hi! im scarr, 22 yrs old. please dont interact if under 18.
i don't take requests but i might if it's an alternate or additional plot for my already written fics. also, im posting some of these works on ao3 as well.
if you remember reading a fic similar to mine from years ago, it's most likely from my old and deleted account. i kinda recycled some and changed the characters i used.
gojo satoru
miracle aligner 18+
~ love written in stars and spelled with his tongue.
geto suguru
sexual frustration 18+
~ late night problems consist of you having a hard time getting yourself off and suguru hearing your desperation from the other room.
ryomen sukuna
kingmaker masterlist 18+
~ some daughters are raised to inherit. others are raised to be inherited.
late night problems consist of you having a hard time getting yourself off and suguru hearing your desperation from the other room.
a/n: this is a repost. i just realized i couldve made the 3 parts into one so im posting it as one whole part :)
you sigh together with the soft hum of whatever show you picked to play on your beaten up laptop. it’s already 2 in the morning and you still can’t sleep from the growing frustration that has got you all hot and bothered.
a week from now marks the date that your period will start and at times like this is when your hormones are all jacked up to the highest altitude. your libido spiking through the roof and your mood wavering every now and then. to make matters worse, it’s been a while since you had any sexual encounters with anybody because of the busy schedule you have with your classes.
the way that your slick juices keep dampening your underwear makes you uncomfortable. don’t get it wrong though, you tried at least three times to get yourself off tonight but it never feels enough. no matter how desperately you finger your gummy walls, it only seems to get you wetter each time, not letting you reach your orgasm.
debating whether or not you should try again, you let your frustration get the best of you so you close your laptop and slide it on your nightstand. the only light that was left in your small dorm room is the light from the hallway that’s peeking through the cracks of your door.
adjusting yourself in a more comfortable position, you start to slide your delicate hands past the soft material of your underwear. you gasp, realizing how the wetness of your needy cunt had begun to spread slightly on your thighs.
“fuck” you whimper, circling your clit with a little pressure.
~
“fuck”
suguru heard, freezing on his comfortable spot on his bed. hearing your muffled moans for the fourth time was what’s stopping him from dozing off at this ungodly hour.
the way your breath hitches whenever you play with your pretty pussy- oh, he could only imagine how you look right now with your hands slipped under your soaked panties, fingers pumping in and out of you as you desperately try to chase your high when he’s just in the other room more than ready to take over for you.
the first time he heard you try to get yourself off was when he just got out of the shower. body was still wet and his towel hung loosely on his toned hips. suguru sat on his bed, about to type a reply for satoru’s text when his ears suddenly picked up small whimpers coming from the thin layer of wood separating your rooms.
suguru wasn’t stupid, he knows that college students fuck around alot in their dorms but hearing his long time crush moan in pleasure kicks slightly at his heart, however he’d be lying if he said that his dick didn’t twitched beneath his towel whenever you let out a filthy mewl.
but as every pleasurable heave you let out grew louder and faster, suguru’s self restraint and morality slowly slipped. he found himself acting like a pervert when he pressed his back onto the wall, trying to hear more of you.
as he leaned the back of his head on the light wall and closed his eyes to try hyphening his senses, suguru noticed that there were no other moans or grunts that seeped through the barrier except yours. heat instantly rushed to his cheeks when he realized that you weren’t having sex.
you were fucking your fingers.
and you’re still doing it now too. with every failed attempt of you chasing your high, suguru succeeds on milking his cock. his dick should’ve been limp by now but your fucking moans work like magic, bringing it back to life as if he didn’t just beat his meat for the fourth time.
you let out one fat whine, making his hips rut into his pillow. if only he has the confidence to barge into your door and slap your fingers away to replace it with his cock but, fuck. he’s always blushing around you whenever you talk to him and it just annoys the shit out of his ego.
because of his lack of confidence, all he can do now is drown out your cries of frustration while he tosses and turns on his bed with a badly beaten cock in his pants, sending a reply to satoru's forgotten text before lulling himself to sleep.
gogo jojo:
u up for a party tomo? heard ur crush is gonna be there TEEHEEE read 9:24pmsugudtobetrue:
just pick me up sent 2:02am
“eat my ass!”
suguru grimaces at his friend’s retort to the senior who she used to date. he shouldn’t have let shoko and satoru drag him into this house party in the first place. even poor nanami got yanked into it.
it’s already four hours past his usual bedtime and shoko’s by his side screaming flirty insults at her ex while laughing. if they didn’t mention that you’ll be coming to this party, suguru wouldn’t have accepted their request to be their designated sober friend along with choso to take care of them while they go and destroy their livers with cheap liquor.
“shoko!” choso whispers to his friend to hush her loud mouth, afraid that after tonight, she might get back together with that scumbag of an ex. suguru grunts at them, standing up from the beaten up couch that smelled like frat boy sweat and starts to gather some of his drunk friend’s belongings.
he hasn’t seen you all night and suguru’s sure that his annoying friends only mentioned you to get him to come and baby them. acting like a mother and scolding shoko, he tells the group to start fixing themselves up so choso could drive them back to their dorms to which they pout at but follow nonetheless.
with drunk satoru holding even drunker shoko by the arm and choso guiding blacked-out first time drinker nanami, suguru walks in front of them so he could reach the car faster. he turns around and see shoko pinching poor satoru’s cheek as the pair parade through drunk bodies.
just as he’s about to open his mouth to tell them to walk faster, someone bumps into him. he snaps his head around, a snarl already curling on his lips—ready to tear into whatever drunk idiot just stumbled into him.
but then he sees you.
your eyes wide, startled. your body frozen mid-step.
his mouth shuts instantly, the harsh words dying in his throat as he realizes he almost unleashed it on you. not some drunk fratboy—you.
his expression falters, caught somewhere between guilt and surprise, like he’s embarrassed to have let you see even a flicker of that edge.
“sorry!” you apologize. you’re looking for your friend who invited you to come here after she left you to make out with some boy who smelled like hotdog water. she’s supposed to be your ride home tonight and you’re not enjoying the smell of evaporated sweat anymore.
suguru takes note of your soberness as he looks at you. no signs of flushed cheeks or a drunk squint. he realizes that he might have been staring at you longer than needed so he clears his throat and speaks. “s’fine.”
what the fuck was that? s s’fine? you fucking idiot.
internally panicking that he might’ve come off too cold, suguru cusses himself out in his head. smooth. real smooth.
he can already feel the blush creeping up his neck, the shame mixing all too easily with something much worse—want.
he’s trying hard not to dwell on the way you look tonight. the tiny skirt that stops just below your plump ass. the way your thighs press together when you shift your weight. or worse—the way that little squeal you let out when you bumped into him sounded dangerously close to the moan you made the other night when you were…
he swallows hard. fuck. not the time.
“did you guys see meimei anywhere? she’s supposed to be my ride tonight.” you ask them once choso finally managed to drag nanami by suguru’s side out the porch, the other two catching up aswell.
suguru’s still forming words to speak but shoko is quick to answer, waving a thumb finger towards her back.
“i think i saw her go upstairs with that toji dude.” she slurred as she tried to step forward, leaning too much instead. satoru tries straightening her up and smiles drunkenly.
suguru watches your brows knit together in frustration, guessing that you knew that your friend wouldn’t be able to drive you back now. he also watches you mutter out a discouraged thanks to the group and start to walk back into the house. satoru nudges his shoulder, pointing his white head to your fleeting figure.
“come ride with us.” suguru says, a little too loud and a little too demanding.
shoko winces at his tone before slapping a hand on her face to stop herself from laughing at her friend. satoru, whose arm is still draped on shoko, hears his friend try to cover her laugh, making him snicker as well.
suguru glares at his friends but stops his mouth from cursing them, waiting for your response. you turn back to the man with hopeful eyes and start to walk back to the group.
“are you sure?” you ask him. you looked at him like he was some kind of knight in shining armor, ready to save you from this junk house. this made suguru feel something bubbly in his stomach. manly moths, perhaps.
he’s so lost in your eyes that choso had to swoop in for his friend before you notice how suguru’s face is starting to get red.
“yeah, i can drive you back. you and suguru live in the same building, right?” he asks you with a friendly smile.
“uhh… yeah, we’re in the same building” you answer, smiling back at the man who’s nanami clinging on to.
suguru settles on keeping everything he wants to say locked in his head. it’s driving him insane—the way every step toward the car is filled with your laughter, your voice threading so easily into his friends’ conversation, while he’s stuck walking beside you in silence, planning what he might say when you’re finally alone again.
but talking to you now? it’s torture.
because all he can think about is last night.
the sound of you through the thin dorm walls, soft and frustrated, trying to get yourself off. the way you sighed when your fingers didn’t quite get you there.
like you needed more.
like you needed someone else.
his jaw tightens, breath shallow, eyes locked on the ground like it might cool him off.
as you reach the car, it’s already been decided: blacked-out nanami stays slumped in the back, and shoko’s half-dead body is draped across the passenger seat. that leaves just enough room for two people beside nanami.
“wanna sit on my lap, y/n? i can sit on yours if that’s better,” shoko mumbles, giggling, eyelids at half-mast. you’re pretty sure you understood maybe three words out of all that.
“it’s too dangerous to do that in the front,” choso adds from the driver’s seat, voice flat. honestly, you kind of agree, you’re not risking getting vomited on tonight.
before suguru can politely offer to find another ride, dipshit satoru decides to open his mouth.
“why don’t you sit on sugu’s lap? it’s safer at the back,” he offers.
your energy spikes—subtle, unnoticed by anyone. it wouldn’t hurt to sit on a hunk, right? especially him.
“that’s fine with me,” you reply, maybe too cheerfully, flashing suguru a smile you hope lands somewhere between casual and cute.
he looks like he’s about to choke and thank satoru all at once. you watch his mouth open, then close, no words forming. it’s kind of adorable, seeing him speechless for once.
“alright, everything’s settled then,” is all he manages to say as everyone starts climbing into their seats.
you settle onto suguru’s lap, trying not to combust. you’ve been crushing on your next-door neighbor ever since you caught him coming home at the same time as you. he was sweaty, probably just back from the gym, and you still remember the way the sheen on his biceps made you lose track of your thoughts. you even had to mentally slap yourself when you found out your blockmate, shoko, was close friends with him and actually introduced the two of you. the universe really was out to get you.
the first challenge was closing the door. suguru shifted beneath you, lifting his hips and dragging you with him as he scooted forward to shut the door. the motion slid you deeper into his lap, your skirt bunching up around your waist. now, only the thin fabric of your panties and the soft press of his sweatpants separated you from his bulging cock.
his breath hitched, barely audible, but you felt it, warm against your neck. your pulse was loud in your ears, heat curling low in your belly. you were hyperaware of everything: the soft hum of the engine, the muffled voices up front, the weight of his hands settling on your hips like he wasn’t even thinking about it.
neither of you moved, like you were both daring the other to break first. like you’d both forgotten there were other people in the car… until a laugh from satoru snapped the moment in half, leaving only the thrum of want, heavy and unspoken.
the car rolled forward and the tension didn’t ease. if anything, it thickened. his hands stayed where they were. your body stayed where it had landed, pressed snugly against him. neither of you said anything, and you weren’t sure if it was just you imagining things, or if he was too polite to ask you to shift off.
you tried not to breathe too hard. you tried not to think about how warm he was under you. you definitely tried not to think about how his cock felt beneath you, or how much of your skin your skirt wasn’t covering.
and then the car jolted.
choso hit a bump too fast, and the whole vehicle lurched. you gasped as your body ground hard into his, your thighs tightening around his as you struggled not to fall forward. his grip on your hips tightened instantly, firm and sudden.
for a second, it felt like the world stopped.
then, soft—so soft you almost missed it—he exhaled your name like it hurt to say.
and just as the heat built again, the universe decided it had enough fun.
“mmn… fuckin’ hell,” nanami mumbled beside you, suddenly stirring from his blackout. “who hit me with a truck?”
you flinched slightly, instinctively trying to shift off suguru’s lap, but his hand caught your waist for just a second too long before letting go. heat surged across your face. suguru looked away, jaw tense, as nanami blinked around like he had no idea what year it was.
“we didn’t crash, right?” nanami asked, rubbing his temples.
“nah, just a bump. you’re good,” satoru said from the other side, barely suppressing a laugh. “go back to sleep, sleeping beauty.”
“fuck off,” nanami muttered, slumping sideways, right into satoru who let out a wheeze and started complaining about how heavy he was.
shoko snored softly in the front. choso didn’t say a word, eyes locked on the road like he was pretending his blind ass didn’t hit a hump too fast.
you exhaled slowly, trying to settle your heartbeat as you adjusted your skirt, finally able to sit up straighter. the moment between you and suguru had dissipated, at least, on the surface.
but under the quiet buzz of the car, and nanami’s groaning, and satoru’s complaining, something still lingered. the press of his hands. the sound of your name on his breath. the tension hadn’t vanished, it had just gone quiet, waiting for its next chance.
the rest of the ride passed in a haze of low conversation, drunken groans, and the occasional sharp turn from choso that made everyone lean just a little too close. you tried not to think about suguru’s thigh pressed against yours or the way he hadn’t looked at you since nanami woke up. tried not to think about how he still hadn’t let go right away.
eventually, the car slowed in front of your dorm building. choso put it in park with a heavy sigh, like the drive had drained the last bit of his will to live. shoko was still knocked out cold, mouth open, a soft snore vibrating in the quiet.
“alright,” satoru whispered dramatically, nudging nanami awake again. “lovebirds, this is your stop.”
you rolled your eyes and moved to gather your things. suguru slipped out first, reaching back for you. his hand was warm when it closed around yours—gentle, but firm enough that your breath caught. he helped you down like it meant nothing, like you both hadn’t spent the last ten minutes thinking about what it felt like to be that close.
his fingers lingered. yours almost gripped back.
the building was quiet, only the low buzz of vending machines and the flicker of a dying hallway light filling the space between you. you walked side by side toward your doors—neighbors, nothing more, but every inch between your bodies felt like a dare.
you stopped in front of your door and reached into your bag. once. twice. a third time, more frantic now.
“shit,” you whispered. “no, no, no… i left my key.”
you jiggled the handle anyway, as if hoping your door would suddenly decide to forgive you.
suguru was quiet. you glanced up to find him watching you, jaw tight, brows drawn slightly like he was working through something.
then his eyes flicked to his door. just one step away.
his voice was low when it came, almost strangled.
“you can stay in my room.”
you blinked, heart stuttering. had you heard him right?
he dragged a hand through his hair, gaze darting to the floor, to the vending machine, anywhere but you. “just… just for tonight.”
his fingers fumbled with the key in his pocket, knuckles stiff like he didn’t trust himself to do anything else with them. he wasn’t breathing right. neither were you.
your throat dried, knowing that once you entered that door, whatever line the two of you had been pretending not to toe would disappear completely.
your voice caught somewhere behind your tongue. your fingers twitched at your sides, unsure if they should grab the hem of your skirt or reach for him instead. he wasn’t moving, but he didn’t need to, his silence screamed louder than anything. waiting…
“are you sure?” you asked, barely above a whisper, not trusting yourself to say more.
his lips parted like he wanted to answer, like he had an answer, but instead, he just unlocked his door with a shaky click and stepped aside, holding it open for you.
you hesitated.
just one step.
just one step and this would no longer be a crush, a tension, a thing to swallow and hide.
you met his eyes one more time.
he looked at you like he was already touching you.
and then—
a voice from the hallway behind you
“yo, y/n!—did you leave your keys in the car?”
satoru.
you breathe out through your nose, and watch him walk his lanky legs and give you your keys.
you close your door after saying your goodbyes to the two idiots. closed it fast that you didnt even bother locking it as you pressed back on the door sighing at how the tension snapped the wrong way. you don’t even bother kicking off your shoes. you just stand there, chest rising and falling too fast, heart still beating like it’s trying to catch up to something that slipped out of your fingers.
goddamn it, satoru.
the heat from your body doesn’t fade—in fact, it’s worse now. like it’s been sealed inside with you. the weight of almost lingers, heavy and heady.
you could have said yes. you wanted to. you wanted to follow suguru into that room and see what happened when neither of you had an excuse to pretend anymore.
your palms are warm as you drag them down your face. your thighs press together as if they’re trying to recapture that pressure from earlier. god, his hands. the way his breath hitched when your ass settled into his lap. the sound of your name on his lips like it was breaking out of him.
you shove yourself off the door and head to the bathroom.
your reflection in the mirror is a mess—makeup smudged, cheeks still flushed, lips parted. you turn on the water. you don’t even wait for it to warm up. you just need something now.
the cold only works for a moment. the second you start scrubbing makeup off your face, suguru’s face flashes behind your lids again. his eyes dark. his voice low. his hands on your waist. the ache inside you twists tighter.
you strip out of your clothes, try to convince yourself you’re just taking a quick rinse before bed. but everything you do feels like a slow seduction. lifting your shirt, slipping out of your skirt. you peel your panties down and you swear your thighs twitch from the memory of his lap underneath them.
you stand under the spray longer than needed, palms flat against the tile, forehead resting between your arms. it’s not helping. you’re too keyed up, too wound tight.
by the time you get out, towel wrapped around your chest, the ache has become a throb.
you dry off, slip into a loose camisole dress and nothing else, your damp hair sticking to your shoulders. the fabric clings to your skin as you climb into bed, and you tell yourself you’re just going to lie down and sleep it off.
but your thighs rub together again, and the friction sends a jolt straight to your core.
you bite your lip, eyes shut, your hand slipping beneath the covers like it has a mind of its own.
you try to ignore the heat gathering between your legs. you try to ignore the memory of his hands on your waist, the way he lifted you like you weighed nothing, the subtle grind of his hips beneath you.
but you can’t.
your fingers slide beneath your dress and down, brushing over the damp heat already pooling there. you sigh—soft, shaky—and press your palm against your core.
your hips twitch. it’s too much. it’s not enough.
you push your hand into your panties, middle finger gliding between your folds. already slick. already pulsing.
your breath hitches.
you bite the inside of your cheek and close your eyes, painting suguru in the darkness behind your lids—his sharp jaw, his dark hair falling over his brow, the hungry way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching.
you circle your clit, slow and aching, and your breath catches again.
he’d touch you like this, wouldn’t he?
carefully, deliberately—like you’d break if he didn’t take his time.
you let your hips rise to meet your hand as you slip a finger inside, moaning softly at the stretch, imagining it’s him—long fingers, warm hands, knuckles curling just right.
your other hand grips the sheets.
you think about how his breath would ghost over your neck. how he’d groan when he felt how wet you were. how he wouldn’t stop with just his fingers.
you pump your hand faster, your thighs trembling, your toes curling beneath the covers.
“fuck—” you gasp, your voice audible, your hips rocking up.
you imagine him whispering your name again, rough and low, right into your ear. imagine him saying please, like he needs you to fall apart for him.
your back arches.
your moan escapes before you can bite it down… and you’re hoping he hears it enough.
~
suguru knows he’s fucked the second he closes his door.
he leans against it, jaw tight, fists clenched, his forehead hitting the wood with a dull thunk. the ghost of your body is still pressed to his lap—his thighs remember the weight of you, his hands remember the curve of your waist, and his cock… well, his cock hasn’t forgotten a damn thing.
he exhales hard through his nose, trying to will it all away. he’s not a fucking teenager. he’s an adult. he can control himself.
except he can’t.
not when he hears your voice in his head, that soft, breathy "are you sure?" replaying like a loop. not when he remembers how you looked at him—like you wanted to say yes. like you would have, if that idiot hadn’t shouted your name from down the hall.
he peels off his hoodie, dragging a hand through his hair before grabbing a clean shirt from the chair. his heart’s still hammering. and he’s about to do the mature thing, really—was gonna brush his teeth, maybe splash some water on his face, sleep it off like a normal human.
but then—
a sound.
faint. barely there. but so familiar it makes his entire body freeze.
a soft sigh. high-pitched. choked off.
your voice.
his head turns toward the wall.
and then he hears it again. a broken moan, muffled by drywall and poor insulation, but real.
he goes still. every muscle taut, breath caught in his throat like it’s stuck behind his ribs.
his brain tries to reason, maybe she dropped something. maybe she stubbed her toe.
but then you moan again. longer. this one doesn’t sound like pain.
suguru’s jaw locks. his fists clench at his sides, nails biting into his palm.
he shouldn’t listen.
he shouldn’t be standing here, two feet from his bed, ear tilted slightly toward the paper-thin wall that separates his room from yours.
but he can’t move.
because he knows exactly what that sound is.
and the worst part?
he recognizes it.
he remembers it. that same exact sound—when he heard you trying to keep quiet last night.
you didn’t succeed that night either.
a low curse slips past his lips.
he scrubs a hand over his mouth, as if he can force his body to settle, but it’s useless. the image of you, touching yourself alone, frustrated, wet and needy just a few feet away—it’s driving him insane.
especially when he knows you were just on his lap twenty minutes ago.
and then—fuck.
he hears it.
his name.
your breathy voice whispering it, strained and soft like you’re trying not to let it out. but it slips anyway.
his cock throbs in his pants, so hard it’s painful.
he’s had enough.
suguru pushes off the wall and stalks to his door without thinking and walking to yours. no plan, no logic. just the heavy thrum of need in his chest and a voice in his head screaming she wants this too.
he’s standing outside your door.
not knocking.
not calling your name.
just… there, caught in the low hum of your quiet, broken moans bleeding through the wood like they’re meant for him. every muscle in his body’s drawn tight, fingers flexing at his sides like he’s trying to squeeze the restraint back into himself.
he shouldn't be here.
should turn around, pretend he didn't hear anything, pretend he doesn’t want anything.
but he doesn’t move.
just stares at the door like it's some kind of threshold, like if he crosses it, he won’t come back the same.
he exhales slowly, eyes fluttering shut.
then his hand lifts—hesitating just an inch from the doorknob. his fingertips graze it. rest there. heat coiled low in his stomach, pounding louder than reason.
he doesn’t know what he’s expecting when he finally presses down.
but it turns.
unlocked.
his breath catches.
the door eases open, quiet on its hinges, revealing the soft spill of light from your bathroom and the shape of you in bed—caught mid-movement, limbs tangled in the sheets, chest rising and falling like you’ve been trying not to fall apart.
then your eyes snap up.
and fuck.
you look like a dream barely held together. like he could breathe too hard and unravel you completely.
you freeze when you see him—but you don’t cover up.
you just stare, lips parted, flushed and wanting, your hand still between your thighs.
and he can’t move.
can’t breathe.
you whisper his name like it’s something sacred.
suguru steps inside and closes the door without a sound.
you don't move at first.
neither does he.
the room feels too still, like it’s holding its breath for you. the air is thick with everything that didn’t happen earlier—everything that almost did. and now he’s here, framed in your doorway like a goddamn storm about to break loose.
“you left it unlocked,” he says again, voice gravelled at the edges, like it’s physically hurting him to keep calm.
you swallow. your body’s already aching—still hot, still wound tight from where you left off—and now he’s just standing there, watching you like he’s deciding if he can survive touching you.
“...i thought i did” you saysoftly, breath shallow.
his jaw flexes. his fingers twitch. but he still doesn’t move.
so you do.
you don’t even realize you’re moving until your feet touch the floor.
the air in the room feels different now—charged, like it's humming beneath your skin. suguru’s still standing there in the doorway, his breathing unsteady, hair loose around his shoulders, jaw tight.
his eyes rake over you.
you’re still in the same thin camisole dress, the hem barely covering anything, one strap already half-off your shoulder from how restless you’d been. his gaze darkens when he sees it.
“you were doing that on purpose, weren’t you?” he says, voice low, like it’s coming from the base of his throat.
your lips part. “what?”
he steps inside without waiting for an invitation, closing the distance like a wave pulling you under. “lying in there, making those sounds. moaning my name.”
“i wasn’t trying to—”
“but you knew i could hear you.”
he stops just short of touching you. his eyes flicker from your mouth, to your neck, to the slip of strap on your shoulder. “you wanted me to come.”
you should lie. you should deny it.
but all you can manage is a whisper.
“and you did..”
that’s all it takes.
in a heartbeat, he grabs you—his hands hot on your hips as he pins you back to the wall with a thud, mouth crashing against yours like he’s been holding back for far too long.
you gasp, fingers fisting in his shirt as he kisses you rough, messy, hungry. like he needs this—needs you—more than air.
he pulls away, but you try to catch his lips again. he forgives you the first time but pulls away again, this time cupping your jaw.
he’s staring at you—like he’s trying to burn the sight into his memory. your camisole straps have fallen completely now, leaving your chest bare, your dress slipping up from your thighs, your breath shallow as his hands find your waist.
“you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, voice low and wrecked. “always knew you were trouble.”
before you can answer, he drops to his knees.
you gasp, back arching slightly as his hands slide down the backs of your thighs, coaxing your legs apart. you adjust you dress straps back in place again, giving him more access down. he’s kneeling between them like it’s reverent—like he’s about to worship—and when he presses an open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh, you nearly melt against the wall.
“suguru—” your voice is breathless, already trembling.
“i’ve been thinking about this all night,” he murmurs, voice hot against your skin. “you, squirming in that tiny skirt. then you moaning through the wall like you wanted me to hear. you don’t know what you did to me.”
his lips press kisses just above your knees, the inside of your thighs, everywhere but where you need him most.
when he finally licks a slow, firm stripe up your slit, you cry out.
he hums like he’s satisfied with your reaction, hands gripping your thighs tighter as he buries his face between them. his tongue is soft and wet, curling perfectly over your clit before dipping down again, slow and purposeful.
you fist your hands in his hair.
it’s too good—the way his mouth moves like he knows exactly how to make you fall apart, like he’s memorized the sound of every breathy whimper you make.
and then he flattens his tongue and sucks.
your hips jerk, thighs trembling around his head.
“stay still,” he growls against your cunt, the vibration making your knees buckle. “i’ve barely started.”
he circles your clit again and again, pausing only to slide one thick finger inside you—then two. it’s all too much, too good, the pressure curling low and tight and impossible to ignore.
you’re panting now, moaning louder, your body shaking as you ride the edge.
and then he growls, low and filthy:
“cum for me, baby. let me taste it.”
you fall apart instantly.
your body tightens, trembling, thighs clamping around his head as your orgasm hits—loud and blinding, your cry echoing down the hall as you soak his mouth and fingers. he doesn't stop—not until you’re whimpering from the sensitivity, trying to squirm away.
only then does he stand again.
his mouth is wet, lips shiny with you, and when he kisses you, you taste yourself on his tongue. it’s filthy and soft and so intimate it makes your chest ache.
“i should’ve done that the first time i saw you,” he says, and you barely get the breath to laugh.
before you can recover, he lifts you again—effortless, like he’s been waiting to get his hands on you this way. your legs wrap around him instinctively, arms around his neck, and this time, he doesn’t bother to slow down.
he slides down his sweats and lines himself up, groaning as he rubs the head of his cock through your soaked folds. you’re still slick and pulsing from the orgasm, so when he pushes in—thick and deep and all at once—it knocks the breath from your lungs.
“shit,” he grits out, forehead pressed to yours. “you’re perfect—fuck, so tight”
you gasp. “don’t stop—please, don’t stop—”
and he doesn’t.
he fucks you hard against the wall, his hips slamming up into yours with heavy, filthy rhythm. the slap of skin fills the space around you—along with your moans and his breathless grunts, the soft creak of the wall behind you as he thrusts deeper, harder, every movement hitting that perfect spot inside.
you’re unraveling all over again—sensitive and overstimulated, your nails digging into his shoulders as the pressure builds fast and wild.
“you close again?” he growls.
you nod frantically, unable to form words. your mouth is open, eyes glassy, clinging to him like you’re drowning in the feeling.
he kisses you once—hard—and mutters, “then cum with me. i wanna feel it when i fill you up.”
that’s all it takes.
your second orgasm crashes through you like a wave—hot and dizzying, making you cry out as you squeeze around him.
and that—that—is what sends him over the edge.
he groans deep in his chest, hips jerking one last time before he spills into you—hot and thick, the warmth flooding you in thick pulses. his forehead drops to your shoulder, both of you panting, boneless, trembling.
you cling to each other for a long moment, both struggling to catch your breath, your heartbeat still pounding in your ears. his cock stays buried deep inside you, softening slowly, but neither of you move.
then he pulls back to look at you.
hair messy, lips kiss-bitten, and still inside you—he smirks.
“…think that made up for satoru ruining the moment earlier?”
you snort, head falling back against the wall with a soft laugh. “yeah. you could say that.”
he chuckles, finally sliding out of you carefully, lowering you gently to the floor.
you wobble immediately.
“shit—my legs,” you mutter, grabbing his arm for balance.
he steadies you, grinning smugly. “guess i did a good job then.”
“you’re so annoying.”
“and yet,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, “you let me ruin you anyway.”
you glare at him, half-playful. “you’re gonna be impossible after this.”
“i was impossible before this,” he says, shrugging, cocky.
you roll your eyes and try to take a step. your legs give a very unsteady wobble.
“…okay, maybe you have a point,” you mumble, holding onto his arm tighter.
he laughs and scoops you up again without asking, carrying you bridal-style like you weigh nothing.
“let’s clean you up,” he says, heading toward his room. “then round two. but on a bed this time.”
“round two?”
he smirks. “sweetheart, i’ve waited months for this. we’re not stopping at one.”
you groan—but your smile says otherwise.
after all, you did moan his name through a dorm wall on purpose.
kingmaker is a work of fan fiction created for entertainment purposes only.
i do not own jujutsu kaisen, its characters, settings, or any of its original concepts. all rights belong to gege akutami and the respective copyright holders.
this story contains original plotlines, dialogue, and an original reader character placed within a fictional alternate universe inspired by traditional japanese aristocratic culture.
while the story references certain aspects of japanese customs, family structures, etiquette, and traditions, they have been adapted for fictional storytelling and should not be taken as historically or culturally accurate. any inaccuracies are entirely my own and are never intended to misrepresent or disrespect japanese history, culture, or values.
themes such as arranged marriages, purity culture, family expectations, and clan politics are dramatized for narrative purposes and do not reflect modern japanese society.
this work is a complete work of fiction. any resemblance to real people, families, customs, or events beyond the source material is purely coincidental.
ryomen sukuna x reader x yuji itadori modern au. non-sorcerer au
some daughters are raised to inherit.
others are raised to be inherited.
born into a family that values purity above happiness, you've spent your entire life becoming someone worthy of another family's name. every lesson, every bruise, every sacrifice serves a single purpose… to make you the perfect wife.
until ryomen sukuna begins asking the questions no one else ever dared.
warnings: physical abuse, small suggestive content. 4.5k words
perfection is not a word that could be seen in sukuna’s vocabulary. its letters had slowly decayed over time and reached its deathbed once the youngest itadori was born.
he does not believe in it.
which is why you irritate him.
the itadori estate stands in quiet defiance of the city beyond its walls, where glass towers cut into the sky and neon light stains the night. here, everything is deliberate. aged wood polished to a dark sheen, stone paths lined with trimmed pines, and paper lanterns casting a warm, subdued glow. money lives here, but it does not shout. it hums beneath the surface in the craftsmanship of the joinery and the heavy silence between words.
inside, the gathering unfolds with practiced grace. conversations are measured, laughter is restrained, and every movement is controlled. men in tailored montsukis stand beside women draped in silk.
sukuna stands apart from it all, one hand resting loosely around a porcelain cup. the sake reflects the lantern light as he tilts it slightly, his gaze drifting across the room with lazy disinterest.
he is not here to perform. his presence alone demands attention, a quiet disruption in a room built on control.
and then, his eyes settle on you.
you stand among a cluster of executives, posture straight and shoulders relaxed in a way that suggests ease but is anything but. your smile is soft, your voice gentle as you respond to a dignitary, dipping your head just enough to show respect without diminishing your own standing.
you are wearing a kimono of ivory silk. elegant, understated, and perfectly appropriate. plum blossoms trail along the hem in delicate embroidery, each petal stitched with quiet precision.
to anyone watching, you are exactly what you are meant to be: refined, graceful, perfect.
sukuna exhales softly through his nose. and then he notices the cracks.
the collar of your kimono dips a fraction too low at the nape of your neck. it isn't dramatic, but it is enough to reveal more skin than is proper for an unmarried woman in a formal business setting.
his gaze shifts lower to the obi. the knot is tied in a formal style, but it sits slightly off-center, lacking the crisp symmetry expected in a house where details matter more than words.
and beneath the ivory… a flash of red.
red underlayers are not explicitly forbidden, but here, among families who measure worth in restraint, it is loud. a quiet defiance wrapped in obedience. or perhaps, a mistake.
sukuna’s lips curve. interesting.
he has seen you before. too many times to count . in dinners arranged under the guise of "partnership" and meetings where your presence was a negotiation piece.
he remembers when yuji, all clumsy limbs and unfiltered energy, once knocked over a bowl of soba and sent broth spilling across your sleeve. you had simply smiled.
“it’s alright, itadori-san,” you had said, as if nothing could disturb you.
sukuna had watched you then, waiting for the crack. it never came. so he decided you were pretending, because perfection like that does not exist without a cost.
tonight, he sees the debt collector arrive.
your mother approaches, and the shift is immediate. conversations bend around her. space opens the group without anyone acknowledging why.
authority does not need volume.
her hand finds your arm, and your smile tightens. no one else notices.
sukuna does.
you excuse yourself with practiced grace, bowing lightly before allowing her to guide you away toward the guest wing. the sliding doors close behind you with a soft thud, cutting off the warmth of the gathering.
sukuna sets his cup aside and follows.
the corridor is quieter here, lit only by a row of lanterns casting long shadows across the polished floor. your footsteps are soft, but hers are sharp. she stops abruptly, and you nearly collide with her.
“explain yourself,” she says. her voice is low, controlled, and edged with something colder than anger.
you lower your gaze immediately. “is something wrong, okaasan?”
her fingers move to your collar, pulling the silk tight enough to choke. “who dressed you?”
your breath catches. “i… i dressed myself.”
a mistake. her expression hardens.
“i told you that tonight is not a social gathering. this is not a place for carelessness.” her gaze drops to the peek of red beneath your ivory layers.
her lip curls. “you think this is appropriate?”
“i didn’t mean—”
the slap comes fast. clean.
your head turns with the force of it, the sound echoing through the wood-paneled corridor. for a moment, you do not move.
a thin cut forms along your cheek where her ring caught your skin, a single bead of blood blooming against your pale face.
“you embarrass me,” she says quietly.
“go to the guest quarters. now. do not show your face again until you can carry our name properly.”
she turns and leaves without waiting for a response. you remain still, silent, the air feeling heavier in the wake of her departure. slowly, carefully, you inhale. you touch the cut on your cheek and a small, faint smile touches your lips.
“it could have been worse,” you whisper to the empty hallway.
“is that what you tell yourself every time?”
you freeze. your hand flies to your cheek, trying to hide the evidence of your failure. “sukuna-sama…”
he steps into the light, unhurried and commanding. you feel his presence like a physical weight. impossible to ignore.
“…how long have you been here?” you ask, your voice faltering.
“long enough.”
he closes the distance between you with slow, deliberate steps. you don’t move. you don’t step back. you should, but you don't. his hand wraps around your wrist and pulls your hand away from your face.
“sukuna-sama” you try.
he ignores the protest, tilting your chin upward with his other hand. his gaze studies the cut with unsettling focus. “you’re bleeding,” he says flatly. “and standing in the open.”
“i can handle it”
“no.” the word is absolute.
he releases your chin only to turn, still holding your wrist. “come.”
through corridors that blur together, you follow him. his quarters are removed from the main estate. it’s quieter, darker, and less bound by the suffocating expectations of the main house. he releases you once you arrive inside, and the absence of his touch is immediate.
“sit,” he commands.
you obey, kneeling neatly on the tatami. he disappears briefly, returning with a small medicinal kit.
when he sits in front of you, closer than anyone is allowed to be, your breath catches.
“stay still.”
the cloth presses against your skin. it is cold, and you flinch. he clicks his tongue in irritation. “you bruise easily.”
you don’t respond. his movements are precise, controlled. there is no gentleness in them, but there is a strange, sharp intention. when he finishes, he pulls back slightly and pours sake into two cups.
“drink.”
you hesitate, then take a sip. the burn of the high-quality alcohol surprises you. you wince—just slightly—and a small, unguarded laugh slips out before you can stop it. you stop yourself, terrified of the breach in protocol.
but he is watching you closely. that laugh wasn't practiced. it wasn't perfect. it was real.
“you’re not very good at this,” he says.
your fingers tighten around the cup. “i try my best, you know.”
he leans closer, his shadow swallowing yours. “that’s the problem.”
the space between you shrinks, the tension settling thick and heavy.
“does it ever get tiring?” he murmurs.
you hesitate just for a moment. long enough to breathe, long enough to weigh whether the man in front of you is someone you can trust with something as simple as a yes.
sukuna was once known as the perfect firstborn of the itadori clan.
you never cared much for gossip, but even you had heard the shift in whispers over time—how, with each new brother born, his presence seemed to fade. how the weight of expectation quietly moved away from him.
until, one day, it wasn’t a whisper anymore.
itadori yuji would take his place.
there had been no protest from him. no visible fracture.
sukuna remained within the estate, just… less seen. less spoken of. like something deliberately set aside. his presence however, still commanding.
in that moment, you think he might understand…
“…yes” you whisper, looking deeply into him. honest.
something shifts. something dangerous. his hand lifts. not to hurt, but to rest briefly against your jaw, his thumb brushing just beneath the cut he cleaned. it is a possessive, assessing gesture.
“you hide it well,” he says.
“i have to.”
his gaze darkens. “no. you’ve just been taught to.”
you sit there, hands trembling slightly in your lap, your kimono still perfectly arranged despite the blood and the bruise.
you don't realize that the moment he noticed the red beneath your ivory, you stopped being untouchable.
and the moment he heard your honesty, you stopped being porcelain.
his eyes dip to your lips. tempted as he almost didn’t catch you releasing your lips from your teeth, as if you’re waiting.
are you?
you’re not sure. but something in your stomach is flapping around, making it hard for you to breathe.
a melodic sound from his window’s wind chime makes you pull back from his touch.
you swallow hard and remember your place.
your hands return to your lap, smoothing nonexistent creases on your kimono, fingers more unsteady than you’d like. you lower your gaze, the moment from seconds ago folding into something distant. something that should not have happened.
“i should go,” you say softly.
it sounds practiced.
it feels wrong.
you bow your head respectfully, just enough to draw a line between you and him again.
“thank you… sukuna-sama. for tending to my wound.”
there’s a pause.
you wait for dismissal.
for indifference.
for something that would make this easier to carry back with you.
but it doesn’t come. so you rise on your own slowly and gracefully as if nothing in you had nearly unraveled just moments ago.
you take a step back. and begin walking to the door, ready to forget about what happened. you try opening the door slowly, as if giving him a chance to stop you.
nothing does, so you don’t look back and close the door behind you.
-
rain battered the estate through the night. what had begun as a forecasted storm had become something far more violent. wind howled against the wooden structures and rattling the shutters.
most of the guests had already departed before the downpour arrived. the unlucky few remained stranded within the itadori estate, their journeys postponed until morning.
including your family.
you release a quiet sigh and stare at the ceiling above your futon. sleep refuses to come.
perhaps it is the storm.
perhaps it is the memory of a hand beneath your jaw and a voice telling you…
you've just been taught to.
either way, your eyes remain open. at the very least, the itadori clan had provided you with a private guest quarter. it was a small mercy.
before you start closing your eyes again, you hear a faint psst.
you don’t even need to open your eyes to know who’s most likely to bother you at this hour. you try to balance your odds. do you stay still and pretend, leaving no risk of your parents lashing at you when they find out you’re out at 2 am with a man ? or spend the next several hours being mercilessly destroyed by itadori yuji in a video game.
you sigh out of your nose and start to stand up.
somehow, a bowl of spilled soba had led to this.
years ago, yuji had accidentally ruined one of your sleeves during a formal dinner. he had followed you halfway across the estate insisting on apologizing properly.
unfortunately, during that apology, he had caught sight of the game open on your phone while you’re in the guise of cleaning yourself up.
the friendship was never exactly hidden, it simply wasn't announced because your parents believed unsupervised interactions between unmarried men and women reflected poorly on a family's reputation.
yuji believed that was stupid and you had never disagreed.
so your friendship survived in small ways. text messages, shared games, he even introduced you to megumi of the zenin clan and nobara whom you had only met once due to her family not being as active as yours or the others.
overtime, you four had form a friendship you just wish your parents could never steal from you.
you walk slowly to the sliding door and open it, seeing a tall idiot behind it.
"finally."
you stare.
"...it's two in the morning."
"correct."
"normal people sleep at two in the morning."
"and yet here you areeee." he drags.
you consider closing the door playfully. but you just smile and leave your room, and head towards his.
just as you’re settling in his room with small excitement, a brief wave of weirdness brushes over you as you remember your conversation with sukuna.
“so, you ready to get your ass handed?” yuji interupts your thought.
"if my mother discovers this, she'll kill me." you reply, trying to feel scared instead of whatever you were feeling thinking about his older brother.
"she says that every time." he says while sitting down next to you.
"one day she'll mean it."
"then we'll play one last match in your memory." he grins, handing you the controller.
the game starts and both of you put your focus on. during the character choosing your fifth game, yuji starts.
"grandfather asked about you again."
you glance at him.
"asked what?"
"whether you liked staying at the estate."
"that's normal."
"then he asked whether i spend enough time with you."
...
"that's less normal." you stop playing.
unlike most families, the itadori clan had never been particularly concerned with appearances between unmarried men and women. theirs was a lineage that measured worth through legacy rather than romance, where marriages were negotiated for influence and affection, if it came at all, was considered a fortunate inconvenience.
it was neither unusual nor frowned upon for the head of the family to take multiple wives, each union strengthening alliances that extended far beyond the estate's walls. children were raised together beneath one roof, and blood, regardless of which wife it came from.
compared to that, two young adults spending time together over a video game was hardly enough to earn a second glance.
sometimes at night, you wonder how greatly opposite the life you two have been living. it makes your eyes watery on nights when the difference feels too heavy on your chest.
the irony isn't lost on you. your parents had spent years teaching you that appearances were everything, that a single misplaced glance could tarnish generations of reputation.
and yet... would those same rules survive if the itadori clan ever extended a marriage proposal?
somehow, you doubted it.
"...you alright?"
you blink, pulled back to the present.
"hm?"
yuji pauses the game, his brows knitting together.
"you've been staring at the same screen for like... thirty seconds."
you glance at the untouched controller in your hands.
"...have i?"
"yeah." he leans back. "you usually start trash-talking me by now."
a small smile finds your lips.
"i was being merciful."
"that's how i know something's wrong."
you try to lie, but you know he’ll understand. “i’m just getting sleepy, s’all”
yuji watches you for a second longer than usual.
"...you're a terrible liar, y'know." your smile falters.
"but..." he stretches his arms above his head with an exaggerated yawn. "guess i'm kinda tired too."
"really?"
"nah." he grins. "but if i keep you awake any longer, your parents might berate you when you start falling asleep at breakfast."
"...they probably would."
he stands first, collecting the empty snack wrappers scattered across the floor before walking you to the door.
"same time tomorrow?" he asks hopefully.
you laugh softly through your nose.
"we'll see."
"that's not a no." he smiles.
-
the corridors are quieter than before. only the rain accompanies your footsteps now, drumming steadily against tiled roofs and overflowing bamboo gutters. you keep your pace slow and careful. no one should be awake at this hour.
"...the guest rooms on the east wing first."
"...yes, ma'am." your eyes widen.
maids.
instinct takes over before thought can catch up, and you slip behind the nearest corner just as their footsteps grow louder. your heart pounds against your ribs. you don’t want to be the topic of their conversations during their leisure time.
their voices creep faster, forcing your gaze to dart around the corridor for somewhere—anywhere—to disappear. there isn't one. the guest wing is kept meticulously lit, every corner prepared for wandering guests despite the hour. except... your eyes settle on the western wing.
sukuna-sama's residence lies in near darkness, untouched by the lanterns that illuminate the rest of the estate.
only a single light flickers, and even the servants seem to avoid venturing there unless summoned.
you hesitate for only a heartbeat before making your choice. between the wrath of your mother and the possibility of crossing paths with ryomen sukuna again, the darkness suddenly feels like the safer option.
you hurry over and slide a door open just enough to slip inside before easing it shut behind you.
darkness greets you immediately.
unlike the rest of the estate, sukuna's quarters are untouched by lanterns. only the pale glow of the moon filters through the paper screens, spilling silver across the tatami in uneven strips. your eyes struggle to adjust.
you take cautious steps to find sukuna and apologize for the intrusion.
another step and your foot catches on something soft.
oh no.
your balance disappears before you can recover it. instinctively, your hands shoot forward, but they find nothing except more darkness.
you tumble.
the landing isn't nearly as painful as you expect because it isn't the floor.
beneath you, something warm shifts and a sharp inhale cuts through the silence.
your eyes fly open.
moonlight spills across a familiar face as your eyes betrayingly adjusts just now.
crimson eyes blink awake beneath furrowed brows, still clouded with sleep. long strands of your hair have fallen around you like a curtain, framing the space between your faces until the rest of the room seems to disappear.
for one suspended moment, neither of you move.
you've fallen directly onto ryomen sukuna…
his expression is unreadable. perhaps it is because he has only just awakened. or perhaps it is because this is the last thing he expected to find in his room.
without your usual ornaments, your hair tumbles freely over your shoulders. the pins and the practiced elegance demanded of you every day are nowhere to be found. illuminated only by the moon, you look... different.
you are painfully close and to sukuna, it feels strangely intimate.
your heartbeat hammers so loudly you're certain he can hear it.
"wha-”
before he can speak, your eyes dart toward the closed door. panic overtakes embarrassment.
you lift a trembling finger to his lips.
"please..." you whisper, barely louder than the rain beyond the walls. "shh."
sukuna's gaze lingers on your panicked expression for a moment before it drifts to the finger pressed over his mouth. then, to your surprise, the corner of his lips lifts. with deliberate ease, he wraps a hand around your wrist and gently peels your hand away from his face, his touch unhurried despite your obvious distress.
"am i being molested right now?" he asks, his voice loud through the silent room with confidence.
your eyes widen in horror.
"s-sukuna-sama!" you squeak, lunging forward to clap both hands over his mouth this time.
"please!" you whisper frantically. "not so loud!”
a low laugh rumbles beneath your palms. the vibration alone is enough to make your face burn. he sits up on the futon, still chuckling quietly, before taking both of your hands into his own and lowering them into your lap.
"relax," he says, the amusement lingering in his voice.
"no one passes here without being told to."
your shoulders loosen, and a breath you hadn't realized you'd been holding escapes your lips.
"oh."
suddenly aware that you'd been practically sitting in his lap, you hurriedly scoot backward across the futon, putting a respectable distance between the two of you while refusing to meet his eyes.
sukuna feels you accidentally slide off his member which forces his face to scrunch slightlyfor a second.
“i-i’m not trying to… do inappropriate things to you.” you stammer, your gaze stubbornly fixed somewhere over his shoulder.
sukuna would’ve doubted that seeing as you just accidentally grinded on him. the robe he had thrown on before sleeping had loosened during your spectacular fall, exposing the hard planes of his chest. you squeeze your eyes shut for a brief moment.
sukuna follows your line of sight before looking back at you, a knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"is that so?" he muses.
"then why are you in my room?"
your lips part. "...i..."
"well?"
"...i couldn't sleep," you admit quietly.
"i thought a walk might help."
one dark brow lifts. "a walk."
"...yes."
"to my room?”
"n-no!" your answer comes far too quickly, earning a low chuckle from him.
"that's not what i meant." heat rushes to your cheeks as you hurriedly explain yourself.
"i heard the maids coming through the guest wing and... i panicked. there wasn't anywhere to hide." your voice softens into something almost embarrassed.
"your side of the estate was the darkest." sukuna hums, the corners of his lips refusing to fall.
"so naturally, you broke into my room and sat on me?" you bury your face in your hands for a brief second.
"no, i- … stop teasing!” you try, seeing how he’s enjoying making you flustered.
"sukuna-sama." the amusement in your voice fades as quickly as it came. your fingers fidget together in your lap, twisting the fabric of your night robe.
"could you keep a secret?" the question hangs quietly between you. perhaps you aren't being cautious, but if anyone were to discover where you are tonight, there would be no explanation your parents would accept.
"if they find out i was here," you whisper, unable to meet his eyes, "...i don't know what they'll do."
sukuna's brows knit together ever so slightly.
"why would taking a walk require hiding?"
you hesitate. perhaps because saying it aloud makes it feel even more ridiculous. "...i wasn't just taking a walk."
"clearly."
"i was with yuji."
the room falls quiet. you could only imagine what he’s thinking right now.
"playing video games," you quickly add, as though the clarification somehow makes the situation less suspicious.
"we've... been friends for some time." he studies you without interruption.
"so…?" he asks and you lower your gaze.
"they wouldn't approve of me meeting an unmarried man alone. they barely approve of conversations during gatherings. if they discovered i'd been sneaking out at night..." your voice trails off.
"...they'd never let me hear the end of it." you gather your courage and finally look up at him.
"could you keep it to yourself?”
sukuna doesn't answer immediately. instead, he simply watches you. this woman, raised to fear even the smallest freedoms. sneaking away for a few hours to laugh over video games had become something worth hiding. "...i'll keep it," he says at last. relief softens your features almost instantly.
"thank you."
he says nothing else, though his thoughts linger. how deprived.
he had watched powerful families treat their children as bargaining pieces his entire life, but even then, he found little satisfaction in exploiting someone so desperate to protect the smallest piece of happiness they possessed.
“so… video games, huh?” he asks, trying to entertain a different thought.
you blink. "...yes?"
"what exactly is entertaining about them?" the question catches you off guard. you had expected him to dismiss them entirely, not ask with genuine curiosity. after a moment, you straighten slightly.
"well" you begin, "they let you do things you normally can't."
one of his brows lifts in silent invitation.
"you can build a farm. save kingdoms. race cars. defeat monsters..." you pause for a beat. "...decorate houses."
his expression remains perfectly still. "...decorate houses."
"it's relaxing," you defend with a small nod.
"you willingly spend your free time arranging furniture that doesn't exist." you puff your cheeks.
"when you say it like that, it sounds ridiculous.”
"because it is." you can't help the smile tugging at your lips.
"have you ever played one?" you ask.
"no."
"that explains a lot." his eyes narrow just enough to betray his curiosity. "what is that supposed to mean?"
"you seem like someone who'd lose the tutorial." silence lingers between you.
"i don't know what that means."
you press your lips together, failing miserably to hide your amusement. "exactly."
a laugh slips free before you can stop it, light and unguarded. his mind wanders to his little brother. on how much if this side of you he had actually seen.
before either of you can say another word, your gaze begins to wander around the room. books line the shelves from floor to ceiling, stacked neatly with the same precision as everything else in his quarters. yet there are no framed photographs. no paintings of ancestors. not even traces of family.
"may i ask you something?" you ask quietly. he hums.
"why don't you attend the gatherings very often?"
sukuna leans back against the futon, following your gaze to the rows of books before letting out a quiet breath.
"they stopped being my scene."
"why?"
"too many people pretending." his eyes remain on the ceiling. "too many fake smiles. conversations with no meaning. everyone trying so hard to appear respectable that they forget how to be people."
he gives a quiet scoff.
"it's exhausting."
your fingers tighten around the sleeve pooled in your lap. your smile fades almost imperceptibly.
he isn't talking about you.
you know he isn't.
yet every word settles somewhere uncomfortably familiar. it sounds less like criticism, and more like a description of your life.
only then does sukuna glance toward you. he notices the slight tightening of your lips, the way your fingers curl into the fabric resting in your lap, the quiet dimming of something in your eyes. most people would have missed it entirely. he doesn't.
for the briefest moment, he considers taking back what he said. not because he believes it to be untrue, but because he hadn't intended for it to reach you the way it clearly had. in the end, he says nothing. the words were honest, and honesty was never meant to be comfortable.
the silence stretches between you until you finally lower your gaze with a faint, almost self-deprecating smile.
"you're right," you murmur, your voice carrying neither offense nor resentment, only a weariness that seems far older than you are.
"...it is exhausting.”
a/n: hello! this is also posted in my ao3 but i put together 2 chapters in this post. like i said there, im heavily passionate about this because ive been daydreaming about it for so long and id like to finish it this year. for tumblr, i might publish multiple chapters in one post unlike in ao3, just so it wouldnt to hard to jump over the next. hope you enjoyed!
Maki has been berating you for the past hour, her voice rising as the phone against your ear grows warmer.
You couldn't exactly put her on speaker an hour ago, since you were out running errands — hence the issue at hand.
"When we said you take it easy, we mean total bed rest, and not running along to God knows where," Maki states firmly in disapproval. "That's still pushing past your limits."
You swirl the cherry-flavored lollipop with your tongue before responding, "I just needed some fresh air, and going across the bakery wasn't too bad.”
“Going by yourself is the bad part here, you understand?”
“Besides," you place your shoes back into their rack, and pad your way into your bedroom, where you inconveniently plop right down the middle with a heavy sigh, "I was cleared by Gojō Sensei a few days ago. I should be fine to move around for a bit."
"Tsk! That blindfolded dumbass wouldn't know any better! You barely came back alive from that stupid mission he assigned you, so what makes you think he knows what’s best for you?"
You appreciate your friend's sentiment, but when days start to stretch and the walls begin to close in, going out every once in a while helps you avoid breaking down.
Although you understand Maki's worry about the matter. You didn't exactly . . . show up whole and alive to them when Panda and Toge rescued you.
In fact, the mission is all but scattered fragments, merely pieced together from what Panda last witnessed, to Gojō' Sensei's unreliable summary as his pathetic way of an apology, to Maki's scalding remarks, and lastly down to Toge's horrified monologue of ingredients.
What you can, however, deduce from their antics is that there was a curse that wasn't in the data — and that was what got you cornered.
You stretch your arms towards the ceiling and flex your hands. Shokō successfully regenerated what you lost. The bone structure looks the same, though you still feel that it's entirely different now.
" — there?"
"Hm?" You snap back into the conversation, "Sorry, what did you say?"
You can already hear what Maki would say: this is exactly why you should've stayed in bed, that you're spacing out isn't a good sign, and that you're not fully recovered yet to even think about moving. And even if it's been nearly a month since the incident, pushing yourself beyond what’s necessary is like asking for another round with death.
Instead, perhaps sensing your uneasiness, Maki tells you with a resigned sigh, "Get some rest. We're coming over tomorrow to make sure you won't lift a finger."
You chuckle. "Yeah. That sounds good."
You place the phone above your head after Maki ends the call, then you move your lollipop over to the left, and finally let yourself close your eyes, utterly lax for the day.
Sleep comes quickly for you these days. Perhaps it's the mixture of the day being boring and mundane (and you love it) or the antibiotics kicking in, but either way, you're thoroughly impressed you've fallen asleep for hours.
By the time you blink your eyes to stay awake, the sky has already darkened considerably. There are faint slivers of glow from the moon that filter through the blinds of your windows, accompanied by the bustling lights from the bakery that usually stays open past its closing.
Despite the lack of proper lighting, you aren't quite submerged in the darkness of the night. You can see the outlines of your furniture when you squint.
The lollipop is still in your mouth as you leisurely let yourself regain focus. Your left cheek is numb from sheltering it for hours while you've dozed off, and so, you move it to the other side with a loud clack against your front teeth.
Then that's when you realize something is undeniably off.
The echo falls a note short. Usually, with how spacious your room is, everything that you do bounces around the walls. And with one less echo, you surmise someone's in this room.
Yet you refuse to let panic seize you, despite your options being vastly limited here. Firstly, your weapons were destroyed during the incident. Maki is supposed to hand over the new replacements tomorrow; therefore, this isn't an option you can choose.
Then there's your cursed energy. While a plausible solution, it still needs to assimilate back into your system. Having lost several pressure points and sensory nerves, it's like trying to learn how to walk again with your techniques. Hence, this might not be your first choice.
Furthermore, with this option, you'd count yourself lucky if you can somehow get through the door and run for it. Ifwhoever is in your room is also stupid enough to let you escape. And the chances of that are vastly slim and unlikely, because if they managed to bypass the curses your sensei placed around your apartment and combine that with your insane amount of bad luck, then this trespasser is considerably strong.
So that leaves you with one solid approach and your best bet yet: your phone, which is somewhere above your head. By calling, you need to make sure it's someone who can get to you — impossibly fast.
And the only one you know within the vicinity of Tokyo is Gojō Sensei.
You pretend to stretch your arms, feigning that you just woke up. You spread and move them left and right, widening their reaches for your device, but both come empty.
You swear internally. You know, and you remember vividly, that you placed that above your head. Unless whoever is in this room, who's probably watching you, knew what you're planning to do and moved it beforehand.
You force yourself to yawn. Then you allow a brief pause to settle before you stretch your arms the second time. When you feel nothing of the shape of your phone again, you become a bit more desperate.
You fold one of your legs, dangling from the edge of the bed, and prop it up. With one more careless yawn thrown into the wind, you use the momentum and slide yourself further towards the upper-center of your bed.
And just when you think you feel it, you hear:
"Don't move."
Toge's voice compels you to do his bidding. From the corner of your eyes, to the very left of you, there is a silhouette of him standing rigidly. He's rather hard to discern, really, but you can't mistake Toge's voice anywhere.
You visibly relax, though for some reason, a part of you can't shake off the unsettling feeling between you and your friend.
"You got me, Toge." You laugh nervously. "All right. If this is about me walking out to do some little errands, you don't need to fuss about it, too. Maki already gave me the gist."
But Toge doesn't reply with his usual onigiri ingredients. In place of that, what he offers you in return for your remark is unbearable silence.
You grunt and force yourself to move against the technique, even just an inch, to look at him.
"Toge?" You call out, cursing when you won't budge. "Okay, I think I understand. Lesson learned. Aha, please, let go of the command now. Seriously."
Toge still says nothing, but you hear the lightest of his footsteps coming towards you.
And that's when sheer cold panic courses through your veins instantaneously. For whoever this person is, he is not Toge. Because Toge's energy doesn't move like an erratic whirlpool, nor does it try to tether to more than just one powerful core. This one adapts, as if it's meant to be something far beyond the absolute power of divinity.
You don't know how he managed to mimic Toge or how he's obtained his cursed speech, since the only one you personally know who can do that ability is not in Tokyo.
You don't think you'd be able to make it out alive at this rate.
You will yourself to stop thinking about the ifs and decide to keep pretending. If you can remain ignorant until the curse weakens, then you could get out. "Toge, I know you're worried about me, but I was fine walking today. I even got you some ham and cheese. Would you like to eat some with me?"
You would have flinched if you could when you feel a finger, then two — three — and then their palm — skim the shape of your propped knee. It runs pliably and deliberately with its strokes. You feel their hand drag down to your raised leg, towards the shape of your ankle, and rest on the soles of your foot.
There, their hold changes, grabbing and placing it on their right shoulder. It takes a second more for your brain to register that your leg has shifted.
A gruff tone comes out from you as you try your hardest to resist the command once more; alas, you are unable to.
You swallow your gasp when they lean forward, going closer until you feel the fan of their breath brush the tip of your nose intimately. You can smell the clean musk radiating off his neck. Any words you wish to have said to de-escalate the situation have run bone dry.
"I thought you died."
Your garbled response makes you choke.
"I was told that you were sent on a mission." He caresses your ankle reverently while he nuzzles his lips to your throat. "And that you almost didn't make it. I had to make sure. I need to."
You can't believe it. Holy crap.
"Yū — Yūta?!"
In all honesty, you and the others were informed a long time ago by Gojō Sensei that Yūta was going to travel overseas for personal reasons. It didn't come as a surprise to any of you that Yūta, being a special-grade sorcerer, was being sent away, despite your selfish pleas of having him with you just a little longer.
And that was a couple of months ago. From what you know, his trip is almost indefinite, and you would rather quell the hope of seeing him sooner rather than later.
Yet, here he is before you, watching you intensely, basking in you like a depraved man. Almost as if, should he fail to do so, you might slip through his fingers permanently.
"Are you healed properly?" Yūta questions near the shell of your ear.
You blink and clear your throat. "I-I am."
"Are you sure? Nothing feels painful for you?"
"I'm not allowed to go on missions yet, but I can move around better than these past few days." You pause. "Actually, how much do you know about my mission?"
Yūta doesn't answer for a while. His eyes roam over your body, too busy trying to make sure that you're all right.
"Yūta?"
"Gojō Sensei sent me a letter a couple of days ago."
"Of course, he did," you grumble incoherently.
"It's said that you're in bad shape and I should brace myself in case you don't make it."
"Son of a bitch! He wrote what?"
You're going to kill that man. In fact, Maki will do you the honors once you tell her what he just basically committed. Of all the people not to trigger, Yūta is unquestionably the one person you shouldn't choose.
Yūta's shoulders quiver. His hand that isn't holding your ankle cups your cheek tightly. "I couldn't think straight. Miguel found out about it eventually, because I just — I just wanted to see you. I wanted to come back for you. I wanted to come home. He helped me book a flight at the earliest of convenience. Rika did the work next and tracked you down."
"Gojō Sensei," you groan outrageously. Trust that he makes things worse. Of course, he always does.
"Is he — is he wrong about it?" Yūta's touches stop.
"No, no. It's not that! It wasn't supposed to end that way," you admit, "I was only meant to investigate a rundown place that houses several weak curses. If they aren't much, I would exorcize them. What no one expected was that there was a special grade that was cleverly masking its energy through the mass amount of the weaker ones."
Yūta presses his forehead on your mattress, just a hairsbreadth away from you. His ragged breathing thunders past your ears. It sounds so hollow, broken, and dismantled, much like how he used to be the first time you met him. "And?"
"Blasted my legs and arm off before Ijichi could have said anything else. I don't remember what happened next about the mission or even the curses, but Panda said they've been wiped clean just recently."
"I almost lost you," comes his muffled voice, yet neither of you can miss the haunting dread of his tone, "and I wasn't even there."
"No one could have known." You say in comfort. "I also should've been more attentive to my surroundings. I got too arrogant, and it cost me almost dearly. If it hadn't been for Toge carrying me out while Panda basically giving us cover . . . "
He shakes his head, muttering to himself that it's all the reason he should've gone back sooner. That he should've begged Gojō Sensei to take him back.
"Yūta," you call him, but you are unable to take him out of his own self-torture.
He continues to mutter, curse, and mumble about the things that he should've done if he were here, about how he wouldn't have made you go through things alone, and admits he was terrified just thinking about you being healed without his presence while he was in Africa, blissfully enjoying meals after meals. How stupid, stupid, STUPID everything is.
"Yūta," you coax him once more, pushing your lollipop back to the left side. Thankfully, your mouth and your eyes can still move on their own. "Can you release me?"
Yūta's rambling ceases, almost suddenly. The hold around your ankle steels, shackling and submitting you to his strength. When he pushes himself a little higher to cage you beneath him, to have you look into his eyes that's rid of the hesitancy he once bore like an armor, you can only allow yourself to swallow visibly.
Whatever training he has received in Africa, or wherever else he's been situated by Sensei, Yūta has changed profoundly. You can see and feel it with his muscles growing taut, with his chin raising itself in confidence instead of submission, and his eyes — oh, the eyes you've missed — holding you steady.
He takes your lollipop from your mouth and puts it in his. Even a measly sweet sucker is commanded to obey his tongue.
It seems wrong to think about how sensual it looks when Yūta nestles the lollipop against the back of his teeth, never letting his eyes leave yours as he compels you to watch him. Then he breaks a tiny piece from it with a press of his jaw down.
It was carnal, the best way you can put it. The precision with which he merely takes what's needed and leaves the rest incomplete.
"I need to see for myself." He states. "I need to make sure you're actually fine."
He inspects the leg that's resting on his shoulder first. He carefully rotates your ankle, thoroughly examining for any unusual bones protruding through your skin. For one thing, he certainly doesn't like how delayed your reactions are.
You say it's because it's still trying to heal internally. His disapproval humming tells you otherwise, and he isn't pleased with the results.
He places his own knee at the center of you, narrowly brushing your most intimate part, when he lifts your other leg and places it on top, too.
Yūta's attention moves from one limb to the next, making sure that everything's perfect. You let him at this point, not that you've got your choice yet, but you are beginning to think that this feels rather nice, with how gentle and attentive he is with you. And in the recesses of your muddled brain, how aroused he makes you feel.
His movement falters briefly when his hands reach the hem of your shorts. You peek an eye open and look at him.
There is a certain gaze he has, fixated on what's covering you. "I need to look in here as well."
Before you can utter, he already pulls them down, and you resist a moan from the cold breeze that seems to nip your skin bitterly. Yūta gets off the bed and crouches below you, his face leveling to your nether region. He tests a finger, pushing towards your center fold. Immediately, you soak him completely.
"Let me," he says, and pries your labia open.
"Ah, Yūta!" you breathlessly call out. The air bites you harsher the more he opens you wider.
"Perfect." He praises.
He uses three fingers: one flicks your clit around while the other two slowly entice you back and forth with their rhythmic pace.
"Absolutely perfect."
It goes on for several more minutes, with only the euphoric whines you can provide. The sounds of your breathing calling wretchedly out for him and the squelches of your starving cunt are the symphonies both of you can only hear throughout this room.
Suddenly, Yūta twists and curls his fingers roughly inside, and you feel yourself awash with an overwhelming sense of liberation.
You moan uproariously, the sounds bouncing from one corner to the next.
Yūta watches with a penetrating epiphany of just how sinfully wet your core is, how greedy it becomes for him that you would actually give in and submit to his whims. What a deplorable woman, staining his fingers with the most precious thing no one will ever come to know.
You feel him lap your cunt when you start leaking, scooping his tongue to get more from you. You moan for him to stop and give you a second. He only does when you cry his name louder.
"You taste perfect as always."
Yūta shifts, and swiftly, he takes his cursed-imbued katana from its scabbard and seamlessly rips the remaining of your clothes with a clean slice.
You are still reeling from your release when he resumes his inspection.
He pulls up and touches your breasts and feels the suppleness of them on his hands. Next, he checks your waist, which doesn't seem like it's been dislocated and then relocated back in.
"Good." He nods, the sound of your lollipop in his mouth clacks twice.
He shuffles to your collarbone — and all's fine in that area, too. To your back and its dimples, the sides of your neck where he litters his mark, down your throat. He opens your mouth, stares into your eyes, and double-checks your head for any stitches he wasn't informed of. Nothing of the ordinary. Everything's all good.
And yet, there is an indisputable rage you feel radiating from his presence, choking you from how lethally potent it's exuding. Whether that's directed to anyone in particular or the general gist of the whole situation or even to you, you can hardly tell because Yūta is beyond furious.
"Hey, look at me," you try in hopes that you can calm him down. "I am fine. I can't go on missions for the time being, since I basically need to let my nerves reset over here," you point your eyes to your arm and legs, "and get them accustomed to me again. But other than that, I feel fine."
Yūta nods stiffly. His entire body is clenched so hard, you feel his nails digging sharply against your hips. You worry that at this rate, he might set himself on fire, and Rika would burst in here and actually demolish your place.
"I'm here, Yūta."
Clack. The candy goes. Clack. Clack. Clack.
"I promise that I'm all right. Gojō Sensei was exaggerating a bit in the letter. I didn't die. And you didn't have to come home, you know."
"Toge wrote to me as well." He says through gritted teeth. Clack. Clack. "Toge never writes unless something actually happened. And for him to do so, it was bad."
You relent with a sigh. "Okay, yes, it was, but only for a moment. I was fixed up in time, and so, don't worry too much about it. Please?"
Clack. "No."
"Yūta," you beg, "Please? Trust me. I'm okay. I don't know what else I can say to make you feel better right now, but please know that I'm okay. I'm better, especially since you came home for me."
Clack-clackclack-clack.
"Please, come here."
Yūta settles his gaze back to you and does as he's told. You coax him to give in to your lips, and after a few more tries, he finally obeys, once he removes the lollipop, as he cages you with his hands on either side of your face.
He kisses you out of desperation and longing and the implied gut-wrenching terror of what could've been, the very same in which you feel burning inside of you when you thought you wouldn't be able to see him again.
"I've missed you." He says between his teeth.
"I've missed you, too." You utter back through labored breaths. "I've really missed you, Yūta."
"I'm here," he says. He licks your bottom lip for entrance, and you allow him. He moans against your mouth as he deepens the kiss hungrily. "I'm here."
One of his arms slides down with a resounding swoosh against your sheets, and before you can wonder what he's going to do, you feel a foreign thing protruding inside your cunt.
"Y-Yūta, what is t-that?" You try to break the kiss away, but with your movements rendered useless, it's difficult to try and even speak when he stops at nothing in claiming your lips repeatedly.
He doesn't deign to give you an answer either, too drunk on what he's doing.
"Yūta," you call again, gasping a moan, as you feel it bottoming in and out of you in swift motions. "Did you just put —"
Yūta tilts your head forcefully towards his, squeezes your cheeks to open your mouth wider, and captures your lips to drown out any words you wish to speak out, as you feel the lollipop (you are certain of this now) twirling and pushing inside you at such an unforgivable force.
"Oh — shit!" You barely let out as you are near the edge again. "Yūta — Yūta! Wait, wait, wait! Shit! I'm gonna — gon —"
Being immobilized for this long prevents you from writhing, and it is in this predicament that you gradually realize that coming undone like this is inexplicably more intense.
Your eyes roll back, your mouth slackens as it opens and brings your tongue out to the side, and drool slithers down to your neck, where Yūta licks it clean.
He gives you exactly three heavy breaths before he unbuckles his pants and slides inside you with ease. Both of you moan almost in harmony for missing this contact for months.
"I've always — shit," he cuts himself off, grunting through the roughness of his thrusts.
Your limbs are beginning to loosen from their stiffness. Yūta's command is weakening. When you finally catch yourself with the return of your control, he seizes your arms and legs and wraps them around his neck and waist.
Both of your kisses have turned sloppy. Occasionally, you would accidentally slide to his cheek, or he would bite your chin by mistake. Neither of you has cared enough.
He rolls his hips to the tandem of your movements, and as he breaks away to taste the cherry-flavored sucker coated with you and cracks it into pieces in his mouth, you almost climax at the sight of him.
The sight of him being powerfully raw.
He captures your lips again, pushing some of the pieces of the candy inside your mouth. You taste yourself, you taste him, you taste what little is left of the cherry intact.
The mixture of everything is heavenly.
"I wanted to kill them," he tells you.
"Who?" You wrap your legs tighter, sucking him further inside.
"The moment I've read the letter from Sensei. I wanted to kill them all. Every single one who touched you." He confesses. "Who dared to try to take you from me. Did they think they would get away so easily?"
His thrusts have become sporadic. His anger fueled him to hit harder. He doesn't stop his progression. You beg him not to.
"Then Toge explained everything. Who do I have to kill for you? For three days before I came here, I hunted them down. Especially the one that nearly killed you."
So, it was he who dealt with them, the one Panda informed you when all those curses were suddenly wiped out of their existence. All this time, you've assumed it was Gojō Sensei or some first-grade sorcerer. Never did you expect, as Yūta never announced his abrupt visit, that it'd be him.
"They won't hurt you anymore, baby." He kisses your forehead gently as he holds your hands over your head. He bites your elbow, the upper part of your armpits, marking your collarbone and littering his claim across your chest like an undiscovered constellation. "Never again. They wouldn't dare. They wouldn't."
The tightness coiling at the pit of your stomach resurfaces. You hardly catch yourself calling out to him when you come again with the loudest, most pleasurable scream you've ever done tonight.
Yūta isn't too far behind. With just a couple more thrusts and a promise of devotion for you, he spills inside.
And even after both of you are wholly spent, when you've untangled your legs around him and collapse further into your bed, he refuses to pull out.
Yūta is still hard, and he rocks himself back and forth, edging himself to another release.
There is a claim that he is making here, one that promises retribution to whoever may defy him, and he is making sure that for any curse and sorcerers alike who dare to even try and take you from him, they would know and feel that a part of him is inside of you. That they would think twice before considering the consequences of their actions. Unless they wish a painful death.
"You're coming with me." He announces through his slow fucking.
"Don't you want to stay here instead? You've been gone for a while." You playfully bargain in between rasps and moans.
"There's something Gojō Sensei needs me to look into," He huffs a breath, "but I can't risk leaving you alone anymore. I've already discussed this with him, and we'd be heading in a week."
"All right." You bring him closer to you. "M'can't wait . . ."
Yūta kisses your cheek. "For you, I'll do anything."
stealing your husband’s chocolate and finding out it was laced with an aphrodisiac!
[content: MDNI, crack smųt, a very unserious piece of work, piv, hair pulling, use of aphrodisiacs, sukuna’s sour but then he’s sweet]
Never in your life have you been so horny it hurt.
“Kuna, please—harder,” you cry out.
“I’m going as hard as I fucking can, you little slut,” he snaps, each thrust matching every harsh word that gets spat through his teeth. “THIS IS WHY YOU DON’T EAT RANDOM. CHOCOLATE. ON. THE. COUNTER.”
“I’m sorry! Fuck!! I didn’t know!”
“There was a note saying DON’T eat it—you just didn’t give a shit because you’re a thief and a glutton. A liar now, too,” he continues to scold you over the chocolate bar he was going to give to Jin so he’d stop groveling over his ex. It’s been 6 fucking months, he’s tired of having to listen to him go on and on about Kaori. Enough is enough—he needs to go out and sleep with someone.
And now Jin’s never going to shut up. Sukuna doesn’t even want to look at you right now—let alone reward your behavior with dick.
“And now you’re cryin’ like it’s my fuckin’ fault.” It’s him who should be crying right now. “It’s simple: Leave my fucking snacks alone. I always get multiples of each so you’d keep your grubby little hands off them. Why can’t you just be normal and go in my wallet?? Fuck—Arch that back some more.” He cracks his palm over your ass. “Yeah, let me see this ass up nice and high.”
“I can’t!” It feels like it’s about to break with all the weight he’s putting on it! Both of his hands pinning you down, burying every last inch of his cock inside of you.
He scoffs, nudging for you to close your thighs, then planting his knees right next to yours so they stay that way. “Do you want to cum?”
“…yes,” you whimper.
“Then fucking arch it.”
You sniffle. “Okay.”
He breaks character and huffs out a laugh as he watches you continue to helplessly stretch and squelch around him, making a creamy mess all along his shaft. He straightens his back, big hands now firmly grabbing your hips as he picks up the pace.
“Yeahh—stay right there,” his chest rumbles as he lets out a low, drawn-out groan. The smack of his hips growing louder, driving himself right into that little spot that won’t stop screaming for his attention.
It has his attention now.
The new angle had you whining into the pillow, absolutely reeling from how good he was at this, despite his complaints. He knows how to be rough. Nearly lifting you off the bed once he starts pulling your hips back, heavy balls smacking against your sensitive clit as he makes you meet each and every rough thrust he delivers.
“F-fuckk!” you choke out, barely able to form a coherent sentence as you start babbling out a bunch of words.
“So fuckin’ spoiled.” He complains, but just barely. “C’mon brat—you’ve been working me like a fuckin’ dog, give it to me already.”
“I know, I’m sorry.” He doesn’t believe you. You sound like you’re in heaven right now. “Mmhh—I love you so much.” His scowl deepens. “So, so much—you’re so fucking big.“
“Tch.” He grabs a handful of your hair, then yanks you back until you’re up against his chest, lips grazing your ear while muttering in it. “I don’t want an apology. What I want is for you to cum on my fuckin’ cock already. Or should I just stop?”
“No, no don’t! Please! I’m trying, I swear,” you begin to plead with the man.
“Try harder.” Then he smiled, because he felt you squeeze around him. “Jesus Christ—you need to me talk you through it too? The chocolates supposed to make you horny, sweetheart. Not useless.”
“It’s not my fault,” you whimper, and squeeze around him again, pulling a condescending huff out of him.
“You poor thing,” he hums. “Probably spent the whole day waiting for me to come home so I could make you feel better, huh?”
His breath tickles your ear and you nearly moan. “Mhm—I thought about it all day.”
“Well aren’t you sweet,” he mutters, tone as condescending as ever. “You got what you wanted, too. I’ve been taking care of you for a while now. How many times have I cum in you now?”
“I… I don’t know—“
“Of course you fuckin’ don’t.” He cuts you off, unamused by your answer. “Want me to do it again? Fill you up, make you feel all nice and warm?”
“Please.”
“Give me what I want then. If these sheets aren’t soaked by the time I’m about to cum again, I’m pulling out and finishing on your face,” he lets go of your hair and begins to laugh. You don’t get much of a chance to react before you feel the pads of his fingers on your clit, pulling a gasp out of you once he starts rubbing little circles on top of already fucking you. “Heh—let’s see if playing with this cute little clit saves you.”
And he knows you don’t deserve it—any of it, honestly. Unfortunately, he can’t help himself, not with the reactions he gets out of you. He married you for many reasons—getting to spend the rest of his life with a squirter was one of them. The moment your breathing grows labored and you sound like you’re gonna start to cry, his lids grow heavy and he starts saying all the things he told himself he wouldn’t say today.
"Yeahhh, that’s it, baby—fuuuuck—takin’ it so good.” He is fucking gone. Voice thick, filled with nothing but lust and awe as he presses against your lower belly. “C’mon, you want it here, right? Yeah, you know what to do—don’t let some fuckin’ asshole finish on your sweet little face.”
Yes. Your husband just degraded himself. And you just egg him on without meaning to. You were already whining about how it was too much, the incoherent “want it inside,” just made it better worse.
“I will, I’ll give you so fuckin’ much if you just give me one—just one. Easy. Shit—I’ll fill you up as much as you want afterwards.” He doesn’t know what he’s saying, but that doesn’t matter when it’s what has you crying and trembling and finally gushing around his cock.“Yeah, that’s it. That’s it, that’s—fuuuuck yeah. Good job, sweetheart—good fuckin’ job. Fuck.”
Funny enough, he came right after you, which was a relief because that meant his job was done and he was finally able to give his dick a fucking break after hours of feeling like he was working for free, when he had already worked a regular eight hour shift prior. The biggest relief of all was seeing you lie limp in bed, after slightly worrying if you ever actually would.
He leans over you with a smug smile, already having forgotten how much you pissed him off earlier as he moved some hair away from your face. Checking to see if you’re actually asleep or not, then feeling a deep sense of peace when seeing that you are. He presses a kiss against your cheekbone, and in the most loving way hopes you stay that way because he cannot do that again. Then finally, he gets up to use the bathroom.
The peace is only lasts four steps until it’s completely shattered again when he hears your weak voice.
Gojo fucks his crush (who has a crush on his best friend)
warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut with no plot, fem!reader, p in v, coming on face, reader has/had a crush on Geto, Geto is kind of a jerk, fourth year setting (all characters are aged up to +18), pet names (princess, baby, sweetheart)
a/n: first time writing smut, so please bear with me!
art by @/thatsallchief (i love their art so much)
suguru's pov!
Gojo Satoru knew that his crush liked his best friend.
The way your eyes wandered around the room, and instead of landing on him, it always settled on the black-haired boy that was sitting next to him.
And he always watched your heart get broken when your ears perked up at the sound of Suguru’s voice, low, leisure, and level as though it was a daily occurrence to be talking in the classroom about how he booked a hotel with a university girl, studying nursing or some other shit, to spend the night with.
Shoko would stick her tongue out, wrinkling her nose in distaste as she stared at her phone, while Gojo would laugh for a moment, making fun of Suguru playfully as always before turning to look at you, eyes concerned.
And his darling crush, gentle and kind even when your heart is shattered into pieces, would always smile awkwardly, uncomfortable as your murmured a faint complaint about appropriate behaviour at school grounds, or sometimes nothing at all when Suguru’s description became too detailed, too promiscuous.
The worst part was… Suguru knew.
Suguru knew that your rosy cheeks were meant for him, that her gentle voice was only directed at him.
He even casually complained how to indirectly let your down, not wanting to confront the awkwardness since he still thought of you as a precious, fellow classmate—the one that would always give him a piece of candy to get rid of the horrid taste of the curses he swallow.
Suguru was appreciative of your kindness, but not enough to reject you directly with kind words.
That was why it always made Satoru grit his teeth in fury at his best friend, whom he still deeply cared for, but also from annoyance at the way you always let him run over you, still naively trying to cling to the hope that somehow Suguru would like you back.
Satoru knew that you weren’t just a crush—he adored you, loved you, that it sometimes hurt to look at you from the way you made his heart race.
For the way you would hide your eyes away when they welled with tears whenever Suguru breaks your heart, not wanting to disturb the moment with your friends. The way you would smile gently at Satoru when your eyes meet. The way you would giggle slightly when Gojo pokes your cheek teasingly. The way you would prettily part your lips for a bite for a piece of strawberry Pocky that would make him swallow as something else flash behind his eyes, imagining how they would feel wrapped around his tip—
“Sa…toru,” you slurred, eyes hazy and sparkling with tears—not from your heart getting broken, but rather from how fucking deep his cock was inside you, kissing your cervix affectionately with every thrust. It brought an undeniably deep satisfaction at the sight. “I-It’s too much…”
Satoru instantly moaned at your whine, ducking in to let you burrow your face into the crook of his neck, as he pressed his nose against your head, smelling your shampoo and the faint smell of sweat that formed on your skin from how long he's been fucking you. His large hand wrapped around your head tightly, the other on your hip, keeping you there as he kept snapping his hips to search for your hot, sopping, messy cunt.
This was real.
This was fucking real. Shit, shit, shit—
“Fuck, princess… stop clenching so tight. Feels too”—he gasped, eyes turning wide as you tightened around him impossibly more that made him roll his eyes back—“good…”
This was the third—no, maybe fourth—time he brought you to his dorm room to fuck you mindlessly to drive Suguru out of your pretty mind. This was the third time inviting you to his bed, next to Suguru’s dorm, to comfort you as he went off to another hotel with no doubt another slightly older woman in his arms.
The other one time was when you invited him over to your dorm, and the memory of your bashfully lowered eyes and soft voice as you tenderly led him to your room was enough to prompt him another pathetic whine as he thrusted so roughly into you that made you see stars.
So yes, this was the fourth time that you were in his arms to have his cock deeply nestled inside, wrapped by your heavenly walls, and the third time he was able to make his girl come tonight. He silently thinks in his pussy-drunk mind, that no matter how many times the two of you fuck—make love—he would forever be questioning whether this was real, if you were real because no way does he have his dream girl in his arms right now, letting him fuck you to an oblivion.
And some sick part of him liked to imagine that you were still in love with Suguru. The thrill of knowing that he was fucking you, making you feel so good that you couldn’t help but think of him as you stared at his blue eyes instead of a pair of purple ones. But by the looks of the way your brain was fucked dumb, your lips only dribbling his name repeatedly, was an enough of an indicator that you weren’t thinking of Suguru anymore.
“Satoruuuu!!!” you screamed as you came undone, muffled against his neck. That effectively brought him back from his pussy-drunk reverie as he grinned down at you.
“Sorry, baby…”
He pulled out with a gasp, pulling off the condom with a snap as he stroked around his cock. You were about to whine when another moan slipped out of you when his thick, long fingers curled inside of you, his thumb rubbing quick, tight circles around your clit to prolong your pleasure.
“I’m going to c-come.” He swallowed. “Can I come on your face? Please, baby? You’ll look so fucking pretty with my cum.”
You nodded eagerly, managing a faint reassuring smile that twisted at his heart painfully with affection as he cupped your face and kissed you senseless, thumb caressing your cheek as the other hand continued to stroke his cock to prompt his impending release. His lips gently suckled on your tongue while giggling deliriously with pathetic whines, prompting you to clench tightly around his fingers.
“Satoru!”
And that was it—thick, white spurts of cum splattered across your face, making you gasp at the sticky sensation on your skin. Satoru grinned at the sight, cooing softly yet his fingers harshly fucked you dumb, the quelching sounds incredibly filthy that almost made his cock hard instantly.
As you came your nth time of the night and breathed heavily from your climax, your eyes widened at the sight of him ripping another condom, and rolled it on his pretty cock.
Satoru chuckled at your surprised face, leaning in to press a quick kiss on your lips before pulling back, grinning at you fervently.
“Don’t think we’re over just yet, sweetheart.”
The next morning, when you came out wearing Satoru’s overly large t-shirt with heated cheeks and a horrifying amount of hickies across your neck and collarbone, and a Satoru that had his lips curled into a dopey grin at your side, with a nervous Suguru that was rubbing his neck awkwardly by his door… you only could hide behind Satoru, hands gripping the back of his shirt, and a cheek pressed against his broad back, as the white-haired boy laughed full of satisfaction and fucked up elation.
“Um… fun night?” Suguru asked, his smile uncharacteristically awkward as he looked at Satoru and glanced at you curiously.
“Yeah, too much fun,” Satoru said with a grin, laughing when you scrunched his shirt up more, nails digging into his back like last night to shut him up—fuck, he was going to get hard from just that. “How was your night, Suguru?”
Maybe it was cruel to ask that when he didn’t really know if you still liked Suguru or not, but his cocky ass just couldn’t help but ask, knowing that he fucked your mind out last night, and he that he can and would continue to do it for the rest of his life, because that means that you would only think about him at that precious moment.
“Uh… yeah… I guess,” Suguru murmured as an answer, his eyes still glued to you. Since when did you look so cute? Suguru could acknowledge that he was acting like an asshole right now, knowing that he was starting to have interest in you after Satoru has swept you off of your feet and dicked you down a little too good.
Satoru’s eyes narrowed as he stepped a little to the side to hide you completely, holding the door. “Anyways, we’re going to have amazing morning sex from now, so go fuck yourself.”
Satoru grinned when he heard you let out a loud gasp at his words as he slammed the door right in front of Suguru’s face, before spinning around to face you.
Cradling your face in his large hands, he kissed you senseless as he pushed you towards the bed, tongue lolling out with yours as he lapped at yours like a pathetic mutt. His cock twitched at the sound of your surprised giggles, and he couldn't help but let out an unabashed moan.
mdni. naoya zenin doesn’t care about women, and he doesn’t care at all for his servants. until you arrive and make him go insane over you. but jerking off to the thought of you is not enough anymore, but then a fever strikes.
content. creampie, breeding risk, size kink, degradation, titty slapping, cum, so much cum, i’m sorry i’m nasty, hair pulling, riding, cock-drunk because yes; 3.8k words
part one ✧ part two ✧ part three ✧ part four
naoya zenin has never been patient.
he’s sitting in the main hall, surrounded by the usual parade of dull elders in stiff hakama, droning about kyoto branch alliances and territory lines and some petty feud over some cursed tools he couldn’t give a shit about. his fingers drum against the table, distracted, because all he sees is you.
bent over your narrow futon, yukata shoved up to your waist, thighs spread wide, cunt dripping and clenching around nothing while you whimper his name. he imagines the way you’d gasp when he finally pushed inside—slow at first, just to feel you stretch—then hard and deep, hips snapping forward until the wet slap of skin on skin drowned out every other sound in the estate.
he pictures your back arching, your hands scrabbling at his shoulders, the way you’d sob when he hit that spot deep enough to make your legs shake.
his cock throbs painfully against the confines of his hakama. he shifts—barely—and the friction only makes it worse.
the elder across the table is still talking. something about supply routes. naoya hasn’t heard a word in ten minutes. he needs to get out of here. he needs to be in your room.
now.
he wants to pin you to the wall the second the door slides shut, yank your panties aside, and bury himself to the hilt in one thrust. he wants to fuck you until you’re crying, until your voice breaks on his name, until you’re so full of him that it leaks down your thighs when he pulls out just to push back in again. he wants to mark you until there’s no part of you that doesn’t smell like him, feel like him, remember him.
the meeting drags. another elder speaks. naoya’s vision swims at the edges—strange, because he hasn’t eaten since yesterday, but he doesn’t care. his skin feels too hot, too tight. sweat beads at his temple despite the cool air in the hall.
he clenches his jaw. he can wait. he has to wait. just a few more minutes and he can dismiss them, stalk to the servants’ wing, kick your door open, and take what’s been driving him insane for days.
the room tilts.
he blinks—hard.
“young master?”
the elder’s voice fades to something distant. naoya tries to stand but his knees buckle. he catches himself on the edge of the table. the room spins faster. black spots dance at the corners of his vision and his head pounds.
“naoya-sama? are you okay?”
he straightens, barely, and tries to push off the table. but then the world tilts and darkness swallows him whole.
---
he wakes in fragments.
cool air on his face. the faint scent of cedar and yuzu. the low creak of wood. his chambers.
he’s on his futon with blankets tucked around him. his head pounds in time with his pulse and sweat clings to his skin, cold and clammy despite the fever heat still burning under it.
a soft rustle. he forces his eyes open. and then he sees you kneeling beside him, with your hair tied back and your expression pinched with worry. in your hands is a small porcelain basin of water and a folded white cloth.
you dip the cloth, wring it out and then lean forward. the cold press of damp fabric against his forehead makes him hiss.
“you’re awake,” you whisper. “you collapsed in the hall. the guards carried you here. i… i told them i’d stay with you.”
he tries to speak—manages only a rough croak. “how long?”
“a few hours. it’s past midnight.” you wet the cloth again, fold it and then press it back to his skin. “your fever spiked fast. i made willow bark tea. you should drink when you can sit up.” he reaches up and catches your wrist before you can pull the cloth away again. your eyes widen.
“why?” he mutters. “why stay?”
you blink. swallow. “because you’re sick,” you say simply, like it’s obvious. “and because… it’s you.” he holds your gaze—longer than he means to.
the fever makes everything feel distant and too close at once. your cool fingers against his burning skin. the faint scent of laundry soap and you. the way you don’t flinch under his stare, don’t look away even when his grip tightens on your wrist.
he wants to pull you down. wants to bury his face in your neck, breathe you in, take whatever comfort you’re offering and twist it into lust and something possessive. instead he lets his hand fall back to the futon—too weak, too tired.
“tea,” he croaks.
you nod and turn to pour the tea. you help him sit and he hates how much he needs it. hates how good it feels when your body presses close for that moment. he drinks—slow sips, grimacing at the taste—while you hold the cup steady.
when he finishes you take it away, set it aside, and want to get some more but he catches your hand again, almost gentle. “stay,” he says. not an order. not quite.
your breath catches. then you nod and settle beside him on the futon, knees tucked under you, hand still in his. his thumb brushes once over your knuckles, somewhat absent, like he’s testing the feel of it and watches you through the fever haze.
as you shift uncomfortably under his gaze and then move to adjust the damp cloth on his forehead, and the fabric of your yukata slips—just a fraction. the collar gapes open on one side and reveals the gentle curve of your shoulder.
you don’t notice at first. you’re focused on folding the cloth fresh, dipping it into the cool water and wringing it out. but then you feel his stare—hot, heavy, unblinking—and you freeze. your eyes flick to his. he doesn’t look away.
slowly, he lifts his free hand. fingers trembling faintly from the fever, but steady enough. he hooks one fingertip under the fallen edge of your yukata, right at the shoulder. the silk is thin, warm from your body. he drags it down, inch by agonizing inch, baring more of your shoulder, of your upper arm, the soft swell where breast meets chest.
the fabric pools at your elbow. cool air kisses your skin. your breath catches. “master naoya,” you whisper. “you’re sick. you need to rest—”
“i don’t care.” the words come out rough.
his hand doesn’t stop. he traces the newly bared skin with the backs of his knuckles, feeling the gooseflesh rise under his touch. your nipple pebbles beneath the remaining fabric; he can see the faint outline through the silk and swallows hard.
“i’ve wanted this,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “every fucking meeting. every boring hour. thinking about you under me. around me.” his fingers slide lower, hooking the edge again, tugging just enough to bare the top curve of your breast. “and now you’re here. and i’m burning up. and i still want you.”
your cheeks flush dark. you don’t pull the yukata back up. instead your hand—the one he’s holding—squeezes his fingers once, tentative.
“then let me,” you breathe.
he exhales, then his hand moves again—slipping the yukata fully off the other shoulder now. the silk falls down your arms, leaving your upper body bare to the cool night air and his hot gaze. your breasts rise and fall with shallow breaths; nipples tight under his stare. he cups one breast. thumb brushes the peak. you gasp and arch faintly into his palm. naoya groans low in his throat.
“beautiful,” he rasps. “fuck. you’re so—”
his hand squeezes gently, rolling your nipple between thumb and forefinger in lazy circles. you shiver. he switches to the other, kneading gently, testing the soft weight, rolling the nipple between thumb and forefinger until it hardens further under his touch. your breath hitches every time he pinches and he drinks in the helpless sounds you make, the way your back arches like you can’t help it.
he takes his time. minutes stretch. the fever makes everything hazy and slow; there’s no urgency tonight, only this burning need to feel you, to map every inch he’s fantasized about while trapped in endless meetings.
“so soft,” he mutters. “been thinking about these for days. how they’d feel. how they’d look when i—”
he doesn’t finish. instead he drags his hand lower. slowly. fingertips tracing the underside of your breast, down across your stomach. he nudges the remaining fabric of your yukata aside with the back of his hand until it falls open completely. cool air hits more of your skin. you gasp and your thighs press together. but he doesn’t let them stay closed.
his palm slides between them, nudging them apart until your legs part for him. the heat of you radiates against his fingers before he even touches you. when he does—when two fingers glide along your slit—he finds you soaked. slick coats his fingertips instantly.
“already this wet,” he breathes, almost accusing. “just from me touching your tits?”
you bite your lip and try to stifle the moan that wants to escape. it doesn’t work. the sound slips out anyway when he parts your folds with two fingers and drags them up to circle your clit. slow. teasing. barely enough pressure to make you tremble.
“naoya—” your voice cracks on his name.
he groans at the sound and then he lets one fingertip slip inside. not deep. just the very tip, barely past the first knuckle. he doesn’t push further. he simply holds it there, letting you feel it without giving you more, while his thumb hovers over your clit—close enough that you can feel the warmth of it, but not quite touching.
your hips push forward, chasing him, wanting more of him, all of him—but he doesn’t let you have it. instead he curls his finger ever so slightly, then pulls back until only his fingertip rests at your entrance again and circles. in, barely, out, barely.
“naoya, please—” you say, embarrassed at how bad you want him.
“so fucking desperate,” he breathes. “dripping down my fingers before i’ve even really touched you, huh?”
he watches your face the entire time—eyes locked on yours—drinking in every inch you move, every moan, every time your hips roll in desperate circles trying to take more. but then he pulls his hand away and you whine at the loss.
“ride me,” he says. not an order exactly—more like a need he can’t hide anymore.
you hesitate for half a heartbeat, eyes flicking down to the very obvious bulge of him—a dark spot already blooming at the tip from how long he’s been hard—then back to his face.
he tilts his head slightly, studying you. “have you done this before?”
you swallow and nod once.
“then come here.”
he reaches down and tugs the tie of his yukata open. his cock springs free—thick, flushed dark at the head, veins standing out along the shaft, already leaking steadily from the slit. it twitches against his stomach the moment it’s exposed, a fresh bead of precum welling up and sliding down the underside.
he doesn’t touch himself this time, instead his hand returns to your hip, guiding you closer. “come,” he says. “ride me. slow. i want to feel every inch.”
your heart hammers so loud you’re sure he can hear it. you shift, mindful of how weak he still is, and straddle his hips, knees sinking into the futon on either side of him. the slick head of his cock brushes your inner thigh, leaving a sticky trail.
you reach down—fingers trembling—wrap them around his base and your breath catches. oh shit, he’s big. thicker than you imagined, veins throbbing under your palm, the head already slick and swollen. you tremble harder, guiding him slowly, heart pounding as the sheer girth presses against your entrance, stretching just the tip inside with a wet, burning pressure that makes your thighs shake.
“that’s it,” he breathes, hands settling on your hips. “take me.”
you sink down—slowly—feeling every thick inch stretch you open. naoya is so thick that the first real press of him makes your breath hitch sharp in your throat; your walls have to part around him inch by torturous inch, fluttering helplessly, trying to accommodate the blunt girth that feels impossible at first.
you tremble above him—thighs shaking, fingers digging into his shoulders for balance—unable to drop all the way down as the stretch burns sweet and overwhelming. you pause there, needing a long moment just to adjust, to let your cunt soften around the fat head and the thickest part of his shaft.
naoya groans low beneath you, head tipping back against the pillow while he feels every tiny clench, every flutter of you trying to take him. his hands settle on your hips as he watches you struggle so prettily.
“look at you,” he says. “shaking like a virgin all over again. can’t even take me properly yet, can you?”
each shallow lift and sink makes your breasts bounce gently, drawing his gaze like a magnet. he stares—unblinking, fever-bright—watching the way they sway with your careful movements. he smirks, even as his own breath stutters from the tight heat gripping him.
“bet your last lover never made you pause like this,” he murmurs. “probably had a little prick—barely filled you at all, did he? no wonder you’re trembling so hard now. poor thing’s never had anything this thick splitting her open.”
the words hit like a slap—hot shame and heat flooding your cheeks—but they only make your cunt clench harder around him. another inch slips inside on a wet, slick slide. naoya hisses through his teeth at the sudden squeeze, fingers digging into your hips.
“that’s it,” he breathes. “keep going. take your time. i want to feel every second of you struggling to fit me.”
you do—slow, agonizingly slow—lifting just enough to feel the drag of him along your walls before sinking back down another fraction. and naoya can’t tear his eyes away. his thumbs brush the undersides of your breasts now, teasing the sensitive skin while you work yourself lower, lower, until finally—finally—your ass meets his thighs and he’s buried to the hilt. you both freeze for a heartbeat, your cunt stretched wide around his thickness.
naoya’s head falls back again; a long, low groan rumbles from his chest. “fuck… there we go,” he mutters. “took me so well. look how pretty you are—sitting on my cock like you were made for it.”
his hands slide up—cupping your breasts again, thumbs flicking the nipples once, twice—making them bounce in his palms while you whimper and clench around him.
“now ride me,” he says. “slow. let me feel how tight that little cunt is.”
you start to move—tentative at first, hips circling, lifting only an inch or two before sinking back down—and naoya watches every second: your trembling thighs, your tits, the way your face twists with pleasure.
you slowly increase the pace and ride him harder, faster while he cups your breasts, thumbs flicking the swollen peaks once, twice, making them jiggle harder in his hands. then, without warning, he delivers a light slap to the underside of one—sharp enough to sting sweetly.
“keep going,” he rasps. another slap—this one to the other breast—lighter but deliberate, watching the way it jiggles and flushes under his palm. “look at these tits bouncing while you ride me. so fucking pretty.”
the sting blooms into heat; your cunt clenches hard around him in response. you whimper and pick up the pace just a fraction more, rolling your hips deeper, grinding down until your clit drags against his pelvis with every full drop. he slapped your tits again, then squeezed, then slapped once more—each sharp crack of his palm sending heat straight to your core.
naoya’s breathing turns harsher, chest rising and falling fast despite the fever. one hand stays on your tits while the other grips your hip now, helping you take him harder, faster. the wet slap of skin on skin fills the small room, mixing with your soft cries and his groans.
“fuck—take it,” he mutters, slapping the side of one breast again, watching it bounce and redden. “ride me like you mean it. milk me with that tight little cunt.”
you do—hips rolling faster now, thighs burning, cunt dragging around his thickness as the pleasure coils tighter and tighter. your tits bounce with every descent—slapped, squeezed, tormented until they’re flushed and sensitive and aching in the best way.
naoya’s control frays. his hands leave your breasts to grip your waist, holding you down as he grinds up into you. despite the fever burning through him—skin slick with sweat, breaths coming too fast and shallow—his hips snap up with sudden, brutal force. he drives into you hard, deep, relentless—each upward thrust slamming in with a wet smack that echoes in the small room. the thickness of him stretches you wider on every stroke, the head battering against your cervix until your vision whites out at the edges.
a loud moan rips out of your throat, before you can clamp a hand over your mouth. fast, punishing, hips pistoning up from beneath you even as his body trembles with exhaustion and heat. every thrust forces another cry from you.
“quiet,” he growls through gritted teeth. “they’ll hear you—fuck—they’ll all hear how good my cock feels in you.”
you try. you really try. your free hand flies to your mouth, biting down on your knuckles, but another hard upward slam punches a muffled scream past your fingers anyway.
“can’t—can’t stop—” you gasp between moans, voice cracking. “too—too fast—naoya—” but he doesn’t slow down.
if anything he fucks up harder; bury him to the hilt over and over. your walls flutter and spasm around his thickness, clenching so hard he hisses through his teeth.
“let them hear,” he rasps. “let the whole fucking estate know who’s ruining this tight little cunt. who’s making you scream like this.”
another loud cry tears from your throat as he slams up deep, holding you down on him for a long second so you feel every throbbing inch buried inside. your thighs shake violently around his waist; slick drips down his shaft, coating his balls, soaking into the futon beneath him.
and you’re gone. cock drunk, mind melted, body nothing but a trembling vessel for him now. the last coherent thought you had shattered somewhere between the next brutal thrust and the way he held you pinned, forcing you to feel every thick, throbbing inch stretch and claim you. now there’s only heat, only fullness, only the relentless drag of him inside you as he keeps fucking up into your limp body.
you can’t fight it. can’t even try.
your arms hang useless and your head falls forward, hair sticking to your damp forehead, then back as another deep slam punches a moan from your throat. echoing off the thin walls like you don’t care who hears anymore—because you don’t. you’re too far gone to care.
“gonna—fuck—gonna come—”
you feel him everywhere. feel his cum everywhere when he comes. the first thick pulse hits deep—hot, heavy, flooding your core in a sudden rush. you feel it bloom inside: warm spurts coating your walls, painting every inch, filling the tight space until there’s nowhere left for it to go. another pulse follows—then another—each one throbbing against your sensitive inner walls, stretching you further.
feel his head press against your cervix with every spurt of his release until you can feel the excess already leaking out: slow, sticky trails seeping around his shaft where he’s still buried inside you, dripping down your inner thighs in warm strands.
and naoya doesn’t stop. even after he’s come, he keeps going. hips snapping up, using your slick, oversensitive cunt like it’s his personal fucktoy. your walls flutter weakly around him—too exhausted to clench properly—but still so wet, so open, so perfectly ruined for him.
“look at you,” he mutters. one hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise; the other slides up to fist in your hair, yanking your head back so he can see your face—eyes glassy, mouth slack, drool slipping from the corner of your lips. “fucked dumb already. just a pretty little doll for me to use.”
he exhales roughly through his nose.
then he moves.
strong hands grip your waist and flip you, dropping you face-down onto the futon. your cheek presses into the damp fabric; breasts flatten beneath you; ass lifts instinctively as he manhandles your hips up just enough. he doesn’t give you time to brace.
he drives back in—hard, deep, brutal—one long, punishing thrust that buries him to the hilt again. the thick length forces its way through your already cum-stuffed cunt; the pressure is obscene. his earlier release gets pushed out around his shaft in a sudden, messy gush. it leaks out in spurts, splattering wetly against your inner thighs, dripping down onto the floor in fat, sticky drops.
but he doesn’t stop. doesn’t slow. just keeps fucking into you like he’s trying to carve himself deeper, like he wants to fuck his release right back inside until there’s no room left for anything else.
naoya’s mind fractures in the haze between thrusts—fever thoughts cutting through the lust.
an illegitimate child.
the words surface unbidden, the way they always do when his body betrays him with want instead of control. a brat with his blood and your softness. no name, no clan standing, just another stain the elders would use to sharpen their knives against him. scandal. weakness. proof he couldn’t keep his cock in his pants around a servant girl.
unfortunate.
dangerous.
he should stop. should pull out. should spill on your back, your stomach, anywhere but deep inside where it could take root.
but he doesn’t.
he can’t.
not when your cunt is feeling so good around him—greedy, slick, milking every drop he’s already given you like it’s starving for more. not when the wet squelch of his cock plunging back into the mess he’s made is the most perfect sound he’s ever heard. not when your body trembles beneath him—limp, cock-drunk, ass raised just enough for him to drive deeper—and every sob that spills from your swollen lips is a plea he can’t ignore.
fuck the risk.
fuck the consequences.
right now the only thing that matters is the heat of you wrapped around him, the way your walls spasm every time he bottoms out, the obscene splash of his cum being forced out only to be fucked right back in with the next deep thrust.
he wants to keep filling you.
keep marking you.
keep claiming every inch until there’s no part of you that doesn’t drip with him.
LAST FRIDAY NIGHT (T.G.I.F) .ᐟ 𓂃 g. satoru. & r. sukuna ◞
synopsis. you woke up in bed between two frat boys you barely knew—and now you have to figure out what the hell happened last friday night.
warnings. 18+, frat party setting (alcohol, drinking games, mild peer pressure), threesome (mfm) dynamic, voyeurism/exhibitionism, consensual but impulsive sex under the influence, some language and casual objectification, virgin!reader, shy/inexperienced reader, modern college AU.
juniper's ☆ note. based off of the katy perry song last friday night hehe also i'm still a lil scared to use banners so nothing yet :(
you wake up warm. that’s the first thing. warm and sore and weirdly… safe. the blanket’s tangled somewhere around your knees, one of your socks is still on, and your mouth tastes like cheap vodka and lip gloss. your head’s pounding. your eyes won’t open all the way. your body aches in places you don’t even have names for. but you’re not alone.
there’s an arm around your waist. a heavy, bare thigh pressed behind yours. someone breathing against the back of your neck. slow, steady, like they’ve been asleep for hours. and in front of you—there’s another body. taller, sprawled out, hair messy, cheek smushed into the same pillow as yours. his arm is under your head like you’d been holding it.
satoru’s hair is white-blond and soft-looking even now, even in sleep. his lips are parted just slightly. his breath smells like spearmint and sugar. he has glitter on his cheekbone. you don’t know if it’s yours or his.
behind you—sukuna. you can tell without turning. you can feel him. his fingers are curled just under the hem of your shirt, palm hot against your stomach like he owns the right to be there. one of his rings digs gently into your skin every time he breathes. and you don’t move. not yet.
you’re not wearing pants. or a bra. or—god. you don’t even want to check.
your glasses are nowhere to be found. your thighs are sticky. the room smells like sweat and cologne. and the longer you lie there, the more your brain starts to fill in the blanks. flashes. laughing. lights. someone’s hands on your waist. someone else’s mouth on your chest. sukuna’s voice in your ear, “you’re taking us so well, sweetheart.”
you inhale sharply. satoru stirs. the arm around your waist tightens. “you good?” he mumbles, eyes still closed, voice thick with sleep.
you don’t answer right away. your pulse is going insane. your phone is dead. your mouth is dry. and you’re lying in the bed of two boys you’ve never said more than five words to—at least not before last night.
last night.
shit.
what the hell happened last friday night?
twenty-four hours earlier, you didn’t even want to go.
you were in your room, hoodie on, glasses slipping down your nose, halfway through a 20-minute video essay you didn’t even care about when nobara kicked your door open. she didn’t knock. she never knocks. just marched in, grabbed the remote, and said, “we’re going out.”
you blinked at her. “out where?”
“party,” she said, digging through your closet like she lived there. “frat house. you’re overdue for a bad decision.”
you laughed like she was joking. she, in fact, wasn’t.
somehow you ended up in the passenger seat of her car twenty minutes later wearing a skirt you didn’t know you owned and a shirt that didn’t fully cover your bra straps. your lip gloss felt too shiny. your shoes felt too loud. and your heart wouldn’t stop trying to escape your ribcage.
you’ve been to maybe three parties since college started. all of them sucked. you usually end up nursing one drink in the corner and sneaking out before midnight. but nobara had a hand on your back the whole walk up the driveway, her voice in your ear—“just have fun, babe. don’t overthink it. be hot and nonchalant and mysterious or whatever.”
you weren’t mysterious. you were anxious. the music was too loud, the lights were too red, and everything smelled like beer and expensive body spray. you were trying to find the kitchen when you saw them.
satoru first. standing on the couch, red solo cup raised like a toast, yelling something stupid while everyone around him cheered. white shirt, chain around his neck, laugh echoing off the ceiling. he looked like he was born to be worshipped. too pretty to exist. too loud to ignore.
then sukuna—leaning against the wall, drink in hand, tattoos half-covered by a hoodie he clearly didn’t care about. not smiling. not yelling. just watching. sharp eyes scanning the room like he was already bored of everyone in it. except you.
because when you walked in—he looked straight at you. didn’t blink. didn’t look away. just tipped his chin up like he’d been waiting for you to show.
you broke eye contact first. obviously.
you tried to disappear into the crowd after that. pushed your way to the drinks table. grabbed something pink and half-melted and sweet enough to taste like nothing. you were gonna sip it and then sneak home, like always. but then someone tapped your shoulder.
you turned.
satoru. he was smiling. full force. bright as a fucking floodlight.
“hey,” he said, tipping his cup toward you. “you’re in my bio class, right?”
you nodded. he grinned wider.
“i knew i recognized those glasses.”
you blink up at him. “what?”
satoru grins like you’re the punchline of a joke he hasn’t told yet. he’s a little too close, too confident. he’s taller than you remember. shinier. and definitely not drunk—not yet.
“bio 102,” he says. “you sit three rows behind me. glasses. purple highlighter. you take notes like it's a race.”
you blink again.
“you looked up once,” he adds, “when i dropped my pen. you didn’t hand it back.”
“you didn’t ask,” you mumble.
he laughs, head tipping back like you’re the funniest thing in the room. “fuuck, you’re cute.”
you try to step around him. you really do. but his hand comes out casually, just two fingers on your wrist, not even tight—barely there. “don’t go. i was gonna ask if you wanted a drink.”
you hold up your half-finished cup.
he eyes it. “that’s not a real drink.”
“it’s pink.” (we all know what happens w satoru and the pink juice wink wink)
“exactly,” he says, like that proves his point.
you should walk away. you should say you’re here with someone, that you’re leaving soon, that you’re not good with crowds, whatever. instead, you let him guide you toward the kitchen. he doesn’t touch you again, but he keeps looking back—like he expects you to bolt.
you don’t.
he pours something clear and probably vomit-inducing into a new cup. hands it to you. nudges the rim toward your lips like he’s feeding you. you take a sip just to make him stop looking at you like that.
and that’s when you feel it. another presence.
he doesn’t speak. just moves in behind you.
you look up. it's ryomen sukuna.
you know him. everyone knows him. he doesn’t go to class but always shows up on the group project grade. he’s the one with the face tattoo, way too many facial piercings, the pinky ring, the reputation. he doesn’t flirt. he doesn’t try. he doesn’t need to.
he looks at you. not up and down—at you.
your stomach flips.
“you’re staring,” satoru says to him, grinning.
“she’s staring first,” sukuna says.
you flush.
“am not,” you murmur, mostly to your drink.
sukuna takes a sip of whatever’s in his cup. something darker. leans against the counter beside satoru like he’s always been there. doesn’t say anything else for a while, just listens as satoru keeps talking—to you, about you, near you. teasing, charming, stupid little jokes about class and how you’re “the girl who never makes eye contact but always knows the answers.”
you’re so busy trying to keep up with satoru that you almost don’t notice the way sukuna keeps watching. like he’s figuring something out.
you shift under the weight of it.
satoru notices. “you good?”
you nod.
he leans in, voice dropping like he’s letting you in on a secret. “we’re just fucking with you. you don’t have to look like we’re gonna eat you.”
you laugh, weak. “that’s not what i thought.”
but sukuna tilts his head. smirks.
“isn’t it?”
you tell yourself you’re only staying for one more drink.
but satoru hands you another cup—something golden and bubbly this time, and he makes a dumb comment about the ratio of soda to liquor like it’s a science experiment. you laugh. actually laugh. and he looks so pleased with himself you forget to be anxious for a second.
sukuna doesn’t talk much. doesn’t try to charm you. but he’s still there, sipping slow from the same cup like he’s not even trying to catch a buzz, just waiting. he leans on the counter beside you like he’s carved into it. every time someone passes by, he shifts subtly—not enough to be obvious, but enough that they don’t brush you. he doesn’t say anything about it. doesn’t say much at all. just watches you sip your drink like he’s waiting for your lips to slip on the rim.
twenty minutes pass. maybe more. you’re warm now. fuzzy at the edges. everything’s a little funnier. you say something dumb—some offhand comment about how guys like them don’t talk to girls like you—and immediately want to sink into the floor. but satoru just throws his head back and laughs like you told a great joke.
“what kind of guys are we, then?” he asks, grinning. “be specific.”
you open your mouth. close it. shrug.
he leans in, voice lower now, almost smug. “you think we’re hot.”
“i never said that.”
“you didn’t have to.”
before satoru can say anything else, comes a voice entering the kitchen you barely recognize.
“there you fuckers are.”
toji.
black tee, smug expression, red solo cup in hand and probably half a blunt tucked behind his ear. he doesn’t look tired or drunk or like he’s been searching for anyone. he looks entertained. like walking in on this exact moment was the highlight of his night.
“we’re doing spin the bottle,” he says. “living room. you’re playing. bring your little friend.”
you blink. “i—what?”
“you,” he nods at you like this is obvious. “with the glasses. you’re cute. come on.”
“she doesn’t have to play if she doesn’t want to,” satoru says, casually. easy smile, one hand thrown over the back of the couch like he’s just stretching.
“she’ll play,” sukuna says. and when you turn to look at him, he’s already standing.
you should say no. should stay in the kitchen and pretend you didn’t hear. but your legs are moving before you finish the thought. satoru’s already guiding you to your feet with a light touch to your waist, and toji’s halfway out the door like he knows you’ll follow.
maybe it’s the drinks. maybe it’s the way both of them look at you like you’re something shiny and new. maybe it’s the fact that your brain is no longer fully in charge of your body.
you follow.
the circle is already half-formed when you sit down—knees brushing satoru’s, shoulders tense, your cup refilled without you realizing it. the living room’s dim except for the kitchen light bleeding in and the warm orange glow from a string of fake neon signs. someone’s playing music low through a speaker, but most of the sound comes from the people—laughing, yelling, groaning dramatically at the dares.
you try to sit small, like you don’t want to take up space, but satoru flops next to you, legs spread, knee touching yours like he’s done it a hundred times. sukuna’s across the circle. still. watching. he hasn’t looked away from you since you sat down. his hand rests on his knee, thumb tapping the rim of his cup, slow. deliberate.
the bottle spins.
someone gets dared to take their shirt off. someone else gets dared to suck a shot of whipped cream off the nearest neck. the energy is climbing. looser. heavier. your skin feels too hot, your drink too sweet. you’re about to excuse yourself—bathroom or air or anything—when the bottle stops.
and it’s pointing at you.
toji grins like he’s been waiting for this all night.
“truth or dare, sweetheart?”
you freeze. you want to say truth. you should say truth. but then your eyes flick to sukuna—silent, sprawled out, the corner of his mouth twitching like he already knows what you’re going to pick.
“dare,” you say, so quietly it barely counts.
toji doesn’t even hesitate. “make out with sukuna. thirty seconds.”
you swear your soul leaves your body. the room erupts—oohs and groans and someone already pulling out their phone to record, probably. you sit frozen, wide-eyed, heart hammering so hard it makes your palms go numb. you open your mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to run—but then sukuna’s voice cuts through it all.
“you heard him,” he says, lazy and low, legs spread wide. “c’mere.”
you could say no. no one’s forcing you. the game’s stupid. you’re drunk. you don’t owe anyone anything.
but he’s looking at you like he already knows you won’t say it. like he knows your thighs are clenching just from the idea of putting your mouth on his.
and he’s right.
you crawl toward him slow, cheeks on fire, limbs not entirely steady. he doesn’t move to meet you—just watches, dark eyes hooded, waiting until you’re kneeling between his legs. someone says “time it,” and someone else shouts “go,” and then—
his hands come up to cup your face. and he kisses you.
not quite soft. not careful. but not rough either—just firm. he licks into your mouth without hesitation, like it’s his, like he’s doing you a favor letting you taste him in front of everyone. his thumb strokes your cheek as his tongue slides against yours. your head spins.
you forget about the circle. forget about the rules. the sounds. the countdown. all of it.
you melt into him like it’s instinct.
he kisses like he knows how sensitive your mouth is. like he’s testing it. like he’s trying to figure out how you’d sound with his fingers inside you, his cock rubbing slow against your soaked panties.
when his teeth catch your bottom lip, you whimper.
his thumb presses under your chin. “thirty seconds,” someone says, breathless.
he doesn’t stop right away. just drags it out one more second—one last filthy kiss, spit-slick and hot—before pulling back and wiping your lip with his thumb like he owns you now.
you’re still kneeling. still trying to catch your breath.
he looks down at you, half-lidded and smug. “better than your little library fantasies?”
you don’t answer. your thighs are shaking.
you crawl back to your seat like your legs don’t fully work, face on fire, mouth tingling. you don’t even register that satoru’s hand is already on your leg again until it squeezes.
“how you feeling, baby genius?” he whispers, leaning in close, voice brushing the shell of your ear.
you can’t think. can’t breathe.
and you haven’t even gotten to his turn yet.
you’re still trying to collect yourself when the bottle spins again.
you’re not even paying attention this time—your lips are swollen, your pulse is all over the place, and sukuna’s looking at you like he could eat you alive and wouldn’t even need a drink after. you barely register the laughter until you hear someone say it:
“satoru. skinny dip. fountain out front.”
you blink.
satoru grins like they just handed him the crown. “that’s it?”
“naked,” toji adds, lazy. “no boxers. no sneaky shit.”
“in and out,” someone else chimes. “minimum fifteen seconds.”
“you guys are so unoriginal,” satoru sighs dramatically, already standing up and peeling his shirt over his head. “and jealous.”
your brain short-circuits.
his shirt hits the floor and you immediately look away. not fast enough. his torso is unfair—clean cut, gleaming just slightly under the lights like the universe put a filter on him. someone whistles. someone else yells, “show us the dick, satoru!” and he just blows them a kiss.
“you coming?” he says, suddenly looking straight at you.
you freeze. “what?”
his smirk is a little mean. “to watch.”
the group erupts again.
your mouth opens. no sound comes out.
“she’s already wet,” sukuna mutters, loud enough for just you to hear.
you slap his arm. he doesn’t flinch. just grins into his drink.
before you can even decide what you’re doing, you’re on your feet, following satoru and half the party outside. the night air hits you like a wall—cool, loud, full of moths and porchlight and the smell of someone grilling hot dogs at midnight.
the fountain isn’t big. it’s barely a fountain. just a decorative pool of water with a little statue of a cupid pissing into it. but satoru treats it like a fucking stage. he kicks his shoes off dramatically, tosses his pants at someone filming, and then—without hesitation, drops his boxers.
someone shrieks. you’re pretty sure you stop breathing.
he’s so casual about it. like he does this every weekend. he’s smirking, fully naked, body stupidly perfect, and doesn’t even cover himself as he steps into the fountain and sinks down with a splash. water flies everywhere. someone cheers.
he doesn’t look away from you the whole time.
fifteen seconds pass. no one’s counting. he’s reclining, arms up on the stone rim, hair wet, abs glinting. like he’s posing.
he points at you.
“you’re next, baby genius.”
you nearly collapse.
you’re still standing there like your feet forgot how to work when someone yells it.
“nah, nah—she has to get in too.”
the crowd goes feral immediately. laughter, clapping, someone chanting your name even though you’re pretty sure they don’t actually know it. you feel your stomach drop straight through the concrete.
you shake your head. “i—no, i don’t—”
“c’mon,” satoru says, still lounging in the fountain like he belongs there. water dripping from his hair, eyes bright, grin lazy and dangerous. “you already came all the way out here. don’t leave me alone.”
“that’s not fair,” you say weakly.
toji laughs. “spin the bottle rules. dare’s a dare.”
you look back toward the house. then at the fountain. then at sukuna, who hasn’t moved, hasn’t spoken—just watching you with that same heavy look, arms crossed, like he already knows how this ends.
he tilts his head and shrugs. “you don’t have to.”
your heart stutters. because he says it like he means it.
but then satoru reaches out, palm resting on the stone edge of the fountain, fingers spread. open. inviting. “only if you want to,” he adds, quieter now. “no pressure.”
everyone’s watching. waiting.
your cheeks burn. your chest feels tight. and you realize—disturbingly—that part of you wants it. wants to do the stupid thing. wants to feel reckless and hot and seen for once.
you kick off your shoes.
the cheering explodes again.
you don’t strip. you don’t have to. you step in with your clothes, heart racing, water cold as hell around your ankles, then your calves, then your thighs. you gasp involuntarily and satoru laughs.
“easy,” he says, shifting closer. “i got you.”
you wade in until you’re crouched between his knees, water lapping at your hips, the already tight skirt you came in, clinging uncomfortably. he’s still looking at you like that—like you’re the best part of the dare.
someone starts counting. ten seconds. fifteen. you lose track.
the night feels unreal. the water. the noise. the way sukuna’s gaze doesn’t leave you for a second. the way satoru leans in just enough that his breath brushes your cheek.
“you’re shaking,” he murmurs.
“it’s kinda cold,” you lie.
he smiles. “sure.”
when the time’s up, no one says anything. no one tells you to get out. the crowd starts thinning. the attention fades. people wander inside. someone yells about shots in the kitchen. music shifts.
you’re still in the water when sukuna walks all the way out, alone now, hoodie gone, sleeves pushed up. he raises an eyebrow at the sight of you sitting in satoru’s lap like it’s normal now. like you’re not freezing and soaked and overwhelmed.
“you gonna stay out here all night?” he says, lighting a blunt with one hand.
you should say no. should get up. dry off. call a ride.
instead you look at satoru.
“my room’s closer than hers,” he says to sukuna, totally calm.
sukuna doesn’t respond. just turns, heads back inside.
and you follow. no one tells you to. you just go.
you trail dripping footprints through the hallway. past the living room. up the stairs. the music downstairs fades into something quieter.
satoru opens the door to a room that smells like laundry and cologne and something sweet—like vanilla or body lotion or both. sukuna’s already there, leaning on the dresser like he never left. he watches you walk in. watches you shiver.
you don’t know who shuts the door behind you.
but it clicks shut.
satoru’s still shirtless from the dare, only a towel wrapped around his hips. his chest glows in the warm lamplight, damp and flushed. his hair sticks to his forehead. he looks at you like he’s still in the fountain. still waiting for you to come closer.
but it’s sukuna who moves first.
he doesn’t speak. doesn’t smirk. just pushes off the dresser slow, and walks toward you like he’s already seen the ending. he stops when there’s maybe a foot between you—maybe less. his eyes drop to your chest.
your shirt is soaked. you forgot. or maybe you didn’t.
the fabric sticks to your skin like a second layer. completely see-through now. your bra’s thin and pale pink and practically invisible under the water. you cross your arms over your chest without thinking.
sukuna’s eyes flick back to yours.
“don’t,” he says, low.
you freeze.
he reaches out, slow, and curls his fingers around your wrist—gentle. not forcing anything.
satoru’s behind you now. close enough to feel. he doesn’t touch you yet. just speaks, soft and teasing at your shoulder. “you’re freezing, baby. let’s get this off, yeah?”
your throat’s dry. you nod once.
sukuna lifts the hem of your shirt.
he moves slowly. peels it up, over your hips, your stomach, your ribs. the wet fabric clings, heavy, dragging across your skin like it doesn’t want to let go. your breath stutters when it passes over your chest. you feel satoru’s hand come up to help—fingertips brushing the small of your back as he eases the fabric over your head.
you’re standing in nothing but your soaked skirt and a nearly transparent bra.
you feel stripped. exposed. and somehow, still completely safe.
neither of them say anything.
sukuna drops the shirt behind him without looking. his hand stays on your waist.
“you’re shivering,” he murmurs.
“get her a towel,” he says to satoru without looking away from you.
satoru grins. “gonna warm her up yourself?”
“maybe.”
he disappears into the bathroom, and you’re left alone with sukuna in the silence. your breathing’s too loud. his hand is still on your bare waist, thumb brushing the damp curve of your skin. your eyes flick up to his mouth. he notices.
“tell me if you want to stop,” he says, voice low, eyes unreadable.
you don’t.
he doesn’t rush.
his hand is still on your waist, steady, thumb brushing in lazy strokes like he’s feeling out your heartbeat. your skin’s still damp. cold in places. your bra clings to you like an afterthought. his eyes drag down your chest, over the soft curve of your stomach, and back up to your face like he’s debating how far he wants to take this—or how long he wants to make you wait.
you can’t look away.
he leans in slow.
your breath catches. your lips part. it’s instinct—your body tipping into his before your mind can catch up. your fingers twitch at your sides. your knees feel useless.
he doesn’t kiss you right away.
he hovers.
so close you can feel the heat of his breath. the scent of his skin—smoke and soap. his hand slides up, fingers curling around the side of your neck, his thumb settling just beneath your jaw.
“you gonna let me in, baby?” he murmurs, so quiet it almost doesn’t reach you.
you nod. maybe. you think you do. you don't even know if you say it out loud.
but he hears you. he closes the distance.
his mouth presses to yours slow—lips warm, soft at first, patient. he lets it sink in, lets you feel every part of it. the weight. the heat. the way his thumb strokes your cheek just once, like you’re something precious and breakable.
then he tilts his head, kisses you again—deeper. hungrier. his tongue brushes yours, and your hands catch in the fabric of his shirt like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the floor.
you make a sound into his mouth—small. desperate.
he groans low in his chest and pulls you closer by the waist, bare skin sliding against his palm, damp and warm and perfect.
you don’t even notice satoru coming back until you hear his voice, from behind you: “you guys started without me?”
you break the kiss, dizzy, flushed.
sukuna doesn’t look away from you. “we were waiting,” he says.
satoru’s already grinning.
his hair’s damp. he’s holding the towel, half-forgotten, like he only came back to see the look on your face—lips kiss-bitten, pupils wide, sukuna’s hand still wrapped firm around your waist like he hasn’t decided to let go yet.
satoru steps closer. “cute,” he says, almost to himself.
he drops the towel onto the bed and leans in, one hand coming up to cradle your jaw, tilting your face toward him with just enough pressure to make you shiver.
“can i kiss you too?” he asks, like you’re not already leaning into it. like you didn’t just gasp into sukuna’s mouth thirty seconds ago like it was the only thing keeping you alive.
you nod. shaky.
his smile softens. “good girl.”
he kisses you slower.
softer, sweeter—lips warm and plush and gentle like he’s trying to erase every thought from your head that isn’t him. his other hand ghosts over your hip, barely touching, like he’s seeing how little he has to do to make you tremble.
and god, you do.
he licks into your mouth like he has forever. groans when you arch closer without meaning to. mutters “fuck, you’re already so responsive” against your lips like it’s the best part of his night.
behind you, sukuna’s hand slips lower.
settles heavy on your hip, fingers dragging slow across the waistband of your soaked skirt before slipping it down your legs. you gasp into satoru’s mouth again. he smiles against you.
his hand moves lower too.
over your stomach. brushing the edge of your bra. not quite touching, not yet—but he’s watching your eyes flicker, your chest rise, your mouth part again like you’re already begging.
you don’t say stop. you say nothing.
you don’t remember how you got to the bed. you just remember hands.
satoru’s fingers brushing the back of your thigh. sukuna’s palm steady between your shoulder blades. the way the backs of your knees hit the mattress, and then you were down—spine meeting the sheets, breath catching in your throat like you weren’t ready, even though you were already so far gone.
satoru leans over you first. he kisses you again—deeper now. not slow. not teasing. his mouth is open and wet and needy, tongue sliding against yours with this kind of hungry sweetness that makes your head spin. he kisses you like he missed you. like this is what he’s been waiting for all night. like he’s already thinking about how you’ll sound when you fall apart.
his hand cups your cheek, cradles your jaw, thumbs at your lip when he pulls back just enough to look at you.
“you okay, baby?” he asks, voice low and thick.
you nod. can’t speak.
you feel sukuna behind him. feel the mattress shift at your side, his fingers brushing your leg.
his hand slides up the inside of your thigh, knuckles grazing your damp skin as he drags them toward your soaked panties. satoru kisses you again, just as sukuna’s fingers press against the thin fabric.
you jolt.
satoru swallows the sound.
sukuna groans right by your ear. “fuck,” he mutters, like it hurts him. “she’s soaked.”
you are. humiliatingly so. your panties cling to your cunt, useless. your hips twitch, breath shaking, and your fingers curl in the sheets before you can stop them.
sukuna rubs over the fabric once. slow.
satoru breaks the kiss to look down at your face.
“pretty girl,” he breathes, smiling. “so sensitive.”
you whimper.
you’re still kinda clothed, and yet somehow, you feel like you’re already bare. your bra clings to you, still wet. your panties stick between your legs. your thighs keep tensing on instinct, but sukuna just spreads them further with one hand, keeps his other on your pussy like it belongs there.
and then he says it.
“you ever been touched like this before?”
your whole body goes still. you can barely shake your head.
you don’t even realize you’re shaking until satoru kisses your throat.
he’s smiling against your skin, like he has all the time in the world to taste you. his lips trail down to your collarbone, wet and open-mouthed, then lower, over the curve of your bra where your nipples are already peeking through the damp fabric.
he groans against you. “fuck, baby,” he murmurs, teeth grazing lightly. “you’re begging and i haven’t even touched your pretty tits yet.”
you’re not begging. not out loud. but your hips twitch with every breath. your fingers keep curling in the sheets like they’re trying to anchor you to something. and sukuna—god—sukuna’s still between your legs, eyes fixed on the way your cunt throbs through the soaked cotton like it’s a problem only he gets to solve.
his fingers hook the side of your panties. tug slow. not off. just aside.
you gasp—sharp, high. the cool air hits your pussy before he even touches you, and it’s almost too much. your thighs close on instinct.
his hand pushes them open again.
“keep ‘em spread,” he says, quiet but commanding. “you wanna be good, don’t you?”
you nod.
satoru’s already mouthing over your bra, tongue circling your nipple through the fabric, lips wet, humming like he’s so proud of you for being this worked up. then he tugs the cup down with one hand, exposes your breast fully, and sucks.
you cry out. can’t help it.
and that’s when sukuna slides two fingers through your folds. not in. not yet. just a drag, collecting your slick and groaning under his breath.
“fuck, you’re dripping,” he mutters, thumb pressing just under your clit. “you ever been this wet for anyone before?”
your head shakes. your voice breaks.
satoru kisses the top of your breast, breathless with a grin. “course she hasn’t. nobody’s ever touched her right.”
“they will now,” sukuna mutters, and then—he circles your clit with two fingers.
your back arches. your hips jerk. your mouth opens, no sound coming out. satoru keeps sucking gently on your tit, fingers curling under the other one, pinching, playing, lips dragging sweet over sensitive skin.
“you like that, sweetheart?” sukuna murmurs, pressing a little harder, teasing little circles that make your thighs tremble. “gonna let me make you cum just like this?”
you nod. voice gone. breath gone.
satoru kisses up your chest, back to your mouth, and laughs softly against your lips when you moan. “so responsive,” he breathes. “you gonna fall apart already, baby? you’re shaking so much.”
sukuna doesn’t warn you. he doesn’t have to.
his fingers are already slick with you, slow circles on your clit turning into something needier, something that makes your toes curl and your breath catch in your throat. he leans in closer, body crowding between your knees like he’s settling in for a meal, and his voice drops lower.
“breathe,” he murmurs, “gonna slip in nice and slow, alright?”
you nod. it’s instinct. desperate. like your body already knows this is happening and just wants to make it easier for you.
his middle finger pushes in first, deeper than anything you’ve ever felt. your walls clench around him immediately, like your body can’t tell if it wants more or less, and you gasp into satoru’s mouth like you’re trying to disappear inside him.
“there it is,” sukuna mutters, like he felt the second he hit your limit. “tight little pussy's never been fucked, huh?”
you shake your head.
satoru smiles against your lips. “you’re doing so good for us, baby. look at you. takin’ his finger like you were made for it.”
you’re not sure what you’re doing—moaning or whining or begging—but it spills out of you anyway. your hips lift. your thighs twitch. and then sukuna adds a second finger.
you break.
it’s too much. not in a painful way, but in a way that steals your breath. you’ve touched yourself before. you’ve fantasized, dreamed, squirmed through sheets alone in the dark—but nothing like this. nothing that makes your whole body burn and your brain go empty.
satoru’s lips find your jaw, then your throat, nipping lightly, breathing praise straight into your skin.
“you feel it?” he whispers. “feel how good he’s making you feel?”
“mhm,” you whimper, eyes wet, thighs shaking. “too good—feels too—”
“nah,” sukuna says, voice rough, “this is nothing, sweetheart. just wait till you’re stuffed full.”
his fingers curl. you jerk.
the heel of his hand grinds against your clit while he fucks you slow, deep, like he’s learning your body one stroke at a time. and he’s good at it. too good. he groans low under his breath when he feels you clench around him—“fuck, she’s pulsing”—and satoru kisses you through it again, moaning against your tongue.
“you’re gonna cum, huh?” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours. “go on, baby. let us see what it looks like.”
your legs are shaking. your fingers dig into satoru’s shoulders. sukuna fucks you with those two perfect fingers like he owns your pussy now, like it’s his to break open and ruin. and you don’t want to stop it. you don’t even know if you can.
you cum hard. shuddering. gasping. mouth falling open against satoru’s, back arching like you’re trying to climb out of your own skin. sukuna groans low when he feels it—feels your cunt squeezing him, dripping, messy.
“fuck, that’s pretty,” he mutters.
you go boneless.
satoru laughs. “one down,” he says, brushing your hair back. “think she’s got a few more in her.”
sukuna’s still got his fingers between your legs. just there—wet and warm, two thick fingers resting inside you like a reminder of everything he just did. his palm is soaked. your thighs are trembling. and the way his thumb strokes lazy circles just beneath your clit feels like an unspoken threat. like he knows exactly how close you are to cumming again, and he’s not in a rush to let you.
satoru kisses your cheek, then your jaw, nudging your face toward his with his nose. “hey,” he murmurs. “you still with us?”
you blink up at him, dazed. “mhm,” you manage. it’s barely a sound.
he grins, all white teeth and messy hair, and presses his forehead to yours. “good,” he says. “because i’ve been waiting all night.”
you gasp softly when sukuna finally pulls his fingers out. you feel empty—needy again, even though your body’s still buzzing from the last orgasm. you don’t get a chance to complain, though, because satoru’s already shifting between your thighs, cock heavy and flushed and dragging over your inner thigh as he lines himself up.
“you’re so wet,” he whispers, voice reverent. “fuck, angel, you’re dripping for us.”
he pushes in slowly. your head tips back with a gasp, eyes fluttering. he’s thick. not just full but deep—his hips rolling forward inch by inch, spreading you open so slow it makes your toes curl. you’re already stretched from sukuna’s fingers, already wrecked, but this is different. better. more.
satoru shudders. “shit—fuck, she’s tight—”
you clutch at his forearms, hips twitching up instinctively. he sinks in the rest of the way with a soft groan, forehead still pressed to yours.
“feel that?” he whispers. “all the way inside you, baby. you’re taking me so good.”
and you are.
he starts to move. slow at first, rocking into you like he has all the time in the world. his cock drags against your walls, hits something deep that makes your breath catch, and you cling to him harder, legs spreading wider, thighs sticky against the sheets.
behind him, sukuna watches.
he’s propped on one arm, the other hand resting on your waist again—thumb stroking mindlessly, eyes glued to the place where satoru’s cock disappears inside you. “watch her face,” he mutters. “watch how she moans when you fuck her just right.”
satoru adjusts his angle and fucks in deeper.
you cry out—your back arching up into him. he grabs your thigh and presses it up against your chest, hips pressing deeper, harder, filling you to the brim. it’s almost too much. but it’s also perfect.
“you’re close again,” satoru pants. “aren’t you, baby?”
you nod frantically, unable to speak. satoru doesn’t stop. just leans down, kisses you messily, and fucks you through the second orgasm he knows is coming.
“yeah?” sukuna says behind him. “let her mouth do something.”
satoru hums. “mm, she can take you?”
“we’re about to find out.”
you blink, still dazed, as sukuna shifts beside you—kneeling just past your head now, cock thick and heavy, already flushed from watching you get split open. he doesn’t say anything at first. just lets his hand rest in your hair, fingers threading through, thumb stroking along your cheek.
“you wanna be good for me, sweetheart?” he murmurs, voice low. “open up.”
you do.
your lips part, shaky and soft, and sukuna groans when you let him guide his cock to your mouth. he starts slow—just the head, warm and salty on your tongue, the weight of him heavy as he eases in. his hand tightens just slightly in your hair, his other hand resting over your breast, palm rough and familiar.
“fuck,” he hisses. “that’s it. keep your lips soft, just like that.”
satoru is still fucking you—slow, deep strokes that make your body jolt with every thrust. his hand is on your thigh, holding you open, thumb brushing where you’re stretched around him like he wants to memorize how you feel. and now sukuna’s in your mouth, hips rolling forward as he pushes deeper, letting you feel the weight of him on your tongue, your lips stretched wide.
“jesus,” satoru pants, watching the way your throat works around sukuna’s cock. “look at her.”
you can barely breathe—but you don’t want to stop.
sukuna groans, hips stuttering forward again, cock slick with spit as you try to take more. “fuckin’—knew you’d suck dick like this. look at you.”
his grip in your hair tightens. his hips rock a little deeper, eyes dark as he watches your mouth stretch around him, cheeks hollowed out like you want to make him lose control. and you do.
satoru slows his thrusts. not out of mercy—just to watch. his hand slides to your stomach, palm splayed out over the skin there, feeling the way you tighten every time sukuna groans. “she’s clenching on me,” he says, laughing. “you’re getting off on this, aren’t you?”
sukuna’s cock slides deeper again—your nose brushing his pelvis, your throat tightening around him. he moans, sharp and low. “fuck, baby. you’re not gonna let me cum down your throat, are you?”
satoru laughs. “nah, not yet.”
he fucks into you hard enough to make your cry vibrate around sukuna’s dick. “she’s not done down here either.”
you’re still panting when sukuna slides out of your mouth, fingers brushing your cheek like he’s proud of the mess he made. your jaw aches, throat sore, but you don’t complain. not with satoru still buried inside you, hips grinding slow and deep like he’s trying to draw every last moan out of you.
then satoru pulls out.
“switch,” sukuna says, voice low and rough.
he’s already behind you by the time you blink, hand slipping beneath your stomach to help guide you over—face down, ass up, hips angled perfect as he climbs onto the bed and gets between your legs. his palm spreads across your lower back, pressing down. “stay just like that,” he mutters.
and then he’s pushing in.
you whimper, fingers fisting the sheets as sukuna bottoms out in one slow, thick stroke. your whole body jolts—his cock stretching you wider than satoru’s, deeper somehow, the burn of it curling sharp and sweet up your spine.
“fuck,” sukuna grits. “you’re tight. already stuffed full of him and still—” he cuts himself off with a groan, hips snapping forward harder.
your gasp turns into a choked moan.
and satoru? he doesn’t miss a beat.
he’s standing at the edge of the bed, lazily stroking himself as he watches sukuna fuck you. “you’re really takin’ it, huh?” he says, grinning as he brushes sweaty strands of hair from your face. “you wanna help me out too, pretty thing?”
you nod, dazed.
he steps in closer, guides your mouth open again, and you let him slide in—your lips wrapping around him just as sukuna slams forward. the thrust rocks you onto satoru’s cock, and suddenly you’re the perfect toy between them—sukuna driving into you from behind, satoru groaning as you suck him slow and messy from the front.
“jesus,” satoru hisses, voice strained. “she’s drooling all over me.”
sukuna grunts, fucking you harder now, his grip bruising at your hips. “she likes it,” he growls. “look how sloppy she’s getting. you close again, baby?”
you try to answer, but your mouth’s full—your throat clenching around satoru as tears prick the corners of your eyes. he pets your hair, soft and smug. “think that’s a yes.”
sukuna fucks you rougher, angled just right—his balls slapping wetly against your thighs, each thrust hitting deep enough to leave you shaking.
“gonna cum,” he growls. “gonna fill this pussy up.”
and you’re close too—closer than you should be, with your mouth stretched around satoru and your body trembling from the force of sukuna’s thrusts.
you don’t know which one of you finishes first. but you swear the world blanks out when you do.
sukuna’s thrusts slow. his grip bruising tight at your waist as he fucks in deep one last time—spilling into you with a low, feral groan, hips grinding as he makes sure it stays. you feel it. every pulse of it. hot and thick.
you moan, weak and breathless, around satoru’s cock.
he slides free from your mouth with a hiss, fingers dragging down your spine as he watches sukuna’s cum drip out the second he pulls back.
“holy fuck,” satoru murmurs, eyes blown wide. “look at that.”
you feel it leaking instantly. warm and slow down your inner thighs, smeared across the insides of your knees. you collapse forward with a shaky gasp, face pressing into the sheets as your legs give out. your body’s trembling. ruined.
sukuna groans behind you, dragging his fingers down the seam of your ass—spreading you just enough to watch it spill from your pussy. “fuck, baby,” he mutters. “you made a mess.”
satoru’s hand strokes your hip. “can’t believe you took us both like that,” he murmurs. “so proud of you.”
you can’t speak. can’t move. everything’s hot and slick and glowing under your skin, every nerve buzzing with aftershock.
sukuna flops back beside you, arm tucked under his head.
satoru climbs onto the mattress next, snuggling up behind your back like it’s nothing. like this is just how the night ends. like this is normal.
you’re still catching your breath when someone reaches for the blanket. and everything fades to black.
present day
you wake up warm. that’s the first thing. warm and sore and weirdly… safe. the blanket’s tangled somewhere around your knees, one of your socks is still on, and your mouth tastes like cheap vodka and lip gloss. your head’s pounding. your eyes won’t open all the way. your body aches in places you don’t even have names for. but you’re not alone.
there’s an arm around your waist. a heavy, bare thigh pressed behind yours. someone breathing against the back of your neck. slow, steady, like they’ve been asleep for hours. and in front of you—there’s another body. taller, sprawled out, hair messy, cheek smushed into the same pillow as yours. his arm is under your head like you’d been holding it.
satoru’s hair is white-blond and soft-looking even now, even in sleep. his lips are parted just slightly. his breath smells like spearmint and sugar. he has glitter on his cheekbone. you don’t know if it’s yours or his.
behind you—sukuna. you can tell without turning. you can feel him. his fingers are curled just under the hem of your shirt, palm hot against your stomach like he owns the right to be there. one of his rings digs gently into your skin every time he breathes. and you don’t move. not yet.
you’re not wearing pants. or a bra. or—god. you don’t even want to check.
your glasses are nowhere to be found. your thighs are sticky. the room smells like sweat and cologne. and the longer you lie there, the more your brain starts to fill in the blanks. flashes. laughing. lights. someone’s hands on your waist. someone else’s mouth on your chest. sukuna’s voice in your ear, “you’re taking us so well, sweetheart.”
you inhale sharply. satoru stirs. the arm around your waist tightens. “you good?” he mumbles, eyes still closed, voice thick with sleep.
you don’t answer right away. your pulse is going insane. your phone is dead. your mouth is dry. and you’re lying in the bed of two boys you’ve never said more than five words to—at least not before last night.
“hello?” satoru mumbles again, this time with a small yawn.
you nod, but it’s half-hearted. your voice cracks. “yeah.”
his eyes open slowly—bright and unfocused. they flick down, and then trail lower, past the blanket barely covering your thighs. a lazy smirk starts curling at the corner of his mouth.
“you sure?” he says. “’cause you look kinda… wrecked.”
you groan, pressing your face into the pillow. he laughs, like he already knows every thought running through your head.
“don’t bully her,” sukuna’s voice cuts in behind you. deeper. raspier. his hand spreads wider on your stomach, palm flexing just slightly. “she took us like a champ.”
you feel your entire body go hot.
“please stop talking,” you mutter, still hiding.
“but you were so loud last night,” satoru hums, like he’s just remembering. “i think i’m still hard, actually.”
you make a noise of protest—small and pitiful—and try to roll over, but sukuna’s arm tightens around your waist, holding you in place.
“don’t move,” he murmurs, low against your neck. “not done cuddling yet.”
“not done embarrassing me yet, either,” you grumble.
satoru grins. “what’s to be embarrassed about? you were kind of amazing.”
you peek out from under the pillow. “kind of?”
he tilts his head. “okay, like… very amazing. ten out of ten. would absolutely do again.”
“same,” sukuna adds, lips brushing your skin. “if she wants to, that is.”
you go quiet.
and for a second, it’s weird. real. like the whole thing might shift into something too heavy. but then satoru breaks it.
“so, like—do you want waffles or a protein bar? i’m starving. and my legs don’t work.”
you snort. “waffles, obviously.”
he grins, like it’s the best answer you could’ve given. and sukuna just hums again behind you, nosing at your hair like he’s already dozing off again.
and maybe you’re still sore. maybe your mouth still tastes like tequila and glitter and someone else’s skin.
but you don’t feel weird.
you feel—okay. and that’s somehow the scariest part of all.
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˖ ࣪૮₍ 𝓖.𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 𓂃 ⭒ fucks the weakest sorcerer <3 :: office sex :: hate fucking :: f.reader
it was one thing to be dubbed “the weakest”. it was another thing to be dubbed the weakest and in the same year as the self proclaimed, big-headed “honoured one” himself.
how he drove you up the wall for years. even after highschool. with taunts and mocks and berates that shouldn't have crawled under your skin and made you bleed for him— but it did.
two things were were set in stone in this world. gojo satoru was the strongest.
and you hated him for it.
but fuck, his dick sure felt good, right?
“hngh—” you croaked, hands scrambling for the squeaking handles of the office chair. your hair sticks to the leather.
you're folded in half. large hands caging the fat of your thighs between long fingers. wrenching you open and stretched for his thick cock splitting and straining you for all you were worth. a filthy drip of cream puddles on the seat. his seat. in his office.
fuck. you told yourself not again. told yourself you wouldn't so much as breathe in his direction.
now here you were, tits bouncing, pussy creaming, eyes leaking. all for him.
“shit baby— so tight,” satoru huffed, wispy whites stuck to his forehead. clap! his hand mimics a lewd, wet slap of his hips against yours. “sooo fuckin' greedy for it huh?”
his touch alternates. a jerk to your face, another shoved against the bulge he drilled within you. leaving you squirming and hiccuping.
he's grinning. the bastard's grinning.
“oh my poor, poor sweetheart.” your face was squished in his large palm. his lip juts in a fake pout as he zeroes in on you. hunched over his own chair as his hips turned into a piston. a quick succession of ruthless and rough until he's grinding into that spot that sends your eyes rolling.
“ah— hngh, fuck— fuck tor—” you swallowed his name. forced out an incoherent whimper. it motivated his surge.
“aww, still think you hate me?” he slipped from your belly bulge to your swollen, pleading clit. flicking it with his thumb and swirling in a tight ring of mercilessness. oh, how he loved your cries.
“when your pretty pussy's this wet?” he flicked the bud. jolted your spine and fucked it into that sinful arch that had you spluttering.
“when you're this—” your face is jerked in his hand. wrenched to him so you're drowning in those violent blues as much as his suffocating cock. “— weak for me?”
there's that fucking word again. you hated it. hated him. but most of all?
hated how you squelched and clenched whenever it gritted from his grinning teeth.
“sh-shut— ah! shut up!” your rage flinched into a whimper.
“uhuh?” you're feeding his ego. feeding his thrusts. feeding the endless need for him to fuck you in his office chair until it's permanently stained with you.
the hand on your face shook it, squished it, as he threw you back until you're bent awkwardly. sliding him in deeper so he fucked into that one spot. that darling spot that spasmed your nerves and crossed your eyes.
“make me then baby. c'mon, bite me.” he sneered. a husked laugh mocked your pitiful face when all you could do was claw at his sleeves and whine higher on ever thrusts.
“I-I — I-!”
“can't, huh? y'know why?” he ran his tongue over his teeth. grinned that same, infuriating, impossible grin as rammed forward. stuffed you full and humped on your cervix so he spluttered your whines into whimpers.
his consumed you. crushed you. caged you. jerking your face just below his so his pants fanned your drooling mouth.
“because. . .” every word punctuated with a feral thrust.
“you're. too. fucking. weak.”
and god. you loved being weak for him. hated it. loved it. hated it.
the knot in your tummy burst. nerves set alight as your nails clawed at his jacket and your body jerked with one last filthy hump. you're mewling, crying, calling and clinging to him like he's your everything.
“torrruuuu,” you sobbed.
he groaned. “fuck, there she is.”
his hips smacked harder on your ass. spraying your creaming release all over the both of you as a thumb played with your clit. he's still grinning, with eyes blown wide and glowing in a power trip only you could give him.
he tugged your ear between his teeth. panting, humping, but crooning oh so sweetly as his circles your throbbing bud.
