isabella🍭

erik campbell's girlfriend 🎱

[porterroths]

not a bot. my name is bella & i go by she/her pronouns. i’m 23. ikwydls & erik campbell #1 fan

#mecore: harry bingham!! cassandra pressman!! sam carpenter!! minnie honrada!! steve harrington!! erik campbell!! matty mckibben!! nancy drew!! jade waters!! damien booth!!!mel king!! frank langdon!! tyler galpin!! rowan fricks!! nicki sullivan!! megan landry!! george fan!! john carter!! spencer reid!! jack abbott!! samira mohan!! teddy spencer!! milo griffin!! robin buckley!!

misc: miguel o’hara quinn bailey layla keating gojo satoru isabel lee hazel callahan nancy wheeler robin buckley jessica wright robby robinavitch

#myships: hassandra stancy samdanny langdonmel jacksamira robbysamira jacksamirarobby lumax jadedamien weyler sethkate gregorymaya

[rambld]

psychiatrist!geto is better to fantasize about than your selfish boyfriend | 18+

cw: mdni, porn with plot, mentions of masturbation, sly suguru, bro is NOT a good psychiatrist lmfao, shy reader at first, office sex, unprotected sex, cheating oops, 3.1k words, art by chuucho95 on x <3

Doctor Geto Suguru is the same age as you.

Yet the wall behind him is mounted with accolades that rivals veterans in his field.

The rain blurs the lights of the city into watercolor smears against the windows of the doctor's office. Inside, the room is silent, scented with sandalwood and the crisp smell of old books. 

Psychiatrist visits inspire thoughts of padded rooms and grippy socks but you're not here due to a sickness of the mind and rather one of the body. One you're certain is going to migrate to your mind if it's not handled now. 

See, you can't come. It's been an issue for a while now that's bothered you and you're tired of faking them with your boyfriend. You've decided to come here and see if it's owing to stress. 

You lay on the leather chaise, the cool material grounding you as you recounted another week of feeling like a ghost in your own relationship. Another week of your boyfriend’s heavy, selfish touch that left you feeling used rather than wanted.

Dr. Geto sits in his chair, a notebook resting on his thigh, slender fingers curled around his fountain pen as he hums, scribbling down notes with intent nods as you speak.

His long, raven hair gathered loosely at the nape of his neck, trailing over the shoulder of his charcoal suit. He's a man of serpentine beauty—fluid, graceful, and deceptively large, his muscular frame filling the tailored fabric in a way that feels both protective and overwhelming. A few strands frame a face that is unnervingly kind.

“The guilt you feel regarding your own body, it’s a symptom of the neglect you’ve endured,” he says, his voice a low, soothing baritone. “You deserve to reclaim your pleasure.”

While his words aren't inherently lewd or explicit, you still squirm in your seat, unaccustomed to discussing such intimate topics with a man let alone a stranger. However, you're trying to get to the bottom of your rocky relationship with sex and how to resolve the unease you feel so this will have to do. 

“How do I do that?” 

“You have to touch yourself.”

Rearing back, you swear the corner of his mouth twitches in amusement at your appalled reaction. “I beg your pardon? Doctor, I can't do that. It's inappropriate.”

“Not here, Miss,” he clarifies and your face warms from jumping to conclusions. “Just from how you're reacting, I can deduce that you haven't indulged in self pleasure before. You don't know what you enjoy and have no autonomy over your body. Hence, you need to experiment and try out new things to figure out what pleases you and what does not.” 

Nodding slowly, your hands twist the hem of your skirt as you absorb his words. The idea of masturbation feels shameful. You're not particularly religious but after growing up in a household where it was seen as a sin to be lustful, you still harbor such thoughts in your subconscious. 

Lifting your shy gaze, you're stripped bare by his amethyst eyes scanning over your face, mentally jotting down every microexpression of discomfort that flickers across it. 

Setting his notebook aside, the gentle smile he graces you with has your stomach flipping. It's startling how just that gesture has you relaxing, his presence easy to melt into, loosening your tongue. 

“As your doctor, I want what's best for you,” he utters your name in that rich, mellow voice of his akin to a wife calling her husband and you perk up. “Please tell me if I'm overstepping your boundaries. I do not mean to be anything other than strictly professional.” 

“Oh, no, no. You're fine. I was just taken aback is all,” you assure him with a shake of your head and an earnest smile. 

Relief loosens the tension in his shoulders, his eyes softening. “Good, now shall we begin?” 

“Yes, please,” that polite word has his irises swirling but you chalk it up to a trick of the light. 

“Alright. Are you okay with following my instructions? There's this genre of audio erotica called guided masturbation which I recommend you look into but for professional purposes, I just want to ease you into it so you're not lost when you try it out, okay?” 

Swallowing, you nod, shifting to get comfortable as you're laying on the plush couch. “Okay.” 

“I want you to close your eyes and imagine your boyfriend touching you. You're in control, he's listening to you and eager to know what pleases you. Tell him how to touch you.” 

Brows twitching, you want to tell him that this seems like an exercise for fitting for sex therapy but he'd already told you in your last session that he creates these activities based on the specific needs of his patients according to his observations and what he deems necessary.

“Where would you like him to start?” he asks in a quiet voice that wavers like you're suspended in a body of water, waves lapping at your bobbing body. “Your lips? Your neck? Your chest?” 

Hand rising, you brush your fingers over your lips, eyes fluttering shut as they tingle. “My lips.” 

“How do they feel against his ones?” 

“Soft like petals.” 

“How do you want him to kiss you?” 

Tongue peeking out, you tentatively lick the pad of your finger, tasting salt. “With…tongue. I've never done that before. He's always refused.”

And perhaps that is why your brain cannot conjure the image of him kissing you. You've always had a vivid imagination but now his silhouette is distorted like the still surface of water disturbed by pebbles dropped into it. 

“Does it feel good?” 

“This is hard,” you admit, embarrassed. 

“How so?” 

“I can't picture him doing this.”

The psychiatrist goes silent for a few moments, the faint sound of traffic and the ticking of the clock on the wall all that fills your ears, amplified by your lack of sight.

“No worries, you can picture someone else. A teenage crush, maybe a celebrity you like. Many people fancy imagining their favourite characters too,” he offers simply.

Lips thinning, the daydream you're in darkens, slowly seeping away and your disappointment creeps in. “I can't. Maybe we should try another time—”

“If it’s too difficult to focus on him, imagine me.”

Scandalised by the suggestion, your eyes fly open, head whipping to the side to look at him, your imagination shattering like stained glass hit by a brick. 

“Excuse me? That's hardly appropriate.”

“Am I a worse candidate than your boyfriend?” he questions and your eyes widen at the teasing lilt in his voice.

“Um, no. I just find it odd. Don't you?” 

A smirk curls at the corner of his mouth. “I can assure you that I've had patients who've tried much worse than just picturing me in their fantasies, Miss.” 

Heat licks at your cheeks. “Ah, okay.”

“You have my consent. Ready to continue?” he cocks his head and asks, sleek hair cascading down his shoulder like spilled ink.

Assuming your position again, you sigh, eyes sliding shut. “Yes.”

“Imagine my hands. Where do you want them while we're kissing?”

With your eyes closed, you followed his forbidden directive. Your hands slid over your ribs, trembling. 

“Here,” you murmur, squeezing at your plush waist and skating palms up to the curve of your breasts that tighten. “And here.” 

“Okay, let's start slow. We want to build up the tension, drag it out. There's no finish line to race to. Just feel.” 

Obliging, you run your hands up and down your sides from your hips to your waist, groping and caressing. They're not your delicate fingers but his thick, long ones digging into your flesh over your clothes, grabbing greedy handfuls of you. 

“Does that feel good? My hands gripping at you, feeling you up in fistfuls?” 

The question trickles into your ears, your pulse melting into hot syrup that pools in your stomach and dips between your legs. An airy, needy sigh passes your lips. 

“Great,” you breathe a dreamy sound, thighs rubbing together, skirt bunching up and you can feel the phantom of his deft fingers hooking into the hem to hike it up. 

“Very good,” he praises, voice light and sweet like he's proud of you for being an active participant in this exercise. “Now on to your neck. My lips are grazing your skin there, what do you want from me?” 

“Bite it,” you blurt instantly, brows knotting as your neck warms with the ghost of his teeth sinking into it, your pulse racing against the enamel as he sucks a flowering hickey into the blank canvas of your skin, hot, needling desire swirls in the pit of your stomach and sizzles against your clit.

The dream morphs into something lucid, him hovering over you, caging you with those bulky limbs, mouth latched onto your neck as your nails drag down the cotton of his shirt that's taut against his meaty pecs, the muscles flexing beneath your palms. The zwip, zwip, zwip of your clawing against the fabric, laddering it with how desperately you're scratching. 

His gentle scent of lilies and something woodsy, the tan terrain of his skin, the dips and ridges of his sculpted form, sweat beading his skin, a devouring hunger in his eyes that scares you and arouses you at the same time because it's so visceral and yet he's holding himself back, willing to kneel at your feet and worship you. 

You don't see your boyfriend’s indifferent face; you see Geto's broad shoulders and his dark, predatory gaze softened by that clinical smile as he tells you how good you're doing for him, kissing down your neck and unbuttoning your blouse, calling out your name as you moan in response. 

“Miss [Name].”

No, that's actually him talking to you right now. A big, warm hand clasps your wrist and tugs, your eyes blinking open, vision blurred and slowly clearing as you look at him. 

Tie askew, his hair is not as neat as it was before you shut your eyes and his cheeks are slightly red as he peers at you. 

“Sorry for touching you without your permission but you were getting carried away there,” he apologises, glancing down at your chest and away. 

Glancing down, you gasp as he lets go of your wrist as you see the lace of your bra on display. You'd been undoing the buttons of your blouse, skirt ridden up so far that one move would have your panties flashing him too. 

Mortified, you spring up and he hands you the blanket beside him which you gratefully accept and cover yourself with. “I am so sorry. I didn't realise—”

“It's okay, just tell me that your imagination will work perfectly when you're exploring it yourself somewhere private,” he interjects with a reassuring smile, clearing his throat. 

Clapping, he stands. “Well then, this session is over. We made good progress, I think. Get home safe,” he greets you with a nod, exiting to room to give you privacy to gather yourself.

The fantasy was a revelation. It makes the drive back to your apartment bearable; it makes the shower sessions a sanctuary where you’d slip your hand between your thighs and whisper your psychiatrist's name into the steam.

After all, there's no harm in practicing. It's make believe, it's not like you're cheating on your boyfriend. Everything is alright. 

It's liberating, really. The realisation that you're not a broken woman. That you're not undesirable. Touching yourself becomes a self love ritual. 

The shame that usually curdles in your stomach evaporates, replaced by a searing, liquid heat.

Weeks pass. Your boyfriend is the last thing on your mind. When he fucks you, his movements are still clumsy and selfish, but you simply close your eyes and summon Dr. Geto, hand slipping between your thighs to rub your clit and make yourself come.

You're glowing, revitalized, and Geto watches it all from behind his mahogany desk, taking meticulous notes on your psyche—and your scent.

For months, he had been the architect of your recovery. After your boyfriend had spent years treating your body like an inconvenient vessel for his own release, Geto had taught you that your pleasure was a sovereign right.

During your final session, the air in the room changed—charged, heavy with the scent of his expensive cologne and the sudden, sharp intent in his eyes.

“I’ve been observing your progress,” Geto muses, standing up. He moves with the grace of a panther on the prowl, stopping beside the chaise. “You’re smiling more. You’re distancing yourself from the man who doesn't deserve you. But there is a final stage to this therapy—one that addresses the psychosomatic tension you’re still carrying.”

The man reaches down, his large, warm hand cupping your cheek. The touch is electric. “Sit up.”

You obey, heart hammering against your ribs. 

He clears the papers from his heavy mahogany desk with a single, slow sweep of his arm. “Your boyfriend treats sex as a conquest. I treat it as a necessity. Bend over, please.”

Fantasy is about to become reality.

Moments later, you're gripping the edge of the polished mahogany, the grain cool against your palms, as Geto comes up behind you. He takes his time as he lifts your skirt, his fingers tracing the line of your spine with agonizing slowness.

“This is the session I've been waiting for,” he whispers against the shell of your ear, his breath hot.

Skirt rolled up to your waist, he bares your ass to him and peels away your soaked panties, picking them up and inhaling your musky sweet scent deeply. It's dizzying, so addictive. He balls up the flimsy cloth and stuffs it into his pocket.

When he eases in, it isn't the clumsy, impatient shove you are used to. It's a slow, deliberate push. He's massive, a solid weight that filled the void your boyfriend had left behind. You let out a shattered cry, your forehead pressing into the desk.

“That's it, you're doing so well,” he growls, his hands catching your hips, his thumbs digging into your hipbones to hold you steady. One hand slides to your belly, pressing down on the bulge there as you whimper. “Feel me here? Feel how perfectly you fit against me."

The drag of his cock inside you is all-consuming. Every time he drives forward, his heavy weight presses you down into the desk, the glossy wood and the heat of his body creating a sensory overload. Each vein and ridge rubs back and forth inside you, tickling all those sweet spots inside you that have your head swimming, drool dribbling from your parted lips and moans spilling from you that you barely recognize. 

"Your body isn't a burden," he whispers, his voice thickening as the friction built toward a fever pitch. "It is a temple, and I am its most dedicated servant. Tell me... does your boyfriend ever make you feel this seen?"

"No," you breathe sharply, vision dimming with heat. You're jelly, your senses dissolving into the scent of his cologne and soap.

"Then let him go," he grits, his grip tightening until his knuckles were white. "Forget his name."

Who?

He leans down, biting the sensitive skin where your shoulder meet your neck, his long hair falling like a curtain around you both. As he hits your deepest point, over and over, you feel the last remnants of your old life shatter.

"This is the only medicine you need," he hums, his voice breaking. "And I'll be sure to provide it whenever you want it."

You could feel the power in his thighs, the strength of his chest against your back as he presses his lips into the softness of your neck, cock sinking into you deeper and deeper with each smooth roll of his hips, the desperate drag of his body against yours nearly molding you two together as his cock carves a home for itself in your snug cunt. 

“Fuck, do you know how good you feel? Sucking me in so greedily, fitting me like a glove. Your boyfriend barely left a mark,” he seethes, biting down on your shoulder as his lazy, savoring thrusts descend into something feral and harsh, grunts thrumming though your skin as the desk creaks and whines with you. 

“Ah, Geto—” 

“Suguru, baby. I'm your Suguru,” he mumbles in a drunken slur against the side of your face, lips smushed to your wet cheek, licking up the tears of pure bliss and relief that streak down your face. 

“Suguru,” you gasp out and a long, drawn-out groan rumbles out of him, his abdomen bunching against your lower back as his hips smack against your plush ass, the flesh rippling. 

“I’ve spent months learning every fracture in your psyche,” he rasps, his pace quickening, the sound of sweat-slick skin slapping skin echoing in the quiet office. “I know exactly where you’re broken. And I know exactly how to fill those spaces.”

He reaches around, his large fingers finding your aching clit, circling with a clinical precision that sends sparks crackling through your vision. You are far gone, your mind turning to white noise as he buries himself to the hilt, over and over.

Cupping your jaw, he turns your face so he can get a good look at you, half-lidded eyes dark and glistening with elation as he takes in your messy hair, smudged eyeliner, tears dotting your lashes and parted lips. 

Ducking down, he licks a hot, wet stripe up your chin, slurping the drool there, tongue delving into your mouth and kissing you sloppy like you had fantasized about for months, hip thrusts stuttering from how sweet and buttery you taste. 

“You’ve never looked better," he moans into your mouth, his voice thick with a dark, satisfied pride as he feels your pussy clench around him in a violent, weeping orgasm, drinking down your whimpers. “This is the only medicine you need from now on. I'll give it to you every time, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” you mewl, incapable of saying anymore as you struggle to kiss him, legs quivering and cunt convulsing, drawing his orgasm forward, thick, creamy cum splattering inside your squelching walls. 

You lay slump against the mahogany, breathless and gold-spun with afterglow. Suguru doesn't pull away immediately, buried deep within you, his arms wrapped around your waist, holding you together.

"Much better," he sighs, pressing a tender kiss to your shoulder, his kind smile returning to his face even as his eyes remained dark with a predatory satisfaction. "I think we’ve made excellent progress today."

Smiling deliriously, you're spent and shimmering, a patient finally cured by the most radical of treatments.

note: i doubt i did that blurb justice huhu but i wanted to write suguru

general tags: @getopilleds @yailuxe @cttelina @dadonprimma @vigumii @petalsmoons @sunabff @luoodle @wwasabiiiii @bruleecream @emluvsgetou @sukubusss

[homophobla]

Twice a year in Hawaii the sun passes directly overhead and objects cast no shadow. It’s a phenomenon called “Lahaina Noon”

[bonescaro]

you can tell a lot about a person by who their first fictional crush was. it also explains every fictional crush they’ve had since

who was yours? i’ll go first: mine was batman :x

[kassy-djomunson]

he looks so fucking big i’m screaming

[vorpalfae]

𝔓𝔯𝔞𝔠𝔱𝔦𝔠𝔞𝔩 𝔐𝔞𝔤𝔦𝔠 [1998] 🌛🔮🌜

[titsay]

[rambld]

the concept of sukuna learning what a situationship is

The humid air of the evening presses against the windows of Sukuna's beaten-up sedan, matching the heavy, crushing silence between you.

For months, you had existed in a space that felt like a blurred ink painting—beautiful, but without defined edges. You studied at the same library tables, shared late-night convenience store ramen, and occasionally, warmed each other's beds in a tangle of limbs among the twisted sheets.

But you have hardened your heart. In your mind, you're platonic-plus. You hung out as friends 90% of the time; surely, the other 10% was just a lapse in judgment on both your parts. You constantly hurt your own feelings, playing out "what if" scenarios while watching him scroll through his phone, convinced you're just a passing convenience in his life.

There's a veil separating you—transparent, thin, yet seemingly unbreakable.

Until earlier today on the rugby pitch.

“Hey, Sukuna! Is your girlfriend coming to the semi-finals?” his teammate, Gojo, shouts over the roar of the drills, face glistening with sweat, white tufts of hair silver when it catches the light.

Sukuna doesn't even look up from his water bottle as he nods, coral strands sways. “Yeah, she'll be there.”

Your heart does a painful somersault. “Wait, who?” you blurt, your voice thin.

Blue eyes gleaming, Gojo grins. “I mean, she’s your girlfriend, right? You guys are always together.”

“No,” you say, at the exact moment Sukuna says, “Yes,” earning a nasty glance from him at the corner of his eye.

The silence that follows is deafening. You force a lighthearted laugh that sounds like it's weight down by lead, waving a hand dismissively. “We're just in a situationship, Gojo. Don’t mind him.”

Sukuna's head snaps toward you, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion as he cocks his head to the side. “A what? A situation…ship? What is that?”

“It’s when you act like a couple but have no labels because you're non-committal,” someone from the sidelines hollers back. Sukuna's expression darkens, almost matching the ink framing his face, turning stony and unreadable.

The drive home is suffocatingly quiet. He grips the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. Finally, as you pull up to your apartment, he speaks. “Are we dating or not?”

“Does it matter?” you try to evade, reaching for the door handle. “Let's just keep things simple, Ryomen. Don't make it weird.”

“Don't make it weird?” he barks, locking the doors and turning the engine off. “Am I not worth a real relationship to you? Am I just some 'situation' you use to pass the time?”

The dam finally breaks. “Are you kidding me?” you yell, hot tears stinging your eyes as he rears back, startled. “I’ve spent months protecting myself because you never said a word. I like you so much, more than I should, but I’m not going to be the idiot who assumes she’s the girlfriend when you treat me like one of the guys most of the week! I didn't want to get hurt when you eventually found someone you actually wanted to date.”

You go on a frantic, nearly sobbing rant, listing every mixed signal and every moment you felt completely confused by his actions. Sukuna watches you, his brow crinkled in utter disbelief.

When you finally run out of breath, he leans back and groans toward the ceiling.

“I thought you were my girlfriend! What the fuck are you talking about?” he shouts. “I took you to my parents' house for New Year’s! You hang out with my younger brothers. I haven't looked at another girl in six months! You're the one who keeps calling me 'bestie' and treating me like a damn friend then turn around and kiss me before heading off to your classes!"

The veil shatters then and there as you both breath hard, scowling at each other stubbornly as it dawns you that the mixed signals were very much a two way problem.

Besides, when he fucks you, it's not always rough and hard like he's trying to vent his frustrations out in the form of sex. A lot of the time it's gentle, really gentle and slow like he's savoring the feel of you, kissing you sweetly and murmuring things only lovers should say to each other into your skin.

You just assumed he was fucked-out and spouting nonsense.

When you point that out, heat licks at the tips of his ears as he grumbles out an embarrassed noise, scarlet eyes cutting you a withering glower.

“I do that because I like you, woman. Fuck,” he huffs a whiny breath, eyes softening, beseeching. “I really like you, baby. Why can't you see that?”

“You like me?” the words feel odd in your mouth like there's cotton in it and you're dreaming.

Face scrunching, he gawks at you like you're the stupidest person in the world. “Why else would I fuck you?”

Deadpanning, your eyes hood. “Casual sex is a thing.”

“You've never been casual to me in any fucking way.”

Two days later at the game, surrounded by your mutual friends, the confusion only deepens.

"Wait," your friend, Shoko, whispers as Sukuna jogs onto the field. “We honestly had no idea what was going on. We thought you guys were just messing around.”

“Right?” you sigh in exasperation, watching him tackle a fly-half.

When you'd gone down to the front row of the bleachers just now to grab another drink from the kiosk, your “boyfriend” had passed by, sweating and panting, not even sparing you a glance as he walked over to his coach.

Honestly, you would have been offended if he hadn't told you time and time again that he gets into a trance-like state of flow during a game where he blocks out everything else and focuses solely on the match. It's admirable and clearly works since he's hardly lost a game.

So he didn't really interact with you at all today, saying it would have thrown a wrench into the game day ritual of his but last night he was so reluctant to leave after spending the entire day with you watching movies, talking about nothing in particular, cooking dinner together and fucking in between all of it.

Your embrace was framed by your front doorway, his massive arms engulfing you, lips pressing insistently against every inch of your face as you sputtered giggles and tried to push him away only for him to growl in protest and pull you tighter against him, promising that he only wanted “one more kiss” just to take a dizzying fistful of them.

Situationship, his fucking ass.

tags: @yailuxe @liahcharms @getopilleds @cttelina @mrswhitethornbelikov @shazzer29 @dadonprimma @vigumii @petalsmoons @sunabff @luoodle @wwasabiiiii @bruleecream @princesspeach0-0 @vm4879bb-blog @zenaskull @icebearcucumber @beaniesayshi @iluvgetosuguru @yoonsucks @sukubusss @booboobear-12 @skylaryippee

[rambld]

would you ever write sexting situationship sukuna...

cw: suggestive, sexting, a little bit of an awkward reader hehe (hope this is okay, anon!)

the thing about being in an unlabelled whatever-this-was with sukuna. a situationship as people called it is that it'll take ages before you actually get to the benefits of it all.

you thought that this was perfect when you agreed to it. he's easy to talk to, calm and composed despite the aggressor he is on the rugby pitch and very blunt. the man is the type to initiate things which is godsent for an awkward freak like you.

except you're stuck in this strange, flirty yet horny phase of the relationship where risqué texts are anticipated with bated breath when the clock strikes eleven at night. the things said are borderline sexting but toe the line and are ambiguous so you can never tell and it drives you crazy.

what's worse is that the tatted, pink-haired bastard sees you the next day and barely bats an eye, doesn't mention what was said under the cover of night and treats you to your favourite hot drink and pastry like he always does.

there's been a couple of times where you've invited him over for a movie night, something all young adults in college do as code for come-over-and-hook-up. and yet all he fucking does is devour your snacks, slurp the spicy noodles and chug your sodas, eating everything in your apartment but the very willing host.

“looks like it's time for me to go. i think i've overstayed my welcome, yeah?” he'd decide, rising from the couch and stretching with a groan that was tired, not sexual yet still had your stomach in knots, especially since his shirt rose and teased you with the ink etched into his hip and the waistband of his boxers.

fret not because everyone has their breaking point and you decide to mess with him one night when you're about to go out with your friends.

the shibuya neon smears against the taxi window, but you aren’t looking at the city. you’re staring at the screen, your thighs pressed so tightly together they’re starting to ache. under the silk of your backless dress, your skin feels hypersensitive, every bump in the road sending a jolt through your core.

sukuna is a mountain of controlled intensity on the pitch, but in your dms, he’s clearly bored with how many texts he's sent you and knows exactly how to make you squirm.

it started harmlessly. as usual.

sukuna: you're quiet. what are you doing tonight?

you: most people start with a greeting and small talk, ryomen.

sukuna: i like getting to the point but i'll humor you.

sukuna: hello, sweetheart. how are you?

you: hey. i'm pretty good and you?

sukuna: good too. back to my first question.

you: rude. going out with my friends to some new club.

sukuna: what are you wearing?

you: it's impolite to ask a lady what she's wearing, ryomen.

sukuna: you're right. i won't ask. tell me what you're wearing.

and that had sparked a brilliant idea in your head to send him a totally innocent picture of you in your dress before you left your apartment.

there is a delay that you count with the beats of your heart until your phone buzzes with his response.

sukuna: you're going out in that? careful, some guys might try to grab your ass.

eyes widening, you feel the heat creep up your neck. you know exactly what he’s doing—marking his territory from miles away.

you: why would they do that? lol

sukuna: because they're idiots. stick close to your friends, yeah?

you: okay. any drink suggestions?

across the city, sukuna leans his head back against the locker, his phone heavy in his hand. he stares at the photo you sent—the curve of your bare spine, the way the fabric clings to your hips. his jaw tightens. he can practically feel the texture of your skin under his calloused palms. he’s already straining against his shorts, the visual of you walking into a dark club with all that skin exposed making his blood simmer.

the picture gave sukuna a thrill. he'd been waiting for you to make the first move for a while now. to him, woman are like cats. no one in their right mind goes up to a cat, be it a stray or homed, and reaches out to touch it. it will attack you, look at you crazy or run away. the feline will let you know when you can touch it very much like a lady. so he's bidding his time with the patience of a saint for when you do, when you come out of your shell and show him what you want.

sukuna: i'm usually a whiskey on the rocks kind of guy, two fingers. you seem like you enjoy fruity cocktails though.

you: i do but i'm willing to try new things.

sukuna: think you can handle two fingers?

your heart skips a beat. you know it’s a double entendre, and the mental image of his large, tattooed hands—the ones that grip a rugby ball with such care—doing anything else to you makes your breath hitch. you’re rubbing your thighs together now, the friction the only thing grounding you.

stealing a glance at the driver through the rear view mirror, you feel silly about your shame. it's not like your screen is cast on the dashboard for the middle-aged man to see. he's focused on the road.

you: of whiskey, right?

sukuna: what do you think i mean?

you: well, we're talking about whiskey so i'm going with that.

sukuna: obviously.

you: you give drink recommendations to everyone like this?

sukuna: not in this manner.

you: in what manner?

sukuna: stop texting and being asocial. go have fun with your friends, silly girl.

the dismissal feels like a physical shove, making you huff in frustration. but then, your phone vibrates—a heavy, deliberate pulse.

it’s a photo.

harsh gym lighting. sukuna is shirtless, his jersey gripped between his teeth, pulling the fabric up to reveal a sunkissed torso that looks carved from granite. his tattoos snake around his obliques and dip dangerously low into the waistband of his shorts. crimson eyes pin you in place as he stares into the camera.

greedily, you zoom in until the ink blurs into pixels, your pulse drumming in your ears as you stare at the sheen of sweat on his skin. a dusty pink, neatly trimmed happy trail disappears into his shorts like an ‘x’ marking the spot of a pirate's treasure.

sukuna: it'd be unfair to not return the favor.

you: you’re a horrible man.

sukuna: you want to kiss this horrible man.

you: bite him actually. hard enough to draw blood btw.

sukuna’s eyes darken as he reads that. he imagines your teeth against the ink on his shoulder, the sharp sting of it and it makes the burgeoning bulge in his shorts pulse. a string of dirty messages aren't enough to get him worked up but he'd been wanting to palm himself for twenty minutes, trace the tip of his half-mast erection while he imagines dragging his fingers down the dip in your naked back and feeling you shudder.

sukuna: hmm, i bet you're a biter.

you: i bet you'd like that.

sukuna: this isn't about me.

you: oh yeah? i bet a hundred bucks that you're hard right now.

he doesn't try to deny it. he hits the banking app, the notification popping up on your screen instantly.

sukuna: [attachment: a notification of a $100 transfer]

you gasp, the sheer audacity of it making your stomach flip.

he’s winning. he knows he’s winning.

you: enough. i'm gonna get horny.

sukuna: my bad. i was gonna send you a voice note of me doing inappropriate things while staring at that picture of you but i don’t want to bother you. stay safe. bye.

you drop the phone into your clutch like it’s made of live wire. your mind is a mess of static and cotton and the driver has to call out to you a few times before you embarrassingly realise you've arrived at your destination.

as you step out of the cab and into the thumping bass of the club, you’re a ghost even as you beam at your friends and hug them. you stand at the bar, ordering his whiskey, but all you can hear is the voice note he didn't send—the imagined sound of his gravelly voice breaking as he took himself to the edge while looking at your body.

you’re wet, you’re haunted, and the worst part is knowing that tomorrow, he’ll see you during your planned hangout and just nod casually, like he didn't just ruin your entire night from a locker room across the city.

the club is a blur of strobe lights and muffled bass, but you move through it like a woman possessed.

every time the silk of your dress brushes your thighs, you think of his "two fingers" comment. every time you catch your reflection in a mirrored pillar, you see the version of yourself he’s currently imagining—a mess of smudged eyeliner and tangled hair fanned over his pillow.

by the time you stumble back into your apartment at 3:00 am, the whiskey buzz has settled into a warm, defiant glow in your chest. you’re tired of him winning. you’re tired of his nonchalant "stay safe. bye" while you’re left reeling.

you kick off your heels and head straight for the back of your closet. there it is. his red rugby jersey, heavy and smelling faintly of his detergent and that distinct, woody scent that clings to his skin.

in the bathroom, the lighting is soft, blurring the edges of the room. your hair has mostly escaped the claw clip, hanging in messy, dark waves over your shoulders. your dark eyeliner is slightly smudged, giving you a sleepy, wrecked look of a woman who's been thoroughly ravished.

you pull the jersey over your head. it swallows you, the hem reaching mid-thigh, the thick sleeves hanging past your elbows. just the thought of him wearing this has a delightful shiver crawling down your spine.

standing before the mirror, you hike up the left side of the heavy fabric, bunching it in your fist until the curve of your hip is exposed. you’re wearing lacy panties—the ones with the delicate silk bow right in the middle—that contrast sharply against the plush, doughy curve of your thighs.

your heart hammers against your ribs as you slide your free hand beneath the hem of the jersey, hiking it up on one side. your manicured fingers find the weight of your bare breast, cupping the plump swell of it, pushing the curve upward so it teases the edge of the lens.

you look flushed, your lips parted, your eyes heavy with the lingering effects of the liquor and the sheer audacity of what you’re doing. the phone hides your face.

click.

you don't look at it twice. if you do, you’ll lose your nerve. you open the chat—making sure it's his so you don't have an embarrassing mishap—attach the photo, and type a simple caption.

you: i found this in my closet. it’s a lot more comfortable than the dress.

you: goodnight, ryomen. sleep well.

across the city, in the silence of his dark apartment, sukuna's phone lights up the room. he’s finally managed to cool his blood with a cold shower, coral hair damp, lying shirtless on top of his sheets, staring at the ceiling.

he reaches for the device, expecting a "home safe" text.

the red of his jersey catches his eye first. then he sees your hand—your delicate, soft hand—all cozy in his clothes even as you taunt him with everything he can’t touch. he sees the plushness of your torso, the bow on your panties, the way the fat of your tit spills into your palm and his hot all over again.

sukuna knows that his big hand would easily engulf your breast. his fingers twitch at the thought of squeezing it.

his breath hitches, a low, visceral grunt rumbles in his throat as his groin tingles.

the "typing..." bubbles appear on your end almost instantly, but you don't stay to watch. you toss the phone onto your nightstand and crawl into bed, a smug, satisfied smile on your lips.

you: 1 sukuna: 0

actually—

sukuna: cute.

sukuna: bet what's underneath is even cuter.

no, he's not talking about your underwear.

sukuna: you should let me give her a goodnight kiss some time.

anddddd, you're screaming into your fucking pillow.

tags: @yailuxe @liahcharms @getopilleds @cttelina @mrswhitethornbelikov @shazzer29 @dadonprimma @vigumii @petalsmoons @sunabff @luoodle @wwasabiiiii @bruleecream @princesspeach0-0 @vm4879bb-blog @zenaskull @icebearcucumber @beaniesayshi @iluvgetosuguru @yoonsucks @sukubusss @6x-x9 @booboobear-12 @soupydumplings @lurker512 ;)

[yoonsucks]

Stained

You've been married to him for years. What you find in the shed makes you question everything.

Pairing: Husband!Sukuna x fem!reader CW: character death, murder / homicide, gore (blood, injuries), body horror, psychological manipulation / gaslighting, toxic relationship / unhealthy relationship dynamics, captivity / imprisonment, Implied cannibalism, mutual obsession

For my event INTERLACED

Ten years.

A whole decade.

Wasted.

You wear your wedding gift from him, always neatly tied or braided into your hair.

Ivory white and clean as a whistle. You kept it spotless.

A lace bow, with the most delicate trim and floral motifs.

Every day.

You loved Sukuna so much it hurt your heart at times, unable to properly show how much poured from your fingertips after touching his skin. Just a hug or a small kiss would have you flooded with love. All for him.

He was the same, you never knew any hardships when he was around, there to be a strong arm, a word that made you laugh, brightening your day. Never upset you, sure, he might be a bit rough around the edges, but you weren't perfect, either.

The purest kind of love and adoration, care.

Mutual obsession.

So when did it start going wrong?

Truthfully, you hadn't even noticed it. Nothing was amiss. Your mind about him is as spotless as your bow, your husband could do no wrong.

Nothing was wrong in your marriage, nothing had changed in your relationship.

But your surroundings were shifting.

Missing knives, but they were replaced with new, better ones a day or two after you began asking where they had gone. A safe tucked away in the closet, no clue what was inside.

"For our safety, sweetheart, you know how wild animals are."

Having to do more loads of laundry than usual. But Sukuna himself would do it, not letting you glance at his dirty clothes thrown into a pile in the middle of the hamper, reassuring you to leave it to him.

"Go rest, my flower. I'll handle it."

No questions about this odd tint of red around his fingernails that never went away.

Why was the shed locked shut?

The shed.

Just a regular tool shed, your husband kept his power tools and lawnmower there, nothing unusual for the house.

So why was it bolted shut day after day unless Sukuna strolled inside of it?

"Just working on some things in there, don't worry your pretty little head about it, alright, my doll?"

"You should be worrying more about watering the flowers instead of some junk in a rotting shed, my love."

Sweet words, easing your curious heart. He was a good man.

But you couldn't help yourself, could you?

Off at work, at least that's what your husband told you he was up to, not around to fill your ears with light whispers and reassurance of your growing paranoia.

It was starting to get cloudy outside, a storm rolling in from past the canopy of nearby trees. Your first sign not to step outside.

The second one was the lock on the wooden door.

You had the key, right?

Of course you did.

While searching for your slippers in the morning, you had peeked under the bed.

Taped on the underside of your husband's side was… something.

Now it was in your hands, your anxious, shaky hands.

Don't be nervous now, all you have to do is turn the lock.

Click.

You didn't reach for the handle yet, taking a shaky breath and shutting your eyes.

Sukuna wouldn't be mad, right?

No, no, he wouldn't.

The only way he spoke to you was through patience and gentle guidance. He'd just chuckle and show you what's inside himself, yes.

Manipulation and lies, sugarcoated to sound as tender as your flesh.

You didn't know, using that same feeling of safety to calm your nerves, peering at the door once again, your hand on the handle already, key in the lock.

Nothing to be uneasy about, it's just a shed with gardening tools and maybe some car parts. Stop feeling like you might get your neck snapped just by having a little look.

The door creaked open, louder than you would have liked. The treeline went silent after the uncomfortable noise. A third warning.

What you saw wasn't all that odd… the lawnmower in the corner, a grass trimmer, and a few shovels in a dark corner.

You stepped inside, leaving the door ajar.

The lamp in the middle of the shabby thing flicked awake after tugging on the string dangling down.

There was this faint smell of dread hiding behind the organization.

Your eyes flicked around, landing on the workbench at the far side. Your feet carrying you there before your brain.

A small jar of pulled teeth fell into your gaze.

Teeth?

The more you looked around, the items didn't seem so innocent anymore.

Thick rope and a few rusty saws tucked under the table.

Not rust.

Maybe the worst thing was a splotch of thick blood on the edge of a bucket filled with that same stench of impending doom.

It wasn't blood… just paint.

Your fingers reached out, you had to prove to yourself that it was nothing.

But the deep crimson stained your hand, the smell of iron hit your nose, and you couldn't keep the fantasy stable anymore.

Thunderclouds had hidden the sky completely outside, making the space darker than before.

The loud thuds of heavy raindrops hitting the tin roof of the shed rang through your ears, overwhelming your senses, hands trembling while looking at the glossy blood seeping into your nail beds.

You should not have left the door open.

"My flower, what are you doing in here?"

Sukuna had returned.

You snapped out of your trance, blinking and looking in his direction, hand reaching up to your head in search of the comfort of your lace bow, fiddling with it while watching your husband approach.

Rough hands cradled your face, gently checking if you had hurt yourself. Red irises did a horrible job of hiding his displeasure with you.

"You didn't harm yourself, did you? Oh my sweet girl… come here."

A hug, face smushed into the comfort of his chest. A steady heartbeat against your ear.

So he wasn't mad… good.

Your trembling hands clung to his back.

You couldn't see the way Sukuna's jaw clenched, nails itching to claw into your sides and squeeze you tight enough to have you pop.

"You shouldn't be in here. How about we go back inside and have dinner, hm?"

No questions about the key or your findings.

False safety.

Sukuna had taken you back in the house, sat you down, and helped heat up some food. It was silent while you ate, your fork barely able to cut through a soft vegetable, as the thought of the odd findings popped back into your mind.

"Sweetheart, why is your bow filthy? Messy girl."

Your fingers had stained a corner of it with the Incarnadine shade.

Scrubbing. Scratching, desperately washing both your hands and the lace, couldn't get rid of it.

You cried in his arms that night, gathered up in his chest, head lying against his.

Sukuna caressed your back, caressed your hair, and shushed you to sleep.

It was just a bow.

The truth was cracking from the seams everywhere you looked now. The house was lacking color, the dullness and real darkness creeping in from unlit corners. The ingredients in the pantry and the shelves in the fridge seemed to be rotten, tasteless.

Sukuna's face looked different, touching it made your skin tingle- as if it refused to connect with his.

Maybe it was because the romanticized image of him was losing its shape.

And maybe the fact that he refused to let you go outside.

No more garden work, too harsh for your puzzled mind.

The sun was too hot, even on a cloudy day.

You needed to relax, even after sleeping all day.

It was getting unbearable.

The front door was locked, the back door too. Sukuna was working in the study.

Trapped in your own safe haven, you needed to do something, so why not go down to the basement?

Your husband never said anything about the cold concrete box below the floorboards, knowing you were too scared to go there.

With nothing better to do, his logic was being proved false with every step you took down the squeaky stairs.

You found the light switch, getting a yellow, old hue illuminating the space.

Oh yeah, the freezers were down here.

Two, to be exact. Sukuna liked smoking meat and fish on sunny days, so you knew he used them to keep them frozen.

A little peek wouldn't do you any harm.

So what if your last gander took away your freedom to leave these walls? This was different.

As if.

The sound of the creaking steps had alerted him, no matter how slow you had gone.

Your tainted hands lifted the large hinged lid of the chest.

Just some plastic bags of red meat, parts of a pig, and venison. A large salmon head stared up at you from the side.

The eyes of the dead fish were gouged out.

The lid went back down, now wanting to see if the same contents were in the second one.

You should have stopped with the first one.

At first the same plastic bags stared up at you, what looked like minced meat and animal body parts.

Not that human hand though.

Sawed off from the bicep, a fleshy limb wrapped in the same plastic bag, but oozing crimson from the palm made eye contact with you.

The color drained from your face, doubling over and pulling the dismembered part out, your own arms shaking while looking at the frozen appendage.

Bile churned around in your stomach, a sour, watery taste taking over your mouth.

The stairs were still squeaky, making sound as heavy footsteps rushed down.

"Flower, what are you up to now?"

Once Sukuna's head went low enough from the upper floor, seeing the sight of you holding something you never were supposed to see.

Your hands dropped the bag immediately, clattering to the basement floor, a part of the bag opening, the smell of decayed flesh hit your nose once again.

"My angel, are you trying to get yourself in trouble again. It hurts me to keep you locked away, but if you keep fooling around, i might just keep you in one room and tend to you."

His voice was gruff, trying to sound smooth and caring, but it was clearly impossible to do so.

He tried to reach out to you, blunt nails touching your hair, easing you to step into his embrace. Just like any other time to have you calm down and trap you in his arms till he felt you'd deserve freedom.

His palm crushed your skull into his chest, Sukuna acting like he wanted to infuse you inside of his ribcage.

"Silly thing, must you keep poking your nose in my things?" He cooed into your hair, but you swore you could feel his canines trying to bite into the top of your head.

"We will go upstairs, watch a movie, and forget all about this-"

"No!"

You never spoke against him, so the sudden outburst had Sukuna's grip faltering, you shoved yourself off of him, looking more panicked than ever, not letting him worm his way into your logical thinking.

"Come back, you little…!"

You stumbled back, tripping over the same arm, trying to grab onto the freezer but it did nothing, crashing backwards with a thud.

Thankfully it only gave you a faint dizziness, scrambling up right after.

A tattooed arm wrapped around you, holding you tighter than before. He wouldn't let go now.

"You hit your head, my dear. It's bleeding. Maybe you shook your little brain back into place. I told you, we are forgetting about this and watching a fucking movie."

He dragged you back up the stair by your middle, not caring about you tripping over your own feet, not caring that you were looking at the melting limb on the ground and the image of pooling blood and peeling skin underneath a plastic sheen was the last thing engraved in your mind before the lights got switched off.

He sat you down, giving you a stern glare before disappearing into the bathroom to grab a first aid kit for your bleeding scalp.

The gash was above your bow, it still neatly wrapped into your hair, the thick red seeped into the middle of the ivory lace. Stained worse than before, just a few spots keeping the previous ivory color safe.

His fingers were gentle, parting your hair and cleaning the wound with stinging spirit. Your eyes blankly watched the subtitles flow as some old western movie played on the television.

You didn't dare look up, not wanting to see the cold glaze in his irises, knowing Sukuna wanted nothing but to take away your air and put you to sleep.

You weren't the one slumbering.

The only way you could end this nightmare was to snuff out the source.

It was past midnight, a large, full moon shining trough the tightly shut windows. Your bow hanging on by a few messy locks of hair, a bandaged wrapped around your skull with a red splotch on the back.

A knife, your favourite one to cut up fruit. The one with a pretty handle, engraved with both you and your sleeping husbands initials.

You stood over him, eyes almost bleary while watching Sukuna's peaceful expression. Like the day he asked for your hand, for the day he said he wanted to be yours. The day you bought a house together in the middle of nowhere.

If only you were strong enough, your breathing had turned shaky and bordering on gasping as your hand shook, unable to even process what you were about to do.

The last thing to give away your actions was a droplet, a salty and large teardrop rolling down your cheek and right on to Sukuna's lips.

His eyes shot open as if his senses were on high alert, an arm already reaching out to grab at you.

You didn't know what else to do besides listen to your mind- stumbling back and running as fast as you could.

Almost falling out of the bedroom after shoving the door open.

Sukuna didn't yell for you to get back. He was already chasing after you.

You couldn't hear a single thing, heart too loud in your ears- wanting to leap out of your mouth.

Glass shattered, sharp pain in your palms and legs while climbing trough the kitchen window.

Damp grass padding against your bare soles as you ran for the treeline, unable to breathe.

You don't know how far you ran.

Didn't know how long.

He caught up, he always did.

Why would such a silly girl like you think he had just let you go?

"My petal, where have you gone now? I can hear you."

It felt like he was right behind the tree you had hid, blunt nails digging into the handle of the knife you thankfully hadn't dropped.

You shut your eyes, holding your breath. But that was no use.

"My angel, come out."

Heavy footsteps approached, with no care stepping right past the thick bark of the tree.

A stab to the chest, your hands weak from fear but driven enough to push the blade right to his beating heart, ripping trough muscle.

Too shocked by your own action, the pain from the same type of sharpness slicing trough the side of your throat.

Maybe it was a bit romantic, the last time spent together, in each others arms, spluttering and struggling to breathe, buried in moss with a pale moon not even giving you the ability to see one another bleed out.

Sukuna had never kissed the top of your head as tenderly as right before his last breath.

"I love you."

Not like you could reply, blood filling your lungs and vocal chords sliced.

Already fading out together with the last beat of his heart.

The bow, the lacy thing no longer white, barely even recognizable by how much blood had been spilt.

Yoon's notes: hi guys sorry for the lame ass horror fic

masterlist

art: innaillus on ig

tags: from @yoonchokes

want to join the taglist? HERE

©yoonsucks

all work belongs to @yoonsucks , do not copy, repost, translate or feed into AI !!

[soulspark]

[thats-the-biz-babe]

9-1-1 // S09E07 "Secrets"

[becherdireinen]

the love you give others will find it’s way back to you.

[thats-the-biz-babe]

9-1-1 // S09E07 "Secrets"

[pillsatoru]

꣑ৎ fighting with satoru leads to him forcing you to ride him

The last thing you wanted to do was get into an argument with your roommate and best friend. Yet you found yourself going back and forth with him & it didn’t look like it was coming to an end any time soon. 

“I don’t understand how I’m not allowed to have boys over but you’re free to bring home girls, it’s totally unfair Satoru!” You yelled, voice turning raspy. 

It’s been hours since this argument began and he was getting sick of it. 

“The difference between us is that I didn’t invite that girl over to fuck, did I?” He shot back, a vein forming at his temple. 

His hand reached up to his face, sliding off his glasses to set them aside on the counter. “I came home with her because we had a project to do and the library was closed. And you know this because I texted you earlier about it.”   

“So? She was totally giving you bedroom eyes!”

“And what if she was? Doesn’t mean I gave in and started humping her like a dog in heat. I’m not that easy, sweets.” 

But you were. 

You were not about to give in because he used your favorite pet name, and you definitely weren’t going to allow him to see the effect it had on you. 

“I don’t know why me bringing a boy over concerns you either.” 

“Watch that tone.” He warned. His eyes have darkened enough to match the late night shadows seeping into the kitchen, rain being muffled by the windows. Your lip trembled, being utterly frustrated. It’s not like you even did anything with the guy, you just wanted to make him jealous – get back at him for inviting that girl over. 

Satoru noticed your pout, sighing through his nose as all previous anger faded. “Baby.” 

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why not?” He closed in, cupping your cheek in his warm hand. “You love it when I use sweet names on you.” 

You pulled away from his touch, still pissed. “We’re just roommates, that’s why.” That certainly got him to raise a brow, a slight tilt at his head as he took in your words. “Just roommates? Am I not your best friend? Am I not the one that makes you feel good?” 

Your breath hitched, knowing what he was referring to. 

You had come home stressed about some class and it didn’t help that it was ovulation week as well, making you all pent up. Thankfully, Satoru didn’t mind helping you out on the very counter he was leaning against. “What was your goal when you brought him over? To make me jealous? Get your pay back?” 

Well, yes. 

But you were not going to admit that so easily. 

“If I hadn’t made it clear enough, sweets, you’re the only girl I want. Why would I be stupid to put my dick inside someone who isn’t you?” His vulgar words strike again at your inner core, forcing your thighs to clench. 

“Satoru..” Your cheeks heated up. 

“I’m going to ask you again, and you’re going to answer honestly. Are we just roommates?” 

Of course not. Roommates don’t just allow the other to ride them like rabbits in heat the way you were doing right now. Your clothes were discarded on the floor, shaky hands rubbing up and down his abs all while he watched. 

A smirk was lifting at his lips, enjoying the way you struggled to do all of the work. He wanted to touch your tits, give them the little kisses they deserved. But hearing you beg for his touch was far better. 

“Please– I said I was s-sorry..” Your apologies fell upon deaf ears. This was your punishment after all. You could barely register your own pleas as his tip grazed your puffy folds. “You’re going to ride me and I’m not going to help for shit.” 

And he kept his word because he hasn’t done anything more than letting out the occasional grunt. It was genuinely pissing you off. 

“Please,” You tried again, leaving sloppy but sweet kisses on his lips that he didn't reciprocate. Not even when you picked up your pace or slowed it down did he react. 

Nothing was working. 

Not until he saw you begin to sob, hiding your pretty face in his neck did he soften up. “Hey, hey.. It’s okay, sweet girl. I forgive you, you did so good, took your punishment like the good girl you are. Don’t cry, you’re making me feel bad.” His expression softened, large hand rubbing the small of your back as he coo’ed in your ear at your hiccups. 

You sniffled, chasing your nearing orgasm now that he praised you. “Am gonna cum..” You gasped, clawing at his back. Satoru fully wrapped his arms around you, bouncing you harshly on his lap. “Go ahead.” 

White dots filled your sight when you spilled on his dick, legs trembling. He followed soon after, releasing deep in you. “Good job, baby. Don’t you ever think that shit again. I don’t want anyone but you, and it’s time to realize that.” 

You nodded, placing your lips on his, finally receiving the kiss you needed.

[midoriyaslilbunny]

Observing the skylight with Toshinori.

Time took: 3 hours and 13 minutes

[dolcemisu]

frat!kuna finds reasons to talk to his tutor outside of sessions ! (shy!reader)

it was currently three in the morning and for some reason, your phone was going off. you lifted your head up and reached over to grab it. you winced as the bright screen blinded you, squinting and groaning softly. after you recovered, your jaw dropped. to your surprise, sukuna of all people was blowing up your phone.

sukuna: hey, you busy right now? sukuna: and it’s alr if you are, nws sukuna: or like, if you’re not in the mood to talk too, that’s fine. sukuna: just lmk

you were baffled. he quadruple texted you within five minutes. part of you wondered what was so important. you shot a glance at your roommates bed. it was empty. before you lost your nerve, you hit the call button on his contact.

he picked up after the second ring. despite you being the one to call him, you froze. what do you say? do you tease him for waking you up and quadruple texting? you were so in your head you didn’t release a good couple of seconds went by without a word from you.

“hello? you there?”

your stomach twisted in knots. it was just a phone call, why were you so anxious? he’s been nothing but kind to you ever since you met. the way you presented yourself didn’t seem to really matter to him. yet it mattered so much to you.

“yes, sorry,” you swallowed hard.

“soo… i’m assuming you’re not busy?” he asked, his tone slightly teasing. your lips curved into a smile and you quickly cleared your throat. you weren’t sure why you felt this way about someone you tutored. you didn’t mind them usually, but you never spoke outside of sessions, let alone did you look forward to them. you wondered what he wanted to talk about so badly. was it school related? what is it wasn't? either way, the butterflies in your stomach made you even more nervous.

“nope!” you immediately winced at how enthusiastic you sounded. you probably sounded like an obsessive dork. which you weren’t, not at all. you were above that. even though everything pointed to that.

"so i'm doing tonight’s homework and i'm lost. the process is long and stupid, and i don't really understand it. i was wondering if you could explain it maybe...?"

huh, of course he was contacting you because of schoolwork. you scolded yourself for even entertaining the thought that it was something else.

"yeah no worries." you said carefully. your enthusiasm has since faded. you felt like a clueless idiot.

"let me facetime you and show you." you froze, facetime? you were in your embarrassing pajamas, hair up in a bonnet, no makeup on. crap. the sound of the facetime request blared from your phone and your heart stopped. with a shaky breath, you hit accept and braced yourself.

"aw, your bonnet is pink. cute." he grinned at the phone. he was laying in his bed with his arm behind his head, no homework page in sight. you blinked at him. his compliment made your brain short circuit.

"yes it is, uhm, thank you." you cringed and moved out of the frame. you heard him chuckle and the embarrassment alone ate you alive.

"anyways, as i was saying..." he droned on about the problem and yet, there wasn't a notebook in sight. was he reciting it from memory? you offered some input and he thanked you, praising you for your help. you couldn't help but frown though. the problem sounded oddly familiar. that's when you realized: the two of you had gone over the exact problem last session.

"correct me if i'm wrong but, didn't we already go over this problem?"

it was his turn to freeze up. "oh? we did?" he asked all innocently, eyebrows furrowed. you gaped at him before giggling.

"yes, yes we did sukuna," you giggled.

"oh? then that's my bad then." he shifted and you could see a worn stuffed animal on his bed. adorable. "hey, those highlighters you used last time, where'd you get them?" he ran his fingers through his hair, a smirk tugging on his lips.

oh, so he did remember the last session. all of this was making your head spin. so was he doing this on purpose? was he making fun of your highlighters too? that was a low blow...

"from this stationary shop in town." you replied. your tone wasn't rude or anything, but there was definitely a shift. you didn't have it in you to hide your disappointment. you thought the two of you had somewhat of an understanding of each other. you thought it wasn't all in your head and that you got along pretty well.

"hmm. i want some, we should go sometime," he suggested. "i think they'd help me focus better." he shrugged.

together?!? you tilted your head at him. "oh no, it's okay, i can give you directions, you know..." you said timidly. first calling you at an ungodly hour, then asking to hangout? did tutors hang out with their mentees? you were pretty sure that didn't happen. like ever.

"i clearly have terrible, terrible memory, so i'd think it would be best if you went with me, you know? just in case." he wasn't even trying to hide his grin anymore. you could see all 32 pearly white teeth. you couldn't help but mirror his smile. the butterflies in your stomach wouldn't let up as it all sunk in. he's asking you out.

"okay then," you agreed, failing to contain your excitement. "just in case."

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