you drew them and for some odd reason they don’t like it 🧐
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a/n: A JJK SMAU???? if you liked it, let me know and i can make them from time to time 🙂↕️ i could also make a master list for it if i were to continue ! thank you to my mom who made choso and higuruma, and my sister who made gojo and sukuna😭 thank you for reading, i love you (. .*)β
♡ TW: kidnappning, captivity, cannibalism, gore, nonchalant reader, casual mention of asexuality, dark humor but leaning more toward what I'd call morbid absurdity?
♡ FEM reader
♡ AN: normal au, idk this is more comedic than what i normally write, originally a gag response to this post, put it got long...
You wake up groggy somewhere clean and classy.
The ceiling is tall, the furniture expensive—marble floors and Egyptian sheets—and none of it is any familiar whatsoever.
“Hello?” you call out, despite not seeing or hearing the hints of anyone, clutching the comforter to yourself with eyes still adjusting, blinking as you take everything in, getting more concerned as you do.
Did you get fucked up yesterday or what?
Surely not so fucked up you can’t remember booking yourself into a five-star hotel, right?
And yet, by the looks of it, you must have.
It should be more concerning, and yet, “Please, God, don’t let it be in my name,” is the prioritized thought. You’re so broke, you couldn’t even afford a fucking motel room right now, let alone whatever the fuck kind of grand suite this is.
You get up, only then noticing you’re dressed in a silk night gown—which only further distresses you with thoughts about the bill. Clothes nowhere in sight—at least not anything you can recognize as your own. But, laying on the dresser is a pretty little number, with a tiny little note on top.
“Wear me,” you read out loud. Face puzzled with a grimace, before further talking to yourself out loud, mumbling, “What the fuck Alice in Wonderland type shit is this? Did I go home with a freak?”
Confused as shit, you leave the dress where it is while looking around some more. The more you do, you start noticing things that make you start thinking this might be someone's house rather than a hotel room.
Walking into what you thought might be a bathroom, you discover a walk-in closet instead. Fully stocked with clothes. Expensive shit. Classy. And a little creepy, how it’s all solely in different shades of red. Your pajamas too, and the dress laid out. Someone must have a serious preference.
“Where the fuck am I at right now…”
Starting to freak out just a bit, you don’t try any more doors in favor of quickly finding the stairs. Soft in your step, you make your way down them warily. And on your way, you start hearing the tell-tale noise of another’s presence.
Cooking noises—pots and pans and the sound of a whirring fan. It smells good too.
You don’t think he—whoever he is—notices you. But standing with his back to you, shirtless, you sure notice him. He’s got broad shoulders and a toned back stocked with muscles, his waist snatched in a black apron. Hair dyed baby pink of all colors.
Yeah… you definitely got fucked up yesterday because who the fuck is this guy?
You decide against sticking around to find out. One-night-stands are only made weirder when they progress into the day thereafter, and you think you might just be able to make your way over to the door without being heard if you tip-toe it.
You throw it a glance from where you’re hiding around the corner. You can’t spot any shoes.
Shit, how’re you supposed to—
“Door’s locked,” the man informs over his shoulder, switching off the fan before turning around. He then walks up to the breakfast bar placed in the forefront of the kitchen, tray in hand full with a arrangement of bacon, eggs, juice and other morning classics.
He sets out two plates before sitting down.
He’s got face-tattoos—crazy ones that would be impossible not to notice. And yet, crazy as they are, they seem somewhat familiar. His hair is newly washed, hanging in curly bangs just above a pair of eyes that lean more toward the burn in auburn, but are all in all jaded as he starts eating without further acknowledging you.
“I’m sorry—” you squeak as you pop out of hiding, suddenly reminded of how you're still just standing there. “Sneaking out’s not usually my style, but–” A nervous laugh only seems appropriate as you start explaining yourself with theoretic excuses, “I must have taken something weird yesterday ‘cause I don’t remember how I got here at all. I don’t even remember going out—”
“You were on your way home from that shitty burger joint you work at,” he says, mouth full of toasted bread. “I took the liberty of burning your uniform. It was an offence to the art of cuisine.”
You’d just taken a seat on the opposite side of him, having accepted the awkward morning for what it was worth—a funny story for later, you’re sure. However, while the food is a good distraction, making your mouth water and your eyes wander, it’s not enough for you to disregard the unattended confusion left by your utter blackout of the night prior—and neither is his sloppy efforts of helping you navigate it.
“I’m sorry, what?”
He, on the other hand, seems more interested in the food, negligent when explaining, “I laid out a dress for you. I won’t force you to wear it, but you won’t be getting that retched thing you were wearing back, so you might as well—”
“Yeah, no, whatever—” you dismiss, shaking your head with a muddled expression—as if your uniform is the thing on your mind right now. “That doesn’t really explain how I got here?”
Again, helping you with your amnesia doesn’t seem to be too much of a priority to the man as he shrugs with a “There isn’t much to know.”
For all his looks, he doesn’t really have the charm to compliment them. What a shame, you think disappointedly to yourself, watching him with a wrinkle between your brows, wondering why and when chivalry died, and why on earth you’d ever choose to go home with a guy so lacking in it.
“You finished your shift and were on your way home,” he continues, and you’re glad to finally be getting somewhere. “But you never made it, because, while still in the parking lot, I knocked you out with some chloroform, put you in my trunk, and took you here.”
Yeah, that’s the point your throat closes shut.
“What?”
A shiver rushes through you and you get out of your chair. Was that a joke? What, is he a fucking comedian suddenly?
“What the fuck’s going on?!”
He doesn’t acknowledge your hysteria, still just sitting there, eating breakfast as though a woman screaming at him is just another day in his life.
“Do I have to spell it out for you? It’s easy. I kidnapped you. End of story.”
Your mouth hangs open, staring at him, but alas, with the same lack of urgency as he’d had since the beginning, he just ignores your state of shock like it’s something he can’t be bothered to deal with.
Instead, ordering you to “Now come. Sit. Eat,” as if that was more important than explaining himself. “Your system’s still full of chemicals. Gotta eat to flush ‘em out.”
Is he seriously asking you to eat breakfast?
“No drugs this time. Promise,” he adds shortly, as though you’d had the time to form the concern, while still busy trying to make sense of him offering breakfast in the first place after having confessed to kidnapping you.
The more you repeat it, the less sense it seems to make.
“And before you get any wild ideas. No, I’m not going to force myself on you either. That’s not the reason you’re here.”
Yet another thought that hadn’t had the time to cross your mind.
Just a short moment ago, you’d thought this whole thing was a drunk one-night-stand and now you’re learning that not even one part of that was true. Your brain isn’t able to keep up with the new reality, leaving you to stand there, finding little to no answers wracking your brain, making you feel at a loss like an insect trapped in a mason jar.
In the end, you’re only able to come up with reiterations of the same question, pertaining to “Then what the fuck? Why? What do you want?”
But even that seems to annoy him, only answering you with an unsympathetic “Not important for you to know,” before repeating himself, more sternly than before, “Now eat before it gets cold.”
Standing there a moment longer, your thoughts wander back to the door behind you and your shoeless feet and the possibility of you outrunning him, then remember his first comment about the locked door and how it meant you’d probably have no luck in getting out even if you could make it there first.
And then, in the midst of your train of thought regarding your next move, utterly unprompted and with seriously questionable timing given the current predicament, your stomach decides to growl.
You earn his eye-contact with that, the both of you staring at each other for a moment that ends up bordering on a while.
And in that while, you decide to table all ideas about trying to run, fight, or hide.
Sure, they’d have been more reasonable reactions, but none seemed like they’d bear any good results at the moment. And so, going against all reason, you end up doing as he had suggested. Indeed, eating would do you some good, you agree while sitting back down, fork in hand as you start piling up your plate.
While stuffing your face, you steal a look at him once or twice. He doesn’t return it—content with you eating while still equally busy stuffing his own face.
You don’t know… outside the fact that this stranger had just admitted to kidnapping you and divulged his intentions of keeping you hostage here, there’s something even odder going on. And that is that he doesn’t seem like a complete stranger at all…
Yeah… something about him is extremely familiar, but you can’t quite put your finger on it. You’re sure you haven’t met him—not face to face at least—but you can’t shake the feeling as if you’ve seen him somewhere before…
And that’s when it hits you.
“Wait… I know you!” you exclaim once it finally clicks, pointing a finger at him. “You’re that chef—the one who hosts that cooking show that makes all the contestants cry. What’s it called… Kitchen something…”
You snap your fingers, trying to trigger the memory. Whether the method is due credit or not is anyone’s guess, but in any case, you end up remembering.
“Malevolent Kitchen!”
You knew you’d seen those tattoos before. Of course! It’s honestly kind of odd it didn’t come to you any sooner. But you’ve never seen him with his hair down like that, nor were you ever a big fan of the show either.
Still, you recall the name after a few more snaps with your fingers. “Sukuna—Ryomen Sukuna. Right?”
“Correct.” He doesn’t give you more credence other than that, nor does he seem to care much that you figured it out either.
You weigh the possibility of all this being some new type of prank show, but the thought quickly proves too unikely—even when competing with the likelihood of him having kidnapped you off the streets for no good reason. But who knows? All prank shows start off with a shitty premise, after all…
You continue eating. Thinking about the show. You’re not sure if it’s still running. But you do recall hearing something about it a few years back.
There’d been a scandal or something, you think. Or no, not a scandal—more like a bad rumour. One of those stupid Tiktok trends. What was it again? You remember your friends discussing it—some saying it must have been some ploy designed by his rivals to make him run out of business, while others were certain it was actually a clever marketing trick designed to make more people check his restaurants out for themselves.
It was something stupid, and so you hadn’t given it much thought back then, but…
“Holy shit…” you announce once you remember.
True crime tiktokers—you remember now—missing girls and satanic cannibalistic shit.
“No way...” you accuse, dropping your scone onto your plate with a rattle. “Are you really a—”
Your head spins, unable to settle. And when it does, it proves only further unsettling, striking you with a sense of nausea.
“A cannibal?”
You’d hoped he’d laugh. Tell you that was crazy, then say something like you’ve just been pranked and prove to you that this really was all for some dumb reality show.
But he doesn’t.
No, he doesn’t say anything at all, like there’s no merit in even trying to deny it. Rather, he more or less confirms it, looking at you with a moderately impressed expression, like he’s surprised you figured it out so fast.
It fully dawns on you then.
“Oh God, that’s it, isn’t it?”
The sense of sickness deepens, making you look down at your plate in something akin to disgust.
And yet, while there should be a million other thoughts and regrets running though your mind, you can’t help but fret, wondering if breakfast was really going to be your final meal—a thought so depressing, it makes you throw your head back with a you-must-be-joking type of scoff, examining the ceiling above only to notice it being clinically white like in an asylum.
“Oh man, that’s just my luck,” you mutter to yourself more than anyone. “Fucking livestock.”
And then, you don’t know exactly why—it’s undefendable given everything at stake—but you snort as though it was all some big joke.
Suppose, the utter insanity of the morning had reached a summit then spilled over, staining you with it, because not before long you’re laughing, hands clutching the counter so that you don’t tip backwards while you fullheartedly cackle until you're left out right wheezing in your chair.
“Well…” you sigh after a while, with regards to the silver lining, “At least it's a nice cage.”
The man finds it odd, by the way of him, looking at you in silence, having ceased his eating with his hands kept passive beside his plate—not sure what to make of you.
You, on the other hand, reverse the roles and resume eating. Now, all but shoveling the contents on your plate into your mouth before looking up and further chirping, “Is there a jacuzzi in this place? It seems like the type of place to have a jacuzzi.”
Somewhat baffled, though not overly expressive, the man appraises you.
Then, with a pause, answers, “Upstairs.”
You push your barstool out after your final bite, cheering with the food still in your mouth “Score—” as though the reality of the situation went forgotten. “I'm gonna go check that out for a few hours.”
You’ve never been in a ritzy place like this before—it would be stupid not to reap the benefits while you still could. Given he’d just chowed down breakfast, he must not be planning on having you right this second. Besides, if he’s planning to kill and eat you, letting you use the jacuzzi is the least he could do.
You’re halfway to the staircase, when he calls out, “Just be done before dinnertime.”
You turn around and look at him at that, now with a new inquiry, “You’re cooking?”
So, is it safe to say he isn’t eating you at that point either? Maybe it’s more of a nightly thing? Suppose a thing like cannibalism would be better suited after midnight, given its satanic connotations and all, but you wouldn’t want to assume.
In any case, he nods his head, and you can’t think of anything to do but take it as another silver lining, saying, “Double score,” with a shrug before continuing on your path to the stairs.
But not before you’ve taken another step, he calls out a question, as though feeding the utter absurdity of the situation, “Any preferences?”
To which you just wave your hand, making your way to the second floor without stopping this time. “Nah, not really. ‘M not a foodie. Anything’s good!”
—
You’re in there for a while, he notes without bothering to check on you.
Even after several hours have passed by, all without a single sign of you, he decides to let you be.
He doesn’t mind being left undisturbed while cooking, but he won’t deny this type of behavior is new to him.
But perhaps it isn’t so strange. Maybe you’re just biding your time, thinking up ways of escape. A reasonable endeavor—though it won't do you any good. Try as you might, no one has ever come close.
He’ll enjoy watching your attempt nonetheless—all part of the fun.
And yet, despite expectations, you return on your own. Hair wet, skin flush, and fingers pruned as you go, looking refreshed of all things.
Not only that, but he can’t sense even a smidgen of ulterior motives in you—no fight or flight whatsoever. It’s exceedingly strange. None of his victims so far have ever approached him willingly after understanding their circumstances.
But then again, you hadn’t proved to be very normal at all so far.
You just take a seat before the decked dinner table, silently eyeing the bondage he’d typically have to use left around the chair’s arms and legs with mild curiosity, probably curious about how many had sat in the seat before you. And yet, you don’t ask him about it.
By the look on your face, it’s impossible to say if it even bothers you.
You’ve changed out of your pajamas into the dress he’d laid out. Bloodred on the darker side. Just according to the ritual. You’re certainly making things a lot easier than his previous victims. But he won’t say it’s any boring this way, at least not yet. Just for now, he’ll admit he’s even a little intrigued by you.
“Smells good,” you announce, breaking the silence, and he can’t help but further wonder over what an odd thing you’re revealing yourself to be, as he walks up and places your plate in front of you.
Usually, he’d have to threaten or force you—or the person in your place—to indulge him. You however? Not only are you willingly sitting there, you’ve already got cutlery in hand.
“Hmph,” he expresses in mild amazement, thinking, if you really weren’t going to make a fuss, he might as well just sit down as well.
It puts him out of sorts—makes him feel a little fidgety even—unable to make sense of your behavior as he is.
But then, despite looking ever ready to do so, you hold off on digging in. Instead eyeing the meat with a soft furrow between your brows as though assessing something.
It makes him halt. Thinking perhaps he was wrong—maybe he’ll have to force you after all.
Biting your lip, you look up at him through your lashes, eyeing him sheepishly for a small moment like you wanted to inquire about something, before you suddenly seem to banish the idea. Announcing with a shrug, “You know what? I’m not even gonna ask.”
You then cut yourself a piece of the steak. And after gathering a bit of everything on your fork, you proceed to put it in your mouth without any further ado.
He observes you while you swish it about on your tongue—though isn’t sure exactly what he’s looking for. He knows he’s an excellent chef, and so the idea of someone liking his food isn’t a foreign concept to him.
Still though, it’s unfamiliar to watch one of his victims enjoy themselves so much.
“Mh—mmmh!” you hum, pointing to the meat with your fork. “Okay, if this is what human tastes like, I think I might honestly get it.”
Oh, so that had been your earlier concern.
He supposes that’s not such a strange thing to suspect given you’d pieced his whole plan together so early…
Your worry is unfounded though. It’s not human meat. “It’s wagyu.” Even so, you’d eaten it despite not knowing. Forget surprised, he’s even a little impressed.
“Oh, so you don’t just eat women?” you ask then, putting another fork–full into your mouth.
He halts. “What?”
Carelessly, you continue eating while making what he hesitantly would refer to as small talk, “I thought the reports only said missing women?”
Oh, right. He chuckles.
“What’s so funny?” you ask.
This time, he’s the one to break into laughter as he finally takes his own seat opposite from you.
“Hello? What’s so funny?” you ask again.
“Wagyu isn’t a name. It’s a type of beef,” he informs.
You blink at the revealed information, then look down at your plate, a small “Oh,” leaving you, sounding almost a little disappointed. Which only further spurs his amusement with an even louder cackle, causing you to pout as you look back up, whining, “Man, shut up, I told you I wasn’t a foodie.”
Then you laugh as well, at yourself, “Well, whatever it is, it's really good!” before continuing to eat.
“It better be,” he states, beginning to eat as well. “It retails for three-hundred bucks.”
You choke then—just as expected of someone like you with seemingly no knowledge of finer foods—cutlery seizing all movement upon your plate, clutched tightly in your grip. “Excuse me, what?” Eyes wide, you gawk at him from across the table, loudly exclaiming, “That’s even crazier than being a cannibal!”
It’s entertaining to say the least. The way you eye the meat again, now with an incredulous expression, and a bit of hesitantancy—perhaps due to shame for having scarfed it down so fast without properly savoring it.
“I mean, it’s good, don’t get me wrong,” you begin saying after a moment of thoughtful silence. “But three hundred big ones, really?”
Looking up again, your eyes as big as the dinner plates, looking for answers from him as though he could somehow explain a refined palate to you.
But not before long, your stare narrows into a suspicious squint instead, cocking your head sideways with a slow shake. “Nah… you’re fucking with me again, aren’t you?” you accuse, pointing your fork at him with a grin as though you’re onto him about something. “It’s actually just—like—racoon meat or something. You didn’t actually buy beef for three franklins as feed for the livestock—that would just be plain crazy.”
He grabs the wine bottle stationed between you with a soft disapproving grunt—you really don’t know the first thing about food at all, do you? Popping the cork, he then fills your glass, explaining, “The best farmers buy the best feed. I wouldn't wanna fatten you up with anything less than what I’d put in my own mouth.”
You keep a look of disbelief on your face for a moment, mulling it over in your head. Whether you understand it or not is all the same to him. Still, it surprises him to see you grab your glass with another shrug, followed by an agreeing, “Right, when you put it like that, I guess it only makes sense.”
You really are an odd one… He’s still waiting for you to snap out of whatever false calm you’d fallen under, to watch you break down and be left as hysteric as all his prior prey had been. But nothing of the sort ever happens.
No, not at all.
Throughout the dinner you make a few more efforts at small talk, inquiring about what wagyu is amongst other things, accepting his curt answers for what meagre back-and-forth they offer. And in the end, after declaring your fullness, you straightforwardly ask him if he’s going to eat you that night or if he’s planning to save you for another day.
And after hearing him say no, you only say as much as “Right then,” with a big yawn, before further announcing, “If that’s all, I think I’ll go to bed. If that’s okay with you?”
It’s unusual for the evening to end so soon, given how much time he’d been prepared to dedicate to ensure its progression and completion. With all his prior prey, he’d have to all but forcefeed them—a process that would sometimes take up to several hours. But, given you’d cleaned your plate all on your own, he could see no reason to keep you any longer.
And so he dismisses you with a nod and a short “Sure.”
“I’m guessing the room I woke up in is still up for grabs?” you ask, being polite of all things as you carry your plate over to the sink, rinse it, and place it neatly in the dishwasher.
He doesn’t know how else to answer but return your casualness with his own. Saying, “Knock yourself out.”
You celebrate with a tiny “Nice!” before setting your sights to the stairs, then an even more peculiar exclamation of “Good night!” before finally disappearing.
Leaving him to sit there and mull in your wake. Grimacing once noticing too late how you’d hidden a few vegetables in the folds of your napkin…
—
True to his word, he doesn’t kill and eat you during the night.
The next couple of days pass just the same. You sleep alone in the same room you’d woken up in, you utilize the luxury during the day, he makes food, you eat together, and then you go back to sleep.
Strange as it is, it’s not so different from being on a vacation—or well, aside from wondering when he might decide to suddenly eat you, of course.
Still though, just the same as with vacation, the longer it lasts, the more not doing anything gets you feeling a little antsy.
Which is why, “Want any help?” you ask. Sitting by the breakfast bar, elbows propped on the counter, head resting on both palms, kicking your feet while staring at him rummage around, doing the work of five people.
He’s so wrapped up in it, you thought he didn’t notice you, but, similar to your first encounter, he keeps his back turned while addressing you as though he might have known you were there all along.
“You know how to cut an onion?” he asks.
To which you roll your eyes with a scoff, “I mean, I did work at a burger joint, so I would hope so.”
You decide to overlook his audacity and take it as an invitation, even though you’re sure he’d meant it as the opposite.
You ignore his side-eye as you relieve the onion of its coat and start cutting. Even as the man fully stops his own ministrations just to stare at you with arms crossed, you don’t bother.
In the end he doesn’t stop you, just mutters “Your technique is pitiful,” before returning to what he’d been doing—allowing you to continue despite his clear aversion.
“Man, whatever, I got paid minimum wage,” you dismiss with a laugh, finding his dourness funny. “Chopped onion’s chopped onion anyway, so don’t be a dick. And besides, that’s not what you should be worrying about.”
“Oh?” he retorts absentmindedly, without bothering to look at you.
You snicker, setting your hip to the counter, twirling the blade around with your hand while giving him a sly look. “If I were you, I’d be more worried about how I just armed the livestock with a knife.”
You’re being playful, of course, not serious. Even still, you know you’re pushing it, given the man’s your cannibalistic captor you shouldn't be goofing around with. But you can’t seem to help yourself. “I mean, how do you know I won't cut you?”
He still doesn't offer you a glance, but returns your snicker with his own. “You know what? I’d love to see you try.”
“Oh really? You have that much faith in yourself you can dodge a blade with absolute certainty?”
You’re bantering. You’re bantering with the man who plans to kill and eat you. And despite all logic, it’s fun. And, if you didn’t know any better, you’d say he’s enjoying it too, because, finally his head turns to look at you, grin on his face, and says, “Try it.”
Your smile grows wider, laughing now, “Alright, well, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll take back those nasty comments regarding my onion-chopping skills—”
You’re only barely pointing the knife in his direction as a mock threat before you’re face-first with the pristine black marble of the kitchen counter, arm bent behind your back.
“See?” his voice wreaks heat upon your ear, bent over you from the back, low and gritty, “I’ve handled all types of animals—many of ‘em far more trouble than a brat with an onion knife.”
You don’t know if he notices, but you do—the way his lower half grinds against your ass with bulge and all. Maybe he’s just big, but you swear you can feel a certain stiffness.
“Yeah? I can tell, you really know how to handle someone.”
He releases you instantly upon your comment as though the very words had burned him, even taking extra measures to back up away from you—a sudden grimace on his face as he glares at you like he’s trying to keep you at arm’s length.
“If you're trying to make yourself interesting in the hopes I'll spare you, you should save yourself the embarrassment. As I said, I’m not interested in that shit.”
You had half the nerve to tell him that he could’ve fooled you with the way he was just acting, but you decided to save it. Instead, you just chuckle with a sarcastic “Aw shucks, my masterplan,”
Still though, despite your efforts of disengaging, he stands there, a little guarded, if you were to describe it, as though not convinced you weren’t effectively trying to seduce him.
You shake your head, thinking it all ridiculous. Like, if you were actually trying to seduce him you wouldn’t lead with onions and death threats, now would you?
“Trust me, chef, I understand my circumstances,” you declare with a hand to your chest and a dull look on your face. “I might be livestock, but I'm not dumb like one. I know there’s no reality in which you decide to let me go free. I mean, you’ confessed to being a cannibal, for crying out loud—there’s no way back from that.”
You lean yourself against the kitchen island you’d been pinned against not too many seconds ago. “And I know I'm supposed to be freaking out or whatever. But honestly, freaking out’s just never been my style.”
With both hands flat against the cool marble you tip your head backwards to look up at the ceiling, once again assessing the clinical whiteness of it all, before continuing, “Besides…. in a way, I’ve always had this gut feeling that I'd end up in a situation like this, so I’ sorta came to terms with it ages ago.”
You spot the funny look he gives you in your peripheral, and you restate, “Well, not like this, of course, but you know… In trouble somehow. So, I figure I should just try to enjoy myself as much as I can before I can’t. You know?”
He doesn’t give you any sign that tells you he understands what you’re talking about, but it wasn’t as though you were expecting one either. To be honest, you don’t understand it yourself. By all accounts, you should be losing your marbles right now, and by all means, you probably are—you just never knew it would feel the same as taking a fake sick-day just to get out of work.
But anyways. “You should be happy, chef.” At least that’s what you think. “I heard fear spoils the flavor. Who knows? Maybe you’ll get your first ever taste of untainted meat.”
His unrelaxed countenance doesn’t fully change as he cocks a brow, all but interrogating you, “Thought you said you weren’t a foodie.”
You chuckle. “I just heard it somewhere, is all.” It’s funny how that’s the part he chooses to arrest you on and not any of the other shit you’d just said, but nevermind. “Anything else I can help with?”
He still looks a bit wary. But after a moment, he nods towards the dining room, with regards allowing you to, “Deck the table.”
You smile at his weirdness, wondering if he’s asexual or abstinent while answering, “Sure thing, chef.”
—
A couple of more weeks pass just like that. You help him make dinner despite his efforts to discourage you. Other than that you continue to try and enjoy the luxuries that come with being a lamb raised for slaughter—taking long baths and watching movie marathons in the home cinema you found during your exploring of the house.
He’s gone most of the day, but not everyday. Even so, he’s busy—prepping things in the kitchen, or on the phone in his office. That, his bedroom, and the meat locker in the basement are the only three rooms with a lock in the entire house—except the outer door, of course—and the only three rooms you’ve yet to have seen the inside of.
In your sleep your mind wanders to what he keeps down there—and his bedroom for that matter. Imagining skinned bodies and heads in jars. It’s all you can do to entertain yourself after having run out of things to occupy your need for stimuli.
Today is one of those days especially, where restlessness has taken hold of you in such a way you don’t know what to do with yourself.
He comes home to find all the dining chairs mangled beyond repair, having been tossed a dozen times against the windows and walls.
“Shatterproof glass,” you state without acknowledging his arrival, lying still on the floor in the splinters. “I figured. But it was worth the try—if only to test your eye for precautions.”
He doesn’t do anything but stand there, taking in the crime scene.
“You gonna punish me?” you ask after a moment’s time.
“No,” he answers shortly.
To which you sigh, feeling as though it hadn’t been the answer you were looking for even though that doesn’t make much sense. A little miffed, you prop yourself up on your elbows to look at him, “You’re not even the least bit disappointed?”
He starts making his way to the kitchen, six grocery bags, three in each hand, saying, “It’s only natural. I’m more surprised it took you this long to try.”
You drop back down with a pout at the boring response, staring at the ceiling once more—still clinically white like you’ve been locked inside an asylum. At this point you might start believing it could be true. Mumbling, “Yeah, well, maybe I have an Icarus problem or whatever they call it…”
Another heavy sigh leaves you then. “Not gonna lie to you, chef. I'm starting to freak out a little.” You try making it sound like a warning, though you’re not sure he takes it as such. “Or maybe I'm just bored. Not sure which…”
He ignores you and you pout. And then, just a moment later, with spectacular timing as usual, your stomach decides to growl.
“Oh, really?” you question, looking down your chest to eye your stomach.
“How ‘bout that…” you scoff. “I guess trying to break windows is hungry work.”
You veer your head backwards to where your unlikely roommate stands, packing out of the grocery bags in a slow meticulous manner, like he’s taking his time to enjoy himself, thinking about all the cooking possibilities at his disposal.
Curiosity piqued, “What's for dinner?” you ask as you jump up on your feet and walk over to take your seat by the breakfast counter—it’s become your designated spot.
Standing before the fridge, he’s just finished packing the last item away when turning around and leaning against the door. Asking “What do you want?” while trying to act casual. But you can tell—he’s eager, wanting you to solve his luxury of choice for him.
But alas, it’s questions like those that you hate. And so, clutching the counter, you tilt backwards and make a show of rolling your head against your shoulders, before laying yourself dead against the marble, looking up at him, saying “Oh, come on, chef, you know I don't have the answer to that. Your kitchen might as well be a space station.”
With a sly smile, you bat your lashes at him as though saying pretty please “Decide for me?”
Since that time he’d pinned you against the counter, he’s been more guarded when it comes to your suggestive and flirty ways, standing there, straight and stiff, with only curt “Fine,” leaving him.
It’s boring, you pout to no one but yourself as he rolls up his sleeves and starts picking ingredients.
But then, ingredients in hand, still with his back turned towards you as he makes his way to the stove, he mumbles, just loud enough for it to be meant as an offer and not some joke, “If you’re bored, come help.”
You lift yourself up from your slump, burning holes in the back of his head with your stare. This would be the first time he’s ever spared you any such consideration.
You have to giggle a bit, feeling excited as you jump out of your seat and follow behind him. “The word please ain’t in your vocabulary, huh, chef?”
As though embarrassed to look at you after having requested you in such a way, he even turns his cheek when you get too close, mumbling once again, now lower and gruffer, “I ain’t heard you say thank you yet, either.”
It makes your smile grow wider. “Hmph—I guess we’re bad company.”
—
More weeks pass.
The only thing you ask of him is to rent you a movie you’d been dying to see.
Other than that, you make yourself about as high maintenance as a housecat. He just feeds you three times a day and you never complain.
Over time, you get more and more comfortable—which he hadn’t thought possible—and more and more bratty, inviting him into discussions, coaxing him into indulging you by showing interest in his cooking, spanning from acting deeply invested to fleetingly so. He can’t blame you for trying. Still, he can’t reward your efforts either.
Exercising restraint, he maintains an instrumental distance. The more familiarity you show him, the more he pulls back. After all, he mustn’t forget what you are. In the end, despite how much you act like it, you’re not his pet or partner or imaginary friend. You’re meat. He just needs to figure out what to make with you. That’s all. The only reason behind him keeping you around this long.
Admittedly, your slaughter date was supposed to be ages ago. He’s never kept another victim this long, not by a long shot. Usually, the entire ritual only lasts the weekend, with an entire week at most. Meanwhile, your stay is coming up on a whole month now…
And still, he lets another two weeks pass. And with the additional time, you’ve grown the audacity to sit and pick at his food.
“Not up to your standards?” he questions.
You’ve been unusually quiet this evening. Normally, you’d talk his ear off about this and that and everything between heaven and hell, but right now, if he were to close his eyes, he wouldn’t even know you were there with him.
During your month and a half, you’d yet to have gotten sick. Not that there was any reason for you to get sick, what with you staying safe indoors and him cooking all your meals. Really, you should be brimming with life like you would any other day.
But then again, he had noticed a change in you lately. Mere boredom had evolved into something more, something worse. Sitting there, silently, your expression isn’t only dull, but something even more hushed.
Lonely is the word that comes to mind.
“I don't mean to offend you, chef…” you mumble. “But right now I kinda just wish I had some cup noodles—or maybe a big mac or something else simple like that—anything but this gourmet stuff…”
He’s not sure what to say to that. Though many of his prior victims had refused to eat his food or even gone to such lengths as to throw up after eating it, he’s never, not once, witnessed one request junk food instead.
“I’m sorry, that was rude,” you apologize. Then, releasing a heavy sigh, you pick your gaze up, setting those pitifully downcast eyes in his direction. “When are you gonna kill me?”
Your expression is blank, and yet it has a certain presence—demanding an answer.
It wasn’t a question he was expecting to hear from you.
“Haven’t decided,” he dismisses. He doesn’t let it show, but it sends a chill down his spine. He then begins to eat without you in an attempt to shrug it off. Ignoring the way you stare at him by pretending to have his full focus on his plate, even when he can barely taste the food on his tongue.
“I think you should do it soon. Before my meat goes bad,” you add, unsatisfied with his response—or, at least, he thinks he can detect a certain sharpness in your tone he’s never heard before.
It proves more of a reason for him to keep eating—half his plate already gone while yours remain untouched. Answering you with his mouth stuffed full, “I don't know what to make of you yet.”
“Tch—aren’t you a chef?” you huff to that. He can spot your grip tighten around your utensils, wringing the silver in your grip. “Figure it out already.”
He’s not sure what this feeling is. Something weird in his gut, making the food not sit right. He’s never experienced it before, but something tells him its nervousness. What else can it be? What else would have the power to make him lose appetite as well as make it near impossible to return your glare?
“You haven’t given me anything to work with…” he argues, as though this was a simple matter. “I can’t cook if I'm not inspired.”
Even as he says it, he knows it’s all bullshit—knows it won’t satisfy the frustration he can feel emanating from you.
“Excuse me?” you bark then, voice raised even higher, even sharper, “I’m here waiting to become food, and you’re talking about inspiration?”
You scoff then, incredulously. “Last time I checked, the beef doesn’t tell the chef it wants to be a fucking burger.”
In situations like these, he’d typically resort to the restraints. You hadn’t yet given him any reason to, but still, they’ve remained around the chair’s arms and legs all this time, just waiting to be put to use.
Usually, he wouldn’t bat an eye doing it, but for some reason, with you, he’d like to avoid it.
“Eat,” he says instead, halfway as a command, but otherwise as a measure to diffuse the tension.
But efforts be damned, you won’t have it, throwing your cutlery on the clothed table with a clatter in clear demonstration. “I'm not fucking hungry. How about that?”
Another chill straightens his spine, his jaw clenched, throat tight, repeating “Eat,”
And you, challenging him, stand your ground with a sound “No.”
He throws his cutlery too, then slams both fists down on the table, making everything do a jump. “Either you eat, or I forcefeed you. Pick.”
“Fine,” you return right away, throwing your hands up in a mock gesture of surrender yet make no advancements towards your utensils or the food on your plate. Instead, you make a show of crossing your arms over your chest while slouching down in your seat like a brat, before further pushing your luck with an equally testy “What's for dessert?”
Your plate remains picked to pieces, getting colder by the second, with none of it having seen your mouth. What’s more, not only have you had enough nerve to have asked him for fast food instead, now you’re taking it further by ordering “Dessert?”
“Yeah.” Assessing your nails, you switch between having your fingers pressed into your palm to turning your hand around and stretching them out. Lips pursed before you smack then, “I've been meaning to tell you this for a while now actually, it’s criminal to have dinner without dessert.”
Swallowing thick, he finds the need to gather himself as the magnitude of unrecognizable emotions floods his body and brains, so much his eye twitches receiving them all. “Is that right?”
Meanwhile, you just cock your head to the side, continuing to push him with an assertive “Sure is.”
Teeth clenched, he takes a breath, then relays “Hate to disappoint, but I don’t make dessert,” still trying to put the argument to bed by thwarting your stubbornness.
But you remain determined. In fact, you remain downright unabashed, shooting him a pointedly snarky “What type of chef doesn’t know how to make dessert?”
Yet another chill nearly makes him shudder. Brows lowered, stating, “I know how.”
By all accounts, he’s giving you enough warnings for you to back off and apologize, but you do no such thing. “Then why don’t you?” you inveigh instead, now with a sneer no less.
“Eat,” he repeats again, as if saying for the last time.
But you refuse to let it scare you. “No!” you roar, abruptly standing up with a stomp. “In fact, fuck you! I'm done eating on death row without dessert! It’s ridiculous!”
He gets up too, with a growl no less, “Sit down.”
His fists balled up, placed with knuckles cracking against the table in clear threat you still don’t bother heeding.
You just ball your own fists and mirror his stance. “Are you deaf? I said, not without dessert.”
“That’s it.”
It’s just like the last time he put hands on you—it happens before he can think.
One second, he’s staring at you from the other side of the table, and in the next, he’s already rounded it and planted you flat against it. Though that’s not to say he didn’t have control. No, his actions are perfectly calculated despite his head being anything but—having placed you down, belly-up, just shy of the food, like you’re part of the feast.
“Don’t you get it?” he rasps, clutching your upper arms harshly enough to make you shut your mouth—but too late. With the damage already done, you needn’t push him anymore to make him blurt it out, “You’re supposed to be dessert but you’re making it fucking impossible!”
And still, it’s not the outburst you’d been waiting for.
“Excuse me?!” you gasp. “I’m making it impossible?” With a big scoff, you seem to forget how he’s got you pinned beneath him against the table with the way your hands fly up and ball his shirt in two tightknit fists. “Fuck are you on? I’ve been nothing but cooperative since the start, you asshole!”
“You’re not supposed to be, you brat!” he counters, and then with his head bowed and voice lowered into a whisper adds “I’m fucking starving beacuse of you.”
Your eyes meet his, unwavering in their pursuit, and he can’t defend calling you his victim or his prey any longer.
“Well… if you’re so fucking hungry, go on and eat me already,” you dare, a provocative curl upon your lips drawing him in. “Unless you’re too much of a pussy to try.”
—
“Well, well, well…” you croon, lying beneath his sheets, on top of his chest like it’s your rightful place. A smug look in your eyes, biting your smile, before completing your taunt, “Looks like you fell for my master plan after all.”
He sighs heavily. Hands connected just beneath the small of your back, on top of all that plump flesh he thought he’d have in his stomach, but instead ended up in his bed.
No one could have predicted these turn of events. And so, “Don't flatter yourself... We both know you never had any plan.”
You just giggle, continuing to tease him, “And still, the livestock lives on.”
Shifting, you push yourself up into a seated position, straddling him. “I mean, not to judge or anything, but…” Running your hands down his chest, he watches you admire all the little bitemarks you’d left before your eyes meet his again, as unapologetic as ever. “You’d be a real freak if you ate me after we did all that.”
sukuna takes you to the beach so you can lay on your tummy! ft: pregnant reader & whipped sukuna <3
notes: i feel like sukuna would be very territorial and protective of you while you're pregnant cus now not only is he protecting his wife but also his kid?! anyway i'd love to see him chilling there too <3 i think he'd have fun at the beach... if he let himself -_-
if there was one thing you exceeded at, it'd be sending your dear husband's blood pressure soaring to astronomical heights, and you took pride in being the one person to evoke such emotions in the man most considered heartless
currently, you're walking by the shore while sukuna trudges behind you, carrying all your necessities for the day with ease underneath the hot, scorching sun. you keep one hand over the swell of your stomach while admiring the view before suddenly stopping, and sukuna drops your belongings onto the sand beside you a moment later as you deem this spot perfect aloud for him
"four bags. you brought four bags for what, woman?" he growls, pinching your cheek as you squeal. he lets go eventually, already dropping onto his knees as he begins carving into the sand with determination set in his gaze, and you lower yourself carefully and wiggle your toes in the sand right after
"thank you for bringing me here." you sigh happily, and he merely grunts in response. you watch his large hands dig skillfully into the ground as he works. it's a hot summer day, and you're nearly three quarters of the way through your pregnancy.
sukuna had found you crying, as he often did these past few months simply due to mood swings, and through a garbled confession filled with tears and whining, he learned your sadness came from the fact that you couldn't lay on your stomach anymore—and, well, that just wouldn't do.
it didn't take him long to figure out a way you could relax while still being safe for the baby, but once he did, he quite literally dressed you in a sundress himself before renting out a beach for the two of you to relax on. to say you were happy was an understatement: you were absolutely ecstatic
"the things i do for you... stupid woman. stupid, lovely woman." he mumbles irritated, and you tilt your head down to peer up at him through your sunglasses before offering him a dazzling grin. sukuna stares right back, utterly unimpressed
once he's carved out a suitable crater for you to lay your stomach in, he helps you get adjusted, relaxing only when he sees you smile
"lay with me!"
—and so he does. he lies right beside you, squinting up at the sun as he sighs loudly
"it's too fucking bright out here." he complains, throwing an arm over his eyes as you hum noncommittally, breathing in the fresh smell of the sea. you feel so comfortable you could fall asleep—and while you do spend some time drifting between dreamland and consciousness, sukuna nudges you gently about a half an hour later
"nooo," you whine, digging yourself further into the sand while you hear him snort
"you'll regret not looking up," he murmurs, and you raise your head from your arms with a huff as he gently takes hold of your chin and tilts it towards the water. your brows furrow in confusion before a gasp slips past your lips when you see a mother sea lion with her baby relaxing by the shore
"oh my god," you say, eyes round as your gaze glasses over in an instant, and sukuna watches your lips form an annoyingly adorable pout
"oh, for fuck's sake, please don't start crying again." he groans, but even when he hears the little sniffles that escape your lips a moment later, he doesn't hesitate to pull you against him. thankfully, sukuna's large enough for you to collapse against him and be supported by his arms alone entirely
"adorable... so, do you think it's a baby boy or girl?"
sukuna bristles at your question before his gaze snaps down towards you
"what?"
"i said do you think it's a girl or a boy." you repeat, poking his cheek as he gently swats away your hand. sukuna's brows furrow as if he's thinking carefully about what to say next, and you listen closely for his response before he murmurs the word quietly
"...a girl."
you hum, and his eyes narrow as he stares at you
"what about you?" he questions, and you tap your chin in thought
"i think it's a boy. i don't know why—i guess it has a bit of a boyish look. but i'm sure girl sea lions and boy ones look the same, yes?"
sukuna pales once he realizes you were in fact not talking about the baby in your stomach but rather the fat baby sea lion residing about a hundred feet from the two of you instead
"what the f—you never—what?!"
"i'm pretty sure male sea lions are bigger too, and that one looks like a pretty big baby! it must be! you should thank me, ryo. because of me, you still get to learn new things here and there." you say proudly, nuzzling back against his chest contentedly as he fights back the string of curses lying heavy on the curve of his tongue
"you're so..." he starts, words tapering off into a growl as you peer up at him through your lashes innocently
some part of you thought that maybe sukuna would be startled upon being caught red-handed (or... mouth-handed) like this. but as you lean against the doorway and drink in the lewd position you've walked in on him in, he just looks at you.
"no," you watch his palm pull up and off the tip of his cock, and the drooling mouth that you're sure was just sucking the soul out of himself seals up. he makes a point of closing his fist around the thick length of his cock and giving it a few rough strokes. "you see things that aren't there. you're odd."
you cross your arms. "well i'm not the one sucking my own dick."
"don't call it that. and you have no cock to suck," sukuna bites, hitting right where it hurts. a sudden reminder that you'll never be able to slip it into a warm and loving mouth like your own…
“shut the fuck up.”
you step into the room, ignoring the disgruntled noise he makes at your movement, and plop yourself down on the bed where he stretches out, stroking himself languidly.
"you're perverted," he tsks, ignoring your hungry eyes as he keeps pace. "go on, then. serve me with your mouth."
"i think you can do that well enough for yourself," you shrug.
"i should spank your ass raw, brat."
despite his sharp words, sukuna doesn't make much of an effort to stop you when you pull his hand from his cock and trace your finger over his palm. there's no mouth in sight, though his skin is covered in a sheen of what could either be precome or saliva. you aren't sure.
you give his open palm a soft kiss. "come on, kuna. i think it's hot, you know."
he doesn't reply, just bears his teeth a little as you guide his palm back to his leaking tip, pushing it gently against the in-tact skin. you aren't so sure how it works, his hand-mouth. the only glimpses you get of it are when he's using it to suck on your clit while he fucks you full of his cock.
it takes you reaching down with your free hand to give his balls a squeeze for him to finally relent and, with a groan, let the mouth on his palm manifest. you watch it latch on to the tip of his cock, collecting his beading pre on the tongue before you gently push his palm down a little, feeding sukuna's own cock to himself.
"can you taste it?" you ask, rolling his balls a little with your free hand.
"yes."
"do you like it?"
"keep asking questions and i'll replace this mouth with your own."
he's groaning his words out, rolling his hips up a little to push into his palm better. you don't listen to his threats, though you know they aren't empty.
"does it have a gag reflex?" you chime, taking sukuna's irritation as a chance to push his palm down even further, and watch in awe as he takes his own cock down to the base. "holy shit."
sukuna groans at the sudden engulfment, tipping his head back and bucking his hips up in rhythm with the push of your hand down on his own. he's in nirvana for all of five seconds before you laugh.
"it's like the fucking bag from mary poppins!"
"what the fuck is a—" sukuna cuts himself off, preferring to find his orgasm in peace than entertain the weird shit you say. his free hand comes up to the back of your head, and with a strained 'shut the fuck up', he pushes your head down to his balls.
you're easily occupied, smiling as you mouth over his sack with a kiss before starting on worshipping him properly. your warm mouth works in beautiful tandem with his, which takes his cock right down to the base.
you only chime up again when his balls tighten up, and you're met with the full force of his orgasm as he spills right into his mouth-hand with a chesty groan. you pull off his sack with a grin "ha, you just ate your own load."
chest heaving, sukuna growls. his hand pulls off his cock and shoots down to caress the side of your face, all too soft to be genuine. there's a stupid spark of amusement in his eyes that has your lips parting to ask what the fuck he has planned for you.
your question is answered before it can even leave your lips. pushing you backwards onto the bed and pressing himself in between your thighs, he doesn't give you a second to react before he's covering your mouth with his hand.
ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 gσנσ ѕαтσяυ × reader × gєтσ ѕυgυяυ
ѕυммαяу： ♡ maybe you shouldn't have volunteered to help out in the university library during a friday night, but how could you predict that your two friends would get locked in a closet with you because of it?
This is their fault; you know it is. You know for an absolute fact that you wouldn’t be in this situation if they had just left you alone like you’d asked. How can you be so sure? Well, you’re certainly not dumb enough to lock yourself in the library archival closet of the university. It’d be one thing if you were in here alone but somehow these colossal idiots are in here with you.
The colossal idiots referring to your two friends, Geto and Gojo… unfortunately colossal in both idiocy and size. Being stuck in this small closet with two men over 6ft is so incredibly unlucky that you’re not sure whether you should laugh or yell at them.
After a long moment of silence, you’re grumbling, “I hate you both.” They’d been waiting to see how you reacted to the situation before talking, a rare occurrence in their collective world.
“Come on,” Gojo speaks from behind you, “It’s not that bad.”
You can’t even shoot him with the death glare you want to, it’d be a whole thing just to turn around properly and even then you’d have to look up. It’s not worth it, “Are you kidding? You got us locked in this stupid, small, room that’s basically a cupboard!”
Geto tries to calm you, “It could be worse.”
“Don’t talk, neither of you talk,” you sigh loudly, “I need a moment to think.”
No. You should’ve said no when they asked for volunteers in the library. It’s Friday night and you were here somewhat willingly helping them sort the older archives. Who does that? This university doesn’t even have a proper room, just this shitty closet that’s filled by shelves and boxes.
There aren’t even any students here tonight to save you, too many parties on campus and it’s close to break so those who aren’t partying are either done studying or studying in their dorms. The nice librarian isn’t here either, he left you here with these two. What the hell are you meant to do now? You can’t even call for help, you tried. Shoko isn’t picking up your calls, she’s out with Utahime tonight. They’re probably having fun… another deep sigh.
Gojo talks even though you’d asked him not to, “This wouldn’t have happened if you just agreed to go out with us tonight instead of being boring.”
“Don’t point that out, Satoru. She’s probably already regretting this.”
You glare pointedly at Geto, “Regretting what? Our friendship.”
“Ouch,” Gojo jokes.
“Why were you even bothering me tonight? You guys go out without me all the time,” they’ve had you at a loss all night, they should’ve just gone out and left you alone to your boring work.
“Aw, don’t be like that,” Gojo leans down and rests his chin on your shoulder, it pushes you forward a bit closer to Geto, “we’ve missed you.”
You try to ignore how close you all are to each other, suddenly becoming much more aware of how little space there is, “I had dinner with you guys literally last night.”
“Yeah but that was last night,” he whinges in reply.
“Satoru, there is so little space,” Geto puts his hand on Gojo’s forehead and pushes him back off you, “stop hanging off her.”
With the new space, you shuffle a slight bit away from Geto, “You two are gigantic, what did I do to deserve to be stuck in here with you both?”
“Well, thanks sweetheart,” there’s a long pause after Gojo’s remark, “What? Am I supposed to not comment on being called gigantic?”
Geto pokes your cheek and ignores Gojo, “We were just trying to help you finish the work faster.”
Deadpanning back at him, “Aw, you shouldn’t have.”
“It was our pleasure,” Gojo answers genuinely, pretending to not pick up on your tone.
“It’s not that bad, pretty,” Geto smiles politely, “you could be stuck with two strangers.”
“Two strangers wouldn’t have been dumb enough to get locked in a closet with me,” you roll your eyes at him, “plus, for some reason like all the guys on campus avoid me.”
Gojo almost talks over you, “They’re crazy.”
Geto adds, “Their loss.”
“The only guy that has spoken to me recently was someone who came to class after skipping the whole semester,” you think back on him, he was nice enough, “I lent him my notes.”
“That’s so interesting,” Gojo hums, “what’s his name?”
Geto’s still smiling, “Have we met him?”
“I don’t know, what does it even matter?” You brush them off, more concerned with how long you’re meant to put up with being stuck in here.
You can’t even sit down, nowhere near enough room to do so. Choosing to lean back onto Gojo instead, this is mostly his fault anyways so he can put up with your lounging on him. “I don’t wanna stand in here all night,” you complain.
“It won’t be all night,” Able to feel the way Gojo’s chest rumbles through you.
Geto tries to make you feel better, “Yeah, Shoko will probably see our missed calls eventually.”
“Probably and eventually are so uplifting, thank you, Geto.”
“Oh, last name,” Gojo hisses through his teeth, “brutal.”
“You’re both on a last name basis until further notice,” you’re pouting and taking it out on them. You’re not livid with them, you know it wasn’t on purpose but you’re not exactly happy either.
Geto pretends to sulk, “You’re mean when you’re grumpy.” He addresses Gojo, “Don’t you think she’s being mean?”
“So mean,” he agrees, “We just love you so much and wanted to spend the evening with you,” he sighs and takes advantage of your proximity by placing his cheek on top your head.
“You just love harassing me,” you counter.
“That’s a kind of love.”
Your mouth pulls down, “Don’t encourage him, Geto.”
They both laugh at you and then things quiet down, time passing slowly and silently. And even though only a couple minutes go by it feels like an eternity. You’re growing bored very quickly and you can tell Gojo is too because he’s fidgeting and sighing behind you.
“Stop moving so much,” you direct at him.
Geto looks amused, resting against the shelving in front of you. His attitude has you briefly wondering why he’s not more frustrated by this whole situation.
“I can’t help it, it’s so fucking boring in here,” Gojo groans, “entertain me.”
Facetious in your reply, “What the hell do you expect me to do? Dance for you?”
“Oh, I’d love that,” he purrs into your ear and you ignore the way it makes you feel.
“How about a game?” Geto suggests.
“Good idea!”
Great… of course they’d want to play a game while locked in a closet. “And what do you suggest? A game of twister?”
Geto grins, “How about seven minutes in heaven.”
Raising a brow at him, “I think we’ve exceeded the seven minutes.”
Gojo’s submission is no better, “Truth or dare?”
“Sure,” Geto shrugs.
You scoff at them, “What are we? Fifteen?”
Gojo ignores you, “Truth or dare?”
A pause and then, “Truth.”
“Suguru, that’s so boring of you.”
Geto defends himself, “It’s the beginning of the game.”
This is going to be the longest game of truth or dare of your entire life.
“Fine,” Gojo thinks on it for a bit, “when was your last wet dream?”
You’re incredulous when you look back and up at him, “How is that appropriate for the beginning of the game?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“What do you mean why? I thought we were starting slow.”
Geto pipes up while you and Gojo are squabbling, “Uh… I don’t know? A few months ago.”
You and Gojo stop at his answer and you blink at him once, “What was it about?”
“Now look who’s curious,” Gojo points out.
“I just didn’t expect it to be so recent! Also, he willingly answered,” you shrug.
Geto snickers, “You’ll have to wait your turn for that answer.” His eyes stay on yours, “Truth or dare?”
“Ugh, do I have to?”
“Absolutely.”
“Fine, truth.”
He considers it for only a split second, clearly having one lined up already, “Last person you had sex with?”
“Oh, what the hell?” You’re frowning at him, why the hell are they both so perverted, “My first boyfriend.”
Gojo adds, “Ew, I hated that guy.”
“Shut up,” you’re sulking, “If you don’t like the answers then don’t ask me questions like that.”
“That was a while ago,” Geto clearly also feels like adding his two cents.
He goes to ask another question and you make a shutting gesture with your hand, “You have to wait your turn if you have follow ups,” you’re mocking him a little. “Gojo, truth or dare,” you don’t bother looking at him to ask, still leaning against him.
“I guess I’ll stick to the theme and say truth.”
“Man, I dunno,” you hum and haw about it, “Mmm, last kiss?”
“Suguru,” he answers promptly and when you look at him in question he says, “We played truth or dare last week at that party you didn’t wanna come to.”
“Aw, now I’m a little sad I missed it,” you play.
He keeps his face completely straight as he responds, “You sick fuck.”
Taken a little off guard before Geto snorts from his side of the closet and you’re realising that he’s screwing with you.
Gojo giggles light and leans down to your space, finger poking your right cheek while he rests his face against your left, “Truth or dare?”
You whinge at him, “My go again?”
“Yup.” He sounds far too cheery and you’re terrified of what he’s about to ask.
Giving in and deciding to just let it happen, “Truth.”
You can practically feel the way his smile grows, “If you haven’t had sex since your first boyfriend does that mean your last orgasm during sex was two years ago?”
“I was going to ask the same thing,” Geto points out, praising Gojo. They both wait patiently for you to answer.
You push Gojo’s face away from you, “No.” You don’t like this line of questioning.
Gojo’s confused, “What do you mean no?”
Geto catches on too quickly, “Oh, pretty. That’s so sad,” he shakes his head.
“It was our first times!” You’re getting defensive.
“You dated him for like a whole year.”
“I remember that, Gojo,” you’re not sure how to phrase what you want to say, “I don’t know, sometimes I wonder if maybe it was my fault–”
“–Not a chance,” Geto doesn’t even consider the thought.
“Whatever,” you want to move past this, “Geto, truth or dare.”
“I’m so sad for you,” Gojo’s still stuck on your go – clearly. “Not orgasming during sex is so sad, that’s like… one of the best parts of sex.”
His theatrics are amusing and annoying, “I’m doing just fine, thanks for your concern.” You ask Geto again, “Truth or dare?”
He’s smiling happily at you, “Truth.”
You decide to try and get back at him, that and you’re curious, “Who was your wet dream about?”
He doesn’t even miss a beat, shameless in how he admits, “It was about you.”
The admission has you so flustered you have no idea how to even begin to reply to him, brain short circuiting as it really dawns on you what he’s just admitted to. Geto… had a dream about you… and he…
“Suguru, you broke her,” Gojo traces the shell of your ear very lightly and it makes you shudder. He whistles low, “wow, your ears are really hot, sweetie.”
And they probably are because all the blood in your body feels like it’s rushed to your face, feeling warm all over.
Geto laughs easily, “Truth or dare?”
You’re meant to act like he didn’t just confess to having a wet dream about you? “Truth…”
God, he must be going for an evil streak tonight because he’s now asking, “Who was your last sex fantasy about?”
You know exactly who it was about and you’re hesitant about answering, muttering quietly, “I can’t remember.”
“If you’re gonna lie, lie better,” One of Gojo’s hands is on your hip and it’s been there for a bit, only now you’re incredibly conscious of it. The vibes in the tiny closet making a sudden shift.
Geto moves forward a bit, in your space as he says, “I’m very curious now.” Spoken like a man who already knows the answer.
“I…” you move away from Geto but that just means you’re falling further back into Gojo, “You guys don’t need to know.”
“So, it was about me,” Gojo nods like he’s so sure.
You half-refute him and dig yourself deeper in the process, “It was about both of you.” You put on a brave face and bite the bullet, trying to be as confident as Geto was when he answered. “Gojo, truth or dare?”
“You expect me to just move past that?” His hand on your hip squeezes and you’re realising for – not the first time – just how large his hands are.
Pointing out, “We moved past Geto.”
Gojo pushes forward, answering like he’s in a rush, “Fine, fine, truth.”
You pause, mind still lagging behind the information you’ve learnt recently, “Uhm… I don’t know what to ask.”
“My last sex dream was a few weeks ago, it was about you, the last time I jerked off was last night and I was thinking about you in the cute dress you wore, my last sex fantasy was about you in your Halloween costume from last year when you were a bunny.” He rapid fires off answers to questions you didn’t ask and then asks you, “Truth or dare?”
You stutter over your words a whole bunch; he thinks about you this much?
“Well, if I hadn’t broken her, you sure have Satoru,” Geto comments, amused and completely unshocked.
“Sweetie,” Gojo talks low into your ear and it jolts you, “truth or dare?”
“Uh… I…” In your slightly numbed state you fumble and answer, “dare.”
“Ohh, exciting,” he’s far too happy about this, “I dare you to kiss Suguru.”
“Satoru…” Geto half-heartedly chastises him, clearly not actually indignant about kissing you.
“You get stuck in one closet with two idiots and they turn into the biggest pervs on earth,” you roll your eyes.
Gojo makes a sound, “I think if our confessions tell you anything it’s that we were already pervs.”
Geto jabs at him, “More so you than me.”
They’re bickering amongst themselves while you’re lost in thought. Unable to ignore the butterflies in your stomach, turned on by the thought of your two incredibly attractive friends thinking of you in the way they’ve confessed to. Caught up in the moment and wondering just how far they’re willing to take this.
You move that tiny bit forward and grab Geto’s face, pulling him down as you lean up and planting a kiss on his soft lips. It cuts him off from his conversation with Gojo but he welcomes it wholly, beginning to properly kiss you back. His tongue licking at you and asking for entry, you open your mouth to him and he’s kissing you so deep it makes you dizzy.
Arms looping around his neck as you indulge in how good it feels to be kissed by him, small moan slipping from you as his tongue licks at your own. His hand on the side of your face manoeuvring you how he pleases, trying to pull more delicious sounds from you. So lost in the kiss until you’re parting from him, confused and making a small sound.
Realising what happened when you feel the pressure of Gojo’s hands on your hips.
“You’re a tease,” Geto grumbles.
“Blame Satoru,” you sound breathless even to your own ears. “He pulled me back.”
Geto frowns at Gojo behind you, “What for?”
He’s shrugging easily, “I got jealous.”
You laugh a little, “I was fulfilling my end of the dare you issued.”
“I told you to kiss him, not make out with him until you whined,” he’s pouting a little.
Geto isn’t as amused as you are, “You’re such a baby.” Apparently grumpy about the kiss being cut short.
You roll your eyes and tip your head back toward Gojo, placing your hand on the back of his neck to tug him down. Kissing him just as deeply as Geto had kissed you, tongue meeting his and licking him. Sucking on his tongue until he whines, seemingly enough to completely set him off because he’s suddenly domineering the kiss.
Finger and thumb pressing into the hinge of your jaw to open your mouth for him even more. It’s wet and messy, the odd angle not helping. It hardly matters though, the kiss enough to have your pussy fluttering. Whimpering when he pulls back and sucks on your lower lip, he goes to kiss you again but Geto’s hand pushes back on his forehead and stops him from diving back in.
“Now who’s a baby?” Gojo scowls at him.
Geto’s ignoring him and addressing you, “Pretty, I’m gonna ask this now before we both get carried away,” he looks at Gojo with his emphasis, “are you okay with us touching you?”
The pretence of the game has been completely dropped now, none of you in sober enough states to continue to play. You nod at him softly, “Please.”
“Fuck,” Gojo groans, head dropped to your shoulder, “you got such nice manners, sweetie.”
“Satoru, keep kissing her.”
He lets out a breathless laugh, “Don’t have to tell me twice.”
His lips are locked onto yours in a split second, tummy flipping at how hungry for you he is. Gojo presses into you more and you can clearly feel his erection against your lower half, achingly hard and straining against his jeans. Imagining it inside you has your pussy crying, startled and drawn-out moan disconnecting your lips.
Geto’s fingers slipped under your skirt and traced your slit through your panties, material soaked and clinging to your cunt desperately. Your legs shake a bit, not having expected the intimate touch. Gojo doesn’t let your mind roam too far from him, placing his mouth over yours. Whinging into your mouth, taken with you and your plush lips.
He moves his hands to your stomach, slipping under your shirt and feeling your soft skin. Pushing further up and lingering just below your bra before tickling back down your sides. He’s teasing you and working you up and it feels especially cruel because Geto’s using his thumb to circle your clit over the material of your panties. The friction enough to have you mewling and aching for more.
Gojo’s big hands push at your bra, forcing it up over your tits. Freeing them so he can grope at you, large hands fondling you and pinching your nipples between his digits. You need air so bad, lungs struggling to pull in enough with all of the overwhelming sensations. You’re collapsing back into Gojo and he’s still feeling you up, leaving wet kisses along your neck and shoulder, teeth scraping against you.
The distraction is taken advantage of by Geto, his fingers slip your panties to the side and he’s sliding them between your folds. Humming low at just how wet you are, every time you’re getting used to something, they switch it up on you. So in sync without even having to talk it’s scary, scary how much they want to tease you.
“Get ready, pretty,” Geto’s hand pushes your denim skirt up so he can see your cunt clearly.
You don’t know what you’re getting ready for until he’s slipping a long finger inside your hole, short squeal leaving you as he reaches so much further than you’re ever able to. Your hands look for purchase and end up over top of Gojo’s who is still groping you.
“You’re so– fuck–” Geto hisses and looks to Gojo, “She’s so fucking tight.”
He hums back, “Open her up then.”
Geto’s reply is low and spoken like he’s in awe, “Should be easy enough with how wet she is.”
“Stop– hnn– stop talking about me like I’m not here,” the commentary is embarrassing you.
He breathes out an amused sound, “I’ve gotta keep Satoru informed, pretty.”
No time for you to reply to him in any sort of way because he’s slipping another finger in alongside the first and curling them to stroke your inner walls. You must give the reaction they both wanted because you’re being grabbed at little more now, Gojo’s erection rubs against your backside and you’re shamefully aware of how your pussy gushes.
Geto’s hand on your hip is warm and holding you deathly still while he fucks his fingers into your syrupy cunt, he watches your face closely. Enjoying the way your eyes are lidded and moans are tumbling sweetly from your lips. Not lingering too long though, too enamoured by the sight of you getting stuffed by his digits.
Getting so lost in the feeling, insides fuzzy and walls pulsing as he effortlessly builds up your orgasm. Struggling desperately to not let out any embarrassing sounds and completely failing. Fingers digging into Gojo’s wrists and collapsing back into him even more, back bowing slightly. Lower half simultaneously seeking out Geto’s hand and jerking back from him.
He chuckles at you, “You’re squirming too much.”
Your little movements are halted when he hardens his grip on you once again, focusing in on the spot that has your eyes crossing and your lips parting. Moans obscene, there’s no way you’d be able to pass them off as anything other than pleasure filled.
The way you’re feeling has you restless, hands moving from Gojo’s and instead holding onto Geto’s wrist, “Wait– hah– I’m gonna– I’m gonna cum– hnn–”
Gojo’s breath is against your ear, “Go for it, sweetie.” Tongue licking against your skin and making you shudder.
Your nipples being pinched right as Geto’s fingers hit your sweet spot accurately has you folding, falling forward into Geto, and Gojo lets it happen. His hands off your chest and happily allowing your ass to push out against him. Hands now gripping your cheeks and spreading them apart, Geto’s fingers still working you through your orgasm only intensified with it.
Whines pitiful and almost sobbed into Geto’s shirt, shaking like a leaf as your high knocks you stupid. And then he’s finally pulling his digits from you, slowly and tauntingly. Gojo pulls you back so you’re resting on him again, clearly missing your body again his.
Geto takes advantage of the room and brings his soaked fingers up, drawing them over your lips before pushing them into your mouth. Making you taste the flavour of yourself, the depravity of it has you weak and you’re all too willingly taking them in and sucking. A moan from Gojo reminds you of what exactly you’ve just done, opening your mouth to try and signal Geto to pull them away.
His smile is innocent but his next action isn’t, not pulling them away, not completely. Sliding the digits on your tongue, “It feel good?”
You whine and try to answer but can’t, not when his fingers are pushing down on the muscle. He’s doing it on purpose too, smile widening as he watches you struggle.
“Here, let me help,” he places his thumb under your chin and uses the hold to nod your head up and down in response, “there we go.”
Geto shows mercy though, pulling away and letting your mouth rest. The corner of your lips are wet with how you’d begun to drool around his fingers. And because he’s just that depraved, he’s sucking on his own fingers and keeping eye contact with you. So intense until Gojo is pulling your head back and kissing you.
Tongue exploring your mouth so deeply, like he’s trying to savour the lingering taste of your pussy that had been on Geto’s digits. You’re dizzy, this is far too much for you. already completely at the will of these two and letting them play with you how they want.
In the back of your mind, you’re somewhat registering how Geto’s pulling your panties off while you’re lost in Gojo’s deep kiss. He pulls back from it with a wet pop! Eyes glazed over and blown with lust as he lingers.
“Satoru, here,” Geto hands him something while you’re swimming in the glow of a blissful orgasm.
Gojo’s smile is large, taking what’s been given to him, “Well, aren’t these adorable.”
You’re barely catching a glimpse of your panties as they’re being stuffed into the right front pocket of Gojo’s jeans. “You can’t keep those.”
“You don’t need them right now,” he’s happy with himself. His eyes flick to Geto, “You think she can take it?”
A second of consideration before, “If you’re gentle.”
“What do you think, sweetie?” Gojo’s hands are on your thighs and trailing up, “you want me to be gentle?”
Biting your lip and smiling a little, “At first.”
“Fuck, alright,” he pushes at your upper back so you’re in Geto’s space, “hold onto Suguru for me, yeah?”
You do as he says and hold onto Geto’s shoulders, arching your back as much as you can in this position to basically present yourself for Gojo. The distinctive sound of a zipper can be heard in the room and you wish Geto would lean down to kiss you but it’s like he’s waiting for something first.
Gojo’s tip notches at your entrance and you have a brief moment of concern, just the head of his dick against you feels overwhelming. Apparently big in departments other than just his height, eyes wider as you half turn and place a hand on Gojo’s shoulder.
“Gentle, Satoru,” glimpsing down at his hard dick, length intimidating, “please.”
He actually laughs at you, “Sure, sweetie, I’ll be so good to you.”
The stretch of his cock beginning to open you up has air rushing from your lungs, head dipping forward and resting on Geto’s chest as you whine out.
“You gotta relax for him,” Geto’s hand strokes down your back and you’re twitching around Gojo at it.
Gojo’s voice is pathetic, “Got such a tight fucking cunt– hah– I’m gonna cum before I’m even half-way.”
“I’m sorry, sorry– mmh–” you mumble into the fabric of Geto’s shirt, “sorry I– hnn–”
Gojo asks, “Is she apologising?”
Geto sounds just as amused as Gojo, “Yeah, she is.”
“Cute.”
And then he’s sliding even deeper inside you, pussy squelching and bulging around his length as he stuffs more and more inside you. Inch by delicious inch he stretches you open more than Geto’s fingers could and it has you weak in the knees. A whimpering mess as you cling onto what’s in front of you – which just so happens to be Geto.
He’s so big, hot and throbbing inside your tight hole. The thick vein on his cock pulsing against your walls and making your insides thrum delightfully. Already falling apart and he’s not even all the way inside. Only made worse when Geto pulls your head back and finally gives you that kiss you had wanted earlier.
Cunt clenching down around Gojo as Geto’s tongue licks against yours.
Gojo groans, “Ooh, she likes being kissed.”
You make a noise of embarrassment and it’s swallowed by Geto, he doesn’t stop making out with you. Mouth occupied by him as Gojo just keeps sinking deeper and deeper and you’re wondering just how much of him there is. Feeling so full that you’re lightheaded, pussy crying around his dick.
Mouth parting from Geto’s messy kiss and when you’re finally able to breathe again, Gojo slams the rest of the way in, his pelvis hitting your ass with a smack! and taking the air from your lungs all over again. Left clawing at the shoulders in front of you as you pant, lower half writhing, wanting him to start actually fucking you.
“Needy,” Gojo comments, voice wrecked, “if you’re gonna beg– hah– do it with words.”
“Please,” you ask, tone sweetened and when he doesn’t immediately move you’re looking up at Geto through your lashes, “Please tell him to move, Sugu.”
He faux pouts at you, “Aw, that’s a little pathetic of you, pretty.”
Gojo grinds into you, his tip kissing your womb divinely. Now if only he’d start thrusting his hips you’d be in heaven. Having both of them tease you at the same time feels evil and so tantalisingly good that you’re getting whiplash.
“This pussy is gonna fucking kill me,” he comments, hands grabbing your ass cheeks and spreading them, “already so creamy.”
Gritting out at him, “‘Toru, please move.”
“Since you asked so nice,” you can hear the grin in his voice and you just know he’s about to do something diabolical.
It still surprises you though, just how much force is behind his thrust. Fucking into you quick, your slick dribbling down his shaft and dropping onto the floor. Clinging to him desperately, hot and cloyingly sweet around his aching hard length. His hips falter a few times at how you’re gripping him, beginning to whine a little about it all.
Gojo grabs your shoulder and pulls you, your back arching mean as he talks low, “You should show Suguru some love, sweetheart.” And then he bites down onto your shoulder, licking over it soothingly.
Your response an immediate and drawn out mewl, reaction visceral as you tremble violently. Taking yourself off guard because you didn’t expect yourself to like biting so much. Doing your best to stifle down your moans as Gojo’s hips snap quick and weighted into you repeatedly.
He lets go of your shoulder and you’re falling back into Geto who’s ready to grab you and hold you steady again. All too happy to let you claw at him and use him for purchase. Remembering what Gojo had whispered to you and trailing your hands clumsily down to Geto’s pants.
Haphazardly shoving the waist band of them down and reaching into his boxers, surprised by just how hard he is. Thick and leaking precum profusely, wondering how he’s holding his composure so well when he’s this much of a mess in his pants.
“Aren’t you a good little– hff– direction follower,” Geto teases.
And it’s true, right now feeling impossibly docile for the both of them. Happy to do whatever they ask of you because it just keeps feeling so fucking good. Quickly getting drunk on pleasure and Gojo’s fat cock, legs shaking as he keeps fucking you so well that you’re seeing stars.
It makes it hard to focus on what your hands are doing, grip on Geto uncoordinated and rhythm continuously interrupted by the shockwaves running through you from the heavy thrusts behind you. He must get frustrated with how awkward you are because his large hand is wrapping around yours and guiding you to fist his cock to his liking.
Geto’s head drops back onto the shelving as his eyes flutter, indulging in the soft feel of your smaller palm. The small closet filled with the debauched noises coming from all three of you, wet and lewd sounds of your cunt getting overstuffed loud and explicit.
Legs nearly completely giving in when one of Gojo’s hands wraps around to rest on your lower tummy and presses down, the head of his cock hitting somewhere new and completely throwing you for a loop. Cumming around him so suddenly that you don’t have enough air in your lungs to moan as loudly as you want to.
Shivering and creaming all over Gojo’s dick, your orgasm taking him by surprise. A genuine whimper leaving him at it, huffing, “Fuck– fuck, you’re– haah– what–”
Geto’s confused, “What?”
“She– mmph– she’s cumming– hah,” Gojo’s words are spoken between clenched teeth, almost hissing as he continues to fuck you through your high.
“Already?” Geto uses his free hand to tilt your head up to look him in the eyes, his own lidded ones flashing, “Ah, this expression you’re wearing is awful cute.”
You let out a subdued and pathetic hum, head far too foggy to have anything witty to say and you certainly can’t complain. Riding out your high spectacularly, almost feeling like you’re kept on the edge with how Gojo’s hips just don’t stop.
Geto’s even more turned on by your appearance and the cock drunk look in your eyes, his hand speeding up over yours. Forcing you to jerk him off quicker, his own hips thrusting forward softly.
“You came so easy,” Gojo laughs deliriously, “never had an orgasm during sex– hff– but you came this quick.”
Slurring your speech slightly to reply to something that didn’t really need one, “It feels good– hnn– I can’t– hah– it’s never– ah!”
“Hmm, is Satoru fucking you good?” Geto’s smile is lecherous and far too attractive for the words he just spoke.
Mouth dropped open, you’re going to start drooling on yourself soon, “Uh huh.”
“‘Course I am,” Gojo’s hand trails further down so his fingers can dance over your clit, “I’m treating you real nice, aren’t I?”
The squeak you let out is shocked, the feeling of his fingers slipping over your sensitive clit making you moan loud and satisfied. Hips trying to fuck back into him, the pleasure enough to have you throwing your shame away. Beyond horny and begging for him to keep fucking you, forced to keep eye contact with Geto. His hand still holding your face up, clearly not done watching you.
The three of you all depraved moans of bliss and sinful touches, heated glances. You’re so worked up that you feel like you’re going to spontaneously combust, still trying hard to focus on Geto’s hard cock in your hand. The hand you have in his shirt is slithering downwards, palm over his tip and stimulating him gently.
The reaction you get from him is one you desire, his hand dropping from your chin and reaching back to hold onto the shelf. His hips fucking into both your hands a bit more desperately now, face twisting in pleasure as he pants.
“Fuck, fuck, just like that, pretty,” slowly losing himself in it, “doing such a good fucking job, don’t stop.”
You’re not sure you would, even if you wanted to, in awe of how he’s unravelling under your hand. Features pretty as he gets closer and closer to finishing. Muttering at him a little mindlessly, “You’re pretty.”
Not even able to adequately describe the sensation that runs through you as Geto finishes. Cumming directly into your hand, seed hot and sticky on your palm as he moans through it. Shivers visibly running through him because you don’t stop your hands, not until he’s forcefully stilling it on his shaft with his own.
He’s amused when he asks, “I’m pretty?” but you don’t reply, preoccupied.
Bringing your palm up, you lick some of his cum off it. Holding it in your mouth as you pull Geto forward and kiss him deep, the taste of him on your tongue as you lick against his. He barely shoves down the whine that wants to leave him so badly, sucking on your tongue eagerly.
Gojo had watched the whole thing go down, groaning to himself. Not prepared for the kind of debauchery you’d displayed, finally letting himself cum inside your tight cunt. Rope after rope of his spend painting your walls white, continuing to fuck you through it, his cum leaking from your overstuffed pussy and dribbling down your inner thighs.
He’s letting out such small, ruined sounds and they’re setting you off, officially cumming again when Gojo slaps your clit firmly once. Mouth parting from Geto’s in a moan for only a moment, he’s immediately pulling you right back in and kissing you until you’re dizzy.
Feeling so many things at once, overstimulated and floating. Head heavy as you’re letting them do what they want to you, fucked out and ecstatic over it. Your mouth parts from Geto and they both let you come down, Gojo stays securely inside your cunt though, apparently not too willing to pull out yet.
He asks, “You have fun?” And you can’t help the way you’re fluttering around him, body responsive in ways you’ve never registered. Gojo lets out an airy laugh and adds, “I’ll take that as a yes.”
Not bothering to say anything more to him, deciding to stand up straight instead. Holding onto Geto’s shoulders and pushing back away from him. You fall back into Gojo instead like how you had been resting against him earlier. His cock slips from your hole and rests against your ass, involuntary sound from you at the loss, more of his cum leaks down your leg.
You’re trying to gain your faculties when you realise they’re both still hard. Gojo painfully solid against your ass and Geto’s dick half in his pants, tip shiny as it pokes out of his waistband. And you truly must be cock drunk because you’re lifting one of your legs up and resting your foot on the shelf behind Geto.
“You sure?” Geto’s moving that tiny bit closer, crowding you back against Gojo even more.
Looking up at him coyly, “Mhm.”
His eyes watch how your hole twitches, “You sure came a lot, Satoru.”
“You’ll understand when you fuck her,” Gojo says it like he’s proud.
Geto isn’t as slow as Gojo was when he first entered you, head of his cock lined up with your hole and a split second later he’s shoving himself all the way in. You take him considerably easier now that Gojo’s fucked you open but that doesn’t mean Geto’s dick hasn’t stuffed you to the brim. Pussy bulged and sucking him in desperately, throbbing around his cock like you didn’t just cum on one not five minutes ago.
“Fffuck– you– hnn– you got a greedy little pussy,” Geto purrs, clearly meaning it as a compliment.
“Nuh-uh,” you deny, head resting against Gojo’s shoulder shaking no.
“You sure do, sweetie,” Gojo talks against your temple, “best pussy I’ve ever had the pleasure of fucking.”
And then he’s shamelessly lifting your shirt up completely and exposing your breasts, groping at them like he’d done earlier – your bra still haphazardly pulled over them. Fingers pinching at your nipples just to see what kind of reactions he can get from you with it.
“God, I wanna put my mouth on you so bad,” he’s talking low, “I’d lick you head to toe, fuck my tongue right into that tight cunt of yours.”
“Satoru– don’t talk– hng–”
“Don’t talk like you didn’t love it,” Geto snaps into you again and you’re whinging, “can’t hide anything when your hole is this honest.”
“You like my dirty talk, hmm?” Gojo’s taunting you now, “you like being told how you’ve got the creamiest cunt? How you gripped me so tight I thought I was gonna cum before getting to really fuck you?”
Geto’s position has him angled differently, hitting new and just as devastating spots inside your gooey walls. Knocking more of your braincells right out of your head with just how deep he’s thrusting into you, hips wiggling down to meet his. Craving the grind and slap of his pelvis against your clit every time he’s filling you to the brim.
“I like it, I like all of it,” you babble, “I wan more– ah!– I love it– hnn– so good– I can’t– good– mmph–”
“Look at that, Suguru,” Gojo squeezes your tits, “I think she might be cock drunk.”
“I can tell,” Geto almost snarls, pleasure overwhelming, “her pussy’s squeezing me so tight it’s like it’s begging me to cum inside.”
God, it feels so good, you can’t even deny the begging him to cum inside because you want him to so badly. You want to be leaking both their cum, stuffed full of their cocks and then their seed. A sick sort of marking that has your stomach filling with butterflies.
“You want that?” Geto asks you, clearly reading you a little too well now, “you want my cum inside you?”
Not even feeling like you’re on Earth anymore, head up in the clouds “Hng– yeah– hff– yes please.”
“Yeah, that’s good, be honest with me,” he smiles, “you’re cuter when you tell the truth.”
You feel like you’re melting, so high on your own pleasure that everything feels surreal. Gojo’s mouth on your skin is sucking marks, nibbling at your skin and lathing over the love bites sweetly. Geto leans in – still fucking you until you’re feral – and leaves more hickeys on the other side of your neck that Gojo had been neglecting.
Feeling so doted on as they both leave behind evidence of what’s happening in this closet, their attention enough to have you blissed out. Touched all over, it’s driving you up a wall. Bordering on overstimulated and still you’re eager for more.
Gojo’s hips move from behind you, unable to hold himself back and beginning to grind his aching cock between the plush skin of your ass cheeks. Dick still soaked from your slick and his own orgasm, sliding along your soft skin so deliciously that he’s groaning. Again, sinking his teeth down into your delicate flesh, stopping just short of breaking skin.
The pinch of pain has you gushing around Geto’s dick and the gentle lick of his tongue over the impression of his teeth has you quivering. The small closet smells like sex and the floor has to be messy, the whole thing pornographic and so obscene it’d make the devil blush to watch you three.
Gojo turns your head to the side and slips his tongue into your mouth, suddenly greedy for your lips on his. Kissing you deep and sloppy, not patient enough to kiss you meticulously like he had earlier. Though he was also fervent earlier too, hungry in how he devoured you.
They’re both able to read you so easily, pulling you apart so perfectly. Kissing you until you’re not able to think of anything else but them, fucking your cunt so well that you’re drunk on the ecstasy of their tips knocking against your uterus. Your legs are beginning to shake with the weight of holding yourself up.
Thankfully, Geto’s placing a hand under the leg you have balanced on the shelf behind him. Feeling more secured with his hold on you, knowing you wouldn’t have ever fallen, not with them both man-handling you. Enjoying the feeling of having two big men fuck you diabolically and also take care to have you feeling supported, able to indulge more with them doing the heavy lifting.
Gojo’s cock is still rutting into you from behind, pulsing thick and heavy as he moans into your mouth. The way you pull back from each other has a string of saliva connecting the both of you, evidence of the messy and reckless way he’d made out with you.
“You’re so soft,” he murmurs, “everywhere.”
He removes one of his hands from your tits and like he’d done to you earlier; he’s pressing into your lower tummy. Insides tightening down on Geto and helping him to hit more sensitive spots, grinning to himself at your subdued scream.
“That feels good, huh?” Gojo doesn’t lessen the pressure, holding his hand down so you can experience the pleasure he’s helping to give you.
“Yes, yes, yes– hnn– so good,” you’re not even certain you’re saying everything you want to, muttering a little uselessly. Only able to hope you’re conveying that you don’t want him to stop what he’s doing.
Geto’s pupils are blown wide and he’s losing his mind, Gojo had been right about your cunt. So enticing as you devour him whole, repeatedly pleading for him to re-enter wordlessly. Feeling frenzied as he lets himself get lost, wishing you weren’t locked in this damn closet so he could fuck you properly. Maybe he’d tease you a little bit more, drive you a little more insane.
You’re twitching profusely around him and he knows you’re close, insides clinging to him a little more. Trying to milk the orgasm right out of him, asking to be filled. “You gonna cum, pretty?”
Eyes barely even open anymore, “Uh huh.”
“You think you deserve it?”
That has your eyes widening, worried he’s actually going to deprive you of the high he’s been working you up to. The look on your face is as adorable to him as it is amusing, his smile patient and not like he’s balls deep inside you.
“Don’t be mean, Suguru,” Gojo chides, “she’s been such a good girl.”
Geto pretends to consider it, like he’s not really convinced.
“Please– hnn– Sugu,” you sulk, “I wanna cum.”
He mimics your pathetic-ness, “I know you do.”
Gojo adds, “If he doesn’t let you cum, I’ll just fuck you again, sweetie.”
“Don’t spoil her too much, Satoru.”
He grins, “I’m the one who’s spoilt.” Pressing soft kisses to your cheek, “fucking that divine pussy was a real treat.”
Too much, “Wait– ah!– Mm gonna– hng–”
With a well-timed thrust and Gojo’s praise, you’re cumming again. Walls trembling and snug as they suck greedily on Geto’s thick cock. Stomach flipping as you’re thrown through another euphoric high, almost feeling like you’re blacking out for a moment from how it knocks into you.
Geto’s brows pinch, he knew you were about to cum but hadn’t expected it to be from Gojo’s words. Moaning as he continues to thrust, seeking his own orgasm now. A little more uncontrolled as he focuses on how hot your pussy is, feverish as he takes in how it feels to have you cumming on him.
Dumping his load inside you not long after he savours it for a few moments, pelvis flush to you as his cock jerks. Head lolling back as he whines a little, fucking you both into slight overstimulation because he doesn’t want it to end just yet and you can’t complain. So in love with his dick that you’d let him fuck you all over again.
You’re leaning back against Gojo catching your breath, whimpering as Geto pulls out of you. Not really wanting to but your leg is shaky, he’s gentle with you as he lowers it down so you’re standing on both of them again.
Gojo leans over your shoulder, “I’m gonna borrow your thighs for a second, sweetheart.”
You nod at him, not really sure what he’s referring to but fine with it either way. His cock dragging through your folds has you realising what he was talking about, using your thighs to fuck himself. Not able to get off while Geto was doing you and needy for release. Holding low on your hips as his head buries itself into your neck and nuzzles.
His tip catches on your clit and it makes you twitch, aftershocks still running through you and so sensitive to every little touch. Letting yourself get used for his pleasure as he rocks in between your legs, the slick of their mixed cum making the glide smooth for him.
Apparently having been fairly close already because he’s cumming everywhere after barely a minute, panting into your skin as his load gets all over your thighs. He stills after letting himself ride it out, nipping at your skin one last time.
You’re spent, completely limp and a whole mess. Clothes dishevelled and probably stained with cum, you’re too lazy to even bother to fix yourself. Both Gojo and Geto tuck themselves back into their pants, straightening themselves out a bit. They’re far more presentable looking than you are.
Gojo pulls your bra down, playing with your tits a bit as he adjusts them back into the cups of it and then he tugs your shirt back into place. Geto pulls the hem of your skirt back down, clothes officially worn correctly not counting your panties. How the hell are you meant to get out of here when your lower half is covered in their cum. There’s that and then also the little issue of literally being locked in here.
Geto asks you, “You doing okay, pretty?”
“Peachy,” you grin.
After a moment of silence, you talk again, “Find a way out of here,” you plead with them, “I need a bath.”
Gojo hums, “Will you let me bathe you?”
“You got a way outta here?” you eye him.
“Maybe.”
And that’s how you all learnt that Gojo had taken the keys for the closet off the desk and forgotten about them in his back pocket.
𝒂ﾉ𝒏. thanks for reading! i hope you liked it and i hope to post more fics soon ଘ( ᴗ͈ ᴗ͈)ഒ
edited 27/06 : i really didn't like the formatting on this fic but i still quite like the fic itself so i just made some cosmetic changes <3 thanks for 3k on this one !!! ٩(^ᗜ^ )و ´-
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