hii mooning! funnily enough i found you through extra credit & i don't read sukuna fics as much anymore, but your latest post abt the lack of actually letting sexual tension build up is SO real with sukuna fics... allow me to introduce you to kenjakusbraincum's fics, if you haven't discovered the WONDEROUS sukuna fics from that account yet. i will warn, gets REAL angsty sometimes, but it's equally as incredible. hope you enjoy if you haven't yet!
also sorry if this is kinda formatted weird?? this is my first time trying to use the ask/anon feature LOL
OMG THANK YOUUU!!! im gonna check them out soon 👀 <333
im srsly dying to read a oneshot that focuses solely on the sexual tension and building up towards the nsfw part and doesn't just hop right on it... let me feel it, LET ME FEEL IT!!!!
That’s the rule you make for yourself the first time you notice it.
It starts small.
You kneel in the front pew, silk skirt folded neatly beneath you, donation envelope tucked inside your prayer book like a secret. You always sit there—close enough to hear his breath when he speaks, close enough to smell incense and something darker underneath. Leather. Sweat. Sin.
Father Fushiguro never looks at you directly during mass.
But you feel him anyway.
His voice is low. Rough. It doesn’t belong to a man who speaks of salvation. It belongs to someone who’s been hit in the mouth before and got back up smiling.
When he lifts his hands in prayer, the sleeve of his cassock pulls back just enough—
and there it is.
Black ink crawling up his neck. Half-hidden. Like a confession he never finished.
You swallow.
“You’re very generous.”
That’s what he says the first time you’re alone with him in the office.
You correct him softly. “My family is.”
He smiles—not kind, not cruel. Just… knowing.
“You still sign the checks.”
His knuckles are scarred when he takes the envelope from you. Boxer’s hands. You imagine them wrapped in tape once, wrapped around a man’s jaw, wrapped around— you stop yourself.
He clears his throat. You notice the way his collar presses against his neck, the way the tattoo disappears beneath white fabric like it’s being restrained.
“You come every week,” he says. “You don’t have to.”
“I want to,” you reply too quickly.
Silence stretches. Heavy. Charged.
“You should be careful with want,” Father Fushiguro murmurs. “It leads people into trouble.”
His eyes finally lift to yours, and stay there.
Sometimes it’s the confessional.
You speak through the screen, voice trembling, confessing sins that aren’t sins at all. Envy. Pride. Wanting things you shouldn’t.
He listens, too closely.
“You’re very hard on yourself,” he says.
“I’m afraid of disappointing God.”
A pause. Then— “Are you,” he asks quietly, “or are you afraid of disappointing me?”
Your breath catches.
On the other side of the screen, you hear him shift. Fabric brushing skin. You imagine his jaw tightening, the old fighter in him waking up, the discipline cracking just a little.
You don’t say his name. You don’t have to.
It’s always almost, almost his fingers brushing yours when you hand him documents.
Almost his hand steadying your back when you stand too fast.
Almost the way his gaze lingers a second longer than it should on your mouth.
Once, after a late charity meeting, the lights flicker.
“You should go,” he says. You don’t move.
“Father,” you whisper, and the word feels wrong on your tongue. Too intimate. Too soft.
His jaw flexes.
“There are lines,” he says, voice low, strained. “And if I cross them—”
“You don’t,” you say quickly. “You never do.” That’s the problem. He steps back. Always back. Always restraint. Always control.
Like a man who knows exactly how hard he can hit—and chooses not to. You leave with your heart pounding and your prayers unanswered.
Weeks pass. Nothing happens. Everything happens.
And every Sunday, when he speaks of temptation and virtue and sacrifice, his eyes find you again.
Like he’s preaching to you, like you’re the sin he wakes up fighting.
And you kneel, hands folded, innocent as stained glass— wondering how long before one of you finally breaks.
omg my tiktok fyp is FILLED with rodrick x regina edits 😭😭😭 AND I KID YOU NOT your megumi fic immediately comes to my mind every single time that i see those edits ! your influence is literally on my brain girl 🧍🏻♀️ if you haven't seen those edits go check them out ASAP! 📢📢📢
well I haven't posted something on here for a while... this might sound crazy but I started writing a story about them on AO3 😭😭😭 go check it out if y'all are interested it's titled 'OVERTHROWN'
𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭. when someone else tries to do this trend w you.
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬. toji, satoru, sukuna, megumi, takuma, and suguru.
𝐜𝐰. pure fluff, strong words!
𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬. i loved this!! shout out to the anon who requested this... i missed writing scenarios w multiple charac.
𝐓𝐎𝐉𝐈.
you’re just minding your business, scrolling on your bed, when a sudden THUD rattles your door. “what the fuck—”
ou jump up, heart in your throat. it sounded like a damn grenade hit your dorm. you open the door and there’s this dude in a tank top standing there, football in hand, flashing that fake-friendly grin.
“oh, shit—sorry!” he says, catching it like he’s in a Nike ad. “are you ladies alright?” and before you can even process what’s happening, there’s a shadow behind you. bare feet on tile. low voice.
“yeah,” Toji drawls, shirtless, towel hanging low on his hips, hair damp from the shower. “she’s good.”
the guy’s smile falters immediately. you can literally feel the air get heavy. toji steps into the doorway like he’s reclaiming territory, shoulder brushing yours as he towers over the dude. that lazy grin on his face doesn’t match the pure murder in his eyes.
“you throwin’ balls at our door now?” he asks, tone casual but dripping with ‘try me’ energy.
“no, man, it slipped—”
“yeah? then maybe aim better next time,” Toji says, leaning one arm against the doorframe, muscles flexing like he’s doing it on purpose. “before I start thinkin’ you’re tryna get her attention.”
“what? nah, dude, it’s not like that—” Toji tilts his head, that lazy grin spreading. “Sure. But you can tell your little frat buddies down there to fuckin’ chill before I start throwing them.”
the guy laughs awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “uh, yeah, sorry, man—my bad.”
“yeah, yeah. now go run along before I make you catch somethin’ else.” the poor guy bolts, practically sprints down the hall.
you close the door slowly, staring up at Toji like, “you seriously just said that?”
“what?” he shrugs, stretching, still standing there like a smug menace. “he asked if you were alright. I just confirmed it.”
“you scared the shit outta him.” “good,” he says, wandering back toward your bed. “maybe next time he’ll keep his fuckin’ ball to himself.”
you roll your eyes, muttering, “you’re insane.” he looks over his shoulder, smirks. “and you’re welcome.”
the comment section on the video ’cause of course the guy’s friend caught the whole thing on camera.
“bro almost died in 4k 😭”
"y is he only in a towel?"
"they did it, but i just can't prove it."
“no one’s talking about how the girl didn’t even flinch when her man showed up... like she knew”
“wait why he kinda..."
𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎.
you’re sitting cross-legged on the floor, half-eating instant noodles, half-watching something on your laptop when there’s a loud-ass thud on your dorm door. you flinch so hard the noodles almost fly. “what the fuck was that?”
before you can even move, there’s a knock. then— a random dude with a football opens your door halfway, catches the ball like he’s in some kind of ad, smirks, and goes— “are you ladies alright?”
you blink. “…what?”
and then, from somewhere behind you— “ladies?”
gojo, shirt halfway on, hair still damp, steps out of the bathroom with his shades hanging off his nose. he looks between you and the guy like he just walked in on the dumbest shit he’s ever seen.
“nah, she’s fine,” he says, yawning. “you’re the one who looks concussed, bro.”
the dude laughs awkwardly. “nah man it’s a tiktok trend, i swear, it’s just a prank—”
“yeah, well,” gojo says, scratching his head, “how ‘bout you aim that ball somewhere that’s not our fuckin’ door next time before i shove it up your—”
“gojo!” you hiss.
“what?” he shrugs, grinning. “dude’s out here throwing shit at people’s rooms like we’re in a fuckin’ dodgeball tournament. i’m just sayin’, there’s consequences.”
the guy’s trying to keep it friendly but his face is red as hell. “nah for real, man, my bad—didn’t mean to—”
“yeah, yeah,” gojo waves him off, already walking back into the room, “get your ball and go play outside like a good boy.”
the guy bends down, grabs his football, and books it down the hallway so fast it’s almost impressive. you close the door, sighing. “you didn’t have to threaten him.”
“i didn’t,” gojo says, flopping onto your bed. “i just said facts.”
“you implied you’d shove a football up his ass.” “yeah, well, maybe he’ll remember it next time he tries to flirt with someone’s girl.” he grins, laying back, smug as hell. “you’re welcome, by the way.”
you roll your eyes. “you’re impossible.” “and sexy,” he adds immediately. “don’t forget sexy.”
yet again the video was still posted, “tried to do the trend and her boyfriend was built different 😭😭😭” top comments.
“why is he so sassy”
“cunt”
“bro's majestic"
“her bf looks like he hasn’t taken shit seriously since birth and i respect that”
𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀.
you’re curled up on the couch, scrolling your phone, half ignoring the sounds coming from the hallway — it’s just the usual friday night chaos. then, out of nowhere, a bang rattles your door.
you jump. “what the—”
the door cracks open, and a guy standing there catches a football against his chest, smirk already loaded. he looks you dead in the eye and goes,
“are you ladies alright?” you just blink, confused as hell. before you can even answer, there’s a low voice from inside your room.
“who the fuck you talkin’ to?” and that’s sukuna.
he’s leaning against the doorway to the kitchen, shirt hanging off one shoulder, tattoos peeking down his neck, hair still messy from the shower. his eyes are sharp and that little scar on his lip twitches when he frowns.
the dude in the hall hesitates, laughs awkwardly. “yo, chill—it’s just a tiktok trend—”
“a trend?” sukuna repeats, pushing off the doorframe and walking closer, slow and deliberate. “what, harassing girls now counts as a fuckin’ trend?”
“nah, bro, it’s not like that—”
“oh, it’s exactly like that,” sukuna cuts him off, stepping right up behind you, one hand finding your hip, pulling you back into him. “you knock on someone’s door, throw a ball at ‘em, then try to sound smooth. yeah, real creative. did your brain come up with that or did your frat group chat?”
the guy tries to laugh again, looking anywhere but at him. “it’s—it’s just for fun, man—”
“fun,” sukuna echoes, scoffing. “you almost hit her in the face with that fuckin’ ball.” he reaches around you, plucks the football right out of the guy’s hands like it’s nothing. “this yours?”
“uh—yeah—”
sukuna turns it over once, then just drops it to the floor. it bounces once, rolls down the hall. “oops,” he says flatly. “guess you’ll have to go chase it, champ.”
the guy just stands there frozen. “go,” sukuna says, voice low now. “before i make you.”
the kid bolts, sneakers squeaking down the hall. you let out a sigh, turning to look up at him. “you could’ve just told him to fuck off nicely.”
he smirks, eyes flicking down to you. “yeah? and where’s the fun in that?”
“you scared him.” “good,” he mutters, fingers tightening on your hip, pulling you closer till you bump into his chest. “maybe next time some dumbass thinks about knocking on our door, he’ll remember what happened to the last one.”
you roll your eyes, trying to hide a smile. “shut up.”
“yeah?,” he says without missing a beat, leaning down to press his mouth to your neck. “don’t open that door for any fuckin’ idiot again unless you want me to lose my shit.”
“he didn’t even yell, he just looked and the guy folded 💀”
“HOW DID HE PULL THAT??”
“the way he dropped the ball like he was disposing of evidence 😭😭😭”
“i’d be shaking too bro looked like he eats people for cardio”
“you’re so dramatic.” “mm,” he hums against your skin, still half-smiling. “and you love it.”
𝐌𝐄𝐆𝐔𝐌𝐈.
you’re sitting cross-legged on the floor by the door, folding laundry and watching something on your phone when a heavy thud hits the wood. you jump so hard a shirt flies out of your hand. “what the hell?”
the door handle rattles and before you can even stand, it cracks open. a random dude catches a football against his chest, grinning like an idiot.
“are you ladies alright?” he says, trying to sound smooth.
you stare at him. “there’s literally just—”
“do you mind?” megumi’s voice cuts in from behind you, sharp and low.
the guy blinks, caught completely off guard. megumi’s standing there in a black hoodie, hair messy, one hand still in his pocket like he’s two seconds from slamming the door.
“you just throw shit at people’s doors now?” he asks, stepping forward. “is your brain up your fucking ass?”
the guy laughs nervously. “nah, bro—it’s just a tiktok trend—like a prank—”
“yeah, congratulations,” megumi says flatly. “you invented being annoying.”
“it’s not that deep, man—”
“no, you’re right,” megumi interrupts, dead serious. “it’s not deep at all. it’s dumb. go pick up your ball before I throw it off the balcony.”
the guy blinks again. “uh—”
megumi gestures toward the hall with his chin. “go.”
the guy scrambles to grab the football and backs out so fast he almost trips. you close the door slowly, turning to look at him. “you could’ve just ignored him.”
megumi sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “yeah, well, people don’t get the hint anymore unless you spell it out with profanity.”
you snort. “you sound like an old man.”
“good,” he mutters, heading back toward his desk. “maybe then they’ll stop trying to talk to you like it’s an open casting call for stupid.”
the video ends up online anyway.
"sIS IS WINNING IN LIFE"
“i need whatever prayer she said”
“you can hear the exhaustion in his tone”
“that man radiates ‘I hate everyone but her’ energy”
𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐔𝐌𝐀.
the knock hits the door and you flinch when something thuds against it—hard. you blink, confused, opening the door halfway just to be met with some idiot grinning at you, holding a football like he’s in a gatorade commercial.
“are you ladies alright?” he asks, voice all smooth and fake-deep like he practiced it in the mirror.
you stare. there’s no one behind you. no friends. just your dumb ass standing there in pajamas. and before you can even speak, a low voice cuts through.
“can i help you?” takuma’s leaning against the wall, hoodie half-zipped, hair messy, holding a mug like he’s been watching this whole trainwreck unfold. he looks at the guy, then at you, then back at the guy again—expression unreadable, bored even.
the dude just blinks. “oh—uh, my bad, it’s a trend—”
“yeah, i can tell,” takuma says dryly, crossing his arms. “you and your friend there look like dumb and dumber.”
the other boy snickers from behind the camera, but it dies fast when takuma lifts a brow. “no seriously,” he continues, voice flat, “is that your thing? just run around throwing balls at people’s doors? you want a medal or some shit?”
you’re trying not to laugh, hiding behind the door. takuma side-eyes you, unimpressed. “don’t humor them, baby. they’ll think it’s a collab.”
the guy stammers out a half-assed “sorry” before backing away, and takuma just shuts the door with a lazy shove, muttering under his breath. “jesus. every day it’s something. next week someone’s gonna come juggle knives or some bullshit.”
you’re giggling now, and he looks at you like you’re the entertainment. “what?”
“you called them dumb and dumber,” you laugh.
he shrugs, sipping from his mug. “well, I was being generous.” then, smirking faintly, he adds, “if another guy knocks, i’m answering naked next time. see if that’s part of their trend.”
“‘don’t laugh baby they’ll think it’s a collab’ 😭😭😭 he ATE with that”
“bro didn’t even raise his voice and still ended their careers”
“he called them dumb and dumber LIKE IT WAS NOTHING”
“why is he hot even when he’s roasting people?? tf ”
𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐔.
you don’t even get to say anything. just a knock—no, more like a thud. something hits the door hard enough to make you flinch. you pull it open, half ready to scold whoever it is, and there’s this guy standing there with a football in his hand and a stupid grin.
“are you ladies alright?” he asks, all fake-smooth like he practiced that in the mirror.
you blink. and before you can even open your mouth, suguru appears behind you.
his hair’s messy, eyes still heavy with sleep, sweatpants hanging low on his hips. there’s this slow exhale as he leans against the doorframe—like he can feel the stupidity radiating off this guy.
he just looks at him. no words. no reaction. just this blank, are-you-seriously-doing-this-right-now expression that could make a priest apologize.
and then, flatly, “...losers.” he shuts the door right in their faces.
you’re still standing there, half in shock, half laughing under your breath, when he wraps an arm around your waist from behind and steers you back toward the couch.
“what was that even supposed to be?” he mutters, already lying back down and dragging you with him.
“a trend,” you say, still giggling.
“yeah?” his voice is lazy, already fading back into his half-sleep. “well, tell the internet to fuck off next time. i was having a good nap.”
and just like that, he tucks you against his chest, the sound of him sighing against your hair as the camera quietly cuts off.
“oh bro was REPULSED”
“he looked at them like they were beneath oxygen 😭😭😭”
“this is lit how i feel abt this trend..."
“he’s so effortlessly rude i love him 😭💅”
