you’re staring. you know you’re staring, and you know it’s socially impolite and rude, but you can’t help it. social…rightness has never particularly been your strong suit, and you think that the man you’re staring at is going to crush your head in between hands that are more like tiger paws. before he can commence with the head crushing, you approach him, maybe just a bit too rapidly.
Sukuna stares down at you. this awkward, almost bug-eyed stranger, who’s been staring at him from across the produce aisle for one too many seconds now. you don’t even look at the pomegranates below you before you’re making your way over to him, phone up and opened, your mouth opening and closing once, twice.
“spit it out,” he tells you, nose in the air. you note that he doesn’t have a cart or a basket, and is holding too many things in his hands that shouldn’t be possible. again; tiger claws. his voice reverberates through the quiet aisles of the store, and you blink back into focus, staring again. he can count the moles on your skin from your proximity.
“your tattoos are really nice,” you start out, replaying back in your head your rehearsed lines, trying to keep your voice steady. “the black is so solid, and the line work is incredible.”
you pause, waiting for his acknowledgment, his grunt of thanks. he doesn’t say anything and neither do you until he, briskly, lifts and drops a shoulder in what you assume is his version of thanks. you continue, and he can’t help but narrow his eyes a bit in amusement at your little quirks.
“can I ask the artist who did them? I’d like to get my sleeve done by someone who’s as precise as whoever did yours.” smile. blink. slightly hold up your phone in indication that you’re ready to start typing when he speaks. Sukuna watches you for a long moment, maroon eyes raking you in ever so slowly, feels the familiar tingle behind his teeth when he wants to taste flesh.
“his name is Mahito,” he tells you, but holds a large hand (paw) up when you begin to type. “but he’s a fucking creep, so don’t go to him.”
oh. your mouth opens and closes once more. you’re about to tell him thanks and turn on your heel when he stops you, giving you the first glint of the lilting at the corner of his lips. is it a smile?
“got this other guy I frequent sometimes,” the man tells you, leaning against the produce, uncaring of how his thick hip squishes a bunch of bananas. you want to comment on it, but hold your tongue, wide eyes enraptured with the big man in front of you, who—who smiles? it feels more like a baring of teeth, but you accept it anyway. “I work on his car, he does my tattoos for free. I’ll take you by there sometime.”
the man snatches your phone from your hands without preamble, shifting the rest of his groceries into that singular paw. you can only watch wide eyed as he single-handedly types something into your phone, his teeth sharp as he downright leers at you when he hands it back.
you barely get out a thanks before the man disappears around a corner, more black thick ink peeking out from beneath the tank top that pulls at his broad shoulders. you look down at your phone, find a number, and wonder if it’s his, or the tattoo shop’s. you have a feeling you already know which one.
Hello everyone! The swipe of the scythe of tumblr reached me. which is very... tiring and frustrating. I'm trying to recover it but who the hell knows how it will go.
Meanwhile this is my new home :')
If you could share this post so I can find more mutuals that would be amazing.
contents; suguru geto x fem!reader. age gap (suguru is written with late 30s to early 40s in mind; reader is a university student.) long distance relationship. fluff & smut: afab reader, mostly sweet and gentle sex, though r and suguru are very needy for each other. some hair pulling and implied overstim. light dirty talk. for characterization purposes he wears a condom. + doting aftercare scene wc; 3.1k
commissioned by @toobadkoi !! thank you again for commissioning me !! 🥺💗
"There you are."
There's a man in front of the door to your apartment, broad-shouldered and tight-jawed: a plastic bag clutched in his palm and blue umbrella tucked between his arm and rib. The milk-blue sky is knitted over with cotton clouds and grayscale watercolour, the air between your bodies reeks of humid asphalt and cut grass. He perks up when he notices you, disheveled as you are from the weather and the day you've had, a warm smile fanning out across his lips.
Rain patters noisily against the sidewalk behind you. Your eyes widen— brain spinning. Skipping past the last remaining steps of the staircase, his name a heavy weight between your lips.
"Suguru?"
"Welcome home, honey." He catches you in his embrace, his voice thick at your ear, ripe with longing. Curse him for sounding so effortlessly domestic. "How was your day?"
"Forget my day," you pull back with a bright, unshakeable smile, eager for a proper look at him. You can barely remember what you were so exhausted about. Seminars? Does it matter when he's in front of you, warm to the touch and looking at you like he wants nothing but to press your lips flush against his? "What are you doing here? No, wait— how long have you been waiting here?" you slip on a playful pout. "I would've hurried if you'd told me…"
"Don't you worry," he smooths a palm down your shoulder, squeezing it gently. "I don't mind. I wanted it to come as a surprise."
Breathless laughter. You run a hand through your wet hair. "Trust me, it did. Gosh."
This older gentleman is Suguru Geto, your boyfriend of nearly one year. He lives five hours away by car, in an rural town surrounded by thick clusters of cypress and cedar trees, far from the hustle and bustle of the city you've settled down to study in. You met him there on a trip with your friends, and the rest is history. He's the best boyfriend you've had to date: caring and patient, supportive but comfortable in redirecting you when you need it. Obscenely handsome. Obviously. Your age difference was never an issue, because Suguru is always transparent with you, and never treads around speaking candidly.
The single downside is how far he is.
(Of course, the issue came up early. Suguru has roots where he's at. History. A stable line of work. He knows all of the locals by name, is well-loved by all of them. Between the two of you, it's obvious who'd be expected to move.
Except you don't like that. You don't like that it has to be you, that you'd have to build your life around his just because he's older.
And neither does he. So, at least for the time being, you're at a standstill.)
But now, he's right in front of you. Greeting you with a sunny smile, smelling lightly of oakwood incense and coconut oil, looking better than ever. Hair tied into a half up-half down bun, white threads gleaming silver in between the ink-black. He never believes you when you tell him they're sexy. Age wears him perfectly.
Hunger stirs in your gut.
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you," he murmurs, leaving a kiss below your ear that really, really isn't helping his case. You're gonna eat him up. "I know you've been stressed lately… I was hoping I could keep you company tonight."
"Why are you apologizing?" you huff. "This was the best thing I could have come back to."
The corners of his eyes soften. They're dog-like, adoring, taking you in. Seconds pass without him speaking. You share a long, weighty look, the patter of rainfall crescendoing behind you: the summer shower is only getting worse.
"Let's go inside," you hasten, tugging at his bicep. Fishing for keys in your front pocket.
Your boyfriend follows, cluelessly.
As soon as the door closes behind you, a dull thud echoing down the hall— you pounce. Wrapping your arms around his neck and dragging him down to your lips, sticky chapstick tethering you together when you mash them against his. A noise of surprise rasps in his throat, muffled against your mouth, but he's quick to catch himself; falling into your rhythm, parting his lips when you nudge at the seam of them, tongues gliding together in a sloppy, heated waltz. He tastes of pocket mints and need. An arm sneaks around your waist, hefty fingers dipping underneath your shirt to caress the dip of your lower back, causing your trembling frame to press closer. This ache in your chest feels like it'll never go away. Missing him, wanting him, drinking the oxygen straight from his lungs. Both the umbrella and plastic bag clatter on the doormat.
Your breaths mingle in the dark corner.
When you have to pull away, slack-jawed and doe-eyed, you're met with his swollen lips and molten expression, honey-brown eyes hot with desire. He looks like he could eat you alive like this: cornered, taking a shallow, quiet breath. His cheeks dusted pink with peach fuzz.
But he maintains his composure.
(Age has made him patient, you think. He's always been good at holding back with you. Sometimes it makes you want to push and prod at that part of him— just to see how he'd react. If you could hit on something. Wear him out. He is weak to you; that much you're sure of.)
"… Oh, baby," he's breathless as he speaks, reaching down to pick the plastic bag off the floor. "I almost forgot to give you these."
Inside it is a blue bouquet, hydrangeas paired with clusters of baby's breath. The syrupy scent of rainy season sticks to their petals. He hands them to you with a sweet smile, all-together unfitted for the animalistic need you feel right now, tongue heady with the taste of his saliva, but it still makes your heart bleed. Your boyfriend is something of a flower buff: because of that, you know what they represent. You know about the story of the emperor who gave hydrangeas to his neglected lover, in apology, in repetance. You understand what he's trying to say.
Suguru doesn't just talk to you in words. He speaks to you in actions, expressions, even bouquets. That's part of why you love him. You don't have to look hard to see his care for you.
"… They suit you," he compliments, watching them find home in your arms.
"Thank you, baby." You give him a kiss on the cheek, struggling not to grin at how pleased he looks. "I'll put them up by the window."
"Good idea. They'll look perfect there."
"Did you bring them from home?"
"I didn't," he shakes his head. "The temple is practically overgrown with them, though. I could have bought a bouquet from Mrs Satsuko, but I didn't want to risk them wilting during the drive. They're sensitive flowers, you know."
"Huh. Are they?"
"Yes." He smiles. "They need cool air and moisture. It's why they bloom so vibrantly when the weather gets like this."
Curiously, you look at the bundle of blossoms in your arms: their petals shaped like fallen stars, the colour of an evening sky. Sucking on a quiet hum. "I'll take good care of them."
…
Silence settles. Then tension returns, even stronger than before— impossible to resist. You bat your lashes, closing in like a coyote.
"Now," you purr. "Where were we?"
Suguru's throat bobs. It's the only tell you get into how much he's holding back, otherwise the picture of composure, your saliva still sticking to his bottom lip. "… Where indeed," he croons. Pulling you closer, and closer, letting you tug him away as you stumble to your bedroom.
Everything else can wait. You need him now. The rest of the world will sort itself out.
You end up straddling his lap, clutching onto his broad shoulders, panties pooled around your ankles as you sink down on his cock. Suguru likes to prepare you thoroughly, with his fingers and tongue and dollops of lube,but the need between your thighs is too great for that kind of patience. He lets you go at the pace you like best. Trusting you to know your limits. The fullness is a comfort, familiar, as much as it strains your pussy to take him to the root— nudging the line of too much, too fast.
Still, you can't help but want all of it. So you take every inch, carefully, from the bulbous head to the curved middle, waiting until you're relaxed enough to sit down fully. Once you've planted yourself on his lap, you pause to take a deep, steadying breath. The stretch burns. Your head spins. Suguru leans in to lick up the drool at the corner of your lip. He's got his palms on either side of your hips, tethering you to the sweltering need between your bodies.
"Take your time, little one," he murmurs.
It encourages you, if anything.
You start to move.
He guides you seamlessly, steadily, up and down his condom-clad cock— he slipped it on before you could protest, firm in his choice, more careful with you than you sometimes think is necessary— lips drawn taut around a silent moan. You want to stick your fingers down his throat and pull it out, but you suppose you'll have to do it with your hips instead. "Good girl," he praises, palms slipping underneath your thighs. "You look so beautiful like this."
The smooth, baritone cords of his voice make you dizzyingly wet: head spinning, slick sticking to his pubes, your feet planted on the mattress to support your pace. Up, down. Up, down. Suguru's thickness is there to welcome you every time, mushroom tip smearing kisses at your cervix. Up, and down.
A whimper splits your lips.
"I can tell you missed it," he sighs, holding you close, breathing down the side of your neck. It jolts through your fluttering pussy. Something embarrassing scratches at your chest, but you swallow it back down, digging your nails into his shoulders. "You're working it so sloppy."
Knowing him, he means it as a compliment, but it makes your neck burn terribly. He must feel the heat at your cheeks. With a sharp inhale, you flick his hands off your body, sinking down harshly just to hear his breath hitch. You squeeze around him, pointedly.
"Just… lay back," you pant. "No more talking."
Without protest, he does as you say; elbows cushioning his fall, biceps straining deliciously under your watchful gaze. His body is lethal. Firm and muscular, yet softened by age, perfect for resting your head against on days where your thoughts are too turbulent to carry. He hums, eyes flickering with something not quite amused, but endeared, like watching you ride him so desperately is cute to him. It makes you wanna tug at his roots and make him yelp.
(… Actually, why don't you?)
"Ah—" he sucks on a sharp noise, caught halfway between a moan and a wince, his grip on the sheets tightening like a snare. Desperate, just like you. You watch his throat jump, rosy lips falling open as you get a good grip on his silky black locks, pulling just the way he likes. "Oh, I missed you. I missed you so much, baby."
Almost unconsciously, you speed up. Raising your hips, then sinking down, using his hair as leverage. The rhythm grows sharper, more purposeful, smacking his pelvis every time you spear yourself open around him. Plap, plap, plap. Sparks firing through your nerve-ends. His balls feel firm underneath you, heavy.
"A little harder," he encourages, giving your thigh a tender— needy— pat. "I can take it."
"Don't… be greedy," you chastise, out of breath, flushed with heat and trembling. It's a struggle not to stumble on your words; all you're focused on is fucking him, working his cock until you're satisfied. So hungry for him that you feel it like a knot in your stomach. But you listen, tugging harsher, moving your entire body with every loud, slick bounce on his lower abdomen, legs straining with the tempo you've set.
"Good girl," he moans. There it is. Whatever triumph you feel evaporates under the heat of his hands, coming back to cup your hips, not guiding, only resting. You think of chastising him, but all that leaves your lips is half-whimper, half-whine. "Look at you…"
For a while, he lets you use him. Laid down like a meal with hearts in his eyes, breath hitching around sinful, broken noises, muscles tense and coiled. He reminds you of a tiger. Broad, sharp-eyed, lying in wait. What would that make you— a house cat? Needy and in heat? Playing with his cock like it's yours.
(It is, he told you once. He'd tell you again if you asked. There's no shame there— never was. Only yours. You can have it any time, honey.)
Eventually, when your hips slow to a sluggish grind, exhausted by the effort, the tides begin to shift. Violently, a boat rocked sideways. The band of his patience snaps, your chest pulled flush against his own; his cock pumping in and out of you with steady rolls of his hips, lovingly firm, knocking the mewls out of your mouth. You're being cherished— you know that— but it's intense, sweaty skin slipping against sweaty skin, his pulse thundering through your body, hot like a furnace. Intense enough to make you want to run from it, even though it's all you've been dreaming of for the last two weeks.
Not that you could— even through the fog in your head and need in your belly, you understand that. Suguru is just as pent up as you are. You're staying right here until you're tuckered out and boneless, no ifs or buts about it. The promise is unsaid, but you feel it in the hold he's got on your body. He's not as harmless as he seems. Not when you need something of him and he's promised to deliver.
Only when you're shaking and writhing around him, wetting his abs with your come, does he focus on his own orgasm. Using you harshly, yet lovingly still, dragging you over his cock. He makes little noise when he gets there, flooding the condom with sticky batches of warmth that you can still feel through the latex, panting at your ear while his palm rubs down your back, like you’re the one coming undone.
Then he lifts you off his lap. Sweat dripping down his brow, a drunken haze over his eyes, fingers hooked against your ribcage.
"I need to taste you," he pants. Eyes dark with greed, pupils overblown. Gone is the control he keeps such a tight hold of. "On your back, baby."
Your heart beats hotly, foreboding twisting in your belly. Thighs sticking together with slick. Breath stuck in your throat. You almost want to ask for a break, but he's already tied his hair up.
Quietly, you swallow.
He's nowhere near satisfied, is he?
After hours of being ravaged, made love to, held and taken apart and put together again— your bodies finally run out of fuel.
You're tended to with steady hands, every touch intentional, familiar with the process: cleaned in the shower as you drift in and out of consciousness, floating somewhere underneath the blank slate of your mind, then made to drink from a water bottle to soothe your worn throat. Wrecked. Wrung dry. Cunt buzzing like a livewire. The culprit walks into your bedroom with a hot plate of food, wearing an expression so content you'd think he just came back from a week-long excursion to a hot spring.
Shameless. Stupidly sexy.
"Can't feel my legs," you whine, sprawled out on the mattress, tucked in like a child. Stretching out your sore limbs with a groan. "God, I needed this."
Warm, rumbling laughter. Suguru walks over to your bedside, wearing nothing but his boxers and a cardigan he'd left behind in your closet, hickies sucked into his neck and collarbone. Your canvas. Sunset kisses smudging skin. "I'm glad to hear it," he croons. "Here you are. Make sure to clean your plate, alright?"
Suguru leans towards quick, easy cooking for your aftercare. This time it's fried rice with plenty of vegetables and thin slices of meat, cooked a perfect golden brown, smelling of sesame oil, soy sauce and ginger paste. Your weary hands reach for it, bringing it to rest on your chest. Warmth spreads through the blanket he wrapped around your shoulders.
"Ahhh—" you sigh, scooping up a pile of rice with the spoon he gave you. "I love you."
One of his palms brush against your cheek, eyes bright with satisfaction. Delighting when you lean into the touch. "I love you too, baby."
Without having to tell him to, Suguru crawls under the covers beside you. Offering his shoulder as a headrest while you eat. The room is coated in a thin sheen of shadow, only lit up by a half-broken lamp by the windowsill. It lulls your mind into a state of docile fatigue. Your body grows softer with every bite, entirely limp once he takes the plate off your hands and puts it on the nightstand. This security is what you like best. Sex with Suguru is mind-breaking in many ways, but this is the most staggering. How ready he is to hold you when it's over, even though he's nearly as tired as you are.
Badump, badump.
Your ear at his heartbeat. His palms at your back, arms around your waist, securing you against him— a shipwreck to his shore. There's nowhere else you'd rather be. Boneless in your boyfriend's embrace, aching terribly between your legs, but only in good ways. Quietly, a pitter-patter rattles at your windowpane, smattering against the glass.
The world outside your apartment is just as it should be. It's a comfort to listen to, bleeding into the mantra of Suguru's steady pulse.
"When are you leaving?"
He shifts above you, planting a gentle kiss between your brows. It makes your lashes flutter shut. "Not anytime soon," he promises. His voice barely-there, as if he's terrified of startling you. You believe him. "Go to sleep, baby. I'll be here when you wake up."
…
"Hey, Suguru," you whisper, feeling your mind sink into slumber. "Can I tell you a secret?"
"… Yes, my love."
You nose at his pulsepoint. Burying yourself in him. Murmuring, beneath your breath:
"I missed you."
Suguru stills. His wandering hands, his doting lips, even his rhythmic heartbeat. Before he can respond, your mind grows dull and quiet.
(You'll wake up to covers heady with hints of coconut oil and oakwood, the sweet smell of breakfast wafting from your kitchen through the rest of your apartment, and three good morning kisses from a man who loves you.)
there is something very beautiful about kenjaku forcing tengen to be ”born again” (= deadass turns into a fetus because of their actions) after lamenting and seething over the fact their only immortal friend chose stagnation over transformation. it’s also deeply controlling and toxic. which we like
I have such a loser ass idea about a character (whoever u want) being a doctor and you who’s his omega patient. You’re known for having weird flare ups and an assortment of medical concerns- which in turn makes you a worrywart and diligent in your dealings with routine checkups and exams. For a long period of time everything is good and clear, but one day you feel off.
Your body feels hot and your nerves are alight. This jittery heat continues as the weeks go by and even intensifies, so you do the only thing that comes to mind and request for an early checkup. Thankfully, your doctor quickly finds out what’s wrong; a harmless little something the body conjures up during times of stress. That makes sense, you are frequently stressed.
But he needs to make sure that you’re fully alright; the condition is common but a medical mystery- the only cure that momentarily alleviates it is by mating. Letting it go untreated might let it fester and potentially damage your reproductive system. He needs to check you weekly or biweekly at most, instead of the six month schedule you normally have. You immediately agree, already stressed about this on top of everything else.
To make sure everything is functional, he needs to conduct a thorough inspection of your body. You’ve come to him for years and sometimes you even jokingly tell him he might know you more than yourself, which is why you trust him wholeheartedly and obediently lie on the hospital bed as he checks your naked lower body. His gentle, familiar hand prods here and there- a bare hand too, as he said the gloves can get in the way- until he reaches your clit and rubs circles. Clockwise and anti clockwise. Your breath hitches, and your eyes seek his, staring at his calm and confident countenance and scrutinising eyes drilling holes into your most private part.
His hand moves lower to your lips and spreads them apart with a face that looks as if he’s looking at any other document on his desk. He dips one finger inside and your stomach flips but you force yourself to stay still and silent in case you disrupt his focus. Another finger goes in, moving at a slow pace. His thumb comes to your clit at the same time and you find yourself struggling to not be overwhelmed by him.
“Do you feel this?” He asks, eyes flitting to your face and softening at your body trying not to squirm. “It’s okay to make noises, it’s very normal. I need to ensure you can feel sensation during certain reproductive activities. What do you feel right now? Is it a mild response or do you feel it with full clarity?”
The test ends with you cumming on his hand. He takes a sample of your come and, with you watching, tastes it. To make sure the everything is all clear. You leave the appointment at ease that nothing is drastically wrong and eagerly note down the date for your next checkup.
Your second appointment had been the same and now you are to come back after two weeks instead of one. You’re beyond relieved. Soon enough this stupid condition can be put behind you with the rest of your extensive medical history.
There’s a lineup of pills and supplements you’re required to take during those two weeks and you do so without missing a day. And yet, you don’t feel better. In fact you feel worse. The jitters shock your body with twice the vigour as before and you feel hot all over all the time, especially in your core. You nearly run to your next checkup when the time arrives.
His warm words of reassurance take some of the weight off your chest but you’re still nervous. Your pants are off of you in a second with your desperation and you accidentally take your top off too, and his smile turns a touch too big at that. He did need your top off for this next test, how did you know? He’ll need your bra off as well.
He makes you come twice on his bare fingers and leaves you flushed and panting alone in the room while he goes to check the sample. The slight slump of his shoulders when he comes back alarms you and he apologetically asks if you’re up for a few more tests.
This time you’re on his lap as he sits on the bed, trained eyes inspecting your full naked body as you shudder through his procedure and grab his shoulders for stability as you keen and come on his clothed thigh. You don’t even notice the wetness on your face until he coos and wipes your tears away. You feel grateful for getting such a sweet doctor when he asks you to forgive him for breaking his professionalism by comforting you so intimately.
Your checkups go back to being weekly. The results he got from his tests were inconclusive so another test, a more accurate follow-up test, would be needed to gather the exact information he needs.
They are scheduled at night when you’re least likely to be stressed and late enough that you’re his last patient. The procedures aren’t something you can predict anymore, mainly meaning the positions he needs you to be in, but now instead of his fingers his own cock has to be deep inside your cunt to assess you.
The lights are dim enough for you to hold onto the vision of him above you, clad in his white coat and ironed suit, unaffected by his cock pounding into you while you progressively become more and more louder and disheveled. But there’s safety and comfort in knowing how focused he is in keeping at his task: there’s barely a difference in the level of his voice when he asks you questions about how you feel, what you feel and where you feel it.
You try your best to answer truthfully and sincerely which he rewards by going faster until you come on his cock and feel shortly after his come inside you too- hot thick ropes painting your walls and dripping down to your ass. He asks you how that feels too, and tuts at his come leaking out. That isn’t supposed to happen, is it? You should be able to take all of his come. That means that when you have a mate you won’t be able to take all of their come, and that gets in the way of them properly claiming you.
You still have a long way to go until youre healthy enough for a mate.
