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ELEVATOR MISTLETOE GOT ME ACTIN' LIKE A FREAK HOE !

⋆⁺•̩̩͙ ❄︎⋆ 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: TOJI X ACCOUNTANT!READER X SUKUNA ⋆⁺•̩̩͙ ❄︎⋆ 𝐯𝐨𝐝: You just caught your boyfriend, Naoya, cheating on you at the office Christmas party. After a royal crashout, you've buried yourself in work until nearly midnight—only to find you're not the only one staying late. When the elevator doors open, you're met with the two most intimidating consultants at your firm. No big deal, right? Just a quick ride down…So why does the elevator suddenly stop? And more importantly—why is there mistletoe hanging above you?!

⋆⁺•̩̩͙ ❄︎⋆ 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: elevator sex, threesomes, p in v, anal, fingering, dual blow jobs, spanking, salads being tossed, double penetration, squirting, dirty talk, a bit of angst for the mentions of toxic and manipulative relationships, mentions of bullying, naoya snakes reader and cheats, reader is pet named Bambi in lieu of y/n (the birth of bambi!reader mayhaps?), affectionate teasing, inexperienced non-virgin reader, brief mentions of other jjk men. ⋆⁺•̩̩͙ ❄︎⋆ 𝐫𝐮𝐧 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞: 9.3k out of ?

⋆⁺•̩̩͙ ❄︎⋆ 𝐚/𝐧: think of this as a 'how y/n got her groove back fic!' dedicated to all my lovely bbs who had to put up with a loser of an ex, or if you are going through a breakup now, I hope this helps! <3 also sorry had to break this up, once a fic hits 10k the walls start closing in lol. i already know theres mistakes i didnt catch in my edits

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟏 | 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟐 | 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐦𝐚𝐬 𝐦.𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

“You’re so lucky to have a man like Naoya, sweetie.”

Scanning the room for said man, your mother’s words haunt your thoughts like some ghost of Christmas past.

Lucky?

Sure, you did feel that way at one point, but now? You can’t even find him!

And judging by all the concerned stares you're getting, you must look as lost as you feel—frantically weaving through the party like someone who clearly doesn’t belong at an elite consulting firm’s Christmas gala.

Both you and Naoya work at Six Vision, one of the most prestigious firms in the industry—infamous for its over-the-top displays of wealth. Tonight’s party being no exception.

The company’s private ballroom (because of course they have a whole-ass ballroom) is dripping in gaudy opulence: cascading garlands, glittering ice sculptures and paid actors dressed in full Santa’s-Workshop regalia.

There’s even a professional photographer taking festive couple portraits. You booked a slot for you and Naoya as soon as you arrived—he promised he’d be back in time, just needed to 'make a quick call'.

But that was nearly an hour ago.

Just where the hell is he?!

Sighing, your mom’s words getting to you more than you’d ever like to admit. You now she doesn’t mean any harm, she never does.

Regardless, her projected hopes for your relationship with Naoya always weigh heavy on you, especially during the holidays.

Makes sense though considering it’s been a whopping five years since you and Naoya have been together.

You’re not getting any younger—so of course she expects a proposal.

Or a baby.

Something to validate all this time.

The truth of the matter is you’re not certain you’ll ever make it down the aisle with him. Yet you’ve always sugar-coated that truth, swallowing any bubbling frustrations about not feeling like a priority to him.

For your peace of mind just as much as you spared your mother. It’s so much easier to pretend everything is okay, that it will all work itself out in the end.

Like earlier this month: when you broke the news you’d both be missing your annual family ski trip.

You told your mom it was due to Naoya being slammed with work.

It's a lie though. Naoya just didn’t want to go.

Not after last year’s debacle—when he horribly embarrassed himself trying to keep up with your younger cousins on the slopes. Predictably, his overconfidence backfired. On a run well beyond Naoya’s skill level, he snapped his bindings and broke his ankle, rolling halfway down the mountain before colliding with a tree.

Naoya spent the rest of the trip sulking while you played nursemaid to a man who is utterly insufferable once his already fragile ego had been wounded.

So this year when Naoya flat-out told you that Christmas would be spent at the Zenin estate with his family?

You didn’t protest.

Hell, if anything, you were relieved.

A welcome shield of protection from your family’s prying inquiries about wedding rings or dates.

More importantly though, you’d never spent a holiday with Naoya’s family—or met them at all for that matter.

For that reason alone your mother couldn't be happier with the turn of events. Despite the fact she’d miss you, in her eyes, an invitation to an intimate family gathering with the ultra-traditional and elite Zenin clan practically guaranteed that a marriage proposal would soon follow.

‘He wouldn’t be introducing you otherwise, dear.’

You scoffed at her words, knowing his pride must still be in shambles if he’d rather suffer through time with his family—whom he can barely stand unless he’s draining their trust funds—than face yours.

Well… that TikTok they posted of him flopping went viral so it’s understandable.

Still, maybe your mom’s right.

Maybe meeting Naoya’s family is the final step to a proposal.

Maybe this is the moment everything finally clicks.

…if so, then exactly where the fuck is he?!

Leaving the noise and glitter behind, you slip into a corridor lined with smaller, one-off meeting rooms. The music dulls to a distant jingle, replaced by quiet shuffling of papers and murmured voices. It’s mostly empty—just the occasional employee who by necessity chooses work over revelry, ducking out to make late calls or answer emails.

If Naoya didn’t head back to his floor, then this would be the most logical place he’d gone.

You peek into one conference room.

Then another and another. Nada.

With a frustrated sigh, you’re about to turn back when a giggle catches your ear. High-pitched and unmistakably flirtatious, it’s coming from the very last room at the end of the hall.

You roll your eyes.

Of course people are fucking.

Your company’s holiday parties are also infamous for turning into legal’s worst nightmare.

Although inter-office hookups are officially discouraged, with so much booze and decadence and in an industry where power plays are the norm?

These types of seasonal indiscretions are unofficially inevitable.

With a shake of your head, ready to write it off completely until you hear a man’s voice, low and familiar, hushing his partner.

You freeze.

…No.

It couldn’t be.

You’re tired, anxious and frankly, already spiraling, all things considered.

Your brain must be filling in blanks—merely compensating for Naoya’s sudden disappearance.

That’s all.

Except your stomach is already in your ass as a cold weight sinks heavy inside you, stirring up an urge so deep it rattles in your bones.

You know you’re probably mistaken.

Still—you need to know.

Even if it means humiliating yourself by walking in on two random coworkers.

You creep forward, heart pounding as you zero in on the door being is slightly ajar.

Perfect, just a glance. That’s all you need.

A quick peek. Then you’ll leave.

But the second your eyes register what’s inside, your body moves before your brain catches up—bursting into the room, you practically trip over yourself.

Because there he is.

Your boyfriend of five years.

Naoya Zenin.

Shamelessly getting his dick sucked by the collagen-filled lips of the marketing department's new whore assistant.

“N-N-Naoya?!”

Drink in hand, Noaya downs the last of it as he groans—a cocktail of annoyance and pleasure as his half-lidded eyes meet yours.

The worst part isn’t even the betrayal.

It’s that Naoya doesn’t stop.

Not even when he sees you.

The bastard doesn’t even seem to care that his girlfriend just caught him cheating, clearly, by the way he leaves the whore’s mouth attached to his cock like some obscene charm.

The whore in question freezes for a split second, panic flashing across her face—until she notices Naoya’s complete indifference to being caught.

Attitude now more emboldened, the marketing assistant shoots you a haughty once-over before resuming her brazen actions.

Like she’s daring you to do something—fully knowing that you won't.

Seconds stretch into suffocating silence before Naoya even acknowledges you.

“C’mon, don’t look so shocked, babe…”

You fumble with your glasses as they slip down your nose, clumsy hands betraying just how small and exposed his detached tone makes you feel.

“...you always hated giving blowjobs anyways—not that they were any good.”

You blink.

Once.

Twice.

This cannot be real life right now.

“Now babe, listen—”

Naoya cuts himself off with a sharp inhale, turning his attention back to the thot still enthusiastically whoring herself between his legs.

“Oww, f-f-uck…ease up a lil’ will ya? Damn…”

Her affirmative giggle is only slightly muffled by Naoya’s shitty, just-about-average sized, cock.

No, seriously, this had to be some fucked up twilight zone time-warp, not real life.

Your throat constricts as your eyes sting with tears—not just from heartbreak, but the crushing shame of so many years wasted on a man who, quite apparently, never respected you.

“Listen...don’t start the waterworks, toots.” Naoya continues casually, “I’m still planning on proposing to you—that’s what you've been waiting for so desperately all this time, right?—Mmm, fuck…”

His fingers knot deeper in the marketing slut’s hair as he forces her down more, his lids drooping at the sensation.

“We still have to do Christmas dinner with my family. They’ll need to approve of you—but they will, because I picked you, rest assured.”

Rest assured?!

“Give me ten minutes,” Naoya adds, thrusting his hips forward, barely making the slut beneath him gag. “Wait outside. Then we’ll take those silly pictures. I suppose they’re fitting for a holiday engagement announcement though, good thinking. For once…”

“I-I…I..”

You stutter as your brain is still struggling to process your life crashing down around you.

“Or you can stay and watch.” Naoya cracks open an eye, glancing over at you. “Maybe pick up some pointers.”

The fuck?!

You were never much of a fighter, in any sense of the word—you’d always bent to the desires of others.

Especially Naoya’s.

But if this man thought for even a second you were going to let things slide—that you were still together, let alone getting married—then he had you more twisted than the mess you just walked in on.

You have a choice to make now though and a million and one scenarios present themselves to you all at once. The most prominent are ones that include you yanking that bitch off him so hard she bites a chuck off his dick and chokes to death.

… but no, not like Naoya was big enough for him to bleed out and the whore certainly wasn’t choking on his crayola cock....

Churning and broiling, a torrent of emotions surges as the both of them continue like you aren’t even in the room.

Surprisingly, after everything, the feeling that rises above the rest is... apathy.

Rage and retribution are strong contenders—especially as savage, violent fantasies storm your brain. Alas, none of them undo the last five wasted years, which at the end of the day, is what just has you ready to throw in the towel.

God, you are so exhausted of this relationship.

This isn’t even worth catching a twenty-to-life case over if you did go ‘Snapped’ on them both.

Steeling yourself, you attempt to keep your vitriol purely verbal.

“If you think for a second I’m still marrying your slimy ass—” you snap with a fury you didn’t know you had in you, “—then you’re dizzier than the bitch dumb enough to get on her knees for a worm like you. Fuck you, fuck her—and fuck your family! I’m done.”

Your heels snap against the floor as you flee the room, heart pounding so loudly it drowns out everything—except his laughter. Cold and mocking, it chases you down the hall, saying everything you already feared was true.

Although the biggest irony of all?

It’s you, who is actually the dumbest bitch in the building—hell, maybe in all of Tokyo—for staying with Naoya this long.

Your vision bleary, the walls themselves feel like they’re closing in fast.

Stumbling back into the ballroom, the chaotic celebrations are overloading your senses.

Numb from the emotional wreckage of the last five years, you slip into autopilot, focused on one thing: escape.

Yet the party itself has other plans and the ballroom swirls like a living labyrinth—bodies shift, blocking your path and throwing off your sense of direction.

Each step forward feels like wading through sand. A stark contrast to your frantic thoughts.

In complete dissociation to your body, you don’t even notice the hot angry tears streaming down your face until a shrill, cruel voice yanks you back to reality.

“Not her boo-hooing in front of the whole company—so embarrassing!”

You swallow hard, unwilling to deal with the source of the voice—or the chorus of giggles bubbling up behind Brianna, Head of Marketing.

Better known on your floor as Big Bitchy Brie.

Her girl gang flanks her like a bargain-bin version of The Plastics from Mean Girls—the marketing whores only respect people they either report to or sleep with. To them, this firm is one big sorority, and you—a mid-level compliance manager—might as well be the janitor.

“Sooo... I guess this means you finally found your boyfriend, Naoya?”

Brianna’s smile drips pure venom.

She knew.

It’s her assistant. Of course the bitch knew where he was—and of course she sat back, watching you make a fool out of yourself.

“Ex-boyfriend.”

Your voice comes out icy as you shove your glasses back up your tear-streaked cheeks. You do your best to keep your head high—despite it being one of the lowest moments of your existence.

God, this is the worst possible time.

You don’t have the mental energy—let alone the emotional bandwidth—to deal with Brianna right now. Your pulse spikes, pounding in your ears. A wave of anger rushes through you, colliding with everything else into a hot, nauseating mess.

“Ex?! Oh no, how tragic! I hope my new assistant isn’t the reason—”

If you were in your right mind, maybe you would’ve walked away.

You’ve done it before—bit your tongue, smiled through all her bullshit.

But not this time.

Brianna has no idea she just yanked the pin out of a grenade.

The rage burning in you isn’t just heartbreak—it’s five years of humiliation pressure-cooking under a lid that just blew the hell off.

“—because he’s been fucking my last three assistants. Oh, a coordinator and two interns. Almost got caught by Yaga in HR too, fucking during lunch in the supply closet. But I thought you knew! Naoya’s never been one for discretion though, right?”

The collective gasp that follows is the trigger and in that moment you black out.

You don’t warn her.

You don’t give her a second to dodge.

Your hand closes around the nearest carafe, and with the eerie calm of a woman fully snapped as you lift—and pour.

Mulled wine spills over Brianna’s flawless updo and gaudy designer dress, drenching her in sticky rouge liquid from crown to cleavage. Her mascara runs in black streaks while the scent of cinnamon and clove hangs thick in the air around her. Really, she looked like Carrie at prom—and she should be counting her lucky stars that it was only wine and there wasn’t pig’s blood anywhere in your reach.

Phones go up as mouths drop, a crowd is building around you from a new type of ‘festive’ chaos erupting.

“Do you have cum in your ears, whore?” You hear the lethal words leave your mouth before you even register saying them, it’s so unlike you to be this fired up—but it feels so good. “Or are you just a stupid cunt?”

You take a step closer and Brianna instinctively takes a step back.

“I said ex. Why would I give a single fuck what he does with your department full of Backpage thots?”

There's a thick crowd around you now, murmurs spreading like wildfire. Nothing like juicy coworker drama at a work event to grab attention.

Brianna opens her mouth—probably to scream or hiss—but you’re not done yet, ready to read her and her whole department to filth.

"If selling your coochies like branded assets counted as marketing, you’d all be CMOs by now. But this ain’t a brothel in Chiang Mai—we consult for actual companies."

You pause, watching the blood drain from her face.

“Maybe if you spent half as much time doing your actual job as you do fucking on it, my department wouldn’t have to save your sorry asses every quarter, Brianna.”

Humiliated, Brianna lets out a raw shriek as she lunges at you.

You barely touch her. Just a subtle nudge on her shoulder, and she’s gone—stilettos sliding in the wine like ice skates. Her minions leap to catch her, only to topple after her, a symphony of shrieks and flailing limbs crashing across the gleaming marble.

Only in the aftermath do your senses catch up. Your eyes go wide, suddenly aware of the chaos you’ve just unleashed.

Despite your usual pacifist nature, you just publicly assaulted a department head.

At your company’s Christmas party.

In front of dozens of witnesses.

You’re not just getting a write-up for this.

You’re getting fired. Maybe even sued.

Oh God—could you go to jail for throwing a drink on someone?

What if they hurt themselves in the fall?!

Shit, now you really need to get the fuck up out of here!

Backpedaling like a felon making a getaway, the stunned crowd parts around you. No one cares to stop you as the commotion Brianna is making is far more entertaining.

You bolt forward as soon as the elevators are in sight—jumping in and practically slamming your whole body against the ‘close door’ button, jamming it repeatedly like your life depends on it.

By the time the elevator reaches your floor, it’s almost 9 pm.

The floor is a graveyard with everyone either already on holiday or still partying. The overhead lights are dimmed to nighttime settings, and the skyline glows beyond the windows.

In the dark, your office feels so much smaller than usual. Thankfully, an old legal-sized storage box is easy to find—it’s practically a staple in every accountant’s workspace.

Flipping on your desk lamp, you start tossing your personal belongings inside one by one.

If nothing else, you're a realist.

There’s no way you’re waiting until Monday just to get marched out by security in front of everyone. You’ll save them the trouble and yourself the humiliation.

You exhale sharply.

Well, any more of it at the very least. All that’s left is typing your resignation and—

“—Oh, fuck.”

You rub your temples as a fresh throb blooms behind your eyes—the reminder hitting you like a brick: the company’s biggest transaction of the year is still open and it’s sitting on your desk.

You can’t just walk away. Not without screwing over the one person who doesn’t deserve it—your new associate.

He’s fresh out of grad school with barely two weeks into the job. Bright and eager but very terrified of the big leagues. To make matters worse, he’s your first direct report since you clawed your way up to Senior Manager over the past five years.

If you walked now, he’d be left holding an account no one else would touch—and without your guidance, he’d tank it and get blackballed before his career even started.

He doesn’t deserve that.

Not because of Naoya.

And certainly not because you had to go and knuck when Brianna decided to fuck around and buck at the wrong damn time. As much as you want to scorch earth and leave this place in flames—it's Naoya and the marketing whores you hate—not your own department.

You slump into your chair with a sigh, tapping your mouse as the monitor flickers to life—review folder in one tab, resignation letter in the other.

You’ll finish this clean. If you’re going down, you’re going down tidy.

Typing away diligently at your tasks, your thoughts drift—clawing through every memory, every decision, every red flag you ignored with Naoya until now.

How could he do this to you?

Worse—how could you be so fucking blind?

Well, it's not like you had any prior experience. Naoya was your first serious relationship.

Ever.

In college, while everyone else juggled dating apps and frat house flings, you were neck-deep in accounting and finance textbooks. Not exactly by choice—your double major didn’t leave time for much else. Even if it had, you never genuinely felt like you belonged in those spaces. Loud parties made you feel like a spare part. You preferred small groups, quiet corners, the monotony of routine over unpredictable risks.

You weren’t shy necessarily. Just... invisible in a crowd.

You knew your wallflower tendencies were the main reason for your lack of boyfriends. Besides, you doubted most people—let alone the opposite sex—gave you a second glance, even on the rare occasions you actually went out.

Too scared to ever try and stand out.

Which is why you were completely dumbstruck when, on your first day at the firm as a mere Accounting Compliance Associate, he noticed you.

Naoya Zenin, Senior Manager of Analytics.

Attractive and fit with trendy blonde, shaggy-yet-styled, hair and piercings. The sleek designer suits he wore only added more flair to his edgy, yet polished corporate image.

Naoya’s entire vibe gave him an almost untouchable, albeit arrogant, air in the office—the kind of snobby rich boy, 'Boys Over Flowers, F4' vibes that K-drama-obsessed high-school self would have died for.

You fell fast and in just three months, you were official. HR paperwork and all.

It all felt surreal at first—like you actually were the luckiest girl alive.

There was a thrill in dating someone who thrived in the spotlight, while you stayed comfortably in the wings. No pressure. No expectations.

But now? You see it for what it was.

Naoya never wanted a girlfriend. He wanted a fan club president.

He didn’t love your quiet nature, he exploited it.

You were too easy to mold. No strong opinions, little resistance and just enough self-doubt to mistake your own absolute compliance for a love language.

When he called you “low-maintenance” or praised you for being “chill”?

You beamed like it meant something. That there was something special about you not being like “most girls.”

Urgh. You’d ask yourself how you could’ve been such a bird, but the truth is—Naoya made it easy.

Took control of everything. Paid for everything, upgraded you from a modest apartment to a penthouse condo. Not to mention lavished you in things you didn’t even know you wanted until he provided them.

But all of that came with invisible strings.

The result was that you ate where he liked, wore the clothes he preferred—and at his whims, drove for over twenty minutes out of your way every week to a specialty grocery store for his overpriced, gluten-free oat milk.

Naoya gave you the world, sure—but only the version he designed, with him at the center and you in his orbit.

Years of retroactive ick hits you hard, bubbling in your stomach.

Because now you’re the one disgraced and ashamed. You're packing up while he’s still upstairs—smug, untouched, and probably flirting with whatever marketing thot is next on his list.

The resentment flares hot in your chest.

Even if you hadn’t crashed out on Brianna and written your own pink slip, how could you have even held your head high facing everyone once the rumors about Naoya and—practically the entire marketing department—inevitably spread come Monday?

You don’t even know if they’re all true. But that hardly mattered at this point.

He did it once. Once is more than enough for every rumor told by the espresso station to become gospel.

Enough for your name to forever become a punchline and a warning to those who didn't know their social place in the company hierarchy for years to come.

Now you’re just the girl who got cheated on by the guy everyone thought was out of her league anyway.

Not the Senior Compliance Manager who clawed her way up from associate in five years, or the ‘rockstar’ who flagged the vendor fraud that saved the company millions.

Sure, the vendor scandal got you a promotion and a bonus—but it also earned Brianna a formal write-up, since she’d signed off on them.

The bitch had it out for you ever since.

Not that Naoya needed much convincing to cheat, but you wouldn’t put it past her to send him a few of her assistants as incentive.

And now? She gets her win.

They all do.

Naoya, Brianna and her evil ass marketing coven had tainted every memory of this place for you.

Everything you’d built now feels like it's been slowly rotting under the surface the entire time.

As much as it hurts, you cannot wait to get the fuck up outta here.

Taking a quick breather, you march over to Naoya’s department—the next one over—and waltz straight into his private office. He always kept a bottle of aged Nikka Nine Decades whiskey in the bottom drawer for “celebrations.”

It costs way more than your monthly paycheck, even half-finished.

Well, fuck him. Now it’s yours.

Call it a small down payment on the massive reparations you’re owed for dating such a narcissistic worm of a man.

Back at your desk, you pour a generous splash into your coffee mug, crack your knuckles, and resume your work.

Your eyes are straining at the screen by the time you’ve tied up loose ends, submitted your resignation, and drained the last of the whiskey.

It’s well past midnight now.

A few tasks are still pending—things that need coordination with other departments—but you’ve drafted a detailed guide for your associate to wrap things up nicely.

Standing with a stretch, you sway slightly, the whiskey making itself known in warm, sluggish waves that blur your equilibrium. You grab your coat, purse, and the storage box filled with your life in trinkets and post-it notes.

Your final walk through the office is somber but the whiskey has done wonders for helping you make your peace with everything.

But once you step into the elevator and the sleek chrome doors close behind you... it hits.

You live with Naoya.

Yuck. Just the thought of being anywhere near the sleezeball makes you want to spew back up every drop of whiskey you just guzzled down.

Chewing on your lip, you shuffle the box in your hands, unsure where to go. Making Naoya your priority for so long you’d let things slip, let the distance between you and your friends stretch too far without ever reaching back.

Still, if you called, you knew Shoko and Utahime would pick up.

Probably yell at you first for being a dumbass… then welcome you over with snacks, hugs, and a bottle of wine like no time had passed at all. They let you stay as long as you needed to.

But you can’t reach out to them. Not yet at least.

Unlike Naoya, you actually possess the propensity for shame.

You won’t reach out to them until you can offer a real apology—one that isn’t tangled up in immediately needing a favor from them.

Sigh.

Resigned, your only option is to find a hotel for the night. Even paying last minute holiday rates would be better than going back to Naoya’s.

You start scrolling on your phone for options when—

Wait.

The elevator’s moving—up?!

You swore you hit ‘Lobby’

Did you enter the wrong floor? Were you that distracted?!

You glance at the digital screen on the console.

Floor 8. 9. 10. Quickly progresses to ...12...14...17...

Shit. Floor 19?!

That’s where the company Christmas party was.

You really don’t want to run into anyone right now—especially not the marketing girls and their “afterparty.”

They’re always the ones spearheading the late-night nightcaps.

Or worse... What if Naoya’s still up there?!

As if things couldn’t get worse, it does.

Your dread deepens because you soon realize it would have been better if the elevator had stopped at 19.

But it keeps going.

Floor 21...22...23...25.

Shit!

Floors 25-31 are executive levels.

Your badge doesn’t even work past Floor 20. If the elevator’s headed this high, someone on that floor must have called it from above.

Which means you’re about to run into someone very important.

Maybe the CEO himself?!

Double shit.

He may run the top consulting firm in the world but your CEO is an infamous party boy—not to mention a notorious gossip.

The white-haired menace always had active boots on the ground to give him the latest tea and there’s no doubt he’s not only heard but seen the videos of the ‘wine incident’ by now—along with the rest of the viral social web.

Is getting out of this building with even a sliver of dignity really too much to ask?!

You steel yourself as the elevator glides to a smooth stop, the stark digital letters reading ‘Floor 31’.

But when the doors slide open, it’s not Gojo Satoru, your nosy, blue-eyed CEO waiting on the other side—

Much worse—it’s the two most formidable men in the entire firm:

Toji Fushiguro and Ryomen Sukuna, Senior Consultants.

They may not hold executive titles, but Toji and Sukuna might as well run the damn place.

Between the two of them, they’re responsible for over 60% of the firm’s global revenue. Entire departments are employed solely off the deals they broker.

Their reputation is lethal. Like sharks scenting blood, they close contracts with surgical efficiency, exploit legal loopholes without blinking, and devastate competitors like it’s a sport.

Plenty assumed their personalities would clash, but instead, they complement one another with unnerving synergy.

Toji Fushiguro is blunt, brash, and unapologetically aggressive—a human battering ram when it comes to deals, all pressure and force. But outside the boardroom, he’s more interested in backroom parleys and gambling schemes than anything involving quarterly reports. Often leaving negotiations until the last possible minute.

Ryomen Sukuna, by contrast, is razor-edged control. Despite the striking tattoos, he’s calculated, charismatic, and quietly terrifying. He doesn’t negotiate—he orchestrates. Every polished word he speaks feels like a velvet-gloved threat. Exploiting the weakness of the competition, he seizes opportunity by the reigns.

Thus, Toji’s lazy charm luls people into complacency. Leaving Sukuna to strike before the competition even realizes they’re bleeding out.

Some say it’s safer to bargain with the yakuza than sit across a table from them.

Naturally, companies fall over themselves to hire them. Better to have them on your side than against you.

The duo are so in-demand, they’re rarely even at headquarters. So when they do show up they don't actually have offices, only camping on the executive floors when absolutely necessary.

In five years, you’ve only caught fleeting glimpses of them.

Until now.

Now they’re standing right in front of you—a mere mid-level compliance officer who’s about a few dozen sips past tipsy, holding a box of sad desk knick-knacks in her arms like a corporate Scarlet Letter.

You have no business being on the 31st floor.

Just stepping off the elevator without clearance is grounds for termination. Which, granted, you’ve already earned—but now you’re wondering if this qualifies as trespassing since you’re basically a non-employee now.

Girl, you do not need more criminal charges tonight!

A hiccup escapes before you can stop it. Oh no!

Whiskey sloshes in your skull as you stumble, white-knuckling the box with one hand, awkwardly shoving your glasses up with the other.

You look like shit.

Your hair’s a frizzy halo of stress, your blouse half-untucked, and you’re pretty sure your stockings are more run than fabric at this point.

Spectacular.

What a fitting end to the worst fucking day of your adult life.

For all your worries though, neither man so much as glances your way once they step inside.

Toji and Sukuna stand in the center of the elevator like statues—massive, unmoving, their presence swallowing the space whole.

It’s as if you don’t even exist.

Shrinking back, your spine hits the wall and the jolt sparks a flicker of irritation in your chest.

Typical. Your invisibility nerf kicking in like clockwork—chameleon mode engaged.

But this time… it actually stings a bit.

Maybe it’s the whiskey, but you’re actually a little offended they don’t acknowledge you.

For once, you kind of wanted to be seen.

Then again—why would they?

Toji and Sukuna are built like gods, and the moment they stepped inside, the elevator felt too small—like it was meant for mere mortals and not the two titans that had just wandered in from Olympus.

Compared to them, you’re just a tiny house gnat, harmless and utterly insignificant.

Not even a blip on the radar.

Although…there is a rather unique kind of benefit in their indifference.

Because if they don’t see you—well, that means you’re free to look at them.

And oh, do you look.

Toji and Sukuna’s bodies are genetic perfection. Like Spartan warriors in custom-tailored suits that only highlight their broad backs, the fabric rippling over thick, corded arms.

You’d bet your entire 401K and IRA fund that the time they’re not spending dominating negotiations, they’re dominating weights—probably at a high-end gym that reeks of eucalyptus and exclusivity.

If they ever get tired of consulting they would surely have a career in the MMA world.

And then your eyes wander even lower.

Big mistake.

A slow, aching heat coils in your core, thick with whiskey and want. You lick your lips, eyes glued to how their tailored trousers hug every sculpted curve of their asses—firm and perfectly perched, on display for your perverse pleasure.

Why are they both so disrespectfully double-cheeked up at work, of all places?!

Thankfully there's a box in your hands—and you take care to remind yourself of that by gripping the sides a little tighter. If there wasn’t, well then in your buzzed, newly single, recently unemployed and completely unhinged state—you might have done something truly reckless.

Like reaching out to grab two respective handfuls of temptingly sexy man-butt.

Sheesh, girl get a grip!

You have to physically shake your head to scatter the pervy thoughts. The last thing you need is to add sexual harassment to the potential assault lawsuit the firm—likely at the behest of Big Bitchy Brianna—would undoubtedly slap you with.

Besides, men like them? They wouldn’t just let it slide.

They’d snatch you up and snap you like a pencil!

You repress a small giggle as your intoxicated brain is having scandalous dalliances with the different implications of all the many ways they are capable of breaking you.

None of which involve clothes.

It's a given that you are still emotional about the sudden breakup with Naoya and your life of the last five years crashing down around you—but you’re still above all things a woman with needs, damnit!

Needs that hadn’t been met in a very long time.

If someone gave you a survey on your sex life with Naoya, you’d have checked the most depressing little box:

‘Neither satisfactory nor unsatisfactory.’

You’d get close—so close—pleasure simmering just beneath the surface… but Naoya’s painfully consistent two-minute-and-forty-one-second average (yes, you timed it) always slammed the brakes on your orgasmic potential. Slipping a hand between your thighs afterward gave you something—just enough to ease the ache and help you sleep.

But without meaningful intimacy or release, the whole routine left you feeling more hollow than satisfied.

So now you’re indulging guilt-free in gluttonous fantasies of how Toji and Sukuna would fuck you—and based where your thoughts had landed, “like feral beasts” feels pretty on-the-nose.

You don’t know their exact stamina, but you’re pretty sure it’s the kind that leaves you walking funny for days. The thought alone has your mouth going dry as every drop of moisture rushes south to leak out onto your panties.

You can already see it: spit and tears streaked across your cheeks, your voice hoarse from begging, both of them fisting their thick, calloused hands in your hair as they use you—tugging your scalp, holding your waist, gripping your hips hard enough to leave bruises shaped like their fingers as they ruthlessly fuck you stupid.

“Hnnng…”

A small whimper escapes you—airy and aching with need.

But in the confines of the elevator, it just as well could have been a scream.

Your heart lurches into your throat.

Did that just happen?!

Did you seriously just let your drunk, lecherous thoughts bubble over so loudly you moaned out loud?

Toji and Sukuna are mid-conversation but you hear a low scoff followed by a sharp snort.

They definitely heard you.

Please, kill me now.

You’re praying for any entity listening to smite you on the spot.

Your only consolation is the fact that you were now past the 22nd floor.

You’re almost out.

Just 21 more to go. 60 seconds tops.

Because just then, the elevator lurches violently, jerking to a halt with a groan of tortured metal. The lights cut out, plunging you into sudden darkness, and a beat later, the emergency lighting kicks in—flickering, harsh, stuttering like a dying heartbeat.

Toji and Sukuna don’t flinch. They stand steady, unmoved—like statues carved from stone, towering and silent in the pale light.

You, however, are much less composed.

Still wobbly from whiskey, flushed from your mortifying fantasies, and awkwardly balancing a cardboard box of your sad little work trinkets—you stumble forward.

“GAAH!”

Wailing, your glasses fall off and the box slips out of your grasp. You squeeze your eyes shut, hearing the telltale crack of shattering glass and fully expect a crash landing as well.

To your surprise though, the fall never comes.

Your body jerks to a stop midair, suspended before being pulled back.

Dazed, you blink through your lashes, confused at the lack of pain—until you realize exactly where you are: held firm in a single, iron-wrapped arm, your body cocooned by Sukuna’s towering frame. Your world narrows to focus only on the feeling of him and how effortlessly he holds you in place, with one arm, like you weigh nothing.

But the sound of crunching glass pulls your gaze to the floor.

Toji crouches nearby, holding your now half-spilled box. Most of the contents survived—except your crystal photo frame, the broken glass lies scattered across the elevator tiles like a crime scene.

By some miracle, your glasses are still intact—resting safely at your feet.

You squirm against Sukuna, desperate to reach your things. But his grip is like an anchor, pinning you in place, making any escape attempts utterly futile.

“Quit fidgeting, brat. Unless you’re that eager to slice yourself open on all this shit you spilled?”

Sukuna’s voice scrapes like gravel across your skin, sending a dark, tingle straight to your gut.

Momentarily distracted, by the time you snap out of your daze Toji already has your glasses in hand and is now flipping over the shattered picture frame.

The cracked frame with the photo of you and Naoya on a lover’s bridge in Italy where you went for his birthday last year.

Oh, this can’t be happening.

While you are pretty positive Toji and Sukuna had no idea who you are. Naoya, on the other hand, did everything short of setting himself on fire to get noticed at the company. By now, word of his infidelities—and his "crazy-ass ex" who assaulted a department head—had probably spread like wildfire through the ranks.

“Heh…”

Toji stays crouched, his eyes locking onto yours with a predatory gleam that sharpens with his widening grin. Instinctively, you try to backpedal, to put space between you—but Sukuna’s body is a cage and with glass everywhere there’s nowhere else to go.

“So y’er the one that’s had to put up with my cuck of a cousin?” Toji’s grin widens into something downright feral. “Ha! Ya sure stirred up some shit tonight, mamas.”

Pause. Come again!?

Cousins!?

Like a shorted circuit board, your mental gears grind to a halt. Your jaw drops wide enough to catch flies. Thankfully, some dignity kicks in, and you snap it shut.

“Cousins… like real-life, actually related, blood cousins!?”

Toji rises smoothly, tossing what’s left of the shattered frame into your box with a careless clink.

“Heh, s’there any other kind, ma?”

Glass crunches beneath Toji’s feet, underscoring his confirmation.

Damn.

Well, now that you think about it, Naoya always got especially prickly whenever Toji’s name came up around the office. He’d deflect, changing the subject or get weirdly tense before walking away entirely.

Like a puzzle suddenly clicking into place, everything becomes clear.

Naoya was a consultant once. Years before you joined the company—but that much you knew. Still, you never pressed. He didn’t like talking about it and you knew better enough than to press the issue.

Still, rumors had always swirled: that he’d been quietly shuffled out. Too arrogant for client relations. Too slippery to inspire trust. The kind of guy who knew his shit—but couldn’t sell it.

So, they moved him into analytics—where he could thrive behind a spreadsheet instead of across a conference table. Technically, it was a lateral move. But in consulting, where prestige is everything, it might as well have been exile.

Now, you get why it burned him so badly.

No matter how much success Naoya scraped together, he’d always live in his older cousin’s shadow. Every accolade Toji collects must’ve felt like a personal failure to Naoya.

Of course, none of this excuses the years of gaslighting, cheating, or general dickwad behavior towards you.

Still, trying to compete with thee Toji Fushiguro?

That could give anyone an inferiority complex, not to mention personality disorder manifested in Naoya’s extreme narcissism.

Funny—you never put it together before. Most likely because Naoya didn’t want you to.

The names didn’t even match.

“Fushiguro…,” you murmur, eyes widening when you realize you said it aloud.

Toji snorts.

“Don’t hurt yourself overthinkin’, ma. Fushiguro’s the ex-wife’s name.” He cocks a brow. “Y’mean y’er still not convinced by the family resemblance?”

Toji’s voice is thick with amusement as he rejoins you and Sukuna in the only part of the elevator not littered with glass shards.

You feel his breath ghost along your neck as he looms behind you. Still tucked into Sukuna’s hold, you instinctively tilt your head back—your crown bumping into Toji’s chest: broad, hard, and just as immovable as the man in front of you.

His scarred smirk hovers above you, carved from mischief.

Even upside down, tipsy as hell and without your glasses, you can still tell how stupidly hot Toji is—definitely a level above his asshole, lizard-faced cousin.

“Uh-huh,” you hiccup. “Y-you sure Naoya’s not adopted?”

Both men chuckle, and you—helplessly wedged between them—feel their deep, rumbling laughter vibrate through the elevator… and through every single cell in your entire body.

Your giddy response bubbles out before you can stop it—your laughter is light, breathy, and entirely too revealing of what they’re doing to you.

There’s a glint in Toji’s eye, and the glance he shares with Sukuna speaks volumes.

Returning their interest to you, their stares crawl across your skin like static.

You scramble to straighten yourself, using Sukuna’s arm for leverage.

You wanted their attention?

Well, congratulations, miss ma’am.

You’ve got it now.

You’re not even sure what you were hoping—but this?

This might be too much.

With the tension crackling in the tight space, you grasp for something—anything—to fill the silence.

Well...say something, girl—damn!

But your mind goes blank.

Nothing clever nor casual come to mind. Just pure panic as you blurt out the painfully obvious:

“S-So… I, uh, erm… think we’re stuck?”

Crickets.

If deadpan stares could kill, you’d be 6 feet under now.

Smooth, sis.

Real smooth.

You wince, but thinking straight is impossible when Sukuna's scent hits your nostrils. His cologne—sandalwood and palo santo—mixed with his natural scent is dangerously dark and smokey, like some fuckable forest fire.

You’re fighting a losing battle against the urge to bury your face in his chest and breathe him in. Your gaze dips to the sculpted lines of his pecs—just as Sukuna’s grip tightens, making your pulse stutter.

When your eyes flick back up, his are already waiting—locked on yours.

His expression is unreadable, but there's something ruthless simmering beneath the surface.

Then, abruptly, he releases you.

Not expecting to be let go, you immediately have to grab onto the metal railing beside you not to fall over.

Sukuna chuckles like he just wanted to watch you squirm.

And you absolutely do.

“You sure are a bright one, aren’t you, Bambi?”

Bambi?!

The pet name rolls off Sukuna’s tongue in a deep, silky baritone—meant as an insult, but it still sends a shiver down your spine. Your thighs immediately clench, as if there's an active threat of his voice alone slipping up under your skirt to ruin you.

Edging away from Sukuna you bump directly into Toji’s stone-hard chest, forgetting just how close he is behind you.

“Yo, careful lil’ Bambi. Best not t’be so jumpy—it’s dangerous in here, yeah?”

Toji's voice, equally as panty-wetting is dripping with casual seduction—one that definitely didn’t sound like he was talking about the glass on the floor.

Nevertheless, all things considered—you really are like Bambi.

Naive, all trembling legs and wide eyes, caught between two predatory wolves.

Are they actually flirting with you?!

No. That couldn’t be.

You’re buzzed.

Wholly delusional and probably just imagining things.

Because, deranged elevator sex fantasies aside—you’re not that girl.

You don’t know how to handle this kind of heat.

You’re not built for this.

Not with Sukuna’s gaze slicing through you like a blade to the throat, and Toji’s warmth curling over your back—thick and smoky, like it wants to seep into your skin.

The air feels too thin. The moment stretched too tight. And just when it feels like you might actually break—Toji pulls back and Sukuna looks away.

Finally, a reprieve but it’s enough to allow you breathe, barely.

“Heh. Might as well see how fucked we are.”

Approaching the elevator panel, Toji inspects it with bored detachment. It’s locked.

Completely rebooted, an access card is needed to enter the menu.

“Eh, ya got a keycard ‘Kuna? Might be stuck in here f’er a while if ya can’t unlock this damned thing. Security doesn't seem to be responding either.”

You blink—but before panic can set in, Sukuna growls, already snapping.

“Do I look like I carry a fuckin’ purse, Fushiguro? It’s with Uraume, obviously.”

Uraume. That must be his assistant.

“Tsk, why are you even asking me? Where’s your keycard, ya bum?” Sukuna barks.

But Toji just shrugs nonchalantly as he twirls your glasses in his hand—he still hadn’t given them back. But even more shamefully in your horndog state, even half blind, you’d forgotten to even ask for them.

“Fuck if I know, Kuna. Don’t ever carry that bullshit either. Guess we’re stuck until y’er lil’ servant or security shows up.”

Toji grins at Sukuna’s deepening scowl. Now you understand how people are left wondering exactly how these two manage to pull it together in the boardroom if all they do is bicker at each other constantly.

“Tch, I suppose we are. Sent a text to Uraume then Kamo in IT but there’s no bars. Likely signal interference from the party.”

Sukuna rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t seem too upset.

Quite frankly, neither of them do.

Odd, as you sure they have better places to be then stuck here with you.

Wait—you don’t remember not ever getting service in the elevators before.

But you’re so flustered in the moment, your clouded mind can’t be too sure—they would have no reason to lie about that, right?

“Nah, fuck ‘em,” Toji says decisively, his attention directed towards you again. “Pretty sure the three of us can find some way to pass the time… maybe have our own party—right, Bambi?”

Briefly choking on your own spit, all suspicions vanish—swept aside by the not-so-subtle innuendo.

Flirting was never your strong suit, and after years in a lackluster relationship, you’re rusty as hell. Still, something’s shifting in the air. The elevator hums with tension, your senses sparking alive, warning of what's to come, all coiling tight around the flimsy excuse of being just stuck.

But this time, the moment that realization hits—so does the heat. Any lingering regrets or hesitations seem insignificant to the intensity of your whiskey-warmed pussy fluttering so hard you swear you might be ovulating early this month.

Your panties are already uncomfortably glued to your core from the soppy heat filling them. All, of course, while being locked in a small box with two men who radiated sex like it was a bioweapon.

Sorry but…Naoya, who?

The culmination of years worth of late-night, dog-eared smut novels flash before your eyes. In every filthy fantasy you’ve ever read, the setup always starts with something like this.

Every teasing remark, a test.

Every lingering glance, a challenge.

Every second that ticks by feels less like an accident, and more like a game you don’t understand the rules to.

And yet—

God help you, you want to play.

The thought both excites and terrifies you in equal measure, leaving you torn between trying to pry the elevator doors open yourself and staying put just to see how far they’d take this.

“Ah—um, I… I have my keycard?” you offer weakly, testing the waters. “I could try restarting it….maybe, if I had my glasses back. I—I could check.”

“I doubt that shit even works up here.” Sukuna scoffs, dismissing you. “Unless you also stole the keycard of the executive you mollywhopped?”

Executive? Mollywhopped?!

Your brain screeches to a halt.

Brianna wasn’t an executive—and you definitely didn’t actually fight her!

There is no way the rumor mill already spiraled this far out of control when half the company witnessed the actual events in real time.

“Heh,” Toji snickers, arm pressed on the wall over you. “Nah, heard ya put hands on the entire marketing department over my worm-ass cousin.”

AN ENTIRE DEPARTMENT!?

Okay. That’s it.

You’re actually cooked. You’d never work again.

You’ll be blacklisted from the industry, every single one for that matter.

You’ll end up doing taxes out of a storage unit for the yakuza.

“A-Are… are people really saying that?” you whisper, voice barely audible.

There’s a tremble in your words, your wide doe eyes glassy with tears, your bottom lip quivering—your distress laced with an unintentional, delicate coquette charm you don’t even realize you’re giving off.

If you were even a little more sober, you might’ve caught the way Toji and Sukuna just tensed. Might’ve noticed how hard they’re trying to restrain themselves—to fight off the primal, prey-driven instinct to devour you whole, right here, right now.

You catch Toji’s scent, a rich amber drenched in heavy rum—and you’re caught in the gravity of him before you realize it.

And really, that’s all the invitation Toji needs.

Wrapping his arms around you, Toji pulls you in possessively—like he's been waiting for his turn all night.

Sukuna merely rolls his eyes at how you easily melt into the brute behind you.

“Word of advice, Bambi? Don’t pay any mind to that asshole—he’s notorious for doing the most.”

Irritation bleeds through Sukuna’s words—Toji had ripped you away from him and he isn't hiding his displeasure at that.

Yet Sukuna is the least of Toji’s concerns as his bulky fingers dance down your curves.

Toji’s hands slip beneath your skirt at your waist, fingers finding the edge of your sweater vest where it’s snugly tucked in. With maddening slowness, he pulls it free—like he’s unwrapping the first layer of a present.

“Heh, maybe so. But y’know, ‘Kuna…” Toji murmurs, voice low with amusement. In one swift motion, he pushes the wool up past your tits, yanking it clean over your head. “…they never tell me to stop.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, failing miserably to smother the whimper that slips out.

One layer down—and yet the conservative silk blouse beneath, buttoned neatly to the collar, somehow makes you feel even more exposed.

The outfit that once screamed competent and compliant now feels laughably out of place.

Pencil skirt. Sweater vest. Pure accountant-core. You hadn’t even changed after work for the party.

“Um, I—I—”

Sukuna cuts you off, the lust already etched in his throat.

“You think we didn’t see that little wine stunt, Brat? Fucking ruthless. Got me hard as hell.”

You don't need time to process Sukuna admitting that you got him hard because he shows you in real-time, grabbing a hold of one of your wrists and guiding it to lay over the unmistakably thick, pulsing weight straining his slacks.

Simultaneously, Toji grinds into you from behind, his cock, equally stiff and eager, nudges against the base of your spine.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

The heat radiating from them is almost scalding, both of their massive lengths pulsing with a ripe vitality that makes your head spin.

Your fingers twitch reflexively against Sukuna’s length, and his cock answers with a slow, deliberate throb. He smirks down at you, tongue sweeping over his lips as your palm splays across him—your eyes going wide as the sheer size registers. But before you can fully let the weight of that discovery sink in, a low chuckle sends goosebumps across your shoulders. Toji leans in, his breath tickling skin and voice dripping with rough amusement—refusing to be outdone by Sukuna.

“Feelin’ a lil’ crowded, Bambi?”

Completely sandwiched between two walls of pure muscle, the situation accelerates faster.

“Bet that bitch was jus’ mad ya saved our asses with that vendor,” Toji adds, grinning as the scar on his lip brushes your cheek, his face pressing into yours.

“Y-You… you knew that was me too?!”

You squeak the words, reeling from the night’s revelations—but none of that compares to Sukuna’s large hands kneading your thighs possessively as they rummage up your skirt. His fingers push past your gartered stockings, hovering just shy of your soaked core.

“We make it our business,” Sukuna says coolly, “to know who’s valuable to the company.”

A flurry of questions rise and are squashed just as easily by Toji yanking the your blouse out of your skirt as well.

“Y’er still valuable to this company and to us, ma.” Toji muses “…in more ways than one.”

Toji’s hands roam underneath the silky fabric, right until they reach the swell of your breasts—pausing there despite you unconsciously arching forward to anticipate his touch.

“But not after Naoy—”

“Fuck that insignificant pissant,” Sukuna snaps, your eyes meeting his again. “You’re not going to let him toy with you like that anymore, are you?”

The frank no-bullshit nature of his question stirs something dormant.

Not just arousal this time but defiance.

A spark you thought long extinguished flares back to life—the same one you already tapped into earlier tonight, proving to yourself that it wasn't just a fluke or lapse of sanity.

You never imagined you’d like the feeling of power humming through your veins this much and the energy radiating off of you now is palatable.

“Good,” Toji says deviously. “Cause I know a way t’get y’er lick back in tenfold, ma.”

Grasping your jaw, face still pressed to yours, Toji tilts your gaze upward. His thumb grazes your bottom lip before slipping inside, coaxing your mouth open to tease your tongue.

“Perfect excuse, right?” Toji murmurs. “Holiday tradition and all…”

The first thing you notice is mirrored ceiling above—where a pristine reflection of you, caught between two imposing men, stares back.

But then, something else catches your eye. Green, tied with red string and holly, right there, dangling above the three of you: mistletoe.

Huh?! Who the hell even approved that? You swear that wasn’t here earlier in the day or even when you rode up earlier.

Definitely an HR violation—though, considering your current state, you're already drowning in those.

Come Monday, you won’t even have an HR file to violate.

Good thing you aren't an employee anymore!

You're too distracted to notice Sukuna’s touch—until his hands slide over your ass, gripping your plush curves with commanding force. Keeping up the game of tug-of-war over you, he thrusts you against the hard line of his cock, staking his claim as he drags you away from Toji.

Toji’s brow twitches at that—just slightly.

“Drop the innocent act, Brat,” Sukuna growls, voice low and edged with heat. “You don’t think we noticed you eye-fucking us? Whimpering like a bitch in heat?”

Toji presses in again, reclaiming his space behind you. His hand curls beneath your jaw, tilting your face up toward him. His thumb pushes deeper into your mouth, forcing it wider this time—examining you like he’s appraising something he already owns.

“Don’t play dumb. I know when I’m bein’ eye-fucked, Bambi,” Toji’s words sizzle in your brain. “That little cuck never touched you right, did he? Not like I would. Jus’ admit it.”

The air leaves your lungs in one breathless shudder.

Screw it.

Fate’s already tanked your life harder than a botched acquisition.

Might as well let Toji and Sukuna finish the job—they’re more than qualified.

⋆⁺•̩̩͙ ❄︎⋆ 𝐚/𝐧: comments and reblogs appreciated! this is my first threesum attempt and trying to keep track of body parts is making my head spin ubsdfjhbvsjhdf. sorry for any errors, i do need to re-read. i tried to delete duplicate lines but there might be multiple versions of some lines until i can edit again.

also lol, i feel bad now since i wrote this last year when i still hated naoya, i made him such a fucking prick 😭😭 my snakey 3rd rate king WILL get redemption soon in another fic im cooking tho! accepting tags for p2 below. if you are on my gen. list or kinkmas list you will be tagged automatically. fics currently being worked on— PT2 of this fic, Invisible!Man Gojo, Freddy!Sukuna, The Nursery Pt.4, Incel!Naoya, Plug!Reader—posting P1 of plug!reader tn or tomorrow at latest. otherwise, what i come out with first depends on my adhd (as always lol).

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