FOR RESEARCH PURPOSES! s. ryōmen
pairings. bsfsbrother!sukuna
synopsis. you needed experience for a writing assignment. sukuna offered to help. it got… complicated.
warnings. 14..3k words (errm), explicit sexual content, oral, fingering, overstimulation, dry humping, sex as a learning experience, p with plot, 69 standing up... a lot more but i'm lazy
author's note. in total, this fic is 26.3k words i had to split it up bcs it was too ugly trying to format it... PART TWO HERE!
the document is open and it’s empty, cursor blinking like it’s bored of you already, and you’re sitting cross-legged on yuji’s bed with your laptop digging into your thighs, heat from the comforter seeping up through your jeans, your brain doing that thing where it just keeps circling the same thought over and over until it starts to sound stupid and loud.
“i’m fucked,” you say.
yuji barely moves, just hums from where he’s sprawled out beside you, hands laced behind his head, easy and boneless like he’s always been. “like… deadline-fucked or existential-fucked?”
“both,” you say, immediately, because there’s no reason to lie to him.
“it’s a sex scene. like, an actual one. not ‘and then they kissed’ or ‘fade to black’ or symbolic peaches. a sex scene. and i have—” you wave a hand at yourself, vague and annoyed, “—nothing. no experience. no frame of reference. no usable memories.”
he props himself up on his elbows and squints at you like he’s trying to work through a problem set. “you’ve kissed people.”
“that does not count,” you say. “that’s like saying i can write a crime novel because i’ve watched csi.”
he laughs, the sound filling the room and doing that familiar thing where it loosens something in your chest without you realizing it needed loosening. this is why he’s your best friend. this is why he’s safe. this is why he’s absolutely not an option.
“okay, okay,” he says. “what about that guy from your econ class? the one who’s always asking to borrow a pen.”
“no.” you wrinkle your nose without even thinking. “too dorky.”
“too dorky?” he snorts. “oh, and you’re not?”
“shut up,” you say, shoving his shoulder.
he grabs your wrist and suddenly you’re both laughing, shoving, the mattress bouncing under you, the same stupid routine you’ve been doing since you were kids, elbows and knees familiarity, until you flop back onto the bed in unison staring at the ceiling fan as it ticks around.
“i just need,” you say, breathless, “like… an idea. a miracle. someone who actually knows what they’re doing to walk through that door and save me.”
the door opens.
“can you two shut the hell up?” sukuna’s voice cuts in, low and rough with sleep. “some of us are trying to rest.”
you sit up too fast.
he’s standing there shirtless, hair a mess, eyes half-lidded, sweats hanging low on his hips like they’ve given up on decency altogether, and your brain does something traitorous and stupid where it just stalls out for half a second.
“y—yeah, sorry,” you say automatically, words tumbling out before you can stop them.
yuji groans. “we weren’t even that loud.”
“you were,” sukuna says, dragging a hand down his face. his gaze flicks to you—then back to his brother. “keep it down.”
the door shuts. the room doesn’t go back to normal.
you glance at yuji. “wait—what is he doing here?”
yuji yawns. “oh. he just stopped by earlier to grab some stuff from the garage but then he, like, crashed on the couch and didn’t move. don’t mind him. you know how he always is.”
you don’t answer right away. because no, actually. you don’t. not recently.
you haven’t seen sukuna in months. not like this—not at home, not post-nap and shirtless. he goes to school on the other side of town. he doesn’t hang around.
sometimes he’ll show up for holidays or birthdays or the occasional guilt-trip dinner, but that’s it. lately it’s been like he only exists on instagram stories and through yuji’s complaints about him stealing snacks or dodging calls from their mom.
so why the hell is he here now?
and why does it feel like the air got thinner just from the sound of his voice?
you stare at the closed door for a second too long.
your brain tries to fill in the blanks—how many times you used to see him slumped in that doorway growing up, how he was always there in the background, grumpy and mean, lowkey a bully. always had something smart to say. always had to win.
but then he’d turn around and walk you home when it got dark. scare off anyone who tried to mess with you. defend you before you ever learned how to do it yourself. he’d deny it if you ever brought it up, but you remember. you remember all of it.
you remember the way he used to look at you like you were just there, something annoying and permanent.
so why did that look just now feel different?
you shake your head, hard, and look back at yuji, at your laptop, at the blinking cursor.
“anyway,” you say quickly, “that’s definitely not happening.”
“what’s not happening?” he asks.
“nothing,” you say. “ignore me. i’ll figure it out.”
you don’t look at the door again.
—-
you leave yuji’s room later with your laptop tucked under your arm and the same empty document burned into the backs of your eyes, cursor still blinking behind your eyelids like it followed you out just to be petty, like it wants you to know you didn’t escape anything by standing up and walking away.
nothing written. not even a sentence you can pretend you’ll fix later. just white space and that stupid blinking line, waiting.
you walk across campus alone, the air colder than you expected, hands shoved into your sleeves, dorm lights glowing in other people’s windows like proof that everyone else has somewhere to be, something figured out.
but friday is tomorrow.
and fridays are automatic. fridays are routine. fridays are yuji’s place and takeout and sitting around too long and staying later than you mean to. fridays are something you don’t have to plan for—you just show up.
which means you may have the chance to see sukuna again.
and then, because your brain hates you, it does the worst possible thing and starts filling in blanks you didn’t ask it to.
you think about what it would be like if it were him—his hands on you, like when he’s shown you how to do things before, the way he never rushes, the way he explains without making you feel stupid, like teaching is just another thing he’s good at.
you imagine his voice, telling you where to put your hands, what actually matters, what doesn’t, correcting you when you get it wrong without ever raising his voice.
you picture the way he stood in the doorway earlier, loose gray sweats hanging low on his hips, fabric doing absolutely nothing to hide the fact that there’s very little left to the imagination there, like your brain clocked it before you could stop it, it catalogued the shape and weight of it without asking for permission.
you think about what’s under them and hate how easily the thought settles, how it slots into place like it always belonged there.
stop.
your pace stutters, heart kicking hard against your ribs, and you squeeze your eyes shut like that might help.
this isn’t you. this isn’t something you think about. not about him. he’s yuji’s brother. he’s always been around. he’s annoying and familiar and not someone your brain is supposed to go quiet over. you’re just stressed. you’re just spiraling. you’re just projecting because you want answers, and he sounds like one.
that’s all this is.
you force yourself to breathe, to keep walking, to shove the image back where it came from, but it lingers anyway—his hands, his voice, the certainty of him knowing exactly what to do and exactly how to explain it to you.
stop, you tell yourself again, more firmly this time.
why now?
why him?
you’ve known him forever. he’s always been there—nothing about him has changed. so why does it suddenly feel different, like something tilted when you weren’t looking? like your chest tightened for no good reason, like you noticed his voice in a way you never have before?
you walk down the path thinking anyone but him over and over, like if you repeat it enough it’ll stick, like it’ll reroute your brain onto a safer track. anyone else. a stranger.
a nameless body you don’t have to think about tomorrow. a version of yourself that isn’t behind everyone else, that didn’t somehow make it to college without picking up whatever experience everyone else seems to talk about so casually.
you hate how childish it makes you feel. how small. how behind. how late.
this would be easier if i wasn’t like this.
the thought sits heavy as you reach your dorm, key sliding into the lock, because it doesn’t come with an answer — just the quiet promise that tomorrow, after classes, after you run out of excuses, you’ll have to come back.
and the cursor will still be blinking.
—
you wake up tired, drag yourself through classes, stare at people who sound like they have their lives together and nod like you understand what any of this is building toward.
you try not to think about last night, but your brain does that thing where it replays the one part you didn’t want it to save, and now you can’t stop seeing it—sukuna in the doorway, shirtless and irritated, gaze flicking over you like he’d already figured it out. the shape of him.
you shake it off, shove it down, swear it meant nothing.
it doesn’t help.
because now it’s dark out and you’re walking back to yuji’s place like you always do, like you haven’t been dreading it all day. it’s autopilot. friday night. takeout and whatever’s playing on netflix. you knock once before letting yourself in like you live there.
yuji’s already yelling from the couch. “you’re late!”
“you’re early,” you shoot back.
he grins when you round the corner, arms sprawled out, socks half-off, hair sticking up like he fought gravity and lost. “i ordered your favorite, so you’re not allowed to complain.”
“i never complain.”
he snorts. “you only complain.”
you drop your bag by the door, kick your shoes off, and try to act like your eyes didn’t just flick toward the other end of the couch. like you didn’t already know he’d be there.
except… you kind of didn’t.
because sukuna’s never here. not during movie nights. not when it’s just you and yuji doing the same dumb shit you’ve been doing since high school. he usually avoids this whole thing like it’s contagious—claims you’re too loud, that the movies are trash, that being around the two of you lowers his iq.
so what the hell is he doing here now?
you hover by the entryway a second longer than you mean to, caught off-guard, gaze dragging across the way he’s slouched into the couch—hoodie half-zipped, sleeves pushed to his elbows, grey sweats dangerously low on his hips, drink in hand, legs spread like he’s claiming the entire fucking house.
he glances up. meets your eyes. nods. “you’re late.”
you blink. “…you’re here.”
he smirks, slow. “sharp as ever.”
you frown, stepping further in. “why?”
he smirks, lazy. “you say that like you thought i’d be gone.”
“i did,” you say honestly. “you usually ghost the second we show up.”
“yeah, well,” he says, raising his drink a little like a toast, “mom and dad are out of town.”
you narrow your eyes. “don’t you have a dorm?”
“yeah,” he shrugs, “but why would i suffer in that shoebox when i can have hot water, real snacks, and a couch that doesn’t smell like mildew?”
you make a face. “gross.”
“truthful.”
you cross your arms. “i thought you hated being here.”
“i hate being here when they’re here,” he says. “every time i sit down, it’s either—‘have you heard back from that grad program?’ or ‘do you need help updating your resume?’” he mimics his mom’s voice a little too well. “it’s like a career fair with emotional baggage.”
you snort, despite yourself. “so this is… what? a staycation?”
“something like that,” he says, sinking deeper into the cushions. “i figure i’ll use up the free amenities while the guilt trips are on pause.”
your stomach does something weird and warm.
he’s not supposed to be here.
he’s choosing to be here.
you look away first.
you barely have time to sit with the weirdness of him being here before yuji’s voice cuts in again, louder this time, coming from the kitchen.
“can you unfold the table?” he calls. “i got dumplings and the good noodles.”
you cross the living room, bend to grab the scratched-up plastic folding table from behind the couch, and pop it open with one foot while yuji drags over the bags, hands full of sauce containers and those cheap paper napkins that never absorb anything. he’s already talking while sorting food, chopsticks stuck behind one ear like a pencil.
“you want the chili oil or no?”
“obviously.”
he tosses the packet toward you. you catch it.
you glance toward the couch—sukuna hasn’t moved. same position, same drink, same hoodie-and-sweats combo, like this is his house and you’re the one visiting.
“you’re not eating?” you ask.
he shrugs. “already did.”
yuji waves a hand. “he’s lying. he just mooched the egg rolls before you got here.”
“they were getting cold,” sukuna says, unapologetic.
you end up next to him on the couch, tray table between your knees, dumplings steaming in front of you. you try not to fidget.
yuji settles on your other side—except he’s yuji, so he sprawls. knee to your thigh, elbow jabbing as he adjusts, plate in his lap like a feral raccoon.
“you’re in my space,” you tell him.
“no such thing,” he grins, and gives you a shove—not hard, just enough to bump you right up against sukuna’s side.
you blink. feel the heat of him immediately, stretched out like he hasn’t even registered you’re touching. like he doesn’t care. like you’re not even—
don’t think about it.
you try to watch the movie. you do. it’s some dumb action flick yuji picked out of nostalgia, one you’ve both seen a million times. the plot doesn’t matter. you know every beat. you’re not watching the screen anyway.
you’re aware of the way sukuna’s thigh stays right there against yours. the shape of his wrist where it rests on the couch arm. how his hoodie rides up when he shifts to drink from the glass in his hand, dragging the fabric tight across his stomach. the clean line of muscle just under the hem, the peek of ink at his ribs. the curve of his mouth when he smirks at something the actor says, even though he’s not really watching either.
you imagine those hands on your hips. your throat. your thighs. his voice behind you, in your ear, telling you what to do and how to do it. correcting you. teaching you. like it’d be the easiest thing in the world for him. like he already knows you’d listen.
you cross your legs and shift away an inch.
he doesn’t react. doesn’t even look.
what is wrong with you.
“uhhh, bathroom,” yuji says suddenly, half-standing and holding his stomach. “that shrimp was a mistake.”
you don’t even register it until he’s gone, footsteps down the hall, door clicking shut behind him.
and then it’s just you.
and him.
and the credits rolling.
and the sound of him setting his glass down soft on the coaster.
“so,” sukuna says, and your whole body freezes, “how’s the little writing project?”
your head snaps toward him. “what.”
his mouth twitches. “yuji said you were stuck.”
“he told you?” your voice spikes, mortified.
“mm,” he hums, noncommittal.
“oh my god.”
“what?” he says, like it’s funny. “you asked for a miracle. you got me.”
you stare at him, open-mouthed, like you’re not sure whether to hit him or die on the spot.
he raises a brow, lazy. “cat got your tongue?”
“don’t flatter yourself,” you mutter, finally remembering how to speak.
“too late.” he stretches out like he’s settling in, wrist draped over the back of the couch, his whole frame angling toward you now. “so. what’s the issue? you trying to write something hot and you’ve never even been touched?”
you blink. hard. “excuse me?”
he shrugs, annoyingly casual. “not a judgment. just sounds like that’s the problem.”
“yuji told you that?” you hiss, heat crawling up your neck.
“you’d be surprised how much your bestie overshares when he thinks i’m not listening.”
you want to combust. spontaneously. immediately. your chopsticks freeze midair.
he watches you for a beat, head tilted, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek like he’s holding back a laugh. then—
“look, i’m just saying,” he says, almost bored, “you don’t need to fuck someone to write about fucking someone. you just need to know what people actually notice. what feels fake. what kills the mood.”
you blink. again. your brain’s lagging, like your wi-fi just cut.
“i could help,” he says. “if you’re not too chicken.”
you laugh—nervous, defensive, too loud. “you’re joking.”
“am i?”
he doesn't blink.
your heart does this weird sideways lurch, and for a split second your imagination does something very stupid—throws up a flash of what that might look like: his voice behind you, telling you what sounds real. his breath against your ear. one hand in your hair. one on your hip. that same voice, smug and low, saying yeah, that. write that down.
“jesus,” you mutter, shaking your head like that’ll knock it loose. “you’re yuji’s brother.”
“and?”
“and that’s insane.”
he smirks again, cocky this time. “then keep writing about symbolic peaches.”
you open your mouth to say something back—something scathing, probably—but yuji yells from the hallway before you can.
“i think i’m dying!” he shouts from behind the bathroom door.
you flinch, the spell broken.
sukuna just snorts, leans back, and reaches for his drink again like he didn’t just detonate a bomb in your brain.
—
you don’t stay late.
you make up something about homework. about being behind. about getting a head start on your readings before monday even though it’s friday and everyone knows you don’t touch shit until sunday night.
yuji doesn’t question it, just clutches his stomach dramatically and says the shrimp’s still trying to kill him, tells you to take leftovers, offers a weak thumbs up from where he’s curled under a throw blanket like he’s on his deathbed.
you wave him off, mutter something about texting later, and slip out the door.
sukuna doesn’t say anything when you leave.
but you can feel his eyes on your back the whole way to the hallway.
you walk faster than usual, keys clutched in your hand, cold night air biting at your cheeks as you cut through campus toward your dorm. your brain won’t stop spinning—like it’s buffering. like it’s stuck between tabs.
you asked for help.
not like that. not really.
except now you can’t stop imagining it. not just the suggestion, but what it would look like. feel like. his mouth near your ear, his fingers tracing your wrist, that stupid low voice explaining the difference between pornographic and believable like he’s grading you.
you swallow and push your dorm door open.
kick off your shoes. shed your coat. go straight for your bed and your laptop, like maybe forcing yourself into motion will fix it.
the document’s still open.
cursor still blinking.
you pull the covers over your lap, fold your legs under you, rest your fingers on the keys.
nothing.
not a word.
not a single honest sentence.
you type, slowly: she kissed him like she’d done it before.
you stare at it. backspace.
he touches her like he owns the moment.
backspace. you close your eyes.
and see him.
you asked for a miracle. you got me.
his smirk. the slow way he said it. the way his eyes didn’t move, didn’t flick, didn’t waver—like he already knew what you’d do with the thought. like he planted it.
and now you can’t stop thinking about what he’d say if you let him get close enough to correct you. to guide you. to show you the kind of heat that doesn’t need metaphor.
you drag a hand down your face, cheeks hot, heart weird and jumpy.
this is yuji’s brother.
you don’t even like him.
he’s smug. infuriating. mean. he barely talks to you unless it’s to be a dick about something. he’s a problem. he’s always been a problem.
and still—your fingers twitch.
you type, again: he touches her like he’s teaching her something she’ll never forget.
you stare at it.
you don’t delete it.
not yet.
you fall asleep like that. laptop still open. sentence still glowing on the screen like it knows it’s crossed a line.
you don’t dream. or if you do, you don’t remember it.
just wake up groggy and uneven, mouth dry, skin clammy, that same heat from last night clinging to the back of your neck like a warning. like you left something unfinished.
you shower. make coffee. sit at your desk and stare at your notes like they’re in a different language.
by noon, you’ve refreshed the same three apps fourteen times and rewritten the same paragraph twice with no new words added. your phone buzzes. it’s yuji.
yuji: shrimp poisoning update: i’m still dying. plz come over yuji: bring electrolytes or vibes or both idk yuji: sukuna’s literally useless. he’s just making toast and watching me suffer :(
you blink.
toast?
you hesitate. because you weren’t planning on going back today. you told yourself you’d take space. get perspective. delete the sentence. reset the mood.
but yuji’s asking. and he’s your best friend. and he’s sick. and… you’re already grabbing your keys.
—
the front door’s unlocked when you get there.
“back from the dead?” you call as you toe your shoes off.
yuji’s voice comes from the couch, muffled under a pile of blankets. “barely.”
you head straight to the kitchen, drop your bag on the counter, pull two gatorades from your tote.
and that’s when you see him.
sukuna. leaned against the fridge, plate in hand, wearing a tank top that’s doing absolutely nothing to distract from the fact that he’s half muscle and no shame, sweatpants hung loose on his hips, jaw working slow as he takes a bite of cinnamon toast like the world owes him nothing and he owes it even less.
“wow,” you say flatly, “what a beacon of brotherly support.”
he shrugs, mouth full. “he’s not dying.”
“he thinks he is.”
“he’s dramatic.”
you toss him a look as you move past him. you do not look at his arms. or the way his neck flexes when he swallows. you do not think about last night. or the sentence. or the way his voice is somehow the same in person as it was in your imagination—just rough enough to scrape against your ribs.
you do not.
“here,” you say, handing yuji the drink once you reach the couch.
he lights up like you’ve performed a miracle. “my savior.”
“your savior brought you electrolytes,” you say, plopping down next to him. “and she’s staying just long enough to make sure you don’t vomit on the carpet.”
"give me some kinda good news." he hums a little between sips, then glances up at you. “you make any progress on your writing?”
you go still.
“…not really,” you say as you sit criss-cross on the floor beside him.
he makes a face, the same one he always makes when you don’t want to talk about something—not annoyed, not pushy, just curious in that sweet stupid way that makes you want to confess things you shouldn’t. “what’s stopping you? still stuck on the scene?”
you nod, slowly.
he sits up more, leans on his elbow like it helps him think. “can’t you just, like… watch porn or something?”
your head whips toward him. “what?”
he shrugs. “i mean, if you need ideas.”
“porn,” you echo, flat. “yuji.”
“what?” he says, defensive now. “i’m just saying. it’s not like there’s a shortage of material out there.”
you stare at him, then drag a hand down your face. “oh my god.”
and behind you—
clink.
you freeze.
slowly glance over your shoulder.
sukuna’s standing in the kitchen again, rinsing his plate in the sink, but there’s something about his posture—the lazy slouch of his shoulders, the way he shakes the water from his hands—that makes it feel like he heard every word. like he was waiting for the right one to land before reacting.
you catch his eye.
he doesn’t blink. just tilts his head, real slow, mouth tugging into the kind of smirk that says that’s what you’re working with?
and suddenly your whole body burns.
you snap your gaze back to the tv, ears on fire, pulse stuttering.
yuji keeps talking—something about storyboarding a sex scene like a fight scene—but you don’t hear it. all you can think about is the way sukuna looked at you, like he knew exactly what part of that conversation wasn’t just academic. like he’d seen the little flash of panic behind your eyes, caught it, catalogued it, kept it.
fuck.
you sit rigid for the next few minutes, barely breathing, and when yuji finally excuses himself to go upstairs—“i think the shrimp’s staging a comeback tour, be right back”—you almost bolt.
but you don’t.
because you feel it before it happens.
sukuna’s steps behind you.
the subtle shift of the couch as he drops into yuji’s spot.
his arm brushes yours.
and his voice—that voice—slides in low and warm like it belongs there.
“porn, huh?”
you jolt. “oh my god.”
“relax,” he says, clearly enjoying himself now. “just thought it was funny.”
“you would think that’s funny.”
he leans in a little, elbow on the back of the couch. “what, not your thing?”
you flinch like it was an accusation. “excuse me?”
he shrugs one shoulder, lazy. “porn.”
“jesus,” you mutter under your breath.
“just curious,” he says, like he’s not enjoying the way your voice pitched. “you watch it or not?”
“why the fuck would i tell you that?”
he grins, sharp teeth and a twitch of his jaw like he’s won something. “so that’s a yes.”
you open your mouth—shut it.
he tilts his head, eyes narrowing just enough to track the way your throat bobs.
“what’s your type?” he asks, soft. cruel. “you like the soft, fake moaning kinda shit? studio lighting, vanilla choreography, lots of uh-uh-uh baby please?” he mimics it in a falsetto that makes your whole body light up in mortification.
“shut up,” you hiss, face burning.
he ignores you.
“or do you skip to the rough stuff? choking. hands. crying. that why you can’t write it down? ‘cause you want someone to make you feel it first?”
but he’s just sitting there like he didn’t say anything obscene at all, pinky tracing a slow circle into the armrest like he’s bored, like he hasn’t just undone you down to the bone with a single sentence and a look that’s far too pleased.
“i’m just saying,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to your mouth, “if you’re gonna do research, might as well use a source you can ask questions.”
your stomach swoops.
you freeze for half a second—heat curling up your spine, shame trying to dig its little claws in—but you don’t let it win. not this time.
you smile.
“yeah?” you say, cocking your head just a little, voice light but your pulse pounding. “what kind of porn do you watch, sukuna?”
that gets him.
not much—just a flick of his eyes, a slow shift in his posture, like you surprised him. like you scored a point he wasn’t expecting you to take.
“you look like you’re into some freaky shit,” you add, and there’s something proud in it, something satisfying, because even though you’re flustered, you’re not folding. not for him. not yet.
he smiles.
wide. teeth. slow as syrup.
“freaky,” he repeats, voice dropping a little. “you say that like it’s a bad thing.”
you roll your eyes—not because you’re annoyed, but because you have to do something with your face or he’ll see it all over you.
“please,” you mutter, grabbing a throw pillow and shoving it into your lap like it might deflect the heat. “you give off big uses the tags ‘brat tamer’ unironically energy.”
he laughs. deep in his chest. low and amused and just a little too delighted.
“and what, you’ve been scrolling?” he asks, leaning in again, elbow braced on the couch, close enough that you can feel the pull of him, gravity bending in his direction. “studying my digital footprint?”
“no,” you shoot back, too quick. “i just—” you flounder. recover. “i’ve met you.”
his eyes flash with something sharp.
“guess that makes you the expert,” he says. “so tell me, then. what am i into?”
you blink.
he’s baiting you. obviously. you can feel it in the slow, smug curl of his mouth, the way his voice drags just enough to make your pulse trip, the way he’s watching you like he’s already heard the answer in your head and is just waiting for you to say it out loud.
you square your shoulders, pretend you don’t feel backed into a corner.
“dumb girls,” you say.
his brow arches, amused. “yeah?”
“yeah,” you sniff, deflecting, heat crawling up your neck. “dumb girls who fall for the whole broody asshole thing. you probably like it when they call you ‘sir’ and pretend to struggle when you pin their wrists.”
his mouth twitches.
“mm. that’s cute,” he says, low. “you rehearsed that for me?”
“i rehearsed it for my own dignity,” you snap. “you’re not the first guy to act like a walking red flag.”
he hums. lets the words hang. then—“but i’m the one you’re thinking about.”
you roll your eyes. “in your dreams.”
“you sure?” he murmurs. “’cause you’ve been thinking a lot lately.”
your stomach flips.
“i haven’t—”
“you have.” his voice is a little quieter now. “last night. in bed. alone. you tried to write, didn’t you?”
your mouth goes dry.
“i’m just guessing,” he says, like it’s no big deal. “but that look on your face says i’m right.”
you stare at him.
your mouth opens. nothing comes out. your brain is still trying to catch up to how easily he said that, how casually he put it on the table like it’s a shared observation instead of a private, humiliating thought you didn’t consent to anyone noticing.
he watches you for another second.
then he moves.
he doesn’t loom. doesn’t crowd. he just shifts, slides off the couch and down to the floor where you’re sitting cross‑legged, close enough that your knees almost brush, close enough that you can feel the heat of him without him touching you yet.
he settles there like it’s nothing. like he belongs.
“relax,” he murmurs, when you stiffen. “i’m not gonna bite.”
his knee nudges yours. barely there. accidental if anyone else were watching.
his fingers trail against the carpet, then brush your ankle like he didn’t even mean to do it—light, lazy, testing. you swear you feel it all the way up your spine.
“you’re thinking too loud,” he says quietly.
you swallow. “you’re projecting.”
he hums, amused, and tilts his head to look up at you from where he’s sitting. the angle is wrong in a way that makes your stomach flip—his eyes level with your mouth now, lashes casting shadows you absolutely do not need to be noticing.
“maybe,” he says. “or maybe i’m just good at reading people.”
his fingers shift again, knuckle grazing your calf this time, lingering for half a beat too long to be an accident.
“i bet you even thought about touching yourself to me,” he adds, voice low, almost conversational. “just once. just to see if it’d help.”
your breath stutters.
“that’s—” you start, but he cuts in gently.
“i didn’t say you did,” he says. “i said i’d bet.”
he watches your reaction like he’s collecting data.
then, because he’s cruel, because he can, he continues.
“you wanna know what i watch?” he asks, like he’s offering trivia. “since you asked ever so nicely, princess.”
you don’t answer. you can’t.
he smiles anyway.
“i like girls who don’t know they’re already gone,” he says. “girls who overthink until their bodies give them away. girls who act tough and pretend they’re judging, when really they’re wondering what it’d feel like to be handled by someone who knows exactly what they’re doing.”
his fingers tap your ankle once. twice.
“girls like you.”
the words land soft and heavy all at once.
he stands.
just like that.
no follow‑up. no pressure to respond.
he dusts his hands on his thighs, glances toward the hallway like he’s remembered something unimportant, and adds over his shoulder:
“anyway. think about it. or don’t.”
then he walks away, footsteps unhurried, leaving you sitting there with your pulse in your ears, skin buzzing where he barely touched you, mind screaming what the fuck just happened.
and worse—how easily it made sense.
—
you end up leaving yuji's later than you meant to.
not because yuji needs anything—he’s finally asleep, curled into the corner of the couch like a crime scene chalk outline, snoring softly under three layers of mismatched blankets—but because you kept thinking maybe he’d show up again.
that sukuna would walk through the kitchen for a snack, or pass behind the couch on his way to the bathroom, or offer some lazy comment just to hear himself talk.
but he doesn’t.
he disappears the way he always does—suddenly, thoroughly, like it was never about you in the first place. like he didn’t lean close, voice rough in your ear, and say things he had no business knowing.
and you? you just… keep stalling.
hovering in the kitchen too long. picking at leftover rice like it’s suddenly fascinating. checking your phone even though no one texts you except your group chat asking for notes. all the dumb little things people do when they’re trying not to seem obvious about waiting.
but eventually, you run out of reasons to stay.
so you slip your shoes back on, grab your bag, scribble a dumb little sticky note for yuji (“don’t die. hydrate. stop ordering shrimp. love u.”), and let yourself out.
the night is cold. the streetlights flicker. the walk back is too quiet and your thoughts are too loud.
you’re not even frustrated with him—not really.
you’re frustrated with yourself.
because it wasn’t supposed to get under your skin like this. it wasn’t supposed to turn you into some wound-up mess who’s too horny to function and too proud to do anything about it. he’s not even flirting—he’s just being sukuna. smug. sharp. obnoxious. too perceptive for his own good.
and now you’re stuck with the aftermath, walking briskly back to your dorm with your jaw tight and your fists jammed in your jacket pockets, brain circling the drain of every shitty fantasy you’ve accidentally conjured in the last twenty-four hours.
him on the floor beside you. the scrape of his voice. the way he looked at your mouth.
you groan. out loud. to the night air.
“ugh.”
you hate this. you hate him. you hate how easily he slips under your skin like it’s muscle memory. like you’ve always been like this—some girl with a secret soft spot for the worst possible option. except it’s not soft. it’s raw. exposed. stupid.
by the time you get to your dorm, you’re exhausted. not even from the walk. from the noise in your own head.
you drop your bag. lock the door. shed your hoodie like it’s too heavy to keep wearing.
and then you just stand there. in the middle of the room. staring at nothing.
you want—something. someone. a fix. a release.
instead, you’re alone with a blinking cursor again.
and you’re mad at the idea of touching yourself, because it feels like giving him power he doesn’t deserve. like he’d know. like he’d smirk if he ever found out.
like maybe that’s exactly what he wants.
this is stupid. you’re not doing this for him. you’re just—relieved. blowing off steam. resetting. that’s all.
you don’t even argue with yourself anymore.
you peel your jeans off, kick them aside, tug your shirt over your head and swap it for an old tank that hangs loose against your ribs.
you crawl into bed and flop onto your back, staring at the ceiling, arms thrown over your head like surrender.
for a minute, you just breathe.
then you grab your phone.
twitter loads. immediately annoying. loud. fake. you scroll anyway, irritated, thumb flicking too fast, skipping past everything that feels wrong. too polished. too forced. too obviously not him.
your brain narrows the search without asking you.
dark hair. broad shoulders. a voice that’s rough instead of performative. guys who look like they’d sit too close and talk too quietly just to see what you’d do.
it takes longer than it should, but eventually you find one that’s… close enough.
you don’t turn the volume all the way up.
you don’t really watch.
you just listen.
your free hand slips under the blanket, fingers brushing over your chest through the thin fabric of your tank. you suck in a breath when you feel how hard your nipples already are, thumb circling one, then the other, sharper this time like you’re annoyed with yourself for how easy it is.
your other hand hesitates at your waistband.
slow.
careful.
like if you go too fast you’ll have to confront what you’re doing.
“fuck,” you whisper.
you’re already wet. of course you are. slick and warm, your fingers gliding instead of dragging, your hips shifting without permission like your body’s been waiting for this all night.
you close your eyes.
it’s not the video you see.
it’s sukuna on the floor beside you. elbow on the couch. that look in his eyes when he clocked you. the way his voice dropped when he said girls like you like he knew exactly where to aim it.
your fingers press harder. move faster.
you bite your lip to keep quiet, breath breaking anyway, one hand squeezing your chest while the other works between your thighs like it knows exactly what to do even if you pretend you don’t.
“sukuna,” you breathe.
the name slips out before you can stop it.
you freeze.
eyes snapping open. heart slamming so hard it almost hurts.
did i just—
shock hits you, sharp and dizzying, embarrassment crawling up your neck. your fingers still, hovering, like you might pull away and pretend this never happened.
your thighs tremble.
you hesitate.
then—fuck it.
you keep going.
angrier now. needier. like you’re daring yourself to finish what you started. like stopping would somehow be worse. your fingers curl just right, pressure building fast, your body tensing like it recognizes the path even if your brain doesn’t want to.
you cum with a muffled gasp, face turned into your pillow, pleasure ripping through you too quick and too intense to soften. your back arches, toes curling, breath shuddering as it crests and breaks, leaving you shaking and oversensitive and stunned.
you lie there afterward, chest heaving, phone forgotten somewhere near your hip.
“what the fuck,” you whisper again.
but this time it sounds quieter. tired.
you turn the phone screen off without looking at it, tug the blanket up around you, curl onto your side like you’re trying to contain the mess of yourself.
sleep takes you fast.
before you can think too hard.
before you can decide what it means.
before you can admit that this—whatever it is—has already started.
—
his mouth is hot.
that’s the first thing you register. heat and pressure and the slow grind of his tongue as he sucks at the soft flesh just below your jaw, dragging his teeth down the column of your throat like he wants to leave something behind. a mark. a memory. ownership.
you exhale too sharp, hips jolting like he’s shocked something inside you, like the friction between your legs is suddenly the only thing tethering you to the bed. your hands find his shoulders—and you mean to push him off, to say something halfway coherent, but then—
“still with me?” sukuna murmurs, voice low, voice smug, voice so close it curls under your skin.
you nod without thinking.
“use your words, princess.”
“y-yeah,” you breathe.
his mouth twitches against your skin like he’s smiling. then he’s dragging his palm up your thigh, under your shirt, across your stomach—like he’s touching you to prove a point.
his fingers hook in the waistband of your shorts.
“we doing this?” he asks, barely a whisper.
you don’t answer fast enough.
his hand moves lower.
your breath catches.
“fuck,” you hiss, hips jerking when his fingers slide over your underwear, right where you’re warmest. “sukuna—”
“mm?” he hums, nose brushing your cheek, his thumb pressing down, circling once.
you whimper. actually whimper.
his lips graze yours.
“so fucking wet already. cute.”
his fingers slide under the waistband like they belong there.
no hesitation, no asking again, just that confident hook of his knuckles tugging your underwear down your thighs until cool air hits skin that’s already too hot, too sensitive, like your body’s been waiting longer than you have. he doesn’t rush it. of course he doesn’t. sukuna never rushes anything he knows he has control over.
“look at you,” he murmurs, thumb dragging slow and deliberate through slick heat, spreading it like he wants to see how bad it’s gotten. “barely touched and you’re already like this.”
you try to argue. it comes out as a broken sound instead.
his hand cups you fully now, palm warm, fingers long and sure, pressing just enough that your hips lift without permission, chasing it, begging without words. he clicks his tongue softly, amused.
“that’s it,” he says. “don’t think. just feel, princess.”
one finger slips in.
you gasp, sharp and helpless, back arching off the bed as the stretch punches the breath from your lungs. he waits—just a second—lets you adjust around him, lets your body realize what’s happening, how deep, how real.
then he moves.
slow at first, curling his finger just right, finding something inside you that makes your vision blur instantly, that has your thighs trembling and your hands clawing at the sheets like you might disappear if you don’t hold onto something.
“there,” he says quietly. “that’s the part you’re supposed to write about.”
you sob his name.
his second finger slides in easily, obscene in how natural it feels, how full you are, how your body opens for him like it’s muscle memory instead of fantasy. he sets a rhythm that’s cruelly unhurried, fingers working you open, thumb circling your clit in lazy, exact strokes that make your legs shake uncontrollably.
you can’t breathe. you can’t think. every sound you make feels too loud, too needy, but he doesn’t stop — just watches you fall apart under his hand like this is the lesson, like this is what he’s been trying to teach you all along.
“close,” he murmurs, voice right in your ear now. “i can feel it. don’t fight it.”
you shatter.
it rolls through you all at once—tight and overwhelming and white-hot—your body clenching hard around his fingers as you cry out, back bowing, pleasure ripping through you so fast and so intensely it leaves you dizzy, ruined, shaking.
his fingers keep moving through it, slow and deep, drawing it out until your legs give out completely.
“good,” he says softly.
and you wake up with a gasp.
heart pounding. sheets twisted around your legs. underwear damp and unmistakable, heat still throbbing between your thighs like your body hasn’t caught up yet.
your dorm room is dark. silent. empty.
no sukuna. no weight beside you. no voice in your ear.
just the hum of the radiator. the glow of your phone on the nightstand. and the horrifying realization settling in all at once.
oh my god.
you press the heels of your hands to your face, mortified, pulse still racing, slick evidence cooling against your skin.
and worse—much, much worse —your body is still aching for him.
you lie there for a second too long, staring at the ceiling like it might scold you into sanity, heart still kicking hard, your phone buzzes once on the nightstand—nothing important, just a notification—but it snaps something in you anyway.
before you can talk yourself out of it, you grab it.
it reads sunday, 12:23 am.
your fingers hover over his name.
don’t, you think.
why would you do that.
you do it anyway.
you: are you still at yuji’s?
the typing bubble doesn’t appear right away, and that somehow makes it worse. your stomach churns. you toss the phone onto the bed like it burned you, then immediately snatch it back up again, pacing the narrow strip of floor between your desk and the door.
why did i ask that.
what am i even doing.
the phone buzzes.
sukuna: yea. why?
two words. calm. unbothered.
you swallow hard, pulse spiking all over again like your body doesn’t understand the difference between dream and reality yet. your thumbs fly, backspace, hover.
you: just wondering you: didn’t know if you went back to your dorm
you stare at the screen, mortified by how obvious that sounds. he doesn’t respond immediately this time, and the silence stretches, loud and humiliating.
your skin still feels too tight. too warm. like the night clung to you and didn’t let go.
shower, your brain supplies, desperate. now.
you drop the phone face-down on the bed, grab a towel from the hook behind the door, yank your shower caddy off the shelf with a little more force than necessary. shampoo clatters, loofah tangles around your wrist. you don’t care.
as you head down the hall, your phone buzzes again.
sukuna: nah. told you i'm staying the night.
you freeze for half a second, fingers tightening around the towel.
of course he is.
you don’t reply.
you just keep walking, push into the bathroom, lock the door behind you like that might lock the thoughts out too. you turn the water on hot—too hot—steam already starting to curl up toward the ceiling as you strip and step under it, shoulders sagging the second it hits.
you let the water run over you, over your face, your hair, like you can wash the night away. like you can rinse the image of his hands, his voice, the way your body reacted, right out of your system.
it doesn’t work.
you’re still in the shower when you cave.
steam thick in the air, water beating down on your neck, your leg propped awkwardly against the tile wall as you shave like you’re training for the olympics, hands moving fast, razor slipping dangerously close to uneven territory. your breath’s coming too fast to blame on the temperature alone.
your phone’s on the counter, screen lit up, mist curling around the edges.
you lunge for it, still wet, fingers fumbling.
you: i changed my mind you: i’ll take you up on that offer
the second you hit send, your stomach turns over on itself.
a moment later:
sukuna: thought you might sukuna: send the addy
you hesitate.
then:
you: here’s my address you: just knock
you stare at it for a beat. three dots flicker at the bottom, disappear.
you brace both hands on the sink and take a breath like you’re about to dive underwater. everything’s too hot. too real. too fast.
you wipe the fog from the mirror.
look at yourself—damp towel slung across your chest, bare skin flushed from heat and adrenaline, water still dripping from your collarbones.
your pulse thrums low in your stomach, relentless.
why does this feel like it matters.
you rinse fast, too fast. nearly trip getting out, towel half-tucked and slipping, legs damp and goosebumped. you moisturize like you’re trying to erase every imperfection, swipe deodorant like he’s gonna be under your arms, shii he might tug on a loose tank and shorts with a matching set underneath and immediately regret both.
you light a candle. you fluff the pillows. you curse yourself out under your breath.
then you sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the door like you’ll be able to hear his footsteps from the stairs.
your phone buzzes.
sukuna: on my way
you don’t respond.
you asked.
he’s coming.
and you don’t know what’s about to happen.
you try sitting.
you really do.
you sit on the edge of your bed, legs crossed like you’re calm, like you’re centered, like you didn’t just text sukuna in the middle of the night and invite him over like a fucking lunatic. you rest your hands in your lap. you stare at the candle.
ten seconds.
then you’re up again.
you pace to the door. check the lock. double check. you twist the knob and relock it just to make sure. you wipe your palms on your shorts. you glance in the mirror. turn sideways. frown. adjust your top. fix your hair. unfix your hair. tug the neckline lower. regret it.
you check your phone.
nothing new.
you open the window for air.
you close it immediately when it makes the candle flicker too hard.
you practice what you’ll say.
“thanks for coming, this won’t take long.”
“i just want clarity, nothing else.”
“this is for the project, nothing more.”
you say them out loud. again. and again.
you try not to think about his hands. his mouth. the way he looked half-asleep and annoyed and hot for no reason.
you try not to think about the dream. the part where he said you were wet. the part where he wasn’t wrong.
you try not to picture how this could go. where it could go. how it might go if you just stop pretending you're normal.
you press your knuckles to your mouth and whisper: what am i doing.
and then—a heavy knock.
you freeze.
you stare at the door like it’s a fucking ghost.
he knocks again. two slower taps this time.
you grab your phone and check the screen like it might offer a reason not to open it. no new texts.
you swallow hard.
then cross the room—step by slow step—and place your hand on the knob.
your heart hammers.
you invited this.
you twist.
and open the door.
he sees everything in one sweep: the dim glow, the towel still damp on the rack, the nervous way you're standing like you forgot how posture works. the smell of whatever you used in the shower clings to the air—sweet, soft, flustered.
his gaze slides over you.
you forget how to breathe for half a second.
“huh,” he says, smirking like he’s already solved the whole puzzle. “romantic.”
you flush instantly. “i wasn’t trying to—i mean—”
“sure,” he says, like he’s humoring you, stepping inside only once you move aside.
you hover, awkward, near the desk while he takes his time scanning your space like he’s evaluating it—picking it apart. then he sinks into your desk chair like it was always meant for him, legs spreading wide, thighs draped in those same loose sweats, forearms resting on the arms of the chair like he’s claiming territory.
he looks up at you, smug. “well?”
you swallow. “i had some—questions. notes. i thought maybe—”
you falter. it sounds fucking stupid now. everything you rehearsed in your head twenty times, all the clever ways you were gonna make it sound academic, detached, like this wasn’t weird—
“is this weird?” you blurt. “i feel like it’s weird. it is weird, right?”
his brow ticks up. that smirk stays.
“you’re the one who invited me, sweetheart,” he says, tone light. “i was minding my business.”
“i know, i just—” you fidget with the hem of your tank. “it’s just a project, but it’s not a project, and now you’re here and you’re sitting like that and it’s just—i don’t know, maybe this was dumb.”
he exhales through his nose. gets up slow, like he’s giving you a chance to walk it back.
“if you’re not ready, fine,” he says. “i can go.”
he looks down at your grip. your fingers on his skin. then back up at you.
you let go too fast. step back like you’re embarrassed. he doesn’t laugh.
just nods, like that’s all he needed.
“then stop wasting time,” he says. “sit.”
you blink. “sit?”
he tilts his head, gestures to the rug between his legs. “on the floor.”
“…why?”
“because i said so.”
you obey before you even think about it, slipping to your knees on the soft rug. the heat from his body hits you like a wall, his legs bracketing you from behind as he leans forward, his breath ghosting the back of your neck.
“close your eyes,” he murmurs.
you do.
“if you were writing this,” he says, voice low and right at your ear, “where would he touch her first?”
you hesitate. “her face?”
his hand ghosts your jaw. barely there.
“boring,” he murmurs.
you bite your lip. “her—her waist?”
his palm brushes your ribs. then withdraws. “warmer.”
you breathe uneven. “her.. neck?”
a low sound hums from his chest. not quite agreement. not quite praise.
just noted.
and then—his knuckles graze the slope of your throat, light as a whisper, slow as a secret.
you jerk, not from fear, but from how exposed it makes you feel. how easily he could tighten his fingers. how quickly he could tip your chin and make you look at him.
how easily you’d let him.
“sensitive, huh,” he murmurs behind you, and you can hear the shape of his smirk in the way the words curl at the edges.
like he’s already writing this scene for you. like you’re just here to confirm it.
your heart knocks hard behind your ribs. you want to play it cool.
but his voice—it’s so soft. like he’s in no rush. like he enjoys this part.
“tell me why,” he says, still close to your ear. “why would a guy touch her here first?”
you try to find your voice. it sticks. your mouth is too dry.
“because it’s…intimate,” you say, quiet.
his thumb presses—just barely—at the hollow of your throat.
you swear you stop breathing altogether.
“that all?” he asks, like he’s testing you.
you scramble for more. “it’s—it’s not sexual, not right away. it builds tension. it’s suggestive. it makes her aware of her whole body.”
there’s a pause.
then, low and pleased: “good girl.”
you swallow like it burns. your thighs clench.
“what next?” he asks.
your brain short-circuits. you can’t think of words, only feelings. only the place his hand used to be. only the way your nipples have gone stiff under your tank, how your skin feels too tight everywhere.
“…her legs,” you say.
“where?” he prompts.
“her thighs.”
“too vague.”
your breath stutters. your chest lifts with it, and the air feels different now, heavier.
you try again. “the inside of her thighs.”
a beat. then—
“getting there.”
his palm ghosts over your knee. slides up, slow, until the heat of it hovers just shy of where you’re starting to throb, and that’s where he pauses—just rests it there.
“why?”
you swallow, hard. “because—because it’s close but not—”
“not what?”
“not where she wants it.”
you can hear the smile in his voice. “and where does she want it?”
your mouth opens. nothing comes out.
he leans in.
“say it.”
you flinch. “between her legs.”
“where?”
you shake your head, whispering, “i can’t—”
his breath skims your ear. “sure you can. you’re the writer, right?”
he waits.
“her—her pussy.”
and god, it burns, saying it out loud like that, but he hums like it pleases him, like he’s filing that sound away somewhere dark.
“good girl,” he says, and it shoots straight through you like lightning.
you gasp, and his hand curls tighter on your thigh like he heard it. like it confirms something.
“but,” he murmurs, tone dipping softer, more dangerous, “he doesn’t go there yet.”
you’re panting now. still kneeling. your thighs tense, your hips tilted ever so slightly toward him without meaning to.
“he wants her desperate,” sukuna goes on, and his other hand slides around your waist—light pressure, anchoring you there. “wants her to ask.”
you nod, barely.
he smirks. “and you? what do you want?”
your voice cracks. “i don’t know.”
he brushes your rib again. still not touching your chest. still ignoring the way your nipples are aching under your tank. you hate him. you want him to stop. you want him to never stop.
“that’s a lie,” he says, calm as ever. “try again.”
you’re shaking. “i want—i want more.”
he smiles like you said exactly what he wanted. but he doesn’t give you anything. just shifts a little behind you, one leg bracketing your hip, body like heat, like gravity, like ruin.
“and if you were writing this,” he breathes into your neck, “what would she say when he makes her wait?”
you shut your eyes. try not to whimper. try not to beg.
you say, soft, “please.”
he exhales through his nose. satisfied.
his hand trails up your thigh again, slow, torturous, stopping right at the seam of your panties—and you swear your whole body flinches forward just to chase it. but he doesn’t move. doesn’t press.
just leaves his hand there, over the heat of you.
then—he shifts behind you. one arm sliding around your waist, the other bracing beneath your thighs—and before you can react, he lifts you. not like you’re heavy. like you’re inevitable.
you gasp, breath catching, hands flying up to anchor against his chest as he pulls you into his lap and sets you there, knees straddling his thighs, heat pooling where your body meets his.
“eyes on me,” he says, low, like it’s a favor. like it’s a command.
you obey before you even think about it.
his face is so close now. his hand rests light on your hip. his other fingers skim your spine, tracing lazy half-circles like he’s not already drawing full-body answers from you.
“you know how to kiss?” he asks, like it’s a real question. like it’s on the syllabus.
your breath stutters. “y-yeah.”
his mouth curves. “you sure?”
you stiffen slightly. “i’ve done it before.”
“that’s not what i asked.”
your mouth parts, but no defense comes out.
his thumb lifts to your chin, tilts your face. he studies you—every little twitch, every skip in your pulse like he can read it through your skin. his voice lowers.
“you want me to show you?”
your heart’s in your throat. your chest tightens like it can’t hold all this in. “i…”
his nose almost brushes yours. his breath fans against your lips.
“you can’t write it if you don’t know how it feels,” he murmurs.
you nod, barely. and that’s all it takes.
his hand at your jaw tilts, lifts. your nose brushes his. your mouth parts before you even mean to—like instinct, like muscle memory, like something in you’s already decided. your breath stutters when his thumb grazes your lower lip.
he watches your hesitation like it’s cute.
and then he kisses you.
not deep, not yet—just a soft drag, a test, his mouth slipping slow over yours like he’s trying to prove something, like he’s showing you how it’s supposed to feel when it’s not performative, not desperate, not trying to win anything—just there.
and when you shift like you’re not sure where to put your hands, he grabs your wrists and guides them up—pulls them around his neck, like this, here, hold on.
you do.
you melt into him.
your fingers knot in the hair at his nape just as his lips part against yours, deepening it—wet now, warmer, his tongue teasing slow, like he’s got time to savor how fast you’re unraveling. your hips squirm before you can stop them,
and that’s when his hands move—down your sides, over your hips, firm and dragging, until they’re settled at your ass, holding, gripping, manipulating—and you realize a second too late what he’s doing.
he rolls you against him.
and he’s hard.
not fully, not all the way—but growing, thick under the soft barrier of his sweats, and you feel it when he shifts again, dragging your clothed heat over the shape of him like he knows what it’s doing to you. like he wants to make sure you know, too.
you gasp into his mouth.
he doesn’t stop kissing you.
just swallows the sound. tightens his grip. rocks you again, slow.
and fuck, you’re already wet.
your tank top’s half-ridden up. your thighs ache from tension. your mouth is slick and buzzing and open under his and you can’t even tell if you’re kissing him back right anymore or if he’s just kissing you until your brain gives up and lets your body want.
he pulls back barely, breath hot against your lips.
“not bad,” he murmurs, cocky. “but you’re still thinking too much.”
and then he kisses you again before you can answer. deeper. dirtier. wetter.
like he’s fixing it himself.
and you don’t know what makes you do it—somewhere between humiliation and adrenaline, between his voice in your ear and the weight of his hands still holding you like he wants something more from you—you lurch forward before he can kiss you again and catch his bottom lip between your teeth.
soft, at first.
then a little harder.
his breath hitches like he didn’t expect it.
you suck lightly, just enough to make him feel it, just enough to taste the gasp he doesn’t let out, and then you slip your tongue into his mouth—confident, slick, matching his rhythm from earlier but slower, dirtier, wet in the way that makes your thighs twitch and your chest tighten and your brain shut off for real this time.
he lets you.
lets you take it.
moans—actually moans—into your mouth when your hips shift forward, grinding down against him on instinct, like your body’s just figured out what it wants and decided to go after it.
you feel him twitch under you. feel him respond.
and when he exhales into your mouth—tight, ragged, like fuck, okay—his hands flex at your hips, then slide down in one long pull, dragging over your ass like he needs something to hold on to, and pushes up into you, slow and hard, meeting your grind with the kind of pressure that makes your breath catch and your cunt clench.
he’s hard now.
not just getting there—there.
and it makes something click in you. makes you bolder. makes you whimper a little into the kiss and tilt your hips again, chasing that friction like it might give you answers, like it might finish what the last night started.
your tank top’s half-ridden up. your thighs ache from tension. your mouth is slick and buzzing and open under his, and you can’t even tell if you’re leading anymore or if you just unlocked something he’d been waiting to release—because now he’s kissing you back rougher, hungrier, teeth catching yours, tongue stroking deeper like he’s reclaiming it.
he breaks the kiss for a second—just enough to pant against your mouth.
“…didn’t know you had that in you.”
he doesn’t break the kiss when he stands.
that’s the thing that gets you—the way his mouth stays on yours even as his hands tighten on your hips, even as the floor disappears under your feet and you make a startled sound into his mouth that he swallows immediately, tongue pressing in like quiet, like i’ve got you.
you barely have time to register it before he lifts you fully, solid and effortless, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he carries you across the room like this is obvious, like this is where you were always headed.
the bed hits the back of your knees.
then the mattress.
he drops you down and follows you immediately, palms bracketing your head as he hovers over you, body a heat-heavy presence between your thighs, mouth still on yours, still kissing you like he’s proving a point.
he doesn’t break the kiss when he stands.
that’s the thing that gets you—the way his mouth stays on yours even as his hands tighten on your hips, even as the floor disappears under your feet and you make a startled sound into his mouth that he swallows immediately, tongue pressing in like quiet, like i’ve got you.
you barely have time to register it before he lifts you fully, solid and effortless, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he carries you across the room like this is obvious, like this is where you were always headed.
the bed hits the back of your knees.
then the mattress.
he drops you down—not rough, but decisive—and follows you immediately, palms bracketing your head as he hovers over you, body a heat-heavy presence between your thighs, mouth still on yours, still kissing you like he’s proving a point.
your hands are everywhere. his shoulders. his neck. his back. you feel the flex of muscle under your fingers, the way his weight shifts to keep from crushing you while still making you feel it.
his kisses turn slower. wetter. open-mouthed and tongue dragging against yours like he’s tasting instead of taking now, like he’s savoring the way you sound when you gasp.
his mouth leaves yours just long enough to trail down your jaw, your throat, teeth scraping lightly where your pulse jumps hardest.
“fuck,” you breathe, barely realizing you said it out loud.
his hands slide down your sides, thumbs brushing under your tank, fingers spreading over your ribs, your waist, your hips—grounding, claiming, mapping you like he’s memorizing the shape of you under his palms.
your body moves before your brain catches up.
maybe it’s instinct. maybe it’s frustration. maybe it’s the way he’s everywhere except where you need him.
you reach down.
your fingers brush him through his sweats—hot, hard, there—and you curl your hand around him without thinking, without planning, without permission.
his groan is immediate. low. rough. it vibrates straight through you.
“—fuck.”
for half a second, you think you’ve done it. you think you crossed the line and he’s going to let you have it.
then his hand closes around your wrist.
firm. not angry. not panicked.
“no,” he says, voice tight now, restraint threading through it like steel. he pulls your hand away from him and pins it beside your head, fingers lacing with yours just to make the point stick. “not yet.”
your chest heaves. your legs shift under him, needy, aching.
“why—” you start, breathless.
he dips his head, forehead brushing yours, nose nudging your cheek, voice dropping back into that maddening calm.
“because,” he murmurs, “you’re grabbing for the ending.”
his thumb strokes once over your knuckles, almost gentle. almost affectionate.
“and i’m still teaching you the middle.”
his free hand slides up your stomach—palm broad and warm and maddening—until it rests under the swell of your chest, not quite cupping. just waiting. like he’s listening to your heartbeat there.
“you keep getting shy,” he murmurs. “but you’ve got all these ideas, don’t you?”
your lips part. your throat’s dry. “i…”
his head tilts. he studies your face like a text he’s annotating. like every glance is a margin note you’ll have to answer for later.
“what do you like?” he asks, simple as a quiz. like it’s an easy question. like there’s a right answer and he already knows it.
you freeze. “i—i don’t know.”
he hums, skeptical. “sure you do.”
his hand trails higher, up to the hem of your tank, fingers dipping under like he’s flipping a page. your breath hitches again.
“you liked that earlier,” he murmurs, brushing your ribs, “when i touched here.”
you nod, barely.
“and here,” he adds, palm spreading over your waist again, squeezing, slow and firm.
you nod again.
he leans down, lips near your throat. “what about this?” his thumb brushes the side of your breast, not quite touching your nipple. just teasing. just hovering like it’s a privilege.
you make a noise in your throat. embarrassed. startled. needy.
“hm?” he prompts, voice darker. “you like your tits played with?”
you flinch. “i—i don’t know. i haven’t—”
he pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. “haven’t what?”
you whisper, “no one’s ever done it like that before.”
he grins slow. wicked. fucking delighted.
“no?” his voice dips like it’s velvet dragging across skin. “want me to try?”
your lips part. “i—yeah. okay.”
“okay,” he echoes, already dragging your tank top down with both hands, peeling it under your tits so they spill out, flushed and stiff, nipples peaked from cold and contact and god knows what else. “that’s cute.”
he palms one softly, then both—squeezes just enough to make your hips jerk under him, then thumbs over your nipples like he’s testing pressure, testing reaction, testing how fast he can get you to writhe.
your head tilts back with a whimper. he watches the whole thing, like a study in cause and effect.
“sensitive,” he murmurs, again, almost fond this time. “look at you.”
you do, barely—eyes half-lidded, throat exposed, chest heaving under his hands—and he leans down and mouths over one nipple, wet and sudden and warm, and fuck, it’s worse than you imagined. better. softer. hotter.
he licks slow, then sucks.
you gasp.
your back arches into his mouth before you can stop it.
his hand is still around your wrist, keeping you from grabbing him again, but his other palm strokes down your waist as he sucks your tit into his mouth and hums like he could stay there forever. like he enjoys this more than he should.
you whine. legs tightening. core clenching.
and all he says is, “yeah… you like this,” with your nipple still wet between his teeth.
and then he does it again. harder. longer.
and you nearly sob.
he licks and sucks his way back up—tongue warm against the curve of your breast, mouth dragging heat straight across your chest, up your sternum, wet and unhurried, like he’s claiming everything you are one inch at a time. like you’re something sweet he can’t stop tasting.
his hands don’t rush. they stay low, supportive. one cradling your lower back. the other stroking over your side, fingers grazing the slope of your waist like he’s petting down a shiver.
you breathe, ragged. you feel everything.
then he reaches your neck—and fuck, you thought his mouth was sinful on your tits but here, it’s worse. better. his teeth scrape under your jaw and you gasp, hips jerking into his lap on instinct.
“still nervous?” he murmurs against your pulse, voice sticky and smug.
you try to speak. it comes out a breath. “no.”
he hums, not convinced, and then sinks his teeth in gently—not hard enough to bruise, but enough to jolt something warm and dangerous straight down your spine. you moan, barely, just a sound from the back of your throat, and he chases it immediately with his tongue, soothing the bite with lazy licks, sucking the spot once, twice, before trailing higher.
then your ear—he doesn’t skip it. doesn’t ignore the way you tense the second his breath hits the shell of it. he drags his lips up the curve, then down behind it, tongue soft. teasing. slow.
you let out something between a whimper and a curse.
his voice is soft there, right against your skin. “you always this sensitive?”
“not—normally,” you whisper.
he grins against your ear. “guess you just needed the right study partner.”
you barely have time to respond before he’s kissing you again.
sloppy. hot. tongue-first. not patient anymore—like he’s been holding back and now he’s tasting how wrecked you are. your hands scramble for his shoulders, clumsy, needy, fingers fisting in the back of his shirt like you’re afraid you’ll fall right through him.
and he lets you. lets you take it.
but while your mouth is opening for him again—while your thighs are twitching and your stomach’s fluttering and your body’s starting to catch on to just how deeply he’s unraveling you—his hand moves again.
low.
lower.
his fingers brush over your pussy through your shorts.
barely. just a pass.
but it’s enough to steal every thought out of your skull.
you break the kiss on a gasp. he doesn’t let you go far. just chases your lips with his own, nipping the bottom one as his fingers drag over you again, slow, like he’s learning the shape of the heat there. like he’s checking to see if it’s real.
you can’t stop the way you whimper. or the way your hips try to press down.
his smile is fucking audible. “already?”
your breath stutters.
“thought you were gonna be a good girl and wait for instruction,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of your mouth, “but look at you. grinding like you need it.”
you shake your head weakly. “i’m not—i wasn’t—”
he strokes the seam of your shorts again, firmer this time, right over your clit.
you cry out softly. your nails dig into his shoulders.
he groans, low, satisfied. “mm. that’s more like it.”
“can i take these off?”
you nod, too fast. “yeah.”
your voice is high, wrecked. you sound too eager. you don’t care.
he shifts, slides the waistband down slow, thumbs hooking into the sides like he wants to make a scene of it, like it’s important he gets the angle right. your hips lift for him instinctively, and he hums a little like he likes that, like he noticed you offering yourself up without even thinking.
when the fabric drags down your thighs—slow, teasing, heat-sticky—he pauses.
his eyes drop.
and he actually stops breathing for a second.
“…fuck,” he mutters.
you freeze. “what?”
“these,” he says, thumbing the lace, “are ridiculous.”
they’re not. they’re cute. pale and soft, trimmed with little bows.
but he looks at you like you just stepped out of a fantasy he didn’t know he had.
his fingers brush the waistband again, lighter this time. “you always wear shit like this under your writing hoodie?”
you try to sit up, suddenly flustered. “i didn’t know you were gonna—”
he cuts you off with a grin, soft and smug. “i didn’t say i didn’t like them.”
his knuckle grazes the tiny bow at the center. “they’re pretty.”
your stomach flips.
“too pretty,” he adds, dragging the panties down the rest of the way. “almost a shame.”
“almost?” you whisper.
he brushes his nose right up the inside of your thigh, breath hot against your skin, like he’s following the heat of you.
his eyes flick back up—hungry, warm. “i’m not gonna feel bad if they get a little ruined.”
his hands slide up your legs, thumbs grazing the crease where your thighs meet your hips, settling just beneath the fabric. and for a second, he doesn’t do anything. just looks at you from down there—like he’s cataloging, committing, planning. like this isn’t just curiosity. it’s fucking reconnaissance.
you shift. inhale. exhale. it doesn't help.
his fingers press into your thighs, spreading them wider, tugging you closer to the edge of the bed, until you’re practically tilted forward and gasping already, your tank top bunched under your arms, your stomach tight, your pulse wild.
then—
his tongue presses through the fabric.
and it’s filthy. hot and slick and entirely too much even though you’re still covered, his mouth working slowly like he’s trying to taste you through the lace, open-mouthed licks dragging up the center seam while his hands squeeze your thighs like he’s got you locked in place.
you whimper. bite down on the sound. his eyes flash.
“don’t hold back,” he murmurs into you. “i want to hear it.”
your hips stutter forward, chasing him. he pulls back just enough to breathe, lips slick, smirk blooming wide across his face.
“yeah,” he says, voice gone hoarse, “you’re definitely a writer. dramatic little thing.”
he licks you again. slower. this time, the pressure rolls over your clit with enough heat to make your legs jump. and you can’t stay quiet—can’t stay still—you arch up, one hand shooting out behind you to brace on the sheets, the other fisting in the hem of your shirt like it’s the only thing anchoring you.
he groans, soft, like he likes the way you move. the way you shake. the way you’re already this wet for him and he hasn’t even taken them off yet.
then he does.
hooking his thumbs in the waistband, he drags them down slow—teasing, watching your face the whole time like he’s studying what embarrassment looks like when it hits your cheeks, your collarbone, the curve of your bare, glistening pussy in the cold air of his room.
“fuck,” he says, low and reverent. “look at you.”
you can’t.
you can barely breathe.
“spread wider,” he murmurs, voice low, like it’s for the room more than for you.
you’re already panting. already slick and wrecked, thighs trembling on either side of his shoulders, but you do it—you obey without thinking, feet dragging wider over the sheets, knees bent up, nothing covering you now, not even the panties he’d peeled off like wrapping paper.
“fuck—look at you,” he mutters again, more to himself, like he’s taking notes. “pretty pussy already fluttering and i haven’t even touched your clit yet.”
“you did—” you gasp, sharp—“you did earlier—”
he laughs. laughs, mouth warm and wet where it’s already hovering over you, breath ghosting the slick mess of your cunt like a warning. “that was nothing,” he says, dragging his tongue up the center seam just once, slow, all tease, no pressure, “that was a warm-up.”
you flinch. your head tips back. your hips jerk forward—need before thought.
his fingers press down into your thighs. “keep still.”
“i’m trying—”
“try harder,” he says, like he’s teaching you how to hold a pen properly.
you breathe like it hurts. you feel hot, head spinning, mouth open to moan but it’s all breath, no sound. his tongue traces your folds again—no hurry, no rhythm, just methodical, exploratory strokes like he’s figuring out what parts make you jolt and twitch, what spots make your breathing shift and your hands scramble up the bed like you’re trying to run away from the feeling.
you moan. “sukuna—”
he hums against you. your back arches.
“tell me what that felt like,” he says, pulling back, mouth slick, voice serious. “right now. describe it.”
you blink through haze. “it was—it was—fuck—it felt—”
he slides two fingers up your slit, slow, parting you open. “you’re a writer, aren’t you?”
you sob. “warm,” you manage. “and slow. and—wet. deep.”
he nods, satisfied. “good.”
then—his mouth’s on you for real.
you scream, basically, or whimper like something feral, one hand flying to cover your mouth while the other fists the sheets. your hips roll. your thighs clamp. your chest rises like you’re choking on heat and sensation.
he moans into your cunt—on purpose, loud—and it sends a shock through your body so hard you nearly sob.
“s-stop—” you gasp, but you don’t mean it, and he knows it.
“no you don’t,” he mumbles against you.
his fingers slide in.
thick.
slow.
the stretch of it nearly takes you apart, two of them pumping steady while his mouth circles your clit and you’re losing it, like completely. no plan. no dignity. no plot left in your head at all.
“what do you say when it feels that good?” he asks, not even lifting his head.
you pant. “i—thank you?”
he laughs again. “no,” he says, curling his fingers just right, making you choke, “you ask.”
“ask—?”
he licks you again. sucks again.
you cry out. “please—!”
“hm?” he pulls back. “please what?”
your voice cracks. “please let me—please let me cum—”
“why?”
you blink at him, glazed. “w-what?”
“tell me why you deserve it.”
“i don’t—i—i can’t—fuck—” your thighs twitch, trying to close again. he pushes them back apart.
he curls his fingers deeper, tongue flicking again, faster.
“you’re gonna cum anyway,” he murmurs, amused. “might as well earn it.”
“because—” you sob, high-pitched, “because i want it—because i need it, i swear—please—”
his mouth closes over you again, and this time he doesn’t stop.
doesn’t pull back.
doesn’t tease.
just devours you.
his fingers never falter, fucking you open while his tongue presses your clit into a constant throb, and you’re not even breathing anymore, you’re gasping, you’re grinding your hips into his face now, you’re whining like an animal, like a slut, like a student who finally gave up and admitted she wants to be taught—
—and when you cum, it’s like everything stops.
it’s so wet, you can hear it.
it’s so hot, you forget how to move.
your legs lock up around his head. your hips buck once. your back arches off the bed as your mouth drops open, a long, broken moan falling from it like confession.
and he stays there, tongue softening, licking through the aftershocks like dessert, until your thighs shake and your pussy pulses and you push at his shoulder, begging him—begging—for a break.
when he pulls back, his mouth is glossy. flushed. still smirking.
“good girl,” he says, wiping his thumb over your slit one last time.
you twitch. you gasp.
you don’t know who you are anymore.
you’re still twitching when he shifts down.
still trying to catch your breath.
your legs part instinctively—an offering, a warning, an invitation you couldn’t take back if you tried.
“relax,” he murmurs, voice a rasp against your inner thigh. “not gonna make you cum again.”
you whimper. “i—i can’t—”
“i know.”
his hands anchor you open again anyway, firm on the backs of your thighs, keeping you spread, keeping you honest, and his mouth dips one more time, down, down, down—
—and kisses your clit.
just once. just a kiss.
a wet, closed-mouth press that turns your whole body to glass, that makes your hips jump and your thighs tremble and your breath hitch like you know he did it just to see if you’d beg for more.
you almost do.
you feel it for a lifetime.
“mm,” he hums against you, and the vibration shoots through your cunt like a punishment. “still twitchy.”
your voice breaks. “that was—”
“what?” he murmurs, glancing up with that gleam in his eye. “too much?”
you swallow. “too good.”
he grins. kisses it again.
lighter. shorter. more like a thank you than a threat.
you moan before you can stop it.
he breathes out a laugh.
“still so sensitive,” he says. “guess we’ll save the rest for next time.”
then he drags his mouth back up your body—slow, wet kisses over your hipbone, your ribs, the curve of your breast, the underside of your jaw. he sucks your skin like he’s tasting a story he wrote first.
“n-next time?”
when his mouth finds yours again, you’re still slick and open and ruined.
and you kiss him back like it’s the only thing keeping you alive.
you whimper.
then he stands.
and it’s ridiculous, the way your whole body feels it, like pressure dropping from the ceiling, like heat pulling away from your skin all at once. like something just got taken away before you even had it.
you’re flushed. trembling. panting like you just ran a mile, thighs aching, nerves shot, breath hitching every time his scent brushes the back of your throat.
your chest rises and falls like a warning. your core pulses like an afterthought.
his gaze drags over you once, then dips lower.
“rewrite the scene,” he says. “send it to me.”
your mouth is open, but no sound comes out.
he turns.
the door swings open.
he doesn’t look back.
his scent lingers. his voice lingers worse.
the silence rushes in like a wave.
you don’t move. not for a long time.
you don’t know how.
you’re still on your back, legs numb, lips parted and swollen, pulse still caught in that place just below your bellybutton where everything feels wrong and raw and so, so ready for more.
you close your eyes. you breathe in slow. you try to ground yourself.
but there’s no coming back from this.
no neutral after that.
the cursor’s still blinking on your laptop.
you reach for it like you’re in a trance, fingers trembling, breath shuddering as you drag the computer onto your lap, still kneeling, still sticky, still wearing nothing but the throb between your thighs.
you know exactly what you’re gonna write next.
and you know exactly who it’s for.
