I'm with sunshine

Lily | 25 | She/Her | Latina | *NSFW* ● Anime ● I reblog mostly 18+ content so please MINORS DNI ● I'm also @trustfratedjin, my alter ego or smth ● Header and Pfp by @hanavbara

[kamiflix]

➶-͙˚ ༘✶ 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙁*𝘾𝙆 𝙇𝙄𝙎𝙏

✧.* "YOU DON'T CARE ABOUT THAT SILLY PROJECT OF YOURS, YOU JUST WANT SOME DICK."

[ { SYNOPSIS } ] ➤ A tale in which Gojo Satoru blackmails you into seducing a list of people to clear his debt. Sounds easy enough, right?

[ { NEED TO KNOW } ] ➤ This fic was originally written & published on Wattpad but due to multiple complications, I’ve decided to upload it here.

[ { CONTENT } ] ➤ Each chapter is rather lengthy & the entirety of this fanfic exceeds a little over 260k words. There are plenty of sexual themes & smut within this story so please proceed with caution.

[ { WARNINGS } ] ➤ fem!reader, explicit nsfw scenes, alcohol, college non-curse au, toxic altercations & interactions, heavy blackmail, hints of; obsession, possessiveness, & stalking. Violence, whore activities, gen z references, & above all; 18+ themes.

[ { PAIRINGS } ] ➤ jjk men x f!reader. gojo x f!reader. geto x f!reader. toji x f!reader. choso x f!reader. sukuna x f!reader. nanami x f!reader.

[ { DISCLAIMER } ] ➤ Please do not come to me with comparisons of this story to any other out there. I usually don’t mind but there are specific books out there that this tale has been oddly compared to in the past &, it’s caused complications & unnecessary drama (plus more). As such, enjoy tfl for what it is, pls & ty.

❥ Chapters !

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Extras.

In case you’re confused, here’s a breakdown of this fic.

Hope you enjoy!

|| @kamiflix || ff status; complete ||

[drenched-in-sunlight]

whatever this is 😭

[starmapz]

for your entertainment ch2: let go

౨ৎ experienced!sukuna x virgin f!reader [adult boutique au] - ongoing series

❝ chasing your dreams isn't all it's cracked up to be. your apartment shakes when the train passes and eating a scoop of peanut butter and calling it girl dinner is getting depressing. when you finally manage to land a job at a store that sells sex toys, it's possibly the biggest relief of your life. there's just one issue: you're a virgin. you don't know the first thing about toys and you don't want your cute and flirty white-haired co-worker to know. against your better judgement, you find yourself turning to your other co-worker for lessons and learn the hard way he's just as much of an asshole in bed as he is at work. ❞

౨ৎ cw ; mdni, 18+ only. fwb but you aren't friends. slow burn romance/fast burn smut. sukuna is 23ish, reader is 24/25ish. reader is sexually reserved but confident, nerdy, and a band geek. arrogant!sukuna. mild love triangle with gojo. dom!sukuna. mild corruption. size difference. sex toys & explorations of safety in kinks. destigmatization of virginity & sex. smut & piv. virginity loss. see masterlist for full cw.

౨ৎ wc ; 11.1k.

౨ৎ art ; ackshuallyvalerie

main masterlist || series masterlist || ⪡ prev || next ⪢

The door rattles on its hinges as the smell of approaching rain floods the shop’s interior. You can’t be sure whether the wind or Sukuna’s hand carries the door hard enough to slam on its hinges, his expression untelling. Little has changed since you asked him to be whatever the hell you are now two days ago, but you have noticed one thing, as small as it is.

His gaze lingers on you.

Not in the kind of way one might hope. You get the feeling that in spite of the fact that he’s still mildly inconvenienced by you, you equally surprised him. It’s as though he thought he had you figured out and now he’s trying to understand what he missed where once he was sure he had you read back to front like an open book.

It’s unnerving. The flapping of wings in the pit of your stomach is exchanged for a more ill-seated churning when Satoru leaves and Sukuna takes his place. Yesterday when you didn’t have the gumption to ask how the hell this arrangement was meant to work, you might have called it nerves, but by only day two, it’s just frustrating.

The brute glances up from whoever he’s texting, visibly fiddling with his lip ring that shifts each time his jaw ticks.

You meet his gaze from behind your phone, dropping the device from your gaze when he doesn’t waiver.

“Do you mind?”

His head tilts an inch, his chin raised just enough that his smirk feels condescending. “Not at all.”

You can’t decide whether you prefer Sukuna when the weather in his world is stormy or when it’s sunny and he’s amused. They’re a different brand of asshole.

“You know, asking you for help was pretty fucking hard to do in the first place,” you begin, frustrated with the theatrics of your co-worker. His brow cocks as you pin him in place with your words. “So I’d appreciate it if you stopped making me feel weird about it.”

His lips press into a thin line, any hint of amusement fading. “Look,” he begins with equal frustration. “I’m not trying to make you feel weird for asking for help. I don’t give a shit how you learn about what we sell, even if it’s because of Satoru. I told you that from the start. If you want someone’s instruction, whatever. That’s fine.” He pushes up off the counter, all six-foot-something of him towering over you. “You’re allowed to ask questions about sex, especially here. But you knew from the start what I’m like.”

The demeanor he carries himself with that gives you the sense he thinks he’s above not just you, but everyone, still simmers under his skin. You can see it in the way he carries himself, like that egotistical mindset never fades.

But you can’t be upset when he’s honest with you, and open too in the subject that makes your stomach flutter. His words aren’t comforting, but they settle your frustration and nerves. Something in the way he’s direct and has nothing to hide reminds you why you ever asked him in the first place.

Pushing his fingers back through his hair, he shakes his head. “Why not just tell Satoru you don’t have experience?”

Your shoulders rise and fall as you face him. “It’s not…” You sigh, your gaze falling. “Just about Satoru.”

“Then what’s it about? What’s getting to you so much that you asked me?”

Running your tongue over your lower lip, you worry it in between your teeth. When it takes you a moment too long to reply, Sukuna grunts questioningly again, pushing for an answer.

“I just…” you stall, scratching your shoulder. “I shouldn’t still be a virgin at this age, right?”

Somewhere under all of that snide overconfidence is a man who was raised right, in spite of all of his shortcomings and his belittling behaviour. His nose scrunches, his head shaking from side to side in short, disbelieving movements. “What? Who fucking cares, that’s your choice.” Then, something else dawns on him as he starts up again before you can answer. “Wait. You’re a virgin?”

“See, it does matter! And whether it’s Satoru, or any other guy, they’re just gonna think I’m a prude or something because I haven’t–”

Running a hand over the faint stubble along his chin, his jaw briefly hangs open as he listens to your retort. When you keep going, at last he interrupts. “No, it doesn’t matter.” He pauses, pinning you in place with adamance. “The reason I’m asking is because I want to make sure you actually want to do this shit with me,” he states plainly, no amount of teasing present in the serious gaze he fixes you with. “I’m not fucking around when it comes to boundaries and consent.”

As much as his condescension and total righteousness is frustrating, you can appreciate his ability to be serious when there’s a need. At least he has a couple of redeeming qualities under all of those layers of snide narcissism.

Shutting your eyes as you try to formulate an answer, you give a short shake of your head. “Look,” you sigh, waving a hand through the air as your lashes flutter. “I don’t know what possessed me to choose you,” you begin, earning a snide huff from the other party, “but I wanna do this. I’ve tried dating apps and things but I feel like it’s so hard to meet people organically and I finally found someone I really like, so I just don’t wanna mess things up with Satoru, okay?” Your shoulders hang as his expression remains largely unreadable.

Your closing remark has your co-worker dragging his hands down his face. When he finally drops them to his sides with a plop as they hit the denim of his jeans, he gives a haphazard shrug. “All this for that asshole,” he mutters. “Why start with an arrangement like this, anyway? Why not go to the bar if you’re so against dating apps? It’s not like some one night stand means anything either.”

You grimace. “I want someone I trust.”

He won’t admit it, but it’s humbling to a man like Sukuna. Not because he doesn’t think of himself as trustworthy, but because he’s given you no real reason to put so much of your trust in him. He’s been cruel from the start and only a few days ago was reminding you that no matter your deal, you aren’t friends.

He’s still for a long time, a genuine disgruntled frown unrelenting. 

“Fine,” he gruffs at last. “For the record though, Satoru wouldn’t care that you’re a virgin. If he did, he’d be a piece of shit.”

If only your mind would wrap itself around that concept. Twenty some-odd years on an earth that treats virginity– particularly at your age– as taboo has taught you otherwise.

“Oddly insightful from you.”

Displeased as you throw snide commentary back at him, he takes another step forward. “No matter what you think of me, I wasn’t raised wrong.” His tone is low, almost dangerous, and you’re surprised when warmth spreads to the pit of your stomach. You’re grateful he’s already turned back to his laptop as you find yourself blinking at nothing in particular. “What did you want to try anyway? And you’re buying, FYI. This is for you, not me.”

You hum thoughtfully as you find yourself staring between the gaps in the shelves at the far end of the story. Your gaze briefly stops upon reaching the vibrators, which feels like a fairly low barrier of entry. 

“A vibrator?” You query.

Sukuna, leaning over the counter on his elbows with his back facing you, rolls a muscle in his shoulder. “Sure.”

His lack of enthusiasm has you grimacing. “We get an employee discount, right?”

“Half-off.”

“That’s pretty good,” you comment in an attempt to make conversation as you slip out from the counter and walk to the wall to look over options.

He hums his agreement, typing as his eyes skim whatever project he’s working on.

Taking the hint, you let your attention drift back to the wall of silicone and plastic. Although there are a variety of different options, you’d made up your mind a while ago upon hearing Sukuna’s explanation.

With a small black bullet vibrator in a discreet box with a purple-blue gradient in-hand, you make your way back to the counter, setting it aside. Whether out of curiosity or a subconscious movement, Sukuna’s attention flips to you as he evaluates the box on the counter. He languidly shoots you a glance before you fall into nothing more than background noise for him once again. You don’t get much of an idea of his thoughts on your choice, if he has any.

And much like his silence on your choice, that’s how you spend the evening, aside from when he teaches you to close. Over the past month or so you’ve grown to find the dead air less and less uncomfortable and no longer feel the need to fill it. He still shoots you a disapproving side eye every time a customer asks a question that’s left to your anti-social co-worker because you can’t answer it, but it’s noticeably less harsh.

By, like, a fraction. He’s irritated still, but he’s not outright disappointed. 

You call that a win.

You’re pretty sure your friends back home would call it sad.

But you can’t talk to Yuki or Choso about your arrangement with Sukuna anyway, so you suppose it’s not worth thinking too hard about it.

By the time you’re flipping the open sign and turning the lock on the door, Sukuna is ringing up the vibrator you chose, along with a bottle of something you didn’t add. He slides the payment terminal towards you as you make your way back. You don’t question his judgement upon finding the label to say toy cleaner. With your card in-hand, you find yourself hovering hesitantly over the payment terminal.

The question atop your tongue feels stupid.

“What?” Sukuna gruffs when you don’t speak your mind.

“Is this… a good choice?”

He sucks in a breath, measured. “It’s a fine first choice. It’s kinda cheap, but it’s a good starting point.”

“I know the quality and how long it’ll last would be affected, but does how cheap it is affect much beyond those two things?”

Another breath, but it’s equally measured. He picks up the box, his gaze darting across the lettering that covers it. “If it was your only toy, I’d say to invest in something better, but if we’re trying a lot, cheap is fine.” His mild expression seems to pick you apart when you’re faced with sanguine irises that flicker across your face. There’s the faintest hint of an upward quirk of his lips when he catches your pout.

“You never actually answered my question,” you mumble snarkily, snatching the box back from him.

No longer tempering his amusement, he shifts to the other foot with a full-blown smirk. “It’s a cheaper plastic or silicone. Less durable, the motor inside will give out quicker, and the battery won’t last as long. It’s louder than more expensive ones, too.” He glances at the box, a thoughtful narrow to his eyes. “It probably runs on watch batteries, which get expensive the more you go through.”

You recall him mentioning that to a customer, but given the circumstance, you suppose he’s right that it won’t matter. Nodding, you tap your card without another thought. He takes a bit of extra time to show you the remaining closing procedures which feels less like a courtesy and more like a curse given that you run on his clock at his will now, but you suppose a couple of extra hours won’t hurt here and there.

Even if you won’t be paid.

Shutting off the lights at the back, you make your way to the door where he waits. “So,” you start, digging through your bag for your keys, “my place is pretty noisy, should we–”

“Where do you live?”

“Oh, uh– I’m next to the station on third street.”

“Good. Meet me at the pub on the corner.”

You blink as he tosses you the store keys, barely managing to catch them in clumsy fingers. Before you can even protest, he’s already getting into the old but well-maintained black Honda across the street.

“O-kay,” you mutter to yourself, turning back to the door as you pull down the security shutter, locking both it and the glass door. His engine has already rumbled long into the distance by the time you finish fiddling with the old finicky locks and get in your beat-up vehicle. “You have to wait for me anyway, asshole.” Your muttering somehow feels better left for the world to hear rather than internalized.

The ride to the coffee shop has you once again replaying every life decision that brought you to this point in life. Maybe you should have given time to that guy who was trying to flirt with you in the library. Then again, you were studying for your final. Maybe you should have indulged the man who told you that you were pretty at a karaoke bar once. Well, no, he was creepy.

You’ve just been focusing on yourself and your fingers have done the trick anytime you were horny.

Not to mention, you can’t help but find that you don’t see yourself in porn and it doesn’t leave you feeling satisfied. That’s not even beginning to mention that much of what you found feels performative, which doesn’t cut it at an adult shop.

Though, that’s a lie too. Because at the end of the day although you are curious and this is something that you’re intrigued by given your environment lately, you’re equally hoping to impress Satoru.

Maybe Sukuna’s right that you should just tell him.

But that also feels like an uphill battle.

Stupid. This whole thing has you feeling like you’re overthinking everything and in an effort to stop thinking so damn much, you shut your car off and push into the pub.

Sukuna’s sitting in a booth at the back, already nursing a drink in one hand. His opposite arm is lazily strewn across the back of the booth, his gaze following you with that striking intensity that never fails to make your hair stand on end. Slipping in across from him, you watch as he leans back, completely at ease. As much as his arrogance can piss you off, his ability to remain calm and even puts out any fires your nerves threaten to stoke.

“Want anything?” He asks, jutting his chin towards the drink menu. Curiously, you flip to the first page before Sukuna’s hand comes down authoritatively, stopping you from browsing the menu he just offered. He flips to the back page confidently. “Non-alcoholic only.”

Fixing him with a scowl, you point towards his drink. “What are you drinking, then?”

He slides it an inch closer to you, an offer to test him. “Non-alcoholic IPA.” He lifts his hand from the menu, finally allowing you to browse your options as he leans back again. “We have rules to go over. Need your head on right and your consent after.”

As much as you don’t appreciate his commanding nature, you can admit it settles your nerves that he’s taking this seriously. He’s so flippant and dismissive when he wants to be that the soberness with which he’s treating the situation is reassuring.

In fact, it’s even a little hot, as much as you don’t even want to so much as think of the compliment. Truthfully though, you appreciate that he knows when to turn the damn attitude down.

Inhaling slowly, you look over the menu, waiting for the waiter to arrive. You order a Pepsi just for the sake of having something to hold and hide your fiddling as Sukuna’s gaze scarcely departs you.

“I thought we went over the rules already?” You ask when you finally have something to focus on. The condensation is cool against your fingers, a much-needed departure from the facetious personality across from you.

“Of the agreement, sure.” He starts, bringing his glass to his lips as he leans back casually. “But I’m not doing this without knowing what you want.”

“I thought I–”

He doesn’t give you the time of day, glass still held between his fingers as he leans forward on his forearm. “You want me in charge, yeah?”

You blink, nodding. 

“You understand that that puts me in a dominant position for our agreement, correct?”

Your cheeks warm as you nod again. “That’s kinda what I wanted,” you admit quietly.

He hums, a hint of his teeth gleaming behind a smirk. He lets the moment hang a second longer, basking in the way you squirm under his gaze. Throwing back what’s left of his drink, he sets the glass on the table with a dull clank. “Right,” he begins, “so you’ve never been with anyone before?” He asks, growing more serious again.

His ability to casually swing back and forth between both moods is beginning to piss you off.

“Yeah, you know that,” you reply snarkily.

His eyes narrow. “Not what I mean, sweetheart. You ever done anything with anyone? In any capacity?”

You chew on your lip briefly. “I gave a guy a handjob once,” you admit quietly, painfully aware of the public setting.

Sukuna’s eyes avert for a moment as he considers how to approach things. “That's it?”

“I– Yeah, can you stop asking?”

His throat bobs as he swallows, frowning. He lays his thoughts out plainly, straight to the point and without the arrogant attitude. “Think what you want of me, but I’m not trying to embarrass you. I already told you it doesn’t matter. I’m asking because it gives me a good sense of where to start.”

Sitting upright, you nod slowly.

“Do you masturbate?”

With every question, you swear your face gets warmer. “Yeah.”

“But no toys?”

“No.”

He rolls his jaw, prodding his tongue against the side of his mouth. “Alright. I can work with that. Do you know what you like when you touch yourself?”

“Do we have to do this somewhere so public?”

He snorts. “No one’s listening. The closest table is so sloshed you’d think it’s three in the morning,” he points out, motioning over your shoulder. Admittedly, he’s right. There’s a group of three women and two men all slumped over, eyes red-ringed and laughter bubbling from within. 

With a sigh, you turn back to him. “Fine. So what rules do we need to go over, then?”

“I need to know what’s completely off-limits for you.” He taps a finger once on the table. “I’m kinky but there’s shit I’m not into either.”

“Okay, um,” you take a moment to consider the toys lining the walls and some of the porn you’ve seen while browsing. “I don’t know, I guess I don’t think I’d be into whips or spanking.” Sukuna hums. “I know the candles are for… wax play, right?”

“Mhm. Some people like the pain.”

“I don’t think I would want anything painful.”

He nods his agreement. “Anything like that is off the table.”

Tapping your nails along the sides of your glass, you wrack your brain of the items that line the walls at work. “I don’t think I’m into collars or muzzles or anything.”

“Alright. No pet play. You not into being tied up, or just the pet part?”

Your hesitation is brief as you consider the difference. “I think I’d be okay with being tied up,” you muse. “Not yet, but–” you shrug, cracking a smile. “It sounds kinda fun.”

Sukuna smirks. “She’s a little kinky, I like it.” His lidded expression sends heat up the back of your neck and straight to the pit of your stomach. You adjust the way you’re seated, crossing one leg over the other as you focus on the glass in front of you. Amused, your counterpart pushes for details. “What about gags, handcuffs, and blindfolds?”

“I’d be open to those.”

His smirk grows, teeth bared just enough to call it a grin. “Alright. No whips, and pet and pain play are past the ceiling. Anything more intense than that’s off the table, yeah?”

You nod, grateful that he isn’t leaving you to try to come up with things when you’re scarcely familiar with the products at your own job.

“Hair pulling? Choking?”

You take a moment to consider it, but nod. “That’s fine.”

That seems to be the majority of his questions as he leans back in his seat again, stretching his arms overhead. He has that same expression from the day you originally made the agreement, the one that makes you feel like you’re no longer background noise in his world. Like you’ve surprised him and he’s willing to humor you.

“Alright. Anything else we can go over if it comes up,” he shrugs. “I just needed a baseline.” Yawning, he takes a moment to let his thoughts settle as he works out details in his mind. It gives you a moment to reset, gratefully taking the opportunity as you lean back in your seat, no longer fixated on your glass.

It occurs to you in that moment that he’s surprisingly quelled your nerves. You can’t place whether it’s through making a point of doing this in a public setting but ensuring this stays between you, or the way he’s actually maneuvering this conversation in a way that makes you feel open and in charge. Either way, you have to hand it to him that for a guy who’s made it clear he isn’t fond of people, he’s good with them. With you.

He spends a moment thinking things through before at last continuing. “Are you familiar with the traffic light safe word system?”

You meet his gaze, shaking your head.

“I need you to understand that even if I’m the dom, your word is my law. You tell me green and you leave shit in my hands to make you feel good. You tell me yellow and we’ll stop for a bit to figure out what you don’t like or what doesn’t feel good. You tell me red and my hands are off of you. What you say goes, you understand?” He leans forward with an intensity that seeps straight to your bones.

“Okay. I understand.”

“Good.” His shoulders rise and fall as he sucks in a breath, letting it out gradually. “And for the record, no kissing. No making out. No sex.”

As he repeats his rules, you press your lips into a thin line at how much he loves to remind you that you aren’t friends and these aren’t benefits. “You mentioned.”

“I’ll take my shirt off if it makes you comfortable, but that’s all you’re getting from me.”

“How sweet,” you comment dryly as he completely ignores your previous retort.

He grins, shrugging like the chivalrous man he is. “You didn’t ask for love, sweetheart.”

“And if I had?”

His grin stays in place, his chin lifting an inch as he regards you with the kind of expression only someone as conceited as Sukuna himself can manage. “Then you’d be switching to morning shifts.”

You want to roll your eyes, but you can at least respect his honesty, even if it’s painfully self-centered. You suppose it’s in part why trust comes easily with him. It’s not out of respect or friendship, but rather the simple fact that he doesn’t sugarcoat things. For better or for worse, he means what he says and has nothing to hide.

Jutting his chin in a motion to your nearly-finished glass, he keeps that painfully smug expression as he gruffs out a question. “Ready to go?”

Downing the last of your drink, you nod as you make your way to the bartender. She rings up your drinks together, only for Sukuna to step aside for you to pay.

Chivalry might just be dead, after all.

Your counterpart shoves his hands into his pockets with a haughty smirk, watching every micro expression cross your face as realization tents your brow, before twisting into a glare. Sukuna’s gait is entirely casual as his boots hit the pavement outside. When he comes to a halt by his car, his hand settles on the roof. “Send me your address,” are his last words before he ducks into the driver’s seat. The engine rumbles on and his music begins in an instant, a booming bassline that’s faintly familiar, but it’s too muffled to make out.

Sucking in a breath, you let the music fade as you head for your car, sending him your address just around the corner. You take an extra moment to make it to your car, breathing in the cool summer night air. The ever-present murky smell of smog hits you the moment the sharp scent of alcohol dissipates, but you’ve grown accustomed to it by now. The air on your skin is refreshing, and gives you a moment to think.

In spite of his frustrating tendencies, Sukuna treats sex– in all forms– differently from the men you’re used to. Not just men, but everyone. Even your closest friends. It’s not an expectation, it’s not something that requires any pressure. It’s whatever you want it to be, and whatever you’re comfortable with.

You appreciate the fact that in spite of you wanting him to take charge, this is all still at your beck and call. Sukuna says everything like it is. As much as you despise that for how plainly he’ll point out any fault the moment he finds it or throw you under the bus in a heartbeat when he sees himself as a man who’s always in the right, you appreciate the fact that he doesn’t make things into a spectacle either.

How many parties have you been to where ‘never have I ever’ turned into a wave of judgement, or a game where you found yourself lying to avoid it? How many times have you avoided parties altogether, hating the way all concepts surrounding you seemed to change over something that shouldn’t be everything it’s so often perceived as?

Hell, growing up in an era where sex was perceived as something cool and sold to adults through media only to be thrust into a new era where censorship is pushed more than education, it was bound to twist the perception around virginity.

Your own insecurity is an unfortunate side effect of those two very things clashing with one another. Just like your insecurity in the impression you’ve given Satoru, regardless of if you’ve actually spoken to him or not.

Which is why Sukuna’s attitude around sex is a breath of fresh air. There’s no judgement from him that you’ve abstained for so long.

And for that, you find yourself excited as you pull up to your house.

The man in question is parked before you even arrive, standing at the brick staircase by the time you lock your vehicle. The three-story building towers overhead, yet he still looks big at the base of the stairs.

His arms are crossed as he leans back casually, eyes on his phone. The racing jacket he sports hangs heavily over his broad shoulders. It looks like a replica F1 jacket of sorts, and in spite of its large size, the muscle definition beneath the tank top clinging to his skin is still obvious. It’s almost unfair that he’s so attractive and such a dick.

Just as the thought crosses your mind, his crimson eyes lift from his phone screen. He pockets it, looking you up and down once before letting you lead the way. You pull the front gate open without a word, unlocking the inner door and shutting it to latch behind you. Your apartment resides on the second floor, a single room backing onto the subway. Convenient, but noisy as all hell.

You like to think of it as the epitome of what it means to chase your dream, but in reality you know it’s little more than measly tape to cover up the fact that it feels more like failure. You’ve only been here for a couple of months and played at a couple of crappy venues that didn’t turn out well and you aren’t about to give up now, but your apartment fails to feel like home.

When you flick the lights on, it gives a warm glow to the run-down apartment.

“Make yourself at home,” you offer of the small space. It’s nothing more than a studio with a bathroom. A kitchenette sits at your immediate left with a microwave, fridge, and a single plug-in hot-plate, while your bed is pushed into the corner at the back. You’ve managed to fit a small TV on a table in the corner, and a tiny couch beside it, but that’s about all there is to see of your small space. Wallpaper peels at the top corners and there are stains and scrapes over the old wooden floor that could very well be older than you.

You’ve done what you can with the space. Over the couch is a number of signed and framed band posters and by the TV sits a cork board with memorabilia pinned to it. Old concert ticket stubs, set lists, and guitar picks all pinned or clipped in place. A lamp sits behind the TV in the corner that makes the space feel more warm, giving light to the two gaming systems sitting under the table. It’s not perfect, but it’s very you.

As you set your keys and bag on what little counter space you have, Sukuna takes in the sight of the small space, his gaze lingering on the signed posters and memorabilia before landing on your guitar, leaning against the couch haphazardly.

“You’re a concert girl?” He queries. It’s hard to get a read on where the question comes from when his tone lacks any real interest or enthusiasm.

“When I could afford it,” you agree with a wry laugh.

He hums, kicking his shoes off and dropping his jacket beside your guitar on the couch. He plops down on the double bed, picking up a drumstick sat on the small night stand wedged between the bed and the tiny table the TV sits atop. He twirls it on a finger as he continues to look around while you fiddle with the box for the bullet vibrator you got, picking at the tape keeping it shut.

Like a sixth sense, your hair stands on-end when his striking gaze settles on you again. He continues to fiddle with the drumstick, but his expression is otherwise unreadable. His slightly narrowed gaze gives you the idea that something is on his mind. “What?”

“Just thinking,” he mutters, his gaze dropping the full length of your body again.

Standing still at the counter, you chew on the inside of your cheek as he checks you out. Or something similar to that. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you knew this question would arise. A part of you had hoped to avoid it, but given the nature of your agreement with Sukuna, the question doesn’t bother you as much as it might from someone else.

“I won’t be offended, you know.”

The drumstick stills in Sukuna’s fingers. “About what?”

“If you ask.”

“Can you be fucking direct?” He sneers, his eyes narrowed to pinpricks as he fixes you with the kind of gaze that would have made your skin crawl a month ago. Back then, you would have taken it for genuine frustration, but you know now that this is a man who finds pleasure in the fact that one look can make someone avert their gaze.

But you don’t budge, turning to face him with the bullet vibe in-hand. “You wanna know why I’m still a virgin if I’m open enough to ask you for this arrangement.”

You can’t blame him. You get the feeling you’re a year or two older than him based on the fact that you graduated already and he’s in his last year. Your reply even seems to intrigue him as he leans forward just enough to show interest. You have his attention, although he doesn’t say it. He may not judge you for it, but you certainly can’t blame him for being curious. After all, your request was a bold one in the first place.

With a sigh, you set the toy on the counter as you manage to free it from its packaging. “You know how I told you I’m from a small town?”

“Mhm.”

“How small do you think I meant?”

He shrugs, having clearly never considered the question. “Ten thousand,” he throws out a haphazard guess.

“Four hundred people.”

His nose wrinkles at the mere thought. Fitting for a guy who seems well-versed in navigating life in a massive city.

“So my options kinda sucked with guys my age,” you laugh dryly, returning to the counter where you set the toy down. You turn to him suddenly, a finger held out pointedly towards his chest. “Don’t even get me started on the older men.”

He snorts, barely more than a push of air from his nostrils that gives way to his amusement.

“It was one of those roadside attraction towns where our whole thing was like,” you wave a hand through the air, looking for the right words to describe it. “Having one of those weird statues or whatever that people will pull over to see.”

“Yeah? So what weird thing did you have, then?”

You crack a smile. “The world’s largest garden gnome.”

He blinks in disbelief, in sudden understanding of the whole situation. One single garden gnome painting a whole picture of who you are and how you grew up. “Damn. That blows.” There’s something so strangely friendly in the interaction that’s unbefitting of everything he is, but for a moment you forget this is Sukuna you’re speaking with.

You laugh. “Yeah. It’s not even the world’s largest anymore from what I’ve been told. So now we’re the ‘original’,” you make finger quotations in the air, “world’s largest garden gnome.”

He snorts again, pushing a hand back through his hair. “No wonder you like punk music. You did need to get out of your town.”

You surprise even yourself at how heartily you laugh. When he’s not being a stick-in-the-mud, it turns out he’s kinda funny. In fact, when he isn’t acting like he’s above you, there’s even a sort of warmth to him that you don’t mind. Whether it’s a public front and he’s dropped the curtain for a moment or he’s growing more comfortable with you is yet to be determined.

Or maybe this is like a one time event that you were lucky enough to witness.

“You must have gone to the city pretty often if you go to a lot of concerts,” he muses. “No interest in hooking up with a guy or doing this shit with someone before now?”

You frown, glancing up from the instructions on the bottle of toy cleaner as you loosely skim them. “I never really considered any of this until the shop. And I’d rather be with someone I know.”

He grunts in irritation before you even finish the first sentence, but he lets it go by the time you finish. At least his frustration with you is purely on a work level. “You don’t know me,” he points out. “You don’t know jack shit about how I am in bed and you barely know me outside of it.”

“I trust you, though.”

His gaze drifts to the floor, something stoic passing over his expression as he allows the thought to sink in. “You trust me,” he parrots dryly, for no other reason than to solidify them for himself. You open your mouth to elaborate, but he’s already talking over you before you can spit out a second word. Infuriating man. “Right. And now you want me to show you the ropes–” he pauses at the irony of his statement, a smug smirk returning to his lips. “Literally.” He stands up from your bed, tossing the drumstick aside in the midst of his amusement.

With a roll of your eyes, you stop whatever narcissistic or teasing comment was about to leave his parted lips, steering the conversation another way before he’s too frustrating to handle. “I can make a guess.”

Sukuna pauses, stepping towards you with curiosity. “About–” he raises his brows. “What I’m like? In general, or in bed?”

“Both,” you shrug. “You like to be in charge. You like to have someone who’s willing to admit that you’re better at something and you like to be mean about it. You like when people feel small around you, it makes your ego feel good like the big man that you are.”

Where you expect offense, you only find amusement, which unfortunately isn’t in your favor either. At the end of the day, he’s still running this interaction like he owns it. His head tilts, his grin unrelenting. The way the muscle shirt he sports clings to his chest as it rises and falls feels unfair. He’s a tease without trying, all because he has the fortune of being hot. “Oh?” His voice comes low, a grit to it that sends heat between your thighs. “Are we guessing, or psychoanalyzing?”

You shrug. “It can be whatever you want.”

His gaze flickers around your face as you move past him to the spot where he was just seated. The amusement laced through sanguine eyes as he watches you sits under your skin in the kind of way that has you grimacing. The way he picks you apart so effortlessly is a shadow compared to the pile of things about him that frustrate you, but you hate the way it gets under your skin.

He has no issues making himself at home either, moving his jacket aside so he can manspread obnoxiously on the couch across from your bed. Your brows tent downwards as he doesn’t hesitate to reach for your guitar either, as though he knows that, too, will get under your skin. “Here, I’ll move that.”

You dart towards him, picking the instrument up before his fingers can graze the neck, setting in on the stand it should have been on anyway. His brow quirks, head tilting as he watches your every movement. The way he moves through life so easily is grating.

When you take a seat again across from him on your bed, you tap your foot a couple of times on the worn wood below. It sounds hollow, even beneath your clothed feet. “So… What should we do?” You query, praying you can find a rhythm with him that makes everything more comfortable.

A smile curls at the corners of his lips. “I told you. You’re–”

His words come to a quick halt, expression twisting into disbelief and clear concern as your apartment rattles briefly, before the obvious noise of the subway passing behind the building follows, and the room settles as it comes to a stop. Unphased, you await his next words.

“You fucking live with that?”

You shrug. “Yeah. I uh– didn’t really realize it would be an issue until I moved in.”

A puff of air leaves his nose, his eyes trailing between you and the window where the train’s shadow cast across the floor moments ago. “How the fuck do you sleep? The subways run all night.”

“They’re less frequent at night,” you offer.

“How the fuck do you get off with that noise?”

Worrying your lower lip between your teeth, you shrug. “It’s just background noise.”

Sukuna hangs in a state of disbelief for a moment, crimson boring into you like even he’s questioning how the fuck he got here now. When the moment settles, he runs his tongue over his teeth and shakes his head, muttering a curse under his breath. “You’re something.”

“Thanks,” you reply dryly. The nerves of opening yourself up to someone buzz more as you draw Sukuna’s attention away from the train. Your leg bounces involuntarily, a hollow thump to it as you wait for a reply to your question, no matter how snarky it’ll inevitably be.

But the arrogance never comes. His eyes flicker down to your leg, the previous curl of his lips gone and replaced with something far more staid. With a hand on the couch’s armrest, he moves across the small room with ease, his large frame casting a long shadow over the floor as he blocks the lamplight. Your heart pumps hard against its cage, jumping to your throat when his palm settles on your leg, pressing it to the hardwood to stop its pace.

“Relax.” His voice has a sultry tone that feels foreign to you yet lived-in, like he knows just how to pitch his voice to send it like a shock straight to your stomach. You shift at the sensation, drawn to his gaze as he leans in with a brazen chuckle, clearly pleased that he can affect you in such a way. “Stop talking. Stop thinking. About all of this shit. About me, about the job, the money, the train. Turn your brain off.”

He’s right, painfully so, about every little thing on your mind. But the most relief you usually get is a warm cup of tea on a cool night, and even then it’s disturbed by a train every few minutes. It’s not like you haven’t masturbated, particularly since starting at the shop, but your brain always seems to need something to latch onto and porn feels so performative you can’t get into it.

Sukuna gives you something to focus on, taking the bullet vibrator from within your fidgeting hands as his other hand glides from your thigh to your torso over your shirt. His thumb frames your breast, the sensation sending a shiver straight up your spine. He uses just enough force that you could call the pressure he uses to guide you back onto your bed a ‘suggestion’ rather than a command.

“Give me a color.”

“Green.”

“Good,” he hums, low and smug as you watch his smirk grow into something painfully self-assured and egotistical as he flashes his teeth. You don’t have time to be annoyed when your lashes are already fluttering as he drags the bullet vibrator in his palm over your clothed pussy with just enough pressure that your breath catches. “And it’s not even on yet,” he purrs in that ever-condescending tone.

“I should have asked someone less–”

He grinds the vibrator against your clit in an effort to stifle your attitude, shooting you a smug smirk when it works. “But you didn’t.”

Your scowl barely has a chance to form before it dissipates as he glides a thumb beneath your shirt. The sensation has you shivering as he scrutinizes every micro expression you make when his thumb glides over the sensitive skin of your bare stomach. Goosebumps rise in its stead, inevitable as your body reacts to the sensation. You jolt when his touch is so feather-light that it feels more ticklish than something sensual, and like everything else he picks it up and files it away for later.

When he stops at your hipbone and dips two fingers beneath your waistband, you instinctively suck in a breath, stiffening. His movement pauses, eyes narrowing as he fixes you with a sharp gaze that you recognize as instruction.

“Green,” you breathe.

Something smug in his expression has you swallowing your pride at the realization that submission came easily. He’s too keen to have not noticed how you’re not running your mouth anymore, and you don’t need to read between the lines to know that he enjoys that fact.

With your consent, two fingers drag your pants down, haplessly discarded as his gaze trails the length of your legs slowly. You can’t make out what he’s thinking, your hair standing on end as some part of you longs for warmth in a partner who might revere you, but that isn’t what you asked for. It’s not who Sukuna is.

When his eyes meet yours, they narrow an ounce. “Stop worrying,” he admonishes the thoughts he seems to be able to sense as though your insecurities are written in the air for him to see. It warms your cheeks further than they already are. When he catches the twitch of your brow, whether it’s a tell that he’s correct or some bratty form of defiance, he brings a hand to your jaw, his thumb and finger forcing you to keep his gaze. “I’m serious. Bodies are all different, and–”

“That doesn’t make me feel better, Suku–”

His thumb and finger shift until he’s pressing your cheeks together to shut up your protests. “Everyone is different. You should be. Stop fucking worrying.” He loosens his grip enough to allow you to nod, no longer pursing your lips. “Focus on my hands. Focus on the feeling. Don’t think about the fucking train that’s gonna pass in three minutes. Don’t distract yourself.”

He releases your face, shifting his hand until he’s prodding your abdomen pointedly with a finger. He waits for your gaze to follow before continuing.

“Masturbation is one thing because you know exactly what you want and can make yourself finish quickly, but bringing another person into things changes how your body and brain work.” He moves his hand back to the bed as he leans over you, watching with a faint smirk as the other hand presses the small vibrator, still off, into your clit and you take in a sharp breath. “If you get distracted by all the dumb shit going through your head and don’t stay focused on how you’re feeling, your body won’t let you cum. You’ll go straight into overstimulation without orgasm, or your body just won’t respond. It’s common as shit and a lot of people don’t think they can cum with a partner.”

You blink at how strangely insightful and educational the tattooed prick can actually be. Your shoulders fall into the mattress as you focus on the pressure of the hard silicone pressed into your clothed pussy.

There’s another side to it as well that has your mind ready to reel into something far more tangential, as much as you know you should listen to his advice. The fact is that the very same man who told you not to expect love or care from him is sitting here reassuring you, all the while explaining to you just how much he understands the human body. It’s not just from a biological or fact-driven perspective either, he’s putting your pleasure first.

Sure, it’s worth acknowledging that at the end of the day your arrangement does revolve around your pleasure, but Sukuna’s not just insightful. In one way or another, it’s caring. Whether he wants to acknowledge it or not, you’ve heard horror stories of men not being able to find the clit and it’s driven you further into insecurity surrounding the very concept of sex as someone with no experience.

Sukuna isn’t just skilled or good as you’re sure he’ll put it. He’s put time into this. Not just the kind that comes with being with people, but the kind that comes with research and education.

You knew he could talk about toys without batting an eye.

This is deeper.

He flicks your forehead, eyes flashing with irritation as you protest with a yelp. “What did I just tell you?”

“You’re just kinda being sweet,” you excuse yourself, blinking at him from where he’s crouched over your lower torso.

Something flashes in his eyes. “Don’t fucking mistake being good at what I do for sweetness.” His lip curls, the word dripping in disgust like the very concept is venomous to him. “Or do I need to remind you that this is a fucking deal and the moment this shit’s over you’re nothing more than my co-worker who doesn’t know fuck-all about the product?”

You let out a disbelieving scoff at the way he manages to kill the vibe entirely over what you might consider a compliment. “You’re right. You’re a dick.”

He straightens as he takes command of the situation once more, making himself look bigger as he leans over you. He shifts the reins like he owns your every reaction and can predict the situation. With a flick of his thumb, he turns the bullet vibe on, the vibration a sudden and intense sensation even over your panties. It’s a stark contrast to what your fingers feel like.

“Now stop thinking.” He drags the vibrator from your clit back across your clothed slit, your lips parting as you arch into the sensation.

“How am I supposed to focus when you’re being such an ass?” You grit in spite of the pleasure.

“Now you know why I’m good at this shit.”

He drops the attitude again as he manages to turn you on without the sensual touch or words of a partner, but rather through other methods.

Keeping a steady, albeit low vibration setting over your clit through your panties, he slips a hand under your shirt again. His thumb glides smoothly over your nipple, raising goosebumps along with his calloused touch. Sharp crimson eyes fix on the way your gaze finally shifts from his movements to the ceiling, your hands reaching for the blanket laying over the mattress. Your fingers curl into the cotton as all thoughts of insecurity and Sukuna’s attitude finally dissipate and all you’re left with is a tingling sensation that spreads warmly to your extremities.

“Thaaat’s it,” he guides you in a low tone that acts like sparks in your mind, kindling a fire that burns out whatever last thoughts served as a distraction. At last it’s just you and the sensation of his finger circling your nipple, slow and sensual as he takes the time needed to work your body up to a point where the vibrator won’t be too much.

The mattress dips as Sukuna shifts, his footsteps lost on you as the train passes by the window. It’s nothing more than background noise with your exterior senses dulled to focus only on touch. You blink at the tattooed man as the noise of the vibrator is silenced, lidded eyes watching his fingers hook into the waistband of your panties.

“Color?”

You swallow hard. His gaze lowers as he watches the movement, every tiny detail catalogued as he reads your reaction.

“Green,” you reply, breathless.

He gives a nod, fixed still on your expression when he gives the first tug. On instinct your legs twitch to close, so he guides you through the nerves rather than ignoring them. “You’re good,” he gruffs. It’s not soothing, but somehow it settles a modicum of the uncertainty that comes with putting your trust in someone else in such a vulnerable way.

Once they’re over your knees, he tugs the panties off, sending them across the room.

You still can’t help instinctively trying to hide yourself from him, squeezing the blanket tighter between your fingers as the cool air of your apartment reaches your dripping core.

“You want my shirt off?”

The question hangs before you, eyes dipping down to the black muscle shirt he sports, tight over his built chest. It’s the kind of thing you would spot at a gym, but it’s just loose enough over the rest of his torso that it looks less like he’s showing off and more like he effortlessly owns the look and everyone else is just mirroring him.

Pulling your lower lip between your teeth, you nod. When you meet his gaze again, it’s smug. He knows every last word that just ran through your head like he’s heard it before and the thought should piss you off, but you can’t be too bothered when he sets the vibrator on your abdomen and grabs the hem of his shirt with crossed arms. He pulls it up over his head with intention, flexing his biceps as he does so and sets it aside. Conveniently, his shirt doesn’t fly across the room.

The tattoos that curl around the sides of his neck snake over his shoulders in thick off-black lines that curve over his pecks. There are another set of bands similar to his wrists on his upper biceps and circles at his shoulders. They sharpen the persona given off by his intense egoism and dyed black hair, but they also accentuate his muscles in the kind of way that has your pupils dilating as you trail over the lines before falling to his abs.

As if that sight isn’t a show enough, at the base of his abdomen is a snail trail that you fix on just enough to earn a chuckle. It’s startlingly pink, matching the roots you spot every few weeks when they grow out.

Your hips shift as your stomach clenches at the sight. The cool air makes it obvious how turned on you are, and when you look back up, Sukuna is smirking. You’re feeding his ego more than you could know.

Satisfied with your reaction, he settles both hands on your thighs, slowly pulling them apart. Exposed to him once again, you find that action has surprisingly replaced your nerves with something far more debauched that has your mind racing.

This time, in all the right ways.

When your legs stay spread, he picks the vibrator back up, flicking it back on in one deft movement. The bed dips when he settles between your legs, dragging the vibrator through wet folds and over your clit, you arch into it with a soft moan. “Now you’re getting it,” he smirks as at last you let go of the endless stress of thoughts and give in to pleasure. “A bullet vibe is too small for much else besides placing direct pressure on the clit,” he explains as though your mind isn’t on another plane. “So it works best with other forms of stimulation.”

He keeps the small vibrator pressed directly to your clit. Your head falls back into the mattress, balling the fabric of your blankets up into your fists.

“You gotta work with me if you want this shit to work,” he continues, his hand pressing your thigh down when he adds additional pressure to the vibrator and your legs jolt shut on instinct. “What feels good?”

“I– hah–” You blink, cloudy eyes fluttering open to drag across the ceiling until they find his gaze, impossibly red and horribly smug as a moan tears your words apart. “The pressure is nice.”

“Nice?” He parrots the word, dripping in amusement. “I’m using a vibrator on you, don’t mince your words.”

You arch into the sensation in spite of his chatter, but he pulls away when you don’t reply immediately. Swallowing hard, you adjust your grip on the blankets and blink as your mind reels trying to catch up to what he wants. “It gets me a lot closer when you press it into my clit.”

He hums.

“But it’s kinda nice when you take it away too, makes the feeling l-last longer,” you stammer over the sentence when he tests your words, pulling it away for a moment. Your hips jolt, but the sensation is nice.

Vibration isn’t like your fingers. It’s far more intense and works you to the edge quicker when Sukuna knows how to maneuver the toy. “That’s called edging,” he gruffs, pulling the vibrator back as he waits for your eyes to meet his again. “This is a pretty tame form of it, but the human body wasn’t built for a vibrator so you’ll cum too fast if I don’t and it’s not as good.” You nod weakly, gaze flickering back down to the small device that he’s still holding away from your body. “Some people like being brought to the edge and coming down over and over, though. If that’s something you wanna try, that’s fine, but let me learn what you like first.”

You nod again, chewing on your lower lip as you buck your hips into his waiting hand.

He clicks his tongue, amused. “Eager.” Before you can retort with something equally cheeky, he presses the vibrator back to your clit as the stimulation curls through your body again, warm and welcome. It blossoms from your stomach to your chest until you can feel yourself teetering at the edge again, only for Sukuna to pull back. “Finger yourself.”

“What? Me?”

“You fucked stupid already?” Condescending prick. “Yeah, you. I told you, a bullet vibe works best with outside stimulation and I wanna see what you do to get off.”

You huff out a sigh, but your fingers slip from the blanket, down your body until you feel slick gather along your fingers. They’re cold, the thin windows giving way to a chill that seeps into your skin. The sensation has you sucking in a breath when they touch your skin, one finger slipping first between your folds, cool and pleasant, and then another. You work yourself open at a comfortable pace and adjust your hips until you find a rhythm and depth that feels nice, though it’s nothing compared to the vibrator.

“Could you cum just from that?”

“I don’t think so,” you breathe.

He hums in acknowledgement, pressing the vibrator with gradual pressure back into your clit. Your fingers stutter, pausing altogether. “Keep going,” he mutters. Even through the fog of bliss, you follow his instructions and keep the pace, your fingers curling into your walls as they begin to convulse around you.

Your breaths turn to soft, somewhat shy, moans with every second the vibrator spends pressed to your sensitive bundle of nerves. The world around you is fuzzy and you swear you can even hear the static that gathers at the edges of your vision. When your abdomen begins tensing and the rhythm of your fingers grows less accurate, more frantic, he uses more pressure to elicit the exact reaction he’s looking for. The sensation throws you over the edge without warning, hitting you in waves far more intense than the best orgasm with your fingers has ever given you.

As your body reacts to each wave of the orgasm, muscles clenching in time, the vibrator shifts slightly and the sensation heads straight into overstimulation. Sukuna reads the reaction and pulls away, letting you come down naturally. Your chest rises and falls heavily as you stare up at the rickety old ceiling.

Letting go and giving in entirely to the pleasure feels good. Your thoughts don’t race. There’s no constant stream of what needs to happen for the rest of the day or when you’ll head to the bar for your next gig. You’re just on cloud nine.

You feel Sukuna rise from between your legs. He moves around the apartment like he owns the place, opening the only door that doesn’t lead out without asking, and returning with a towel.

Pushing up onto your elbow, you hold out a hand expectantly, but Sukuna holds it out of reach. “No. I told you you’re not getting sweet, but I’m not leaving you without aftercare.” He takes a seat on the edge of the bed, folding the towel into something more manageable before holding it out for you to wipe your fingers on. “An arrangement like this,” he waves the folded towel haphazardly between you once you’re done with it, “means that the person in the dominant position should be helping clean up and make sure the sub is in the right headspace.” He speaks so matter-of-factly, you have a hard time believing this is the same guy who asked if you applied for the wrong job.

Tonal whiplash if you’ve ever heard it.

“If you ever have sex with someone who puts you in a submissive position and doesn’t give you aftercare, dump the prick.”

Truthfully, you’re not sure Sukuna has any right to call someone a prick, but you nod regardless. You’re not about to protest when he is cleaning you up and has gathered your panties and pants for you.

Once he’s satisfied, he sets the towel aside and pulls his shirt back over his head. He grabs you a glass of water as you cover yourself back up, and is surprisingly domestic as he checks in on you. “Feel good?”

“Yeah.”

“See what I mean when I say the bullet vibe is best with outside stimulation?”

You blink up at him from where he’s standing, a neutral expression plastered to his face as though nothing’s happened and there isn’t a tent in his pants. “Yeah, I guess.”

His eyes narrow, chin tilted up slightly. “You guess?”

“Sorry. I just don’t know what to do now.”

Unbothered, he simply nods, his gaze passing to the window as a train casts a dark shadow over the apartment, gone in a split second. He runs a hand through black strands of hair, revealing the pink at the roots before crossing his arms over his chest. “Why’s that?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never been… whatever we are, with someone.”

He snorts. “Can’t say I have either, sweetheart. Just talk with me until I know you’re back in a normal headspace. Tell me what worked and what didn’t.” He brings a hand up to his shoulder, rubbing the muscle along his back idly as he stands a short distance away.

Now fully clothed, you sit upright. “Okay.” Letting out a breath, you navigate the blissful fog still hanging over you in search of something to answer. “I appreciate that you took your shirt off,” you admit, heat climbing your spine as it curls up to your ears. You press on, grateful that he doesn’t make a big deal out of it in spite of his minute smirk. “I liked when you used pressure, but it was a lot when I came.”

He hums. “That’s overstimulation. Was it a lot in a bad way?”

Your brow knits together in thought. It was too much in the moment, but you don’t suppose you’d label it as bad. “No. Not exactly. Just too much.”

Shifting to the other foot, he considers your words. “Overstimulation is a pretty common kink. There’re a lot of people who like being pushed into that territory because it is a lot but the stimulation is also pleasurable and it can push you to cum again pretty quickly.”

“I think I saw that in some of the porn I tried watching.”

“I would say it’s one of the more common kinks in the kink community. Makes sense.”

You nod slowly, considering the sensation as you shift, your body still feeling particularly loose. “I think I’d try it.”

“Sure,” he agrees, seeming to only half pay attention when he pulls his phone out. A dim blue light illuminates the lower half of his face before he shoves it back in his pocket. “You seem good. Feeling alright?”

“Yeah.”

“Great. I’m leaving.” He turns abruptly on his heel, tossing his jacket over his shoulder as he makes his way to the door. “Clean the vibe,” he reminds you. “And don’t use it too often. We’re not built for electronics, we’re built for fingers. It’ll fry your nerves and regular stimulation won’t feel as good.”

You nod solemnly, his advice adding up. “Wait!” You call when his hand rests atop the old door knob, the golden paint chipping away as it gives up the facade of luxury. “You don’t want anything?”

“No.”

You shake your head. “Why did you agree to this, then?”

He pauses, turning fully to face you. His gaze travels to the darkened path over the wooden floor where enough steps have been taken that the wood has physically worn away. “It’s convenient,” he offers, “having you take my shifts. It’s…” he trails off for a moment, his tongue running over his lower lip. “It’s helpful, really.”

You’re shocked at the sincerity behind the admission, like in spite of how frustrating and egocentric he can be, he feels he owes you honesty.

“But you’re right.” He lets the words hang, pools of cerise washing intensely over you as your head tilts quizzically. He blinks as he searches for the words to put his thoughts together. “Look, it pisses me off that you applied to this job in the first place, but you’re here now and Jillian likes you.” He shrugs his shoulders. “There’s fuck-all I can do about that and you should have known this shit before applying.”

Your eyes narrow as he repeats something you’re getting real sick of hearing. You can’t say you’re sure how this goes with the statement ‘you’re right’, either.

“But this shit is hard to learn if you don’t have an in.” His hand leaves the door handle with a hollow metallic clang as he takes a step towards you. He’s still across the apartment, but it bridges a gap of sorts. “Sex is treated as something you’re not supposed to talk about and kinks are taboo. So finding resources brings you to all sorts of sketchy sites or outdated books because the resources surrounding it suck.” He shrugs. “You should have a way to learn and experiment without feeling stupid for not knowing shit or for asking questions.”

“You literally called me stupid for asking a question not even ten minutes ago,” you interject.

“I didn’t call you stupid. I asked if I’d already fucked you stupid, because the question was stupid.”

You throw your hands in the air at his brazen reply, in disbelief that he can somehow manage to be simultaneously the most frustrating man on earth and unusually open and honest on topics that deserve discussion.

“It’s not stupid to ask questions about sex, or toys, or rules, or anything that makes you more comfortable. It’s not stupid to ask questions about your body or ask me to adjust to something that feels better.” He begins his clarification as though it helps at all. “It’s stupid to ask who I meant when I said ‘finger yourself’ when you’re the only other person in the room,” he snorts, amused as you shoot him a deadpan expression. “And it’s stupid as all hell to apply to a store where you don’t have any fucking clue what we sell.”

“You’re–”

“Yeah, yeah. Save it for later.” He makes a quarter turn, hand on the handle again. “I gotta go. See you at work.”

And with that, he’s gone.

main masterlist || series masterlist || ⪡ prev || next ⪢

౨ৎ a/n ; helloooo!! thank you all so much for all of the support :') i couldn't possibly have imagined all the love for this series, so it seriously means a lot.

i've gone for what i think is a fun writing challenge for myself in giving sukuna and reader both a very interesting dynamic, while also showing that sukuna's views on sex are very different than traditional ones bc of his line of work. we'll see more of satoru's perspectives as well and where those views come from!! reader, of course, struggles with insecurity in spite of the fact that she is bold and confident and slowly but surely we'll see more of that come into play in further chapters as well as where it comes from.

i hope you're enjoying it so far <33

౨ৎ taglist ; OPEN. age must be visible in bio. 18+ only. @lilrosyhaven @tiny-mimi @grimm3r @yujisredkicks @knittybritty98 @sukunahs @saezzi @epicderpface @ynishalee @pandabiene5115 @silibiliballs @ane5e @feyrinnn @jkslvsnella @maomimii @megumuro @beereadzzz @beaniesayshi @ryomeowie @suguusatoo @gojosoups @yenayaps @m3owr3ow @tohru-tales @crimzie129 @lostgxrlblog @sterzin @scaraamo @sunyomz @norahlolzz @whateverineedsblog @buttclencher28 @blueemochii @pequnopastel @cupidxml @saintdilucc @officiallydrunk @yvannaille @brazzigy @ilovebeansyay @deewrites01 @martianzmars @volleyballgirl2022 @mtchamnsta @astrokenny @ge3ked @ri-sa20 @heichouaack @iluvgetosuguru @winkii

writing, format & dividers © starmapz. art © ackshuallyvalerie. do not repost, translate, or copy.

[notrustfratedjin]

I know something is wrong with me cause this mean dom Sukuna is really doing it for me 🫪😭

[okkottsus]

Fruits Basket ‘フルーツバスケット’ (2019-2021)

▸ season 2, ep 23: It's Cinderella-ish

[darkfairy102190]

Mafia jjk x tourist reader

Warnings: possessive, obsessive, true form Sukuna, killing, blood, gore, mentions of sex and shibari, drugs and alcohol, breeding kink and amongst other things. (( Just a warning I cannot write smut for the life of me, it sucks))

Plot: Ryomen Sukuna, Toji Fushiguro, Satoru Gojo, Suguru Geto, and Kento Nanami are the most powerful feared jujutsu sorcerers and head leaders of the Mafia and Yakuza in all of Japan and the world. Everyone feared them everyone wanted to be them, women worship them like they were gods and only wanted to marry them for their power, fame, and money. To these powerful and cold hearted men love is pathetic to them and have no meaning to them, they treat women like playthings and toys, every other week they find new women to play with and then after they are done with them they throw them away, but all of that changed when you a tourist visiting Japan catches their attention by mistake and became their prized possession their spoiled little wife.

Author's note: I know it sucks, I don't have a beta reader and I'll try to update as much as I can since I don't have a laptop I'm using my phone, I'll make allot of grammar mistakes, so please just bare with me.

[notrustfratedjin]

Author's note: I know it sucks– ssshhh hush now amazing writer that with a mere plot line had me screaming kicking my feet twirling my hair for Mafia!JJK x reader

Wtv you're cooking up like a 3 star Michellin u better believe I'll be EATING IT UP LIKE A STARVED DERANGED GREMLIN tyvm 😛

[inseobts]

[notrustfratedjin]

😭

[yenayaps]

defiance masterlist | king!sukuna x servant!reader

summary: a psychic shares her vision with the king, saying that his soulmate would replace all 5 of his concubines one day. he had her banned from the premises for that absurd prediction. it wasn't until months later when he started believing the old bitch, after one cute yet disobedient servant started working at the shrine. TL;DR: sukuna's a sorcerer in this one, still ooc but not too much. mc pretty much ran away from home for being a hoe, and went to work at sukuna's shrine lol.

genre: female reader, heian era au, 18+, grumpy x sunshine, fluff, smut, crack, angst, no he wont have two sets of arms, and no he wont have two dicks, i'm really sorry

fic warnings: profanity, explicit smut, graphic depictions of violence, death, pregnancy, war

wc: 106k (complete)

side stories: delicate

Ko-fi link for those who are feeling generous and wanted to show extra support ❤️

One: Did I give you permission?

Two: Flower festival

Three: The King of Curses

Four: Temper

Five: Depraved

Six: My Little Dove

Seven: Counting the Rings Inside of the Willow Tree

Eight: White Silence

Nine: Say Yes to Heaven

Ten: Hidden Letters

Eleven: A True Blessing

Twelve: Energy Shift Part One

Thirteen: Energy Shift Part Two

Fourteen: Prelude

Fifteen: A Sharp Turn

Sixteen: Dream’s Over

Seventeen: Beneath The Lotus; A Devils Cleanse

Eighteen: I Can Clean Impurity

Nineteen: Climbing up the Walls

Twenty: Sumire

Twenty One: Sayomi

Epilogue

extras:

king!sukuna headcanons

dovey’s style

what ryuko looks like

the concubines

playlist

All rights reserved © 2024 yenayaps. Do not copy, repost, translate, or modify my works in any platform.

[notrustfratedjin]

I've read this fic like 3 times cause it's THAT GOOD 😫

[yenayaps]

Me and The Devil

two: hate me, hate me not

pairing: special grade sorcerer!sukuna x sorcerer!reader

summary: you and sukuna have always had a strange relationship, if you'd even call it that. going straight from enemies to fuck buddies had always been a bad idea from the start, especially for a man as arrogant and self-absorbed as him.

content & warnings: AFAB reader, graphic depictions of violence, profanity, explicit smut, sukuna abuses his curse technique (he transforms into his true form self mid-fuck), canon typical violence

m.list | last chapter | next chapter

Everyone, including the staff, has been on edge with the exchange event coming up. It doesn’t help that Sukuna’s been in a mood lately. Nobody asks him why, but they’re all fairly certain it’s over a fellow sorcerer that he’s spent the last two months literally marking his territory on. 

Wherever you were, everyone could always count on the special grade sorcerer to be trailing behind you like a lost puppy if he was in town. A lot of the staff thought it was cute at first, how Sukuna wore his heart on his sleeve for you— bringing you lunch whenever he knew you’d be at headquarters, offering to train you, constantly harassing Ijichi over your whereabouts whenever you were gone for a mission. 

You’d think he’d be going to the curse sites to help you exorcise them, but he doesn’t, even though he’s more than capable of finishing the mission in under two minutes, because he’s still an asshole like that. It’s more so him randomly popping up unannounced and fucking you silly in the woods or some abandoned building— as if he didn’t invite himself over to your house on most nights he’s in town. 

He’s someone that takes, and takes, and takes. 

The only reason why you tolerate it is because he’s actually able to find it in himself to give back to you, whether it be training or being someone you could vent to. As self-absorbed as he is, he’s a good listener, gives, somewhat unhinged, but for the most part decent advice.

You liked him, he made it easy— up until a few weeks ago. 

The ones that have considered asking you what happened don’t even get the chance to. You’ve been taking on just as many missions as he has, and with how complete and utterly fucked up you’ve been leaving the curse sites you’ve visited, it’s safe to say you were just as mad at him as he was with you. 

Maybe Sukuna shouldn’t have trained you, because now you’re capable of flattening an entire village and that’s a little terrifying to the higher-ups that said you’d never go further than a grade one. 

It’s bad, like really fucking bad. The last time you two were in a room together, you used your technique to pull air out of Sukuna’s lungs and he threatened to leave jujutsu society to become a curse user because of it. It took Satoru and Suguru an entire hour trying to talk him down. 

Now over three weeks later, you two would have to be stuck in a room with each other again to watch the students compete for the exchange event taking place.

You’re a little better at putting your feelings aside for your students and coworkers. 

A little. 

Your definition of putting your feelings aside was just blatantly ignoring the special grade when you stepped into the room and started greeting everyone, even your old boss that you hate with a burning passion, Principal Gakuganji. 

And unfortunately, Sukuna is well aware of how much you hate the old man, so the silent treatment had an extra kick to it today. 

“Not gonna say hi to me?” Sukuna asks with a scoff, not doing a very good job at hiding his bitterness. 

“Did you guys hear something?” you ask, looking all around the room, everywhere except for the seat Sukuna’s in. 

“Real fuckin’ mature,” he responds, feeling his temperature steadily rise. 

You laugh, “coulda swore I heard barking.”

“Fuck you,” he rolls his eyes, then he catches Satoru and Suguru snickering in the corner. “Something funny?”

“Nothing,” Suguru murmurs, stifling a laugh and trying to avoid looking Sukuna in the eye because it’ll just make everything so much worse. The last thing anyone needed today was talking him down from the ledge.

Utahime eventually cuts in and clears her throat, pressing a button to turn on the mic to the students that are already out in the forest. 

“Alright students, we’ll be starting the event in 3 minutes. For the first years, remember that there are no rules or restrictions. You could be as creative as you’d like with your techniques, the only thing that we ask is that you don’t kill each other. If you do, that results in immediate execution as you’d be considered a curse user—” she’s cut off by a certain white haired sorcerer, who bursted out laughing. “Something funny Gojo?”

“Do you guys remember when Sukuna threatened to kill Naoya if he didn’t back out of the exchange event when we were second years?”

Utahime groans, “yes I almost forgot, no threatening to kill each other either, as that would be considered cheating.”

“Gimme that,” Sukuna murmurs, grabbing the mic out of Utahime’s hand, “Yuji, I swear to fucking god if you lose, I’m disowning you. Do not disappoint me today, don't fucking embarrass me either.”

Utahime just stares at the man in disbelief as he continues to threaten his little brother like it was the most normal thing in the world. 

“I’ve trained you since the moment you enrolled into this goddamn school and if I see you fold even just once, I’m calling your little girlfriend and telling her you bawled your eyes out during Human Earth Worm 3.” 

On the monitor, you can see Nobara and Panda laughing their asses off, while the rest of the Tokyo students try not to laugh, even sweet Yuta. Yuji immediately turns to the nearest camera, looking absolutely mortified. 

“AIZAWA’S NOT MY FUCKING GIRLFRIEND,” the boy screams back. 

“And she never will be once I tell her, so you better lock in,” his older brother says rather darkly. 

He calls it tough love, most of the population would call abuse. It’s not until she yanks the mic back when he stops, but even then the students were able to hear him grumbling something under his breath through the speakers. 

“Okay students, you may now start,” she announces over Sukuna’s complaints. “Good luck everyone!”

And the tension that once filled the room when you first walked in begins to settle again. 

In the 3 years you’ve worked as a teacher, not once have you found yourself distracted while watching the students, and this year is no different. Your shoulders are relaxed and eyes are locked in on the screens, mainly on the students you’d be recommending for promotion— Megumi, Maki, and poor Yuji. 

You have no idea how him and Sukuna are related, Yuji’s just too sweet. Even during the times you’ve watched him argue with his older brother, he never crosses the line, never insults Sukuna-- no matter how much he deserves it at times. 

He even tried using his little brother as a pawn when you two first fell out.

“I know Sukuna’s a little rough around the edges, but he really does miss you Sensei.”

You raised a brow, “a little rough?”

“Okay maybe a lot,” he backtracked, “he means well though… deep down— like really deep down— he just has a hard time showing it, but–”

“What did he promise to give you if you told me all of this?”

“N-nothing!”

“...”

“Ugh fine,” he sighs. “A signed autograph from the actor that played the human earth worm from Human Earth Worm 3.”

“Ah, got it,” you just smiled and nodded, not mentioning that it was CGI, not an actual person— that would’ve broken the kids heart. 

Sukuna’s an asshole to him, but he does love him. That much is known with how he only looks at the screens his little brother is on, even though it’s Megumi and Nobara he should be watching right now. 

Of course he wants him to win all of his battles, but he’s also more than ready to jump out there and strangle anyone who’d dare to take the competition too far, especially after last year's incident. 

Gakuganji has had it out for Yuji ever since he enrolled, most likely because Sukuna just so happens to have the same technique as the king of curses himself, over a thousand years ago. He also coincidentally has the same name as him. The higher ups have been trying to kill him off ever since he was scouted by Yaga and now they’re trying to do the same thing with his little brother, who is also exceptionally talented. 

There’s no doubt the two brothers are related to the cannibalistic serial village-slaughterer. One might even say Sukuna was the reincarnation of him given how he’s the spitting image of the ancient sadist in his “true-form”, but he didn’t care to get into all of that.

The higher-ups need to get their heads out of their asses and realize that this wasn’t the fucking heian era. The modern world met all of his needs. If he wants to eat, he’ll order doordash. If he wants to fuck, he’ll go on tinder. If he wants to kill, he’ll take on more missions. 

While Yuji was able to befriend the slightly delusional yet loyal-as-fuck Todo, the kid from the Kamo clan still has it out for him.

Who knows, maybe it’s just jealousy at this point. Yuji’s been able to hit multiple blackflashes in a row since his first year. Then there’s Noritoshi. Stuck with a bow and arrow, running around like it’s the fucking hunger games and he’s the best value version of Katpiss Evergreen, or whatever the hell her name is. Sounds like a strain of sativa if you asked him. 

But like he said, he’s more than ready to jump in and break both of Noritoshi’s legs then send him back to his clan if he tries to repeat last year's stunt. 

The battle lasted a total of 6 hours— lots of blood, lots of screaming, and Megumi threatening to wipe out Mechamaru with Mahoraga. Satoru just about had a heart attack when the 16 year old got into that stance. It resulted in the mic getting snatched from Utahime, again, so he could beg his adopted son to not fucking kill himself and everyone around him for a win.

“Dramatic ass kid,” Sukuna murmurs under his breath. 

“You’re one to talk,” you murmur back. 

“...The fuck did you just say to me?” he slowly turns his head to look at you, you could feel him burning a hole into the side of your head, yet you continue to ignore him. 

Instead you get up and clasp your hands together. 

“Well… great competition everyone! Good luck to Kyoto next time,” you condescendingly say to Gakuganji. He does nothing but grumble back, still offended over the fact that you switched to the Tokyo branch. 

—

The silent treatment’s getting tiring. 

Sukuna’s given you enough time and space to get over what had happened, yet here you still are, ignoring texts and even going as far as turning on your read receipts to be extra petty. He genuinely gets a sharp pang in his chest when looking back at all of his messages you haven't responded to. 

May 15, 2025

Sukuna [11:20 A.M]: whats ur problem?

Sukuna [11:20 A.M]: there’s no way ur still mad at me rn

Sukuna [11:21 A.M]: it was never a big deal until you decided to blow it up

May 17, 2025

Sukuna [04:20 P.M]: can you please just talk to me?

Sukuna [04:25 P.M]: how can you expect me to try to make it up to you if you don’t even respond to me??

May 18, 2025

Sukuna [12:18 A.M]: actually ykw FUCK YOU

Sukuna [12:18 A.M]: if you wanna be dumb and throw what we had away, i’m not gonna stop you. good fucking luck finding someone better than me 

Sukuna [12:20 A.M]:  i’m the fuckin best

Sukuna [01:35 P.M]: my bad i was drunk last night

May 25, 2025

Sukuna [09:49 A.M]: i know you’re mad at me and all but i never thought you’d try to fucking KILL ME?? 

Sukuna [09:50 A.M]: and now you’re bragging about it to fucking nanami of all people? going around saying you left me breathless is NOT something you should be proud of

May 26, 2025

You [01:20 A.M]: wanna come over?

Sukuna [01:21 A.M]: you’re drunk rn aren’t you

You [01:22 A.M]: maybe

Sukuna [01:22 A.M]: fuck off

Sukuna [01:22 A.M]: you’re not about to turn me into some fuckin bootycall 

Sukuna [01:22 A.M]: how’ve you been?

[Missed Call]

[Missed Call]

Sukuna [01:25 A.M]: you’re never hearing from me again if you don’t answer 

[Missed Call]

True to his word, he doesn’t try again. 

But then he finds out you were given a mission that turned out to be a special grade case. It took him less than a second after hearing the news from Ijichi to realize he’s more than alright with you hating him, he just wanted you alive and to not end up being another casualty in this world.

So now he’s on the freeway, speeding to get to you. 

A cop tried to pull him over just a couple minutes ago and he cleaved their tires. It was one of those moments where he chuckled to himself. He hoped law enforcement would try to get in his way one of these days, just so he could show them that they were powerless when it came to him. He’d watch the blood drain from their faces and genuinely enjoy it. 

His car comes to a screeching halt when he reaches some giant, abandoned warehouse in the outskirts of town. Immediately he feels it, the only type of energy that’s able to raise the hairs on the back of his neck. Though now as an adult, it doesn’t bring him fear, it brings him pure, unadulterated excitement. Especially right now since he gets to play Captain Save-a-Hoe, there’s no way you couldn’t not forgive him after this. 

Except when he steps inside the warehouse, he realizes that energy isn’t from the curse, it’s from you. The curse has been exorcised for some time now, one that would’ve been three times the size of him, had it not been deflated. 

Yes. Deflated. Not to mention it’s all thanks to his training. You went from blowing curses away to compacting their bodies by pretty much vacuum sealing them. You also know how to use cleave, which would’ve been much quicker, but he’s guessing you were enjoying yourself today and opted to watch the poor thing slowly die.

It’s kind of hot, but it’s also kind of fucking terrifying. 

Maybe he should take up teaching part time, you are living breathing proof that he could turn someone into a special grade if he really tried. Though the only reason why he did decide to train you was because he didn’t want you to die at work. He’s not sure if he could be as nurturing towards a bunch of angsty, snot-nosed teens. He nearly strangled Panda last month for telling him that he was built like a spider in his other form. 

You look over your shoulder and scoff at the sight of him. “What are you doing here?” 

“Well I was here to save you,” he responds, perplexed, maybe even slightly devastated since his hopes got crushed. 

“To save me?” you ask, growing even more irritated that, not only did they give a special grade case by accident, but then they sent him of all people to come help you. 

“Yeah,” he scoffs, looking back and forth between you and your little victim. “I was going 120 to get here and even slashed a cop's tires.”

“Aw,” you give him a fake pout, “how romantic. There was no need though.” 

“Clearly,” he grumbles, kicking at the gravel, “you okay?”

“Obviously,” you rudely respond. 

“Really?” he grins, knowing something you don’t. 

“Really.”

He shrugs and begins walking towards you, “I’ll let Shoko be the judge of that.”

“What do you m—”

Sukuna catches up to you within a blink of an eye and presses two fingers to your forehead before you could finish that sentence.

If you weren’t being so stubborn, you would’ve noticed that you had a huge gash on the side of your leg, but that’s what adrenaline does and thank god for that. It eventually would’ve worn off and you’d be screaming from the pain during the ride back because the cut is that deep. You probably would’ve passed out from the blood loss anyways, given how you can’t use RCT. 

He throws you over his shoulder and gets you in his car, but not before disintegrating the curse and the warehouse, making sure his residuals completely covered yours. 

Instead of going 120, he goes 90 the whole ride back to headquarters, all while trying to stop the blood from gushing out of your leg by using RCT on you. He thought about doing more, but decides it’s best to leave it to Shoko who’s much better at the technique than him and Satoru are. 

“Fuck, what happened?” Shoko asks, seeing him walk in with you in his arms. 

“Long story,” he mutters, laying you down on the cold metal bed, “need you to keep it a secret though.” 

“How big of a secret are we talking?” she apprehensively asks. 

“Not too big. Just… don’t document this, and if you do, say I found her passed out and that I exorcised the curse myself,” he says with a slightly strained look on his face. “Just until I talk to Gojo, alright?”

She takes a moment to think about it, but eventually nods and says yes to her old classmate, not bothering to question him even further. If it's something that he needs to get Gojo involved in, then it's serious.

All rights reserved © 2025 yenayaps. Do not copy, repost, translate, or modify my works in any platform.

[notrustfratedjin]

Ooohohohoho she's a menace now 😈 hell yeah babe go berserker we love to see it

Justice for my boy Yuuji he's the real victim here 😭

[yenayaps]

Me and The Devil | modern day sorcerer!sukuna x sorcerer!reader

summary: when you first meet him, you have no idea what his technique is. all you know is that he's this big, beefy guy covered in tattoos—an absolute unit. he's the cockiest out of all of special grade sorcerers though, so it has to be something good. based off this blurb

content & warnings: AFAB reader, graphic depictions of violence, profanity, explicit smut, sukuna abuses his curse technique (he transforms into his true form self mid-fuck), p in v sex, hair pulling, creampie

w/c: 5.6k

a/n: i think this just might be my most annoying sukuna yet LOL. anyways, this was just an idea i had, based in a world where gege either has a heart or just doesn't exist. enjoy sukuna being a little slut!!

m.list | next part

The jujutsu world sucked, but transferring from the Kyoto branch to the Tokyo branch made it suck a little less. Now that you think about it, all of the special grade sorcerers are based in Tokyo. 

Two of them are actually teachers—Gojo and Geto. 

It wasn’t an easy road getting here though, Gakuganji was not happy when you turned in the transfer papers, and made it known during those last two weeks through the missions you were assigned.

You were a grade 1, so you obviously had the ability to take on tougher cases when need be, but he made your life a living hell by giving you missions back to back– from 8:00 am to 8:00 pm, you worked. 

You’d think an old man who’s covered in piercings and listens to black sabbath would be chill, but he’s a petty bitch, just like the rest of the highers up. 

Even the students here are nicer and it’s probably because Principal Yaga was actually a good person, which is rare in this industry. It makes your life easier with the upcoming promotions. You offered to take a couple students under your wing, in turn you will be recommending them. 

You say taking them under your wing lightly. In reality, you’re just making them do your missions for you. If they for any reason need help– which they shouldn’t– then you’ll step in to exorcise the curse yourself.

“Ready to go Megumi?” You ask as he walks up to you. You were taking him with you to a mission that was out of town, it was around 2 hours away via train ride. 

“Yeah,” he gruffly responds, as angsty as ever. You have no idea how he’s gotten along with Gojo all these years, they’re the complete opposites. Not that you’re complaining, he’s a smart kid, he won’t be asking you any dumb questions on the trip there. 

“Wait!”

You both hear someone call out from a good distance. From the way they yelped it out, you can only guess it’s Ijichi. 

You both stop and turn around. “We were ju–”

“WHAT?!” Megumi cuts you off, yelling at the man who’s already struggling to catch up, the scowl on his face continuing to grow. He’s spent a majority of his childhood having to wait on his benefactor that was voluntarily late for everything—in turn, he hates wasting time.

You had to hold back a laugh, he didn’t have to be that rude. You’re guessing it's learned behavior from Gojo. Ijichi runs a little faster, you have no idea how he’d let a teenager just bully him like that, but you guess it’s from the years of a certain sorcerer breaking down his spirit. 

“I just received some new information about the mission you’re headed to,” he says, out of breath, trying his best not to keel over.

“Is it being given to someone else?” you ask. 

“Kind of,” he says as he stands upright, heart rate finally settled. “One of the curses is actually special grade– we decided that you two could stay on it, just as long as a special grade sorcerer went with you. That way, Megumi can have two recommendations and get that promotion.” 

“Well that's good. Who’s going with us then.”

“The only special grade sorcerer available right now is Sukun–”

“Oh great,” you scoff. 

“Is.. there a problem with that?” Ijichi nearly squeaks out, he’s not used to getting an attitude from you, you’re usually nice to him.

“No,” you sigh, it doesn’t sound very convincing to him or the younger sorcerer. “When is he coming?”

“He said he was on his way, he’ll be here in about 15 to 20 minutes. He also said to meet him at the front of the school.”

“Kay.” You cross your arms and turn to walk towards the stairs at the entrance. “Let’s go Megumi,” you order the kid.

Usually he’d show some sort of pushback from being told around like that, but nothing scared him more than a woman in a bad mood, so he quietly followed behind you.

Sukuna is the last person you wanted to go on this mission with. You had hoped Yuki would’ve been the one to come along– luck has never been on your side though. Truth be told, you didn’t even know he was a sorcerer, let alone a special grade when you first met him.

It may have been a little prejudiced of you to immediately brush off the fact that he could’ve been a part of the jujutsu world based on the way he dressed, but can anyone blame you? He dresses like a bum– not even bothering to wear normal clothes, let alone jujutsu uniforms! Every single time you’ve seen him, he’s in a pair of sweats and a baggy t-shirt.

On top of that, he’s an arrogant asshole, he thinks he’s the shit, as if he was gods gift to earth. You still don’t even know what his technique is, everyone just says he’s “a beast”, whatever the hell that means. 

You would ask, but the last thing you want is to have a conversation with him, it’ll probably just end with him asking you what your bra size is, because he’s a fucking pervert. And you fully believe that from all the encounters you’ve had with him so far– the last one being just downright embarrassing.

The worst part about it was you didn’t even do anything. You had just gotten back from a full day of exorcising curses, turning in your paperwork, more than ready to go home afterwards. You were exhausted, yet you still had to wait for Principal Yaga to finish up an interview he was having with a potential new student. 

So there you were in the common area, staring off into space, because you were tired– then you hear the voice that you’ve grown to feel agitation towards whenever it infiltrates your ears. 

“My eyes are up here, sweetheart.” 

You almost immediately snap out of it. “Huh?” 

“I said my eyes are up here,” Sukuna points at them as he repeats himself. “You’ve been staring at my ass for the past five minutes– a lil’ perverted don’t you think?”

“No I wasn’t,” you grimaced at the accusation. 

For someone like Sukuna, any sort of reaction makes him want to tease you even more. “What were you staring at then?”

“I wasn’t staring at anything, I just dozed off,” you try to explain yourself.

He believes you, but he’s bored and you’re fun to pick on. He nods as if he understands your struggles, then continues to add to them. “You took one look at it and started daydreaming, huh? How flattering” 

“Nobody’s staring at your fucking ass!” you snap at him and he looks rather pleased with himself. Geto just laughs, knowing damn well that it just encourages him to keep going.

Your heart drops when he starts walking towards you, grinning like an idiot.

“No,” you say out loud, getting up from your seat. 

“Whad’ya mean no? C'mere,” he chuckles, getting closer. “I know you want some of this.” He holds his arms out, shamelessly offering himself to you. 

“You’re so fucking delusional, Sukuna,” you scoff over your shoulder, continuing to walk away from him. “Stay away from me.” 

That all happened a month ago, and is still fresh in your memory. You’ve been dreading the thought of seeing him again, and now you’re supposed to spend the entire day with him. You really hated being a sorcerer sometimes.

At the 17 minute mark, he pulls up in a black BMW. It does not surprise you one bit, he makes a shit ton of money. 

Without a word, you and Megumi get in. You were hoping he’d sit in the front seat, but he for some reason decides to actually be respectful towards adults today, and sits in the back. There’s already a smile on his face when you open the door. It’s not sincere, it’s antagonizing and you want to smack it off of him.  

“Always a pleasure seeing you, sweetheart,” he drawls out, ignoring the teen in the back. 

“Wish I could say the same,” you mumble back, buckling your seatbelt.

Megumi cautiously looks back and forth between you two from the backseat. The tension between you both is a thousand times worse than the tension between Gojo and Utahime.

“Still butthurt over last time?” he asks, picking up where he left off last time in terms of annoying the shit out of you. 

“What happened last time?” Megumi cuts in. For once you wish he’d mind his business and go on his phone. Nobara was right, he is a little gossiper. 

“I caught her st–”

“Nothing, Megumi,” you stop the man from finishing that sentence. You reach in your bag and take out a small pack of rice crackers and hand them to him, Gojo said they were his favorite snack. “Here, it’s gonna be a long ride, just relax until then.”

“Got any more for me?” Sukuna asks. 

“You have the address right?” you ask, ignoring his question.

“Of course,” he murmurs, pulling it up on the gps. 

“Great.”

You let out a sigh, allowing your body to relax despite how much the special grade asshole triggers your fight or flight response. Thank god for earphones, you popped them in before he could find another way to mentally torture you. 

The only brightside to having him drive you both to the site is that it took 45 minutes instead of 2 hours, freeing up a couple hours of your day. In this line of work, there’s nothing you appreciate more than extra time. 

“Alright, we're here,” you hear Sukuna announce through the earbuds, prompting you to take them out.

You look out the window to look at the old, abandoned hospital. You had your work cut out for you today, not only is there a special grade curse in there, but it’s riddled with weaker ones ranging between grades 1-3.

The three of you step out of the car and scan the outside of the building, it’s one of the more eerie places sorcerers get sent to in terms of missions. You think about your younger, first-year self and how terrified she would’ve been of this place— thank god you’re not that girl anymore. 

Sukuna takes the initiative to cast a veil before leading you two to the closest place you could get to hell on earth. He’s not fazed by it, he walks into the eroded building without a care in the world, he’s taken missions like this a million times by now. 

Megumi knows the drill by now– weaker curses attack first, so you and Sukuna stand back while you watch him exorcise all of them one by one. He tries to start small talk with you, to which you pretend not to hear him. When he raises his voice in order for you to hear him, you tell him you’re trying to watch Megumi because you are his temporary guardian for the day. 

It’s whatever, he’ll get his chance to bother you again, eventually. 

30 minutes in, you’re fighting alongside Megumi because the stronger curses had finally started to reveal themselves. All while Sukuna continues to stay back and “observe”. Apparently he’s “reserving his energy” for when the big one pops up, but truth be told, he thinks he’s way too good to fight the more menial curses, leaving you and the boy to it. 

Neither of you were injured or showing signs of struggles anyways, he tells himself that you both had it all under control. 

Curses stop popping up… eventually. Both you and Megumi looked battered– clothes dirtied, a couple bruises here and there, out of breath because at one point they literally wouldn’t stop coming at you. 

And then there’s Sukuna– completely unscathed. Now that you think about it, the curses completely avoided him, you wonder why. 

“It’s here but it doesn’t wanna show itself,” he says, referring to the last one. “Guess I’m just gonna have to pull it out of hiding.” 

At this point, the three of you were in the back of the building, it allows Sukuna to completely flatten the place with just a flick of the wrist. You were about to finally ask what his technique was, but you don’t get the chance because an absolute behemoth of a curse pops up. 

The thing is huge, you have no idea how it was able to hide within the old hospital, it was about ¼ the size of what the building used to be before Sukuna demolished it. 

“Step back,” he looks over his shoulder and grins, lazily walked up to the thing, “I got this.”

You don't miss the way the curse takes a step back, as if it were reluctant to fight him. It made you think of when the curses from earlier were avoiding him and going straight to you and Megumi. It brings you to the realization that they were all afraid of him, including this one.

“Why is he taking his shirt off?” you ask Megumi, who’s not at all fazed by Sukuna stripping.

“Just wait,” he mumbles back, studying the man intently—trying to see if he can learn something from him.

You’re also studying Sukuna, but your attention’s more so on how godly his physique is. As if he couldn’t be anymore striking looks wise– his chest and back were even more defined than you’d imagined them to be, both adorned with tattoos. He even has nipple piercings. Some people just had it all, and Sukuna was unfortunately one of them.

Your attention’s taken off of his nipple piercings when he gets into a defensive stance and does some weird hand sign—something similar to Megumi whenever he summons his shikigami. The ground beneath him begins to thrum, flames start to spark all around him.

So his technique’s been fire this whole time?

You think he's going to lay out his domain, but it's something much more interesting.

His body changes– taking on a monstrous form. A second pair of arms emerge from the flames, an extra pair of eyes burned through his face. He looks like something that came straight out of hell.

But why's he kinda…

“Holy fuck,” you mumble under your breath. It finally clicks as to why he dresses like a fucking bum.

“Yeah,” the teen agrees with you. There’s a reason why he didn’t protest like he usually would when Ijichi said Sukuna was coming along, getting a front row seat to watch him fighting was rare. “He’s the only one that rivals Gojo-sensei.”

You notice his bottom eye glancing at you right before charging at the curse, you swore the curse let out a little yelp too. You almost felt sorry for the thing, it literally tried to run from him, but barely got the chance to turn around before Sukuna stuck all four of his hands into it and ripped it in half.

It was gruesome, you never want to hear the noise it made ever again– but that was a lot to ask for in your line of work. 

In the end, it took him 2.5 seconds to exorcise it– you don’t know if you should be impressed or annoyed. You all could’ve been out of here a long time ago had he helped from the beginning.

You continue to watch him, he’s just staring at his blood stained arms and hands before he burns them off– cleaning himself with fire. Once he was done with that, he comes striding back with the usual smug look on his face. 

“You enjoy the show?” he asks as he walks back up to you. 

Megumi immediately says yes, like a fucking fan. A part of you almost feels betrayed since he doesn’t realize how much time was wasted from him not helping earlier. 

“If it was that easy for you, why couldn’t you just help us out earlier?!” you immediately grill him, and he just snickers like a fucking asshole. 

“It’s a group mission, sweetheart,” he reminds you as he gets closer, still in his monstrous form. “You two handle the curses in your grade, I handle the one in mine.” He flashes a smile, even his teeth are sharper. 

He’s breathtaking.

Not that you’d ever admit that.

“Whatever— you can turn back now,” you avert your eyes from him as you let him know. Why is it getting hot all of the sudden?

“What's the rush for?” he teasingly asks. “Does this form make you nervous? Don’t worry sweetheart, I don’t bite.”

“I’m sure you do with those chompers,” you mumble in return, still refusing to directly look at him. 

“Ooof. You wound me baby,” he complains, rubbing his ridiculously chiseled chest as he takes a step closer towards you, well aware of how overwhelming his presence can be in this form.

“Okay ew,” Megumi cuts in, he's had enough of whatever the hell this is. “Can you two wait until I’m not here before you start fucking flirting with each other?”

“We weren’t fl–”

Sukuna cuts you off, “Sure thing.” 

Megumi mumbles something under his breath about how disgusting you two are, you don't really catch it though. You were more focused on calming down, which was hard because you could feel Sukuna still looking at you as if he were going to tear you apart next.

His eyes linger on you a little longer before taking his attention off of you completely. 

Where did his t-shirt even go?

He flung it to the side, it couldn’t have gone too far. It takes him a couple minutes before he finally finds it– turning back into his original form and putting it back on.

The car ride back was filled with Megumi asking him a bunch of questions while he gladly answered them. You had your ear phones in again, pretending like you weren’t listening, but you were, in hopes of maybe learning something.

To your surprise, you actually do. Your curse technique was air manipulation, you’re pretty sure you can come up with your own version of cleave if you amplified it.

You grudgingly admit to yourself that time really does fly when one’s having fun, because before you knew it, he had pulled up in front of the staircase that led to the school. Megumi was quick to get out, because let’s face it, he is still 15 and more than ready to relax and play video games– or do whatever he likes to do in his free time.

You’re also more than ready to relax, but Sukuna locks the doors right when you reach for the handle. 

“What are you doing?” 

“I was thinking,” he leans over the console. “You and I started off on the wrong foot.”

“And who’s fault is that?” Your brows knit together.

“No ones,” he so innocently says. “I just never knew that you’d take first impressions that seriously.”

“You made fun of me for a whole 20 minutes after finding out what my technique was,” you remind him. 

He clicks his tongue in response, then proceeds to gaslight you. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“You started calling me Aang and The Last Airbender!” you yell and he bursts out laughing because he thinks it’s hilarious. “That’s not funny Sukuna, that was my first week of working here.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry–” he holds his hands up in defense, “I couldn’t fuckin’ help it, it was too easy.” He continues to laugh, not showing an ounce of regret. 

“And then you continue to straight up harass me every time you see me!” you continue, hoping he’d get why you’re not the biggest fan of his. 

“I don’t harass you,” he continues to deny, what he would consider, accusations from you. “You just held a grudge from that day and never gave me another chance after that.”

“Yeah, because you’re a dick. You wouldn’t even help out during the mission.”

“Let me make it up to you then. How about let’s go grab some drinks or something while I’m still in town, I’ll even pay,” he offers, acting as if he were doing you a favor. 

“You wanna grab drinks?”

“Mhm.”

“Like a date?”

“Exactly,” he nods. “You catch on pretty quick.”

You try your best not to laugh in his face, he really doesn’t even try to hide how arrogant he is. You’re about to say no, you really should say no, but then you remember the nipple piercings and the way his back muscles flexed when walking up to the curse earlier.

“I’ll think about it.”

You still hated him for the way he treated you during your previous encounters, but there was nothing wrong with leaving the door open.

—

When you said you’d “think about it”, Sukuna already knew you weren’t going to be reaching out to him anytime soon. 

Which is why he didn’t immediately return the bracelet that you dropped at the curse site. He saw it glimmering in the rubble and immediately knew that was going to be his golden ticket to your hearts.

And other parts of you. 

He waited 3 days, for no reason other than to let the thought of him simmer in your mind, maybe hate him a little less. But he was leaving for another overseas mission in 3 days, he’ll be gone for two weeks– surely you’d want your bracelet back before then, right?

He pulls out his phone and dials the number he harassed Ijichi for, watching the bracelet dangle from his hold as he patiently waits for you to pick up. He also got a peak of your schedule this week (thanks Ijichi), you shouldn’t be busy at all right now. 

After the third ring, you finally pick up. “Hello?”

“Yo, it’s Sukuna. You left your bracelet in my car,” he cuts to chase, slightly twisting the truth while he does so.

“Oh… thanks?” you say apprehensively, thanking him felt weird. “You can just drop it off at the school tomorrow.” 

“No need, I'm outside your house,” he shamelessly reveals and your heart drops to your ass. 

“Wh– how do you know where I live? How did you even get my number?”

He imagines you panicking over his surprise visit and it brings him a sick sense of satisfaction. Another unhinged sentence flows out of his mouth as if it were normal.

“You really think Ijichi would say no to me if I asked for your information?” he chuckles. You can hear him shut the car door through the phone. “Gonna let me in or what?”

“Fine,” you huff out before hanging up the phone.

There was no point in staying on the phone with him if you were going to see him in a second. You hop off the couch and take a deep breath.

It’s just Sukuna, no reason to be nervous, you hate him, remember? You wipe your hands against your shorts– no clue as to why they clammed up all the sudden– before turning the door knob. 

You nearly startle out of your skin, he is standing way too close to the fucking door and he is so much taller than you remember. Even as he slouches against the doorframe, he is still towering over you, you can also smell the Dior Sauvage radiating off his skin. Even when he does nothing, he's still entirely too much for you. 

“Fuckin’ finally–” he groans, letting himself into your home. “It’s hot as fuck out there,” he states the obvious, you’ve had the AC blasting all day. You watch him in disbelief as he makes himself comfortable in your home, going straight to your fridge to see if there is anything for him to drink. 

He’s worse than Gojo. You guess that’s just a quirk that comes with being a Special Grade Sorcerer– they demand space rather than worry about taking up too much of it. 

He pulls out a beer, “can I have this?”

“Surprised you’re asking when you didn’t even ask if you can look in the fridge.” 

“Good point,” he says before effortlessly popping the cap off the bottle using his teeth, you continue to stare at him in disbelief. “You’re glaring at me again,” he points out and takes a sip of his (your) beer. 

“Sorry, I don’t know how to exactly act when a coworker, who’s barely a coworker, barges into my home and raids my fridge,” you nearly pout as you cross your arms. 

He smiles and takes one more sip before setting it down. “So sensitive.” 

You roll your eyes at his lack of care. “Can I have my bracelet back now?”

“Oh– yeah.” He acts as if he almost forgot, reaching into his pocket. He pulls out the dainty gold chain that has a pink butterfly on it. “The clasp was broken, so I fixed it.”

“Really?” You take it from him and inspect it. Looks like he actually did, the clasp was slightly darker than the rest of the chain, no one would notice though. “Wow, thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” He looks way too proud of himself. “Consider it my apology for that one time.”

“It wasn’t just one time,” you kindly remind him.

“No need to bring up all the other times,” he uses the same fake-pleasant tone as you. He takes the bracelet from you and clasps it around your wrist. 

“Such a gentleman, Sukuna.”

“I’m a feminist too,” he adds, flashing that million dollar smile of his.

“Okay, cut the shit,” you stop him from saying anything else. “What do you want?”

—

“Taking me so fucking good baby– y’know how long I’ve wanted to see you like this?”

You’re not exactly sure what it was that he said that got you in this position, or if it was even words themselves that led to this. 

Maybe it was the way he looked at you. 

Or the way he grabbed the back of your head and pulled you in, slipping his tongue in your mouth the moment his lips touched yours.

All you know is he promised you’d enjoy yourself somewhere along the way and now he has you in the world's meanest arch— ass hiked up nice and high, pulling you back to meet each and every one of his powerful thrusts. He digs his nails into your hips while you grip the sheets, holding on for dear life as he delivers the backshots he promised.

You thought he’d be one of those guys that would try to stay quiet in bed, he’s not. He lets out the most deep and sinful moans each time you tighten around his unbelievably thick cock, he tells you how much of a good girl you are, he chants your name like it’s a fucking prayer. 

“Kuna– w-wait,” you whine out.

“What’s wrong?” he asks mockingly. He grabs you by your hair and pulls you up, not letting up on his harsh thrusts. “Want me to stop?” 

“N-no, I–” you falter, not knowing exactly what it is that you actually want. He wraps his free hand around your neck and pounds into you even harder.

“That’s what I fuckin’ thought,” he mutters in you ear, you can feel him smirking against you. “Just be a good girl and let go for me, yeah?”

You pathetically nod because anything else would’ve come out as a strangled moan– all that can be heard right now is harsh slaps and wet squelches while he continues to drive his cock into you. You’re pretty sure you came for the 4th time just a couple seconds ago and he thinks so too, drawing a chuckle out of him. 

He knew you’d like his dick. 

“Gonna let me cum in you? Fuuuck—want me to fill you up?” he groans, thrusts getting sloppier and sloppier. 

“Yes, yes, yes,” you shamelessly beg in between moans. “Fuck yes– give it to me, fill me up Kuna.”

“Fuck– alright,” he sputters out with a smile, shaking his head– not expecting you to start begging like that, at all. 

He lets go of your hair and wraps both arms around your waist, doubling over while keeping up the sloppy pace. His breath tickles against your ear as his groans become needier, whinier. He tries his best not to bite down when he buries his face into the crook of your neck– not quite sure if you’re into that kinda shit. 

Maybe next time. 

“Fuck!” He slams a hand down onto the bed, holding you both up while he starts pumping you full of his cum. 

It so much, it’s begins to seep out of you before he’s even done cumming and he keeps fucking you well after the fact– making your toes curl, crying out his name as he overstimulates you both.

He doesn’t come to a full stop and takes his time to come down from his high, slowly rocking back and forth inside you. 

“You good?” he softly murmurs in your ear, slowly pulling out of you– keeping in mind that you might be a little sensitive right now.

“Yeah,” you sigh, trying to catch your breath, collapsing face down on the bed. 

He chuckles, “don’t tap out just yet– m' not done with ya.” 

“What do you mea–” your questions cut off from a familiar thrumming noise, making your words get caught in your throat. 

You reluctantly turn around to find him in his… other form, with a smug grin on his face. You swear you feel a part of your soul leave your body when the mouth appears on his stomach.

“Don’t look so scared, sweetheart,” he chuckles at the visible shock on your face. “Lookin’ at me like I’m some kinda monster.”

He makes you wrap your hands around his neck while one pair of his arms holds on to your waist. The other pair grab the backs of your knees and push them up to your chest. You didn’t think he could reach inside of you any deeper, but he does as he continues to fuck you without a care in the world. 

You feel everything, every inch, every vein. 

The grip he has your waist and legs is strong while he uses you like his own personal fuck toy, continuously slamming you down on all 10 inches of him. While you’re a crying mess, he’s in absolute heaven– moaning your name, not shutting up over how good you feel wrapped around him. 

The whole thing’s just insane, he drops your body down on to his length when he fucks up into you, the tongue on his stomach laps at your clit. You were a fool to think he was nasty before—having him use your body like this, giving you inescapable pleasure, just feels downright sinful. 

It almost feels wrong, but the thought slowly gets swept away each time his fat tip slides against your sweet spot, each time that hot, wet tongue swipes against your clit. 

He loves the way you clench around him when his extra tongue flicks harshly against your sensitive bundle of nerves, the way you stare at it in disbelief– nothing but concern on your face, yet your moans say otherwise. 

“Feelin’ good baby?” he asks. 

“Mhm,” you frantically nod, you couldn’t even hide it if you tried. “Is this even l-legal?”

“I have no idea,” he laughs through the loud slaps and wet squelches that filled the room. 

With how strict the higher ups were, he doubts it.

He fucks you for hours, in multiple positions.

Positions you didn’t even know were possible, but he made happen with the extra limbs he had. 

Sukuna’s just as ruthless in bed as he is in a battle, he was ripping you apart like he did with that curse, just in a different way. 

You don’t even remember passing out, let alone what time you fell asleep. The last thing you remember was him praising you for squirting on him for the nth time– he wore you the fuck out, broke you in like a brand new pair of shoes. 

Your usual alarm goes off at 6:00 am, like it does on every work day. You let out a sigh and shove your face in the pillow, trying to drown out the noise of the repetitive beeping. It’s become easy to ignore after all these years. 

What’s hard to ignore is the foreign grumbling you hear right next to you, making your head pop up and eyes shoot open. 

You’re immediately met with a messy head of pink hair, sprawled over your bed– taking up more than half of it, as if it were his. The blankets are just barely covering him, you can see his ass crack peeking through the sheets.

“Turn that shit off,” he boyishly complains with a frown on his face. 

You immediately get up, reach over his body, and slam the alarm clock off.

“Get up,” you snap at him. 

He opens one eye, trying to gauge how annoyed you are at him for spending the night. You can’t possibly be mad at him for this, he was tired too!

“That’s no way to treat a guest,” he says in return, pulling you in to lay on top of him and closing his eyes again. 

“It is when the said guest overstays their welcome,” you hiss back, trying to get up but the hold he has on you is just too strong. 

“So mean,” he complains. “Thought I fucked the attitude outta’ ya last night.”

You groan at his laxness, saying something along the lines of how fucking irritating he was. He doesn’t seem to care and even goes as far as to almost falling asleep again, but you keep him from doing so by slapping his chest. 

“Let go, I have work in two hours!” you began to whine at the big brute of a man. 

“I doubt you can even walk right now.”

“Yes I can.”

“Alright,” he lets go of you, “let’s see it then.”

You already struggle to push yourself off of him and he catches you by your arm when you almost fall off the bed.

“Told you so.”

“Last night was such a fucking mistake,” you say, more so to yourself— it comes out as a whimper and Sukuna snickers to himself.

“Fuckin’ drama queen,” he continues to laugh, sounding more amused than anything. “How about this– I’ll heal you and help you out with your missions today.”

“You know how to use RCT?” you ask, interest now piqued.

“Of course I do,” he scoffs. “Fuck I look like to you?”

You hold back on saying something mean, because you’d really like to get healed right now without having to tell Shoko how you ended up like this.

“Alright, fine. But just a heads up, Inumaki’s going to be with me for the day.”

He groans into the pillow, obviously not happy with that piece of information. “Do you have an iPad?”

“...No. Why?”

“I don’t understand anything that kid fuckin’ says,” he complains. 

“You’ll be fine,” you pat his shoulder, “now get up and heal me already. We have a long day ahead of us.”

two hours later:

inumaki: tuna, tuna

sukuna: *turns to reader* I don't know what in the actual fuck he's saying.

inumaki: salmon?

sukuna: STOP

notes: fun fact! i was listening to the kyoto x im god mashup while writing this. i had so much fun making this version of him. i feel like if he had been born in the same era as the rest and was (somewhat) nurtured as a child, he’d have so much fun with his life LOL. just completely unserious, making fun of people all the time, and just overall living his best, slutty life.

anyways, i may or may not turn this into a series 🫣 idk, we’ll see. i’d have to drop one of my current ones though.

All rights reserved © 2024 yenayaps. Do not copy, repost, translate, or modify my works in any platform.

[notrustfratedjin]

He's so unserious omg 😭

Special grade sorcerer Sukuna with THIS personality is so hot wtf 😛🤑

[cottonlemonade]

Wakatoshi didn’t understand enough social cues to be a jealous man, but if that opposing setter said one more time that you, his wife, were obviously interested in him because you were kind enough to roll a ball back in his direction he might just throw a bench at him. Or at least send a spike right into his smug face.

“Wakatoshi, let’s do drill runs. - Oi, Wakatoshi. - Oi! Ushijima!”

Hoshiumi had gotten increasingly impatient and at last yelled his name, making the ace look up - or… well, down - at this teammate.

“What are you glaring at?”

With an increasingly tense jaw, Wakatoshi only nodded curtly towards the guy who didn’t seem to get the hint.

What? Was the Ushijima jersey not enough for that guy to back off? Or the kiss that you had blown to him, your husband, earlier? Or your wedding ring? He felt his hand ball into a fist as he saw you politely nodding along while the guy openly ogled your pudgy curves with a hungry grin. Wakatoshi knew you could handle yourself. But he really really really wished you’d let him step in for you.

“What are we talking about?” Hinata joined his teammates at the net, turning readily in the direction the other two were already facing.

“I dunno.”, Hoshiumi shrugged, following the line of sight of his fellow ace to land on the rival setter who did not seem to No for an answer. When he put two and two together he let out a quiet “Ew.”

“Come on, Shoyo, let’s warm up. - Huh?” Atsumu halted next to Hinata, then crossed his arms and joined the staring at the other side of the court when no one reacted, quietly trying to figure out if they were collectively having a stroke or were posing for a picture. Just in case of the latter, he popped his hip.

Bokuto bounded over, Sakusa in tow. “Hey! Coach says we should be moving!”, Bokuto called while Sakusa took one look at Wakatoshi, another across the net, and understood why his friend seemed so tense. Utilizing his years of experience in judging people he began to scowl at the setter’s back.

One after the other, the national team joined the wall of players at the net, some more for the vibes than for solidarity, and before long the power of their stares prompted the setter to turn around, finally taking his attention off you.

Confused at their intensity he looked left and then right, subtly checking who they were zeroing in on so hard, but with a cold shudder he had to realize the team was staring at him.

Hoshiumi took it upon himself to fix this very solvable problem, as the other guy apparently didn’t understand what was happening.

“That’s his wife!”, he yelled, voice twice as big as his body, as he pointed a thumb over his shoulder at Wakatoshi.

As if touching a hot plate the setter sprang back, bowed several times in apology to both you and the other team and scrammed.

Hoshiumi looked up at Wakatoshi. “Can we warm up now?”

a/n: Kageyama would take it as the greatest personal offense that it was the setter of all people.

Massive thank you to @haikyu-mp4 for brainstorming this one so hard and coming up with the ending for it.

[notrustfratedjin]

Is Atsumu locking in for me 😭

[sugarlywhispers]

b.katsuki x reader (fem) | quirkless!reader, prohero!dynamight, arranged marriage au.

a.n; remember when i said that this serie will not have a specific chronology? okay, this is it. i actually imagined this part being a bit further into their relationship. they are not fully in love -or at least haven't admitted their feelings for each other yet lol-, but they are getting close. remember that😉 SOMEONE SAID ANGST????? YAAAAS, HERE IT IS. MWUAH😘

Fuckin' Marry Me Series | First Part | Second Part | Third Part |

It’s chaos.

All your co-workers are loudly directing each of their assigned heroes as best as they can, but the amount of destruction around complicates each possible view all of you as Quirk & Training Specialists could have.

You run towards your desk, where your computer and monitors are already turned on. You put on the earbuds, connecting yourself to the system. Because of your expertise, you are allowed to hear everyone’s communications, so you use that to understand what is going on around there.

“...Red Riot, watch out from your left. The villain has a second weapon…”

“...Ingenium, if you change your direction to your right, you’ll find-…”

“...Uravity, try lifting them towards the building in front, the ground looks better…”

“...DEKU, YOUR RIGHT IS CLEAR!…”

“...SHOTO, WATCH FOR THE CEILING!!...”

“...DYNAMIGHT, TO YOUR RIGHT!...”

Bingo.

It does not surprise you at all that those three are at the center of it all, fighting the main, strongest villains, but it still makes you take a deep, relieved breath when you hear Bakugou swear very loudly, “you piece of shit villain!”.

He’s okay.

You then focus on finding the connection to your assigned hero.

“Earphone Jack, I’m with you today,” you say immediately as Jirou connects back to you.

“Oh, Y/N, thank God!” She exclaims, “This is a fucking nightmare! I need a way towards–…”

Jirou explains quickly what is happening to you. Apparently, a group of villains had created some sort of machine that was creating havoc, and the sole intention was to damage the infrastructure within a 10 km radius. No apparent deeper reason behind it, which is very suspicious in your opinion. Every villain has a reason behind their actions. But that’s a matter for another moment. You focus now on helping her all the way into the building, hiding and evading every possible encounter with villains, where the main thing is happening.

You feel your shoulders tensing each moment you tell Jirou to hide due to some possible threat coming her way. This kind of job is definitely not for the weak hearts. For some reason you are extremely good at it, quick thinking and fast to react at anything, that’s why in situations like this one you are assigned to any hero who was considered key to finally win. Jirou apparently is the one today. The Big Three are currently distracting all the heavy and strong villains, opening a way for her to disable the machine, and Jirou with her hacking knowledge is perfect for the job.

You can feel some of your co-workers paying attention to you and Earphone Jack at times, adding a bit of pressure on your shoulders. You and her work wonderfully together, and she is always open to your suggestions –sometimes even putting to test some moves you advise and create personally for her and her quirk, even though that is not really part of your job. But you love it completely when one of those actually works and end up being the best move.

“Alright, I’m in,” Jirou whispers and everyone around is listening and watching you cheer loudly. You release a deep and long breath that you didn’t realize you were holding back this entire time.

It takes three minutes for Jirou to turn off the machine and send it into autodestruction.

But in three stupid minutes, a lot happens.

Another building collapses, creating more chaos around. The sound of the explosion is so strong you can even feel the building of the company tremble a bit. Two new big villains appear, making Hero Shoto shout, “SEND RED RIOT AND TENTACOLE, NOW!”

You watch through the system the cameras close to where the Big Three are fighting, and you see it happen.

Deku and Dynamight are fighting strongly, but it’s quite evident how tired and drowned they already are. They are pushing through, hanging in there as much as they can, but it takes one wrong move, one wrong direction.

“...DYNAMIGHT, USE YOUR LEFT CANON…”

One of your co-workers says, and even though you’re not connected in their communication, you can’t avoid yelling, “NO!”, and standing up, looking in a first-row seat how the villain predicts Bakugou’s move, grabbing him by the arm and stabbing him with a big dagger on his stomach that brings Pro Hero Dynamight down.

You saw it happening before everyone else. It had been a wrong directive, a bad decision from your co-worker who was not paying attention to the other side of the monitor, where you could clearly see the villain getting ready, expecting Dynamight’s move.

You watch in what feels like slow motion the contorting body of Bakugou Katsuki, your husband, fall to the floor. Blood spilling down faster than you have ever seen.

“DYNAMIGHT IS DOWN!”

“DYNAMIGHT IS DOWN, SEND BACKUP, NOW!”

“DYNAMIGHT IS DOWN!”

“KACCHAN!”

“DYNAMIGHT IS DOWN!”

“DYNAMIGHT IS…!”

“DYNAMIGHT…”

Everyone has to repeat the message. It’s a directive that everyone follows to help your area adjust and react as fast as you can. Yet hearing the message repeated several times only increases the tight pressure in your chest.

No… NO!

Your whole body is trembling, and for some reason, you can’t feel your hands. You can’t focus on anything else than the image your eyes are seeing through the monitor: Bakugou Katsuki, Pro Hero Dynamight, your husband, lying on the ground over a pool of his own blood.

For being one of the best at your job, for being considered one of the few who always reacts fast and come up with solutions even quicker, for the first time, you don’t know what to do. Your whole body is petrified watching now how Deku picks Dynamight up over a shoulder and jumps away so fast they are barely visible.

Slowly, the ability to hear around you comes back, and you hear two voices. One is Jirou’s, calling your name and trying to make you react, but she’s not in danger. The other one is Izuku.

“Y/N, can you hear me? Answer me. He’s alright! He’s alive. I just left him in the ambulance, they are taking him to the hospital.”

“Y/N, GO.” Jirou’s voice says again, and you do not hesitate anymore.

You know this decision you’re about to make will get you in lots of trouble with your boss. It is imperative for everyone on your floor that you never leave mid-mission. It’s your area's responsibility to foresee that each hero you’re assigned for the day comes back to the company as safe and sound as possible.

Yet the only thing on your mind at the moment is Bakugou. 

The rest can go to hell.

You drop the earbuds over your desk and run.

Everything feels numb and looks like in a blur. You don’t exactly know how you got to the hospital, but you did.

When you arrive there, it’s chaos too. Every doctor and nurse is running everywhere, helping to heal civilians and heroes. You approach a very stressed receptionist and ask for Pro Hero Dynamight and if he’s okay. Your hands are trembling. She says he arrived a couple of minutes before you, but she apologizes saying that she still doesn’t have any more information. You’ll have to wait. And she asks you to go to the waiting room if you’re not injured.

You take a deep breath, hands clasped together tightly, trying to control the trembling in them and follow the woman’s orders. There’s really not much else you can do, causing a scene won’t help you or her.

Your walk towards the waiting room feels like floating, and it’s not a good kind of floating. It feels like your mind is not entirely in you; like you’re moving out of habit. Out of thinking. Not really feeling the soft material of the chair you just sat in. Or the coldness of the table you just rested your forearms over. Your eyes aren’t even focusing on anything, but you do perceive the amount of people there. Some are crying, others are walking from one side of the room to the other anxiously, and others are like you. Quiet, unresponsive to anything. Waiting. Hoping. All they probably care about is receiving some, any kind of news about their loved ones…

Loved ones.

Loved.

Love.

Do you love Bakugou?

Another pang in your chest makes you close your eyes for a moment, holding back the painful feeling. Fuck. It’s too much.

You don’t know how much time you wait there, sitting in that chair, in that exact same position. You just know you’re not moving from there until someone comes.

You just wish it hadn’t been her.

Bakugou Mitsuki enters the waiting room with a storming sound alongside her as she does everywhere she goes. It doesn’t surprise you the theatrical trail of tears painted black thanks to her mascara running down her cheeks, yet her eyes are dry. When she sees you, she walks directly at you.

“Where is he?! Nobody could tell me shit!”

You truly wish she wasn’t there.

“H-He is…” You clear your throat, your voice sounding so broken it even surprised you. “Doctors are tending to him. We have to wait.”

“Fucking stupid brat. He’s alive yet, then?”

You see red. So much red, you’re afraid that the image of you cutting Mitsuki’s throat with your own bare nails isn’t just a mere product of your imagination. But when you hear her heel tapping continuously on the floor annoyingly, waiting for your response, and you see her standing in front of you, you blink relieved it hadn’t been real.

“...Be smarter than her…”

Izuku, you are so good you even became part of my conscience.

You take a long deep breath, before deciding what to answer back. If she is going to act like a bitch at this very moment, then you can too, right?

“Oh, I bet you wish he wasn’t…”

“What the fuck does that mean, you moron?”

“Tell me, Mitsuki,” you know she hates it when you call her by her given name, so you do it with a smirk, “Are you here because of the wellness of your son, or because of his heritage?”

This is the very first time you call out her bullshit, that you even indulge yourself in actually saying what you actually think of her. The expression of pure rage and offense on her face is all worth it.

“You fucking little–...”

“Ms. Bakugou?”

“Yes?”

“Yes?”

Mitsuki answers at the same time you do, and it makes you roll your eyes. This woman really is a pain in the ass.

The doctor looks confused between you two, so he looks again at the chart and clarifies, “Ms. Bakugou Y/N.”

Mitsuki tchs, annoyed and crossing her arms over her chest. You immediately stand up and walk towards the doctor. “That’s me.”

“You are Mr. Bakugou Katsuki’s wife, correct?”

“Yes, I am,” you confirm as the doctor nods and asks you to follow him. You do it, hands still clasped together like dear life.

“He’s okay. He’s still under anesthesia, but he should wake in a couple of minutes. I’ve been informed his body processes and washes it quickly.”

You nod in agreement, following close behind in silence. Watching the many rooms pass by, but only caring about the one you know Bakugou would surely be in.

“He lost a lot of blood, we had to transfuse him. The dagger reached his right lung, but nothing too serious,” you are holding your breath with each statement the doctor is informing you of. “After maybe a month, Mr. Bakugou should be more than recovered. But for now, he’ll need to take it easy.”

Right when he finishes the sentence, his hand grabs the knob of the door that you know will lead you to where your husband is. You simply nod in response before the doctor opens the door. “Ms. Bakugou, you’re allowed to come and go as you please. I’ll tell a nurse to bring you your all-pass card.”

You don’t actually pay much attention to what he says, your eyes are locked over where the man that your heart beats so strongly and loudly for right now is lying over a bed, surrounded by machines and cables that constantly monitor his vital signs.

You don’t even hear when the doctor closes the door and leaves you alone with him.

Your vision blurs, and you’re afraid of moving closer, or touching something that will cause Bakugou any pain. But you’re more afraid that if you don’t get closer, don’t at least hold his warm hand, your heart will beat its way out of your chest towards him.

So you move closer, as carefully as you can. His eyes are closed, his expression so relaxed and serene, you think he looks like he hasn’t just gone through a life-and-death situation. If he hadn’t been all full of cables and as pale as he looks, it would have been the same expression he has when he sleeps at night, next to you. His chest raises slowly with each intake of breath. He is breathing. Your hands unclasp, the trembling is still there, yet you direct one towards where one of his is lying motionlessly on his side. His hand is warm. He is alive.

You feel the tears sliding down your face when Bakugou’s hand suddenly moves. It turns around and holds yours, a bit weak but firmly. Your eyes snap up towards his face. His eyes are slightly open, enough to let you know he is awake. His other hand, the one he can move better, raises and moves towards your face. The thumb cleans the trail your tears created and catches one that just escaped your eye.

“I… told you… n-not to cry… for m-me…” 

A sob finally leaves your mouth as you immediately grab his hand, holding it against your cheek. It’s big enough to almost enclose more than half of your face, your nose caressing his palm as if you were a damn cat, your other hand flies to his forearm and also caresses it. The warmth feels so comforting, so relieving, it makes you cry more.

You hear him snort affectionately, “Crybaby.”

He is okay.

[notrustfratedjin]

I LOVELOVELOVELOVE ARRANGED MARRIAGE AU SO FUCKING MUCH 😭 LIKE WDYM THEY'RE CRYING FOR THE WELLBEING OF THE OTHER???

My favorite flavor of Angst is the one that forces them to admit their feelings 😈😈

[hexquirk]

bodyguard! kirishima, bakugou, and sero, now in their mid twenties tall, lean, big, strong men. trained in fighting & numerous weapon use, for years they trained to be the perfect protectors for you, hired by ur yakuza! father to never leave ur side, the world was dangerous as you know. especially now that your clan is doing business with the todoroki’s, their future clan head shoto was to be your future husband once you graduated college and got time to be a “normal girl” in your words, a lame and desperate attempt to unite the two strongest clans of the time.

but luckily for you your guards are always there for you to keep your mind off the inevitable. tasked with ensuring your safety and fun that you requested before you are to be a yakuza! wife. they are funny, smart and handsome men, they treat you very well and are always respectful. you have a very playful relationship with them, they just love their spoiled little baby, used to getting everything you want and they aren’t the exception, surprising you with gifts & always cooing at you & singing their praises when you ask how you look. they are your closets friends after all, you’d known them a long time. since they were brought here by their clans as the strongest fighters, when they were only 12.

secretly they pine after you, always wanting to make their moves but never letting it go that far, just light flirting, anything to make you laugh. as teens it was hard to keep their eyes off you with their hormones raging but now as a adults they only steal those same glances when they are sure you aren’t watching, but all three of them know how eachother feel about you but keep it from you since they couldn’t ever act on it.

they take your protection as their top priority, even going as far as going undercover at your college, becoming friends with your friends, each of them taking some of your classes, (paid for by your father of course since he looks at them like sons), but suddenly u start asking for space claiming to need alone time, more time with your girlfriends and less testosterone, of course they are never far from you but still trying to respect your wishes as the last thing they want to do is upset you. then after busting them for still stalking you (which they can’t help they have to do what your father says, he signs their checks, also they’d never let you out of their sight anyway.) and they beg for your forgiveness saying “we just want to keep you safe angel”, “it would break our hearts if something happened to you”, “we have to do our jobs, and our only priority is to keep you safe, keeping you happy is just our hobby”, you continued to pout but eventually forgave them and things would returned to normal as they always did when you got into arguments, i mean after all you love your guards:

kiri is your big sweetheart always carrying your shopping bags and telling you what heels he loves on you, “i’m almost as tall as you in these kiri” you’d do a small spin & giggle, while he sits in the amusingly small chair outside the dressing room, he’d smirk at you standing to his full height, making eye contact with you through the full length mirror, still a good 6 inches clearing over your head even in the tall beautiful shoes, craning his neck down close to your ear and raising an eyebrow to you he’d whisper “i don’t think you’re even close”, his large hands resting on each side of your ribcage making you feel small, it’d force your face to turn red thinking about how easily it would be for him to toss you around… you to push him playfully but scurry back into the changing room quickly to get away from the blush that creeps down your neck.

then there’s sero, always quick to compliment you and never shy about who he does it around. even mumbling “good m’rning beautiful” around your father without fear. a boy comes up to you on campus to talk to you, and without a second thought sero’s standing extremely close to you with his lazy smile & much more intense eyes sizing up this guy who had the balls to come up and say something with him right there, “could i get your number?” he’d ask and you’d start to blush he was awfully cute anyway, before your mouth could open sero would simply say no & tell the guy to move on, when you would protest stomping your foot and frustrated that sero would scare off- yet again- another cute guy, “you need a man mami, not some little boy. you’re a top tier woman you only deserve the best of the best…. besides…-“ he’d wrap his slender fingers around your wrist and use his other hand to force your chin to look up at him, “you’re supposed to be shoto’s so i know you’re not looking for a relationship, so what exactly are you looking for hmm? does my pretty girl have naughty thoughts?” he’d wiggle his eyebrows playfully at you, which would cause you to stutter out a no, and that it wasn’t his business in the first place but ur heart would be slamming in your chest at the thought of sero tending to your now obvious naughty thoughts.

or bakugo the most strict guard, always keeping you on lockdown and ensuring he knows every person you’re going to hangout with (and who their friends are), forces you to keep a shared calendar of all your plans, he ensures that you have life 360 downloaded to your cellphone so he can find your exact location at anytime and is always insisting he will drop you off and pick you up anywhere you want to go. “you’re just too hot to drive. that’s how it works, hot girls dont drive themselves and i’d never let you take a taxi” he’d make a disgusted face, and shake his head. so it definitely feels awkward for you when he unknowingly is dropping you off to hangout with the cute guy from lab, you see him standing on the corner waiting for you even tho you told him to wait inside, though normally this would be such a sweet gesture you just knew what this meant now, katsuki’s memory was impeccable he’d remember the boy without a doubt, your lab partners messy purple hair and sleepy eyes still searching for you, cursing to yourself you lean your head back to the seat rest and close your eyes waiting for what you know is to come “oh hell no, there’s no fucking chance you are seeing this loser”, he would gawk at you, you’d just roll your eyes and reach for the door handle when he’d hit the lock button and turn himself fully to look at you expectantly, you’d shrug and reply with he’s nice and you were bored and bakugo would shake his head “uh uh, we’re going somewhere else, i’ll call sero and kiri to meet us, if you’re just bored and want a date to just have a date, we’ll go wherever you wanna go” you’d whine to him that you couldn’t do the things you want to do with your guards and he’d have red blush dust the tips of his ears at your confession, before he would lean into your space so that you could smell his cologne and see his muscular chest and arms ripple under his shirt, him being so close to you would intoxicate you, as he was your first ever crush. his lips would be so close and you could feel his rough finger tips brush over the top of your left thigh, “i can do whatever you need me to do” he’d speak in a lower tone, as if he didn’t want anyone to hear him even though it’s just the two of you. his deep voice would send your stomach in knots, his eye contact was intense, and he’d let his eyes flicker to your soft glossed lips, you’d finally cave after years of wanting to know what he was capable of, letting one of your hands drift to one side of his jaw where you could feel the light stubble on his chin with your thumb, the other hand wrapping in the longer bits of hair at the nape of his neck, almost brushing your lips to his before his cell phone rings, making both of you jolt. he’d reach into his pocket and snap at presumably kiri or sero, which would make you giggle even though you’re entire body is on fire, and you’d much rather skip the date part and just go home to get relief from the pit in your stomach, he’d tell you to shut up and ask where they should meet the two of you. deciding to just go for desert and drinks.

but then you do the unthinkable, and start sneakin around with the worst men possible. shoto todoroki’s bodyguards more specifically: hawks & dabi. they send you less than innocent looks every time their around, teasing you with sweet nothings & filthy lines you’re sure they’ve told other girls before, but you can’t help it. even though there’s a deal in place you can’t help but melt for the older smooth talking yakuza members.

you bribe poor sweet big kiri, with a bright smile & a low cut top to leave his position outside your bedroom door to get you some sweets, so you could sneak hawks & dabi in. only minutes later to have yourself laid flat on your bed with kiego’s tongue buried between your thighs & touya’s sloppy kisses on your mouth. tugging on kiego’s messy locks as he devours you, you cry out their names. touya’s hand flies to your mouth, gripping your chin tightly and he whispers roughly in your ear “awe see doll we told you those in confidence, you have to keep your pretty fucking mouth shut,” he’d unbuckle his pants and have you take his full length as punishment for forgetting the importantance of their anominity. they make it fast considering they have a meeting to go too with your father their actual reason for the visit but they just can’t resist meeting up again with the sexy yakuza daughter and soon to be yakuza wife, so they hurry making you cum hard & fast, before fixing themselves to be presentable, dabi taking your white panties in his pocket since he didn’t get time to “fuck you properly” hawks begins to whine while he kisses you “i did all the work, cmon i deserve em” he’d pout while holding your hips tightly, kissing you lightly again, “right baby? those are my reward for making you feel so good” he’d pout, you put both your hands up, “i am not getting in between dabi and my panties, your on your own hawks.” laughing to yourself, he’d frown at you before kissing below your ear and sucking “i hate when you call me that, i’d much rather be your kiego.” your heart strings would tug, despite telling yourself you would not catch feelings for these two, the more time you spend with them the more you just can’t help it. giving you sweet kisses and a harsh ass grab from dabi, they slip out of your room and down the hallway to the staircase in hopes of not running into your guards or worse your father.

fooling your father was one thing, with age his senses had dulled, but it was much harder to fool your guards. who burn holes through hawks and dabi sitting across the room from them sipping whiskey offered to them by the two yakuza! bosses who were in deep discussion over some territory to the east. their smug faces were easy to read, as if they were in on a secret nobody else was, well that and a very pretty but familiar lipstick shade mark on hawks collar bone tucked under his white buttoned up with rolled up sleeves and his more than usual messy hair. bakugo is very perceptive, he can almost smell the faint aroma of sex, it definitely doesn’t help their case that they had an awkward run in with kirishima on your floor either, on their way down to the meeting with no good reason for why they were on the same floor as your room, shrugging and explaining they must have gotten lost, despite visiting the manor over 30 times at this point.

sero’s eyes burned holes into dabi’s pocket seeing just the small tuft of white lace peeking out. they same white panties he noticed this morning during your yoga session, he was once grateful to see them, tho now he was incredibly pissed off to see them again. they know what has happened, those fucks touched what was theirs. luckily for dabi and hawks they don’t want to be given away either for your father would surely have all of their heads, but the second they were alone with them they’d wipe the smirks off their faces. to make sure the pair knew to stay away form what was theres.

your guards would make sure to apologize on their knees infront of you, they thought they were already fulfilling all your needs, in every aspect and felt like failures you had to use other men to get satisfaction when they were right here for you. “use us for what you need princess, you don’t need anyone else”, your mind would feel clouded surrounded by your handsome friends, “please baby… tell us what you need, we’ll give you whatever you want” with light kisses to your neck from sero and thick posessive hands on your hips from katsuki, “cmon honey, don’t you wanna feel good?” kiri would peer up at you through his lashes, his handsome face with also the sight of the hunk of a man on his knees for you using his big hands to run up your thighs, using his thumbs to push your skirt up while kissing your knee.

“fuck.” you’d mumble to yourself, there’s no way you could give in….. right?

[notrustfratedjin]

The Bodyguard Bakugo agenda keeps gooooing hell yeah lesssgooo 🤑

[rosesforshoto]

voice of an angel

bodyguard!katsuki x popstar!reader | 18+, smut | wc: 1.6k

dynamight, who is chosen by best jeanist to be your bodyguard when your management team seeks out the genius office in the aftermath of a villain threat. a threat that consisted of kidnapping you—japan’s rising popstar, a sought-after idol loved by all, an angel that can sing as if she’s fallen straight from heaven.

katsuki, who is more than dissatisfied at having to stop his missions just to protect a dolled up singing puppet. it grates his nerves—the hoards of paparazzi, the masses of fans, the way you press up against him as he wraps a tight arm around you to haul you out of another crowd. 

he thinks you do it on purpose.

and the one time your sultry eyes meet his when he looks down, surrounded by swarms of people, it dawns on him exactly what he got himself stuck with. 

he goes everywhere with you—interviews, signings, rehearsals, meetings, you name it. quite literally stuck with you.

even when you’re practicing here alone, in the mirrored room past midnight. well, not alone anymore because he’s there, like a shadow. 

he leans against the wall, bulging arms crossed over one another, not yet realizing that his eyes follow your every move. every grace of your arm, every sway of your hips, every trained grin you give to the imaginary crowd in front of you.

those arms that “accidentally” hold on too long when you pull him from one event to another. those hips that “accidentally” bumps against his when he’s protecting you in a crowd. that grin you give him everytime you notice his eyes lingering on places it shouldn’t.

desire seeps into his bones as he watches you. for once, he’s frustrated by the sweat coating his body and his quirk almost fucking ignites in the palms of his hands when you walk past him, closer than you need to in this massive practice room, giving him a knowing smirk.

now he knows you do it on purpose.

and he can still smell your perfume as his eyes follow your figure disappearing out into the hallway. 

katsuki, who thinks it’s fucking ironic that the country’s most adored star is just a brat in disguise. a devious brat that has everyone wrapped around her pretty little finger and knows how to use her pretty little smile to get what she wants. 

it sets a fire underneath him.

because it’s that same fucking smile you give him now, your lips curled up sweetly as you run your fingertips down his chest. thumbing at the crisp black button up your manager forced him to wear as your bodyguard.

you look at him with hooded eyes, your precisely done makeup further emphasizing the intensity in your gaze. he can’t help scowling at you, and it takes all that he has not to pin you against the dressing room door and kiss that stupid taunting smile off your face.

he’s not sure if the universe is working with or against him when your manager yells at you through the door to get ready for your performance.

you leave him, fluttering your long accentuated eyelashes at him and he wants to tear his hair out because he knows. he knows that you know that he knows you do it on purpose. you’re tempting him. waiting to see if he’ll snap—when he’ll snap.

and when he’s off to the sidelines, captivated by your presence on stage. he realizes it truly was the universe working against him when your annoying manager stopped you both earlier.

you dance in ways that make him want to see how much you can really bend. you sing in ways that make him want to hear his name fall from your lips, to hear how loud you can really sound. and you own the stage with confidence that make him want to test how far it’ll take to get you to beg.

and lord, when you end your performance—panting, sweat dripping down your face, eyes shining with fervor. he feels that thin thread of restraint snap in his body. because all he can think about is how’d you look the same underneath him as he fucks you in that skimpy, tailored to your body get-up you have on. 

katsuki, who does just that the second you’re both in the dressing room again. with his cock pounding you into the too-small couch, your legs wrapped around his waist like a lifeline.

“hng…! sl-slow down,” you breathe out in between his deep thrusts.

he thinks its almost cute, what you ask of him. 

“no,” he simply replies.

the sounds in the room are obscene. his skin clapping against yours, the rhythmic rattling of the weak couch, the lewd squelches each time he pulls out his thick cock just to drive back into your wet heat again.

there’s one sound missing though. 

your palm wraps tightly around your mouth, trying to muffle any sound that comes out of it. and it’s irritating him, the fact that you’re trying to quiet yourself after singing loudly for thousands of strangers. 

the fact that you still have a mind to deny him his music after all that bratty taunting.

“why so quiet now?” katsuki sneers.

he grabs one of your legs in a bruising grip, wrenching it off of his waist and pushing it up to your chest. he leans against it, groaning at how his cock sinks deeper into your pussy. with dark eyes, he tears your hand away from your face and holds both your wrists above your head with one palm.

he speeds up his pace, bullying your clenching walls. even with your eyebrows furrowed with pleasure, eyes hazy, you glare at him. all while biting your lips down defiantly, as if trying to prove something.

oh now that only fuels him more.

katsuki shifts, angling—seeking for that softer, bumpier part of your pussy. his chest swells with pride when his cock grazes against a certain spot and your eyes roll back. he grinds against it again, harder, and watches as your mouth drops open and you squirm helplessly under his body.

a smirk forms on his lips, crimson eyes darkening till they’re almost pitch black. 

with a newfound strength, he drills against that spot, absolutely relishing in the way you finally moan harmoniously in his ear. and fuck, he can feel his cock about to burst from the sound of it. he’s humping into you like an animal and marvels at the way your pussy sucks him in as if you were made for him.

tears leak from your eyes and he licks them up sweetly, cooing at you in a way that feels almost mocking.

and you love it. you love how rough he’s treating you. you love how worked up he gets from just one look. you love how he looks at you like he wants to devour you. and god, you love the way his cock pounds into you so good, better than you imagined ever since he became your bodyguard.

you feel his cock getting harder as you moan into his ear, “hah— i- i’m gonna—”

“you wanna come?”

instantly, he pulls off of you. you gasp, clawing at his back, whining shamelessly at the sudden loss.

“beg for it,” he growls, eyes glinting wickedly.

you shake your head furiously, trying to pull him back but he leans away, gritting his teeth.

“you still wanna be a brat? fine with me.”

it’s not fine with him. in fact, it’s killing him each second he’s not in you. but you don’t have to know that. 

“please,” you mumble quietly, glaring at him with flushed cheeks. 

katsuki grins. “please who?”

“please… make me come, ka— hah— ka… tsuki...”

almost. almost there. but not enough. he snaps, his voice a deep rumble, “say my name like you fucking mean it.”

your hands grab at him desperately, “please… katsuki…! ka— ah—!” 

it’s laughable that that’s all he needed to hear as he thrusts back into your wet heat, your pussy clenching around him immediately. he starts humping desperately again and your endless moans encourage him to rut even faster.

“i wanna c-come—! ah—! please—!”

he growls in your ear, “goddamn it, you feel so good.” his pace stutters, “you gonna be a good girl for me and let me fill up this needy cunt, huh?”

you nod furiously—begging, pleading that you want it, that you want him, that you need him. and katsuki laughs.

“knew you’d want it. knew you’d n-need it. take it. take it all.” his hips claps harshly against yours and he feels all the wetness and slick spread messily across his thighs. “fuck. look at you. does the world know that you can s-sound like this? that you let your bodyguard fuck you?”

his body rocks against yours as he chases both your highs, legs aching. desperately, his fingers find your wet-slicked clit and you jolt.

“do one more thing for me, baby,” he growls lowly.

you look at him with dazed eyes, barely comprehending what he’s saying with the way he’s railing you. you can’t even get out an even breath.

“sing for me.”

katsuki gives a final deep thrust and grinds with all that he has against your sweet spot, fingers rubbing your clit in harsh circles. your body trembles as you crash, seeing stars behind your eyes. you grip his ash blonde hair, holding his head tight against the crook of your neck as you cry his name out in pleasure.

his head swims with the same pleasure coursing through his veins. katsuki groans your name, finally releasing all of his thick, hot cum into your warmth, your pussy milking him the whole way through. he collapses on top of you, still reeling from the aftermath as your voice rings in his ears.

the world was right.

what an angelic sound.

[notrustfratedjin]

*Sigh* Ah yes, nothing like a good ol' Katsuki au smut before going to bed

[cinnamorollcrybaby]

To love me better

Tags: Yakuza Lord!Sukuna x fem!Reader, american!Reader, forced/arranged marriage, dark romance trope, dead dove, age gap romance (reader is around 21-22, Sukuna is 37), cursing, suggestive language, use of nicknames like “doll” and “angel”, use of y/n, NSFW, MDNI, Sukuna is his own warning, description of violence including murder.

Synopsis: Yakuza Lord!Sukuna owns all of entertainment district. You’re trying to work to put yourself through law school. He has a proposition for you, and you have one for him. Chaos ensues.

An: I decided to make a series masterlist because it was getting taxing to link every single new part. I hope you enjoy this plot-ridden part. Also, join my discord here!

part one. | series masterlist.

*art creds for sukuna image goes to @.maru6 here on tumblr

The driver was sweating bullets as he parked in front of your school. You had, of course, tried to get him to talk to you. You asked what his name was, how did he become a driver for Sukuna, what his favorite music was…

You garnered absolutely no response.

Men who worked for Sukuna were deathly loyal, almost to a fault. If you had some sort of medical emergency in the backseat, you didn’t think the driver would talk to you even then.

No matter. You were excited to get back to normalcy after such an odd weekend. Though, you supposed you should get used to “odd” weekends. This was your life now.

You clutched your messenger bag closer to your side as you walked towards Mr. Hiromi’s class. The thought of him receiving that eyeball that Sukuna had sent him made your heart drop to your stomach.

What if Hiromi had already connected you to that man’s murder? Were the police waiting for you in the classroom? It would be fucking embarrassing to get arrested in front of your classmates, and it would probably only ostracize you from society even further…

You were just a stupid American who got caught up with the yakuza.

The toe of your shoes pressed against the floor, preparing for you to spin around and walk in the other direction.

“Hey!” A chipper voice shouted at you from behind before a palm clapped you on your shoulder.

The screech that left your mouth was involuntary. Immediately, you spun around, spilling out excuses and apologies. “I didn’t know! I didn’t see what happened!”

“Uhhh, okay then… Are you alright?” The voice sounded a bit more familiar. Reluctantly, you lifted your head to meet his gaze, and your shoulders fell as you realized it was just Yuji.

Inwardly, you swallowed thickly, cursing at yourself for getting so on edge. How were you going to be able to keep up this charade if this is how you respond after the first weekend with Sukuna?

You blinked. Once. Twice. “Yeah, are you alright?” you asked as you trained your face to a blank expression… as if you weren’t just making Jurassic Park noises in the hallway from a simple touch.

His big brown eyes looked you over, and his face twisted ever so slightly. If you weren’t searching for the most minute details, you would’ve missed it: the way his eyebrow twitched slightly. He was probably just concerned or confused.

Whatever he was searching you for, he seemed to find because he relaxed his body and gave you his signature big smile. “I’m better than alright. Did you hear Mr. Higuruma is taking a leave of absence? Maybe we’ll get a professor who’s less of a hard ass.”

A ringing noise filled your ears. Hiromi was taking a leave of absence, and it was probably because of you…

You didn’t dare respond as Yuji went on to yap about how he was studying all weekend for a quiz that Mr. Higuruma was supposed to give out today. As you two stepped into the lecture hall, your eyes immediately fixated at the tall blonde male near the podium.

“Find a seat,” Nanami’s warm voice was like a shot to the chest. Did he somehow know about the eyeball? He and Hiromi seemed close, but were they that close? Were they the type of friends to help each other go into hiding whenever they were clearly being targeted by the yakuza?

Yuji’s lower lip curled into a pout as he accepted defeat. So much for having an easy rest of the semester. He had taken a few of Nanami’s classes before, and they certainly weren’t easy.

The rest of the class period was filled with your conscious screaming at you that everyone knows you’re planning to marry a cold blooded killer and whispers from Yuji about the most random things.

“Alright, that’s everything I have planned for today. For your final paper, I want you to research a criminal case that interests you and analyze the defense attorney’s work on the case,” Nanami instructed as your peers began to pack up to leave.

Yuji visibly melted onto his desk. You shot him an incredulous look. He was so dramatic sometimes; you wondered just why he was pursuing law if he absolutely hated the coursework.

“I’m not going to make it,” he said in a hoarse voice as if the assignment was physically killing him.

You shook your head at his theatrics. Mentally planning out the rest of your day to get ahead on assignments, you rose from seat. “You have to help me, y/n. We’re like a team, you and I.” Yuji went on to plead his case, begging for you to sit down with him and help him out with his final paper.

He was suddenly akin to a needy puppy. As you looked towards his big brown eyes, you couldn’t find the heart to tell him no. “Fine, we’ll work together this week, but I’m not doing your work for you, Yuji.”

As if you had made his entire week, Yuji launched himself up from his seat with a cheeky grin on his face. “Hell yeah, I’ll bring snacks and stuff so we don’t get hungry and—“

“Y/n, a word please?” Your impromptu professor chimed in, interrupting Yuji’s happy babbling.

Your blood ran cold, wondering what Nanami could want a word about. A tiny unhelpful voice in your mind was already whispering, planting the idea that he knew. He knew that you were involved with the yakuza.

Swallowing thickly, you slowly approached the front of the lecture hall near his podium. You were surprised to feel a presence behind you. Risking a quick glance, you were relieved to see Yuji planted behind you with a curious expression as well.

Surely, he wouldn’t bring anything up about the yakuza while you had a friend with you…

Nanami cocked a questioning brow at Yuji. “I don’t remember requesting your presence, sir.”

Your blood pressure dropped. He had to know. Hiromi definitely spewed to him about Sukuna.. about the eyeball.. about everything.

“Is there a specific reason you need to talk to a female student alone, Mr. Nanami?” Your friend was quick to fire back, painting a pink blush over Kento’s high cheekbones with a simple question.

After closing his mouth from the shocked expression he wore, Nanami went on. “I’m not going to entertain that question. Y/n, I requested a word so I could tell you that I’ll be expecting a bit more from your paper. Being your advisor, I’m going to push you harder. I want to see you succeed. That being said, I know you’re in the civil law track. You don’t have to write your paper over a criminal offense; however, if your classmates find out and accuse me of giving you special privileges—“ He eyed Yuji. “I will deny ever giving you such freedom.”

You blinked a couple of times. This whole paranoia thing was going to be a bitch to manage. Maybe if you spoke up to Sukuna…

“I understand, sir,” you replied with a slow nod. “I hope I can make you proud. In return, can I count on getting a letter of recommendation from you in the future?”

Nanami gave you a friendly smile. “Of course, I’d be happy to write any sort of reference you need. A recommendation for now though: don't get into things you have no business in."

You felt your heart drop down to your stomach.

*** *** ***

It was the following Friday after the chilling meeting with Mr. Nanami. You had tried everything to calm your nerves, but it was getting to the point where spontaneous bouts of intense anxiety would crash over you during class.

It felt like everyone was staring directly at you. Before this, you felt pretty much invisible. Your name didn't call any attention, other than a passing glance due to carrying an American name. But now, you swore that peers whispered about you.

When Nanami stood in front of the room lecturing, it was as if he was actually preaching directly to you. Your conscious was eating away at you, wondering if that man had a family. Did he have kids at home who thought he just abandoned them for an elusive jug of milk?

To make matters even more tense, you didn't necessarily feel safe at "home" either. You rarely saw Sukuna since last weekend, but you would hear him at all hours of the night. Sometimes, the floorboards would creak around two in the morning, signaling his arrival or departure.

A tiny portion of you wondered if his timing was based off the whole yakuza lord status or if he was receiving entertainment from elsewhere. Your stomach physically burned like the fiery pits of hell whenever you thought of him with another. It was idiotic; you knew it was, but you couldn't help yourself. A small portion of you started to wonder...

The only time you had any sort of reprieve from the thoughts and swirling anxiety was when you had study sessions with Yuji in the library. You mainly tried to work on your paper, researching all sorts of civil lawsuit topics that could pique Nanami's interest, and Yuji mainly goofed off. It was a miracle whenever he got any sort of work done.

"So, what about this weekend? I could probably get tons of work done if I wasn't crammed in this stuffy library." Yuji's eyes looked around at the shelves and shelves of educational and research texts that surrounded you two. There was no reading for pleasure material anywhere on this campus, unless you were a geek about law.

"Oh, I don't know..." Your voice trailed off. While giving him a non-committal answer, your phone buzzed in your pocket. The rhythm of your heart skyrocketed as soon as you saw the contact name of who texted you.

"What's that look for?" Yuji laughed as he gazed at your hardened features. Sukuna seemed incredibly keen on just how to grate on your nerves.

Standing up to collect your things, you shook your head. "It's nothing. I need to get going. I'll see you on Monday. Good luck on your paper, Yuji." You quickly gathered your things, not wanting to test your luck with Sukuna's patience right now.

Yuji couldn't even get his goodbye out before you left the library. Your eyebrows furrowed together as you went to the main parking lot. Who did your future husband think he was? He had practically ignored and neglected you all week just to be demanding of your time the moment he wanted it.

It didn't take long to spot his care out from all the other mundane make and models. Plus, Sukuna was standing outside of it with the passenger door open and waiting for you to get in. What good is chivalry whenever his words and actions are nothing but venomous?

As he slid into the driver’s seat and the car roared to life, you couldn’t hold back temper. “So, what’s so special about today that you’ve decided to grace me with your presence?”

Sukuna’s eyes slid over to you as he floored it out of the parking lot. A chuckle emerged from his throat as he watched your body whoosh back against the seat. He only found more humor when you cursed him for being reckless.

“Angel, I’m starting to think this temperamental side of you is my favorite. If you want me to get hard, keep mouthing off. See where it gets you.”

A chill rushed up your spine, sparking against every single nerve ending. Suddenly, the outside world didn’t matter. Just being with Sukuna made you feel invincible. You didn’t know what it was about a tall tatted muscular man that made you feel like you were six feet tall, but he brought out emotions in you that you didn’t know existed.

Folding your arms over your chest, you decided it was better to not give him any sort of reaction. He would likely only keep pushing for more and more. It was never a give and take with him — only take.

“I figured you’d be excited about what I had planned today. Aren’t women typically the ones to gush and fawn over a ring?” he asked, sneaking his hand up your thigh. You quickly tried to cross your legs, but he was quick and brutish while tugging your legs towards him. It was non-negotiable. In the car, Sukuna’s hand was meant for your thigh.

“You’re taking me ring shopping?” you replied, giving him a cautious look.

His chest rumbled as he flexed his hands, drawing your attention to his inked fingers. He had on a few silver rings himself. “I’m fairly acquainted with jewelry, but I wanted your input. You’ll be the one wearing it for the rest of your life, after all.”

It was strangely thoughtful of him… in his own way. You couldn’t think of a way to respond to him. The rest of the trip to the jeweler’s was silent between the two of you, leaving much unsaid.

Upon entering the shop, the guy at the front counter was a heavier set Italian man who was greying on the top. His green eyes sparkled with amusement and nostalgia as he looked at Sukuna. Slipping the magnified spectacles off his face, he gave a hearty laugh. “Mr. Ryomen, what can I do for you today?”

Your future husband took your palm in his, easily engulfing your hand as he laced his fingers with yours. “I see that ugly mug hasn’t gotten any prettier in the last few years, Gio.”

Your eyes flicked between the two men with slight unease. Hopefully, this was just how they liked to banter with each other.

“You bastard. You and I both know I don’t have any problems in the looks department.” The man gave a wolfish smile as he rubbed his chin. Admittedly, he wasn’t ugly. You could definitely see the remnants of handsome features from his youth.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll pretend you didn’t say that next time I see Lucy.” Sukuna waved his hand in a disregarding manner. “I’m here for my bride.” He gently moved his hand to the small of your back to usher you forward towards Gio. “She needs a ring.”

Gio’s eyebrows raised as he took you in. He let out a small exhale. “Well, I didn’t think I’d live to see the day that Mr. Ryomen settles down. It’s no wonder, though. You are a beauty after all, miss….” His voice trailed, signaling for you to fork over your name.

You resisted the urge to look towards Sukuna for permission, but you were unsure about giving some strange jeweler your name. Besides, he seemed well acquainted with your husband, which could only mean that he was involved with the yakuza at some capacity.

“Y/n,” you finally responded, and you watched as the older gentleman took your free hand in his, lifting it towards his face. You went still, unsure of whether to jerk back or to let him hold your hand.

As he got too close for comfort, clearly going in to kiss your knuckles as a greeting, Sukuna pulled you back by your hips before Gio could make contact with your hand.

“That sort of greeting will not be necessary. If you value your lips intact, then keep them away from my wife.” You could’ve swore that Sukuna growled at the jeweler.

Gio quirked up the side of his mouth into a lazy smirk. "I can see you're serious. My apologies, then. What were we thinking in terms of a ring?"

You hadn't ever even thought about what you wanted your future engagement ring to look like. Marriage hadn't been an integral part of your life until you struck the deal with Sukuna. Before then, you had only been fueled off of spite and grief. That left no time for dreaming of a wedding.

Looking up towards Sukuna, you were surprised to see his eyes looking down at you. The ever opinionated yakuza lord was serious about you having free reign over this ring design.

"Oh- um, I'm not sure. I've never shopped around before or even looked..." Your eyes locked onto the glass display counter that was in front of you. There plenty of gorgeous pre-cut options to choose from that absolutely beamed in the light, casting a glittery kaleidoscope of colors. They had to cost a fortune.

Gio shared a silent look with Sukuna. In Gio's profession, he was used to the high-rollers bringing in their money hungry wives. Usually, their pupils dilated while looking at the dollar signs that they could make their husbands spend on them, but you... you look genuinely concerned, even frightened.

"Well, Mr. Ryomen, are you going to give her some sort of budget?" he asked, trying to figure out some place to start with the ring.

Sukuna scoffed as if Gio had outright called him poor. "She can have whatever she wants. I have better things to do than to nickel and dime my wife."

That only seemed to bring you more panic, indecisively frozen at the front counter.

The Italian man smoothed his brow, recognizing that he was not being faced with his usual clientele. This was the Ryomen Sukuna and his wife who was clearly a stranger to the finer things.

"Well, let me make something personalized for you two. It's the least I can do for an old pal, and a lady of such caliber deserves something special. I actually received an exceptional import of some of the finest rubies I have laid my eyes on. Are you a stickler for tradition, young lady?"

You shook your head. Despite your promise of purity until marriage, you didn't consider yourself to be traditional.

"Perfect. Let me go grab one from the back and show you what I have in mind," he said as he turned on his heel and walked towards the locked safe in one of the back rooms.

You gazed up at your future husband. This was just one more thing to make your deal so much more real. You were marrying someone who you hadn't even known for a month yet.

"Are you into following traditions?" you asked mainly to fill the silence but also because you were interested in what he considered to be tradition.

Sukuna cocked an eyebrow before reaching up and gently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "Now princess, what gave you the illusion that I give any sense of a fuck about what people did before me?"

You chewed on your bottom lip, looking away from him out of intimidation. "Does your family even have traditions? It's kind of important for me to know since they'll be my family too."

He stilled for a moment. Family wasn't something that he liked to think of too often, and the fact that you'd soon have to meet them brought on more protective instincts than Sukuna liked to admit. He didn't want them anywhere near you.

"They have expectations, not traditions, if that answers your question."

Before you could process that sort of response, Gio had already returned with a gemstone that looked to be bigger than your finger. Your eyes widened in shock, taking in how gorgeous it was as Gio laid it down on the carpeted surface of a tray.

"Look at that," he said as he gently picked up the ruby with a gloved hand to prevent any sort of fingerprint transference. He held it up towards Sukuna's face, letting your husband inspect the ruby. It glinted off of the light, nearly blinding you. "It matches the crimson of Mr. Ryomen's eyes. I suppose that’s why they call it a blood ruby. There's no finer rock to signify whose wife you'll be, miss. No one will be able to mistake it."

"We'll take it," Sukuna said with a firm nod. For someone who was keen on giving you full freedom over the ring's appearance, he was enthralled on the idea of you wearing something that was so completely him... as if the permanent necklace wasn't enough.

His cock swelled in his pants. The thought of everyone knowing that this angel belonged to the devil of Shibuya was enough to make him want to bend you over the counter and stake his claim to you in public, but he resisted... for now.

"I'll also want to include an engraving on the inside. I'll send it to you. Have it done by the end of the day, Gio." With that, Sukuna led you back out of the shop.

It was all happening so fast. While you were grateful that you didn't have to make the final decision, your head felt like it was spinning from how quickly Sukuna took over the ring decision. Then, there was the elusive engraving that he wanted but suspiciously wouldn’t say in front of you

“Are your feet sore?” he asked, typing away on his phone with one hand while he had your hand firmly clasped in his other. You two walked side-by-side with him keeping tucked on the inside, away from the street.

You looked down at your normal sneakers. You were still wearing the same clothes from school, and Sukuna had bought you all new shoes when you had moved it. Honestly, your feet had never felt more comfortable. It was like walking on clouds.

“No, I’m fine,” you responded in a mutter, you still weren’t over how he basically vanished for a full week, leaving you to cope with crippling paranoia on your own.

Sukuna clicked send on his text, and he pocketed his phone before glancing down towards you. The way your lips were curled into a small frown made him smirk. The way you wore your emotions around him never failed to entice him. “Get out of your head, doll. Tell me what’s on your mind. Did you not like the ruby?”

“No— the ruby was stunning. I’m still not exactly sure how to feel about the money aspect…” you immediately countered, pulling your hand away from his to cross your arms over your chest.

He grunted, furrowing his eyebrows at the loss of contact. It scorned him every little time you pulled back. “Money is not for your concern. It is not an object that I care about, and you’ll never need to worry or want again. So, dispel those thoughts from your mind and tell me what’s really going on.”

His words nearly made you stumble over the paved sidewalk. He didn’t care about money? Then, why even own an entire district? Filing those thoughts away in your mind, you finally decided to just get down to what was bothering you.

“Mr. Higuruma hasn’t came back to class, and I have a feeling that my advisor knows what happened— I just can’t stop thinking that everyone knows I’m involved, and that man… the one you…” You couldn’t say it. Not here. Not out loud. “He haunts me. I see him in my dreams. It’s like he’s clinging to my spirit and cursing me for my complacency. And you have been no where this past week. I know this isn’t a typical marriage, and I guess you don’t owe me anything. But goddammit I-“

Your breath caught in your lungs as Sukuna firmly grabbed your hip with one hand, spinning you until your back was pressed against a brick building. His other hand pressed against the wall as he towered over you, completely shielding you from the outside world. No, there was no outside world. It was just him. Just Sukuna.

His eyes bored into your soul. While he had to lean down to look at you fully, it only worked to intimidate you more. You leaned as far into the wall as you could, wondering if he was angry at you for bringing such a thing up.

“Has anyone told you that you ramble too damn much?” he asked lowly as his thumb trailed over your bottom lip, tracing its way towards your cheek.

You gasped softly, “No, I’m just long winded and thorough. That’s why I’m going to be a good lawyer.”

“Damn right you are,” Sukuna chuckled darkly, and his eyes skimmed over your face. “I said earlier that I had no interest in nickeling and diming you. That’s not just about money, brat. That’s for everything. Don’t keep yourself from me because you don’t think I owe it to you. I’ll determine that for myself.”

He leaned down towards your neck, and you had to stifle a whimper as you felt him caress your delicate skin with his nose, smelling you. Savoring your fear and restrained lust. “I lied. This is my favorite side of you.”

He inhaled deeply once more, and you shivered as you felt his eyelashes tickle the side of your neck. “I’ve been tailing your precious professor for the last couple of days. He's fine. He's just doing as he was told."

"You told him to stay away?" you asked quickly, nearly pulling away from him to get a good look at his face, but he held you still.

"He's a defense attorney, angel. He's not a stranger to threats. That's why I haven't been home. Now, who's this advisor of yours?"

You quickly shook your head. No way were you going to give up Nanami's name and get him drug into this too. You already had enough on your conscious.

Sharp teeth dug into the flesh of your neck, causing you to yelp. "Don't protect him. Do you not trust me?"

"Not in the slightest," you breathed out, trying to push him back, but it was like trying to shove a wall. "My advisor doesn't matter-"

Sukuna trailed his lips down to your shoulder, where he bit down again, making dental impressions on your skin. "A name. You're going to give me his name."

This time, a sweet moan fell from your lips. Sukuna dug his nails into the brick. The people of Japan were lucky to be no where around whenever you let that sound go because he was sure he was going to murder anyone else who heard it.

It took every inch of his self control not to rip off your stupid leggings and panties and slam into your virgin cunt. He'd shred every last bit of innocence you had. He'd make an impression of himself inside you. He wanted you to carry around pieces of him forever.

"No, I'm not..."

Sukuna dropped to his knees, and his palms massaged your thighs as he looked up at you. "I can think of better places to bite you until you give me a name."

"I don't want you to hurt him!" you cried out, desperate to not give up Nanami's name, but you didn't know how much longer you could take Sukuna biting you. You had already soaked through your panties, and you didn't want him getting any closer to find out how wet you were from pain.

"And I don't want him to hurt you," he growled as he leaned in close. His eyes were glued to yours as his breath brushed against the inside of your thighs. He was desperate for any semblance of a taste. When his tongue delved out, you quickly spoke up.

"Kento Nanami."

He almost wanted to pretend like he didn't hear you. He wanted to ignore everything and just shove his face between your legs until you started letting out those sweet noises again. He wanted his face to be coated in your honeyed dew. He wanted to drown in you.

Instead, he leaned over and bit your thigh roughly. "For making me ask more than once," he grumbled before standing back up, yanking you along behind him. "Your precious advisor won't be hurt if he stays in his own lane."

Your face was burning up with embarrassment. He had been so close to your core... You wondered if he somehow knew how turned on you were. The thought made you want to hide away from him.

You tried to ask questions on if he'd elaborate on what that meant, but he wouldn't. Sukuna was uncharacteristically silent throughout the rest of the day. He took you to lunch at his favorite small diner, and when Gio called him to let him know that your ring was done, he was silent on the way back too.

The only thing you noticed was how he kept having to readjust himself in his pants. He wasn't even trying to be sneaky about it. That knowledge alone only heightened your arousal for him. He was just as affected by you as you were by him.

Even whenever you two arrived back at Gio's, and you were able to see the ring in all of it's glory, Sukuna merely gave a grunt of approval. Your engagement ring was the epitome of gorgeous elegance. It wasn't traditional. A marquise cut blood red ruby sat proudly on a golden band. Proud ten carrot diamonds surrounded the gemstone. There wasn't a word for how devastatingly beautiful it was.

The only words Sukuna spoke was when you carefully tilted the ring to see the engraving on the inside. He read, "Until death and in the next life, my angel."

Your eyes involuntarily watered. Was it fear or was it heartfelt emotion?

"Let's let the misses have a moment while we talk business, yeah?" With that, Gio lead Sukuna to the backroom to discuss what he wanted as payment for your ring.

Taglist (50/50): @theuniversesnepobaby @airandyeah @lizatonix @starmapz @everywonuu @totallygyomeiswife @sukubusss @depressiondiaries @t4naiis @hishearttohave @soraya-daydreams @lulunx @s-1-xx @el-lise @prettyngeto @marifujioka @iheartlinds @gina239 @actuallynarii @shxyxyxxxx @krispycreamepie @emoedgylord @nina-from-317 @pandabiene5115 @paintedperidot @dissociativewriter @lmaoshush @ninani-nanina @sadrna @boisenberry77 @tojifush @erwinawesomeness @meanwhilesomewhereelse @safasz @kassfunk19 @moncher-ire @gradmacoco @riahlynn-102 @diduzzula @juiceeypeach @kunasthiast @jinxiewritings @mordacioust @rinofcike @therealjustpeachesback @cutesytwt @loonytunesmith @stargirl-mayaa @dyavorange @beau-regards

[notrustfratedjin]

WHY IS HE SO FUCKING HOT 😭😭

GAWWWDDDD this Sukuna is altering my brain chemistry I swear

[lintobln]

My responsibility

p: Husband! Ushijima Wakatoshi x F! reader 

c: Husband! Wakatoshi comes home after a very late night of training and much more in-gym interviews than he’d like, only to find you cowered up in some corner of the house, eyes wet and tired, cradling a screaming baby in your arms.

ct: hurt (?)/comfort, domestic setting, mentally exhausted reader

WC: 0.9k

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀

The front door clicks open quietly, the still air of the night creeping into your heated home. Wakatoshi slips his volleyball shoes off at the entryway, eyebrows already narrowing in concern as his ears register the faint crying of his newborn echoing from a far room in the house. 

He immediately drops his training bags, feet softly thudding across the floors with a rare sense of worried urgency. The two of you should have been long asleep by now, tucked up and safe in your warm covers, resting you tired bodies.

But you weren’t. 

Instead you were sitting on your bedroom floor with your back to your shared bed, body hunched over and cradling a screaming little bundle. Both of your faces streaked with tears, looking completely and utterly drained. Wakatoshi guessed that you must’ve been here for hours, desperately pleading for your little one to close her eyes. 

Your voice hitches, tired, helpless eyes looking up to find your husband. “She just won’t stop, I’ve t-tried everything.”

The reddened baby lets out a shrill cry, so high-pitched you're afraid it hurts. 

“I've fed her, changed her, rocked her - everything, Toshi. I’ve even-”

Wakatoshi interrupts silently, sinking down to your height and rubbing a callused thumb against your cheek, smooshing tears into your skin. “It is okay. I am here now to help.” His hair is still damp with sweat - remnants from his late-night training that had him kept way past overtime. And his muscles are aching and sore - wanting no more than to take a hot shower and then cuddle up with his family in bed. 

But he doesn’t, not yet. Because you're here, struggling. Doing your best for his family. 

So instead he scoops the screaming baby from your arms, eyes softening at her red, spent face. 

He stands up and sways, pressing your squirming child to his chest. It seems to settle her a little. Ever so slightly. “You should sleep, I can take care of her now.” Toshi moves to dip a hand under your armpit, gently helping you get up from off the floor. 

You steady your exhausted body upwards, wiggling your arm out of his soft grip in protest. “No, no- but there's still dinner,” Your breaths come shaky and disoriented. “M’ almost done, it just needs like - ten more minutes.” 

Wakatoshi’s lips part. Here you’ve been, wholly exhausted, tending to his shrieking daughter and simultaneously keeping the household upright while also cooking dinner just so he had something hot to come home to?

He is so very grateful, right to the bottom of his heart. But what you need right now is sleep - not to worry about anyone or anything else. He can’t have his beautiful, perfect wife running on empty, can he?

Your husband murmurs your name softly, still rocking your hiccuping child in his arms and pushes you to sit down on the bed cautiously, careful to not upset you while you're in such a fragile state.

Wakatoshi’s fingers ghost your hairline. 

“Toshi…” You lean into his touch, hot, tired tears threatening to fall from your eyes again. “I really tried, I just can’t-”

“You’ve tried enough. And you have done well.” He places a soothing kiss to your temple. It eases your headache. “It is time for you to rest now, I’ll take care of everything else.” 

“But-”

He raises his palm outwards to stop you from speaking. “It’s okay, you don’t have to explain. I am sorry I was out so late, I should've come home earlier.” 

“S’fine,” You rub your eyes with the back of your weary hand, noticing that your baby’s wet cries have died down to just the occasional little sniffle. 

“It is not fine. I should do better at taking care of you both, just as you do.”

You shrug, eyes darting down to the floor, not knowing where to look instead.

“Thank you for being so strong.” He tips your chin upwards so your eyes meet to his, that comforting, serious stare that you’ve always been able to indulge in. “Now please get into bed, I do not wish for you to miss any more sleep than you already have. 

Your newborn's breathing evens out, settled by the soft thump of Wakatoshi’s heartbeat and your gentle voices pattering back and forth. 

You nod, sniffle a few times, and start peeling back the covers with the help of your husband. “But what if she wakes up again?”

He drapes the heavy covers over your body, dusting stray hairs away from your face. “Then I will deal with it. You need to sleep, or at least rest your eyes.” 

Smiling tiredly with a small frown creased in between your eyebrows, you have no other choice but to listen to him, even if you tried, you don’t think your body would let you get out of bed now.  

You watch Wakatoshi wordlessly as he switches off the bedside lamp and creeps out of the room as stealthily as he's able to. (Which is not very much - he’s a big man.) 

You can’t help but keep your eyes open, body and brain waiting for the sound of the nursery door to open. When you do hear it though, your body instantly relaxes a little. You finally let yourself sink into the covers, pulling the plush blankets up past your face so only your eyes are visible. 

The last memory you have of that night is the low creak of the bed frame as a warm body eases into the covers beside you, strong, steady arms enveloping you in their hold.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀

a/n: ughhh husband Wakatoshi can have my soul, I love him so SO much. More coming soon...? (｡· v ·｡) ?

All works are owned by @ lintobln - please do not copy, edit or plagiarize ♡ 

[notrustfratedjin]

MY SHAYLAAAA 😭

[alygator77]

࿐ vows of duty ── part 2

࿐pairing. arranged clanhead! satoru x fem! reader

࿐summary. the gojo clan is untouchable, and their new ruler, gojo satoru, is the most powerful sorcerer of his generation—unrivaled, unrestricted, and utterly uncontrollable. for years, he has defied the expectations of his clan, rejecting tradition, resisting the cage they built for him. but even the strongest must bow to duty. a deal struck, a marriage arranged. you, the daughter of a fallen clan, are chosen to stand at his side. not out of love, but because gojo satoru always gets what he wants. and if he's obligated to marry, fuck it, he wants you. though, you quickly learn that your place is not beside him—but beneath him. why? because gojo satoru doesn’t do love.

࿐tags/warnings. nsfw 18+, smut, angst (with eventual fluff), slight canon divergence, arranged marriage, satoru is emotionally detached, he's kinda a dick at times, breeding, breeding kink, praise kink, some degradation, loss of virginity, mentions of infidelity, mentions of a prior scandal (i'll update tags as i write more) » 【this part — wet dream, sex, masturbation, dry humping and making out, satoru is horny af and shameless with dirty talk. say hi to yuji, megumi and maki! also shoko and nanami. satoru is still a dick. BORDERLINE cheating behavior - so read at your own discretion. the angst is angsting.】

࿐wc. 20k (what is wrong with me?)

࿐a/n. it's back! oh man, i'm gonna go crawl under a rock after posting this, ahaha. i hope ya'll like it. as you can see, i can't stop yappin. like, clearly i can't write a story without making it super in depth 🙂‍↕️ with the traditional ceremonies, just know that i'm not japanese so if certain things are incorrect forgive me! also, there is definitely canon divergence in this fic. satoru is not officially a sensei at jujutsu high. his duty is to his clan. art by @/_3aem

➔ series masterlist ♫ playlist ➔ ao3 ➔ primary masterlist

“Mm… fuck. Look at this mess…”

His voice drips over your skin, all sugar and filth—slurred into something reverent. While he drags his cock through your soaked folds, the teasing mess smears up his throbbing dick.

“’t-toru… I-I—mnh…” You’re floating. Weightless beneath him, breath caught somewhere in your throat—not that you care to find it. Because he's everywhere. Pressed to you, over you, into you. Warming you from the inside out as the blunt head of his cock nudges your entrance—thick, leaking, spilling sticky precum between your thighs.

It’s a mess. It’s so fucking new. And god it’s everything.

A low chuckle hums in your ear—warm, cocky, curling down your spine. When your lashes flutter open, he’s already looking at you. That crooked little smirk carved into his lips. Blue eyes sharp and soft at once, like he’s reading you and writing you all in one breath.

“Already drippin’ all over me, huh?” he murmurs, grinding lazily against your clit like it’s just a game to him. “What’s got you so needy, baby?”

Snowy strands brush your cheeks. His hair falls wild in his face, casting soft shadows over those impossible eyes. And god—he’s beautiful. Too beautiful. So fucking beautiful it hurts to look at him. He feels like a wish granted too fast. Like something stolen from a dream. And he’s yours. That’s the part you keep trying to believe.

Looming over you, he plants a palm on the sheets by your head. The other traces down your thigh, slow and certain, spreading you open like you’re delicate. Like you’re special. Making your heart ache more.

“Gonna tell me what you want?” he pants, dragging himself back through your slick. “C’mon…” he hums, earning your gasp—hips lifting as he teases you. “Lemme hear it, pretty girl. Don’t be shy now.”

Your voice slips from your lips before your shame can catch it. Because right now, you feel like you could spill your entire heart to this man. Why?

“P-Please…”

“Please what?” he croons, abs tensing with every lazy rut of his cock. “Aww… what do you want, hm?”

And oh, it’s humiliating how badly you want him while the fat head of his dick rubs your clit. You ache for him in places you didn’t even know could ache. But the heat between your legs is nothing compared to the heat in your chest, your throat, your thoughts.

“I want you,” you whisper, heart cracking open. “Want you so bad…”

And how could you not?

He makes you feel like nothing else matters. Like no one’s watching. Like you’re allowed to want. To crave. To be touched. To take.

Free of expectation. Free of tradition.

And still—still there’s that voice in the back of your mind. The part that remembers the time in his private villa. The silence after. The way he didn’t hold you. Didn’t stay.

I got what I wanted. You had your fun, yeah?

You try not to think about it. Try not to let it matter. Because he said it like it meant nothing. But… this has to mean something. It has to. Right? Because how could someone touch you like this and not mean it? You’ve never felt like this before. Never even imagined you could feel this. Like you’ve always belonged here—under him, wrapped around him, lost in him.

His.

Exhaling, he cups your cheek—thumb brushing tenderly over your skin, like he doesn’t notice the war you’re losing beneath it. “That so?” he breathes, mouth so close it feels like a secret. “You want this cock, sweetheart?”

You nod. So hard it almost hurts.

“Want you to fuck me… please…” and that earns his groan. “Oh, you pretty thing…” and pressing forward—he’s lining himself up with a smirk and a low whisper. “Gonna make a mess of you…”

And then he’s pushing every inch of that flushed, angry cock into your tight little cunt. Slow. So slow it feels like it’s never going to end. Like he wants you to feel every inch as it splits you open, stretching you in a way you could only dream.

“Oh, fuuuuck…” his voice splinters as your legs fall open wider. “Shit… just fuckin’ meltin’ around me…” and your body gives, like it’s been waiting for this. Made for him.

“Satoru—” you gasp, clinging to his shoulders like you might fall through the floor. “Shhh…” his forehead falls to yours, and he doesn’t move at first. Just stays there. Inside you. Wrapped in your heat, your walls fluttering around him like you’re not sure if you’re ready or begging for more.

And that’s the thing—you don’t know. You don’t know anything right now. Just that it’s him. That it’s this. And it’s yours. A dream come true.

“You feel like a dream,” he whispers, hips twitching once, slow and deep. “Like I’ve waited forever for this…”

Dream.

Maybe you are dreaming. Are you? Is that why this feels so good? No, maybe it’s just him. Because suddenly he’s moving. A rhythm that starts with reverence—measured, deep, like he wants to memorize you. Every breath. Every arch. Every sound you make.

“Look at me,” he pants, lips brushing yours as he rocks languidly. “Keep your eyes on me while I fuck you, yeah?”

Your lashes flutter—dazed, drunk on him. And you do. You look. You stare into those vivid blue eyes like they’re the last thing tethering you to this goddamn earth. Eyes that are endless. Limitless.

A dream?

Yeah. That’s what this is. A dream come true. A dream spun from every ache you’ve buried—pulled from the softest, dirtiest corners of your aching little heart—where no one ever told you what to want, only that you shouldn’t. And now he’s here.

The man of your dreams, giving you everything you thought was out of reach.

Freedom. Pleasure. Love.

Love?

Love’s a strange thing. You’ve never been in love—never trusted it. And how could you if you’ve never seen it done right—watching your parents gut it and wear it like a lie. But one thing’s for sure—this is what it feels like to be wanted. Right?

So, you’ll be his. Whatever he wants. Whatever he needs. Always. If this is how he’ll make you feel—god, you’ll be his forever.

“Feels s’good,” you whisper, head tilting back as he fucks you deeper. “Oh yeah?” he grunts, dragging his cock out slow, then driving it back in with a wet slap. “You hear that?” he murmurs near your ear. “Fuckin’ soaked for me.”

Whining under him, your cunt coats his dick, wet and warm, dripping between your legs. His muscles tense above you, hands sliding down your body, gripping your hips.

“God, baby… greedy little pussy’s grippin’ me… shit,” he hisses through his teeth, fingers digging into skin. “Fine… take it—” and with a hard thrust, he buries himself to the hilt.

“Ahh! W-Wait—” you jolt, but the protest melts into a stream of filthy moans as he finds his rhythm—hips snapping forward, balls slapping against your ass.

“Mmm… that’s my girl…” he pants, cooing against your ear as he kisses the side of your neck. Slick, wet sounds echo through the room as he fucks your cunt in sharp, steady thrusts.

“Fuck, Satoru—" you gasp, choking on his name. And he groans—filthy, low—panting in your ear, lost in your heat as your pussy grips him just right.

“Shit… look at you,” he breathes, grinding deeper, breath hot against your cheek. “Yes… fuck yes… you gonna let me fill you up, baby?”

Your cunt is fluttering around him—soaking, tight. He's rolling every inch of that flushed cock in slow, devastating thrusts.

“So pretty… so fuckin’ pretty…” he murmurs, eyes half-lidded, fixed on your face. He's drinking every gasp straight from your lungs. “Gonna let me fuck this pussy every goddamn day, hm?” his cock drags out, only to slam it back in. “Nnngh… have you drippin’ down my cock, making a fuckin’ mess of yourself for me?”

God, you will. You’d do anything for him. You moan as his mouth finds your throat again—kisses that turn to bites, soft lips followed by sharp teeth. Gentle, then greedy as he continues to pump deeper.

“Let ‘em see,” he growls against your skin. “Let ‘em hear how good I fuck you—just take it.”

His rhythm shifts—harder, faster, meaner. Each thrust crashes into you with a wet slap, your cunt gushing around him. You’re gasping, breath breaking into ragged whimpers as the dripping head of his cock kisses your cervix—over and over again.

You don’t even know what you’re saying anymore—you’re just moaning, gasping, breaking.

“Well?” he snarls, pounding you harder. “C’mon… who do you belong to, sweetheart?”

He fucks you so hard the floor seems to shake. Your body’s sliding helpless beneath him, your mind scattering like shards of glass. You sob, "Y-You," and your fingers curl into his hair, clinging like you'll fall about without him. Because you will. “Yours—’toru—m’yours…”

That encourages him, he’s gasping, thrusting, moaning—wet slaps echoing.

“Good fuckin’ girl… f-fuck…” he groans, voice cracking as his cock pulses deep inside you, cum spilling hot. “Gonna—shit—gonna cum…”

And wrapping your legs around him, you feel him shudder. Warmth spills from your cunt, slick and slow, while your pussy flutters around him, milking every drop. His thrusts don't stop. They just slow—grinding in lazy, possessive circles. Rolling deeper, messier, like he wants to keep it all inside you. Like he needs you full.

“Mine,” he breathes, dick twitching inside you. “Fuck… all mine… my pretty wife…” he pants, teeth grazing your shoulder, “…my messy little slut—mine… mine…”

The words tumble from him in broken, breathless threads—a litany, hot and reverent—branding you from the inside out.

Mine.

Again.

Mine.

You’re gasping, falling. Everything blurs; his body wrapping around you, filling you, flooding every aching, empty part of you. And the room—it starts to feel…

Mine….

Soft?

Mine…

The kind of warmth that doesn’t feel real.

Almost like…

Mine…

Like a dream.

Mine…

Get up.

You blink.

Get. Up.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

“You’re still in bed?”

That voice. No warmth. Just clipped syllables slicing through the remnants of your dream.

“Get up.”

And just like that, the weight of him vanishes. The heat. The stretch. The sweetness. Gone.

Jolting up, your silk robe slips off your shoulder, and light stings your eyes as your lashes flutter open. But it’s not his breath you feel, it’s the bite of morning air against your sweat-slick skin—and your mother’s cold stare.

Oh. Right. A dream.

“Well?” Her voice cuts again, brisk and unforgiving. “You think the entire Gojo clan is going to wait for you to collect yourself?”

She’s already at the window, fingers ghosting over the wood frame. The shoji groans as it slides open, letting in a wash of cold that rushes over the tatami and blooms across your bare collarbone.

Flinching, you instinctively draw your robe tighter—but it’s too late. The ache between your legs is still slick, still pulsing like a secret you can’t scrub off. Shame burns hot in your chest.

A wet dream. You had a fucking wet dream.

Over him.

Cheeks burning, your knees lock tight. And by the curl of your mother’s lip—you must look exactly how you feel.

Filthy.

“You’re flushed,” she remarks, arching a brow. “And you’re shaking.”

“Oh… sorry,” you whisper, shutting your eyes like that might make you disappear. “I… didn’t sleep well.”

There’s a pause.

You brace for a reprimand. A sharp lesson, a stern lecture. But it doesn’t come—only the soft rustle of silk.

“Why? Are… you nervous about today?”

When your eyes flutter open, she’s kneeling before you. Her expression has softened, and there’s something quieter in her hands as they reach for your robe, brushing your collar with practiced care.

“That color suits you…” she murmurs, adjusting the fabric where it’s slipped from your shoulder, “…Ivory always did.”

You blink, lips parting, startled by the shift in her tone.

“You used to wear it constantly…” she adds, softer now. “Said it made you feel like a princess. Wouldn’t let me dress you in anything else.”

Adjusting the fold near your shoulder, her fingers linger, smoothing it flat with quiet care.

“I swear…” glancing up at you, her lips twitch, like the memory tastes bitter and sweet at once. “I hid that white yukata more times than I can count.”

Your own mouth curves, matching her smile.

“Yeah… but I always found it.”

“Tch. And stained it before noon!” She huffs, smiling, shaking her head. “Grass. Dirt. Ink from your calligraphy kit. You’d tear through the garden like a storm. Always barefoot. Always chasing your father, trying to mimic his stances.”

You still.

Because she said it—his name. And she never does. Not anymore. Not since the night he left.

Her hands move slower now, but her gaze drifts somewhere far beyond the room.

“Your father…” she echoes quietly, straightening a crease, “…he used to call you his little crane. Said you looked too delicate for martial arts… until you bloodied his lip.”

Her fingers hover at the fold of your robe, and for the first time in years, the silence between you feels fragile. Sacred. As if something hidden might surface—something she’s almost ready to hand you.

But the moment doesn’t last.

Drawing back, she stands in one fluid motion, sleeves whispering against her sides.

“Regardless… you’re not a child anymore,” her voice sharpens. “And we don’t get the luxury of mistakes, understood?”

You nod, and whatever had cracked in her seals shut again—her tenderness slipping away, folded back inside like silk tucked into a drawer.

“You have fifteen minutes before the stylists arrive…”

Then, the door slides shut with a soft click.

And you’re left alone with the scent of sandalwood fading in the air, a chill still clinging to your skin, a heat between your legs, and the ache of a mother’s love that always pulls back before it ever reaches your hands.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

Gentle fingers tilt your chin.

“Hold still, sweetheart. I don’t want to poke your eye out before the ceremony.”

The powder brush sweeps across your cheek in soft, fluttering strokes—light as breath, enough to chase the nerves from your skin.

“You really are a vision,” one of the stylists insists, a small, reverent sigh slipping past her lips. “He won’t be able to look away.”

“I doubt that…” you murmur, trying to smile—though it barely touches your eyes.

But the reflection staring back at you says otherwise. The perfect bride-to-be, composed and radiant.

Your kimono wraps tight around your ribs, layers of pale ivory and blooming crimson spreading like a painted fan across your body. Embroidered cranes glide up your sleeves in gold and silver threads—regal, serene. Their necks curve skyward, as though chasing something you can’t see.

“This must feel surreal,” the older stylist adds, stepping back to admire her work. She tilts your chin higher, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “The yuino ceremony… such an elegant tradition.”

You blink slowly, the weight of the moment sinking in.

The yuino—an engagement ritual where two families exchange gifts to formalize a union. Every offering means something: thread for longevity, sake for harmony, kelp for joy. It’s less about the couple, more about the bloodlines. A promise not just between people, but legacies.

“It’s definitely… traditional,” you admit.

“More like transactional…” the youngest mumbles, tugging at your obi with sharp, precise hands.

The elder hushes her with a look—not harsh, but warning—then turns back to you.

“My dear… tradition isn’t meant to trap us,” she assures, low and sincere. “It’s meant to carry us.”

Reaching up to adjust a pin in your hair, her touch is slow, almost motherly.

“All of this—the layers, the ritual—it’s not just for show. It’s a blessing. A beginning.” Her fingers pause at the side of your head before meeting your gaze in the mirror. “And if you let it… it can be something beautiful.”

Glancing at your reflection, there’s a quiet ache behind her words. Because you were raised to follow. To perform. To marry. And yet, somehow… her words echo, soft as silk.

It’s startling. Strange, even.

It should feel like a cage. Shouldn’t it? Every fold, every knot, every ornament arranged to present someone else’s idea of who you are. After all, with your family, marriage was always the destination. And yet, the weight pressing down on your shoulders feels lighter than it should.

Maybe it’s the way she said it. Or… maybe it’s because of him.

Satoru Gojo, with his messy grin and reckless freedom—he doesn’t bow to tradition. He lives like nothing owns him. Not his clan. Not his duty. Not even his legacy. He rewrites every rule with a smirk.

You haven’t stopped thinking about it. About him.

The wet dream had only sharpened it, made it vivid—too vivid. That stretch, that heat. It felt real. It felt like it mattered. Because despite everything—despite duty and expectation—you want him. Not just his hands or his mouth or the way he made you fall apart in that villa.

You want him to see you through all of this.

You want to be his.

Because maybe, as strange as it sounds, the stylist is right. Maybe this can be more than duty. Maybe this is a beginning. Not of obedience—but of something else. Something fragile and full of possibility.

God, you wish it to be so. You need it to be so.

The older stylist gives your shoulder a final pat, stepping back to admire you once more.

“I wonder what he’ll give you,” the youngest muses, voice airy, almost starstruck. “Someone like Gojo Satoru…” she hums. “I bet it’s something extravagant.”

“He’s like a storm in silk,” another sighs dreamily. “Whatever it is, it’ll be unforgettable.”

The eldest smiles, something softer flickering in her eyes. “Glamour fades,” she remarks. “But a gift that knows who you are… now that’s something you carry for life.”

A gift that knows who you are.

The words echo, soft and lingering. And suddenly, you’re not sure—does yours? Is it enough? Will he appreciate it?

Glancing towards the vanity, your gaze drops to the small black box, half-hidden among the combs and lacquered trays like a secret.

“Ah!” One of the stylists perks up, catching the direction of your eyes. “That’s for him?” she asks, nodding toward the box.

You hesitate for a breath, then nod. “It is,” and reaching for it, your fingers smooth over the velvet before curling around the edges. “It’s my gift.”

In the yuino, it’s customary for the groom’s family to present gifts first—then comes the bride’s turn. Something of worth. Something of value.

That part was never easy. Not when you had nothing to give but what little you could scrape together. Money is short, but you did it. Somehow. And you wonder—would he see that? Would he know what it cost you—the quiet sacrifices, the things you were forced to let go of—just to place something in his hands that felt like truth?

Your fingers slide beneath the satin ribbon, loosening it slowly, letting it fall open.

Inside, nestled in dark velvet, rests a pair of sunglasses. Sleek. Rectangular. Matte black with thin platinum accents at the temples. Understated, but undeniably expensive—a limited designer release you spent weeks searching for.

“Um…” the elder tilts her head, “…sunglasses?”

“Modern,” another hesitates, as if afraid to offend. “Not exactly… traditional.”

You watch the way the lenses catch the light—dark, smooth, almost defiant.

“No…” you admit, lips curving faintly. “But neither is he.”

“Tch.” A voice from the doorway cuts in. “That’s putting it mildly.”

Looking up, you already know who’s interrupted before setting eyes on her—the dry bite in her voice is unmistakable.

Maki Zenin.

Leaning against the doorway, green hair pulled back into a ponytail, there she is. Your sister in arms. The closest thing you have to a friend. Or maybe… a younger sister, if life had been kinder.

“Ah…” one of the stylists clears her throat, taking a careful step back. “And… you are…?”

“Relax,” she huffs. “I’m just the disgraced friend. I promise not to stain the upholstery.”

The eldest arches a brow, and you jump in quickly.

“She’s with me.”

The two of you go back years—back when your families still tolerated one another. Her clan managed stock, yours specialized in cursed weapon refinement. While the adults buried themselves in trade negotiations and formalities, you both were left to your own devices. Two girls, too young to matter, yet old enough to know it.

She was brash even back then—calling you “old” and “boring.” Daring you to sneak into the armory, challenging you to out-duel her with weapons twice her size. You were quieter, more reserved, raised on obedience and grace. But when Maki handed you a dull blade and grinned, your blood had thrummed with something you never had words for.

You were raised to bow. She was raised to bite. And somehow, you met in the middle. Now, years later, you still find her at your side. The only one who never abandoned you, never flinched when the world turned cold and your clan shut you out. Like hers did for her.

“I see,” the stylist straightens politely, smoothing her sleeves. “We’ll give you two a moment, then. I’ll prepare the fan offering for the ceremony.”

“And I’ll fetch the lacquer box!” Another chirps, already gathering her things.

They exit with soft murmurs and a shuffle of silk, bows and slippers brushing over tatami. The door slides shut behind them, sealing the room in a quieter hush.

Exhaling, your shoulders ease as your eyes meet Maki’s in the mirror.

“You’re here.”

“Yeah, well… I said I’d come, didn’t I?” she sighs, pushing off the doorframe with the kind of casual bravado that’s always been second nature to her. Her eyes sweep the room—to the silk shimmering across your collarbones, the ceremonial stillness. “So…” her brow lifts, “…you’re really going through with it, huh?”

“Yup. But don’t sound so surprised,” you hum, smoothing your kimono with a teasing lilt. “After all, one of us had to make it out of exile first.”

“Pfft.” Maki rolls her eyes, but her grin flickers with something almost proud. “I don’t want out. Fuck the Zenins. I’m not crawling back just to prove a point.”

You smile faintly.

“Still stubborn.”

“And you’re still too soft,” she quips, striding towards the vanity.  

Leaning against it, her arms fold, eyes narrowing in a way that only pretends to be judgmental. But you know. Beneath it: worry. Loyalty. That particular kind of protectiveness that only someone who’s exiled knows how to wear.

“You… really want to do this?”

“Maybe…” you meet her eyes in the glass, hesitating. “He’s not like them, Maki…” you shrug, looking down, fidgeting with the sleeve of your kimono. “I mean… I dunno. Maybe it could be… different?”

She doesn’t answer right away. You’re older, but she’s always looked out for you in her own prickly way. And the fact that you didn’t volunteer for this, more like you were voluntold—it annoys the hell out of her.

Still, she huffs out a breath, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose.

“Yeah…” she admits finally, like it costs her. “I guess he’s not.”

Glancing at her sideways, she drops her hands into her pockets, mouth twitching into a grin.

“Y’know… he let me train in the middle of the damn courtyard,” she mutters. “Didn’t even ask what I was doing there. Just tossed me a staff and went, ‘don’t embarrass yourself.’”

You blink. “Wait—what?”

“Yup.” She shrugs, almost smug. “Snuck into Jujutsu High last week. Through the garden wall. Figured I’d get thrown out before I even touched a weapon. But he didn’t flinch. Didn’t tell the higher-ups either. Just… let me stay.”

Your lips part, but no words come right away. The thought of Gojo Satoru—maddening, brilliant, impossible Gojo Satoru—doing something so quietly kind? To someone you care for so deeply? It makes your chest warm. Maki’s been trying to get into Jujutsu High for months, but the system’s written her off like she’s disposable. Unfit. A mistake. But she’s more capable than half the sorcerers they’ve accepted. You’ve always known that.

And the fact that Satoru saw it too…

You feel it then—slow and steady—that hum beneath your skin. That ache of something soft unraveling inside you.

“I mean, damn,” Maki stretches, cracking her knuckles behind her head with a yawn. “You’d think someone that powerful would care about rules, right?”

“Yeah… he doesn’t,” you huff a breath, the smile pulling at your mouth before you can stop it. “That’s the problem.”

Or maybe… it’s exactly why you can’t stop thinking about him.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

Meanwhile, Satoru’s head is spinning—with you. His pretty little wife-to-be, the one who’ll keep the elders quiet and his cock wet.

He’s been in the shower far too long. Steam clings to the cedar walls, fogging the glass panels while the overhead spout hisses steadily against his skin. Water beads down his spine—but it’s not the heat that has him breathless. His hand pumps steadily over his sensitive dick—gliding and rolling over his fat heat as it drips messily onto the stone tile.

He should be getting ready for the ceremony, but here he is, fapping his stiff cock while milky drops spill down his pretty pink tip.

“Fffuck…” he groans, panting with each filthy slap of his fist, “Unngh… that’s it…”

Lewd images flash through his mind—'cause this is easier. Just muscle and heat. No feelings. No expectations. Just the illusion of your trembling thighs, your sweet little cunt sucking him in, soaking his fat dick as he slams into you, over and over.

He bites down a moan, head tipping back, soft white bangs soaked to his forehead. Those impossible eyes—half-lidded beneath snow-damp lashes—burn in the haze, glassy and low. Water rivulets track the slope of his abdomen, glinting over taut skin as his hand works faster, more desperate.

“Shit—yeah… jus’ like that…”

Breath hitching, his hand jerks harder, crude sounds echoing with the hiss of water while his thick shaft pulses in his grip. He can’t stop. Can’t help it. The image sharpens in his mind—your tits bouncing with every thrust, the soft slide of your sleeves slipping off your shoulders. He'd drive into you from behind, hand fisted in your hair.

God, he doesn’t want to be married. But he’d love to fuck the pretty little wife they’ve handed him—make you cry for it, ruin you slow, watch your sweet face twist when his cock drags deep through your dripping cunt.

“Mnh—take it…” he growls, one palm braced against the slick cedar wall, the other pumping hard and fast. His hips stutter, rocking into the heat of his fist, chest heaving as steam curls like breath around his ankles.

Fuck, he’s desperate for relief, and your name’s on the tip of his tongue—not that he’d say it. ‘Cause that’s not how this works. He needs relief. He needs a distraction. Just a little more. So close. So—

BANG. BANG. BANG.

“Oi! What the hell are you doing in there?”

Flinching, Satoru’s hand stills as the voice slams through his pleasure like a slap. The water beats down, dazed eyes fluttering open as he pants—and the moment he glances at the room’s wooden door, an agitated scowl curls across his lips. That voice is muffled, but unmistakable.

Fucking Megumi.

“Dude. You’re taking forever,” the kid gripes, banging again. “I mean… for fuck’s sake—at this rate you’re gonna be late to your own damn engagement party!”

Engagement party.

Right. The yuino.

“Oh, fuck me…” Satoru mutters under his breath, grip falling away with a wet, dejected slap. His cock bobs, still red, swollen—leaking in desperation.

Perfect. Just fucking perfect. Even this—this one private moment—can’t fucking belong to him. The mood’s gone; sucked dry by the obligation pounding at his door.

Great. Now he’s annoyed. Because he was supposed to be getting off, not thinking. But of fucking course, Megumi’s words are that lovely, blaring reminder that he’s about to become officially tied down tonight. About to lose whatever little bit of freedom he was barely clinging onto.

Sure, you’re pretty, you’re tempting—but you’re also part of this now, aren’t you? Part of the problem—despite how good you make his dick feel.

Marriage?

Duty?

He never wanted that shit.

Another knock breaks through the water pounding around him—and with a groan, Satoru’s jaw ticks. “Kid, do you mind?!” he snaps, dragging a hand over his face. “Fucking hell—some of us are trying to have a crisis in peace!”

“Yeah, well, your ‘crisis’ is way behind schedule.” Megumi fires back, tone dry as dust. “Get your shit together, old man.”

Oh, like it’s so simple. Sure. That’s what everyone expects of him.

Exhaling through his nose, Satoru’s eyes flutter shut, head tilting back under the stream. His cock twitches again, stubborn and sensitive, but already softening, the ache still lingering in his groin like a cruel echo.

Wait… why is he even fantasizing about you?! Great. Now he’s even more annoyed at himself. And as his irritation begins to simmer, another insistent knock breaks through the wooden door.

“Jesus Christ… Megumi!” Satoru grits, low and bitter, finally lifting his head. “Unless someone’s dying, just… walk the fuck away!”

“Well, I’m dying. From boredom. Hurry the fuck up.”

With a growl, Satoru twists the water off—steam hissing in protest while a silence finally settles—save for the drip of condensation tapping down the glass. His hands brace against the wall; muscles tense, breath ragged, cock twitching but neglected.

The moment’s gone. Stolen. Per usual.

And now he’s pissed the fuck off. Why the fuck does he keep thinking about your face when you cum?

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

“Eight minutes late,” Megumi notes. “Again.”

Strolling in barefoot, Satoru glides across the tatami, hair still damp, a towel slung around his neck. His inner kimono hangs loose over his frame, belt tied lazily at his hips, sleeves pushed up in carelessness.

“Oh?” he blinks, feigning surprise, raking the towel through his hair. “What’s this, hm? You timing me now?”

“Yaga is,” Megumi sighs, already looking back down at his phone. “Says you’re always late. Just not late enough to chastise.”

That earns a slow, smug grin from Satoru—crooked and boyish, like a secret he’s not going to share. Clicking his tongue, he tosses the towel over the back of the chair, reaching for the next layer of silk.

“Aww,” he hums, slipping into his outer kimono with an almost bored ease. “He’s still using that line? Sentimental old man.”

The linen is rich and textured, dark indigo, finely woven. Near the collar, stitched in silver so pale it borders on illusion, lies the Gojo family crest: Two dragonflies—wings outspread in mirror flight.

Curious creatures, dragonflies are. They say dragonflies can’t fly backward. Only forward. Relentlessly, instinctively—like time, or fate. No turning back.

…much like him after tonight.

Letting out a low breath, Satoru brushes the crest once over with his knuckles. Until—

Thunk!

He blinks, glancing toward the sound. Across the room, Yuji curses under his breath, a lacquered box falling to the floor, skittering across the tatami and landing near Megumi’s foot. As a silk ribbon flutters in Yuji’s hand like a white flag, Satoru immediately realizes what it is.

His gift—for you.

“Oi,” he calls, brow arching. “Is that my gift? Be careful with that.”

Freezing mid-reach, Yuji flinches—caught red-handed.

“Oh—shit. Sorry, Sensei!” he blurts, grabbing the box, fumbling quickly. Steadying it, his eyes flick up sheepishly.  “I, um… didn’t mean to—uh—drop it.

Satoru’s eyes narrow, gaze dragging slowly over the box.

“Mmm… Yuji,” he drawls, tilting his head. “The ribbon’s untied.”

“Right. Uh…” Yuji hesitates, holding the ruined bow like it might defend him. “…it was already like that. Probably.”

Satoru snorts, fiddling with his kimono. “Uh-huh. Right. And I was born on a rice farm.”

Groaning in defeat, Yuji drops his shoulders.

“Okay—fine. But I didn’t mean to untie it. I just…” he rubs the back of his neck, eyes darting away. “Got curious.”

“Curious,” Satoru echoes, unimpressed.

“Yeah…” Yuji mutters, guilt settling in. “Wanted to see what you’re giving the future Mrs. Gojo.”

Pausing mid-adjustment, that title hangs in the air.

Mrs. Gojo.

How strange. Satoru’s called you his wife already… but why does it sound kinda weird hearing it out loud from someone else. Especially someone as pure as Yuji. Huh… maybe it’s easier to call you that when your legs are spread open for him.

Humming low in his throat, he smooths his sleeve with more tension than before.

“Mm.”

But Yuji brightens anyway, as if the mood hasn’t shifted.

“Don’t worry, Gojo-sensei!” he declares, lifting the ribbon like he’s already halfway redeemed. “I can fix it!”

Satoru lifts a brow. “Oh, I’m sure you can.”

Megumi doesn’t even look up. “No, he can’t.”

And just like that, the pink haired boy’s hunched over the low table again, brows drawn in tight concentration, the tip of his tongue poking from the corner of his mouth as Yuji—bless his heart—tries his best; wrestling that ceremonial silk into submission.

Megumi sighs. “It’s a box, Itadori. Not a curse.”

“Yeah, yeah…” Yuji grumbles. “Tch.” He gives the ribbon a final tug, and the knot bunches in on itself like it’s mocking him. A frustrated exhale pulls through his nose. “Kay, but… like, why is this harder than cursed energy manipulation?”

Strolling over, an amused expression pulls from Satoru’s face as he ties his sash with one hand carelessly. Then, peering over Yuji’s shoulder, his gaze drops to the disaster unfolding under the young boy’s hands.

“Eh?” he hums, cocking his head. “You’ve come a long way with your cursed energy control. But clearly, we skipped basic knot tying, Yuji.”

“Okay, but Sensei, this ribbon is cursed,” Yuji deadpans. “It’s mocking me. I swear. I just—ughhh!” He flops back onto the tatami with a groan, arms spread wide like a fallen soldier. “The hell? I’m not even the one getting married, and I’m sweating over this.”

Satoru chuckles, crouching with an easy grace. He plucks the lacquered box from the table with two fingers and spins it once in his palm.

“It’s ‘cause tradition is allergic to convenience,” he drawls, deftly untying the clumsy knot with a flick of his wrist. “It exists purely to make our lives harder.”

“Hey!” Yuji bolts upright, looking betrayed. “I almost had it, Gojo-sensei—!”

“Mhm.” Satoru ruffles his hair in passing, already walking back toward the mirror with the box in hand. “Sure, ya did~”

And then, without even looking, he smooths the ribbon out, looping and tucking it back into a clean, symmetrical knot—annoyingly perfect in a matter of seconds.

Yuji gapes. “How’d you do that so fast?”

A smirk tugs at Satoru’s lips. “Talent,” he sighs simply, setting the box down and reaching for his hakama pants.

Huffing, Yuji groans, flopping back on his elbows. “Y’know, Gojo-sensei—”

“Yuji,” Megumi cuts in, tone clipped. “That’s the fourth time. Watch yourself.”

Mid-gesture, Yuji blinks. “Huh?”

Glancing up at the mirror, Satoru doesn’t say anything—he’s stepping into his pants, folding the kimono in with quiet ease. Megumi just exhales—slow and tired, like he’s said this a dozen times before.

“Don’t forget where we’re going tonight.”

“Uh…” Yuji squints.  “What, the party? What about it?”

“Seriously…?” Megumi finally looks up, brow arching with something between irritation and warning. “There’ll be elders. Councilmen. Clanheads,” he mutters, eyes dropping back to his phone. “Just… don’t slip and call him ‘sensei’ in front of them.”

“Oh...” realization hits fast—Yuji’s hand lowering, his grin slipping with it. “Right… sorry… I just…” he rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. “…still don’t get why it has to be a secret though,” he grumbles under his breath.

Across the room, Satoru’s hands go still—fingers curling around the edge of his obi. In the mirror’s reflection, his gaze flicks to Yuji, lingering a second too long. There’s something unreadable in his eyes—like he’s caught in the gravity of a memory he doesn’t want to chase, standing on the edge of a thought he might not survive. But if he says nothing, maybe it will pass.

“I mean… it’s dumb, right?” Yuji tries, voice soft but sincere, gathering his courage. “You’re already doing it. Teaching us. So… why can’t it just be official?”

The question hangs there, light but pointed—too honest to brush off. Too direct to ignore. Just honest.

Young.

Satoru could say it; could say it’s not that simple—that some doors don’t open without closing others behind you. That some names come with chains no one sees. That the one thing they’d make him do to earn the title of sensei would leave a scar too deep to walk back from.

But what would be the point?

Yuji means well. Of course he does. That’s not the problem.

The issue is the world they live in.

There are rules older than all of them, and games played by ghosts who never left the table. But they’re too young to understand. And they shouldn’t have to. Because at the end of the day, they’re just kids—holding the weight of things they shouldn’t have to carry.

And Satoru—he has no intention of handing them more. He’s good at pretending. He’s been doing it since before either of them were born. So, he doesn’t explain. Doesn’t let the shadows stretch across the room. He only laughs—low, dismissive, breezy in a way that doesn’t quite touch his eyes.

“Oh, Yuji…” he exhales, feigning exasperation. “C’mon now. You really think I wanna sit through boring faculty meetings?” he deflects, reaching for his haori—the final layer of silk—and slides it on like armor. Easy. Fluid. Just another layer to keep the truth out. “I mean… please. Wear a tie? Take attendance? Bleh. I’ve got enough on my plate keeping you dummies alive.”

Stretching his arms overhead, a lazy grunt slips from his throat as if that settles it—shaking off the conversation entirely.

“Becoming Nanami is not on my bingo card.” He drawls, a smirk returning—lazy, lopsided, familiar. “I mean, being tied down’s not my thing, y’know?”

Scoffing from the floor, Yuji shoots him a look.

“Yeah, sure. Says the guy giving her that.”

Satoru blinks, following Yuji’s nod to the lacquered box that cradles your gift.

“Uh… what’s that supposed to mean?”

“No offense, Gojo-sensei, but it’s kinda… romantic. For you.”

Satoru scowls, adjusting the fold of his sleeve.

“It’s a formality, Yuji.”

“Yup, we know,” Megumi mutters, not bothering to look up from his phone. “The custom-cut sapphire gave that away.”

Satoru exhales sharply through his nose, jaw ticking as a simmering heat lingers, creeping up the back of his neck.

“It belonged to my grandmother,” he mutters, adjusting the collar like it suddenly doesn’t sit right on his shoulders.

“Whoa,” Yuji blinks, sitting up straighter. “Heirloom tier?”

“Yeah… anyways,” Clearing his throat, Satoru slips the box into the inner fold of his robe with a bit more force than necessary. “Don’t make it a big deal.”

“You’re literally making it a big deal,” Megumi deadpans.

Something about that makes him snap—hot, brief, and immediate.

“I’m not!”  

It comes out sharper than intended. Both boys blink, freezing—and Satoru’s hand tightens briefly around the edge of his haori.

Shit.

He didn’t mean to snap.  Not like that. Not over a box. Not over you. What the fuck is wrong with him? Why is he suddenly so on edge? Is it ‘cause he didn’t get his release? Couldn’t finish what he started in the shower?

Yeah… must be. Get your shit together Satoru. This is what happens when he lets himself start thinking again. Lets himself linger too long on what tonight means.

Exhaling through his nose, he forces it all back down. Smooths his expression. Rebuilds the wall. Plays the part.

“Right then… anyways” he scoffs, reaching up to adjust his sleeves again, brushing away at nothing. “You’re the ones turning sapphires and heirlooms into some fairy tale proposal.”

The smirk that pulls at his lips is forced—thin, crooked, but convincing enough. He turns away from the mirror, shoulders squared like he’s fine. Like everything’s fine.

“It’s just a box,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “Just a fucking formality.”

There’s a brief, weighty silence—the tension in the air saying enough. The kind of quiet where everything feels a little too loud.

Fucking hell Satoru…

These kids? They’re not supposed to see him come apart. He has to get it together. So, he exhales—loud and exaggerated this time—exploding into motion.

“Alright, alright,” he declares loudly, a sudden brightness that feels almost theatrical. “Enough dramatics. I’m polished. I’m present. I’m fucking dazzling. Yeah?”

He spins on his heel like a performer hitting the cue. A shift so abrupt it somehow works.

Because yeah—the ensemble’s perfect. Layers of rich indigo, the silver-threaded cuffs gleaming faintly under the warm overhead light. The cut is sharp, the fit immaculate. The Gojo crest near the collar flashes like a brand. The fabric whispers against his skin—luxury draped like armor.

Inherited. Not chosen. But he wears it like it fits.

Behind him, Yuji elbows Megumi with a grin. “Wow… Gojo-sensei cleans up scary fast.”

Megumi sighs, dry as ever. “Still late, though.”

And leaning back on his hands, Yuji tilts his head, eyes following the sweep of Satoru’s robes. “Let’s see… I think…” he hums pondering. “Hmm… Gojo-sensei looks like he belongs on money. Or maybe… oh! A museum!!”

Those words are said with a laugh—a spark of awe, but they hit something deeper.

Because… Satoru remembers that line.

Not from Yuji—but from himself. Eighteen years old and ascending to power, tossing the joke to Suguru as they stood side-by-side in this very same room.

His eyes lift to the mirror—pale lashes framing a vivid, electric blue. And for a moment—just a blink—his reflection looks… tired.

Shit… was that the same tired expression Suguru wore that very night? Showing subtle signs of…

No.

No thinking.

The boys are laughing, Megumi rolling his eyes as he mutters to Yuji, “Itadori… you’re feeding his ego.”

And just like that, Satoru’s mask slips back on.

“Oi,” he smirks. “You two done narrating my life?”

And turning towards them in a sweep of silk and silver, the fabric settles around his shoulders like a mantle.

“Besides, Megumi” he drawls, slinging an arm around both boys with exaggerated flair, “m’not late enough to get chastised. That’s the trick, remember?”

Groaning, Megumi shoves him off with a well-placed elbow as Yuji laughs—bright, boyish, easy.

And Satoru?

Satoru walks forward like he isn’t about to hand over the last piece of himself. Like this isn’t the beginning of the end of the only freedom he ever had.

Like this is just another night. And you’re just another girl.

“C’mon, kids,” he hums, stepping out into the hallway. “Let’s go crash a party, yeah?”

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

“Why’s everyone looking at me like that…?” Yuji mutters, tugging at the collar of his formalwear. His steps hitch as they move through the main hall, voices dimming just enough to be noticeable.

Satoru doesn’t need to look to know what he means. He feels it too—eyes following, sticking like burrs, veiled judgment behind brittle smiles.

“Probably ‘cause you weren’t technically on my guest list,” he remarks casually, hands tucked into the wide sleeves of his haori.

Yuji blinks. “Wait, what?!”

Satoru huffs a laugh, soft and unbothered. “You’ve got a mass-murdering curse king riding shotgun in your gut, kid. Hard to ignore,” he hums, half amused. “I’d say it’s definitely a conversation starter.”

Yuji gapes, only for a beat. “Man, seriously?” he grumbles, scratching the back of his neck. “Jeez, they could’ve led with literally anything else…”

But Satoru’s attention is already drifting, sweeping the halls without really turning his head. This place is all muscle memory now. He could walk it blind. He knows every floorboard, every creak.

He’s bled in these corridors—trained, limped, laughed barefoot with split knuckles and scraped knees. He’s thrown punches, broken rules, kissed a girl for the first time just past the east wing when he was still dumb enough to think that means something.

And that’s the thing. He doesn’t hate the Gojo estate. Not when it’s empty. Not when it’s quiet. But tonight, it’s anything but—it doesn’t belong to him right now.

It belongs to them.

Shifting closer, Yuji’s shoulders tense, gaze flickering—not quite shrinking, but unsure. He knows he doesn’t belong, and he’s just now realizing how many eyes are on him.

Satoru glances sidelong at him, catching the flicker of discomfort.

“Hey,” he murmurs, tilting his head just enough to catch Yuji’s eye. A slow, casual smirk curls at his lips. “I wanted you here,” he says simply, like it costs him nothing. “Relax. They can fuck off.”

Yuji blinks at him, uncertain. “You’re not worried?”

“About them?” Satoru scoffs, shaking off the thought entirely. “Please. They’ve been giving me dirty looks since I learned how to walk. You think I give a shit what they think now?”

“Well, for what it’s worth,” Megumi’s voice trails from behind. “I think you managed to piss off half the room, and we just got here.”

Satoru hums, pleased. “Off to a good start, then.”

As they round the corner, the corridor widens—washed in warm lamplight, paper lanterns strung overhead like soft stars. The ceiling arches high, beams lacquered and dark with age, polished to a quiet shine. Satoru remembers tracing them as a kid, flat on his back after getting knocked on his ass. Sparring with Suguru. Laughing through the bruises.

Now, guests linger in quiet clusters, murmurs woven through the hush. Silk hems whisper across tatami. And just ahead, the ceremonial platform waits—elevated like a stage, dressed in folds of indigo and silver. Scrolls line the walls in sharp calligraphy. But it’s just dead men’s words. Legacy bullshit.

At the center, a single katana rests on black lacquer, gleaming under the lights. And there it is: two cushions sitting beneath it.

Right. Two.

Satoru steps up without pause, dropping onto his cushion with a pointed exhale. One knee bends, arm draped over it. His sleeves settle in loose, elegant folds—like he couldn’t be bothered to care, like this platform’s just another bench in Shibuya Station.

A throne he never asked for. So fuck it—if they’re going to put him here, he’ll make sure they choke on the view.

Yuji lingers at the bottom of the step—gaze drifting, distracted. Then, stopping, something catches his attention. Or rather, someone.

“Eh?!” he blurts, face lighting up. “Nanamin~!”

Heads turn at once—a few elders visibly stiffening from the outburst. One exhales sharply, another murmurs beneath their breath.

Across the room, Nanami Kento straightens in his seat, blinking like he’s already exhausted. Shoko, seated lazily beside him, lifts two fingers in a languid wave, unfazed.

“Yo!!” Yuji waves both arms like he’s hailing a taxi, practically glowing. “Na-na-min!! Na-na-min!! Over here!!”

Rolling his eyes, Megumi delivers a quick smack to the back of Yuji’s head.

“Oi. Inside voices, idiot.”

“Ow!” Yuji winces, rubbing the spot. “Rude!”

But Satoru only chuckles, cheek resting against his palm—watching Yuji bound across the floor with all the grace of a golden retriever. He makes his way towards both sorcerers as Megumi follows behind, and the elders start whispering again.

Eh. Let ‘em. He’s stopped caring a long time ago.

But then—something shifts in the room, murmurs bending, redirecting. One by one, heads turn. Not toward Yuji, nor towards him, but towards the entrance—landing on a figure stepping into view, directly beside an elder woman in plum silk.

You.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

Your steps are measured, your breath careful, but your heart won’t cooperate. It stutters, hummingbird-fast beneath the layered weight of your formalwear as you follow your mother into the hall.

But damnit, it’s not the room that makes you nervous.

It’s him.

His eyes lift, glacier-blue and impossibly clear. And for a moment, that sharp, unreadable stare softens, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth—subtle, slow. Like he knows something you don’t. And maybe he does.

Because the moment your eyes meet his, heat blooms beneath your skin. It coils up your spine, floods your chest, burns in your cheeks. Like dry kindling catching flame. Like a dirty secret you can’t ignore.

Your body—your treacherous, filthy body—remembers everything. Too fucking well. God. Who even are you? Thinking such things. Here?? Now?!

He’s just sitting there, and your mind is dragging you back to the villa—laying under him in your unraveled kimono, pretty blue eyes watching you, lips whispering filth. He read your body like a fucking scripture. And worse—

Your dream. That fucking wet dream.

A rustle of silk breaks your spiral, and suddenly—

Thwack!

Jolting forward, you gasp as your mother’s hand clamps firmly between your shoulder blades, pushing you down into a deep bow before the platform.

“What are you doing?” she hisses, voice tight and low. “Do not stand there gawking like a child.”

Flushed with embarrassment, you dip lower—automatically, like a switch had been flipped. Hands fold neatly over your lap, forehead hovering just above the tatami. You’re molten with shame and still shamefully warm in other places.

Wonderful.

First the dream, now this. What’s next—toppling into the ceremonial blade? A full descent into disgrace? Honestly, being swallowed by the floor wouldn’t be the worst thing.

Get it together.

Be poised. Be graceful. Good.

Inhaling, you peek up through the veil of your lashes, and of course—he’s watching. A lazy smirk tugging at his mouth, quiet and sure.

“Eyes up, sweetheart,” he drawls, patting the cushion beside him. “C’mon. Sit.”

Goddamn him.

Your mother’s glare is burning into the side of your skull, and so, you move. Carefully. Rising from your bow, stepping onto the platform with quiet precision. As you watch your mother drift back towards the elders, her presence fades like incense—but the heat in your chest doesn’t. Especially not when Satoru leans in, close enough to stir the fine hairs at your nape.

“Made quite the entrance,” he murmurs.

You exhale through your nose. “That obvious, huh?”

“Eh, it’s fine,” he shrugs, voice dipping low, curling at the edges. “Afterall… a lady of your caliber deserves the best seat in the house, right?”

Your gaze lifts before you can stop it, drawn to his like a thread pulled taut. Those shimmering blue eyes meet yours—bright, unreadable—a crooked grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Déjà vu.

Those words pull up memories like water from a well: his ascension, his 18th birthday—the night you first met, pulling you up from disgrace without blinking. You hadn’t known what to make of him then. You still don’t. But this time, the seat beside him isn’t offered as a favor. It’s yours. And that is what terrifies you most.

“I… shouldn’t have hesitated,” you whisper. “I can’t believe I forgot to bow…”

He clicks his tongue, mockingly gentle. “You really think I give a shit whether you bowed or not?”

You blink, startled.

“All this performance,” he adds, gesturing vaguely, “makes me want to claw my own fuckin’ eyes out.”

A small breath huffs from your nose—reluctant amusement warming you from the inside out. Because he doesn’t sound irritated. He sounds bored. Comfortable, even. Like none of this means anything at all. And for a moment, that loosens something in you. Your shoulders fall just slightly. Your heartbeat slows.

“If you lost those eyes,” you whisper, lips twitching, “they’d probably call it a national emergency…”

He scoffs. “Please. They’d just stuff me in a box and mourn the waste. Whispering prayers to what could’ve been.”

You giggle before you can stop yourself—an actual giggle, bubbling in your throat. It doesn’t belong in a room so silent and serious, and Satoru’s grin spreads instantly, smug with satisfaction.

Though just as warmth starts to bloom in your chest, your gaze strays.

Across the room, your mother sits poised, chin lifted, hands resting just so atop her knees. Her eyes are on you. Steady. Judgmental. And like that, your smile dims. Your hands return to your lap, fingers folding neatly—that old pressure settling heavy in your lungs again.

“…still,” you murmur, “I should’ve bowed. I’m to be your wife. I should carry myself with… grace.”

Satoru hums. “Grace, huh?” When you glance at him, his eyes are already on you. The blue of them softer now. Curious. “You don’t need to try for that, sweetheart. You’ve already got it. Beauty. Poise. The kind of elegance they spend their whole fucking lives faking.”

Blinking, you’re startled. Not just by the compliment but the way he says it. Like he means it. But just as a heat prickles up the base of your neck, he’s shifting, leaning in closer.

“But…” he whispers, voice dipping into something dark and amused, “if I’m being honest… you looked real fuckin’ pretty down there on your knees. M’sure I can think of a much better reason to put you there.”

You choke on air—something between a gasp and a whimper as your legs push together. He smirks immediately, and you’re blinking, glancing toward the elders, toward your mother.

They’re watching.

“I… um. I—” you start, but nothing coherent follows. Satoru’s voice is curling around you like smoke. “You’re blushing, sweetheart.” Then, glancing at your mother again, you see her shift. Watching. Always watching. “I’m… not,” you whisper, eyes fixing forward.

“Mmm.” His voice dips, smile sharpening. “You are.”

Drawing in a breath, you try to steady the riot in your chest—trying to focus on the hum of mingling conversation, the scent of incense. Literally, anything but the man beside you.

“…it’s just… hot,” you mumble. And his chuckle is low and dangerous. You feel it. Not just in your ears, but under your skin. “Aw… don’t be shy,” he purrs, lips grazing your ear now. “You were a lot louder at the villa, baby.”

Your head jerks slightly. “S-Satoru—” you hiss, mortified.

But he’s already looking away, perfectly unbothered, grinning smugly. His eyes are half-lidded, watching guests mingle and bow in front of you, and his hand rests across one knee, fingers idly toying with the edge of his sleeve. Relaxed, elegant—like he has all the time in the world.

Though his voice is wicked.

“Those pretty little gasps,” he says, low enough that only you can hear, “moaning my name like a good girl…” Your skin burns. “…all wet for me, yeah? So needy. So fuckin’ sweet.”

Your stomach flips. Your vision swims. The crowd moves like a dream around you—elders offering bows, dignitaries gliding in. And your mother—Still. Fucking. Watching.

Do they know?

Leaning in again, his breath tickles your ear.

“Though… next time,” he whispers, “I want that pretty little cunt in my mouth. Want you drippin’ for me. Want you shaking when you cum.”

You snap. “J-Just… shut up!” and the words are out before you even hear them leave you, making your blood run cold.

Because you said it. You told him—Satoru fucking Gojo—to shut up. The strongest sorcerer alive. The head of your clan. The man your entire life now orbitally depends on. You’ve never dared speak like that to anyone. Not your instructors. Not your elders. Certainly not to someone like him.

Eyes wide, panic swells in your chest.

“I mean—” you scramble, desperate to rewind. “I didn’t—um—I wasn’t—” But he’s fully looking at you now, already grinning. Slowly. Like a cat catching a bird mid-flutter. “Whoa,” he drawls, sounding delighted. “Did you just tell me to shut up?”

Yup. You want the floor to swallow you whole. No—burn you alive first, then bury the ashes beneath the floorboards. You want to disappear completely. Maybe reincarnate as a koi in the garden pond. Something small. Quiet. Unseen. Unhumiliated.

“I-I didn’t mean it like—” but he’s leaning in before you can finish, knuckle brushing your cheek in a touch far too soft for how much heat it sparks beneath your skin. “Mmm…” His eyes flick to your mouth—brief, but enough. “And here I thought you were the perfect little girl. The perfect little wife,” he muses, slow and silken. “Maybe I ought to punish you for that. Hm?”

Your breath stalls.

Because he says it like it’s a joke—but it lands like it’s half a threat, half a promise, and somehow, entirely an invitation. And the worst part? Your mind skips ahead before you can stop it, imagining exactly what kind of punishment he means. 

No. Nope. Not today. Not when your thoughts are betraying you so loudly, you’re half-convinced he can hear them. You’re in formalwear. Surrounded by elders. With your mother somewhere in the crowd, probably chanting clan law in her head like a fucking Buddhist mantra.

“Ahem,” a throat clears—sharp, judgmental. “Gojo-sama,” an elder approaches.

Oh god. No. Someone heard. Everyone probably heard. You’re going to die here. Combust in real time. As panic swirls in your eyes, Satoru deflates, huffing an exaggerated sigh, eyes rolling as a stiff man draped in a stone gray kimono towers over you.

“Mm?” he hums, reclining back slightly. “What is it now?”

“There are those present,” the elder continues, tone brittle, “who feel certain guests might cast… an unfortunate shadow over the ceremony.”

You blink, confused, glancing toward the back of the hall where the elder’s gaze lands on a young boy with pink hair. So… it’s not about you.?

“And?”

Satoru’s expression is eerily cold, and the elder’s mouth pulls into a thin line. “He’s Sukuna’s vessel. A weapon. The boy’s presence is dangerous—insulting, even. You’ve seated him in a place of honor and—”

“That vessel,” Satoru cuts, “has a name. And I invited him.”

“With respect—”

“Oh, don’t bother.” He scoffs, rising to his feet with slow, liquid grace. “You people keep saying that like you mean it.”

Before you can move or think or brace yourself, his fingers are curling around your wrist—pulling you smoothly to your feet beside him.

“Come on,” he mutters under his breath, already guiding you away from the dais, towards the estate’s garden. “We’re done here.”

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

Stepping into the garden feels like slipping into a dream—your sandals clicking lightly along the stone path as Satoru pulls you through lantern-lit trees and hedges glazed with moonlight. Somewhere nearby, a wind chime stirs in the breeze, delicate as breath.

The world feels hushed. As you approach the pond glimmering ahead, koi ripple through the water in lazy spirals, their pale scales flashing like ghost light beneath the surface.

Satoru is dragging you insistently, fingers wrapped around your wrist, loose but unwavering. And though you barely know this man, it’s obvious there’s something simmering beneath that silence. Something sharp.

“Um… Satoru…?” you murmur, uncertain.

“Mm?”

“Are you… okay?”

“Yup,” he trudges forward, eyes ahead. “M’fine.”

“Oh… alright.”

But he doesn’t look fine. He looks like he’s trying not to snap. Not angry exactly—just… shut down. Like he’s closed a door inside himself, and you’re standing on the wrong side of it. Still, he doesn’t let go. Trailing behind—cherry blossom petals drift through the air like fallen wishes as he leads you to a wooden bench—nestled beside the pond’s edge, encompassed by flowering branches.

“Right then…” he sighs, dropping onto the bench. “Where were we?” And you stumble as he’s pulling you directly into his lap, catching yourself on his shoulders. “S-Satoru—!” he grins, “Shhh…”

And that’s the only warning you get. Because then he’s kissing you.

It’s not gentle. It’s not sweet. It’s all heat and breath and teeth, like something’s been splintering in his chest all night, and he’s trying to silence the whole fucking world with the shape of your mouth.

“Mnh…” you gasp, eyes fluttering shut as his hand slides low, gripping your ass, yanking you flush to his thigh. “’t-toru…” you whine as he forces you down onto the hard muscle of his leg, right against your wet, aching cunt.

“Fuck,” he groans, panting between each messy kiss. “There’s my little slut…” he palms your ass, squeezes your tit. “Mnh… tellin’ me to shut up in front of all those fuckin’ people…”

As his lips trail down your jaw, you whimper—shuddering. Your body begins. to move on its own.

“O-oh… fuck,” you whisper a moan, hips stuttering, rutting softly, shamefully against him. That delicious friction is too much and not enough, and you feel Satoru’s lips curl against your neck, grinning. “S’wrong, baby?” he croons, rocking your hips harder, the bench creaking beneath you. “Can’t help yourself?”

And God, you can’t. You don’t even recognize your own body. Everything is heat. Everything is him. He palms your ass with both hands now, guiding your hips with filthy easy, and you can feel it—your slick spreading, warm and messy, soaking through your delicate silk with every shameless roll of your hips.

“God, look at you…” he hisses, leaning back to watch, blue eyes hooded, glowing in the moonlight, “—so fuckin’ wet. So needy. This pussy’s soakin’ through your pretty little kimono.”

You choke on a moan, burying your face in his shoulder. Like it might muffle the shame—the filthy sounds of your own body. But nothing hides the mess between your legs. He’s right. And the worst part? You don’t want to stop.

“F-Fuck… m’sorry…” you whine, cunt clenching around nothing, dripping down your thighs. “Sorry?” he huffs a breathless laugh. “Shit… you’re not sorry. S’okay baby,” he purrs, rocking you again. “I know you wanted this. Little pussy missed me, hm?”

Fingers twisting into his hair, you nod—tugging, anchoring yourself. Honestly, you’re not sure if it’s shame or truth that’s guiding you anymore. “I want—” your voice cracks, words tangling, grinding down again, the sensation almost too much. “I want… I—fuck—”

“Hm?” he pants, nosing along your jaw, cocky and breathless. “Speak up, sweetheart. What do you want?”

The garden is too quiet. The moonlight too soft. The breeze shifts through the trees, rustling branches above you, and the soft ring of the wind chime cuts like a bell through fog. It all feels wrong for what’s spilling out of you—for how filthy you feel, how good you feel.

“Want you…” you whine, face burning, lashes fluttering shut. “Dreamt about you fucking me… woke up so wet.”

You don’t even know how you’re still speaking, but the words are tumbling out of your mouth while your hips move. As your pour out your filthy truth, a shameful slick drips from your cunt down the sharp line of his leg. You feel Satoru tense underneath you.

“Fuuuck,” he groans, hands gripping your hips. “Bad fuckin’ girl,” and you squeal as he’s suddenly lifting you like you’re nothing, repositioning, pulling you down onto the thick, swollen ridge of his cock, tenting beneath his robes. “There,” he mutters, breath ragged, rolling you against it, “That what you wanted?”

You nod, moaning again, hips already moving, cunt grinding slowly over the shape of him. Even through the silk, you can feel everything. The size. The heat. The pulse. He’s panting against your lips, vibrant blue eyes lidded, soft white hair slipping through your fingers as you eagerly roll needy circles over his length.

“I’ve been fuckin’ hard all day,” he growls, dick leaking at the tip, twitching, wetting the fabric right against your cunt. “Had to fuck my fist this mornin’, thinkin’ about pounding your sweet little pussy…”

His mouth is on yours again—teeth dragging over your lower lip, tongue swallowing your whimper as you continue to rock insistently. The kiss is filthy. Frantic. He spreads your thighs wider, grinding you down. Harder, deeper—cock throbbing beneath you, soaked with your slick, straining for friction. You’re right there; body flushed, rhythm building. But then—

Crunch

Footsteps on the gravel. The sound doesn’t register until the breeze stops. Until the wind chime stills. Until every nerve in your body suddenly goes entirely fucking cold.

“Oi!” You freeze. Everything freezes. “There you are. The elders are wondering where you—”

As your head slowly turns, you catch sight of a young boy with black hair, backlit by the faint lantern glow. Your eyes meet, and he blinks—seeing you, perched on Satoru’s lap, kimono askew, hitched around your waist, slick dripping down your thighs while his cock is under you. Somewhere in the distance, a koi splashes lazily in the pond, completely unbothered by your descent into personal hell.

“Oh…” His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. “Oh fuck.”

You feel your face turn fever-hot, and burying yourself forward, a strangled whimper escapes you, muffled in Satoru’s neck. Yup. You want to disappear. But Satoru just exhales, exhausted, head falling back against the bench.

“Megumi,” he says flatly. “…what the actual fuck.”

“W-What?” Megumi clears his throat, face visibly blanking. “I—” He blinks hard. Swallows. Then abruptly turns on his heel. “I didn’t see anything!” his voice cracks, already retreating. “Nope. Nothing. Not a thing.”

“Please, kill me…” you whimper again, but Satoru huffs. “Tch. I’m gonna kill him,” he grumbles, slumping back against the bench. His hand drags down his face. “Swear to fuckin’ god… this kid’s got a sixth sense for cockblocking.”

“Um… huh?” you peek up, still dazed.

But Megumi’s voice is already fading down the path. “For the record, Nanami sent me!” he shouts. “If you’re gonna kill someone, start with him!” And just like that, he’s gone.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

“Yo!! There you are!” Yuji’s voice rings out the second you and Satoru round the bend, loud and bright as he throws both hands in the air. “We were about to send a search party!”

You follow after Satoru, half a step behind, eyes flicking to him in quiet search. Maybe for a smile. A glance. Some thread of reassurance to hold onto. But he gives you nothing—just keeps walking, calm and composed, like you’re not unraveling quietly beside him.

“Mmm… Megumi beat you to it,” he hums, nodding toward the boy in question as you approach the group. You feel it before you even look—Megumi goes stiff like he’s just been yanked into a spotlight, his shoulders pulling tight.

“Huh?” Yuji turns, blinking at him. “You didn’t mention finding them.”

“I didn’t find anything,” Megumi mutters, clipped and quick—the tips of his ears blooming red. But Satoru just clicks his tongue and grins.

“Didn’t find anything, huh? Funny. Your face said otherwise.”

Scoffing, Megumi turns away sharply, already done with this conversation, while Yuji blinks between them, still trying to piece it together.

“Wait—what?”

“Ahhh… I see. That why you looked like you saw a ghost, Fushiguro?” a new voice chimes in as Shoko exhales a slow stream of smoke, leaning against the wall, cigarette in hand. “Makes sense now. You were white as a sheet,” she hums, ash tapping into a nearby tray.

“Can we not,” Megumi grumbles, glaring at a spot on the wall like he can will it to swallow him whole.

You get it. God, do you get it.

Megumi hasn’t looked at you once. Won’t even acknowledge you—and maybe that should make things easier. Maybe it’s a kindness. But still… something inside you prickles. Like if someone were painting this moment, you wouldn’t be in the frame. Just a blur in the background—a misplaced brushstroke someone meant to wipe away. Because the group is moving in sync around you—falling into a rhythm; a rhythm without you.

“Awww, that bad?” Satoru hums, folding his arms loosely over his chest. “Reminds me of Sapporo.”

Megumi stiffens. “Don’t.” But Satoru’s already grinning, eyes lit with mischief.

“Oh, come on,” he drawls. “That curse with the split-face, in the middle of a snowstorm, remember? You tried to give it directions—”

“Oh my god,” Megumi groans, dragging a hand down his face. “I hate you sometimes.”

Yuji perks up like he’s just been handed popcorn. “Wait, what? What happened in Sapporo?”

“It was beautiful,” Satoru deadpans, mock-serious. “Megumi thought the curse was just some lost old man. Actually bowed to it.”

Megumi snaps. “I was trying to be polite.”

“Ahhh… I remember now,” Shoko adds with a drag of her cigarette. “You were pale for a week.”

Yuji’s eyes widen. “Seriously?!”

“You should’ve seen his face when it hissed at him,” Satoru snickers. “I thought he was gonna pass out on the spot.”

They’re all laughing now, but you’re still sitting on the outside. Because they know each other—really know each other. There’s a shared language here; shorthand glances and stories etched into muscle memory. But you? You can’t fake your way into that.

Without thinking, you drift a little closer, just enough to feel the illusion of proximity. Maybe you’re hoping for Satoru to ground you. Introduce you. Anything. A gesture. A glance. A sign that you’re not entirely invisible to him.

But he doesn’t shift. Doesn’t glance your way. Doesn’t reach for you.

“If this comedy set is over,” Nanami sighs dryly, adjusting the sleeves of his kimono, “I’d like to suggest we return to the schedule.”

“Aww, don’t be like that, Nanamin.” Satoru tips back on his heels, grin curling. “You’re startin’ to sound like one of the elders. You sure you’re not secretly fifty?”

“At least I act my age,” Nanami deadpans.

Satoru scoffs, teeth flashing. “Can’t all be born with a stick up our ass, huh?” Then he turns toward Shoko, mock concern softening his voice. “Might need to get a medic to check that. You still licensed?”

She exhales, bored. “Only if it’s for your ego.”

They laugh again. You try to smile, to stay present, but it’s like watching the world through a window you’re not allowed to open. Their rhythm is effortless. You don’t even know the tempo.

Should you say something? Laugh along with them? Introduce yourself? Satoru hasn’t even spared you a glance. And though you’ve been trained your whole life to show up perfect, polished, gracious—there’s a difference between knowing how to perform and knowing where you belong.

And right now, you don’t belong.

Until Shoko’s eyes cut to you. Then back to Satoru.

“Uh… you gonna introduce us?” she murmurs, smoke curling from her mouth. “Or should we keep pretending we didn’t all clock the lipstick on your neck?”

The words hit like a slap—snapping you out of your haze before you even realize it. Because suddenly, you’re not invisible.

All eyes shift.

You’re not sure if you want to laugh or crawl under the nearest tatami mat. Shifting subtly, you straighten your kimono, tugging at the hem like it can somehow undo the fact that Satoru Gojo just made you grind your dripping cunt on his lap under the moonlight.

But Satoru just casually wipes his neck, lazily smearing the lipstick away with the pad of his thumb. “I was getting there…” he hums, rolling his shoulders. “This is…” he pauses, gesturing vaguely in your direction.

You glance up, confused. His grin is hitching, and though he’s finally looking at you again, why does it seem like he’s…

Hesitating?

“Uh…” he blinks, looking away from you and shrugging. “Her.”

Her?

Your stomach sinks. Heat creeps up your neck.

What does that even mean?

The silence stretches a second too long—enough for it to sting.

Nanami raises a brow. “…her?”

“Uhh… yeah?” Satoru clicks his tongue, like that’s clarification enough. “You know.”

More silence.

Finally, he huffs. “Jesus, the one who—”

“His wife!” Yuji cuts in brightly, grinning at you like you’re already one of them.

You blink, caught off guard by this boy now beaming at you—all wide-eyed sincerity, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. There’s something so disarmingly genuine in the way he says it. The tightness in your chest loosens, and the nerves that were building low in your stomach begin to simmer away.

“Well—technically, future wife,” Yuji amends with a sheepish grin, arms folding behind his head like it’s no big deal.

“Right,” Satoru mutters beside you, jaw ticking. “Guess that’s the word we’re using now…”

You shift, startled by the way it’s said. Glancing at him, he doesn’t meet your eye, but before you can sit with the sting of it, Yuji is already pulling your attention back to him. “

“I’m Itadori Yuji, by the way!” he beams, all sunshine. “It’s super nice to meet you.”

“It’s nice to meet you, too.” You bow, instinctive and polite, still trying to catch up with the feeling that’s been curling in your gut—but Yuji isn’t finished. “You’re really pretty, by the way!”

Blinking, a surprised smile tugs at your lips. This boy says it so plainly, so innocently, it catches you off guard.

“Oh—um… thank you?”

“Sure thing!” he nods, then adds seriously, “I mean—not that I thought you’d be ugly or anything, just—"

“Okaaaay…” Megumi interjects, already regretting the entire direction of the conversation. “We get it, Itadori.”

You glance Megumi’s way, half-expecting him to look annoyed, or maybe still mortified from earlier—but his arms are crossed and his expression is just… guarded, not unfriendly. Just Megumi.

“Name’s Fushiguro,” he says, giving a short nod. “Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, too.” The words come easier now. There’s a pause, a breath of quiet that—for once—doesn’t feel strained. Yuji tips his head, eyes curious. “Y’know… you’ve got a calm, almost graceful presence. It’s kinda… grounding?”

“Oh?” you tilt your head. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“Definitely good,” he replies without hesitation. “You seem like the type who’ll balance Gojo out.”

You smile, and for a moment, you don’t feel like a stranger. You feel… included. Until Satoru cuts in.

“Kay. Cool,” he says, coldly. “Glad everyone’s caught up. We done?”

It’s tossed out like a joke—but it doesn’t land like one. It lands with the dull thud of something meant to bruise. Glancing over, you see he’s already looking away, as if the moment wasn’t meant to include you at all. As if your presence is just something to get past.

Shoko raises an eyebrow, taking a long drag from her cigarette. “Ignore him,” she exhales. “I’m Shoko. I do most of the patchwork when Satoru gets his dumb ass injured.”

He rolls his eyes. “Once. That happened one time.”

“Twice,” Nanami interjects mildly. “And you nearly bled out the second time.”

Satoru scoffs. “I healed myself that time.” But Nanami doesn’t dignify that with an answer. Instead, he turns to you, dipping his head with calm precision.

“Kento Nanami. A pleasure.” You bow, a bit deeper this time. “Likewise. It’s an honor to meet you.”

Nanami straightens, and for a second, you think that’s all. But then his gaze flicks briefly to Satoru, who’s practically glaring, staring ahead—annoyed. Then Nanami’s eyes drag back to you. 

“He’s a difficult man,” he states, matter-of-factly.

“Dude,” Satoru mutters. “I’m standing right here.”

“That you are.”

“Y’know I can hear you, yeah?”

“Yup. You were meant to.”

Glancing between them, you’re not quite sure if they’re joking or actually irritated with each other. It’s hard to tell. Because the mood has shifted again—warmer around the others, colder beside Satoru. There’s something else behind his smile now. Not amusement. Not ease. Something… distant.

“So…” Shoko drawls, attention shifting to you as she exhales another lazy plume of smoke. “You from one of the Kyoto clans?”

“Yes,” you nod, and despite everything, there’s a quiet thread of pride in your voice. “My family served in the western region for generations, mostly specializing in—”

“Excuse me.”

You blink—body stiffening instantly. The interruption is soft, but cutting. It silences you mid-sentence. And at the edge of the group, your mother steps into view. Elegant as ever in her perfectly pressed kimono. Not a single strand of hair out of place.

“Apologies, Gojo-sama,” she murmurs with a delicate bow. “I hope I’m not… interrupting.”

“Mm?” Satoru glances at her, then flicks his fingers lazily through the air. “S’fine,” he hums, as if it doesn’t matter either way. His gaze doesn’t follow you. Not once. And as your mother turns to you next, your stomach immediately drops.

“May I have a word?”

It’s not really a question.

You nod, feet already moving—trailing after her with the kind of obedience that was taught to you before you were ever allowed to speak your own name. The warmth you’d been tentatively gathering seems to drain from your chest instantly, bleeding out of you like ink in water. Because as the circle closes behind you, following her away—it’s like… you were never really part of it to begin with.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

“I shouldn’t have to remind you,” your mother begins, low, clipped, “that your appearance reflects not just on yourself—but on your family. On me.”

Behind her shoulder, the group still lingers in a loose semi-circle—smiling, relaxed, unreachable. A world you crave. A world where they belong. Satoru’s laughing at something Shoko says—head tipped back, fingers raking through his hair like the last twenty minutes never happened.

“They’re all watching,” she continues, scanning the room for witnesses, not even sparing you a glance. “And this is how you present yourself?”

“I…” you start, lips parting—but the words never quite come.

Because it did happen. Right? You’re so confused. You remember every second; his hands on your hips, his mouth on your skin, dragging you against him like he wanted you, needed you. And yet, here he is—making you feel like none of that meant anything. Like the second you stepped into his real world, the spell broke.

“Look at you,” your mother cuts back, finally turning that sharp, assessing gaze onto you. “Your lipstick is smudged. Your collar’s uneven. Your obi…” she clicks her tongue. “What were you doing?”

Your gaze snaps back at that question, eyes widening.

What were you doing?

You open your mouth to respond but, what the fuck are you supposed to say? That he touched you? That you let him? That you wanted it to mean something?

“Do you have any idea how many girls would kill to be in your place?” her eyes are sharp but her voice is maddeningly calm. “And you walk in here looking like you’ve just rolled out of someone’s bed. Like you’re begging to be replaced.”

Replaced.

The word lands like a slap. You blink, but the burn behind your eyes rises too quickly, no matter how tightly you try to hold it back. Your mother’s lectures are nothing new, but this one? It pulls at something that’s already been festering in your chest since after you left the garden with Satoru. No. Maybe even before. Perhaps since the villa.

Does he truly want you?

The moments you’ve shared, has he moved past them? Was it just heat and impulse? Maybe you were never anything more than a passing indulgence.

Just over your mother’s shoulder, you catch a last glimpse of his white hair before a wave of guests shuffle between you, blocking your view completely. You lose sight of him. And with it, any illusion of being tethered.

“I asked you a question.”

Your mother’s voice slices through your spiral like a blade. Blinking hard, you will the tears to not fall.

“W-What?”

She sighs. “Are you even listening?”

“I-I am,” you rush out, voice thinner than you want it to be. “I just… I’m sorry mother. I didn’t realize my appearance was that bad.”

Her gaze flattens, disappointed. “Didn’t realize,” she echoes, like the words offend her. “That’s not good enough.”

You try to hold her stare, but everything in you feels like it’s caving inward. You want to disappear. You want her to stop. You want to cry, but damnit, you know better.

“This world won’t make room for uncertainty,” she continues. “Not for someone standing beside him. If you look fragile, they’ll use it. If you look lost, they’ll pick you apart. You give them even an inch of doubt—” she narrows her eyes, “they’ll rip you to pieces.”

You swallow hard, gaze flicking to the crowd again, searching for his face. But he’s gone. Though you can’t get the sound of his laughter out of your head—a joy that you didn’t bring him.

“They are watching,” your mother murmurs, stepping in closer, voice lowering. “They’re whispering. Wondering what kind of girl the Gojo clan allowed through their gates.”

You don’t realize you’ve dropped your eyes until her hand lifts your chin—gentle, but firm. The way she’s always done. Like control dressed up as care.

“You want their respect?” her eyes narrow. “Then look like someone worth respecting. The Gojo name already eclipses your own. Don’t give them more reason to ask why you’re wearing it at all. The very least you can do is look like you belong.”

Belong.

You don’t even know what that means anymore.

Not when the people behind her were laughing like you’re not there. Not when Satoru won’t look at you. Not when your mother’s voice makes your chest feel hollow. Not when every inch of you feels like it’s wearing something borrowed.

“Go. Clean yourself up.”

Barely trusting your voice, you nod, shifting toward the estate’s restroom.

“Fix your collar,” she adds, turning slightly. “And for heaven’s sake, do something about your face.”

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

‘Hold your stance, my little crane. Even when you feel small. Especially then.’

Hearing your father’s voice echo in your mind, the burn behind your eyes sharpens. Don’t cry. Damnit. Don’t cry.

You can’t. Not here.

You just need a second. A moment alone. To gather yourself—pull all the unraveling parts back into something whole. Something worthy. The shape of a girl who belongs.

So, you’ll do just that. You’ll fix your collar. Reapply your lipstick. Walk back with your chin high, like none of it touched you. Like you deserve to stand beside Gojo Satoru and not shrink in his shadow.

Slipping down the hallway, your steps brisk. The paper screens cast soft shadows against the wooden floors, muffling the noise from the party behind you. As you reach the bathroom’s sliding door, it’s barely cracked, and without thinking to knock, you immediately slide it open and enter.

But your eyes blink as you see two figures, seated at the lacquered bench in the bathing room. At first, all you see is silk. Fabric gathered over pale skin. A shoulder bare where it shouldn’t be. The gentle creak of a bench as someone shifts. A low, languid sigh.

But then—white hair.

Satoru.

A girl is straddling him, her kimono hiked high along her thighs, her chest pressed against his. One hand in his hair. The other curled loosely around his shoulder.

“Mnh… missed you…” she’s murmuring between kisses. “You always make me wait too long…” and you hear his satisfied hum against her lips before breaking it. His hand slides slowly up the back of her thigh, fingers splayed. “You like it when I make you wait,” he breathes, lips grazing hers—teasing, not quite touching.

Giggling, her mouth chases his again. “I like it more when you follow through,” she whispers, hips shifting as she rolls into his lap in a slow, practiced grind. “C’mon, Gojo…” she whines, “don’t you ever miss me?”

He huffs—half-laugh, half-sigh—eyes still closed. “Miss your timing…” he mutters, the curve of a smirk playing at his lips. “You always know when to crawl into my lap.”

“Mmh, asshole,” she breathes, catching his mouth again—sloppier this time. Hungrier. “You never called me back…” she pouts, tugging his hair between kisses. “Thought maybe you forgot about me…”

“Been busy,” he murmurs, muffled between kisses, hands tightening along her waist. “Let’s make this quick, yeah?”

You don’t move. Don’t breathe. The air in your lungs lock up.

Because for a second, you think you must be mistaken. That this can’t be real. That your eyes are lying. That this is some sick trick of the lighting, the stress, the way your stomach’s been twisted into knots since you left the garden.

But no. It’s him. It’s her. It’s his hand curling over her thigh the same way it held your waist not even an hour ago. Satoru’s mouth finds hers with slow, practiced rhythm, and when he exhales against her skin, you feel it like a slap.

Not noticing you, she shifts in his lap, kissing down the line of his jaw, whispering something in his ear that makes him huff out a small, amused breath. His eyes open, heavy-lidded at first, then wider—startled.

Because now, he sees you.

Standing there in the doorway like an idiot—like some ghost caught between floors—here, at your fucking engagement ceremony. Still wearing the lipstick he smudged. Still tasting him on your tongue.

He’s blinking at you like he’s unsure you’re real, not moving, not stopping the girl as she continues to kiss the place where your mouth had just been.

“You’re so tense, baby…” she purrs, grinding slowly into him. “Need me to relax you?”

God, you want to run away.

The edge of your heel catches the corner of a decorative vase, perched on a stand beside the door. It wobbles, then—

Crash!

The ceramic splatters against the floor, immediately getting the girls’ attention, slicing through the room like a whip. She startles, glancing over her shoulder, lips pink and flushed, hair falling loose from her pin.

“Oh,” she laughs lightly, brushing a hand down her skirt. “Shit—um, sorry. Did we forget to lock the door?”

You’re not sure who breaks first—your voice, or your heart.

“…I didn’t know anyone was in here.”

It sounds ridiculous the second it leaves you. Like it’s you’re mistake. Like you’re the one intruding—you’re the one who doesn’t belong. Shifting, your eyes glance to the mirror, catching the way your lipstick’s smeared, the way your collars still crooked.

“Was just going to fix this…” you murmur, brushing at your mouth like it matters. Then a bitter laugh slips past your lips before you can stop it, “…didn’t realize it had already been replaced.”

You feel so fucking stupid. So fucking naïve.

Satoru is looking at you like he doesn’t know what to do with the pain he’s caused, but you refuse to look at him. The girl on his lap blinks, putting the pieces together.

“Wait… is she—?” she starts, glancing back at Satoru, confused, a frown tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Shit—um, is this—?”

“Hey. I—” he starts, ignoring her, sitting up straighter—but whatever he means to say dies on his tongue. Because you’re already backing away.

“I…uh… just needed a minute to breathe,” you whisper, more to yourself than anyone else. “Not to walk in and lose everything.”

Gripping the edge of the doorframe, you catch a glimpse of his brows knitting together, but you don’t wait for whatever comes next.

You’re already gone.

Because if you don’t get away now, you’ll fall apart in the middle of the hallway. And if there’s anything your mother taught you—it’s that you don’t let them see you fall.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

You don’t even feel your feet beneath you. Just grass brushing your ankles. The soft hush of wind threading through bamboo. You blink, not even remembering walking here, only remembering that the hallway swallowed you whole and your legs moved on their own, carrying you deeper into silence until it opened into starlight.

The garden.

Of course, it’s the garden—spilling out in front of you like a memory you weren’t ready to return to. You never chose this path, and yet… here you are. The one place you’d felt wanted tonight. The one place that now feels tainted.

The koi pond shimmers under the low lantern light, its surface undisturbed. Serene. Like it doesn’t remember how he kissed you here. Koi are sliding beneath the surface—flashes of copper and cream, rippling the water slightly.

Collapsing to your knees, you drop beside the pond’s edge, and looking down, your own reflection waves through their movements.

A mess.

Red-rimmed eyes. Your hair a disarray. Crooked collar. Lipstick smeared across your cheek like a fucking brand. A girl trying too hard to look like someone worth choosing.

‘You know why koi are special, little crane? Because they swim against the current. They never stop, no matter how long the river runs against them.’

Your father.

You used to love that story. Because while your mother’s discipline was perfection, his was protection. If you held your ground, no one could move you. But here you are. On the ground. Shaking. And though you did everything he said—still, you weren’t enough. Because, how could he abandon your mother? Abandon you? You’ll never be enough. Not for him, not for your mother, not for Satoru.

With trembling hands, you cover your mouth, but the sound pushes out anyway—soft, ugly, raw.

You cry like a child who never measured up. Like a girl who waited for her father to come home. Like a girl who was told to carry legacy on her back and make it look effortless. You cry for the silence you endured. For the weight of being perfect. For the softness he kissed and discarded like it didn’t matter.

For the fact that, deep down,you don’t even know who you are without trying to be what everyone wants.

The sound of footsteps doesn’t register at first. Just the soft press of soles against grass, slow and careful, stepping around you slowly. You don’t lift your head. You can’t. But the hem of her kimono drifts into view—embroidered cranes glinting gold in the lantern light, silk so pristine it seems untouched by the night.

She stops just across from you, and for a long moment, you stare at her feet. At the way her hands smooth the fabric over her thighs before folding neatly in her lap.

“What’s wrong?” your mother asks softly.

It’s such a simple question. And it destroys you. You squeeze your eyes shut, as if that might hold it in—but the tears keep spilling. Quiet, stubborn, relentless.

Though much to your surprise, she doesn’t scold. Doesn’t press her lips thin or huff with disappointment. She just watches. And then, without a word, she’s reaching forward—fixing the edge of your collar with gentle fingers, straightening the fabric, brushing a smudge from your cheek with her thumb. A small breath leaves her.

“…did he hurt you?”

Lips trembling, you nod. Just once. There’s a long pause—her gaze shifting to the pond beside you; watching the koi slide beneath the surface, silent ribbons of color weaving through dark water.

“I see…” she murmurs. “What happened?”

Where do you even begin? And how much should you really tell her?

“I… was just going to fix my lipstick,” the words come out thin and unsteady. You try to laugh, but it buckles halfway, folding into a sob. “God—I was so stupid,” and finally looking up, you blink past the blur of tears. “He looked me in the eye and let her keep kissing him.”

Your mother’s face remains still, unreadable—but her eyes flick once toward the garden gate. A flicker of caution. As if weighing how much time you have before someone else finds you like this. Then, without moving from her place, she reaches up again—adjusting your hair where it’s come undone, tucking strands behind your ear with a care she once gave you as a child.

“My dear… you are not stupid. Now you know,” Her eyes don’t flinch. “He is your husband in name. Not in heart. So, you act accordingly.”

“I… what?”

Blinking, the words barely leave your lips. Because her words don’t make sense—at least… not in the way you want them to. Or maybe they make too much sense. Either way, you’re left speechless.

As your mother’s eyes flick toward the garden’s edge again—faint footsteps pass just beyond the screen, reminding her, and you, that this world is always watching.

“Fate and tradition shape us,” she says quietly. “It isn’t always fair. But it is ours to uphold.”

There’s no sharpness in her tone. No heat. Just a calm, settled truth. And somehow, that makes it worse. It feels like a life sentence said with a lullaby. Like the ending has already been written—and you were the only one foolish enough to think you might rewrite it.

“I—” you try, but your throat catches. You shake your head once, like it might shake the grief loose. “I thought… I…” but you falter.

What is there to say?

That you believed this could be different? That you wouldn’t be tethered to the same quiet resignation you’ve watched around you your entire life. That you weren’t walking into a legacy of endurance, but something else—something that chose you back?

A breath trembles through you.

“I thought… being chosen meant I was wanted.”

Your mother doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t soften. “…I’m sure you did,” she replies. And somehow, that hurts more than if she’d scolded you. “But he is a man. A powerful one. And you are a woman of duty.”

The words carve through you—not for their cruelty, but because they were always waiting. Tucked into every lesson she ever gave you. Spoken or not, this was where it always led. A script she memorized long before you were old enough to understand.

“I don’t know what kind of life you imagined this would be,” she murmurs, reaching up, brushing her fingers through your hair, smoothing it gently. “But that man will not carry your dignity for you. If you don’t learn to do it yourself… no one will.”

So… that’s it then?

It’s like she’s repeating something she once told herself. But, living a life like that? Standing tall—though remaining complacent? Silent? What kind of life is that to live? You’ve never once spoken against her. Never even thought to. But now—

“Mother… I…” the words break before they’re even formed. “…I don’t know if I can do this.”

Her brow tightens.

“You can.”

“No—I…”

“You must…” she hushes, smoothing a wrinkle from your sleeve, as if she’s wrapping your words before they unravel too far, “…there is no future for us without this. Without this arrangement, we remain exiled. Forgotten. Disgraced. You understand that, don’t you?”

Your gaze drops. Because you do. You always have. That truth has lived in your bones since the day your father left. But knowing doesn’t make it easier to swallow.

“Your duty to him isn’t about love,” she continues, eyes sweeping your face. “It is about what is… necessary,” then, hesitating, you catch sight of her eyes, lifting just over your shoulder.

And that’s when you hear it. The grass bending beneath soft footsteps. The quiet hush of a new presence behind you. You tense, glancing over your shoulder, but of course, you already know who's there. And catching that glimpse of white hair through the dark confirms it.

Satoru.

“Hey… the ceremony’s starting,” he says quietly. “They’re waiting.”

It lands somewhere between casual and cautious. No apology. No explanation. Just a line dropped into the stillness like a stone. And when your mother speaks again, her voice is smooth, seamless—like he was always meant to hear it.

“Right then…” she smiles serenely, gripping your hands in a comforting squeeze. “We shouldn’t keep them waiting. Now that everything’s settled, come. You will walk beside him with grace, and you will fulfill your role as his wife—as the mother of his children.”

Blinking at her, you don’t find any words. Because you can’t believe that your own mother is really forcing you to go through with this. That you’re just supposed to pretend the bathroom didn’t just happen—pretend everything is fine? And of course, Satoru isn’t going to say anything of this, is he? Not here. Not now. Maybe not ever.

Stepping closer, Satoru extends his hand to you.

“I suppose… mother knows best, hm?”

The words cut.

Déjà vu.

Except… it feels like betrayal now.

Your eyes sting. Not just from the tears, but from how easily you were made the fool, and with a trembling breath, you lift your sleeve and dab at your cheeks, quick and practiced, erasing the worst of it.

Not because the tears are gone—but because they are no longer allowed to be seen. You refuse to go in there looking like a girl who begged to be loved and was told it wasn’t part of the arrangement.

“Of course,” you murmur—voice steadier, taking his hand, not looking at his expression. “I just need a minute. To fix my face.”

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

“Uh… you hunting something?”

Satoru quietly exhales, amused as you slip around the estate corners like you’re trespassing—even though you aren’t. Even though you’re the fucking bride-to-be. Even though this entire ceremony is built around you and him.

But you look like a mess, and damnit, you’re not going to let anyone know what the fuck happened tonight.

“I need a mirror…” you mutter, tugging open another shoji door. It glides back to reveal the usual: tatami floors, a low lacquered table, a delicate calligraphy scroll inked in stillness. Tranquil. Elegant.

Useless.

“There’s a perfectly good one in the bathroom,” he states flatly behind you.

Right. Of course there is. Like fucking hell you’re going back in that room.

Ignoring him, you keep moving, turning sharply down the next corridor. His footsteps follow—steady, unhurried; the soft whisper of his kimono a shadow just behind yours.

“…do you even know where you’re going?” he asks as you peer into another room. “Nope…” you exhale, letting the door fall shut with a quiet snap.

But you don’t stop. You can’t. Maybe because, if you keep going—room to room, door to door—this frantic motion will somehow piece your composure back together. That’s the only logic fueling you now. Though unfortunately, the next room is no better. Incense. Silk cushions. A painted folding screen.

No reflection. No relief.

“Huh,” Satoru muses dryly. “How many tea rooms does one clan really need. This has to be… what? Number six?”

“Yup…” you mutter dismissively, brushing past him with clipped breath. “You’d think a place this massive could spare at least one goddamn mirror…”

He only hums, content to trail behind like this is some game. Asshole. He probably knows where one is. He’s probably waiting for you to ask. But you won’t. Maybe out of pride. Maybe out of spite.

Or perhaps because… if you stop—if you look at him—you’ll break for real this time.

So, you press on—because the last thing you need is another pair of eyes watching you fall apart—which is exactly why it drives you fucking mad that you can feel his on you. That heavy blue gaze hasn’t left you since the moment he stepped into that garden. Quiet. Watching. Waiting.

You’re too terrified to look at him. Not after what he did to your heart. What expression is he even wearing?

Pity?

Amusement?

…nothing at all?

“…you’re not gonna find a mirror in a broom cupboard,” he adds as you slide open yet another useless door.

For a second, you truly consider slamming it shut—hard. Right in his fucking face. Just to hear it echo down the hallway and maybe shut him out with it.

“I’m well aware…” you grit, sliding it closed, fingers trembling at the seam. Then, shifting down the corridor, another door comes into view. Your hand lifts, reaching for it—before suddenly, you freeze—body stilling.

Because voices linger… muffled through paper-thin walls.

“…wonder what’s the hold up,” a woman sighs, bored.

“She’s still not out?”

“Nope. They’re stalling.”

“Think she’ll even show her face before the ceremony starts?” another muses.

“Honestly? Who knows. At this point, it’s just embarrassing.”

Blinking, your hand hovers inches from the handle. You feel Satoru still behind you.

“Mm. Not a great look for a bride, is it?”

“Well…” another voice drawls—sweet, venomous, “…her father cracked under pressure too, didn’t he?”

“Cracked?” another snorts. “More like he fucking shattered.”

Laughter.

It shivers through the paper like a breeze, but it hits you like a slap. Because that’s all it takes, isn’t it? To turn your life into a punchline. A passing footnote to joke about.

“Rumor has it that she ran off crying,” one whispers covertly.

“Wouldn’t be surprised,” someone adds breezily—footsteps shifting closer. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone from that family bailed when things got hard.”

A giggle. “Guess falling apart runs in their blood.”

You don’t even realize that you’re shaking until your hand falls away from the door—like your  name, your shame, your father, your tears—is just something for them to stir into their tea.

Stumbling, you shuffle back, retreating from the hurt, the anguish. But your back immediately collides with something solid, or rather, someone.

Satoru.

His arms catch you before your mind can catch up—steadying you as your breath stutters out. You blink back more tears as your fingers curl into the sleeve of his kimono, curling into it like a lifeline.

He doesn’t speak, you don’t look at him. Their footsteps are drawing near—the tatami whispering beneath them, and with it, your panic only builds.

Oh god.

If they slide the door open and see your face like this—they’ll know they were right. You’re unraveling.

The shoji begins to slide open.

And in and instant—you’re gone.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

Your feet hit the polished floor with a soft scuff, hands still fisted in silk. And when you open your eyes, it’s there. Right in front of you.

A mirror.

That fucking mirror.

And behind you—arms still around you like he has any right—is the man who broke your heart in this very room.

“I didn’t want this mirror,” you snap, shoving him off, voice breaking halfway through. Satoru lets go, taking a single step back as you brace your hands on the sink. “A mirror’s a mirror,” he mutters, hands raising in lazy surrender. “Bathroom seemed like an upgrade, all things considered.”

You glare at the sink instead of answering, trying to breathe past the mess inside you.

…is this guy for real? Does he really not get it?

Is he that clueless to the hurt he caused you?

Clearly, you can’t catch a fucking break tonight. And despite how clueless he may be, you know he heard what those girls were saying out there—heard every word about you, your family. They laid your shame out for everyone like a fucking dinner course.

Shaking the thoughts away, you twist the faucet on, splashing cold water over your face. One handful. Then Another. Like it’ll rinse off their voices. Like it could strip away the sting of their laughter.

Like it could cleanse the memory of him from your skin.

You turn the water off with trembling fingers, gripping the counter tightly as you breathe. Because your reality is that you have to face him. Face this. Walk your ass back out there and smile. This is your life now.

Lifting your head, you look up into the mirror, and there he is—leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching you through the reflection like you’re some unsolvable thing. And that expression on his face is… strange.

Not pitying. Not cruel. But it’s not comfort either.

Just there.

Like… he sees you.

And for a moment, you almost wish he didn’t. Because that quiet—whatever it is—is worse. It’s the same kind of silence you’ve known your whole fucking life. The kind that says everything without saying a word. Cold meals. Cold rooms. Cold people. Conversations that never really started, let alone ended.

With a shuddering breath, you’re the one who looks away first. Because if you keep looking, you’re going to cry again. And you’re so fucking tired of crying. So instead, you reach for the compact hidden in your sleeve and snap it open.

Finally. Something to control. Powder. Liner. Blush.

Each motion is practiced, mechanical—building your face back up to dull the damage—stroke by stroke, until you look more like a bride and less like a breakdown.

“Hey…” Satoru mumbles, tilting his head. “That shit they said… about your family…”

Your fingers pause, hovering over the powder.

Of all the things to talk about, that’s what he chooses.

“Doesn’t matter,” you murmur, reflection hardening. As you reach for your lip color, he watches you smooth it on like war paint. “…you’re really gonna go back out there?” he asks, almost to himself. And capping the lipstick, you slide it back into your sleeve.

“I don’t have a choice.”

“You always have a choice.”

“…do I?”

You meet his eyes in the mirror. Briefly. Long enough to see the truth of it—that he knows what he’s saying isn’t fair. That he’s not offering you one.

And yet… he still says it.

That look on his face… it’s not indifference. But it’s not enough either. Just this frustrating stillness. That quiet, complicated way he’s always looked at you.

You almost wish he’d laugh. Or sneer. Or leave. Anything to make it easier. It would be easier if he acted cruel—acted like you meant nothing.

Instead, he says nothing at all.

“Come,” you say, turning from the sink. Chin lifted. Shoulders squared. “They’re waiting.”

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

“Today, we gather not only to honor a union between clans, but to witness the seat at Gojo-sama's side finally be filled.”

While you and Satoru ascend the dais, the hush of the hall is thick around you. You step with grace—smooth, poised—a perfect pace beside the man you’re meant to call husband. The man who doesn’t wait for you, doesn’t reach for you.

At the edge of the platform, Gojo Hajime is droning about lineage and honor—the union of households, the promise of an heir. The words blur into each other—because you’ve heard them all before.

Still, you smile. You bow. You perform.

Settling on the cushions laid before you, you lower yourself with care, but the platform is narrow, and Satoru takes up space like it’s owed to him. As you adjust, your thigh brushes his.

“Might wanna scoot…” he mutters under his breath, amused. His eyes flick to the seat just behind you both—Gojo Hajime’s cushion, looming in quiet judgment. “I mean… not that I’m complaining. But Hajime hates when people steal his precious throne.”

“Yes,” you murmur, smoothing your sleeve as you shift subtly away. Your eyes stay forward. “I remember.” And that earns the faintest shift in Satoru beside you. “…oh?” he hums. “What’s there to remember?”

Glancing at him, you see the lazy coolness still etched into every line of his body, but those blue eyes are fixed on you.

Focused. Curious.

You hate how much those eyes unravel you. How, despite everything, they still make your heart stutter.

“…how could I forget?” you shake the unease away, exhaling. “You made space for me that day. In a world I’ve been trying to fit into since the moment I was born.”

He shifts again. “…huh?” and you raise a brow—exhausted with him, exhausted with this conversation. “…what do you mean huh?”

You’re trying to pay attention to the ceremony. To perform. But Satoru keeps whispering above the hush of the hall while Hajime continues without pause—speaking like his words are carved into stone.

“For nearly a decade, the strongest has stood alone,” he declares. “But even power must be accompanied. The strongest must not only protect blood—but create it. A legacy. An heir. She will nurture the future of this clan. And with this duty, she will take her place not behind him, but beside him.”

Right… more like beneath him, it seems. Beneath his name. Beneath his body. And the worst part? Some small, broken part of you still aches for it. For him. For the feeling of being wanted, of being seen—even if only in the dark. Even if only for a moment.

“No fair,” Satoru mutters suddenly, like he’s trying to break the weight in the air. A slow smirk curls at his lips. “You pissed him off without me. Wish I could’ve seen his face.”

“…you did see it,” your gaze flicks to him briefly. Flat. “The way he nearly took my head off with a single glance.”

Your eyes lock, and Satoru’s blinking—looking at you with bewilderment. Huffing a soft laugh through his nose, he tries to play it off. But there’s a flicker of something behind it. A crack in the cool.

“Uh… the fuck are you talking about?”

Inhaling, your spine straightens, and you don’t turn this time. Instead, your gaze stays trained on the gift tray being carried forward—on the servant kneeling before it, hands delicate and practiced.

“Seven years ago…” you mutter. “When I sat in his seat by accident. During your ascension.”

…what?

Satoru’s gaze lingers on you longer than it should, your words slotting into place with a quiet click that echoes—like a key turning into a lock he didn’t even know was there. That itch—that nagging sense of familiarity when he saw your photo in the dossier—he brushed it off. Didn’t connect it. Didn’t care to.

Well—shit.

It rushes back with startling clarity, like a memory pulled from fog: a girl in formal wear too heavy for her frame. Beautiful, but young. Sitting where she shouldn’t have, swallowing her fear like glass. And him—half-bored, half-amused—tilting his head and letting you stay.

It was a brief moment. You were a brief moment; a moment he let pass, a flicker.

But…

‘You made space for me. In a world I’ve been trying to fit into since the moment I was born.’

He’s confused. You say it like it should matter. Why is he unsettled? Gojo Satoru doesn’t feel unsettled. Hell, Gojo Satoru doesn’t feel—period. Not for you. Not for anyone. He has a job. A clan.

Okay… fine. Maybe people assume he doesn’t give a fuck about everything—but the truth is, feelings complicate things. Make you vulnerable. Weak. Unpredictable. All he needs is strength. Strength should be enough… shouldn’t it?

Because he has hopes and dreams too. To teach. To raise something better. To burn the whole damn system down and rebuild it from the bones. And feelings? Those get in the way. That’s why the elders made their conditions clear. He knows what he has to do. If he wants to teach he—

No. Don’t think about it.             

His eyes flick sideways, catching your profile in the corner of his vision as Hajime drones on. You sit with your spine poised, your expression perfectly arranged. But he remembers what you looked like a moment ago—that gloss in your eyes, silence stretching tight across your face.

He was a dick. He knows that. But so what? You’re not even married yet. Why does it matter? And even if you were…

His lips press into a thin line. He’s getting real fucking tired of questioning his morals over someone he barely knows. But for whatever fucking reason, you’re stirring something in him that should’ve been long dead—guilt, confusion, the dull ache of something dangerously close to remorse. Feelings he buried the day Suguru walked away from Jujutsu High.

Why?

“Let us begin with the gifts,” Hajime intones, and Satoru blinks—snapping out of his thoughts. You’re already looking at him, expression unreadable while Hajime waits. Everyone in this damn hall is waiting—watching.

Anyways. Right.

No feeling.

“So… uh…” he tilts his head slightly, slipping back into his usual nonchalance, shoulders loosening. “…I go first?”

Hajime nods. “It is customary for the groom to present his offerings to the bride.”

“Right…” Satoru mutters, dragging a breath through his nose. “Customs.”

There’s an easy tone in his voice, but tension pulls beneath it as his hand slips into the inner folds of his kimono. The silk rustles as he draws a small black box from the depths of his sleeve—catching faintly in the hush, wrapped in a silk bow.

It almost seems like he’s holding his breath as he unties it—for his hands are far too careful for someone who mocks tradition. Popping the box open, he sets it on the tray in front of you gently.

“For you.”

Inside: a kanzashi comb shaped like a dragonfly. Platinum, fine as breath. The wings unfurl in delicate filigree—spiraling patterns so precise they seem to shimmer when caught by the light. Along the slender body, deep-blue sapphires glint like midnight stars. The craftsmanship is meticulous. Elegant. And yet, the edges are gently worn—not from neglect, but from time. From touch. From memory. Places where fingers must’ve lingered, again and again.

It looks… loved.

Blinking, your breath stills as you stare at the comb. Of all things… especially after tonight, you’d been expecting money. Something impersonal. That’s what most men offer in these ceremonies—clean, transactional, easy to forget. A sum to be tallied, tossed across a lacquered tray without thought.

But an heirloom?

It feels like a contradiction: a man who mocks tradition, honoring it. A man who avoids meaning, offering something that feels like reverence. It’s almost like part of him understood what this gesture was—and still did it anyway.

“It’s… beautiful,” you manage softly, “Thank you.”

“Mm,” he hums. “You’ll look good in it.”

Your smile cracks, but you pull it back into place. This man confuses the hell out of you. You try not to linger on it too long, because you know—this man does not love you, does not want you. That much is clear. But something about that comb… makes you wonder if clarity is ever that simple.

Clearing your throat, you shift, sliding your hand into your sleeve. “I know your technique can be a little… draining,” and pulling out your gift to him, you begin unravelling the ribbon. “So, I figured these might help. And… well… they suit you.”

With careful hands, you lift the box open—setting it on the tray between you. Satoru blinks down at the sunglasses, then back at you, unreadable.

There’s a silence. He doesn’t say anything, and neither do you. But you can feel Hajime shift beside you. An observer in the crowd coughs in the audience. The air sharpens with awkward expectation.

Yup. You’re already regretting getting him this gift entirely. What the fuck were you thinking?

“This gift…” Hajime starts, tone already tight with disapproval. “It is—”

“Huh. You got me shades,” Satoru cuts in flatly, like saying it aloud will make it make sense.

Still, his hand moves toward them—lifting them from the box—turning them over slowly as he examines the weight, the curve, the ridiculous sincerity behind him.

No one ever sees him. Not really. Or rather, they see him for his purpose, not for who he is. And the fact that someone bothered to think of him not as a symbol, but as a man?

Great, now he feels… unsettled. Again.

So, he does what he’s always done. Deflects—sliding them on with a cocky grin. Hajime clears his throat, and Satoru looks up at him unapologetically.

“What?” he drawls. “She’s right, they suit me.”

A ripple of faint laughter stirs at the edges of the crowd, but it doesn’t reach the dais. You exhale slowly, heart pounding. Thank God. That’s probably the most untraditional gesture you’ve ever made. You can feel your mother’s eyes on you in the crowd—cutting, sharp—but you don’t look. You just sit straighter.

“Besides…” Satoru murmurs, vivid blue eyes glancing over the rim to you, “…she’s got good taste.”

Your breath catches, and the sunglasses certainly don’t help you make out that still unreadable expression he wears. Great. Now you’re guessing again. Reading between lines he never bothers to draw.

“Anyways…” he takes them off, folding them back into the box. “Uh… thanks…” he mumbles. “Sure…” you echo.

And with it, the tray rests between you, holding its mismatched offerings.

One comb.

One pair of sunglasses.

One tradition honored. One broken.

There’s a moment of stillness. Then—

“Come!” Hajime intones, rising from his cushion with all the slow gravity of ceremony. “Let us present the final offering. A token worn in promise—a symbol of union, where it may be seen, and remembered.”

The air shifts, and the change in Satoru is immediate. You feel it; something solemn threading back through the moment, like a red string of fate.

Exhaling through his nose, Satoru shifts his weight, reaching into his sleeve yet again—pulling out a small, lacquered ring box. You blink as he opens it.

Inside: a platinum engagement ring. The band curves in an elegant infinity twist, looping seamlessly between twin rows of diamonds and deep, midnight sapphires.

“Hand…” Satoru mumbles, barely above a whisper, his palm open in silent ask. “Oh—of course,” you breathe, hesitation flickering, then fading as you slip your hand into his.

His fingers wrap around yours, warm, steady. And when he slides the ring onto your finger, it fits like it was always meant to be there. Looking down at the flickers of silver, white and blue, your breath catches as it glitters softly—like stars trapped in metal. It’s gorgeously elegant, and the sapphires remind you of his eyes.

Though as your gaze lifts, his eyes hold the weight of something unspoken. He’s staring at the ring, and that vivid blue is suddenly… dimmed. Like something caught between elegance and meaning. Between promise and prison.

For the first time, it strikes you. The man beside you—who always seemed untouchable, unfazed, immune to the binds of tradition—is kneeling here, completing the ritual, bound by the same rules.

Maybe… he isn’t as free as he looks.

“Let it be seen,” Hajime declares, voice rising through the hush, “and remembered by all. Arise!”

The tray is lifted. The offering complete. And as Satoru straightens, you follow; shifting towards the crowd. Then—

Applause.

First a few. Then dozens. Then more.

Clapping…

Too loud. Too sharp.

Clapping…

Clapping…

Clapping…

It echoes off the walls like a warning—faces blurring in motion, smiles stretching too wide. The sound closes in like smoke—like something choking and hollow. Though, somewhere near the farthest end of the hall, lingering in the shadows, someone does not clap. They watch.

Because far from the estate, on the grounds of a forgotten shrine, ash stirs in the wind.

A candle gutters.

Another catches.

The world holds its breath.

And with the tilt of a match—

A curse begins to stir.

a/n. hello lovelies, i hope you enjoyed pt 2! 🥹💕 we're cooked. bc this was 20k and they aren't even married yet LOL. i kept telling myself that this fic wasn't going to be THIS long, but alas. i write what my heart tells me and my heart was yappin. i feel like a lot of arranged marriage fics jump straight to the marriage and i wanted to try something different and set some groundwork instead. plus, since tradition is a heavy theme in this fic, so bc of that, the traditional engagement ceremony just seemed right. there were a lot of callbacks i did with certain scenes from jjk, i wonder how many you can spot 🤔 both reader and satoru still have a lot of growing to do. anyways, there's more i could say but i am sleepy and posting this super late 🫠 so i'll leave it at that, and i'm excited to hear your thoughts on this chapter 🥰 thanks for reading. MUAH! -aly

taglist pt 1:

@forest-nymph420 @linabugaboo @enhasrii @indiewritesxoxo @yamagucji

@aerareads @devils-blackrose @starpachinko @sadmonke @sylussss7

@slutoru1207 @satoruxsc @sukunasunflower @reihimbo @madamechrissy

@sleepykittyenergy @artist1936 @eggrollforyou @nishloves @serenxtii

@lastsubstance @sarapherna1ia @7thsthings @merrydoe @earliergrave

@106-94 @propan-3-ol @oromanticism @chxllix @nonamebbsblog

@honeybunnnnie @beereadzzz @moonchhu @bunheadusa @atschii

@cherriee-ee @kiyoko182 @itsinherited @fairygardenprincessss @7haze

@hedgefundmeg @adreamingpendulum @etsuniiru @velvetyshu @genshingeeksworld

@waterfallu @haruhatake @schooki @magnificientscarlett @sukuxna0

[notrustfratedjin]

Damn, that Gojo character development better come quick or I'll be CLOCKING TF OUTTA HIM 👹

Ugh I want to hug her so bad 😭 she never asked any of this and now she's trapped and heartbroken 😭😭

GOJO WHEN I CATCH U GOJO 🤺

[tsukimirecs]

olympic team hq!! // fic recommendations

note: remember to read the tags! + i do not own any of these works ⋆⸜ ⚘ ⸝⋆ .* ⚘ ⋆*⋆⸜ ⚘ ⸝⋆ .* ⚘ ⋆*⋆⸜ ⚘ ⸝⋆ .* ⚘ ⋆*

atsumu

neon lights (in a world gray) triple trouble drunk mind sober heart green with envy a commemoration of firsts till one of us caves long black anyways, don't be a stranger

kageyama

fate when one door closes stolen kisses miscommunication him?! haunt me volleyball on the brain you can hear it in the silence

sakusa

soft and wet public transit miscarry it's still love drawing our moments bed this victory is mine, and yours touch starved

oikawa

babygirl pinch two stories settle always perfect pain split here's to the sixth time

ushijima

request trust fall atlas bitter / sweet soft, but for you only in time page 304

bokuto

inferior an accidental heroine as loud as you like lucid swept up in the moment heart attack