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is a very tired twenty smth, w too much time on her hands!
➻❥ SPRING FEVER
➻❥ a 30 day writing event created by @sunee-syrup
DAY 13 ༘⋆✿⁀➷ spit -> suna rintarou (& komori motoya)
cw/tags: ➻❥ alcohol (everyone is drunk), exhibitionism/voyeurism
wc: ➻❥ 1.1k
a/n: ➻❥ is this gross? maybe. do i like it? absolutely. also, i had not planned to include motoya in this but he just showed up?? so he's here too...enjoy!! <3
ִֶָʚଓ་༘࿐ punk's event masterlist ࿐་༘ ʚଓ
ִֶָʚଓ་༘࿐ honee's event masterlist ࿐་༘ ʚଓ
It starts at the bar, surrounded by his teammates after a big win, alcohol in your veins and something liquid hot making its way across your skin.
You're perched on Suna's lap, at the corner of the booth, giggling about something Komori just said. Your boyfriend's hands keep coming dangerously close to the hem of your skirt, moving as if the act is absentminded—you see right through his projected nonchalance.
"Rin," you mutter, your intention is to be scolding though it comes out a little slurred. The man in question just hums back at you, hooded green eyes locked onto yours. He's so desperately trying to hold himself together, fighting the looseness of his limbs with his mouth shut tight.
Something lights in your eyes and he's immediately wary when you reach behind you to grab your drink, something fruity and sweet that's definitely going to leave you hungover in the morning. Glass in one hand, and his chin held in the other, you take a sip, glossy lips closing around the little straw without breaking eye contact with him. There's a burst of loud laughter next to you, but neither of you care to look.
Rin's tongue darts out to wet his lips, and then you're leaning over him, parting your lips to let the mixture of fruit juice and alcohol fall the short distance from your lips onto his waiting tongue. The last of the liquid hasn't even passed your lips before he's pulling you in hard with a hand on the back of your head, drinking down the rest with a kiss, dripping sticky trails from the corner of your mouth and down your chin.
You lick at his bottom lip, taking it between your teeth with a soft suck—he tastes like cherries and your vanilla lip gloss. He whines, so softly you barely hear it when you pull away, but you're quick to sooth him with your thumb on his chin and a string of spit dripping from your pursed lips.
You can feel how hard he is beneath you, holding you possessively on his lap. The thought crosses your mind that you should definitely be more concerned that you're in the middle of the bar surrounded by people, but the steady rotation of mixed drinks and shots that had kept appearing on the table render you too drunk to care—you're sure most, if not all, of the team is in the same boat.
Rin slumps down further in the booth as he swallows and pulls you in again, nearly tipping over into Komori's as he shifts. Instead of pushing back or attempting to separate the two of you, Motoya just laughs brightly, a hand gently taking hold of your wrist to pry the glass from your fingers before you spill its remaining contents across all three of you.
You can't bring yourself to part from Suna long enough to thank him, but you do make a satisfied sound and hope he gets the message.
Rin's chest heaves against your own, a hand sliding higher beneath your skirt while the other wraps around your waist, pulling you tighter against him. His tongue presses to yours, sliding over your taste buds and the ridges of your teeth before you take it between your lips and suck gently.
"More," he murmurs against your lips, lashes fluttering as he tries to fight the way his eyes want to fall shut. You whine into his mouth barely quiet enough given the situation, hands cupping his cheeks to keep him in place while you purse your lips again, spitting into his mouth once more. He presses his hips up into the feeling of you—your panties are most definitely soaked through.
"Oooookay," you hear Komori's voice next to you, gasping in surprise as a bit of your brain returns to logical thought. Your face flushes deep, alcohol and embarrassment cascading over your arousal but barely cooling its heat.
"M'really enjoying this," he continues, teasing words tumbling together, "but if Suna gets any harder in his pants he's gonna pass out."
Rin tsks, "Fuck off, 'Toya."
You and Motoya both giggle at the sight of him, the rosy glow of his cheeks, the haze settled over his eyes.
"One more?" you pout, lashes fluttering in Motoya's direction like you're searching for his permission.
He feels a little light headed with the way blood immediately rushes to fill his cock. Opening his mouth to give you an answer, he closes it again before finally managing to get the words out, "Yeah, s'okay—just one more."
The satisfied sound you make has him feeling dizzy, and then you're leaning towards him, lips pitched up into a smirk. You place a kiss on his freckled cheek, quick and chaste. Then, your hand is holding his face, pulling him in slow enough that he could easily stop you if he wanted to. Suna makes a choking sound when your lips meet Motoya's, but he makes no move to stop you, thumb still stroking your thigh idly.
Motoya kisses you like he's not sure he's allowed to, so it's on you to push, licking at his bottom lip until he parts them, deepening the kiss eagerly. Tucked into the corner of the booth, sandwiched between two professional athletes, you subtly grind down into the lap of your boyfriend below you, softly pressing your teeth to Motoya's lip before you pull away just far enough to meet his eyes.
"One more?" you breath into the air between you, a confirmation.
"One more," he reinforces as he nods, eyes flitting down to your lips again.
You move your right hand, the one that had been fisted in Rin's shirt to cup his cheek instead, using your left on Motoya's face to tilt his head back—his mouth falls open for you so easily.
The two of them make twin sounds when you lean forward to spit into Motoya's mouth, low and barely covered by the sounds of the bar. He swallows hard and looks up at you like he's already addicted.
"Thanks, 'Toya," you murmur with a soft pat on his cheek, hand falling from his face as you turn to look down at the man below you.
When he meets your eyes, Rin can't think about anything except for how badly he wants you to drag him out of this bar and into the alley out back, bring him to his knees, and let your love fall from your tongue onto his over and over and over again.
The look you give him as your face hovers above his, lips parting to reveal the pool of saliva on your tongue, tells him you might be craving the exact same thing.
thinking thinking…a drunk night on the express that ends with dan heng and sunday in your room, a drinking game gone too far, and suddenly you’re kissing sunday. then dan heng. then sunday while dan heng kisses along the back of your neck, all the while sunday’s hands travel up the hem of your shirt. tentative fingers brushing at your skin while a hot tongue laves at your own, and another pair of lips suck on a sensitive part of your neck.
it’s all too much— brain already mush from liquor and hot skin flushed against yours. but that voice in the back of your head tells you to fan those flames of desire that you’ve held back from breathing life to for who knows how long now.
and when you inevitably listen, straddling against sunday’s lap while tugging dan heng’s hair to crash his lips against yours, you find it worth the impulsive indulgence. especially as you rock against sunday’s bulge in his pants, his ears flushing a bright red as he barely stifles a whimper against the crook of your neck. and dan heng’s hands wrap around you from behind to slide under your shirt, grabbing at your chest as his lips coax moans out of you against his mouth.
definitely worth it, you think later. limbs tangled in your bed, a dull ache settled under your skin. with one of them on either side of you— tired out with their hands still around you in their sleep. and your only regret is not doing this sooner.
suna x reader cw:suggestive, angst, mentions of flings, break up/situationships, nostalgia, mdni
what could have been. wc 1k
for the last months that you could remember, all you did was eat, breathe, and sleep suna rintarō. peacefully coexisting in each others world with a sort of ease akin to settled states. your hand in his hair, draped over the couch while some documentary played mindlessly on your television. late night drives where you sat up and stood through the sunroof, your hair blaring in the wind and a smile adorning your face, bright enough to convince you both that this was enough.
this arrangement had bloomed out of need. out of desire for something real, and suna was so easy. he was giving and kind, always attentive to you and seemed to be one of the only ones who could see you. it made sense, neither of you wanted anything all that serious, you were graduating at the end of the term and he was signing to a national team. to fill the space both of you craved, with no strings attached and no label to show for it. for a while, it was innocent.
stolen kisses behind closed doors, laughing with no fear of how ridiculous the smile looked on your face. shared meals and ice cream licked off of each others lips. shared beds and waking up far too late in the morning to do anything about the day, drowning in each others presence. you kept it on the low, while others asked you about your crush you only sighed and shook your head, telling them you had no such thing. suna’s teammates tugged at him and asked him to spill who the special girl was, to which he said he wanted to be single anyway. it was easier this way, that’s what you had both agreed on.
right? because there’s no reason for the strings holding your heart together to tug and wretch when you see suna tagged in pictures at parties where other girls pour alcohol into his mouth. there’s no reason for suna to care when you blow him off to go hang out with another guy, the same guy you’ll spend a week fucking the memory out of with him. but he doesn’t care, and neither do you, and no, you don’t talk about it. you let the weeks spin by and lull you into a comfortability that blinds you from the deadline that is your situation.
the thing about situational agreements is that they always fail. you pretend you don’t feel the way his hand fits in yours perfectly, you pretend it doesn’t affect you when he doesn’t ask about your plans after graduation, he pretends not to care when you purposefully don’t accept his follow request on his volleyball account for social media. it’s a weird dance you both partake in, because on lonely nights where you don’t spend time together, you picture a life in which you were both ready to commit. where this wasn’t out of the facade of necessity, that you had met him in the right circumstance. but the curiosity got the cat, and now you’re trying on your cap and gown in front of him while he sends over final contracts for the team he’s signing.
you don’t talk about it when he doesn’t come to your graduation. you didn’t ask him to. but your eyes still searched for him in the stands, especially when he knew your family wouldn’t be there. you don’t talk about it when you’re not there for his signing day, even when he told you he wanted a picture with you there. no, because the next time you see him it’s all said between desperate kissing and pressing each other into sheets on borrowed time. furrowed brows and begging, begging for more, because what you have isn’t enough and you both know it.
his bags are packed in his room, you sit on the edge of the bed and watch your feet dangle in the air. you hear him zipping his backpack, you pretend you don’t hear how loud your heart is.
“suna,” something pangs dangerously close to admission in your heart. he hums and pauses to look at you from across the room. “do you ever think about-“ you cut yourself off to bite your lip. it’s painful, but you think it would be worse if you would’ve said it anyway.
in his mind there’s one hundred things you could’ve said. one hundred things he could’ve replied with. but he doesn’t push, not when you don’t continue and mutter under your breath that it’s nothing. because that’s the thing about suna, about you, about you both, you don’t push the boundary line. you tip toe on the precipice of honesty and truth. but neither one of you dares to take the leap. so you spend that night lost on his mouth and begging for a goodbye worth crying over. it doesn’t come.
you stare at the instagram request months later. something aches inside your heart with the shape of his name. there’s so much left unsaid, and maybe it’s for the better. you pretend you don’t notice that he picks your favorite number as his jersey number. it’s coincidence. you pretend he doesn’t post nostalgic photos once a year, a few of which include candid photos of you from unsuspecting angles that no one would know was you aside from him, especially when they’re posted on your birthday. he pretends not to see the bubbles pop up in your text thread because he too, is sitting in waiting. he pretends not to see the profile view with your username on his professional account almost every day.
that’s the thing about the two of you. you exist liminally. in a timeline where neither of you had the courage to say what you really meant. your hearts intertwined and beating the rhythm that only belonged to the both of you for quite some time. now lost in the past of what you were. forever drowned to the sound of cowardice and fear that what you had, would never be found again.
a/n: been feeling sad so this feels like i’m a towel with all my sadness wrung out. hope you like!
a/n: i came up with this idea sooo long ago but i had the most severe writer’s block and this still isn’t really what i was going for </3
tw: noncon!!, bully eren (college au), shy nerdy reader, oral (f. receiving), fingering, dacryphilia, victim blaming, just the tip
18+
bully eren who can’t come to terms with the fact that he wants you so badly. it drives him crazy, makes him lash out at you more than usual. you’re a loser, a fucking nobody. how could he want you?
and yet, his cock gets all hard when he sees you in those stupidly short skirts and tight sweaters every day, holding your books close to your chest and keeping your head down so you don’t trip over your own feet. it pisses him off. that whole shy virgin girl routine has got to be an act designed to tease him. you know guys like him can’t resist it.
you are pretty meek, though. you avoid him like the plague, not that it helps. he seeks you out, usually finding you in the quietest corner of the library or sitting alone somewhere secluded, your nose always in a book. you can’t escape him in the classes you share, but you try your hardest to ignore his teasing remarks and mean jokes at your expense that make his popular friends laugh. you bite your tongue when he catches you walking with your books and knocks them out of your hands, or snatches one and holds it over your head, hot tears burning in your eyes when he makes you ask him kindly to please give it back. he feels a sick sense of satisfaction when you cry, but nothing beat the time he caught you alone on campus after all the evening classes let out, with none of his friends around and no staff to come to your rescue. eren just couldn’t help himself, cornering you at the end of dark, empty hallway, lifting your skirt up a little and pushing his hard bulge against you through his pants. he had your front pinned against the wall firmly with your arms held behind your back and your backside pressed flush against him, leaning down to groan in your ear at the small sense of relief it provided. he’d been aching, sore and throbbing, and feeling the warmth of your core through your thin cotton panties was enough to satisfy him for the time being. but oh, how you cried. sobbing and hiccuping in his hold, begging him to let you go. he could barely even understand you, except for key phrases like stop, please, it’s so embarrassing.
he’s been chasing that high ever since, fucking his cock into his fist every night to the memory of it. your pretty face all covered in tears, your shaky limbs trembling until he eventually felt satisfied enough to let you go, but not before pulling your panties flush against your center to take a look at the damp spot that formed there. he’ll never forget the way you hid your face from him in shame as he cooed mockingly at you, saying you must have liked it. little virgins like you always get so wet just from a little teasing.
but now it isn’t enough. his hand doesn’t compare to what he knows your tight, untouched heat feels like. it’s goddamn frustrating, having to see you taunt him with it every day. he starts to feel like you’re doing it on purpose— walking around with what he imagines to be smugness, knowing deep down that it wasn’t just another cruel way to torture you, it was a desperate means to quiet down his feelings for you — whatever they were. it makes him fucking seethe with anger. you must think you’re better than him. he can see it on your face, even when you avoid his gaze burning into you at all times. that must be why you didn’t tell on him for what he did. you think he’s pathetic. you, the fucking loser, feel sorry for him. he’s so much meaner when he’s worked up like this, escalating to shoving you and pinching your ass in the halls, sending you home with his assignments and saying he’ll hurt you real bad if he doesn’t get perfect scores on them. but even after all of that, you don’t fight back. you must think you’re above it — above him.
he comes after you again once he’s had enough, deciding he doesn’t need anyone’s fucking pity. you have no idea what he’s talking about when he catches you coming out of the library late in the evening again, dragging you into the nearest empty classroom and nearly throwing you against the wall. you’re crying already, hot tears rolling down your cheeks because he’s scaring you, muttering about how you think you’re so much better than him, you think you’re so fucking smart. you’re nothing. he’ll show you what being such a fucking know-it-all gets you.
you brace yourself for the grind of his bulge against your crotch again, but you’re not expecting him to shove your panties down to your thighs so he can run his fingers through your wetness. you let out a cry, embarrassed at how damp you get from the most simple touches. you hate him. you hate him so much. but try as you might, you can’t stop your body’s natural responses to him.
it must be a survival instinct, you tell yourself, when you’re nearly dripping for him as he whispers dirty things in your ear. he tells you he doesn’t think you’ve ever had a good orgasm fucked into you before, not even by your own fingers — and he’s right. the way you close your eyes in embarrassment gives it away and makes him grin. you’ve tried though, haven’t you? little slut.
you whine when his fingers start pushing against your clit, sliding over it and smearing your wetness around. you burn up when you’re all sticky like this, get all lightheaded and dizzy. you hate it.
“how can someone so smart be so dumb, hm?” he pulls you back and shoves you forward again, emphasizing his words. the delayed way you brace yourself against the wall leaves you bent over, giving him a good view of your naked center when he flips your skirt up all the way. he almost isn’t able to force down the noise that claws its way up his throat, especially when you whine in embarrassment, quickly reaching one hand down to cover yourself. he doesn’t let you, catching your hand and pinning it behind your back so he can appreciate the view.
“hey, hey, relax.” he mutters, bending down to look at you more closely. you’re soaked, all glistening and twitchy. he reacts before he can help himself, pressing a wet tongue kiss to your center, prodding at your folds as you shake and gasp. he’s got a firm grip on your hips, which he uses to pull you back onto his tongue so he can taste you.
“e-eren!” you shriek, writhing in his grip. “stop it!”
he smirks against you, sliding it down to tease your clit, licking and kissing it until eventually your legs start to shake, your knees buckling and your hips pushing into him.
“no, no, no,” you whine, but you open your legs wider for him. he gives your clit a firm suck and you gasp. you’re so fucking sensitive. he knows that a couple more will send you over the edge, but he pulls away before giving it to you.
you let out a choked cry, barely holding yourself up. you’re too dazed to notice the way he chuckles behind you as he stands, but you do flush with embarrassment when he says you taste good, just like he imagined.
you can’t believe he’s imagined doing that before, especially to you. you feel the ghost of his tongue filling you, sucking on your clit, and you shudder. you want more. you actually want it and it makes you feel sick.
you start to lift yourself, crying and embarrassed, wondering if you can stand on your shaky legs and work up enough self respect to fix your clothes and go home. but he beats you to it, yanking you up so your back is against his hard chest, one of his big hands locked around your face, squishing your cheeks together as the other travels down to your ass, giving it a harsh squeeze that makes you whimper before sliding two big fingers into your heat.
you gasp, jumping in his arms. his fingers follow the movement, sinking in as far as they can as you go onto your tippy toes, trying to run from it.
“that’s it, easy,” he mutters, shoving you with his body until your front is pressed into the wall again, his hand still gripping your face tightly. “look at me. feel my fingers? nice and deep.”
your eyes roll back and flutter as they slide in and out of you, hitting you where you’ve never been able to reach. you let out a muffled moan, your head falling back to lean on his chest.
“tight little virgin pussy, sucking in my fingers. they too big, hm?” he asks mockingly, staring down into your glossy eyes. you nod pathetically, letting out a desperate little mhm as he starts pumping them harder. it’s a big stretch, even more so when he scissors them inside you.
you don’t know why he’s breathing all hard, his body practically shaking as he hits deeper and deeper as you start to loosen up for him. it’s easier for him to curl his fingers now, making you gasp and writhe in his grip.
“you like being stuffed full of my fingers, huh? yeah you do.” he grunts in your ear. “you like taking it. knew you would.”
he’s sounds smug and strained all at once, his words coming out in a rush. your eyes roll back when he hits deep inside. you’re vaguely aware of how pathetic you must look, nodding along dumbly with tears streaming down your face, not even fighting it. you’re practically drooling.
“that’s it, yeah. you gonna cum from this, hm? just cum and i’ll let you go. let me feel it, and i won’t bother you anymore—promise.” he mutters. you’re still on your toes, your hands grasping behind you to hold onto him for support, uselessly tugging at his wrist to try to slow his movements. you can feel him, his— thing, hard and pressing against you obnoxiously. it makes you dizzy, part of your brain wondering what that would feel like. you can’t even imagine it. his fingers are already too much.
“mm—eren,” you cry, but it’s muffled. you’re heating up and getting all dizzy because his fingertips are nudging the spot inside you that makes you start to clamp down involuntarily, over and over until your eyes start to roll back. he doesn’t let up, stuffing a third finger in because he knows you’re close. it makes you whine, squeezing your eyes shut because he really should have eased it in. he doesn’t care, though, not when your legs start shaking and he can feel strings of your wetness dripping onto his hand and coating your inner thighs each time he pulls out. he doesn’t know why he needs to see you fall apart so badly, why he thinks breaking you will fix him. it’s a fever. he’s still lightheaded with the taste of you. every time he closes his eyes, you’re already there, taking over. you’re under his skin and he can’t claw you out.
“fuck, yeah, i’m here.” he rasps. “cum now—now, or i’ll put my fucking cock inside you.”
he can hardly restrain himself. it’s embarrassing how fast you obey under the threat, your body jerking as you release on his fingers, shaking and whining as you ride it out. you open your eyes to look at him, his stormy green eyes already staring back at you. he’s so fucking handsome it makes you sick. he ducks down, closer to your face, his lips almost touching yours. he’s so close, you can’t focus on anything except him. he’s all over you, around you, inside you. his smell, his voice, his big hands and bruising grip.
he holds you through it until you go limp, and you only let out a small whine when he pulls his fingers out and leaves you empty again. you vaguely notice that he sucks them clean, tasting you again before pressing his lips onto yours in a sloppy kiss, running his tongue along yours until you’re out of breath, moaning and making those dumb noises that let him know you’ve had enough. your center is throbbing, tingling and pulsing and leaking wetness all over your inner thighs. you feel like you’re dreaming, opening your eyes and looking up into his soft gaze. you feel almost blissful for a moment.
then your heartbeat slows and your head clears. you realize where you are and who you’re with. you realize how vile and disgusting he is for taking it that far, for doing that to you and making you like it. but more importantly you realize that his hard cock is still pressing into you and his grip hasn’t loosened.
eren watches the fresh wave of tears flood your eyes as your expression morphs into something hurt. defeated. he can’t help the soft groan that comes out when you bow your head, soft cries making your shoulders shake as you lean against him. poor thing, so desperate for a little comfort that you’ll even search for it from the one person that causes you the most pain. that’s what turns him on so much.
“hey, shh, shh…” he coos, and you’re sure his tone is mocking as his arms wrap around you. you’re shaking all over, whining in disgust as his hard bulge rubs against your ass through his pants. “such a fuckin’ crybaby. what’s the matter, hm? you liked it.”
you wished he’d just go away. sticking around to rub your shame in your face was the meanest thing he could do. you can tell he’s getting off on it, on your tears and humiliation, but there’s nothing you can do to help it. you just cry some more as he cages you in with his strong body and grinds against you with slow, firm rolls of his hips that make him groan. you can feel the material of his pants getting damp as it soaks up your slick, but it still feels rough against your puffy center and catches on your clit.
“sorry, baby. i know i said i’d let you go, but… feels so good. just a little more, ‘kay?” he grunts in your ear. if you didn’t already feel so pathetic, you’d nod. you’re starting to understand. it’s who he is. it was your fault for believing he could ever change.
you are pathetic, you realize, when you hear his zipper being pulled down and the sound of his heavy exhale as he finally grips his large, leaky cock in his hand, and you don’t even try to stop it. there’s no point. all you do is suck in deep breaths, crying and whining when the rounded head finally pushes up against your hole, then slides forward to nudge your sensitive clit.
“eren…” you whisper, the sound of your own blood rushing in your ears as your heart beats faster and faster. “please don’t.”
but you already feel him lining up with your entrance, groaning and cursing as he starts to push into you. you squeak, tensing and squirming as you try to run from it, but he holds you steady.
“hey, calm down. it’s okay, shh…” he breathes. “just the tip. i promise.”
a small 2.2k something something for the birthday boy togame jo <3 dragging him out to an aquarium for today please enjoy
you do not tell jo where you’re taking him.
that part, apparently, matters to him less than he pretends. he squints at you across the platform that morning, hair still a little mussed from sleep, hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket, and says, “you’re being weird.”
you hand him the canned coffee you bought from the machine. “it is your birthday. i’m allowed.”
he cracks the tab with a soft hiss and takes a sip. “didn’t say you had to make a whole thing out of it.”
“no,” you say, stepping closer to fix the collar he didn’t bother to straighten, “but unfortunately for you, i like you.”
jo looks down at you with that drowsy, unreadable face of his. then he mutters, “that sounds like a you problem.”
but he does not step away when the train pulls in. he follows you on without complaint, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours as you find your seats. he sits by the window, because you guide him there, and because you do, he lets you. that is half of jo’s affection, really— quiet compliance where anyone else would get a flat look and a refusal.
tokyo slides toward you in pieces, and the carriage rocks gently enough that you can feel him relaxing by the minute.
you pull the bentos from your bag once the train is moving properly, proud of yourself for getting them there in one piece. jo glances down, then at you.
“you packed food too?”
“i know,” you say gravely. “i’m deeply sinister.”
he gives you a look that says you are impossible, but his mouth softens at the corner. “what’d you get?”
you trade lids and inspect each other’s choices like this is a matter of national importance. he steals a piece of your tamagoyaki before you’ve even started, and when you make an offended noise, he says, “you were talking.”
“that doesn’t mean you can rob me!”
“you weren’t eating it.”
you steal a piece of karaage off his rice in revenge. he watches you do it and does absolutely nothing to stop you.
(a birthday miracle.)
outside the window, the city thickens. inside, the train hums. you eat with your knees touching, passing little things back and forth without asking, and somewhere around the time you’re trying to peel open a sauce packet without making a disaster of it, jo plucks it from your fingers, tears it cleanly, and hands it back.
“thanks.”
he shrugs, looking out the window again. “you’d get it on yourself.”
“mean.”
“true.”
you lean your head onto his shoulder anyway.
he lets out a quiet breath through his nose, the closest thing he gets to a laugh this early, and tips his head just enough that it rests against yours for a second before lifting again.
by the time you arrive, he is attached to your side so thoroughly it feels less like walking with him and more like towing a very large, very sleepy cat through the station. he says nothing when you take his hand to steer him through the crowd. his fingers close around yours like they belonged there all along.
the aquarium is cool and dim when you step inside. blue light spills over the floors, over the curve of glass and water and bodies moving slowly in the half-dark. the noise of the city vanishes behind sealed doors. it is only the hush of filtration systems, the occasional murmur from passing visitors, and the steady, unhurried drift of fish.
jo goes still beside you.
it is small at first, the change in him. just the looseness that comes into his shoulders. the way his eyes sharpen awake. you feel it happen through your linked hands.
he looks at the first huge tank for a long moment, fish turning silver in the light.
then, very quietly, “this is nice.”
you smile a little. “yeah?”
he glances at you, like he already knows you’re going to make something of the admission. “don’t start.”
“i didn’t say anything.”
“you were about to.”
“i was actually about to say i’m glad.”
jo hums, noncommittal, but he squeezes your hand once before letting go so he can step closer to the glass.
that is how the morning goes. tank after tank, hallway after hallway, jo slowing at all the places that deserve slowing for. he likes the big ones best at first— the sweeping schools of fish, the long tunnels of water overhead, the sharks cutting through the blue like they own it. he watches everything with his head tipped just slightly, eyes heavy-lidded but intent. he does not talk much, but when he does, it is always something worth hearing.
“this one looks mean.”
“you say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“it’s not.”
or, in front of a truly hideous bottom-dweller with a face only a mother could tolerate, “this guy’s ugly as hell.”
“you like him.”
jo narrows his eyes. “i didn’t say that.”
five minutes later he is still standing there.
you leave him briefly to use the bathroom and come back to find him exactly where you left him, except now he has his arms folded and looks mildly betrayed that you vanished. he says, “thought you got lost.”
“it was two minutes.”
“you’re bad with directions.”
“you say this like you don’t also get turned around every single time you come over to my place.”
“that’s different.”
“it literally is not.”
he takes your wrist when you come back beside him, not your hand this time, thumb settling against the pulse there like he needs proof you returned. he does not let go for the next three exhibits.
the otters ruin him.
not outwardly. he is not about to light up and press both palms to the glass like an excited child. he has standards. a reputation. at least three people in the world might call him pathetic if they saw.
but the first otter twists through the water in a sleek brown ribbon, turns, and rockets back the other direction, and jo stops so abruptly you almost walk into him.
another surfaces with a splash, chirping indignantly at nothing.
jo stares.
you look up at him. “you good?”
“they’re kinda loud,” he says, which would mean more if he hadn’t moved closer to the glass.
one of them rolls in the water, tiny paws tucked to its chest. another thumps up onto the rock and shakes itself dry.
jo stares harder.
you bite the inside of your cheek. “jo.”
“hm?”
“you’re smiling.”
he is not smiling much. barely at all, really. but there is a softness in his mouth that was not there a second ago, and when you say it, he goes flat-faced on instinct.
“i’m not.”
“you are.”
“i’m not.”
“you love them.”
he gives you a lazy side-eye. “didn’t say that either.”
then one of the otters smacks the water with its tail and disappears beneath the surface in a blur, and jo, without thinking, leans down toward you and says under his breath, “that one’s stupid.”
there it is. his affection. a devastating thing, hidden inside insults and tone so mild it would fool anyone who didn’t know better.
you stand there with him until the otters switch from charming to chaotic and back again three times over. people come and go around you. a little kid nearby squeals. jo does not move until you tell him there are rays elsewhere, and then he finally peels himself from the glass like it costs him something.
the ray tank is wider, calmer.
you can see the second it gets him.
they pass like shadows made elegant—soft wings, long tails, strange mouths hidden underneath. one glides right up the glass in front of you, pale belly visible for an instant, and you laugh. jo’s head lifts.
another sweeps overhead in the tunnel and the light ripples over both of you.
“these guys are cool,” he says.
it is so sincere, so unguarded, that your chest hurts a little.
“yeah,” you say softly. “they are.”
you stay there longer than you mean to. long enough that he drifts behind you and, with no warning whatsoever, rests his chin on the top of your head.
you freeze for half a beat.
it is not that he never touches you first. it is that jo’s affection always arrives like a wild animal stepping out of the trees— quiet, cautious, pretending it isn’t there even while it stands directly in front of you.
you tilt your head back just enough to glance up at him. “comfortable?”
he does not move. “fine.”
“good.”
his arms come around you a second later, loose and lazy around your middle. not a dramatic embrace. nothing that calls attention. just jo folding himself around your back in the blue half-light while rays pass over your heads like living kites.
you put your hands over his.
he says nothing.
and neither do you.
at lunch, you sit with paper trays and expensive drinks in the café area, and jo picks at your food as if his own does not exist. you bought him exactly what he likes, which means he pretends not to notice and then eats half your fries anyway.
“you know,” you say, narrowing your eyes at him, “this is beginning to look targeted.”
“you weren’t eating them.”
“i was talking.”
“exactly.”
you laugh, and he watches you with that half-asleep, half-fond look that always feels like being let in on something private.
when you wander into the gift shop later, he trails after you with the resigned air of a man enduring some great burden, which lasts right up until he sees the otter plush.
you see it happen. his eyes flick to it, then away.
you pretend not to notice, because you are kind and merciful and not at all interested in making him squirm for your own fun.
a full thirty seconds pass.
then he glances back at it.
you pick it up before he can perform another round of pretending he does not care. it's small enough to fit in one hand, soft brown fur, stitched little paws. stupidly cute.
“hey,” you say. “looks familiar.”
jo looks down at it, expression flat with effort. “it’s ugly.”
“it’s an otter.”
“it’s ugly too.”
you hold it out to him anyway.
he does not take it.
you raise your eyebrows. “jo.”
he looks at you. looks at the plush. looks away again. “you’re buying me stuffed animals now?”
“for your birthday? yeah.”
“that’s embarrassing.”
you place it against his chest.
he lets out the quietest, longest-suffering sigh you have ever heard, but he takes it. one big hand wraps around the little plush’s middle. he looks ridiculous with it.
you adore him.
“happy birthday,” you say.
his gaze drops to the toy, then lifts back to your face. something in him shifts— not big, not obvious, just enough for you to catch it.
“… thanks.”
there it is too. rare enough to be treasured.
you grin. “you’re welcome.”
he tucks the otter under his arm after you buy it like it has always belonged there.
the photo booth is your find, tucked near the station on the way back, squeezed between a vending corner and a gachapon wall. you stop so fast jo nearly walks past you.
“oh,” you say, delighted. “wait.”
he follows your stare to the booth and then back to you. “no.”
“yes.”
“no.”
“it’s your birthday!”
“that has nothing to do with anything.”
“it has everything to do with this.”
jo eyes the sample strips pinned beside the entrance— peace signs, puckered lips, heart hands, matching poses— with immediate suspicion. “absolutely not.”
ten minutes later, he is inside the booth with you anyway, knees crowded against yours on the tiny bench, otter plush sitting grumpily in his lap like a chaperone.
“this is stupid,” he says as the screen starts flashing instructions.
“you came in voluntarily!”
“you shoved me.”
“you folded.”
he clicks his tongue.
the first photo catches both of you unprepared— your laugh already breaking loose, jo looking over at you with visible irritation that is undercut entirely by the fact that his hand is on your thigh.
you gasp. “aw, that one’s cute.”
“it’s bad.”
the countdown starts again.
“okay, okay,” you say quickly, leaning in. “this one, smile.”
“i’m not doing that.”
“then don’t. just look less like you’re here to collect a debt.”
the camera flashes.
in the picture, he is not smiling, exactly, but he is softer than he means to be, eyes half on you instead of the lens. it's much worse. far more revealing.
“a disaster,” he mutters.
“beautiful, actually.”
the third countdown begins, and you barely have time to turn toward him before he hooks two fingers under your chin and kisses you.
it is not a long kiss. the booth is too small, the timing too short, the camera too close. but it lands warm and certain, and your surprised little noise gets swallowed between you as the flash goes off.
when you pull back, blinking at him, jo looks infuriatingly calm.
you stare. “you—”
he shrugs one shoulder. “you wanted a picture.”
your face is hot. “jo.”
“what?”
“you can’t just do that right before the photo.”
“i just did.”
the final countdown starts while you are still flustered, and this time you grab fistfuls of his jacket and kiss him first.
the resulting flash catches the both of you ruined by it— crooked, close, your smile halfway there against his mouth, jo’s hand already coming up to the side of your neck.
when the strip prints, you snatch it first.
jo leans over your shoulder to look.
the first is laughter. the second is fondness pretending not to be. the third is his ambush. the fourth is yours.
for a moment, neither of you says anything.
then jo, very quiet, goes, “looks nice.”
you turn your head. “yeah?”
he is close enough that your noses nearly brush. the station noise blurs around you, people passing, announcements overhead, trains coming and going.
he looks at the strip again, then at you.
“yeah,” he says. “something nice to remember it.”
and that— more than the hand-holding, more than the kiss in the booth, more even than the way he has not let himself drift more than an arm’s length from you all day— gets you.
you reach up and smooth the hair back from his face. “good. me too.”
the ride home is quieter.
not awkward. never that. just full in the way good days get full, until there is nothing left to do but lean into them. jo sits beside the window again, the little otter plush tucked between his side and the glass, your photo-strip safe in your bag. he's tired now, properly tired, the kind that follows a day spent feeling more than usual.
you feel his head land on your shoulder a few stops out.
he does not ask. he just does it, heavy and warm and trusting.
you tilt your head against his.
outside, the city runs by in streaks of evening light.
inside, his hand finds yours on the seat between you and folds over it, loose but certain.
after a while, without opening his eyes, he says, “had fun.”
it is so simple you almost miss how much it costs him.
you smile and squeeze his hand. “yeah?”
“mm.”
a moment passes.
then, quieter, rougher around the edges in that way honesty sometimes is with him: “liked being with you.”
your throat goes tight. “baby.”
he makes a faint noise like he knows, like maybe that is why he said it half-asleep with his face hidden against your shoulder.
you lift your joined hands and press your mouth to his knuckles.
“happy birthday,” you murmur.
he shifts just enough to tuck himself closer, his fingers tightening once around yours.
“best one i had,” he says, voice nearly lost under the train’s soft rattling.
then, as if he has not already handed you his whole chest to hold for the day, he adds, almost grumbling, “don’t get weird about it.”
you laugh under your breath and turn your face into his hair.
bullseye wearing his balaclava and gear breaking into your little shitty student apartment to hide from the police, expecting to have to threaten someone to keep their mouth shut but instead finding you in the privacy of your room humping your pillow :(
he’d basically stroll into your bedroom only to find you facing away from the door, naked body sat on some folded pillows, grinding away, moaning and panting in the candle light of your room. he’d clear his throat to make himself known and almost act mildly inconvenienced by this while you jump up and freak out, doing your best to cover yourself with your hands, trying to gather your plush tits to cover your nipples with one hand and your glossy cunt with the other.
he’d let you have your freak out, seeing the bullseye symbol on his attire and telling him frantically that you’re ‘scared’ and begging him not to hurt you, all whiny and sweet. he’s honestly doing a great job at acting like his long, heavy cock isn’t twitching in his pants. he’s calm - nodding at you eventually and telling you “not here to hurt you, don’t worry. put some clothes on.” before turning to face the door, hands clasped patiently behind his back.
after you’ve squeezed on a flimsy little baby tee and some barely existing shorts he explains himself to you, authoritative in the way he tells you that he is going to be waiting it out in your apartment with you until he’s sure the police are off his tail. you’re very susceptible of course, nodding along with everything he says.
“can you atleast take off the mask so i can get to know you a little better?” you ask politely.
“the less you know about me the better, sweetheart.”
seeing as he’s the one who broke in during your private time, it’s only fair he lets you continue what you started, this time on his lap— allowing you to rut it out into the early hours, whining and cumming on his cock. you even offer him coffee afterwards when your half asleep, all sweet and drooly on him ♡
k one last thing but he talks u through it so nice when you’re whining and gasping and crying in his lap all hot n out of breath like “m’such a slut. don’t even know you.” you sulk.
“aw don’t be so hard on yourself sweetheart. just have a needy little pussy, nothing wrong with that. you don’t need to know my name — you just need to cum, hm?”
for they carry his ambition—his spherical-shaped ambition, encased with leather and years of dedication. it’s at its lightest when he fumbles with it absentmindedly on the way home. and it’s at its heaviest under the gymnasium’s lights, when his fingertips are positioned at all the right spots to send it flying in the air again.
he never feels more alive than in those moments: when his eyes zero in on the exact spot that screams, this is where success lies. when he feels the weight of the ball for a fraction of a ghostly second. when he hears the all-knowing sound of it smacking onto the waxed floors. the sound of victory.
it’s a fact: his hands have never failed him, having been built best under pressure. roughened with care. trained with precision. utilized in the ways he knew best.
at least, he thought that way, until you came along. you, who challenged his hands unlike any other opponent.
suddenly, he didn’t know what to do with them. didn’t know where to best place them. didn’t know how to stop them from jittering. they were hesitant for the first time. tense. nervous. no longer did he feel the smooth leather of a prized ball, but the skin of someone who felt heavy not only in his palms, but in his heart.
his hands were no longer tools—roughened with care, trained with precision. they became careful, in a vastly different manner. gentle, in ways he never thought were possible. suddenly, his favorite feeling wasn’t how the ball nestles in his hands, but how it holds yours. an unfamiliar, delicate texture. a connection that ran deeper than just through the pads of his fingertips.
it’s humorous how he attempts to approach them the same. and it almost works. after all, it took years to understand how to move his palms just right for each game. so it made sense how he had to figure out the right timing with you—gauge the right tightness—imbue the right tenderness.
only, he didn’t account for how sacred it’d feel. how his heart would race even hours after touching you. how his hands would never feel satiated. always wanting more, more, and more. more, in the curve of your hips. more, in the plump of your cheeks. more, in the way they never stop exploring—roaming—mapping your body. no longer fueled by accuracy and victory. but by want, intimacy, and longing.
they feel the lightest when he links them in yours, bringing the inter-joined palms up to press kisses to your knuckles. and at their heaviest when they hold you at night, weighty against your back, molded into your frame. like it was always meant to belong there.
over time, they do learn to loosen—no longer tense. they eventually become unhesitant, reaching for you unapologetically—almost greedily. trusting, when he lets you ice them after a game. and he doesn’t think you realize how wondrous the sight is: his treasure taking care of his other treasure. both precious in the same way. both loved so differently.
kageyama tobio has always treasured his hands.
for they now carry his world—his spell-bound world, in the form of you. steady and devoted, having been built best under love. softened with fondness. cherished with warmth.
sanemi loves fucking your thighs, especially if he comes home to you asleep. you just look so cute with your cheeks smashed into the pillow and his clothes draping your frame. you always like to wear something of his when he's away on missions, and seeing your bare thighs peeking out of his haori turns his cock to stone. he undresses and slips in beside you. you're so warm and soft; sanemi sucks in a breath through his teeth when you shift against him. his haori smells like you now, and that's all he can think of with you pliant in his arms like this, his cock throbbing along your lower back. careful not to wake you, he nudges your legs apart and settles himself between your silken thighs, pumping slowly so he won't wake you. slick gathers at the top of your thighs, little gasps falling from your mouth while he works himself slowly. "my darling wife, waiting here just for me."
giyuu is definitely a virgin when you two first meet, so when he realizes how much he wants you like that™, he does everything he can to avoid you. he doesn't know what to do with these feelings of possession and feral need that you evoke in him, so he decides that being on mission constantly will prevent him from slipping up and making you uncomfortable. after all, how likely is it that you like him, too? but then you corner him, demanding answers, and something in him collapses. "I need you," he admits, watching you closely for signs of disgust. "I want you more than I've ever wanted anything." you answer by tugging his mouth to yours, gently guiding his inexperienced lips with your own. when he feels how wet you get for him later, your pussy soaking his chin, your hands tugging on his hair and telling him how well he's doing, he can't help but spill himself onto the sheets.
shinobu likes to experiment in everything she does, and how hard she can make you cum is one of her favorite pastimes. she'll coat the tip of her tongue with just enough venom to make your clit sting and buzz, jumping for attention while she spreads your wetness all over her fingers. "I know they're not very big," she says to you in that soft, lilting voice. "but they can make my pretty girl cum, can't they?" whenever you're out together, shinobu makes you wear vaginal beads soaked in an aphrodisiac of her own design, delighting in the way you squirm and shift throughout the night. "please stay still, dear," she'll tell you, eyes flashing in subtle warning. "you don't need to go home already, do you?"
douma lets you leave so he can hunt you through the woods, scenting your fear on the wind. he's silent in his capture; one minute you're gasping for air behind a tree, the next his voice is a sinister coo in your ear: "found you." his teeth sink into the meat of your neck as his arms cage you in close. "you're trembling, but your blood's sweet with your desire." one nail presses into the hollow of your throat. "did you want to be found, pet?" he hauls you on top of his thigh. "go on then, you dirty thing. get yourself off and make your blood sing." shame mixes into your arousal when you start shifting in his grasp, pressure building in your abdomen. he holds you upright as you cum. "maybe then i'll let you live, hmm?"
gyomei is too big - like battering-ram, will-kill-you-if-you-take-it big - and he knows it. he never pressures you to take his cock, is more than content getting you off with just his fingers, but you eventually get fed up with him evading your touch. "i want to please you, too," you wheedle and whine, and so he caves one night, letting you undress him, your soft hands stiffening his cock before he can stop it. he's so big and heavy that he hangs even when fully erect, and you can't help but be intimidated and a little in awe. just the tip of him is enough to make your pussy stretch obscenely, your legs spread wide to fit the width of his hips. "perfect," gyomei mutters, tears filling his eyes. "you feel so good, my darling." he doesn't finish inside you because he's afraid to lose control. he pulls out and finishes on your belly, rocking two fingers inside you to keep you full during your own orgasm.
akaza doesn't care how many times you've cum - if he thinks you can give him another, you're giving him another. he's memorized your tells, knows where to apply pressure and how, until you're a keening, babbling mess whose eyes never stray from his. "look at who's doing this to you," he'll say, your ankles up by his ears, one arm locked around your thighs. "look at how good you look defiled by a demon's cum."
your tongue flicks out, the forked tips tangling seductively around the bottle lip. suna chokes on his own drink, pounding his fist against his chest to clear his airways. since when did you have that? he doesn't even realize he's staring until kita whacks him in the back of the head, knocking him to his senses. his breathing is still uneven, heart thumping erratically in his chest.
suna has to actively fight off the heat pooling in his stomach, refusing to pop a boner in public. but damnit you were testing his limits.
who in their right mind gets their tongue split in half for god's sake?
your smiling effortlessly, chatting away while suna is in utter turmoil. thoughts spiraling to dirty places, how that tongue would tease his tip, lapping at the pre-cum. his long fingers would twist into your hair, that usual bored expression long gone, eyes darkened with lust as he watches you work him. unraveling him faster than he thought possible.
those eyes, doe-like with faux innocence, as you lewdly suck him off, drool and pre-cum dripping down your chin. so messy, yet so fucking hot. the sounds of you struggling to take him fully gives him a rush of satisfaction, pushing your head down until you gag. letting you come up for air, just long enough for you to flash him a lopsided grin, all dazed and fucked out.
suna nearly loses it right then.
maybe he should've, painted your pretty face with his seed. to watch it drip into the other mess of fluids already there.
then your hand is landing on his thigh—dangerously close to his raging hard-on—dragging suna back to the present, tilting your head cutely at his unfocused gaze. and with the way your eyes scan him up and down, knowing and cheeky, it's clear you know exactly where his head went.
"later." you whisper, full of promise, the single word breaking him. shooting his sticky load into his boxers, humiliating, yet the edges of your lips twitch up higher. secretly loving that he's so down bad for you. 𖹭
kunaiiikittennn ᝰ.ᐟ first suna work, can you tell i love pathetic men who cream their pants?
✰ author notes: wanted to do something for kenma's birthday so here's a few headcanons that fade into a drabble. the main premise is that kenma spent so long focused solely on video games that now he's a pathetic thirty year old virgin (ignoring the header image) not proofread n lowkey rushed (fiwb)
✰ warnings: smut 18+, virginity taking, virgin!kenma, assistant!reader, boss x employee, pet names (sir, good boy), promiscuous behavior, semi-public sex, office fucking, creampies.
⋆˚࿔ 𝜗𝜚 inexperienced!kenma who is so far behind his friends in terms of dating or knowing anything at all about women. except for having heard years worth of their exploits. how many girls they've hooked up with, cocky claims of making girls cum easily as if they were a gift upon them.
⋆˚࿔ 𝜗𝜚 inexperienced!kenma doesn't understand the hype. i mean his hand works just fine. gets the job done, quick and efficient without a whole lot of strain.
⋆˚࿔ 𝜗𝜚 inexperienced!kenma chokes on air the first time he sees you, fist pounding against his sternum to clear out his clogged airways. only to freeze like a statue when your laugh reaches his ears, forgetting that he's supposed in charge here—interviewing you no less.
⋆˚࿔ 𝜗𝜚 inexperienced!kenma now has to deal with seeing you everyday. obviously he hired you—without even meeting the other candidates. he blames that lapse in judgment due to most of his blood being in his other head, itching for any excuse to keep you in his sights.
⋆˚࿔ 𝜗𝜚 inexperienced!kenma who's ears burn bright red whenever you stand too close, hovering at his desk while he talks. the scent of your perfume wafting in the air, assaulting his nose. not in a bad way. you smell good—too good. it makes his head spin and pants a fraction too tight.
⋆˚࿔ 𝜗𝜚 inexperienced!kenma struggles to make eye contact with anyone but especially you. it hurts his eyes how brightly you shine. nine thousand lumens blasted directly into his poor corneas.
⋆˚࿔ 𝜗𝜚 inexperienced!kenma nearly collapses, legs giving out when you ask him to see him later. crossing several work place boundaries, breaking every rule in the book. but it's the way you say it, the sultry tone like he's being hunted for sport by a hungry wildcat.
⋆˚࿔ 𝜗𝜚 inexperienced!kenma who takes the bait and agrees. not realizing that he's walking right into your trap. it doesn't surprise kenma when you arrive on time, knocking on his office door with melodic raps of four—your signature sound.
"come in." he calls through the heavy wooden door.
it creaks open, you step through in your perfectly tailored button up and skirt, somehow still managing to look better than those half naked girls kenma jacks off to.
"do you ever stop working?" you tease, sauntering over to stand at the side of his desk. between being ceo and a full-time streamer it seems that your boss never lets go and relaxes.
kenma doesn't respond, in words, just a shake of his head. more strands falling into his face, coming loose from his messy, barely tied bun.
what he doesn't expect is the sudden brush of your fingers, sweeping the hair behind his ear. wasn't even aware that you moved, had stepped closer until you're now pressed up against the arm of his chair.
"it's late. surely you're not planning to sleep here, sir." you sigh, almost chastising.
"finishing up these reports." he mumbles, eyes never leaving those dual screens.
"allow me to keep you company." then without warning you push his chair back, granting yourself enough space to plant yourself in his lap.
"what are you—" his voice cracks, hitting a second puberty, and cutting himself off from the added embarrassment.
his heart stalls, kicking off like a rickety old car that's on its last legs.
your thighs straddle his, skirt bunched up so high that he's certain he catches a glimpse of your panties below.
you watch his throat bob, the slow motion of his adam's apple as he swallows. the edges of your lips twitch up, smirking at watching your nonchalant boss lose his composure so quickly.
"keeping you company." you repeat casually, as though it's normal for employees to do this with their boss.
despite his better judgement he doesn't correct your bad behavior, doesn't tell you to get off his lap. he simply shifts his hips below yours to get comfortable.
but sitting on his lap isn't enough to rid the tension that runs rampant through his lithe frame.
you start slow, testing your limits, with a teasing roll of your hips. dragging your clothed core over the line of his soft cock.
still no reprimand.
even as kenma grits his teeth, face darkening several shades until it's a pretty baby pink dusting over his cheeks.
if he was handsome before, he's absolutely delectable now.
so you keep going, grinding on his dick, feeling every twitch and swell beneath you until he's rock hard. tenting his slacks, straining against the fabric.
"may i?" you ask, hand hovering just above his belt. his reply is a muttered plea, bordering on desperate and dismissive. poor guy can't even believe this is truly happening.
in record time both his belt and pants are undone, cock springing free and slapping his stomach, leaving a splotch of pre in its wake.
your hand strokes his cock a few times, getting a feel for how thick and heavy it is—and fuck your hand feels much better than his—hastily tugging your drenched panties to the side before lining him up with your entrance. slowly sliding down on his length.
"fuuuckk..." kenma groans, head tipping back as your cunt sucks him in deeper. it's so hot and so wet, better than anything he could've imagined. now he understands why his friends were so desperate to get laid, his hand would never be better than this.
he can feel your arousal leaking down, collecting on his balls when you finally take all of him in.
you look dazzling like this, eyes glassy and chest heaving. kenma pulls you in for a hungry kiss, pouring out all his frustration and longing. his hands grip your hips hard while you bounce, letting you take what you want. wet slaps of skin match the filthy slurps of your mouths colliding, drool leaking down his lips.
his abs tense, rolling his hips up to chase this rush. your moans are like a lethal injection into his veins, launching him straight into his release. whimpering loudly as hot spurts of cum pump into your fluttering pussy, holding you balls deep as he spills himself inside your walls.
kenma forgets for a moment that he isn't supposed to cum this quickly.
that he's supposed to last a for much, much longer time.
"haaah— shit, sorry..."
when kenma finally meets your eyes he's scared but rather than the look of disgust that he expects, you're smiling sweetly, almost smug.
"don't apologize." you whisper, kissing at his jaw, "i think it's hot."
"hot? there's something wrong with your brain..."
"it's a compliment." you argue, "you're so into me that you couldn't hold back."
kenma couldn't disagree with that statement—he did hire you on the spot because he found you attractive.
"still... you didn't... right?" he can't even voice the full question, fearing that he'll get a rep for being bad in bed.
you hum in thought, shaking your head, holding your hands up to stop the rush of words kenma is about to spill. "we have all night."
all night.
not only did you let him hit once, you're gonna let him go for multiple rounds? his cock twitches to life, stretching to stuff you full. already ready to go. "now be a good boy for me, sir."
oh, you're going to be such a problem for him. an addiction that he can't break.
kenma has years of sexual inexperience to cure and what better way than to let you ruin him as many times as you desire.
kinktober day 2 - kuroo tetsurou x f!reader - coming untouched
cws: pussy eating, overstimulation, slight degradation ig, we're blaming the weed for this one
you taste even better than he imagined. he's thought about it at length, too. after so many overtime hours working on projects with you, he's imagined laying you out on top of the conference table for him to feast at least 100 times.
he loves eating. has even gotten a little bit of a reputation for it - one he’s proud to have cultivated - and one you dashed in two seconds with a simple,
“you can’t be that good.”
the way you’re now grinding your hips into his face and gripping his hair for dear life begs to differ.
if he had to pick a favorite moment up to now, it would have to be spreading your labia apart and watching your hole clench and jump. right after teasing you for getting desperate and watching you flush all over.
“you’ve got a greedy pussy, baby,” he says now, slurping at the watery slick gushing out of you. “she keeps on beggin’ for more.”
“shut up shut up shut up - “ you dig your heels into his shoulder blades. “just fucking fuck me you stupid man - god I hate how good you are at this - “
“yes, ma’am,” he says, grinning. he’s pretty sure he’s humping up into the air like a fucking dog.
his slacks have been uncomfortably tight since he latched his mouth around your clit - honestly, before that, when you’d sneered at him and told him he couldn’t possibly be as good as he thought he was, and the next thing he knew, he was kicking in the door to his apartment and tossing you on the couch.
kuroo folds you over, drawing your pussy up nice and close. you squeal in delight and torment.
he’s never enjoyed eating pussy this much. it’s always been fun, a challenge, something to honestly, give him an edge in bed - but now, with you using his mouth and tongue like you own him, he thinks he’s meant to be here for the rest of his life.
his dick is a weeping, throbbing mess, his balls so tight against his body he’s surprised they haven’t tucked themselves back in.
“so close, kuroo, please, please, i’m so so close. god i’ll kill you if you stop, I swear - “
your pelvis dips down and then slams back up. he has to steady you while you ride through the wave of your orgasm, the ripples of it shaking down your legs and through your toes.
he groans around your clit. you wail around the overstimulation, but he can’t help it - he’s cumming too, dick jumping and shooting out load after load down the inside of his pant leg. his tongue works through your folds, drinking down your arousal in greedy gulps. the ache in his balls lessens with each pull.
"kuroo - " you're pushing him away, wiggling. "please, it's too much."
"no," he says, holding your hips still. "i don't think i've proven my point just yet."
summary: fwb!katsuki has a panic attack in front of you
content warning: suggestive, mention of mental health issues (anxiety, depression), mention of suicidal thoughts, angst (with a happy ending)
the three grey dots blink on in the corner of the screen, then disappear after a few seconds. they appear again, and you're slightly ashamed of the way your stomach flutters. your phone buzzes in your hand, and you see the text the second he hits send.
chicken katsu: come over? [1:28 AM]
and like a dog called home to its owner, you crawl out of bed, grabbing your keys and locking the door behind you as you make the trek to his apartment. it doesn't take long before you get there, the door flinging open before you make it to the top step.
katsuki bakugou leans a muscular shoulder on the door frame, his hands tucked in his pockets. you quickly notice his hair is disheveled—almost as if he'd been running his hands through it—but you pause when you take stock of the look on his face. light purple bags have made a home under his eyes, and his cheeks look more hollowed out than they did the last time you'd seen him.
and when your eyes meet his, alarm bells start going off in the epicenter of your heart. his eyes were devoid of the usual fire, a hauntingly blank look startling you.
"what's wrong?" you murmur, eyes searching his face as you get closer.
he says nothing, but gently grasps your wrist, tugging you inside. as soon as the door is shut, he's got you pressed up against it, lips molded to your own. his fingers curl tightly into your hair, nearly holding onto you like you were his lifeline.
a half whine falls from your mouth, and he takes that as his cue to lead you to his bedroom where he walks you back on his bed, hands gliding across every inch of your body as you sink into the plush of his mattress. and despite the feeling that something was seriously wrong with him, you give in to the pleasure, soft sighs escaping your lips as he makes quick work of your clothing.
afterwards, he holds you close to his chest, thick arms wrapped around you. In the quiet darkness of his room, your breathing evens, sleep pulling you down. hours later, you’re startled awake. you feel bakugou's body trembling behind you, chest rising and falling as short gasps escape him.
"kats?" you break from his hold and turn towards him, alarmed. your eyes adjust quickly to the dim light of the room. he's facing you now, but his eyes are squeezed tightly shut, his large frame nearly curled in on itself.
“can’t…can’t breathe,” he gasps out, teeth chattering.
sliding yourself up a little in his large bed, you gently tuck his face into your chest, fingers sliding into his hair. slowly, you stroke your fingers gently across his scalp, not knowing what else to do. it takes some time, but with the gentle repetitive movements of your fingers and the steady thumping of your heartbeat under his ear loosens the panic attack’s hold on him. his breathing evens out, and he’s asleep, soft snores warming the skin where he lays.
you wake the next morning to an empty bed and a cup of coffee on the nightstand. while this was a common behavior when you slept over, there was an odd sinking feeling in your chest as you stared at the sheets that were haphazardly thrown back on his side of the bed.
throughout the rest of the day, your thoughts never stray from bakugou and the way he crumpled into himself the night before. you wait a few hours, but after it becomes clear he isn’t going to reach out, you text him.
you: how are you feeling? [9:08 AM]
you: bakugou? [3:19 PM]
you: katsuki, please just tell me you're okay [10:32 PM]
but he never responds.
it isn't until two nights later when you're attending the annual pro-hero gala that you see him. he's across the room, his back turned to you, but you know that it's him—several nights of mapping his body with your hands, and you're sure you could recognize those broad shoulders anywhere.
he's sandwiched between mina and kirishima, and even from where you were standing you could see the tense curve of his shoulders. a furrow appears in between your brows, and you make the decision to approach him, your worry for him outweighing the uneasiness his silence towards you brought.
he could be mad at you all he wanted; you weren’t going to let him ice you out when he was clearly struggling.
the click of your heels against the tile announces your arrival, and the trio looks towards you. kirishima and mina light up instantly, and you try to ignore the sharp hurt in your chest when bakugou refuses to even look in your direction, his gaze pointedly turned elsewhere.
"hey, beautiful," kirishima says, bending to kiss your cheek. You smile at him, but your eyes are locked on bakugou, who still won’t look in your direction. kirishima frowns, his elbow digging sharply into the blonde’s side. bakugou wets his lips, his crimson eyes finally meeting yours.
there’s an awkward beat of silence, and then mina lifts her heel and stomps down on bakugou’s foot. he huffs, then straightens his spine. he averts his gaze from you, but offers you his elbow. you hesitate but gently grasp his bicep as he leads you to the edge of the tiling where the attendees were dancing.
the music from the small orchestral set is slow and soft, a romantic tune that lilts as he wraps an arm around your waist, his warm palm resting in the center of your exposed back where the fabric of your dress dipped at the lower part of your spine. his fingers gently pry your palm open, sliding in and grasping your hand as he lifts it up.
he sways the two of you back and forth, quiet for a few moments. then he sighs, his eyes dipping down to meet yours. gone was the stoic mask he’d donned in the moments prior; now, he let his exhaustion and vulnerability bleed through.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I think I—”
“hey, bakugou, mind if I cut in?” a soft voice asks, interrupting whatever it was bakugou was going to say. bakugou's mouth snaps shut, the open expression on his face shuttering as he drops your hand and turns toward shinso.
“I don’t think—” you start to say, but bakugou cuts you off.
“go,” he says softly, backing away and shoving his hands in his pockets.
shinso puts a friendly hand on your shoulder, guiding you further onto the dance floor. but you don’t take your eyes off of bakugou, your head turning back to watch him disappear into the crowd.
“trouble in paradise?” shinso asks, not unkindly. he was a close friend of yours, one of your first friends when you moved to town, and you hadn’t seen him in a while due to his pro-hero duties. and while you felt bad for being distracted, you still couldn’t help the worry threading through your veins.
“what?” you ask, eyebrows dropping in confusion. He spins you once, then pulls you in close to him, swaying you back and forth.
“I’ve never seen two people completely oblivious to their feelings for each other, but then I just saw you two,” he says casually. you miss a step and accidentally dig your heel into his foot.
“we’re just friends,” you say firmly, but the words taste acrid in your mouth.
shinso just shakes his head, a grin forming on his lips. he spins you around the floor for a few songs, chattering about his adventures with eri and aizawa, then lets you go, patting your head gently. “thanks for the dance, but I think he needs you more right now; go get him.”
you nod, shooting a smile at him before spotting kirishima. you rush over to him, knowing that he would know where bakugou ran off to. “where’s—”
“he went home,” he says, “honestly he was being kind of a dick tonight, but when he left, he hugged me, which was really fucking weird.”
you shake your head, the worry turning to panic as you hurry back through the doors of the gala. the autumn air chills you immediately, goosebumps rising across your exposed skin. huffing, you teeter down the stone steps, your heels catching in the loose stones. your ankle nearly buckles once more, and you tug off your heels and hold them both in one hand, nearly running down the stone steps and onto the sidewalk, heading towards bakugou's apartment.
it’s only a few blocks, but it feels like more as you race through empty streets, trying to make it to him before he did something stupid. you remember a time where you’d felt something similar, years ago before you’d arrived in this city. loneliness ate at you until nothing was left but an empty shell of the person you used to be. and you couldn’t let the man you secretly loved go through the same thing.
you stumble up the steps to his door, nearly punching the buzzer. you tried to catch your breath in the silence that follows, chest heaving with the effort to bring in more air. after a moment the door opens, the anxiety in your belly dissipating when you see him. he's alive, dressed in a pair of joggers and a soft t-shirt, hair mussed.
“what are you doin’ here?” He asks, voice quieter than usual as he scans your body from head to toe.
“I—I was worried about you,” you say, embarrassment warming your face. you’d panicked for no reason, and now you felt slightly silly, having run all the way here to play knight in shining armor.
“your feet are bleeding,” he chides, leaning down to gently grab your heels from where they dangled in your hand. while his concern was warranted, the comment sent a spike of irritation through your body.
“I don’t care about my damn feet,” you exclaim, “I care about you!”
he pauses. “yeah, well. you shouldn’t.”
“what’s that supposed to mean?”
he shakes his head. “nothing. can you come inside? please? you’re hurt and…and probably cold.” without waiting for a response, he pulls you inside past the threshold, shutting the door gently behind you.
the room is dimly lit, the TV a low hum in front of the couch. bakugou walks into his bathroom, the sound of cabinets shutting and plastic shuffling reaching your ears. when he comes back out, he sets the familiar medical kit on the floor and leads you over to the couch where you perch on the edge of the cushion.
a dull ache begins crawling up your legs, your body suddenly slumping in exhaustion. you felt silly, and now he was taking care of you, when it should have been the other way around.
“did you run all the way here?” he asks, tilting a bottle of what smelled like antiseptic into a soft maroon towel.
“yeah,” you whisper, hissing when he presses the towel to the cuts on your feet. "you left, and kirishima said something that...well, it doesn't matter."
bakugou hums lightly, then procures a pair of fluffy black and white striped socks. he carefully slips them on your feet and then stands, the lid to the med kit clicking softly shut. you stare up at him, not knowing what to say.
he lets out a sigh, then sits down on the couch beside you.
"I know you heard about what happened to me, a few years back. when I...came back. shortly after, I started having these panic attacks, ones that would leave me nearly catatonic for days. I dealt with them alone, because I thought that other people had it worse off; that their pain was more important than mine. so I shoved all of the anxiety down until it hardened and became this...ugly living thing inside of me. sometimes I still get the panic attacks; not nearly as bad, but all of the other stuff never really went away."
"the other stuff?"
"nightmares, uh, thoughts of...well. that it'd be better if I wasn't here. sometimes it's fine, but then crowded rooms will trigger it, or sometimes I just drift, and the loneliness consumes me."
"katsuki..."
"i'm not saying any of this so you feel bad for me, I just...wanted to give you a real explanation. one I haven't really given anyone."
"thank you, that...had to be hard to share." you slip your hand into his, your fingers gently rubbing across his knuckles. surprised, he looks down, his eyes glued to your ministrations.
"I've struggled too, with some of that. and it...it can eat you alive. I'm glad you trusted me enough to let me in. I've been worried about you," you admit, leaning your head on his shoulder.
"I'm scared," he whispers, so quiet you aren't sure you hear him at first.
"scared of what?" you ask, voice hushed.
"scared of you," he replies, voice soft. the words knock you off of your axis, completely unexpected.
"I'm not leaving, if that's what you're worried about."
"you say that now, but—"
"katsuki, I ran all the way here because I thought you had hurt yourself," he flinches slightly, "I'm not leaving you, okay?"
he dips his head in acknowledgement before maneuvering his body, his head turning to rest in your lap. your fingers automatically make a home in his hair, nails scratching soothing circles into his scalp.
I love you. you hold the words in, locking them away in a tightly sealed box. you're scared too, much more than you'd care to admit. but tonight was about him—about making him feel seen in a way that no one else had before.
a/n: hole-ee shit, this took me an embarrassing amount of time to finish. thank you to my anonymous friend for bearing with me and also requesting this bc i feel like i needed to write this lol <3 thanks for reading!
If he could just have you, it would be like taking a little piece of sunshine with him as he goes off into the darkness. Something brighter than anger, warmer than revenge.
Sanemi doesn't know how to go about approaching a relationship, but he does know of a tradition that allows him to make his intentions clear.
Features forced relationship, historical sexism, minor biting/blood, noncon/extreme dubcon, somnophilia, and yobai.
A/N: Last of the kinktober fics! Please heed the warnings, this is a dark fic.
*meme by @ monarchbutterbee
*dividers by @ cafekitsune
*member of @pixelcafe-network
It isn't unheard of. Even if it is falling out of fashion. Sanemi knew about it happening around his village. He hears about it happening now. It's not as if he will be punished for it regardless; the hashira are always encouraged to start families and pass down their techniques like in the Rengoku family. It's even better because you know his world.
The first time he saw you was at the Butterfly Mansion. You were shadowing Aoi, though you're closer to his age. He came in after a particularly challenging mission, gash in his arm so deep as to show bone. The moon was still in the sky when he entered the mansion. The blood looked almost black under the dim light of the halls. You awoke first, attuned to the danger of the darkness. Despite being in your nightdress, you didn't hesitate to attend to his needs. The kindness in your eyes and the way you squeezed his hand was enough to remind Sanemi that he is a man with needs. More than just urges he can pay to have fulfilled, he wants a partner to see past his scars.
Sanemi creeps in, past flickering candles and closed doors. He knows which room is yours. One doesn't become a hashira without being able to do a little reconnaissance. A steadying inhale, and he slides the shoji open and inserts himself into your space. Sanemi doesn't think you'd mind. He's seen your eyes linger, especially after he removes his haori and shirt for you to treat any new wounds. There's not a doubt in his mind that you want him too.
The rise and fall of your chest is as soft as you are. Even in sleep Sanemi thinks you have a certain grace about you. Something that cannot be mimicked, but an innate glow that draws him out of the night straight to you. If he could just <i>have</i> you, it would be like taking a little piece of sunshine with him as he goes off into the darkness. Something brighter than anger, warmer than revenge. For a few moments he is content to watch you dream. You murmur something in your sleep. The sound is almost something like his name, but you're too quiet for him to be sure.
Sanemi observes you carefully as he strips himself entirely. This isn't some quick tryst in exchange for some money, he wants to feel you completely. He likes the romance of having his bare skin against your own. It's not something he has ever done before. In his limited experience Sanemi has only undressed enough not to make a mess of his clothing.
He doesn't even have to stroke himself to get ready. Even if he tried to deny his body in the past, Sanemi is a virile man with urges. And surely as a fertile young woman, you won't need much coaxing either. Sanemi doesn't want to wake you up so soon, so he settles for lifting your night dress. There's nothing between you and the moonlight. It's as though you knew he would be coming tonight. Sanemi gives your curls a few light pets before moving his fingers downward. It looks like he won't need to put in much effort to prepare you either.
Sanemi parts your legs a little more as he climbs over you. He caresses your clit, sliding his fingers down occasionally to spread the moisture building in your slit. Parting your lips he tries to take a peek inside you, though it's too dark to really see anything. He'd like to put his fingers in your mouth as well. If he wasn't worried about waking you, Sanemi would push down on your tongue and see how wet you were there too.
The tips of his fingers just barely breach you. Just as he dreamed of, you're tight and soaked. Too tight to have ever taken a man before. Sanemi can't wait another second. The tip of his cock is so snug in your entrance. You give way a little, just enough for the head to fit inside. Sanemi can't resist a few light thrusts. In and out, in and out, until he's forced his way in a little deeper.
You're becoming increasingly restless, but you don't begin to stir until he's already sheathed his halfway in. Perhaps you would have stayed asleep, if he had waited longer. But the need to take you became too strong for him to bear. You've been so good for him, not waking up too soon. There's no point in waiting anymore. As you meet consciousness he forces his cock all the way in.
You cry out, part pleasure part pain. "Shi-Shinazugawa-san! What are you doing?"
"Sshh it's okay. I'm making sure we can be together." When you begin to writhe underneath him he restrains your wrists with one hand.
"Stop! This is not the way!" You shake your head, but meet his hips with each deep stroke.
"I've seen you watching me."
"Yes! Okay yes! That's true." You try to push your wrists up to break his grip. "But we could discuss this in the morning!"
Kocho's soft voice interrupts the whisper-yelling. You both freeze.
"Is everything okay?"
He cannot say he's completely surprised that she knows he's here. Sanemi isn't worried. Rengoku found his wife here in the same way. She might even find her own wife this way, if she can get away with it. It is tradition. Nonetheless he looks down at you, waiting to see what you'll do or say.
"I'll take care of you." He whispers close to your face, ignoring the way you wince. "You can keep working here, if you want. As long as you come back to our estate when you're done."
Can't you see there's nobody who could give you what he can? Protection, stability, and love. Maybe you do, because you tilt your pelvis up into him when he begins to pump once more. Sanemi releases a loud groan before answering Kocho.
"Mind your fucking business."
Speaking to your mentor must have been a mistake, because your eyes widen and your body becomes rigid. You try to shove his wrists away again, but it's pointless. Few humans can meet his strength.
"Of course, Shinazugawa-san." She responds with a teasing chuckle. "Who am I to disrupt two lovers? Just try not to disturb anyone else."
Kocho's footsteps fade away, and Sanemi knows there will be no more interruptions. You must know it too, because you stop trying to shove his hand away.
"You're so beautiful. So perfect for me." Each thrust is harder than the last.
"Please Shinazugawa-san. You're too rough." You pant between each word. "I've never done this before. It hurts."
"I promise I'll be so gentle with you next time. Just give me this now. Let me take you the way I'm meant to." He kisses your soft lips, sliding his tongue against your own until you reciprocate with a moan.
It feels like hours, and it feels like minutes. You're so warm and he can't stop chasing the euphoria. Just a bit deeper, just a bit longer. If only he could meld his body into yours. He pushes himself harder against your clit and the friction is enough to have you clamping down on him. Sanemi's movements grow sloppy. He's seconds away from filling you completely.
"Please pull out. It's too much." You try to angle your pussy away from him. The stimulation must be as overwhelming for you as it is for him.
"Can't." He gasps. Sanemi shoves himself hard against your womb, spurting his heat as far as your body allows.
Your mouth finds his shoulder, biting down and screaming against his skin. Can you taste the salt of his sweat? It's all for you. The sting increases as the force of your jaw punctures his skin. He's nearly delirious with pleasure. You've penetrated him just like he's done to you.
Sanemi gazes down at you after he's emptied his cock entirely, wiping the blood away from your lower lip. Had you even noticed that you bit down to muffle your cries? When you move into your shared home, you'll never have to silence yourself.
"I love you. I want you forever." He feels naked under the sincerity of his confession.
You trace the teeth marks on his shoulder. Beneath his heavy body your legs quiver, your arms shake.
"I'll fix that." Your voice trembles.
"I think I like it. My first scar from another human. From my wife."
"I'll fix it." You repeat, a little more firm. Your fingertips dance along the edges of the wound.
It's more permanent than any sort of ceremony or paperwork. Sanemi nudges the tip of your nose with his own and to his relief, you let him.
childhood friend yandere!sae watching you run to him with tears streaming down your face, sobbing about how your shitty boyfriend stood you up. again. his gaze follows your every step with a knowing glint in his eye, as if he’s been waiting—patiently waiting for this moment.
you sob to him—your most treasured friend that you’ve always confided in, falling into his arms when he wordlessly raised them, smearing your tears all over his shirt.
sae holds you close, cradling your head into his chest. he murmurs lowly into your ear, in a reassuring and sweet tone but his curt words are anything but. no. instead, they’re “i told you, didn’t i? did you really think he was the one for you?” and “you never listen to me because you’re so stubborn. and here we are again. you should know that i’m the only one who can treat you right.”
you look up at him with teary eyes. but your vision is so blurry that you can’t see the leering glint in his teal gaze. the devious shadow that passes over his face as his arms tighten around you. you think it’s a comforting squeeze, one filled with love and care. definitely not the sickening embrace of a predator finally capturing their prey.
“how is it that you’re always right, sae? no one sees me like you do.”
“they don’t. but it’s okay, you’ll always have me.”
“really?” you ask him, your face crumpled with helplessness.
“really. you trust me, don’t you?”
you nod, unquestioningly—vulnerably.
and you miss the way his phone vibrates in the pockets of his pants. ringing with messages from someone he paid off to distract your boyfriend.
“i’ll show you,” he affirms you, the dark intensity in his eyes increasing tenfold.
he shows you when he pulls your compliant body through the streets. he stops by your favorite ice cream store, ordering your favorite flavor without so much as a glance towards you. he brings you to your favorite store, buying you all the little knick-knacks that you’ve always mentioned to your ex boyfriend but never received. but why dwell on that, when your loving and caring friend, sae, can get them for you?
he shows you when his bedroom door clicks shut behind him, whispering sweet filth into your ear. roaming his greedy hands all over your body that arches into him. cherishing you as he peels off each layer of your clothing and rasping how good you are for him.
he shows you when he’s cooing against your hair how he’s the only one who can ever treat you how you ought to be treated—worshipped, treasured, loved. fucking into you like he has nothing to lose. filling you up over and over again with his cum that claims. licking the tears off your face as you cry out in pleasure.
sweetly urging you to say it with him, that he’s the only one for you, that you’re his and his forever.
having a baby with the president of the most infamous frat on campus was not a part of any of your plans.
he wasn't even your boyfriend. despite how many times he tried to tell his frat bros he still had dibs on you.
"dude, stop staring at my girlfriend's tits," gojo huffed, smacking sukuna in the back of the head as you glared up at both of them, curled up in the corner of a ratty couch while your four month old latched onto your left nipple, greedy little fingers digging into your breast.
like he could talk when he was gawking right there with them.
"i'm not your girlfriend," you reminded him, brows furrowed tight before you glanced back down at the chubby baby in your arms. the soft tufts of white sticking up and sleepy blue eyes that made sure you'd never be able to forget where she came from.
god, you didn't know how the hell you ended up raising your infant in an apartment across from their frat house. okay, maybe you did, and maybe it involved a few too many body shots and getting your thong shoved to the side by a pretty playboy. who, apparently, bought the wrong size condom.
you were just the unlucky girl it broke for.
"you could be my wife," gojo unhelpfully flirted right as your daughter popped off your swollen tit, blinking slowly like she was about to fall back asleep.
"i'll pass," you deadpanned, carefully fixing your unfortunately milk-stained bra back in place over your sore nipple without disturbing her.
you already had a baby. you didn't need a husband too.
even if she'd been an accident, you adored your daughter. you just weren't the biggest fan of her father.
you had no interest starting a relationship with him when he'd lose interest eventually. find someone more exciting to chase. who didn't have stretch marks and didn't go to parties anymore.
gojo paid for your place. spoiled his daughter. came over himself or had the few actually responsible frat brothers stop by to babysit her when you had to go to class and couldn't take her.
but you refused to let him in your bed.
no matter how much he begged.
"please." literally.
even if you were sometimes tempted. even if okay, maybe once or twice, or, uh, a handful of times, you might have joined him on the couch since he knocked you up. and uh, since you had her.
"don't you have, like, an internship to go to?" you asked, arching up an eyebrow as his tattooed friend nudged him with his elbow.
"he's already late," sukuna tch-ed, adding fuel to the fire like you were too oblivious to realize he was just trying to be alone with you too. he was the one who showed up with food he claimed he'd just accidentally ordered extra of, ditching parties to come with you to the closest park to push her around in a stroller when she wouldn't sleep.
"i'll just tell my dad i was spending time with my girls," he huffed, and you couldn't help but roll your eyes.
having a baby had only made his life easier.
his parents promised him a higher position in their company after college, letting him work whatever hours he wanted for now, just to take care of the two of you. while you were struggling to just finish your classwork to get your own degree so you wouldn't need him to do it anyway.
there was a knock on the door, and all it took was a single sharp look directed his way for gojo to scramble to answer it, although he immediately groaned when he saw who it was.
"i thought you had class," gojo complained, and you tilted your head enough to catch a glimpse of dark hair.
"thought you had work," geto cooly replied, walking past him to join you on the couch after slipping his shoes off by the door. his smile was easy, one corner curled up higher at the other as his soft eyes shifted from your face down to your daughter's, reaching out to touch her tiny fist.
her long lashes fluttering as her fingers wrapped around one of his, squeezing tight as she finally dozed off.
"so you decide to come over to what? play step daddy to my baby?" gojo whined, like he was the baby.
"uh-huh," geto hummed, bangs falling in his face as he scooted closer to you on the couch, one of his muscled thighs pressing against yours.
you bit your lip to hold back a laugh.
they all talked a big game. but you knew they'd lose interest eventually.
wouldn't they?
"i'm banning you from being here," gojo pouted, geto remaining unfazed as he glanced back up at you with amusement glittering in his eyes.
"am i banned?" he asked you instead, ignoring his best friend, who literally looked like he was two seconds from strangling him.
"will you keep cooking for me?" you softly murmured, keeping your voice quiet enough to not wake your daughter.
"anything you want," geto promised, and perhaps, you did get a little joy in pissing your baby daddy off, because you were already bobbing your head up and down.
"you're not banned," you answered, knowing gojo wouldn't argue with you when he'd spent the past thirteen months desperate to win you over.
"sweetheart," he started, but geto shushed him.
"the baby's asleep, satoru," geto scolded him.
"stop acting like you're gonna give my baby a sibling, suguru," gojo snapped back at him, nose scrunching up like it was taking everything in him not to prey him off of you by the collar off his shirt.
all they were giving you was a headache.
you guessed it could be worse though.
at least you weren't pregnant again.
right?
div cr: @/tsumiinum
reblogs + comments are always greatly appreciated :3
An understatement, and an obvious one at that. He towers over every slayer, every Hashira, and is at least double the width of the burliest among them. He takes up space you don’t even know exists, whether it’s with his shadow or his voice, or the sweeping breadth of his attacks.
All of this is well known among the Corps. Only you’re familiar with how much the size and girth of him continues below his Corps-issued belt and hakama.
Gyomei Himejima’s body may be stone, but his cock is fat. Veiny, and nearly as thick as your forearm. The first time he’d entered you had been more difficult than any training, any battle you’d ever endured. At the time, you’d only been able to take half of him, the resulting stretch too much, too tight, as every nook and cranny inside you had been filled with him. The pain and discomfort couldn’t be ignored, no matter the deliciousness of the feeling of being utterly and completely claimed; of knowing that no part of your body wasn’t bending and yielding around his. You’d tapped out with nails clawing at his shoulders, something that at first only made Gyomei moan, his head leaning heavily into the crook of your shoulder. It was only when you began to whimper that he pulled back, moved his great fingers over your lips and felt them trembling that he withdrew, a litany of apologies rolling off his tongue.
Now, you’re far more accustomed to him, and your body has long since learned how to yield to his. Still, that doesn’t mean his cock doesn’t knock the wind out of you every time it punches up against your cervix as you bounce on his lap, hands braced on his thick shoulders as you grind and ride. You feel him in your stomach, your lungs, hell, even your chest but it doesn’t matter because if you weren’t meant to be his — weren’t meant to take him again and again, until his cum spilled over your joint connection, making your thighs sticky while he nuzzled against your throat or breast — then you wouldn’t be able to have him at all. Your body never would have learned how to soften in his arms, how to spread your thighs or hold up your backside for him to explore with his tongue or fingers or yes, even his cock. But you did, and that makes Gyomei’s sweet moan, graveled and broken, so deep it vibrates up out of him and into you, so much sweeter.
