The glittering veins of London traffic criss-cross into one another like a living map beneath the gaping floor-to-ceiling windows of Simon's lofty apartment. The apartment hangs thick with acrid cigarette smoke, slow streams of it swept up in the night's breeze, while a tinny melody chirps from Simon’s old, busted-up phone—nearly drowned out by your desperate mewls as his massive, scarred hands control your hips, anchoring you for the heavy, deep thrusts from behind. “Simon—” Your lips fall open and the arch in your back gives suddenly as he drives a gasp from your chest, the sheets bunching sharply in your fists. “Mmhm—please, please, Iʼm close..!”
The sudden silence in the room doesn't register until you feel him reach around for something behind you and you glance back at Simon curiously while propping yourself up on your elbows. “Oh- what're you—?” Horror descends upon your features, like watching a slow-burning car crash as he tucks the silvery smartphone between his shoulder and ear.
He lifts a brow pointedly, half-listening to the voice on the line and half-waiting for you to argue, a touch of satisfaction in his stony expression at the fear that sparks in your eyes when you lock gazes—something that tells him you won't dare to question him.
“Oi, it's me. Yeah.”
You feel him shove back inside and his big hand is in your face before the whine building in your throat can fully form. Your disgruntled noises erupt behind his palm, bouncing around the room before he manages to lodge something in your mouth—the cigarette that he was holding between his index and middle fingers nudged between your lips, his hand still covering the lower half of your face.
Tears sting your eyes as the smoke goes up wrong, too fast, his fingers only pressing harder into your face. The conversation on the phone sounds like it's happening underwater, you think, as you try to pry his wrist away with a cry.
“Iʼm listenin', mate. Hands are busy.”
You're not a smoker, so you're not quite sure why he passed you the cigarette. Then again, 'passing' is a nice way of putting the way he shoved it between your lips. Does he know it's getting harder to breathe?
You're forced to stifle your coughs for the time being, which only seems to work against you. The cigarette is still between your lips, and every cough pushes smoke deeper into your throat, your body tightening around him. It's lewder than it has any right to be. You try to turn your head, but his hand follows—no escape.
On the phone, Simon’s voice is steady, like his cock isn't buried inside you and you aren't choking up beneath him,
“Nothing.
No, Iʼm not alone. Doesn't matter.”
The phone hits the mattress next to your head with a thump, and suddenly, a staticky, Scottish-accented voice fills the room through speakerphone. Simon’s grip forces your head back at an awkward angle, your body arched to meet his thrusts, and before you can process it, his spare hand darts forward to pinch your nose shut. Your eyes blow wide, and in the same choking breath, you've realized that this was deliberate all along. He wants you like this.
Sputtering feebly, the instinctive response is to breathe through your mouth—but you aren't sure you want to. The stupidly unfair part is that inhaling—and by proxy, taking a drag—is effortless, while the hand clamped over your mouth makes breathing out a struggle.
“I've got eyes on it, don't worry—” A groan catches in the back of Simon's throat—a rare falter in his deep voice, narrowed eyes fixed on the glowing screen—as your spasming walls clench around his cock. Your eyes are red and glossy, searching for him, but his attention lies elsewhere. “—You focus on your part.”
Your vision tunnels as he fucks you back on his cock, a strange feeling rolling in your belly. You're puffing somewhat haphazardly on the cancer-stick, like an awkward teen fighting against the cigarette without taking a pull—which, in a sense, you're doing just that. The thought of sitting still and acting rationally escapes you in that moment.
The gray sheets rustle as he leans over you, pressing you into the mattress, and you're half-sure Soap can hear the frantic shuffle of fabric combined with your flesh smacking together. You've long since been on the brink, and stars dance behind your eyelids with the combined sensation. Simon can feel it too, how hot you are under him. Reduced purely to the feeling of him inside you. Heartbeat roaring in your ears.
Simon looks down at you, and something flickers in his expression. Not concern. Curiosity—desire—a beat of contemplation passing over his features as he wonders how long you'll let this go on.
“Hold on,” Simon says to the mic.
Simon pulls the cigarette from your lips—it's almost out. Stubs it out in the ashtray next to the mattress on the floor. “Breathe,” he says against your cheek, speaking to you for the first time—low, devoid of affection.
You gasp, a raw, coughing inhale. Air finally hits your lungs. It hurts, yet your senses rushing back to you is heady enough to make you moan. You're crying now, you realize, tears tracking down your hot cheeks.
Having you under him like this, like a fish out of water, at his whim, satisfies some morbid part of him. A child wearing heels too big, a lock without a key, and so on. You're pretty and misshapen—breakable, usable, fuckable. He can feed you his brand of poison and you don't say no, whether that's your choice or because Simon is strong enough to keep your mouth shut. Johnny always did say Simon needed to find himself an easy lay to take the edge off.
He watches you for a long moment, the way you look at him like a bird with a wounded wing, then taps the screen and lifts the phone back to his ear.
“Alright, still here. What'd I miss?”
𖧁୧ hi there ! gentle reminder that likes & reblogs are some of the best ways to support authors here, they make a huge difference! ♡
a/n — somehow found the perfect picture for this fic by pure chance AFTER i started writing the draft and iʼm still so amazed.
The King of Curses sat upon his throne, and yet you had no issue glaring up at him. As if it were your stare that could cleave. Your hands that could ignite his shrine into blitz and ember.
Bundled in a silk blanket and babbling up at you with eyes as ruby as her father's, your daughter chewed on her thumb. Blissfully oblivious to the tyrant from which she came.
Sukuna refused to hold her.
It was subtle, at first. When she was born, he claimed that it was vital for a baby to stay close to its mother. For warmth, food and comfort.
It had been four weeks, and your husband hadn't so much as grazed her tiny pinkie.
"Why?" You asked, anger blooming in your throat like the flowers he had planted in the gardens for you. He would sully his knees in the soil and his hands in the mud for your benefit, but couldn't bear to hold the life that he had created?
Sukuna's face was hard in a scowl. Each maroon eye glaring into your soul.
A beat of silence.
"I do not want to."
You flared, clinging your baby closer. "Are you ashamed? Ashamed of the life we created?"
"No, damnit woman—"
"Then why!?"
"Because I will mar her!"
The shrine shook as he shoved himself out of his throne. Standing now. It was at his full height that you recognised the being thousands feared. Four arms, two faces, and a stature that rose from hell.
His glare burned, but it wasn't anger. Face twisted in an emotion you hadn't seen enough from him.
"I will— hurt her. Is that what you want?"
Vulnerability.
Your daughter startled. Sniffling at the booming voice that rattled the floors. You watched her face squish and her lip quiver, before a broken, hiccuped sob filled the air.
His shoulders sunk. The fight seeping out of him. You watched his eyes swell with many things you'd never seen before.
Guilt, sadness.
Fear.
Rocking your startled baby, you held her close with soft shushes, but her sniffles soon turned into wails. Sukuna's stood frozen, sullen.
You understood, now.
Cradling the small girl, you stepped forward. Up the stairs to the platform of his throne. Even as he took a step back, you persisted.
"Sukuna. . ." You called to him. Soft in the way that only you were capable of being with him.
He almost flinched.
"This child, she's ours. Our daughter, made with love."
You stood right in front of him now. Taking in his wound up muscles and squared shoulders. Looking more like a deer ready to sprint than a father.
A father who feared that his hands were too rough, too evil, to nurture his own child.
"You won't hurt her. Because she's ours." Reaching forward, you held out the sobbing bundle. Watching his face and the several shades of uncertainty it turned.
You had never seen him so. . . frightened.
You pushed past his hesitancy, carefully placing your daughter into a set of his hulking arms. She was tiny compared to him. Seemed he was processing that too.
Aiding his position, you slipped one of your hands to tenderly hold him by the bicep as he, for the first time ever, held his daughter.
His breath was hitched. All of his eyes gaping at the small bundle in his arms. Watching her as if she were the most delicate piece of porcelain.
Your daughter's sobs stirred into sniffles, then hiccups, until. . . silence.
As big, ruby eyes stared up at her father. Taking him in. His face, his warmth.
And then, she beamed a toothless smile.
Sukuna tensed. A shaky breath hitching.
"She's— she's smiling. Why is she smiling?"
He quickly looked to you. Brows pinched. Looking lost, looking scared.
You offered him a smile, leaning up to press a kiss to his cheek. "Because she knows that her father loves her." Tickling her neck, you hummed as she squirmed a bit and giggled, pressing more into him.
He instinctively held her closer. Eyes unblinking.
You watched as Ryomen Sukuna, The King of Curses, melted. His heart swelling as he stared at his daughter. Even bringing one of his fingers closer to her, so that she could grab at it. Hugging around it with that big, bring smile.
His mouth quirked at the corner. Faint, but tender.
"Yeah. . ." He whispered, voice thick with emotion. Centuries worth of affection for his child, his daughter.
"Your father loves you. More than anything. More than life."
warning: suggestive on some of them.. other than that it’s not too bad!
authors note: ahhhhh came from this request, feel free to request guys ill try to get to it as soon as i can :) this is featuring mha and jjk men but ill write for anything!
I was on Pinterest and seen this fan art of Nanami and a black woman and the comments were saying how nanami wouldnt go well with a woman “like that” 💔 but it made me think of this account because obviously Nanami most definitely goes with a woc YK WHAT ACTUALLY whole time he csnt even handle allat !!!
they just mad cuz they all know nanami needs that chocolate cookie🙄
but fr out of all the jjk characters i think nanami is one of the most likely (if not the most) to date a woc. he has the maturity and intelligence to appreciate the culture and support his lady no matter the skin tone.
I LOVE your stories 🥹 do you think you can do a story SPECIFICALLY targeted for black woman/girls? 🥹 OF COURSE NOT FORCED, just would love it. Take care!!
thanks so much for asking and enjoying my work!
explicitly black reader is coming very soon i promise. if there's specific characters u guys want to see lmk!
