he hums. “You're a fucking nymph so I'll give you exactly what you want.”

Then he's ramming into you, thick shaft spearing your insides as he fucks you hard and fast, your body bouncing helplessly beneath him, shaky cries and sobs of pleasure ripping from your throat.

“Hnngh, Ryo,” you moan, parting your legs further for more.

Animalistic grunts and groans rumble through his chest as the erotic, filthy slap of skin on skin fills the room, headboard bashing against the wall and rattling the nightstands, the pillows cushioning each thud of your head against it.

“Hah, can't talk much now, can ya?”

“Shuddup,” you breathe.

Large, calloused hands grab you by the hips and drag you back and forth on his cock in slick, shlucks, the squelches of your slobbering pussy deafening as you gasp out moans and high-pitched whimpers.

Gruff snarls exhale from him, his muscles bunching as he uses you like a toy, his personal fleshlight to throw around and fold into whatever shape he wants. Tears stream down your face in pearlescent streaks that he licks away, tongue slipping into your mouth as his teeth click against yours and you can barely kiss back with how he's pounding into you.

He's not holding back. This isn't the version of your boyfriend who asks if the pace is okay; this is the man who knows every inch of your body and is intent on reclaiming his territory. He uses his heavy weight to crush you into the mattress, his strength to bend and toss you around, and relentless thrusts that mimic the machine but add the heat of skin and the friction of muscle.

“Look at you, all spaced out,” he coos, nipping at your cheek, grinning against your skin when it makes you flutter around him. “Should do this more often.”

“Yeah,” you slur.

Sukuna stays focused, his movements powerful and unwavering. Every time you try to catch your breath, he shifts, finding a deeper angle, a sharper sensation, refusing to let the tension break until you crumble. Your protests for a break melt into desperate pleas, your fingers digging into his back as you come again and again and again—a deep, full-body shudder that leaves you sobbing for air.

Webs of milky, sticky slick stretch in glimmering strings between his drenched cock and your swollen pussy, smearing on your thighs and his. Hot, wet pants condense on your collarbone as he ruts into you like an animal in heat, sweat dripping from his chin.

“So messy, baby,” he hums, glancing down at the ring of frothy cream at his base. “Getting me all sticky. How cute.”

Toasty and stuffy, the air in the room is thick and hard to breathe as his body blankets you from behind, damp chest plastered to your back when he pushes in again, moans leaving you both.

A beefy arm curls around your neck this time, smothering you in his warm masculine musk and the scent of his cologne. It's dizzying or maybe it's because he's slightly choking you in the crook of his elbow but your cunt clamps down on his cock like a vice for more.

Growling, he fucks into you, shaft pummeling your insides until the gooey, gummy walls remember nothing but the shape of him. Whiny, wanton mewls and gasps are driven out of your chest as he slams into you, pumping you full of his cock over and over again.

Manicured nails claw at his forearm in red streaks as you babble and blabber broken syllables of his name and beg for nothing in particular. The well of liquid heat in your belly swells again, coiling tight, your pitch getting higher.

“Ryo, I'm gonna c-come,” you pant out.

His bicep tightens as he chuckles a husky sound that has you shuddering beneath him. “Yeah, can feel your pussy squeezing me.”

“Please, I can't—”

Clicking his tongue, he snaps his hips rather harshly. “Go on then, come.”

“Ah-ahh-hah, hold me,” you plead.

“I am, woman—”

“Tighter, tighter, please!” You're pawing at his arm.

Conceding, he brings his other arm up, wrapping it around your neck too, engulfing your head in a meaty embrace as his rhythm grows frantic and feral, the smack of his thighs against the backs of yours shaking the entire bedframe, bottles of water tumbling from the nightstand.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—” you gasp out before your voice is stolen by your most violent orgasm yet, your nails drawing blood from his bulky arms as your pussy spasms and milks him.

Sukuna knows that coming now would be inevitable. He'd already pulled out each time he was close to finishing prior to this and ate you out instead so he'd be able to draw countless orgasms from you without tiring himself.

This method was going to be one he used often from now on as he finally felt like he could keep up with your nymphomaniac ass.

Now he's rolling his hips into you in a staggering rhythm that has your legs kicking out and your body writhing under him with each shove of his cock that feels deeper than the last.

Drawing back, he pushes forward again, faster and sharper, groaning into your hair as he presses kisses into your strands. His cock pulses and throbs inside you and he pushes in harder, tip kissing your cervix until he reaches the end of you and stills.

With a mind-melting groan, thick, hot ropes of cum splatter your insides, spilling everything as he grinds against your plump ass in slow, deep strokes, the headlock he has you in loosening.

He doesn't stop until your legs go limp and your head falls forward, your eyes rolling back in sheer exhaustion. For the first time since you'd met, you're well and truly fucked-out.

Lazy kisses dot your sweaty back, neck and face before he rolls off you and sprawls out beside you with a heavy sigh, his own chest heaving, sweat dripping off his jaw.

“Love you,” you mumble.

He looks over at you, satisfaction pooling behind his ribs at the sight of your drowsy face already drifting, your breathing deep and even, your body still.

“Love you too, brat.”

A slow, smug grin curls on his mouth. He folds his arms behind his head, staring at the ceiling with the quiet triumph of a champion.

“Machine: zero. Sukuna: one,” he snickers to himself childishly, basking in the peace and quiet of the blissful afterglow.

note: what if i disappear until i'm out of tumblr jail? 👀

tags: @peachygelic @liahcharms @liliklei @getopilleds @cttelina @mrswhitethornbelikov @shazzer29 @dadonprimma @vigumii @petalsmoons @sunabff @luoodle @wwasabiiiii @bruleecream @princesspeach0-0 @vm4879bb-blog @zenaskull @icebearcucumber @beaniesayshi @iluvgetosuguru @yoonsucks

[rambld]

hey neighbor — a sukuna ryomen fic

pairing: neighbor!sukuna x reader

synopsis: your new neighborhood is good so far. the folks are friendly and the big, scary guy next door is hot. but what happens when the noise coming from his apartment becomes too much and—is that a baby you hear?

contains: fluff, little bit of crack, neighbors to enemies to friends to lovers, angst if you squint, domestic moments, slice-of-life, uncle sukuna, nephew yuji, dinosaurs, unlikely co-parents(?), nonsexual nudity, jealousy, slowburn(?), making out, eventual smut (dry humping), sukuna yearning, mentions of clubbing and alcohol as well as drug and gambling addiction.

words: 24.2k (complete)

part one

part two

part three

extra:

one two

drabbles:

#1 #2 #3 #4 #5

note: this started off as just a random one-shot but these two grew on me so now it's a series! i may write extras or drabbles for them whenever i get the itch.

[torusbabe]

mdni Little Red x Werewolf!Toji 18+ OFFICAL MASTER & TAG LIST

🍓"Little Red in Werewolf Toji's Bed" ━ Picking berries and you end up in Toji's cabin and bed. 🍓“Berry-Sweet Tease" ━ Using said berries to tease him. │cw. somnophilia │ 🍓"It's the full moon, you know what that means" ━ Full moon's coming up, he tells you to leave but you end up back in his bed anyway. 🍓"Making sure you always smell like him" ━ His wolfie claim on you │cw. rough sex │ 🍓Domestic Life With Werewolf!Toji & Part two ━ Cuddling him & Pulling his Tail 🍓Berry Picking with Werewolf!Toji ━ berry picking turning into sex in da woods │cw. outdoor sex │ 🍓Mornings & Slow Shower sex ━ slow mornings with the big bad wolf 🍓Brat Tamer! & Part Two ━ y/n gives him attitude and disobeys him & the aftermath 🍓Angst Drabble One! ━ how he handles you being independent without him 🍓Angst Drabble Two! ━ he lowk has abandonment issues 🍓"The Smutty Little Secret" ━ caught reading a smut novel and hiding it from him 🍓"His Weight On You" ━ Fluff Drabble ━ He's just so damn big and cuddly 🍓"Messy when He Eat's" ━ Fluff Drabble ━ no table manners fr 🍓The first time you gave him a Blow-job ━ as the title says 🍓"his new bad habit" ━ first time sniffing your panties~ 🍓Toji dealing with you while Ovulating ━ helping y/n through ovulation~ 🍓Werewolf!Toji x Little Red x Werewolf!Shiu ━ THREESOME WITH WEREWOLF!SHIU 🍓"useful little helper" ━ not much "help" when he needs it 🍓Laundry Activities ━ laundry and pussy 🍓"Granny's coupons for sex toys" ━ as the title says 🍓His tail teasin' ━ his tail has a mind of its own when it comes to you 🍓"His Little Fox" ━ he makes you his little fox, ears and a tail! to match

© torusbabe 2026.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. DO NOT COPY OR USE.

─★⸝⸝🍓‧₊ !! @yummidumplingss @barbatoswh0r3 @atlafan032404 @burntbayleaves @xenith-aries @sheerlilacs @jeanks-favwife @deeplytwistedrealm @booboobear-12 @sukuzaynegirly0905 @anothergojostan @moon-stone-987 @sukunasl-ttywh0re @amarislovesmcdonalds @wivitw @piinkcoke @megum1sstepm0m-blog @idyllicdaydreams ─★⸝⸝🍓‧₊ !!

[reignpage]

For Extra Credit You Can Hit!!

Synopsis: Toji, the TA, won't bump up your latest essay a couple marks, not with just some begging at least, so you try a different method:

good ol' pussy persuasion

Warnings: toji art by @/youKa.i on insta, smut, porn with a lil plot, nerd!toji, a couple years older than reader but both students, reader harasses him but don't save him he's right where he wants to be, some comedy aspect, college au, non curse au, f!reader, blowjob under the desk, unethical behaviour, fingering, cunnilingus, p in v, briefest choking, sex against the window, pússy inspection, belly bulging, overstimulation, spitting, a little fisting I guess or almost, Toji's poor so this is canon compliant jkjk, creampie and unprotected sex, brief pussyjob, size kink/difference, hidden sex, not proofread Word Count: 10.7k

“For the last time,” he drawls, “I’m not bumping you up a grade.”

You groan, pushing your legs to catch up to him faster.

“Come on, I need this. I’m not asking you to break the rules. All I want is for you to reread my essay and find extra marks, which you will!”

Toji Fushiguro is a tough nut to crack, though he doesn’t look it — one glance at him and one would think he’s a laidback TA. He’s the exact opposite; he takes his job a little too seriously. 

For days now, you’d been hounding him, pleading with him and degrading yourself all for him to ‘remark’ your last paper and ‘coincidentally’ find a few extra marks that would push you to the top performing spot you’d been eyeing since forever. Each time you rushed into his office, waited for him after his classes, and followed him to his apartment, he’d shrugged you off with the same ‘I don’t get paid enough for this’ look in his eyes. 

Rounding the corner, his long legs making no accommodations for your shorter ones, he says, “No. If you wanted better results, you should have put in a better performance. Surely you’re smart enough to work out that that’s how life works.”

Hands grab his arm, yanking back with all your strength only to be dragged along with him and his burly body. Your heels scrape along the floor. People stare. You don’t care. “Don’t be an asshole. You know my essay was good. It was really good. Just give it a read. A proper one, and not the rushed job you do because you’re overworked and underpaid.”

He stops.

Your face bumps into this back, forehead nearly bruised by the hardness. 

His brows rise above his glasses as he fixes you a look. “Kid, your essay was good — decent introduction, clear structure, sufficient evidence — but it’s not good enough for the extra marks to push you into the top band. Your closing argument fell flat ‘cause of your wishy-washy writing style, you didn’t adequately humour the counter arguments and undermine them to strengthen your thesis, and, worst of all, you misspelt ‘complement.’”

A frown graces your features. 

“No, I didn’t. C. O. M. P. L. I. M—”

“No. With an I, it’s to flatter someone. With an E, it’s to enhance, pair well, or complete another thing.” Toji explains rather robotically, eyes still dead and voice monotone. “For example, if I said you’re a pretty girl, that’s a compliment. And if I said, your essay goes well with the trashcan over there, that’s a statement that suggests the two complement each other. See the difference?”

He’s already stalking off again, hands in his pockets, huge stature unwilling to accommodate the people walking down the hallway. 

You break into a jog, panting embarrassingly by the time you reach him. “Dude, we’ve known each other for three years. We’ve gone through a lot together. We’re basically friends. Can’t you do your best pal a solid?”

Toji glances down at you. He pushes a door open, holding it a second longer than he needed to. You follow behind him. Somewhat amused, he replies, “We know each other because we’re on the same course, not by choice. And I don’t know what you mean by the whole ‘we’ve gone through a lot together’ thing — the most dramatic thing we’ve faced is when the projector didn’t work and we had to go into a different hall. And we’re definitely not friends.”

Well, fuck, you’re running out of rope. 

“Then, let’s officially be friends,” you offer, elbowing him gently. “If you ever need help, buddy, I’ll always have your back.” Then, in an act of complete desperation, you begin shakily singing, “You’ve got a friend in me. You’ve got a friend in me. When the road looks tough ahead—”

A heavy hand shoves you away by your head. You stumble into a bulletin board.

“Enough,” he gruffs. “My day’s already fucked because the prof lost his papers and wants to blame me. I don’t need to lose my hearing on top of that.”

Your head flits around. “Did you guys see that?” People give you weird looks. “He just shoved me. The TA just shoved me. We need to protest his violent behaviour by demanding he remarks our papers. Who’s with me?”

Everyone walks past without another look at you.

Toji, on the other hand, lifts his glasses and runs a hand down his face. Muttering something under his breath, he pushes a door open and holds out a hand before you can mindlessly follow. “It’s the men’s bathroom. Tell me you’re not shameless and stupid enough to come in here.”

“I’ll wait outside.”

His eye twitches. 

As though an idea comes to him, he straightens ever so slightly. “I’m gonna take a dump; you’ll be waiting a while.”

“That’s okay — I have no more classes so take your time but make sure you don’t stay sitting down longer than you need to,” you tell him, smiling innocently and standing aside to let a guy walk out, ignoring the freaked out face he makes at you. “You can get hemorrhoids."

He groans. “Jesus fucking Christ, woman.” 

That seems to be as much of you he can tolerate because he walks in without another word to you. Opposite the door, you lean against the wall, whistling and coming up with alternative lines you can pull on him. 

God, he’s so stubborn. 

It’s not like giving you the marks docks his pay or lowers the professor’s opinion of him. He’s clearly just being an ass. 

If he wasn’t such a good TA, a genuinely intelligent man, you would have gone above his head and asked for the prof’s personal assessment. But no, he has to be knowledgeable, a helpful source of information when you’re lost, someone who seems to know everything about any topic, who knows the exact pages of a textbook you should read to further your understanding, and who’s never declined a meeting for clarification on something you wrote. 

For years now, you two have had a friendship-like relationship, often sharing snacks and exchanging brief words before or after lectures and classes, despite what he says.

Everyone gets along with him, though you’ve never actually seen him hang out with friends or go to parties. Maybe he doesn’t have any. Word on the street is he works part time in a couple different places. Some say so he can afford drugs, some for tuition. 

The rumours never interested you, apart from any that mused about his love life, which seems to be nonexistent except for the many girls who hit on him. Not that you’re especially interested.

It’s just fun to be in the know.

Who knows how long has passed since he went in there. Your phone says fifteen minutes. Is that a normal amount of time for someone to be taking a dump?

Hesitantly, you push the door open and yell out, “Fushiguro? You doing okay? Is it stuck? For a couple extra marks, I’ll give you a hand.”

No one replies. 

Brows furrowing, you bend down, looking through the stalls. No feet. What the hell?

Ahead, a window is ajar. Big enough for a man to squeeze through. Well isn’t that convenient? The kind of convenient that exists only in fiction.

Aggrieved and feeling bamboozled, you stomp back to your dorm room, slamming the door, jumping face down on the bed and screaming into the pillows. You’d feel better if you knew he had a grudge on you, if you bumped into him the first day and spilled his coffee all over himself and he’d never forgotten it. Instead, he’s just like that: does things by the book, does his job well, and achieves the best grades with ease. 

Naturally, he’d become the professor’s assistant, a coveted position that seemed like it was made for him from the very beginning, and made your life a living hell because he won’t ever make concessions for you.

Sure, you shouldn’t ask him to, but it’s not like you’re asking for much. You’re generally a high performing student — punctual, hard working, ambitious — but you had one bad day which resulted in one bad essay and it lowered your average and now the internship you’d been eyeing could be snatched from your hands in a blink of an eye. 

“It’s just not fair,” you cry out to your teddy bear. “It’s three marks. Three! Would it kill him to reread my essay and find those three marks?”

Mr. Teddy stares back at you and says, “He’s a grumpy man. Don’t take it personally.”

You sit up, blinking and processing his reply.

“Teddy…you’re right. He is a grumpy man, a TA with broad shoulders, yummy arms, and thick thighs with a bubble butt, but a man nonetheless. If he won’t pull favours for me, student to student, maybe he’ll pull favours for me man to woman.”

The plushie falls to the bed as you stand, staring at yourself in the mirror and formulating a plan. 

With that you decide to seek him out the next day, sporting a new outfit and a different attitude.

.

.

.

“Hi.”

“Fuck off.”

The cafeteria’s busy. It always is. It’s loud enough that most people wouldn’t even hear the exchange — chairs banging on tile, trays clattering, someone laughing too loudly at a table nearby. 

Toji’s hunched slightly over a bowl of udon noodles, chopsticks moving lazily as he slurps them down. Some sports clip plays on his phone, propped against his dented metal water bottle. Commentators yell about something you don’t understand. His sleeves are pushed up over his forearms, revealing ropey muscle and the faint silvery line of an old scar running across his wrist.

An old hoodie hangs off his shoulders over a plain white T-shirt. Distressed jeans, worn sneakers. He’s too big for the plastic chair, long legs spread under the table. When he saw you approach, his feet had hooked onto the chair legs, forcing you to fight to remove it from his clutches so you could take a seat.

So damn rude.

His glasses have fogged slightly from the steam of the noodles.

He doesn’t look up. But he knows it’s you. You can tell by the way his mouth tightens for half a second before he goes back to eating.

You snatch his phone away. His green eyes flick up, annoyed. You smile, arms pushing your breasts together so they spill over your tight top. Toji’s gaze doesn’t waver. He continues to stare at you like you’re a pest. 

“You can’t take no for an answer?” he asks though it’s not a question at all. “Might want to retake the consent course.”

Manicured fingers walk up his bare forearm before scratching down from his elbow. His skin is warm. Light dusting of hair tickling your fingertips. “Oh, Toj, have I ever told you how handsome you are? Because you really are. You’re so damn hot I can hardly focus on the lectures.”

He snorts, still eating his noodles and still refusing to look at your cleavage. “That’ll explain why you’re missing marks.”

Jaw dropping, you force yourself to recover quickly. A heeled foot brushes against his calf, sliding his jeans up. You bat your lashes, sultrily saying, “The only thing I’m missing is your cock in me, big boy.”

Toji meets your eyes again. His scarred lips twitch. “I don’t need to tell you that was bad, do I?”

You cringe, foot dropping and whole body slumping back into the chair. “Yeah, I heard it as soon as I said it.” Then you sit up, handing him his phone, and asks, “Are the noodles good? I’ve never had them.”

Phone pocketed, he shrugs. “They’re just the cheapest deal on the menu. Growing girl like you should get something more filling.”

The menu’s extensive, and the only thing sticking out to you is the chicken burger and chicken tenders meal deal. It seems to be especially popular today but you’re not sure you can finish the whole thing. 

“Hey, if I get the Meal Super Cluck Blaster, will you share it with me? I’ve got dinner plans later so I don’t want to fill up.”

That finally gets a reaction. Toji leans back a little and gives you a slow once-over. Tight top. Lacy bra peeking up. Glossy lips. More jewellery than usual. His eyebrow lifts. “That why you’re dressed like a hooker?” he asks lazily. “Hot date?”

“Nah,” you reply, waving him off. “Wore this for yo— Wait.” You lean forward, staring at him wide eyed. “Are you jealous? Are you in love with me already? Because for extra marks, I’ll cancel my dinner plans and promise myself to you for all eternity.”

Toji rolls his eyes. “Go get something to eat; you sound insane.”

You hop up. “Okay, but stay there, alright? Take my burger because I only want the tenders. Oh, and will you share a pot of cheesecake with me? I’m lactose-intolerant but I really want cheesecake right now.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

He’s still here when you come back. 

As soon as you hand him the wrapped up burger, he scarfs it down the way big men do, like they haven’t eaten in days. You push him the tenders too. You’d actually gotten a double serving of everything so you have your own portion of tenders and he gets to eat another burger. There’s no way a man his size could survive on udon noodles.

“Also, let’s not act like you didn’t leave me hanging outside the men’s bathroom yesterday,” you bring up after sipping your juice. “Can’t believe you left through the bathroom window just so you could get away from me.”

“I didn’t,” he says, mouth full and adjusting his glasses. 

You frown, dipping a piece of chicken in hot honey. “No, you definitely did. I peeked and there were no feet in any of the stalls. Unless you’re telling me you can grow invisible.”

“Just lifted my legs when I heard you come in, which I knew your crazy ass would do, so I could finally leave in peace. Didn’t think it’d take you fifteen minutes though.”

A laugh escapes you. “You were waiting me out? Does that sound like the mature thing to do? Jeez, you need to act your age.”

Toji’s eyes meet yours. Your smile falters for the briefest second. “I’m not that much older than you,” he reminds you. “Only by two years.”

“And yet you call me kid or kiddo,” you retort, clearing your throat. Have his eyes always been that green and deep? And is his voice usually that husky and masculine? Because you could have sworn guys your age don’t sound like that.

He shrugs again, second burger finished in a blink of an eye. “Never hurts to remind yourself.”

“Remind yourself what?”

The legs of his chair screech as he pushes it back. He stands, picking up his tray, and answers, “Forget about it. Enjoy your dinner plans. And I’m taking the cheesecake — no one wants a gassy date.”

“Wait,” you call out before he can turn away. “My marks?”

A pat on the head ruffles your hair. 

“Still a no, kid.”

.

.

.

“What if I suck your dick?”

Toji lifts his glasses to rub at his eyes. “I’ve got a ton of papers to grade for another class; I don’t have time for you.”

The door shuts behind you. His office is bare, not a single decoration littering the place, not a plant nor a picture. 

His office is exactly how you remember it — disappointingly, aggressively empty. The walls are a dull institutional beige that makes the overhead fluorescent light feel even harsher. No posters. No photos. Not even a sad little plant struggling for life in the corner.

Just a desk. A filing cabinet. Two chairs that look like they were stolen from a waiting room. It’s the kind of office someone occupies temporarily, like he expects to leave at any moment and doesn’t see the point in settling in.

Leaning against the desk anyway, your fingers drum lazily along the edge.

You’ve been here before: once to argue about a paper he’d shredded with red ink, once because you’d missed an exam and needed him to sign a form, and once because you’d sworn you heard him swearing loud enough to be heard halfway down the hallway.

You grip his shoulder, squeezing as you scan the fat stack of papers on his desk — the prof’s particular about handwritten essays. There’s so much to read through; you do not want to be him. 

“God,” you mutter, flipping through a few pages of the stack. “There’s like fifty here.”

“Seventy-two,” Toji corrects without looking up. His handwriting is sharp and aggressive, red ink slashing through entire paragraphs like he’s committing academic murder. You wince in sympathy for whoever wrote the paper currently being dismantled.

“Good thing you can multitask, can’t you? I’ll suck your dick under the desk, you grade papers, and you bump me up a grade. Easy.”

He shrugs you off, hulking body hunched over and pen scratching on the papers, leaving harsh circles and comments like, ‘what the hell does this mean?’ and ‘you can’t just say perchance.’ 

Toji gruffs, “I’m serious. Take your jokes elsewhere.”

Nah, you think to yourself. 

With a massive struggle against his weight, you yank his chair back, wheeling him a distance from the desk and clambering under before he can fill the space again. He makes some noise above you but you pay him no mind. Your hands rest on his meaty thighs through his sweatpants, marvelling at the density, at the strength you find in them. 

“You’re fucking ridiculous.” His foot nudges your knee. “Get the fuck out. I’ll cropdust you if I have to.”

You call his bluff by clutching his clothed cock. He jolts, grunting. Laughing softly, you muse, “You say all that but you have a semi already — did my proposition get you hard, Toji?”

You’re rubbing his hard on, trying not to get flustered by how big he feels, and how fat the girth is. Of course he’s big. In hindsight, you really shouldn’t have been so surprised; he’s a big man so naturally the proportions will match up. 

“Suck my dick, don’t suck my dick, it doesn’t matter,” he says, sighing and probably pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re not getting those marks.”

He thinks that’ll stave you off because he knows you’re whoring yourself out for a grade. What he doesn’t know is that your stupid little brain’s already forgotten about all of that the moment you felt his cock. Now all you can think about is how you’ll have to stretch your lips nice and wide to take him in, and even then, even when your throat is lax and loose, you won’t be able to take him to the base. 

Toji grunts again, peering down at you. “You mouthing at my dick? Did’ya not hear what I said?”

Like you’ve been possessed, you press kisses to where his tip is, humming around it. “I heard, but your dick’s saying other things to me, and I know which I prefer to listen to.”

“My dick’s not marking your paper, so get the fuck up,” he growls.

“Don’t wanna.”

“You’re fucking killing me here.”

A heavy hand bundles your hair up, pulling but you fight against it, hooking your fingers under the waistband and releasing him from the constraints. His boxers have a hole, and yet you only find it endearing. Freeing his cock so it bounces up and smacks your cheek, it leaves a wet mark on your skin. 

Tutting, he wipes away the wetness from your skin. 

Oh fuck, he really is big. 

With nothing between you and his dick, you can see him in all his glory in the partial shadow of under his desk — long, thick, flushed red, already shiny at the slit, veiny as hell, hairs at the base wild and unruly, with weighty balls to match. You’ve never seen anything better. 

Tongue out, you lick him from base to tip, prodding at his frenulum.

“Quit it,” he commands through gritted teeth. 

You moan wantonly, already addicted to the salt on his kin, to the texture of his veins, to the softness of his cockhead. “Toji, you’re so big. I don’t think this’ll fit inside me.”

The thing throbs, bobbing. A droplet oozes out and you quickly lick it up. The hand that was pulling your hair has grown slack, simply resting on the back of your head, keeping you from bumping the wood. 

Voice hoarse, he mutters, “If anyone can make it fit, it’ll be your stubborn ass.”

Your eyes meet his from under the desk, mischief sparkling in them you’re sure. His cock throbs again. “I thought you had papers to mark, Fushiguro. Maybe you should get on that, no?”

A calloused thumb presses down on your lips, shushing you. It slides down, bringing your bottom lip down with it, before releasing it so it’ll bounce back in place. That same thumb holds your jaw open, hand guiding your mouth to his tip. You know what he wants. You also know that he knows that you both know that you won this time. 

Wide as you can, you take as much of his length as possible. You don’t get much further than a third of the way, full beyond belief and overwhelmed by just how much of him there still is. Your nails dig into his thighs.

“If this is supposed to convince me to give you extra marks, then you’re failing real hard, doll,” he notes, gripping the base. “Can barely fit the head, can you?”

He’s acting like it’s your fault he’s so big. 

Challenged, you loosen your throat to take him an inch deeper. You gag around the length. Toji curses under his breath. “Careful,” he mutters. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

You ignore him in favour of shallowly bobbing, sucking and licking what you can, as though he’s a lollipop. It’s actually kinda fun.

The familiar sound of pen scratching on paper and paper rubbing on paper echoes in the relatively quiet office. Only the wet sounds of your mouth sucking his cockhead pierces the silence. 

Growing more and more used to his size, you flick your tongue around the head, letting your hands wrap around the rest of him, squeezing and tugging in time with your mouth. Occasionally, he makes a couple breathy noises — low grunts when your tongue laps up his tip, gravelly groans when you hollow your cheek to suck, and rough exhales through his nose when you grip his balls, massaging them, thumb rubbing the seam. 

It becomes easier to forget why you were here in the first place; you’re just blowing him for your own entertainment now, wanting something to occupy your throat. 

Then, he asks, as though he’s making casual conversation, “How was the date?”

“Hmm?”

Toji rolls his eyes. “The date,” he repeats. “How was it? He pay for the meal? Open doors, see you to your door, kiss you goodnight and shit?”

Your lips stretch into a smile. You release him with a pop! “I didn’t go on a date,” you tell him. “My friends hosted a housewarming party because they moved in together. I had a great time, thanks for asking.”

Is he pleased? Unaffected? Genuinely just making conversation? Hard to tell, except for the pushing of his hand, urging you back to his dick, and taking him further inside your throat, till his tip bumps the back of the gummy walls. 

“Good,” he exhales out, thighs flexing around your body. “That’s real good.”

“My blowjob skills or that I had a great time?” you ask, words muffled and barely understandable.

“Both,” he answers. “Both, doll.”

A knock on the door has you both stiffening. Toji glares down at you and whispers, “It’s the prof. Do not make a sound.”

He didn’t need to tell you that — you’re well aware that if you get caught, you’ll both face disciplinary action, and will likely be kicked out of the university. That’s worse than not getting the internship. 

The office falls quiet so suddenly you can hear the ticking of the wall clock. Toji’s hand tightens briefly against the desk as the knock comes again. “Come in,” he calls, voice steady.

The door opens before he even finishes the word.

“Ah, Fushiguro, there you are,” the professor says, stepping inside with a stack of papers tucked under one arm. “I wasn’t sure if you’d left already.”

From your position under the desk, you can only see shoes. Polished leather. Slow steps across the floor. You don’t slide his cock out of your throat, lest it makes a sloppy noise that’ll give you both away. So you breathe through your nose, being very, very quiet.

“No, I was just finishing up some grading,” Toji replies, cool as a cucumber.

His tone is annoyingly normal. Completely unbothered. He’s really convincing. Has he done this before? Is this a normal occurrence? Do a lot of girls offer to blow him for better marks, and does he take them up on it? Are you the one exception to his generosity? 

“Good, good.” Papers shuffle. A chair creaks as the professor sits across from the desk. “I actually wanted to ask about the research methods essays.”

Of course he did.

You squeeze your eyes shut.

Toji shifts slightly above you — just enough that the movement brushes your shoulder — and then he leans back in his chair. “Yeah?” he says.

“I noticed something odd in the submissions this year,” the professor continues. “Half the class seems to misunderstand the section on sampling bias.”

He hums thoughtfully. “You mean where they’re supposed to explain the limitations of convenience sampling?”

“Exactly.”

A sheet of paper slides across the desk.

“You see this one here—”

From below, you hear Toji pick it up.

“—they describe the method correctly, but their conclusion contradicts their own analysis.”

There’s a pause whilst the TA reads. You stare at the underside of the desk and try not to shift your knees. God, this is like torture. Having a cock lodged in your throat and not being able to do anything with it is hell. Above the desk, they’re chatting away, talking about your fellow students, with the professor none the wiser that one such student’s under the desk. 

“Yeah,” he says after a moment. “They’re treating correlation like it proves causation.”

“Precisely!” the professor says, sounding delighted. “It’s surprisingly common.” Another pause. You hear a pen tap the desk twice. “I was thinking next year we might restructure the lecture slightly,” the professor continues. “Maybe introduce a short case study before the assignment.”

“Could work,” Toji replies. “Give them something concrete, tangible, to analyse.”

Your legs are starting to cramp. Your lips tighten around his hot cock. Toji brushes your hair back from your face, a quiet act to show he hasn’t forgotten about you. The professor keeps talking, completely unaware.

“Also,” he says, shuffling more papers, “the literature review sections were stronger this year.”

“Mm.”

“I suspect the workshop helped.”

Toji lets out a quiet huff that might be agreement.

“You handled that well, by the way,” the professor adds. “The students seem to respond to your feedback.”

This is way too boring, you decide. In an act you might end up regretting for the rest of your life, your offended tongue prods his tip where he’s still leaking salty precum. 

He grunts, knee crashing up on the wood. 

The professor asks him if he’s alright, and Toji replies, “Fine. Sorry. Just had a cramp.”

A triumphant smile pulls at your lips, which is quickly wiped away by the sudden pinch at your cheek. You wince, unable to smack him in retaliation. 

A sigh fills the room. “I fear you work too hard, Fushiguro. You ought to take a break here and there. Do something fun and wild, or whatever it is people your age do nowadays.”

“I am having fun,” Toji says, hand coming back to rest on your head, growing heavier and heavier until you’re forced to take him inside your mouth, deeper and deeper. “In my own way.”

He’s filling you up more than he was before, now more insistent, no longer so passive. You’re struggling to take him but he’s not letting up. Fuck, you’re soaked between the legs. Who knew you had an oral fixation?

“Well, good,” the professor says. He pushes his chair back. Your heart jumps in joy. “I won’t keep you any longer, I know those papers won’t mark themselves. Boy do I not envy you.” He laughs. “Enjoy the rest of your day.”

“You too, Professor.”

Footsteps move toward the door. The handle turns. The door opens. Closes. Silence. Two seconds pass.

Then Toji peers down, licking his scarred lips, and mutters under his breath, “You needy fucking girl. Couldn’t wait, could you? Couldn’t resist not being a pain my fucking ass. If you want cock so badly, then here you go.”

His hips thrust up, hand keeping you in place. Your eyes fly open, throat stretching to take all of him in. Oh, he was as pent up, as frustrated, as you were. The force in which he’s rutting inside your throat displays that nice and clear. 

“You’ll do anything for a good grade, won’t you? Even debase yourself like this. God, you drive me crazy.”

You gag around his cock but he doesn’t pay any mind to that. No, Toji’s just rutting inside your mouth over and over again, grunting louder and louder now. 

Meanwhile, your hand seeks out the heat between your legs. You grind against the heel of your palm, moaning around his length. The vibration has his balls tightening up.

“Fuck!”

Hot cum bursts inside, coating the walls of your throat and your tongue. 

Toji leans back in his chair, which creaks. You pull him out, coughing at the salty burn. Damn, even his loads are big. It’s like a cream puff exploded inside your mouth. 

Hands carry you up, sitting you on his thigh. One rubs your back in circles, the other wipes away the tears at your eyes, licking at the wetness he’s collected on his thumb. “You good, kid?” he asks, brows furrowed. 

“Yeah,” you respond, voice hoarse and not fooling anyone. “I’m good.”

You take a sip of his water from his water bottle, not caring about the fact that you’re drinking from where he had been, and if he cared that your mouth which had been sucking on his dick and cum is on his cup, he didn’t say.

He sighs, tucking himself back in and says, “Come by my place tonight. Hand me your essay again and I’ll reread it. But I’m not making any promises about finding extra marks, alright? It’s just a second chance, and the only one you’ll get.”

Dopily, you smile at him. “Throat game that good, huh?”

His lips twitch. He shoves you away, smacking your ass as you walk away.

“I’ll text you the time and place. Don’t be late.”

Nodding, you head for the door, not leaving however till you ask, “Should I wear matching underwear, or is this a strictly keep your clothes on meeting?”

“Fuck off before I regret it.”

“Lacy thong it is!”

.

.

.

“Should I spread my legs now or do you want me to fluff you first?”

Toji’s deadpan face meets you when he opens the door. He sighs as though he’s regretting this already. Regardless, he lets you in. 

You can tell he showered recently — there’s the scent of cheap soap lingering on his skin and his hair is still a little damp. 

His apartment is nice and clean, which surprises you somewhat. Most guys your age tend to be messy. But you should have known the TA would be neat and organised. 

“I’m serious,” you begin, snuggling up to his side and batting your lashes up at him, “what position do you want me? I’m not the most flexible but I’m not too bad.”

Shaking you off, he pushes you in the direction of the living room where the coffee table is covered with carefully laid out papers he no doubt carried from campus to continue working on. “Go sit down, you horny gremlin. Make some room for your essay and let’s get this over with.”

You do as he says, folding your legs so you can sit by the coffee table on the rug. You take the essay out of your bag, shoving all the others to the side. With a frown, you ask, “So we’re really not fucking?”

He folds himself down too, sitting beside you, knee brushing yours. “I don’t solicit sex in exchange for academic favours. Dunno why you’re so surprised by that — can’t recall having done anything to make you think otherwise.”

“Well, you did give in after I blew you, so…”

“I was gonna offer before you did all that,” he informs you, snorting. “Just never promised to give you the marks.”

Toji adjusts his glasses, taking your papers and starting his reassessment of it. His lips purses, brows furrows, and he stares at the thing like it could tell him the answers to the universe. That or it’s so bad he just can’t fathom what you were thinking. 

“Second paragraph, third line, why the hell is it so convoluted?” he asks, voice returning to that grumpy tone you’re more than familiar with now.

It’s the latter, it would seem. He really meant business. You shaved and everything for nothing. What a shame. 

Leaning over, you rest your head on his big bicep, and, with a pout, reply, “I thought it sounded smart; I was pretty proud of that line actually.”

“No, doll,” Toji says, sighing. “The simpler the better. Don’t purposefully complicate your syntax. Only do what’s necessary to get the point across. If I, an expert in this topic, can barely understand what you mean, how is the ordinary person supposed to?”

“Yeah, okay. Simple is better, I get it.”

He continues reading, red pen in hand and making annotations as he goes. Meanwhile, you’re worming your way into his lap: one hand resting on his thigh at first, then a leg thrown over his. He notices what you’re doing — there’s no way he doesn’t know — but he doesn’t put up a fight. Eventually, you’re sitting in his lap, his chin resting on your head, and his arms caging you in. 

Toji’s warm. He’s comfy to rest on despite all the muscles. Closer now, his soapy scent envelops you. It goes straight to your head. You find yourself squirming. 

“Keep still,” he reprimands, underlining a phrase twice for emphasis. “You can’t just use jargon if you’re not going to explain it. It’s bad practice.”

“Got it.” Fiddling with his spare hand, running your fingers down his and over his palm, you ask, “Are academics supposed to have calluses?”

“They bother you or something?”

“No, not at all. I’m just curious.”

He hums. “I do odd jobs here and there, some more manual than others so yeah I built up some calluses.” Without missing a beat, he pivots the topic. “Tell me again what the difference is between compliment and complement.”

You bring that hand up to your breast, imploring him to grope your tits as you reply, “With an I is to praise someone or something, and with an e is to say something matches well with another.”

A moan escapes your lips when he squeezes in approval. Toji mutters, “Good girl. Guess you do listen to me.” Thumb brushing your hardened nipple through the thin material of your top, you squirm in his lap. His lips move against the top of your head. “No bra?”

“I figured you were going to take it off me anyway so I didn’t bother,” you say, still pressing his hand to your tit, riding the motions of every grope and flick of your nipple. 

Another hum. 

Slowly, you guide that hand down lower. He must know what you’re doing, where you want it to end up, but he doesn’t stop you, doesn’t reprimand or put up any resistance; he’s curious to see how far you’re willing to go. And you’re curious to see how much restraint he has, how long he can hold out before his façade of nonchalance breaks and he’s fucking up inside you.

You tease yourself, and him, first — his fingers, with your guidance, tease your bare thighs, following the hem of your tight skirt. Growing breathless, you ask, “What kind of odd jobs do you do?”

Toji’s calluses tickle the sensitive skin in your inner thighs just right. He’s still marking your paper, occasionally fact-checking your ideas and his theories in a textbook on the table. Amused, he retorts, “You curious about me, doll?”

“Hmm, I want to know exactly whose cock will be stretching me out in a minute.”

He snorts, patting your clothed pussy. You jolt with every impact. “I tutor on the side. Fix up some cars in the garage in town. I’m a physical trainer for three clients at the local gym too. And when I’m low on money, I sell risqué pictures of myself. That disgust you?”

All while he answers, Toji’s blunt nails scrape your slit through your panties. He’s not applying much pressure at all, if any, and yet every skim, every travel up and down has goosebumps rising on your skin.

“N-no,” you answer quickly. “I think that’s really cool. If I had a body like yours, I’d take pictures all the time too.”

His laughter rumbles in his chest. An odd sense of pride warms your own. He says, “Your body’s more than good enough to sell too, you know. Don’t act like you don’t know guys give you double takes all the time, or that your ass could stop traffic.”

Giggling, you lean back, gazing up at him with a smile. “Do you stare at my ass sometimes, Toji?”

God, you’re soaked. You can tell, though you’re not embarrassed whatsoever. If anything, you’re just itching for him to pull your panties to the side and touch you skin to skin, to plunge inside your pussy and make a mess out of you.

“Tell me where you can, and should, insert a semi-colon in paragraph six, and I’ll give you an honest answer.” 

He nudges you with his chin. “Go on. Quit thinking with your pussy and give me the right answer.” A little aggrieved, you sit up straight, holding his wrist to keep his hand between your legs. Your eyes scan the section. Tentatively, you point to a full stop on the second line. Toji shakes his head and smacks your clothed pussy again. “Try again, and don’t guess.”

“Here,” you snarl, feeling way past pent up. “Now give me my reward.”

Toji huffs. “Semi-colons help for varying sentence structures. It’s in the little ways you can convey your points compellingly. Don’t underutilise the right punctuations.”

“Yeah, yeah, smarty pants. Rub my clit and answer my question already.”

Cool air brushes against your swollen, glistening lips. You sigh when his warm hand covers the entire slit barely a second later. His middle fingers are instantly coated in your wetness. He groans. “Fuck, doll, you’re dripping.” Toji doesn’t give you a moment to respond to that; his fingers rub at your throbbing clit in tight circles, drawing it out of his hood. You moan, back arching. 

Finally, he answers, “I stare at your ass all the fucking time after I glare at the losers whose eyes wander from their laptop screens . I’m a big, fucking hypocrite — that what you wanna hear?”

“Fuck yes!”

Rustling of paper reaches your ears. Then two hands are on you: one furiously rubbing the bundle of nerves and the other gripping your throat. He squeezes threateningly. Your vision spots, jaw dropping. “Look at you, all desperate to have my cock inside you. And for what? For a couple marks? You’re not ashamed?”

Your ass is grinding back on his boner, sandwiching the hard thing between your cheeks as your own answer. How could you be ashamed when he wants you so bad too?

“I’m horny! Are you gonna fuck me or not?”

In a split second, you find your world spinning. Your back falls on something hard. You’re staring up at the ceiling, papers scattered beneath you. Rough hands tug you down by your thighs. When you peer down, Toji’s staring up at you from between your lips.

“Yeah, I’m fucking you. You already knew I was gonna. You gonna let me taste your pussy first?” A challenging brow quirks up, like he’s waiting for you to push him away. 

Instead, your legs hook over his shoulders, ankles crossed. You grin at him.

Panties pulled to the side, his fingers spread your pussy for him. Those eyes scan every inch. He releases a shaky breath, cheeks flushed and Adam’s apple bobbing. “Even your pussy’s pretty. Fucking gorgeous.” Running a hand through his hair, he says, “You’re always such a pain, aren’t you?”

“I can’t help that every part of me’s pretty,” you reply, twirling your hair.

“Shut up and play with your tits — I like a show with my dinner.” Toji spits a fat dollop right on your clit. It slides down your slit but before it can disappear in the crevice of your ass, his tongue is collecting it and shoving it inside your cunt. 

You gasp. “Fuck, Toji!”

In spite of his aggressive tone, you pull down your top, letting your tits bounce out. Those eyes follow every jiggle. “Good girl,” he rasps. “Squeeze them for me nice and hard. Good. Real fucking good.”

His glasses are foggy now with your own humidity, rattling with every movement. He’s eating your pussy out like he’s starved, like he’s never tasted anything better, like he’s going to make sure not a single trace of you can be found in his apartment after he’s done with you. 

Growling, he spread your thighs wider. “Course you’ve got a sweet pussy,” he says, brows furrowing in what appears to be anger. “Course it’s sweeter than that fucking cheesecake. Course I’ll be craving you till I die.”

Fingers tangle in his hair, tugging for purchase. “Ngh, Toji, my clit…suck my clit!”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Those scarred lips, the very ones you’ve stared at more times than you can count, wrap around your clit, sucking hard the way you did when you were blowing him under the desk. Electricity sparks inside, sending tremors up from your lower belly to your tits to the very tips of your fingers. “Oh fuck, that’s so good.”

Filthy squelches are being wrung out of you, and you know he’s doing it on purpose, addicted to how responsive your body is to him.

Two fingers worm their way through your pulsing hole, basking in the rough textures of your entrance, stretching your gummy walls on their way to curling against that spot that has you oozing more cum out. 

“You’re fucking tight,” he hisses. “You’re gonna struggle taking all of me later.” Then he barks a laugh, spare hand pressing down on your belly where the pressure builds up. Your toes curl. “A better man would take pity on you, go slow or wait another day, but I’ve already had my tongue inside your cunt so I’ll spare you the gentleman act.”

More fingers shove in, ignoring the screech that you let out. You’ve never had more than two and yet all four of his thicker, longer fingers are inside pushing your walls to their very limits. 

Despite that, he remarks, entertained by the shock on your face which he studies through his glasses, “Suck it up, buttercup — my cock’s thicker than this, you know that.”

You do. 

It’s all you’ve been thinking about all day. Hours after, your jaw’s still stretched out, sore and creaking after the workout you put it through. The thought of having something even thicker, longer than his four fingers has you growing dizzy, head handing over the coffee table.

“Yeah, my cock can’t wait to feel you too,” Toji says, not to you but to your pussy which is squelching lewdly and loudly. “Had to resist jerking my dick raw all day so you better make it good for me.”

Is it seconds later, or minutes, maybe hours, when you cum?

How ever long it is no one can deny it’s the strongest orgasm of your life. 

Your entire body trembles, spasming beyond control. Are you screaming or silently moaning? Are your eyes shut or have you gone blind? And is he still pistoning his fingers inside you, damn near pushing all of his hand in? 

“Stop,” you cry out. “No more, please!”

Mercifully, he yanks his hand out. Unfortunately, it leaves you feeling so empty you immediately crave the feeling of his hand gripping you from inside. 

Lips and chin glistening, he kisses both inner thighs, which tremble. 

Toji gathers you with one arm, showing off his strength as he carries you off the table and to the glass door which leads out to the balcony. It’s dark out and all you can see are the lights of people’s rooms in the apartment across. There are families lounging, dogs sleeping, TV’s blaring. 

Behind you, you hear the rustling of his shirt as he throws it off carelessly. Bare skin grazes your own soon after his hands make quick work of the clothes you’re still wearing. In a flash, you’re naked. He bends down to pick up your fallen panties, inhaling the gusset deeply. Your legs cross tightly at the deeply satisfied groan he lets out. 

“Next office hour,” he starts, lazily spreading your pussy lips and smearing your juices around so he can listen to the squelches and keep your squirming, “you better leave your panties with me. Consider it payment.”

You laugh. “Sure.”

Groggily, you try to keep your head up, wondering what you’re doing by the window, still a little out of it. A hand clutches your jaw, aiding you. 

“I’m gonna fuck you against this window,” he announces, leaving no room for arguments. “You want those extra marks? Then you’re gonna be a good girl and take my cock like a champ.”

Ass gyrating back against the hot, heavy thing still confined in sweatpants, you wonder, “Do you have an exhibitionism kink?”

He lets go of you. You have to catch yourself by pressing your palms to the cold glass. Toji drags your hips back, foot kicking your legs apart. His cock plops onto your ass, scalding. “No, I have a ‘get my time’s worth from shameless women who waste my time with demands for better grades by humiliating them’ kink.”

“Sounds long. We should get that shortened,” you drawl.

His cockhead slides through your pussy, coating itself in your wetness. The fat thing bumps against your clit. You shudder. 

Satisfied with your natural lubrication, he prods your entrance. “Yeah, we should. Let’s call it, Shut The Fuck Up And Take It.”

Then he enters you in one go.

You scream.

The window fogs up with your breath. Your eyes roll to the back of your head. 

You’re taking so much of his length so quickly that it should be painful. Despite that, there’s not an ounce of pain, not one you didn’t like at least — only the overwhelming pleasure of being filled up is resonating. 

Toji grunts. “Almost had to fist this cunt and you’re -hah fuck- still too tight.”

Pummelling his cock in, his hips don’t pause for a second. You gasp for breath, palms slipping and sliding on the condensation that’s built up on the glass. It’s like you can feel him in your lungs, so impossibly deep, so hot, so intimidating. 

“God, it should be a crime to have a body like this,” he says, hands groping every part of your flesh he can reach. He slaps your ass to watch it jiggle for him. He’s an ass man, that much is clear.

The force of his thrusting has you pushed closer to the glass, so close now that almost your entire front is flush with the surface. The coldness grazes your nipples. You moan. 

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

He tugs you back to him, body sliding down the glass till your ass is jutted out. Toji carries your hips up so you can reach him, but it means your toes are only brushing the floor. You cling to the glass door as much as you can. Through the glossy haze, you see the marks you left on the glass, from the oils and sweat on your skin. You see the outline of your tits, all round and fat, the handprints you left and the smearing of them all over the place because you couldn’t grapple with one position to have them in. 

Are people watching? Are you flashing a poor old man, are you reigniting a sexual appetite in a pitiful divorcee, making a housewife jealous, creating fantasies for some guy your age? Are people rubbing one out to the flashes of ecstasy on your face, to the swaying of your tits, to the rippling of your ass?

Toji’s fingers creep under you, furiously teasing your clit. You whine. “I think I’m gonna cum again.”

“Go on, gorgeous,” he rasps. “Lemme feel you cum around my cock. Make my dreams come true.”

Two fingers gather the cream that’s formed a ring at his base. He draws three letters on the glass for you to stare at. It spells out c u m.

God, he’s dirty.

Another orgasm ripples through you. Your thighs shake. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, Toji!”

He growls out, hands tightening their grip on your hips, threatening to bruise, “Shit, you’re gonna make me cum early.”

Without waiting for you to come down from your high, he flips you around. Your back thuds against the door. His cock reenters you in a clean, easy slide, cunt beyond soaked and stretched out. Your arms and legs wrap around him. 

Those glasses of him have fogged up so thickly now that they fail to serve their purpose. Toji takes it off with one hand, sliding it onto your head, like a headband keeping your face clear of your hair. “Don’t let them fall,” he orders. “They break and you won’t be getting that internship.”

And his lips?

They smack against yours.

He kisses you, all tongue and teeth and drool dripping down chins, like he’s been waiting weeks, months, perhaps years to do that. And you kiss him back just the same. 

Inside you, his cock throbs. Toji’s hips swing back and forth, pelvis grinding on yours, rubbing your clit and wringing our more obscene squeeeelches. 

“Oh god, I’m so full, Toji. You’re so fucking big.”

“You’re -hngh- t-taking me so well,” he praises, littering sloppy kisses all over your face and neck all while he pinches and rolls your nipples. “Moaning so adorably, all pretty and finally keeping this mouth quiet of smartass comments. You should be like this all the time.”

The rocking of his cock inside you is even better like this. The closeness, the warmth, the taste of him — you wonder why you waited so long to do this. 

Tits squashed to his chest, your nipples scrape his skin, slipping and sliding with the sweat beading down your bodies. The hard planes of his chest feel magnificent. Nothing about his muscles are for vanity only, and the knowledge of the strength he’s holding back has your eyes rolling to the back of your head. 

“You’d miss my smartass comments,” you tell him, head thrown back and hips working their way down on his cock of their own volition.

Toji groans against your neck, licking droplets of sweat. “Yeah, maybe. I definitely wouldn’t miss your spelling errors though.”

Smiling, you tug his head up by his hair, and bite his bottom lip. You pull and let go so it’ll snap back into place like he’d done with your lip when you were under his desk. “Maybe if you taught me like this, I wouldn’t -hah- make so m-many mistakes— deeper, Toji! Fuck me deeper.”

His hips plough deeper inside, like you wanted, hitting that spot inside you till you’re sure it’ll be bruised in the morning. Moans after moans are fucked out of you; his neighbours will give him an earful tomorrow, you’re certain. 

“Book more office hours just to see me and not because you want something from me, then we can see if I can fuck your stupidity out of you,” he retorts. 

You peck his lips. “Aw, does poor, needy Toji want me to give him more attention? Does he miss me when I’m not there? What a cute little baby.”

“Yeah, he does, actually,” he says, smirking. “That a problem?”

“It will be if you don’t make me cum.”

Toji reminds you, “You’ve been cumming around my cock this entire time; you still want more? Greedy girl.”

He pulls away from the window, stalking over to the sofa instead. Each step burrows him deeper inside you, kissing your cervix and pushing out gasps from your lips, all of which he swallows. 

Carelessly, he throws you on the sofa. You bounce with an oomph!

Ankles held by one hand, he keeps your legs upright, hips lifted up to meet his. Toji presses a kiss to your ankle bone before he pushes his cock back inside. Your back arches with a mewl. Like this, his huge body becomes even more glaring — he’s casting a shadow over you, completely dwarfing you, reminding you how easily he could break you, how he could take whatever he wants from you. 

Every time he buries himself to the hilt, a bulge pops through your tummy, right under your belly button. 

“Look at that,” he mutters, brushing a thumb over it. You whine. “Feel me deep inside you? You’ll be feeling me inside for days, won’t you? Once it starts to fade, you can always come back for another fill, you know.”

“Promise?” you ask, grinning ear to ear. 

Toji pulls out, leaving just his tip before he slams back in, jostling you down on the sofa. His abs contract, cock throbbing at the sudden clenching of your walls around him. “Fuck, yes, doll. Promise. I fucking promise.”

His glasses have slid off, rattling somewhere on the sofa with the impact of every thrust. He doesn’t seem to care about them anymore. You’re nearing another orgasm, head whipping around at the intensity of the pressure building in your core. He’s bullying his cock relentlessly in your cunt, chasing after his own high and sending you to yours. 

When your eyes clash with his piercing, green ones, unobstructed by his glasses, you explode with a scream. 

“F-fuck,” he grunts, following soon after. 

Searing cum spurts inside you, cock pulsing, cum painting your walls. His thumb rubs your clit, aiding you through your orgasm. Your moans are vibrating against the walls, definitely disturbing his neighbours, but so are his groans. 

He slumps over, rolling the two of you on the sofa so you’re resting naked on his heated body, his heavy arm preventing you from falling off. Your pussy’s sore, a mix of your cum and his dribbling out and creating a sticky mess on your inner thighs. 

Absentmindedly, as you both catch your breath, he rubs your back. You draw shapes and letters on his chest. Toji combs his hair off of his forehead, chest rising up and down with his breathing. The dirty marks you two left are still on the glass, though it’s no longer foggy. 

Reaching up above him, he gracefully finds his glasses, sliding them on his face. You like him with and without them. 

“So,” you begin, “about those extra marks.”

Toji lifts his glasses up to rub a hand down his face. “Jesus, yes, you’ll get the marks.”

“Thanks!” you chirp. 

“God, you’re a pain in the ass.”

.

.

.

“Fuck, Toji,” you moan. “I already came three times. It’s too -hic- too much.”

Your TA ruts his cock inside you, face buried in the crook of your neck. His glasses are on your nose bridge, blurring your vision; he gets so frustrated when the thing gets in the way of kissing you or eating you out.

“Shut up,” he rasps, hand pressing down on your lower belly so you can feel him even more. “You’re the one who dragged me here. Take every orgasm I give you and be grateful.”

That’s true — you were supposed to have an office hour with him, which is really an excuse to see your boyfriend before you have to attend the internship induction session, but then you took one look at him and his amazing body and started soaking through your panties so here you two are.

Oh yes, you did say boyfriend.

After he blew your mind out, you’d been visiting his apartment after classes so often, you were practically living there, and he didn’t mind. It started out casual, but after realising you two would go grocery shopping, watch movies together, and text each other practically every day, you decided to just seal the deal and make it official. 

In short, he fucks good, and he can tolerate your personality, so you two stuck together. 

A month in, neither of you are really regretting it. At least, if his desperate thrusting and sloppy kisses to your neck’s anything to go by. 

“Missed you so much, Toji,” you whine, hips fucking back into him.

Toji groans, hand groping your tit from under your shit. “Yeah, baby?”

“Mmm.”

“Missed you too,” he confesses, licking a stripe up your neck and scraping his teeth down. Goosebumps rise on your arms. “Been wanting to see you all morning.”

You giggle, holding onto the stall for purchase and so his thrusting won’t make you smack face first onto the door. “You’re so cute w-when you’re needy.”

“Fuck off,” he says with no real heat to his words. 

In the near distance, the door to the men’s toilets opens with a dull metallic creak, the sound echoing faintly off the tiled walls. Feet pad in—slow, unhurried. The steady rhythm of someone who expects the place to be empty.

“Fushiguro?” a voice calls out. “You in here?”

The two of you go very, very still. Toji’s entire body stiffens behind you, muscles locking. His hand clamps firmly over your mouth for extra measure, warm palm pressing tight enough that you can feel the tension in his fingers.

Your heart slams against your ribs, loud enough that you’re half convinced it might echo under the stall. What the hell is the professor doing here?

“Susan told me she saw you walk in this direction. You got a minute?”

Toji releases a tense breath through his nose, annoyed at the interruption but left with no choice but to answer. He lifts you up so your feet hang over the floor and won’t be seen by the outsider. “Yeah, prof. But I’m kinda in the middle of something.”

The professor laughs. “Yes, yes, I’m sure. I do apologise for interrupting you. I was just locked out of my account and can’t send emails for the next hour. You know how terrible I am with technology.” He enters the stall next door. He unzips his pants. You cringe. “I only wanted to ask if you’re prepared to host the internship induction later.”

You go still, this time for a different reason. 

Your boyfriend releases your mouth. Fingers creep over to between your legs, where you’re still connected to him, where he’s still throbbing inside you. He slowly rubs your clit, keeping you from squirming in complaint with his strong arms. Toji responds, “Yeah, got all my notes ready.”

The bastard’s trying to distract you…

“Ah good, good,” the older man joyfully responds. His stream hits the water, and you fight the urge to face palm. “I had a look over the plans and the schedule. Very well organised, I must say. The competition was fierce, which is a testament to the success of the event, so props to you.”

Do men hold conversation so casually in the toilets?

Toji carefully begins moving in slow and shallow thrusts, prodding your g-spot over and over with his fat cockhead. You bite your lips to keep from moaning. Your nails dig into his thick arm. He ignores you. 

“Don’t mention it, Professor.”

The man zips himself back up and flushes, exiting the stall. Outside, the tap runs, and you’re both still as quiet as rocks, afraid that any sudden movement will out you both as sexual deviants. 

He adds, “Oh, and thank you for handling the applications for me; you know I hate all that paperwork nonsense.” 

Your jaw drops. 

Beyond tense, Toji replies like he’s aware of the weight every word exchange carries, “I do what I can do to help out.” 

“I couldn’t do what I do without you,” the professor continues, sincere and ignorant to the fact that you’re there. The rustling of paper towels echoes. “Well, I’ll see you later. Apologies again for interrupting.” 

The exit door swings open and you relax, but then his voice fills the space again. 

“Do say hello to your pretty, little girlfriend for me.” 

Your heart? 

Drops to the fucking floor.

Toji’s grip on you tightens just slightly, barely noticeable unless you’re pressed this close to him.

Your mind races. Did he see you come in? Did someone tell him? Did Susan, whoever the hell she is—

Toji speaks before you can spiral further, his tone sharper now, suspicion threading through it. “What do you mean, Professor?”

“Oh, you know, the girl you’ve been eyeing for a while now — she’s on the internship, yes?” Then he laughs the kind of laughter old men do, all paternal and wise. “Don’t worry, son, I’m not accusing you of pulling strings; I know she’s a very intelligent young woman. Ambitious too. Almost as ambitious as you. I hope you two work something out.”

Your heart slows its beating but you’re not any less tense. 

Sighing, Toji responds, “I’ll let you know if we do.”

“Yes, yes,” the professor says before he leaves for good. 

Finally, it’s just you two in the men’s toilets again. The silence and emptiness is maddeningly relieving. Although, you’re seething, practically vibrating with accusations and anger.  

Toji lets you down. Your feet touch the ground again. You pull him out, whirling on him with a disbelieving glare. You snatch his glasses off your face with one hand and smack his chest with the other. The man doesn’t budge.

“You sneaky piece of shit!”

He gathers both of your wrists with one hand, rolling his eyes. Toji takes his glasses from you and slides it on his face. Seeing you clearer now, he guides his cock back to your pussy, re-entering with ease. You moan, allowing him to hike your leg over his hip so he can press in deeper.

Kissing your lips, he mutters against your lips, “I did what I had to to get your attention. Sue me.”

“God, you’re the worst,” you breathe out, chest jutting out to his, nipples aching and clit throbbing. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, “I’m the big, bad wolf, and you’re creaming all over my dick right now. Let’s not act like you got the short end of the stick here.”

“Master manipulator,” you hiss, kissing him back, fingers tangling in his hair as soon he lets go of your wrists to grope your tit and ass.

“Whore,” he fires back.

Then the two of you smile, clutching each other tightly as you both rock into each other, nearing your mutual orgasm and riding the pleasure growing in your bodies. Fuck, he feels so good.

“We’re gonna be together forever and ever, aren’t we?” you ask.

Toji’s scar brushes your forehead with his kiss. 

“That’s the plan.”

[sirenleche]

𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞 𖤐 𓈒࣪ ᭡ ˖ 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: satoru gojo x female reader.

𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: smut. angst. hints of fluff. college au.

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬/𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: frat gojo x reader. heavy nsfw content. possessive/obsessive tendencies. toxic relationship dynamics. emotional manipulation. jealousy. huge breeding kink. contraceptive failure. accidental pregnancy. use of alcohol. drug use. frat culture. violence/blood. discussions of abortion. explicit language. dark romance. reader’s dad is basically tom brady lmao

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: the hottest frat boy at the university of southern california, satoru gojo, becomes obsessed with you and develops a kink he was never supposed to have—one reckless enough to change both of your lives forever.

𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐬: ongoing.

𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: -47k

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: open.

𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: here.

𖤐 𓈒࣪ ᭡ ˖

𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬:

𝐨𝐧𝐞 - 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞

𝐭𝐰𝐨 - 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬

𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 - …

[yenayaps]

if u think i’m pretty

pairing: frat boy!gojo x mean!reader

content: the notorious fuckboy suddenly stopped sleeping around and nobody knows why. its totally not because he’s been secretly running around with someone that’s almost a decade older and is embarrassed to be seen with him in public || MDNI, fem!reader, age gap (gojo’s 20-21 readers late 20s), smut, porn w/ plot, fuck buddies, secret relationship(?), gojo plays rugby 🫦, readers lw so embarrassed to be seen with him LMAO, date crashing, he also calls her drunk to tell her he misses her, he's an unhinged little shit

notes: hiiii im so sorry to the ones that asked to be tagged, ive been swamped with schoolwork and im exhausted 😭 11.9k words today, enjoy the read 🙂‍↕️❤️

Satoru has lived his life quite simply these past few months— just school, training, and games. 

Everyone’s gotten on his case about it— mainly just questioning him, but there are moments like yesterday, when he got accused of going through a crisis of some sort over his sexuality. Or last month, when the entire frathouse got together in the living room and tried to have some intervention, thinking he had depression or some other shit. 

He doesn't. He’s also not very worried about his sexuality. 

It’s crazy because he really hasn’t changed that much. He just hasn’t brought anyone over. Or gone out on dates. Or made out with anyone at parties. Anything related to girls, he hasn’t taken much part in. 

But that’s it! That’s all!

He still goes to parties, still has good grades, still goes to practice, and still wins games. He’s just as present— he’s just not fucking anybody, and now everyone thinks he’s dying because of it. 

Assholes. 

He’s fucked half the school, for all they knew, he could’ve just been giving his dick a break! He wasn’t— but he could be, and that wouldn’t be anybody else's business but his own. He’s a grown man, despite many individuals begging to differ.

Whatever, fuck them.

Funny thing about it all is nobody seems to have noticed that he’s out of the house at certain hours throughout the week. Consistently. So really, it’s on them for not trying hard enough to find answers to their invasive little questions. 

Hm. Actually, no. On the off chance that they do ask what he’s up to on a night like tonight, he’ll just lie, say he’s at the gym or something. He’s not exactly allowed to tell, which is fine; he’s more than willing to keep a little secret. 

That little secret was tucked away in a nice apartment that had a view of the entire city. A tranquil little place when he’s not around, he’s pretty sure— just not when he’s around.

The bed’s steadily rocking underneath the uneven weight Satoru creates. Relentless smacking— skin to skin, hips to ass, the dirty little squelch that comes with it. 

There’s a view, but it’s not the city. 

“Arch that back some more— yeaahhh, just like that.”

He pounds into you, balls hitting heavy against your clit as he pulls you back to meet each thrust. Moans spill from your lips, taking every single inch he drills into you. The stretch is insane as he works his heavy cock in and out of you like it’s nothing. 

If there’s one thing about him, it’s that he can fuck. He can go on for hours, put you in any position, have you begging and crying, dwindle you down to nothing but a babbling mess from how many orgasms he can work out of you. 

He wears you out. 

Yet still, at the end of every night—

“Kay’. We’re done here, you can leave now.” 

You are so fucking mean.

The first time Satoru heard those words come out of your mouth, he was distraught. How dare you throw him out after the backshots he had given you?! He made you cum so hard you cried! Then you just throw him out of your apartment like some useless whore– like he was nothing but a fucking slut! He had more to offer than just his dick, he’ll have you know. 

Now he’s a little less emotional and more… 

“You sure? I could stay longer and help you with chores… or something.”

You look around your room, which is spotless aside from his t-shirt and jeans scattered on the floor. “Sure. Why don’t you start by picking up your clothes, putting them on, and then getting out?”

“Oh, come on. Seriously?” he throws his head back and groans rather childishly. “That’s a little rude, no?” 

“So was the way you were talking to your little girlfriend on the phone earlier,” you hop off the bed and throw on a big t-shirt that said Modelo on it. 

Satoru gets one final look at your ass as you do so and finds himself getting oddly jealous, wondering if the shirt was actually yours or if it belonged to an ex. He ends up telling himself it’s yours, ignoring that you’ve told him how much you hated beer in the past. Delusional? Perhaps, but he’d rather not hurt his own feelings right now.

“Carmen’s not my girlfriend,” he huffs out a laugh as he tries to explain, “I don’t even know why she called me. We haven’t fucked in months.” 

He also tried to tell you that he hasn’t slept with anyone since he started sleeping with you, but you didn’t seem to care much about either. The entire time, you were just throwing his clothes at him while he absentmindedly got dressed. He continues to yap away once he’s up and fully dressed, so you grab him by the wrist and start walking towards the door. 

“And you wouldn’t believe all the shit the guys have given me for turning girls down. One of them started calling me Celibate Satoru, can you believe that?”

“I sure can.” You open the door, walk around him, and start pushing him out. 

“They don’t even know— assholes, they’d take it all back so fast if they saw you,” he huffs out a laugh, trying to cope with the fact that he’s not allowed to tell anybody about you two. 

You laugh with him. “You better hope they don’t, ‘cause if they do–”

“You’ll bite my dick off– yeah, yeah. I know.” You never said you’d bite his dick off. Satoru turns around when he’s fully out of the door to reveal the dopey grin on his face. “So, same time next week?”

“Yup! Bye Gojo.”

He scoffs. “I thought I told you to call me Sa–”

He didn’t get to finish that sentence. You shut the door in his face. 

Gojo was a nice guy… at least to you, he was. You’re sure a lot of others would say the complete opposite, judging by the way he snapped at the girl earlier for calling him and telling her to lose his number. You felt sorry for her and also felt thankful that you didn’t have to deal with a guy like him when you were 21. 

You tried not to reflect too much, it’d just end with you being disappointed in yourself for even letting him into your apartment in the first place. It’s all for fun, but still, you should know better. 

Satoru’s a piece of work. Comes from a family swimming in money and has never been told no in his life. He’s impulsive. Very hedonistic, very immature— some people grow out of it, but you have a feeling he’ll never change since he’s never had to work hard for anything in his life. 

He is the last person you’d ever want to date, and for someone who usually dated older men— preferably men like his rich father— fucking a frat boy was just embarrassing on your part.

It’s too bad he’s genuinely one of the best fucks of your life— add in the dick piercing, the stamina that came with being a rugby player, and the fact that he spends every moment with you wanting to please you, and he was hard to get rid of. 

You met Satoru at the gym. You’d think he’d go to the one at his university, but no, he just had to get a membership at the luxury gym that’s on the other side of town. The only reason why you chose to get a membership there, rather than the more affordable gym down the street, was so that you could avoid annoying ass kids. 

Spoiler: It didn’t work. 

He didn’t approach you right away. It started with a couple of stares here and there, all of which you pretended not to see since his attention was the last thing you wanted. You can admit that if he were a little older, you would’ve indulged, but it was clear he was a college student, given how he’s worn t-shirts and hoodies with his university’s name on them. Most professional settings wouldn’t allow piercings either— he’s covered in them. One on his nose, one on his eyebrow, multiple on his ears, and a tongue ring. Not to mention the one he surprised you with when he first came over.

Of course, pretending not to notice an attention whore like Satoru Gojo didn’t work, and you soon found out just how annoyingly persistent he can be.

He started going to the gym at the same time as you. It felt like the machines he used just got closer and closer to you with each visit, up until he boldly used the treadmill right next to you one day— you weren’t having that, by the way, and got off less than a minute later. You could be talking to a trainer or one of the staff members, and he’d shimmy his way into the conversation just to get you to look at him and say something, but his attempts were met with you excusing yourself. 

It got to a point where he didn’t even care about what was said, he just wanted your attention, good or bad. When he finally did get it, it was neither. You were tired of him before he even opened his mouth. 

Imagine this: the annoying little shit coincidentally goes into the sauna at the same time as you, even though you could’ve sworn you saw him walking out the door with his duffle bag thrown over his shoulder. How he managed to strip down into nothing but his slutty little rugby shorts in so little time? You have no clue. His knee was all scraped up though, so it was safe to assume that he fell during the process. 

You gave him a curt smile and closed your eyes.

He still opened his mouth.

“Great sauna, isn’t it?”

Did he just deepen his voice? Christ.

The awkward and pathetic attempt at small talk never made you want to murder yourself more in that moment. You tried not to sound as annoyed as you were when you let out a sigh. 

“It is,” you murmured back, closing your eyes again in hopes that would be the end of it. 

It wasn’t. 

“I love coming here— nice little escape from everything,” he blissfully said.

You couldn’t imagine what the hell that brat needed to escape from. If only you could say the same, you’ve spent more time dodging him than you have working out the past three weeks. 

“Name's Satoru, by the way,” he flashed you a smile. 

You’re not a heartless wretch, so you threw him a bone and told him your name, too. Which was a mistake, the one thing you’ve learned is to never feel sorry for Satoru, give him an inch and he’ll shamelessly take a mile. Minutes later, you’re internally groaning. You hated how smooth he was when asking if you wanted to grab drinks later that night. All the charm and charisma that oozed out of him would put any narcissist to shame. 

“Did you seriously follow me into the sauna just to ask me out?”

He had to pause because that’s not what you were supposed to say, but he was too emotionally invested at that point to give up. 

“Maybe,” he chirps, averting his gaze for a moment. “I swear I wasn’t trying to be weird, though.”

You smile as your eyes scan him from top to bottom, more so out of judgment than interest. “Stripping down into nothing but the male version of booty shorts isn’t weird?”

“Ugh— ok, yeah, fine— maybe it is a little weird,” he sighs, throwing a towel over his shoulders as an attempt to cover up. “Let's just.. Forget about that. Yeah?” You continue to just stare at him, and he clears his throat. “I’d still love to take you out sometime and get to know you a little better. Whatcha think? My treat.”

Age doesn’t matter, you’ll fold too once you see what he’s hiding under his “booty shorts”. Everyone does. 

You cross your arms and lean back on the wooden bench. “I’m sorry– how old are you again?”

“I’m graduating this year,” he proudly says, making your face drop in disbelief— he’s well aware that he’s too young for you, and he’s still trying?

“Right.” The judgment in your tone was loud and clear, continuing to look at him as if he were a harmless spider— there’s no fear or concern, just peeved at how it managed to find its way into your vicinity. “So you’re 21…” You tried pulling more information out of him, “since that’s the age you need to be to order a drink.” 

“Soon,” he continues to tiptoe around the truth. “Everyone knows me, though. Nobody's gonna check my I.D.” 

Besides, he has a fake. He’s had one since he was 16. 

“Oh wow.” 

You still didn’t sound very impressed, not that it stopped him. He somehow was able to go home with your number in his phone that day, mainly because he was starting to annoy you, and giving him your number was the easiest way to get him to stop— harmless spider, remember? He was probably more of a gnat at that point, though, but harmless nonetheless. 

From that point going forward, you ignored him at the gym and his text messages. You could go on your phone and scroll for a minute before seeing a text sent from your end. Now that you think about it, you only texted him back once. 

Unknown Number: i feel like im being edged rn 😔 what’s a man gotta do to get a text back??

You: typing…

You: 

You: typing…

You: turn 21

Unknown Number: bet

You read that response and immediately regretted it. 

He came back a month later, the day after his birthday, and you unfortunately gave in. 

And by giving in, you met him halfway and asked if he wanted to come over. He was hot, but there was no way in hell you wanted to be seen in public with him. Being a man as easy as Satoru, he said yes and spent the entire night putting you in every single position he’s ever imagined having you in. You swear he hit every room on purpose— just bending you over every surface and folding you up in every position. 

You’ve never had someone throw you around that much before. He fucked you like it was some god-given right. You were so far gone that you would’ve done anything he told you to; you’re just glad his only goal that night was to impress you. 

And he did, hence why you are still letting him come over a couple of times a week. Maybe more, maybe less. 

He’s tried to get you to come over to his place before, to which you refused for obvious reasons, and berated him enough to make him never ask you a question as insulting as that ever again. 

He’s also tried to coordinate your gym visits in the past. 

It was a month into whatever little arrangement you had— you say that because you’ve never made an agreement, aside from telling him to never talk to you, talk about you, or approach you in public. 

It would come as a surprise to no one if he spent the whole day there just waiting for you to show up. 

He didn’t even give you a chance to go into the locker and put your things away before attempting to walk up to you. You had just walked past the front desk— head down, phone up— and felt like there was something off, and what do you know? He was walking in a straight line towards you as if you hadn’t banned him from speaking to you in public. 

Luckily, the women's locker room was directly to your left, so you turned and walked there as fast as your legs could take you. You were pissed, slamming your duffel bag down onto one of the benches to spend a minute or two pacing back and forth. There was no way in hell you were going home, so you pulled up with messages with him and sent him a text.

You: Do not fucking embarrass me.

You: Don’t even come near me.  

S. Gojo: fine .

It wasn’t another 20 minutes until you finally stepped out of the locker room, mostly ready to spend the next 30 minutes working out. Usually, it’s 45 minutes to an hour, but you gave yourself some grace, even though you really should’ve been getting the most out of your membership with how pricey it was.

The first 20 minutes were fine— peaceful. You ended up letting your guard down as you fell under the assumption that Satoru left, given how he was nowhere to be found. Then, 2 minutes into using the stairmaster, someone got on the one right next to you, despite the entire row being empty. 

He was met with a scowl. The only response he had for it was throwing his palms out and grimacing right back at you, as if to say, I’m not doing anything wrong.

Minutes later, he’s reaching over and grabbing your water bottle to take a sip from. Mind you, he already had one with him. It had more water in it than yours. 

That was the moment you knew Satoru really wasn’t shit. 

He casually gave it back with a smile, trying to act all cute and be funny, so you sent your water bottle flying at his big head. 

“Ow!” he frowns, rubbing the side of his head, having absolutely no right to look as shocked as he did. “That hurt!”

“Suck it up,” you snapped at him in a hushed tone. “You’re lucky I didn’t lodge it down your throat and drown you.”

“Why would you do either?!” he threw his arms out.

“I don’t know— why would you reach over and drink from my water bottle when you have your own?!”

“Because I wanted water that had some of your backwash in it??” he says, as if it should’ve been obvious. 

To this day, you still don’t know if he was trying to throw you off or if he was being serious.

“If I hear one more word come out of your mouth while I’m here, even if you’re 10 feet away and talking to someone else, I’m fucking blocking you.”

“. . .” You could see the panic in his eyes as his face dropped. “Okay— 10 feet away is fucking crazy—”

“Stop. Talking.”

He opens his mouth, quickly decides he’d rather not find out if you were bluffing or not, and closes it.

You hated being strict with people— you had no other choice but to be strict with Satoru. You could draw a line, explicitly tell him not to cross it and why, and he’d walk right up to it and tap his toe on the other side, just to see if you’d say anything.

With the way you talk about him and talk to him, it’d be easy to assume that you hated him— you complain about the shit he does, you yell at him often, you look at him at times and start to wonder if he was just a sign sent by god to finally get therapy. But you don’t dislike him, let alone hate him.  

On the occasion that you don’t kick him out right after you two fuck, he’s really not that bad to be around. If circumstances were different, you wouldn’t mind being friends with him. He’s easy to talk to, easy to get along with when he’s not actively and purposely fucking around and finding out. You honestly enjoy talking to him here and there. 

Truly.

Except for when he’s talking about anything frat-related. More often than not, it’s dumb and genuinely a waste of your time to listen to. Not to mention the fact that you don’t need any more reminders of who you’ve been welcoming into your home. 

You were pushing thirty for Christ's sake. It'd be one thing if he were just a one-night stand, but he’s not. He raids your pantry when you’re not looking and, on multiple occasions, has purposely left his boxers behind as some sort of parting gift.

It’s gotten easier with time— the embarrassment that washes over you when he says something stupid, that is. Like whatever went down at some party he threw or some joke one of his “brothers” told him. It’s still a waste of your time, but you’ve grown to just let him talk about it rather than shut him down to avoid that pang of guilt you sometimes get when you’re around him. 

There’s the disappointment and the embarrassment, and lately, there’s the odd form of pity you have for him. You’ve always known you were going to have to let Gojo down one day and cut things off completely, you’re not quite sure how he’d take it, though. 

There was some hope that he’d get bored with you and move on to someone new, but that’s slowly diminishing. He’s volunteered to get tested for STDs weekly and sends you the results. He hasn’t slept with anyone else, either, which is shocking. You’ve gotten a glimpse of his phone and his messages, all of which were unopened texts from the girls he’s probably led on in the past— ignoring them all for a woman who does the same to him more than half the time.

Sometimes you wonder if he notices that, too. He has to. You say he’s stupid all the time, but he’s smarter than he lets on. 

—

S. Gojo: how’s my pretty girl doing?? ((:

You: what do u want

S. Gojo: 😭damn not even a question mark?? I didn’t even ask u for anything 😔

You: i can tell when u want something. now what is it

S. Gojo: can i come over after practice today? pretty please

S. Gojo: it ends at 3 today

You: im not even home

S. Gojo: ik i have a key

You: you took my spare key?

You: give it back

S. Gojo: today? (:

You: im not even home by then. I don’t want u there, you’re gonna make a mess

S. Gojo: wtf? I never make a mess

You: what do you even wanna come over for

S. Gojo: i don’t wanna be home later

You: why

S. Gojo: there’s a few sorority girls coming over and they don’t like me

You: why

S. Gojo: it’s just bc of some bet during freshman years

S. Gojo: they’re not over it

You: pig

S. Gojo: i didn’t even tell you what it was!

You: please don’t

You: but ya, no. go to the library or something

S. Gojo: PLEEEEEAAAAAAAAASSSSSSSSSSSEEEEEEEEEEE

S. Gojo: FUCK i’ll have takeout ready for you when you get off work ffs

S. Gojo: have some compassion these bitches are gonna try to CHOP my DICK off PLEASE

You: maybe you never deserved one to begin with

S. Gojo: BRO???

You: kiddinggg

You: have some pad thai ready for me. I also expect the place to be vacuumed 

S. Gojo: i got u

S. Gojo: i can do your laundry too if you want

You: stop trying to sniff my panties you fucking freak

S. Gojo: ):

You’re home at 5:15 on the dot, and you’re met with the lovely smell of all-purpose cleaner despite only telling Satoru to vacuum. So naturally, you’re in a good mood when you walk into the living room and hang your purse up in the hallway. 

Satoru’s on the couch, turning to look at you and doing that stupid nod he does when he doesn’t feel like verbally greeting someone. 

You slip out of your heels and walk up. “Did you clean the kitchen?”

“A little,” he hums, taking the opportunity to pretty much eye fuck you since you don’t pay much attention to him as you look into the kitchen. 

“What do you want?” you ask suspiciously, turning to look at him lounging back on your couch, half-naked. He’s got nothing but a pair of socks and rugby shorts on, and you can’t help but take a look at his thighs. You don’t ask why his titties are out on display, though, knowing he’d make a comment about how hard he worked cleaning the place. 

“Nothin’,” he shrugs, feigning innocence. The slight twitch of his lip right after gives him away, not that you give it much attention. “How was work?”

“Long,” you yawn. “Slow, too— felt like I was on my phone the entire time.”

He tilts his head, getting ready to fuck with you despite it not even being 5 minutes since you walked through the door. “Are you complaining about doing nothing at work today?”

“Uh, yeah,” you mimic his tone. “I hate looking at the clock all day.”

He huffs out a laugh. “I’m gonna remember this the next time you complain about work being too busy.”

You smile and hum. “Do that, and I’m shoving my socks down your throat.”

“Kinky.” You start to walk away, and Satoru takes the opportunity to reach over the couch, biting his lip as he strikes a palm over your ass. “What else are you tryna do to me?” 

“Choke you,” you boredly say as you walk into your room, but end up smiling when you hear him laugh. You come out a couple of minutes later in a pair of shorts and a tank top. “Where’s the food?”

“The fridge,” he responds, seemingly distracted. 

Only for him to grab your wrist right before you walk past behind him. 

You whip your head around and click your tongue. “What?” you whine, eyes narrowing as you shoot him an irritated look. 

“How hungry are you right now?” he asks, tongue in cheek as he keeps a firm grip on your wrists. 

“Hungry enough.”

“Starving?” There’s an obnoxious glint in his eyes as he asks. 

You scoff. “Does it fucking matter?” 

“Mmmmmm, a little.” He blatantly checks you out as he hums, not struggling to hold on to your wrist at all. He leans over the couch to get a better look at your shorts, his other hand reaching forward to snap your shorts against your skin. “I like these.”

“Let me guess, you’d like them better on the floor.” 

“Something like that— come here,” He stifles a laugh, pulling you closer until you're up against the couch. He snakes an arm around your waist to keep you from leaving, pressing kisses all over your chest. “Been waiting for you forever– give me a minute or two.” 

“You expect me to believe it’ll just be a minute or two?” You smile, trying to keep your breath from hitching as he gets closer to your neck. 

“Mhm. It’s a lie, though.” He places one last kiss against your collarbone, then pulls a hum out of you as he licks a slow, fat stripe up your neck. He tops it off with a couple of kisses along your jaw before nipping at your ear. “How about I work up that appetite a little, hm?”

Your lids grow heavy, each word growing breathier than the last with each kiss and touch. “My stomach’s gonna start hurting.” 

“It’s fine,” he murmurs, running his big hand down your back to your ass, giving it a squeeze before his palm lands on it. “You won’t be thinking about it.” 

He steps over the couch and starts nudging you towards your room, dick print against the fabric of his shorts on full display. 

“No?”

“Nope,” the grin on his face grows, “I’ll keep you distracted.”

And distracted you were. 

Whining as you trembled and clenched around his cock while he worked it into you. You’re at the edge of the bed— bent over for him, back in the craziest arch as he gives you the deepest strokes. The round metal studs under his tip add the right amount of pressure as it drags over your gummy spot.  

He leans back, suppressing a laugh at the sight of your fucked out face and the creamy ring already starting to grow around his base. He’s barely done anything, but he wouldn’t be surprised if he saw drool stains right where your face is pressed up against. It’s always like this, your attitude just magically disappearing the moment he gets near your pussy. Doesn’t matter if it’s his dick, his fingers, his tongue— they’ve all made the miracle of getting you to say please happen. 

“Shit,” he curses under his breath, just mesmerized at the sight of his cock disappearing inside of you. His attention only gets pulled away once he hears a soft, drawn-out moan leave your lips, his hands unconsciously moving up to your hips for him to knead. “You alright?”

“Mhm— go faster.” The demand sounds so sweet falling from your lips, how could he say no?

He rests a knee against the bed and leans over your body. Chest pressed up against your back, caging you in. You rest your head on his forearm, unknowingly letting him get a full view of the tears he’s about to give you. He picks up the pace, angling himself just right with each thrust, watching your eyebrows slightly pinch as your breathing picks up. 

“Can’t believe you wanted to wait for this,” he starts to poke fun at you, and it somehow goes straight to your core. “The hell were you thinkin’, huh?”

“I don’t know,” you murmur. 

“Were you thinking at all?”

“Shut up.” You get whinier with the change of pace. “Can you just– mmh yeah.”

“Yeah?” He grins as you lose your train of thought, rolling his hips nice and slow, working his tip right over that spot that has you curling your toes. “Like that?”

“Mhm,” you hum, fingers starting to dig into his bicep as the praises slowly fall from your mouth. “Feels so good.”

“I knoww– you’re droolin’ on my arm already,” he stifles a laugh as he mocks you, brushing some hair out of your face to grab your chin, turning your head toward him. 

He leans down to kiss you, and it’s nothing short of messy. It's all tongue and wet smacks once he held you down and crashed his lips into yours, just rough and hungry. Greed is what comes to mind once you pull away— lips all swollen and covered in spit, out of breath, heat creeping up your neck. 

It’s just selfish— who grabs people like that?

The hand on your jaw wraps around your neck, and you soon find yourself taking in a sharp breath as Satoru crashes his lips into yours again. His hips continue to rock into you, grinding every inch of himself up against your gummy walls, trying to knock the air out of you as he tries to take it for himself. 

He bites your bottom lip, and you’re giggling as he slowly pulls back, dying out at your throat once he gets back to work. His shallow thrusts grow deep, making your eyes start to glaze over as the fat head of his cock hits and rubs against a spot you’re sure only he can reach. 

“Ready?” he murmurs in your ear. 

“What are you–” 

He bites your bottom lip, then starts fucking you like you owed him your soul or something. He drills every single inch of his cock into you, the sharp sounds of his hips striking against your ass cutting through the air, nearly bringing you to tears from how overwhelming it all is.

“F-Fuck!” you choke out a whine, shoving your face down on the bed, unable to keep up with how fast he’s going. Your cunt stretches around his cock, walls fluttering and squeezing around his length as he pounds you into the bed. Low groans slip through his lips as he sees a mess of slick and cream starting to coat his shaft.

He goes faster. The obscene wet slaps of him pounding your pussy and his heavy balls slapping against your clit grow louder, messier. You’re clawing at your sheets and holding back choked moans each time he slams his tip against your cervix. Your legs start to tremble, struggling to keep them open when each thrust pushes you forward with all the force behind them. 

You start to feel something in your core begin to wrap up and coil, and you are not ready for it. You find yourself crawling forward, trying to close your thighs, all without even realizing it. Satoru lets out a laugh that fades into a low groan as your walls squeeze and tremble around him. 

He teases you as he drags you back by your hips, his ragged voice dripping in amusement.

“You running from me, baby? Where’s this pussy goin’, huh?” He nudges your thighs back apart with his knee, pulling you back on his cock and holding you in place, hips flush against your ass as he lazily grinds into you. 

“Yeah, c'mere— m’not done with you yet.” he rasps, picking up the pace back up again until a messy wet squelch can be heard between you as he pounds you out. He presses your back further down into an arch, fucking into you at a deeper angle. “Mmmm— there we go— just stay right there for me.” 

“Sa— fuck— t-toru!” Your breath shatters as you gasp, pressure starting to build all over again. 

You don’t see the way he smirks when you cry his name like that.

“I know— M’sorry, baby.”

He’s not. A hand slides up your spine to get a fistful of your hair, pulling you up against his chest in one swift go. His pace doesn’t falter as a strong arm wraps around your waist, holding you against him while his lips graze the shell of your ear. 

“Look how good I’m fuckin’ you, though— looks like you’re about to start crying.” He smiles, feeling you squeeze around him as the messy squelch in between your legs becomes more pronounced. 

“T-too much,” you sputter out.

“You should probably cum them,” he offers as if it were a simple solution. “If you want, I can work it out of ya.”

“F-fuck,” you inhale sharply. “Please.”

He lets out a low, pleased hum before he just starts slamming into you, making the bed shake as he starts to knock the absolute wind out of you. His free hand snakes down, slipping down in between your legs until the pads of his fingers find your clit. You tense as he presses on it firmly, breath faltering once he starts rubbing little circles. 

His grip around your waist tightens as he keeps going, not minding your nails as they start scratching and digging into his arm. Soon you’re let out a sharp cry, trembling as you start gushing all over his cock. 

And the way you pussy clamps down and just starts milking him has his thrust growing sloppy, fucking you both through it. 

“Fuck— fuuck,” he lets out a breathy groan, doubling over and nearly squeezing you to death when he starts pumping you full of hot cum, flooding your sensitive walls. He breathes heavy, grinding against you, giving you every last drop. “Shit— that was so fuckin’ good— are you alright?” 

You’re lying limp in his arms, nodding weakly, trying to catch your breath. “Uh-huh”

“You’re so shaky right now,” he heaves, gently letting you down on the bed. “I fucked you good this time.”

“Shut up,” you barely snap at him, “Go get me my food, I can’t fucking walk right now.”

“Fuck— I’m sorry. Don’t kick me out.”

“Get me my fucking food.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he nods, putting his boxers on and walking out of your room with a little smile on his face. 

. . .

He’s leaning against the fridge as he lets his mind run off for a bit, aside from the microwave whirring in the background, it’s quiet— a rare occurrence for Satoru. He doesn’t snap back to reality until he hears footsteps coming up behind him. 

He looks over his shoulder to see you back in the clothes he nearly ripped trying to get off you. And that you’re walking perfectly fine. 

“Thought you couldn’t walk,” he points at you, gesturing his finger up and down.

“So did I,” you shrug, wrapping your fingers around the fridge handle and pulling it open to retrieve a white claw. You can physically feel Satoru staring at you, while something in your spirit is telling you that he’s waiting for you to offer him one. 

You crack it open as you turn to look at him. 

“Can I help you?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Initially, his eyes drift to the drink in your hand and look at it quite longingly. “That looks good.”

“It is good,” you say, then obnoxiously take a sip. “Pairs really well with noodles.”

“I’m sure.” His tones flat as he looks back at the drink. 

You have no idea why he’s so set on waiting for you to offer him one, but you eventually do because you’d rather not get into some weird silent war with him. “Would you like one?”

“Yes, I would,” he says with a blissful sigh, reaching into the fridge to get one for himself. 

The microwave beeps, you open it, and take the plate out yourself. “You know you can just grab one, right?”

The can cracks and he takes a sip, then nods. “I know, I just wanted you to offer me one.”

“Yeah, you made that pretty obvious,” you laugh and walk to the living room, and Satoru naturally follows. “Do you want some of my food, too?”

“No— appreciate you asking, though.”

“Sure,” you say, before muttering, “weirdo.”

He’s the first one to grab the remote and put something on, taking advantage of the fact that you haven’t pushed him out yet, like you do 60% percent of the time. The 40% is too random for him to be able to tell when it’ll happen next. 

You weren’t planning on kicking him out too soon today, though, since he’s currently hiding from an entire group of women.

“Wait, so what did you do to get those girls to hate you?”

“Got dared to homie hop.” He casually shrugs, taking a sip from the can. “Over the course of one weekend.”

“What is wrong with you?” you ask with the utmost disappointment. 

He points to himself. “In my defense, I was 18.”

“I guess.” You stifle a laugh before feeding yourself another fork full of food. “I’m surprised they still hate you that much.”

“Yeah, I got dared to do it again last year,” he finally mentions, just as casual as the last time. 

You pause for a moment as you try to think of an answer. You never do. “Yeah, I think I’d hate you, too.” 

He delusionally brushes you off. “You would’ve loved me. I’m a great friend.”

There's a contemplative look on your face as you tilt your head, thinking of all he’s revealed to you about himself, which is probably just a 3rd of all he’s done. “I’m sure you are.”

“I am,” he scoffs. 

“Yeah— that’s what I said.” You laugh, wiping the side of your mouth off with a napkin before throwing it on the empty plate, getting up to put it away.

You're in the kitchen when Satoru raises his voice to say something to you. 

“I am your friend, right?” he asks. 

You close the dishwasher and walk back out into the living room, there’s a slight pout on his face as he walks for an answer. 

“Yeah,” you let out an amused sigh. “You’re my special friend.”

“Yeah?” He sinks further back into the sofa, looking more pleased. “Special enough to talk to outside of here?” 

“Fuck no,” you say with zero hesitation, wiping the smile off his face again. “You wouldn’t be special anymore. Is that what you want? You wanna be an average normie?”

There are two things in this world that Satoru would never want to be— average and poor.

He crosses his arms and scoffs. “You really know how to turn a situation around on other people, don’t you? That’s pretty evil, y’know that?”

You feign innocence, looking at him all concerned. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

“Whatever,” he rises from his seat, accepting your evil nature and his role as your special little slut. “Can we shower together?”

You give a bored look, knowing he’s gonna try to get you to scrub his back. “Fine.”

. . .

Tonight’s just like every other Friday night. The bass of the music bouncing off the walls, loud conversations happening in every direction. Most people are having a good time, while some are crying their eyes out over something that’ll seem minuscule a couple years from now. The only thing that’s changed is Satoru hasn’t, and most likely won't, bring a girl up to his room tonight. 

For once, all of his attention is on playing his fifth round of beer pong. 

The guys will still give him shit for the sudden change, but it was never a bad thing, just odd. They’ve given up on theories as to why after realizing Satoru really wasn’t going to cave and tell them this time around. Not even Suguru. He doesn’t need to ask, though, he knows Satoru is fucking someone. With how secretive he’s been though, he’s most likely sneaking around with someone that’ll get him in trouble if word gets out. Like the wife of one of his father's very affluent and important friends, perhaps? It was on brand for him.

It wasn’t that serious. Suguru will find out, eventually. He just hopes it doesn’t end badly for his friend that’s brought enough scandals for his family, being the problem child he’s always been. Hell, he’s being problematic right now, pulling Suguru out of his thoughts as some poor girl tugs on Satoru’s shirt.

Suguru has no idea what she said to him, but he steps in a little closer, pretending to focus on the game as he listens to whatever his friend has to say. Satoru barely looks at her and responds, not only rudely, but with quite possibly the most ridiculous words Suguru has ever heard come out of his mouth. 

“Sorry, sweetheart– I like my women a little more grown.” 

Mind you, they were in the same year. 

She laughs, there’s still stars in her eyes as she looks at him. “Wait, what?”

He shortens it. “M’not interested.”

“Why?” she asks, eyes growing dull. 

And Satoru, having already lost his patience, takes a step back and looks at her from head to toe, looking for another reason. It’s quite embarrassing— standing there and waiting for someone to figure out what they don’t like about you. 

“Yeaah, no.” He takes another look at her. “You just don’t do it for me— sorry.”

You’d think it’d be fine since he didn’t point out any of her features, but being told you ‘don’t do it’ for someone that you’ve already fucked doesn’t feel very good, nor does realizing that he completely forgot that they have, multiple times. He’s gotten drunk and fucked a lot of people. Keyword: Drunk. He doesn’t remember most of the time, hence his initial confusion when she threw a drink in his face. 

Unfazed, he wipes the remnants of her drink off his face, throwing her off in the process as he treats it like it’s a common occurrence and that he’s used to it (he’s very used to it).

“You just proved my fuckin’ point,” Satoru says, still unimpressed as he takes his shirt off and continues to casually wipe himself off. “Grow up.”

The comment makes her realize he was being dead serious with his original reason for rejecting her, even though he had zero problem with fucking her at the beginning of the year. “Oh fuck you, Gojo,” she ends up cursing at him as she storms off, furious and embarrassed.

“Yeah– not happening!” he laughs and yells back loud enough for her to hear.

Suguru just laughs because fucking called it. He totally was seeing someone older, and Satoru's response gave it away. Suguru doesn’t mention it, though. “You coulda been a little nicer, y’know?”

“Whatever,” he waves him off, knowing he could’ve been ruder, but chose not to. “I’ll probably never see her again after graduation, anyway.”

Suguru shrugs. “You never know.”

Satoru ruffles his hair with the semi-damp t-shirt in his hand, wondering why his friend decided to embrace his inner Gandhi when he’s just as bad as him. Satoru literally watched him tell a girl to stop crying after he cut things off with her, then added salt to the wound by giving her some speech about how she wouldn’t run after a snake and explain how being bitten made her feel. Suguru wasn’t technically wrong, but he did not have to say all that. With that being said, he wasn’t in the mood to listen to Suguru lecture him any more though, and lets the comment go. 

“I’m gonna go wash the rest of this shit off,” he says, referring to the sheer pink stain on his hair. 

Suguru pats his back a couple of times as he continues to laugh. “Have fun with that. Try not to run into her or friends.”

Satoru hoped not, that mini-meltdown was enough for him. He wasn’t stumbling or anything, but having to walk through crowds to get to his room made him realize he was drunker than he realized, not that it made him feel any remorse for the words he said. They did not warrant getting a drink thrown in his face. 

The first thing he does when he gets to his room is kick out a couple making out on his bed, throwing a couple of insults and threats their way as they scurry out of his room. Then he walks into his bathroom to wash his hair off in the sink, which leads to him completely stripping down in frustration and hopping in the shower, in hopes that it’d sober him up a bit. 

It doesn’t— it just makes him want to call it a night. 

He dries himself off and throws on a pair of boxers and sweats before sitting down on his bed with his phone in hand. His thumb hovers over the call button as he stares at your contact. The room continues to spin as he wonders if you were even awake. It was pushing midnight. 

After spending way too much time wondering if you’d answer, his thumb hits the screen. The phone rings once. Twice. Then a third time.

“What do you think you’re doing calling me this late?” you immediately grill him, your smooth and unhurried tone making you sound more amused than anything. 

He smiles as he stifles a laugh. “I can’t call you and say what’s up now?”

“People don’t usually call someone at midnight to say what's up.”

“M’not like other people,” he chuckles, though you know deep down inside, he wouldn’t dare put himself in the same category as a regular person. There isn’t one mirror he’s walked by and hasn’t looked at— the way Satoru looks at his own reflection could send anyone into a crisis, wondering if their spouses really did love them as much as they claimed.

“Yeah, you’re real different,” you respond blandly, coming off as trying to knock him down a peg, when really you’re just trying to move on. “Anyways, what do you want?”

“You should let me come over,” he doesn’t hesitate to say, slurring his words slightly. 

“No.”

He pulls his phone away from his ear and looks at it with his brows pinched together, all hurt from how you didn’t even bother thinking about it before giving him an answer. 

“Why not?” he grumbles, finding himself more offended than usual. “I miss you.”

He’s reminded that you don’t actually hate him when you begin to laugh at how endearing he can be, even when he’s just complaining. “I saw you two days ago.”

“What can I say, baby?” he murmurs, the stupid grin on his face widening when he hears you click your tongue. “You make it hard not to with that tight little p—”

Are you drunk right now?” You cut him off, wiping the smile right off that little pervert's face. 

“Maybe.” 

He hears you let out a disgusted scoff on the other side of the phone. “Ew, no. I don’t wanna fuck you when you’re all drunk and sloppy.”

At first, he lets out this noise that can only be described as what a pout would sound like if you could hear it. “First of all, I’m not sloppy. Second, I wasn’t asking to fuck, just let me spend the night. It’s loud here— buncha’ hooligans running around.” 

“So you can fuck with my sleep?”

“Baby, I would never fuck with your beauty sleep,” he swears. “I’m a beast— not a fuckin’ monster.”

“You are such a fucking loser.” You pinch your nosebridge as you sigh and mutter under your breath. “You’ll be fine. Just take another shot and put some earplugs in.”

“I don’t have any!” 

“Headphones then,” you curtly say. “Anyways, I’m going to bed now—”

“No, wait—”

“Good night~”

Click.

Satoru’s left staring at the wall in disbelief, jaw all the way to the floor. Surely you could’ve offered him a couch— but you didn’t bother, and the thought adds to the betrayal that’s already exacerbated from all the shots he’s taken earlier. It doesn’t go away, it just simmers once he’s processed the fact that you basically told him that he could suffer and fucking die, for all you cared, before hanging up. 

The music’s so loud that the walls are fucking shaking, there’s no point in noise cancelling headphones when he can feelhow loud it is. His eyes dart between his phone, his dresser, and the door before finally getting up with an irritated sigh. 

“Fuck this.”

. . .

Instead of sleeping, like you said you would when hanging up on Satoru, you continued to watch what you put on the tv prior to answering your phone. Though with how late it was, your eyes inevitably grew heavier with each blink, and you found yourself beginning to doze off. 

Until a knock on the door and the muffled sound of your name being called snaps you right back to reality. 

“I swear to god if that’s—” you begin murmuring to yourself as you walk up to the door, cutting yourself off because no shit it’s Satoru. You can’t think of anybody else who would still come over despite being told no.  

You swing the door open, annoyed that it doesn’t swing outwards, it would’ve been nice to hit him with it. He’s leaning against the entryway to stop himself from swaying in place, as carefree as ever. 

“What are you doing here?!”

Immediately, he begins to beg. “You have got to let me sleep here— some nasty couple fucked on my bed and there’s a group of psychos hunting me down with pitchforks.”

He was not going back there, and if a little truth-twisting is what it takes to get you to let him, then so be it.

Your face twists in annoyance. “Hunt you down for what?!”

“For turning one of them down.” He throws his arms out, pretending to be outraged. “Threw a drink in my face and everything just because I wouldn’t fuck her! And now my bed smells like rotten fish—”

“Just get inside,” you snap at him, feeling an incoming headache starting to form from his theatrics.

“Thank you.”

Despite showering and brushing his teeth, you can still smell some of the alcohol radiating off of him as he walks past you. Irritated, you shut the door a little too harshly, missing the way the man flinched as he stood there and waited for you. You completely ignore him, walking to the coffee table and picking up the remote to turn the T.V off. You walk off to your room after, with Satoru following right behind you like a lost puppy. 

The decorative pillows get plucked off the bed one by one. The only reason why he doesn’t ask if you need help with anything is that he is a little too scared to ask. You pull the duvet back and whip your head around to look at him. 

“Get in,” you order, and he quickly walks around to the other side, pulling his shirt over his head and leaving his sweats on. “And do not wake me up tonight.”

“Kay’,” he says quietly, slipping the covers. 

You follow, after killing the lights, sighing as you lay your head back and close your eyes. He awkwardly lies there at first, arms pulling the blanket up to his chest, staring at the ceiling. It’s not how he sleeps, and frankly, he is really fucking uncomfortable. He’s also scared to move right now.

But Satoru is Satoru, and at the very last minute, turns and snakes an arm around your waist, pulling you back against his chest. He slides a leg in between yours, and you open your mouth to protest, only to get cut off by his slightly nervous voice. 

“Good night.” 

. . .

Satoru wakes up twice. 

Once at 6:00 am to a pounding headache. He got up to look for an over the counter painkiller. Luckily, he found some in the first cabinet he opened in your kitchen and downed more than he should’ve before getting back in bed, throwing an arm and a leg over you, and falling back asleep. 

Then again, at 11:00 am, when he hears some shuffling around the room and realizes you are no longer next to him. 

He opens one eye and mumbles, “Where are you going?” 

You’re in a hurry as you put a pair of socks on. “To a pilates class.” 

“Can I come?” he pops his head up and asks, struggling to open both eyes.

There’s an incredulous look on your face when you pause and look at him. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“Well, for one, you look like a fucking mess right now.” He didn’t really need to hear that, he already figured it out since he feels like one right now. “Two, I don’t need you sitting alone in the corner, watching me for an hour straight.”

“That’s mean as fuck.”

“Not one lie was told,” you argue back, getting the last sock on and rising to your feet. “I’m not kicking you out just yet, so you can stay if you want.” 

“Oh, I fuckin’ will.” It comes out as if kicking him out was never an option to begin with, earning himself a little side eye that he was too busy stretching his arms out to notice. You quickly let it go, figuring the hangover was doing a number on him. “Do you have food?”

“Yeah, just look around in the fridge.” You look at your watch, then throw your bag over your shoulder after realizing you’re just barely running on time. “I’ll be back in like an hour.”

“Kay’,” he yawns, lying back against the pillow and closing his eyes once you're out of view. 

As much as his head hurts, he’s glad he’s suffering here and not at the house. It’s quiet, your bed’s comfy, time actually feels like it’s running slow for once. There are another 15 minutes of peace before it is ruined by the ring of his phone. 

Before he reaches for it on the nightstand, he takes a few seconds to shove his face into the  pillow and let out a slew of curses. He picks up the phone and answers, as if his head wasn’t pounding more than ever. 

It’s Suguru, who’s not as concerned as he is confused. “Hey, so— you’re not home.”

“M’not,” Satoru mumbles. 

Suguru gives him room to explain, but speaks again when he realizes Satoru’s not going to take any of it. “Where are you then?” Again, not concerned, just confused.

“At a friend’s,” Satoru vaguely says. Even in his current fucked up state, he still remembers that you don’t want him talking about you at all. 

“...and this is the friend that you’re not fucking and avoiding everyone for, right?”

He lets out a laugh. “Exactly.”

At least Suguru’s smart and is able to read between the lines, meaning that was enough information for him. “Alright.” He laughs with him. “I’ll let you go then. Have fun with your friend.”

“I will.”

Right after he hangs up, he hears another notification go off that’s not from his phone. He hears the ping a couple more times and quickly realizes it’s your phone hiding under the sheets. You were in too much of a rush to realize you forgot to bring it with you. 

Satoru’s not one to look through someone else’s phone. He never has, never cared to, never felt the need to. So fighting the urge not to was not only something new, but incredibly fucking difficult. It’s literally right in his hand. He even knows your passcode from the one time he watched you unlock it because his memory’s perfect. 

One minute. He’ll just give himself one minute to take a peek. 

. . . 

It’s been several. 

Putting it down, while he’s in the middle of scrolling through a particular conversation, feels impossible. Even when he knows he’s just ruining his own morning by looking at it, he continues to read and make mental notes. 

His names Shiu. 37 years old. Moderately successful. 

Boring as fuck. 

He can tell when someone’s forcing themselves to keep a conversation alive, and can’t wrap his head around why you’d even bother when it’s over shit you have zero interest in. Shiu hasn’t even complimented you once. Nothing about you physically, not even the bare minimum of making a comment about how he enjoys talking to you, since it’s you carrying all of these dry, meaningless conversations. 

It's like he just expects you to talk to him. 

He continues to scroll, getting closer to the more recent messages, and Satoru finally sees something interesting. Not for you or Shiu, but for him. Reservations for your date next weekend. The first date. 

And also your last.

. . . 

Before you met him, Shiu wasn’t someone you’d ever imagined yourself being with. He’s calm, quiet, and more of a listener than he was a talker. Not much of a joker or a gossiper. 

He was just stable. Rooted. Shiu is a man who couldn’t be moved. 

He was a safe choice. A smart one. A mellow man with a successful career. Given your track record of failed relationships with men that you chose based on how exciting you found them, maybe it was time to be smarter.

Some may say it was settling, but you say it’s being practical and choosing what’s best for you. 

After a few weeks of casual texting, you were finally having dinner with him tonight. You weren’t exactly excited, but you weren’t nervous either— maybe this is him rubbing off of you. 

You’re not sure, honestly. 

It feels like there’s something missing, and in its place is the weight of something that refuses to show itself to you, as if its sole purpose was to burden you with confusion. 

You take one last look at yourself before you leave, smoothing your hand over the long, tight black dress you chose to wear. Flattering, not too revealing. The same for your shoes, just simple black kitten heels. 

At the last minute, Satoru manages to squeeze his way into your mind as you randomly recall the last time you saw him, which was exactly a week ago. The only thing that was off was his supernatural ability to bounce back from a hangover in under an hour. He was fine by the time you got home— at least fine enough to follow you into the bathroom for some shower sex. 

You haven’t heard from him since he went home that day. You should be relieved, you wanted him to get bored with you and pull away, yet here you are, wondering why you haven’t heard from him. 

. . .

Shiu wasn’t a man who couldn’t be moved— that would require being passionate about something, and so far, he’s about as dry as a matchstick.

And maybe there is something that he’s passionate about, but you doubt it. It’s not necessarily a complaint, just a change in the way you saw him. Shame on you for building up a false idea of him in your head. 

At least he’s still calm and quiet— you’re just hoping that all there is to him. 

As for now, Shiu was like a constant stream of water that never changed in temperature. He was a place on earth where the weather never changed. A solid 70 degrees, every single day. Acceptable. Easy to digest. Nothing out of the ordinary is ever likely to happen with him. 

He’s still a safe choice.

You’re not exactly sure how it’d be what’s best for you, though. You liked surprises— they turned an ordinary day into a day worth remembering— a life without them was just a forgotten past and pointless future. 

You could be acting a little dramatic over it right now, but you are honestly sick and fucking tired of getting absolutely nowhere with all the guys you’ve dated and spoken to.

Which is why you push yourself to consider that Shiu could just be a little shy, it's only 15 minutes into your date after all. You remind yourself that opening up takes time, for reasons that make only you feel better. 

You haven’t had a quarter life crisis yet, but learning that you’ve spent all this time swinging sledge hammers and wrecking balls at a safe that’s been empty from the start might finally take you there. 

You take a sip of your wine and set it back down. “Do you know what you’re gonna order?” 

He slowly shakes his head, humming  indecisively. “Not yet.” 

You wait for him to say something else, but to no one’s surprise, he doesn’t. “You mentioned it’s your 9th time coming here. Do you have any favorites that you reorder?” 

He hums again. “Nah. The food here’s decent, but I haven’t had anything that’s stood out to me just yet.” 

It’s not often people leave you speechless, especially on first dates, but here you are. Tight lipped, eye threatening to twitch. 

“Wow— you’re 9th time here, and you still haven’t found a dish that left you satisfied at the end of the meal?” 

You’re really hoping he backtracks and corrects you. Coming to a restaurant you don’t like that many times was one of the most ridiculous things you’ve ever heard. 

“Not yet,” he smiles and shakes his head, as if wasting his time and money on a restaurant he didn’t like was just a silly little quirk of his. “Maybe today will be the day.” 

Why the fuck would he take you here?

“Fingers crossed,” you force out a light laugh, feeling your patience start to fade.  “So you’re just gonna keep coming here until you’ve gone through the entire menu?” 

“Yeah, I guess,” he chuckles, not catching the slight irritation in your tone. “What can you do, you know?” 

“I mean… you can always try new restaurants,” you suggest. 

“Nah.” He waves a hand as if that's doing too much. “Easy to stay here. I already know what to expect.” 

It took the amount of discipline a sergeant had to hold back on saying that this wasn’t the doctor's office or the fucking barber shop. 

You can absolutely check other places out.

Does this guy not understand free will exists? 

“Makes sense,” you lie, pushing out all the enthusiasm you’re able to put forward. “No point in fixing something if it’s not broken, you know?” 

“Exactly,” he proudly nods. 

“There you two are!” 

…You were going to kill yourself if it’s who you think it is. 

At first, you ignored the familiar voice and instead took an extra big sip of wine. 

He hates being ignored though, so instead of pulling up a seat between you and your date as he had originally planned, he sits right next to Shiu and smiles at the way you instantly freeze. 

You hate to admit how good he looked tonight. His hair’s styled for once, loosely brushed back with some expensive styling cream. You can’t help but notice how much sharper his eyes look with his hair out of his face. More rough and intimidating. He was in a white button up, tailored to perfection, rolled up at his elbows, leaving the top buttons of the shirt unbuttoned to show off the chain he always wore. Grey tweed trousers, also tailored to perfection. 

“My bad— ran into some traffic on the way here.” 

Satoru turns to Shiu, who’s even more confused than you, and holds his hand out for a handshake, giving him a veryformal introduction. 

Afterwards, Satoru proceeds to pluck the menu out of your date's hand. 

“Alright, Shiu, what are we getting tonight?” 

Shiu is visibly appalled when he looks at you, but doesn’t say anything because he’s never had a stranger do that before. Especially when the stranger’s as eccentric as Satoru. 

“I— I don’t know.” Your date stumbles on his words at first from the surprise of Satoru’s sudden appearance. “I didn’t get to finish looking through the menu.” 

“Wait— really?” 

Satoru looks at his watch and sees how you two have been here for nearly 20 minutes, and he still hasn’t picked something. He doesn’t wait for a response and hands the menu back since he already found what he liked, which sucks for you because now he can direct his attention elsewhere. 

He leans back and nods at you, because you haven’t spoken at all yet. 

“What’re you getting?” You catch the split second his entire expression darkens. He is fucking pissed.

“The cod and asparagus,” you murmur. 

“That’s fucking disgusting,” he says through a smile, playing it off as a joke even though you both know it’s not. “Your palate sucks though, so I’m not surprised.” 

“Yeah, no— it’s fucking awful,” you let out a laugh. “I need to start eating better— feels like I’ve been eating nothing but junk the past few months.” 

His face drops, and just before he’s about to say something 10x ruder, Shiu cuts in. 

“I’m sorry, I’m still confused,” he takes several steps back to about 5 minutes ago, “was there some sort of mix up here? I thought this was a date-date, not a dinner with… friends.” Shiu looks back at you, and you’re no help, you’re just glaring. 

“A date?” Satoru huffs out a laugh, making the man look like an idiot for even thinking this was a date. “It’s been dinner this whole time. You’re the one who booked a reservation for four, our other friend couldn’t make it.” 

Shiu's face twists in confusion. “What? No, no, no— I booked the reservation under two.”

“No, you didn’t. It was booked under four,” he sadly breaks it to him. “You can go ask the receptionist if you want, but I swear it’s four.” 

Shiu gets up from his seat to go talk to the receptionist, because he knows he booked it for two— he’s not fucking crazy. 

And it’s true, he’s not. Satoru’s the crazy one here.

He’s still gonna go home believing he is though, since the receptionist got paid to change the booking information and lie to him. 

Satoru laughs just thinking about it, then downs the rest of Shiu’s wine, ready to gaslight him over that, too. 

Finally, he looks back at you and feels a sick sense of satisfaction. You’re angry… baffled, in complete and utter disbelief— you’re looking at him like you’re two seconds away from jumping over the table and strangling him. 

Though in the end, you gather yourself together as you finally ask: “What are you doing here, Satoru?” 

“Why the fuck are you on a date with someone right now?” His tone clipped, it sounds like he’s about to throw a fit.

“I—“ you stop for a moment, reminding yourself not to yell. “Satoru, we’re not in a relationship.” 

“Fine, then,” he decides to rephrase it, “why are you trying to replace me? And with him? Seriously?!” 

“What’s wrong with him?!” 

“He looks like a sleazy pornstar from the 80s!”

“Not everything is about looks—“

He laughs and cocks his head to the side. “Ok, what is it then? Is his dick bigger than mine?”

Your brows pinch together. Of course, he’s worried about that. “No— I haven’t even seen it yet.” 

“Yet?!” his voice broke. 

“I didn’t mean it like that.” 

You try to use a more stern tone to get him to relax, but you don’t think it’ll work. Satoru looks fucking devastated.

“What’s next, you're gonna have babies with him?”

Your jaw drops at his conclusion. “What? No! Do you not realize how dramatic you sound right now?” 

“I’m being replaced by a man with fucking pornstache!” he points to himself and says. 

“Excuse me?” You’re both interrupted by a timid waitress. “Um– the man that was here earlier just left.”

“I’m not surprised,” you mutter until your breath. 

“Yeah…” she sighs, almost apologizing for it. “Were you guys ready to order?”

You glance back at Satoru, and he’s looking away with his arms crossed. “Could I just get the bill for the drinks?”

“Oh, no worries about that! It’s all been covered already by Mr. Gojo. You can just head out when you’re ready.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

“Of course! Have a good n–” she cuts herself off, knowing damn well you weren’t. “Take care.”

You would’ve laughed at how timid she was if you weren’t so irritated, and instead just nod and smile. You look back at the date crasher, contemplating whether you should thank him or not for trying to cover the bill, but hold off, knowing he probably only did it to assert even more dominance over your date than he already has. 

“We’re leaving.” You rise up and grab your purse. Satoru doesn't even look at you, let alone move an inch, because he’s throwing a fucking tantrum, so you slam your hand on the table. “Get up.”

He gets up.

There’s a slight pout on Satoru’s face as he follows you out of the restaurant and into the parking lot. His hands are shoved in his pockets, dragging his feet. 

“Where’s your car?” you ask. 

“There,” he mumbled and nodded in its direction, then suddenly, you’re pinching his ear and yanking on it. 

“Ow—”

“Walk,” you say through gritted teeth, pinching harder. 

“Ow– fuck– I am,” he chokes out. “Ow, ow, ow.”

You continued to drag him through the parking lot, ignoring his pleas for you to let go. 

“Suck it up,” you coldly respond. “You were asking for it when you crashed my date.”

“I’m sorry, I… ugh— I’m really not, he was lame as fuck, but still— your nails, ow.”

“Exactly, so get over it,” you continue to scold him. “Can’t believe you fucking did that.”

“Because you—”

“I don’t wanna hear it,” you cut him off, giving his ear one last tug, leaving him next to the driver's side door of his car. “Take me home. Now.”

gojo when reader said she hasn’t seen it “yet”:

All rights reserved © 2026 yenayaps. Do not copy, repost, translate, or modify my works in any platform. Do not feed my works into ai and do not turn them into chat bots.

[eibysi]

PAIRING: R. Sukuna / Reader WORD COUNT (ongoing): 5,993 SYNOPSIS: A collection of all your first times with Sukuna—a fic that follows your relationship through the years. : fluff & angst : secret relationships : Sukuna is Yuji's older brother : 18+

♯┆First Time .ᐟ ★ you meet Sukuna.

♯┆First Time .ᐟ ★ Sukuna kisses you.

♯┆First Time .ᐟ ★ He makes you cum.

♯┆First Time .ᐟ ★ . . .

[epicderpface]

𝓐 𝓥ERY 𝓡OYAL 𝓡EVERSE 𝓗AREM 𝓢TORY

MASTERLIST

𝄢 pairings. jjk!men (alpha!gojo, alpha!geto, alpha!nanami, alpha!sukuna, alpha!toji, alpha!choso) x omegafem!reader

𝄢 summary. a pack of alphas stumble upon the princess running away from her betrothed. instead of sending her right back to the crown, they begin to take a liking to her.

𝄢 series warnings. NSFW/MDNI, explicit smut, omegaverse, a/b/o dynamics, medieval au (reader is a princess), sub/dom dynamics, light royal politics, this could be seen as cheating but also not really, forced marriage, light angst, hurt/comfort, massive polycule, porn with plot, like this has minimal plot and lots of smut, but that’s what you guys are here for, group dynamics, loss of virginity, corruption, knotting, teasing, perversion, more tags tba.

𝄢 a/n. happy happy happy Valentine’s Day. what’s better than being a princess in a medieval time period AND an alpha trying to get in your panties? SIX ALPHAS!!!! this shall be the start of a (basically) purely smut series where sweet princess!reader shall be defiled each chapter by hot, ripped, primal alphas. each chapter will be marked by their specific content warnings. cross-posting on ao3 soon. art by thatsallitchief on x, dividers by honeyluvsw and dollywons.

playlist - archive

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE (tba)

…

series taglist (open—age must be visible on blog):

© all writing belongs to @epicderpface, and all characters belong to gege akutami. do not plagiarize, translate, or feed my writing to ai.

[uzugeto-deactivated20260405]

FRAT BRO TURNED DAD OF THE YEAR

what was supposed to be a night of quick fun, a good lay with ryomen sukuna quickly snowballed into you ending up pregnant from a one night stand. it wasn’t easy, it wasn’t something planned, and your baby daddy wasn’t exactly eager, but you’d manage. right?

PAIRING: frat bro ryomen sukuna x nerdy! fem reader (with hints of nerd!jo x reader)

CONTENT WARNINGS: 18+ content, MDNI. unprotected sex. unplanned pregnancy. the topic of abortion. sukuna being a dick. maybe (probably) inaccurate depictions of frat life. more included in the individual posts.

SERIES MASTERLIST

01. DOUBLE SHOTS & DOUBLE LINES

you’re out of your element at one of the frat parties sukuna’s hosting, left to your own devices for most of the night. one thing leads to another, you’re in his bed tonight and with a positive test five weeks later?

02. THE NERD WHO STEPPED UP

without a ride and any support, you find yourself at an abortion clinic with your roommate’s best friend, satoru gojo. do you do it, do you not do it, the thoughts haunt you, gojo’s there to stick by your side through it all.

03. FRAT BRO’S DILEMMA

ryomen sukuna finally decides to man up….three months after he spoke to you last. is he too late or will you let him back in?

04. BABY SHOWER BEAT DOWN

the date of your baby shower comes up, with both gojo and sukuna in the same room together. punches land, cupcakes fly, tears fall, all in the span of three hours.

05. PATHWAY TO HEAVEN

gojo satoru manages to reach heaven only to…fumble the bag?

06. TBD

if you asked to be tagged before this, dw i got you :3 but if you’d like to be added (or removed) at any point, please let me know!

[indiewritesxoxo]

serial killer

love you just a little too much

synopsis: everyone loves to tell you how lucky you are a guy like Nanami sees something in you. even you don't get it sometimes. intelligent. handsome. the kind of gentleman who opens every door for you and gets flowers delivered just because. you never would've guessed what kind of double life he might be hiding. or how far he'll go to keep his squeaky clean cover story - and you.

pairing: serial killer!Nanami x gf!Reader

content: mdni, angst, light fluff, smut, mentions of murder/blood, multiple povs, childhood friends-to-lovers, distant/cold nanami, lonely reader, insecurities, jealousy, unhinged nanami, unprotected piv sex, pulling out, breaking and making up, domestic fluff, sukuna being a nosey shit lmfao, flirting, regret, grovelling, complicated relationships, more tags in each chapter

chapter index

one: vows

two: vulgarities

three: rings

four: wrongs

five: in sickness

six: and health

alternate ending: till death do us part

a/n: everyone say thank you to @starmapz for encouraging this

[cinnamorollcrybaby]

tying alpha!toji down because he can’t keep his filthy knot to himself during your heat.

cw - smut, bondage, a/b/o mechanics, omega!reader, fem!reader, not proofread

“toji, i’m being serious. you’re not touching me until you can learn to pull out,” he didn’t even know why you were complaining. you loved being knotted by him, but apparently, it’s some sort of issue now that you’ve ran out of your birth control pills, and toji absolutely loathes condoms.

he expected you to last maybe half a day during your heat without him bedding and satiating you. you’re historically very needy during heats, and he’s more than willing to placate you over and over again. you’ll surely forget all about that pesky birth control and allow him to take care of you.

he ended up being the one coming to you. it had been a full day of your whines and cries filtering in and out of the bedroom. your scent was intoxicating, causing toji to have a permanent boner straining in his pants.

it was absolute torture, listening to his omega sob from dissatisfaction… especially when he knew that he had everything you needed. you were just so damn stubborn.

you were such a pretty sight to behold: arched up with your head thrown back. your eyes were squeezed shut as dewy tears slid down your cheeks. your body was flushed and trembling as you desperately rubbed your fingers in tight circles around your swollen clit.

“are you gonna quit being stubborn and let me help, princess? or am i going to have to keep hearing you all night?” he asked with a smug smirk, figuring you’d start begging for him right away.

“i-i don’t know. have you learned how to pull out?” even while completely wrecked, you were standing firm in your convictions.

“i don’t know. i haven’t tried yet,” he grinned, prowling closer to you in your nest. he knows that he could pounce on you and take an advantage of your… compromise positioning, but he much prefers when you beg and plead for it.

“ugh— you made me lose it,” you let out the most adorable frustrated growl that toji had ever had the pleasure of hearing, causing him to chuckle at your displeasure.

“you weren’t getting there anyway, doll. let me help ya,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest as his eyes cascaded over your body hungrily.

“shut up,” you snap, making him to raise an eyebrow at you. he doesn’t give up his amusement from your sudden attitude. no, he actually finds your bratty side just as endearing to him.

you get up and walk out of the bedroom briefly, letting toji’s confusion and curiosity eat at him until you return to the bedroom with a dining chair.

“sit,” you demand, and toji obeys after ripping his clothes away from his body with an expectant grin on his face.

“oh fuck yeah, you want to take what you need from me?” he asks as you reach into a bedside drawer. he’s assuming that you’re grabbing a bottle of lube even though he can see your glossy slick pooling and seeping from between your thighs. he licks his lips, feeling his mouth water from pure animalistic drive.

when you lean back up with ropes in your hand, his eyebrows furrow in confusion. how are you to ride him while being tied up..? he could easily jostle you around, throw you up and down his cock until your crying and gushing, but he didn’t necessarily know if that was safe to do while you’re bound.

imagine his surprise when you start restraining the ropes around his pretty scarred skin. the rough fabric hugged his muscles perfectly, creating the prettiest harness for him.

“what d’ya think you’re doing, doll? you aren’t that mad at me, are ya?” he asked as he sat still for you, letting you do your thing to him.

once he was fully restrained, he’d struggle against the ropes, letting out small grunts and disappointed groans when the bright red rope only tightens around his muscles, rubbing small burns into his skin that make him growl in displeasure.

your honeyed scent is killing him, absolutely filling the room to the brim with your scent of need. he knows you need him. right? you need toji to fix it for you, but you’ve went ahead and tied him to this damn chair at the foot of your bed.

he didn’t know a lowly omega in heat would be so ruthless when knotting the ropes over his bare abs and biceps. his wrists are even bound together behind the god forsaken chair. worst of all, there’s a band of rope looped over his waist so he can’t buck his hips. the thick braided thread rubs deliciously over his hardening length. only the thin fabric of his boxer briefs are protecting him from rope burn on his most sensitive appendage.

alphas are suppose to remain in control, but he absolutely let you play him like a fool.

all he can do is sit and watch as you crawl back into your nest, settling down on your back with your legs spread for him to gaze at your glistening pussy.

“let this serve as a lesson, toji,” you say to him, slowly bringing your fingers to your pouty lips before sucking on them to coat them in spit.

toji watches closely, studying every move your body makes while you’re on display for him. his jaw clenches, knowing that should be his fingers you’re sucking on.

when you pull them from your mouth with an obscene pop and slowly rub them over your swollen clit, toji immediately pulls hard from the chair. no way in hell is he going to watch you pitifully try to satisfy yourself while he can’t do a damn thing about it.

he’s your mate for crying out loud. his literal existence is tailored to pleasuring and treating you, but you want him to sit and watch as you do a piss poor job at doing his job?

“c’mon doll,” he pants, clenching his jaw as his dark green eyes flutter between staring at your pretty face and pussy. “i was only messin’ with ya. i’ll pull out— promise.”

you ignore him, knowing that he’s saying whatever he can so you’ll release him. you hum as your fingers continue to lightly rub and tease yourself for his viewing.

toji growls and curses. his body is aching for a taste of you. he knows he can bring you more pleasure than what you’re doing right now, but also, his cock is straining so hard against the ropes, it feels like he’s about to burst a blood vessel.

when you slip two fingers into your slick channel, something akin to a whine flees toji’s lips. he’s been reduced to a dog — sitting at the foot of your bed, watching helplessly as you leisurely pump your fingers in and out.

his hips try to buck upwards, and he lets out a strangled groan as the rope rubs up and down his length. it’s the only friction he can get right now.

“tojiii~” you whine, trying to reach the spot with your fingers that he knows all too well.

“i know, baby, i know,” he grunts, still awkwardly rocking his hips to get the smallest amount of friction. “let me out so i can take care of ya. c’mon, let your alpha take care of you,”

that sounds like a perfect idea, you think as you reach back over to the bedside drawer, pulling out a dildo that was completely modeled after toji’s cock — every ridge and vein for when he was gone on overnight hits.

“no,” he growls, seeing the look of mischief on your face. “that’s not—“

his words crumble as soon as he sees you wrap your pretty lips around the tip of the dildo. you’re so fucking stunning like this. he flexes his muscles, trying to break his way out of the chair to get to you.

the chair creaks in protest, and the ropes only grow tighter against his skin. he realizes he’s sweating as he watches you get up on your knees on the bed. your dildo on the mattress, pointed upwards so you can ride it right in front of him.

the look of relief on your face as you slowly stretch yourself out on his fake tip makes him nearly whine. he’s never begged for anything in his life, but he’s close to begging for you to let him out.

he’s completely enamored by the way you’re taking fake him so well. you’ve got tears in your eyes, undoubtedly feeling the slight burn of being filled so full, but he knows you can take it.

his hips move in sync with yours, letting the rope rub against his fat cock as you slowly adjust and bounce on your dildo.

“please—“ he finally grunts in a breathy whisper when you bottom out. he can barely take it anymore, watching you while not being able to touch himself.

“please what?” you taunt in a breathy tone, still slowly dragging your hips up and down along the pretty dildo.

toji doesn’t even know what he’s begging for. he only knows that he needs you carnally. “fucking, brat— you know i need you,”

“mmmph! sounds like you haven’t learned your lesson.”

oh and you look oh so pretty while taking his fake dick. he can’t even pull his eyes away from you. his hips are shakily rutting into the ropes, taking what little friction he can get in stride.

“fuck, toji..” you gasp, causing him to let out a strangled growl. his head tips back, and you take a moment to admire his big beefy body all tied down and sweaty. his pheromones are honestly starting to overpower yours, and it’s dizzying.

he’s basically whimpering, humping the air like a dog as his eyes are glued to how your slick folds are accepting the dildo so well. he can feel just how well you’d take him in this situation. he’d be able to feel every little flutter and clench around his thick cock.

“please,” he tries again. he’s broken for you. never in his life would he think that he would beg for anything, but you’re too sweet of a prize to let his pride ruin. “please doll… let your alpha come take care of you. i’ll… i’ll be good.”

meanwhile, your hips are bouncing up and down aggressively. the dildo modeled after his cock feels so damn good, filling you up entirely and nudging against the spot that makes you see stars, but it’s no where close to the real thing. still, toji’s scent and whimpering is enough to keep you going.

“yeah?” you pant, “you’ll be g-good? how so?”

the chair creaks as toji’s hips are working hard. he’s matching your pace, trying to picture you riding him like that. “i’ll lay down and let you use me.. fuck, you can take what you want from me, doll. i’m yours.. just please…”

the wet sounds of your sliding up and down the girthy rubber dildo along with the chair violently creaking with each pathetic hump toji’s hips make fill the air. he’s completely whimpering now, damn near sobbing about how he’ll be a good boy for his omega. you fear you’ve unlocked something deep inside him.

it’s all too much. your body begins to quiver as your muscles draw taut. you’re so close, and the nagging fear of not being able to finish without toji’s help slithers into your brain.

“god— fuucking dammit,” a strangled growl get your attention, and you look to see toji with his head tilted back. his rutting is messy and losing it’s rhythm. then, you see the wet spot in his boxers.

he came without any touch.

the pathetic sight is enough to throw your right over the edge, sending you into oblivion as you cry out on the dildo. toji’s still pumping his hips like he’s trying to telepathically fuck you through your orgasm.

after a moment, the room falls into a deadly quiet. you look at toji while panting, knowing you have to untie him and some point, and he’s going to give you hell to pay.

@theuniversesnepobaby here’s sub toji that you’ve been wanting

[liahcharms]

Loving you was really hard

Two years of dating, three years of marriage. You, Suguru and Satoru – a perfect marriage most friends could be jealous of. You adored each other so much, it almost hurt. Sometimes their love felt a little too tight. A little too consuming. But that's what true devotion looks like... right? You’re still wondering, quietly packing your bags in the dark, careful not to wake your husbands.

content/warnings: MDNI, marriage, husband Geto Suguru x reader, husband Gojo Satoru x readers, Satosugu, yandere, obsessive behaviours, possessive behaviour, dark romance, pregnancy, kinda babytrapping, it's a healthy relationship at the beginning?, or maybe not, smut, HEAVY breading kink, if I put this tag it'll be a spoiler, fem! reader runs away, slight dub-con, manipulation, guilt-tripping, age gap, violence

Chapters: 𐙚Chapter 01 | 𐙚Chapter 02 | 𐙚Chapter 03 | 𐙚Chapter 04 | 𐙚Chapter 05 | 𐙚Chapter 06 | 𐙚Chapter 07

Will be very grateful if anyone can let me know who the author of Gojo fanart is! :(

[kora-kiroshi]

The Devil is always for you.

✦. rvert!Sukuna x virgin!(f)Reader

AU : texas / modern

18+ ONLY. NSFW! ✦. summary : College is right around the corner, but you can’t afford it... At the same time, Ryomen Sukuna gets out of prison. Your neighbor has always been an asshole, and a disgusting, twisted pervert toward you. But now… Sukuna offers you a deal: he’ll keep your little secret quiet in exchange for one simple favor. “I’ll pay you thirty bucks to take my cock in your mouth. Right here, before Toji gets back. Be a good girl.” This summer is going to be long. And Sukuna has already decided exactly how you’re going to spend it.

✦. CHAPTERS: Ⅰ. part one: harassment / coercion vibes. Ⅱ. part two: oral sex (blowjob) :: handjob :: explicit content. Ⅲ. part three: groping / breast play :: titjob :: degradation vibes. Ⅳ. part four: virginity loss :: first time :: explicit sex.

✦. Ⅴ. Part Five (Gift): threesome (Sukuna x reader x Toji) :: group sex :: explicit.

✦. cws : side toji! SUKUNA (sneaky pervert :: vulgar asshole :: filthy bastard :: criminal behavior) :: smut :: 18/23 :: manipulative :: shameless :: sexually aggressive :: (so wants to fuck the reader...) :: dubious consent / dubcon themes :: explicit sexual language :: sexual harassment/ blackmail :: humiliation / degradation :: sexism :: reader’s father :: toxic dynamics :: past mentions of underage harassment (non-graphic). ✦. note : all characters are 18+ in the present timeline.

[tojipie]

I Can Be Fun - Series Masterlist

synopsis: frat!kuna x virgin reader. senior year of college presents you with two fates: to lose your virginity by graduation, and to finally learn why the campus frat legend won't stop staring at you in class.

a/n: after receiving a lot of requests for more chapters I've decided to make my frat!kuna fic a 3 part series :) i'll be posting two additional fics detailing the events before and after sukuna and reader's night together. art by su2kuna on twt!

sunday night | summary: you realize you’ve bit off more than you can chew the moment sukuna asks you to come up to his room. you've talked a big game all night, but what happens when he finds out it’s your first time?

prologue | summary: sukuna doesn't know why he chose to sit next to you on the first day of class. maybe it has something to do with the way your smile makes him stir in his pants.

after | summary: your final exam starts in an hour. you and sukuna have a lot to talk about after last night.

series taglist: closed