celestial patterns are shifting, and the cosmic tides are in motion.
stay informed, space waits for no one.
⸻⸻ looks like there's rain up ahead •*¨*•.¸¸
.・。.・゜comet's tail visible in night sky. astronomers report that a bright comet will streak across the sky in the coming days. this rare event signals a prime opportunity for bold decisions, though experts warn that such choices may carry consequences.
⸻⸻ like there's a crack in the heavens •*¨*•.¸¸
.・。.・゜quantum rift expected early this week. unstable cosmic conditions indicate a sudden shift into unknown territory. the gravitational balance may feel disrupted, and some may find themselves pulled into unexpected situations. adaptability is key.
⸻⸻ feels like my day could be turning •*¨*•.¸¸
.・。.・゜increased gravity wells detected. this week brings a heightened presence of gravitational pull, drawing focus inward. researchers suggest it's an ideal period for introspection, but caution that prolonged isolation or overanalysis could lead to stagnation.
⸻⸻ like i can tell that my luck's gonna change •*¨*•.¸¸
.・。.・゜notable sightings: phenomena worth remembering
supernova explosion ⊹ husband!Sukuna hc ⊹
nebular distortions ⊹ masseur!Gojo x fem!reader ⊹
shifting constellations ⊹ tutor!Choso x fem!reader ⊹
SYNOPSIS ᯓ A Bonnie and Clyde-esque, high-stakes, multi-chapter smut romance that follows a deadly criminal duo whose intense, chaotic love becomes as dangerous as the heists they pull off. Trust forged in blood, bonds built on risk.
PAIRING ᯓ Criminal! Sukuna x Criminal! Fem. Reader
WARNINGS ᯓ SMUT MDNI, biting, oral (m rec), piv, cowgirl, hair pulling, missionary, mentions of bruises, soft AND rough, fluff at the end.
WORD COUNT ᯓ 2.7k
Chapter 9.
Before you knew it, his lips were on yours, feeling the heat of your skin under the palms he’s snaked under your shirt. The kiss is hungry, teeth, tongue, everything. It’s a clash of breath and heat, like he’s trying to brand himself into you. His hands dig into your sides, pulling you flush against him, and it’s not gentle. It’s as if he needs you right now, no time to be soft.
So you kiss back like you’re starved, because you are, like his mouth devouring yours is the only thing grounding you to reality. Your hands are in his hair, nails dragging and digging into his scalp. You fumble with the vest still secured to his body before he rips it off himself, moving to remove yours and throwing them aside.
And he looks all fucked-out already. His lips are parted, eyes heavy in the brief moment you’re apart. You grip at his shoulders, his shirt, pulling, tugging, taking. It’s frantic, needing more of each other as if the rush of the heist still isn’t enough.
His hands are yanking your shirt up, impatient, shoving it over your head. Your fingers scramble to hem of his top, breathless moans in his mouth as you fumble with it before he’s nearly growling in response, almost ripping it at the seams.
And shit, you’ve seen him shirtless before, but now?
His upper body glistens in sweat, his unique scent oozing and seemingly traveling straight to your ovaries. His body looks sculpted, muscles stiff and taut, the black ink decorating his chest and abdomen a contrast to his various scars.
Your nails dig into his chest, as if you could rip his skin clean off and live inside him. He’s tugging at your hair, forcing your face up so he can have more, kiss deeper, like it’d never be enough.
The room fills with sharp breaths, the sound of lips moving in tandem, clothes sliding off and being discarded.
There’s no strip tease or careful unbuttoning. It’s only pulling, shoving, peeling away the fabric that dare separate you both, in the way of something much more important. You barely got your shoes and pants halfway down before his hands hook under your thighs and lift you.
It’s not graceful, you’re not a bride on her honeymoon. He carries you across the room, bumping into the edge of his bed as he drops you, immediately crawling over you as if to own you. The mattress creaks under his shifting weight, the heat between you unbearable.
And he’s growling against your lips, half in amusement and the other half in frustration as he’s tearing his belt off in one hard tug. There’s no patience in the way he has you, no patience in the way he grips your legs that instinctively wrap around his waist. Because he’s lapping at your neck, biting at your pulse points and pushing your panties aside.
It leaves you breathless, his fingers are rough, hands everywhere, gripping, squeezing. his mouth never staying in one place too long as his lips drag along your collarbone, biting, marking. His free hand undoes your bra, breathing into your skin as messy kisses trail between your breasts.
“Fuck, look at you,” his lips are slick, breathing heavy like he’s holding himself back. He looks like a man at war with himself, a battle between ruining you completely and dragging it out just to watch you squirm.
One of his hands grip your breast firmly as the other drags slowly between your drenched folds.
“God, so desperate for me, huh?” He says as his fingers trace your slick slit, watching you writhe beneath him before he slides a thick, long finger in your entrance, chuckling at the way you’re already clenching around his single digit.
And he just can’t take it anymore, not when you’re already fisting the sheets beneath you, hair knotting, eyes squeezed shut, short moans escaping your lips. He’s already rocking into you, the tent in his boxers wetting as he teases you, brows pinched tight and lips ghosting yours.
You look at him through narrows eyes, hands grasping at his shoulders as your ankles link around him once more.
“Gonna fuck me like you own me?”
He just looks up at you, eyes already glossed over as he’s hastily bringing his cock out, throwing the last piece of clothing separating you after he drags your dripping underwear down.
His eyes never leaves yours as he’s pushing it in, a steady pace making you feel every inch of his girthy length, tip reddened as your warmth swallows him whole.
Already whining into the air, struggling to take all of him. He’s so big, probably the biggest you’ve had. He was barely half way in before you’re panting, stretching in a sweet ache stimulating more adrenaline to race down your veins, goosebumps prickling your skin as you share the rush with him between breaths. It was like your senses disappeared but heightened at the same time, body numb but oversensitive, and nothing else mattered.
“You’re gonna take every inch,” he grunts into your mouth before his hands find the underside of your knees, pushing them higher till he has you folded, pushing deeper, making you feel it. “Every. Fuckin’. Inch.”
And when he finally bottoms out, he’s thrusting into you with the rush of the heist behind it. Oh, he makes you feel it. The way his engorged tip drags along your walls, it was like you could perceive his addition through pleasure, why he continues to risk his life. It was for this, the shared surge of pure ecstasy of a job done well, a job that put everything on the line, a job that left you a millionaire.
He was hunched over, fingers gripping your thighs pressed to your chest like he fucking hated you, his teeth on your throat, your moans spilling into the air letting everyone know who could take you like this.
It was intoxicating, all of it. The way he looked at you like he hated you, when really it was the opposite, the way he fucked you like it was a punishment, when really it was the opposite.
His chest heaves with every thrust, feeling the rhythm between you, each movement a boost to his ego, a reminder of how powerful he is. He’s always taken what’s his, and you’re no exception. He leads the dance, addicted to the way you break for him, addicted to the way you envelop him completely, conforming to him like you were made for this. Made for him.
He was fully convinced that was true, that every horrible deed he’s done must’ve multiplied against each other, and led you to cross paths with him. His breaths came in sharp bursts, watching your face, studying your every reaction because you’re his. It’s a feeling of satisfaction burning in his chest, his core, but it’s still not enough. He wants more, no, needs more. The way you tighten around him as if your body unintentionally holds onto him, it only makes him come closer to losing control every passing second.
You grip his hair, other hand scratching down his back as you gasp against his lips, and that’s when he lets your name slip, all raw and unguarded like it’s the only word he knows.
You smile against his jaw. “You never say my name.”
He deftly drops your legs to wrap his arms around your back, switching positions so you ride him now.
His hands are rough on your hips, making you flinch in pain from your recent bruising before he moves his hands at your waist.
“Guess I just like the way it sounds when I’m the only one makin’ you say mine.” He grins at you now, his hands loose around your waist as you ride him like you were chasing the high of a perfect heist, reckless, calculated, and so addictive you both know there would never be enough.
It’s pure filth the way you take him so well, your arousal pooling at his base and nails clawing at his chest, the sound of skin slapping and heavy breaths filling the room.
His hands travel, moving to caress your bare back in a way that sends goosebumps prickling your skin until his grip tightened, holding you still.
“Go slow, doll.”
You quirk an eyebrow, smirking. “Why?”
“’Cause I want you to feel this every time you fuckin’ move tomorrow.”
His length was infuriatingly deep, the languid pace forcing your mind foggy, melting into his touch and throbbing around him as his hand snakes around your body, thumb grazing your clit. You almost topple over at the sensation, head tilting like he’s amused, his eyes flicking where your bodies meet and letting his head fall back.
“That’s it baby, make a mess.”
You do just that. Writhing under his hold, crying out because you wanted everyone to hear who fucked you like this, uncaring if it’d lead to trouble later. “God, fuck, you’re so deep, I-”
His arms were wrapped around you, thrusting his hips into yours as his head rests on your shoulder, sweat dripping from his hairline. He inhales your scent as if to memorize it, eyes shut and carving out a piece of his brain reserved only for you. His groans low and deep, the sound of it reverberating from his chest to yours.
“Should’ve fucked you in that vault,” his breaths quickening, smiling into the crook of your neck. “Hah, right there on the money, let you ride me till you forget your own fuckin’ name.”
Your body felt like it was floating, pure bliss in a haze of height and weightlessness. Each drive of his hips sending a ripple through you, like the last breath before a storm, each rush of adrenaline crashing like a tidal wave.
Your skin is numb, but every inch of you alive each time he fills you, trapped both between his arms and the intoxicating pull of desire. Mind scattered, too far gone to think clearly and rationally, the only pieces of thought you can catch brief, sharp fragments that just get consumed by him. The heat of his hands, his breath on your neck, filling you each time to the point of breaking but never letting you fall.
He pulls you off him, his large hand wrapped around the crown of your skull leading you down until you were face to face with his engorged tip. He doesn’t say anything, but the command is clear in the shift of your weight.
So you take him in your mouth fully, the weight of his length pressing down on your tongue as his hands thread through your hair, forcing you closer and closer until he was fully enveloped.
You couldn’t protest, not that you wanted to, but you were gagging, choking on him with tears prickling your eyes as his toes curled, grip on your scalp firm when as his muscles flex, his seed shooting down your throat.
You only moaned around him feeling his hot essence slide down your throat, it was so much. His groans echoing the room, the taste of your arousal on him, it was so erotic and you loved it. Being able to bring the king of crimes down to this level of desire was a new feat on its own, the god that held cities in his palms and crushed them, all at your mercy as his breath hitches, body stuttering, and finishing in your mouth.
To unravel him in this way, to make him lose himself to something so carnal, so human. You held the power of desire in your hands even when it came to this ruthless monster, one that lost control at the first press of your lips, the first flick of your tongue. The thrill is overwhelming, a twisted satisfaction when you strip him of his crown just to place it on your head. A man lost in lust, a god reduced to prisoner.
Sukuna pulls you in close, his chest rising and falling with every breath as he wraps his arm around your bare torso. He tugs the sheets over you both, his fingers trailing up and down your bare body, hand brushing the sweaty strands sticking to your forehead.
You sigh, melting into his hold, feeling safe in a way that should be impossible. For so long, you’d questioned everything from your choices to your future, only to land on the cold conclusion that none of it mattered. But here, wrapped in the arms of the most ruthless criminal in the country, something about this moment feels right.
Still, the thought gnaws at you, relentless. Is this the Sukuna everyone warned about? The one who takes women in, lets them do his dirty work, fucks while the thrill is still high, then discards them when the adrenaline fades? But he’s too careful with you. Too deliberate. The way he forced you to care for yourself, makes sure you’re overly armed, shields you during an explosion without a second thought. You can’t work it out in your head.
His breath is steady, heartbeat a slow, heavy rhythm at your back. His head rests atop yours as if to anchor you.
“You fuck every partner after a big job?” you murmur, a teasing tilt in your voice softened by the quiet.
He glances at you, though you can’t see. His voice is indifferent. “Never had a reason to until now.”
You hum, shifting slightly against him. “So I’m the reason?”
He scoffs, nudging you. “Shut up, idiot.”
You don’t see it, but he’s smiling. Relishing the last waves of adrenaline as they slip from his veins and settle into yours.
You sit in silence, feeling his chest against your back. His weight is heavy, crushing almost, but you didn’t mind. If anything, you found yourself smiling. It didn’t matter if this was wrong, if this unnamed thing between you was the very kind of relationship people warned you about. It didn’t matter how dangerous it was, how impossible, how it could only ever end one way.
As long as he offered you jobs, you’d stay.
His breath was deep and slow now, slipping into sleep before you. His hold never loosened like he thought you might slip away in the night.
Your body relaxed, lulled by his warmth and the heavy weight of his arm over you, the way his breathing filled the quiet like a lullaby.
The memory is hazy, you try to wipe your eyes to see it clearer, but you can’t. Your fathers face is distorted in your mind, blurred at the edges.
You were small, maybe seven or eight, curled up in bed on a summer night, the sound of crickets slipping through the open window. The sheets stuck to your legs, twisted from tossing and turning when you were too hot to sleep but too tired to move.
Your bedroom door creaked.
“Hey, kid,” your father’s voice, rough from the day but softer than you’d ever hear it again. “You awake?”
You blinked up at him, voice thick with sleep.
His silhouette filled the doorway, a hand on the frame. You remember the way he hesitated before grinning. “C’mon,” he whispered. “Let’s stay up late. Ice cream and a movie. Just us.”
You didn’t answer, just scrambled out of bed so fast you nearly tripped over your own feet. He laughed, catching your wrist to steady you.
That was the safest you had ever felt.
Now you’re sinking into sleep, letting the memory linger like a ghost, flickering around the corners of your mind before the darkness takes you completely.
And for a fleeting moment, you wondered what your father would say if you brought Sukuna home. You almost laughed, picturing the sheer disbelief on his face, the sharp inhale, the way his brows would furrow at the sight of this towering, inked-up menace stepping through the door of your childhood home.
But the thought slipped through your fingers like smoke.
Because no matter how hard you tried, you just couldn’t picture it.
You couldn’t even remember what your father looked like anymore.
SYNOPSIS ᯓ A Bonnie and Clyde-esque, high-stakes, multi-chapter smut romance that follows a deadly criminal duo whose intense, chaotic love becomes as dangerous as the heists they pull off. Trust forged in blood, bonds built on risk.
PAIRING ᯓ Criminal! Sukuna x Criminal! Fem. Reader
WARNINGS ᯓ bank robbery heist (DO NOT DO THIS...), hostage(ish) situation, mentions/usage of weapons, violence, usage of explosives, blood, Sukuna kills someone for you <3, FLUFF (at the end), posessiveness
WORD COUNT ᯓ 3.3k
Chapter 8.
Park the car.
Check your weapons.
Enter the bank.
Take out the guards.
Blow the vault.
Steal the cash.
Escape.
You’ve been repeating these steps in your head the entire ride, carving them into your brain like scripture. No distractions. No second-guessing.
The car shuts off in the back alley, tucked between dumpsters and a rusting chain-link fence. It’s silent inside. The only sound being the slow creak of Sukuna’s grip tightening around the wheel, knuckles white, jaw locked. His breathing is steady, controlled, like a predator waiting for his kill.
He looks over his shoulder, gaze sharp. “Ready?”
You swallow down the static in your chest, tug the neckline of your bulletproof vest tighter. “Born ready.”
Both doors swing open.
You step out onto the cracked pavement, clad in black cargo pants, heavy boots hitting the ground in sync. The sun’s heat presses against your back, focus sharp. You check your weapons again, sidearms firm against your beltline, compact assault rifle slung tight across your chest.
Beside you, Sukuna pulls his balaclava down, shadows swallowing his distinct pink hair and face tattoos. He slaps a magazine into the FN SCAR-H, the click loud in the dead air. He’s already moving, already ahead, shoulders loose, stride slow and sure.
It’s showtime.
The glass doors slide open with a soft whish, the air-conditioned lobby a sharp contrast to the sweat already soaking your clothes. It’s busy inside, not crowded, but enough bodies to make control crucial.
You and Sukuna step inside, slow and deliberate. No sudden movements, no unnecessary noise. The security guard at the front desk barely flicks his eyes up from his monitor, too used to the mundane repetition of his shift to register the threats walking in.
Then-
CRACK-CRACK-CRACK.
Sukuna fires three warning shots into the ceiling, the gunfire ripping through the silence, reverberating off marble floors and glass walls. Screams erupt, people dropping to the ground on instinct, hands flying to cover their heads. Papers scatter as bank tellers scramble backward, their eyes wide with panic.
The front desk guard jerks up, hand darting for his holster.
Too slow.
You’re already moving, the butt of your rifle slamming into his chest, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs. He stumbles, gasping, but before he can recover, you’re on him, gripping his wrist, twisting it behind is back as he chokes on shock.
“Stay down,” you growl, yanking a zip tie tight around his wrists. His panicked breaths come out in sharp gasps as you shove him to the floor.
Somewhere behind you, the police scanner crackles to life.
“Unit 23, 10-51, possible robbery in progress at downtown location. All available units, stand by.”
“Roger that, Unit 23. We’re about five minutes out. Requesting additional units.”
Just like that, the clock started.
Sukuna is already moving on to the next.
A guard stands near the back exit, one hand on the radio and other with an unsteady gun. He’s distracted, scared, too focused on the commotion near the front to notice him closing in from behind.
Sukuna lunges, grabbing the back of his vest, slamming him against the brick wall. His head bounces off, the sharp thud echoing through the empty corridor.
He struggles until Sukuna drives an elbow to his ribs. The impact forcing a strangled breath from his lips, body sagging forward.
You pivot, rifle raised, moving straight for the glass partition where the tellers are huddled, frozen in fear. One woman flinches as you aim at her.
“Get on the floor! Hands behind your back!” Your voice cuts sharp through the chaos, commanding.
She hesitates for a half second too long, but Sukuna doesn’t. He vaults over the counter, grabbing her by the back of her blouse, yanking her down flat onto the cold tile.
“Emergency button?” He barks, voice edged with impatience.
“N-No, I-”
Rip.
Duct tape tears between your fingers as you’re grabbing her wrists, forcing them behind her back. The adhesive binds them tight, her muffled sobs filling the space as you drag her out of reach of the counters.
Next.
Your boots move fast despite the hesitation in your heart. It was all going so fast.
You make your way across the floor toward the vault security room. Inside, the second guard is alone, hunched over a cluster of security monitors completely oblivious to the chaos outside. His eyes flicker between grainy black and white feeds, front desk, lobby, vault, lingering too long on the wrong screens.
He never heard you coming, only feeling your arm wrapping around his throat, pulling him back before he can react. His body jerks, feet kicking wildly as you clamp a hand over his mouth. The scent of stale coffee clings to his uniform as he thrashes in your grip.
You don’t let up, the wire garrote tightening to cut off his struggling gasps. His grip on your wrist weakens until his body goes limp.
You lower him to the floor, checking his pulse. Still breathing, but unconscious.
Pulling a zip tie from your belt, you cinch his wrists at his back before shoving his slumped body over the desk.
The last guard stands outside the vault, scanning the security panel, following protocol. His back is to the hallway, posture stiff as he types a code, not even hearing Sukuna approach.
Pigs seem to have such bad luck around him.
Because Sukuna moves fast, rifle punching into the guard’s gut, force doubling him over with a wheeze. The moment his knees hit the ground, Sukuna grabs his collar, yanking his body weight up before driving the butt of his gun into his temple.
The guard slumps instantly, body folding to the floor like an abandoned puppet.
Sukuna just exhales, rolling his shoulders, shooting you a glance.
“Vault’s ours.”
You nod, swallowing against the sharp pound of adrenaline in your throat. This was the rush, stepping into this bank snapping your nerves tight, how your heartbeat is a war drum in you ears. It was a contrast between planned calculation and impulse. You know what you’re doing, but that doesn’t mean it’s not chaos. This is precise chaos.
You’re the wild card this time. Seeing red when guards move, when they twitch like they might reach for their weapons. The urge to protect him, it’s stupid. The kind of stupid that gets you killed. But still, it flares inside you like a gunpowder spark. You’d throw yourself in front of him if it came to that. Why? You don’t know. Maybe because he’s the one that dragged you into this, maybe because he’s the only thing that makes sense anymore.
Your hands don’t shake. You’re not scared. Not really. The adrenaline burns away any hesitation, turning fear into focus.
And for the first time in your life, maybe you want to see what comes next.
The scanner crackles again, static spitting through the earpiece.
“Unit 23, two minutes out. Additional units en route.”
Two minutes. Not enough time, but just enough.
He’s moving with efficiency, hands steady as he plants the C4 along the reinforced hinges of the vault door. Every movement is practiced like he was built for this. You keep your rifle trained, breath controlled, listening for movement beyond the ringing tension.
The charges are set in seconds. He turns to you, pressing the detonator into your palm, his fingers rough against your skin.
“You sure you want me to do it?” you ask, raising a brow.
He smirks, a sharp quick thing. “Stay close. Stay down.”
Everything moves at once, running down the hall and rounding the corner. Sukuna’s arm hooks around you, yanking you hard into his chest as he pivots, dragging you both back. His grip is like a vice, pulling you so tight against him that your cheek presses hard against the thick fabric of his vest, the rigid plates beneath unyielding.
Then-
BOOM.
The explosion detonates with a violent roar, the pressure ripping down every hall and room. A concussive wave slams out, rattling every bone in your body. The walls shudder, debris splintering outward in a deadly storm of metal and fire. The blast hammers into you, but you don’t feel the full force of it, Sukuna’s body a shield to yours, bracing against the destruction.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch.
Dust and smoke erupts around you, swallowing the air in choking clouds. Your ears ring, breath sharp and fast. His fingers tighten where they’ve curled around the back of your vest, keeping you pinned as if a barrier between you and the fallout.
His voice low and gruff, brushes against the shell of your ear.
“Don’t fucking move.”
You nod, chest rising and falling, adrenaline surging through your veins. The heat of the blast lingering, the air scorched and the world a mess of crumbling concrete and settling dust.
Just as the smoke barely clears, he exhales, finally pulling back just enough to glance down at you. His eyes flick over your face, checking for something, or maybe just looking.
And then he kisses you.
It’s brief, but deep and commanding. The kind of kiss that doesn’t ask, doesn’t need a reason. His lips crash against yours with a sharp, desperate certainty.
And then it’s gone.
He pulls back, the smile on his face and wide-eyed expression like the taste of you is just another victory.
“Let’s go.”
The moment your boots hit the marble floor of the vault, you exhale hard, a sharp rush of air leaving your chest. Your pupils are blown wide, adrenaline thrumming through your system. The blast is still ringing in your ears, but there’s no time to process it. No time to linger.
You move fast, and so does he.
The sight before you is pure gold. Stacks upon stacks of money line the vault, crisp hundred-dollar bills wrapped tight in thick bands, the kind of wealth most people never see in their lifetime.
You sling a bag over your shoulder, grabbing fistfuls of cash and stuffing them inside. Your movements are precise, but Sukuna is even quicker. His large hands grab twice the amount you can in a single sweep, thick fingers curling around stacks as if they’re weightless.
His brows are drawn together, sharp and focused, but his wicked smile is still there, predatory, dangerous. You can hear his breath, rough and steady, the only sound between you besides the rustle of money and the hum of electricity from the vault’s security systems.
The safety deposits are next. Sukuna tugs them open with ease, the metal giving way under his grip like tin foil. Some are empty, useless. But others are stuffed with jewels, bearer bonds, rare metals.
He takes what matters.
You yank the zipper closed on your bag, shifting the heavy weight over your shoulder. Your breath is shallow, mind racing, thoughts electric.
The guard. The fifth guard.
You don’t hear him, don’t see him until it’s too late.
A voice shouts.
“Get down! Now!”
The moment you turn, it’s already happening. A solid weight slams into you, knocking you hard against a steel table. The force rips the air from your lungs in a sharp, rugged breath, the impact sending stars bursting behind your eyes.
“Shit-!”
Your palms slap against the cold metal, fighting to breathe, the world tilting off-center. Your head is spinning, chest burning, mind snapping back into focus just in time to see it.
The barrel of a gun, so close it touches the sweaty skin at your temple.
The guard’s finger tightens on the trigger, but Sukuna moves faster.
A single, deafening shot echoes through the vault, and the guard drops.
Sukuna doesn’t even blink. Striding forward, rifle still in hand, completely unbothered. He barely spares the guard a glance as he steps over the pool of blood.
“Pathetic.”
He spits the words like an afterthought, like the guard wasn’t even worth the bullet lodged in his skull.
And just like that, he’s over it. Turning to you, grabbing your upper arm and forcing you up. His grip is firm.
“You still breathing?” he asks, assessing you even as his hand tightens around your arm.
You nod, all too fast, too shaky.
Your lungs burn, ribs feel like they’re rattled loose, but you’re upright. Standing. That’s enough, right?
There’s no time to argue or process it all. You blink, rapid, frantic, dizzy. The room is still spinning, your body feeling disconnected, unsteady.
Your knees wobble, balance shifting too sharply, and you barely register the weight dragging you forward before Sukuna’s shoving you ahead.
“Move.” His voice a low growl, palm pressing firm between your shoulder blades, forcing you into a limping run down the hallway.
Just as the back exit slams open, you hear it. A metallic shriek, sharp and violent like the building is being torn apart. The cops are breaching the main entrance.
A battering ram.
They’re inside.
And the sirens, they’re close. No longer wailing only in the distance, but right there, screaming through the air and bouncing off the walls. You can see the red and blue lights slash through the alleys and bleed onto the pavement.
Sukuna doesn’t slow, shoving you forward. Your breath is ragged, frantic, your body screaming from the hit you took.
The car is there, parked just where it was left, engine waiting to roar.
Sukuna reaches it first, jolting the passenger door open and forcing you inside, grabbing the bag off your shoulders, tearing it free as you collapse into the seat.
He throws the bags in the back seat, movements feral. He barely spares a glance over his shoulder before he’s turning the keys.
The tires shriek against the pavement as he slams the gas the exact second the ignition fires. The force throwing you back against the seat, breath knocking out of you as the car lurches forward.
Blue and red headlights fade in the distance as you’re bracing against the dash, protecting yourself from the sheer velocity of the turn as Sukuna spins the wheel, tires skidding against the concrete.
And he’s laughing.
He just killed someone, stealing a rough $5M in cash, another $2M from safety deposit boxes, and he’s fucking laughing.
He’s driving through near deserted back roads. Streets empty, sun pressing in from all sides. You’re catching your breath when the silence breaks, the police scanner in the center console cracking to life.
“Shit! Suspects are gone. Patrol on high alert for any vehicles out of place.”
“Unit 5, we’re circling the area. All units, maintain high alert. Copy, watching cameras for movement.”
The words hang heavy, the rush of pursuit pressing against your chest. Your heart skips with a spike of adrenaline, your limbs tense with the shock of it all.
You glance over, watching his hands grip the wheel, gaze laser-focused on the road as he accelerates, pushing 115 mph. His voice cuts through the tension, like he’s speaking to himself as much as you.
“We won’t get caught.”
His words are firm, confident. There’s no doubt in his voice.
A few minutes pass as the tension builds before he’s reaching into his jacket pocket and throwing both burner phones in your lap. The weight of them focusing you.
“Toss ‘em.”
You don’t hesitate, grabbing his phone first. You accidentally click it into life, seeing the blurry background, a picture of you. Your face is barely in focus, but it’s enough to make your chest tighten, a warmth blooming there that you can’t shake.
You smile to yourself, tossing both phones and watching them shatter.
“Didn’t know you were sentimental.”
He grumbles, eyes trained on the road. “Shut the fuck up.”
You grin, resting your head back and taking in a long inhale. It was almost over. The wind is ripping through the windows, the silence of it all hollow feeling like freedom.
His grin widens as he checks the mirrors, eyes gleaming, knowing. He looks over at you, gaze intense, almost possessive.
“You’re mine now.”
There’s no question in his voice. It’s not an invitation or a demand, just a simple, undeniable truth. A rush of heat floods your chest.
You don’t say anything in response, but your heart never slowed down from the moment you stepped inside the bank. The tension was palpable, and not even the endless road ahead brings comfort.
The abandoned lot finally stretches out before you, an empty canvas in the middle of nowhere, only the dying light of the first getaway vehicle in the background, the flames consuming it like hungry tongues. Sukuna watches the car burn, eyes glowing in the flickering light. He pulls a match from his jacket pocket, lighting it with a flick of his wrist and casually tosses it into the engine.
You were already moving the heavy bags of cash into the backseat of the new vehicle, the weight of each feeling like success on your shoulders. Each step you take feels like you’re walking off the edge of a cliff, teetering between exhilaration and madness, but you don’t care.
Sukuna chuckles. “We’re fuckin’ untouchable. You feel that?”
He’s leaning over from the driver’s seat, shifting into gear and making the car lurch forward. You can see the unmaintainable thrill, the fire in his veins that mirror your own.
He’s laughing wildly now. “We did it. We fuckin’ pulled it off.”
His laugh is contagious, how raw and untamed it is. You can’t help it, the madness bubbling inside you, a mix of disbelief and euphoria, and you find yourself giggling along with him. It’s too much. Too insane. But here you are, like a god. Alive, untouchable, the world sprawled out in front of you, waiting to be claimed.
As he speeds down the road, your laughter mingles, echoing in the confined space of the car like two wild hearts racing in sync. There’s something about it, something about this high that feels like flying without wings, like every laugh is a rebellion against everything you’ve ever known. The air is a bit colder now, the world slipping by in streaks.
The streets blur in the background, the world slipping away, all that’s left is the sound of him and you. You feel so untouchable, alive in a way you never thought possible, like you’ve just stepped into a new world, one you can shape however you want.
It’s perfect. Everything in this moment is perfect.
The motel’s lights flash ahead, but you’re not thinking about that, still high on the rush and floating on the energy. You’re like two halves of a whole, caught in the addiction of your creation.
You both step out of the car, legs buzzing from the high. He moves like he didn’t just walk out of a vault with duffel bags heavy with cash and blood on his hands. He slams the door shut, tossing you the keys without looking, already making his way to the back entrance of the motel.
You follow, matching his pace up the dimly lit stairwell. He carries both bags with ease, shoulders tense under the strain of the day. Neither of you speak as you reach the door, but when he pushes it inside, it’s like all the adrenaline hits him at once.
The bags hit the floor with a heavy thud. And before you can even take a breath, you’re backed against the door, the heat of him close, the rip of velcro filling the space as he’s tearing your vest open. Then, his hands are on you, lifting your shirt just enough to expose the deepening bruise along your hip bone.
He drags his thumb over it, tongue clicking in disapproval before he leans in, breath warm against your ear. “No one fucking touches what’s mine.” His fingers press into your hip, just enough to make you wince. “Should’ve made him suffer more.”
Then he smirks, tilting your chin up with two fingers as he stares into your soul. “Guess I’ll just have to leave my own mark, huh?”
you’re laying on sukuna’s bare chest, fingers tracing the dark ink of his tattoos. he scoffs, glancing from his phone down to you before rolling his eyes.
“why would i be dying?”
“like… I don’t know, would you jump in front of a bullet to save me?”
“obviously.”
you huff out a bit of laughter.
“you would?”
his red eyes meet yours, a bored look in them.
“yes idiot, i would jump in front of a bullet to save you.”
“that’s so sweet.”
“yeah i know, boyfriend of the year,” sukuna grumbles, going back to his phone.
it’s silent for another moment before you think of something else.
…
“would you… kill for me?”
his grip on you tightens for a minute and he sets his phone down. one rough hands comes up and clasps your chin, lifting your eyes to meet his.
“do i need to?”
your eyes widen slightly, gulping at the intensity in his.
“i… well no… not right now, i just wondered if you would.”
“yes.”
he releases your jaw and your head drops back to his chest. he goes back to his phone as your heart pounds a little harder in your chest.
HELLO SORRY for going on an unannounced hiatus type shit
a freaking tree fell on our garage during a storm and also broke our fence LOL so i was helping fix that. i also made the decision to move across the country :P anyways i am back hello freakies, we must get our freak on
Hey love! Just wanted to start off by saying that I absolutely ADORE your work and your writing style. I’m particularly fond of the “I hate you” Gojo fic. I absolutely foamed at the mouth while reading, it was SO yummy.
Secondly, I’ve been thinking about changing my blog to a constellation theme, but I stumbled upon your blog and didn’t want to seem like I was copying you. It wouldn’t be entirely the same as yours as I’d be doing JUST constellation/star/galaxy themed. I also wouldn’t DREAM of stealing any of your boarders (as beautiful as they are) or anything like that of course! I just wanted to make sure that wouldn’t make you uncomfortable? And if it does PLEASE tell me and I will find a different theme no problem!
Thanks so much for listening to my rant! Keep up the amazing work! Mwah!
HELLO MY LITTLE NONNIE FREAK
no worries at all u can do ur blog a constellation theme that sounds cute as fuck :P very sweet of u to ask tho <3 go ahead!!
SYNOPSIS ᯓ A Bonnie and Clyde-esque, high-stakes, multi-chapter smut romance that follows a deadly criminal duo whose intense, chaotic love becomes as dangerous as the heists they pull off. Trust forged in blood, bonds built on risk.
PAIRING ᯓ Criminal! Sukuna x Criminal! Fem. Reader
WARNINGS ᯓ Individual chapters will be tagged appropriately. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat. This will be very emotionally-heavy, expect alcohol use, smoking, and depictions of death/violence/weapons. PWP.
A/N ᯓ I have over half of this written, expect more than ten chapters. Each chapter ~3k words. Let me know if you wish to be tagged!
one ⋮ two ⋮ three ⋮ four ⋮ five ⋮ six ⋮ seven ⋮ eight ⋮ nine ⋮ ten ⋮ eleven ⋮ twelve ⋮ thirteen ⋮ fourteen
SYNOPSIS ᯓ A Bonnie and Clyde-esque, high-stakes, multi-chapter smut romance that follows a deadly criminal duo whose intense, chaotic love becomes as dangerous as the heists they pull off. Trust forged in blood, bonds built on risk.
PAIRING ᯓ Criminal! Sukuna x Criminal! Fem. Reader
WARNINGS ᯓ protective!Sukuna, things are SHIFTING!!!, mentions of death, FLUFF, mentions of weapons
WORD COUNT ᯓ 1.6k (sorry - heist next chap)
Chapter 7.
You wake up in the kind of silence that feels unnatural.
It’s strange, getting dreamless rest lately and having full nights of sleep, the kind you haven’t had in years. Maybe it’s the exhaustion catching up with you. Or maybe it’s something shifting in the world.
Sukuna mutters something about more prep work, and like always you roll your eyes at him before getting ready.
The next thing you know, you’re in passenger, the road stretching endlessly before you. Sukuna drives with one hand on the wheel, the other drumming idly against his thigh. The early afternoon sun glares against the windshield, streets quiet. Dead. No traffic, no pedestrians, just empty roads and the occasional stray dog sniffing at overturned trash bins. The kind of eerie stillness that makes you hyperaware of the weight of what you’re about to do.
You’re not knocking over a convenience store this time.
The safehouse comes into view, a rundown, abandoned-looking structure, rusted metal and cracked concrete. Sukuna pulls into the gravel lot, tires crunching as he kills the engine. As you go to open the door and step out, his voice stops you.
“Stay behind me.”
It’s not a suggestion.
He approaches the heavy metal door, knocking twice, then once more before it cracks open.
A man walks out, broad-shouldered, inked-up, and wearing a stained wife-beater. He looks like someone who’s seen more than his fair share of bloodshed. A half-smoked cigar rests between his fingers, the embers flaring as he exhales slow. His eyes flick to you before settling on Sukuna.
“Didn’t think I’d see you again.”
Sukuna grins, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a thick envelope of cash. “Yeah, yeah. You know I like to keep things exciting.”
The man peels back the flap, thumbs skimming the stacks of cash before nodding toward the staircase leading to the basement. “Same rules.”
The descent is dim, air thick with gunpowder. Bulbs hang loosely from the ceiling, barely illuminating the underground space, but even in the dim light, you can still see the arsenal lining the walls.
Rows of firearms, assault rifles, shotguns, compact pistols, anything and everything. Silencers reside beside neatly arranged magazines. Machetes and combat knives hanging in display, some pristine and others stained from use. A whole selection is dedicated to explosives, thermite charges, RDX bricks, and plastic explosives.
You drag your fingers along the edge of a semi-automatic pistol. Sukuna watches, arms crossed.
“Cute,” he muses, taking it out of your grasp and sliding over a SIG MCX .300 blackout. “Hope you weren’t expecting to scare anyone with that pea shooter.”
You pick up the assault rifle, flipping it over in your hands. “Oh, I’m sorry, did you want me to carry something else? Maybe a fucking bazooka?”
Walking over to place your primary weapon and sidearms in the bag, you eye the box of armor sitting in the corner.
You toss him a vest. He catches it effortlessly, looking at you.
“Try not to get shot,” you say dryly. “Would be a shame to lose that pretty face.”
His grins sharpens. “You checkin’ me out, doll?”
You scoff but your face feels warm. You turn back to the shelves, fingers brushing over the cold metal of a C4 charge before picking it up. Grabbing the detonator, you set both into the bag.
The room is silent except for the sound of bullets clicking into magazines, a steady, meditative rhythm.
You’ve never been one to trust easily. Hell, you spent most of your life keeping people at arm’s length and watching your own back because no one else would. But here you are, standing across from Sukuna in a dimly lit armory, loading up for the biggest job of your life. And you realize, you’re not watching your own back. Because he’s watching it for you.
It’s not in the way he says things, because he isn’t the type to lay it out in words. It’s in the things he does, how he stands too close when you’re out in public, body angled ever so slightly in front of yours, scanning the crowd with sharp eyes. The way his fingers find your arm when you’re moving through tight spaces, guiding you without a word. How he never lets you walk on the side of the street closest to traffic, making you take the bed in the motel furthest from the door. Small things, quiet things. Enough that when you notice, your chest tightens with something foreign.
He’s focused, oblivious to the way your gaze lingers. His shirt stretches too tight over his arms, muscles flexing with every movement as he loads and unloads each magazine. Testing, counting. Like this is just another day. Like this isn’t the moment everything changes.
You first heard about him the way everyone did, through blood-soaked headlines and urgent news bulletins. His name wasn’t only whispered in the underworld, but broadcasted and stamped in bold letters across the country, a warning to the weak and an invitation to the reckless.
“Authorities urge civilians to report any sighting – Ryomen Sukuna remains highly dangerous.”
You remember sitting in a dingy apartment, one you got lucky to score that still had electricity. It was a high-stakes heist turned slaughter. A vault emptied in under five minutes. Two security guards executed, their bodies found lined up like offerings. A police shootout on the freeway that left cars flipped and burning, insides scorched beyond recognition.
Back then he was a ghost, a nightmare. The kind of criminal whose legend outweighed the truth, whose crimes bled into folklore until no one knew what was real anymore. Some said he carved a trail of bodies through every job, never leaving loose ends. Others swore he had inside men in the police, slipping through cracks like smoke.
You remember thinking to yourself, what a crazy bastard.
You weren’t afraid. Never afraid. More intrigued that he was out there, running circles around the same law enforcement that had their boot on your neck since the day you held a stolen wallet. But Sukuna didn’t just survive, he thrived. Tearing through the system like it was his for the taking.
That was nearly two years ago, and you never thought your path would cross his. Never thought you’d be here, preparing for a job he invited you on, loading magazines for something that will put both your faces on every goddamn screen in the city.
You look at him again, how his fingers move with precision over the rifle on the table, a scar cutting through his knuckles like a jagged promise.
Infamous fugitive. Highly dangerous.
You smile. They have no fucking idea.
The motel room is dimly lit, cheap walls muffling faint traffic from outside. Dinner was a quiet affair, takeout from a run-down ramen joint Sukuna claimed was “the only decent shit in this city.” You weren’t about to argue, especially when the broth was rich, noodles thick.
Things settled down. Plans were scribbled, checked. The weight of the heist pressed a little less, and he was knocked out cold.
He lay sprawled across the mattress, shoes still on, limbs heavy with exhaustion. Planning a bank heist from the ground up wasn’t exactly light work, but you’d never seen it wear on him like this. His head was tilted slightly to the side, pink hair an absolute mess from the way he kept running sweaty fingers through it earlier, too stressed to care. The sharp cut of his jawline softened under lamplight, the blank ink of his tattoos standing out stark against his skin. They looked fresh, even though you knew they weren’t.
You watched him, fingers tapping against your thigh. This was him without the hard edge, the razor-sharp smirk, the cocky bite of his words. He looked so unguarded.
Your lips curled into something wicked, sliding your phone from your back pocket. You bite your bottom lip to stifle a laughter as you pressed the button.
Click.
He shifted at the sound, brow twitching, but didn’t wake.
You stepped back, pressing a hand over your mouth as you stared at the photo. Blurry but unmistakable. The infamous Sukuna, all terrifying and bloodstained, dead to the world with his lips parted in sleep.
About an hour later, he stirred.
You were fresh out of the shower, towel-dried hair damp against your shoulders, sitting cross-legged on the bed, notes and scrawled out plans scattered in front of you. Your concentration broke when you noticed his movement, pushing himself upright at the edge of the bed, slow blinks of sleep dragging his expression.
You smiled, reaching for your phone and clicking it on before turning it to him. The lockscreen lit up, showing his face, relaxed, peaceful, utterly defenseless in sleep.
His gaze sharpened instantly.
“The fuck is this?” His voice rough with sleep, immediately irritated. “You got a thing for creepy shit like this?”
You leaned back, absolutely delighted at his reaction.
“What? It’s a nice picture. Thought I’d keep it for good luck.”
He exhaled sharply through his nose, something between a scoff and a growl. His eyes cut back to you, narrowing like he was internally debating whether to be actually pissed or not. You didn’t miss the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the smirk he was trying, and failing, to bite back.
“I don’t need some pathetic picture to keep me around.” His voice dropped. “You really that stupid?”
It was rhetorical.
Before you could come up with a comeback, he flicked your forehead, shoving himself off the bed, and making his way to the bathroom.
You grinned after him, thumb absently tracing over the edge of your phone.
I’m crying y’all, I’ve been role playing w these bots I’ve made, and I’ll deliberately make them super possessive, cuz I love that, but every time… i start to get REAL fucking sick of it and I’ll literally start beating them 😭
He’s not just any munch, but a four-course meal kind of a munch. A drop to his knees like it’s holy communion kind of munch. A lives, breathes, and thinks about your pussy kind of munch.
The immortal being would rather die than admit it, of course. He’s a King. The walking apocalypse. And yet, he’s also the kind of man who subtly tracks your water intake. “Drink more,” he growls, shoving a glass into your hands.
You’d ask why, only for him to grunt and look away.
But you know
Oh, you know.
Because the second you sit on his face, he’s like a starving man at a feast, tongue already teasing your clit with obscene expertise. He pretends he’s doing you the favor, when really, this is his daily act of devotion.
And oh… how he loves to be used.
He’d never say it aloud, but the way your fingers fist in his hair, tugging with enough force to make anyone else hiss in pain. The way your thighs tremble around his head, threatening to suffocate him as you ride his tongue like you’re mad at it. That’s his idea of bliss.
He won’t moan, not audibly. He’s too proud for that. But the low, gravelly groans he lets slip, the harsh, guttural breaths dragged from his throat as he devours you, yeah, those count. Especially when they vibrate against your dripping folds and you nearly scream.
He’s so precise with it too. Tongue pressure, perfect. Circles ‘round and ‘round, faster, then slow again, just to tease. And when he slips two thick digits into your soaked cunt, curling just right, yeah, he knows exactly when to stop, when to let you shake and stutter and ride it out on his face.
Because he loves it when you gush for him.
And not just once.
No, Sukuna’s rule is two orgasms on his tongue minimum before his cocks even make an appearance.
(And to be honest, both of them are twitching the whole time, leaking so much pre that it’d be embarrassing for any man who had the capacity for shame.)
He watches you shatter for him each time, studies it like art, like he’s deciphering a language only he and your cunt understand, a dialect that lives somewhere between divinity and delirium.
And after he’s ruined you with his mouth, he doesn’t ask if you want to be fucked after.
He already knows.
Your poor, overstimulated pussy gets bullied by his thick cocks before you can even catch your breath. That delicious switch from fluttery aftershocks to the aching stretch of him filling you up again, that’s the sweet spot.
He lives for that.
You live for that.
You even teased him once, whispered all innocent, “Wanna hear you moan for me next time.”
He didn’t respond. Just scoffed. A King doesn’t moan.
Except he does, all low and quiet, more growl than anything human, when you gush on his face and tug his hair like you’ll never let go. And even though he pretends not to care, you notice how his eyes roll back just a little.
Because even in the middle of massacre, blades soaked in mortal blood, his mind will wander. Not to strategy or victory, but you.
To your slick folds, your breathy whimpers, the way your thighs clench when he flattens his tongue just right.
It’s unhealthy, really. Obsession doesn’t even begin to cover it.
And even when he’s mad at you he’s still eating you out like he’s trying to pull contrition from your cunt. Like if you cum hard enough, you’ll know how sorry you are.
Every night starts and ends the same:
His face buried between your thighs, tongue relentless, breath heavy, fingers buried deep.
And you’ll whisper that same damn line every time you’re close,
SYNOPSIS ᯓ Gojo doesn't usually fuck his clients. This was supposed to be a normal massage. But with hands like that and a cock to match... "professional" was never on the table.
You’d driven past the place at least a hundred times.
It’s a stupidly sleek little building tucked perfectly between a Pilates studio and one of those overpriced juice bars. Like the kind with an obnoxiously chic and overly sensual neon sign that says TOUCH. White letters on smoked glass, all minimalist and judgy and expensive.
Every time you passed it you’d scoff.
“They probably charge three hundred fucking dollars just to rub your back and judge your pores.”
You’d even spat out an insult once like the building itself would crumble under the weight of your words, hitting the gas on your way home from work. Said it with the kind of righteous confidence that only comes from truly believing you’d never be that kind of girl. The kind who just… lets someone touch them like that. Oil-slicked and half-naked, moaning on some fake leather table while a stranger pretends it’s “therapeutic.”
Weird, isn’t it?
Definitely not for you.
And yet, here you are.
Saturday morning. Pillow hair, soul cracked like a boiled egg, lying in bed with your phone half on your face as you text your best friend in a fugue state,
you ever feel like your spine is just floating? help
You expected a “same.”
get a massage. i’m serious.
You snort. Riiight, a massage, huh?
You stare at the screen, eyes locked to the message like if you stared long enough it’d dial itself.
No amount of sarcasm or dignity can fix the way your shoulders feel like cement. Or the way you haven’t slept properly in weeks. Or the way your boss sent a “quick favor” email at precisely 11:48 PM last night, which you answered because your spine is already jelly and your will to live has already been transferred to a spreadsheet.
So… yeah.
Maybe you are that girl.
The bell attached to the door jingled as you step into the spa, and this is where you immediately felt out of place. The air smelled like eucalyptus and tears of the rich. The lighting was soft, flutey music passing through one ear and out the other, the woman at reception desk with the kind of smooth and poreless skin someone had when they bathed in rosewater.
You step up, feigning confidence like you hadn’t just Googled “what happens at a massage” just an hour ago.
“Hi, uh… I’d like to get a massage?”
She looked up from her computer with a smile too serene to be trusted. “Of course, what kind were you thinking? We offer Swedish, Thai, deep tissue, shiatsu, hot stone, aromatherapy-”
You nod slowly, brain buffering like YouTube trying to stream Paul vs. Tyson. Swedish? Do you get buttered up and rolled around like an IKEA meatball? You can’t ask that. You’d already committed the biggest crime by pretending you belonged here.
“Deep tissue,” you said, like you knew what the hell that meant.
She gave you a polite nod, tapping away on her keyboard. “Great choice. One of our more intense options. How long would you like the session? Sixty or ninety minutes?”
“Um… sixty’s good,” which is actually code for: I have no idea what I’m doing and I’m more scared of farting if you press too hard on my spine.
“Perfect,” she chirped. “The massage therapist will discuss pricing with you. You can take a seat, they’ll call you back shortly.”
You stepped aside, sitting on the impossibly soft couch in a sack of second-guessing. Of course there was a candle named something you can’t pronounce. And of course there’s a small framed sign on the coffee table reading: Relaxation is a journey, not a destination.
Just as you begin contemplating how to fake an emergency bolt, an intrusive thought crossing your mind to stand up and scream that you had a fucking bomb, a calm voice called your name.
You stood up, maybe way too quickly, meeting the eyes of a woman smiling at you with a clipboard in hand.
Thank god. A woman. The anxiety deflated from your shoulders. You didn’t really consider the possibility of a male masseuse until now, but the idea of some beefcake oiled up and kneading your thigh was not something you emotionally prepared for.
“This way,” she gestured for you to follow her down a hallway lined with softly glowing wall sconces and the sound of babbling water. You’d never felt so simultaneously underdressed and overscheduled.
She opened a door and motioned you inside. “You can undress to your comfort level and lie down under the towel, face down. I’ll let your massage therapist know you’re ready.”
“Towel?” you echo, glancing around. On the table sat a singular, small, pathetic white towel. It looked like something you’d pat a cat dry with, and you didn’t know if you expected a beach towel or a blanket.
Still, you nodded like a champ.
There you stood, alone after she exited and shut the door behind her. Unsure of how much was too much as you undressed. Were you supposed to keep your underwear on? Take it off? Would that be weird? Shit, what was the social etiquette here? It felt wrong to Google it, like the masseuse would walk in on you hunched over your phone naked like a caveman discovering the world wide web for the first time.
Eventually, you compromised by only keeping your underwear on and sliding under the towel, if you can even call it that. It barely covered your ass, and if you breathed wrong a cheek was gonna peek.
You lie face down, pressing your face into the weird little donut hole in the massage table. Every attempt at relaxation was a fail, your body as stiff as a mannequin.
The door creaked open, a voice drifted through the air all too low and smooth, way too sexy for this situation.
“Good evening,” he said.
Wait.
Waitwaitwaitwaitwaitwait.
You lift your head just a fraction, seeing a tall man stepping into the dimly lit room. White uniform shirt rolled to the elbows. Forearms like Greek sculpture. Messy white hair. A face so hot you swore you could hear angels filing HR complaints. His eyes were icy, meeting yours and curved with a smile.
“I’ll be your masseur tonight,” he said. “Name’s Satoru. Just let me know if anything feels uncomfortable.”
“Oh. Okay. Cool,” you say, voice cracking.
He chuckled softly, washing his hands in the corner, the sound of running water far too sensual. You press your face back into the donut, trying not to internally implode.
You asked for this, your brain whispered.
You chose deep tissue, whatever that meant.
You hear the flick of a small bottle opening. Something shifts behind you, the scent of cedarwood and vanilla blooming through the room like a secret. A soft, wet sound followed, and then-
Drip.
Oil hit the small of your back first. Warm, silky. You twitched without meaning to.
“Sorry,” his voice came playful and low, like he wasn’t sorry at all. “Didn’t mean to surprise you.”
You didn’t trust yourself to speak, only letting out a small squeak of laughter.
Then came his hands.
Large, warm, firm. Gentle as they pressed into your shoulders, thumbs digging slow, practiced circles into the knots near your spine. You can’t help the exhale escaping your lips, something between a sigh and a sound you’d only make in bed.
“This your first massage?” he asks, and damn him. Even his voice sounded like a smirk.
You coughed. “That obvious?”
“Just a bit,” he teased, hands now kneading into the ridge between your neck and shoulder. “You’re stiff. Tense.”
You laugh nervously. “It’s just work stuff. Desk job.”
“Hm,” he hummed like he already knew. Like he could read it in your body the moment his hands touched you. “I’ll start at your shoulders and work my way down. We’ll see if we can get you loosened up.”
You made another strangled sound of agreement in response, biting your lip.
Every stroke of his palm dragged warm oil over your skin, spreading heat along your back, down your spine. The pads of his thumbs pressed into the muscles beside your shoulder blades, firm but slow. It wasn’t just good, but shamefully so. Soothing, deep. Every time his thumbs pressed in, you felt your breath catch in your throat.
Focus, you told yourself. This is a professional, he does this all the time. And you’re not special, just some towel-clad client on a table meant for meat tenderizing.
But gods, his hands.
They were confident, skilled, moving in ways like they had the heaven’s permission to touch you. Maybe they did, each stroke leaving your skin burning in its wake. Your hips shifted slightly. Not on purpose. Well, maybe it was on purpose. You hated yourself for it.
He hadn’t said anything for a while, the room quiet aside from the ambient spa music and your stupid heartbeat echoing in your ears, your heart trying to crawl its way out from your ribcage. You focused on the feeling, the press of his digits into your shoulder. On the long drag of his hands gliding down, down, oil-slick and hot against your spine.
Shit, your brain was melting.
You felt his hands move again, slower now, gliding at your middle back. You couldn’t help but wonder if the towel slipped, didn’t dare look. You just stayed still, very still, praying for dignity while also very much wishing he’d go lower. His thumbs pushed into the small of your back, just on either side of your spine, and you exhaled, loudly.
You immediately regretted it. But he didn’t say anything. Just chuckled softly, barely a sound, and pressed deeper.
Gojo had given thousands of massages before. Hell, he’d worked on celebrities, models, athletes, all kinds of bodies sculpted and polished and worshiped. But this one? You? You weren’t some glammed-up goddess or an over-confident regular. You were shy, uncertain, nervous in the sweetest way, biting your lip like it’d save your soul.
And when he asked what was hurting, where it ached, you’d mentioned work like it explained everything.
He knew exactly what you needed.
His thumbs dragged slow over the curve of your back. You shifted slightly under him, just the tiniest movement, but not from pain. From heat. From something much, much lower. Gojo felt it, the tremor running through your muscles like a secret. The towel was still clinging to your hips, just barely, and he let his hands dip lower, enough to brush the top curve of your ass to see if you’d flinch.
And you didn’t.
Fuck.
He was breaking rules. His own rules. He didn’t do this. Never had. Not once. Not even with the flirty clients or the ones that offered more.
But then again, none of them were you.
Your skin was warm beneath his palms, your breath hitched in a rhythm that wasn’t just relaxation. He could hear it, feel it. And when his fingers barely slipped under the hem of that towel, just to knead the tight muscle at the base of your spine, he felt you tense.
Not with fear, but want.
He pressed deeper, just enough to test. And he almost groaned aloud when your hips lifted. As if it was an accident. But he knew better.
He loved the way you were sensitive for him, dragging his thumbs along the edge of the towel, fingertips brushing your perceptive skin that made his cock twitch.
He was throbbing against the zipper of his pants. He needed to stop.
But he wasn’t going to stop.
“First session’s free, by the way,” he murmured, just above your ear, his salacious tone a blessing to your ears. “House special.”
You made another soft sound and Gojo had to bite his cheek just to stop a deep groan threatening its way out from his lungs.
You thought you were in the clear when his hands left your back. For a moment, you considered breathing again. But then-
“Gonna move to your legs now,” he said, voice smooth and casual. “Starting from your feet.”
You couldn’t find it in you to protest. Your feet. The one part of your body that rejected human contact like a toddler would broccoli.
You tensed as he lifted your foot gentle, resting your ankle against a bolster. You took this opportunity to look. And he looked way too comfortable, crouched near your calves, rolling his sleeves up even more, his forearms, fuck, the veins, and warming more oil in his hands.
The first touch was light, gliding his fingers over your heel, your arch-
You flinched.
“Oh?” he laughed, glancing up. “Ticklish?”
You wanted to crawl inside the nearest candle holder and die.
“Maybe a little,” you mumbled, voice muffled.
“Noted,” he chuckled. “I’ll be gentle.”
And if Gojo Satoru wasn’t a liar before, he was now.
Because his thumbs rolled firm circles into your arches, sliding up the curve of your foot, down each toe like he fucking knew. You twitched again when he hit that spot near the ball of your foot.
He didn’t even pretend not to notice.
“Aw, you’re trying not to laugh.” His voice was warm. “Cute.”
You exhaled like a balloon deflating, face hot. “You’re evil.”
“Mmm,” he hummed, slowly dragging his palm up your sole to your ankle. “That’s one way to thank me.”
He didn’t linger much longer there, probably for your dignity which was already on life support, before he moved up, kneading your calf in strong, slow strokes. His hands wrapped around the muscle with confident pressure, and oh, it felt good.
All thoughts of embarrassment evaporating the moment his thumbs began sliding up your calf, massaging deep into the tissue. His touch slowed as he moved higher, now smoothing hot oil into the back of your knee.
Then he moved to your other leg. Same path. Foot, ankle, calf. All familiar but different. Like he was trying to memorize you. And this time his hands went slower, savoring the goosebumps prickling your skin as his hands moved higher, thumbs digging deeper. And when he reached the back of your thigh, right where the towel barely covered, you felt it.
The hesitation. The pause. The line of professionalism being toed.
And then crossed.
His hands never stopped moving, but his thumbs dragged slower, brushing up the back of your thigh and letting his touch linger along the soft skin there. His touch was light, too light to be considered a deep tissue massage.
“Still doing okay?” he asked, voice low.
You could only nod.
“Good,” he murmured. “You’re very responsive.”
Was this normal massage talk?
No, it couldn’t be. But you didn’t dare respond, didn’t want to stop him, even as your breath hitched and thighs threatened to instinctively press together.
Gojo’s hands stayed high on your thighs. One thumb circled the outside of your thigh.
“You’ve got tension here too,” he remarked, and this time, it wasn’t professional at all.
Your hips jolted.
“Sensitive?” he asked, almost a whisper.
You wanted to say something, maybe yes, maybe God, please don’t stop, but all that came out was a hum, shaky as his fingers gripped your thigh tighter.
“Don’t worry,” his voice silk-soft and soaked in pure heat. “I’ll take care of it.”
You didn’t even know he shifted until his voice came too close to your ear, just a low murmur.
“I’m gonna remove the towel now. That okay?”
You’re too far gone, just nodding.
“Need you to say it for me,” his voice is gentle.
“Yes,” you swallow, voice barely above a whisper.
He grips the towel, slow as sin, dragging it off your spine and letting it peel off you like he’s unwrapping something expensive. His fingers graze, not enough to claim but just enough to tease. You’re face-down, so you don’t see it. But he’s squinting, biting back a groan, cock already stirring and probably dripping.
He oils up again, slick and warm, spreading his palms across your ass with expert precision.
“Just breathe. This’ll help with tension in your glutes.”
Glutes, he says it like a medical term. You almost believe he’s just being good at his job, except his hands are kneading deeper, practically stroking the plushy fat of your ass.
His hips subtly press against the table, trying to relieve the throb without making a sound. His jaw is slack, eyes hooded, and he’s already sweating. He’s circling your ass with the heel of his palm, eyed glued to were your thighs part ever-so-slightly, revealing the slightest sliver of wet lace. His mouth waters.
His thumbs brush the hem of your panties, it’s innocent at first. But then he does it again, lingering.
You can almost feel the air shift.
Something about the way he touches you makes your skin buzz. He hasn’t said anything… too off yet, but the drag of his fingers along your thighs, the brush against the edge of your panties, you’re beginning to think it’s not exactly on the menu at most spas.
“Gonna take these off too. Helps me reach deeper tissue,” his finger hooks just teasingly into the hem at your hips.
You know it’s a lie. It has to be. But you nod.
And again, he waits.
“Say it, sweetheart.”
“Yes,” you exhale, heartbeat in your ears.
Then he hooks only his thumbs into your panties, slow, like it’s a favor. You lift your hips slightly so he can pull them down, and he takes his time. His thumbs caress you as he drags them down to your knees, ankles, then off completely.
And now you’re bare. Naked. Exposed under his hands and eyes, no doubt dripping from tension and need alone.
The only sound in the room is the soft roll of incense smoke, faint music, and the slick shhhhhkkk of oil between his palms to start again, skin to skin.
He shifts, thumbs dipping lower and palms kneading the tops of your thighs. It’s almost too much, you want to move, clench your legs shut, but you don’t. You stay soft, pliant, open.
And he watches. Every flutter of your muscles. Every twitch. The faintest glisten where your thighs part.
This was no longer routine.
So wet already. You poor thing probably didn’t even mean to be.
He watches your hips shift when he gets close, the way your toes twitch as his thumbs drag sinfully along your inner thighs. It’s like you’re desperate and embarrassed all at once. And yet, you obeyed him. And he loved every second of it.
You’re so pure, so sweet, so filthy for him. Not a single complaint. No hesitation.
Glutes soft and flushed from the heat of his palms. Inner thighs slicked with oil. Breathing shallow and shaky. And his favorite part, your slit tucked between trembling legs, glistening with more than just oil.
He shifts again, subtly dragging his cock against the edge of the massage table. Hard, throbbing, and unforgiving.
“You’re responding really well,” he murmurs, the heel of his palms pushing into your inner thighs enough to part you only so he can see more.
And you’re going insane.
His hands on your thighs, voice in your ear. Every pass of his palms leaving your nerves sparking, and it’s taking everything in you not to freely moan when his knuckles drag just too close.
When your legs twitch again, of course he notices. “Don’t worry. You’re doing great. Just let me take care of you.”
But then his sinful thumbs sweep higher. Still outside, not touching where you need him most. But close. So, so close. And you can’t help the gasp escaping you.
And that’s when he finally brushes his fingers along your folds, light, feather-soft, as if he’s checking something.
Your whole body jerks. His voice lowers a few octaves.
“You’re soaked.”
A beat of silence.
“Want me to keep going?”
Again, you nod.
“Words, sweetheart.
You swallow, face burning and contorting where it’s nestled in the headrest. “Yes… please.”
“Good girl,” his chuckle is low and so smug.
You’re so responsive for him, every time his fingers tease your slick little slit, your thighs tremble like they’re fighting not to squeeze shut.
You don’t even realize the slightest rock of your hips, silently begging for more like you’re chasing his fingers.
He palms your ass again, spreading you open as he traces a single digit up and down. Folds puffy and hot, dripping onto the table, clit twitching like it knows what’s coming.
“You said this was your first massage, right?” he says, dragging a single finger deeper between your folds. “But you’re begging for attention.”
Then his thumb gently presses against your clit, unmoving but giving you the pressure you oh so desperately needed.
“Think you might’ve been made for this.”
You can’t breathe, can’t think. All you know is his hands. The way they press into you, spreading your arousal and oil around as if it’s a divine ritual. The way his thumb circles your clit painstakingly slow, so patient.
You mewl, too far gone to be ashamed.
“Want the full package?” his question come velvet-smooth.
You blink, dazed. “…The what?”
His thumb pressed in just a little harder, your body tensing. “Y’know, the extra. Let me take care of everything.”
“Y-yeah…” your voice is barely audible, but it’s all he needs.
He smiles, the thick curl of anticipation mixing with the burning incense in the air, winding your spine as he murmurs your new nickname again:
“Good girl.”
It’s like this was always going to happen. Like he’s done this a hundred times before and you were just next in line, all dripping wet and none the wiser.
Then he’s palming you again, hands oiled with a fresh squirt as both hands slide over your skin. It’d be professional if it wasn’t for the way his thumbs spread you once again.
It’d be professional didn’t brush directly over your soaked folds, a low growl he lets out, low and restrained when he sees your cunt pulse for him.
“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, dragging two fingers through your slick.
Then he dips two fingers inside you, slow and filthy as he immediately curls them right into that soft spot between your ridges that has you gasping into the table padding.
“God, you’re tight. Gonna have to open you up first, yeah?”
It’s as if it’s still part of the massage.
He fucks you slow with his fingers, his free hand moving to move ‘round and ‘round against your clit with his thumb. And fuck, he’s too skilled. Every filthy, wet stroke of his fingers has you whimpering, any semblance of professionalism lost by the sound of your whispers.
“So responsive,” he mutters almost to himself. “You’ll do anything I ask, won’t you?”
Then-
Smack.
Your body jolts, a sharp sting across your ass, the crack echoing through the room.
“Mm,” he hums, smoothing the reddened spot of his handprint like he’s checking the quality of his own work. “Pretty thing makes such pretty sounds.”
Another smack. You gasp.
“Flip over for me.”
His tone is easy, casual like he’s asking you to flip a page in a magazine. Your legs move before you, body fully glistening with oil and anticipation.
His face looks almost desperate. Sweat at his temples, white lashes fluttering over hooded eyes at burn. His lips are parted, flushed, bitten like he's been holding back from devouring you whole.
He's no longer the calm masseur from before, but a man on the edge of losing it.
Every inch of him thrumming with want, you can see it in the way his jaw flexes, the slight tremble in his fingers at his sides. His gaze drops between your legs, staying there like he's starving.
He wants this, wants you just as badly. Maybe worse.
And he sees you. Laid out like an offering, tits soft and heaving, thighs glistening, cunt spread and twitching, begging for his attention.
He lets out a low, heavy breath. “Fuck. Look at you.”
Then his hands are tracing down your thighs, hooking under your knees just to bring them to your chest.
And he goes in, no teasing or warning, just his hands spreading you wide, full mouth-to-pussy action.
His tongue slides over your clit like he’s starving. Moaning into you like you’re the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted. It’s filthy, loud, wet, feral.
He laps at you like he wants to crawl into your skin and live there. His lips lock around your clit, tongue flicking fast and relentless, fingers digging into you.
Your hips buck instinctively. Your hands fly to his hair, fingers clutching his silvery strands as your legs twitch, toes curl.
He loves it. The desperate little grind of your hips, the wrecked moan slipping from your throat, the way you push his face impossibly deeper.
So he doubles down, dragging his tongue lower and fucking it into your hole with lewd precision, then pulls back just to suck at your clit like it’ll grant him immortality.
“You taste like heaven,” he groans, lost in a daze himself. “Sweet little thing, gonna cum all over my mouth, huh? So fucking wet. Bet you’ve been thinking about this.”
He flattens his tongue, grinding it against your clit, and you cry out, entire body jerking, thighs clenching around his head. But he doesn’t stop, if anything only groans, grinding his hips into the table like he’s getting off just on your taste.
You’re soaked. Senseless. A carnal desire to soak his face in your arousal.
And when you gasp his name, fingers tugging at his locks, body trembling-
“That’s it,” he purrs. “Cum for me, baby.”
You shatter. Completely. Fully. Back arching from the table, breath punched from your lungs, cunt clenching so hard around nothing it’s fucking cruel. He just stays there, tongue flicking, dragging out every last pulse of your orgasm until your legs go numb.
Your thighs are trembling around him, your cunt a swollen, slick mess, still twitching with aftershocks. You’re still moaning, fucked-out and blissed as he presses kisses to your inner thigh.
Fuck. He thinks you look perfect like this. Made to be ruined for him.
And he’s done being patient.
So he stands, unzipping his pants. His cock springs free, red, leaking, painfully hard. And shit, he’s big. A slight upward curve, a thick vein running along his thick, long length.
“Up,” he says, voice coaxing like he’s asking you to breathe.
Your legs wobble as you push yourself off the table, only for his hands to grip your waist and bend you right back over it. Your bare chest pressed to the cushiony surface, cheek against the towel.
“There you go,” he drags the thick head of his throbbing cock through your folds, smearing your slick across your lower lips and on his tip until it could drip off. “Gotta get all that tension out, yeah? Let me work those knots a little deeper.”
You walked in here all shy and tense, even spending twenty minutes willing yourself to open your car door. New client, first massage, all stiff shoulders and tight posture. Said your job had you aching. Said you needed relief.
And the first time he saw you, big eyes, nervous smile, a little stutter from your lips when he first touched your shoulders.
He knew exactly what you needed.
“First massage,” he breathes, lining his tip to your entrance.
Then he pushed in. Deep.
You choke on a moan. He’s so thick, splitting you open inch by inch, your walls struggling and stretching to take him. His hands dig into your waist, still warm with oil, just holding you savoring the moment he finally sinks all the way in.
“Fuck,” he groans, head tipping back. “That’s it- just like that- you were made for this.”
He pulls back, only until just the tip lay past your entrance, before slamming back in. And you jerk, fingers scrambling for purchase on the table.
Each stroke rocks through your spine. Your tits drag against the table, mouth hanging open, drool smearing the table. Your mind’s a blur, just the sound of skin slapping, Gojo’s breathy moans, and the obscene, wet noise of him slamming into you over and over and over.
“Say thank you,” he almost growls, snapping his hips up so deep your toes curl. “Say it.”
“T-thank you,” you gasp, eyes rolling to the back of your skull.
Then, smack. A sharp slap to your ass, and you whine.
“For what?”
“F-fucking me- oh my god- for fucking me-”
“No,” he pants, rutting into you harder now, cock hitting that sweet spot so perfect it could make you squeal. “Say it right. Thank you for relieving my stress.”
“Thank you-” you cry out, broken and shaking. “Thank you for- mmh- relieving my stress.”
He leans over you, his hardened chest against your back, cock still pistoning in your soaked cunt. His mouth finds your neck, tongue dragging across your bare skin before he bites. Sucks. Marks you.
Another hickey. Then another.
You’re completely gone, every thrust having your eyes fluttering, your moans shameless, drool coating your lower face. Your walls flutter around him, squeezing his thick length more than you already were, clenching with every thrust, every filthy word.
His hips stutter, balls tightening as he pounds you into the table.
“So fucking tight,” he groans. “Gonna cum- fuck- gonna cum all over this pretty back.”
And he does. One last brutal thrust and he pulls out, cock twitching before spilling across your lower back in hot, thick ropes, painting your skin in streaks of white.
He watches it drip down your spine, chest heaving, cock still half-hard and still twitching from how hard you just milked him for all he’s worth.
“Goddamn,” he whispers, leaning down to admire his work. “You really were stressed, huh?”
Then he drags a hand up your spine, wiping his fingers through the mess he made, rubbing it into your skin like a filthy seal.
The air is thick with heat, sex, and you. His hand rubs sensual circles into your back.
“You good, sweetheart?” he brushes the hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear.
You nod, dazed, wrecked, legs still trembling. He leans in and presses a kiss to your lips. It’s soft, slow, tender in a way that almost startles you.
“First kiss,” he whispers against your lips.
Then he straightens, grabbing a warm towel from the side table. His hands are gentle as they wipe you down, cleaning you with a reverence that borders on obscene. He helps you stand straight, pressing another kiss to your temple, his big hands careful and supportive.
“So…” he starts, tapping his lip. “Same time next week?”
You can only stare, flushed and panting.
“No charge, obviously,” he adds, giving you a wink. “I’m invested in your health now.”
Of course you’re coming back. With a dick like that? With a mouth like that? You’d be stupid not to.
You shake your head, trying not to smile.
“Take your time, I’ll be outside.”
The door closes behind him with a soft click.
You sigh, dragging yourself over to the side table on shaky legs, slowly redressing like your soul wasn’t just rearranged. You grab your clothes, pulling your bra back on, then your shirt, then-
Your panties.
Your panties?
You check under the table. Beside it. In the towel pile.
Your brows shoot up, a slow, disbelieving laugh escapes your lips.
That smug thieving bastard.
He took them, slipping them into his pocket. You shake your head as you pull on your pants, cheeks still flushed, heart returning to a normal rate.
today i changed my tongue piercing for the first time ayeeee it was very easy :D school is still eating my ass rn but I graduate in two weeks. these next seven days are about to be absolute hell i accidentally scheduled multiple certification exams for like 3 days in a row omfg
