hi!! do you still take requests? i was thinking of big bro oikawa x lil sis reader x iwaizumi .. iwaizumi gets a little touchy with reader and big bro oikawa has to show him that they’re only his!! 🫣🫣
a/n: YEESSSSS. can’t wait for iwa’s redemption when he fucks you stupid to get back at oikawa for this 💔
tw: noncon/dubcon, voyeurism, incest/stepcest
18+
.
big brother oikawa who takes you from behind, hard and deep, not letting up or giving you any breaks. he lets out short, breathy laughs every time you whine and bury your face in the sheets, so embarrassed by the wet, sticky sounds filling the room every time he sinks back into your heat.
so embarrassed by who’s watching.
oikawa doesn’t let you hide your face for too long, gripping your hair to pull you up so iwaizumi can really hear your drawn out moans and cries. god, you’re such a baby. can’t even take your big brother’s cock after flirting with his best friend? letting him cuddle up to you on the couch and hug you from behind. blushing and giggling like a little schoolgirl every time he teases or play fights with you— stuff that only your big brother should be doing.
you know that. now iwaizumi knows it, too.
“t-tooruuu!” you cry, fighting and squirming to get out of his grip. you can’t look iwa in the eyes, it’s too embarrassing. you can’t let him see the way you go nearly cross-eyed, totally stupid every time your meanie brother ruts into you at that angle that makes your legs shake. “let me go—ugh—s-stop!”
he lets out another chuckle, releasing your hair to get a good grip on your face and forcing you to look at iwa. you can’t focus too well with your pussy being filled over and over and your brain getting all fuzzy, but you moan when you see him leaning back in his chair with his big cock in his hand, stroking it slowly as he bites his lip. the sight makes your body heat up, your pussy squeezing down on tooru’s cock as you moan and drool.
“oh, shit— don’t look so guilty, iwa. she likes this.”
you do. you do and you hate it. more than anything, though, you hate how much iwa likes it. you can see it on his face, never mind how leaky his cock is. his face reads as disgust, guilt, anger at his best friend for involving him in something like this. but it also shows overwhelming need. like there’s only a thin shred of restraint holding him back from ripping you out of your brother’s grip and taking you himself.
the thought makes you weak. you want to beg some more, for anything. for tooru to stop, or iwaizumi to leave, or one of them to let you cum, but any sounds you hope to make are muffled when tooru squeezes your cheeks together, making your lips pucker as your eyes roll back.
“there, doesn’t she look cute like this, iwa? makes her look real slutty, right?”
iwa nods reluctantly, now squeezing his cock a little tighter, thrusting his hips up into his hand and imagining it’s your pussy.
“see how badly iwa wants you, baby? hm?” tooru asks mockingly, leaning over you to say it in your ear. he pace hasn’t let up, still slamming into you over and over. it makes you breathless, squeezing him as hard as you can to keep him buried inside you.
“see what you- f-fuck— do to him? i think you should apologize for leading him on.”
you shake your head, soft cries wracking your body. you can’t. it’s so embarrassing. so utterly humiliating to have to look at iwa like this, let alone speak.
“do it. say, ‘i’m sorry for being such a slut, iwa.’” tooru grunts, his pace slowing to a grind. it makes you whine, throwing a little tantrum and moving your hips around to get more friction. you can feel the pressure that was steadily building start to rapidly disappear, crying because you were so close.
“hey, don’t be a fucking brat. say it— say you’re sorry for being such a fucking slut, and i’ll let you cum.” he breathes, squeezing your face even harder and stopping his movements altogether.
iwa stops touching himself, too, clenching his jaw and furrowing his eyebrows as he watches you. he’s flushed a pretty shade of red from his chest to his cheeks, his body tense and all the veins in his forearms prominent as he holds himself back— from touching you, from cumming all over himself. from beating oikawa’s face in because he’s jealous, he’s so jealous that it’s not him sinking his cock into your tiny little pussy. he’d be so much nicer to you, he swears. he’d make you cum around his cock so many times, you wouldn’t be able to speak. you’re too little to be getting treated this meanly, too sweet. and definitely too good of a little sister for oikawa.
but it makes his cock twitch in his hand when you finally muffle out a teary little, “‘m sorry for being such a s-slut, iwa.”
he and oikawa groan at the same time, and he resumes fucking his cock into his hand as his friend shoves your face down into the sheets and holds you there, fucking you harder and faster than before.
he can hear you squeaking and crying, working himself up and pumping his own cock in time with oikawa’s thrusts. he bites his lip harder, grunting and panting through his teeth because he’s so close.
he watches you intently, your little body jerking once, twice, then finally releasing in a fit of tremors as you cum all over your big brother’s cock. he and oikawa release at the same time, he thinks, tooru’s seed filling you up as his own spills all over his hand.
he throws his head back, riding out his orgasm by fisting his tip lazily, closing his eyes and listening to you whine as oikawa does the same with slow, deep thrusts back into your heat.
“now,” oikawa breathes, looking too pleased with himself as he sees the mess his friend made all over his hand. “i feel much better about all this, iwa. don’t you?”
Synopsis (2.8K words): Your enlist your pervy roommate, Iwaizumi for help after his exercise regimen leaves you sore and aching.
Tags: MDNI, timeskip, iwaizumi x reader, iwa is pervy roommate, personal trainer iwa, reader is a little oblivious, sensual massage, breeding, p in v penetration, cream pie, nipple play, mild size kink.
After years of messes and fighting and delinquent rent payments, you finally found a roommate who you had no complaints about.
Iwaizumi Hajime was slightly older than you. He graduated two years ago and works as a kickass personal trainer for your cities pro volleyball team. You on the other hand were in your last year of University and up to your neck in homework and grad school applications. School life was stressful. But home life never was.
Iwa was always on top of chores and would often offer to do your laundry or clean your bathroom. Sometimes even make your bed. All the chores you hated doing yourself. Better than that, Iwa was fun to be around. Aside from being obviously easy to look at, he also had a great sense of humor, always making you giggle and smile even on your hardest days. He liked hanging out with you and the two of you spent many free nights watching movies or ranting to each other about the many stressors you both experienced that week. He was kind, smart, and so helpful.
But what you didn’t know was just how helpful he really was.
He wasn’t too obvious about his creeping. No, he wouldn’t dare risk ruining the perfect dynamic between the two of you.
He was subtle.
He offered to do your laundry for better access to your used panties, usually just sniffing, but occasionally pocketing a pair or two for his own pleasure. He offered to make your bed so he could take in that sweet scent that was so you. He offered to clean your bathroom just to snoop around, make sure you weren’t taking any pregnancy tests or hiding condoms. He did other things too. Purposefully tightening the lids on all your jars just so he could watch you strain and break a sweat, crinkling your nose in the way you do when you use all your strength. Placing things on tall shelves so he could watch you hop like a helpless little bunny trying to reach. Hiding your things in couch cushions so he could peek up your shorts when you’d bend over to look. It was his secret, sacred ritual. But the best part?
When you’d inevitably come running to him for help.
That was what really got him hard. Knowing that he was the one you’d go to for all of your silly little problems. Knowing you thought of him as capable. Knowing you trusted him.
He’d beaten off many times to the memory of your frustrated expression when you’d eventually come whining in your pathetic little voice,
“Haji, I can’t reach the paper towels. You’re so tall, could you bring some down for me?”
“Haji can you pleeeease come open this jar? It’s too tight.”
“Haji, can you help me look for my keys? I’ve searched everywhere.”
Sometimes he would pretend to be too busy, he’d tell you, “Maybe in a bit ok?”, just so he could see that precious pout you sported so well. You always looked so helpless.
He loved it. He loved watching you squirm under his secretly orchestrated plans and then getting to be the one to save you.
So when you came to him of your own volition, asking sweetly for advice on an optimal exercise routine, he almost came in his pants right then and there.
“I’m just not sure what muscles I should be exercising” You pouted, “I think I need a personal trainer’s opinion.” He had swallowed his excitement, pushed it down and stomped it out. He couldn’t let you know how important it was that you came to him for this issue.
“Sure, I can whip something up for you.” He said casually and then spent the next three hours crafting the most diabolically difficult regimen possible for your body type. It wasn’t difficult in the way that you’d know it right away. It was difficult in the way that you’d feel good directly after, but then be so sore the next day that you can’t move for a week. He presented the sheet of paper outlining your new regimen during one of your movie nights.
Naively and gratefully, you took it. Of course you did. Why would Haji ever do anything to hurt you?
The next day, he watched you leave the apartment in your cute little spandex and tight fitting sports bra on your way to the gym. Each step you took bouncing your perfectly round ass, blissfully unaware of Iwa’s pervy plot. He couldn’t help but smile to himself.
If he was right, you’d be coming to him for help as early as the next day.
He was right.
—
You had woken the next morning feeling like someone had screwed all of your joints together. It took every ounce of strength to pull yourself out of bed and trudge to the shower.
Maybe some warm water will help?
It didn’t.
You reluctantly dressed and drove to school, aching and cringing at the pain racking your muscle fibers. Class was abysmal. The hard, too-small chairs of the lecture hall digging into every pressure point. Anything the professor said went over your head—you were in way too much pain to even try and pay attention.
You ended up skipping your last class since it was all the way across campus and there was no way you were making it there without passing out. By the time you reached your car, you were breathless and aching—one misplaced step away from shattering across the pavement. You didn’t know what was wrong. But you knew that you needed Haji’s help.
—
Knock, knock, knock.
Iwaizumi looks up from his phone. He was off work today and had spent the morning jerking off into the panties you wore to the gym last night—he had found them hanging over the edge of the bathroom hamper and couldn’t resist. He now lays shirtless and day dreaming of you when your knock sounds. You weren’t due to be home from classes for another hour, but he’d recognize that sweet little knock of yours anywhere. He opens the door of his bedroom to find you hunched over, flinching—like the sound of the door opening was enough to hurt you.
“Y/n? What’s wrong?” Like he doesn’t know.
“I don’t know. I just woke up so sore—ah!” You double over in pain, Iwa moves to steady you, hands firmly at your waist and lower back. You lift your gaze up with all your strength,
“Haji do you think..maybe you could give me a massage?” He stiffens, almost as if he can’t believe his plan is working, “My muscles are just so tense.” He nods, hoping you don’t see the way his cock instantly hardened beneath his gray sweats. You’re ushered to his bed and instructed to lay out on your tummy. His cock twitches when you do it without question, so obedient. You settle into the sheets and giggle to yourself at the way they smell just like your amazingly kind and helpful roommate, Iwa.
“Just breathe,” Iwa eyes your cute frame up and down, licking his lips in anticipation, “I’ve got you.”
Two hands spread your legs slightly, just enough for him to slot himself in between and begin. First he starts with your shoulders, but every movement sends pain signals through you.
“Ouch! Haji it hurts.” He pauses the massage and feigns confusion.
“Hmm, it might be that your shirt is getting in the way. Yep, I definitely remember reading about that in my kinesiology courses. Maybe we can try taking it off?” His heart pounds as he waits for your answer, he really doesn’t want to blow this.
You’ve never heard of a shirt impeding on a massage…but then again, you’re not a sport science major.
“Oh. Ok!” Iwa takes his time peeling your cute little shirt up and over your head. He takes in every inch of skin like he needs to memorize it. His cock starts to ache. He wants nothing more than to rip his clothes off and finish on your back right now.
“Uh—we may need to remove this too if it’s going to work.” You feel him snap the strap of your bra against your shoulder blade. You don’t think much of it. Hajime knows best so if he says your bra needs to come off, then it probably does.
“Whatever you say Haji.” Iwa thinks he could marry you in this moment, but instead he just swallows hard and unhooks your bra. You breathe a little sigh once it’s unclasped and wiggle the rest off on your own. Iwa’s breath quickens. Your perfect body—just how he’d imagined—laid out so nicely for him—breasts totally uncovered, only hidden due to the fact that you’re on your stomach. He’s growing impatient.
Now with complete, unrestricted access to your skin, the long, deep drives of his palms start to ease your burning muscles and a barely audible whimper escapes your parted lips.
“That’s it.” He sighs pushing in deeper. His rough hands move down your spine, taking gentle care with every inch to ensure the most quality relief from his evil doings.
“Poor thing.” He mutters, “Looks like my exercise regimen was just too much for you, wasn’t it?”
“Mmhmm.” You hum lazily, feeling sleepy from his touch.
“Yeah? Maybe next time I need to be there to make sure you don’t get hurt.” His cock twitches at the thought of him spotting you while you worked on your squats. How did he never think to work out with you before? You hum again indicating that you agree. His hands come to your waistband.
Your perfect ass. It’s just sitting there. Inches from his hands. Inches from his cock.
“Haji?” You whine.
“Uh—yeah?” He snaps from his trance.
“I’m a little embarrassed but…it hurts a little there too.” You nod your head towards…no. He can’t believe it.
“Here?” His hands wrap around the plush of your ass and knead in. You audibly groan, not caring to suppress it.
“Oh fuck—yes right there, harder please.” You don’t have to tell him twice. Iwa leans in, pressing the majority of his weight down and letting himself enjoy the soft, squishy feel of you. It’s ecstasy. He goes from your ass to your thighs, back and forth until he’s dizzy. His heart pounds in his ears, his thighs shake in excitement. He’s biting down on his bottom lip so hard that he’s sure he’ll break skin. He’s so focused that he doesn’t realize what his hips are doing. What they’re doing to you.
That large imprint beneath gray sweats rutting into you over and over and over. Oh yes, you feel it. You wonder what it is. Something so large and hard and pressing right up against where you’re most sore. It feels so fucking good but also too far away. You need more.
“Haji, do you think taking my pants off would help?” It’s a miracle he doesn’t combust. First at your question and then when he’s actually removing the black leggings.
“You’re not wearing…” His words trail off. You never wear underwear with leggings. Iwa thinks he’s died and gone to heaven. But he knows he’s going to hell as he rips his own pants off.
A heavy weight plops over you, pinning you to the mattress. Something hard presses between your thighs. It starts to push into you.
”Haji? What’re you—oh.”
You feel something hot, hard, and heavy press past your thighs.
“Shh. This is uh—just something we learned in my sports science class. It’s uh—an internal massage. Relax for me ok?”
You’re no expert, but you’ve certainly never heard of an internal massage? It does feel really nice though and your muscles have seemed to ease up for the first time since you woke up this morning. Oh well, Haji always knows best, so you arch your back.
“Fuck me.” He groans under his breath and pushes into your wet entrance. The stretch is overwhelming.
“Ha—aji!” You scream, “S’too b—ig.” Any pain you were previously feeling disappears and is replaced by the all encompassing feeling of Iwa’s cock filling you up. He doesn’t allow for any time to let you get used to it and instead bottoms out, rolling his hips over you once he does. “Hajime!” You cry, crystalline tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. He can barely hear you. Too focused on the way your ass bounces with every slight movement. Too focused on how dripping wet you are without any prep. Too focused thinking about every position he wants to put you in.
“Let’s turn you over sweetheart.” You’re flipped onto your back before you can register it. His large biceps holding you up and letting you drop onto the mountain of pillows. Now that you two are face to face you can finally see what’s been so adequately filling you. His cock is thick all around, slightly curved. The tip sports a pretty pink, glistening from all the slick coating it. Iwa follows your gaze,
“Do you like it.” He murmurs, suddenly feeling a bit self conscious. Your lips part in contemplation. You’ve never had a massage like this. It’s unorthodox, but your screaming muscles are begging for more. Hajime must care so much about you to do this.
“It’s really nice Haji. Can I have some more?”
“Yes pretty, but first you gotta tell me where you’re sore.”
You ponder it and listen to your body. You point to your breasts.
His hands are there in an instant, massaging and gripping them forcefully. You let out a whine, they still ache.
“Something not right sweetheart?” He reads your pouty expression like an open book before bringing his face down to your chest, “Let me know if this is better.” One by one Iwa pinches your nipples until they harden to stiff peaks. Then—as if he’d waited his entire life for it—he flattens his tongue down on them, sucking and groping, letting his tongue flick over the hardness. You can’t help but run your hands through his dark hair. Hopefully he won’t mind, though your ears go pink with embarrassment anyways.
“Thank you Haji.” You breathe into his ear. Waves of animalistic want surge through him and before either of you know it, he’s lining himself back up at your clenching walls.
“Ok baby. This is the hard part, but just remember I got you, ok?” His tip presses in and you dig your nails into his biceps, “Shh. You’re doing great.” Inch by slow inch he gives it to you. He gives it to you until your eyes are rolling back and you feel him pressing up against your poor cervix. “Fuck you’re so tight—uh your muscles are so tight.” He corrects, but you probably didn’t hear him anyways. Not with the way all five of your senses have been replaced by Iwa’s cock. You muster up enough strength to whisper,
“Help me Haji.”
Iwa was done for.
His hips snap brutally into yours, sending you into the headboard. He hungrily watches how your breasts bounce wildly with every thrust, and if he was a better roommate—less of a pervert—he might consider massaging you for real while he fucks you. But he isn’t actually a good roommate and he is a pervert so instead he just watches himself fuck you brainless. His heavy balls smack up against you with every plunge. He can’t wait to empty himself into you. To mark you as his. To make sure no one else can ever have his cute and clueless roommate.
Iwa can tell by your smell that you’re ovulating. He noticed it when he stole your panties earlier today. It just makes him want you to take his cum even more.
“How’re you doin’ sweetheart?”
“Nngh.”
“That’s my girl.” He huffs, picking up the pace and tightening the coil in your tummy.
Thick curved cock angled just perfectly to hit that gummy spot that blacks out your vision. Your tongue lolls out of your mouth. Iwa can’t take it anymore.
Hot white cum shoots into you. You can feel it painting your walls until it threatens to pour out, but Iwa guards it diligently. He’s not letting one drop go to waste. He’s making sure it sticks. So as he empties himself he goes back to massaging your tired bones. Something to distract you while he plugs you up. You’re so helpless on your own so he can’t imagine how much more needy you’ll be when your belly is swollen with his baby. A few minutes pass like this until you feel so sleepy you might pass out.
“Haji?”
“I’m here.” He pulls out, watching a few drops of seed spill out, but still feeling satisfied that he did enough. You were his now.
“I think it worked Haji.” You exhale, gazing up at him and feeling weightless. Your cheeks rosy pink, your hair a tangled mess, your eyes slightly watery and dazed. “Can we try it again tomorrow if I’m still feeling sore?”
He nods solemnly, holding back the biggest grin.
You’re just so sweet. So cute. And so dumb.
You will definitely be feeling a different kind of sore by tomorrow, but rest assured, you’re amazing roommate Iwa will be happy to soothe it for you.
cw: size kink, pussy drunk! bokuto, unprotected sex, overstimulation, manhandling, reblogs and comments are very appreciated!!<3
“Fuck—‘m sorry, baby, I can’t—I can’t stop—”
Bokuto’s voice was wrecked, his breath hot against your skin as he slammed into you, holding you down like you’d disappear if he let go.
His massive frame caged you in, thick arms wrapped around your waist, keeping you still as he fucked into you with desperate, hungry thrusts.
You were already so fucked out, legs shaking, body limp beneath him, but Bokuto—Bokuto wasn’t done.
“T-too much—‘Koutarou—!”
“Nah,” he groaned, pressing his forehead to yours, eyes wild, blown-out and glassy. “Feels too good, baby. So tight—fuck, I swear you’re getting tighter—”
A deep, broken moan ripped from his throat, his hips shuddering as his fat cock dragged against your sensitive walls, hitting spots so deep they made your toes curl.
“S’too big, ‘Ko—!” You sobbed, your hands gripping his biceps, fingers barely able to wrap around the thick muscle.
“You can take it,” he panted, voice dripping with something dangerously sweet. “Know you can. My good girl—always takes me so well.”
He pulled out almost all the way before snapping his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal stroke, making your back arch off the bed.
“Ohhh, fuck, yeah,” Bokuto whined, his voice breaking as he ground himself deep, rolling his hips like he was trying to mold you to his shape. “Fuck, baby, you’re squeezing me so good—gonna make me cum so fast—!”
His cock throbbed inside you, his thick veins pressing against your walls, sending sparks of pleasure up your spine. You felt so full, stretched to your limit, your stomach bulging just slightly from the sheer size of him.
Bokuto groaned at the sight, pressing his palm to the little bump, feeling himself inside you.
“Shit, look at that,” he murmured, his voice dropping into something almost dangerous. “Splitting you right open, huh? Fuck, baby, you were made for this dick—made for me—”
Your walls fluttered around him, and Bokuto gasped, his grip on your hips bruising.
His pace stuttered, thrusts turning erratic, desperate, his breath ragged as he buried himself as deep as he could go.
“Gonna fill you up, baby,” he moaned, his voice breaking. “Gonna make you so full—fuck, take it—take all of it—”
With a final, wrecked groan, Bokuto spilled inside you, his whole body trembling as his cock twitched, filling you with thick ropes of cum. He shuddered, pressing his face into your neck, still rolling his hips in slow, deep thrusts, pushing it all deeper.
“Shit,” he panted, arms tightening around you. “Still so hard—can’t get enough—”
And with the way he was already rutting back into you, his cock twitching, aching for more—you knew he meant it.
AUTHOR‘S NOTE: BOOMSHAKALAKA THANK YOU ALL FOR THE GREAT SUPPORT
a/n: change of pace from my usual arcane fics, i was thinking about some anime boys and well…yeah
been a while since i’ve watched some of these animes so i’m hoping my picks aren’t too ooc than they already are >.>
enjoy ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡
cw: dubcon, noncon, nsfw - mdni 18+
his call comes late at night, rousing you from sleep when you hear your ringtone going off.
“o-oh, hey? what’s up?”
your voice drips like honey, so sweet and slightly rough from being woken up and he just knows you’re rubbing sleep from your watery eyes, none the wiser to what he’s doing on the other end of the line.
he tells you he’s feeling…ah, under the weather and he just needed a friend to talk to but don’t worry if you’re tired! he would absolutely hate to disturb you and he’s already lost too many friends from talking about his feelings.
needless to say, he’s got you hook, line and sinker. he won’t even be doing much of the talking.
easy prey.
his hand palms over his rock hard dick, it’s been that way since the mere idea of this popped into his head, as he listens to you chatter away about something he couldn’t care less about; he isn’t even trying to hide his breathless panting and the non-stop wetness of his dick, sloppy with precum, thrusting into his tight fist. the tip throbs an angry red as he holds back his release again and again and again just so he can continue getting off to your cute voice.
at some points, you ask him if he can hear some noises too and for a moment his heart stops and he wonders if you’ve caught him red handed.
but then he remembers that it’s just you, coddled and blissfully unaware of the sin that surrounds every aspect of life, so all he has to say is that his tv is on in the background and you’re back to talking again. perfect.
his blood is pumping red hot as his strokes grow uncoordinated and even more furious than they were before and he finds himself fighting the urge to ask you what you’re wearing. no that’s too much, too soon, so he instead chooses to bite down on his lip until the taste of iron fills his mouth. a small price to pay.
“helloooooo still there?” you call out after ten minutes of him being seemingly unresponsive, assuming he’s finally managed to fall asleep. you don’t bother to end the call, after all you know how comforting it is to sleep with your friend still on the phone after a bad day.
he imagines shoving his dick into your wet mouth mid-sentence, cock growing impossibly harder at the mental sight of your surprised face, you gagging because you’re unaccustomed to a dick his size - scratch that, any dick and all the debauched things he would teach you.
eventually he hears your gentle snores, of course you fell asleep before the main event, throwing his head back and grunting way louder than he did before knowing you definitely won’t be waking up. his chest heaves and legs shake from the orgasm that overwhelms him and he almost ends the call from the guilt rising inside of him - almost. but then he catches sight of his thick cum splattered right where your contact photo was and his cock twitches as if he didn’t just come seconds ago.
good thing you didn’t end the call; he decides he can have a little more fun with (or without) you - he still feels a bit under the weather, of course.
asshole!sukuna and his soft spot for shy!girlfriend!reader ༊*·˚ (18+)
asshole!sukuna doesn’t fuck with a lot of people. i mean, when you’re a 6’5, 90 kg guy with bold tattoos littering your entire body, you’re not really trying to attract sociable people. still, the borderline loner had a few exceptions, his frat brothers, a select few professors, and you.
you were the main exception.
asshole!sukuna met you one day at a fundraising event his frat was hosting, a dollar for a slap. girls would line up in front of a long table and choose a guy to hit, then pay a small donation that went towards the rspca. you and your friends were keen to donate, put some of the guys who’d fucked with their feelings in their place, or however they’d phrased it. you were mostly there for the experience, not too in tune with the whole frat fuckboy lore your friends loved to gossip about.
when you arrived, you started to feel really bad. all these guys’ cheeks were raw and red, and despite their cocky smiles, it just couldn’t be all that fun. when it came to your turn, you had to choose a guy, and your eyes drifted to asshole!sukuna. he was the biggest there, had only a slightly red cheek, and looked like he could take a hit.
asshole!sukuna forced a smile when he saw you walk up to him, your head lowered as you shyly handed over a fiver. he accepted with a, “thanks, sweetheart. go ahead.” he leaned down to your level, bracing for impact, but all he felt was a light pat on his stinging cheek.
“the fuck?”
“oh, i’m sorry! i tried to go soft, i—”
“you call that a slap? what, think i can’t handle it?” he scoffs. “slap me again, hun, harder. don’t waste your money.” he leans down again, looking you in the eye to challenge you.
but again, all that comes is a light tap.
“oh, for god— it’s a dollar for a slap, not a dollar for a fuckin’ cheek massage.” he huffs, looking over your expression with an irritated scowl, only to catch that hesitant little frown on your face.
asshole!sukuna can’t help but crack a smile. he’d had about ten girls come and slap the fuck outta him today. they were all old flings desperate to get their get-back, but that was hardly the point. you were this new thing entirely, a soft thing that seemed sweet regardless of if he was notorious for being a cunt or not.
“what’s y’ name, sweetheart?”
asshole!sukuna decided he wanted to see you again after that. you’d caught his interest, which doesn’t happen often. he asks for your number. your instagram, your snapchat, everything. it was kinda pathetic how eager he was to get to know you, but you handed them all over anyway. your friends warn you after the fact that he’s definitely not good news, but you can’t help but want to see where this goes after only dating squares for most of your life.
asshole!sukuna takes you on a date the very next day, and you were pleasantly surprised at how chivalrous he was. he pulled out your chair at the small hole-in-the-wall restaurant he took you to, he paid for everything, and even more surprisingly, made you feel comfortable. you talked for hours about everything and anything.
you learned that asshole!sukuna had a lot of hobbies. he played guitar, drums, did a fair few building sketches in the art room with his friend geto when he had time, and had a real connection to film. all of which were things you found extremely attractive, and he could tell, because the next time you two went out he took you to his dorm and showed you his musical endeavors.
“you’re like... super talented, it’s really attractive.” you smile gently, sitting at the foot of his bed, watching as he finishes up a love song he’d been learning for you.
“yeah, y’ think so? gonna come to all my gigs when i’m a famous musician?”
“will i get a backstage pass?”
“oh, absolutely.”
asshole!sukuna had officially swooned you after about five dates. he'd mustered up the courage to ask you to be his at that same restaurant he’d taken you to on that first date, and the rest was history. you and sukuna, the couple everyone of his mates envied due to how perfectly you two fit together.
“how the hell did a guy like you bag a girl like her. yr' gonna destroy the poor thing.” geto teased while they were smoking up one night.
asshole!sukuna could only reply with, “god, don’t you just hate jealous, hating ass motherfuckers?”
asshole!sukuna loved to not so subtly brag about you to literally anyone he talked to. (which wasn’t many, but still.)
“eugh, you’re buying lunch? my girlfriend made me food today, fucking loser.” he’d laugh at the dining hall when gojo and geto sat next to him with a greasy burger and fries. they just gave each other a look, smiled, and rolled their eyes.
“hm? nah, can’t tonight. me and my girl are getting hot pot. have fun drinking your problems, tho.” he’d turn toji down, turning his nose up at the idea of bar hopping like he wasn’t the most frequent man along the strip a few months back.
“a two man? i’m not bringing my girl around your little one and done situation, don’t ask me that shit again.” he’d laugh in jogo’s face, hating the idea of his precious baby being around a sleaze bag like him.
asshole!sukuna always puts you first. his frat’s planning something big, another fundraising night where they really care about attendance, and he’s meant to be there early to help set up. but out of the blue, you’ll send him a text just to say that you've had a slightly shitty day, and boom, he’s suddenly nowhere to be found. his phone’s off, car’s out of the driveway, and he’s at your door with your favorite food and that pissed look, how dare the world have the nerve to bother you.
asshole!sukuna likes to keep you very close to him when you’re out and about, with either an arm at your waist or his fingers intertwined with yours, he’s most comfortable when you’re right there where he can see you. that way, if anything were to happen, you’d be there for him to protect.
asshole!sukuna lets you get away with absolutely everything.
“ryo, can i draw on you? like, draw on your back while we watch a show or something?”
“sure, baby.”
“ryooo, can i braid your hair?”
“of course, love.”
“hey, ryomen? could you drive me to my friend’s house? she lives on the other side of town, though.. it’s okay if you don’t want—”
“no, no. let’s go, sweetness.”
“ryo, you smell.”
“shower with me then, baby.”
with anyone else, asshole!sukuna would have either yelled or broken their jaw for even thinking they could ask him such questions. but with you? the princess gets what the princess wants or whatever the saying he made up in his head was.
asshole!sukuna fucking hates when people talk over you. it’s a common occurrence due to your soft-spoken nature, you’ll be in the middle of saying something, and someone’ll cut in with whatever thing they think is funnier or more worth listening to. sukuna never lets it slide. “she was talking, dickhead.” he’d scoff, shutting them up and earning a shy, thankful smile from you, as you continued with what you were saying, far more important than whatever that clown had to yap on about anyways. (in sukuna’s mind, at least.)
asshole!sukuna spends a shit ton of money on you. you almost always go against the idea, but he just can’t help it... when he sees your eyes light up when you see something you like at the mall, he physically can’t resist. he’ll bookmark the product, then order it online to come to your apartment the next day.
“ryo... why do i have another package?” you whine over the phone, earning nothing but a chuckle from the other end.
“could tell you wanted it, so just enjoy it, sweet thing. you deserve all the fruits of my labour.”
“you don’t work? isn’t it your parents’ mon—”
“semantics. just enjoy, baby.” and he hangs up the phone, grabbing his keys to drive to your place and see how you like the new gift. he thinks it was a new dress? couldn’t be sure, it was hard keeping up with the millions of notifications from the post office.
asshole!sukuna remembers everything about his girl and makes sure you’re always getting exactly what you want. if he’s out getting dinner before driving to your place, he’ll stop at five different places if that meant getting your order perfectly correct. local maccas has a broken ice cream machine? he’s driving to the next location to try his luck there. one place doesn’t have the kind of noodles you like? he’s making his way to the closest chinese place to see if they do. he is the embodiment of “if he wanted to, he would,” and it’s all worth it seeing your face light up when he holds up the paper bag with a smile.
“your favourite.”
“oh my god? this is the place out of the city? how did you—”
“don’t worry about it, angel.”
and that was another thing, ashole!sukuna didn’t let you worry about anything. your place felt too messy? he was over there turning on mlp equestria girls and helping you clean. you wanted a home cooked meal? he’s at the store buying the ingredients. you needed help with an assignment? he’s pushed back his own work to sit down and help you smash them out.
asshole!sukuna is so overly territorial when it comes to functions. he doesn’t know, there’s just something about people drunk and horny all around you that ticks him off. he’ll always have you either sat next to or on his lap at frat parties. you stick to him regardless, but he has to make it obvious to all the fuckwits blatantly staring at you that you are indeed, his.
if they don’t get the hint the first time and are still gawking after his mild pda, asshole!sukuna would up the ante. he’ll take you off to some hallway or, if the guys are being particularly sleazy, he’ll kiss you right there. his lips trailling up and down your neck while he stares them dead in the eye, challenging them to look away.
“ryo... people are looking!” you whisper nervously.
“let them, sweetheart. you’re too pretty not to stare at.” he grins against your neck, sucking and biting at your soft skin.
by that point, they always look off. whether that be due to his death glare or the realisation that you’re not going anywhere anytime soon was beside the point.
asshole!sukuna gets embarrassingly hard at the smallest little things with you. you’ll just be sitting on the couch together and you’ll start scratching his back or head, boom, hard. when you’re sitting next to him in the library and you’re biting your pen, boom, hard. even when you’re just laying in bed, tired from the day, he’ll lay next to you and just sigh.
“how the fuck do you just look like that. you make it so hard to keep my shit to myself.” he groans as his arms snake around your waist.
“jeez, i can feel that thing poking into my back... what did i do now?” you smile sleepily.
“i wish i knew. seems like one look at you and i pop a boner.” he admits, a little embarrassed.
“can i help you out?”
asshole!sukuna loved how willing you were to service him, but preferred it the opposite way round. sukuna would spend hours between your pretty thighs if he could, sloppily kissing and sucking at your cunt with dazed eyes, loving nothing more than the pretty moans and groans he could pull from your throat.
“fuck yeah, y’ like that, baby? you like my tongue, hm?” he’d tease with his mouth full, pumping two fingers in and out of your soaked pussy as he dragged you closer and closer to your orgasm.
asshole!sukuna knew how wet his filthy words could get you, and he abused that knowledge each and every time he needed you prepped and ready for him.
“y’ think you can take me, baby, yeah? think you can take this fat cock?” he’d taunt, slapping the thick head against your cunt as your slick coated the pink, glossy skin. “fuckkkk, pretty pussy’s beggin’ t’ get drilled.”
“what’s that? you need me? well, isn’t that fuckin’ cute. beg a little more and maybe i’ll give you what you want.”
“be a good girl n’ say please and it’s all yours, angel.”
asshole!sukuna was massive, but you always took him so well. “you can do it, baby. i know you can.” he’d coo in your ear, lining up the monster of a thing.
“one, two, fuckkk.”
asshole!sukuna saw stars every time he’d push in, letting go of a long, pornographic moan as he began to thrust slowly in and out of your tight entrance. the look on your face as your eyes rolled back in pleasure made coming in less than a minute extremely hard, but the intense need to make you finish first overrode any sort of selfish desire to fill you up to the brim in the first few minutes.
asshole!sukuna loved missionary the most because he could see your pretty face. he enjoyed a bunch of freaked-out positions, but nothing could beat watching your pupils dilate and your lips quiver the second you finally came, his name on your tongue as you let go of the tension building in your tummy.
“y’ gonna come, baby? y’ gonna come on this cock?” he’d grunt, slamming his member deeper and deeper the louder your cries got, faster and faster until— “fuck, ryo! m’ cumming!” you’d stutter, your insides spasming on his cock, drawing out his own orgasm with one final pound, filling you up with hot ropes of his seed.
asshole!sukuna was the king of aftercare. words that were filthy before, now soft and caring.
“you okay, baby? did i go too hard on ya?” he’d ask through tired pants, standing to grab the wet wipes in the side drawer to wash your messy parts off.
“you want me to order something? anything you want, love. i’ll get you anything and everything.”
“c’mon, sweetheart. drink some water.”
asshole!sukuna never made you feel small after intimacy, in fact, sometimes you enjoyed the aftermath more than the mindblowing sex.
“m’ okay, ryo. just wanna cuddle.” you’d admit shyly, reaching for him to come back to bed.
his eyes would soften and he’d plop down next to you, pulling you into his lap. “anything for you, angel.”
sure, sukuna was an asshole, but he couldn't even dream of mistreating you, his biggest exception.
“love you, baby.”
“love you too, ryo.”
a/n: i wrote this semi off my face so excuse any bad word or structural choices 💘
part one - part two - part three - part four - part five - part six
You're married to Satoru Gojo - an arrangement since your childhood, one you're so excited for. You soon find out - he wants nothing to do with you. Any one is preferable, from the waitress at your engagement party, to his secretary. Torn apart by insecurities and devastated by the fact that you can't make this one sided affection work, you decide to find something to keep you going until Gojo finds a way to end the marriage. That's what lands you right in the notorious boxing ring in town - led by Ryomen Sukuna, who finally sees you.
pairings - Arranged! Gojo x Heiress! Reader x Boxer! Sukuna
warnings!! - Heavy angst, cheating, Satoru is cruel and mean, reader starts off very shy/insecure, Soft Sukuna but he still don't mind being buried inside married reader, a fuck ton of feelings, eventual smut, explicit, mentions of insecurities, love triangles.
Multiple endings. Told from Reader, Gojo and Kuna's POV
here's the playlist
ongoing - wc 66k - ao3 link
taglist CLOSED - preview below <3
"What's wrong, Satoru?" you ask your 'husband' that afternoon as you set down your gym bag by the door. You raise a brow, your top all askew from where your personal trainer's lips had been all over your skin, teeth marks glittering and making him sick.
Satoru's furious, his heart hammering at the sight, stepping close to you until you back up, against the wall and just smiling all fucking mean at him. Never has he wanted to smack someone so badly, nor has he wanted to mark you worse.
"Where have you been, huh? getting all marked up like a little slut?"
You smack him then, hard, across his cheek blooming red, shoving at his hard chest then as his blue eyes narrow.
"You made it clear this was name only, for our families, yeah? That you'd never want me, how many times have you said that!? Even on our wedding night!?" you blink back tears, closing your eyes. "Well now you don't have to worry."
"You will make us look-"
"No, Satoru, you did this. I've seen you with your girlfriends, kissing on their necks," he's quiet then, jaw clenched, his beautiful face for once showing a goddamn emotion. "You thought I wouldn't do it too? Want me to watch you and go untouched and unwanted?"
He pauses now, realizing what his anger and resentment has turned into, cupping your face and leaning low. You hate that you feel that heat, that you want him. You wanted Satoru the moment you saw him, if he hadn't pushed you away this entire time - the sham of a marriage.
The desire is there whether you want it or not, but you can't just back down and take another day of his cold uninterest.
"If you wanted to be pleasured, sweetheart? I would have already gave you it," his fingers - long and thick - trail down your body, feeling it tremble and smirking. "Is my wife getting needy?"
"Not for you," you take his wrist and yank it off, chest heaving up and down at his proximity. "I already got off today, so I'm certainly not in need of you and wherever these fingers have been."
You shove him off you now, and he curses, eyes fluttering shut, wondering why he cares, he didn't want this, want the marriage, want the company, want any of this thrown on him by no choice. Yet now seeing your tears in your eyes and those marks on your neck, he feels sick to his stomach.
You're right, he's been with women, kissed them right in front of you, uncaring at all, yet to have it done to him?
Is that what you felt?
"What's his name, the man who marked up your fucking neck?" He demands, as you head to your room, a hand on the knob.
'"Hah, I love how you care when you have a list of your little hoes, as you tell me - none of your business."
You shut the door, leaning back and hearing him curse, struggling to compose yourself. You think of the one that made you feel so pretty, and fuck you've needed it, feeling so horrible for months, so alone. Smiling just a bit and peering at your phone, as you get a text from the personal trainer that had just had his fingers buried in your cunt.
Ryomen Sukuna.
♡♡♡♡♡
this was an inbox idea from @vivicaaas2 it will be a LONG series with multiple ends, enjoy the mess <3
❝You had stumbled into the forest half-dead, running from a husband who wore a badge and your bruises like trophies. When you collapsed past the tree line, you fell onto the land of Sukuna Itadori—a reclusive lumberjack with scarred hands and a silence that felt like a storm waiting to break.
Taking you in should have been temporary, but your presence turned his quiet world into something violent and fragile. As he hid you from the law that protected your abuser, protection twisted into obsession, and love became a dangerous vow. In the end, the story was never just about escape—it was about what Sukuna was willing to destroy, bury, and become to make sure the man who broke you never touched you again.❞
cw ; abuse. smut. trauma. murder
main masterlist
chapter one. the house in the trees
chaoter two. the sound of boots
chapter three. roots returning
chapter four. the sound of names
chapter five. the weight of truths & lies
chapter six. the things that keep growing
chapter seven. a seat at the table
chapter eight. new walls, old roots
chapter nine. the shape of small miracles
chapter ten. honey on the tongue
bonus chapter one. sunflower hurricane
bonus chapter two. splinters in the honey
THOUGHT YOU WERE MAD AT THEM. YOUR PUSSY DISAGREED — various jjk men.
★ SUMMARY : leaving them for a few hours after you had a heated argument, just to see them waiting for you and fucking it into your brain that they want you.
★ NOTE : not proof read i was rushin for u guyss 🥹 THANK YOU FOR 1.5KKK
★ SATURO GOJO
“mmmfgh— baby, don’t do that shit again.” he mumbles it right into the crook of your neck, voice all gravel and wrecked, hot breath fanning over the bite mark he just sucked into your skin.
the bedroom smells like sex and the faint citrus of his shampoo you stole earlier. sheets are already twisted under your knees, headboard knocking the wall every time you drop down hard on his cock.
“you can’t just— fuck— leave after an argument like that,” gojo groans, long fingers digging bruises into your hips like he’s scared you’ll disappear again if he lets go. “had me losin my damn mind waitin’ for you.”
you moan out softly; just a roll your hips slower this time, deliberate, feeling every thick inch stretch you open again. his head tips back against the pillows, throat bobbing, pretty lashes fluttering like he’s about to cry or come or both.
“shit— yeah, just like that,” he hisses. one hand slides up your spine, tangles in your hair, yanks your mouth down to his so he can lick into you messy and desperate. “thought you were really gone this time… left me here achin’ f’ you.”
his other palm cracks against your ass— not hard enough to hurt but enough to make you clench around him. you gasp into his mouth and he drinks it down, tongue curling, whining low in his throat when your walls flutter.
“fuck, baby— tight— s’ like you’re tryna milk me dry,” he pants against your lips. hips jerk up to meet your next grind, sloppy wet sounds filling the dark room. “missed this pussy so bad… missed you ridin me stupid.”
you drag your nails down his chest, catch on the pale pink scratches you left earlier when you first shoved him onto the bed and climbed on top. he shudders under you, cock twitching deep inside.
“gonna— gonna fill you up,” he starts babbling now, filter gone, voice cracking on every other word. “gonna stuff this little cunt full till it’s drippin down your thighs— till you can’t walk tomorrow without feelin me. you hear me?”
you sink down harder just to shut him up. his eyes roll back, mouth falling open in a silent moan, fingers flexing on your waist like he’s forgotten how to breathe.
“m’ sorry— fuck— m’ sorry i yelled,” he chokes out suddenly, hips stuttering, losing rhythm. “shouldn’t have— shouldn’t have let you storm out— never again, promise— fuck— baby please…”
he flips you so fast your back hits the mattress, knees shoved up to your chest in one smooth motion. the new angle has him slamming in deeper, tip kissing your cervix on every brutal thrust. you cry out, nails raking his shoulders, legs shaking.
“look at me,” he growls, forehead pressed to yours, sweat dripping from his white hair onto your cheek. blue eyes blown wide, pupils swallowing the irises. “look at me while i fuck my apology into you.”
and that’s all you did. can’t look away even if you wanted to. he’s wrecked—lips swollen, cheeks flushed, that cocky smirk long gone. just raw need staring back at you.
“g’nna— g’nna cum inside,” he whimpers, pace turning erratic, hips slamming so hard the bed creaks. “g’nna breed this pussy— make sure you feel me for days— fuck— c-can’t stop— can’t— baby—”
his whole body locks up. a broken moan tears out of him as he buries himself, his cock making-out with your cervix, pulsing hot and thick inside you. you feel every spurt, every twitch, walls fluttering around him like they’re trying to pull him deeper.
he keeps grinding through it, overstimming himself, babbling nonsense against your throat. “love you— fuck— love you s’ much— don’t leave again— please— m’ gonna be good— swear—”
he collapses on top of you after, still twitching, still leaking, arms caging you in like he’ll never let go. nose buried in your hair, shaky breaths fanning your ear. “stay,” he whispers, voice small now. cracked. “just… stay.”
you card fingers through damp white strands. feel his heartbeat hammering against your chest. “of course, ‘toru.”
he exhales like the weight of the world just slid off his shoulders. then a quiet, almost shy, “round two when you’re ready?”
you laugh. he grins against your skin.
possessive fucker.
★ TOJI FUSHIGURO
we all know toji would absolutely haaate you coming home late and try to play it off. he’d be looming over the counter, his facial expression showing all kinds of pissed-the-fawk off but as soon as he sees you he can’t even stay away for more than 5 minutes.
He’d be balls deep making you have your third orgasm scolding you like the naughty girl you are.
“thought you could just stroll in whenever the fuck you want, huh?” his voice is low, right against the shell of your ear while he’s got you bent over the kitchen counter. dishes still in the sink. your coat half-shucked onto the floor. keys somewhere under the table. doesn’t matter. none of it does.
one thick forearm banded across your stomach, pinning you flush so your ass can’t escape the brutal snap of his hips. the other hand’s fisted in your hair, yanking your head back just enough to make your spine arch pretty for him.
“late again. no text. no call.” each word punched out with a mean thrust that makes your toes scrape the tile. “had me sittin’ here like some worried bitch waitin’ on his girl.”
“toji—“ you try to moan an apology but it comes out fumbled—muffled against the crook of your own arm.
he’s so deep the head of his cock’s bullying that gummy spot that turns your brain to static. your thighs are already trembling from the first two times he made you come—once on his fingers while he growled about how soaked you were just from hearing his voice on the phone earlier, once more when he shoved you face-down on the couch the second the door clicked shut.
now this. third round. no warmup. no mercy.
“look at you,” he mutters, breath hot on your neck. scarred lips brushing skin. “actin’ all innocent walkin’ in here smellin’ like that bitchy vanilla scent… but this pussy’s still grippin’ me like she missed daddy’s dick.”
he punctuates it with a slow grind—rolling his hips so the fat base drags over your swollen clit. your knees buckle. he catches you easily, hauling you higher onto your toes.
“stay up. you’re gonna take every inch while i remind you who the fuck you belong to.” his free hand cracks down on your ass—once, twice. sharp enough to sting, leaving blooming heat. you clench hard around him on instinct making him hiss through his teeth.
“fuck— there it is. greedy little thing. squeezin’ like you’re tryna apologize with your pussy.”
you’re dripping down your thighs. sticky trails cooling on your skin. the wet slap of his balls against your cunt making you cry out in the quiet kitchen. fridge humming. clock ticking. your pulse hammering in your ears louder than both.
“toji—‘m sorry—”
“sorry ain’t cuttin’ it, doll.” he yanks your head back farther, forces you to look at the dark window—reflection of you two like some filthy portrait. his broad frame swallowing yours. muscles flexing under scarred skin every time he bottoms out. your mouth slack, eyes glassy, mascara smudged from earlier tears of pleasure and pain. that same lewd expression he adores most.
“you see that?” he growls. “see how fuckin’ wrecked you look already? and you still got the nerve to come home late like i won’t do somethin’ about it.” he shifts—hooks one of your knees up onto the counter ledge, spreading you wider. new angle has him carving deeper, tip kissing your cervix on every punishing stroke. your nails scrape uselessly at the granite.
“gonna make this pussy remember,” he rasps. voice cracking just a little now—tell-tale sign he’s losing the cool he pretends to have. “gonna fuck you till you can’t walk straight tomorrow. till every step reminds you who waited up.”
his rhythm stutters when you flutter around him again—walls spasming, trying to pull him under. he curses low, filthy.
“shit— already? you’re comin’ again?” he chuckles.
you can’t answer. can only whimper high, broken—while the coil snaps for the third time. thighs shaking violently. gush of slick coating his cock, dripping onto the floor. he doesn’t slow down. fucks you through it meaner. harder.
“that’s it— give it to me— fuckin’ soak me— good girl— my nasty little slut.” his grip tightens. hips slamming erratic now. balls drawing up tight.
“gonna fill this cunt up,” he starts whining, filter now gone, voice wrecked. “gonna stuff you so full you’ll be leakin’ me all night— gonna make sure you smell like me tomorrow— fuck—”
you reach back, nails digging into his thigh. “inside— please— toji~”
that does it.
he slams home one last time deep inside, groaning long and low like it hurts. cock pulsing, swelling, flooding you with heat. thick ropes painting your walls. so much it spills out around his base, creamy white streaking down your thighs even while he’s still grinding through the aftershocks.
“fuck— take it— take every drop— mine— fuckin’ mine—”
he keeps rolling his hips—shallow, needy—milking himself empty while you tremble under him. overstimulated. his chest heaves against your back. scarred arms caging you in like he’ll never let go.
“don’t do that shit again,” he mutters. quieter now. almost soft. “hated waitin’. hated not knowin’ if you were okay.”
you reach back, thread fingers through dark strands. feel him shiver. “i really am sorry, toji.”
he huffs. kisses the nape of your neck—open-mouthed, lingering. “yeah. you will be.”
then—after another slow grind that makes you both hiss, “shower. now. ‘fore i decide round four happens right here.”
you laugh—breathless. he smirks against your skin. finally slips out with a wet sound that makes you clench around nothing. cum trickles down your thigh. he swipes two fingers through it, brings them to your lips.
“clean up your mess, baby.” you suck obediently. taste salt and him. his eyes darken again.
“good girl.” he scoops you up—effortlessly, like you weigh nothing, carrying you toward the bathroom. your legs dangle. thighs sticky. heart still racing.
“next time you’re late,” he murmurs against your temple, “i’m tyin’ you to the bed before you even think about leavin’.”
you roll your eyes then nuzzle yourself on his chest.
★ KAMO CHOSO
choso would absolutely be the last person you'd expect to corner you against the front door the second you walked in.
we all know choso — sweet, a little awkward, the man who asks "is this okay?" before he even touches your hair, who goes pink behind the ears when you call him pretty, who avoids eye contact for ten full minutes after you catch him staring too long. that's your choso.
and then you stay out three hours past when you said you'd be back, phone halfway dead, still pissed from the argument you'd storm out of, and now you begrundgingly walk through the door to find him sitting very, very still on the couch.
he doesn't yell. that's the thing that gets you first. you were braced for it, shoulders up, already rehearsing your half of the fight, and instead there's just silence.
his hands are folded between his knees, dark hair loose and hanging around his face, and his looking at you with those heavy-lidded eyes drowned in violet like he's been doing nothing but looking at the door for three hours. which, you didn't think about that part.
you open your mouth; an apology, excuse, something, and he's already standing up, you forget what you were going to say because he's so much bigger than you. he's always been tall, but right now crossing the room toward you he fills up all the space in a way that makes your heartbeat do something stupid.
he stops close. too close, not touching, the air between you smelling like him and whatever he'd been drinking trying to wait you out, and he just — looks at you. searching your face, his jaw tight.
"why didn't you pick up?" he asks, and his voice is still quiet, still careful, but there's something unsteady threading through it. not anger, exactly. something worse than anger. "i called you four times, baby."
baby. he only does that when he's upset. your stomach does a full rotation.
"choso, i—" but he cuts you off by reaching up and touching your face. just cupping your jaw with one big hand, thumb tracing your cheekbone, and you can feel that his fingers aren't fully steady.
"you scared me," he says softly, like it costs him something. "you left mad and then you just— you didn't—" he stops. his adam apple bobs. "why would you do that."
it's not even a question, really. it comes out like something he's been turning over in his hands for hours, worn smooth, and the look on his face is so sincere and so quietly devastated that something in your chest caves a little.
you say his name again, softer this time, and you watch his jaw tighten. he only warning you get before he leans down and kisses you, sudden and slow, and it's not gentle exactly, it's— it has weight to it. the kind of kiss that means don't do that again.
he pulls back just enough to look at you, and his eyes are darker now, something shifting behind them that sends heat straight down to your tummy. "i'm still mad at you," he says quietly, and his hand is still at your jaw, tilting you up. "y'know that."
"yeah," you manage, "i know—"
"good." and then his other hand finds your waist and he walks you backward toward the bedroom with this unbearable, focused patience, like he has a plan and he's going to follow it all the way through, and every time your back bumps something — doorframe, wall — he catches you with that big warm grip and keeps you moving, keeps you steady, keeps his eyes on your face the entire time like he's cataloguing every flicker of expression. does he know he's doing that. probably not. probably just choso, just how he looks when he's paying attention, which is somehow more devastating than anything else he could do.
"choso, wait—" you try, half a laugh, half something else entirely, and he pauses in the dark of the hallway, head ducking slightly.
"i'm not yelling at you," he says, like that's clarification. "i'm not— i don't want to yell. i just—" and here he swallows, something flickering across his face, almost embarrassed but not quite. "i need you to let me. okay? let me—" his hands tighten the smallest amount at your waist. "please."
the please ruins you. because it's still him, it's still choso who asks for things softly, who would never just take, and somehow that makes it worse — makes the heat travel from your tummy to you pussy, making it hard to remember why you were mad in the first place or what you'd been so stubborn about three hours ago.
"okay," you say, barely sound, and he exhales like he'd been holding that in, too.
he takes his time. that's the thing you weren't prepared for — this slow, deliberate patience layered over something that keeps slipping through, this tremble in his hands when he pulls your shirt over your head that he tries to steady and can't quite, his breath gone a little uneven despite himself.
"you're so—" he starts, voice hushed, and then stops himself, frowning faintly, this small frustrated furrow between his brows like he resents that you exist and are right in front of him and he doesn't have words for whatever's stuck in his chest. he settles for touching instead. spreads one big palm flat over your ribs, fingers spanning so wide it knocks the air out of you.
"choso," you breathe, and he makes this low sound, involuntary, and his jaw tightens.
"you s-scared me," he says again, quieter, like it keeps escaping him. "i kept thinking— i didn't know if you were—" he doesn't finish it. instead he puts his mouth on your throat and stays there, just breathing for a second, warm and still, and the gesture is so tender and so completely at odds with the size of him that your eyes sting a little. oh no. "i hate when you're gone," he murmurs into your skin. "hate it. even when i'm mad. still hate it."
getting him inside you takes time too... because he goes careful, this trembling careful that he's clearly fighting against, hissing low through his teeth as you stretch and your walls flutter helplessly around him and his whole body goes rigid.
"wait—" he grits out, and you're not sure if he's talking to you or himself, hips stilled, forehead pressed somewhere between your shoulder and the pillow. "wait." you can feel how much that costs him. can feel the tension humming through every muscle where he's pressed against you, thick and filling you so full your thoughts are already liquefying at the edges.
"'m okay," you manage, arching slightly, and he makes a noise like you've broken something.
"i know you are," he breathes. "i just— need a second. you feel—" and then he stops talking, which might be a first for this whole gentle careful thing, and starts moving instead.
slow. devastatingly slow. rolling his hips in this deep, grinding drag that hits something inside you that makes your toes curl and your back bow up off the mattress and a sound come out of your mouth you hadn't planned.
his breathing goes immediately ragged, plp plp plp of his hips meeting yours filling up the quiet of the room, and his hands find your thighs and hitch you up, adjusting the angle, and— fuck. your hands scramble for something to grip, sheet, his arm, anything, and he watches you, watches your face with this expression that's raw in a way that makes it hard to look at directly.
"there you are," he breathes, low and shaky. "that— yeah, that's—" and then he does it again, same drag, same deep roll, and your head drops back.
he gets meaner about it slowly. not aggressive, not cruel — just focused, this quiet intensity that keeps building, the pace still unhurried but heavier, deeper, and his grip on your thighs tightening until you know he's leaving prints and you don't care, can't care, not with how full you are and how the drag of him hits that sweet spot every time like he's learning you, memorizing you the same way he'd been reading your face in the hallway.
"you were gone so long," he says, almost conversational except for the slight crack in it, and his hips roll and you gasp. "why'd you stay out so long." it's not really a question. or it is, it's still a question, still that same wondering hurt from earlier, but now his voice has this low fraying quality like a wire pulled too tight. "why?"
"i don't— i wasn't—" you're already losing the thread of it, hips rolling up to chase him without your permission, and he notices, eyes dropping down to where you're joined and going briefly, almost comically blank.
"you're doing that," he says. faintly accusatory. faintly wrecked.
"why?" he asks again, later, when he's got you folded up and he's properly losing his mind about it, forehead pressed to yours, hair escaped from its tie and hanging around both of you, and the controlled thing has fully slipped now — hips snapping into something erratic that makes the wet slap of it embarrassingly loud and your voice keep breaking on his name. "why'd y-you—" and he stops because his voice cracks too, right down the middle, and he squeezes his eyes shut and makes this low broken sound and you feel him pulse inside you and
"choso—"
"m' sorry," he breathes, "m' sorry, i—" but he doesn't stop, can't, hips still working even as his whole body shakes and his breath comes in ragged little pulls. "baby." and god he sounds— he sounds completely undone, you've never heard him like this, this is new, this is the version of choso that three hours of sitting on the couch waiting for you made, and something about that makes you clench around him and he makes a sound that's almost pained.
"please," you hear yourself say, "please~"
"yeah," he gets out, barely, "yeah— i've got you— you're—" and then the words slip away entirely and he fucks you through it properly, stuttering and shaking and whispering things into your hair that might be your name or might be please or might be both.
overstimulation is a thing that happens to you after, when you're limp and wrung out and certain that you couldn't possibly, and choso is still moving — slowed to something deep and lazy, still filling you and refusing to pull out with this look on his face like he hasn't fully come back to himself yet.
"choso," you try, thighs twitching, "h-hey— i can't, i'm—"
"just," he says. stops. swallows. "just a little more. please. please, baby." and there's the question again, the soft asking even now, even like this, even with you already a destroyed mess underneath him. "you feel so good. can i— just a little more, okay? jus'—"
"mmgfh, choso~"
his face twists. "s-sorry," he starts, "i'm sorry, i'll stop, you just—" and then you clench, involuntary, body giving him the answer that your mouth hadn't gotten around to yet, and his eyes flutter and he exhales, "oh," very small. and keeps going.
★ HIROMI HIGURAMA
hiromi higuruma would absolutely find you still hunched over his desk at eleven-forty-seven at night, lamp cutting a yellow circle across a stack of files you've been reorganizing since he hung up on you four hours ago; you had nowhere else to go with how angry you were, and his office was right there, and spite has its own kind of logic.
we all know higuruma. composed. methodical. the man who won arguments with prosecutors using a single eyebrow raise and twenty seconds of silence. you didn't think he'd come back tonight. you should have thought about it more.
the door opens quiet. he doesn't announce himself, doesn't say your name — you just feel the shift in the room, the way the air changes when someone large and very still enters it, and your shoulders go up before your brain catches up with why. the click of the lock behind him is the loudest thing that's happened in hours.
you don't turn around. pride, mostly. also you're not done being mad, and you need at least another thirty seconds to build the wall back up before you look at him. you hear him set something down; keys, probably, the small ceramic bowl by the door making its little sound and then nothing. just the awareness of him behind you, standing there in that way he has, the way that makes rooms feel smaller without being threatening about it. his suit jacket is still on. he's been somewhere, then. or he sat with it on in the car for a while deciding whether to come in.
"you're still here," he says. low, even. not a question exactly.
"i work here," you say, turning a page you're not reading.
a beat of quiet that has weight to it, the kind higuruma deploys the way other people use words. then you hear him move, unhurried, the soft drag of dress shoes across the floor, and he rounds the desk and you still don't look up and his hand comes down over yours on the file folder — not gripping, just covering, warm and very deliberate. stopping you. "look at me," he pleads.
you do. because you can't not, when he uses that voice. he's close, closer than you'd registered, and his face is doing the thing where it's not giving much away but his eyes are — tired, a little, and something underneath the tired that's been sitting there all day working itself into a knot.
his expression is still unreadable. his tie is loosened exactly one button's worth. "you've been here this whole time," he questions, and it's not what you expect him to lead with, the what and the how of you sitting in his office reorganizing case files out of spite at eleven pm, and something about that catches in your chest.
"i wasn't going to go home while i was still—" you start.
"i know," he states. not dismissive. like he actually does know, like he turned it over the whole drive here and arrived at the same place you did. his thumb moves across the back of your hand, small slow arc. "i shouldn't have hung up."
oh. you blink. you'd been ready for the second half of the argument, had it half-loaded, and now it's just — sitting there unspent and awkward. "higuruma, i—"
"i know," he says again, softer, and then he takes the folder out of your hand and sets it aside and the edge of a brief that took someone three hours to assemble crumples under it and neither of you mentions it. his hands find your face, thumbs at your jaw, tilting you up the way he does when he wants your full attention, which you were already giving him, but that's not really the point of it. the point is the holding. "i'm sorry," he says, looking straight at you, and higuruma doesn't say that lightly, you know that, you've known that for a while now.
you open your mouth and he kisses you before you can finish the thought.
it's not rushed. that's his whole thing, always has been measured, intentional, like he's building a case for something with every action and the verdict is going to land whether you're ready or not. his hands stay at your face while his mouth works yours slow and thorough, and you're already melting by the time he pulls back, lips a little swollen, eyes darker than they were, and he looks at you for a second like he's checking something off an internal list. then he drops to his knees.
oh— "higuruma, wait—"
"sit on the desk," he says, already pushing your chair back.
"the— the papers—"
"sit on the desk." same tone he uses to deliver a closing argument. you sit on the desk. several documents that probably mattered crinkle underneath you and you can't bring yourself to care because he's parting your knees with both hands, slow and very matter-of-fact about it, and looking up at you from the floor of his own office with his tie loose and his glasses catching the lamplight, and the sight of him like that does something genuinely unreasonable to your brain chemistry.
he takes his time working you open through the fabric first. thumb pressing, tracing, watching your face for every twitch while you try very hard to look like you're not immediately losing the thread of every thought you'd had tonight.
god. "higuruma—" his name comes out embarrassingly soft and something in his expression shifts, the composure still there but thinned, something hotter running underneath it. he pushes the fabric aside and puts his mouth on you without preamble and you grab the edge of the desk hard enough that the stapler rattles off onto the floor.
he eats you out the way he does everything — thorough, unhurried, with this awful focused precision that doesn't allow for shortcuts or mercy, his tongue working your folds open before settling flat and heavy over your clit and just staying there, slow pulsing pressure, and you're already slick and aching from nothing but the last twenty minutes of him and the sound that comes out of your mouth is not dignified.
a stack of briefs slides off the corner of the desk. neither of you looks at them. his hands grip your thighs and keep you spread and still while you squirm and he hums against you, low, disapproving, and the vibration of it makes your hips stutter up helplessly.
"higuruma," you breathe, thighs trembling, "please, i need—"
he pulls back just enough to look up at you, chin slick, and his eyes are very dark and very attentive behind the glasses. "come here," he says, rough at the edges now, and he maneuvers you. hands at your hips, repositioning, implacable until you're kneeling up on the desk above him, thighs on either side of his face, and you realize what he's doing half a second before he pulls you down onto his nose and mouth and —
the sound that comes out of you bounces off the walls. his nose presses against your clit and his mouth opens beneath you, tongue finding your entrance, and your whole body goes rigid with how good it is, too good, embarrassingly immediate, your hips rolling forward before you've even consciously decided to and he lets you, hands spread warm on your ass just guiding, keeping you steady, while you grind down onto his face in the lamplight of his own office with important legal documents crumpling under your knees.
oh my god. the wet sounds are filthy and specific and you can feel your face heating even as you can't stop chasing, hips rolling, riding the flat of his tongue and the pressure of his nose against that swollen knot of nerves until you're shaking and saying his name too many times and your thighs are clamping around his ears.
he doesn't stop when you cum. that's the thing. he slows, gentles, lets you ride it out — and then keeps going, tongue lapping patient and thorough while you twitch and gasp and try to pull back and his hands don't let you move far. "too much—" you manage, "higuru— i'm—"
"mm— i know," he groans into you, muffled, and then does something with his tongue that makes your vision go briefly static.
he gets you off twice on his face before he stands up. unhurried. glasses fogged at the edges, mouth and chin devastatingly wet, and he looks at you, completely fucked-out and wobbling on his desk amid the wreckage of the filing system with this expression that's almost quiet satisfaction except for how his chest is moving, how his hands go immediately to his belt with a precision that belies how controlled he's trying to look. there it is. "lie back," he says.
"the papers—"
"i'll reprint them." and he means it, the way he means everything, and something about the casual certainty of it makes you laugh, breathless, and you lie back in the papers.
the press of him in is slow, measured at first, and then your walls flutter around the thick stretch of him and his breath leaves him in a rush. "ah—" undignified, unplanned, and he stops for a second with his eyes shut and his jaw clenched, hands braced on the desk on either side of your hips, and you watch something in his face come loose. "you're—" he starts. stops. swallows. the glasses have slid down his nose and he doesn't fix them. "you feel—"
"hah," you moan, soft, and he opens his eyes and looks at you, and there it is; the thing under the composure, the thing that made him drive back here at midnight, the thing that'd been in his voice even when he was angry on the phone.
he starts moving and stops being careful about it within about thirty seconds.
the desk rocks. something else falls off it; a pen cup, the sound of pens scattering across the floor and you're scrambling to hold onto the edge while he fucks you into it, papers crumpling and tearing under your back, his thrusts rolling into something relentless and deep that punches the air out of you in little broken increments.
his glasses are properly crooked now and he doesn't spare a hand to fix them, both gripping your hips, and his voice when it comes out is low: "you stayed," he says, hips snapping, and it takes your brain a second to parse that he means tonight, means the office, means you sat in his space and reorganized his files instead of going somewhere he couldn't find you. "you stayed here—"
"w-what—" your voice breaks on it.
"don't do that again," he says, not a request, and his hips drive in and you keen, walls clenching, and he makes this rough sound in the back of his throat like it's punishing him too. "don't—" and then he's burying deep and staying there, trembling slightly, forehead dropping to your collarbone while his hips roll slow and grinding and he breathes through clenched teeth, "—god, you're so—" the sentence dies, unfinished, swallowed by the sound of his own breathing and the quiet ruin of every document on the desk.
you cum with your hand fisted in his rumpled shirt and his name said wrong, too many syllables, something that comes out closer to a sob than a word. he follows with his face in your neck, a low rough sound that he murmurs your name into, hips stuttering through it, and you feel the warm spill of him and his whole weight sinking into you and the desk groaning underneath and three case files sliding off onto the floor.
silence, for a bit. the lamp buzzes faintly. somewhere outside a car passes.
he lifts his head. looking at you. fixeing his glasses. "i'm reprinting all of this," he says, very quietly, surveying the destruction, and you start laughing and can't stop, and after a second his mouth curves too; not a smile exactly, but the shape of one, the thing that lives just next to composed, and he drops his head back onto your shoulder and stays there.
★ SUGURU GETO
we all know suguru geto doesn't chase. that's the thing about him — the thing you keep forgetting, keep testing the edges of anyway, like you enjoy finding out where the boundary sits.
he doesn't raise his voice. doesn't beg. and when you'd hung up on him three hours ago and stayed gone he'd sat with it, turned it over, and when you finally walked back through the door he was already standing in the hallway like he'd known exactly how long you'd need.
he didn't say anything. just looked at you.
that look. that specific one, dark eyes tracking your face, reading you in three seconds flat, mouth doing nothing. you'd opened yours to say i'm sorry or we need to talk or literally anything with words in it, and he'd crossed the distance and kissed you instead, one hand cupping your jaw and the other already finding your waist, and it wasn't gentle, wasn't rough either, it was decided. like the conversation was already over and this was just the next paragraph.
"sugu—" you tried, against his mouth.
"shhh," he hushes.
he takes his time undressing you, which is somehow worse than if he'd just ripped something. deliberate. like he's not in a hurry because he doesn't need to be, because you're not going anywhere and he's already decided how this ends. his earring catches the light when he ducks his head to mouth at your throat and your hands find his hair on instinct; loose tonight, the tie gone, black silk of it slipping between your fingers — and he hums against your pulse point, warm and approving, and your knees do something humiliating.
"you're so annoying," he murmurs, into your neck, without heat. just a fact. and then he bites down soft and you gasp and he soothes it with his tongue and keeps moving.
on the bed he gets his mouth between your thighs first, because that's suguru, because he'll take the thing apart slow before he's anywhere close to done. chin tilted up watching your face while his tongue works your folds open, flat and thorough, the wet sounds of it slp slp slp embarrassingly audible and he doesn't stop, not even when you're already shaking and grabbing at his hair and saying his name wrong, sugurusugurusugu— like it'll do something. his eyes stay on yours the whole time. that's the meanest part.
he edges you twice before he's even inside you, pulling back each time with this patient, infuriating composure, lips slick and dark eyes blown, watching you fall apart at the removal of his mouth like it's something he's particularly interested in studying.
"please," you manage, thighs trembling either side of his head.
"please what, pretty girl," he says, voice dropped to something that scrapes right down your spine.
when he finally pushes in the sound that leaves you is not attractive. not even a little. his cock stretches you open inch by slow inch and he watches your face the whole way, jaw tight, the composure held together by what looks like significant effort.
his breath heavier than he'd like, a muscle in his cheek pulling, and when he bottoms out he stops, hips flush against yours, and just. stays there. forehead dropped to yours. both of you breathing.
"you pissed me off," he mumbles, very quietly. "don't do that again."
your throat goes tight. "sugu—"
"i mean it." and then he pulls back and drives in and the words dissolve completely.
he fucks you with this horrible focused intensity — not punishing, not exactly, but not gentle either, hips rolling deep and grinding in a way that finds that spot every third stroke like he has it memorized, like he's been thinking about exactly this angle for three hours on the couch waiting for you.
plp plp plp of skin meeting skin fills up the room. his hair falls forward around both your faces and you reach up to grip it and he lets you, makes a low rough sound at the pull, hips stuttering into something harder before he catches himself and smooths back into that devastating rhythm.
"you gonna run off again?" he growls, above you, not quite a threat, not quite a question.
"no—" and your voice breaks on it because he angles up and hits something that makes your whole body jolt, "no, no, i'm sorry, i'm sorry—"
"i know you are," he says, low and raspy, like he was always going to get here, "i know, sweetheart, you always are—" and then his fingers find your nipple, pinching and caressing the sensitive bud.
he doesn't stop when you cum. the composure fully slips somewhere around the second time, hips losing the careful measured drag into something erratic and urgent, his breath coming apart in short rough increments against your temple.
"fuuuck—" quiet, almost surprised, like he resents how good you feel, voice cracking clean down the middle, "too tight, you're always so—" and he buries deep and grinds and his whole body shudders and the warmth of him spilling into you punches a moan out of you both. "fuckin' tight, my love."
he stays inside. grinds it slow. keeps going.
"sugu," you breathe, wrecked, "i can't—"
"you can," he says, into your hair, but it comes out rough-soft, the mean edge gone, and his arms pull you closer, hold you there, and it's not really an argument anymore.
★ NANAMI KENTO
nanami would be so fucking careful about it. that's the part that gets you. the part that's almost meaner than if he'd just been angry — because he is angry, you can feel it in the way his hands grip your hips with this controlled, deliberate pressure, can hear it in how measured his breathing is, how even, the specific even that means he's working very hard at it. he told you to be home by nine. it is past midnight.
and now he has you folded underneath him with his shirt half-untucked and his jaw set and his hips rolling into you in these long, thorough strokes that are technically gentle, paced, deep, no wasted movement, while your thighs shake on either side of him and you babble apologies into the dark of the bedroom that he doesn't acknowledge and doesn't stop.
"i-i'm sorry," you manage, wall flutter pulling a short exhale out of him that he smooths over immediately, "kento, m' sorry, i didn't mean to— i lost track of—"
he rolls his hips on the next thrust and the words collapse into a sound that isn't a word at all, just air, just the squelch of him working into you plp plp plp in the quiet room, unhurried, relentless in the way that only nanami can be relentless about something like it's a task, like the apology goes in one ear and out the other because you're saying it into his cock and not into his face and he knows the difference. "kento—"
"i heard you," he says. low. not unkind exactly. not kind either.
his thumb finds your clit and presses and you jolt, thighs snapping around his waist, and he looks down at you with this expression that is so carefully neutral that it circles back around to devastating, and keeps the pressure steady and keeps his hips moving and watches you come apart underneath him like he's noting every detail for the record.
fuck. you're already so wet it's embarrassing, has been since he'd pulled you in by the wrist the second you'd walked through the door — no yelling, no lecture, just his hand around your wrist and his eyes finding yours and something in his face going quiet in a way that was worse than any argument. you'd said his name. he'd said, very quietly, bedroom, and that had been the end of the conversation.
"you worried me," he says now, into the space between you, not quite looking at your face and not quite not looking at it either, gaze somewhere at your collarbone, and his voice does something strange on the last word; a slight roughness that he smooths out immediately after. the thumb at your clit circles once. you keen, high and broken, hips chasing without your permission.
"don't do that," he says, flatter now, though the hand at your hip tightens the smallest fraction. whether he means don't do that, stop chasing or don't do that, don't worry me again, you cannot parse with his cock buried this deep in you. probably both. nanami is efficient.
"m' sorry," you slur, wet-eyed now, his next thrust knocking it out of you in a rush, "m' sorry, kento, i know, i know i should've—" and then he shifts the angle, just slightly, just a precise deliberate tilt of his hips that drags the head of him across something that makes your vision white at the edges, and you stop making words and start making sounds.
he keeps going. same pace. same depth. same controlled roll of his hips that is technically, technically, not punishing you — except that it absolutely is, except that he knows exactly what he's doing and how it lands, and the smallest thing is happening at the corners of his mouth that might be satisfaction and might be guilt about the satisfaction and is definitely both. "can't— kento— please—"
"please what," he says. quiet. curious, almost. like he genuinely wants to know.
your brain presents you with nothing. please more, please stop, please don't stop, please say you're not mad, please keep looking at me like that — all of it jamming up in your throat at once while your walls clench helplessly around him and he makes a low sound and his jaw tightens and his hips stutter, just once, the first crack in the composure, before he smooths it back out and keeps going.
"you don't know," he observes, and there's something in it; gentle, ruthless, both, the nanami special, and his thumb presses down on your clit and holds and you cry out and your whole body arches up into him.
"i hate when you go quiet on me," he says, above you, and it takes you a fuzzy second to realize he means the argument, means the part where you'd gone cold and hung up and disappeared for three hours — not the current situation where you are physically incapable of coherent speech because he's fucking you through the mattress with his shirt still half-buttoned and his glasses somewhere on the nightstand and his face doing a very poor job of being expressionless.
"i don't—" and here he stops. his hips keep moving, the pace finally slipping into something less controlled, a little harder, a little less technically gentle, and you feel it in your teeth. "i don't like not knowing where you are," he finishes, very quietly, and the admission costs him something you can see him paying. his forehead drops to your shoulder. the careful breathing is gone. "i don't like it."
"kento—" and your voice breaks clean in half on his name, hands scrambling to grip something, his arm, the sheets, landing on both.
"i know," he says, into your neck. "i know, just—" and his hips snap and you both make embarrassing sounds and he mouths something against your skin that might be your name or might be stay.
you can't tell, you're too far gone, thighs shaking and cunt clenching rhythmically around him while he loses the careful measured pace entirely and fucks you like he's been holding it back since you walked through the door, which he has, which you both know, slap slap slap of his hips meeting yours filling up the bedroom while you babble his name and sorry and please into the dark above his shoulder.
he cums with his face still pressed to your throat, a rough bitten-off sound that he muffles immediately, hips buried deep, grinding slow through it, big hand spread at your lower back holding you against him like you might drift away if he doesn't. you feel the warmth of it and your walls flutter and he makes another sound, smaller, helpless, and his grip tightens.
"don't," he says, strained, into your neck. "don't move. give me—" and he doesn't finish that either, just holds you there, both of you breathing too hard, your lashes wet and sticking, his dress shirt damp at the collar from where his neck has been sweating through the last forty minutes of technically gentle.
the silence stretches. his thumb moves, small idle arc at your hip. slowly the grip loosens into something that's just — holding. the kind that doesn't have an agenda.
"i'm sorry, my love" you say again, into his shoulder. meant more, this time.
a long beat. "i know," he says, finally, and you can feel some of the tension leave his back under your hands. "next time." just that. next time — and you know what he means, have learned enough nanami to translate: next time call. next time don't go quiet. next time let me know you're alright. you press your face into his shoulder and nod into the fabric and he exhales, long and slow, and his hand moves to the back of your head.
he stays inside you until you both stop shaking. doesn't pull out. just — stays; somewhere outside it starts to rain and nanami breathes, even, finally, actually even, and his fingers card through your hair once like he's not doing it on purpose.
★ SUKUNA RYOMEN
sukuna would find it genuinely hilarious. that's what gets you first, not the anger you'd braced for, not the cold shoulder you'd half-wanted so you could stay righteous about the whole thing.
no. you walk through the door still rehearsing the second half of the argument and he's sitting there with that look on his face, the one that means he's already decided something, already filed it under your fault, my problem, and the laugh that comes out of him is low and short and not actually funny at all.
"there she is," he mumbles, like you're late to something he arranged. like he wasn't the reason you left.
you open your mouth. wrong move. he's off the couch before you finish the first word, and sukuna in motion is something your body responds to before your brain weighs in — every nerve pulling toward him even when you're still pissed, even when you're already saying.
"don't—" and he's already got a fist in the back of your hair, not cruel, just absolute, tilting your head back so he can look at your face properly.
"you left," he says, like it's an observation about the weather.
"you were being—"
"you left." same tone. lower. and the hand in your hair tightens and you feel your pulse jump.
he walks you backward into the bedroom without ceremony, lips at your jaw, your throat, the hinge of it, not kissing exactly, just pressing, sampling, the way sukuna touches things he considers his. the black marks on his chest are warm against your palms when you grab at him and he hums, pleased, like you've done something correctly by accident.
"always gotta make it difficult," he mutters, into your neck, and there's something in it that's almost fond and almost annoyed and fully neither.
your back hits the mattress. his weight settles over you and blots out the ceiling and you. shit, you stop being mad about the argument for approximately one full second.
he's not gentle about getting you open. two fingers, then three, working you slick with this bored, efficient focus while he watches your face like he's looking for something specific. the exact moment your hips start chasing, the exact shape your mouth makes before the sound comes out. finds both. says nothing about it. just pulls his fingers free and wipes them on the sheets and lines himself up and — oh.
the stretch of him pulls a sound from your throat that you immediately hate yourself for.
"every time," he says, pushing in slow, watching your expression fall apart in real time, "act like you didn't miss it." another inch. your thighs are shaking already. "like you didn't come back for this."
"that's not— kuna~"
"finish a sentence," he suggests pleasantly, and drives the rest of the way home.
oh fuck. white at the edges. you grab at his forearms, thick, tattooed, not moving anywhere, and your walls clench helplessly around him and he makes this rough sound through his teeth, jaw set, eyes gone a little dark, which is the only tell he has and he'd be furious if you said it out loud.
he stays buried, lets you feel all of it, lets the stretch of him sit there in your nervous system like a fire alarm, and when your hips twitch up toward him his smirk sharpens.
"there it is," he says.
he fucks you mean and slow, which is worse than fast, the drag of him pulling out and pushing back in at this deliberate grinding pace that has you leaking slick down your thighs and babbling in under four minutes.
plp plp plp. the headboard knocks the wall. he doesn't care about the headboard. he's got a hand spread at your lower tummy, pressing down just enough to feel where he's hitting, and the filthy sound he makes when he feels it from both sides does something genuinely embarrassing to you.
"look at you," he murmurs, not unkind, "couldn't even wait to fight properly—" and he rolls his hips in and you arch up and he watches that happen with the expression of a man who feels very correct about something.
"wasn't— my fault—" you try, breathless, which is the wrong thing because—
"whose ring are you wearing," he says, flat, hips snapping once and your whole body jolts.
you stop arguing after that. he works you up to something that sits right behind your eyes, all squelch and wet heat and the low grunt of his breathing, and you're holding onto his shoulders with your nails probably leaving marks and he doesn't mention it or stop — if anything he fucks harder when you grip, because of course he does, because that's sukuna, because of course.
"gonna cum f' me?" he breathes, above you, and it's not quite a question, it's more like he's narrating what's about to happen because he already knows.
"yes—" and it comes out wrecked, barely a word, more just the shape of one.
"yeah," he says, very low, and his thumb finds your clit and presses and that's all it takes.
he cums with his face in your throat, biting down, not enough to break, enough to bruise, enough that you'll feel it tomorrow in the exact shape of his mouth, hips buried and grinding through the aftershocks of both of you, a rough sound that he muffles against your skin like he resents needing to make it.
you feel the heat of him spill and your walls clench again and he hisses, "don't—" and then does three more thrusts anyway, short and grinding and involuntary, because obviously.
silence. his weight settles. not off you, just — settled. which is sukuna's version of a blanket.
after a long moment: "you're not leaving again," he says. not a question. not really possessive even, just stated. the way he states everything that's already been decided.
your throat is dry. "that's not really how—"
"you're not," he says, into your hair, and the arm across your waist tightens by about ten percent.
you don't finish the sentence.
★ SHIU KONG
shui kong would let you walk through the door still hot with it. still jaw-set, still convinced you had the moral high ground, still replaying the argument in your head in the satisfying way where you win every time.
he'd be right there, jacket off, suspenders hanging loose at his hips, cigarette burning between two fingers like he's been sitting with it since you left, and he wouldn't say a word. just watches you come in. takes a drag. exhales slow.
that's it. that's the whole greeting.
the silence does something to you that you don't want to examine too closely, because it's infuriating and also your pulse has already picked up and you know he can tell, knows he always can, which is also infuriating. "don't start," you warn him, which is a stupid thing to say to someone who hasn't started anything.
the corner of his mouth moves. barely. "didn't say a word," he says, smoke still curling from the cigarette, voice doing that thing where it sounds perpetually bored and perpetually amused at the same time, pitched low and even, the kind of voice that gets under your skin precisely because it doesn't try to.
"you were thinking it," you say.
"yeah," he agrees, pleasantly. "i was."
he stubs the cigarette out. stands up. and there's a certain category of problem that shui kong moving toward you creates, because he's not fast about it, he's unhurried, which is different, which is worse and by the time he's close enough that you can smell the stale smoke and something sharper underneath it, the argument is already losing structural integrity in your head.
he looks down at you for a second. something in his half-lidded gaze tracking your face the way he tracks everything, cataloguing, unreadable.
"you done?" he asks.
you open your mouth. he tips your chin up with two fingers, not gripping, just placing, and kisses you, and the answer dies somewhere between your throat and the open air.
he gets your clothes off in a way that's efficient and sort of humiliating, like it's a task with obvious steps, like your indignation is a minor inconvenience he's accounting for. your skirt's gone before you've fully processed his hands at the zipper.
he backs you into the wall with one palm flat between your shoulders and mouths at your throat while his other hand slides between your thighs, and you're already embarrassingly wet and he finds it immediately and makes this low unimpressed sound directly against your pulse.
"how long you been like this," he murmurs. not a question.
"shut up—"
"since you left?" and there it is the meanness, the specific shui kong meanness that doesn't raise its voice, just turns the thing over in its hands and examines it while you want to dissolve through the floorboards.
his fingers move and you grab at his forearm and he keeps going, two fingers crooking inside you while his thumb finds your clit and applies exactly enough pressure to make your knees do something unreliable.
"shui—" and your voice comes out wrong, high and broken at the seam, and you feel him smile against your throat.
"there she is," he says, quiet, satisfied. "the version of you that's not full of shit."
you want to say something cutting. what comes out is a moan, squelch of his fingers working into you, plp plp plp embarrassing in the quiet of the room, and he brings you to the edge and keeps you there with this infuriating focused patience — just enough, never quite enough — until you're grabbing his shirt and making small desperate noises into his shoulder and your pride has fully evacuated the premises.
"please," you get out.
"please what," he says, mild.
"please just—"
"use your words," he says, "you were so good at them twenty minutes ago."
he fucks you up against the wall first, which you suspect is partially because he enjoys watching you scrabble for purchase, fingers dragging against the paint, heels slipping, entirely dependent on the arm hooked under your thigh to keep you from sliding.
the angle is something that rearranges your opinions on several subjects, his cock thick and pressing in deep where he holds you open and your mouth falls open on nothing, just air, just the squelch and slap of it slap slap slap and his breath rough at your temple, finally a little rough, finally something, the composed thing going uneven at the edges in a way that you'd feel smug about if you had any working brain cells left.
"still mad?" he asks, against your ear, hips driving up.
"—yes," you moan, which is technically a lie but also the only piece of self-respect you have left.
he makes a low amused sound and angles his hips and hits something that has you crying out, thighs locking around him, walls clenching so hard you feel him shudder, the first real crack — his jaw tensing, a rough "fuck—" that he doesn't quite swallow, muffled in your hair, hips stuttering before he pulls himself back into the rhythm.
"sure," he says, slightly strained.
he moves you to the bed at some point, not gentle about it; drops you onto the mattress, hooks your ankles up over his shoulders, and the new depth makes you sob a little which he watches with this expression like he's deeply privately satisfied by that.
the composure is mostly back. mostly. his hair's messed up and there's a flush along his neck he's definitely not acknowledging and his thrusts have that particular roughness that means he's closer than he wants to admit — slap slap slap and your whole body rocking up the mattress with each one, headboard kissing the wall, the sound of you soaked around him absolutely filthy in the quiet room.
"shui— shui, i'm—" and you're already shaking, thighs trembling either side of his head, clenching and fluttering and making his breath stutter again, "gonna cum, please—"
"i know," he says, and the certainty of it is so irritating and so hot that it tips you right over the edge.
he follows close behind, hips grinding in deep and staying, hand gripping your hip hard enough you'll see it tomorrow, a low rough sound that he breathes out through his teeth. the warmth of him fills you and your walls flutter uselessly and he hisses, grinds once more, twice, working it through with his eyes closed and jaw set like he's annoyed at himself for it.
silence. the ceiling. both of you breathing.
after a while he reaches over to the nightstand and picks up a new cigarette. doesn't light it. just holds it between his fingers and looks at the ceiling, chest still moving too fast for someone who'd like you to believe he's completely unbothered.
"we're not doing that again," he says finally, meaning the leaving part. the whole leaving part.
you turn your head to look at him. he's still staring at the ceiling. the unlit cigarette taps once against his knuckles. "which part," you say.
"all of it," he says, which means the leaving and nothing else, and doesn't elaborate, because that's all he was ever going to give you and somehow it's enough.
★ NAOYA ZENIN
naoya zenin would be insufferable about it. that's the whole thing — he'd be insufferable, leaned against the doorframe when you finally walked in, arms crossed, that particular smirk sitting on his face like it'd been waiting there specifically for you. hours. you'd been gone hours, long enough to cool down and heat back up again for entirely different reasons, and you walk through the door and the first thing out of his mouth is "took you long enough."
not i was worried. not where were you. not even a proper argument continuation. just that, delivered like a verdict, like you'd failed a test he'd designed.
you should not find it as hot as you do. you genuinely hate that about yourself.
"don't," you start, already bristling, dropping your bag.
"don't what," he says, tilting his head slightly, light eyes doing that thing where they track you with this lazy attention that isn't lazy at all, not really. "finish a thought, at least."
"don't be a dick about it—"
"i'm always dick," he smirks, like it's a point of pride, and it is, that's the problem, "that's not new information." he pushes off the doorframe. "you done sulking or d' you need another hour?"
"i wasn't sulking—" but he's already moved, already closed enough distance that you have to tilt your chin up to hold eye contact, and naoya at close range is a specific kind of problem because he's taller than you clock him for and meaner than you're ever fully braced for; his hand finds your jaw before you finish the sentence, not hard, just — there, thumb pressing the corner of your mouth, tilting your face exactly where he wants it.
"yeah you were," he says, eyes dropping to your mouth, "you always do that little thing where you go quiet and disappear and wait for someone to come find you." the smirk shifts into something with a sharper edge. "m' not doing that. you know where i am."
it's the closest naoya zenin gets to i was waiting for you to come back and you both know it and neither of you are going to say it.
he kisses you before you can respond, which is basically naoya's solution to any conversational situation where he's running out of winning moves — not that he'd frame it that way, not that he'd ever admit the conversation had gotten close to him at all.
his hands move fast. not frantic, nothing naoya does is frantic, but efficient in a way that has your shirt gone and your bra following it before your brain's fully caught up, and when you grab at his collar he makes this low approving sound like you've done something correctly.
"there she is," he murmurs, against the side of your face, "been waiting all night for the version of you that shuts up."
"naoya—"
"shhh," he says, which is incredibly rude, and his hand slides down your stomach.
he doesn't bother with the bed immediately. backs you into the wall, slap of your shoulders hitting it, and gets his fingers into you while you're still standing, two of them, crooking like he already knows exactly where to press which he does, he always does, which is its own humiliation.
you're already wet and he finds it and laughs, short and low, right next to your ear. "you went all the way out there," he says, fingers working a slow drag, "this pissed at me—" and you clench around him and his breath hitches, covered fast, "—and came back this worked up. what were you even doing out there, thinking about it?"
"i hate you—" and it comes out wrecked because his thumb grazes your clit.
"no you don't," he says, certain, almost bored about it, and crooks his fingers again and you bite down on his shoulder to muffle the sound.
when he finally gets inside you it's with your legs around his waist and the wall doing half the structural work and his face buried somewhere between your jaw and your shoulder, the composed thing shredding at the seams almost immediately because you're tight and you clench the second he bottoms out and his whole body stutters.
"fuck—" not covered, and you feel his hips jerk forward on instinct like he can't help it. like he's been thinking about this since you walked out. he probably has. he'd rather die than say so.
"oh," you breathe, walls fluttering, and he makes a sound that is not remotely as composed as he'd like. "f-fuck"
"don't," he grits, jaw tight.
"don't what," you mumble, deliberately copying him, and feel him twitch inside you.
he fucks you mean after that, which was inevitable. slap slap slap of his hips against yours, rough and deep, one hand fisted in your hair yanking your head back so he can watch your face, which naoya always does — he wants to see it, wants to watch you come apart specifically for him, and he gets meaner about it the closer you get, running his mouth in this low relentless way that's half degradation and half the closest he gets to losing it.
"look at you," he breathes, eyes dark and fixed, "couldn't even stay mad properly— pussy' this desperate the whole time and you thought leaving was gonna—" and you clench hard around him on accident and his sentence dies, "shit—" hips snapping brutal once, twice, rhythm breaking into something rougher, less controlled.
"mmmgh— naoya~" your voice wet and high.
"yeah," he says, strained, "yeah, that's right—" and his free hand moves between you, thumb finding your clit without breaking pace, and your vision goes sideways.
you cum loud and messy and undignified, thighs locking around his waist, and the clench of it drags a genuine broken sound out of naoya zenin; not a grunt, not a controlled exhale, a sound, cracked right through the middle, his hips driving in and grinding, stuttering through it.
"f-fuck—" and then again, quieter, helpless, face pressing into your neck while he pulses inside you warm and deep and his whole body shakes with how hard he's trying not to make it obvious how gone he is.
he stays inside. breathing hard. the smirk is gone — just his face, flushed and wrecked and younger-looking somehow, eyes shut.
a long beat.
"you're not doing that again," he says, finally, into your shoulder. hoarse.
"what, leaving, or making you—"
"either," he says, fast, and the tips of his ears go pink and he absolutely does not acknowledge that you noticed.
★ MAHITO
mahito would think it was funny.
that's the first thing. you walk back through the door still pissed, still running the argument on a loop, still convinced you were right and he's right there, cross-legged on the floor like he'd been sitting exactly like that since you left, head tilted, those mismatched eyes tracking you from across the room with this expression like you're the most interesting thing he's seen all week. wide smile. the kind that doesn't mean what smiles usually mean.
"you came back," he says, and he sounds delighted.
not relieved. not apologetic. delighted, like you'd passed some test he'd set without telling you, like the whole three hours was a game with a conclusion he'd already predicted. you want to say something cutting and instead you say "don't make it weird—"
"i'm not making it weird," he murmurs, already unfolding from the floor, already moving, the way mahito moves was always so fluid and too-casual, like joints work slightly differently for him, like he's interested in the trajectory of a thing before it knows it's moving. "you left mad and you came back. that's just what happened." he's close now, head dipping slightly to look at your face, smile gone smaller and more specific. "you missed me."
"i didn't—"
"you did," he says, and the certainty of it is disgusting, and correct, and you hate everything.
he kisses you the way he does everything — like it's a new thing he's curious about, too much attention on it, one hand coming up to hold your face in place with his palms flat against your jaw so he can look at you while he does it, which shouldn't be as intense as it is.
his hands are always slightly cooler than they should be. you notice it every time. his thumbs press your cheeks and he pulls back just enough to study your expression at close range, eyes moving across your face like he's cataloguing something.
"still mad?" he asks, conversational.
"yes—"
"good," he says, and means it, and walks you backward toward the bed.
mahito likes you angry. that's the honest truth of it, the part you've stopped being surprised by — he likes the fight still in you, the flush of it, the way your eyes go bright when you're pissed off at him.
he says it makes you more interesting, which is terrifying on a fundamental level and also the most sincere compliment he has the architecture to give.
he pins your wrists above your head with one hand and uses the other to get your clothes off with this absorbed, intent focus, like unwrapping something he's genuinely curious about, and when he spreads you open with his fingers and finds you already wet his whole face does something that cracks the grin into something softer and much worse.
"heh," he breathes, delighted again, "you were thinking about it the whole time."
"mahito i swear—"
"you were," he says, fingers curling in, and your back arches off the mattress.
plp plp plp of his fingers working into you in the quiet room, the wet sounds of it embarrassingly loud, and he watches your face with this open fascination that would be uncomfortable in any other context and is uncomfortable in this one too.
his thumb finds your clit and circles and you stop caring about comfortable. "there," he says softly, more to himself than you, tracking the specific shape your face makes, the way your thighs want to close and his hand keeps them open. "there you are."
he edges you once. just to see what happens. pulls back when your hips are chasing and your voice has gone high and broken and watches you come down from it with his head tilted and his eyes bright. "mahito~" his name comes out lewd, "please—"
"please what," he says, genuinely curious, like he's collecting data.
getting him inside you makes him go briefly, wonderfully, undone — the composed curious thing cracking open at the stretch of you around him, a rough sound against your throat that he doesn't bother covering, just feels them and reports back.
"fuuuck—" drawn out, honest, his hips grinding the last inch in while his fingers dig into your thigh. you feel every ridge of him, the slight upward curve, and your walls clench helplessly and he makes another sound, this one shorter and more surprised, forehead dropping to your shoulder.
"you always—" he starts, and stops. tries again. "every time you—" and stops again, which for mahito, who always has something to say, is saying something.
he starts moving before he finishes the sentence.
slap slap slap, his hips meeting yours, the pace building into something relentless and deep that knocks the air out of you in short punched increments.
his hair falls around both of you, long and bluish-grey and falling out of whatever loose hold it'd been in, and when you grab a fistful of it he groans loud, hips stuttering hard. his hand finds yours and keeps it there, keeps the grip, like he wants you pulling.
"yeah," he breathes, "yeah, mmm— harder—" and you're almost laughing except he snaps his hips and hits something deep that dissolves the laugh into a keen that bounces off the walls.
"mahito—" wrecked, too many syllables, your voice doing something it's not supposed to do.
"i know," he says, "i know i know, you're—" and he bites your shoulder, sharp, and you clench and he shudders and the rhythm breaks into something desperate and stuttering and completely out of the neat curiosity it'd started with.
he gets you off twice, which you were not prepared for, the second one rolling directly into the first before you've caught your breath, and he watches both of them happen up close with this half-lidded focus while his own breathing comes completely apart.
the second time your walls lock around him and your voice cracks on his name he tips over too — a low grunt sound, hips buried, grinding through it with his face in your neck and his hands gripping your hips hard enough you'll feel it tomorrow in the shape of his fingers.
warm spill of him, deep, and he keeps rolling his hips through the aftershocks because he can't quite stop, little involuntary rocks that drag sounds out of both of you.
silence. both of you breathing.
he lifts his head. looks at your face. the smile that comes back is smaller than usual, something genuine underneath it that mahito doesn't always let sit on the surface. "you're not doing that again," he says, meaning the leaving.
"that's not really your decision—"
"you're not doing that again," he repeats, patient, and his nose touches yours, and it's the closest he's getting to please don't leave and you both know it and he'd never say it with different words.
papa!kuna leaves you alone at parent night for five minutes and comes back to shut something down instantly.
the hallway outside the classroom is louder than you expected. not chaotic, not overwhelming, just full in a way that makes everything feel closer together. voices overlap in low conversation, parents introducing themselves, teachers greeting people at the door, the faint scrape of chairs from inside the room as people settle in early. it’s normal, completely ordinary, the kind of environment you move through without thinking twice.
beside you, sukuna feels like the opposite of that.
he stands just slightly behind your shoulder, hands tucked into his pockets, posture relaxed in a way that only makes him look more imposing. he hasn’t said much since you parked, just a quiet exhale here and there, the subtle shift of someone tolerating a situation rather than participating in it. his presence draws your awareness even when he’s silent, like the space adjusts around him without permission.
you glance back at him, adjusting the folder in your hands.
“it’s just a parent night,” you say, softer this time, like saying it gently might make it easier for him to accept. “it’s gonna be fine.”
his gaze flicks from the classroom door to you, unimpressed, unreadable.
“i’m not worried.”
it comes out flat. like the idea of him being worried is almost insulting. you hum under your breath, not arguing, just reaching for the door and pushing it open.
“right.”
he follows when you step inside, and the shift is almost immediate.
not dramatic—no one stops talking, no one stares outright, but there’s a subtle change in the air. a few heads turn, quick glances that linger a second too long before sliding away. conversations dip just slightly, not enough to draw attention, but enough to feel. it happens in small waves, like people noticing something out of place without wanting to acknowledge it.
you don’t react. you’re used to it by now.
sukuna notices anyway.
you feel it in the way his gaze moves, slow and deliberate as it drags across the room, taking everything in without needing to focus on anything for long. parents sitting in small groups, a teacher organizing papers near the front, a couple of people whispering just a little quieter than before. his expression doesn’t change, but there’s a sharpened awareness in his eyes, something quiet and assessing.
he leans slightly closer to you, voice low enough that it stays between you.
“why are they staring.”
you bite back a smile, keeping your tone light.
“they’re not staring.”
he looks at you like you’ve said something objectively incorrect.
“they are,” he says, quieter now, like he’s working it out in real time. his gaze flicks briefly toward someone across the room before returning to you. “is it the hair?”
you glance up at him, and this time you can’t help the small laugh that slips out.
“yeah,” you nod, playing into it easily. “definitely the hair.”
his eyes narrow just slightly, like he knows you’re brushing it off but isn’t sure if it’s worth pushing. after a second, he exhales through his nose, dismissing it, and lets you guide him further into the room.
you find two open seats near the middle. not too close to the front where everything feels too focused, but not far enough back to feel disconnected—and sit down, placing your things neatly in your lap. sukuna lowers himself into the chair beside you, the movement controlled but heavy enough that it draws a brief glance from someone nearby. his legs stretch out instinctively before he pulls them back in slightly, adjusting to the cramped space of a classroom desk that clearly wasn’t designed with him in mind.
he looks out of place.
not in a way that’s loud or disruptive, but in the way something too large, too contained, doesn’t quite fit into a structured environment like this. like he belongs somewhere less restricted, less… ordinary.
you smooth your hands over your lap, glancing toward the front where the teacher continues setting up.
“see?” you murmur quietly. “not so bad.”
he doesn’t answer right away. his gaze drifts lazily across the room again, slower this time, like he’s cataloging things out of habit.
“we’ll see,” he says eventually.
a few minutes pass like that, the room gradually filling, conversations settling into a steady hum. then, beside you, sukuna shifts. the movement is subtle but deliberate, and before you can ask, he’s already pushing himself up from the chair.
“i’ll be back.”
you glance up at him. “bathroom?”
he gives a small, noncommittal hum and heads toward the door without waiting for anything else.
you watch him go for a second, the way people instinctively move just slightly out of his path without realizing it, before turning your attention back to the front. it’s easier to settle without him beside you, the space feeling lighter, more in line with everything around you.
for a moment, it’s normal.
then-
“first time here?”
the voice comes from your side, close enough to pull your attention immediately. you turn slightly to see a man sliding into the now-empty seat beside you, offering a small, easy smile that feels practiced.
“yeah,” you nod politely. “first time.”
“same,” he says, leaning back just enough to look relaxed. “guess they’re trying something new this year.”
you hum in agreement, keeping your tone light but neutral. it’s a normal conversation, harmless on the surface, the kind of small talk that happens in spaces like this.
“your kid in this class too?” he asks.
“yeah.”
“nice,” he nods, glancing toward the front before looking back at you. “mine too. small world.”
you offer a small smile, but your answers stay short, contained. there’s nothing overtly wrong with the interaction, nothing you can point to and say it crosses a line, but there’s a shift in his tone, a slight warmth that feels just a bit too familiar for a stranger. the way he lingers in conversation, the way his body angles a little more toward you, like he’s trying to hold your attention. you shift slightly in your seat, hoping it signals enough.
it doesn’t.
“so, do you-”
“is there a reason you’re sitting here.”
the voice cuts in cleanly.
low, controlled in a way that doesn’t need volume to carry weight.
you don’t have to turn to know sukuna is back.
the man beside you stills immediately, the shift in his posture almost instant as he turns slightly toward the voice. sukuna stands just behind your chair, one hand resting loosely against the back of it, his gaze fixed on him with a quiet intensity that presses without raising.
“oh- i was just-” the man starts, a little too quick now, a little less confident.
sukuna tilts his head slightly, like he’s considering the answer before it’s even finished.
“just what.”
it’s calm. almost neutral. but there’s something under it, something that doesn’t need to rise to be felt.
the man lets out a small, awkward laugh, shifting in his seat.
“just talking. didn’t mean anything by it.”
“clearly.”
the word lands flat, unimpressed. sukuna’s gaze doesn’t waver, doesn’t soften, just holds steady long enough for the silence to stretch in a way that feels heavier than it should in a room like this.
you can feel it settle.
the man definitely does.
“i-uh, i think i see someone i know,” he says suddenly, already pushing himself up from the chair. “nice talking to you.”
he doesn’t wait for a response. just moves quickly, slipping into the crowd of other parents with a little too much urgency.
the space beside you feels noticeably quieter.
sukuna watches him go for a moment longer before pulling his hand back and lowering himself into the seat beside you like nothing happened. his posture relaxes again, one arm resting loosely against the back of your chair now, claiming the space without drawing attention to it.
he glances at you, expression unchanged.
“why’d he run off like that?” he says, tone dry. “thought i was being nice.”
you stare at him for a second, then let out a soft laugh, shaking your head slightly.
MDNI 18+ 〃 Ryomen “beefin’ with my chick while I’m in jail” Sukuna.
A/N: it's finally here oh rejoice i am free flies away
Criminal!Sukuna who’s scary as fuck. He’s so jacked it borders on obscene – muscles stacked on muscles and veins crawling beneath tattooed skin, shoulders stretching at the seams of his uniform. He’s got this sorta unperturbed vibe. Real musky and muscular, stalking around like he’ll beat up the first guy that looks at him wrong.
Criminal!Sukuna who got locked up for some undisclosed highly illegal bullshit nobody ever gets a straight answer about. Speculations are thrown around the prison yard – drug dealing. Drug trafficking. Body-part-trafficking. Cannibalism (yay!).
He doesn’t bother to correct anything. Just sits in the corner with an arm slung over one knee, brooding, grumbling “King of Curses, they used to call me..” beneath his breath. The nutjob.
Criminal!Sukuna who has the whole wing convinced there’s no way in hell he’s got a girl on the outside. Surely not. He’s so immature and ill-natured – even more so than his cellmate, Gojo. Which is saying something.
To the little lady who might end up having to deal with this brutish man, well.. Gojo extends his sincerest condolences. He’s fairly certain any sane person would run for the hills.
You are not sane. He supposes this is why you and Sukuna get along.
Criminal!Sukuna who lights up in the most feral way whenever your name comes up. Won’t admit it, of course. But it’s obvious how he stops pacing when the mail comes. He snatches your envelopes out of the stack like a territorial dog, scowling at anyone who looks over.
Criminal!Sukuna who sits in his cell reading pages upon pages of you calling him a brain-dead brute with no sense of decorum. Threats piling up saying you’ll break things off completely if he doesn’t clean up his act when he gets out.
He smiles anyway. Because the letters smell like your perfume. Lips splitting wide in that creepy, clinically unwell way that has Gojo surmising Sukuna must have stockholm-syndromed his way into his relationship somehow.
Criminal!Sukuna who writes back instantaneously. Pencil scritching against paper like he’s got a vendetta – and perhaps he does, because he writes venomous, downright heinous shit. All watch your tone and you won’t find a better fuck, signed with a little sketch of his dick. For good measure, of course.
𓀐𓂺 𓀐𓂸
Criminal!Sukuna who spends half his sentence arguing with you through busted-up phone receivers and glass partitions. Sometimes you’ll be face to face at the visitation area, nary a word spoken. Once, you threaten to “start seeing someone normal”, and he slams the counter so hard the whole thing jostles.
There’s something special in the way you speak to him. Like he’s an exceptionally stupid man, and not a dangerous bastard with an egregiously extensive crime record.
“Do you want to get out of prison,” you hiss, enunciating each syllable with a finger jabbed hard at the glass, “or do you want to buttfuck your cellmate?”
Sukuna’s sprawled in his chair, massive arms folded with a sleazy grin, eyes glimmering with mirth. He leans closer.
“Depends. You gonna dump me if I do?”
“Maybe.”
The phone receiver slams against the cradle on his side so hard the inmate six seats down flinches. Sukuna stands to full height, chair scraping back loud across the floor. Hunched over the counter.
“You try it,” he sneers. “See what happens.”
A normal person would back down right about now. Think: hey, this probably isn’t a healthy or sustainable relationship! I should end things right here!
You do not. Instead, you stand and collect your things, a vein pulsing at your forehead as you muster a sweet smile. “Maybe I will.”
He stares ahead three long seconds after you leave, then drops back into his chair, muttering curses beneath his breath as a reprimanding guard draws near.
Criminal!Sukuna who finally gets that long-awaited conjugal visit slot after years of good behavior (read: not slamming anyone’s head into a wall for about a week and a half). And lucky him, you’ve requested special accommodations! – a little trailer just off prison grounds.
He would’ve been fine fucking you for all to hear, too, but he digresses.
He’s half-hard just from the walk out the confine, veins prominent as his cuff-clad hands twist together. Too busy thinking to bother snarking at the guards who trail behind him.
He wonders what he’ll do when he sees you first. Maybe he’ll smirk, make a snide comment. Or maybe instinct’ll take over, and he’ll bury his face in your hair and his dick in your pussy. Who’s to say?
He’s excited. Very. In many ways.
Criminal!Sukuna who’s one foot into the trailer when he freezes up. The guards have to push him through, slamming the door behind him as his system reboots.
Something tambourines across his ribcage as his eyes meet yours, pounding, pounding– fuck. There you are.
God, he’s missed you.
“You’re staring.”
“..you’re breathing.”
“Yes, that tends to happen.”
His fingers twitch, a soft exhale escaping.
He can’t even find it in himself to be pissed. You’re so pretty. Especially when you’re mad. The angrier you get and the sharper you snap back, the brighter that little gleam in your eyes burns.
Sukuna likes it. He likes it a lot.
He likes you a lot.
The sole reason he even bothered to behave long enough to earn this visit was so he could see that exact frown on your lips once more.
Criminal!Sukuna who’s snapped out of his reverie with the telltale warning of your fingers threading through his hair.
Then those exact lips slam against his with a hiss, your teeth clashing, biting and pulling at his bottom lip as if punishing him for all the time you’ve lost.
His hands – still restrained – press into your waist.
He can’t be bothered to care.
He’s on a sugar high for the first time in months, swallowing down your sativa taste until he’s lightheaded and preening, the outline of kuna junior™ peeking out his orange garb to wave hello.
Your grip on his hair tightens, tugging when his metal cuffs digs into you. In the way. You shoot him a glare, and he snarls beneath his breath.
“Hold still, woman.”
“I am holding still, you dolt–”
There’s a sharp crack!
All you see is the flex of his forearms before the cuffs give way, steel snapping like cheap jewelry and skewing across the trailer floor.
Criminal!Sukuna who hauls you up by your thighs, slamming your back against the flimsy trailer wall so hard a framed motivational poster clatters to the floor. His mouth’s on your throat, kissing tattoos into your skin while he grinds his aching length against the warmth of your clothed cunt.
Criminal!Sukuna who swipes your panties to the side instead of bothering to take them off. There’s a wet spot where he’s been grinding that has his smile spreading mean, two fingers rubbing at your clit before dipping in and crooking up.
“No one’s been spreading you right, huh? Miss me that bad?”
“Missed the dick. Didn’t miss the mouth.”
He snorts at that. Mutters “brat” beneath his breath as he drags his fingers out, slow and glistening, smearing slick along your folds before pushing them back in deep. “Lucky the mouth missed you.”
Criminal!Sukuna who drops to his knees. More collapse than kneel, weight falling hard as he plants himself to the floor, thighs spread wide, hands gripping at your ass to pull you closer. Then he smiles up, tongue running along his molars in anticipation.
Criminal!Sukuna who eats you out like he’s starved. Who dives in with no preamble, mouth sealing over your cunt, tongue flat and broad and greedy as he drags it from your entrance up in one long, lewd-sounding swipe. He takes a moment to grin against your clit, tongue swirling messy circles as his nose presses to the warmth of your skin. Then he’s enveloping the puffy nub between his lips and sucking hard enough to make your hips jerk, humming low when his fingers swipe through your folds and meet a gush of arousal. You buck into the feeling with a whine his name, nails scraping through his scalp, and he practically groans, a hand dropping down to unzip and jerk himself off.
Criminal!Sukuna who gets slower when he’s about to insert himself. Who brushes his tip through your folds, kissing gently at your clit before going back down to gather slick. Then he notches himself at your entrance and thrusts in, agonizingly unrushed, grunting as he sinks into your warmth.
It’s been a while, but his dick still recognizes the feeling like a soldier coming home from war. The fluttering, the way you suck him in like you never forgot him at all – like you waited for him just like he waited for you and worried for him wholly more.
The stretch aches. Your nails rake bloody reality down his back. A groan escapes unbidden – guttural and painstricken and all the more relieved that he’s here, and you’re here, and you’re his.
Criminal!Sukuna who fucks you mean. At first. Sharp and punishing, hips snapping like he’s trying to escape by rocking the trailer to nirvana. Each thrust has a gasp slipping out of your pretty lips, of which he drinks down with fervor, tongue swirling and coaxing yours to muffle the sounds so the guards outside don’t get a free audio show. His balls slap wet against your skin, swollen from months of nothing but his own fist and your perfume-stained letters.
Criminal!Sukuna who slows down when your legs lock tighter around him and your teeth find the side of his neck. He’s still buried to the hilt. His hips rolling in filthy circles, grinding his length against that sweet spot that makes your toes curl and your vision go blurry.
His forehead drops to yours, sweat-slick hair sticking to skin as his voice lowers.
“..say you love me.”
Criminal!Sukuna who lets out a tch when you don’t answer fast enough. Who pulls almost all the way out, letting you feel the drag of every veiny inch, then slams back in so deep your mouth opens in a silent cry.
“Say it. Tell me you’re mine, tell me you– fuuuuuck. Been thinking ‘bout you. Dreaming ‘bout you, every night. Jerked off so much I thought my dick would fall off.. c’mon, baby. Say it. C’mon.”
Criminal!Sukuna who starts begging when your walls pulse around him. Not pretty begging, either – pissed-off. Hoarse.
“Don’t do this to me, please– fuck– just say it. Say you love your piece-of-shit boyfriend. Say you’ll wait. I’ll be good, I swear– only you, just for you, I’ll get out– so say it. Say it. I need you.”
His thrusts turn erratic. Sloppy. He’s close, and he’s trying not to be, trying to drag it out as long as possible before the moment fades into steel bars and white walls of nothing.
Criminal!Sukuna who shivers when you finally card your fingers through his hair, yanking his head back so you can look him in the eye.
You’re pretty. Always pretty, but especially pretty like this, lips swollen and tears pooling at your eyes out of overstimulation.
“I love you, you stupid, stupid man.”
Criminal!Sukuna whose whole body locks up. Whose cock pulses violently inside you – once, twice – and then he’s cumming with a strangled groan, doubling over to hold you tight as he fills you up. He keeps grinding, encouraged by the way your walls milk his length, cum leaking out in a frothy little ring that has his chest preening.
Criminal!Sukuna who doesn’t pull out after. Just stays seated inside, trembling, face buried in the crook of your neck and arms wrapped around you like you might disappear. Who mumbles against your skin, barely audible –
“..missed this pussy.”
He’s still half-hard, twitching every time your walls clench around his oversensitive length. Already thinking about round two.
But despite his perverted words, and his overeager dick, you know exactly what he’s trying to say.
Criminal!Sukuna who spends the rest of your visit inside you in some capacity – fucking, eating you out with your thighs locked around his head, making you ride him on the tiny bed ‘til the frame creaks dangerously. Every time he cums, he begs to hear you say you love him again, hissing it back at you like a promise.
When the guards finally bang on the door to collect him, he snarls “five more minutes” and shoves his tongue back in your mouth. Trying to swallow you whole and take you with him.
Criminal!Sukuna who leaves the trailer with his shoulders loosened, lips swollen, fresh bite marks ringed around his throat and oh-so visible with his head held high. The dopiest, most lovesick grin painted fond across his lips.
He’s gonna get out of here. And when he does, his girl’s gonna be waiting.
––––
Criminal!Sukuna who gets released on parole after god knows how long. The guards walk him out, and the world feels a little different. The air is clearer. And his woman–
.
Where the hell are you?
Criminal!Sukuna who’s a little disappointed when his parole officer is the one to escort him home. But he can’t be too upset about it. You must’ve had it hard, too. He’ll make it up to you.
Criminal!Sukuna who almost breaks down the door on his way in.
DAAAARLING. GUESS WHO’S BACK FROM JAIIIIIIL–
You’re sitting on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, remote in one hand. Unimpressed.
“Hi,” you sniff.
His eye twitches.
“Woman.”
“Yes?”
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Sitting.”
He drops his duffel bag with a heavy thud. “Yeah. I can see that.”
Criminal!Sukuna who starts prowling around the apartment like a bloodhound. He checks the kitchen and the hallway and the bathroom and the bedroom – including the closet, the door to which he swings open so hard it bangs against the wall.
Bathtub. Bed. Under the bed. Back out again.
He stands silent for a long moment before storming back into the living room, planting himself in front of the couch and looming over you with a scowl.
“You told me you were seeing someone.”
You lean a little to the left so he doesn’t block your view of the TV, ignoring the freshly released menace like you haven’t been yearning for his presence for the past four years. Serves him right. “I told you maybe.”
“Maybe means yes.”
“No,” you reply, calm, “Maybe means maybe.”
“Maybe means there could be some guy sitting in my apartment right now.”
“Our apartment.”
“Same difference.”
You don’t respond, and he feels the panic set in.
Sukuna trusts you. He knows you waited, and he knows you didn’t have to.
What he’s more uncomfortable with is the memory of all those nights in his cell staring at the ceiling wondering if he would come back changed.
It’s not like he’d know if or when that would happen. It’s not like you’re blind to that possibility. You’ve probably spent just as much time wondering the same thing – if the man who came home would still be the one you loved, or just some asshole you’d have to learn to live with until your lease was up.
And if you did anticipate that, and you did move on, and there is some other guy? What then? What useless method of intimidation or blackmail or torture could possibly earn back your heart if he had already lost it somewhere along the way?
You glance up after a bit. A wry smile blooms across your lips when you see the worried set of his brow.
“There is no guy,” you snort.
“You sure about that?”
“Yes.”
“Then why didn’t you pick me up?”
“You know where the apartment is.”
“..would’ve liked balloons, at least.”
You register the little quiver in his voice with a hum.
It’s kind of funny, because when he first got into prison four years ago, he was the one who tried to cut things off. Said he didn’t know you at first – assumed you wouldn’t want to associate with a convict. And now here he is, asking for welcome-home balloons.
“Wow,” you muse, pausing your show, “prison really softened you.”
He glares down at you. You smile back.
And then he lets out a long, aggravated exhale, drags a hand down his face, and plops down onto the couch. The whole thing dips under his weight.
“Missed you,” he murmurs.
You laugh and let him pull you into his arms.
“You big baby.”
Criminal!Sukuna who’s “reformed”. On paper. Ankle monitor long gone and patrol officer off his case. He’s even scored a legitimate (albeit mundane) part-time mechanic gig, which you’re 90% sure he got solely because the owner of the shop used to joyride with him. Some big burly guy named Toji who overcharges his clients and busts all his earnings in a casino at 4am, no doubt.
Still, the itch never leaves.
Criminal!Sukuna who can’t quite give up that pesky little habit of his. He’ll steal anything he can. Snatching your lacey panties right out the hamper just to shove them in the washer four hours later after jerking off until the fabric is soaked. And if ever you ask, he’ll just shrug and feign innocence.
“Dunno. Maybe they ran away from your stank ass pu–”
You don’t let him fuck you for the next two weeks, and from the desperate look on his face when you pass by, it isn’t difficult to assume he’s in just as much agony as he was when he was behind bars.
Criminal!Sukuna who “borrows” your car keys and drives off. He doesn’t have anywhere particularly important to be, but the jingle in his palm and the roar of the engine give him that good ol’ dopamine hit. He goes down three blocks to the gas station just to buy the same energy drink you already have three packs of in the fridge, then comes back home and acts like he wasn’t just driving on a suspended license.
Criminal!Sukuna who’s reintegrated into society. And yet he’ll never truly get rid of the urge – the whisper that he could do something, and he could probably get away with it, too.
But he won’t. He’d kill himself before getting locked up again.
nanami never allows himself to finish before you . . 18+
nanami’s bedroom is quiet except for the soft rustle of sheets and the wet sounds your bodies make when he moves inside you.
he’s got you on your back tonight, legs hooked over the crook of his elbows so he can fold you open deeper. slow, deliberate rolls of his hips. every thrust measured. controlled. the thick head of his cock drags against that spot inside you until your breath catches every time.
his forehead rests against yours. sweat beads at his temple, blond strands sticking to his skin. eyes locked on your face like he’s studying every flicker—every flutter of your lashes, every part of your lips when you whimper his name.
“kento,” you breathe. fingers digging into the meat of his shoulders. “please—faster.”
he doesn’t speed up.
instead he grinds deeper. circles his hips so the base of him presses firm against your clit. stays there. lets you feel the steady throb of him buried to the hilt. your walls flutter around the stretch. clench involuntarily. he groans low—quiet, restrained—then kisses the corner of your mouth.
“not yet,” he murmurs. voice rough but even. “you first.”
you whine. try to rock up into him but he pins your hips with one big hand. keeps the rhythm exactly where it is—slow, deep, relentless. every slide in makes your toes curl. every drag out leaves you empty and aching until he fills you again.
his free hand slips between you. thumb finds your clit. rubs slow, tight circles that match the lazy grind of his hips. the pressure builds steady. no rush. just patient, focused circles until your thighs start to shake against his sides.
“there,” he says softly. watches your face like it’s the only thing that matters. “let it happen. i’ve got you.”
you come with a broken sound. back arching off the mattress. cunt clamping down hard around him. pulsing. fluttering. soaking him. he doesn’t stop moving—just keeps that same measured pace through every wave. draws it out until you’re trembling, oversensitive, gasping against his neck.
only then does he let himself go.
hips snap forward once—sharp, deep. twice. then he buries himself completely. groans low into your hair as he spills inside you. hot pulses that make you clench again around him. he stays seated. twitching. filling you until it starts to leak out around his base.
he doesn’t pull out right away.
just holds you close. breathes slow against your temple. one hand stroking down your side. the other cradling the back of your head.
“good girl,” he whispers. kisses your hairline. “always so good for me.”
you feel him soften slowly inside you. still full. still warm. still his.
he never finishes before you, never even considers it.
𝜗𝜚 law school is expensive! as such, it’s well within your rights to have a side gig as a camgirl- but, what if your law professor Higuruma sees? He gets off to it, that’s what..
a/n: inspo from this ask! ty anon!!
more like this
ೃ࿔*:･
Professor!Higuruma, who prides himself on being an exemplary member of staff to the entire student body of the law department; just like the scales which preside over the courtrooms he’s used to, Hiromi Higuruma is balanced. Indifferent in marking assignments, disconnected when giving blunt feedback.
Although, he’d be lying if he said he doesn’t have a slightly ugly streak of favouritism when it comes to you.
Professor!Higuruma, who- despite the calm exterior and neat ties- is secretly just a tiny bit of… well, of a pervert. At least, he considers himself to be one every time he catches himself drifting off during a lecture, peering down your blouse while dictating manslaughter regulations and recent changes to legislation subsections.
Professor!Higuruma, who’ll jolt mid-sentence and immediately snap his tired eyes away from your cleavage to your pretty eyes instead, staring up at him just so attentively it makes his slacks tighten.
Professor!Higuruma, who wants the floor to swallow him whole when you approach him nervously after class, pins clinking on the bag slung over your shoulder as you gently pad towards his desk.
“Need something?” He says, shuffling the papers.
“Well, I was just wondering-“ you say, digging around in your bag, “I know you’re busy, but would you mind giving me feedback on this essay? It’s regarding the NGRI appeal we looked over last week.”
He blinks, then takes the paper, flicking through slowly. “Well, it’s a little off my schedule, but…” he looks at your hopeful face, and feels his resolve implode.
“Well... alright, then. I can have it to you on Monday, I’ll mark over the weekend.”
“Thank you!” You beam, clasping your hands together, “I’m so grateful!”
Professor!Higuruma, who finds himself slouched at the desk in his home office past midnight, poring over mandated documents and grainy CCTV footage classed under evidence. He’s frustrated, and worked up, and his mind keeps drifting to you.
Professor!Higuruma, who guiltily opens the link to that stupid website his friend sent over a few months ago. He’d dismissed it as trivial immediately, but kept it shamefully bookmarked- perhaps for this exact moment.
None of the women on there interest Higuruma, not really- they’re all the same to him, high pitched moans and perfect camera quality that’s almost disconcertingly sharp on the bright screen of his computer.
He spots one video that looks just a little different. There’s no overhead, harsh lighting, just a quiet glow from a desk lamp; instead of being spread out for the camera, this one seems to be struggling just to keep her thighs open. Sensitive, he notes.
He spends a few minutes peering at the video, cock thickening in his grip; with her face hidden, Higuruma’s tired eyes start drifting towards the background. And he spots it, hanging off of the bedpost-
Your tote bag. That is definitely your bag- same pins in the same positions, the same bulky file of law notes spilling from the top; and the similarities keep piling up the longer he dares to look, the longer he dares to fist his cock to what he’s presuming is your cunt.
Professor!Higuruma, who starts to sweat nervously the longer he keeps looking. If he squints he can see the mandated law textbook on your desk, and- oh, fuck.
“Shit-“ you squeak, circling your hips just right as one of your hands flies up to clasp around your chest; and Higuruma realises with an embarrassed shrink back into his chair that he even recognises the bra, too.
You wore it to class last Wednesday. He remembers because he spent the entire lecture forcing himself to look away from the lace peeking through the floaty gap in your blouse, then jerked himself off to it later.
He gulps.
Professor!Higuruma, who blushes at the noises you make- squeaky, unfiltered moans, your hand coming to clasp over your lips while your other fingers work your perky clit.
“Mmfh-“ your whines echo tinnily from his speakers, and Higuruma can only sigh imagining what you’d sound like in person.
Perhaps bent flat over his desk, pencil skirt and lacy panties ripped to the side, nails clawing across polished mahogany; he imagines how you’d take him, cunt squeezing around his cock as pathetic little whimpers fall from your lips.
Professor!Higuruma, who groans when he realises the sheer amount of pre he’s worked up. Glossy trails of slick, splashed across his hips and fist- pervertedly, he briefly takes a moment to imagine you licking it up for him, and his lips tug on a little smile.
“Shit-“ he hisses, almost pressing his nose to the screen, like he’ll be able to taste you if he gets close enough. Higuruma cums with bucking hips and an unbuttoned shirt, tie long since discarded somewhere else in the house.
But then clarity seeps into the fuzzy edges, and he sits up straight. It feels illegal; that was definitely you, he can discern that even better now he isn’t getting off to it, and his stomach shifts unpleasantly.
You giggle, just out of view, as you reach forwards to turn the camera off. It grants the audience- your law professor, as it stands - a perfect view of your tits.
He’s hard again.
Shit.
The next day, Professor!Higuruma welcomes everybody to class with that same expression of neutrality and mild feeling of hope that the justice system may miraculously be fixed when the students in front of him graduate.
His eyes waver over you once, and pink dusts his nose, but he gives no special attention towards you. As usual.
“So.” He begins, slamming the glossy gavel onto his desk to draw attention. Heads snap forwards. “If you all want to enter the judiciary system with a cleaner slate than that of your defendants, it falls upon me, as your professor, to do a general inquiry into each of you.”
A flurry of nods; background checks are nothing unusual, especially in law school, and so you relax into your seat. “Now…” Higuruma continues, straightening up from his chair, “it has come to my attention that some of you-“
From the front of the room, sleepy eyes lock directly onto your face, and the sliver of lace visible from your shirt. He clears his throat, pupils boring into yours.
“-have a rather… interesting online presence.”
Now, it’s your turn to gulp.
ೃ࿔*:･
masterlist
a/n: first time writing for Higuruma… kinda scared…
Pairings. [SEPARATE] Higuruma x Reader, Gojo x Reader, Ino x Reader, Sukuna x Reader, Choso x Reader, Geto x Reader, Nanami x Reader, Toji x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem!reader, nerd!JJK men, college AU, pIot, TA!Nanami, Iessons, slight exhíbitionísm, chokíng, spítting, running from it, scientific Ianguage, manhandIing, matíng presses, rough s, first times (theirs), academic rivaI!Geto, Peter Parker!Ino, REACTIONS, p talking, p sIapping, JACOB’S LÁDDER PlERCING, góoner!Gojo, surprise in Choso’s, needy JJK men, glasses, DÚMBlFICATlON, overstím, sIight bréeding, creampíes, cúmpIay, slight cúmfIation, Iaw professor!Higuruma, getting together, someone save Yaga, pet names, swéaring.
A/N. YOU SHOULD’VE BEEN MERCYYYYYY-
♡ TOJI FUSHIGURO - Better man.
“—and not only did he cheat on me-” You’re whispering to the black-haired man, glare flashing behind his rectangular glasses. Fixated on none other than the faux-blond on the dance floor. “-but he has the audacity to go around telling everyone that I’m the reason we broke up.”
He snorts unkindly- though not directed at you.
Crossing his arms, broad chest straining against the flannel. “The box-dye has clearly seeped into his cerebral cortex- perhaps even the P-FIT Network.”
You’re nodding in agreement - it wasn’t quite in your plans to unload all your relationship drama to the nearest hot stranger at the party tonight. But you’d seen Toji around—who hasn’t? He was the brightest and best in the Veterinary Science department. Always on top of class, always the example your professor used, always with his head ducked into his textbooks.
Though now he held his head high. Pushing his glasses up, “Statistically and personally- I’d be much better for you than him.”
Oh.
You’re jerking your head up to meet his eyes, clearing not expecting of the man you knew not to be a social butterfly. And he’s looking away from you just as quickly—“I-I mean-” There was the socially awkward mess you’d forcefully introduced yourself to tonight. “Forget I said anything- there must have been a miscalculation on my part, I didn’t…”
Though you can’t help but notice that Toji’s ears were…bright red. Redder than even his flannel jacket.
Oh.
You knew he wasn’t the type to flirt around.
You knew he wasn’t the type to even get approached- though not for a lack of anything, Toji Fushiguro was hot. To say the least.
Shaggy black bangs that covered part of his glasses. Large hands made to carry numerous books (and perhaps something else…should you let your mind wander).
He towered above most of the campus, with shoulders for daaaaays—no matter how much he hunched them, Toji couldn’t hide just how sculpted they were. And not to mention, the way his biceps would flex any time he raised his hand to answer a question (which was…for every question) made it such a treat to sit behind him during Professor Yaga’s lectures. Beauty and brains?
Somehow, it seems that half the campus had decided that that was a deadly combination, and they could only admire from so close before they suffered from heart palpitations. And the other half had decided that perhaps such a combination really was fatal- and were much too intimidated to try and talk to the man.
And so he waded through the throngs of people, unknowing or perhaps uncaring of their silent admiration.
Not that his quietly intense demeanor gave off many welcoming vibes, either way.
Toji Fushiguro had one love, and one love only: his books.
Ultimately, it meant that the three seats upon the left and right of Toji were consistently empty for whichever class he sat in.
And you felt for him - you really did. So you tried to sit next to him in whichever classes you shared, though you were yet to have the man make any attempts at friendship.
And neither had you.
So you’d been content.
Until tonight, that is.
When you’re finding yourself dragging this tall, buff nerd into the frathouse bathroom - it was your luck that there wasn’t a line. Because you don’t think either one of you could wait. Pushing him inside-
Right before the door slams shut and you’re finding the roles fucking reversed.
And you’re finding yourself manhandled in the direction of the sink - front shoved against the porcelain surface, Toji’s weight pinning you down from behind. Panting. Ravenous. He steadies himself with a hand on your hips.
His other hand reaching in front of you and stuffin’ into your panties. His raging erection pressing against your ass cheeks.
Toji’s calloused finger swipe up your glossy slit and he moans- “A-are you this fuckin’ wet for me—?” Voice breathy as though he couldn’t believe it himself.
And you can only nod. “Who else would it be for, Toji?”
“Well…” He doesn’t answer - he can’t. Because at that very moment, Toji Fushiguro is given the privilege to feel just how sinfully your cunt can clench ‘round his thick fingertips—and his brain goes into overdrive wondering just how cutely you’d squeeze his aching cock.
Before long, he’s hooking a hand underneath your left knee and guiding it up onto the sink. Letting you perch there- “Now—easy f’me, girl.” Toji’s rasps ruffle the sequins on your dress- one that you’re finding hitched up from your lower half. In fact—he’s baring you all the way until your panties. Moving them aside with a finger just the barest inch-
Enough for the bespectacled man to catch side of your glistening wet pussy and groan-
“Neither of us are making it out of this alive.”
And it doesn’t take long before you’re feeling Toji’s long, luuuscious shaft start to sandwich between your pussylips. Honed tip. Bawling divot. They were just so puckered and sensitive- even the barest lines of his veins leaving you gasping. “Fuck-”
“Easy there-” That familiar tone of his echoes, sounding even more out-of-breath inside this bathroom. Toji hooks his chin into the crook of your neck, “Easy—” His swollen, reddened tip starts circling your entrance- and your head spins at how he probes into you. “Easy there- now- breathe-”
“What do you…oh, fuck.” Mewls shattering in your throat- you feel the sheer streeeeetch of Toji’s incredible length.
Just so thick. Just so heated.
You knew that it was always the quiet ones…but fuck.
It felt as though he was melting your walls around him - feeling every throb he was letting out at the top of your head. Your teeth were on edge, and your body was torn between wanting to take him even deeper and bouncing away into safety. For your mere sanity—could he even fit?
“O-of course, I can.” Toji’s guttural answer comes - and it’s only then that you’re truly realizing that you’d said that out loud. Fuck- had you been so dumbified by his mere size? That you were now babbling away as Toji sunk inside—
And he’s ruthless in his swipes- hard, technical. “It’s gonna fit.” It felt as though Toji Fushiguro had already studied every single inch of you, and he was now hurtlin’ away his rock-hard tip straight into where you needed him the most. “It will fit.”
He sounded so sure of himself - as easy as passing every finals exam with flying colors.
Toji pushes his glasses up his nosebridge and angles his cock even more viciously. He rubs that bawling divot of his against the roof of your cunt- messing around some of those tender sweet spots that you’d always kept hidden. And then glide-glide-gliiiiding down to purposefully massaging every nook n’ cranny of your walls against those prominent veins of his-
“Fuck—” In absolutely no time- he’s managed to locate your pulsing g-spot. As though drawn in by a magnet, Toji’s then following the shivers of your body to target that exact spot. Ramming and ramming his heavy cockhead between your pussylips. “H-how are you even-”
“Hmmm?” Nearly purring, Toji grazes his cheek down the column of your throat. “Speak up, doll.”
“How-”
“Actually…” You could hear the smile in his tone. “-raise your hand to speak.”
You gape. And that rebellious streak within you makes you open your mouth with a protest- but soon enough Toji’s darting his tip away from your g-spot to start thumpin’ at your cervix.
Lengthy glides that end up swabbing your sweetest spots, before thrashing straight to your womb.
It was as if he was teaching you exactly what you’d be missing if it weren’t for him and fuck- if that wasn’t a compelling argument…
Belatedly, you raise your hand. “How are you even this good, Toji?”
And that makes him raise a dark brow- “This good?” He asks - mostly to himself - and the utter botched breath in his tone makes shivers sprint down your spine. Toji watches his plump tip disappear in and out of your cunt a few times- before suddenly he’s letting out a startled laugh. “This good?”
Before you can do anything about it, Toji lifts his hand off of your waist and ends up smushing your cheeks together. There was nothing gentle about it - Toji was mean. Toji was trying to leave marks.
So that everyone who sees the two of you walk out of the bathroom together can look at your pretty face and know that that was him. That pretty set of lips- both ones.
He’s holding your face up to the sink mirror, his eyes meeting yours through the reflective surface. You’re realizing with a jolt that Toji’s eyes were the most intense shade of emerald green - and they were currently narrowing down at you—“Who’s fucking you right now, girl?”
“Wh-what?” You’re managing to sputter out.
His grip slightly tightens- and his cock starts hitting you twofold. “See it?” Those handsome features of his are just irresistible, making it so difficult for you to tear your eyes away from him. “Feel it?” And his other hand loosens from your clit to glide down your tummy - where you felt utterly bloated with all his bulging, massive inches. Throbbing. “Feel it?”
And you can only nod and nod-
“Who’s fucking you right now, girl?”
“Y-you—”
And in that very moment, his fat cock bottoms out with a lecherous slurp!
“That’s what I thought.” Toji sounds so content with himself- slightly slurring at the ends of his sentence. “And what’s my name?”
“Toji-” You’re gasping out. Your cries were echoing so loud inside the bathroom that you’re sure some of the bystanders outside were hearing - but you didn’t care. Not when Toji was reeling his sloppy hips back and stutterin’ a few direct hits to your bruised g-spot—“Toji Fushiguro—!”
“And who said a nerd can’t fuck?”
He snickers to himself.
Right before he’s starting to fuck into you like a damn animal- spotting every ounce of space inside you with his dribbling pre. The length of his cock was nearly a blur between your legs, and Toji was just drunk on the thought of having you.
On the thought of wanting to have you for so long now-
“I studied, y’know?” Toji whispers against the shell of your ear, words clammy. “I studied every inch of the human anatomy-” He presses a kiss—then a bite. “I studied eeeeevery nook and cranny-” Swirlin’ his rude cockhead around just in time, “Every nerve in the clitorourethrovaginal complex and every crevice-”
“F-fuuuuck-”
“Every statistic for the Gräfenberg spot, and every spot where it couldn’t be-” He pinches your clit. He’s thrashin’ his hips against yours so hard that it sends your heels flying off of the cool tile. “Every stretch of your rugae and every little clench-”
As if on cue, you’re clenching around him. Embracing him with your puckered pussylips until Toji himself sees white- “Toji, it feels so-”
“Good.” He’s furiously pushing his glasses up, not daring to miss a single second or squeeze of your cunt. “Because I know this pussy in and out—” The nerdy man lands a few more sloppy strokes, and he has to bite down on his lower lip to hold back a whimper. Locking eyes with you through the mirror- “And who’s fucking you?”
“You, Toji—” Your eyes scrunch shut as you’re crashing into a sudden high- taking your entire body by surprise. Those white-hot bolts of pleasure start up where he was plunging into you, before building up through the rest of your body.
Your toes curl. You’re seeing white.
So strong that it leaves you nearly numb.
Nearly stupid- unable to do anything but grip onto the sink and bounce your hips back down. Right as Toji was fucking you through peak after peak- “Toji—fuck, Toji-”
And your ears are still ringing by the time the bathroom door clicks open.
Too late, you’re sloppily swivelling around to face the faux-blond man standing at the doorway. Not that you had anything against people that dyed their hair - but you did have something against Naoya Zenin.
Your jaw drops, “You-”
His furious eyes dart between you and Toji. “You two-”
“Take a hike, fucker.” Toji’s gruff tone echoes from behind, and you’re noticing that he doesn’t slow down for a single second as he talks to Naoya. In fact, the bespectacled man plants a sudden spank on the side of your ass and speeds up—“You’ll see enough of her soon at family functions- as my girlfriend, of course.”
Fuming, Naoya doesn’t speak a word before the door slams shut.
And it takes the tremble inside the bathroom for you to speak- “Wait…family functions? Do you know him or something?”
And Toji looks at you squarely. “We’re related.”
Oh.
“And don’t think that I was b-bluffing about the girlfriend part.”
Oh.
He stutters at that?
.
.
.
After a considerable few years of teaching, Masamichi Yaga has learned not to be surprised.
It was inevitable, of course—the same old campus, the same old syllables, the same old faces that inevitably get replaced by those rather similar. All bored and slightly hungover.
Though that’s not to say that Yaga doesn’t love teaching or his students - in fact, he can empathize with those that aren’t exactly the keenest on learning Veterinary Science at 8AM. He empathizes - really - and he does his best to keep the process as pain-free as possible until they’ve earned their credits for the semester.
And then again, that’s also not to say that there aren’t a few students who always…stand out. Not in terms of looks or aesthetic, but rather in the work they do.
In the questions they answer- and the questions they ask.
In the hours they put in.
In the textbooks they keep as close as their hearts.
And who better to illustrate this point than Toji Fushiguro? Though it was such a shame that he wasn’t the social types - these stand-out students often didn’t tend to be - in fact, there was only ever one student that dared sit next to him—ah! There you were.
Yaga admits he takes no small pleasure in watching this small interaction everyday.
Namely how Toji would duck his head and pretend he didn’t see you- except…except today, Toji wasn’t ducking his head at all. Not at all.
Instead, the black-haired man looks straight at you and whispers something in your ear.
Something that…that - judging by the gaping expression on your face, and the smug one on his - was a sentence not meant for Yaga’s ears. Something dirty.
And oh goodness…
He doesn’t know what happened since last class, but if he has to watch the two of you flirt everyday from hereon after then…
He might just have to request a course change.
♡ NANAMI KENTO - Lesson #1
“So like—” It doesn’t surprise Nanami Kento - TA to Professor Yaga’s History class, the star student in the entire department, the man infamous for having even his dorm walls covered in academic accolades and awards - when you lean over his desk.
Palms planted almost on his side. The neckline of your loose satin blouse dipping.
Dipping.
Enough to give him a gooood look at what was underneath- he catches just the slightest glimpse of baby pink before he has enough sense to look away. Lingerie? You’d worn fucking lingerie to come get tutored by him?
But alright—say that was understandable. Say that Nanami has enough experience as a TA by now to know that certain students might attempt to gain favors through…non-academic means.
Perhaps one could chalk that up to human sensibilities (or lack thereof) - Nanami Kento was never that type of man. In fact, most of the department would harp on ballads about what a romantic the blond-haired TA is- much to his obliviousness.
However, what actually stuns him is the way you’re tucking a finger into your blouse’s neckline- and how you have the audacity to actually tug down on it.
You’re humming, “What do I have to do to get an A in this class?”
Nanami balks. Mouth opening and closing soundlessly.
He knows your type- more accurately, he knows you. He knows you’re the type of student surrounded by others, always invited to the most exclusive parties, always with a phone blowing up, always at the center of attention—always in his line of sight. Though that’s because he knows you’re not above cheating to pass this class…of course. That’s the only reason.
Short skirt. Seemingly getting shorter everyday- sat front and center whenever he assisted with class.
Legs slightly ajar.
It made him lose track of his thoughts whenever he happened to glance your way. Happened to.
To Nanami Kento, history is what he lives and breathes- but to you, he knows it’s nothing but a credit you need to get your degree. And though he wouldn’t necessarily fault anyone for that, he can’t deny that it’d sent a thrill up his spine once you’d cornered him yesterday asking for tutoring.
He’d said yes faster than he would’ve liked.
And thus, here he was.
Nanami Kento tries to keep his composure by reminding himself of your absolutely abysmal naming of Japanese shoguns from the 14th century, but just when he thinks he’s getting a grip on himself—
He darts a look down your blouse and his voice cracks.
You smile as though you’ve got him already - you’ve seen the way he looks at you during lectures.
“I-I think that would be highly inappropriate-” Pushing his gold-rimmed glasses up frantically.
To which you’re only leaning closer- “Oh? What would be inappropriate? I was asking about what extra assignments I could take to make up for my last test score…”
You cock your head in the picture of perfect innocence.
But he knows your games- he fucking knows it. And almost as much as his ears were burning, his cock does the same between his legs, too. “Perhaps re-taking that test- and the last five.” Nanami grits out. “And perhaps a long reading list—”
“You say that as if you’re disappointed.” Smiling - a snare.
“You say that as if you didn’t plan to re-take any tests at all.” Nanami counters. Somehow, his perfectly slicked-back hair was mussed up - he doesn’t know how, but he always did seem to lose his cool when it came to you. Every part of him.
“What can I say?” You’re shrugging, “I love a hot fuckin’ nerd.”
Nanami gulps. Tightening his tie- before he thinks better of it and all but rips it off of his neck.
Perfectly pressed pants. Perfectly buttoned-up shirt. Sleeves sometimes pushed up to his elbows. Golden cufflinks. Tie.
Everyone who has seen Nanami Kento striding about campus, has commented on his formal clothes in one way or the other - but mostly about how there was not a single crease in them, not even at the end of the day. And it really was true. You’re feeling them pressed up against your front right now—
With Nanami taking only a few split-seconds to tug you from the other side of the table - easily, as you were all but on top of it by now. He’s grabbing ahold of your wrist and easily manhandling you to his side.
Splaying you back out on the table. Back against the cool surface.
His muscular core weighing you down- and fuck, your mouth waters as you feel all the chiselled abs he was hiding away beneath his button-ups.
The calm, collected nerd had somehow snapped-
Nanami’s intense brown eyes peek up at you as he nears- and you can only nod.
It’s the only confirmation you need before that infamously handsome tie of his ends up ‘round your wrists—tied together. You’re delighting at just how rough he was being with you thereafter- flipping up your slutty skirt, barely pushing aside your panties.
Nanami’s all the way through taking out his heated, ravaging cock - so thick - and tappin’ his blushin’ red tip between your pussylips—before he takes a look at your heaving just and gapes.
“Oh.”
And before you know it, your blouse is being ripped straight down- buttons flying to the floor.
“Sh-shit-” You’re gasping at the shockwave of cool air that greets you. Your body arches up into his touch as Nanami leans down and draaaags his face across your tits, lapping his tongue all over the swell of your breasts and smelling you. So sweet. “Shit- just fuck me already, Kento-”
And the first thing you’re registering is the sound—thwack!
Before you’re registering the actual understanding that Nanami Gentleman Kento had just rovered his right hand down and spanked your puckered pussylips.
Hard.
You’re so sensitive that the action sends you seeing stars, and you buck up into his touch-
Thwack!
“The first lesson we’re going to learn tonight-” He twiddles his thumb between your folds, smearin’ them open and taking a nice look at your cute hole. Wet. No matter how much self control the man might have, he can’t stop himself from leaning down and spitting—
A gentle wad of spit that falls vertically between your legs.
The TA hums at the splatter, running his thumb purposefully down your clit. “-patience.”
You begin to whine. “Now that’s just unfair-”
Thwack!
He looks up at you with heavy, half-lidded eyes. “What was that, darling?”
“N-nothing…” You’re forced to admit. And it takes every shred of willpower in you to stop from humping up into his touch so needily—and Nanami doesn’t utter a word as you take control over yourself. He merely leans back and enjoys the show.
Let you be the one to dictate how far he teaches tonight. He’s a patient man.
“Good.” Nanami announces once you’re finally stock-still, having contained your desperation. It was cute how you think you could mask those tiny squirms of your hips, but he lets it go as your first lesson…“Second lesson-”
You’re shivering at the thought.
And he spits between your pussylips once more.
“If you aren’t wet enough to fucking drench me- then I fear you won’t get me, my love.”
“P-please—” And you really were wet enough to drench him- you’re perking your hips up slightly so that he can see. Leaving a sheen of gleaming sap down the front of Nanami’s crotch, “I am I am-”
“Then…” His lips quirk up meanly. He’s sandwiching his ruddied cockhead between your pussylips and fucking- just between your pussylips. “Show your working.”
Show your working?
Show your working?!
It seems you have no choice but to spreeeead apart your legs even further- letting your gooey cunt gush out a few sploshes of slick. Nanami cocks his head down and takes you in, “Hm…good, good.”
And you’ve never felt more shy in your life. “A-and the third lesson, Kento?”
He fits his pointed cockhead between your ready folds.
“Good girls take it all.”
Did that mean—
Soon enough, you’re throwing your head back- voicebox shattering with a spiel of moans. Mewls. Whines. Any and every noise that possibly couldn’t describe the sheer raw sensation of Nanami’s hot, giiiirthy cock entering your cunt.
He was stretching you out so wide.
Wider than you ever thought possible.
He’s placing a hand down on your front and press-press-preeeeessing down on your stomach as his cock sinks in- fat cockhead opening up your channel. Fucking you like an utter madman. It didn’t matter how composed his reputation stated him to be- because right now Nanami had his blond bangs falling across his forehead, his jaw clenched at the sensations, and his glasses nearly slipping off his face as he tuuuugs you down his cock.
His reddened divot weeping into even the tiniest of nooks and crannies inside you, his cock so large that it could almost be felt from the outside—
“Feel me right in there?” Nanami’s deep baritone echoes out into the room, echoing against all four corners. Five thick fingers of his splay out across your core- “Right there-”
You shiver as he locates the exact spot where he was easing in - another few inches pushed inside. His swollen tip was swirling about your insides and push-push-puuuushing inside, past those restraints and that tight muscle of your hole. “Yes.”
“Feel me openin’ that pussy of yours up?” He grumbles out in a gravelly tone. And it makes the hair on your body stand at attention to realize that this was him speaking like this. This was him pushing his glasses further up his perspired nose, this was him pounding his heated cock into you in short, jerky thrusts. “Feel me teaching her the shape of my hah- cock? Feel me teaching her to take me—”
“Y-yes—” To be quite honest, it felt as though you could feel him in your very throat. “But are you really…”
“Hm?”
And you’re trailing off simply because you’re so awestruck - Nanami’s cock was looooong and bloated. Decorated in a few veins down his sides—they were red and irritated. Thick. Throbbing so much that you swear you could count them from where you were spread apart on his table-
His cock is enough to render you so honest. “Are you sure it even can fit in?”
And that makes Nanami pause.
“Can it fit?” He breathes out - his voice taking on an airy tone that you’ve never heard before. It’s startling enough to make you look right into his eyes, and the inkling of something…dark in them is enough for you to jolt. “Can it fit?”
And before you can repeat - before you can even ask him what’s wrong…Nanami reaches up to grab the tied restraints around your wrists.
And don’t mistake him- he isn’t about to set you free.
He’s using that tie as leverage to haul your body down—“You’re asking if it can fit?” Your blond-haired TA grunts out hoarsely, breaths coming out ragged. He hisses when you clench your sopping wet walls around him- “Good girls take it all.”
“Y-yes, fuck-”
“And you’re my good girl, right?” Staring passionately into your eyes whilst he hits every hidden spot inside you in long, lecherous strikes.
His sheer expression - the way you had the Nanami Kento - so ruffled is so compelling that you can’t help but nod your head. “Of course.” And your legs are tightening evermore against his toned waist, interrupted only by Nanami himself.
He uses one hand to throw both of your legs over his shoulders- one each. And before you know it, the big, buff nerd is bending down to fold you in half.
His fat cock reaching the end of your pussy.
“Fourth lesson-” And you’re barely even hearing it above the constant thrashes and thuds at your cervix, the stars you’re seeing. “-repeat all those back to me…”
And just then, the round edge of his tip was grazing right across your g-spot.
“-or you don’t get to cum.”
.
.
.
“How odd…” Professor Yaga’s bushy brows furrow above his shades - it might not be quite professional for a professor to wear such a thing to campus, but to be fair, students showed up in their pajamas half the time. Besides, they helped mask his expressions rather well.
Like right now.
Though Nanami Kento - his ever-loyal TA - could sense that what was upon Professor Yaga’s face was nothing but pure, unabashed surprise. He says your name—“I don’t remember her getting A++’s a single time this semester- and now you’re telling me it’s all that she’s been getting?” The professor squints at his screen, in the middle of doing his customary check-ins before a lecture.
Nanami coughs, “I-I’ve been tutoring her lately…”
Professor Yaga looks to Nanami in surprise - he knew that his blond-haired student would much rather hug a porcupine than a person. Let alone spend his precious hours tutoring one. “Is…is that so?”
Nanami nods silently.
The older man clears his throat - if there was anyone capable enough to bring your History grades up to such an extent, then it could only be Nanami Kento. At this rate, you might be giving his star student a run for his money- “And how has that been?”
“Well it’s been quite- ah, illuminating, sir.”
Professor Yaga raises a brow in question- but before he can ask anything further—the students start trickling in.
Class has started.
To everyone including Professor Yaga, Nanami Kento- and you.
Winking blatantly at his TA as you waltz up to your chair, skirt shorter than ever, hips swaying…
The professor just barely manages to catch the way Nanami’s eyes…follow you.
And it dawns upon him.
The slight wobble in your saunter.
The strange bruises peeking out above Nanami’s collar.
The traitorous blush upon his face.
Professor Yaga has never searched up course change forms faster.
♡ GETO SUGURU - “Shut up.”
“Make me.”
And that…is precisely what makes you pause.
It’s what makes you s-sputter. It’s what makes you shoot a glare at perhaps the most infuriating man you’ve ever had the misfortune of meeting- and that’s saying a lot.
Though, he always did manage to surprise you—ever since Professor Yaga’s Philosophy Class 101, you’d been haunted by the thorn that was Geto Suguru.
You recall that first meeting like it was yesterday.
The nervous shuffling of seats. Professor Yaga was notorious for hand-picking only the best of the best for his classes, and you remember the glee that’d shot up your spine at the email of confirmation. You’d been picked. Similarly, adrenaline wafted off the other students in waves around you, burning its sour aftertaste into the atmosphere. Though at that moment, nothing had been sweeter.
Especially once the professor had finally - finally - asked a broad question about the theory of knowledge—
And your hand had shot up.
Right along with the boy’s beside you.
Long black hair. Longer limbs.
Draped across the chair so carelessly, his grey turtleneck hugged him in a way that made your eyes dart away.
Gold-rimmed glasses.
He had the most feline smirk across his face as his eyes met yours- smug. He raised his hand higher.
And from that day onwards, you knew that Geto Suguru was your sworn enemy.
Rival, more like.
Throughout the semester, you’d answer one of Professor Yaga’s questions, and Geto would be sure to disagree. You’d top the grades in class, and Geto would break your streak on the next one. You’d try not to bash his head in, and Geto would only urge you to more.
He infuriated you. If not by whatever sharp quip comes to his tongue - seemingly always in competition with yours - then by whatever sly wink or smirk he’d throw your way. He was shameless.
And you were sure Professor Yaga wasn’t paid enough for this.
So being paired together for the biggest project of the semester certainly hadn’t been on your radar. No matter how much predictivism you’d been taught.
And it was by sheer miracle that you two hadn’t strangled each other already-
“M-make you?” You ask. Geto adjusts his glasses and leans back in his chair, arms crossing.
“Make me.” He repeats, and you’re sure by now that you weren’t mishearing things. “You’ve spent this whole semester running that mouth- I’m starting to wonder whether that’s all it does.”
The slight arch of his brow makes you bristle. “You fucker-”
“No need to lower yourself to insults, gorgeous, I’m just stating the facts. Diogenes always did seek an honest man.” He hums, all faux innocence. “Philosophy isn’t just about theorizing, it’s about application. Besides…” Geto shrugs those broad shoulders of his, snug in yet another too-expensive turtleneck. Cashmere, you bet. He looks straight at you as he speaks—“-there’s nothing little about me, either.”
And then you pause.
And then you’re standing in the middle of Geto Suguru’s bedroom- because of course the bastard had suggested his dorm room for your project meeting.
“Prove it then.”
His pink lips part. “What?”
“Prove it.” You repeat. “Philosophy isn’t just about theorizing, it’s about application.”
“Maybe I will. Socrates said to be is to do.”
“Maybe you should.”
“Maybe I—” And of course, you have to be the one to make the first move. You have to be the one to drag Geto Suguru in by his stupid turtleneck, pressing your lips to his. Stupidly sweet.
He’s lapping at you like a man in the depths of hunger, licking his tongue between your gloss-covered lips and moaning- “Fuck.” He rasps out through honed canines. “Fuck.” Dragging himself off of the floor where your poster boards were spread out-
“Sit.” And without a single warning, you’re pressing the heel of your foot between Geto’s meaty thighs. You’re locating where his rock-hard cock is and puuuuuush-
“N-ngh…” He shivers. He blushes at the broken noise that escapes him. “Tha’s all you got?”
You raise a brow and crush his thickening length harder.
Geto bucks- but he pulls himself together. “Still all you got?”
And so you’re narrowing your eyes n’ grabbing onto him- tearing through Geto Suguru’s stupid, pretentious layers like you’ve always wanted to.
Tugging off his neat pants. Pulling on his tight Aristotle-patterned boxers.
Spitting straight between his lips once he opens his mouth-
And Geto’s bulbous red tip twitches at the sensation of your wet dollop of saliva. He nods with a blush as you’re lowering your naked cunt down on him—“Yes.” Breathing out. Feeling a little dizzy at the sudden warmth of your swollen pussylips, swallowing him up- “Yes- fuuuuck-”
Before he knows it, your hand is around him. “Shut up.”
“Fuck, that’s makin’ me even harder-” As if to prove his point, his flared tip throbs inside of you.
“I said shut up.” Those pretty fingers of yours claim his pale neck- digging the curves of your nails into his skin. It makes him gulp. “If someone walks in or if the dorm RA catches us, then my reputation will be affected-”
“You mean my reputation- fuh-fuck.” He can barely even get the sentence out before you’re tightening your grip. Perkin’ your pretty hips up juuuust a little before gulping down his thick length.
Inch after inch.
Fat and pulsing inside of you with need.
He was so veiny that each tiny slip n’ slide caressed Geto’s prominent veins against your sweet insides. And he’s throwing his head back at the sensation as though he’s seeing the pearly gates themselves.
Letting out such a guttural groan- “Oh fuck.” Choked-up at the back of his throat. Those milky thighs of his shake as he reaches them upwards to chase your wettened cunt, bashin’ in the roundness of his cockhead. “Oh fuck, fuck, fuuuck-”
“What was that about running one’s mouth?” You scoff. “Seems like you’re all talk- what? Can’t even handle a little pussy?”
“Maybe I just can’t handle your pussy.” He bites back. With yet another soft sound leaving him once your fingers dig against his throat.
“I doubt you’ve ever seen a real pussy in your life.” And when he opens his mouth, you’re quick to interrupt. “Don’t lie.”
Geto’s mouth shuts again. Having you be so stern with him like this…fuck. It makes some strangely carnal part of himself that he didn’t even know he had awakened- and the black-haired man merely ruts up into you a few times. A line of drool dragging down the side of his lips the more n’ more he’s feeling your soft clenches. Just one hard cleeeench.
He was gone for.
His cadence grows stuttered. His glasses slip down his face. And he finally nods in admittance—a virgin. And, listen, you didn’t have anything against virgins- but the fact that he could talk so big and yet get driven so wild by a mere drag of your sloppy walls down his cock- and still not admit to it?
“Pathetic.”
The dribblin’ and irritated crown of his shaft grows even bigger inside of you. Geto’s head plummets forwards, and he’s whispering something inaudible.
“What was that?” You raise a brow- an expression that he raises his eyes to meet and jolts. As if electrocuted.
“I-I said I didn’t hear you.” He counters. Bucking into you like an animal. “Pythagoras said-”
And you don’t hesitate to emphasize every single syllable. “Pa-the-tic.”
“What was that?”
“I said you’re path—oh.”
Rutting into you even harder—fuck. It didn’t even matter that his massive, inexperienced cock wasn’t fitting all the way- because Geto was digging his rounded crown around your most delicate insides.
He somehow locates your g-spot in a few swipes, brows furrowed as though he’d memorized this particular spot through years of reading (he has, all for this very moment…)
Such a delicious curve that you feel in your very throat, tastebuds sizzlin’ with a lacquer of saliva the moment his cockhead strikes your sweet spot. Your favorite. And more than your low profanities, the way you’re tilting your head down and glaring at him makes Geto Suguru splosh out in more lewd slick. “Watch it, Suguru.”
“Mmm—” He shivers. Hands coming up ‘round your back and tugging you further against his toned front- you never realized that the nerd you sat next to was so ripped. “S-say that again.”
And you swear now you’re beginning to grow a little concerned- he surely couldn’t be that pussydrunk, could he? “I said watch it-”
“No-” Geto cuts you off. “In that tone.”
That tone? And it dawns upon you slow and sensual—like the toyin’ rubs that he was granting on your g-spot now. Though you were the one most in control, letting his swollen cock stir up your insides at a thorough pace - now all the way from the tufts of black at his base to his puckered, drooling tip. “Suguru…” And your hand locks around his neck even tighter- and just as you’d suspected, he’s drenchin’ out even more syrupy sap that leaks out of your hole. Gets fucked back in. “You fucking like being degraded, don’t you?”
A blush rises to his face. His glare targets you even through his foggy glasses, “Th-that’s prepost-”
“You like me yelling at you.” And this time, it’s not a question. You already know—and you’re grinding your hips down onto his toned v-line at a frenzied pace, wrenching those words away from his husky throat before they can even formulate. “You like me calling you pathetic.” This time reaching up and tugging on a stray lock of his hair- “You like me fucking you like a little bitch.”
And his rude, reddened cock - ever the culprit - fills out your insides so much it’s as if you were fit to burst. He empties out his wadded webs inside you-
“Isn’t that true?” You coo down at him. Poor Geto Suguru, spit-glossed lips and quivering at the feeling of your pussy- “You’ve always wanted to be fucked by me like this, huh?”
And he nods.
He fucking nods.
Eyes glazed. Brows furrowed.
Hips shivering every time they rammed into yours.
And that’s right before one of his tremblin’ hands reaches up to grab your own dominant set - lifting them off of his sweaty scalp. For a second there, you think that perhaps Geto is particularly cagey over his pretty hair- but then he’s opening up your palm and smacking the side of his even prettier face with your hand.
Not hard enough to harm. Not soft enough to not leave a print of your digits across his blushing cheeks.
You’re surging up with questions when-
“Ahhh…” He exhales, eyes fluttering shut at the sting. Once Geto opens them again, you’re noticing that they look clearer than ever now. “That’s better.” He pushes up his drifted glasses.
Rapidly and ravenously, he’s back in control with his sloppy cadence. Globular edge of his cockhead swervin’ apart your folds to tickle your g-spot—then reaching all the way towards the back of your womb-
Again and again.
“D-don’t think m’never gonna catch up, gorgeous.” Geto gnaws down on his lower lip as if to hold back a moan. “I’ve been wanting to fuck you since the start of semester- you didn’t think m’just gonna let you win, huh? Plato said that the first and greatest victory is to conquer yourself.”
“Don’t act like you weren’t just—oh.” You’re out of breath from his sheer thrashes, the ridges of his veins massaging spots you didn’t even know you had. “-weren’t just putty in my hands.”
“Ah- and about hands…” Like he’d just remembered- like he’d been so gone on the feeling of your sopping wet walls that he didn’t even realize what had just transpired, Geto shoots a look down at your hand. Still in his grip. Still prickling with the slap from earlier.
He bites his lip and blushes.
“Slap me again.”
You fucking knew it.
.
.
.
The next time you’re attending Professor Yaga’s class, you have a lot of explaining to do - first of all about why you’d sent him an urgent email in the middle of the night, requesting an extension for the project.
And second of all, why you and Geto Suguru walked into the next class holding hands.
“So that’s what happened.” He doesn’t even need to hear your excuses to know. From here he can already see the bite marks on your neck, the limp in your walk, the way that Geto looked much too happy with himself.
The older man pushes up his shades and sighs-
“Professor-”
“I really don’t get paid enough for this.”
♡ CHOSO KAMO - XXXreads.
“I r-really can’t thank you enough for helping me.” Choso’s sweet, sweet voice flutters out at you—almost inaudible past the mountain of books in his hands. They were as tall as him when set down on the floor, and being held up they nearly grazed the arch of the doorway. “Really. I didn’t know how many trips I’d have to take otherwise.”
You giggle, “Don’t worry about it, Choso.”
“No but- really.” And somehow - perhaps through years of practice, perhaps because of those muscles you always suspected he hid underneath soft fluffy sweaters - Choso’s letting go of his towering pile to push his glasses up. “N-no one really offered…no one talks to me anyways but-”
He looks at you in slight panic, as though fearful he’s scared you off.
“But really, thank you.”
And you feel your heart clench for the poor boy—it was true, after all. No one in class ever quite spoke to the nerdy Choso Kamo, always with his face close against the pages, always with his hand raised in the air.
He lived more in the world of books than he did with people.
Which was no surprise- not when the people in most of your lectures weren’t exactly the nicest. Despite it being university, it seems people still did pick on him for being a little…bookish. Tittering to themselves as he passed. Throwing scrunched up paper balls at his head. Speaking to him just for the laughs.
And that’s where you came in- there was absolutely nothing wrong with being bookish, or studious, or smart.
In fact, out of everyone in Professor Yaga’s English Lit lectures, you think that Choso was the best one there. The most…handsome, too. But that was neither here nor there!
And so you did your best to divert their attention, to prevent your classmates from taking out their slouched midterm grades and bad hangovers on the nerdy boy. Which included spotting his form (or at least the little you could make out of him) in the corridor, struggling to balance countless books, and stopping to help him.
And you’re nodding at the librarian as you enter- slipping in Choso’s multiple borrowed books through the book drop slot. Soon enough, you’re finding yourself free of all the weight of his books and Choso—holding onto merely one.
“What’s that one, Choso?” You ask in curiosity.
His voice cracks. Holding the book against his chest, Choso’s handsome face tints red as he looks at you. “Th-this one? Nothing-”
And as you attempt to take a peek at it, he swerves away slightly. Hm…
Pushing his glasses up his clammy face, “N-nothing at all. This is just one that I have to…to return personally.”
“Personally?” You squint. “Like put on the shelf yourself? I’ve never heard of that.”
“Yes—” With a final squeak, he’s darting into the depths of the library as though his feet were on fire. As though, perhaps, you yourself were fire - and he hunches away from you slightly when you’re following him.
All the way past the science section.
“A-and thank you so much for your help- again. I wouldn’t want to bother you any longer.” He pants.
All the way past the literary fiction section.
“Really- I wouldn’t want to bother you. I promise you can leave.”
All the way into a darkened corner of the library that you don’t think you’ve ever been in before- where the tables were sparse and the students were even more sparse. In fact, there wasn’t a single soul in sight there.
“Please.”
And Choso ducks into a barren corner of an aisle.
One that you look up at—
And right there on the shelf marker atop the shelf. Right there in laminated plastic. Right there in printed script that could not be erased.
Erotica.
He’d borrowed an erotica book.
And judging by Choso’s familiarity with the section, this wasn’t the first time. Nor would it be the last.
In just a few seconds- you’re walking up to him. And knowing that he was cornered, Choso Kamo can do nothing but bow his head in shame when you reach out for the book—something by some author named Tony with a glitzy, glossy x-rated cover. You’re glancing at the brief summary on the back.
You catch a few key words.
Nerd.
Bullied.
Class.
The hot girl who’s the only one to treat him with kindess—and the one to take his virginity.
.
.
.
“Fuck.” And Choso Kamo’s tone comes out hurried- it comes out harrowed. It comes out hushed—nothing but a low, trembling tone against the shell of your ears. It shakes, just like the rest of his half-naked body as he tucks his fat tip between your pussylips.
Pants pulled down just enough to free his raging erection.
His plump, reddish crown swipes down your crevice and straight inside your hole. Jerking his hips sloppily back and forth a few times-
“Fuck fuck fuck fuck—” Choso’s voice cracks in your eardrums, entire body feverish as he glues himself to your behind. Your front against the ridged bookshelf, his toned body against yours.
“Shhhhh, baby.”
He nods, “Shhhh.”
The towering man fucks you like an utter animal- hips pinned to yours and making the wooden furniture underneath creak. It’s as if he doesn’t even realize his own strength, his own girth - how could he? When he hasn’t had the experience to before…
And just the act of putting it in is enough to leave Choso a stuttering, strangled mess. A single tear tracks down his cheek, “Fuh-fuck, it feels even b-better than in the books, baby-”
“Thought about me a lot while reading, hm?” Turning your face around- you meet his flushed one with a grin.
“Well…”
You clench and his breath hitches- “Did you touch yourself to those thinking about me?”
It’s a tone that’s making him shiver - the tips of Choso’s ears burn bright red, and his lips wobble cutely. He nods—he fucking nods away drunkenly before he’s registering it. The look of glee on your face is enough to make the nerdy man choke. “D-don’t tease me, baby.” He quietly whispers out, hand dragging down the side of your upright body. He’s managing to slip his slender fingertips between your legs n’ massage those treacly pussylips of yours—just like his books had taught him. “Though you- I mean- the character in the books did, too.”
“Oh?” One of your brows raises interest. “And what else did this character do, baby?”
Choso whines, his flushed cockhead emptying out the most adorable lines of slick into your deepest depths. He pulls out a little just to watch those ribbons of sap cling onto your cunt- “F-fuck back into me…”
“Hm?”
“The character- I mean.” He gasps out. And a line of sweat glides down the side of his temple as he starts ruttin’ into you even harder, the round edge of his cock opening up spots you didn’t even know you had—Choso was fucking massive. “Would fuck back into me- the nerd.”
And so you’re gripping onto the firm wooden planks of the book shelf, using it as leverage to raise your hips. Up and down. Up and down. “Shit—” Your walls glide down his swollen cock, the patterns of his veins just so prominent. “And what else, baby?”
He’s whimpering at the sound of that pretty pet name on your tongue- so much so that Choso leans over to suck on your tongue. “And then- and then-”
“This is how you kiss, Cho…” You angle your head to kiss him back - so sloppy. Who’d have thought that the lovely, quiet nerd in your lectures was just so…
“And then she’d start t-to clench.” He admits, oglin’ down with big brown eyes at the glistening circle of your cunt. “I don’t really know what that means, baby, or what you have to do to cl—fuck.”
And you’re hearing the exact moment it hits him- the exact moment that the cute hug of your walls leaves him a broken man. Choso shudders upwards as though he’s just been jolted by electricity, and he probes his red, round tip against your spongy cervix- bottoming-out. Barely even starting to pull away from your sultry womb as he fucks inwards.
Held hostage by your cunt—he pants. He shakes. “And then-” Spittle dribbling down the sides of his lips, they twitch with delight. “Just like that—j-just like that…harder.”
And so you do. Fluttering your lashes, “Like this?”
“Harder.”
“Like this-”
“Hard-” Cutting his own words off, the nerdy man reaches his quiverin’ fingers from your slit—and before you know it, he’s pinching your puffy pussylips together. Tight. Ruthless. Making you see stars behind your shuttered lids at the sheer pressure- “Like this. And then in the end she’d beg-”
“Beg for what, Cho?” You ask.
“She’d beg…” The raw draaaags of his flared mushroom tip leave your knees weak. And Choso has to keep a hand constantly looped around your right thigh to keep you from collapsing. Perking your ass up against his ramming v-line, he utters—“You’d beg for my cum…”
Your mouth drops into a pretty circle. “Oh.”
And almost instantly, he seems to regret the filthy words spewing out of his mouth. “B-but that’s just a fantasy and-”
“Well…” This time, you’re the one interrupting him. And it’s done so with the realization that- hey, he was fucking you raw anyways. “Why don’t you go ahead then?”
And he doesn’t even need to hear that entire sentence- he doesn’t even need to hear the middle of it. He merely slaps a hand on top of your gaped maw - effectively shutting you up in such a mean way - and rams his slam-reddened hips against yours. Choso all but fucking collapses his muscular body against your back as he scours his tip into your deepest spot.
The circumference of his girth ending off at your womb.
Before you’re feeling the slow, sensual trickle of his cum filling you up from the inside. It starts off with a few shy dribbles- before soon, the bespectacled man has to gnaw his canines down on your neck to stop himself from making too much noise.
Chasing your hips as you don’t know whether to fuck back or lean against the library- shoving and smearin’ his leaky tip into every orifice. Every nook. Every cranny.
Your eyes roll to the back of your head at the feeling of his slick glaaaaaazing you from the inside, frothing out near your entrance. “Sh-shit there’s so much, Cho.” You murmur out. “You’ve never cum inside anything but your fist, huh? Shit- been savin’ this all up, hm?”
Biting back a groan as your words make his seed shoot just a few more spurts—“Yes.” To your absolute surprise. “Been saving it up for you, baby.”
And a shiver runs down your spine.
Both at Choso’s words-
And at the sudden knocking upon one of the bookshelves- almost as though someone was making their entrance known upon a front door.
Both of you whip your heads up in a panic - with Choso still not moving away from your cunt. All honeyed and driiiipping with his ivory sap.
And the sight before you two makes the nerdy man wrap his arms around you possessively.
Because standing there—tall, tattooed, dark hair that reached his shoulders. A bright blue jersey with the infamous emblem of Delta Jujutsu Pi - it was none other than Chisato Kamo.
His twin brother.
A man that shared the same face as the one fucking you, but just about none of his interests.
Well, none of his interests other than you that is…and perhaps that’s why in a few minutes the older brother of the two is being pushed aside so that Chisato can ram his rugged, red tip into you rudely. Scoffing at the way your pussy quivered and clenched around him—
“Cheh…shut up, girlie.” He plasters a palm over your mouth, just as Choso had done so earlier. “Honestly, are ya even my brother? Look at her poor hole- she isn’t fucked even half as good as she should’ve been-”
Choso pipes up from where he’d been banished away from your pussy. “If you just gave me her again-”
“To cum in two pumps again?”
“She said I could- she’s mine.”
“She’s mine.”
.
.
.
“I’m not even going to ask.” Professor Yaga rubs at his throbbing temples—it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary to see his star student, Choso Kamo, walk into the lecture hall with his head bowed low. Unspeaking even with him.
It wasn’t even anything out of the ordinary to see you clinging onto aforementioned Choso Kamo, talking his ear off about your day. And Choso would let you.
What was absolutely astounding was the way in which the aforementioned Choso Kamo’s younger brother - Chisato Kamo, member of Delta Jujutsu Pi, attended more ragers than study sessions, never attended this English Literature class a day in his entire life - was following behind…
Sauntering in as if he owned the place.
He throws an arm around you- and Choso immediately jerks up to smack it off of you.
He sees the two brothers glare at one another.
And Yaga decides that he definitely wasn’t paid enough to intervene with that…
He sighs and starts off attendance, and for the first time has the privilege of hearing. “Mister Chisato Kamo?”
“Here.”
♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA - 2-IN-1
“Isn’t she just…”
“Out of your league?”
“-gorgeous.”
Uraume can’t help but roll their eyes- well, mentally. They knew that their (unfortunate) best friend’s (unfortunate) resolve wasn’t nearly as strong to withstand such a thing, and so they have to settle for letting out a long sigh.
Bringing that red Solo cup to their lips, they hum. “Then why don’t you go there and talk to her-”
“Talk to her- ya must be fuckin’ joking.” Sukuna scoffs, staring down at his white-haired friend. Uraume had been attached to his side ever since their freshmen year rush for Jujutsu Delta Pi, and they’ve seen him through thick and thin. Through his wrestling lows and his professional contract. Through his best moments and…whatever this was.
His embarrassingly big crush on you. Ever since he’d seen you at one of his wrestling games, cheering him on- Uraume has heard far too much about you from him ever since.
He sighs at the sight of you dancing in the middle of the dance floor.
Before narrowing his eyes down at Uraume’s cup. “Seriously…has your fruity lil’ punch - and I know you don’t drink anything hard - been spiked with something? Talk to her- cheh, just imagine-”
“Ryomen Sukuna.” Cut off by the stern, supremely exhausted voice of his best friend. “If you don’t ask her to dance right now—” The smaller person looks up from their far shorter height, dead-set into Sukuna’s crimson eyes. “-then I’m telling the entire party about what a nerd you are.” A pause. “And showing them your Grimmjow figurine collection.”
“On it-”
And it was a dance- just a dance, right?
It’s not like Sukuna was going to ask you to marry him or- or to come up to his (geeky) bedroom or anything. It’s not like one dance would have him embarrassing himself. It’s not like one dance would have you finding out his true identity as a…nerd.
Right?
He was a Health Science major, for crying out loud!
Uraume drinks a shot of straight vodka.
.
.
.
“Fuck, I need ya.” Sukuna breathes out against your throat—one hand tilting your neck to the side for more access, the other gripped onto your hips. He kisses you maddeningly.
Blindly, the two of you had made your way through the throng of meshed, musical madness and climbed those fraternity stairs up to Sukuna’s bedroom. Where he had your back pressed against- his mouth attacking you wildly—he groans. Licking a stripe up your sweet skin, “I need ya so badly—”
“All talk.” You tut. And before he can stop you - before his rational mind can get the better of him - you let your hand slip to the door handle.
Flinging it open and letting the two of you stumble inside. Door slamming shut.
You’re making it all the way to splay out on Sukuna’s massive king-sized bed before you turn on the lights and-
“Woah.” And your jaw drops at the vision before you. Surrounding you. Someplace you’d never thought to be…Ryomen Sukuna’s bedroom- anime posters, figurines, books upon books upon books, academic trophies as well as wrestling ones.
And he panics- “This is-”
“You’re a-”
“A little fuckin’-”
“Nerd.”
“Nerdy.”
The both of you pause—before the clear urgency and embarrassment on Ryomen Sukuna’s face makes you smile. He looks away with a huff-
“Do you have glasses?”
Reluctantly - still staring off intensely into a poster of Ouran High School Host Club - he nods.
“Can you wear them while you fuck me?”
He looks back down with heated eyes.
And so he does.
Sukuna keeps his thin-rimmed, tortoiseshell glasses on as he tears through your glittery dress. Sukuna keeps his glasses on as he tugs down his ripped jeans n’ swipes his thickened tip between your pussylips. Sukuna keeps his glasses on still as he fucks you in long, sloooooppy strokes through and through your multiple orgasms.
Once just from fingerin’ over your clit - with his fraternity ring still on. Once more just from eating you out. Two more times just from fucking deeeeep into the sponged softness of your cervix- feeling him fill you out like never before was maddening.
Just about tunneling you through your fifth- meanwhile he hasn’t even cum for the first time yet.
He leans his sweaty head down in a mating press - close enough that the thundering slams of his hips send little flecks of slick flying up to his glasses. Roverin’ reddened cockhead plunging between your pussylips and hitting dead-set on the back of your cunt—splattering both your slick and his own upwards.
Coating the frame and all the way down to the lens, Sukuna snickers as he fucks you even harder—“Better know that yer gonna pay for dirtying these glasses-” He pants between clenched canines. “Yer not getting off that easy, girlie.”
“A-and it’s my fault?” You’re squealing out in indignation. “I’m not the one that—fuck.”
“Fuck?” Sukuna hums. Expression turning into one of mocking thoughtfulness, “Why, yes, according to my calculations I am fucking you.” With that said, he’s dragging his veined cock all over your walls and pulling out—just to tap the swollen curve of his cockhead on top of your cut. Splashin’ away your slick, “Quite the astute observation, brat.”
Gurgling out between the force of his thrusts, “Th-thank you?”
“I was talking to this pussy.”
Your maw drops at his sheer audacity. “Y-you’re not even that kind of nerd-”
He cocks his head, soft pink curls following him. “And what fuckin’ kind of nerd am I, hm?”
“You’re not even the…” In punishment, his length drills into you even harder - as if he was trying to pound those insolent words back into your throat. Making you feel the lump of his girth there where your voicebox crackled- “-the scientific kind.”
Sukuna shoots a glance at the numerous academic accolades atop his shelves. “Right…”
“Because if you were then you’d have found my g-spot already!”
Right now you were blundering out whatever it was that you could say- which wasn’t much at all. Sukuna’s ravenous cock had left your mind nothing but mush, pounding and pounding and it felt as though your cunt was molded to his exact shade and size by now—making you arch up into him. He glides a hand underneath your spine to help you.
It was true, however.
Ryomen Sukuna had made you reach your sultry orgasm five times without even caressing your g-spot. And you weren’t sure whether it was inexperience, or ignorance, or whether he just didn’t care for it but-
But he lets out a deep, dark burst of laughter at your sentence.
The last thing he does before reelin’ his thickened cock back and hitting your womb in a hard slam- “Not the scientific kind?” Sukuna’s repeating to himself, through a slight chuckle. And there was something ragged in his tone that made you shiver—“Not the scientific kind?”
And if his first repetition sounded as though he was in disbelief, that last one sounded as though his brain just refused to fucking register this shit - couldn’t possibly. It’s almost enough to make you take back your statement, but thank goodness that you don’t.
Because within the next split-seconds, Sukuna has his middle finger pushing up his glasses- his eyes locking down above your front. His gaze then calculates the distance between where your swollen pussylips were gobbling him up, and where he could feel his rounded tip scrape your spongy depths. Your womb.
It takes him only mere moments- “The Gräfenberg spot is said to be on the anterior wall…” Accordingly, he stirs his erection deep inside of you. “About 1-3 inches deep as per average statistics…”
And you’re suddenly feeling his bawling divot trace that exact distance down your walls. Up and down. Up and dooooown—“Sh-shit, Kuna-”
“Directly behind the pubic bone- the inferior pubic ramus could…”
“Shit, Kuna- almost-”
“Considered part of the clitorourethrovaginal complex so-” And before you know it, his finger swipes down your pretty clit. Your body trembles, expectedly, and Sukuna’s bespectacled eyes follow that shiver riiiight up your cunt.
“P-please-” You cry out.
And he’s cracking a small snicker. “Tell me if the trials are successful, my lil’ lab helper.”
“Trials?” Climbing up onto your elbows in confusion—what trials? And you’re regretting the action almost as soon as it happens, because just then Sukuna lurches his hips back n’ gives a thorough smooch near your g-spot.
Near it.
“Trial one…” That little lilt in his pitch lets you know that he’s waiting for your answer.
“F-failed.” Blubbering.
He pushes his glasses upwards and tries again- harder this time. “Trial two-”
“Failed-”
Even harder.
Mercilessly bashing in the top of your cervix, so smooth and slick you were - he’s sure his rude tip has formed a bruise there. Round and ravenous.
“And trial number…” Sukuna trails off. Dragging his swollen cock back aaaaaall the way until his tip was just chastely pecking your pussylips, and you could feel every single throb - and then dooooown until those scuffs of pink scrape your pussy. A carnal itch. “-three?”
“F—fuck.” You can’t answer.
Because with that final thrust, Sukuna’s swipin’ down your g-spot perfectly. Making you go numb with the pleasure of him poking that tight orifice- right before you’re bursting into your nth high of the night.
Stars behind your lids. Toes curling until it hurts.
You can’t stop your hips from thrashing upon the squeaky mattress—and Sukuna can’t stop from shovelling his throbbing inches just a little deeper. He grips onto your hips from one side. He locates the exact spot that made you shatter, and digs his rotund tip into even even further - not pulling away even if you were sobbing at the sheer overstimulation.
Just slow, staccato-ed pushes inside.
It made a small primitive part of Sukuna break to pull away- he just wanted to keep on kissin’ your cervix. And he grunts at the back of his throat, the nerd’s own high washing over him in waves.
Silky droplets of cum that end up pouring deeeeep into the back of your pussy—it’s such a goopy mess there. Splashin’ around every time that Sukuna fucked his hips inside, collecting where he kept on pressing at a constant pace - like a button - on your g-spot.
Being fucked through peak after peak.
Thrust after thrust that aaaaaall end up targeting your g-spot. He was proving to you that he knew where it was, that he was that type of scientific nerd.
And the corners of his lips twitch in delight, “I take that as a success?” Though he wasn’t asking you - not at all - he leans his head down to peer at your pussy. Lens coating in spraying droplets of sap, “Why thank you for the help, my best assistant.”
“Y-you’re so…” Your legs tremble weakly.
And Sukuna pushes those tortoiseshell glasses up his nosebridge- you’re noticing just now that they have small horns in the corners. How fitting.
He didn’t even bother wiping away the thick layers of your slick. Stuck onto him like a medal - the best, the shiniest out of all those upon the shelves.
“Now, have you ever heard about the A-spot?”
.
.
.
“Mister Ryomen Sukuna.” The man’s stern voice calls out - it was 8AM but Professor Yaga could make a sloth jump onto a racetrack with his tone. Not that it does that much to the star of the wrestling team, the notorious pink-haired member of Delta Jitsu Pi, and Yaga’s very own star student of Health Science.
Sukuna merely looks at him boredly. Lounging an arm around the back of your seat- right beside him.
Honestly, if it wasn’t for the fact that he was (secretly) topping all the exams, then Yaga wouldn’t even put up with all this.
“Please pay attention to the lecture.” Professor Yaga straightens out his papers, “If you have any personal conversation to be had, then please take it out of my classroom.”
“Aye aye, teach.” Sukuna sleazes out a grin. “I was just helping my girl here with the lesson, y’know.”
A chuckle spreads throughout class, little did they know that they were laughing at the smartest student between all of them - perhaps even between the whole year.
“Then I suppose you don’t mind giving the entire class a briefing-” The professor starts boredly, before he catches the smug look on Sukuna’s face- and Yaga has to look behind himself. The PowerPoint slide he didn’t realize he was on—fuck, it makes him swear internally.
Erogenous zones: The Gräfenberg spot.
“I would be more than happy to give the class a briefing, teach.”
♡ INO TAKUMA - Got webs?
With great power came great…responsibility. Sure.
That was what Tony had briefed Ino Takuma on—meeting the Avengers and getting to speak with Iron Woman? Absolutely awesome. Meeting the Avengers and saving the world? No biggie. Fighting crime and putting his life on the line everyday? Pssssht-
Getting fucked by you?
Shit, he was about to cream his pants.
Ino Takuma was fucking terrified.
Not because of you, of course, because you were just as beautiful as all his dreams and even more so—but rather he was caught up in the fact that this…well, wasn’t a dream. Exactly that.
It’d all come not too long after he’d confessed to you that he was Spider-Man. Taking you on a romantic dinner at some fancy restaurant he’d had to beg his uncle to make a reservation for, followed by a moonlit walk downtown- and a little breaking into campus to watch the stars from the rooftop. It was perfect.
And the way you’d taken him being Spider-Man? Perfect.
You were so sweet and loving- punching him in the shoulder (deserved) before taking him into your arms (Ino doesn’t know if he’d ever be deserving of being in the arms of an angel…but…he sure wasn’t complaining).
And afterwards, he’d taken you into his arms and used his webs to swing you all the way back to his apartment. It really was perfect.
And now he can’t lie, he’d taken you back to his apartment - landing neatly on his lil’ balcony ledge - without any ulterior motives. He promises! Ino Takuma is as pure as snow!
Ignore the fact that snow contains atmospheric pollutants and vehicle emissions…but other than that he swears he’s pure! He’d merely wanted to show you his vast Lego collection, perhaps his camera and all those pictures he’d taken recently (maybe not the ones he’d taken of you from afar, however…), and a few more of his nerdy Spider-Man gadgets!
So he swears that the little peck he’d placed upon you was innocent. And when that peck turned into something more…he swears that was innocent, too.
And when that turned into sprawling him out on his chemistry bedsheets, straddling his erect cock n’ sliding your soft pussy down it—fuck, he doesn’t know what’s innocent or not. Right now your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man was trying not to pass out.
Pretty brown eyes scrunching closed at the cleeeench of your soft, sensual pussy- you were so sweet around him that it felt as if you were about to melt. Velvety and slippery.
The winding zig-zags of his veins rubbin’ against your sides.
You’re letting off a sudden squelch! as you swallow up yet another inch of him - and Ino has to bite down on his lips to keep himself from whimpering. Fucking whimpering—“E-easy there, sweetness.” He’s grabbing onto either side of your waist, with the brilliant idea to control those sloppy bounces of yours- but instead he’s ending up merely…holding onto you for dear life.
His limbs were weak n’ boneless.
His body was putty in your hands.
He was arching his hips ooooooff of the rickety single-bed- and he doesn’t have to even think before doing it. Body moving on pure instinct. Bulging tip yearning to hit your cervix—“Keep going like this n’ m’gonna cum already…”
“Awww, you poor boy.” You’re tittering- and shit, he knows it might be a little lecherously amusing to you. But does it really warrant enough for you to lean over and push his thick-framed glasses up his nosebridge? He swears he sees heaven itself. “Spider-Man can fight crime- but can’t handle a pussy?”
“I can’t handle your pussy.” Ino bites back, a blush upon his cheeks. “N-not that I ever have before…”
“Then maybe I should be deemed the strongest in the neighborhood, huh?” You hum.
“Y-you wish…” He’s bucking up into you at a frenzied pace- not even full thrusts. Mere, milking half-thrusts that have his precum pouring out in bucketloads—his balls were so heavy that they almost hurt.
“Oh yeah?” And you could feel the twitchin’ of his scouring tip with each one of your sentences - your syllables. Ino was growing only harder and harder at your egging on- “You’re stronger than me, baby?”
He stammers, “W-well…”
“Think you can take me down like you take down all those bad guys, baby?” Cooing- and that tone. Fuck, that tone…it left his flared, reddened tip scraping your insides at an even faster pace. “Think Spider-Man’s gonna win again?”
Ino shivers as you lean down to press your naked chest against his toned one, “Yes…I can—” And then you’re gripping at once of his biceps for balance, “I can-”
All for you to press a pretty peck on the side of his face- and then drag your tongue across where the attractive man was tearing up at the mere feeling of your pussy. So soft and hot. Sucking him up until he was seeing stars- “Then prove it, Taku—”
And it all happens in a split-second.
You don’t even realize it.
One second, you’re staring down at your boyfriend - with his chestnut hair splayed out upon the pillow like a halo, with a faint blush breezing across every inch of him (yes, every inch), with his entire body shaking n’ shivering underneath you. He seemed just so delicate.
Gone on your pussy.
Except…except for that little fire in his eyes that clued you in on something dark.
And the next second- you’re the one staring up at the ceiling. And right into Ino Takuma’s glazed, glittering peripherals.
He was stimulated on your pussy until tears.
There was something stoic in him, however, as he reaches his right hand up somewhere above you. And you hear it before you see it- the splat! of something wet and clingy sticking onto your wrists. They’re both pushed against the headboard by the sheer force of…whatever that was.
And only when you go to pull away do you realize—oh fuck.
You were stuck.
You’re jerking your head up to glimpse at the pattern of white webs that restrain either hand against the sides of your headboard. Trapped.
And you’re peering up at Ino with a sheepish smile- “Baby?”
He pushes up his thick glasses, “Don’t ‘baby’ me—” And his ruddied tip finds its way between your pussylips in a split-second, jerkin’ in and out at a dizzying rate. Until his furious length was nearly nothing but a blur between your legs. “You wanted this- fuck, you’re gonna get it.”
“Yes-” You’re being manhandled back and forth- unable to do anything. Unable to even hold onto Ino’s locks of sweaty hair for balance, “Yes, yes, yes—please.”
“And you’re gonna fucking- hah, take as much as you’re given.” Ino emphasizes his point by slowing down, giving you loooong and luxurious licks of his puckered crown. “Only as much as you’re given- any complaint for more n’ I’m webbing that pretty mouth up, sweetness.”
“Oh, anything for you.” Fluttering your lashes up at him. It was just so cute how that made Ino immediately break out into a smile, “But what if I want you to cum inside m-”
“God- fuck.” And his wrist twitches as though he’s just about to make good on his promise. “Don’t even fucking…”
That aching cock of his just can’t stop pumping in and out, in and out, in and ouuuuuut.
And before he even knows it, he’s plunging straight into his high- deep and hot inside of you. “Thermodynamics—” And you’re almost sure you didn’t hear him right - spit-slicked lips repeating away as he pumped his hot wads into you - “Polarization functions.” His sweat-matted head dips into the crook of your neck, and he’s pinpointing each single orifice inside you with a dollop of his seed. “Orbitals- fuck, I love orbitals.”
Pouring and pouring out so much of his voluminous cum that it practically overflows.
“W-wait, why are you reciting formulae now, Taku?” You’re breathing out with the last inkling of your rationality, “You’ve already cum-”
“To stop me from losing my fucking mind, pretty.”
And he sounded damn serious.
Damn ruined.
Eyes wide. Voice pitched.
There’s nothing more for him to do but ruggedly hit his cock into every one of your delicate spots now- feeling those tender bundles of nerves with his tip. He slide-slide-sliiiiides down those particular areas—fucking and fucking and fucking you until you’re bursting into your wave of bliss.
“And don’t think we’re done yet, sweetness- maybe next we could get some use out of my camera…”
You’re not making it out of this alive.
Because it turns out that not only does Ino gain superpowers as Spider-Man, but he’s also earning extra…stamina. And he lasts until dawn breaks, he lasts until his fucking bed breaks- you have to tap out before you think he might just break you, too.
Wobbling your way downstairs- you can only clamor onto the walls and furniture for help. “I’m banning you from sex for a month-”
“A month?” Ino gasps, “I only just had my first time-”
“Two months.”
“Sweetness, just let me help you walk-”
You grumble, “Forever.”
And as Ino howls about how utterly unfair it was- and how you had actually been the one to start him up on his superpowers—you’re stumbling across…a figure in the kitchen. Hunched over the island. Coffee in hand.
It’s just then that you remember that Ino Takuma didn’t live alone- no. He lived with his uncle who was supposed to be away on a professor’s retreat tonight.
But it seems…
“Taku-” You elbow your ranting boyfriend, who still hadn’t looked up from his hands. He continues. “Taku-”
“I can handle a villain, but I can’t handle a damn se-”
“Taku.”
It’s only then that Ino looks up from his tear-stained (honestly, he’s so dramatic for the hell of it) palms and sees his uncle. Masamichi Yaga looked as though he was about to burst a blood vessel.
Honestly, in all the semesters that you’ve seen the deadpan professor- you don’t think you remember a time when he didn’t look as though his students were bringing him to the precipice of an aneurysm.
“H-hello, sir.” You’re the first one to speak, after far too long a silence from your boyfriend - guess Spider-Man has two weaknesses, huh? Yaga nods graciously at you in response, before fixating his eyes on his nephew once more.
“Uncle Yaga—” Ino jolts with yet another elbow at his side. “I didn’t know you were coming today.”
Yaga’s ‘World’s #1 Uncle’ cup chips in his hand.
♡ GOJO SATORU - Goonology.
“—and in this one he’s Frankenstein with a huuuuuge dick- heh.” Gojo titters as he pushes his glasses up, having slid down his face in excitement. He gestures to another file on-screen, “And in this one, they’re clan leaders that have to fuck for an heir. And in this one, he’s a rose toy that turns into a real man and she reeeeally likes that. And in this one, it’s an omegaverse- do you know what an omegaverse is? So basically it’s like those alpha wolf memes but with-”
“Uh-huh.” Nodding absent-mindedly - honestly, you’ve been doing it for so long by this point that it’s likely become a permanent fixture of your demeanour.
Perhaps you’ll go nodding away for the rest of your life.
Perhaps you’ll only nod when you think of Gojo Satoru, and the absolutely massive (concerning) hentai collection he was showing you. Files upon files all meticulously organized and named, with a spreadsheet to follow rating them on the basis of goon-ability.
You’re not sure how you got here, to be honest.
You’d become friends with the nerdy boy at the start of Professor Yaga’s physics course, assuming him to be one of your fellow intellectuals. And what you’d found out was that…Gojo Satoru is an intellectual (there was no denying that, he was the brightest amongst the department with a suspected job offer from JAXA straight out of university—even Yaga himself couldn’t deny it no matter how much the white-haired boy got on his nerves), but that he was also the ultimate…gooner.
The realization didn’t come instantly, of course.
It’d started off with long study nights and mornings spent early in the library, poring over thick physics books with Gojo. Then that acquaintanceship had turned into a friendship. Which resulted in nights dragging Gojo to bars and parties, and helping the nerdy boy cut loose.
And then an even deeper friendship—
After which a few too many Jägerbombs (one, actually, he was a lightweight) ended up with Gojo confessing to you that he was a virgin. You’d guessed as much, to be quite honest.
But then he’d confessed to you that he’d never even had his first kiss before- hell, he’d never even held hands with an in-real-life woman before. And it’s that last comment that got you—what the hell did he mean by an ‘in-real-life’ woman?
And Gojo Satoru had been more than happy to confess to you that although he might’ve never had contact with a woman in real life - you yourself were a miracle, and the first friend he’d had in…forever - he’d gotten into far too many bases in his virtual world.
His video games. His manga. His body pillows. His hentai.
Anything and everything that had your jaw dropped in this cozy bar the two of you were at. Eventually, you’d both ended up getting kicked out once Gojo had (far too loudly) talked to you about his collection of personalized ahegao hoodies. And ‘would you like any recs?’
What the fuck…?
You’d gone home to sleep it off that night- but you couldn’t help yourself. Call it morbid curiosity, call it some part of you being a masochist—but you just had to call Gojo up the next day and tell him-
Yes, I would like some…recs. To know what he was into, if anything.
Totally nothing to do with the fact that you were maybe-kinda-sorta nursing a massive crush on the pretty, perfect (other than…perhaps this) white-haired nerd. His blue eyes. His shyness. Those dimples at the edge of his smile. Oh…and perhaps you had to know whether he was actually crazy or not, alright?!
And thus, here you were.
Doing your very best to ignore the body pillow that was splayed out upon his bed, with an original character of his own that looked suspiciously like…
“Me?” You’re blurting out without meaning to.
And Gojo glances over at you in response- fixing those cutely thick glasses of his. “Yes?”
“Why do they all…” Come to think of it…you’re taking a closer look at his glaring computer screen. And the expression of glee upon Gojo’s face at your sudden interest quickly morphs into one of absolute horror at the analytical look in your eyes.
He darts forward to cover his screen. “Wait-”
“They all look like me.” Snatching the computer mouse from his hand, you’re scrolling through the numerous MP4 files. Rows upon rows. Thumbnail upon thumbnail. Each one gave you a brief flash of an animated woman that looked like you, coupled up and being absolutely pummeled by a man with…blue eyes. Rows upon rows. “Satoru…”
And you’re looking at him in silence. He’s silent back.
“Do you like-”
“Yes.” Adrenaline runs through your body.
And now he looked a bit more like the shy, bookish man that he usually was. Fiddling with the hem of his Digimon t-shirt, that aroused blush upon his face getting replaced by something a bit more innocent.
And by looking at his slender, pretty hands- you’re accidentally sneaking a look at the bulge in his pants. “And do you…” At his questioning gaze, you gesture at his crotch.
“Y-yes.” He admits.
Your eyes widen, “Even—” Looking at the body pillow on the bed.
He huffs and tugs down the hemline of his t-shirt to cover his erection. “Yes.”
And as the silence grows longer, Gojo fidgets more upon his squeaky chair. Restless. Ravenous but…he couldn’t quite browse through his collection with you in here, could he?
Before finally you say-
“And what about the real one?”
.
.
.
“Oh fuck—ngh~” Gojo’s gaze was wide and dilated- the blackness of his pupils almost entirely engulfing his irises. There was a slight glowing glaze on top of his eyes, as though he was drunk - and the way he’s babblin’ away certainly didn’t help his case. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck—”
The very crown of his tip was tremblin’ nearly as much as his tone was- and the nerdy man pushes his hips up into yours like an animal.
Claiming the tiniest of orifices inside you as though he’s running out of time.
Splashing around his glittery white cum- because of course he’d ended up cumming just as soon as he’d put it in.
Stirring around his thiiiick cock until a ring of white forms at your entrance. “Oh fuck, it fuh-feels—” Cute pink lips tremoring. He’s fluttering those long lashes up at you, from where you were straddling his cushioned chair. “It feels so- ngh- much better than it looked in the hentai, sweetheart.”
“Oh yeah?” You titter to yourself. And it’s an action that makes the nerdy man pout, “That good?”
“Yes—” Gojo’s mouth drops, as though he genuinely couldn’t believe that you were asking him this - as though he genuinely couldn’t believe that such a question like this existed. And with his back arching off of the chair slightly, he ruts up into you- again and again. With no rhythm nor rhyme other than the urge to absolutely pound-pound-pound his hot, needy cock into your perfect pussy. “Yes- why the fuck wouldn’t it feel good? Do you know how fucking good you feel?”
And then you clench and it’s enough to send him throwing his back through tears-
“It should be fucking illegal for your pussy to feel this good.”
He sounded dead-serious - and you almost found it cute just how pussydrunk Gojo had gotten after only a few vicious strokes. “I dunno…you had ah- omegaverse and all in your hentai, Toru.”
“My hentai had omegaverse, but I have you…” He’s blubbering out. And it would’ve been the most romantic things he’s said…perhaps, had it not been for what he says next. “And y-you even feel better than my PocketPussy3000…”
Arching one of your brows, “I don’t think I want to know what that is—oh, fuck.”
He gives a sudden swipe, dragging that metallic sensation across every one of your hidden sweet spots.
Oh, how could you have forgotten to mention?
Gojo Satoru - nerd galore, the most inexperienced man you’ve ever met - has a fucking Jacob’s Ladder piercing. A line of ruthless metal barbells that pierced his lengthy shaft, that stuck out lewdly - creating a texture that made your eyes absolutely roooooll to the back of your skull.
Their delicate orbs were rubbin’ coldly against your walls, were molding his interesting shape against your channel. And you find yourself speeding up your bounces just to feel his sensual piercings.
Just to feel the rub-a-dub of them pushing apart your snug cunt- clinging onto any tiny crevice.
Gojo’s giving an inexperienced slam against the back of your womb and you cry out—“Shit, how can it feel so good-” Holding onto his broad shoulders to keep yourself from falling off of his lap, “You’re really a virgin, aren’t you?”
He pushes his glasses up smugly. “That, I am.” Feeling more confident now, he’s grabbing onto either side of your hips- if this was one of his hentai, then he’d probably use his alpha powers to induce you into heat. Then probably pound you with his cum until you’re bloated…that last one, he could still do. He gives you a few rough thrusts, “And because I’ve got the power of gooning and hentai on my side-”
“Okay, I wouldn’t go that far-”
“Why not?” There was that smug bastard you knew and loved in class- so sure he was right. Gojo cocks his head defiantly to the side, sure he had you wrapped around his finger. Cock, more like.
But just then you’re clenchin’ your fluttering cunt around his cock—making the overconfident nerd stutter, making him blush, making him jerk his hips up into yours and splat! out another wad of cum. Adding onto the puddled mess upon your cervix, slick and heavy with syrup. “What was that, Toru?”
You’re keeping him absolutely hostage.
And it felt so good for you, too, with the nooks and ridges of his Jacob’s Ladder driving you absolutely wiiiiiild. Especially the orbs at the end of his barbells that slipped easily into your walls.
Again.
And again.
And again-
He’s staring up at you through his lashes, words sputtering. “I-I meant-”
“Hm?” Yet another clench- a mere clench. And that round, reddened tip of Gojo’s ends up swervin’ straight against the door to your womb—the nerd’s mouth waters as he thinks of all the possibilities…
“I just meant that m’thankful, sweetheart.” Gojo’s crooning up at you. He loops his arms around your papping! waist and brings you deeper against his toned chest, probin’ your spots even deeper. “I’m so thankful to get to- hck! fuck a pussy like this- so, so thankful…”
“Mhmmm?”
“There’s a reason I cried a little when I first put it in, y’know? A loser like me could never have even imagined- fuck.” Answering, he keeps on drilling his hips up into you - sloppily. Semi-thrusts that leave your entire body on edge from how fast n’ frenzied they were becoming. “And no hentai nor manga nor bodypillow in the world could ever compare to you—”
“Fuck-” You whisper. It was only making his mazing tip, his massaging piercings, do their magic even harder inside your slippery channel.
And Gojo whispers - mostly to himself. “I got those just because they looked like you, anyways…”
But you’re hearing him perfectly.
And it takes only a few more swerves n’ grinds of your hips to draaaaag yet another orgasm out of Gojo Satoru—you’ve lost count which one it was for the night. But it’s enough that your walls feel slightly inflated with the sheer volume of seed pumped into you, the clingy wads n’ webs stuffing you so full.
Part of it sprays between your legs and glues the backs of your thighs to his waistline.
And you’re only tightening them ‘round him deeper- ready to ride him maddeningly through another burst of euphoria.
But the surprise comes when Gojo pushes his foggy glasses up in determination - it comes when he peeks down at your pussy through his sweaty bangs. Pinkish tongue sticking between his teeth, the nerdy man locates your neglected clit in a few seconds and starts rollin’ over it with his thumb like a machine.
He wasn’t quite sure what to do - but he knew from those sultry mewls leaving you that it felt good. And so he’s alternating between slow hearts n’ rapid stripes drawn down your puffy nub.
Every drag of his digit sending sparks to your brain. Overheated.
“Shit-” You’re somehow managing to choke out. And it takes only one-two-three more twists n’ turns of his wrist to get you to start trembling. “Shit, shit—Toru. That feels so-”
To get you to cum.
And so you do-except…you weren’t just cumming.
You were squirting—glittering, hot splashes of sap escaping between your pussylips. They splatter all over Gojo’s slender waist, drenching him all the way down to his chair- and he doesn’t care.
Fuck, he’s having the girl of his dreams soak his cock with her pussy—and you think he’d care about something like that?
Barely paying attention to his own orgasm, Gojo balances you on top of him n’ drags you through your high. Such strong, sudden zaps of bliss going from his roverin’ tip and straight up to your muddled mind—just a few hungry hammers, and you’re already babbling with pleasure. The knobs of his Jacob’s Ladder massaging your sweetest spots, only elongating that wave of euphoria even further.
It shatters through your body until you’re a mess.
You’re dripping between your legs- and from your eyes. Sobbing into Gojo’s shoulder, “Sa-Satoru, that feels so good—fuck, that felt so good.” Perking your hips up n’ down his swollen shaft—even the area ‘round his pelvis was reddening with impact. “You did good, baby.”
“I d-did?” Gojo asks.
And you can only nod. “You have to delete that insane collection of yours, though.”
“W-well of course, I will…” He smugly pushes his glasses further up his nosebridge- and the sudden improved vision lets him see the dark patch you’d squirted all over his favorite Digimon t-shirt.
And Gojo can’t help himself from tugging up that hemline and fucking sniffing your sweet, sweet juices-
“Now how about I introduce you to my PocketPussy3000…that I named after you?”
.
.
.
Professor Yaga is just about reconsidering his resignation plans- it’s been a while without any…incident involving his students pushing him to the verge of an aneurysm, he hasn’t had any problems with grading, he hasn’t had any problems with the other staff.
Overall, life has been good.
The problem comes when Gojo Satoru comes to class looking as though he’d come to the very same conclusion.
That morning, he decides that the bespectacled man - his star student in Physics class - looks blissed out…too blissed out. His skin was glowing. His eyes seemed sparklier than ever. He was practically hovering into class.
And Yaga’s eternal conundrum is put to rest when you walk in right after, looking (perhaps not as dramatic) equally happy.
Ah…he connects the dots. And he catches the way the two of you look at each other as though you wished the rest of the class didn’t exist-
Yaga shudders. He reconsiders reconsidering his resignation plans.
He splits the two of you up during seating.
Gojo’s loud cries sound like music to his ears.
♡ HIGURUMA HIROMI - Mr. Mr.
“Fuck…” Higuruma Hiromi finds his head pressed against the polished mahogany of his desk yet again, breathing out his woes into it as though it could hear him.
It always was his most avid listener, these days.
He ignores the newest paper that’d landed on his desk - Higuruma wasn’t above taking cases that interested him anymore. But then again, most cases required attention—and that was exactly what he was lacking right now. These days.
And who else was to blame for such a transgression by Tokyo’s best law professor but you?
You. You. You. You.
Ever since you’d walked into his lecture hall at the start of semester- your pencil skirt sharp, your mouth even sharper. Higuruma would be lying if he said he wasn’t drawn in by the sheer breadth of your knowledge—even to a man like him who lived and breathed law itself.
He was stunned.
And you were stunning.
Both in your beauty and your brains- and everything else in-between that Higuruma Hiromi just couldn’t stop fucking thinking about-
It was driving him crazy.
He thinks he might be going crazy.
He can’t spend a single class without his eyes drifting towards you—as though drawn in by magnets, even though he didn’t really have a point to emphasize nor any question to ask. He can’t grade your papers without fearing that he might just subconsciously slip in an extra point or two - not because you need it, but because he’s a weak man. He’s a weak, weak man.
And Higuruma always ends up loaning off your papers to some other attorney friend of his - it always does make him breathe easier when he finds out that you’re always given top marks regardless.
Even the clock has found itself inutile ever since your entrance into his life—no longer is it a device to display time, but rather a countdown for when he might see you next.
The next class. The next orchestrated bump in the hallways.
The next time he sees your beautiful, beautiful smile.
If Higuruma isn’t in class with you, he’s spending his time counting down the hours until he does. And that’s what he was doing at this very moment—that’s what he was attempting to stop right now.
“I must have gone mad.” He runs a hand through his thick, black hair - usually parted to perfection, but it usually seems to unravel whenever he thinks of you. As does every other part of him. And Higuruma whispers his confession into the late hours- with no one in the vicinity right now.
Class had just ended, and he was still reeling from the vision of you in that short, short skirt. So short…
Higuruma’s breath hitches at the mere memory of it, like a dying man. He’s always been the type of man to prioritize his career - and that means he’s never quite…felt anything like this before. He’s never quite looked out of his books long enough to take interest. Perhaps he’s been in a maddened haze—“That must be it.” He declares, “I really must have gone mad-”
He stands abruptly. Slightly teetering.
“Because I can’t—” You were a university student. You were a decade his junior. You were the beautiful face he got to see everyday- and yet, he wasn’t supposed to notice just how beautiful you were. “It’s not right. It shouldn’t be done. I really can’t-”
“Professor?”
“My law student of all things-”
“Professor?”
“And yet- fuck, I’ve never wanted anyone so desperately-”
“Professor.”
Higuruma feels his blood grow cold. Without a speck of sense in him, still, he’s whirling around to face you - he’d recognize your voice above thousands.
You were standing at the edge of the doorway, tip-toeing slightly inside as though unsure whether you should interrupt. One of your hands rest at your chest to feel your beating heart—and the other one slowly but surely closes the lecture hall door behind you.
“I came here to get a bag I’d left behind…” You’re starting off- and to Higuruma this doesn’t feel real. He’s falling into his chair—“But maybe I’ve left something a little more ah- important.”
And that smile of yours definitely doesn’t feel real.
“I-I beg of you to reconsider.” He starts off, nervously fiddling with his glasses frames.
“Motion denied.” You smile, stepping closer. And the way you’re looking at him—fuck, he feels his cock start to throb already.
“I’m much older than you, my angel.” Higuruma attempts to reason - but the thing is, he isn’t sure whether he’s attempting to reason with you or himself. Because you certainly had an air of finality about you- “And I’m your professor.” He gulps. He has his books in his office- so, so many books. And yet, none that would help him find the words for right now. “Not to mention, there are so many other eligible bachelors who would be a better f-”
“Dismissal with prejudice.” You hum. Examining the older professor before you—dark circles, beautifully tragic, such a bookish air about him. “Anything else?”
He pushes his stern glasses up his nosebridge. “No…sentence accepted, Your Honor.”
.
.
.
And it’s not too long before you’re finding yourself spread flat across Higuruma’s desk - all polished, poised, formal. Not a speck of dirt or document out of line—except for the fact that you had your back against it and was currently being fucked dizzy on Higuruma’s fat, throbbing cock.
Throwing both legs on top of his shoulders. Pinning you down with a hand at your throat.
He was giving you all that you were going to get- and all that you were getting were looooong swipes of his bulging tip. In and out. In and out.
Plummeting between your pussylips n’ tickling the deepest spots in the back of your pussy. The deepest—Higuruma makes you taste his rotund circumference at your throat, before he’s dragging his sloppy cock back out and repeating it all over again.
Reddened tip to the tiny curls at the base of his cock- and luckily for you, this was everything you’d been wanting since the second you walked through those hall doors.
Ever since you’d seen your hot, nerdy law professor.
Higuruma pushes his thin-rimmed glasses up his nose, and you’re gulping at just how handsome he looks. A thin line of sweat tricklin’ down the side of his temple- “Shit-” He’s hissing between clenched teeth, voice higher as though he still couldn’t believe that this was real life. “Shit, you’re taking me so well.”
“A-anything for you—” You’re gasping out. His thrusts are hard enough that you swear you could feel him empty out his pre all the way in the back of your throat- and you swear you could taste it, too. That salted caramel flavor that clogged up your tastebuds—
“For me, huh?” Higuruma’s handsome nose crinkles, and he slams a set of his fingers down upon your clit. “Teacher’s pet.”
You’re whining at the stars that makes you see. “You have no idea.” It was only in the slight reprieves between his thrusts - when he’d pull back from your cervix and relieve the pressure on your womb - that you could manage to even speak. “You have no idea how fuck- how long I’ve wanted to fuck you.”
“That long, huh?” His dark eyes widen.
“So long.” And you’re not even sure why you’re being so honest - but you suspect it has something to do with just how stupid he’s making you with his textured length. Those zig-zagging veins and ridges upon his swollen cock—fuck. “You have no idea how many nights I spent- ngh, poring over textbooks. Just to memorize things n’ impress you.”
His achingly-hard cock grows even plumper inside of you. “You d-did that for me?”
“I wanted you to be proud of me—” You’re almost sheepishly admitting to him. You dare to hide your face behind your hands- but Higuruma stops you then and there to take in your full expression. “-sir.”
And that almost makes the stoic man…pause.
It almost makes his lungs heave out.
It almost makes his glasses slide completely off of his nose-
Something in him just snaps - perhaps his sanity, his restraint, his hips slamming into yours until your very mind jolts. Fuck…
And Higuruma has to stare at you - whilst his cock still shovels in at a rapid pace - for a few seconds just to register. He has to throw his head back—“Fuck. Substantive and procedural law, right and duties- liabilities.” Such an odd slew of words and concepts from your syllabus leave him, growing even more feverish the more fervent hush hips become. “Theory of legal positivism—”
“What are you…” You don’t even have the words to describe it.
But Higuruma looks down at you with such dark, depraved eyes - a slight glaze atop them that made you realize he was completely and utterly pussydrunk. “That’s to distract myself, angel.”
“Oh—fuck.”
And before you know it, he’s scooping your lower half even further into his body and bending deeper down. Deeper. Deeper. Deeper. Higuruma folds you until the cheeks of your ass aren’t even touching the polished wood of his desk, and his cock reaches in so deep that it makes your pupils cross-
“And that’s to remind you that big girls never hafta bow down- not to anyone.” A line of drool travels slowly down the side of his mouth - he kisses you. “So how about it—”
“You want me to call you-”
“I’ll be calling you-” He starts off. “-something very fitting, Your Honor.”
You shiver.
And he basks in his own glee - what else for his star student?
Higuruma’s poundin’ away at the gooey back of your pussy- all the way until it feels as though he wants to fuck you through his damn office desk.
And you’re sure by now that a print in the shape of your two bodies has formulated on top of the varnished mahogany—and knowing Higuruma, he’d likely just admire it all day. And as if he was trying to make this dream a reality, his bludgeoning pace increases until that gluttonous cock of his was nothing more than a dark pinkish blur between your pussylips.
Thrashing and swiping.
Locating your sweetest spots.
Higuruma draws a particularly good stripe down your puckered g-spot and you moan- “Please- m’so close, s—”
“What was that?” He cuts through. Stern.
You didn’t think you’d get anything past him, did you? There was a reason he was so damn famed in the courts of Tokyo.
Higuruma’s sharp eyes glint. Through slower, sensual draaaaags of his cock he asks- “What- was- that—”
“Nothing-”
“I believe there may be inaccuracies in that statement.” He hums. Thickened shaft plummeting once more to your womb—thud-thud-thudding. “Try again.”
“You must’ve heard me-”
“Hearsay.”
“I called you-” Ultimately, you’re left to cry out. Nothing left but to have Higuruma’s hazy peripherals staring intensely down at you, and his cock twitchin’ as he pumps you through your orgasm. “…sir.”
And he reels back in delight at having won.
Your body trembling. Your eyes welling up with tears.
It was such a startling wave of bliss- one that almost made it hard for his fattened cock to fuck deep into you - not with your walls clinging onto him like that. And he has to fight to keep himself from cumming right now, just wanting to let you bask in the simmering pleasure first.
Just rammin’ a bruise of his cockhead against your cervix. Again. And again.
Though his steamrollin’ cock fucks you through peak after peak, Higuruma’s smile stays as mean and merciless as ever. Tutting, “Someone deserves some punishment, sugar.”
You’re still shivering from the force of your euphoria- “R-request for a fast trial?”
Wordlessly, Higuruma then reaches somewhere behind you—and you don’t have to turn your head to know what it is. Because soon enough, he’s bringing his shiny gavel to your line of vision- and dragging the honed tip of it straight between your legs.
“My conditions are that you cum with just this-”
“And my punishment if I can’t?” You breathe.
That perfectly poised wooden tip is just starting to inch inside and graaaaaze down your tight walls.
Higuruma gruffs, “Then I sentence you to ride my face until you squirt.”
He smiles.
.
.
.
“Hiromi—” Masamichi Yaga’s drawling tone echoes down the empty corridor- it’s been just a few hours since he’d last been in the Law Department. Not one of his usual haunts (and he was almost glad for it, law students just seemed so much more…intense), he felt awkward waddling down the barren place.
It was long after classes had ended, though it was a sure shot that Higuruma would be in his office.
If not for the little…task he’d sent his friend—then because of his workaholic nature. Yaga was sure that his friend would have that little letter typed out for him by now, Yaga was sure that by tomorrow he could walk up to the Dean and let them know that he was resigning. Officially.
And with such a formal letter to boot- his pension was going to be luxury!
He was sure of it…
So tell him why he’s wandering right up to Higuruma’s door and hearing the strangest…groaning noises from inside. Worried that perhaps his friend might have gotten into some trouble with his health, Yaga’s hands twist upon the door handle- one that would’ve been less easy to open than a safe.
It was firmly locked.
“What the…” His brows raise well above his shades, and Yaga can’t help himself- he really can’t. He was acting under the presumption that his close friend might have been hurt—alright! The older man leans down to the keyhole on the door and…peers inwards.
He knew that Higuruma was never the type to keep a key in a door- he preferred deadbolts and such. But oh, how Yaga was wishing it was the opposite as he snatches a glimpse.
And what he sees is his best friend- not suffering from any health complications or injuries as he could see. Instead, Higuruma seemed as healthy as ever as he arched you deeper into his front and fucked you - you - in a way that made Yaga blush.
He’s shooting upright as if burned.
Speedwalking down the corridor—fuck the letter, fuck the Law Department, fuck everyone around him.
Yaga was never resigning.
A/N. Got a little…carried away with this one whoops-
“fuuuckk, that's my girl.” 𝓢 𝒂𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒖 groaned as you found your rightful place on his lap.
he's exhausted. blindfold still strewn over him as he crooks his head on the couch. slumped over from back-to-back missions and endless hours of teaching.
still, his big, shaky hands slipped around your waist. guiding his favourite girl down his tip and sinking you further on his cock. throbbing and sensitive from not feeling your warm, wet, welcoming pussy for weeks.
he clung to the fat of your ass. jaw slack and eyes droopy. seconds from passing out but still fully sober on your slick velvet fluttering on his underside vein.
“yeah— fuck, just like that.” he whimpered. gojo satoru, whimpering. because his girl's pussy was sucking him in so good. cause his tip's suffocated by your cervix. cause you're bouncing on his dick and letting him slump cause he had nothing left to offer you.
“suuuchhh a good girl,” his groan caught in his throat as you dragged his blindfold down. revealing glossy, bright blue eyes and endless devotion. “such a good girl. know just how to treat m'cock huh? love it so much?”
“love you more, satoru.”
“oh god.”
he whines. pitched and breathless as back arched and his cock throbbed hard. hips bundling his last bits of strength to buck up into your suffocating cunt. grinding needy and stuttery. as he fully melted beneath your soft thighs, your softer hands, your softest heart.
“love me, baby.” he whimpers, pitiful, pleading. “love me, love me, love me, love me please.”
greeting a new species just to get fucked full of eggs wasn't a part of your schedule today! but who can say no to him?
synopsis: your hike doesn't turn out quite like you planned when you meet a man who isn't really one. well, he has a cock, there's just one minor inconvenience. he's made of slime.
pairing: slime!gojo x f!reader
content: mdni. smut. lots of it actually. porn with plot, OVIPOSITION! eggs! more eggs! aphrodisiac slime lol, TECHNICALLY DUBCON, fucking in the middle of the forest, oral (f! receiving) but gojo doesn't exactly know what oral is lmfao, piv sex, unprotected, creampie but it's slime, they're both freaks let's be serious, some dumbification, mating, could be considered kidnapping lol, gojo is down atrociously
wc: 6.1k
a/n: this was a commission by @specialgradefckr and honestly so incredibly fun to write omfg <3
DO NOT GREET THE WILDLIFE.
You stared at the sign. The bold bright red letters sticking out between the thin, scraggly trees. The breeze made the few leaves that were clinging to them sway, but out here, even in the deepest parts of the wildlife preserve, there weren’t any animals out here to feed. Not for the past two miles, at least.
Not even the chirp of a bird or a croaking frog to keep you company as you readjusted the heavy strap of your backpack over your shoulder.
No one came to this part of the nature park – and you were quickly discovering why.
It was practically barren. Used to be a swamp surrounded by a few cave systems. Once upon a time, it supposedly was a tourist spot – the kind where people would plan days around spelunking inside and taking photos in front of the pond by mouth of them. They shut it down eventually, maybe because it’d be too expensive to set up a gift shop all the way out in the wilderness. Or too many people were passing out trying to make the long hike here and the rangers on duty couldn’t be bothered handling the constant rescues.
A waste of resources, you supposed.
They had put a sign out saying the path you'd taken all the way out here was closed, but it was small, just posted to a single tree and still marked on your map. Some of the packed dirt had been overtaken by weeds and covered in leaves, but it hadn't been a difficult trek. Not even a dangerous one when this whole region had been devoid of big predators for years.
You were wrong though.
You just didn’t realize it until you saw what kind of wildlife the sign was referring to.
Although, you almost mistaken him as another hiker at first.
Standing at the edge of the murky water maybe a hundred feet away, watching you from a distance. Two realizations almost immediately struck you, one after the other.
He was fucking naked. And incredibly hung.
The third was somehow more startling than either – he wasn’t a man.
Well, he was male, just not of the human variety. His skin was the wrong kind of pale, his hair a splash of white between all the brown and green. It was the blue that stood out though - bright ones that were boring through you.
He caught you staring, and even from this far, you saw him grin, canines peeking out as he brought up his hand to wave. A warm voice came next as he took a few steps, but you couldn’t quite make out what he said. It died in the wind before it reached you.
Reflexively, your fingers uncurled, your hand limp in the air as you waved back at him.
It was only then that you remembered that stupid sign.
You looked back at it, freezing as you reread the letters. Was waving a greeting? Or-?
“Hi there.”
Shit.
You nearly jumped out of your fucking skin, head snapping back to see him suddenly standing right in front of you. He was prettier up close. Long white lashes framing those startling eyes, bottom lip jutting out as he waited for you to say hi back.
But everything below his face looked a lot less human from here.
Shaped like one. Sounded like one.
But he was…slimy? In the actual physical sense? Like he had all the pieces, all the parts needed – but most of them had been replaced with that strange jelly-like substance.
You shouldn’t speak. You should turn around and-
“Hi,” you heard yourself say, breathing shaky as a slow smile crept across his lips.
Too late.
In hindsight, you were screwed from the second you read the sign. Condemned the moment you decided to come down this way.
There was nothing to do but catch up with whatever the world had planned for you.
“Are you-” You couldn't even finish asking it, blinking at him too fast, like if you did it enough times, you'd open your eyes and realize you were dreaming or hallucinating.
He chuckled, and the consistency of his chest tremored with the force of it. He wasn't translucent, not quite, but there was a faint shimmer to the slime when the sun cut through the trees. “Am I what?”
You had no idea what he was.
And that made it so much worse.
You knew what to do if you saw a bobcat or a bear. For some reason, you sincerely doubted your pepper spray would work on him. Even if you could grab it from your bag, with the way he was watching you, the blue in his eyes sparkling, thick white lashes fluttering, you had a feeling he’d stop you before you could snag it.
“I don’t know,” you admitted, something foggy starting to settle over your brain. You felt the muscles in your face move, your brows pinch together, your lips twitching from a frown to a smile. If you tried, you could control it, but your grip was weak, and the willpower you did have was already wavering.
“I’m Gojo.” He said it like you’d understand. Observing you expectantly, waiting as if he thought you'd introduce yourself too.
“I should go,” you awkwardly replied, stepping back just to trip on a tree root and fall flat on your ass.
Before you could even stand back up, barely managing to prop your elbows up, he was already kneeling, hovering over you with a concerned expression. One of his hands settled on your thigh, right below the shorts you were wearing, the slime colder to the touch than you anticipated.
“Why?” He asked, almost whining. “You just got here. We haven't even said hello yet.”
You were pretty sure hi should count, but you didn't think trying to correct him wouldn't work in your favor.
There was the feeling of something damp spreading higher up your thigh, but it was really his proximity, the intelligence in his stare when it was centered on you that made your pulse pick up, heat pooling in your stomach the longer it lingered.
You had never seen anything or anyone like him on any endangered species list, but you didn't think he was the type to need protection.
All it took was a single look and you were reconsidering where your own spot was on the food chain.
“Are you going to eat me?” Use his goo or slime or whatever it was to dissolve you?
He laughed again, and it was so friendly, you felt temporarily disarmed. “Is that what you humans do?”
You were so stuck on the fact he said you humans that you failed to notice or do anything to stop him from suddenly hoisting your legs up in the air – and hooking them both over his shoulders.
“Well, if that's what you want,” he continued with a soft hum.
One foot started to rise, but it was hard to move against it, the substance covering him sticking to you too, attaching itself to your skin so it was difficult to strain against.
Some slime just slipped off of him, two blobs of it somehow rolling up to your shorts – and dissolving those instead.
You squeaked, like the moment wasn't mortifying enough, but he was just casually smiling down at you, shrugging his shoulders like this was normal. Natural.
He leaned down, close enough you could feel his breath, and you were convinced he was going to take a bite. Sink his teeth in your throat or tear a chunk out of your tits. He just sniffed. Long and hard, his nose brushing against your collarbone as he groaned into you.
And then he kissed you. A clumsy peck to your throat, soft lips making you shiver. But he didn't stop with one. You didn't stop him either.
A little voice in the back of your brain screamed you should.
But his mouth felt nice. He felt nice.
The haze clouding your judgment only seemed to get thicker, clouds blocking the sun and any sense you had left with each consecutive kiss he left. Each extra second his slime seeped over your skin.
You weren’t scared or struggling. Weren’t squirming.
All it took was a lazy smile between long licks down your chest, and you were slipping further under his spell. Sinking into the grass, while his slime sunk into you. You blinked, and your shirt was gone too, scraps of fabric floating in the midst of the slime starting to coat you, the color fading and the material so thin that you wouldn’t have recognized it if you hadn’t just been wearing it. It wasn’t that it snuck up on you – it was more like you softened into something malleable enough for him to maneuver. Turning into putty for him to play with while his tongue dragged over your stomach as he slowly moved lower.
His palms were surprisingly soft. Firm, too. You guessed he could change his form at will, be solid when he wanted and slough bits of him off if he wished for that instead. If you closed your eyes, chose to ignore the cool slime on your upper half and what was clinging to your legs, you could pretend it was a normal guy’s head between your thighs.
That this was just some risky outside sex in the woods, letting a stranger suck on your clit like candy rather than, well, whatever he or this was.
“God,” he groaned, and your eyes were open again, staring down at the messy strands of white hair hanging down in his face as he lapped at your swollen bud, dragging his tongue back over it in a devastating circle. “You taste delicious.”
“N-no biting,” you stammered, barely breathing as he latched on. Sucking harder, faster, fumbling to find a steady rhythm when his fingers discovered that there were more fun bits of you for him.
Fingers shoving inside of you, two of them, you thought, but it was hard to tell when almost all your nerve endings felt like they were on fire, a warm weight in your bones and a not-so-subtle heat spreading from your stomach to your brain until even your thoughts were tinged with the flames.
Would it really be so bad to have sex with him?
Was it really wrong when it felt right?
Besides, he had to be lonely out here all by himself, right? Who knew how long it’d be until someone else came along? Maybe there wasn’t even anyone left of his kind for him to mate with.
You were doing him a favor. As long as fucking the wildlife wasn’t considered a felony.
“One bite?” Gojo’s voice was a muffled whine, refusing to even breathe, still messily planting open-mouthed kisses to your cunt.
“Be careful,” you heard yourself say, but inhaling hurt when you couldn’t get the air to go down to your lungs. His teeth nipped at your clit, just enough to make you jolt.
“Like that?” He asked, cocking his head to the side and glancing up to measure your reaction.
“Mm, mhm,” you weakly nodded, your limbs starting to feel almost limp when he went back to making out with your swollen clit.
“See?” He mumbled with a mouthful of you. “I’m friendly.”
Maybe if your mind was still functioning with more than just a couple brain cells left, you might have lingered on that more.
Your eyes scrunched shut, your fingernails curling into your palms as your hips arched up off the ground. Everything was sensitive, but the slime kept spreading, slowly covering your skin until it was practically up to your neck. It almost felt like a bath, submerged with just your head floating above the surface. You weren’t sure how sentient it was when it wasn’t a part of his body anymore, how much he was able to slip off and still maintain that mostly-solid form he was in now considering how much of him was on you.
But every time you tried to think about that, his fingers felt like they stretched out, somehow reached deeper, exploring every part of you until they abruptly pulled out. You moved on instinct, feeling like an animal who was only made for being fucked. You went to grab him, but your arms had been sucked in the slime, and your energy was too sapped for you to do anything except whine about it.
A hot hunger had started to boil inside you, only getting more intense, his sweet scent enveloping you until the rest of the world had fallen away from your focus. And he was the only thing left.
“Gojo,” you breathed the name he’d given you, blinking as a tiny voice in the back of your head attempted to bring up the point that it might not even be his own. Maybe he was an alien or some weird species and that was just what they were called.
But judging by the pretty smirk curling up on his lips when he looked up at you, readjusting to hover over you, readjusting your legs effortlessly to hook them over his waist. You felt more like jelly than he did, responding to everything he did without being able to move yourself.
“You remembered,” he happily hummed, as if he hadn’t just said it…five minutes ago? Ten? You couldn’t tell. The seconds were dragged out, impossible to separate or count when even simple sentences refused to stay in your head.
His unnaturally blue eyes were holding you hostage, keeping your eyes on his while his hands moved. You wanted to look, to watch whatever he was doing, but you felt it anyway. The swollen head nudging its way between your thighs.
He didn’t shove it in though. No, he experimentally slid it between your folds, like he wasn’t sure exactly what he was doing, waiting for some reaction before you bucked your hips up to try to catch it and guide it inside.
“P-put it in,” you were begging, eyes glazed over and glossy as you wiggled as much as you could in the slime. “Please.”
His cock throbbed, the tip leaking a mysterious substance that seemed like more slime onto your saliva-soaked clit just to make it more sensitive.
“I like that face,” he bluntly said, a light laugh leaving his throat before he let out a low breath. You watched his chest move, your own straining, heart stalling every few beats. His head tilted to the side, blue eyes squinting, “Push your bottom lip out more.”
It was embarrassing how fast you followed his instructions.
But your reward was him burying his cock inside you. You weren’t sure what you expected. For it to feel like a normal one? Or the same, just slimy? The latter couldn’t really cover it. It was cooler than you expected, sure, more like jelly than something totally solid. But it was still hard. Still thick. Still bullied its way in to the hilt when he bottomed out, but he didn’t stop there.
You hadn’t considered the fact he could change his cock to make it a perfect fit. To fill you up completely.
Shape himself to you, to hit all those sweet, sensitive spots he mapped out before that left you squirming and squealing now.
You heard the noises you were making, the guttural gasps and the choked-out moans that sounded like they belonged to an animal being ravaged than you. Gojo was louder, rutting into you without any actual pace, just the pulse of him pumping his cock in your cunt and the pressure building at a steady beat in your stomach.
“You’re cute,” he complimented, a coo that excited you more than it should, made you squeeze him harder. “Do you have a mate?”
You gawked up at him, eyes narrowing as you tried to work out what the fuck he meant when his next sloppy thrust nearly made you forget.
“W-what?” You shook your head. “I-I don’t-”
“Good,” he grinned, shoulders slumping like he was relieved.
What he knew about humans was a mystery when he was fucking you like an expert.
But your body didn’t really care for all the curiosity brimming in your brain. No, all that really mattered to it was finishing what he started.
Your oversensitive clit wasn’t just aching anymore. It was practically throbbing, a constant thrum of electricity racing through you with every one of his thrusts, needy and hungry for attention.
“Touch me,” you whimpered, hips writhing as his brows scrunched together.
“Where?” He asked, and a humiliatingly high-pitched whine escaped your throat from being too weak to even show him where you wanted to be touched.
His hand traveled down your chest, over your peaked nipples and down past your belly button, pausing to wait for you to nod or shake your head.
“Lower,” you instructed, and he listened too.
His thumb dragged over it, but the slime worked almost like a suction cup, like another mouth had latched himself onto you, cool and wet and sloppy.
You couldn't tell if he was melding to you or molding you to him.
But the heat had clawed its way inside your heart, your pulse pounding harder while he pounded into you. Reduced to a twitching mess, lips permanently stuck parted as you panted for any air you could suck in.
You knew you should warn him not to cum inside of you. Say something about it, at least, even if you had no idea if he could even get you pregnant. Except, every time you opened your mouth, nothing would come out.
Cumming wasn’t a conscious decision.
Just one he made for you. Shoved over the edge by the overwhelming sensations trying to rewire – or maybe fry – your neurons. Your thighs were trembling, your body shaking as you tried to cling to your sanity through the intense waves of pleasure.
Your high didn’t distract you from the sudden stretch. Everything was slick, soaked. But the burn of being spread open even wider, your cervix prodded open, it was only soothed by the cool feeling of something slimy working his way up through it. What felt like a hundred little orbs pushing up to plant themselves inside your womb.
Eggs.
Soft, gel-like ones, squishy enough to slosh around and leave you squirming as he unloaded one after another. Groaning loudly, enough to echo among the trees when he released them, his body vibrating as he came inside you too.
You were staring past his shoulder at the sky, loose wisps of white hair in the fringes of your vision as you reeled from the eggs moving around in your stomach, adhering to your room with more of his slime, you supposed. You were still shaking when he pulled out. Still leaking cum and slick, probably leaving a mess there on the leaves and the dirt.
“Can you stand up?” He asked, all innocent like he hadn't just filled you with fucking eggs in the middle of the forest.
You blinked up at him, but you didn't have the strength left to shake your head. You wanted to look down at your body, but something stopped you. Maybe your brain refusing to let you see what the aftermath of having sex with a guy made of slime looked like.
He wasn’t fazed. Just running his hands back over you, through the slime covering your skin, his fingers moving through it easily as he traced something through the mess. He pushed your thighs further apart, examining you more clinically.
“Gonna take a couple of days to absorb those,” he chirped, tilting his head towards the bulge of your stomach, the eggs he deposited deep inside you. Your relief that they’d be absorbed instead of fertilized was washed out by the second realization that he was saying it’d take days to go away.
You tried to speak, but just another soft squeak came out, the slime you were surrounded by practically thrumming, as if it was happy to have you in it. And the whole situation, as strange and fucked as it was, was still unfairly hot.
Gojo chuckled again at you clenching around nothing, one of his hands brushing your hair back out of your face before glancing over his shoulder at the empty trees and the sun slowly setting overhead.
“Well, I can’t just leave you here, huh?”
You were fucked.
Literally and figuratively.
You woke up to a sticky feeling between your thighs and the sort of dark that swallowed up any light. You tried to sit up, your brain felt too foggy, your body too heavy.
It took a few seconds for your sight to adjust, squinting down to discover you were still nude. But the concerning bit was the bump of your stomach, still swollen from before. Your limbs weren't listening to you, moving too slow as you attempted to prop yourself up on something gooey.
A bed. Sort of.
It was just more slime. More eggs, if your eyes weren’t betraying you. All globbed together in a big enough pile to rest on. It wasn’t swallowing you up this time, only leaving a faint hint of the stuff on your skin when you managed to pull yourself halfway up.
Still no clothes.
Naked and alone in the cave of a creature that was of…questionable intelligence?
You guessed you were too since you had sex with him.
But in your defense, he was attractive, slime and all. And he had a bigger dick than any human you’d ever met before.
You hadn’t made it to your feet when he strolled in, his features flickering from contentment to a hardened frown when he noticed you were attempting to get up. To go.
“You should rest,” he spoke firmly, hurrying over to kneel next to you.
His cock was still out, and you hated your still fucked-out and fuzzy body for immediately directing your attention there. Honestly, this probably would be more fun if you didn’t have to worry about doing a walk of shame back to civilization nude and now carrying the eggs of an anomaly of nature.
“I should go home,” you murmured, reaching up to rub your forehead, rubbing out the crease between your brows. It wasn’t like you liked your job. Or even your life that much. But it was still yours. And you couldn’t just take a break from it to play mate with a weird new species in what could barely be considered a bed.
“You have my eggs,” he said it like it meant something else – something you just weren’t understanding.
“They’re, not, like fertilized?” You squinted, but he just looked down at you, offering one of those smiles that was condescending without trying to be.
“Of course not,” he chittered, as if it was an absurd assumption. You were human. He wasn’t. How could they be fertilized?
But then again, how the fuck could he put them in you in the first place?
“Then-” You started, but he just shook his head.
“That’s just how we greet each other,” he hummed, kissing your forehead casually. His speech was a little stilted, like he learned secondhand. Was he watching hikers? Observing people like you were the ones that belonged on a nature documentary? “How do you?”
“Um, saying hi?” You blinked, and he tilted his head to the side.
“That’s not very personal,” he contemplated.
Yeah, that was kind of the point.
You didn’t say anything, your stare flicking from him to the dim surroundings. The walls were damp, also coated in a similar slime to the stuff still on you. There were trinkets, treasures he must have collected over the years – hair clips and handheld mirrors and even a ham radio, all things that were probably left behind by a hiker. A wedding band was stuck to the wall, and you wondered if he even knew what it was.
“Are you hungry?” He asked, and you reluctantly nodded.
Did he even have any food here? Would he hunt for something?
“A little,” you shrugged, your stomach grumbling at the mention of it. There wasn’t much light, most of it from the luminance from his own slime. You had no way to tell how long it had been.
Were you asleep for an hour? Three? Half a day?
Would anyone even come looking for you?
Wondering wouldn’t do you any good. And honestly, it seemed like you had some more pressing problems when Gojo just sloughed off a chunk of himself, holding it out in his palm with a smile.
“It’s good for you,” he grinned.
Were you five years old?
No.
So why the fuck was-
He pushed it between your lips before you could protest, and the sentient slime was already sliding down your throat and choking your breathing.
You weren't what to think about the fact you could feel him in your stomach two different ways now.
“Do you want more?” He cocked his head to the side.
“Um, no,” you politely declined, swallowing the last of it down to join the rest. You could still taste him on your tongue, coating your mouth. Every part of him was sweet. Not like chocolate, or even fruit, but a flavor that was all its own.
All him.
“Are there others like you?” You carefully asked, glancing towards what you guessed was the only exit.
“I’m on my own here,” he shrugged, not exactly answering your question either. He looked at his little collection of stuff, trinkets that he must have been gathering for years before you came. “Sometimes I see humans out here. But you’re my first.”
The first one he spoke to? Or the first he fucked?
You stared, and he continued anyway, “My favorite.”
Would he really just let you be a fond memory when he was speaking to you so soft and slow while he did his best to enunciate it correctly?
“Are you lonely?” You heard yourself ask next. Prodding wasn’t appropriate, wasn’t what you-
“Not anymore,” he grinned, poking your cheek and leaving a damp streak of slime there.
“Gojo-” You wiped it away, working on your resolve as you tried to figure out how to get out of here.
“You’d make a pretty mate,” he interrupted, missing the obvious cue that you were trying to cut ties and run.
“Thanks, but um, I’m human,” you explained, scooting towards the edge of the slime – which was now climbing higher up your thigh,
“I can still stuff you full of eggs,” he unhelpfully pointed out. “We could make it work.”
No, you didn’t really think you could. But he didn’t budge.
“You wouldn’t be able to reproduce,” you attempted to phrase it in a convincing way, like you would consider it if things were different.
“Some members of my species can actually reproduce asexually,” he chimed in, a solution for every problem you conceived. Shit.
So you did something stupid. Maybe as dumb as you saying hi to him in the first place had been.
Instead of telling him you weren’t interested, or flat-out saying no, you came up with a new excuse on the spot. You pointed out the wedding ring, a weird fluttering in your stomach as you scrambled for some convenient excuse to distract both of you from what he said.
“Humans wear those when they’re, uh, mated,” you explained, almost saying married. “We have our own ritual.”
“Oh?” His eyes lit up, looking back at the ring. “Do you want that one?”
“No,” you answered too quickly, cringing as you recovered. “Usually, the females get one with a diamond on it.”
He squinted at you, like he hadn’t heard the word before.
“A big, sparkly rock.”
“I can do that,” he grinned.
You could still back out. Say thanks, but no thanks. But you didn’t.
Just let him lay his hand over your swollen stomach as he rubbed it affectionately. Honestly, when he touched you so softly, you couldn’t help but think you were the one taking advantage of him.
“You should rest though,” he reminded you. “I’ve got everything you need here.”
He meant it too.
His eggs were apparently nutritious enough to satisfy your hunger and keep your hydrated, and he even had a few books to prevent you from being bored, ones he explained that he found in campsites. Not that he ever stopped talking long enough for you to read more than a few sentences at a time. But most of his treasures were stuff he’d found in the caves, souvenirs that had never ended up being sold.
Including the only item of clothing – a v-neck with a misprint on it, which was probably supposed to advertise the park, but was missing half the text, only left with fading words on the back that said ‘All I got was this stupid t-shirt’.
You went hiking and all you got was stupid eggs and a slime guy who thought you were his mate.
After what you guessed was a day, maybe even two, Gojo still hadn’t left – or given you the opportunity to make a break for it. But your stomach had yet to go down, the eggs still shifting around uncomfortably when you tried to move too fast.
But even he had things he had to take care of.
He got out of his makeshift bed, the nest he had created, padding across the floor when he thought you were asleep. In your head, you counted to a hundred, waiting for some sound or sign of him returning before you opened your eyes.
You felt bad about it.
Terrible, actually. To leave him (and his cock) behind?
Truthfully, you’d fuck him again if you could do it in the comfort of your own home – where you could wash him off afterwards.
You tried to stand up, touching the wall and recoiling at the squish of it, the slime sticking to your hand as you took it away and wiped it on your skin without anything to clean it with. God, you couldn’t wait for a shower.
To clean yourself completely, to wipe your body clean and feel like yourself again.
But of course, nothing could go quite like you planned.
And right as you found your footing, there was the feeling of something, well, popping inside of you and the sudden gush of his slime leaking down your thighs. You immediately felt the effects. Your whole body was woozy, knees going weak and sending you to the floor, but that just made more of the eggs pop inside your womb.
You couldn't think. Couldn't breathe.
Processing all the confusing physical stimuli slamming through you at full force. The searing pleasure draining what was left of your brain power, leaving you dumber by the second as you blindly sought out something to fill the sudden empty ache between your damp and leaking thighs.
You needed him. To be full again.
The more you writhed, the more you wiggled and whimpered as you blindly struggled for friction, for just a fraction of pleasure to drown out the demand in your veins, the more eggs popped!
It was hell. Heaven too, but the lines were so blurred you weren’t even sure which way was up anymore. The only thing you were certain of was that you were on the fast track to one of the two if you didn’t get fucked soon.
That you’d die, drown in the need, if someone didn’t do anything about it.
You were crying his name, real tears forming in the corners of your eyes as your fingers clumsily fumbled for your clit. But it didn’t feel good enough. No, it barely even dented the desire. Did nothing to soothe the ache or ease the burning that was being etched into your bones.
It might have been three minutes. Or three hours.
Time had faded into the background, some vague concept far beyond anything you were capable of understanding anymore when footsteps slowly approached.
Blue eyes peering over you, gel-like fingers grabbing your chin and forcing your face up.
“Poor human,” Gojo purred, clicking his tongue in disapproval. “Need help?”
You nodded, feeling pathetic as you accepted your fate.
Welcomed it.
Would it really be to stay if it meant he’d make you feel good? Forever?
Having sex with him was better than any former frat boy or finance bro you had the misfortune of being with before. He had his own place. Wanted to take care of you.
Lust was blinder than love.
And you could barely see at all when he spread your thighs, flipping you onto your stomach just for more of his eggs to get crushed in the process, head barely floating above the next dizzying wave of intensity.
He lifted your hips up, leaving your tits bare and brushing against the cold cave floor as he pushed his cock through your soaked entrance.
Was it more him or more you at this point?
Slime, cum, whatever it was, he didn’t need any lubrication, no preparation, just pushing his way in to fill you up and satisfy whatever you asked from him.
He fucked you harder than he had the first time, more comfortable, more casual about it. Already readjusting to your tastes, like he had learned what you liked already. Testing new boundaries, stretching you further, using his knees and the string of slime between them to spread your thighs out even more.
It was mind-melting. Enough you were starting to worry that every thrust was erasing what few brain cells you had left. But you couldn’t stop.
Couldn’t do anything except babble for more between his hips rocking against your ass, his slime enveloping you the same way it had before. Covering you like a second skin, adhering to your body and holding you in place for him to fuck how he pleased.
And pleasing him had started to trigger some biological reaction in you, the pleasure and pressure in your stomach skyrocketing at the sound of his broken moan behind you. The warmth and wetness of his mouth on your throat over one of the few spots his slime hadn’t reached yet.
“Mmph,” you started to moan, but some of the slime had reached your mouth, sliding in and stuffing it full.
He wanted to consume you just as much as you wanted to consume him.
It felt like the fire was going to burn you up and leave you in a pile of ashes on the floor if you didn’t get to cum soon.
The slime in your mouth and the one in your cunt was overwhelming, your impulses leaving you grinding your hips desperately back against him, begging to be bred – even if he was effectively shooting blanks.
But more of him had found its way back to your clit, attaching expertly this time, making every sensation just as strong as it’d been outside, your body hurtling towards your orgasm right as the now familiar sensation of eggs started filling you up again.
It should be more embarrassing. More alien or strange. But it almost felt natural. Like you’d been built for this and you had just realized it a little late.
He didn’t pull out this time, keeping you plugged shut as he pumped the last handful of eggs in, leaving you more swollen than you’d been this morning as he lewdly moaned.
“Is that better?” He muttered, and you couldn’t believe you still wanted more.
The itch of it had settled under your skin, your body seeking out his heat, squirming to be closer to him instead of pulling away.
What had you even been trying to do?
Leave him?
You couldn’t.
Would he be willing to move in with you? Trade in his cave and take his favorite trinkets to come back to your place? Be your stay-at-home slime boyfriend?
And if he wasn’t, would staying here suck so much?
Being fed and fucked full of eggs? No work? No worries?
Just conscious of the next time you’d get laid?
“You think too much,” he muttered disapprovingly, musing your hair as he tried to clear a spot on your shoulder for him to press his face against.
His hands were on your arms though, one of them holding up your limp left limb to look at your fingers.
“See,” he beamed, slipping a ring on the wrong one, a hint of wetness on it that you hoped wasn't blood. “We're mates now.”
