tamsy would wrap tokushin’s ropes around the base of his dick and balls as he hammers into you, careful not to reward you with his come that awaits your hot cunt, he knows the knitted threads would only coil around him tighter to prevent him from doing such—just like his fingers that tightens around your throat, veins bulging through the pale skin of his forearm as he restricts you from catching gasps of air. your mouth is agape and your eyes rolled back to the dark pits of your head and your cheeks are wet with tears—he’d make sure to drink them off you.
if he can’t bask in the pleasure of coming, then you can’t bask in the basic necessity of air.
—In which the television you see in your dreams doesn't want you to wake up.
A/N: Someone needed to make a Yandere Tenna fic and I guess it's got to be me. See my vision, I beg of you.
CW: Yandere, Manipulation, Guilt-Tripping
——————————————————————————
The Dreemurr family's divorce is a town wide scandal, the 'incident' causing it forever an unspoken haunt to the townspeople.
To you, however, it's the reason you got this nifty little free TV.
It's cool—works just fine, though it has some parental restriction codes that were quite the inconvenience to get through, but it's free. That's right. Zero dollars. You just visited Miss Toriel one day like you thought any good neighbor would. And luckily for you, she asked if you could take her television off her hands, because no one in the family used it anymore, and it just brought back memories she didn't want.
So you helped Miss Toriel and got a free TV. Sweet.
It sits in your house, affectionately nicknamed "Tenna"—because of its long antennae that almost seem to squirm when you touch them. You know it is far from the most modern form of entertainment, but it is entertainment nonetheless, and besides—you've reluctantly grown attached to this television. Late nights on the couch, just you and it, have become commonplace. Sometimes, you even fall asleep.
And on one of those nights, the dreams begin.
You are in a place so dark it's light again—bright, saturated colors in checkered patterns marking the floors, infomercials everywhere, and tons of little flyers with the same fuzzy TV silhouette your eyes can briefly make out.
Okay, what kind of fever dream this is, you don't even know. Might as well just make the best of it.
You pick up a flyer.
"Coming Straight From Your House—Mr. (Ant) Tenna's Marvelous Mystery Board!"
Some sort of game show- wait, did that flyer just talk?
There is suddenly a spotlight on you.
"That's right!" Continues the voice, with the same chipper yet even timbre of a gameshow host. From the wall behind you pops out-
A man with a television head.
A very hot man with a television head.
You would be remiss not to admit it, really. Sure, he does, well, you know, but the TV-head is really just a bonus! On top of that surprisingly charming suit and nice ass, the TV-head fills your brain with ideas that make you wonder if you are deranged.
You decide not to give them the time of day just yet.
Meanwhile, the man with the television head continues to race about his gameshow.
"Special prizes, physical challenges, and more, only on-"
"I'm in," you say, and for all his bravado, the television man—Mister Ant Tenna from the poster, wait, your TV is named Tenna, wait, are you seriously dreaming about your TV as a hot gameshow host—startles noticeably, antennae going ramrod straight.
"You are?" He says. You nod.
"Uh, yeah. Seems cool."
He claps his hands with excitement, and suddenly, a thermometer appears on screen, immediately cracking with excitement.
"Magnificent! Splendid! The Fun-O-Meter's off the chart folks! Mike, play the applause!"
And pre-recorded applause ensues. You wonder if anyone is actually watching. Except no one is watching, because this is a dream.
You go through the motions—play the games, win the prizes. You get Z Rank, because you have what many would call a massive skill issue. But Tenna does not mind, regarding you with the patience of a saint.
The credits roll, but Tenna seems hesitant.
"Maybe- another round?" He suggests. You nod.
"When I come back," you say, before he can get the wrong idea. "Every good show needs an intermission.'
With that, you leave your dream, certain that it really was just that. A one time dream.
But then, the next late night on the couch comes, and you find yourself in that same dream once again.
Tenna's antennae droop as he speaks to you in private afterwards.
"You sure took a lot time!" He says, trying to sound cheery. It fails, though, considering the way he shrinks in discontent. "It's alright though, I get it. It was fun enough, just me and the board- I've- never been good company anyways, and-"
He's trying so hard to sound alright with it that it just makes you feel even more guilty. His antennae droop, and you avert your eyes in a desperate attempt to stop the guilt from stabbing at your heart. It doesn't work.
"You're great company," you say, in lieu of asking how come it was just him and the board when he has all those employees under him. "You know what? I'll stay as many rounds as you want! Seem fair?"
Immediately, he perks up, rapidly growing in excitement, antennae perked back up.
"Absolutely wonderful!" He says. The Fun-O-Meter once again explodes. Applause roars as Tenna starts rambling.
You play and play as many bonus rounds as you can until Tenna is something akin to satisfied. At last, you wake up.
You have slept through the entire day. Angry messages await you, as a result of obligations miserably unfulfilled. You don't even want to check them.
But you do. Typing out responses and making amends.
You wish you were back there, in that dream of yours.
So you stay by the television and fall asleep once more.
And once again, Tenna greets you.
"You came by faster today, darling!" He says. You find yourself liking the nickname, if only because it is him saying it.
You nod.
"That I did."
"Miss me?" He asks, and if he had eyes you just know he'd be batting them innocently.
"No," you start, trying to set up some sort of coy flirtation, but you immediately regret it when he visibly deflates.
"Oh," he says. "I- should have seen that coming. I mean, hah, you're absolutely stellar, darling, and I'm... Just..."
"I- I didn't mean it!" You hastily amend. "I was just joking. Really, I don't even know what I was thinking; I'm sorry!"
He smiles at that, placing a tentative arm on your shoulder.
"You-" he starts, before clearing his throat and trying to regain his composure. "You won't mind if I do this, then?"
And before you can ask what he means, he's pressing a fiery, impassioned kiss to your lips.
It's half-loving, gentle, like you are the most precious thing he has ever held within his arms, half an act of possession, like he wants to lay claim to you in a way no one else can. The possessive half is carried out guiltily, you can tell, the way he gently licks at all the bites he leaves, consoles you when you yelp at the little electric shock he gives.
You've never wanted anything more.
The kiss ends, and you find a gutted sob escaping you. Tenna startles.
"Was that not alright, darling?"
"This- This can't be a dream," you say. You feel pathetic, longing for a relationship conjured up in a fantasy like this. A man born from your own furniture, who obsesses over your happiness like it is his sole priority. That can't be what you want, and yet it is. "Please don't let this be a dream."
You suddenly feel a comforting hand on your back, the touch initially sending a shock down your spine."
"It's not a dream," Tenna says, breath tickling your ear. You can only hope he's right.
You wake up with a start, dreading the day.
——————————————————————————
The relationship of your dreams is half fantasy, half nightmare. Tenna is a sweetheart, indeed he is, always fretting over your every concern and comfort, letting your worries melt away with his games and challenges.
And then sometimes he'll snap, scold you or break, and mere moments later, he'll be on his knees, begging not to leave.
"Please stay," he begs you one night, the blow of the wind that should have been pleasant chilling you to your very core. "You're all I have. Please-"
"I will," you nod, gulping. He doesn't believe you, face contorting into its familiar motion, and regardless of having no eyes, it's oh-so expressive that it immediately makes you shoot up with dread.
"Say you love me," he whispers, shaking you with a manic sort of feel. "Say it."
"I love you."
"I don't believe you."
"I- I love you," you say. "Please."
And like some sort of trance has been broken, his head jerks, the hands that were only just shaking you now cradling with the gentleness you normally know.
"I'm sorry," he murmurs, kissing reverently as if that'll prove anything. "Don't leave me. Please."
You know you won't. You can't. You'll keep waking up later and later in the day, letting him take more and more out of your time. He is greedy, absolutely ravenous when it comes to you, and he'll devour you whole if that's what you offer.
And yet you offer yourself whole anyways, because you just can't say no.
Time passes. It's all a blur. You remember less and less of your day to day activities, and more and more of your dreams. Of Tenna, sweet and charismatic and pleadingly manic the next. How he beckons for you to stay even when the ring you now recognize as your alarm screams for you to wake up.
And how could you not, when his kisses are so inviting?
It all comes to a head one night.
"Stay," he murmurs, serving you dinner. You sigh.
"You know I will," you say.
"Not like that," he says. "Stay here. Forever."
"For- ever?"
Your eyes widen as the implication of his words catches up to you all too late.
These dreams- no- they're-
"I have a life back outside," you say, panicking as his antennae twitch in displeasure.
"Then you'll leave me to rot...?" He asks, falsely resigned. You gulp. You know him better by now. You know how intelligent he is. How assured.
He knows exactly what you'll say, that he knows you know but you'll do it anyways, damnit-
"That's not what I mean," you say. He sighs.
"Of course you can tell yourself that!" He says. "I really am insignificant... Just a tryst-"
"I'll stay," you say at last, acquiescing as you always have. He beams, kissing you like a touch-starved puppy, and you forget yourself for a few moments.
As far as any of your friends and family know, you will never wake up again.
But as far as you know, intoxicated by the seemingly permanent love in the air, you are the most awake you have ever been.
I’m Manal, and today I turn fifteen years old. I was supposed to celebrate like I used to in past years…
My 15th Birthday… No Cake, No Gifts, No Laughter
My dad would always prepare little surprises for me—delicious cake, a gift, maybe a new toy.I was the spoiled child of the house, and my joy meant the world to my family.
But this year is different.
This year, there’s No celebration. No cake, No gift, not even a candle to blow out. This year, there is war… famine… and fear that steals sleep from our eyes. I’m not crying over a cake or a toy—I'm crying over something much more important… "My father".
The man who always held me tightly is now at risk just by stepping outside to get us food. We fear he won’t return—only a body wrapped in a shroud.
We will not allow him to walk into death traps. We love him, and we want him to stay alive. We simply cannot bear to lose more.
Note:
We are We were living a decent life like you, but this harsh prison was imposed on us. I hope that anyone with a heart and humanity will take action for us.
I hope everyone will help us and donate to us, please, so that my father does not fall into the trap of death. We all greatly appreciate you standing by us in these difficult times. Thank you from the bottom of my heart to every heart that feels with us.
⋆syn: Eddie has had enough of Volt's mouth. You decide to try your hand at finally getting him quiet.
⋆wc: 3.8k
⋆cw: m/afab, g/n pronouns, dom/sub dynamics, dick riding, maybe some very mild choking, light bonade
⋆notes: reader insert uses g/n pronouns and is not described with feminine attributes. AFAB genitalia, terms used include hole, lips, entrance, cunt and clit. e/v masterlist.
⋆snippet:
This wasn’t going to go anywhere easily. You rack your brain, trying to figure out if there was any way you could manage to at least stop him trying to charm his way out of the wires.
The logical solution, you realized, was going to be to occupy his mouth.
You sit up, take a deep breath. “Eddie says you never know when to shut up,” you say, and when he makes a sound to retort, you put a hand over his mouth. His eyes flash and spark, growing bright at your boldness, and lighting a fire inside you. You like this look of surprise, you decide, like the way the fire starts to burn. “And I’m really starting to agree with him.”
transformer
It’s late, later than usual, when you make your way to the Breaker Box, and you know it won’t be terribly long before the boys are doing their last call. It’s been slammed the last few days, busier than usual, so you want to try and lend a hand if only for a few minutes.
It’s as lively as ever, working your way through the tables to the bar, smiling to yourself as you see Eddie behind the bar, drinks flying left and right. You have to stop yourself from running directly to him, but you know he’ll be all yours soon.
He doesn’t see you at first, when you round the bar, and you cautiously touch his arm to get his attention. His head whips around just as he snaps, “I’m coming -”
His face instantly relaxes when he realizes, and he kisses your cheek without a word. “Sorry spark.”
“S’okay,” you say, your small smile still on your face. “Busy night?”
He scoffs. “Isn’t it always?”
You nod, going to grab a rag, listening to Miranda’s solo as you try to clean up what you can around Eddie. But you’re surprised when, instead of Volt, it’s Barry you hear on the stage announcing the next act. He’s got the knack for it sure, all his flourishes, but -
“Eddie,” you say, looking around the club, sweeping your eyes over every inch you can find, “where’s Volt?”
Eddie doesn’t look at you, doesn’t answer immediately, just continues to fill a shaker. “He’s out tonight,” he finally says, throwing a rag over his shoulder.
You stare at him, waiting for more, but it doesn’t come. “Out?”
“Yep.” He throws the shaker around, still not meeting your gaze.
When the sound finally stops, you try again. “Out, where, Eddie? Is he sick?”
“He’s not sick.”
“Is he like, with someone?”
He fills two tumblers, passes them over the bar to Memoria and Cam, along with a plate of scrap garnish for Cam. When he turns to you, finally, you notice that the steel of his eyes is dark, hardened, and his voice is quiet, but there’s something else there you can’t place. “He’s out, live wire.”
Annoyance, you realize. He’s annoyed. At you?
You furrow your brows, cross your arms, and just stare at him, until he sighs, and he glances around the bar before stepping closer to you. “Sorry. Sorry. Look,” he looks around again, and grabs your shoulder to move you away from the patrons, “he’s upstairs, alright? But he’s not coming down tonight.”
“But why?” You look at him, incredulous, annoyance creeping into your own voice. “Eddie, is he sick? Can you get sick?”
“No, no, he’s…” he groans, runs a hand over his jaw, and he lowers his voice again, “he’s… tied up with something.”
Oh.
Oh.
Your eyes widen, and you drop your voice. “Tied up with something?”
“Yes,” he says, crossing his own arms.
Again, you wait for him to provide just a little more context, and you roll your eyes when he doesn’t. “Fucks sake Eddie, why?”
He shrugs. “He pissed me off.”
“He - Eddie!” You were going to strangle him, this elusive, brooding man, whom you loved dearly. “First of all, you know you can just, tell me these things, instead of being so fucking cryptic.”
“You like when I’m cryptic.”
“No I don’t. Second. How did he piss you off?”
Again, he shrugs, but stutters when he sees that look in your eye. “He - he just does sometimes! You try living with someone you share a soul and emotions with, who knows every single way to push your buttons but somehow never knows when to shut up.” He points a finger up to the ceiling. “He likes to push me, so I pushed back.”
Hold on. They shared emotions?
This wasn’t the time to follow that thread, you told yourself, and you shift your weight on your feet. You didn’t like them being annoyed with each other, you decided, didn’t like how it pulled at your heart, despite a logical part of your brain knowing it was nothing, less than a drop in the bucket of what Eddie and Volt (and by extension, you) shared. This wasn’t how you did things, with cryptic and vague excuses.
“I’m going up,” you say, and you move to turn, but Eddie’s hand finds your shoulder.
“Spark, he’s fine, I swear. Some days he just wakes up and decides he’s going to be the biggest brat he can be.” He sighs. “I love him more than life, but he’s a fucking piece of work.”
You purse your lips, your shoulders slump. “I don’t like the idea of you two not getting along.”
“I… get that. But we’re fine. Swear. He’ll be alright when he finally gets what he’s after. I just had to delay it for a while.”
“And he’s after…?”
Eddie cocks a brow, gives you a knowing look with a hint of a smirk on his lips. His cheeks bloom with pink, and he pulls you closer, makes sure his voice is low enough that absolutely no one will hear it over the chatter of the bar. “He wants, to push me, to the point of where I’ll fuck him senseless. And I. Am not. Giving that to him.” He raises both brows. “Yet.”
A shiver runs down your arm at the mental image, Volt delirious from pleasure, a satisfied grin on his fucked out face. You know exactly the noises he’d make, how he’d plead, goad, beg with that sinful voice. It’s an… enticing scene, you think to yourself. Eddie must have the restraint of a saint.
You lick your lips, hoping your face doesn’t reveal these new thoughts of yours, and say with as nonchalant a voice you can manage. “Okay. Well. I still think I should check on him.”
Eddie nods once. “Fine. But live wire,” he points a finger at your face, meets your eyes with dark grey ones, “do. not. untie him. Cuz there’s plenty more wiring up there if someone else doesn’t listen to me. Understand?”
Perfectly.
The sight that greets you when you open the bedroom door is like something out of a dream - mouthwatering, gorgeous, electric. Volt’s naked skin is practically glowing, white wires wrapped around his hands and through the headboard, descending down and around his wrists. They blend into his white mess of hair, splayed across the pillows, and when he turns his head to you, white eyes spark to life.
(You think, before you remind your brain of the circumstances, he looks almost angelic.)
“Live wire!” He exclaims, the widest grin appearing on his face. He tugs a bit at the wires, tries to turn himself closer to you, but stays locked in place. “Well, isn’t this a lovely surprise.” He looks you up and down and licks his lips, the gleam of mischief growing in his eyes. “Any chance our darling Eddie sent you up to set me free?”
You see what Eddie means about him not shutting up. Volt’s voice could charm the pants off anyone in the house, he knows it too, and he is always trying to use it to his advantage. And Eddie is the only person perhaps with full immunity.
You clear your throat, try to only focus on his face, not how his wide, wide chest is shining, how he bent leg creates a line leading straight to his -
“He - no, he did not,” you say. Eyes eyes focus on the eyes. “He actually didn’t even want me to know you were up here at first.”
He tsks his tongue, and his lightning brows scrunch together. His eyes, though, don’t dim at all. “Aww, he wants me alone and aching then. Pity. Tell me,” he tries to shuffle himself up again, and fails, “did he tell you what I did to deserve such a treatment?”
You step closer to the bed, cross your arms. “He said you were, and I quote, being the biggest brat you could be, and you were only pushing him so he’d fuck you senseless.”
His laugh is like velvet, warming your body and frying your brain. He’s like a cat, sometimes, a tiger, that will play in your lap before biting your hand. “Well,” he purrs, licking his lips, “does that sound like something I’d do?”
“Yes.”
“Damn.” He chuckles again, adjusts his legs - don’t look don’t look. “I suppose it does.”
“He’s pretty pissed at you.”
“Exactly. I like when he gets all rough and uncaring every so often,” he hums, maybe lost in thought for a moment. “You should try it sometime, spark. It’s quite a treat.”
Your mouth is suddenly dry, and you will your brain to stop making such filthy mental pictures of these men, and you grip your arm to snap yourself out of it. “I will… keep that in mind.”
The timbre of his voice lowers as his eyes find your lips. “Maybe I could give you a taste of something similar, hm? If you untied me?”
That does sound -
No! No no no!
This man is a silvertongue, you remind yourself, digging your nails into the skin of your arms, and Eddie’s threat blinks in front of your eyes, neon, like the sign of the Breaker Box. If you don’t listen, you are next.
You steel yourself, take one more step to the bed, hope your eyes don’t betray the lust growing inside you. “I can see why Eddie was so annoyed with you.”
He barks out a laugh, then hums as he puts his head back on the pillows. “He loves me. You love me, too, darling, don’t lie.” He turns back to you, a different spark in his eye this time. “Eddie says you can’t untie me then, yes?” You nod, and he smirks. “That doesn’t mean we can’t still have fun.”
Eddie may have full immunity. You, however, certainly did not.
“Fuck it,” you say, shedding your clothes and climbing atop Volt’s waist, trying to ignoring the shit-eating grin that graces his fucking face. Your hands run over his chest, his nipples, and he makes a small hiss at the touch.
“Amps sake, you are a welcome reprieve, little wire,” he purrs, bucking his hips up slightly, and tugging his arms at the wires. “I hardly want to wait to be inside you, feel you around m-”
“Volt,” you groan, pressing your hands to his shoulders, just enough pressure to keep him down, “do you ever turn it off?”
Volt only grins brighter, shakes his head the smallest bit. “It goes against my very nature, darling.”
“Okay, well,” you try very hard to think clearly, “you realize that’s probably why Eddie tied you up?”
“Very much so.”
This wasn’t going to go anywhere easily. You rack your brain, trying to figure out if there was any way you could manage to at least stop him trying to charm his way out of the wires.
The logical solution, you realized, was going to be to occupy his mouth.
You sit up, take a deep breath. “Eddie says you never know when to shut up,” you say, and when he makes a sound to retort, you put a hand over his mouth. His eyes flash and spark, growing bright at your boldness, and lighting a fire inside you. You like this look of surprise, you decide, like the way the fire starts to burn. “And I’m really starting to agree with him.”
He chuckles, the bastard, when you remove your hand to find the headboard, steadying yourself as you climb over his chest, neck, jaw, keep your legs around his arms. You feel his breath against your folds, and you lower yourself down, down to his waiting mouth.
You gasp when his tongue envelopes you, hot and full of sparks that shoot through your belly, your legs, all the way to your fingers. Your grip tightens on the headboard, needing stability, and you cast your eyes down to watch him.
Volt’s white eyes are locked on yours, hooded with lust, hunger, greed, as his lips wrap around your clit, sucking and licking and making your legs already start to shake. He is so fucking good at this, you think, and -
Oh, actually. There’s an idea.
You lick your lips and try to relax your face, not wanting to show Volt just how quickly he’s gotten to you. “You’re so good at this, Volt,” you say, emphasizing the word like how Eddie does with him. “So fucking good.”
Volt hums against you, and you feel the graze of teeth, and fight back a moan. “You like to talk and talk and - ffuck - but this,” you huff out a breath at the smallest bite, “this is what your mouth is best at.”
It’s like Volt’s skin powers up with your praise, and you can practically feel him vibrating under you, working your folds like a man starved. You mean it, too - Volt in this position, his words, his tongue at your mercy, was certainly a dynamic that you could continue to support.
You feel his tongue prod at your entrance, and your fingers squeeze around the headboard. “Yes, Volt, yes, just like that - good boy, good - fuck!” you cry as he enters you, and it’s like fireworks teasing your skin. His eyes flutter closed, focusing solely on your pleasure, and you rock your hips just slightly, searching for more friction.
You inhale, shakily, and say in your honeyed voice, “J-just like that, baby, fuck if you make me cum, I’ll ride you, yeah?” You feel him moan in response, muffled under your weight. “You want me around your cock, don’t you? Yeah? Then you ha-have to be good, and make me cum.”
No sooner do you say it than you feel your climax building, under your skin and in your belly like a growing flame, and your grind against him again. His lips and tongue are everywhere inside your folds, your hole, all at once - it threatens to fry your mind, overheat your circuits, before you even realize it.
Your arms start to shake, and you watch his face as he works you, and you’re only able to say, “Yes, yes, Volt, so good, so fucking good, Volt, yes, yes!” as your orgasm overtakes you. You try to press your knees together, but his body keeps them separate, and he doesn’t stop his ministrations even as you start to shake. You hear him hum, moan, before finally forcing yourself up, and adjusting yourself to sit back on his chest.
Volt’s eyes are proud, and his smirk confident, his lips wet and shining from your slick. He makes a show of licking them clean, before saying, “Well, well, little wire. I rather like this side of you.”
You shove a hand over his mouth, still trying to catch your breath, and the resulting look in his eye is one you can only describe as devotion. “Volt,” you say, holding his gaze with what you hope displays composure, “I’m serious. This is when you should shut up. Okay?”
He pauses, only for a moment, before nodding. In other circumstances, the glint in his eyes would bring you worry, anticipation, over what he might do to you.
But, you remind yourself, in other other circumstances, you weren’t the one in control.
“Good.” You breathe out a sigh of relief. “Now I’m gonna fucking ride you until I come again.”
He’s finally silent when you remove your hand, watching you adjust your position over his body. When you find his cock, he makes a small groan in the back of his throat, but nothing more. His white eyes watch with rapt attention as you wrap your hand around him, hard, aching, and leaking pre from his tip. It’s enough that you’re able to use your thumb and coat the head, but it’s not enough, you know, so you give him a long, slow lick.
Volt hisses through his teeth, and the headboard rattles as he pulls at his arms, but still, he’s quiet. You work your tongue along the shaft, the blue veins, the head, coating him with your spit so he’ll slide perfectly inside you. His breath is heavy through his nose, and at one point, he throws his head back, his teeth grit together.
When you rise, and line your entrance up to him, you can’t help but curse and dig your nails into his skin as you lower yourself onto him. He makes you feel so full, so alive, like you’ve been plugged into a socket and are finally able to charge.
Tentatively, you lift your hips, then lower them, finding your balance, but still Volt is quiet. Good, you think, he’s finally listening.
You find your rhythm, fucking yourself up and down on his cock like you were made for it, and after a minute, you lean forward with your hands on his chest, keeping you steady. “You,” you moan, your voice raw with want, “have such,” you gasp when you feel him twitch inside you, “a perfect fucking cock.” You curse again when you bring your hips down, finding a delicious new angle. “But you, you know that don’t you?”
The flame of fight that was in Volt’s eyes has dwindled, replaced with unbridled need that sparks off of his skin. His jaw is slack, his knuckles white with the force of the fists he’s making, and his eyes haven’t left the sight of your his cock, disappearing inside of you over and over and over.
One of your hands, almost of its own accord, finds its way to his neck, and you give a small press of your fingers, feeling the beat of his pulse thrum under your skin. He preens at the touch, lifting his chin, giving you the access you want without even being asked.
“Such a good boy,” you whisper, and his eyes practically sparkle, “letting me fuck you like this.” Your hips increase their speed, finding the exact angle you’ve been looking for. “Fuck, Volt, you’re making me feel so fucking good and y- fuuck,” you moan, clenching around him, “you’re not even touching me.”
You sit up, releasing his neck, and you hear him whimper at the loss, but you lean back and steady yourself with a hand on his thigh, and bring your other hand to your clit. You’re still sensitive from Volt’s tongue, and the touch makes you clench again, prompting another whimper from his lips. You have to ignore it, you tell yourself, as you find the movements you love, the fullness inside your cunt multiplying the pleasure tenfold. You blink your eyes open, find white one’s across the bed, and knowing he’s watching brings you almost immediately to the edge.
You moan Volt’s name as your fuck yourself on his cock and work your fingers over your clit, trying to focus through the haze of pleasure, the trying to make sure, when you inevitably climax, that Volt does. not. cum. You’re close, so close already it’s almost unfair, and you can’t stop it when, hardly without warning, it overtakes you, makes your whole body spasm and writhe, your fingers digging into his thigh for dear life. There’s no words, only cries of pleasure, and the feeling of his hard cock inside you is the only thing grounding you to your body.
When finally, you find the strength to open your eyes, the first thing you see is Volt’s face, his cheeks tinged blue and the muscles of his arms pulling as hard as they can against the wires. He is ruined, desperate, and it’s all because of you.
You feel drunk, high off your orgasm and the power you feel Volt feeding you. Even now, in your blissed out state, you know you still have practically total control over if he even comes or not.
Volt had said he liked this side of you. Maybe you could get used to this position.
“Live wire,” you hear, but it’s not Volt’s voice, it can’t be, he’s being quiet, and you whip your head around to the doorway.
Eddie leans against it, his arms crossed, his titanium eyes looking absolutely fucking thrilled. He says, with a tone of disbelief, “you have done something that I have only been able to dream about. You have gotten Volt to shut his fucking mouth.”
You feel your face flush, still hot from the orgasm, as he takes slow, careful steps towards the bed, grey eyes never leaving yours.
“Usually I have to gag him, force his face into the bed, but even then,” he huffs air out of pursed lips, shakes his head, “he’s the furthest thing from quiet.” He’s at the edge of the bed now, only a reach away from you, and your breath hitches when he brings one of his rough hands to your chin. “But you, our little wire. Got him perfectly quiet. How can I ever thank you?” Eddie’s eyes are just glowing with pride, with adoration, and you raise your own hand to touch the side of his wrist.
He pulls you in to meet his lips, his kiss so full of love it practically burns you, and you feel your body melt all over again. You think, somewhere far away, you hear Volt whimper, and remember his aching cock is still inside of you, but that’s not important right now.
When Eddie pulls away, you start to speak, but you’re unable to, as his fingers fly from your chin to your cheeks, pressing down on the sides of your jaw, hard. His eyes darken, and his voice is low, making goosebumps on your skin. “But maybe, I needed to be clearer downstairs. That, in addition to not untying him,” he squeezes again, and you gasp, “you also should not fuck him.”
Yeah, okay, he kinda got you there.
He releases your jaw, goes back to cupping your chin like it was nothing, and you swallow your words until you know he’s finished speaking. “But seeing as you have done me, you, the whole house a service that I thought impossible, we’ll just ignore that, yeah?”
You nod, daring to speak. “I think that sounds fair, Eddie.”
“Good.” He turns his gaze to Volt, and you turn to look at him as well. Eddie’s arrival has reignited that spark of fight, his eyes back to cocky, defiant. A challenge. But still, he’s quiet. Eddie hums his approval. “I would just love to see how long he can stay this way.” When he turns back to you, a smirk curves at his lips. “You wanna suck his cock while I fuck him senseless?”
And oh, wouldn’t you love nothing more.
If you think Sukuna is a menace now, just imagine that man as an ex-boyfriend. He was already an asshole to begin with, but now that man's feelings are hurt and he's going to make it known.
All the usual spots that you go to— the gym, your favorite grocery store, your favorite bakery? He’s now a regular there. You can't even escape him by going to Sephora because that's where he gets his cologne now.
Peace at home? No. He's signed you up for literally every single religious organization that's local to you. Scientology. Jehovahs Witness. The Catholic Church. And more. Literally each and every one within a 20 mile radius. They blow up your phone. They knock on your door at 8:00 am on a Sunday morning.
It doesn't stop there. He buys over a hundred keys, with your phone number attached to it, with a little note that says "please call if missing", and scatters them throughout the city.
After the 18th call in a day, you change your number.
Any new guys you go on dates with? He befriends them. You don't even know how he does it, he barely had friends when you two were together and now he's suddenly the most friendliest man on the planet.
You get a flat tire and you go to your nearest tire shop to get it patched up, only for them to send you to Sukuna's shop. You try a different one, they referred you to Sukuna's shop too. In the end you manage to patch it up yourself, but then the next week, you start your car and it sounds weird.
The tow truck guy tells you your catalytic converter is missing??? He also refers you to Sukuna's shop.
None of it scares you, you know he's not going to hurt you. He's just throwing a fit right now.
And when you finally come storming into his shop, cussing him out and telling him how fucking pathetic he is, all he does is grin and says, "I missed you too, princess."
And somehow an hour later he has you bent over his desk, making you remember what getting fucked by him feels like so you can finally stop being a brat and take him back.
he slammed the door, huffing. "what the fuck is your problem?" you asked, watching as he throws his gym bag on the floor.
"no one believes i have game!" he whined. armin scrunched his face as soon as he heard you snort, not taking your eyes off the tv, once. "something funny?" he asked, clearly unhappy with your response. he pathetically plumped himself on the sofa next to you.
armin was a nerd. your typical tv nerd. one who knew wayyy too much about things that were less than ideal, academically gifted and zero game when it came to getting women. i mean it wasn't his fault that he was sooo eager to please his teachers. sure, he was cute with his glasses that seemed more like a magnifying glass glued to his face, and not to mention that fuck ass bob of his. but you know what, he wore it well. and you had to give him that much.
"ok so, how do you pick up a pretty girl then?" you asked, now directly facing him. he fiddled with his bony fingers before swallowing harshly. "well?"
"well i'm charming?"
"according to who?" you bellowed out in laughter as he pouted. "you're a nerd, and there's nothing wrong with that," your hand rubbed on his knee as you gave him a pitiful smile.
"are you...giving me pity right now?"
"no? i'm comforting a friend," you said curtly.
"can i ask you something?"
you smiled expectantly, knowing that he was probably going to splutter out some fuckary. however, nothing could ever prepare you for what came out of his big mouth.
"what's a munch?"
your eyes widened in shock.
"is it a bad thing? everyone was asking if i was a munch, so i just said yes,"
"why the fuck would you say yes to something you don't know the meaning of?"
"well to be honest, it seemed like a good thing..." he put his head down as his face grew hot.
you weren't any better because now your palms were sweaty. "armin, aren't you like, a know-it-all?"
"oh please, i'm not that smart..."
"clearly," you couldn't help but pity the poor baby. and he didn't like that. he didn't like it when others looked down on him especially with pity.
"so, are you gonna tell me?"
"a munch is a man who loves to eat pussy, okay?"
"but i've never...done that before,"
"i can tell," you huffed out while he visibly blushed. "well now the whole school knows that you loves to eat pussy," you giggled loudly. you half expected armin to whine like he always does, but he stays silent. "oh come on, i'm just kidding, laugh a little,"
"so, being a munch sounds fun, i wanna try it out," he turns to face you.
"sorry? armin, are you fucking okay? you don't even know how to eat it,"
"how am i supposed to learn?"
and that's how you ended up with your legs held all the way up to your ears, with armin and his bob between your legs. his tongue piercing swirled on your clit. "you're...you're a fucking liar!" you squealed, as his mouth suckled on your clit. he moaned, completely ignoring you. unbeknownst to you, he was smirking as your syrupy slick dribbled down your ass crack. but that didn't stop him.
his tongue trailed all the way down to the winking hole, as his thumb rubbed your bud with ease. you were unbelievably wet as he tongue moved up towards your hole, squeezing it into your tight pussy. you pulled on his hair, bringing him impossibly closer to it, smothering him completely. each time, his tongue subtly stretching you out. he grunted and groaned, sending vibrations straight to your heart. that lying bastard. he's not fucking new to this shit.
you mewled, watching him remove himself from your cunt for a hot minute. "what's wrong? i'm just showing you what a munch is," he slyly grinned, his chin covered in nothing but slick and saliva. fuck, was he nasty, fingers never leaving your clit. your toes started throwing gang signs as tears formed in your eyes. before you could tell him to move his ass and finish his meal, he's already attaching his mouth in a suction motion onto your clit. you played with your nipple as your hips literally bucked up into his face, greedily trying hard to get more. more of that attention he was giving to the entirety of your sweet pussy.
honestly, you were mad you hadn't just sat on his face to shut him up sometimes. and trust me, you'd thought about it. the ball of his tongue piercing rolled continuously on your clit with speed, as you damn near closed your legs in overwhelming pleasure. this nerd was flicking your clit raw, but you loved every moment of it. "just like that," you whined, yanking his hair a little too harsh. if you had pulled it the right way, he might've just cum in his pants for the second time that night.
"mfphm, fuck armin!" you squealed a little too loud, that wretched piece of metal and his tongue making you cry tears of and pleasure. it seemed almost sadistic with the way he kept repeating the same motion that made your legs shake and quiver. "okay, armin, m'cummin!" and all those words did, was spur him on. watching as he attempted to push his face into your sticky cunt, your leg locked up, with your back arching steeply.
you came hard, but that didn't stop armin from flicking his tongue on your clit, over and over again. and the worst part? you couldn't get him to move away. "okay, i get it!" you moaned out, damn near screaming. he was lucky that your legs felt weak, or else he would've been crushed by your thighs, not that he would mind. "armin, i'm done!" you sobbed out, and the obscene sounds of him slurping and sucking on your pussy never stopped. your hand moved to place itself on his head and attempt to push him away.
a feeling arose in your tummy, something unfamiliar, and at the point you were crying hot tears. you even couldn't let out one coherent sentence before you came again. even harder than the first. you genuinely felt ethereal, ringing in your ears and seeing nothing but white. your heartbeat was in your ears as he finally removed himself after riding your orgasm out.
two slim fingers slowly slipped into your cunt. "you bastard,"
"hey, that's not anyway to talk to the guy that just gave you the orgasm of your life," he pouted, fingers curving upwards towards your g-spot as you moaned out loud. he swiftly pulled them out before slapping your cunt.
you sat up immediately, and gave him one harsh slap across his face. "you said you've never eaten pussy, what the hell was that?" you huffed out.
"thanks!"
"it wasn't a compliment,"
that sneaky bastard. of he knows how to eat it. but now you had to find out if he could lay it down. well, you actually didn't have to worry about that, cuz baby, despite cumming in his pants twice, he still had more in him.
mission brief a self-imposed sex ban during finals week sounds like a great idea…until your favorite professor stops playing nice. w.c 11.3k
risk assessment 18+ content mdni, smut & crack, second chance at love, cnc (adding just in case), fuck-buddies/fwb relationship, reader is of age and is a college student, age gap, exhibitionsim, unprotected p in v sex, jerking off, scenting, cosplay (the wolf of wall street reference), spanking, cowgirl, fem-dom, cock-warming. ft! choso, toji, nanami, gojo, sukuna
a/n: do people even read a/n's? lol
☆ CHOSO KAMO: CUM LAUDE AND OTHER HONORS
Choso Kamo — Professor Kamo to the rest of the campus, or “that one hot literature guy who talks about knights dying for pussy” — had really, truly, not expected to spiral like this. And it wasn’t even the whole “fucking a student” thing.
Sure, that had its own risks and thrills — medieval metaphors about sin and secrecy practically wrote themselves every time he bent you over his desk after a lecture on Dante's Inferno. But no, the real kicker here was how quickly the entire situation had devolved into something almost pitiful.
He was a man of principle. Of poetry. Of well-tailored tweed jackets with elbow patches. He annotated Beowulf in his spare time and kept a hand-written syllabus, for God’s sake. But now? He was a walking hard-on with a PhD and a steadily unraveling sense of self.
Because it started so innocently.
You’d shown up to class late on the first day, hair a little damp from rain, muttering apologies while trying not to slip on the tile floors. He'd looked up, ready to sigh, but then froze when he saw your face. Something about the tilt of your head, the way you bit your cheek while scanning for an empty seat.
“No fucking way,” he’d murmured.
And later, when you caught him in the corridor after class, backpack slung low, eyes bright with mischief—
“Hey, Kamo. Did your emo phase die with that mustache?”
You had said it like a challenge. Like a spark tossed onto dry kindling.
He remembered how your lips had tasted that first time again — after years — pressed against his mouth in the backseat of his shitty Honda. He’d driven you home like he was sixteen again, one hand on the wheel, the other trailing down your thigh, unable to focus on the road signs.
And the sex. Jesus.
“Are you gonna read Sir Gawain to me after you make me cum again?” you’d panted once, still catching your breath as he kissed down your stomach.
“No,” he muttered against your hip, smirking. “Only if you fail the oral quiz.”
He was funny back then, or thought he was.
Before his identity began orbiting entirely around whether or not you were free to sneak into his office.
He still remembered how you’d grabbed the edge of his desk to keep your balance, skirt bunched around your waist, his fingers deep inside you as you whimpered, “F-fuck, I forgot the assignment—”
“I'll let it slide,” he’d whispered like some depraved academic deity, licking into your mouth while curling his fingers just right.
Which made it all the more humiliating when, two weeks before midterms, you’d pulled away post-orgasm, adjusting your shirt like you were zipping up a compartment in your brain.
“So I'm gonna need to focus for a while. No more of this until after the exams.”
He blinked.
“Wait, you’re—what?”
“No distractions. You qualify as one. Temporary ban.”
“Temporary—” he sat up. “You’re banning me?”
You kissed his forehead with horrifying gentleness. “Don’t be dramatic.”
And that, quite precisely, was when Choso Kamo began losing his damn mind.
It was subtle at first. Quoting love poetry during completely unrelated lectures, spilling coffee on his own lecture notes, and more recently, spending ten whole minutes monologuing about chastity belts before realizing what he was saying and hastily switching to feudal taxes.
But the eyes. His big, brown, tragically earnest eyes. When you told him, they’d gone glossy, wet around the edges — not full tears, not yet, but a threat of them, like he’d just witnessed the burning of the Library of Alexandria and been denied a hug.
“You’re being very stoic about this,” you told him, trying not to smile.
He blinked rapidly. “I'm literally about to cry.”
Meanwhile, you were surviving. Thriving, even. If you counted staying caffeinated and not flunking your upcoming Philosophy elective as thriving.
The sex with Choso had been — frankly — excellent. Top-tier, euphoric even. Toe-curling in a very literal, very real way. His tongue knew things, his hands remembered places. And your cervix? Familiarized. Reacquainted like an old friend.
But unlike Professor Kamo, Ph.D., who had the luxury of retreating into his office with leather chairs and pearl-clutching guilt, you were an undergraduate scraping by with cold lattes and colour-coded notes. The breakup all those years ago had been dramatic in the way only high-school love could be — he’d told you he wanted a PhD like he was announcing he had been drafted for war.
“I need to go,” he had said, sixteen and a half and full of dreams, with his stupid floppy hair and that hand-me-down hoodie that still smelled like your perfume.
“Go where? Oxford?” you’d snorted. You didn’t mean to cry, but you did. Grossly. He’d held you through it, apologised even while making that determined man chasing legacy face, and you had let him go.
But now — now, you had midterms, and your brain had no space left for sentimentality. Or dick. Which was basically the same thing in this context.
So, like a responsible adult (or the closest approximation of one), you took yourself to the library. And, like the tragically naive idiot you were, you chose the medieval literature aisle for reasons you tried to dress up as “academic curiosity” when in truth you were just…a masochist.
The library was empty.
You should’ve known. No one studied in this section, not unless they had a god complex or an obsession with incest-coded epic poems.
You reached up toward a volume you pretended to be interested in — Courtly Love and Other Medieval Lies or something like that — and that’s when you felt it.
Something solid and warm absolutely pressed against your back.
You froze.
“If this is some hallucination brought on by lack of sleep and unresolved sexual tension, I swear to God,” you muttered aloud.
“It’s not,” came a familiar voice. Warm, low, and stupidly fond.
“Though I am flattered you’re hallucinating about me.”
You turned your head slowly, dread pooling somewhere near your pancreas. And there he was.
Choso Kamo, medieval literature messiah, complete with a cardigan that had patches on the elbows again, holding a copy of Le Morte D’Arthur like he hadn’t just pinned you to a bookshelf.
“You’re kidding,” you deadpanned.
“I come here for peace,” he said, tone saintly. “And the tragic poetry.”
“You come here because no one can see you cry in this corner,” you snapped.
He blinked. Guilty. Then, because he was unbelievable, he leaned in — just a little. Just enough for you to feel that he was very real and very not over the whole “temporary ban” situation.
“You smell like that lavender thing again,” he said, voice barely a whisper. “Makes it really hard to respect your ‘study boundaries,’ y’know.”
You exhaled slowly, book still hovering in your hand, brain refusing to cooperate with basic motor function.
“Do you need something, Professor Kamo?”
He looked at you with that wounded, damp-eyed expression he had no business making in a public academic space. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I need you to maybe let me kiss you for, like, two seconds so I can remember what peace feels like.”
And that, right there, was how your study break ended — pinned between Choso Kamo and a bookshelf older than both your childhood homes combined. You were kissing like you’d forgotten what oxygen was, like air didn’t matter when he was mouthing at your bottom lip like that, with hands sliding under your blazer and pressing against your waist like he couldn’t stand the idea of space between you.
“Keep it quiet back there,” called the old librarian from somewhere far down the aisle, voice like brittle parchment. You barely pulled away, breathless, whispering a quick, “sorry!” toward the void before biting down a laugh and burying your face in Choso’s chest.
“Do you think she knows?” you mumbled against the fabric of his shirt.
“Absolutely,” he said. “She probably thinks I'm shelving books. Badly.”
“You are shelving something,” you muttered.
He groaned. “You’re disgusting.”
But he was already lifting your skirt, huffing like a man on a mission, swearing under his breath when he realized how many layers you’d cursed yourself with this morning.
“Why,” he whispered, mouth pressed against your shoulder as he unbuttoned and unzipped and peeled like his life depended on it, “Why do you do this to me.”
“Because the weather said fourteen degrees,” you hissed, clutching onto the shelf behind you, fingers brushing the cracked spine of The Canterbury Tales. “And because I didn’t think I’d be fucked next to Chaucer, Cho.”
He finally got to your thighs, his warm palms skimming over skin and stopping when he saw them — the lacey black pair. The ones with the tiny bow and mesh trim.
“Holy shit,” he breathed, kneeling slightly, letting his thumb drag just under the waistband. “You still buy these?”
“They’re comfortable.”
“They’re fucking ruining me,” he whispered.
His hands gripped under your knees as he pulled one leg up and hooked it over his hip, tugging the lace to the side, the cold air of the library kissing wet heat just before he pressed himself into you. You clenched around him on instinct, a soft, surprised sound escaping into the dusty rows.
“God, shhh,” you hissed, forehead knocking against the shelf. He let out a strained chuckle, already starting to move.
“You shush me,” he muttered, nose brushing your temple. “You’re the one making those tiny fucking noises, like you’re trying so hard to behave.”
“Maybe I am trying to behave—”
“You’re failing.”
His thrusts were slow at first — painfully deliberate, his breath warm against your cheek, his hand cupped around the back of your thigh. The faint creak of wood beneath you, the occasional rustle of fabric, and the obscene sound of wet heat meeting flesh echoed faintly through the aisle. You were half-laughing, half-gasping, fingers digging into the bookshelf, one palm flat against The Song of Roland, muffling a whine into its faded cloth cover.
“Does this count as sacrilege,” you mumbled.
“Absolutely,” he groaned, speeding up, his hips snapping sharper. “But I'll repent after you cum.”
“What a gentleman.”
“Shut up and let me ruin your study schedule.”
He angled his hips and hit something that made your breath stutter, made your hand fly to his chest and fist the fabric there, biting down hard on your lip. His lips found your throat, mouthing along your pulse, and he whispered — raw, reverent — “You’re so fucking tight. Every single time.”
You couldn’t reply, not verbally. Your mouth opened, but no real sound came out — just a high, broken gasp as his fingers slipped between your legs to circle over your clit, his rhythm stuttering when you clenched around him again.
“Cho—”
“I know, I know, baby,” he murmured, thumb working in slow, cruel circles. “Come on. Be good for me.”
And you did. One hand still clamped over a book, the other wrapped around his shoulders, hips twitching as you came with a quiet, strangled cry into his neck, teeth grazing skin. He followed right after, groaning low, clutching you close like he needed to anchor himself in the reality of what just happened.
Silence settled in the dusty air, with only the sound of breathing, of fabrics shifting.
A beat passed. Then choso whispered, still catching his breath—
“So... still banned, or…?”
☆ TOJI FUSHIGURO: THE EXAM BEFORE THE EXAM
Toji Fushiguro — head of military sciences, habitual menace, and the reason half the student body walked with a permanent limp (some from sparring, others from fear). Getting into the program was doable. Surviving it? That was where dreams went to die. And you? Well, somehow, you were still standing. Walking the tightrope of respect and rebellion, womanhood and war, biting sarcasm and battle simulations — and managing not to crumble under the weight of Professor Fushiguro’s ice-cold stare.
Which would have been fine. Normal even, in the way bootcamp trauma is considered “character-building.” But the universe, in its infinite cruelty, had one little twist for you:
The man who railed you within an inch of your life at a bar this past summer — the one with the deep voice, veiny hands, and that mouth like a loaded weapon — turned out to be your fucking teacher.
You didn’t know when he pulled you into that coatroom that night. Didn’t know that those strong hands were government-funded or that the man who bit your shoulder when he came was going to be barking orders in a lecture hall two weeks later.
And yet.
You walked into class, and there he was. Professor Fushiguro. Same green eyes, same build.
Same mouth you’d kissed while breathless and begging, now saying things like “form a perimeter” and “that’s a piss-poor excuse for a flank.”
To his credit, he pretended not to recognize you. And you, in return, tried to pretend he hadn’t once called you baby while dragging his cock over your dripping folds like it was a reward.
But see, the pretending didn’t last.
Not when you started lingering after class, not when he’d walk past you during drills, and you’d stand just a little straighter, thighs pressing against each other just a little tighter.
Not even when he found you one evening in the training hall, wrist-deep in frustration over a jammed dummy rifle and an even more jammed libido.
“You still don’t listen,” he’d said that night, voice low as he boxed you against the wall. “No wonder you’re always behind.”
“Guess I need someone to show me,” you’d snapped back.
And then it spiraled.
Into on and off fucks in staff storage closets, under the flickering lights of the weapons bay, in his office when the door “accidentally” locked behind you.
He was always rough. Not cruel — he never hurt you (unless you asked). But rough like he had to get it out, had to get you out of his system or else he’d lose it. He’d mutter shit like, “always so wet for me,” while shoving your panties to the side with two fingers, pressing into you like he was reclaiming something he never really gave up. You’d scratch down his back, gasping into his mouth, feeling his teeth on your collarbone, hands gripping your thighs like they belonged to him.
“Gonna make you fail, fucking you like this,” he’d say, voice rasping near your ear, hips snapping into you as you braced yourself on his desk, your notes crumpling beneath your palms.
“Then don’t stop,” you’d dared. “Make me fail.”
But then.
A week before exams, he pulled back.
“No more,” he said, arms crossed, mouth tight.
You blinked. “You serious?”
“Yeah.”
He ran a hand down his face like he’d aged five years in the last month. “You’ve got exams. I've got integrity.”
You snorted. “Since when?”
“Since now,” he gritted out. “And don’t give me that look. Just because we’re…” he paused, made a vague hand gesture that could’ve meant ‘fucking’ or ‘cursed soulmates’ — hard to tell, really.
“…close, doesn’t mean I'm gonna grade you easier. You get that?”
You stared at him.
This six-foot-something walking contradiction, trying to draw a line now, after he’d already crossed ten of them balls-deep.
“Got it, sport,” you said, tone dry enough to parch a desert.
He flinched. You smiled. And just like that, the sex-ban was in place.
But if the look on his face said anything — clenched jaw, hands tightening into fists every time you so much as breathed near him — it was affecting him way more than it was affecting you. And that was just the beginning of his downfall.
Physical examinations were hell — plain and simple. Muscle-aching, sun-scorched, sweat-slick hell. Your limbs felt like lead, your lungs were raw, and if the grass beneath your boots felt soft for a moment, it was only because you were seriously considering collapsing into it and never getting up again.
And of course, he had to be the one barking orders.
“Outside. Now. No one gets a free pass, not even the ones whining about cramps or puking their breakfast. Ground. Move.”
Toji Fushiguro — mean as ever, especially toward you lately. His green eyes barely brushed your face now, jaw so tight you could practically hear the teeth grinding.
It was almost funny, if it weren’t also kind of sad.
You passed him in the doorway, shoulder brushing his arm. No glance, no grunt, nothing. You’d dare say he was acting like a kid. And fine, let him sulk — you had a test to get through without dying.
What you didn’t know, though, was that he stayed back. That he lingered in the quiet of the empty break room, your scent still clinging to the air like a cruel reminder. That was his first mistake.
His second?
Green eyes drifting to the bench where you'd left your bandana. Sweat-soaked black cotton, creased from being tied around your head all morning, the faintest sheen of your hair oil still warming it. And Toji — old, bitter Toji — picked it up like it weighed something.
He told himself he wasn’t gonna do anything stupid. He was just gonna…hold it. Maybe tuck it into his coat pocket and return it later, like a normal adult. But then he rubbed the fabric between his fingers.
Thin, soft, still warm. It smelled like you — that impossible mix of salt and cheap soap, shampoo and skin, and something earthy and feminine that always made him a little crazy.
He felt it in his gut first. That low throb — not just in his cock, but in his goddamn chest. Regret, guilt, arousal, shame — an ugly stew of it. He groaned under his breath, thumbing the bandana with a clenched jaw, eyes fluttering shut. His cock was hard already, straining against his pants. Fucking great. “Just five minutes,” he muttered, like some kind of prayer. “Five minutes and I'll forget you ever existed.”
He palmed himself, rough and fast, still holding the bandana like it might anchor him to something other than pure depravity. His breathing grew louder, chest heaving under the thick black shirt he always wore like armor. It was pathetic. He knew it was pathetic — jerking off in a break room like some depraved teenager, when he was old enough to have tenure. But then again, hadn’t you turned him into this? You and your little shorts. Your mouth that always had something smart to say. Your eyes looking up at him like you knew what he was thinking.
He fisted his cock, hard now, thick and twitching in his grip. The ache was unbearable — heavy, pulsing, the kind that made his teeth grit and his thighs tense. And all the while, he kept the bandana close to his face, his nostrils flaring, moaning low like he was about to die from it.
“Fuck…fucckkk, you little brat…” he muttered. He was close. So fucking close —
And that’s when the door opened. Fast. Sudden.
“Shit, I forgot—”
You stopped. He didn’t.
His hand froze around the base of his cock, the bandana still in his other hand, flushed red and eyes blown wide as you stood in the doorway, breath hitching.
You stared. He stared back. The silence was so thick, you could hear the clock tick on the wall. And Toji — Toji fucking Fushiguro — had never looked more ashamed.
Not when he lost comrades. Not when he failed his last marriage. Not even when he nearly got caught sleeping with you in his office two months ago. This was different.
This was you, standing there with your hand still on the doorknob, eyes flicking from the bandana to his cock to his face. And fuck, he didn’t even have the words.
You blinked, slowly.
“…You’re seriously jerking off in a student break room?”
He swallowed, chest heaving. “I—”
“With my bandana?”
“…It smells like you.”
The words escaped before he could stop them. And yeah, he was definitely going to hell for this one.
You stepped inside, shutting the door behind you.
“Well, that’s one way to say you miss me.”
Of course, not one word was said. Not a gasp, not a curse, not even the ghost of a reprimand. You stepped forward, fingers curling around the very bandana he’d just fucked his fist into like a shameful teenager, the cloth warm and heavy and damp with the evidence of his so-called self-control, his cock still twitching in the aftermath. His jaw locked in mortification as you slowly peeled it out of his hand — never once breaking eye contact, not even when your thumb grazed the wettest patch, not even when you gave a soft amused hum that made his stomach flip and his spine stiffen.
You didn’t flinch, didn’t blink, didn’t say a single thing as you brought it up, shook it out once with a flick of your wrist, and with casual, deliberate hands, tied your hair back with it, the fabric brushing your cheek, cooling slightly as it met your skin, still sticky from the heat of your morning drills.
And then you turned and walked away, boots loud against the linoleum, leaving the break room like nothing happened, like he was the only one caught in the storm — because all said and done, you still had an exam to give, and unlike him, you didn’t waste time. You were built for war and score sheets both, and you weren’t about to let a pervy, emotionally repressed head instructor knock your GPA off track.
Toji didn’t move for a full minute after that. Not even a twitch. The only thing that stirred was the sick realization setting in his gut that there was no walking back from this now — not after what he’d done, and definitely not after what you’d done right back.
Later that day, when the sun was dipping low and the training ground had mostly emptied out, he waited until the hallway was clear, eyes flicking left and right before grabbing you by the elbow in that no-nonsense way that meant you were in trouble — dragging you down the hall with that rough, controlled gait of his, jaw working like he was chewing through glass.
“Office. Now.”
You didn’t resist, didn’t even roll your eyes. But the smirk on your lips told him you knew exactly what this was.
The door slammed behind you, the lock clicking a second later, and you barely had time to drop your bag before he had you pressed against the nearest desk, hands already on your hips like he was restraining himself and failing miserably. “You’re gonna pretend that was nothing?” his voice was low, frayed, voice-box rasping like he’d smoked too much or screamed too long. “You think you can just walk outta there with my fuckin’ cum in your hair and act like that’s normal?”
You tilted your head, just enough for the smell to hit him again. Thick, raw, intimate. The combination of his own musk and your shampoo, grounding and familiar in a way that made his knees want to give out. He groaned — long and guttural — pressing his nose into your head like he was being punished, inhaling deep, and the way his grip on your hips tightened was almost painful.
“You’re a sick fuck, you know that?”
“Takes one to know one,” you replied sweetly, and that was all it took for his control to snap.
His hand shoved up your shirt, not gently, the rough pads of his fingers grazing over your ribs before sliding down to the waistband of your pants, yanking them down just enough to expose what he needed, and his breath stuttered when he saw the slick already gathering between your thighs — your pussy already wet and twitching like you knew this was going to happen. He didn’t even undress himself fully. Just unzipped, pushed his briefs down to free his cock, already rock hard and leaking at the tip, angry red and pulsing with every beat of his blood.
“You got no shame,” he hissed into your ear, lining himself up and sinking in without a warning, hissing through his teeth when the tight heat of you clenched around him like a vice. “You like being filled up that bad, huh?”
“I like multitasking,” you gasped, knuckles white on the edge of the desk, nails scratching into the wood as his hips slammed against you, the sound of skin on skin echoing around the cramped office. “Told you — I can focus.”
“Focus, huh?” he growled, fucking into you harder now, every thrust raw and punishing, like he was trying to fuck the memory of earlier out of both your heads. “You’re dripping, girl. You soaked through your damn pants, and you call that focus?”
You moaned, jaw slack, lashes fluttering with every thick, deep push that filled you to the brim, the friction of him inside you so blindingly good it almost knocked you off your balance. Your breath caught when he reached around, pinching your nipple through the fabric of your sports bra, a little cruel, a little possessive, all of it insane. “Guess you’re grading on a curve now, huh?” you managed, and he laughed, breathless, wrecked.
“No,” he muttered into your shoulder, voice cracked and hoarse, hips stuttering as his cock twitched deep inside you. “You’re just that fucking smart.”
☆ NANAMI KENTO: THE WOLF OF WALL D
You never really envisioned a life of ledgers, equity risk premiums, and the horrors of double-entry bookkeeping. In fact, if anything, you’d always assumed you’d end up somewhere in the arts — or at least somewhere where the word “asset” didn’t come with twelve subcategories and a spreadsheet the size of a tombstone. But one ambitious internship, two mock stock wins, and a dangerously persuasive LinkedIn mentor later, here you are: enrolled in one of the most prestigious finance programs in the country, selling your soul for a theoretical future on Wall Street.
Except, no one warned you about the real economy — the one where your old hookup turns out to be your new professor.
It was Halloween. Pre-college euphoria, post-exam breakdown — a sloppy cocktail of confidence and denial. You’d just gotten the admission offer, the kind that comes with a fancy crest and a pretentious Serif font. You were glowing, and frankly, you wanted to celebrate. And maybe — maybe — dressing as Margot Robbie's Naomi Lapaglia from The Wolf of Wall Street was a little too on the nose. Thigh-highs, heels, the pink velvet micro-dress, the accent — you committed. You even practiced the line in the mirror. Yes, that line. Yes, that scene.
And just your luck — of course the man who walked into the party with his sleeves rolled, Rolex glinting, and a perfect scowl under his sunglasses had gone as Jordan fucking Belfort. Expensive cologne clinging to his collar, the soft pull of his silk tie hanging low, like he already knew he’d be using it later. And he did.
Nanami Kento — although he hadn’t introduced himself with his full government name that night, just “Nanami” in that bored baritone, fingers skimming the rim of his glass like he was about to sign off on your performance evaluation. He didn’t even smile when you pointed out the cosmic horror of both of you showing up as horny power couple chaos incarnate. He just raised a brow, sipped his whisky, and drawled, “Well. It would be criminal not to commit now, wouldn’t it?”
And you did commit.
Specifically: to the floor of a stranger’s (Nanami’s) bedroom, sitting pretty and poisonous in the center, legs spread just enough to tease, your dress hiked up your thighs with practiced ease. No panties, of course — what kind of tribute to Naomi would it be otherwise? The heels stayed on — tall, glossy, a shade that caught the light like blood. You sat like you belonged on display, like he should’ve paid just to breathe the same air.
Nanami was in his shirt sleeves now, his tie loosened but still there like a noose. He hadn’t broken character once, hadn’t so much as cracked a smile since you’d started this absurd pantomime of power — but his eyes were molten. Reverent. He dropped to his knees slow, like something sacred was about to happen.
And just before he got close enough to bury his face between your thighs, you tilted your head, voice sugary and venomous.
“And you know something else, daddy?” you asked, tone lilting. “Mommy is just so sick and tired of wearing panties.”
He inhaled — sharp and shaky, like it was pulled straight from the pit of his chest — then let out a stunned, broken:
“Yeah.”
You blinked slow, smiled crueler. “Yeah?” you echoed, mocking his tone with a tilt of your lip.
His mouth opened like he was going to say more, but nothing came. just another rough exhale. and then he moved, hands coming forward as he began to crawl to you, something primal starting to flicker in his posture, like he’d shed the suit entirely and become all instinct and hunger. His face was already dipping low, gaze locked on where your thighs parted.
And that’s when you stopped him. Your heel — clean, sharp, and merciless — pressed right to the center of his forehead.
“But no touching,” you cooed, all faux sweetness and full control, dragging the sole down just enough to smear your heat along the crease of his brows.
He froze, arms shaking, still breathing hard.
And you pushed. Not gently, not cruelly, but enough. Just enough to tip him further down until he was on his stomach, the full weight of him humbled under your foot, cheek scraping the floor as he groaned from deep in his chest like it hurt to be treated like this and hurt more to be denied. You just sat there, thighs parted and glistening. His own personal hell, framed in pink velvet and sin. And you said nothing.
Because the message had been sent — he wasn’t getting this. Not tonight.
And then you’d leaned back on your palms, one knee lifting slow as a threat, and whispered, “You’re not gonna touch me, Nanami. You’re just gonna sit there and look.”
And he did. For longer than you'd thought he could manage.
But later on, you don’t know what was more embarrassing: the sound you made when he spat on your pussy and shoved two fingers in without ceremony, or the fact that you came — hard, embarrassingly fast — when his mouth dragging up your neck as he muttered, “You’re not going anywhere until I say you are.”
You should’ve known then that Fate was laughing at you. That this wouldn’t be the last time.
So imagine your shock when a year later, you walk into your first Financial Management and Ethics lecture — yes, ethics, the irony is its own punishment — and see Professor Nanami Kento himself standing behind the podium, glasses perched neatly on his nose, tie done up to the throat this time, looking like he’d never so much as held a condom, let alone wrecked someone with their own pantyhose. You couldn’t speak. Your body went cold, like someone had poured iced coffee down your spine. He, on the other hand, barely reacted, didn’t so much as glance your way during roll call.
And then, later that night, an email pinged into your inbox — along with the standard welcome email he’d drafted for the rest of the class. But yours? Yours came with an extra paragraph. Entirely formal. Impeccably punctuated. Polite to the point of threat.
Regarding our prior acquaintance, I trust that you will exercise discretion. Kindly refrain from referencing the event under any circumstances. It is not relevant to your coursework.
Sincerely,
Professor Nanami Kento, M.B.A., C.F.A.
Adjunct Lecturer, Department of Financial Management
Certified in Ethical Finance & Professional Conduct
You stared at the screen for a good five minutes, equal parts humiliated and deeply entertained. Because yes, Professor Nanami may want to pretend nothing happened — but you still remember the way he groaned your name like a warning, the way he muttered “greedy little thing” while stuffing you full, the way he unbuckled his belt like it was procedure. And you’re betting ten-to-one that he remembers it too. After all… it was his tie.
Nanami, meanwhile, was losing his mind — with an elegance only a man like him could bring to a full psychological collapse.
He’d never really been a “party guy,” let alone someone who dressed up for one. Halloween, to him, had always been one of those inefficient Western distractions, mostly an excuse for adults to wear synthetic wigs and pretend they weren’t miserable. But last year, for reasons even he didn’t fully understand (perhaps an existential crisis, perhaps two glasses of aged whisky), he gave in and indulged. Picked out a suit he already owned, added a pair of shades, tousled his hair on purpose for the first time in his life, and called himself Jordan Belfort.
The real kicker? He had just watched The Wolf of Wall Street the night before. The whole thing, from top to bottom, credits and all. Not because he wanted to — because a colleague said he should “loosen up.”
And that’s when he saw you.
You, in that godforsaken, serotonin-triggering pink velvet dress, hair sprayed into a perfect blowout, gloss on your lips, and a walk like you knew exactly what scene every man in that room was already imagining. And when your eyes met his and you smirked and asked, “You seen the movie?” — he knew. God help him, he knew.
You didn’t even need to discuss it. The two of you fell into that scene like it was muscle memory, like it had been choreographed months in advance. You sat on his bedroom floor, all spread pink and no panties. And Nanami — normally so composed, so neutral — crawled. Hands and knees. Ready to abandon God and dignity both just to get a taste.
But what kept him up at night wasn’t the act. It wasn’t the bruises, or the heel mark on his pride.
It was that goddamn care package.
Nanami prided himself on being considerate. He'd laid it all out for you on the bedside table:
A bottle of VOSS water, chilled.
A small silk bag with clean makeup wipes (bought from a boutique skincare store, not that pharmacy crap).
Travel-sized cleanser and moisturizer.
A protein bar (he googled “best post-sex snacks” at 2AM).
A mint.
A goddamn luxury tampon pack — in three sizes, just in case.
A note: “Thank you for tonight. Please take an Uber Black on me — money’s in the envelope.”
And it was. The exact fare + tip, calculated down to the decimal. He even folded the envelope with a golden paperclip. The one thing missing? His fucking number.
In all his obsessive curation, he forgot the single most basic detail. And when he realized it, it was already too late — you were gone. Slipped through his fingers like lingerie and regret.
He thought about it for weeks. Might’ve written a little poetry about it in his notes app, which he absolutely did not save. But fate, cruel bitch that she is, handed him a distraction: his alumni called. Said they were building an elite course track, needed a finance pro and thought of him. And Nanami said yes, thinking, surely, this would be a fresh start. But then he walked into the lecture hall, and you were there.
Front row. Same gloss on your mouth. Same eyes that once looked down at him like he was nothing more than a toy. You crossed your legs — the pink of your dress peeking out from under your coat like it knew what it was doing.
Nanami almost dropped his lesson plan.
And you? You smiled, gave a polite little nod, as if you weren’t the reason he woke up half hard most mornings. As if you weren’t still, technically, the only woman to ever shove him to the floor and then leave without a trace.
Later on in the semester is what was supposed to be a one-time “closure” meeting — two adults, one flat white, and a mutual agreement to never speak of Halloween again. Easy. You even wore flats. That's how serious you were about not being tempted.
Nanami, unfortunately, showed up in that same goddamn tie. Pale blue, subtly striped, definitely too expensive. The man must buy them in bulk, and you’re convinced there’s a hidden shelf in his penthouse that’s just ties and guilt. You tried to talk like adults. Really. You even brought up the contract he typed out like it was a sexless prenup.
Well, it was supposed to be a contract. A “mutual cessation of erotic activities in the interest of academic integrity,” as Nanami put it, complete with an italicized heading, numbered clauses, and an embarrassing amount of legalese clearly lifted from somewhere between a divorce form and a workplace harassment pamphlet.
You signed it with a pink glitter pen, under the heading that read: “Student–faculty agreement to abstain from sexual relations and/or activities that might invoke the carnal, the erotic, or the emotionally destabilizing.”
Clause 1.1: No sexual conduct, explicit or implicit, including but not limited to oral gratification, penetrative intercourse, hand stimulation, or any roleplay reminiscent of prior encounters involving cinematic characters.
Clause 3.4: Even suggestive eye contact during class hours to be avoided — especially if wearing high heels, pink dresses, or gloss.
Your personal favorite, Clause 5.2: Nanami Kento retains the right to amend or dissolve the agreement if academic integrity is compromised or if the student in question “moans like that again.”
You snorted when you read that part. “Moans like what again?”
He didn’t answer, just stared at the lid of his coffee like it wronged him personally.
Clause 4.0 (added later): If the student is to arrive in a pink dress, she must also be wearing undergarments.
Clause 5.6: Should any aforementioned clause be violated, the offending party shall write a 500-word reflection on self-restraint.
You honestly thought he was joking until he printed it on letterhead.
Until he asked for a second copy “for record-keeping.”
Until he slid it into a folder labeled “important documents” right next to his will.
And still, despite the theatrics, despite the absurdity, you tried. You kept your skirts modest. Wore flats. Avoided eye contact in the lecture hall like Nanami Kento was the sun and you were but a humble, horny moth. But temptation, much like New York traffic, does not yield to logic.
Especially not during one rainy Wednesday, when you walked into his office to ask about your project grade and caught him mid-sentence, blazer off, sleeves rolled, sipping his espresso like a tragic European novella character — and there it was. That tie again.
“You only own one tie, don’t you?” you said, shutting the door behind you.
“I have seven of the same,” he said, not looking up. “Consistency is important.”
You crossed your arms. “Is sexual tension included in the syllabus?”
“Not until post-graduation.”
But then you leaned on the edge of his desk — his very clean, very expensive, very wide desk — and when the angle gave him a flash of your lace waistband, all bets were off. “You’re breaking clause four,” he said, already flushed, shifting in his chair like a man being tortured.
“Guess you’ll have to penalize me,” you purred, toeing off your flats like they were irrelevant.
“This is a violation of so many subclauses,” he whispered.
“Which one stops you from bending me over this desk?” you asked sweetly.
He didn’t have an answer.
“I am deeply—” he groaned as he pushed everything off his desk with one dramatic sweep and yanked you onto the wood, “—disappointed in both of us.”
Your thighs hit the edge with a thud. Your ass was in the air by the time he undid his belt, cursing softly, reverently. You shoved the pink dress up over your hips, smiled like a girl who studied hard and sinned harder. “And yet your mouth is still open.”
His mouth was, indeed, very open. The action was scholarly — like he was trying to write his thesis on you. You clenched his tie in your hand like a leash, and his groans vibrated all the way up your spine.
He fucked you like it was an unscheduled exam — brutal, precise, every thrust a line crossed in that ridiculous contract. The wood was cool under your cheek, the desk wobbling under both your bodies as he muttered incoherently into your skin. Somewhere in the blur of sweat and polished wood creaking beneath you, you moaned his name — and he froze, like a glitch in the matrix.
He nearly collapsed.
After, while wiping his glasses and adjusting his cuffs like nothing happened, he muttered, “I'll need to rewrite the contract.”
You, legs dangling off the desk, lipstick smeared and dress hiked up to your ribs, laughed. “Don’t forget to add Clause 6.9: No begging in the faculty lounge.”
He did rewrite it. This time, on thicker paper. Embossed.
But neither of you signed it.
☆ GOJO SATORU: CURRICULUM VIT-A-DICK
You should’ve known from the moment he strutted into the university auditorium like a six-foot-tall migraine in human form that life was going to test you.
Gojo Satoru — excuse me, Professor Gojo — who you first met at a tragically overfunded science fair where he proceeded to obliterate your carefully calibrated quantum demonstration with the same ease he probably uses to open cereal boxes. No, he wasn’t a judge. No, he wasn’t even supposed to be there. Yes, he still wore those obnoxious sunglasses indoors. The man had main-character syndrome, and unfortunately, the plot seemed to agree.
You thought that was the last of him, you really did. But then, scholarship in hand, you walked into your first advanced theoretical physics seminar and there he was — standing in front of the whiteboard with his hair gelled like it was afraid of gravity, grinning like a man who absolutely remembered insulting your entire personality and research method six months ago.
And that’s where it began: the pettiest academic rivalry known to mankind.
You interrupted every lecture with hypotheticals that started with “But wouldn’t that break down under—” and ended with Gojo pausing mid-sentence, sighing, and rolling up his sleeves like he was about to conduct a scientific duel instead of finishing the unit on entanglement.
The first time you lost a bet — over the probability collapse theory, God help you — he didn’t even gloat. He just handed you a page with “AFTER CLASS” written in blue gel pen and walked off humming the Jeopardy theme. That was your first “correctional training” session, he called it that. “Brat correction,” in reality, said in the tone of someone who absolutely loved how your jaw clenched every time he said it.
He likes to think he’s the authority figure in the room — Professor Gojo, head of department, youngest theoretical physicist with two international awards and a cocky little writeup in a nature magazine about quantum entanglement that he sends to every new TA like it’s a Bible. But none of that means shit when you’re in the front row again with your leg crossed just so, lips pursed in a smirk that tells him you’ve done your research — and worse, you’re going to use it.
The thing about debunking Gojo’s teachings is that it’s become a tradition now. An academic bloodsport where you come armed with papers, formulas, and sheer insolence, and he comes armed with that patronizing little chuckle and the smug belief that nobody, nobody, is ever going to outdo him in his own damn classroom.
And when you don’t? Well, let’s just say your ass knows the weight of his disappointment very intimately. There’s a very specific kind of warmth to his palm when it lands flat on you, almost reverent, like he’s patting down the remains of your pride after dismantling it entirely.
“Disrespecting your teacher again?” he murmurs, voice all low and falsely dismayed, fingers trailing the hot skin beneath your panties as if it pains him to have to teach you this way. “And I thought we were making progress. You’re gonna make me grey, sweetheart.”
You snort into the table, biting back a moan. Liar. His hair’s been white since tenure.
But when you win — oh, when you win — he drops the act entirely. Gojo becomes Satoru, sloppy and glassy-eyed as he stares up at you from where he’s half-kneeling on the floor, the lines of his shirt rumpled and his tie hanging undone like a leash you might tug if he talks back. And you’ve got one foot on his chest, the ball of it pressing ever so gently down, just enough for him to feel it and shudder like a dog in heat.
“Now say it,” you hum, tilting your head. “Say you were wrong about the decoherence model, Satoru.”
He actually whimpers. “I—I was wrong—Fuck, you were right—”
“And?”
Your foot inches lower, brushing against the bulge straining in his pants, feeling the heat of it beneath thin, overpriced fabric. He's sweating now, cheeks flushed, panting like he’s running a fever that only you can break.
“You’re smarter than me,” he gasps, voice cracking, so wet and wrecked you wonder if he even remembers what the original debate was about.
“Mmhm.” your foot presses harder. “Good boy.”
There’s a certain irony to it, really — you came here to study quantum physics, and somehow ended up mastering the laws of cause and effect in the way Satoru Gojo responds to your foot in his lap. The man can theorize particle-wave duality until he’s blue in the face, but one good press of your heel and he’s unraveling faster than any atom he’s ever split. And the best part? you still haven’t told him you’re publishing a paper that contradicts his entire thesis. Maybe next week.
But then comes finals season.
Oh, finals season. A time of chaos, caffeine, collective breakdowns — and Professor Gojo’s personal renaissance. He is, without a doubt, in the best mood he’s been all year: cheery, chipper, even. Students whisper about it like he’s some kind of academic sadist, thriving off the pain of others, grinning like the devil in a tailored button-down as he posts the final exam that reads more like a dissertation than anything else. And the worst part? He isn’t grading on a curve.
But you, his prized little rival-slash-pet project, get… kindness. Or something adjacent to it. A gentle reminder before class ends, said with an infuriatingly sweet smile:
“No staying after today, sweetheart. You’ve got bigger things to focus on.”
And then, like the most deranged cherry on top:
“We can always catch up on our…activities later.”
You almost pity the way he says it, like it doesn’t make his dick twitch. As if he hasn’t been pent-up all semester, denied of your touch and your scorn and your heel on his chest like a guilty little sinner. As if he’s not walking around with just enough self-restraint to keep from humping the podium.
But here’s where it gets fun.
Because he thought this would break you. That his absence, the sudden lack of punishment and provocation, would mess with your head just enough to send you spiraling, slipping, making one teeny-tiny mistake in your finals that he could then circle in red and jerk off to later. And it almost works. He's giddy as he grades, bouncing his leg, lips twitching in anticipation. Every other paper is a war crime, the red ink running out. But when he gets to yours? Blank.
Blank, as in: no errors. Not even a formatting issue. Not even an ambiguous variable name. Not even a single goddamn typo.
And you signed your name with a heart.
The gasp he lets out is not professional. He's sitting alone in his office with the door locked, hunched over the paper like it just whispered dirty secrets to him. His hands tremble a little — out of horror, out of awe, out of the frankly humiliating pressure building in his boxers. Because this is it. This is what he wanted.
To lose. To lose to you. And you knew it, you knew — that smug little smile when you handed it in, the way your fingers lingered against his as you passed it across the desk. You knew you’d fucked him academically and emotionally and now, he’s sitting there, legs spread and back arched like some kind of fucking... exam-brained toy.
When he returns the paper the next day, it’s with a practiced expression, the mask of Professor Gojo firmly back in place. But his hand brushes against yours — too slow, too soft — and you can feel the static hum between your fingertips like tension in a charged field. “Full marks,” he says smoothly, like he didn’t have to jerk off in his office to even touch this paper. “You've made me proud.”
You smile. “I always do, don't I, professor?”
He swallows so hard you can see the twitch in his throat. Yeah, he’s not mad at all. In fact, he’s already mentally clearing his schedule for next semester.
Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
Gojo Satoru, professor, physicist, prodigy — is currently a blubbering, overstimulated mess beneath you, his palms flat and useless against his own silk sheets, hips twitching every time your ass connects with his thighs in that cruel, delicious rhythm. He's crying fat, glossy tears as they trail down his cheeks like he’s in mourning, but it’s just you. Just you, sitting pretty on his cock like the goddess of academic revenge, one hand planted on his chest like a paperweight, the other gently curling around his throat with all the casual authority of someone grading a multiple-choice test.
You bounce slow, unhurried, torturously controlled — and he loves it.
“F-fuck, you — you did so good,” he slurs, head thrown back so hard the veins in his neck twitch under your fingers. “So smart, baby — so fucking brilliant, top of the class, top of me —”
“Yeah?” you whisper, leaning forward just enough so your breath brushes his wet cheeks. “Who's the valedictorian now, professor?”
He whines — whines — something like a yes and a laugh and a sob mashed together, a hiccupping mess of praise and need. “M’so proud of you, fuck — fuck, y’ride me like you solved me, figured out the whole equation— m’just a— a variable— oh god—”
He’s delirious. Incoherent. Flushed chest heaving, hair a sweaty halo against the pillow, and it’s kind of funny — the irony of it all. Because this is the same man who used to look at you with that cocky glint in class, dreaming of your downfall, picturing you stuttering through corrections and red ink like a scolded schoolgirl, only to end up here: broken and blissed-out beneath your hips, all heart-shaped eyes and thank-you-mommy energy, mouthing nonsense like it’s a second language.
“Wanted me to fail so you could play teacher again, huh?” you coo, slowing down until your movements are a slow, grinding circle that has his toes curling. “But now you get to be my little after-school project instead.”
“Yesyesyes,” he gasps, voice breaking mid-word. “Use me, please— you earned it, you aced it— s’the least I can do, swear— wanna b’good for you— f-for my valedictorian—”
You press your palm firmer against his neck. Not hard — not yet — just enough to remind him that the only thing keeping him grounded is you. “That’s right, professor,” you murmur, licking the sweat off his jaw. “You’re just my bonus credit now.”
And he moans like you handed him a lifetime achievement award. If the education board ever saw this, you think, they’d have to rename the curriculum: quantum physics and Gojo Satoru’s public humiliation, taught by you, graded by orgasm count.
☆ RYOMEN SUKUNA: A+ IN ANALYSIS, D- IN SELF CONTROL
If there was anyone who could make a student’s life flash before their eyes with a single look, it was Professor Sukuna.
Department: Modern History. Specialty: war crimes, chain-smoking, and looking like he belongs on a “do not approach” government list.
The man walks around like tenure is just a polite word for “try me,” tattoos curling up his neck and peeking through the gaps in his shirt like they, too, are sick of the dress code. He wears formal clothes the way one wears a hospital gown — reluctantly and out of necessity — and the scent of his cologne is nicotine and disdain.
He doesn’t lecture, he warns. Powerpoint slides are a thing of myth in his class. If you miss a date, you don’t get a reminder, you get a monologue about how the fall of Rome wasn’t as embarrassing as your lack of attention to deadlines. He’s harsh, terrifying, and objectively hot in that “he will ruin your self-esteem and your cervix” kind of way — not that you'd ever say that out loud.
You never had any special rapport with him either. You just sat in the front row like a chronically anxious nerd, too scared to even sneeze wrong. That is, until he found you crying in a quiet corner of the library, head in your history textbook like it could somehow absorb your heartbreak. He assumed you were overwhelmed by the syllabus — which, okay, rude — and muttered something that was equal parts pep talk and emotionally repressed threats against “whatever loser made you cry.”
Since then, Sukuna’s been...different. Not soft, not kind — don’t be delusional — just less sharp around the edges when it came to you. He'd still verbally dismantle any student who tried to correct him without citations, but when it came to you, he asked things like “you eating?” and “sleeping or still reading?” in passing. And he did it through email, because of course he did. Because Ryomen Sukuna doesn’t text students. He barely even types. He pecks at the keyboard like it owes him money. You’ve got a folder now, unintentionally titled “passive aggressive motivation,” where emails read like:
Subject: stop crying
no man is worth bombing your GPA over.
eat something. drink water.
also your thesis outline was dogshit. fix it.
-r.s
or:
Subject: your seminar slides
don’t present this without adding a section on postcolonial analysis unless you want to embarrass yourself.
also that guy who came to pick you up last week looks like he can't read. don’t bring him around again.
-r.s
Every email ends with lowercase letters and an implicit threat. And it’s all very… professional. Totally, completely normal professor stuff. It’s not like he lingers outside your class when it ends to “make sure nobody bothers you,” or that his hand just happens to brush yours every time he gives back a graded paper. Or that when you send him an email past midnight, he responds faster than your own friends. Strictly educational, completely above board. Absolutely not the start of a very complicated, slow-burning, morally grey something.
…Right?
Right.
He wasn’t supposed to be there. The bar, that is.
Sukuna didn’t even like bars. Hated the smell of cheap beer and watered-down perfumes and whatever desperation clung to the sweat-slick air by midnight. But he’d gotten dragged there by another tenured professor who thought he needed to “loosen up,” which was ironic considering Sukuna’s idea of relaxing involved reading war manifestos and judging grad students.
So he’s already annoyed, even more so when he steps outside for a smoke and sees you there. Sitting on the curb, arms hugging your knees, hair pinned up like you’d tried too hard tonight. He knows that expression — the mix of hurt and embarrassment and the beginnings of oh god, don’t cry in public. It makes something seize in his chest.
“Seriously?” he mutters, walking up with the cigarette still burning between his fingers. “Who the fuck takes a girl to a bar for a first date?”
You just blink up at him, and he rolls his eyes like he’s not already halfway down the spiral. He drives you home, his untouched drink forgotten. The silence in the car is stiff, quiet, the kind that makes his knuckles tighten on the wheel every time you shift slightly in the passenger seat. When he drops you off and you say thank you too softly, he doesn’t say “you’re welcome.” He just stares ahead and mutters, “Get inside safe.”
But when he wakes up to your smaller body curled against him the next morning — God, fuck. He barely remembers letting you in, just that your eyes were glassy and your voice broke when you asked if you could stay, and then you’d fallen asleep on his bed before he could make a choice. And now you’re here, mouth slightly open in sleep, your wrist resting against his bare chest like you belong there. He slips out of bed like it’s going to absolve him of anything. It doesn’t.
So the next week? He ignores you. Not because he doesn’t care, but because he cares too much. Because he’s your professor, and you’re his student, and this shit is so far past the line that the line is a fucking dot. And yet—
You stop raising your hand in class. Stop sending over-enthusiastic thesis emails. And that’s when Sukuna knows he’s fucked. Because ignoring you only works until he realizes the silence is your reaction to being ignored. He doesn’t even think before knocking on your apartment door one night, hair still damp from a too-fast shower, jaw clenched in some attempt to be rational. You don’t say anything. You just look at him.
And he cracks.
It’s the wall. The bed. The damn kitchen counter. His mouth on your neck, your thighs, your breasts — sucking marks like he wants to leave proof of the apology he can’t voice. His voice is low, gravelly, drunk off the taste of your skin. His hands are rough, too big, too familiar now, and you tremble with every movement. “You still mad at me?” he grunts against your cunt, tongue swiping through your slick like it’ll get him forgiveness. Your hand fists his hair.
“You’re such an asshole,” you moan, shoving him deeper. He hums into your cunt like he agrees. And he does.
That night ends the same way they all do — tangled limbs, sheets kicked to the floor, and your breathless whine of “you never talk to me after.” And he means to, he really does. But he leaves again without saying anything, guilt burning like nicotine in his lungs.
So the cycle repeats.
You cry, he shows up. You argue, he pushes you up against the nearest surface and apologizes with his mouth and hands and cock — biting your shoulder, squeezing your hips, kissing the angry tear-track down your cheek until you’re choking on his name.
“Say it,” you gasp, nails raking down his back as you ride him.
He doesn't. He can't. He just slams you down harder and lets his mouth fall open, guttural noises spilling out like prayers. Fuckfuckfuck—
You make him feel alive. And all he can do is keep fucking up the same way, hoping one of these days, you’ll forgive him before he can find the words. And yet, finals season’s supposed to be your personal hell, not his. Sukuna’s brooding harder than usual, a semi-permanent crease etched between his brows and his arms crossed so tight over his chest that even the most clueless undergrad knows better than to raise their hand today.
You had said it nicely — too nicely — when you showed up to his office hours that weren’t even real office hours, just you dropping by like you always did, except this time, you had a script memorized.
“I just… I think it’s better if we don’t see each other until exams are over. I can't focus. And you’re kind of… a distraction.”
Him? A distraction? In his own subject? He doesn't even know if he should feel insulted or flattered. He decides on both and sulks accordingly. And you didn’t even say anything mean. There was no fight, no cold-shoulder aftermath. just soft words, a guilty look, and then nothing.
You didn’t show up to his class again. It was optional, sure — study week lectures aren’t mandatory, professor, he can hear your smartass voice in his head — but still. It's him. You always came for him. So when you don’t? That's when he knows it’s bad.
He tells himself he doesn’t care. Tells himself this is what he wanted, anyway — distance, boundaries, some room to breathe. Maybe he’s too old to be dealing with this kind of nonsense from someone who probably still has their ex-best friend’s Netflix password memorized.
But then he finds himself at the library. Not for you, of course not. He was returning a book — something dense and miserable on post-war treaties. Definitely not stalking. Absolutely not peeking between the shelves. Except then he sees you. Head bent over your notes, hair tied back, lips slightly pursed in concentration — and then there’s him. The most annoying little shit in his class, sitting beside you like he’s earned the spot, asking questions like he actually gives a damn about the League of Nations.
It takes everything in Sukuna not to walk up and knock the guy’s books to the floor. Instead, he glares from the second-floor balcony for an unhealthy amount of time before dragging you out the second you’re alone.
No explanation. No “hey, can we talk?” Just him grabbing your wrist and leading you into one of those back hallways that smell like too much disinfectant and stress sweat.
“Are you tired of me yet?” he says, low and flat.
You blink. “What?”
His jaw ticks. Fuck. It sounded pathetic out loud. He hadn’t meant to say it like that, all quiet and cornered. But now that it’s out there, the rest just comes spilling out in the most emotionally constipated way possible.
“You stopped showing up. You didn’t even reply to my last email. Now you’re with that… kid,” he mutters the last part like it physically wounds him. “You’re just—moving on?”
You stare, confused.
“I told you I needed to focus on finals.”
“Yeah, and I thought that was your generation’s code for leaving someone” he snaps.
The hallway goes still, the lights above continuing to buzz. Your fingers twitch at your sides, and Sukuna catches it — that little tell you have when you’re about to say something heartfelt, and God, he braces himself.
“You think I'm replacing you?” you say finally. “Sukuna, he was helping me revise flashcards.”
“Flashcards,” he repeats like it’s the filthiest word he’s ever heard.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re confusing,” he counters, but softer, quieter. Almost like he’s embarrassed. “You say I'm a distraction and then just vanish. I don’t know what the fuck you want anymore.”
“I wanted to pass. And maybe try not lose my mind.”
He leans back against the wall, head tilted up, arms now slack by his side. “Well,” he mutters, “Congrats. Because I'm losing mine.”
And he is. He misses your smart mouth, your late-night emails about history memes, the way your legs hooked around his waist like you belonged there. He misses the way you made him feel young again, even though he’s not — not really — and that fact creeps up his spine every time he watches you laugh with someone your age.
You reach for his hand, pull it away from the wall, and squeeze it gently. “I'm not replacing you,” you say. “I just needed to take a breath. But I'm still here.”
His thumb brushes your knuckles before he even realizes what he’s doing.
“…Good,” he says, voice rough. “Because I don't want to go back to pretending I don't give a shit.”
You smile, and his brain short-circuits the same way it always does when you do. He's still grumpy, still tired. still convinced he’s about five years and one existential crisis too old for you. But you’re still here. And that, somehow, is enough.
Monday morning smells like pencil shavings, stress, sweat, and betrayal. Not yours, of course — his. Because there you are, nestled so sweetly in his lap at his home desk, thighs spread across his, sunk down around his cock like you belong there. Because you do.
You’re not even moving. That's the part that’s driving him feral. Just sitting there all cozy and full and smug, keeping him hot and throbbing inside while he tries — tries — to grade the final batch of modern history exams. It’s the academic equivalent of edging, and Sukuna, for all his big scary professor demeanor, is fucking losing it.
Your breath is warm against the side of his neck as you lean in lazily. You’d had your fun earlier — broken him open on his own sheets like you were studying anatomy, and now you were just… resting. Inside him. Sheathing him. Cockwarming him like some kind of reward, like he was your treat. And the worst part? He didn’t even hate it.
“You've been on question three for five minutes,” you murmur, lips brushing his ear, and he jolts — not from your voice, but from how the shift grinds your cunt around him just the tiniest bit.
“I'm focusing,” he lies, throat tight.
You hum like you don’t believe him. “You’re twitching.”
“You’re warm.”
“You’re hard.”
He glares at the paper like it’s personally responsible. “It's correction season.”
“Mhm. And you’re grading while balls-deep in your student. Who's the distraction now?”
He grunts — but it’s weak. He's weak. Because he’s still inside you and your cunt is so soft and wet and hot and he swears he can feel your heartbeat around him when you clench just once, just to remind him who’s got the power here. And then, as fate would have it, the worst fucking name in his roster shows up on the next paper.
“You've gotta be kidding me,” he says, voice dry, mouth downturned.
You peer down. “Oh. Him.”
Sukuna goes still. You don’t even need to say the name — it’s the boy from the library. The one you studied with during “the dry spell,” aka the week you ghosted him for focusing on your exams, and he swore he’d never be that soft again. Well. Jokes on him.
“He used zeitgeist in a sentence,” Sukuna says, with venom. “Unironically.”
You smile, slow and cruel. “He’s not wrong though.”
He turns to you, jaw tight, cock throbbing. “Say that again.”
“The answer’s worth full marks.”
You say it like it’s nothing. Like you don’t know exactly what that does to him.
His hand slips under your ass and pulls you down hard, deep. You don’t make a sound, just breathe against his cheek, but the flutter of your walls around him has him practically vibrating in place.
“Take it back,” he rasps.
You smile. “Never.”
He’s back to bouncing his leg again — a nervous tick turned torture as every shift sends your warmth tightening around him, soaking him, milking him. He can barely hold the pen. He scribbles out a 10 and replaces it with a shaky 7.
“He gets a C,” Sukuna mutters, spiteful.
“Abusing your authority?”
“Yes.”
“Because you’re jealous?”
“Yes.”
You lean in close, lips just barely grazing his jaw. “Say it.”
“I hate that fucker,” he breathes.
“No,” you purr. “Say what you really hate.”
His head tips back, neck flushed red, pulse hammering under your mouth. “I hate that he got to see you smile.”
You grin. “You’re seeing it now.”
And you give him a single roll of your hips — slow, devastating, slick and sinful — and his breath catches, his eyes flutter shut, and his cock twitches helplessly inside you. “Holy fucckk,” he moans, low and wrecked.
“Mark the damn paper,” you whisper, licking the shell of his ear.
He scribbles an 8. “He gets a B- and that’s generous.”
You laugh softly and clench around him again. “You’re such a mess,” you coo, brushing his sweat-damp bangs back. “And you haven’t even cum yet.”
“You’re evil,” Sukuna whimpers, half-hysterical. “I missed you so fucking much.”
You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I know.”
a/n: thank yeww for reading!! this took way too long to format, i hope you enjoy xx. i probably won't be writing any part 2's or continuations of this trope, so please respect me and my work and not comment about it/asking for it.
They have a GoFundMe as well (linked below)! This is the fundraiser vetted by GazaVetters, and the Chuffed mentions it (and expands on the purpose of each fundraiser). Both are legitimate and need donations!
Dear reader,
I am Hussam Al-Qazzaz from Gaza, and I am wr… nouraldin alqazzaz needs your support for Support Hossam’s afflicted family t
°— You couldn't see her as the monster everybody said she was, to you.. She was the most beautiful flower out there. Even covered in blood and viscera—°
Cw— Established relationship, nsfw, mention of blood, reader's a little freak
The same person everybody knew as Noxus' warlord, the strongest Medarda, blood thirsty beast; Is your dear and loving wife.
Never showing you her fangs and claws, sweet talking in your ear everytime you two were alone. Holding you in her embrace; Firm but never with the intention to harm, she held you close, so close you can hear her heartbeats and her deep breaths, her laughter when she feels you snuggling even deeper..
She loves you.
You're dear to her.
So you cannot really comprehend why does seeing her like this ignites such a fire within you..
Her empowered, bestial, heavy panting frame enters the bedroom. She's decorated, almost entirely, with blood. Splattered and dripping down her golden armor, grazing down her scarred, exposed skin. Her arms, still flexed and throbbing with fresh battle. You sigh, higher than the clouds at the sight of your beloved.
—Dear.
She spares you a quick glance, her heavy footsteps thumping as she turns to lock the door. Such a familiar act she does everytime she comes back but today, right now that click of the door makes you shiver. You can't help it when your legs cross and your hands ride up the rim of your nightgown, eyes fixated on her as she paces around the room.
—Hey Bessa..
Your words wrap around her like silk bedsheets, calling her attention towards you.
She hums, her expression only visible from her nose down but you can certainly feel her eyes burning through you.
—What is it, treasure?
It's almost comical how her sweet tone doesn't match her roughed exterior at all. She'll always be sweet to you, with knuckles bruised to the bone and blinded by murder, she'll always be sweet to you.
You press your lips into a thin line, the comforting fabric of the Ionian rug touches your feet as you walk towards her, hands significantly smaller than her bicep drag along her skin. She steps back.
— I'll get you dirty, sweetie..
— Don't care.
You bite back quickly, pulling her closer by her waist. Your chin sitting on her chest plate, looking up at her with that glint on your eyes, there's something you want, she tells herself. Your nightgown stains with the residue of battle, creamy brown lace turning blood red. But you can't find it in you to care, not when her hands rest on your hips and draw soothing shapes all over.
— Let me shower first-
— No need for that.
She looks shocked, you can see how her eyes sit wide behind her gold mask and you giggle, snuggling your face on her neck, whispering against her sweaty flesh.
— Just strip for me, mmh?
She freezes briefly, following your command right after, shaky hand rising to remove the piece that covers her face. You stop her.
