Scrumple Grumple @scrunchyslut - Tumblr Blog

it’s late when he gets in, the flat dimly lit, the smell of something warm still lingering in the air. ghost kicks off his boots, rolling his shoulders, aching from the weight of the day. but when he sees you waiting for him—curled up in one of his jumpers, blinking at him all soft and sleepy from the couch—his chest does that thing again, that tight little squeeze that reminds him he’s home.

“you waited up,” he murmurs, voice lower now, rougher from exhaustion as he steps toward you.

you shrug, stretching a little, letting his jumper slide off your shoulder just enough to make his hands twitch. “had to make sure you ate.”

his gaze flickers to the coffee table where a plate sits, covered, waiting for him. he huffs, shaking his head, but there’s no real bite to it. “yer too good to me, love.”

“well you deserve it.”

that gets him. it always does. because deep down, there’s still a part of him that don’t quite believe that. but you do, and fuck, if he won’t let himself have that—have you.

you tug him down onto the couch, settling onto his lap with practiced ease, pressing the plate into his hands. “c’mon, si. eat please.”

he grumbles, halfhearted, but doesn’t argue. not when you’re so warm against him, not when your fingers brush over his jaw as you lift a bite to his lips. he pulls his mask up just enough, lets you feed him, eyes fluttering shut as he hums at the taste.

you watch him with that sweet little smile that turns him to mush.

“perfect,” he mutters, voice thick, arms tightening around you. “just like you.”

the match on telly plays in the background, but he doesn’t really watch it, too busy savoring the way you feel against him, the way you fuss over him, the way your free hand smooths over his chest absentmindedly.

and by the time he’s done, you’re barely keeping your eyes open, soft and warm against him. he shifts himself slightly, pressing his face into your neck, inhaling slow.

“y’fallin’ asleep on me, sweetheart?”

you hum softly in response, burrowing closer, and his lips twitch at the feeling.

“go on then,” he mutters, pulling the blanket over both of you. “i gotcha.”

and he does. he always does.

You’re still spread open for him, thighs trembling, your cunt aching and leaking his cum onto the sheets beneath you.

Keegan’s eyes are fixed between your legs, his breath heavy, the corner of his mouth twitching into a dark, satisfied smirk as he watches his seed drip out of you.

“Look at that,” he mutters, rough hand sliding up your thigh, forcing you open wider despite your soft, embarrassed whimper, “wasting it already.”

His fingers gather the mess, warm and slick, before he presses two thick fingers back inside you, shoving it deep, making your back arch as a gasp tears from your throat.

“Yeah,” he breathes, eyes dark and locked on yours as your walls flutter around him, “take it. Take it like you’re supposed to.”

Your hands clutch at the sheets, your body twitching from the oversensitivity as he thrusts his fingers deep, slow and purposeful, filling you with the mess he’s made inside you.

“You feel that, sweetheart?” he growls, voice low and rough, “feel how fuckin’ full you are with me?”

A soft, broken moan escapes your lips as your hips roll down against his hand, your body betraying you, chasing the stretch of his fingers even as you try to close your thighs.

“Oh, you like that, don’t you?” he taunts, leaning in closer, his lips brushing your ear, “like me shoving it back inside, making sure you don’t lose a single drop.”

Your breath stutters, your lashes wet as your thighs shake around him, the heat in your belly coiling tighter, sharper, with every slow thrust of his fingers.

“Look at you,” he hisses, watching your face as you break apart around him, “fallin’ apart while I stuff you full. Good fuckin’ girl.

His free hand slides to your lower belly, pressing down firmly, making you feel how deep his fingers are, making you feel every inch of the way he’s filling you up.

“Gonna keep you like this,” he whispers, his words sinking into your skin, heavy, possessive, “stuffed full until it takes. Until you’re mine in every fuckin’ way.”

Your cunt clenches hard around his fingers, your breath catching, a cry tearing from your throat as your orgasm rips through you, sharp and humiliating, your body shaking under him.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he groans, driving his fingers deeper, “tight fuckin’ grip, baby, can’t stand to let me go, can you?”

Your vision blurs, tears slipping down your cheeks, your body slumping against the bed as you tremble, your cunt still pulsing weakly around him, keeping him inside.

Keegan’s eyes never leave your face as he slowly pulls his fingers out, watching more of his cum leak out before he pushes it back in again, deliberate, rough, claiming every part of you.

“Mine,” he says, voice low, final, as he leans in and kisses the corner of your mouth, tasting your tears, his hand resting possessively over your pulsing cunt. “You fuckin’ get that now?”

Your breath comes out in shaky, ruined gasps, your mind blank, your body aching and satisfied, unable to deny the truth in his words.

Keegan smiles then, dark and feral, pressing another soft kiss to your jaw, his fingers still inside you, making sure you keep every drop exactly where it belongs.

And the worst part is how your body wants it, how it wants him, even now

rawme-price

more food agressive simon and reader :) how the others react lol.

gaz is the first to notice, namely because he and ghost hang around often. whenever you pass him in the halls, you give gaz a quick smile and press something into ghosts hand. ghost tucks it into his pocket before gaz can see, but hes curious.

so gaz one somewhat suspiciously lurks in the shadows and watches when you see ghost alone in the gym. you come up and pass him something again, instantly launching into a conversation. gaz cant hear it, but he +can+ see the granola bar that ghost unwraps and eats while u talk....okay. gaz has literally never seen ghost eat before, but whatever. he tucks the information away for later.

soap accidentally stumbles in on you two's lunch routine. he had ducked into a random room to avoid a particularly...interested newbie, and came face to face with ghost mid-bite, holding a small bento box in large scarred hands.

his feet were kicked up to the table, and you were in the middle of chatting about something. ghosts posture instantly changes when soaps eyes sweep over him. stiffens and closes off. you press ur lips into a thin line and give soap a look that very much communicates i want to fucking kill you.

price is the one who actually brings it up. him, soap, and gaz are all eating lunch in his office to enjoy some quiet for once. "has either of you noticed something off with ghost?" he asks bluntly, its important for the captain to know about any changes with his men. soap and gaz both share a look, before gaz shrugs and responds

"i think the new kids been feeding him, yknow the shy one?" he offers "swear to god everytime those two pass ghost gets passed a granola bar."

'"yeah," soap adds, taking a sip of his redbull "walked in on 'em sharing lunch last week. ghost seemed...relaxed. i dont think ive ever seen him kick his feet up before."

everyones silent for a moment, before price smiles to himself with a nod. "okay, good." he takes a bite of his own food. "im glad hes got someone looking out for him when we cant." and they leave it at that, silently wondering how you managed it.

(everyone say ty @disgustedwombat for reminding me to post this. angsty pt 3 is here)

tonycries

Great With Kids? (You Can Have Mine) - C.K.

Synopsis. When your younger brother gets a new babysitter, only two questions linger on your mind: 1. How come your parents didn’t trust you in charge? 2. How dare the sexy babysitter be so perfect - it made you want some attention too.

Pairings. Choso Kamo x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, babysitter! Choso, male masturbation, voyeurism (from reader), Choso with nipple piercings and eyeliner hngh, unprotected, 69, choking, overstim, oral (male + female receiving), creampie, dirty talk, friends-to-lovers, Choso is down BAD and always has been, mentioned younger brother, swearing.

Word count. 9.0k

A/N. Gojo longfic next time because I miss my pretty blue-eyed princess.

Your younger brother’s new babysitter was hot.

With a capital h.

Scarily hot, in fact, that it made you wonder why the hell people stopped having babysitters past the age of 14.

Ah, Choso Kamo, the ever-elusive eldest son of the Itadori’s from next door. You still remember the first time you met him - well, mostly.

The world was rocking gently at exactly 12:34AM after a night out with your old high school friends. And so were you, stumbling tipsily into your driveway, soaking up the warm summer air.

Fumbling with the doorbell, you fully expected your parents to still be away on that extravagant couples’ cruise they’d won - one that probably cost more than your tuition.

Which also meant you expected the old lady from down the street to be babysitting tonight. Still wide awake and absolutely bursting at the seams to give you a detailed rundown about the neighborhood tea - who’s divorcing who, and her top suspects for who stole her prized garden gnome.

What you certainly did not expect was for that door to swing open and to find yourself face-to-face with the most ridiculously attractive man you’ve ever laid eyes on. Shirtless.

goyardgoyangi

planting evidence in street racer! sukuna's car

Sukuna’s car has always been untouchable—immaculate, brutal, fast. The kind of machine that mirrors him: sharp edges, no softness, no room for anyone else.

Until you.

Now there’s lip gloss in the cupholder and a scrunchie looped around his gear shift like some kind of silk flag staked in his territory. You started leaving little things behind, quietly, like you were planting evidence. Gum wrappers, a clip from your hair, even your iced coffee straw one day—left right in the side door pocket.

You expected him to toss it all back at you. Maybe with a grunt. Maybe with an eye roll and a muttered “keep your shit out of my car.”

But he didn’t.

He kept them there. Because you and Sukuna… you weren’t dating. No one had asked. There was no talk, no label. Just a long night that turned into a few more, then a pattern.

You, on the other hand, are more strategic. Conniving, even.

You don’t ask to be his girl. You don’t cling. You just leave marks. Subtle things. Things a hookup wouldn’t ever have time to leave behind. So that maybe—just maybe—if someone else ever got in the passenger seat, they’d know instantly: they’re not the first, and they’re definitely not the only one who rides here.

But no one else has. Sukuna hasn’t touched another girl since the first night he had you spread out across his sheets—back arched, lips parted, absolutely wrecked from round four. You were limp and glowing in the aftermath, falling asleep on his chest like you belonged there. And maybe you did.

He hadn’t cared to look at anyone else since.

That car used to be built for speed, for control, for the kind of thrill that made his blood rush. It was never about comfort.

But now? It’s starting to literally feel like a second bedroom. Like an extension of you—your perfume clinging to the seatbelt, a receipt from your favorite café crumpled in the passenger door, your earrings slipped into the little tray under the dash.

The backseat holds the imprint of your body, the curve of your hips pressed into the leather, a reminder of all the times he’s fucked you in his car—your legs spread wide as he drove you to the edge with each brutal, deep thrust.

Even the front, where your hand wraps around his arm as his fingers make you come undone, hitting a spot that drives you wild in ways only he knows, still carries the unmistakable mark that this seat—this car—belongs to someone else.

So when Sukuna rolls into the garage late one night—hair still damp from a shower, muscles loose from hours tangled up inside you, still half hard just remembering how you moaned his name—his fellow mechanics clock it instantly.

“Yo,” Mahito says, glancing up from under the hood of a stripped RX-7. “You have a girlfriend or somethin’? Your car smells like vanilla.”

Sukuna just grunts, shoving his keys in his pocket.

He leans against the hood, chewing on the inside of his cheek like he’s not thinking about you sleeping in his bed right now, curled up under his sheets in that oversized tee you always steal from him.

They take his silence as confirmation.

“You hear that, Suguru?” Mahito continues to instigate, smirking. “Sukuna’s got gloss on the gearshift.”

Suguru raises a brow from where he’s cataloging parts. “Damn. Didn’t think anyone could turn Sukuna into a personal Uber.”

That earns a laugh from the group. Sukuna doesn’t say anything, just lazily flicks his middle finger their way. But he doesn't deny it either.

“No wonder you leave work early so often,” another mechanic mutters, elbowing Uraume. “He used to hang around, talk engines, grab beers.”

They shrug. “Guess he’s got better company these days.”

Sukuna barely hears his coworkers gossip over the echo of your moans still ringing in his head. Because they’re not wrong—he has been slipping out early, ditching post-race drinks just to pick you up from work. Just to get you back in his car, where your legs fold up sweet and tight in the passenger seat and your hand always finds his without a word.

It’s routine now—his hand on your thigh the second the engine starts. He doesn’t even think about it. Just needs it. Needs the feel of you under his fingers, to squeeze the thighs he’s bruised a dozen times with his mouth.

And when you finally fall asleep, innocent and warm, lips parted just slightly?

He drives slower than he ever has in his life. Because the longer he keeps you next to him like this, the longer he gets to pretend you’re already his girl.

And he knows—he knows—you’re testing him with the things you leave behind. Waiting to see if he’ll clean them out. Waiting to see if he’ll hand you your lip gloss and tell you to stop marking your territory.

But he won’t.

Not when the vanilla scent lingers in the air. Not when the other mechanics glance at the cupholder and trade knowing looks because even they can see it—

The car’s not just his anymore.

07121989

satoru gojo is better off dead.

————————————————————————

there’s just something about him I feel like no matter what, he never gets boring. His story can be added, but never repeated. I feel like majority of the fandom overlooks s. gojo with dividing ourselves into two parties. One side being over-sexualizing him without seeing his actual potential and the other side babying him. ironically, the two sides still fail to realize just how in depth his storyline can actually go.

i feel like many don’t accept the fact that gojo would be better off dead. It sounds cruel, I know! But hear me out.

it took death to bring s. gojo what he needed to feel- a peace without burdens. he was never at peace living. The moment he was born, he was used as a trophy. A symbol for the gojo clan to hold up while they use him as a shield. his strength is a blessing and a curse, something that he was born with and the one thing that was always going to be the death of him. literally. with everyone else around you seeing as someone you haven’t even thought about yourself can take a toll.

which makes suguru geto so important in his life. you see, satoru wasn’t afraid of death. No, not at that point anymore. he had someone waiting for him on the other side. he accepted his faith, he knew what battling sukuna could lead to. he’s at peace with the one person who made him feel human.

————————————————————————-

a/n: haiiiii :D it’s been awhile lol. i’ve been in japan for awhile and haven’t been updating much since. wanted to blabber on and on about gojo again cus lowkey miss him 💔 will eventually write actual stories soon!

goyardgoyangi

snippet of lovesick! sukuna <3

continuation of street racer! sukuna x reader

Sukuna watches you disappear into your apartment building, his hands still resting loosely on the steering wheel. He stays parked at the curb longer than he should, staring up at the glowing windows.

He doesn’t know which one is yours — only that you’re somewhere inside. It bothers him more than he wants to admit.

He should leave. Go home, smoke a cigarette, and forget about you like he’s done with everyone else. But he can’t. You’re the first person who’s made him want to know more — your routines, the little things no one else notices.

It’s dangerous, how fast you’re getting under his skin.

The next few days are torture.

Sukuna finds himself checking his phone more than he ever has in his life, half-expecting a text that never comes. Not that you even exchanged numbers. He grits his teeth every time the thought hits him — you left him. No promises, no clinging, no second look. Like he was just some guy you fucked and forgot.

It gnaws at him.

At first, he tells himself it’s just ego. He’s not used to being brushed off. But deep down, he knows it’s more than that. He thinks about you at the worst times — when he’s half-under the hood of a car at the shop, grease staining his fingers; when he’s lying in bed, staring at the ceiling at 2 am.; when he’s stuck at a red light and some girl crosses the street in front of him — but none of them ever look like you.

The worst part is he doesn’t even know how to find you again without crossing a line. He only knows your building, nothing more — no room number, no name. It’s pathetic, he thinks, the way his chest aches. And maybe it is.

But all he can do is wait — wait for the universe to give him another chance.

But sukuna’s been waiting, hoping, telling himself he’d be fine if he never saw you again. He tells himself that he doesn’t need to know your last name, or what your favorite color is, or anything at all. He’s done with it. He’s too busy. He doesn’t need this.

That’s what he tells himself as he walks into the campus library, eyes scanning the shelves for the textbook for his mechanical engineering class that he’s supposed to pick up, but in all honesty, his mind is elsewhere — namely, with you.

His head’s pounding, his patience worn thin. Days of thinking about you — of missing you — had drained him more than he wanted to admit. He told himself he’d move on. Told himself it was just sex, just a quick fuck, just nothing.

But every time he closed his eyes, it was you. Your laugh. Your scent. The way you trusted him enough to fall asleep in his car like he was something safe.

It fucking haunted him.

Sukuna grits his teeth as he scans the aisles. He’d been stupid to think he’d ever see you again. Maybe it was better this way — better to leave it as one perfect, gut-wrenching memory. He had better things to do than—

And then he sees you.

His breath catches.

His stomach flips.

You’re real. You’re right there.

You don’t see him yet, your attention on your laptop as you type, working on what he assumes to be a paper. His hands suddenly feel clammy, his heart racing for no reason at all.

What the fuck is wrong with him?

Sukuna blinks rapidly, trying to push the weird feeling down. He takes in a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. At first, he thinks he’s imagining it. That his mind has finally broken under the weight of wanting you.

But no — there you are, sitting at a table near the back, half-hidden behind a stack of books. Your hair catching the light. The light of your laptop illuminating your face.

For a second, he just stares, feeling something loosen — then snap tight — inside his chest.

He knows he should play it cool. Walk away. Pretend he didn’t see you.

But he’s already moving before his brain catches up, textbook forgotten in his hand, making a beeline straight for you.

He forces himself to keep walking up to the table you sit at, trying to act normal, rationalizing that it’s too late to back out now. Act normal. He doesn’t know how to do that anymore.

You glance up as he nears, blinking in slow recognition. A small smile tugs at your lips — not overly excited, not distant either — and somehow, that quiet little smile knocks the air clean out of him.

It’s as if time slows.

For a second, neither of you moves. Neither of you says anything. Sukuna feels like an idiot. He didn’t plan this far ahead.

"Hey," he says, voice low and rough. His usual cocky mask slips back into place out of habit. "Studying?”

You glance down at your table, then back at him with a soft laugh. "Kind of obvious, huh?"

He smirks, the cocky tilt of his mouth automatic. "You any good at it?"

Your laugh is real this time, light and musical, and it lodges somewhere in his ribs.

His mouth quirks, just a little. God, even your laugh is cute. He shifts the textbook in his arms, fighting the urge to scratch the itch on his cheek.

"Mind if I join you?"

The words come out more casual than he feels. Inside, his heart's a wreck — tight and fast, like he’s sixteen and asking someone out for the first time.

You hesitate, glancing at the empty chair across from you.

Then you smile again, a little softer this time. "Sure."

And there it is — that stupid smile of yours, the one that makes his heart fucking ache. It’s simple, nothing special, but to him, it feels like the most beautiful thing in the world.

He’s completely fucked.

goyardgoyangi

how street racer! sukuna curbs his road rage

You hear about the ticket before he even tells you.

Something about Sukuna yelling at a traffic officer after nearly sideswiping a sedan and cutting through two lanes without signaling. Classic. The guy’s a menace behind the wheel — fast, reckless, and pissed off 90% of the time.

He doesn’t tell you until a few days later, when you’re over at his place and he casually drops, “Got sent to court-mandated therapy.”

You look up from your phone. “Because of the ticket?”

He shrugs. “Road rage, technically.”

“Jesus, Sukuna. You threatened a cop.”

“Yeah, well. He looked stupid.”

You don’t push it. You know he’s got a short fuse — especially behind the wheel. And you’ve been in that passenger seat long enough to know he doesn’t exactly drive — he dominates.

But later, when you’re both in the car, he mentions it like it’s nothing. Like he’s telling you the weather.

“My therapist said I need a calming visual in the car,” he says, eyes on the road, voice bored.

You don’t think he’ll actually do it — take advice from a therapist, let alone that kind of advice. Not him. Not the guy who thinks calming down is for losers and once told you meditation was “just closing your eyes and lying to yourself.”

So you let it go.

But then, a few nights later during a grocery run — you're craving pad thai, planning to make it just so you can plate it on the vintage dish set he bought you during your last date, the one with the chipped gold trim you’d fawned over at the thrift market — you're wandering past the toy aisle when you say, “God, I love when guys have stupid little trinkets in their cars. It’s dumb, but so cute.”

You’re not even talking about him.

But Sukuna files it away like it’s scripture.

Later that week, when he’s alone and trying to be subtle about caring too much, he scours resell sites until he finds the exact two he wants. Doesn’t bother with the blind boxes — he doesn’t trust chance. Wants what he wants.

The bunny one reminds him of you — all soft eyes and twitchy moods, always flinching when he teases, always curling into him like a sleepy little thing once he’s fucked the fight out of you. You doze off in the passenger seat after, cheeks warm, head bobbing like a bunny nuzzling in for comfort while he drives to pick up your favorite post-sex takeout.

The peach? That one’s his favorite — a subtle reminder of what he likes to see when he’s behind you. The curve of your hips, the way you move when you’re lost in the moment.

He pays the ridiculous resale price and doesn’t even flinch. Rips the adhesive tabs from their packaging and sticks both to the back of his rearview mirror — one on each side — so they’re always in view when he drives.

A stupid little bunny.

A stupid little peach.

Both staring at him with plastic smiles.

You notice immediately, of course.

“You trying to copy me or what?” you tease, shoving your phone case with a cherry sonny angel. “Seriously though, why the hell do you have those?”

“They’re just there,” he mutters, tapping the wheel like it’s no big deal. “Came in a set or something.”

Sukuna isn’t the sentimental type. Not openly.

You narrow your eyes. “Sonny angels come in blind boxes. You sure these came together?”

He doesn’t say a word.

You lean in closer with a pout. “Kuna, did you paid resale prices? I thought you said my sonny angels were stupid.”

“They’re not stupid,” he snaps, before catching himself. “I mean. You said they were cute.”

You blink.

He won’t look at you, won’t explain more. But when you ask again, just to annoy him, he grumbles something about how you’re cute like a bunny and your ass looks like a peach and his therapist can go fuck herself but maybe she was onto something.

You nearly die laughing.

goyardgoyangi

being street racer! sukuna's passenger princess

It started as a post-sex thing.

He’d finish, you’d sprawl out like you were melting into the sheets, and he’d grumble something about needing to feed you so you don’t actually pass out like that.

Drag you to some hole-in-the-wall place with killer xiao long bao, toss his hoodie over your still-wobbly frame, and feed you until you were full and soft and pliant again.

Then you’d fall asleep in the car while he drove home—droopy-eyed, mouth parted, limbs heavy with the kind of sleep that only followed being fucked thoroughly and well-fed.

Now? It’s different.

Now he picks you up from work without being asked. Says shit like “I was in the area,” when he clearly wasn’t. His car smells faintly like your shampoo because he started keeping your scrunchies on the gear shift like a good luck charm.

One hand always on the wheel, the other already sliding up your thigh before you remember to buckle your seatbelt. Lazy squeezes, his pinky tucked under the hem of your skirt like it belongs there. You don’t even flinch anymore—you just hum tiredly, fingers curling around his forearm.

And he loves that.

Loves the way your arms wrap around his inked-up limb like it’s a body pillow, your cheek nestled into the crook of his elbow as if he was designed for this. For you.

You don’t say much. Just mumble a soft “You’re so warm, Kuna…” and go limp against him, breathing slow and even while he drives down the freeway with one arm occupied by your whole damn body weight.

And he drives smoother now—less like a street demon, more like a boyfriend who doesn’t want to wake the girl of his dreams dozing off on his arm.

Not because he’s gone totally soft, but because the thought of jolting you awake makes something twist in his chest. He eases up on the gas. Smooths out the turns. Treats the road like something sacred, because you’re in his passenger seat, falling asleep to the sound of his engine.

He doesn’t know when it stopped being about the sex.

Maybe it was the third time he picked you up after work without you asking. Maybe it was when you stopped checking the address of where he was taking you, trusting he’d bring you somewhere good. Or maybe it was the first time you fell asleep mid-drive, head against his bicep, trusting him with your body in a way that wasn’t about heat or urgency—just safety.

Now, it’s a ritual. Feeling the weight of your body slump against his. Letting your warmth bleed into him. You wrap around his arm like it’s yours, like he’s yours—and maybe he is.

This intimate, possessive need to be there. To get you fed, to take you home, to make sure you never had to call anyone else when you’re tired and worn down from the world. It's not just about taking care of you. It's about the way you let him.

And fuck, he likes it.

Almost as much as he likes the way your thigh flinches under his palm when he gives it a slow, deliberate squeeze at a red light. Just to see if you’re really asleep—or if you’re just pretending, so he’ll keep touching you like that.

Either way, he keeps his hand there.

Keeps driving.

Keeps being yours. Even if neither of you have said it yet.

goyardgoyangi

inside street racer! sukuna's glove compartment

You’re just trying to find napkins.

After a greasy late-night taco run post-race, you’re sitting in the passenger seat of Sukuna’s car, licking salsa off your wrist and reaching for the glove compartment without thinking. He’s too busy complaining about the suspension—again—to notice.

But it’s not the napkins that catch your eye first.

It’s the small, crumpled photobooth strip tucked beneath a set of napkins and folded insurance documents. You recognize it instantly: the faded pink background, the warped corner you’d accidentally bent while shoving it in your purse that night.

But what you didn’t mean to find… was a collection.

It’s not organized—because of course it’s not, it’s Sukuna—but there’s a little pile of you there.

A crumpled receipt from the ramen place where you’d dropped your egg in his broth and he’d insisted it was his now. The fake Mofusand keychain you joked about winning at the arcade and then threw away because “it looked dumb on your bag.” A movie stub from a B-list horror flick he’d pretended to hate but secretly watched twice just to see your reactions.

And the polaroids.

A dozen of them, maybe more—ones you’re sure you threw away. Ones you remember looking at with a wince and groaning, “God, I look awful in this one.”

You’re squinting in the sun, laughing too hard, mid-bite of a donut. There’s one where your hair’s a mess from the wind and you’re scowling at him from the passenger seat like you want to kill him. One where you’re half-asleep in his hoodie, nose scrunched, cheeks flushed. You hated how puffy your face looked in that one. He must’ve picked it out of the trash the second you weren’t looking.

You don’t look up. Instead, you hold up the photobooth strip, then slowly flip through the rest.

“Why do you have this?”

He doesn’t answer. Just keeps pretending to scroll, way too focused on some article about car suspensions to be real.

You turn to actually look at him.

“Ryomen Sukuna. Did you dig these out of the trash?”

That gets him.

He freezes for a beat—the use of his full name clearly throwing him off—then shifts in his seat, trying to play it cool.

“You throw out good shit,” he says with a shrug, voice lazy. “In this economy? Film’s expensive.”

You narrow your eyes but soften your voice.

“Sukuna, baby. Be honest.”

He doesn’t even look at you when he mutters, “Yeah. So what if I did?”

And maybe he’s not blushing—but his ears? They’re definitely red.

You raise an eyebrow.

“They’re blurry.”

“Yeah.”

“I look bad.”

“You don’t.”

His voice is low. Stubborn. Like it’s not up for debate.

You’re not sure what to say, but your heart’s thudding in a weird, unfamiliar way.

sixxels-deactivated20260420-dea

sex with a stoner

fratboy!choso x bestfriend!reader

wc: 16k

smut with so, so much plot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

vividl3ss

the title wildly underestimates the fucking piece of culture this fic was, i cant even begin to say, i just feel like in another universe, this is a book that kids in school have to read to get a feel of how was life back in the days, like it would be up there with una noche de viernes by jordi sierra or rockeros celestes by darío oses (im from latin america lol)

hustlerose

NOT being a good girl today. barking and ripping things up and just freaking it

ladykelsi

kidnapper!ghost loves it when you scratch him up. he loves it when you attempt to gouge his eyes out, when you scream and kick at him and mark him up. he practically has hearts in his eyes when you yell at him for anything. but what he really loves the most about all of that is watching it all melt away when he makes you come.

the way you soften up when his cock slide in deep, weakening the fists that pound his chest until your fingers unfurl and grip his shoulders instead. his eyes roll back as your nails dig in and scrape lines down his arm. he'll lean in close enough so you can bite him too. leave as many teeth marks as you can so he can show them off at the gym later when he's out to show that he's taken and not the other way around.

he cradles your head in one hand and press his forehead against yours, whispering promises and sweet nothings all in the same breath. swallowing every scream turned to mewls in his mouth while your legs curl around his waist while he fucks the brat out of you. fucking hell, it makes him weak just thinking about your doe eyes, no longer filled with fire and fury, now staring up at him like he hung the moon and stars.

"feeling better now, lovie?" you nod your head, making a noise of agreement. he smiles, nudging his nose against your cheek. "good."

madamechrissy

Baby You're a Star

Art in the banner by Kerravi on x!

Pairings- Pornstar Satoru x shy f!reader

Summary- You meet Satoru Gojo at a wild Hollywood party, insanely out of place, waiting for your friend to show up. The two of you hit it off, spending time together, and share a kiss, but you're a good girl, and you just don't do this, but he is the top pornstar there is, and the top .01 % on OnlyFans. Once you find out, you know there's probably no match, as Satoru doesn't date, and you don't sleep around, but after meeting, you keep in touch- and soon Satoru can't get hard without thinking of you, and you get over curious, and join a livestream of the boy you like. Just how will that go for you both!?

Warnings- This has a LOT going on, heed the warnings - filming porn, oral (f receiving) spit kink, creampie, cum swallowing, multiple rounds, biting, back shots, SO MUCH jealousy especially from Satoru, honestly this situation is toxic be warned, say hi to Nanami and maybe kiss him? Obsessed whipped ass Gojo, he's becoming a little yandere, this chap is ANGSTY asf, mutual pining, idiots clearly in love but stupid asf, MESSY WC this chap- 13.8k (Monster chap my god)

A/N- Taglist closed- Happy Mother's day to me and all the moms have some smut and angst lol - please comment/rb if you enjoy <3

<<<Chapter Three - Masterlist- Playlist- Chapter Five>>>

Chapter Four

How could you get it off your mind?

Sitting at your desk in a lull at work, your fingertips trail down the side of your neck, lashes fluttering as you remember Satoru planting firm kisses across it, the memory itself makes your tummy clench with hot desire, goosebumps rising as your fingers dance along it. Remembering his teeth sinking in as he shoved his thick cock so deep, burying it inside you.

Remembering how he cleaned you up, kissing your breasts where he’d sucked and bitten like little apologies, his boyish smile as he whispered his little ‘sorry’ murmurs along your skin. The thorough way he’d lavished your body in his shower that night, how he washed and conditioned your hair, rinsing it until it was as silky as your hair has ever been with whatever fancy products he had.

He’d made sure you had breakfast, taken you down the elevator and made sure you got in the car okay - fuck he called and texted later that night just to check on you. There was no mistaking Satoru was perfect when it came to fucking, but also above and beyond with the aftercare, but that made it all even worse for you.

Cumming with him was intoxicating, it was fucking insane, but moreso the sweetness of him, the thoughtfulness, that’s what sunk deep into your veins, in an unmistakable rhythm just whispering over and over in your mind. The days without him have only shoved the reality further down your throat - that you think you’re falling in love with him.

Are you just foolish?

You’re always led by these deep fucking feelings, you don’t think before you plunge or follow them, either. Yet, there was no other explanation for it, for what you feel when you’re under him, from what you feel when he kisses you, far beyond your cunt drooling - god, it squirted - down his cock, or his mouth, or his fingers. Far beyond being appreciative of his aftercare.

It was all too much.

So much, you’ve turned down coming back over for days, as you’re still so fucking disoriented and confused, you can’t separate sex like Satoru does, like Jenna does. You wish you had the ability, to let go and have fun - and not full of a fucking inner turmoil while your cervix is being kissed by the prettiest pink tip. You wish you could take it for what it is, and not crave more.

Selfish, maybe you were selfish?

Foolish and selfish for carrying on knowing better.

You hadn’t texted him back yet today, you don’t know how to be casual in your messages, not when you remember his arms around you in your sleep, not when you crave their warmth. You have a life and a career to focus on, you can’t let him consume all your waking thoughts, fantasies of him wanting more, of him asking you to be with him flitting like day dreams.

“Miss…” Your attention is drawn as a colleague says your name, knocking on your open door then. “A potential client is here, are you available?”

“Oh, yes. Sure!” You shake yourself out of it, smiling and then faltering as you see him, right in your office, and the secretary walks off, whispering about the handsome, tall white haired man to her friend, earning giggles as Satoru stands there, drop dead fucking gorgeous in front of you.

“No greeting, kinda rude pookie.” He says with a little playful smile, stepping further inside your office now, as you try to gather any of your wits.

“Satoru? What are you doing here?” You ask softly, curious how he knows exactly where you work, aside from maybe seeing it on your socials.

Satoru Gojo is standing right in front of your desk with a grin on his face, hands in the pockets of his dark jeans, white dress shirt unbuttoned just two little rows, revealing some of his well muscled chest, where that necklace he always wears lays flat. He’s got on black, round shades, blue eyes glinting as the floor to ceiling window shines light in your office, filtering around his frame.

The man looks unfairly good.

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