big fan of educational sex positive podcast host reader who talks sex, gives tips and reads sexual/relationship anonymous dilemmas! you occasionally mention your own sex life with your boyfriend. never saying him by name or giving any major details until perhaps a a few years into your podcast, a photo of you and a man is posted. a pic of you both walking into dynamightâs agency. him in full hero gear with his arm around your waist as you look up at him chatting. youâre always chatting. now your viewers are suspicious youâre dating pro hero dynamight. itâs even reached outside of your mostly girl and gay audience to male hero fans too.
clips of you are reposted. HE is the big dick you were telling your listeners about and who you use all your tips on for handling one and itâs him that does two hour foreplay on you (coming twice before you even see his dick) and itâs him who eats you out with practised skill (finger n tongue combo!) and itâs him who asked so sweetly to tie you up to a bed and itâs him who shyly said yes to you calling him daddy and its with him that you dry hump for hours and itâs him who loves getting his balls squeezed when you go down on him andâ
you both never confirm a thing. you ignore all the questions asking if itâs him. till the comments get intense, all your loyal fans asking if itâs true and one day you ask katsuki, your loving boyfriend, if heâd like to guest star on your pod.
you feel bakugou before you see him. it could have been your own instincts, or simply a familiarity with the sound of his quirk and the pattern of his breath, and different. no danger.
bakugou only ever visits you in the after hours. a habit of his work, you know. it isnât his choice even if it is ultimately by his design.
more often than not, youâre asleep when he shifts through your window, a muted flare of orange light raising him inside the vanilla fragrant room, atop a creamy duvet. his palms find your legs like magnets, nitroglycerin smoothing over your calves and thighs, sighing softly to himself.
alive. warm. unharmed.
they work themselves up your hips to your waist, and he circles your middle. lays over you, kisses down your sternum and inhales where youâre warmest. dreams of him turning you sweet.
itâs about then you tend to wake, blinking sleepily through the dark and finding eyes like amber watching over you. too intent, too searching. if you were a lesser person, you mightâve been afraid by his relentless pursuit and possession.
but youâve never been one to fear what you love.
summary: sukuna has loved you since you were in high school, and when he finally gets his chance with you, four years after graduation, he's the perfect boyfriend.
he treats you like you're worth more than the entire world, devoted solely to you, committed to keeping you healthy and happy in his arms for all eternity.
if only he wasn't killing people behind your back.
content: 18+ mdni, smut, dub-con in the later chapters, rough sex, yandere sukuna, obsession, stalking, murder, blood, gore, manipulation, deception, unhealthy dynamics, jealousy, cheating (reader cheats on her bf with sukuna), sukuna is awful in this but he's LOVELY to reader exclusively, more tags to be added on a chapter by chapter basis!
đźŕ˝ź inexperienced!reader sucking dadâs best friend!tojiâs dick for the first time
you kneel between tojiâs spread thighs on his living room floor, the tv light bouncing low with hue of some old game in the background.
his cock is thick and heavy in your shaky hand, the vein along the underside pulsing as you lean in and wrap your lips around the head for the first time. âmhm,â you hear your dadâs best friend hum.
when it slips into your mouth, it tastes salty and warm, bigger than you expected, already stretching your mouth.
you suck gently, eyes flicking up to his face, hoping for some sign that you are not messing this up completely.
toji leans back against the couch, one big hand resting on the back of your head, his green eyes half lidded with that lazy smirk.
âfuck, baby, donât choke,â he mutters when you try to take more and your throat tightens around him.
you pull back a little, coughing softly, spit already slicking your chin. âam i⌠doing it right?â you whisper, voice small and uncertain.
he laughs, low and rough, the sound rumbling through his chest and making his abs flex under that dark trail of hair.
âyeah,â then bunch of words follow when you hollow your cheeks, a slurping sound engulfing you both.
âyouâre doing it.. fuckâ rightâ
âsmart girl.â
ââŚjust like that.â
âslow and wet. feels good.â
encouraged, you dip down again, taking him deeper this time, your tongue pressing flat along the bottom. but you push too far too fast, and your eyes water as he hits the back of your throat.
âeasy,â he growls, but his fingers tighten in your hair anyway. âyou gonna choke on it.â
another laugh escapes him, this one darker, as you try to breathe through your nose. before you can pull off, he guides you down firmly, pushing until your nose brushes right against that coarse trail of hair at the base of him. your throat spasms around the thick length, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, but he holds you there for a long second, savoring the tight heat.
âthere we go,â he murmurs, voice dropping lower. âgood girl. take it all for me.â
he finally lets you up just enough to gasp for air, strings of spit connecting your swollen lips to his cock, before he pushes you right back down again. his laughter mixes with a groan as you struggle so prettily around him.
fwb higuruma is jealous of your growing relationship with nanami.
higuruma knows he has no right to feel jealous. he was the one to set the terms when you first got together, to ensure you both stayed just on the right side of casual. youâre not dating, youâre not committed, youâre not anything more than friends that fuck occasionally. itâs all heâd allow himself. itâs all he thought he needed from you, until nanami kento came into the picture.
the shift occurs seemingly overnight. one day, youâre fucking casually and laughing together right after. you stay the night, you have breakfast together, and he leaves for work with the evidence of your exploits carved into his back while his passion blooms across your skin. the next, youâre leaving as soon as youâve come.
the first time it happens, he feels like he could be sick. youâve just hooked up after a stressful day at work, and he finally can relax. finally, because he doesnât realise quite how relaxing your presence is until youâre immediately sitting up, shaking your legs and arching your back on a long stretch.
âsame time next week?â you ask conversationally. he stares, startled, and only thinks to nod as he watches you dress quickly. youâre not usually so quick to dressâmost of the time, you both lounge naked in bed until the sun rises.
âgot somewhere to be?â hiromi replies after a moment, brows furrowed in confusion.
you flash him a grin. âyeah. i have a date with that guy i told you aboutânanami kento?â
nanami kento. the name quickly becomes the bane of his existence. more than the righteous anger of his job, more than the minor annoyances of daily inconveniences, that name pisses him off. itâs like a two-word trigger to ruining his day. the name nanami kento escapes your beautiful lips, and heâs forced to seethe in anger until the next time he gets you in his bed.
nanami kento takes over your life. higuruma learns about him slowly through quick asides and brief mentions. nanami is your age, heâs blonde, a business man that still makes time for you, a gentleman that always pays for you on dates. he buys you flowers, he opens the door for you, he lends you his jacket at the slightest shiver. heâs the picture-perfect boyfriend, and heâs clearly trying to get his teeth on you.
nanami kento drags you out of hiromiâs bed before the sun rises. he encroaches on your time together. youâll be with hiromi, ranting about something that interests you, just to be interrupted by a text from nanami kento. youâll be mid makeout and be called by nanami kento. youâll be freshly fucked, breathless and lazy, then pick up your phone because you have plans with kento for dinner.
your time together is coming to a close. he knows it is. this nanami kento may be perfect, but thereâs no world in which heâd be okay with you staying so close to a hook up. even when you both insist youâre just friends with benefits, he knows youâve always toyed the line of something more. youâre too open, too vulnerable. twice a week, you fall into bed together. you fuck, you calm down with a leisurely make out and slow conversation, then you spend the night spooned in his arms. you wake together in the morning, share a quiet breakfast, and kiss each other on your way out his door to begin your commute to work together. youâre all but dating already.
so hiromi knows that sooner or later, heâll be left behind in favour of a brighter prospect. why wouldnât you? nanami kento is actually willing to commit, to give you more than vague promises of a potential future.
(but you keep going back to bed with him. what does it mean? how do you wake up in bed with him, spend your day with the perfect kento, then return homeâno, not home, never homeâto hiromi once more?)
he knows itâs his fault. wasnât higuruma the one to set the terms of your arrangement? didnât he say he wasnât looking for anything serious? he knows he only has himself to blame. these are the consequences of his own actions.
yet, he watches as nanami kento visits you at work. he looks at you pulling nanami kento into a hug as you greet him, arms looping around the manâs neck as his hands rest respectfully on your waist, and he thinks: that should be me.
Iâm thinking about nanami who has a not so secret crush professional interest in gojoâs wife (fem!reader). nsfw 18+ drabble. mlist
ââââ ŕ¨ŕ§ ââââ
On Nanamiâs birthday he enjoys the celebration and praise from everyone, but thereâs one little thing nagging at the back of his mind through all the cakes and badly wrapped tie pins. He doesnât say anything, but your presence is pointedly missing, and that tiny fact is enough to dampen his spirits despite the jovial atmosphere. Heâs a little grumpy by the end of the day as a result, more so by the way Gojo seems to be hell bent on clinging to him. After one too maybe bear hugs he finally makes a remark, a snide little comment about how he much prefers Gojoâs âother halfâ. Gojo just grins that same shit-eating grin as usual, but his grip on Nanamiâs shoulder is tight when he chirps in reply âletâs go see her then, right now!â.
Nanami barely has the chance to open his mouth before heâs engulfed in a sizzle of energy. Gojoâs hand still firmly clasped over his shoulder, he finds himself standing in an unfamiliar bedroom, and when his vision finally focuses he chokes at the sight that greets him. Itâs you, blindfolded, splayed over crisp white sheets and wrapped up like a gift. Each bare limb is glittering, bound expertly in an intricate banding of yellow ribbon - his favourite colour. He hadnât had a favourite colour before, not until heâd seen you waltz in one morning donning a yellow sundress, looking like a beam of sunlight personified. He sees you in the daisies that pepper the footpath, the warmth of a summer day, the sand beneath his feet on the beachside, and now in the restraints lacing each of your oiled limbs like a bow atop a gift heâs been pining after for years - and itâs all just too much.
Heâs speechless, unable to even lift a finger to argue when Gojo guides him into a chair directly across from where youâre perched on the bed, giving him a stellar view of just how far gone you already are. Nanami is dizzy, tenfold when his eyes roam down and he notices the little red light blinking between your spread thighs, tucked beneath a pair of pale blue panties already soaked through and glistening a little with the vibration.
Gojoâs smile has settled into a sharp line, and his voice is low and cutting when he leans down to purr into Nanamiâs ear, his hands massaging either tense shoulder. âYou wanted to fuck my wife, right? Well take it all in Nanamin, this is the closest youâre ever gonna get.â
author's note: This has been in my drafts for one and a half years man. Never say never đ And thank you so much for 10k, lovelies! đ¤ xx
The ad is three lines long.
You agonise over it for a weekâdrafting and redrafting on the back of a grocery receipt at the kitchen table while your husband is on deployment, crossing out words and rewriting them until the paper is soft and furred at the edges from erasing.
Three lines. That's all the local paper allows for the personals section, which is a relic from another era that you didn't even know still existed until you were flipping through the classifieds looking for a vintage bookshelf and your eyes snagged on the column header.
SEEKING CONNECTION
You'd laughed at first. Then you'd read a few. Then you'd read them all, sitting cross-legged on the sofa with your tea going cold in your hands, and something small and sharp turning over in your chest.
The ad you eventually submit reads:
Married woman, mid 30s, seeks interesting conversation and perhaps more with a like-minded gentleman. Discretion essential. If you enjoy good food, dry wit, and don't mind a woman who can out-drink you â I'd love to hear from you. Reply to Box 64.
You pay for four weeks in advance and feel sick the entire drive home.
Because here's the thing about being married to Captain John Price.
You love him desperately and completely, in a way that has settled into your bones over the better part of a decade and become indistinguishable from the architecture of who you are.
Adore the way he smellsâstale cigar smoke and sandalwood and old gun oil, a combination that should be repulsive and instead makes you want to bury your face in his neck and stay there. Love his hands, broad and scarred and capable of violence you'll never fully understand, and how gentle they are when they cup your jaw or fix the clasp of your necklace.
And you melt for the rumble of his voice on the phone at two in the morning when he calls from whatever godforsaken corner of the world he's operating in, tired and tight-lipped but always, always asking about you first.
You love him, and he loves you, and it hasn't been enough for a long time.
Not because the love ran out, because he did.
John Price gives everything to his work. Every deployment bleeds into the next. The gaps between homecomings stretch longerâthree weeks become five, five become eight, eight becomes âI don't know yet, love, I'll let you know when I knowâ.
And when he does come home, he's there but not there; hollow-eyed and distracted, reaching for his phone at dinner, falling asleep on the sofa before nine, making love to you the first night with a desperate urgency that fades by the third morning into perfunctory kisses on the forehead and an apologetic mumble about an early briefing.
Someday, you stopped asking when he'd be home six months ago; stopped leaving the porch light on four months ago, and you stopped wearing the nice knickers three months ago because what was the point again.
Two months ago, you realised you'd gone an entire week without hearing his voice and hadn't noticed until Thursday.
That's when the panic set in. Not the sharp, clean kind, but the slow, creeping kind. The one that makes you lie awake at three a.m. staring at the ceiling and wondering if this is it, if this is what the rest of your life looks like. A nice house in Hereford with a well-maintained garden and a husband who exists primarily as a name on a bank account and a voice on the other end of an increasingly rare phone call.
You don't want to leave him. The thought alone makes you nauseous.
You just want someone to see you again.
John finds the newspaper three days after he gets home from a six-week deployment in eastern Syria.
He's not snooping; he's looking for the TV remote, which has migrated into the crack between the sofa cushions again, and his hand closes around the folded section of newsprint wedged beside it. He pulls it out, intending to toss it on the coffee table, and his eyes catch the circle of biro ink around one of the small ads in the personals column.
John reads it, and then again.
Then he sits down very slowly, the remote forgotten, and stares at the far wall for a long time, connecting puzzle pieces like his life depends on it, which it very well does apparently.
Married woman, mid 30s. His wife is in her thirties.
Dry wit. His wife is the driest, sharpest-tongued woman he's ever met. It's one of the first things he fell in love withâthe way she could dismantle a man's ego with a single raised eyebrow and a well-timed "Bless your heart, love".
Can out-drink you. He's watched his wife put away Whisky Sours at the SAS Christmas do with a composure that made seasoned operators look like lightweights.
Discretion essential.
John sets the newspaper down on his knee. His jaw works and his eyes don't leave the wall.
And he doesn't confront you.
Not over dinner nor in bed that night when you roll towards him and press a kiss to his shoulderâa habit you've kept even through the worst of the distance, even when you're angry with him, even when he doesn't deserve it.
Instead, he waits, and he replies to Box 64.
The letter that arrives for you a week later is postmarked locally. Plain envelope, no return address. Inside, a single sheet of paper, handwritten in a bold, slanted script you don't recognise.
I enjoy good food, better whisky, and I've never met a woman who can out-drink me, but I'd enjoy watching you try. Friday, 8pm, OâMalleyâs on St. George's Lane. I'll be the one who looks like he doesn't belong in a place that posh. â J
Your hands are shaking when you finish reading it, and you have to sit down at the kitchen table and press your palms flat against the wood to steady yourself.
You could throw it away. No. You should throw it away. This was a mistakeâa stupid, reckless, selfish mistake born out of loneliness and too much wine and that ugly, gnawing ache in your chest that flares up every time John leaves.
But John has left again. Three days at home, then a call from Kate Laswell, then a bag packed and a kiss on your forehead and a quick âBe back soon, loveâ and the sound of the front door closing and the silence that rushes in to fill the space he used to occupy.
You read the letter once more.
I'll be the one who looks like he doesn't belong in a place that posh.
Something warm and reckless curls in your stomach, and you hate yourself for it, and you fold the letter into the pocket of your cardigan and carry it around for three days before you decide youâre going.
Friday night. OâMalleyâs.
You arrive twenty minutes early because you're a control freak in crisis, and you take the farthest booth in the corner because your back needs to be against a wall and your eyes need to be on the doorâa habit you picked up from your husband without realising it.
You order a gin and tonic to give your hands something to do, and you check your reflection in the blank screen of your phone for the third time. You look good, like you tried againânot the kind of effort you make for John when he comes home, all desperate and over-polished, but a quieter kind; wearing your favourite dress with subtle makeup and your hair done the way you like it, not the way you think someone else wants to see it.
You look like your old self, and that's terrifying, because the whole point of tonight was supposed to be about being someone else.
When your wedding ring catches the light as you reach for your drink, and you stare at it for a long moment, the slim gold band John slid onto your finger nine years ago with steady hands and unsteady eyes, and you don't take it off.
You should, but you canât, and you did say youâre married.
Eight o'clock comes and goes. Five past, then ten. You're about to convince yourself you've been stood up, which would be both a relief and a humiliation, when the pub door opens and a man walks in, and every nerve ending in your body fires at once.
Because the man standing in the doorway, scanning the room with those sharp, assessing eyes, is your husband.
John is wearing civvies. Dark jeans, a black henley pushed up to his elbows, boots that have seen better days.
He looks like he came straight from the base, which he probably did. His hair is freshly cut but his beard is full, and there is a tiredness around his eyes that you can read from across the room, the same bone-deep fatigue he carries home from every deployment and tries to hide and fails.
He spots you and your stomach plummets.
Meanwhile, his expression doesn't change; not a flicker. He holds your gaze across the crowded pub, and then he walks towards you with the kind of unhurried, deliberate stride that you've seen him use in exactly two contexts.
When he's approaching a superior officer, and when he's about to do something that no one in the room is going to enjoy.
Your heart is hammering so hard you can feel it in your teeth. Your hand tightens around your glass until your knuckles ache, and every instinct in your body is screaming at you to run to the bathroom, to the car park, to another country, but your legs won't cooperate, because Captain John Price is walking towards you and you have never in your life been able to move when he's looking at you like that.
He reaches the booth, stops, and looks down at you. And a beat of terrible, electric silence follows.
Then he smiles, though not the tight, exhausted smile he gives you at the front door when he's been gone for weeks, but something warmer, something almost boyish, and then he slides into the seat across from you, settling in with an ease that makes your blood run cold.
"You must be Box 64," he says casually, calm, like he's meeting a stranger for the first time, which is insane, because he is your husband and he is sitting across from you at a pub where you came to meet another man and he knows. He fucking knows.
"Johnâ"
"John," he repeats, tasting the name like he's hearing it for the first time. Then he extends his hand across the table. "That's right. Pleasure to meet you."
You stare at his outstretched hand, then at his face, and back at his hand.
"John, I can explainâ"
"Nothing to explain." He keeps his hand where it is, steady and patient. His eyes don't leave yours. "I'm J. You're Box 64. We're here to have a drink and see if we get on. That was the arrangement, wasn't it? What your ad said?"
Your mouth opens and something inside you dies a little, along with the words in your throat; anything but one.
"John."
"You gonna leave me hanging, love? Already?" He nods at his hand, one eyebrow raised, and there is something in his expressionâbeneath the calm and the performanceâthat you can't quite read.
It's not anger, not even hurt. Something closer to resolve, like he's made a decision about tonight and he intends to see it through, and nothing you say is going to alter the trajectory.
You take his hand, shake it weakly.
His fingers close around yours, warm and rough, and he gives one firm shake before releasing you. Then he flags down the barmaid, orders a whisky neat, and turns back to you with that same easy, unreadable smile.
"So. Tell me about yourself."
You stare at him owlishly.
"IâI don'tâ" You can feel heat crawling up your neck, your throat tightening with the precursor to tears. "John, please, can we justâ"
"Tell me," he says again, and his voice is gentle, but his eyes are steel. "What do you do? Where are you from? What made you put that ad in the paper?"
The last question lands like another slap, even though his tone doesn't change. You swallow hard, your fingers wrap around your glass for something to anchor to.
He waits for you to answer; patient as a sniper in a ghillie suit.
"I'mâ" You exhale shakily. "I'm from here. I live in Hereford. I'mâ" Your voice threatens to crack, and you bite the inside of your cheek until it steadies. "I'm a teacher."
"A teacher." John nods, like this is new information and not something he's known for the better part of a decade. "What age?"
"Year four."
"Year four. That'sâwhat, eight? Nine?" He takes a sip of his whisky. The barmaid left it quietly and shot you a look like she sensed the tension. "Brave woman. I've faced insurgents with less fight in them than a nine-year-old with a grudge."
The laugh that escapes you is wet and startled and completely involuntary, and John's eyes soften for a fraction of a second before the mask slides back into place.
"What about you?" you ask carefully, because two can play this game, and if he's going to make you sit through this surreal performance, you might as well commit. Your voice is still unsteady, but there's a spark of something underneath the fearâdefiance, maybe, or the stubbornness that made you put the ad in the paper in the first place. "What do you do?"
"Military," he answers briskly, which is what he always says at parties and barbecues when civilians ask, offering nothing further.
"What branch?"
"The kind that doesn't let me talk about it." He leans back in his seat, one arm resting along the back of the booth leisurely and looks at you with an expression that's half amusement, half something hungrier. "I travel a lot. Gone more than I'm home unfortunately."
"That must be hard," you reply, and you mean it in a raw way that has nothing to do with the roleplay and everything to do with the long years of lonely nights and unanswered phone calls sitting between you.
John hears it and you watch it land. A brief tightening around his eyes, a muscle jumping in his jaw before he takes another slow drink.
"It is," he says quietly. "Harder on the people who wait, I'd imagine."
Your breath catches. You look down at the table, at your ring, at the condensation pooling around the base of your glass.
"Yeah," you whisper. "It is."
The silence that follows is different from the others. Not tense or loaded. Just heavy, in the way that true things are heavy, settling between you like something solid.
Then John clears his throat. "Another round?"
You nod, not trusting your voice, and he waves the barmaid over again.
The second drink loosens something.
Maybe it's the gin, perhaps the sheer absurdity of the situation, but somewhere between your second and third drink, the fear recedes enough for you to actually talk.
And Johnâyour husband, who has spent the better part of a year giving you monosyllabic answers over dinner and falling asleep during filmsâis talking back.
He's always been charming. It's how he got you in the first place, at a mate's wedding eleven years ago, when he cornered you at the bar and spent forty-five minutes making you laugh so hard you snorted champagne up your nose. Though you'd forgotten what it looks like when he aims it at you with intent.
John asks about your students and listens to the answers. He asks about the book you're currently reading and offers an opinion on it that tells you he's been paying more attention to your nightstand than you thought. He tells you stories from deployment that are carefully scrubbed of classified details but still make you laugh; the kind of stories he used to tell you when you were dating. Absurd, self-deprecating, designed to make you think he's funnier than he is.
He is funny. You'd forgotten that, too.
"You've got a nice laugh," he says at one point, swirling his whisky, and the way he says it, like an observation, like he's hearing it for the first time, makes your stomach flip.
"Don't flatter me, J." The letter feels strange in your mouth, this thin fiction stretched over the truth of him. "I'll think you're after something."
"Maybe I am." He holds your gaze and doesn't smile. "That a problem, love?"
Your mouth goes dry.
Three drinks in, you're leaning across the table towards each other, and his hand is resting on the tabletop close enough to yours that your little fingers are almost touching, and you're telling him about the time one of your Year Fours brought a live frog to class in his lunchbox and it escaped during maths, and John is laughingâreally laughing, with his head tipped back and his eyes creasedâand for a vertiginous moment, you manage to forget.
You forget that this is a performance; that your husband is sitting across from you pretending to be a stranger because you put an ad in the newspaper looking for someone else. Everything except the sound of his laugh and the warmth in his eyes and the way he's looking at you like you're the most interesting person in the room, which is how he used to look at you all the time, before the deployments ate him alive and left you with the husk.
Then his eyes drop to your left hand, and the warmth doesn't leave his expression, but something sharper slides in alongside it, like the glint of a blade edge, and then he reaches across the table and takes your hand, turning it over in his.
His thumb presses against the band of your wedding ring, holding it there.
"You know," he says, and his voice is still easy, still conversational, but there's a new undercurrent to it that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up, "if you were really going to go through with this little adventure of yoursâ"
He taps the ring once with his thumb, clicks his tongue.
"âyou probably should've taken this off first."
The blood drains from your face. The pleasant haze of gin and good conversation evaporates in an instant, replaced by a cold, lurching clarity.
"Johnâ"
"Bit of a deterrent, love. Even when you mentioned it in the ad." He's still holding your hand, still running his thumb over the ring, and his expression is unreadableânot angry, not hurt, just steady, the way he looks when he's holding a position and waiting for something to break. "Any bloke worth his salt would've clocked that you're not really in it five minutes in."
Your eyes are stinging. "I wasn't going toâI would never haveâ"
"I know." He replies simply and releases your hand. "I know you wouldn't."
The lump in your throat is enormous and razor-edged, and you have to look away at anything that isn't his face, because if you keep looking at him, you're going to cry in the middle of this pub and he will never, ever let you live it down.
"I'm sorry," you manage, barely a whisper. "John, I'm so sorry, I didn'tâI was justâ"
"Don't."
You look back at him. He's leaning forward now, strong forearms on the table, and the mask is gone. All of it, the J performance, the first-date charm, the controlled amusement. And underneath is just your husband. Looking at you with an expression that is not anger, that has never been anger, that is something far worse.
Guilt.
"I should've been home more," he murmurs; too honest for a pub on a Friday night. "I should'veâ" He stops, his jaw clenches before he tries again. "I should've given you a proper life. A family. A husband who's actually fucking present. And I didn't, and youâ"
He gestures vaguely at the booth, the pub, the entire premise of the evening.
"âyou shouldn't have had to do this to get my attention."
The first tear slips down your face before you can catch it. You swipe at it furiously with the back of your hand before the barmaid, who has become somewhat intrigued by whatever is happening at your table, can clock it.
"I wasn't trying to get your attention," you lie, and you both know it's a lie, and his mouth twitches; not quite a smile, something more tender and much more broken.
"Yeah, you were." He reaches across the table again and takes your hand, properly this time, threading his fingers through yours and squeezing. "And it worked."
You let out a breath that's half laugh, half sob, and squeeze back.
For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The pub buzzes around you. Glasses clinking, conversations flowing, some '80s song you can't name playing from the speakers. And you sit in the middle of it, holding hands across a sticky table, and the nine years of silence and distance and loving each other badly feel, for the first time, like something that could be survived.
"I need the loo," you announce eventually, because your mascara is probably wrecked and you need thirty seconds of privacy to pull yourself together before you dissolve entirely.
John releases your hand with a nod. "Take your time, love."
You slide out of the booth on legs that feel slightly unsteady with gin and adrenaline, and make your way to the back of the pub, past the bar and down the short corridor to the ladies'.
It's a single-stall bathroom. Small, clean enough, a lock on the door that you click shut behind you before bracing your hands on the edge of the sink and staring at your reflection in the mirror above it.
Your eyes are bright and glassy. Your mascara is, as predicted, smudged. You look wrecked and flushed and alive in a way you haven't in months, and you hate that it took thisâa dating ad and a Friday night charadeâto put that look on your face.
You run the tap and press your cool, damp fingers against your closed eyelids. Breathe. You can do this. You can go back out there, finish your drinks, go home with your husband, and figure out the rest in the morning like adults who have been married for nearly a decade and know how to have a difficult conversation.
You're drying your hands when the lock clicks.
You freeze. Your eyes snap to the door in the mirror's reflection as it opens, and John slips inside and closes it behind him with a soft, definitive click of the lock.
The bathroom shrinks to nothing.
He fills the space. Not just physically, though he does that too, broad shoulders and solid frame taking up far too much of the small room, but atmospherically. The air changes when he's this close, gets heavier and becomes charged, like the pressure drop before a storm front.
"John, what are youâ"
He moves. One step, then two, and then his big hand is flat against your lower back and he's pressing you forward, gently but firmly, until your hips meet the edge of the sink and your palms catch the porcelain on either side.
His body moulds against your back. Chest to spine, hips to arse. One hand sliding from your lower back to your waist, gripping and anchoring, while his other forearm braces against the wall beside the mirror.
You can see him in the reflection; towering behind you, head dipped, mouth hovering at the shell of your ear, and your breath stutters at the look on his face.
"Gonna make you remember why you married me, darling," he mutters into your ear, and his breath is hot and damp on the side of your neck, sending a shiver cascading down your spine. His hand tightens on your waist, pulling your arse back against the hard line of his cock already straining behind his zipper.
"Johnâ"
"Shh." His lips graze the spot beneath your ear. No kiss but a warning. "You wanted to be seen, love. I see you."
His hand slides from your waist to the hem of your dress and drags it up slowly, bunching the fabric around your hips until you're exposed from the waist down. The cool air of the bathroom hits your bare thighs and makes you gasp.
"John, we can'tâWe're in a pubâ!"
"Should've thought about that before you went looking for a date, shouldn't you?" His voice is rough and threaded with something dark and tender at the same time, and his fingers hook into the waistband of your knickers, tugging them down your thighs in one smooth motion. They pool around your ankles, and he doesn't bother removing them fullyâjust leaves them there, tangled between your heels.
"Anyone couldâ"
"Door's locked." His hand trails up the inside of your thigh, calloused fingers dragging against the soft skin, and you bite your lip to keep the sound that wants to escape inside. "And you're going to be quiet for me, aren't you, hm?"
You hear his belt buckle. The clink of metal, the drag of leather through belt loops, then the rasp of his zip, and your hands grip the sink so hard your arms tremble, because the sound alone is enough to make your pussy clench around nothing in anticipation.
"Nearly a decade of marriage," he murmurs against the back of your neck, and his free hand slides between your thighs from behind, two thick fingers dragging through your supple folds, finding you already embarrassingly wet. He lets out a low, dark sound of approval that vibrates against your skin. "And I let you forget."
His fingers circle your clit once and your hips buck back against him involuntarily.
"That's on me," he continues, his voice dropping to that gravelly register that makes your toes curl in your pumps. "My fault. My fucking failure. Not yours."
He presses one thick finger inside you, then two, stretching you open with a slow, curling thrust that makes your breath hitch and your walls clench around him. He groans quietly and his forehead drops against the back of your head.
"'M finally gonna put our baby in you," he declares, and the words are rough and raw and utterly certain, a promise sealed against your skin. "Should've done it years ago. Should've given you that. Should've given you everything."
He withdraws his fingers and you whimper at the loss with a needy, desperate sound that you'd be mortified by in any other context, and then you feel the blunt, plump head of his cock pressing against your entrance and every other thought in your head goes static.
"Johnâ" you mewl. John pushes in slowly.
He stretches you open around him with a fullness that borders on too much, and the sound that tears from your throat is muffled only because you clamp your hand over your own mouth.
More than a decade and his fat cock is still enough to make you go stupid.
"Fuck," John breathes, his hips flush against your arse, buried to the root, and his grip on your waist is bruising. He doesn't move yet just holds there, letting you feel every inch of him, letting your body adjust around the thick, throbbing weight of his cock.
Then he starts to move, and it's not the perfunctory, tired sex you've been having for the past year. The kind where he finishes quickly and rolls over and you stare at the ceiling and pretend you came.
This is John Price. The real one, the one you fell in love with. The one who backed you against the wall of your old flat on your third date and made you see God by eating you out through your knickers before he'd even taken anything else off.
He fucks you deep and deliberate, one hand gripping your hip while the other wraps around the front of your throat lightly; his fingers curled against your pulse point, feeling the frantic beat of your heart against his palm.
"Look at yourself," he orders, and your eyesâwhich had screwed shut at some pointâfly open to meet his in the mirror. Pupils blown.
The sight of it is obscene. Your dress bunched around your waist, his thick forearm braced beside the mirror, tendons flexing, his body curved over yours, and the slow, powerful roll of his hips driving into you from behind with a rhythm that's making the mirror rattle against the wall.
"That's my wife," he grunts, and his reflection's eyes are fierce and fixed on yours. "Mine. Not some fucking stranger's from a newspaper ad."
You can't speak, only feel his cock dragging against your walls, his hand on your throat, his chest solid and warm and present against your back for the first time in what feels like forever.
He picks up the pace; harder and deeper thrusts, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing in the small bathroom while his ragged breath puffs against your ear. And then his rough hand leaves your throat to reach between your legs, flicking your clit and rubbing tight, fast circles that make you bite down on your own fist to keep from screaming.
"Quiet," he reminds you, and the bastard sounds smug. "You want the whole pub to know what I'm doing to you in here? Huh? Want them to know âm fucking my wife?"
You shake your head frantically; cunt fluttering and squeezing his shaft, because dirty talk from John Price is its own kind of sweet torture.
"Then cum for me quietly, love. Right now."
A few more hard, precise thrusts with his cock dragging inside your quivering cunt, massaging that spot that keeps swelling inside you, and you shatter.
The orgasm rips through you so violently that your knees give out, and the only things keeping you upright are the sink under your hands and John's arm locked around your waist. You clamp your teeth into the heel of your palm and muffle the cry that wants to tear out of you, your walls clenching and fluttering around his cock in rhythmic, milking pulses.
"Christâfuckâ" John's hips stutter, his rhythm breaks, and he buries himself deepâso deepâand holds, his cock kicking and pulsing inside you as he cums with a low, guttural groan pressed into the curve of your neck.
He spills himself empty inside you, balls throbbing with each little jerk of his hips. Hot and thick, deliberate this time. No condom, no pulling out this time, and the significance of that isn't lost on either of you. His hips roll lazily through the aftershocks, working every precious drop into your messy cunt, and his hand slides from your waist to your lower belly, pressing flat.
"There," he murmurs, and his voice is wrecked and satisfied, unbearably tender. "That's where it belongs."
You're shaking. Your entire body is trembling, your legs are useless, and there are tears streaming silently down your face that have nothing to do with pain.
He stays inside you for a long moment; breathing, his lips pressed against the nape of your neck, beard scraping your skin, his hand warm on your lower stomach. Then he pulls out slowly, carefully, and you feel his cum start to leak from you immediately, warm and slick against your inner thighs.
He reaches down, picks your knickers up from around your ankles, and slides them back up your legs with an almost clinical efficiency. When they're settled back into place, he pats your arse once, light and proprietary, and tugs your dress back down.
"There we go," he says, like he's just helped you with your coat. "Good as new."
You let out a sound that's somewhere between a laugh and a sob, your forehead dropping against the mirror.
"How about a 'thank you,' love," he adds while he tugs his softening cock back into his jeans, and when you lift your head and catch his eyes in the reflection, the smug satisfaction on his face is so thoroughly, infuriatingly Price that you want to slap him and kiss him simultaneously, "for stuffing your pretty cunt full of my cum, hm?"
"John."
"Mm." He presses a kiss to your temple, achingly gentle after everything he just did to you, and reaches past you to turn on the tap. He wets his hand and wipes beneath your eyes with his thumb, cleaning up the mascara.
"Ready to leave, love?" he asks, straightening up and buckling his belt with the same unhurried ease he does everything. "Or would you like another drink before your husband takes you home?"
Your legs are still shaking, his cum is slowly but surely soaking into your knickers, and your heart is so full it might crack your ribs.
"N-No," you manage, small and hoarse. "I'd like to go home now, John."
He looks at you, really looks. And there is nothing left of the J performance, not the Captain Price mask, just John, your husband. The man who drove to a pub on a Friday night not to punish you but to remind you both of what you'd almost let slip away.
"That's my girl," he replies softly.
He unlocks the bathroom door, checks the corridor, and guides you out with his hand on the small of your back. You walk through the pub on shaking legs, past the booth where your half-finished drinks are still sitting, past the barmaid who gives you both a knowing look that you pretend not to see.
The night air hits you like cold water when you step outside, and you suck in a breath that fills your lungs properly for the first time in hours.
John pulls his car keys from his pocket, presses the fob, and opens the passenger door for you without a word. You climb in. He closes the door, rounds the bonnet, and slides into the driver's seat.
Neither of you speaks on the drive home. His hand rests on your thigh, squeezing gently every other minute, and your hand rests on top of his, your fingers tracing the ridges of his calloused knuckles and the band of his own wedding ring, which he has never, not once in nine years, taken off.
When he pulls into the driveway, the porch light is off. You haven't left it on in months.
John kills the engine. Sits for a moment, looking at the dark house.
Then he turns to you, and his voice is quieter now, stripped of the previous smugness, the heat, the performance. Just the raw thing underneath.
"I will do better."
No grand speech or a promise wrapped in flowers and apologies and all the things you've heard before and stopped believing. It's four words, plain and blunt and offered without decoration, and they land heavier than anything else he's said tonight.
You reach across the centre console and take his face in both hands, and you kiss him slowly, like you have time, because you're going to make time.
"I know," you whisper against his mouth.
And when you get inside, John turns the porch light on.
Bakugo is halfway off of the couch, ass in the air as he tries to reach for his pants. He had dropped them in the middle of your living room, legs turned inside out and socks jammed inside. He manages to nab them by rolling over your leg, so you sigh again. "Ugh."
"Fuck off."
"Just get up!"
"I'm fucking tired. Someone needed to get dicked down three times-"
A hard shove nearly topples him off of the couch all together. "You liked it."
Katsuki's eyes flicker to your tits, then your eyes, then your tits again and it nearly, nearly, nearly makes you want to climb on him once again. Though, you're afraid if you move, you'll end up staining your couch-
"Don't you work in design? Why does your place look like dogshit?" Katsuki reads your mind. This the third time he's been to your place and it feels more embarrassing each time. His own place is nice, with a feminine touch that makes you feel sour.
"Tell your mom to pay me more."
"Oh, yeah," he rolls his eyes. "Hey, Mitsuki, I'm sick of looking at your interns ugly ass, lumpy couch, when I should be looking at her tits. Can you give her a raise? Also, she does this thing with her tongue that's worth a bonus-"
"Fuck off!"
The toothy smile he gives you is shortlived.
"Listen, we can't tell her. Or anybody. none of my friends can keep a secret." He leans back. "Things are... weird with my ex still."
You sit up, hand flying to cover yourself.
"Did you just cheat on her with me?"
"Fuck no, that's over. It's dead, but the old lady doesn't want it to be dead. She's still friends with her and everything. It's just... Some of my friends feel the same way, I think. It's just weird."
This feels a bit too personal for what you and Katsuki have. Neither of you have ever mentioned your personal lives before, other than your dire love for creampies.
"I'm sorry," you say, because you can think of nothing else. "Wanna see my pussy again? Would that make you feel better?"
Pornstar!Simon whoâs been told he canât fuck you anymore because the way you sound when heâs inside you makes every other costar youâve had in the past look bad.
The Director pulling him aside with the footage still looping on the monitor, voice low, telling him it was obvious your moans dripping out wet and broken were real in a way youâve never given the cameras before, obvious now that every gasp and whimper youâd faked with the others was thin and breathy and hollow compared to this and your former costars were bound to complain.
Said it made the lads before him look like they couldnât even get you properly wet, let alone fuck the sense out of you. Said pairing you with Ghost again was asking for trouble. Too risky. Too fuckinâ real.
Swinging the monitor around to show Ghost the way he had angled his hips so the camera caught his cock stretching your silky cunt half an hour before, thick enough that your walls flutter around him without any acting, slick spilling out around the base every time he bottomed out.
Your fingers scrabbling along the bed every time he ground himself down, too fucked out to really run from the pleasure the way you wanted to, body shaking brain reduced to static goo.
You having a hard time remembering the scripted words you were given, eyes rolling in your sockets, little whimpers and moans punched out âhn-hn-hn-â every time his hips met yours and the head of his cock kissed your cervix.
Ghost cooing down at you when you miss your cue for the third time, hand pinning your wrists above your head while the other kept your thigh shoved wide, voiced amused when he asks âwhaâs amatter? Cat got your tongue, dove?â
Ruined any possibility of you answering when he fucked you deep, making your cunt visibly pulse around him on the monitor, arousal drooling down his balls.
You tried. You really did. You mouth opened, some broken attempt at the first word, but it dissolved into another punched out moan the second he angled just right, letting the camera see the way your eyes rolled in their sockets.
His thumb stroking once over your clit, almost gentle, almost fond. âThaâs it,â he murmured, âtake it. Fuckinâ take it.â
Another missed cue. Another low, rough chuckle. He didnât really give you room to think. Just kept you pinned and full and dripping while the cameras roled and the script stayed forgotten on the floor somewhere behind the lights.
The director was still talking but Ghost wasnât listening, instead, just reached over and rewound the tape instead. Watched the part where you tried to speak again. Watched the way your body gave out for him and only him. Watched his own hand on the screen, thumb stroking your clit.
He hit play once more. Let it loop. Thumb hovering over the button, already deciding he didnât give a fuck what the director had to say about it, he was gonna fuck you again no matter what.
you could never get tired of admiring your husband heian era!sukuna âĄ
most people couldnât look at him for long.
the moment they caught sight of him, their eyes dart away. some out of fear, or some out of disgust. they believe a creature like him isnât meant to be looked at.
you think they are all blind.
the evening is quiet, lantern light casting a warm glow across the room. it has become part of your nightly routine before bed, these quiet moments spent with your husband after the day has settled.
sukuna sits against the bed frame, one pair of arms folded while the other rests loosely across his lap.
his crimson eyes follow you as you crawl toward him. you sit down beside him and gently take one of his hands, then another.
his brows rise as he looks at you expectantly.
you compare them, turning them over in your palms. thick fingers, calloused skin, veins running beneath flesh capable of tearing apart crowds.
yet you trace them carefully, as if they are something precious.
âfour arms..â you murmur.
âyou say that as if youâve only just noticed,â he says, clicking his tongue after.
you move closer, inspecting the markings that wind around his skin. your fingertips follow the dark lines traveling over his wrist and shoulders.
âtheyâre beautiful.â
he looks at you, and you swear thereâs a faint blush adoring his cheeks, even though heâs heard you say so many times before.
beautiful? no one has ever used that word for him before you.
you continue before he can respond.
your hand slides to his chest, tracing the markings there as well, and you can feel his gaze burning into you.
then your attention lowersâ to the second mouth resting on his stomach. the feature that causes most people to recoil.
you start to lean forward, but sukunaâs eyes narrow. âwhat are you doing?â
âhm?â
his stomach mouth opens slightly, revealing sharp teeth, just to close again.
you examine it with genuine curiosityâ it is quite the most strange part of him, and therefore something you want to understand even more.
without hesitation, you press a small kiss on top of it.
ââŚwhy are you looking at me like that?â you ask after coming back up.
for perhaps the first time in centuries, the king of curses looks genuinely caught off guard.
âwhat was that for?â
you tilt your head, and one of your hands come up to trace his lower lip.
âi do kiss these as well, no?â
a low, strange sound escapes him, a little similar to a low laugh.
you shift your attention upward again, this time toward the smaller eyes beneath his main pair.
youâve always found them quite interesting.
carefully, you brush your thumb beneath one. âso you can see from them as well?â
âobviously.â
you continue to examine him shamelessly.
the shape of his face, then the markings crossing his cheeks. the extra eyes.. the sharp angles of his features.
every detail. every part others fearâ you love looking at them, love memorizing them.
when you finally look up, sukuna is already looking at you, a little amusement written over his expression.
âwhatâs so amusing?â you ask.
two of his hands rise, and two large palms settle against your cheeks. the contrast between his size and yours is almost comical.
âjust why are you so different?â his thumb brushes across your cheek.
for a moment, neither of you speaks, then you lean forward and kiss one of the markings on his face.
âwouldnât be here if i was like everyone else, hm?â you reason.
hes not sneaky about it. midfuck he pulls out and rolls the condom off his cock. he tosses it on your chest so you really see it, so you really know its off. then, when he presses his body into yours, stomach touching stomach, theres no hand guiding his cock. it pokes into your folds as he gently rolls his hips. the third time he does it, he's amazingly close to entering you.
"sukuna," you warn.
"just a couple strokes," he says. "not like you're gonna get knocked up by some precum."
you should protest more, but his cock presses everso slowly into your sore pussy and it curls your spine with pleasure. he's barely inside you, cock pulsing with his heartbeat against you.
"And if you did," he whispers into the shell of your ear. "means your body really needed it."
.... and... and... and....... he grinds his dick so deep into you, barely even moving....
"you feel that?" he breathes into your ear. "Yeah, I feel it-- you're definitely being bred right now. didnt even cum in you yet and you're making me a baby."
he cups your stomach. "right in here. im claiming you and you cant even stop it."
he shifts slightly and his cock brushes against a new spot that sends your spine straight. he bumps it again, then again, until hes fucking you hard and fast.
Bakugou with baby fever means when you two fuck he is fastidiously taking one finger and slowly sliding it up your taint, slowly shoving thick viscous cum that is oozing out of you slowly back into your heated cunt.
Bakugou with baby fever means heâs watching every shudder of your body with a smug grin when his finger dives back in and hooks up just to give you one more taste of pleasure because itâs definitely what you deserve for taking all of what he just gave you.
Bakugou with baby fever means he takes that same finger and sucks it clean, leaves the essence on his tongue while kissing you and spreading his palm out over your womb, almost willing his seed to take instantly.
Bakugou with baby fever means realistically, every single time you try to conceive he makes it his number one goal not to waste a single drop.
coming home from a tiring day and expecting bkg to be up and ready and cooking but to find him on the couch snoozing :(
nom nom nom
for the next move in your relationship with bakugou katsuki, he gave you the key to his apartment. itâs a fancy word, apartment. not flat, not your student shared house you lived in a few years ago or your family home with your tiny bedroom and snacks that will be snatched by your siblings.
your boyfriendâs apartment. itâs a skyscraper bachelor pad which, with the integration of you in his life, has become a home of more. or really katsukiâs house, with mini shrines to you all over it.
your favourite cereal and fruit bars in the cupboards, your favourite biscuits you dip in your tea and the fridge with a tub of the only yoghurt you eat. his living room which before had no blankets, has four. all chosen by you every time you go shopping with him and his inability to say no. then about three books youâre currently reading, your nintendo switch you leave at his house. his bathroom with your spare toothbrush, makeup wipes and a duplicate skincare selection of the one you have at home.
however, even though it might look like you live here for half of your week, your boyfriend still loves to treat you like a guest.
cooking for you every time you come over. fluffing up his cushions so you donât think he only comes to his apartment to sleep and leaves for work. cleans up, showers, resprays himself with cologne and deodorant.
with all that said, you know what to expect with katsuki, especially when you use his front door key for the first time. no need to knock and wait to hear him rush over to the door, waiting a single second to pretend to look like he didnât just run before opening the door.
this time, you opened the door yourself and instead of seeing your boyfriend in his kitchen, mixing something in his wok, adding soy sauce somewhere and veggies somewhere else, you canât see him anywhere. you know heâs home though, he texted you an hour ago to say he would be.
you kick off your shoes and pull off your jacket. dumping your bag on the floor, you wade your way through his apartment.
âkatsuki? are you on the toilet?â you call but as soon as you enter his living room, you go silent. a smile springs up on your face instead.
âawe,â you mumble and the feeling you get when you see a cute puppy, a little tiny kitten or a chubby sweet baby, fills up inside of you. warmth and love, everything pink with the urge to squeeze.
this grown ass man was dead to the world. laid out on his cloud ivory L shaped sofa, on his back, chest softly breathing up and down, up and down. in through his nose and out through his lips.
itâs rare you witness katsuki sleeping. heâs always up before you for his work and on weekends when you get to sleep in, heâs always in that half awake stage when if you try and sneak out under him, suddenly he gains all consciousness to drag you back.
the size of him is a shock. to see a man that large resting. he feels like a lion, ready to pounce at any hint of a predator. heâs in his comfy clothes, wool hoodie and grey joggers. both his hands on his stomach, resting over each other like an old man. you coo at the sight of him with no frowns nor is he on the edge of a bark.
you kneel at the edge of the sofa, knowing that if anyone where to see you now, youâd be framed as a loving girlfriend or an utter creep.
you couldnât care less. you brush katsukiâs damp blonde strands off his forehead, wondering whether kissing his cheek is worth it to wake him up.
until one eye snaps open. bakugou jumps out of your grasp, onto his elbows with a yelp, âfuck!â
he makes you jump too, eyes wide as you watch his cortisol slowly level back to normal.
âitâs just me!â
âshit, i wasnât expectinâ you to be there.â he lays back on the sofa, forearm over his eyes. sleep causes his voice to be a deep growl, every word delicious. âdidnât even realise i fell asleep, was supposed to be startinâ dinner for ya.â
âitâs okay, you must have been sleepy,â you say quietly, hands back on your lap and bakugou swings his head over to look at you.
he licks his bottom lip. eyes with creases around them, skin stiff but the endearment in his eyes is undeniable.
âhow are you, sweets? sorry, iâm outta it.â he reaches for your waist, urging you to sit up next to him on the sofa.
you do eagerly, flinging your body over his like heâs your life boat, head on his shoulder. bakugou wraps his arms around your back.
âiâm fine. youâre such a cute sleeper.â
bakugou scoffs, closing his eyes, âshut up.â
âyou are! like a baby, one whoâs eating all their meals.â
âyeah?â he entertains.
âhm,â you hum, âwanna kiss all over your sweet cheeks.â
he peels one eye open. one thing about the prohero, he loves your attention. âgo on. then iâll start cookinâ.â
you sit up, hands on his shoulders, âwe can always order in. youâre clearly exhausted.â
âi like cookinâ for you,â he mumbles when you press your lips onto his cheekbone.
immediately bakugou grins, hands resting on your hips.
âbut you donât have to.â
another kiss to his right cheekbone. then his chin.
âi would rather lay here with you,â he murmurs.
ânice. iâll look for something for us.â
a kiss on his eyelids, then his forehead.
âproper kiss now.â he pushes, tilting up his chin to keep closer to your face.
âso bossy,â you smirk before pressing your lips onto his.
synopsis: your on-and-off again relationship with the current wdc has been the talk of the grid since you started writing songs about him - blissfully unaware he's the bane of another driver's existence. suguru geto has spent the past three years wishing for what ryomen sukuna already has. who will come home with the trophy this year? and more importantly, who will come home with you?
pairing: mercedes driver!Geto x singer!Reader x redbull driver!Sukuna
content: mdni, angst, smut + fluff, f1 au, but minimal f1 knowledge needed to understand, obligatory not based on real people blah blah, HEAVY PINING AND YEARING!!, multiple pov, so much jealousy, suguru wants us so bad it's criminal, sukuna being a dick but he's hot so it's ok, crashes, paparazzi, so much drama, lots of unprotected sex tbh, hotel room sex, shower sex, semi-public sex, hookups, break ups and makeups, creampies, accidental pregnancy, friends-to-lovers, more tags will be found in individual chapters
