lostgxrlblog

black. pisces. she/her. 25.

[saintkaylaa]

Wifey Material .ᐟ

ʚɞ: levi, eren, armin, jean, porco

note: you catch them calling you their wife ! i h8 that i accidentally made porco’s so long

warnings: slight angst in Levi’s if you squint, cursing, suggestive, crack, marriage, f!reader

I BLOCK MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS

[starmapz]

for your entertainment ch2: let go

౨ৎ experienced!sukuna x virgin f!reader [adult boutique au] - ongoing series

❝ chasing your dreams isn't all it's cracked up to be. your apartment shakes when the train passes and eating a scoop of peanut butter and calling it girl dinner is getting depressing. when you finally manage to land a job at a store that sells sex toys, it's possibly the biggest relief of your life. there's just one issue: you're a virgin. you don't know the first thing about toys and you don't want your cute and flirty white-haired co-worker to know. against your better judgement, you find yourself turning to your other co-worker for lessons and learn the hard way he's just as much of an asshole in bed as he is at work. ❞

౨ৎ cw ; mdni, 18+ only. fwb but you aren't friends. slow burn romance/fast burn smut. sukuna is 23ish, reader is 24/25ish. reader is sexually reserved but confident, nerdy, and a band geek. arrogant!sukuna. mild love triangle with gojo. dom!sukuna. mild corruption. size difference. sex toys & explorations of safety in kinks. destigmatization of virginity & sex. smut & piv. virginity loss. see masterlist for full cw.

౨ৎ wc ; 11.1k.

౨ৎ art ; ackshuallyvalerie

main masterlist || series masterlist || ⪡ prev || next ⪢

The door rattles on its hinges as the smell of approaching rain floods the shop’s interior. You can’t be sure whether the wind or Sukuna’s hand carries the door hard enough to slam on its hinges, his expression untelling. Little has changed since you asked him to be whatever the hell you are now two days ago, but you have noticed one thing, as small as it is.

His gaze lingers on you.

Not in the kind of way one might hope. You get the feeling that in spite of the fact that he’s still mildly inconvenienced by you, you equally surprised him. It’s as though he thought he had you figured out and now he’s trying to understand what he missed where once he was sure he had you read back to front like an open book.

It’s unnerving. The flapping of wings in the pit of your stomach is exchanged for a more ill-seated churning when Satoru leaves and Sukuna takes his place. Yesterday when you didn’t have the gumption to ask how the hell this arrangement was meant to work, you might have called it nerves, but by only day two, it’s just frustrating.

The brute glances up from whoever he’s texting, visibly fiddling with his lip ring that shifts each time his jaw ticks.

You meet his gaze from behind your phone, dropping the device from your gaze when he doesn’t waiver.

“Do you mind?”

His head tilts an inch, his chin raised just enough that his smirk feels condescending. “Not at all.”

You can’t decide whether you prefer Sukuna when the weather in his world is stormy or when it’s sunny and he’s amused. They’re a different brand of asshole.

“You know, asking you for help was pretty fucking hard to do in the first place,” you begin, frustrated with the theatrics of your co-worker. His brow cocks as you pin him in place with your words. “So I’d appreciate it if you stopped making me feel weird about it.”

His lips press into a thin line, any hint of amusement fading. “Look,” he begins with equal frustration. “I’m not trying to make you feel weird for asking for help. I don’t give a shit how you learn about what we sell, even if it’s because of Satoru. I told you that from the start. If you want someone’s instruction, whatever. That’s fine.” He pushes up off the counter, all six-foot-something of him towering over you. “You’re allowed to ask questions about sex, especially here. But you knew from the start what I’m like.”

The demeanor he carries himself with that gives you the sense he thinks he’s above not just you, but everyone, still simmers under his skin. You can see it in the way he carries himself, like that egotistical mindset never fades.

But you can’t be upset when he’s honest with you, and open too in the subject that makes your stomach flutter. His words aren’t comforting, but they settle your frustration and nerves. Something in the way he’s direct and has nothing to hide reminds you why you ever asked him in the first place.

Pushing his fingers back through his hair, he shakes his head. “Why not just tell Satoru you don’t have experience?”

Your shoulders rise and fall as you face him. “It’s not…” You sigh, your gaze falling. “Just about Satoru.”

“Then what’s it about? What’s getting to you so much that you asked me?”

Running your tongue over your lower lip, you worry it in between your teeth. When it takes you a moment too long to reply, Sukuna grunts questioningly again, pushing for an answer.

“I just…” you stall, scratching your shoulder. “I shouldn’t still be a virgin at this age, right?”

Somewhere under all of that snide overconfidence is a man who was raised right, in spite of all of his shortcomings and his belittling behaviour. His nose scrunches, his head shaking from side to side in short, disbelieving movements. “What? Who fucking cares, that’s your choice.” Then, something else dawns on him as he starts up again before you can answer. “Wait. You’re a virgin?”

“See, it does matter! And whether it’s Satoru, or any other guy, they’re just gonna think I’m a prude or something because I haven’t–”

Running a hand over the faint stubble along his chin, his jaw briefly hangs open as he listens to your retort. When you keep going, at last he interrupts. “No, it doesn’t matter.” He pauses, pinning you in place with adamance. “The reason I’m asking is because I want to make sure you actually want to do this shit with me,” he states plainly, no amount of teasing present in the serious gaze he fixes you with. “I’m not fucking around when it comes to boundaries and consent.”

As much as his condescension and total righteousness is frustrating, you can appreciate his ability to be serious when there’s a need. At least he has a couple of redeeming qualities under all of those layers of snide narcissism.

Shutting your eyes as you try to formulate an answer, you give a short shake of your head. “Look,” you sigh, waving a hand through the air as your lashes flutter. “I don’t know what possessed me to choose you,” you begin, earning a snide huff from the other party, “but I wanna do this. I’ve tried dating apps and things but I feel like it’s so hard to meet people organically and I finally found someone I really like, so I just don’t wanna mess things up with Satoru, okay?” Your shoulders hang as his expression remains largely unreadable.

Your closing remark has your co-worker dragging his hands down his face. When he finally drops them to his sides with a plop as they hit the denim of his jeans, he gives a haphazard shrug. “All this for that asshole,” he mutters. “Why start with an arrangement like this, anyway? Why not go to the bar if you’re so against dating apps? It’s not like some one night stand means anything either.”

You grimace. “I want someone I trust.”

He won’t admit it, but it’s humbling to a man like Sukuna. Not because he doesn’t think of himself as trustworthy, but because he’s given you no real reason to put so much of your trust in him. He’s been cruel from the start and only a few days ago was reminding you that no matter your deal, you aren’t friends.

He’s still for a long time, a genuine disgruntled frown unrelenting. 

“Fine,” he gruffs at last. “For the record though, Satoru wouldn’t care that you’re a virgin. If he did, he’d be a piece of shit.”

If only your mind would wrap itself around that concept. Twenty some-odd years on an earth that treats virginity– particularly at your age– as taboo has taught you otherwise.

“Oddly insightful from you.”

Displeased as you throw snide commentary back at him, he takes another step forward. “No matter what you think of me, I wasn’t raised wrong.” His tone is low, almost dangerous, and you’re surprised when warmth spreads to the pit of your stomach. You’re grateful he’s already turned back to his laptop as you find yourself blinking at nothing in particular. “What did you want to try anyway? And you’re buying, FYI. This is for you, not me.”

You hum thoughtfully as you find yourself staring between the gaps in the shelves at the far end of the story. Your gaze briefly stops upon reaching the vibrators, which feels like a fairly low barrier of entry. 

“A vibrator?” You query.

Sukuna, leaning over the counter on his elbows with his back facing you, rolls a muscle in his shoulder. “Sure.”

His lack of enthusiasm has you grimacing. “We get an employee discount, right?”

“Half-off.”

“That’s pretty good,” you comment in an attempt to make conversation as you slip out from the counter and walk to the wall to look over options.

He hums his agreement, typing as his eyes skim whatever project he’s working on.

Taking the hint, you let your attention drift back to the wall of silicone and plastic. Although there are a variety of different options, you’d made up your mind a while ago upon hearing Sukuna’s explanation.

With a small black bullet vibrator in a discreet box with a purple-blue gradient in-hand, you make your way back to the counter, setting it aside. Whether out of curiosity or a subconscious movement, Sukuna’s attention flips to you as he evaluates the box on the counter. He languidly shoots you a glance before you fall into nothing more than background noise for him once again. You don’t get much of an idea of his thoughts on your choice, if he has any.

And much like his silence on your choice, that’s how you spend the evening, aside from when he teaches you to close. Over the past month or so you’ve grown to find the dead air less and less uncomfortable and no longer feel the need to fill it. He still shoots you a disapproving side eye every time a customer asks a question that’s left to your anti-social co-worker because you can’t answer it, but it’s noticeably less harsh.

By, like, a fraction. He’s irritated still, but he’s not outright disappointed. 

You call that a win.

You’re pretty sure your friends back home would call it sad.

But you can’t talk to Yuki or Choso about your arrangement with Sukuna anyway, so you suppose it’s not worth thinking too hard about it.

By the time you’re flipping the open sign and turning the lock on the door, Sukuna is ringing up the vibrator you chose, along with a bottle of something you didn’t add. He slides the payment terminal towards you as you make your way back. You don’t question his judgement upon finding the label to say toy cleaner. With your card in-hand, you find yourself hovering hesitantly over the payment terminal.

The question atop your tongue feels stupid.

“What?” Sukuna gruffs when you don’t speak your mind.

“Is this… a good choice?”

He sucks in a breath, measured. “It’s a fine first choice. It’s kinda cheap, but it’s a good starting point.”

“I know the quality and how long it’ll last would be affected, but does how cheap it is affect much beyond those two things?”

Another breath, but it’s equally measured. He picks up the box, his gaze darting across the lettering that covers it. “If it was your only toy, I’d say to invest in something better, but if we’re trying a lot, cheap is fine.” His mild expression seems to pick you apart when you’re faced with sanguine irises that flicker across your face. There’s the faintest hint of an upward quirk of his lips when he catches your pout.

“You never actually answered my question,” you mumble snarkily, snatching the box back from him.

No longer tempering his amusement, he shifts to the other foot with a full-blown smirk. “It’s a cheaper plastic or silicone. Less durable, the motor inside will give out quicker, and the battery won’t last as long. It’s louder than more expensive ones, too.” He glances at the box, a thoughtful narrow to his eyes. “It probably runs on watch batteries, which get expensive the more you go through.”

You recall him mentioning that to a customer, but given the circumstance, you suppose he’s right that it won’t matter. Nodding, you tap your card without another thought. He takes a bit of extra time to show you the remaining closing procedures which feels less like a courtesy and more like a curse given that you run on his clock at his will now, but you suppose a couple of extra hours won’t hurt here and there.

Even if you won’t be paid.

Shutting off the lights at the back, you make your way to the door where he waits. “So,” you start, digging through your bag for your keys, “my place is pretty noisy, should we–”

“Where do you live?”

“Oh, uh– I’m next to the station on third street.”

“Good. Meet me at the pub on the corner.”

You blink as he tosses you the store keys, barely managing to catch them in clumsy fingers. Before you can even protest, he’s already getting into the old but well-maintained black Honda across the street.

“O-kay,” you mutter to yourself, turning back to the door as you pull down the security shutter, locking both it and the glass door. His engine has already rumbled long into the distance by the time you finish fiddling with the old finicky locks and get in your beat-up vehicle. “You have to wait for me anyway, asshole.” Your muttering somehow feels better left for the world to hear rather than internalized.

The ride to the coffee shop has you once again replaying every life decision that brought you to this point in life. Maybe you should have given time to that guy who was trying to flirt with you in the library. Then again, you were studying for your final. Maybe you should have indulged the man who told you that you were pretty at a karaoke bar once. Well, no, he was creepy.

You’ve just been focusing on yourself and your fingers have done the trick anytime you were horny.

Not to mention, you can’t help but find that you don’t see yourself in porn and it doesn’t leave you feeling satisfied. That’s not even beginning to mention that much of what you found feels performative, which doesn’t cut it at an adult shop.

Though, that’s a lie too. Because at the end of the day although you are curious and this is something that you’re intrigued by given your environment lately, you’re equally hoping to impress Satoru.

Maybe Sukuna’s right that you should just tell him.

But that also feels like an uphill battle.

Stupid. This whole thing has you feeling like you’re overthinking everything and in an effort to stop thinking so damn much, you shut your car off and push into the pub.

Sukuna’s sitting in a booth at the back, already nursing a drink in one hand. His opposite arm is lazily strewn across the back of the booth, his gaze following you with that striking intensity that never fails to make your hair stand on end. Slipping in across from him, you watch as he leans back, completely at ease. As much as his arrogance can piss you off, his ability to remain calm and even puts out any fires your nerves threaten to stoke.

“Want anything?” He asks, jutting his chin towards the drink menu. Curiously, you flip to the first page before Sukuna’s hand comes down authoritatively, stopping you from browsing the menu he just offered. He flips to the back page confidently. “Non-alcoholic only.”

Fixing him with a scowl, you point towards his drink. “What are you drinking, then?”

He slides it an inch closer to you, an offer to test him. “Non-alcoholic IPA.” He lifts his hand from the menu, finally allowing you to browse your options as he leans back again. “We have rules to go over. Need your head on right and your consent after.”

As much as you don’t appreciate his commanding nature, you can admit it settles your nerves that he’s taking this seriously. He’s so flippant and dismissive when he wants to be that the soberness with which he’s treating the situation is reassuring.

In fact, it’s even a little hot, as much as you don’t even want to so much as think of the compliment. Truthfully though, you appreciate that he knows when to turn the damn attitude down.

Inhaling slowly, you look over the menu, waiting for the waiter to arrive. You order a Pepsi just for the sake of having something to hold and hide your fiddling as Sukuna’s gaze scarcely departs you.

“I thought we went over the rules already?” You ask when you finally have something to focus on. The condensation is cool against your fingers, a much-needed departure from the facetious personality across from you.

“Of the agreement, sure.” He starts, bringing his glass to his lips as he leans back casually. “But I’m not doing this without knowing what you want.”

“I thought I–”

He doesn’t give you the time of day, glass still held between his fingers as he leans forward on his forearm. “You want me in charge, yeah?”

You blink, nodding. 

“You understand that that puts me in a dominant position for our agreement, correct?”

Your cheeks warm as you nod again. “That’s kinda what I wanted,” you admit quietly.

He hums, a hint of his teeth gleaming behind a smirk. He lets the moment hang a second longer, basking in the way you squirm under his gaze. Throwing back what’s left of his drink, he sets the glass on the table with a dull clank. “Right,” he begins, “so you’ve never been with anyone before?” He asks, growing more serious again.

His ability to casually swing back and forth between both moods is beginning to piss you off.

“Yeah, you know that,” you reply snarkily.

His eyes narrow. “Not what I mean, sweetheart. You ever done anything with anyone? In any capacity?”

You chew on your lip briefly. “I gave a guy a handjob once,” you admit quietly, painfully aware of the public setting.

Sukuna’s eyes avert for a moment as he considers how to approach things. “That's it?”

“I– Yeah, can you stop asking?”

His throat bobs as he swallows, frowning. He lays his thoughts out plainly, straight to the point and without the arrogant attitude. “Think what you want of me, but I’m not trying to embarrass you. I already told you it doesn’t matter. I’m asking because it gives me a good sense of where to start.”

Sitting upright, you nod slowly.

“Do you masturbate?”

With every question, you swear your face gets warmer. “Yeah.”

“But no toys?”

“No.”

He rolls his jaw, prodding his tongue against the side of his mouth. “Alright. I can work with that. Do you know what you like when you touch yourself?”

“Do we have to do this somewhere so public?”

He snorts. “No one’s listening. The closest table is so sloshed you’d think it’s three in the morning,” he points out, motioning over your shoulder. Admittedly, he’s right. There’s a group of three women and two men all slumped over, eyes red-ringed and laughter bubbling from within. 

With a sigh, you turn back to him. “Fine. So what rules do we need to go over, then?”

“I need to know what’s completely off-limits for you.” He taps a finger once on the table. “I’m kinky but there’s shit I’m not into either.”

“Okay, um,” you take a moment to consider the toys lining the walls and some of the porn you’ve seen while browsing. “I don’t know, I guess I don’t think I’d be into whips or spanking.” Sukuna hums. “I know the candles are for… wax play, right?”

“Mhm. Some people like the pain.”

“I don’t think I would want anything painful.”

He nods his agreement. “Anything like that is off the table.”

Tapping your nails along the sides of your glass, you wrack your brain of the items that line the walls at work. “I don’t think I’m into collars or muzzles or anything.”

“Alright. No pet play. You not into being tied up, or just the pet part?”

Your hesitation is brief as you consider the difference. “I think I’d be okay with being tied up,” you muse. “Not yet, but–” you shrug, cracking a smile. “It sounds kinda fun.”

Sukuna smirks. “She’s a little kinky, I like it.” His lidded expression sends heat up the back of your neck and straight to the pit of your stomach. You adjust the way you’re seated, crossing one leg over the other as you focus on the glass in front of you. Amused, your counterpart pushes for details. “What about gags, handcuffs, and blindfolds?”

“I’d be open to those.”

His smirk grows, teeth bared just enough to call it a grin. “Alright. No whips, and pet and pain play are past the ceiling. Anything more intense than that’s off the table, yeah?”

You nod, grateful that he isn’t leaving you to try to come up with things when you’re scarcely familiar with the products at your own job.

“Hair pulling? Choking?”

You take a moment to consider it, but nod. “That’s fine.”

That seems to be the majority of his questions as he leans back in his seat again, stretching his arms overhead. He has that same expression from the day you originally made the agreement, the one that makes you feel like you’re no longer background noise in his world. Like you’ve surprised him and he’s willing to humor you.

“Alright. Anything else we can go over if it comes up,” he shrugs. “I just needed a baseline.” Yawning, he takes a moment to let his thoughts settle as he works out details in his mind. It gives you a moment to reset, gratefully taking the opportunity as you lean back in your seat, no longer fixated on your glass.

It occurs to you in that moment that he’s surprisingly quelled your nerves. You can’t place whether it’s through making a point of doing this in a public setting but ensuring this stays between you, or the way he’s actually maneuvering this conversation in a way that makes you feel open and in charge. Either way, you have to hand it to him that for a guy who’s made it clear he isn’t fond of people, he’s good with them. With you.

He spends a moment thinking things through before at last continuing. “Are you familiar with the traffic light safe word system?”

You meet his gaze, shaking your head.

“I need you to understand that even if I’m the dom, your word is my law. You tell me green and you leave shit in my hands to make you feel good. You tell me yellow and we’ll stop for a bit to figure out what you don’t like or what doesn’t feel good. You tell me red and my hands are off of you. What you say goes, you understand?” He leans forward with an intensity that seeps straight to your bones.

“Okay. I understand.”

“Good.” His shoulders rise and fall as he sucks in a breath, letting it out gradually. “And for the record, no kissing. No making out. No sex.”

As he repeats his rules, you press your lips into a thin line at how much he loves to remind you that you aren’t friends and these aren’t benefits. “You mentioned.”

“I’ll take my shirt off if it makes you comfortable, but that’s all you’re getting from me.”

“How sweet,” you comment dryly as he completely ignores your previous retort.

He grins, shrugging like the chivalrous man he is. “You didn’t ask for love, sweetheart.”

“And if I had?”

His grin stays in place, his chin lifting an inch as he regards you with the kind of expression only someone as conceited as Sukuna himself can manage. “Then you’d be switching to morning shifts.”

You want to roll your eyes, but you can at least respect his honesty, even if it’s painfully self-centered. You suppose it’s in part why trust comes easily with him. It’s not out of respect or friendship, but rather the simple fact that he doesn’t sugarcoat things. For better or for worse, he means what he says and has nothing to hide.

Jutting his chin in a motion to your nearly-finished glass, he keeps that painfully smug expression as he gruffs out a question. “Ready to go?”

Downing the last of your drink, you nod as you make your way to the bartender. She rings up your drinks together, only for Sukuna to step aside for you to pay.

Chivalry might just be dead, after all.

Your counterpart shoves his hands into his pockets with a haughty smirk, watching every micro expression cross your face as realization tents your brow, before twisting into a glare. Sukuna’s gait is entirely casual as his boots hit the pavement outside. When he comes to a halt by his car, his hand settles on the roof. “Send me your address,” are his last words before he ducks into the driver’s seat. The engine rumbles on and his music begins in an instant, a booming bassline that’s faintly familiar, but it’s too muffled to make out.

Sucking in a breath, you let the music fade as you head for your car, sending him your address just around the corner. You take an extra moment to make it to your car, breathing in the cool summer night air. The ever-present murky smell of smog hits you the moment the sharp scent of alcohol dissipates, but you’ve grown accustomed to it by now. The air on your skin is refreshing, and gives you a moment to think.

In spite of his frustrating tendencies, Sukuna treats sex– in all forms– differently from the men you’re used to. Not just men, but everyone. Even your closest friends. It’s not an expectation, it’s not something that requires any pressure. It’s whatever you want it to be, and whatever you’re comfortable with.

You appreciate the fact that in spite of you wanting him to take charge, this is all still at your beck and call. Sukuna says everything like it is. As much as you despise that for how plainly he’ll point out any fault the moment he finds it or throw you under the bus in a heartbeat when he sees himself as a man who’s always in the right, you appreciate the fact that he doesn’t make things into a spectacle either.

How many parties have you been to where ‘never have I ever’ turned into a wave of judgement, or a game where you found yourself lying to avoid it? How many times have you avoided parties altogether, hating the way all concepts surrounding you seemed to change over something that shouldn’t be everything it’s so often perceived as?

Hell, growing up in an era where sex was perceived as something cool and sold to adults through media only to be thrust into a new era where censorship is pushed more than education, it was bound to twist the perception around virginity.

Your own insecurity is an unfortunate side effect of those two very things clashing with one another. Just like your insecurity in the impression you’ve given Satoru, regardless of if you’ve actually spoken to him or not.

Which is why Sukuna’s attitude around sex is a breath of fresh air. There’s no judgement from him that you’ve abstained for so long.

And for that, you find yourself excited as you pull up to your house.

The man in question is parked before you even arrive, standing at the brick staircase by the time you lock your vehicle. The three-story building towers overhead, yet he still looks big at the base of the stairs.

His arms are crossed as he leans back casually, eyes on his phone. The racing jacket he sports hangs heavily over his broad shoulders. It looks like a replica F1 jacket of sorts, and in spite of its large size, the muscle definition beneath the tank top clinging to his skin is still obvious. It’s almost unfair that he’s so attractive and such a dick.

Just as the thought crosses your mind, his crimson eyes lift from his phone screen. He pockets it, looking you up and down once before letting you lead the way. You pull the front gate open without a word, unlocking the inner door and shutting it to latch behind you. Your apartment resides on the second floor, a single room backing onto the subway. Convenient, but noisy as all hell.

You like to think of it as the epitome of what it means to chase your dream, but in reality you know it’s little more than measly tape to cover up the fact that it feels more like failure. You’ve only been here for a couple of months and played at a couple of crappy venues that didn’t turn out well and you aren’t about to give up now, but your apartment fails to feel like home.

When you flick the lights on, it gives a warm glow to the run-down apartment.

“Make yourself at home,” you offer of the small space. It’s nothing more than a studio with a bathroom. A kitchenette sits at your immediate left with a microwave, fridge, and a single plug-in hot-plate, while your bed is pushed into the corner at the back. You’ve managed to fit a small TV on a table in the corner, and a tiny couch beside it, but that’s about all there is to see of your small space. Wallpaper peels at the top corners and there are stains and scrapes over the old wooden floor that could very well be older than you.

You’ve done what you can with the space. Over the couch is a number of signed and framed band posters and by the TV sits a cork board with memorabilia pinned to it. Old concert ticket stubs, set lists, and guitar picks all pinned or clipped in place. A lamp sits behind the TV in the corner that makes the space feel more warm, giving light to the two gaming systems sitting under the table. It’s not perfect, but it’s very you.

As you set your keys and bag on what little counter space you have, Sukuna takes in the sight of the small space, his gaze lingering on the signed posters and memorabilia before landing on your guitar, leaning against the couch haphazardly.

“You’re a concert girl?” He queries. It’s hard to get a read on where the question comes from when his tone lacks any real interest or enthusiasm.

“When I could afford it,” you agree with a wry laugh.

He hums, kicking his shoes off and dropping his jacket beside your guitar on the couch. He plops down on the double bed, picking up a drumstick sat on the small night stand wedged between the bed and the tiny table the TV sits atop. He twirls it on a finger as he continues to look around while you fiddle with the box for the bullet vibrator you got, picking at the tape keeping it shut.

Like a sixth sense, your hair stands on-end when his striking gaze settles on you again. He continues to fiddle with the drumstick, but his expression is otherwise unreadable. His slightly narrowed gaze gives you the idea that something is on his mind. “What?”

“Just thinking,” he mutters, his gaze dropping the full length of your body again.

Standing still at the counter, you chew on the inside of your cheek as he checks you out. Or something similar to that. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you knew this question would arise. A part of you had hoped to avoid it, but given the nature of your agreement with Sukuna, the question doesn’t bother you as much as it might from someone else.

“I won’t be offended, you know.”

The drumstick stills in Sukuna’s fingers. “About what?”

“If you ask.”

“Can you be fucking direct?” He sneers, his eyes narrowed to pinpricks as he fixes you with the kind of gaze that would have made your skin crawl a month ago. Back then, you would have taken it for genuine frustration, but you know now that this is a man who finds pleasure in the fact that one look can make someone avert their gaze.

But you don’t budge, turning to face him with the bullet vibe in-hand. “You wanna know why I’m still a virgin if I’m open enough to ask you for this arrangement.”

You can’t blame him. You get the feeling you’re a year or two older than him based on the fact that you graduated already and he’s in his last year. Your reply even seems to intrigue him as he leans forward just enough to show interest. You have his attention, although he doesn’t say it. He may not judge you for it, but you certainly can’t blame him for being curious. After all, your request was a bold one in the first place.

With a sigh, you set the toy on the counter as you manage to free it from its packaging. “You know how I told you I’m from a small town?”

“Mhm.”

“How small do you think I meant?”

He shrugs, having clearly never considered the question. “Ten thousand,” he throws out a haphazard guess.

“Four hundred people.”

His nose wrinkles at the mere thought. Fitting for a guy who seems well-versed in navigating life in a massive city.

“So my options kinda sucked with guys my age,” you laugh dryly, returning to the counter where you set the toy down. You turn to him suddenly, a finger held out pointedly towards his chest. “Don’t even get me started on the older men.”

He snorts, barely more than a push of air from his nostrils that gives way to his amusement.

“It was one of those roadside attraction towns where our whole thing was like,” you wave a hand through the air, looking for the right words to describe it. “Having one of those weird statues or whatever that people will pull over to see.”

“Yeah? So what weird thing did you have, then?”

You crack a smile. “The world’s largest garden gnome.”

He blinks in disbelief, in sudden understanding of the whole situation. One single garden gnome painting a whole picture of who you are and how you grew up. “Damn. That blows.” There’s something so strangely friendly in the interaction that’s unbefitting of everything he is, but for a moment you forget this is Sukuna you’re speaking with.

You laugh. “Yeah. It’s not even the world’s largest anymore from what I’ve been told. So now we’re the ‘original’,” you make finger quotations in the air, “world’s largest garden gnome.”

He snorts again, pushing a hand back through his hair. “No wonder you like punk music. You did need to get out of your town.”

You surprise even yourself at how heartily you laugh. When he’s not being a stick-in-the-mud, it turns out he’s kinda funny. In fact, when he isn’t acting like he’s above you, there’s even a sort of warmth to him that you don’t mind. Whether it’s a public front and he’s dropped the curtain for a moment or he’s growing more comfortable with you is yet to be determined.

Or maybe this is like a one time event that you were lucky enough to witness.

“You must have gone to the city pretty often if you go to a lot of concerts,” he muses. “No interest in hooking up with a guy or doing this shit with someone before now?”

You frown, glancing up from the instructions on the bottle of toy cleaner as you loosely skim them. “I never really considered any of this until the shop. And I’d rather be with someone I know.”

He grunts in irritation before you even finish the first sentence, but he lets it go by the time you finish. At least his frustration with you is purely on a work level. “You don’t know me,” he points out. “You don’t know jack shit about how I am in bed and you barely know me outside of it.”

“I trust you, though.”

His gaze drifts to the floor, something stoic passing over his expression as he allows the thought to sink in. “You trust me,” he parrots dryly, for no other reason than to solidify them for himself. You open your mouth to elaborate, but he’s already talking over you before you can spit out a second word. Infuriating man. “Right. And now you want me to show you the ropes–” he pauses at the irony of his statement, a smug smirk returning to his lips. “Literally.” He stands up from your bed, tossing the drumstick aside in the midst of his amusement.

With a roll of your eyes, you stop whatever narcissistic or teasing comment was about to leave his parted lips, steering the conversation another way before he’s too frustrating to handle. “I can make a guess.”

Sukuna pauses, stepping towards you with curiosity. “About–” he raises his brows. “What I’m like? In general, or in bed?”

“Both,” you shrug. “You like to be in charge. You like to have someone who’s willing to admit that you’re better at something and you like to be mean about it. You like when people feel small around you, it makes your ego feel good like the big man that you are.”

Where you expect offense, you only find amusement, which unfortunately isn’t in your favor either. At the end of the day, he’s still running this interaction like he owns it. His head tilts, his grin unrelenting. The way the muscle shirt he sports clings to his chest as it rises and falls feels unfair. He’s a tease without trying, all because he has the fortune of being hot. “Oh?” His voice comes low, a grit to it that sends heat between your thighs. “Are we guessing, or psychoanalyzing?”

You shrug. “It can be whatever you want.”

His gaze flickers around your face as you move past him to the spot where he was just seated. The amusement laced through sanguine eyes as he watches you sits under your skin in the kind of way that has you grimacing. The way he picks you apart so effortlessly is a shadow compared to the pile of things about him that frustrate you, but you hate the way it gets under your skin.

He has no issues making himself at home either, moving his jacket aside so he can manspread obnoxiously on the couch across from your bed. Your brows tent downwards as he doesn’t hesitate to reach for your guitar either, as though he knows that, too, will get under your skin. “Here, I’ll move that.”

You dart towards him, picking the instrument up before his fingers can graze the neck, setting in on the stand it should have been on anyway. His brow quirks, head tilting as he watches your every movement. The way he moves through life so easily is grating.

When you take a seat again across from him on your bed, you tap your foot a couple of times on the worn wood below. It sounds hollow, even beneath your clothed feet. “So… What should we do?” You query, praying you can find a rhythm with him that makes everything more comfortable.

A smile curls at the corners of his lips. “I told you. You’re–”

His words come to a quick halt, expression twisting into disbelief and clear concern as your apartment rattles briefly, before the obvious noise of the subway passing behind the building follows, and the room settles as it comes to a stop. Unphased, you await his next words.

“You fucking live with that?”

You shrug. “Yeah. I uh– didn’t really realize it would be an issue until I moved in.”

A puff of air leaves his nose, his eyes trailing between you and the window where the train’s shadow cast across the floor moments ago. “How the fuck do you sleep? The subways run all night.”

“They’re less frequent at night,” you offer.

“How the fuck do you get off with that noise?”

Worrying your lower lip between your teeth, you shrug. “It’s just background noise.”

Sukuna hangs in a state of disbelief for a moment, crimson boring into you like even he’s questioning how the fuck he got here now. When the moment settles, he runs his tongue over his teeth and shakes his head, muttering a curse under his breath. “You’re something.”

“Thanks,” you reply dryly. The nerves of opening yourself up to someone buzz more as you draw Sukuna’s attention away from the train. Your leg bounces involuntarily, a hollow thump to it as you wait for a reply to your question, no matter how snarky it’ll inevitably be.

But the arrogance never comes. His eyes flicker down to your leg, the previous curl of his lips gone and replaced with something far more staid. With a hand on the couch’s armrest, he moves across the small room with ease, his large frame casting a long shadow over the floor as he blocks the lamplight. Your heart pumps hard against its cage, jumping to your throat when his palm settles on your leg, pressing it to the hardwood to stop its pace.

“Relax.” His voice has a sultry tone that feels foreign to you yet lived-in, like he knows just how to pitch his voice to send it like a shock straight to your stomach. You shift at the sensation, drawn to his gaze as he leans in with a brazen chuckle, clearly pleased that he can affect you in such a way. “Stop talking. Stop thinking. About all of this shit. About me, about the job, the money, the train. Turn your brain off.”

He’s right, painfully so, about every little thing on your mind. But the most relief you usually get is a warm cup of tea on a cool night, and even then it’s disturbed by a train every few minutes. It’s not like you haven’t masturbated, particularly since starting at the shop, but your brain always seems to need something to latch onto and porn feels so performative you can’t get into it.

Sukuna gives you something to focus on, taking the bullet vibrator from within your fidgeting hands as his other hand glides from your thigh to your torso over your shirt. His thumb frames your breast, the sensation sending a shiver straight up your spine. He uses just enough force that you could call the pressure he uses to guide you back onto your bed a ‘suggestion’ rather than a command.

“Give me a color.”

“Green.”

“Good,” he hums, low and smug as you watch his smirk grow into something painfully self-assured and egotistical as he flashes his teeth. You don’t have time to be annoyed when your lashes are already fluttering as he drags the bullet vibrator in his palm over your clothed pussy with just enough pressure that your breath catches. “And it’s not even on yet,” he purrs in that ever-condescending tone.

“I should have asked someone less–”

He grinds the vibrator against your clit in an effort to stifle your attitude, shooting you a smug smirk when it works. “But you didn’t.”

Your scowl barely has a chance to form before it dissipates as he glides a thumb beneath your shirt. The sensation has you shivering as he scrutinizes every micro expression you make when his thumb glides over the sensitive skin of your bare stomach. Goosebumps rise in its stead, inevitable as your body reacts to the sensation. You jolt when his touch is so feather-light that it feels more ticklish than something sensual, and like everything else he picks it up and files it away for later.

When he stops at your hipbone and dips two fingers beneath your waistband, you instinctively suck in a breath, stiffening. His movement pauses, eyes narrowing as he fixes you with a sharp gaze that you recognize as instruction.

“Green,” you breathe.

Something smug in his expression has you swallowing your pride at the realization that submission came easily. He’s too keen to have not noticed how you’re not running your mouth anymore, and you don’t need to read between the lines to know that he enjoys that fact.

With your consent, two fingers drag your pants down, haplessly discarded as his gaze trails the length of your legs slowly. You can’t make out what he’s thinking, your hair standing on end as some part of you longs for warmth in a partner who might revere you, but that isn’t what you asked for. It’s not who Sukuna is.

When his eyes meet yours, they narrow an ounce. “Stop worrying,” he admonishes the thoughts he seems to be able to sense as though your insecurities are written in the air for him to see. It warms your cheeks further than they already are. When he catches the twitch of your brow, whether it’s a tell that he’s correct or some bratty form of defiance, he brings a hand to your jaw, his thumb and finger forcing you to keep his gaze. “I’m serious. Bodies are all different, and–”

“That doesn’t make me feel better, Suku–”

His thumb and finger shift until he’s pressing your cheeks together to shut up your protests. “Everyone is different. You should be. Stop fucking worrying.” He loosens his grip enough to allow you to nod, no longer pursing your lips. “Focus on my hands. Focus on the feeling. Don’t think about the fucking train that’s gonna pass in three minutes. Don’t distract yourself.”

He releases your face, shifting his hand until he’s prodding your abdomen pointedly with a finger. He waits for your gaze to follow before continuing.

“Masturbation is one thing because you know exactly what you want and can make yourself finish quickly, but bringing another person into things changes how your body and brain work.” He moves his hand back to the bed as he leans over you, watching with a faint smirk as the other hand presses the small vibrator, still off, into your clit and you take in a sharp breath. “If you get distracted by all the dumb shit going through your head and don’t stay focused on how you’re feeling, your body won’t let you cum. You’ll go straight into overstimulation without orgasm, or your body just won’t respond. It’s common as shit and a lot of people don’t think they can cum with a partner.”

You blink at how strangely insightful and educational the tattooed prick can actually be. Your shoulders fall into the mattress as you focus on the pressure of the hard silicone pressed into your clothed pussy.

There’s another side to it as well that has your mind ready to reel into something far more tangential, as much as you know you should listen to his advice. The fact is that the very same man who told you not to expect love or care from him is sitting here reassuring you, all the while explaining to you just how much he understands the human body. It’s not just from a biological or fact-driven perspective either, he’s putting your pleasure first.

Sure, it’s worth acknowledging that at the end of the day your arrangement does revolve around your pleasure, but Sukuna’s not just insightful. In one way or another, it’s caring. Whether he wants to acknowledge it or not, you’ve heard horror stories of men not being able to find the clit and it’s driven you further into insecurity surrounding the very concept of sex as someone with no experience.

Sukuna isn’t just skilled or good as you’re sure he’ll put it. He’s put time into this. Not just the kind that comes with being with people, but the kind that comes with research and education.

You knew he could talk about toys without batting an eye.

This is deeper.

He flicks your forehead, eyes flashing with irritation as you protest with a yelp. “What did I just tell you?”

“You’re just kinda being sweet,” you excuse yourself, blinking at him from where he’s crouched over your lower torso.

Something flashes in his eyes. “Don’t fucking mistake being good at what I do for sweetness.” His lip curls, the word dripping in disgust like the very concept is venomous to him. “Or do I need to remind you that this is a fucking deal and the moment this shit’s over you’re nothing more than my co-worker who doesn’t know fuck-all about the product?”

You let out a disbelieving scoff at the way he manages to kill the vibe entirely over what you might consider a compliment. “You’re right. You’re a dick.”

He straightens as he takes command of the situation once more, making himself look bigger as he leans over you. He shifts the reins like he owns your every reaction and can predict the situation. With a flick of his thumb, he turns the bullet vibe on, the vibration a sudden and intense sensation even over your panties. It’s a stark contrast to what your fingers feel like.

“Now stop thinking.” He drags the vibrator from your clit back across your clothed slit, your lips parting as you arch into the sensation.

“How am I supposed to focus when you’re being such an ass?” You grit in spite of the pleasure.

“Now you know why I’m good at this shit.”

He drops the attitude again as he manages to turn you on without the sensual touch or words of a partner, but rather through other methods.

Keeping a steady, albeit low vibration setting over your clit through your panties, he slips a hand under your shirt again. His thumb glides smoothly over your nipple, raising goosebumps along with his calloused touch. Sharp crimson eyes fix on the way your gaze finally shifts from his movements to the ceiling, your hands reaching for the blanket laying over the mattress. Your fingers curl into the cotton as all thoughts of insecurity and Sukuna’s attitude finally dissipate and all you’re left with is a tingling sensation that spreads warmly to your extremities.

“Thaaat’s it,” he guides you in a low tone that acts like sparks in your mind, kindling a fire that burns out whatever last thoughts served as a distraction. At last it’s just you and the sensation of his finger circling your nipple, slow and sensual as he takes the time needed to work your body up to a point where the vibrator won’t be too much.

The mattress dips as Sukuna shifts, his footsteps lost on you as the train passes by the window. It’s nothing more than background noise with your exterior senses dulled to focus only on touch. You blink at the tattooed man as the noise of the vibrator is silenced, lidded eyes watching his fingers hook into the waistband of your panties.

“Color?”

You swallow hard. His gaze lowers as he watches the movement, every tiny detail catalogued as he reads your reaction.

“Green,” you reply, breathless.

He gives a nod, fixed still on your expression when he gives the first tug. On instinct your legs twitch to close, so he guides you through the nerves rather than ignoring them. “You’re good,” he gruffs. It’s not soothing, but somehow it settles a modicum of the uncertainty that comes with putting your trust in someone else in such a vulnerable way.

Once they’re over your knees, he tugs the panties off, sending them across the room.

You still can’t help instinctively trying to hide yourself from him, squeezing the blanket tighter between your fingers as the cool air of your apartment reaches your dripping core.

“You want my shirt off?”

The question hangs before you, eyes dipping down to the black muscle shirt he sports, tight over his built chest. It’s the kind of thing you would spot at a gym, but it’s just loose enough over the rest of his torso that it looks less like he’s showing off and more like he effortlessly owns the look and everyone else is just mirroring him.

Pulling your lower lip between your teeth, you nod. When you meet his gaze again, it’s smug. He knows every last word that just ran through your head like he’s heard it before and the thought should piss you off, but you can’t be too bothered when he sets the vibrator on your abdomen and grabs the hem of his shirt with crossed arms. He pulls it up over his head with intention, flexing his biceps as he does so and sets it aside. Conveniently, his shirt doesn’t fly across the room.

The tattoos that curl around the sides of his neck snake over his shoulders in thick off-black lines that curve over his pecks. There are another set of bands similar to his wrists on his upper biceps and circles at his shoulders. They sharpen the persona given off by his intense egoism and dyed black hair, but they also accentuate his muscles in the kind of way that has your pupils dilating as you trail over the lines before falling to his abs.

As if that sight isn’t a show enough, at the base of his abdomen is a snail trail that you fix on just enough to earn a chuckle. It’s startlingly pink, matching the roots you spot every few weeks when they grow out.

Your hips shift as your stomach clenches at the sight. The cool air makes it obvious how turned on you are, and when you look back up, Sukuna is smirking. You’re feeding his ego more than you could know.

Satisfied with your reaction, he settles both hands on your thighs, slowly pulling them apart. Exposed to him once again, you find that action has surprisingly replaced your nerves with something far more debauched that has your mind racing.

This time, in all the right ways.

When your legs stay spread, he picks the vibrator back up, flicking it back on in one deft movement. The bed dips when he settles between your legs, dragging the vibrator through wet folds and over your clit, you arch into it with a soft moan. “Now you’re getting it,” he smirks as at last you let go of the endless stress of thoughts and give in to pleasure. “A bullet vibe is too small for much else besides placing direct pressure on the clit,” he explains as though your mind isn’t on another plane. “So it works best with other forms of stimulation.”

He keeps the small vibrator pressed directly to your clit. Your head falls back into the mattress, balling the fabric of your blankets up into your fists.

“You gotta work with me if you want this shit to work,” he continues, his hand pressing your thigh down when he adds additional pressure to the vibrator and your legs jolt shut on instinct. “What feels good?”

“I– hah–” You blink, cloudy eyes fluttering open to drag across the ceiling until they find his gaze, impossibly red and horribly smug as a moan tears your words apart. “The pressure is nice.”

“Nice?” He parrots the word, dripping in amusement. “I’m using a vibrator on you, don’t mince your words.”

You arch into the sensation in spite of his chatter, but he pulls away when you don’t reply immediately. Swallowing hard, you adjust your grip on the blankets and blink as your mind reels trying to catch up to what he wants. “It gets me a lot closer when you press it into my clit.”

He hums.

“But it’s kinda nice when you take it away too, makes the feeling l-last longer,” you stammer over the sentence when he tests your words, pulling it away for a moment. Your hips jolt, but the sensation is nice.

Vibration isn’t like your fingers. It’s far more intense and works you to the edge quicker when Sukuna knows how to maneuver the toy. “That’s called edging,” he gruffs, pulling the vibrator back as he waits for your eyes to meet his again. “This is a pretty tame form of it, but the human body wasn’t built for a vibrator so you’ll cum too fast if I don’t and it’s not as good.” You nod weakly, gaze flickering back down to the small device that he’s still holding away from your body. “Some people like being brought to the edge and coming down over and over, though. If that’s something you wanna try, that’s fine, but let me learn what you like first.”

You nod again, chewing on your lower lip as you buck your hips into his waiting hand.

He clicks his tongue, amused. “Eager.” Before you can retort with something equally cheeky, he presses the vibrator back to your clit as the stimulation curls through your body again, warm and welcome. It blossoms from your stomach to your chest until you can feel yourself teetering at the edge again, only for Sukuna to pull back. “Finger yourself.”

“What? Me?”

“You fucked stupid already?” Condescending prick. “Yeah, you. I told you, a bullet vibe works best with outside stimulation and I wanna see what you do to get off.”

You huff out a sigh, but your fingers slip from the blanket, down your body until you feel slick gather along your fingers. They’re cold, the thin windows giving way to a chill that seeps into your skin. The sensation has you sucking in a breath when they touch your skin, one finger slipping first between your folds, cool and pleasant, and then another. You work yourself open at a comfortable pace and adjust your hips until you find a rhythm and depth that feels nice, though it’s nothing compared to the vibrator.

“Could you cum just from that?”

“I don’t think so,” you breathe.

He hums in acknowledgement, pressing the vibrator with gradual pressure back into your clit. Your fingers stutter, pausing altogether. “Keep going,” he mutters. Even through the fog of bliss, you follow his instructions and keep the pace, your fingers curling into your walls as they begin to convulse around you.

Your breaths turn to soft, somewhat shy, moans with every second the vibrator spends pressed to your sensitive bundle of nerves. The world around you is fuzzy and you swear you can even hear the static that gathers at the edges of your vision. When your abdomen begins tensing and the rhythm of your fingers grows less accurate, more frantic, he uses more pressure to elicit the exact reaction he’s looking for. The sensation throws you over the edge without warning, hitting you in waves far more intense than the best orgasm with your fingers has ever given you.

As your body reacts to each wave of the orgasm, muscles clenching in time, the vibrator shifts slightly and the sensation heads straight into overstimulation. Sukuna reads the reaction and pulls away, letting you come down naturally. Your chest rises and falls heavily as you stare up at the rickety old ceiling.

Letting go and giving in entirely to the pleasure feels good. Your thoughts don’t race. There’s no constant stream of what needs to happen for the rest of the day or when you’ll head to the bar for your next gig. You’re just on cloud nine.

You feel Sukuna rise from between your legs. He moves around the apartment like he owns the place, opening the only door that doesn’t lead out without asking, and returning with a towel.

Pushing up onto your elbow, you hold out a hand expectantly, but Sukuna holds it out of reach. “No. I told you you’re not getting sweet, but I’m not leaving you without aftercare.” He takes a seat on the edge of the bed, folding the towel into something more manageable before holding it out for you to wipe your fingers on. “An arrangement like this,” he waves the folded towel haphazardly between you once you’re done with it, “means that the person in the dominant position should be helping clean up and make sure the sub is in the right headspace.” He speaks so matter-of-factly, you have a hard time believing this is the same guy who asked if you applied for the wrong job.

Tonal whiplash if you’ve ever heard it.

“If you ever have sex with someone who puts you in a submissive position and doesn’t give you aftercare, dump the prick.”

Truthfully, you’re not sure Sukuna has any right to call someone a prick, but you nod regardless. You’re not about to protest when he is cleaning you up and has gathered your panties and pants for you.

Once he’s satisfied, he sets the towel aside and pulls his shirt back over his head. He grabs you a glass of water as you cover yourself back up, and is surprisingly domestic as he checks in on you. “Feel good?”

“Yeah.”

“See what I mean when I say the bullet vibe is best with outside stimulation?”

You blink up at him from where he’s standing, a neutral expression plastered to his face as though nothing’s happened and there isn’t a tent in his pants. “Yeah, I guess.”

His eyes narrow, chin tilted up slightly. “You guess?”

“Sorry. I just don’t know what to do now.”

Unbothered, he simply nods, his gaze passing to the window as a train casts a dark shadow over the apartment, gone in a split second. He runs a hand through black strands of hair, revealing the pink at the roots before crossing his arms over his chest. “Why’s that?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never been… whatever we are, with someone.”

He snorts. “Can’t say I have either, sweetheart. Just talk with me until I know you’re back in a normal headspace. Tell me what worked and what didn’t.” He brings a hand up to his shoulder, rubbing the muscle along his back idly as he stands a short distance away.

Now fully clothed, you sit upright. “Okay.” Letting out a breath, you navigate the blissful fog still hanging over you in search of something to answer. “I appreciate that you took your shirt off,” you admit, heat climbing your spine as it curls up to your ears. You press on, grateful that he doesn’t make a big deal out of it in spite of his minute smirk. “I liked when you used pressure, but it was a lot when I came.”

He hums. “That’s overstimulation. Was it a lot in a bad way?”

Your brow knits together in thought. It was too much in the moment, but you don’t suppose you’d label it as bad. “No. Not exactly. Just too much.”

Shifting to the other foot, he considers your words. “Overstimulation is a pretty common kink. There’re a lot of people who like being pushed into that territory because it is a lot but the stimulation is also pleasurable and it can push you to cum again pretty quickly.”

“I think I saw that in some of the porn I tried watching.”

“I would say it’s one of the more common kinks in the kink community. Makes sense.”

You nod slowly, considering the sensation as you shift, your body still feeling particularly loose. “I think I’d try it.”

“Sure,” he agrees, seeming to only half pay attention when he pulls his phone out. A dim blue light illuminates the lower half of his face before he shoves it back in his pocket. “You seem good. Feeling alright?”

“Yeah.”

“Great. I’m leaving.” He turns abruptly on his heel, tossing his jacket over his shoulder as he makes his way to the door. “Clean the vibe,” he reminds you. “And don’t use it too often. We’re not built for electronics, we’re built for fingers. It’ll fry your nerves and regular stimulation won’t feel as good.”

You nod solemnly, his advice adding up. “Wait!” You call when his hand rests atop the old door knob, the golden paint chipping away as it gives up the facade of luxury. “You don’t want anything?”

“No.”

You shake your head. “Why did you agree to this, then?”

He pauses, turning fully to face you. His gaze travels to the darkened path over the wooden floor where enough steps have been taken that the wood has physically worn away. “It’s convenient,” he offers, “having you take my shifts. It’s…” he trails off for a moment, his tongue running over his lower lip. “It’s helpful, really.”

You’re shocked at the sincerity behind the admission, like in spite of how frustrating and egocentric he can be, he feels he owes you honesty.

“But you’re right.” He lets the words hang, pools of cerise washing intensely over you as your head tilts quizzically. He blinks as he searches for the words to put his thoughts together. “Look, it pisses me off that you applied to this job in the first place, but you’re here now and Jillian likes you.” He shrugs his shoulders. “There’s fuck-all I can do about that and you should have known this shit before applying.”

Your eyes narrow as he repeats something you’re getting real sick of hearing. You can’t say you’re sure how this goes with the statement ‘you’re right’, either.

“But this shit is hard to learn if you don’t have an in.” His hand leaves the door handle with a hollow metallic clang as he takes a step towards you. He’s still across the apartment, but it bridges a gap of sorts. “Sex is treated as something you’re not supposed to talk about and kinks are taboo. So finding resources brings you to all sorts of sketchy sites or outdated books because the resources surrounding it suck.” He shrugs. “You should have a way to learn and experiment without feeling stupid for not knowing shit or for asking questions.”

“You literally called me stupid for asking a question not even ten minutes ago,” you interject.

“I didn’t call you stupid. I asked if I’d already fucked you stupid, because the question was stupid.”

You throw your hands in the air at his brazen reply, in disbelief that he can somehow manage to be simultaneously the most frustrating man on earth and unusually open and honest on topics that deserve discussion.

“It’s not stupid to ask questions about sex, or toys, or rules, or anything that makes you more comfortable. It’s not stupid to ask questions about your body or ask me to adjust to something that feels better.” He begins his clarification as though it helps at all. “It’s stupid to ask who I meant when I said ‘finger yourself’ when you’re the only other person in the room,” he snorts, amused as you shoot him a deadpan expression. “And it’s stupid as all hell to apply to a store where you don’t have any fucking clue what we sell.”

“You’re–”

“Yeah, yeah. Save it for later.” He makes a quarter turn, hand on the handle again. “I gotta go. See you at work.”

And with that, he’s gone.

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౨ৎ a/n ; helloooo!! thank you all so much for all of the support :') i couldn't possibly have imagined all the love for this series, so it seriously means a lot.

i've gone for what i think is a fun writing challenge for myself in giving sukuna and reader both a very interesting dynamic, while also showing that sukuna's views on sex are very different than traditional ones bc of his line of work. we'll see more of satoru's perspectives as well and where those views come from!! reader, of course, struggles with insecurity in spite of the fact that she is bold and confident and slowly but surely we'll see more of that come into play in further chapters as well as where it comes from.

i hope you're enjoying it so far <33

౨ৎ taglist ; OPEN. age must be visible in bio. 18+ only. @lilrosyhaven @tiny-mimi @grimm3r @yujisredkicks @knittybritty98 @sukunahs @saezzi @epicderpface @ynishalee @pandabiene5115 @silibiliballs @ane5e @feyrinnn @jkslvsnella @maomimii @megumuro @beereadzzz @beaniesayshi @ryomeowie @suguusatoo @gojosoups @yenayaps @m3owr3ow @tohru-tales @crimzie129 @lostgxrlblog @sterzin @scaraamo @sunyomz @norahlolzz @whateverineedsblog @buttclencher28 @blueemochii @pequnopastel @cupidxml @saintdilucc @officiallydrunk @yvannaille @brazzigy @ilovebeansyay @deewrites01 @martianzmars @volleyballgirl2022 @mtchamnsta @astrokenny @ge3ked @ri-sa20 @heichouaack @iluvgetosuguru @winkii

writing, format & dividers © starmapz. art © ackshuallyvalerie. do not repost, translate, or copy.

[otakufilms]

‧₊˚﹒♡﹗₊˚⊹…❀𝓸𝓽𝓪𝓴𝓾𝓯𝓲𝓵𝓶𝓼 𝓷𝓸𝔀 𝓼𝓱𝓸𝔀𝓲𝓷𝓰…‧₊˚﹒♡﹗₊˚⊹❀

country boy slangin’. onyankopon.

𓊆ྀི warnings .ᐟ + word count— 3.7K, original!blackfemreader, husband!onyankopon, farmer!onyankopon, southerncoded!onyankopon, southernwife!femreader, sweet!femreader, caring!femreader, dominant!onyankopon, aggressive!onyankopon, riding!, aggressive pet names, squirting, creaming, condomless sex, dick sucking, minors are not welcome! 𓊇ྀི

メモ。— forever will love me a country boy. save a horse, ride a what? yeah, exactly.

YOUR HUSBAND HAD AN ATTITUDE. It was entirely valid in this case—but you wished that he’d relax just a bit. A small pout formed at the ends of your lips, hand slowing to stir the sugar within your lemonade pitcher as you watched him. You could see in the way his bicep flexed as he leaned into his Ford F—450, twisting his wrench as he removed and replaced different pieces within the truck's engine irritatedly. 

Here’s the thing—the day before was completely fine. Your husband was a vision of the south—mixtures of his New Orleans and Mississippi twang, the annoyance of how he was never afraid to get his hands dirty, to the smooth umber of his skin beneath the sun at a constant—his dark pink lips—full, soft, the gold of his grills shining with each word falling from his mouth. He was a dream. 

The morning started off well, though. You ran your face beneath the warm water of the shower, grinning the moment you felt his broad body step in with you—his low grunt suffocated the flesh of your throat, sucking at it in his own way of greeting. 

Your affection for each other always seemed to distract  from his daily work on the farm. It was four acres far out from the city—cows, pigs, horses, chickens— a domesticated life that you enjoyed as a wife, coming to live within the countryside of Mississippi the moment you eloped.

Back to the point of how Onyankopon’s attitude came to fruition—it was still the day before, your French tips pouring soybeans into the bucket of your piglets’ Love and Bug’s tin for lunch. The deep ginger of your curls drape along your shoulder as you bend forward, your hand raising over your freckled face to block the sun as you look across the field. Horse shoes gallop from across the field as he tugs at its reins—you always found yourself…watching him.

Riding bareback, the horse beneath him continued to gallop—the cowboy hat atop of his head blocked him from the sun, cornrows tight along his scalp, white tee clinging to his tatted figure. The sun beamed against his shown skin, nearly able to hear the whistles he makes as he guides the cows back into their barn.

The halter romper you wear compliments your caramel complexion, the picnic plaid of its material hugging your body in ways it shouldn’t have—the mound of your hips, the fat of your ass—you dig your boots into the sediments of the ground, giving him a soft wave. 

“Mornin’, baby.”

His voice is deep, full of grit. 

Boots rumble the ground as he dismounts his horse, sizing you up with each step that brings himself closer. Onyankopon’s eyes are on you—drinking in every inch, your hips, your waist, the full of your ass against the tight fabric of your romper, your blush. 

“You know I’m a lil’ dirty, girl. My fault.”  

His hands go to grip your face regardless, pulling you into his body. His musk surrounds you, all man.

“That’s okay,” your voice is sweet, “You okay? MooMoo fightin’ you instead of going back to the barn?”

His lips drop onto yours the moment he holds your face, his kiss full of an aggression that makes your thighs clench.

“Mmm,” he pulls away a bit, mouth still brushing against yours as his hand strokes your waist, “She mad ‘cause I ain’t give her ass an apple like ‘errbody else. Should’ve been listenin’ when I said take yo’ ass to the barn.”

You giggle, rubbing your cheek into his palm, “She’s stubborn—‘Get’s from her Daddy.”

“‘Cept my ass still know how to listen,” his hand grips at your ass, “She get’ that sassy shit from you.”

Your eyes flick back to the field, seeing the cow standing within the same spot as all the others had crowded back into the shed. You peck at his chin, “Don’t be talkin’ ‘bout me ‘cause you can’t get your children in check, farmer.”

“I gets’ shit in check—I be havin’ yo’ ass listenin’ pretty good, don’t I?” 

“Negative.” 

He chuckles at that. 

“Go start dinner,” He murmurs in your mouth, “I’ll get done with MooMoo and we can finish watchin’ that show from last night. I’ll rub yo’ feet, give you a lil’ massage.” 

“‘Kay’,” you pucker your lips, “You’ love me?“

“Yo’ ass cuttin’ up,” Onyankopon grunts, his hand smacking at your ass once more, “You know a nigga love you. Gon’ back in the house.”

And you did—you’d showered, slipped into the soft silk of your nightgown, glasses tipping at your nose as your curls hung beneath your claw clip effortlessly. You’d prepared brunch for dinner, shrimp ‘n grits with beignets for dessert, your giggles traveling all along the house as he kissed the sugar off your lips. Your fingers played with the coils of his beard, marquise cut diamond ring shining beneath the lights of your home as you watched TV with him—You were in love. 

It wasn’t until the end of the night that things changed. 

He held you as you slept, tattooed fingers splayed along your stomach as he cuddled you to his chest. The fan peacefully strummed a comforting tune into the room—but it was being overshadowed at the moment—a distressed mooing was sounding through the windows, as the only cow that was out of the barn had still been MooMoo. 

She was more of the silent animal, and you knew that only meant two things—that she was actually in distress, or someone had put her in distress. To make matters worse, the motion detectors around your house were going off outside. 

Your heart stuttered within your chest as you’d both woken up at the same time—your body immediately turned towards him, clinging to his arm as your first response of fear. But you knew your husband—he was already slipping out of the bed, the darkness only allowing you to hear the click sound of him loading his shotgun. 

Your hands cling onto his back as you whimper, “Ony, don’t leave me—“ 

“Imma’ be back,” he pressed his mouth against yours, “Lemme’ just go check on my girl, see if all this fuss is over a dog or sum’. Don’t get out of bed, aight? Forreal’.”

He kisses you firmly once more—safe, warm, making your heart slow just a bit the moment he walks out. 

It could’ve been five minutes, it might’ve even been thirty. But your body tensed the moment you heard the front door slam shut, heavy boots thumping up the stairs before the door opened. Your body relaxed the moment his silhouette came into frame—but just by his energy, you could feel his irritation. 

“Baby?” you call, “You okay?”

You could hear the thump of his gun being dropped into the ground, “I’m good. I just put MooMoo back up—she was layin’ on her side.”

The grunt in his voice makes you frown, “What?” 

“Dumbass niggas was prolly’ passin’ through and seen the farm—thought it was funny to be tippin’ cows like some fuckin’ kids.” 

You watched as his tattooed figure moved into the bathroom, his fingers lifting to turn on the light as he began to wash his hands. 

“Muhfucka’s lucky I ain’t catch they ass—“

“You wouldn’t have shot them, Ony.” 

His eyes narrow. 

“They was’ on our property, girl. You thought I wasn’t gon’ shoot on sight?” 

You sigh, “Baby—“

“‘Baby’ nothin,” he rubs at his face, “Why you actin’ like you okay wit’ some niggas jumpin’ our fence? Where’ you think we at, girl? California?—ain’t no law out here unless it’s me.” 

“I don’t wanna talk about this.” 

“Aight. I do.”  

“Onyankopon.” 

“You ain’t finna’ be tellin’ a nigga not to do what needa’ be done when it’s for us. For you.” 

“Baby, it’s nearly four in the morning,” you reminded, “You’re making yourself upset—can you come lay down? Please?” 

He stares at you for a moment, his lips tight before he inhales, jaw working as he nods. 

“Aight,” he exhales, “Aight, baby. You’ right.” 

He slowly eased himself into bed, his arms immediately holding your figure. You can feel the heat of his chest—the thump of his heart. He was worked up. 

So here you were now the next morning—Onyankopon was still on ten, and he wasn’t the best at hiding it. You were back outside feeding the pigs, your eyes narrowing beneath the sun as the gallop of his horse rumbled the ground, his deep voice commanding the cows to move in the direction he needed them to.

“Move,” he shouts, clicking at his horse as he rounds them all up, “Y’all know where yo’ asses s’pose to be! Ain’t no apples today!” 

Even hours later, he was no better. Agitation was the only word you could think of as you stood in the kitchen, eyes squinted as you watched him from the front door— his large body leaned into the hood of his truck, attempting to fix whatever was wrong with it. He’d just bought the vehicle a couple of months ago, and when a gas station worker made the stupid mistake of pumping it with diesel, it’d been acting strange ever since.

“I thought you were gonna’ take it to the shop?” you questioned from inside, raising your voice a bit for him to hear. 

“Nah,” he grunts back, “Ain’t about to spend another eight hours at that place bein’ told the same thing I ‘been hearin’ for a week—Nigga said he fixed the leak in the lining, and I’m still hearin’ it. Swear to god if I need a new muhfuckin’ truck imma’ kill that nigga.” 

You had to let him be when he got like this. His muscles flexed as he fixed his truck, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, his arms—huge, deep scowl on his face, grills shining at the flash of his gritted teeth. His hefty belt buckle and boots rumble the ground as he shifts under the hood. 

“Don’t overheat yourself out there, baby.” 

Onyankopon tugs his shirt off in response, his pants hanging low along his waist from the heat of the day. 

“‘Heard you.” 

You allowed him to work for another thirty minutes before checking on him— now standing within the doorframe, you watched his jaw contract each time he tugged something beneath the hood. 

His deep voice called, “You need somethin’, girl?” 

Your glasses perch at your nose, curls coiled around the  flush of your cheeks as the air of outside brushes against your clothing—the white material only clasped shut by thin strings at the dip of your breasts, able to see the curve of your stomach, matching shorts clinging to the poke of your ass with every click clack of your brown boots.

“Jus’ came to check on you.”

He doesn’t respond immediately. Your voice is soft as you call for his attention, “Baby?”

“Wassup’, Mama? 

 When he replies, his eyes glance at you—then, he’s back into the car, “You lookin’ pretty.” 

“Thank you—um, you wanna come inside for a little?” You suggest gently, “I made lemonade for you.”

Onyankopon sighs—his palm runs along the back of his neck, muscles flexing, sweat cascading down his body. 

“Lemme’ jus’—finish this shit first, aight? Imma’ keep fixatin’ on it if I don’t.”

“Hey. You can fixate on it later, yeah?” 

Your voice is even more gentle, hands reaching out and pulling him away from the open hood—“You’re hotter than the sun, Ony. Come with me, please?”

He’s silent—but he listens. When you pull him by his wrist, he follows with no fight. His footsteps are heavy, his frame tall— You knew that he wanted to keep going—but he also knew not to disagree when you asked something of him. 

Onyankopon now sits in the living room, body leaned back into the sofa, eyes closed while air blows onto his face and chest. The cartoons you had on play a comforting tune next to the box fan blowing from across the room, instantly beginning to cool his body.

“‘Think you should take another try at pushin’ it down to the shop in Tupelo.”

He grunts, arm crossing over his face as he exhales,“I might have to, or imma’ head back in Jackson—Just gotta wait it out, see what the rest of the week lookin’ like.” 

“You know,” you gently place the lemonade on the table besides the sofa—ploping down onto his lap, the scent of you instantly hits his nose as you wrap your body into him, “We had a lil’ scare last night—but you did such a good job of takin’ care of me, baby.”

“I had to do sum’,” he grunts, finding his palms along your waist, “A nigga ain’t mean’ to make you scared—You know I’d never let anythin’ happen to you, huh?” 

His palm slides beneath your shorts, holding the flesh of your ass in his hands.

“Mhm.”

Your fingers slide along his beard, caressing his jaw before you finally leaned forward—your lips suck at his, a giggle masking your whimper as you feel yourself grind along his lap.

Onyankopon’s jaw works, his hand gently gripping at your cheek to hold your face to his—your whimper makes his lips drop open in another grunt—his tongue moving into your mouth, along your teeth, deeper.

“Been missin’ you, Ony. ‘Been so distant.”

You tug at the weight of his belt, leaning forward as you suck at his lips again.

“I ‘been thinkin’ ‘bout you too, girl. Don’t get it twisted, aight?”

His nose brushes against yours as you nod—your eyes lower as you suck his bottom lip into your mouth again, dragging it against your teeth, all while your hands slide up the material of his jeans, reaching your hand under the band the moment your lower body hits the floor. 

“Look at you,” he rasps, “Already on yo’ fuckin’ knees.”

It’s as if his cologne tickles your stomach, you’re breathless as you give a horny sigh, pulling your mouth back a bit as you whimper in a repeat of, “Missed you, Ony.”

“My baby just wanted this dick, huh?”  

Onyankopon’s voice is full of grit as his palm slowly slides down your face, his thumb caressing at the soft of your bottom lip. He watches you—a brief flash passes through his eyes of love before they turn hungry, “Show a nigga how much you missed him. Need you throatin’ my shit.” 

The sight of him—the gold of his grills melting within your eyes, attractive features and jaw clenching at you from below—you’re tugging his dick from his jeans, tip fat as you wrap your lips around him, flattening your tongue along the flesh as you moan. 

“You’re so pretty, Papa.”

He tilts his chin a bit, eyes narrowing. 

“You callin’ me Papa now? Huh?” His voice was thick, “That’s how bad you miss me?”

Your cat eyes taunt him, nodding as you beg, “Spit on it,” lolling your tongue out your mouth, waiting for him. 

And he does—he tilts your head back more, dropping saliva into your mouth, groaning at the pure arousal along your face. You spit back onto his tip, wrapping your fingers along the base as you slide him to the back of your throat—as you pull back, a string of saliva connects your lips back to his dick, your tongue sticking out as you giggle at the sight.  

Onyankopon glares.

 His fingers find your curls— palm slapping your face, “Why you so fuckin’ nasty, girl?” 

He’s holding your cheeks with both palms, fucking your mouth, the schluck, schluck of your throat echoing into the ceiling—the whites of your eyes are shown as they rolled back with each thrust, enjoying the groans he gave you in return. 

You climb back onto his lap more impatiently this time, latching your lips onto the skin of his neck and jaw—your hand is guiding his palm to your shorts as you whimper,  “Pull,” still kissing feveredly at his throat.  

Onyankopon’s fingers slide along the back of your thigh as he finds a hold of your shorts, pulling, pulling the material to one side of your ass, your glistening folds exposed to the cool air—your body tenses the moment he’s slapping his dick against your pussy, allowing your arousal to coat his tip. 

It’s hot—the weight of his tip is being engulfed by your folds all at once—you’re sinking down, back arching as you breathily moan against his face, “You’ need me?” 

 “Quit playin’,” he growls, “You know I do.”

Your curls drape over your face as your vision locks below, rotating your hips down—your moans are becoming more soft and whiny, face slowly turning to a deep pout as your palms reach at the top of the sofa for more leverage—you’re riding him like you never had before. 

“Already goin’ crazy on my shit. Keep goin’.” 

Your face is warm, red—but that never stopped you. You move his palm along your tits as you plead, “Touch me.” 

He does as told, moving the other along your waist, along your hips. It was like he was worshipping you, hands wandering along your soft curves, squeezing your hips, back, stomach, ass, thighs, everywhere. 

”Pretty ass lil’ bitch.”

It’s like your mouth won't shut. Your aroused haze has you swirling your hips above him, nearly hyperventilating in a high pitched whine, “You feel so good, Ony.”

“You’ so fuckin’ sloppy with this shit,” He grunts through gritted teeth, clutching your throat even tighter, making you look at him, “You’ gettin’ drunk off me, ain’t you?”

Maybe you were—and you loved every second of it. You wanted to blow your curls out your face, but you’re too gone, nearly hitting a sense of delirium. You’re bouncing on his dick, lightly squealing as the skin to skin resounds in claps. 

Your eyes roll back as you groan, “Yes…O—Ooh…Yeah…” 

It gets worse, your mouth trembling out a prolonged moan of, “Onyyy…” 

His head knocks back as he digs his nails into your skin, each sloppy slap of your ass connecting with his abdomen making his jaw clench, feeling the secretion of your folds smearing his thighs. 

“Look at them’ muhfuckin’ eyes,” he mutters, squeezing your waist, “You feelin’ good, huh?”

You’re frowning that it feels so good. You feel his hand slide back up to the nape of your neck, leaning your body a bit closer to his, your forehead’s connected as you whimper, “O—Ohmygodbabyyy.” 

“You gone,” he grunts, “Ain’t even hearin’ me.”

You hear him, but your brain is muffled. 

His fingers are rough, the tips of them digging into your skin as he finds your arms to lock them behind your back—the veins on his hand are a dark blue, a mixture of his blood pumping with the tattoo of your first initials along his pinkie, symbolizing how much you meant to him, even in these moments. 

Onyankopon’s grunt is muffled by the way his hand smacks your ass, the leverage of your arms allowing him to hold you in place—your thighs are plop, plop, continuously plopping onto his abdomen.

Your mouth is directly leaned into his ear as you shake, “S’good”—but it’s until you can really hear your skin echoing against his, that your eyes roll as you groan.

“You think ion’ miss you too?” He snarls, “I’ll kill a muhfucka’ behind yo’ pussy.” 

You don’t do a good job at all in responding—you’re loud. His hold on you is tight, moving you up and down in a rough motion, “Oh my goddd, Ony—fuck,” it’s as if you’re irritated with him, your voice had you practically singing.

Your scent is so feminine that he can almost taste it—brown sugar, amber—the way your pussy squelches,  you were the personification of a drug, and he was your junkie. 

His voice is deeper, lower, meaner, “C’mere,” he spanks your ass, his forehead resting on your shoulder as he grunts, “Goddamn, baby. She talkin’ right now.”

You were lucky that all the land around the two of you was your own property—the cows, chicken, farm—as the door was wide open. He slapped your ass even rougher, your whimper muffling his own grunts of, “You got a nigga lost in this shit.”

“Ony—oohshittt, baby.”

You’re both a mess—your curls are wild, your mouth swollen and wet, the softness of your skin against his hands, his neck, his lips.

“You gon’ cum on it?” 

He’s asking a question, but you can’t necessarily answer—cause you are—you’re painting his dick with coats of cream, the sop of it traveling back to his ears. Onyankopon chuckles arrogantly the moment you sniffle through your pouts, trembling whiny cries as you squirt so messily, so prettily. 

“Fuck,” he moans, “That’s my muhfuckin’ baby. You gon’ gimme another one?”

Your little sob is enough to answer—you’re drenching his balls, body shaking atop of his as he’s continuously bouncing you onto his dick that’s still hard as before—it’s when you press your thighs together that he groans, holding you close as a warmth fills your walls, his moan dragging a bit to meet the sounds of yours.

Your face now buries into the crook of his neck, lower body spasming gently to ground yourself. But that’s when you stop—your eyes flicker to the side of the table, your palm coming along your flushed face as you whimper, “Your lemonade, Ony…”  

He’s snorting.

“I was busy,”  he mumbled, kissing at the edge of your shoulder blade, “I’m sorry, aight? Imma’ go grab another glass.”

When he goes to move, you don’t. 

“You gon’ let me go, or you gon’ hold a nigga hostage?”

He chuckles this time, placing his hands along your sides as he pats you, “Lemme’ up, girl. Can’t even move.” 

“No,” you huff, “I don’t wanna let go.” 

“Aight— lemme’ hold you for a lil’, let you get yo’ mind right before you make dinner.”

Your eyes peek open, “Did I say I was makin’ dinner, or you tryna’ gaslight me into saying that’s what you want?”

“Chill,” He grins, “Lemme’ get another chance—Baby, you gon’ make dinner for me?”

“You knew the answer already,” you kissed his bicep, “You never had to ask.” 

“‘Cause you love me?”

“I always love you.”

“How much?”

You giggle, “More than a country boy loves his farm.”

He’s grinning. 

“More than a fat nigga loves cake.”  

“You’re so lame.”  

“Huh? You ain’t like that?”

“…Maybe.” 

“That’s what I thought.”

[strawberry-nugget]

like a revolving door

Katsuki Bakugo x fem!Reader

Seeing you at Shoto’s celebratory get together for reaching second place in the hero ranks should evoke no feelings from Katsuki, right? Even if he hasn’t seen you in three years. Even if he might just want you back a little

Tags/CW: exes to ???, emotionally constipated Katsuki (just how I like it), angst with happy ending, making up, kissing, conversations about sex but no smut, making out in Katsuki’s car, takes place during MHA: more (but I made it a bit fancier), men who yearn are men who earn

The bathroom is too hot.

Steam still clings to the mirror even though Katsuki cracked the door open nearly ten minutes ago, and now every surface still has that damp, sticky feeling that makes his skin itch. The air smells faintly like eucalyptus from the stupid overpriced shaving cream Kirishima convinced him to buy last month, mixed with clean soap and the sharp metallic scent of running water. His apartment is quiet except for the constant buzz of the fluorescent light above him and the rough scrape of the razor dragging slowly down his jaw.

“Shit—Fuck—”

He hisses through his teeth the second the blade catches unevenly against his skin. A sting blooms near his chin, followed by the bright bead of blood surfacing almost immediately.

Katsuki glares at himself through the fogged mirror like the reflection personally pissed him off.

“Great.”

He looks fine. More than fine, honestly, which somehow only irritates him more.

His hair is freshly trimmed, the ash blond strands still slightly damp from his shower, pushed back messily from his forehead. The sleeves of his black compression shirt cling to his shoulders and arms while the expensive button-up he plans on wearing hangs neatly from the bathroom door beside pressed slacks he spent way too long picking out earlier. Even his watch sits carefully beside the sink instead of abandoned somewhere random like usual. The entire thing feels too deliberate. Too polished. Too much like he gives a shit.

Which he doesn’t.

Obviously.

Except his stomach has felt weird since he woke up this morning.

Not nervous. Definitely not nervous. 

He can’t pinpoint the exact moment he clocked off hero work or how much time he spent at the gym so he could show off a pump tonight, nor can he try to convince himself it isn’t for the reason he doesn’t want to admit. He just wants to look good.

And that’s it. Simple as it sounds. No reason for him to choke on stuttering breaths.

The razor scrapes harder against his jaw this time as he rinses it aggressively under the sink. Hot water rushes over his fingers, turning the tips of them pink.

The celebration dinner is stupid to begin with, if you ask him.

Shoto gets ranked top two after the downtown incident last month, Endeavor immediately turns it into some flashy media spectacle about family legacy and hero society, and somehow all of Class A gets invited because the public still eats up that “golden generation” garbage years later. Old classmates pretending they all still keep in touch more often than not. The entire thing sounds exhausting.

But you’re gonna be there.

That’s the problem.

For all he cares, it’s been—what? Three years?

Three fucking years since he’s properly seen you.

Not in passing through articles online. Not blurry photos people tag him in accidentally after hero events. Not hearing your name mentioned by Mina or Sero every couple of months when they gossip over drinks.

Actually seeing you.

As in, In person.

Close enough to touch.

Because when him and you were no more, instead of running back to him like you’d always do, you moved out of Japan, got a job somewhere else in the world. You blocked him on all socials, blocked his number —even the agency landline— and for a while, he didn’t care to contact you. He didn’t care to check up on you, because who checks up on someone who said they wished they never met you? He went out of your life as quietly as you went out of his. Not caring if his last words hurt you, like you did.

Katsuki braces both hands against the sink and stares downward as water drips steadily from the faucet. His reflection blurs at the edges from the steam still clouding the glass, turning him into something distorted and unfamiliar.

Pathetic.

The worst part is he doesn’t even know what version of you is walking through those doors tonight.

Maybe you’re angry.

Maybe you barely look at him.

Maybe you’ve become one of those calm, polished heroes that smile perfectly for cameras now, the kind that know exactly how to navigate crowded rooms without making enemies out of everyone in them.

Or maybe you’ll look through him entirely.

That thought digs somewhere unpleasant beneath his ribs.

Fair enough, honestly.

He earns that.

The memory still crawls up on him sometimes when it gets too quiet. Usually late at night after patrol when he’s too exhausted to keep his thoughts from wandering somewhere ugly.

In all honesty he did try to talk to you. Last year, after he found out he wasn’t blocked anymore. But he was angry, vulgar, everything you’ve ever said you hated about him. And for better or for worse you had only told him you knew he’d never change. And he had left it there, not pressing anymore, not needing anymore proof to accept you just weren’t coming back.

Maybe this is why he won’t wear the polished clothes he’s picked out for tonight. Maybe the Nike sweats he tumble dried this morning and a t-shirt will make him look more casual, put together in a way fancy clothes won’t.

Because tonight is casual to him. It should be, at least, amidst picking up Kirishima and Izuku in his new car. He shouldn’t even care that you’re going to be there.

He keeps staring at himself anyway.

Like maybe if he looks long enough, he’ll suddenly figure out why this feels so fucking strange.

The bathroom light washes his skin pale while steam curls slowly around the edges of the mirror, softening the sharpness of his reflection. Katsuki barely recognizes the version of himself standing there sometimes. Not because he looks different—he does, obviously, older and broader and rougher around the edges—but because somewhere between twenty-two and twenty-five, the anger inside him changed shape.

Less explosive.

Much more exhausting.

He reaches for the towel hanging off the counter and drags it roughly over his face before tossing it aside. The nick near his chin still stings faintly. Tiny. Irritating. His eyes flick toward the button-up hanging from the bathroom door again, then away immediately.

Abso-fucking-lutely not.

The idea of showing up looking like he spent hours trying to impress you makes something hot crawl up his neck. It feels pathetic now. Worse now, somehow, after standing here spiraling like an idiot for nearly forty minutes over a dinner he doesn’t even want to attend.

Katsuki grabs the hanger off the door and shoves the expensive shirt deeper into the closet on his way back into the bedroom.

Fuck that.

The softer lighting from his room settles easier against his eyes compared to the harsh fluorescent buzz of the bathroom. Outside the windows, the city glows orange and blue beneath the darkening sky, traffic crawling between towering buildings while distant sirens echo somewhere far below. His apartment sits high enough that most nights the noise blends together into background static.

Tonight it all feels too loud.

He yanks open a drawer harder than necessary and pulls out the black t-shirt he wears for training. The fabric stretches tight across his shoulders when he changes, outlining muscle built from years of relentless schedules, combat drills, patrols, sleepless nights at the gym whenever his head gets too crowded to sit still inside his own apartment.

Not for you.

Obviously.

The thought comes so defensive it almost makes him scoff at himself.

The sweats are clean at least. Black Nike joggers fresh from the dryer this morning, soft at the inside, fitted enough that Kirishima once called them “boyfriend material clothes” before Katsuki threatened to blast him through a wall. Casual. Comfortable. Like he isn’t thinking about tonight at all.

Like he didn’t spend an embarrassing amount of time earlier deciding between watches.

His jaw tightens again.

This is ridiculous.

You’re just another person he used to know.

That’s it.

Three years changes people. Hell, maybe you aren’t even the same woman anymore. Maybe you cut your hair shorter now. Maybe you picked up some accent overseas since your Japanese seemed too weird the last time you talked. And— and maybe, like the thoughts that used to consume him before he ever reached out to you last year, there’s somebody else waiting for you back home after tonight, somebody softer than him. Somebody easier. Someone your shared friends know about but won’t let him know of.

That thought lands badly, like he woke a dragon from a millennial slumber. His chest immediately feels too tight for it.

Katsuki snatches his car keys off the counter before he can sit with the feeling any longer.

His hone buzzes again from the kitchen table as he passes by. Probably Kirishima. Maybe Deku. Maybe another last-minute reminder about tonight’s schedule.

He ignores it.

The kitchen still smells faintly like coffee from this morning, dishes abandoned beside the sink because he hasn’t had enough energy lately to care about cleaning immediately after meals. There’s protein powder spilled near the toaster from breakfast. A hoodie tossed over one of the dining chairs. Tiny signs of somebody actually living here instead of the spotless, polished apartment magazines keep trying to photograph whenever reporters sneak glimpses during interviews.

For a second, his eyes drift unconsciously toward the balcony.

You used to stand out there all the time. Especially during storms.

Wrapped in one of his hoodies with your arms folded over the railing while Musutafu lit up below you in blurred neon reflections. You always complained the city looked lonely from this high up.

Katsuki used to think that was stupid. Now he gets it.

His throat feels strangely dry.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters under his breath.

The worst part is he genuinely has no idea how tonight’s gonna go.

Maybe you’ll smile politely at him like he’s an old coworker and he’ll have to be casual about greeting you, though he doesn’t want to.

Maybe you’ll avoid him altogether.

Maybe Mina’ll force everybody into some obnoxious group photo and suddenly he’ll be standing beside you for the first time in years pretending his heart isn’t punching against his ribs hard enough to bruise merely at the thought of it all.

Or maybe—

Maybe you’ll just look heavenly good.

That’s the real problem, honestly.

Because he already knows you will.

Not because of makeup or clothes or whatever expensive shit pro heroes wear to these events now. You always looked good to him in ways that annoyed the hell out of him. Half-asleep in his shirts. Sitting on his kitchen counter eating takeout straight from the carton. Yelling at him from across the apartment while he ignored you on purpose just to hear you get louder.

Three years later and his body still remembers stupid things about you automatically.

The sound of your laugh.

The weight of your legs thrown over his lap.

The smell of your peachy shampoo lingering on his pillows after arguments where one of you stormed out dramatically only to come back two hours later.

Katsuki grips his keys tighter.

Nope.

He’s not doing this tonight. He’s not showing up already halfway dragged into the past because of somebody who made it painfully clear they didn’t want him in their life anymore.

That should matter.

It does matter.

And honestly, he understands why you left.

Back then he was still angry at everything. Angry at hero society. Angry at himself. Angry at how badly he wanted somebody and how terrified he is of needing them at the same time. Every conversation between you eventually turned into him snapping before you can get too close to whatever ugly thing sits underneath his ribs.

You called him cruel once.

Not loudly. Not even during a fight.

Just tired.

And somehow that had struck him worse than any screaming ever could. That’s when it clicked to him, that no matter how much you said you saw the good in him, you never truly could. Even if one of your last sentences to him was that you loved him, he didn’t believe you could ever love someone you thought was cruel, someone you wish you never met. 

Katsuki locks the apartment behind him harder than necessary before heading toward the elevator.

The hallway lights flicker softly overhead while he waits, fingers tapping restlessly against his thigh. His reflection stares back at him from the metal elevator doors—broad shoulders, tired eyes, black compression shirt clinging too tightly against muscle that suddenly feels more like armor than confidence.

Casual.

Tonight is casual.

Just old classmates catching up. Nothing more.

Then his phone vibrates again.

EIJIRO: don’t be weird tonight bro

A second message immediately follows; something about sitting shotgun in his new car.

Katsuki stares at the screen for a long moment. Then another vibration.

IZUKU: Kacchan are we still meeting downstairs in 20?

His jaw flexes hard enough to ache.

Because somehow, despite everything, despite all the years and silence and blocked numbers and ugly last conversations—

A part of him still feels twenty-two again. Twenty-two and convinced that no one could love the way he expressed himself.

______

By the time Katsuki parks outside the izakaya, the knot in his stomach has already settled into something meaner. Sharper. Musutafu glows around him and his friends in streaks of reflected neon against rain-dark pavement while a valet moves between cars beneath the izakaya entrance. The place itself is ridiculously upscale even if it is just traditional, all warm golden lighting spilling through enormous glass windows and polished black stone.

Kirishima lets out a low whistle from the passenger seat as he climbs out. “Can’t wait to see everyone.” 

“Shut the fuck up,” Katsuki mutters automatically, already slamming the car door closed harder than necessary.

Cold evening air immediately brushes against the back of his neck. Somewhere nearby, traffic hums steadily through the city while muffled laughter spills from the izakaya entrance every time the doors open. Izuku smooths anxiously at the sleeves of his suit beside the car, glancing toward the building with that same nervous energy he’s carried since high school.

“Do we think Todoroki planned all this himself,” he starts, adjusting his tie, “or do you think Endeavor hired—”

“Deku,” Katsuki interrupts flatly, shoving his hands into his pockets, “if you start analyzing anything, i’m leaving.”

“I wasn’t gonna analyze the—”

“You literally were.”

Kirishima snorts loudly beside them, and normally the familiar bickering would loosen something in Katsuki’s chest. Tonight it barely registers because his attention keeps drifting toward the entrance before they even reach it, heartbeat strangely steady in a way that feels worse than panic. Like his body already knows something his brain is still trying to avoid.

The hostess opens the doors with a practiced smile, and warm air immediately wraps around them alongside the low hum of conversation and clinking glasses. The restaurant is crowded with heroes, old classmates that are lingering discreetly in sorted tables near the back, all surrounded by polished wood and amber lighting that makes everything glow soft and expensive.

Katsuki barely notices any of it.

His eyes find you almost instantly.

Of course they do.

You’re seated near the center of the room beside the girls, half-turned toward Mina while Ochaco laughs at something across the table. The lighting catches warmly against the side of your face, softening the curve of your expression while gold jewelry glints subtly against your skin every time you move. Your hair is longer now than the last time he saw you in person, falling over your shoulders while one hand curls loosely around a sake glass. You look comfortable there. Relaxed. Like you belong in rooms like this now.

And for one awful second, Katsuki genuinely forgets how to breathe.

Three years vanish instantly beneath the weight of recognition. His body remembers you before his brain does, something visceral and humiliating tightening beneath his ribs before he can stop it.

Fuck.

You look different, but not enough to feel unfamiliar. Older, maybe. Sharper around the edges in the way everybody becomes sharper with time. There’s confidence in the way you sit now that wasn’t fully there before, something steadier beneath your posture. You carry yourself like someone who’s finally learned how to exist without apologizing for taking up space.

Then Mina notices them entering.

“Oh my god, finally!” she calls immediately, waving dramatically across the room. “You guys are late as hell!”

Several heads turn at once.

Including yours.

Katsuki feels it immediately, that split second your eyes land on him from across the room. It happens so fast he almost convinces himself he imagined it. No widening. No visible surprise. No anger flashing across your face. Your gaze settles on him briefly before moving smoothly toward Kirishima instead.

“Oh, Eiji,” you smile warmly, standing slightly from your pillow as the group approaches. “Hi.”

The knot in Katsuki’s stomach twists tighter.

Kirishima grins instantly. “There she is. Damn, it’s been forever.”

“It literally has,” Mina groans dramatically. “This bitch abandoned us internationally.”

You laugh softly at that, embarrassed enough to duck your head slightly.

The sound lands somewhere dangerous in Katsuki’s chest.

Ochaco immediately stands to greet Izuku while the others start talking over each other all at once, greetings and questions colliding noisily together after years apart. You converse with everyone easily. Kirishima gets pulled into a quick side hug while you squeeze Ochaco’s hand excitedly across the table. You ask Izuku about agency work overseas, laugh when Kaminari nearly trips over a table trying to sit down, you smile politely at Jirou when she teases your accent sounding slightly different now.

But Katsuki gets nothing.

At first he tells himself maybe you just haven’t gotten there yet. Maybe it’s awkward. Maybe you’re nervous too and trying to settle into the conversation before acknowledging him properly.

Then Kirishima nudges him lightly with his elbow.

“Oi,” he mutters under his breath, “say hi, silly.”

Katsuki’s jaw tightens immediately.

His eyes flick toward you again, but you’re already sitting back down beside Mina, smoothing your sleeve absentmindedly while listening to Momo speak. Completely relaxed. Completely normal.

Like he isn’t even there.

Something hot immediately crawls beneath his skin, but it doesn’t feel like anger. Anger would’ve been easier to deal with. Easier to understand. This feels uglier than that.

Because you aren’t being cold.

You aren’t glaring at him or avoiding eye contact dramatically or making the tension obvious for everyone else at the table.

You’re just indifferent.

Clean, casual, effortless indifference that makes it painfully obvious you’ve already figured out how to exist in the same room as him without it affecting you at all.

Katsuki pulls form to his seat harder than necessary across from Kirishima, the sharp scrape of the table flinching away from him against the floor briefly cutting through the table conversation. Nobody reacts except Mina, whose eyes dart toward him automatically before flicking carefully toward you.

You don’t even look up.

Jesus Christ.

His chest suddenly feels too tight.

“You look good, by the way,” Mina says suddenly, leaning dramatically against your shoulder. “Like suspiciously good. What the hell are they feeding you overseas?”

You laugh quietly, almost embarrassed by the attention. “Literally just less stress, probably.”

The joke lands casually around the table. Kaminari laughs. Jirou snorts into her drink. Ochaco starts teasing you immediately about abandoning Japanese work culture.

Nobody else notices anything strange about the comment.

But Katsuki does.

Of course he fucking does.

Less stress.

Like loving him had exhausted you so thoroughly that leaving the entire country became the healthiest thing you’d ever done for yourself.

His fingers curl tighter around the edge of the menu sitting untouched in front of him.

“Still working with that rescue agency?” Izuku asks curiously.

You nod. “Mostly disaster relief now, yeah. It’s quieter than here.”

“Quieter?” Kaminari repeats incredulously. “Why would you want quieter?”

“Because some people enjoy peace,” Jirou answers dryly.

“Exactly,” you laugh.

And there it is again, that strange feeling pressing heavier against Katsuki’s ribs every time you smile. Because you do seem peaceful now. Not forced. Not pretending. Actually peaceful.

Your posture stays relaxed through every conversation. Your smile comes easier than he remembers. Even your voice sounds lighter somehow, no longer carrying that constant tension that used to sit beneath your words whenever the two of you argued. Back then, loving each other always felt loud. Intense. Like every conversation teetered dangerously close to becoming a fight neither of you knew how to stop once it started.

Now you just seem… calm.

Katsuki suddenly feels too large in his seat. Too rough around the edges for this version of you. His broad shoulders, his obnoxiously loud voice, the constant restless energy simmering beneath his skin all feel painfully obvious in comparison to the quiet ease you carry now.

Mina notices it first.

Her eyes flick carefully between the two of you once. Then again.

Her smile falters slightly.

Because now it’s becoming noticeable to everybody else too.

You still haven’t acknowledged Katsuki properly once since they entered the izakaya.

Kirishima notices next, judging by the awkward way he shifts beside Katsuki before clearing his throat.

“So, uh…” he starts carefully, eyes darting between you both. “Crazy seeing everybody together again, huh?”

“Mm,” you hum politely before taking another sip of your drink.

That’s it.

No tension sharpens your voice. No bitterness leaks through your expression. Nothing about your reaction feels forced or emotional at all. Katsuki Bakugo has somehow become just another former classmate sitting at the table across from yours instead of the man you once shared a bed and apartment and entire future with. 

You used to tell each other that by the time you’re twenty-five you’d surprise your friends and old classmates by popping a kid out of the blue in one of these events. You used to laugh at the thought of him flaunting a baby bump on you, dreaming that you’d hide your engagement ring from everyone until it was the right time to announce you’d get married.

In another life, it may have been different.

Instead of that, you and him are forcibly strangers now; the realization settles, once again heavily in his stomach.

At least showing hatred towards him would mean he still mattered enough to ruin your evening.

This indifference feels like being erased entirely.

______________

The longer the night settles around the izakaya, the more Katsuki realizes he completely misjudged what this dinner was supposed to be.

Not some polished, high-class event packed with cameras and stiff hero society bullshit.

Just an izakaya. Despite how fancy it is.

A crowded, noisy, familiar little place tucked between glowing Musutafu storefronts where the tables are too close together and the air smells like grilled meat, fried oil, spilled beer, and cigarette smoke clinging faintly to old wood. Somebody in the back is laughing loud enough to echo over the music while waiters squeeze through narrow spaces carrying trays overloaded with skewers and drinks. Half the group’s jackets are already tossed carelessly everywhere.

Casual.

Comfortable.

The kind of place Class A used to practically live in after internships.

Which somehow makes this worse.

Because you fit into it too naturally even if you’ve missed the majority of it.

Time passes eerily as Katsuki watches from across the table while Mina complains dramatically about agency interns stealing her skincare products, and you laugh so easily at something dumb Kaminari says that for a split second it genuinely feels like no time has passed at all.

Except it has.

He notices it in tiny things.

You don’t interrupt people as much anymore. Back then you used to talk over everyone whenever you got excited, eyes bright and hands moving while you argued passionately about absolutely everything. Now you lean back when people speak, quieter in a way that feels more intentional than shy. You still smile the same, though. That part hits him unexpectedly hard.

Same slight squint around your eyes. Maybe a few subtle wrinkles now, that still manage to look good on you.

Same habit of hiding your laugh behind your drink or your hand sometimes.

It’s awful how quickly he notices all of it.

A waiter slides another round of drinks onto the table, glass clinking loudly against wood.

“Bakugo,” Sero grins from farther down the booth, already flushed pink from alcohol, “you’ve been weirdly quiet all night. You sick or somethin’?”

“I’m always quiet,” Katsuki answers flatly before taking a long sip of beer.

The table immediately erupts.

“That is literally not true,” Jirou snorts.

“Shut up! It is!”

“Me when I lie” Mina snorts.

“You used to start fights with strangers in restaurants,” Kaminari points out.

“Correction,” Kirishima says, grinning, “he used to start fights with strangers everywhere.”

“I remember that guy at karaoke—”

“He deserved it.”

“You didn’t even know him!”

Katsuki barely listens.

Because across the table, you’re smiling into your drink again, shoulders shaking slightly with quiet laughter while Mina nearly falls sideways into Ochaco from laughing too hard.

And you still won’t look at him.

Not really.

Your gaze passes over him occasionally in that absent, polite way people acknowledge furniture in crowded rooms, but nothing lingers. No awkwardness. No tension. No visible effort to avoid him either still, which somehow stings too much.

It’s like you already adjusted to his presence within the first five minutes of arriving.

Meanwhile he feels painfully aware of every movement you make.

The way your rings tap softly against your glass.

The faint crease between your brows whenever you listen closely to someone speaking.

The small scar near your wrist he remembers kissing once while you laid half-asleep across his chest.

His stomach twists hard enough to make him irritated with himself all over again.

This is fucking ridiculous.

“Bakugo.”

His head lifts automatically.

Momo’s looking at him from across the table. “Did you hear me?”

“No.”

“I said,” she repeats patiently, “Shoto wants everyone at his agency anniversary event next month too.”

“Absolutely not,” Katsuki answers immediately.

Kaminari groans. “Dude, you say no to everything.”

“Because everything sounds terrible.”

“See?” Mina points accusingly toward you. “This is why our sweetie over here escaped the country. We’re emotionally exhausting.”

The comment is obviously meant as a joke and the table laughs.

Even you smile.

But Katsuki feels the words land somewhere unpleasant anyway.

Before he can stop himself, his eyes flick toward you.

For the first time all night, you finally look directly back at him.

It lasts maybe two seconds!?

Three, max.

Then, when Kirishima opens his mouth it’s as if he can’t stop being a moron. Like he never could have guessed what the context of ‘time and place’ is. He points at you, then Katsuki.

“Remember when you guys sneaked out during the winter festival and everyone thought you were kidnapped?”

The entire table immediately erupts.

“Oh my god.”

“They were gone for HOURS—”

“Because SOMEONE turned their phones off,” Kaminari wheezes.

“You guys came back looking guilty as hell,” Mina accuses dramatically.

Katsuki feels his shoulders tense instantly. He sees you shrink into a timely creature in your seat.

Back then, you’d dragged him behind the gym building because you were freezing and irritated and insisted his body temperature was “unnaturally useful.” He remembers pinning you against the wall afterward just to shut you up after you laughed at how red his ears got.

He remembers kissing you until neither of you could breathe properly. 

The memory hits hard enough to feel physical. Youthful kisses, teenage love— he remembers how it felt when he kissed you first and when he had kissed you then. He remembers making out in your dorm late at night when he should’ve been resting his injuries after the war.

Around the table, everyone’s still laughing.

Except you.

You’ve gone still beside Mina, fingers tightening almost invisibly around your drink before you take another sip.

Then, calmly, casually—

“So,” you interrupt smoothly, turning toward Ochaco and Tsuyu instead, “how’s hero life treating you two?”

Clean cut. Effortless for anyone who can’t read behind your eyes.

The conversation immediately shifts away from the topic entirely.

Like you did it on purpose. Like the memory embarrasses you now.

Katsuki drops whatever sits at the top of his tongue like it stung too much to be spoken out loud. Like he was given a sound reminder that his words are always unnecessary.

___________

Everyone eventually becomes too careless despite the fragility of the situation.

Alcohol warms the tables steadily, loosening voices and posture until conversations start overlapping loudly across the cramped izakaya booth. Kaminari is practically hanging halfway over Sero now while arguing about hero rankings nobody else cares about, and Kirishima’s laugh keeps booming loudly enough to earn irritated glances from nearby tables. Even more empty beer glasses crowd together beside greasy plates streaked with sauce while waiters weave expertly through the narrow aisles carrying fresh rounds of skewers and drinks.

Normally Katsuki would be right in the middle of it all.

Tonight he barely said a word, even if he found himself at your table for some reason.

Because every single time the conversation drifts naturally toward old memories involving the two of you, you choose to redirect it before it can fully land.

Always subtle enough most people probably don’t notice.

But he notices.

Every single time.

When Mina starts retelling the beach trip where the two of you once again disappeared from the bonfire for over an hour, you smoothly interrupt to ask Jirou about her latest music project overseas. When Kirishima almost brings up the apartment you used to share in the heart of the city, you casually wave down the waiter and ask if anyone wants another round of drinks before he can finish the sentence.

And the worst part is how effortless you make it look.

You aren’t visibly uncomfortable. You aren’t tense or bitter or awkward every time his name comes up paired with yours. You navigate around him cleanly, naturally, like you’ve already spent years learning exactly how to exist comfortably in spaces where even if Katsuki Bakugo is present, he can simply be erased.

The notion starts irritating him more with every passing minute. It sits tighter beneath his ribs by the second. Makes his heart beat in fragile, irregular beats.

A doctor had once told him to keep track of arhythmic beats like this. 

Tonight he does not. But usually, he does.

Across the table, you tilt your head back slightly while laughing at something Ochaco says, fingers still loosely wrapped around your glass. The soft amber lighting from the hanging lanterns catches against your face warmly enough that Katsuki immediately looks away afterward, jaw tightening hard.

Then your phone lights up beside your plate.

His eyes catch it automatically, assumption quick to replace every spec of vermilion in his irises.

A name flashes briefly across the screen before you casually turn the phone face down against the table.

It’s a nickname paired with a heart.

It could be a friend, but for that he’s unconvinced.

Something twists violently low in Katsuki’s stomach.

Immediate. Sharp enough to genuinely piss him off.

Three years.

Obviously there’s somebody else now.

What the hell did he expect? That you spent years overseas grieving a relationship that ended with both of you saying things cruel enough to permanently carve into each other?

His fingers curl tighter around his beer glass.

Mina notices instantly.

Her eyes flick carefully between him and you before she awkwardly clears her throat. “Okay, wow,” she says carefully, trying to laugh through the tension, “this table energy’s getting kinda weird.”

“Only because your face gets louder every time you drink,” Jirou answers dryly without looking up from her glass.

“No, seriously,” Mina insists now, glancing more cautiously toward Katsuki. “Everybody’s acting strange.”

“Nobody’s acting strange,” you answer calmly before finally looking directly at Katsuki for the second time all night.

And somehow that feels worse.

You really are fine. Not pretending. Not secretly emotional underneath the surface. Fi—ne. Almost too cold.

You are completely, genuinely fine sitting across from him after three years apart.

Something reckless rises inside his chest almost immediately.

“You got somethin’ to say?” Katsuki asks suddenly, attention fully turned to you. “Then say it to my face.”

For once, he manages to keep your eyes in his.

The table quiets.

Not completely, but enough that nearby conversations and clinking glasses start bleeding awkwardly into the silence between your group.

Your brows pull together faintly before rising. “What?”

“You’ve barely looked at me all night.”

“Why would I?”

When you respond, Kirishima visibly winces beside him.

“Bakugo,” he mutters quietly under his breath.

An effort for calmness that pays out fruitless soil. Katsuki barely hears him now that the irritation’s already pushing its way out.

“No, seriously,” he continues, eyes locked onto yours. “What’s the deal?”

The atmosphere around the table shifts immediately.

Mina looks horrified. Izuku suddenly looks like he wants the floor to physically open beneath him—he hasn’t said anything about you up till now. Not on the phone, not in the car when Katsuki snapped like broken glass at every single thing. He didn’t even say anything about you when Katsuki told him that if he treats everyone like they’re special, then no one really is special to him. (When does Katsuki ever get so emotional?)

Even Kaminari goes quiet for once.

You stare at Katsuki from across the table for a long moment, expression unreadable beneath the warm restaurant lighting. Then you blink slowly before setting your drink down carefully against the table.

“…There’s no deal. You made sure of that.”

The calmness in your voice instantly makes his irritation worse.

“You’ve been ignoring me all night.”

“No,” you answer evenly, “I’ve been talking to everyone.”

“Except me.”

The silence afterward settles heavily between you both.

Around the table, nobody moves. The noise of the izakaya suddenly feels distant compared to the pressure building in the booth. You lean back slightly in your seat, eyes finally holding his properly instead of sliding politely past him like earlier.

“What exactly are you expecting from me here, Katsuki?”

The question catches him off guard immediately.

Not because of the words but because of the exhaustion in your tone that has completely replaced anger.

“I dunno,” he answers flatly, defensive before he can stop himself. “Basic acknowledgement maybe.”

You stare at him another second before letting out a small breath through your nose. Not dramatic. Not emotional. Just tired.

“I said hi when you walked in.”

“No,” Katsuki says immediately, “you said hi to Eijiro.”

Kaminari audibly mutters “oh my god, bets. Bets now!” under his breath before Mina immediately kicks him hard beneath the table.

Your fingers tap once lightly against your glass before stilling again completely.

Then, finally, something shifts in your expression.

And it’s not sadness.

Just plain right resignation. Like you’ve already given up.

“You want honesty?” you ask quietly.

Something inside Katsuki’s chest tightens instinctively.

Because now everybody at the table is looking literally anywhere except the two of you. Kirishima suddenly becomes very interested in his drink. Ochaco stares fixedly at the condensation sliding down her glass. Even Sero awkwardly clears his throat under his breath.

“Fuck yeah, stop playing games.”

You hold Katsuki’s gaze the entire time when you speak again.

“I ain’t got shit to say to you in front of everyone.” You say, bluntly, “but since you say we don’t have to play games, I didn’t ignore you because I hate you,” you continue. “I ignored you because every single time I look at you, I remember the last conversation we had.”

The words land directly against his sternum. Heavy. Sharp like a swirly blade and enough that for a second he genuinely forgets how to respond.

The memory crashes back immediately whether he wants it to or not.

Rain hammering against pavement outside the apartment.

You crying so hard your voice kept shaking despite how badly you tried hiding it.

Him saying things he knew would hurt before they even left his mouth.

You standing there afterward like he’d physically reached inside your chest and twisted something apart with his bare hands.

“I wish I never met you.”

Katsuki remembers that part perfectly.

Worse, he remembers exactly what he said right before to make you say it. Something cruel. Something calculated. Something along the lines of “you’re lying to yourself when you say you love me.”

Because back then hurting each other always came easier than admitting how badly neither of you wanted things to end.

Across the table, your expression remains composed, but now he notices the strain sitting carefully beneath it. The effort it’s taking you to stay this calm. To keep your voice level instead of letting old wounds split open in front of everyone.

“I’m not trying to make tonight uncomfortable,” you continue more quietly now. “I came because I’m back in Japan and I missed everyone. That’s all.”

Everyone.

But not specifically him.

The distinction settles ugly and heavy enough inside his chest that he and everyone else in this room are short of words

The atmosphere around the table changes only when the emergency hero alert rings on everyone’s phones.

Around you, everybody moves at once.

Years of training erase the awkwardness almost instantly. Drinks abandoned. Jackets pulled on. Conversations cut short mid-sentence while tables scrape across wood flooring. The emotional wreckage sitting between you and Katsuki gets shoved violently aside beneath instinct and urgency.

You stand automatically too.

And for one humiliating second, relief floods through you so fast it almost makes your knees weak. Because now you don’t have to stay sitting across from him anymore.

You don’t have to survive whatever expression is currently sitting on Katsuki’s face after what you just said.

You don’t have to keep pretending your heart isn’t beating so hard it physically hurts.

The group spills out into the cold Musutafu night in a rush of noise and movement. Sirens already echo faintly somewhere ahead, reflecting red against rain-slick pavement while civilians stop to stare at the sudden crowd of pro heroes flooding onto the sidewalk.

You breathe in sharply the second cold air hits your lungs.

It helps. Barely. Your hands still feel shaky and so fucking stupid..

Because the worst part—the genuinely humiliating part—is that none of what you said was a lie.

You did ignore Katsuki because looking at him hurts.

But not in the way everyone at that table probably assumed. Everyone, including him, thinks it’s because you stopped loving him.

And honestly that—would’ve been easier.

The problem is, that standing across from Katsuki after three years still feels dangerously close to standing too near an open flame. Like one wrong moment of weakness could drag you straight back into him before you remember all the reasons you left in the first place.

And God—you wanted to.

That’s the pathetic part.

The second he walked into the restaurant tonight, broad shoulders filling the doorway, looking so pretty even if all the boyish charm had abandoned his face for good, while his eyes immediately found yours across the room, something inside your chest reacted so violently you almost forgot how to breathe.

Three years.

Three whole fucking years.

And your body still recognized him instantly.

You hated that.

Hated how good he looked. Hated how familiar his voice sounded. Hated that even now, after everything, some traitorous part of you still wanted to walk straight across the room and touch him just to prove he was real. Kiss him so you at least be able to go back to your friends overseas and let them know you got the kiss of closure you’ve been wanting so desperately. 

But you knew better now.

You had to know better now.

Because loving Katsuki always felt like standing too close to an explosion and convincing yourself the heat wasn’t burning you alive.

You pull your hair back quickly while jogging after the others down the crowded sidewalk, the heels of your boots striking wet pavement hard enough to ground you back into the present. Neon signs blur overhead while people move aside hurriedly at the sight of pro heroes rushing past.

Beside you, Ochaco glances over briefly.

“You okay?”

The question is gentle enough to make your throat tighten unexpectedly.

“Yeah,” you answer immediately.

Too quickly.

Ochaco’s expression softens in that awful way people look at wounded animals they aren’t sure how to help. That facade that all heroes put on when they’re helping a missing child find their mommy.

You look away to let her go before she can say anything else.

Ahead of the group, Katsuki is already moving faster than everyone else, irritation practically radiating off him in waves while sparks crackle faintly against his palms. The familiar sight hits somewhere deep in your chest with painful precision.

God.

There he is— Still carrying himself like the entire world personally offended him for existing.

And somehow you still love him enough it makes you feel sick.

You wonder briefly if he knows.

If he’s always known and if so, why he’s denying it.

Maybe that’s what made the breakup so unbearable in the first place. Katsuki understood exactly how much power he had over you, and every time he got scared of needing someone that badly in return, he lashed out before you could hurt him first.

________

The robbery cleanup drags longer than expected.

Statements. Damage reports. Civilians needing reassurance. Media helicopters circling overhead long enough to become irritating background noise.

By the time everything finally settles, the sky above Musutafu has turned that heavy shade of black and blue. The streets are quieter now, washed silver beneath streetlights while exhausted civilians slowly reclaim the sidewalks. Neon signs remain glowing in the background of it all.

Katsuki feels wrung out.

Not physically, though. Physically he’s fine. His heart, at least, has finally stopped palpitating. It’s everything else which isn’t his heart that's clawing at the inside of his chest that’s making him tired.

After an agonizing thirty minutes of broken communications on splitting the bill with everyone else, he gets dragged into easy conversation.

“Alright, alright,” Kaminari groans dramatically while stretching his arms over his head. “I’m officially declaring tonight cursed.”

“You declare everything cursed,” Mina replies instantly.

“Because everything is cursed.”

Kirishima snorts beside them while Izuku adjusts the strap of his gauntlets. “At least nobody got seriously hurt.”

“Yeah,” Katsuki mutters distractedly, digging his car keys from his pocket.

His mind hasn’t stopped replaying the familiar sound of your voice through your conversation for the past twenty minutes. The kind of familiar that dug straight under his skin and stayed there.

Katsuki hates how much those words affected him. Hates that part of him wanted to turn around and ask what the hell that tone meant after everything that’s happened between you before leaving for his hero duties.

Instead, he shoved it down where everything else goes. The pit of his dropping stomach.

The group behind him, after enthusiastically rejoicing and pleading for even a sight of his car, reaches the parking structure entrance together with him, footsteps echoing faintly through the concrete levels while fluorescent lights buzz overhead. Mina’s still talking about how good the food was. Kirishima’s half-listening while Denki complains loudly about tomorrow’s paperwork.

Normal. Everything feels painfully normal again.

Izuku has already left to chase after Ochaco. Katsuki gets to go home with one less friend to lash out on and half a heart.

“Later, man,” Kirishima says to a far away Izuku raising a hand.

Katsuki barely listens while waving him off with a lazy flick of his hand.

Then he sees you. And every thought in his head immediately cuts clean in half.

You’re standing beside his car. leaning against it casually. Not waiting in some cinematic pose.

Just there.

Hands tucked into the pockets of your jacket while cool garage lighting spills softly across your face. You look tired now. More tired than you did at dinner. Hair slightly messy. Faint smudges of eyeliner still near the corners of your eyes.

Real. That’s the first thing that hits him. Just you. Waiting for him.

Kirishima notices you first from the whole group.

“Oh, hi.”

Mina stops talking.

Denki’s eyes widen slightly before darting rapidly between both of you like he accidentally walked into live explosives.

Katsuki’s pulse kicks hard once against his ribs and his neck.

You look at him quietly before speaking.

“…Can we talk?”

Simple words. Calm voice. And somehow they hit harder than that joke of an argument earlier.

Nobody moves for about two seconds. Then Katsuki clicks his tongue sharply without taking his eyes off you.

“Oi.”

Kirishima straightens immediately. “Yeah?”

“Get lost.”

Denki nearly chokes.

Mina looks openly offended. “Wow? Rude.”

“I said leave.”

“Actually,” Kaminari says nervously, already backing away, “I think that’s a fantastic idea.”

Kirishima hesitates longer.

Katsuki notices it instantly.

The concern. The don’t blow this up worse look sitting all over his face.

“Tch,” Katsuki mutters. “I’m not gonna start shit in a parking garage.”

“That’s not super reassuring when you phrase it like that,” Mina says.

You huff out the faintest breath beside the car—almost a laugh.

The sound catches Katsuki off guard badly enough that his eyes flick toward you automatically. Because he forgot for a second what it sounded like when your amusement wasn’t forced. He’s forgotten what it was like when he used to make you laugh, being so caught up in the destruction of it all.

Kirishima notices too. Something in his expression softens before he finally sighs heavily and throws his hands up. “Alright, alright. We’re leaving.”

“But if either of you commits emotional crimes,” Mina warns dramatically while walking backward toward the elevator, “I’m intervening.”

“You say that like you’re emotionally qualified to help anybody,” Katsuki shoots back automatically. “Or like you have to wait around here.”

“See? This is why therapy should be mandatory for heroes!”

The elevator doors of the garage close over the sound of Denki cackling.

And then they’re gone.

Silence settles almost immediately afterward. Not awkward exactly.

The parking structure hums quietly around you both, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead while distant traffic echoes faintly from outside. Somewhere farther down the level, water drips steadily from a pipe into concrete.

Katsuki shoves one hand into his pocket to stop himself from fidgeting.

You still haven’t moved from beside his car.

Up close now, he notices the exhaustion sitting beneath your eyes properly. The careful composure from dinner looks thinner somehow. Like tonight finally wore through it.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. Then—

“You really think I hate you?” you ask quietly.

The question lands so directly he almost flinches.

Katsuki’s jaw tightens automatically. “You ignored me for four fuckin’ hours.”

“I ignored you because I was trying not to ruin my own night.”

That catches him off guard enough to shut him up briefly.

You look away first, arms folding tighter across yourself.

“I spent three years trying to get over you,” you admit quietly. “Do you understand how humiliating it is that seeing you again almost reset all of it instantly?”

Katsuki feels something sharp twist low in his chest.

Because your voice still doesn't sound angry. It  sounds like you’re simple frustrated with yourself.

“I didn’t know what version of you was gonna walk into that restaurant tonight,” you continue. “And honestly? I was scared that if I talked to you normally for even five minutes, I’d forget why we broke up in the first place.”

The parking garage suddenly feels too small, too warm. Katsuki stares at you, heartbeat starting to thud harder beneath his ribs again in a way that has nothing to do with fighting anymore. He starts thinking of every single moment today where his thoughts remained the same as yours.

You laugh softly then, but there’s no humor in it.

“And the worst part is,” you murmur, eyes dropping briefly toward the concrete floor, “I still wanted you to come sit next to me. I keep thinking I want the goodbye kiss that I never got. I can never fully leave you behind and I think it’s just because I don’t want to. Last year when you messaged me, I found myself excited at the thought of us getting back together.

The words hit him harder than any fight tonight did.

Just honest enough to split something open clean down the middle.

Katsuki stares at you like he genuinely forgot how to move for a second. Because he’d prepared himself for anger; —resentment, perhaps. Even the mischellanious instant where you’d be maybe telling him you moved on and he was pathetic for still carrying pieces of this -you- around like shrapnel under his skin.

He didn’t prepare himself himself for this right now in any of his overthinking scenarios.

You standing in front of him at nearly two two in the morning, exhausted and vulnerable and still admitting you wanted him back once too. The million dollar question is: do you still?

The fluorescent lights of the parking lot above you the two of you flicker faintly.  Somewhere deeper in the garage, a car alarm chirps once before falling silent again—Katsuki barely hears any of it.

“When I saw your message,” you continue more quietly, “I remember staring at my phone like an idiot for an hour before answering.” A weak laugh leaves you. “My friend literally had to pry it out of my hands because I kept rereading it.”

His chest tightens painfully.

Because he remembers sending that message.

Sitting alone in his apartment after patrol with alcohol burning down his throat while he typed and deleted different versions of I miss you for nearly twenty minutes before settling on something colder instead. Something easier.

“Why would you fucking unblock me?”

Pathetic.

“You sounded angry,” you admit softly. “But I still kept hoping maybe underneath it… maybe you missed me enough to try again.”

Katsuki looks away sharply, jaw flexing hard.

He did.

That’s the worst fucking part.

He remembers pacing around his kitchen waiting for your replies like his life depended on them. Remembers the stupid spike of hope every time his phone buzzed. Remembers ruining the entire conversation because the second things started feeling vulnerable again, panic crawled viciously straight up his spine and turned everything mean.

Same old him as always.

“You told me I never changed,” he mutters roughly.

Your expression shifts slightly at that. Not regret exactly. Something sadder.

“Because you hadn’t.”

The honesty stings immediately because part of him knows you’re right. Back then he’d still been treating love like a fight he needed to win before somebody could abandon him first. Katsuki drags a hand hard down his face before laughing once under his breath. Bitter. Exhausted.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Probably deserved that one.”

Silence settles again after that. Raw, void of the hostility every other silence between you tonight. However, this time, the hostility of any previous silence between you tonight, is missing. Everything is raw and open like an oozing, fresh wound.

Had that been the case, he’d known better of.

You’re still standing near his car with your arms folded tightly across yourself like you’re physically holding your own chest together. Katsuki notices your fingers trembling slightly against your sleeves.

You’re nervous.

That realization hits unexpectedly hard too. Because he also forgot what it felt like knowing he could still affect you like this.

“I hated you for a while,” you admit suddenly, voice quieter now. “Or—I tried to, at least, at least.” You shake your head faintly. “I wanted to, anyway. It would’ve made moving on easier.”

Katsuki doesn’t interrupt.

Doesn’t trust himself to.

“But then stupid things kept happening,” you continue, eyes unfocused now like you’re talking more to yourself than him. “I’d hear someone laugh like you at work and my whole day would get weird after. Or somebody would burn coffee and suddenly I’d remember your apartment.” Another soft, embarrassed laugh. “There’s this hero overseas that yells exactly like you during meetings. I almost walked out the first time because I started tearing up.”

Something dangerously warm starts spreading low in Katsuki’s chest.

Not ego. Not satisfaction.

Something worse—Hope.

Small and so fragile and so, so terrifying. and plainly—

You finally look back up at him then, expression open in a way he hasn’t seen in years.

“And honestly?” you say quietly, “I think part of me kept waiting for you to come after me.”

That one nearly knocks the air clean out of him.

Because he wanted to.

God, he wanted to.

He remembers standing in airports during patrol assignments wondering what country you were in. Remembers opening your chat box dozens of times— knowing which one it was simply by how many weeks ago was your last conversation— just to close it again before typing anything. Remembers seeing your name finally appear in his Instagram chat box instead of ‘User’ and feeling his stomach drop so hard he had to sit down.

But wanting something and knowing how to hold onto it were always two different things for him.

Katsuki swallows hard before speaking.

“You said you wished you never met me.”

Your face changes instantly. Pain flickers there, between your worried brows so quickly he almost misses it.

“I know.”

“You meant it?”

“No,” you answer immediately.

Too fast for it to not be honest. Katsuki would crack up a cocky smile if the sound of its admission didn’t hook directly beneath his ribs.

You inhale shakily afterward, eyes dropping again.

“I said it because I wanted to hurt you back,” you admit. “And because you’d just spent an hour making me feel stupid and calling me a liar for telling you i loved you.”

The words land heavy between you both. Katsuki feels nausea twist unpleasantly in his stomach because he remembers that night perfectly now more than any other time.

Not just the fight.

Your face.

The way you looked at him like you were begging him to give you one reason to stay softer with each other instead of turning everything into a bloodbath.

And he had spectacularly failed, spectacularly.

“You really thought I didn’t love you?” you ask suddenly, quieter now.

And since the answer to your question is humiliating, Katsuki’s throat feels tight.

“…Yeah.”

You stare at him for a long moment after that. Then you laugh again, but this time it sounds closer to heartbreak.

“Katsuki,” you whisper softly, “I moved across the world and still couldn’t stop loving you properly.”

That one hurts.

Not in a bad way.

Worse.

Because suddenly all three years between you feel unbearably visible at once. Every missed call never made. Every airport not boarded. Every message typed and deleted. Every lonely apartment. Every night spent pretending this wasn’t still sitting unfinished between you both. It never actually had to be that way. 

Katsuki looks at you standing there beneath harsh garage lighting with tired eyes and shaky hands and too much honesty spilling out at once and realizes, with horrifying clarity, that if you were to claim your goodbye kiss; if you so as kissed him right now, he genuinely doesn’t think he’d survive it quietly.

Neither of you says anything for a while after that.

The parking garage hums quietly around you, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead in uneven intervals while rainwater drips somewhere deeper in the structure with slow, hollow echoes. The city outside has started slipping into that strange hour between night and morning where everything feels softer around the edges. Traffic is thinner now. The distant sounds of Musutafu blur together into something low and tired beneath the concrete silence.

Katsuki can hear your breathing.

Not because the garage is particularly quiet, but because he’s standing too close to you again after three years and his body keeps locking onto every tiny thing automatically.

The way your shoulders rise slightly every time you inhale. The faint tremble still lingering in your fingers. The exhaustion sitting beneath your eyes.

You look nothing like the polished, untouchable version of yourself he built up in his head over the past few years. Standing here now, you just look human again.

Real enough to ache over.

To you… Does he look that way too?

“Let’s go, I’ll take you home.” Katsuki shifts his weight once before dragging a hand through his hair roughly. “We should probably get outta here before Mina decides to come back and interrogate us.”

The corner of your mouth twitches faintly. “That implies she never actually left.”

“She’s probably hiding behind a concrete pillar right now.”

“She absolutely is.”

The tiny bit of shared amusement loosens something dangerously fragile between you both.

Katsuki unlocks the car with a sharp click of the key fob. Then you glance toward the passenger side before looking back at him again, uncertainty flickering briefly across your expression like you’re second-guessing whether this is a good idea.

Honestly, he’s wondering the same thing.

Because every second around you tonight has felt like standing near something unstable with no self-control left to keep his hands off it.

Still, he opens the passenger door for you anyway.

You hesitate only a second before climbing inside.

The interior of the car smells faintly like leather, rain, and burnt caramel coffee from whatever drive-through Kirishima dragged him through earlier this week. Soft dashboard lights glow low against the dark while droplets of rain slide slowly down the windshield overhead. The city reflects across the glass in blurred streaks of neon and gold.

Katsuki rounds the front of the car slowly, pulse thudding heavier with every step.

By the time he slides into the driver’s seat, the air inside already feels too warm.

You’re sitting angled slightly toward the window, arms folded loosely across yourself while the glow from passing streetlights softens the side of your face. Your makeup’s mostly worn off by now. There’s still a faint smear of eyeliner and mascara at the corner of your eye.

He has to physically stop himself from reaching over to wipe it away.

Silence settles again, but it’s different inside the car.

The enclosed space presses everything tighter together until even breathing feels too noticeable.

Katsuki rests one hand against the steering wheel without starting the engine. “So what now?”

You let out a quiet breath through your nose before leaning your head back against the seat. “I don’t know.” you sigh “I didn’t really think this far ahead.”

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Me neither.”

Rain starts tapping lightly against concrete again. Thin at first. Then steadier.

Your eyes drift toward the sound automatically. “It always rains when we talk about serious shit.”

Katsuki snorts softly before he can stop himself. “That’s because you always picked fights during storms.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

A small laugh escapes you then, quieter than before but real enough that something in his chest twists painfully around it. God, he missed that sound. Missed sitting beside you while conversations slipped this easily between silence and teasing without either of you forcing it.

A newer realization scares him a little; It would be so easy to fall right back into this. Too easy.

You turn toward him slightly then, knees shifting against the seat. “Can I ask you something?”

“Tch. You usually do anyway.”

Your eyes narrow faintly at the automatic attitude, but there’s no real heat behind it now. “Why didn’t you come after me?”

The question settles heavily into the space between you both.

Katsuki’s jaw tightens immediately.

Outside, headlights slide briefly across the windshield before disappearing down the garage ramp. He watches the reflections fade instead of looking directly at you.

“Didn’t think you wanted me to.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Of course it isn’t.

You were always annoyingly good at pulling honesty out of him even when he fought it.

Katsuki exhales slowly through his nose before speaking. “Because I thought if I showed up and you looked happier without me…” He laughs once under his breath, rough and humorless. “Didn’t think I could handle that. It’d just fucking prove i’m hard to love and you’re better without me.”

The space between you afterward feels fragile.

When he finally looks over, your expression has softened into something unbearably tender.

Fuck, fuck—Fuck.

“You’re an idiot,” you murmur quietly.

There’s no cruelty in it. Maybe a tad of acceptance. A smear of sadness.

Your eyes flick downward briefly then back to his face, and suddenly Katsuki becomes painfully aware of how close you’re sitting. The center console feels too small now. The air feels thick with old history and exhaustion and everything neither of you managed to bury properly.

His gaze drops to your mouth before he can stop it.

He notices immediately when your breathing changes.

Slight.

Barely there.

But enough.

The tension inside the car shifts all at once after that.

Not explosive and immediate, like he’s used to. It’s slow and dangerous. Like something pulling tighter inch by inch.

Katsuki’s fingers flex once against the steering wheel. “Tell me to stop looking at you like that.”

Your throat moves subtly when you swallow.

“You first.”

Fuck. Shit!

The flirtiness in your tone hits him hard enough to feel somewhere low in his stomach.

Rain streaks slower down the windshield now, blurring neon lights outside into smeared ribbons of color while the heater hums faintly beneath the dashboard. The whole car feels suspended outside time somehow. Separate from the rest of the city. With nothing left to do but park at the side of the road, Katsuki swerves the steering wheel towards his new direction.

When he shuts off the engine, you’re the one who moves first.

Barely.

Just enough to lean a little closer and more tentative toward him. You’re giving him room to pull away if he wants to.

Katsuki doesn’t. Neither pull away, nor want to.

His hand reaches for your face almost automatically, rough palm settling carefully against your jaw like muscle memory never left him at all. The contact pulls a shaky breath from you instantly, and that sound alone nearly destroys whatever restraint he still has left.

He kisses you before he can think too hard about it.

And it feels exactly like coming home to something he convinced himself no longer existed.

Warm.

Familiar.

Devastating.

You make this tiny broken noise against his mouth the second the kiss lands properly, fingers grabbing instinctively at the front of his shirt like you need something solid to hold onto. Katsuki feels his entire chest cave inward around the feeling of you kissing him back just as desperately. His lips ache with buzzing numbness and he tries his very best to even remember the steps to a kiss he’s trained to fit perfectly into.

Three years of missing each other crashes together all at once inside that kiss.

His other hand slides against your waist, pulling you closer over the center console while rain drums steadily overhead. Your lips part against his almost immediately, breath shaky and uneven as the kiss deepens into something messier. Hungrier.

Katsuki kisses like he’s starving.

Always has.

Like every emotion he doesn’t know how to say properly gets forced violently through his hands and mouth instead.

You remember that instantly.

He feels it in the way your fingers tighten against him. The way your breathing starts breaking apart every time he kisses you harder. The way you lean into him like you missed this just as badly as he did.

When you finally pull back for air, neither of you gets very far.

Your forehead rests shakily against his while both of you breathe the same recycled air inside the dark car. Katsuki’s hand is still cupping your jaw. Your fingers are still twisted tightly into his shirt.

With one swift movement, Katsuki’s hand forces your jaw right into his, your lips slamming against each other's once again.

The kiss turns rough immediately.

Not careless —Never careless with you.

Katsuki’s just overwhelmed by the sheer force of finally having you this close again after years spent trying to convince himself he could survive without it.

Your breath catches sharply against his mouth when he kisses you deeper this time, fingers twisting harder into the front of his shirt while the center console digs awkwardly against your hip from how far you’ve leaned toward him. Rain continues sliding steadily down the windshield outside, blurring neon lights into streaks of gold and red across the dark interior of the car.

Katsuki barely notices any of it anymore.

All he can focus on is you.

The warmth of your mouth.

The familiar way you melt and tense at the same time whenever he kisses you too hard.

The shaky inhale you keep failing to steady every time his thumb brushes beneath your jaw.

His chest feels unbearably tight.

Because this isn’t nostalgia anymore.

It isn’t just memory. You’re actually here. Actually kissing him back with enough desperation that it almost hurts.

A strained sound escapes him before he can stop it, muffled against your lips while he pulls you even closer over the console. His hand slips from your jaw into your hair, fingers curling carefully at the base of your neck like he physically cannot stand another inch of distance between you both.

You break the kiss first this time, but only barely. Only enough for more air.

Your lips still brush his when you speak.

“Katsuki—”

His name falls apart halfway through your breath, soft enough that he nearly loses whatever remains of his self-control entirely.

Because you still say his name the same way.

But now he knows it means something. He can accept it means something.

Katsuki’s forehead presses hard against yours while he tries and fails to regulate his breathing. The inside of the car suddenly feels too hot, thick with condensation and recycled air and of unresolved feelings collapsing violently into each other all at once.

“You gotta stop lookin’ at me like that,” he mutters hoarsely.

Your brows pull together faintly. “Like what?”

“Like you and i will—” He cuts himself off immediately, jaw tightening hard enough to ache.

The words refuse to come out cleanly.

You stare at him for a second too long after that, your expression softening into something that almost looks painful.

“Katsuki,” you whisper quietly, “I literally just told you I couldn’t move on.”

Yeah. He knows.

And somehow hearing it still doesn’t feel real.

“But if we y’know—now,” he coughs “maybe you’ll regret it.”

His eyes search your face automatically like he’s trying to find evidence that this is temporary. That you’ll wake up tomorrow and realize kissing him again was a mistake. That eventually you’ll remember all the reasons loving him became unbearable in the first place.

The fear must show somewhere across his expression because your hand suddenly lifts toward his face.

Your fingertips brush against the side of his jaw where the faint razor burn still sits from earlier tonight, and the tenderness behind the touch nearly destroys him more effectively than the kissing did.

“Katsuki, are you talking about sex?” you murmur softly, whispering the last word extensively. 

A weak huff of laughter leaves him despite himself. His lower lip pouts out.

“You always get this line between your eyebrows whenever you get shy like this.”

Your thumb smooths unconsciously against the spot moments later like muscle memory. Katsuki feels his stomach twist painfully around the familiarity of it.

God.

He missed this.

Not even the kissing specifically. Not even the sex. (And he’s missed these two plenty)

Just this.

You knowing him so instinctively that his body reacts before his brain catches up.

“I wouldn’t regret it. I’ve wanted it so much even though I was convinced it’d never happen again. I can’t regret doing something that I want to do.”

Your words settle heavy enough in his chest that suddenly he needs to kiss you again before he says something humiliating.

His mouth crashes back against yours harder this time.

You make another soft noise into the kiss immediately, one that sounds dangerously close to heartbreak, and Katsuki swears he feels the sound straight through his ribs. His hand tightens carefully at the back of your neck while your fingers slide upward into his hair, slightly damp strands catching between your knuckles.

The angle is awkward across the center console.

Neither of you cares.

Your knee bumps clumsily against the gear shift while Katsuki leans further toward you, broad shoulders pressing you deeper into the passenger seat unintentionally from the sheer force of how badly he’s kissing you now. Every breath between you feels uneven. Messy. Shared.

Three years disappears frighteningly fast like this. Just temporarily drowned beneath the overwhelming relief of finally touching each other again.

Katsuki feels your hand trembling slightly where it cups the side of his face.

The realization makes him pull back barely enough to look at you.

Your lips are swollen now. Eyes glassy beneath the dashboard glow while your breathing comes apart in shallow bursts that mirror his almost exactly. Then your expression shifts suddenly, something vulnerable flickering across it fast enough to make his chest tighten again.

“What if we do this again?” you ask quietly. “What if we try again and it ruins us worse this time?”

The question lands hard because it’s real. Not dramatic or hypothetical. You’re genuinely afraid. Because it’s been over three years since you’ve kissed, even more since you were intimate with each other, since you held an actual conversation.

And honestly? So is he.

Katsuki stares at you in the dim car lighting while rain taps softly overhead, your fingers still resting against his jaw like you’re scared to let go completely.

Then, slowly, he turns his head just enough to press a kiss against the center of your palm,vermillion eyes locked in yours..

The gesture feels strangely vulnerable coming from him.

“I think,” he says roughly afterward, eyes still fixed on yours, too sceptical, “it already ruined us the first time.” His thumb brushes carefully against your waist, then, sensually across your ribs “Didn’t stop either of us from wanting it again.”

It feels strangely fragile now that the adrenaline of finally kissing each other has settled slightly. Not awkward exactly. Just painfully real in a way neither of you can hide from anymore. 

Neither of you seems fully willing to let go first.

You look mentally exhausted. The kind of exhaustion that seeps into your bones and bleeds across the surface of your skin; heart beating fast, eyes wide open and desperate. Katsuki, for worse luck despite it all, probably looks the same.

Your eyes drift downward briefly before you let out a small breath through your nose. “This is probably a terrible idea.”

Katsuki huffs quietly. “Yeah.”

“But I really don’t care right now.” you admit “do you?”

“Hell nah!”

Katsuki Bakugo Masterlist

~All rights reserved: @/strawberry-nugget, 2026. Please do not copy, over write or steal my work //

Likes and reblogs are so appreciated but if you you liked this you can let me know in the comments <3

Dividers by @/cursed-carmine

[dynameow]

GET READY WITH ME ✶ FT. BAKUGOU KATSUKI

── ✶ before you read: 1.4k words ; female reader ; established relationship ; very unserious influencer reader ; pro hero katsuki ; fluff and banter ; masterlist.

based on this post and amira’s hilarious comment

“Get ready with me to dump my pro hero boyfriend!”

You grin into your phone camera as you prop it up against a bottle of moisturizer on the bathroom counter. Beside you, Katsuki is brushing his teeth. The brushing immediately stops. You watch as his eyes narrow at you through the mirror, stifling a giggle.

“The fuck did you just say?”

You bite your lip to stop yourself from laughing. “Hi, guys!” you continue cheerfully, waving at the camera. “Today I’m getting ready to break up with my pro hero boyfriend. Some of you might know him as Dynamight—”

“Is this some bullshit new trend online?” He crosses his arms, toothbrush hanging in his mouth as he looks at you unamused.

“—who I’m leaving because, unfortunately, he’s become a huge burden in my life, and I need to cut him loose.”

The toothbrush leaves his mouth, falling into the sink as he gapes, “What?”

You reach for a makeup sponge. “Normally, I would start with skincare, but he buys me the expensive stuff, and since I’m dumping him and won’t have his wallet anymore, I have to make it last. Can’t be wasting it on him, you know?”

“Hah?” he snaps, inching closer as he stares into the camera with furrowed brows. You easily ignore him.

“I’ve been meaning to break up with him sooner, but I just didn’t want to handle all the crying and stuff—from him, not me, just to be clear.”

“I’m not gonna fuckin’ cry over your stupid ass video—”

“Unfortunately, he’s a very emotional person. Very clingy, too.”

“I’m not clingy. You’re the one who spams me with texts while I’m on patrol!”

You dab concealer beneath your eyes as he defends himself against every accusation you make, and it becomes far too difficult to hide your laughter. You let out a soft giggle, and he throws you a very offended glare. (Yes, Katsuki is smart enough to know that this is a silly little joke on your part just to be funny. No, that does not stop him from treating this as a serious matter in which he has to protect his dignity. Lucky for you, that only makes for better views.)

“Now, some people might think breaking up with a pro hero wouldn’t be very smart for my brand, but luckily, mine is very easy to replace.”

“Easy to replace?”

You have to look away from him because the expression on his face is making it ten times harder to pretend to take this seriously, and you’re barely keeping a straight face. “There are lots of blonde men in the world, so I’m sure I’ll easily find someone else to fit the role.”

“Who the fuck are you gonna find better than me, huh?” He challenges, particularly irritated by that statement. 

“As you can see, he’s already in denial.”

“Oi! Don’t ignore me!”

“Anger is the next stage of grief.”

The phone is grabbed before you can dab on your blush, and he spins you around, pinning you against the bathroom counter as he gives you a dirty look. You break into a fit of giggles, wrapping your arms around his neck as you press an innocent kiss to the tip of his nose. 

“Hi, baby,” you hum.

He raises a brow. “Don’t hi baby me, dumbass. You make sure you tell that camera that you’ll never dump your boyfriend and that there’s no other man—blonde or not—like him, and—”

You roll your eyes, hands cupping his cheeks as you pull him into a soft, slow kiss, cutting his words off effectively. He melts into you, kissing back as soon as your lips touch his, and you like to think that your silly idea only makes him kiss you a little more seriously. A little more meaningful, just to prove something.

“Don’t worry,” you peck the corner of his mouth, “I was just kidding. I’d never dump someone with pro hero money from the number five spot.”

— — — — —

“Get ready with me to get proposed to by my pro hero boyfriend!”

You beam at your phone camera from your vanity. Behind you, Katsuki is sprawled across the bed, one ankle hooked over the other, scrolling on his phone while sipping on his morning coffee. The coffee immediately goes down the wrong pipe.

He chokes, and a terribly strained coughing fit erupts from behind you. You almost feel bad for disrupting his peace on his day off—almost. 

“Now, the proposal hasn’t been planned yet,” you explain to your hypothetical audience while reaching for your moisturizer, “but I’ve decided I want it to happen today.”

Another coughing fit. “What?”

“Katsuki, are you okay? You’re coughing a lot today. Do you have a cold?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, woman—what the fuck are you up to this time?”

You give him an innocent smile as you say, “Nothing!”

You’ve decided to keep this little game going for as long as you can—a new scheme whenever you can to keep him on his toes. Partially because you’d be lying if you said you didn’t enjoy his reactions, but partially because, truthfully, you think seeing a softer, more human side of Katsuki will do him some wonders in the public eye. And what sort of doting girlfriend would you be if you didn’t take your chances at helping his public image?

“Why do you keep lying to your audience through these stupid videos?” he demands.

You gasp. “Lying?”

“Yes, lying,” he gives you a flat look, eyeing you like you’re crazy for denying the accusation.

“Why would this be a lie?” You challenge. Then, dramatically, you gasp, clutching your chest in mock hurt as you hiss, “So are you saying that you don't want to marry me?”

“W-what? I didn’t fuckin’ say that—don’t put words in my mouth—”

“So, I guess this video is now becoming a get-ready-with-me to get dumped, because apparently Katsuki wants to break up with me because he fell out of love with me and found someone new. I think he’s been emotionally cheating on me with someone—a sidekick, I’d bet. Always trust your gut, ladies—your gut never lies.”

“Hah?! You—” he sighs, rubbing a hand over his face as he exhales tiredly and gives you a dry look. “You know what, that’s right. M’fuckin’ dumping your ass.”

You clap a hand over your mouth dramatically. “Everyone cancel him!”

— — — — —

“Get ready with me to make out with my pro hero boyfriend!”

You beam at your phone camera yet again. But today, for the first time in the history of these videos, there is no Katsuki behind you that is staring at you in disbelief or glaring at you in irritation. Instead, Katsuki is sitting on the bed, looking up from his phone as a wide, smug grin spreads across his face.

“Finally,” he says, setting his phone aside. “You thought of a good one.”

You blink. “Wait—”

“No, no, you can’t take shit back now. You wanna make out with your pro hero boyfriend, so that’s what your video is gonna be, baby.”

“Katsuki—”

He stands, hastily walking over as he says in approval, “Now we’re talkin. I like this video idea.”

He materializes in front of you, easily grabbing you by the wrist and tugging you up before he hooks an arm around your waist and pulls you flush against him. His lips start peppering kisses up your throat and along your jaw as he works his way up to your lips. You melt against your will, giggling a little as you hiss (weakly), “Kats! We can’t…you can’t kiss me yet!”

“And why the fuck not, huh? You got some other boyfriend to kiss? Bring ‘im here, I can fight.”

“I have to get ready first,” you huff, shoving him lightly, “that’s the point of a get-ready-with-me? You have to wait till my makeup is done.”

“What’s the point in that?” He hums, pressing a soft, delicate peck to your lips before he murmurs, “s’just gonna be a waste of all your hard work when m’done with you, yeah baby?”

You shiver at the tone in his voice, pupils dilating as you stare at him. His eyes are twinkling with amusement as he gives you a wolfish grin, reaching over and locking your phone, and cutting the camera off from recording. This video might not end up getting posted at all, you think—this one might just break community guidelines. 

this is SO ridiculous im CRYING LOLLLLL

[dynameow]

Hii! Do you know about that one trend where "asking my partner permition to eat" in public or with their parents, now imagine reader doing this to bakugo infront of mitsuki

She would beat up his ass LMAO

── ✶ before you read: 1k words ; fem reader ; established relationship ; mitsuki and masaru are good parents ; katsuki has an aneurysm (almost) ; masterlist.

꒰ commentary ꒱ ✶ ANON YOU ARE TOO FUNNY FOR THIS ASK LMAOOO

“Kats, am I allowed to order a drink, too?” You whisper. “This one seems good. It’s okay if I can’t, though.”

Katsuki stiffens, turning to you in disbelief. The waitress pauses. Mitsuki raises a brow. Masaru looks up from the menu in concern.

“What the fuck do you mean allowed—what…what are you talkin’ about?”

“Am I allowed to get it?” You ask, like it’s a simple question. You give him a confused look before you add, “I don’t want to order too much and then upset you.”

The waitress gives him a look from the corner of her eyes. It’s a nasty look if you’ve ever seen one, and coupled by Mitsuki’s eyes narrowing at her son, you have to fight every bone in your body not to laugh.

“Did your head get knocked loose?” He does a double take. “Why the fuck would I be upset? You…okay, you know what,” he turns to the waitress, already having enough of your antics, and says, “add a large drink to that, please.”

“A large drink, got it,” she nods slowly, jotting it down. “How generous of you.”

You bite your lip when he stares after her incredulously as she walks away. And as soon as the waitress is gone, he has another problem just waiting.

You start, “Thanks for letting me get a drink today—”

“And just what do you mean let?!” Mitsuki cuts in, staring between you and her son.

You blink at her with your best innocent look. (One good thing about making it your lifelong hobby to get under Katsuki’s skin is that you’ve learned you’re very good at the innocent look. Exceedingly good.)

“Well, I mean, I know how he feels about me ordering things, so I just wanted to check that it was okay—”

“Hah!? What the fuck are you talkin’ about?” Katsuki stares. “How do I feel about you ordering things?”

You shrug sheepishly, feigning, to your credit, a very convincingly nervous look. “I just didn’t want to upset you.”

The look on Masaru’s face twists immediately to heartbreak—like he can’t believe his son would turn out this way. Meanwhile, Mitsuki’s eyes narrow into dangerous slits. Katsuki waves a hand gesturing at you in shock as if to ask, are you seeing this? as he stares at his parents helplessly.

“She’s messin’ around, I swear, she always does this—”

“Katsuki.”

“Don’t Katsuki me—I haven’t done anything!”

“You know,” Masaru says carefully, eyeing his son in disappointment, “sometimes people don’t realize they’re behaving a certain way until there are signs. But we have to look at the signs for what they are, son.”

“Dad—”

“No, let me finish.” Masaru holds up a hand. “You’re supposed to be equals in a relationship. If she’s worried about upsetting you over something as simple as ordering a drink, maybe you should ask yourself why she feels that way.”

“Because she’s insane!”

“Katsuki!” Mitsuki hisses, pointing a finger at him as she says, “don’t call her that! The only reason for that is because you’re driving her crazy—look at her! The poor thing! She’s shaking over there, and it’s because of you!”

“She’s not shakin’ for shit! Look—look at her! She’s fighting back a fuckin’ smug little look on her face because she’s—”

Mitsuki suddenly reaches across the table and catches him by the ear. “What have I told you about making girls feel respected, huh? This is why they’ve never liked you! And now one finally does and you’re scaring her off?”

“Ow—you fucking hag!”

She gives his ear a sharp tug. “Language.”

“Ow! Let go, you old—”

You look up innocently, “Please don’t scold him, he’ll be in a bad mood when we get home.”

Mitsuki yanks his ear harder at that, steam practically pouring from her own ears, and Masaru holds a hand to his chin in deep, concerned thought.

“Just what happens at home when it’s just the two of you, huh? Why is she scared about what’ll happen when you’re home?!”

“Nothing! Literally fuckin’ nothing, she terrorizes me at home, if anything! Look with your eyes, you old hag!”

Finally taking mercy on him, you chuckle, reaching over to ruffle Katsuki’s hair. He gives you a nasty side glare, but it softens just a smidge when you lean into his side and kiss his cheek.

“I was only kidding,” you beam at Mitsuki, “I just wanted to make him sweat a bit.”

She looks at you with a cautious gaze, her fingers still tightly wrapped around Katsuki’s poor (and red) earlobe as she asks, “Are you sure you’re not just protecting him?”

“Oh don’t worry,” you hum, patting your boyfriend’s chest as he shakes his head in irritation, “you’d be the first to know if he acts even the slightest bit out of line.”

“I never get a chance to be out of line, cause you’re the bossiest—”

Just then, the waitress arrives with your drinks. She sets yours down first. “Here you go, honey.” Then she places Katsuki’s down. The sour look she gives him could practically curdle milk. “Sir.”

Katsuki stares after her as she walks off, and you giggle as you pinch his cheek affectionately. “We should come back here next week, huh baby?”

“Yeah, if my face isn’t on a wanted poster at the door,” he grumbles under his breath.

You reach over with a cheeky grin, grabbing his drink and taking a sip before taking another from your own glass. After a moment of contemplating, you hum, “I like your drink better. I’m taking it. Here—” you slide him yours as you pull his own glass to your side of the table. “You take that one.”

He turns to his mother and waves a hand. “See?! She terrorizes me!”

“I’m not seeing a problem,” she says, giving him a less than impressed look. “All I’m seeing is a poor girl finally realizing her worth after dealing with your nonsense.”

He slumps into his seat, giving up, and you lean your head onto his shoulder, beaming up at him victoriously as he gives you a tired look. (And, much to your pride, you know are getting very, exceedingly good at getting under Katsuki’s skin—it’s a hobby you’re quite talented at.)

[mimujus]

sucking toji off because he made you jealous (˶˃⤙˂˶)

the job takes exactly eight minutes longer than it should.

you know this because you've been counting. back pressed against the passenger seat of his black sedan, arms crossed tight over your chest as you watch him lean against the chain-link fence outside that rundown warehouse. he's got that grin on his face—the one that says he's enjoying himself way too much for someone who's supposed to be gathering intel on a target. the woman he's talking to is young, pretty in that desperate, cheap way that hangs around betting parlors. she's touching his arm. laughing too loud.

toji's wearing that black shirt you like, the one stretched thin over his shoulders, sleeves rolled up to show the corded muscle of his forearms. he knows exactly what he's doing. the way he tilts his head, the lazy drag of his thumb along his bottom lip as he listens to her ramble. he's fishing for information. you know this. you knew this before you even got in the car.

doesn't make it sting any less.

he finally saunters back, sliding into the driver's seat with a satisfied grunt. the car smells like him—cigarettes, gun oil, cheap cologne. he doesn't look at you as he turns the key, engine rumbling to life.

"she buy it?" you ask, voice flat.

"bought it, wrapped it, put a bow on it." he glances at you then, dark eyes glinting with amusement. "what's that face for?"

"nothing."

he laughs, low and rough, and pulls out of the lot. "jealous? cute."

you don't answer. just stare out the window as the city bleeds past in smears of neon and headlights. he keeps talking—something about the target's schedule, a drop point, easy money—but you've stopped listening. your jaw is tight. fingers digging into your own arms.

he notices. of course he notices. toji doesn't miss much.

"hey." his hand lands on your thigh, warm and heavy. squeezes once. "i'm just doing my job. you know that."

"i know."

"you're still mad."

"i'm not mad."

he huffs a laugh, shaking his head. "stubborn."

the car pulls up to his place—a rundown garage he calls a lab, where he tinkers with weapons and stores his gear. he kills the engine and reaches for the door handle, but you don't move. you're watching him. waiting.

"coming in?" he asks.

you unbuckle your seatbelt slowly. deliberately. you don't get out of the car.

instead, you climb.

the center console digs into your knee as you swing your leg over, settling into his lap with your back to the steering wheel. he raises an eyebrow, caught off guard for once. the hunter's instincts flicker, then settle into something darker when he sees the look in your eyes.

"oh," he says, voice dropping an octave. "so that's how it's gonna be."

you don't answer with words. you answer by reaching down, palming the growing bulge in his jeans. he's already half-hard—the bastard gets off on making you jealous, you know that now. the realization should make you angry. instead, it just makes you want to ruin him.

his breath catches when you work his belt open, metal clinking in the quiet of the car. the leather of the driver's seat creaks as he shifts, letting you work. you pull his cock out—thick, heavy, already smearing a bead of precum across his stomach. he hisses when your fingers wrap around the base.

"thought you were mad," he says, but there's no bite in it. his hand finds your hip, grips hard enough to bruise.

"i'm not doing this for you." you lean down, lips brushing against the tip. "i'm doing this so you remember who you come home to."

his laugh dies in his throat when you take him in your mouth.

you don't start slow. you're too wound up for that. your lips seal around the head, tongue swiping across the slit, tasting salt and want. he groans, deep and guttural, and his hand slides from your hip to the back of your head. he doesn't push. just rests it there, fingers threading through your hair as you sink lower.

he fills your mouth completely, stretching your jaw. you breathe through your nose, adjusting to the weight of him on your tongue, then pull back with a wet sound before taking him deeper. his hips twitch. that vein on the underside of his cock pulses against your tongue.

"fuck," he mutters, head falling back against the headrest. "you're trying to kill me."

good.

you set a rhythm—slow descents, hollow-cheeked pulls, your hand working the base in time with your mouth. precum slicks your lips, makes the slide easier. the car windows are fogging up, the world outside forgotten. there's only the wet sound of your mouth on his cock, his breathing getting rougher, his fingers tightening in your hair.

he's getting close. you can feel it in the way his thighs tense, the way his hips start to fuck up into your face with shallow, desperate thrusts. you double down, taking him all the way to the back of your throat, holding there until your eyes water.

"shit—" his voice cracks. "i'm gonna—"

you don't pull away.

he comes with a guttural groan, hand fisting your hair as his hips buck. hot pulses fill your mouth, thick and bitter, and you swallow around him, working him through every last spasm until he goes slack beneath you.

you pull off slowly, dragging your tongue along his length, tasting the last traces of him before wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

he stares at you, chest heaving, dark hair plastered to his forehead. that lazy grin returns, softer now.

"damn," he breathes. "maybe i should make you jealous more often."

you slide back into your seat, buckling your belt with a satisfied smirk.

"get the info first. then we talk."

[kamiflix]

▶︎︎ Southbound (starring . various jjk men & women)

synopsis . Mundane things you do that drive them craaaazy. pairings (separate) . Sukuna x f!reader, Gojo x f!reader, Choso x f!reader, Toji x f!reader, Shoko x f!reader, Geto x f!reader, Yuki x f!reader. content . afab!reader, some established relationships, modern au, dirty talk, pet names, feral men & women, creampies, pervy!choso, finger sucking, perversion, overstim, filth, spit, cock stepping, rough sex, they’re naaaasty & obsessed, jealousy here ‘n there, fingering, possessiveness, brat taming, oral sex, etc.

word count . 8.4k || author's note: based on a request i can't find (help lol)! (not proofread) & the banner art is by rororogi mogera <3

☆ Sukuna Ryomen — flipping him off.

The moment your finger flew up his way in an aggravated flare, you expected the usual annoyed grunt or two in response. Instead, Sukuna's entire attitude shifts and you think you see his eyes getting uncharacteristically softer on you. Well, not really soft but soft in the way that lets you know that man is not paying attention to a word you're saying anymore.

"—and I really can't believe you," You're continuing on, "It's the same shit every week, and I just don't think I can—are you even fucking listening to me?!" Your words seem to capture his attention for a second, but his eyes are mostly trained onto your hand.

A muscle in his jaw flexes ever so slightly before you spot the faint quirk in his lips, crimson eyes just barely managing to find your face again, "What?"

"Oh, so you weren't listening," You scoff, turning away from the man with a pronounced roll of your eyes. Then you flip him off a second time and attempt to walk away from him, "Yeah, I'm done with this. Fuck y—"

“How far down my throat do you think that finger of yours could reach?” Sukuna asks all too casually and too slowly for your liking.

To which you end up choking, the remainder of your tirade dying out in your throat with one stupidly dry swallow. Your hand steadily retracts from where it is in the air and you turn to look at him, “What.”

Yeah, you knew the guy had some… strange interest when you first started talking to him romantically but nothing could’ve prepared you for the boner he popped when your middle finger went waving his way.

That—paired with that weird ass question he asked—is exactly how you ended up watching your boyfriend suck those same fingers of yours with a dark look in his eyes while he fucked you from the side. He had a singular hand neatly perched against the curvature of your hip as his other held onto your wrist to keep your hand from falling away from him.

“Mmhmm, mmmph,” Sukuna purred deeply, lathering your shaky digits with a slicked glaze of his saliva and driving his long, aggravatingly hard cock in ‘n out of your leaky cunt.

Squelch after squelch after squelch and the man was an utter mess before you. You watched as sweat trickled all down from the pink tuffs of his hair, strands clinging to his forehead messily while he sucked at your hand.

Between your moans, you found your eyebrows scrunching up as you huffed, “Why are you into this—aanh-, shit. Right there… f-fuckin’ freak.”

He nearly swallows your fingers whole, sucking impossibly harder in reaction and letting your fingertips graze the very back of his throat like some deranged whore. Sukuna had always been one to kiss your hand whenever he was trying to be romantic with you but you didn't think that'd translate over to this.

“Sukuna,” You called out in a desperate attempt at tugging him out of that fucked-out state of his.

The mean smack of his balls against your skin echoed and bounced off the bedroom walls with loud plaps, mixing in and growing louder with the grunts he was letting out and your moans.

He suddenly drags your hand away from his mouth and lets his droopy saliva splatter out and fall onto the side of your exposed waist, “Fuck do you want? Can’t you see my mouth is busy, woman?”

Your lashes flutter lightly as an utterly appalled feeling wells up inside you, “I—“

Unfortunately for you and whatever complaints you were about to strew his way, you're promptly cut off by the sultry motion of his hips plowing on as if fucking you was too easy of a task for him to put all his attention into. Then Sukuna politely takes your fingers back into his mouth and you think you see a little gleam of satisfaction coating his ruby gaze.

You tried to go on and catch him off guard by curling your fingers, but that only earns a stingy spurt of cum from the head of his cock as he gags. Then his eyes fly back and he seems to suction his mouth to your fingers even harder. Almost like he wants you to keep doing that.

To which you crack a smile, “Y’like that, ‘Kuna?”

Your boyfriend nods his head in a near pathetic manner—a way of which only your eyes are meant to capture. His cock is still ploughing through your puffy folds, sure to leave your inner walls swollen and stuffed with him by the time he's done.

Especially if you continue to egg him on by tilting your head at him and barely pulling your fingers away from him so that his mouth could follow like some big, starving mutt. Shaking your head, “This is so gross. Hah, why are you drooling like that?”

Sukuna pulls your digits out of his mouth again but only to stick his freakishly lengthy tongue out and then give you a slutty display of him wrapping a bit of the muscle around your fingers. Then he plasters wettened kisses the tips of them, “You have a really pretty fuckin’ hand.” He unexpectedly compliments.

You watch as the man shifts to drag your saliva-coated digits down along the tense plane of his sharp abs, his hips having stilled for a mere second so you could feel how your touch caused his weeping cock to pump 'n twitch frantically all around your insides.

“Can’t expect me to focus when you go waving it around in my face," He explains through a shortened breath. You take it upon yourself to feel at more of his chest while he leans over and moves both of his hands to your leg, practically pinning your body in place so he can rapidly puncture his dick past the elasticity of your entrance. "All I can think about it how good you feel against me—any part of you.”

A smile is placed upon your lips just then, “Aw, that’s kind of romanti—“

“Especially when you start stroking the inches of my cock that haven’t made it inside you just yet," He groans at the memory of it and your hand had unintentionally met the firm dips of his v-line, causing every inch of his body to shudder violently against you.

Then you deadpan, “Okay, never mind.”

To which he flashes a smug smile your way, “Keh.”

What a weirdo.

☆ Gojo Satoru — sneezing.

This freak. When he’d muttered a strangely hoarse bless you after the sneeze you’d let out, you tried not to think much of it.

But it was a little difficult to do that when he started to stare at you afterwards, flaunting that look of his that explicitly tells you his mind has gone somewhere very dirty. You were lightly rubbing the back of your hand against the tip of your nose to ease the itching sensation that the sneeze of yours had left and yet your weird ass husband was spotted in the corner of your eye bitting his bottom lip.

You sneeze one time during sex and now the damn from you sound makes his dick stand up no matter the situation!

Apparently whenever you sneeze, you clench especially hard around him—hard enough to drive him absolutely insane.

The two of you were trying to do some late spring cleaning and ended up in your cozy little attic, the air tinged with dust due to the vacancy of this area of your home. So naturally you were prone to a sneeze or two.

Unfortunately for you, this gave Gojo the brightest idea of all time.

He now has you hoisted up in his large, grabby hands—fucking you stupid as he bounces you up and down the fidgety length of his flushed cock—and hoping that having sex in this specific part of your home will coax a sneeze or two out of you.

"You're so weird," The words muddled out of your mouth in an airless little laugh, your head falling forward against the firm plane of his shoulder as he readjusted the mean grip he had on your thighs.

Despite hearing you just fine and smiling, "Is there something you wanted to say, baby?" Gojo asks, breath coming out warm near your skin.

Your eyes roll. "I said-," His hips snap upward just to purposefully cut you off, his thickened shaft sprawling your weepy hole open all the more with his ever swift motion. "Nngh-, ‘said you're so weird."

His head turned just so that his lips could brush at the shivering shell of your ear, "And yet," Gojo's teeth bare out to graze over your skin teasingly, "You're the one squeezing my cock like you don't wanna let him go." He points out.

While that was more than true, you weren't about to give him the satisfaction of you admitting it when he's the same mane who got turned on from your sneezing.

The attic air was rather warm from the glowy sun outside, and dust particles floated around lazily through the slanted beams of warm rays creeping through the singular small window placed not too far away from where Gojo stood with you. Nearly every bit of forgotten furniture cluttered in the area was painted over with a thin layer of ashy gray.

It'd been quite some time since the two of you had been in here. Hell, you believe the last time you both visited your attic was back when you guys were still christening the house via fucking in every room.

Per his idea, by the way.

The wooden floorboards beneath Gojo's sturdy feet had creaked from the weight of both his body and you hauled up in his arms. Wet droplets of slick splattered down onto the floor just under you with his every other uneven thrust, and you found yourself holding onto him tighter as he suddenly picked up the pace.

The plan to clean the attic up flew out the window about three or so sneezes ago and now he was waiting for you to do the same while his dick was inside you. It shouldn't have been too hard.

"Y'know most h-husbands just say bless you 'n hand their wife a tissue when they sneeze," Your voice was a bit unsteady from the way he was moving inside you—balmy cockhead poking all around your cervix and just kissing at your inner sweet spot to get you all the more wet around him.

You felt his chest rumbling slightly against your tits as he chuckled deeply, "Mmmh, yeah. But most husbands probably aren't blessed with the—fuck, knowledge that their wife's pussy sucks on their cock every time she—"

"Ohmygod, don't say it," You whine, cringing slightly as you leaned away from him as best as you could to catch the expression he was making.

He looked far too proud of himself, "...lets out the cuuutest little—"

"Satoru." You cut off with a warning glare in your eyes.

He only ignores it to smile at you, hands shifting to hike your body up higher in the air. The sudden change in angle brought about stars behind your shutting eyelids, his cock dragging against that squishy spot inside you that had your toe curling.

It seemed as though this was a position he'd managed to perfect with the the way he had you perfectly suspended in the air as if you weighed nothing, your tits bobbing, and feet left to dangle uselessly as he used gravity and his freakish strength to fuck you exactly how he wanted.

Oh, he was getting that sneeze out of you again.

Your hands reached up a little to tangle your fingers into his hair, holding on and tugging at him sharply whenever his tip plucked into the tightest nook of your pussy.

Mouth left open and mixed breathy moans 'n pants pouring out of you, Gojo saw how he already had one part of his plan down so far—fucking you straight to tears like he always did.

"Admit it, sweetheart," His voice dipped a pitch lower and he sounded overly determined to get his way, "You love that I know this about you, that I pay attention."

"Mmph-, I think it's weird, 'Toru. I just said this," You counter, words lacking any sort of bite to them.

Gojo's lips quirk up and his lashes bat slightly as he feels your saccharine walls quivering around the base of his cock, his hips barely rocking your body up. "Riiight, and that's why you're drippin' all down my cock right now—because you think it's weird."

You pout at him, "You're so annoying."

"You love me, though. And you love this," He picks his pace right back up where he'd just barely left off, letting his the crowning tip of his cock swat nastily against your depths to tug something sluggishly slick out of you. "Love that your weirdo husband still thinks you're sexy even when you're blowing sno—"

"I'm gonna get dry if you keep this up," You lie as your fingernails slightly scrape against his scalp and you cling onto his body tighter.

His smile manages to get impossibly wider, "Hah, not with my cock inside you, you're not." Gojo says cockily. Then his brows scrunch up and his dick is felt twitching inside you, "Plus it's your fault I'm like this to begin with, you should've held your sneeze back when we were cockwarming that night."

With every thrust and every word that jumped out of his mouth, you were only finding yourself surprised by the things he was coming up with. Scoffing, "You're being ridiculous."

Gojo lets your little comment slide for the time being and begins to walk over towards one of the attic's dustiest corner. Your expression instantly begins to twist up and you could feel your breathing growing shallower as the prospect of a sneeze tickles at your nostrils.

You really didn't want to give him what he wanted just yet.

"Oh? Did your nose just twitch?" Gojo asks, tugging your body impossibly closer to his so that your tits were sandwiched against his firm chest.

His hips became relentless just then, making it even harder for you to breathe with the way he was mercilessly fucking the air right out of your lungs.

"N-No," You tried to gasp but he saw the way tears welled up in your eyes.

Smirking knowingly at you, "Nah, don't hold it back now. Let it out, sweet girl. C'monnn, I just wanna feel you clench around me again." His voice softens up on you and you let out a short breath.

"This is so weird 'n embarrassing," You're whining, cunt spasming around his jaggedly thrusting cock. He was getting more and more frantic with each second that passed.

"Is it?" Your husband taunted, eyes lighting up as he watched your face contort into an expression that told him you were on the verge of a sneeze. "Well, I think—"

He's cut off almost comically by his own body—the dust having gotten to his nose instead of yours and leading him right into a short sneeze. With it comes a harsh thrust from his hips as the crash against your skin and you feel his muscles clenching tightly before his balls begin to twitch.

And then he's cumming inside you like an idiot.

"Oh," You're gasping now as you smirk right back at him, "I think I'm starting to get the appeal now."

☆ Shoko Ieiri — putting on lipgloss.

It’s a simple thing you, and many other people in the world, do to add some shine to your lips and yet your perpetually overworked girlfriend can’t help but get worked up every time she sees you doing it.

Perhaps it’s because you’re hers that it drives her insane but fuck, something about watching that pretty translucent shade of gloss slip out across the gorgeous curves of your lips makes her mind run to the most sinful of places.

It always reminds her of her lips against yours—and no, not the ones on your face.

There's only one other thing she can think of that's as lustrous 'n pretty as your lips are after you put on lipgloss. And that other thing is the same thing she's spreading open now with the two meticulous pads of her thumbs.

Your pussy is quivering under her due to the way she's panting like she's on the verge of dehydration from not lapping at you fast enough. She watches the cute pucker and clench your hole makes around nothing as she does so—eyeing how slobbers of slick dribbles out of you and trails down to your other hole.

You always got so wet for her, she just couldn't get enough of it.

That, and what's better than eating out her pretty girl after a long day of work?

Shoko nearly moans after blowing some air over your cunt to watch the way it flinches in reaction. "So cute," She mutters gently, "And wet." Then she's sending a fat wad of spit towards your clit and letting it trickle downward to mix with the rest of your soaked glory.

You don't even get to say anything before she's diving right in. Hell, you're not sure what got into her in the first place. You were supposed to be heading out to do some shopping but in the midst of your getting ready, Shoko said she needed something from you beforehand.

You knew she was watching you get all dolled up but you didn't think she was getting turned on from it too.

Locking her lips onto your cunt, she darts the length of her tongue out and sloppily lathers the muscle with your taste before groaning. A moan of her name leaves your lips but she hardly hears it—the taste of you has her dazed already.

Truth be told, Shoko could eat you out for hours and never get tired. Which makes sense, of course. You were her favorite meal after all.

But one of the best parts about doing so now—after you'd recently applied lipgloss—is looking up to see the way your mouth flails open with drool slipping out to mix with it. She always had you a wet mess from every single hole and she loved it.

Considered herself obsessed with it, even.

You shoot a hand down to her hair and try to grab ahold of her, pathetically attempting to move or shift her mouth where you want it to be but ultimately failing. Shoko goes wherever she wants to, the area of desire being your clit at the current moment with the way she foes from those lengthy laps 'n licks to kissing and softly suctioning her mouth to your slobbering pussy.

"Fuck, I almost forgot how sweet this pussy gets," She comments gingerly, warm breath grinding out against your smeared-open folds. "All sensitive on my tongue, nnngh-, can't get enoughhh..."

Her eyes sealed shut for a moment and you saw how she smiled into your cunt, kissing and licking like she was drunk on you or something. Fairly enough, she always got like this when she ate you out but fuck if it didn't drive you just as crazy each time.

Shoko's lips cup around your clit and she pulls at the sensitive bundle of nerves, the tip of her tongue tickling you obscenely before she moans into you once more.

Your back arches up away from the bed and you're left gasping for the air that'd recently left your throat, "Sho—fuuuck, Shoko..."

Her smile widens slightly when she hears you moaning for her but that doesn't stop the nasty flicks of her tongue. Then it begins to twist in a sloppy manner and her hands maneuvered over to peel your pussy lips further apart. She only removes her mouth from you to glide it downwards and pluck her tongue directly into your hole.

A broken gasp jumps out of you and she watches the entire thing from in between your legs. Then her hips and thighs move to try 'n relive the ache she felt building up in between them, especially as she saw how much of a mess you'd been above her.

Your lipgloss had smeared down to your chin and the sight made her eyes widen. Then her mouth worked at your cunt harder, feasting on you like a woman absolutely and utterly starved. Something feral left her throat but you're not sure if it was a groan or a growl.

It was some type of husked sound that made you try to push at her head. Of which she shakes immediately, "Don't fuckin' push at me," Shoko demands, eyes glaring as they find yours, "Let me-, ah.. ruin you. C'mon, cutie, you can take it. S'just my tongue," She hums before dragging that very muscle around your entrance.

Your hands moved elsewhere and you instead tried to pull your body away from her, only to be cut off by her arms moving to wrap around your legs and yank you back towards her mouth.

She pops off of you and then spits meanly, following it up with a harsh smack to your cunt. "Try taking my pussy away from me again 'n see what happens," Shoko warns, "Don't move, take it—I only just started."

Gulp.

☆ Choso Kamo — putting on/taking off shoes.

No, he doesn’t have a foot fetish.

You had started to think your best friend was a little weird when he’d stare at your legs whilst you slipped out of or into your shoes. But, with the way he’s currently panting like some mutt against your thigh, you realize his odd staring had nothing to do with your feet specifically.

Instead, his unwavering gazes had everything to do with the jealousy he felt in his heart upon seeing you apply so much pressure onto your footwear instead of him. Weird, right?

Yeah, he’s aware. But fuck, sue him for wanting his best friend—who orders him around 24/7—to step on him a time or two!

Which you're finally doing now after catching the erection he managed to get just from helping you put your heels on.

In his defense, it was a gorgeous red pair of heels he couldn't wait to see you walking around in.

Also the same pair of heels he accidentally came on a week ago when he was jerking off in your closet...

But that part was besides the point, all that mattered in this present moment was how good your heel felt mashing into the thiiiick outline of his poor cock—finally applying all the pressure he’d been fantasizing about.

“Nnngh-,” Choso moans, head slumped against your thigh with wet pants splaying out over your skin. “More, p-please, more… mistress—“

“Excuse me?” You choke and your foot stutters in its stepping as that title hits your ears.

You figured he’d be pathetic once he got a taste of you like this but you were not expecting him to say that in the slightest. And the way he angles his head up to look at you with those charming brown eyes of his—all glimmered over with tears while his hips jerk to create more friction between your heel and his dick.

“You’re such a loser, Cho. How many times did you think about this, hm?” You ask in an unfairly demeaning tone that makes his heart skin multiple beats within his chest.

“So many fuckin’ times,” He gasps out as if his breath had run away from his lungs entirely. The warm skin of his cheek is felt rubbing against your leg and he looks rather deranged in the state he's in, “Fuuuck—do y’know how long I’ve been wanting you to step on me?” He asks in return.

You head tips in faux thought and you bring your free hand up to your chin, the other occupied with patting his head softly, “Mmm, I think I’ve got a pretty good guess.” Then you move your touch to his broad shoulders and force the upper half of his body away from your limbs—exposing all of his pathetic frame to you. “In fact, I want you to pull your cock out and show me how badly you’ve been wanting this.”

Choso’s never moved faster to do anything in his life.

His hands are a bit jittery as they slip beneath the thick band of his sweats, then his boxers, and soon his dick is quickly flying out into the air. The upper inches of it appear to be a flushing shade of red, and he looks like he'd cum if you blew at him.

You spot a thick pool of precum spilling out from his mushroomy head and find yourself biting at your lip, then you let the tip of your heel brush against his shaft and Choso whimpers.

“Y-Yes,” He mumbles, “More, fuck.. please-, step on me moreee.” His body moves about against the floor so that he could meet the motions of your heel with a few ruts of his own.

You roll your eyes at how desperate he is but let your foot do exactly as he’s asked and grind it against his cock, guiding his erection down in a way that looks like it should hurt.

And yet, Choso’s throwing his head back and moaning into the air. “Ohmygodddd,” He releases a hoarse grunt from the pressure you're gifting him, “That’s so fuckin’ hot. C-Can you tell me how.. hahh-, pathetic I am too?”

You blink. “What?”

“Please?" Choso's eyes get droopy and he pants leisurely while giving you the cutest puppy eyes he could manage, "Look at me—look at how m’leaking all over your shoes… isn’t that nasty?”

Clearly he was taunting you into giving him exactly what he wanted. And unfortunately for you, it was working.

“Yeah, really nasty…” You say in a soft spoken tone. The edge of your heel lifts up to his tip and you tap at it in short intervals, watching the way he squirms and sporting a smirk on your lips as you say, “Think you can be a good boy ‘n lick them clean for me after I let you cum?”

Choso nods aggressively enough to bring himself to a throbbing headache, but he doesn’t care.

Which makes you snort, “Wow, Choso. I mean pathetic is one thing but, you’re more like a slut for me, aren’t you? Rubbing yourself all over my shoes like that… what a needy boy.”

Only a few words out of your mouth and all his fantasies had been fulfilled tenfold. He couldn't stop his eyes from rolling back, lips wobbly from how many sounds were escaping them, “M’gonna cum."

Your foot presses down harder and adjusts his cock over to the left, forcing it to pulse against the skin of his waist. Challenging him as you snort, “Are you?”

“Please-, ohfuck.. pleeease let me cum,” Choso's a quick learner, he didn't need any more questions out of that mouth of yours to realize you wanted him to ask for it. “I’ll be good, I’ll lick it up when m’done, I’ll lick you up when I’m done—whatever you want, please.. let me cumm.”

You pretended not to hear the claim in between his pleas about how he'd lick you up, ignoring the throb it invokes from deep in between your legs. It was almost annoying how he was the one receiving pleasure here and yet you could feel your panties clinging to your folds from wet arousal already.

Then, with gracious eyes do you nod your head and hum, “Mmmh, fine. Go ahead.”

A throaty groan is ripped out of his throat as he does so. Choso’s body jolts, cum shooting out of his tip in creamy waves

“Fuuuhh-, fuck..” His breath sounds exasperated.

You’re left to watch his release come flying out, landing up along your shin and even a little higher than that. As it lands, you feel the way it sluggishly glides down and Choso’s busy trying to collect himself from where he is.

Once his panting comes to a stop and he manages to blink away those tears he’d been holding back—his eyes run down along your body and just when you try to pull your leg away from him, he reaches out for it.

His grip on you is sudden and rather rough, but you let it slide for the time being. Your composure falters for a moment in shock, and he decides to take things another step forward.

At first, he does as you said and starts to lick up his cum—cleaning it off your shoe and the lower end of your leg. Then he starts to take some of his seed up onto his thumb and lick it up that way, scarcely meeting eyes with you every now ‘n then.

You didn’t realize he’d schemed something up until it was too late.

Choso went to wipe up the second to last drop of his cum and paused before taking it into his mouth. 

Noticing his hesitation, “Hey, that’s not all of—“

The man cuts you off via grabbing at the bottom of your dress, and pulling you to bend down towards him. You stumble from your footing and then choke on your own breath.

Within your gasp and while your mouth is open, Choso swipes his cum out across your lips and then pushes himself up on his knees to lick it off—tongue sneaking into your mouth right after.

“Mmph!” You moan against him, kissing him back but definitely cursing him out within your head.

When he pulls away, he’s got a smile on his face even as he whispers, “Sorry.”

To which you glare at him, “You’re not.”

His voice grows low and sheepish as his gaze darts off from yours, “I was jus’ following your instructions. You said to lick it all up.”

“Yeah, but—“

“And I think,” He leans away from your face and dips down towards your legs, “Some of it got in between your thighs…”

It absolutely did not, but with the way he was looking at you…

Your head turns away and you stand up straight before crossing your arms. “W-Well then… clean me up properly.”

Choso’s cock twitches faintly and he’s bubbling with his own excitement as he starts to move your legs apart, “With pleasure.”

☆ Toji Fushiguro — working out.

There’s nothing Toji loves more than seeing you sweat. You thought it was his normal way of being overly affectionate in the beginning of your relationship with him, but over time you’ve come to learn that your boyfriend actually has a thing for you exercising.

And it doesn’t matter how you do so either. You could go on a short walk around the neighborhood, do some yoga around the house, stretch as soon as you wake up from a nap—and that big perv is rubbing a hand over the fat cock stiffening in between his legs.

Ever the weirdo.

If only you’d known about his obsession with seeing you exercise prior to going to the gym with him.

You were doing some cardio, running on the treadmill and oblivious to his verdant eyes trained solely on you from across the way. You already warned him beforehand that if he couldn’t control himself during one trip to the gym then it wouldn’t be happening again.

Toji tried to keep his eyes away from you, but he saw one too many other people walking your way and throwing their gazes at you for him to ignore.

And by the time his attention landed on you, he was a goner. You were running rather fast and all he could focus on was the way your body looked in motion. There was nothing inherently sexual about watching you sprint, but you couldn’t tell that to Toji.

Only thing running through his mind was the multiple ways in which he could work you out afterwards. 

He was only halfway through his workout before he saw you heading off towards the locker rooms. And what kind of man would he be if he didn’t follow after his wife?

Okay, technically he had no real reason to do so but he’s not about to explain that to you now—even though you’re cocking a brow at him and questioning him about it.

“Toji, I told you to behave,” You sigh as you turn around and bend over, reaching for the clean shirt that’d fallen down within your locker.

Rookie mistake.

Now he’s creeping behind you and putting his hands on your waist, coming over to your ear and whispering, “I’m so behaved, baby. Haven’t even done anything yet.”

Your head shakes as you stand up straight, “Yet?”

Your questioning is immediately answered when you shift backwards and feel the heavy bulge poking in between your ass cheeks. All you could do at this point was shut your eyes and exhale again.

Glancing back over your shoulder, “How long have you had that?”

“Since I saw you stretching,” He admits.

You wanted to laugh at the man since that happened almost an hour ago. Instead, you simply turn your head away and let your shoulders drop, “Perv.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Your husband grumps, “Tell me more about it while I fuck ya’.”

A cool brush of air meets your suddenly exposed thighs as your workout pants are tugged right off your body in one go.

“Toji!” You whisper-shout, feeling him apologetically nuzzle his face into your neck.

Then you feel that tender tip of his swatting its way in between your folds as wets himself with your arousal. “Shhhh, no one’s coming in here,” Toji insists.

Considering how you were equally as turned on as he was—with the way you’d been eyeing his beefy body work out all evening long—there wasn’t much of an argument on your end.

Though, you can’t say you expected him to be so animalistic with the eay he fucks you up against that locker. The poor thing is shaking and making all sorts of creaky, rickety noises while he pounds the meaty girth of his cock deep into your cunt.

You had to pull your shirt up and bite down on the fabric just to stop yourself from crying out too loudly.

Toji on the other hand didn’t seem to care one bit about the noises, nearly lifting your body further up against the lockers as he gruffed into your skin. “Love this fuckin’ pussy,” He praises, heavy balls hammering against your puffy folds as he stuffed himself in to the hilt of your cunt with each thrust.

“Hnngh-, hahhh—yeahh?” Your shirt falls out from in between your teeth, “H-How much?”

Your questioning taunt has his cock growing impossibly harder, and he sandwiches your frame against the cold metal ahead.

Each movement from his hips is accompanied by a sharp thwack of his chubby tip, streeetching you out from the inside and aching to pull something soaked from out of you.

“You know how much I love my pussy—nasty lil’ thing.” Toji huffs before wrapping one massive arm around your waist and towing your body back onto his to meet with him, “Always squeezin’ this dick like she wants every drop of cum I’ve got for her.” His thumb locates your clit and taps at it, “Ain’t that right, doll? You want me to cum inside ya’. Right here in this locker room, ‘n force ya’ to walk out with it drippin’ alllll down these pretty thighs?”

Your maw dangles open all dumbly and he grunts loudly at the way your walls convulse around him in a rather nasty fashion—as if to answer him or something.

Toji’s free hand moves out to slam into the locker as he holds onto it and you swear you see him dent it a little. Still holding you in one arm, you’re reminded of just how strong your husband really is.

He practically lifts you up a few inches off the ground and pins you to the locker, “Think you can still run on that treadmill after bein’ thoroughly bred?” He asks only to earn a gaping sound out of the pit of your stomach, “C’mon, talk to me, dollface. Wanna hear it out this slutty mouth of yours.”

Dropping you, your legs are left trembling once your feet hit the floor and you don’t even get to breathe properly before Toji’s moving his arm from around your waist and up to grab at your jaw.

Angling your face back to his, he’s just babbling on about all the things he plans on doing to you—leaving you little to no room to answer him with any words.

“I might hafta’ cum inside you before every workout—make sure you’re reminded of who this pussy belongs to each time you come here,” Toji’s tongue folds out to lick the sweat off the side of your neck. He saw some people in particular looking at you for a few seconds too long so you can’t really blame him for his suggestions, “Would ya’ like that?”

You told yourself right there at that moment that you’re probably not going to attend this gym with him again.

Especially since your trainer—a tall blonde named Nanami—comes walking in due to a noise complaint he’d received from one of the other gym-goers outside.

Shit.

☆ Geto Suguru — yapping.

Now, between the two of you, you’ve always been the talker. He made a habit of throwing out a topic he knows you like, just to get you to talk more and then fall silent as he listens.

You adored his attentiveness for a long time until you realized he’d only been that way for an ulterior reason. That reason being that hearing you ramble on about literally anything gets his dick unbelievably wet.

Mainly because he loves to mess up the flow of your speeches by touching you—as he currently finds himself grinding the long, curvy shaft of his cock up ‘n in between your pussy lips. It started out as dry humping while you told him about your hectic day.

But now…

“Keep talkin’, gorgeous. I swear I’m listening,” Geto claimed despite doing everything but. His eyes weren’t even at your face anymore—trained entirely on the way your lips got speared apart by the head of his cock each time he rolled his hips forward.

Your cunt was leaking all over him far too much for you to remain focused on whatever story you'd been most recently yapping about. Instead moaning, “Thought about you all-, hnngh—all day, Sugu.”

“Yeahh? I know you did, pretty girl.” Geto puffs out gently, as if his length wasn't being the exact opposite with each heave and drudge against your exposure. “Did you think about this too? About my dick slippin’ against you like this? Teasin’ you?” His voice gets breathy as he says that, falling victim to the same thing as you with the way he gets caught up in the not-so-dry humping.

“Uhuhh,” Your hips stag upwards and roll, forcing his cock to angle down and press a nasty smooch against your hole.

Geto's hand moves to sprawl out against your abdomen and he forces you to be flat against the cushions. Scoffing whilst taking his shaft into his other hand and angling it around your slavering hole instead of in, “Keep talkin’ then. Finish that story of yours. What happened with Satoru after he spilled that drink on you?” He asks.

He needed to get back on track here. After all, you only allowed him to grind against you if he promised to listen to your story properly.

“Suguruuu,” You started to whine though, as if it wasn't you who agreed to this in the first place. He then watches as you grab at his wrist and wiggle your body around below him, cutely trying to work that plump head of his past your desperate ring of resistance, “I-I can’t think about him right now,” You push his hand away next and reach further down to grab at his cock, “Jus’ put it innn. Pleaseee?”

Geto manages to smile but his breath hitches in your throat. While he loves hearing you all needy for him, he also wants to be good and abide by your prior request, “Hm… I could," He says playfully, nibbling on his lip once you begin to stroke the inches of his dick he refuses to put in you, “But I think I wanna hear you l-like—hah, shit... like this for a little longer.”

Purposefully, your mean boyfriend begins to fuck himself into the small hole your hand has created for him and you continue to feel him slide all his weight over your clit each time he thrusts forward. It was driving you inside since you could feel his many veins twitching to be shoved inside you instead.

“Fuck me,” You gasp, hoping your please would convince him to do so quickly, “Please Sugu, I need you inside me.”

His dick practically jumps against your hand and you watch how his chest rises and falls with the deep breaths he has to take to hold himself back. “Need me inside you?" He snickers, "Oh, so you want my fingers then?”

The prettiest pout appears on your lips and it makes his cock begin to drool excessively onto your skin. “N-No, I need your dick inside me. C’mon Sugu, don’t you wanna fuck me?” You say before holding your legs up ‘n open for him, “Can't you see how wet I am for you?”

Geto tries—he really does—not to look down, but when you're spreading your legs like that... he just can't help himself. His eyes descend your body and a pornographic expression is painted into his pretty features.

“Shiiit…” He mutters, moving his hips back and jerking himself off in a few, quickened strokes, before he places his swollen tip up against your cunt, “You always know how to convince me, huh?”

Not a second more is wasted before he's sliding into you with vigor, eyes locking onto the moans you let out, and head tilting over.

“Missed this dick inside you that badly? That moan was louder than normal," Geto teases, feeling your pussy let out a squeaky squelch around his thickness.

You meet his eyes with something sinful coating your own, “I missed you fucking me."

“Oh yeah?” His arms move out so that he could properly cage you beneath him, hips casually bucking into you to spread the translucent glosses of his precum all across your hugging walls, “How much, baby? Talk to me—talk to Sugu.” He mocks.

You're a mess under him already and he feels as though he's barely even done anything yet. Plus, he still hasn't let you finish that story of yours and it's gonna make him feel bad any second now. You seemed so excited to tell him what happened while you were out today and now...

“Nnngh-, aanh,” Moans were slopping out of your mouth and your body was easily being fucking up against the bed, the frame distantly thumping against the wall hard enough to leave multiple marks that you're sure to scold him about later. “S-Soo much, Sugu," You reply, "Thought about havin' you inside me all fuckin’ day.”

Geto truly couldn't get enough of your voice. He loved hearing you talk more than anything, so every time you moan for him it just drives him insane. His balls come slapping against your skin with each heavy rock of his slim hips, cock getting swallowed up so nastily by that gorgeous pussy of yours.

Hell, he can't help himself from pushing into you a little deeper, “Ohhh don’t tell me that. My poor girlll, did you rub one out before I got home?”

You nod helplessly and your hands are reaching up to hold onto his arms, leaving light scratches across his skin due to how rough he was getting with you. “Wanted to feel you," Your whines ring out and enter his ears the same way a loving kiss from you would.

“Awhh, did you?” He mocks you again and ends up tossing his hair back—long, dark locks flying with the motion all elegantly as he grunts. “Shit, you’re so cute when you’re like this. Couldn’t even finish that little story of yours.”

Your legs feel like jello underneath the large man once his pounding begins to slant—the crooked curve of his cock knocking around that spongey spot inside you, and earning gossamers of your arousal to squirt out in return.

Then he's got the nerve to grin, “Guess you’ll have to tell me about it later.”

As if that won’t lead to the same thing happening all over again…

☆ Yuki Tsumuko — eye rolls.

Now, your girlfriend has many joys in this world but one of her favorite things to do with you is be nice 'n close to your face while she's knuckle deep in your cunt.

Why? Because she loooves watching the way your eyes flock to the very back of your head each time she curls her precise digits into that spot she knows you so desperately crave for her to reach. Giggling, "Hear how loud my girl is?" She'd tease in a slightly hoarse mutter.

You'd let out a moan in response if it weren't for her lips latching onto your again to drown the sound out completely. Her tongue twirls and dances over yours the same way it typically does to your pussy and you try your best to keep up with her but it's no use.

Perhaps you should've known better than to catch an attitude with her. You only rolled your eyes once because of how much she'd been lecturing you about something and now she was punishing you for it.

You can't really say you were complaining, though.

She pulls away from your mouth simply to watch the way your face twists up into pure bliss. Her fingers are dragging out something far too sweet 'n delicious out of your weeped hole, and she's eyeing down the way whines of her name leave your pretty, spit-slicked lips.

"Y-Yuki, please," You gasp and attempt to lift your hips for a moment to breathe only to be tugged right back down by the grip she's got on you with her free hand.

Then she pouts as if to mock you, "Aw, you close, pretty?" She hums in that faux sweet tone that causes your stomach to churn with butterflies, thighs a trembly mess over hers. "Gonna cum for me? Make a nasty lil' mess on me like you always do? Hm?"

As she continues to taunt you, her fingertips are busy rubbing right against that angled spot inside you that has your eyes crossing with stars in them. You're trying to nod your dumb head, and wanting nothing more than to duck down and hide your expression from her greedy eyes.

You make a laughable attempt at doing so, trying to move your face into the crook of her neck only to be stopped by the searing grip of her hand coming up to your throat. Her thumb pushes at your chin to lift it up and she smiles when you're forced to look at her again.

"Tryin' to hide your face from me now? Seriously?" She gasps in an exaggerated manner. "Now, you know that's my favorite part of you." Her fingers pick up in pace all of a sudden and you could feel the pads of each one ramming into you as if to punish you. "Just look atcha', all teary eyed 'n pouty like you weren't asking for this."

Your eyes are quick to dart elsewhere but you feel your orgasm rapidly approaching, "S-Shut upp," You huff, "I hate it when you stare at me like that."

The knowing smile on her face only widens out before she tips her head to the side, thumbing at your puckered lil' clit to roll her name into it. "Do what?" Yuki puffs out in that soft tone once more, brownish eyes dilating fro the disorientated sight of you, "Watch you when you're about to cum? Smile at the way your eyes run to the back of your head 'cause it's too much for ya'?

Before you could even answer her, she was leaning forward and your body was easily getting unsteady with its hovering over her lap.

"Would you rather I watch her instead?" She taunts, pushing you over so that your back flops down against the mattress. "Cause' I can do that. It has been a while since I've seen my girl up close, after all. Wonder if she's got just as much of an attitude with me as you do."

With a heavy huff exiting your throat, you watch with wide, glossy eyes as she sits up over you and meets your thighs with her soaked hands. Internally you were dreading what was about to happen as Yuki was never one to be gentle with her tongue as it laid onto your folds.

She parts your legs open for herself, "Think she missed me just as much as I missed her?"

You're too busy trying to cover your face out of some sort of shyness, refusing to answer or look at your eager girlfriend. To which Yuki playfully rolls her eyes and repositions herself down in between your legs. Her eyes stay up on you and your heavily breathing chest for a moment before she pushes forward and presses a chaste kiss against the soaked slit of your pussy.

"Babyyyy," She purrs in that evil voice of hers, "Look at me, will you?"

Even though you know damn well she only wanted to tease you, you ended up listening to her anyway as you removed your hands from your face and lazily drag your eyes down to her.

God, the sight was nothing short of sexy.

Her blonde hair had been strung back into a messy ponytail, brown eyes set dead on you, and pretty pinked lips slipping upwards into that smile you know and love so much.

"Theree she is," Yuki coos, tipping her head to the side again as she flaunts a mocking pout at you, "Was that so hard?"

Your brows tangle upwards and just as you go to answer her, she slots her two fingers right back into you slooowly with a loud squelch emitting into the room. "No," You whisper, "But d-do you have to stare?"

She scoffs, "Of course I do! How else would I watch your eyes roll back while I fuck you?"

Surely she was going to be the death of you.

perm multi tags (1/2):

@cupidstrace @navyllll @grignardsreagent @kingofpiratesiguess @etsuniiru @not-a-glad-gladiator @2kool4skoolll @daxphoriax @gorouenjoyer @blubearxy

@wonderfullymickey @iaintblockinnobody @kitassecretgf @iam-souless @nanamitiddiechomper @ohreallyfriend @withersworld @lilacsforveins @suguphile @megottheswaskikacooooke

@kvsqkiii @yourlocalcatscammer @lucy-lulu @sukubusss @sweetieelilii @lisabelhyhn @serenadesvt @riameriash @arminseas2 @palanggaaa

@cherslop @makingtimemine @theodoresvalentine @blcknebula @babblybebe @iluvatsumuuuui @remscreams @cursedkisss @jaibunni

@a-jazzy-bee @miksde @zombiiesandmaltesers @sktvienna @dawnsoblivion @chloeee20 @naoybby @lateforlatte @lanamyersismywife @anosreep

[sugurusbeloved]

toji "weirdo" zenin | mdni

“what the hell are you doing?”

“softenin' it,” your husband replied, his voice completely deadpan. he didn’t look up, his face carved into an expression of such absolute, scholarly focus you might have thought he was doing open-heart surgery rather than kneading your ass.

you’d been trying to get some rare peace and quiet, lying face down on the bed half-asleep, when the attack started. toji had the massive, beefy build of a pro athlete, a guy made wholly of dense muscle who had absolutely zero concept of "personal space"

yet, for the last ten minutes, those huge, scarred hands—hands that literally killed people for a living??—had been thoroughly squashing and massaging your ass with the obsessive devotion of a baker molding a piece of sourdough.

“softening it?” you repeated, the mere insanity of it wiping away the last of your drowsiness. “toji, it’s an ass, not a cheap steak. you’ve been doing this for ten minutes. let go.”

he was lying on his stomach right next to your thighs, his nose hovering close over your asscheeks. feeling suddenly frustrated, you planted your forearms on the sheets, trying to crawl away from... whatever he was doing.

and you couldn't even make it an inch.

a heavy, coarse palm slapped down on the small of your back, securing you to the mattress like a literal ton of bricks. when you twisted your neck to glare at him, his stunning profile was pulled into a focused, childish pout. his emerald eyes stayed glued to his work while his other hand went right back to its aggressive squeezing, paying no attention to your feeble protests.

“keep still,” he grumbled, voice getting petulant like a boy refused candy “you’re messin' up the texture.”

“the texture?” a sudden rush of heat hit your cheeks—the result of your annoyance and being vividly aware of how his face was glued to your backside. “i am trying to sleep, you psycho. your hands feel like sandpaper.”

“then don't move and it won't scratch,” he reasoned in a plain tone as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

and yet, there was something weirdly mesmerizing about how engaged he was. he looked almost peaceful sitting there, if you ignored the thick fingers poking at your crack.

finally comprehending it was useless to fight a fatty bitch with two hundred pounds on his body, you collapsed face-first into the pillow, letting out a defeated groan.

“...if i see any bruises, you're gonna pay for it.”

that lazy, almost boyish grin finally shattered his straight face. toji didn't bother lifting his chest or moving back. he just rested his heavy jaw in his free hand, watching your clothed butt devotedly.

“can’t charge a guy who's broke,” he reminded, his deft fingers continuing their task. “now shut it. 'm not done tenderizing.”

stinky ass mf

[arminslutss]

Reiner Braun loves hitting it from the back so he can see your curls bounce

Fingernails digging into your hips, Reiner slammed back into you from behind, watching your ass bounce against his hips– and, more importantly, your curls bounce against your upper back.

Reiner absolutely adored your curls. Whenever you would cuddle, he would twist your curls around his fingers, watching them spring back to normal once he let go.

Despite your protests and complaints about how he would cause frizz, Reiner didn’t stop. Your hair mesmerized him.

But above all, his favorite thing is getting to watch your curls bounce and splay around your shoulders whenever he fucks you from behind. In fact, it’s grown to be his favorite position purely because of your hair.

“Reinerrr…” you groaned, arms sore and tired from holding your lower half up in the air for him for so long.

He kept his brutal pace, fat tip hitting deep inside you with every thrust. Reiner had to hold himself back from reaching out to play with your curls mid-act. Watching them just wasn’t enough.

“So beautiful,” he whispered, breathing growing ragged and thrust becoming slower, “so fucking beautiful.”

Reiner slid one hand down to your pussy, rubbing your clit in gentle circles to make up for his slowed pace. He would drag his cock back out slow, and then slam back into without warning just to watch your hair bounce.

“O-oh god, Rei- nghhh I’m gonna cum!” Whimpers becoming pathetically loud, the coil in your tummy snapped, sending your orgasm crashing over you.

Reiner hissed, pulling out, giving his dick a few strokes before shooting a hot load of cum onto your lower back.

“I hope that didn’t get in my hair,” you mumbled, relaxing from your bent position, asleep arms finally coming back to life.

“I would never. Don’t you trust me not to mess with those perfect curls?” Reiner wiped your back off with a tissue off the nightstand, tossing it. He pulled you to his side, strong arms holding you close.

“I guess,” you murmured, voice muffled from your face in his chest. Reiner chuckled, already starting to play with your curls again, not stopping until you both fell asleep.

Finally wrote something specifically applicable to myself… I definitely enjoyed it.

[fireflyschiikawa]

husband!sukuna : beach episode

the sun pours over your body as you walk along empty handed with sukuna holding all the bags and beach equipment. baby!yuji patters along on the mildly hot sand, running on levels of adrenaline only a six year old could muster.

the beach is filled with families similar to yours, children playing in the water, people tanning in the deliciously hot sun and rounds of volleyball being tossed around by large friend groups.

sukuna places down your lounging chairs with an attached shaded umbrella, and plops down with all the bags containing various miscellaneous things.

yuji sticks his tongue out slightly, eyes lighting up with mischief and tries to make a beeline for the water before you grab him by the collar.

“no one gets out there without sunscreen” you wave a finger at him, instructing him to settle down.

yuji pouts impatiently swinging his legs while you get out the bottle of kids sunscreen and rub it on every bit of his exposed skin.

your son wrinkles his nose when you reach for his face applying the lotion in soft rhythmic motions. you proceed to pinch his cheeks and give him a little kiss there while yuji giggles.

sukuna watches you fuss over the brat with mild amusement. his eyes squint under the sun, and drop to admire what you’ve got on.

a frilly little thing exposing your beautiful curves.

sukuna scans the area noting any men looking towards your general direction and stares them down with a cutting glare only he could manage. a look that screamed ‘look away before i come dislocate that head myself’ for good measure.

while yuji runs off to play in the sand, you turn to him with the sunscreen bottle in hand and a knowing smile.

“your turn”

sukuna scoffs from where he’s sprawled back in the beach chair, one arm lazily hanging off the side.

“i don’t burn”

“yes you do”

“i literally don’t”

“your nose got pink last time”

his eyes narrow immediately, “it did not.”

“you then complained that it itched and brooded about it the whole time”

“i don’t brood”

you hum ignoring his offense entirely and pat your thighs.

“c’mere”

he stares at you for a long second before clicking his tongue and leaning forward anyway because despite all his dramatics, sukuna has never once denied you when you used that tone on him.

you snort as sukuna settles in front of you. his massive frame blocks the sun completely and he smells like saltwater and heat already despite barely having stepped into the ocean.

you squeeze sunscreen into your palms and rub it across his shoulders.

his muscles flex beneath your hands while you smooth lotion over the dark markings curling along his skin, careful and thorough despite the way he eyes you.

you drag your fingers over his neck and jaw, rubbing sunscreen into the bridge of his nose while he looks deeply inconvenienced by affection.

“look down”

“this is humiliating.”

“look down, so i can get the back of your neck.”

he grumbles under his breath but tilts his chin downward anyway. his previously bored, half lidded eyes, dilate at the sight of your cleavage, right. in. his. face.

how blissful.

yuji bursts into giggles. you had spiked up sukuna’s hair to stand up in a funky way.

“you look funny papa”

sukuna grimaces.

“want me to throw you into the ocean?”

“yeah!”

“…”

you laugh so hard you nearly smear sunscreen into sukuna’s eye.

you take turns, with sukuna now applying sunscreen onto your back.

eventually yuji tears off toward the shoreline with a plastic bucket in hand, sandals abandoned somewhere behind him.

you lean back into your chair with a satisfied sigh while sukuna sits beside you, one arm draped lazily behind your head.

for a while the two of you simply watch.

yuji jumps over tiny waves, yelling triumphantly every single time he successfully crosses one.

he crouches to collect shells with complete seriousness only to abandon them three seconds later because another wave has appeared.

his little laugh carries over the water. your chest feels warm.

“he looks like you when he gets excited,” you murmur, nuzzling against the base of sukuna’s neck.

“poor kid”

you elbow him lightly, “it is cute sukuna, you are cute”

before sukuna can mull over your words, yuji suddenly turns around spotting the two of you immediately.

“papa!! come here!!”

sukuna pretends not to hear,

“papa!!”

you mouth a slight ‘go’ as your husband sighs dramatically before obliging as per usual.

the water reaches just beneath his knees when yuji grabs his hand excitedly and starts dragging him around with all the strength a six year old could possess.

you pad in after them enjoying the waves and the feel of soft sand beneath your bare feet.

you smile to yourself. it is almost absurd seeing sukuna getting ordered around by a child carrying a neon orange shovel.

yuji points toward a lopsided sandcastle near the shore, “help me make it BIGGER” he sticks his arms out to act out how big he wanted it to be.

sitting back down on your chair you try not to look too amused as sukuna crouches down into the sand.

his large hands awkwardly shape wet sand while yuji gives deeply unnecessary instructions beside him.

“more tower”

sukuna looks over at you, pleading for an escape. you wave him off.

“it’s a sandcastle not a fortress” he mutters back.

“more tower” yuji runs about, sometimes gathering sand and sometimes water. most of the time being largely unhelpful.

sukuna clicks his tongue and adds another tower.

hours later the sky begins softening into gold.

yuji’s exhausted enough now to become clingy, dragging his feet through the sand while holding onto sukuna’s hand.

“i need to wash my feet” you brush sand off your legs with a tired groan.

before you can even move, sukuna bends down and scoops you into his arms effortlessly.

you yelp, “kuna—”

he pats you lower thigh,“stop squirming”

people nearby glance over briefly before immediately looking away once sukuna glares in their direction.

you hide your snicker against his shoulder while he carries you toward the rinse station near the boardwalk.

the water runs cool over your feet as he holds you securely against his chest, an arm around your waist like you weigh nothing at all.

yuji stands beside him sleepily rubbing his eyes.

once your feet are clean, sukuna sets you carefully onto the bench.

then without a word, he crouches down.

you blink.

“..what’re you doing?”

he grabs your sandals from beside the bench.

“your feet’ll get dirty again.”

years of loving him and your heart still stutters stupidly.

sukuna slides the sandals onto your feet one by one with mild annoyance etched across his face, but you know better. his love language when it came to you, was acts of service.

meanwhile yuji watches with narrowed eyes, “papa..?”

“what.”

“that’s sooo romantic” he smiles ear to ear.

sukuna immediately flicks water at his forehead.

yuji screeches dramatically while you laugh loud enough that people turn to look again.

“where did he even learn that?” sukuna asks, a mild smile overtaking his usual harsh features.

you shrug, in a dream-like trance, the domesticity of this moment making your heart soar.

and for once, sukuna doesn’t care at all.

firefly; you guys wanted longer fics so hehe i hope this was good

more like this

[miyacchino]

♡ — all bark, no bite | enjin

sum. you wanted to be on top but you just can't take him. so he takes matters into his own hands (not before mocking you, ofc)

mdni!

You straddle Enjin's hips, your knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his thighs.

His thick cock presses against your entrance, and you take a deep breath, trying to lower yourself onto him. The broad head stretches you out as you sink down just an inch, and your thighs tremble with the effort.

Enjin watches you through half lid eyes, a smirk playing on his lips. His tattooed forearm rests behind his head. "What's wrong, baby?" he asks, his voice dripping with mocking amusement. "I thought you wanted to be on top. Can't even do it properly?" he tuts, "all bark no bite, huh?"

Your face flushes with heat as you try again, grinding your hips in a desperate attempt to take more of him.

Just when you think you're making progress, his free hand shoots out to grab your breast. His fingers squeeze roughly, thumb brushing over your nipple until it pebbles into a tight bead. You gasp at the sensation, your hips stuttering.

"Look at you," he coos, reaching for the cigarette pack on the nightstand with his other hand. He lights one with ease, taking a long drag while still kneading your breast. "All that confidence earlier, and now you can't even sit on my dick properly."

His fingers find your nipple again, pinching and tugging it hard enough to make you cry out. The sharp pain mixes with the dull ache of being stretched too wide. You rock your hips uselessly, managing to take another half inch.

"Please," you whimper, tears stinging your eyes. "Enjin, please.."

For a man who is so close to coming apart just from the sight of his girl riding trying to ride him, he sure is acting too cocky.

He takes another drag from his cigarette, studying your frustrated expression. "Please what? Please help you? But you wanted to be in charge." Despite his words, he stubs out the cigarette in the ashtray.

Before you can process what's happening, his hands grip your waist and he easily lifts you off his cock. The sudden emptiness makes you gasp, and then he's flipping you onto your stomach. The world spins as he manhandles you into position, your face pressed into the pillow and your ass raised high.

Enjin cages you with his body, muscular arm resting beside your head as he settles behind you. "This is how you do it" he growls and drives into you in one brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt. You scream into the pillow as he stretches you wide, the burn giving way to a deep, overwhelming pleasure.

"Is this better?" he growls in your ear, his hips already moving in a punishing rhythm. "Is this what you wanted?" Each thrust punches the air from your lungs, his balls slapping against your clit. Your fingers claw at the sheets, trying to anchor yourself as he fucks the daylights out of you.

The bed creaks under his assault, the headboard banging against the wall with each powerful thrust. His hands slide down your body, gripping your hips to pull you back into his thrusts. The angle changes, and suddenly he's hitting that perfect spot inside you with every stroke.

"Answer me," he demands, his voice rough. His hand landing a smack over your ass.

You can only moan in response, words beyond your capability as pleasure builds in your core. Your toes curl and you push back against him, needing more. Harder, deeper. The coil in your belly tightens with each thrust, drawing closer to the edge.

Enjin reaches around, his fingers finding your clit. He rubs tight circles against the sensitive bundle of nerves, and that's all it takes. Your orgasm crashes through you, eyes rolled back and mouth slack. Your pussy clenches around his thick cock, milking him as waves of pleasure run through your body.

Enjin groans, his thrusts becoming erratic as he empties himself deep inside you. You feel the hot flood of his cum painting your insides, prolonging your own pleasure. For a moment, you both collapse, his heavy weight pressing you into the mattress as you both struggle to catch your breath.

Before you can fully register the post-orgasmic bliss, Enjin is moving again. He pulls out slowly, making you whimper at the loss, and then he's flipping you over once more. Your body is pliant, boneless from pleasure, and you end up in a mean mating press. His big hand hooks under your knee, keeping you nice and open for him.

Cool air hits your exposed flesh, and you feel his cum and your own release leaking from your abused pussy, dripping onto the already soaked sheets below.

Enjin's hand comes down on your thigh with a sharp smack that makes you yelp. "You can give me one more, can't you?" he asks, a devilish smirk on his lips.

His fingers trace your slick folds, gathering the mixture of your releases before pushing back inside. "This tight little pussy isn't done with me yet."

You shudder at his words, whimpering at he overstimulation setting in, "Enjin-"

You plea gets cut off as he easily slams back into your dripping pussy. turning your pleas into cries of overwhelming pleasure. It sure is gonna be a loonng night.

[tayatimiko]

How i think Luffy would react to thirst tweets

[rllyobsessedgirlie]

Fratjo breaks up with you and instantly regrets it — series

The apology

The fourth letter never gets delivered because Satoru Gojo finally snaps after you had disregarded his attempt to speak to you.

The rain was heavier than when he saw you this afternoon, the kind that soaks through his sweatshirt and drips from his eyelashes.

The dorm lady is halfway through her crossword when he runs past the front desk.

“Hey—”

She was too late. He’s already taking the stairs two at a time.

By the time he reaches your floor, his chest is heaving, his hands are shaking. Not from the cold, but from fear.

Because for the first time since he broke up with you, he realizes something awful.

You might actually never forgive him.

The thought hits harder than any linebacker ever has.

So he pounds on your door.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Loud enough that doors start opening up and down the hallway. Girls peek their heads out, mouths open with shock.

“Is that Gojo?”

“No way.”

The football star doesn’t care.

He bangs again. “Please.”

His voice cracks. “Please open the door.”

Silence.

Then he hears the lock click.

The door opens painfully slow, but there you are. Swearpants… and is that his oversized hoodie? Did you miss him ?

The look on your face said otherwise. He had never seen this look directed at him before. Was it indifference? Was it annoyance?

God it hurt.

For a second neither of you speak.

Then your eyes flick down to where he’s standing. He was drenched, a puddle of water forming at his shoes. His eyes were red, he looked miserable. Pathetic even.

“What are you doing here?” Your voice is flat.

Gojo swallows. “I just need five minutes.”

“No.”

The door starts closing.

His hand catches it, “please.” His voice breaks again.

You freeze.

The hallway has gotten noticeably quieter.

Everyone is watching you. He knows they are and for once he doesn’t care what people think of him.

“I know you don’t want to see me.”

“Then leave,” you said sternly.

“I can’t.” His eyes are already shining. “I tried leaving.”

Your expression falters, just barely.

“I tried giving you space.” A broken laugh escapes him. “Apparently I can’t do that either.”

The girls down the hall are openly staring now, some are getting closer to hear the conversation. Others are pulling out their phones too, recording.

You notice, your jaw tightens and that annoyed look returns.

Gojo notices too.

And maybe that’s the thing that finally breaks him, he thinks you’re going to shut the door on him again.

So he does the unimaginable, and drops straight to his knees.

The hallway erupts. Gasps, whispers, and chuckles.

“Oh my God.”

“That’s embarrassing.”

“Is he crying?”

And he is. Rainwater and tears mixed together. He doesn’t care how humiliated and embarrassing he looks. Nothing matters anymore.

“Gojo—”

“No.”

He grabs your wrist desperately before you can pull away.“Please.”

The word comes out shattered. “Please just hear me out.”

Your eyes widen.

He’s never looked like this. Not the cocky quarterback, the football hero.

Right now he’s just your Satoru.

“Get inside,” you whisper. “You’ve embarrassed yourself enough.” He follows your eyes to the girls in your dorm hall. Judging, laughing, mouths wide open, in awe at his behaviour.

And to that, he scurries into your dorm room, tripping and falling back onto his knees. He stays there, because frankly he doesn’t have it in him to face you head on.

Silence follows, because he really didn’t expect you to give him the time of day. He hadn’t planned this far.

“I messed up.” His voice trembles.

You stare.

Gojo’s head drops; and before he can stop himself, his arms wrap around your legs. Holding on like you’re the only thing keeping him upright.

Which, honestly, might be true. He can feel his face burning; but he doesn’t let go.

You don’t shrug him off, and god does this contact he’s having with you feel comforting. It’s the first time he has touched you in two months. Tears prick his eyes again, as he nuzzles his head into your legs.

“I was wrong.” The words come muffled against sweatpants.

“I was so wrong.”

“Satoru.”

“No.” His grip tightens.

“I thought I was doing the right thing.” Another shaky breath.

“I thought if I focused on football everything would work out.” He laughs bitterly.

“Turns out I was just an idiot.”

Your chest aches despite the hate you felt for him after the break up. This isn’t the Satoru who broke your heart.

This is one who can’t even look at you. The one shaking like he’s terrified you’ll disappear again.

“I miss you.” His voice is barely audible.

“I miss talking to you.” A tear slides down his cheek.

“I miss hearing about your classes.”

“I miss getting you sugary coffee in the morning.”

“I miss annoying you in the library and I miss you trying to help me study.”

You blink.

For the first time in months, a tiny smile almost appears.

Gojo notices, an his eyes immediately fill with hope.

“I love you…I never stopped loving you. I’m so sorry, I’ve been such a dick,” he sniffles.

You close your eyes. This is a problem you thought to yourself. You know he means it. The idiot means every word. Which somehow makes it worse.

When you open your eyes again, he’s still there.

Still kneeling.

Still holding onto you.

Waiting. Like a man standing in front of a judge. Waiting for his sentence.

Finally you sigh. “If you think this” you point to him and the scene he created, “fixes anything, you’re dumber than I thought.”

He looks up at you, big glassy blue eyes, bottom lip quivering from crying.

His shoulders immediately slump. “That’s fair.”

“You hurt me.”

“I know.” His eyes lower.

The room falls silent.

Then—“If I ever forgive you…”

Gojo looks up so fast he almost gets whiplash.

“…there’s a lot of work to do.”

The hope on his face is painful. “You mean that?”

“I mean maybe, if there’s change.”

For Gojo, that feels like winning the lottery. “I’ll do it.” His answer comes instantly. “I’ll do anything.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Anything?”

He nods his head, standing up now.

“No complaints?”

“Nope. Whatever you want me to do.” Gojo stares like you’ve hung the moon.

And for the first time since the breakup, he thinks—

Maybe.

He hasn’t lost you forever.

Dividers by: @strangergraphics

[rllyobsessedgirlie]

Fratjo breaks up with you and instantly regrets it - series

The first time Satoru Gojo realizes he made a mistake is when he can’t find you on campus.

At first he thinks it’s funny.

You’ve always been easy to find. The west library corner seat by the window. The campus café at 10:30 with a vanilla latte and that same notebook you pretend isn’t a diary.

But after the breakup?

You vanish.

Not metaphorically.

Literally.

Your Instagram, phone number, Snapchat — blocked.

He stares at his phone in the Alpha Tau living room while music blasts around him and someone hands him another drink.

Blocked.

“Damn,” one of the guys laughs. “She actually did it.”

Gojo scoffs like it doesn’t matter. “I’ll get her back,” he says cockily.

Like he’s not the one who said it. I need to focus on football.

The lie sounded convincing at the time. The scouts were watching. His coach kept yelling about discipline. Everyone said relationships were a distraction.

So he broke up with you.

Clean and quick.

Two weeks later, he’s drunk at three different frat parties, shamefully sneaking out of sorority house hookups before the sun even rises.

And somehow that’s when he realizes something feels wrong.

———-

The First Attempt

He tries texting.

It doesn’t go through. Still blocked.

He laughs to himself. “Dramatic much.”

But that night he still walks across campus toward the all-girl dorms.

Except the front desk girl just shrugs. “She’s not here.”

Gojo frowns, “What do you mean she’s not here?”

“Means she’s not here.”

He stands outside the dorm building for ten minutes before leaving.

The next day he tries again. Still no sight of you.

Flowers

A week later a bouquet arrives at your dorm. White lilies and baby’s breath.

Attached card: —SG <3

He doesn’t even know if you like lilies. You used to talk about flowers sometimes, but he never listened carefully enough to remember, and now he regrets it.

The desk girl tells him later you picked them up without saying a word.

Still no message back.

The Letters

Then the letters start. The handwritten notes made him feel romantic, he was sure this would get a response out of you.

The first one is simple.

I know you blocked me. I deserve it.

Let me know if you wanna talk

-Satoru <3

No response.

The second one is longer.

I didn’t break up with you because I stopped loving you. I thought I was doing the responsible thing.

Please unblock me xoxo

The third one is messy.

He writes it at 2 AM after a party he left early because some girl laughed too loud in a way that sounded a little too much like you.

I keep looking for you around campus.

You used to sit by the west library window. I checked yesterday. You weren’t there. Are you avoiding me?

- Toru

Your Favorite Snacks

The dorm desk starts receiving packages. Your favorite chocolate. Spicy chips.

Strawberry gummies you always bought from the vending machine during late-night study sessions.

Deliveries of your favourite bubble tea.

The desk girl starts recognizing his name. “Another one from the football guy. I told him you weren’t here again like you asked.”

Meanwhile

Gojo’s reputation doesn’t change. He’s still the star player. Still the loud one at parties. Still the guy everyone thinks has everything.

But lately he keeps checking doorways. Scanning crowds at football games. Looking for someone who isn’t there.

The First Time He Sees You Again

It’s raining. He’s leaving practice when he spots you across the quad under a blue umbrella.

For a second he thinks he imagined it.

But then you look up. And your eyes meet his.

The look on your face isn’t anger. It’s worse.

It’s indifference.

You turn and keep walking. Gojo’s heart drops straight into his stomach. He can’t let you escape after all this time of chasing you.

“Hey—!”

You stop slowly. You look over your shoulder. “…What?” Your voice is calm.

Gojo suddenly forgets every speech he rehearsed. “I—did you get the letters?”

“Yes.”

“…And?…will you please talk to me?”

You stare at him for a long moment “Goodnight, Gojo.”

Then you turn and walk away, leaving him standing alone in the rain, watching you disappear.

Dividers by: @strangergraphics

[grenadehearts]

tiktok trend with boyfriend sukuna wiping the bottle after he takes a sip. . . his reaction!

you sat your phone against your desk, the charm dangling in front of the camera, obscuring the view for a brief blurry second before sukuna scoffed, a large hand reaching out to flick it out of frame. “damn thing’s in the way.”

as you settled beside him, sukuna shifted into the camera’s frame too—naturally taking up more space than the camera could properly capture—large, broad shoulders, spiky, mussed salmon-hued hair pushed back from his tatted hand running through it way too many times, displaying all his sharp, sinister-looking features that stood out under the bright light in your dorm room.

a long roman nose that almost looked sculpted by the gods rather than born, edged brows pulled into a permanent annoyed expression, peach-colored lips soft despite the permanent grumpiness etched into them.

deep pools of onyx-colored ink seeped into his tanned skin, veins bulging faintly through the markings.

you glance over at your annoyed, pouting hulk of a boyfriend who, despite his rough exterior, is all soft for you.

you smile. “thanks, kuna baby.”

he shrugs, dismissively letting out a rasp-filled grunt. “tch.”

you poke his cheek in return, and he only sighs, but you feel the way he slowly melts into it, subtle and hesitant, like a grumpy stray cat pretending it doesn’t secretly enjoy pets.

“get on with it,” he demands.

you give him a pointed look.

his eye twitches before he grumbles, voice rougher this time, “get on with it, baby.”

“see? was that so hard?” you say sweetly, playing coy.

he rolls his eyes, head falling back against the chair, tongue clicking inside his mouth.

“don’t push it,” he says gruffly.

you squeal, ignoring his warning, clapping your hands together as you pull out the original-flavored ramune soda, the glass bottle clinking beneath your manicured nails while the clear liquid sloshes inside.

having tried every flavor but this one, you were excited—but more than anything, you were practically buzzing from the tips of your fingers to your toes at the trick you were about to play on sukuna.

he doesn’t really keep up with social media or trends—thinks they’re stupid. he only has an instagram because you begged him to get one so he could see your posts, and it’s literally just a black profile picture with the username mygirlfriendmadememakethisbullshit, and a bio that reads:

“fuck off im married.”

you’re not, but sukuna declares every single day that you’re his bride-to-be, ridiculously possessive about it too.

you’re his.

he’ll do anything to make sure you know that.

thankfully, his complete lack of knowledge when it comes to social media means you can play all the stupid, silly pranks on him, and he never sees them coming. and his reactions never fail to amaze you.

sometimes, you swear you can practically see steam billowing from his ears like some cartoon character. he’s embarrassingly easy to rile up.

your lips curl into a mischievous smirk for only a second before you replace it with a silky, saccharine-glossed pout.

“here,” you hum, holding the bottle out. “you try first.”

sukuna’s large hand practically swallows the bottle, fingers covering most of the label before he tips it back and takes a long swig.

immediately, he makes a face—teeth clenched, jaw tightening as he sucks in a breath, grimacing, his expression twisting in disgust.

“tastes like garbage,” he says bluntly, holding the bottle out for you to take back. “too sweet.”

you crinkle your nose. “what? gimme. i’ll be the judge of that. your tastebuds suck.”

he stares at you, his expression completely deadpan.

“clearly they don’t if i’m with you.”

heat pools low in your stomach from his compliment. you smile, pink dusting your cheeks, teasing him back.

“duh. i’m the exception.”

you snatch the bottle from him, bringing the edge of your shirt up to wipe the rim—erasing a part of him, or at least that’s what sukuna thinks as it takes him a second to fully process what you’ve just done.

his mouth tilts into something almost amused, a dangerous sort of smirk, but his crimson eyes narrow to slits, irritation flickering through them as the telltale vein in his forehead pulses.

you bring the bottle to your lips, forming a small “o” around the opening.

sukuna’s red-inked eyes narrow further, tracking every minuscule movement, locked onto you completely like a predator watching its prey—well, without the bloodshed.

“ooo, yummy,” you hum. “tastes like bubblegum.”

he swears you’re going to be the death of him—he’s had enough with your little tricks.

“what the fuck was that, huh?” he snaps. “treatin’ me like i’m some fuckin’ scum?”

you laugh nervously, trying to play it off, but he’s already moving.

rough hands manhandle you effortlessly, yanking the bottle from your grasp before he takes another massive swallow.

one large hand grips your jaw, thumb prodding at your soft lips, forcing your mouth open, holding it wide as he spits the fizzy soda back into your mouth.

he settles against his chair again like nothing happened, watching intently as you swallow it all down.

his hand lightly slaps your cheek, palm heated against your flesh, no real sting—only the phantom lingering touch that makes you feel a little too desperate for more.

“don’t do that stupid shit again,” he says, voice low, sending a shiver down your spine, your heart stuttering with a sudden, aching need for him.

꒰ྀི১ ໒꒱ིྀ masterlist - kofi - emergency comm info!

note: first time writing for sukuna.. how did i do?? this was inspired by a tiktok trend btw

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[mimuju]

princess treatment w/ choso ! (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)

choso is a firm believer that pretty girls like you shouldn’t have to do anything.

it’s not something he’s ever said out loud, not in those exact words, but you see it in the way he kneels at your feet when your evening slippers are pinching, in the way his hands steady your ankles as he slides them off. 

you see it in the careful, reverent way he unties the laces of your dress at night, his knuckles brushing your spine, his breath warm against the nape of your neck.

"cho, i can do that myself," you protest for the hundredth time, reaching for the hairbrush on your vanity. you’ve just returned from a work dinner, your face aching from smiling, your scalp tender from the weight of your responsibilities.

"don't be like that," he says softly, taking the brush from your hand. he’s already behind you, his reflection meeting yours in the mirror. he’s wearing a simple black sweater now, his pigtails undone, but he still looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room worth seeing. "let me help you."

"you’re going to spoil me rotten," you murmur, but you’re already sinking back against him, your eyes drifting shut as he starts working the brush through your hair in slow, even strokes. the bristles scrape gently against your scalp and you make a small, involuntary sound of pleasure.

"that’s the point," he says, his voice low. he sets the brush down and reaches for the cloth and cleansing oil. "you're too beautiful to even lift a finger, baby."

he’s wiping the rouge from your cheeks now, the kohl from your eyes. his touch is so gentle, so methodical, like he’s polishing something precious. you let him tilt your chin up, let him clean away the day’s mask. when he’s done, he presses a gentle kiss to your forehead.

"cmon, bed." he commands. not harshly—never harshly—but with the quiet authority of a man who knows exactly what you need.

you stand, your hand in his, and let him lead you to the mattress. he undresses you slowly, layer by layer, the silk pooling at your feet. when you’re down to your thin shift, he pulls back the covers and tucks you in like you’re something fragile.

"sleep," he whispers.

but you catch his wrist. you’re not sleepy. not anymore. the tiredness has shifted into something else, something warm and heavy low in your belly.

"stay," you plead.

he hesitates. "you’re tired."

"i want you," you clarify, your thumb stroking the inside of his wrist. "but i’m... i’m exhausted. but— but i want you— but i don't want to do anything—"

something dark flickers in his eyes. understanding. hunger. devotion.

"then don’t," he says. he climbs onto the bed, fully clothed, and crawls up your body until he’s hovering over you. "don’t do anything. don’t even think. just let me make you feel good."

"choso—" you start, already feeling guilty, already reaching for the hem of his sweater.

he catches your hands and pins them gently above your head. his fingers twine with yours, pressing your palms into the pillow.

"no, sweetheart." he says, his mouth brushing your ear. his voice drops, rough and reverent. "you don’t do the work. you never do the work. you just lay there, princess, and let me take care of you. let me please you. let me—" he grinds his hips down, and you feel how hard he is, straining against the fabric of his trousers, and you gasp. "—let me do everything."

he releases your hands only to finally pull his sweater over his head. you watch the muscles of his back shift in the warm light of your tablelamp, the old scars, the lean strength. when he turns back to you, he’s already unlacing his trousers, pushing them down, kicking them off.

he kneels between your thighs, his dark eyes raking over you. "open up," he murmurs, his hands sliding up your legs, pushing your shift higher. "be good for me, okay?"

you spread your legs, trembling. he’s already so hard, the pink tip flushed and wet, and he wraps his hand around himself, stroking once, twice, his eyes never leaving your face.

"you don’t even have to move," he says, leaning down, caging you in his warmth. "i’ll do all the work. i’ll get you ready. i’ll make you feel so good. all you have to do is look at me. can you do that for me, princess? can you let me love you?"

"yes," you breathe, your voice cracking. "yes, choso, please—"

he kisses you then, deep and filthy, his tongue sliding against yours in a rhythm that makes your toes curl. his hand slips between your legs, his fingers finding you already wet, already aching. he doesn’t make you ask, nor does he make you work for it. he just pushes two fingers inside you, curling them, stretching you open while his thumb circles your clit.

"that’s it," he praises against your lips, feeling you clench around him. "that's my girl. just lay there and take it. let me get you ready for my cock."

you moan, your head falling back against the pillow. he’s relentless, his fingers pumping in and out, hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision blur. you try to rock your hips, try to chase the sensation, but he stills you with his free hand on your hip.

"no, angel." he says, his voice firm. "don’t move. let me. i want to feel you squeezing my fingers while you just lay there and let me fuck you open."

you whimper, your hands gripping the sheets because he won’t let you touch him. he’s leaning over you, watching your face, watching the pleasure overwhelm you, and his expression is something almost feral. like this—serving you, controlling your pleasure, doing all the labor—is exactly where he wants to be.

"look at you," he breathes, his fingers moving faster, harder. "so pretty. so perfect. you're doing so well, baby. letting me make you cum. can you do that for me? can you cum on my fingers like a good girl?"

"choso!" you sob, the pressure building, your body tensing.

"there she is," he croons, his thumb pressing down. "cum for me, make a mess of the sheets."

you break, your orgasm crashing over you, your walls clamping down on his fingers as you cry out. he rides you through it, his hand moving slower now, drawing out every wave until you’re shaking, boneless, your hair fanned out across the pillow.

before you can catch your breath, he’s moving. he hooks his arms under your knees, spreading you wide, his hands sliding up to grip your hips. he positions himself at your entrance, the head of his cock pressing against your still-pulsing heat.

"now," he says, his voice rough with restraint. "i’m going to fuck you, and i’m going to make you cum again. and again. until you can’t think. until you can’t even remember your name."

"please," you gasp, your hands reaching for him again, wanting to touch, to hold.

he catches your wrists and presses them back into the mattress. "no," he says, his eyes dark. "be good, or i'll stop. understand?"

you nod, dizzy, your body still throbbing.

he pushes in with one long, smooth thrust, filling you completely. the stretch burns so perfectly you cry out, your back arching off the bed, but he holds you down, his grip tight on your hips.

"fuck," he groans, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. "so warm. so tight. and you’re just— letting me use you— shit—"

he starts to move, a slow, deep rhythm that has you seeing stars. he’s doing all the work—his hips rolling, his cock dragging against your sensitive walls, his hands holding you exactly where he wants you. you try to move, try to meet his thrusts, but he growls and pins you harder.

"stay still," he orders, his voice strained. "let me do this for you. you had a hard day. you smiled at people who didn't deserve it. now you just get to lay here and take my cock. that’s all. that’s your only job."

"ch-choso!" you sob, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes. it’s too much, the pleasure, the devotion, the way he’s using his body to serve you. "i love you— hic!— i love you so much—"

"i know," he breathes, his thrusts speeding up, becoming harder, more desperate. his skin slaps against yours, the bed creaking, but he never lets you move. he holds you open, holds you down, fucks into you with a single-minded focus that’s entirely about your pleasure. "and i love you more. god, i love you so much more."

his hand slides between you again, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles. you’re so sensitive from your first orgasm, every touch is electric, overwhelming. you can’t move, can’t do anything but lay there and take it, exactly like he wants, and the helplessness of it, the sheer luxury of being cared for so completely, sends you over the edge again.

you cum with a scream, your walls clamping down on him so hard he chokes, his rhythm faltering.

"that’s it," he gasps, fucking you through it, chasing his own release now. "atta girl. just— shit— i-im gonna—"

he thrusts deep one last time and stills, his cock pulsing inside you as he comes with a broken groan against your neck. you feel the heat of it, the way he spills into you, marking you, claiming you, all while you lay there trembling, his hands still gripping your hips, his weight pressing you into the mattress.

for a long moment, neither of you moves. he’s breathing hard, his chest heaving, sweat slicking his skin. slowly, carefully, he pulls out and collapses beside you, immediately pulling you into his arms. he’s still panting, his heart hammering against your ear.

"okay?" he whispers, his hand stroking your hair again, back to the gentle, domestic touches.

you nod, boneless, drifting. "more than okay," you murmur. "felt so good."

"that’s the point," he reminds you, pressing a kiss to your temple. "pretty girls like you shouldn’t have to do anything."

you smile against his chest, your eyes already closing. "then i guess i’m just going to have to let you do it again tomorrow."