dating ryomen sukuna comes with a warning no one bothers to give you: he doesn’t come alone. he comes with toji. not in the romantic sense. not in the “two-for-one special” sense. but in the spiritual, cosmic, deeply inconvenient sense—like buying a new phone and realizing it came with a demonically possessed charger.
because being sukuna’s girlfriend means inheriting his best friend—the six-foot-something menace who appears in your life with the same inevitability as gravity, toji doesn’t even knock. he just shows up. your apartment door will open and there he is, barefoot, wearing a shirt that’s definitely not his, with a bag of takeout he bought “for the big guy” but then eats half of on your couch.
you’ll be sitting on sukuna’s lap and toji will walk in like: “oh… my bad. didn’t know y’all were busy.” (he absolutely knew. he just didn’t care.)
sukuna barely reacts. he just grunts, curls his hand a little tighter around your waist, and keeps doing whatever he was doing because he’s long accepted his fate: dating you means being constantly third-wheeled by his own best friend, and dating him means the same.
the worst part? you get attached. toji makes you laugh. he gives you terrible advice.
“just block him, babe, men hate it when you ignore them.”
“toji, i’m dating sukuna.”
“exactly.”
he spoils you with snacks, steals your blanket, calls you “princess” just to watch sukuna’s jaw tick. he’s like an oversized, feral housecat who decided you’re his enrichment activity. and sukuna hates it. not enough to actually stop it—just enough to glare every time toji hugs you for too long or sits a little too close. because sukuna didn’t mean to share. it just… happened.
and then there’s the moments where toji wanders into the kitchen while you’re cooking and murmurs, “kuna’s lucky,” in that voice that does things to your spine.
or when he passes behind you, steadying you with a hand on your hip that lingers a second too long. or when he sprawls across the couch, pats his thigh, and says, “sit. i’ll warm you up till your man’s done with his shower.”
and sukuna walks in at that exact moment, eyes narrowing, muttering, “i turn my back for two fucking minutes.”
but here’s the secret, for as much as he growls, as much as he pretends he hates it—he lets it happen. he lets toji spoil you, tease you, hover around you like you’re both his favorite trouble and his favorite toy. because sukuna trusts him. because it’s always been the two of them against the world. because letting toji close to you means something even bigger: he’s letting you into their world, too.
dating sukuna means having two shadows instead of one. two men watching your back. two idiots fighting over who gets to sit next to you. two sets of footsteps behind you when you walk home at night.
and every now and then, usually late, usually when you’re tucked into his chest, sukuna will grumble, “if he flirts with you one more time, i’m gonna kill him.” but he won’t. because he cares, and because he knows you do, too. dating sukuna comes with a third. and somehow—impossibly—you end up loving both disasters in your own way.
we love a secure boyfriend #goals #needthat #mybftakenotesyo + what if i said this is just a prequel for what i’m planning to do a oneshot about… also i wrote this w u in mind hehe @wockberry
you’re focused, bent over your weaving, careful not to miss a single thread. it’s quiet, the steady rhythm soothing—until sukuna’s voice breaks through.
“look at me.”
you don’t glance up, fingers still working. “i’m busy.”
a beat of silence. then, a little sharper: “wife. look at me.”
“no,” you sigh, trying to ignore him.
he makes a noise in his throat—half growl, half pout—and you can feel the weight of his four eyes burning holes into the side of your head. still, you don’t look up.
“you’d rather stare at string than your husband?” he grumbles, shifting closer. when you keep ignoring him, his long fingers curl around your wrist, gently tugging.
“sukuna—” you start, but he’s already leaning down, voice dropping low and needy.
“just one look,” he says, quieter now, almost sulky. “you haven’t looked at me all morning.”
your hands still against the loom. “because i’ve been working. unlike some people.”
he huffs, unimpressed, then in a single movement he hauls you away from your task and into his lap. your protest dies in your throat when his arms band tight around you, locking you in.
finally, you’re forced to meet his gaze—four eyes staring down at you, narrowed but soft at the edges.
“there,” he says firmly, though his pout lingers. “better. now keep those eyes on me.”
you roll your eyes, lips twitching. “you’re so annoying.”
his grin slips back in, sharp but boyish all the same. “you’re mine either way. so look at me.”
when you stubbornly turn your head, refusing, he buries his face into your neck and squeezes you tighter, muttering like a child denied candy. “don’t ignore me. i’ll keep pestering you until i get what i want.”
and even though you groan, trying to wriggle free, he feels the way your body softens in his hold—how you’re already giving in.
and that smug little smile curls back onto his lips.
his arms tighten suddenly, and before you can prepare, his massive hand cups your ass, giving it a firm squeeze.
you yelp, smacking his chest with your palm. “sukuna!”
he only throws his head back and laughs, the sound loud and shameless, echoing off the walls. “hah! there it is—that cute little squeal of yours i like so much.”
“you’re awful,” you scold, trying to squirm out of his lap.
“mm, don’t think so,” he hums, eyes glinting. and before you can wriggle away, he shifts, scooping you up like you weigh nothing.
“unhand me!” you squeal, kicking lightly as he slings you over his shoulder, one large hand anchoring you there. "ryomen!"
“unhand you? sure,” he says, utterly smug, carrying you across the room. “on the bed.”
“sukuna, i swear—”
you don’t get to finish, because he tosses you onto the bedding, not roughly, but with enough force that you bounce a little. his grin widens at the sight of you sprawled out, hair messy, cheeks flushed.
“perfect,” he says, crawling onto the bed after you, towering over your form.
you scowl, sitting up to push at his chest, but he easily pins you down again with his sheer weight.
“stop manhandling me, you beast!”
“stop ignoring me,” he shoots back, lips curling. then he ducks down, pressing hot kisses along your neck. you gasp, fingers instinctively clutching his shoulders, but he doesn’t relent—his mouth trails lower, along your collarbone, down the line of your body.
“let me go, i need to finish my threading!” you whine, half annoyed, half breathless.
"be quiet, woman." he chuckles against your skin, teeth grazing your shoulder before he presses another kiss there. “shut up and let me love my wife.”
he says it like a question but it’s really not. mechanic!sukuna’s already got his hands on your hips, thick fingers pressing into the fabric of your little skirt like he’s deciding whether to tear it or hike it up. he smells like oil and sweat while his shirt hangs open, chest glistening with heat.
“mm. nah,” he mutters, eyes dropping to the curve of your thighs. “you wore this ‘cause you wanted me lookin’, huh?”
he’s been working on your busted car for two hours, grease on his knuckles and a cigarette tucked behind his ear, sweat dripping down the side of his neck. you were just supposed to watch. keep him company. hand him tools. instead, you’re pressed up against the workbench, legs spread just enough for him to slot between them, his gloves dragging rough down your thighs.
“stand still.”
then you hear it—pop. he spits the gum he’s been chewing onto the ground and unzips his coveralls like it’s just a casual thing—like this is part of the job. his cock’s already half hard, heavy against his thigh, veins thick like the goddamn wiring in your engine.
“gimme your panties,” he says without looking at you, and when you hesitate, he scoffs.
“you want the brakes fixed or not, princess?”
you’re soaked by the time you hand them over. he tucks them into his back pocket like a trophy. “good girl.”
he bends you over the hood of your own car. the metal is warm. his palm is hot. you gasp when he slides in without warning, one hand fisting in your hair, the other gripping your waist like he’s trying to leave fingerprints through your skin.
“so fuckin’ wet for a freeloader,” he huffs, voice ragged. “moanin’ over my name when your check engine light’s been on for three weeks.”
his hips snap harder. the tools on the bench clatter. you try to muffle your noises, biting your lip—but he leans forward, mouth to your ear.
“nah. let ‘em hear you,” he growls. “let the whole shop know you’re gettin’ tuned up.”
he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it at first. ryomen sukuna—king of the frat, two-time campus menace, unofficial titleholder of “most likely to break your heart and not care”—starts showing up differently around you.
less noise. less bravado. less of the smirk that usually means trouble. you show up to a party once, wearing something cute, and his friends elbow him like always. “bro, go get your girl.”
but he doesn’t go over to flirt. he goes over to take your cup, sniff it, and grumble, “who gave you this? you don’t drink this shit.” then you watch him pour it out and hand you water like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
he stops hosting ragers on thursday nights because you have an 8am friday lab and he “doesn’t want people stomping around and keeping you up.” he says it casually—shrugging, avoiding eye contact—but not a single person in the frat dares call him out because the look in his eyes is dead serious.
and the girls he used to flirt with? laugh with? entertain when he was bored? he doesn't even dare to glance at them now. one of them touches his arm during a mixer and he physically steps back, muttering, “nah. don’t.”
everyone stares. you pretend not to notice, but sukuna notices you—every damn time. the night it finally hits you is when you’re studying on the couch in the frat house, legs tucked under you, hair messy from hours of focusing. sukuna comes in from practice, sweaty, exhausted, probably starving.
old him would’ve grabbed a beer, teased you, maybe tried to drag you upstairs. but instead he stops in the doorway, eyebrows pulling together. “you eat yet?”
you shake your head without thinking. he groans under his breath like you’ve personally wounded him, then disappears into the kitchen. ten minutes later he returns with a plate of food, a bottle of water, and your favorite candy bar he steals from one of his brothers’ stashes.
“eat,” he says, sitting next to you.
“i’m not hungry.”
he glares. “don’t care.”
you laugh and lean into his shoulder without thinking. he freezes for half a second, then melts just a little, tilting his head so it rests against yours. “you’re different lately,” you whisper, teasing.
he scoffs, looking away. “no i’m not.”
“you are.”
he shifts, face serious now, eyes warm in ways you’ve never seen on him. “…maybe i just wanted to stop being someone you couldn’t take seriously.”
he huffs, rubbing the back of his neck like the confession annoys him. “i’m trying here, okay? don’t make it weird.”
you grin, reaching for his hand. “it’s not weird.”
he squeezes your fingers like he’s afraid he’ll spook you. “good,” he murmurs. “because i’m not going back to who i was.”
and you believe him. because men don’t change for no reason. but sukuna? he’s changing for you. slowly, stubbornly.
clingy bf!toji refuses to let you shower in peace ! ꒰꧞ ˃ 𛱊 ˂ ꒱ྀི
“rinse me off, not eat me out!”
“toji,” you warn, voice already breathy, “this is supposed to be a quick shower—”
“‘m bein’ quick,” he mutters, shamelessly rutting his face between your thighs, large hands splayed across your ass, spreading you open to lick another slow stripe up your slit. “you’re the one takin’ forever.”
your head tips back, a whimper slipping out before you can swallow it. “because i’m trying to get clean…”
“i’m helpin’, baby.” he grins into your cunt. “ain’t my fault this pussy’s so fuckin’ sweet.”
his tongue presses in again, wet and deliberate, the kind of hungry that makes your knees buckle. and he feels it— laughs softly when your thighs close around his head but he just forces them back apart, groaning under his breath like he’s the one being touched.
“toji—!”
“what? you’re the one who got in the shower lookin’ all fuckin’ good,” he grunts, nuzzling his nose against your ass, licking you open with long, obscene strokes. “told you not to ignore me this mornin’.”
you would roll your eyes if they weren’t already rolling to the back of your head. “you woke me up with your dick poking my back..”
“exactly, and you didn’t do shit about it.” he kisses the inside of your thigh, just to be dramatic. “kinda rude if you ask me.”
your hand flies back to thread through his wet hair and he groans again, tongue fucking into you while his hips rock forward, cock leaking and pressed tight against the tile, smearing mess across the floor with every slow rut.
“t-toji, fuck, gonna fall—”
“i got you,” he pants, arms wrapped around your thighs now, keeping you upright. “just keep moanin’ like that f’me.”
you try to glare over your shoulder, chest heaving. “you said we were late.”
he smirks. “you said that. i don’t give a fuck.”
you start to say something— probably some weak protest— but he flattens his tongue against your clit and shakes his head like a damn dog, and all the words die in your throat. your legs tremble, hand slapping against the wall for balance, moaning his name in broken syllables as he drinks you down.
“fuck, toji- oh my god—”
“that’s it,” he growls, voice deep and hot and filthy, letting spit drip from his mouth just to smear it into your pussy with his face. “cum on my tongue, baby. gimme all of it.”
you do. knees locking, stomach tightening, fingers gripping wet hair as his name spills from your lips between gasps, and he moans right along with you, breathing hard while his cock jerks with every sound you make.
and when you finally slump against the wall, dazed and shaking, he stands and kisses the back of your neck, rubbing your hips sweetly, stupidly pleased with himself.
pairing bassist!suguru geto x vocalist!afab reader x lead guitarist!satoru gojo
synopsis suguru geto is addicted — to you, the fame, the lust, and expensive drugs. living in the shadow of a notorious on-and-off-again relationship that skyrocketed the career he made with you, things become complicated. burnt out and desperate for inspiration to hit, suguru leans on the closest friend he's ever had — the best guitarist in modern alternative music, and prays he can pick up your pieces
tags HEAVY explicit drug/substance abuse, established relationship (suguru x reader), modern/band!au, western-set, age-gap (satosugu is early 30's, reader is early 20's), mentions of real artists/songs, mentions of infidelity, relationship jealousy/insecurity, sfw
word count 7.1k
authors note soooosoo happy my baby is back T.T (satosugu art by the goat @_3aem on x <3)
previous chapter — next chapter
It’s well past two. Suguru stands still as a statue, thick headset on his head, bass in his lap. He’s focused. You can tell with the way he’s squeezing his eyes shut like he wants to avoid reality. No other muscle in his body moves but his fingers. He’s tearing up the fretboard with a bassline so thick and plucky, it’d be hard to out-sing it.
But you wanna try. You nod him on.
On your phone, he’s too entranced to see the small smirk on your face as two new messages bloom in your idle conversation. It pulls you from the musical trance Suguru’s roping you into – bitten lip and starry-eyed.
From: gojosatoru
proof?
[1 image attached]
You sit up, finger flying to the blurry attachment sitting proudly by his verification flag. The image comes into focus – it’s nothing but him, leaned over an iridescent blue electric guitar. It’s a foreign brand, you don’t recognize the name, but you recognize those eyes. He’s pouting up at the camera, cheek pressed to the body, hair tossed and falling into his eyes. Like this, he feels so sweet – almost innocent and bright-eyed, begging you for something you don’t have.
Smiling like an idiot, you revert to biting your lip. You know what he’s doing – you know what’s happening, and it’s reckless, but he’s so tempting. That sparkle in his eye is your weakness. So, you listen to him, sitting up and opening your back camera. Suguru’s bass droning in the background, you do a slow sweep of the studio, catching the prop of your feet against the control board.
When it’s done, you hit send and sit back. Suguru looks up when he notices you moving.
“Sorry, just got antsy.”
He makes a face, partially blurred to you, from the frosted glass. For a moment, he pulls his headset to the side. “Can you roll back over that track? Set the tempo to 115.” Suguru chews on a yawn, taking the small break in sections to roll his neck and crack his fingers.
“Yes, sir.”
From: gojosatoru
who are you kidding? i wanna see the pretty toes and the pretty face
tell suguru i said hello. :P he’s got that serious professional face going on right now. almost scary, haha
bet if u asked him on a good day he’d say he misses me
A few seconds later, he dings again.
From: gojosatoru
u should ask if he misses me
You smile down at the message shortly, head nodding to the new take Suguru’s flushing out in front of you. Head tilted, you suck your cheeks, focused on not focusing on Satoru anymore. Still, you think you will ask Suguru… just to see what he says.
For now, you chew on your bottom lip as he does what he does best. You love him the most like this – silent, focused, sober. It’s how you fell in love with him, you wish he’d never change.
You peek over your shoulder, distracted by a group of girls passing by the window. They move about like you and Suguru don’t exist, and locked in these four walls, you don’t. Not as people, anyway. All skin and bone is stripped down – egos’ shed like freshly molten, writhing spiders.
“Sug…” You peek back over at him once his take concludes, and you’re surprised he heard your mumble enough to squint and reach for his headset.
“Hey.”
“What really happened between you and Satoru?”
Suguru’s squint deepens, expression sucking back into reality once your words fall over him. “How do you expect me to react when I tell you not to talk about him, only for you to keep bringing him up?"
“You don’t have to get so fucking… worked up about it. Shoot me – I’m curious.”
“Can you just…” He looks bored, now. Hating the sound of your pretty voice around such vulgarities. Suguru just wants you to settle down and do what you’re best at – making pretty songs about him. He slides the bass off his shoulders, placing it upright against the padded booth walls. You sit up at attention, tail wagging as he heads back out to you.
“Can I what?”
“I left the band in the middle of tour – they had to cancel it, and people lost money. That’s the story.” He swings the booth door shut, frustration building up in his shoulders as he hunches over. “Stop swearing after every sentence. It’s juvenile.”
Totally ignoring his snide little back comment, you reply, “Okay, but why would you leave in the middle of tour?”
He shrugs, collapsing onto the couch behind you. In the rolling desk chair, you turn around to face him. “Satoru is an arrogant asshole. He’s just an asshole.”
“Maybe he used to be… ten years ago.”
“Go fuck him if you want.” Suguru stretches his nose, giving you a nonchalant, stupid shrug. In his wallet, tucked away in his back pocket, he fumbles for a fix to bring him back to life as weariness starts to set in.
A crystal vial – one meant to hold blood, something with meaning — encapsulates Suguru’s drugs. Top of the market, powdery white, he empties a bump onto his hand, then slides it past his nose like he’s trying to hide something he knows he can’t anymore. This habit is getting out of hand – he doesn’t even have to say it, but he does. “I can see the way you look at him. It’s the same way you look at me.” He pauses for a minute, eyes blooming red and heavy as he stares up at you from afar. Your spine trembles, lips pulling down as the gaze renders you speechless. Then, he blinks. “How many hours are we here for?”
“Like…” You pause, doing quick math. “Eight, I think. Look, I don’t look at him like anything. Continuously, I tell you that I like his music. I went to your tour when I was in High School, you’re just so fucking paranoid.”
You have him out on a limb before he can take the next bump he shook out. “Do not speak to me if you cannot speak to me like a mature woman.”
“Oh, my God. You make me crazy.” His words send you into a fluster, heart hammering in your chest as you fly up from your seat. You snatch up your phone from the sound table, shrugging Suguru off like he’s a buzzing fly. “Fuck off. Fuck you.”
“Okay.”
You run for the hills under the guise of heading to the bathroom. He stays on the couch, rubbing at his nose incessantly, reaching into his back pocket for something else.
The hallway is dark – unnaturally so, but you and Suguru didn’t want to turn on the lights. Bright fluorescent at this hour is a prison you’d rather not rope yourself in, especially if you’re creating.
By the grace of God and the light on your phone screen, you stumble into one of the old, reverted club bathrooms and slam the door shut. Automatic, newly renovated lights chirp on at your presence, and you squint as it overtakes you, eyes still scanning the direct messages you have displayed.
Quickly, you reply to Satoru.
To: gojosatoru
I don’t think he misses you
I think he wants me to fuck him up though
He answers immediately.
From: gojosatoru
please don’t break up and blame it on me. i dont wanna be a child of divorce.
To: gojosatoru
You set me up, i asked him about you and he said you’re just an arrogant asshole
Hiding in the bathroom now until he figures his shit out
From: gojosatoru
wait, don’t seriously break up because of me i’m joking
To: gojosatoru
If we break up it will be because of the drugs and not because of you
And because he thinks he’s my dad or something. So annoying.
From: gojosatoru
give me an excuse to come save you and i will
just say the word
To: gojosatoru
No, you’re a good distraction right now.
Keep talking
From: gojosatoru
i think you’re too much of a prize to be unhappy in a relationship
Just as you go to respond with a stupid, shy smile on your face, a new message drops from the top of your screen. You press on the pop-up.
From: Suguru
Heading out to buy. Probably gonna take twenty minutes max. Doors locked, don’t worry about it
I love you.
You chew the inside of your cheek, scoffing as your head falls back to the metal door. The motion sensor lights flick off at your lack of movement, but when you stand up straight as the back door opens and closes, they flick back on. You sigh.
Then, you pull back up that conversation with Satoru, tummy ablaze with butterflies as you type out your next revelation.
To: gojosatoru
Suguru just left to get drugs. How quickly do you think you can get to Greenwich?
From: gojosatoru
fuck
To: gojosatoru
Bring a guitar.
Someone knocks on the window as you sit on the studio couch, melting into the old leather. Suguru left seven minutes ago on the dot – you texted Satoru almost six minutes ago. Now, you’re flying up as the distraction rocks your soul.
Then, your phone dings.
From: gojosatoru
walking up, should i head to the back?
To: gojosatoru
I’m coming to get you
You don’t even try to hide the shit-eating grin on your face as you head to the back entrance. You can see his messy white hair from the slivered window, running in the night breeze as he waits expectantly.
You unlock the deadbolt, your heart doing backflips in your chest when he finally comes into view. Black t-shirt, cut at the shoulders, hanging off his collarbone loosely. His designer jeans are light-washed and intentionally distressed, but he looks so good. Too good, almost, like the sight of him is danger enough.
Like he’s innocent, he smiles so big – eyes wide like a mystified fan. “I ran all the way here with my case. Everyone definitely thought I had a screw loose.”
“You fit in with the druggies. They come out around this time of night.” You chew your bottom lip, leaning against the door, too entranced in looking him up and down to let him in. “I’m sure no one blinked an eye.”
“Suguru’s in there? Is that why you’re not letting me in?”
“I think he took a car to Tribeca to get more drugs.”
“Pills?”
“Coke.” You finally step to the side, letting him press into the space like he owns it.
At your revelation, he shrugs his shoulders, eyes somewhat illuminated in the darkness of the hall. Satoru tilts his head to the left as you lock the deadbolt, hands shaking in the slightest as his gaze burns like embers down your spine. You can make out his steady breaths – can hear him swallow before speaking, “He doesn’t want to see me?”
“Not really… I guess.” You turn around, arms crossed over your chest. Chewing on your bottom lip, you nod him down the hall. “I know this is so shitty of me, but how quickly do you think you can lay down a guitar solo? Can you have it down in the hour? I can stall him.”
“Depends. How much of the track is done?”
“I did rhythm, Suguru nailed down some bass, and I just did a few vocal takes.” You turn around as you talk, leading him down the hall and to the left, where you left the studio door cracked. “None of which I’ll probably keep, but I don’t want you to think too much about it.”
Your voice softens once you step in the room, holding the door out for Satoru to duck through. He hums a little, scanning over the space once or twice before breathing out a laugh. “His stupid cologne… I can smell it.”
You look back at him, eyebrows furrowed. You laugh. “I didn’t even notice he put it on today. Probably just too used to it, now.”
“Ah, I forgot the brand name, but it’s in a dark gr-
-ey bottle with the silver top, yeah.” You run off his sentence, giggling again when his eyebrows shoot up. “It’s lived on my bathroom counter for years. It’s a Japanese brand, though. Can’t pronounce it.”
“He started wearing it in like… High School, as soon as we signed, it was a gift to himself.” From first impressions, it's clear that Satoru enjoys talking. It’s why you sit back at the sound table and cross your ankles, nodding along to his nostalgic train of thought. “I like that he stuck with it. I would steal it all the time on tour so I could smell like him.”
You can’t tell if he’s joking, so you pause before continuing, almost accusatory, “I didn’t know you two were that close.”
“He’s my one and only. I’ve never had a friend like him since he left. Don’t think I’ll have one again.”
You lean forward, eyes peeled like you could get answers if you just poked a bit deeper. His confessions are fanning the fuck out of you – as a fan of the band, Satoru, and hopelessly in love with Suguru, you’ve dreamt of this day for years. “Wait, give me a second. I’m gonna call him.”
“Okay, I’ll shut up.” He replies quietly, pushing his guitar case onto the couch. He unclasps and pulls it open before you can dial Suguru’s number, and from the corner of your eye, you can see the iridescent shine.
‘Hi, Love.’
“Hey, Sugu – can you do me a really huge, crazy favor?”
On the other line, the wind rushes, drowning out the start of his words. ‘Hold on a minute,’
You suck your teeth, holding the phone away from your ear. Waiting for the noise to settle on the other line, you turn around and watch Satoru pull his guitar out of its case. It’s fucking gorgeous – your jaw drops.
‘Hi, what’s wrong?’
“Nothing - Hey, are you still in Tribeca? Can you run back to my place and grab my laptop? There’s a demo on it I need.”
‘That’s like… ten minutes out of my way right now. What are you even doing? Are you being productive?’
“I have three vocal takes ready, now I’m just playing with guitar stuff.”
‘Well, stop playing and record. I’ll pick up your laptop, but I want a final rhythm line ready when I get back.’
“Yes, sir.”
‘And some solid vocals.’
“Okay, how much time do I have to fulfill all of these demands?”
‘Thirty minutes. Don’t even give me that tone, you are the one who wanted all this studio time, you need to make this worth it.’ The wind brushes past him again – you can hear a door open, then close. Halfway through his rant, you pull the phone from your ear, rolling your eyes as he goes on… and on. ‘I didn’t even want to do it in the first place, so this needs to be good. I won’t touch the track after tonight.’
“I get it.”
‘Ok. Love you, bye.’
“Love you.”
You hang up immediately, blinking slowly as Satoru starts tuning his guitar, back turned to you. When he does turn around, though, it’s with a stupid smile on his face. “Trouble in paradise?”
“I hate him. He literally talks to me as if I were a child. What am I supposed to do with that? Then, he gets high and thinks he’s God. Fucking men.”
Satoru listens to that with that same raised, locked expression on his face, breathing out chuckles after a select few word choices. “Then, why do you stay?”
You furrow your brows, if just for a second. Of course, Satoru senses your unease. “Well, why wouldn’t I stay? Suguru is a lot of things, but he’s never hurt me. He never yells, and though he’s bossy sometimes, he’s always right… he could just say it better, or give me some grace.”
Satoru wishes he could record you – to listen back to the way your voice dips and falls. He wants to experience the way your mind flips and morphs things that aren’t beautiful into the epitome of love. He shakes his head. “I’m sorry – I just love that you two love each other so much. It’s nice to see him with someone like you, too. But, you saying it like that makes sense; Suguru will always be a traditional Japanese man, he hates to admit it, but he’s trying to make a wife out of you.”
Almost dumbfounded, you stare at him head-on, unblinking. Then, like it’s the most obvious thing ever, you counter with, “I’m not a wife, I’m an artist.”
“Those things can’t co-exist?”
“Not right now, no.”
It’s hard to tell how Satoru takes that, because his expression doesn’t budge. He cracks a smile, then drops his head, taking his guitar in his hands. “Let me introduce you… I’ve had Infinite Void since I was sixteen. Wanna guess who gifted it to me?” Satoru takes a few close steps, crowding you in your little desk chair. You swallow, following his eyes as his feet touch yours.
Reaching out for the guitar right in front of your face, you smooth your hand over the cool, blue body. Satoru smells like cashmere… you’re shaking.
“W-who?”
“Suguru.”
When he steps away, ridding that too-close moment before you could comment on it, you sit up straight. “I’ll never understand why he hates you so much, now.”
“I’ll let him tell you when he’s ready.” Looking around the room, Satoru spots an amp — its cord winding across the studio floor like a lure to treasure. “Play me what you have.”
“Okay.” You turn back towards the monitor, pressing a few buttons here and there as you mute and unmute tracks. All you’re playing for him is the first line of rhythm guitar you recorded, raw vocals, and that heavy bass line Suguru put down. It’s not much, but it’s the best foundation you have right now.
You sit back in your seat as the sound begins to overtake you. The first few seconds of the track are ripe with just your guitar — then Suguru balances you with his soft licks, drawing just enough attention for your vocals to fade in. You sit like a nervous duck, twiddling your fingers as your heart-hitting lyrics flow through the room like they’re meaningless. Satoru’s head hits with the beat, beady eyes staring at the floor as he paces.
He interrupts, “Where do you want me to write?”
“After this interlude…” You sit back up, scrubbing the track about halfway through. With additional production, you can hear the sonic shape of the song take form — swirling drums, rolling synths. It’s all up there; you need to push it out. “…Right here.”
Satoru settles back on the couch once Infinite Void is plugged and ready. You can’t see him, but you hear the invisible static move about the room. His fingers land on a note, but before he can play anything, he stops. “What do you want it to sound like? Give me some direction.”
“I want it to sound like Satoru Gojo went into the studio after a fight with his partner and just wanted to let it all go… do whatever you want with that.”
When you look back, he’s smiling ear-to-ear. “So you just want me on the track.”
You shrug. “I want Lindsey Buckingham on the track, but uh… I don’t think that’ll happen.”
“Now, I do happen to think that I am more talented and attractive than Lindsey… and you’re absolutely more beautiful than Stevie.”
“Are we here to make a song, or are you just gonna flirt?”
“Both?”
You laugh. You can’t help it. “How about we make this song first?”
Satoru doesn’t budge. He stares you down with a gaze so deep that it humbles you. Then, he nods. “Alright, play it.”
You chew on that lingering smile, turning around to press play on the track. As Satoru takes a position on the fretboard, staying fairly low, he listens for only a second, then starts playing.
You didn’t know what you were expecting – perhaps something… simpler?
He takes that fifteen-second break and sprints with it, nailing out a perfect eight-fret spanning solo with no practice time and hardly any direction. Satoru dissociates in focus as his right hand picks his bottom three strings, staying there for the duration before hitting lower notes towards the end.
Leaning over to the amp to boost its gain and lower its volume, Satoru smiles when he looks back up at you again. “Yes or no?”
Speechless — wanting to say more, you shake your head in awe. “Yes, bu-
“But you want a pedal on it, I figured.”
You’re waving your hands to grab his attention as he takes his guitar off and searches around for any pedals he sees. “Satoru, wait – that was amazing, wow.”
“Yeah, it was pretty good.” He replies, crystalline eyes widening as he reaches into the cabinet under the wall of strings. “H-hey, there you are. Wow, hello – these are all so rare, I’ve never even seen th-
You’re stuck in the spot he left you, lips parted as you comb back through your memory. You can’t get the image of him absolutely dominating that guitar in front of you without mercy. You think it’s the sexiest show of power and dedication you’ve ever seen, and he didn’t even miss a beat. You swear your heart even started beating in time with his strums. "You just–you changed my life, and you don’t even care?”
“What do you mean? I know it was good.” He peeks back at you from his kneel, glossy lips quirked up into a smirk. “Did you like it hard and fast like that?”
You laugh, but you pause as he stands up. “Huh?”
“Actually, you seem like the girl who takes it slow and soft… should I rewrite and go down that route?” Satoru’s voice whispers out as his sentence goes on, and he steps to you like he’s expecting you to throw your life to the wolves and get naked right now.
As crazy as it sounds, you think you would if he just asked.
Biting your finger, you smile towards him, blatantly endearing. “N-no. I like the fast one.”
Satoru kicks the amp cord out of the way, shiny shoes getting caught in it. He trips forward, catching himself before he can tumble into your lap. Chewing on a laugh, he continues, “How about fast and reverbed? Fast and heavy? Dreamy? Spooky?”
You watch as he regains himself easily, leg rocking against your crossed knees. “Now, you’re just saying buzzwords.”
“Are you buzzing?” He counters, sliding the gold-plated vintage pedal processor onto the sound table.
“Like a bee.” Your voice slims out when he's so close that you can feel his aura over her heat-laden skin. Every bone in your body is arguing with each other, trying to will you to push down all the thoughts he brought to the forefront of your mind with one passing, shiny gaze. Satoru almost smells… sweet as he hovers. It's a sweetness you felt was lost on you when you started spending so much time with Suguru.
"Can't promise what I did will translate directly on the track, I just improvised." He adds, the glow of his pupils meets the flickering, steady red recording lights on the dashboard. He fiddles around with some amounts, gently leaning over you to get his fingers in your Pro Tools without asking. You let him add new tracks — picking out a cerulean shade and naming it 'Jo' for where his guitar solo would sit amongst the fifteen different tracks in the program. He doesn't wish to push you out of the way or pry, but Satoru thinks you're one of the only personalities that exudes submission from the very soul. It makes him wonder just how you've managed to progress so far in this male-dominated industry if you're letting him control the scene on your soundboard.
Peeking down at you as you watch him work with a finger in your mouth, Satoru finds himself staring. You peek up at him, then look down in a mix of shame and mystique, trying to hide the stupid, girlish smile that tugs at the corners of your lips under his attention. "I just want you on the track." You reiterate, heart jumping when he stands to his full, towering height.
"And when Suguru hears this solo, you're planning on saying that you flushed it out?"
"No, I'm going to tell him that you did it, and he can get over it."
"You don't think that'll make him mad?"
You shrug, watching as he connects all his wires, tests his mic input, mutes around the board, and clicks a few switches before shrugging into the booth. "Everything makes him mad. I don't ever try to push his buttons, you know."
Satoru hates the way he can feel the small break in your tone as you mention it, and wishes he could intercept your life even for just a second to see the two of you's personal dynamic. He wonders if it's anything like the push and pull Satoru and Suguru navigated throughout their twenties — even then, Suguru was strict, yet overwhelmingly sweet.
Now, Satoru feels like he doesn't know one of the most important figures in his life anymore. The kid he used to sleep next to in tour buses, cuddled close because there was only one blanket, wasn't the bone-thin, tattooed rock star who ingested more drugs than he had food in the last year.
"I hate sounding repetitive, but I think you are one of the most talented artists in our generation. Sure, tumultuous relationships make for good songwriting, but what about good relationships? I've never heard you sing a ballad of love before — there's always a but, you know?"
"W-well, I don't think my relationship is… bad,"
Satoru sucks his cheek in like he wants to say more, but decides he's wasted enough time at your side when he could be laying down this track. He sits up, rocking on the ball of his shoes. "I'm sure you know better than I do." He finally gives in, moving from your side and ducking into the recording booth with his instrument.
You count him in, playing with some volume and feedback issues as he plugs up. Silently, you're thinking about everything he just said — the love songs that feel like loathing, the empty, uncomfortable feeling that sits in your chest when Suguru hears what you've written about him for the first time. For so long, you calculated your success on being uncomfortable, thinking it was the end-all, be-all in your career. It almost feels counterfeit that Satoru is making you question it all. You just don't know what to think.
Walking through Soho on a day off, ripe off the back of an entire day of sleep, you listen to your new demo in your headset at full volume.
Two versions exist, both with the working name 'The End'. One of them exists with your voice, Suguru's bass, and your guitar. The other, your favorite, is your voice, Suguru's bass, and Satoru all over rhythm and lead guitar. The sound he brings to the track is so fresh and exciting that it takes over your body in steady strides. Every time that first note to his solo hits, you're covered in tiny, uncomfortable goosebumps, in the best way possible.
You never thought you'd find harmony in collaboration outside of Suguru, but Satoru is taking everything you thought you knew about yourself and is throwing it to the wind. It's liberating, you love waking up to his name on your phone, and you know you love his talent. Even if his version of the song doesn't see daylight, it'll be a monument in your music library for the rest of your life.
Continuously blocking out the world, you turn to your apartment complex, bearing the five-floor walkup, just so you can hear the song loop through just one more time. It's been two days since the studio session, and you've spent the downtime in bed, without Suguru, just trying to gather your thoughts and exist in your body without overexerting yourself. It always feels odd to be back in your space without him waiting on your — no lingering scent minus his clothes in your closet. It's not a lonely feeling being alone like this; instead, it feels freeing.
The first thing you do when you toss your headset off, shrugging down your layers of jackets and scarves, is sit at your desk, right in front of your open laptop. It's all where you left it a few hours ago while you ran errands around your neighborhood, propped open with the promise of a call you know is bound to hit you at any second.
You flick through a few tabs — mainly research articles for songs and poems you wanted to braid into your writing. A significant amount of your downtime is spent discovering new melodies, concepts, and gaining a deeper understanding of themes you want to explore in the current music you're recording. Suguru's likely on his stomach in bed, all the blackout curtains drawn, as he sleeps his sanity away, but you want that for him. You're okay with radio silence on his end, especially since Satoru has been a persistent presence in your ear since the other night, and a pop-up notification from the side of your screen urging you to join a video call.
You settle with a smile, tucking some hair into ruliness as you accept the call, sitting back as his sweet face blurs onto your screen. This is your second time talking to him like this — so far removed. He's back in Tokyo as of yesterday, boasting about how good it is to be home, even though he was only gone for a week.
'Hello!' He chirps your way in his native tongue, making your heart beat just a few paces quicker as he settles down on his couch. For it being early morning in New York, Satoru's house is pitched in an inky, nighttime darkness.
"I was wondering when you'd call." You start, staring at the way he combs through his hair easily as his lazy gaze falls onto your pristine face. "I just got through listening to our demo—
'About that!' He cuts you off enthusiastically, face all lit with emotion and excitement. You nod, letting him have the floor to ramble to you for as long as he needs. 'I know your fears about releasing it, but I managed to play around with the track some today and got a good friend to do a live drum loop on it.'
"Oh, shit, no way."
Satoru nods, hardly able to swallow down his excitement now that you're sitting up straight, skin sparkling in the wintry natural light in your living room. 'I'll play it for you, just listen—
Throwing your hands up, letting him turn this call into whatever he needs it to be, you watch him stand up and move to his own laptop, the phone capturing an attractive down-angle of his chiseled jaw line. You sit on the other line, chewing on your lip as he presses and plays around. Then, your song starts, and the slight drum loop fading in and out of the background makes your jaw drop.
You two wait until the playback is finished to speak — Satoru navigates back to his spot on the couch, and you're stuck speechless, so he fills the awkward silence for you. 'Guy's name is Choso — he's just a kid, but his rhythm is almost supernatural.'
Genuinely, you mutter, "It sounds… so good, Satoru."
He smiles so wide, giving you that fleeting shine from his leftmost tooth gem. 'I also played with some production on it, too. Oh, it's so nice to finally be able to tweak and prod at Suguru's basslines again — whew.'
"He's gotten so weird about being the only one producing our stuff." You laugh, though the situation is far from it. Suguru just has a hard time relinquishing control, but you can't truly blame him. Everything he produces is minimalistic, yes, but it's slowly woven its way into your brand. Fans know that if they're getting a new song from you two, that it'll be stark and introspective — there's no need to change that. "So I'm glad you were able to find some space in it to play."
Satoru listens to you talk a bit, nodding in all the right places, flicking his gaze across your sweet face as you go in about topics you've become masterful at. 'All he gave me was space. Your lyrics are so bleak that I feel like a more loaded back track may be exactly what the song needed.'
"Suguru didn't play on it with the intention of actually releasing it, I don't think." You add, furrowing your brows as you navigate back to that night. It's all so fuzzy — a haze of excitement, unknowing, and dedication. After Satoru left that night, Suguru took his spot in the booth, recorded two more takes on his bass, then sat down in silence and produced it halfway before growing weary and stopping to get high… again. Safe to say, you spent the rest of that session dissociating into your diary, writing down potential new lyrics and structure until he got hold of himself. "It was just a bad night for him."
Satoru waits until you finish, sighing heavily as his head lolls back on the cushion. 'I should have stayed.'
"No, you shouldn't have." You reply sternly, knowing that you had forced Suguru's hand in this situation. You two could've jammed that night, coming up with a brand new song that you both agreed on and called it a one-off single. But you couldn't stop. The song was haunting you — screaming new melodies and lyrical concepts in your sleep when you tried to will it down. It felt that once you released those words about relationship insecurity and suffocation, it'd make the feeling real. You don't want to come to terms with that.
'And he still doesn't know about my version?'
"No, I'm terrified of telling him." You confess, sitting back as you chew at the guitar callouses on your fingers, a bad habit that Satoru caught wind of the first time you met. "I haven't even told my manager or label that we even made a song, I mean— I'm trying to approach it the smartest way I know how."
'Keep an open mind, baby.' He starts, staring at you with deep, serious eyes that command your attention on a whim. 'Leave the song with me, hm? I'll finish production and have it mastered, then we'll just leak it.'
You stare at him, slack-jawed for a moment, watching the way his gaze doesn't even falter. If anything, it sharpens when he sees just how shocked you are. "L-leak?"
'Listen, I know— It's a scary thought, and we won't make anything on it, but the track is good enough that I know people will listen and beg for a real release.'
"How many times have you leaked your own shit?"
'Once, but it worked. The label released it the day after the leak, simply because they didn't know we had done it. Crazy, right?'
"And… it worked?" You repeat, not too convinced.
'Like a charm.' Satoru smiles at you like you owe him something, turning that into a steady lip-bite as you stew over the possibilities in your mind. 'Don't be scared. Let me deal with it, okay? I'll finish it up, send it over, then leak it as soon as you tell me to. No ties back to you or me — just an outtake from your last album if it doesn't take off, or a brand new single if it does.'
"I-I trust you." You find yourself looking back into his comforting gaze, searching for reassurance that he's offering up on a gilded, silver platter.
'Oh, I can't wait. I'll keep you updated on it, okay? This is going to be great.'
You don't learn about the leak until you're sitting across from Suguru at a quaint breakfast spot in Chelsea, smiling at his glowing, plump reflection under the bloated yellow lights. You can see in his face that he's been detoxing — or, at least, trying to. There's still a slight twitch in his hand when he reaches to hold yours, but today he's actually looking at you and not through you.
You feel like it's a good sign, and though you know you can't fix him anymore, it's nice to look in his eyes and at least pretend like you can. Suguru eats a good amount of his food, finishing his toast while you catch him up on what you've been doing over the last few days, since you two have sat face-to-face. Of course, you text him throughout the day or will call when you see he's awake or moving around, but you don't go out of your way to be right next to him all the time anymore.
Spending so much time attached at the hip on tour, then going semi-cold turkey when it comes to company, has been your best means of come-down. Suguru is so entirely hot and cold when it comes to you that you're surprised he even agreed on breakfast.
Maybe he thinks he's going to get laid, or maybe he's just actually hungry for once in his life, because this feels like a real date. You're hanging onto every single one of his languid jokes, giggling over black coffee, shielding your gaze from the sun that cuts through your booth window. The waitress approaches, and Suguru actually lets you talk for yourself, giving this girl a smile that could make the blind see again.
It's so refreshing that you almost feel bad for the message that pops up on your screen when you turn it around, nodding lightly to whatever he's going on about now.
A new message from Nanami decorates your lock screen, stern and scolding, with the attached link of a mess of words and numbers, all punctuated with an .mp3 tag. Your heart races. This is getting real.
It seems as if Suguru got it too, because he digs in his back pocket as his phone dings, noting the conversation finished with a short laugh. "Oh, it's Nanami." He mentions, his brows furrowing as he expands on the message. As soon as he sees, his tone drops straight to Hell. "What the fuck is this?"
Your heart drops right with his tone, ready to curl in on yourself, and push the blame onto bad timing and lax security. It wouldn't be the first time your library has been hacked, and Suguru is aware of that. It was part of the reason you were so quick to agree to Satoru's crazy idea — you could easily write off the song to power-hungry traders, and not the fact that Suguru made you feel so overwhelmingly creatively stifled.
"What is this song? Are you fu—
"Suguru, not here," You whisper, reaching forward to take one of his hands in your own. You know he can read the nerves all over your face, and if he asks questions, you know you're bound to crack and spill the truth in his comforting, safe lap.
"'The End'? Oh, fuck off— that's such a terrible name. Wait… is this the song we recorded in Greenwich?"
"Uh— I didn't even look at it, I-
Cutting you off, Suguru opens the link he was sent and lets the first few seconds of the track play, his face dropping once the realization comes over him. "This is a joke…"
He stares up at you with beady, dark eyes, heart racing, and grip shaking around his phone. You sit back in your booth seat, letting his hand go, and feel guilty like a kicked puppy. You don't know what to say — how to act, or what to do, really.
"Who the fuck is playing drums on that? I left them out for a reason—
"I—I, uh…" Then, the worst meets his ears — that Satoru solo that can't be written off for anyone else.
Suguru knows it the moment that first note hits. His heart completely stills, mind piecing together every inch of this screwed-up, fucked puzzle that just came to be within the last minute. You never assumed that Suguru was clueless, but you assumed he wouldn't be able to tell that Satoru was playing on it. "You are…"
"Don't even finish that statement." You beat him to it, ready to grab your purse and run for the hills if he's due to detonate at any second. "Not if you still want me in your bed tomorrow."
Now, you're not trying to hide it. Suguru isn't, either; his face pales and inflames as he stares at you unblinking. "What did you do?" He almost sounds… scared. It feels as if you've replaced him before he's had a chance. Suguru knows he was being hard that night — lazy with a song he should've treasured, even if it doesn't paint him in the best light. Still, he doesn't register that feeling when betrayal and anger swim like tar in his veins.
"I didn't leak the song."
"No, but you had Satoru play on it?" Then, it sounds like he's due to cry, eyes falling as he tucks some hair back into his falling bun. He shakes his head, eyes wide and staring at nothing because he can't find the willpower to look at you. "I would have done anything on that song, and you went behind my back…"
"You're full of it, and it's making me sick." You decide, giving him time to have the last word as you slide out of your seat, tossing a pair of twenties on the table that should cover a bulk of the bill. Anything else, Suguru can cover. It's the least he can do.
Pushing your bag onto your shoulder, reaching back to snatch up your phone, you don't say anything — not really. Instead of spewing hate in his direction that he can't exactly stomach anymore, you give him a fleeting look over your shoulder and mutter:
"It's not just about the music anymore, you know that."
at 6am, your boyfriend woke up and sauntered downstairs to find you already awake and fixing him a cup of black coffee.
and before he could thank you, you poured it down the sink and disappeared upstairs. that’s fine. he could work with that.
at 12pm, toji’s eyes were trained on the tv, watching the game. a little thirsty, he stood up from the only couch in the house and found himself a cold beer in the fridge.
he made his way back to the sofa to find you sprawled out already, yawning like a tired housecat. that’s alright. he didn’t mind sitting on the floor for you.
as the hours passed, all damn day, you wouldn’t stop hunting for numerous ways to piss toji off. but the whole time, the reaction and attention you desperately wanted, craved even, never came.
he didn’t shout, didn’t snarl or ask you what the fuck your problem was. nothing. just an unbothered gaze as he settled for less each time you made an attempt to irk him.
by 7pm, you’d basically given up and snuggled yourself next to him on the couch - this time making room for both of you. toji flicked through different posts on his phone, muttering under his breath.
“you done being a fuckin’ brat?” he mused, absentmindedly thumbing your side. you huff and nod your head which leaned against his broad shoulder.
“that’s good, sweetheart.” a beat of silence. and another, until you noticed the grip he had on your hip had tightened. “real good.”
ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 mdni , read more !
you didn’t expect yourself to be in this position. or maybe you did, just not like this.
toji effortlessly positioned you over his lap, lifting his leg to trap your own thighs in place. before you had room to ask questions or complain, your panties dropped to your ankles and two large digits were already dragged up and down your slick before sinking deep into your leaking hole.
“pathetic,” he spat, curling his fingers and making you whimper at the hooking motion in your spongy walls. “acting out all day for some attention. now look at you.”
the pace was suddenly picked up and you swore you saw stars for a moment. your desperate moans filled the silence of the living room along with the shlck, shlck, shlck of toji’s huge fingers stretching you out.
just before you were about to reach your high, he pulled out, shoving his middle and index into your mouth. you whined at the empty feeling, tasting yourself and gently suckling on them as his free hand gently caressed your ass.
“if you wanna behave like a desperate little girl,” toji snarled, hand now lifting and swatting down hard with a smack! “then i’ll treat you like one. count.”
you begin with shaky breaths and hesitation, tears already threatening to spill. “o-one— nnh, ‘m sorry, ‘ji!”
your boyfriend crooned in faux sympathy, smacking again. you yelped the next number with wet eyes, accepting your fate by now. he watched you cry with a stern look etched on his face, though he’d never really be sick of putting you in your place.
“you’re sorry, doll? y’gonna be a good girl now?”
you quickly nodded, his two fingers still in your mouth. you couldn’t help but slightly drool over them, both in pain and between tearful sobs about how sorry you were.
“yes, i didn’t m-mean it, i swear!” smack! “t-three— i promise, tojiii!”
the more you tried to verbally defend yourself or wriggle and squirm, the tighter toji had caged you in with his own leg. another slap sent jolts of hurt and pleasure right to your core and had you crying from your glossy eyes and down your thighs.
after what felt like hours of being trapped on his lap, he gently caressed your reddened and swollen cheeks with real sympathy now.
“that’s it,” he cooed, keeping his fingers in your mouth and slowly shifting your position to cuddle instead. toji had you straddled over his thighs, soothingly stroking your bruising skin. “you took it well, baby, y’r okay now, mm?”
you wrapped both arms around his neck, tear-stained face lost in the fabric of his shoulder. despite the brutal consequence you’d been given, you felt you wouldn’t mind falling asleep in his embrace.
which you did, eventually, and toji didn’t mind at all. he hummed in acknowledgement, peppering sweet kisses along your nape and holding you tightly on the couch.
a/n it’s actually shameful how much i rushed making this it’s so cheeks (no pun intended) i’m sorry guys >< but thank u so much for 500 followers omg i feel so hehahwheh ૮꒰ྀི∩´ ᵕ `∩꒱ྀིა
sukuna narrows his eyes at you from the couch. “why.”
“because your eyebrows are feral,” you say, climbing into his lap with tweezers in hand. “they’re literally trying to unionise.”
“they are fine,” he scoffs, even as you straddle him and push his head back against the cushions.
“you’re the king of curses, not the king of caterpillars. let me fix you.”
he grumbles something about divine punishment and vanity and “back in my day we didn’t tweeze anything” (he always goes on about the bloody heian era) but you just hold his chin steady and start inspecting the damage.
“oh my god,” you whisper. “this one hair is like... a full inch long.”
“and that’s a problem why?”
“because it’s migrating to your forehead, sukuna.”
he huffs. “this is abuse.”
“you literally kill people.”
“not lately.”
you roll your eyes and bring the tweezers up. “okay. ready?”
“i was born ready.”
you pluck the first hair.
“OW-”
you freeze. “did you just flinch?”
“no.”
“you flinched.”
“i did not-”
you pluck again.
“FUCK-”
you snort, trying not to laugh. “are you seriously about to start crying over eyebrow hairs?”
“they sting,” he growls, eyes watering slightly. “they betray me as they leave.”
you’re cackling now. full-on shaking in his lap.
“stop laughing,” he grits out.
“you’ve fought entire armies, taken over kingdoms, but god forbid someone touch your precious eyebrows.”
“you’re coming at me with tiny scissors,” he says, scandalized. “you think i’m not allowed to have survival instincts?”
you gently cup his cheek and smile, sweet as sugar. “okay, baby. just three more.”
“you said that six plucks ago.”
“well i lied.”
he groans, throws his head back like he’s being tortured, but stays perfectly still. because for all his drama, he secretly loves it. loves the way you sit in his lap like he’s your throne. loves the feeling of your fingers brushing against his face. loves the way you squint at him like he’s a museum exhibit that needs fixing.
you finish with a satisfied hum and kiss his forehead.
“there. you’re beautiful again.”
he grumbles, but he’s blushing. “i was always beautiful.”
“mm-hmm.”
“say it.”
“you were always beautiful.”
he smirks. “that’s right.”
you smile down at him, fond and amused. “still flinched, though.”
you’re laying on sukuna’s lap, upside-down, eating spicy chips out of the bag while he scrolls through his phone like he didn’t survive a thousand years just to babysit your gremlin ass.
“hey,” you say, mouth full. “what would you do if you were the strongest sorcerer?”
he doesn’t look up. “i am.”
“no, but like - if you were.”
his eye twitches. “i am.”
you blink up at him from where your head’s hanging off the couch cushion. “nah. you’re hot and all, but gojo would mop the floor with you.”
sukuna pauses. slowly sets his phone down.
“what did you just say?”
you grin. “gojo satoru. tall. white-haired. infinity guy? the one you pretend not to stalk on twitter?”
“i will end your bloodline.”
“no you won’t,” you giggle, tossing a chip at his face. “you love me too much.”
he grabs your wrist in one hand and yanks you upright like a toy, suddenly nose to nose with you.
his eyes narrow.
“you think you’re real funny, huh?”
you blink innocently. “a little bit.”
he growls low in his throat. “say that shit again. go on.”
you pout. “don’t be mad, baby. it’s just, y’know, if you were the strongest-”
his hand’s around your throat in a flash.
“say it one more time.”
your legs instinctively clamp shut. you’re still smiling, barely hiding the way your breath hitches.
“if you were the strongest-” you start sweetly.
he kisses you hard enough to make your spine light up. it’s rough, angry, wet - all tongue and teeth and punishment. he kisses like he’s trying to shut your mouth by brute force alone.
“you’ve got a real mouth on you,” he mutters, pulling back just enough to speak against your lips. “guess i’ll have to fuck the opinions out.”
you giggle. “what, just ‘cause i like gojo’s little blindfold?”
his eye twitches.
“you’re begging to be split open, huh?”
you lick his lip. “maybe i just like seeing you jealous.”
he pushes you back onto the couch and climbs over you, mouth dragging down your neck, biting hard enough to leave teeth.
“i’ll show you who the strongest is, princess,” he mutters against your skin. “next time you try to walk, remember who made you forget your own fuckin’ name.”
you moan, hips grinding up against him. “yes please.”
“you’re disgusting,” he says fondly.
“you love it,” you beam.
he groans like it physically pains him to love you this much. “you’re lucky you’re cute. and that your cunt’s god tier.”
“thanks, king,” you pant. “yours is too.”
“…i don’t have a- whatever. shut the fuck up.”
AN: honestly if sukuna was my bf, i would ragebait him all the time by sayin gojo's stronger.
that’s it.
that’s all sukuna wants. one moment of peace after his shower, standing by the edge of the bed in nothing but a towel, hair wet, steam still clinging to his skin.
but you’re watching him.
you’re watching him like a feral little creature, all wrapped up in sukuna’s your hoodie, buried under the blankets like a burrito with only your eyes peeking out.
he can feel your gaze on him.
“…stop staring,” he mutters, towel slung over his shoulders.
you squint.
“no.”
he sighs.
“why are you looking at me like that?”
you kick the blankets off dramatically and crawl across the bed toward him, wide-eyed and dangerous. “you’re so hot it’s ruining my life.”
“i’m literally just standing here.”
“hotly.”
before he can reply, you're up on your knees, reaching for him with grabby hands.
“come here,” you say. “i need to squish your face.”
“you need to what-hey!”
you grab his cheeks with both hands, squishing them together into the most ridiculous pout.
he looks absolutely offended.
“stop it,” he says flatly, through squished lips.
“you’re so cute,” you gasp.
“i’m not.”
you tilt your head, still holding his face like a stress ball. “you are.”
he blinks. “you’re obsessed with me.”
“correct.”
“you’re in love with me.”
“yes.”
“…you’re a menace.”
“also yes.”
he exhales, long-suffering, letting you continue to poke at his face like you’re trying to memorise every part of it.
you kiss his cheek once.
twice.
then his jaw.
then the tip of his nose.
he raises an eyebrow.
“done?”
“no,” you say, immediately kissing his collarbone. “you smell like soap. and sin.”
he gives you a look.
“you’re gonna end up on your back in ten seconds if you keep this up.”
“promises, promises,” you whisper dramatically, flopping onto the bed like a victorian widow. “god, imagine being the most dangerous man alive and letting your tiny chaotic girlfriend bully you.
sukuna rolls his eyes but he's already crawling into bed after you, towel discarded, hands warm and heavy as he pulls you onto his chest like it’s second nature.
you nuzzle into him, legs tangled, hoodie sleeves bunched up around your fingers.
“…you still think i’m cute?” he asks, almost teasing.
toji fushiguro didn't even pretend he was gonna participate.
“no nut november?” he scoffed, eyeing you sideways while gnawing on a toothpick. “i fuck every day. you think some internet virgin holiday’s gonna stop me?”
but then you smirked, crossed your legs just a little slower than necessary, glanced up at him from the couch with those wide, teasing eyes and murmured— “ah, figures you wouldn’t last.”
that got his attention.
he didn’t say anything right away, just stared. toothpick shifting from one corner of his mouth to the other. like a wolf clocking the idiot rabbit that thought it could get away with a little tail flick.
“you saying i couldn’t do it?”
you stretched like a cat. “not even one day.”
“...bet.”
and so, day one began.
you were merciless. started subtle. brushing past him shirtless when he got out the shower, letting a drop of water slide down your sternum and pool between your tits. leaving the bathroom door cracked when you touched yourself in the tub—quiet little moans, the squelch of fingers sliding wet into heat, just loud enough to carry.
he didn’t crack. so, you started pushing.
bending over in just panties when you knew he was behind you. sitting on his lap with zero reason, grinding just enough to make his cock twitch under you while you "searched for the remote." whispering filth into his ear at breakfast.
“your cock looked so hard this morning, baby. bet it hurts. poor thing.”
he grunted. said nothing. but his grip on your thigh left a fingerprint bruise.
by evening, he was pacing.
agitated. bulge swelling obscenely against his sweats. jaw clenching every time he passed you and caught a glimpse of your thighs, your smirk, that bratty fucking glint in your eyes like you knew he was seconds from ruining you.
and then you made a mistake. not a real one, a calculated one.
you licked a little whipped cream from your finger after dinner, eyes locked on his. didn’t break eye contact as you sucked that finger clean, slow and deep, tongue swirling, lips sealing with a wet pop.
that was it.
“...get on the fuckin’ bed.”
you laughed and didn’t move.
“oh?” you hummed, all mock-sweetness. “i thought you weren’t gonna break—”
“bed,” he growled. “now.”
you took one step, and he was already grabbing your arm, tossing you bodily onto the mattress like you weighed nothing. the air left your lungs with a gasp as his body blanketed yours, all heat and muscle and rage.
he didn’t even undress you. just shoved your panties aside and split you open on his cock in one filthy, brutal thrust.
“nn—ahh—fuck, toji!”
“shut up.” his voice was ruined, fucked-out and trembling. “you wanted this, yeah? wanted to run your fuckin’ mouth all day, tease me like that? now take it.”
you clawed at the sheets, already soaked, already throbbing from the stretch. he was so thick, it felt like he was tearing you in half, and he didn’t even give you a second to breathe. just pulled back and slammed in again, rough and raw, hips pistoning like he had no concept of pacing.
“day one,” he snarled, breath heaving. “you had to fuckin’ push—knew what’d happen—wanted me to break—”
he punctuated every word with a thrust, hard enough to bounce the bedframe against the wall. your voice cracked on a moan, body jostling, sweat-slick and flushed and gasping beneath him.
“look at you now,” he panted. “little whore can’t even speak. that what you wanted? wanted me to fuck you dumb?”
you couldn’t even nod. you were crying, twitching around him, body overwhelmed by the pace, the pressure, the depth. he was fucking you like he hated you, like his pride had been personally wounded by your smirk and he was set on breeding the disrespect out of you.
his fingers found your throat. his other hand dug into your thigh, holding it high so he could fuck deeper, grind against your cervix with every savage snap of his hips.
“i’m gonna cum inside you,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “fuck november. i’ll fuckin’ put a kid in you if i feel like it.”
you spasmed around him with a sharp, high cry. he felt it, the way your pussy clenched, milked, pulled, and his groan was deep and wrecked.
“oh yeah? you want that?” he growled. “want me to fill you up so good you’re drippin’ for the rest of the fuckin’ week?”
you babbled something—yes, maybe, please—and then he snapped entirely.
pulled out for a second, spat on his cock, shoved it back in with a wet schlck, started pounding you again with manic speed. the sound of skin on skin, the wet suck of your cunt around him, the breathless, choked sobs you gave him with every slam.
“gonna cum—fuck, fuck, fuck—” he gritted out, eyes squeezed shut.
and then he was emptying inside you. fast, deep, ropes of cum flooding your insides, his whole body trembling with the force of it. he didn’t stop thrusting, shallow little rolls of his hips to work it deeper as he snarled against your neck:
“take it. every fuckin’ drop.”
you whimpered, thighs quivering, vision swimming and even as your body went limp under him—he leaned back, looked at the mess between your legs, and muttered with a grin:
“still got eleven hours of day one left.”
he grabbed your hips and dragged you back into his lap.
he lies back on the couch—sweats low on his hips, shirt off, inked forearms resting against a cheap tray balanced on his stomach. grinder open. backwood in his mouth. weed broken up perfectly on his chest.
“c’mon up here,” he murmurs without looking up. “wanna taste you while I roll.”
you blink. “choso—”
he taps your thigh, lazy. “don’t make me ask twice.”
so you climb over him. straddle his chest. edge forward—hesitant—until your pussy’s right above his face. he finally looks up. pupils blown. lips wet from the blunt. mouth curved, dangerous and smug.
“there she is.” and then he pulls you down.
his tongue is already in you before you get your balance—flattening against your folds, licking up everything leaking out of you with a groan so sincere it rattles your core. you gasp, hands scrambling to brace on the couch back.
he keeps going, licking a stripe from your entrance to your clit, sucks it into his mouth hard, and you jerk—hips twitching. thighs clenching around his head.
his voice comes up muffled. “sit on it, baby. you’re not fuckin’ fragile.”
you sit.
he moans deep and guttural and filthy. like you just gave him the best high of his life.
his tongue goes back to work—slow circles, then up-and-down flicks that get faster every time you whimper. he keeps one hand on your ass, gripping hard, the other lazily tapping his tray like he’s still gonna finish the blunt.
and somehow? he does.
you feel the flick of his lighter before you see it.
click—flick—flame.
he lights it with his tongue still buried in your pussy, pulls away, and takes a long drag. smoke curls up past your thighs, warm and sweet, drifting over your skin while he goes back to eat you like your cunt’s the only thing he’ll remember when he dies.
“choso—fuck—”
your whole body’s shaking. you can barely stay upright.
he pulls back for a breath, chin soaked, eyes hooded. “lemme finish the blunt. then I’ll let you cum.”
just a little mirror shot. your skirt short, hips cocked, your hand lifting the hem to reveal bare thighs—and nothing underneath. your caption was smug:
no panties. bet you won’t do shit.
toji replied in ten seconds flat.
be ready in five.
you thought he’d tease you about it, maybe a little over-the-clothes groping, rough hands on your ass while you were trying to order lunch. but the look in his eyes when you slid into his passenger seat told you otherwise.
he didn’t speak for the first five minutes of the drive. just gripped the wheel tight, jaw clenched, tongue running along the inside of his cheek like he was holding something back. the way his eyes dropped to your bare thighs—legs shifting, pressed together under the skirt like they could hide how wet you already were—had your heart racing.
"show me," he said suddenly, eyes still on the road.
you blinked. "what?"
"don’t play dumb. open your legs. show me that needy little cunt you left the house with."
your face flushed hot. but you obeyed, leaning back in the seat and parted your thighs slowly, skirt bunching around your waist, baring your slick folds to the open air. the a/c hit your pussy and made you shiver.
toji glanced once, then again. his nostrils flared. "fuck, you’re soaked." he didn’t even touch you. just kept driving with that crooked smirk.
you made it all the way to the parking garage. he pulled into a shadowed corner, cut the engine, turned toward you—and his hand shot between your legs. rough fingers parted your folds and dragged upward through your slit.
"mmnn—toji—!" you jerked, hips jumping.
"this is what happens when you fuckin' tease me, brat," he muttered, leaning in, lips brushing your jaw. "you go out in a little slutty skirt, nothing under, and dare me to lose control?"
he shoved two fingers inside you and you gasped, head falling back, thighs clenching around his wrist.
"keep 'em open," he growled. "you wanted this. now fucking take it."
he didn’t even unbuckle his seatbelt. just leaned closer, lips biting your throat while his fingers curled deep and fast, knuckles slick, your wetness coating his palm. you were already whining, trying to stay quiet as the sounds of schlk schlk schlk echoed in the closed car.
but then he pulled out. you barely had time to whimper before he was out of the car, walking around to your side. he opened the passenger door and grabbed your ankle.
"toji—!"
he yanked you halfway out of the car, feet on the ground, your upper body still sprawled across the seat, knees spread wide, skirt riding up. the whole garage was empty, but most likely not safe.
and you loved it.
"you’re gonna fuck me right here," he muttered, undoing his belt with one hand, while taking your seat in the car, cock already thick and flushed, leaking at the tip. he stroked himself once—then grabbed your hips and pulled you down onto his lap.
the first thrust was brutal. you choked on a cry, arms flying around his shoulders, pussy stretching full around his cock.
"so fuckin’ tight," he groaned into your ear, both hands gripping your ass hard, slamming you down over and over. "drippin’ all over me. and we’re still in public."
you tried to say something—tried to tell him someone might see—but he just grabbed a fistful of your hair and yanked your head back.
"let 'em see," he snarled. "let 'em see what a nasty little thing you are, bouncin’ on my cock in a fucking parking lot. no panties, no shame."
your moans were high, breathless, swallowed into his mouth as he kissed you hard, teeth clashing, your body bouncing on his lap with each punishing thrust. his cock hit deep, your clit grinding against the root of him every time you dropped. the car creaked with the motion. sweat slicked your spine. your thighs were shaking.
"toji—i’m—" you couldn’t even finish.
your climax ripped through you hard, legs locking around him as your pussy clenched like a vice. he grunted, bucking harder, his hands bruising your hips as he fucked you through it.
"that’s it," he growled. "cream on my cock. let me feel that messy cunt."
and then he was cumming too.
his breath stuttered, his arms locked around you as he shoved himself deep and stayed there, cock twitching, thick cum spilling into you. you felt it drip back out almost instantly, trailing down his shaft, smearing onto his jeans.
the car was silent, save for your panting. you slumped against him. dazed. boneless. a complete mess.
toji chuckled, "panties or not," he murmured against your neck, "you’re mine."
and then, with zero shame, he pulled out, scooped some of the cum dripping from your pussy with his fingers—and shoved it back inside.
your palms are flat on the fogged-up glass. chest pressed forward, tits soft and slick where they meet the cold. water crashes against your back and shoulders, steam curling in your lungs - but you barely feel any of it.
because all you can feel is him.
toji’s behind you, drenched and burning. he’s got one hand braced on your hip, the other between your thighs - thumb drawing messy, wet circles over your clit, unrelenting, fast and a little mean.
“don’t stop,” you gasp, breath fogging up the glass. “please, don’t-”
“who’s stoppin’?” he murmurs, teeth at your shoulder. “not me, baby.”
he thrusts into you again - thick, deep, brutal. it knocks the breath from your chest, your hips from the wall, your brain right out of your head. you squeak. falter. slip a little.
he laughs.
“careful now,” he rasps, dragging you back up by the waist. “don’t go breakin’ your neck while daddy’s fuckin’ you.”
you shudder. moan. rut your hips back against him - needy and reckless and soaked to the bone. he groans at the feeling of it, at the slap of your ass against his thighs, and fucks into you harder just to watch the ripple.
his cock hits that spot that makes you cry out - makes your hands scramble uselessly against the glass, like you’re trying to hold yourself steady when you’re already a goddamn mess.
“look at you,” he mutters, low and smug, water dripping down his neck, dark hair plastered to his forehead. “barely standin’. this little pussy that desperate for me, huh?”
you nod. or try to. your whole body’s shaking.
his fingers don’t stop moving - soaking, teasing, spreading you open while he fucks you full. there’s water everywhere. on your lips, in your eyes, streaming down your spine. the tile’s slippery. your legs are trembling. the only thing keeping you up is him.
and he loves it.
“yeah, fuckin’ knew it,” he growls, pressing in deeper, making sure you feel it. “you like this, huh? hands on the wall, tits on the glass, me stuffin’ you full while you drip all over my fuckin’ floor.”
your whine is pathetic. your thighs are shaking. your knees buckle-
but he catches you before you fall, groaning something half-wicked and half-worried against the back of your neck.
“told you not to slip, dumb girl,” he mutters. “you okay?”
you nod into the glass. “yeah. yeah, just-fuck, toji, please-”
“yeah, baby,” he pants. “i got you. daddy’s got you. g’nna fill this pussy up, just hold on.”
you come first. full-body, leg-trembling, moan-strangled-against-the-glass type of orgasm. and he follows not long after - shoving in deep, thick and twitching and breathless, filling you with every drop of his thick seed.
and for a long moment, all you can hear is water. and breathing. and his big, strong arms, still wrapped around your waist like he doesn’t wanna let go.
ten minutes later, you’re in his towel, pressed to his chest on the couch while megumi eats cereal and very much pretends he didn’t hear anything.
toji just grins, sips his coffee, and slaps your thigh under the blanket.
jbbartram-illu
prguitarman
baratheonpilled
tangentwithtanner
