girlkisser.org

21🍄 I need a gf 🚫Minors 🚫Don't pmo

[b44byfr0g]

“Owww, kinktober is over 😔😔😔”

AS IF YOU DIDN’T READ SMUT ALL YEAR ROUND, YOU WHOREEEEEE

[salemsuccss]

HEY HEY🫣

[alrisyl]

𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚔𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐… 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚛𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚝 𝚜𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎.

pairings: rodrick heffley x fem! bandmate reader

summary: what starts as a sarcastic “kissing lesson” in rodrick’s garage turns into real flirting...

warings: teasing/flirting, kissing, tension, sweet angst, humor, stealing, fluff.

notes: was rotting in my drafts and needed majoring editing, finally finished it though so yay!! slighty proof read and lowercase intended!

wc: 2.1k

rodrick heffley had a reputation that came before he even picked up a drumstick... lazy, loud, sarcastic, and somehow always acting like nothing mattered.

which is why it was infuriating that the one thing he suddenly did take seriously was you.

“again,” he said flatly, leaning back against the garage wall. “you’re overthinking it.”

you wiped your palms on your skirt, warmth rising up your neck. “i’m not overthinking it. you’re just… not explaining it right.”

rodrick snorted. “it’s kissing. not rocket science.”

that didn’t help your nerves at all.

this whole disaster started as a joke.. someone in the band teasing that you’d never been in a real relationship, and rodrick, of all people, rolling his eyes and saying, “I could teach her in five minutes.”

you should’ve said no but.... you didn’t.

now it was you and him alone in the garage after practice, instruments still set out, the garage door slightly cracked open, and an unbearable amount of tension for something that was supposed to be “no big deal.”

“look,” he said quieter and less jokingly. “you don’t have to act like it’s some huge thing. you just… go with it.” he said, drumsticks tapping lazily against his thighs.

“go with it,” you repeated, unimpressed.

rodrick pushed off the wall and stepped closer. “yeah.” he shrugged. “stop thinking so much.”

easy for him to say...

you swallowed. “fine. show me then.”

the space between you shrank until there wasn’t much left at all, he exhaled through his nose, trying to look casual. “okay,” he muttered. “but you’re the one who asked.”

you stared up at him with wide eyes, “don’t make it weird,” he said quietly.

“you’re the one making it weird,” you scoffed, but your voice came out softer than you meant.

rodrick huffed a quiet laugh, eyes flicking to your mouth for half a second before he looked away, running a hand through his hair.

“just.... don’t freak out,” he said.

“i’m not going to freak out,” you lied immediately.

he gave you a look. “you’re literally freaking out right now.”

“i’m not.....”

“yeah, you are.”

you shut up... the garage went silent for a bit.

then rodrick lifted a hand, hesitated like he was actually thinking about it for once, and gently tilted your chin up.

“okay,” he said softer. “just… stay still.”

he leaned in until the tips of your noses brushed, teasing you. he paused there, close enough that you were breathing his air, he tilted his head just enough to find the right angle.

his lips hovered a mere millimeter from yours. "i'm waiting," he whispered, he didn't wait for you to answer before he closed the gap.

his lips moved against yours slowly, his lips were slightly chapped and he tasted like the mint gum he was chewing.

he tilted your head back just a fraction more, exposing the line of your throat and creating the perfect angle.

a small, involuntary sound left the back of your throat and the kiss deepened.

thats when he pulled back slowly, it was only a bit, like he wasn’t sure if he should’ve stopped at all and neither of you spoke.

the moment the kiss broke, you realized the minty flavor wasn’t just a lingering aftertaste. during the kiss, the gum had made its way into your mouth.

you stood there, slowly realizing you were now the one chewing the peppermint flavored gum.

rodrick blinked first, looking suddenly way less confident than he had all night. “uh.”

“yeah,” you said, voice not cooperating.

more silence, then he huffed a laugh, running a hand through his hair again. “okay. so you’re not… bad at it.”

you stared at him. “that’s your feedback?”

“What? I’m being helpful.... you did fine?!” he countered, his eyes finally flicking to yours before dropping to your mouth.

he watched you chew for a second, his brain clearly catching up to the fact that his gum was gone.

“wait,” he muttered, his brow furrowing in genuine confusion. “is that… is that my gum?”

“It’s mine now,” you managed to say, letting out a sigh.

“that’s… that’s gross,” he muttered, though the massive, lopsided grin spreading across his face suggested he thought the exact opposite. he shoved his hands into his pockets. “you’re a klepto. i just kissed a thief.”

you tilted your head, "you're the one who literally shoved it into my mouth, heffley... that’s not a theft, that’s a donation."

rodrick’s grin didn't falter, he stepped back into your space, looking down at you, "i didn't 'donate' it. it’s my favorite brand. i want it back."

You raised an eyebrow, a slow, smile spreading across your face. "you want it back? really?"

"yeah, really.." he said, eyes flicking down to your lips, before he bit his own. "i’m a very busy guy. i don't have time to go to the store and buy a whole new pack just because some girl decided to pull a heist during a lesson."

you didn't say anything and just gave him a long look, then, turned your back on him, and started walking toward the back of the garage near the stacks of old speakers.

you could hear his sneakers scuffing the concrete, following right behind you. "well? are you gonna be a coward, or are you gonna return the stolen goods?"

you reached the far wall and turned around just as he caught up, but before you could say anything, he backed you into the wall.

placing a hand against the wall right next to your ear, the other, reaching down fingers tugging the hem of your skirt softly.

"you know.... i really like this skirt on you." he leaned down, his face inches from yours, his breath warm and smelling like the mint he was demanding back.

you leaned back against the cool drywall, his hand was still resting against the wall by your head, and his fingers were still loosely hooked in the fabric of your skirt, before sliding up to your hip, holding you right where he wanted you.

you looked him straight in the eye, while you shifted the gum to the front of your mouth. a soft hiss of air could be heard as you blew a small bubble right between your faces.

rodrick’s eyes dropped to the bubble, his brow twitching in amusement.

the bubble popped, the sound was a bit loud in the quiet garage. you pulled the gum back into your mouth with a playful click of your tongue.

"thanks," you whispered, the word trailing off into a grin. "i think the flavor’s better now that it’s mine."

rodrick let out a low, disbelieving huff, "oh, you think it's yours now?" he murmured.

you slowly shook your head and before he could mutter another word about his "property," you reached up and grabbed the front of his worn out band tee, bunching the fabric in your fists.

rodrick was tall so you shifted onto your tiptoes, as you surged upward to meet him. you caught him completely off guard, your lips crashing into his in a collision that was soft and tasted entirely of peppermint.

as your lips locked, you didn't hesitate, you moved the gum back to him, the exchange unhurried.

rodrick made a low, muffled sound of surprise in the back of his throat. his other hand, which had been resting on the wall, moved to your hip too.

both hands tightening, his fingers digging into the fabric of your skirt as he hauled you flush against him to steady you on your toes. he deepened the kiss, reclaiming the gum with a low groan.

when he finally pulled back just an inch, his forehead stayed resting against yours. you were still balanced on your toes, held up entirely by the grip he had on your waist. he was breathing hard, his hair a mess, and he was slowly, victoriously chewing.

"there," you whispered, your voice shaky and breathless. "happy?"

" happiest man alive." he grin, thumb rubbing little circles on your hip.

" mmm, i bet." you laughed, you let your heels drop back to the concrete.

he stepped back, giving you a bit of breathing room, but his hands lingered on your hips until the very last second.

he walked back toward his drum kit, picking up a stray stick and twirling it between his fingers. "same time tomorrow?" he asked, trying to sound casual as he sat back down on a crate. "you know... for educational purposes."

"i'll think about it..." you mumbled and walked toward the drum kit where he had just sat down. rodrick watched you, as you stepped between his legs.

the height difference was flipped now.. for once, he was the one looking up at you, you reached out, your fingers lingering as you brushed a stray lock of hair out of his face.

you slid your hand further back, your palm cupping the nape of his neck. his skin was warm, "goodnight, heffley," you whispered, a knowing smile tugging at your lips.

before he could find his voice or grab your waist to keep you there, you leaned down and gave him one last peck on the lips.

you pulled away quickly, turning on your heels and slipping out through the small gap in the garage door before he could even blink.

behind you, the only sound was the hollow clatter of a drumstick hitting the concrete floor.

[ast4tarion]

vampires with blood red straps. reblog.

[salemsuccss]

Heheheheh

[reignpage]

Read Between My Thighs

Synopsis: your plan is to avoid your rival, now that you’ve both been hired as assistant librarians, to minimise the chances of getting into hours long debates and committing murder. the problem is that he's everywhere — helping you carry heavy boxes, scoffing at your choice of literature, eating you out in the back corner between the We Shouldn't Do This and the We'll Never Speak of This Again shelves. in all the bickering and orgasms, you're left with one question:

is the smell of books an aphrodisiac?

EPILOGUE - this marks the end of the librarian!nanami fic. thank you so much for keeping up and for reading. you all have the patience of saints. your love and support for this series means the world to me, and I will forever be grateful to each and every one of you for loving this version of Nanami. I love you all.

Warnings: no spoilers (contains smut, fluff, and angst) :) Word Count: 5.3k Canto IV - Masterlist

“Oh, Kento,” you whisper, hugging your coat tighter around yourself. “I wish you could be here.”

Leaves crunch under your boots. You bury your face a little deeper in your scarf. 

Campus smells the same as you remembered it. That’s the first thing you notice. Cold air, damp bark, something faintly sweet from all the coffee shops that have popped up on and around the area. 

So much is familiar, and of course it is — things don’t change that much, even if it has been years since you graduated. The same oak tree everyone used to fight over in the summer stands tall. Same hedges, same brick walls, and cobblestones. Same mascots and crests plastered on banners and plaques. 

But, as you’d expected, things are different too. New faces, naturally. A wing was added to the Psychology building after the department received greater funding for their contribution to mental health research. The old noticeboards have gone digital, glowing screens cycling through events you can’t decipher. You don’t see many older professors; you wouldn’t be able to tell who’s a professor and who’s not anymore when professors and students have grown closer in age.

“Time really does fly, huh?” 

In spite of any changes, however, you still feel right at home here. The steps you took from building to building are embedded in the soil. The phantom of your laughter echo in the halls, overlapping with generations before and after you. Even if you graduated a while back, you’ll always be a child of academia.

Although you’re elated to be back, you can’t help but feel melancholy.

A trip down memory lane doesn’t feel right without one of the people that took prime real estate, after all. 

It just isn’t the same. 

“Stop ignoring me.”

Shuddering, you sigh wistfully. “It’s like I can still hear him.”

“You can kill me in your mind all you like,” the voice begins, dryly, “it doesn’t change the fact that you know I’m right; Kindles cannot ever be superior to a good, old, physical book.”

You scowl, and turn to look back at the man trailing behind you. “They say wisdom comes with age but you’re proving them all wrong, aren’t you, babe?”

Kento’s rubbing his glasses clean from the slight fog that’s made the lenses difficult to see through. His cheeks are ever so slightly pink from the cold, and they’re the only markers that he’s bothered by the weather. Unlike you, who’s missing the warmth of Malaysia. He barely even tanned.

He reminds you, “We’re the same age, my love.”

“Yeah, well, I wear it better,” you respond haughtily. 

Sliding his glasses back on, he blinks a couple times before hastening his steps to reach your side. He holds your hand in his and tucks it into his pocket, where a handwarmer lies waiting. A thumb rubs your knuckles. Kento smiles to himself. “I’m inclined to agree on that front.”

“Okay, so you can also agree with me about how Kindles are a fine alternative to physical books. I really don’t know why you look down on them so much — they’re so practical. You can have multiple books all in one place, they’re smaller and more portable than a book, they weigh much less, and you can adjust the font and page colours. They’re more accessible, Ken. You need to get with the times.”

He nods. “I see your points, and I’m not saying Kindles are to be scoffed at. I simply mean that, if given the choice and you have no accessibility needs, one ought to choose physical copies, and support the ever-dying paper industry.”

“You mean the paper industry that’s killing trees?”

Kento glances down at you. “Are you arguing that the manufacturing of Kindles has zero environmental impact?”

It’s a trap, you recognise it. He’s trying to bait you. It’s not going to work.

Squeezing his hand, you tug him to the direction you want to take him: down the scenic route as opposed to the shorter path to your destination. He doesn’t put up a fight. 

Casually, you say, “No, of course not. Everything has a carbon footprint. But it’s all about minimising your impact, and decreasing the number of books, and pages, that have to be printed in favour of having them digitally available, supports that. I don’t think you can argue against the point that Kindles are more environmentally friendly than physical copies.”

“So being environmentally conscious and friendly is the goal. That’s your main point? It’s the underlying reason for any decision you make regarding what you read and in what medium you read it in?” 

Without waiting for a response, Kento continues, “Would you say owning three Kindles, two more than you really need, is environmentally friendly? And if so, what would your response be to me pointing out that since you bought your first Kindle, barring the fact that you bought two more, the rate at which you purchase physical copies hasn’t decreased.”

In a flash, you yank him inside a random building. It’s in the process of renovation. The alumni newsletter said it’s going to be a ‘Wellness Centre’, whatever that means. 

There’s no one here. The lights aren’t even on. Only the natural light from the gloomy sky lights the hall full of caution tapes and unemptied boxes. 

You shove Kento against the wall and kiss him.

His hands fall upon your waist reflexively. 

Lips move together so easily, so comfortably that you grow dizzy already. There’s nothing careful about the way he kisses you. No measured distance, no polite hesitation. Just heat, and the sharp edge of something that could be likened to deep satisfaction.

Kento exhales against you, fingers tightening at your waist to anchor himself. Your hands curl into his coat, tugging him closer and closer still, until there’s no space left between you at all.

Every breath, every shift, every small sound echoes back at you.

A thigh of his parts yours. The apex of yours meets it unhesitatingly. You’re wearing jeans, and despite the layers between you, you can feel the hardness of his muscular thigh. Your hips grind down on him with a gasp. 

“Distracting me with your body?” he breathes out. “This must be an admittance of defeat.”

Your hand finds the bulge you knew would be there. When you grip him, he sucks in a sharp breath and throws his head. A light thud resounds. “You wish, Kennypie,” you whisper, rubbing his already-hard clothed cock in time with how you rub your clothed clit on his leg. 

Truth is, you believe physical copies are superior to digital. Always. You were a Classical Lit student, and forever a snob, you’ll happily admit. 

What you won’t ever admit is that Kento is right.

You’ll take any camp opposite his just to feel the thrill of debate.

Faster than you had snatched him to the dark, he spins the both of you around and pins you to the wall. He sucks your bottom lip, then your neck where your pulse is. Kento untangles your scarf, pulls down the zip of your coat along with his descent, and comes to kneel before you. 

“No, darling,” he exhales. Your thighs squeeze together. “My wish is to taste you.”

Threading your fingers through his hair, you let him unbutton your jeans and pull them down. Goosebumps rise. He soothes warmth into your skin with his palms. With a giggle, you ask, “Again? You just ate me out this morning, Ken.”

Rare mornings where you could sleep in are usually spent with him settled between your thighs, or you between his. Why wouldn’t they be?

As he guides one foot out of the jeans, he nuzzles your thigh. The tip of his nose grazes the frilly hem of your panties. “Who said I’m limited to only once per day?”

The both of you really shouldn’t be doing this. If you get caught, you won’t be expelled; that’s not the punishment non-students face. It’s jail time. But there’s no one here, and there are no cameras. The campus is near empty because of the gloomy weather, and the way he’s started mouthing at your pussy through your panties feels too good to stop. 

“Fine, but be quick, okay?” you tell him. “Our friends’ll be waiting, and after we scolded Sho for being late at the last dinner party, it’ll be a bad look if we’re late now.”

Kento hooks his finger on the gusset and pulls it aside. He makes a dreamy sigh at the sight of your puffy lips, glistening with your juices. A thumb of his parts the lips so he can see your clit and press a kiss to it. 

You jolt.

“I’ll be quick,” he mutters, sounding wholly unconvincing. “She’ll get over it if we’re late just this once.”

Then, he’s licking a stripe up your slit, collecting your wetness on his tongue. “So sweet,” he says. “Always so sweet for me, for Kento, aren’t you, sweetheart?”He’s burying his face deeper between your thighs, desperate to get as close to you as possible.

 You squirm against the wall, panting. “We’re not going to be late,” you insist. 

The end of your scarf tickles his forehead. You move it away, wanting to have an unobstructed view of his face as his tongue flicks the sensitive bundle of nerves over and over again. 

Nodding absentmindedly, he agrees, “No, we won’t be late…but it won’t be so bad if we are.”

Groaning, both in frustration and in pleasure, you repeat, “We’re not going to be late, Kento. I swear to God, you better not mess around.”

Two fingers worm their way inside your entrance, stretching the tight ring of muscle out. You feel the long digits reaching deep. They force your gummy walls to expand around them. You’re flushed, pulse racing. If anyone were to catch you now, there’d be no explaining your way out of this. 

His glasses have fogged up again. It irritates him. He takes the thing off with a hasty hand and pockets it. You like him with his glasses, but you like him with his eyes drinking you up more.

Kento curls his fingers over that spot he knows well. You moan, hips stuttering onto his face. His words come out muffled when he says, “That’s up to you, sweetheart. Admit I’m right, and you’ll get your orgasm and your high horse.”

Tempting, you think. 

He knows you so well. 

But not well enough.

Throwing your leg over his shoulder, you fully commit to getting your orgasm one way or the other. “I would rather be late to every event we have for the rest of our lives than admit you’re right in any capacity, Kento,” you announce resolutely. 

He chuckles. “Of course you would. My stubborn, stubborn girl.”

That’s the last you hear from him before he’s wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking hard. The pressure inside builds and builds. You can’t deny his skilled tongue and years of knowing your body in and out, perhaps even better than he knows his own. 

You cum with a slap of your palm over your mouth, stifling the scream. “Fuck, Ken,” you groan.

Through it, he keeps sucking and curling his fingers. He’s elongating your pleasure, making sure you can ride your high, and his tongue, to your heart’s desire. 

And just when it starts to get too much, you shove him away from your pussy. He doesn’t let you create too much distance — greedy hands grip your hips. He presses himself close, covering your body with his body heat. 

Movement heavy with the remnants of your orgasm, you fight to release his cock from the tight confines of his tailored pants. It lands heavy in your palm, tip flushed and leaking. You feel the rush of his blood, the way it makes the length pulse and his veins prominent. You stroke him a couple times just to hear him murmur your name in that slutty voice of his. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” he rasps. His hips are rutting into your hold. 

“Are you gonna fuck me, Ken?” you purr. “Are you going to christen this building before it’s even been built?”

Kento nods. He kisses you, as though unable to bear being apart from you for too long. The taste of you lingers on his tongue, and you don’t mind it. He pulls away enough to reply, “Yes, darling. I want to feel you, want to make you feel good.”

You kiss him again, smiling. “You always do, Kento. Go on, I permit you to put it inside.”

He lets out a low laugh. “How kind.”

Kento hikes your leg up on his hip, allowing his cock glide through your swollen, slick lips first. He coats the length with your juices. Lewd noises squelch, and upon the initial contact, you both gasp into each other’s mouths. 

Soon, he can’t wait any longer, and the fat cockhead is prodding your pussy as though knocking politely. It enters you slowly. Inch by inch. Being careful of the fact that he hasn’t been able to give you as much foreplay as he would have wanted. 

The stretch is so familiar, so good that your back arches off the wall. “Oh, fuck, Ken.”

“I know, my love,” he murmurs. “Me too.”

Under the layers, you sweat. You’re aware of the fibres of his sweater you borrowed brushing your skin, of the hairs sticking to the back of your neck, of how his clothes and yours makes the closeness feel dull. It’s not like being in the comforts of your own home, of being naked and in bed, and feeling skin on skin. 

Restless, you whine, “Ken, put it all in.”

A kiss to your forehead and he’s doing as you asked. 

The two of you moan when his pelvis meets yours. You’re flushed together, and it’s glorious. There’s a slight sting but nothing that doesn’t make your eyes roll back.

Kento croaks, “You feel so warm, so tight, so -hngh- soft. God, sweetheart, you’re perfect. So, so perfect.”

Your hips rock together. It’s not like the purposeful, drawn out lovemaking you do at home. You’re not teasing, playing games, or rutting against each other knowing there’ll be more rounds after this. 

This is quick. It’s fast, it’s uninhibited, it’s animalistic. You’re merely racing towards your peaks, humping each other like dogs, and grunting and moaning like so. There’s nothing sophisticated or elegant about the slapping of skin, about the clash of lips with teeth, or of the way your fingers dig in whatever body parts you can latch onto. 

“Is it nice to be back, Ken?”

Panting, he flexes his jaw as he tries to ground himself enough to think. “Y-yes, darling. It’s nice to see what’s changed and what hasn't.”

In between kisses, you respond, “Right? I mean, things have changed, but being here makes me feel like I’m a student running late for class. It’s lovely.”

He grinds his pelvis into yours, rubbing your clit till you’re almost drooling. “Yes. It is. It reminds me of the old times with you, and our -ah fuck- friends. It gets h-harder and harder to see them every year.”

“I know,” you say, hips working down on his cock. “Thank you for arranging this reunion, Ken. It’s so desperately needed after all the travelling.”

Kento cups a tit through your clothes. He kneads the fat and you jut your chest out for him. “They’d all been wanting to see you after all your success, sweetheart. It was pretty easy to organise when they want to see the award winning star in our circle.”

You grin and clench down on him. He hisses. “Oh, stop you. It’s not like you’re hiding in my shadows.”

“Someone h-has to keep these big-ego writers in place,” he responds playfully.

“My place is sitting on your face or riding your -ngh! keep going- c-cock, right, Ken?” you ask, batting your lashes up at him.

He kisses your forehead. “Whatever you say, my love.”

Something about the fact that he’s more dressed than you are has your eyes rolling to the back of your head. It’s the way he looks composed, but you know better: his cock pulses every time your walls clench down on him, and he throws his head back, Adam’s apple bobbing. It’s how you lick up the sweat beading on his neck when he does, and he grips you harder. 

The rate at which he’s fucking inside you is increasing. You’re being jostled against the wall, feeling every bump and grind as if your senses are heightened. You no longer feel cold or conscious of being caught. All you can think and feel and taste and hear and see is him.

“I’m close,” you grit out. “I’m so close, Ken!”

“I’ve got you, my love,” he promises. He grabs the back of your other thigh. You’re held up in the air by his hands, boots dangling and jeans dragging on the floor. Like this, he reaches even deeper.

Your tits bounce with every rutting, and you wish he could be sucking on one. You wish you could rub yourself all over him. You wish there weren’t layers keeping you from him. That you could be as loud and wild as you want. 

Combing your fingers through his hair, you yank his head back and command, “Yield, Kento. Submit to the -hah- love of your life and tell her she wins.”

His eyes narrow. “Or what?”

You grin. “Or I won’t cum.”

And he knows you mean it — you’re far too stubborn to succumb to pleasure, especially when there’s victory on the line. So he shakes out of your grip and rushes to dive his face forward. “You’re right,” he whispers to your ear, breathing warmth to the heated skin. “You’re always right. Kento’s wrong, about whatever we were arguing about this time, about everything.”

A breathless laugh carries into the humid air. “Damn right.”

One particularly perfect thrust against your g-spot has your vision spotting, your legs shaking, and toes curling. You cum with a silent moan. Kento groans into your neck, grip bruising as your clenching milks him to his own orgasm. 

This will be somewhere between your sixth and eight orgasm of the day and it’s just as strong as the first. 

Sex with Kento — wherever, however, whenever — is always mindblowing and mindmelting, a fact you rejoice in after concerns of age getting in the way. Of course neither of you are objectively old; your backs and joints are just fine. But you’ve been together for years now, and people often talk about how the chemistry fizzles. 

Thankfully that has yet to happen.

“Oh, s-sweetheart,” he murmurs.

“Mm, Ken,” you say when the pleasure begins to subside. “We didn’t wear a condom again. Now your cum’s gonna be dripping out of me and onto my panties.”

He throbs. You laugh again. 

“I’ll clean you up, darling,” he replies. 

Kento presses a kiss to your cheek and pulls out. The shift is abrupt enough that you both suck in a breath, the cold air rushing back in where there had only been heat a second ago. An emptiness fills you. Your cunt clenches around nothing.

You land a little unsteadily when he sets you back on your feet. 

He’s about to get onto his knees. You stop him. “No, Ken, we’re going to be late.”

He looks conflicted for a second before he checks his wristwatch and reluctantly nods. “Yes, you’re right. Again.”

“Naturally.”

Like trained criminals, you quickly fix your clothes back up and get rid of any evidence. He tugs your jeans back up, giving you some time to replace your panties with a wince at the coldness. His hands zip your coat back up, then tucks your scarf inside. He fixes your hair, and you his. Kento slides his glasses back onto his nosebridge and blinks furiously to adjust his sight.

With last checks, you two give the other satisfied nods and head on out, though not without him sneaking a kiss and you smacking his ass.

“I can’t believe we’ve been on campus not even half an hour and we’ve already desecrated a building. We haven’t matured at all,” Kento mutters under his breath when you get back on the right path and near your destination. 

Looping an arm through his, you reply, “I know. Isn’t it great?”

Amused, he glances down at you and holds your hand. He brings it up to his lips and presses a kiss on your knuckles. “The greatest.”

You laugh. 

Then stop.

Up ahead stands a woman you could never forget. And when Kento stills too, you know he’s thinking the same thing. 

Mrs. Collins doesn’t look like she’s aged a day — there’s sprinklings of colour in a head of greys, in spite of the wrinkles she bears her skin is still tight, and there’s a sharpness in her eyes that hasn’t faded away. 

She’s wrapping her scarf around herself. Without needing to ask, you know where she just came from. It oddly brings you some peace to know she hasn’t left.

You don’t know if she remembers; it’s been some years and you only worked for her for a couple months. Or if she does remember, would she say anything? Would she pretend she doesn’t know you, never did anything, and you’re just another passing figure?

“Well, hello, my dears.”

So she does.

It’s impossible to tell if that brings you comfort or not. 

“Hi, Mrs. Collins,” you say. Nanami cuts you a look but you give him a reassuring squeeze. “It’s been a while.”

“Has it?” she asks, not sarcastically, but rather genuinely, as though she finds it hard to keep time and it was just this morning that she stepped inside the library with the intent of setting you up, and she’d now stepped outside. 

A part of you is surprised she’s talking to you, that she’s entertaining this conversation, when she could walk away and go about her day. There’s no obligation to talk to you at all. You’re no longer students, no longer employed by her, no longer young and naive.

Her eyes slide over to Kento. “Mr. Nanami, are you not going to greet me?”

You’ve never spoken to him about her since before you graduated; neither of you bring it up. And you never found that fact odd — there were almost much more interesting and pressing things to talk about. 

“Good afternoon. We don’t wish to keep you. Please don’t mind us,” he replies, coldly. Well, it would seem warm enough to anyone who didn’t know him well. To you, however, you might as well be standing next to a glacier. 

She hums. “Still haven’t forgiven me, I take it.”

No, Kento doesn’t seem to have; he’s as rigid as can be, as distant as possible, and paler than ever. You squeeze his hand. He doesn’t squeeze back.  

It must haunt him more than it haunts you.

You don’t think about her and what happened very much, to be frank. You’re too busy to do so. It would be a lie, though, to say you don’t sporadically recall how you were used. Sometimes when you’re staring out the window and drinking coffee. Sometimes when you’re getting in a car. You’ve thought about what you would do and say if you saw her again, if she would ask for an apology, if you would cuss her out, blackmail her. 

Right now, when the opportunity has risen and there’s no better time, you can’t seem to do any of that.

Because the person you see in front of you isn’t this cruel, callous monster of cosmic proportions who deserves to be dragged by the hair. She isn’t going to turn you to stone or tip your boat over. She’s not the devil, the mother of all demons, the shadow under your bed.

She’s just a woman who loves books. 

And you’d do anything for the things and people you love too.

“I forgive you,” you tell her suddenly. The words leave your lips without you realising it.

Mrs. Collins purses her lips. If she’s surprised by your words, she doesn’t show it. “I never asked for forgiveness for what I did.”

“I know,” you say. “I know, and I forgive you. What you did, what happened, didn’t stunt my growth, didn’t stop me from graduating, from entering the real world with pride and confidence, and didn’t stop me and Kento from being together. What you did made me stronger. I forgive you.”

Maybe you were never even really mad at her. Maybe you’d forgiven her a long time ago, around the same time that Kento asked you to be his girlfriend and you never looked back.

The older lady processes your words for a second or two. She even looks you up and down. Then she looks at Kento, and asks, “And you?”

“I can’t.” 

Does disappointment flicker in her eyes or mere acknowledgement? Does either in yours?

Whatever the case may be, that’s all there is left to be said here. At least that’s what you think until she opens her mouth again as though the act is an afterthought.

“I read your book, dear. It’s a rather popular stock in the library.”

“Thank you,” you say automatically, a reflex you’d picked up on the book tour. 

“It’s not a compliment,” she replies. “It’s just a fact.”

It lands like a compliment, and you take it as such.

“I’ll be looking forward to the sequel,” she says. With a final, acknowledging nod, she turns. Mrs. Collins doesn’t strut off immediately though; she pauses and adds casually, “Best of luck, Mr. Nanami.” Then she goes and disappears around the corner, leaving behind a mist of warm air. 

For a moment, the two of you just stand there under the dark clouds. As far as interactions with someone you once knew and who fucked you over goes, that wasn’t so bad, right?

You rub Kento’s arm and lean your head on his shoulder. “Are you okay, Ken?”

“I’m sorry.” You look up at him. His shoulders are still tense. His gaze fixed ahead. “I know it’s unfair to resent her, especially when you’ve graciously forgiven her and I have no right to hold any moral high ground, but I just can’t. I’m sorry.”

You figured as much — he can’t forgive himself, and so he can’t forgive her, because forgiving her means forgiving himself. It’s too soon and he’s as stubborn as you so your reassurances will only go in one ear and out the other.

“No, Ken. It’s okay. Really. Process things however you need to.”

Kento replies with some heaviness, “I’ll forever be grateful you forgave me, when you shouldn’t have.”

Sighing, you grab his face and force him to meet your eyes. “Kento, it was so long ago. You’ve apologised a millions times back then, and couldn’t even get it up for the first month or so when we started dating out of guilt, remember? I know you’re sorry, hon, and I know you’d never do anything like that again. We’re not going to spiral over something that happened eons ago.”

He leans into your touch and sighs too. “You’re right, sweetheart. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to bring down the mood.”

“Better now than later, at lunch,” you say, shrugging. “Remember not to let Shoko’s teasing yet the best of you, ‘kay, Kenny Benny Bear.”

At the old nickname, he grimaces but otherwise says nothing. 

Looping your arm back through his and marching on, you add, “Plus, I can’t say I didn’t deserve it even just a little bit. Remember when I swapped your copy of The Iliad before the exam and your average went down by a couple points?”

Kento smiles at the memory. “You only did that because I changed the time zone on your laptop in the study room when you weren’t looking and made you late for the guest lecture with Phicshonal Lehjendaree Dyrektore.” 

You throw your head back and chortle. “Oh my god, yeah! I was so mad. I’d been looking forward to that for weeks.”

“It was a good lecture too,” he notes fondly. “You really missed out.”

A smack on his chest does nothing but make him smile harder. 

“Ugh, whatever, asshole,” you say though you’re smiling too. “We were both stupidly childish, weren’t we?”

“Very,” he agrees.

The two of you cuddle close together, one could say for warmth or for comfort. In spite of the weather, of the dip in the mood, you walk on feeling light. Campus is really quite beautiful in Autumn, with the vibrant reds and oranges and browns of the leaves, and the emptiness of the streets between buildings.

It’s a good day to be with friends, you think. 

Soon, the library comes into view. 

Whereas many buildings have had some tweaks done to them, the library remains just as you remember it. Marble pillars, tall doors, golden lettering, stone stairs, and a welcoming glow to it that you’re sure only you and other nerds can see.

You were a little surprised that the meet up point would be here, especially when Kento was in charge of making the plans, but now that you’re at the foot of the stairs, you’re glad it’s here. Now it really feels like coming home.

A ping alerts you both. Kento checks his phone, and clears his throat. He stiffens again. “We’re going to be late. Let’s head inside.”

You nod and follow him up. He grips your hand tight to make sure you don’t slip on the stairs.

The doors open with a soft push.

For a second, you don’t understand what you’re looking at.

Then— faces.

Familiar ones. 

Needa and Frend, grinning too wide. Shoko beside them wriggling her brows at you as Haibara jumps excitedly behind her. Your parents, his, family and friends scattered in little clusters, all turned toward you with that same unmistakable look. Expectant. Bright. Soft in a way that makes your chest tighten before your mind can catch up.

You blink.

The library — the same one you spent years in, arguing and studying and fighting — has been transformed. The harsh overhead lights are gone, replaced by a gentler glow. Lamps lit up. The dreary, old curtains have been swapped for lush velvet. There are no students. No quiet shuffling, no turning pages, no whispered conversations.

Just melodic music.

A string quartet is tucked near the far end where the reading tables used to be. Bows glide over strings, slow and aching and beautiful threading through the air and tickling your skin, which is growing warmer from both the attention, the shock, and the protective temperature of the indoors.

There’s bouquets of flowers on mahogany tables. Petals littering the floor, thickest where you come to stand in the centre of the huddle under a chandelier of twinkling lights. Soft whites, pale pinks, a few deeper hues woven in. They curl around the ends of shelves, rest along tables, and climb just slightly where they shouldn’t.

Your heart starts to pound, hard enough that it drowns out everything for a moment. 

Slowly, you turn.

Kento is there.

On one knee.

The music, the light, the people — everything fades at the edges until it’s just him, steady and sure despite the way his hands shake just slightly around the small box. 

The ring catches the light. 

Your breath leaves you in a quiet, startled exhale.

“I’d ask if you would do me the honour of making me the happiest man in the world,” he starts, staring only at you, “but you already have, so I suppose the better question is…”

Tears well up in your eyes and you already have the answer at the tip of your tongue pleading to be screamed. 

“Do you hate me enough to marry me?”

[sixxels-deactivated20260420-dea]

sex with a stoner

fratboy!choso x bestfriend!reader

synopsis: your stoner best friend choso and you are deeeep in sexual tension, you are his girl, but not really his girl. cuddling, forehead kisses, being glued to eachothers hip, it eventually simmers down until neither of you can take it anymore. (my favourite work i've done so far)

content warning: smut, p in v, angst (not really), fluff, comfort.)

wc: 16k || art creds: @/einrvji

choso kamo is the kind of boy people notice without realizing they’re staring. he’s not loud, never one to demand a room’s attention, but something about him pulls you in, the lazy grace of someone who’s always just a little bit stoned and completely at peace with himself.

he throws the best parties on campus, the kind that aren’t just about getting drunk or high, but about the vibe. incense burning in the corner, led lights set to red or purple, trap playing softly over speakers. and yet, you’re the only one who really knows him.

you, the sweet girl who never misses a single one of his parties. the one always curled up next to him on the couch with a red solo cup of something you can barely taste, your legs draped over his lap, your cheek pressed to his shoulder. it’s always been like this. ever since freshman year, when you met him during that stupid icebreaker event on campus that neither of you wanted to go to.

somehow, you’d ended up next to him. not even talking at first. just being. and then he’d pulled one earbud out and offered it to you without saying anything, and you’d heard frank ocean’s “ivy” playing soft and crackly from his phone. you’d smiled at him, and he’d smiled back. just a little.

after that, it was like something clicked. you didn’t have to try with choso. you just existed in each other’s space like you were meant to.

you’re sweet, outgoing, a little flirty, always the first one to compliment someone’s outfit or remember their birthday. people love you for your light, your laughter, the way you make everyone feel seen.

but when it comes to closeness, to real comfort? that’s reserved for choso.

it’s a mystery to most people. you, the glittering, glowing party girl, and choso, the stoner boy who doesn’t even have social media. but it makes perfect sense to anyone who’s seen the two of you together.

you show up to his parties before anyone else does. you help him string the lights, pick the playlist, bring snacks no one asked for but everyone eats. you’re the one sitting on the counter while he rolls, sipping from a straw and babbling about your week while he nods, smiling faintly, muttering things like “that’s wild, ma,” or “yo, you’re too nice for them.”

and during the parties, you’re never far. you gravitate toward each other like magnets, slipping into place the way you always do. choso’s usually on the couch, arms stretched over the backrest, and you’re tucked under his arm without even thinking. you lean into him when you laugh. he rests his chin on your shoulder. he passes you drinks and you take tiny sips before handing them back to him with a wrinkle of your nose.

and it’s so easy. dangerously easy.

choso’s never been one to push. he’s got feelings, real ones, deeper than he’ll ever admit out loud, but he keeps them buried. not because he doesn’t want you. he wants you in a way that scares him sometimes. in quiet moments, when he’s too high and you’re asleep on his chest, he thinks about what it would feel like to kiss you. to be yours for real. but he’s content, at least for now. content to have you like this.

you give choso a kind of peace he didn’t know he was missing. before you, things were kind of blurry. background noise. but with you, it’s all color. you laugh and the whole room tilts toward you. you touch his hand and it’s like static electricity under his skin. he pretends he doesn’t notice. he jokes, he teases, he lets it pass.

because he thinks he’d rather have you like this, close and real and warm, than risk losing you completely.

and you? you love him. maybe too much.

you’ve never said it out loud, not even to maki or shoko, but you know it. you feel it every time you see him laugh at something you said, every time he lifts your chin to tuck your hair behind your ear, every time he waits for you outside class just because he felt like it. choso is yours, in a way no one else is. and you don’t know what to do with that.

maybe you’re scared to ruin it too.

it’s not just the friendship, it’s the rhythm. the quiet glances, the shared playlists, the way you always, always end up in his bed after parties, clothes still on, hearts too full.

you’ll lay there in the dark, both of you wide awake, and you’ll wonder if he feels it too. if he notices the way your breath hitches when his fingers brush your waist. if he hears the way your voice gets softer when you say his name.

but neither of you ever says anything. not really. not yet.

there’s something unsaid between you, always has been, something glowing and soft and maybe a little fragile. like the chords of “ivy” hanging in the air, too tender to touch. it’s in the way he looks at you when you’re not watching. in the way you linger at his door after a party, lip gloss smudged and heart aching. in the way he lets his hand rest on the small of your back just a little too long.

it’s a love that’s still blooming. hesitant. deep-rooted. and for now, maybe that’s enough.

maybe not forever.

~

the party’s already full by the time you get there, but you know exactly where to find him.

bass thumps through the floor like a second pulse, red lights spilling down the hallway, laughter echoing from the kitchen where someone’s poured jungle juice into a mixing bowl. bodies press close in the living room, the air thick with smoke, perfume, sweat, but none of it touches you. not really. not when you know where you’re going.

you slip past people who call your name, who compliment your outfit, who try to keep you still, but you’re already moving, already smiling like you’ve got a secret. because you do.

he’s on the couch. he always is.

slouched like he was poured there, long legs spread, a blunt pinched between his fingers. there’s a few people around him, suguru’s sitting on the floor, half-asleep against his knee, gojo’s perched on the armrest talking to some girl, but he doesn’t really look at anyone. just stares at the smoke curling above him, the red light making shadows under his eyes.

until he sees you.

choso’s head tilts slightly. his gaze sharpens, just barely. his mouth softens, corners curling up into something small, lazy, private.

“yo,” he says, voice low and smooth like honeyed smoke. “there you are.”

and just like that, you’re home.

you drop down next to him without a word, tucking your legs up on the couch, leaning into his side like you were made to fit there. his arm lifts automatically to rest behind you, and your bare shoulder brushes against his chest, skin to skin. he smells like weed and citrus and something warm, like sunbaked cotton. familiar. dangerous.

“i brought you chips,” you say, holding up a bag. “because you never remember to feed people when you throw these things.”

he laughs, soft and breathy, and takes the bag, tossing it onto the table without looking.

“you’re the only one who eats at my parties,” he murmurs, dragging the blunt to his lips. “they’re lucky you show up.”

he inhales, slow and deep. lets it sit in his chest for a moment. then he turns his head toward you and exhales, deliberately, slow, a trail of smoke that ghosts over your collarbone. it’s not on purpose, but it is. everything choso does is like that. unbothered. intimate. effortless.

your heart stutters.

“you look good,” he adds, like it just occurred to him. his eyes dip, trace your legs, the cut of your dress, the gloss on your lips. “real good.”

you smile, sweet and slow, like you’re soaking it in.

“you’re stoned.”

he shrugs. “yeah. still true, though.”

you nudge his thigh with your knee, and he smirks that lazy, barely-there grin that never quite reaches his eyes unless it’s you.

the party swells around you. bodies dance in the center of the room, the music gets louder, someone’s yelling in the kitchen about the beer pong table. but in your little corner of the couch, everything is slowed down. hazy. sacred.

he keeps passing the blunt, and you keep refusing with that little scrunch of your nose he always teases you about.

“don’t know how you come to my house every week and still don’t smoke,” he says, flicking ash into a red solo cup.

“don’t know how you survive without eating dinner like an adult,” you shoot back.

he chuckles, tipping his head back. his throat stretches long, his hoodie slipping off one shoulder to reveal the black ink of a tattoo just under his collarbone. you don’t even pretend not to look. choso doesn’t pretend not to notice.

“you missed me?” he asks after a beat, quieter now. the smoke’s made him slow, softer around the edges. more honest.

you glance up at him, lips parted. “i was here last weekend.”

“yeah, and then the whole week happened.” he shrugs, lazily. “i got bored.”

you nudge your way closer. your knee slides between his. “you say that like you don’t have other friends.”

he hums. “don’t hit the same.”

you’re both quiet for a second. it’s a thick, heady silence, not awkward, not tense. just full. full of everything that’s been building since freshman year. everything you don’t say. everything you both feel in moments like this, when you’re a little too close and he’s looking at your mouth and his hand is resting just a little too low on your waist.

you want to kiss him. god, you do. but not yet. not here.

so instead you lean forward, just enough to rest your head on his shoulder. you feel him go still for a second, then relax, melting back into you.

you stay like that. for a long time

later, when the house gets louder and hotter and someone pulls you up to dance, you feel his eyes on you.

you’re not a wild dancer, you move like you’re in your own little world, fluid and soft and smiling. some guy tries to grind up behind you and you immediately peel away, laughing as you shake your head. but when you look over, just once, you see choso watching from the couch.

his eyes are darker now. still lazy, still half-lidded, but focused. pinned on you like he’s memorizing the way your dress moves, the way your hair sticks to the sweat on your collarbone. one hand resting on his knee. the blunt long gone.

you move back to him eventually, of course you do, and he opens the space beside him again like he knew you would.

“have fun out there, superstar?” he asks, gaze flicking over you.

you shrug, settling back into him. “missed my favorite dance partner.”

he raises a brow. “you don’t dance with me.”

you grin. “exactly.”

he snorts, shaking his head. you rest your hand on his thigh, fingers splayed over ripped denim, and he doesn’t flinch. doesn’t move. just lets you stay there. touching him. like you always do.

like you always will.

when the party starts dying down and the lights dim even lower, when suguru’s asleep and gojo’s disappeared and the couch is just the two of you again, you curl into him like you belong there.

he yawns, one arm around your shoulders, hand playing lazily with the strap of your dress.

“you crashing here?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

you nod, cheek pressed to his chest. “if that’s cool.”

he makes a soft sound, something between a hum and a laugh, and dips his chin to brush his mouth against your temple. not a kiss, exactly. just a press. warm, soft. barely there.

“always.”

you smile, closing your eyes for a second. his hand is still resting on your waist, fingers tracing absent little shapes into your skin like he’s not even thinking about it.

you could fall asleep like this. you’ve done it before.

but he shifts a little, murmurs, “come on, ma. let’s get off this fuckin’ couch. my back’s killin’ me.”

you whine quietly as he moves, and he laughs again, a lazy rumble in his chest and slides an arm around your waist to help you up.

“drama queen,” he says, tugging you to your feet with effortless strength.

he doesn’t let go.

you move through the sea of red cups and leftover smoke, past the people half-passed out in the hallway, with his hand still slung around your waist. like it’s normal. like it’s instinct. your arm hooks around his middle, and you lean into his side as you walk, slow and steady, like you’ve done this a hundred times. because you have.

choso’s room is down the hall. it’s the only one with a broken doorknob and a blacklight taped above the bed, buzzing faintly. it smells like weed and clean laundry and him.

you kick off your shoes the second you walk in and collapse face-first into the unmade bed, limbs spread.

he laughs, low and indulgent, then flops down beside you.

“yo, scoot over,” he mumbles, nudgin your hip with his.

“you scoot,” you shoot back, voice muffled by the blanket.

he doesn’t argue. just lets his body melt sideways until your shoulders touch again. you shift your head onto his chest without thinking, cheek to the soft fabric of his hoodie.

and there it is again. home.

“this party was kinda ass,” you say.

“nah,” he says softly. “you were here.”

your stomach flips.

but you don’t say anything. don’t need to. you just lie there, breathing in sync, your hands curled in the hem of his hoodie while his fingers play with your hair, slow, lazy twirls that make your eyelids flutter.

“remember the first one?” you ask, voice hushed now. “the freshman-year party where we met?”

choso smiles at the ceiling. “fuck yeah. you were wearing that little white dress and yellin’ at some guy who spilled beer on your shoes.”

“he ruined them,” you murmur indignantly.

“and i was just sittin’ on the porch, watchin’ the whole thing,” he grins. “high as shit. thought you were hot as hell.”

you lift your head to look at him, one brow raised. “you still say you don’t remember how we ended up talking.”

“i don’t. swear to god.” he shrugs. “one second i’m finishing a blunt, next thing i know you’re sitting next to me like you’d been there forever.”

“i probably just decided you looked safe,” you say, settling back down. “and hot. but, like, quiet hot.”

he chuckles, slow and low. “quiet hot?”

you nod. “like… hot in a way that doesn’t try. like you didn’t even know it.”

“damn,” he mutters. “flirting with me now?”

“always.”

his hand slides down from your hair to your shoulder, warm and broad and steady.

“that’s why i fuck with you,” he says after a moment. “you’re real.”

you blink.

“like, people show up to my parties for the vibes or whatever. you show up to make sure i eat dinner.”

you laugh. “well someone has to.”

“nah, but for real,” he says. “you’ve been showin’ up since day one. always got my back. always know what i need before i even do. shit’s crazy.”

your throat goes tight. but he doesn’t sound emotional. he sounds calm. sure. like it’s just a fact of life, gravity, weed, you.

he doesn’t say it like it’s a confession.

he says it like it’s just the truth.

“you do the same for me,” you murmur, voice small.

his thumb strokes your arm, slow.

“yeah,” he says. “i know.”

the room hums with silence after that. not heavy. not awkward. just real.

he lets you lie there on his chest, the beat of his heart under your ear, the rise and fall of his breathing making you feel safe in a way nothing else does.

you shift after a few minutes, and his hand moves automatically , tugs the blanket up over you both, settles you closer, fingers smoothing over your arm like it’s second nature.

he doesn’t flirt with anyone the way he does with you. doesn’t touch anyone like this. people know you’re close, but they don’t get it.

they don’t know how choso listens to you rant for hours about your classes even when he’s half-asleep. how he always keeps snacks in his room he doesn’t like, just because you do. how he’s seen you cry at 3am and didn’t say a word, just pulled you onto his chest and played with your hair until you calmed down.

how you’ve cleaned up after every party. how you always know when he needs water. how you never smoke but you always light his blunts for him.

they don’t know that you’ve been doing this, just like this, since freshman year.

you’re not together.

but this? this is something else.

“you good?” he mumbles, his voice starting to get gravelly with sleep.

you nod, curled into his side.

“you?”

“mhmm.” he exhales through his nose, deep and slow. “don’t leave before i wake up.”

“i never do.”

he hums, already drifting.

you close your eyes.

"night, cho."

"night, babe."

and in the dark, in his bed, wrapped in the quiet warmth of choso’s heartbeat and the hush of something unspoken between you, you fall asleep.

right where you’re supposed to be.

~

the sun’s too fucking bright.

choso’s got his hood pulled low, hands stuffed in the front pocket of his faded sweatshirt, hoodie sleeves bunched at his wrists like armor against the cold. his airpods are in, but he’s not playing anything. just using them to avoid eye contact. to avoid people.

his chem lecture starts in twelve minutes. he’s not rushing.

he’s never rushing.

the quad’s half-full with undergrads moving in packs, laughing too loud for this hour. he weaves through them like a shadow, dark-eyed and slow-moving, sleep still clinging to his bones.

he hasn’t showered. hasn’t brushed his hair. smells faintly like weed and sleep and your lotion, the floral kind you always keep in your bag.

he’s halfway across the quad when he hears it.

“yo.”

he looks up.

toji.

posted up on a low wall near the main staircase, nursing a large iced coffee and wearing the same zip-up he’s worn every morning since choso met him. he looks good, like he always does, jaw sharp, eyes tired, posture loose in that older-guy way that makes people think twice about messing with him.

choso pulls out one airpod. “yo.”

“you look like shit,” toji says, amused.

choso shrugs. “feel fine.”

“late night?”

“always.”

toji grins. “bet.”

choso wanders over, boots crunching gravel, and leans against the wall next to him. toji’s got that lazy menace vibe, like he could break someone’s nose or fall asleep in the sun, it could go either way. choso respects it.

they’re not close, but they’re good.

“you throw last night?” toji asks.

“yeah. packed out.”

“heard. saw some dude getting dragged out by the neck around one.”

choso huffs a little. “sukuna. again.”

“no shit?” toji laughs. “that guy’s a walking lawsuit.”

“got blood on my stairs,” choso mutters. “ruined the rug.”

“tragic.”

they’re quiet for a second. choso watches a squirrel dart across the walkway. toji sips his coffee.

“how much you make off the door?”

“couple hundred. enough for groceries. gas. weed.”

toji nods like that’s the natural order of things. “you ever think about pledging?”

choso snorts. “nah.”

“you’d run that shit,” toji says. “turn those little rich boys inside out.”

“i’m not good with rules.”

“fuck rules.”

choso grins a little. “you sound like yuki.”

“i taught yuki,” toji says, deadpan.

that gets a real laugh out of choso, low and amused, breath curling in the cold air.

“you got chem?” toji asks after a moment.

“yeah. lab.”

“tough.”

“i'm so fucking hungover.”

toji smirks. “so. last night. you go home alone?”

choso shrugs. “nah. crashed with her.”

toji looks at him. not surprised. not shocked. just curious.

“y/n?”

“yeah.”

a beat.

“you guys together now or what?”

choso looks up, brows drawn. “nah.”

toji raises an eyebrow. “huh. figured that would’ve happened by now.”

“why?”

“you’re always with her.”

“yeah.”

“you sleep in the same bed?”

choso shrugs again, easy and lowkey like it doesn’t mean anything. like it’s normal. “all the time.”

toji whistles under his breath, grinning. “you’re a better man than me.”

“not like that,” choso mutters, looking away.

“right,” toji says, smirking. “not like that.”

choso stays quiet. doesn’t explain. doesn’t elaborate. he just lets it sit in the air between them like secondhand smoke, warm, familiar, a little dangerous.

because it isn’t like that.

not yet.

but toji doesn’t push. just nods, takes another slow sip of his coffee, and claps choso on the shoulder with a rough hand.

“you’re cool,” he says. “but if you ever fuck that up, someone else won’t be.”

choso just exhales through his nose. shrugs.

he knows,

he knows.

~

choso slouches in his stool at station 4B, safety goggles pushed up into his messy hair, long fingers lazily rotating a test tube over the bunsen flame. he’s supposed to be running a titration, but he’s running on three hours of sleep and an edible that hasn’t stopped hitting since breakfast.

there’s a small chemical fire happening at the next table over. he doesn’t care.

his partner, some girl from his gen chem section who only speaks in whispers and perfume, scribbles answers onto their worksheet like her life depends on it. she’s never once asked him to help. choso’s fine with that.

his phone buzzes in his hoodie pocket. he pulls it out without looking, thumb unlocking the screen by feel. it’s instinct. the way he always knows when it’s you.

[10:37am] you: what class r u in rn

[10:38am] choso: chem

[10:38am] you: ew

[10:38am] choso: yea

[10:39am] you: wanna meet up after?? i’m bored

[10:39am] choso: wya

the response comes fast.

[10:40am] you: bleachers behind the field. bring snacks or i’ll cry.

choso smiles.

it’s the kind of smile he never shows anyone but you. lazy. lowkey. like a secret he doesn’t need to say out loud.

he texts back a thumbs up emoji. tucks his phone away. watches the blue flame flicker under the test tube like it’s trying to tell him something.

~

the bleachers behind the athletic field are barely standing. rusted metal, cracked paint, half the steps warped from years of cleat-stomped abuse. it’s one of the only spots on campus that still feels untouched, still feels yours. people don’t hang out here. it’s too open, too weird, too quiet.

perfect.

you’re already there when he shows up, sprawled across the middle row like it’s a chaise lounge, sunglasses perched low on your nose and a bag of kettle chips open in your lap.

you perk up when you see him. smile wide and lazy. “you brought me snacks?”

he lifts a 7/11 bag in greeting.

“you’re an angel,” you say, and you sound like you mean it. choso climbs up beside you, drops the bag between you, and sits with a long sigh like the weight of the whole morning finally got the memo that it can fuck off.

he lets himself lean back on his elbows, head tipped toward the sky. hoodie sleeves pushed up to the elbow. hands ringed in silver, knuckles faintly bruised from last night. jaw sharp, neck tattoo peeking just above his collar.

you glance over at him, bottom lip tucked between your teeth for a second too long.

he doesn’t notice.

or maybe he does.

but he doesn’t say anything.

“what happened in chem?” you ask, voice slow with sunlight.

“almost set the bench on fire,” he says. “again."

you laugh, and it’s the good kind, low and warm and familiar, like something soft you wrap yourself in. “you’re gonna fail.”

“nah,” he murmurs. “i got you. you’ll cry to shoko for me.”

you shrug. “probably.”

he grins.

you eat chips together for a while in comfortable silence. people jog past on the track below, but it’s like the two of you exist in another timeline, quieter, slower, deeper. every time your shoulders bump, he doesn’t move away. every time your fingers brush in the snack bag, he lets it linger.

you pull out a cherry lollipop from your tote. unwrap it with delicate, distracted fingers. stick it between your lips and suck thoughtfully.

choso looks over. blinks once.

his throat bobs. “you eat candy like you’re in a music video.”

“duh,” you say. “gotta stay on brand.”

“your brand is slutty candy princess?”

you flash him a wink. “you know it.”

he groans into his hands. “you’re gonna kill me.”

“you’d like it.”

“maybe.”

you both laugh.

but underneath it, there’s a tension you don’t touch. not yet. not today. not when the sun is this warm and the wind is this soft and the space between you feels like a bubble no one else can pop.

“so what’d you tell toji?” you ask suddenly, pulling your legs up under you. “he asked about us, right?”

choso blinks. shifts.

“how’d you know that?”

“i just saw him talking to you this morning and you rushed of before i could catch up.”

he sighs. rubs a hand over his face. “just asked about some dumb shit, was surprised we aren't fucking.”

“oh yeah?”

“yeah.”

you hum. “what’d you say?”

he shrugs. “told him we’re just friends.”

you nod.

but your fingers are tight around your lollipop stick. “did he buy it?”

choso looks over at you. eyes half-lidded, lazy. “dunno. didn’t really care.”

you don’t speak for a second.

then—

“you know,” you say lightly, “if we were dating, people wouldn’t question it.”

he raises a brow. “you wanna date me?”

you laugh like it’s a joke. like the idea’s crazy. “obviously not. i’d ruin your whole vibe.”

“nah,” he says, quiet and cool. “you are my vibe.”

it knocks the air out of you a little.

you don’t reply.

he doesn’t push.

instead, he pulls a lighter from his pocket. a faded red bic with a sticker of a cartoon frog on the side.

“you mind?” he asks.

you shake your head. “go for it.”

he lights the joint behind the bleachers, careful to block the wind, and takes a slow hit like he’s been doing it his whole life. like breathing.

you watch the way his lips part. the way the smoke curls from his mouth. the way he blinks up at the sky, exhaling slow, like there’s nothing in the world that could ruin this moment.

he passes it to you.

you hold it between two fingers. bring it to your lips, but don’t inhale. you just like the closeness. the ritual. the rhythm of it.

“you always smell like weed and coconuts,” you say absently.

“you always smell like sleep and candy.”

“that a compliment?”

“you know it is.”

you smile.

and then, like always, you shift until your head is in his lap, knees bent, lollipop back between your lips.

he threads his fingers into your hair like it’s automatic. like muscle memory.

you don’t say anything.

you don’t have to.

“there’s a party saturday,” choso says, like it’s just a passing thought. his voice is mellow, dragged slow with smoke and sun.

you squint up at him from his lap, one leg kicking idly off the edge of the bleachers. “yours?”

he shakes his head, dragging another pull from the joint before it sizzles low. “nah. kappa’s.”

“toji’s place?”

“mhm. sukuna’s throwin’ it.”

you make a face. “ew.”

he laughs, lazy and low. “yeah, i know.”

“what kinda party is it?”

he shrugs, flicking ash off to the side. “dunno. probly loud. messy. overrun with freshmen.”

“my favorite,” you say sarcastically.

“come anyway.”

you raise a brow. “you want me to go?”

he nods, eyes still soft from the joint. “yeah. all our people are gonna be there. gojo’s bringing that speaker he stole from the rec center. suguru’s bringing weed from the plug that scares everyone but him. shoko said she’s pre-gaming at yours.”

“she didn’t tell me that,” you mutter, amused.

“she said quote, ‘i’m getting blackout on your floor so you better have mixers.’”

“classic.”

“maki’s going too,” he adds. “and yuuji. megumi. nobara. y’all can take over the kitchen or whatever.”

you snort. “we always end up doing that. turning some random frat kitchen into our private lounge.”

“better lighting.”

“less vomit.”

he taps his knuckle to your forehead. “so?”

you blink at him. “so what?”

“you comin’?”

you stretch your arms over your head, lollipop tucked in your cheek like a secret. “mmm, depends. who’s walking me home if i black out?”

he gives you a look. “me."

“who’s holding my hair if i puke?”

“me.”

“who’s dancing with me when they put on early 2000s throwbacks?”

he smirks. “you already know.”

you grin and nuzzle into his thigh dramatically. “ugh, fine. i guess i’ll go.”

“what an honor.”

“you’re welcome.”

you stare up at him for a second, at the sharp angle of his jaw, the lashes curled against his cheeks, the faint bruises of exhaustion under his eyes.

there’s something warm in your chest.

like always.

“what time’s it at?” you ask.

“late.”

“when are we getting there?”

“later.”

you smile. “as always.”

“as always,” he echoes.

you reach over, fingers brushing the side of his hoodie pocket where his lighter peeks out, red and fading, sticker peeling at the edges.

he doesn’t notice.

but you do.

you always do.

~

the sun has long since set when you’re back in your dorm.

shoko’s stuff is already half-scattered across your bed, a tote bag overflowing with lip gloss and tequila, her ripped denim skirt folded beside your pillow like it lives here. your bluetooth speaker is charging in the corner. your fairy lights are glowing dim, and the whole room smells like something between vanilla lotion and sharpie markers.

because you’re painting.

your desk is a mess of scattered brushes, scratched acrylics, and an empty matcha can you’ve been using as a water cup. right in the center sits the new bic lighter you picked up after social, jet black, perfectly smooth, untouched.

you’re painting red spider lilies across the front, his favourite.

the petals curl across the plastic like veins, wet with gloss and attention. you’re careful with the details. you’ve looked up references. you’ve done this before.

but this time’s different.

this one’s for him.

you don’t know why, exactly. maybe it’s because his old one’s going dead.

maybe it’s because you love him.

not like that.

not yet.

but in the way you know exactly how he likes his ramen. in the way he texts you “home?” when it’s late and doesn’t sleep until you answer. in the way he rolls his blunts left-handed and always lights yours first. in the way he remembers your mom’s birthday even though he’s never met her.

in the way he makes you feel safe in a room full of noise.

in the way he never tries to make you anything other than yourself.

you lean over the lighter, the brush held steady between your fingers, and add the final line of gold detailing around the petals. your breath fogs the surface. you wait for it to dry.

outside, someone blasts a bad edm remix. the party’s already pulsing down the block.

you aren’t ready yet.

but you will be.

because he asked.

because you always go when he asks.

by the time you and shoko step into the kappa house, it’s already hell in there.

there’s music vibrating the walls, some mashup of jersey club and distorted britney spears, smoke curling from doorways, the reek of beer and weed and something you hope is a vape cloud drifting from the stairs. someone’s already swinging a half-finished bottle of patrón in the foyer, and a guy in a spiked collar is passed out half-naked on the pool table. red LEDs paint the room like a warning.

“jesus,” shoko mutters, pushing through a knot of people. “it’s worse than last time.”

“that’s saying a lot,” you reply, laughing.

you pass a makeshift tattoo station set up in the kitchen, a foldable table, three guys with gloves and prison-grade guns, girls taking shots with their shirts off, someone yelling about cross-contamination. someone else is already screaming into a paper towel, gripping their friend’s thigh as ink bleeds into skin.

“how much you wanna bet that guy’s not even licensed?” shoko asks, pointing with her cup.

a few feet away, a couple is practically devouring each other on the couch, hands in places that definitely shouldn’t be public, their moans barely muffled over the bassline. you and shoko share a glance.

“ten bucks says they’ll be upstairs in five,” she says.

“two,” you shoot back.

you find the rest of your girls near the island, maki’s drinking straight from a bottle of dark rum, nobara’s yelling at some guy for calling her “sweetheart,” and miwa looks like she’s trying to spiritually leave her body.

“there you bitches are,” nobara says, throwing an arm over your shoulders. “i was gonna beat some freshman’s ass for trying to say you weren’t on the guest list.”

“please tell me you’re drinking tonight,” maki says, eyes already glossy.

“i just got here!” you laugh, letting shoko pull you in tighter. “i haven’t even taken my jacket off!"

“well hurry up,” nobara insists, pouring something violently pink into a solo cup and handing it to you. “this night’s cursed already.”

you take a cautious sip, bubblegum and battery acid. “what the hell is this?”

“it’s called the thong dropper,” shoko says helpfully.

“girl.”

you let the chaos swirl around you for a bit, settling into the rhythm of things, catching up on nonsense, swapping wild stories, dodging spilled drinks and clumsy hands. nobara starts talking about some guy she hooked up with last week, rolling her eyes and groaning dramatically.

“his stroke game was so weak,” she says, slamming her cup down. “he kept asking me ‘is that good?’ like, cmon. do you not hear me faking it?”

maki snorts. “you faked it?”

“of course i did. i had to get it over with.”

shoko leans in. “rookie mistake. just tell ‘em straight up.”

“i can’t crush a man’s ego like that,” nobara defends.

“they’ll live,” maki says.

you giggle into your drink, letting the warmth buzz up your spine.

“what about you?” shoko nudges. “you getting any lately?”

you shrug, trying to hide your smirk. “define ‘getting.’”

they all ooh at that, but you wave them off.

“nah,” you add quickly. “just been… chillin’.”

nobara raises a brow. “chillin’ with who?”

you don’t answer.

you don’t have to.

because you just spotted him.

across the room, slouched low on the ratty couch like a king on a broken throne, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, blunt glowing between his fingers, is choso.

he’s got his head tipped back, laughing at something gojo just said, eyes heavy-lidded and hazy, lips pink and glossy from smoke. his legs are spread wide, rings catching the LED lights, and there’s a plastic crown crooked on his head like someone dared him to wear it and he just went along with it.

you hand your cup to shoko. “back in a sec.”

you beeline straight to him.

he sees you coming, of course. always does.

“yo,” he says, voice syrup-thick, laced in that lazy drawl you know too well. “there she is.”

you plop onto the couch next to him, thigh pressed to his instantly, as natural as breathing.

“hey, babe.”

he pulls the blunt from his lips and passes it to gojo. “you look real hot,” he murmurs, eyes scanning over you. “like… stupid hot.”

you grin. “you’re high.”

“and you’re a fucking bombshell.”

“so high.”

gojo chuckles. “he’s been saying shit like that about everyone for the last twenty minutes. told sukuna his chains looked ‘shiny as fuck’ and that he would fuck him if he was gay.”

“and i meant it,” choso says, nodding solemnly.

“sukunas a menace,” you laugh.

“a sweet menace,” choso adds.

gojo tosses the blunt into an ashtray and stretches. “aight. i’m gonna go find the aux before someone puts on country again.”

“godspeed,” you tell him.

choso watches him disappear into the crowd before turning back to you. “you good?”

you nod. “the girls are wild tonight.”

“when aren’t they?”

you smile. “mmm. party’s kinda gross, though.”

he grins. “yeah. it’s ass.”

“i miss your parties.”

he hums, dragging a slow breath through his nose. “next week, tuesday.”

“a tuesday party?”

“hell yeah.”

you laugh softly, eyes dropping to the front pocket of his hoodie. his lighter’s there again, the red one. the same one from earlier, edges worn down like it’s been used a thousand times.

without saying anything, you reach into your jacket pocket.

he watches you curiously as you pull out the lighter you painted, black and glossy, the spider lilies blooming across the surface in blood-red ink and gold veins.

you hand it to him wordlessly.

his fingers brush yours as he takes it, and something in his face shifts, softens, quiets.

he turns it over slowly in his palm, eyes scanning every detail like he’s memorizing it.

“you painted this?”

you nod.

“ma…” he says under his breath, almost like it’s too much. “yo. this is… this is fucking beautiful.”

“your other one’s dying,” you say, a little shy now. “figured you needed a new one.”

he’s quiet for a second, blinking slowly.

then,

“you’re such a fuckin’ angel.”

you laugh. “it’s literally just a lighter.”

he doesn’t let his gaze leave it. “nah. it’s you.”

you blink.

he says it so casually. so high. so him.

like it’s just a fact.

you don’t say anything, and neither does he. the music swells. the lights flicker. people scream and laugh and break things somewhere in the background.

but right now, it’s just the two of you, and a lighter between your palms.

“you’re gonna make me cry,” you joke, even though the way he keeps looking at the lighter makes your chest feel a little too full.

choso doesn’t answer, just keeps running his thumb over the curves of it like it’s some delicate artifact, black with the glossy gleam of fresh paint, those red lilies blooming across the surface like blood in water.

he flicks it once. flame bursts up.

“perfect,” he mumbles.

“it works?”

“better than my soul, babe.”

you laugh, leaning your head against his shoulder, and for a few seconds everything around you falls away, just the throb of the music, the warm press of him, and the soft flicker of that tiny orange flame between his fingers.

you sit like that for a little while, talking about nothing. him complaining about a group project he hasn’t started. you teasing him for skipping chem lab again. him promising you some “next-level weed” for tuesday’s party that “tastes like peaches and existential dread.”

his voice is slow, syrup-thick, a little slurred at the ends. he’s stoned, clearly, but you’re used to this. used to the way he leans into you when he’s like this, heavy and unguarded, every thought coming out a little slower and more unfiltered. it’s a version of him that doesn’t get tired of looking at you.

he tugs at the hem of your jacket playfully. “you gonna stay with me tonight?”

you raise a brow. “didn’t plan on going anywhere else.”

he grins, that sleepy smile that makes your heart tick funny.

then your name cuts through the room, pitched over the music.

“oh shit,” you say, glancing over your shoulder. “they’re calling me.”

choso hums, not looking away. “tell ‘em i said hi.”

you hesitate for a second, not wanting to leave the warm bubble you’ve curled into. but shoko’s waving you over, and maki’s already halfway across the room with a bottle in her hand and trouble in her eyes.

“i’ll be back,” you say, giving his knee a squeeze as you get up.

he watches you go, eyes dragging over your silhouette, that sway in your hips, the flash of your smile as nobara yells something at you that makes you laugh and flip her off in the same breath.

then he’s alone.

not really, the house is packed, pulsing with bodies and music and smoke, but alone in the way that matters.

the lighter’s still in his hand.

and it won’t stop looking like you.

'she fuckin’ made this.'

that thought loops through his head in lazy spirals. he stares down at it like he’s still not fully processing that it’s his now, the way it fits so perfect in his palm, like you painted it with him in mind, like you know his hands that well.

(which you do.)

'what an angel', he thinks again, your face still ghosted in his mind.

he’s high. so high. his body feels like a heartbeat, slow and deep and pulsing warm. and the lighter, it keeps dragging him back to that moment on the couch, your thigh against his, your fingers brushing his, your quiet little smile when he lit it up for the first time.

'she always does shit like this. just makes stuff better. without even tryin’.'

it hits him all at once, sudden and full-body.

he needs to mark this. this moment. this feeling.

he’s already pulling out his phone before the thought’s even fully formed, scrolling through the camera roll he swore he didn’t care about but secretly checks too often. blurry candids, selfies with you curled against his chest, that pic from two weeks ago when you were looking up at him from the floor of his room with a red gummy in your mouth and sleep in your eyes.

he pauses there.

your eyes in that picture. big, soft, glassy, sexy.

his thumb hovers over the screen.

“yo,” a familiar voice calls, sauntering through the haze. “you look fried.”

sukuna.

choso glances up. “am fried.”

sukuna grins. “figured. that couch is cursed, by the way. guy got a blowie on it last week during pong night.”

choso shrugs. “adds flavor.”

they lean on the wall together, easy silence for a second.

“you see the tat guys?” sukuna asks, chin-jerking toward the kitchen. “someone just got a fucking worm on their calf. like a literal earthworm. said it was ‘symbolic.’”

choso laughs, low and thick. “symbolic of what?”

“dunno. being dirt, i guess.”

he doesn’t respond. just looks back at his phone.

sukuna raises a brow. “you good, dude?”

“yeah.”

“you look like you just had a vision.”

choso finally meets his eye.

“yo,” he says slowly. “you ever just feel something and know you gotta do somethin’ about it right now or you’ll bitch out?”

sukuna squints. “uh. like what?”

choso doesn’t answer.

instead, he pushes off the wall, hoodie slipping off one shoulder again, lighter still clutched in one hand, phone in the other, and starts walking.

sukuna watches him go, a little amused. “damn. alright.”

the air is thick with smoke and bass as he weaves through the crowd, bumping shoulders, dodging a girl dancing with her heels off and her hair in her face.

he reaches the makeshift tattoo stand.

it smells like rubbing alcohol and regret.

“yo,” he says, voice smooth as silk and twice as slow.

the guy behind the table, ink sleeves up to the neck, black gloves, sunglasses indoors, glances up.

“what’s up, man?”

choso leans down slightly, eyes low-lidded and unreadable, body loose and stoned and sexy in that careless way he always carries.

he holds out his phone.

“can you do this,” he asks, “on my arm?”

the artist blinks, then looks at the screen.

it’s a close-up of a girl’s eyes, wide, seductive, yet still glowing with laughter. looking up at the camera like whoever took the photo was the only thing in the world.

looking up at him.

choso taps the screen once. “those are hers.”

the guy raises a brow. “like… your girl?”

choso shrugs one shoulder. his eyes never leave the photo.

the buzz of the needle starts soft, a low, persistent hum, and choso doesn’t even flinch. he just leans back, one arm draped lazily across the armrest, hoodie shoved halfway up his bicep where the artist wiped him down with alcohol. his eyes are half-lidded, bloodshot from whatever gojo rolled earlier, but locked on the phone he’s holding out in his opposite hand.

the picture’s still up. her eyes, warm and wide, lashes curled, looking up at him like she trusts him with her whole heart.

“pretty,” the tattoo guy mutters, angling a small light to get a better look as he sketches the stencil. “yours?”

choso’s mouth curves slow. doesn’t answer right away. just flicks his lighter open and closed, click, click, click, the red spider lilies catching the light each time.

then finally:

“nah.”

the guy hums. “girlfriend?”

he huffs a little, amused. “not that either.”

he sets the lighter down on the table beside him, keeps his eyes on the screen.

“she’s just,” he pauses, then shrugs, soft and slow, “her. y’know?”

the artist side-eyes him. “deep.”

choso smiles again, eyes unfocused. “nah, i’m just fuckin’ high.” the guy presses the warm stencil into choso’s arm, smooths it into place.

“you sure you wanna do this while you’re, uh,” he glances at choso’s glassy expression, the faint grin still tugging at his mouth, “clearly not sober?”

“i’m not wasted,” choso says lazily. “and i’m not dumb. it’s not a mistake.” the artist nods once, respects it. “alright, man.” he flips on the machine again, lines it up.

“you done this before?” choso grunts a laugh. “y’think i got these in my sleep?” he gestures vaguely at the black ink already crawling across both arms, jagged, abstract lines, constellations and waves, some faded with age. some done in basements like this one. “first time sober was the weirdest one.”

the guy snorts. “fair.”

the needle hits skin.

choso exhales slow. doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shift, doesn’t even blink hard. just stares at the wall across the room, jaw slack, hoodie sliding off his shoulder, the buzz settling into the meat of his arm like a low hum of intention. “you ever tattoo someone like this before?” he murmurs after a beat.

“like what?”

he shrugs again. “someone who’s… y’know.” the guy doesn’t answer right away.

choso elaborates, voice softer this time. “she’s not mine. i don’t want her to be. not right now. it’s not like that. it’s just…” he trails off, brows furrowing a little, tongue tucked against the inside of his cheek.

“she just means somethin’. don’t got a word for it.”

the artist doesn’t look up from his work, but his tone’s gentler when he speaks again. “yeah. i’ve seen that before.” choso sinks deeper into the chair, breathing even. the pain’s dull and constant, but it grounds him. keeps his thoughts from spiraling too far out, keeps his high in this exact moment.

“you think she’d be mad?” he asks, voice airy. “if she saw it?”

“dunno,” the guy says. “you gonna tell her?” he blinks slow, head rolling back against the headrest.

“nah.”

another pause.

“not now. it’s just for me.” the tattooer gives a small nod. “that’s real.”

a silence settles between them, the steady hum of the needle, the sound of someone vomiting into a bush outside the window, a muffled scream from the beer pong table two rooms over.

“looks good,” the artist murmurs, wiping excess ink from the forming lines of the eyes. “she’s got crazy lashes.”

choso huffs out a small laugh. “she’d fuckin’ love that you noticed that.”

“yeah?”

he smiles again, softer now. “talked about lash serum for like a week. gave me a whole presentation.”

the guy chuckles under his breath. “sounds like she talks a lot.”

choso closes his eyes.

“she talks just enough.” the buzz continues. the lines take shape. her eyes, right there, etched into his skin. not to claim. not to confess. just to remember.

just for him.

~

the buzz dies down gradually, tapering into a low hum before the artist finally flicks the switch and pulls back. the sudden quiet settles like a heavy blanket over the both of them, just the soft thud of bass from the next room and the subtle scrape of latex gloves against skin.

“alright, man,” the artist says, leaning back with a stretch. “done.”

choso blinks slow, still slouched deep in the chair like he’s been there for hours, like the cushion molded around his bones. he lifts his head, eyes hazy but laser-locked on the strip of bandage being pressed to his upper arm.

“yo, hold up, lemme see it before you cover it,” he says, voice low and hoarse from either weed or reverence, maybe both.

the guy lifts a brow, but obliges. carefully wipes the skin one last time, blood and excess ink coming away in soft red-black smears. the room’s fluorescent lights hit the raw lines at an angle, shining off the freshly tattooed skin like it’s something holy.

and fuck.

there it is.

your eyes.

wide and soft and open, curved lashes sweeping upward in a way no stencil should’ve captured but somehow did. that quiet way you look at him, like he hung the stars, like he’s yours even if the two of you never say it out loud. inked permanent on the soft part of his bicep, nestled between a set of waves and the jagged edge of a half-finished constellation.

for a second, he doesn’t speak. doesn’t move.

he just stares.

it hits him slow, like a good edible, starts behind his eyes, low and warm in his chest, then spreads.

yo.

he’s obsessed.

like fully, all the way, brain-meltingly obsessed.

he turns his arm slightly under the light, eyes tracing the lines, the slight curve of your upper lid, the detail around the corners like you're mid-laugh or mid-thought or both. it looks exactly like you, his favorite version of you. the version that looks up at him like nothing else exists in the room.

god.

you look good on him. not in the possessive way. not even close. it’s not that.

it’s something else. something way quieter. something he can’t even name when he’s sober, and definitely not now, baked out of his skull with his arm still tingling and his hoodie falling half off.

but still, he’s wearing you now. and it feels like something that’s always been true, just waiting for the ink to make it real.

“you good?” the artist asks, half amused, already reaching for the plastic wrap again. “yeah,” choso says, slow, mouth crooked into a lazy grin. “looks fuckin’ sick, dude.” the guy chuckles under his breath. “kinda figured you’d say that.”

“you killed it,” choso adds, finally dragging his eyes off the tattoo. “like, actually.”

the artist nods, pleased. “appreciate it. was fun as hell to do, honestly. you sure you don’t want her name or somethin’? under it?” choso snorts. “nah. that’d make it weird.”

“fair.”

he watches the guy gently press a clean dressing over the fresh ink, tape it up. the sensation’s a dull sting under his skin, not quite pain, just awareness. a reminder that it’s real now. that it’s his, for good.

she doesn’t know. you might never know. and that’s kinda the whole point. he’s not gonna flash it at you mid-party or say anything slick when you sit beside him later like you always do, throwing your legs over his lap and stealing his drink.

nah.

this one’s just for him. a secret under his sleeve, tucked into the curve of his body like a memory.

“you gonna keep it under wraps?” the guy asks, like he can read choso’s whole plan off his face.

“yeah,” choso mutters, grabbing his hoodie and tugging the sleeve back down with a practiced flick. “at least for now. don’t need her freakin’ out or nothing.”

“bet,” the guy says with a short laugh. “i get it.”

choso stands slow, body still heavy from sitting too long and smoking too much. he sways a bit but rights himself, shaking out his arms like he’s just come up from underwater. the whole basement smells like blood and rubbing alcohol and resin, but it’s warm, and the energy buzzes low and steady around him.

he digs in his pocket for a few bills, slaps them into the artist’s open palm.

“appreciate you, man.”

“anytime, bro. take care of that, don’t go dunkin’ it in a keg or anything.” choso grins. “no promises.”

he walks out with his hoodie draped low, sleeve tugged all the way to his wrist despite the heat and the crowd and the chaotic press of bodies funneling in from the hallway. music floods back in slow, a pulse of bass syncing up with his own heartbeat.

but he can’t stop thinking about it. every step he takes, every time the sleeve brushes against the fresh ink, it reminds him.

not of what they are.

but of what you mean.

upu didn’t need to give him that lighter. you didn’t have to think about him in that little quiet way you always did, like he’s more than just a weed plug or the guy you party with every weekend. that little moment, just you in your dorm, painting red spider lilies on a bic you knew he’d never throw away? that shit went straight to his chest. and now you're on his skin. maybe you'd freak out if you saw it. maybe you'd cry. maybe you'd laugh.

maybe you'd get real quiet and never say anything again. or maybe you'd look at him the way you did in that photo. maybe you'd look at him like you knew.

but all that’s for later. for now, he’s just stoned as hell, arm warm and throbbing, and so unbelievably content that it’s almost embarrassing.

he spots gojo again across the room, already perched on the arm of someone else’s couch with a red solo cup and a grin like he owns the house. choso veers toward him, slips back into the noise like he never left.

sleeve tugged down.

lighter in his pocket.

eyes on his arm, just for him.

~

later that night you navigate yourself back to choso after your banter with the girls.

you spot him sunk deep into the cushions, hood half up, curls falling into his face, a bottle of water in one hand and his eyes half-lidded and sleepy with that lazy high he wears better than anyone. he’s surrounded, gojo splayed on one armrest like he owns the place, sukuna lounged sideways with his feet on the table, and suguru perched on the edge, nursing a half-finished blunt.

“yo, look who it is,” gojo grins as you walk up, already clocking the way you move like you’re headed home, not just to a guy. “princess finally found her prince.”

you don’t say anything, just slide right into the little space at choso’s side like it was made for you. his arm shifts automatically, pulling you in like it’s instinct, and you tuck your face into his shoulder, letting out the softest exhale. you can feel the thrum of his voice in your cheek when he speaks.

“hey, ma.”

his hand’s warm against your hip, steady, grounding. he smells like weed and cedar and the faintest trace of paint from the lighter you gave him. it’s in his pocket now, safe like something sacred.

“so anyway,” suguru picks back up like you didn’t just crash-land in choso’s lap, “i’m telling you, the guy had no idea what he was doing. tried to roll with a swisher, no guts, just dumped the weed in and twisted the end like a fuckin’ lollipop.”

“god, not the lollipop roll,” sukuna groans, dragging a hand over his face. “freshman?”

“of course it was a freshman,” gojo says, grinning. “those little guys think watching one youtube tutorial makes them bob marley.”

“yo, remember that one dude at the delta party?” choso says, head tilting back slightly. “rolled a joint with a bible page.”

“amen,” sukuna snorts.

“nah, for real,” choso laughs, hand tightening just slightly where it rests on your side. “he said it made the high holier.” you huff against his hoodie, and his fingers flex like he felt it, like it was the best sound he’d heard all night.

they keep going, weed stories, party war stories, the dumbest shit they’ve ever seen in a frat house at 3am. it’s relentless, loud, chaotic, but you stay quiet, tucked against choso’s side like he’s the only still thing in the room. his thumb runs in slow circles against your waist through the fabric of your top, and you feel the way he laughs before you hear it.

“yo,” gojo says, leaning across suguru to point at choso. “what’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done at a party?”

“besides adopt a girlfriend he doesn’t kiss?” sukuna adds. choso blinks slow. doesn’t rise to the bait, doesn’t even twitch.

“probably that time at theta when i fell asleep in the bathtub and woke up with a raccoon in my lap.” suguru chokes. “you serious?”

“deadass.”

“was it… alive?”

“bro. it was chillin’. just vibin’ with me.”

“you probably hotboxed the tub,” gojo says, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “raccoon was just tryna get high.”

choso grins, soft and slow, and you nudge your nose into his hoodie like you’re hiding your own smile. “what about women?” sukuna says suddenly, eyes glinting like he’s fishing. “y’all ever hook up at your own party?”

“you’re disgusting, that's against reg” gojo tells him cheerfully.

“don’t lie,” sukuna drawls. “you know you have.”

“alright, once,” gojo admits. “but i kicked her out after because she tried to name my bongs.” “you’re heartless,” suguru says, deadpan.

“you don’t name the bongs,” gojo insists. “they earn names. it’s sacred.”

“what about you, choso?” sukuna’s gaze cuts sideways. “you got bodies stacked in your stoner dungeon?” choso hums, slow and easy. you feel the low sound in his chest, pressed flush to your cheek.

“nah,” he says. “i don’t hook up with girls who don’t know how to roll.” the boys howl, gojo nearly falling off the couch.

“that’s so on brand,” suguru laughs. “you need standards,” choso mumbles, amused, and leans his cheek briefly against the top of your head.

the lighter’s still in his pocket. his arm’s still over your shoulders. and beneath the sleeve of his hoodie, hidden from the world, your eyes are inked into his skin.

you shift a little, just enough to tuck your legs under yourself, settling more fully into him, and he adjusts without thinking — arm around you tighter now, palm spread warm across your ribs, thumb grazing your side through the fabric. he’s careful. doesn’t let the hoodie ride up. doesn’t let anyone see. the tattoo’s still fresh, still tender, and it’s just for him.

“yo, you good?” suguru asks, nodding at him. choso blinks slow. “yeah man’.”

“that weed hit hard,” gojo says. “i feel like i’m seein’ sounds.”

“you ever tried dabs?” sukuna asks. “that’s when shit gets spiritual.”

“you tryna kill someone?” suguru laughs. “every time i hit one, i feel like my soul’s leaving my body.”

“shit’s a rite of passage,” sukuna shrugs.

“nah, a rite of passage is hosting a rager with a cop at your door and acting like you live there,” gojo grins. “have you?” choso asks, amused.

“bro, i’ve answered the door in a bathrobe before,” gojo says proudly. they all crack up again. you don’t say anything, but your smile’s pressed right into choso’s chest, and he dips his head for a second to nuzzle his nose into your hair.

“she’s real quiet tonight,” suguru says, noticing. “nah, she’s just comfy,” choso says easily. “she don’t need to talk when she’s like this.”

you don’t. not when you’ve got his warmth, his arm around you, his voice rumbling low in your ear with every lazy joke. it’s always like this, like no one else in the room really matters, like you could fall asleep right here and he’d keep the world spinning while you did.

“that’s love,” gojo says mock-serious.

“shut up,” choso mutters. but he doesn’t stop smiling. and the lighter’s still warm in his pocket.

and your eyes are still inked into his arm, safe and secret beneath layers of cotton and smoke.

~

the house is still going when you two finally get up. it’s past 2am, maybe closer to 3, but the music hasn’t let up and there’s still people on the floor, drinks in hand, voices loud and slurred over each other. someone’s passed out with a sharpie mustache, another guy’s making out with a pillow. classic kappa chaos.

choso’s the one who moves first. you feel it in the way his arm shifts, in the soft brush of his thumb against your side like a nudge. he leans in close, voice barely above a murmur.

“you good to dip?”

you nod into his hoodie, eyes half-lidded, heart heavy with warmth and weed.

he helps you up slow, palm steady at your back. when you stand, the cold air from the open back door hits your legs and you shiver a little, instinctively leaning back into his side. he shrugs his hoodie higher and throws an arm around your shoulders like he already knew it’d happen.

“yo,” choso calls out over the couch, voice scratchy and low. “we out.”

gojo perks up from where he’s still posted with a half-spilled drink, eyes bright. “tell your girlfriend goodnight for us.”

you don’t say anything, just press your face into choso’s shoulder again, and he laughs under his breath.

“night, man,” suguru says with a nod, already halfway into rolling another blunt.

sukuna lifts a hand lazily. “text if you end up in a ditch.”

“if i do, i’m takin’ you with me,” choso mutters.

they all laugh again, and it follows you both out the front door, the porch light buzzing weak and yellow above you. the night’s cooler now, quiet in a way that makes everything feel soft around the edges. your heels click against the pavement as you walk, but only for a second, choso notices and without a word, crouches down in front of you, glancing back over his shoulder.

“get on.”

you blink, amused. “seriously?”

“c’mon, ma,” he mumbles, tugging at your wrist. “your feet hurt.”

you climb onto his back with a little laugh, arms wrapped loose around his shoulders, and he stands like it’s nothing, steady under your weight. his steps are slow and sure down the sidewalk, the frat house lights shrinking behind you, the sounds of the party fading with every step.

“you always take care of me,” you mumble against his neck.

he hums low. “’course i do. you're my.. best friend.”

you walk like that for a while, his hoodie soft against your cheek, his hair brushing your face every time the wind shifts. he doesn’t say much, just hums sometimes or comments on dumb shit you pass, a traffic cone in a bush, a raccoon on the curb that freezes when it sees you, like it knows choso somehow.

he sets you down once you’re close, only when his own building’s steps are in sight. his hand stays in yours as he leads you inside, up the stairs, past the other bedrooms where people are either passed out or definitely not sleeping. his door clicks shut behind you with a soft thud, and everything goes quiet.

his room’s the same as always, warm, dim, the faint smell of weed and whatever incense he burned earlier in the week still lingering in the corners. one sock on the floor, a hoodie thrown over the back of his chair. you’ve been here a hundred times, maybe more.

but tonight feels different. softer. warmer.

he pulls his hoodie off slow, careful of the sleeve, and tosses it toward the desk chair. the bandage underneath catches the light for a second, but he turns before you see too much.

you toe your shoes off and crawl onto the bed without thinking. he follows, slower, body still heavy with high and heat and something else he can’t name.

you’re both under the blanket when he finally speaks.

“hey.”

you look over, curled on your side facing him.

his eyes are half-lidded, soft. one arm tucked behind his head, the other stretched toward you, palm open on the comforter like he’s offering it.

“i really fuckin’ love that lighter.”

your heart stutters a little. “yeah?”

he nods, slow. “like… a lot. been using it all night. even switched pockets for it, kept checking to make sure it didn’t fall out or get swiped.”

you smile, something small and full blooming in your chest. “good. it’s supposed to be yours.”

“feels like it.”

he looks at you for a long second. the space between you shrinks until his arm slides around your waist and pulls you in close.

you go easy, always do, settling into him like he’s your own bed, your own pillow, the place you always end up no matter how far you drift.

he breathes in slow, his nose brushing your hair.

“the flowers… why’d you paint those?”

you press your face into his chest.

“they reminded me of you,” you say quietly. “red spider lilies. they’re kind of… complicated. people think they’re about death or goodbye, but they also mean memory. rebirth. starting over. they grow in all the places nothing else does.”

choso’s quiet for a second.

then, soft, “you think i’m like that?”

you shrug against him, voice even softer. “i think you’re the kind of person who sticks. who stays even when shit gets hard. and you don’t always say how you feel but… you’re steady. like those flowers. like fire.”

he exhales slow.

“fuck, ma.”

“what?”

“you’re gonna make me cry or some shit.”

you laugh, a quiet huff against his chest. he wraps both arms around you now, tucking you into the space beneath his chin, his hand sliding up into your hair.

his fingers stroke slow, gentle. again and again.

“you can cry,” you mumble. “i won’t tell.”

he chuckles low, the sound vibrating through you.

“nah, i’m good. just… i dunno. not used to someone thinkin’ about me like that.”

you don’t say anything. just curl closer, your fingers fisting lightly in the fabric of his shirt.

the room settles into silence. soft and slow. your breaths even out together.

his hand keeps stroking through your hair, steady and grounding. like he could do it forever. like maybe he will.

his voice comes again, quieter this time.

“gonna keep that lighter forever.”

you smile, eyes fluttering shut. “good.”

“not even gonna let gojo touch it."

“definitely good.”

his lips brush your hair, a ghost of a kiss.

you feel it all, the warmth, the safety, the way his body curls slightly to fit around yours like a shield, like a home.

his heartbeat’s slow against your cheek.

“night, ma,” he whispers, already half-asleep.

you murmur it back, voice slurred with sleep, breath syncing with his.

his fingers keep moving, slow circles through your hair.

and in the soft dark, beneath the blanket, beneath the silence, his arm curls around you just enough to press the fresh ink on his bicep to your side, a quiet secret. a permanent truth.

just for him.

just for tonight.

just for you.

~

~

it’s been a chill afternoon, sun’s out, classes dragging, brain fried. choso’s walking out of the lab building with his earbuds in, hoodie half-zipped, replaying your last message in his head. a pic of your shoes kicked off under a library table, captioned come save me, three broken hearts. made him smile. still does.

he’s almost past the quad when a shadow cuts across the sidewalk.

“yo, choso.”

doesn’t need to look up to know who it is.

that voice, too smooth. familiar in the kind of way that feels like smoke curling up your back.

he pulls one earbud out and slows.

toji’s leaned against the trunk of an oak tree like he’s been waiting. sunglasses on, black tee snug across his chest, arms crossed like he’s got all day. his smirk’s already half-there.

“what’s up?” choso mutters.

“you got a sec?”

choso gives him a long look. he knows toji. knows the kind of calm that means something’s coming.

“…yeah,” he says anyway.

they walk.

they’ve done this before, that time a few weeks ago before his lab, once or twice after parties, when everyone else was loud and drunk and messy. toji’s always been different. sharper. like he watches the room just to see where it bleeds.

“how’s life at delta mu?” toji asks after a few steps. casual. fake.

“same shit.”

“yeah?” he smirks. “you still throwing those weed parties with your little mascot?”

choso’s jaw ticks. “you mean y/n?”

toji chuckles. “yeah. her.”

he tosses a glance sideways. too casual.

“she’s got some energy, huh? always bouncing around, arms all over you. she like that with everybody or just you?”

choso doesn’t answer. toji doesn’t need one.

“nah, i’ve seen it,” he continues. “always tucked up next to you. on your lap. wrapped around your arm. clinging to your hoodie like it’s the last blunt in the world.”

he laughs under his breath. “kinda cute.”

choso’s fists go deep in his pockets.

“she’s just like that,” he says flatly.

toji hums. “you sure?”

choso looks over.

“what’s your point?”

“just wondering,” toji shrugs, still smiling like it’s harmless. “you’ve told me before, you two aren’t dating.”

“we’re not.”

“but you hang out every day.”

“yeah.”

“sleep in the same bed sometimes, right?”

choso’s mouth tightens.

toji grins like he caught something.

“so she’s single?”

choso stares straight ahead.

“…yeah.”

“good to know.”

silence.

the wind brushes through the quad. students chatter behind them. someone’s playing music from a bluetooth speaker in the grass, something smooth, almost romantic. it doesn’t help.

“she’s just real… open, you know?” toji says. “like, warm. sweet as hell. makes you feel like you’ve known her forever.” choso stays quiet.

“i ran into her the other day,” toji adds like it’s nothing. “outside the gym. we talked for a sec.” his tone is lighter now. teasing. like he’s digging.

“she remembered my name. smiled real nice, too. said she was headed to meet you.”

no surprise there. you always say where you're going. always talking about choso like he’s the center of your world. and maybe that’s why this stings. and toji knows it.

“you ever wonder if she does that for you?” he asks. “tells other guys she’s headed to see you. uses your name like a shield.”

he doesn’t wait for a reply.

“or maybe it’s just habit. maybe she’s comfortable. you ever think about that?”

“don’t do this.”

choso’s voice is low now. warning. toji just smirks.

“look, man. i’m not trying to piss you off. just… trying to understand. ‘cause you act like you’re her boyfriend, but then you say you’re not.”

he tilts his head.

“so which is it?”

choso breathes slow through his nose.

“we’re close. we’ve always been close. that’s it.” toji nods. like he buys it.

but he doesn’t.

“damn,” he says. “you got more patience than me.”

“what’s that mean?”

“means if a girl like that was pressed up on me every night, i wouldn’t be wasting time calling her my friend.” he says it with a grin, but there’s something sharp underneath.

“you really never tried?” toji asks. “never kissed her? not once?” choso doesn’t respond. he can’t. he kisses you all the time, on the head, never on the lips.

because the truth’s stuck in his throat, the way you fall asleep in his arms, the way you hold his lighter like it means something, the way you always come back to him like he’s home. and he’s the dumbass who never claimed you.

“so she’s single, then?” toji repeats.

“yeah,” choso says, quieter than the first time, barely above a whisper.

toji gives him one last nod.

“fairs,” he says. “just wanted to be sure.” and then he walks away. choso doesn’t move. not for a long time.

just stands there, fists clenched, teeth gritted, watching toji’s silhouette disappear down the path like it’s a threat, because it is. he knew.

he knew before he asked.

and now he’s coming.

because choso left the door wide open.

and you?

you’re free to walk through it.

~

choso’s room, late in the afternoon.

your legs are curled under you on choso’s bed, hoodie three sizes too big hanging off your shoulder, his, of course. the windows are cracked open, letting in the soft hum of birds and the echo of some guys yelling down at the basketball court. his room smells like incense, sage and something deeper, something him, warm, sleepy. you’ve been here a hundred times like this. maybe more.

his hoodie sleeves keep sliding past your wrists as you text, thumbs quick, quiet smile pulling at your lips. he’s across the room, digging through a drawer for his rolling tray. you can feel his presence without even looking. you always do.

“yo, did you move my grinder?” he calls, glancing over his shoulder.

“nope,” you answer, distracted, fingers still flying over your screen. your phone lights again.

toji [3:04pm]: you looked cute at that mixer last night.

you bite your lip. thumbs hover.

then you type:

you [3:07pm]: oh, so ur stalking me noww?

you don’t see choso pause. you don’t see how long his eyes linger on your phone. you don’t realize he saw the name, until he speaks.

“who you texting?”

you blink up, tone of his voice unfamiliar.

“hm? oh—” you shift your phone in your hand, instinctive. “just… someone.”

he tilts his head.

“someone, huh.”

you laugh a little. “why do you sound like that?”

he doesn’t answer. he crosses the room instead, slow steps. plants himself at the edge of the bed, arms folded. you look up at him and that warm energy’s gone. replaced with something colder. sharp.

“that toji?”

your breath stalls.

“…yeah.”

choso stares at you. unreadable.

“why?”

“what do you mean why?” you ask, eyebrows tugging. “he messaged me. we were just talking.”

he hums, low.

'not buying it.'

“just talking,” he echoes. “what about?” you sit up straighter. “what’s going on?”

“what’d he say?”

“choso—”

“lemme see.”

he gestures at your phone. you clutch it instinctively. like muscle memory. like guilt? “are you serious right now?” he doesn’t answer. jaw’s tight. eyes dark.

“what’d he say?” he asks again. your fingers squeeze your phone. you feel a flush crawl up your neck. not from embarrassment, but shock.

“you’re not serious,” you say again, this time quieter. he just looks at you. so you speak.

“he said i was cute, that's it.”

his jaw ticks.

“you flirting with him?”

“what?”

“you heard me.”

you scoff. “no. i wasn’t. it wasn’t even- i didn’t mean it like that.” choso steps back, runs a hand through his hair. pacing now.

“you texting him while you’re in my bed?”

“what does that matter?”

“it matters.”

his voice is sharper now. rough around the edges. not loud, but tight, like it’s fighting to stay inside his chest. “you know how i feel about that guy.”

“choso, he’s been nothing but nice lately—”

“he’s not nice. he’s not interested in being friends. he’s waiting, he’s circling, you don’t see it?”

you blink.

“so what, you’re mad ‘cause i texted him back?” he looks at you like you just spit on the floor. “i’m mad ‘cause you’re in my fucking hoodie, in my bed, telling some other guy he’s got a shot.”

you freeze.

the silence that falls is loud.

so loud.

your eyes widen. you stare at him, lips parted. unsure if you heard that right. unsure if he meant to say it.

“a shot?” you echo. he looks away. exhales hard.

“never mind.”

“no,” you say, voice firm now. “say it again.”

he doesn’t. but you both feel the truth echoing off the walls.

you look down. suddenly too warm. like the hoodie’s burning your skin. “…i didn’t know you’d care,” you say, almost to yourself.

choso swallows. “i do.” you glance back up.

“why?”

he doesn’t answer, but you already know. and now the air is thick with it. the unspoken thing. and for the first time, it’s not sweet. not warm. it hurts.

because it means everything he’s never said, everything he’s been, came with conditions you never agreed to. came with borders he never drew, but expected you not to cross.

you breathe slow. he watches you. you speak first.

“if you wanted to be the only one texting me like that, you should’ve said something.” choso’s face shifts. his mouth opens like he’s going to say something, defend himself, maybe, argue the way he always stays quiet because he doesn’t want to lose you,but nothing comes out.

instead, his brows knit together, lips pressed in a tight line. his fingers curl at his sides.

“you really think i don’t wanna be that?” he says, voice rough. “you think this shit’s been casual for me?” you blink at him. your breath catches.

“you’ve never said it was anything else, choso. what was i supposed to think?”

“fuck,” he growls, pacing again. “you were supposed to know. i thought you knew.”

his voice rises, not yelling, but loud with frustration. he’s unraveling in real time, and it’s shaking something loose in you, too.

“how was i supposed to know?” you shoot back. “you flirt but you never say anything. you touch me like i’m yours but act like i’m just your best friend—”

“you are mine.” your voice dies in your throat.

he stares at you. and when he speaks again, it’s quieter, but no less intense.

“you’re mine,” he says again, like a confession. like a curse. “always been mine.” your stomach flips.

“then why—” your voice cracks — “why didn’t you say anything?”

choso runs a hand through his hair again, like he’s trying to physically hold himself together. like it hurts.

“’cause i was scared,” he snaps. “scared that if i said it out loud, it’d fuck everything up. that you’d look at me different. that you’d leave.” you stare.

“so you’d rather let someone else have me?”

he stiffens. you rise onto your knees on the bed, fire lighting behind your ribs now. “you’d rather let toji of all people try it?”

his jaw clenches. “he’s not gonna have you.” your heartbeat skids.

he moves in fast, faster than he ever has, and grabs your wrist, firm but not rough, like he can’t bear to let the distance exist any longer.

“i’m not letting him have you,” he mutters.

you’re still frozen, looking up at him. something between fear and thrill curling in your gut.

“choso,” you whisper. he doesn’t stop. he pushes you back gently onto the bed, one hand catching your waist, the other bracing against the mattress. he hovers over you, breath heavy, eyes searching your face like he’s begging you to see it, really see it this time.

“i’m fucking in love with you.”

your heart punches into your throat. his forehead dips, pressing against yours, voice hoarse.

“i’ve been in love with you since you showed up to my first party and we listened to that dumb song together.”

you let out a shaky laugh, but your eyes are wet his thumb brushes your cheek.

“i never said it ‘cause i thought this was enough. thought just having you close was better than risking it all. but i can’t—” he pulls in a breath, voice shaking now too — “i can’t sit quiet while other people try to take you from me.”

you’re blinking fast now. breath catching. every inch of your skin feels like it’s on fire beneath his touch.

“you’re my girl,” he says again, softer this time. “you’ve always been mine.”

you don’t answer right away. your chest rises and falls beneath his, shallow and unsteady. your palm is still on his cheek, but your eyes have shifted, staring past him now. unfocused. wet.

“you’re only saying that,” you murmur, “because someone else finally had the balls to go after me.”

his breath catches. your voice is quieter, but sharp now, like you’re trying to convince yourself. like you want to believe it, but the cracks are there, and they’re splitting open.

“you didn’t say anything until he got involved. until he started asking about me. texting me. seeing me.” your hand falls away from his face. “and now suddenly, i’m yours?”

his eyes widen. “no—”

“you had so long to tell me, choso. so many chances.”

“y/n, it’s not like that—”

“then what is it like?” you breathe. “’cause i don’t get to be the girl you only want when someone else does.”

choso stares at you, heart hammering. like you just ripped something raw and bloody straight out of his chest.

he swallows.

and then, slowly, he pushes back, just far enough to sit up on his knees beside you. the mattress dips with the weight shift. his hands fumble for the hem of his hoodie.

he pulls it up and over his head in one quick move. your breath stutters.

there, inked into the inside of his upper arm, where he’d hidden it every time you curled up against him, is a tattoo.

of your eyes.

staring straight back at you.

your real breath, the one stuck in your throat, finally punches out of you.

choso watches your expression shift, eyes flicking from the ink to his face and back. he swallows once, hard, and says:

“got it the night of the party. when you gave me the lighter.” you blink.

“you were curled up on me. whole time i was talking with the boys, i couldn’t stop thinking about you. how close you were. how you looked at me like that was your home.” he swipes a thumb under his nose, like he doesn’t know what else to do with his hands. “so i got up, high as fuck, to the guy tatting people in the corner. told him to ink your eyes on me.”

your lips part, but nothing comes out. his voice softens.

“i didn’t say anything ‘cause i thought it was enough. just having you near. but it’s not. not anymore.”

your heart pounds so hard you feel it in your ears.

he looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room. like he needs you to believe it. really believe it.

“this isn’t about toji. it’s never been about him. i wanted you long before he ever said your name.”

you’re still staring at the tattoo.

he moves closer again. his hand brushes your knee, gentle.

“you think i’d get your fucking eyes tatted on me just ‘cause i’m jealous?” you blink fast.

his hand finds your face again. tender. grounding “you’re it for me.”

his voice is low, raspy. not just from the emotion, but from how hard he’s holding it in, like if he lets go, everything he’s ever felt for you will come spilling out and drown him.

but he lets it go anyway.

“you’re all i think about,” choso says, brushing his thumb over your cheek again. “when i’m high, when i’m sober, when you’re across the room and laughing at someone’s stupid joke, when you’re asleep in my bed, wearing my shirt, you’re in my head all the time, ma.” your breath catches.

“every song reminds me of you. every little thing you do drives me crazy. you don’t even know how much of me you’ve got.”

he leans closer, forehead nearly touching yours.

“you gave me that lighter and i wanted to kiss you right there in the middle of that party. when you paint your nails i stare at your hands for hours. when you fall asleep on me at parties, i sit still like a statue so you don’t move. i’m always lookin’ at you like ive already lost you, and it kills me.”

his hand finds your jaw, warm and steady, fingers curling behind your ear. your breath hitches, and he’s close enough to feel it.

“you’ve had my heart since freshman year. and i didn’t say anything ‘cause i thought maybe you didn’t want it. or maybe you already had it and didn’t need to hear it out loud.”

you swallow, shaky. lips parted. cheeks flushed.

and choso looks down at them, your lips, like he’s been holding himself back from kissing you for a lifetime.

and then he doesn’t anymore.

he crashes into you like he’s starving.

the kind of kiss that drags a sound out of your throat before you even realize it, all heat and pressure and ache, all the months and years and everything he’s shoved down, poured out into the way his lips mold against yours. he kisses you like he’s afraid you’ll pull away, and like he knows you won’t.

your hands claw at his shoulders, winding into the mess of his hair, tugging him in even closer. and choso groans, deep in his throat, pressing you down into the bed, slotting his hips against yours.

his mouth moves fast, desperate, lips, tongue, teeth, like he can’t get enough. like the taste of you is something he needs in his lungs.

“fuck,” he breathes against your mouth, dragging his lips down your jaw, “you don’t get it, do you?”

your back arches, lips parting when he sucks lightly under your ear.

“how bad i’ve wanted this. you.”

his hands roam, over your waist, under your shirt, up your sides like he’s trying to memorize all of you at once. and every place he touches leaves a trail of fire.

you moan his name, soft and shaky, and he loses it a little more, bites your bottom lip as he grinds his hips down into yours, heavy and hot and so there.

“say it again,” he mutters, eyes half-lidded, forehead pressed to yours. “say my name.”

“choso.”

he shudders.

“again.”

“cho!.”

he kisses you so deep it knocks the breath out of your lungs. kisses you like he owns you, like you’ve always belonged to him, and like he’s finally letting himself claim what’s already his.

and fuck, you let him.

you’ve wanted this just as long, you've needed him just as bad.

and now, with your limbs tangled, your body burning under his, your heart thudding like a war drum in your chest, there’s no more pretending.

you’re his. he’s yours. and it’s written all over his face.

choso looks at you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted, like he’s starved for you, but still savoring the moment. his eyes are dark, heavy-lidded, but soft. reverent. he cups your cheek with a hand that’s just slightly trembling, brushing his thumb along your skin like he can’t believe you’re real.

he kisses your forehead, slow and grounding, like a promise. then your nose. then your lips, and that one lingers. warm, aching, deep enough that it steals the air from your lungs. it’s not just desire. it’s everything he’s never said until now.

“please let me see you, ma." he whispers, voice hoarse, like he’s been holding back forever.

you nod, lips parted, eyes locked with his. your breath stutters as his fingers ghost over the hem of your shirt, lifting it inch by inch like he’s unwrapping something precious. he tosses it aside, only to pull you in again. his palms spread wide across your ribs, thumbs brushing just beneath your chest.

“fuck,” he breathes, low and to himself. “so fucking beautiful.”

he leans in, mouth dragging hot and open along your neck, kissing and breathing you in, his lips trembling against your pulse like he’s drunk off you. he murmurs something there, a soft, almost desperate, “mine,” before he undoes your bra with one practiced flick.

and when it falls away, he doesn’t touch you right away. he just stares, like the sight of you has knocked the wind out of him.

his hands come up slow, palms warm as they cup you like he’s afraid to break something delicate. “been dreaming about this,” he says. “about you. here. like this. in my bed. lookin’ up at me like you already know i’d give you everything.”

you shiver under the weight of it all, his voice, his gaze, his touch. and then his mouth is on your chest, lips sealing around your nipple, tongue flicking before he sucks. slow, deep, just enough to make you arch into him with a needy whimper.

“choso…”

he groans, hand sliding lower, fingers hooking into the waistband of your shorts. he pulls them down with your panties in one motion, dragging his palms down your thighs on the way. and when he sits back, just to take you in, bare, breathless, flushed, his eyes go wide, like he’s trying to commit you to memory. “look at you,” he murmurs, chest rising with each ragged breath. “you don’t even know what you do to me, do you?”

you reach for him, tugging his shirt up and over his head, palms skating down the strong lines of his chest, stopping only when your fingers find his arm. your breath catches.

your eyes. inked in black and red over his skin, etched like a confession. you won't ever get sick of seeing it.

he watches you take it in, sees the exact moment you understand, and he doesn’t say anything. not at first. he just leans in, takes your hand in his, and presses it over his heart.

“see?” he whispers. “been yours. always.”

your eyes brim, chest tight with something that has no name. and then he kisses you again, slow and deep, tongue stroking yours, hand sliding between your thighs. he groans into your mouth when he feels you, warm, wet, already trembling.

“so wet for me,” he mutters, lips brushing yours. “all this for me, huh?”

his fingers dip into you, one at first, then two, slow and deep, curling just right. your back arches, mouth falling open with a gasp as he starts to move them, watching every twitch and shiver you give him like he’s memorizing the way you come apart. “fuck, baby,” he breathes. “you feel so good, been wantin’ this for so long. just wanted to take care of you. make you feel good.”

his lips trail back down, mouth closing around your nipple again as his fingers keep working you open, the room echoing with your broken gasps and soft moans. he kisses your sternum, your ribs, every inch of you he can reach like he’s trying to make up for every second he didn’t have you.

and when your legs start to tremble, when your thighs squeeze around his hand and you whimper his name into the crook of his neck, he groans, low and sexy, and pulls back just enough to strip the last of his clothes.

his cock is flushed, hard, already leaking, and still, he pauses.

he leans in, pressing his forehead to yours, breathing hard. “you sure you wanna do this hun?”

“i want you,” you whisper, voice cracking. “i want all of you.”

and when he slides in, slow, deliberate, it’s overwhelming. your nails dig into his shoulders, mouth open in a silent gasp, and he just groans, long and low, burying his face in your neck.

“fuck, sweetheart… you feel so fuckin’ good, made for me, huh?”

his hips rock into you, slow and deep, dragging along every sensitive inch inside you until you’re trembling again, mouth parted in helpless moans. he kisses you through it, messy and uncoordinated, full of teeth and tongue and need.

he doesn’t hold back anymore. not his body, not his voice. he’s everywhere, his hands, his mouth, his words, and every thrust is rougher, deeper, hotter than the last.

“been yours since the day i met you,” he breathes against your skin. “you’re mine, baby. mine. no one else gets to have you like this. no one else even fuckin’ compares.”

you believe him. how could you not, when he’s saying it like he’s been waiting years to let it out?

you fall apart first, clenching around him with a strangled moan, whole body trembling as your orgasm crashes through you, and choso follows, grinding into you with a low growl, holding you close as he spills into you.

he doesn’t let go. not even after. he stays buried deep, forehead to yours, one hand cradling your jaw like it’s fragile.

“not lettin’ you go,” he whispers. “not now. not ever.”

~

raging music throbs and the party’s already in full swing when you two walk in. the bass thrums under your feet, bodies packed tight in the kappa house. familiar faces flash by in strobes of color and sound, solo cups raised, someone laughing too loud, gojo shouting across the room with a bottle in each hand.

and then you and choso step into the chaos like it’s nothing. except tonight, it’s not nothing. it’s everything. your hand is in his. his thumb strokes over your knuckles like it’s second nature, and you’re tucked into his side like you’ve always belonged there. he’s wearing that hoodie you love, and you’ve got it slung off your shoulder like it’s yours now. he hasn’t let go of you since you walked through the door, and he doesn’t plan to. people notice.

gojo sees first. his mouth falls open around the mouth of a beer can, and he drops it on the counter with a dramatic gasp. “oh my god.” choso raises an eyebrow, smirking. “no fuckin way,” sukuna mutters, eyes narrowing. “this for real?” you don’t say anything. just smile, nuzzling into choso’s chest. and choso, god, he melts. his arm tightens around you like instinct, like he’s not even thinking about it. “you’re kidding,” maki blurts from across the room. she’s half-drunk and squinting, pointing her beer bottle at you two like she’s trying to make sense of a mirage. “you finally fucked?”

“maki,” shoko hisses, slapping her arm, but she’s already grinning. “i knew it. i knew it.” suguru lifts his drink with a slow, knowing smile. “took you long enough.” gojo, meanwhile, is spinning in a circle like he just witnessed a miracle. “wait wait wait,” he says, pointing between the two of you. “you’re telling me this entire time, we’ve been watching you two eye-fuck each other across every frat house on campus, and now you’re just casually showing up like this?”

“what can i say,” choso murmurs, pulling you even closer, “i figured it was time.” “look at his hand placement,” shoko says, leaning into maki. “that’s not friends. that’s boyfriend hand placement.”

“yeah and look at her,” maki laughs. “she looks like she just got dicked down and praised like a goddess.” you duck your head a little, embarrassed, but choso leans in and kisses your cheek, then your temple. it’s so soft, so easy, and when he pulls back, he looks straight at toji who’s staring wide eyed, steady, calm, but with a flicker of challenge in his eyes.

“don’t look at her like that,” he says, voice low. “not tonight. not ever.” toji scoffs, raising his hands in mock surrender, but his grin is sharp. “damn. someone’s possessive now.”

“been possessive,” choso mutters, like it’s not even up for debate. he turns his attention back to you instantly, brushing your hair behind your ear.

“you okay?”

you nod. “i’m perfect.” and then he kisses you. not a peck. not for show. it’s slow, unhurried, with his hand cupping your jaw and his lips moving with the kind of tenderness that makes your knees weak. the room could be burning down and he wouldn’t stop. you don’t even hear gojo’s dramatic screech until you break apart.

“yo this is crazy,” he says, spinning around and yelling to no one in particular. “choso is off the market. choso kamo, resident stoner-lover of no one but his weed and his hoodie collection, is now cuffed.”

“what’s it feel like,” suguru asks with a smirk, raising an eyebrow at choso, “to be someone’s boyfriend?”

“feels like i shoulda done it years ago,” choso says. you blink up at him, heart catching in your throat. “yo,” yuuji calls from the other side of the room. “does this mean we’re finally allowed to say you two have been in love since freshman year?” “i always said it,” nobara yells, shoving through the crowd with a drink. “don’t act like y’all didn’t see them cuddled up at every party like an old married couple.”

“wait does this mean she’s moving into his room?” gojo asks, visibly spiraling. “what’s gonna happen to the guest bed? who’s gonna roll for me when choso’s too busy being in love?”

“die mad,” choso says flatly, and everyone laughs. but even through all the noise and teasing and attention, his focus never strays from you. his hand stays on your waist. his eyes keep dropping to your mouth like he’s remembering exactly what it feels like.

“you good?” he murmurs again, like he just wants to hear you say it.

you press your nose to his chest and nod, smiling. “more than good.”

he kisses you again, slower this time, like it’s just for you. like no one else is in the room. like he’s exactly where he’s always wanted to be.

and the thing is, he is.

he’s yours. fully, finally, publicly.

© 2025 sixxels. All work belongs to @sixxels Do NOT repost, modify, translate or plagiarize in any way on ANY platforms.

awe wasn't that sweet 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👨 m.list

guys look at this beautiful art @ryololart did inspired by this fic i love her go like it rn omg this is the perfect visual.

[toasttew]

"y/n ran her hand through her silky, long blonde hair while she looked her skinny and small body in the mirror-" Bitch who?

[wisteria-bae]

When I’m reading a smut fic and tryna figure out what position they’re in

[goldfades]

𝐌𝐎𝐌 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑 ꩜ paige bueckers ⁵

free palestine carrd 🇵🇸 decolonize palestine site 🇵🇸 how you can help palestine | FREE PALESTINE!

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 mom!paige! the life of paige bueckers, her lovely wife and their two kids -- dax and jelly bueckers

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 descriptions of motherhood, temper tantrums, angst at some points, more fluffy than anything.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 3.3k

ᝰ 𝒆𝒗'𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔 | this is a new au i want to start!!! ive always loved the concept of mom paige and now IM OBSESSED. i could not decide between girl mom paige, or boy mom paige then realized... i have free will! why not have both??

pls send in your thoughts about this AU so far!!! id love to hear them<3

You learn the sound of your footsteps before you learn the sound of the house.

Dax’s footsteps are fast and uneven, like he’s always half a second away from tripping over himself. Jelly’s are lighter and more chaotic, punctuated by sudden stops when she decides she is done walking. Paige moves differently, measured even when she’s rushing, every step purposeful and familiar in a way that makes your body relax before your brain catches up.

Right now, it’s all three.

You’re awake before the sun, not because you want to be, but because someone is whisper-yelling your name from the hallway.

“Mama,” Jelly stage-whispers, which is just yelling with intention. “Mama. Mama. Mama.”

You roll onto your side, eyes half-open, just in time to see her small silhouette in the doorway. Her blonde hair sticks up in three different directions, clutching her favorite stuffed animal (some unidentifiable creature that used to be a bunny before years of love).

“What’s wrong?” you murmur, arms already opening.

She waddles toward you and climbs onto the bed like she’s scaling a mountain. “No sleep,” she says seriously.

Behind her, Dax appears, already fully awake, vibrating with energy. He’s tall (too tall for almost eight) and somehow managed to outgrow the pajama pants you bought him two months ago. He’s dribbling an imaginary basketball, whispering play-by-play commentary under his breath.

Paige leans against the doorframe, coffee mug in hand, watching all of it with a soft, tired smile she doesn’t realize she’s wearing.

“Good morning,” she says.

Dax grins. “Mom, can we go outside later? I want to practice crossovers. Coach said-”

Paige raises an eyebrow. “It’s six in the morning.”

“So?” he says, like this is the dumbest question she’s ever asked.

Jelly, meanwhile, has burrowed into your chest, fingers fisted in your shirt. “Mama,” she says again, content now that she’s found her spot.

Paige watches that too. Always does.

She doesn’t say anything, but you see it: the way her shoulders tense just slightly, the way her smile falters for a fraction of a second before she smooths it out. You’ve learned her tells over the years, learned them through college games and injuries and press conferences and pregnancies and late-night conversations whispered into pillows.

Paige Bueckers is an incredible mom.

She just doesn’t always believe it.

Your first pregnancy with Dax hit when Paige was at the absolute peak of her career. Endorsements, travel, expectations stacking higher and higher. She was home less. Tired more. Still attentive, still loving, but stretched thinner than she liked to admit.

She knew what to do.

From the moment Dax wrapped his tiny fingers around hers, Paige was locked in. He became her little shadow. He learned to crawl by chasing after her shoes. His first word was something dangerously close to “ball.” By the time he was four, he could name more NBA/WNBA players than most adults.

They were best friends in a way that made you smile. Inside jokes, secret handshakes, hours spent watching game film together while you pretended not to notice Paige explaining defensive schemes to a preschooler.

Dax adored her, and Paige soaked it up like proof she was doing something right.

Jelly was different from the start.

Angelica (Jelly) Bueckers was born during a strange, liminal time in Paige’s career when she was already great, already known, but still hungry, still climbing. She was terrified she’d miss something important. Terrified she’d be gone too much, that she wouldn’t know what to do.

You carried Jelly slower than Dax. Heavier. More aware of everything that could go wrong. Paige hovered when she could, hands always on your back, your stomach, your shoulders. When she couldn’t be there, she called, left you voice memos she recorded in empty locker rooms.

Jelly came into the world screaming like she had somewhere else to be.

She never stopped moving after that.

She learned to walk early, then immediately decided walking was for losers and took off running. The apartment became a hazard zone with coffee tables, corners, anything she could climb. By the time she was eighteen months, you and Paige were touring houses with yards because Jelly needed space to sprint like her life depended on it.

That’s how you ended up here.

A big house, huge backyard, grass worn down in uneven patches from little feet and basketball drills and Paige chasing both kids until she pretends she’s out of breath just to make them laugh.

Jelly loves Paige.

She just loves you differently.

You’re comfort. You’re the one who knows which cup she wants, how she likes her blanket folded, which song calms her down when she’s spiraling. Paige is excitement - games, noise, energy, the parent who riles her up and then hands her back to you when she crashes.

Paige knows this.

Some days, it eats at her.

Later that afternoon, Paige sits on the back steps with Dax, a basketball between them. He’s chattering a mile a minute, demonstrating a move he learned from watching highlights. Paige nods, engaged, correcting his footwork with gentle taps.

You’re inside with Jelly, who is mid-tantrum because you gave her the wrong snack.

“No,” she says for the fifth time, tears welling dramatically. “Mama. No.”

You crouch in front of her. “This is the snack you asked for.”

“No,” she insists, even though you both know she does want it.

From the doorway, Paige watches.

She doesn’t interrupt, rarely does when it comes to Jelly and you. She lets you handle it, even when it hurts a little to feel unnecessary.

Later, after both kids are finally asleep, Paige sits at the kitchen table, staring into nothing.

“You ever feel like,” she starts, then stops.

You wait.

She exhales. “Like I’m failing her.”

Your chest tightens. You move closer, resting your hands over hers. “Who?”

“Jelly,” she says immediately. “I mean... both of them, sometimes. But Jelly especially. She doesn’t want me the way she wants you.”

“She’s three,” you say gently. “She wants comfort.”

Paige nods, jaw tight. “I know. I just-” She shakes her head. “I’m gone so much. What if she grows up and I’m just… background noise?”

You squeeze her hands. “Paige. She’s going to grow up thinking her mom is the coolest person alive.”

Paige laughs weakly. “You really think so?”

“I know so,” you say. “Right now, I’m the safe place. You’re the fun one. One day she’s going to realize you’re the one who taught her how to be brave.”

Paige looks at you then, really looks at you, eyes soft in a way the world never sees.

“You’re really good at this,” she says quietly.

“At being a mom?”

“At being… us,” she says.

You smile. “So are you.”

Down the hall, Jelly sighs in her sleep. Dax mutters something about basketball dreams. The house settles.

The car ride home is quiet in a way that makes your chest ache.

Dax sits in the backseat, slumped low, hoodie pulled over his head even though it’s not cold. His basketball bag is wedged at his feet, zipper still half open, a stray sock hanging out like it gave up trying. Normally, he’d be talking - replaying drills, complaining about refs, asking if Paige saw his text about a move he nailed in warmups.

Today, nothing.

You glance at him in the rearview mirror. His jaw is tight, eyes are glossy, fixed on the window like he’s daring himself to blink.

“How was practice?” you ask gently, even though you already know.

He shrugs. “Fine.”

It’s the flattest word in the English language.

You pull out of the parking lot, waiting. Eight-year-olds can only hold it in for so long. Sure enough, two minutes pass. Then three. Then-

“I didn’t get first string,” he says suddenly, voice cracking despite his best effort to keep it steady.

Your heart sinks. “Oh, buddy.”

“They put Tyler in,” he continues, words tumbling out now that the dam’s broken. “Coach said it’s not permanent and that I just need to keep working but I already work hard. I do extra drills. I listen. I don’t mess around like some of the other kids.”

His voice wobbles, and he presses his sleeve hard against his eyes, furious with himself for it.

You signal and pull over into a quiet side street, putting the car in park. You twist in your seat to face him. “Dax,” you say softly. “Not getting first string doesn’t mean you’re bad.”

“Yes it does,” he snaps, then immediately looks guilty. “Sorry. I just-” He swallows. “I wanted Mom to see.”

That’s the part that gets you.

Paige is in another state tonight. Away game. You’d FaceTimed her before practice, her already in team gear, telling Dax she was proud of him no matter what. You can picture her now - all locked in, no idea her son is unraveling over a gym rotation chart.

“I know,” you say quietly. “She’ll still be proud.”

He shakes his head hard. “You don’t get it.”

You reach back and rest a hand on his knee. “Help me get it.”

He hesitates, then blurts, “She’s really good at basketball. Like, really good. What if I’m not?”

The question hangs there, heavy and unfair and too big for an eight-year-old to carry.

You open your mouth, ready to reassure him, to tell him all the right things but before you can, he sniffles and adds, voice barely above a whisper, “I just want Mom.”

That stops you cold.

You don’t take it personally. You know this moment belongs to Paige. You pull your phone out without another word.

“Okay,” you say. “Let’s call her.”

Paige answers on the third ring, breathless. “Hey, baby. Everything okay?”

She’s still in uniform, hair damp, locker room noise echoing behind her. You angle the phone so Dax can see her.

He doesn’t say anything. Just looks at her, lips pressed together, eyes shiny.

Paige’s expression changes instantly.

“Hey,” she says softly. “Ducky?”

He winces. “Don’t call me that.”

She smiles, gentle. “Mm. That’s how I know it’s bad.”

She looks at you. You mouth, first string. Paige nods, jaw setting with quiet understanding.

“Hang on,” she says, already moving. “Let me step out.”

You watch her weave through the locker room, push open a door into a hallway. The noise fades and she props the phone up somewhere and crouches so she’s eye-level with the screen.

“Okay,” she says. “Tell me everything.”

Dax takes a shaky breath. “I didn’t get first string and Coach said it’s fine but I think he’s just saying that, and Tyler’s not even better than me, he just... louder. And I practiced really hard and-” His voice breaks. “What if I’m just not good?”

Paige doesn’t interrupt, lets him get it all out, nodding along, eyes locked on his like nothing else in the world exists.

When he finally runs out of words, she speaks.

“Hey,” she says gently. “Do you know who Michael Jordan is?”

Dax sniffles. “Yeah, obviously.”

Paige smiles. “Did you know he got cut from his high school basketball team?”

Your eyebrows lift slightly. This was the story everyone heard in elementary and middle school, the one that plays at every assembly. Even though it’s not entirely true, everyone believed it as a kid. It’s like a rite of passage.

Dax’s eyes widen. “He did?”

“Yep,” Paige says, solemn. “Didn’t make the team. Went home. Cried. Thought he wasn’t good enough.”

Dax leans closer to the phone, hooked.

“And then,” Paige continues, “you know what he did?”

“What?”

“He worked. Every single day. He practiced harder than everyone else. And he became Michael Jordan.”

Dax is quiet for a moment, absorbing this. “So… getting cut doesn’t mean you’re bad?”

“No,” Paige says firmly. “It means you’re being challenged.”

He frowns. “But what if I never get first string?”

Paige tilts her head. “Then you keep showing up, keep loving the game. And one day, you look back and realize this was just a step, not the whole story.”

He picks at a loose thread on his hoodie. “It still sucks.”

She laughs softly. “Yeah. It really does.”

That honesty seems to help more than anything. He exhales, shoulders relaxing just a little.

Paige watches Dax through the screen for a second longer than she needs to. He’s still hunched, shoulders pulled inward like he’s trying to make himself smaller. She recognizes it instantly. She’s worn that posture before.

“Hey,” she says, quieter now. “Can I tell you something?”

Dax shrugs. “Okay.”

She takes a breath. You can see it - this isn’t a canned speech. This is her choosing honesty.

“When I was in college,” she starts, “I was playing the best basketball of my life. Like… everything was clicking. I felt like I was on top of the world, I was number one in the country.”

Dax’s eyes flicker up.

“And then,” Paige continues, “I hurt my knee. Bad. ACL. Doctors, surgeries, months where I couldn’t even run.”

Dax frowns. “That’s the big one, right?”

“Yeah,” she says. “The really big one.”

He swallows. “Were you scared?”

Paige nods immediately. “Terrified.”

She leans closer to the phone, voice steady but raw. “I thought it was over. I really did. I thought, that’s it, that was my chance and I blew it. I watched my team play without me, watched other people get better while I was stuck doing exercises that felt stupid and slow.”

Dax picks at the string on his hoodie again. “Did you cry?”

She smiles sadly. “A lot. Like… a lot.”

That earns the tiniest ghost of a smile from him.

“And you know what the worst part was?” she adds. “It wasn’t the pain. It was the voice in my head telling me I wasn’t good enough anymore.”

Dax looks up fully now. “The voice that says mean stuff?”

“Exactly that one,” Paige says. “The one that lies.”

She lets that sit for a second.

“But I kept working,” she says. “Even when it sucked. Even when I didn’t believe it would matter. And now” she shrugs lightly. “I’m playing in the WNBA. People call me one of the best.”

Dax’s eyes widen. “Yeah. You are.”

Paige’s smile softens. “And that didn’t happen because everything went perfectly. It happened because things went wrong and I didn’t quit.”

He thinks about that, chewing on the inside of his cheek the way he does when he’s processing something big.

“So,” he says slowly, “not getting first string doesn’t mean it’s over.”

“No,” Paige says firmly. “It means you’re in the middle of it.”

He exhales, like he’s been holding his breath since the gym.

“And Dax,” she adds, voice warming. “You’re my kid. I know how you work. I’ve seen you practice in the backyard until you’re drenched in sweat. I’ve seen you mess up and try again instead of giving up.”

She grins. “That’s not luck. That’s you.”

He nods slowly. “Okay.”

She smiles. “And hey.”

“What?”

“You’re still my favorite basketball buddy.”

He groans. “Mom.”

She grins. “Sorry. My tall, dramatic, very good-at-basketball Ducky.”

“I hate that name,” he mutters.

She laughs. “Sure you do.”

You watch him the whole time. How his breathing evens out, how the weight seems to lift just enough for him to sit up straighter.

“I love you,” Paige says softly.

“Love you too,” he replies, quieter now.

She looks at you. “Thank you.”

You smile. “Always.”

The call ends. Dax leans back in his seat, exhausted but calmer.

After a minute, he says, “Mama?”

“Yeah?”

“Can we practice later?”

You glance at the basketball bag, then back at him. “Yeah,” you say. “We can.”

He nods, finally letting his eyes close as the car starts moving again.

The house is loud in a good way.

It smells like grilled food and sunscreen and the faint sweetness of whatever dessert someone brought without telling you what it was. Music hums low through the speakers Paige set up in the backyard, people are everywhere, clustered around the grill, stretched out on patio chairs, leaning against the fence.

This is the first big thing you’ve hosted here. A housewarming, technically, though it’s really just an excuse for Paige’s teammates to come over and see the place and eat too much food. They’ve taken to the house like they belong in it - shoes kicked off by the door, laughter echoing down the hallway.

Jelly is in heaven.

She’s darting between people, ponytail bouncing, cheeks flushed from excitement. She loves Paige’s teammates - her “aunts,” as Dax calls them. They scoop her up, spin her around, let her steal food off their plates. She giggles loudly, and for a while everything is perfect.

Dax is outside with a basketball, of course. A small group has formed around him, cheering dramatically every time he makes a shot. He’s eating it up, chest puffed out, basking in the attention.

Paige stands near you, drink in hand, watching it all with a soft expression she doesn’t bother hiding.

“Look at this,” she says quietly. “We did this.”

You smile. “We really did.”

It happens fast.

One second, Jelly is laughing, being passed from arm to arm, her voice bright and high. The next, there’s a sharp change in pitch - a cry that cuts through the noise like a siren.

You and Paige both turn at the same time.

Jelly stands in the middle of the yard, hands clenched at her sides, face crumpling as tears spill over. One of Paige’s teammates crouches in front of her, concern written all over her face, but Jelly steps back, shaking her head violently.

Paige follows a step behind you, brows drawn together. “Jelly? What’s wrong?”

For a split second, it seems like she might come to you. She looks in your direction, eyes searching.

Then-

“Mommy!”

The word is loud. Desperate, broken in half by a sob.

Paige freezes for exactly one heartbeat.

Then she’s moving.

She crosses the yard in long, fast strides, not running but close, urgency radiating off her. You stop short instinctively, watching as Paige drops to her knees in front of Jelly.

“I’m here,” Paige says immediately, voice low and steady. “I’ve got you.”

Jelly launches herself forward, arms wrapping around Paige’s neck, fingers digging into the fabric of her shirt like she’s afraid Paige might disappear if she loosens her grip. Her face presses into Paige’s shoulder, sobs hitching and wet and unrestrained.

Paige gathers her up without hesitation, one arm under her legs, the other secure around her back. She stands, rocking gently, murmuring nonsense words and reassurances into Jelly’s hair.

You see it then - the way Paige’s body softens, the way she tucks Jelly in close like it’s muscle memory.

“It’s okay,” Paige whispers. “Too loud? Too much? I know. I know.”

Jelly clings tighter, sniffling, her little hands fisted in Paige’s hoodie.

Around you, the noise dips, people pretending not to stare but watching anyway. Someone turns the music down a notch. The moment is quiet in a way that feels intimate.

Paige doesn’t rush it, doesn’t try to pass Jelly off, just holds her, swaying slowly until the sobs ease into hiccupping breaths.

Eventually, Paige carries her back over to you and sinks down onto the outdoor couch beside you. Jelly stays glued to her, cheek pressed against Paige’s chest, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion.

Paige adjusts her grip, settling Jelly more comfortably, one hand rubbing slow circles into her back.

“Well,” Paige murmurs, attempting casual, “guess I’m trapped.”

You smile, heart full. “Looks like it.”

Paige glances at you, something tentative in her expression. “I mean... she just-”

You cut her off gently. “She knows I’m here.”

Paige searches your face.

“She just wanted her mommy,” you add, smiling softly. “That’s all.”

Paige’s lips curve into a small, almost disbelieving smile. It’s subtle, but you see it. The way her shoulders relax, the way she exhales like she’s been holding something in all along.

Jelly sighs, finally calm, still clinging but peaceful now.

Paige presses a kiss to the top of her head, eyes shining just a little.

↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !

↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡

[salemsuccss]

So good a bitch shed a tear or two

[jazzthatonewriterchick]

Rent-A-Boyfriend!

Pairing: Fake BF!Ryomen Sukuna x Single!Fem!Reader (Fake Relationship/Enemies to Lovers)

Synopsis: At your sister's wedding, you decide to rent a temporary boyfriend for the evening to avoid the stares and annoying questions about why you're still single a year after your break up. Your fake BF isn't the nicest in the world, but he's hot and knows how to play pretend...though it isn't easy to do so with a guy you despise. You're more than prepared to never see this fool again after the wedding, but when you run into your ex and emotions run high, your fake BF takes it upon himself to make due on his highly-rated "skills" in his occupation.

Warnings: 18+ (MDNI); No Curse AU; Fake Relationship Trope; Fake Wedding Date Trope; Asshole!Sukuna; Some Angst & Heartbreak; Alcohol Consumption; Drunk Sex; Enemies to Lovers; Mutual Oral (Giving & Receiving); Hotel Sex; Mating Press; Doggystyle; Degradation + Praise; Name-Calling; MDom!Sukuna x Fsub!Reader; Reader Cums 2x; Sloppy Kissing; Sukuna Has Tattoos & Piercings; Creampie

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters mentioned in this fic. However, as this is my writing, I do not give permission for my work to be reposted on any other sites that are not from my own accounts. Thank you!

Writer's Note: I need to write more Sukuna shit fr. This one was HOT. I hope y'all think so too! Art credits above go to aliyartss! Her work is TOO FUCKING GOOD!! 🤭 -Jazz

***********

"Sukuna, can you please stop picking your teeth?" you exasperatedly whisper.

The pink-haired hunk in his tailored and freshly-ironed suit gives you a glower that could damn well set fire to the pristine, white tablecloth table you sit at with him. "What?" he scoffs. "I had spinach in it. You want me to walk around with shit in my teeth?"

You huff to yourself, shooting a glance from left to right to ensure that no one is watching. Sukuna watches you, chuckling dryly. "What? Afraid you'll attract onlookers."

"No," you snap. "More like you will attract onlookers. Didn't they teach you manners at that fancy boyfriend training school you came from?"

Sukuna squints his ruby-red eyes at you, shoving a piece of shrimp in his mouth that he chews on a little too roughly. You snicker to yourself at your little joke, glad that you can keep up with him in the sassy little bitch department.

You once again look around, checking to see if your parents are watching from the dance floor or maybe a distant cousin is leering. Luckily, everyone is more concerned with your beautiful sister aka the bride and her dashing groom. You don't blame them; they make such a gorgeous couple.

Though the word is flung around too much for your liking, your sister is truly an entrepreneur. As the owner of her own spa and yoga studio, a fitness influencer on the side, and on a billboard for toothpaste, your sister is quite the looker and celebrity among your family and TikTok.

Of course she would end up generating attention from the opposite sex at a breakneck speed. But when she met her manly-man baseball player boyfriend (turned-fiancé-turned-husband) who attended her yoga class after obsessing over her TikToks, that was it for them. It was love at first sight.

You can see how much your new brother-in-law loves your sister. What with the something-thousand dollar summer wedding with its flowers imported from Brazil and wedding cake stacked high with layers of marbled vanilla and chocolate, you would think that he does!

Not to mention the sparkling diamond ring on your sister's finger (and the 24k engagement ring she got just six months before the wedding). You look at them now getting gushed over by your aunties, arms wrapped around each other. Your sister has never looked happier than with her man in her to-die-for white gown.

You feel joy for her...and also a pang of jealousy. You can't help it. Not that you want your sister's new husband; just their relationship. To see them so in love, to see them fit so well together, fills you with envy that you thought you long pushed away and got over.

Apparently not. Not when you're surrounded by couples and fresh off a breakup from a longterm relationship just a year before. Then your sister's engagement happened, so you had a lot to distract yourself with.

But you wouldn't dare to go back to those nights where you drank too much, smoked too much, and cried yourself to sleep in the empty apartment you once shared with your boyfriend...whom you were hoping would become your fiancé one day.

You thought that finally, your mother can stop trying to fix you up with the younger employees at her job.

Finally, your extended family can stop asking you about your relationship status at familial events and gatherings.

Finally, those looks of pity, sympathy, and humor over being single at your age and the black sheep of your family can stop.

No more lines like, "Oh, Y/N, you're so pretty! Why don't you have a boyfriend?" and "A woman as smart as you and you're still single?! There must be something wrong with you, girl!"

But no, that isn't what happened at all.

Hence why you immediately listened to that TikTok video you saw promoting the fairly new company "Rent-A-Boyfriend" and hired a temporary romantic partner for today's festivities.

He sits with you now, chugging down champagne and looking like he wants to be anywhere but here. At least he decided to match your silky, form-fitting dress with his suit and tie. You will admit that the man looks dapper in it.

He is also fine as fuck. Sukuna stands at six-foot something, big, broad, and beefy with spiked, pink hair that looks soft to the touch, pouty, pink lips embedded with a tantalizing lip ring, a thick neck coated in tattoos hidden behind his collar, hypnotizing, crystalline, red irises with a stare that could melt stone, and muscles you've often envisioned feeling up yourself.

Sukuna was rated a 5.0 on the Rent-A-Boyfriend website with a desired hourly fee that you could agree to due to your job's hefty pay. He has proven to be worth it with his dazzling smile, confidence, and ways of coming up with satisfactory answers on the fly when meeting your family.

Questions like: "How did you two meet?" "Where have you been hidin' at, son?" "What do you do for work?" "What are you intentions with my daughter, Sukuna?"

That was your mother asking during the last one. Before the reception and you were called to your duty as a bridesmaid, you walked into the beautiful gardens with Sukuna on your arm, matching smiles plastered on your faces. Your dad was surprisingly welcoming (albeit confused at seeing the random man on his daughter's arm).

But your mother? She was anything but. She wore that pinched expression when she is displeased or skeptical as she gave Sukuna a weak-handed handshake. You couldn't care less if she didn't approve. It was better than constantly being berated for being single.

"Just look at your sister!" she would exclaim. "She's married to an athlete! At this rate, honey, you'll be only be married to that job and that degree you've been chasing after for six years."

Yes, the degree that you had to put off before because your dad got diagnosed with an illness that left him gravelly ill for a year and your boyfriend at the time needed help launching his business. The degree that you put off to help the people you loved.

Sukuna, luckily, handled your mother well; always smiling and being as charming as humanly possible. You were impressed considering that the guy isn't anything close to charming. He is brash, aggressive, cocky, and so fucking annoying.

You wanted to rip your hair out when you met him for the first time at a little coffee shop near his tattoo parlor (he told your parents that he's a cyber security specialist at Amazon). He teased you about your sister. Joked about you being a romantic. Burped at the table. This is the guy who got a 5-star rating on his work website?

Yet he has perfectly incapsulated every little white lie you threaded together with him and every fact, interest, and dislike you told him over the month before the wedding in his conversations with the guests.

"I still can't believe you went for a suit," you chuckle. "I would've sworn you'd go for a leather jacket and biker boots." Sukuna gives you a hot glare as he swallows his shrimp. "Don't mock my skills or my occupation, woman. You know how many sad, single females hire me on a monthly basis?"

You cock your head to the side, eyeing him. “Females?" you parrot. He raises a hand in defense. “My bad; women. To be fair, those are the words of my trainer."

You gap at him, wondering if he’s serious. It’s no wonder his company is so big if it targets vulnerable women…but you suppose in all honesty, you are one. “First of all, I'm not sad," you scoff.

The pink-haired stud scoffingly laughs. “Oh, yeah, like those longin' looks you shot at your sissy and her hubby were just my imagination." He takes a gulp of the last of his champagne, grimacing at the glass. “They got anythin' stronger than this?" he grumbles.

"Drinking on the job?" you tut, sipping your own glass of Brüt to take the edge off. "How you got a five-star rating for your occupation is beyond me."

You would think it’s also because of the sexy ass thirst traps he posts on his profile on the site, in addition to an ovary-bursting photo of him and his baby brother Yuji.

Sukuna looks at you now, his gaze dipping into something that isn’t appropriate as his employer or for a wedding. It’s way too hot and way too suggestive. He leans in a bit, instinctively making you lean away from him despite his pouty lips curling into a smirk. “Wouldn't ya like to know, little one?" he replies.

Blushing, you wave him away as he cackles. It’s bad enough he’s so annoyingly fine. You love tattoos your piercings, and Sukuna is a walking aphrodisiac with his collection of them. “Stop calling me that!" you hiss. "I said no pet names outside of events!"

It is one of the many rules you outlined to him during your first meeting: no pet names, handholding, or PDA outside of events; no blowing up your phone for booty calls; no dates period. 'No sex' is on this list too, but Sukuna told you beforehand that he doesn't sleep with his silents.

Sukuna sucks his teeth, rolling his eyes. "It ain't a pet name; I was bein' facetious."

“Like you know so well," you scoff, drinking some water to ease your hammering heart and twitching pussy. How long has it been since you've actually gotten some dick? You know the answer (a year), but you refuse to utter it aloud. Maybe you're just overly sensitive to everything now due to the fact that you haven't been touched in so long.

"How you get so many women to hire you as their temporary boyfriend is beyond me," you utter, snarky and shady. But you know exactly why: it’s because he’s so goddamn FINE. That stare could make you instantly fold and you've admittedly imagined what he looks like without clothes on.

But when he opens his mouth, all of that flies south. “You act as if you're the prize here, girly," he snorts. "Single for a year and you need to hire a stranger for a wedding date. You're quite a catch."

You don’t miss the sarcastic bite in his tone or the way he smiles at you: so wickedly like he's the damn Omen. "Fuck you, Sukuna," you growl, gripping your champagne flute. You have to grip the edge of the table with your other hand to avoid tossing it in his face.

Sukuna just hums thoughtfully to himself, vibing to the music playing. “That comes with an extra fee, doll face." The molten look in his eyes before he winks at you is not lost on you. You huff, irritated (and annoyingly aroused), abruptly standing from your chair. "Stop that!" you snap.

But as you do, you nearly knock your sister and her plate of shrimp salad down. “Whoa, whoa, darling!" she giggles. "Easy on the dress. I'm scared enough to get dirt on it." You turn, giving your sis an apologetic smile as Sukuna snorts behind you. "Oh, I'm sorry, sis," you sigh. "There was a bee buzzin' around my head. Sukuna swatted it away though." It’s a shit lie, but she seems to buy it.

"Oh, what a gentleman." Your sister smiles jokingly at Sukuna who stands up to be by your side. "Just tryin' to do my job. My baby doesn't deserve to get stung in this outfit." He wraps a tight arm around you that's supposed to come off sweet and romantic, but it only makes you feel uncomfortable.

Mostly because you can feel the strength in his toned arm and have a sudden urge to stroke it up to feel the veins in it. You push the dirty thought away, disgusted with yourself.

"Just came over to tell you two that we'll be cutting the cake soon," your sister announces, "so you may wanna sit closer to the snack table."

"There's a bar over there, right?" Sukuna asks. When your sister nods, he abruptly snatches his glass and heads over. "I'll save us a spot, angel," he sweetly tells you before pressing a chaste kiss on your temple. Your skin screams from the act (and your senses sing from the scent of his cologne).

"Thank you, sweetie," you say as adoringly as you possibly can. He shoots you a fake smile as he walks off, your eyes trailing down to his firm butt in his slacks. Thank God you only have a few hours left with this man until you part ways. You don't know if you'll end up fighting the guy or fucking him.

"Oh, look at you," you coo to your sister, your hands gently trailing over her dress. "You look beautiful, sis. I'm so happy you found your one."

She smiles, shooting a glance at Sukuna at the bar. "And you've seemed to find yours too. After all that pain, you have someone to call your own too."

You smile back, ignoring the pang of guilt you feel at her sweet words. If only she knew that this whole thing was a sham and you only hired Sukuna to act as your date in fear of judgement.

"Not for long," comes a the criticizing voice from behind you. You and your sister turn to find your mother standing there in her wedding best with designer earrings and shoes, a pinched look on her face. "Mom!" you chirp, biting back your annoyance. "You finally got off the dance floor. You want some champagne?"

She ignores your question altogether, glaring at you. "I want to talk to you, Y/N," she pointedly says. "Come with me." You resist the urge to bolt. Does she know that this is fake? Could Sukuna have blabbed?

"M-Mom, maybe now isn't the right time to..." But your mother is walking off before your sister can finish, heading towards the outskirts of the gardens that lead out towards a golf course and gazebos dotting the clean, cut lawn.

Your sister gives you an apologetic look, squeezing your hand. "Call me if you need me," she whispers. You nod, fuming because of your mother's actions. Doing this now at your sister's big event is more than inappropriate.

Yet you drain the rest of your Brüte and trail after your mother. You catch Sukuna's eye at the bar and he gives you a confused scowl. You point at your mother and then make a motion of shooting yourself. The look on his face is nothing short of humored, but he also looks sorry for you.

You are too. If there is anyone who complains about you still being single, and every decision you make, it's your mother. She has always favored your sister more and it has seemed to grow since she found her baseball lover.

Under the rustling trees in the summer sun, you come face to face with that as your mother plants her hands firmly on her hips, fixing you with a star. "You don't like him, do you?" you sigh.

"There's nothing to like, Y/N," she primly replies. "The man is fake as fake can be! I can see through him like glass. Where did you even scoop him up from?"

"I told you how we met," you huff. "At a coffeeshop near his job. He mistook my latte as his." It's the story you and Sukuna cooked up, but it isn't entirely untrue. You did meet at a coffeeshop, albeit he ordered a black coffee while you got a sugary, iced drink that made him cringe.

"Oh, Y/N," she haughtily scoffs. "Do you think I was born just last week? I know that's a lie! You probably met him somewhere, got him in bed, and now-"

"Mom!" you angrily exclaim, flushing in the face. Mostly out of pure anger. Does she think so low of you that you would use a hookup for a wedding date?

"And now you're trying to build a relationship with him that isn't anything but what's between the sheets," she continues. "The same thing happened to-"

"I told you not to bring him up," you say, your voice low and irritated. "You know that still hurts, Mom."

She pauses, her jaw tense, her lipstick bright and red. "I'm just making a point, Y/N. You always pick the wrong men, the wrong job, everything! I worry so much about you!"

You almost laugh at her, all of your anger pouring out in this one millisecond. "Well, I don't feel that worry, Mom," you snap. "You worry about yourself and how you'll look as a mother. No one, not even Dad, has any problem with my job, school, or singleness but YOU."

Your mother blanches, shocked at your outburst. "You always make me feel like the odd one out. Like I'm the ugly duckling next to my sister. It's bad enough people asked me why I was still single after a year every second."

"Not every second," she mutters under her breath. You scoff to yourself, heat curling in your gut. "Oh, yeah, because you're one of 'em," you hiss.

Your mother puckers her lips like she ate something sour and looks away towards the rolling hills of the golf course. You know she knows that she was wrong. "I love you, Mom, but you need to trust me and stop meddling in my life. As my mother, I want your approval, but if I don't get it, I will still do everything I can to make myself proud of ME."

You are firm and true, but your voice still wavers. Out of fear and out of emotion; emotion that you can feel rising to the surface, threatening to push tears past your tear ducts. Quickly, you leave her and escape to the golf course in an effort to avoid blubbering in front of your mother. "Y/N!" she calls after you. "Y/N, come back!"

But you walk on in your heeled sandals, feeling the tears rising up and up like steam. You walk up among the jogging trails on the sidewalk above the gold course, going as far as your shoes will allow you. As you walk, you let one tear drip down your cheek and quickly wipe it away. Can't have your makeup getting fucked up.

But as your luck would have it, your entire outfit is in risk of being fucked up when a stranger suddenly bumps you head on, knocking you clean off your feet. "Oh!" you exclaim, falling backwards onto your ass.

"Oh, shit, I'm so sorry!" they shout. "Jeez, I didn't ruin your dress, did I?" He quickly reaches out to help you up, still blubbering apologies, but you are completely silent.

Because when you look up and see the sun glinting in the same long hair you used to run your fingers through, the same lean body you used to touch, and the blue Nike shorts he's wearing, you realize who this man is. Your ex.

It's been a year, but he still looks the exact same (though he is growing a beard and his hair is longer). He blinks at you, familiarity registering across his handsome face. "Y/N," he says in shock. "Wow, it's been so long. How are you doing?"

He honestly sounds happy to see you. Realizing your hand is still in his, you quickly release him and tuck your hands behind your back. "I-I'm at a wedding," you stammer. "For my sister. Good. You?"

You cringe at the word salad. It happens when you get nervous. "Oh, your sister got married!" he happily chirps. "Tell her I said congratulations! I'm just here for a jog."

Before you can say anything more or make a fool out of yourself, you are interrupted by the sound of pounding footsteps. "Baby, wait!" someone hollers from behind him. "You said you weren't gonna go that fast!" A girl, tall and slender with legs to die for, abs protruding from under her pink shorts, and glossy hair in a ponytail.

She pauses behind your ex and stares at you, the sweat glistening like diamonds on her pretty skin. "Oh, hi!" she chirps. "Have we met before?"

Your ex looks between her and you, obviously stuck. "No," you weakly reply, fighting the urge to flee. "Um...I'm an old friend of his." Your ex pulls the mystery girl close, making your heart clench. "Baby, this is my ex, Y/N. Y/N, this is my girlfriend."

You knew that already, but hearing it is like a stab in the heart over and over again. His girlfriend. Which means he moved on while you're still standing in the same place. "Oh, you're the one in school!" the girlfriend exclaims. "I've heard so much about you from my sweetie here!"

She offers her slender hand and pretty pink nails for a shake. You return it, albeit shaken. "Good things, I hope," you say, offering a wobbly smile. Your ex checks his Apple Watch, cussing. "Shit, we should get goin' before our lunch with your parents, baby."

Baby. The name he used to call you. He turns to you and smiles just as his girlfriend pecks his cheek and jogs back the way she came. His smile hurts you more than anything. "It was nice seeing you again, Y/N. You take care, alright?" As he runs off, you feel like you were just slapped in the face.

You stand there, too stunned to even cry. You feel so numb. So empty. Though you head back to the wedding to take photos with the others and Sukuna, you have no interest in celebrating anymore.

So what do you do? You venture to the bar to drink. And drink. And drink. One champagne glass turns into two. Then three. Finally, when night falls and fireflies make their grand appearance, you sit at the bar and sip on your fourth glass, silent and solemn.

When you suddenly hear a bark of your name, you turn, finding an irritated Sukuna out of his suit jacket. His sleeves are rolled up to show off his veiny forearms and tattoos. "There you are!" he barks. "Where the fuck did you go? Have you been over here the whole time I was callin' you?"

You stare at him, the edges of your vision quite blurry. "You called?" you dumbly ask. Sukuna rolls his eyes. "Yes, about a dozen fuckin' times. Texted ya too. I thought you died or somethin'."

You dig into your clutch and find your phone where, sure enough, you see multiple calls and texts from your fake BF. "Sorry," you hiccup. "I've been here."

You drain the rest of your champagne, the strong, bubbly substance making you feel warm all over. Sukuna pulls up a seat next to you, giving you an unidentifiable look. "I can see that. You drunk, skunk?"

You glare at him, pushing your empty glass aside. "I said quit with the pet names, Sukuna," you growl. "M'not in the mood for this." You're so drunk that your brain can't even focus or catch a hint of sarcasm. "Besides, the wedding's almost over and photos are done, so you'll be able to quit soon," you grumble.

Sukuna eyes you, noticing your attitude and your overly-glowing makeup. You haven't done a touch-up so your foundation is hanging on by a thread underneath the setting powder currently breaking its hold on your skin. Mascara slightly coats underneath your bottom lashes and your gloss is smudged from sipping too much. You're a wreck. "Da hell happened to you?" he asks with a scowl. "What, you see your ex with another girl or somethin'?"

You stare at him, tight-lipped and eyes glazed over, and his smile fades. "Oh, shit."

"Yeah," you dryly agree, a tight smile stretching across his lips. "He was jogging in the Nike shorts I bought him with some other chick that I'm sure he got together with right after we broke up."

You flag the bartender down for another flute even when you know you'll be sick later. But you need this. You harshly laugh to yourself, internally wincing at the sound. "Y'know I thought he was gonna be my fiancé? My Prince Charming? My happy ending? Just like my sissy. But no...he just told me we weren't compatible anymore after five fuckin' years together."

The bartender passes you another glass and you take a much-needed sip of the cool, bubbly liquid. You'll sleep good tonight, that's for sure.

After a pause, Sukuna finally speaks. "Y'know what you need?" he asks. "A real drink. Not this fancy crap." He takes your glass and drains it himself, his Adam's Apple bobbing in his thick throat. "C'mon, we're goin' to the bar."

You gape at him, confused. The alcohol has made it so you have to use more brain cells to ensure that you're not hallucinating. "Huh?! And leave the wedding?!"

Sukuna scowls at you, crossing his arms over his beefy chest. "Would ya rather bitch and mope about here and make yourself feel worse?" You pause, staring up at him in silence. He sighs, rolling his eyes at you. "And before you even think it, no, I ain't tryna fuck you. You're not my type anyway."

Though you blush at his bluntness and the insulting words, you can't resist tossing fire back at him: "That makes two of us," you lie. Sukuna just smirks and rises from his stool, stretching his hand out for yours. You take it, ignoring the butterflies in your stomach and passing it off as alcohol influence.

So ignore the gazes of the other guests as your temporary boyfriend whisks you away to a cocktail bar located inside a hotel. You call your sister to congratulate her and her husband again and tell her that you're leaving. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do," she giggled over the phone. "Which means you should. He's hot, sis."

The bar is swanky and in full swing when you and Sukuna enter the hotel lobby. Supposedly, Sukuna used to work here before he became a tattoo artist/fake boyfriend and knows the owner. You both sit at the polished bar sometime later with your drinks: you ordered a Negroni while he gets a whiskey on the rocks.

He forces you to try his cocktail, telling you need something stronger. When you do, you scrunch your nose at the laste and gag. He snorts, taking his drink back and sipping on it with no problem. "Can't handle your brown liquor, I see," he teases.

You suck your teeth at him, sipping on your own drink (albeit slowly because of the champagne you had earlier). "Did you drag me here just to make fun of me?" you quip. He sits next to you, his jacket off and tie loosened to expose a sliver of chest that you avoid staring at for too long. "Nah, but it beats seein' ya frown. So shoot."

He says it so casually that you almost believe he doesn't care, but why else would he drag you to a bar and not try to fuck you?

You sigh, tapping your glossy acrylic nails on the bar. You got them done just for the wedding. Sukuna waits patiently for those memories to bubble up and for the truth to spill out of you.

"I was with my ex for five years," you recount. "We were living together for a year and starting our lives together until things started becoming...strained." That's the word: strained. Like a string being pulled too tight.

"We started arguing more, started having sex less. No romance. Barely any affection. When he worked late on Valentine's Day, I knew we were done for...and yet I still had hope that he would be the man I married." You shake your head at yourself, embarrassed. How stupid and naive you were.

"It doesn't help that people always ask me why I'm single and push me to find a man. I get lonely, sure, but being single ain't that bad if it means I don't get hurt." You sip your Negroni, wanting to feel the wash of warmth and liquid confidence that alcohol usually gives you.

Realizing Sukuna is still watching you, you turn to him, ignoring the intensity of his gaze. "So what about you? What hearts did you leave lonely? Or did someone break yours?"

He quirks a pierced brow at you, obviously surprised your interest. "I don't break hearts...intentionally." You scoff at this. The audacity of this man! "And yeah, I got my heart broken 'bout some years back."

He pauses, jiggling the ice around in his glass. He cuts his eyes to you then, anticipation stretching between you. "You wanna know how I got over it though?" You fold a fist under your chin, eyeing him curiously. "How?" you ask.

"Sex." He says it so simply like it should be so obvious. The word nearly makes you blush, especially with how casual he says it. "Sex doesn't work for everything, Sukuna," you argue with an eye roll. "What about therapy or fitness?"

"Maybe not," he says with a passive shrug, "but it sure feels good. Maybe it'll work for you if you try." You guffaw, covering your mouth to avoid disturbing the other bar-goers with your raucous laughter. "And what? Hookup with a random guy and forget all my troubles?"

The next time Sukuna looks at you, it isn't teasing or tinged with mirth or irritation. It is hot, molten, and intense. The suggestion in them is undeniable. "I meant me, idiot," he softly growls. "Unless you want somethin' quick."

You pause, speechless. He can't be serious. "What?" you ask, gobsmacked. "B-But I thought you didn't hook up with clients."

He sips on the rest of his whiskey, his tongue slithering out to lick away the remains. You catch the glint of his tongue ring and clench your thighs together. "I don't," he replies, "but you're an exception. You're sad and I wanna help; simple as that."

You are still in shock, sitting there and slowly processing everything in your sloshy, drunk brain. "But...I thought I wasn't your type," you say, confused.

The pink-haired stud smirks at you, the act unfortunately making your nether regions twitch. "I lied. You, little one, are most certainly my type: short and a little too much to say." He cocks his head at you, his red rises eye fucking you.

"Not a bad face either," he mutters. "Your ex is a fuckin' idiot." He flashes you a big, toothy grin like the Big Bad Wolf himself. "Good thing I'm here though. I can at least take those thoughts away for a few hours."

You try to think of something to say; a rhyme or reason as to how wrong this is when you're practically his employer. But all you can think about is his hand just being an inch for yours as it lays on the bar. How thick his fingers are and how they'd feel stroking your cunt.

"No charge" is all he whispers and it just about sets you on fire. He then leans back, still eating you up with his fiery gaze, his lips looking unbelievably juicy and soft. “So what's it gonna be, doll?" he asks.

He already broke one of your rules. You might as well break his only one too. Somehow, this leads you to having your thighs split wide open as you lay on a hotel bed with Sukuna's face buried in your squelching, wet pussy under your dress several moments later.

You are a gasping, moaning, writhing mess on the edge of the bed, one hand gripping the sheets while the other is buried in Sukuna's soft, pink spikes of hair. You shiver every time you feel the cool metal of his tongue melt against your hot, buzzing clit, the sensation making everything in you sensitive.

His tongue and fingers help with that too. His big hands force your thighs far apart from each other while his tongue becomes soaked in your wetness, alternating between your slit and your rosebud. "That's a good girl," he hums. "Open wider fa' me. Let me see you."

You try to do so, getting help from your fake boyfriend until your thighs are pushed down into the bedspread, forced to stay stretched open by Sukuna's strong hands. You whimper slightly at the painful tug in your muscles, becoming paranoid about your dress hiked up over your thighs.

"My dress, Sukuna," you whimper. But Sukuna shakes his head, his red eyes cutting to yours in the dimly-lit bedroom, the only light brightening the room being the silvery moon pouring in through the window. "Don't protest," he grumbles. "The dress'll be fine, but this poor pussy won't be. Look at her...so neglected."

He uses the flat of his tongue to lick up your slit, peeling your pussy lips apart to make room for his slick, pierced tongue. The tip flicks against your clit, sending sparks of electricity throughout your body, before he begins gently sucking on it over the hood. “Ah!” you gasp, the wind knocked out of you.

You press your body against the bed, your back arching from the immense pleasure. Sukuna chuckles into your pussy, the vibrations of his laughter traveling throughout your body. “Bet that loser couldn’t even find your clit.”

No, he could not. It would take multiple times for you to redirect him until he would become upset about it. But with Sukuna, you only had to tell him twice prior to him peeling your panties off and he never forgot. He makes it his mission to make you scream, your voice bouncing off of the walls as he slurps you like his life depends on it.

“Bet he couldn’t make ya loud like this,” he chuckles, pulling away from your wet cunt with a lewd squelch as the lips on his face tear away from your wet pussy lips. “Ain’t that right, baby?”

Teasingly, he gives your pussy lips tiny nibbles that make you flinch, your thighs twitching. He cocks his head to the side, mocking you. “What? No protest over the pet names? I could’ve sworn ya complained about that.”

He continues to nibble at your pussy lips, gently tugging on them the way you told him you like. He interviewed you in the elevator ride up to the hotel room, his lips leaving hickeys on your neck as he pinned you against the elevator wall. His knee was wedged between your thighs and rubbing against your pussy, fogging your mind and making you more susceptible.

He obviously committed each of your kinks and sexual enjoyments to memory, using them as weapons on you now. “No teasing,” you whimper. “Please.” You watch Sukuna's eyes dark to the color of crimson blood, lust blown and hooded. “Fuck, that’s hot. Keep begin’ for me, will ya?”

He then hikes your dress up more, leaving you naked from the chest down. You long since ditched your strapless bra, leaving it somewhere on the floor, leaving you only in your heels dangling around Sukuna's shoulders.

He dives in, immediately indulging in your pussy by slithering his tongue inside of your quivering, sodden hole. Your moans grow loud and high-pitched like you're trying to out-sing Mariah Carey. You didn't even realize you could be so loud and reach such heights until Sukuna is tongue fucking you.

“Oh, ‘Kuna!” you whine. “Fuck, please keep going! Go faster!” Your fingers wrench in his hair, gripping the pink locks and pushing him deeper into your pussy. “Uh-huh,” he moans into your quivering lips. “So tight here. Fuck, baby.”

He says it in a sharp breath like he can hardly believe what he has his tongue stuffed inside. Your eyes graze over the intricate tracings of black lines inked across his muscular back, each marking trailing off in a different place, moving with his body as he laps at your pussy.

You peel your head off of the bed to stare at him, grabbing his broad, inked shoulder to grab his attention. “More,” you moan. “Give me more.” He picks his head up, briefly shocked before a wicked smirk appears on his lips. “More? Such an eager little thing, ain’t you?”

He stands up before you, his hooded, lust-darkened eyes locked on yours as he peels off his dress slacks. Your eyes indulge in his abs, muscular arms, lickable pecs, and toned upper body before ducking down where his hips are. His pants and underwear are off in one swipe, leaving him naked.

Your eyes nearly bug at the big, thick cock stiff and leaking with pre-cum between his tree-trunk thighs and tatted legs. One vein throbs and protrudes from his shaft, leading from his heavy, cum-filled balls up to his pink dick head. Your pussy salivates, wanting so desperately to have him inside of you.

But instead of his dick, Sukuna sucks on his index and middle fingers, coating them in copious amounts of spit, before he sinks them inside of you. He watches as you writhe and lift your hips to rock them into his digits, fucking yourself on them as they curl up to glide against your G-spot.

He is entranced, salivating at the sight of your pussy stretched around his thick fingers, your wetness drizzling down to your asshole. “Yeah, take my fingers, baby," he breathlessly encourages you." You and this pussy are trouble.”

He proceeds to fuck your clit off the bone as he fucks your pussy with his fingers, making your toes curl in your shoes and your lungs struggle to take in air as the man between your thighs forces you to take all the pleasure he is giving you. Lewd, wet sounds penetrate the air as his tongue and fingers fuck your wet pussy in tandem, mingling with your moans increasing in volume with every second.

“Fuck, ‘Kuna!” you wail. “I’m gonna cum!” You can feel it tightening in your core. You feel like a balloon about to burst. Sukuna lifts his head from your cunt, his lips dripping in your juices. “What’s the magic word, doll face?” he roughly asks.

He curls his fingers forward and you nearly squirt in his face from the immense ecstasy. “Please, please, please!” you sob. Tears stick to your lashes, threatening to fall from your eyes.

That must be the 'magic word' Sukuna was referring to because you feel his cock twitch against your thigh. “Ya still want somethin’ more, little one?” he growls. “You want somethin’ thicker in this messy cunt?”

His fingers continue to piston in and out of you, fucking you to the point of your brain turning to mush. You have to force yourself not to cum by squeezing your eyes shut and willing yourself to resist. All self control leaves you and you are begging for him to just make you cum. “Goddammit, Sukuna! Just give it to me please!”

You can hardly hold on anymore; you're about to burst, your clit quivering with need. Suddenly, Sukuna slips his fingers out of you and rises from between your thighs. “I’ll give it to you,” he utters.

He then yanks on your ankles and drags you to the edge of the bed closer to him before his cock slips inside of you without a moment's notice. Your mouth falls agape as his thick shaft is burrowed deep inside of you, stretching your walls out to accommodate him. "Fuck!" you wail, your nails digging into his muscles as you grip him. Any part of him.

Sukuna is sweet enough to allow you time to adjust by giving you slow thrusts, but once you're relaxed, he begins to roughly fuck you, moving right into fast, pistoned thrusts that make his pelvis rub against your clit and his balls pound against your asscheeks, the sound of his thighs slapping against yours drifting through the air.

You wiggle and writhe about, the pounding too much, but Sukuna stops you by wrapping a hand around your throat. “Don’t run,” he growls. “Just cum. Cum for me.”

His hips snap forward again and again, drawing you closer to the edge as you babble in pleasure: "Ah, yes, yes, yes, 'Kuna, fuck, I'm gonna...oh, fuck, I'm cumming!" A moan explodes out of you as your cum drips out of your pussy, coating Sukuna's cock in your release.

Sukuna gazes upon you stretched out around his cock, your legs wound around his waist and your dress peeled up around your chest to expose your tits and hard nipples. “That’s a good girl,” he purrs, massaging one of your tits, tweaking the hard peak of your nipple. “Look at all that. So messy.”

With a soft groan, he pulls out, emitting a high-pitched whine from you at the sudden loss. Sure enough, his dick is soaked in your cum, coating his balls. “Clean it up,” he demands.

He straddles your face, his muscular, thick thighs on either side of your head. Hungrily, you lift your head up and begin to suck his cock, slurping all of your cum off of his shaft. You hollow your cheeks and open your throat as if about to yawn, allowing him to sink in deeper.

"Fuck," he groans. "That's a good girl. Gimme that fuckin' throat." He begins to rock his hips, fucking your tight, sloppy throat for a little while, welcoming the sound of your gagging. "Maybe that's why that nerd left you: he couldn't handle such a pretty little slut."

The dirty little insult combined with the sweet compliment is like mixing Bourbon with sweet tea. The combination makes your pussy throb and clench excitedly despite just cumming. That doesn't seem to matter to Sukuna though.

After fucking your throat for a little while, he jumps off of you, spit trailing from your bottom lip as he departs. You sit up to see what's up, but he pushes you back, rough and demanding. You squeak, falling back onto the bed and barely breathing before Sukuna is on you again.

He peels your thighs up and winds them around his waist before fully straddling you and fucking you in mating press. The sounds that escape you are damn near inhuman: squeaking, wailing, and shrill screeches leaving your mouth that only get higher and more frequent as the man above you fucks you absolutely dumb.

Your brain has left the building, leaving you stupid, brainless mush as Sukuna turns your pussy into a puddle. The wetness secreting from your cunt only allows him better lubrication to easily drill your cunt, putting you into the mattress with every thrust like he has every intention of getting you pregnant tonight.

“Wait, Sukuna!” you sob. “I just came!” You grip his neck for dear life as he slams his hips down into yours, pounding his fat dick into your hole over and over again. “And you’ll cum again.” His words match his thrusts, his voice raspy and thick with arousal. “And again and again and again.”

He turns his face to nuzzle your hair, his lips tickling your cheek as his cock turns you from the inside out. "Don't you want that, doll face?" he whispers. "Don't you wanna cum all over this dick again?"

You do. You so very do. The urge to cum rises once more as Sukuna fucks you in mating press, his hips moving like a jackhammer, pounding you into the bed that shakes and creaks with his movements. "Suki," you whine. "M'close. I wanna cum again."

He moves away to stare down at you, his eyes lust-drunk and hooded, his face flushed and glistening in perspiration from the rough fucking session. "Yeah?" he teasingly asks. "You think you deserve it, huh?"

So he pauses and pulls out, leaving you breathless and desperate. He snaps his fingers and points at the bed, stroking his cock with his other hand. "Show me: get on all fours. I'm gonna cum too and I want you to fuckin' take it."

Like fire was just lit under your ass, you move into position with your ass hiked up and arms holding you up. But that doesn't last long when Sukuna mounts you from behind and begins pistoning himself into you again.

You gasp, your mouth falling agape as his cock hits every single part of your pussy that missionary didn't. You can feel all of him stretching and stroking you, that damn bomb ass dick giving you all that you could possibly need. "Ah, fuck!" you wail into the open air of the hotel room. "Oh, fuck, Suki!"

SMACK!

You shriek, the sting of Sukuna's palm hitting your asscheek making your pussy throb. "Shut the fuck up," he grunts. "You're too fuckin' loud. If you wanna scream, you'd better do it in that pillow."

Your arms give out on you, so you have no choice as you tilt forward and your face digs into the pillow below. You moan and scream as much as you want into the cushion, fucking up your makeup even further. "Such a good listener," he groans. "And such a good pussy. Nothin' fake about this, huh, baby?"

SMACK!

He spanks you again, harder this time, as his fingers dig into the flesh of your asscheeks as he fucks you harder. "Gettin' all your money's worth," he huffs. "Make you cum so good that you'll be beggin' me to come back. I'll make this shit real for you."

Loud moans and low grunts leave Sukuna's lips as he thrusts his hips forward over and over again, transfixed by the way your soft, juicy ass claps against his stomach, recoiling every time he thrusts forward. He forces you to fuck him back, your tight hole swallowing him up as you slam against each other, making the bed shake as if there is an earthquake happening.

Your second orgasm finally begins to crest again and you grip the bedsheets until your knuckles turn white, holding on for dear life as Sukuna fucks the shit out of you. "O-O-Oh, sh-shit, Sukuna!" you moan into the pillow. "M'gonna f-f-fucking cum!"

You can feel that Sukuna is close too; he has begun to swell inside of you, his cock throbbing in your tightening walls. "Beg for it, slut," he growls. "Beg for that shit! Beg me to make that pussy cum!"

You would tell him anything he wants to hear if it makes you cum any quicker. "Please!" you wail. "Please make me cum, Daddy! Please!" You move your hand underneath your thighs to rub your clit in an effort to get there faster.

Sukuna wraps an arm around your midsection and forces your head up with his other hand, digging his nose into the crook of your shoulder. He fucks you even faster, making both of you chase your Os head on. "Oh, fuck, pretty girl," he groans. "Cum for me. Cum all over that dick. Give it to me."

With his permission finally uttered, you let yourself release all over him. With a choked moan, you cream all over his cock, soaking him and leaving him dripping. You shiver and shudder in his arms, your orgasm taking you on a journey to the stars. And not once do you think about your ex.

With a few more harsh, rough thrusts that leave you breathless and achy, Sukuna chases his orgasm. "Take it," he groans. "Take my cum, pretty girl!" Finally, with a loud, bellowed shout of release, he sprays his spunk all over the walls of your pussy, filling you up. You gasp at the warm, gushing feeling, feeling it drip down your inner thighs.

As he cums, Sukuna's thrusts soon slow down until he comes to a pause, his body relaxing against yours. "Shit," he hisses, the swear turning into a rasped chuckle as he comes down from his high. "That was reeeeal nice," he draws. "C'mere."

He turns your cheek to face him and his lips envelope yours in a sloppy, slow kiss that leaves you just as breathless as your orgasms did. Slowly, he pulls out and allows you to belly flop onto the bed, exhausted and utterly satisfied.

Sukuna watches, stroking his semi-hard cock still coated in your cum. "Now you can give me a five-star rating," he jokes, his hand pawing your asscheek. "And remember: it's no charge, darlin'."

You hum in appreciation and exhaustion, too tired to even utter a coherent word. He leans in, pressing a kiss to your asscheeks.

"Just lemme make you cum again," he wickedly whispers. "And maybe take ya out on a real date."

THE END.

[ilykatz]

Trueform!Sukuna x Bride!Reader

CW: none, all fluff, bit of OOC for Sukuna, softie for his bride

|| Ryoman Sukuna is the King of Curses, feared wherever he goes. Stories of him spread throughout the countries. Including your village. You’ve never had a chance to see him yourself, but the stories don’t help your anxiety. He had personally picked you out of thousands of women to be his wife. You try to ask around about him, but no one will say a thing about what he’s like!

WC: 4.7k

*This is inspired by Bridgerton, specifically Queen Charlotte, so you're going to see a lot of similarities with that I've been dying to make a oneshot of Sukuna based on it

The sound of carriage wheels grinding over the packed dirt road was the only thing daring to disturb the heavy silence between you and your brother. Every turn of the wheel felt like a countdown, each bump in the road a punctuation mark carved into a sentence you had not agreed to write. You kept your gaze angled stubbornly toward the window, watching a blur of unfamiliar countryside pass by.

Before you had left home the women help of the house draped you in the finest robes you had, lifted from silk-wrapped boxes. Layers of shimmering fabric, deep crimson, midnight black, and soft gold thread, were draped across your shoulders, fitted and pinned with care. The fabric pooled around you like a tide of luxury you neither desired nor trusted. Makeup was dusted across your cheeks with the gentlest touch. A brush so soft it barely whispered against your skin. A hint of color to your lips. A subtle glow at your cheekbones to accentuate your face, to sharpen the illusion that you were composed. Your hair decorated with jewel pressed hair accessories, ruby, obsidian, gold—were slid into place one by one. Each pin felt heavier than the last, a reminder that you were being adorned for display, not celebration.

“Are you planning to remain silent for the entire journey?” Your brother asked at last.

Your chin tilted towards him a fraction. “Is there something you wish for me to say?”

“Perhaps something more than sulking,” he answered. “You know… there are far worse men to be engaged to.”

“Yes, I could be engaged to the most horrifying man on the planet.” You replied sarcastically.

“You are dramatic.”

“I,” you declared with defiant grace, “am doomed. And I believe my reaction is quite measured—calm, even—given the circumstances.”

A week ago you had been enjoying the full comfort of your home—your books, your music, your independence. Now you sat in a carriage bound toward your own wedding, toward a husband you had never met, toward a kingdom of curses and shadows and danger. Toward becoming… Queen of Curses.

The carriage jerked to a stop so suddenly you nearly tumbled forward. Your brother reached out instinctively, steadying you before pushing the curtain aside.

“We are here,” he said softly.

Here.

The word wrapped cold fingers around your spine.

Outside the window, towering gates loomed—carved stone riddled with ancient markings, pulsing faintly with a dull red glow. Old magic. Old stories. A warning wrapped in a welcome. Through the gates, a long path led up to the palace. But calling it a palace felt… inadequate.

The doors of the carriage opened with a low groan, letting in a breath of colder, heavier air—the kind that clung to the skin as though testing your strength.

A person with a sharp, snow-white bob interrupted by a single streak of vivid red, their appearance striking enough to momentarily stun her into stillness. They were small, almost childlike in size, yet not in bearing. Their posture was impeccable, their chin tilted with a quiet, ancient confidence. Wrapped in thick white ceremonial robes, their arms folded neatly behind their back, they carried themself like someone carved from old tradition and older magic.

They bowed deeply before extending a pale hand toward you.

“My lady,” they said, voice smooth and poised, neither warm nor cold, simply certain. “It is an honor. Lord Ryomen Sukuna has been expecting you and asked me to attend to you.”

Their eyes—unreadable, unblinking—lifted to meet hers.

“I am Uraume.”

You hesitated only a heartbeat—long enough for doubt to curl cold fingers around her throat. Then you placed your hand into Uraume’s as they helped you step down from the carriage. Their grip was surprisingly steady, deceptively strong, as though their slender frame was merely a vessel for something far older.

You instinctively turned to your brother for comfort, only to see him still in the carriage, and looked at him with confusion.

“Wait,” you whispered, confusion knitting your brows. “You… you’re still in the carriage.”

He opened his mouth, closed it, then tried again. “I—”

His voice cracked. He cleared his throat harshly, as though forcing the weakness back down where it could not betray him further.

“You are to stay here,” he managed, keeping his tone steady with effort. “It is your home now… mine is back at the house.”

“You’re not staying with me?” You asked, the timid waver in your voice cutting straight into him. You had not meant for it to sound so childlike, so desperately small. But the fear bled through anyway. It couldn’t be helped; you were in a new place with a soon-to-be husband you’d never met before. He was your only family left, and he was leaving you here with strangers and a monster.

“I will return for the wedding,” he murmured. “But until then… You must be brave.”

Behind you, Uraume waited patiently, hands still folded, expression unreadable.

Ahead lay the palace, its cursed air thrumming through the courtyard like a heartbeat you could not escape.

Your brother seemed to sense the moment slipping from them like sand.

“Go on,” he urged, voice raw. “Before I cannot let you.”

Your breath caught. You reached out one last time, and he caught your hand immediately, gripping it tight—too tight, as though memorizing the shape of your fingers before he lost them forever.

“I love you,” you breathed.

His face finally crumpled, just a fraction. “And I you. Always.”

A moment later, Uraume stepped closer, waiting to guide you into the depths of your new life.

Your brother gently released your hand.

And the carriage door closed.

With one last look at the carriage disappearing down the road, you exhaled slowly, gathering whatever remained of your courage and turning toward Uraume.

“I am ready,” you murmured, even if the words trembled slightly.

Uraume tilted their head in acknowledgment. “Very well, my lady. Please follow.”

They led you toward the grand staircase—each step carved from polished black stone that glimmered faintly with crimson veins. The staircase was impossibly tall, stretching upward like the spine of some sleeping beast. Every step felt heavier than the last, your robes catching the faint breeze that rose like a sigh from the palace itself.

Unseen by you, a pair of eyes watched from deep within the shadows cast by the archways.

Eyes belonging to Ryomen Sukuna.

He stood half-hidden behind a pillar etched with ancient sigils, arms crossed loosely as he observed the delicate rise and fall of your breath, the stiffness in your shoulders, the grief you tried so desperately to swallow. His gaze traveled from the jeweled pins in your hair to the fine silk pooling at your ankles—lingering not on your adornments, but on the fire flickering beneath her fear.

His lip curled in a smirk.

So this was the human they had chosen.

Brave enough to lift her chin… terrified enough to try hiding it.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

He slipped deeper into the shadows, melting into them like a wraith before you could so much as sense him.

You, oblivious to the hungry eyes following your ascent, clutched your robes and continued climbing.

“Uraume,” you said after a moment, voice quiet, “may I ask you something?”

“You may,” Uraume replied, their tone as steady and measured as ever. They did not look back, simply kept guiding you deeper into the palace.

You took a small breath.

“Would you tell me about him? Lord Ryomen Sukuna?”

Uraume did glance at you then—just briefly. Their eyes were pale, cold, unreadable.

“He is… the King of Curses,” they answered.

You blinked. “…Yes, I know that. And?”

Silence sat between you two for a heartbeat, unsettling and heavy.

Uraume’s steps did not falter as they resumed leading her forward. “And that is what he is.”

“That is what he is,” You repeated, confused and frustrated, “not who he is.”

Uraume’s expression didn’t shift—not even a flicker of sympathy or discomfort. “My lady, to distinguish between the two is… unnecessary.”

You frowned. “Unnecessary? I am meant to marry him.”

“Yes,” Uraume said simply, as though this were the plainest fact in the world.

“So then—what manner of person is he? What am I meant to expect?”

The faintest hum escaped Uraume, thoughtful yet evasive.

“You expect what everyone must expect of him,” they said. “Power. Authority. Judgment.”

“That isn’t an answer,” You muttered, heat creeping into your voice.

“It is the most truthful one you will receive at this time.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but Uraume continued before you could.

“Lord Sukuna chooses what parts of himself he reveals. No one speaks for him. No one presumes to.”

You slowed your steps just slightly, staring at the back of Uraume’s pristine white robes. “So you will tell me nothing of him?”

“I have told you the only thing that is constant,” Uraume replied.

“And that is…?”

Uraume paused, turning just enough that their unsettlingly calm gaze met yours. “That he is power in its purest form.”

Y/n’s breath hitch. “…And to be his wife?”

“Is to stand beside that power.”

Her stomach twisted. “Or beneath it?”

Uraume did not answer.

Not with words.

The rest of the walk carried a heavy, uneasy silence. The hallways twisted into one another, lit by torches that flickered in strange patterns, their flames bending as though shaped by unseen hands. You kept glancing at Uraume, searching for any trace of humanity or empathy in their expression, but they gave you nothing—not even the courtesy of false comfort.

At last, Uraume stopped before a set of lacquered doors carved with intricate markings. They pushed them open, and warm golden light spilled out into the hallway.

Inside, a room full of women awaited.

They rose at once, elegant, poised, and dressed in servant robes. Some held measuring cords. Others carried boxes of folded silk. Still others stood ready with perfumes and cosmetics. Their bows were deep and rehearsed.

“My lady,” several murmured at once.

You swallowed. The room felt too warm, too bright after the corridors of cursed stone. Uraume guided you inside with a single gesture, and a pair of attendants gently ushered you toward an enormous mirror framed in polished obsidian.

Your own reflection stared back at you—adorned, frightened, breathtakingly small against the enormity of what awaited.

“Please stand still, my lady,” one of the seamstresses said softly. “We are here to prepare the robes for your wedding ceremony.”

The moment you stood centered before the mirror, the women descended upon you with quiet grace. Fabric was lifted. Pins clicked. Silk slid over your fingers like cool water. No one spoke unless it was to ask you to raise an arm or turn slightly.

Behind you, Uraume stood perfectly straight, hands folded behind their back, watching with the stillness of carved marble. Two additional servants lingered near the wall—ready, waiting, silent.

You kept her gaze fixed on your reflection, fighting the urge to crumble.

If Uraume would not answer her questions, perhaps these women would.

“Excuse me,” you said gently, directing your voice toward the seamstress closest to you. “May I ask… how long have you served here?”

The woman blinked, needle paused mid-stitch. “Since I was a girl, my lady.”

“And…” You wet your lips nervously. “Do you… do you know him? Truly? The man I am to marry?”

There was a beat of hesitation—small, but unmistakable.

The seamstress swallowed, eyes lowering. “We know of him, my lady.”

“That is not the same,” You whispered.

Another woman approached from behind, adjusting the fall of your sleeve.

“His presence is felt throughout the palace,” she said cautiously. “One does not need to see him to know him.”

Your heart hiccupped. “Is he cruel?”

Silence fell like a dropped veil.

The seamstress resumed stitching with renewed focus, as though the question itself were dangerous. Another attendant pretended not to hear. A third reached for a box of gold-threaded embroidery with trembling fingers.

Uraume did not move, but their voice slid through the room like a blade wrapped in silk.

“Mind your tasks,” they said softly. Too softly.

The attendants bowed their heads and obeyed.

Your shoulders stiffened. You turned your eyes back to your reflection. You hated how small you looked. How unprepared. How alone.

But the women were not done speaking—not fully.

Once Uraume’s gaze drifted toward the window, one of the older seamstresses leaned in, voice a mere breath near your ear.

“He notices everything, my lady,” she whispered.

Your blood turned to ice. “Notices?”

“He watches. Always.”

Before you could ask what that meant, the woman straightened quickly and returned to her work, her lips sealed shut.

Uraume stepped closer then, their presence quiet but suffocating. “My lady,” they said, “hold still. The robes must be perfect.”

You obeyed, but your heart beat wildly in your chest.

None of them would truly answer. None of them would speak plainly. None of them would tell you what you were marrying into.

"Uraume," You speak up causing them to straighten themselves up. "You are with me always, yes?"

"Yes, my lady, always." Uraume confirmed.

The certainty in their tone was both reassuring and deeply unsettling.

You shifted your weight, glanced toward the far corner of the room—then back at Uraume. “Including in the lavatory?”

A beat of silence.

One of the seamstresses dropped a pin.

“In the… lavatory?” you repeated, cheeks heating despite everything. “Do I at least get privacy then? I need to use the lavatory.”

Uraume nods in understanding. "Withdraw, our lady needs privacy." They tell the servants in the room, and they all rush to leave the room as quick as possible, including Uraume.

The room was finally empty. Silent. Still.

Too still.

You waited only a heartbeat—two at most—before your hands moved on their own. Gathering the heavy skirts of your bridal silks, you stepped toward the far end of the chamber where a set of draped doors led to an adjoining balcony.

Your pulse hammered against your throat.

If you stayed, every question would remain unanswered. Every step would be chosen for you. Every breath watched. Every movement measured, weighed, judged by those who served a king you did not know—and one who terrified you beyond reason.

But if you could just… sneak away. Just for a moment. Just long enough to breathe without being observed.

Or perhaps— long enough to escape.

You slipped through the balcony doors, letting them hush shut behind you. Cool air kissed your cheeks, carrying the scent of something wild and green—gardens, sprawling and shadowed beneath the palace walls.

Beyond the stone railing, you saw them: a labyrinth of hedges, obsidian-bricked pathways, shimmering pools reflecting torchlight like scattered stars. The gardens stretched wide, unguarded, inviting.

You glanced back toward the room. Still empty.

Good.

Clutching your skirts, you gathered every ounce of courage and swung a leg over the low balcony wall.

Your shoes touched the packed earth below with a soft thud.

No alarms. No guards. No Uraume appearing behind you like a ghost with impeccable manners.

The garden lay open, vast, and—if you were lucky—full of hidden exits.

You took a breath and hurried forward, the jeweled pins in your hair clicking softly with each step.

Twisting paths coiled before you. You ducked beneath low arches of hanging vines, brushed past rows of glowing flowers whose petals pulsed faintly with cursed energy, and scanned the perimeter walls for any cracks, archways, hidden doors—anything that might grant escape.

The night wind rustled the leaves, sending a shiver through the hedges.

You moved faster.

Down a side path. Around a carved fountain. Through a gate of intertwining branches.

Every shadow made your heart leap. Every whisper of wind sounded like footsteps.

And yet— still no one stopped you.

Still no guards appeared.

Still no Uraume.

You reached the far edge of the gardens—breathless, desperate, emboldened. A stone wall rose before you, tall enough to discourage casual climbing… but perhaps not impossible with determination. Vines and branches decorated the wall; you carefully paced in front of the wall looking at each branch and vine. Thinking to yourself which would be the best way to get over and out.

You stepped closer and placed your fingertips lightly against one of the thicker vines. It felt sturdy—old, yes, but strong. You gave it a cautious tug. It barely budged.

Good.

Very good.

You lifted your skirts, tucking a handful of silk over your arm to free your legs. “All right,” you whispered to yourself, trying to steady your breathing. “One foothold at a time. Don’t look down. Don’t think too much.”

Someone then clears their throat behind you. "My lady," follows a deep voice that certainly wasn't Uraume's nor any of the servant women you met.

You stiffened, turning your head just enough to see the speaker.

A man stood there, cloaked and hooded, the shadows concealing the upper half of his face. He wasn’t delicate or slight like Uraume. No—this one had broad shoulders beneath the cloak, the build of someone who lifted things heavier than embroidery scissors or ceremonial lanterns. His posture was casual, almost annoyingly so, as though finding you halfway up a wall was a normal evening occurrence.

"You need some help with that?"

"I am quite fine, thank you." You say quickly still trying to climb the wall. "You can go back inside and wait with all the other gawkers."

The man chuckled—a rich, amused sound that vibrated in your ribs. "I will, but first, just curious. What are you doing?" He asks watching your sad attempt at climbing the wall.

You then hit your hand on a thorn and shake your hand in pain. "Nothing," you tell him quickly, unbothered.

He made a noise of disbelief. "Well, you're doing something."

"I am not."

"You are,"

"Am not."

"You are!" he insisted, sounding far too entertained for someone stumbling upon royal scandal.

You step down from the branch you were on, unable to get a good hold onto anything that could get you over. Looking back over at your options while surprisingly still entertaining the man behind you.

"If you must know, I'm trying to find the best way to climb over the garden wall." You explain to him.

"Yeah? What for?" He asks.

You sigh, you should be busy escaping, but this seems to be the first real conversation you've had with someone since you arrived. It felt nice.

"I think he may be a beast,"

"A beast?"

"Or a troll."

"Who are we talking about?" He asks.

You let out an exasperated laugh. "Well, that is impertinent. None of your business."

Despite your attitude you decided to still tell him. "Lord Sukuna," you say. "No one will speak of him. No one. He is clearly a beast or a troll."

"Ah, I understand." He speaks.

You then see the perfect way to get out. "You know if I grab there- Yes! You could help me by lifting me up." And with that you begin to climb again.

"Just one question, you don't like beasts or trolls? What he looks like matters?" He asks.

The question puzzled you. Oddly phrased. Almost… probing.

But you were too close to escaping to dwell on it.

"I don't care what he looks like. What I don't like is not knowing." You answered honestly. You then gesture for him to grab your waist. "Now, here. Just take a hold here. With a lift I believe I can make it over the garden wall."

He stared at you. "You want me to lift you over the wall so you can escape?"

"That is what I said, yes." You snapped, frustration bubbling as you flapped your hands at him like a very dignified, very annoyed bird.

"Won't they notice you're missing?"

"Yeah, well, I'll worry about that later. Now please, hurry. Only need a little help."

He chuckles. "I have no intention of helping you."

You froze, mid-gesture, arm still half-extended. Slowly, your hand dropped. Your brows knitted together as you turned toward him with the stiff, offended posture of a noblewoman personally wronged by the gods themselves.

“How dare you refuse?” you demanded, marching up to him until you stood a mere breath away. “I am a lady in distress; you refuse to help a lady in distress?”

His smile deepened.

“I refuse,” he said calmly, “when that lady in distress is trying to climb a wall so she doesn’t have to marry me.”

Your lips parted.

Your heart stopped.

And he took one small, confident step toward you—closing the space between your bodies—forcing you to tilt your chin up to meet his gaze as the hood fell back just enough for moonlight to reveal the sharp, devastating lines of his face.

"Hello, Y/n," He greets surprisingly warmly. "I am Ryomen Sukuna."

“I’m so—” you started, breath hitching, words tangling uselessly in your throat. “I apologize—I didn’t—I meant no disres—”

But the words collapsed into a strangled whisper.

Instead, instinct took over and you bowed. Deeply. Too deeply. In a frantic, mortified display of reverence that only made his amusement grow.

“My Lord,” you managed, bowing even lower.

He clicked his tongue.

“No.”

His hand moved in a blur—not violent, but inevitable—and caught your chin. His fingers were cool, firm, commanding as they curled beneath your jaw and pulled your face back up toward his.

“None of that,” Sukuna murmured.

Your breath trembled.

He angled your chin higher, guiding your gaze to meet his fully. His eyes were impossible—burning, ancient, hungry—but not cruel. He looked at you as though peeling back layers only he could see, as though searching for the fire he’d glimpsed in you when you’d tried to escape.

“Look at me,” he said softly.

You did. You couldn’t do anything else.

He smirked—slow, devastating, pleased.

“There,” he murmured. “Much better.”

His thumb brushed once, lightly, along the line of your chin—not kind, but deliberate, a touch made to test how you would react to him.

“You bow like you’re afraid of being punished,” he said.

“I—” Your voice cracked. “I thought… I assumed—”

“That I’d strike you?” he finished.

You swallowed hard. "I'm not sure, My Lord."

"Sukuna." He corrects instantly. "For you, I am just Sukuna."

The way he said it—quiet, personal, as if offering you something few ever received—made your breath catch.

You allowed yourself to relax just slightly, the rigid fear in your shoulders easing. Your lips curved into the smallest, timid little smile. A peace offering. A nervous attempt at civility. A sign that you were trying.

He didn’t smile back.

But something in his eyes softened. Barely. Subtly.

He kept holding your chin, his fingers steady and warm, his thumb brushing a slow, thoughtful stroke across your skin. The intimacy of the gesture startled you—more tender than you expected from a man of such terrible legend.

Heat crept up your neck, blooming across your cheeks. You looked down, eyelashes fluttering, the sudden shyness catching you off guard.

He didn’t release you.

His thumb traced your chin again, slower this time, deliberate, as though testing how flustered you could become before you stepped back—or leaned in.

You forced yourself to glance back up at him.

“What?” you asked softly, shyly. “Why are you staring?”

He scoffed softly, that smirk curving like a secret he hadn’t meant to reveal, before turning his head away from you—almost shyly, almost boyishly, had he been any other man.

“They didn’t tell me you’d be this beautiful.”

His tone was low, almost grudging.

“You may be too beautiful to marry me. People will talk, given that I’m a troll.”

Your laugh slipped out before you could stop it—light, surprised, real.

You clapped a hand over your mouth, horrified at your own boldness, but his smile only widened.

“A troll,” you echoed with another soft giggle.

“Hm. That was your word,” he teased, flicking a glance your way.

Then, more casually but with unmistakable intent, he added:

“Uraume told me you were asking about me.”

Heat climbed your neck instantly. “I—well—they were being very—very evasive.”

He stepped closer, eyes warm with curiosity rather than menace. “So…” His voice dipped into a deeper register. “What would you like to know?”

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out. Every thought collided in your skull at once.

“Well, that is quite, uh…” Your hands fluttered uselessly. “You see, I—”

He arched a brow, amused. “Yes?”

You finally let out a breath, gathering your courage like fabric in your fists.

“I want to know everything,” you said at last.

The humor in his expression stilled.

Not gone—

but transformed.

His gaze sharpened with something hotter, something intent, something that made your breath catch. He looked at you like those words were more intimate than a touch. Like your curiosity itself pleased him.

“Everything,” he repeated slowly, tasting the word. “Ambitious.”

You lifted your chin. “I won’t marry a stranger.”

He stepped even closer, until his presence wrapped around you like heat.

“And you think knowing me,” he murmured, “will make me less frightening?”

“I think,” you whispered, “that knowing you will make you real.”

“Well,” he said lightly, “if you truly wish to know me, I suppose we should begin with the basics.”

You blinked, surprised he was indulging you.

“I am a skilled archer. I thought myself everything I know about jujutsu and cursed energy. No master. No tutor. No guiding hand. Everything I am, I built myself. And I despise tea.” He rants.

“Everyone drinks tea!” You exclaim.

“Not me, it tastes disgusting.” He cringes thinking about the taste causing you to laugh.

The creaking of the garden gate opening causes you to jump. Not Sukuna who continues to just stare at you. A familiar white-robed figure appeared at the archway, pale hair glowing in the moonlight like fresh snowfall.

My lady, we have been looking for you. It is time to get ready,” came the level, calm voice of Uraume, standing a few paces behind you. They looked expectant, unblinking, patient in that unsettling way only they could manage.

Beside you, Sukuna straightened to his full height.

You hadn’t truly noticed until this moment—

just how tall he was.

Just how broad his shoulders were.

How the air itself shifted when he rolled his spine back into a regal stance.

Beside him, you felt impossibly small.

“Give her a moment, Uraume,” he said, not with harshness but with a sort of gentle command neither cold nor sharp. “She hasn’t decided if she wants to marry me yet.”

Uraume said nothing.

They simply remained, hands folded, gaze lowered, the picture of obedience—yet their silence felt charged, acknowledging the significance of what you had just been offered.

Sukuna turned back to you.

And for once—

for the first time—

there was no smirk on his lips. No teasing amusement. No predatory curiosity.

Only sincerity.

“I hope to see you in there,” he said quietly. The words were simple. The tone was devastatingly genuine.

Before you could respond, he pivoted gracefully, his cloak sweeping behind him, and he walked back toward the palace with a measured stride—neither rushed nor arrogant. He did not look back.

And suddenly the garden felt very still.

You exhaled shakily, realizing he had just given you a freedom no king—no curse, no man of such power—would ever give freely.

You stood alone with your thoughts for a moment. With your heartbeat pounding in your ears. With a strange, warming ache spreading through your chest.

Uraume waited, silent and steady, a respectful distance behind you. Not urging. Not commanding. Simply… waiting for your choice.

Your fingers curled in your silk skirts.

Your decision formed like a spark. Small, sure, bright.

You turned.

“Come, Uraume,” you said, lifting your chin with newfound resolve. “We must ready me for my wedding. Quickly.”

Uraume’s expression changed—subtle, barely detectable—but unmistakable.

A soft smile.

The first you had seen from them since the moment you met. They bowed their head just slightly, almost reverently.

“Of course, my lady.”

[blllllllllllllllllllue]

Sukuna’s wife

Ryomen Sukuna x fem!reader

->pt1 ->pt2 -> pt2.5 ->pt3 ->pt4 ->pt5 ->pt6 ->pt7

Masterlist

Blink twice if you need help

Before his death in the Heian era, Sukuna was a very powerful human sorcerer, and because he was the strongest, other lords had expected him to take up another wife by now. But, it had been 6 years since his first marriage to you, with no concubines, no second marriage for a younger woman to give him more heirs.

They were confused to say the least.

The last time one of the sons of the Kamo Family tried to broach the subject with Sukuna, the man had used “divine flame“ to sauté the man before his filthy hand could make contact with his Kimono. You were also sitting by his side at the time and he wouldn’t want you in the presence of such filth anyways. There was a number of things the lords that leached off of your husband hated about you, they already thought it disgraceful on your part to have not provided Sukuna with an heir, they also hated that Sukuna allowed you to sit by his side during meetings, or walk beside him and not behind like the rest of them.

The lords also hated how Sukuna 'spoiled' you, as it meant their own wives would watch with envy as you fiddled with the sleeves of your new Kimono, one that was so comfortable you swear you could fall asleep sitting up. This was because Sukuna had new Kimono’s or yukata fashioned for you inside the palace walls with gold thread in the Shippo or Hou-ou pattern. Each week would pass with a new garment fashioned from only the most deep and royal colours of course.

He would never give you these face to face, the weekly clothes deliveries were done by Uraume, who only sometimes wished that their master would try to be romantic face-to-face for once, instead of having them leave gifts by your door like a stray cat. Your husband's main pet name for you is also just “woman!” which he feels comfortable yelling in any setting. However, if he ever feels the need to fluster you on purpose, he simply leans down and whispers your name right into your ear, then struts away cackling. It’s a fun game and he likes tormenting you on a daily basis.

Sukuna's version of flirting is giving you anything and everything you would possibly want or need; defending your honour with violence; and listening to you. Yes, when you offer input on territory or a strategy in his war meetings Sukuna thinks that’s you flirting with him...and it works. It’s also another way he gets to piss off the lords around him because his wife is so much more intelligent, pretty, well dressed, fed, and educated than theirs on political matters. He’ll sit there with his chest puffed out and a shit eating grin on his face as he watches the lords trying to hide their scowls when his woman speaks, because he knows, that they know, that whatever you have to say is a much better and well thought out plan that whatever they were previously thinking.

Oh yeah and seeing you read does stuff to him that he will never admit to you.

Once you two start sharing a room he acts like such a baby and will just hover behind you, mainly to scare off whoever you are talking to, all just so that he can get you both in bed faster. His master plan is that the sooner you guys are in bed the sooner he can sleep on his favourite pillow, your stomach, bonus points if he manages grumbles enough you’ll also start to play with his hair.

Would he ask you to do any of this directly? No never, he’d rather die than admit he even likes looking at you, but he will make a fuss if you don’t pick up on these silent social cues.

Usually when you wake up with the weight of his arms around your waist, and a human life vest spooning you from behind, wishing he could melt into your skin, you mumble a sweet ‘I love you’ before you start your day. BUT. If you don’t say it, not like Sukuna ever replies anyway, he will just follow you around silently for the rest of the day, eyes burning into the top of your head.

He does love you though, Uraume is his wingman in that regard because when you were first wed you did hate him, you grew resentful of his endless violence, his ego, his inability to communicate. Until there was an attempt on your life, one year into your marriage someone tried to hit you with a poison arrow while you were wandering the gardens, Sukuna just seemingly appears out of nowhere and catches it, snapping it like a twig between his fingers before going after the rented assassin.

Safe to say that never happened again. Sukuna burned him Publicly himself

Uraume pulls you inside by your sleeve and makes you some yakimono to hopefully get you to stop crying because it was starting to make them even more uncomfortable. They yelled at all the other servants to leave and not to speak of their lady crying or else Sukuna would have their heads in a basket. Uraume explained that Sukuna has you as a wife because he had chosen you to be by his side, and also that he must be obsessed with you because whenever Uraume helps him dress his master would ask him if you’d like his outfit, or the dinner the servants were preparing.

The next morning you woke up to Sukuna burning down his own palace gardens in order to fill it with your favourite flower, something the man only found out because he ordered Uraume to spy on his wife and find out what your favourite flower is.

[tonycries]

Folded - T.F.

Synopsis. Toji Zenin. Nephew of Naobito Zenin. Leader of the powerful Zenin clan. Also…your newly-wed husband with a taste to give the family an heir. Now.

Pairing. Toji Fushiguro x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem!reader, clan leader!Toji, arranged marriage, chiIdhood best friends, being apart, friend-to-married, married-to-Iovers, the elders, the cIan is awful, rumors, tradition, cónsummation, wedding nights, exhíbitíonism, he’s PÚSSYDRÚNK, oraI (fem rec.), spítting, chokíng, manhandIing, dirty taIk, fíngering, wedding rings, matíng presses, he’s BIG, tummy buIges, cervíx smooching, rough s, letting them hear, talking you through it, pushing down, p taIking, dúmbifícation, BRÉEDlNG, creampíes, cúmpIay, cúmfIation, implied marathon, overstím,  breaking cIan systems, slight hurt, COMFORT, HAPPY ENDING, pet names, swéaring.

Word count. 12.6k

A/N. Saw that one frame of his foot and knew I had to-

“And if both families find themselves in favor of this proposition-” Naobito Zenin claps his hands with a greedy smile, quivering the ceramic cups of tea before him. “-then I take that we shall commence the appropriate measures?”

“Quite quite.” The elderly representative of your own family strokes his long beard. He reaches across the sleek table of Japanese cedar—it had the sigils of Zenin warriors carved into it, each glowering up at the outsiders upon their ancient estate. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Zenin-sama.”

The former clan leader takes his handshake heartily, “The pleasure is all mine.” Before his scrutinizing eyes slip over to you. “And about the preparations for the after-ceremony—”

But you don’t listen.

Instead, you’re lifting your gaze up eeeever-so-slightly.

Just the slightest nudge that wouldn’t be enough to draw suspicion from the older men around you, yet still manage to give you a peek at the hounding figure beside Naobito. Fists clenched. Jaw sharp. Gaze lowered.

Toji Zenin.

Your future husband.

The first time you’d met the leader of the Zenin clan had been far before he ever had to bear such a title- in fact, he hadn’t even been considered an adequate heir. 

Back then you’d never in a million years have thought that Toji Zenin would be your future husband. 

It was a humid summer at the Zenin Estate.

Almost two decades ago to the day; on a day when even the cicadas seemed to sweat off the trees, echoing their sun-baffled frustrations out into the open air. And the clouds slugged across a blue sky that battered down mercilessly its balmy glare upon the heat-drunken Earth. Upon the type of people that padded their perspired foreheads with embroidered handkerchiefs, tailored hand-made for but one clan.

Just five years old, you’d been running through the Zenin Estate’s hallways in an effort to get away from the heat and your family. Your tiny feet thundering down the polished floors. Your best kimono flapping behind you.

Your clan was always rather close with the Zenin’s - on a business level, if nothing else.

So it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary for them to visit Naobito and his council to go over numbers you didn’t understand, and contracts you couldn’t read yet, and shake hands with men that made your stomach lurch in nervousness. But what was out of the ordinary was the fact that you had joined them this time—your private tutoring had been paused for the summer, as most conventional schools would have. And so your father had thought that perhaps bringing you along to one of their meetings would be more fruitful than leaving you alone with the garden and the house staff. 

But the corridors were hot, and even hotter were the meeting halls your father made you bow to elders in: thick and saturated with the sweetness of expensive perfumes and clan deals done well. 

So well, in fact, that no one had noticed when you’d slipped out the mahogany double doors.

You knew you’d get in trouble sooner or later- so you might as well do as much exploring as you could!

You weaved through the expansive compound.

Skipping rocks from atop their garden bridge, feeding the koi with shreds of bread one of the house attendants had handed you, swinging from the conservative branches of gingko trees. There weren’t many flowering trees or bushes, you’d noticed. The garden was green and sterile of any other color. 

Then you’d taken to being fed little morsels of delicacies by the ladies in the kitchens- at least, until one of the Zenin elders had barged in and started barking out orders. You’d escaped immediately - not wanting to get caught just yet - and run out into the sun-scorched corridor outside.

It was there that you’d flung yourself into the nearest open room you’d found.

Its grand sliding doors shuddering shut behind you, you’d cowered into the shadows as the elder’s grumbles walked by outside.

You’d only breathed out a sigh of relief when you were sure that his feet had trundled towards the end of the hallway, making a swift turn on the pathway to the meeting hall. Sitting down on the cool wooden floor, you clutched your knees to your chest. “Thank heav-”

“If you’re gonna make this much noise then at least do it where it’ll disturb those old toads.”

You’d nearly jumped out of your own skin- in fact, you think you just might have.

If the shadows could speak then you’d have said that they sounded oddly young, though the growl in his voice made you think of those types of boys that would graze their knees and then pretend it didn’t hurt. There weren’t many children in your estate outside of you, but sometimes you’d watch over the walls at the neighborhood children from afar—and you found there seemed to be at least one or two of those always. 

He sounded like the rowdiest of the bunch.

And who you’d first thought to be a ghost - perhaps in hindsight you weren’t too far off - turns out actually to be a lone figure in the middle of the dark room. A little boy. 

He was sitting before nothing, he was sitting against nothing. 

He had long shaggy hair that covered his eyes, and a mouth permanently downturned. An irritated red scar shone from one side of it.

A drop of red blood trickled down it and made you wince.

You attempted to take a step closer-

“Didn’t ya hear what I said?” That hoarse voice - much too grown-up for but a mere child your age, perhaps a year or two older - rang out before you’d even let the soles of your feet rest. Echoing. Foreboding. “Get. Out.”

“And who are you to tell me what to do?” And you always did have a habit of questioning elders that you should perhaps not question - at least not according to your etiquette classes. So who was a little child?

He scowled and looked away.

Through the shreds of his death-black bangs, you thought you saw a glimpse of green eyes, so much like the gardens of the Zenin Estate. And you can’t help but step closer—“Who are you, anyway? What’s your name?”

“Zenin.” He spat out as if it was venom. 

“I could’ve guessed that.” You sighed, with all the wisdom of a five-year-old. Most Zenins had those sharply handsome features, the dark hair, and green eyes that glimmered like crystals. You could already see the burgeoning Zenin in the boy your age, the weight of it. “What’s your first name?”

He didn’t answer.

With a huff, you’d stepped closer.

“What’s your first name?”

He still didn’t answer.

And closer.

“What’s your first name?” 

He didn’t answer still. Not even when you were standing right beside him, he remained turned away as if you didn’t exist. 

You leaned down to try and glance at his face- but the boy snarled and whipped away. His lips stretched almost garishly underneath that fresh scar—even in the darkness it was obvious: a ruby-red slit, a slice of torture.

It looked like it hurt.

“Fine then.” You said, and he almost flinched at the exhausted tone of your voice. There was a slight collapse of his raised shoulders, as if he expected you to leave him to his shadows-

But the only thing you’re doing is grabbing onto his face and bringing it up to yours.

With the silken fabric of your very best kimono, you’d dabbed away gently at the cut on his lip. “But if you’re not going to treat this thing any time soon- then at least wipe away the blood.” Though you knew that this wasn’t the lady-like thing to do, nor even polite in any sense of the word, you couldn’t feel even a twinge of regret. “It looks pretty deep. Don’t you think you should tell your momma and papa?”

You tilted his head to the side, and he glared at you through long black lashes. “Tch…”

“Hmpf-” Puffing up your cheeks in annoyance, perhaps you’d used slightly more force than necessary when touching away the rest of the blood on his lip.

He grimaced but he didn’t move. And just when you think he might not say anything at all—“My…attendants.” 

You almost thought you’d imagined it. Eyes wide, your hands stopped. “P-pardon?”

“My attendants.” He repeated, more sure than before. “My attendants will take care of it…later.”

“I see.” It almost looked as if he was searching for your reaction, and you don’t satisfy him by showing anything. You merely tilted his head from side-to-side and checked for bruises, the way your mother would whenever you fell outside while playing by yourself. He had a few more scratches here and there - though none too deep like the scar, they stood out starkly against this pale skin. He looked like a sickly boy. “And why are you here all alone?”

“Punishment.” This answer comes out easier than the last, as though it should have been obvious.

A cold shiver ran down your spine. “Oh…I’m sorry about that.” You knew what it felt like to be punished by the council for doing things that went against what a ‘respectable daughter’ would do. Though your punishments were more writing lines and standing outside. “But I don’t think you deserved it.”

He scoffed, “You don’t even know what I did.”

“I don’t.” You shook your head, “But I still know.”

And that had been that. You finally let go of the boy’s face - there had been no more bleeding for some time now, and you almost felt embarrassed to have been holding onto him for so long. 

In the obscurity between you two, you stood in silence for what felt like a few minutes- but might as well have been eternity. You’d stared at him - the strong jaw, the hunched shoulders draped in a kimono with the Zenin emblem on the back, the scar that made him look older than he was - and he’d stared right back.

Brows furrowed, yet still looking. 

Eventually, you heard the harried calls of your mother outside - she was searching for you.

With a final look at the boy - he’d turned his face away now - you started to take a step towards the door—

Only for a small hand to clutch onto your wrist.

Stopping you in your tracks, you’d snapped your head to him immediately- but the boy still wasn’t looking at you. He had his gaze fixed on the floor, and the air about him was as if you didn’t even exist.

Though the tightness of his grip was undeniable-

“Toji.” Out had come a tiny voice. Steely. Slightly trembling. 

And for a second you were more confused than anything, before the realization had dawned upon you like the beaming of the summer Sun’s rays. 

He had repeated, “Toji Zenin.”

You repeat, “Toji Zenin.”

And then Toji had let go of you.

You nodded.

You told him your own name.

And for the first time since you’d barged into his life, Toji Zenin had looked at you with his green, green eyes. Sparkling.

It was only later - years later - in one of his letters that you’d learned of just how he’d gotten his scar. And the weight of knowledge was much heavier than the abyss of not knowing; your tears had blemished the starchy paper upon which he’d written to you about being thrown into a pit of cursed spirits by none other than his own family. That day.

All because he had no cursed energy.

And that was another thing - when you first found out about it, it hadn’t been from Toji himself. Grown-ups talk. And you’d come to realize far before he’d confessed to you that this was that infamous oldest son of the Zenin clan, one year older than you, with not a single speck of cursed energy to show for it.

Jujutsu society hated him for it.

How odd it was that they couldn’t seem to keep his name out of their mouths, then.

Though you didn’t quite care—you yourself didn’t put much weight onto the strength of one’s cursed energy. It just seemed too confusing to you as a child, and more confusing still once you grew up.

You visited the Zenin Estate as often as you could after that, often tagging along with your parents for their business meetings, or sometimes even begging some of your attendants to take you if they weren’t home. All for one person.

Him.

And though he never showed it, you knew he was happy to see you.

Happy to roll his eyes and drag you all through the hallways and secret doors and gardens- it was at your insistence that Toji had gotten the gardening staff to plant a few rose bushes there. A dash of pink in the landscape of Zenin green. You’d even managed a few times to sneak away and play together with his new cousin, only just crawling.

And just as life heartens a child, Toji also grew strong.

You saw it in him each time you visited - the way his grip on your hand would grow stronger, the way he’d tell you about another cool trick he learned in training. By himself.

And you were proud of him, you really were—“Don’t get too strong though- because what if you get all big and scary like Vegeta?”

“Vegeta’s cool.”

“Toji Zenin.”

You just didn’t expect it all to come to head like this.

The letter had arrived when you were seventeen - Toji was eighteen then, and had just gone through his coming-of-age ceremony. It was a private affair attended only by the Zenin clan members, and you understood that customs dictated their rituals remain hidden- besides, you and Toji had promised each other to celebrate in your own way with some takoyaki later on.

But the letter…

“To whom it may concern,

By decree of the Elders and in accordance with the ancient traditions of the Zenin clan, you are hereby notified of termination of regular visits to the head of the Zenin clan.

This decision is irrevocable, and any further personal association with the master, outside of compulsory business and contractual visits, is prohibited. Henceforth, you are instructed to discontinue contact with Master Toji Zenin without delay. Failure to comply with these prompt directives will result in the appropriate consequences.

Our new clan head must now focus on what is truly important.

With respect.

The elders of the Zenin clan.”

That was the first you’d ever heard about him being clan leader- or even the fact that he’d had a chance.

You had visited the Zenin Estate immediately afterwards, of course.

And it was only because of the rather close relationships that you’d grown with the house staff and guards over the years that you weren’t thrown out immediately. Though, you definitely weren’t allowed inside, either. They’d told you with grave faces that you were no longer welcome in the Zenin Estate without a guardian with you at all times - and even then you couldn’t meet with the clan leader. 

You’d been forced to trudge all the way back home, letter in hand. Toji in your heart.

You’d visited a few more times afterwards, of course. 

Perhaps for a peek of Toji if anything. But the only thing that greeted you were those looming iron gates and the same answer.

You were not welcome. No matter how much you pleaded or cried or begged for answers. 

You didn’t see Toji Zenin, newly-dubbed leader of the Zenin clan, until ten years later - and by then you’d missed him as long as you’d known him. In the meantime you’d heard whispers of him in every corner and corridor of those stuffy clan functions you were forced to attend—oh, have you heard of that Toji boy? Have you heard he’s the new Zenin clan leader now?

Have you heard they overlooked his little…lack of cursed energy if he proved himself?

Have you heard he has a gift of power said to be from the heavens?

Have you heard he’s the cruelest clan leader they’ve ever seen?

Have you heard he’s grown up to be so tall?

Have you heard he’s looking for a wife?

It was that last one that got your ears perking - no matter how much that rational part of you knew that eavesdropping wasn’t a polite habit. No matter how much you knew that you and Toji Zenin were people that didn’t know each other. And hadn’t for a long time…and perhaps might never. 

You shuddered to imagine - according to the rumors - what blood-thirsty clan leader he might have grown to become like all the Zenin clan leaders before him. But a part of you just kept circling back to the little boy in the dark room, with a scar that wouldn’t stop bleeding. 

Sure enough, by the time you’d stepped foot inside your own estate after the function- your attendants had informed you that a letter was awaiting.

A letter of proposal.

Of marriage.

.

.

.

The ceremony was a message.

Every clan leader and madam and mistress, every sorcerer and higher-up, everyone that was someone was invited to your wedding to Toji Zenin. It was a lavish affair, overripe with the most succulent foods and drinks. 

Though the week leading up to it…not quite as much.

You hadn’t gotten the chance to speak with Toji during the marriage meeting- rather ironic considering, well, the two of you would be the ones getting married. But where you might have answered the few stray questions posed by Naobito and his council, Toji had merely sat silently opposite you. 

He didn’t speak to you, he didn’t gesture at you, he didn’t even raise his green eyes and look at you.

Not during the marriage meeting. Not after.

Perhaps some stupidly hopeful part of you still thought that it was the meeting hall’s oppressive air that kept him from speaking- but Toji hadn’t spoken to you even when most of his advisory council had filtered out towards the end. When they’d left the ‘young couple’ alone to get to know each other better, but Toji had stayed silent.

“Toji?” You’d tried - and he hadn’t responded. “I suppose it’s clan leader Zenin now…”

To that, he’d flinched.

There were no more words exchanged between the two of you, and you’d travelled back to your estate to cry yourself to sleep.

The wedding vows had been written to you by your family elders. And in the days that followed - not wanting to make a fool of yourself in front of the wedding guests nor your family nor your in-laws - you’d recited and re-recited your vows until your tongue got sick of the words. Until your tongue could feel them tingling at the tip of your tastebuds every passing moment.

Like a nagging, ever-present dread.

So it was rather anticlimactic when that portion of the wedding ceremony went by without a hitch—you were awoken with the blinking sun, and dressed in a wedding kimono of snow-white. Escorted to the Zenin Estate in one of their glossy black Mercedes, you were ducked from view and taken to the family shrine there like a secret.

You shuddered as you stepped inside this land for the first time in ten years.

Deep in the gardens. A froth of wedding guests already lined the lantern-lit pathway from the gates to the shrine, they turned their heads and attempted to peek underneath your white headpiece. You were grateful for the lady attendants who would smack them away no matter which higher-up they happened to be.

You found that you had been strangely calm up until this point - strangely feeling as though it were a dream.

But you’d raised your head just as you’d come to the steps of the shrine -and the first thing you’d seen were pink roses. Upon either side of the steps.

And the next thing you’d seen was Toji’s calloused hand - you’d recognize it anywhere - outstretched to help you up them.

That was when it had become real.

The binding rituals and sharing of sake passed by in a blur. Your voice shook as you stumbled through your vows, and Toji had steadily echoed his out—it seems they were written to match. Something about upholding the values of the household and furthering the Zenin name, words that were wiped from your mind as soon as they escaped your mouth. Then, after barely stealing a glance at those green, green eyes trained on you- you were dashed to the wedding reception.

Both you and Toji sat at the head of a U-shaped dinner table.

Winding around the massive dining hall like a serpent with a feast laid upon its silken white belly: sashimi platters, rolls and fragrant white rice, broths and pasta, cakes of all different kinds. The wedding reception was so big that professional chefs (some from the Zenin Estate, others hired from the best Michelin Star restaurants around the world) lined their workshops in the middle of the U and cooked for the guests live. 

The scrape of flat-top grills.

The clinking of sake cups.

The laughter of drunkards.

And the longer the night went on, the more rambunctious they seemed to become.

They toasted, they guffawed, they pretended not to brag, they asked for more.

You’re watching the scene unfold before you like a Renaissance painting—The Throes of Gluttony—and rub your weary eyes. Strained. The thing that no one seemed to mention about keeping a smile on your face for hours on end was just how deeply it caused a headache - all the way from the back of your eye sockets.

“Would you like to leave?”

It’s a gruff voice- deep. One that you haven’t heard in so long that it might have been someone unrecognizable completely.

But you knew who it was.

Even if the husky baritone didn’t come from right beside you - sending goosebumps skittering down your spine - you would have known that slightly teasing tone anywhere. You could have picked it out in a crowd of about a thousand voices- and Toji didn’t even seem to know that that familiar tease was slipping into his voice.

He looks dead serious when you turn to him, for perhaps the first time since the shrine. And oh—you’re hit with something indescribable.

Because what the rumors hadn’t seemed to mention about him was that he was so devilishly handsome.

He’d grown into those Zenin features he seemed to hate so much—now with a sharp jaw, a smoldering gaze, hair that seemed to fall effortlessly over his forehead. His tannish skin looked almost golden in the yolky yellow of the wedding lights. Puckered, pretty lips. Even the scar on there only served to make him look even more attractive. 

There was an intensity about him that only seemed to have grown tenfold in the years that you didn’t see him. There was sadness.

Despite knowing very well of his numerous fighting accolades as of late, you were taken aback by just how large he’d grown to be. The first time you’d seen him, he’d been a scrawny six-year-old that wasn’t even as tall as you. The last time you’d seen him, he’d been a gangly seventeen-year-old suffering from a sudden burst of height, and threatening to show signs of growing even taller.

And he had grown taller.

Broader.

Beefier.

Toji shifts in his seat to face you more clearly, and you watch as his dark hakama stretches over his wide shoulders. Puffed-out chest. Slender waist. Large arms. Barely doing anything to conceal his muscular frame-

He raises one jet-black brow at you and you jolt.

“Pardon?” Breathless.

Toji shoots you a slightly knowing smile, “Would you like to leave, my wife?”

My wife.

It’s more of a factual statement, than anything - a confirmation of what you already know. But you can’t control the sudden lurch in your stomach as he says it—

“Yes.” You’re blurting out the answer faster than your mind can compute it. And you reach your hand out to him. “Yes, I would like to leave.”

Toji clasps your hand with a slight chuckle, “As you wish, Madam Zenin.” Both your golden wedding bands twinkle in the dim lighting.

“Look! Look! The newly-weds are leaving their own reception-”

“Am I drunk or are they being audacious enough to hold hands-”

“Do you think we may see an heir soon?”

“All rise for the esteemed clan leader of the Zenin family, and his madam.” The last one is a booming announcement by one of the Zenin council members.

In unison, the wedding party rises to their feet.

Cluttering and slightly clumsy with liquor.

“All bow for the esteemed clan leader of the Zenin family.”

In unison, they bow.

And you’ve just about had enough of being ogled as if you were a party trick- smiling politely and tugging on Toji’s hand to leave. And perhaps the thought that you wanted to be alone with him - with your husband - was hastening your movements-

“All bow—” But Toji stands firm. Raising his stern voice above the chaos, so that every corner of the dining hall shall be able to hear his crystal-clear words. You look up at him in slight shock at this sudden speech—did he want them to bow to him again? Before he’s saying your name- “—my wife, the esteemed madam of the Zenin family.”

Your heart drops to your stomach.

Your gaze snaps to the audience- you could see the confusion simmer across their faces, the realization, the shock, the slight apprehension. It was a chamber filled to the brim with men who’ve never had to look up at a woman a day in their lives.

And here they were, bowing to you.

It doesn’t happen instantly - not at all.

They first look at each other, they first bend at their knees as if in the motion of dry heaving (and some of them look as though they just might at this very notion), then—to your surprise, Naobito Zenin is the first to bow.

Then more of your family.

Then some of the Kamo clan.

One by one, they were bowing before you. 

“Lower.” Toji barks, and they each flinch- before doing as he said. Until their heads touched the floor, the higher-ups of that room bent before you.

As if worshipping.

All but one, of course - the blond-haired man stood out amongst the crowd. In more than one way. He was well-dressed in a way that denoted him as one amongst the clans, the Zenin emblem peeking out in silver, barely twenty with black dye fringing his pale hair. There was a coarse smirk twisting his lips, and he stood with his arms crossed in the front row.

You have to squint your eyes to realize that this was none other than Toji’s cousin—Naoya Zenin. The very same little boy the two of you had played with years before.

And he was refusing to bow before a woman.

Toji, of course, would not stand for this.

One split-second, he’s beside you, the other split-second, he’s in front of the young man and grabbing Naoya’s head with one hand. So fast that you didn’t even see him move. Slamming him down until his forehead hits the floor- “I said—” As Naoya scrambles to get up, Toji raises one foot and stomps it down on the other man’s head. “-bow.”

Naoya sputters, “T-Toji-sama-”

“Lower.” He’s pressing down even harder with the heel of his golden-clad sandal. Naoya flails like a turtle overturned- “Lower.”

“Toji-sama, I didn’t mean to-”

“Lower—”

Naoya’s cheek was pressed to the floor, tears running down his cheeks and darkening the color of the ground. He was no match to your husband. “I-I apologize for-”

“Do not apologize to me.” Toji gruffs out from above, lips slightly twitching at the ends. He was enjoying this. “Apologize—to her.”

Hearing this almost seemed to hurt Naoya more than being stomped on.

He gasps.

He chokes.

He attempts uselessly to stand.

But who was he to reject a command from the clan leader?

“I…” A rush of near-satisfaction goes through your body as Naoya raises his teary eyes to look up at you- and that was only because Toji had allowed him barely even leeway. His bruised lips babble, “-apologize-”

“Madam.” Toji finishes.

“Madam.” Naoya repents, “I-I apologize, madam.”

Toji looks at you with peripherals darkened with anger, and you can only nod at him to spare the other man. You wouldn’t want a bloodbath on your wedding.

He spits down at Naoya before taking his foot off- and where his cousin darts behind the legs of Naobito Zenin, Toji calmly walks over to you and holds out his hand. For you to take.

For him to take you away from all this.

.

.

.

The elders were outside.

The elders were outside your martial bedroom and listening to every slight noise you were hatching-

“Zenin-”

“Toji.”

“Toji—” You’re gasping out wetly into the crook of his neck, your hands fisting in the expensive silks of his hakama. Heated proximity. His panting breath. Toji was pushing you flatly against the king-sized mattress, one hand on the back of your neck, the other pressing down your front.

He reaches the edge of your abdomen, almost near where your cunt was throb-throb-throbbing wildly between your legs. And you have to bite down on your bottom lip to keep the most lecherous sounds from escaping- “T-Toji, so they’re going to be listening all night-”

“All night.” Toji affirms. Pearly white canines glinting between his scarred lips, “So we might as well give them a show, hm, my wife?”

And then he’s gliding the tip of his nose down your neck, down your collarbones, right between the valley of your breasts. Breathing in. “O-oh—”

Your head tilts away to give him more access- and it’s then that you’re seeing yet another glimpse of the sliding doors to this grand chamber. Paper-thin screens. Shadows of council members here to affirm that the marriage was actually being consummated - you knew it was a tradition in the Zenin clan. For the council to stand guard behind the bedroom and make sure that another heir would be born. You just didn’t think that it would be taken so seriously with rows upon rows of-

“Focus on me, darlin’.” Toji’s rasping tone warns, something primal curdling at the very back. You’re snapping your gaze over to him and zapped with electricity a darkened look in his eyes- “Or should I say…”

“Sh-shit.” You whisper as he starts shifting down your body. Lips kissed numb.

The clan leader reaches between your trembling legs. “I beg for your attention, madam.”

“Yes.”

Your whisper billows out and makes some of the elders behind the screen flinch- their shadows stretch and grow on the pale sheet almost as if they were listening even closer.

Listening in for the whoosh of Toji pushing up your decadent silks and stuffin’ his head straight into your pretty cunt. His nose dives between your pussylips. His chin hits the base of your folds. He sticks out his lengthy tongue and manages to sluuuurp! up the wads of slick stuck to your pussy.

He manages to sniff.

“Oh.”

Something cracks at the back of his throat, and you’re looking over at him curiously.

Only to find that Toji wasn’t looking at you- not even close.

He had his murky green peripherals permanently fixated on your drippin’ wet pussy, a line of slick sliding between your folds. He was almost entranced. He was almost speechless.

“Oh.”

He had his gaze locked with your throbbing cunt until it’s only a slight creak from outside that makes him break his stare to look at the elders. And then over at you and oh—you notice that his pupils were blown so wide that you nearly couldn’t see a speck of green.

You almost feel…strangely cautious at the animalistic way he was acting. Blinking down at him, “T-Toji, are you-”

But it’s almost as if hearing his name wrapped around your pretty lips is enough to send Toji Zenin into overdrive.

And he’s startling- almost fight or flight, before slapping a hand down on the side of your hips and draaagging you halfway down the damn mattress. Letting the expensive bedsheets bunch up where your hips were pulled.

Because Toji doesn’t seem to care for your trembling questions- he doesn’t seem to care that you were bucking your hips up n’ down his handsome face for more.

No.

He was gaping his maw over your wet cunt and slippin’ his tongue inside in a mere split-second- not even waiting for your elastic hole to stretch properly before starting to fuck you like a madman. Like a madman.

He was holding onto either side of your thighs n’ pressing his nose up reeeeal close to your clit- breathing in gutturally as he swabs his tongue inside. Spit dribbling. Scar grazing your folds. “Sh-shiiiiit—”

And, usually, he’d tease your whiny voice—wouldn’t he?

But right now Toji Zenin can’t even fucking breathe as he’s pistoning his fat tongue in. And out. Repeatedly, he’s swervin’ the curled tip of his tongue against the roof of your cunt and feeling as you clench all ‘round him. 

As you buck your hips off of the rickety mattress - it must’ve been decades old by the way it was protesting your every movement.

But Toji doesn’t even register just how close his bed was to shattering into a zillion pieces right now.

The only thing on his mind was…

“You.”

You’re snapping your head down in shock and confusion at the abrupt groan of a word barked between your pussylips - no warning. It hums vibrations of pleasure up your spine and makes you arch into Toji’s slidin’ lips. All dazed, as if he doesn’t even know he’d blurted it out loud.

The only thing - one - he can think of is you.

You, you, you, you.

You with your soppy wet walls wrapped around his pokin’ tongue, you with your cunt throbbing away every time his nose dug between your pussylips. You who was sucking him back in every time he pulled out, you who was- fuck. Enough to drive a man wild.

And you could feel the change in the way that Toji was makin’ out with your pussy, too.

He had gone from the slow and sensual kissing when you first entered the room- into the rapid gestures of his tongue now. Manhandling you. Not letting you escape.

Your voice cracks once he’s pinning down your flailing limbs, feeling the bulge of his big beefy biceps against your skin. “Shit, and you just really did no- ngh- preparation or anything? Just fucking me—mm, like that?” He was stretchin’ you out so hard with his mere tongue that it was making you see white.

“All the better to feel you, my dear…” The way he says it itches something carnal at the back of your mind. And you shiver as he purses his lips and gives your clit a harsh suck. 

“A-and you’re just being so- ngh, rough.” You mumble out between wet lips.

“All the better to eat you, my dear.” Toji flicks a careless look at the grey shadows beyond the screen, the way they stirred as they surely knew what was happening in here. Almost to taunt them - Toji’s taking a few more hefty thrusts inside your hole and moaning. Loud and proud. 

“And, Toji…” Breaths hitching a mile a minute - right on time with the sloppy cadence of his tongue. You gasp, “-you’re just so damn…” Rough? Needy? Gluttonous? “-loud.”

“All the better to make them know you’re mine, my dear.”

And it’s as if your mind is suddenly made of nothing but fuzz and the most lecherous swipes of Toji’s tongue- he was holding you so tight to him that you can feel the half-moons of his fingernails embed onto your skin. Pointed chin smacking against the base of your pussy in a constant drumming that leaves you maddened. Tongue viciously pummeling in and out—

So damn noisy with the most primal slurps that you almost can’t hear yourself over it. Whining maddeningly.

“And by the sounds of it-” Toji’s continuing into your cunt, as if he was still in the middle of a conversation. Just casual. Not even with you - he was chattin’ away lovingly to your pussy. “-m’eating you pretty well, huh?”

“Fuck, when did you get so cocky—mmpf.” You’re raising a hand up to muffle the noises leaking from your throat.

But Toji catches the slight movement- and in the blink of an eye, his trained reflexes have both of your hands pinned to the front of your stomach. Wrists restrained. Your tits pressed together in a way that presents a feast for his eyes.

The way he looks at you…oh.

You’re just so wet that you could already see the gleaming layer forming on Toji’s face like a medal of honor. And you’re sure the squelches were loud enough that they could be heard even outside- “Shit.” Struggling against his lewd restraints, “Toji, but they’re gonna hear us-”

And when he still doesn’t stop his motioning face, you find yourself breaking away a hand and running it through his sweaty black locks.

Having to lightly tug to get his attention on you instead of your sopping pussy- “Toji, they’re gonna hear-”

Your husband whispers something breathless against your cunt that you don’t quite catch.

“What was that?” You’re leaning up on your elbows to hear. And you can only stare into the murky depths of his gaze, pupils blown and dazed. 

He smacks his scarred lips- slightly parted as he tries desperately to crane himself closer to your quivering hole. “Cheh.” Toji rolls his eyes and lurches back a mere centimeter or two - the expression on his face was something agonized as if it hurt him to pull away - only to spit a dripping wad of saliva down onto your cunt. 

“Please…” You’re shivering, “What was that?”

Breath choppy. Tone absolutely shattered. He repeats- “Who did ya marry?”

His voice muffles into your folds. You’re looking away from the traditional sliding doors and finding that he has his eyes dead-set on you—intense.

For a few seconds you’re so enraptured by the look in his verdant eyes that you’re speechless- and only then do you register what exactly he asked. “Wait…what?” He looked dead fucking serious.

Splat! Another wad of spittle. “Answer the question, will you, madam?”

His voice was full of authority. The beastly man from earlier. “Y-you…? Toji Zenin.” You’re just managing to gasp out, shivering at the feeling of his tastebuds then rovering uuuup and down your slit. Teasing. Then pushing inside. He’d stretched his muscle out so that very honed tip would graze your most sensitive insides, “Toji, why are you asking me-”

“Then why dont’cha fucking scream your husband’s name for them to hear, hm?”

And you swear you can feel his smile against your very pussylips for a mere sultry moment.

Before he’s back to swipin’ into you like a machine. 

Except this time…he’s using both his mouth and the two globular ends of his fingertips.

The fingertips on his left hand.

They were thick and rough after years of training- perfect to swab against your most tender spots and leave your walls raw with pleasure. And just when you thought his size and shape would be enough to drive you frenzied, Toji was curvin’ up his fingers in a way that let the frigid metal of his wedding ring press against your walls.

All cold and making it easy to follow his movements. He was forcing in his solid inches with quick, methodical strokes down your velvety channel.

Probin’ into the sweetest spots - you’re sure that Toji was just so generous with his size that he doesn’t even have to try to fill up your every orifice. He spreads his fingers apart and scissors into your insides, pumping them roughly.

In and out. In and out. In and out.

“Oh my god—” Let them hear? Let the elders hear? “Toji, what has gotten into-”

Thwack!

“I said…let them hear.”

Just then he’s puckerin’ his two fingerpads against your poor g-spot- already having mapped your cunt out with his tongue. It was almost as if his digits were on a treasure hunt to find where you liked him thumpin’ away into the most.

So hard that you think the elders outside can hear it. So hard that you swear they’re flinching-

Thump-thump-thump!

And whatever question you had on the tip of your tongue before is immediately evaporating at the sheer frenzy Toji shows when he’s drilling into you. The realization hits you like a truck. “Toji, are you…pussydrunk?”

He merely flicked his half-lidded eyes up at you- “Mmmm—” Groaning his deep baritone against your raw n’ rubbed lips - it makes you leak out in your syrupy sap even more. He has the audacity to look at your ruined expression and giggle. “I dunno, council, am I pussydrunk?”

Though it wasn’t as if they could hear that slight whisper- or even if they could, it was impossible that they’d answer.

But Toji seems to be utterly unaffected by that little tidbit, and instead looks even more gleeful at the silence from the audience just behind a thin screen on the door. “Heh- when they hear they’ll know I fuck my wife goooooood.”

You supposed that answered your question already. And you’re holding onto Toji’s crown and rutting up against his ajar mouth. “Shit- shit, I never thought you’d be so—”

“Look- I think they’re squirming.” Toji glances over at the shadows that still loomed, as present as ever. “I think they’re already startin’ to find out.”

“Fuck.” He’s thrashing his wedding ring against your g-spot once more. 

And from then on you were merely at your husband’s mercy - at the mercy of the clan leader of the Zenin’s. He was acting just as ruthlessly. 

Almost as if he wanted them to hear everything he was doing.

“Bet they can hear just how wet ya are f’me- just how much you’re leaking over this damn fucking Zenin bed they love so much.” On cue, he’s rutting against the bedframe to leave its springs creaking. “Bet they can hear the way you suck me up like thaaaaaat- atta girl. My wife.” Toji hooked his fingertips at the ends and made them splosh out even more slick- dragging them out of your puckered hole and fucking them right back in. “Wonder if they know how sweet ya are though, huh?”

Like your body was ready to prove his point, your hole gapes with a gush of glittery slick. One that Toji’s gulping up with as much noise as he could possibly make.

Purposefully bucking his hips against the mattress even more - it was almost as if eating you out like this was too much to bear. He bites down on the insides of his cheek as his rock-hard erection crushed against the soft comfort. He just needed to fuck you—

Toji has his teeth nibblin’ over your pretty clit and sucking until his chiselled cheeks hollowed and it made the most lecherous squelching sounds. Each of them a cacophony that echoed outside. He moans, “Bet they can hear how ready you are-” And you’re noticing that at this particular sentence, your husband raises his volume just a tad. He raises it. “-how fucking neeeeedy ya are to get fucked stupid by me.”

A rattle outside.

Both of you turn your head in unison to look at the commotion, but whatever the incident may have been, no one seems to move from their seats at your audience. Almost glued there - and not by duty any longer.

You look back at Toji who was grinning.

He puffs out a snicker above your swollen folds—“Pwah! If anything, at least the Zenin clan leader knows how to eat pussy.”

Toji’s shaggy bangs graze across your clit and make you twitch, “T-Tooooji—I don’t think m’gonna last…”

“What was that?”

“I think m’gonna cum.”

A smile he can’t control breaks out across his face, “Louder, madam.” Toji alternates his greedy gaze between your enraptured audience, your lewdly twisting expressions, and your pussy. All gulping him down greedily.

What a sight it was to behold - and that noise? Who’s going to stop him from reaching over to grab at one of your sandals and fling it against the sliding door- where it knocks against the cedar screen and clatters to the floor. “Ya hear that?” He calls to those uptight elders, surely horrified by now… “Louder for the ones in the back~”

Turning your head, you see that your clans are more restless than ever. “M’gonna cum-”

“Louder.”

“Gonna cum—”

“Louder.”

It seems that no matter how loud you were, it just wouldn’t be enough for him.

So the only thing you could do at this point is to throw your head back and get lost in your sudden wave of bliss - throw your head back and cum.

You’re grabbing handfuls of Toji’s shaggy black hair and yowling out his name as loud as your voicebox could handle it- “T-Toji.” Bubbling out past the sizzlin’ mouthfuls of saliva welling up at your throat. “Toji—shit, shit, shit, Toji m’cumming.”

“Mmm—” He barely had the time to respond, fucking his fingers into you furiously. His mouth latched on permanently to your clit as he dragged on your high, digits hittin’ your g-spot at every startling peak of euphoria. Again. And again. And again and again and again.

Somehow he managed to pinpoint each highest point of pleasure, and you have to bite back tears at the sheer intensity. Heartbeat thundering in your eardrums. Toes curling until it almost hurts. 

And through it all the handsome clan leader below you was readily taking on each of your cunt’s drags. Each of the gyrations you were pumping down on his swollen lips and his nose. Each of the little jerks as you had to be pulled back onto his swollen lips and his nose- he wasn’t letting you escape until you were well and thoroughly fucked through your orgasm.

You blink down dazedly at him once you’re clear-headed enough to formulate proper sentences. “Toji, m’cumming and it’s all because of you—”

“Fuck.” And with that said, he’s ruuuutting harshly against the mattress. It groans even louder in response and makes the chamber vibrate with noise.

You swear at the shaking of the bed, “Y-you’re gonna break this bed tonight, I swear-”

“Good.”

And it’s with a few more vulgar strokes that your high’s dissipating into a mere few tingles at your core - which, even that Toji’s threatening to swerve his fingers into you through. And you’re completely sure that he would’ve elongated you through your first high and straight into a second one had it not been for you pulling him off by the strands of his hair.

Begging through choked-up sobs, “Toji-” You were straining to get him to move- not that you didn’t want it, but you were just so sensitive that you wanted something…else more right now. “Toji, I’m begging you to—hah.”

“To what, my wife?” He’s running his calloused hands up and down the sides of your body. “I’ll give you anything, madam.”

Your lips quivered, “I want your cock, Toji…”

And, well, how could he ever say no to his pretty wife?

In no time, Toji’s lifting himself off of your lower half and climbing further up the bed. Something about the way he looks right now - half-lidded gaze, primal smirk, panting chest, throbbing erection through his wedding hakama - made you shift yourself up to the headboard.

And once you’re hitting the cool plane of mahogany, Toji grins.

“Nowhere to run, darlin’.”

The Zenin clan leader considers tearing off your kimono with his bare hands - before that admiring look you’d directed towards the garment makes him reconsider. It makes him sigh and gently start to part through the layers. They were much too much work, in his opinion.

And he’s practically jittery with need by the time the last of your obis are thrown over his shoulder.

And as for his clothes…

Toji takes his sensual time slipping off his robes - so many layers that it makes you so thoroughly impatient. And so you can’t help but reach out and threaten to rip his decadent clothes off-

“Tearing your husband’s clothes off already?” Toji says to you, though you do notice that he’s lilting his pitch up just a bit to let the elders outside hear. “S’that pussy that needy f’me already, my wife? Can’t wait until I take it off, huh?” You smack his chiselled pec and he grins even wider, “Oh, madam, we’re gonna have a looooong and happy marriage—”

Toji doesn’t even properly expose himself.

He’s merely lazily pushing aside his robes until you could practically see all of him: the naturally ripped lines of his muscles, his toned abs, his cushy pecs. All outlined with the scruff of his happy trail that wedged between his prominent v-line.

Toji’s meaty thighs peeked out from where his robes flapped open, and he was pushing them aside to bear you his aching hot erection—

You count.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven

Eight.

Nine entire inches that glistened in dripping hot precum, glazed the shiniest ruby-red on the top of his shaft. Flared tip. Heavy balls. Not only was Toji so long - but he was juuuuust as thick, with enough veins that you can already feel the phantom graze of them inside you.

Toji’s balls tightened as he took in the way you were looking at him-

“Like what you see, huh?” He’s smirking down sleazily at you, giving a playful smack on the sheeny inner part of your thigh. “Don’t you worry, darlin’, you’re gonna be feeling me very soon.”

“Shit, I can’t wait.” Your legs drop open around him - and end up wrapped around Toji’s slim waist to get him to buck his cock against your cunt. “I need to feel you now, Toji.”

“Now? No preparation or nothing?” He’s cocking his head down at you—cute. Just too cute how you were shaking your head like so. Not that Toji Zenin really had any idea of stretching you out even more and teasing you endlessly, but it was nice to see you deny it all the same.

His dark fabric was still semi-draped over his shoulders (though they were falling off uselessly by now and you could spot his tanned deltoids peaking out…hoenstly, how had they trained him in the years you hadn’t seen him? Because Toji was just…incredible). And it falls over you almost like a curtain as the man pushes you back against the sweat-dampened mattress.

One hand of his presses down on your stomach, the other snakes downwards to cup his thick hilt. “But I’ve gotta warn ya…s’gonna be a biiiig stretch- alright, my girl?”

You’re nodding, “Yes—”

“And when I say big stretch, I mean a biiiiiiig one- alright?” His black brows furrow at the sensation of his tip kissin’ your pussylips - you were just so hot and soft. So ready that he almost couldn’t bear it, “Enough to make that pretty mouth of yours scream, alright?”

You huff, “A-alri—fuck.”

And those elders stationed outside your martial bedroom could probably pinpoint the exact moment that Toji’s slipping his cock inside. Red-hot. Furiously hard.

Your mouth drops into a soundless scream, and the bed dips as he rests his weight on top of your lower half. The bulbous end of his cock swabbin’ between your pussylips and finding its way inside your tight hole, he’s fitting in just the crown of his shaft and making you squeal. “Sh-shit, you’re just so big-”

“What was that?” Toji’s rutting his hips against you, his cock giving you a probing thrust. “Didn’t hear you darlin’...”

“You’re just so-” Yet another thrust. And this time you swear you can feel Toji’s salty-sweet precum trickle out at the very back of your throat—”-big, Toji—”

And this time, it’s loud enough for him.

He’s tilting his head over to the silent sliding doors with an utterly arrogant look on his face, lips turned upwards priggishly. “Ya hear that?” He’s calling out to those dusty ol’ elders - most certainly, not the least bit that softly teasing tone he’d use with you. “You small-dicked motherfuckers wish you could be me.”

“Toji—” Uselessly smacking at this bicep to no avail.

But he merely keeps going- “The only thing you can do is watch- only watch everything I do. Everything I will become.” It was like this. It was always like this - Toji had fought tooth and nail to come to where he was right now. And he’d be damned if he let some old fossils ruin his wedding night with you—they were going to have a show. He’s snarling down - and just as soon as you’re registering the expression, Toji’s crashing his lips against yours in an open-mouthed kiss. “And right now…”

You’re whimpering as the hand on top of your stomach comes pressing dooooooooown.

“-I think m’gonna become a dadda, hm?”

“Fuck-” And it’s with a single hammering thrust that Toji’s forcing his swollen cock past all that slight resistance. His head falls forwards, bangs obscuring part of his face- and he can’t stop from heaving out a shuddering groan. 

You swear you can see the exact moment that Toji Zenin breaks.

Because you’re clenching your syrupy wet walls ‘round his tip, and it’s enough to make the hulking man above you shudder. Shake. Stop your moving hips with the hand on top of your stomach.

Toji presses down—“E-easy there, darlin’.” He’s rasping between clenched teeth, sounding for all the world as if it was taking every ounce of will in his body not to let his voice tremble. “Let your—haaaah, husband fuck you like you deserve, alright?”

Just as shaky as his words were aching to be, he’s compelling his hips forwards and swabbing the back of your pussy with a plap! “Fuck.”

“Fuh-fuck.” He echoes after you. Yet another hammering movement. “Fuck, I can’t stop myself.”

“Sh-shiiit, how is it even possible to feel like this-” You’re babbling out. And it seems that that’s what Toji wanted to find out, as well.

He’s thrusting his hips forwards again.

Shaking.

And again.

And again.

And again and again-

Soon enough, Toji was fucking you. In long, deeeeeep thrusts that bruise his split-ended tip all the way against the back of your cervix—before then dragging riiiiight back out till your hold was just stretched around his mushroomy cockhead. Then all the way inside again.

“T-Tooooooji—” You’re bawling out at this point, the sheer stretch of him inside you making your cheeks drench with tears. It really just felt as if he was openin’ up every hidden spot and crevice inside you, and Toji had his pointed tip acting as the spotlight.

Pinpointing each sweet spot-

And again…

Your legs start to thrash at the constant rhythmic feeling- “Ah ah- no running away, madam.” He’s scooping you up even further into his arms, “What’d I say? Let your husband- fuh-fuck you like you deserve, hm?”

“But- but you already are—” You cry out.

“Oh?” He’s darting his eyes down to the thick little bulge that had started forming at your stomach - just the slightest movement of his globular tip swabbin’ inside. And out. Inside. And out. No matter how much you bent and curved, Toji was just so big that you could see him from the outside. He’s grinning all of a sudden. “Oh…you’re right.”

Your eyes widen, “Toji, did you just realize-”

“But that doesn’t mean m’fucking you pregnant just yet—let me breed you, darlin’.”

Your head’s falling into the pillows, your back’s arching, your throat’s crying out - your cunt just wasn’t used to him. Which is why he was fucking you harder with no hesitation like he was trying to mold himself to your pussy.

To meld himself.

To which Toji doesn’t let you last even two seconds before he’s grabbing both your limbs and wrapping them around his neck. He lets your ankles intertwine securely before bending you neatly in half until your kneecaps spank your tits. 

You were being folded.

Straight into a-

“Mating press.” Toji rasps out, his scorching hot breath tickling your face. “This is called a mating press, darlin’.” Almost as an example, he’s pumping his solid inches all the way inside your channel - Toji stirs your insides just a little bit in swervin’ motions so his veins slip and graaaaze down your sides. “But you probably already knew that—now do you know what we use it for?”

“Well, it’s to—mmpf.” But how could he expect you to answer when he was smacking the curve of his tip against your sweetest spots. Every time you were opening your mouth to try n’ form a coherent sentence, your husband was fucking that sentence right out of your throat.

And the answer was simple: he didn’t want you to answer. He looks over at the shuffling shadows through the door screen—apologies, he should’ve emphasized. He didn’t want you to answer. “Oi.”

Toji barks out, and you could see the elders physically flinch at being addressed.

He smirks, “How about ya answer it f’me?” It almost makes you shy to hear your husband speaking to them while he was absolutely ruining your insides with his cock- tone breathy, hips smacking yours in an obvious background music to what you two were doing. “What exactly is a mating press used for?”

There’s a silence- and then a noise.

A slight whisper of an answer that only Toji’s extra-honed ears, trained through years of his Heavenly Restriction, manage to pick up. He’s nodding his head down at you, “That’s right?”

“What’d they say, Toji?”

“Oh—you wanna know what they said?” He’s cooing down at you—cute, cute, cute. Your lips were wobbling adorably whenever he grazes the rounded flare of his tip near your g-spot.

“Yes-” You’re nodding, “Yes, please-”

“Louder?”

“Yes, please—”

Loud enough that it rings across all four corners of the heady chamber, saturated with sex. “Good girl.” And Toji snickers as he pulls your restless body once more down to his- and as if that wasn’t enough, he’s craning his head down and blowing against your left ear. “A good girl that’s gonna get fucked full of my heir soon.”

An heir.

An heir.

So that was what it was used for - not that you didn’t know, or couldn’t have guessed. But just hearing your husband himself utter the very words made your pupils shape into heart eyes.

Staring up at him lovingly.

Toji was pounding your cunt against the mattress as though he was furious at you- and the constant creaking noise almost made you embarrassed. It was proof that he was fucking you had and rough. That he was pinning you down with one ruthless hand and shovelling you with every inch of his thickened length, swervin’ the nerves of your g-spot. “Even they approve.”

You’re snapped out of your dreamy little reverie, “Wh-what?”

“Even they approve.” Toji cocks his head down at you with a smile, “And I don’t give a fuck what they have to say about me- but if there’s anything I—ngh, am, it’s that I’m a man of my word.”

“And so…?”

But he merely glides his hand down your belly, feeling for that cute sensitive spot where Toji was rubbin’ your cervix raw. There was such an openly loving look on his face as he stared down at your body. “And so welcome baby Zenin—” Hyphenated with your family’s last name.

Toji shudders as he fucks you.

To be quite honest, he didn’t think that the thought of having an heir would affect him so much - he never has been one to be so hellbent on carrying the family name. Hell, he’d have been happy to take your last name.

But it was the vision of you all pregnant and plump and glowing—

Now that could do something to a man.

And it’s sending a thrill across Toji’s veins to see the tummy bulge he hammered into you, almost as if a little teaser for what was to come. He presses down on your stomach once more as he eases in and out, in and out. “Gonna be the prettiest momma f’me, right?” He’s grumbling out through his large canines, snarled as though he wanted to bite into that pretty lil’ throat of yours. “Gonna suck Toji Zenin dry and keep all my cum inside that- ngh, pretty pussy? S’that what yer gonna do? Suck me dry—?”

“Y-yes-”

“Louder, darlin.” He interrupts you, “I need them to hear their madam.”

“Yes—”

As a little reward, you’re getting Toji’s fat thumb spankin’ down on your clit. He rolls the pad of it over and over that spot- “And the madam is gonna be the one overspilling niiiiight after night while I fuck you pregnant, right? Gonna be the one that won’t even be able to move once I’m done with ya because you’re gonna be, mmm, too fucking full?”

“Yes, please-” Your voice was barely a whisper. And Toji pinches your clit until you manage to raise your warbling tone.

“Gonna be my poor baby with all that sickness, aw?” He’s fauxing out a pout- one that makes you bite on his scarred lips. How rude. “Don’t worry- I’ll massage those pretty feet of yours when the time comes, I’ll paint yer pretty nails, I’ll toy with that pussy- heh.”

“Is that even…”

“Gonna be my bossy lady, aren’t ya? Gonna order me around and make me get every pregnancy cravin’ ya want- as you should.” He’s chuckling at the mere notion of it, so sweet on his brain. “Gonna be asking me to fuck you all over again when those pregnancy hormones hit, huh? And then…”

“And then?” You eagerly ask.

He leans down to whisper - just for you, this time. Not any audience. “Then - if you want - I’ve gotta fuck you with our second kid all over again, huh?”

Your jaw drops.

But Toji continues - his hips and his fingers and his words. “And then a third.” He plummets his thoroughly swollen tip once more against your g-spot - so hard that it sets the crowns of your teeth on edge. “A fourth.” Another.

“Shit-”

“A…” Toji trails off, his dazed head raising blearily towards the sliding doors. “How are we feelin’ about five kids, eh?”

Whatever they answer makes him smile.

“You heard it, momma.” He gutturally moans, “M’gonna cum inside this cute cunt- fuck, m’gonna cum inside and pump you all fuuuuuull.”

Your heels attempt to find purchase on his sculptured back, and you’re kicking madly because of the sheer force of pleasure coursing through you - though, of course, to a man with Heavenly Restriction it feels like nothing but kitten punches. “T-Toji…”

He smiles like he already knew what you were about to say, “Yes?”

“Toji, m’gonna…”

“Cum, huh?” He’s narrowing his sultry eyes down at you, “And do you think she deserves to cum?”

For a second there, you think he’s almost talking to you - and you’re wondering just what he was talking about…before the shuffling and murmurs from beyond the sliding doors catch your attention. “You’re seriously asking them—”

“Ah ah-” Toji hums, “The council is in session.”

You couldn’t believe your damn ears- and you’re getting lost in Toji’s aggressive strokes for some time. Looooong and hard and driving your pupils into the back of your skull. Before Toji’s hand suddenly comes slamming down atop your pussylips-

“And can ya guess what the council has decided for you, madam?” Toji grins from ear-to-ear, “Hm?”

“I-I don’t—oh.” He’s pinching your clit hard enough to make you see stars.

“They’ve decided that you can cum.”

Hard enough to make you reach your high all at once. 

It’s shuddering through your body in waves, and you find your hips arching damn-near completely off of the bed. Toji has his cock stuffed in you deep and his fingers squeezing your clit through each throb of your high. 

It was harder than the last one.

Mind-baffling. 

Earth-shattering.

It was as if a warmth had flooded through your entire being, and Toji was only heating up the temperature a few notches with each probe of his cock. His flared tip swabs down the sides of your g-spot every single time - and Toji was more than happy to send your body twitching each time he did so. 

More than happy to watch the waves of your high turn out to be splashes—

You were squirting.

“Hear that—?” He calls out breathlessly, above the liquidy noises emanating from between your legs. The volume of your sap clearly drenched your legs and left his cock soaked. Thoroughly soaked. “She’s fucking—oh, she’s…” He fucks you through your high with roughened grunts, “Fuck- fuck.”

It left you salivating and unable to string together a full sentence- your arms wrapping tight around Toji’s neck to kiss him. “Want it-”

“Hmmmm?”

“Want you to cum inside me now, Toji.” You’re begging up at him, batting your tear-stained lashes. Pulling him in even closer, “Please?”

“Cheh-” He snickers- though even through that smug demeanour, you could feel the animalistic flinch of his cockhead deep at your innards. He was unravelling as well. “I’m gonna cum in-haaah, inside you- of course m’gonna cum inside you, my wife.”

Toji funnels into you so hard that the crowned top of your head hits the headboard.

“Gonna cum inside you and feel it in your womb-” Toji snarls out, his blushin’ tip starting to trickle out in something hot and gooey. “Gonna give these needy walls of yours something ta really hold onto- gonna have her sucking me dry.” And you swear you could see tears glittering in his dark eyes. “Gonna pump you so full that you have no option other than to- hah, overspill. But oh, don’t worry, my madam, when you overspill your husband will be riiiiight here-”

You hiccup, “Please-”

“-to fuck it right back in again.”

It’s then that you’re really feeling the full force of Toji’s high - because he empties out thiiiiick and miry ribbons of cum that puddle at the back of your pussy. So much of it. So much being poured out. They were just so sticky, with a salted caramel taste that you swear sizzles at the back of your throat.

Muscular back arching.

Eyes shuttering.

His heavy balls hitting your cunt with a thwack-thwack-thwack!

He digs his feet into the springy mattress and arches into you through each peak of his high, dragging his veiny cock right through it. Your velvety walls were just perfect to elongate the feeling of his airy sensation, and Toji can’t help but let out husky groans as he gets lost in the feeling—fuck, he didn’t even know that he could cum this much.

Trickling into you like honey.

Toji glides a hand down your front and feels for that little tummy bulge that was once there- now all bloated with his sheer white sap.

But it’s almost as if it was refusing to stop by this point, and Toji can only swat his ruby-red tip against the deepest depth of your cervix and thank her for taking it all. His eyes fluttering open and shut as he attempts to clear his damn mind.

You’re biting down on your tongue, tears exploding behind your eyes. “Sh-shit, it feels so good.” Pressing your lips to his scarred ones, so familiar now. “Toji, you feel so good.”

He shivers.

“Fuck, we’re gonna make a cute baby.”

Before…Toji Zenin doesn’t stop.

In fact, you learn that he doesn’t stop - and you don’t want him to - even past your second round. Your third round. Your fourth round. Your fifth round.

Toji might have had all those delicacies before him during your wedding reception, but it was here between your legs that he couldn’t stop going back for seconds. Filling you again and again and again- it was by the sixth round that the bed frame had completely broken. And by the eight that he’d stopped taking you on the shattered mattress and fucked you on the polished wood of the floor.

Just two feet away from the sliding doors, your head was being pushed up and up and uuuuuup towards it. As he just kept on thumpin’ his rotund red tip into the base of your pussy until the sun started to rise.

Taking you on all fours this time—doggy style, with a mean headlock gripping your throat.

And the elders outside were slouched and fatigued, if their shadows were anything to go by.

And you yourself was just so sensitive-

“Where’d you think you’re going, madam—?” You’re feeling Toji dragging you down into his beefy arms before you even understand his question - before you even realize that your feet had already planted on the wooden panels and had started to push off. It was as if your body couldn’t decide whether you wanted to bounce up more into his ruinous length, or to bounce away for your own sanity-

He helps you make a choice - and that was by grabbing onto the column of your throat with his biceps and raising your muddled head up to his. Kissing you, “Are we sure it’s even taken, yet?”

“Yes—” You’re babbling out over…the murmurs of a council that agreed immensely. They themselves were sure that their clan leader would continue until the end of time if possible. “Yes, it’s taken- it’s-”

“But are we- sure-” Each word punctuated by a thorough slash of his puckered pink tip.

He was so sensitive by this point that Toji himself was leaking his ivory sap out like no other- not enough space inside you for all of it. It froths down the middle of your cunt and creates such a gooey mess—“Yes.”

“Mmmm, well anything you say, madam.” He’s humming out. Pussydrunk. “But are we really-”

“Toji Zenin.”

The clan leader shudders, “I love it when you do that.” He kisses you with a rather loud smack, “I love you—”

And he doesn’t feel a shred of regret in the world for what he’s just confessed. Always wanted to confess.

“Always have.” Toji swallows, looking deep into your dazed eyes. “Always will- and I tried—oh, how I tried to get to you. But it was never enough. How I imagined holding you and loving you all these years but…but I understand if you don’t feel remotely the same, and if the council’s distance b-between us has already changed your mind on-”

“Toji Zenin.” He shuts up and looks down at you- only to be greeted by your smile. Head turned over your shoulder to keep staring at him. His own scarred lips turn up into a grin, green eyes twinkling. “Come here and kiss me, my husband.”

And so he wastes no time.

Murmuring into your mouth.

Pulling away for a split-second.

Raising his meaty thigh up and pressing the heel of his foot straight on top of your head- “Should we ask those damn old toads for baby names now?”

.

.

.

“Toji Zenin.”

You’d repeated, all those twenty years ago when you met him for the first time.

And for the first time, said Toji Zenin could feel his heart give a little…lurch.

How strange—he clasps at his small chest through his yukata as he watches you leave for your mother with a final wave. How strange, indeed.

The door closes and a little boy with green eyes and a scar is left sitting in the darkness, hoping you’ll visit him again.

.

.

.

The door opens.

What could buy a small apartment in Tokyo, barely the size of your closet, could buy an entire home in Hokkaido. Modest yet spacious. 

With an arched doorway and the curious guest of vines growing down the side of the house,peeking its leafy little head inside in the presence of dim yellow light. A stone pathway zig-zagging through the foliage to lead one right inside. A roof the color of a pastel green that marked it out from the others around it. A plumage of flowers - roses and tulips and lavender - each lifted their head up at the rays of early morning sunlight—this was why Toji had picked this place out.

It was somewhere no one would find you.

With enough space for three people.

You keep a hand on top of your growing belly and take in the scenery around you,as if a moving post card. After your wedding night, Toji had forgone what all the elders said and given you the choice on what you wanted to do in case of a real pregnancy. Taking you to the doctor to know every option in-depth. And, at the end of the day, well…

It hadn’t been easy to run away from the Zenin clan - let alone burn their whole estate down. Carrying only with you your most essential belongings, your wedding dress, and enough money to last the two of you four lifetimes - but Toji still would insist on working. 

It hadn’t been easy.

But you had done it.

The both of you- you had done it.

And through your fingertips were still slightly charred from the remnants of ash and memories, you don’t think you’ve ever felt more free in your life-

A jingle of keys.

While you had been basking in the natural world outside, Toji had gone ahead and opened the door to your new home. He’s staring softly at you from inside, smile crooked, large frame leaned against the door frame.

“What?” You ask him in slight amusement.

He shakes his head and quietly passes you the keys.

They were like any other - a set of glinting keys that had a little tag on them. It was one of those tags people attached to the schoolbags of their children (speaking of, was it too early to start looking into those now?) and at the top of its white face was written—your name. First and maiden last.

And then Toji—not Zenin.

Rather…

You look up at him with glistening eyes, “You took my last name?”

He nods, eyes slightly downturned. “I did- just before we left I handed in the paperwork.” Taking a long pause, “I apologize that I’m no longer your Toji Zenin-”

You’re cutting him off by throwing your arms ‘round his neck and pulling him in for an embrace. Toji steadies you easily, hands automatically then gliding down to your swollen stomach. “You never need to apologize to me for not being Toji Zenin, my love.”

“I see…” He’s clutching you even tighter, while the garden chirps around you two. Slightly choked up, “That reminds me- we need to pick out a name for our son, too, huh?”

Ah yes- a day before you left, the doctor had confirmed that you two would be having a son. A little boy. An heir to the Zenin clan. 

Those days, you just couldn’t help but think of another little boy with the weight of being an heir on his shoulders, sitting alone in a dark room with a bleeding scar.

But now you smile, “All in good time. Though I do have some ideas in mind.” Toji did, too, and you giggle as you think of the little notebook he’d been secretly writing down names in - one at the very top circled ‘Megumi’. 

“Mhmmm.” He’s looking at you with those eyes, green like the gardens of the Zenin Estate - but now green like the gardens of your home here. Toji looks so serene—you should’ve known that your boisterous husband wouldn’t let that tranquil air last too long.

His scarred lips lift up in a smirk, hand gliding across your pregnant belly. And you already know-

“Toji…”

“How about we start practicing for the second, huh?”

A/N. AWWWW I LOB HIM- feel like making a whole series for him now lowk.

Plagiarism not authorized.

[gojosluut]

when people see Toji with his sweet girlfriend out in public it’s all whispers

ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃

An older woman whispers to another about how sorry they feel for you or assuming what Toji is like behind closed doors just by his large muscular form, grumpy face, and his overbearing rough demeanor it’s not rare people are going talk.

You don’t hear the whispers, but Toji does, all of the tiny hushes going unnoticed by him.

His eyebrows furrow from slight irritation as his eyes watch you wander around the lingerie store trying to find that pink set you saw online.

Toji doesn’t complain on how long you’re taking his heavy footsteps following behind you while you looked around. His ears twitch as he hears a woman whispering to one of her friends about how they feel sorry for you, again assuming how Toji is behind closed doors.

Once you had your full fill of shopping and you were back in your cozy apartment all Toji could think about is how he wished all those people in the mall could see him right now.

large muscular form taking up your entire vanity chair as you test out all the new makeup products you bought. Your hand steadily applies the eyeliner on his lash line - face completely concentrated as you swiftly apply a small wing.

His hair was clipped back by my melody hair clips, face in full glam with all the products you just bought. You lean back eyes scanning his face - hand gripping his jaw as you turn his head from side to side inspecting your work.

Toji doesn’t complain nor does he saying anything just a sigh through his nose - eyes never leaving yours as you stare at him. Finally you give a satisfied smile as you hand him a mirror. “you look so pretty ‘ji !” you squeal while Toji checks out your magic.

Tojis scarred lips tug into a grin as he puts down the mirror grabbing you by the waist pulling you into his lap.

“mhm i do, you like everything you bought then?” big hands rubbing up and down your waist. You nod with a smile as you lean forward kissing his cheek as a thank you for his compliance.

If only the people around them could see him like this. His sweet girlfriend treating him like some doll, then they really wouldn’t be saying anything.

______๑♡⁠๑_____

(not proof read)

[slvttyplum]

AITA for eating my partner's pussy until she's sobbing? 

that’s what suguru was typing up on his phone while you had him shut out of the bathroom washing up. 

suguru knew he was supposed to feel bad about what he had done, but his heart was beating fast, and his dick was getting harder thinking about it again. 

ten minutes ago, suguru just finished eating your pussy out front and back, it lasted two hours and almost three. when he was satisfied with how much fluid, moans and crying you did, he finally stopped. 

in his defense it wasn’t his intention to go over board with it. he just wanted to taste you before the both of you settled in for bed, but once he started licking and sucking, he just couldn’t stop. 

the sensation and feeling of his tongue running over your wet pussy while you swirled and whined for him to stop while you simultaneously rolled your hips against your face, you acting like you didn’t want it only gave him more reason to keep going. 

he should’ve felt bad for having you squirt on his face multiple times and your pussy juice dripping off his skin but the more he typed on the forum the more he started to feel aroused by the actions that took place earlier. 

he only wanted to give his good girl a reward for being so needy, but you just had to keep rolling those hips of yours and spreading your legs out. 

fuck… the more he wrote, the better he felt about the situation.if anyone else was in his position with a pretty girl pussy deep in his mouth and his tongue exploring regions that shouldn’t be discussed, they too would’ve kept going. 

it was so sexy and hot that tears were rolling down your face while your hands were in his hair and pulling it trying to get him off of you from the overstimulation, that he came in his pants. 

the only defense that he had was the fact that this was a mistake, and he was only supposed to eat you out until you came, but his plans were ruined when your fluid glistened on his chin and your wet pussy tempted his eyes. 

his tongue flicking back and forth while his two fingers worked in and out of you with great speed. you couldn’t be mad at him for this, it’s your fault for having such a pretty pussy that needs to be taken care of. 

don’t make him the villain. he was only helping you with the pleasure that you so desperately craved. seeing you overstimulated and sobbing from the overwhelming sense ecstasy you were getting from him and only him, it turned him on. 

at certain points while deep inside you, his eyes would roll, and he would moan, and the vibrations from his moaning made you cum even more. 

after submitting that into the subreddit, replies came flooding in on how he wasn’t the asshole, and that made him grin. 

giving him even more reason to bust into the bathroom and eat you out again.

[slvttyplum]

OMG I FINALLY FOUND IT. i’ve been looking for this fic for months

[tojipie]

toji will do just about anything you want if you fuck him right first.

18+ content: smut, pussywhipped!toji, sub!toji if u squint, fem reader, sugar daddy dynamics

whatever you’ve done to his brain should be illegal.

toji’s never paid for pussy in his life. he’s not that kind of guy. but he’d gladly hand over his life savings if it meant you’d sit on his dick and never come off of it.

he feels like a fool when you’re squeezing him the way you are right now. hands shaking with his head thrown back and his neck exposed. grumbling nonsense to himself while he musters up the strength to not blow his load right then and there.

this is the closest thing to submission he’ll ever give you. toji likes to call the shots in the bedroom, but right now? he chooses to lay back against the pillows and let you use his dick however you need to.

doesn’t matter if he’s already cum, he’ll pull you back on it even when the sensitivity stings hot behind his eyes. even when the feeling of your sloppy heat makes his brain feel like it’ll melt through his ears.

“y’know.” you start, bracing your palms on his knees to better rock yourself onto him “you haven’t taken me shopping in a while.”

“yeah?” he pants, not at all registering what you just said. “yeah, whatever you want baby.” his voice trails off halfway through the sentence, too focused on the ripple of your ass against his hips. men were so easy.

it’s nights like these where toji chastises himself for not being able to keep up with your impressive stamina. fucking you was a gift and a curse wrapped all under a pretty pink bow. you made him work for it.

you slow your pace just the slightest bit, looking over your shoulder with a teasing grin to offer him a silent opt out.

toji shakes his head immediately. like the thought alone is the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard of.

“no, no. i’m fine. that dick is all yours.” he mumbles, nuzzling into the crook of your neck like a feral animal. “card’s all yours, money’s all yours. m’ yours.”

jackpot.

make no mistake, he could push his palm against your lower back and have you ass-up in a second. could decide he’s bored and fasten a hand to the back of your head, maybe pump you full of another load. but he doesn’t. whether that’s because of free will or because the synapses in his brain are overloaded with pleasure is something he won’t get into right now.

or maybe he’s just saying that to make himself feel better. maybe he really is the pussy drunk loser he never thought he’d become.

[salemsuccss]

Muhehehe

[townw1tchh]

Bad Dolly Rolling Her Eyes At Ahna.

[rina-teatia]

THIS CREATURE 😭😭😭🙏