You didn’t let the poor guy finish, as you took the pile of documents from him, waving him off.
“I know, I know.” You rolled your eyes, dropping the massive stack of papers beside the other equally intimidating pile on your desk.
Seriously—what was his fucking problem, dumping this much work?!?
You were in your final year of law school. You’d done your fair share of internships—you knew the drill: long hours, low pay, work that bled well past the typical eight-hour day. But this? This was ridiculous.
Not your typical research memos, case briefs, document review. No. He was handing you entire case files and expecting full breakdowns by the next morning. Dozens of precedents to analyze, arguments to dissect, and then on top of that drafting polished submissions that looked like they were meant to be filed in court, task for a senior associate, not an intern, no matter how experienced.
Hiromi Higuruma was such a fucking dick.
The worst part? He was actually a good lawyer—no, brilliant. Beyond his razor-sharp mind, he was the kind of person who chose his cases based on his own morals and principles. The seniors practically revered him, and every lawyer in the firm looked up to him. He was... annoyingly....perfect.
Which meant you couldn’t exactly go around complaining about him.
Well—except to your fellow interns.
You leaned back in your chair, letting the summer breeze wash over you as you unbuttoned the top of your blouse slightly and took a sip of your iced americano.
“Do you think he’s secretly sexist and just doesn’t want women to succeed?”
“Nah,” one of them shrugged. “He spent an extra hour in the office reviewing my briefing and then told me it was excellent.”
Your eyes narrowed while she quickly added, “Sorry dude.”
“Fuck,” you muttered, pulling off your sunglasses with a groan.
“I swear I haven’t done anything to deserve this.”
Another chimed in, “We know”—like they’d heard you rant about this a thousand times already. “Maybe you remind him of his ex?”
“I mean, I thought about that—but no. Not a chance. That guy definitely doesn’t have time to date,” you said, mumbling into your hands as you paused, deep in thought.
“So what are you gonna do? Quit?”
You were overworked, exhausted, underpaid—but no way were you going to let him get the best of you.
“Quit?” you echoed, shaking your head as you slid your sunglasses back on. “No. I’m going to finish all that work—and show him he doesn't fucking scare me.”
Your two colleagues exchanged a glance—equal parts defeated and sympathetic.
━━━━━━━━⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆━━━━━━━━
“Alright then.”
“Done and done,” you let out an exhausted but satisfied sigh, lifting your arms above your head, stretching.
“I’m so happy I could die.”
And you were—relieved, finally letting yourself sink into that rare moment of peace—right up until that all-too-familiar voice cut through it from behind you.
“Well… just don’t die yet.”
Spoke too soon.
Before you could react, Higuruma spun your chair to the side, forcing you to face him as he leaned against your desk.
The black suit he wore was sharp—tailored to fit his broad shoulders like it had been made for him, the fabric pulling just enough to hint at his build beneath. His tie was slightly loosened, his hair pushed back but already falling out of place from a long day, strands slipping forward in that careless, effortless way.
He bent forward slightly, his tired eyes boring straight into you.
And those eye bags—deep, shadowed, dragging beneath his eyes—should’ve made him look worn out, but instead did the opposite.
You couldn’t help but wonder how long he’d been standing there, watching you—waiting for the perfect moment to ruin it.
Suchhhh a scumbag.
“What do you need?” you asked, most of the formalities long gone. You still tried to lace your tone with some politeness, though at this point—well past 6 p.m. and completely drained—you weren’t sure how convincing it was.
"I've got a case in two days. I need this reviewed."
Maybe it was the exhaustion, maybe it was the sheer audacity, but you snapped.
"Can't one of the other lawyers handle that?" you shot back, crossing your arms. "I'm pretty sure this is above my pay grade. And my intern status."
What you didn't notice was how your movement made your skirt ride up a few inches, or that the top buttons of your blouse were still undone, offering a generous view of the soft swell of your tits.
His gaze dipped for a fraction of a second. A flicker. Then it was gone.
He cleared his throat, straightening up so fast you had to crane your neck to look at him.
He shrugged.
"I think it's good practice for you. You're graduating in a year—thought you'd be more eager to be a competent lawyer."
You wanted to smack the smug look right off his face.
"Really?" your voice was laced with pure, unadulterated disdain.
He just nodded, unfazed.
"I think I'll manage to become a competent lawyer without you burying me in a month's worth of work in a single week."
"Just assumed you could handle it."
"Oh, I can," you gritted out.
"Great." He dropped a thick file onto your desk with a thud. "Here's the file." Then, without so much as a backward glance, he was gone, practically fleeing before you could launch another verbal assault at his back.
The next morning, you were a walking disaster.
You'd forgotten to put on tights, praying no one could see your ass because you also hadn't done laundry, leaving you with your last-resort lace thong. Your buttons were mismatched, some barely buttoned at all. You didn't bother doing your hair, just left it down, telling yourself it looked like a chic blowout.
And you were running on a toxic cocktail of four hours of sleep, a little Adderall, and three cups of coffee. It wasn't even 8 a.m. yet.
You had to finish the rest of that 200-page review, on top of your other tasks. But you were determined. You found an empty office at the very end of the hall, put your headphones on, and locked in.
It was just past 6 p.m. when you finally finished.
Time to drop this off at that dickhead's office. The good thing was you knew Higuruma would be there until the ungodly hours of the night.
You knocked once before stepping in, too exhausted to give a shit. You walked up to his desk. He was hunched over, not bothering to look up, his elbows planted on the desk and his hand pressed to his forehead in deep thought. He'd ditched his blazer, the sleeves of his white shirt pushed to his elbows, revealing those beefy biceps.
You'd probably drool over the sight if he didn't piss you off so much.
"Hey, here's the review," you said, your voice flat.
"I wrote my comments in the sidebar, let me know if you have any—"
"Great. I have another task. I need you to review these—a new case just popped up, its due in two days."
Your eye twitched. He wasn't even looking at you. Not even a thank you? Maybe it was the four hours of sleep. Maybe it was the Adderall crash. Or maybe it was just your pure, unadulterated hatred for him finally boiling over.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" you said.
Higuruma finally looked up, his eyes widen in surprise, mouth widing slightly — caught completely off guard.
You stepped closer, rounding his desk. You spun his chair to the side, forcing the face you hated for months to look at you.
"You've been piling work on me since day one, and we both know this isn't a normal fucking amount—it's borderline employee abuse!" You leaned in, your words speeding up as you spilled everything you'd been holding in. "You're having me do shit that should be assigned a week in advance in two days, and on top of that—" you put a knee on his chair, leaning closer, "you can't even say a fucking thank you?! So tell me, why are you being such a dick to me? Do you hate women, or is it just me? Because apparently, you're great to everyone but me."
And if you weren't so furious, you would have seen it sooner.
The sweat collecting along the side of his neck, his usually tired and exhausted eyes —now tense, avoiding yours, and his cheeks ever so slightly ablaze with a red tint.
Huh?
As you hovered above him, you could feel yourself calming down, your rapid breathing subsiding from its high—coming back to your senses, you felt warm.
You could now feel the heat radiating from his body.
Your eyes shifted from his face…trailing down his torso…
Holy fucking shit.
Higuruma was rock hard.
The thick print of his dick was straining against the fabric of his suit pants.
And it clicked.
"You don't hate me…" you said, unable to stop the smile spreading across your face.
"You want to fuck me?"
Eyes now tightly shut — "You're out of your mind. Absolutely not," he bit out, his voice tight.
You knew better. You knew this could blow up in your face. But you wanted to see him suffer.. just a little?
And at this moment, you were blaming the lack of sleep entirely.
You put your other knee on the chair, yanking the lever — sending his chair back. Before he could react, you straddled him, placing yourself squarely on his dick. You closed the gap, your tits pressed flush against his chest.
"Really?" you whispered, your breath hot against his ear.
"So you don't think about me bent over this desk, fucking me senseless, you pervert?"
Higuruma's head was thrown back, eyes now wide open, he nervously swallowed hard…his Adam's apple bobbing up and down.
"Get off of me," he gritted out, his hands clenched so tightly around the armrests, turning his knuckles white.
But the rigid heat pressing against you was telling a completely different story, and you weren't getting off until he admitted it.
You rolled your hips, a slow, deliberate grind against his bulge. You watched his eyes squeeze shut, a desperate moan catching in his throat.
"Higuruma," you purred, your voice sickeningly sweet.
"Do you really want me to get off and stop?"
And… he said nothing. His eyes remained shut, his jaw tight — and — and.
He just stayed like that.
And that's when it hit you.
Fuck, what am I doing?
Your grin vanished. You pushed slightly off his chest, ready to scramble off him and pretend this never happened.
Until you felt a strong set of hands clamp down on your hips, yanking you back down, hard.
You let out a small gasp, as you felt his dick now pressed against your, now, soaked lacy thong.
While you did your little performance, Higuruma wasn’t just caught off guard – he was thinking. Thinking hard about how much trouble he’d be in if he actually fucked you. Would he lose his job? Could they even afford to fire him?
After those two minutes with you draped over him, he made up his mind.
"You want to know?"
He stood, his hands gripping your ass so hard you gasped as you wrapped your legs around his waist. He sat you down on his desk, spilling stacks of papers onto the floor.
Your legs fell open, and he stepped between them, caging you in. His hands slammed flat on the desk on either side of your hips, trapping you as he leaned down until his face was inches from yours.
You want to know the reason I give you so much shit?" he stared, his voice a low rumble. You could only manage a small, breathless nod.
"Because I wanted you to quit," he confessed, his eyes burning into yours. As he slowly moved back.
"Ever since your first day, I can't fucking talk to you without getting hard.”
He loosened his tie around his neck, then began to unzip his pants.
“And you see, with my job, it's a little difficult to get anything done…” He held his hands firmly around his dick, stroking it as he watched you “When I have to sneak off to jerk off every time I get a glimpse of you."
Jesus Fucking Christ — Fuck me
“Mmmm” Higurma cupped your face.
“You don’t have to tell me twice.”
Did I say that out loud?
He crashed his lips onto yours. It was a starved kiss, all teeth and tongue, like he was searching for something he couldn't find and wouldn't stop until he did.
His hands were rough, slipping past your thighs, your black panties shoved aside with no preamble. His long fingers found your clit, circling the swollen bud, before he was thrusting two fingers knuckle-deep inside you.
You broke from the kiss, a choked whimper catching in your throat as he bullied his fingers into your cunt.
"H-higuruma–"
He curled them just right, stroking that spongy spot inside you that made your vision white out. Overrrr and overrr, his fingers pumped into you, a relentlessss, filthy rhythm that had you gushing around him in seconds.
Your orgasm hit you hard, a sharp, blinding wave that left you shaking and breathless.
He pulled his fingers out, and your eyes fluttered open just in time to see him bring them to his mouth. His tongue darted out, lapping up your slick from his own skin.
"Knew you would taste this sweet," he groaned.
Before you could process it, he had you spun around, your chest pressed flat against his desk, your ass in the air. The thick line of his cock pressed against your cunt. He leaned over you, his chest a warm weight against your back.
"All ready for me?" he rumbled in your ear. You nodded feverishly, your cheek rubbing against the cool wood of the desk.
"Come on now," he urged, his voice a low taunt. "I want to hear it."
You gulped, still trembling from your orgasm. "Please, Higurumaaa—f-fuck me."
And he slammed into you. He buried himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust, his hands locking yours behind your back. He set a punishing pace, his cock hammering into you, hitting that spot deep inside again and again.
"This is what you wanted, huh-h?" he huffed from behind, each word punctuated by a sharp snap of his hips.
"Calling me a pervert? Tsk Tsk Tsk"
"You know that—" he says, lifting you slightly from the desk, his voice a hot whisper right beside your ear, "only turns me on."
Your eyes rolled back as he fucked you standing, his beefy arms snaked under your thighs, holding you up like you weighed nothing. You were completely fucked.
This man was a freak.
His relentless pounding was driving you closer and closer to that fucking edge, his hips snapping against your ass with a filthy rhythm. His grip on your thighs was bruising, his other hand coming around to press against your lower stomach, pressing down hard like he was trying to feel himself bulging inside you.
"Higuruma," you sobbed, your voice ragged and torn.
"I-I'm gonna cum."
"Come on sweetheart, cum on my dick. Let me feel it."
That was all it took. Your vision went white, your body seizing as you cried out, your walls clamping down on him like a fucking vise, pulsing and milking his cock for all you were worth.
"Fuck," he hissed, his rhythm faltering for the first time. With a guttural groan, he was shooting thick, hot ropes inside of you.
He pulled out, turning you around and placing you on the desk.
He watched you the entire time, his chest heaving.
For a moment, you both just stared at each other not knowing what to say, the only sound in the office your ragged breaths. Then, he surprised you.
He gently helped you up, his hands surprisingly soft as he straightened your rumpled skirt. He picked up your discarded panties on the ground, shimming them up your tighs despite them being completely destroyed.
He was quiet, methodical, as he buttoned your blouse for you, his fingers brushing against your skin.
He mumbled, a small smile playing on his lips. "You look cute when you're completely fucked out."
"Shut the fuck up."
Once you were somewhat presentable, he took your hand, lacing his fingers with yours. He led you out of his office, past the rows of empty desks.
"Where are we going?" you mumbled, your mind still hazy.
He glanced back at you, "My house."
━━━━━━━━⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆━━━━━━━━
#wish this was me instead I'm getting fucked over by my fuckass job instead
You didn’t let the poor guy finish, as you took the pile of documents from him, waving him off.
“I know, I know.” You rolled your eyes, dropping the massive stack of papers beside the other equally intimidating pile on your desk.
Seriously—what was his fucking problem, dumping this much work?!?
You were in your final year of law school. You’d done your fair share of internships—you knew the drill: long hours, low pay, work that bled well past the typical eight-hour day. But this? This was ridiculous.
Not your typical research memos, case briefs, document review. No. He was handing you entire case files and expecting full breakdowns by the next morning. Dozens of precedents to analyze, arguments to dissect, and then on top of that drafting polished submissions that looked like they were meant to be filed in court, task for a senior associate, not an intern, no matter how experienced.
Hiromi Higuruma was such a fucking dick.
The worst part? He was actually a good lawyer—no, brilliant. Beyond his razor-sharp mind, he was the kind of person who chose his cases based on his own morals and principles. The seniors practically revered him, and every lawyer in the firm looked up to him. He was... annoyingly....perfect.
Which meant you couldn’t exactly go around complaining about him.
Well—except to your fellow interns.
You leaned back in your chair, letting the summer breeze wash over you as you unbuttoned the top of your blouse slightly and took a sip of your iced americano.
“Do you think he’s secretly sexist and just doesn’t want women to succeed?”
“Nah,” one of them shrugged. “He spent an extra hour in the office reviewing my briefing and then told me it was excellent.”
Your eyes narrowed while she quickly added, “Sorry dude.”
“Fuck,” you muttered, pulling off your sunglasses with a groan.
“I swear I haven’t done anything to deserve this.”
Another chimed in, “We know”—like they’d heard you rant about this a thousand times already. “Maybe you remind him of his ex?”
“I mean, I thought about that—but no. Not a chance. That guy definitely doesn’t have time to date,” you said, mumbling into your hands as you paused, deep in thought.
“So what are you gonna do? Quit?”
You were overworked, exhausted, underpaid—but no way were you going to let him get the best of you.
“Quit?” you echoed, shaking your head as you slid your sunglasses back on. “No. I’m going to finish all that work—and show him he doesn't fucking scare me.”
Your two colleagues exchanged a glance—equal parts defeated and sympathetic.
━━━━━━━━⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆━━━━━━━━
“Alright then.”
“Done and done,” you let out an exhausted but satisfied sigh, lifting your arms above your head, stretching.
“I’m so happy I could die.”
And you were—relieved, finally letting yourself sink into that rare moment of peace—right up until that all-too-familiar voice cut through it from behind you.
“Well… just don’t die yet.”
Spoke too soon.
Before you could react, Higuruma spun your chair to the side, forcing you to face him as he leaned against your desk.
The black suit he wore was sharp—tailored to fit his broad shoulders like it had been made for him, the fabric pulling just enough to hint at his build beneath. His tie was slightly loosened, his hair pushed back but already falling out of place from a long day, strands slipping forward in that careless, effortless way.
He bent forward slightly, his tired eyes boring straight into you.
And those eye bags—deep, shadowed, dragging beneath his eyes—should’ve made him look worn out, but instead did the opposite.
You couldn’t help but wonder how long he’d been standing there, watching you—waiting for the perfect moment to ruin it.
Suchhhh a scumbag.
“What do you need?” you asked, most of the formalities long gone. You still tried to lace your tone with some politeness, though at this point—well past 6 p.m. and completely drained—you weren’t sure how convincing it was.
"I've got a case in two days. I need this reviewed."
Maybe it was the exhaustion, maybe it was the sheer audacity, but you snapped.
"Can't one of the other lawyers handle that?" you shot back, crossing your arms. "I'm pretty sure this is above my pay grade. And my intern status."
What you didn't notice was how your movement made your skirt ride up a few inches, or that the top buttons of your blouse were still undone, offering a generous view of the soft swell of your tits.
His gaze dipped for a fraction of a second. A flicker. Then it was gone.
He cleared his throat, straightening up so fast you had to crane your neck to look at him.
He shrugged.
"I think it's good practice for you. You're graduating in a year—thought you'd be more eager to be a competent lawyer."
You wanted to smack the smug look right off his face.
"Really?" your voice was laced with pure, unadulterated disdain.
He just nodded, unfazed.
"I think I'll manage to become a competent lawyer without you burying me in a month's worth of work in a single week."
"Just assumed you could handle it."
"Oh, I can," you gritted out.
"Great." He dropped a thick file onto your desk with a thud. "Here's the file." Then, without so much as a backward glance, he was gone, practically fleeing before you could launch another verbal assault at his back.
The next morning, you were a walking disaster.
You'd forgotten to put on tights, praying no one could see your ass because you also hadn't done laundry, leaving you with your last-resort lace thong. Your buttons were mismatched, some barely buttoned at all. You didn't bother doing your hair, just left it down, telling yourself it looked like a chic blowout.
And you were running on a toxic cocktail of four hours of sleep, a little Adderall, and three cups of coffee. It wasn't even 8 a.m. yet.
You had to finish the rest of that 200-page review, on top of your other tasks. But you were determined. You found an empty office at the very end of the hall, put your headphones on, and locked in.
It was just past 6 p.m. when you finally finished.
Time to drop this off at that dickhead's office. The good thing was you knew Higuruma would be there until the ungodly hours of the night.
You knocked once before stepping in, too exhausted to give a shit. You walked up to his desk. He was hunched over, not bothering to look up, his elbows planted on the desk and his hand pressed to his forehead in deep thought. He'd ditched his blazer, the sleeves of his white shirt pushed to his elbows, revealing those beefy biceps.
You'd probably drool over the sight if he didn't piss you off so much.
"Hey, here's the review," you said, your voice flat.
"I wrote my comments in the sidebar, let me know if you have any—"
"Great. I have another task. I need you to review these—a new case just popped up, its due in two days."
Your eye twitched. He wasn't even looking at you. Not even a thank you? Maybe it was the four hours of sleep. Maybe it was the Adderall crash. Or maybe it was just your pure, unadulterated hatred for him finally boiling over.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" you said.
Higuruma finally looked up, his eyes widen in surprise, mouth widing slightly — caught completely off guard.
You stepped closer, rounding his desk. You spun his chair to the side, forcing the face you hated for months to look at you.
"You've been piling work on me since day one, and we both know this isn't a normal fucking amount—it's borderline employee abuse!" You leaned in, your words speeding up as you spilled everything you'd been holding in. "You're having me do shit that should be assigned a week in advance in two days, and on top of that—" you put a knee on his chair, leaning closer, "you can't even say a fucking thank you?! So tell me, why are you being such a dick to me? Do you hate women, or is it just me? Because apparently, you're great to everyone but me."
And if you weren't so furious, you would have seen it sooner.
The sweat collecting along the side of his neck, his usually tired and exhausted eyes —now tense, avoiding yours, and his cheeks ever so slightly ablaze with a red tint.
Huh?
As you hovered above him, you could feel yourself calming down, your rapid breathing subsiding from its high—coming back to your senses, you felt warm.
You could now feel the heat radiating from his body.
Your eyes shifted from his face…trailing down his torso…
Holy fucking shit.
Higuruma was rock hard.
The thick print of his dick was straining against the fabric of his suit pants.
And it clicked.
"You don't hate me…" you said, unable to stop the smile spreading across your face.
"You want to fuck me?"
Eyes now tightly shut — "You're out of your mind. Absolutely not," he bit out, his voice tight.
You knew better. You knew this could blow up in your face. But you wanted to see him suffer.. just a little?
And at this moment, you were blaming the lack of sleep entirely.
You put your other knee on the chair, yanking the lever — sending his chair back. Before he could react, you straddled him, placing yourself squarely on his dick. You closed the gap, your tits pressed flush against his chest.
"Really?" you whispered, your breath hot against his ear.
"So you don't think about me bent over this desk, fucking me senseless, you pervert?"
Higuruma's head was thrown back, eyes now wide open, he nervously swallowed hard…his Adam's apple bobbing up and down.
"Get off of me," he gritted out, his hands clenched so tightly around the armrests, turning his knuckles white.
But the rigid heat pressing against you was telling a completely different story, and you weren't getting off until he admitted it.
You rolled your hips, a slow, deliberate grind against his bulge. You watched his eyes squeeze shut, a desperate moan catching in his throat.
"Higuruma," you purred, your voice sickeningly sweet.
"Do you really want me to get off and stop?"
And… he said nothing. His eyes remained shut, his jaw tight.
He just stayed like that.
And that's when it hit you.
Fuck, what am I doing?
Your grin vanished. You pushed slightly off his chest, ready to scramble off him and pretend this never happened.
Until you felt a strong set of hands clamp down on your hips, yanking you back down, hard.
You let out a small gasp, as you felt his dick now pressed against your, now, soaked lacy thong.
While you did your little performance, Higuruma wasn’t just caught off guard – he was thinking. Thinking hard about how much trouble he’d be in if he actually fucked you. Would he lose his job? Could they even afford to fire him?
After those two minutes with you draped over him, he made up his mind.
"You want to know?"
He stood, his hands gripping your ass so hard you gasped as you wrapped your legs around his waist. He sat you down on his desk, spilling stacks of papers onto the floor.
Your legs fell open, and he stepped between them, caging you in. His hands slammed flat on the desk on either side of your hips, trapping you as he leaned down until his face was inches from yours.
You want to know the reason I give you so much shit?" he stared, his voice a low rumble. You could only manage a small, breathless nod.
"Because I wanted you to quit," he confessed, his eyes burning into yours. As he slowly moved back.
"Ever since your first day, I can't fucking talk to you without getting hard.”
He loosened his tie around his neck, then began to unzip his pants.
“And you see, with my job, it's a little difficult to get anything done…” He held his hands firmly around his dick, stroking it as he watched you “When I have to sneak off to jerk off every time I get a glimpse of you."
Jesus Fucking Christ — Fuck me
“Mmmm” Higurma cupped your face.
“You don’t have to tell me twice.”
Did I say that out loud?
He crashed his lips onto yours. It was a starved kiss, all teeth and tongue, like he was searching for something he couldn't find and wouldn't stop until he did.
His hands were rough, slipping past your thighs, your black panties shoved aside with no preamble. His long fingers found your clit, circling the swollen bud, before he was thrusting two fingers knuckle-deep inside you.
You broke from the kiss, a choked whimper catching in your throat as he bullied his fingers into your cunt.
"H-higuruma–"
He curled them just right, stroking that spongy spot inside you that made your vision white out. Overrrr and overrr, his fingers pumped into you, a relentlessss, filthy rhythm that had you gushing around him in seconds.
Your orgasm hit you hard, a sharp, blinding wave that left you shaking and breathless.
He pulled his fingers out, and your eyes fluttered open just in time to see him bring them to his mouth. His tongue darted out, lapping up your slick from his own skin.
"Knew you would taste this sweet," he groaned.
Before you could process it, he had you spun around, your chest pressed flat against his desk, your ass in the air. The thick line of his cock pressed against your cunt. He leaned over you, his chest a warm weight against your back.
"All ready for me?" he rumbled in your ear. You nodded feverishly, your cheek rubbing against the cool wood of the desk.
"Come on now," he urged, his voice a low taunt. "I want to hear it."
You gulped, still trembling from your orgasm. "Please, Higurumaaa—f-fuck me."
And he slammed into you. He buried himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust, his hands locking yours behind your back. He set a punishing pace, his cock hammering into you, hitting that spot deep inside again and again.
"This is what you wanted, huh-h?" he huffed from behind, each word punctuated by a sharp snap of his hips.
"Calling me a pervert? Tsk Tsk Tsk"
"You know that—" he says, lifting you slightly from the desk, his voice a hot whisper right beside your ear, "only turns me on."
Your eyes rolled back as he fucked you standing, his beefy arms snaked under your thighs, holding you up like you weighed nothing. You were completely fucked.
This man was a freak.
His relentless pounding was driving you closer and closer to that fucking edge, his hips snapping against your ass with a filthy rhythm. His grip on your thighs was bruising, his other hand coming around to press against your lower stomach, pressing down hard like he was trying to feel himself bulging inside you.
"Higuruma," you sobbed, your voice ragged and torn.
"I-I'm gonna cum."
"Come on sweetheart, cum on my dick. Let me feel it."
That was all it took. Your vision went white, your body seizing as you cried out, your walls clamping down on him like a fucking vise, pulsing and milking his cock for all you were worth.
"Fuck," he hissed, his rhythm faltering for the first time. With a guttural groan, he was shooting thick, hot ropes inside of you.
He pulled out, turning you around and placing you on the desk.
He watched you the entire time, his chest heaving.
For a moment, you both just stared at each other not knowing what to say, the only sound in the office your ragged breaths. Then, he surprised you.
He gently helped you up, his hands surprisingly soft as he straightened your rumpled skirt. He picked up your discarded panties on the ground, shimming them up your tighs despite them being completely destroyed.
He was quiet, methodical, as he buttoned your blouse for you, his fingers brushing against your skin.
He mumbled, a small smile playing on his lips. "You look cute when you're completely fucked out."
"Shut the fuck up."
Once you were somewhat presentable, he took your hand, lacing his fingers with yours. He led you out of his office, past the rows of empty desks.
"Where are we going?" you mumbled, your mind still hazy.
He glanced back at you, "My house."
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#wish this was me instead I'm getting fucked over by my fuckass job instead
18+|Naoya x reader(bratty/sugarbaby)! Naoya definitely met his matchhhh(˵ ¬ ¬˵)
"I'm gonna give you all my loveeeeee in the back seat, Bubble pop electric,Bubble pop electric "
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Naoya was arrogant, rich, and unsurprisingly — rude.
Everyone in the Zenin family had warned him that if he kept acting the way he did, karma would eventually come knocking. He never gave it a second thought.
Karma? Please.
For a man whose family owned Zenin Enterprises —and half of Tokyo, it seemed—karma was just a convenient myth people told themselves when they had no power. And even if consequences did exist, he could buy his way out of them. A DUI? A scandal? It was all manageable with the right amount of money.
On campus, his reputation preceded him.
Naoya wasn’t officially in a fraternity. He liked partying with Toji and Sukuna well enough, but actually living in some run-down frat house with a bunch of loud, brainless meatheads? He’d take his penthouse suite over that any day.
Still, he showed up to every party worth attending—and word traveled fast.
Anyone who spent more than five minutes around him knew exactly what kind of man he was—rude, rich, and devastatingly handsome.
There was always a new girl on his arm, or more literally on his lap, every other week. Somehow, the whole I-don’t-give-a-shit-about-you attitude worked in his favor. Maybe it was the challenge. Maybe it was the idea that they could change him “fix” him.
For now, Naoya felt untouchable. Like the world revolved around him, and there wasn’t a single thing beyond his reach.
So it goes without saying out saying — Naoya wasn’t the biggest fan of university, moreso having to do shit that he much rather not. Like group projects.
Naoya absolutely despised group projects.
They were a waste of his time and everyone else's. He hated the endless debates over a fuckass topic, the inevitable control freaks who always ended up doing jack shit, and the last-minute scramble to finish everyone's parts.
The communication was always shit, meetings rescheduled into oblivion.
Yeah, he had better things to do.
But of course, just his luck, it seemed like every single one of his classes this semester had one.
The professor put up a slide with the group assignments. Naoya scanned the list, muttering a curse under his breath.
He scanned the room for his group, but he didn't have to look far.
A thud beside his desk announced your arrival.
"Hey," you said, extending a hand. Naoya eyed you up and down.
Designer everything: Diesel jeans, a Prada jacket, and a Goyard bag.
Pleased, Naoya shook your hand.
"Seems like no one else showed up," you noted.
Fucking fantastic, he thought.
Now he had to figure out how to get out of this. He was ready for the usual song and dance—offering cash, dealing with the initial offense, and waiting for them to come around.
What broke uni student wouldn't accept a pile of cash to do an assignment?
He was prepped, ready for your reaction to his opening bid.
"Five thousand dollars." You held your pretty little fingers, fresh manicure up.
"What?" He said, completely taken off guard, the smirk completely wipped off his arrogant face.
"What? For the group project – duh." you said, pulling out a compact and reapplying your gloss.
Naoya was momentarily stunned. He was going to offer money, but why were you asking?
You snapped the compact shut.
"Dude, are you slow or some shit?" you asked, tilting your head with an irritated look.
That pissed him off.
"Let's cut the chase. You don't wanna do this shit, and I don't wanna deal with someone who doesn't. So I'll be taking 5k for the assignment. Thank you very much."
Naoya scoffed. This bitch was delusional.
"I'm not paying you that much for a group project on child development."
"That much? You call that a lot of money?" you shot back, a smirk playing on your lips.
"Sorry, just thought Noaya Zenin was a loaded man. Didn't expect him to be so cheap."
He knew what you were doing. And damn it, it was working.
"Four thousand."
"Forty-eight hundred."
"Forty-five hundred."
"Deal." Naoya said, somewhat satisfied he’d haggled you down.
Instantly, your mood switched. You went from being a complete bitch to friendly, giving him a bright smile and a wink.
"Thanks! Alright, see you... umm..." you pretended to think, then shrugged. "Next time?" You didn't wait for a reply, just grabbed your bag and sauntered out of the classroom.
What the fuck just happened? It happened so fast, it made Naoya head spin — somehow you were able to both insult Naoya and take his money under 5 minutes.
And he thought that was it. Until he noticed a weird phenomenon.
You just happened to be in his other classes.
Every single one.
And you just happened to be his partner for every single project.
And just like before, you named your price without even glancing up from your phone.
Seriously, girls were fawning over him just for a look in their direction. Was he not your type? Nah, he knew he was everyone's type.
"Six thousand dollars."
"What?" Noaya said with his mouth slightly gapping
He was stunned.
You'd increased the price by $1,500.
You finally glanced up, leaning in.
"Well, now I gotta do two projects alone. That's a lot of work, especially if you wanna get that A+."
You stretched your arms out on the table, resting your head on them glancing up at him with a smirk.
"And I know you wanna."
Noaya huffed — clearly pissed — but he agreed.
Then the price went up again for the next class, "$10,000." and again "$15,000."
He knew you were robbing him blind, but he couldn't get that stupid look on your face when you called him cheap - out of his head.
So imagine how furious he was when he showed up to class a few minutes early, by accident, of course — he just wanted to test the engine of his new Mercedes and may have driven a little fast.
He heard you talking to the professor.
"Could you pair me and Naoya together for the project?"
At first, he was geeking. Of course she wants me – what girl could resist my char–
"He just doesn't seem to have any friends," you said, your voice dripping with fake sympathy, "and I just really wanna help him out <3."
Oh, you devious bitch.
You were playing him.
When you left, Naoya pulled you aside. Dressed in your Lululemon fit, hair in a messy (obviously purposeful) bun, glossed lips.
It would be a hell of a lot easier getting properly mad if he didn't get hard looking at you every time.
"You cunt," he whispered, his voice a harsh yell. You couldn't help but roll your eyes.
So what if he'd figured out your little plan? You were just working the system he'd already put in place.
"Comeee on, Naoya," you said, your voice sweet and sultry, as if you weren't robbing him blind.
"You weren't gonna do them anyway. I honestly think I made it easier—you didn't even have to ask."
You fluttered your lashes innocently, staring up at him.
Naoya's blood was boiling. "Are you serious?!"
You weren't backing down.
"I'm not paying your ass for this stupid project. We're doing it."
Your smile faltered, a serious look on your face. Hell, even Naoya was surprised by his own words.
"You know it's a 6-credit course, right? Which means it's a year-long research essay."
Fuck. But he couldn't back down now.
"That's fine."
"The minimum references is like, 20. You know that, right?" you pressed.
Naoya was confused. "Okay???"
"Like, you have to actually read."
You were dead serious.
Naoya was speechless. Does she think I can’t read or some shit?
He had to take a breath to calm himself down.
"You know what —I'll hit you up to discuss it."
And just like that, Naoya Zenin, the guy who pitied the fools who had to make group chats and communicate and actually work on these stupid projects, was about to do the exact same thing
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Naoya hated spending time with you.
He hated how genuinely funny you were—how you made him laugh without even trying, never holding back on your jokes.
He hated how your tone softened when you reviewed his work, your usual bite fading into something almost… helpful.
He hated how you smelled, always of roses or vanilla, a scent that clung to his clothes long after you’d left.
He hated the unconscious way you ran your fingers through your hair when you were stressed, and he especially, especially hated the way you absentmindedly twirled a pen between your plush lips when you were concentrating, your tongue darting out to flick the plastic. He wondered how your mouth would feel on his co–
“Heyyy.”
Naoya snapped out of it, looking up to see Sukuna and Toji heading toward your table.
“Hey, what’s up?” Naoya stood, exchanging the bro-handshake with each of them. “What’re you up to?”
“Grabbing drinks,” Toji added. “You?”
“Uh… working?” Naoya replied.
Both of them glanced at each other. Then at the table. Then past Naoya—where you sat, typing away.
“That’s her?” Sukuna asked.
“That’s me,” you said without even looking up from your laptop.
“Damn, you didn’t tell us your group mate was that fi—”
Naoya immediately shoved them away from the desk. “I’m gonna walk them out,” he muttered.
You simply nodded, still focused on your screen.
The second they were out of earshot—
“You have to ask her out.” Toji said bluntly.
“What?”
“Come on. She’s into you.”
Was she? I mean, Naoya didn’t get that vibe at all—it actually pissed him off, but… was he not paying attention? Maybe you were? And unfortunately for him, his friends were annoyingly convincing.
“Yeah,” Sukuna added. “You two spend all this time together? She has to be.”
Naoya paused. Like a true arrogant piece of shit, he conjured up the idea that maybe you were into him, and you just showed it… slightly different than most girls would. Yeah, that had to be it. For your sake, fine—he’d ask you out.
“Alright, alright.”
When he returned, you were packing up your bag.
“Um.” He cleared his throat. “You good?” you asked casually.
“Yeah,” he said, unable to hide his shit-eating grin. “You wanna go on a date this weekend?”
He wanted to see you flustered, shy, maybe a tucking of the hair, a little never thought you would—
“No. I already have a date this weekend.”
Just like that—Naoya, for the first time in his life heard the words “no”.
“K. See you next week,” you said with that sweet, poisonous smile, like you hadn’t just destroyed this man’s entire confidence.
And after you left, Naoya sat there, running his hands through his dyed hair — completely stunned.
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That night, he got wasted, ready to forget about you and your obnoxious personality, silky smooth hair, and those pouty lips—fuck, he needed to get laid.
And he almost did—except for the fact that he couldn’t get hard.
He had to make some lame-ass excuse about feeling sick to save his reputation.
So feeling like complete shit the next day, he went to grab coffee. And guess what he saw.
You, all dolled up, shamelessly flirting with a silver-haired man. And when he narrowed his eyes—it was the fucking physics professor, Mr. Gojo.
You were laughing at something he said, your hand resting on his forearm as you leaned in, your body language screaming intimacy.
Gojo said something that made you roll your eyes and swat at his chest, a grin still plastered on your face.
He grabbed you rough, dragging you to his car. “Get in.”
“Naoya, what the actual fuck?”
“Get in.”
And the way he was fuming, you obeyed reluctantly.
“You’re fucking him?!”
“Jesus, you need to calm down. You’re acting like a crazy ex.”
“Tell me.”
“No, I’m not fucking him,” you said, slightly offended, before shrugging. “Well, not all the time.”
“Huh?!”
You rolled your eyes. “Jesus, Naoya, I just go on dates with these guys for money, y’know? They pay for my apartment, my bills, tuition—everything.”
And it all clicked in. At first, he didn’t understand why you were asking for money in the first place—you definitely looked like you had enough, with the expensive clothes, purses, fresh blowout, and those pretty fucking fingers always done.
“You’re a sugar baby?”
“Yeah,” you said, deadpan.
He processed the words. “Sooo, can I like go?”
“And you’re in it for the money only?”
“Well, yeah, basically.”
Naoya thought for a second. Before pulling out his wallet, he slid the pretty little black card out. He turned his body completely, leaning over. “Yours,” he said, twirling it between his fingers. “One condition.”
You raised your brow, intrigued. “You’re all mine. No more dates with those fucking losers.”
And it’s like he couldn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth. “I’ll pay for your place, your fees, food, clothes—fuck, anything you want.”
Now he was speaking your language.
“You serious?” you said, biting your lip.
“Dead serious.”
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You two were in back of his black Mercedes, the illegal tints were a godsend.
Naoya wasted no time, shoving his jeans down. His cock out — 8.5 inches, thick, veins pulsing as he gave it a slow, firm stroke.
"Baby, let me take care of that," you cooed, mocking him. It just made him harder. He was convinced something was wrong with his brain, every time you were a bitch to him, he got turned on.
You climbed on top, your skirt bunched around your waist. He tore your blouse open, your panties and bra following in a heap on the floor. But you weren't going to make this easy for him - No no no.
Naoya groaned as you kissed his ears, running your tongue across his piercings, then kissing him down his neck, sucking dark hickeys into his skin before soothing them with your tongue. You dragged your soaking cunt along the length of his cock, a teasing, maddening rhythm.
It was a medical emergency. He was going to explode if he didn't fuck you right now.
You leaned in, your lips brushing his ear.
"Don't tell me you're already about to cum. I expected more from you, Naoya Zenin."
The way you said his name— almost sounded foreign, sweet—drove him absolutely wild.
"You think this shit's funny?" he snarled, gripping your hips and slamming you down on his dick without warning.
"Always such a fucking brat," he growled, his thrusts turning mean, unhinged as he pistoned up into you. "And now look at you, so obedient. You know what you should be sayin? Sorry."
You wanted to bite back, you really did, but he was so deep, carving out a place for himself inside your gummy walls.
"Fuck you," you gasped, bouncing on his cock, holding onto his shoulders for dear life.
"Baby-y, you are f-fucking me," he grunted, crashing his lips against yours, swallowing your next moan.
"Now come on – apologize for being a brat."
A sly smirk, despite the pleasure wrecking your body, spread across your lips. "Oh, I'm so, so s-sorry," you whined, your voice dripping with insincerity. "I'll be a g-good girl, I p-promise." You managed to breathe out, your voice shaky.
That did it. Something inside him snapped. With a guttural groan, he yanked you down until your foreheads were pressed together. "You've got a smart fucking mouth," he hissed, and then he was pounding into you, so so deep as he shifted the angle, his cockhead slamming relentlessly against your g-spot.
The car filled with the obscene sounds of skin slapping skin, of ragged breaths and desperate whimpers.
"Fuck-k" he hissed, sweat dampening his hair, his jaw flexing as he felt you cum around him. He drove into you once, twice more, before burying himself to the hilt, bottoming out inside you and stilling, his entire body shaking as he spilled himself deep inside.
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Naoya watched, mesmerized, as you methodically buttoned your blouse, covering the very skin he’d just marked. He still wasn’t done with you though.
"Wanna come over to my place?" he asked, shamelessly.
"Sure," you shrugged, not missing a beat. "But first, let's stop by the mall."
"Huh? Why?" Naoya said, already backing the car out of the spot.
“To go shopping, dumbass. Oh—and I’m getting my nails redone. They’re totally ruined because of you.”
Yeah, this was definitely karma. And he was enjoying it wayyyyy more than he should.
18+| Megumi x reader! Megumi just being a real goood guy (>ᴗ•) !
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You met him during a study session for one of your classes. He was hunched over his notes, dressed head to toe in black. He didn’t ignore you, but he didn’t go out of his way either—just gave you a polite nod when your friend introduced you.
At first, you thought he was a bit antisocial. He mostly kept to himself, wearing that faint, almost lazy smirk whenever his friends cracked jokes. He observed more than he participated.
But you realized pretty quickly he was… sweet.
Not the overly sugary kind that gives you a toothache. Subtle sweet.
Like how he’d notice you approaching the classroom door and unlock it before you reached it, holding it open – but instead of stepping aside, he’d lift his arm just enough for you to duck under.
Or when you didn’t understand something, he’d drag his chair closer — of course, “just to get a better look” at the problem. Step by step, he’d explain it carefully.
When he finished, he’d lean down slightly, his face just in your peripheral vision, boxing you in without actually touching you.
“It’s a tricky one,” he’d murmur. “But you get it now?”
“Yeah. I do. Thanks.”
He’d nod once and slide his chair back—though never too far.
Sweet, right?
A nod in the hallway. Showing up with your favorite snacks during study sessions. Little things. Quiet things.
So you figured that was all it was.
Finals ended, and the study group went out for drinks to celebrate. The guys and your girlfriends got absolutely trashed. He didn’t. He just leaned back in his seat, a small smile on his face as he watched the chaos unfold.
And when they started pressuring you to drink more than you wanted, he didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t argue.
He just looked at them.
“Cut that shit out.”
That was enough.
Most of you lived on campus, so everyone walked back together, saying their goodbyes along the way.
In the end, it was just you and Megumi left — him lingering behind, mostly to clean up after everyone else.
Your apartment was a twenty-minute trek off campus.
A quick glance at your phone confirmed it: 1AM.
Yeah, no buses. It was a walk home. Well, it was, until he pulled up beside you.
"You walking home?"
"Yeah, my apartment's just a couple blocks away."
"Let me walk you. It's too dark."
Sweet. No ill intentions, straight to the point. Such a sweet guy.
And such a sly motherfucker.
Megumi was staring you down hard as you fumbled with your keys, the silence so thick you were sure he could hear your heart hammering against your ribs.
Could anyone blame you? He insisted on waiting until you were fully inside, but he was too close, the solid heat of his rock-hard body a palpable presence at your back.
The lock finally clicked, and you turned to face him. You didn't know why you said it, honestly.
"Wanna come in?"
His cold expression gave nothing away, until a lazy smirk spread across his face, his eyes blazing ever so slightly.
"Yea."
Now he had you pinned to your bed.
You couldn't pinpoint exactly when the clothes came off – somewhere between the frantic makeout session against the front door and Megumi eating you out on your kitchen table.
He was ruthless, his hips snapping into you, every muscle in his body flexing with the brutal rhythm.
The head of his cock was hitting against your g-spot, over and over and over again.
But his hand was firm on the back of your head, a surprisingly gentle anchor making sure you didn't hit against the headboard while he fucked you senselessly.
You'd lost count of how many times he'd made you come, had no concept of how long you'd been at it.
All you could focus on was his voice, a low mutter against your skin.
"Fuck-k, you got no idea how badly I wanted this – how badly I wanted you."
When it was finally over, he didn't leave.
He just got up, went to your bathroom, and came back with a warm towel, cleaning you up with a tenderness that made your chest ache.
He saw the blooming bruises on your hips, his expression darkening.
"Shit – I'll get you some ointment for that tomorrow," he said, his voice gentle as he rubbed soothing circles on your back.
When he slid back into bed, he tucked the covers around you, asking if you wanted his hoodie. Putting it on you anyway, even when you mumbled that you were alright.
He pulled you real close, maneuvering you until you were laid out on his chest, and pressed a soft kiss onto your forehead before you both dozed off.
Summary: You gone undercover as a maid within the Ryomen yakuza household, your assignment is supposed to be simple observe, report, disappear. The problem is that Sukuna Ryomen, heir to one of the most powerful yakuza families, isn’t the ruthless criminal you expected. He’s overworked, and buried beneath legitimate business dealings, making the job duller than anticipated. But when one night shifts everything. As Sukuna’s attention sharpens and suspicion grows, you’re left wondering, are you about to be exposed… or fuck'd?
Warning: SMUTTT(18+)
Comments: Ya'll I don't write smut, but I wanted to switch it up.
Night had fully settled by the time your shift began.
You rolled your sleeves to your elbows, hair pulled back neatly, apron tied snug at your waist.
You worked methodically. Every surface was wiped until it gleamed. Books no one had touched in years were dusted and returned to their shelves. The carpet was vacuumed, the floors mopped, curtains and sofa steamed until the room smelled faintly of soap and heat.
The silence made each task feel louder, heavier, as though the space itself was watching. You were just finishing the windows, polishing away the last streaks, when the door clicked open.
You sighed, the sound slipping out before you could stop it. Through the glass, his reflection stared back at you, crimson eyes catching the light, already fixed on you.
This assignment was more difficult than any you’d been given before. But not for the reason you would assume.
Unlike your past missions, this one had no clear endpoint, no defined victory, no date circled on a calendar that promised release. Why? Because you been assigned to investigate the Ryomens.
There were three major yakuza families - the Gojos, the Zenins, and the Ryomens. Unlike the past, when they were openly tied to crime, violence, and illegal activity, they had since rebranded themselves as legitimate enterprises, keeping their darker dealings carefully minimized and out of sight.
Sukuna Ryomen was no exception to the more... civilized way.
Honestly, it was disappointing at first. You’d expected more, illegal drug deals, weapon trading, maybe even underground fighting rings.
And more than that, you’d expected the next heir of the Ryomen family to be cruel, hot-tempered, stupidly cocky. Someone you’d enjoy ratting out and watching him have his ass handed to him.
Y'know, something.
Instead, he was overworked and constantly tired - never without a cigarette or drink in his hand to ease his mind. His days were consumed by estate visits and shareholder meetings, his nights buried under mountains of contracts and negotiations.
Well - at least he was easy on the eyes.
Anyways, your mission wasn’t to confront him, nor eliminate him, but to simply observe the Ryomens. Make sure they haven't been up to sneaky shit.
You didn’t turn to face him. “Is there a reason you’re here so late?” you asked, the formality long since abandoned. “Work?”
You heard his footsteps shuffle as he rounded the desk, the quiet scrape of the chair as he sat. A drawer opened. The familiar sound of a cigarette being pulled free followed.
Smoke curled from his lips, thinning as it faded into the air.
You’d never been a fan of the smell.
You crossed the room and shoved the window open.
“Something like that,” he muttered.
You turned around.
He was slouched back in the chair, black suit still on, crinkled from a late meeting. A handkerchief was draped over his face, as if even the effort of being seen was too much. Slowly, lazily, he slipped the cigarette between his lips and took an unhurried drag. Ink peeked from beneath his collar when he shifted, dark lines against pale skin.
“Mmm,” you hummed, already moving away, flicking on the kettle.
“You almost finished your shift?” he asked, his voice muffled beneath the cloth.
“Yeah,” you replied, pouring hot water into two cups, tea bags already waiting.
“Your office is the last one I have to clean tonight.”
You set the cup down on his desk.
He removed the handkerchief from his face, and set it beside the ashtray. From where you leaned back against the bookshelf, you could spot the shadows under his eyes.
The late-late night meetings must be taking a toll on him.
He looked rough - but in a kinda hot way.
This…friendship, if it could even be called that, was nothing more than late-night conversations that happened because of timing, surprising your schedules always seemed to line up.
“Sit across from me.”
And there it was - the quiet assertiveness of his lineage, a reminder of who he was. You'd notice it surface every now and then.
“I just cleaned the sofa,” you groaned.
“That’s an order,” he replied, tone light and teasing, a lazy smirk stretched across his exhausted face.
Your heels clicked softly against the wooden floor as you crossed the room and sat opposite him, legs folding neatly beneath you.
You studied him for a moment. “You look worse than the last time I saw you.”
Sukuna laughed, nearly spilling his tea. “Thanks,” he said dryly, setting the cup aside before taking a drag from his cigarette. His eyes narrowed with amusement. “I’m usually told I’m pretty good-looking, y’know.”
You smirked, the warmth of the tea against your lips, “Maybe when you’re not running on caffeine and a couple of hours of sleep.”
Sukuna exhaled smoke and leaned back, bringing a hand to his temple. He pressed there, slow and deliberate, like he was trying to hold his thoughts in place.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right…We’re stuck. No agreement. Just the same arguments on repeat.”
His clan was locked in a dispute over borders, specifically the far eastern property owned by the Ryomens. With its position nestled between the mountains and the sea, it was absurdly valuable. Prime real estate. The Zenin clan had been pressing, trying to expand into territory that wasn’t theirs.
“We keep circling the same points,” Sukuna muttered, running a hand back through his hair. “At some point, you start to wonder if the older generation had it right. It’d be a lot easier to just kill them.”
He said it casually, half a joke, maybe - but violence had long since lost its weight for him.
“Can you -” he paused, then glancing at you with a slight smirk, “massage my back?”
I guess he can be cocky ass sometimes.
You rolled your eyes, and as if you could even say no.
You slipped his blazer from his shoulders and draped it over the chair. The tattoos across his back became more visible, dark, and intricate. You’d always wondered how far down they went.
Your fingers pressed into his tense shoulders, working slowly, deliberately, easing the knots beneath your palms.
“So,” you said lightly, “is the plan to come to a resolution, or …”
Sukuna groaned as you pressed harder. “God, you're stronger than you look… um, No. No example, at least not yet. I think we'll just offer them a property or two, let them think they’ve won.”
You hummed, noncommittal. “If it reached your father,” you said, “he’d probably argue it’d be easier to kill them off.”
Sukuna smiled faintly. The next generation of yakuza heirs, at least, tended to be far more sensible.
You felt his shoulder relax beneath your hands. “I haven’t seen him around the estate,” you said. “Where is he?”
The question was harmless on the surface. Casual. The kind that didn’t invite suspicion.
“He went to visit some friends,” Sukuna replied. “I think he’s getting sentimental in his old age.”
Great. From everything you’d gathered, his father was already preparing to step back, content to let his heirs handle most, if not all, of the work. Not much to uncover here.
But you weren't complaining, you heard word a few days ago - if everything seems normal, you can return back.
“Alright,” you said, glancing at the clock. The signal was clear. “That’s all the time I have.”
You gave his shoulders a brief pat before moving around the desk, extending your hand.
“Really?” Sukuna said, irritation flickering across his expression.
“These extra services aren’t free.”
He scoffed, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out his wallet. A crisp hundred-dollar bill was pinched between his fingers. You took it before he could properly offer it. That would cover drinks tonight.
“Thank you very much,” you said, already slipping off your apron and gathering your supplies.
Sukuna raised his eyebrows,“Got somewhere to be?”
“Yeah,” you replied, moving quickly.
Sukuna tilted his head, clicking his tongue. “Where?”
You shrugged. “Some clubs. With my girlfriends.” You didn’t linger on the question.
There was no need for him to pry into your pretend personal life.
Before he could respond, you were already closing the door, a quiet goodbye murmured out of habit.
Sukuna leaned back in his chair, lighting another cigarette.
He’d heard you’d put in your two-week notice, and the reason for quitting struck him as odd.
First, it wasn’t easy to get hired here.
Second, the pay was significantly better than anywhere else.
And third, your shit reason for leaving.
Truth be told, he’d always carried a quiet suspicion, a gut feeling he could never quite shake. Still, you’d never done anything out of line, and there hadn’t been a single unusual incident during your time here. If there was no trouble, then there was no real reason to care.
But his thoughts still lingered on you.
He stood and opened one of the filing cabinets containing the general records of all employees. Sukuna skimmed through the folders until he found the one he wanted. Tossing it onto the desk, he flipped through your file.
Decent schooling, no further education, no history of fights - he doubted that - and no parents on record. Skimming your file, Sukuna couldn’t shake the sense of how shallow it all was. On paper, you looked plain, unremarkable, but the details were vague, stripped down to only what was required.
The thought soured, then twisted into something else entirely as a faint smile spread across his face.
He had every right to investigate one of his employees if something felt suspicious, right? Hell, he was Sukuna Ryomen. At the end of the day, he didn’t need a reason.
⊰═══════════⊱·༻𐫱༺·⊰════════════⊱
Fucking with me now
And it's all that I have
And you're all that I want
And if you know that I want it now
The music thumped so hard the speakers practically vibrated the floor beneath your feet. Strobe lights flashed erratically, catching sweat and glitter on bodies packed into the tiny downtown Tokyo club.
You adjusted your top, if it could even be called that.
Time off was rare, but this job had been easygoing enough that tonight, you could be yourself. No mask. No pretending.
Your nails were long, painted black with silver chrome tips, complementing the tattoos sprawled across your hands. A mesh off-the-shoulder top revealed the star tattoos on your shoulders, your black bra peeking through. Your denim shorts hugged your hips that were too short, and too low on your hips, showing off your tramp stamp - something you’d gotten way too young.
Lucky for you, your long black hair mostly covered it.
Ray-Bans sat on your nose as you scanned the crowd: men, women, people in between, all swaying and stumbling across the dance floor.
The booths and shadowed corners were occupied by people making out or taking something up their noses. It was overwhelming, intoxicating, exactly where you wanted to be.
Pushing through the crowd, you called out to the bartender.
“Four vodka shots, please.”
You smiled, weaving through bodies toward your friends, who were lost in the rhythm on the dance floor. Two of them had already been swept away by guys they’d been eyeing earlier, leaving you to dance with the others in between. Tipsy, you giggled, losing yourself in the chaos until a whisper in your ear caught your attention.
“Hey… that guy’s been checking you out.”
You looked up. His eyes locked with yours. Your chest stuttered.
He was tall, lean, his long, dark hair scattered across, his lip ring catching the strobe like threads of shadow. His eyes were sharp, dark, and unyielding, sliding over you with a slow, deliberate heat that made the hairs on your arms rise. His jaw was defined, shoulders broad beneath a simple black shirt, sleeves rolled up just enough to hint at strength without being showy.
You shifted, lowering your sunglasses just enough to really see him. His lips tipped into a faint, crooked smile, subtle, self-aware, like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.
You needed this. Him.You’d earned a night like this.
You lifted a finger, curling it in a lazy beckon. As you slid your sunglasses off and tucked them into your top, his attention sharpened instantly.
He moved through the crowd with ease, bodies parting around him. Up close, it was worse, better. Taller than you thought, shoulders broad beneath his shirt, long dark hair framing his face. Purple eyes, unmistakable now, locked onto you as if you were the only thing in the room.
Jesus. Had he gotten hotter in the last thirty seconds?
His gaze swept over you, unhurried, appreciative. Then his hands were on your hips, firm and confident, pulling you flush against him as the bass thudded between your bodies.
Because seven minutes in heaven
Is all that I need when I get with him
Seven minutes in heaven
“What’s your name?” you shouted over the music.
“Choso,” he answered, voice low even as he leaned closer.
You slipped your arms around his shoulders. He bent to your ear, breath warm against your skin. “And yours?”
You gave him the name of a girl you’d met earlier.
He nodded, lips brushing your ear as he murmured it back. “So that’s the name I’ll be saying tonight, huh?”
You arched a brow. Cocky Bastard.
Exactly your type.
All this kissing, French kissing
His tongue is overrated
The crowd pressed in, lights flashing, bodies moving in careless rhythm. His hands roamed your waist, your back, guiding you as you danced, laughing, tipsy, alive. Everything blurred into heat and sound and motion, the night swallowing you whole.
Then he leaned in.
His lips brushed yours once, teasing, before crashing into a kiss. Sloppy, hungry, unrestrained. Exactly what you wanted. You kissed him back without thinking, fingers tangling in his hair, the world narrowing to the taste of alcohol and smoke and sweat.
And then -
You felt it.
Not a touch. A weight.
Your eyes opened.
Over Choso’s shoulder, in the shadows near the edge of the club, stood a familiar silhouette. A drink in one hand. A cigarette in the other. Crimson eyes burning straight through the strobe and smoke, locked onto yours.
Your blood went cold.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
You pulled back abruptly, hands pressing against Choso’s chest. “Yeah – hey, it was really nice meeting you,” you said too fast, forcing a smile. “We should… do this another time.”
He blinked. “What?”
“I just have to go, okay?”
He laughed softly, pushing his hair back, lip ring catching the light. “What is this, you playin' hard to get? Am I supposed to track you down?”
God, he was gorgeous.
And this was the worst possible moment.
“I wish,” you groaned. “But I really have to leave.”
You turned before he could say anything else, slipping into the crowd, shoulders tight, heart hammering. Bodies brushed past you, laughter and music crashing in your ears, but all you could feel was the burn of that gaze.
Alright. Okay. Think.
But why was he even here? Of all places? As he wasn’t sleep-deprived enough, he had energy for this?
You ducked into a dark hallway at the back of the club, pressing your palm to the wall as you tried to steady your breathing. The music muffled, your pulse roaring in its place.
He’d seen you. Seen you truly.
No, right now, I’m just his employee, and he's the weirdo boss stalking his employee. I’m not exactly in the wrong here. He is.
Your gaze lifted, catching sight of an EXIT sign glowing faintly at the end of the hallway.
You pushed off the wall, intending to head for it.
“Stop.” His voice cut through the hallway.
Your legs stopped moving instantly.
Shit.
⊰════════⊱·༻𐫱༺·⊰═════════⊱
You turned, finding him framed in the shadows, the club’s lights and noise spilling behind him. He stood there, exactly the same as you left him.
He approached slowly, unhurried, deliberate.
You swallowed.
He stopped an arm’s length away, leaning back against the wall in front of you in the narrow hallway, hands tucked into his pockets. His gaze dragged over you from head to toe, lingering just long enough to feel invasive.
“I almost didn’t recognize you,” he said. His voice was low, measured, threaded with something sharp you couldn’t quite place.
You met his stare head-on, irritation flaring. “Sukuna. Why are you here?”
A smirk tugged at his mouth. Not amused. Mean. He stepped closer, “Keeping tabs on my employees.”
So we are just act that's a normal thing to do?
You searched his face for something, suspicion, certainty, but all you found was tension. Frustration. Anger without a clear target.
“Nice tattoos,” he said lightly, his gaze dropping as his hand extended, coming to rest at your hips. His eyes narrowed on the small flower peeking out along your hipbone. “Never seen them before.”
A shiver ran down your spine, partly from the contact, mostly from the edge beneath his words.
His thumbs began to trace slow, idle circles.
You pushed his hand away, forcing the heat back down before it could reach your face. The audacity of it made your jaw tighten.
“My uniform keeps them covered,” you said coolly.
“Mmm.” He nodded slowly, as if conceding a point he didn’t like. “Still. Never noticed the ones on your hands.”
You raised a brow. “Have you forgotten your own policy? Tattoos must be covered at all times. I usually use waterproof makeup.”
Another nod. Acceptance, on the surface.
“I like the one on your lower back,” he said, voice low, eyes heavy with something that made your skin prickle.
Heat crept up your neck, into your cheeks.
“Can I go now?” you snapped, “You know we don't get much time off, and I’m sure you have better things to do.” You crossed your arms.
His gaze dipped. Briefly. Intentionally.
Leaving now would look suspicious. Staying felt worse.
His eyes darkened. “No.”
You blinked. “What?”
“No. Your shift’s been moved to tomorrow morning.”
“That’s ridiculous,” you said flatly. “You don’t even handle the schedule.”
“I do,” he replied evenly. “Right now.”
What has gotten into him?! Now he's just actin like a dick.
You exhaled sharply. The music thudded through the walls, your headache blooming with it. “I’m going back,” you said. “This is ridiculous.”
“To that loser?” He lit another cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating his expression.
Your eyes locked. Neither of you blinked.
“As your employee,” you said evenly, “my personal time is none of your business.”
He shrugged, flicking the cigarette to the floor and crushing it under his shoe. “Rules are rules. Follow them - or you’re fired tonight.”
Your blood spiked.
This was one of those moments when Sukuna Ryomen truly shone, every inch of his authority on full display.
“Are you serious?” You stepped closer, leaving barely an inch between you, forcing him to look down at you.
“Yes.” Exhaustion dulled his face, but his eyes burned with something stubborn, volatile.
Silence stretched.
“…Fine,” you snapped.
“Great.”
Before you could react, he crouched, hooked an arm around your legs, and lifted you clean off the ground.
“Sukuna, are you being for real!?” You smacked his back. “I can walk!”
He didn’t answer.
He didn’t take the exit, either. Instead, he turned toward the lights, the bass, the chaos of the club swallowing you whole.
All this touching, all this touching
All this touching, all these faces
To anyone watching, it looked simple enough - another girl being hauled out by security.
No one would have guessed that the woman being dragged out of a club at 2am in the morning was a maid - much less a spy -and that the man hauling her along was a delusional, exhausted, arrogant yakuza boss.
Seven minutes in heaven
Is all that I need when I get with him.
⊰════════⊱·༻𐫱༺·⊰═════════⊱
The car ride passed in thick, uncomfortable silence. By the time you reached the estate, your nerves were shot. The moment the car stopped, you reached for the door, intent on getting back to the dormitory as quickly as possible.
You didn’t make it far.
The doors locked with a sharp click. Sukuna was already out of the car by the time you realized it, opening your door and lifting you with infuriating ease, slinging you over his shoulder.
You sighed, giving up the struggle almost immediately. “This is a bit excessive,” you muttered.
He didn’t respond. You took the silence as your answer as he carried you up the stairs and into the all-too-familiar office, the lights snapping on as he crossed the room.
He dropped you onto the sofa.
Sukuna sat across from you, posture rigid as he leaned back in his chair. Up close, the exhaustion was impossible to miss. The sharpness he usually carried was dulled, dark circles shadowing his eyes, his movements just a fraction slower than usual, like missing a few hours of sleep had finally caught up to him.
You buried your face in your hands with a groan. “If you want me to work this morning,” you said tiredly, “I’d really prefer you lecture me later and just let me - ”
“I looked through your file,” Sukuna cut in.
You lowered your hands. “Uh-huh.” Your file was basic - no different from the others working in the estate.
“I’m surprised,” he continued, eyes narrowing as he studied you. “You weren’t the troublemaker I expected you to be.”
You kept your expression steady. Any yakuza member could spot a careless lie instantly, and pushing one too far usually came with consequences.
Still, you’d survived worse.
“Believe it or not, I liked school. Just because I couldn’t afford university doesn’t mean I was a delinquent.”
A lie. You couldn’t remember a single year you hadn’t been expelled or transferred - one year, you’d switched schools three times.
“Mmm,” Sukuna hummed, unconvinced.
You straightened slightly, shifting onto the offensive. “Why are you reading up on me?”
He leaned back further, arms crossing over his chest. “I’m allowed to,” he said evenly. “Especially when something feels… off.”
His gaze stayed on you, heavy with suspicion, dulled only slightly by exhaustion. You didn’t look away. Looking away would give him something to latch onto.
“Tell me your birthday.”
“November tenth, 1999.”
No pause. Good.
“Which neighborhood did you grow up in?”
"Kichijoji"
“Name of your childhood best friend.”
"Shoko Ieiri"
Another answer, clean, practiced.
He didn’t respond. Instead, he shifted forward, elbows resting on his knees, eyes never leaving your face.
“Which middle school did you attend?”
You answered.
“What was the name of the street you lived on?”
You answered again.
The questions came faster after that, rapid, sharp, overlapping. Dates. Names. Places. Small details designed to trip you up, to force a stumble.
You didn’t miss a single one.
Sukuna rose from his chair and circled the desk. You hesitated only a moment before standing as well, instinct pulling you back as he moved forward. He advanced - you retreated an unspoken exchange until your back met the bookshelf.
Morning light spilled through the windows, the rising sun washing the office in a soft orange glow. It should have felt calm. Tranquil. Instead, your heart raced, loud and uneven, clashing with the stillness of the hour.
He stopped just in front of you.
Up close, he was imposing. And attractive as hell. His pink hair stuck out in every direction, mussed as though he’d dragged his hands through it too many times. His sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, dark tattoos exposed along his forearms. His jaw was set tight, tension visible there, carved deep by exhaustion and something sharper beneath it.
Was this a bad time to start drooling over him.
You ignored your thoughts and instead tried to read him, anger, suspicion, intent? but his expression gave nothing away.
His eyes were heavy-lidded, shadowed from lack of sleep, and utterly unreadable.
The uncertainty unsettled you more than any threat could have.
The room felt smaller. Closer.
And for the first time since this had begun, you realized you had no idea which way this was going to turn.
“How many times have you moved in your entire life?”
“2”
“Locations?”
Still, your pulse betrayed you. Just a fraction too fast.
Sukuna noticed.
He straightened abruptly and stepped into your space. One hand came up, planting against the wall beside your head. Not touching you. Not yet.
“Which was it?” he asked quietly. “You said east first. Then south.”
You swallowed. “I didn’t.”
A lie? No. The truth. But hesitation crept in anyway, just enough to register.
His eyes narrowed.
“Which one,” he repeated, voice low, dangerous in its calm.
Your nerves screamed. Images flickered unbidden. What happened to people who failed this kind of scrutiny? You forced your breathing to be steady.
“I didn’t mix it up,” you said firmly. “You did.”
A long pause.
His eyes lingered on you, darkened just enough to betray interest, slow, deliberate, as if he were weighing a thought he hadn’t decided to indulge
Then, unexpectedly, he leaned closer.
His hands settled on your hips, firm enough to bruise if he chose, pulling you flush against him. His mouth brushed your neck, just beneath your ear, too deliberate to be mistaken for comfort.
It wasn’t a kiss meant to soothe.
A calculated test, lingering just long enough to make your breath hitch before he pulled back a fraction, as if daring you to react.
Your breath hitched despite yourself.
“Birthday,” he murmured against your skin. “Say it again.”
You closed your eyes for half a second. Opened them.
“November tenth. 1999”
He trailed his kisses across your collar bone.
“Your childhood best friend’s name.”
He moved lower.
You answered.
“The street.”
Another answer, steady, unwavering now.
He lingered there a moment longer, breath warm, presence overwhelming, as if waiting for you to break.
You didn’t.
Finally, he pulled back.
Hands still remaining on your hips.
The silence stretched, thick and unreadable.
Whatever method he’d switched to, it hadn’t worked the way he wanted.
And somehow, that unsettled him more than any mistake ever could have.
Your breathing was ragged, nerves still screaming from the last few hours of his… tactic. You had no idea what he was thinking, and you didn’t dare ask.
Sukuna was balanced on a knife’s edge, it felt like the smallest thing, the slightest misstep, could push him over it.
“Done?” you muttered under your breath, trying to catch your breath from the last few hours.
“No.”
He stepped closer, the space between you shrinking until you could feel his presence pressing in. The air felt heavier, charged. His eyes held that unreadable intensity, like he could see everything and nothing at once.
“Why did you start working here?” he asked, his tone casual, but the weight behind it made your chest tighten.
Your body betrays, “Fuck” you moan as Sukuna bites you down, you stammer, “Uh - M-Money,” you manage, your voice tighter than you intended.
“Mm,” he hummed, dissatisfied with your answer, “How old were you when you got those tattoos?”
You hesitated, caught off guard by the sudden shift in questions - he wasn’t questioning the version of you you’d constructed anymore, but you.
He pauses, then pulls the mesh top over your head. A moment later, his mouth is back on your skin, tracing a path down your neck. The sudden act makes you gasp, and your arms instinctively wrap around his neck to steady yourself.
“Uh... nineteen," you manage, his hand moving from your hip to cup your breast as he descends. Your mind is a hazy, fevered blank.
His voice is a low vibration against your ribs. "How about that cute little tramp stamp?"
"Shit-t." You throw your head back with a loud moan as his teeth sink into your tits, his other hand snaking under your bra to pinch your nipple. "-sixteen," you gasp out.
You can practically feel Sukuna's grin, like he's caught you in a lie. "Thought you weren't a troublemaker."
You groan, struggling to form words as he trails lower. "Tattoos... do... not..." you pant. "...equate to delinquency." It's a complete lie, and you both know it.
"When are you gonna start telling the truth, sweetheart?" His voice dropped, low, unhurried,
The same tone he used in meetings, when greeting people, and now with you pressed against the wall.
Sukuna lowered himself to the floor, settling there with deliberate ease, his gaze lifting to you. From that angle, his eyes looked darker, heavier, lit with a slow, smoldering intent that tightened your chest. He looked consumed as if the moment had narrowed to just the two of you, and he had no intention of looking away.
His fingers hook into the waistband of your shorts, and you let him, your hands tangling in his hair, holding on as if he's the only solid thing in a world that's tilting on its axis.
He tugs your shorts down, and you clutch at his shoulders for support. "I am telling the truth," you insist, the words weak and breathless.
"Uh huh." The sound is a soft, knowing scoff. He yanks your shorts down and throws them behind his shoulders without a second glance. His focus is absolute, pinning you in place. He stares at the delicate lace of your panties, at the dark patch of wetness that betrays your every denial.
Then, a new question, sharp and dangerous. "That loser at the club…is that your type?"
Your brain scrambles to catch up, but he's already moving. He hooks a finger into the soaked lace of your panties, yanking them down and out of the way. There's no warning, no gentle lead-up. He just dives in, burying his face between your thighs.
The feeling is electric - a raw, hungry heat as his tongue laps against your cunt, sloppy and eager, circling your clit in a way that makes your whole body seize up. It's messy and desperate and absolutely perfect, and any thought of any man is completely fucking obliterated.
"Who?" you moan out, the word barely a puff of air.
You weren't trying to be difficult, not really, but your brain was a complete blank, wiped clean by the sensation of his mouth on you. All you could focus on was the heat, the pressure, the absolute filth of it.
You feel him chuckle against your cunt, the vibration a low, dirty hum that makes your toes curl. Then he's shoving a finger inside you, a thick, relentless pressure that steals your breath. "Uhh—" The sound is ripped from your throat as your legs threaten to give out completely. Sukuna notices instantly. His left bands around the back of your thighs, holding you up, holding you open for him. Your fingers clutch desperately at his hair, the strands your only anchor in a sea of overwhelming pleasure.
"Yea, I- I guess s-so," you stammer, the words slurred and meaningless. You're not even sure what you're agreeing to anymore, your mind a foggy mess dictated by the slick, rhythmic drag of his tongue. You'd say anything, promise him the world, if it meant he wouldn't stop.
A low growl vibrates against your core, but it ain't approval. It's pure, raw fucking displeasure. He shoves a second finger into you, stretching your pussy out with his fingers as his tongue flicks against your clit with a new, ruthless precision. "Really?" he rasps, the word a dark, muffled accusation against your flesh. "Were you hopin' he'd fuck you tonight?"
"Y-yes," you breathe, the answer a desperate, honest plea. And just like that, everything changes. Sukuna's deliberate, torturous rhythm slows to a cruel, teasing crawl.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Wrong answer.
The realization hits you like a physical blow. He adds two more fingers, forcing them inside you, and the pace becomes meaner, a brutal punishment that has you seeing stars.
"You think better than I would?"
You swallowed the lump in your throat, trembling “N-No”
"Good girl," You can feel him smirking against your cunt "Finally, some fuckin truth."
You can't hold back, a sharp moan tearing from your throat as you throw your head back. His tongue is there to lap it all up, swirling through your release to collect every single drop as you tremble and shake in his hold.
You're floating in a daze, and you barely register him rising, or the way he manhandles your legs, wrapping them securely around his waist. The only thing that snaps you back to reality is the hard, familiar press of wood against your ass. He's lifted you onto his desk.
Sukuna wastes no time, ripping his shirt over his head. Your eyes drink him in, all hard, sculpted muscle and sprawling ink. His chest rises and falls with rapid, harsh breaths, every muscle contracted and straining, thick veins popping along his biceps. His pink hair is a mess, tousled and ruined from how hard you were gripping it.
And those eyes… the same eyes that held such exhaustion are now set ablaze, burning with nothing but pure, undiluted lust.
He's forgotten all about the interrogation for the moment, all about the game. He's a complete, wreck, and the dark circles under his eyes only make him look more dangerous, more feral.
Jesus, you do need sleep though.
His hands slam down on the desk on either side of your thighs, caging you in as he leans in, lowering his head until his eyes lit, wild, hungry - are boring into yours.
"I think I can go for a couple more hours," he says.
Fuck did you say that outloud?
Your eyes follow his down, landing on the bulge straining against his jeans. Huge doesn't cover it when he pulls it out. Massive is an understatement. The thing looks monstrous, and a dizzy – ten inches? More?
"Eyes on me." The command is sharp, and boy, do you obey instantly.
Sukuna's hands band around your waist, yanking you forward until your tits are crushed against his chest, his dick grinding meanly against your soaking, bare cunt. Your arms fly up, wrapping around his neck, your fingers tangling in his pink locs.
And God, was he aggressive.
He bites your lower lip, making you gasp, and then his tongue is in your mouth, exploring every inch, dominating yours in a sloppy, possessive kiss that leaves you breathless.
You're so lost in it, so dazed, that you don't even feel his hands creep up your back until you hear the sharp click of your bra coming undone. He flicks it away without breaking the kiss.
The only time you part is when your lungs burn for air, a messy string of saliva connecting your mouths.
A slight, wicked grin plays on Sukuna's lips, a look that says all his pent-up frustration and exhaustion have finally pushed him over the edge, and you're the only thing left to break.
One arm clamps around your waist like a steel band, while the other moves up to cup your tit, his thumb and forefinger pinching your nipple into a hardened peak. He leans down, attaching his lips to the bud, swirling his tongue around it before sucking it into his mouth.
And god, he has you right on the edge, exactly where he wants you. The only distance he gives is when he leans back just enough to line his flushed, pink tip up with your soaked cunt, the head already seeping with precum.
But Sukuna… wasn’t gonna go easy on you. No, no, no.
He drags that tip through your folds, coating it in your slick, sliding it up and down your slit without entering, while his other hand moves to pinch your clit.
"God, Sukuna, just fuck me already," you whine, your head rolling back, your eyes rolling as you lose all control of your body, completely and utterly at his mercy.
"Sweetheart." His voice is a low purr. He stares down at you, bringing his left hand up, his long fingers pressing against your lips until you part them. He slides them into your mouth, and your tongue instinctively swirls around them, coating them in your saliva.
He leans in, his breath hot against your ear. "What's your real name?"
He’s not done, and you are so, so screwed. Literally.
He holds your gaze, and your lips betray you.
He rolls your name on his tongue, testing the sound of it, a low growl of satisfaction rumbling in his chest as he said it again. Then he pushed forward, sinking a couple of thick, punishing inches into your gummy walls, stretching you just enough to make you ache for more. "What-t are you doing here?" he grunted, his voice a strained, rough thing against your ear.
Sukuna is barely holding on by a thread as he feels the searing heat of your walls clench around him, realizing just how perfect your pussy is.
And you spill it all. "Mission-n – making sure-e you guys aren't fucking-g up-p."
He pushes another couple of inches into you, the stretch drawing a groan from both of your throats. "S-so what, you're a fuckin spy-y?" his eyes narrow, his breath catching in his chest.
"Yes-s."
And that's it. The thread snaps. He can't hold back anymore. God, he doesn't even fucking care anymore. He wants you, he needs you, and the last of his control shatters. He slams the remaining inches into you, burying himself into your pussy in one brutal stroke.
Your hands fly out, one gripping his huge bicep for dear life, the other fisting in his hair, holding on. His entire body flexes, every muscle coiling and releasing as he begins to batter his rock-hard dick into your gooey depths.
"There we go," he snarls, his rhythm punishing from the start. "Fuckin' spy, huh – had me wrapped all around your pretty fingers."
He's stretching that pretty cunt of yours, slamming into you again and again, his hands on the sides of your hips, pulling you into every brutal thrust.
And Sukuna was just… babbling. A stream of unconsciousness words, adrenaline kicking in from the lack of sleep, from the sheer, desperate need for you, from his cock buried so deep inside you he could think of nothing else.
"What? - Got you so fucked that you can't even speak back?" he taunts, his hips never ceasing their relentless assault.
You're somehow muffling out a reply, the words seeping through each labored breath.
"S-Sukuna..Fuck-k – y-yes, so close."
"I wanted to take you right there," he grits out, as he rams into you, "at that shithole club, right in front of that loser." He shifts his angle, just slightly, and the thick head of his cock punches against your g-spot so deep inside you that your vision whites out.
"In those slutty clothes." He’s gritting his teeth, but his voice is a sweet, sultry whisper that ghosts the shell of your ear. "And those fucking tattoos were driving me insane."
With every confession, his hips snapped forward with a new, devastating purpose.
The room is filled with the sound of his hips meeting yours is obscene, a wet, slapping rhythm that echoes in the room.
You're so overstimulated that you can barely think straight as his thick cockhead is reaching deep within your walls, bruising it with every deep, calculated thrust. It's as though he's trying to carve his name into your very walls, addicted to the way you clench and flutter around him every time he hits it.
"Fuck…" he groans, feeling the way your cunt tightens around his throbbing cock, a fresh gush of slick dripping from you, creating a messy puddle on the desk beneath you.
It's not long after that you feel the hot pulse of his cum filling you up, he keeps fucking you – making sure every last drop is buried deep inside.
His rhythm gets sloppier, sloppier, before he stops entirely, his entire body shaking as he finally pulls out, collapsing on top of you.
You wrap your arms around him instinctively, the adrenaline slowly waning.
"Sukuna, you alright?" you manage to breathe out.
He shuffles momentarily, his face hovering over yours. His eyes were cold, devoid of emotion, radiating sheer exhaustion.
Sukuna Ryomen was crashing, badly.
With the little energy he had left, he wasted no time, throwing on his pants before slipping his shirt over your head. In one smooth motion, he threw you once again over his shoulder, leaving his office and striding through the hallways.
Honestly, you didn't have the energy to care.
The only thing you registered was the soft mattress under you, a blanket being draped over you, and the solid warmth of his chest as Sukuna wraps his arms around you.
"By the way," he murmurs into your hair, "I never approved your leave."
"Huh?"
You were so exhausted you could barely process the words.
will you be writing more naoya content(since there is barely any that is not just straight up smut and us naoya enjoyers have to live off crumbs LOL) ? i have to say i ve reread the last fic like 10 times i love the way you write!!
🫶🏽🙏🏽 I’ll try! I was thinking about writing a Sukuna one, but wouldn’t mind revisiting Naoya content:)) and thank you for the lovely compliment 🥺🥺🥹🥹😝
Chapter 2: I Know Getting You Alone Isn't Easy To Do
Pairing: Naoya x reader
Summary: An unexpected marriage proposal lands in your lap, leaving you cornered with seemingly no way out. With the Gojo clan’s prestige, the situation feels impossible. In desperation, you turn to a familiar face, the Zenin heir, Naoya someone you’ve known since childhood, albeit with a history of arrogance and mischief. Surprisingly, he accepts your proposal, but his motives remain unclear. Has he truly come to your aid? Or have you fallen swifty into his trap.
Warning: Smut (but able to skip - warning ahead)
Comments: Kept deleting-rewriting-deleting-rewriting, decide to just full send it. If yall dont fuck with it, it is what it is. Also, never written smut in life -wanted to kms the entire time writing it.
Chapter 1
Naoya Zenin had been born with a silver spoon in his mouth, raised to believe the world revolved around him. Tantrums were tolerated, mistakes brushed aside, arrogance encouraged because who would dare to tell him otherwise?
Well, until you did.
“You’ll make a terrible husband,” you had said, voice trembling with anger. “I feel awful for whoever has to marry you.”
You left him standing alone in the infirmary, wide-eyed and stunned. He had meant his earlier comment as a compliment, the closest thing to gratitude he knew how to offer. But instead of praise, he’d received the first real slap to his ego.
Yet instead of rage, instead of revenge, his face flushed a deep red.
That was the moment he began falling for you.
As the years passed, he watched you, quietly, discreetly, but always. You never noticed.
He watched the way you giggled with your friends at dinners, the sound becoming his favorite melody.
And many nights, whenever his family came to visit, he would watch you sit beneath the night sky on the patio, moonlight soft against your face.
And when he overheard your little confession, your “ideal type” he was in a tattoo parlor within the hour getting new piercings, and bleaching his hair the next day.
And when he realized you noticed the slight changes in his behaviour, he doubled down. He began greeting the guards. Acknowledging servants. Tempering his arrogance. You hated his ego, so he forced it down with gritted teeth.
The truth was, he still believed most people were beneath him. But for even a second of your attention, he would change everything.
So imagine his frustration when, just as he felt he was finally getting somewhere with you, the responsibilities of the Zenin clan swallowed him whole. Endless meetings. Grueling training. Political duties that filled every waking moment. The annual clan gatherings were the only times he ever saw you.
But you were changing too, becoming more graceful, more poised. Sitting among the ladies, pouring tea with gentle hands, speaking with soft diligence. And you grew more beautiful.
Even brief encounters, your small smile, the brush of your shoulder against his, the faint scent of your shampoo, became moments he treasured.
But his patience thinned. Desire turned sharp. He wanted you. He needed you.
He could no longer wait for the perfect moment to pursue you. So he devised an elaborate, risky one…but with enough money, enough influence, even the Gojo clan could be persuaded.
It was a gamble, and he wasn’t looking forward to the bloodshed he would have to create if you hadn’t come to him. Disastrous for everyone truly.
But just as he predicted… you came to him for help.
He felt guilty. Truly, he did.
But was there ever another way?
Within months, everything was arranged, ceremonies and documents. You barely had time to breathe between fittings, blessings, rituals, and lessons on proper etiquette for a bride of a major clan. And somehow, before you could fully process any of it, the day arrived.
You sat beneath the weight of your wedding attire, silk layered upon silk, the immaculate white hood gently veiling your face. The faint scent of incense curled through the air. Chanting hummed softly in the background.
The ceremony took place outside, despite the fresh air, it was suffocating as ever, as hundreds of people swarmed you, sat neatly on the ground: elders, heirs, distant relatives, political allies, some you don’t even recognize - faces upon faces.
And for a moment, you felt as if the entire country were watching.
However this was expected, this was no ordinary wedding...
Your pulse throbbed in your ears, your hands trembling beneath the sleeves of your kimono.
But Naoya…. he was composed as ever.
The black ceremonial robes suited him almost unnervingly well. When he sat beside you, you kept your eyes forward, terrified your nerves would betray you.
But Naoya looked at you.
Just a slight turn of his head. A quiet lift of his eyes beneath lowered lashes. And for the briefest moment, his expression softened.
And then, under the table, unseen by the hundreds of judging eyes…
His fingers brushed yours.
A small touch. A hesitant one. But then his hand settled over yours fully, warm, steady, grounding.
Your breath caught.
His thumb grazed your knuckles once, a wordless reassurance, as if he’d noticed your trembling and silently decided to anchor you to the floor. And he didn’t look at you again, not openly but his hand stayed clasped around yours, firm and deliberate.
Truthfully, the two of you had been so consumed by preparations and obligations that you hadn’t had a proper conversation since that day at his estate. Everything between then and now had been schedules, rituals, instructions… never you and him speaking as people.
And now here he was holding your hand as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
It was only released when the ceremonial sake was brought forward. You lifted the cup with both hands, took a small sip, leaving the faintest smudge of lipstick on the rim. You rotated the cup so the unstained side faced him before offering it over.
Instead of taking the clean side you’d so carefully presented, he turned the cup back until your mark was aligned with him. And without a single change in expression, he pressed his lips exactly over the place yours had touched.
He drank slowly... deliberately... feigning innocence but not once did he look away from you.
You were beyond shocked.
Cheeky bastard. Just like that, whatever butterflies that started fluttering in your heart were destroyed.
It seemed, maybe he didn’t mature all that much...
You had never imagined that a pretend marriage could be so utterly exhausting.
You held up your end of the agreement, doing everything in your power to act as the respectful Zenin wife but it came with far more responsibilities than you ever anticipated. There was training, endless training. Lessons on the Zenin family lineage stretching back centuries. The architecture of every wing, every hall, what was ancient, what was rebuilt, what was sacred. And, like the women before you, the management of the household superficial affairs had been placed squarely on your shoulders.
So by the time your meeting with the other ladies of the estate finally ended, you were drained.
Your new appearance didn’t help either. Your hair, normally worn loose, was now always pinned in an elegant bun held together by a Zenin heirloom, an ornate gold hairpin gifted to you before the ceremony. Your wardrobe had transformed into custom-fitted dresses and ceremonial robes that demanded a certain posture, a certain grace.
And, to top it all off, you hadn’t seen Naoya much at all. After the wedding, he’d been pulled straight into a string of urgent clan affairs, responsibilities he had postponed specifically because of the ceremony. It made sense, of course… but still, you wanted to see him, at least have a decent conversation.
As you walked around the corridors, you couldn’t happen but to recall that burning memory.
Your fingers drifted unconsciously toward your lips as the scene replayed:
Naoya’s gaze fixed on you… the deliberate slowness of his movements… and the way he’d pressed his mouth to the exact spot your lipstick had stained on the ceremonial cup.
You swallowed.
And, as if summoned by your thoughts
“Are you looking for someone?”
His voice slipped against your ear, low, warm, far too close. His breath brushed your skin,sending a small jolt through your spine.
You jumped, instinctively turning and nearly collided with him.
Naoya stood inches away, towering over you. For a moment, your mind went blank.
Up close, you could really see his features, his lashes were long enough to cast shadows, his cheekbones high, and his eyes, sharp amber-brown, seemed even more intense when they locked onto yours.
The piercings glinted softly under the hall light. His blonde hair was pushed back a few strands falling near his temple, and somehow that only made him look even more unfairly attractive.
He tilted his head slightly, a knowing sliver of a smile ghosting at his lips, as if he could read your thoughts.
“I didn’t expect you back so quickly,” you said, forcing your voice into something resembling normalcy, clinging desperately to the last shred of composure you had.
Naoya fell into step beside you, hands tucked loosely in his pockets.
“What did you miss me?” tone playful, but you could see those teasing eyes.
You couldn’t help but roll your eyes.
“The meetings ended quicker than we thought,” he quickly added. half-lie, half-truth. In reality, he had been seething over having to attend clan matters the day after the wedding. Meetings that should have lasted a few hours were pushed through overnight, just so he could return sooner.
“How have you been adjusting?”
You let out a tired groan. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this exhausted.”
Naoya’s low chuckle slipped out, echoing throughout the quiet hallway.
“I can tell them to give you at least a couple days of rest. Reassign the work to others, if you want.”
His tone was light, even teasing, but his eyes were sharp, as if he fully intended to follow through.
You shook your head quickly. “No, no, this much I can handle. Really.”
The last thing you wanted to appear was incompetent, not when you’d promised to play the role of a proper Zenin wife, for the time being anyways.
Naoya studied you for a moment, then nodded slowly. “...Alright then.”
He paused before continuing, “...As well..there are some events we need to attend. Normally I go alone, but we should introduce you properly.”
Another half-truth. Some events didn’t require your presence at all. But Naoya had no intention of going anywhere without you now, not after losing so much precious time…
You turned to face him as you both stopped before the door at the far end of the eastern wing.
“Of course,” you said softly. You didn’t argue, attending those events felt like the smallest way you could support him.
Naoya nodded, but slowly… almost distracted. His eyes stayed on you, studying you with a quiet intensity. You stood there, perfectly composed in your new role, hair pulled back into a formal bun, posture straight, clothing pristine. You looked every part the dignified Zenin bride.
And yet… something about it bothered him.
His brows knit the slightest bit, and before you could question it, he moved.
Quickly.
His hand lifted, fingers brushing the back of your head, not enough to hurt, just enough to startle. In one fluid motion, you felt the gentle tug, the faint click of metal slipping free-
Then your hair spilled down over your shoulders, soft and loose again, the way it always used to fall.
You froze.
Naoya held the golden hairpin between his fingers, the heirloom glinting dimly in the hallway light.
“I much prefer your hair down,” voice low… almost rough with something unspoken. With his hand reached out, twirling your hair around his fingers.
His eyes lingered on you, your loosened hair framing your face, the sudden vulnerability of it and the air tightened between you, charged, fragile - intimate.
And for a moment, it was hard to breathe.
“Well” you stepped back, grabbing the hair pin from his hands, “My hair unfortunately needs to put, it seems like its a unspoke rule for all the women around here.” Your voice calm, acting as if your heart wasnt ponding in your chest from the gesture.
“Mmm is that so”, his eyes glimmering.
You nodded, swallowing the nerves down, “Alright I’ll let you be and settle in since you just arrived, lets discuss the upcoming events during dinner.” You quickly smiled, wasting no time shutting the door.
The next morning, you noticed the of your maids that usually ties your hair into bun, letting your hair down, instead focusing in putting curls in
“Are we not doing the bun?” You asked
“No it seems other ladies have been complaining about it, since its just an ancient rule its best to change it for the new ladies entering the house.”
You nodded, but felt as if it wasn’t the whole truth.
The sheer number of tea ceremonies and formal dinners you’d been required to attend left your head spinning. You understood the necessity, your presence was needed to formally introduce you as Naoya’s wife. The clan expected it. Society expected it. And probably Naoya expects you to play the part flawlessly as well.
So you did.
Your greetings were graceful, your posture straight, your smile soft and pleasant. You sprinkled in pieces of knowledge to demonstrate your education without appearing boastful.
And Naoya…
Naoya was playing his role almost too well.
At first, it startled you. The way he laced his fingers through yours so casually, as if it were instinct. The way he wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you subtly toward him whenever another clan head approached. The way he insisted the two of you sit together no matter the event, no matter who was watching.
Despite your best efforts to remain composed, your face betrays you every time.
And Naoya noticed.
Especially now.
His arm slid around your waist again, firm and warm, pulling you close enough that your hip brushed his. His hand rested against your side, thumb brushing once, absently, almost unconsciously as though he couldn’t stop touching you even if he tried. His presence was a heat through your clothing, grounding and overwhelming all at once.
He leaned in just enough that his breath tickled your ear.
“I told you,” he murmured, “we have to be convincing.”
Your eyes flicked up to him, your whisper sharp but quiet.
“Are you sure we’re not overdoing it?”
Because truly, you hadn’t seen a single couple display this much affection at these gatherings. These people prided themselves on solemnity, tradition, restraint. And here you were, clinging to each other like newlyweds in a romance drama.
Naoya’s lips curled into a small, confident smile.
“It’s common for newlyweds,” he said, lifting his tea to sip elegantly. “We’d raise more suspicion if we weren’t this close.”
He let his hand slide ever so slightly higher on your waist.
“Besides… they’ve been wondering who I’d marry after abstaining from any marriage affairs.” Groaning slightly towards the end as if recalling memories of the clan pressuring him to find someone.
His eyes lowered to you.
“So it must have been for love.” His voice teasing.
You shot him a flat look.
“Uh huh.”
But you didn’t pull away, if anything you enjoyed it.
Even after the ceremonies ended.
He walked beside you down corridors of the estate, shoulders brushing.
He lingered in conversation longer than necessary, asking how you felt, whether you were tired, if anyone treated you improperly.
And each gala, dinner ceremony, the distance between you grew a little smaller.
Just your luck, the moment you stepped outside to leave, a heavy downpour crashed against the rooftops. Sheets of rain blurred the garden outside, the storm coming down so hard it sounded like gravel against the tiles.
Normally, this shouldn’t have mattered. Vehicles existed for this exact reason.
But tonight’s host, ever the traditionalist, insisted on courtesy.
“Please,” he said, bowing, “stay the night. It would be disrespectful to let any members of the Zenin clan travel in such a storm.”
You opened your mouth to decline, already forcing a polite smile.
“No, the weather shouldn’t be a probl -”
“We’ll stay the night,” Naoya said smoothly, cutting you off without hesitation.
You snapped your head toward him, spotting the faintest beam curling at the corner of his mouth as if the idea pleased him.
Your shock hit you first.
Your second shock came when you realized exactly what “stay the night” meant.
A single guest room.
A single bed.
A single space you were expected to share as husband and wife.
At the Zenin estate, you never shared a room. Never even came close. His bedroom was on the opposite end, closer to his office and meeting rooms. Everyone simply assumed he worked late and didn’t want to disturb your rest.
No one questioned it.
And now?
Now there was no escaping it.
“Thank you,” you murmured automatically as the host handed you fresh pillows and neatly folded blankets. Your voice was polite, but your eyes still carried that unmistakable shock.
You carried the bedding into the room, still processing the situation as you fluffed up the pillows. Your mind spun with a thousand tiny thoughts, you didn’t dare speak aloud.
Naoya stood in the doorway, watching you for a moment, expression unreadable, unhurried - amused.
“I’ll wash up,” he said casually, as though this were all painfully normal.
You stared at his retreating back.
How can he be so casual?Am I overreacting? you thought, borderline offended by how unaffected he seemed.
The door slid shut behind him.
You exhaled sharply.
Alone at last, you looked down at your hands, trembling very slightly, and muttered under your breath.
“…I should wash up too.”
However, just as traditional as the host was, so were the maids, insistent, dutiful, relentless.
“Lady, please allow me to assist you with your bath,” Maria said, stepping forward. She was the most persistent of them all. You had already dismissed the others, but she remained glued to your side.
“Truly, Maria, there is no need. I’m perfectly capable of doing it myself,” you sighed, trying once more to reason with her.
“But it is my duty, and-”
“You are off your duties for tonight,” you tried, hopeful.
“No, my lady. I must help you with bathing.”
Maria’s stubbornness was unmatched. A sound of defeat escaped you.
“Alright, then… could you please bring me a fresh robe?”
A pleased smile softened her face. “Of course.”
The moment she crossed the room, you seized your chance. You dashed toward the bathroom and slid the doors shut it..
Click.
Frantic,polite, but terribly urgent - knocks filled the air.
“My lady, please,” Maria called. “There is no need for this. I can assist you, it is my request that you allow me!”
“Maria, there is no use. I can do this myself, and it is my request that you take the night off,” you called back firmly.
“I believe your husband would not appreciate me abandoning my duties!” she insisted.
Right. You kept forgetting how powerful the Zenin name was enough to send the maids spinning into panic over the slightest breach in protocol.
Frustration carved across your face. You groaned.
“Then let my husband know I have personally asked you!”
Silence finally followed.
You began undressing, letting your clothes fall to the floor piece by piece. The knocks eventually faded. You exhaled, relieved.
The bathroom itself was small and dimly lit, resembling more of a bathhouse with its traditional wooden interior. It contained large windows that pooled moonlight across the floor. You filled the large tub with warm water, adding oils, dried petals, and a swirl of liquid soap. Soon, thick bubbles rose, spreading into a soft foam.
You lowered yourself into the warmth, but your mind refused to settle.
You couldn’t stop thinking about Naoya.
His quiet gestures.
His stupid grin.
How warm his hands felt.
Maybe you were imagining it… but sometimes, when he looked at you, something unreadable flickered behind his eyes.
But you were temporary.
A contract.
You wondered how he felt about all of this. Was it inconvenient? Annoying? Just another obligation on an endless list?
How did he feel about you?
Lost in thought, you didn’t hear the soft click of the lock.
Didn’t hear the door slide open.
Didn’t notice the quiet footsteps.
You only noticed when two gentle hands settled on your shoulders, thumbs pressing slowly into tense muscles, massaging as if they had every right to.
You startled, but your body relaxed reflexively. The hands were steady and comforting… though rougher than you remembered.
Maybe Maria had been cleaning with harsher chemicals? You’d have to give her some hand cream later.
But then you realized…
These hands were larger.
“Maria… I apologize for –” You tilted your head back, looking up.
Instead of Maria’s soft face, you met a pair of brown-amber eyes staring down at you.
You blinked once. Then twice.
As if your brain needed time to accept reality.
It wasn’t a mirage.
Panic shot through you. Your hands flew instinctively to your chest, though the bubbles that had once covered you were slowly dissolving.
“You – y-you can’t be here!” you sputtered.
Naoya remained perfectly calm, mouth tilted up in the faintest smile.
“Maria informed me my wife was being stubborn and refusing assistance.”
“I told her I didn’t need help,” you protested but your voice cracked, cheeks blazing red.
“I know,” he said simply. His gaze flickered downward, only for a second, taking in the outline of your silhouette before his gaze returned to your eyes again, this time more darker, “I told her I would handle it. She wouldn’t leave until I came in.”
“Ah.” It was all you managed as you were too flustered to question him.
Were you overreacting?No. He was clearly underreacting.
“Well,” Naoya added, glancing toward the door, “I can still see her shadow behind it. Let me just quickly wash your back while or-”
“No!” you squeaked.
His eyes twitched with amusement. He hid it well behind maturity and composure, but he was thoroughly enjoying your panic.
“Ugh - You can wash my hair and that’s it,” you huffed, pointing one finger out of the bubbles.
Naoya kneeled beside the tub without a word.
He rolled his sleeves to his elbows, movements unhurried, deliberate.
You sank a little deeper into the water, as if the bubbles could save you.
“Y’know you're allowed to refuse the maids request,” you muttered under your breath.
“Well I said I’d help, couldn’t turn back on my word” he replied, tone maddeningly calm. He reached for the small dish of water beside the bath, cupping it in his hand and pouring it gently through your hair. “Tilt your head back.”
You obeyed before you even realized you were doing it.
Warm water cascaded down your scalp. His fingers followed, slow at first, combing through your strands to wet them completely. The sensation made your breath catch. His hands were skilled, steady, careful… far gentler than you expected him to be.
“Have you done this before?”
“Once or twice,” he said, tone misleading, especially as his thumb brushed behind your ear, making you shiver. You frowned instantly.
He huffed a low laugh. “...First time.”
A smile tugged at your lips. His eyes caught it, held it as he smirked.
“You’re getting spoiled, you've got a Zenin on his knees shampooing your hair” he murmured, voice low.
Your face heated.
His fingers massaged shampoo into your scalp. Slow circles. Firm, warm pressure. Every stroke melted another piece of tension you didn’t even realize you were holding. Your eyes fluttered shut against your will.
Stop.
Don’t enjoy this.
Don’t enjoy him.
But your body didn’t listen.
“You’re tense,” he noted quietly.
You snorted. “You barged into my bath.”
“You left the maid in distress.”
“Naoya -!”
“And,” he continued, tone softer, thumb brushing your temple, “you’ve been overthinking.”
Your breath froze in your chest.
“I can tell,” he murmured, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. “You get quiet when you’re overwhelmed.”
Your heart thudded painfully.
You hadn’t realized he noticed that.
Or noticed you that closely.
He rinsed your hair again, water trickling down your shoulders. His fingers swept along the back of your neck, gathering loose ends. His touch lingered, just a second too long to be purely practical.
You felt heat climb up your throat.
“You’re taking this marriage very seriously,” you said, half-defensive, half-embarrassed.
His hands paused.
Then, softly
“I told you before… we have to be convincing.”
You opened your mouth to argue -
But Naoya leaned closer, his lips near your ear, his breath warm against your damp skin.
“And convincing,” he murmured his voice low, darker, “requires consistency. Don’t you agree?”
Your entire body froze.
He was too close.
The bath was too quiet.
Your heartbeat is too loud.
“I agreed to hair only,” you whispered, gripping the edge of the tub.
“And I’m only washing your hair,” he replied, voice smooth, amused. “You’re the one turning red.”
“Because you’re too -!”
He tilted his head. “Too what?”
You opened and closed your mouth like a fish, unable to produce words.
Naoya smiled, as if he has won.
He poured one final handful of water through your hair, smoothing it back gently.
“There,” he said softly. “All done.”
Your pulse continued to race.
“And,” he added lightly, gathering a towel, “Maria has finally stopped standing outside. So you can relax now.”
You let your head fall back against the tub’s edge, utterly defeated.
“Thanks…”
And you really thought you were done with moments like these.
But no, the night had other plans.
You spent longer than necessary drying your body, applying lotion, combing through your hair. You kept pausing, inhaling slowly, exhaling shakily, trying not to hyperventilate at the simple thought of sharing a bed with him.
When you finally stepped out, you expected him to be awake. At least pretending to be.
Instead, Naoya was out like a light.
He lay on his stomach, face turned to the side, cheek resting against the pillow. One arm tucked underneath it, the other resting lazily across the mattress. His robe had loosened at some point, the tie barely knotted, exposing a long stretch of his back, the dip of his waist, the defined muscles shifting subtly as he breathed.
You swallowed.
For someone so meticulously proper, he looked almost… undone like this. Soft hair falling over his forehead. Strong shoulders relaxed. His entire body gave in to exhaustion the moment the day ended.
You’d always known his schedule was brutal.
But seeing it this plainly, the quiet vulnerability of him asleep made something in your chest tighten.
Carefully, you slipped under the blankets and stayed strictly on your side.
Very strictly.
But your eyes refused to behave.
You found yourself studying him and wondering if he ever got enough sleep.
If he ever let himself rest. If he ever felt fed up, or lonely, or overwhelmed beneath the weight of the Zenin name that everyone assumed he carried effortlessly.
Moonlight poured across his face, carving his features into something softer.
Sharp jaw softened by sleep, lashes brushing the tops of his cheeks and the faint crease between his brows fading now that whatever burdens he carried had finally loosened their grip.
You tore your gaze away, heat rising in your cheeks.
Enough, sleep - you needed sleep.
You turned onto your side, exhaled, closed your eyes -
And froze.
Naoya shifted.
He nudged his face deeper into the pillow, a soft exhale escaping him. Then his arm slid across the bed,slowly, heavily until it found your waist. His fingers brushed the fabric of your nightclothes, then tightened with unmistakable certainty.
Before you could react, he pulled you flush against him.
A soft gasp escaped you as your back met the warmth of his chest. His robe, loose and half-open, pressed against your skin, revealing the heat of him, his bare torso firm along your spine.
“Naoya-” you whispered, mortified.
No response.
He was completely asleep.
And somehow, even unconscious, he held you with a grip that felt both protective and possessive, as if he had every right to hold you like this.
You tried to squirm free.
You failed.
His arm only tightened, locking your hips against him. His thumb brushed absentmindedly over your waist, like his body recognized you even if his mind didn’t.
Your breath hitched.
You tried again.
Another useless attempt.
The strength of this man, good grief -
Defeated, burning, heart racing far too fast, you exhaled and accepted fate.
You stayed like that, pressed against him.
Wrapped in his warmth.
You closed your eyes, hoping your heart wouldn’t beat loud enough to wake him.
The next morning sunlight filtered softly through the thin curtains when you woke.
At some point in the night, Naoya had shifted even closer. His arm was still around your waist, but now his palm rested near your breasts. His leg was loosely tangled with yours, his chest rising and falling against your back in slow, steady breaths.
Heat flooded your face.
You stayed frozen, unsure whether to move or pray he didn’t wake up like this.
Then he stirred.
You felt the exact moment his consciousness returned. His fingers flexed against your waist, his breathing shifted, and his posture straightened almost imperceptibly.
But he didn’t pull away.
Instead, he stayed exactly where he was for one… two… three seconds too long.
Then he inhaled, slow and controlled, like a man casually waking from a peaceful sleep.
“Mm… morning,” he murmured, voice low and still rough from sleep.
Your throat closed.
“Morning?” Your eye twitched, “You basically smothered me the entire night”
Your frustration and rage was a bit too much for Noaya in the morning.
He blinked once, twice, eyes opening languidly as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
As if he wasn’t currently wrapped around you.
He looked down, expression blank, polite confusion painted a little too perfectly across his features.
“Oh,” he said mildly, as if noticing it for the first time. “How did that happen?”
Your jaw dropped.
How did -
What do you mean, how did -
You could feel the steam rising inside your skull.
“You pulled me in with a death grip in the middle of the night, I tried calling your name.”
He tilted his head, calm as ever, the picture of false innocence.
“I don’t recall that.” He blinked again, straight-faced. “Must of moved in my sleep.”
Lies. You knew it. He knew you knew it.
His robe had basically come undone during the night, exposing basically everything which did nothing to help your sanity as he continued giving you the most unconvincing innocent act of the century.
You tried to push him away.
He didn’t budge, letting you push against solid muscle that absolutely refused to cooperate.
His lips twitched.
“Are you..” you glared, “...laughing?”
“Of course not,” he said smoothly, trying to control laughter.
You stared. “Ugh get off of me”
“Mmmm”
But he still took his time, sliding his arm back with infuriating ease before stretching, muscles shifting beneath the loose robe, hair mussed in a way that should’ve been illegal.
He sat up, back straightening. He glanced over his shoulder at your flustered form beneath the sheets.
“Next time,” he murmured, lips curving faintly, “wake me if I’m being… clingy.”
Your pillow hit him square in the back.
He didn’t even flinch.
“I told you, I tried!” you shouted.
He didn’t turn around, but you saw the smirk.
But this was the smallest lie you caught him in.
A harmless one.
One he allowed you to catch.
Because Naoya Zenin would never let you notice the real ones.
He would never let you know that he had deliberately rearranged the visitation schedule, subtly, quietly so the two of you would be traveling to the farthest branch family on the worst downpour day of the rainy season.
He would never let you know that Maria had never once complained to him.
That she had never stood outside the bathhouse door.
Or how he was practically awake the entire night, lying behind you in the dark with every muscle tight with restraint.
Because why would he?
When every piece of the situation had unfolded exactly the way he planned it to.
The rain.
The overnight stay.
The shared room.
The shared bed.
The way he ended up close enough that your breath hitched every time he shifted.
Naoya worked too diligently for anything to be accidental, and he would never tell you that. Not when watching you fluster, panic, and blush was becoming his favorite part of the arrangement.
“Do I have to go?” Your voice dripped with exhaustion. Weeks of ceremonies, dinners, and clan meetings had drained you beyond what you wanted to admit. Your carefully-sculpted poise was slipping.
“Yes,” Naoya said flatly, not even glancing up from the documents in his hand.
You groaned, tipping your head back against the chair.
Only then did he truly look at you, beautiful as ever but he noticed the bags under your eyes, how your shoulders drooped and especially the way you drifted asleep the moment you entered any car.
Maybe he had overdone it.
“Last gala. Then I promise you can have a break.” His voice, sincere.
“Two weeks.”
His jaw tightened. Too long.
“A week.”
You narrowed your eyes.
“A week and a half,” he conceded.
“Deal.”
You’d separated from Naoya for only a moment, long enough to be swept into conversation by the women at the gala, each more curious and intrusive than the last. Their painted smiles were sweet, but their questions cut like thin blades.
“How are you finding married life?”
“Does he spoil you? My husband practically drowned me in gifts during our newlywed phase.”
“Tell us… what is Naoya Zenin like when he’s in love?”
You’d managed a polite laugh, your fingers tightening around the rim of your glass. Love. As if you had any claim to that word.
Then the one question that sent your pulse spiraling:
“Soo, how is he in bed? I imagine a man built like that must put those muscles to very good use.”
Heat shot straight to your ears. “I - I’ll excuse myself. I need the washroom.”
You left before your expression betrayed anything, their chatter continuing behind you, light, careless, as if you weren’t even present.
You slipped into the nearest restroom stall, locking it behind you. The plan was to wait them out for a few minutes, until their curiosity found a new victim. But as you sat there, breathing through the embarrassment, voices drifted through the space.
“…I’m going to marry Naoya Zenin. Their marriage isn’t even real, I heard. Such a waste he got forced to settle for her.”
You froze.
Your stomach tightened into a hard, twisting knot. The words cruel, yes, but what was more pressing was her voice carried certainty behind it. And more than anything, the single question that followed:
How did she find out?
If anyone in the Zenin clan heard her speak that freely, her head would be rolling before sunrise, and if the wrong person learned the rumor was true, everything could crumble far too easily.
You stepped out of the stall.
Your expression was composed, but barely, the annoyance, jealousy, and something far sharper flickering beneath your calm. You smoothed your velvet dress, adjusted your diamond earrings, and looked at the girl in the mirror.
Rin Aoyama.
Naoya’s little shadow years ago, forever lingering in the courtyard, always finding an excuse to cross paths with him. She’d grown into herself since then tall, polished, chin slightly raised as if already convinced of her future.
And right now, she looked caught. Startled, for just a second. Then her expression shifted into carefully crafted innocence.
“Oh,I didn’t expect anyone to hear that,” she said sweetly.
You ignored the performance. “I’m unsure where you got that… information,” you said, voice poised but edged. “But it seems entirely fabricated.”
Rin blinked, the fake innocence slipping. “Is that so?”
You stepped closer. Confident. Controlled. “It is. I suggest you reconsider your sources.”
A challenge sparked in her eyes, bright, reckless. “Well, we’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?”
Your jaw tightened. “Be careful using such words around a Zenin.”
The warning hung between you like a blade.
Her gaze sharpened. She understood exactly what you meant.
“And worse,” you added lightly, “if my husband were to hear you. As a courtesy, I’ll advise you to put this stupid rumor to rest.”
Rin huffed, but her confidence didn’t crack. If anything, it solidified.
“You won’t be a Zenin for long,” she murmured. “And when you’re gone… let’s see who he comes running after.”
You stilled.
Her assurance was not the kind an outsider should have, not unless she’d heard it from someone within the clan. Someone close enough to Naoya to speak boldly.
For a moment, doubt flickered across your face.
This wasn’t a real marriage. He wasn’t bound to you. He could choose another woman the second this arrangement ended. And maybe...maybe he already had someone in mind.
Someone like her.
You forced the thought down and gave Rin a smile, slow, graceful, poisonous.
“We’ll see,” you said softly.
She turned sharply on her heel and left.
You stood alone in the silent washroom, staring at the cold marble counter, your reflection slightly blurred in the mirror.
And the knot in your chest tightened.
When you returned to the gathering, Naoya noticed the shift in you immediately. He didn’t comment at first but his gaze lingered on your face longer than usual, studying it.
He took your hand. You didn’t squeeze back.
He slipped an arm around your waist. Your body stayed still beneath his touch cold, composed, distant.
When he leaned in, murmuring a quiet tease meant only for you, you barely reacted. A clipped smile, a soft hum, nothing more. You kept your words minimal, offering no warmth for him to work with.
It was so unlike you that he finally lowered his head and asked under his breath, “Are you unwell?”
“No. I’m completely fine.”
The smile you gave him was tight, your eyes already skimming over the room as if searching for escape.
He watched you carefully. “...Did something happen?”
You met his gaze at last, and the look you gave him was cool, unreadable, distant.
“No. Why do you say that?”
The lie was paper-thin. Naoya recognized it instantly.
“Mmmm. No reason.” He took a slow sip of his drink, though the slight tension in his jaw betrayed him.
He reached for your waist again, but you stepped aside, slipping into conversation with another woman instead, leaving his hand suspended midair.
His brows lowered, irritation sparking briefly in his eyes before he masked it with a polite expression.
The door to your room shut with a soft, decisive thud.
Naoya followed you inside, refusing to give you space, refusing to let the quiet swallow what happened tonight.
You tried walking past him, but his presence filled the room like heat - unavoidable, unyielding.
“You’re going to tell me why you’re upset, ” Naoya said.
Not asked.
Demanded.
His voice was taut, threaded with a patience stretched to breaking.
“I’m truly not upset,” you muttered, unclasping your earrings, setting your jewelry down with trembling fingers.
Naoya watched every movement, too still, too focused.
“I’m not leaving until you do.”
He stepped closer.
Then closer.
Until the vanity pressed against your thighs and his arms braced on either side of you, caging you in.
His scent clean cedar and aftershave, wrapped around you.
His heat seared through your dress.
His eyes were sharp as a blade.
You swallowed.
“I think… we’ve been getting too comfortable with each other.” You kept your gaze fixed on your hands. “I think it’s best if we have some distance.”
Something in Naoya’s expression darkened, like a flame snuffed out, leaving only the smoke.
“Distance?” His voice was dangerously flat.
Naoya Zenin did not tolerate distance.
Not from you.
His jaw clenched once, hard. “Who said what to you?”
You groaned softly, turning your face away.
“Not that it matters… but Rin may have mentioned something about this being a null marriage. And that you’d eventually marry her instead.”
You braced yourself before looking up.
Naoya’s brows were knitted. He wasn’t angry.
He was confused. Genuinely confused.
“Huh?” he said, completely thrown off.
You lifted your hands in weak surrender. “It’s perfectly reasonable for you to see other women, Naoya. Honestly, it makes sense. Part of the arrangement was for you to find a wife in the meantime so...so of course you’d talk to someone and-”
You kept rambling, anxiety spilling out faster than your thoughts could catch up.
Naoya’s jaw locked. A vein ticked in his temple.
For a flicker of a moment, he looked murderous- like the effort it took not to storm out and deal with Rin personally was physically painful.
He slowly inhaled through his nose.
Then again.
Trying to temper himself.
“I would never,” he said, voice low and vibrating with restrained fury, “marry such an incompetent, delusional girl like Rin.”
Your breath hitched.
He leaned in, closer, until his forehead almost brushed yours.
“And more importantly…” His eyes narrowed. “You believed her?”
“No,” you said quickly. “I just -It reminded me that this marriage is… that we’re…”
“Finish that sentence.”
Your pulse skittered violently against your ribs.
“That this marriage isn’t real.”
Silence settled, heavy, electric, ready to split.
Naoya’s next words were slow. Intentional.
Each one carved from something deep inside him.
“Do you want it to stay that way?”
Your heart lurched.
“Naoya-”
He didn’t let you look away.
“What do you want from this?” he murmured, stepping in until only breath separated you. “Truly.”
Your lips parted. Nothing came out.
His gaze dipped to your mouth, slowly, hungrily, before lifting again.
“Say it.”
His voice was molten.
Possessive.
A command wearing the disguise of a whisper.
Your throat tightened. Maybe it was the wine.
Maybe it was the months of tension, of closeness, of pretending not to feel him everywhere.
Maybe it was Naoya, standing so close you could feel his heartbeat pressing into your ribs.
You inhaled shakily.
“I… want it to be a real,” you whispered, eyes squeezing shut. “Not something arranged. Not something owed. I don’t want this to be contractual.”
Naoya exhaled sharply.
He had waited years for this.
Years of wanting, restraining, planning of imagining what your mouth would feel like, what you would sound like beneath him.
It wasn’t the full confession he dreamed of, but it was enough.
Enough to snap the final thread of his restraint.
He moved.
His hand slid to your jaw, firm, warm, claiming.
The other curled around your waist, pulling you against him in one decisive motion.
Your breath broke at the contact.
And then
His mouth crushed onto yours.
Not gentle, not tentative but starved.
A man tasting something he had imagined too many times to count.
A man who had waited too long, endured too much, finally taking what he had ached for.
You gasped into him his lips, his heat, the sheer hunger rolling off him.
Your fingers curled into his suit jacket, desperate for balance.
Naoya seized the opening, his tongue sliding against yours, deepening the kiss with a low, satisfied growl at the back of his throat.
His kiss swallowed every breath you tried to take.
Your back pressed hard into the vanity as Naoya’s body pinned yours in place, broad chest flush to your own, heat rolling off him in waves. His hand cupped your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek with a tenderness that didn’t match the hunger of his kiss.
He tasted like the wine you saw him sip earlier, warm, sharp, intoxicating.
Your hands slid up the front of his suit, gripping the fabric, pulling him closer without realizing it. Naoya groaned, low, deep like he’d been waiting for that tiny show of desperation from you and it set something loose in him.
His other hand tightened at your waist, dragging your hips against his.
“Naoya-” you breathed against his mouth.
He didn’t let you finish.
His lips captured yours again, rougher this time, kissing you like he had years of restraint to burn through. His tongue brushed yours, slow and deliberate, coaxing another soft sound from your throat.
That sound, your sound, made his breath hitch.
His forehead pressed against yours, lips still grazing yours between ragged breaths.
“You have…” he exhaled against your mouth, voice wrecked, “…no idea…”
His hand slid to the back of your neck, guiding your lips back to his, kissing you deep enough to steal the floor from under you.
“…how long I’ve been waiting to hear that.”
Your knees nearly buckled. You tried to understanding his words, his meaning, the depth of his longing - but you couldn't focus.
He kissed you again, slow, hungry, almost reverent.
Every movement of his lips told a story.
Of wanting you quietly.Of swallowing down every impulse to pull you close all those nights.
Of the ache he hid with smirks and teasing.
You felt all of it.
His lips trailed down the corner of your mouth, along your jaw, hot breath brushing your skin before he kissed a spot just beneath your ear. Your fingers tangled in his hair without thinking, pulling just slightly.
Naoya’s breath stuttered against your throat.
“Do you know,” he murmured, voice low, “how many times I’ve imagined you saying that?”
You gasped when his lips grazed the line of your neck, lingering there just long enough for your pulse to stutter wildly.
“Naoya…” your voice was barely a whisper.
He lifted his head, eyes dark, blown, fixed entirely on you.
“You’re not getting distance from me,” he whispered against your lips, brushing them once, twice. “Not now. Not ever.”
Wait -Naoya,” you tried, but the words dissolved as he kissed you.
He pinned you gently, your lungs fluttery. Naoya's hands slipped beneath your dress, gathering the fabric at your waist. He lifted you effortlessly. Your arms found their place around his neck, legs instinctively wrapping around him.
"Good girl," Naoya murmured against your lips, his smirk evident in the words before he kissed you again.
"Wait-" The protest died in your throat as his lips silenced you.
The bed loomed ahead, sheets soft, inviting. With deliberate care, he laid you down, never breaking contact, letting you feel every inch of him as he settled over you. His hands rested at your sides briefly, as if memorizing the shape of you, the warmth, the pulse beneath your skin.
Your breath hitched, fingers tracing the line of his jaw, feeling the subtle tension in his muscles. His eyes, dark amber in the dim light, held yours with an intensity that made your chest tighten.
“So beautiful" he murmured, his voice low, his eyes drunken with a mix of admiration and lust.
“And all mine” He said grinning, flashing his canines.
His lips descended onto yours again, slow, claiming, pressing you into the mattress.
You couldn’t think. Not even noticing when he slipped your dress off, ripping off his own shirt.
His hair standing every which way, his eyes electric fueled with desire, and he stared down, licking his lips.
His lips came crashing down, trailing from your neck to your breasts as he unclipped your bra swiftly.
You couldn’t stop the heat from flushing your face, but too lost in pleasure to care.
“All…mine..” he kept repeating like a mantra.
His touch lingered there, each kiss slow, intentional.
Then his fingers press against your cunt.
His fingers traced lazy circles as he clicked his tongue. "So wet for me already."
Heat flooded your cheeks, but desire overwhelmed any embarrassment.
"O-Oh s-shut up," you managed between shallow breaths.
A low laugh rumbled in his chest as he removed the last barrier between you, positioning himself reverently between your thighs..
Something transformed in Naoya's expression, the careful composure he wore like armor cracking with each passing second. His eyes darkened, pupils blown wide as he gazed at you with unmasked hunger.
He moved with practiced precision, watching your face intently as he slipped two fingers inside you. Your back arched involuntarily, a gasp escaping your lips as his thumb found the sensitive bundle of nerves above.
When his mouth replaced his hand, your fingers threaded through his hair, clutching desperately.
“Mmpf- mmmm…” Noaya groaned against your cunt, his tongue licking past your folds - sending shockwaves through your body.
"Found it," he murmured against your heated skin, voice thick with satisfaction.
"R-right there, the sweet spot, tell me how good it feels." You didn't have to look to know he had shit-eating grin on his face.
His tongue flickering in and out but his rhythm slowing down when you didn't answer.
“P-please, Nao-ya… it feels too good,” you whimpered, breath stuttering.
“That’s it. Good girl.”
He added another finger, curling upward as his tongue worked in tandem, eating you out as he's been starved for days.
Your thighs trembling as they tightened around his head. Your fingers twisted in his hair, pulling him closer as your release approached in waves of mounting pleasure.
Your spit-glossed lips wobble, “Oh, fuck- hck!”, as your walls caved in, releasing your built up.
You cry out as you topple over the edge, Naoya tongue laps up your juices eagerly.
Trying to catch your breath as Naoya crawled up, hovering over you, completely out of it, half-lidded eyes - fuck, you couldn’t even begin to describe the sheer predatory glint in them right now.
And your eyes trailed down….He was huge, his shaft twitching as he ran his hands up and down. His thumb right over the divot on the middle of his pink cockhead, dribbling out in pre-cum.
"Look what you’ve done to me.”
Lining his cock with your pussy, he rubs it up down - teasing
And you can feel the built up, the need for him.
“Tell me... you’ll never leave me.” You caught the cruelty glinting in his eyes.
If you hadn’t been so completely dazed, maybe you would have argued mocked him, pushed back. But right now…
“F-fuck,” you breathed, meeting his gaze. “I’ll never leave you, Naoya.”
And he plunges into you without warning, his mouth crashing onto yours.
Your back arched as a moan spilled from your lips sounding like a sweet melody to his ears.
“Now…Tell me how much you need me” Naoya grunted, his movements turning rougher.
“I-I need you- I need you.“
And just like that he’s slamming against your sweet spot after each word. Snapping his hips furiously into yours- all the way until his skin flushes with the slamming impact.
He was drilling into you like a madman.
Again and again and again.
Feels so fucking good
You’re grabbing ahold of the sheets, bucking your hips into his. The lewdest squelches ring out every time you do, synchronizing with your own sinful noises.
“Is that so?” Naoya murmured, a low chuckle in his voice before he hooked your legs over his broad shoulders.
Fuck did you say that outloud?
He was pounding against her cervix, moving his free hand to slap your ass, making your eyes roll to the back of your head
“Fuck- hah, so this is what it feels to be inside you” Naoya mumbles to himself.
Your thoughts grew more unsteady with every thrust, mind spinning as you became utterly helpless beneath him while he pushed deeper, stretching you inch by inch.
Naoya gritted his teeth, driving you into the mattress, feeling your walls tighten around him. A rough moan left him as you rode out your release, and he followed soon after, burying himself fully inside you, filling you inside out - so intense it felt like you could see stars.
Naoya pulled out and collapsed beside you, chest rising and falling heavily.
You struggled to keep your eyes open, limbs heavy, barely managing the thought of standing, of showering, of doing anything at all.
“Don’t,” Naoya said quietly, still catching his breath.
He pushed himself up and disappeared from the room. When he returned, he carried a small bowl and clean towels. His movements were uncharacteristically gentle as he cleaned you.
He wrapped you in one of his robes afterward, the fabric warm and unmistakably his.
He slipped back under the sheets, pulling you close until your head rested against his chest. The steady rise and fall of him beneath you was comforting, grounding, though your mind was still spinning from what had just happened.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You were too exhausted, too raw, too aware of the closeness between you to find words. Then, quietly, almost hesitantly, you looked up at him.
“What do you mean… when you said you waited years?” Your voice was soft, teasing him.
Naoya’s amber eyes met yours, he groaned, not with frustration, but with a kind of quiet surrender. “I didn’t think… you’d remember anything.”
You giggled, sitting up slightly to look at him properly. “Sooo… how long have you been madly in love with me?”
A soft chuckle escaped him, low and throaty. His hand brushed a stray strand of hair back from your face.
“Ever since you yelled at me in the infirmary,” he said casually.
You blinked, confused, then your mind traced back to that impossible, unforgettable day. Ever since that moment, he had been in love, not some fleeting crush, but completely, fully, utterly. Your stubbornness, your laughter, the way you never let him get away with anything… he had fallen then, and every day since.
“You… you were in love with me this entire time?” you whispered, heart hammering in your chest.
Naoya’s nodded, lips curved into a small, teasing smile. “You think I went through all that trouble with my piercing… almost getting kicked out for my dyed hair… just for fun?”
Heat rose to your cheeks, a shy smile tugging at your lips. You reached out, brushing your fingers against his ear. “I mean… I wasn’t wrong. You did look way hotter afterward.”
Naoya rolled his eyes, but there was something soft in his gaze as he leaned closer. “You weren’t wrong,” he murmured, but his thumb grazed your cheek gently, tenderly.
“What about you?” Taking his turn to tease. You flushed, looking away, heart hammering.
Naoya seized the moment, flipping the two of you so you were beneath him, his elbow propping him up as he caged you with his other arm. His presence was warm, unyielding, impossibly close.
“So?” he murmured, teasing yet earnest. He didn’t need your confession truthfully, knowing you liked him was enough.
“I think… over the last few years, when we saw each other less…” you faltered for a moment, as if struggling to find the words, then met his gaze, intensity burning in his eyes. “The less I got to see you… the more I desperately needed to see you.”
The words hung between you, heavy and intimate.
Naoya leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips. “Tell me you love me,” he murmured, his voice low, insistent.
You groaned, but there was a spark in your chest now, a warmth that lit a fire in him. He wasn’t going to let this moment pass so easily.
“I love you,” you whispered, voice soft but steady.
“Again,” he urged, lips brushing yours.
“I love you,” you repeated.
“Again-”
“Naoya, seriously,” you said, playfully hitting his bicep as a yawn escaped, betraying how exhausted you truly were.
“Fine, fine,” he relented with a chuckle, lying down beside you and pulling you close. “But I want to hear those words again first thing tomorrow morning.”
Nestled against him, you allowed yourself to drift off, surrendering to sleep.
Naoya stayed awake a little longer, watching you, memorizing every line of your face as you slept peacefully in his arms. His wife. Not bound by contracts anymore, but entirely his and he savored the victory quietly. All the years of planning, patience, and careful orchestration had led to this moment.
A small, satisfied smile curved his lips. Letting one of servants spread the rumor of their contract marriage had been risky, yes but it had worked. It had forced you to confront your feelings, to speak the words he had waited so long to hear. Naoya, impatient as ever, had orchestrated it perfectly. He did, although regret it was Rin who got wind of it first…he would deal with her in the morning.
A fleeting thought crossed his mind, perhaps a honeymoon should be next. After all, some victories deserved to be celebrated.
Chapter 1: I Know Getting You Alone Isn't Easy To Do
Pairing: Naoya x reader
Summary: An unexpected marriage proposal lands in your lap, leaving you cornered with seemingly no way out. With the Gojo clan’s prestige, the situation feels impossible. In desperation, you turn to a familiar face, the Zenin heir, Naoya someone you’ve known since childhood, albeit with a history of arrogance and mischief. Surprisingly, he accepts your proposal, but his motives remain unclear. Has he truly come to your aid? Or have you fallen swifty into his trap.
Warning: none (for now?).
Comments: 100% this is a shitty character in the jjk universe, but WHY DID GEGE MAKE HIM SOO FINE. Also trust me, he's not a sexist asshole in this (kinda). This is the first chapter - I released it so I won't end up discarding the entire idea, as I often do (too many unfinished short stories). Also this chapter sets up more of the plot, rather then focusing on the yearning - sorry y'all.
Chapter 2
You found yourself in an awful predicament, if one could even call it that, because it truly seemed there was no way out.
You sat neatly beneath the long wooden table, your posture straight, with your parents in front and the remaining elders surrounding you. The edges of the paper were wrinkled from your nervous grip, and your anxious eyes scanned the proposal for what felt like the tenth time.
“There has to be a way out,” you whispered, your voice strained.
The room was heavy with silence, no one dared to speak, unwilling to be the first to shatter the tension.
What you held wasn’t just any proposal - it was a marriage proposal, an offer of your hand to one of the three major clans: the Gojo clan. While arranged marriages often seemed like relics of the past, they still existed among clans and aristocratic families. Usually, such arrangements were between familiar families, with partners you already knew or had some connection to, leaving at least a little room for personal choice. You understood that, as a member of the Shimazu, you were approaching the age when such matters became relevant. Normally, such a proposal would be part of a gradual process in which you were actively involved, not something thrust upon you abruptly, and certainly not at this unexpected moment.
Other than attending annual meetings or official events, the Gojo clan and your family had never truly crossed paths. Both families paid little attention to one another, maintaining only the barest formalities. Yet, given their prestige, there seemed to be no way to refuse the proposal without causing offense. The worst outcome would be incurring the Gojo clan’s displeasure, a mistake you couldn’t afford.
“There doesn’t seem to be,” your father said, his eyebrows knitted as he stared at the table, his eyes distant.
“There be others they would prefer -” you began, only to be cut off abruptly.
“I have already asked them… we’ve already tried to contest this,” his eyes still fixed on the table.
So attempts had already been made, and failed. In the end, the proposal had come.
But you weren’t ready to accept that.
“And what if I refuse?” Your voice rose, a tremor of frustration creeping in.
“It doesn’t matter - ”
And so the back-and-forth continued, each “what if” scenario you threw out quickly shot down by your father, dismissed as absurd or already tried.
The argument fell silent when one of the elders finally spoke.
“There is a way…” His voice was low, barely a whisper, cutting through the tension.
“Marry someone the Gojo clan deems their equal… someone they can’t punish us for… someone from one of the big three great clans.” He glanced meaningfully between your parents.
Your breath caught. You already knew who he meant.
You were around ten when you properly met him beyond the brief glances exchanged whenever one family visited the other. Despite the centuries-old ties between your clans, real interaction was rare, and with your parents always close by, there was never a chance for an actual conversation.
And truthfully? You thought Naoya Zenin was the most arrogant, conceited, and insufferable person you had ever met.
You watched him bark orders at his servants, especially the women, tossing insults with that inflated ego of his.
“The tea is too hot,” he would sneer, not even sparing the servant a glance as he deliberately spilled it onto the floor.
“What kind of woman can’t even make tea correctly…” he’d mutter, calling them useless every time they made the smallest ‘mistake.’
He began developing his technique early, and of course, he flaunted it at every opportunity. Whenever his family visited, he was outside with the guards, showing off like the world was his stage.
“Did you see that?” he’d shout, chest puffed out, a wicked grin spreading across his face while one of the guards limped away, injured.
Worst of all, you had never seen him do a single thing for himself. His bags were always carried for him, a servant trailed behind him for every whim, and you weren't even sure he knew how to tie his own shoes.
So you were beyond surprised when you found Naoya Zenin crying near the koi pond in your backyard.
Awoken by a faint, muffled sobbing, you dragged yourself out of bed, still half-asleep, following the sound through the cool night air.
And to your shock, there he was, the black-haired boy crouched beside the koi pond. His shoulders shook, his fists pressed against his eyes. The gentle splash of the waterfall half drowned out his sobs.
You blinked hard, rubbing your eyes.
This can’t be real…
But the image didn’t fade. And despite the late hour, a sleepy grin tugged at your lips, because seeing Naoya Zenin cry was… well, a sight.
As you stepped closer, the scene sharpened - bruised skin, blood blotched across his pajama pants, dirt smeared on his knees.
“You have to stop crying,” you whispered, stifling a yawn. “You’re going to wake everyone up.”
Instantly, Naoya snatched his hands away and scrubbed his cheeks with a violent swipe.
“I - I’m not… crying,” he choked, voice cracking like thin ice.
You stared at him, completely unmoved.
Of course you are.
“Where are your maids?” you asked, glancing around. Surely someone was supposed to be trailing behind him at all times?
“They’re sleeping,” he snapped, lip trembling. “My parents said I have to stop calling them at night. It’s stupid.” He sniffed angrily before glaring up at you. “Anyway, who even are you?”
You froze.
Excuse me?
He’d seen you at least five times. Maybe more. Introduced personally by your father.
How ignorant could this boy be?
You huffed and extended your hand. “I’m the person who’s going to help you.”
He stared at your hand like it insulted him… then grabbed it anyway, reluctantly.
Inside, you led him to the infirmary. As you rummaged through the cabinets for a first aid kit, he huffed, “Aren’t you going to call one of your servants?”
You shot him a look. “Why would I wake them? They work hard, they need to rest. And this much I can handle.”
He scoffed. “That’s their job, dummy.”
Your eyebrow twitched. There he was, sitting on the infirmary bed with his arms crossed, chin lifted, acting far too mighty for someone who was sobbing into his sleeve minutes ago.
“Alright, this is going to hurt,” you warned, pouring alcohol onto a cotton pad.
“I can handle -”
He didn’t finish. His face twisted, eyes watering instantly. You moved fast, pressing the gauze on and taping it securely.
“There. All done.” You stepped back, pleased with yourself.
Naoya inspected the bandage with a slow nod. “Not bad,” he said. “I suppose this can count as training for you.”
You blinked. “…Training for what?”
“For when you need to serve your husband.” He said it casually, as if gravity didn’t exist, as if he hadn’t just said the most infuriating thing in the universe.
Your small hands curled into fists. Heat rose in your chest.
Oh, you have got to be kidding me.
“You’re unbelievable!” you burst out. “You treat everyone around you terribly! For all your so called strength, you have zero manners. You never do anything on your own! Do you even know how to tie your shoes?”
Naoya’s eyes widened, stunned.
“You’ll make a terrible husband,” you finished, breathing hot, voice shaking with fury. “I feel awful for whoever has to marry you.”
And with that, you stomped away not bothering to glance back.
The next morning, your stomach twisted with nausea, not from illness, but from the thick, heavy regret settling in your chest. You knew better than to yell at a Zenin child. Especially that Zenin child. The consequences alone made you want to crawl under your futon and disappear.
But to your shock, Naoya didn’t tattle.
Not a word.
He sat through breakfast quietly, eating in uncharacteristic silence. At one point he accidentally knocked over his water cup. The servant rushed to clean it, only for him to mumble,
“I can do it myself,” and begin wiping it up.
The entire room froze. Stared. Blinking.
No one had the faintest idea how the most arrogant child alive had transformed overnight.
No one except you.
You thought it would last a day at most, a temporary shock, then back to normal. But the next few years proved you very, very wrong.
He still carried himself with pride, but the entourage of servants vanished. He carried his own bags. He greeted the guards. He acknowledged the servants instead of snapping at them. His insults became rare. His ignorance shrinking as he grew up.
And he looked grown up too, tall, sharp featured, effortlessly drawing attention whenever he walked into a room. Not that you’d ever admit he wasn’t… unpleasant to look at.
When you were sixteen, you noticed dating had become the new obsession for highschool girls and boys, and that’s exactly how you ended up in this predicament. Huddled together during one of the annual banquets, this year hosted by your own clan, chatting about their ideal ‘types’.
“I love guys with nice smiles.”
“He needs abs. Definitely abs.”
“And tall. Has to be tall.”
When it came to your turn, you froze. You had never given it much thought.
“Um… I like piercings?” you said, unsure. “Ear piercings are kind of hot. And… dyed hair?”
You tried to sound confident, matching their tone.
Their eyes lit up.
“Totally!”
“Piercings are so hot.”
“And dyed hair? Yes!”
You relaxed, relieved you hadn’t said something embarrassing.
But little did you know of a particular boy standing just outside the door, listening in.
So the next day when you saw him –
“Naoya?” you breathed.
His right ear had two fresh lobe piercings and a red, newly done helix.
And his hair, blonde with black tips.
“Thought I should change my look,” he said casually with a smirk plastered on his face.
Your face heated immediately.
Did he… did he do this because he heard you? No way. That would be ridiculous. Completely delusional but mayb-
“ Y’know some of my friends were doing it at school,” he added quickly. “Figured I should too.”
Your blush evaporated on the spot.
Of course, it was just a trend he was following. High school boys everywhere were doing it.
“So… Do I look good?” he asked, his smirk growing larger as he crossed his arms, towering over you.
Maturity or not, he was still an egotistical brat underneath.
“No,” you said flatly. “You look like a delinquent.”
Your expression didn’t budge. Not even an inch.
Confusion spread across his face, as if your answer was the last thing he expected.
You turned away quickly. “I’ll see you at dinner tonight, don’t be late!” you called out, but... Naoya still caught the redness blooming across your ears, the faint blush you were desperately trying to hide.
“All that effort, just for you to say that,” he murmured with a soft chuckle to himself.
And at dinner, he wasn’t late. In fact, he was early, already seated in the corner, quietly watching as you rushed around helping the maids adjust the décor.
When it was finally time to sit, he took the seat right beside you. And, as expected, he was annoying… just in a different way.
Every time you reached for a dish, he beat you to it, placing the food neatly onto your plate.
When you lifted your cup, he poured tea before you could even ask.
He was annoyingly helpful.
Toward the end of the night, as he set a dessert in front of you, you finally snapped,
“Cut it out. You’re being overly, ridiculously, helpful.”
Naoya shrugged his shoulders, leaning back “Just showing you how kind I can be,” he said with a smug grin.
You rolled your eyes.
He leaned over, his breath hot on your ear, “Just showing you what a great husband I’ll make for whoever my poor wife ends up being.”
Your cheeks burned instantly. He was quoting you, word for word, from that night in the infirmary years ago.
Although you shot daggers at him, you couldn’t help the quiet flutter in your chest, small, inconvenient, and entirely unwelcome. His words… the way he aimed them at you… it sparked the tiniest, silliest crush.
But it never had the chance to grow.
After that night, Naoya’s visits became scarce, expected for the next in line of the Zenin clan. His schedule was filled with clan training, political duties, and expectations that weighed heavier as he grew older. And when he did appear, he was no longer the sly, smug teenager you once knew. He moved differently, more serious, more composed, and undeniably more mature
On the rare occasions your paths crossed, he barely spoke beyond a polite nod, sharp, composed, every movement controlled. His eyes, once lively with mischief, had hardened into something unreadable. At dinners, he sat with the elders, back straight, brows furrowed together as he listened to political discussions with a grim focus that made him look far older than his age.
If you caught him in the courtyard, he would be speaking politely with the clan’s young women, possible candidates, prospective matches carefully chosen for him. Bowing respectfully, voice low and mature.
He held doors open now. He thanked the maids. He conversed with elders. He corrected his posture. He behaved exactly as the future head of the Zenin clan was expected to.
And honestly… It was the same for you. Your days are filled with training, studying, responsibilities, expectations. Both of you grew into the roles carved for you long before you were born.
Yet, despite all his changes, one thing stayed exactly the same.
The piercings and the dyed hair.
Even after the trend faded, even after the elders scolded him countless times, he kept them. All of them. The silver glint in his ear became sharper, the blonde brighter, standing out against the cold seriousness he wore like armor.
And on nights when you lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, you found yourself thinking about them.
About how ridiculous he’d looked.
About how good he looked now.
About how he’d changed so much and yet somehow kept the one thing that turned you on so much.
And that thought… that thought kept you awake far more often than you wanted to admit.
You felt your heart hammering in your chest as you stepped into the Zenin estate. It had been months since you’d seen Naoya, and probably several years since you had properly talked to him, he was taller, straighter, and carried himself with a seriousness that made your stomach twist. The boyish arrogance you remembered seemed buried beneath a calm, measured demeanor.
The room was empty except for the two of you. The usual formality of your families was gone,no elders, no maids, no prying eyes. Just him. Just you.
He didn’t glance at you at first, but you could feel his eyes, sharp, assessing, unrelenting. Great. you thought, trying to keep your composure.
You cleared your throat, beginning the usual formalities, but before you could speak at length, Naoya spoke.
“I’ll marry you. Temporarily. ”
The room froze. You blinked, caught off guard. Naoya stiffened, finally turning his gaze to you. His electrifying brown eyes calm, but underneathing hiding something
“Your father has explained in great detail the situation, and as you know, the elders are pressuring me each day to get married” His voice was low, steady.
“Alright.” You squared your shoulders,not completely sure how to process it all. “Since, this arrangement works for both us, guess we should discuss the length of this null marriage ”
For a long moment, he said nothing. His lips twitched with the faintest hint of a smile, but his eyes remained serious, analyzing you like he always did, like he’d known you far longer than anyone else.
Finally, he leaned back against the sofa, fingers drumming lightly on the armrest. “I suppose until one of us finds someone else.”
“I suppose… and dowry and of course the wedding arrangements can be set up by my family.”
“No need,” Naoya cut you off, his tone calm but firm. “Since this is a temporary, null marriage, it wouldn’t be right, I'll take care of it.” He glanced at you briefly.
But you held his gaze a second longer, trying to read the expression that remained carefully neutral, unreadable. The quiet in the room pressed against you, a mix of tension and curiosity.
You couldn’t help but wonder, wouldn’t a phone call have been enough? If this arrangement had already been discussed with your clan, if the decision had been made, what was the point of summoning you here in person?
Naoya’s sharp eyes caught yours, and for a moment it was as if he could read every unspoken thought racing through your mind. A faint, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “I still need this to look real,” he said, calm, precise. “You have to act the part, attend events, live at my home, behave as if this marriage means something. “
But it was as if he purposely didn’t want to negotiate this with your father or the clan elders. It almost seemed….he was waiting to hear what you thought.
His gaze lingered on you, steady and unblinking.
You rolled your eyes, trying to mask whatever you were feeling in your chest. “I assumed as much. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure to play my part as the respectful wife of the Zenin's future leader.”
Naoya watched quietly as you were escorted from his office after finalizing the remaining details. One of his most devoted servants, let out a soft sigh of exasperation.
“I pity the young lady,” the servant muttered.
Naoya’s eyes followed you as you left the estate, fixed on your retreating figure. “Mmmm…now why is that?” he murmured, lost in thought.
“She’s being put through quite the hassling situation,” the servant replied, “Wouldn’t it have been simpler to propose directly instead of involving the Gojo clan?”
A familiar smirk curved Naoya’s lips as he leaned back on the sofa, arms crossed. “But then,” he said, voice low and amused, “she would have never come crawling to me for help.” His gaze darkened just slightly.
“Don’t worry… I’ll be treating her very well after this.”
Summary: Riko’s death weighs heavily on Geto Suguru’s shoulders. As the weeks go by, he drifts through each day in a daze, unable to find meaning in what he does. Saving people feels less like a duty and more like slowly drowning, especially when the number of curses only seems to grow with no end in sight. Caught in his spiral, overwhelmed and exhausted, he proposes a dangerous idea to Yuki an idea born from grief rather than logic. But before the conversation can go any further, his girlfriend steps in, shutting it down instantly and completely derailing the direction things were heading.
Warning: none, suguru lowkey depressed or whatever
Comments: know JJK is full of ‘what if’ scenarios, but I couldn’t shake the idea of Geto Suguru having a woman who actually knocks some sense into him, someone who literally helps him through a depressive spiral. This one isn’t for the smutty girls, it’s for the yearners.
"Then... why not kill every non-jutsusu sorcerer alive?”
The words rang in your ears, your back pressed against the wall as you listened closely.
You could feel the momentary pause. This bitch couldn’t seriously be entertaining the thought? Your eyes hardened, fingers curled into a fist - failing attempts to contain your boiling temper.
“That could be an option -” Yea, fuck off you thought before pushing yourself off the wall and finally turning the corner.
“That is absolutely not an option.” You spat the words, planting yourself in front of both of them, arms crossed, unable to look at Geto for now.
"To try to eliminate every person on this earth for what you call the greater good is not only absurd but it’s stupid. You can’t end suffering by creating more suffering.”
Your jaw locked, eyes blazing, before softening as they finally drifted toward Geto, leaving him momentarily stunned by your sudden appearance.
“Curses are born from negative emotions, fear, grief, envy but these are part of being human. They’re not flaws to erase, they’re part of the human experience, something we’re meant to protect. If we start deciding who deserves to live and who doesn’t… aren’t we just becoming the very thing we claim to fight?”
And then your gaze hardens.
“You”
Stepping closer, leaning in slightly, eyes narrowing, fingers pointed firmly. “Don’t go around entertaining thoughts like that.”
Then, without breaking your attention, you faced Geto. Your eyes softened as you stood taller, hands reaching, threading through his dark hair, tracing the contours of his face. You noticed the subtle drop in his weight, the shadows under his eyes, the exhaustion etched into every line. His eyes, a mix of surprise, shame, and sadness, met yours, and for a moment, the world shrank around you two.
You didn’t understand how someone could change so drastically in less than a month. You knew he had been devastated after Riko’s death, but this… this was different. You had been away for only a month, and yet, he had carried such weight alone.
The air between you was heavy, thick with unsaid words and restrained emotion. You crouched slightly, your voice softening. “And you, don’t ask such stupid questions.”
Geto’s head lowered to rest lightly against your stomach, aching for your warmth while hiding his shame. His muscles, that had been so tense these weeks, instinctively relaxed as he wrapped his arms around your hips. Despite being caught off guard during his moment of weakness, he couldn’t help but smile, ever so slightly at the thought of you being here.
“Hey… hey kid, let’s get this clear - I never said that,” Yuki said, leaning back, eyebrows raised, trying to act nonchalant as if they weren’t discussing some sort of massacre. “But yeah, what your girlfriend just said - I agree. Stupid. Care for humanity, don’t take the easy route, yada yada.”
And just like that, the moment of tenderness was over. Geto, eyes still tired, glanced at Yuki, silently warning: you’re digging yourself a deeper hole here.
Your eyes met hers - you were ready to remind her of the seeds of thought she had been planting without realizing but she got up, quickly might you add, before you could speak.
“Alright lovebirds” she glances between both of you “ Seems like you guys have some catching up to do so I’m out of here,” she said, leaving the room.
It was just the two of you. Silence hung heavy, woven with concern and the quiet pulse of a love that you both shared.
“I didn’t know you were coming,” he murmured, his voice rough but gentle. “If you had told me… I would’ve come to pick you up.” He pressed his forehead and chest closer to you, drawing you into his warmth.
Your heart swelled at his words. Fingers threading through his hair, you tried to smooth away the stress that had taken hold over the past weeks.
“Wanted to surprise you,” you said, a playful lilt to your tone. The truth was, your mission had been scheduled for two months but his calls had grown scarce, his voice quieter each time, always tired, always dodging your questions. It was instinctive; your body refused to stay away. So you finished the mission in a month, working through sleepless nights and surviving almost entirely on 7/11 coffee.
“Well… you did,” he said, a small, playful smile tugging at his lips. He leaned back slightly, taking your hands in his, bringing them to his mouth, and pressed soft kisses across your knuckles.
“You don’t look so well, you know,” you said, concerned creeping into your voice.
“Just a little tired… y’know exorcise, absorb, exorcise, absorb…” His voice trailed off, unconvincing even to him.
You could see how the weight of life and death pressed heavily on him, the endless cycle of responsibility offering no end.
“More than a little tired,” you said firmly, tugging gently on his hands to pull him up. “You’re overworked” You knew better than anyone how exhausting this life can be… the missions, the battles, the constant strain. “Come on, let’s get you out of here.”
Geto stood there, towering over you, silent for a heartbeat, studying your face. Then, without a word, his arms wrapped around you, pulling you into a tight, affectionate hug. Your arms went instinctively around his neck, holding him close.
“I missed you so much,” he whispered into your hair, his voice breaking ever so slightly.
Geto dropped your bags on the wooden floor of your shared apartment, your arms still full of groceries.
“Oh, you can just leave those in our room,” you said, nodding toward the bags.
He gave a small nod as you swung open the refrigerator.
Nothing. Just a few eggs and a carton of milk. No wonder he’s practically shriveling up.
Without wasting a second, you set the groceries down, tied your hair back, and slipped on an apron. Before Geto could protest, the rice cooker was humming, the pan sizzling with vegetables and meat, and the instant curry was warming on the stove.
A pair of arms wrapped around you from behind, his hair brushing the back of your neck. “You should’ve waited… I would’ve cooked for you,” he murmured.
Turning, your eyes met his, and for a moment, the air thickened with everything neither of you had said in weeks, the frustration, the worry, the unspeakable weight he carried. You wanted to ask, to demand, to comfort but the words tangled in your throat.
“You’re always cooking for me,” you said finally, your voice soft but teasing. “At this rate, I’ll forget how to do anything myself and be completely dependent on you.”
Geto chuckled, leaning in to press a kiss to your lips. “Would that be such a bad thing?”
You rolled your eyes, but didn’t push him away. “Take a quick nap,” you said, though he ignored you, trailing kisses along your neck.
He had about three plates worth of food, not that you’re complaining, quite the opposite actually.
Afterwards, you ran a hot bath for him, watching as the guilt flickered across his face while he took in the effort you put in for him. Rolling your eyes, you coaxed him into the water, massaging his scalp and washing his hair.
“This isn’t half bad,” Geto murmured, leaning back against the tub, eyes distant.
“Don’t get used to it,” you scoffed lightly, hiding your giggle.
Afterward, out the tube you sat him on the floor between your thighs, carefully drying his hair. . Every gesture was gentle, intimate, but the silence remained, circling around the one thing neither of you dared to speak aloud.
“Alright… that should do it,” you said, planting a soft kiss on his shoulder.
Geto turned, resting his head on your thighs, eyes soft and vulnerable as he played with the hem of your shirt.
Finally, his gaze lifted to yours, the weight of weeks pressing into every line of his face. “I… I can’t stop thinking about Riko,” he admitted, his voice trembling, tight with guilt. “She… she was my responsibility. I… I failed her.”
Your chest tightened at the pain etched into his expression. “Suguru…” you whispered, your hand reaching up to cup his cheek. “I know you feel that way, but you did everything you could. That wasn’t your fault.”
He shook his head, tears slipping freely now. “… I should have protected her better, I let my guard down. I couldn’t stop him. I couldn’t stop… any of it.” His voice cracked, raw anguish breaking through his controlled exterior. “… it’s too much, the curses…the evil… I can’t fix it.”
You leaned closer, brushing damp hair from his forehead. “Suguru, listen to me,” you said gently, each word deliberate. “You couldn’t have predicted what happened. No one could have. There was nothing you or anyone could do to change it. This… this mission should have never been something meant for you two to bear alone.”
He pressed his forehead to yours, his body trembling, quiet sobs threatening to escape. “But it feels like… like I failed at everything. Like all I’ve done… all I’ve done is fail.”
You held him tighter, pressing a soft kiss to his temple, feeling the storm in him and grounding it with your presence. “You haven’t failed. You’ve done so much good, so much more than you even realize. Riko… would she have blamed you? Never. She’d want you to keep going, to live, to fight… not drown in guilt.”
He let out a shaky breath, pressing his forehead against your thigh, “I’m sorry… I just feel so defeated” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper.
“I know,” you murmured, resting your forehead against his, wrapping him completely in your arms. “ You will never carry the world alone. Not ever. You’ve already done so much. Don’t let the rest of it crush you.”
The tension in him eased slightly. His tears slowed, and though his pain was far from gone, he let himself rest against you, the weight shared, not borne alone.
The next few days passed in a slow, steady rhythm, quiet mornings together, shared meals, walks around the neighborhood, moments of laughter. And with each passing day, he seemed lighter, steadier, especially now that you both had taken a couple weeks off.
But today was slightly different.
Suguru hummed along softly to your playlist, windows rolled down as the countryside breeze swept through the car. The sunlight caught on his face, you truly forget how hot your boyfriend is sometimes.
“Alright…” you said, pulling into the driveway. “We’re here.”
You grinned at him, wide and excited, and received a small, nervous smile in return.
You weren’t the only one who had been worried about him. A day after you returned to Jujutsu High, his parents had called you, concerned for him. You reassured them he’d be visiting home soon. You knew what weighed on him, Yuki’s words still echoing, the shame of having even considered a path that would have meant wiping out non-sorcerers… including his own family. The guilt was something he hadn’t dared speak aloud, but you felt it hiding in the corners of his mind.
But the moment the front door opened, all that tension dissolved.
His parents didn’t hesitate as they wrapped him into their arms the second they saw him.
“Suguru! Oh, sweetheart,” his mother gasped, pulling him close, hands trembling slightly as she cupped his face. “I missed you so, so much. And my god - did you lose weight?”
He let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh, but more like a release, leaning gently into her touch. “Just a little. Summer heat,” he joked softly.
His father clapped a warm hand on his shoulder, pulling him into a second, firmer embrace. “It’s good to have you home, son. Really good.”
You watched him, how his shoulders dropped, how the stiffness he carried melted under their affection. In their arms, Suguru looked less like a sorcerer and more like a boy again a boy who was loved, who had always been loved.
And then his mother turned to you with the same warmth. “Oh sweetheart, thank you for bringing him.” She pulled you into a hug too, squeezing your arms affectionately.
You smiled. “Of course. I’ve been wanting to bring him back.”
She nodded knowingly, eyes softening. “Good. He’s been working himself sick.” She said it loud enough for Suguru to hear, and he looked away, cheeks slightly pink.
As you all stepped inside, Suguru stayed close to you, close enough that his arm brushed yours with every step. But it wasn’t out of anxiety anymore. It was grounding. Reassurance.
Inside, the house felt warm. Safe. Lived in. Photos lined the walls, Suguru as a child, Suguru with his friends, Suguru with his parents. You watched his eyes linger on each one.
And you saw the realization hitting him slowly, gently.
This was the world he had once sworn to protect.
This was what he almost convinced himself didn’t exist anymore.
You slipped your hand into his, squeezing it once. He looked at you, really looked at you and you saw the shift in his expression. Shame loosening.
His mother tugged him toward the kitchen. “Come, come, you must be starving. I made all your favorites.”
He laughed softly with an unguarded, genuine sound and let himself be pulled away. But not without reaching back and catching your hand, pulling you with him. Not letting go.
For a moment, watching him surrounded by warmth, you saw the boy he had once been. The one who believed in people. The one who fought because he cared.
And you could tell this visit was stitching something inside him back together.
You were on one of your afternoon walks, hand in hand with Suguru, when you slowed down in front of a small café storefront.
“Mind if we stop here for a bit?” you asked casually.
“Of course, babe,” Suguru said immediately, fingers tightening affectionately around yours. “Get whatever you want.”
“Whateverrr I want? Dangerous thing to say,” you teased, giggling.
Suguru just smiled, brushing your knuckles with his thumb. He’d been showering you with more affection than usual,if that was even possible. These days he was the one waking up early to cook for you, running warm baths, massaging your shoulders after long days… and at night, he worshipped you with a tenderness that nearly broke your heart. It was as if he was trying to make up for the weeks he let himself slip away.
But truthfully, you weren’t here for coffee.
And as soon as you stepped inside, Suguru figured that out.
His steps slowed. His grip tightened. His eyes flicked to the back corner of the café.
Gojo was sitting there.
Waving at you both with that easy smile, even though the way he kept adjusting his sunglasses betrayed his nerves.
Suguru inhaled sharply.
“You tricked me,” he whispered.
“You needed this,” you answered softly.
His throat bobbed. “I… don’t know if I can -.”
“Yes, you can.” You squeezed his hand and moved to stand in front of him. “Suguru… you both experienced losing her, you both still carry that burden heavy and you need to talk to the one person who went through it all with you. “
He looked down.
You lifted his face gently with your fingers. “ Just go talk”
His lashes fluttered, conflicted. “You know… the last straw that made me immediately drop everything and rush back to you?”
He swallowed. “Gojo called me. I had never heard him be so serious…so concerned. “
Suguru’s eyes softened.
You stepped back, brushing your hand against his arm one last time. “Go,” you whispered. “I’ll be right outside.”
He hesitated only a second more before nodding and walking toward Gojo.
You exhaled and stepped outside, only to find Shoko leaning against the wall, smoking lazily.
“Oh, hey,” she greeted, blowing out a thin cloud. “Are they finally talking?”
“Yeah,” you said with a small smile.
Shoko eyed you briefly, almost impressed. “Good. They’ve been avoiding each other’s feelings like it’s a sport.”
You snorted, leaning against the wall beside her.
Minutes passed. Maybe twenty. Maybe thirty. The café patio was quiet except for the soft hum of conversation inside. You didn’t hear a thing from their booth, but every now and then you saw glimpses,Suguru’s bowed head, Gojo’s hands moving animatedly, two silhouettes leaning in closer.
At one point, Suguru laughed.
A real, genuine laugh.
Shoko’s brows lifted. “Huh. Good sign.”
When the door finally opened, Suguru stepped out first. His eyes were a little red, but his whole expression looked lighter, unburdened in a way he hadn’t been for weeks. Gojo followed, offering you a smile before calling out.
“Alright, tomorrow at 2pm! Don’t forget!”
Then he walked off with Shoko in tow.
Suguru chuckled softly at Gojo’s dramatics, then turned to you. In two steps he had his arms around your waist, burying his face in your shoulder. You hugged him without hesitation.
“Thank you,” he murmured, voice thick.
You slid your fingers into his hair. “You don’t have to thank me. I love you, Suguru. I’ll always pull you back.”
He exhaled, resting his forehead against yours.
“I’m truly the luckiest man in the world.”
You knew that no matter the weight of his burdens, no matter how far he had strayed, this connection was a tether, keeping him grounded when the rest of the world threatened to pull him under.
no money? no problem! pizzadeliveryguy!sukuna x opportunist!reader
cw: backshots, slight degradation, reader lies on the spot after seeing how beefy the pizza guy was, just a fun little drabble based off this ask
“you’re kidding,” the man groans, sliding a hand down his face as he holds a warm box of pizza in the other. “you couldn’t have told me that when i called 5 minutes ago, asking for fucking directions to get here? ‘fucks wrong with you??”
a lot.
he doesn’t get paid enough for this. the fact that you’re the last delivery of the night makes this all even worse— he could’ve been home by now! lounging back on his couch with an ice cold beer, watching a show, not out here in the freezing cold as some chick looks at him all doe-eyed, probably thinking you can sweet talk your way out of this.
and you can. you absolutely can. you’re ready to do more than just talk your way out of this. “i’m so sorry,” you feign innocence, just barely hiding how giddy you are. “i swear i thought i had $20 on me.”
“you got a venmo or something?” he continues to be annoyed, trying to ignore that fact that you’re barely dressed and a little too happy for a girl who claims to be broke. though he must admit, the silk shorts and tank top look pretty damn cute.
“i don’t have a phone.”
“no?” he clicks his tongue, holding back a laugh at how ridiculous of a lie that is when you had just spoken to him over the phone. he rests his arm over the door frame and leans down, lips curving to a grin as he continues to entertain whatever this is. “well what do you have then, sweetheart? gotta have somethin.”
it all happened faster than you thought it would.
“who just lets the pizza guy in like this, huh?” he heaves, balls slapping against your clit with each thrust, filling the living room with the lewd sounds of harsh slaps and wet squelches.
“i don’t know,” you say through struggled moan, barely able to form a thought from how he has you— on your knees, back in the craziest arch as he delivers the deepest backshots, fucking you dumb on your couch that won’t stop creaking. “i- i just—“
“you’re just, what?” he laughs, not letting up on the brutal pace he’s had from the start. he grabs a fist full of your hair, yanking you up to mutter in your ear. “a fuckin’ slut?” he chuckles as you pathetically nod. a hand snakes around you and pressed against your lower belly. “you really are a little slut, look how good you’re taking me. you feel me? feel how fuckin’ deep i am?”
“uh-huh,” you whine from the way he continues to press down on to the bulge on your tummy and taunt you. he was big. everything about him was. he was strong too, having to hold you close to him so you didn’t fall forward each time he slammed his hips against you. “it was so worth it though— fuck— feels so good.”
he smirks, satisfied with the praise. “yeah?”
“mhm— shit, right there,” you cry out, making him shove you back down as he continues to give you exactly what you want.
how could he not? especially when you’ve been so sweet to him.
he grabs both your wrists and pulls them back, keeping you in that perfect arch while he pounds into you, just hammering through your walls and hitting your sweet spot every. single. time. it’s insane, you’ve never been with anyone that’s made you cum this much. who would’ve thought it would be him.
he was clearly experienced, it was the direct result of him being attractive as hell, and he knew it. but this? getting the chance to live through something that was straight out of some raunchy porno? of course he took you up on your offer. a lucky man he was.
“yeah, that’s it. cum for me. show me how good this strangers making your pussy feel,” he groans, watching the creamy ring around the base of his cock grow thicker and thicker.
god, he was nasty— not just in the way he fucked you, but with his words, the way he talked you through it as if he didn't already have you a sobbing mess from the way he was manhandling you. he was fucking shameless and it all unfortunately goes straight to your core, making the pressure in you build up even faster.
at this point he's just working it out of you. you might be a crying, babbling mess, but this was light work for him. pulling you back, making you take each and every inch he was stuffing into you with ease.
"c'mon on, give it to me," he continues to encourage you, roughly. it's not like you had much of a choice to begin with-- not with how fast he was going, and definitely not with how he straight up abuses your sweet spot, the fat cock of his cock just hitting it over and over again.
and the orgasm doesn't just hit you, it fucking tears through you and you don't even recognize the sound you made when it did. you don't know whether you should be embarassed or grateful for how hard the guy made you cum.
not that it stays on your mind for too long, you're easily pushed into overstimulation while he chases his own release. your ears are still ringing, all you can hear are the rough grunts above you and the wet schlick everytime he drags his cock out of you. a couple harsh thrusts later and he's cumming too. you can feel his dick throbbing and you're almost disappointed that you made him wear a condom.
almost.
you had to remind yourself that he was stranger for fucks sake.
"you sure you don't have a phone?" he continues to heave, trying to catch his breath as he slowly pulled out of you.
"...why?" you ask nervously, thinking he's still going to make you pay. that would've been beyond unfair. you might just start crying again.
he scoffs. "so i can get your number, lyin' piece of shit," he ends up scolding you.
but in time you'll quickly realize that this pizza guy loves his women on the crazier side, and you were not getting rid of him anytime soon.
You love your husband, but there once was a time where you couldn’t stand being in the same room as him.
It wasn’t hatred— disdain is probably a better word to describe how you felt toward him. He was brash, rude, way too fucking cocky. It didn’t help that he came from a wealthy family either. His father ran one of the more known construction companies in the region, meaning he grew up more spoiled than he’d ever admit.
He had everything— the money, the nice cars, the women. Of course he didn’t know how to act right.
You heard about him way before you met him thanks to a friend of yours that went to the same university and hung around in the same circle as him. It was a complaint each time— this bastard did this, and that asshole did that. The complaints went on even after graduation, you could imagine how annoyed she was the day she found out you went out to dinner with him and fucked him in the backseat of his car right after.
He was okay at first. A little stand off-ish, the type that didn’t care to make new friends— that much was known when he stayed in the basement playing beerbong with the same guys all night long.
His looks clouded your judgement at first. The height, the tattoos, the big broad shoulders, his face that was arguably more handsome than most. He was exactly your type and you hated that fact the first few months of knowing him.
It started off with little comments here and there, passive aggressive, but harmless. Stuff like, “no one asked” whenever you made a comment. Little things— things you could ignore.
And so you did. You ignored his comments, the way he’d sigh whenever you asked a question, the face he’d make whenever you spoke up in general. After a while, you started to ignore him completely.
That should’ve been enough, right? He couldn’t make you feel bad if you weren’t around to begin with.
Wrong. He started going out of his way to bother you. Whether it was through social media, responding to your instagram stories with nothing but laughing emojis, or just bringing you up in a conversation that had absolutely nothing to do with you— Sukuna always found a way.
It didn’t stop until you were both at a mutual friend's birthday party, when a resounding slap echoed throughout the house just minutes after Sukuna walked into the kitchen to say something to you.
You don’t even remember what it was that he said. All that comes to mind years later is the shocked look on his face as his left cheek steadily reddened from the slap you put all of your might in.
Synopsis. ‘G’ for Geto Suguru. ‘G’ for the hot ghost living in your all-new apartment. ‘G’ for the way he’s going to break your bed (and your back, too…)
Pairing. Geto Suguru x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem!reader, ghost!Geto, Lady K and the Sick Man AU, he’s feraI, oraI (fem rec.), spítting, chokíng, fíngering, stopping you from running, face-sítting, manhandIing, matíng presses, slight bréeding, rough s, making it fit, ínappropriate use of powers, pússydrúnk Geto, dúmbifícation, creampíes, cúmpIay, marathons, overstím, cúmfIation, pet names, swéaring.
Word count. 8.0k
A/N. RUNNING to an apartment that has him-
You had a problem.
And it was all to do with that snug, slightly-shabby new apartment you’d just moved into. Sure, it was unverified but it wasn’t the worst - the water worked, and it was a fairly good price for a place this close to the city. A steal, practically.
You knew it was too good to be true.
You were laying on your half-constructed bed, body sore after a long day of lifting and unpacking. Your head sinks into the pillow with a sigh, more than done for the night. “M’never moving again.” And, blindly in the dark, you’re reaching your arm outwards.
Digging through the newly-installed bedside cabinet for - oh, you couldn’t help yourself - an impressive, hot-pink colored…toy.
You’re gulping as you flick on the switch, thighs clenching in anticipation - it really had been a long day. The thick vibratin’ tip just glides down the middle of your body like a pathway. Down, down, down—and that’s when you feel it.
Someone was watching.
Your heavy eyelids snap open (when did they even close?) And you’re casting a sweeping look around the humble room.
You couldn’t see much in this darkness, but then again nothing stood out of place.
And so you’re letting your vibrator go back to work, drawing sultry circles just with the tip by your navel. Again and again. So pent up. When it got too much, and you were just too drenched- you’re teasingly letting its length start to slip underneath your silky sleep shorts—
You feel it again.
Something that made icy goosebumps rise on every inch of your skin.
Someone was watching.
“Fuck- okay.” You’re immediately lurching to sit up on your bed, bouncing ever-so-slightly at the force. That baseball bat of yours for protection was downstairs, you think- but you could still throw a lamp if anyone was there. Maybe your vibrator (hah!)
And you instantly lean over for the lamp - not to throw it (yet), but rather to turn it on. “Who’s there? I swear on everything that if anyone’s there and I catch you are going to be- what the…”
You should have sworn.
You should have screamed.
Because as soon as the lights flood the walls of your bedroom, you’re not coming face-to-face with some masked, murderous intruder. At least, not in the way you might have expected - which, then again, you still couldn’t be sure.
Instead, you catch the pale, somewhat…other-worldly sight of a man dressed in all white.
Tall. Toned. His Stygian hair flowing over his shoulders and slightly over his face, reaching all the way till the tips tickled the floor. From what you could see of his features he was…handsome- delicate, pretty features, high cheekbones, and the most shapely lips all pink. The man smiles kindly, and through the gaps of his bangs you could tell that his eyes were upturned into happy half-moons.
Were you sure that some model or someone of the sort hadn’t accidentally ended up in your bedroom? And was he included in the rent?
This stranger wore a flowy kimono with the right side wrapped over the left. And even in such a drab thing, he looked ethereal.
There was a strange glow about him.
He almost looked like a…a ghost.
And he was standing in your empty closet.
“Wh-what the-” You’re gaping, your mouth opening and closing a few times before you manage to blink yourself back into cognition (and to sanity). The realization: there was a strange man in your closet and yes, no matter how pretty he was, he’s still a strange man in your closet.
Without thinking, you’re reeling your hand back in a forceful throw. Hurtling. “-fuck!”
Your glitzy vibrator hits the back of your closet dead-on, it was a perfect throw.
And yet, it still didn’t hit the man.
Instead, it passed right through him.
Your veins grow cold as you wipe your eyes with your fists - he wasn’t there anymore. Urgently, you get off the bed and look around your room - he wasn’t there anymore.
Aw, great. He really was a ghost—so there was a reason this place was so damn cheap.
There was no way he could have sprinted from the confines of your closet to the doorway and out without you seeing him. So there was nothing to do but step towards the origin of this entire mess in the first place: the closet.
You cautiously step towards it, your footsteps echoing almost as loud as your heartbeat. As you reach the dark line in the tatami that marked the start of the closet, you begrudgingly can’t find anything amiss. Looking in every corner, on every empty shelf.
Looking upwards—
Ah.
A trapdoor.
A tiny square of a door that was cut out into the ceiling of the closet. You guessed that this led up to some sort of attic (the move had really been hasty, okay), and you tip-toe to brush your fingertips against the high ceiling.
Though, even if you did find him there, what could you even do? How does one even co-exist with a ghost-
Your toes knocked against the fallen vibrator.
And suddenly you have an idea.
You push open the wooden trap door with a creak, managing to peak your head up. And there, sure as day, was the crouched figure of the man. His lifeless face devoid of expression. Eyes wide. He spied down at you in silence as you pull yourself slightly into the attic space. Slightly crawling back a few inches.
He smiled that cute, crescent-eyed smile once more.
Without hesitation, you reach your hands out- and to your surprise, your palms meet solid flesh. Cold. But solid. You’re cupping his face and edging him closer to you. Grinning, “Hey there.”
The next second, your lips are on his.
And this man - this ghost - groans out in ecstacy. Melting into it. You swear you could feel the surface of his skin where your thumbs rested start to scorch with a red-hot blush. His bangs tickle your face as he tilts his head to the side and starts pressing in even deeper.
Until you have to pull away with a gasp and a slick line of spittle that still connects him to you. Something he’s shortening the distance of as he chases after your now-swollen lips with a whine.
“M-more-” He croaks out from the back of his throat, thick and wet with need.
To which you raise an amused brow, “Well, I’d like to know your name first, Mr. Ghost-”
“Geto Suguru.” Geto then starts closing the gap. Puckered, pink lips ravenous for yours. Just the slight edge of his fangs grazes your bottom lip as he starts gnawing down.
But you weren’t done just yet. “And then also I wanted to know what it’s like being a ghost? Any habits? Any dislikes?” You probe, expectant of his answer- but he only looks down at you with half-drunk eyes. Focused on only one thing. “If we’re going to co-exist then I think it’s better if we- mmpf.”
And that one thing was to kiss you silly.
He’s pryin’ your lips apart with his textured tongue, slithering inside so he can stick it into every ridge and orifice. Geto kisses you like a man wishing to quench his thirst after eons of going without. Hot and open-mouthed.
His sloppy kisses end up with a thin line of drool sliding down the edge of your lips and he grunts as he registers it. Dark lashes fluttering ever-so-slightly, “More.”
“Like- like this?” You’re panting by now.
You’re slightly dizzy from all the kissing, flapping your hazy lids a few times and realizing that you were now pressed up against the closet wall. How did you even get there?
Fuck, you had no idea. Right now, the only thing that mattered was Geto’s firm abs pressing through the cottony fabric of his kimono and onto your front. His ice-cold heat. His mouth pushing against yours over and over and over- he didn’t need to breathe.
And yet he was gasping into your mouth with every lecherous suck on your tongue, like his favorite candy. His favorite taste. “More.”
Oh.
What have you unleashed?
Your mouth parts in slight shock and he’s taking the opportunity to kiss you even harder. Until his plump, plush lips were on the verge of bruising and yet Geto didn’t even seem to notice.
Only briefly breaking off the Earth-shattering kiss to look you deep in the eyes. One of his pale, slender hands comes up beside your face and you stare at it in confusion. Still confused as he then clicks!
And suddenly you’re on the bed once again.
“Wh-what the-” You feel like you’ve been saying that non-stop tonight - but could anyone blame you? You’re looking around, your eyes taking their time to adjust to the abrupt change in setting. “You can do that?”
Geto only smiles a sly smile, something knowing. And he has the audacity to shrug.
Before his lips attack yours.
Again. Though, this time his hands are firmly caressing the sides of your body. Gliding down every dip and curve until he’s resting his fingertips against the elastic hem of your shorts.
Geto gives it a slight tug, before you’re pulling away.
“Ah ah-” You’re making a noise of warning over his disappointed huff. Geto narrowed eyes (were they amethyst colored? Oh, they were gorgeous) seem to light up as you then fiddle with the ties of his robe, “You first.”
Gladly.
Geto shoulders away the fabric of his kimono until you could make out his toned upper half. His chiselled chest. Pecs. The ladder-like ridges of his abs lining down his stomach- which is all the greedy glimpse you can take in before he’s then rip-rip-riiiipping off your shirt.
Buttons bursting everywhere as he throws it over his shoulder.
Your shorts are next. Though Geto takes his sensual time slipping them off- shuffling himself down as well. His pinkish tongue comes out to lick his lips as he watches a few stringy wads of your slick stick to the front of the shorts.
Oh, you were just so wet.
It was almost embarrassing. And as the smirk on his mouth grows, you find yourself puffing. “Don’t- don’t get cocky about it.” Attempting to close your legs just to stop the pure intensity of his stare and-
“Don’t.”
And perhaps it’s the startling divergence of him saying something else, perhaps it the sheer carnal need that seeps into just the tone of that one word - but you’re frozen as Geto then uses his palms to smear your sheeny thighs out until you whine at the stretch.
Taking just one second, maybe two, to admire the splosh of syrupy slick that runs between your pussylips. So thick and swollen with need that Geto gulps before he’s immediately surging his face between them.
Pushing in nose-deep.
He doesn’t hesitate for even a second. He doesn’t even breathe before sticking the fat, padded edge of his tongue on your sensitive folds.
Plastering. Gluing.
Geto’s fucking his prolonged tongue into you like such an animal- husking out moans at the back of his throat at he way your flooded entrance was just too tight to take all of his tongue in one go.
You’re whining as he pushes and pushes his honed, swabbin’ tip against the circular outer rim. Trying to stretch it out even further with the extreme girth of his tongue - he was just so thick. So big. “Oh- fuck, fuck. Calm down, Geto-”
“Suguru.” Geto practically jolts at the electricity of you saying his name.
“S-Suguru—” You squeal, your thighs shaking so much when he sticks his pointed chin to the bottom of your pussy. Just letting his head move in rovering motions and half-thrusts to bully inside. “You’re acting like you’ve been starving for ages, hah.”
And at that Geto lurches himself upright ever-so-slightly.
Syrupy juices drip down the lower half of his face and splatter back down onto your pussy. Glistening all the way down his jawline and up his cheekbones like a gloss.
“Oh, gorgeous…” And then he smiles. Something crazed in his eyes. “I haven’t tasted anything this sweet in life or death.”
Your chin drops to meet your chest, “Oh- wait, how old are you?”
“Oh, honey, you don’t expect me to count right now?”
And he was addicted already.
Properly spitting a wadded knot of saliva down, it strikes the front of your pussy harshly. To which Geto immediately followed up with a lingering few kisses, gluing his upper lip right near where your clit was.
Swollen and needy. And Geto’s just as ravenous as he tug n’ tugs your pussylips aside to fit inside his tongue.
“Never have.” One of his forearms comes up to rest against the inside of your left thigh. You’re trickling out in wires of slick as he runs one of his fat thumbs between your dripping wet crevice. Pushin’ just down on your perky nub like a button, “Never will- fuck, this pretty pussy’s all mine now. Y’know ghosts haunt for life?”
“N-ngh, oh my god…” Your mouth hangs ajar. Hips arching off of the slowly-dampening blankets to further push his pretty face into your pussy. “Y-you’re talking so much now, ngh.”
“Oh.” Like he didn’t even register that. And Geto clouds out a murky breath that heats up your core even more. Just so many sensations that already send zaps of pleasure skittering up your spine - it makes your cunt gush out in a waterfall of even more sap that Geto leans over to lap at.
Tongue fully flopping out, licking and licking every polished inch of you so that none of it goes to waste. You’d soaked yourself even wetter, and he was stopping mid-sentence just to taste you. Only after he’s done does he murmur. “Oh I’m…”
“Hm?”
“Drunk.” Oh. Geto’s knobbly thumb rolls over the tip-top of your clit in slow hearts, making your eyes swirl comically inside the whites of your eyes. “Fuck, always was a talkative- hah, drunk. You’ve got me pussydrunk, gorgeous.”
You admit, “I like it.”
His dark brows raise, the ends of his mouth twisting upwards into something mean. You should’ve known there was an inkling of darkness behind that sweet smile of his.
“Well, you’re going to like this a lot more.”
And then he’s not just teasing, he’s not waiting ‘round to stretch out your pussy’s entrance so that you can take him easily. No, the very tip of Geto’s tongue sticks inside your cunt and then shoves all the way through.
In quick, sloppy half-thrusts.
He’s probing and probing his flexible muscle into the most tender spots against your walls, just swirlin’ them around before each jackhammer so that he can reach every tiny cranny. And they were so thick, too, such a generous girth that stretched out your glossy walls as they should. “Oh, mmm, oh my god- fuck. Just like that, Suguru.”
“Mmm—” But he wasn’t doing it just like that. In fact, he was folding apart your puffy pussylips with the tip of his nose.
Letting it graze lightly against the front of your clit, only further putting pressure on your favorite nub. Hands and face. “More.” A particularly hard squeeze of your clit leaves you bucking wildly, your limbs shaking like a leaf. “More.”
“I’m t-trying—” You sob out, your hamstrings starting to ache with how much harder he was trying to pull your hips into him.
Grind after grind of your glistening, stimulated folds dragging down his features.
Geto rolls his murky irises and latches his free hand onto the side of your waist, “Tch-” He uses that leverage to guide your hips to form filthy figure-eights, openin’ you up just so he can plaster his hot mouth even further. “Try harder, honey. Harder. I don’t have to…heh, I don’t have to breathe, y’know?”
Your mouth drops into a little ‘oh!’ as he then starts to sink in his middle finger inside your wet pussy.
You were just so hot n’ velvety around him, it felt like he was being crushed in from all sides by a slice of fucking heaven.
Shit. It should be illegal to feel like this.
Dazedly, he’s letting another plumpened digit (his ring finger, this time) scrape against the squeezing edges of your walls. Two of his fingertips almost fighting against his mouth for purchase of your honeyed cunt, pushing and pushing.
“Sh-shit, your fingers are so long-” You’re wailing out, your hands somehow weaving through the sweaty valleys of his locks. And even that only seemed to be used to drag you down even deeper. Even harder against his face.
Something that Geto loves - if the way he fucking smiles against your core told you anything. The toying tip of his tongue pulls out and clings to the outside of your folds now, and he slowly slithers it up to circle on top of your clit. Everywhere. “Oh yeah, c’mon, gorgeous. Like that. Haaaaaarder.”
“T-trying to-”
“And try harder.” There was something stirring in the way that Geto said those words - something dark, something almost predatory. It was a tone that you already knew wouldn’t bode well for you or your poor, puckered pussy.
And before you know it, Geto has one of his hands in the air once again.
Smirking as he watches the exact moment your eyes bulge at the sight, lips dropping onto an ‘o’ of recognition. He hums, “Like- this-” And then he snaps his fingers once.
The next time you’re blinking, you’re the one on top.
Your eyes level with the splintering wooden headboard, your legs wobbly where they straddled his handsome face. Geto Suguru had all the teleportation powers in the world and he’d chosen to use it n’ have you seated on his face.
Splayed out on the bed. His mouth chasing your other pair of lips.
Riding your sloppy cunt down his mouth in rapid, little ruts. “O-oh my god, you’re just- just-” You can’t find the words, especially with your mind all muddied like this. Losing your train of thought any time his rovering tongue was licking upwards.
Geto feels you start to hover your hips upwards, not wanting to put his full weight on him. And with his brows furrowed, the man only locks his arms around your waist and pulls you to sit on him. Properly. “-f-filthy! Fuck!”
“Don’t insult me by fucking hovering, gorgeous.” He warns you. Three of his roughened fingerpads now pryin’ apart your pussylips. Before you know it, he’s gyrating them upwards in vulgar strokes, “Who do you even- hah, think you are? Just- fucking- sit-”
You’re already seated on top of him, and he’s using his inhuman strength to pressure your pussy against his mouth even more. Still.
Just truly jackhammering away all the pretty spots inside your walls as he does so. Pinpointing every bundle of nerves. Geto’s extended middle finger grazes almost near the splotchy area of your g-spot and you moan. “There- just a little closer, Suguru, ngh.”
“Oh yeah? There?” His fingertips maze in that very direction, but this time they’re missing the place completely. And Geto snickers as you shake your head whinily, “Then, maybe I can’t reach it?”
“But-”
“Maybe you just hafta ride my face for it.”
Oh.
He was just playing with you. Driving you wild with the thrashing drags of his tongue up n’ down your slit. You could feel every sizzling ridge of his tastebuds, they mold against the throbbing nub of your clit and leaves you reeling.
Once again, Geto pokes his slick-glazed fingers up right near your g-spot and forces your babbling answer out of you. “C’mon, I’m a gentleman. Sit on my face.”
“F-fine—fuck!” You hiccup through your tears.
Holding onto the silken strands of hair, you grind your hips down harder. Feeling this, Geto’s mouth drops all the way till his limits- wider, deeper, opening up to stick his fingers into your hidden nooks n’ crannies. “Just like that- oh, just like that. Open up wiiiide f’me, please.”
“Don’t stop- feels so good like this.” Your entire body shakes when he bangs a fourth fingertip against the rim of your hole a few times before fitting that in, too.
“That’s what I was trying to tell you, honey.” Geto purrs. This new angle made your sultry pussy let off the most filthy, dampened slurps every time he thrusted his fingers back and forth. Tongue swipin’ up any cobweb of slick that hung out of your hole and dripped down his wrist.
Any and every splash of your juices, he’s lavishing it up.
You swear you can hear Geto finally strike your g-spot and gulp at the mess it creates. Your toes curled. Head thrown backwards.
You’re spraying out your sweetened slick like a fountain - one that he’s got his mouth opened wide for. Partially-closed eyes locked with yours when he lets it all pool at the back of his throat and swallows.
Fingers thrusting primally inside of you, “Now I- fuck.” His voice was husky, any coherence in them positively shattered. “And now I need you to, ngh, cream all on my tongue, gorgeous. Okay? Yeah? Can this cute human body do that f’me?”
Stupidly, you’re nodding. Body moving before your mind. “Mhm—yes, ngh.”
“Heh, because a dinner isn’t complete without dessert, is it?”
“Yes- yes yes yes, please.”
You just look so pretty whimperin’ and trembling on top of him like this. Your weight presses against Geto’s lower half and he’s moving you feverishly. Swabbin’ the plush fingertips of his digits, he fucks them up into your g-spot and watches as your whole body loosens.
Slouching on top of him, slurping up his every probe.
His mouth upturns into a smile as he suckles on your clit last, “Mhmm—so cum.” He jostles your body around like a ragdoll, as if you weighed nothing. “Ride my face now- and cum- fuck. Use me and cum.”
“Gonna–” Drool seeps from your mouth and down your chin. “Sh-shit I think m’so close.”
“Yeah? Better cream all down my- hngh, tongue, gorgeous.” Geto’s nose crinkles as he feels your movements get sloppy. You could barely control yourself, your head way too dizzy to focus on anything but his roverin’ fingers, sticking against your g-spot in harsh cadence. “Yeah- all down my tongue. Use me-” He bucks his own gluttonous mouth forwards, “Use me use me use me- fuck!”
You’re clenching around his thick fingers so hard that it’s almost hard to slam back in.
“C-cum f’me, honey.”
Within only a few sultry seconds, you’re toppling over into your high.
So hard that you shut your eyes and they still flash white behind your lids. You claw onto Geto’s clammy scalp and push your hips- “Cum—ing, mm.” Your pulse throbs aggressively at both your temple and between your legs. And your lips flap wildly with shrills, “Fuck- fuck fuck fuck, it just feels so g-good, Suguru. Never felt like- hck! this before.”
“Heh, aw my poor girl. My poor, poor gorgeous girl.” Geto cooes, though you could discern the amusement in his voice. He smacks his lips on top of your clit, sucking through every peak of your high. So accurate it was almost as if he could see them.
Spearheading your treacly entrance through each wave of bliss.
You swear you’re seeing stars once he surges his head even closer and then decides to bite down on that cute nub. “Don’t you worry now. Ghosts have endless stamina, didn’t you know?”
“Th-they do?” Your eyes nearly pop out of your skull - you didn’t expect that. But he’s proving it to you exactly. Slapping his fingers up against the gooey roof of your pussy even after your high is nothing more than a few tingles. “But what if I can’t last-”
“Of course, you will.”
“What if I can’t cum aga-”
“Of course, you will.” Geto was firm on that one. And he was still makin’ out with your pussy as if he was going to prove it to you. Even after most of your orgasm has bated. Even after it was nothing but a few twinges of pleasure bubbling in your veins.
Even after you were so overstimulated that it brought tears to your eyes- Geto takes his own sensual, slow time licking away the last few dewdrops of slick from your cunt. Humming in satisfaction only once he’s finally polished you off completely, “And we have alllll night.”
Geto doesn’t snap his fingers a second time - too pussydrunk to.
But he’s still flipping you over, the soft fabric of his kimono falling down his shoulders and revealing a few slivers of his milky, toned hips. His kimono covered practically nothing. Practically all-exposed. Him on his meaty knees, you facing him. The perfect viewpoint. All Geto has to do is move his wrapped robes aside- and suddenly you’re face-to-face with the largest, hardest cock you’ve ever seen in your entire life.
And so pretty, too.
He had a thick bulging tip that was blushed a delicate red, scorched in a gradient all the way down to his neat base. Some sparse, curly hairs of black. Your mouth waters as you take in the creamy wad of precum that beads out of his reddened tip, and drips all down.
And his size—oh.
You can’t help it- you’re leaning yourself closer n’ plopping your mouth wetly on top of his flared mushroom head. He tastes salty and of something sweet, almost like honey.
Groaning at the taste, you shiver as Geto hunches over at the feeling of your mouth. His sculptured back flexing, he crouches over to kiss down your arched spine.
Humming, “Sh-shit, dunno what’s sweeter- this mouth or that pretty pussy, hngh.” He grits his teeth.
You whine into his length when you start to bob your head, throat letting off primal gulps every time Geto’s vein-covered shaft slides down your tongue and targets your throat. He was just so hard that you flinched every time he pulsed, eyes fluttering shut.
“Aww, what’s the matter?” Geto coos down, his rough palm resting on the back of your neck. Meanly, Geto pushes you down and giggles when you choke. “Too big for you, honey?”
“M-mmmpf-” You’re managing out.
And he nods like he understands, “Mhm, don’t worry, gorgeous.” And then with a final buck, like a teaser, he cups your lolling head and pulls you off. The action lets out the most carnal squelch- “I’ll make it fit.”
Click!
You’re on your back. Your head placed softly against the pillows, your legs thrown over his shoulders.
Geto shoots you the most devilish grin as he holds onto both your thighs and folds you all the way in half. Like a lawnchair underneath him - with your heels against his muscular back, your foreheads touching.
Into a mating press.
With one hand letting off, he holds onto his bulky hilt and smack-smack-smacks his pink, globular tip between your pussylips. Groaning, “So you better- haaaah, take a deeeeep breath now.”
Your brows slightly knit, “Why do I need to- oh, fuck!” You’re gasping. Heaving. Crying out in lewd trills to which Geto cuts you off by smearing his mouth against yours in a filthy, filthy kiss.
You’re moaning as he fills you up without even trying.
Just the plump, fleshy tip of his cock probing inwards. It stretches out your geysering hole so widely- the smooth lines of his cockhead, and that sensitive line of his slit that massages your walls so sinfully.
You’re still slightly overwhelmed by your high, and every texture fitted inside of you made your eyes roll to the back of your head.
A few veins ran down the middle of Geto’s cock, slightly redder than the rest of his shaft. And they flinched inside your cunt once he started easing his way in, “Shit- shit, you’re just so big- ngh. Fuck I don’t know if I can–”
“You will.” Sternly, Geto’s kissing you again. Shutting up your silly words, he’s sighing as his massive tip finally swabs its way inside with a wettened plop! “Ghosts never break promises- mm, I never break promises.” Staring dead-on into your hazy peripherals. Voice run ragged. “M’gonna make it fit.”
“Fuck—fuck, it’s so much.”
He wasn’t even thrusting - half-rutting, knees spread, bucking wildly like an animal.
Geto had gotten one cloying taste of your pussy wrapped ‘round his cock and he was suddenly addicted. Suddenly forgetting any and every method of rolling his hips, and instead simply holding onto you and bullying his fat cock inside.
Both of his hands lace over your scalp, and every time one of his hammering pushes left you reeling- Geto was there to drag you back into his hips again. “What did I say? Hah, what did I say?”
He looks downwards, his jet-black hair falling around the two of you like some silky curtain. You follow his line of sight and come across the most lecherous scene: with your sheeny pussylips all glossed and glittering with slick, dripping all over every time he was nudging his swollen inches inside.
Bit by bit.
Using the restraint he had on you to shove—“M’gonna make it fit- gonna, hah.”
“H-how is it all even fitting, Suguru?” You whine out, your mouth gaped. Geto was a streamlined size near the end of his shaft; but the deeper you took him in, the thicker he became. The more his proud circumference dragged along your walls and stretched you out.
His zig-zagged veins drove you crazy, and you grappled your fingers onto his sculptured deltoids.
Geto registers your words, and one of his hands lifts off of your head and down onto your front. He pushes down so hard that your breath hitches, feeling for himself as he fucks his size inside. “Oh, honey, you really wanna know?” Something devilish sparkled in his darkened eyes. “You really, really wanna know?”
“Y-yes?” You’re questioning, not entirely sure what you were in store for.
And it turns out- the surface of Geto’s palm, where it was in tactile contact with your stomach, started to glow. Some part of it seeming almost…transluscent as he then glides his hand up n’down. Almost as if he was caressing.
As if he could see exactly where the fat, bludgeoning tip of his shaft ended.
“See here? Here.” Then he’s drawing an invisible line somewhere about midway down your front. Leaning in even closer, “Here’s where I am.” Those glowing fingertips of his move further upwards, dangerously upwards. “And here’s where m’ngh- going to be.”
You balk as that calloused tip of his digits goes up, up, up.
All the way up to your throat- “And here’s where m’gonna be reaching for.”
Oh.
And then he’s fucking you exactly like it. His round, globular tip bulging against the sides of your tight channel- again and again and again. Geto’s hefty thighs slam into the backs of yours with stinging smacks, shovelling his hips ruthlessly.
“And don’t you worry, gorgeous–” He’s whispering out against your ajar mouth, a slight line of drool starting to fall from the edge of your lips at the pressure. “I’m gonna reach there, gonna do it a-all.”
Clammy palm pushing down even harder.
“You can feel it, can’t you?”
“Yes- yes!” Fuck, it genuinely did feel as though he was probin’ his crowned tip against your very lungs. Bruising in a wide circular bruise, Geto snaps his hips further forwards and you feel your back arch. “Can feel you a-all the way in, ngh, here.”
“Awww, there?” Geto chuckles down at the cute way you were clutching onto somewhere ‘round your stomach. Somewhere ‘round your cervix. Feeling him go in even deeper than his jackhammers were going.
The spanking impact of his hips only growing more vicious- he rovers his free hand onto your throat and uses that to keep your restless body still. The perfect target for him to aim his vulgar thrusts, “Then you better allow me to- hah, give it to you there.”
“Yes- yes yes-” Your flooded pussy swallows him up readily with a sluuuuurp, and you feel him ultimately bottom out by your cervix.
“Come on then-” He’s spitting. He’s seething. “-fuck me harder. Fuck back into me.”
The goopy end of your cunt gets punished with a thorough slam of his blushin’ red cockhead. And despite stretching you out to your maximum already, Geto forces his weight down even further. Like he wanted his lengthy shaft to spearhead even deeper-
“Look at youuuu—” He’s crooning out, his breathy gasp botched with a few hitches now. You just felt so fucking—oh, he couldn’t even put it into words. “Look at you all t-taking it. Fuck back further into me and oh, we are going to have a ngh- niiiiice co-habitation, gorgeous.” Couldn’t even put it into feeling.
The only thing that Geto can do is squelch back his merciless hips. Carnally letting reach winding vein outline the inside of your cunt- and then he’s thoroughly jutting back in.
Hitting the back of your pussy. Swabbing his slick, drivelling tip into every crevice inside.
He’s smoothing out the ridges of your cunt on his veiny length again. And again. And again and again and again so many times that the spongy area of your cervix starts feeling raw. You stutter out a few sobs, “Oh my g-god, hnghhh—I don’t know if I’d be able to t-take it like this every day in that case.”
“You don’t know?” Geto’s face falls into a faux-pout. And then you’re gasping at the feeling of his frigid thumb gliding across your stomach, his powers fully activated. “Fuck back into me a little-” As you jostle yourself forwards. “Heh, a little more.”
You grab onto him for anchorage, “I’m t-trying.”
“Mhm, trying and I haven’t even shown you the, mmm, half of it.”
Your eyes widen, “What’s the half of it?”
“Well one half is kissin’ that cute little cervix of yours.” He’s smiling, hunching his shoulders forwards so that his pre-glazed tip was fully glued to your cervix. Drawing out little vertical lines every time he drills inside, “Feel that? Fuck- feel me in there, honey?”
“I d-do…”
“And then the other half- or, well, other part is to find that pretty g-spot inside here.” Swirlin’ the slicked end of his cock all around.
Geto’s using it almost like a spotlight, stirring it against the most delicate places on your walls. With each of his hammering thuds, he manages to probe his cockhead even closer to your g-spot. Right where he’d mapped it out before - and right where his ghoulish eyes could see.
With it, he could pinpoint that exact location of your sweetest, most favorite spot.
“And it can be fooooound…” Geto himself was starting to slobber out from the side of his mouth at this point, like every push of his sensitive length only left him more and more pussydrunk. “Riiiight…”
With every longing drag of his words, he accelerates his cadence.
And it was just the right tempo to make your pupils circle comically, your thighs twitching where they lay across his shoulders. You gasp for air once his fingers press, in—“S-Sugu, it feels like you’re reaching straight for my- fuck!”
He is.
A plump, plush smooch of his mushroomy tip straight into your g-spot.
Geto strikes his cock against that particularly treasured area so hard that you’re seeing stars. “Yeeees?” Driving into you like such a madman, such incredible strokes that leave you speechless. “Reaching straight for your-” Palm leaving indents where he pushed, where his nails clawed. “-what, gorgeous girl?”
“My- my- fuck.” Your throat clogged up with so many sobs and hitches. And you’re sure that by now you’d barely even be able to spell out your own name let alone-
“Can’t spell out your name, hm?” He tilts his head to the side, teasingly looking at you through the gaps of his shaggy black bangs. “Do you even know your name right now?”
You gasp, “Well…”
And at that even Geto himself seems slightly taken aback. You were that fucked stupid?
With one hand on your throat, the other then snakes down to the gooey in-betweens of your thighs. Swipin’ over your plump clit with his thumb, “Awww, that’s alright. Heh, let this ol’ ghost here do allll the work. And you just worry about that last- hck! part of it.”
“I—oh.” The rough fringe of his thumb outlines a few hearts on top of your nub for a few seconds. Before he’s suddenly drawing hearts- and his foggy pupils were shaped just the same.
Heart-eyed.
As you feel the molten bliss start to build up in the pit of your stomach, you strangle out. Slightly mesmerized by the way he was just so ruined. “And what is that, hngh, last part of it, Sugu?”
“Oh, well, y’know…” He casually looks down between your legs. The gooey splashes of slick n’ precum that kept on pouring out. It’s a sight that makes him smile. Geto sweetly kisses your lips, “The next part would be to cum inside.”
“C-can a ghost even cum inside?” You’re wondering out loud, now thoroughly gone on his large, plummeting shaft.
“Oh, honey-” Geto croons, “-you’re about to find out.”
And it’s with a few more sloppy thrusts, just a few more twists of his ravenous fingers- he’s toying with you, driving you wild until you’re finally crashing into your nth high of the night. Because it’s not just one orgasm - over and over, your entire body is being pounded by repeated waves of bliss.
Your clawed hand on his shoulder falls off, and Geto uses one of his to bring it back up to his mouth. He kisses the back of your hand softly as he cums deep inside your womb.
“Ohhhh, god.” Geto throws his head back, silky hair flying. Before he fights against the reflex- his urge to stare down at your pretty face was even stronger.
With one hand pushing up his curtain bangs, and the other pressing down on your cum-inflated stomach. Geto chuckles as he feels you drip down both your legs and his, a shiny coating of ivory white. “Oh fucking hell, I’d die another thousand times just to see a sight like this- fuck.”
“I f-feel so full.” You can barely gurgle out. Your voice feeling all thick at the sensation of his clingy wads of cum being pumped into you.
He’s cumming and cumming- and you swear that one of the lights on the other end of your hallway burst. Each of your skins covering with a layer of supernatural power.
Geto pushes and pushes each sappy layer of it inside with his crowned shaft, the bulbous end of it plugging up your every orifice with the thick knots of his seed. You can feel it splosh all about you, your legs thrashing on top of his shoulders as yet another thrust of his leaves your walls all raw. All overstimulated.
A thickened few drops of it slip from between your pussylips and drench his fat base. To which he’s swiping a finger around and coating it in the glittery moisture, sucking on it. “Mmm–” Geto savors the taste. “So you remember what I said about a ghost’s stamina, gorgeous?”
You were still shaking with the aftershocks of your high, and your ringing eardrums could barely believe what they were hearing.
But he leans in, emphasizing.
“And by that, I mean more.”
.
.
.
“Oh fuh-fuck…” You’re hiccuping out from the back of your throat. Barely able to even hold your head up, you rest it on Geto’s prominent collarbones, your spittle splashing out in waves.
Something that he’s staring down at with a chuckle, and swabbin’ the plump end of his thumb between your drooling lips. Pushin’ all those wads back, “Haaah, what’ve I said about keeping it- ngh, inside? Both those pretty lips of yours are the same, gorgeous.”
You’re whimpering at this tutted statement - what else could he expect?
After your first round there’d been the second, the third, then the fourth- then the fifth where your high was nothing but a few oversensitive tingles that left you crying. And yet, Geto still had the stamina for a sixth.
Even when his thick, bludgeoning cock was all red n’ raw. Even when he was swollen with need. Even when his precum was webbing out in milky ribbons like cum, and he couldn’t even control himself by now - he was still going.
One hand plastered on the side of your hips to help you ride him silly, the other cupping your face. Geto softly kisses your ajar mouth, before he then spits.
Thick and splattered on the side of your lips, Geto moves his hand down from your face to your neck then. Using it to help your overworked hips slide even faster down his cock, you twitch at the feeling of each vein scrapin’ your poor insides. “C’mon, cooooome on. I told ya what to expect with a- hah, ghost, honey. Didn’t I?”
“You’re no ghost- I think you’re some beast.” You whine out tearily. In response, he snakes the hand at your hips down. Latching on instead to your clit, and he bears no regrets simply puuuuulling.
He purrs, “What was that, honey?”
Your body is trembling on top of him. All wobbly, you angle the splotched area of your g-spot to meet his mushroom tip. Over and over. “I said you- you are a- fuck.”
“Mhmmm—?”
And by now you’re fully dumbified.
You should have known better than to think that Geto Suguru would go easy on you. In fact, he was only wildly thrashin’ his tip against your cervix harder, it draws with the creamy streaks of cum left before. And if you were any less ruined, then you might not have noticed the way that his supernatural eyes narrow down at your front. At the way he simply stares.
“Hmmm, can’t tell if it’s taken yet~” He muses, out loud. Head tilted, and with it so was the inky curtain of his hair. “But it hasn’t…not taken, heh.”
“Fuck- any chances that power of yours can tell when- hngh, when you’re showing any signs of stopping?” You’re huffing out, and he quickly gives a rude spank against the doorway to your womb to make you shut up.
Shaking his head seriously, “Ohhhh, honey.” Geto then lifts his hand off of your throat and drifts it downwards, letting the waterfall of sap drench his thumb. Before he plugs it inside your mouth, making you suck on it like some lolly. “You’d be lucky if either of us made it out of this alive.”
Oh.
You sure would be lucky.
Because within only a split-second, he’s slouching back sexily. Further against the pillows so that he could drill his hips up into you- your cute bounces n’ figure-eights just weren’t enough. Geto wanted to fuck you.
And he wanted to fuck you hard.
He wanted to pound his plummy, split-ended tip against the back of your pussy until you were practically sobbing. And he was.
Long, slurped drags of his vein-decorated cock. Ones that splosh around the oodles of cum layered on your walls, getting them into every tiny nook and cranny. He was so thick - you swear he was swollen with even more need than before - that he let you mewling after every ramming thrust.
With nose crinkled, teeth gritted into a snarl, Geto sticks his divot into the area of your g-spot. And he watches as you whimper, your mouth babbling out something half-nonsensical. “Gonna- cum- ngh, again. Sugu!”
“Mmm, love how you say my name.” You were burning up, practically at a fever-pitch by this point. “Can you say it even louder? Hmmm? Say it even hah! more?” With a few more hefty thrusts you’re feeling the oncoming wave of your high- though, by now it felt more like a few white-hot sparks.
Leaving your head completely blank. “I don’t- I don’t-”
“Yeahhh, you can.” He knew you were close. And he didn’t even need his powers to tell.
He could simply feel it in the way your walls were relentless in their adorable clenching. Their slick surfaces growing wetter by the second, a few lines of your honeyed slick glissade down your legs and up his prominent v-line - now all red with slamming impact.
Only flushing even further.
Especially when he speeds up, probin’ his tip mercilessly. And then, in a final pattern, Geto cups the base of his length and helps slide his glazed tip.
It almost feels like he’s circlin’ his girth around your walls, just stretching you out. But, really, he was writing out - a long, scrolly ‘G’ at the very back of your bruised pussy. One that makes Geto huff out in laughter, the burning sting sizzles against your most tender spots. “And what’s that spellll—?”
“G-Geto—” Another curling line that he was scouring out. Within your cockdrunken mind, it almost felt like an ‘S’. ’“Suguru- fuck. Suguru!”
And with that, you’re cumming.
Short and sharp- your vision in front shattered with a kaleidoscope of tears. Suddenly overtaken by so many spurts of high that you don’t know where yours ends and his starts. Your back arching, breath stuttered.
You’re so far gone that you barely even realize it once a sudden warmth seeps between your legs. Flooding out your tender orifice with a few hefty dollops of cum, “Mmm, yeahhh. Take it, gorgeous. Take- hah, take all of it.”
“I am-” You bawl out, “I am I am-”
Your bedroom lights were already long-shattered from hours prior, and it doesn’t take long for the sheer force of Geto’s orgasm to leave your unbolted furniture shaking. Hovering. You swear you catch your sagged bed lift off of the ground a few centimeters as he rides out his orgasm on your heated, wet pussy.
“S’right here.” His tracing index glides up the middle of your body, as if you couldn’t feel him. Even in the darkness. “Riiiight in the middle here. And- ngh-” His toned hips shift as he sees white with overstimulation, the dribble of his cum petering out after a sudden surge.
You suddenly realize that Geto’s cumming dry now - he didn’t even know that was possible.
The power goes off in your all-new apartment.
But also in every ward in Tokyo.
Burst after burst of his high leaving you completely spent. You whimper as you feel his supernatural energy let off a few sparks where he touched - but mostly where he plastered a few fingers to your clit. A constant, buzzing sensation even better than any of your toys and vibrators- honestly, you couldn’t even think of those right now.
As he feels his flinching tip stop moving, Geto looks up at you with the most heady, pussydrunken eyes. Parted lips. Messy hair.
He just looked so pretty. His voice trembling with need as Geto finishes off, “And I believe it’s taken now, gorgeous.”
You blink, “Taken? You mean…”
“Mhm.” He just looks so proud of himself. So accomplished. Lovingly grazing his hand down the front of your stomach, where a bulge of stuffed cum was starting to form, in a way that only ever could be done by him.
He embraces you tightly, head falling on your shoulder. And despite being cold, usually, you can’t help but notice that he was sweating. Warm. “All taken.”
“O-oh–” You shake atop him, vision still bleary with the haze of your high. But it was starting to fade back in, and so was your sense of rationality.
You could feel his ivory sap dripping out like a faucet from your core, all creamy and lust-filled. Looking down at it- the way it had completely ruined your silky sheets by now, almost made you feel shy. “B-before that we might have to discuss splitting rent, first.”
It’s nuisance to remember the past, but nostalgia with his gentle hands has its fingers tightly locked onto the strands of my hair, inching closer to my scalp and then it splits my head into two, with his fingers grazing my brain as if running your hand on the spines of the books on the shelf of your local library, it pulls out an old one, blowing away the dust. I am 10 years old, I look up to the sky and watch the seagulls dance clumsily in the sky,
“Y’know birds bones are hollow, that’s one of the many reasons why they can fly.”
My 10 year old brain, blown, My father is so smart I thought to myself.
Nostalgia closes the book, pulling one another.
I am 16 years old, ambitious, passionate and therefore have filled my summer with next year’s classes.
“Do you want to go to your favourite cafe? The one with the vegan pasties you like?”
My father asked, with his eyebrows raised and a playful smile of his face. He had been picking me up every evening and dropping me off every morning, he worked throughout the day and night and never complained once.
I couldn’t stop smiling on the way there, not particularly because of the cafe, moreso with how much I was loved by my father.
Nostalgia, moves onto a newer book, at first it wouldn’t budge but eventually gives in.
I am 19 years old, my first year of university, and I am beyond exhausted with a case of imposter syndrome. My father calls me and asks if he can visit quickly. In annoyance I agree, much more concerned with the chemistry notes I am still yet to go over.
I see him outside standing by dim street light.
He hands me a bag of mandarins, pulls me into a hug.
We exchange a few words, until he says he will taking his leave. I stood confused.
He smiles,
“I know you’re busy, just wanted to see you since I missed you”.
Somehow, all my worries and doubts instantaneously dispersed. Was this a magic trick that only dads could do?
Nostalgia puts back the final book and takes it leave gently kissing the giant gash across my scalp, leaving a stinging sensation.
My hands find the needle and thread and begin loosely patching it up, for its next arrival.
Grief has eaten me bone dry, in a barbaric deprived manner. Drool running down its chin, my flesh ripped apart, scattered around its plate, hastily swallowing every lively bits of my life.
𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒. gladiator!Sukuna x princess!Reader, historical AU – ancient rome, misogyny, enemies to lovers, arranged marriage, eventual smut [MDNI], degrádation, power play (?), bondáge, chöking, hair-pulling, overstimulátion, dácryphilia, fíngering, cünnilingus, tït súcking, knîfe play, cūm eating, full nelson, outdoor sêx, table sêx, balcony sêx, pool sêx, angry sêx, size difference, breêding, unprotected sêx, multiple örgasms, gröping, pet names, TL;DR: Sukuna can't keep it in his freaking pants
𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓. 18.9k 💀
𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄. i <3 a good ancient rome fic, but please don’t be alarmed by the wc—the first two acts are boring (but necessary) world-building + plot and whatnot, but the third act’s where things get GOOD, iykwim // available on ao3 // dividers by @uzmacchiato
𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈.
This was bound to happen sooner or later.
Well, with being raised so near the emperor’s circle of friends and family, you had never been exactly shielded from death and despair, per se; and, let’s be honest, attending a gladiators’ game in the Colosseum was practically fate.
During the times of Ancient Rome, you had an . . . uncommon upbringing, to say the least. Abandoned as a mere newborn, you were taken in by none other than the emperor and his wife, who failed to have any real children of their own. Growing up, they treated you like a daughter they never had, and gave you a life of endless prosperity and luxuries. Your bedroom—decorated and gilded in gold; your closet—always stocked and more ornate than even the average noblewoman’s; and your life—full of only the highest expectations.
Despite coming from a pitifully low background and rising to such a rank that made your peers during schooling envious, you learned some much needed qualities such humility and humbleness. Well, you were practically everything but a princess, after all. You lived in the palace with the emperor and empress, but you weren’t royal by blood. Sure, you were noble; and your time was mostly taken up by serving the empress as her lady-in-waiting, but you wouldn’t have it any other way.
Life was pleasant like this.
You enjoyed serving the empress who took you under her wing, and found no difficulty in assisting with her day-to-day tasks. Dressing, accompanying, running errands. It was simple; there was never a rush for you.
Today was no different.
With the radiating, beaming sun blinding civilians with no mercy—from merchants, to nobles, to plebeians—the star did not leave a single mortal untouched or unaffected.The cruel rays shining upon skin glistening with sweat and hair tousled and unruly only displayed each spectator’s discomfort as the minutes rolled past and the gladiators had still yet to enter the amphitheater.
Fanning yourself, as you sat high above the stands beside the empress, you couldn’t help but express your wonder, turning your head ever so slightly to meet her eyes. “How long does Your Imperial Majesty think we will have to wait?”
“Child, how many times will I have to make myself clear? Such formalities between us are hardly ever necessary,” the woman—clothed in a purple stola—scolded, replying with a maternal smile. “But, to answer your question,” she began, clearing her throat, “I figure . . . not so long. You know how men can be: adjusting their armor, fixing their hair, getting stage-fright. It’s all the same to me. How can one worry about their appearance when it’s plausible their blood will just be splattered along the arena in the end?”
You pretended to laugh at her disposition.
Contrary to popular belief, the empress was a nice woman; an understanding woman; someone who ruled alongside her husband with equal—if not rivaling—authority and a scholar’s intellect. You occasionally thought of her as someone practically born to lead, and after spending your whole life in the palace, you’ve grown accustomed to the fact that, while the face of the empire was usually imagined to be the emperor’s, it was not seldom that the empress was the one pulling additional strings behind the stage.
Misogyny is a nasty prejudice, and if it weren’t for the way things were, you had no doubt in standing behind the idea that the empress would be just as great of a prominent ruler as those who had come before her husband.
Of course, even with being such a morally virtuous person, the empress was born into royalty, and had never served someone a day of her life; and alongside being surrounded in endless luxury, comes the inevitable quality of aporophobia. The woman wasn’t as cruel as most, however; yes, she looked with disdain at poverty and unfortunate souls, but didn’t turn a blind eye, no.
She cracked jokes at, made fun of, and used people of lower rank for her own amusement, but it was all “harmless,” as she called it, similar to having a jester in one’s court. Even while mocking those she deemed helpless and lowly, she never failed to grant them whatever resources they requested when visiting her throne. You may have heard of kindness without honesty and honesty without kindness, but kindness with neither honesty nor humility? Strange.
Well, don’t start getting the wrong idea now. The empress could be with preconceptions, but she was a charming woman within retrospect.
Before the empress could poke fun at any more people, the Colesseum’s spectators suddenly burst into roars and bellows and yells as the appointed gladiators of the first match entered the arena.
Two men. Both of adequate height—no less than six feet, you assumed. But, were they slaves? you wondered. No. No, they were too muscular for that. Oh, well, then again, that quality may have been from manual labour and other work of the like. Although the naked eye failed—from how high up your seats were—to see a real difference, you could still tell one of the fighters was shorter than the other, from the length and distribution of their shadows.
The taller competitor, with a reddish-brown beard and deformed knees, caught the interest of the woman beside you, and she turned to whisper (albeit poorly) in your ear and laugh about his disagreeable features.
“I heard his name was . . . Remus, or something. But, if you asked me,” the empress laughed, “I would say he was nothing but a damn fool—a fool disgracing the name of the God of War’s son.”
You met her eyes, which seemed to almost glow beneath the sun. “You suppose he will lose?”
“Suppose?” she repeated, tossing coins into a betting pool as if it were impossible for her to be wrong. “Don’t make me laugh.”
The other fighter—the shorter one—held a gloomy expression on his face, and didn’t look a day over twenty. A slave; competing for a chance at freedom? It wasn’t so far-fetched.
The referees were soon called to their positions, the armed combatants took their stances, and the munera commenced.
Swords met, shields resisted attacks, and little to no blood was drawn. Again, and again, and again. The crowds booed, raised their voices, and expressed their boredom and utter disappointment like spoiled children; it made your ears hurt, and you chewed at your bottom lip in agonizing anticipation of what was to come of these poor men. But, nevertheless, the show had to go on.
Even with the fierce sun, and beads of sweat accumulating on just about everyone’s foreheads, the fighters regained their positions and began anew—this time, with more violence.
The shorter man looked as if he finally realized he could turn his life around if victory was his and started to hold the hilt of his sword with gathering excitement rather than fear. Stabs cut through the air, piercing absolutely nobody, and consecutive gasps erupted within the stands as suspense arose alongside the growing lust for blood.
Both men lunged forward consecutively, throwing jabs at the other, just to fail and jump back, before trying again.
With the heavy toll of labour dealing on each competitor’s body and soul, they both looked equally older compared to how they actually were on the records. The fight was nothing if not unpleasant. More often than not, according to the empress, gladiatorial games were always more entertaining when the combatants were more . . . manly. Or, masculine? Attractive? All the same.
And, anyway, you couldn’t exactly deny Her Imperial Majesty’s claims. For, even as you remained with a neutral expression on your face, you couldn’t help but cast side-glances at the figures of the gladiators. Muscular, but . . . not muscular in a lovely way. Their faces were dirty, cheeks hollow, and hands grimy. It seemed like the exertion on their bodies would be more of a morality cause than how hopeless their fight was continuing to be.
Even with the increase of energy and work being infused into the swords’ clashing and shields’ refuting, only a few minutes had passed and you already began to grow bored, waiting for the moment the fight would be either called off or a more formidable opponent would be brought into the arena. A bull, for instance.
It wasn’t until a rock—thrown by a spectator in the stands—landed just beside the left foot of the taller fighter with a thudding sound that, for a second, the man froze, either confused or unable to decide on what to do, and his opponent wasted not a second more before moving in for an attack.
The blade of a gladius pierced the taller competitor on the side of his abdomen, and his sword dropped onto the floor with a dull sound, seemingly filled with a sense of inevitable defeat, as the man himself fell soon after, his body landing prone beside his weapon. The sight was almost poetic, and even the empress found it in herself to let out a little gasp (despite her early confidence in the outcome).
The arena went silent. Utterly silent.
Would the referees consider foul play? Spectator interference? Everyone wondered, and eyes moved from one man to another to try and figure out the decided outcome of the match.
You only noticed how clammy your hands had gotten throughout the climax of the match when you followed the example of other spectators to rise in ovation and break out into plaudits and hollers after the shorter fighter was finally announced victorious. Letting out a breath you did not know you were holding, you wiped the sweat off your palms at the fabric of your palla.
The gods were not on the taller man’s side this day, for, the fate of the match was due to two factors. A) the rock was interference, yes, but it was neither an advantage nor a disadvantage for either of the competitors. Since, according to the spectators, both of them could’ve been affected by it; the taller man just happened to be frozen while the other gained consciousness. And, B) any one of them could’ve stood still, but, perhaps, the taller one really was as stupid as he looked.
The empress told you both men were, in fact, slaves, and that you had been correct in your assumption. But, you had no reason to celebrate, for you felt pity for the fallen; but, anyhow, death would’ve come sooner or later to him. The rest of his life would’ve been spent bending over machines and gathering hay and tending to cattle.
On the other hand, fortunately for those hard of hearing, the applause died down more swiftly than the end of the fight came, and most spectators had already begun to seat themselves back down when the victorious competitor exited with his treasures, and two new combatants entered, instantly silencing any other leftover noise.
Their names were announced, but you could not pick up a single syllable, for, only a millisecond after, the crowds had once again broken into loud cheers and yells; these competitors were apparently not ordinary gladiators. Probably well-known, or excellent fighters, is what you assumed.
Although their match had yet to begin, the second pair of fighters were already visibly sweating beneath their heavy armor and shields.
Now, from the height of your seat, you could not distinguish which of the men were taller, but you could easily set their countenances apart.
The silver-haired one carried himself with an elegant, almost prince-like gait, and his eyes shone like the beautiful waters of the Mediterranean Sea under the rays of the glaring sun. His lips—thin and pink—occasionally formed into a taunting smile or flashed his pearly whites at swooning women in the stands. He was particularly attractive, and despite yourself, you found the act of looking at him rather enjoyable.
His eyes raised above the crowd of spectators for a moment, before meeting the emperor’s in a friendly fashion. Then, flitting to the side, he gave a small acknowledgement to the empress. And then, finally, to you. His eyes met yours with a flirty ulterior motive and he smiled an almost boyish smile, but you couldn’t deny the fact your cheeks seemed to warm at the sight of his brief greeting and acknowledgement before he turned back to evaluate the crowd with squinted eyes (courtesy of the overly sunny weather).
Clearing your throat and settling the ridiculous thumping of your heart, you sat up in your seat and, ignoring the teasing remarks of the empress, your eyes moved over to take a look at the other gladiator.
He was . . . perhaps, the complete opposite of the silver-haired one.
A total brute, if you did say so yourself. Pink, rosy hair. Defined muscles. A sharp nose and pierced ears. He had the arms and legs of a high-ranking Roman soldier, and, even from how high up you were, or how blinding the sun was, you could still clearly tell his chest would be just as chiseled as the rest of him. He was, without a doubt, a piece of eye-candy if you had ever seen one. But, what intrigued you most about him, were his tattoos. Inky, black markings that circled around his wrists, thighs, and decorated his already daunting face.
You had been staring at him for a while when you felt the intimidation of his piercing gaze meeting your figure up in the stands, seemingly having taken notice of your ogling. Sinking back down in your seat, your body squirmed nervously and awkwardly under his unforgiving stare, as if you were trying to escape his sights.
You couldn’t understand the meaning for your very sudden and growing embarrassment for having been caught, and you pretended to avert your focus elsewhere. But minute after minute continued to pass by, and you could still feel the pair of crimson eyes burning holes at the side of your head.
Like a child finally succumbing to the scolding of their parents, you turned back to face the gladiator, and, like you imagined, he had not moved his eyes off of you for even a second. His lips were sealed in a thin line, and the expression on his face, emphasized by his seemingly bored eyes, displayed nothing but want and desire. Was it want and desire to exit the arena? Or, want and desire to avoid throwing his life away in a gladiatorial game? You could not decide on an answer.
Your eyes wandered downwards, and landed upon the pink-haired brute’s weapon of choice. He had a gladius, like most fighters of munera, but it was . . . different, in possibly the most subtle way.
A ruby lay clear as day in the dead center of his capulus—the hilt of his sword. The color unmistakably matched up with the shade of the sword’s master’s eyes, and you couldn’t help but flicker your gaze from one to the other.
The only event that managed to take your attention off of the man and his blade, was the empress, who interrupted your focus and leaned in to whisper in your ear. “What do you look at so intently, my dear?” she questioned, before waving her hand in dismissal. “Never mind; look over there. Yes, right there. Do you see that man? The pink-haired fighter?”
You nodded.
“His name is Ryoumen Sukuna, but you must know, most people have started calling him King of the Colosseum.”
“Sukuna? King of the Colosseum?”
The woman ignored your growing curiosity, and moved on to other subjects. “He’s a fine one—personal favorite of the emperor, you know. Lovely physique, an agreeable countenance, and boundless skill in a match to the death. I hear his streak of victories has not ended since he began gladiating all the way back since he was twenty.”
“How old is he now?” you asked, your desperation for information on the man growing second by second.
“Six-and-twenty? I could not tell you, darling.”
While you and the empress conversed, whispering about the combatants behind ring-adorned hands which covered your mouths (to avoid any scandal which could arouse from lip-reading), the match began and the gladiators took their designated positions before plunging head-first into battle.
Sukuna swung his blade up in the air with one quick movement before bringing it back down to strike the silver-haired gladiator in either the neck or the back of his head. But the man seemed to have guess the intention for that attack, and side-stepped away. Which, for the most part, probably would have left Sukuna to deliver a useless blow to the sands and allow his opponent an open opportunity, but it was clear to even the lowest of the lows that he was far from inexperienced with the blade.
He neither tarried nor let his mistake take the best of him, and moved to retract his weapon quicker than how the other fighter escaped it.
Blow after blow was delivered by both men, and no visible cuts or injuries were inflicted on either of the two.
Despite none of the fighters being able to land a successful hit on the other, their fails were only due to the fact that their skill was matched, and that no matter how many party tricks or ploys or schemes they had up their sleeves (or, in this case, manicas), neither one of them could fool the other. Well, at least, not for too long.
Even with the lack of blood, the spectators were still kept entertained and satisfied from the number of impressive and, to the naked eye, seemingly humanly impossible dangerous attacks.
You had noticed, after a few attempted blows—all resisted from the usage of shields, that, what looked like to be mere strategy, was probably something more on the lines of technique. Sukuna’s technique, to be clear.
With the advantage of his height nearly always towering over his opponents, Sukuna subconsciously developed, over time, a habit of striking over-head. And, with arms like his, it was no trouble for him, at all, to lift up an iron blade and do such a thing. Sukuna frequently swung his gladius and struck at the side of the silver-haired fighter’s head, which was usually blocked by the opponent’s shield, or avoided by the said opponent ducking and subsequently swiping at Ryoumen’s legs.
It was overly facetious. Too facetious, actually—for a duel that would only result in death and horror.
If it wasn’t obvious before, you were not at all a fan of gladiatorial games. No, not even in the slightest. You looked upon the thought of unnecessary murder serving the sole purpose of entertainment for all civilians ranging from plebeians to nobility to royalty with disgust and disdain. Watching two men fighting in a ring—sometimes blindfolded, sometimes with no weapons save for their hands (which are dangerous enough)—was ridiculous. Or, that’s what you thought.
See, you wouldn’t have even been present at the current gladiator fight had it not been for the coercing of the empress, who, according to her, needed you by her side, since her husband would be seated at a separate stand (for reasons you did not know). But honestly, now that you were both watching two men stab and jab at each other, it seemed to be the other way around.
The empress was enjoying herself to the fullest, while you, on the other hand, were horrified; and that was saying a lot, considering you had seen warfare since your adolescence.
“Getting bored?” the empress asked, getting your attention amidst the cheering of the crowds.
You shook your head, exiting your train of thought. “Not at all.”
The woman looked at you tenderly, and touched your cheek with her cold fingers. “Cannot say I’m surprised. Ryoumen certainly knows how to put on a show for a woman he deems rather oculorum captans.¹”
¹ Eye-catching.
You pretended not to understand whom that was directed to. “Is that . . . why he has yet to deliver an ending blow?”
“Oh, nonsense. The man’s a flirt, yes, but he would never let fraternizing stand in the way of a victory. It’s impossible. Gojo is just, perhaps, the only gladiator who could ever rival him.”
At learning of the silver-haired fighter’s name, you let your eyes briefly return to the match. Blood had now managed to have been drawn, and both of the blade-wielding beasts had now sustained injuries on their triceps. You thought yourself a lucky one to have missed witnessing how that came about, and turned back to meet the empress’s eyes while yells continued to erupt within several sections of the arena.
“Will it continue going on like this?” you asked, gesturing to the missed blows and endless clanks of shields. “It seems the men could only die from exhaustion now.”
The empress offered you a strange smile. “That won’t be necessary.”
“How do you mean?”
“This won’t be their last match. They’ll have a draw, and the editor will enable the defeated to live another day. But only for the sake of another match to take place soon after.” The woman said everything like it was a declaration, and not an assumption or probability. It made you uneasy, in a way.
“. . .Another match?” you repeated. “What ever for?”
“A gladiator match is a spectacle—it’s a source of entertainment. How will the crowds be entertained when their favorite gladiator is killed in a common, ordinary game? A game succeeding two slaves, more or less,” she added, snorting.
“So, they’ll be kept alive?”
“For another match, id est verum;² it will take place before the festival of Vulcan. It will be, by far, the greatest gladiator match ever seen by the people of Rome. Now, I cannot spoil too many details, but, all I can reveal is, expect the unexpected.”
² That is correct.
And, just as the empress had said, the match between the silver-haired gladiator and Ryoumen Sukuna was declared a draw soon after your conversation with the woman, as decided by the editor. This decision not only satisfied spectators on both rooting sides and caused an uproar of hollers, but also guaranteed an adequately sized and enthusiastic audience for the final and tie-breaking match of the year, which was, clearly, going to be the event looked forward to for the rest of the month.
𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐈.
You were beginning to think the most crucial detail someone has ever failed to tell you was how the last man you wanted to see right now was good friends with the emperor—pals, even! Which was great, just great.
“I know you would rather die from scaphism,” said the man, as he plucked a grape from a bowl, “but you can at least try and act like you’re enjoying this instead of standing there like a sulky child.”
Ryoumen Sukuna, a proud, formidable opponent in the arena—widely known as the King of the Colosseum, continued to be a haunting presence in your life even after his match ended with a draw two weeks ago. It was embarrassing enough that you could break so easily under his stare, and that, in addition, he knew that—just as well as you did (if not better). But to have him roam around the palace? While you were living there? Mallem mori.³
³ You would rather die.
The pink-haired man held favor from the emperor, since it seemed they knew each other even before the younger began a career in dueling, and alongside their acquaintance, came the event of Sukuna’s frequent visits to the palace. It had been a fortnight since the last munera, and you had already seen the beast of a man a total of fourteen times. It was like he knew he was tormenting you.
And, gods, it was absolutely childish how much you began to loathe the color red ever since. Time and time again, the appearance of Ryoumen Sukuna was continuously marked by either a ruby-adorned weapon lazily left around the premises, or a red cloak whipping through the air as you (in that scenario) would be staring at his broad back with a bitter taste in your mouth, while deciding whether to walk away or to dig a hole in the ground and die away like a hobbit.
Red was like a bad omen for you.
Wherever it was, you could bet a hundred horses that Sukuna would turn up sooner or later.
Now, normally, if the emperor invited friends over, you would not mind—no, not even in the slightest; for, from all the years you spent kissing the asses of royals who you came across, you had learned to blend in with high society. But, with Sukuna, it was different. You couldn’t keep your cool around him; seeing him always left you heavily bothered.
Even when you first met him (or, saw him, actually; because you two never formally introduced yourselves)—even then, you failed to stay calm and composed. Was it his eyes? Or his looks, in general? He was attractive—very attractive, tu non mentior,⁴ but, was that really all there was to it? You refused to face a man solely because you deemed him unbelievably good-looking?
⁴ You could not lie.
No, that wasn’t it. Well, that was part of it, but it wasn’t all. You couldn’t stand being in the same room as Ryoumen Sukuna because—because you were afraid of him. I mean, c’mon, you’re dragged along to watch a gladiator match (and, mind you, you despise unnecessary murder), and then you lock eyes with a man who looks like he could tear the entire empire apart with his bare hands, and now you have to act friendly with him? At least, in front of the emperor and empress? You had every right to avoid him at any chance you got.
And, not only that, but, aside from his frequent—almost annoyingly frequent—visits, he always held the same damn look on his face. Red, crimson eyes that looked at you like an animal would its prey; it was like, every opportunity received, Sukuna would size you up, as if envisioning as many ways possible he could kill you just like he does his opponents. But, fuck, his eyes were your weakness.
Staring through your soul like he wanted something, and in a way that made it seem as if he knew every thought that went through your head, including your fear of him—and imagining how he could exploit said fear like the cruel brute he was.
The empress and her husband wanted you two to get along, but you just couldn’t do it. No matter how hard you tried, you could never meet those bewitchingly crimson eyes with an emotion lacking hostility.
“I am not sulking,” came your reply, moments later.
“Yeah? Then, why are you just standing in the corner of the court like someone in time-out?”
His laugh made your blood boil, and you couldn’t help but cross your arms over your chest, scowling with your eyes facing away like a scolded child. How could he stand there, looking at you with those same red eyes, and act like nothing was the matter? Of course, something was the matter! Otherwise, you wouldn’t be on the verge of throwing yourself into a bush of thorny roses.
The emperor and the missus had left the two of you in the gardens, because, according to them, they had some “business” to attend to, and thought you would be eligible enough to be able to give the guest a tour of the terrace and the courtyard which stretched beyond it. That was a grave mistake on their part, for Sukuna was right, you really would rather die than speak with the man for more than a few minutes.
“Has it ever occured to you that not everyone enjoys your presence?” you spat out, finally having mustered up the courage to approach Sukuna from your little hiding spot.
Your steps were slow, languid, but the pink-haired brute saw them as nothing short of flirtatious. In fact, when you were just a foot away, he took it upon himself to close the distance between you two, staring down at your figure with that same enigmatic look in his eyes.
“You’ve got quite the mouth on you.”
“And you’ve got quite the nerve showing up here as often as you do.” You narrowed your eyes. “Tell me, what is your purpose for coming here, anyway?”
Sukuna laughed—a cold, cruel, taunting laugh. “Can a man not step foot in his future palace?” But, when he noticed the confusion evident on your face, he smiled grimly, before taking you arm-in-arm. “Let’s take a walk, shall we?”
It was more of an order, if anything, but with the strength he used to pull your arm into his, and with the intimidatingly imperiling energy practically radiating off his body, you did not refuse his subtle coercion to take a stroll around the gardens, (especially since his gladius was still strapped in its harness).
Taking a slow pace, the two of you walked arm-in-arm around the various bushes, plants, trees, and vineyards that surrounded the estate. While making your way around the scenic landscape, Sukuna, in a low voice, began to speak.
He told you of his imprisonment, and how, for four years, he had been idly rotting away in a cell, before his persecutors decided to finally end his life and throw him in an arena. Sukuna did not attend any schooling for gladiators, and was untrained. When he first stepped foot in the Colosseum, almost everyone thought he was to die. But, miraculously, he, instead, survived. His first match, he won. His second match, he won.
The officials kept throwing him into munera, and every single time, he came out undefeated. Sukuna was a criminal since birth, but when he made a career as a gladiator (albeit against his will), he quickly made a name for himself. Ryoumen Sukuna rose in fame and fortune—not only for his skill when it came to swordsmanship, but also for his looks. The man may have been a notorious criminal, but he was a fan-favorite when it came to the ladies.
It was as if the gods regarded Ryoumen as their champion, seeing as they granted him victory through every editor that oversaw his matches.
With each gladiatorial game that passed, Sukuna’s opponents only grew tougher and tougher, which, mind you, never proved a problem. The man’s prizes and incentives for surviving the arena increased with each match, and Sukuna’s wealth grew in unmistakable abundance, surpassing even the fortune of an average nobleman.
When Sukuna was but a boy, he never dreamed of a life in the Colosseum; but in this realm, one either wins or loses. The Parcae wait for no man, and mortals of all ages and all walks of life know one thing: Vincere aut mori.⁵
⁵ Conquer or die.
“Each time I unsheath my blade,” Sukuna began, stopping just before an olive tree, “I do not know whether I will breathe for another night. But the higher-ups in this empire are all but damn fools. The last match, right before we celebrate Vulcan, will determine everything. If I kill Satoru Gojo, my name will live on long after my life’s end. If I die by his trident (the weapon my silver-haired rival wields) . . .” His voice trailed off.
“That’s not a possibility I’m against,” you interjected.
“Very funny.” Sukuna turned to look down at you. “For that’s a possibility that simply will not happen.”
“What, don’t tell me you’ve consulted an oracle or something of the sort?”
The pink-haired man laughed in your face; it was cruel and unsounding. “You dare doubt my victory, woman?”
“I doubt everything when it comes to you.”
Your stroll around the palace gardens came to a sudden end, as Sukuna roughly pulled you by the shoulders and placed you both to stand face-to-face. His expression was dark, and his tone inhumane. “Listen, and listen well, girl. The emperor offers me a prize I cannot reject. If I win my most anticipated match yet, he will bestow upon me—by the power vested by the gods above—whatever it is I please.”
You couldn’t help but interrupt once more, your curiosity getting the best of you. “You mean to tell me, you’ll ask for the empire? Is that what you mean by ‘future palace?’”
“I won’t ask for the empire. No, my prize will be something far greater. And when I get it, the empire will soon fall into my hands as easily as it was for you to fall into mine.”
“So, that’s all it is that you want? The empire?”
Sukuna leaned down to meet your eyes, his stare burning holes through your flesh. “I want control.”
“Well, let me tell you something, sir,” you began, coolly, whilst taking a step backwards with each word you spoke, “you won’t find that here.”
But when you were just about to exit the garden, and finally get the fuck away from the brute of a man you called Sukuna, you could just barely hear him utter—with that sensuously slow voice of his—five words, that seemed to stick with you even after you left the premises. “Oh, I don’t intend to.”
It was as if you had pushed your luck far too much for the gods’ pleasure, and now, they were giving you something along the lines of a punishment.
Even after Sukuna’s visits changed from daily, to every other day, to weekly, and then, to nothing but a faint memory of the past, his voice never left your head, like a deity putting a certain thought or belief or action into a mortal’s mind. It was overbearing, and you couldn’t draw the line between delusion and reality.
When you set off to fetch herbs for, say, preparing baths or something of the like, Ryoumen’s cold, dark voice, which practically dripped with malice, seemed to follow you every way you went. Feeling a hand perch on your shoulder always had you shuddering, whether it was a trick of the mind or an action actually done by someone else. Entertaining yourself with the playing of an instrument—you preferred the cithara⁶—degressed from a pastime to a new torture method. Between picking strings and producing melodies, came the haunting face of Ryoumen Sukuna, which proved more of a distraction rather than a stimulation, seeing as dissonance and incorrect, out-of-tune notes were the only sounds played.
⁶ An instrument.
You knew that you were in your right mind when you first met the fact that you avoided the man for being afraid of him, but only now, were you finding yourself validated by the shivers you got from the mere thought of him appearing. Somnus was not a god of your favor; your dreams—more like nightmares, it seemed—only filled you with more despair each time you arose in a cold sweat.
It was unfair how much of an effect the beast had on you.
Alas, your hopes of freedom were for naught.
Another fortnight passed, and it had now been a total of thirty days since you last spectated a gladiator match. You were neither surprised nor anxious when the empress dragged you along to another match at the Colosseum (by then, you had realized it was practically fate), but what you were astonished to see, however, was the sight of fires which blazed unwaveringly before you.
It was evening; the arena was lit up with several immensely-sized bonfires, whilst the air darkened with the amount of smoke flying up to the clouds above; the stands were decorated in tapestries and other displays of insignias; and the crowds bustled and roared with uncontrollable excitement and an unquenchable lust for blood.
The emperor sat in his respected box—the cubiculum—with his lions beside him, while you and the empress sat in the Imperial Box opposite to his.
The night was young, and the winds—smelling of the fragrant incense being burned—lashed and whipped unforgivably at your plaited updo and thin clothing. Even with the bright, old stars beaming down at the gold of your jewelry, your eyes shone downwards, covered ever so slightly by the veil you wore atop your head. You did not want to watch this match, but, despite the fact, you neither declined nor pressed for complaints when the empress ordered for your accompanying presence at the amphitheater.
“My child,” was what she began with, before saying, “the Parcae.”
It was short, it was simple, and yet it had the same effect on you that it would have—had her selection of words been more compious.
Fate called you.
There was no doubt in that.
For, when you found your seat in the arena . . . There it was again. That same piercing gaze delivered your way, and that same intimidated reaction you experienced. Like prey having been caught in its predator’s trap. A shiver ran up your spine at the feeling of two red, crimson eyes staring right back at you, and you worked arduously to ignore his unmistakable stare, using turning to the side and facing a neighbor or digging in your bag as an excuse to escape making eye contact.
Ryoumen Sukuna had entered through the Gate of Life, (as did all gladiators of the time), and if the growing rowdiness of the crowds hadn’t brought you to that attention, the sudden chill in the air would.
Gojo Satoru’s entrance into the Colosseum followed soon after, and you bit your lip at the memory of the last time you met his sea-blue eyes. It was distant, long-past, but you liked to think about it every now and then; sometimes when you dipped your fingers into similarly-colored waters, or, when the clouds rained and thundered over the empire.
Familiarity breeds contempt, but you did not know the silver-haired gladiator like you feared his crimson-eyed opponent. Fear is power. Power is love.
“Dearie,” called the woman dressed in ornate fabrics, as she placed a hand on your knee, “do quit the shaking of your leg. If the sight of blood brings about your nerves, we can always have someone over to cover your eyes with a palm branch when the time comes. I am not mistaken, corrigere?⁷”
⁷ Correct.
“No, Empress, I appreciate your kindness, but,” you paused, casting your eyes downward, “there will be no need. I can assure you that, blood hardly disturbs me in the slightest. I am just . . .” Your voice trailed off, your fingertips grazing the folds of your palla. “I wonder who will survive this evening.”
“My, my, my, has my dearie taken an interest in gladiatorial matches?” The empress smiled, teasingly. “I didn’t know you cared for a matter you previously spoke about with such disdain.”
Your cheeks warmed, fists clenched, and your breath caught in your throat. Embarrassment was an inexplicable feeling, and you looked to the side before changing the subject. “Who has your favor?”
“Is that even a question?” The woman erupted in laughter, surprised at how you could even question her about who she rooted for, especially due to the known fact about one man, and one man only, who had been dwelling at the royal abode as a repeated visitor.
You whispered mumblings under your breath—something along the lines of paenitemus,⁸ or, ignoscas mihi.⁹
⁸ Apologies.
⁹ Excuse me.
“My turn to question,” the empress managed, between her fit of laughter, “tell me, daughter of mine, which lucky man has your favor?”
You were silent for a moment—indecisive, one could say—but thanked the gods above when the gladiators were abruptly called to state their oaths, and, therefore, giving you an excuse to avoid providing the empress an audible answer.
You leaned forward in your seat, and watched as both Ryoumen Sukuna and Gojo Satoru spoke, consecutively, with their eyes set on one another. The crowds ceased their commotion, and watched, with intent so significant it brought them practically to the edges of their benches, as the challengers gave their swearings of the vow directly tying them to the will of the gods as they gave away their lives—the sacramentum gladiatorum, it was called.
Sukuna’s eyes were dark, that you could tell, and the overall atmosphere surrounding him screamed a lust for blood. His voice was cold, as if he wanted to get everything over with already, whilst the ruby on his swords’s hilt shone reflective under the moonlight’s illumination. He did not speak like it was an obligation, he spoke like it was a duty.
“Uri, vinciri, verberari, ferroqua necari pateor,” they both vowed.
Each man knew he were to either conquer or die; the speaking of those words only solidified the matter for all to hear. Victor or not, the lives of gladiators are objects of entertainment according to the match’s editor’s will. The gods speak, blood drips, and blades bury the undead. Spectators are roused as both competitors ready themselves, (which is a spectacle in itself, truthfully speaking), but you, on the other hand, are only able to watch with a sense for danger in the air. It was almost amusing. Timor mortis morte pejor.¹⁰
¹⁰ The fear of death is worse than death.
As both men began to circle each other, throwing insults and taunts, you could not help but drift off to the memory of that fortnight Sukuna spent at the palace. His words lingered in your ears, and the feeling of his hands on your shoulders, his arm around yours—it was . . . you couldn’t put a finger on it. There was, just, something about what he said that gave you an uncanny feeling in your gut.
Sukuna wanted control, you knew that, but, if he came out victorious this same night, he wasn’t planning on asking for the empire. He already made sure you got that through your skull, but, all the same, you couldn’t pin-point what it was that he did want. Gold? Treasures? He already had plenty. Women? No, his collection of admirers already exceeded a great number. Land? Yes, that had to be it. But, then again, whatever it was that Ryoumen wanted, he claimed it would have the empire falling into his hands sooner or later. Land couldn’t possibly be the answer for that . . .
Whilst you stayed in your head, thinking to yourself, the match had already begun to get less boring. Both men had each delivered at least two hits to the other, and the clanks! of iron against iron could be heard audible throughout the arena.
Sukuna took side-steps, a new technique he had developed, while the silver-haired gladiator struck the tips of his trident at places most people wouldn’t have even imagined possible.
Grunting, the pink-haired man swung his gladius like it was a mere toy, while spitting on the coarse, rough sand. That action alone sent several sections of the Colosseum swooning. But, despite the fact, Gojo didn’t let any of it get to his head, and, in lieu, let out an almost facetious whistle.
“Dunno if you’re aware, Ryoumen, but this isn’t exactly a great time to pick up ladies,” was what the lean, pale man said, joking, as he continued stabbing with his trident.
“Any time is a great time; what are you going on about? Could pick up a chick with my eyes closed.”
The two men went forwards and backwards with their banter, like two boys rebelling and messing around in school. They joked like immature adolescents, but fought like champions of the gods. The skies were cloudless, with the moon shining bright, and it was thus unclear whose side Olympus was on. But what really confused you, was the sudden thumping sound that reached your ears. Especially with the lack of drums or any similar instruments visible, you were left in a sense of unanswerableness.
The sound of the thumping was loud, and continued to increase in volume as the match went on. Gojo slashed at Sukuna’s armor—the drum beat faster; Sukuna stabbed at Gojo’s helmet—the drum beat in a staccato fashion; Gojo stumbled on his own two feet, struggling to fight back against Ryoumen’s gladius—the drum did not beat faster, but, instead, crescendoed, along with the roars of the crowds.
It was incredibly overwhelming.
You turned to the empress, in order to ask if the emperor had hired any percussion players, but Her Imperial Majesty paid you no mind, for she was extremely engrossed in the fight, repeatedly expressing her frustrations and anticipation by cursing under her breath.
Everyone was in their own world. Spectators, as they watched and rooted for their favorite gladiator. Nobles, as they placed bets and other games of the like. The emperor and empress, as they analyzed the match and reactions of the crowds (as to decide who to favor when the time came for a turned thumb). And, if it wasn’t obvious before, the gladiators, as they fought for both their lives and honor.
First blood was drawn a while ago, but only now, had real stabs been given. Pierced through his armor, clutching at his chest while taking steps backwards, was none other than the infamous, silver-haired Gojo Satoru. You did not know much about him, other than the fact he was an attractive man (A/N: don’t even start with me), but you couldn’t help but feel pity seeing him come to a loss so soon.
While the drum beat faster, and the volume amplified, booming across the walls of the amphitheater, you could make out, just slightly, the life returning back to Gojo’s eyes. Blood dripped, yes, but it was not plentiful enough for death to visit the grounds of the Colosseum.
Gojo’s hands twitched, his slender, pale fingers stained with blood and marked with sand, but his figure fought back for composure, and the fact soon became clear as his legs grew stiff, and his steps grew less irregular as the seconds went by.
You weren’t the only one who seemed to notice the man’s recovery, but it would have been strange to admit Ryoumen was the one behind it all. Seeing as a duel to the death in an arena was all a mere lousy game to the pink-haired brute, it wasn’t a refutable accusation to say Sukuna was only toying with his opponent’s life. Nearly piercing through Gojo’s chest, just to stand and watch solemnly as he stumbled—you soon grew familiar with the idea of Ryoumen testing the waters: seeing just how much Gojo could take before the ever anticipated match-ending move was played.
Murder flashed in the pair of crimson eyes, and the etchings on Sukuna’s gladius gleamed under the moonlight as he drew up his sword for one last round.
Gojo regained his stance, delivered a blow at Sukuna’s side, which, for second, appeared to at least wound the beast, but Ryoumen, ever the calculated, drew back; and as the drum continued to beat and thump in the background, both men fought with a newfound rush of vitality and zeal for blood. Hollers sounded through the crowds, coins dropped into dishes, and the shaking of your leg quickened.
Sukuna kept silent, like a scheming child, while he hit Gojo with the end of his sword. The attack was with enough force for the silver-haired gladiator to be knocked down, off his feet, and onto the floor of the arena. A retaliation was not lacked, as Sukuna received small, insignificant and weak stabs of the trident to his abdomen, as Gojo fought for the continuation of his name, but it was for naught.
The climax of the drum’s beating was reached when Sukuna delivered an almost humorous kick to his opponent, before turning to face the emperor in his Imperial Box. Gojo’s face was full of yearning and want—but, whether it was for death or life was uncertain. He laid, injured and on the brink of mortality, but he was silent, and ceased any more attacks.
Crowds grew silent, but stayed as rowdy (somehow), as everyone turned to the emperor in anticipation. Clothed in the naturally designated purple toga, with a laurel wreath to emit godly status and authority, the emperor stood before and above all. A pollice verso¹¹ was given, after careful thought, and as the beating of the drum quickened, the blade of Ryoumen Sukuna’s gladius was driven through the heart of Gojo Satoru.
¹¹ Turned thumb.
But before such an action occurred, the beast did not forget, with audible cruelty, to spit out the words, “The moonlight’s illumination makes it easier . . . to see how pathetic you are.”
Blood seeped from the wound in Gojo’s chest and spilled out from between cracked lips; and as the fallen gladiator was soon carried out the Gate of Death, the beating of the invisible drum ceased, and you lost your capability to form words.
Surprise, pity, anger—they were all shown in your expression. With parted lips, and denial etched all over your face, you sunk down in your seat as others around you stood up to applaud, cheer, cry out, and much more.
At his zenith, Ryoumen Sukuna backed away from the corpse at his feet, dug his gladius into the floors of sand, and looked ‘round at his spectators. Turning his head, meeting the eyes of those who wanted him dead and those who prayed for his victory, Sukuna held a scowl on his face, like he wasn’t affected in the slightest by having just murdered a man.
Ryoumen was a man who knew how to hold himself in stance and gait, much like a god or a king. Raising his arms wide, eyes flickering to pierce everyone’s souls, his voice came out just as cold as it had been last fortnight—when he decidedly said, in front of everyone, “Behold, mortals; feast your eyes upon the monster you have set free for your pleasure.”
This was the King of the Colosseum.
You could see that much, now.
***
The sun rose proud, the mockingbirds cooed gently, and the blessing of the dawn of a new day had been upon citizens of Rome.
Senators were gathered ‘round while royals and other noblemen stood and watched alongside. Whispers and murmurs were plenty, but when the emperor asked for whatever it was that the gladiator wanted, there was a stunned silence as the pink-haired beast took long, full strides to approach none other than you. Kneeling before your feet, and kissing the back of your outstretched palm, even the gods watched with pleasure and anticipation whilst an answer revealed itself.
Silent, swift, and yet, never before, so concise. The air was still, the noise had ceased, and even the falling of a pin could be heard clear as day whilst your figure twitched and shook ever so slightly—fear having begun its taking of your body.
It was needless to voice that same wretched look Ryoumen Sukuna offered your way, his crimson eyes peering up at you from beneath his eyelashes. It was nothing short of a horror.
The day after Gojo Satoru’s death, a circle of royal acquaintances had gathered at a pavilion of the palace to watch as the emperor granted whatever prize Ryoumen Sukuna wished for. Elephants, tigers, lions, and other beasts of the wild, were already lined up and harnessed. Stacks of jewelry and treasures littered the marble floors. It was clear the emperor had already expected what offers could be possibly made, and so he decorated the palace in accordance. But, when the fearsome gladiator chose to, in lieu, take you as his bride for a prize, there was unanimous astonishment.
Rising back to his feet, the pink-haired victor—dressed in his signature red cloak, ruby-adorned blade, and now, an additional laurel (to signify his victory the last evening)—looked down at you with a strangeness about his eyes. Your hand was still in Sukuna’s when he turned to face the emperor, who stood with a calm demeanor, contrasting just about everyone.
“You ask for the princess?” the emperor questioned, curious.
“If it can be done.”
The emperor laughed, adding, “But, you must know, son, there are many women who will not be happy by this news.”
At this, the crowds burst into laughter. The tension in the air dissipated, but you . . . you looked at the ground and at your feet, praying you misheard or were even dreaming. But alas, you couldn’t have strayed farther from the truth.
“You would kiss the hand of your prisoner?” you whispered, whilst everyone was distracted in their fits of laughter.
“Am I not a prisoner, as well?”
***
You were twenty years old when your hair was parted by a spear, separated into six locks, crowned with nature’s gifts and herbs, and covered by a flammeum (also known as a veil). With your face painted, jewelry adorned, and dress made ready, you were escorted and sent off to join in matrimony with Ryoumen Sukuna. Tears in your eyes, a palm branch in your hands, the completion of the ceremony came, and it was then time for the wedding feast: the banquet.
It was to take place at the atrium of the palace, similar to the wedding ceremony.
Pheasants were killed, venison was brought, raw oysters were consumed, and shellfish made its appearances at the banquet. You sat beside the man you now called your husband, picking at your meals and distracting yourself with entertaining the guests. Sukuna, on the other hand, sat silent, for the most part; his hand resting on your hip as he watched, full of intent, as your lips parted and moved with each syllable you uttered.
There were a-plenty dancers, poets, and musicians present at both the wedding ceremony and banquet, but, for each ritual up until now, Sukuna had failed to take his eyes off of you. Red, crimson orbs—that seemed to never stray from yours.
It had been a week since you last spoke to Sukuna, the day he claimed you as his, and, in truth, if it were in your will, you would wish to never speak to him again. You hardly paid any mind, at all, to him as the both of you sat side-by-side, presenting yourselves as a married couple to the families, friends, and well-wishers who attended your wedding feast.
When the attention was directed elsewhere, and you received a much-needed break from entertaining your guests with talk of whatever it was that came to your mind, you reached for your goblet of wine, thirsty and parched, but were stopped by a ring-adorned, scarred hand, belonging to Sukuna, which held you firm by the wrist.
“I have murdered a man for you, dear wife,” began Sukuna, a cold, enigmatic look in his eyes as he peered into your face; “there is blood on my hands solely for your sake, and you refuse to even acknowledge my presence?”
You tried fighting back, stretching your fingers and reaching out for your goblet, but, surprise-surprise, his strength surpassed yours. With a huff of defeat, your hand—once writhing in your husband’s grasps—relaxed, and you gave into responding. “Do not forget, husband, I was not the one who called on you to do such a thing.”
Sukuna laughed, released your wrist, and opted to rest the side of his face on his fist as he watched you drink, a demented (but captivated) look on his face all the while. “Gods, I always forget how much of a sweet-talker you can be,” he snickered.
“You are delusional,” you deadpanned, continuing with your drink.
“And you, my dear, are—”
“Bitchy?”
“No.”
“Cruel?”
“No.”
“Exasperating?”
“I was going more for . . . bewitching.”
You set your wine down; silent, as you avoided Sukuna’s eyes.
But the man had different plans, seeing as he gingerly seized your left hand, and laid a kiss upon your ring finger (which connected to the vena amoris¹²), before kissing down each digit, making sure his lips met almost every piece of gold on your hand. The action would’ve been seen as romantic through your eyes, if you had forgotten what got the two of you here in the first place.
¹² Vein of love.
You did not speak until he was done, and when he was, you said, your voice above a whisper, “Husband.”
“Wife.” His response was almost immediate.
“I am . . .” You turned to meet his eyes. “I am bored, and would like to hear a story. A tale. Anything.”
“What is it you want to know?”
“Tell me—Tell me why you chose me.”
“I chose you because . . . I wanted you. Simple. Can a man not have his wants? His needs? As one chooses their life’s path, so I have chosen a woman I worship. A woman I need. A woman I love.”
“Need I remind you that lust is not love?”
A darkness came over Sukuna’s eyes, like a storm succeeding the calm. “Lust can be many things,” he replied, before lifting his goblet. “Care for a drink?”
You lifted your goblet, but hesitated, caution taking over your nerves. “I have had enough to drink for the night.”
“What, no toast for your husband?” Sukuna joked, his tone sly and cunning, as if there were an ulterior motive laced beneath his invitation.
You turned to face Sukuna, the bracelets and cuffs on your wrist sliding from their rightful places ever so slightly.
“Never in a million eons, you devil.” Seven words uttered before you finished off the wine in your goblet in one go.
The wedding feast ended with confarreatio, which led to the beginning of the next ritual. Domum deductio took place, and, that same evening, your innocence was stolen—ripped right out from your cold, bare, fucking, hands.
𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐈𝐈.
Marriage, actually, wasn’t all quite as bad as you had imagined . . . Okay, that was a lie.
Your first debut outdoors, after your joining in nuptials and being on the arm of Ryoumen Sukuna in front of government officials and nobles, took place a week after your wedding ceremony. The two of you had gotten up to making much use of your lectus genialis, and, even with the longing of fresh air and seeing familiar faces, it still took a bit of convincing for you to exit the doors of the estate; for, exhaustion had gotten the best of you.
It was hot outside; the sun shone cruelly, but you enjoyed being outside of the estate’s premises for once.
“I still don’t understand why you declined traveling by a litter,¹³” Sukuna said, bitterly, as he sat with his arms crossed, and his expression stern, whilst looking out the carpentum’s¹⁴ windows.
¹³ During Ancient Rome, a litter was a portable couch or bed that was carried by slaves or animals.
¹⁴ A luxurious Roman carriage used by the privileged.
“I am not a fan of parading,” came your calm reply.
“You’re a princess—by blood or not. Either way, a woman, as beautiful and alluring as you, should be treated as such.”
Your cheeks did not warm; Sukuna’s way of speaking about you like this was far from new, and you had gotten used to it, ever since your first encounter.
“Ryoumen,” you called, almost like a mother soothing a fussy child, “why do you feel the need to coddle me?”
“Coddling?” he repeated, seemingly offended. “You’re my wife, my treasure. The question should be why I would do anything but.”
The noises of the bustling street, talk of the people, and the sound of clothing against clothing, were all drowned out by the running of hooves and the whips of the carpentum driver. It was a spacious carriage, you had to admit, but with the amount of times the vehicle rocked and jerked on the uneven roads, you had soon begun to find yourself sitting impossibly close to Sukuna. Your elbows touching, shoulders meeting—it was uncomfortable due to the evident size differences.
“You forget that you won me, husband.”
“What is the difference?” sighed Sukuna, running a hand down his face. “I would’ve put a ring on your finger sooner or later.”
“. . .”
“Though, I do argue that, killing a man for your hand, was quite romantic . . . What, don’t give me that face.”
You looked at Sukuna with a stupid expression. “You . . . are a silly man.”
“All but for one woman,” he replied.
When you entered the carpentum, neither of the two of you knew where it was you were going. To the shops, to the villages, to the palace—it was unknown. Or, maybe, the destination was to remain indefinite on purpose. You liked traveling through the city, meeting the eyes of citizens you hadn’t seen in what felt like forever. You enjoyed the scent of home-cooked meals wafting through the air, and children laughing as they played in the streets. You liked it all, and you missed it all, even. But, gods, were you getting soft.
There was a pair of men passing through the road, and you would not have noticed them had the vehicle not yielded to let them pass.
“Look at their shoes,” Sukuna said, leaning in closer as the carriage was stopped, so you could hear him over the commotions. “Disgusting.”
“Do remember you were born in a prison, husband.” You remained straight-faced whilst you spoke, as neutral as one could be whilst keeping your eyes forward.
Sukuna let out a bark-laugh. “What a saint you are, huh.”
Your carriage was just about to approach a turning corner, when, completely out of the blue, you heard one of the men exclaim to the other, “Ah, look at that one, Caius! A sight for sore eyes, ain’t she?”
His companion replied, saying, just as scandalously, “Not half-bad, my friend,” he laughed, eyeing you up and down. “Never before have I wished more to be an emperor; just imagine what works I could perform if she was a slave.”
“If?”
“If. No way she’s anything but royalty. No man in his right state of mind would let her out of the streets if she was property.”
The two men snickered, carrying woven baskets filled with crops as they went, completely oblivious to the way Ryoumen sized the both of them up, seemingly possessed by a sudden lust for blood. Now that he thought about it, he had not killed in a while.
You tried to put a hand on Sukuna’s arm, in a poor attempt to soothe his growing anger, but he did not pay any mind to that, for he stuck his head out the luxuriously decorated carpentum, and retaliated against the perversion of the men with insults of his own. Yelling Latin curses left and right, all the obscenities in the book and footnotes. His voice was cold, and rough around the edges, but what surprised you most, was the tone in which he said, “Somnia omnia quae vis, nothi; praecidam manus tuas antequam tangas eam.¹⁵” You had never seen or heard such anger.
¹⁵ Dream all you want, bastards; I will cut off your hands before you even touch her.
But, before Sukuna could say something more offensive than “Te futueo et caballum tuum,” or, “Fututus et mori in igni,” the men recognized his carnage-filled reputation in the Colosseum from his notorious tattoos, and, with such fear they could’ve wet themselves, the both of them went, scurrying off in the opposite direction of where they came from, even going as far as dropping every basket they carried before making a run for it.
You caught a glimpse of them in their distress, and agreed—their shoes were disgusting.
Although settling into Sukuna’s estate took little time, familiarizing yourself with life as a married couple, on the other hand, took . . . some time, to say the least. The both of you had your ups and downs, and the path to warming up to your husband was a rocky one, seeing as your marriage was not out of love (not in the beginning, for the most part); so, naturally, there were some days where the two of you did not get along so well. And, who knew valets and maidservants could serve as such good marriage counselors?
Bright, sunny days had you seated outside, beneath the shade of olive trees, and while the songbirds sang along, you often kept yourself occupied by playing your cithara.⁶ Your husband was seldom home for most of the day, and you had learned how to keep busy whilst the only company you had was the flames rising forth from the hearth, and the tamed animals which lingered while your fingers danced across melodious strings.
⁶ An instrument.
Today was different.
Sukuna had no appointments to meet, no guests to entertain, and no matches to play. He met you in the gardens of your home, and stood, stiff and broad, just three paces from where you sat on a fountain’s coping. It was as if he were afraid to approach, to disturb and interrupt your playing, but you knew he was just deciding whether or not he was welcome.
“You play well,” came the sound of his voice.
“How could I not? There is never much to do around here.”
“Weaving?” He raised an eyebrow, still standing still like a statue.
“I fear I do not see as much joy in that as I used to.”
“And why is that, dear wife?”
“I find . . . other activities to take up the majority of my time.”
“Such as?”
Romans were barbarians in the arena and in the bedchambers.
You did not know sex until you were bedded by Ryoumen, and you did not know libido until you experienced what it meant to really be fucked. Growing up, sexual intercourse was always described as marital duties, but with Sukuna, it felt like a pleasure—quite literally.
Day and night, night and day.
It was all you knew the week following your wedding ceremony, and it was all you desired when coming home to the brute of a man you called your husband. The two of you did not exit the bedroom once during the week you spent after the final nuptial ritual. He had ruined you in the best way possible, you sometimes thought, and with little difficulty had he gotten you addicted to the feel of his cock, his tongue, and his fingers. Merely thinking about it all had your cheeks growing warm and your core practically aching with need.
But sex wasn’t all you received from the man; there was also endless banter, cruel mocking, rough touches, and arguments. Sukuna wasn’t a kind, vanilla man, you realized that the moment you laid eyes on him; and he was, if anything, a deviant. A monstrous one, at that.
Retaliating against him got you absolutely nowhere, and arguments only ended in sex. It wasn’t healthy, no, but it wasn’t like anyone said it would be.
With every step you took backwards, Sukuna followed with two forwards. The two of you had been arguing about a trivial matter—it had been long forgotten, actually—but neither of you had the decency to end your quarrel. Your yells and insults echoes throughout the walls of the estate, and servants paid mind to avoid the room you two currently occupied.
“Have I ever told you how much I absolutely loathe your pompous, fucking, ass?”
“Oh, sweetheart, only about a million times,” he answered, obviously taking your anger with a grain of salt. “But, how could I not? when you always do more than just tell me.”
You narrowed your eyes at the man, and cursed. “Go rip out your tongue and rub it raw with a strigil.”
“I always forget how much I love to hear you dirty-talk.”
“You are a dog,” you spat out, as Sukuna had you backed up against the edge of a table.
“And you, my dear wife, are a beauty to behold.”
Mentally having patted himself on the back for rendering you speechless, Sukuna closed the distance between you two and placed a kiss on your hand like he always did. Sexually appealing, successful, and charming? Damn the gods for giving him it all.
You and Sukuna were stood just centimeters apart, his arms caging you in as he stared down upon you with that unforgettable look in his eyes. It was intimidating, indeed, but you were his wife, for gods’ sake! you could surely hold your ground.
“Flattery isn’t getting you anywhere,” you said, placing your palms on the surface of the table behind you as you challenged Sukuna’s unwavering gaze, staring up at him with eyes doe and, still, equally as hardening.
“Good. Flattery isn’t quite my style.”
Sukuna raised a hand to rest on your cheek, before bringing you in for a zealous kiss. All teeth and tongue. It hurt—how rough he held you, that is—but it was a different type of pain. A type of pain you enjoyed suffering. His lips met yours, and you tasted blood on his tongue. You could not tell whose it was. Whether it was from him handling you with little to no care, or it was from him, himself, or it was from another, more foreign, source, you did not know.
You responded to his kiss with just as much violence as lust. Your body pressed against Sukuna’s, seeking as much friction as you could, whilst the two of you molded into each other like pieces of a puzzle. While Sukuna kept you pinned against the table, with nowhere to turn, your hands found their way to perching on his shoulder and on his beating heart, in efforts to maintain stability (which was proving to be a challenge, if you had to be honest).
Whispers and murmurs against lips; nipping and biting of sharp teeth; heavy breathing and the failure to catch breaths—it was overbearing. The room felt stuffy and overcrowded, when, in reality, it was only the two of you.
“Were you—mmph—acting like a bitch because you missed this?” Sukuna jeered, sloppily kissing you between each word.
“I would act like a bitch regardless.” You clawed at his chest and toga, having gone equally as mad from the mere feeling of kisses alone, but, in any way, your words came out all the same as you had intended them. “Taking me as your wife may have come easily to you, but wooing me won’t.”
“Lucky me,” Sukuna exhaled, releasing you from his nearly-suffocating kiss but not from his grasps. “I’m all for a challenge.”
One of his hands shot to your hip, his grip unforgivable and white-knuckled, whilst his other hand trailed down your thigh, slender fingers tickling your warming skin through the fabric of your clothing, and sending the hairs on your neck to stand up. You held your breath, hands back to their original positions on the table’s surface, as Sukuna reached the edge of your dress, lifting it to your waist.
Cool air hit your skin almost instantly, and goosebumps arose along your limbs. But, still, you did not breathe; it wasn’t until Sukuna’s cold, cruel voice spoke up that you did.
“What a pretty little thing you are,” he cooed, staring at the dampness of your core. “No undergarments? Must be all for me.”
He spoke as if you were a feast; it made you bite your lip to the point of bleeding, and caused your legs to almost go wobbly, like a fawn.
Ryoumen tilted his head down to meet your neck, before he sank his teeth beneath the skin of your clavicle. It was scandalous in all the best ways possible, and you couldn’t help the breathy moan which left your lips. He sucked at the wound, kissed it, and moved his lips to other areas of your collarbones. He nipped and bit at freckles and moles, sucked on your skin—leaving love marks in his way, and, despite the feat, never failing to litter sloppy and wet kisses all the while.
With his mouth on your skin, Sukuna’s hands worked elsewhere. He trailed a cold hand up your thigh, teasing you with touches to the point of it becoming agonizing, before finally getting to where you needed him most. You were dripping enough for no lube to be needed, but the man was still courteous enough to dip one finger within your folds, before following with a second. Curling them deep inside of you, and hitting just the right spot; your eyes rolled to the back of your head and your hands shook and jerked uncontrollably as you dug your nails into Sukuna’s toned biceps.
Moans and whimpers left your lips left and right, yet he was only beginning.
His fingers bullied your clit, continuing their assault mercilessly; and whilst the sound of your growing cries bounced around the walls of the estate, his pace and roughness only reached new heights, seemingly possessed by the satisfaction of bringing you to Cloud Nine.
“Sukuna . . .” you whimpered, struggling to form words. “Sukuna, please. Please, I need to—”
“Need to what?”
“I . . . nngh,” you managed, moaning within your pleas, “I need to cum. I need to cum, you stupid bastard.”
“Now, is that any way to speak to your husband?” Sukuna taunted, pausing his attacks on your neck and the skillfulness of his fingers between your legs with not even a second thought.
You were this close to being brought over the edge, and you whined and wiggled your hips as Sukuna stopped reaching so deep within you, but, instead, opted for circling the tips of his fingers around the embarrassingly wet entrance of your clit. It was not even close to enough; he was punishing you, you were sure.
“No, no—nngh! Why did you stop?” you cried, bucking your hips in an attempt at reaching bliss.
“Because you have not an idea on how to speak to the Head of the House, wifey.” His crimson eyes bore into your teary ones, and you clawed and scratched at his neck, trying desperately to pull him closer to you.
“Ryoumen, no, please. Please—I need to . . . I need to . . .” Your voice trailed off. Truthfully speaking, now was possibly the worst time to gain a conscience.
“Use your words, sweetheart.”
“I . . . Please, Sukuna. I need you. I, fuck—I need you. Please.” You looked into his eyes, crying entreaties like your life depended on it. “Please, I need to cum.”
“See? Not so bad, now, was it?”
Sukuna did not resume his assault with his fingers, but, instead, for possibly the first time in history, knelt down, before you, before his wife, and pressed a degrading (if anything) kiss to your pretty, puffy lips, before attaching his mouth to your clit, sucking and licking stripes up and on it with a velocity that left you leaving permanently visible claw-marks on the furnished table.
You could not hear, you could not move, you could not speak, you could only feel. Feel the feeling of Sukuna’s rough tongue gliding through your wetness, plunging and pumping and ravaging throughout your folds, reaching spots deep within you, causing you to see stars as he reached that one good spot. It was ruthless, it was sinful, and it was so, so, so, so wrong, but, then again, it was just so, so, so, so good.
Flicking his tongue, and curling it, Sukuna continued to tease and suck on your clit. The whole act of it was just . . . incredibly intimate. Your thighs squeezed and squeezed, hands gripping his hair for support, but it was still too much. With a final kiss to your clit, you felt the coil build in your stomach, and with a scandalously loud cry, you came on Sukuna’s tongue, shaking and writhing as tears fell from your dazed eyes.
Allowing you to ride out your high, Sukuna lapped at your release, gripping onto the flesh of your ass with white knuckles to keep you from squirming and wiggling.
“Mm, tastes so good, baby.”
“I . . . ahh . . . too—too much. Sensitive.”
“Poor baby,” he cooed, mockingly, before his voice turned cool once more; “you can handle it.”
Rising to his feet, and wiping his mouth clean with the back of his hand, Sukuna stared at the wood behind you whilst watching you catch your breath, chest heaving as you depended on the table for balance. “It was a smart move to buy such a large table,” he murmured, stepping closer.
But before you could ask what on earth it was that Sukuna was referring to, he answered all your questions by lifting you up by the meat of your hips and laying you on your back on the rough wood of the table. It was cool against your bare skin, and sent a shiver running up your spine.
“You . . . What?” you questioned, attempting to sit up, before being roughly shoved back down.
“Don’t ‘What’ me, sweetheart. I’m giving you what you’ve been waiting for. Unless, of course, I’m hearing complaints?”
“. . .” You gulped, swallowing the lump in your throat, before crossing your legs behind Sukuna’s back and pulling him closer to your cunt, the hard-on—barely hidden beneath his toga—being pressed right up against where you needed him most. It sent a shock to your core.
“Now that’s a good girl.”
He pulled the dainty cloth of your dress off your body as easily as it was for you to put it on when you awoke that day’s morning, and mindlessly threw it onto the floor behind him.
“Sukuna, you—could you take any longer?” Laid bare before his eyes, you shivered, but not before pulling your husband impossibly closer. His hands planted on areas beside your head, and your lips met, molding together, as wildly as before.
Squeezing your eyes shut, breathy moans drawn forth from your lips, you held the sides of his throat in your hands, and occasionally carded your fingers through his rosy, unruly hair. All while sneakily dragging a bare foot up the fabric of his toga, revealing tattooed skin as you went. You couldn’t wait any longer, and if you were the one who had to get your husband’s cock out, so be it.
Well, it didn’t matter anyway. Sukuna couldn’t care less for your impatience; he . . . had an appreciation of the sort, for the rare times you took mild control.
Sukuna murmured, laughing against your kiss-bitten lips, “So impatient today, wifey.”
“Like you’re not?”
Sukuna rolled his eyes, looking down at you once the two of you released each other for breath. His eyes were dark and dull, but you noticed the strands of hair askew on his face, (if it wasn’t already enough for you that his toga was now completely off). “Come on. Do you really want to go down that route, sweetheart?”
“I can’t help it. Bullying is just such—o-oh!”
Despite biting your lip, you let out an embarrassingly loud moan, arching your back as Sukuna had your hands pinned down above your head on the table. The first thrust had the air knocked out of your throat, you didn’t even notice it was coming in the first place! Even with the amount of times he bedded you, you had never gotten used to his size. Long, girthy, with veins that twitched and never failed to send you straight to Olympus? Yeah, you couldn’t really blame yourself.
“All it took to keep you from running your mouth was some cock, huh? Yeah, you make such a good whore for your dear husband, don’t you.” His cold, dark voice, complemented with the contradicting degradation and praising words of his sent you spiraling albeit it was only the beginning.
You kicked your feet, whining and gasping for breath when Sukuna took the opportunity to lean down, littering bites and love marks on your bare chest, trailing, ever so slowly, all the way up to the swell of your breasts. Hands still pinned to the table, legs locked around Sukuna’s waist, meeting his continuous thrusts without fail, your back arched with pleasure, giving Sukuna easy access to your tits, bouncing in all their glory before his mouth.
He leaned over your body, the difference in your heights showing itself clearly at this moment, as he swirled a wet, warm tongue around your areola, before attaching his lips to your tit, biting every then and there around the soft mound. Your nipples, perky and hardened long ago, reacted as they always did when they met Ryoumen’s lips. Sensitive, they were, and it showed, when you squirmed uncontrollably under his assaults, eyes opening and closing with vertigo.
“Such pretty tits,” he murmured, his voice sending vibrations to your already aroused buds, “bet they would look even better all swollen with milk for my heir.”
You whined, moaning from the thought alone—argument long forgotten. Your cunt, its walls, actually, tightened at the idea of Sukuna giving you a baby, and you were sure he noticed with the way he was smiling like a madman with your tit in his mouth, one hand pinning yours down, the other twisting and pulling and pinching at your other neglected nipple.
“Mm, yeah. You like the sound of that, don’t you? clenching down on me like a vice. Want me to hold you down and make you a little mommy? Is that what you want?”
You nodded fervorously, throat dry from crying out, and mind already gone and thoroughly fucked-out.
Sukuna laughed, like the cruel man he was. “Well, if that’s what my lovely wife wants, it’s what my lovely wife gets.”
Eyes rolling to the back of your head, you thrashed around and moaned aloud like a crazy woman as the tip of Sukuna’s cock hit you in all the right places. It was incredibly overwhelming, and with the way your walls were convulsing around the cock reaching depths deep within you, the both of you were sure your second orgasm was to come no later than the first one.
Your cervix—kissed over and over and over again by the head of his cock; your tits—groped and bitten and sucked with relentless roughness; there really was no end to the pleasure you received from Sukuna. You felt stimulation all over to the point it was embarrassing how much you were pushed over the edge by simple touches and caresses alone. Even hearing Sukuna’s grunts and the rasp of his voice had your cheeks growing warm and your skin glowing under a thin layer of sweat.
“O-Ohh, I . . . nngh,” you whimpered, your wrists growing sore as your voice grew meek, letting out a soft, quiet “Please.”
Blood rushed to Sukuna’s ears at the sound of your weak voice, and, most importantly, also rushed to his cock. “Do you want me to spell it out for you? We’ve been over this, darling. Use your words.”
“I—but . . . Sukuna, please! I need to . . . I need to cum. I—hahh.” You let out a shaky exhale, your orgasm within fingertips’ reach.
“You want to cum? Go on, then, and cum right on your husband’s cock, just like the slut of a wife you are.”
Everything turned to black when you reached your climax; warm, sticky whiteness running down the base of Sukuna’s cock. He finished inside of you soon after, one last grunt and deep groan marking his release, whilst his seed filled you to the hilt, reaching deep inside of your quite fertile cunt at his cock still being buried in your twitching walls. You didn’t think at all about the possibilities which could follow after having laid down with Sukuna unprotected, and it seemed it was the same for him, as well.
His grip on your wrists did not give out, but still, nevertheless, loosened ever so slightly, revealing a ring of red marks around your wrists. You breathed out a sigh, shaking with eye-opening bliss as your stomach, once empty, was now bloated with the impeccable amount of semen shot by your husband. It swelled, full and swollen, painted white with ropes of cum, and when Sukuna pressed down on the bulging outline of his cock, you let out a poor whine.
“Don’t tell me you’ve given out on me just yet, sweetheart. You don’t think we’re finished already, do you?”
***
Crawling out from beneath messed up sheets, climbing over sprawled out limbs, and tiptoeing around in nothing but a loose-fitting stola had your escape occurred—exiting from the bedchambers smelling of musk and sex, and entering the balcony, seeking breaths of fresh air.
You did not usually awake before your husband (he was usually up and out of the room by the time you opened your eyes), but perhaps yesterday’s exertions had tired him out, seeing as neither of you slept from after supper to the break of day. And, yes, while you, too, were also thoroughly exhausted, you fell into the arms of Somnus much before Ryoumen did, which likely contributed to your quite early waking.
The view downwards was pretty. Blurred shades of green and blue and white. You could see servants walking to-and-fro, and, for a moment, you remembered when your life was something similar.
The sun shone on your face as brightly as it did when you first saw the man still lying asleep in your bed, but you did not raise an arm to shield your eyes. It was quiet, and you felt more alive than you did in weeks.
Morning dew fell from trees, and the birds sang. The railing on which you rested your elbows was cold and rough, it reminded you of something that you could not quite put your finger on, at least, not until you heard the sound of footsteps behind you, and the yawning and cracking of unused bones.
“Surprised to see you’re not already knocked up with my kid,” came the raspy, unfamiliar morning-voice from behind you.
“Surprised to see you awake at a time after six,” you quipped, not turning around to face your lover.
Warm arms wrapped around your waist, and a bare chest pressed itself against your back as Sukuna’s lips met your collarbones, kissing your skin in greeting. “A snarky one, aren’t you? What, did last night not soothe your wants?”
He was always so clingy in the mornings. Like a needy child.
“. . .You are only wearing a subligaculum,¹⁶” you observed, changing the subject with haste.
¹⁶ An undergarment.
“It’s not like I hear any complaints,” he joked. “Besides, no one’s up here. Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a servant taking a little peek.”
You swallowed. “Nonsense.”
“Smart girl.” He rested his chin on the top of your head, his weight resting on yours, causing you to lean the combination of your weight on the balcony railing. “Now, tell me, what is someone like the missus doing someplace out here?”
“Can a woman not be alone in peace?”
Sukuna seemed to pause in faux thought, before finally saying, “Not when that woman is my woman.”
“So, no?”
“No.”
“. . .”
“. . .”
“What are you doing out here?” you questioned.
“Seeing my wife,” he stated, in a matter-of-fact fashion.
“But,” you bit your lip, “don’t you have any business to attend to?”
Sukuna rolled his eyes, removing his chin off of your head and, trailing an ice-cold hand down your spine, which sent shudders throughout your body, he slid a sneaking finger up your thigh, until, with an agonizingly slow pace, he stuck a digit up your cunt. All this he did in a casual manner, like it was an everyday thing—which, technically speaking, it was.
“Are you trying to get me to leave you alone?” he asked, as if he didn’t have a finger up your pussy, “because it might be a little late for that.”
You whimpered, collapsing on the balcony railing for support when a second finger was added.
Sukuna curled his fingers, scissoring them and quickening his pace as he did so. The squelching of your cunt sent you over the edge, the idea of someone overhearing—or, worse, seeing—the two of you in this act had your eyes rolling to the back of your head.
“Sukuna, please, we—nngh! We shouldn’t . . .” You let out a shaky exhale. “Not—Not out here.”
Sukuna leaned down to place a kiss to the lobe of your ear, giving a sloppy, dirty lick to the skin there. “Why not?”
“Because . . . someone—” You were cut off by Sukuna’s fingers hitting your sweet spot, and couldn’t help but let a scandalously obnoxious cry slip from between your lips, the three syllables of your husband’s name following soon after, like a prayer.
“Because someone, what?”
His voice mocked you, whilst the longest of his fingers bullied your cunt, and his thumb, every so often, circled around and applied pressure to your clit.
“Sukunanngh . . . I—You . . . You bastard,” you groaned, whining against the palm slapped over your mouth.
“What was that? Oh, you want me to fuck you?” His fingers moved faster, his voice growing cruel and dark. “Well, who am I to decline my bride, hm?”
Pulling his fingers out from between your legs, leaving you a shaking, heaving mess, Sukuna moved on to bring the ends of your dress to your hips, gripping and groping the flesh there as he pressed the outline of his cock against your slick.
Your breath got caught in your throat, choking on your spit, and you whined from the weight of his cock against your ass. You were dripping from the thought alone of Sukuna taking you right now, right here—out in the open, out on the balcony, where anyone, and I mean anyone, could catch a glimpse of their master and mistress from below.
Teasing the fat, leaking tip of his cock against your entrance, you bit your lip till you bled, pressing your ass back against Sukuna for any sort of friction to relieve you of the throbbing of your core, but that only worked against you; a harsh slap! was delivered to your left ass cheek, which sent you crying out, arching your back away from Sukuna. But that wasn’t even close to enough.
Bringing a hand to the column of your throat, his nails digging into your skin, creating red, angry crescent marks, Sukuna had you gasping for breath as he held your throat in his grasp, choking you to the point of gagging, but not yet enough to cut off your airway.
Leaning down, he whispered in your ear, saying, in that rough voice of his, “You wanted to be fucked like the dirty whore you are? I’ll show you how much of a dirty whore you are.”
Grabbing a handful of your ass, Sukuna pushed you against the balcony railing, bending you over with ease.
“Wait, I . . . I—mmph! . . Nngh . . . Ahh—Ahh!”
Your voice, still evidently hoarse from last night, was cut off by Sukuna slamming his cock into your cunt, shutting you up as his hips pistoned against yours whilst you braced yourself by clawing at the railing below you.
“You are dripping. You really are insatiable, huh . . .” he muttered, releasing your throat as you gasped for air, only to be cut short by rough, deep thrusts that had you seeing stars.
“Sukuna . . . hahh.”
“Tight as fuck, aren’t you? Cunt’s gripping my dick like a goddamn vice.”
Sukuna ripped your hands off the railing, bringing them behind you and binding them together with gods knows what. Probably a cloth he found lying nearby. You writhed and squirmed and writhed and squirmed, but to no avail! Your wrists were bound to your back, held just above your ass. Now, you had no way to hold yourself steady, no longer pushing yourself off of the railing for support.
“I . . . nngh.” Your eyes rolled to the back of your head, you could not find even the strength to complain about your having been tied up.
Fully bent over, your ass bouncing with each thrust, you moaned and mewled to your heart’s desire. Slick dripped down your legs, and though the ticklish sensation left you bothered and just slightly uncomfortable, that feeling was soon forgotten by the cock absolutely pounding your dripping cunt.
Your shame was gone, you were a ruined woman through and through.
“Fucked the attitude out of you, yet?” Sukuna laughed, burying himself inside of you before pulling out, leaving just the tip in, before slamming himself back in, and repeating his assaults. He was like a big, mean bully, having fun by tormenting none other than his bride, his prize, his property.
You thought it degrading, but found heat pooling in your stomach at the afterthought, nonetheless.
“Gods, you . . . you are such a dick,” you managed out, through screams twisted between pain and pleasure, a line which you could not exactly draw.
“It’s what I do best, sweetheart.”
Birds scattered throughout the confines of their habitat at the not-so-peaceful-sounding noise of your cries, and you were sure someone had to have noticed the deviant behavior taking place upstairs on the master’s floor of the estate.
“Then hurry up and make me . . . hahh . . . c-cum, you ass. You are such a—”
One particularly hard thrust had you seeing stars as Sukuna’s cock hit your cervix, surely wounding your womb as the words got stuck in your throat, and your legs gave out beneath you. The only thing holding you up being Sukuna’s hand tangled in your hair, giving a rough tug, which forced your tear-streaked face back, and the other one being on your hip, his grip white-knuckled as his thrusts turned from rough and coordinated to stuttering and staggered.
You came without resolve, your moans merely music to your husband’s ears as he, too, finished inside of you, his cock pumping endless ropes of seed up your cunt, stuffing you till excess bodily fluids were forced to drip down your thighs. Your stomach felt warm and bloated as you were filled to the brim, seed ending up snug in your womb as Sukuna pumped you full of his cum, not wasting a drop, and even going as far as scooping up the excess fluids to shove two fingers in your mouth, allowing—more like forcing—you a taste of your actions.
After all, Ryoumen Sukuna was nothing if not a cruel man.
***
It was the eleventh of October when Sukuna left the estate without a word, and it was the eighteenth of the next week when he returned.
You had been out in the gardens, overseeing the yard-work when, in the middle of giving orders to trim the bushes to the left ever so slightly, a maidservant had come running to notify you of your husband’s departure. He did not leave a note, did not kiss you goodbye, and did not give commands for any of the servants to inform you of his leave (the maid just happened to be particularly loyal to her mistress).
“Cecelia!” was what you first exclaimed, surprised by her sudden appearance beside you. “What brings you here?”
“Mistress, I—I have brought word that the lord of the estate has taken his leave. On a horse or two.” The woman spoke between gasps for air, she seemed out of breath, perhaps from chasing after Ryoumen and his steed(s). “I saw a carriage pull away from the gates, and I . . . I supposed he did not inform you, either.”
“Oh, that’s . . . I thank you for the note, Cecelia. But that will be all. You’re correct, he did not tell me, and,” you paused, touching your index finger to your chin, “I do ponder where he went.”
You assumed your husband would only be missing for one evening, and return the next to fill you in on his seemingly hasty departures. But one sleepless night turned into two, and two turned into three, and three turned into even the advisors of the estate beginning to worry for their master. In turn, however, you had begun to grow indifferent to your missing husband.
On the fourth day, you discovered news of yet another gladiator match that was to take place. And who was to compete in it? Take a guess.
Being petty was a greatness of yours, and, while for a time, you were able to keep entertained by playing your beloved cithara, reading, or tending to your gardens, you had begun to grow bored. The estate was large enough, and, with your husband being gone, you were even more lonely than you were before. You had no children to run through the halls, no friends who could visit the property, and no duties besides your hobbies to keep you company.
On the fifth and sixth day, you had already invited over a number of “guests” to the estate. Your beauty was no unfamiliar subject to the people of Rome, and it wasn’t difficult to find men in want of serving as entertainment to you.
You had some feed you grapes, some play their music to you, some read their philosophy and literature, some tell you of stories from afar; it was all very enjoyable. Or, well, the idea of it was.
On the seventh day, you had appointed a raven-haired, older man to keep you company. He was a traveler of sorts, and had many stories of the West and the East to tell you. From wraths of gods, to legendary criminals, and heinous crimes, he knew it all. He made you laugh, and was . . . not a bad flirt, if you did say so yourself. But it was nothing serious.
You were in the middle of drinking wine with the fellow, when, by the informing of Cecelia, you were notified of a something that required your utmost attention at once. She did not explain further, but you noticed an urgency about her eyes, and did not tarry.
Excusing yourself, you stood up from where you lounged rather casually on the ornately designed sofa, and took graceful, calculated steps down a hallway to the left wing of the estate.
You were nearing the room Cecelia pointed you to when, to your utter surprise, a rough hand had pulled you to the side, keeping your back flush against the chest of a man you could not see, for his other hand held the blade of a dagger right against the column of your throat. Your breathing grew ragged, and your hands went up to attempt (and fail) at removing the dagger-wielding hand.
Your heart pounded, and the blood rushed to your ears.
“Did you miss me, . . . wifey?”
His stray hand was gripping the flesh of your hip, and held you firm above the ground, where you dangled, your legs kicking around uselessly.
“Sukuna? What—What are you doing?” you managed to whimper out, against the dagger being pressed against your neck.
“As much as I love to hear those pretty sounds of yours, angel,” he began, before his voice suddenly turned cold, “there is a man in my house, standing next to my woman, and making her laugh. Care to explain?”
He did not release you from his grasps, but lifted the blade just a centimeter away from the skin of your throat so you could form coherent sentences. How thoughtful.
“When my husband has left for a week with no explanation, am I supposed to not keep myself occupied?”
“So you’ve borrowed a man to keep you company.”
“Are you turning this against me?”
“Should I be?”
Learning your husband has yet to retire from gladiating, and discovering he has come home, with a dagger to your neck upon arrival, was infuriating enough to make you forget the possibility of throwing yourself into his arms in greeting. He did not tell you a word about his match, prior and after, and you were the one in the wrong? Men were nothing but animals.
“. . .”
You kept silent, your face defeated, and Sukuna, finally having decided to let you go, released his hold on you and sheathed his blade once more, before dropping you back onto your feet. You nearly stumbled over yourself finding your balance, as Sukuna began to turn away, walking down the marble-tiled hallways.
“My hands are bloodied. I will be in the bathing quarters.”
All this he said, whilst his back was kept to you.
Several moments later, you had a valet escort the raven-haired guest out of your estate, and, next thing you knew, you were storming down the hallway, the sound of your footsteps reverberating throughout the estate, an evident display of your boiling rage. Your maid-servants weren’t unfamiliar with your and the master’s almost daily feuds, and were, by now, practically accustomed to setting out changes of clothes for when your arguments concluded.
Cursing to yourself as you went, your footsteps continued to thunder as you approached the bathing quarters, where you could hear small splashing sounds inside. You threw open the door, the scowl and glare on your face both clear as day whilst you walked in a straight line towards the pink-haired man who sat at the steps towards the end of the pool.
He was naked, completely bare in all his glory, but you couldn’t notice, not from how clouded your vision was with anger, no. His arms were resting on the edges of the pool, and his expression was cool as he leaned back, watching you approach him with not even a flinch.
“You motherfucker. You think you can just come waltzing in here, and avoid all your problems? You don’t pay any mind to the fact I’ve been worried sick, because my husband has left the estate with not even a word of explanation, and then, come to find out, he’s been gladiating?” You berated him without end, pointing a finger at his emotionless face as you walked along the pool’s edges. “Who do you think you are?
“We’re married, remember? You won me. And now, you’re putting your life on the line? Whilst we are married? I don’t give a fuck whether you’re competing to win more wives, Ryomen, but where does that leave me, huh? If you die? I was just some temporary toy for you, and my life will basically end, as well? I will have no worth, Sukuna. No one takes in a ruined woman. And I’m not a solicitor, or, at least, I don’t want to be . . .”
Sukuna didn’t respond, and you were honestly thankful, actually. You feared, if he did speak, you would fold within seconds, so you took the time you had to get your frustration out and your point made.
“Why couldn’t you have just told me you didn’t retire? I mean, I would still hate you, but . . . fuck, you are such an ass.” You ran a hand down your face, stopping just two paces away from the beast, before continuing your storming. “Gods, you take new lows each day. I can’t believe my life is tied to yours for as long as I live—!”
You were shut up by the action of Sukuna pulling you down by the ankle and dragging you into the pool, manhandling you in all your writhing and struggling, and seating your ass right on his lap with ease, your back flush against his bare chest as his hand came up to wrap around your throat just as it had earlier.
You screamed, but another hand came up to cover your mouth, muffling any whimpers and noises you let out. Through your anger, you could not remember to think about how your dress was now thoroughly soaked through.
“Mmph . . . !”
His face tilted downwards despite your struggles, and his lips whispered into your ear, his breath fanning hot air against your skin that left you with a strange tingling sensation.
“You never stop complaining, do you? You want to know why I left? Without explaining? Has it ever occured to you that, maybe I wanted you to truly hate me, after all, so the potential news of my death wouldn’t affect you? You make me out to be an animal, but even the gods know I’m not heartless.” You could practically hear his eye rolling. “C’mon, wifey, don’t you know, I’ve no need for another wife when I’ve already gotten my hands on a goddess right here. A goddess, that just so happens to be the world’s biggest bitch.”
You struggled against Sukuna, your legs kicking and splashing in the water as your nails clawed at tattooed biceps. “Mmph! Mmm—Mmph . . . !”
His left hand released your neck, but he didn’t let up on your mouth. “I only took the match because I was bored. Truly. Wanted to taste blood. But, what would you know about that? You’re an angel.” His voice was mocking, and dripped with malice. You shivered.
You gasped, desperate for air, when Sukuna finally removed his hand off your mouth, but your relief was short-lived when he tore the fabric off your body in one swift tear.
“What?” he asked, jeeringly, when you looked at him in confusion. “We’re already in the baths, might as well undress, too.”
The water was only up to your belly button, and a shiver ran up your spine from the low temperatures of the room. Sukuna, however, was like a walking, talking bonfire; he literally emitted heat.
Your nipples hardened from the air, and you squirmed around on Sukuna’s lap, growing uncomfortable. “You . . .”
“What’s the matter, honey?” He feigned concern, cooing. “Feeling pity? Gonna admit your mistakes?”
“I—”
He cut you off. “Let your body do the talking, and maybe I’ll find the heart to forgive you.”
Sukuna’s hands trailed down to your chest as he spoke, cold fingers going up to grope and pinch and tweak at your hardened nipples with each syllable he uttered. It sent a shock through your body, and you bit your hand to keep quiet.
“O-Oh, my . . . Nngh . . .” You mewled and twitched uncontrollably.
You didn’t know how much you loved the feeling of Sukuna’s hands fondling the mounds of your tits until you met your husband, and even then, he reminded you almost every day.
“Yeah? Does that feel good?” he asked, voice full of sarcasm. “What I fuckin’ thought, you whore. So needy and bitchy, all for some dick, aren’t you.”
Sukuna continued his assault on your buds, pulling and tugging at your nipples like it was child’s play. You arched your back at the stimulating sensation, your core growing warm from his fingers alone as you continued to attempt suppressing your noise with a fist in your mouth.
“Hahh, I—Sukuna . . . Mmph! you . . . You bastard.”
You pressed your naked thighs together, your own hand flying in-between to apply pressure to your clit; your orgasm soon hit you like a chariot. The friction newly added was more than enough to finally throw you over the edge as you came from solely Sukuna playing with your tits, groping and squeezing like they were mere toys.
“Fuck, wifey. Making a mess from only my hands? Maybe I have been depriving you.”
Your release dripped all over your hands, and Sukuna brought your fingers to his mouth, sucking the juices off like wine. His lips made squelching noises around the bodily fluids, and you couldn’t help the moan that left you as you felt the warm wetness of the sensation.
“Sukuna . . .” you whined, eyes growing teary with need.
“I’ll give it to you soon enough, princess. Quit your nagging,” was the reply that came, whilst Sukuna refused to let go of your fingers, even going as far as biting on them, leaving a clearly indented mark of his teeth on the skin, before finally releasing your hand from his grasp, and wiping his mouth clean of your slick.
Sukuna’s muscles were toned, abs flexing, and skin tanned from the ever-so cruel sun that shone down on the people of the empire. Even if his hold on you was gentle, his distribution of strength was enough to make it seem otherwise. That was made quite clear when he decided to abruptly cut your bliss short by lifting up your thighs by the backs of your knees, pinning them to position by your ears.
Legs spread, pussy weeping, back arched; you looked a mess. If that wasn’t humiliating enough, your hair was disheveled, body marked up with teeth marks from previous nights, and you could do nothing but claw and scratch at Sukuna’s arms. But, hot mess aside, (or not), you looked nothing short of a damn feast in Sukuna’s eyes.
Whimpering, mewling, and crying out, your ass was sat on Sukuna’s bare lap and the only thing running through your mind was your insatiable lust for being ruined by the brute you called your husband.
True to his word, Sukuna lifted your ass up with ease, before bringing you back down, practically smashing you onto his cock with one rough thrust. His tip pierced your cervix without fail, kissing all your sweet spots like habit.
It had been seven days. Seven, fucking, days without this man. And the first thing he did was fuck you like he meant to break you.
All the wind was knocked out of your throat as he continued to mercilessly slam his hips up into yours, bouncing you up and down without abandon whilst he kept your legs spread in the air.
The two of you had never tried this position before, but, gods, were you thankful for having done so. From this angle Sukuna’s cock reached areas deeper within your cunt than ever before, and with your thighs separated, it was significantly easier for Sukuna to fully bottom out before thrusting his entire length and girth back in, fucking you through the tears that fell and the sobs that left your lips from the constant thrusts, and bounces, and the frequent feeling of his hips pistoning against yours.
“Awh, don’t tell me my sweet wife is crying.”
You nodded weakly, hiccuping, completely delirious.
“Shame. Your tears will only make it worse,” he said, darkly, wetting your skin even further as he licked a stripe up your cheek, ridding you of the tears that fell from your eyes.
Throughout all of Sukuna’s rough fucking, you came multiple times, his cock filling you with warm seed up to the brim. Eyes rolling into the back of your head, thighs shaking, pussy squirting all over, and lips quivering; but not once, never in any of those times, did he stop for you to catch your breath and regain your composure. He fucked you through every orgasm and continued to the next and the next.
Water splashed all around your naked bodies, and you couldn’t tell if you were more wet from the pounding of Sukuna’s cock, or from the pool you two were currently in.
Your skin was warm, wet, and glistening with sweat.
Behind you, you could hear Sukuna’s jagged breathing and, every so often, his grunts. The man wasn’t a very vocal one, but he never tried hiding his moans and groans, per se. He had no shame in whining in your ear from how tight your walls clenched down on his cock, and definitely wasn’t afraid of whimpering from the feeling of your ass grinding down on his chest, your slick dribbling down his naked abdomen.
“Ahh . . . ! Ahh—Nnghh . . . !”
“Mmm . . . unghh . . .”
“Hahh, o-ohh . . . !”
Sounds of cries and plap, plap, plaps! filled the bathing quarters, and your cheeks warmed from the embarrassingly lewd noises the two of you made. That, and the feeling of veins on Sukuna’s cock twitching and sliding up and down and in and out of your weeping cunt had your eyes rolling backwards and your toes curling with the coming of an orgasm.
“Now, hahh, you gonna tell me why there was a man in my estate?” Sukuna managed to ask you, whilst he kept his cock ramming your poor, used pussy, lips of which were puffy and erect with need.
“W-What? Why are you—”
“Asking that?” he cut you off, finishing your sentence. “Dunno, maybe because my wife was home-fucking-alone with the dirty bastard.”
His cock twitched inside of you, and you clawed at Sukuna’s biceps as he spoke. It seemed that, with every second the two of you spent speaking about the man who was in your home, Sukuna grew more and more frustrated, his thrusts turning out clumsy and sloppy and rough.
“I . . . I t-told you already, Sukuna,” you whined, stuttering from his thrusts. “He was just keeping me company, I . . . unghh, swear.”
“Only keeping you company?”
You nodded profusely, your voice growing weak from Sukuna’s cock repeatedly hitting your sweet spot. “S-Swear. Hahh, I . . . ahh . . . mmph! I swear—I swear.”
“Yeah? You swear?”
“M-Mhmm . . . Gods, please, Sukuna, o-ohh! gods, I need to cum. I need to cum!”
“Why not, go on, then. Cum all you want on your husband’s cock. Yeahh, atta girl. Shit, you’re fucking milking me dry, aren’t you. Want my seed so bad, don’t you? Want me to fuck my kid into you?”
You mewled, music to Sukuna’s ears as every last drop of cum fell from your cunt, coating his dick with your fluids whilst the two of you rode out your highs. Your walls were painted white with Sukuna’s seed, filling you to the hilt as he kept his cock buried in your warm, wet cunt. Yeah, this one would surely take—Sukuna would make sure of that.
❦ biker!ryomen sukuna x biker!f!reader [non-curse au]
❦ smut oneshot
❝ when you get home after work grumpier than sukuna usually is, he knows something's wrong. when you deprive him of a kiss once you've returned, well now he's just pissed. for that, he'll deprive you of all of your senses as he pampers you with his mouth and fingers. ❞
❦ cw ; 18+ only. mdni. contains explicit sexual content. husband!sukuna. dom!sukuna. sub!reader. sensory deprivation. ball gag. blindfold. music. manhandling. nipple play (f! receiving). neck kissing. marking. biting. licking. bondage. fingering. oral (f!receiving). spit. use of pet names (brat, baby, sweetheart, wife, girl). praise. praising degradation. taunting. edging. pussy slapping. toys (bullet vibe). teasing. aftercare. kinda soft!sukuna during aftercare :]. part of the love & company series of oneshots but can be read separately/out of order.
❦ words ; 5.2k.
previous l&c oneshot || love & company masterlist || main masterlist
Biker!Sukuna leans his head on the back of the couch, windswept pink hair hanging over the fabric as you sigh the moment you shut the door of your shared home behind you. He twists, a bulky bicep resting on the back of the couch to see you better. “Long day?”
“Long fucking day,” you agree, sighing once more.
“Work?”
You nod, pulling your laptop from your bag and setting it on the counter, only to open it back up and resume working. Your husband’s eyes narrow as he watches you stand at the kitchen counter in your work attire without so much as a welcome home kiss.
Like really, what the hell? You didn’t even kiss him?
With his extremely usual scowl, he pushes up from the couch, discarding the hoodie he was wearing (because there’s no world where you can resist Sukuna’s cocky charm and veiny forearms, right?) and follows you to the kitchen. He slides his body up to you, his hands finding a place along your waist as he presses his body against your back.
“I need to work, Ryomen,” you mutter tiredly, pulling away.
Stunned and downright offended at this point that you’ve just used his government name, denied him of his ‘honey, I’m home’ kiss, and shrugged him off like a discarded shawl, his lip curls in confusion.
“You should quit.”
Your head finally whips around, and he swears his own scowl is mirrored on your face. “I can’t just quit. We have bills, Ryomen.”
“Stop fuckin’ calling me that-”
“Your name?” You query incredulously, giving him just an ounce more of your attention.
“My full name,” he corrects you, crossing his arms over his chest, and that’s when you notice it. Your big beefy husband is pouting.
Oh you do not have time for this. Shaking your head, you turn back to your laptop, still standing at the counter in your work clothes.
“C’mon. At least change into something comfy,” he prods, knowing you’re just at wit’s end with the day, and not with him specifically. He may be offended by your dismissal of his affections, but he knows he hasn’t done anything wrong.
Probably.
He does pause to think about it, though.
No, no. He’s good.
“I will later,” you wave him off again, leaving him further perturbed as he makes a show out of huffing and trudging back to the living room to resume what he was watching.
As over an hour goes by and you haven’t even moved from standing at the counter, he gets fed up, shutting the TV off and practically stomping back into the kitchen. He stands on the cusp of entering the room, arms crossed over his chest.
“You done yet? I need to make dinner, you’re in the damn way.”
That’s not the issue, he’s deflecting and he knows it, but Sukuna’s not about to admit that he wants your attention.
And his kiss.
“Not yet, give me another hour.”
“No. You got home fuckin’ forever ago. Go get changed, lemme make dinner.”
Sighing, you rub at your neck, sore from craning it to look down at your work. “Please, sweetheart. Give me a bit.”
Sukuna’s nose scrunches up in disdain. You only call him that when you’re attempting to sweet talk him in order to get your way when he’s uncooperative. And damn it, he’s a lovesick fool and it works. Every time.
You want to play dirty? He can play dirty.
With a huff, he takes a few steps towards you and physically shuts your laptop.
“Hey-!”
“Nuh uh. No more,” he frowns, looking you dead in the eye with that signature scowl, his hand firmly resting on your computer.
“You don’t understand, I have deadlines, I need-”
“You need to recharge,” he insists, his tone dropping to a hint of a growl. “I’m not arguin’ with you on this, sweetheart,” he mocks, flipping his hand to grab your wrist so that he can slide your hand into his much larger one. His skin is calloused and rough against yours, but the softness with which the grumpy and hardened man handles you never fails to make your heart race.
You want to give in and curl up on the couch and watch a reality show that he pretends to hate, but you have a presentation due early tomorrow morning and- “Please, Ryo. I just need one more hour, I promise.”
His scowl deepens and you fear the lines etched into his forehead might be permanent with the frustration he’s regarding you with. He grumbles your name, setting his free hand on your hip. He squeezes, making sure his intent comes across. “Go change into something comfy. I know you’re tired, don’t make this harder on yourself. Or are you askin’ to be tied up?”
With his breath fanning your face, he doesn’t miss the subtle way your pupils grow, your eyes darkening.
He snorts, squeezing your hip tighter. “If that’s whatcha want, then try me,” he taunts, pleased to have finally caught your attention. He knew from the moment you entered the door that you were overwhelmed and he equally knows that the easiest way to get his pretty wife to finally relax after the day he’s sure you’ve had is to take away your senses and allow you to focus only on him, only on pleasure, and only on yourself.
You contemplate his words, eyes sliding towards your laptop, then back to his lips. Your presentation is important, but you could just get up a bit early, right? Maybe you need a fresh perspective anyway, and you’re so wound up from the overwhelming day at work that giving in to Sukuna doesn’t sound so bad.
In fact, it sounds almost heavenly.
He watches carefully as you pull your arm out of his grasp, a bratty little smirk on your lips as you aim to open your laptop. He clicks his tongue before you even get the opportunity to touch the computer, barreling into your legs and flipping you over his shoulders with a triumphant grin.
“Good choice,” he hums in a gravelly tone as you squeal in surprise and cling to his shirt. “Even if you’re bein’ a brat.”
“Wait, my shirt, you’re gonna wrinkle it-”
“Enough about work,” he huffs, tossing you on your bed and pinning both of your arms over your head in one hand. “Enough. I don’t wanna hear about the damn presentation. You can finish later.”
“But-”
He growls your name in warning. “Don’t be a brat. Lemme take care of you.”
Your chest rises as you suck in a breath, nodding. He can see in the way that you hold your shoulders and the crease between your brows that you’re still stuck in your head and if that’s the case, he’ll give you something else to focus on. Pamper you in his own ‘Sukuna’ sort of way.
“That’s my pretty little wife.” He holds his hand out to you, searching for your consent. “You gonna let me take care of you?”
Again, you nod, taking his hand as you squeeze your thighs together. Heat pools in your core and you shuffle your hips, chasing the friction.
“Good,” he grins, rubbing his hand over your knuckles before disappearing altogether to open a drawer you know all-too-well. Your eyes darken a shade again as you watch him pull out a familiar set of ropes, as well as a new matching blindfold and ball gag you have yet to see. Your eyes widen, lips pursing as you take in the sight, shuffling on the edge of the bed.
“Is that new?” You ask, reaching out to slide your hands along the silk blindfold that matches Sukuna’s Ducati bike, a bright cherry red.
“Mhm,” he hums, a concentrated look on his face as he ties a slip knot into the shibari ropes you let him use on you every so often. “Wrists,” he commands, holding the knot out expectantly at you.
You make no attempt at arguing with him, slipping your wrists into the silk rope and allowing the cool material to bind your hands in front of you. The thrill causes your heart to race as you give in to your husband, allowing him to take full control. You shuffle once more, seeking any amount of friction on your already-throbbing clit.
Sukuna clicks his tongue, pressing his hands down on your thighs and spreading them just enough to keep you from seeking the friction you want so badly. “Be good,” he growls, leaving one hand on your thigh as your legs hang over the edge of the bed. “I’m only askin’ nicely this once.”
Your tongue swipes your lower lip before tugging it between your teeth, nodding slowly when the door suddenly creaks open. Sukuna pays it little mind until the newest furry addition to your family is softly headbutting his ankle and yelling.
“Not now, Cati,” he grumbles as though the young cat can understand him. When the little creature doesn’t let up and yells at her father for attention, Sukuna just sighs and picks her up, holding her out in front of him. “I’m tryna set a mood. You don’t make the mood better,” he explains. Her ear flicks and she wiggles her back legs, twisting her body in an effort to escape Sukuna’s grasp. “We can cuddle later,” he explains as he shuts the door with her outside it and heads to the ensuite to wash his hands.
“Brats, both o’ my girls,” he mutters to himself, turning to see you fiddling with the hem of your pencil skirt. He returns to the space beside you, picking up the blindfold and tying it expertly behind your head. He then takes the ball gag, using one hand to grab your chin as the other hovers the device over your lips. “If anything feels bad,” he says in all sincerity, staring straight through you to your soul as he even temporarily folds up the blindfold to get your full attention, “you use your foot to tap me twice, yeah?”
You nod.
“Words.”
“Yes, baby.”
“Good girl,” he approves before buckling the leather of the gag in place and replacing the blindfold. Testing your senses, or lack thereof, you twist your wrists against the rope, tilting your head in an effort to find your husband, only to whimper at the realization that you’re giving all of your trust to him right now and it’s hot.
You wait at the edge of the bed, twisting your head in search of any sign of him, but you’re unable to find him. It’s only when he turns on what might be the most generic ‘sex music’ you’ve ever heard that you get an idea of where he is. You want to tease him for his playlist choice, fight against the ball gag, maybe be the brat he keeps saying you are, but before you can, you’re yelping in surprise as your arms are carefully tied to the top of the bed, your body dragged with them.
You struggle to swallow, adjusting your lips around the gag as you aim to search for him again, but with all of your senses aside from smell completely deprived, you can only whimper.
A large hand presses against your collarbone, pushing you into the bed and allowing you to relax into the mattress and pillows. Your husband’s weight makes the bed dip as he crawls over you, testing the hold the shibari bamboo ropes have on your wrists. Satisfied with his setup, he sweetly kisses your cheek once, before shocking you as he massages your shoulders.
“Relax,” he purrs into your ear, sending a shiver straight down your spine. Beneath the blindfold, your eyes flutter shut as you turn to putty in his hands with the way his digits work the knots from your muscles. This isn’t exactly what you had in mind, but you’re pleased nonetheless. He slides his hand down the front of your chest, unbuttoning the front of your white blouse and pushing it over your shoulders to give him better access.
You sigh, melting as he straddles you in order to rub the knots from your muscles. It only takes a mere couple of minutes before you’re blissfully relaxed, eyes heavy with the exhaustion of the day as your husband takes care of you. So comfortable, you barely even notice that he unbuttons the rest of your top. He searches for the zipper on your skirt, unzipping it and slipping them down your legs.
He smirks at the sight of you in a pretty pair of black lingerie that he got you on your first wedding anniversary. Always spoiling him, even if you don’t mean to. His cock twitches in the tent of his pants, but he sets his own needs aside in favor of servicing you.
Placing himself over top of you again, he kisses down the expanse of your neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your collar. He grins as you sigh in pleasure, relieved that you’re finally letting go of the shitty day.
His lips travel the length of your neck down to your collar, sucking and leaving his mark just below where the neckline of your shirt falls. Any higher and he knows you would scold him for forcing you to use makeup to cover it at work, but he toes the line anyway, sucking just a bit higher. Pleased with the marks that make up your skin and the way you’re squirming beneath him, he moves lower, palming your left breast over your bra.
His other hand slides around your back, unhooking the lingerie and letting your breasts free with a small jiggle that has him eagerly grinning.
“Mmph,” you attempt to ask him not to rip or ruin your favorite bra, but the gag does you no favors.
Moving your bra up to rest on your upper chest, Sukuna runs the flat of his tongue over your bare nipple, thrilled when you jolt hard at the suddenness of the metal of his piercing grazing your nipple. “Yeah, baby?”
Your muffled words make no sense as you attempt again to worry about something, and Sukuna’s not having it.
“Stop thinkin’. No sight, no sound, no taste, just feel me. Be a good lil’ slut for me, yeah?”
It’s hard not to listen to him when he talks in that low purr you adore so much, his hands roaming your body as he sucks your nipple between his lips. He flicks and pinches the other bud between his forefinger and thumb, allowing his teeth to graze the sensitive skin between his lips when he grins.
Every reaction is tenfold with how heightened your sense of touch feels right now, every movement by Sukuna increasing in pleasure immensely when it’s all you can focus on as everything fades away. Your head lolls back as he swirls his tongue around your perky nipple, breath coming in fast pants when he switches his attention to the other side. He nips at the perky skin, satisfaction coursing through him when you jerk and jolt, your wrists tugging on the bamboo ropes.
With a final soft kiss, his lips move down to your waist and hips, kissing every inch of your body as he quietly worships you. This may be about you, but Sukuna takes great pleasure in seeing you melt and quiver under his gentle and saccharine touch. After all, he’s not a particularly soft man, so he knows it turns you to putty when he shows another side to him.
He spreads your legs, one hand on each thigh, positioning himself between them so that you can’t close them. Leaning down, he watches the way you fiddle against your restraints, unable to stay still under his attention. He chuckles lowly, though you can barely hear it over the music, when your entire body jerks as he licks a stripe up your damp panties.
“So wet,” he groans, both of his hands roaming up your thighs to your hips and waist, before he brings them back down and pulls your panties with them, discarding them from your ankles. “So fuckin’ wet,” he repeats with a view of your bare pussy.
Unable to see him, your breathing quickens as you eagerly await the feeling of his tongue on your clit, but he only teases you as he runs his fingers through your soaking wet folds. You let out a muffled whine, jerking your hips up to meet his fingers as you chase the friction he won’t bestow upon his poor needy wife, too occupied with teasing you.
His fingers pause as you wriggle in his grip. “Ah-” he clicks his tongue, lightly slapping your pussy. “Be good for me.”
Your body jerks as you shuffle away from him, whimpering at the unexpected sensation and attempting to close your legs. Your husband pulls you back by your thighs, keeping you spread as his weight shifts, before he’s finally where you want him. He tests the waters, pleased when you tense with the small kitten lick he gives your clit. You can feel his grin against your skin when he buries his tongue in your needy cunt.
Your back arches for him and you tug against the ropes when his tongue plunges into the depths of your pussy, the metal of the ball piercing in his tongue amplifying the sensations of pleasure. He moves slowly, enjoying the taste of your slick and the way your body jolts, tenses, and twitches as his tongue explores your body.
He hums in approval when you whimper and whine, accentuated with gasps as it’s all you can manage behind the gag. You can feel drool slipping down your chin, unable to care as Sukuna has you so thoroughly bound, unable to care about anything but him.
You just barely hear him mutter “all mine”, before his tongue moves up to swirl around your clit. Your jaw clenches against the red ball gag as he sucks the sensitive bud between his lips, intense pleasure coursing through your body.
God, you needed this. You just didn’t know how badly, but the muscles in your stomach are already clenching as you feel the wave of your orgasm nearing its shore, only for Sukuna to pull back. You whine in protest, tugging hard against your binding as you yearn to pull him back down by his hair. You whimper again when you aren’t able to, lifting your lead in an effort to see him, but it’s all in vain. There’s nothing but darkness, no sounds to fill the air but yours and his, no taste but the blandness of the gag, and no smell but him to fill your nostrils.
It’s so overwhelming in all the right ways, unable to think of anything but his touch as you seek him out in whatever way you can. Work is a problem of the past as you clench your thighs.
“Thought I told ya to be good,” he hums, though his only punishment seems to be more serviceable to you, and you certainly won’t complain about that as he plunges his middle and ring finger suddenly into your soaking hole. He hums in approval as you gasp and clench your fists, nails digging into your palms with the sudden wave of pleasure that ripples through you.
He pulls them out slowly, pushing the digits back in to the hilt as you feel the cool metal of his wedding ring sink between your folds. You whimper, eyes rolling to the back of your head, attempting to whimper a “please”, but it barely comes out as anything more than “pfff”.
“I know, princess,” he hums, kissing your rib below the swell of your left breast. “Feels good, yeah?”
You manage a nod, crying out when he curls his fingers forward, your stomach clenching each time he expertly hits your G-spot. It sends you into a flurry, legs closing in around him as you chase that same wave from earlier, every muscle tensing as you swear you’re right there, only for him to pull his fingers from you.
Another whine, another tug of the ropes as you’re left hanging right on the edge of your orgasm. Again. Your stomach relaxes as the feeling passes and your chest heaves. You clench your teeth down on the ball again, growing frustrated and needy as hell. Sukuna can see it in the way your brow knits, a crease forming just above the blindfold.
You hear him chuckle again. “Somethin’ got you riled up, sweetheart?” His hand slides from your breast around your body until he’s arching your back closer to him. “Easy to forget all the bullshit when all you can focus on is me, huh?” You can hear the grin in his voice as the flat of his tongue licks a stripe up your right nipple, making your head hang back in sheer pleasure.
Your pussy pulses around nothing, desperate for attention and release. As you buck your hips up towards your husband, he presses you into the mattress with a strong hand.
“Needy girl,” he chuckles, sliding his opposite hand from your sternum to your chin. He runs his thumb along your lips, wiping the saliva from the corners of your mouth as you whine and whimper around the ball gag.
Every sense is completely occupied only by Sukuna, his touch electrifying. A shiver runs up your spine as you just barely hear the scraping of your bedside drawer open once more. The mattress shifts under his weight, before he’s leaning over you again.
His lips brush your ear for a moment, the deep rumble of his voice only making you more wet for him. “You’ll cum when I tell you, got it?”
Whining around the gag, you nod.
With a satisfied hum, the bed shifts beneath you as Sukuna positions himself between your legs again, able to feel his strong thighs seated between your own. He leans down, pressing a startlingly gentle kiss to your stomach that throws you off-kilter, only to meanly bully his middle and ring finger back into your pussy.
Your hands curl into fists as you cry out, desperate to cling to anything as you attempt to close your thighs on your husband, who keeps you spread with his free hand, while your other leg presses against his torso. Sukuna doesn’t let up his pace, hitting the gummy part of your walls with ease and sending bliss straight to your core like lightning.
His name comes out muffled as you attempt to whine for him, bucking your hips up as a knot ties in the pit of your stomach, threatening to come undone at any moment. The second your abdomen begins tensing, Sukuna’s pace slows to an agonizing halt.
“Ah- what’d I say?”
You whine, but he’s not having any of it.
“What did I say?” He repeats lowly.
It surely makes no sense with the ball still between your lips, but you repeat back to him that you’re only allowed to cum when he says. He hums in approval, one large hand leaving your thigh to caress your cheek as he tries to- literally- fuck you dumb, until you forget about your presentation altogether.
And it’s working. Well.
Your head hangs back against the pillows, your chest heaving as you shuffle against your bindings, whining when he doesn’t pick up the pace at all, even as you obey his commands. The slow in and out of his fingers is just enough to keep you squirming and whining, but equally not enough to satiate your desire.
It’s muffled, but you just barely manage a “please,” much to Sukuna’s pleasure.
“Yeah, princess? You willin’ to beg?” He hums. The bed shifts again, and you jolt when cold steel is pressed to your clit. Gasping at the sudden chill, your body gradually relaxes as the toy is held still for a moment, only to be turned on a second later, the vibration sending a tingling sensation through your body to your limbs.
Your hips jerk and twitch with the subtle movements of the metallic toy, the continued stimulation to your clit and his fingers still slowly curling sending you closer to the edge and closer to overstimulation. You whine out, your stomach tightening as the knot is just about to unravel when he pulls away altogether.
You whine louder, pleading with him behind the gag though it all comes out as little more than mmphs.
Your legs are trembling, your walls pulsing around nothing as Sukuna teasingly flicks your nipple, pulling a cry from your pretty lips. “What’s that, princess?” He chides, tugging on the leather strap of the ball gag and pulling it back just enough to hear your whiny request.
“Please let me cum, Ryo, plea- mmph-!” Your chest heaves again as you pull on your restraints. Your movements are growing wearier the more fucked out you get, and Sukuna figures he might just have some mercy on you.
“Since you asked so nicely,” he purrs, and before you have time to process that he’s there, his tongue is on your clit, sucking hard and sending sparks straight to the knot in your abdomen. It tightens as his tongue swirls around the sensitive bundle of nerves, his teeth grazing it and causing you to jump. He keeps you right on the edge until tears of overstimulation are wetting the blindfold and you’re trembling around his fingers.
“Cum for me, baby,” he commands, latching his lips back onto your clit.
The final push across the finish line are his fingers effortlessly pinpointing your G-spot and sending you straight over the edge in an orgasm that rocks your body. Your husband slows his movements, pulling wave after wave of your climax through you and watching every subtle twitch and jerk of your body as he coaxes you into a completely blissed out state.
Your head hangs back against the pillows as he slowly pulls his mouth and fingers from your core, slipping the soaked digits between his lips. He pulls them out with a sinful pop! and a smirk that betrays his satisfaction, despite the rock-hard and throbbing issue between his own thighs.
His weight disappears for a moment as the volume of the music softens to something low and comfortable, before he’s carefully untying your wrists. No longer bound, he brings them down to your lap before focusing on the gag and blindfold. As he slips them both off and sets them aside, you blink as your eyes adjust to the low lighting of your bedroom.
“How’re you feelin’?” He grunts, gently taking your chin between his fingers and tilting your head in either direction as he searches your skin for any signs that anything might have been too tight.
Yawning, you nod. “I’m good. I needed that, thanks Kuna.”
“Mmm. I could tell,” he smirks, satisfied that the gag and blindfold he bought are to his liking. He checks your wrists over and nods to himself before focusing in on you. “Relax for the night, yeah?”
You nod again. “Yeah, you’re right. Sorry I was a little snappy earlier.”
He kisses the crown of your hair in acknowledgement before making his way to the ensuite washroom. You watch as he leans over to fill the tub for you, a subtle smile making its way to your lips.
As he returns to your side, you eye the twitching tent in his pants, your gaze sliding up to meet his. “Turn off the bath,” you murmur sweetly, a feline look in your eyes that Sukuna shuts down with a scoff.
A goddamn scoff while he’s looking like that. Bewildered, you stare at him from your place on the bed.
“I got a hand, I’ll take care of myself. Now lemme take care of you,” he gruffs, slipping the sleeves of your blouse off your arms and pulling the straps of your bra along with it. He hoists you effortlessly into his arms, carrying you bridal-style to the bath and setting you on the edge to check the temperature before lowering you into it.
The water warms your skin and you feel your muscles loosen even more, but you still pout up at him. “Are you sure? You could join me, maybe-”
He says your name chidingly. “You’ve had a long day. Relax.”
Letting out a breath, you just smile at your husband. For as rough around the edges as he is, and for how frustrating and stubborn he can be, he’s a sweetheart when it comes to what matters. Pushing up on the edge of the tub, you place a sweet kiss on his cheek. “I love you,” you murmur.
You don’t expect him to reply, he rarely does. He’s a man of action, not of words, so his next movements don’t shock you.
He hums, heading to the cabinet below the sink. “Y’got any of those bath bomb things?” He asks, in his own little ‘I love you’ sort of action.
“Um, probably. Towards the back in a little bag, maybe?”
He rustles through the cabinet for a moment before pulling out a brown stone with a questioning raise of his brow as he presents it to you.
“That’s a pumice stone.”
“So… no?”
Stifling your giggle, you shake your head. “Definitely not.”
“Don’t say ‘definitely’,” he gripes sarcastically. “I don’t know any of this shit.”
You don’t hold back your giggle now, only pausing your laughter when he presents a pink bath bomb to you. You nod, though your fit of giggles doesn’t cease.
Returning to your side, your husband flicks your forehead softly in mock disdain, waiting silently by your side for the water to fill before dropping the bath bomb into the water in front of you. It fizzes softly, dyeing the water (and the side of the tub) a soft pink. With shining eyes and a weary but satisfied expression, you grip Sukuna’s wrist before he can leave.
“Thank you.”
“‘Course. Maybe now you won’t forget my kiss when you get home,” he grumbles, grumpy as ever once again.
Your jaw slacks, gaze narrowing. “Hold on. Is that what this was about?”
Sukuna freezes in your grip, regarding you with a deep scowl. “No. Just wanted you out of the kitchen to cook.”
It’s just about the saddest excuse you’ve ever heard, and while you brushed past it earlier while you were busy, it sounds even more pitiful now. “Ryo.”
“What?” He huffs.
“Come here, you big baby.”
He doesn’t move for a split second, still caught in the grasp of your hand on his wrist, but even with the frustrated scowl he’s sporting, he can’t deny you. At least, that’s what he tells himself. He’s doing this for you.
Duh.
He gets down on his knees, letting you pull him in for his hard-earned ‘welcome home’ kiss. It’s soft and sweet, filled with the very same love he’s poured into taking care of you.
Your eyes flutter open as you pull back, your fingers tracing the rough stubble poking through his skin along the tattoos lining his chin. “Better?”
He grunts, side-eyeing the wall as if it’s suddenly interesting. “Love you.”
Your eyes widen for a split second before you break into a grin, pulling him in again. Your lips brush his as you whisper your reply. “I love you, too.”
previous l&c oneshot || love & company masterlist || main masterlist
❦ a/n ; hope you enjoyed the return of my fave freaky couple! needed a break from the angst of my ongoing sukuna series [wyk], but the next chapter is about halfway done <33
❦ taglist ; OPEN. please comment here or on the masterlist to be added or removed. 18+ only, age must be visible on blog.
