Synopsis. Five times that Ryomen Sukuna - most desired man on campus, frat boy extraordinaire, your longtime FWB - would rather sIeep with you than tell you how he feels. And the one time he finally, finally does both.
Pairing. Ryomen Sukuna x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem!reader, frat boy!FWB!Sukuna, 5 + 1 things, FWB-to-Iovers, accidentally falling for your FWB, no strings attached, slightly toxic, pIayer!Sukuna, Kuna’s MEAN, denial, distractions, emotionaIIy stunted Kuna, jealousy, hurt + comfort, YEARNING, Choso cameo, Sukuna with tattoos, college wrestler!Sukuna, manhandIing, oraI (fem. rec), p talking, p sIapping, spítting, pússydrúnk Sukuna, spelling, overstím, HEADLOCKS, rough s, tummy buIges, talking you through it, running from it, chokíng, DÚMBlFlCATION, dirty taIk, creampíes, cúmpIay, slight bréeding, confessions, HAPPY ENDING, pet names, swéaring.
Word count. 16.9k
A/N. Officially my longest fic hehehe- inspired by all the frat!Kuna edits I’ve been seeing on my FYP, bIess all editors.
“You’re obsessed with me.”
Sukuna grins. “Other way ‘round, mama.” He takes his long, languid time swirling around the liquid in his red Solo cup. It was some cheap bottle their new pledges had snagged, and it burned down his throat.
The aftermath was in the way the man stumbles just a little closer towards you. He catches himself with a tattooed hand pressed on the wall above your head. Abs against your core. Caging you. “Other. Way. ‘Round.”
You’re jutting your chin up in challenge, “It isn’t.”
He hums, “Isn’t it?”
“And what makes you so sure of yourself, Ryo?”
He shivers at the sound of your pretty voice. He could almost taste the cherry punch in it, and something about that made him tighten in his pants…“Maybe it’s the drinks talking, but I just know.” Sukuna leans in so close that there was barely a centimeter between you both, between your lips. “And I also know you want me, girlie. Bad.”
Even with your highest heels on, the pink-haired leader of Curses Epsilon (Curses ε, the most sought-after fraternity on campus) seemed to loom above you. Crimson eyes narrowed. Smile predatory. Signature black t-shirt tight.
He always had caught your eye, you had to admit.
C’mon, it was impossible for him not to: a few heads taller than most of the student body, more sculptured, more attractive. You’d heard a rumor that he did modelling down in Shibuya sometimes and you didn’t doubt it. He walked around this very university like he owned it. He probably did.
Sukuna pushes back his cotton-candy locks, and you’re seeing the roots of reddish brown where his undercut was.
The shade was so at odds with the utterly devilish look those tattoos gave him. Even now you could see the ink peaking out at his wrists, his collarbones, his nose bridge. They snaked all over his body. Sensual. And when he slowly dips his head down to kiss the underside of your jaw, you start to wonder just how far those patterns went…
“Oh.” You gasp, grabbing onto his well-built shoulders.
They flex through his thin t-shirt when he’s leaning even closer, and you’re suddenly remembering that he was here on a scholarship for wrestling. The infamous leader of his weight class on your university team. The King of the Court. At least that explained his irresistible build - you wonder whether he was a semi heavyweight? A heavyweight? Did they even have those?
You couldn’t think.
You’re tipping your neck further to the side, and from the edges of your peripheral vision you see the way that Sukuna raises one pink brow- before draaaaagging a line of soft kisses down the side of your throat. Filthy. Fleeting.
You’ve seen that look on him before - it’s the one he’d shoot at admirers that dared to stare too long. That sort of ‘if you want it come and get it’ look. That sort of challenge. Prowling through campus corridors that seemed to shrink whenever his figure waded through, sports bag slung over his shoulder, hair still wet from his shower, you could expect the sports superstar to throw at least ten at a time.
Though you couldn’t really blame them! You suspected that about half the student body - and perhaps even some professors - held a burning fire for Ryomen Sukuna, and the other half simply wouldn’t admit to it.
And just as long as his list of admirers was his roster.
Or so the whispers claimed…‘His latest catch is actually the mother of-’ ‘They say he has five girls at once and they know about it but stay-’ ‘He swings both ways so what I’d give for a chance-’ ‘His longest relationship was two days and that’s because they begged him-’ ‘Stay away.’ ‘Stay away.’ ‘Stay away.’
Stay away.
You didn’t have to be told that to know.
It was an unspoken rule on campus, the lay of the land.
Quite the dichotomy, wasn’t it? Stay away from Ryomen Sukuna, unless he’s the one that approaches you first and then it’ll be like your wildest fever dream, your wettest, and when he finally leaves- well, weren’t you told to stay away?
That’s the way things were. And all any heartbroken ex-companion would get is a few soothing words by the very same people who would turn around and make an example out of you.
‘Didn’t you see what happened to so and so…? Stay away.’
He was like a guilty pleasure that most people knew better of, knew would become an addiction. However, still indulged in anyway.
And so here you were. Cooped up in some dimly-lit frat party, cramped until every breath felt like it was singed with the copious amounts of alcohol around you, surrounded by booming beats and bellowing boys. In nothing but the most sinful dress you’d stowed away for a night just like this. Though you had to give yourself some credit- you didn’t wear this just for Sukuna, that’d only happened to be a happy accident!
In fact, you hadn’t even been expecting to meet him here.
Sure, it was the fraternity that he was the leader of, but Sukuna was always quite the…busy man. To put it lightly.
No—when your friends had urged you into this very party, you’d worn it with the thought of another man in mind. None other than your two-timing, two-toned, two-inched ex Zenin Naoya.
Your relationship was never meant for a happy marriage with two kids and a house that had a picket fence, but the straw that surely broke the camel’s back was about a week ago when you’d sneakily scrolled through his social media likes. And say whatever you want about privacy, but the multiple other girls he was entertaining and the deplorable podcasts about women he’d been secretly listening to let you say whatever you wanted.
And your first words to Naoya afterwards had been that you wanted to break up. Your second had been cussing him out.
Which was why, when Utahime had told you that he’d be attending (likely to try and pick up another poor girl), you’d immediately rifled through your closet for this skimpy dress you knew he’d hate. And still jerk off to later.
Speaking of…how ironic was it that you’d run from one red flag and straight into the arms of another.
The thought mulls lazily in your brain, before it’s quickly overtaken by the feeling of Sukuna resting his hands just over the small of your back. Something stirs carnally at the pit of your stomach, and you don’t think you’ve felt this way for a long time - not even when you were still with your ex.
“Prove it.” You blurt out before you can stop yourself.
He stops, raising those brows of his again.
And you don’t hesitate a single second before looping both arms around Sukuna’s neck and bringing him closer to you. And the hulking man lets you manhandle him as you please, lets your lips whisper just a breath’s distance away from his. In the distance you think you can hear a few gasps, feel a few stares. “Prove that I want you. Badly.”
And Ryomen Sukuna’s realizing that he didn’t need the alcohol, not really.
Not when he was already drunk on you.
His lips are on yours before you can say anything else.
Your first time meeting Ryomen Sukuna ended up with you pushed into the bedroom at his frat house and holding onto the headboard so that it won’t break against the wall. Bang-bang-bang. He’d lifted your trembling hands off of them, eventually, and placed them between your legs to roll over your clit. You don’t think he cared for a single sultry moment if any of his frat brothers happened to hear.
In fact, with the way that he’d been plunging his massive girth between your legs (the rumors really hadn’t exaggerated!) you’d almost wondered if he wanted them to hear. You wouldn’t be surprised.
Sukuna fucked hard, fast.
He made you stupid on his cock and chased his high like an absolute madman- though, that’s not to say he was a selfish lover. No—perhaps for his own ego, you were made to cum at least thrice on his fat, throbbing length.
And after the deed was done he’d rolled over to the side of the bed and tugged off the sticky condom. Discarding of it into the nearby trashcan, Sukuna rifled through his bedside cabinet for some wet wipes.
Ryomen Sukuna wasn’t the type of after-sex cuddles and aftercare, you’d come to learn. As he’d handed them over to you gruffly, and flicked at his lighter to burn up a cigarette.
Taking a deeeep drag of it, he turns towards you and brings his lips so close that you think he might just kiss you—only to puff out a smoky cloud in your face. “Inhale.” You do as he says, and let the fumes burn your throat. The side of his lips were quirking up in a smirk, “Mmm, good.” Sukuna gestures at his walk-in closet, one that you’d been eyeing for the sheer luxury of it when you’d first entered. “Might wanna find a t-shirt in there, your dress is a little…”
You looked at the sad heap of silky fabric on the carpet - torn now. “And whose fault is that?”
“Heh, just go get yourself a t-shirt, girlie.” Sukuna sits back on the headboard, and you’re appreciatively eyeing his half-naked figure. Prominent pecs. Ladder-like abs. Tattoos that stand out against his golden, tannish skin. He’d tugged on a pair of black boxers by now that did nothing to hide the happy trail of dark pink hair that you had your nose pressed up to minute ago. “Or don’t.” He looks at you with a sleazy smile- shit, he’d caught you staring. “I don’t mind.”
“S-sure ya don’t.” You’re managing out, tight.
And almost robotically, you manage to pull yourself onto your wobbly legs and take one step—Sukuna chuckles to himself as you stumble.
With a glare thrown over your shoulder, you walk into his closet. About as large as your entire dorm. Rows upon rows. Shelves upon shelves. Clothes upon designer clothes that made you wonder just how loaded a future professional wrestler is.
There were brands on his shelves that you couldn’t even recognize but knew were high-end simply from looking at their logo. Gawking, you flip past a few hangers - Versace, Burberry, Burberry, Gucci, Loro Piana, Dior, Dior, Dior, Dior-
Eventually, you simply give up to snatch the (hopefully) least expensive thing you could find: a wrestling hoodie with colorful logos on its front and ‘Sukuna’ emblazoned across the back.
The fabric was oh-so-soft in your hands, made of pure cotton that tempted you to tug it on your body as soon as possible. Oh, you’re marveling at the way the ending hem of it reaches well past your torso, engulfing you like some sort of blanket. Experimentally, you’re pulling the hoodie flap over your head and giggling at the way it droops down all the way to your nose. Unable to help yourself, you tug the sleeves up to where your wrists were and press the pink fabric to your nose.
Strawberries.
What a smell for such a guy.
“Fuck-” You’re whispering into the fabric, slightly muffled. The rush you were feeling gets dampened down a bit as you remember where you are, “I’m getting way too ahead of myself.”
When you’re finally walking out of the closet, Sukuna was lounging on his king-sized bed and scrolling through his phone. You take a moment to admire him like this- his long limbs stretched across the mattress, hair still sex-ruffled, your nail marks prominent down his shoulders, hands hugging a pillow to his chest.
He looked as if he was carved by the heavens themselves. Though he fucked like the devil.
He’s flicking his eyes casually your way, eyebrows slightly raising as he takes in your attire. “Nice choice.” Sukuna hums, voice deep with sex. “Didn’t think ya had it in you.”
And then he’s patting the empty side of the bed once more.
More, his eyes said. He wants you even more.
You almost instinctively take a step forwards before-
“Actually-” You start, fighting to keep your words steady. You keep yourself rooted in front of his closet and fidget with your fingers. “Before we do anything more, I wanted to make some things clear.”
“Mn.” He’s turning his phone off with a slight sigh, placing his hand atop his head.
Sukuna says nothing more, and you take it as a signal for you to continue. Taking a deep inhale, “I don’t really do this one-night stand thing often- not that there’s anything wrong with that!” Heartbeat quickening at the way his lazy smile grows, you don’t know why he made you feel the need to explain yourself. “But since we’re-”
“And who says we’re a one-night stand?”
Your heart does something funny with its tempo, “Wh-what?”
He tilts his head as if analyzing you, almost feline with his movement. Sukuna’s pinkish tongue darts out to wet his lips, still sweet with the taste of your pussy. “What if I want two nights? Three? Four? What’re you gonna do then, girlie?”
“Th-then-” You’re clenching your fists—fuck, it made it so hard when he was looking at you like that. “Then you’d have to get tested.”
And that…seems to make him pause.
“What?”
“Then you’d have to get tested, duh.” You’re crossing your arms in front of your chest - oh, it was quite amusing to watch the Ryomen Sukuna scramble for words. And you can’t help the spike of satisfaction, as he so-very-obviously didn’t expect that. “And we’d have to set boundaries. And share schedules. And you’d have to tell me if you meet up with another one of your ‘friends’ so that we can get tested again.”
“…”
“…”
Without warning, he bursts out laughing. “Thorough, aren’t ya?”
He wipes away a tear of mirth from the right side of his face and- c’mon! You honestly didn’t think it was that funny! Sure, you hadn’t had any…arrangements like this before but you couldn’t have been too far off for the requirements?
“What are you-” But as you start to protest Sukuna only guffaws even louder.
“Alright, alright-” He’s raising up a hand as if to tell you to stop before his (well-toned) sides start to split. It’s only once you take a step back and huff n’ puff yourself into silence that the man finally starts to calm down. Looking down at his lap, “Damn- fuck, I’ve never had my boner killed so fast.”
“It’s just the requirements.” You’re grumbling.
“Girl, I might as well cut off all my ah- ‘friends’ as you so-nicely put it and marry you.” Quite dramatic, but alright. You notice that he doesn’t push back against your boundaries, however. Sukuna stares you down, eyes twinkling with something that you couldn’t quite discern. “And what exactly would you like to call our little relationship then?”
“Friends-with-benefits, what else?”
“Mm, I like it.”
“And nothing more- no marrying any time soon.” You shudder when you think of your last failed relationship.
Sukuna grins, “Keh- don’t have to worry about that.”
.
.
.
“Okay-” Utahime slams! all one-thousand pages of Shoko’s anatomy textbook down on the cafeteria table, rattling your trays and making the surrounding students glance at your trio. You’re watching as her glass of orange juice splashes precariously around the rim and inches one watery hand towards the pages of the book. “-spill.”
You’re startling at her sudden interrogation, “What?”
And to your horror, even Shoko puts aside her medical notes to pay full attention to the commotion between her friends. Both of them staring—squarely at you.
“You heard me.” Utahime crosses her arms, “Something’s up with you these days- and we want to know what.”
Shoko nods, sighing the way she did whenever she was assigned a particularly difficult medical case to discern. “Sudden glow about you- likely a mix of estrogen and dopamine boosts, slightly dazed look in your eyes, increased screen time, unconscious smiles, unexplained disappearances at odd times of night.” She taps her pen on her chin, “Science says you have a boyfriend.”
Utahime gasps, “And we haven’t heard about it?” Throwing an arm around a deadpan Shoko, who says nothing when the other girl shakes her to and fro. “We- we, your very best friends since freshman year, haven’t heard about him.”
“So who is it? I’m curious.” Shoko probes.
“Tell us or I cry-”
“It’s no one.” You’re finally managing a choke out, to which you’re met with the most dramatic groans from both your friends. This time, they’re loud enough to garner the attention of over half this section of the cafeteria- and in your peripheral vision, you swear you could feel the intensity of two crimson eyes…
Your eyes flick to the side - and there’s your first mistake.
Utahime gasps, kneeling on the bench to look over Shoko’s head. “He’s there-” Above your frantic pleas for her to just settle down, “Don’t lie, I saw your eyes move! He’s there I just know it-”
You grab onto her dress and start tugging, “Uta, for heaven’s sake just sit- down-”
“Hmmm, the only ones there are Professor Yaga- no. Todo- no. That PhD student, Higuruma- maybe.” As her options dwindle, she sweeps her eyes. “Ijichi- no, eugh. No offense, my dear, it’d just get so troubling to have to peg him all the time.”
You don’t know whether to laugh or cry. “U-Utahime, oh my god!” Even Shoko simply lets it happen in amusement.
Until finally, her eyes waft over the group of fraternity brothers that sat tall amongst the rest of the students. She wrinkles her nose at them, “One of the Curses Epsilon boys- no way, you’re smarter than that.”
They were such a boisterous bunch. Murmuring what were most likely innuendos with each other, clapping each other on the backs with guffaws. Almost handsomely stupid the way they kept looking to their pink-haired leader for approval. Occasionally, someone from a neighboring table would walk up to them in an attempt to talk to Sukuna - and the entire table would fall over themselves to erupt in wolf howls.
You were almost thankful for the way Utahime had given you the excuse to stare right at him. The way he’d wave off whichever newcomer, the way he’d roll his eyes at his friends’ antics. You’re realizing that his group was mostly composed of athletes, evidenced by the team jerseys and the trays upon trays of food were wolfing down.
Sukuna, noticeably, wasn’t wearing his wrestling hoodie.
The thought makes something shift at the pit of your stomach.
“Oh my god, it’s one of them-” Utahime’s following your line of sight with something akin to horror, and even Shoko seems to be rapt with an attention that she didn’t ever have in her classes.
Both of them had easily let their eyes slip past the boys, it seems. And it’s only once they saw your lingering gaze, only once they saw that familiar smile across your face, that they’re realizing.
Widened eyes slipping back to the rambunctious table.
You snap your eyes to your purple-haired friend once you register her words, “N-no, wait-”
“You stuttered!” She squeals, and you don’t know whether it’s out of excitement at the gossip or sheer fear. She turns to Shoko, “She stuttered, right? I’m not dreaming? She stuttered?”
Shoko nods, “She stuttered.”
Utahime whirls back to face you, “You didn’t even stutter when you told off that asshole Naoya- thank you for that recording by the way, it was quite the pleasure to listen to.” Shaking her head as if to make herself get back on topic, “Either way, are you or are you not dating one of the Curses Epsilon boys?”
“I am…” You pause, “-not.”
They both groan at your response. Utahime even reaches over the table to shake you by the shoulders, “Tell us- I can- tell- when- you- lie-”
“No- no listen!” You’re defending yourself, swatting away her grabby hands. “I’m really not dating one of them, promise! It’s just…”
Shoko asks, “Just?”
You sigh, there was no getting out of this now. “Remember that party we went to at their house a few weeks ago?” Continuing as they nod, your heartbeat starts to accelerate as you realize you’re getting to the meat of the story. “Right- and remember how I disappeared halfway through the night and told you that Akari dragged me off somewhere?”
Utahime gasps, “I have connected the dots.”
Shoko frowns, “You haven’t connected shit.”
“I’ve connected them.” She replies, “I always assumed you ended up hooking up with someone that night and didn’t think much of it. Now you’re telling me that it was one of them-”
“Keep your voice down!” You plead, “But yes, it was…and the thing is that one night turned into two, two turned into three.” Your skin starts to heat up as you remember just last night when you’d snuck out to be let in through the back door of Curses Epsilon. To be pressed onto all fours and ruthlessly ploughed into- “But look, the point is that now we’re kinda…sorta…friends-with benefits.”
They gasp in unison.
Utahime’s all but standing on the bench once more, “Who is it-”
“Whose dick do I need to cut off.” And Shoko is, too.
You put your face into your hands with a groan as they start listing off names.
“No.”
“Choso?”
“No.”
“Larue?”
“No.”
“Kenjaku?”
“No.”
“It surely can’t be fucking Sukuna-” Both of them look at you, look at the impression on your face. And they turn to each other with serious expressions, “She’s fucking Sukuna.”
There was no use in telling them to keep their volumes down now - people turned their heads your way and started to whisper. You could only imagine what the rumor mill was conjuring up now. Hell, even Sukuna himself casually flicked his head your way in interest.
And you wished you could sink even deeper into your seat.
“Did you see that-” Utahime hisses.
“I saw.” Shoko replies.
And the purple-haired girl reaches over to clasp your hands, “He was giving you that look- oh my god. He looked like he was about to eat you up—” And you think that Utahime is perhaps the only one who’d look over and glare at Ryomen Sukuna the way she did just then, “You know what they say about him, right?”
“I’m well aware.” You breeze off, “It’s nothing serious- just no-strings-attached fun, promise. I could break it off at any time and not feel a thing, and I know the same goes for him.”
Utahime scoffs, “Yeah but it’s not like he’s seeing you that often, right?” A pause. “Right?”
“Well…”
You’d been saved in that very instance by a bzzzz—! in your pocket: a text from the man of the conversation himself. And with a quick apology to your friends (you loved them, you really did, but you supposed that was enough interrogation for the day) and a glance at your calendar to make sure you didn’t have any more classes for the day—you were racing out of the cafeteria.
Followed suspiciously closely by a certain pink-haired wrestling superstar.
You didn’t quite care who saw what or thought what, because a few hours later found you back in your single dorm room.
Fucked stupid.
Sex still hung in the air.
You were sprawled out across your humble single bed, heaving as if you’d just ran a marathon. Head sinking into the pillows. Cunt all drooling with your splashin’ slick. Still reeling from the aftershocks of your multiple highs.
With Sukuna’s athletic stamina, however, he seemed to be barely affected. Taking a light drag of his cigarette (you’re sure the building had a no smoking policy…), he looks over your dorm room with faint interest. Much smaller than his but also much…cozier, you had to admit.
Lived in.
He takes in the polaroids of you and your friends, all the cutesy lights, the columns of books. Sukuna stares hard at one of the pictures above your headboard—it was one of you, Utahime, and Shoko after shotgunning a few beers. On the verge of throwing up.
“Cute- the dorm, I mean. S’nice.” He says, blowing out a streamline of smoke at the photograph. “This purple-haired one s’the one that was screamin’ about us in the cafeteria today?”
“You heard that?” You exclaim.
“Girl, the entire cafeteria and Gakuganji’s senile ass heard y’all.” He rolls his eyes with a grin, “Dunno whether you’re louder then or…” Such a devilish, devilish grin. “-here.”
“Shut up.”
“You certainly didn’t-”
“They threatened to cut off your balls if you broke my heart, y’know.” You don’t quite know why you’re telling him - Sukuna was probably used to the threats of his love interests by this point. You’re turning to your side and facing him, trying not to shiver at the way his eyes glide appreciatively down your exposed body. “Not that there’s gonna be anything at stake to break.”
“Of course.”
“Of course.”
“And what if?” He asks you, to which you only look at him in confusion. Sukuna takes his sweet time puffin’ on his cigarette once more before satiating your curiosity, “What if I break your heart?”
You think about it for a little bit, “I won’t cut off your balls.”
“Oh?”
“I’ll cut off your entire dick and feed it to you myself.”
The cigarette falls from his hands and onto your carpeted floor- which Sukuna hastens to put out with an uncharacteristic yelp. You guessed wrestling scholarships didn’t cover burnt-down dorm rooms, and you have to stifle a giggle at his actions.
“You-” He pants out, finally looking up after picking the scorched nub between his fingers and throwing it into your trashcan. Almost glaring those rosy eyes down at you, “You think you’re soooo funny, huh, mama?”
You chuckle, “I do.”
“Well, yer lucky you’re cute.” He grumbles to himself, at least- you think that’s what he grumbles to himself. Because the moment you’re looking at Sukuna in slight surprise, he turns his head.
You see nothing but the sharp edge of his jawline, those high cheekbones, the tips of his ears that were flushed with…the sex? Surely? Almost as if he knew what you were thinking, Sukuna brings a hand up to cover them under the pretense of scratching his sweaty undercut. “Never met anyone with this much fuckin’ audacity.”
You yelp, “H-hey!”
“Hey yerself.” And then he’s heaving himself up and digging underneath your own fucking bed as if it was his. How strange, this familiarity. The two of you had only known each other for a few weeks (though you had to admit you had spent considerable hours together) and here Sukuna was rifling through your room like nothing - you just wasn’t sure whether that was a him thing or…He’s finally pulling out—
“That- that’s my rose toy?!”
“Yeah, let’s give ‘er a spin.”
.
.
.
“I don’t know, I don’t know!” Itadori Jin’s voice echoed out from the other line, almost reaching a fever pitch in defensiveness.
Sukuna rolls his blush-red eyes, he’d been standing outside this godforsaken café on a call with his brother for what felt like hours now. With you inside and waiting. All warm. All…fucked-out—anyway! The point was that you were inside all comfortable, and he was a hulking figure looming outside some frilly café grumbling profanities underneath his breath.
In his defense, it was after one of your ‘hangouts’, alright!
It was just another day with you. After he’d pumped deep into your lungs, Sukuna just-so-happened to hear your stomach rumble in hunger. And he was the one to have suggested taking a stroll down to the lil’ café down the block. It was packed with college students, and he didn’t really care who saw - besides, bearing through the gaudy interior theme and re-play of music certainly not his taste was almost bearable for the pleasant surprise in your ears.
And the refueling, of course. The main reason he was taking you here was because (surprise, surprise!) a house full of college men didn’t quite have the nutrition needed to last a few more rounds. And Ryomen Sukuna wasn’t done with you just yet.
He just didn’t expect to have been assaulted by a phone call from his older brother the very second he’d taken a step inside. And Sukuna had told you to find a seat for the two of you, deciding to take the call outside. He knew his brother wouldn’t give up if he declined the call.
They always were alike, Sukuna and Jin.
Sure, maybe not in personality - Jin was always a bit of a goody-two-shoes, though he could hold his own in a fight. Sukuna was the one everyone said they had to watch out for.
The one that didn’t get invited to birthday parties by fearful parents, the one picked last during team sports because they said he’d start a brawl, the one visited only by his brother and his father the first time he’d ended up in the ER after a fight, the one who only had those two to cheer at his wrestling matches. Only ever those two.
Whatever.
Same rosy hair.
Same features (for the most part, at least. Sukuna’s constant trips to the gym and the ER had resulted in him having a rather more rugged look than his twin).
Same stubbornness.
They’d ended up going to different universities, with Jin attaining a scholarship for marine biology a few hours away. Which meant that family functions weren’t quite as frequent as they used to be, but he could still hear it in the man’s voice - that stubbornness.
It made the younger of the two brothers feel the heat creeping up on the back of his neck, slightly squirming as Jin admonished him—“I’m just saying that you sound happier than usual-”
“Jin.”
“And that’s a good thing!” He could practically envision the bespectacled man throwing his hands in the air, trying to hold back his smile. “Hell- Ryo, it’s a wonderful thing! You finally have someone making you happy! You’ve finally met someone special! You finally have someone in your life-”
“I don’t have trouble getting around.” He grumbles, and—well. Ryomen Sukuna isn’t quite the type to explain himself, but with his brother…
“Ryo.”
“Alright, alright!” Sukuna bursts out, and a mother nearby grabs her child by the hand and speedwalks away. “Alright, I haven’t met up with anyone else! I’ve cut off all of my ah- friends, for lack of a better word.” He could hear the smug hum of his brother, “But that’s not because it’s special or anything, it’s just because…”
Jin urges, “Go on…?”
“Because s’just convenient, alright?” He’s finally answering, “S’too much of a hassle to get fuckin’ tested after each one, so I might as well only have her in my life- ah wait, fuck, I didn’t mean it like that-”
“I knew it.” Comes the squeal, “Listen, Ryo, I just don’t want your stubbornness to get in the way of something special-”
“And I don’t want to hear yer voice- goodbye, old man.”
The ringing tone to denote that the call has ended is much more soothing than his brother’s voice, he decides. And he takes a few deep breaths before tucking his phone back in his pocket- turning it on silent mode.
He turns around to step inside and—there you are.
Dressed in that hoodie of his that he’d forgotten to take back from you. The air of someone that’d just been properly fucked. Through the glass, he sees you staring at the other people outside. He strays his gaze himself to see what you see- you’re chuckling at that little boy who skips along the pavement, you gasp at the delivery driver with a stack of boxes who almost trips, you coo at the elderly couple walking their dog. Hand-in-hand.
Sukuna looks down at his own empty hands.
Scarred and calloused.
Before he’s reaching his dominant one upwards and pushing open the swinging café doors. You look up from the booth you’d chosen for yourselves as he enters, waving him in the right direction. It was one by the window, he notices, though in the very corner of the place as if you’d wanted to hide yourself away.
Perhaps hide the two of you away.
Hm…Sukuna thinks, rubbing at his chest. And thrusting both hands into his pockets, he’s sauntering right up to you.
He’s not blind to the stares he garners from some of the other customers, and though any other time he might have thrown a stray wink or two - and honestly, nothing was stopping him now - he simply sides into the seat opposite you. “Sorry ‘bout that, mama- emergency calls.”
“Emergency?” You raise your brows in amusement, peering at the man opposite you as if you were analyzing every inch of him. And he almost couldn’t believe that just a few minutes ago, you’d been shaking and whining underneath him. “I don’t know anyone named ‘Emergency’ at our school.”
“Goes to another school.” He quips, knees bumping against yours as he stretches them out underneath the table. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous, girlie~”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
In almost no time, the waitress is bounding up to your table and jotting down your orders. He orders his coffee black, no sugar—and you roll your eyes at him.
The older woman then coos down at the little interaction, “Oh, you know we’ve got a special offer just this week in honor of our upcoming fifth anniversary? 100% off on all desserts for couples!” Her eyes wrinkle beautifully at the edges, “Would you two perhaps be…”
You open your mouth, “Oh, we’re actually-”
“Completely in love.” Sukuna interrupts you casually, his large hand settling over yours on top of the table. “Maddeningly. We’ll take one of everything for the lady and a strawberry shortcake for me, thanks.”
“Oho, you two.” She chuckles, walking off. “Ah, young love~”
You watch as she leaves—and snap your head towards Sukuna so fast that you think you may have gotten whiplash. “You-”
“It’s for the offer, don’t overthink it.” He lets go of your hand and crosses his arms. You almost miss the heat of it - was the air conditioning in this place too high? You’re sinking your hands into the sleeves of your- his hoodie, and Sukuna’s slouching in his seat. “Take it home- all the desserts, share it with your friend or whatever. It’s for you, anyway.”
“Right.” You’re not quite sure what to say- “Thank you?”
It’s a rather long and awkward silence that follows.
You attempt to break it by grasping for some shred of conversation, “So ah- is everything alright?”
He raises a pink brow in question.
And you don’t know how he manages to do it - how he manages to make your veins bubble and bolt inside of you with just a single look. “The ah- the call, I mean.” You’re squirming in your seat at his half-lidded gaze, so intense. He always looked at you with this certain fire, whether in bed or…here. “You were just out there for so long, I hope it wasn’t anything serious.”
He rests his chin on one hand and tilts his head, “Not worried about me, are you? If it was anything serious?”
“And if I was?”
“You shouldn’t.”
To which you furrow your brows in confusion, “What do you mean? Of course I’d care if something bad happened to you.”
Sukuna only holds your gaze, his expression unreadable.
He reaches a hand down his chest - right over his heart - and lightly rubs that spot. Finally looking away from you, the frat leader answers. “No- no, it’s nothing serious. Just a…friend.”
“I see.” You still.
“You said I could still have ‘friends’, right?” He asks, a note in his voice that was imperceptible. Sukuna looks at you with a meaning that you didn’t fully understand, and you’re realizing that the two of you had been leaning over the table for quite some time. “Or has that changed?”
It seems like an age before you break his eye contact, “Nothing has changed.”
Sukuna leans back in his seat, “I see.” There’s silence between you both once he reaches into his pocket and starts scrolling absent-mindedly through his phone. “Then yeah- it was a friend that called. I’ll get tested afterwards though, don’t you worry that pretty head of yours over it.”
“Good.”
A few more minutes of silence.
He can’t bear it. “Lemme eat you out in the bathroom as an appetizer before our food?”
“Be quick.”
.
.
.
“Truth or dare! Truth or dare! Truth or dare!” Utahime chants, jovial words slurring into a nearly-incomprehensible mess as she claps her hands. Messily, she’s pulling you and a few others into a haphazard circle on her bedroom floor.
All cooped up in a room that was decidedly not designed to hold this many people. The air dimmed with LED lights and cheap alcohol. Bass thumping throughout the bones of her apartment - it was a small get-together that’d turned into a large get-together that’d turned into friends of friends of friends both invited and uninvited
You swear you’d seen a few graduates sneak themselves onto the living-room-turned-dance-floor before you were being pulled into her room by your inebriated friend. One who, as the host, was deciding what the game of the night would be. “Truth or dare!”
Pronouncing, more like.
Shoko rolls her eyes, “Your ability to turn into a twelve-year-old when you’re drunk both fascinates and abhors me.”
“Jokes on you I don’t know what that word means.” Utahime sticks her tongue out, to which most of the group giggles.
“But seriously- are we twelve?”
“Fine…” Utahime grumbles, and clicks her fingers as if happening across a sudden epiphany. “Dare or drink, then!” She’s peering towards Shoko with a smug smirk, “How’s that for all adult and mature, hm?”
“That’s almost worse.”
You’re taking the opportunity to sweep a look at the (likely) players: some more of your friends, Ijichi, Haibara, Higuruma from the PhD students, a few sweet sorority girls, some strangers, one Curses Epsilon member-
Your eyes widen as you take in the long-haired man—Choso, you believe his name was.
He catches you staring and smiles at you shyly, an expression that you hope you’re returning without it looking too much like a shocked grimace.
You’d seen this very man around Sukuna sometimes, and he seemed to be one of the quieter amongst the bunch. Below Sukuna in terms of rank, certainly, they seemed to have an almost brotherly relationship that stood out to you when you looked at the group. And, listen! It’s not that you didn’t realize a member of his fraternity could attend parties - in fact, Curses Epsilon was synonymous with parties.
So you should have expected this. So you should have been prepared for this.
But the fact that he was here…a part of you couldn’t help but wonder whether that meant Sukuna was here, too…
What that meant he was doing…
Who…
You’re startled out of your little reverie by a call of your name- and to your horror, you’re realizing that you’d been staring right at Choso. The man was squirming before you, his ears tinged just the slightest rosy shade.
Heart thundering at your throat, you look away and turn back to Utahime. Slightly breathless, “Wh-what?”
“You’re up first!”
She’s pointing down at the carpeted floor, which had a glinting vodka bottle in the middle that’d been spun, it seems. Its transparent circular nozzle stares you down in an almost-accusing way and makes you shift uncomfortably—you didn’t even know that they’d begun spinning bottles yet. And whoever was to fall victim to the end of its vermicular spine was the first up for their dares.
And it just-so-happened to be you.
You gape, “I-I…”
“C’mon, c’mon! You can’t back out now-” Utahime taps her chin and pretends to think, “I dare you to—”
“Fucking hell…” You already know that this wasn’t going to end up well for you.
And just as you expected, her eyes slide over to meet another pair of eyes—dark, doe-like eyes that had been fixated on you ever since you’d been fixated on them. Subconsciously or not. She smiles as she drinks in the sheer intensity that Choso had been staring at you with, “I dare you to make out with the person sitting opposite you for ten seconds.”
Your brows furrow, “Sitting opposite…” Eyes lifting up to meet—his. “Oh.”
“Oh.” Choso’s pink lips part, the tips of his ears furiously red.
And there’s a few seconds of silence- between you two, but not the drunken students that surround you two. They erupt into cheers and wolf whistles, ribbing at a quiet Choso Kamo to get on with it.
As you stare, stunned, he peeks up at you through his long lashes. “W-would you mind?” His quiet voice was almost inaudible.
“I…don’t.” You find yourself answering, mouth moving faster than your brain can compute.
And before you know it, you’re rising to your feet and making your way to the middle of the circle. Those dark eyes widen as you draw nearer- so different from the red ones that you were used to.
Something in your stomach clenches, and you feel a strange buzz zing! throughout your entire body. You’re not sure whether you like it or not.
Choso himself starts to get closer to you, and your pulse quickens at his closing proximity. His eyes turn half-lidded as they flick to your lips and back up to your face, like he was making sure that you were okay with this. Tentative. Almost…shy. You’re admiring the tousled look of his hair, that tremble of his lips, and the way his eyeliner makes him look so soft.
You wanted to run. You wanted to kiss someone. You wanted to run. “I- I really don’t.”
Choso kisses you.
For a beat. Two.
One of his ringed hands snake upwards to grip the column of your throat, and you’re parting your lips with a moan! Fuck, you were getting wet. Just in time for him to slip in his tongue and-
CRASH! THUD!
You’re wincing at the rush of light that assaults your retinas, and as you slowly blink back your vision- you realize that there were tears in them. Because of what, you’re not too sure. But you chalk it up to the harshness of the light as your eyesight clears back up.
And then you’re seeing—oh, it couldn’t have been a figment of your imagination.
You’d never mistake that cotton-candy hair anywhere.
Sukuna was on Choso, with the other man sprawled out on the ground and the rugged wrestler on top of him. Chest heaving. Skin flushed. A vein throbbing at his neck. His entire body was rigid and honed for a fight that he knew he was going to win. He had one tattooed hand gripping the front of Choso’s shirt, and the other pulled back mid-punch.
A punch that he was frozen in.
A punch that clearly hadn’t landed yet.
From what you’re surmising of the situation, Sukuna had pulled the other man off of you by his collar. From what you’re surmising of the situation, he was all but about to attack the other man just because he was kissing—
“Ryo.” You’re starting, a hand reaching out as if to stop the fight yourself.
Any and all floatiness from the liquor had now completely dissipated from your body, and you were only left coiling in thick, unyielding tension. Surprisingly, your voice doesn’t waver. “Don’t do anything fucking stupid or god help me-”
Almost as if jolted to life by the sound of your voice, Sukuna lets go of Choso in a single, jerky movement.
Though he doesn’t speak - and you’re almost thankful for it, you don’t know what you’d say to him. Instead you’re breaking out of your little trance and pushing aside Sukuna—yes, pushing him to the side so that you can get to Choso.
Stunned, he lets you move him.
He always has.
With both hands gently placed upon either side of Choso’s handsome face, you’re inspecting him for any injuries. He flushes slightly at your touch. And - tactfully - no one nearby says a single word about it. “I’m- I’m alright.” Choso says, his tone slightly hoarse.
But you don’t give up until you’re completely and utterly sure that he’s okay. “Hm, well alright.” Finally letting up, you start to move yourself- and only then do you realize that you’d been straddling Choso’s hips. Hurrying to scramble off, “O-on behalf of him, I apologize.”
You’re lightly bowing and he stops you with a hand at your shoulder- only to glance at Sukuna and let you go as if you burned. “No, no! It’s my fault for not knowing-”
“Don’t worry.” You spare a glance at Sukuna, who had his eyes downcast and his expression revealing nothing. “There’s nothing to know.”
And that…that makes the Ryomen Sukuna flinch—
As if he’d just been stabbed.
As if the temperature in the room had dropped to freezing.
As if you’d plunged your hand right through his ribcage and torn out his heart.
But you couldn’t find it in yourself to care at his point. “Again- I’m so sorry.” Turning back to Choso, who’d been watching the exchange with side eyes - right along with half of the party that’d turned up from the living room now at the whispers of a commotion here. Especially one with the wrestling star—and over a girl at that! “And about that ah…” You gesture at his hips…the ones you’d been straddling.
Choso blushes even deeper, waving his hands in front of him frantically. “No- no, I didn’t mind! I mean- I mean, it’s alright and you don’t need to apologize! But you didn’t need to apologize anyway because I didn’t-”
“Man.” Shoko rests a hand on his shoulder, “Stop talking.”
He immediately clicks his jaw shut.
The next thing you’re doing, you don’t even know if you even fully thought it through. Because one second you’re standing up—and the next you’ve got your hand wrapped around Sukuna’s waist—and the next you’re dragging him through the packed party—
Through the crowd that turns their head to look at your unlikely duo, that turns their head to watch the gruff leader of the wrestling team be led out as if he was a naughty child.
Sukuna lets you take a few steps out of the apartment’s front door, before he’s halting in his tracks and gripping onto your waist instead. Not hard enough that it hurts, not gentle enough for you to be diverted anywhere but his one-track destination to…well, you weren’t quite sure.
“Ryo- I mean, Sukuna—” You squeal as your heels click-clack! down the stairs. You don’t pull yourself free from him, because you know he would let you. “Sukuna, I demand to know where we’re going-”
“There’s nothing to know.”
Your stomach drops.
It’s the last thing he says. The only.
And you can only follow as Sukuna draaaags you out into the night-lit street, cars lining the pavements like the straps of lingerie on a faceless body. An outstretched. A ready.
You’re recognizing the gleaming black body of his new Audi in an instant - you would anywhere, to be honest. It took up about half the street. Imposing, just like him. It always did make your heart skip a beat to see it parked outside whatever rager you were attending for the night. Just as soon as you’re registering the car, you’re having your back pushed up against it-
“What are you-” You gasp out, before his lips are on yours.
Furious. Feral. Fighting to open them roughly with his own mouth, he’s taking a single look at your prettily parted lips and spiiiiitting straight onto your tongue- before stuffin’ it with his own tastebuds, just in the way that Choso was about to mere minutes early.
You muffle out, “M-mmpf- Sukuna!”
“Ryo.” He rasps, blindly unlocking the door and pushing you into the spacious backseat. “You know m’always your Ryo.”
That night he fucks you harder, faster than any time before.
As if he was claiming every inch of you.
And you don’t end up going home for the night—no, you end up at Sukuna’s instead. And if he made you moan his name even louder than usual, well, it’s only in the morning that you realize that Choso’s bedroom was right next door.
.
.
.
Ryomen Sukuna had flowers—
An entire bouquet of red roses that he’s sure the florist ripped him off for - surely something grown out of the dirt couldn’t be that expensive?! But he did have to admit that it looked wonderful taking up more than half of his backseat—the very same backseat he’d fucked you senseless in not too many nights ago.
The two of you hadn’t seen each other properly since Utahime’s party.
What with his wrestling practices for the upcoming tournaments, and your finals rounding the corner. It’s honestly by sheer miracle that Coach Kashimo had cancelled today’s training for some reason or the other (he honestly didn’t look too closely, merely glancing at the email before driving to the nearest florist whilst texting you to ask whether you were free). And, well, here he was…
So fucking pathetic in his excitement to meet you that he’d forgotten the damned flowers in his car!
Sukuna hopes that they weren’t wilted as he struggles to put on his ripped jeans, discarded on your bedroom floor right along with the rest of his clothes. He’s looking around frantically for his t-shirt, when you glance over at him from the bed.
And he doesn’t see the flicker of hurt in your eyes.
“Leaving so soon, Ryo?”
“Uh huh.” He’s absent-mindedly responding—where the fuck where his socks? Did he even need socks just to go down to his car-
You bite down on the inside of your cheek, “Another appointment?” Another person, is what you really wanted to ask, but…
“Something important that I forgot.” Sukuna replies, looking underneath your bed and ah- there they were. He feels you sitting up on the bed, blanket clutched to your naked chest, as he sits on the mattress with his back turned and finishes dressing up. “Fuckin’ hell, can’t believe I even came up here forgetting-”
“Right.” Your tone was clipped.
“Should’ve gone down the second I remembered but-”
“Should have.”
“Because it’s mad urgent-”
“More than me.”
“I just got a little distracted, y’know?” The pink-haired man glances over his shoulder with a teasing smirk, slightly frowning at the way you turn your head away from him. Hm…he attempts to lighten the mood, “S’all your fault, girlie~”
“Sukuna.”
And that makes him slightly wither in on himself. That tone. That name. Trying to get a good look at your face, he leans towards you. “What’s wrong…?”
“I think we should end this.”
Everything.
Everything was wrong.
Ryomen Sukuna doesn’t fight your decision, Ryomen Sukuna doesn’t try to get you to explain. He lets your words sink into his being like a pebble cast out in the vast and unceasing Blue—and he lets them fester within him just as mysteriously.
He’s walking out of your dorm a hollow man.
Right up to his car, he’s taking automatic steps. Where he flings the door open and grips the bundle of stems of those- of those fucking roses.
He wants to destroy them.
Sukuna’s hand trembles as he raises them high in the air to chuck- before his peripheral vision features two familiar faces. Unbreathing, he’s turning his head jerkily to the side and staring at them—matching crows’ feet, a slow hobble, the slightly hoarse laughter between a whispered conversation. A vision so private that he almost wants to look away, he didn’t know how you did it.
It scares him how quickly he recognizes the elderly couple to be the exact same one you’d been admiring from afar that one day at the café.
It scares him.
Ryomen Sukuna doesn’t know why he hands his heartbreak bouquet to the old couple that day. But he does remember one thing - the delighted smiles on both their faces, the way the old man had so-clearly wanted to hold the blushing, beautiful flowers. But he’d given them to his wife anyway.
Seeing the young man staring, the old man had winked.
A knowing smile on his face.
“Oh dear, oh dear.” To which the sweetly older woman had reached down to pluck! two blossoms from the bouquet. And without hesitating, she’d tucked one behind her husband’s ear—and then beckoned Sukuna to lean down to tuck the last one behind his. Rosy red against lovely pink.
His eyes widen as her slightly roughened hands cup his cheek.
Humming with a smile, “You are so easy to love, my dear.”
Something in him breaks a little at that very moment.
And Ryomen Sukuna drives the entire four hours it takes him to drive to Itadori Jin’s university, to damn-near bang down his apartment door.
KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK—!
“I’m coming, I’m coming! Jeez…” His older brother’s familiar voice - stubborn, so stubborn just like his calls out from inside the apartment. He doesn’t care that it’s 2AM and Jin’s neighbors would be complaining, right now he just…really needed his big brother.
He can hear the footsteps get even closer. “Who the hell is it at this time- I swear if it’s rent then I already paid it two weeks ag-”
The door clicks open.
Jin’s face freezes in surprise—before it’s dropping at the look on Sukuna’s face.
“Oh, Ryo.”
His arms are around the taller man’s instantly.
And if Itadori Jin felt his sweater drench where Sukuna’s face rested, then he doesn’t say a word about it.
“What did I tell you about keeping your someone special, Ryo?”
.
.
.
It’s the next day when you’re waking up to an incessant knocking at your door.
It pounds like the headache you’d been sporting all night.
And you’re getting up, your eyes swollen - not just from sleep (in fact, you don’t think you slept a single wink all night) - and your movements all sluggish. Looking down, you realize that your pyjamas- Sukuna’s wrestling hoodie, was still drenched in tears. Your blinks were heavy. You felt a mess.
You barely even wanted to get out of your bed, and you don’t think you would have had it not been for the sheer ferocity of the knocks.
Were they trying to break down your damn door?!
“C-coming!” You’re coughing out, sure you had a doorbell that was going unused. Disgruntled, you’re unlocking the door and reaching for the doorknob. “Jeez, Uta, I swear this isn’t really a good time if you’re going to-”
The first thing you see is red.
Red.
Red.
Red roses.
Bouquets of it lined every inch of your dorm’s corridor, as far as your eye could see, some even piled on top of each other, the largest held between Ryomen Sukuna’s trembling hands.
And the second thing you see is, well, red again.
The blush that dusts his handsome face, rivalling his pinkish locks. Sukuna takes a half-step forwards- before he seems to think better of it and lurches right back. His thick brows furrow in sincerity, as if he just wanted to make you feel his words— “I love you.” He pants, as if he’d just run here. And it feels like all the breath has been knocked out of your lungs. “I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you-”
“Oh, Ryo.”
And it’s all the confirmation Sukuna needs to let the bouquet in his hands drop down to the floor. Rustling. Letting the blossoms be replaced with something that is, to him, far more beautiful.
He crushes you so tightly into his embrace that you almost can’t breathe - nothing but the soft strawberry scent that engulfs you whole. And you almost don’t think you need to. Not right now. “I love you.”
“You idiot.” You choke out, “You idiot- you’re so- fucking- stupid.” You punctuate your words with punches to his chest, which makes it rumble with a chuckle. “And I’m even more stupid because I…”
“Yes?” Breathless.
“I love you even more, Ryo.”
He sighs with his entire soul and collapses in on his world—you.
A few minutes later.
What feels like absolutely no time later.
You’re finding your back laid flatly against your single bed - a humble compartment in your dorm room. But now it had you sprawled out across it and reaching for your rickety headboard to hang onto dear life, Sukuna kneeled at the foot of the bed and clawing at your tear-stained sweatpants.
Pulling at it.
Tearing through it.
Your whines intermingle with the rip-rip-riiiip of fabric once he’s exposing your naked legs. You were wearing nothing underneath it, and Sukuna’s fucking groaning as he opens up your thighs to take the heavenly sight in-between.
“Fuh-fuck…” You swear you see a line of glittering drool fall down the side of his mouth, one that Sukuna’s gulping back as soon as it comes. “Holy fuck, sweetheart, how do you look even tastier every time I see ya?”
You’re huffing, unable to stop yourself. “Maybe you’re just mixing me up with-”
“Don’t say that.” And though his voice was quiet, it was stern. It meant every word he was saying, “Never say that.”
Gliding his roughened hands down the tender inner parts of your thighs- you’re shivering as you feel every line and callus from his palms. Remnants of wrestling. The softness of holding you. It makes something in your heart lurch, “I-I just-”
“You don’t need to explain yourself.” Sukuna looks away with a light blush as he cuts you off, “But I do. We have much to talk about…but the one thing I need you to know is that ever since I met you, I have never, and will never, so much as look at anyone else.”
“Ryo—” You whimper, feeling the thick crowned edges of his thumbs inch towards your drippin’ core.
“And I want you to know that m’yours.” He nudges his handsome head closer, until he could breathe in the sultry scent of your pussy. You could feel the cold breeze of his inhale- “Soul…and body.”
And then he’s lavishing his loooong tongue out to lick a wet stripe at your clothed pussy.
Sluuuuuurp—! Such a greedy taste of your cunt. Before Sukuna’s drawing his muscle back in just to do it all over again - flick after flick where you were most tender. With the tip of his tastebuds he’s outlining your glistening crevice, and pinpointing them right where the knob of your clit was located.
You’re twitching as you feel him enter his lengthy tongue juuuust underneath the drenched fabric of your panties, before fishing it back out whenever he feels he got too close to your pussy.
“P-please-” You’re grabbing onto Sukuna’s head of pink hair, trying to move him even closer. “Want you even closer- stop teasing now.”
He rolls his eyes rudely, “Teasing? You think this is me teasing, sweetheart?” And before you can register it, he’s reeling his tongue all the way back into his mouth. Leaving your poor cunt all throbbing and completely untouched. “This is me teasing.” As you buck your hips pathetically with the desire for his ridged texture, “What I was doin’ earlier was just savoring, mama.”
You throat was thick with need, “But- but what is there to savor-”
“What the fuck are ya talking about?” One of his pink brows raise.
“I mean-” You hasten to explain, your entire body radiating pure heat and need. “You’ve already had me like this before-”
“Oh—” And suddenly, the most lecherous smile plasters across his attractive face - already slicked with copious amounts of wadded slick that sticks to him like some sort of adhesive. “Girlie, you don’t even know the half of what m’capable of.”
And before you know it—Sukuna’s rugged fingers come down to spank! right on top of your pussylips.
Before you know it, he’s clasping the side of your ass cheeks and flipping you right over as if you weighed nothing more than a feather. With one finger hooking onto your panties- you can distinctly sense when the wrestler seems to think better of it and instead bites his pearly white canines down on your soaked underwear.
You’re muffling out with your face pushed into your pillows, “Wh-what are you-”
Before he’s teeeeeeearing your panties right down with nothing but his mouth.
Exposing your quivering pussy all for him to see, smearin’ apart your folds with both his thumbs. He takes a few seconds to admire the slick that splashes out of your entrance, before spitting vertically down your slit.
Simply to add onto the mess.
It’s the only warning you’re getting before Sukuna completely surges in and shoves himself nose-deep between your puffy folds. Just the tip of his nose drags down the middle of your cunt from behind, and before you know it- his tongue is zig-zagging at your hole wiiiiiildly—
He’s like a madman. He’s like a man starved.
Gulping at the excess of your leaking sap and then munching himself even close to lap at the dewdrops of slick just about to fall out of you. They don’t even have to be pouring out of you for your greedy Sukuna to be gluing himself to your cunt.
Shovelling his tongue even deeper.
And when your tight orifice can’t take any more of him, he’s grunting out into your cunt and spitting.
“Fuck.”—He’s clenching his jaw and spitting out once more at the slight resistance of your hole. Just the way that Sukuna’s wet muscle was oh-so-thick, and he kept having to pry apart your pussy folds even further just to inch inside. Until you’re shivering at the feeling of his knobbly tastebuds dragging down your walls, “C’mon c’mon c’mon- just fucking take it my girl, I know you want to.”
“I swear your tongue got even bigger, Ryo-”
Your velvety walls close in on him, keeping his slippery tongue hostage while he only tries to ebb even deeper. He’s clenching his jaw at the slight resistance of your tight hole. “S’only been a day and she’s forgotten me this much?”
Fisting at the pillows, “I didn’t, it’s just you’re too big.”
“Appreciate the flattery, mama.” You could feel his grin against your softened flesh. “But it’s my fault.”
Instinctually, you’re raising your head off of the spit-drenched pillows to ask just what he meant-
“But I guess I hafta eat her out so she remembers this time, hm?”
But you didn’t have to ask for the answer.
You didn’t even have to think—honestly, you don’t think you can even, well, think by the time he’s got a hold of you.
Because Ryomen Sukuna was going to do well on his promise—Ryomen Sukuna was going to do well on all his promises.
He was latching one ruthless hand onto the side of your hips and manhandling your hips to start gyratin’ down onto his open maw. Angling you in just the right position so that his swollen lips can latch onto your throbbing clit-
“Bet’cha didn’t know that m’a good multitasker.” He’s gurgling out, wads of slick n’ spittle clogging up his throat. And the thing was—Sukuna didn’t care how much he had to suffocate on your pussy, he fucking loved that shit.
“I-I don’t think I did.” You’re replying.
“And bet’cha didn’t know that I- fuck, I can reach in so deeeeeep.” The large muscle of his tongue swipes in so deeply inside of you- you can’t even fully comprehend whether he’d plunged inside all the way up to his chin because of how dumb he was fucking you.
Rough, hard strikes at all your most delicate spots inside.
Finishing off with the most sinful noises - it’s like the deeper he gets, the louder those noises get. “Bet’cha didn’t know that I r-reach yer- hah, g-spot this fast, hm?”
You’re furrowing your brows. Sure, you were slowly getting more and more dazed on his cock - but surely you weren’t that mindless that you wouldn’t notice? “Wait, but I don’t think you ever actually—oh.”
And then you’re feeling it.
And you’re realizing that Sukuna had timed it precisely for the middle of your sentence, when he can hear the effects of you stumbling and falling apart on his very tongue.
Mazing all the way inside as if searching for treasure, his thorough inches are spreading out your walls so well. Not leaving a single crevice unturned, a single drivelling orifice, a single bundle of nerves- that he’s honing in on and darting straight against.
Pushing down on the area of your g-spot, you’re suddenly jolted by the electricity of your pleasure. He snickers, “There it is.”
Crying out, “Th-that’s just mean, Ryo.”
“Th-th-that’s just mean.” Mocking, in a lilting pitch that was most certainly not reminiscent of your own. With a tough roll of his eyes, he’s only unfastened his maw to take you even deeper from behind. “Bet’cha didn’t know that I could be meeeeean—fuckin’ meaner than you even even thought.”
“I-I think I know too well.” Or so you claim - but shit, Sukuna had never eaten you out like this before.
With his pointed chin jutting against the base of your treacly cunt, and his nose curving against your slit. Sukuna isn’t just thrusting his tongue inside you, he’s also making sure to flick and linger his tastebuds into any orifice he knew you were fragile at.
Again. Probing.
Again and again and again.
And with a smug chuckle, Sukuna claims. “Bet’cha didn’t know that I could go reeeeeal fast.” Until you’re hanging your head down to stare between your slick-sheened legs and all you could see was a pink blur intruding at your folds. “Or reeeeeeal slow.”
“F-fuck, that feels so good.” Your back arches into the perfect curvature when his velveteen tongue starts slowing down into an agonizing pace.
It was just so slow that you could feel each line and crevice of his rows of tastebuds, and just so thorough that speckles of your syrup were darting from your orifice and splattering! down onto the mattress. It starts forming a puddle on the sheets beneath you- one that Sukuna was certain not to go to waste.
His free hand skids down the insides of your thighs, layering his fingers in a thin glaze of your pussy’s slick. And whence his fingertips were all done and coated, the pink-haired man was raising them up to his mouth and sucking the sweetness off.
Not. A. Single. Drop. Wasted.
With a groan, he’s not letting his time go to waste, either. And he’s back funneling your snug channel with his tongue—in and out, in and out, in and out. “Take yer pick- s’all for you, mama.”
“Sh-shit, but I like both.” You didn’t even know whether he was talking to you or your pussy by this point - but you were too gone on his tongue to even care. Slightly bucking your hips into his mouth, “But I- ngh, do like it a bit better when you go…faster…”
A sudden spank down on your clit once more, “Atta girl.”
Nose pressed up against your slit, tongue lashing ruthlessly inside.
Ruthlessly.
If you thought you were ruined on the movements of his tongue just earlier, then this sudden sloppy cadence has you seeing fucking stars.
The gooey end of his tongue swabs against every tender spot at your innards, somehow forking at your luscious g-spot and attempting to reach even deeper. Perhaps your cervix. Perhaps your womb. And Sukuna’s permanently patterning his tastebuds against your walls. Swirling and swirling and swirling right on time with the caresses at your clit.
He didn’t care how much you bucked and trembled at the sheer pleasure of it, the frat leader’s fingernails dig deep into your flesh every time you lurch away.
“Ah ah-” Only to be hauled back down in mere seconds by one of his strong arms. Back and forth, back and forth, baaaack and forth. With an unceremonious squelch! your pussy’s being plastered back down onto his mouth. And Sukuna tongues your folds back open to start jutting in between your lips, “Don’t- haaaah, fuck, don’t fucking run away…how m’I supposed to eat out my girl’s pussy if yer fucking running away?”
“I don’t know, you’ve never- hck!” Before you can open your mouth with your next few words, Sukuna’s showing you what it means to be his girl.
To have his knobbly fingertips pinch at your clit and start drawing—“H-heh…can ya spell it?” He rovers his thumb even harder on top of it like a button, “Bet’cha didn’t know I could do that. Spell it. Or are ya fucked dumb on m’mouth already?”
You’re replying crossly, “M’not fucked-”
“Then spell it.”
With a pitiful moan, you’re throwing your head in a downward direction to try and see exactly what he was-
Smack!
Yet another mean swatting on top of your puffy pussylips, and Sukuna’s tutting against them. It was as if his lips were glued to your pussy using the slick adhesive of your juices, and he didn’t want to detach himself even to speak—even to speak. “Ah ah- no cheating now, mama. Noooo cheating.”
“Fuh-fuck—” He angles his fingertips as if he was about to strike you once more. “Fine- I meant fine! The first letter is, mmm…”
“Yeeeees?” Drawling out.
And your pupils are swirling in time with the sultry motions of his digits. It was a pattern that makes every hair on your body stand on end - too curly to be a particularly pointy letter like ‘A’ or ‘K’ and yet not even half as curly to have been an ‘S’ that might mean his name. “Is it…R?”
“Atta girl.” Yet he plants another slamming of his fingertips that makes you throw your head back and whine, “Whoops- accident, sweetheart, accident.”
“F-fu—” Fuck you, is what you meant to say.
But Sukuna’s roughly bashin’ away at your sweetest orifice a few more times, leaving a big bruise against the side of your walls with his tongue. And it simply leaves you speechless, “Mmmm, nope! The next letter isn’t ‘F’, try again.”
“Y—!” You’re bawling out, your jaw falling agape at the sheer incredible speed at which he was drawing out all those whines and noises. It was simply unbearable in the best way. Unbearable.
You could tell that he had so-very-clearly been holding back at your previous…hangouts. And you could feel the burning sensation of bliss start up at the pit of your stomach, “And is the rest of the word ‘Ryomen’?”
“Mmm, three correct.” He answers, to which your hazy mind guesses that the first letters were R-Y-O…“Quite the sneaky lil’ thing, aren’t you? And ah- here’s a little hint, this next one’s an apostrophe.”
“Fuuuuuck, m’close.” You’re whimpering out in response- and his response, he’s only slashing at your g-spot at a faster rhythm. Only plucking at your tender clit—“S, and the next letter is- ngh, P.”
“Good, goooood—”
“U.” You gulp, and you’re unsure whether it was because of your oncoming high or because a lecherous part of you already suspected what the rest of what he was writing may be. “S…S…” Your entire body shivers, limbs unravelling - and you’re not quite sure whether you’d make it until the end of-
Your lips wobble as you try to enunciate, “Ryo’s pussy…”
“That’s my girl.”
You’re seeing a split-second of flashing lights before you’re suddenly pushed onto your high - hard, overtaking waves of pleasure that leave you all boneless against Sukuna’s eating mouth. But that worked just alright for him- he’d simply white-knuckle onto the side of your hips and lavish your tight entrance with his entire tongue.
Probing, again and again.
The cushy edge of his tongue swipes forwards to strike your g-spot right on time with the peaks of your euphoria. Like a perfect button for him to press on and increase your pleasure until you were simply shaking, “And my girl feels so goooood on her Ryomen’s mouth, doesn’t she?” He pants, fingers pinching your clit now and rolling between the roughened pads of his index and thumb. “Feels so nice cumming on Ryo’s tongue- bet’cha didn’t know it could feel this good, huh, sweetheart?”
Furiously shaking your head, “Didn’t- didn’t know- hck!”
And with a few more moans you’re just splashin’ your clingy wads all down Sukuna’s throat, all across his handsome lower half. “Ooooo- aaaaaatta girl—”
“C-can’t stop cumming.” You shake, tears sparkling at the edges of your eyes. “It just feels so good-”
“Leave some for m’cock, alright?”
But he was the one that wasn’t leaving anything, that wasn’t showing you any mercy.
Even once the sparks of your startling orgasm have bated, he’s plunging his wide tongue in and out. Scouring the inside and outside of your treacly pussy. Licking up every single ounce of slick sploshed down your front.
Dripping wet.
Only once you’re well and thoroughly overstimulated does Sukuna actually falter his movements, “Mmmm, there ya go, girlie~” He’s pulling his prolonged muscle out of your hole with a sloppy squeeeeeelch! He looks down at your mindlessly clenching pussy and admires his handy-work. “And now for the real deal.”
“Th-that wasn’t the real deal?” You’re asking through a whimper.
“That? That was just my appetizer, y’know?” The pink-haired man snickers at his own joke - though it really didn’t sound like a joke to you.
You attempt to flip yourself over- but Sukuna keeps you firmly in place with a hand at your hips. “Ah ah- don’t you think of running from me. Not now. Not ever.” And while you’re still draped across your front on the bed like this, Sukuna’s starting to tug off your hoodie—
Before he realizes just which one it is - his, his name on the back - and he stops immediately.
“Actually…” Sukuna stands, and you know that tone of voice didn’t bode anything good for you. “Why don’tcha keep it on, hm?”
Instead, he’s the one that’s stripping now.
That skin-tight shirt.
Those baggy pants.
Those boxers that were—oh.
Your eyes widen, “Is it just me or did…grow even bigger since last time, Ryo?”
“Mmm- why don’t we ask my pussy about it later, hm?”
And with that said, you’re getting to turn around and admire all of Ryomen Sukuna’s toned, tanned muscles. They ripple as he discards his clothes somewhere over his shoulder, making those tattoos of his look as though they were moving by themselves.
Greedily, your eyes follow the circles on either of his deltoids. The snake-like patterns down his pecs. The rings around his beefy biceps. The rings around his wrists. All the way down to the rings around either of his meaty thighs.
Shyly, you’re realizing that you’d skipped over one spot in particular.
And you drift your eyes back up—Sukuna’s erection was hard and hot between his legs. The most furious red at his mushroom tip that made him look as though he was so achingly needy he might as well fall off.
That you might as well count each one of his throbs.
Biting down on your lower lip, you’re impatient as you follow a bead of milky pre that dollops on top of his thick tip. Smearing just a bit. Travelling down, down, dooooown the veiny length of his shaft- until it ends up at the unruly tufts of pink at his base.
His tattooed base.
One more ring around his hilt, and next to that—you gasp.
“Oh…oh my god.” Without a second thought, you’re leaning in to get a closer look at that irritated patch of skin next to Sukuna’s v-line. And if your eyes weren’t deceiving you - that part of his skin had a swirling black calligraphy of none other than your fucking name on him. “Don’t tell me you’ve-”
“I did.”
You gape up at him, “Ryomen Sukuna, you’re fucking crazy-”
“I know.” He shivers as you reach out to touch it. Sukuna was fully unclothed now and prowling towards you on the bed, like a predator closing in on his prey. “But I couldn’t just name that pussy of yours ‘Ryo’s pussy’ and not contribute my part, too, could I? I had to show my dedication too, mama.”
“But putting it permanently on your skin-”
“Is the best decision I’ve ever made.”
You knew there was no talking him out of it, and Sukuna’s eagerly smoothing his calloused palm on top of your stomach. Caressing you. Drinking you in with his eyes.
Flipping you onto your stomach once more-
“Now face down, ass up- I wanna fuck my girl right.”
You’re barely managing to let your sweaty scalp hit your pillow before Sukuna suddenly has his obtuse tip squeezed between your pussylips and pushing and pushing—
“Oh—” Your eyes are scrunching as tight as they could close, and the only thing you can do is utterly melt into Sukuna’s carnal desire. You don’t think you’d ever get used to his sheer size. “Oh my god- oh my fucking- ngh, I always love h-how you feel-”
“For now-” And it’s a damn miracle that the man could speak - especially when your tender walls were squeezing him like that. “F-for now just pretend it’s the first time.”
Did he just stutter? What was he even…“Wh-what- oh.” You’re being shut up by Sukuna’s rugged, ravenous tip once more. He’s swabbing every treacly spot of your insides without even trying - simply just attempting to fit and fit and fit—
“Just- hah- just pretend s’the first time.” He kisses his lips to his teeth, both clammy hands plastered onto the side of your hips to help him funnel his massive cock inside.
His flared slit lodges against the roof of your cunt, and you’re arching just so beautifully into him- that he can’t help but lean down and bite at the side of your throat. Humming in satisfaction at the way the marking is just covered by his hoodie, it gives him the courage he needs to say those next few words. “Pretend s’just you and I. Pretend s’our first time- ngh.”
“You mean to say—oh.” You’re dizzy on the way his honed tip was perfectly opening up your hidden spots, and every time he’s reeling his hips back it’s just a constant back and forth. “Don’t think I even knew I had a spot there…”
“Good- good, jus’ like that.” He grunts out, holding you even tighter to his muscular body. “Pretend s’like we’ve never fucked before. You’re my girl- always have been. M’your Ryo- always have been. Always will be.”
“A-always will be-”
“And right now s’our first time, I’ve never fucked you before- oh, forget about all those fucking times in my room and in the car.” He whispers out, something desperate cracking primally at the back of his throat as he eases his way inside. “S’our time now—and I get to finally, finally fuck you as mine.”
All his.
And you’re finding that when Sukuna’s fucking you as just his…it means he’s so much more ravenous than you’ve ever known him to be.
So much more ruined.
So much more out-of-control—
It’s like he’s truly realized his full potential. “Since yer mine I get to- hah! stop you from running from my cock whenever I like.” Hauling you down like a ragdoll with both hands on your waist, you shrill at the slamming contact of his hips against your hips. His thighs against the backs of your thighs. His large cockhead against your ready cunt. “I get to fuck you raw for the first time. I get to fuck you so much- s-so fucking much n’ I don’t even have to worry about the marks I leave.”
“What marks?”
A slam so hard that you swear you can feel the globular end of his shaft right near your throat—“These marks.”
And you’re almost about to repeat your question in search of an answer once more- before you’re realizing what exactly Sukuna means.
Marks.
The marks he was leaving on every gooey orifice inside your cunt, on the globes of your ass being pummeled by his hips, on the sides of your body under the mercy of his grip.
Using that very same grip, he’s folding you on all fours underneath him. Tighter and tighter. Closer and closer to his hulking body. Before your muddled brain can register it, Sukuna’s reaching over his meaty right leg to plant right on top of your sweaty scalp.
Yes—on top.
The heel of his foot ends up on your head, and your eyes snap open in- perhaps shock, perhaps at the sheer audacity of him. You jolt.
“Ah ah-” The only thing you hear before one of his hands clasp ‘round the cottony fabric of your hoodie and tugs it down - it seems that your sudden lurching movement had made his uniform bunch up by your head.
And the famed wrestler wasn’t just bringing it down to take a good look at your pretty self. No—he was also bringing it down to read the name - his name - emblazoned across your back and jostling to and fro while you were being fucked by his ruthless hips. “Theeeeere we go, gotta rep the name, mama. Especially the first time.”
“Rep the set? You’re already fucking me- ngh, senseless.”
“And yet I already get to have you- fuck, wear this f’me. My girl. My lovely, lovely girl.” His toned figure leans down and he’s sloppily kissing at the name.
His name—fuck, how he loved this position. That was why he’d purposefully chosen it, to have his name peak up at him as he ploughed himself into you like a madman. Grunting out once your sopping lips squeeze him at the stretch, “The girl with my- hck! last name-”
“Ryo!”
“Whoops- too soon?” He doesn’t even sound the least bit regretful. And you can’t even answer, because then he’s only fucking your surprised whines out of you, “Mmm, and don’t forget that I also get to do- heh, this.” And as if it was even possible, his vicious hips accelerate their tempo against you. “I get to do whaaaatever I want with my girl’s pretty pussy- ah, apologies, my pretty pussy just to fit my thick cock inside.”
“I-inside-” You mindlessly babble out, “Want it inside-”
“Yeah? Want it all the way until my tattoo? Never been fucked like this before, have ya?”
Well, he has fucked you like this before. But that coherent part of you realizes that that wasn’t exactly the answer that Sukuna wanted right now—“No- no, never. You’re the first to fuck me like this, Ryo, mmm.”
“Good.”
Whether he was praising you for keeping up with his conversation - or whether he was praising you for taking his cock until he’s bottoming out - you’re not quite sure. Either way, the curly pink hairs at his base finally reach your folds—and they scritch-scratch at your pussy in such a carnal way you never knew you needed.
As he’s fully inside of you, the wrestling superstar hunches his entire body over and shivers. And pants. And throbs his entire length deeply inside of you in a way that makes your head pound with a rapid ba-thump! Ba-thump! Ba-thump!
“H-here….” One of his hands lifts off of your hip to caress down the front of your stomach. Sukuna feels for where his swollen tip was pulsating against your womb, and presses doooown against that lil’ bump. “S’my first time kissin’ my girl over here, isn’t it?”
“It- it is—”
And Sukuna truly is fucking you like it’s the first time - he’s fucking you like he’s angrier he didn’t have you earlier, he’s fucking you like he’s making up for all the lost time.
Just roughened, piercing bashes against your g-spot- he doesn’t even have to try to locate that bruised n’ battered little area on your channel. The rounded orifice of it gets pummeled by his shaft, and you’re seeing stars due to the sheer pressure of him. “It feels so- ngh- fuck.” You could barely even string together a sentence, head feeling all airy.
“Feels soooo—?”
“I don’t- I don’t even…” He doesn’t even have to be fully inside to let his curvaceous tip poke into your cervix. Purposefully angling his hips, Sukuna’s rub-a-dubbing the door to your womb with his puckered tip. “Th-think m’cockdrunk, Ryo.”
And if you were in any better state of mind, maybe you’d have noticed the way that his rude cadence seemed to stutter. “C-cockdrunk?”
Nodding through your tears, “I am, I am—oh.”
But of course, never let Ryomen Sukuna be known as the man that doesn’t take care of his cockdrunk partner.
Never.
Because in a split-second, he’s lifting his rude foot off of your head and you jolt at the sudden rush of blood to your scalp. “Oh- oh my…”
Only mere moments of mercy before you feel your entire limp body be hoisted off of the mattress.
Your eyes damn-near bulge out of your scalp, and you’re flailing at the feeling before- “Shhh, shh sh- be a good girl f’me before you make me put that foot atop your head again, mama.” Sukuna grunts, and suddenly you’re feeling one of his strong arms look around your neck.
You could feel all those developed biceps of his bulging against your throat once Sukuna cradles your neck and squeeeeezes. Spittle flowing out of you and down his veiny forearm like a fountain, “D-did you just put me in a fucking- ngh, headlock?!”
“Mhm.” He shows absolutely no remorse, “And I don’t hear her complaining.”
In fact, he could only hear the most sopping wet squelches emanating from your cunt.
And so Sukuna keeps holding you in this treacherous headlock whilst he’s pummeling you from behind. All those veiny inches of his cock being slurped right up between your pussy lips. Again. And again. And again and again and again—
It feels like hours have passed before you’re jolting at the sudden feeling of Sukuna’s warm fingertips slithering down between your sheeny legs once more. Your clit throbs like it’d missed his touch- and never one to leave you wanting more anymore, he’s twisting his rugged fingers on the nub.
Letting the patterned edges of his digits start twistin’ and turning that swollen knob in his hand. Your cunt squelches out a wet splash of slick at the sudden pleasure, “I-it just feels so good-”
“I know.” Sukuna hums, all smug with himself. “She’s told me- heh, think about thaaaat—I get ta speak with her for the first time tonight.” Before you can say anything else, he dips his head down to look at your cunt from underneath you and coos. “Hey, girlie, how are ya~?”
“Y-you’re unbelievable-” And yet he’s rovering his thumb all over your clit in a way that just has you gasping for more, and your cunt squelching out even louder.
“Mmm, m’doing good, thanks for asking.” He continues…a fucking conversation with your pussy. And at your widened stare, he shrugs. “What? M’only having a chat with- hah, my pussy. Wha’s wrong with that?”
“N-nothing…” You suppose.
“Exactly.” And then he times the ministrations of his thick thumb just right to roll over your clit in synchronization with his cock. You’re feeling one incredible thud! at your g-spot, and then you’re feeling another drag on your clit. This time…a pattern that you’re finding strangely familiar- “Can you spell, mama?”
“Are you asking—” Smack! A rude spank on your cunt, “F-fuck…”
“Apologies ‘bout that. S’my first time with you, remember? And I hafta get to know you. Get to do this.” He hums, and it’s not to you anymore. He’s completely and utterly devoted to keeping all his concentration on giving your pussy the utmost pleasure possible - from two different places of origin. “So about that spelling—”
“Fuck, Ryo, what are you trying to…”
This time, he’s not cutting you off. This time you’re trailing off out of your own volition, your ears listening for the sequences of letters that Sukuna calls out.
A sequence that sounds oddly familiar.
A sequence that spelled out your name.
He drag-drag-draaaaags your clit and it lets out a particularly loud lecherous sound that the larger man beams at, “Mmm, exactly. Perfect pronunciation and all- now let’s see if you can spell the rest.” And without further ado, Sukuna’s expert fingertips start outlining a different set of letters on your throbbing clit.
Making you shake with pleasure, “W-wait that spells…” Silently mouthing along.
S—he’s accelerating the thumps all the way at the back of your cervix, until you’re feeling dizzy.U—K—just the sheer amount of tears that streamed down your cheeks already told you that you were getting close to your high. U—
Your eyes widen, “Y-you’re not seriously-”
“Shhhh.”
N—but oh, he was. As if he was reading off of that sports hoodie on your back. And he was letting you tremble uncontrollably in the aftermath of his constant strikes and thumps at your greedy orifice, drilling into you with a hunger that never satiates. A hunger that tells you he’s wanted to do this for a long, long time. A—
You whisper what exactly it spelled out.
Your name, with the last name of-
“-Sukuna.” The man himself finishes off, before leaning down to leer at your drivelling cunt. The very same that was slurping and squelching away maddeningly at your gushing slick—“S’gonna be your name very soon, my girl.”
You don’t quite know which one of you he’s talking to - you or your pussy.
But you don’t quite care at this moment, either. Because in almost no time, you’re bursting into your nth high of the night - it’s no longer simply your second anymore.
Because as soon as you’re crashing into the white-hot wave of your second, you’re plummeting into your third. Your fourth. Your fifth. Seemingly dragged out of you as if it was oh-so-easy by none other than Sukuna’s ruthless cock.
You shake as it explodes through you, harder than any other orgasm you’ve experienced in your entire life.
Toes curling.
Lashes staining with tears.
The only thing you can do is arch your back into Sukuna’s sculptured one and let him thoroughly bash you through your zaps of euphoria. Over and over.
He lets his veiny shaft glide down your gooey insides, caressing every inch of you that seemed to explode with pleasure any time he was pistoning into you. “Yeah-” He grunts, feeling you uncontrollably clench around him. “Yeah, yeah, yeah- cum around my cock, sweetheart. Only around my cock—” His headlock on you tightens, “-got it?”
“Got it-” You babble out stupidly, your cheek slipping along the sheen of saliva you’d created on his forearm. “I got it, I got it- but…”
One pink brow raises, “But…?”
“But I also want you to do o-one thing f’me.”
He nuzzles the crook of your neck, “Anything.”
“Cum inside?”
And, well, Sukuna did say ‘anything’—didn’t he?
Because with a few more vulgar thrusts, the infamous frat leader is tipping his head back and emptying himself out inside you. You could feel the way that his thiiick balls clench from behind you, each of those wadded webs of ivory sap being poured out into you.
Each and every single one.
Stuffed and stuffed inside of you.
Your eyes roll to the back of your head as you take in the second skin that he’s layering on top of your insides. Something so warm and filthy feeling heavy inside of your orifice—fuck, you’re discovering that a primal part of you loved the feeling.
It sploshes! out into your deepest depths and create a lil’ puddle that you can feel even at your cervix. Just swirled around by his thickened tip, “C-cumming—” The man rasps out, voice botched with a primal sort of hoarseness. He stutters as he cums. He shakes as he cums. Crimson eyes shuttering at the most blissful feeling in the world, spurting his seed inside your needy pussy. “And then there’s that- hah! I get to cum inside you for the f-first time…”
And it really was the first time he was filling you up like this. All the way up to the brim and fucking those pearly beads of cum right back inside you, “Kinda- ngh, always wan’ you to cum inside me.”
He pecks the side of your temple, hips still shifting filthily. “Hey then we’re gonna have a- mmm, mini-Sukuna before you’re even Mrs. Sukuna, girlie.”
“M-maybe I don’t mind…” Bucking your hips back into his for more friction.
“Talkin’ outta that pussy, I see.”
With yet another sudden spank! on top of your sultry folds, you’re being flipped over once more and stuffed right back up to your womb with Sukuna’s thickened inches. All of them shoved right up until you can feel them at your very throat- “We might have to dumbify her too, I’m afraid.”
“S’gonna be a long night.” You’re commenting with a shiver.
Sukuna grins, “How’d you spell ‘the first of many’?”
.
.
.
The tournament was in an uproar by the time you’re running into the stands.
Well, more bowing and apologizing as you scramble to your seat past rows of other supporters- but you stand by it nonetheless. You’re letting out a pant of relief as you finally plop unceremoniously down onto the only empty chair in the stands, placing down your bag and pulling on the collar of Sukuna’s wrestling hoodie in an attempt to fan yourself.
“You’re late, my dear.” Utahime hisses from the row behind you, flipping off the middle-aged man that grumbles at her.
“I know, I’m sorry!” You whisper back - ah, so that’s where they were. A few more rows behind her were some of the Curses Epsilon brothers - including Choso - that you had been starting to get to know, little by little. They wave happily at you and you wave back with a grin. You’d been wanting to get seats next to all of them, but it seems they’d filled up faster than you’d hoped.
At the very least you were lucky to have your friends so close by you, and you’re shooting them an apologetic smile - after all, you were the one that’d bugged your two best friends to join you watching Sukuna’s wrestling match. You mouth, “Whole story. Explain later.”
“Traffic?” Shoko asks from next to your purple-haired friend, looking up from her anatomy textbook. For what reason she had that, you weren’t quite sure…and you weren’t brave enough to ask, either.
Choosing the short story, you’re nodding at her suggestion.
You’d run all the way here, truth be told.
Sukuna was already halfway through his final match of the tournament, one more and he’d win this collegiate title. And though a part of you was upset that you’d missed out on so much (sure, you could watch them later on the recordings, but it was the principal that counted!), it made you so-very-proud to see so many of the recruiters with their eyes locked on Sukuna and Sukuna only.
Your boyfriend of just shy of a month.
You couldn’t blame them—fuck, you just wished you hadn’t had to wait so long at the dry cleaner’s! Apparently there had been some sort of mix-up that’d resulted in you being quite delayed while you actually waited to claim the hoodie you knew and loved too much.
Sure, it’d been slightly stained from some of last nights…activties (somewhat of a good luck ritual, he claimed, though you knew what he really wanted to do was fuck you in the hoodie with his name), but beloved nonetheless!
Anyways—after falling behind your schedule, you’d been hit by traffic, and then there was the issue of actually trying to navigate the stadium, and then- well, here you were!
Evidently, it seems that Sukuna is sensing the same thing.
Because in the middle of an ankle lock, Sukuna’s crimson eyes flick upwards towards the stands- and they’re meeting yours instantly.
A charged tension only the two of you could feel.
Squirming slightly in your seat at the intensity of his stare, his realization, you give him a wave.
In mere split-seconds, Sukuna has the other man slammed down onto the floor and his sweaty body struggling to even move. You cheer, that had to have at least been two points.
“We’re lucky you’re here, my dear.” Utahime leans down to whisper to you. “You won’t believe what that boyfriend of yours was like before the game- moping around, calling you, staring longingly at his phone wallpaper of you—eugh! I didn’t even know that a man of that size and strength could act like a lost puppy.” She shudders.
Shoko states plainly, “What she means to say is that your boyfriend missed you.”
And you’re just about to open your mouth to answer- when right beside you, a jittery voice speaks up.
“P-pardon me.” The three of you turn your heads in the direction of the man that’d been seated to your left, you hadn’t paid much attention to him considering the frantic state you’d been in when you first got here. “Did you say ‘boyfriend’?”
And now, you almost wished you did.
Because the man beside you looked exactly like Sukuna only…softer. Quieter. Calmer. With an air about him that told you that perhaps he was the type that grew up with quite a bit of responsibility. He wore a sweater with the shapes of some marine animals sewn into it. He didn’t have any of Sukuna’s tattoos or the chiselled look of a recent athlete or the gruffness he wore like a cloak - but the resemblance was uncanny.
The bespectacled man adjusts his glasses and your jaw drops—this must be his older brother that he told you so much about! “You must be his girlfriend that he’s told me so much about.”
“Y-yes!” You snap out of your little reverie at his words, and you’re immediately reaching out your hand for a handshake. “You must be his older brother, Jin?”
Jin pulls you in for a hug, sighing out against you. “Thank you so much for taking care of him.”
“No- not at all! The pleasure’s all mine, and he’s the one that takes care of me most of the time.” You’re sheepishly admitting, “Thank you for taking care of him all this time, I know he looks up at you so much.”
The other pink-haired man blushes, scratching behind his neck. “W-well I wouldn’t say that…” He glances to his left, “Oh! And silly me- I forgot to introduce you to our father.”
You’re beaming at the gruff old man seated next to Jin, a furrow between his brows that you could’ve recognized anywhere on his younger son. “It’s a pleasure to meet you!”
The introductions between you and Sukuna’s family go swimmingly (if there was a wrestling alternative then you’d have said it), and you’re finding that they were the absolute sweetest. Jin was soft and compassionate, the polar opposite of Sukuna and yet so similar to him at his deepest core. Wasuke was more like Sukuna on the outside, and you swear you could feel your sides splitting at the quips he’d comment about his son while you all watched the match.
Eventually, the three of you along with your friends in the latter rows are chatting up so much of a storm that you almost don’t notice—“He’s about to win.”
At the sound of your voice, the rest of your group looks over at the ringed boundaries of the match.
Instantly, you’re all up on your feet and cheering at the top of your lungs.
All of you.
Jin and Wasuke.
Shoko and Utahime.
The Curses Epsilon boys.
You.
And when Ryomen Sukuna finally defeats his tough opponent, you can’t decide which one of you cheered the loudest.
But what you do know is that he’s sauntering up past the boundary the minute his win is announced - all sweat-streaked and spitting out his mouth guard, all panting and toned with his muscles, all uncaring whether or not his coach is talking to him right now.
He doesn’t care
He doesn’t care.
Sukuna’s breaking into a sprint once he sees you getting off the stands—and scoops you into his arms whilst you yelp in delight.
You knew you must look such a sight, you and this hulking man.
You feel him bury his face into the crook of your neck, whispering. “Could you all have been any louder?” And you could feel the way his face burns against your skin.
“What- the King of the Court fan club?” You’re innocently questioning, “Yes, that is our name and you can thank Jin for that. And no, we don’t show signs of stopping any time soon- we actually plan on expanding to the rest of the campus by the end of semester-”
He peeks up at the group behind you, here just for him - his brother and father, your friends, his fraternity brothers - and groans. And you can only laugh.
“You all are insufferable.” Sukuna says, baritone dramatically pained. “Especially you.”
Synopsis. To Geto Suguru it’s the Creature, The Strongest being in existence, his masterpiece of science. To you he’s Gojo Satoru, the poor experiment you found chained up in the scientist’s dungeon, the creation that taught himself how to love. To him he doesn’t know who he is, but he knows where he belongs - with you.
Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem!reader, Creature!Gojo, Frankenstein!Geto, based on Guillermo del Toro’s Frankenstein, PLOT, 1800’s, worldbuilding, love triangles (Gojo x reader x Geto), angst, vioIence, bIood, backstories, accidentally falling in Iove, oraI (fem rec.), PÚSSYDRÚNK Gojo, spítting, face-ríding, fíngering, teaching him, first times (Gojo), he’s BIG, tummy buIges, cervíx kíssin’, making it fit, BRÉEDING, matíng presses, raw, FÉRAL GOJO, manhandIing, dúmbifícation, rough s, creampíes, cúmpIay, overstím, implied marathon, time skips, Nanami cameo, HAPPY ENDING, pet name, swéaring.
Word count. 16.8k
A/N. I’ve been wanting to do this AU for SOOOO LONG-
1857.
Reds of the Royal Danish Navy shed against bone-white ice; the Horisont has found itself trapped in ice amidst the expedition to the North Pole.
It was a coldness beyond cold, a glaucoma of the world. Only in such a place does the belligerence of humanity dim before a ceaseless peripheral of something much greater. Something much older. Something soul-cold.
Here, one cannot see.
One cannot swallow. One cannot hear.
And it is why Captain Nanami Kento pauses between scratching at his parchment. He works stiffly and slowly beneath the damp glow of the lantern, with an ear craned in the direction of the deck outside: the heaving of ropes being put to work, the chants between cold coughs, the sudden slamming of produce.
“Captain!” One of the newer crew members, still sun-tanned and youth-freckled, barges in through the door. From the doorway he pants out urgently, “Captain, an explosion- oh, you simply must see this.”
Nanami rises cautiously, “See what, boy?”
“A- a monster.”
A coldness creeps into his heart. “Get the men.”
In almost no time, there’s a group of about ten crew members racing down the frost-bitten landscape. They held their lit torches high, trembling flames that were snapped and slobbered in all directions by the wind, as if lambs being hauled to slaughter.
A few of the lookouts had already set a bonfire in the distance to mark their finding, and as Nanami leads the group closer, he can feel his pulse jump to his throat. He can taste the blood. He can smell it.
He brings a gloved hand up to cover his nostrils as he looks on at the reddened snow, “This…this blood- where does it hail from? Has one of ours been injured?”
“Not ours, Captain!” One of the seamen hasten to explain, he jogs past the bonfire. “A wounded man, he has suffered a great loss of blood!” And where the man motions them, Nanami could see two writhing lumps in the darkness - about as large as a young Grey Seal, though perhaps not made of as much pure muscle.
They follow the man—a corpse.
At least, well on his way to become one.
Dressed much like them in protective coats, there was no telling just how long the man had been laying there in the snow. In a slowly-growing pool of his wine-blood. His fingers were blue, mouth trembling, eyes frosted shut. Though, perhaps out of some sick sense of mercy. Because even from here Nanami could see the garish slashes on the man’s neck and shoulders.
His pale face grimaces at the torrent of light that signals the crew’s entrance, muttering something that they could not discern.
Nanami’s the first to crouch beside him and take the man into his arms, “Bear attack?”
“I do not believe so, Captain.” The same young crew member from before urgently speaks, “Our early lookouts- they claim they saw something in the shadows…something otherworldly!” Nanami looks into the boy’s ghost-white face, “Something demonic!”
The blond man nods, “Itadori, help me with his boot.”
Together, they manage to knife between the coagulation of frost and blood that composed of the man’s boot. Like much of his body. It was a tough leather fighting against a dull blade, enough to make one sweat even in the bitter landscape. And Nanami almost thinks better of his decision before-
“A prosthetic leg.” Itadori breathes. He holds up the metal limb for the rest of the crew to peer at, fashioned from some sort of metal, it was attached to the man with a series of buckles and belts. So intricate, in fact, that had it not been for the discoloration then one might have thought that it was his natural outgrowing limb.
Nanami’s brows furrow at the device, “This must be…and what about the other one?”
“The what?” Itadori asks.
“The other one.” Nanami’s the one to make his way onto the other ‘lump’ he’d made out, much more frozen stiff than the other one. He kneels down to gently wipe off the clumps of snow on the grooves of your face, your beautiful, beautiful face. You didn’t seem to be at all hurt, unlike the man. “A woman…”
“Found with the older man, Captain.” One of the crew answers, “Both frozen, almost to death.”
“Almost to death…”
And that’s when they hear it.
It.
That ghastly, guttural roar that came from no place but hell.
If the darkness could speak, this could be its voice. Hear its nightmare, its pain, its humanity. It makes the crew members break out in a cold sweat.
In the three seconds that it rips through the wind, Nanami’s running his mind through every page of every zoological textbook he’s ever read - and coming up blank after each one. Blank. Blank. Blank. Blank. Blank—no living creature should ever be able to make a sound like this.
Just what in hell was that?
“C-Captain!”
It’s Itadori’s trembling tone that snaps Nanami out of his frozen state. He looks to the boy—fuck, he looks down and realizes that his hands were shaking.
“Put- put him…” Lips parched, he clears his throat and doesn’t care if it’s unsteady. “Put him onboard! Now!” Nanami yells at the crew, who instantly move to action as he keeps an eye in the dark direction of where the noise had originated from.
Beyond their circle of torches, something shifts in the shadows.
Something tall.
Tall.
Tall.
Another roar—“Hurry!” The Captain cries, helping his crew lift the injured man. “To the ship! Now—”
Perhaps because of the blood loss, their straggler is nothing more than a slight burden in their trembling arms, though with that- that thing in the darkness beyond them, he just might as well have weighed a hundred tonnes.
It’s with such dreadful relief that they manage to reach the Horisont and lever the body up the port side of the ship. As it’s carted off like a still-trembling corpse, Nanami calls out to the seamen that work the base. “Itadori, that thing is coming.”
“C-Captain?” The boy asks, nervously.
And the older man only silently hands him a gun, “We have to be ready.” Holding one himself, he raises the nozzle of the pistol in the air and fires, man-made thunder in response to the voice of something beyond. “Ready the rifles!”
Rows upon rows, guns upon guns, human beside human.
Lining the berth of the ship with their weapons raised, they clutched those polished wooden handles. Death at their fingertips. A third roar punctuates the night, and had it not been for their Captain’s presence right beside them, those men might just have been running for their life.
“On my command…” Nanami calls out.
Something bludgeons through the wintry landscape. As tall as even the tallest hanging icicles, with a coat that flaps around it like bat wings.
“Aim…”
Inhuman.
“Fire!”
Gunshots ring out like applause, ah, the only invention of humanity that may cut through the cold. That may slice it. Two of the bullets hit the creature in what looked to be its shoulders, and it collapses to the ground with a pained cry. Pained? Could it really feel such a thing?
Most monsters didn’t. And this one raises its hooded head and roars.
Oh—Nanami’s stepping backwards before he can stop himself.
“Next group, next group!” Itadori’s juvenile voice takes command in place of his Captain, though he was shaking even more so. Crew members with their guns cocked kneel down in the exact positions of the previous line.
Their nozzles smoke, hungry for blood.
With an arm stretched outwards, Nanami’s directing them. “On my command…aim…fire-”
Gunshot after gunshot after gunshot.
A second round of applause. A standing ovation. Almost with more fervour than before, those bullets reach towards the limelight where their lanterns were fixated on this hulking, inhuman figure. A hard target to miss.
Hit after hit after hit.
And yet…it does not stop. It does not slow down. It does not even shed blood - this thing takes their most fierce protection, lets it sink into its body as if not the worst thing it’s ever experienced. The bullets embed deep into its clamoring limbs, only increasing the fury in its pace.
Step after step after step.
Until finally- they’re catching a glimpse of blood-shot eyes.
“Re-retreat! To the ship.” Nanami yells, grabbing some of his crew members and pulling them to stand. He’s shoving them in the direction of the ramp that led up the side of the ship, not looking backwards until Itadori was already aboard. “To the ship! Retreat to the ship! Ret- no.”
He’s whipping his head behind as one of the foolhardy men rush in the direction of the monster with his gun. Raised as if to bash it with it—
“Retreat!”
In just one sweeping motion the creature throws the crew member aside. Hard enough that he bangs against the side of the ship, hard enough to break bone.
Nanami pales as he hears the crunching of ligaments and skeleton, screaming out at his crew to board the ship once more. “Retreat- retreat, I say! This is an order from your Captain!” He’s stomping through the bustling deck, weaving through the men that feared for their life as much as they feared the life now rattling the ladder of the ship. “Where is that man we brought aboard? Where?”
“St-starboard, Captain.” Itadori replies.
And Nanami wastes no time before going up to the man - laid out amongst some blankets on the side of the ship - and grabbing him by the lapels of his frost-crusted coat, “What does that thing want?” He barks out at the groaning man, he assumes that you’d been taken inside. “Tell me! What does it want-”
Another young member, Ino, quivers out. “Captain, he’s almost—”
Roaring.
Gone and guttural.
It had reached the deck by now, standing tall amidst the crew that raced like ants. That looked just as helpless. In one hand it crushes a human skull as if nothing, and with the other he points straight at the shivering corpse.
“Bring- her- to me-”
A voice that sends their hearts beating out of their chests, so that they felt less-than human. Just as it sounded.
Her…?
From behind, one of the crew members stabs at the creature with the edge of his gun. Nanami doesn’t wait to watch him get flung off the edge of the ship- “The Blunderbuss.” He’s turning to the crew with widened eyes, breathless. “Ino, get the Blunderbuss!”
“Y-yes, Captain!”
In no time, a heavy metal firearm is being pressed into Nanami’s hands. He doesn’t wait to take aim and—shoot!
It strikes the monster right in the middle of his chest, and it stumbles. Hands but a blur on the greed-cold nozzle, sweat sticking his skin to metal, one eye closing in concentration- the Captain shoots again.
And again.
And again.
Each one finds its target with deathly precision. But a monster never truly dies, does it? Not until they can spike fear into the hearts of those mortal? It turns out, they merely fell.
As if a great oak befalling, it almost hurt to watch it descend. They all rush over to the other side of the deck as the monster plummets; the ice below craters once it rests, erupting a halo of dark blue lightning bolts brought out of the frozen water. Nanami wastes no time lugging the prolonged length of the Blunderbuss over the deck and shooting it a few more times - this time, however, not quite at their untimely visitor.
He aims for the thinning ice that cracks off with the blows, segregating the creature from the rest of them. And not one member of the crew releases a relieved breath until after the chunk of ice breaks off. Floats off.
It opens its eyes.
Snaking his body upright, “Give her…” Charging back towards the ship. A voice that thunders up to where they are, and makes everyone take a step back. “Give her to me-” All but Nanami, of course, who aims a single shot at the monster—and lets his hand fly off the trigger.
BANG—!
CRASH.
Thrown off his feet, it seems that the taller they are the harder they fall indeed. That…thing ends up with its back against the slab of ice once more, which gives way beneath its weight as if made out of nothing but paper. Opening up a gaping mouth. Ice-water sloshing at its feet. Crumbling into the tiniest pieces, the monster sinks…
The Captain doesn’t lower his gun or his caution until he can’t see its flailing arms any longer. Until the sea swallows up their woes with a gurgle, and with it, a creature more monster than man. Nanami peers down as its blood-black cloak dissipates into nothingness.
Then - and only then - does he turn to face the rest of the stunned crew.
“Take me to her.”
Less than an hour later, the man was up and talking—you, however, weren’t quite as lucky. According to the ship’s doctor you were alive, it seems, but just barely.
Itadori frowns at your shiver and rubs on your hands even harder. Entire body tinged ever-so-slightly with a pallor of blue - it didn’t matter what your original shade was, you looked plain sickly. And so tiny in Nanami’s bed, his heart aches as he lifts his bedcovers up to your chin, wishing that he had more than some ol’ Captain’s drudgery. You looked like a lady.
“Where am I…?” The black-haired man’s voice creaks out, his long locks sweeping the ship’s floor. He seemed to be the Captain’s own age. Despite being in the warmth now, he still quivered - whether out of the frigid outside, or the memory, Nanami wasn’t quite sure. “Who-”
“You’re aboard the Royal Danish ship, Horisont.” Nanami answers, watching as the doctor hands him a vial of something that the man downs with a wince. “I’m Captain Nanami, this is Dr. Shoko.”
“How many of your men did it kill?”
The blond man shivers, momentarily speechless.
He looks at the man intensely, his teeth were drenched in red. “…Six.”
“It will come back and kill many more.” He begs, tone trembling until it was almost indiscernible. He sweeps a hand around the room, flickering in and out of existence in the dim lantern. “All of you, if necessary, unless you deliver me to it.”
Nanami bends down until he’s eye-level with the other man, almost condescending. “It’s gone. It sank in the freezing waters, it’s dead-”
“No, it is not!”
There’s a bang and a clutter- suddenly the long-haired man is upon him, grabbing Nanami by the coat and shaking him. His eyes held a madness to them that shook the taller man to his very core, and he found his own scared face staring back at him through those irises. “It cannot be killed! It- it…” As if the weight of his own words were hitting him, he’s sinking back onto the couch that made his impromptu clinical bed. “It c-cannot die…I’ve tried.”
“You’ve tried?” Itadori pipes up.
Nanami looks at the madman wearily, “And you have most certainly been…unsuccessful.”
“Whether you believe me or not…” Sinking his head into his hands, throat shattering in tears. “-it will come back…for me.” He breathes heavily, “And when it does, you must promise that you will put me out on the ice and let it take me.” Looking up into Nanami’s molten eyes, “Please.”
“What sort of creature is that?” Shoko asks, taking off her medical gloves. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Or more pertinent a question—” Nanami looks behind at your shivering figure, still, and then at the man before him. “What manner of devil made him?”
The man gulps, “I did.” As if the weight of a thousand years was rushing out of him at once, “I, Geto Suguru, made him.”
.
.
.
PART I: Geto’s Story.
His name was Geto. Geto Suguru.
It was his father that gave him that name, Suguru (杉る) meaning excellent, superior, surpass. One could claim that it all started with him, his father. And his mother.
For there are some parents that bear no merit to become parents in anything other than name.
The world changes once you bear life, you know, in the way that they look at you, in the way that they speak to you, in the way that they know you. They don’t know you as anything otherwise. And unless you can change with the world, then the world will change you. For love is a melding of souls that leaves one’s tempered.
And one has to be strong to accept change, to be changed. Both physically and mentally. Fear it, of course - the presence of strength does not equate to an absence of fear - but be strong. Change.
The strength of one’s love is equivalent to the strength of one’s self. Why shouldn’t you change?
And so—to recap, the world shall change, you shall change - so who does that leave amongst the conflict?
Why, the child, of course.
To his mother, he was strong: her first-born. And this woman amongst women, this flurry of passion and decadence, the only person to ever beat him in cards, the sole empress of their mansion to brave his father for all those years; to him, she was far stronger than he.
Far stronger.
And yet, his mother died at the hands of the nation’s best doctor.
His father.
Geto Suguru’s mother died giving birth to his younger brother. Though she didn’t die with regrets- at least, their father didn’t believe so.
The youngest child was the apple of their father’s eye, the one that couldn’t grow up, the one that was worth a life. He was the breeze, Geto was the storm cloud.
Where he was locked in the library and taught the ways of the human tissue, it was his brother that was boasted at every social function. What had taken him years of reciting the complexities of anatomy to learn from his father, his brother could earn a smile with but a single look. When he had never heard a syllable of love from his father, he could hear through his bedroom—a wall shared with his younger brother’s, sweet goodnights.
There was something more- or rather, there was something missing.
“Father?” He remembers asking one morning after their early anatomy lesson. Geto must have been barely fourteen by this point, though his father acted around him like nothing more than if he were dealing with a poisonous viper.
The elderly man pauses, and turns stiffly towards his first-born. “Yes?”
“You let her die, did you not?”
“I did everything in my power to save her. You must know that.” His father answered, grimly. He clutched his textbooks tighter as his son got up and rounded the table slowly.
Geto looks at him, “So you failed.”
The patriarch looks at him dismissively, “No one can conquer death.” And it has the tone of the final say, to which the man turns his back and leaves.
“I will.” Geto calls out after him. And there was no way that the baron didn’t hear him, no way that he didn’t know the boy had just picked up his own cane. A thin bristling woodwork singed with years of hitting onto the very flesh that held it now.
Geto whips it through the air, “I will conquer it.” He wasn’t speaking at a particularly high volume, and yet it cracks through the halls of the library- making his father stop in his tracks and turn. “Everything you know, I will know too.”
The man looks at him with intense eyes, so similar to his younger brother’s. “I think we’ve done quite enough for today.”
Ultimately, he was not strong enough.
The Geto fortune’s downfall was swift; two revolts and a fire across their fields left them bereft. They kept the estate, but lost everything else.
Including his father.
Geto was accepted into the Royal College of Surgeons of Edinburgh, where he attempted to…widen the narrow vision of academia. It is here that he held his own at a tribunal hearing, before an audience of a hundred he demonstrated his earliest experiment mending the arm of a dead man, and the head of another. By running an electric current through this specimen, he made it move—life!
“This is a hearing, Doctor, not a carnival act!” Another powder-wigged, bespectacled, puff-pastried member of the board cried out from his raised podium.
It was exactly because of bigwigs like him that Geto had to attend such a hearing in the first place. Some of the higher-ups had caught a whiff of his experiments on corpses, and thus they’d demanded a proper investigation before the entire association, to determine whether such acts were in line with the ‘morals and scientific integrity of’ the Royal College of Surgeons of Edinburgh.
The other surgeons around him leaned in on the edge of their seats as the elderly board member stabbed a finger in the direction of the moving corpse. He seethes, as if he found the mere display of it offensive to his eyes. “You’re not helping your cause, this galvanic trickery will simply not do!”
“Trickery.” Geto repeats, reaching deep into his pockets. “Trickery?”
Before everyone, he pulls out a red apple, ripe to the touch. Throwing it in the air a few times—before throwing it to the corpse.
Who reaches out and catches it.
“That is not trickery- that is a decision!” He cries out at the display. The single arm twists and turns, letting the deceased head inspect the apple. And above the applause, Geto yells in elation. “Motor coordination between the eye of one dead man, and the arm of another! Infused with new will and the rudiments of understanding-”
A board member cuts him off, “Understanding in a brain that has already died-”
“This is the future! It is strength-”
“It is an abomination!”
It is only after Geto was formally expelled for his ‘blasphemous’ research by the Royal College of Surgeons of Edinburgh did he meet Kenjaku. It was with a tip of his hat and a bow so low that the tips of his nose nearly touched the blood-stained pavement, and then Kenjaku was led inside his laboratory.
He had strange stitches on his forehead, and Geto thought of him as almost a kindred spirit. A face to which he couldn’t put an age. He claimed to be an acquaintance of his brother’s and inquired into the other man’s work.
It was also the first time that Geto Suguru heard your name, his brother’s fiancée.
It was also the first time that his heart had undergone the strangest palpitations that were not in line with any medical textbook he’d devoured before.
“So you claim you can do it-” Kenjaku had peered down at the man, dark eyes twinkling in interest. “-bring a man to life from the dead? Create a man that is so strong that he may not die?”
“I know I can.”
And it seemed to have been exactly the answer that he’d been looking for.
Kenjaku reached into his long coat, and pulled out a flat white card with swooping cursive. “I have a proposal for you, Doctor.” At the surgeon’s raising eyebrows, his feline grin only grows. “I will endow your pursuit with unlimited resources. In exchange, I may in time ask you for a favor in return- but mostly, it would be my utmost honor to record your process for posterity.”
Geto looks at his outstretched hand. He hesitates. “I will…consider-”
“Don’t pretend to be reasonable now, Doctor.” Forcefully, the card with details is being pushed into his hand. “It would be such a shame.”
Geto never did find out his first name.
In the coming weeks Geto also grew to meet you, and he grew to be hated by you.
Or so you claimed. It was the interference of the natural cycle between life and death that made you instantly dislike him, you’d heard enough about his work from Kenjaku, a close family acquaintance. So to see this pompous, stubborn, (beautiful) scientist in the flesh was not too different from meeting the devil himself.
And the devil always was quite tempting.
“You laugh at my ideas?” He’d asked on your first meeting with him. It had been a lunch with none other than Kenjaku, his younger brother, and you.
And while the former two had disappeared for ‘brandy and cigars’ at a moment’s notice of one of your brewing debates, Geto had been the only one to stay. To sit opposite you on the long table. To look you straight in the eyes as you scoffed at his claims to bring a dead man back to life. “Idea are not worthwhile by themselves now, are they?”
He crosses his arms, “Explain.”
“Think of the war, for example.” Your steely gaze watches as Geto’s dark brows raise, “Honor. Country. Valor. These surely are worthwhile elevated ideas by themselves, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Mhm.”
“And nevertheless, men are dying for them, in a decidedly less elevated way.” You continue, “Face down in the mud, choking on blood, screaming in pain. Fathers, brothers, sons. Men that were nursed into this world by their mothers, only to fall on a battlefield far from those that provoke these tragedies.” You’re looking straight at him, “Those men remain at home, untouched by blood or bayonet.”
Geto tugs on his coats, skin hot for the first time in…ever. “I-I see-”
“That is what happens when ideas are pursued by fools.”
His head snaps up, “And you think me a fool? Hm?”
To which you lean close enough that your breath wafts his face, warm and only warmer. Just the slightest smile on your face, “Run to your brandy and cigars~”
He’d never been harder.
A few weeks after that meeting, Geto rode down in a carriage with Kenjaku to a lake near Vaduz across the channel. A tower built as a water filtration plant and abandoned at the start of the war; the moment he laid eyes on it, the tower, he could feel destiny calling.
He could feel it.
The months slurred into one, and so did his experiments.
He stitched together the corpses of prisoners and men recently hanged, until he’d grown quite expert in making seamless threads on skin, until even various shades of skins could be melded into one. Trial after trial after trial.
The floor of his once-new laboratory ran red.
And with every step closer he got to creating life, it felt like Geto lost a bit of his own.
The first time that Geto bedded you, that was the night that he finalized the creation that would come to be his greatest downfall. He’d finally found the pressure points he needed to intrude in order to keep the lymphatic system intact.
And he worked like a dog.
Night after night after nightmarish night. Those bad dreams melded into reality, and Geto could differentiate which was which.
Until one night, a strom was a-brewing above his spiral tower, and Geto stepped back to admire his creation. Upon a cross-like platform hoisted a pale body much larger than the largest man, much less human. He’d chosen each body part himself, of course: that toned torso, that handsome face, that small waist, those sea-blue eyes, hair of holy white.
The perfect creation.
As flares of lightning outreached across the sky, Geto connected the body to various cables and bolts aiming to extract the energy of the storm. Climbing to the top of the tallest tower, he’d enabled a massive ray that acted as a lightning catcher aimed straight at the lifeless body upon the cross. Like the hand of the heavens above, it was to give life.
“By God, it’s perfect.” Kenjaku whispers, coming up to the surgeon’s side in the laboratory. Kenjaku had taken residence in this very tower until Geto was to complete his experiment, and he frantically stopped Geto in his ministrations- “Quick! Quick, you have to do it now-”
“Pardon-” Geto’s brows furrowed, “Do what?”
“My brain.”
He pales, “P-pard-”
“My brain- inside that body.” He shakes the younger man, “Did I not say that the time would come when I ask you for a favor, boy? Well this is that time- quick, before the storm reaches its peak! Extract my brain and place it into the perfect body of our new Adam-”
Geto smacks his hand away, voice heightening. “That’s madness! I work with corpses, I will not kill just to put your-”
“Is it the money?”
He rounds the scientist now, hands throwing up in the air. And Geto can only step backwards—
“Because I can give you all the money you want- ohoho! You only need to say yes-”
“But-”
He swipes a hand out once more to grab the other man, though Geto dodges it this time. “-no more, and no less!” Closing in on the man, “Just think about it, my boy, for me- youth! And for you, eternal wealth! No money in the world would be enough for this, and I can give it all to you if you just say the-”
“No.”
Kenjaku charges.
And at that exact moment, lightning clashes.
CLAP—!
It erupts from the needle-like end of the ray, making every piece of metal in the laboratory glow molten red with heatwaves. The diagonal and vertical lines of lightning crackling through the air, powerful enough that one could almost feel the atoms around it sizzling. Making the energy spark against metal as it conducts, making a stray beam hit Kenjaku and make him drop to the floor with a cold shiver. Dead.
Geto himself can just barely manage to throw himself underneath one of his desks and take cover. His head in his hands, his heart in his throat.
And in the distance, something seems to ba-dump—!
When Geto Suguru opens his eyes again, he isn’t the only thing alive in that laboratory.
.
.
.
“And it was a monster.” In the present day, a Geto Suguru that was not much older - though he felt as such, he sighed as such - finishes off his story by spitting. It was as if speaking the very tale into memory left a bitter aftertaste in his mouth, “With the average body and mind of a twenty-eight-year-old, and yet I discovered soon that it had super strength, healing like never seen in a natural organism before- and as his strength increased, mine waned. I did not sleep, I did not eat, I did not live- and more than that, I could not make it speak. I created The Strongest, and in doing so I created a monster.”
Nanami Kento runs a hand down his face silently, “You played God and now…”
“And now you reap the consequences.” Itadori is the one to finish off.
And the tired surgeon can only nod, placing his aching head in his hands once more. “I am its creator, and I have created a monster. It is something that should never have been done- never! I should have listened to her-”
“I did tell you so.”
A soft voice speaks up, and the fatigued crew almost believes it to be nothing but a hallucination- till they’re hearing the rustle of coarse bedsheets, and they instantly snap their heads towards the Captain’s bed.
It was you.
At some point during Geto’s story, you’d managed to seat yourself up on the bed without any of them knowing. Keeping a keen ear on what was being said. Like Geto, you had that same air of faint fatigue about you- but you still held your head high, your poise that of high aristocracy.
Tired, but still as beautiful as ever. And Nanami swears he catches the surgeon’s gaze glimmer ever-so-slightly as they drift over to you.
By the determined glint in your pupils, he guessed you were none other than Geto’s brother’s (former, likely) fiancée.
Itadori jumps away from his seat on the bed with a squawk, blushing to the roots of his rosy hair. With a slightly stifled giggle, you’re patting the mattress beside you and getting him to sit once more. Once that was over, you cross your palms atop one another and introduce yourself.
“Captain Nanami Kento.” Nanami’s respectfully removing the cap of his uniform and bowing, hoping that you didn’t catch the exact shade of rouge that his ears were.
“Dr. Ieri Shoko.”
“Itadori Yuji.”
You’re nodding as they introduce each other, the rest of the crew, one after the other. Before ultimately settling on Geto, “And I know you too well.”
“Too well.” He chuckles.
“You have all heard my acquaintance’s story here.” You do not wait for the next invitation, gesturing at the man that was still sitting upon the couch. The rest of the room leans in with a nod, “So I believe it should only be fair that I share mine, too.”
.
.
.
PART II: Your Story.
You knew that Geto Suguru was trouble - you knew it.
In addition to unapologetically luring you away from your fiancé (his very brother, at that! That most certainly should’ve been enough to tell you all needed to know about the man), he was steeped in work of such nature that it should never even be spoken into existence. Such blasphemous ideologies, you had never heard of in your entire life.
And you didn’t want to.
At least, that’s what you had assumed. But Geto just had a way about him that was so…irresistable.
And even these past few weeks where he’d been holed up within his laboratory had a part of you missing him. Not necessarily out of any romantic obligation- though, you’d be lying if you said you didn’t miss him in your bed. But mostly, you simply wanted to know whether he’d finally completed his life-death mission and left the rest of humanity to bear its consequences.
Unholy, unholy consequences.
“Oh, Suguru…” Your voice comes out breathless, murky in the stagnated air of the dungeon. It had been weeks since either Geto nor Kenjaku had responded to a letter from you, and without further ado - what next was there to do but barge into the very laboratory?
It wasn’t a difficult task you had to admit. The massive mill had been deemed empty after a few of your knocks went unanswered, and the door was unlocked - what have you told Geto about prioritizing his safety!
Nonetheless, it had worked in your favor this time. And while your fiancé had gone in search of his brother, you’d wandered throughout the entire barren, dilapidated mansion until you’d heard a few rustles from…the floor below the ground.
The dungeons.
Wondering that perhaps something unseemly had happened to one of the residents here, you’d quickly made your way down. And the sight that met you—oh, it had your vision blurring with- tears? You weren’t quite sure what was even real by this point.
It was a massive underground cavern, tiled clinically with white stone on every wall. Great pillars. Glistening streams of water. It wafted out slightly damp particles into the air, and made your breath take formulation in front of you. Tall concave arches curved their backs like portals into other worlds, and beyond the largest one- you could see a figure.
So pale that it almost melded into the walls it was chained to, almost wanted to.
But nothing could hinder the sight of the long-limbed, otherwordly…human before you. Less than human, more than not. He had the brightest blue eyes. Pale hair. Wearing nothing but a robe- more like a blanket, around his lower half. Stepping closer, you could see scar-like stitches around most of his joints: his neck, his legs, the most prominent one in the middle of his toned torso. You bring your hand up to your mouth and whisper, “Oh, Suguru, what have you done?”
The figure stirs at your voice, and stands.
“I…” You don’t know what to say, instinctually taking a step back behind a pillar as he stands to his full, towering height. Nearly eight feet tall, perhaps more. The strands of his ivory hair brushed the very ceiling, and you had to crane your head up to take a look at his handsome face.
The way he moves- jerky, to try and crane his head to see you. As if eager.
You notice that he couldn’t move much with the multiple chains around his wrists, and so you step into the light. Breathing out, “H-Hello.”
And then he smiles.
The most beautiful smile you’ve ever seen.
As you get closer, he silently cocks his head to look down at you.
“Hello.” You say, with more conviction this time. You’re raising your head up fully into the white overhead light, looking right into those beautiful blue eyes—and you think you hear him take in a slight hitched breath. You introduce yourself. “Have you been here long?”
As expected, he doesn’t answer once more. Simply blinking down dreamily at you, slow and steady like he was memorizing your face.
And yet you continue anyways- “It must be cold in here- here.” You’re shrugging off your coat immediately, and though it might be quite small for the giant, you stand on your tip-toes to help him wrap it over his naked shoulders. “I’m sorry, it’s not much- oh.” Mouth slightly dropping as he cups his hand over yours, just as you were straightening out the fabric over his pale skin. You feel the coldness of his body and gasp.
His large body somewhat startles at the noise, and you’re immediately feeling empathetic.
“Oh! Oh, I do apologize for scaring you.” In a slightly more hushed tone, you’re smiling up at him - hoping that perhaps it would disarm him, make him take a step closer. “That was not very lady-like of me, was it? Do forgive me.”
And you didn’t quite give a damn about customs, if you do say so yourself. But before this man you’re placing your hands upon either side of your skirt and curtseying- distinctly sure that you were making a fool of yourself before—
Rattle—!
You’re whipping your head up to realize that this giant was mimicking you - with his head bowed, and his lithe hands pinching the air of an invisible skirt.
You can’t help but giggle, and that draws a soft grunt from the creation, as if imitating that, too.
Or at least wishing to.
After a few seconds of drinking him in, you notice that he was looking rather intently at your hands. The very same part of you that he’d touched earlier.
His touch had been gentle, parched.
And in almost slow-motion, you’re tugging off the silken gloves that encased your hands. The expensive fabric was stuck to your fingertips like a second skin, and the giant’s eyes widen as if he was looking at you peeling a layer of your own. Reaching your exposed palm out—he grips your hand in his cold, cold ones and drags you closer.
He exhales as he brings it up to his face, as he feels you- as he presses your fingertips to his mouth and kisses. The man (or perhaps something else entirely?) lets out a soft chuckle as he feels you.
“Mm-” He grunts out, pressing a tender kiss on your hand before letting it free. Those overlarge palms of his move onto your other, and you’re almost about to repeat the movements of removing your glove on that one - before he tugs on the material at your ring finger. Pinching it delicately between his own digits, and tugging it down off.
Undressing you.
He grunts once more, “Mngh-” Something indiscernible, but to him it makes perfect sense.
In motions that feel like eons, he guides your hands - as light as feathers - to place them upon his own chest. Where you could feel a beating heart.
Ba-dump—!
Ba-dump—!
Ba-dump—!
Racing.
Heaving chest. Bleeding stitches.
And you didn’t realize until then that you’d been shaking.
Eyes widened, you whisper. “Who hurt you?”
A few minutes later and you were barging into Geto Suguru’s decadent bedroom, where you found him deep in conversation with his brother - something or the other about the Royal Medical Society, not that you could give a damn right about now.
“The man!” You’re calling out, uncaring whether you interrupt. You feel so faint that you have to lean against the doorway to fully speak, “The man-”
Geto’s mouth parts, “You saw him…”
And that’s what keeps you walking forwards, until you’re almost nose-to-nose with Geto- and his brother is the one that has to tug you back by your elbows. “The man- is he patient? A victim?” Tone reaching something shrill that neither man has ever heard from you before, “His wounds- you wounded him like that-”
“No, no, no—” Geto’s clapping both hands on your shoulders and attempting to get you to look at him straight. But you almost couldn’t - his amethyst eyes weren’t how you remembered them, and his hair was askew. If you didn’t know any better, you’d have almost said that he looked crazed- “It was the world that hurt him, my dear, not I- I—” Pointing at himself now, “-merely gave him life.”
As you take a few steps backwards in shock, he’s looking at you fully.
“I gave him life.”
Later, Geto gave you a showcase of the ‘creature’ as he’d called it. He’d explained to you his rapid healing, the immense strength that seemed to have been an aftereffect of the storm. And when you’d pointedly asked him why he was chained was here-
“It doesn’t know any better-” Geto had off-handedly replied.
“But, Suguru…” You bore no mind to the hardening expression on his face, crouching down to clasp the giant’s hand. Your heart flutters as he presses your silken gloves back into your hands from where he’d removed them earlier. Caressing you, “-you know better.”
“Suguru, is he intelligent?” His brother asks, warily watching the interaction between you and…this beast. His brother had mentioned it had the mind of a twenty-eight-year-old, so did that mean he could also feel…
To which the surgeon doesn’t reply.
“Suguru, is he intelligent?”
That very night, you snuck out to meet him.
You found the giant glumly hunched over the streams that ran through the dungeon, his long fingers toying with the crisp autumn leaves that had fluttered from the surface above. You watch as he plucks them delicately by the step, chains rattling as he kisses them down onto the water below. Like a little boat that tips and rows right up to you.
He’d flinched as he saw you, you remember now.
Before you’d cast him a gentle smile, and the creation had nervously returned it.
Once you got closer, he’d reached his hand up to - trembling. Shaking at the very thought of human contact, and yet, he’d handed you—
“A leaf?” You’re breathing out in excitement, and the man looks down when you take it. “For me?”
He’d grunted in affirmation.
“Thank you.”
After a few seconds of admiring the leaf by your lantern, you’d taken it up and pressed it to your lips. Humming ever-so-slightly.
“And what can I give back to you, hm?” You’d wondered out loud, “Oh! I know—”
That night, you’d introduced yourself.
Ultimately, Geto’s brother had decided to stay and monitor the situation - and with it, you did, too. Not quite to ‘monitor the situation’ as he had put it, but rather to keep an eye on…him.
You didn’t know when ‘him’ had turned from Geto to the monster within Geto’s basement.
And yet, here you were.
It was you who visited the creation every night, sneaking out when all the lanterns had been dimmed and sleep had befallen the mansion as your only cover. You’d grip a torch of your own in one hand, and in the other would be a cup of ointment.
“Why hello—” You’d croon out, as soon as you caught sight of his hunched figure on the ground. Still chained - you were working on finding the key to it one of these days. And if worse comes to worse, you’d gnaw through those damned shackles if you had to.
You were on the verge to-
“And how have you been today?” You’d beam up at the pale figure, and he’d beam right back - all thirty-two pearly white teeth on full display. With your hands gentle on his limbs, you’re soothing your fingers underneath the unyielding gaps in the circular restraints around his wrist. Dabbing a bit of ointment on so that it would get all the purpleish skin, “Oh, that awful awful man!”
“Awful-” He’d nod, voice scratchy as it pronounced this new word. “Awful awful.”
It would make you chuckle, “And I’m just as awful, aren’t I? Only teaching you awful words?”
The creation’s eyebrows were pale, but you could still make out the way they knit together underneath the medical light. Fervently shaking his head from side to side, “Awful-” He shakes his head even harder, “Awful- not.”
“You say that I’m not awful, hm?” You bring a hand up to your mouth and titter, “Oh my, you’re quite the flatterer, aren’t you?”
And you’re not quite sure whether the giant understood what exactly that word meant, but he blushes all the way down the back of his neck like he does. Such a pretty pink. Rose pink.
Seeing it, you raise an amused brow. “Oh? Quite shy for a flatterer, hm?” Without thinking much of it - and oh, you really should think more when it comes to him - you reach out and glide the softness of your fingertips down his smooth neck. “No, it’s more like you’re just…sweet?”
With a shiver, he’s leaning up to your touch. “Sweet- sweet. My love- sweet.”
And there was that.
You’re not quite sure where he’d learned that particular pet name - my love - or whether it was a creation of his own beautiful mind. But he’d started to refer to you by it a few days ago, and had preferred it to your name ever since.
You’re reaching your hand back- only for him to clasp your fingers once more with his. Only to put them on his body once more.
With a kindly smile, you repeat your name.
“My love.” His gruff voice answers.
And you repeat it.
“My love.”
And you repeat it.
“My love.”
With such a fond sigh, you try to take a different route. “Geto Suguru.”
“Awful, awful man.”
“Hah! Well, at least you have the merit to get that one correct, hm?” You’re humming at him, and removing your hands from his neck to play with his massive fingers instead. The both of you were sitting facing each other, upon the cold marble ledge that Geto had intended to serve as his creation’s bed, you suppose. A sudden idea pops into your mind, “And what about your name?”
He cocks his head, “My love?”
“That’s my name, isn’t it?” You shake your head, tracing out the letters of both your actual name and his lil’ nickname on the surface of his palm. Once you’re done, you close his palm. “What about your name?”
“My…” He starts, and something seems to strangle at the back of his throat. It must be difficult, you guess, to speak out of a voicebox that was not your own. “Sa—weet.”
“Sweet?” You ask.
The giant lightly grunts, “Sa…sweet- Sat—weet.” He shakes his head, and you could practically feel the frustration that radiated off of him.
“Hey hey—” You thumb down his palm once more, and he’s looking up at you with such depth. Such raw emotion in those summer-blue eyes; still unprotected from the roughness of a world that has been nothing but cruel to him. Cooing, “It’s alright—you can take your time.”
“Sa-weet.” He’s croaking out once more, one hand coming up to his throat- and the other hand pressing into your open palm. He draws out the letters that he was aiming to speak into existence. “Sa…to—ru.”
Your eyes widen in shock at his decision, and he looks at you intently.
“Sa—to—ru.” Patterning out two more syllables, “Go—jo.”
“Gojo Satoru?” You ask the man who has picked his own name.
“Gojo Satoru.” He repeats, still slightly rough around the edges. And the giant- Gojo, breaks out into a smile that feels like sunlight against your skin. And his hand- it ends up cupping your cheek, he presses his cold forehead to yours. Breathing you in. “Gojo Satoru, my love.”
You swear you’ve never felt your heart race faster.
After that particular night, you’d taken it upon yourself to teach Gojo as much of the language as you could.
Night after night, you lugged down - not just ointment and your lamp now - books as well. If there was one blessing in this entire laboratory, then it was the fact that its libraries were generous with their bounty for you to raid. And for Gojo, as well.
Gojo—you supposed there were two blessings in this laboratory, after all.
It was tragedy after romance novel after historical novel that the two of you swept through.
You’d read in your lilting voice, and Gojo would listen - sometimes with his eyes peacefully shut, and his breath evening out so that you weren’t sure whether he was asleep or not. And whenever you stopped to check- he never was.
He’d peer at you with wide blue eyes and query, “My love?” And that was all it took to get you reading again, no matter how scratchy your voicebox felt.
You’d found that Gojo was partial to romance novels the most (yes, even the somewhat…steamier ones), and he vengefully loved a good tragedy, too (though you’d have to let him hold you afterwards, face pushed into the crook of your neck, and his large tears wetting your thin night gown). “You would never-” He’d gasp out through powerful sobs, always feeling pain so deep. “You will always stay by my side, my love?”
“Always.”
He’d lace his dominant hand with yours, “Always- always.” Pressing his forehead to yours once more, lips mere centimeters away. You could taste his icy breath, “I belong with you.”
Times like this you almost remembered why Geto kept calling Gojo ‘The Strongest’, because even his slightest hold would be enough to make your joints pop!
But then his teary eyes would take in the split-second wince on your face, and he’d immediately be loosening his grip once more.
He was never just The Strongest to you.
He picked up on language quickly, given that he had the mind of a twenty-eight-year-old. It was as if he’d just been borne into existence as such, merely manifested.
A man in every way except how his creator treated him.
You admit that you didn’t get much sleep during those golden weeks- hell, your fiancé had started questioning whether you were ill after overseeing your bouts of sleepiness during the morning. And you had an inkling that Geto had already guessed, by the way that he’d been staring at you from afar…but he hadn’t caused trouble for you.
Just yet.
You remember that night as if it was just yesterday - it was your last night with Gojo Satoru, of course.
You’d spent particularly long in the dungeon with him that night, even after reading your book you’d stayed behind to simply converse with the gentle giant, all the while tugging and fidgeting with his shackles in an attempt to somehow break them free.
Break him free.
“My love?” Gojo’s asking in his husky voice, ragged. He peers down through his long lashes at what exactly you were doing with his hands - and he lets you do whatever you want. It was you, you could do anything to him. Anything.
You’re looking up at his coos, “Oh- my apologies, Gojo-”
“Satoru.”
“Satoru.” You manage a smile at his tenacity, “Was I hurting you?”
“No.”
“And you’re not lying.”
“No.”
“And you would tell me if I was the one hurting you?”
“…No.”
He grins at your exasperation - it’s true, the way you rolled your eyes with a groan was highly unlady-like, but you didn’t quite care when you were with him. When you were with him, you didn’t quite care about anything else, to be honest. “Oh, Satoru—” You’re cupping his gorgeous face, finally letting go of those restraints that bothered you so much. “What am I going to do with you?”
“Mn.” He grunts, leaning his head in real close so that he could sniff at the flowery scent of your hair. “My love—” Hushly whispering out, “My love, my love, my love.”
“Satoru.” You’re breathing out, equally as quiet.
And then he’s tugging on his restraints, letting some of the screws fall off - easily, considering your tampering all these past few weeks - only to loop his strong arms as much as he could around you. You’re being pulled to his firm chest, feeling each rippling muscle through your thin nightgown. “My love—my love.” It’s like gospel to him.
Your mouth parts ever-so-slightly, something heating up within you. And looking deep into his dilated eyes, you attempt to say something. “Satoru, I…”
He presses his lips to yours in an instant.
In that gaze of his, you saw a need that matched yours.
In that distance of his, you heard the tearing of restraints.
.
.
.
“O-oh—” You’re cupping a hand over your gaping mouth, voice heightening the very second that Gojo’s able to get his ravenous hands on you.
The very second that he’s shoving your nightgown further up your body, bearing your body exposed.
For him…he’s running his jittering palms down both of your breasts. For him for—where your stomach was, down both sides of your hips. For him for him for him. Down to your legs where he’d missed a key part of you.
But before you can huff out in need, Gojo’s scooping you up in his arms and gently splaying you out on his marble bed. The surface is quite frigid against your back, and it makes you inadvertently smear your legs all open.
Oh-so-lecherously open.
All Gojo needs it so take a mere whiff before he’s salivating down his chin at the smell of your sweet, sweet pussy. You’re watching him wipe away the burnished lacquer of spittle with the back of his hand-
“I never…” He’s gasping out, each word guttural and chopped as if being wrenched from the very back of his throat. Gojo hoists himself onto the bed, and towers above you casually. “In all my time here, I’ve yet to feel real h-hunger, my love.”
You supposed that was because of his superhuman body, and you’re wondering why he’s telling you this right now. “I’m…glad, Satoru. Would you like me to perhaps bring you something different next ti-”
“But now, I’ve never felt more starved in my life.”
Oh—
And before you know it, he’s moving. He’s moving his head down until it was nothing but a blur of white and pure carnal need.
Darting straight towards the target of your pretty pussy-
You were just drippin’ wet by this point, and Gojo doesn’t even warn you before he’s surging his nose deep between your pussy and aiming to lick away every single sopping ounce.
“O-oh—fuck!” You’re squealing out, the moment you feel his wet tastebuds sizzle against your core. Gojo was just swiping the pinkish tip of his crown between your pussylips and lavishing it all over in precisely the way he’d eat his favorite dessert. His favorite strawberry. His favorite cream pie. “I s-swear I got you enough of those sweets you love tonight-”
“But not this one.”
And you don’t know exactly what parts Geto had fitted onto his body- but Gojo’s savoring tongue just felt so looooong. Famished. Ramming it into every tiny nook n’ cranny of your outer pussy, forcing his face even deeper between your pretty legs. “Oh, I’ve yet to taste something so sweet.”
Those wads of your slick clung onto the lower half of Gojo’s handsome face, making it look as though he’d just dunked his head into a pool. And the more you’re attempting to push away his sweaty bangs and take a good look at him, the further he’s rovering. “Fuh-fuck, Satoru- oh my god, Satoru, slow down.” You’re panting, “You need to breathe-”
“Is it entirely necessary?”
And yet, it still wasn’t enough for him.
You don’t even know how but he was so dexterous opening you up.
Swirlin’ aside your puffy folds so that he could get to your hole - start filling up your hole.
Pushing and pushing and pushing—
Gojo huffs through his nostrils - right up against your swollen clit - when your snug channel naturally resists the intrusion. He couldn’t fit in more than an inch of his prolonged tongue, and the challenge makes him furrow his snowy brows. “Why isn’t it…” Almost muttering to himself, before he’s spitting a slick wad of saliva straight down onto your core. Splat! “Is this it—? Will this work-”
And then with both knobbly edges of his thumbs pryin’ aside your pussylips, he’s attempting to shovel even more of his tongue inside. “Oh heavens- Satoru, what did I tell you about breathing-”
“But s’just not fitting, my love.” Ah- at this point, his words were just slurred. And you swear his kiss-bitten lip pops out in what looked like a pout. “I don’t care if I don’t breathe if it just- hah, doesn’t go in-”
As if to prove his point, Gojo’s staring straight into your dazed eyes whilst he fucks your pussy with his tongue. Sharp jawline hanging wide open, slithering the pinkish edge of his tongue ‘round and ‘rooooound your hole a few times.
Before he hiccups, “S-see?” Just so sloppily, the giant is attempting to flop his thick muscle inside your leaky entrance. “S’not going in s’not going in- and fuck! how badly I want it to go in…”
“Oh, fuck…” You breathe, “I really am a bad influence- now I have you cussing from that pretty mouth.”
He was also whining into your cunt from that pretty mouth, begging you to take him more seriously. With both of his overlarge palms flattened on your thighs, Gojo’s just slightly slipping on the sheen of slick plastered to your skin as he spreads you all the more open for him. Like a feast-
“Well, if you really want to- hngh!” Just as you begin to speak, he’s funneling his tongue an inch or two deeper. The most sleazy expression upon Gojo’s face as his wet muscle reels back- only to do it all over again. “How cheeky, Satoru- if you really want to fit it a-all in, then you have to stretch me, y’know?”
“Streeetch?” Gojo blubbers out between your pussylips, his maw practically glued to your core by now. It was just too cute the way you’d splash all over him whenever he sent those vibrations right up your cunt, and he looked down at your entrance in interest. “So like- thiiiiiiis?”
“Oh fuuuuuck—” With your voice crackling as you keen, you’re immediately letting your body arch into the most perfect curvature.
Because Gojo Satoru had his rough index and thumb pinched over your puffy clit and drag-drag-draaaaagging that nub. Zaps of pleasure make you see white as he rolls it between both digits, “Like this, my love?” Gojo’s whispering, “Or—more-”
“Yes- no- yes.” By now, you can’t do anything but buck- oh, how did it get to this? He’s been the one that was easily pussydrunk with only a few laps, but now you were the one reaping its consequences.
Purely speechless on the way he was teasin’ your pretty clit, you’re reaching your dominant hand down and gripping onto Gojo’s white locks. Roughly - but if the way he purely moaned when he felt the sensation was anything to go by, then he loved it. “Yes, like that- ngh. But that’s not exactly what I meant, Satoru.”
“What did you mean then, my love?” He’s asking, eagerly.
And a faint satisfaction washes over you at the fact that you’re going to be the one to teach Gojo Satoru how to play with your pussy.
You flutter your lashes down at him, “First lesson is- you have to get me wet enough.” Not that he quite needed that lesson, for you were wet enough that your sap was oozing out of you and sticking onto his face in oodles by now.
But it just feels so good having him purse his rosy lips and splattering a straight ribbon down onto your cunt, smearing it with none other than his lips. “And then?”
“S-second lesson-” Shivering, you’re tugging his face closer - and The Strongest lets you. “Take it sloooow and easy with that tongue, Satoru. Just like- mmm, fuck!” But just a singular lap at your treacly pussy, and Gojo was all but plastered to it.
Lavishing your front with licks. Swiping and snapping his tongue allllll over every crevice.
He was letting his tastebuds enter wherever you’d let him, blue peripherals rolling right to the back of his skull at the candied taste that was filling his throat. And Gojo has the audacity to fight against it and whine when you’re briefly attempting to tug him off, “Just one more-” He pants out, with a wettened plop! when he attaches his maw to your cunt once more. “One more lick-” And once more. “Just one more taste-” And once more. “One more sweet kiss-”
And once more.
Eventually you can’t do anything but throw your head back and shrill—“Not adequately following the lessons will result in- in barring you from my pussy-”
And then he’s removing himself with a gasp! “No- no no no no-” Grabbing onto either side of your waist - and you’re unsure whether that’s to keep himself at bay, or to keep you from running away. “Please don’t- I beg of you, please don’t. I need this pretty pussy, my love…”
“Then you’ll listen, hm?” You ask, to which the powerful being doggedly nods. “Alright then, commencing- he second lesson is to take it slow with your tongue. Just stretch out my entrance—oh.”
And this time his tastebuds were sizzling against yours in slow, sensual motions. In circles and cute hearts- you swear your pupils were dazedly following along with the movements within the whites of your eyes.
“Like- like this, my love?” He eagerly pants out, scorching breath hitting you from all angles. Luxuriously salivating into every tiny crevice within your channel- not just impatiently trying to fit in. Slick and satisfying with his plump tip squeezin’ inside. “Is this, mmmm, adequate enough for you?”
“Yes- yes yes yes.” You’re moaning with your head thrown back, “And now ngh, if you could just put your fingers on my clit now…”
“Is that a lesson?” Genuinely asking - he’s raising a pale brow, wafting his hand closer and closer to where you wanted him the most. Genuinely letting his mouth water at the notion - “Oh, please let that be a lesson- please. I love this cute lil’ clit.”
You’re nodding your head along with just as much desperation, “Yes- fuck yes, it’s a lesson.”
And the words have barely even left your mouth, you’ve barely even thought to close your gaping mouth - before Gojo’s cupping your cunt with highly-trained reflexes and teasin’ your clit. His lengthy fingers roll over that knobbly nub, in circular motions that make you buck atop him-
“Oh- oh look—” He’s marveling out at something, awe-struck. It takes you every shred of will in your body to actually tilt your head downwards and see what he was talking about. And Gojo? Gojo was just fixated on the sultry way that his tongue was shovelling even deeper between your pussylips, the friction letting his tastebuds massage your velvety walls. “Look it actually works- ngh, your lessons are benefiting me- ngh, quite greatly, my love.”
“Happy to help…” Blearily, you’re rutting your hips up in a sloppy staccato to chase that white-hot pleasure thrumming in your veins.
Something that Gojo happily welcomes, if the way he was roverin’ his sweaty head even closer told you anything. “And then?” He pants out, his nose rubbin’ all over the leaky slit of your cunt. “And then what- what next, my love, what next? Anything to do with this sweet pussy drives me wild.”
You take one look into his darkened eyes - blue irises damn near black by now - and shiver. “And lesson number…”
“Four.”
“Four is that you can t-try to use your fingers to help fit inside.” One more look- though, this time it’s at Gojo’s incredibly-sized fingertips. Far larger than any other human man, and the way they just curved dexterously inwards made you want to gulp. “Slowly, however.”
He purrs, “Slowly it is, my love.”
And you might have made Gojo Satoru agree to slowly—but you didn’t speak a word of him being nice, did you?
Within mere sultry seconds, he has the tip of his middle hooked ‘round the rim of your entrance. Using slight strength, Gojo’s stretching you wiiiide open- “Oh.” Gasping straight into the quivering orifice of your hole. “Oh, my love, you’re right.”
He’s then jutting his pointed chin straight between your puffy pussylips, letting his long tongue splosh! inside. “You’re right- it really does go even deeper. Oh, I wonder what it should be like if I put two fingers in-”
“T-two of your fingers?” You’re snapping your head up to gawp.
“Oh, but don’t worry.” Gojo shoots you a dazzling smile - literally, he was drenched in so many candied layers of your slick. Intently, “I’ll be reeeeeal slow.”
“O-oh, fuck.”
He’s swabbin’ away two of his doughy fingertips- right along with his tongue now. Again. And again. And again and again. Pressing into every speck and spot inside of you, Gojo’s digits manage to scissor your channel wide open, whilst the texture of his tastebuds were creating a feral sort of texture that drove you wild.
Spittle dangles down the side of your maw, “Oh- oh my god.” Babbling away almost nonsensically, just the most sinful noises leave you any time that Gojo was thrusting his thick digits in and out. In and out. In and out. “Oh heavens, I’ve never felt something so gooood, Toru.”
“Mmm, and that sounds good.” The tips of his ears blush a cute crimson shyly at the nickname - all the while he had his face nose-deep into your cunt and lapping you like a madman.
Sticking his fat tongue in every time he fingered open your cunt, hooking his muscle up to your gooey roof. Shoving. Shoving. So hard that glittery speckles of your slick escape and strike the tops of his cheekbones. And he just couldn’t get enough- with a growl he’s dragging you back mercilessly in for even more.
Adding in a third finger—
“Sh-shiiiit, Satoru-” You’re all but bawling, “I don’t think m’gonna last too long-”
“And the fifth lesson?” He’s hissing out in response, just as urgent as you. With his honed senses, he could practically smell the pure carnal need in your pheromones, “What should be the fifth lesson, my love? Please, I must hear it with my own two ears- I must-”
“The f-fifth lesson…” Head dizzy. Pupils whirling. “The fifth lesson s’to make me cum, Satoru.”
And he doesn’t think he’s heard sweeter words.
With a particularly haaaaard push of his fingers, all the way down to his bases, Gojo’s sticking his rounded fingertips straight against your throbbing g-spot. Where you’d been waiting for him for so long. Where he barely even has to graze that awaiting spot before you’re bursting into your sudden high.
“C-cumming—” Your shrill voice echoes out in the dungeon - not that you cared at this point. And your body unlatches from the now-warm bed to riiiide all of Gojo’s pretty face through your high, “M’cumming m’cumming m’cumming, Toru.”
“And s’all because of me-”
Proudly, Gojo’s letting himself be used to cover your sweet, sweet sensations of bliss. Any time he could feel your geysering orifice clench ‘round him- he’s only thrusting his fingers in harder.
Only licking over your bundle of nerves even more.
Slurp-slurp-slurp—you’re barely even midway through your wave of euphoria before Gojo finds himself already finished licking up your beaded ounces of slick. And without a second thought, he’s shoving himself back in between your legs with his tongue mazin’ inside. “Should be able to fit myself in- hah- now, huh?” He murmurs to himself, through just the slightest muffled gaps between his maw and his cunt. “Go inside- go inside go inside go inside-”
You’re strangling out a squeal as he ends up bottoming out his lengthy tongue, “So much of you…ngh, Toru, you fill me up like nothing else-” Thrust after thrust after thrust.
“And it’s the only thing I want to do.” Hammering away where you were the most sensitive. “To bring your pretty pussy so much loving.”
Before Gojo finds himself stuffing your cunt to the brim with his fingers and his tongue- and you’re barely through with your first high before already bursting into your second.
This one was unexpected, and it explodes through your body from the top of your head to the tips of your toes. Your entire body heating up about several more degrees, just like putty ‘round his constantly hitting digits - with such precision whenever he’s striking your g-spot.
It passes through in synchronization with your initial orgasm, a brief flash behind your eyelids- before it’s petering out to nothing but a few overstimulated zings!
“P-please-” You sob out, clawing at his perspired scalp. “I don’t think I can cum again, Satoru- fuck, I don’t possess the stamina for that-”
“You do not?” Genuinely in disbelief.
“You’re just much more- ngh, enduring than me.” Blurting out, and it takes you both of your hands to even nudge Gojo away from where he was wetting your orifice with his tongue. All over again, as though he was still set on the idea of tugging out a third orgasm from you. “But if we do it now, then I’ll let you put something else in my-”
He unglues from your pussy with a loud, lecherous mwah!
“As you wish, my love.”
Oh—and then you’re being manhandled. You thought that Gojo Satoru was being feral with you before?
Not at all, you’re actually realizing that he’d been going easy on you. He’d been holding himself back. So fast that you barely even register what’s happening, Gojo’s rip-rip-riiiiipping your poor nightgown straight down the middle, throwing it somewhere behind him.
Raising himself up on his haunches. And then a hand falls to the robe around his pelvis-
“Oh my…” You’re squeaking out in surprise, eyes widening as the white fabric unravels for Gojo to reveal himself completely. Even when he had that on, you’d assumed that he was quite…sizeable - it was only pertinent, after all, the rest of him was quite exceptional in size as well - height, weight, power.
But this?
This just made your jaw drop, and your mind immediately goes to curse at the man that had created him. Eyes greedily following the stitches that held together his muscular torso and v-line, you can’t help but let them dip lower…and lower…and lower.
The prominent stitches between his lower and upper halves.
Those ladder-like abs that decorated his core.
The trail of his white happy trail.
The base where they ended in a thick cock.
Long.
With a handful of veins starting out from his pelvis, and snaking all the way down his nine - perhaps even ten - inches. They loop all over his shaft, so hard that you could visibly count every throb. As if all the blood had left his man-made body and ended up in his cock.
Ended up in his blushin’ red tip that glazed with a fresh lacquer of precum. Twitching at the intensity of your stare-
“I-is something the matter, my love?” Gojo interrupts your ogling, “Is something not to your liking- oh, is it because eating you out made me cum just a lil’ bit?”
Your mouth opens, but you don’t know what to say.
And Gojo’s swipin’ his thumb down his mushroomy tip, smearing away a few remnant beads of white. “Because I apologize that I’m so weak for-”
“No!” You’re interrupting his apology instantly - he had absolutely nothing to apologize for. In fact…you rather found it pleasurable that making out with your pussy made him cream right in his pants. Clearing your throat, “No- you don’t have to apologize for anything, Satoru. It’s just…”
“Yes?”
“You’re so big.”
“Oh.” He looks down at himself as if he never realized- and when he looks up, you’re jolted to your very core to realize that Gojo Satoru was smiling. “As long as we have the five rules, right?”
“R-right- oh.”
The confirmation is barely letting off from your lips before Gojo’s hulking figure grabs at your squirmy body and slap-slap-slaps! his creamy tip between your folds. Just nudgin’ away the curvature of his tip between them, he gets a taste of your heated cunt and all but breaks.
Shivers. Shatters.
He unfastens his mouth as if he was about to say something- before immediately gnawing down on his lower lip and rutting. Like an animal.
Like he was in fucking heat—Gojo’s attempting to swirl his strawberry divot inside. “Oh—oh…” He grunts out something primal from the back of his throat, every slight buck between your legs making Gojo let off a pained noise - he needed to be inside you right now. “Oh- so this is what a pretty pussy feels like. This is what your pretty pussy feels like-”
“Aaaand?” You’re cooing out, wrangling onto his sculptured deltoids. “How does it f-”
“Like heaven.”
He’s managing to bully in a single inch inside your tight cunt- completely forgetting whatever sinful ‘lessons’ you’d just taught him moments prior. Just that pussydrunk.
And just the first measurement of his swollen, fattened cock inside your pussy - just the first sensation of your walls all wrapped around his cock…
And you think you might just have broken The Strongest.
Because Gojo’s then throwing his head back and cumming- dolloping out a thick layer of his sap deeeep inside where you could feel it move about. His honed tip enters your hole perfectly, layering out his slick.
“C-cum—ngh.” Just the cutest noises leave him, and you swear you’re catching his face stain with a single tear or two just at the sensation of putting it inside. “M’cumming.”
“I- hah- know, Toru.” Fuck…you shouldn’t have said that. Because that only makes his twitchy tip flinch just a bit more inside your walls before beading out his hot pearly cum, the slickness of it already overspilling from your entrance.
That cascade of liquid echoes out just the slightest sultry noise - the slightest.
And yet Gojo’s snapping a single look down your glistening cunt and giggling—“S-so that’s what it is.” He’s rasping out- goosebumps skitter all across your body as you register the way his tone sounded…octaves higher. Sounded as if he was almost crazed.
Without any warning, he’s then lightly easing his shivering hips back and shoving- “So tha’s what it is. So tha’s what it is. Why h-has it never occurred to me prior?” Fucking his gooey wads back in. You weren’t sure whether he was talking to you or himself, before he’s plunging out a few more vulgar strikes with just his dribblin’ rose-colored tip. “That’s what it is, my love.”
“What is- hngh, what-” That final sentence of his was punctuated by the sloppiest stripes of pre, taken inside your channel with slurping noises.
He’s boring straight into your eyes with his dilated pupils. Almost glowing. Almost animalistic. Before you’re able to repeat your question once more- Gojo’s clogging up your throat with his hammerin’ away. Nothing more than three inches inside of you (for now) and still rendering you stupid. “It’s that… One of his hands claws down your front, feeling for himself as he sinks in. “I don’t know if I believe in any h-higher power, but if I did—then it’d be you, my love.”
“Oh my- fuck!” Both that hand on your stomach and his free one then grope onto your hips and slam you down to meet his greedy hips.
“It would be you-” He’s panting out, his own personal chant. Through half-lidded eyes, Gojo watches the way his thickened cock slips n’ slides into your tight orifice. Cum and slick pouring out like madness, “It would be this pretty pussy- oh, the way she’s taking me- I could worship your cunt every single day of my life and die with no regrets.”
Panting out, “D-don’t say that-”
You could feel him enveloping every single hidden sweet spot inside of your walls, Gojo didn’t even have to try to get his flared ridge to open you up juuust right. “I will.” He seethes, something absolutely ruined in his tone- you might just be right in thinking that you’ve broken him. “I will- unless you command it, my goddess.”
“O-oh my—fuck.” With your back arching into Gojo’s sculpted front - all toned abs and rippling obliques - you felt as though you were at his complete mercy. “Do you- do you even remember the lessons, Satoru-”
“Of course, I remember the lessons.”
His tone was one that was offended you should even ask.
And with his nose crinkled handsomely in slight concentration, Gojo’s then rattling off those very lessons - while doing his very best to disregard them. “First- hah, first lesson is to get your pussy wet enough.”
“And?” You’re raising a brow, just to see what he would do.
“And…” Gojo lays his eyes down on the vision of your glistening cunt and almost snickers - you were just so aroused that your pussylips were shimmering with your sweet, sweet sap. He then proceeds to crane his neck down and still spit a great glob of saliva down onto your cunt. “-completed.”
“Oh—” He was checking those lessons off like boxes. You just wondered what would be there for you by the very end.
“Second lesson-” Gojo continues, “-take it sloooooow and easy.”
You nod, “S-slow and easy.”
“Oh, but how m’I expected to when your pussy fuh-feels like ngh- this, my love?” He’s genuinely pondering, with his brows knitted and his tongue darting out in thought. “It just feels so good that- hck! slowing down should be punishable by the law. I would rather be chained and whipped than slow do-”
“Satoru!”
And you can only watch as Gojo’s eyes brighten up, “Oh! I know-”
That’s when he’s easing the sinking of his cock—eeeeeasing, ever-so-slightly. Just for a laaaaanguid stroke, two, three, four-
Before you’re once more being pounded silly by his massive intrusion, “There- there.” Gojo babbles out with a pussydrunken smile, all dopey and blushing. “I took it slow and easy- fuck, it even had me fitting in an inch more, my love, did your pussy notice?”
“Fuck yes, I did.” You’re whining, arching your hips up into his. “And now you’re going- fuck, you’re going so f-fast again-”
“Well, you never proclaimed that I must go slowly the entire time.” Basking in his own personal victory, the loophole he’d discovered, he accelerates his hips even more. The rotund crown of his tip poking into you viciously, “Rather an oversight on your hngh- part, don’t you think, my love?”
“Rather, yes.”
“But it’s alright-” He nuzzles you with his attractive nose, “-I should do well to excel in the third lesson. The ah-”
“F-fingers on my clit.”
But of course, Gojo Satoru didn’t forget. Of course he merely wanted to hear you say it in that pretty, whiny voice of yours whilst you were being fucked by him- “What was that?” Gojo cranes his head down, the tips of his bangs tickling your face. “I’m afraid I cannot hear you clearly over your cunt-”
“Fingers on my, mmm, clit!” You’re yelping out, “I want your fingers on my-”
“Oh, you never need to beg with me, my love.”
Such a tease- when did your sweet Gojo become such a tease? Become so damn mean? Snickering at the look on your face, he reaches down and gently pinches your clit.
Moaning at the lewd way you buck, “Ah- is that not adequate enough? Do you wish for mooooore?”
“Yes, more-” You’re gasping, “More more more more-”
“Oh.” And it makes a part of his over-hard cock jolt right against your walls, burying himself just a few more inches down your walls. “As you wish, my love.”
The flatness of Gojo’s thumb was now glued to your nub, and you’re seeing white at the sheer amount of pressure being put on your lower half. He runs a hand across your drivelling wet cunt, right atop your folds, in-between your slit, snaggin’ apart your cute clit and pressing down-down-down.
“Reminds me of your other lesson.” He coos out, shivering at the lecherous way your expression twists every time his bulbous tip entered you. “Reminds me to- hah, to use my—fingers.”
“Toru, for this I don’t believe you need to—mmmpf, fuck.”
You’re biting back your words- in fact, your words are being fucked right back into you. “The fourth- hah, fourth lesson.” Gojo’s whispering as his thumb darts down in rubbing motions from your clit and to your hole. “The fourth lesson the- ngh, the fourth.” Almost reminding himself, almost holding himself back whenever his fingertip was getting a taste of your sweetened cunt-
And he’s reeling that hand upwards to lick off the polished wet excess.
With those tips of his now coated in a gleaming layer of saliva, Gojo manages to curl his thumb inside and pry apart your entrance a lil’ further. Just a lil’ more.
Just enough for him to give you another hard push and finally bottom-out.
His tufts of pearly white curls scritch-scratch against your cunt, and you’re driven absolutely crazy by the carnal feeling of having all of Gojo Satoru deep and throbbing inside of you. He’s managing to fill out every single crevice like never before, a loooooong length that ends with his reddish tip kissin’ at your spongy cervix.
“O-oh my fuck-” Even as you breathe, you can feel him stuffed inside of you. You try to run your palm down your front, and you swear you can almost feel him from the outside.
The giant sploshes out a hefty wad of pre that adds to the mess already leaking out of you - and you might have thought that Gojo would feel awe-struck at the filthy sight below you, you might have thought that Gojo would babble away at it.
But instead he’s just so…quiet.
Gojo Satoru has his head hunched, his ivory bangs covering his eyes, his biceps quivering as if they were on the verge of collapsing—
You take in the sheer amount of his ragged breaths, as if he’d just run across town five hundred times. “Satoru-” You tug on his shoulders- and when that doesn’t rouse him, you’re moving onto shifting apart his bangs to take a good look at his flushed face. “Satoru, are you okay- oh, shit.”
One look into his eyes.
One look into his drunken, predatory eyes-
And that’s all it takes for Gojo Satoru’s entire body to jolt- for Gojo Satoru’s entire body to be electrified as if he’d just been brought to life a thousand times over. Startled into motion. Breaths catching.
He’s moving mechanically, robotically, to throw both your legs over his broad shoulders and suddenly bend, bend, bend, bend—
“I don’t even know what I’m doing.” He utters out into the saturated air, words nothing but a whisper. Eyes wide. Mouth gaped. A slow dribble of saliva down the side of his mouth gives you the urge to lick it off- but before you can do anything about that temptation, Gojo’s rutting—using that kinetic force to push you even deeper in half. “I don’t even know what I’m doing-”
Till your knees hit your tits, and your chin hits your collarbones.
And you can only cry out as Gojo fucks you at a constant rhythm, feral. “You- you don’t realize that you’ve just folded me into the hck! meanest mating press, Toru?”
“No.”
He’s bullying his hot girth into you- thump-thump-thumping away directly near the back of your womb. And if that wasn’t enough, his split-ended tip found itself grazing your favorite g-spot as well, again. And again. And again and again and again.
“I don’t even know why- ngh.” He’s choking up at the feeling of your walls closing in on him, your sopping pussy holding him completely hostage by this point. One hand of his was rolling his fingers over your clit, and the other glides down your core. “I don’t know why it’s just…”
You’re gulping once his hand comes to a stop right above where his bulbous tip was ending out at your cervix. Thudding away-
“-m’getting this sudden urge to breed you, my love.”
Oh.
And perhaps it was the feeling of his perfectly vein-decorated cock getting to you, perhaps it was the way his probin’ eyes felt almost hypnotic. And yet you can’t help but open your mouth with a whiny- “Yes.” Locking your ankles firmly ‘round his neck, he’s ramming and ramming his hips into yours with a groan. “Breed me then, Satoru. Give me your- hck! child.”
“Oh, my love…” Gojo’s spit-slicked maw drops. “Oh, my heaven- oh, my life—” His forehead plasters against yours, scalding breath fanning your face. “You’d be lucky if I gave you just one.”
“I p-presume I won’t be making it out of this alive-”
Gojo doesn’t confirm nor deny, only drilling into you like such a madman.
It was in his natural instinct to breed you until his silvery tip felt all red and raw. The only thing he had to do was bottom-out at the spongy layer of your womb to activate that carnal part of him that wanted to see you all round n’ glowing with his child.
With his strings of precum splashing out at the bottom of your cunt as if a premonition of something much stronger. And Gojo can only plant smack after smack of his rounded, ruby-red tip at the base of your pussy. Those goopy layers suckin’ him in- “Haaaah, m’not even completely certain that it can be done.” He admits, thoroughly pressuring his hips against yours. “And yet- I hope you know that I won’t be letting you go until we make it happen…?”
“Make it happen?” You gulp.
“Mhmmm—I’ll stay here and pound you against this marble as long as I need to. Won’t stop even when your gorgeous shape’s dug into the stone, if by then you’re still not p-pregnant.” Such filthy words, and after each syllable he places a solid sultry flick upon your clit.
It makes you dribble out your sap like a faucet, “If I can’t sense your pretty cunt taking my seed. If I can feel the space inside of you. If you aren’t all full and choking on my cum-” Free hand coming up to draw a line across your airway, “-right up to here. If you don’t have trouble speaking—then we’re repeating it all over again.”
You shiver at his words, “Oh fuh-fuck, Toru, I don’t think m’gonna last very long.”
“Oh yeah?” He’s tittering, “Tha’s not gonna make me stop, my love- I apologize- it just feels too good. Just gets me too addicted that I—ngh.” His brows furrow, head throwing back- “Don’t even think about trying to get me to pull out before I’ve done all I’ve promised-”
“Sa-toru!” You’re dragging out your words, feeling lightheaded with the constant thumping of pleasure taking over your fuzzy brain.
“Oh but- but don’t think that doesn’t mean m’that gone on this cunt…well, I do confess that I am.” He’s gently tugging on your clit, and breaking out into an accomplished smile. “But worry not, I still r-remember your lessons—”
You’re cracking your eyes open, almost delirious. “You…do?”
“Mhm—” He leans down, and plants a gentle peck on your lips. “Fifth lesson.”
And it’s exactly then that Gojo Satoru fucks you straight into your high- stark against your tizzy pleasure, scorching hot. The electricity of your orgasm rips right through your body, frying your veins with the sheer bliss-
“Fifth lesson, always make you cum.” He’s repeating as if a mantra, and you’re clutching his scarred back for dear life as Gojo’s lengthy shaft digs against your every tiny orifice inside. Somehow, he’s mapped out your g-spot perfectly - swabbin’ that exact spot in the same sloppy tandem as his fingers on your clit. Ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump! “Always make you cum- hah, always- always-”
“W-want you to cum, too, Satoru.” You blink up tearily at him, wriggling your hips. You moan at the feeling of his flared ridge stirrin’ your tender insides, “Inside- please?”
He breathes out, “Has…has anyone ever cum in-”
“No.” You’re tugging him into a kiss, and it somehow seems to heat your body up even further. “Just you.”
And it’s all that needs to be said for Gojo to finally finish out.
Pouring out long clingy streaks of his cum, that ivory sap sticks against your walls and sensually slides down to your womb- hot and sticky. Balls clenching. Heavy. So much of it- the sheer volume is a sensation that only adds onto the shakes of your own orgasm.
Your toes curl, and you swear you could almost taste the sticky sweetness of the puddle he was swirlin’ out at your very base. With all his throbbing inches shoved in tight—and your teeth set on edge after each ba-thump! of hot sap.
He’s riding both yours and his on your pretty lil’ cunt, “Just me-” Parched lips whispering. With brazen eyes, Gojo looks down at your core and pat-pat-pats above where he was spurting out his sap. “Just me, just me- just me—”
As Gojo’s voice breaks out, you’re peering up at him. “Satoru-”
“And is it…” He’s finishing off his train of thought from earlier, still muddled by the feeling of your sopping wet cunt- the crackles of his high. They make every hair on his body stand on end, spine arching into your body. “-is it just me that belongs to you, my love?”
You whine when his slightly-changing position makes his globular tip swab even further inwards to mess up your insides. “Oh, Toru, you don’t belong to me.” You tell him, and the corners of his lips almost downturn in sadness. “You’re mine, if you hah- want to be-”
“I do.” Gojo answers, immediately.“Oh, how I do, my life.”
Beaming.
You just didn’t know that, outside, Geto had been there to hear it all.
.
.
.
In the end, it was only with the promise of bringing him more romance novels, and perhaps a few sweet treats from the kitchen, that you’d managed to detangle yourself from Gojo Satoru’s long limbs. You crept upstairs with the morning light.
Clutching onto the staircase banister with all your might, absolutely ruined.
And you were well and fully intentioned to return with the spoils of your brief respite - to be quite honest with yourself, it ached somewhere deep inside when you weren’t near him. And you’d just been running your mind through a few potential titles that he might like when you heard his voice.
Not Gojo’s, no.
Geto’s.
“You should not go near it.”
You whirl around to find him standing at the foot of the stairway, hidden in the shadows, so that you had not even noticed him with your mind full of Gojo.
Geto takes a step closer towards you, and you could feel his eyes sweep down the tattered nightgown that you help to your body, to your glistening eyes, your kissed lips. His lip curls in distaste, “You should not go near it.”
“It?” You ask, not masking your dislike.
“It, yes.” He spits, “It is dangerous-”
“He is a human being-”
“He is a monster.” And Geto Suguru has never raised his voice with you - not with you. But he can’t help but let that scratchy pitch out now, getting closer towards you with that utterly manic look in his eyes. “The Strongest- yes. I have not completely failed, but something must have gone wrong somewhere. A suture? A valve? Because he is a monster-”
“You do not know him!” Waving your lantern in his direction, he darts backwards with his eyes narrowed.
“Good God, my dear…” He starts out, slow. “If I could force myself to believe it, it would be in my inclination to see attraction in you for that thing-”
“And if so, then what?” You’re raising your head high in challenge, meeting his steely gaze dead-on. “Understanding. Pain. Intelligence. In him, I see all of those things-” The flames lick away from him, “-and I am not quite sure I see them in you, anymore.”
Geto turns his head away from you, jaw clenched. “What about what you have denied me?” And you’re not quite sure what he means in that moment, not until he spits out the very two words that haunted you for nights. “Your heart.”
“My heart.” You can’t help but laugh to yourself, fists tightening on your lamp. “Of all human anatomy, that is the organ furthest from your understanding.”
And that is where your conversation had ended.
For the night, that is.
Turning your back to Geto, you’d made your way up that grandiose staircase- towards the library, as you were intended to. You took your time perusing the titles, both in wonderment as to what Gojo might like as a pastime to forget the conversation with Geto before you met your lover. And by the time that you’d picked up a tattered old copy of Beauty and the Beast…the tower was on fire.
What happened next you remember in snapshots and screams.
Running into Geto and your fiancé in the corridor, being bodily dragged out of the burning mansion by them both, fighting your way in an attempt to get into the dungeons- and yet, you were no match for both.
You’d flung and clawed at them both.
And yet…they still let the dungeons burn.
You knew that Geto had something to do with the fire, he seemed none too miserable about losing his greatest creation. None too sorry about hearing it scream—your name, from the depths of his wounded chest, it echoed above the flames,
That, however—that made you run to the house despite the flames- it’s only with your fiancé’s help that you narrowly missed a plume of flame and heat that had been headed straight at you. And when you opened your eyes, stuck together with tears, you’d found…
Geto attempting to go inside, as well.
Frantic.
Fervent.
Flapping his coat and attempting to wade through, a single tear racing down his cheek.
What has he done?
“It’s too late now, Suguru.” You’re throwing off the other man’s arms, your cries aimed at Geto who looked on hopelessly at the maze of fire that he simply could not penetrate. “It’s too late now!”
Inevitably, you’d broken off your engagement and wished to flee the country, perhaps flee your life entirely - only, you didn’t realize that a certain scientist had much the same idea. Geto had joined you on an expedition to the North Pole a few months later, one that you’d signed up for in the hopes that the cold would perhaps numb your mind.
But when your Navy Vessel had been attacked by a hooded, inhuman figure- it was the two of you that had been left out for dead, the harbingers of such disaster. And you could only realize that Gojo was far far from numb in your mind. He was closing in on it. Just as he was closing in on you.
He was alive.
He was alive.
And you won’t let Geto prevent you from seeing him now.
.
.
.
“So that is why the mons…Gojo calls for ‘her’.” Nanami breathes into the ringing silence after your side of the story. He looks over at Geto, who hangs his head low, and then straight into your eyes. “He was asking for you- he was calling for you-”
“Oh-” Your hands fly up to your chest, “Surely you didn’t hurt him too badly?”
“We did not, my lady.” Nanami lies - and even if it had been false, it was only true that this creation had rapid healing. The Strongest, huh? Imagine such a thing. He takes his hat off and slightly bows before you, “We apologize that we were not there to speak with him before attacking, human to human.”
You’re managing out a slight smile, before you turn your gaze towards the haggard Geto Suguru. Who mutters to himself, “Her…so- so he really doesn’t want…”
“It’s not you he wants, Suguru. He doesn’t want revenge, he doesn’t want blood, he just wants-”
“Love.” He says the word like it pains him, looking up at you with those soft amethyst eyes for the first time in what feels like…forever. “He wants love.”
And you wanted your love, too.
The crew outside had been doing a valiant job at attempting to ignore the cracking of the frozen sea beneath them, the almost turgid shape of something attempting to claw at them from beneath the icy surface. Banging at the frost. Creating currents that sway and tip the Horisont from side to side. But once the group filters out of Nanami’s bedroom, multiple officers run up to their Captain with their worries.
“Captain, that- that thing seems to be coming back up again-”
“Our onlookers have spotted it swimming back near the ship-”
“It’s almost here!”
“Calm yourselves, calm yourselves.” The blond-haired man raises his palms to signal for silence, announcing to the entire crew. They look at you curiously, so out-of-place amongst their frantic faces, in fact- you seemed ready to leap off the side of the ship for a better look. “I am aware of the problem, and I am aware that he will be returning soon.”
“He?” Repeats Ino.
“He.” Nanami affirms, a twinkle in his eye. “And we have been quite the inhospitable hosts towards each of our guests here, and as your Captain I apologize for not correcting our behavior sooner.” And above the gasps, he continues. “Gojo Satoru is not dead. Gojo Satoru will return. And when he does-” He gestures behind at you, “-we will be letting this lovely lady off the side of the ship.”
“A sacrifice, Captain?!”
“That’s murder!”
“How could we ever possibly-”
“He’s coming.” His stern voice cuts through all, and it didn’t matter what they all had to say at this very moment. It only mattered what you had to do. “He’s coming- man the ladder.”
The crew works quickly and efficiently, and as they let that water-logged wooden ladder hit the ice below- Geto claps at your elbow with one of his shaking hands. “Are you perfectly sure-”
“Suguru.” You’re interrupting him, and it makes the taller man flinch. You smile, “I’ve never had a more foolhardy idea in my entire life.”
Somehow, somewhere, he manages to crack a smile, too.
The thunder of fists against frozen water grows louder, synchronizing with the stomp of your heartbeat as you make your way down that ladder. Biting your lips against the cold, your eyes trained on the dark mass of cloth that waded beneath the snow like a blood-thirsty shark. Ready to break free.
The moment your shoes hit the crunching snow—
CRASH!
Gasping, the ship leans over on its side as they look over the edge.
The Strongest.
All eight, loving feet of him towering before you.
Shoulders stooped. Cloak drenched. Hood obscuring. His breaths come out in uncontrolled gusts after so long beneath the water, and the breeze tickles your face as he just can’t help but bow himself closer to you.
“Let me see you.” You’re humming, reaching over with absolutely no hesitation to pull the flap of his hood off. Ice-blue eyes meet yours. Rosy pink lips wobble with emotion. And suddenly you’re looking into the very face that has haunted your daydreams for so long now, your love. Your Gojo Satoru. “Satoru.” Taking one of his overlarge hands in yours, you’re placing them to your core - beyond those extra layers of coats, the swell of your belly. The life growing within. “We’re sorry we took so long.”
His scarred body embraces you then and there, “My loves.”
A/N. Think this might be the longest fic I’ve ever written? Mayhaps??
satoru hates the idea of cock-warming. he thinks it's pointless, getting the opportunity to be in you, and not even bothering to make the most of it.
his idea of making the most, well, it would consist only of fucking you so hard, you won't be able to move the next day. that's what good boyfriends do, right?
"good boyfriends do whatever their girlfriend asks them to do," you counter.
satoru whines in response, looking up at you. all pretty, you're seated in his lap, as he lays on the bed. strands of white hair fall into his eyes, and you brush them away.
he pouts, "i am a good boyfriend." satoru's getting impatient, wanting to just feel your snug cunt around him. his throbbing cock sits hard on his stomach, red-tipped and leaky.
"then, please?" drawing out the syllables, you give him the best you can: puppy eyes. he caves. instantly.
grumbling, "fine. i guess you can put her in you. willingly choose not to move, too, or whatever."
you clap your hands, emerging victorious. you're not willing to test your luck, though, not commenting on the fact that you've told him multiple times not to refer to his penis with she/her pronouns.
he groans as you sink onto him, his thick length pushing past your spongey walls. there's a filthy squelching that fills the room, paired with your quiet whimpers.
satoru's hands grip your hips, fingers digging into the flesh. "shit, pretty girl, tight 'n' wet f'me. taking me s'good." his words slur into one another, lost in the depths of arousal.
there's always a certain amount of self-control it takes, to not immediately cum the second he's all the way in. "'toru," you murmur, accidentally clenching around him.
"fuck," he mutters, "you can't do that, squeeze your little pussy like that, if you aren't gonna do anything about it."
"sorry," you say, sheepish. his eyes flutter shut, a hum dismissing the apology.
"now, what? just... stay like that?" satoru tilts his head at you, questioningly. sassy, if you may add. he just really can't believe you'd rather be doing this.
shifting above him, you lean down, resting your head on his bare chest. "yeah. isn't it nice?"
his arms wrap come up, to wrap around your waist. there's a beat of silence from him. begrudgingly, your rigid boyfriend shrugs, "maybe."
you're too content to roll your eyes. he wouldn't admit it, but satoru was filled with love, in this moment. his shoulders relax, and his entire body seems to ease, a breath of satisfaction leaving him. he feels at peace. he's always at peace, when he's with you, but this is different.
more real. more raw.
it's incredibly intimate. he feels like he's a part of you, like there's nothing keeping you separated. satoru inhales your scent, holding you just a little tighter.
"baby, i love you," he whispers, voice thick with emotion.
you smile against him, "i love you, too, 'toru."
to say the least, cock-warming is his new favorite thing. there is no sitting beside him on the couch anymore, not when you're alone. no laying next to each other on bed, either.
if he was clingy before, he's a monster now. if you're near, he wants to be inside you. not to have sex, but just to rest. it's not like you're complaining, anyways. at the end of the day, you're down bad for him, just as much as he is for you.
Synopsis. Running from it? You won’t even be able to walk.
Pairings. [SEPARATE] Higuruma x Reader, Gojo x Reader, Ino x Reader, Sukuna x Reader, Choso x Reader, Geto x Reader, Nanami x Reader, Toji x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem!reader, running from it, ROUGH s, overstím, manhandIing, stopping you from running, chokíng, p sIapping, spítting, HEADLOCKS, cervíx kíssing, cuIt Ieader!Geto, exhíbitíonism (Geto), bréeding, true form Sukuna, DP, D píercings (Ino), GOJO’S POWERS, marathons, matíng presses, Iactation, slight plot, REACTIONS, pet names, swéaring.
A/N. Hope you have a lovely week <33
♡ TOJI FUSHIGURO - MANhandle.
Heavenly Restriction.
Now, you knew that your boyfriend was blessed (and both cursed) with this innate power. Hell, you’d seen the consequences of it first-hand: a doorknob crushed to the shape of his hand, a jar lid that’d been accidentally smashed, a gym routine you couldn’t even imagine keeping up with.
So you really didn’t think that Toji Fushiguro would even think twice before using his powers in bed—did you?
With one hand pinning your hips down, the other looped ‘round your throat to keep you stuck in such a ruthless headlock. He’s using his superhuman strength to drill his puckered length, incredible girth swabbin’ into every tight spot. Tickling your tenderest ones. Making the skin of his pelvis glow bright red.
And after only a few vulgar thrusts, he’s bullying you into your nth high of the night.
The sudden shockwaves hit you so hard that you’re reaching out for your rickety headboard, so hard that you’re thinking of running away-
“Aht aht-” A low rumble echoes out from behind you, its sheer primal tone enough to make the hairs on your body raise. Just as soon as you’re registering Toji’s lowered tone, a sudden spank! rings out against your cunt.
And as you’re yelping in surprise, he lingers his stinging touch right over your clit. The padded tips of his fingers teasing and twisting your swollen clit, “And where do you think you’re going, hm?”
You’re biting back sobs, “N-nowhere- oh.” Right before your entire throat seems to feel the thumpin’ impacts of Toji’s pulsating red tip. Thwack! He was just so hard that you could almost taste every throb, widenin’ out your goopy walls to his length. Sloooow and sensual, so that you’re feeling each vein primally scrape its pattern out.
And it’s almost as if he’d expected your whiny denial.
Almost as if he’d expected you to react exactly like so, stupidly being tunneled by his inches.
Almost as if he’s been waiting—because in positively no time, Toji’s burrowing the slippery rotundness of his tip against your cervix. Not slow anymore - he was just bashing his circumference in until your eyes damn near bulge out of their sockets.
Such an incredible impact that only he could do, such an incredible speed. It’s leaving you stunned and shaking for a few seconds. A reverie that only Toji can break with his gruff voice, “Nowhere? Hah…” A voice that absolutely didn’t bode well for you or your poor cunt.
The next thing you’re feeling are his roughened digits, slamming down upon your folds once more. Hard. “Leaking all over the sheets- all over. It’s a fucking waterpark down there, and you call that- tch, ‘nowhere’?” His rude grunt is followed up with yet another spank- though, this time, it’s on those jittery hands of yours that still held onto the headboard. “Trying to run from my fat fuckin’ cock and you call that ‘nowhere’?”
You’re squirming your hips away at the pleasure with a whine—
“And look- look! You’re still trying to run.” He breathes, his hold on you tightening enough that you swear you heard your joints pop! “Ya reeeeally think you can run away from me? With my strength?”
“S-swear m’not…”
“How cute.” Tittering to himself, “Y’know I hunt down people for a living, doll?”
Your mouth lolls agape, just the merciless swipes of Toji’s cock down every orifice made you drool. Somehow, and the slightest rub-a-dub of his winding veins left you seeing stars.
It’s just about all you’re managing to get out before your boyfriend’s hand comes slamming down yet again - this time over your gaped maw. “So to have my girl trying to run away- ‘specially when I’m just trying to fuck her right, is just…” Beads of saliva splatter out, and Toji doesn’t even hesitate before he’s licking the mess off himself. Heavenly restriction flowing through his body, he pins you to him until your body aches lewdly. “One chance to explain yerself. I know you’re in denial because you know you did it, mama- and you’re still trying to say ‘nowhere’.”
Dazedly you can only nod, entire body quivering after the slide-slide-sliiiides of his prolonged shaft. And it wasn’t that you were just overstimulated, it’s that Toji had been hitting your favorite hidden spots for what feels like hours by now (and probably was). “Nowhere…I was just feelin’ sensitive, I promise I wasn’t– oh, fuck.”
As if to prove his very point, he’s dragging his crowned fingertips on your clit- with a particularly hard thrust that has you squealing.
Your limbs weakening, body bucking, arms weakly tugging on the pillars of your mahogany headboard. And through it all, Toji’s looking down at you with a grin.
The headlock tightens, “Still nowhere, huh?”
In shock, you’re immediately letting go of the headboard-
“Too late for that now, mama.” Toji snickers, ignoring those cute pleas of yours. He’d already given you your chance, and now you can do nothing more but arch your back against his chiselled figure, the scritch-scratch of his dark happy trail against your ass- and take it. “You know m’not a patient man…”
Your spit-glossed lips wobble, “Oh, fuck- hck!”
“Nowhere.” Toji hums, and you can almost hear the utter greed in his tone. The breathy octaves. The carnal want. In one fluid motion, he’s giving your traitorous hips two direct smacks! upon either side, and then two more on the inner parts of your thighs, one more straight onto your puffy pussylips.
Just so swollen with need- just so sensitive that you almost don’t register the final two swats he’s hitting on the backs of your hands.
Smack—smack!
Before he lets go of the headlock. Before both his hands clasp your own, fingers tight around your wrists. Toji’s easily pulling and pulling them behind your back, your arms straight and outstretched so that you couldn’t use the headboard for escape anymore- holding you up with nothing but that as he fucks you like an animal.
Bouncing your upper half in midair, inches off the sheets with how hard Toji was manhandling you - easily, at that, he didn’t even break a sweat. “Oh p-please.” You’re whimpering, your head feeling dizzy at the constant pressure from all sides. “Please I wasn’t really going to- oh, my neighbor’s going to hear us-”
“Nowhere.” But you don’t think that Toji Fushiguro can even hear you right now. “And fuck your neighbor.”
He’s driving his toned hips against you like a madman- thrashing and thrashing, bruising your softened cervix. “Nowhere nowhere- nowhere.” That lil’ mantra of his leaving him in scorching hot pants, breezing down your arched spine. Less steady than usual. Less stable.
In-between each of his feral ruts, the slamming pushes of his cock, “Nowhere.” Sometimes, your eardrums can even make out the sound of Toji chuckling following the word, like even saying it made him laugh. He’s whispering it out as if a broken record player, growing even more crazed by the second. “Nowhere- fuck- nowhere.”
“Toji, you just sound so…” And then you’re turning your head over your shoulder, just to see the expression on your boyfriend’s face- only for any and every breath in your lungs to be instantly wiped from existence. “-oh.”
Oh.
Because Toji’s drunken, half-lidded eyes—fuck, you couldn’t even begin to describe the sheer predatory glint in them right now.
Scarred lips parted into a permanent ‘oh’. The tips of his ears blushing. A thin line of sweat dribbling down the side of his temple. Biceps bulging as he was the only one supporting your weight now. His dark brows furrow in such concentration as he reels his hips back and plunges hot wads of pre straight into your womb—
“You’re going nowhere without me.”
.
.
.
Shiu yawns the moment you and Toji take your seats opposite him, the soft trill of the restaurant bell still following you two. And as you look on curiously at the action, your boyfriend merely scoffs.
“That excited to see us, huh?”
Shiu smirks, “As always.” Before a more weary expression seeps into his face, and you’re noticing the dark circles that have made themselves at home underneath the other man’s eyes. “But oh- I wish. Remember how I told you I moved into that new place? Yeah, so just last night my neighbors were going at it like crazy- fuck! It’s like they were trying to break the damn bed or something, it sounded like a fucking crime scene. I didn’t sleep a wink the entire night, and by the time it was morning, they were still not done.”
Your thighs clench, still sore from your own activities last night - oh, Toji had made sure that you couldn’t run for sure. “You don’t say…”
“Hah! Serves you right, bastard.” Toji’s absent-mindedly looking through the menu for the cheapest options, “What dump did you say you ended up moving to again? So that I never have to come over- ever.”
With yet another sigh (and a yawn), he’s listing off an address that sounds oddly familiar. A building name that you knew too well. An amalgamation of numbers that was much the same as your own home’s…exept for just one digit.
And then you’re remembering that you’d forgotten to greet the new neighbor next-door.
“Wait.”
“Fuck, wait-”
♡ NANAMI KENTO - Tie, tie, again.
“So…never thought about having kids yourself?”
You snap your head to Principal Yaga so fast that you think you might’ve gotten a brief whiplash. But the man merely keeps his arms crossed, stare indiscernible behind those shades but obviously pointed in the direction of the school training ground: where your husband, Nanami Kento, was busy sparring with one of his newest students.
You watch as the pink-haired boy gazes up at Nanami with such glimmering admiration, weaving between punches that were slowed down just enough to go easy on the kid.
And you manage to squawk out, “E-excuse me-” Pupils flitting between your former teacher and the fight happening just meters away, “Did Kento say anything to you about that?”
“No.” Yaga shakes his head, though you think you catch the corner of his mouth just slightly turning upwards. “No, just…saying.”
“I see.” Your mouth was dry, and you weren’t entirely sure why. It’s not as if this isn’t a discussion that you and Nanami have had before - though, admittedly, it wasn’t at great length - but you were under the assumption that he wanted to wait. At least for the time being. Right? Right? “Are you sure he didn’t-”
“He’d make a good father, y’know.” Yaga suddenly says, and you follow his gaze to where the duel had finished by now.
Though it was inevitable that Nanami would be the winner, he was consoling Itadori with a hand on his head. Crouched down on the grassy field to whisper quiet words of motivation to the boy. Lips slightly curved in that way you knew meant he was holding back a soft chuckle. Almost like father and son.
Yaga turns to walk off, and you almost don’t want to rip your gaze from the sight. He hums, “Just saying~”
.
.
.
“Don’t move a single inch, my love.” Nanami growls, his voice running ragged. “Not a single inch.”
And that was just about how well that conversation with your husband had gone.
Your bleary pupils snap open, and even through the film of tears you can make out the utterly feral expression on your husband’s handsome face. The way his sweaty blond locks plaster all over his forehead, the way his eyes narrowed, the way his jaw grit itself as he reels his sloppy hips back mere inches and thrusts—
“Oh fuh-fuuuuuck.” With your feet planted flatly on the bed, you’re curving your body up into his and rutting- and you honestly don’t know whether you’re trying to move away or down for more, more, more. “Oh my god, Kento, it feels so-”
“And there it is again.” His rugged tone cuts through your whines, and you’re shivering at the purely primal glint in it. With an almost mocking sigh, he scoops a hand underneath your hips and tugs you down.
You’re shaking, “K-Kento…”
“What have I told you now, hm, darling?” He asks, bending your jittery legs without even breaking a sweat. With a hand scooped under your hips, Nanami tugs you down so that your legs are wrapped around his hips instead of pushing against the mattress. You’re being bent so pliably underneath his big, beefy arms- “Keep your legs around my- hah, waist. You can think of tapping out after we conceive our child, m’kay?”
And then your husband plummets a few sopping swipes at the very end of your pussy, making the wads of cum inside you splosh! about.
And the only thing you can do is gasp, the only thing you can do is nod. Midway through that particular conversation, and his honed cockhead has been drilling into you for hooooours by now, and you think he’ll keep going for hours longer.
The fatness of his thick thumb slides between your pussylips, nudging at your clit. So sweetly sensitive by this point that you’re actually seeing stars—
“And there it is again.”
Oh, it just made you so much wetter when your beloved husband’s tone got so stern like that. It takes you his parched few words before you’re realizing that you’d started bucking once more- in fact, that last motion of his fingertips had left you arching all the way against his muscular front. “F-fuck, I promise I wasn’t trying to run, Kento.”
“Mhmmmm—” And that was a tone that told you he didn’t believe you. Through his foggy glasses - sliding down his handsome nosebridge - you swear you see him slightly roll his eyes, “But don’t you know that you aren’t supposed to run, my silly wife-”
“I know- mmpf, fuck…”
Just the entire orifice of your throbbing cunt being pummelled by his fat girth, he was the perfect size- with so many winding veins that massaged your sweetest spots. With his blushin’ red tip reaching directly towards your womb, Nanami tightens his grip on your waist, holds you to him, slashes every slick-speckled inch inside you. “If you knew then you wouldn’t be running, hm? Just look at the mess of m’cum you’re making already.”
Your chin strikes your chest, “I don’t see…oh.”
Before Nanami’s palm flattens over your core, and suddenly he’s pushing down on the slight inflation of his seed. “Now you see.” A creamy puddle of seed drips out between your legs, ropey ribbons of sap drenching the sheets below you. “It’s leaking out so much, what a waste, haaaah, fuck- now we’re never gonna get our pretty lil’ daughter at this rate, my wife.”
“But there’s already so much.” You’re marvelling, feeling his clingy cum fill you up all the way to your throat—it lets out the most sinful slurps as he’s thrusting his thickened length in and out.
And Nanami’s only leaning his crazed eyes closer, wilder. “But there could be so much more.”
“Oh.”
In an instant, he’s groping your hips and tugging you down- “Mmm, so much more of my cum to give.” Pulling you even deeper onto his hot, veiny length. “So much more to fill you up.” Just your slightest clench is enough to make the man spew out a few more pearly drops of his cum, emptying out all the way into your womb. “So much more of me to fuck you pregnant, pretty momma.” Until the hand on your hip grows bruising, “And you want to fucking run away…”
“Gonna- ngh, m’not—fuck.” Your mouth blabbers away, full of trickling saliva. It was so very easy for his bulbous tip to leave you stupid, somehow reaching across every ridge and crevice, and turning your brain into mush.
“Shhhh shhh sh—” Nanami drawls out, above your lecherous noises. His left hand caresses your face, wiping away a few speckles of saliva that drained the edge of your lips. “I know you won’t run away, my love. Oh, I know you won’t-” Pinpointing the door to your womb just right, he thud-thud-thuds right there. “-I know you won’t run away before I can- hck! get you pregnant. Tha’s what my beautiful wife has been asking me for, isn’t it? To breed her pretty pussy? To make that cunt mine mine mine- until everyone else just has to take one look at you before they know, too, what I’ve done with you?” He purrs, “I know you want me too…”
“P-please!” Nodding, “I want you to- ngh, I really, really…”
With a shudder, you’re letting your feet fall from his waist, arching your back into the perfect lewd curvature.
And it’s enough for a few more webbed wads of cum to escape from you- and to your surprise, this only makes your husband grin. Something feral. Something gone. His eyes widen crazily for a split-second as he takes in the mess splatterin’ in a glaze all over his v-line, “And yet you’re doing it again.”
“Oh, fuck.…”
You can only watch, with slightly widened eyes, when Nanami leans over the creaking bed. He reaches his arm out of your line of vision, shuffling with something on the bed stand.
And when he’s coming back- oh, Nanami Kento is holding none other than his favorite yellow tie.
The one with the leopard-like print that you’d gotten him a few anniversaries ago. And he’s easily letting go of your body to pin both your wrists together and loop the fabric ‘round and between them, tying you up with a pretty knot.
“Aaaand—there we go.” Nanami gently says, as if he didn’t just finish restraining you with his tie and throwing both your shaky legs over his shoulder. Knees to your chest. Scourin’ tip to your cervix. Pushing you into such a sinful mating press, “All done.”
“Mmmpf-” Teeth grit, you’re instinctually struggling against the restraint whilst he accelerates his hips like an animal—
“All ready to get fucked pregnant, my darling.”
.
.
.
“Hey…Yaga-san? Is it alright to come in?” A few months later, you and your husband find yourselves shuffling inside your former teacher’s office once more. It was later after the school day, and as expected the man was still looking through reports from recent missions. He looks up as you enter.
It’s been years since the time where you’d been here for detentions and important debriefings, and now you were here for a much different reason.
Slowly, you’re intertwining your hand in Nanami’s as you both face Principal Yaga. He squeezes your hand, golden wedding ring frigid against your skin.
You take a deep breath-
“Kento and I wanted to ask whether you’d like to be our future daughter’s godfather?”
♡ GETO SUGURU - WATERWORKS!
Toshihisa Negi, commander of the Time Vessel Association, a proud core part of Geto Suguru’s ‘family’ of sorcerers, has been having a bit of an issue lately.
Nothing to do with their leader, of course!
He would never speak ill of their glorious leader - never - rather, it’s everything to do with the place of their hideout. The temple made such strange noises at night. Sometimes it’s a constant rhythmic thumping, other times it’s what sounds like nails clawing on tatami- and Negi has half the mind to believe that this particular sanctuary might just be haunted!
And that certainly won’t do for their leader, who only ever deserved the best and nothing but the best. This cacophony must certainly interfere with Geto’s sleep, which must be why his handsome face has been looking a little pale lately, dark circles underneath his eyes.
Which is why the commander took it upon himself to do a little digging, a little snooping around.
He’s sure he can catch this damned ghost and bring it before their leader (can ghosts be sued? He’s not quite sure…) But either way it’s the dead of night and there’s no turning back now. The man found himself tip-toeing through a winding hallway inside the building, the one where these noises seemed to frequent from. And if this ghost couldn’t get any more audacious, it was the floor their leader’s bedroom was in!
Butterfly net in hand, back plastered against the wall, he’s making his way through the dimly-lit corridor.
Creeping in.
Creeping in…
And there! There it is! That thud-thud-thudding noise was starting up once more. And with a gulp, Negi was tightening his grip on the net and looking into the room where it was emanating from—Geto Suguru’s bedroom.
And what he saw was, oh—
“Once.”
“I d-didn’t—”
“Twice.”
“That was just—”
“Three times you have tried to run away from me tonight, hm?” Geto’s ruthlessly cutting off your pleads, those amethyst eyes of his narrowing in a way that made his pretty face look so mean. And before you can get a proper word out, he’s smacking his fingertips down on your puckered folds.
Not once. Not twice. But three whole times that leave your swollen nub all stinging n’ raw.
Just the wet gush of your slick making you shiver, you’re somehow managing to babble out. “It- it was just reflex, it just felt so good so I-”
“But you know what I’ve told you about running from it, right?” Geto doesn’t raise his voice beyond that familiar purr. “You know?”
And it was almost a challenge to hear him beyond the smack and the smack of his clammy v-line, sticking against the backs of your ass cheeks for a few seconds. You’d been manhandled into a full nelson that was almost too sinful to even look at. To spy on.
Geto had his strong forearms looped underneath your knees, pushing your knees up to your chest. His chiselled body was in control of the pace from beneath, the entire length of his looooong aching cock shoving inside. Hard. Just vicious.
All the way from his pinkish globular tip, and uuuuup between your glistening folds. You can practically hear the grin in his throaty tone, “Or are ya fucked dumb enough that you can’t even remember, gorgeous?”
“I-I remember- I remember!” You’re sobbing out, trying to buck your body on top of his- but the only thing that does is make him pin your body to his even harder.
Geto arches his muscular body upwards, so that the large erection between those legs swerved n’ swerved constantly inside. “Oh reeeeeally—?” It’s almost a growl, a warning, and his slender fingertips slither upwards to pinch that throbbing clit of yours. “And do you remember exactly what I said?”
Hiccuping, “Y-yes–”
He twists that nub of yours, sparks flowing through your body at the act. “Hm—?”
“Yes yes yes!” Yelping, just as loud as he wanted. You’re trying to buck your sheeny hips against his- but all that Geto does is haul your legs upwards until your hamstrings scream, pushed all the way up till your tits. “I remember- ngh, I remember. You said that if I r-run away three times, then…”
“Then?”
“-then I have to- hah, squirt.”
Thwack! The rotundness of his balls end up smacking against your cunt, making a few glittery beads of slick escape your cunt- as if a premonition of what was coming. “Exactly.” There was something breathy in his tone, something that sounded as if he was on the verge of breaking. “Exactly- exactly.” Oh, he already was breaking. “Exactly, you’re going to squirt.”
“Ohhhh, please-” You’re gasping, helpless against his roughening thrusts. Harder and harder, hitting your g-spot multiple times per second. “I don’t even know if I- hah, if I have the possibility to even-”
“You can.” He hums, “And you will.”
You will, you will, you will.
You will and he was thoroughly pumping his shaft into you, just the blossomin’ red tip of his cock entering your womb. You could feel the wetness of his precum seep all over, and it was making your cunt gush out twofold. “Fuh-fuck, it just feels so good-” Running your hands down your front, holding your own core. “-can feel you all the way here.”
“Mmm—” His free hand glides up the middle of your body, just the rotund end of his index drawing a steeeeady line up to your throat. “-not here?”
And then he’s hammerin’ away even faster, hard enough that the circumference of his cockhead bangs your softness- making your entire body go on edge. “C-can feel you there too, please-” You’re writhing in his arms, but Geto’s not letting you move a single inch- you were being fucked to his sloppy pace, with his sloppy wads of precum swirling your insides. “Please, I don’t think m’gonna last long-”
“Then squirt, gorgeous.” His dark lashes flutter as he rolls his eyes, slight amusement in his voice. “Don’t even think about cumming, you better squirt.”
Your nails claw down his forearm, slipping with the thin layer of sweat. “I- I think-”
“Mhmmm—?”
“I think m’gonna-”
Just the flared ridge of his cockhead rubbin’ all over your g-spot, again and again and again. Until that particular bundle of nerves felt way too tender, and you could feel the tug at the pit of your stomach. “Squirt, gorgeous, squirt.” Geto’s hot breath wafts at your throat and down your shoulders, and you can feel yourself veering on the edge of your orgasm. “And don’t think about- hah, running away when you do…”
“I won’t—fuck.”
It’s as if you’re exploding into your sudden bliss- so much of it bursting from between your sopping pussylips that it’s like a faucet. Those splattering wads drip down from your entrance, creating a glaze along his solid inches.
Peak after peak. Thrust after thrust.
His roverin’ red tip perfectly locates your sweet spot, banging against that lil’ treasure trove until you’re almost crying from your high. “It feels so good-” You’re gasping, with your back arched so deep. “Oh my god- fuck! I can’t believe it feels so good.”
“Mmm, told you so.” Geto’s inching in so that he can take goooood long glances between your legs, at the way your sultry hole was swallowing him up with ease. Molded to his thickened girth, “Now just sit back, relax, cum-” His honed canines sink into the left shell of your ear, “-and don’t- fucking- run.”
“I won’t- hck! I won’t…”
At least, that’s what you’re telling yourself.
Braving through the incredible sensation of his puffy pink veins, they massage into every inch of your walls and make you whimper. In and out. In and out. In and out.
Toes curling.
Back arching.
You throw your head back and the only thing you’re seeing is the white of your high. Your every feeling was heightened, and you can feel the line of his slit embed deep into your cervix, as if carving out his own mark there.
And it twitches restless each time you’re clenching, it jolts, it spurts out in wads of precum after each convulse- and Geto is just fucking you like an animal. All the way until way past your high, and your hole stops splashin’ out your syrupy sap. All the way until it peters out, and Geto is still pounding up restlessly into you-
“M’high’s over, Suguru…” Your mouth lolls open, slobbering down the front of your chin. Twitching as his slick-glazed cock just keeps going faster, “I said- fuck! I said it’s over, Suguru, I can’t cum again so soon-”
“So what?”
Oh.
A shudder wracks through your entire body, and you’re in sheer awe at the way his thickened length seems to plunge into you. Rapid. Urgent. Not even proper thrusts anymore, mere half-thrusts from the middle of his vein-covered shaft just because he was so eager to feel you. “It’s just so-” And just as urgent, your body thrums with your own pleasure. “Just feels so- hck! Fuck! I can’t even speak-”
“Mmm…you can’t speak, but remember you can’t run, either.” He warns, slightly chuckling at his own joke.
“And yet- how am I supposed to help it-”
“How am I supposed to help it, hm?” Geto coos, all faux-innocence that you knew too well. Because the problem is- he was fucking you like he wanted you to run from it. Wanted you to squirm away. Wanted you to worry that it was too much. Hard and fast and rough. “I just wanna keep on fuckin’ this pretty- hah, pussy. How m’I supposed to do that if you keep fucking- running- away.” With a slight growl, those fingers on your clit squeeze once more, and you find yourself lurching off of his drilling hips with a gasp. “Just like that.”
“What-” Your eyes snap open, “Wait- wait that wasn’t me running-”
“And yet, it was.”
Such a sweet tone that he’s taking on with you, and yet his actions are so mean.
One hand moving up to choke your pretty neck, the other twisting over your clit. “I’m not a good man, honey.” He growls in your ear, thrusts speeding up. “I’m not a good man at all- no one in this city can run from me.” Until you think you might just be veering into yet another wave of bliss, mind so muddled that you barely even register it. “Not even you.”
You’re begging, nails attempting to drag down the floor. “P-please-”
“And for running from me four times, hm…how about…” You’re waiting with bated breath as he rattles on, pretending to think when you knew damn well that Geto Suguru always thought his words out beforehand. “-how about we breed you, hm?”
Fuck.
It hits you just as hard as it hits Negi, watching from the doorway—frozen.
He doesn’t know what do to - laugh at his impression that it’d been a ghost, when it was really this all along (fuck, he should’ve known), or cry because he’s never been harder in his life-
Just then for the briefest second - the briefest - Geto Suguru’s eyes meet his through the slight crack in the sliding doors.
And the glorious leader only smiles.
♡ CHOSO KAMO - Giddy up!
Which one of you was more drunk n’ gone by this point?
You had absolutely no idea.
Absolutely no fucking idea—because you were riding you pretty boyfriend until he was spilling out in great, glittering tears. Just the cutest wobble of his pinkish lips, sensitive with how many times he’d been gnawing down on them. Skin flushed a lecherous rouge all the way from the tips of his ears, down to his abs.
And the entirety of his muscular body wracked with shivers after each clench of your clingy walls ‘round him, “Hck! Fuh-fuck!” His quiet baritone shook with so many whines any time he opened his mouth, “Fuck, it just feels so good, baby.”
“S’that sooooo—?” And then there was you - quite frankly, you were just addicted to riding Choso Kamo until he was all overstimulated and tender. Because he just made the prettiest noises, just said the cutest things, just fucked you in the filthiest way.
Because he was addicted too, didn’t you know?
Those hazy chocolate eyes of his bore up into yours, “Mhm, i-it is so.” And he lets out a cracked whimper as you’re kissing away the line of drool built up on one corner of Choso’s maw. “And you better not stop until m’cumming dry, alright?”
You’re holding back a giggle at the way he was urging his head upwards, so thorough in his pleads. “But of course, Cho.”
And he was going to hold you to that.
It wasn’t just a request, it was a promise.
It was an oath- because even numerous bounces of your hips later, when your hamstrings are all screaming and sore, Choso still doesn’t want you to stop. Even as he’s feeling the sensitivity build up in his red, raw cock- Choso still doesn’t want you to stop. Even as he’s fucking beading out a few pearly beads of white from the end of his shaft—
“Some more- some more-” Choso hiccups from the back of his throat, noises wrenching out thickly. By now, the creaking of the bed was so loud that you could barely even make out his sultry words. “Just a little more- hck! I feel like m’getting close to cumming dry, baby.”
“Still just ‘close’?” You ask, through a slight gasp of surprise. “Oh, baby, your stamina is just off the charts.”
Just at that, you can feel his flared tip splash! out a few more webbed wads of cum. Such a pretty blush taking over his cheeks, “Th-thank you for that, baby.”
Grinning, and this time you’re dragging your hips reeeeeal slow along his shaft while you think. Just the sultriest figure-eights that leave the man underneath you panting and begging for more. “Mmm, but that makes me think, Cho-”
“Wh-what does that pretty mind say, hm?” He’s somehow managing out through his tears. Hanging on your every word (as he always did) even when he was being fucked stupid by your pussy, the slip-slip of your velvety walls snatching away every coherent thought in his mind.
“Hmmmm—” And with the final, loudest slurp! Choso’s grabbing the side of your right ass cheek and helping you bounce on his upright cock. Simply moving you with his strength, biceps flexing maddeningly - times like this, it’s hard to forget that his strength was simply inhuman. “Y’know how you still haven’t cum dry, Choso?” He’s fervently nodding, head throwing backwards as your speed picks up once more. “Well, m’wondering whether maybe with your- mm, half-curse body it’s possible for us to even make it out alive before you cum dry-”
“But I’d rather die than stop-” Choso cranes his head upwards in alarm, crashing his spit-glossed lips onto yours in an effort to get you to stop talking.
To stop overthinking.
To stop doing anything but swervin’ and swervin’ his rock-hard cock inside you, until each and every inch of your innards was pinpointed with his cum.
With both hands he’s grabbing either side of your hips now, pulling you down to meet his wild, thrashing bucks- “Would rather- fuck- fucking die than let go of this pretty pussy.” He’s muttering between each thrust, more to himself. “Would rather fucking die than hafta say goodbye t-to her.” Just the edge of his pinkish tongue darting out as he concentrates on hitting your g-spot juuuust right. “Would rather- hngh, oh, baby, I’d do so many things for you- but giving up when your pussy needs me is something I’d rather die than do. Would rather die- rather die- rather—”
“Oh- fuck!” You’re arching your back into his movements, now more taken over by his own vicious cadence.
You didn’t even know that your sweet boyfriend could move like this, and he was positively ruining your pussy by stretching out ridge and crevice to mold exactly to his size. Whispering, “Because just feel the way she’s clenching around me- suckin’ me in like she d-doesn’t want me t-to leave.”
Dark brows furrowed in concentration, in a way that made him look so handsomely serious as he pummelled your pussy raw. “And the way her cute womb twitches juuust like- that- she’s getting herself ready for my seed, y’know- heh.” Babbling on the most nonsensical things, the most pussydrunk, “And the way she’s just dripping- oh, it makes me wanna…makes me wanna…why are you running, baby?”
Your eyes snap down to meet his, slight shock in your voice. “Wh-what?”
“Running.” Choso’s lower lip juts out in what looks like a slight pout, and he’s running one of his hands down from your thigh to graze down the front of his abs. Down the front of where you’d left a glistening snail trail of your slick, “Look at the mess you’ve made trying to escape- ngh, why are you running from me, baby?”
“That’s probably from it smearing-” You try to explain-
“But it isn’t.” As if to prove his point, the hand at his sheeny-slicked abs moves to grip your throat and drag you back closer to him. “That thing you do- yes, that-” And that’s only when you’re noticing - the way that your hips bucked juuuust slightly upwards in sensitivity, whenever his cockhead veered too close to your battered g-spot. So that was what he was talking about. “-don’t you think of running away from me, baby.”
“I didn’t think I was…”
“Why’s she trying to run a-away? Doesn’t it feel good enough?” He’s pleading up at you, left hand now pinning your lower half to his own. You could feel every single ripple n’ flex of his waist as he fucked up into you like a madman, and it made even the man himself tear up in sensitivity. “Doesn’t this pussy like it? Hck! Don’t I hit—” Stroking the target of your g-spot until you see stars, “-eeeevery good spot so well? Do I need to cum even more inside?”
Dazedly, you’re shaking your head. “No- hah! No no, it’s not that, Cho, it’s just—”
Long lashes fluttering, Choso’s holding you down to him so tightly that his knuckles stretch themselves white. Nails digging into your flesh. Heat seeping into your body. “Jus’ what, baby?”
“It’s just that I’m so sensitive.”
And there, you’d said it.
Blinking past your tears, all there was left to do now was to watch Choso’s reaction. Just the most adorable way he was blushing down to the roots of his hair as he took in your words- took in the way that his needy cock was the one to have done that.
Mouth slightly agape.
Cock twitching inside of you.
And his mouth opens to let out a scorched pant- perhaps you’re waiting for him to say something. But before saying, Choso’s doing. Acting. Flipping your sweaty bodies over so that you have your back against the silken sheets and your legs thrown over his shoulder.
His perspired forehead sticking to yours with a slight thud, Choso’s pressing you into a fucking mating press before you even know what’s happening. “And here- this-” He crushes your limp legs tightly to himself, stopping you from squirming a single inch. “-you can’t run away in this position, right, baby?”
Your jaw drops, “I-I guess not-”
“Good.” And it’s accompanied by the most lecherous plap! of his rotund tip entering your womb, leaving bruises for days. “So you can take me until I- hngh, cum dry, can’t you?”
“Yes-” The only thing you can gasp out, like a broken record player. “Yes yes yes yes-” You were still so damn sensitive, and every rub-a-dub of his veiny shaft left you reeling. Tears streaming down either of your cheeks. Your toes curling. Back arching-
And then…just then, a sudden realization hits you.
“Wait- Choso, have you stopped your blood manipulation technique from going to your cock yet?”
“What do you-”
“How are you gonna cum dry if you- hck! keep regenerating? We’ll just never stop-”
“Oh.” And yet another few vulgar slams, another smile. “I see no problem there.”
.
.
.
Perhaps it hours later, days later, weeks later—but by the time that Choso’s finally slowing down, finally letting cock dryly orgasm out into your sloppy cunt- you think you can see the sunlight filtering through the curtains.
What day was it?
“Dunno.” Choso hums—did you say that out loud. He huffs out a bark of hoarse laughter, “Yes, yes you did.”
“Mmmm.” You’re curling up into his side, feeling the splash! of ivory sap streaming between your legs.
Stuffed so full by Choso’s thickened base, “Now…have you ever heard of a ‘rut’, my baby? Especially for curses?”
♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA - Four arms// Four escapes.
“I really don’t know how you do it, my lady.” The elderly attendant mutters behind her hand, catching your attention from where you both had been watching the infamous King of Curses train.
Punch after punch dealt onto tall wooden pillars.
With his bare hands.
The oak shatters easily beneath his strength, all four arms dealing powerful blows that make the ground trundle beneath your feet. And once he was done with each pillar after one or two strikes, a group of Sukuna’s attendants would totter over yet another one. Hastening to stand it upright in the middle of the dojo, and sprinting away before they, too, were caught in the shockwave.
You supposed that it wasn’t particularly the most productive pastime, especially considering that you were simply an avid spectator.
But oh—did you have much to look at.
The thin layer of sweat on Sukuna’s shirtless body, emphasizing his every prominent muscle, biceps rippling as he moved his arms, abs tensing, eyes honed in on his target. It simply sent shivers down your spine, and you find yourself almost forgetting that you’d been in the middle of a conversation - technically.
“F-forgive me, the noise of the wood is quite loud, isn’t it?” You’re explaining, turning to your attendant with much difficulty. “What was that?”
“I said I really don’t know how you do it, my lady.” She places her palm on one cheek, staring over at the scene with a sigh. “I do not wish to speak ill of his majesty, of course, but with all those extra arms, those extra eyes, those extra mouths- all that monstrous strength…”
“Yes?”
“Forgive me for asking but…isn’t it almost fearsome?”
And you can only smile, “Far from it.”
.
.
.
Less than an hour later and you were splayed out all across the dojo floor - empty, now, except for you and your husband. The King of Curses. Ryomen Sukuna. Shoving you down onto the carpeted ground and shoving his dual cocks inside you.
“What was that- tch.” Sukuna’s snarling out from above you, a hint of amusement in his grumbling tone. “Ya were gossiping about me with the help, were ya? Saying such sappy things- pah! don’tcha know that a king has an image to keep up, lil’ brat.”
And you’re gasping through your tears, words slightly muffled by the way that Sukuna clasps the sweaty back of your scalp and pushes your face deeper into the soft floor. “But- but I wasn’t lying–”
“And for that yer getting it even harder.”
Because they were right - Ryomen Sukuna is merciless, he is vicious…when it’s to do with your aching hot pussy, that is.
That red, rotund ends of his shafts were so fucking hard that it almost felt like he was about to burst- swirlin’ your insides in combination with his translucent precum. Pushing his wads into even the tiniest crevices within you, he swabs his lengths against your g-spot and then straight down to your cervix.
Creating two dull thud-thuds! that make your teeth set on edge, body weakly crawling forwards from his ploughing hips. “Oh my- oh my god—ngh.” You’re clawing at the ground in an attempt to hold on for dear life, “I will stand by the fact that you’re- ngh, actually a sappy softie-”
“Ohhh, you have such a mouth on you, woman.” The bridge of his nose crinkles in a smile that almost looks like a snarl. “Is it really yours- or that pussy of yours that’s talking now?”
You throw a dopey grin over your shoulder, “Why don’t you c’mere and find out- hck!”
“Mmmm, really is that pussy talkin’ then.” Sukuna’s tutting, and you can almost hear the roll of both crimson sets of his eyes. One of his clawed hands scraping down your spine, “I know my lil’ human isn’t brave enough to challenge me-”
“But I just said-”
“-unless she just wants ta be fucked even harder.”
Even harder. Even rougher.
The sloppy, sloppy glides of his cockhead ends up hitting your every tender orifice inside- just emptying out his pre into every crevice it’d stick. It slips down the sides of your channel and ends up leaking out of your hole, a delicate stream that his second cursed tongue flops out to lap up.
The slimy edge of his monstrous tongue ends up slipping between your quivering legs, ticklin’ back and forth to gulp up your sweetened juices.
Leaving you attempting to uselessly pry your hips away with a whine, “Oh- oh my goodness. Both cocks a-and your tongue, fuck, now that’s just unfair-”
“What’s unfair?” Sukuna humans, and oh—the audacity for both his smirking mouths to snicker down at you. Just raising his pale pink brow at the way you blabber out stupidly with the scourings of his shafts, “And here I thought you said I was sappy-” The words bursting down at you after each heavy probe of his dual tips, “-here I thought you said I was soft-”
“W-well you are t’me…” Bubbling out through the miry ribbons of saliva between your lips, you push your hips back n’ forth into his maddeningly.
“And yer saying- this is soft?” Only to be shoved a proper few inches down the floor - and you don’t get too far. Because two of his hands end up on your hips, one more on top of your scalp, yet another one wrapped ‘round your neck. All of them tightening to haaaaaul you back into him- “Really? Soft? Soft?” Striking your cervix particularly hard, “Because s’feeling reeeeal hard t’me, mama.”
“It does- it does feel hard.” You’re mindlessly agreeing, and he just finds it so adorable how you’re fucked so beyond stupid that you can’t do anything but whimper out your agreements. And yet, still stubbornly, “But you’re still…”
“Heh, cute.”
It’s just so easy to grip your body from four sides and draaaag you back onto his cocks, sliding across that floor, pulled until the curve of your ass cheeks were snug against his pink happy trail.
“N’ is it because m’sooooo soft that yer trying to fucking run away, brat?” Sukuna was merciless, manhandling you to him as if you were nothing but a ragdoll. Honed, he shovels all his matching inches into yours until it felt wrong to not have him stuffed inside your cunt. “Is it? M’just too- heh, sweet that you need to escape from my fat fuckin’ cocks? Just such a big softie that you can’t even handle it?”
Insisting, “I can handle- oh.”
“And it’s because the king is so merciful that I need ta be even rougher, don’t I?”
“Oh.”
Before you know it, you’re being bodily lifted off of the floor. And Ryomen Sukuna doesn’t even need to break a sweat to have you moved around just how he wanted it, and you blink- you’re suddenly carried off the dojo ground.
Arms scrambling to latch around Sukuna’s shoulders, ankles locking over his toned waist.
He’s lifting you clear seven feet off of the flat surface, where you have absolutely nowhere to escape from his thickened cocks. Swelling even further the deeper they push inside of you, “Heh- standing up.” Sukuna’s calling out over your crackling whines, “Now you have nowhere to go. Nowhere to run-” He nuzzles you with his handsome nose, so prominent. “-from your softie, huh?”
“I don’t- fuck.” In practically no time, he’s drilling into you like an utter madman. The round ends of his lengths constantly swabbin’ your sweet spots back and forth, “When I said you were a- ngh, Kuna-”
“Oh, shush, woman.” He’s fondly rolling his eyes - his favorite hobby, fucking his wife dumb. “And fucking- take- it.”
.
.
.
The next time you’re watching Sukuna train, it’s seated.
With your body sore from the day before, and your thighs still quivering. You’re clasping your hands together, gulping, as you watched on at the repetitive motions of Sukuna destroying those towering wooden pillars once again.
A sight that you found hypnotizing- oh, the way he moved-
“I must say.” Your trusty attendant pipes up from her seat beside you, “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen his majesty wear quite this many layers when he is training. Quite strange.” She turns to you, “Is he suffering from some ailment? Must I summon the royal physician?”
“I uh-” You’re blinking down at your husband who- yes, was wearing an extra training robe today, unlike yesterday when he’d simply been shirtless. Though there was a damn good reason for that. “Not that I’m aware of…”
“Then I believe it would be a good idea to have his majesty undergo a check-up.” She’s nodding fervently, leaning into the middle of the battlefield to take a closer look at the fighting royal. “After all, we wouldn’t want to miss anything when it comes to his majesty, I trust that it isn’t anything serious but nevertheless- oh!”
And it’s then that you see it - the both of you.
The way that Ryomen Sukuna’s robes shift just slightly to the side as he gears up yet another punch. The way that Ryomen Sukuna reveals his skin, decorated in a pattern of bruises and lecherous nail marks and bite marks that leave the both of you gaping.
And the attendant snapping her eyes away from the king and towards you-
“W-well, I believe we must summon the royal physician despite that.” Looking at your middle, your own skin peaking out with nail marks of his own hands. “For…other purposes.”
♡ INO TAKUMA - XOXO!
“O-oh, Taku, just the feeling of it is so…” Your mouth waters, and you’re unable to even finish your sentence at the time.
The only thing you can even think about is the feeling of your boyfriend’s long, pretty cock. It was stuck all snugly inside of your cunt, opening up even the tiniest orifices - and not just that, but you were hypnotized by the feeling of his latest Prince Alber’s piercing—
It’d been just over a month and a half since Ino had come back from the tattoos and piercings shop with a surprise. Showing off that silvery orb he’d pierced along the sensitive line of his slit.
And fuck- was it hot.
Bu the waiting had been torture.
You had to wait for weeks after until he’d properly healed, until you could finally corner him in your shared bedroom and all but pounce on him. Until you could finally, finally feel the coldness of that lil’ sphere travelling back n’ forth inside your cunt, a sensation like never before.
“You don’t hafta be nice t’me, pretty.” And oh—Ino Takuma sounded as if he was on the very verge of falling apart as he’s begging down at you. Hips rutting into yours in a mean missionary, just the classic position so he could stare at both your pretty face and your pretty cunt. He blushes, “But…but do you really like it that much?”
You’re nodding furiously, “Like it? I love it, oh—can feel exactly where it is. Just a little to the right, Taku, and you’re gonna hit my- ngh, right there.”
Easily, the frigid circle of his piercing finds itself pressin’ down on your g-spot as if it was nothing but some cute lil’ button for him to push away. “Right there.” He whispers to himself, brows furrowing adorably in concentration. “Right there, right there, right there- you know how my piercing feels all- hngh, inside you, sweetness? How you can’t hide a single spot from me now?”
“Yes yes yes—” You were just so damn wet that any time his cock pulled out, that piercing near the top of his shaft glinted with so many layers of glazed slick. “Feel so perfect inside- hck!”
“If you think that’s perfect just wait until m’hitting your pretty cervix.” Ino coos out, his right hand falling down to the side of your hip so that he could properly control where he aimed.
Your legs curled tighter around his slender waist, “Well h-hurry up then-”
“My impatient girl.”
And you don’t have to wait too long - Ino Takuma never made his pretty girl wait too long - before the curved edge of his cock finally finds your most fragile spot. And not only is he grazing it with his length, Ino is taking the time to angle his hips and rub right along that particular spot.
Rubbin’ and rubbin’.
A few times until your eardrums pop with pleasure, and you almost don’t hear the next words out of his mouth- “Y’know I purposefully got my piercing exactly where I knew it’d hit your g-spot, sweetness?” Ino proudly announces, making your jaw drop. He did what? “Because I knew my girl’s pretty pussy would appreciate it, and of course- why wouldn’t I wanna always kiss that cute spot?”
“You’re- you’re insane.” You’re somehow gasping out, your entire body overtaken by the precise way that his Prince Albert’s piercing massages your nerves. “Oh my god, you’re driving me insane.”
“Mmm, in a good way- right?”
It takes you a few more cold smooches against your g-spot for you to finally snap - your legs planting upon either side of the mattress as you thrust yourself higher up the bed. Jerking sensitively every time Ino successfully manages to knock-knock-knock his mushroom tip against your g-spot. “I mean-” You hiss, “I mean- yes- fuck!”
“But then why are you running away…?”
After Ino’s pouty question, he’s grabbing a good handful of your waist and lugging you back down onto his cock. Your eyes snap open as you hit his toned v-line with a smack! fully plunged with his cock- before he’s starting his rugged pace once more.
Hips rutting down into yours like such an animal- “Why are you running?” He breathes, almost as if he couldn’t quite believe your action himself yet. “Don’t run from me, pretty, we still have so much to doooo—”
“M’not really-” But then his cold cold orb lodges against your g-spot once more and you swear you see white, “Oh my god-” Body moving instinctually before your mind once more to bounce away, “-holy fuck, it just feels too good.”
“If it feels too good then maybe this pretty pussy just needs to learn how to take it, hm?” He’s questioning, one brow raised. Pleading, “Don’t run, please.”
“I c-can’t help it- oh.”
And then…and then the strangest thing, Ino finds himself looking forward to that helplessly cute way that you’d try to steady your wobbly legs and push up the bed- as if you were torn on whether you wanted to escape or come back down for even more of him.
He’s finding himself hypnotized.
Finding himself addicted.
Ino’s growing even impossibly harder every time he has to pretend to roll his eyes, perhaps even sigh. And with the most sleazy smirk on his face, he’d clap his hand down upon your hips once more and gyrate your body back down. “But I haven’t even gotten ta kiss every part of you with this- ngh, piercing yet, pretty.” He’s throwing back his chestnut bangs and pouting, “First I hafta kiss your pretty clit here—mwah!”
Pulling out, you shiver and twitch once he taps his bulbous piercing down on your sensitive nub. “Oh my- ngh.”
“Don’t run.” He’s pinning you back down to him, until your clit gets crushed underneath the mass of his body, the tufts of his happy trail. “And theeeeeen I hafta kiss that s-sweet g-spot right here. Mwah!”
Precisely striking your g-spot with that metallic addition.
You’re bucking wildly a few times before you realize that you’re not going anywhere with Ino pinning you down. And it’s times like this that his strength, trained with so many missions, so many exercises, really left your cunt soaked.
Letting off the sappiest squelches as he keeps drilling his vein-covered shaft in- “And then- oh, can’t forget your cute cervix. Mwah!” Just sliiiding his cold piercing down the sopping wet end of your pussy, it draws frigid lines there that you feel even as Ino’s pulling back to do it all over again. “And your womb- oh, how I love her always. Just the sweetest gal, askin’ for my cum—mwah!”
You gasp, “Oh, you’re j-just so filthy, Taku. Didn’t even know you had this side of you.”
“Well, the piercing just has me appreciating every inch of you that I get to call mine, sweetness.” He hums, dragging his kiss-swollen lips down yours. “And next up is gonna be these pretty lips of yours- mwah!”
Shuddering at the implication, you couldn’t move even if you wanted to- and even though that’s what Ino was manhandling you into the entire time, well…
He couldn’t believe it himself, to be quite honest. He’s already hankerin’ for the way those glossy walls of yours would clench around him, would move all over and stir his thickened cock. You just had him drunk on your pussy with just a few sultry swerves.
And he’s holding one hand to your hips, pressing you against his toned pelvis- “Hey- hey, pretty.” Getting your attention, now matter how stupid you were fucked by him. Ino was already starting to move your hips by himself, signalling you to fuck back- “How about s’your turn to get kissed by me this time, hm?”
.
.
.
The tattoo and piercings shop got a speedy appointment the very next day, and their brows slightly raised when they saw the name written down on the register.
INO TAKUMA—3:15PM APPOINTMENT TODAY
(MORE GENITAL PIERCINGS—POSSIBLE JACOB’S LADDER?)
So this was the very customer that’d wanted a Prince Albert’s piercing less than two months ago, and had nearly cried on the chair whilst getting it- though, despite how many times the piecers had suggested perhaps they do something else for the day, it was almost admirable how adamant he’d been. All for his lovely girlfriend, you, it seems.
Ultimately he’d ended up talking about you and showing pictures throughout the entire experience, leaving half the store swooning and the other half disgusted yet happy for the two.
And if he was coming back then- well, they can only assume that the surprise piercing went very, very well.
♡ GOJO SATORU - MARATHON
“Satoru?”
“Yes, my beautiful wife~?”
“Can reverse cursed technique be used in bed?”
.
.
.
And that was exactly what’d gotten you into this mess in the first place.
With your face pushed into the mountains of your pillows, now drenched with all the pathetic droolin’ you’d been doing these past multiple hours. With your ass held high in the air, your skin there stinging and raw with constant impact.
Quivering at the next—
“Come on.” Gojo’s hoarse bass echoes out from behind you, enough to send goosebumps skittering across every inch of your body. “Come on come on- come on-” Because oh—he just sounded so unsteady. So gone. So ready to snap any and every second he’s plunging his red, wettened tip into your insides.
Voice breathy. Octaves higher.
Earlier, you’d made the mistake of slightly attempting to escape his aggressive thrusts- out of sheer surprise at the filthy pressure. And now - instead of being offended, instead of ignoring it, instead of rolling his eyes at your dramatics - your husband was urging you to do it again.
More.
Faster.
Further.
Shaking every time he’s reeling his hips back to slam into the deepest depths of your cervix, throwing you forwards a few inches down the bed. And Gojo’s watching the entire thing unfold with nothing but a shaky chuckle at the way your poor body was nothing but mush against his maddened pace. “Come on- come- fuck! come- on.”
“Oh my-” You’re throwing your head back, only for Gojo to lean forwards and bite down on the side of your neck like some animal in heat. “Oh my- hck! god- when you s-said regeneration, I didn’t think you’d be able to last- ngh, this long.”
“Come on- fuck, you mean my stamina, sweetheart?” And it was a pure wonder that he was able to even register the words you were saying, let alone form a coherent response. “My stamina’s always been like this, pretty girl…”
And as he trails off, you’re holding your breath- for the way that he’s then slamming a few greedy fingertips down on your clit and letting it buzz with sparks of cursed energy. “Oh fuck- oh.”
Gojo coos as you start to buck with the pleasure that flashes behind your lids, “It’s just that- oh, with my reverse cursed energy now—” He’s leaned up so close behind you that you could feel the glissade of his toned core, abs massaging down your spine. “-I don’t have to worry about breaking bones.”
And something in his tone told you that he was well and fully capable of doing so.
Well and fully.
He drags one of his training-roughened hands down the sides of your body, soothing all those sore tendons and ligaments. “So don’t be afraid to go all out, sweetheart.” Gojo’s humming, voice airy- with just an inkling of something…dark that sets you on edge. “Don’t be afraid to…h-heh run if you need to.”
“R-run?” You’re repeating after him. And you’re only halfway through your wonderment at just why you might need to run, when you’re getting your answer already.
When Gojo’s pummeling his puckered edge into you until you’re seeing stars- and you’re just so overstimulated that his strawberry divot has you crying out.
Body quivering as you jerk just a little, move just a little off of his rhythmically drilling shaft. Almost running from it.
And you swear that Gojo’s half-lidded peripherals burst with a faint few bolts of lightning as he catches the act, lips squiring up into a shattered smile. “That’s right-” One hand of his finds itself latched onto the back of your neck, forcefully bouncing you back n’ forth. “That’s right that’s right- run, my pretty little wife, run. Come on, run.”
“Satoru—” Whining out, your body can only weakly take his thorough pushes. Shivering as you pap! your hips down onto his, his cum from round prior sploshin’ all around. “Satoru it’s just s-so much…”
That’s all it takes for his blushin’ tip to throb just a little bigger deep inside of you, Gojo’s voice turning breathy as he exclaims. And any time you moved, he would just draaaag you back down. “O-ohhhh, yeah keep saying that. Just a little further, come on now- mhmmm, further.”
“T-trying—”
A cool breeze of reverse cursed energy refreshes your muscles, “Come on. Coooome on, this pretty body can give me a little more- s’just so cute how you keep runnin’ from it but still come back down for more. A little further now, my wife.”
“So bossy.” You’re huffing out.
“Oh yeah, that’s right-” And Gojo’s upturning his pretty pink lips and giggling—the audacity! He leans his weight further down on your lower half, making the gravity of it push you further up the creaking bedsprings. Whispering into your ear, “Does that make you wanna run from me, sweetheart? Wanna- hck! show me what I’m missing? Make me beg for you back again?”
“Yes-” You’re gasping, your entire body still aaaaaching- even despite the reverse cursed energy that flowed through you. As you didn’t have the years of training and stamina that he did, “Yes yes yes, it makes me want to…”
Your mouth waters once Gojo’s tip expertly locates your g-spot- so bruised by now with his constant thrashes. He tap-tap-taps against there a few times, “Makes you want to what, hm?”
“Makes me want to—oh.”
And you’re not quite sure what was about to fall out of your mouth, you’re not quite sure what you were even thinking at that point - because in a split-second, you’re crashing into your nth high of the night.
With your body dropping drunkenly down onto the bedsprings below, and your eyes glazing over with a fresh bout of overstimulated tears. Toes curling. Mouth squealing his name like a mantra.
Gojo has so much fun simply starin’ down at his pretty wife and sighing fondly - how cute. How easy it was for him to let his cursed energy go out of control- invisible tendrils of power lift you off of the bedsprings, raising you in midair. “I thought I told you to fuck back t’me- I thought I told you to run, my pretty girl.”
“I-I tried-” You’re sobbing, feeling his thick tip thud your g-spot without even trying - as expected, you’re looking over your shoulder and gasping at the lightning sparking around his eyes. He was using his Six Eyes to find your g-spot each and every time.
“Mmm, you tried? But s’not time to- ngh, tap out just yet, y’know?” He drawls out, amused. Those coils of Gojo’s power still keep you moving to his every whim and want- “How about there- the headboard. Try n’ grab it if yer gonna run, might just help you.”
Arm limply reaching forwards, “L-like this?” And it’s Gojo that has to help you properly clasp onto it, too. The audacity.
“Yeahhhh come on now.” He snickers, “Try to run- yes like- oh, put your back into it, sweetheart.” Whilst he’s pounding your geysering orifice like he’s just gone wild, he’s encouraging you to move your body. “Just a bite more- aw come on.” And just like that, he’s dragging you back down onto his furious cock with ease. “You’d never make it on the battlefield against me- heh.”
“Well you are the strongest.” You’re blubbering out, and it might just be the most sensible thing you’d said all day.
“Heh, you got that right.” Gojo hums, the prettiest pussydrunken smile on his face. He ends his ruby-red tip out at your cervix with a wettened squeeeelch! “And m’fucking you like it, too.”
The final lewd noise before your cunt gets plugged up again with so many webs of cum, the ropey lines of it taking over every inch inside you.
He lets his sweaty head fall back with a groan. His back arching into yours. His hips pinning you down to stuff you full, despite how insistent he was on letting you squirm away to your heart’s content. He wasn’t leaving a single bit of space for you, and Gojo watches with a smile at the way the ivory sap gleams out from your pussylips.
Gojo watches with his Six Eyes at the way the ivory sap gets fucked even deeper inside of you, ending up embedded all the way into the backs of your womb-
“Mmm, I think it finally took, my wife.” He announces.
And you have to look over your shoulder with a gasp, “It- oh.”
But Gojo Satoru wasn’t going to give your pussy up that easily, “Now, how about a study on whether infinite void can be used in bed?”
.
.
.
Gojo wanted to burst out laughing, he really did.
He watches Yaga’s face grow paler and paler by the second, by the neat lines, of his jujutsu report. It was probably the first one he’s done since- well- ever (semantics), and if you asked Gojo himself then he’d tell you that he did a damn good job of it.
Diagrams and annotations and all.
Anecdotes, too.
The council of elders wanted a report of his cursed prowess, then they were going to get it.
And by the end of it, Yaga’s dark brows were lifting above his sunglasses- and the hand that’d been holding the report had started to grip it so hard that his fingers were breaking through the paper. “Ay! Easy there, Yaga-san, I only printed out one of those and it’s actually a very through deep dive on the use of my powers in sexua-”
“Gojo Satoru, you’re fired.”
♡ HIGURUMA HIROMI - T(rack)star
“Aww, my poor angel.” Higuruma, your loving husband, rubs your nipples softly through your ratty t-shirt. His fingertips alternating between rolling over and just lightly massaging your hardened nubs, slightly cracked from your recent bout at breast-feeding.
He hums to you gently, nudging his face along the inner part of your throat so that you can seep in his calming familiar musk. “So you’re saying that our daughter has been biting on my wife’s pretty tits too hard, hm?” And you’re nodding, wincing at the memory of your young daughter - you love her, of course, but she’d just started teething and the pain was getting almost unbearable during feeding time. “I’ll have to have a stern talk with her.”
You laugh at his half-joke, so deadpan. “My hero. But no- all I really need is some time to relax, I think.” Sadly gesturing at your tits, “Maybe pamper these girls a little.”
“I’ll book you a spa day at once- for tomorrow.” Higuruma states, eyes darkening with intent. “And a getaway next month, perhaps for just us. And we’ll start to wean her onto bottle-feeding, it’s about time, anyways. And…”
“And?” You’re raising a brow.
And oh- the way he was looking at you just now…“And for now…I have another solution.”
Less than two hours later and you find yourself flatly on your back, coursing through your second orgasm of the night. The sheer primal bliss rips through you and makes your limbs twitch each n’ every time Higuruma was fucking you through your high.
He was ruthless with it, just swipe-swipe-swiping away any droplet of your slick inside n’ replacing it with his own clingy sap. Claiming you from the inside out, he’s letting his translucent pre overflow from your leaky hole. Muffled, “Feels- mmpf, feels good, sugar?”
“Y-yes—” You’re trilling out, unable to help yourself. Before you’re glimpsing down at the vision of your husband, “Don’t talk with your mouth full, Hiromi.”
He pops off of your right nipple with a wettened plop! “My apologies.” And swear you can catch a thin line of saliva glide down a stern edge of his lip, something so out of place for your attorney husband. “How m’I supposed to be a father if I don’t even- hah, know manners myself?”
“Exactly what m’saying.” You huff, back arching- the nubs of your nipples were all glazed with his spittle, cold against the bedroom air. And you almost missed the hot cavern of his mouth- “H-Hiromi—”
“Mhmmm…” His eyes look down at your bitten-over tits all dreamily, lashes batting. “M’here- your husband here for you, my pretty angel.”
“Just want you to- fuck!” And he’s exactly back where you want him - with his gaped maw rovering over your nipples. Kissing. Licking. Biting. Loving.
He’s paying equal attention to both, swirlin’ the hot edge of his tongue over and over each one- before popping off and sucking on the other. Right as he pummels his achin’ cock into you, he massages your tits—bulbous tip twitching each time he gnawed down on the softness of your tits, and you swear you can feel him swell just a lil’ bigger inside of you.
Your husband was just ravenous- nostrils flaring like he didn’t even need to breathe, face flushing red with exertion, a thin line of perspiration running down his forehead and he can’t even stop.
“There there—” Purring, voice thick in the back of his throat. “Does it feel just a lil’ better, sugar- these soooore pretty tits, after a long day of nursing my daughter? And you- heh, you taste like sugar.”
Your jaw drops, chin falling down to your chest- meeting Higuruma’s sultry stare dead-on. “Wh-what are you talking about, Hiromi?”
Letting his pearly white canines lightly snag on your left areola, he’s humming from the back of his throat. “S’exactly like I said- y’know I’m a lawyer, angel, I don’t mince my words…much.” Lightly snickering, he’s then sucking on your tits- trying to squeeze both pretty nubs into his mouth. “But fuck- you taste so sweet…so creamy…” Dark eyes taking over a glazed look, “-almost like…milk.”
“Milk?”
And it wasn’t at all the first time that your husband had buried himself in the valley of your chest, sucking on your nipples like his favorite candy. But it was the first time since you’d had your daughter, considering the hectic schedule that came with raising a child- and Higuruma was positively lavishing your poor breasts with attention.
And it was the first time he’s saying that sucking on your swollen, sore nipples tasted anything like…milk.
With a hitched gasp, you’re reaching your dominant hand down and pryin’ aside one corner of Higuruma’s lips. Where he leans into the touch- where his kiss-bitten maw falls ajar for you- where he’s letting a thin stream of something milky white spill out.
“Oh- oh my god…” You breathe, “Hiromi, I’m lactating right now-”
“Mmmm—” He’s drunkenly opening his mouth even wider to lap at your overspillin’ nipples, the sappy gush of milk falling straight to his gullet. Greedy. Gluttonous. “I know.”
“Fuh-fuck!”
Because, as if it was even possible, Higuruma’s increasing the sloppy staccato of his hips. Letting his thick cock somehow swell even bigger. Redder. He was just so hungry scourin’ into every inch of your depths, pinpointing a bead of white precum for every ounce of milk that you were letting out.
A few stray trickles fall down his chin and Higuruma’s instantly darting his tongue to lap it up, not letting a single dewdrop go to waste. “Mhmmm—m’fucking you alright, sugar.” Slurring through his words, it’s almost as if he was pussydrunk and milk-drunk. “Fuckin’s what got these pretty tits all filled up with- ngh, sweet sweet milk, hm?”
“W-well-” You can’t help but arch your hips- unsure whether you wanted them away or papping! back down onto his for more, more, more. “Well, you’re right but-”
“Oh, I know m’right.” With a few more vulgar thrusts, you’re almost numb with pleasure.
Reaching everywhere - anywhere - for something like a lifeline, something to ground you to the constant bashes that Higuruma was roverin’ out on your walls. With so many veins that dappled along your sweetest spots, “You are-” Jerking, “You are and- oh, fuck, it just feels so—” Your milk coming out in streams—and fuck, the sight was just so lecherous. Higuruma gone on your cunt, gone on your overspilling tits.
“And I wonder if…” He briefly pauses in the middle of his lil’ monologue, leaving you curiously peering upwards at his hazy expression.
Before you even know what he’s doing, Higuruma has his hands detached from one of your tits and dragging you just a few inches deeper down his throbbing shaft, all the way until the tuft of his neat curly hair scratches against your clit. A carnal itch. His baritone sounded so damn serious as he rumbles—“No running.”
You shiver, “I- I wasn’t-”
And your husband’s shaking his head, lightly tutting at the way you’d just been so far from him. “Now now, then why are you so far away—?” Higuruma’s thick cockhead flinches inside of you, making you buck away once more in surprise- “Ah ah- I said no running, angel, how m’I going to- hah, fuck you pregnant again?” Just slobbering down the peaks of both your tits, letting himself gurgle on the creamy liquid. Just choking on it- “And make you leak outta these pretty tits twofold?”
You weren’t even sure if he was making sense at this point- and you weren’t sure if you were, either. Just rounding your hips down to meet every inch of his overeager cock, “I don’t know if it even…” Before you’re looking down at the utterly feral expression of your husband once more, “Well, maybe it could work…”
“Hah-” Higuruma cracks a smirk, still unwilling to detach himself from your nipples. “-s’what I thought, my beautiful wife—now get ready- don’t run.” He has a hand ‘round your throat instantly, pinning you down. “Ngh, you taste like yer about to cum again.”
“Oh, fuck.”
.
.
.
You wake up feeling refreshed, a deep contentment in your bones that you haven’t felt in nearly forever.
Just slowly blinking your eyes open, just lazily sinking into the soft mattress of your bed- you know instantly by the brightness that you’d slept in late. And it wasn’t just because of last night that the world seemed just a little bit brighter.
“Fuck-” You’re hissing, sitting up on the bed in a panic. There were so many things that needed to be done- for staters, breakfast, and then getting your daughter ready for her debate lessons, and then you had to kiss your husband goodbye and- “Fuck fuck fuck- fuck-”
Nearly tripping over yourself (or maybe you do, you can’t quite keep track in your urgency) you tumble out of the bed and look over at the clock on your bedside table. 10:45AM. Why hadn’t your alarm woken you up already?!
Struggling to find your clothes from where they’d been…thrown around the bedroom, you’re just about to shrug on a robe of yours and race downstairs when-
“Shhhh, honey- don’t rattle those plates, you’ll wake mommy.” Higuruma’s calm, gentle tone speaks out - to none other than your daughter, you’re guessing.
“Okay!” Pipes a sweet voice, a tiny rattle of plates. And you’re assuming that your husband reached over to grab them himself, because she then says- “No no, I got it, papa. It’s your off-day so you should relax, too. I wanna surprise mommy with bed in breakfast.”
Synopsis. Bark like he wants to knot you? The 5-DAY APEX ASSIMILATION PROGRAM specializes in training (and taming!) even the most volatile of hybrids against provocation, pheromones, and ruts. Make the world a better place for all hybrid types - even cute lil’ bunny hybrids like you should know better than to get close to the big, bad wolf in rut.
Pairing. Toji Fushiguro x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem!bunny hybrid!reader, wolf hybrid!Toji, HYBRIDS AU, pheromones, RUTS, slight enemies-to-Iovers, muzzIes, slight humiIation, making him BEG, PÚSSYDRÚNK Toji, oraI (fem rec.), p talking, face-ríding, fíngering, spítting, chokíng, manhandIing, mean Toji, desperate Toji, pulling you by the ears, first times (his), he’s slightly inexperienced, big D’s, big stretches, dúmbifícatíon, doggy, BRÉEDING, talks of kids, rough s, creampíes, cúmpIay, KNOTS, implied marathon, reactions, pet names, swéaring.
Word count. 13.7k
A/N. Tonycries is listening…based on this tiktok from the wonderful mind of @/v4mpyrf4e (such a sweetheart y’all omg-). And y’alls comments made me CACKLE-
“Welcome to Day 1 of the APEX ASSIMILATION PROGRAM, thank you all for joining us here today.” You’re the one in charge of setting off the introductions, letting Utahime announce her name and status as a human, before you’re following suit. “-and as you can see, I’m a rabbit hybrid. Oryctolagus cuniculus domesticus.”
Gesturing at the sleek, slender ears that stood proudly upon your head—they were the exact shade as your hair, glistening under the natural sunlight of the training field. They twitched ever-so-slightly at the attention of your class, hybrids of all ages and sizes and types.
And you had to admit that you took quite good care of them!
Those appendages were the prized possession of any rabbit around, and they never failed to draw awed gasps and coos from your batches of students.
Smiling, you were about to cut through with an ice-breaker before…
…someone whistles.
Sensitive ears whipping in the direction of the noise instantly, eyes snapping to his nametag.
Toji Fushiguro: Wolf.
Oh.
Oh?
A shiver runs down your spine.
You’ve never come into contact with a wolf hybrid in this program- at least, not in any of the classes that you’ve led. Coyotes. Vultures. Grizzlies. Hell, even the odd big cat or two (though they were mostly from other classes you’d assisted, and you didn’t end up having direct contact with them). They were all the same to you: students.
But a wolf?
You didn’t know why you were reeling so much at the realization - wolves needed this program too. It was mostly predator-types that attended (absolutely nothing wrong with that), as their heightened senses and strength left them more susceptible to high-pressure moments such as letting ruts take over, or asserting dominance. Self-control is something everyone should have!
So a large wolf hybrid attending this program should be absolutely nothing out-of-the-ordinary, absolutely nothing that leaves you rattled, absolutely nothing that differentiates him from your other students.
Absolutely…
You clench your fists, steeling yourself - all that training you’d undergone to come into this position as an instructor for the program wasn’t for nothing!
“Excuse me-” You’re narrowing your eyes down at the man, standing right at the front of your group. Sliding your peripherals up, up, up from his nametag—
Half-lidded eyes. An easy smile.
A face might have been ripped right out of the big screens, so handsome that it makes that lil’ bunny tail behind you twitch.
And it’s only then that you’re realizing just how…large he is.
A broad frame. Muscular arms. Tall.
Fuck.
Even for a wolf hybrid. In fact, you could see the irritated expressions on the smaller hybrids scrambling to see from around him- what audacity, to be front and center like this. And judging by the smug expression twisting those scarred lips of his, Toji didn’t give a shit whether they saw or not.
As long as he could.
As long as he could pin you down with his heavy gaze, staring from underneath his shaggy black bangs. Toji blinked slowly, as if he was savoring each glimpse- and each glimpse just seemed to raaaaake across your body.
The longer you’re staring at him, the more elated his pupils seem to twinkle. Something unreadable in them.
“-did you have something to say?” You’re finally finishing off, after what felt like an age of the charged staredown had passed.
Toji only crosses his arms in front of him- and you swear your ears pick up on the minutest rip! of his biceps stretchin’ his thin t-shirt. The black fabric giving way to the flex of those incredible arms. “Oh. The whistle?” The wolf hybrid’s gruff voice answers, a deep baritone that you find strangely…pleasant on your eardrums. “Nah. Must be close to the full moon, heh- keep talking, lil’ bunny.”
“That’s madam rabbit to you-”
“Bunnygirl?”
Involuntarily, your nose twitches in annoyance - something that seems to make the man raise a brow at and smirk. Something chuckled underneath his breath—“Cute.”
You would’ve almost thrown your clipboard at Toji Fushiguro had your colleague not cleared her throat.
“Oh-” Mouth parting in surprise, you’re turning to Utahime who’d been there to witness the entire exchange - right along with the rest of your class, for that matter. Throw in your supervisors, too, and you were decidedly not getting the holiday bonus this year.
Clearing your throat (and pointedly looking away from his eyes), you’re turning to face the program attendees as a whole now. “And if anyone else has any highly intelligent questions, please feel free to ask away.” Silence, except for Toji’s agreeing hum. “Now that that’s cleared up- I had initially wanted to start our first class off with some ice-breakers to get to know each other a bit more, but what’s a better exercise in team spirit than being thrown into the thick of things?”
They look at you in slight surprise, Toji amongst them.
Without warning, you pick up the whistle that’d been strung ‘round your neck and give it two sharp blows. “Five laps around the field- now! Go go go go!”
Bodies moving before minds, the entire group jolts into moving. Some taking a few unprepared steps before they even register what’s happening, some speeding ahead already to get on your good side. Some flew. Some waddled. And some you could even see gape at the facility’s training field, about as large as a football field, with a carpet of grass enveloping the entire expanse of it. They threw their heads back and groaned, before straightening - military-style - when your whistle rang out once more-
But it wasn’t for them.
“You there-” Sticking your hand out—some, it seems, were none other than Toji Fushiguro. He was still rooted where he was when class started, challenging you down with his imposing frame. His amused expression- “-ten laps for not going with your group, Mr. Fushiguro.”
“That’s an abuse of power, bunny.” Toji growls, lips lifting into something that almost looks like a smile. Maybe a snarl.
You’re raising a brow, whistle still raised to your lips. “Fifteen.”
“What’re you gonna give me if I do those, huh?”
“Twenty.”
He wets his lips, jet-black ears twitching. “You won’t dare-”
“Twenty-five.”
“Fuckin’ hell.” But to your confusion, Toji Fushiguro didn’t look neither angry nor dismayed as he received his sentence. In fact, you could’ve sworn that the man looked utterly euphoric with every sniping word that fell from your lips. Upping the challenge. Talking back to him.
He takes a step closer and the air seems to grow thicker around you two - so thick that it seems to lodge at your throat. And Toji himself can’t seem to rip his eyes away from those pretty lil’ lips that were just so mean to him- “I never knew bunnies could be so feisty.”
He still isn’t moving towards the run, and your vision is blocked by his well-sculptured body. Toji’s eyes were murky, posture strong- and without warning, his nostrils seemed to flare. Taking in a deep, deep gulp of something. And you wondered…why did something smell so sweet? “Thir-”
“Alright alriiiight.” After a roll of his eyes and a scoff, Toji takes off sprinting. The smell is gone before you can grasp it.
Dust clouds erupt from the grassy ground at the sheer force of his strides, and in no time Toji’s catching up to the group in much less than the time it took them to get there. Long legs made for running. Body angular and poised.
Even from here, you had to admit that his form was immaculate - expected, you guessed, of a borne hunter. But even coming from a wolf hybrid, it took you somewhat aback.
Wasn’t there a cheetah hybrid in the group, too? He was just behind her now, steadily catching up as her stamina started to falter.
Not only did he seem to be larger, but he was faster, too? Now you knew what made him so cocky, you suppose.
You’re blowing your whistle once more, “Mr. Fushiguro, thirty-two for cutting me off there.”
Toji looks over his shoulder with knitted brows, and a smile that you couldn’t describe as anything other than purely…feral. “Just for you- heh, I’ll make it fourty-two, bunny.”
“Don’t make me make it fifty.” Grumbling, more to yourself than him by this point. From the corner of your eye, you could see Utahime with a hand raised to her lips- firmly shut as if she was trying to stop herself from laughing.
You’re turning to her with a half-joking scowl, “What, Uta?”
“Oh, nothing.” She’s waving you off, standing beside you to look over your sprinting students. And with a thoughtful hum, the human continues. “It’s just, you hybrids have such interesting mating rituals-”
You nearly choke on your whistle—“What rituals?”
A few heads turn to look at you, and you’re gesturing at them to continue - this was your punishment, it seems. The punishment being, well, whatever unfortunate misunderstanding that your co-worker had developed because of her interpretation of hybrid behaviour.
She looks at you in concern, “Are you alright? Does one get loopy after such mating rituals-”
You’re grabbing both of her shoulders, trying to shake some sense into her. “Repeat that. Tell me you didn’t say what I just so clearly heard you say. Repeat th- actually, wait, don’t repeat that-”
“Mating rituals?” It’s enough to make you grimace, ears flattening behind your head. Watching your reaction, Utahime’s beautiful face grows pale- and she’s clapping both hands over her mouth. “Oh- wait, sorry! Is that a taboo thing to say before you two have officially mated? Like a will-they-won’t-they thing? I’m so sorry, I didn’t know-”
“It’s…not…” You wince, “No- no it’s okay. It’s not that it’s taboo or anything, it’s just…”
“Oh.” Utahime breathes out in relief, punching your shoulder. “Don’t scare me like that then, girl. What then? What’s the issue?”
And you dreaded to know the answer to this particular question of yours, one that you so clearly knew if her misconception had been anything to go by. Nonetheless…“You thought that him- the wolf and I were…flirting?”
“Oh, that?” She hums in thought, “No, not exactly.”
Oh?
Then maybe it wasn’t so bad after all. Maybe you’d just been overthinking things, maybe she’d just misconstrued some interaction you had with another one of your students earlier, maybe this entire thing wasn’t even about Toji or how he seemed so close to-
“I thought the wolf and you were seconds away from mating.”
Goddammit!
“Or bonding-” Utahime airily waves a hand, as if the extra explanation helped - though, to be fair, you knew you were the one that’d posed the question. “Whichever one that you hybrids like to choose, bonding is the one with the bites, right? And good luck because he looks like a biter, woof—”
You’re putting your face in your hands and groaning.
At least this damn program was only five days long.
.
.
.
Day 2 of the APEX ASSIMILATION PROGRAM.
Did you say this training program was five days long? Apologies, you actually meant to say that it was five centuries- because you’ve just gotten through the first few units of your second day, and it already feels like you’ve aged years.
And you can’t pinpoint an exact reason as to why - well, other than Toji Fushiguro’s presence, of course.
Toji Fushiguro and the way you’d gotten to work earlier today in preparation for the lessons, only to open your office door and find the very man lounging back on your chair. Feet on the desk. Humming idly to himself. Silky black tail swishing happily. Rubbing his scent off on every nook and cranny-
“What the fuck are you doing here-”
“Good morning to you too, lil’ bunny.”
It was just then that Utahime had passed, saving Toji from your plans of throttling him right then and there. It turns out that the wolf hybrid had ‘gotten the time wrong’ and had ‘absolutely nowhere to go- nevermind the café right down the street’ and so he’d been let inside the building. Regardless of the fact that he had an entire office space to himself, he’d chosen to coop himself up in your office.
“And since you two are future mates, I thought it would be okay. Maybe you can show me some of those mating rituals!” Utahime had happily announced, smacking you on the back- just a tinge too loud for a certain wolf’s ears to not discern.
A smirk was on Toji’s handsome face immediately, “Something you need to tell me, bunnygal?”
“Get out of my office both of you-”
And today would have been somewhat bearable if it had ended at just that. But the universe is never quite so kind to you, is it?
Because Toji was in your class, eyeing you down in class, always hot with a quip directed towards you in class. It wasn’t just the physical training part of things (a way to increase their endurance, which he certainly didn’t seem to need any increasing), but even during the light reading sessions—Toji would have his book opened just a crack, attractive fingers flicking loooong luxurious glides on the pages.
And then he’d dart just the crowned tips of them up to lick- while he looked right into your eyes.
Because of course, he did.
And you hated to admit that those actions just made you…gulp. If he didn’t end up bubbling over a reaction out of you (perhaps commands for extra laps, perhaps telling him off which he seemed to love), then he didn’t stop until he did.
But that wasn’t even the moment that stood out in your mind the most.
No, what you went back home to thinking about - what you slipped underneath your silken bed covers thinking about - was the incident that had happened during one of the trust exercises.
In it, the entire class had been blindfolded and told to use their senses to navigate and interact with one another - the two instructors, you and Utahime, included. It was a bonding activity as well as a way to allow one to channel their natural instincts into something that they wanted it to do. Nature and navigate, that sort of thing.
Nothing too outstanding, you’d done it many times with many different batches. Slightly awkwardly waddling through the classroom, hands out and alert for another person. Only, this time…
“Oh? Someone’s in front of me-” A gruff voice echoed out from right behind you - right behind you. And you could already feel the heat of Toji Fushiguro’s proximity, before you even registered it was him. There was the airy whoosh of the atmosphere bending to one’s hand reaching out—“Angel-” To one’s hand just lightly tracing your upright ears, “-or a pretty bunny?”
Your ears.
Your ears.
Toji Fushiguro’s greedy fingers were latching onto the sensitive bits of your ears, and you’re forced to bite back a moan. “S-sensitive…”
And scent patches were protocol, really, just to make things easier on both parties.
But even through the bandage-like coverings on either side of your neck, a puff of your pheromones seeps through and into the air. The atmosphere. The senses of the wolf hybrid behind you that lets out an out-of-control growl—
Primal.
You gasp, hurriedly taking off your blindfold.
SLAM!
Only to be met with the barren air, and the door slamming behind you. It seems that Toji had left the classroom - the only evidence that he was ever even here to begin with was the reverberating impact of the door.
And the sultry smell of something sweet lingering in the air.
Animalistically, you’re raising your nostrils to the air- but by then it’d already dissipated into nothingness. And a part of you craves for more more more—
Clutching the blindfold, in a classroom full of oblivious students, you clench your thighs together.
You were so fucking wet.
And outside, though you aren’t aware at that point, a certain other hybrid was having a particularly tough time, too.
What else did you expect?
Toji Fushiguro was striding. Toji Fushiguro was escaping- he had to. He had to. He had to. He had to. If he didn’t then he fucking knew that he’d tear you into pieces and shove his aching hot erection with no care for who else was watching in that damned classroom.
Down the narrow corridor, he was going as fast as his slightly-weakened knees would take him. Pace echoing out against the formal tiles, like the thunder of his heartbeat.
Toji felt like he was burning up. Faster. Toji felt like he was out-of-breath. Faster. Toji felt like—
The next thing he’s feeling is the ceaseless expanse of the wall, frigid against his body that just seemed to be set alight right now. Without properly consulting his own mind, he’s leaning against it. Head falling back. Body slouching onto the floor. A thick ‘fuck’ leaving him as he sits himself down right then and there-
“Oh fuck—” Toji’s pressing one hand to his face, the other against the solid pain that’d taken up between his legs. He looks down, “Oh fuck, m’in rut.”
.
.
.
Day 3 of the APEX ASSIMILATION PROGRAM.
Toji Fushiguro was just on time to your program today, and though you couldn’t say that you weren’t relieved his incredible earliness lasted only a day- you couldn’t quite say that you weren’t disappointed, either. Rabbits, always hopping around.
“So…” Utahime’s teasing voice calls out in the distance, and you’re shocked to find that she’s actually right beside you. Had you been spacing out?
With a jolt, you realize you’d done it just as Toji was completing his nth lap of the morning. He flaunts past the finish line with each, shooting a sleazy wink your way—you hadn’t been staring at him, dammit!
“Something in your eye?” You call out.
“Just a pretty bunnygirl, heh.”
Shaking your head free of him (and doing your very best to not look as though you were shaking your head free of him), you’re turning back to your friend. “So…what, Uta?”
She nudges your shoulder with hers, “So what are the updates on your mating ritual-”
“Enough-”
Refusal ringing out across the field, your voice catches the attention of Shoko, who’d been placing an ice pack over the ankle of a mouse hybrid. She looks over with a raised brow, before confirming with her patient and helping him walk back to his group.
Once she was done, she picks up two clean towels and makes a beeline towards where the two of you were standing.
“Still in denial.” Utahime says, as a way of greeting. She catches the towel that Shoko throws at her and sighs, “Enemies-to-lovers go from enemies to lovers faster in my books…”
And somehow, Shoko seems to know exactly what she’s talking about.
The racoon hybrid brings a thoughtful hand up to her chin, appraising you with those sleep-darkened eyes if you were yet another one of her patients. “Well, I didn’t see anything wrong in the mating and reproduction department last time we had a check-up. Would you like me to take a look again?”
Indignantly, “There’s absolutely nothing wrong with me-”
“Perhaps her pheromones are being blocked?” Utahime nods at her friend, before snatching your towel out of your hand and rubbing it over your scent glands-
“Woah-” You gasp, the rough texture of the fabric making your ears twitch. Somehow, it almost reminds you of the day before where…“What the- Uta I will kill you-”
“Adequate pheromone secretion, considering the scent patches.” Shoko leans in to look at it and hum. “I don’t think there’s a problem there- and the clients have to take a mandatory medical test, there was no anomaly in Toji’s, either.”
“And the scent? What about the scent- I can’t smell it as a human, but you’ve got to have some sort of sense for it even as a friend, right?” Utahime insists.
You squeal, “Don’t you dare, Shoko- this has got to be some sort of HIPAA violation I swear-”
“You’re right.” The doctor says, sagely. And all your squirming, struggling, screaming seems to stop- for just the briefest second…before Shoko looks you up and down and states once more. “Rub a little harder, I would like to take a scent swatch for my own personal experimentation as well.”
“I will experiment on you-”
“U-um, madam bunny?”
You whirl—“What?”
And the poor, unsuspecting mouse hybrid staggers backwards at the force of your exclamation. Damn near falling to the ground- which is where that swollen ankle of his seemed to have originated from in the first place.
“Oh.” The three of you staff look at each other, and you’re shoving your friends off in an instant to crouch down to his stooped figure. You feel simply awful as he quivers before you- you should look into getting the poor man a discount. “I’m so sorry, Ijichi, I’ve been out of my mind. Are you alright?”
“Y-y-yes- but no.” He’s stammering, not holding your eye still. “It’s just- my ankle’s acting up again and I was wondering whether I could be excuse to the medic room for today?”
“Yes- yes of course!” You’re looking to Shoko, and the two of you place Ijichi’s arms ‘round either of your shoulders to help him get up and walk to her clinic. You’re patting at him soothingly, “It’ll be alright, Ijichi, Shoko’s gonna fix you up properly in no time.” Ignorant to the low trundle of a growl that’s thrown your way.
To the way that Toji’s staring at your little group, unwavering, your arms around another man.
To the crackle of something bitter seeping into the air.
Though, Ijichi isn’t quite so ignorant to the daggers glared his way (it burned, that glare, and he faints in your arms before you manage to reach the clinic).
By the time you’re dropping your poor student off on the comfy white beds, making your way back out onto the field, Utahime was leading the group through the final cooling down exercises. Letting her take the lead, you sit yourself down on one of the benches near her and sigh.
Goodness, it was a big facility and that trip had unexpectedly taken quite a bit out of you.
Your limbs were heavy, long rabbit ears damped with perspiration and pushed back. Without thinking much of it, your hands reach out to where you think you remember Utahime throwing down your towel earlier (at least, she had before you’d left)- only for your fist to close around…nothing.
“Huh?” Straightening up, you look around the vast wooden bench. It had your active bags, your change of clothes, your props for activities done during the physical sessions. Everything and anything but that damned towel- “I could have sworn…”
“Hey, everything alright?” Utahime asks, it seems that she’d just finished up her cool down. The class was dispersing as they wished, chattering, ribbing, taking their time to get ready for the next unit of the day.
Utahime squirts a stream of water into her mouth and walks up to you, to which you’re nodding your head. “No, I mean- yes? Everything’s alright, it’s just- have you seen my towel anywhere?”
She giggles, “The one with your scent swatch on it?”
“The one with my scent swatch on it.” You deadpan, “I just can’t seem to find it anywhere.”
And it’s only then that the knits her brows, expression turning into one of slight concern. “Huh? I could’ve sworn that I put it there when you left with Shoko and Ijichi, maybe it blew away in the wind somehow?”
You’re looking up at the windless morning, drier than the Sahara. “Maybe…”
“Or maybe one of the students accidentally took it?” She suggests, yet it was futile to have the two of you looking around from here. Class was dismissed for the time being, and there was no way of tracking down every single person and their towels. With a slightly lighter tone, “Or maybe Shoko actually took it- y’know, to experiment on.” She nods in the direction of the building, “C’mon, lets go bug her for more towels - the nice ones with the flowers on them.”
“In a few days there’ll be some clones of me running around.” You get up.
You never did find out where that towel went, and you never did think about it much after that day, either.
Toji Fushiguro, however?
Oh, that damn towel was all that helped him make it through the night. Fuck—with his nose pressed against the fabric that was soaked with all your sweetened, lavendar smell- and his hand pressed underneath his boxers and furiously pumping his cock.
Toji’s elongated canines dig into the towel and he keens your name like a prayer.
.
.
.
Day 4 of the APEX ASSIMILATION PROGRAM.
Toji Fushiguro was late.
When he hadn’t showed up to the facility hours before class was supposed to start, you didn’t worry too much. When he hadn’t showed up precisely at 8:00AM on the dot, well, you were getting somewhat intrigued but you still didn’t worry too much.
But when it was 1:47PM and Toji Fushiguro still wasn’t here?
Alright…now you were getting a bit irritated. Because at the very least, students would call the reception to let them know that they weren’t coming in for the day - but this bastard hadn’t bothered to even do that! Not even the slightest heads-up!
Of course, it was the principal of the matter and not because you were disappointed or anything.
No, not at all. Not at all.
You just liked your classes to be at full attendance, that’s what.
But having no Toji Fushiguro didn’t break your classes. In fact, one could argue that they’d gone even smoother today than usual.
You’d gone through the morning drills without him, you’d showered up and made it through a few readings and testimonies without him, you’d just turned off the endings credits of a documentary and was about to start an entirely new lesson without him.
“And today’s lesson will be on Muzzles 101, for this I have actually acquired a real-life muzzle.” Lifting the strappy, clinking metal thing from your desk for the entire class to see—to be quite honest, this was one of your favorite parts of the syllabus. “As you might be able to tell, this muzzle in particular is intended to fit the canine type of hybrid. But of course, there are many different types of-”
BANG!
“Missed me, bunny?”
But of course, only when Toji Fushiguro was missing did you realize how much it felt like something was missing without him.
And there he stood now, with his towering body filling out the doorframe- lungs heaving, vibrating with adrenaline, sweater haphazard as if he’d simply sprinted the entire way here.
You’re looking up at him and you swear you can see slight dark circles underneath his eyes - he didn’t seem to have had a restful sleep last night, hm? Wonder what kept him up like that?
“You’re late.” Oh-so-welcomingly, you state.
He smirks, “Fashionably so.”
Not responding to his hook, you’re turning back to the class that was watching the interaction with bated breath. “And as our latecomer, how about we have Mr. Fushiguro here give us a real-life demonstration as to wearing a muzzle?”
“I’d like to see you fucking try- fuck!”
The class erupts in agreement, and before Toji Fushiguro - who’s never been talked down to, who’s never been tugged down by the collar of his sweater and had a fucking muzzle clipped on him in all the thirty odd years of his life - even knows what’s happening, he’s worshipping you at your feet.
Literally.
Hooking your fingertips into the mesh-like covering of his dog muzzle, you’re hauling Toji right down to his knees. Right down to the floor. Right down at your feet.
And he doesn’t resist.
Why the fuck would he ever resist?
You place one of your palms on top of his silky black hair, scratching behind his wolf’s ears as if he was nothing but a docile dog. A pet. “And here—” Announcing to the class, the leans in at the edges of their seats to take a better look. “-we have a wolf hybrid in a muzzle- hah! Put a muzzle on and some big, bad wolf he is.”
Through the bars of his muzzle, Toji darkly growls—
“Down, boy.” Through a grin, you’re narrowing your eyes down at Toji. “You’re supposed to be good when the muzzle’s on, don’t you know?”
“Oh yeah? Let me out n’ I’ll show you what’s good-”
Pulling lightly on his soft hair, “What’s that?”
He doesn’t answer - but he doesn’t snap back anything mouthy, either. If you’d known that Toji Fushiguro could be so good for you like this, then you might’ve put the muzzle on even sooner if you were being quite honest.
“And now-” Fuck, what’s next? Toji can only look up as you continue to speak- continue to make a fool of him- continue to raise your dominant hand up past your collarbones. Right up to that sweet next of yours, covered in scent patches that you were starting to peel off—“-for the ultimate temptation. Remember what this program is really about.”
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
Fuck, it can’t be.
You’re taking off that protective layer on the side of your throat, and just then…oh, just then Toji Fushiguro thinks he ascends to fucking heaven.
The most sultry, soft lavender scent bursts out into the room- even stronger than the pheromones that’d been stuck to your towel. It seems to haze over the dull classroom with an almost sparkly mist, and it seems to haze over Toji’s eyes with a film of lust.
Burning up.
Feverish.
He’d never been so gone over anyone else’s pheromones before. Never.
His nails dig into the tough tile and leave claw marks-
But you’re looking at the students, some of whom were safely blocking their nostrils. “Pheromones are the ultimate temptation to any hybrid, it drives them wild, it makes them crave, it brings out carnal urges in us that are more animal than not.”
Finally, you look down at Toji.
Who sits with his head bowed, his chest panting.
Panting and panting.
Like a dog in heat- he was drooling from one side of his mouth and praying to anything holy that you couldn’t fucking see-
“As you can see, class, Mr. Fushiguro here is holding up rather exceptionally.” You’re saying- exceptionally? He wanted to laugh. To laugh and laugh. But more than that he wanted to fuck you silly right here and now- but ah, in the end he actually gets neither. Toji Fushiguro doesn’t laugh, and you’re plastering on your scent patches once more. “Now, in the real world we don’t always have the luxury of scent patches. In times such as these we hybrids…”
Toji seems to crouch even deeper on his knees, hunching in on himself almost. He’s sure that those other bastards in the classroom are probably gawking at his submissiveness right now- let them think what he wants.
His tail swishes the floor, ears listening for the whispers. He doesn’t give a fuck.
He wasn’t caving in because he was fucking submissive or some other shit- no. Toji was down on his knees and practically humping your feet in front of an entire group, all because he’s never been harder in his entire life.
“-can try it out for yourselves should you so wish to later on.” And you were oblivious to the entire thing—oh, pretty bunny, how he wanted to rip you apart. Inch by inch.
Just from the briefest second of your scent.
You’re getting into the proper lesson by now, throwing out the history of muzzles in relationship with hybrids whilst absent-mindedly patting Toji’s head. He leans into your touch and you falter mid-speech, ears twitching in every direction, you swear you could’ve smelt a faint sweetness in the air.
.
.
.
Day 5 of the APEX ASSIMILATION PROGRAM.
On the last day of the program, Toji Fushiguro didn’t attend at all.
Perhaps the demonstration yesterday had taken it too far? But you’d asked him about it, and Toji had insisted that it was something he enjoyed doing—
“Next time, though, that’s gonna be you, bunny-”
“You wish.”
After all, it had been part of the syllabus, too, and the rest of the class had been eager to jump onto wearing the muzzle and tempting each other with their pheromones. So you didn’t think that it was exactly that.
Or perhaps he didn’t find the program useful at all and didn’t want to waste his time on it any longer?
This program in particular was showered with praise and rave reviews, but you understood that it might not resonate with everyone. In that case, there were refunds and extension packages for particularly difficult students - and Toji didn’t exactly strike you as the type to leave something half-finished.
Or perhaps…perhaps you didn’t know.
He didn’t let the reception know he was about to be absent. He didn’t give you any notice that he’d be quitting.
It might just have been something in his personal life that you weren’t exactly privvy to - you were just his program teacher, after all. And after today (and the graduation ceremony, which was really more of a formality than anything) tomorrow, you weren’t going to be even that.
Someone to lecture him on the etiquette of his displays of dominance, someone to tease and rile up.
Some bunny.
And yet, you couldn’t help but wonder.
Which might just have been (though you didn’t entirely admit it to yourself) why you found yourself working late into the night on the fifth day of the program - the first day of Toji’s disappearance. Along in your office. In the dead of night.
If he wasn’t going to attend anymore, then you might as well drown that pang of disappointment in work.
You’re tap-tap-tapping away at your computer, eyes glazed over after so many hours staring into it. All the words were starting to slur together into an unreadable language now, and that was likely not a good sign.
You needed sleep.
You’re leaning back on your chair with a sigh, massaging your eyes with the mountainous front of your palms. Whispering, “Fuck…” You look outside your window for the briefest second- and only then do you realize that the world outside was being kissed with a slight drizzle of rain. “God, how long have I even been here?”
You look back down at your computer screen, as bright as day: 12:07AM.
Yaga was going to kill you - he always did preach on about ‘healthy work-life balances’, and this was anything but balanced. You guessed you’d just mark your student register for the day and get the hell out of here- but ah, the rain…
“It’s fine.” Clicking away at the ticks that denoted someone had been present - and they all had been today, except for one. “It’s not raining too bad so I’ll just run to my car or…”
Toji Fushiguro’s name wasn’t the first on the register, now even the last.
And yet, you had no explanation as to why you palm kept scrolling you back to his name each time. That stupid, stupid name—‘Fushiguro, Toji’—even that seemed to be smirking at you.
Perhaps out of frustration, perhaps out of hidden desire, perhaps out of utterly nothing else to do- you click on it. That name. That medical page compiled by Shoko that you were taken to whenever you clicked on a student’s name, with all the information that you’d ever need on them.
You’d skimmed Toji’s profile once before, right before the program had started as you were trying to familiarize yourself with the students.
But now, something about it felt…different.
More personal.
More intimate.
Name: Fushiguro, Toji
Age: 30’s
Sex: Male
Height: 6’2+
Hybrid type: Canis lupus
Status: Unmated.
Other notes: It is important that the subject is of impressive size and weight, even for the Canis lupus (potential subspecies mix of Canis lupus occidentalis). And it is even more important to note that the subject is aware and, one might even argue, cocky about this fact.
You snort at that last line.
Black, silky coat that is well taken care of. Long legs. Considerable muscular mass. Irritable temperament puts him on the radar for potential disruption and displays of dominance. Keen senses. Exceptional speed. STRONG ruts.
And that line? You’re reading over those last two words at least eight times to make sure you got it right - it would’ve been one thing to know that Toji Fushiguro had strong ruts, it’s another thing to have Shoko capitalize, embolden, and underline those two words.
And this was a woman who’d written the many, many profiles that you’d seen in your time working for the facility.
But you’d never seen her emphasize something quite like this?
You keep reading onwards-
Subject has a strong leakage of pheromones in the duration of his rut, which are stated to last for at least over a week, according to the subject. During this time he claims to be ‘crazed’ and ‘like a madman’, and due to the sheer severity of these ruts has never been known to take a mate.
Never?
Last known time of rut was five months ago.
Note to self: REMIND SUBJECT OF RUT!
A crash of wood somewhere in the distance.
VERY EASILY TRIGGERED!
Footsteps.
AND POTENTIALLY COMING INTO RUT VERY SOON!
Through the silver flicker of lightning from outside, you can make out the shape of someone towering at your office door. Opened wide. His hands rested against the frame as if he was about to collapse any moment now- he cast a shadow over where you were seated, gripping the wooden panel so tight that you could hear the low crack!
And you already know who it is.
“T-Toji?” Your rabbit ears raise into the air, trying to catch any answer from him. When there’s none, you’re getting up from your chair and taking a cautious step forward. “Toji, what happened- why are you here at this time?”
Toji twitches as if the very sound of your voice jolted him to his very core, “All the better to meet you with, bunny.”
Rough.
Hoarse.
There was a primal rumble in his tone that made your legs press together - whether out of need or fear…It honestly didn’t even sound like your Toji- and you’re almost second-guessing your initial impression. Perhaps because of that, you’re taking yet another step forward. “Why are you standing there like that?”
“All the better to see you with, bunny.”
But did you honestly even need to ask?
Because one step - one step - is all it takes for Toji’s thick pheromones to immediately hit you. For your mind to whirl with the heady combination of sandalwood and crisp ice and need. Pure need.
It’s so strong that your body takes an immediate lurch backwards, shivering at the scent of a predator-type at his strongest - at his closest. “And why do you smell so…” The backs of your knees hit the stippled cushion of your chair, and you’re just about to topple onto the seat-
When the rabid wolf hybrid crosses the room in less than two strides, pulling you into his arms instead.
You’re hissing at the sheer heightened temperature of his body, as if he was overcome with a fever. Multiple fevers. All at once. His hands grip at your waist as though you were his sole lifeline, elongated claws tearing through your skirt with ease. His maw—
Oh, and his greedy, slobbering maw was wide open and mouthing at the swollen scent gland on the right side of your neck.
Toji’s needy canines finding your soft flesh and digging in—”All the better to eat you with, bunny.”
.
.
.
“P-pussy…” Toji’s feral jaw hangs open, globule upon globule of saliva leaking from his lips and through the metal muzzle he was wearing. It drips down the front of his t-shirt until that useless fabric was drenched, and you could make out each curve of his prominent pecs.
Heaving as if he’d just ran a marathon as you lean back on your office desk and spread your legs all wide open, like a feast, wafting out the sweetest pheromones from between, like a dessert. His favorite.
He’s watching as your puffy folds open up like the cutest lil’ blossom, two glistening petals that he wanted to lick clean of that syrupy slick.
Hell- the mere scent of it was enough that he’s panting like a dog in heat.
As if hypnotized, as if a zombie, Toji’s dazedly leaning forwards—before you rest the tip of your high heel against his forehead. Pushing him right back where he came from, “Down, boy. Didn’t your momma ever teach you table manners?”
“Pussy-” He’s gripping onto either of your thighs with his roughened palms, “But- pussy.” Trying his very best to tug you forwards. “Need to taste that pretty pussy, bunnygirl- fuckin’ put her on my face, please.”
“Nuh uh, Toji.” Crossing your arms with a huff, “Honestly I should give you nothing n’ kick you out right now for crashing into my office like this-”
“Kick me out after—oh.” Toji’s damn lost for words as a glittery bead of slick gently drips out of you, it ends up on a pool in the desk- and he’s groaning at the fact that he can’t just surge over and lick it up right now.
Raising a brow, “And why should I?”
“B-because…” And Toji Fushiguro might be a wolf hybrid, but he’s peering up at you with such puppy eyes. Half-lidded eyes. Begging. Desperate. “Aw- n’ here I thought bunnies were the nice ones- won’t you hngh, give a poor, thirsty dog something sweet? Just one lil’ taste?”
“I dunno…” Grinning, “How thirsty?”
“So thirsty- so thirsty-” And with you loosening your heel on his head, he’s able to gluttonously plunge his sweaty face between your legs- just plunging and plunging. Craving and yearning. Gnawing down on the metal of his muzzle, and pressing its frigid texture against the front of your cunt. “This pussy- this pussy, oh, this pussy.”
The only thing on his fucking mind right now- he’s nudgin’ the metal restraints on his mouth against your folds. “Just one taste of her- I beg of you.” A primal sound rips from the back of Toji’s throat, and it’s enough to make every hair on your body stand on end. “Just one taste. Just- just one-” Just desperately lolling his lengthy tongue out and flicking it near the bars of his muzzle, where he’s but getting a single droplet of yours. “Fuck this damn thing- I’ll break through it if I have to- I’ll- I’ll—”
“Yes—?”
Shaking his black bangs out of his eyes, “I’ll kneel, I’ll beg-” He guessed he’d already accomplished the first two, Toji’s muzzle shoves against your puffy pussylips once more. “I’ll kill for it. I’ll die for it. I’ll eat this pussy out if it’s the only thing I can eat fer the rest of my life. I’ll keep this damn muzzle on and eat you out through this if I could-”
You throw head backwards with an arch, he was just aching—
“Then do it.”
And it’s all that Toji needs.
He doesn’t care if he’s wearing the canine muzzle anymore, he’s worked himself up into such a frenzy that all he needs is to throw your legs over his broad shoulders and kiss his puffy tongue against the bars.
Shoving his tastebuds through one of the gaps in the bars. Crushing his muzzle between your legs- “C’mon.” Toji’s spitting into your open cunt, grunting as he just barely manages to flick your wet slit with his tastebuds. Bangs ruffling as he delves even deeper—“C’mon- c’mon- c’mon-”
After each determined pant of his, the wolf hybrid was bullying his muzzled face even deeper between your legs. An entirely new sensation with the way the cold metal was massaging your cunt, “O-oh, you really meant it, huh?”
And he doesn’t even answer.
You don’t think he even hears.
Nothing in his gone, rut-filled mind right about now but the problem of how he was finally going to taste you- and that’s when a sudden thought occurs to him.
Flattening his tastebuds against the muzzle, Toji’s somehow able to lick down the slit of your pussy. Moving his head in a loooooong up n’ down drag, he lets your juices fall all over his tongue and moans- “Pussy.”
Your skin erupts in goosebumps at the quivering tone of his voice, something oh-so-unsteady in it that makes your natural instincts scream at you.
Oh, but your body?
Your body was bouncing up into Toji’s avid movements as if you were hypnotized by his tongue—“O-oh my god? How are you even managing to- fuck, it feels so good.” Shrilling out, your hamstring start to ache with how badly you were trying to get his tongue to go even deeper. Harder.
And you don’t even have to voice your concerns- because Toji’s slightly unlatching his mouth from your pussy and sniffing at the air.
He could smell your need in your pheromones, he could smell it on your pussy. In no time, he was dragging you in by the waist until you’re being teetered on the very edge of the table. Slithering that long, slimy tongue alllll across your front- “Pussy.” He pants his mantra out, the buttony knob of his thumb coming up to press down on your clit then. “M’t-tasting your…”
“Pussy- that’s right.” You’re babbling out, once more being jerked forwards by the needy man. “And that isn’t enough to soothe your thirst, Toji?” Not that you ever wanted him to stop.
“Fuck- you call that a taste?” He sounds almost offended, and you could tell- oh, you could tell that the real Toji Fushiguro wouldn’t be doing those cute lil’ kittenish licks at your folds. He wouldn’t just be teasing your sensitive core with these laps.
He was a wolf hybrid with a large bite. He wanted more.
Much, much more.
And by the way that those crescent fingernails of his were starting to dig at your sides, you could tell that Toji’s restraint was starting to wane. Slowly straining. Ebbing away.
Eating you out through that doggy muzzle, the more he’s crashing its metal fringes against your cunt- the more desperate he’s becoming to actually taste you. To plaster those pretty lips of yours against his entire face like he wanted to, “You call that ‘nough to satiate a thirst? You call- fuck, m’stil fucking dehydrated, bunny.” Pryin’ aside your folds to stare at your glistening hole, “And yer leaking all over.”
Your heeled feet twitch, “Are you saying you don’t want to-”
“No.”
Toji Fushiguro has never sounded more serious in his entire life.
He’s urgently soothing his sizzlin’ tastebuds against the front of your core, “No no no no no-” Furiously motioning his head as if to make up for even the mere notion that he wouldn’t have this anymore. “I would never say that- never, fuck, a pussy like this and you think m’just gonna give her up so easily?”
Then the bars of his muzzle rub against your sensitive clit and make you gasp, “Then what-”
“M’just saying that m’thirsty, mama.” Toji growls, hooking his thick thumb on the inside of your entrance. He’s using his mean tip to stretch-stretch-streeeetch you widely open - so close and yet so far. “Predator-type hybrids have a laaaaarge appetite, y’know that, bunny?” He’s probin’ his stare up at you, watching your every lewd expression. “Heh, I could eat a cute lil’ bunny like you right up- so look at her.”
Spitting. You’re whining at the sudden impact, and Toji damn near does, too, as he looks down upon the mess he made n’ won’t be able to lick right up.
“And look at me.” The mesh of his muzzle scratches a carnal itch that you didn’t even know you had, “Fucking look at me.” There’s a certain way that he says it - as if his voice had suddenly veered octaves higher without control. As if he was shaking. As if he’d just gone crazed. “Can’t you see that m’acting like a damn dog here?”
Making you dizzy with both his filthy words and his filthy movements, “Oh, fuck- you really are-”
Dragging his handsome face on the sheeny insides of your thighs, he was just so close but so far. Begging. “My bunnygirl- my pretty bunny- pretty girl-” Canines peeking out, “What do you want me to do? What can I do to get ya to hop on my face n’ let me taste it?”
Your heart races at the way you had the Toji Fushiguro babbling for your pussy like this - if anyone else could see him right about now then they’d faint. “Then—” He’s excitedly bucking against your leg, humping his throbbing erection on your calf. “-bark like you want it.”
Toji Fushiguro’s mouth drops.
Toji Fushiguro’s hulking body twitches. Processing what you’d just told him.
And then he opens his scarred mouth and—lets out a low, growling bark.
Oh, you’ve never been wetter.
Still reeling with the sound in your ears - oh, you almost wish you’d recorded it - you’re mindlessly reaching a hand out and unhooking Toji’s muzzle. The most juvenile of locks that’d kept him barred. The easiest fix, now falling to the floor.
At least, you think it falls to the floor.
You honestly don’t see anything past unhooking the muzzle lock- before Toji’s on your cunt with his mouth, his lips, his fingers.
Two thrusts with his watering tastebuds, another thrust with his pointed index.
“Hold still.” It’s all you hear before your body arches at the sheer thickness of his tongue shoving past your swollen pussylips and fucking your hole raw. Ravenous. His slicked tip swabs against your insides, and you could feel each nubbed tastebud dragging against your every orifice.
And how could you not move? You’re being thrust forwards with the pressure - just the slightest few inches - but even that seemed to be too much for the wolf hybrid. He’s pinning his free hand down on your thigh…“Hold still.”
In and out. In and out
Toji isn’t even warming up- hell, he isn’t even taking the time to breathe before he shoves himself nose-deep between your jittery legs.
Like he wouldn’t even mind suffocating, he’s eating you out like a man that’d been starved for eons.
“P-pussy—” Toji echoes out his very same mantra, and you honestly don’t know which one of you was more gone by this point.
Gulping in each sweet, sweet ounce of your slobber- “So this is what you taste like.” His tone cracks on that little sentence, “This is what wh-what your pussy feels like against my lips.” The breathy exhale that leaves him is almost reverent, it buzzes against your tender folds and you’re shrilling out at the shockwaves of pleasure. “What the fuck she tastes so- sweet.”
Your eyes snap open, and you’re staring down at the flushed man. “Sweet?”
“I can see your cute bunny ears twitching- heh, you like that.”
You’re whining as he drags you closer, until you’re almost resting fully on his face, only for him to take deeper whiffs of your cunt.
“And s’not just the rut, she just smells so damn good, too.” Toji blabbers out, not letting a single slick wad escape his ravenous mouth. With the crowned tops of his fingers, he’s smearing apart your hole. “And she sounds so- uh huh- whatever you say, kitty.” As if in the middle of a conversation, he’s nodding and spitting down another sticky web on your core.
With his upper lip glued to the top of your entrance, he’s alternating between letting his fingers and his tongue shovel inside—
“Kitty’s sayin’ she’s never met another like me, either.”
“Now you’re just b-boasting.” Sobbing out. Nose pressing against your clit, he’s using this lecherous position to breathe in the cute bunny pheromones wafting from you.
“So fuckin’ sweet.” More to himself than anything, “It should be illegal to have such a pretty pussy- is this, fuck, some sorta test?”
“If this was a test, then you’d have failed a long time ago.” You’re letting your chin hit your chest, gazing down at Toji’s ministrations. He was thrusting his tongue so rapidly into your entrance that it looked like nothing but a needy, pinkish blur between your legs. Almost experimenting, you ask him. “Bark again, Toji?” And he does- oh, he does. Grinding against your legs as he shoved himself even deeper. “I th-thought you wanted only one taste?”
But the man beneath you only seems to smile, “Oh, I did just have one taste.” And he’s waiting for you to get just a lil’ stupider on his velvety tongue, “This is one taste.” He presses a wiiiidely opened kiss against your cunt, hot and wet. “And this is one more.” With the audacity to press another. “And one more-” And another. “Oooone more-” Another.
“Should’ve kept that muzzle on you…” You’re wailing, not meaning it a single bit. You both know that that muzzle wouldn’t have stopped him for a single second.
Thrash after vicious thrash, before you’re aching to have him reach your g-spot- and Toji, it seems, senses this.
Because just then, he’s pulling back his prolonged tongue with such a weeeeeeeeeet slurp.
“And you’re leaking all over- do bunnies like water?”
Just to make sure, Toji bubbles out yet another wad of saliva that gently splats down on your cunt. Rubbin’ along the wetness of it, he’s using it as lubrication to try and fit three entire fingers inside of you.
Inch by solid inch.
The rotund areas of his joints driving you positively wild, they’re opening up every hidden orifice inside of you. Whether inside or outside, not matter how much you try to clench or buck or whine—your cunt gobbles Toji’s fingers up with a wet sluuuuuurp. “If not, better plug her up then.” His wide tongue flops out to catch the speckles of slick that kept splashin’ out, “More f’me- oh, this pussy.”
“Shit- stretching me out so much.” You’re seeing white as his ridged digits scour their way inside, stretching your elastic channel out wiiiiide. “You’re seriously- three?”
“Four.”
Of course, a fourth finger was mazin’ its way inside now - tugging aside your bloated folds so that he could slickly slide along your walls with the rest of them. Everywhere that Toji had mapped out with his tongue earlier, he was now fully committing to memory with his fingers.
“Hafta.” He gurgles out, dry humping your leg whilst he eats you out. “If she’s gonna take my knot then I need- hah, at least four.”
Your eyes damn near bulge out of your scalp, “Your knot is…seriously that big? How can one even th-think of fitting it-”
“Well, yer gonna be the first.”
“Oh—” Head throwing back, you’re bawling out at the constant rhythmic thump-thump-thump of him reaching every hidden spot and cranny. And like a damn dog in heat, he’s lapping and lapping away his sticky tongue on top of your clit. “M’not gonna last-”
Those pinkish tastebuds covered with a glazy layer of saliva and slick, with ribbons that always connect you to him. “Mmmm—”
He’s flexing his tongue down to juuuust press on your knobbly clit, and the pleasure is so much that Toji has to hold you down with his second hand on your thighs. Slithering all the way to the back of your ass so that he can grope you, “Sit down, bunny.” Such a mean command- whilst the inches of Toji’s fingers were scouring inside your walls to find…your g-spot. Easily.
He wastes no time directly pinpointing that particular spot and stroking it with his fingers.
Well—bashing it, more likely.
Because Toji was meeeeeean with his movements, he was impatient. He could feel you growing wetter and wetter- and took it upon himself to hit your g-spot feverishly. Pushing, poking, probing. “Heh, what a magical spot…fuck.” Jaw unhinging even wider open, he just couldn’t stop kissing your wet pussy. “Magical magical pussy- oh, I love you, kitty.”
“T-Toji—” With a twitch, you’re clawing at his sweaty scalp. “Don’t think m’gonna last very soon- actually, I think m’gonna-”
“Awww, how cute-” He eyes the way you’re shivering all over on his tongue, “-the bunny hops.”
“F-fuck off—fuck!”
Jaw dropping.
Head turning dizzy.
Your voice shatters into a million tones as you’re finally reaching your high, white-hot pleasure bursting behind your eyelids. Pulse thundering, it felt as though your entire body was burning up- almost as hot as Toji’s was.
His sizzling tongue, his scorching fingers that pushed n’ pushed n’ pushed away at your g-spot to drag you through your incredible high.
“C’mon, kitty kitty~” The wolf hybrid whispers between your folds, plump lips wrapping around your clit and streeeeeetching out that sensitive nub. “Be nice to ‘er, mmm, give her a good one.” With each movement between your legs, Toji’s only growing greedier to take over your orgasm - make sure that it’s giving you the utmost pleasure
“It already feels so- oh.” And just when you thought it couldn’t get any better, Toji’s second hand is lifting off of your bottom to pinch your clit meanly.
Making you genuinely shake through your wave of bliss-
“C’mon c’mon c’mon-” His fingers plummet in thoroughly, hooking up to leave a few cute bruises on the roof of your cunt. “-gotta get ‘er loosened reeeeal nicely, have her stretched out to- to take my knot.”
Just the mere mention of that is making you sputter, and you’re finally managing to blink your teary eyes open as the strongest of your high peters out. The aftermath of it still shook you to your core, but at least you can manage to speak- “The knot that is…f-four fingers big, Toji?”
“Well…” As he was eating you out, Toji was still humping your calf. “-s’still gonna be a bit of a biiiig stretch with four fingers. But you can take it, can’t you, mama?”
Oh…
And when he’s sure that your orgasm has completely passed, when he’s sure he can no longer feel your cunt quivering with the peaks of your high, when he’s sure he’s overstimulated you by thrusting into you for just a bit longer—Toji’s pulling his fingers out of you and unlatching his mouth with a sopping mwah!
You’re trembling at the sudden loss of him filling you up.
Toji takes one look at his thick, slick-glazed fingers- and he’s plunging them between his scarred lips and slurping off the excess remnants. “Mmmm, can’t let a single drop go to waste.” That said, Toji’s finally - finally - rising from his kneeling position on the floor.
All tall and strong and needy.
A predator that’d finally cornered his prey.
He’s yanking his t-shirt off. He’s whipping his belt off.
He’s so damn tight in his boxers that he actually has to stick a thumb over the hemline of his baggy pants and put some force- pulling it down. Boxers and all.
And oh.
Oh.
You can’t help but let your eyes widen, jaw dropping.
You weren’t getting out of this alive, were you?
The very moment that he’s freed from his boxers, Toji’s aching hot length springs out and hits his chiselled abs with a smack! Smearing a long, long line of pre that you almost wanted to reach out and smear- his red-hot tip was sensitive enough that just your stare makes him twitch.
He just kept on droolin’ away the milky lines of his sap.
All the way from his flared mushroom tip throbbing rapidly, down the zig-zagging veins that puffed out proudly, down to the tuft of curly hairs that ended at his base, his ballsack. And already, you could see an extra extra thickness formulating at Toji’s hilt, where his knot was bound to grow.
And was that—
You gasp, “Toji, your boxers are drenched in white-”
“I know.” He grunts out, as if it pained him. Though the slight smirk on his face told an entirely different story, his rugged thumb wafts over the few pearls of white dappling his length. “I know- that kitty made me cum just by eating her out. How’s that for a needy dog?”
Oh, fuck.
All nine inches of him (hell, likely even ten if you measured properly) was achingly hot and pulsating to be inside of you. This very second.
Looking up at him - naked, needy - after staring down for so long made quite the difference. You’re remembering just how intimidating this wolf hybrid is. And something revealed in the pheromones you’d given off makes him crack a sultry smirk. “C’mere bunny.”
Instinctually, your body’s lurching backwards for escape-
Only for Toji to grasp your rabbit ears using one of his hands, dragging you off the table with them.
“M-my ears!” You’re yelping, though not quite in pain, rather…something else entirely. Clawing up at Toji’s strong forearms as he’s twisting you ‘round by the ears, making your front face the table, his erection pushed up against your ass.
Thick and throbbing.
You could feel the way he was throbbing furiously as your heated pussylips splashed slick all over him. “Such finicky creatures, always wanna run. Don’t you know that you won’t be able to outrun me?”
“Toji, mm, don’t you know that my ears a s-sensitive?” Even now, the slightest rub against them made you lose your mind, and Toji - that bastard - was running his calloused thumb all down the soft insides of your ears. Driving you positively wild—
“Ears schmears.” Rolling his eyes with a gruff grunt, he guides a second hand to cup his thickened hilt. Smearing apart your swollen folds with it, he’s sandwiching himself in with your cunt. “Don’t think I don’t know how horny ya get when I pull on ‘em a little, bunny.”
“Horny?” You gape.
“Mhmm—think I can’t smell it on ya?” As if to prove his point, his nostrils flare to heave in your saturated sunny lavender scent - and it’s like the more volume he’s intaking, the rougher he becomes, the more he’s rutting against that wet pussy of yours. “I can—fuck, I can. That day in class-”
Pushing his veiny shaft right up against your geysering orifice, just the slightest change in angle and he’d be stuffing you full with no mercy. “Oh, fuck-”
“I could smell it on ya, so fucking strong- you got so damn soaked that you were practically announcing it to the class that cute Miss Bunny liked to be thrown around.” Dragging and draaaaagging his hot, sloppy cock against your front. “She liked to be manhandled a little. Liked it rough- and that kitty of hers likes it even more.”
Bawling, “P-please, Toji.”
“And guess what?”
“What?”
“I would’ve killed any other bastard that found out about it.”
Your ears twitch in his grasp, and he’s leaning down to press a slight kiss on top of them. Something that makes you utter out, “No one knows- hck! no one but you.”
“Good.” You could practically hear the grin in his voice, the way his plump cockhead only seemed to throb even bigger. “Because I have a secret of my own, bunnygirl.”
“What’s that?”
“That day was exactly what threw me into rut.”
Oh.
And before you know it, you’re being spearheaded by Toji’s massive cock- swirlin’ his tip around the outer rim of your hole a few times. Around and aroooooound until your pupils are whirling in much the same way in the whites of your eyes.
Sliding his sultry way between those puffy lips of yours and inside—
“Oh.” Toji’s scarred mouth gapes open, Toji’s muscular body wracks with such powerful shivers. In a split-second - so fast that you don’t think he’s even thinking about it - he has one had white-knuckling those damn sensitive ears of yours. “O-ohhhhh, wait a minute. Hold on, bunnygirl.”
And then he’s snapping his toned hips to yours with such force that it sends you springing further up on your desk, sending important documents fluttering and falling all around you.
Scrambling to hold onto something for dear life, “Oh my god-”
“I said fuckin’ hold on.”
“But I didn’t-”
But when Toji Fushiguro tells you to hold you, you better know that he means it - otherwise you’re finding yourself simply drooling on the size of his monstrous cock, being limply manhandled downwards with one hand of his on your waist, and the other on your ears.
Grabbing those silky appendages and using it to yank you down- “Where’s the rush, little bunny?” And you could’ve sworn that Toji’s words were slurring, they were stumbling over one another. Scalding hot breath wafting your neck, right where your tender scent glands throbbed. “Got somewhere to be? Don’t run from the big, bad wolf, little bunny.”
“Oh my- ngh.” With another inch shovelled deep into your orifice - Toji doesn’t care whether you’re struggling to take him right about now, doesn’t care whether your sultry cunt was bulging with the size of him already.
He had one hand on your ears tuggin’ you back and forth like a ragdoll, meeting your hips with rude—hard hammer. Push after push.
Barely even proper thrusts, to be honest, you had Toji’s mind scrambled with just the slightest clench of your raw pussy. And he was fucking shaking as he held onto your body - for dear life, just as you were, not that he’d damn admit it - rutting against you like a damn dog. And he panting, too, as if he’s run a mile and suddenly his slick drool was pouring out in bucketloads against the side of your throat. “Come and play- hah, I’ve heard that bunnies like it quick and hard but come n’ play with the big, bad wolf a little…”
“And how m’I supposed to play when you do it like-” You’re whining at the sudden tug at your ears once more, not fully under his lecherous use to keep you bouncing back on his cock. “-this, ngh?”
“Why…don’t you know that wolves like it a little rough?”
And just as roughly as he swabbin’ away at your insides with his length, that velvety tip of his was just curved perfectly to push into even your tiniest orifice. To stretch you wide open. To bury himself even deeper even though you were sure his sheer size couldn’t.
And the more inches that were finding its way stuffed deeeeeep inside your pussy, the more and more that Toji was losing his composure.
“Little bunny- oh, my bunny—” As if it was his own personal mantra, or he was a broken record player on repeat.
Toji was so damn pussydrunk with only a few vicious thrusts, that he didn’t even like the way your body would bounce away with the recoils of his thrusts. And he’s pinning you down with everything he can- hell, he’s hiking up one of his meaty thighs to rest on the top platform of your desk and probing.
Muttering, almost to himself with how breathy and quiet it was. “Come back t’me- don’t run away- oh, don’t run away.” A few more inches find themselves mazing between your gummy walls, and your eyes roll back from the stretch. Still not properly bottomed-out yet. “The resistance- fuck, I’ve gotta get rid of this resistance.”
Because your entrance juuuust big enough for him to do a valiant job in trying to fit inside. And he needed it to be bigger. Needed you to fit more…
“C’mon- this pussy.” Toji’s struck with the idea to snake his left hand between your trembling legs, swiping away at your pulsating clit. “K-kiiiiitty, her cute clit didn’t feel neglected by me, did she?” Scissoring you wider open, he giggles at the way they almost look like bunny ears. “Oh, my apologies, mama, now m’here and you just-” Each word punctuated with the more precise thwack! of his hips, “-have- to- take it, alright?”
“Take it take it take it-” Babbling away, you’re just fucked so utterly stupid on his cock by now.
“So you’re gonna take it all?” And it was a serious question. It was a question that could honestly break Toji Fushiguro right now- fuck, when did he get so weak? “Take it so that you can t-take my knot, too?”
“Oh—” So that’s what he’d been carnally hankering for this entire time, “It’s j-just so much—” You’re blabbering out, throat feeling as if it was cracking underneath all the pressure. In your hazy vision, you’re seeing stars as the wolf hybrid starts plunging his reddened tip against that favorite spot. The rotund end of his shaft tapping at your insides, sliding his velvety inches all inside and inside and inside. “Oh my god, there’s so much- what if I can’t fit your-”
“So much?” Toji breathes out a chuckle, “So much? Bunny, if this is so much- then I don’t wanna know how full you’ll feel when I finally fuck you pregnant.”
You gawp, “You’re gonna fuck me pregnant-”
“Patience, bunny, no need to beg. Of course, I am.” The audacity of him- to twist your words and then have a snicker about it. Before a staggering probe of his length leaves you utterly speechless, “But before that we’ve still got a loooong way to go, don’t you know?”
Clawing at your desk, though the effort was futile. You could feel yourself slipping down his fat cock even deeper, with such lecherous squelches. “But y-you’re a wolf, and I’m a rabbit. I don’t know how it’ll even fit-”
“Oh, it’ll fit.”
He sounded oh-so-sure of himself, and you weren’t sure how - especially for a wolf hybrid that was currently rabid on your cunt. Ravenous for it.
Blushing, perspiring, swearing any time you clenched too hard.
But soon enough you’re getting your answer either way, because Toji’s giving a good swat at your clit- planting a final half-thrust between your legs before he’s finally bottoming out.
Finally.
“See…see?” He hisses through his teeth, canines bared and drooling right above your scent glands. “Who did you fuckin’ think I am- see? Told you I’ll make it fit.” Toji didn’t fucking care if you were still getting used to the feeling of him poking at your lungs, because he was already moving.
Already pounding you dizzy.
Already snapping his eyes down at your cunt and smiling at the way your folds were puckering whenever he pulled out and in. Taking him sloppily. Every inch of him. All the way from his slicked-up mushroom tip, and doooooown to his veiny hilt. His knot hadn’t started to formulate just yet, but he guessed that it would be soon. “Said you won’t be able to take me but you did—tha’s my girl.”
“Your girl- your girl, mmm.” All you can do at this point is surrender to the way that his pointed jackhammers felt, the force so hard that it was lifting your feet off the floor.
“See how- fuck- well you’re taking me? See how yer made to be fucked full- by me? Stuffed with all my kids, fuck?” Toji grunts out, emptying his gluey wads of pre at your cervix. “Don’t hop away from me, cute lil’ bunny- fuck back into your Toji—yes.” Just so rough that your hips were quivering after each movement, even the slightest gyration back.
You could genuinely feel the vibrations of him bottoming-out with a hollow thud! at the very bottom of your pussy, “Do you feel me at your throat?” Burrowing his bruising tip in hard—“At your brain? Shuffling that pretty lil’ head of y-yours around, am I?”
“Oh my- ngh.” Shaking, you’re feeling so limp by now.
“Yeahhh, proved my point.”
He still had that one hand down on your clit, getting drenched in the arousal that kept on spraying out of you. “S’okay, mama, you don’t have to think about anything but- ngh, baby names right now- ya hear me?”
Absent-mindedly babbling, “Baby…names…”
And that’s when he’s dragging you so far back by your bunny tears that your spine is arching into him- head against Toji’s prominent collarbone, your spittle coming out like a waterfall, your cunt being impaled by his thick length and ending up…right at your g-spot.
“Oh fuh-fuck—!” You’re keening, body flailing almost out of control had you not been pinned down by Toji’s hefty weight.
“Oh, fuh-fuck?” He’s saying, and it takes you a few more vulgar thrusts to realize that he’d just repeated what you said. Toji’s lower lip juts out in a mocking pout, “I don’t think s’a a good name for a baby, bunnygirl- too inappropriate, ngh, no?”
You’re gritting your teeth, cursing his mean words out in your mind - at least, whatever rational part of it was left. Using that, you’re still able to get your hips to fuck back into his- the flared line of his slit just perfectly rubbin’ against your sweetest spots. “Oh- r-right there, Toji.”
Again and again.
It’s a pleasure that’s so overwhelming that you almost don’t hear his distant scoff- “Toji?” And you’re almost about to ask what was wrong before- “Mmm, but that’s my name, bunny, and you really wanna give it to our kid?”
“I’m going to fucking kill y-”
“Or maybe Toji Junior?” Toji crinkles his nose in thought, as if he wasn’t properly ravaging and ravaging your goopy insides until they felt all red and raw. “Hmmm…not a fan- what else have ya got up in that- ngh, pretty mind of yours, mama?” With absolutely no warning, the hand that’d been drawing circles at your clit suddenly piiiiinches that nub.
Drags it all out until you’re just shrilly whining, “Fuck, I think it’s coming-” And then comes out a garbled mess of moans and tears as you’re flashing through to your second high of the night.
This one comes to you suddenly, without any of the blissful crackles that usually preceded your orgasms - but you had to admit that this one was the strongest. The hardest. The sloppiest one you’ve ever encountered in your entire life.
You were so wet that even the slightest clench draws out a dampened sluuuurp from your pussy, piping out in dewdrops of cum that cling onto Toji’s shaft. His blushin’ hot tip reaches into your every corner, somehow bashing your g-spot exactly in time with your peaks.
“Mmm, bless you, bunny.” He’s replying, somewhat belatedly to your mess of noises. And even over the smacking of skin, you hear the exact moment that Toji’s coming to the realization. “Bless- blessing, oh—I think I have the perfect baby name, mm, bunnygirl.”
Blinking your teary eyes behind you, “And- and that is?”
“Megumi.”
You can’t deny that the thought of an actual baby name sends shivers down your spine, and you don’t need to think much of it before you’re looking over your shoulder and begging- “I-inside, Toji.” Sliding one of your hands down your front in emphasis, “Cum inside me if you want that- ngh, then…”
“Fucking hell-”
It’s just then with a few vicious plunges that Toji’s cumming, too.
Stripe after stripe of his aching hot seed, it empties out in multiple layers against the back of your pussy. And you’re not sure whether you’re seeing white because of the sheer ecstacy or the sheer volume of him.
It’s so hot.
So wet.
Such sappy ribbons that lacquer a second gluey skin ‘round your channel, you can feel it splosh around you even with the tiniest movements. Thump-thump-thumped into your orifices inside by his cock.
He’s pumping out so many wads that they end up overspilling your cunt with almost no effort, a few dewy droplets that Toji has to scoop inside using his thickened thumb. “Fucking hell, you’re just begging to be fucked pregnant, aren’t you?” Snarling, he drives his hips even faster. “From the very beginning- begging to let me fill this kitty? Begging to be all r-roooooound and glowing with my child-”
You grab at the mahogany wood in front of you and he’s dragging you back-
“Begging to not leave this damn office until you’re carrying my child, hm?”
“Yes-” You gasp, “Yes yes yes yes—”
“Then get pregnant.” Toji grunts out, holding onto you- he moves on from your ears to grab at your fluffy tail and draaaaag you back, “Get pregnant get pregnant- get- fuck, you’re not thinking about tapping out yet, are you?”
Lolling your head against the table, in a puddle of your own drool. “N-no?”
“Good. Because I need you to say one thing, bun-”
“And what is-”
“Knot.”
“Kn-ngh…” You can’t even finish that damned syllable—not when Toji’s then squeezing in the plump growth at his base like that. That firmness you’d been feeling pressed up against your cunt this entire time? That was none other than his knot.
Pushing and pushing.
Probing.
“C’mon- say it.” Toji reaches up a hand from your clit, lugging open your mouth. “Breathe in. breathe out. And saaaaaay it- knot.” Smushing your cheeks open, “Open yer mouth up real wide like this- yeah, now open those legs up real wide, too.”
“It’s actually fitting in-”
“Easy there- eeeeeasy there, don’t run.”
Sobbing out at the carnal stretch, “Knot- fuck—” Your eyes roll to the back of your head- you thought that Toji was big earlier, but you’d never felt anything like this. His rotund swelling, throbbing as he squeezes it inside of you with a wet plop! “You just made me take your-”
“Bet’cha never had something like this, hm? Now we know s’taking, bun.” He hums, tapping at the completely stuffed orifice of your cunt, filled to the brim, stuffed to every inch. “All safe n’ sound- but…”
“But?” Still trying to catch your breath.
“But if it doesn’t take right now…heh, well-”
And before you know it, Toji’s reached over to gnaw his long canines down your scent glands. He’s pricking his sharp edges against the soft tissue, tearing into them, biting into them. Your scent is his and his scent is yours, completely infused: mates, as it went.
All before he’d even finished his program, Toji’s saturated air puffs out of his own scent glands- body still frenzied, almost as if he was looking to go into overdrive—“-I read somewhere that you bunnies can go at it two-hundred times a day.”
You really weren’t making it out of this alive.
.
.
.
Graduation Day of the APEX ASSIMILATION PROGRAM.
“It’s odd that madam bunny is late-”
“And on arguably the most important day of the program, too-”
“I hope she’s alright.” Ijichi looks nervously around the training field, as if willing you to manifest from behind a bush or so any second now. It was almost unnerving being here when you weren’t, always the first in class, always there to greet them.
Utahime herself was wringing her hands as she let her class mill about for the first portion of the day, peering at the building and the entrance from time to time. “Maybe…maybe we should just get on with it.” She says, much to the shock and disappointment of the class. A pondering silence falls over the beautiful day, “Perhaps she’s running late and shall get here before the graduation ceremony is over-”
“Maybe we should have someone call her residence and find out whether something’s wrong?” Surprisingly, it’s Ijichi that pipes up.
“Yeah, do that-”
“Oh maybe we should at the reception-”
“Oh, alright.” Utahime hums, “I’ll go call her, Ijichi you’re in charge of the class until I-”
“I’m here—!”
Ah, there. Ijichi smiles to himself in satisfaction, so there was really no need to call you anymore.
Now you could carry on with the graduation as you were meant to, you could hand over the certificates, you could shake their hands with that pretty smile of yours, you could- you could speed-walk up to them with a certain wolf-hybrid on a leash.
Ijichi’s eyes damn near bulge out of his skin—a certain wolf hybrid on a leash?
Yes, the next time you’re walking back to your program, it’s with Toji Fushiguro on a leash.
The whispers burst out instantly-
“Oh my god- is that…someone certainly graduated alright.”
“So they have that kind of relationship? Look at the bite marks on her neck-”
“Wait, why is seeing the big, bad wolf all tame like this kinda…”
“Sorry I’m late.” You’re announcing, slightly out-of-breath with the added weight of your new companion. You’re twisting your hands in the tough material of the leash, one end of it held by you, and the other attached to the brand-new red collar wrapped around Toji’s neck.
His lightly grunting underneath his breath when you tug, snarling through his oh-so-favorite muzzle. And even the restraint wasn’t enough to stop some of the attendees from taking a step or two back, “A little someone was a bit…distracted and didn’t want to come to graduation- I convinced him, though. But I had to bring him in like this, ah- y’know.” They look at your slightly-trembling legs, they look at your glowing beauty, they look at the garish bonding mark on the side of your throat…and they can already guess what type of distraction that had been.
Oblivious to the roar of whispers (almost) you’re looking from your stunned class to your stunned colleague, her lips parted. “So it was a mating ritual—oh my god Shoko owes me two thousand yen.” Utahime reaches for her phone to call up Shoko this time, babbling something about coming down to the field right now.
“That’s not what you should be asking.” Toji pipes up for the first time, making nearly everyone freeze in place at his rough baritone.
In amusement, his tail swishes- his hand reaches up to your marked throat, your swollen scent glands (no longer covered), “Easy boy.”
“M’just saying.” Before finally coming at rest in front of you, in front of just where he’d filled that pretty womb of yours last night. “There are better questions to be asking now, heh.”
“L-like what?” Ijichi, bravely, is the only one to ask.
Oh, poor Ijichi…
“Like ‘boy or girl?’”
A/N. Two Toji fics in a (not quite) row?! GAAAAAASP- also I wrote this between an 18-hour powercut erm.
told the nerd to film it and he exported inside me instead!
pairing — tech nerd!gojo x fem reader
synopsis : you crushed on him for months, watched him dodge every advance like you were malware. so you dressed up a little, played a little dumber—and now he’s got you spread out in pixels and moaning in surround sound. worst part? you kinda want him to do it again.
tags/cw — masturbation, degradation, praise kink, dacryphilia, marking, overstimulation, explicit language, filming, voyeurism, fingering, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, creampie, squirting, rough sex, dirty talk, power dynamics, obsession, lingerie, virgin weeb satoru, questionable but effective way of seducing ur crush. 13k wc, 18+ only, minors DNI.
a/n : plz don't nitpick about how a fashion vlog shouldn't be like that bc that's the point. toru doesn't know the difference because all he watches is 2d girls
the compressor’s peaking again.
satoru squints at the waveform, drags the threshold down two decibels, then listens back to the same three-second clip of voiceover for the tenth time. it’s a podcast intro, some wannabe influencer droning about mindfulness. he doesn’t care. he’s just here to make it sound less like it was recorded in a bathroom.
“sounds like shit,” he mutters, even though it’s clean. crisp. perfectly balanced.
it doesn’t feel right. nothing ever does. he tweaks the bitrate, checks the export codec, wonders if he should build a custom ffmpeg preset. maybe write a quick script to batch clean all future files—something to shave off a few milliseconds of his life. his fingers hover over the keyboard, itching for efficiency, for control.
ping.
discord overlay glows in the corner of his ultrawide monitor, a neon-green intrusion on his meticulously organized desktop. he freezes. the notification pulses like a heartbeat.
you.
he stares at it, lets it sit there like it’s radioactive. doesn’t even remember keeping you added. your username—something stupid with a heart emoji—feels like a splinter under his skin. he should’ve purged his contacts months ago, but here you are, slipping through the cracks of his digital fortress.
hey. remember when u edited our project? can u help me trim some vids pls…
his jaw tightens. of course you’d ask now, at 2 a.m., when he’s neck-deep in audio plugins and caffeine. his fingers hover over the keyboard, poised to dismiss you.
“no,” he types, then erases it.
“what kind of vids,” he tries, but deletes that too. too eager. too curious.
after a solid twenty-five seconds of overthinking, he finally sends:
i guess. send what you have.
he leans back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. his room is a cave of glowing screens and scattered energy drink cans, the hum of his overclocked pc the only sound besides his own shallow breathing. he shouldn’t care. you’re just another art student, another distraction. but his pulse betrays him, thudding a little too hard in his throat.
flashback.exe
he hated group projects. despised them. a bunch of useless art students in overpriced streetwear, trying to make films with no understanding of pacing or continuity.
they’d fumble with premiere pro like it was rocket science, leaving him to clean up their shaky cuts and mismatched audio tracks. he always ended up doing 90% of the work, and he preferred it that way. control was his god, and he worshipped it.
but you were different.
not better. just... a different kind of stupid.
you showed up late to the editing suite, glitter pens spilling out of your bag, heart stickers plastered on your water bottle like a middle schooler’s diary. you called the lav mic a “weird nipple thing” and giggled when he glared at you. once, you spilled your lip gloss on the soundboard, leaving a sticky pink smear he had to scrub off with isopropyl alcohol. another time, you asked if uploading to drive made your data heavier, and he almost threw you out.
but.
you let him do whatever he wanted.
you didn’t hover or micromanage. you just sat there, cross-legged on a swivel chair, watching him cut scenes like it was magic. you leaned over his shoulder, close enough that he could feel the warmth of your breath, your wide eyes reflecting the glow of the timeline.
“whoa... you made it feel like a real movie,” you whispered, like he’d just parted the red sea.
you smelled like something artificial. strawberries, maybe, or some overpriced body mist from a mall kiosk. your hair was always tied with a ribbon—pink, blue, sometimes yellow, always obnoxiously bright.
he didn’t care.
he told himself he didn’t.
but he remembered. every fucking detail.
the zip file lands in his downloads with an obnoxious ka-chunk, snapping him out of the memory. he doesn’t rush. just opens it like it’s any other favor, like his heart isn’t clawing at his ribcage. the folder name stares back at him: “pls help <3”
typical.
he clicks it open, expecting shaky iphone clips of cafes and shopping hauls. maybe some cringe tiktok dance you think is cute. he’s ready to hate it, to scoff at your lack of framing or shitty lighting.
but then—
you appear on screen.
not just appear. you perform.
you’re biting your lip, laughing into the lens like it’s your lover. wearing something stupidly short—a skirt that barely qualifies as fabric, hugging your thighs like it’s painted on. you spin around in front of your mirror, the camera catching every angle, every curve, like you’re being filmed for someone else. someone who’d appreciate it.
you pose. cock your head. giggle. the sound is loud, breathy, smiling when you speak. “do you think this is too short?” you ask, tugging the hem of your skirt, your fingers lingering just a second too long.
he blinks.
backs the video up three seconds.
watches again.
your laugh echoes through his headphones, a little distorted, a little too close. he pretends he’s checking the audio, tells himself it’s for sync, that he’s just doing his job. but his eyes are glued to the screen, to the way your skirt rides up as you twirl, to the flash of skin that makes his breath catch.
he watches again.
his mouth is dry, his tongue heavy against his teeth. your skirt flips up higher this time, and you gasp—like you’re surprised, like you didn’t mean to show that much. but you don’t stop filming. don’t cover up. just... laugh, a sound that curls around his spine and sinks into his gut.
he doesn’t even realize his hand is moving until it’s there, slipping under the waistband of his sweatpants. his fingers brush against himself, and he hisses, the contact sharp and sudden. he’s already half-hard, his body betraying him before his brain can catch up. the room feels too warm, the hum of his pc too loud, but he doesn’t care. he can’t care.
he rewinds the clip again, pauses on the frame where you’re mid-spin, your skirt flared just enough to show the curve of your ass. his hand wraps around his cock, slow at first, tentative, like he’s testing how far he’ll let himself go. the texture of his own skin is rough, familiar, but it’s not enough. not when it’s you on the screen, laughing like you know he’s watching, like you’re daring him to lose control.
he strokes himself, a tight, deliberate rhythm, his thumb brushing over the tip where he’s already leaking. the sensation jolts him, makes his hips twitch in the chair.
he imagines it’s your hand, your fingers—small, soft, probably clumsy, but eager. he pictures you kneeling between his legs, looking up at him with those wide eyes, your lips parted like they are in the video, glossy and pink and begging to be kissed. or more.
the video plays on. you’re bending over now, adjusting your hair in the mirror, your skirt riding up to expose the thin strip of your underwear. he groans, low and guttural, his hand moving faster.
the sound of your voice—teasing, playful—fills his headphones, and he closes his eyes for a moment, letting it wash over him. “do you think this is too short?” you say again, and he wants to answer, wants to growl that it’s perfect, that you’re perfect, that he’d rip it off you if he could.
his grip tightens, his strokes growing erratic. he’s not gentle with himself—never is. it’s all pressure and friction, chasing the edge as fast as he can.
his free hand fumbles with the mouse, scrubbing the timeline back to the moment you gasp, to the split-second flash of your thighs. he loops it, the clip stuttering in time with his breathing, with the slick sound of his hand working himself over. his cock throbs, hot and heavy, and he imagines it’s you—your warmth, your wetness, the way you’d probably whimper if he touched you like this.
he’s close. too close.
his vision blurs at the edges, his pulse hammering in his ears. he shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be jerking off to your stupid video like some desperate creep, but the shame only makes it worse, makes it sharper.
he pictures you catching him, walking in right now, seeing him with his pants down and his hand on his dick. would you laugh? would you blush? would you get on your knees and—
he comes with a choked gasp, his hips bucking up into his hand. it’s messy, spilling over his fingers, onto the hem of his shirt. his chest heaves, his head tilting back against the chair as the aftershocks ripple through him. your laugh loops in his headphones, oblivious to the wreck he’s become.
it’s filthy. it’s desperate.
ten minutes later, he’s cleaned himself up, his hands steady again as he trims the file like a good little editor. he cuts out the shaky parts, stabilizes the footage, adjusts the audio so your voice doesn’t clip. it’s clinical now, professional, like he didn’t just fall apart to the sight of you. he names it something sterile: “vlog_cut_1.mov.”
he exports it twice. once normally, for you. once... not. the second version is raw, unedited, every twirl and giggle preserved in crisp 4k. it gets copied to a different folder, buried in a directory labeled “shader_study_2022.” he tells himself it’s in case you need a re-edit. a backup. that’s all.
when you text back:
thank u!! lol i owe uuu :3
he stares at the message, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. his heart’s still racing, a faint tremor in his fingers.
he types “anytime :)” and erases it. sends:
np.
what he doesn’t say: he rewatched the part where you bend over six times. he had his dick in his hand by the second loop. he renamed the close-up to “test_render_asscloseup.mov” and hid it behind three layers of subfolders.
he doesn’t even like tiktok girls.
he’s into 2d, girls with big swords and bigger tits, drawn in sharp lines and impossible proportions. he once bought a dakimakura because the shipping came with a free pin, and it’s still shoved in his closet, one corner stained from a late-night mistake. real girls are messy, unpredictable, too much work. but now?
he’s thinking about the way your laugh dipped when you turned around, the way it caught in your throat like you were nervous. the way you looked into the lens like you knew someone was watching.
someone like him.
next day, you walk in like a fucking weapon.
pink fuzzy shrug, low-rise jeans that sit dangerously low on your hips, a sliver of stomach peeking out like it’s 2004. your hair’s up in a ribbon—pink, of course, swaying as you move. you’re all glitter and confidence, a walking distraction in a lecture hall full of tired students and flickering projectors.
he scoffs under his breath. “tacky.”
but his heart’s pounding, a traitor in his chest. his fingers twitch against the edge of his laptop, betraying the calm he’s trying to project. you slide into the seat two rows ahead and twist around, grinning like a cat, like you know something he doesn’t.
your eyes catch his for a split second, bright and teasing, and he forces himself to look away.
he opens his laptop, types random garbage into a terminal window—some half-baked python script he doesn’t even care about. he runs a fake compile just to feel busy, to drown out the way his blood is rushing too fast.
you lean over to whisper to the girl next to you, your laugh spilling out, loud and careless. your hair tosses, and he swears he catches the scent of your perfume drifting past in invisible waves. saccharine, overwhelming, like strawberries dipped in sugar syrup.
his brain short-circuits. he snaps his headphones on, the cord tangling in his haste. not to listen to music. not to block you out.
to replay your giggle.
he’d isolated the audio last night, cleaned it up with a high-pass filter, boosted the mids to make it crystal clear. exported it as a high-quality .wav, tucked it into a folder labeled “audio_ref.” he tells himself it’s for study, just good reference for future projects. but he loops it now, the sound of your laugh layered over faint lo-fi static he added for texture. it’s you, distilled into a three-second clip, filling his skull.
he closes his eyes and pretends you’re saying his name. satoru, you giggle, breathy and soft, like you’re leaning over his shoulder again, watching him work. satoru, you made it feel so real.
the lecture drones on, but he’s not listening. he’s lost in the rhythm of your voice, the way it dips and rises, the way it makes his skin feel too tight. he shifts in his seat, adjusts his hoodie, tries to ignore the heat pooling in his gut. he’s not supposed to want this. not supposed to want you.
but he does.
the thing about addiction is that it never announces itself.
no dramatic thunderclap. no internal monologue screaming, ah yes, now i am a pervert. it’s quiet. insidious. it sinks in like static, crackling at the edges of satoru’s brain until he’s not sure where his old self ends and this new, wretched version begins.
it’s not like he’s not already a pervert who gets off from pixels. this simply wasn’t his brand of perversion.
that night, he stayed up longer than he should’ve. stared at code for so long his ide crashed, the screen flickering to black as if it knew he was wasting his time. not that he got anything done.
he just kept switching tabs—your final cut in vlc, some useless bash script in vscode he pretended to care about, then back to your video, the timeline frozen on that twirl, that gasp. his fingers shook when he closed the laptop, but sleep never came.
and now it’s the next day. mid-afternoon. the sun is doing that thing where it turns his apartment into a blinding box of heat and regret. his ac hums like an old man, wheezing against the sticky air. he’s sprawled in his chair, one leg slung over the armrest, staring at the ceiling fan like it might tell him how to stop.
ping.
another discord notification. he doesn’t even flinch this time. your username glows, and the filename attached makes his stomach do a weird little roll: “try-on2_raw.mov”. his eyes linger on the heart emoji you’ve tacked onto the message, like it’s a personal invitation.
hiii! ty for the last edit, ur a lifesaver <3 can u check and trim this one too? i’m trying smth new but idk if it works… lmk what u think pls!!
he clicks download. no hesitation. doesn’t even pretend to care anymore.
the file loads into his editing software like second nature, the premiere pro interface blooming across his screen. muscle memory. routine.
he’s done this a hundred times—except never like this, never with his pulse hammering in his throat and his mouth already dry.
the video starts the same way as the last—handheld, messy lighting, your voice trailing in from offscreen as you fiddle with the camera angle. no mic, of course not. just raw cam audio, unpolished, real, every breath and rustle amplified. he leans closer, like proximity to the screen will make it less dangerous.
“okay—wait, hold on,” you mutter, slightly out of breath. there’s a plastic rustle, fabric scraping skin, the light jingle of a zipper. he catches the sound of your nails tapping the digicam accidentally, a faint clack-clack that makes him picture your fingers, probably painted some ridiculous color, fumbling in that endearing way you do.
“ugh… come on…” your voice drops, a frustrated huff, low and throaty. “mm—sorry! this one’s hard to pull up.”
then—zipper slides. metal on fabric, slow and deliberate, like it’s teasing him on purpose. you let out a sigh, long, slow, just a little too satisfied, like you’re savoring the release of pressure. the sound coils in his gut, tight and hot.
he freezes.
his mouse stays hovering over the playhead, the cursor trembling slightly. blood is already rushing south, his sweatpants tightening in a way he can’t ignore. his breath catches, shallow and sharp, and the worst part?
you giggle.
“probably got the wrong size,” you say, tugging the dress up higher. the hem catches on your thighs, rising indecently, the fabric clinging to your skin like it’s reluctant to let go. “don’t tell anyone i didn’t try it on in-store first.”
he swallows nothing. jaw tight. the room suddenly feels suffocating, the ac’s hum drowned out by the thud of his own pulse. your lip catches between your teeth, a flash of white against pink gloss, and the camera catches that too, lingers on it like it knows what it’s doing.
you glance at the lens, eyes half-lidded, like you’re waiting for approval, like you’re asking him directly—do you like this?
satoru’s fingers twitch.
one hand stays on the mouse, scrubbing the timeline back three seconds to hear that sigh again. the other hand moves before he can stop it, slipping under his waistband, brushing against the heat of his skin. he’s already hard, achingly so, the kind of hard that makes his head swim.
he wraps his fingers around himself, slow at first, testing, like he’s not sure he’s really doing this again. but the sound of your voice—breathy, teasing—loops in his headphones, and he’s gone.
he strokes himself, deliberate and tight, his grip almost punishing. the video plays on, and you’re stepping into frame now, the dress half-zipped, hugging your curves in a way that makes his throat burn. your thighs shift as you adjust the hem, and he imagines them under his hands, soft and warm, parting just for him.
his thumb swipes over the tip of his cock, slick with precum, and he groans, low and broken, the sound swallowed by the hum of his pc. he pictures your fingers instead, clumsy but eager, your nails grazing his skin as you try to keep up with his rhythm.
he’d guide you, show you how he likes it—fast, rough, no mercy.
you sigh again, and he speeds up, his hand moving in time with the rise and fall of your voice. “this one’s kinda tight,” you murmur, tugging at the neckline, and the fabric stretches, exposing the swell of your chest.
he wants to rip it off, wants to hear you gasp for real, not for the camera but for him. his strokes grow erratic, desperate, the slick sound of his hand filling the room, obscene and unstoppable.
he scrubs the timeline back again, pauses on the frame where your dress slips, where your underwear peeks out—a thin, lacy thing that makes his vision blur. he imagines pulling it aside, imagines the heat of you, the way you’d whimper if he pressed himself inside.
he’s close, too close, his hips twitching up into his hand. the video loops your giggle, that satisfied sigh, and he’s drowning in it, in you.
he pictures you catching him like this, walking into his apartment right now, seeing him with his pants down and his cock in his hand, flushed and leaking. would you laugh? would you blush? would you drop to your knees and let him finish on your lips, glossy and perfect and—
he comes with a muted groan, his head tipping back, eyes screwed shut as his release spills over his fingers, hot and messy. his breath shakes, a ragged exhale that leaves him hollow. the aftershocks pulse through him, and he slumps in his chair, the video still playing, your voice oblivious to the wreckage you’ve caused.
he pauses the frame. your mouth is mid-word, forming the shape of “oops,” lips parted just enough to make his chest ache. he wipes his hand on a paper towel from his desk, crumpled and stained from earlier sins. doesn’t look at himself. doesn’t think.
exports the file without touching a thing. names it “final_edit.mov.” then saves another copy, the raw footage, every sigh and rustle preserved. he names it “jesusfuckingchrist.mp4” and buries it in a folder labeled “misc_ref.”
he tries to normalize it.
“it’s just grading,” he mutters the next time he opens the project, the lie sour on his tongue. “just adjusting white balance.” but the playback bar hasn’t moved from your thighs. he doesn’t touch the colors. not really.
he zooms in under the excuse of checking “grain smoothing,” but it’s just your lip, caught between your teeth, your breath clipped at the edges like you’re holding back.
he tells himself he’s just learning.
every artist has their muse, right? except now he edits to your audio. he used to play podcasts, background noise to keep his brain from spiraling.
now? your breathing is layered into the timeline, a track he’s labeled “vox_ref.” he loops your laugh in reverse, lets it pan from left to right like it’s some surround sound experience.
“this is practice,” he whispers, dragging eq curves around nonsense, boosting the highs until your voice is sharp and intimate. “i’m experimenting with filters.”
right. filters. filters until your voice sounds like it’s right by his ear, like you’re whispering in bed, your breath warm against his skin. he plays a clip of you saying “do you like this one?” over and over, the words detached from context.
he doesn’t even care what you’re referring to anymore. he’s got that part memorized, the way your voice dips, soft and unsure, like you’re asking him to love you.
the next class is worse.
you walk past him in that fuzzy pink shrug thing, one sleeve slipping off your shoulder, and it’s like a bomb goes off in his chest. the fabric clings to you, soft and teasing, and he wants to grab it, pull it down, see how much skin you’ll let him have.
you lean down to plug your charger in, your jeans riding low—too low, the kind of low that makes him wonder how they’re even allowed on campus. he catches a glimpse of your underwear, a flash of lace, and his brain whites out.
he glares at his laptop, scoffs under his breath. “that outfit’s… desperate.” the word feels like a blade, sharp and mean, but it’s all he’s got to keep you at a distance.
your head tilts, innocent, eyes wide like you’re genuinely curious. “you think so?” you say it like you mean it, like you don’t already know the answer, like you haven’t watched your own footage and seen what he’s seen.
he shrugs, keeps scowling, doesn’t look at you. his fingers grip the edge of his laptop too hard, knuckles white. behind the screen, he’s got a paused frame of you licking lip gloss off your thumb, minimized in the corner. it’s been open since he got here.
his file structure is disintegrating. he used to name things with logic—timestamps, project codes, version numbers. now his desktop looks like a manifesto, a digital shrine to his unraveling. “vlog_tryon_final.mov.” “edit_3alt.mp4.” “fuckmeagain_laughcut.mov.” there’s a folder called “NOT work (unless)” that he doesn’t even open anymore, too afraid of what he’ll find.
he tries to draw a line, but it’s blurry. always blurry. he doesn’t know where the edit ends and obsession begins. when he dreams, he dreams about zippers—except they’re not zipzers. they’re your legs, parting slow and deliberate, your breath hitching as he pulls you closer.
a new text lights up his screen:
hey! idk if the last one looks good… should i redo it? it felt kinda awkward lol sorry T_T
you sound insecure, unsure, your words dripping with that self-conscious charm that makes his chest hurt. he stares at the message, his thumb hovering over the keyboard, his mind spiraling.
you don’t know, do you? you don’t know what you’re doing to him, how your voice alone is enough to make him hard again.
he types:
looks clean. don’t worry about it.
satoru watches the word clean sit there like a fucking lie. his dick twitches, traitor that it is.
he hates himself.
but he opens the raw file again. scrubs through, frame by frame, until he finds that timestamp—where you moan, soft and accidental, like you didn’t mean to let it slip. he watches it, his headphones sealing him in with the sound of you. he exports that single second, names it “moan_finalgodhelpme.mp4,” and tucks it away like a secret he’ll never confess.
the timeline sits open, your frozen frame staring back at him. he doesn’t close it. doesn’t want to.
it starts with static in his skull.
not the loud, electric kind that chokes you up or begs to be noticed. it’s quiet. a whir, like an old fan that never shuts off, humming behind his thoughts. when satoru drags his mouse across the screen and sees your name still on the folder, it buzzes—faint, familiar, a sickness with your scent.
he changes the name from “NOT work (unless)” to “ARCHIVE_21,” moves it to a different directory, pretends it’s work, or dead, or both. but the static doesn’t stop. it clings, sticky and warm, like your laugh looping in his headphones.
it doesn’t help.
not when he dreams in highlighter gloss and those half-bitten whines you make when stretching, your body arching just so. not when he wakes up rutting into damp sheets, mouthing your name like a damn prayer, his hips jerking against nothing. the shame burns, but it’s not enough to make him stop.
satoru’s trying.
really.
he takes up freelance gigs, edits wedding footage for some guy he hasn’t spoken to since second year. overlays cheesy filters, mutes the groom’s ugly laugh, syncs the vows to some overused acoustic track. it’s clean. respectable. sterile enough to make him itch, like he’s wearing someone else’s skin. but the folder’s still there, buried in his drive like it knows he’ll come back.
2:03 a.m.
his inbox pings, a sharp sound that cuts through the drone of his pc fans. your name lights up the screen, and his chest tightens before he even reads the message.
hiii satoru!! sorry for the late send, been sooo busy <3 can u take a look at this haul vid? i tried smth spicy but idk if it’s too much… lmk what u think pretty pls!!
march haul (raw).mp4
he knows he shouldn’t. there’s no logical reason, no business context, just the weight of your words—spicy, pretty pls—sinking into his gut. but his hands move on their own, clicking download, the progress bar filling like a fuse burning down.
click.
of course he does.
the video starts soft, your bedroom light diffused to a golden haze, casting shadows that dance across rumpled sheets. it looks like you’ve been tossing in them all day, the fabric creased and inviting.
you’re in lace—barely. something soft pink and flimsy, a slip of fabric that clings to your curves like it’s begging to be torn off.
your thigh’s out, one leg bent just enough to draw his eye, and the camera’s angled low, too low, like you meant to frame it this way.
“god, i hope this one fits…” your voice is breathy, a little strained, like you’re fighting the fabric. you adjust a strap, your fingers lingering on the lace, and your lip catches between your teeth, glossy and pink, a casual gesture that’s anything but. his breath stutters, a sharp inhale that burns his throat.
“oops, sorry—too much cleavage?” you laugh, not to yourself but at him.
he knows it.
his cock knows it, twitching against the seam of his sweatpants. the screen shakes as you set the camera on something unsteady—a stack of books, maybe—and it rocks just as you turn around, hips swaying, your ass hugged by that tiny thong, the lace cutting into your skin like a claim. you glance back over your shoulder, smirk poised like a dagger, eyes glinting in the soft light.
“i bet you’d pause right here, wouldn’t you?”
he does.
the video cuts mid-breath, and he doesn’t hear the silence. he’s frozen, hand halfway down, brain wiped clean. the frame lingers on your ass, the curve of it framed by lace, and his mouth is dry, his pulse hammering so loud it drowns out the static.
ping.
march haul (real).mp4
oops. wrong send lol. this is the real one!
his screen is still painted with the freeze-frame of your ass. his dick’s straining so hard it aches, a dull throb that makes him shift in his chair. he doesn’t respond, doesn’t move for a full minute, just stares at the message, the word oops taunting him. then—
he saves both files. drags them into “ARCHIVE_21” with a trembling cursor, his fingers clumsy on the trackpad. he opens the raw one again, slower this time, one hand on his lap, the other fisting his sheets until the fabric creaks.
you’re back on screen, adjusting the strap again, your laugh curling through his headphones like smoke. his hand slips under his waistband, and he’s already leaking, the tip slick and sensitive as he grips himself.
he strokes slow, deliberate, savoring the friction, but his mind’s elsewhere—on the hentai he’s spent years jerking off to, the doujins with dog-eared pages and cum-stained corners.
he pictures you like those girls, bent over and begging, your lace thong pushed to the side as he fucks you from behind, your moans louder, needier, than anything you’ve let slip on camera.
he imagines pinning you to those rumpled sheets, your thighs trembling under his hands, your ass bouncing with every thrust. no teasing giggles, no coy glances—just you, fucked out and whimpering, his name on your lips as he buries himself deep, so deep you can’t think.
his hand speeds up, the slick sound obscene in the quiet of his room. he scrubs the timeline back, pauses on the moment you turn, your smirk sharp and knowing.
he wants to wipe it off, wants to fuck you until you’re too wrecked to smile, until you’re clawing at the sheets and sobbing his name. he imagines your cunt, tight and wet, gripping him as he pounds into you, the lace of your thong rubbing raw against his skin.
it’s not enough to watch you anymore, not enough to stroke himself to your voice—he wants to ruin you, wants to feel you break under him, wants to make you his in a way those 2d girls never could.
he cums with a low, breathy whisper of your name, his hips jerking up into his hand. it’s intense, almost painful, spilling over his fingers and onto the hem of his shirt.
his chest heaves, his vision blurring as he slumps back, the video still playing, your laugh oblivious to the mess he’s become. he opens it again, doesn’t touch himself this time—just watches, memorizes, eyes glassy and mouth parted.
at one point, he swears he moans with you, a soft sound that slips out unbidden, his body betraying him even when he’s spent. when he edits the “real” file, he’s a machine. no stutters, no slips, just sharp keystrokes and surgical cuts, trimming shaky frames and boosting your voice until it’s crisp.
the guilt claws at him, a dull ache in his chest, but it only makes the next orgasm worse—and better. he exports it, names it “haul_march_final.mov,” and saves the raw file to a new subfolder: “stills_ref.” he doesn’t name the second copy. doesn’t need to. it’s just for him.
he plays it cool in class. “wow. another fit straight outta your grandma’s closet,” he scoffs as you pass, voice dripping with mockery, lips curling into something lazy and mean.
but his gaze flickers—just once, low and quick, like he’s checking for danger. and there it is. a flash of soft pink lace against the curve of your thigh as you shift your bag higher up your shoulder. just a sliver. deliberate.
he knows that lace. knows it from the raw footage, from the way it hugged your skin under golden light. his smirk falters for half a second, a crack in his armor.
you turn your head, slow as syrup, and smile at him over your shoulder. it’s airy, innocent, ditzy enough to play dumb, poisonous enough to feel like a threat. “mm? that bad, huh?” your voice is light, but your eyes linger a moment too long, sharp and knowing, like you’re peeling him open.
you take your seat two rows away, crossing one leg over the other with careful grace. your skirt rides up, just enough to show the edge of that lace again, and your fingers toy absentmindedly with the hem, brushing the fabric like it’s a game.
he doesn’t blink.
he knows what’s under that skirt, knows the way that lace bites into your skin when you move just like that. he’s seen it in soft lighting, tangled with shadows and sighs. he knows, and you know, and neither of you say a word.
he can’t breathe.
his hand trembles as he grips his pen, scrawling nonsense on the corner of his notes—random numbers, jagged lines, anything to keep his fingers busy.
someone’s asking a question about identity and performance, something about how we present ourselves versus how we wish to be perceived, and satoru’s already halfway to standing.
“sorry. washroom.” his voice cracks halfway through the lie, too sharp, too rushed.
satoru stumbles into the men’s room like he’s escaping a crime scene, the door clicking shut behind him. palm flat against cold tile, forehead pressed to the inside of his wrist, he tries to breathe, tries to think of anything else—code, deadlines, the wedding edit he’s behind on.
but it’s you.
always you. your smile, your laugh, the lace peeking out like a taunt.
he’s already hard, already leaking, the front of his jeans tight and unforgiving. he fumbles with the button, shoves them down just enough, and grips himself, his hand shaking as he strokes.
he closes his eyes and sees you—not the you in class, not the you playing dumb, but the you from his fantasies, the you he’s built from hentai panels and late-night desperation. he imagines you on your knees, lace thong pulled down, your cunt glistening as he fucks you against the bathroom sink.
no giggles, no teasing—just raw, desperate need, your moans echoing off the tiles as he slams into you, his hands bruising your hips, your body arching to take him deeper.
he wants you messy, wants you marked, wants to fill you until you’re dripping, until you’re his in a way that’s permanent.
he strokes faster, his breath hitching, his teeth sinking into his knuckles to muffle the groan clawing up his throat. he cums hard, too fast, his knees buckling as it spills over his hand, hot and shameful. he shakes, gasping, his forehead slick against the tile, and thinks of lace. thinks of lip gloss. thinks of your voice saying “oops” like it’s a sin.
it doesn’t take long for his desktop to become an altar.
the background’s still you, a freeze-frame from the first video, your lip gloss shimmering and fingers caught mid-twist in your hair. he tells himself it’s temporary, just a visual reference.
some nights, he replays a single frame just to watch your mouth form the word “fuck,” slows it down, isolates the syllables, pretends you’re saying his name instead.
the worst part?
you’re still pretending nothing’s changed. still calling them “favors,” still sending content like it’s work, like it’s nothing.
but your outfits are shorter, your giggles stick to the air longer, your eyes linger like you’re testing something. and when you purr, “you’re sooo good at this, satoru,” with that saccharine lilt, your voice curling around his name like a caress, he bites the inside of his cheek just to keep quiet. fists the sheets at night and prays.
he moans your name in the dark, face hot with shame, and hates how much he wants you to hear it.
satoru’s become sleep-deprived, dark smudges nesting beneath his eyes like fingerprints left behind by guilt or obsession or both. he wears his glasses more lately, less out of need and more as a buffer between him and the world—between him and you.
the lenses catch the glow of his new triple-monitor setup, a sleek beast he told himself was for coding, for editing, for multitasking. not for keeping your videos looping on the side monitor while he pretends to work on the main one. not for that at all.
your folder’s pinned in quick access, a permanent fixture in his file explorer. he keeps it open in the background at all times, a digital pulse that hums alongside his pc fans. second nature now, like breathing or wanting. not unlike a shrine.
in class, he pretends to take notes, his stylus scratching nonsense on his tablet. he’s not. he’s watching a gif on his phone, hidden under the desk—a loop of your tongue dragging slow across lip gloss, eyes soft with focus like you’re painting yourself pretty just for him. the gif’s only three seconds, but he’s memorized every frame, every flicker of your lashes. his thumb swipes to replay it, again, again, until his vision blurs.
ctrl+shift+eject brain.exe.
three days pass, and you haven’t messaged. he checks your chat thread more than he breathes—opens, closes, re-opens, scrolling through your old texts like they’ll reveal something new. every flicker of hope is a false start, a phantom ping that makes his chest lurch. he’s pathetic, he knows it, but knowing doesn’t stop the itch.
then:
ping.
april haul (suits).mov
hii satoru!! new haul vid for u to check <3 tried some swimsuits this time, hope it’s not too boring to trim hehe. lmk what u think!!”
he nearly drops his phone, his thumb smudging the screen as he fumbles to download. his new setup hums to life, the main monitor flashing with code he hasn’t touched in hours, the side monitor already open to your folder.
he drags the file into premiere, the timeline blooming across the screen, but his eyes are on the raw video, already playing on the right monitor, your voice spilling through his headphones like honey.
the video’s different this time. the camera’s lower, like it’s been left on a desk or shelf, pointing slightly upward to frame you from your knees to just above your head. your bed makes a cozy blur in the background, sheets tangled like an invitation.
you’re in a bikini top that isn’t trying very hard to stay on, thin strings knotted loosely at your neck and back, the fabric barely containing you. “mmm. does this scream summer, or slut?” you giggle, feigned innocence like frosting over heat, your voice curling around the words like you know exactly what they’ll do to him.
you play with the strings at your chest, tugging, adjusting, your fingers brushing the swell of your breasts. then, softer, breathier, to the lens: “baby, help me pick…”
baby.
it breaks him all over again, a crack that runs straight through his chest. his cock twitches, already hard, straining against his boxers.
everything after that gets softer, lazier, dangerous in how intimate it feels. there’s no performative energy now—just casual, candid seduction, your movements slow, like you’re not hurrying for anyone. like you know exactly who’s watching and how long he’ll linger.
when you shrug a dress off your shoulders, you sigh, the sound catching in your throat. when you twist to adjust a strap, you hum, low and absentminded. and when you struggle with a clasp at your back, your fingers fumbling, you moan—soft, unintentional, a sound that slips out like it surprised even you.
satoru’s thumb slams the spacebar, pausing the video, rewinding three seconds to hear it again. he watches the way your lips part, the way your brows twitch, the way your body shifts like you’re chasing the sensation.
he’s already leaking, his boxers damp as he shoves them down, his hand wrapping around himself. the side monitor loops the raw footage, your moan playing over and over, while the main monitor holds the paused frame of your parted lips. he strokes slow at first, his grip tight, his thumb swiping over the tip where he’s slick and sensitive.
his mind slips to the doujins he’s hoarded, the hentai he’s spent years chasing—the girls with flushed cheeks and desperate eyes, fucked raw and begging for more. but now it’s you, not some inked fantasy, and it’s so much filthier.
he imagines you sprawled across your bed, that bikini top ripped off, your thighs spread wide as he fucks you deep, relentless, your cunt clenching around him as you sob his name. no teasing, no giggles—just you, wrecked and dripping, your nails clawing his back as he takes you again and again, each thrust harder, messier, until you’re nothing but his.
his hand speeds up, the slick sound loud in his room, mixing with your looped moan. he wants you pinned beneath him, wants to feel you squirm, wants to fuck you until the bed creaks and your voice breaks, until you’re begging like those hentai girls, your glossed lips trembling as you say his name—satoru, please, more.
he imagines filling you, his cum leaking down your thighs, your body marked by him in ways he can’t unsee. it’s not enough to watch, not enough to stroke—he wants to own you, wants to make you his in every way those 2d fantasies taught him to crave.
he cums hard, forehead pressed to his desk, a low groan tearing from his throat as it spills over his hand, his keyboard, the edge of his new setup. his breath is ragged, like he’s run a marathon, his glasses fogging slightly as he gasps.
the side monitor still plays, your voice oblivious, your moan looping like a hymn. he doesn’t stop the video, just slumps back, spent and shaking, and watches again, his hand twitching like it’s not done.
it doesn’t take long for his room to reek of sweat and sin.
he edits shirtless now, sometimes in boxers, always hard, always leaking. every file’s renamed with trembling hands: “wifey_take7.mov.” “wifey_raw.mp4.”
he syncs your sighs to his lo-fi playlist, turns it into a lullaby, falls asleep to the sound of your breath. sometimes he slows your voice just to hear “baby” dragged out into velvet, makes gifs of your hands skimming your hips, kisses the screen when he’s drunk enough to forget shame.
you, on the other hand, don’t break character.
in class, you chew your pen and lean forward, the arch of your spine exact, your cleavage subtle—barely a tease, just enough to make his throat tighten. he looks away with a clenched jaw, adjusts himself under the desk, twice, his jeans unforgiving.
you whisper to a friend and giggle, and he lipreads, thinks he sees the words “can’t wait,” but maybe he’s hallucinating, maybe not. it doesn’t matter.
he starts responding to the clips aloud.
“fuck yes, that one.” “spin again, baby.” sometimes he mumbles your name like a prayer, sometimes he chokes it into his pillow. every orgasm has your name carved into it, a brand he can’t erase.
one night, he opens a file to edit, drags it into premiere, but he doesn’t touch it. just watches, headphones in, barely breathing. not a content creator now, not a student, not even a man—just a creature of need, and you his ritual, his muse, his goddess.
the screen shows you adjusting the straps of a silky babydoll, the lighting warm, your thighs bare, half-tucked under you as you sit prettily at the edge of your bed.
“okay, so this one’s… like, totally giving ‘come to bed’ energy, right?” you giggle, voice light, teeth sinking into your glossed lip as you bounce once, soft and natural, the fabric barely covering your chest.
satoru groans low in his throat, not even trying to hide it. “it’s giving bend over,” he mutters, lips twitching, his side monitor looping the raw footage, his main screen frozen on your smile. “fuck, look at you…”
you reach behind you, struggle with the clasp, wiggle your shoulders like you’re teasing whoever’s behind the camera. “oof. that’s tight… should i size up?” a breathy laugh follows, your sigh melting into it.
he licks his lips, your audio crystal-clear in his headphones. you’re right there, talking to him. “nah, baby,” he croons, eyes fixed on the curve of your spine as you turn. “tight’s perfect. keeps the goods in place.”
you blow a kiss at the lens. “hope you’re not bored yet,” you say with a wink. “i saved the cutest for last…”
you bend off-frame, your ass peeking just above the edge of the bed, round and inviting in cotton panties with lace trim, and when you rise again, your hands hold something sheer and tiny. “tadaaa,” you whisper, eyes glinting with mischief. “this one’s for my favorite viewer.”
00:05:46—satoru slams the shortcut, timestamp saved. a second later, he screenshots, then again, then again, frame by frame, until he finds the exact one where your lip’s caught between your teeth and your ass is still halfway in the air.
“fucking perfect,” he mutters, breath uneven. he pulls the image up on his main screen, zooms in, sharpens it, runs it through noise reduction. the side monitor loops the raw video, your voice sweet and teasing, while the right monitor plays a gif of your earlier moan, your lips parted in that soft, accidental sound.
his hand’s already moving, shoving his boxers down, his cock springing free, hard and leaking like it’s been waiting for this.
he grips himself, rough and urgent, no pretense of patience. the new setup’s perfect—your video on the side, his code on the main screen like he’s working, but it’s all you, every pixel, every sound.
he strokes in time with your giggle, his eyes flicking between the gif of your moan and the screenshot of your ass, his mind spiraling into the filthiest corners of his hentai-soaked brain.
he imagines you on that bed, face down, ass up, the babydoll hiked to your waist as he fucks you so hard the headboard cracks. he wants you screaming, wants your cunt pulsing around him, wants to pull your hair and make you look at him as he fills you, over and over, until you’re a mess, until you’re his completely.
his strokes are frantic, his breath hitching, his hips bucking into his hand. he pictures you tied to the bed, like that one doujin he read last month, your wrists bound with those same bikini strings, your thighs trembling as he fucks you through one orgasm into the next.
he wants to cum inside you, wants to watch it drip out, wants to push it back in with his fingers and make you lick them clean. it’s not enough to jerk off anymore, not enough to dream—he wants to break you, wants to make you real, wants to fuck you until you’re as addicted to him as he is to you.
he cums with a choked growl, his head tipping back, glasses slipping down his nose as it spills over his hand, his desk, the sticky mess splattering his keyboard.
he’s shaking, gasping, his chest heaving as the side monitor loops your voice, your “baby” purring like a mantra. his wrist’s sticky, his room a haze of sweat and shame, but he doesn’t care. he’s not even really here.
you’re everywhere now—three monitors, three altars, your image burned into his retinas. he’d worship on his knees if you asked.
the next day, another file:
april haul (closeups).mp4
sorry! idk if this one’s helpful but i liked the shots hehe
he doesn’t unzip his pants. doesn’t need to. he’s already throbbing from the inside out, his body reacting to your name alone. he clicks, watches, kneels, and whispers your name like a benediction, the static in his skull louder than ever.
it starts with a ping.
innocuous. a single pixel shift on the main monitor mid-code, just as satoru’s debugging a script for a deadline he already missed. his side monitor hums with your last video, paused on that frame where your lip’s caught between your teeth, and the third monitor’s open to a half-finished render he hasn’t touched in days. he glances lazily at the notification, expecting another reminder from suguru to shower or eat—
but no. it’s you.
hey… do u do filming too?
his fingers freeze. heart jams, a dull thud in his chest. the cursor blinks, waiting, mocking. he doesn’t think. doesn’t breathe. his glasses slip down his nose, and he doesn’t fix them. the words burn into his retinas, and his cock twitches before he can process why.
yeah. totally. what kind of shoot?
he sends it, his thumb trembling over the enter key. no reply. not for five whole minutes. the wait is a crucifixion, each second stretching into eternity. he keeps opening and closing the chat, rereading your words like they might shift into something dirtier, something more.
his triple-monitor setup glows, your frozen frame on the side monitor staring at him, lips parted, eyes glinting. he’s already leaking in his pants, a damp spot spreading against his thigh.
then:
just a casual thing. home setup. come over?
he reads it twice. three times. his breath catches, sharp and shallow, like he’s been punched. come over. your dorm. your space. he’s hard, achingly so, his boxers tight and unforgiving. he doesn’t reply, just slams his laptop shut, grabs his camera bag, and stumbles out the door.
he shows up twenty minutes later, barely remembered to wear deodorant, definitely forgot his dignity. his high-end sony alpha mirrorless—loaded with a lens that costs more than most people’s rent—bounces against his chest as he knocks. his palms are slick, his glasses fogging slightly from the heat of his own nerves.
you open the door with a giggle, wrapped in a pastel pink robe that might as well be air. it clings to the curve of your waist, parts at the thigh, revealing soft skin that makes his throat burn. your hair’s still damp, sticking to your collarbones, and the scent of vanilla lotion hits him like a drug. “thanks for coming! i’m kinda nervous…”
he wants to bark out same, but his jaw locks. he swallows instead, the motion too loud in his ears. “no problem.” his voice is gravel, like he’s choking on his own want. he steps inside, and your dorm swallows him whole—warm, cutesy, a pastel fever dream of plush throw pillows, fairy lights, and a pink velvet couch that looks too soft, too inviting.
he’s already imagining you bent over it, your robe hiked up, your moans echoing off the walls. it smells like you sprayed your strawberry perfume over every surface, dizzying, suffocating. his glasses fog again.
he sets up the tripod with shaking hands, the sony’s weight grounding him just enough to keep from falling apart. you bounce around the living room, humming, fluffing pillows on the couch, fixing your gloss in a heart-shaped mirror propped against a shelf.
“does this lighting make me look washed out?” you ask, stepping back, tilting your head. then you bend to adjust a lamp, and your robe parts just enough to reveal the gentle curve of your ass, bare except for a sliver of lace.
he sees. pretends he didn’t. fumbles the lens cap, twice, the plastic clattering to the floor. his face burns, but he keeps his eyes on the camera, adjusting settings he doesn’t need to touch.
you brush past him again and again, your bare arm glancing his, silk whispering across his knuckles when you pass. he smells shampoo in the air, thick and sweet, and it’s you, all you, sinking into his lungs. “you nervous?” you tease, voice light, a giggle curling at the edges.
he scoffs, wiping his palm against his jeans, the denim rough against his slick skin. “pfft. nah. i’ve filmed worse.” a lie, bold and brittle, his voice too tight to sell it.
“worse than me?” you pout, stepping closer, close enough that he can feel the warmth of your breath. “ouch.”
“i didn’t say that.” his voice cracks, a hairline fracture. he’s too aware of you, of the way your robe slips an inch, of the way your eyes glint like you’re playing with him.
you tilt your head, wide-eyed, all fake innocence. “sooo… you have filmed pretty girls before?”
he falters, breath stuttering in his chest. he’s a virgin, hasn’t touched a girl in years, hasn’t wanted to—not when hentai’s been enough, when doujins have been his only lovers. but you’re real, and you’re here, and you’re breaking him.
“no one like you,” he says, unfiltered, raw, the words slipping out before he can stop them.
your lips curl, slow and sweet, a smile that says i know. “hm. figured.”
you disappear into your bedroom for a few minutes, the door clicking shut. he pretends to adjust the white balance, tweaking settings on the sony that are already perfect, but really he’s staring at the door like it owes him salvation.
his cock’s throbbing, a dull ache that won’t quit, and he shifts, trying to ease the pressure. the living room feels too small, the pink couch too soft, the fairy lights too intimate. he’s imagining you sprawled across that couch, your robe gone, your thighs spread, his camera capturing every gasp.
the door opens. you emerge. lingerie set, pale and sheer, a mini skirt that barely qualifies, lip gloss freshly reapplied. you look like a doll, saccharine and sinful, every curve a taunt. “can you help me zip this?” you turn, bare back exposed, the zipper halfway up, your spine a perfect line that begs to be touched.
he steps forward, too close, his exhale brushing your shoulder. his fingers graze your skin—soft, warm, real—and you shiver, a small, deliberate tremor. he pulls the zipper up with trembling hands, the metal catching once, his breathing uneven. the distance between you shatters into nothing, the air thick with static.
“you’re doing this on purpose,” he rasps, low in your ear, his voice rough with want.
“doing what?” you whisper, fake innocence thick as honey, your head tilting just enough to catch his eye.
you look back at him, lashes fluttering, lips parted, glossy and pink. he breaks.
“fuck.”
he grabs you, his hands rough on your hips, your mouths crashing together—teeth, tongue, gasps. your lip gloss smears against his cheek, sweet and sticky, and he groans into the kiss, devouring you.
you moan into his mouth, legs wrapping around his hips as he lifts you onto the counter, the edge biting into your thighs. you’re silk and heat and sin beneath his hands, and he’s forgotten everything else—his camera, his code, his shame. only you exist now.
you feel his hard-on through his jeans, pressed against your thighs, and he’s panting, his breath stuttering against your skin as he kisses down your jaw, your neck, the ridge of your spine. his mouth is everywhere, like he’s starved, like he’s trying to memorize you with his tongue.
his glasses slip down, and he grins against your collarbone. “need to get a better look,” he mutters, a flimsy excuse to lean closer, until the fog of his breath warms your skin. he bites your collarbone, hard, groaning when he leaves a mark. “wanna see that in playback.”
he drops to his knees without hesitation, a virgin’s worship, reverence born from years of hentai and nothing else. his fingers dig into your thighs, spreading them wide, and he groans like he’s just found salvation. he runs his tongue along the inner part first, slow and teasing, so close to the lace of your panties but not touching what you want.
you try to close your legs, but he forces them open, his grip bruising, his mouth finding the wet spot through the fabric. “fuck, you’re soaked,” he growls, voice muffled, his tongue dragging heavy and slow, the lace rough against your clit. “been wet for me this whole time, huh? fuckin’ tease.”
you whimper, hips bucking, and he moans into you, the vibration making you gasp. he licks through the panties, relentless, his glasses slipping halfway down his nose but he doesn’t care.
“you taste better than i dreamed,” he says, his voice hoarse, hentai dialogue spilling out like it’s natural. he sucks at the fabric, tongue pressing harder, and you’re trembling, your hands fisting his hair as you grind against his face. he’s messy, desperate, his moans louder than yours, like he’s the one about to cum. you do, hard, a cry tearing from your throat as you shudder against his mouth, and he doesn’t stop, lapping at the soaked lace like it’s his last meal.
he presses his cheek to your thigh, sticky and glistening, looking up at you with glassy eyes. “first one’s mine,” he says, grinding his hips into the floor, his jeans tight with his own need. you don’t think he even realizes he’s doing it. he spreads you open with his fingers, peeling the panties aside, watching your hole twitch with a hunger that makes his mouth water.
“look at that,” he murmurs, almost to himself, his voice dripping with awe. “fuckin’ perfect.” he slides two fingers in, slow at first, then deeper, curling them just right, like he’s memorized every doujin panel that showed him how. “shit—i’ve seen this in hentai but it’s better. fuck, it’s real.”
his fingers pump, slick and steady, and you’re moaning, head thrown back, the counter digging into your hips. he adds a third, stretching you, his free hand jerking himself through his jeans, matching the pace of his fingers inside you. “so tight, baby. you’re gonna feel so good around my cock.”
he spits on your pussy, a quick, filthy gesture, his eyes locked on yours as it drips down. “they never show that part right in hentai. had to test it myself.” you moan, loud and broken, and he moans louder, his fingers slipping out with a wet squelch. he licks them clean, slow, eyes fluttering shut like he’s savoring you. “fuck—want it all.”
he stands, trembling, his jeans tented painfully. “can i?” his voice is small, almost pleading, a crack in his bravado. you nod, and he fumbles with his belt, shoving his jeans down just enough. he lines himself up, his cock thick and leaking, the tip brushing your entrance. “you’re so warm—holy shit—you’re squeezing me—fuck—”
he slides in, slow at first, gasping as you take him, your cunt tight and slick around him. he’s a virgin, but he knows this, knows the rhythm from years of jerking off to scenes just like this. he freezes, trying not to cum, his glasses fogging as he pants. you clench down, deliberate, and he slaps your thigh, a quick, sharp sting that earns him a whine.
“don’t—fuck, don’t do that yet.”
he pulls out, just to slam back in, harder, the counter creaking under you. his rhythm’s sloppy, desperate, but he finds it, each thrust deeper, rougher. “look at you,” he growls, his voice pure filth, hentai dialogue spilling free. “taking my cock like a good little slut. you love this, don’t you? fuckin’ made for me.” he licks the tears running down your cheek, his tongue hot and greedy. “crying already? baby, i’m not even close to done.”
you moan his name, and he loses it, his thrusts turning frantic, messy, like he’s trying to ruin you. “film it. show me what you see,” you gasp, and he fumbles for his phone, almost dropping it with how hard he’s shaking.
the camera app opens in a blur of fingers, then steadies, the lens catching you spread wide beneath him, thighs trembling, pussy stuffed full of his cock. he holds it there, watching the way you flutter around him, his breath ragged. “watch this later and see how ruined you look, baby,” he pants, voice hoarse, wild.
he leans in, still recording, whispering filth against your ear. “that’s right. take it. cry for me. i want you loud.” his other hand drags the mic closer, the sony’s external recorder capturing every slick thrust, every broken sob, every wet squelch, loud and obscene.
he fucks you harder, the counter shaking, your tits bouncing with each thrust. “gonna fuck you on every piece of furniture in here,” he growls, his voice low, unhinged. “that couch? gonna bend you over it. that table? gonna spread you wide. your bed? gonna fill you till you’re screaming.”
you clench around him, and he groans, his hips stuttering. “fuck, you like that? you want me to wreck you everywhere, don’t you?” you nod, gasping, and he slaps your thigh again, harder, leaving a red mark. “say it, baby. tell me you want it.”
“i want it,” you whimper, voice breaking, and he grins, feral, his thrusts turning punishing. you cum again, a shuddering mess, your cry echoing in the mic as your cunt pulses around him, slick dripping down your thighs. he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, his cock throbbing as he fucks you through it.
“gonna fill you up,” he pants, his voice cracking, hentai fantasies spilling out. “gonna cum so deep you’ll feel me for days. you want that, don’t you? want my cum dripping out of you?”
you nod, moaning, and he loses it, slamming into you one last time as he cums, a guttural groan tearing from his throat. it’s hot, messy, spilling inside you, and he keeps thrusting, shallow and desperate, like he’s trying to push it deeper.
satoru doesn’t stop.
in fact, he lifts you, his arms wrapping under your thighs like you’re weightless, his cock still buried inside you, slick and pulsing. your head lolls against his shoulder, your breath hot against his neck, and he groans, low and guttural, as he carries you toward your bedroom.
the air shifts as he crosses the threshold, your perfume hitting him harder here—floral and sugary, the same scent that clings to your pillow, your wrist, your everything. it’s thicker in this room, curling around him like a trap, and he kicks the door shut behind him, the click loud in the quiet.
he pushes you toward the vanity, your back meeting the cool glass of the mirror with a soft thud. he bends you over it, slow and deliberate, his hands guiding your hips until your cheek presses against the surface, your breath fogging the reflection.
“look at you,” he groans, angling his phone to capture the scene—your flushed face, your glossed lips parted, your eyes half-lidded in the mirror as you whine in embarassment.
“pretty little thing, still trying to act innocent.” his voice is rough, edged with hunger, and he shifts his hips, thrusting shallowly, keeping you pinned, reaching for your lip gloss.
you mumble something, a weak protest or plea, but he shuts it up with a swipe of your lip gloss across your mouth, his hand trembling as he paints your lips pink, the applicator slick and messy.
“perfect,” he says, pulling back just enough to admire the shine, the way it catches the light. then he pushes in again, deeper, and you both moan, the sound mingling in the air, caught by the sony’s mic still recording from the tripod in the corner.
he kisses you messily—gloss smearing, lips hungry, teeth clashing as he grinds his hips, slow and torturous, never breaking the rhythm. the camera stays on, the phone propped against a perfume bottle, capturing every gasp, every shudder.
“taste so fuckin’ good,” he mutters against your mouth, his tongue chasing the sticky sweetness. “gonna kiss you till you’re dripping everywhere.”
satoru lays you on the bed next, gentle but urgent, his hands shaking as he props his phone against a stack of books on your nightstand, the camera app open, framing you perfectly—your body sprawled across the pastel sheets, thighs parted, lingerie barely clinging to your skin, the sheer fabric of your top stretched tight over your chest, the mini skirt hiked up to expose the lace of your panties.
he climbs over you, his glasses slipping down his nose, and pushes your legs up, hooking them over his shoulders, the angle forcing you open, vulnerable.
“fuck, you feel like heaven,” he says, voice cracking, almost reverent, as he slides back inside you, slow and deep, the heat of you pulling a groan from his throat. “i’m never gonna stop, baby.”
each thrust is deliberate, his hips rolling to hit that spot that makes you arch, your nails raking down his arms, leaving red trails he’ll stare at later.
he kisses you through it, his mouth sloppy and desperate, swallowing your moans like they’re his lifeline. the bed creaks under you, the fairy lights casting a soft glow over your tear-streaked face, and he’s lost in it, in the way you clench around him, so tight it’s like you’re made for him.
“so fuckin’ perfect,” he pants, his lips brushing your ear, his breath hot and uneven. “taking my cock like you were born for it.”
he tugs at the straps of your lingerie top, pulling it down until your tits spill free, the sheer fabric catching under them, and he groans, his mouth latching onto a nipple, sucking hard until you whimper, your hips bucking against him.
but it doesn’t last—he needs more, needs to see you break in ways he’s only imagined in the dark of his room, his hand on his cock and your videos on loop.
he pulls out, his dick slick and throbbing, and grabs your hips, flipping you with a low grunt. he drags you up by the waist, positioning you on your knees, your ass high, your face pressed into the sheets, the skirt still bunched around your hips. his hand slides up your spine, pushing your chest down, arching you just right, and he yanks the lace panties to the side, not bothering to take them off.
“this is what you get for teasing me all these days,” he growls, his voice unhinged, as he lines himself up and thrusts in, hard and deep, the slap of skin sharp in the quiet room.
you whimper, muffled against the pillow, and he fucks harder, each thrust rocking you forward, the bedframe rattling, your moans spilling free despite the fabric. his phone’s still recording, propped precariously, catching every angle—your arched back, your trembling thighs, the way his cock disappears into you with every brutal snap of his hips.
“look at that pussy,” he says, his free hand gripping your ass, spreading you open for the camera. “so greedy, swallowing me whole. you love this, don’t you?” he tugs your hair, pulling your head back, forcing your cries to echo. “louder, baby. let the whole fuckin’ dorm hear you.”
he slows, just to torment you, his hips grinding deep, making you squirm, your overstimulated body shaking under him. you’re teary, sobs catching in your throat, but he doesn’t care—he wants you loud, wants you broken. he leans down, his chest pressed to your back, and bites your shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark.
“cry for me,” he whispers, his voice rough, his hand slipping around to pinch your nipple, twisting until you gasp. “wanna hear you fall apart.” he pulls out, leaving you empty, and you whine, a desperate, keening sound that makes him smirk.
“patience, princess,” he mocks, slapping your ass lightly, the sting making you clench around nothing.
satoru guides you up, turning you to face him, and pushes you back onto the bed, climbing over you. “wanna see you ride me,” he says, lying back against the headboard, his hands gripping your hips as you straddle him. he tugs the skirt off completely, tossing it aside, leaving you in just the stretched-out lingerie top and soaked panties.
“bounce,” he growls, his eyes locked on where you sink down onto him, slow and deliberate, your cunt stretching around him as you take him inch by inch. “show the camera how you fuck me.”
his phone’s angled to catch it all—your tits bouncing, still half-caught in the sheer fabric, your thighs trembling, the way you gasp every time you drop down, taking him to the hilt.
you move, your hips rolling, your hands braced on his chest, and he’s sweating, his glasses slipping, his breath ragged. he doesn’t let you slow, his hands lifting you, slamming you back down, making you take him deeper. “that’s it,” he says, voice hoarse, his fingers digging into your ass, leaving bruises. “fuck yourself on my cock. show me how bad you need it.”
you’re sobbing now, tears streaming down your cheeks, but you keep going, your moans loud and broken, your body shaking from the overstimulation. he reaches up, ripping the lingerie top off completely, the fabric tearing with a sharp sound, and gropes your tits, squeezing hard, his thumbs brushing your nipples until you shudder.
“these are mine now,” he says, his voice pure filth. “gonna mark ‘em up so you can’t hide.”
he’s close, too close, but he’s not done.
he pushes you off, gentle but firm, and stands, pulling you with him toward the full-length mirror by your closet. he spins you, pressing your chest to the glass, your hands splaying against it, your tear-streaked reflection staring back.
he kicks your legs apart, his cock nudging your entrance, and slides in, slow and deep, his breath hot against your ear. “look at you,” he says, his lips brushing your neck, his hands caging you against the mirror. “look at my cock ruining your pussy.”
he thrusts, slow at first, watching your reflection—your tears, your drool, your gloss-smeared lips, the way your body shakes with every snap of his hips. “you wanted a nerd? this nerd’s gonna fuckin’ break you.”
he fucks you harder, the mirror rattling, your moans bouncing off the walls, loud enough to wake the neighbors. “so fuckin’ pretty,” he pants, one hand slipping to your clit, rubbing messy, relentless circles. “gonna cum all over my cock, aren’t you? gonna make a mess for me?”
you nod, sobbing, your body trembling, and he slaps your ass, the sting sharp, making you clench around him. “say it, baby. tell me you’re mine.”
“i’m yours,” you gasp, voice breaking, tears streaming, and he cums with a raw groan, spilling inside you, hot and thick, his hips stuttering as he rides it out.
he doesn’t pull out, doesn’t stop, his cock still hard, still twitching as he fucks his cum deeper, the slick sound obscene. “not done,” he mutters, his glasses fogged, his voice wrecked. “gonna make you cum again.”
he keeps going, relentless, his thrusts slower but deeper, each one pushing his cum back inside, making you shake. his fingers on your clit are merciless, circling fast, and you’re oversensitive, your body convulsing, your moans turning to desperate cries. “satoru—fuck—too much—” you sob.
he only slaps your thigh, sharp and stinging, and leans in, his lips grazing your ear. “too much? nah, princess, you can take it. wanna feel you squirt for me.”
he angles his hips, hitting that spot that makes your vision blur, and you’re gone, your body locking up as you cum, a gush of wet heat soaking his cock, dripping down your thighs, pooling on the floor. he groans, loud and broken, his hips jerking as he cums again, another hot rush filling you, spilling out around him.
“fuck—look at that mess,” he pants, his hand smearing the slick between your legs, rubbing it into your skin. “all for me.”
but he’s not done. he pulls you back to the bed, laying you on your side, one leg hooked over his arm as he slides back in, his cock still hard, slick with your cum and his. “one more,” he begs, his voice cracking, his glasses crooked. “gimme one more, baby. need to feel you again.”
he thrusts slow, deep, his hand slipping between your legs to tease your oversensitive clit, and you’re crying, tears streaming, your body shaking from the intensity. he bites your neck, leaving marks, and whispers, “love it when you cry for me. so fuckin’ loud, just how i like it.”
he shifts, rolling you onto your stomach, keeping you pinned as he fucks you into the mattress, his hand pressing your face into the sheets. “gonna cum all over you,” he growls, his thrusts turning sloppy, desperate. “gonna fill you up till you’re leaking me for days.”
you cum again, a shuddering, broken mess, your sobs muffled against the pillow, your body convulsing as you squirt again, weaker but still enough to soak the sheets. he cums with you, a third time, his groan hoarse, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you, the mess dripping out, pooling under you.
“fuck—baby—” he gasps, his voice wrecked, his body shaking as he collapses against you, his glasses falling off completely, clattering to the floor.
“mine now,” he whispers, hoarse and ruined, his forehead pressed to your back, his breath hot and uneven. “you’re mine now.”
you nod, too spent to speak, your body limp, your reflection in the mirror a blur of tears and gloss and him, the phone still recording every ragged breath, every whispered “fuck” as he pulls you closer, not letting go.
but then silence swells, heavy and slow, filling the room like a fog. the air’s thick with the aftermath—sweat, cum, and the lingering sweetness of your perfume, still clinging to the sheets, to him.
satoru’s hands tremble where they hold you, one slipping down to fumble with his phone, stopping the recording with a clumsy tap, the other pressing flat against your stomach, grounding him, grounding you. your breaths are too loud, ragged and uneven, syncing in the quiet like a metronome.
he leans away slightly, just enough to grab a towel from the edge of your bed, awkward in the afterglow like he just realized he desecrated a temple. his glasses are gone, lost somewhere in the mess of sheets, and his hair’s a disaster, sticking to his forehead, damp with sweat.
“shit,” he mutters, voice barely above a whisper, too quiet for the boy who was growling filth ten minutes ago. “did i—i mean. that wasn’t too much, right?” there’s a crack in his tone, a flicker of panic, like he’s replaying every thrust, every slap, every sobbed moan he pulled from you.
you don’t answer at first, too dazed, too wrung out, your body still humming from the overstimulation, your thighs sticky and trembling.
your silence makes him spiral.
“fuck, i knew it. i pushed too hard. i got carried away—i was recording—fuck—i didn’t even ask—” his words tumble out, frantic, his hand raking through his hair as he sits up, eyes wide, searching your face for any sign of regret.
you turn to face him, slow and sore, your cheek pillowed against your arm, the motion making your body ache in the best way. your eyes are still wet, lashes clumped with tears, lips kiss-bruised and sticky with half-worn gloss, swollen from his teeth. you stare at him—this boy, this dork, with his mussed-up hair and the panicked look of someone who just lived out a lifelong fantasy and now doesn’t know what to do with it.
“i’m okay,” you say, your voice shredded, raw from screaming his name. “jesus, i’m so okay.”
he exhales, a shaky rush of air, like he’s been holding it in for hours. he collapses back against you, burying his face in your neck, his lips brushing the bite mark he left earlier. “fuck, you scared me,” he mumbles, his voice muffled, warm against your skin. then, quieter, almost unhinged: “we just speedran my entire hentai folder.”
you laugh, a weak, breathy sound that bubbles up despite the ache in your ribs. “i know.”
“i didn’t even know i could,” he says, his voice small, like he’s confessing a sin. “i haven’t even done that in vr.”
you snort, the sound catching in your throat. “nerd.”
he groans, but it’s not annoyed—it’s mortified, the kind of sound that comes from knowing he’s exposed himself completely. “i’m never gonna recover from this. i glossed you like a fuckin’ bratz doll. i glossed you.” his hand gestures vaguely at your lips, still shiny and smeared, and you laugh again, the sound softer now, your body too tired for anything more.
you roll over fully, tugging him down into the blankets with you, the pastel sheets tangling around your legs. he follows like a kicked puppy, his head resting on your chest, his breath warm against your skin. you can feel his heart still racing, his body still trembling from the high.
“i just,” you mumble, your voice barely audible, “wanted you to notice me. back during the group project, you never looked at me. just your laptop. even when i wore that stupid short skirt.”
he goes silent, his fingers pausing where they’re tracing lazy circles on your hip. then, in a voice so small it barely carries: “…you wore that for me?”
you nod, your cheek brushing his hair.
he lets out the tiniest, most violated gasp, like you’ve just rewritten his entire reality. “i thought you were just one of those girls who always looked hot. like, default setting.” his voice cracks on the last word, and you can’t help the teasing smile that tugs at your lips.
“no,” you say, your tone playful despite the exhaustion. “i was trying to seduce the dumbass with the mecha desktop background.”
he muffles a sob into your chest, half-laugh, half-groan, his arms tightening around you. “i love mecha…” he says, like it’s the most tragic thing in the world, and you hum, stroking his hair, your fingers catching in the sweaty strands.
“i know.”
a long pause settles over you, the kind that feels like it could stretch forever. the fairy lights twinkle softly, casting shadows across the room, and your perfume lingers, mixing with the musk of sex. his breathing slows, but he doesn’t let go, his body still pressed to yours like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.
then he lifts his head, his eyes serious, stripped of the wild edge they had before. “can i… hold you properly? not like—y’know—breeding press. like, real holding.” his cheeks flush, like he’s embarrassed to admit he wants something soft after all that.
“you already folded me in half like a love letter,” you whisper, but you shift into his arms anyway, letting him pull you close. he wraps around you, tight, needy, his hands trembling like he’s still processing you’re real, not just pixels on a screen. his hold is desperate, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you, every curve, every soft inch, in case this never happens again.
“don’t make fun of me,” he says, his voice muffled against your shoulder. “i think my crush on you just speedran into obsession.” there’s a rawness to it, a confession that feels too big for the quiet, but it lands soft, like he’s finally letting it out.
“you’re the one who begged for one more while crying into my shoulder,” you tease, your voice barely above a whisper, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw.
“stop,” he groans, burying his face deeper, his arms tightening like he could squeeze the embarrassment out of himself. “i’m gonna die.”
you press a kiss to his forehead, slow and deliberate, your lips lingering on his sweaty skin. “you’re not gonna die,” you say, your tone soft but firm. “you’re gonna eat me out on friday and wear your glasses while you do it.”
he whimpers, a pathetic, needy sound, his hips twitching involuntarily against your thigh. “say less,” he mumbles, his voice wrecked, but there’s a spark in it, like you’ve just lit something in him again. you giggle, wrapping your leg around his waist, pulling him closer, your skin sticking to his in the humid air.
and in the quiet, as you’re both drifting off—sore, sticky, still catching your breath—he says it again. not ruined this time, not even possessive. just low. certain. like he’s already planning his next sin.
“mine.”
you don’t answer. just smile into the pillow, heart pounding. because maybe you are. and maybe you’ll let him prove it again.
especially once he finds out what cosplay you ordered last week.
synopsis : satoru gojo is a nobel-nominated genius with three phds, a devoted wife, and one tiny problem: he's accidentally turned himself into his nineteen-year-old self. now locked out of his own house and mistaken for a very persistent stalker by the love of his life (that’s you), he has one mission—fix the time machine, reclaim his face, and survive your increasingly violent attempts to defend your marriage from... him.
tags — oneshot, porn with plot, established relationship, domestic fluff, crack treated seriously, age regression/de-aging, identity shenanigans, miscommunication but it’s technically quantum, time travel(?) shenanigans, idiots in love, emotional whiplash, romantic comedy, jealous of himself, satoru gojo is so down bad, penis in vagina sex, kitchen sex, breeding kink, mating press, praise kink, overstimulation, sexual overstimulation, multiple orgasms, multiple sex positions, satoru gojo worships you like a religion, slight size kink, he’s been deprived okay, smut happens after he fixes everything
wc — 20.1k | gen. masterlist | read on ao3?
a/n: yes i wrote this in one day. yes i wrote this instead of focusing on finishing the part two of my apothecary diaries au fic. please don’t get your pitchforks out (• ▽ •;) if u see i typo, no u don’t.
two weeks.
fourteen days of existing as a walking contradiction—a twenty-nine-year-old genius trapped in the lanky, smooth-faced prison of his nineteen-year-old body. satoru adjusts his reading glasses (the same prescription, thankfully, because his eyesight had been terrible since childhood) and stares at your front door like it’s the gates of heaven guarded by the world’s most beautiful, most stubborn angel.
his hair catches the afternoon light, those fine strands the color of fresh snow that had turned this ethereal shade when he was four and his first chemistry set had gone spectacularly wrong. it had originally been a soft, milk-tea brown, the color of dusty books and early autumn. he’d tried to invent a hair-growth serum for his dad. instead, the mixture combusted, coated his scalp, and bleached every strand into something unnaturally pale. his parents had panicked, thinking he’d poisoned himself. little satoru, meanwhile, had stared into the mirror and grinned with gap-toothed delight.
now, at nineteen-again, it falls across his forehead in soft waves, glowing almost silver in the sunlight. he looks like a walking, talking academic heartthrob from a university romance novel—which would be flattering if his own wife didn’t look at him like he was an unsightly bug on her kitchen floor.
the irony tastes bitter on his tongue, metallic like blood and regret. he’d spent six years perfecting a device to slow down time—not for scientific glory or recognition, but because twenty-four hours with you had never felt like enough. he’d wanted to stretch lazy sunday mornings into eternities, to make your sleepy smiles and the way you hummed while making coffee last forever.
instead, he’d accidentally turned himself into a time paradox of the most pathetic variety. a cautionary tale about hubris wrapped in the body of a college freshman.
his phone buzzes somewhere in the basement lab, probably sending another automated message to your device: still working on the temporal displacement project. eating the sandwiches you left. miss you. love you. —satoru
the ai assistant he’d programmed to keep you from worrying had become his greatest enemy. every perfectly crafted message, every detail programmed to sound exactly like him, was another nail in the coffin of his credibility. he’d been too thorough, too careful, too much of a perfectionist even in his contingency planning.
because here he stands, looking like a college freshman who’d wandered into the wrong neighborhood, while you believe your husband is safely tucked away in his lab, probably elbow-deep in equations and caffeine addiction.
the thing is—and this is where his pride starts gnawing at his intestines like a particularly vindictive parasite—he doesn’t want to sneak into his own house. he’s the dr. satoru gojo, for crying out loud. he has three phds, a nobel prize nomination, and enough patents to wallpaper the entire first floor. he shouldn’t have to skulk through basement windows like some sort of lovesick cat burglar just to access his own laboratory.
he’s a dignified man of science. he has principles. standards. a reputation to maintain, even if that reputation is currently being dragged through the mud by his own temporal incompetence.
no, he’s going to do this the right way. he’s going to convince you, properly and thoroughly, that he is exactly who he claims to be. he’s going to walk through the front door like a civilized human being, kiss his wife hello, and pretend the last two weeks never happened.
this is a matter of scientific integrity. of personal dignity. of—
he rings the doorbell.
the sound of your footsteps approaching makes his heart perform some sort of olympic gymnastics routine, complete with triple axels and a dismount that leaves his stomach somewhere in the vicinity of his ankles. even through the door, he can picture the way you move—that particular grace you’ve always had, like you’re dancing to music only you can hear. you’re probably wearing one of those sundresses he loves, the ones that make you look like you’ve stepped out of a 1950s magazine about perfect wives, except you’re real and warm and you smell like vanilla and clean laundry and home.
the door opens, and satoru’s brain promptly short-circuits.
you’re wearing the yellow dress. the one with tiny white flowers that he’d bought you for your second anniversary because you’d mentioned once, in passing, while distracted by a butterfly in the park, that it reminded you of the field where you’d had your first picnic. he’d remembered that throwaway comment for six months before finding the perfect dress, had it tailored to fit you exactly, had even added those hidden pockets because you always lost your keys.
your hair is pinned back with the butterfly clips he’d made for you—tiny mechanical marvels that flutter their wings when you laugh, solar-powered and calibrated to respond to the specific frequency of your joy. he’d spent three weeks perfecting the mechanism after you’d mentioned liking butterflies. three weeks of delicate gear work and programming, all for the chance to see you smile when the wings moved.
you look at him, and your expression shifts from hopeful to confused to absolutely murderous in the span of three seconds.
“oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”
his heart skips a beat. maybe five. this is the part where he says something clever. this is the part where he charms you back into loving him. this is the part where his superior intellect saves the day and—
before he can open his mouth to explain, to plead, to grovel at your perfect feet, you’ve already produced what looks like a small silver device from somewhere in your dress. the hidden pocket in the seam, specifically—the one he’d reinforced with extra stitching because you had a tendency to overstuff it with lip balm and emergency snacks.
the device hums ominously, a sound that sends ice water through his veins because he recognizes it immediately. it’s the personal protection gadget he’d built for you last christmas, after you’d mentioned feeling nervous walking home from your book club in the dark. he’d spent a month perfecting it—a sleek little thing that could stun, disorient, or mildly embarrass an attacker depending on the setting.
and right now, you’re turning the dial past ‘warning shot’ and heading straight for ‘regret your life choices.’
“listen here, you little creep,” you say, and your voice is deadly sweet, like honey laced with cyanide. the juxtaposition of your floral sundress and the murder in your eyes is somehow the most attractive thing he’s ever seen, which probably says something deeply concerning about his psychology. “i don’t know who you think you are, but i’m a married woman. deeply, completely, utterly in love with my husband.”
the way you say ‘my husband’ makes something in his chest crack open like a fault line. there’s so much pride in your voice, so much fierce devotion, and he wants to bask in it except you’re not talking about him. you’re talking about him, but not him-him. you’re talking about the version of him you actually want to see walking through this door.
“so whatever pathetic attempt at impersonation this is,” you continue, and the weapon in your hand starts glowing a rather alarming shade of blue, “you can take it and shove it where the sun doesn’t shine.”
“wait, wait!” he holds up his hands, noting with growing horror how young they look, how smooth and unmarked by years of lab work. these hands haven’t built the music box that plays your wedding song. these fingers haven’t spent countless hours crafting the little inventions that make you smile. “i can explain! i know this looks bad, but i’m really—”
“satoru,” you finish, your eyes narrowing dangerously. “yes, i heard your little introduction yesterday. and the week before that. you know what? the name satoru only fits one person in this world, and he’s about a hundred times more attractive, intelligent, and charming than whatever discount walmart version you’re trying to pull off.”
the words hit him like a freight train loaded with emotional devastation and existential dread. discount walmart version. you—his wife, the love of his life, the woman who’s seen him drool on his pillow and still kisses him good morning—think he’s a cheap knockoff of himself.
“my husband,” you continue, and there’s that tone again, soft and dreamy and absolutely besotted, “is brilliant beyond measure. he’s kind and funny and makes me laugh every single day. he has these eyes that light up when he’s excited about something, and he gets this little crease between his eyebrows when he’s concentrating. he’s tall and gorgeous and perfect, and you...” you look him up and down with obvious disdain, “are none of those things.”
satoru feels something die inside his chest. possibly his will to live. definitely his ego.
because the thing is, you’re right. he doesn’t look like the man you married anymore. he looks like a college student, all gangly limbs and baby fat and skin that hasn’t been weathered by years of late nights in the lab. he looks like someone who might ask you for help with his homework, not someone who’s built you a smart house that anticipates your every need.
“but i know things!” he says desperately, his voice cracking in a way that makes him want to crawl into a hole and die. “i know about your scar from when you fell off your bike when you were seven! it’s shaped like a crescent moon and you hate it but i think it’s beautiful! i know you cry during dog food commercials but only the ones with golden retrievers! i know you keep our wedding photo in your recipe book, tucked between the pages for chocolate chip cookies and banana bread!”
your expression grows more dangerous with each word, and the weapon in your hand charges up another notch.
“you sick little stalker,” you hiss, and the venom in your voice could probably strip paint. “how dare you dig into our private life and try to use our precious memories against me! what kind of pathetic creep researches someone’s marriage just to play dress-up?”
“i’m not playing dress-up!” he protests, and he knows he sounds pathetic, knows he looks like exactly what you think he is—some obsessed fan who’s done way too much homework. “i know about the time you got food poisoning from that seafood place and i held your hair while you threw up! i know you have a freckle shaped like a heart on your left shoulder! i know you sing off-key in the shower but you think you sound like an angel!”
“stop it!” you snap, and your finger hovers over the trigger. “stop trying to soil our beautiful relationship with your creepy research!”
“i know about our first fight!” he rushes on, desperate now, sweat beading on his forehead. “it was about the thermostat because you like the house warm and i run hot! i know you forgave me by leaving little notes in my lab equipment! i know you doodle my name in the margins of your books when you’re daydreaming!”
each piece of intimate knowledge he reveals only seems to make you angrier, and satoru realizes with growing horror that he’s trapped in some sort of emotional paradox. the more he proves he knows you, the more you’re convinced he’s a stranger.
“and i know,” he adds, his voice dropping to something desperate and broken, “that you’re wearing the perfume i bought you for your birthday. the one that smells like vanilla and jasmine and makes me want to bury my face in your neck and never leave.”
you go very, very still.
“that’s enough,” you say quietly, and somehow that’s more terrifying than when you were shouting. “i don’t care how much you’ve stalked us, how many private details you’ve dug up, how perfectly you’ve copied his appearance. you are not my husband.”
“but—”
“my husband,” you continue, and your voice goes soft and dreamy again, like you’re talking about something holy, “is perfect. he’s brilliant and beautiful and kind, and he loves me exactly as much as i love him. he’s probably in his lab right now, working on something that’s going to change the world, missing me but dedicated to his research because that’s who he is. that’s the man i married.”
the weapon powers up another notch, and satoru is pretty sure it’s no longer set to ‘stun.’
“and you,” you say, looking him up and down with obvious disgust, “are just some sad little boy with a crush and too much time on your hands. so here’s what’s going to happen. you’re going to leave. now. and if i see you anywhere near our house again, i’m going to do something that will require a very good explanation to the police.”
satoru stares at you—really looks at you—and sees the fierce protectiveness in your eyes, the way you’re guarding not just your home but your marriage, your happiness, your love for a man you think is safely tucked away in his basement lab.
you’re magnificent. terrifying and beautiful and absolutely magnificent.
and you’re about to potentially murder him while defending his honor.
“i know about the night after our second anniversary,” he tries one more time, his voice breaking completely now. “when you wore that blue nightgown with the little ribbons, and we danced in the kitchen to that song you love, and then we—”
“that’s it.”
the blast catches him square in the chest, and suddenly satoru is airborne, flying backward off your porch and landing in the rose bushes he’d planted for your last birthday. the thorns are sharp, but not nearly as sharp as the look you’d given him right before pulling the trigger.
he lies there for a moment, stunned and possibly concussed, staring up at the sky and trying to process what just happened.
through the ringing in his ears, he hears you call out: “my husband is a genius with 845 patents and the most brilliant mind of our generation! you’re just some sad little boy who probably googled him! stay away from our house, or next time i’m setting this thing to something more permanent!”
the door slams with enough force to rattle the windows.
satoru continues lying in the roses, rose petals in his hair and thorns in his dignity, and tries to comprehend the fact that his own wife just threatened to potentially murder him while defending his honor with the very weapon he’d built to protect her.
somewhere in the distance, a bird chirps. a car drives by. the world continues spinning as if nothing momentous has just occurred.
he’s never been more in love in his entire life. which is probably a sign that he needs therapy. or a lobotomy. possibly both.
he lies there for a moment. processing. his ribs hurt. his pride hurts more. his entire soul aches in a way that is both deeply romantic and profoundly stupid.
“also!” you shout from the upstairs window, your voice carrying that indignant tone you get when you’re really worked up, “my husband has better hair! and better posture! and he’s taller! and he knows how to dress himself like an adult instead of a lost college freshman!”
each addition feels like salt in the wound. you’re systematically dismantling every aspect of his nineteen-year-old appearance while praising the twenty-nine-year-old version with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for describing paradise.
“and he smells better!” you continue, apparently not done with your character assassination. “like expensive cologne and coffee and home, not like... like drugstore body spray and desperation!”
satoru sniffs himself reflexively. he doesn’t smell like desperation. does he? the drugstore body spray comment is just mean, especially since he’d specifically chosen the brand you’d complimented on a stranger once.
“and his voice!” you’re really getting into it now, leaning out the window with the fervor of someone delivering a sermon. “his voice is deeper, and smoother, and when he says my name it sounds like music instead of like a squeaky toy!”
he touches his throat self-consciously. his voice had been deeper before the accident, richer, more confident. now he sounds like he’s going through puberty again, all cracks and uncertain intonation.
“and he would never be stupid enough to break into someone’s house like some kind of delinquent!” you conclude with devastating finality. “my husband is a gentleman and a scholar and the most wonderful man who ever lived, and you’re just some discount imposter who isn’t fit to shine his shoes!”
the window slams shut.
satoru groans. loud and dramatic and entirely justified.
he really should’ve just built a cloning machine. or left a video message in case of accidental de-aging. or tattooed a note to his own arm. but no, he had to get ambitious. he had to try and invent time-space atmospheric slowdown like a dumbass in love.
he drags himself up from the rosebush, brushing petals and leaves from his shirt. there’s one stuck in his hair, refusing to leave like it has a vendetta. his reflection in the front window shows a pathetic figure: clothes wrinkled, hair disheveled, a small cut on his cheek from the thorns, and an expression of profound defeat.
this is what rock bottom looks like, apparently. getting ejected from his own home by his own wife while she sings the praises of his other self.
the irony is suffocating. you love him so much that you’d attack anyone who even pretended to be him. your loyalty is absolute, your devotion unwavering, your protective instincts sharp enough to cut glass. it’s everything he’d ever wanted in a partner, everything he’d fallen in love with, turned against him in the cruelest possible way.
he presses his hand to his chest, where the stun device got him. it still tingles, a reminder of your precision, your preparedness, the way you’d defended your marriage without a moment’s hesitation. you’d been magnificent, absolutely magnificent, and he’d been the target.
satoru limps toward the sidewalk, his teenage body protesting every movement. his legs feel too long, his center of gravity all wrong. everything about this borrowed youth feels like wearing an ill-fitting costume to the most important performance of his life.
he looks back at the house—your house, his house, the home you’d built together—and feels the weight of his isolation settle around him like a heavy coat. inside, you’re probably making dinner, humming that song you always hum when you’re slightly stressed, maybe wondering why the strange boy keeps bothering you when your husband is working so hard in his lab.
the thought of you worrying, of you feeling unsafe in your own home because of his appearance, makes his chest tight with guilt. he’d never wanted to frighten you, never wanted to make you feel threatened or uncomfortable. he’d just wanted to come home.
but this isn’t working. two weeks of doorbell rejections, verbal demolitions, and physical removal have made it clear that the direct approach is a spectacular failure. you’re not going to believe him, not when he looks like this, not when every instinct you have is screaming that he’s an imposter.
he understands that you love your husband—him—so much that you’ll fight off anyone who threatens that love, even if it means breaking your own tender heart to do it. he understands that the depth of your devotion is exactly what makes this situation so impossible.
he also understands that his dignity, his principles, his stubborn refusal to sneak around his own house like a common criminal, has just officially been abandoned in your rose bushes along with his pride.
because two weeks without you is already too long, and the thought of spending even one more night in a hotel room that smells like industrial disinfectant instead of your vanilla perfume makes him want to invent a time machine just so he can go back and slap his past self for being such an arrogant idiot.
science is about adaptation. evolution. knowing when to abandon a failed hypothesis and try a new approach.
tonight, dr. satoru gojo, nobel prize winner and distinguished gentleman of science, is going to break into his own house like a lovesick teenager.
his dignity is already dead anyway. might as well bury it properly.
night falls like a heavy curtain draped by a particularly melodramatic theater director, and satoru crouches in the shadows of his own garden like some sort of discount romeo—if romeo had been a twenty-nine-year-old genius trapped in a nineteen-year-old’s body and juliet had been his own wife who’d recently threatened him with what appeared to be a weaponized jewelry box.
the irony tastes like burnt coffee and shattered dreams. he’s spent six years turning this place into fort knox’s prettier, more technologically advanced cousin, all in the name of protecting you from theoretical dangers that pale in comparison to the very real threat of his own stupidity. motion sensors that could detect a butterfly’s landing, cameras with night vision that would make the military weep with envy, locks that respond to seventeen different biometric markers—and here he is, plotting to break into his own fortress like the world’s most pathetic cat burglar.
the security system hums softly in the darkness, a technological lullaby he’d programmed himself. every blinking light, every nearly invisible laser grid, every pressure-sensitive tile in the walkway—his own paranoid genius, now turned against him like some sort of karmic boomerang wrapped in irony and spite.
he adjusts his reading glasses and studies the house like a general surveying a battlefield. except generals probably don’t usually have to factor in the devastating effects of seeing their beloved wearing pajamas into their strategic planning.
the kitchen window. salvation arrives in the form of his own procrastination—there’s a loose latch on the kitchen window that he’s been meaning to fix for approximately four months and seventeen days. not that he’s counting. you’d mentioned it in passing on a tuesday morning while making pancakes, your hair still mussed from sleep, wearing that ridiculous apron with the anthropomorphic strawberries that should have looked childish but instead made you look like some sort of domestic goddess descended from mount olympus to bless his unworthy kitchen with your presence.
he’d nodded and made appropriate husband noises about adding it to his mental to-do list, then promptly forgotten because you’d started humming that song—the one you always hum when you’re happy, the one that sounds like sunshine would if sunshine had a voice—and his brain had short-circuited somewhere between “fix window latch” and “marry this woman again immediately.”
procrastination, it turns out, has never felt so much like divine intervention.
satoru approaches the window with the careful precision of someone who knows exactly how much pressure the old frame can take before it creaks loud enough to wake the neighbors’ dog, which would start a chain reaction of barking that would inevitably lead to you investigating the commotion. his nineteen-year-old fingers work the latch with muscle memory that spans a decade—apparently some things transcend the space-time continuum, including his intimate knowledge of his own home’s structural weaknesses.
the window slides open with barely a whisper, and satoru feels a brief moment of triumph that’s immediately crushed under the weight of what he’s actually doing. breaking and entering. into his own house. to convince his own wife that he’s actually himself.
if there’s a support group for men who’ve been defeated by their own scientific brilliance, he’s definitely going to need the membership information.
he slips through the window with the fluid grace of his temporarily teenage body, and the contrast is jarring—he’d forgotten how easy movement used to be, before years of hunching over microscopes and circuit boards had given him the posture of a question mark and the flexibility of a particularly rigid breadstick. his nineteen-year-old joints don’t protest the maneuver, don’t crack ominously or require the careful choreography he’s grown accustomed to.
it’s like being a ghost haunting his own life, except ghosts probably don’t have to worry about whether their wives will recognize them.
the house settles around him in the darkness, familiar as his own heartbeat. every creak of the floorboards, every sigh of the old ventilation system, every subtle shift of air that speaks of home and safety and belonging. the scent of dinner lingers in the air—something with garlic and herbs that makes his stomach growl traitorously, reminding him that nineteen-year-old metabolisms apparently require more fuel than whatever laboratory subsistence he’s been surviving on.
guilt tastes like copper pennies and regret as he imagines you eating alone, probably glancing at the basement door every few minutes, wondering if your husband remembered to eat anything more substantial than the sandwiches you’d left for him. the automated messages from his ai assistant feel like lead weights in his chest—every perfectly crafted lie, every synthetic expression of love and longing, every digital deception that kept you from worrying while the real satoru stumbled around in a teenage body like some sort of scientific cautionary tale.
his feet hit the kitchen floor with barely a whisper of sound, and for a moment, he allows himself to breathe. step one: infiltration successful. step two: somehow make it to the basement without triggering any of the—
the lights explode to life like the sun deciding to have a particularly vindictive tantrum.
“gotcha, you little creep.”
and there you are.
standing in the doorway like an avenging angel who’d decided that white cotton nightgowns were the appropriate battle attire for dealing with home invaders. the nightdress—the one with the lace trim that he’d bought you for your birthday because you’d mentioned once that you felt pretty in white—catches the harsh kitchen light and transforms you into something ethereal and terrifying in equal measure.
your hair spills over your shoulders in loose waves, the same waves he’s buried his fingers in countless times, that he’s watched catch morning sunlight during lazy weekend mornings when the world consisted of nothing but you and him and the space between heartbeats. but there’s steel in your posture now, a predatory grace that speaks of skills he’d never suspected, secrets kept with the casual competence of someone who’s been protecting others while letting them think they were doing the protecting.
satoru opens his mouth to explain, to plead, to throw himself at your mercy and grovel with the desperation of a man who’s spent two weeks learning exactly how much his life means nothing without you in it—
your hand moves faster than his genius brain can process, faster than the calculations that usually come as naturally as breathing, faster than any of the combat scenarios he’s ever run through his head during his more paranoid moments.
the karate chop catches him right at the base of his neck with surgical precision, and satoru’s world doesn’t just explode into stars—it becomes a supernova of sensation and realization and the most inappropriate surge of attraction he’s ever experienced.
because even as his vision goes blurry around the edges, even as his knees buckle and his carefully planned explanations scatter like startled birds, even as consciousness starts its tactical retreat from the battlefield of his skull—you’re beautiful.
he’d known you were deadly, in the abstract way that husbands know their wives are capable of anything. but seeing it, experiencing the controlled violence of someone who’s spent years learning how to end threats efficiently and effectively, watching the way you move with the fluid confidence of someone who’s never doubted their ability to protect what matters—
it’s like falling in love all over again, except this time it’s happening while his nervous system stages a coup and his equilibrium files for immediate resignation.
the woman he’d married, the one who makes him sandwiches with the crusts cut off because you knows he eats more when food is convenient, the one who leaves little notes in his lab reminding him to drink water and take breaks, the one who hums while doing laundry and always smells like vanilla and clean cotton and home—you just incapacitated him with the casual efficiency of someone who’s been trained to handle much worse threats than lovesick scientists with poor life choices.
and he’s never been more attracted to another human being in his entire existence.
his vision swims, the edges of the world growing soft and fuzzy like someone’s smeared vaseline on the lens of reality. but even through the haze of imminent unconsciousness, he can see you clearly—the slight flush in your cheeks from adrenaline, the way your breathing has quickened just fractionally, the protective fire in your eyes that speaks of love fierce enough to level cities.
“you,” his mouth tries to form words, but his tongue feels like it’s been replaced with cotton batting soaked in novocaine. “you’re...”
“insane?” you supply helpfully, though your voice carries that particular note of concern that always appears when you think he might be hurt. “scary? criminally strong?”
“perfect,” he manages, and even slurred beyond recognition, the word carries every ounce of wonder and adoration and bone-deep reverence he feels.
you blink, clearly not expecting that response from your supposed stalker, and in that moment of confusion, satoru sees something shift in your expression. a flicker of uncertainty, a crack in the armor of your righteous fury that lets just a hint of the woman he knows peek through.
then the world tilts sideways, his legs forget how to function, and consciousness waves goodbye with all the dignity of a deflating balloon.
satoru surfaces from the depths of unconsciousness like a man drowning in reverse, fighting his way back to a reality that feels suspiciously soft and comfortable for someone who’d just been neutralized by his own wife.
the mother of all headaches pounds against his skull with the rhythm of a particularly enthusiastic drummer, and somewhere in the distance, birds are chirping with the sort of aggressive cheerfulness that makes him want to invent a device for negotiating with wildlife.
satoru opens his eyes to find himself on the porch—his porch, their porch, the one with the swing he’d installed because you’d mentioned once that you’d always wanted one—with a pillow tucked carefully under his head and a glass of water sitting nearby like a peace offering from the goddess of justified violence.
even while knocking him unconscious for breaking into his own home, you’d made sure he was comfortable.
the pillow smells like you—vanilla and that lavender fabric softener you use and something indefinably warm that he’s never been able to identify but would recognize anywhere. it’s the same scent that clings to his shirts when you do laundry, the same one that fills their bedroom in the mornings, the same one that he associates with safety and belonging and the radical concept that someone might actually love him enough to put up with his particular brand of brilliant stupidity.
he sits up slowly, his head spinning like a carnival ride operated by someone with a grudge against inner ears, and catches sight of a note tucked under the water glass. the handwriting is yours—neat, precise, with the same careful attention to detail you bring to everything from grocery lists to the birthday cards you make by hand because you say store-bought ones don’t carry enough love.
for the headache. next time, try using the front door like a normal stalker. —the wife of the REAL satoru gojo
despite everything—the splitting headache, the existential crisis, the fact that he’s been reduced to breaking into his own home like some sort of romantic criminal—he smiles. even your passive-aggressive notes are perfect. even when you’re threatening him with bodily harm, you’re taking care of him. even when you think he’s some delusional teenager with stalker tendencies, you’re making sure he’s hydrated and comfortable.
he’s never been more in love, which would be romantic if it weren’t so completely pathetic.
the front door opens with the sort of casual grace that suggests you’ve been watching him from inside, probably trying to determine whether he’s going to keel over again or attempt another round of breaking and entering. you step out wearing a blue sundress that makes his chest ache with longing so profound it feels like a physical injury—the one with tiny white flowers that he’d bought you for your second anniversary because you’d mentioned once that it reminded you of the field where you’d had your first picnic.
you’re carrying a plate of what looks like his favorite cookies, the ones you only make when you’re worried or upset, the ones that involve three different types of chocolate and a recipe you guard more jealously than state secrets. the fact that you’ve made them now, for what you think is a complete stranger, speaks to a kindness so fundamental that it makes his throat close up with emotion.
“you’re awake,” you observe, settling into the porch chair you’d insisted on buying last spring, the one he’d grumbled about because it didn’t match the aesthetic he’d carefully planned, the one that’s now his favorite spot in the world because it’s where you sit in the mornings with your coffee and your terrible romance novels and your complete contentment with the life you’ve built together. “good. i was starting to think i’d hit you too hard.”
there’s genuine concern in your voice, the same tone you use when he’s working too late and you’re worried he’s going to collapse from exhaustion, and satoru feels his dignity—what little remains of it—crumble into dust. his wife is worried about the wellbeing of someone she thinks is essentially a teenage stalker, because that’s the kind of person you are. that’s the kind of heart you have.
he struggles to his feet, swaying slightly as his nineteen-year-old equilibrium files a formal complaint about the abuse it’s recently endured. “you... you know karate?”
the question comes out slightly accusatory, tinged with the bewilderment of a man discovering that his beloved is capable of violence on a level he’d never imagined. six years of marriage, six years of thinking he knew everything about you, six years of believing he was the protector in this relationship—
“among other things.” you bite into a cookie with the satisfied air of someone who’s just discovered an interesting new fact about the world, watching him with the expression of someone observing a particularly fascinating specimen under laboratory conditions. “my husband doesn’t know. i like letting him think he needs to protect me. he makes the most adorable gadgets when he’s worried about my safety.”
the casual way you mention keeping an entire martial arts background secret from him makes satoru’s head spin worse than the concussion. not because you’ve hidden something from him—everyone deserves their secrets, their private spaces, their own mysteries to unfold in their own time—but because you’ve hidden it for the most fundamentally sweet reason imaginable.
you’ve been letting him play protector while being perfectly capable of protecting yourself, because you think his overprotectiveness is cute.
he falls in love with you all over again, which seems physically impossible given that he’s been operating at maximum love capacity for the better part of a decade, but apparently the human heart has hidden reserves for discovering new depths of adoration even when you think you’ve already catalogued every possible reason to worship someone.
“why didn’t you tell him?” he asks, genuinely curious despite the circumstances and the growing certainty that he’s about to learn something that will fundamentally reshape his understanding of the woman he married.
your expression softens in the way that always makes his chest tight with emotion, that particular look of fond exasperation mixed with infinite patience that you reserve for discussions of your husband’s more endearing quirks.
“because my satoru gojo is the smartest man alive,” you say, and the pride in your voice makes something warm and golden spread through his chest like sunrise, “but he’s also a complete idiot when it comes to the people he loves. he’d spend all his time trying to make sure i never had to use those skills instead of appreciating that i can take care of myself. this way, he gets to feel protective, i get beautiful functional jewelry and self-defense gadgets, and everyone’s happy.”
the way you say his name—their name, his name, the name you chose to take and make your own—carries so much love it’s like being hit by lightning made of pure affection. there’s pride and exasperation and devotion all wrapped up together, the voice of someone who sees all his flaws and brilliant strengths and loves him not despite them but because of the ridiculous, wonderful, impossible whole they create.
“he’s lucky,” satoru says quietly, his voice rough with emotions he can’t begin to untangle, “to have someone who understands him so well.”
“he is,” you agree, and your smile could power entire cities, could fuel space programs, could probably solve half the world’s energy crisis if properly harnessed. “he’s brilliant and kind and funny, and he makes me laugh every single day. he’s also terrible at remembering to eat when he’s working and has a tendency to forget that normal people need more than three hours of sleep, but he’s perfect. he’s mine.”
satoru has never experienced jealousy of himself before, but it turns out to be a unique form of psychological torture—listening to the woman he loves describe him with such complete adoration while being unable to claim that love for himself. it’s like being handed a gift and told you can look but never touch, like being shown paradise through bulletproof glass.
the domesticity of it, the casual way you catalogue his flaws alongside his strengths, the matter-of-fact possessiveness in that final declaration—it’s everything he’s ever wanted and everything he currently can’t have, all wrapped up in a blue sundress and served with homemade cookies.
“what if,” he tries carefully, his voice pitched to sound like idle curiosity rather than the desperate plea it actually is, “hypothetically, something happened to him? what if he was... changed somehow?”
your expression shifts faster than a summer storm, going from warm affection to arctic fury in the space between heartbeats. the cookie in your hand crumbles slightly from the sudden tension in your grip, chocolate chips scattering like the remains of his dignity.
“nothing’s going to happen to my husband,” you say, and your voice carries the kind of quiet menace that speaks of consequences beyond imagination. “and if someone tried to hurt him, they’d have to go through me first.”
the protective fire in your eyes makes something primal and deeply satisfied purr in his chest, even as his rational mind catalogs this as yet another example of how thoroughly he’s miscalculated this entire situation. you’d go to war for him. you’d fight gods and demons and the fundamental forces of the universe itself if it meant keeping him safe.
and here he is, the very person you’re trying to protect, being threatened by that same fierce love.
“but hypothetically—”
“no hypotheticals.” you stand up with sharp, efficient movements, smoothing your dress with the same precision you bring to everything, from folding fitted sheets to organizing his lab equipment when he’s too scattered to think straight. “my husband is in his lab, working on something that’s going to change the world, because that’s what he does. and you’re going to stop harassing us, because that’s what you’re going to do if you want to keep all your limbs attached.”
the dismissal is absolute, final, delivered with the authority of someone who’s never doubted their ability to follow through on threats. you disappear back into the house like an avenging angel returning to heaven, leaving satoru alone with his thoughts and the growing certainty that dignity is a luxury he can no longer afford.
he sits on the porch steps—his own porch steps, in front of his own house, locked out by his own security system and his own wife—and contemplates the spectacular wreckage of his scientific career. somewhere in that basement, his life’s work hums quietly, the temporal displacement device that was supposed to give him more time with you having instead stolen the time he already had.
the irony would be poetic if it weren’t so completely devastating.
satoru gojo, holder of 845 patents, winner of seventeen international scientific awards, the man who’d revolutionized three separate fields before his thirtieth birthday—reduced to breaking into his own home like a common criminal, only to be defeated by his wife’s previously unknown martial arts skills and her absolutely justified protective instincts.
he’s given up his dignity, his professional reputation, and apparently his door privileges, all because he’d been too excited about surprising you with a scientific breakthrough to properly test the safety protocols.
note to self: next time he wants to revolutionize temporal mechanics, maybe start with laboratory mice instead of jumping straight to human trials.
assuming there is a next time. assuming he can figure out how to convince you that the teenager on your porch is actually your husband without sounding like the world’s most delusional stalker.
the basement feels very far away suddenly, farther than when he’d been planning his infiltration, farther than the actual physical distance between the porch and the lab where his salvation waits. because now he understands the true scope of his problem: it’s not just about fixing the temporal displacement device.
it’s about rebuilding trust with someone who thinks he’s been safely contained in his laboratory while a dangerous stranger makes increasingly desperate attempts to insert himself into their life.
satoru sighs deeply like a man who has discovered that rock bottom has a basement, and that basement has a sub-basement, and he’s currently spelunking through the geological layers of his own humiliation. the pillow you’d left under his head when you dragged his unconscious body out here mocks him with its floral pattern—little daisies that seem to whisper pathetic in tiny flower voices.
his dignity lies somewhere in your rose bushes, probably fertilizing the begonias.
he stares hopelessly at his own house—the house he designed, built, and has been systematically locked out of by his own security measures. the irony tastes like pennies and poor life choices. somewhere in that house, you’re probably stress-baking again, creating cookies that could end world hunger while muttering about stalkers and the general incompetence of teenage boys who think they can impersonate geniuses.
the truly tragic part is that you’re not wrong. he is a teenage boy trying to impersonate a genius. the fact that he actually is that genius feels like a technicality that the universe is refusing to acknowledge.
satoru stands up, brushing pillow lint off his jeans (when had he started wearing jeans? his twenty-nine-year-old self exclusively wore slacks, but apparently his teenage body had different sartorial opinions). if he’s going to reclaim his life, his wife, and his chronological age, he needs to get into that lab.
the front door is obviously out of the question. you’ve made it abundantly clear that any further doorbell-related activities will result in weaponized consequences that his nineteen-year-old body might not survive. the back door is visible from the kitchen window, where you’re probably standing guard like a beautiful, homicidal sentinel.
which leaves him with the architectural equivalent of a hail mary: the basement windows.
he circles the house like a cat burglar who’s read too many heist novels and not enough actual breaking-and-entering manuals. the basement windows are small, the kind of windows that had seemed like a good idea when he was designing a lab and wanted natural light but not easy access. past-satoru had been worried about corporate espionage, not future-satoru trying to infiltrate his own laboratory while trapped in a temporal paradox of the most embarrassing variety.
the window on the east side looks promising. it’s partially hidden by the hydrangea bushes you’d planted last spring, the ones that bloom in impossible shades of blue because you’d somehow convinced them that regular hydrangea colors were beneath their potential. the glass is dirty enough to provide cover, and the latch looks old enough to have the structural integrity of a wet paper bag.
satoru crouches in the dirt, feeling like the world’s most pathetic ninja. his knees protest against the unfamiliar position—nineteen-year-old joints might be more flexible, but they’re also apparently more dramatic about being asked to crouch in garden soil.
the window latch gives way with the kind of rusty shriek that could wake the dead, the neighbors, and possibly several small woodland creatures. satoru freezes, waiting for the sound of your footsteps, the opening of doors, the general commotion that would signal his discovery and subsequent re-unconsciousness.
nothing.
either you didn’t hear it, or you’re currently sharpening something in the kitchen while humming ominously.
he slides the window open with the careful precision of someone who knows exactly how much the old frame can take before it decides to give up on life entirely. the basement yawns below him like the mouth of some scientific purgatory, all shadows and the faint hum of machines he’d built to make the world a better place.
getting through the window requires a level of physical coordination that his nineteen-year-old body possesses but his twenty-nine-year-old dignity abhors. he ends up sliding through headfirst, performing what could generously be called a controlled fall and more accurately described as a graceless tumble that would make circus performers weep.
his feet hit the concrete floor with all the stealth of a bag of hammers being dropped from a significant height.
the basement lab stretches before him like a technological cathedral, all gleaming surfaces and blinking lights that pulse in rhythm with machines whose purposes range from “revolutionary” to “probably shouldn’t exist but here we are anyway.” this is his domain, his kingdom, his sanctuary of scientific achievement and questionable decision-making.
it also feels like coming home and visiting a crime scene simultaneously.
everything is exactly as he’d left it two weeks ago, frozen in the moment when he’d stepped into the temporal field with the confidence of someone who hadn’t yet learned that the universe has a twisted sense of humor. the half-finished temporal displacement device sits on the main workbench like an accusation, all smooth curves and innocent blinking lights that belie its capacity for chronological chaos.
coffee cups are scattered around like caffeinated archaeological artifacts, each one marking a different stage of his research. there’s the mug you’d given him for his birthday with “world’s okayest scientist” written in comic sans font—your little joke about his ego that he treasures more than his nobel prize nomination. there’s the plain white cup he uses when he’s really focused, the one with the chip on the handle from when he’d gotten excited about a breakthrough and gestured too enthusiastically. there’s even the fancy porcelain teacup his mother had given him, which he only uses when he’s feeling particularly pretentious about his discoveries.
each cup tells the story of late nights, early mornings, and the kind of obsessive focus that leads to temporal displacement incidents.
his phone sits on the desk, buzzing intermittently with notifications he can’t answer. the screen lights up every few minutes with incoming messages, calls from colleagues, reminders about appointments he’s apparently missing while trapped in his own temporal feedback loop. but it’s the outgoing messages that make his stomach twist into knots that could anchor ships.
the ai assistant is working with the efficiency of a swiss watch and the emotional intelligence of someone who actually knows him. every few hours, it crafts another perfect message to your phone, each one a masterpiece of his writing style mixed with the kind of scientific romanticism that had won your heart six years ago.
making progress on the quantum stabilization matrix. the equations are beautiful—almost as beautiful as you in that yellow dress this morning. did you eat lunch? —satoru
breakthrough with the temporal field generators! i think i can increase efficiency by 34%. also, i dreamed about that weekend in kyoto again. we should go back soon. —your devoted husband
minor setback with the power coupling, but nothing i can’t fix. missing your voice. send a voice message please? maybe hum that song you like while i work? it always helps me think. —satoru
each message is a perfect imitation of his writing style, his habits, his love for you wrapped in scientific progress reports. they capture the way he thinks, the way he speaks, the way he can’t seem to separate his work from his adoration of you because everything he creates is somehow inspired by your existence.
no wonder you believe he’s down here, buried in his work, missing you but dedicated to his research. the ai had done its job too well, creating a digital phantom that was more convincing than his actual de-aged presence.
reading them makes him want to punch his past self for being so thorough, so careful, so goddamn good at programming an assistant that could replicate his personality down to the way he signs his messages with scientific terminology and pet names in equal measure.
satoru rolls up his sleeves and approaches his workstation like a penitent approaching an altar.
the lab’s security system chirps softly as he moves through the space, sensors tracking his movement with the bored efficiency of technology that recognizes him but doesn’t particularly care about his current chronological displacement. red lights blink in sequence along the walls, a heartbeat of recognition that would normally make him feel secure and accomplished.
instead, it feels like the lab is mocking him. oh look, the blinking seems to say, it’s the genius who outsmarted himself into adolescence.
the temporal displacement device looks innocent enough sitting there on the main workbench—a sleek silver contraption about the size of a microwave, all smooth curves and the kind of blinking lights that movie audiences associate with either miracle cures or impending explosions. he’d been so proud of it when he’d finished the initial design, so excited to show you what he’d been working on for months.
the irony burns like acid in his chest: he’d built a machine to give himself more time with you, and instead, it had stolen the time he already had.
but now, looking at it with the clarity that comes from two weeks of enforced separation and multiple instances of being rendered unconscious by his own wife, he can see exactly what went wrong. the power coupling on the left side shows signs of overheating, the quantum stabilization matrix is operating at 73% efficiency instead of the required 89%, and the temporal field generators are displaying the kind of fluctuation patterns that suggest they’re one strong breeze away from turning him into quantum soup.
his nineteen-year-old hands remember the work even if they look different doing it—smoother, unlined, with calluses in different places that speak of a life not yet lived. muscle memory is a beautiful thing, and soon he’s lost in the familiar rhythm of calibration and adjustment, replacing the burnt-out components that had caused the initial malfunction.
the security system continues its soft surveillance, cameras tracking his movement as he works. somewhere in the house above, you’re probably going about your evening routine, maybe reading in the living room chair he’d bought specifically because it makes you look like a goddess of domestic tranquility, maybe taking a bath in the tub he’d designed with jets positioned exactly where you like them.
you think your husband is down here, safely contained in his laboratory, working on equations that could revolutionize temporal mechanics. you have no idea that your husband is actually down here, working on equations that could return him to the age where you might not instinctively try to karate chop him on sight.
hours pass in the peculiar way that time moves when you’re focused on something that requires every neuron in your brain to fire in perfect synchronization. his back aches from hunching over the workbench—some things never change, regardless of what decade your spine thinks it’s living in. his eyes water behind his reading glasses, the same prescription he’s had since childhood because apparently temporal displacement doesn’t fix astigmatism.
the basement air grows stale and recycled, nothing like the fresh scent of your perfume or the way the house smells when you’re baking. down here, everything smells like ozone and possibility, metal and dreams, the peculiar combination of scents that comes from trying to bend the universe to your will through applied science and stubborn determination.
component by component, equation by equation, he rebuilds what his hubris had broken. the quantum stabilization matrix purrs back to life, its efficiency climbing toward the magic number that means the difference between “successful temporal correction” and “decorating the lab walls with physicist.” the power coupling stops smoking, which he takes as a positive sign, though the bar for success has been dramatically lowered by recent events.
finally, blessedly, after what feels like several geological ages, the device hums to life with the soft blue glow that means everything is working properly. the sound it makes is almost musical, a harmony of frequencies that speaks to the part of his brain that understands how beautiful math can be when it’s applied to impossible problems.
satoru stares at it for a long moment, this machine that had caused so much chaos, so much pain, so much embarrassment. it looks the same as it had two weeks ago, before he’d stepped into it with the confidence of someone who hadn’t yet learned that the universe has a deeply personal vendetta against his happiness.
but now it’s fixed. now it can undo what it had done, return him to the chronological age where his wife doesn’t look at him like he’s a particularly offensive piece of gum stuck to her shoe.
he takes a deep breath, tasting the metallic tang of possibility and ozone, and steps into the temporal field.
the world bends.
reality stretches like taffy in the hands of a cosmic confectioner who’s had too much caffeine and not enough sleep. colors bleed into each other, the visible spectrum having what appears to be a nervous breakdown while time folds backward on itself with the sensation of falling upward through a kaleidoscope made of mathematics and regret.
his bones feel like they’re growing, stretching, settling back into familiar patterns that his muscles remember even if his consciousness is currently experiencing what could best be described as temporal vertigo. his face reshapes itself like clay in the hands of chronology, features aging forward to match the man you’d fallen in love with, married, and spent six years learning to live with.
the sensation is indescribable and entirely uncomfortable, like being turned inside out by time itself while someone plays a symphony written in mathematical equations. his cells remember being twenty-nine, and they rush toward that memory with the enthusiasm of teenagers remembering they have a curfew.
when the light fades and the world stops doing its impression of a funhouse mirror designed by someone with a degree in theoretical physics, satoru catches sight of himself in the polished surface of another machine.
he looks like himself again. twenty-nine years old, tall and lean, with the same pale hair that had turned white when he was four and stayed that way out of what he suspects is pure stubbornness. the same eyes behind the same reading glasses, the same hands that you’ve memorized, the same face that you’ve kissed goodnight for six years.
the face you’d married, the body you’d mapped with your hands on lazy sunday mornings, the version of himself that you actually wanted to see walking through the door instead of some temporal impostor with the emotional maturity of a teenager and the physical appearance to match.
he runs his hands over his face, feeling the familiar planes and angles, the slight roughness of stubble that his nineteen-year-old self had been too optimistic to grow properly. these are the hands that have held you, touched you, built you impossibly complex gifts that serve no purpose other than making you smile.
satoru straightens his sweater and climbs the basement stairs like a man ascending to heaven, or at least to the ground floor where his wife is probably stress-baking cookies and muttering about the general incompetence of teenagers who think they can impersonate geniuses.
time to go home.
time to reclaim his life, his wife, and his dignity—though he suspects the dignity might be a lost cause at this point.
the basement door opens onto the kitchen, and the smell of home washes over him like a blessing from the domestic gods: vanilla and cinnamon, the lavender detergent you use on the dish towels, the faint scent of the coffee you’d made this morning before you knew your day would include multiple instances of assault and battery against your own husband.
he’s home. finally, truly, chronologically home.
you’re in the kitchen when he emerges, standing at the stove in that pink dress with the tiny pearl buttons he’s memorized but hasn’t seen in two weeks. your hair is twisted into a messy bun secured with one of his prototype hairpins—the ones that glow soft blue when you’re stressed. they’re glowing now, just barely, a testament to how worried you’ve been about his prolonged absence from the world above ground.
the wooden spoon moves in lazy circles through whatever you’re cooking, and the scent hits him like a physical force—garlic and herbs and that particular blend of spices you use when you’re making his favorite pasta. his stomach clenches with actual hunger for the first time in two weeks, nineteen-year-old metabolism finally giving way to twenty-nine-year-old appreciation for real food.
but it’s the humming that undoes him completely. that soft, unconscious melody you make when you think no one’s listening, the same tune he’d programmed into his ai messages because he’d been missing it so desperately. hearing it live, unfiltered, coming from your actual throat instead of his memory—
satoru doesn’t think. doesn’t hesitate. doesn’t announce himself like a civilized human being.
he launches himself across the kitchen like a man possessed, arms wrapping around your waist from behind, his chest pressing flush against your back as he buries his face in the curve of your neck. you smell like vanilla body lotion and that expensive shampoo he pretends not to notice the cost of, and underneath it all, just you. warm skin and the faint sweetness that clings to your hair, the scent that’s been haunting him for fourteen endless days.
“satoru!” you yelp, startled enough that the wooden spoon goes flying, clattering across the counter and leaving a trail of red sauce in its wake. “you absolute menace, you scared me half to death!”
he makes a sound that’s half laugh, half sob, tightening his arms around you like you might evaporate if he loosens his grip even slightly. his reading glasses bump against your shoulder as he nuzzles deeper into your neck, and he can feel the butterfly clips in your hair tickling against his temple.
“missed you,” he mumbles against your skin, the words muffled and desperate. “missed you so much.”
“missed me?” your voice pitches higher, indignant and fond in equal measure. “satoru, you’ve been ten feet underground for two weeks! i’ve been cooking for you every single day, leaving plates outside your lab door, and what do i find when i check? cold food. stone cold. untouched.”
your hands come up to cover his where they’re locked around your middle, and even through your scolding, your fingers are gentle as they trace over his knuckles. “what have you even been eating? because i know it wasn’t my cooking, and if you tell me you’ve been surviving on coffee and those horrible protein bars, i’m going to—”
“also,” you continue without pausing for breath, your voice shifting into that particular tone you get when you’re gearing up for a proper lecture, ”you will not believe the past two weeks i’ve had. there’s someone who’s been lurking around our house and he who looks like some bizarre teenage version of you?”
satoru’s stomach drops. his grip on you tightens involuntarily, and he feels you notice the tension, your body shifting slightly in his arms.
“he’s been so persistent. yesterday he actually had the audacity to break into our house through the kitchen window—our kitchen window, satoru, the one with the broken latch you keep forgetting to fix.” your free hand gestures wildly, even though he can’t see it from his position behind you. “thankfully, all those self-defense gadgets you made me actually work. that little stun gun you built into my bracelet? absolutely perfect. sent him flying right off our porch.”
the embarrassment hits him like a physical weight. his face burns against your neck, and he has to resist the urge to groan out loud. you’re giving full credit to his inventions, protecting his ego even while describing how you’d defended yourself against him, and the sweetness of it makes his chest ache.
“and the motion sensors you installed last month caught him skulking around the garden at three in the morning,” you continue, oblivious to his mortification. ”honestly, the dedication is almost impressive. stalking behavior aside, you have to admire his commitment to the whole ‘young gojo’ aesthetic. though i have no idea why anyone would want to look like you did in college. you were such a baby-faced disaster back then.”
“i know you know karate,” he blurts out, the words tumbling from his mouth before he can stop them.
you go very still in his arms. the humming stops abruptly.
“what?” your voice is carefully neutral, but he can feel the way your shoulders tense, the slight shift in your breathing that means you’re calculating your next move.
“i know you know karate,” he repeats, his face burning hotter against your neck. ”you’ve been taking classes since you were twelve. you never told me because you like it when i worry about you enough to make you protection gadgets.”
the silence stretches long enough that he starts to panic. then you let out a long, shaky breath.
“how could you possibly know that?” your voice is small now, embarrassed in a way that makes him want to wrap you up and apologize for everything. “i never... i was so careful not to...”
your hands try to pull away from his, but he holds on, threading your fingers together. “because i’m the boy,” he says quietly. “the one who’s been trying to talk to you for two weeks. the one you stunned off the porch and knocked unconscious in our kitchen.”
he feels the exact moment understanding hits you. your entire body goes rigid, and then you’re spinning in his arms so fast he has to step back to avoid a collision with your elbow.
your eyes are wide, your mouth falling open in a perfect ’o’ of shock. the blush that spreads across your cheeks is magnificent and mortifying, and he watches you process the implications with the expression of someone who’s just realized they’ve been caught in the world’s most embarrassing misunderstanding.
“oh my god,” you whisper, your hands flying up to cover your face. “oh my god, satoru, i am so sorry. i thought—when he knew things about us, about our private moments, i assumed he was some kind of corporate spy, or maybe a rival scientist who’d done research on us, or—”
”a stalker,” he supplies gently, reaching up to pull your hands away from your face. “which was a completely reasonable assumption, given the circumstances.”
“i called you a discount version of yourself!” your voice cracks with horror. “i told you that you weren’t as attractive as my husband! to your face! while you were actually my husband!”
despite everything, satoru can’t help but smile at the outrage in your voice. “technically, you were defending my honor. it was actually incredibly sweet.”
“sweet?” you squeak, aghast, your palms flattening against his chest like you’re considering shoving him away. but you don’t. you stay pressed against him, trembling, overwhelmed.
“i knocked you unconscious with a karate chop!”
“you have excellent form,” he says solemnly, unable to suppress the tilt of his lips. the memory of you, so fierce, so protective, haunts him in the sweetest way—a blurred flash of your nightgown fluttering as you moved with such lethal grace. he remembers the precision, the practiced certainty in your strikes, remembers thinking you’d never looked more beautiful than in that moment where you saw him as a threat and chose violence to protect his memory.
it makes his pulse thrum in his throat. it makes him want to sink to his knees and kiss the hand that struck him.
and yet, here you are, groaning, humiliated, burying your face against his chest to escape him—as if he’s not already completely ensnared. his hands settle on your waist, loose but present, fingertips teasing over the soft fabric of your dress, as though reacquainting himself with the privilege of touching you.
he tilts his head, blue eyes gleaming behind his glasses, drinking you in with a reverence that borders on obsession. he catalogues the way you fidget, the way your lashes kiss your cheeks as you refuse to meet his gaze, the heat blooming under your skin.
there’s a little crease between your eyebrows now—he’s put it there, just as you’ve placed a permanent one on his.
his thumb brushes the edge of your jaw, coaxing you to look at him. “you kept it from me,” he murmurs, savoring the tremor that passes through you, ”because you wanted me to keep making you gadgets.”
it’s not a question. he already knows. you told him, so sweetly, so earnestly, when you believed he was a stranger, and he will hold that secret like a pressed flower tucked into the pages of his heart.
“you think my overprotectiveness is cute?” his voice softens into something breathless, incredulous, dripping with adoration. “you think it’s cute that i lose sleep making things to keep you safe? that i forget to eat because i’m too busy worrying about you?”
your blush deepens, scorching, and you tug at his shirt like you want to disappear into him. “you make me the most amazing things when you’re worried about me. and you get this little crease between your eyebrows when you’re focused, and you forget to eat or sleep, but you always remember exactly how i like my coffee, and—” he watches you falter, your words disintegrating into a strangled sound of mortification. “this is not making me sound less ridiculous. is it?”
“it’s making you sound perfect.” his forehead drops to yours, and he cradles your face like you’re breakable, like you’re the finest piece of machinery he’s ever built.“ it’s making you sound like the woman i fell in love with—the woman who’s been taking care of me, worrying about me, defending my honor against discount versions of myself.”
his grin sharpens, unable to resist, “and you defended me so well, baby. ‘not my husband.’ ‘my husband is a genius.’ ‘my husband smells better.’ ‘my husband has better posture.’”
he leans in, nipping at your bottom lip, playful, intoxicating. “my sweet wife. i’ve never felt so protected.”
your laugh bursts out of you, watery and full-bodied, your hands rising to cup his cheeks, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones in trembling circles. “i can’t believe i spent two weeks beating up my own husband.”
“i can’t believe i spent two weeks watching my wife talk about how amazing her husband is while she was actively rejecting me.” his lashes flutter as he leans into your touch, like a cat, like something basking in warmth it had been starved of. “do you have any idea how confusing that was? i was jealous of myself. i was genuinely, pathetically jealous of the man you married while being the man you married.”
it’s a confession scraped raw from his chest, but you’re laughing properly now, bright and breathless, like you’ve been untethered from something heavy. you pepper kisses over his face in rapid, dizzying succession, your lips skating over his brow, his temples, the tip of his nose.
“you’re such a dork,” you murmur, still cupping his face, like you can’t bear to let go of him.
“i’m your dork.”
his voice is rough with want, his pulse tripping over itself as he lets the weight of everything crash into him all at once. his mouth brushes over yours again, lingering, reverent. “and i missed you so much. missed being able to touch you. missed you looking at me like you’re looking at me right now instead of like i’m some creepy teenager with questionable motives.”
“you are a creepy teenager with questionable motives,” you shoot back, but your words crumble under the softness that creeps into your voice. ”you invented a time machine just so you could spend more time with me.”
“and then immediately wasted two weeks because i’m apparently the only genius in history stupid enough to de-age himself by accident.”
his thumb slides over your bottom lip, unable to resist, unable to stop touching you now that he’s allowed to. his whole body hums with the need to consume you, to drag you inside his bones, to make up for every second he’d lost.
“not wasted,” you whisper, fierce and tender all at once. “never wasted. not if it brought you back to me.”
those words detonate inside him, and suddenly the kitchen feels too small, the air too thin. he’s been existing on stolen glances and careful distance for two weeks, watching you from afar, aching with the need to touch you, to kiss you, to prove to himself that you’re real and his and finally within reach again.
“we’ve been trying for a baby,” he says hoarsely, the words spilling out before he can stop them. “for months, and i just—i wasted two weeks, and i can’t—i need—”
you silence him with a kiss, soft and desperate and tasting like the tears you’ve both been crying. your hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he responds by lifting you, setting you on the counter so you’re at eye level, his hands spanning your waist, thumbs tracing circles over the soft fabric of your dress.
“i love you,” you breathe against his mouth. “i love you so much, and i’m so sorry i hurt you, and i missed you, and—”
he kisses you again, deeper this time, pouring two weeks of longing and frustration and desperate love into the contact. you taste like home, like forgiveness, like everything he’s been craving. your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, and he can feel the exact moment you stop thinking and start just feeling, your body melting against his.
his glasses fog up. he doesn’t care.
your hair comes loose from its bun, the mechanical clips clattering to the counter, and he tangles his fingers in the silky strands, angling your head to deepen the kiss. you make a soft sound that goes straight through him, and he’s just starting to contemplate the structural integrity of the kitchen counter when—
ding.
the oven timer cuts through the moment like a bucket of cold water.
you break apart, both breathing hard, your lips swollen and his hair thoroughly mussed. the pink dress is wrinkled where his hands have been gripping your waist, and there’s a dazed look in your eyes that makes him want to forget dinner entirely.
“the pasta,” you say faintly.
“forget the pasta,” he growls, leaning down to press kisses along your neck, finding that spot just below your ear that makes you shiver.
ding. ding. ding.
“it’ll burn,” you protest, but your head tilts to give him better access, and your hands are still fisted in his shirt.
he doesn’t let you go. not when you say his name, not when you push at his shoulders, not when the oven timer chimes over and over like some petty background character begging for attention in a scene it no longer belongs to.
”don’t mind it,” he breathes against your throat, and it sounds less like a request, more like an instinct, as though there is nothing in this world more irrelevant than a meal when you’re in his arms again.
his lips move along the curve of your neck with reverence, brushing over your pulse, slow at first—a sweet drag of his mouth, the soft, wet pull of his tongue where your skin is most sensitive. he feels the flutter of your pulse beneath his lips, feels the way your body leans into his as though your bones have decided they’d rather trust him to hold you upright.
his breathing is uneven, shaky, like he’s on the edge of something he’s been chasing since the day he woke up in that younger body and couldn’t touch you the way he needed to. the memory claws at him now, vivid and bitter, that helpless ache of looking like himself and yet being nothing you would want to take in your arms.
you murmur something about the oven again, the protest barely formed, already dissolving into a sigh as he scrapes his teeth lightly along your skin. your hands remain curled in his shirt, not pushing anymore, just clutching—desperate, familiar, your fingers twisting into the fabric like you’re scared he might slip away again. his shirt bunches beneath your grip, your nails pressing half-moon shapes into his chest, but he craves the sting of it, the grounding pain of knowing you’re clinging to him, needing him just as much.
”it won’t burn,” he murmurs against your skin, his tongue following the line of your collarbone, his glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose. ”it’s a timed self-shut. i programmed it myself. knew this might happen. knew i wouldn’t be able to let you go.”
he pushes his glasses up with a quick, practiced nudge of his wrist, never pulling his mouth too far from your skin. he needs to see you. needs to see every part of you. his hands are too busy, too greedy, sliding up the sides of your dress, pushing the soft fabric higher and higher until his fingertips brush the bare skin of your thighs. the dress pools around his wrists as though the fabric is surrendering to him, letting him through.
he feels you shudder when his thumbs trace slow, possessive circles just beneath the hem. he slides his hands further, the cotton dragging over your skin as if the dress itself is a barrier he’s grown to despise. ”been thinking about this for two weeks. touching you. feeling you. not some memory—you. this body.”
the tremble in your breath is sharp, palpable, sinking into his bones. your voice hitches when he catches your earlobe between his teeth, when he sucks lightly, as if tasting something he already knows belongs to him. his hands splay wide over your thighs, his touch more sure, more demanding now as though every second he isn’t inside you is unbearable. his fingertips trail along the curve of your legs, memorizing the heat and texture of your skin with the same focus he gives his research—meticulous, thorough, consumed by the need to understand everything.
he pushes his glasses up again, quick and automatic, the weight of them a familiar anchor as his vision sharpens, as though seeing you this clearly makes the need inside him all the more unbearable. he tilts his head just enough to see your lashes flutter, to watch your lips part around his name, and the sight burns into him with perfect clarity.
when his hands find your waist again, he isn’t gentle. his grip is firm, grounding, as though if he doesn’t hold you tight enough, you might vanish all over again. he tugs you back against him, hips flush to yours, and he can’t suppress the groan that punches out of him when he feels how warm you are, even through his jeans.
the heat of you burns into him, through the thin fabric, the kind of contact that makes his head spin. his cock twitches against the rough denim, aching, pulsing, a frustration that’s been building since the second he lost the chance to touch you properly.
“you’re not gonna let me feed you first?” you manage, but the breathless curl in your voice betrays you.
”you’re feeding me now,” he says, dragging his hands to your hips and grinding against you, slow and deliberate, a filthy drag of friction that has you gasping into his shoulder. he’s gone two weeks without this—without your heat, without your weight against him, without the sweetness of your mouth pressed to his.
his mouth captures yours again, the kiss messy and open-mouthed, his tongue chasing yours as though he might starve if he stops. he can’t get enough of you, can’t bear the distance, can’t stand the thought of pulling away, not even to breathe.
“but dinner—”
“it’s fine,” he murmurs, almost a laugh. “it’ll shut off on its own. you can’t burn anything while i’m loving you. made sure of it.”
his mouth moves lower, down the line of your throat, tasting the salt on your skin, the way you shiver when he noses along the curve of your shoulder. he kisses the delicate dip where your neck meets your shoulder, over and over, as though he could mark you with nothing but his mouth.
his hand slides beneath your dress again, impatient now, pushing your panties aside without ceremony. his fingertips graze your folds, and he sucks in a breath through his teeth—wet, already, and his chest tightens with something ugly and possessive because you’ve missed him just as much. the feel of you, the heat, the slick glide of his fingers dragging through your arousal—it short-circuits something in him. his jaw clenches, his breath stutters, and he presses his forehead to your shoulder to anchor himself.
“fuck, baby,” he whispers, his voice breaking apart, “look at you. missed me that much? couldn’t wait?”
his touch lingers there, gentle for a moment, tracing, teasing, his middle finger dipping to circle where you’re already aching for him. his other arm curls around your waist, holding you firm against him when your knees nearly give out. he rubs slow circles until you’re grinding into his hand, chasing the friction like you can’t stand the distance anymore. you’re warm and soft and trembling under his touch, your hips rolling helplessly, your breath hitching every time he circles just a little harder.
“satoru,” you whimper, half a plea, half a warning, but you’re already folding into him, already falling apart.
“’m here now,” he murmurs, guiding you to turn around, pressing your hands to the countertop, his body crowding you from behind. “i’m right here. gonna take care of you. gonna fuck you just like you need.”
he kisses your shoulder, slow and lingering, as though tasting your skin could imprint you deeper into him. the curve of your spine rises beneath his mouth, the faint tremble under his lips pulling something raw and animal out of him. he presses into you, his chest solid to your back, his hands smoothing over the fabric of your dress as if his touch alone could brand you as his, as if holding you like this might anchor him to this moment forever.
his jeans rasp against the softness of your thighs, each rock of his hips a little rougher, a little more desperate as he grinds against you. the friction is maddening. it makes him hiss through his teeth, makes his fingers dig into your waist like he needs to memorize the shape of you beneath his palms. when he reaches for his belt, it’s with the shaky impatience of a man on the edge of breaking. the buckle fights him, the leather dragging through the loops in a way that feels insufferably slow, and his breathing stutters, uneven, desperate.
“hurry,” you pant, your voice wrecked and pleading, your hips grinding back against him in small, frantic circles. “please, satoru, please… i need you now.”
he lets out a low curse when he finally frees himself, the tip of his cock dragging through your slick folds with a helpless groan as though even that brief touch is too much, too good, too long overdue. “fuck, baby, you’re soaked,” he breathes, half-crazed, his chest pressed tight to your back. “missed me this much, huh?”
“missed everything,” you gasp, your hands fisting around the edge of the counter, nails digging into the wood. “missed you. your voice, your hands… your cock. please, please don’t tease.”
he doesn’t wait. he can’t. he pushes into you in one, long, slow thrust, inch by aching inch, feeling you stretch and give around him, until he’s seated as deep as you can take him. the tight, wet squeeze of you makes his breath falter, a shudder wracking his frame, his body folding over you as his hands scramble for your waist, clutching like you’re the only tether left holding him to the earth.
“fuck… so full,” you whimper, your voice breaking on a gasp. “god, satoru… so good… i needed this… i needed you.”
he adjusts his glasses with a quick, shaky push, his vision sharpening just in time to burn the sight of you into memory—the delicate arch of your spine, the way your fingers clench around the countertop, the way your hips fit perfectly in his hands like you were carved just for him. the view sears itself into him, and the weight of it nearly drives him to the edge.
“shit… you feel like home,” he rasps, his voice fraying at the edges, his hands tightening until his knuckles ache. he pulls out slow, savoring the sweet, unbearable friction that drags along every nerve in his cock, only to slam back in with a force that steals his breath. again. and again. a steady, greedy pace that grows frantic under the pressure of his need.
the wet slap of skin against skin fills the kitchen, tangled with his ragged breathing and the soft, gasping sounds you make beneath him, each one sinking into him, winding tighter and tighter inside his ribs.
“oh, fuck, satoru…” you cry out, each thrust knocking the air from your lungs, your body meeting his with a desperate rhythm. “don’t stop… please, don’t stop… you feel so good, so deep… i can’t think… i can’t think when you’re fucking me like this.”
he leans over you, his chest pressed to your back, his breath hot and ragged against your ear as he drives into you with desperate force. his lips brush over the shell of your ear, trailing kisses down your neck as though his mouth can’t bear to leave your skin for more than a second. he mutters your name between each kiss, like a mantra, like it might steady him.
“you’re mine,” he pants, his words shivering with the strain of holding himself together. he kisses along your shoulder, his pace only faltering when his hips grind deep, seeking more, always more. “i’m not wasting another second, baby. i’m gonna… fuck, i’m gonna… i’m gonna make you feel me for days.”
“i already do,” you sob, your head tipping back against his shoulder, tears blurring your vision as you clutch his hand where it grips your waist. “you’re everywhere… you’re all i can feel… all i want… please, satoru, please don’t stop…”
his hand snakes between your thighs, his fingers circling your clit with practiced pressure, coaxing you to squeeze around him, to shatter for him. “come on, baby… let me feel you… let me feel you fall apart for me.”
“satoru… satoru, please, i’m so close… fuck… fuck… don’t stop, i need… i need…”
he groans low in his throat when your walls pulse around him, his body bucking forward like the sensation has stolen the air from his lungs. his other hand glides over your stomach, over the dip of your waist, greedy for the heat of your skin beneath the thin barrier of your dress. he wants to memorize every inch of you, wants to claim you in ways his body can’t quite articulate.
he buries his face in the curve of your neck, his lips brushing against the frantic pulse at your throat, his nose pressed against your skin as he breathes you in like oxygen. “talk to me,” he breathes, desperate, hoarse, the words scraping out like they cost him. “tell me you missed me. tell me i’m the only one who gets to touch you like this. tell me you’re mine.”
“yours,” you cry out, wrecked and breathless. “i’ve always been yours… satoru, fuck… you’re the only one… i missed you… i missed you so much… i can’t… i can’t do this without you… please, don’t let me go.”
“fuck, you’re so good for me,” he groans, the sound ragged and raw, and he ruts into you harder, the snap of his hips relentless as he chases you both toward the inevitable edge. “you’re perfect… fuck, baby, you’re perfect.”
“i’m… i’m coming… satoru, please… i’m—”
he doesn’t stop. he can’t. not until he feels you clench around him, feels you fall apart, your body trembling as you come, your voice cracking on his name like it’s a prayer you’ve been holding in for days. the sensation of you pulsing around him, pulling him deeper, drags a broken groan from his chest, and only then does he finally let go.
he thrusts deep, emptying himself inside you with a raw, gasping sound, his entire body shivering with the force of it. his release comes in thick waves, like his body refuses to let you go, like it’s been waiting for this, for you, to finally come home to him.
“don’t… don’t pull out,” you whimper, your voice small and trembling, your hands covering his where he grips your hips. “please, i want… i want to feel you… please, satoru… please stay…”
he doesn’t pull out. not yet. he stays there, his chest heaving against your back, his hips pressing tight to yours, as though his body could fuse to yours if he just holds on long enough. his hand slides over your stomach, his thumb brushing the fabric of your dress, his heart thundering against your spine. he wants to stay connected, to keep his body wrapped around you until the heat subsides, until the trembling quiets.
he kisses you there, the soft curve of your shoulder, his lips dragging lazy, reverent paths over your skin, savoring the tremble still coursing through you. “gonna keep you like this,” he murmurs, his voice low, thick with something that sounds almost reverent. “gonna keep you full, baby. not wasting anything.”
his hands rub slow, soothing circles into your hips, but his cock still twitches inside you, the heat of you pulling him under all over again. he presses his mouth to your spine, trailing soft, possessive kisses up to the back of your neck, his body vibrating with the hum of restless energy that refuses to ebb. it’s not enough. it’ll never be enough. he wants to keep going until the lines between you blur completely, until you forget where he ends and you begin.
he leans in, his voice breathless but steady now, a vow he lays against your skin. “this…” he pants, rolling his hips slowly, deliberately, still buried deep inside you, “this is just the start. not letting you go. not for the rest of the night.”
“don’t let go,” you whisper, arching back into him, your fingers sliding over his as though you might trap him there. ”don’t stop… please, satoru… don’t stop…”
his grip tightens, grounding you to him like he’s afraid you might dissolve between his fingers. “baby, you don’t even know how much i’ve missed you yet.”
he rolls his hips again, savoring the drag, savoring the stretch, savoring the way you arch back into him like you’re already craving more. it’s a promise—a warning—that he isn’t stopping any time soon. his hands smooth over your sides, up to your ribs, coaxing more sounds from you, coaxing more of you to open for him. his lips hover just behind your ear, his breath brushing warm against your skin as he begins to move again, slowly building the next wave, chasing the next collapse.
he hums against you, pleased, almost smug, as you tremble beneath him. ”let me make up for lost time, baby. i’m not done. not even close.”
“please…” it’s the only thing you can form now—broken, breathless. your hands tremble as you try to hold onto him, your fingers sliding helplessly against his shirt like you might fall apart without the anchor of his touch.
he tilts his head just enough to kiss the hinge of your jaw, his pace unhurried but determined. “i’ve got you,” he murmurs, his voice soft even as his body hums with something feral. “all night, baby. all night to love you, to fill you, to put our baby right where it belongs.”
he pulls out with a sharp, deliberate drag, leaving you clenching around nothing, and without giving you a moment to protest, he hauls you up, one arm locking under your thighs, the other cradling your back. you cling to him instinctively, barely able to breathe as he carries you to the bedroom, his grip rough, his breathing uneven, his jaw clenched tight with restraint he’s barely holding onto.
he drops you onto the bed, his hands instantly on you, yanking your dress up over your head in one swift, tearing motion, discarding it somewhere behind him. his glasses slip lower on his nose, his blue eyes molten and sharp behind the lenses, devouring the sight of you—messy, flushed, gasping. you reach for him, your lips parted, your throat working around the desperate sound that tumbles out—a soft, helpless “please…”
his hands slam your wrists to the mattress, his body caging you in, his cock thick and heavy as he grinds against your soaked entrance. “shh, baby,” he whispers, his voice trembling as he tries to gentle himself. “i’ve got you. you’re not going anywhere. i’m gonna take care of you.”
he refuses to take off his glasses. he wants to see everything—every tear that slips from your lashes, every tremble in your lips, every mindless sound that breaks from your throat. his gaze stays locked on you, even as his cock pushes inside you in one deep, devastating thrust.
“you’re mine,” he breathes, voice ragged, the words shivering apart as he bottoms out inside you. he can feel your walls flutter around him, clenching as though your body is desperate to hold him in, to keep him there. your body jolts beneath him, legs wrapping instinctively around his waist, dragging him deeper. your moan punches out, breathless, pleading, the only thing you seem capable of now. your hands cling to him, fingers clawing at his shirt like you’re trying to root yourself to him, as if the only thing anchoring you to the world is the brutal drag of his cock inside you.
his glasses slip slightly down his nose, fogging at the edges, but he refuses to push them up. he needs to see you, needs to burn every detail into his memory—the way your eyes glaze over, the tremble in your lips, the tear that slips from the corner of your eye. he wants to remember this: the raw, unguarded way you fall apart for him, the mindless way you beg him, the frantic rise and fall of your chest as you gasp for breath.
he drives into you again, harder, faster, each brutal thrust forcing the breath from your lungs, forcing more of those broken, needy noises out of you. the sound of skin slapping against skin echoes in the room, tangled with the ragged rhythm of his breathing and the choked cries that tumble from your lips. your hands scramble at his arms, your nails clawing into his sleeves, but you can’t find the words anymore. all that’s left is “please…” and the sobs that fall apart between the sharp snaps of his hips.
“i know, baby,” he pants, his breath hot and frantic against your skin, his voice frayed with restraint that’s slipping fast. ”i know what you need. you need me to fuck my baby into you, right? need me to keep you so full you can’t think of anything else? need me to fill you until it’s all you can feel?”
“please…” it spills from your throat again, almost a cry, your body tightening around him as though your own muscles are begging him to stay.
“i’ll give it to you,” he promises, soft, reverent, though the brutal rhythm of his hips betrays him. “i’ll make you a mama, baby. gonna make sure you can’t hold anything but me. gonna make sure you’re mine forever.”
he shifts, pulling your knees up to your chest, folding you underneath him, locking you into a perfect mating press. the angle punches another sob from you, your back arching, your legs trembling around his ribs. he presses his chest to yours, his mouth dragging over your ear, your jaw, his voice trembling with sweetness that contrasts the feral rhythm of his body.
“you’re doing so good, baby,” he breathes, kissing your temple, tasting the salt of your tears. “taking me so well. you want it, don’t you? want me to fill you? wanna be round with my baby? wanna feel me every time you move?”
your answer is a mindless moan, another tear slipping from the corner of your eye, your lips barely able to shape the one word that’s left in you: “toru...”
he hums against your skin, his cock grinding impossibly deeper. “that’s it, sweet girl. i’ll fill you up… keep you so full you won’t even remember what it feels like to be empty. i’ll make sure you’re carrying me by the time i’m done. i’ll fuck you so deep that my baby won’t have anywhere else to go.”
his hips slam into you harder, faster, sharp and bruising. you sob beneath him, clutching him, helpless against the rhythm that’s shaking you apart. his voice stays painfully soft, cradling you through it. “not wasting a single drop. i’m gonna fuck you until you’re mine. until you’re pregnant. until there’s nothing left but me inside you.”
“want it…”
his mouth crashes over yours, swallowing your cries, his kiss frantic, messy, desperate. you’re shaking under him, the overstimulation shredding your mind, your body trembling violently, your sobs trapped against his tongue as you beg him wordlessly to keep going, to never stop.
“that’s it,” he whispers, his voice breaking as he chases his release. “that’s it, baby. take it. take it all. take everything i give you.”
he folds you even tighter, pressing so deep you can feel him in places you didn’t know could ache. your orgasm crashes over you again, sharp and blinding, your body convulsing around him, your voice lost to the desperate gasp that splits from your lips. and he breaks with you, thrusting deep as he spills inside you, his cock pulsing hard with every grind, his breath faltering, his voice catching as he pants, “gonna make you mine… gonna make you a mama… gonna keep you full… keep you right here… where you belong.”
but he doesn’t stop.
he keeps grinding, his cock still thick, twitching inside you, his hands trembling where they hold your legs open, determined to keep every drop right where it belongs.
“not done,” he breathes, kissing your cheek, your temple, his voice sweet and low, shaking with the weight of how much he still wants you. “not done with you yet, baby. not until i know. not until i’m sure. not until you’re really mine.”
he rolls his hips again, deliberately, drawing out the stretch, dragging out the feeling, coaxing more choked gasps from you. your body arches weakly into him, clinging, helpless to do anything but take him.
“shh, sweet girl, i’ve got you. i’ll give you everything. i’ll fill you over and over until you can’t hold anything but me. i’ll give you so much you’ll feel me dripping down your thighs when i finally let you go.”
he drags his cock out slowly, savoring the sensation, just to slam back in, forcing another sharp cry from you, your legs trembling where they bracket his ribs.
“you feel so good like this,” he murmurs, his words melting against your skin. “so good and warm and perfect. i’m gonna keep going, baby. you can take it, right? you’ll let me, won’t you? you’ll let me make you mine, over and over, until there’s no space left for anything else?”
a needy whine is all you can give him now, but it’s all he needs.
he smiles against your cheek, soft and breathless, his glasses slipping lower as he kisses you again, his lips trembling against yours. “i know, baby. i know. i’ll take care of everything. i’ll make sure our baby takes. i’ll make sure you’re mine… i’ll make sure you’re full. i’ll keep going until you can’t think about anything but me…”
his pace builds again, steady, deep, his hands stroking your sides, his voice staying low, unbearably tender as he destroys you beneath him.
“i’ll give you all of me, sweet girl,” he promises, his voice cracking even as he drives for more. “all of me. again and again. until you’re carrying me… until you’re round with our baby. until you can’t breathe without thinking about me inside you.”
he shifts his weight, dragging his cock out just enough to thrust deep again, coaxing more desperate cries from you, his breathing rough as his chest brushes yours, his glasses fogged and slipping. his hands tremble where they hold you open, where they keep you pinned beneath him, where they swear to never let you go, as if letting go would unravel him entirely.
“i’ll fill you until you can’t take anymore,” he whispers, his voice raw, his lips dragging along your jaw, his breath hot and uneven. “i’ll give you so much you’ll feel me for days, baby. you’ll feel me dripping out of you every time you stand, every time you move. you’ll feel me inside you every second, every breath, every heartbeat. there won’t be a moment you’re not full of me.”
he slows down just enough to let you breathe, just enough to kiss you, just enough to hear the soft, breathy whimpers that melt into his skin. his glasses are crooked, fogged, his hair clinging to his forehead in damp strands. his lips brush yours, tasting of desperation, tasting of love, tasting of the ache he’s carried through endless nights, his body pressed flush against yours as if he could sink into you, as if he could live inside you if he tried hard enough.
“baby,” he pants, voice trembling, his hand brushing your cheek, lingering there, “roll over for me, yeah? wanna see you all pretty on your hands and knees, wanna see your ass all messy for me, wanna watch you fall apart just for me.”
his words make you shudder beneath him, make your thighs twitch, but you listen, your limbs shaky as you roll over, his hands never leaving you, his palms gliding down your waist, over your hips, steady, grounding, helping you position yourself just right. he murmurs soft praises as he lines you up, kisses pressed to the nape of your neck, to the soft curve of your shoulder, to the swell of your back as you settle on all fours, your face buried in the pillows, your breath already ragged.
“that’s it, pretty girl,” he croons, his voice thick with awe, his eyes roving over your trembling form like he can’t believe you’re his. “look at you, taking me so well. made for me, baby, yeah? your body was made for me, just to take me, just to fall apart on my cock.”
his hand slips between your thighs, his long fingers gathering your slick, coating them generously before pressing two inside you alongside his cock, working you open, stretching you around him until the burn makes you sob into the sheets, makes your hips jerk helplessly, makes you whine from the fullness, from how stuffed you are, the overwhelming stretch making tears prick at your lashes.
your knuckles turn white where you grip the sheets, trembling under the weight of him, under the delicious ache of him, your breath hitching with every slow curl of his fingers inside you. your thighs twitch, thighs spread obediently despite the tremble overtaking them, your skin fever-hot where his palms ground you in place.
his other hand steadies your hips, thumb tracing slow, grounding circles against your skin, his palm firm, his grip sinking into the plush of your waist like he’s afraid you’ll float away if he loosens it even for a second. his hair clings to his forehead in damp, clumpy strands, his cheeks flushed a lovely pink, his glasses slipping lower on his nose, fogged to uselessness but still perched stubbornly there, framing the feverish glint in his eyes.
his lips brush kisses to the curve of your spine, down to the small of your back, each press soft and lingering, like he’s tethering you to him with every touch, like he needs to brand himself into you, to make you feel him everywhere, in every breath, in every heartbeat.
“shh, you’re doing so good,” he breathes, his voice trembling with restraint, placing a tender kiss to the dip of your waist. “so good for me, baby. you’re perfect, y’know that? so perfect when you’re stuffed full of me. i love watching you stretch around me, love feeling you clench when i’m this deep inside you. it’s like your body was made to hold me. you were made to be mine.”
he slides his fingers out slowly, savoring the slick sound, savoring the way your walls flutter around him like you’re begging him to fill you again. your thighs tremble, your hips rocking back in search of him, your breath shuddering as you whine, pitiful and overwhelmed, lips parted, drooling onto the pillow.
the needy arch of your spine makes his chest squeeze, makes his cock throb painfully, makes him press flush against you as he grinds back in, deep and unhurried, pushing as far as he can go, his pace slow but devastating, each thrust a deliberate drag against every sensitive spot that makes you gasp, makes you sob into the pillows.
“that’s it, baby,” he groans, his head falling forward, his damp fringe sticking to his temple, his glasses slipping to the very tip of his nose before he finally pushes them off and tosses them blindly aside. “every time i fuck you like this, you just take me so good, like you’re meant to. you were made to take me, weren’t you? made to fall apart on my cock, yeah?”
his kisses grow more feverish, his lips dragging across your shoulders, the plane of your back, his tongue flicking along the salt of your skin as he grinds deeper, sinking lower with each thrust, each snap of his hips making you whine, making your hands claw weakly at the sheets. he listens to every gasp, every cry, every broken plea you bury into the pillows, savoring the tremble of your thighs, the collapse of your arms, the desperate way you push back into him, chasing the delicious pressure.
then he leans over, his chest pressing against your back until his lips find yours, capturing you in a desperate, clumsy kiss. it’s messy, wet, more panting and whining than kissing, but he drinks every sound from your lips like he’s starving, like he can’t bear to be separated from any part of you. his tongue traces yours, coaxing you into the kiss even as his hips grind into you harder, even as your knees threaten to buckle beneath him, your soft whimpers muffled against his mouth.
“don’t hide from me, pretty girl,” he murmurs between kisses, his breath hot against your lips, his voice honey-sweet and reverent even as he rocks into you deeper. “wanna hear you, wanna feel you, wanna kiss you while you fall apart on me. every sound you make is mine. every little sob, every little plea, mine.”
he chases your orgasm with grinding thrusts, with soft praises that melt into your skin, with kisses that sear into you, that drag along the curve of your spine, that brand you as his. his hands roam across your waist, your sides, your belly, squeezing and caressing as if memorizing the softness of you. and when you come, when your body clamps down around him like a vice, when you tremble and sob against his mouth, he doesn’t stop. he swallows every desperate sound, his pace never faltering, his grip on your hips tightening as he drives through the aftershocks, pulling even more cries from your swollen lips.
“you can take it,” he pants, fucking you through the tremors, his voice shaking with the force of his own unraveling. “you’re doing so good, baby, you’re perfect, you’re perfect, fuck, you’re made for me. made to take me, yeah? you can give me another, can’t you? just one more, pretty girl. just one more.”
his hips snap forward harder, more erratic, his sleeper build fully activated as his fingers dig bruises into your waist, as he holds you steady even as your arms give out, even as you collapse onto the bed, your cheek mashed against the pillow, your body trembling with every rough, desperate thrust. your breath hiccups, your body limp, overstimulated, but he keeps going, keeps coaxing more from you with each deep grind, dragging out your high until your thighs shake uncontrollably.
but he doesn’t stop. his grip doesn’t falter. his praises don’t cease.
he kisses the sweat-slick skin of your back, he whispers against your shoulder, he keeps telling you how good you are, how you were made for him, how he’ll fill you until you’re overflowing, until you’re leaking with him, until you can’t hold it all, until you feel him dripping down your thighs, until it’s all you can feel.
“so good, baby, you’re so good,” he breathes, his voice cracking on the edges, as if your name is the only thing keeping him tethered to this moment. “my sweet girl, my pretty baby, taking me so well. fuck, you’re made for me, you’re perfect.”
he chases his own end with frantic, desperate thrusts, with the wet, obscene slap of skin against skin, with the ragged breath of a man who has no intention of stopping until he’s poured every last drop of himself into you. his fingers flex against your waist, his lips never leaving you, his rhythm a frantic, beautiful mess, his voice breaking with every curse, every sweet nothing he pours into your skin.
and when he finally shatters, when his body tenses and he spills inside you, he groans your name like a prayer, like a curse, like a plea, his hands trembling where they clutch you, his kisses never stopping, his words still tumbling in a broken, reverent stream.
“so good, baby, you’re so good, you’re mine, you’re mine, you’re mine. gonna keep you like this, gonna keep you full, just like this, just like you’re meant to be. wanna see it drip down those pretty thighs.”
his body finally stills, but his hands never leave you, his lips never stop pressing soft, lingering kisses to your back, to your shoulders, to your waist, holding you close as if you might slip away if he lets go.
he stays inside you, buried to the hilt, his breathing shaky, his heart hammering wildly against your spine, his hair clinging to his damp forehead, his cheeks flushed and glowing, his arms curling around your middle to hold you tight, to anchor himself to you, to prolong this feeling of being so deeply connected.
he whispers to you softly now, praises spilling between kisses, his touch gentle but insistent, a man desperate to stay connected, to stay tethered to you in every way he can. his fingertips trace slow, lazy circles against your belly, memorizing the feel of your skin, of your warmth, the little trembles that still ripple through you.
“i’ll fill you up again,” he promises, his voice hoarse and full of love. “i’ll give you more, baby. you can take it. you always take me so well. i’ll keep you like this all night if you let me. just wanna keep you close, keep you mine.”
slowly, he shifts, carefully pulling out, his breath catching at the sight of his spend slipping out of you, leaving a glistening trail along your thighs. he groans softly, pressing a kiss to your lower back, savoring the tremble that runs through you. his thumb brushes over the mark he left there, tracing lazy circles as if to soothe the ache, as if to seal his touch into your skin.
he gently turns you over, cradling your waist, lifting you like you weigh nothing, his strong arms wrapping around you as if you’re something precious. he sits himself at the edge of the bed with you settled in his lap, your shaky thighs straddling him, your chest pressed to his, your breath still hitching as you try to find your footing in the aftermath, your arms barely strong enough to wrap around his shoulders.
his cock, still heavy, still hard, nudges against your entrance, and he shudders at the heat, at the way your body clings to him instinctively, like you never want to let him go. his hands slide over your hips, steadying you, his thumbs brushing slow circles into your skin, his touch reverent, patient, as if savoring the weight of you in his lap.
“come on, pretty girl,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your lips, his voice thick with sweetness and filth, his cerulean eyes glazed with adoration and hunger. “sit on me, yeah? just like this. let me keep you full a little longer. let me feel you, just a little more.”
he guides you down onto him, slow and patient, his large hands warm and steady on your waist as he lowers you inch by inch, savoring the sweet stretch, savoring the tremble that overtakes you as he fills you again, deeper this time, more deliberate, until his hips meet yours with a satisfying press.
your breath hitches, a sharp whimper escaping you, your head falling heavily to his shoulder as you struggle to accommodate him, your body straining around the overwhelming stretch, your fingers digging desperately into the firm muscles of his shoulders, clinging to him like you’ll drown without him.
his breath stutters at the heat of you, at how impossibly tight you are despite how many times he’s already filled you tonight. his pale hair clings damp to his temple, the ends curling from sweat, his cheeks flushed a tender pink, his lips parted and trembling as he exhales shaky, desperate breaths against your ear. his lashes flutter, his throat bobs with every ragged swallow, his entire frame taut, his biceps trembling where they hold you steady, straining to keep his composure, to keep his pace slow, to savor every second inside you.
his hands never leave you, one sliding to cradle your waist, the other splaying wide across your trembling back, as if to press you closer, to anchor you to him, to mold you to his body, to ensure that not even a breath of space separates you. he peppers kisses along your temple, the shell of your ear, your hairline, your jaw, his lips soft but insistent, his voice a low, reverent murmur that vibrates against your skin, as though he’s reciting a prayer only you can hear.
“look at you, baby,” he breathes, pulling back just enough to cradle your cheek in his palm, his thumb brushing away the stray tear that slips down your flushed skin. his ocean eyes are hazy, glassy with tenderness, with something so raw it tightens his throat and makes his breath stutter. “fuck, you’re so pretty when you’re falling apart for me. gonna let me keep you here all night, right? yeah? just like this, full of me. can’t let you go. don’t want to.”
his other hand curls into the nape of your neck, fingers threading through the damp strands of your hair, guiding your forehead to his, breath mingling, lips brushing as he steals soft, lingering kisses between his words, as if he can’t stop, as if he’s starving for you, as if kissing you is the only way he can breathe.
you can only whimper in response, the weight of him, the stretch of him, too much and not enough, your body trembling with the need to give him more, to feel him deeper, to be good for him, to make him proud, to belong to him.
his hands slide back to your waist, his grip steady but gentle as he begins to guide you, controlling your pace, moving you over him in slow, agonizing rolls. his thumbs draw slow, grounding circles into your heated skin, coaxing you to move, to ride him, to fall apart for him again. each time you rock your hips, you shudder, your breath catching on a sob, but he holds you steady, keeps you grounded, murmuring sweet words against your skin.
“shh, i’ve got you, baby. you’re doing so good,” he praises, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath shaky, his lips brushing yours between soft, trembling kisses. his silver lashes flutter with every slight tremble of his hips beneath you, his whole body trembling with restraint, with devotion, with the overwhelming need to stay inside you, to keep you close, to never let you go.
“you can do it, pretty girl,” he whispers, his voice low and rough, savoring every inch, every trembling grind of your hips. “just like that. take your time. i’ve got you. you’re mine. my sweet girl. let me take care of you. let me feel you just a little more.”
your thighs quiver, your movements sluggish and shaky, your whole body threatening to collapse from how sensitive you are, but he holds you, supports you, his hands never faltering as he coaxes you through it, guiding you with soft murmurs, with kisses pressed between your brows, against your fluttering eyelids, against the damp corner of your mouth. his hands roam your back, your ribs, your hips, memorizing the tremble of your skin, the heat of your body, the way you melt so completely into his lap, pliant and sweet.
he watches you, breathless, overwhelmed by how perfect you are, by how much he wants to keep you like this, forever tethered to him, wrapped around him, so utterly his. he savors the little gasps you give him, the soft hiccups in your breath, the desperate way you cling to him even when your body begs for rest, even when you sob softly into his shoulder, overwhelmed but unable to stop, unwilling to pull away.
when you finally falter, too sensitive, too overwhelmed to keep going, your movements slowing to weak, trembling shifts of your hips, he wraps his arms tightly around your waist and takes over, holding you close, keeping you flush against his chest as he grinds up into you in slow, deliberate rolls of his hips, savoring the sweet friction, savoring the little broken sounds you spill against his skin.
his pace is gentle but insistent, dragging sweet friction between your bodies, pulling broken moans from your lips, savoring the way you clutch at him, your fingers knotting in his damp hair, your head buried in his neck like he’s the only thing keeping you whole, the only place you feel safe, the only place you want to be. he feels your nails dig into his skin, your body trembling in his hold, but you don’t pull away. you press closer.
“that’s it, baby, i’ve got you,” he breathes, his voice cracking, trembling with the force of his own need, his own love. “just let me take care of you. just hold on to me. we’ll come together, okay? just like this. i’ve got you. i’ve always got you.”
his forehead presses to yours again, his lips parting to steal soft, desperate kisses, his hands trembling where they clutch you, his chest heaving as he rolls his hips deeper, slower, grinding against every sensitive spot inside you, savoring the desperate whines you spill against his mouth, savoring how you melt completely in his arms.
his voice is little more than a whisper now, ragged and broken, his praises melting into your skin as he rocks into you, chasing the edge with you pressed so sweetly against him, his breathing erratic, his kisses clumsy and endless.
“come with me, baby,” he pleads, his voice thick with love, with need, with desperation, his lips brushing yours as his hands tighten around your waist. “please. just like this. i need to feel you. i need you. just like this. don’t let go.”
you fall apart in his arms, your sobs trembling against his lips, your fingers tangling desperately in his hair as you cling to him, as you come so sweetly, so completely, your body shuddering in his hold, your thighs twitching, your hips stuttering as you grind against him, desperate to draw out the bliss.
he follows soon after, groaning your name like it’s a prayer, like it’s the only word he knows, his hips stuttering as he pours into you, as he holds you impossibly closer, as if he could fuse you to him, as if he could keep you here forever.
when you finally go limp in his arms, when your soft, exhausted breath fans against his neck, he holds you there, cradling you against his chest, his fingers stroking soothing lines along your spine. his hands slide to your thighs, rubbing slow circles, grounding you, savoring the weight of you in his lap, the softness of you, the way you fit so perfectly in his hold, the way you feel like home.
he presses soft kisses to your temple, to your hairline, to your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin, his lips tender and slow, as if he could never kiss you enough, as if he could never hold you long enough.
“so good, baby,” he whispers, his voice thick with tenderness. “my pretty girl. my sweet girl. we can stay like this, yeah? just like this. just you and me. i don’t need anything else.”
he buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breathing finally beginning to steady, his arms curling tighter around you, his whole body relaxing, melting into you as though he could sink into your skin and stay there forever.
you nod weakly, nuzzling into his neck, your lashes damp, your body pliant and warm against him. your arms loop lazily around his shoulders, fingers brushing the nape of his neck, and he presses one last kiss to your temple, one last kiss to your hairline, and he smiles against your skin, utterly content, utterly in love.
neither of you move. neither of you speak. you’re both too tired, too soft, too wrapped in each other to care about anything else, not even the cold dinner waiting in the kitchen.
“we’ll eat later,” he hums, his lips curling against your skin, his voice warm, tender, content. “just wanna stay here a little longer. just wanna keep you close. that’s all i need.”
his arms tighten around you as he buries his face in your shoulder, breathing you in, his body melting into yours, savoring the weight, the warmth, the softness of having you so completely, so entirely his.
mrs. gojo’s terrible, horrible, no good, very good night
pairing — satoru gojo x female reader
synopsis: you’re hiding in the hotel bathroom on your wedding night, having what might be the world’s most elaborate anxiety-induced spa routine while your new husband satoru waits patiently (or not so patiently) in bed. when you finally emerge after two and a half hours of over-conditioning your hair and stress-scrubbing with vanilla body wash, you discover he’s been very much awake and has some opinions about your extended absence. turns out being mrs. gojo comes with certain husband-related benefits that make all that nervous energy very much worth it.
wc — 13.7k ෆ tags -> modern au, fluff, smut, humor, established relationship wedding night, first time, oral sex, fingering, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, praise kink, body worship, dirty talk, mild dacryphilia, multiple rounds, missionary, cowgirl, aftercare, scrumptious art by @/_3aem
a/n: i actually spent this whole weekend writing this beast, so pls clap 😋 very proud of myself for the sheer detail and immersion (and for once, no squirting—personal growth!!). hope you enjoy being wrecked by satoru as much as i enjoyed wrecking my digital keyboard 🫶🏻
you’re going to die in this bathroom.
not from anything dramatic, mind you. not from slipping on the marble floor or drowning in the stupidly deep hotel bathtub. no, you’re going to die from pure, unadulterated cowardice, and they’re going to find your pruney corpse clutching a bottle of complimentary vanilla body wash like it’s a lifeline.
the bathroom has become your fortress of solitude, complete with overpriced hotel toiletries that you’ve been methodically working through for the past—what, hour? two hours? the little clock on the marble counter stopped making sense around the time you started your third full-body scrub routine.
husband. the word sits heavy in your chest, all warm and terrifying and impossible. you keep catching glimpses of the ring on your finger in your peripheral vision and your heart does this stupid stuttering thing every single time.
you’ve washed your hair twice, conditioned it three times, exfoliated until your skin could probably reflect sunlight, and you’re currently working on what might be your fourth round of the complimentary body wash that smells like vanilla and false confidence. the mirror keeps fogging up from your unnecessarily long shower, which is perfect because you don’t particularly want to look yourself in the eye right now and confront whatever expression you’re probably making.
“just making sure i smell good,” you mutter to the pristine tiles, your voice echoing slightly in the marble sanctuary, fingers trembling as they work the lather across your shoulders for what has to be the dozenth time. as if they asked. as if anyone asked. as if satoru isn’t out there probably wondering if you’ve dissolved into the drain or escaped through the bathroom window like some kind of anxious rapunzel.
which, honestly, you’ve considered. you’ve even eyed the window measurements.
the thing is, you love him. love him so much it makes your teeth ache and your hands shake and your brain short-circuit at the worst possible moments—like now, when you’re supposed to be out there being a proper wife instead of hiding behind a locked door like you’re sixteen and scared of your first everything.
because that’s what this is. your first everything that matters.
god, you’re so pathetic it’s not even funny.
another thirty minutes pass in a haze of unnecessary beauty routines. you’ve moved on to deep conditioning your hair (for the second time), applying a face mask you found in the complimentary spa kit, and having a philosophical debate with your reflection about whether it’s possible to die from embarrassment. the water’s been running cold for the last ten minutes, which feels like the universe’s way of telling you to get your act together, but you’re nothing if not committed to your terrible coping mechanisms.
“he’s probably asleep anyway,” you whisper to your pruney fingers, working some expensive hair oil through the ends of your definitely over-conditioned strands. your voice sounds small in the echoing space, almost lost against the gentle patter of water droplets. “it’s late. he had a long day. all that dancing and smiling at your weird relatives and pretending your dad’s jokes were funny. he’s definitely asleep by now.”
you cling to this possibility like it’s the last life raft on a sinking ship.
finally, finally, you run out of bathroom-related tasks to perform without actually dissolving into the marble floor. the robe is fluffy enough to hide in, you smell like a vanilla cupcake, and your skin is soft enough to probably qualify as a health hazard. you take a deep breath that does absolutely nothing for your shot nerves, your hand hesitating on the door handle as your pulse hammers against your throat, and slowly crack open the door like you’re checking for monsters.
the room is dark. quiet. peaceful.
your heart does this stupid little leap of relief mixed with something that might be disappointment but you’re absolutely not examining that feeling right now because that way lies madness.
satoru’s lying on his side of the bed—his side, like you’re actually married now, like this is real life and not some elaborate stress dream—his moon-pale hair catching the faint city light like spilled starlight, each strand gleaming with an almost ethereal luminescence that makes your chest tight. his breathing appears even, peaceful. one long arm stretched across the space where you should be, fingers slightly curled as if reaching for something just out of grasp, like he fell asleep waiting.
the guilt hits you like cold water.
“oh thank god,” you breathe, practically melting with relief as you pad across the stupidly expensive carpet, your bare feet sinking into the plush fibers with each careful step. the hotel room is all warm lighting and soft edges, designed for romance, which makes your neuroses feel even more ridiculous. “i’m so sorry, ’toru,” you whisper to his sleeping form, your voice barely audible as you settle carefully on the very edge of the bed like you’re afraid it might collapse under your anxiety. “i know i took forever. i was just... scared, i guess. which is stupid because it’s you, and i love you more than anything, and i trust you completely, but my brain is just completely broken apparently and i—”
his arm shoots out like a striking snake.
you yelp as you’re suddenly yanked down against his chest, tumbling in an ungraceful heap on top of him, your damp hair cascading around both of you like a curtain. your hands shoot out to catch yourself and suddenly you’re braced against his bare chest, faces inches apart, close enough to see the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheekbones in the dim light. his other arm comes around to trap you against the warm solid length of him, and oh—oh, you can feel everything. the hard planes of his chest, the way his breathing has gone shallow, the heat of him seeping through the thin robe.
his eyes are bright and very much awake in the darkness, pupils blown wide as he stares up at you with the most devastatingly shit-eating grin you’ve ever seen. those impossible blues gleam like summer lightning, electric and dangerous and completely focused on you. there’s something almost predatory in the way he’s looking at you, like he’s a cat who’s finally caught the canary after a very long, very entertaining chase.
“scared?” he purrs, voice rough with what you now realize was completely fake sleep. his thumb traces along your lower lip with deliberate slowness, and you can feel your breath hitch, feel the way your pulse jumps under his touch. “of little old me?”
you’re suddenly, overwhelmingly aware that you’re straddling him. that his hands are spanning your waist with possessive certainty. that there’s nothing but a loosely tied robe between you and—
“you—” you start, face immediately burning hot enough to power the entire hotel, your voice catching as his fingers flex against your ribs. your voice comes out breathier than you intended, barely more than a whisper. “you were awake this whole time?”
“baby,” he laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest where you’re pressed against him, and you can feel the vibration of it everywhere your bodies touch, sending tiny sparks along your nerve endings. his eyes never leave yours, drinking in every micro-expression like he’s been starving for the sight of you, like he’s been counting every second you were apart. “sweetheart. light of my life. did you really think i’d fall asleep on our wedding night? while my wife—” he says the word like he’s savoring something exquisite, his grip on your waist tightening possessively “—was having what sounded like a full spa day in there?”
wife. every time he says it, something flutters dangerously in your chest, made worse by the way his eyes darken every time the word leaves his lips, like it affects him just as much as it affects you.
“i wasn’t having a spa day,” you protest weakly, very much caught and definitely guilty as charged. you try to push yourself up, to put some distance between you and the intensity of his gaze, but his hands keep you exactly where you are with gentle but immovable strength.
“mm-hmm.” one hand comes up to cup your face, thumb tracing your definitely-too-soft cheekbone while his eyes track the movement with laser focus, like he’s memorizing the texture of your skin. “just really, really committed to personal hygiene. for two and a half hours.” his other hand slides up your spine with agonizing slowness, fingers tangling in the damp ends of your hair, the touch sending shivers cascading down your back. “while i was out here going slowly insane, listening to every sound, imagining you in there all wet and—”
“it wasn’t two and a half hours,” you mumble, but you’re pretty sure it actually was, and the way his chest shakes with barely contained laughter beneath you confirms your suspicions.
“i’ve been lying here listening to the water run and trying not to go insane,” he murmurs, and there’s something raw and hungry in his voice now, something that makes your breath catch in your throat and your skin prickle with awareness. his fingers tighten in your hair, not pulling, just holding you in place so you can’t look away from the intensity burning in those crystalline depths. “do you know what that does to a man? knowing his wife is naked and wet just twenty feet away? hearing every little sound and imagining—”
you make some kind of strangled noise that might have been an attempt at words, your hands fisting in the sheets on either side of his head as heat pools low in your belly.
“and now you’re here,” he continues, voice dropping to barely above a whisper, eyes roaming over your face like he’s memorizing every detail—the flush spreading across your cheeks, the way your lips part slightly, the rapid flutter of your pulse in your throat. “and you smell—” he shifts beneath you, pulling you down so he can bury his face in the curve of your neck, inhaling deeply. you feel his lips brush against your pulse point and your entire body goes liquid, melting against him like honey. “—like you bathed in sugar and sin and everything i’ve ever wanted.”
his teeth graze your throat and you gasp, your back arching involuntarily, pressing you closer against him. you feel his sharp intake of breath, the way his hands grip your waist tighter, fingers digging into the soft flesh through the terry cloth.
“how am i supposed to be normal about this?” he murmurs against your skin, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone, each touch of his lips leaving trails of fire. “how am i supposed to be patient when you’re shaking on top of me and making those little sounds?”
your brain has officially left the building. “i was nervous,” you admit in a voice smaller than a whisper, and you can feel him smile against your throat, soft and fond and devastatingly tender.
his expression gentles immediately, but his hands don’t stop their slow, torturous exploration of your waist, fingers tracing patterns that make you shiver and arch into his touch. he shifts beneath you with careful precision, rolling you both over so you’re lying side by side, and suddenly you can breathe again—or maybe breathing becomes even harder when he’s propped up on his elbow, looking down at you with those impossibly expressive eyes full of something soft and hungry and completely devoted.
“hey,” he murmurs, free hand coming up to trace the line of your jaw with reverent touches, thumb brushing over your bottom lip like it’s something precious. “we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. we can just sleep. or talk. or i can go back to pretending to sleep if that was working better for your anxiety.”
the sincerity in his voice, combined with the way he’s looking at you like you hung the stars specifically for him, makes your chest tight with affection so intense it almost hurts.
you huff a laugh despite yourself, some of the overwhelming tension melting into something warmer, more manageable. “you’re impossible.”
“impossibly patient,” he corrects with that crooked smile that makes your heart skip, then grins, and there’s that wicked gleam in his eyes again, playful and dangerous and entirely focused on you. “impossibly understanding. impossibly good-looking.”
“impossibly annoying.”
“mm,” he hums, leaning down to brush his nose against yours in the most devastating display of casual intimacy, close enough that you can feel his breath ghost across your lips, “you married me anyway.” his smile goes soft, private, the kind of expression that’s just for you—vulnerable and wondering and so full of love it makes your chest ache. “so what does that say about your judgment?”
“that it’s terrible,” you whisper, but you’re smiling now too, your hand coming up to rest against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm.
“the absolute worst,” he agrees solemnly, then leans in to brush his lips against yours. soft, questioning, sweet, like he’s asking permission for something you’ve done a thousand times before. but somehow this feels different. more weighted, more significant, like you’re crossing some invisible threshold together.
“better?” he asks against your lips, and you can feel his smile, can taste the hint of champagne still lingering from the reception.
you melt a little, like you always do when he kisses you like you’re something precious. “getting there.”
he kisses you again, deeper this time, his hand threading through your damp hair to cradle the back of your head with infinite care. you sigh against his mouth and he takes it as permission, his tongue tracing your bottom lip until you open for him with a soft sound of surrender. the kiss turns heated, desperate, all the restraint he’s been showing finally starting to crack around the edges like ice beginning to thaw.
his other hand finds your waist, pulling you closer until there’s no space between you, until you can feel every hard line of his body against yours. you make a soft sound into his mouth and he groans in response, the noise vibrating through both of you like a tuning fork.
“you taste like toothpaste,” he murmurs when you break apart, both of you breathing hard. his pupils are blown wide and his hair is mussed from your fingers, those silver-white strands catching the low light like captured moonbeams.
“i brushed my teeth like six times,” you admit, embarrassed, but he just laughs—warm and fond and completely gone for you, the sound rich and delighted.
“i noticed,” he says, pressing kisses to the corner of your mouth, your cheek, the sensitive spot just below your ear that makes you gasp and arch against him. “very thorough. very minty. very you.”
“shut up,” you breathe, but you’re kissing him back now, properly, desperately, the way you couldn’t quite manage to imagine doing an hour ago when you were having your breakdown in the bathroom.
his hands find the belt of your robe, fingers playing with the knot but not undoing it, just threatening to, his knuckles brushing against your stomach in a way that makes your breath hitch and your skin burn. he pulls back to look at you, eyes searching your face in the dim light with an intensity that makes you feel completely seen.
“this okay?” he asks, voice gone lower, rougher, and you can feel the restraint in the careful way he’s touching you, like he’s holding himself back from just devouring you whole.
you nod against his neck, then realize he probably can’t see you properly in the dark. “yeah,” you whisper, then, quieter, more vulnerable: “i don’t really know what i’m doing though.”
something shifts in his expression—hunger mixing with tenderness in a way that makes your chest tight and your core clench with want. “good thing i do,” he says, voice like honey and sin, and there’s something almost reverent in the way he finally, finally tugs the knot loose with careful, deliberate movements.
the robe falls open and satoru goes very, very still above you.
“jesus christ,” he breathes, and his voice cracks slightly on the words, breaking with the weight of his want. his hands hover just above your skin like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he touches you, like you’re something holy that he doesn’t deserve to worship. his eyes roam over you with an intensity that makes you feel like you’re burning from the inside out, taking in every curve, every shadow, every inch of exposed skin like he’s trying to memorize you.
you want to cover yourself, want to hide from the overwhelming way he’s looking at you—like you’re a miracle he never expected to witness—but his expression stops you cold. he’s staring at you like you hung the moon and stars specifically for him, like you’re the answer to every prayer he’s ever whispered in the dark.
“you’re so—” he starts, then stops, swallows hard, his adam’s apple bobbing as he struggles for words, tries again. “god, look at you. you’re perfect. you’re so fucking perfect i can’t—”
his hands finally settle on your waist, warm and sure and slightly trembling, thumbs tracing reverent patterns on your skin like he’s painting prayers across your flesh. you’re both breathing hard now, the air between you electric and charged and ready to snap.
“can i—?” he starts, hands still hovering, asking permission for everything, and the careful restraint in his voice makes something molten pool in your stomach.
“please,” you whisper, and it’s barely audible but it’s enough, more than enough.
his control finally snaps.
his mouth crashes against yours, hungry and desperate and full of months of wanting, and his hands are suddenly everywhere—tracing the line of your spine, mapping the curve of your ribs, learning the shape of you with a patience that makes your chest tight and your head spin. every touch is careful but urgent, like he’s trying to memorize you and claim you and worship you all at once.
“you’re shaking,” he murmurs against your lips, pressing soft kisses to your collarbone, your throat, anywhere he can reach.
“nervous,” you admit, because there’s no point in lying now when you’re spread out beneath him like an offering, your skin flushed and sensitive under his reverent attention.
his mouth pauses against your skin. “want me to stop?”
“no.” the word comes out more desperate than you intended, your hands fisting in his hair, tugging at those soft strands until he groans against your throat. “no, don’t stop. i just—i don’t know what to do with my hands.”
he laughs, warm and fond and completely wrecked, the sound vibrating against your skin. “you don’t have to do anything,” he says, lips trailing down to that sensitive spot where your neck meets your shoulder. “just let me take care of you, yeah? let me make you feel good.”
his mouth finds that spot that makes your back arch and you gasp, pressing involuntarily against him. you feel his sharp intake of breath, feel him smile against your skin when you make a soft, needy sound.
“there we go,” he murmurs, voice like honey and gravel, rough with want. “just like that. you sound so pretty when you—”
his teeth graze your throat and you’re gone, completely gone, arching beneath him like you’re trying to get closer, always closer. his hands are mapping every inch of exposed skin with reverent touches, and when he looks up at you through his lashes—those ridiculous white lashes that frame eyes like captured lightning—eyes dark with want and something deeper, you think you might actually die from how much you love him.
“’toru,” you manage, and his name comes out shakier than you intended, like a prayer torn from your very soul.
“right here,” he murmurs against your skin, placing another open-mouthed kiss just below your ear that makes you shiver and arch into his touch. “not going anywhere. you’re stuck with me now, wife.”
and god help you, but when he settles more firmly between your legs with that hungry, adoring look in his eyes—like he’s about to spend the rest of the night showing you exactly what you’ve been missing during your bathroom crisis—you think you might actually be looking forward to finding out exactly what being his wife is going to mean.
he shifts lower with agonizing deliberation, his hands—strong, warm, capable of wielding infinite power but now gentle as they handle you like spun glass—spreading your thighs wider with slow, purposeful pressure that makes your breath catch in your throat. the cool air of the room kisses your heated skin, each molecule a sharp contrast that sends a shiver rippling through you, goosebumps blooming like tiny constellations across your flesh.
his gaze, those piercing eyes like arctic ice lit from within, pins you in place, making your heart race with a heady mix of vulnerability and desire that leaves you breathless. but then he tilts his head, looking up at you through those infuriatingly long lashes that should be illegal, his eyes absolutely wicked with mischief and unrestrained want, and that familiar, devastating grin spreads across his lips, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring every second of your surrender.
“you know,” he says, his voice low and conversational, dripping with that teasing cadence that makes your toes curl, as his thumbs trace maddeningly slow, lazy patterns on the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, each brush igniting sparks of electricity that pulse straight to your core, making your muscles quiver with anticipation. “i’ve been thinking about this for months. lying awake at night, restless, imagining what you’d taste like, what sounds you’d make when i—” his words trail off, deliberately unfinished, letting your mind spiral with the possibilities as his thumbs press just a fraction harder, sending a wave of heat through you that makes your hips shift restlessly.
“satoru,” you breathe, his name a broken whisper as your face flushes with warmth that spreads from your cheeks down your neck like wildfire, and he laughs—low, rich, and utterly unrepentant, the sound vibrating in his chest like a predator’s purr, sending a thrill through you that settles hot and heavy between your thighs.
“what? we’re married now. i’m allowed to tell my wife all the filthy things i’ve been dreaming about her.” his mouth presses a soft, lingering kiss to the inside of your thigh, his lips warm and slightly damp, the contact searing as it lingers, branding your skin with heat. then another kiss, higher, closer to where you’re already aching for him, each touch leaving a trail of tingling embers that make you squirm against the sheets. “and trust me, baby, i’ve been dreaming about everything.”
your breath hitches, a sharp gasp that echoes in the quiet room, when his mouth reaches the delicate crease where your thigh meets your hip, his tongue darting out with a slow, deliberate swipe, the wet heat of it making your toes curl and your fingers clutch desperately at the expensive sheets. he hums appreciatively, the sound low and resonant, vibrating through your flesh like a current, as if you’re the most exquisite thing he’s ever tasted. his lips linger, brushing softly, teasingly, before he pulls back just enough to let his breath ghost over the damp patch he’s left, cool against your overheated skin.
“gonna take my time with you,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice a low rumble that sinks into your bones like a sacred vow. his hands slide under your thighs with deliberate care, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he lifts them, draping them over his broad shoulders with a slow, reverent motion. the position opens you completely, baring you to his gaze, every inch of you exposed in a way that feels thrillingly intimate, your core pulsing with anticipation that borders on desperation. “gonna make you fall apart so many times you forget your own name. think you can handle that, wife?”
you open your mouth to answer, but the words dissolve into a broken moan as his tongue drags a slow, deliberate stripe up your center, the sensation overwhelming—wet, warm, and impossibly perfect, sending shockwaves through your entire body that make your vision blur at the edges. pleasure radiates outward like ripples in still water, making your fingers clench the sheets so hard your knuckles go white, your hips lifting instinctively toward his wicked mouth. he groans in response, a deep, primal sound that vibrates against you, and your hands fly to tangle in his hair, tugging at those soft, impossible strands as you surrender completely to the sensations he’s creating.
“fuck, you taste even better than i imagined,” he breathes against your slick skin, his voice rough with desire, the cool exhale making you shudder and whimper his name like a broken prayer. then he dives back in with an enthusiasm that makes your head spin, his tongue working you with methodical precision, like he’s studied every sensitive spot and planned exactly how to unravel you.
he’s thorough—alternating between broad, flat strokes that make your entire body tense with electric pleasure, and focused attention on your clit, his tongue flicking and circling with devastating accuracy until you’re writhing beneath him, hips bucking greedily against his mouth. occasionally, he dips lower, his tongue plunging into you with obscene, wet sounds that make your cheeks burn and your core clench around the intrusion, every nerve alight with pleasure that builds in relentless waves.
when you’re teetering on the edge, thighs trembling around his head like leaves in a storm, your voice a broken chant of his name echoing off the hotel room walls, he pulls back just enough to fix you with those predatory eyes—twin flames in the darkness that seem to see straight through to your soul. his chin glistens with your arousal, a wicked grin curling his lips as he drinks in your desperate whimper, the loss of his mouth agonizing, your clit throbbing and swollen with need. “not yet,” he says, his voice smug and teasing, relishing your need like fine wine. “told you i was gonna take my time.”
he does it again. and again. each time, he builds you up with that sinful mouth, pushing you to the very brink until you’re sobbing with need, tears of pure want streaming down your cheeks, your body so wound up it feels like you might shatter into a thousand pieces. the denial sharpens every sensation—each touch of his lips, each flick of his tongue feels electric, amplified by the sweet torment of being held at the edge. your breaths come in ragged gasps, each one a struggle against the overwhelming desire consuming you from the inside out.
“please,” you gasp, your hands fisted in his hair hard enough that it has to hurt, tugging until he moans against you, the sound low and filthy, as if the pain only drives him wilder. your voice breaks, raw and desperate, a plea torn from the very depths of your need. “satoru, please—”
“please what?” he asks, his tone wickedly innocent as he presses a soft, teasing kiss to your clit, the brief contact sending a jolt through your oversensitive flesh that makes you cry out. the slight suction of his lips is nowhere near enough to satisfy the ache building inside you. “use your words, sweetheart.”
“let me come,” you beg, too consumed by need to feel any shame, your hips bucking up desperately, chasing his mouth with single-minded desperation. your slickness makes everything wet and messy, dripping down your thighs in a way that would embarrass you if you had any coherent thoughts left. “please, i need—i can’t—”
“there’s my good girl,” he purrs, the praise dripping with satisfaction that makes your core clench with want, and finally, finally, he gives you what you crave. his mouth seals over your clit with slow, deliberate pressure, sucking in a rhythm that’s both perfect and utterly devastating, sending you screaming his name as the first orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave. it’s blinding, your vision whiting out as pleasure explodes through every nerve, your body convulsing, thighs clamping around his head as wave after wave of ecstasy tears through you, leaving you trembling and gasping.
but he doesn’t stop. doesn’t even slow. his tongue continues its relentless assault, working you through the aftershocks with a ferocity that sends you spiraling into overstimulation, your body so sensitive it’s almost too much to bear. you’re pliant, completely at his mercy, your hips lifting to meet every flick of his tongue, every suck of his lips, your moans turning into soft, broken whimpers as you surrender to the intensity. “satoru,” you gasp, your voice trembling with awe and desperation, your hands tugging at his hair, urging him closer, deeper, wanting more despite the overwhelming sensation.
“fuck, you’re perfect,” he breathes against you, the words vibrating through your swollen clit and making you cry out as the sensation sends fresh sparks through your overloaded nervous system. “love how you just take it, how you let me do whatever i want to this sweet cunt.” his enthusiasm is infectious, making you arch into him, your body greedy for every touch, every stroke, as he dives back in with renewed fervor.
the second orgasm builds faster, your body already primed and hypersensitive, every nerve singing with electric pleasure. when it hits, you’re crying openly, tears streaming down your face from the sheer intensity, the pleasure so overwhelming it feels like it’s rewriting your very dna. you’re pliant, melting into him, your body arching off the bed in a perfect bow as the climax rips through you, your walls fluttering with desperate need even as you shake and sob, completely undone.
“look at you,” he breathes, pulling back just enough to admire his handiwork, his voice thick with awe and barely restrained lust. you catch your reflection in his blown-out pupils—wrecked and radiant, your face flushed with pleasure, lips parted as you struggle to breathe, eyes glassy with tears of bliss. his chin glistens with your arousal, his lips swollen and wet, and the sight is so obscene it makes your core clench with renewed want. “crying from how good i make you feel. you’re so fucking beautiful like this.”
he slides two fingers inside you with slow, deliberate ease, your body so eager and wet that they slip in effortlessly, your walls welcoming the intrusion with a flutter of pleasure. his fingers feel impossibly long, thicker than your own, reaching deeper and brushing against spots that make you gasp sharply and see stars behind your closed eyelids. he starts a slow, torturous rhythm, curling them just right to hit that perfect spot inside you that makes your back arch off the bed, each movement sending electricity shooting through your veins. his thumb circles your oversensitive clit with feather-light touches, the barest pressure enough to make you jolt and whimper.
“one more,” he says, his voice low and commanding as he adds a third finger, the stretch a sweet, burning ache that makes you keen, your body eagerly accommodating him. you can hear the obscene wet sounds of his fingers moving inside you, your slickness coating his hand and dripping down your thighs, making everything messy and perfect. “give me one more and then i’ll give you my cock. you want that, don’t you? want me to fill you up?”
you nod frantically, words beyond you, your mind too scrambled by pleasure to form anything coherent beyond broken moans and gasps of his name.
he grins, absolutely feral with satisfaction at reducing you to this trembling, needy mess. “can’t hear you, baby,” he teases, his voice a low growl that makes your core clench around his fingers.
“yes,” you sob, your voice hoarse and broken from all the sounds he’s pulled from you, “yes, want it, want you—need you inside me—”
“good girl,” he purrs, and his fingers pick up speed, each thrust hitting that perfect spot with devastating precision while his mouth returns to your clit, the dual assault pushing you toward the edge with terrifying speed. the third orgasm rips through you like lightning, your body convulsing, walls clenching around his fingers as you gush, the wetness soaking his hand, your thighs, the expensive sheets beneath you. you’re crying so hard you can barely breathe, the intensity leaving you trembling and shattered, but you’re still pliant, still aching for more, your body singing for him.
“perfect,” he murmurs, slowly withdrawing his fingers, the loss making you whimper softly. he brings them to his mouth, licking them clean with a deep, appreciative groan that makes your core clench around nothing, the visual so filthy it’s almost enough to push you over again. “absolutely perfect. taste so fucking good.”
he crawls back up your body with slow, predatory grace, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your hip bone, the dip of your waist, the soft valley between your breasts. your skin is hypersensitive, still thrumming from your orgasms, and each brush of his lips sends aftershocks rippling through you. when he reaches your mouth, he kisses you deeply, his tongue sliding against yours, letting you taste yourself—sweet and musky and intimate in a way that makes you moan into his mouth.
“still with me?” he asks softly, his voice carrying a thread of genuine concern even as his cock throbs against your thigh, hard and leaking, the heat of it searing against your sensitive skin. those ethereal strands of hair fall across his forehead like scattered moonlight, and his wedding ring catches the dim light as he cups your face, the cool metal a stark contrast against your flushed cheek.
“yeah,” you whisper, your voice wrecked, raw from moaning and crying out his name. “want you. need you inside me.”
his pupils dilate further, his breathing shallow, a faint tremor running through his powerful frame. “fuck, when you say things like that—” he breaks off, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath hot and uneven against your lips. “you sure you’re ready? you’ve come so hard already, don’t want to overwhelm you.”
your heart swells at his care, but your body is desperate, aching for him with a need that borders on painful. “please, ’toru. want to feel you. need you.”
he reaches between your bodies, wrapping his hand around himself, and you catch a glimpse of him—long, thick, intimidatingly perfect, the tip flushed a deep pink and glistening with pre-cum that beads and drips in the low light. when he positions himself at your entrance, you feel the heat of him, the weight, the promise of what’s to come, and your breath catches, your body already anticipating the stretch and burn of taking him inside you. “gonna go slow,” he murmurs, his eyes locked on yours, searching for any flicker of hesitation, but all he finds is your eager need reflected back at him.
he pushes inside with excruciating slowness, just the head at first, and the stretch is immediate, a burning fullness that makes you gasp, your walls fluttering around him as your body adjusts. his cock is hot, pulsing, the thick tip parting you with a deliberate pressure that feels both overwhelming and perfect, your slickness easing the way but not diminishing the intensity. your nails dig into his shoulders, leaving crescent marks as you cling to him, your breath hitching as he sinks deeper, inch by torturous inch. the sensation is exquisite—every ridge, every vein dragging against your sensitive walls, filling you in a way that makes your toes curl, your hips lifting to meet him instinctively.
his face is a study in restraint, his jaw clenched tight, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple as he fights to keep his movements slow, controlled. those pale strands of his hair—silvered moonlight caught in silk—fall across his forehead in disheveled waves, darkened with perspiration and trembling with each labored breath. his eyes flutter shut for a moment, lashes casting shadows on his cheekbones, a low groan rumbling from his chest as he sinks another inch, the stretch making you whimper, your walls clenching around him greedily. when he opens them again, those impossibly cerulean depths have gone molten, like arctic ice melting under flame.
“fuck, you’re so tight,” he breathes, voice rough, almost broken, fingers trembling against your cheek before his lips brush your skin—your cheeks, your eyelids—soft and grounding, his free hand finding yours, fingers intertwining, your wedding rings clicking together in a sound that makes your chest ache.
“more,” you whisper, your voice trembling with need, chest rising and falling rapidly against his, the burn fading into a warm, full sensation that has you desperate for him to move. your silk chemise, the one you’d chosen specially for tonight, bunches around your waist, the delicate lace trim pressed between your bodies.
he pushes deeper, each inch a slow, sensual invasion, his cock stretching you wider, filling you completely, the sensation so intense it’s almost too much, yet exactly what you crave. you feel every detail—the way his shaft pulses inside you, the slight curve that presses against your walls just right, the slick glide of him as your arousal coats him, making every movement smooth but deliberate. his breathing becomes more ragged, those arctic depths of his eyes never leaving your face, cataloging every micro-expression, every flutter of your lashes.
when he’s halfway seated, you’re panting, your body trembling with the effort of accommodating him, your manicured nails—still perfect from this morning’s appointment—digging crescents into his shoulders, but you’re pliant, eager, your hips tilting up to take more of him.
“breathe, baby,” he whispers, his voice strained, rough with the effort of holding back, those moonlight strands sticking to his forehead as he trembles above you. his lips press against your temple, lingering, and you can feel the tension in his body, his muscles trembling as he fights to keep from thrusting too fast. when you look up at him, his expression is devastating—eyebrows drawn together in concentration, that perfect mouth slightly parted, eyes blazing with something between worship and desperation. “you’re doing so good, taking me so well.”
he sinks deeper, and you moan, long and low, as he fills you completely, his hips flush against yours, his cock seated so deep you can feel him pressing against your cervix, a sweet, aching pressure that makes your eyes water with pleasure. you’ve never felt so full, so claimed, every nerve alight with the sensation of him inside you, his heartbeat pulsing through his cock, syncing with yours. he goes still, letting you adjust, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath ragged, those ethereal eyes half-lidded but burning with intensity as he watches your every reaction, like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
“you feel incredible,” he breathes against your ear, his voice raw, trembling with need, and you can feel his smile against your skin. “so tight, so perfect. made for me.”
he starts to move, pulling out with agonizing slowness, those pale lashes fluttering as his eyes nearly roll back, the drag of his cock against your walls sending sparks of pleasure through you, every inch igniting new nerve endings. then he thrusts back in, deliberate and deep, each movement hitting that perfect spot inside you that makes stars explode behind your eyelids, your silk-clad back arching against the expensive sheets. his expression is feral now, pupils blown wide until only thin rings of that impossible color remain, lips parted as he pants, but there’s a tenderness in the way he watches you, cataloging every moan, every shudder, as if he’s memorizing how you look when you’re lost in him.
“you’re so beautiful like this,” he murmurs, his eyes roaming over your face—your flushed cheeks, parted lips, glassy eyes—before drifting down to where your chemise has ridden up, revealing the delicate gold chain around your waist, a wedding gift from this morning. his fingers trace it reverently, the cool metal a stark contrast to your heated skin. “all flushed and perfect, taking my cock so well. my wife.” the word sends a fresh wave of arousal through you, your walls clenching around him, making him curse under his breath, a low, filthy sound that makes you shiver, your pearl earrings catching the lamplight as your head falls back against the pillows.
his thrusts grow deeper, more urgent, his control fraying as he feels you respond, your body pliant and eager, meeting every movement with a roll of your hips. the wet sounds of your bodies moving together are obscene, perfect, filling the room with the slick rhythm of your connection. those moonbeam strands of his hair fall into his eyes, and when he tosses his head to clear them, the movement is so unconsciously graceful it makes your heart stutter. you’re so sensitive, so primed, that every thrust sends sparks through you, building another orgasm faster than you thought possible, your wedding bracelet sliding up your wrist as you reach for him.
“’toru,” you gasp, your voice trembling with awe, hands clinging to his shoulders as another climax builds, unstoppable, your painted nails leaving marks on his perfect skin. “i’m—”
“i know, baby,” he groans, voice rough, desperate, and there’s something almost reverent in the way he looks at you, like you’re a goddess he’s been blessed to touch. “i can feel you getting tight around me. gonna come on my cock? gonna show me how good i make you feel?” his words push you over, and the fourth orgasm crashes through you with devastating intensity, your walls clamping down on him like a vice, a broken moan spilling from your lips as your body convulses, pleasure tearing through you while your silk chemise clings to your sweat-dampened skin. he follows with a deep, guttural groan, spilling inside you with hot, pulsing spurts that fill you completely, the warmth seeping into you as you shudder around him, those celestial eyes never leaving your face.
you’re still trembling, your body pliant and boneless, when he lifts his head, those arctic depths now glinting with unrestrained hunger, his hair a beautiful disaster of silver threads. “told you we were just getting started,” he growls, voice rough with satisfaction as he starts moving again without pulling out, your oversensitive walls fluttering around his still-hard length. you moan, your body so responsive that the overstimulation feels like a delicious torment, every thrust sending fresh waves of pleasure through you, your delicate gold jewelry catching the light with each movement.
you’re completely pliant now, your body melting into his, your hips lifting to meet each of his thrusts, eager for more despite the intensity, your chemise twisted and bunched between you. “satoru,” you whimper, voice soft and needy, urging him on as he sets a deeper, more demanding rhythm, each thrust hitting so deep it steals your breath, your wedding ring glinting as you grip the sheets.
“love how you take it,” he growls, his grin wicked as he watches you, those ethereal strands falling across his forehead as he moves, his hands gripping your hips tight enough to bruise, guiding your movements. “my perfect wife, letting me fuck you like this.” his pace is relentless now, his cock driving into you with devastating precision, the new angle making him feel impossibly deeper, each thrust sending shockwaves through your trembling body while your silk chemise rides up further, exposing more of your heated skin.
“look at me,” he commands, voice rough with authority, and when your eyes meet his, he grins at your fucked-out expression—your lips trembling, eyes glassy with pleasure, your carefully styled hair now a beautiful mess against the pillows. “there’s my pretty wife. taking my cock so well, falling apart for me.”
his thrusts are rougher now, more primal, his body slamming into yours with a force that makes your breasts bounce beneath the silk, your breath hitching with every impact, the delicate fabric clinging to your overheated skin. you’re lost in him, your body pliant, every nerve singing with overstimulation as he drives you toward another peak, your manicured fingers clutching desperately at his shoulders. “can’t get enough of you,” you moan, voice breaking with need, your walls clenching around him as another orgasm builds, unstoppable.
“that’s it,” he growls, his thumb finding your swollen clit and rubbing merciless circles, the pressure sending sparks through you while those impossible eyes—like winter sky split by lightning—burn into yours. “come for me again, baby. show me how much you love this.” the fifth orgasm rips through you with a raw, broken scream, your body convulsing so hard you nearly black out, pleasure tearing through you like a storm while your silk chemise clings to every curve. he fucks you through it, relentless, his cock driving into you as your walls spasm around him, drawing a deep groan from his throat as he watches you shatter, those moonlight strands dark with sweat.
“beautiful,” he breathes, leaning down to lick the tears from your cheeks, the action so filthy and intimate it makes you clench around him again, pulling another low moan from him as his pale lashes flutter. “absolutely fucking beautiful.”
he comes again with a deep, primal groan, filling you even more, and you think you might get a reprieve, but he’s still hard, still moving, those arctic depths burning with insatiable hunger. his grin is pure sin as he flips you both over with a smooth, practiced motion, settling you on top of him, his cock sinking even deeper as you straddle him, your chemise falling around you like liquid silk. the movement makes you cry out, the new angle overwhelming.
your thighs shake as you try to lift yourself, muscles like jelly from the thorough fucking you’ve received, your wedding jewelry catching the light as you tremble. “satoru,” you whimper, voice trembling with need, but you’re eager, your hips rolling instinctively as you take him deeper, the silk of your chemise brushing against his chest.
“that’s my girl,” he says, hands gripping your waist tight enough to bruise, fingers digging into your soft flesh with possessive strength, his pale hair spread across the dark pillows like spilled starlight. “just let me move you.” he bounces you on his cock with ease, using you like his personal toy, and you’re so pliant, so responsive, that you gush around him, your slickness coating him as he moves you. you brace your hands on his chest, feeling the hard planes of muscle beneath your palms, your delicate jewelry sliding with each movement, and let him manhandle you, your body singing with pleasure.
“love how you feel,” he groans, those ethereal eyes drinking in every expression—your parted lips, your glassy eyes, the tears still streaming down your cheeks, the way your silk chemise clings to your curves. “my perfect little wife, letting me use this sweet cunt however i want.” his hands move to your breasts, squeezing and kneading through the silk with a roughness that makes you gasp, his fingers finding your sensitive nipples and pinching, rolling them until you arch and moan, the sensation amplifying the pleasure of his cock inside you.
“so fucking responsive,” he growls, pinching harder just to hear your whimper, the sound making his cock twitch inside you while those pale strands stick to his temples. “these pretty tits were made for my hands.” the dual sensation of him filling you completely while he tortures your sensitive peaks through the delicate fabric has you coming again, your walls spasming around his thick length as you sob his name, the sound raw and desperate, your jewelry catching the light as you convulse.
“that’s five,” he says with smug satisfaction, but his hands never stop, one still tormenting your breast while the other slides down to rub your clit with relentless precision, those impossible eyes—like arctic fire—blazing up at you. “one more, baby. know you’ve got it in you.” you’re too far gone to protest, your body eager, pliant, building toward another peak despite the overwhelming sensation. when it hits, you scream, the sound raw and broken as your body convulses uncontrollably, your walls clamping down on him as pleasure rips through you, leaving you trembling and spent while your chemise clings to your sweat-dampened skin.
he comes with a deep groan, pulling you down flush against his chest, his arms wrapping around you possessively as he fills you again, his cock pulsing inside you. you’re both slick with sweat, breathing hard, and you can feel his cum leaking out around his softening cock, the sensation messy and intimate. those moonlight strands are completely destroyed now, sticking up at impossible angles, and there’s something endearingly human about the way he looks—flushed and breathing hard, no longer the untouchable deity he sometimes seems.
“six,” he says with smug satisfaction, pressing a kiss to your hair, his voice gone soft and wondering. “my perfect wife gave me six orgasms on our wedding night.”
you can barely form words, completely wrung out and shaking in his arms, your silk chemise twisted around you. your voice comes out as barely a whisper, throat raw from all the sounds he pulled from you. “you’re insane.”
“insane for you,” he agrees easily, voice gone all breathy and soft in a way that makes your stomach flutter even now, his fingers already starting to card through your hair with infinite gentleness. his hands have completely transformed—no longer possessive and demanding, but gentle, reverent almost, stroking your back in soothing circles. his touch is feather-light now, careful of your oversensitive skin, and when you peek up at him through your lashes, those ethereal features have softened into something so tender it makes your chest tight. “but i think you’ve had enough for tonight. let’s get you cleaned up.”
his eyebrows—pale as winter frost—knit together in concern when you make a small sound of protest, your body feeling like overcooked pasta as he tries to lift you. there’s something almost comically serious about the way he studies your face, those impossible depths searching for any sign of discomfort, like he’s trying to decode whether you’re actually uncomfortable or just being dramatic.
“i’ve got you, baby,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to your temple that’s so gentle it makes you want to cry, his lips warm against your skin. “just let me take care of you, yeah?”
when he stands, carrying you bridal style toward the bathroom with exaggerated care—like you’re made of spun glass and might shatter if he moves too quickly—you can’t help but notice he’s finally showing signs of exertion. those silver strands are completely destroyed, sticking up at impossible angles from your hands, and there’s a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead that catches the light, making his skin look luminous. his chest rises and falls just a little too quickly, cheeks flushed pink in a way that makes him look younger, almost boyish, those celestial eyes soft with satisfaction and something deeper.
“good thing you’ve got stamina,” you mumble against his shoulder, words slightly slurred from exhaustion, and you feel more than hear his laugh—a warm rumble that vibrates through his chest.
he sets you down carefully on the marble counter, hands steady on your waist, thumb rubbing small circles against your hip bones through the twisted silk of your chemise. there’s something almost smug about his grin as he reaches for the faucet, but it’s tempered by the soft way those arctic depths keep darting to your face to check that you’re okay, his pale lashes casting shadows on his cheeks.
“baby, that wasn’t even close to my limit,” he says, and there’s that familiar cocky tilt to his chin even as his cheeks flush darker, those moonlight strands falling across his forehead. “but it’s both our first time, so i was being nice.” his voice drops to something softer, more vulnerable, those impossible eyes suddenly uncertain. “didn’t want to break you on our wedding night.”
the thought of him holding back makes you shiver despite the warm air, your mind immediately conjuring images of what ‘not holding back’ might look like. he notices the shiver immediately, those ridiculous eyes going wide with concern as his hands fly up to cup your face, his touch impossibly gentle.
“cold?” he asks, eyebrows doing that thing where they scrunch together—pale and expressive—like you’re the most important problem he’s ever had to solve.
you shake your head, but he’s already reaching for one of the plush hotel robes, expression so seriously focused on the task of wrapping it around your shoulders that you have to bite back a smile, those silver strands falling into his eyes as he works. “just thinking about you not being nice,” you admit quietly.
his hands still on the robe ties, and when you look up, his pupils have dilated again, those ethereal depths darkening with familiar hunger before he visibly shakes himself, his pale lashes fluttering. “dangerous thoughts, mrs. gojo,” he murmurs, voice rough, but then he’s back to fussing with the robe, making sure it covers you properly. the whiplash between his desire and his care makes your heart skip.
he runs the bath with the intensity of a man performing surgery, testing the temperature obsessively—first with his fingers, then his wrist, then his elbow, brow furrowed in concentration, those moonlight strands falling across his face. you watch him, mesmerized by how someone so chaotic and playful can become so methodical when it comes to taking care of you, those impossible eyes focused with laser precision.
“’toru,” you say softly, and he glances over his shoulder with a questioning hum, those arctic depths immediately softening. “it’s just a bath.”
his expression turns mock-offended, like you’ve just insulted his honor, one eyebrow arching dramatically. “just a bath?” he repeats, one hand pressed dramatically to his chest, those pale fingers splayed across his heart. “this is my wife’s first post-wedding-night bath. there are standards to maintain.”
the word ‘wife’ still makes something flutter dangerously in your chest, especially when he says it with that soft, wondering tone—like he can’t quite believe it himself, those ethereal features glowing with happiness. he turns back to the faucet, adding what seems like an entire bottle of expensive bath oils to the water, his movements precise and careful.
“perfect temperature,” he announces proudly, like he’s just solved world hunger, then spins around with the brightest grin, those impossible eyes sparkling with satisfaction. “ready, beautiful?”
the water is absolute heaven against your overheated, oversensitive skin. you can’t help the little sigh of relief that escapes as you sink into the warmth, muscles you didn’t even realize were tense finally beginning to relax. satoru slides in behind you a moment later, long legs bracketing yours as he pulls you back against his chest, his skin still warm and perfect against yours.
“better?” his voice is barely above a whisper, lips brushing your temple, and you can only nod, melting back against him.
his hands are impossibly gentle as he reaches for the expensive shampoo, and there’s something almost reverent about the way he works it into your hair. his fingers massage your scalp in slow, methodical circles, and you can see his reflection in the mirror across from the tub—tongue poking out slightly in concentration, those pale eyebrows drawn together like washing your hair is the most important task he’s ever been assigned, his silver strands damp and curling slightly from the steam.
“such pretty hair,” he murmurs, voice gone soft and wondering, like he’s sharing a secret with the universe, his fingers working through the strands with infinite care. “so soft. been wanting to do this for ages.” when you let out a small, content sound and let your head fall back against his shoulder, his entire expression lights up like christmas morning, those ethereal depths sparkling with joy. “yeah? feels good?”
you nod sleepily, eyes fluttering closed, and he practically preens with satisfaction. every movement is deliberate, careful, his usual manic energy replaced by something tender and focused that makes your heart squeeze. when he tips your head back to rinse the shampoo out, his other hand automatically comes up to cup your forehead, protecting your eyes from the water, those pale fingers gentle against your skin.
“there we go,” he says quietly, pressing a kiss to your wet temple with a smile so soft it makes you want to cry, his lips warm and reverent. “perfect. you’re so perfect.”
the conditioner gets the same treatment—gentle fingers working through the strands, detangling carefully, never pulling or tugging. then he’s reaching for the washcloth, soaking it in the warm water and beginning to clean you with touches so soft they’re barely there, those impossible eyes focused and tender.
“arms up, sweetheart,” he whispers, and when you comply, he washes under your arms, along your ribs, between your fingers with the kind of thorough attention that makes your heart squeeze. every touch is reverent, worshipful, like he’s memorizing the feel of your skin under his hands, those arctic depths soft with wonder.
when the cloth moves lower, ghosting over your breasts with clinical precision, you tense slightly—still so sensitive from his earlier attention. his movements immediately still, and when you glance up, his face has gone all soft and concerned, those pale eyebrows knitting together in worry.
“you okay?” he asks immediately, free hand coming up to stroke your cheek with infinite gentleness. “too much? i can stop—”
“no,” you whisper, relaxing back against him with a small smile that makes his shoulders drop with relief, those ethereal features melting with tenderness. “just... still sensitive.”
his expression melts into something apologetic and tender, those impossible eyes going soft with understanding. “sorry, baby,” he murmurs, pressing a gentle kiss to your shoulder, his lips feather-light against your skin. “i’ll be more careful. promise.”
and he is. when he washes between your thighs, his touch becomes impossibly gentle, clinical in the best way—just taking care of you, cleaning away the evidence of your activities with the kind of careful attention that’s somehow more intimate than anything that came before. there’s something about the way he focuses on the task, bottom lip caught between his teeth in concentration, those silver strands falling across his face, that makes your chest tight with affection.
“lean forward for me?” he asks softly, and when you do, he washes your back with the same careful attention, working out knots in your shoulders you didn’t realize were there, his fingers strong and sure against your skin.
by the time he’s finished, you’re completely boneless, practically purring under his gentle ministrations. the water has cooled slightly, but his body heat keeps you warm, arms wrapped loosely around your waist, those impossible eyes soft and content.
“think you’re ready to get out?” he asks after a few more minutes of comfortable silence, lips moving against your hair.
you nod sleepily, and he helps you stand on legs that feel like jelly, hands immediately shooting to your elbows to steady you. there’s something almost comically protective about the way he hovers, like he’s expecting you to topple over at any second, those ethereal features creased with concern. the towel he wraps around you is impossibly warm—and when you give him a questioning look, he grins sheepishly, those pale cheeks flushing pink.
“may have stuck it in the towel warmer while you were soaking,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck, those silver strands sticking up at odd angles. “wanted everything to be perfect.”
the casual thoughtfulness of it makes your heart skip, and when you smile at him—soft and grateful and so full of love—his cheeks flush pink again, those impossible eyes going wide with wonder. “you’re ridiculous,” you tell him fondly.
“ridiculously thoughtful,” he corrects with a grin that’s equal parts smug and bashful, those arctic depths sparkling with mischief. “ridiculously devoted. ridiculously—”
“ridiculously annoying,” you interrupt, but you’re laughing as he gasps in mock offense, one hand pressed dramatically to his chest.
“my wife thinks i’m annoying,” he announces to the bathroom mirror, pressing a dramatic hand to his forehead, though his eyes are sparkling with laughter. “how will i ever recover?”
“by drying my hair before i catch pneumonia,” you suggest, still giggling, and his expression immediately shifts back to serious concern, those pale eyebrows drawing together.
“right, yes, hair,” he says, reaching for another towel with renewed focus, his movements suddenly purposeful. “can’t have my wife getting sick on our honeymoon.”
he takes another towel and begins patting your hair dry with the same careful attention he showed in the bath, his touch gentle and methodical. “don’t want to tangle it,” he explains quietly when he catches you watching him, and something about the casual intimacy of it—this powerful, overwhelming man being so careful with your hair—makes your eyes prick with unexpected tears.
he notices immediately, free hand coming up to cup your cheek, those ethereal depths immediately filling with concern. “hey, what’s wrong?”
“nothing,” you whisper, leaning into his touch, his palm warm against your skin. “just... you’re being so sweet.”
his expression goes soft, thumb brushing away a stray tear with infinite gentleness. “you’re my wife now,” he says simply, like that explains everything, those impossible eyes soft with wonder. “of course i’m going to take care of you.”
wife. the word makes your heart stutter like it always does, especially when he says it with that soft, wondering tone—like he still can’t quite believe he gets to call you that, those arctic depths glowing with happiness.
when you’re dry, he disappears briefly into the main room with a quick “be right back!” thrown over his shoulder, and you can hear him rummaging around, muttering to himself. he returns moments later with one of his t-shirts and a pair of your favorite sleep shorts, looking ridiculously pleased with himself, those silver strands still mussed from sleep and steam.
“lifted them from your apartment last week,” he admits with a grin that’s equal parts sheepish and unrepentant when he catches your questioning look, his cheeks flushing that pretty pink again. “wanted to make sure you’d be comfortable tonight. may have also grabbed your favorite pillow, that body wash you always use, and those weird face masks you love.”
your mouth falls open. “you planned this? the aftercare supplies?”
his cheeks flush pink, and he rubs the back of his neck with a bashful smile, those impossible eyes suddenly shy. “maybe researched a little. wanted to do it right.” then, with a return of his usual cockiness: “first time for everything, but i’m nothing if not thorough.”
the shirt is huge on you, hanging almost to your knees, and it smells like him—clean and warm and safe and home. the shorts are your favorites, the ones that are almost too soft from years of washing, and the fact that he noticed, that he thought to bring them, makes something warm bloom in your chest.
“you’re completely ridiculous,” you mumble, but your smile is so wide it hurts your cheeks, and when he sees it, his whole face lights up like he’s just won the lottery, those ethereal features practically glowing.
“ridiculously prepared,” he corrects, scooping you up again with exaggerated care, those impossible eyes soft with affection. “ridiculously considerate. ridiculously—”
“if you say ‘ridiculously handsome’ i’m filing for divorce,” you threaten, but you’re giggling against his neck as he carries you back to the bedroom.
“was gonna say ‘ridiculously in love with my wife,’” he says quietly, and the sudden sincerity in his voice makes your breath catch, those arctic depths going soft and vulnerable. “but handsome works too.”
the bed has been completely transformed—fresh sheets that smell like lavender and luxury, pillows fluffed and arranged like something out of a magazine. there’s a glass of water on your nightstand, along with what looks like the entire contents of the welcome basket, and you’re pretty sure those are your favorite chocolates from the little shop near your apartment.
“when did you—?” you start, but he just grins, settling you carefully against the mountain of pillows like you’re something precious, those silver strands falling across his forehead.
“called housekeeping while you were turning into a prune,” he says proudly, those impossible eyes sparkling with satisfaction. “told them my wife needed the full romance package. emergency priority.”
“an emergency,” you repeat, fighting back a laugh at his completely serious expression, those pale eyebrows drawn together earnestly. “my need for clean sheets was an emergency.”
“the most important emergency,” he confirms solemnly, then breaks character to flash you that ridiculously charming grin, his whole face transforming with joy. “my wife’s comfort is a matter of national security.”
there’s that word again. wife. you don’t think you’ll ever get tired of the way it sounds in his voice, especially not when his eyes go soft and wondering like he still can’t believe you said yes, those ethereal depths glowing with happiness.
he disappears into the bathroom again, and you hear the sound of running water, then he’s padding back with another warm washcloth and an expression so sweetly uncertain it makes your heart squeeze. “just in case you want to, um...” he waves the cloth vaguely, cheeks flushing pink, those impossible eyes suddenly shy. “you know. if you need to freshen up more or anything. no pressure.”
the thoughtfulness of it—giving you the option, not assuming you’re okay with how thorough he was—makes you fall a little more in love with him. “come here,” you say softly, reaching for him, and his face immediately transforms into the brightest smile, those arctic depths lighting up.
“don’t need it?” he asks, tossing the cloth aside and practically bouncing onto the bed next to you, the mattress dipping under his weight.
“just need you,” you tell him, and watch his expression go all soft and devastated, those ethereal features melting with tender emotion. “stay?”
“not going anywhere,” he promises immediately, settling beside you and opening his arms in invitation. when you curl up against his side like you belong there—head on his shoulder, one leg thrown over his, hand splayed across his chest—his entire body relaxes like this is what he’s been waiting for all night, those impossible eyes going soft and content.
his skin is still warm and slightly damp from the bath, and he smells clean and familiar and absolutely perfect. one hand finds your hair immediately, fingers combing through the damp strands with gentle, repetitive motions that make your eyes flutter closed, those pale fingers infinitely careful.
“better?” he asks softly, and when you nod against his shoulder, you feel more than see his smile, his chest rising and falling peacefully beneath your cheek. “good. my wife should be comfortable.”
the possessive way he says ‘my wife’—like he’s still testing the words, still amazed he gets to claim you—makes warmth bloom low in your chest. you’re both quiet for a moment, just breathing together, his heartbeat steady under your ear while those gentle fingers continue their soothing motion through your hair.
“water,” he says quietly after a moment, voice soft but brooking no argument as he reaches for the glass on your nightstand. “need you to drink some for me, okay?”
you make a small sound of protest—a petulant whine that makes him smile, those impossible eyes crinkling at the corners—not wanting to move from your perfect position against his chest. “don’t wanna move.”
“don’t have to,” he assures you, adjusting his hold so he can bring the glass to your lips himself, his movements careful and practiced. “just drink. let me take care of you.”
the water is cool and perfect, soothing your raw throat, and you drink until he seems satisfied, those ethereal eyes watching your face carefully for any sign of discomfort. when he sets the glass aside, his free hand comes up to stroke your cheek with reverent touches, those pale fingers gentle against your skin.
“good girl,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, and the praise makes something warm and content settle in your bones even now, when you’re too exhausted for it to mean anything beyond pure affection.
“chocolate?” he offers next, already reaching for one of the fancy truffles with an eager expression that makes you think he’s been looking forward to this part, those impossible eyes bright with anticipation. “got your favorites from that little place you love.”
“too tired,” you mumble against his shoulder, but you’re smiling at his thoughtfulness, feeling the way his chest rises and falls beneath your cheek.
“mm, that’s fair,” he says, carefully placing the chocolate back with exaggerated precision, those long fingers delicate with the wrapper. “we’ll save them for breakfast then. gonna feed you chocolate in bed tomorrow morning like a proper honeymoon.”
the casual way he talks about tomorrow, about all the tomorrows stretching ahead of you, makes your chest tight with happiness. you’re quiet for a while after that, just breathing together, his hand never stopping its gentle motion in your hair, those pale fingers working through the strands with infinite tenderness. gradually, all the overwhelming sensations from earlier fade into a warm, sated glow, your body finally relaxing completely against his.
“you okay?” he asks quietly, his voice carrying that thread of uncertainty that makes your chest tighten. the question hangs between you like something fragile—like he needs reassurance that he did everything right. his fingers trace idle patterns along your spine, movements hesitant despite their tenderness. “wasn’t too rough? too much? i know we were both figuring it out as we went...” the last words tumble out in a rush, his usual confidence nowhere to be found.
you lift your head to look at him properly, your palm flat against his chest where you can feel his heart still racing. there’s a worried crease carved between his brows, and those impossible eyes of his—like winter sky caught in crystal—search your face with an intensity that makes you feel exposed. his hair is completely wrecked, strands falling across his forehead in disheveled waves that catch the lamplight like spun moonbeams. there’s something endearingly uncertain about his expression, the way his teeth worry at his bottom lip like he’s suddenly second-guessing everything despite the fact that he just thoroughly rocked your world.
“it was perfect,” you tell him honestly, your voice still slightly hoarse as you reach up to smooth away the worry lines etched into his forehead. your thumb traces the furrow there with gentle pressure. “overwhelming and incredible and perfect. you were perfect.” the words come out breathier than intended, but you mean every syllable.
his expression transforms immediately—tension bleeding from his shoulders as relief floods his features. but then heat creeps up his neck in that pretty pink flush that makes your stomach flip, and he grins with that devastating combination of relief and smugness that’s so uniquely him. “yeah?” he asks, and there’s something almost shy in the way he ducks his head slightly, chin tucking down.
“yeah,” you confirm, pressing a kiss to the hollow at the base of his throat where his pulse jumps under your lips. “though maybe next time warn me when you’re planning to completely destroy me. i might need to do some mental preparation.” your fingers play with the fine hairs at the nape of his neck as you speak.
he throws his head back and laughs—loud and delighted and completely unrepentant, the sound vibrating through his chest where you’re still pressed against him. his adam’s apple bobs with the force of it, and when he looks back down at you, there’s mischief dancing in those crystalline depths. “where’s the fun in that? i live for catching you off guard.” his expression turns predatory for just a moment, pupils dilating as his gaze drops to your mouth. “you make the prettiest faces when you’re surprised. and the prettiest sounds when you’re—”
“terrible,” you interrupt before he can finish that thought, but you’re giggling against his skin, the sound muffled and warm as your shoulders shake with barely contained laughter. your wedding ring catches the light as you gesture dismissively. “absolutely terrible husband.”
“terrible husband?” he gasps, his free hand flying to his chest in a gesture so dramatic you half expect spotlights to appear. his eyes go wide with mock horror, mouth dropping open in an exaggerated ‘o’ of shock. “on our wedding night? the betrayal! the scandal!” he clutches at his heart like you’ve delivered a mortal wound, and the theatrics are so ridiculous you snort.
“the worst husband,” you clarify solemnly, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from breaking character as you lift your chin with mock disdain. “definitely filing for divorce in the morning.” you even cross your arms for emphasis, though the effect is somewhat ruined by the fact that you’re still sprawled across his chest wearing nothing but his t-shirt.
his grin turns absolutely wicked—all sharp edges and dangerous promises—and suddenly he’s rolling you both over in one fluid motion that steals your breath. the sheets tangle around your legs as he pins you beneath him, hands braced on either side of your head so his hair falls like a curtain around your face. this close, you can see the individual lashes framing those devastating eyes, can count the barely-there freckles scattered across his nose. “guess i’ll have to convince you to keep me then,” he murmurs, voice dropping to that register that makes your toes curl as he leans down to brush his nose against yours in an eskimo kiss. “think i’m up for the challenge.”
your breath catches at the gentle intimacy of the gesture, so at odds with the predatory gleam in his eyes. “i think i can live with that,” you whisper, your hands coming up to frame his face, thumbs stroking along his cheekbones.
“good,” he says, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head that’s soft enough to make your heart ache. his lips linger there, warm and reverent. “’cause i’m never letting you go.” the words are muffled against your hair, but they carry the weight of a vow.
his hand moves from your hair to trace patterns on your back over his t-shirt—lazy circles and spirals that raise goosebumps in their wake. every touch is gentle, soothing, designed to relax rather than arouse. his fingers map your spine like he’s memorizing each vertebra, touch reverent and unhurried.
“can’t believe you’re my wife,” he murmurs after a while, voice soft with wonder as he shifts to pull you more securely against his side. his chest rises and falls in a rhythm you’re already learning by heart. “keep thinking i’m going to wake up and this will all be a dream.” there’s something almost fragile in the admission, like he’s afraid speaking it aloud might make it true.
you press closer to him, if that’s even possible, your leg slotting between his as you nuzzle into the hollow of his throat. “not a dream. i’m really here. really yours.” your voice is barely above a whisper, but in the quiet of the room it might as well be a shout.
“really mine,” he repeats, like he’s testing the words, rolling them around on his tongue to savor their taste. his arms tighten around you possessively. “and i’m really yours.” the wonder in his voice makes your chest constrict with emotion.
“really yours,” you echo, and it feels like a promise, like a vow more sacred than the ones you spoke in front of all those people earlier today. your wedding dress hangs forgotten in the closet, but this moment feels more binding than any ceremony.
you’re drifting on the edge of sleep when he speaks again, voice barely audible in the darkness. “love you so much it scares me sometimes.” the confession is soft, vulnerable, like he’s not sure he meant to say it aloud.
your heart clenches, and you tilt your head up to meet his eyes through the shadows. even in the dim light, you can see the uncertainty flickering there, the way his throat works as he swallows hard. “why scared?” you ask gently, your fingers finding his jaw to trace the sharp line of it.
he’s quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing your cheekbone with feather-light touches that make you shiver. when he finally speaks, his voice is rough with emotion. “never loved anyone like this before,” he admits quietly, those winter-sky eyes refusing to meet yours. “never had anyone who was mine completely. sometimes i can’t believe you chose me.” the last words come out barely above a whisper, like he’s afraid you might change your mind if he says them too loudly.
the vulnerability in his voice makes your chest tight with emotion. this is satoru without his masks, without his cocky grins and endless confidence—just a man who loves you so much he can’t quite believe it’s real. his hair is still mussed from your fingers, falling across his forehead in silver threads that catch what little light filters through the curtains.
“hey,” you whisper, reaching up to cup his face with both hands, your thumbs stroking along those sharp cheekbones. “i choose you every day. chose you before the ring, before the wedding, before any of it. just you. always you.” your voice is fierce with conviction, and you watch his pupils dilate as your words sink in.
he closes his eyes, leaning into your touch like it’s a lifeline, like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to earth. his lashes flutter against his cheeks—so pale they’re almost translucent—and you can feel the way his breathing stutters. “promise?” the word comes out cracked, desperate.
“promise.” you stretch up to kiss him, soft and gentle and full of every ounce of love in your chest. his lips are warm and slightly chapped, and he kisses you back like you’re oxygen and he’s been drowning. when you pull back, his eyes are bright with unshed tears that make them look like fractured ice, and his smile is soft and real and just for you. “you’re stuck with me, remember?”
“best thing that ever happened to me,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion as one of those tears finally spills over. you catch it with your thumb before it can fall, and he turns his head to press a kiss to your palm.
“the feeling’s mutual,” you whisper back, then settle against his chest again, ear pressed to his heart where you can feel the steady rhythm that’s already becoming your favorite sound. the beat is strong and sure beneath your cheek, grounding you in the reality of this moment.
you’re almost asleep when you feel him shift, his arm reaching across you for something. when you crack your eyes open, he’s fumbling with some fancy remote, tongue poking out slightly in concentration as he dims the lights. the room is bathed in soft, warm darkness that makes everything feel intimate and cocoon-like.
“sleep,” he murmurs, arms tightening around you protectively as he settles back against the pillows. his voice is already thick with approaching sleep, but there’s something fiercely protective in the way he holds you. “i’ve got you.” the words rumble through his chest where your ear is pressed.
and you do sleep, safe and warm and thoroughly loved, dreaming of white dresses and gentle hands and the promise of forever with the man whose heartbeat has become your favorite lullaby.
when you wake up hours later, it’s to the feeling of soft lips pressing kisses to your forehead, your cheeks, the tip of your nose. sunlight is filtering through the curtains, painting everything in shades of gold and amber, and satoru is propped up on his elbow beside you. his hair is even more disheveled than before, sticking up at impossible angles that make him look endearingly rumpled. those crystalline eyes are soft with sleep and something deeper as he watches you wake up, looking completely besotted.
“morning, beautiful,” he says softly, voice rough with sleep and deeper than usual. there’s a pillow crease on his cheek and his eyes are still slightly puffy, but he’s never looked more gorgeous. “how are you feeling?” his free hand comes up to brush a strand of hair from your face, touch gentle and reverent.
you take inventory—pleasantly sore, thoroughly satisfied, and so completely in love you can barely stand it. your body aches in the most delicious way, and there’s something deeply satisfying about the slight rasp in your voice when you speak. “perfect,” you tell him honestly, stretching like a cat in the morning sun. “absolutely perfect.”
his smile could power the entire city—bright and unguarded and so full of joy it makes your heart skip. “good. because i was thinking...” he reaches over to the nightstand, movements still languid with sleep as he grabs one of those chocolate truffles from last night. when he turns back to you, there’s mischief dancing in his eyes again. “breakfast in bed?”
you laugh, the sound bright and happy in the morning light as it bubbles up from your chest. your wedding ring glints as you gesture, and you’re struck again by the surreal reality of it all. “you know what? that sounds absolutely perfect.”
and as he feeds you chocolate—his fingers lingering against your lips with each bite—and coffee appears via room service and he pulls you into his lap to steal kisses between bites, you think that maybe, just maybe, being mrs. gojo is going to be the adventure of a lifetime.
౨ৎ what if in another universe it’s sukuna gooning over you on tumblr instead of the other way around?
sukuna should not know how to navigate tumblr, and yet somehow he’s become terrifyingly good at it. he’s lying in bed, one arm behind his head, the other holding his phone way too close to his face as he scrolls through your tag like he’s checking security footage.
he’s doing it casually at first, just looking, just being nosy, just being… him. and then he sees it. your name. followed by “x reader.” he stops breathing for a second.
he actually blinks at the screen like it’s a joke, like there’s no way people have been writing fantasies about you—about touching you, about fucking you—right there in the open where anyone can read it.
and of course he clicks it. of course he does.
the fic opens and the first line already has you arching into someone’s hands, calling out some generic male lead’s name, and sukuna’s entire jaw flexes like he’s trying not to react. like reading this doesn’t immediately punch heat straight into his spine.
he tells himself he’s reading it out of curiosity. research. nothing more. but halfway through the second paragraph his hand is already pushing into his sweatpants, rubbing himself through the fabric like he’s trying to keep up appearances even though there’s no one around to see.
the fic gets filthier—way filthier than he was prepared for—and his thumb slows on the screen, skimming every line about you: your mouth, your thighs, the noises you make. his breath gets heavier. he’s stroking himself in lazy, frustrated pulls, hips lifting every time the story mentions you going soft and sweet for someone who isn’t him.
it pisses him off. he keeps doing it anyway.
by the time the fic hits the part where “you” beg for another round, sukuna’s hand is moving faster, grip tight, precum slicking his fingers. he’s breathing like he’s annoyed, like every stroke is a mistake he can’t stop making. he keeps scrolling with the other hand, needing more—more words, more lines, more descriptions of how you fall apart.
and when he cums? it’s embarrassingly hard. thighs tensed, brow furrowed, a low groan ripping out of him like he’s been holding it back for hours. he spills across his stomach in hot, messy streaks, phone slipping onto his chest while he tries to catch his breath.
the fic is still open. your name is still highlighted.
he wipes his hand on his sweats, picks his phone up again, and mutters under his breath: “…they don’t know shit. i’d ruin you properly.”
then he clicks on the next “x reader” fic about you. like the least subtle man alive.
wait imagine tho? also idk where these random ass ideas keep coming from so lowkey just ignore me…
frat!sukuna doesn’t ask for thirst traps. he doesn’t need to.
he sends them. always at the worst times—when you’re in class, when you’re walking across campus, when you’re with friends and your phone lights up with a preview that’s nothing but skin and shadow. he acts like it’s normal, like it’s a weather update.
the first one he ever sent was almost accidental: just his torso, cut low enough to see the start of the V-lines beneath his sweats. no caption. no explanation. just a warning shot. after that, he stopped pretending.
now he sends them like they’re his love language. like you’re supposed to drop everything and look. shirtless in the gym locker room. post-shower with a towel hanging off his hips, water still dripping down his chest. sitting in his car, hand wrapped loosely around himself through grey sweatpants, the outline heavy, obscene.
sometimes he adds a caption—“thinking of u.” or “this is ur fault.”or a personal fav, “come fix it.”
but the worst ones—the ones that ruin you—are the ones he takes in his fraternity bedroom, low lighting, camera angled down his stomach. he always has one hand braced against the headboard, veins standing out, muscles flexed like he knows exactly what he’s doing. like he’s imagining you there. like he’s holding himself back from something.
and the videos… god. short clips. never more than five seconds. his thigh spread wide, cock in his hand, thumb brushing the head slow as he exhales your name.
once, he sent one of him lying on his back, voice low, “this would feel better in your mouth.”
you almost fell off your bed. he knows what it does to you. he knows because you never hide it well—your replies get shorter, needier, your breathing shaky when you finally answer his call and he hears it in your voice. and frat!sukuna is the type of man who feeds off that.
the next pic he sends is always worse. sometimes he props his phone against his knee and gives you a full view—his palm dragging up his stomach, the lazy roll of his hips, the way he tugs his shirt up with his teeth just to show you more. sometimes he records the sound of him groaning your name into his pillow and texts it right as you’re sitting down to dinner.
and the thing is—he never tells you to send anything back. he wants you flustered. wound tight. waiting. because sukuna knows exactly what he’s doing: keeping you on edge, keeping you thinking about him, keeping you wet before he even touches you.
and when you finally show up at his place—knees weak, throat dry, irritation and arousal tangled together—he’s always at the door, leaning against the frame like he’d planned the entire thing.
“yeah,” he murmurs as his hand slides to your waist, pulling you in like you’re nothing but gravity, “that’s the face i wanted.”
he kisses you like a reward he earned. like every thirst trap was just foreplay, because to frat!sukuna, sending you pictures of his body isn’t flirting. it’s casual.
sukuna has always dated brats with bad attitudes, so when he had a shitty day at the gym and takes it out on his adorable girlfriend he expects to be yelled at back, but instead he's met with the thickest feeling of guilt imaginable.
(angst to fluff, yelling on sukuna's end, lowkey kinda toxic sukuna but he gets better in the end :p)
wc: 3k || art creds: @/akura_tsuna
total and utter brats is what sukuna was used to. girls with a big ego and an ever bigger attitude, but you? his new, adorably sweet girlfriend? you were quite literally the polar opposite of a brat, and he was about to figure that out real quick.
he stomps with heavy and angry footing into the apartment, he was pissed off, like, really pissed off. some ass fuck at the gym decided to get all up in his face over him accidentally leaving a few plates on the deadlift bar, (something he never usually did, his mind was just filled with other stressful life shit.) so he pulled a few punches and that was that.
that asshole figured out quite fast that sukuna's massive muscles weren't just for show.
he let out a groan of pure frustration and anger as he stepped further into the apartment dulling any sort of positivity that dare disturb his ridiculous state of mind.
you’re too occupied pottering around the tiny off campus apartment in your cute little socks and pretty sweater to notice his foul mood just yet. singing some beabadoobee song quietly to yourself while trying to plate up the dinner you'd made just for him.
kuna always comes home hungry after hitting the gym, especially arms, so you decide to give him something nice and warm for when he gets home, y'know, like the great and loving girl you are?
you're about to pour him a glass of ice water when you hear the door shut just a little too aggressively.
you can't help but flinch, not because you’re scared, but because you know that kind of sound. it’s the sound people makes when they're exhausted, frustrated, not very happy with the world. you were used to this energy from others, but you were yet to experience it from your boyfriend.
you peek your head around the corner.
“hey, ryo.” you say in that soft, dainty voice he still hasn’t fully gotten used to. the one that normally made him melt into a puddle of gooey love and adoration, but right now all it does is remind him he’s tired and really agitated. “i got dinner all ready for you, love.”
he grunts, that’s it. a grunt.
he chucks his duffle bag down on the couch, wipes his hand down his face and mutters something under his breath about 'fuckwits at the gym.' you try to ignore the obvious annoyance in his voice and shyly tiptoe back into the kitchen then bring him a pink plate full of dinner, holding it in both of your precious hands, offering it to him like a gift you'd made just to cheer him up.
and then he decides to turn into the biggest dick face on the planet, too frustrated to be civil, apparently.
with no sort of preparation or hesitancy, he sharpens his deep red eyes at you and crosses his biceps over his chest.
“th' fucks this supposed to be?”
you stiffen up a lil. “it's… your dinner?”
you watch as his eyes fall darker and his fists clench. “what? you know i don’t eat before i shower. you put the whole thing together just to let it get cold?”
...huh...?
you'd never been talked to this carelessly by sukuna before... your eyes get the tiniest bit glossy, but you try to fight it off as best you can. “i… i thought you’d want it now because you always say you’re starving when you get back…” you whisper.
“yeah? well, today i’m not fucking hungry.” his voice rises in a way it never has with you. a way he used to talk to girls who’d scream right back at him, get in his face, throw something at the wall. “god, do you ever listen?”
"i- i'm sorry... i just thought-"
"wow? thinking for once? didn't know your dumb little head was capable of that."
...ouch.
you could physically feel your throat pulling tight, it burned to breathe through his venomous insult..
“honestly, the last thing i need right now is some damn girl trying to play house with me after i've just worked my ass off all day, it's fucking annoying,” he shoots, beginning to pace, ignoring the way your face contorted into that adorable yet heart crushing pout.
'some damn girl?...' was that all you were to him?..
he’s not looking at you. he’s talking at you, like you’re just another outlet for whatever’s eating at him. this big, loud, overwhelming presence filling your little apartment with his booming voice rising and rising with each word, and you can’t even process half the things he’s saying because your brain is doing that fuzzy weird panicy thing. you don’t know whether to get up or stay still or just disappear on the spot forever..
you're silently listening, but he just keeeeps on going.
"you think i want you shoving shit in my face the second i get home?! let me take a damn break for once in my life, woman!”
...
behind your ribcage you can feel the crack, crack, crack, of your heart with each piece falling into your stomach and smouldering into a thick ash, like you were an insignificant bug that wasn't worth this man's time.
and it’s right there in the silence that something finally flickers in his stupidly ignorant brain.
because this is the part where someone should yell back, where someone should tell him to go fuck himself, or throw the plate down, or call him an asshole, or storm out. or anything!
but you don’t.
you just stand there ever so sadly, you hold your arms around your body like they might save you from the stomach pains you'd suddenly gotten, the feeling of immense guilt for making him more angry than he already was.
you're stuck staring down at the floor, your eyes feel hot and so full of tears as you gently whisper out the softest and heartfelt apology sukuna thinks he's ever heard in his fucked up life..
“...i’m so sorry.”
ryo's ready to yell something completely unnecessary and rude because he’s still riding the high of adrenaline from lifting too much and dealing with that asshole at the gym today. he’s still acting like he’s dealing with someone who’ll fight him tooth and nail, not his pretty little girl who's easier to rattle than a maraca.
your lashes flutter with wet tears and your pouty lip wobbles, you set the plate down carefully on the counter before your hands can shake too hard and it smashes on the floor.
and then you look up at him.
you look at him like you’re scared you'd messed up big time, like you’re scared you hurt him or made him upset in any way. like you’re scared he might walk away, abandon you. like all of this was your fault.
this is about where sukuna starts to feels like his heart had just been flipped over and fucked in the ass by a 6"3 rugby champ.
he didn’t even know it was humanly possible for his chest to sink into the pits of fiery hell that fast. like, physically, his heart plummets to his feet.
“sweetheart,” he says, but it’s too late. he can already see the tears filling up your eyes as you wrap your arms around yourself tighter than before, so small and so nervous.
“i... i’m really sorry,” you whisper again, voice cracking in that heart stabbing kind of way. “i didn’t mean to make you mad, i was just trying trying to help, i thought you’d be hungry and.. i'm so sorry, it won't happen again."
your voice cuts off as you wipe at your cheeks, embarrassed at the tears that keep falling so freely down your flushed cheeks.
and then, before he can even take a step toward you to console, you beat him to it.
you walk right up to his big, stupid, irritated self and gently wrap your arms around his waist, like you’re apologizing to him even though you didn’t do anything wrong.
your cheek presses against his chest, soft and warm and trusting, yet still so small and scared..
all that rage and tension drains out so fast he actually gets lightheaded. he didn’t notice. god, he didn’t realise! he was yelling. at you. his pretty girl, his soft girl.
the only girl he’s ever dated who doesn’t treat every fucking conversation like a competition. the girl who holds his hand with two hands because his palm is so big. the girl who apologises when someone bumps into her. the girl who triple checks she's not burdening someone before she starts speaking. the girl who’d never raise her voice at him, even if he deserved it.
he was yelling at you.
you huff and puff in uneven spouts against his chest, softly like you’re giving him space to push you off if he wants to. you whisper again in a smaller voice than before.
“i’m sorry. i’m really sorry, ryo. i didn’t mean to ruin your day.”
his throat clamps shut.
he feels something sting horribly behind his eyes and he hates it, because he never cries. never. not for breakups, not for fights, not for injuries. but this? this is different. this is you. and realising he scared you or hurt you, even in some tiny emotional way, is making him physically ache with the pain of a thousand knifes stabbing his chest over and over and over..
“baby, no. no, no, no, you didn’t do anything wrong. i’m the one who’s being a fucking idiot. i shouldn’t have yelled. i shouldn’t have even raised my voice at you, baby.. shit.”
you can feel his biceps crushing you tighter. he’s huge and so warm, yet trembling in the tiniest way, like he’s holding himself together with the sheer willpower of not letting you see him too broken.
you sniff against his pec, trying to steady yourself, because you’ve never heard him sound like this before, so guilty and worried.
his voice cracks, cracks as he tries to spew out another line of consolement, and when you blink up at him, there are salty tears at the corners of his eyes. massive, scary, ryomen sukuna falling apart while hugging you, a soft and quiet little thing.
you just shake your head against him, heavy little sobs shaking your shoulders. “i’m sorry i messed up. i’m sorry you had a bad day and i made it worse.”
oh he’s the worst man alive. actually the worst. he can feel it in his bones.
“baby…” his voice cracks again and he hates it but he can’t stop it. “you didn’t do anything wrong.”
you cling a little tighter, like you’re scared he’s gonna pull away. that alone almost makes him sob hysterically on the spot.
your voice comes out all wobbly. “i just… i don’t want you to be mad at me.”
fuuuck..
that’s the moment sukuna’s entire psyche caves in on itself and implodes indefinitely.
“god, y/n,” he whispers. “i’m so, so sorry.”
the apartment goes still and quiet for a good minute before you can whisper out, “it’s okay...”
“no,” he says immediately,“ no, it’s not. i shouldn’t have yelled at you like that, sweetheart. i shouldn’t have said any of that. i just… i had a shitty day and i was being a dick. that’s on me. you didn’t make anything worse.”
“but you seemed so upset…”
“oh my love, not at you.” he swallows “never at you, baby. i swear.”
...
your fingers contract into the back of his muscle shirt, holding on so gently it rips at his fragile soul, though, your tears have almost stopped.
he squeezes you harder, he’s not letting you go until he’s sure you're really okay.
“you’re… you’re really precious to me,” he whispers into your hair, the words tumbling out before he can stop them, way too honest for how he normally talks. “i don’t ever wanna scare you. i don’t ever wanna make you cry because of me.”
you move to peek up at him with those big watery eyes, and he absolutely breaks down for the fourth time that night. he feels the liquid in his own eyes and tries to blink it away, but nope. a tear slips down anyway.
your breath catches. “ryo…? d-did i make you upset?- i'm so sorry!”
he shakes his head quickly, gripping the back of your head as he tucks you back under his chin. “you didn't do anything, y/n. just don’t look at me right now,” he mutters. “just… let me hold you.”
you mumble a quick “okay.”
your gentle response calms him more than anything else ever has.
his arms slip under your thighs and your back in one careful swoop, lifting you off the floor like you weigh less than air, because to a colossal guy like kuna, you do.
you let out a noise of surprise and curl into his arms on instinct, holding onto his shirt as he carries you through the little apartment, the whole 9 yards of princess treatment.
“cmon angel,” he mumbles against your forehead in a sweet kiss, “let’s get you in bed.”
he pushes the bedroom door open with his foot and stands next to the bed, lowering you onto the mattress as gently as he possibly can. the second your back hits the sheets he reaches for the blanket and tucks it around you so fast and frantic you almost giggle. he’s acting like he's scared you’re gonna get cold or crumble into star dust if he doesn’t wrap you up right this second.
“stay here, sweetheart,” he says while brushing the pad of his thumb across your cheek. “i’m gonna eat your dinner real quick and shower and then i’m coming right back. don’t move.”
you nod with your body engulfed under the blankets, and he gives you one last kiss on the cheek before heading back out.
it’s almost funny how different the apartment sounds now, he’s trying to be quiet. him. the guy built like a tank who normally stomps around like godzilla. you hear the plate clink, hear the microwave door shut, hear him crushing to himself like he’s scolding his own reflection, which he should be. then you hear the shower switch on, and everything is chaotic as if he’s racing against some imaginary clock because you’re alone in the bed for more than five minutes and that simply will not do for sukuna.
you hear the bathroom door whip open.
he’s back in seconds with his salmon hair damp and a white tank top thrown on crooked, water still beaded on his fair skin because he didn’t even bother drying properly. he climbs onto the bed quickly, grabbing you like he needs to feel you to be happy and content with his life.
your back hits his chest as he pulls you right onto his lap and you can just tell he's feeling possessive and territorial.
“hey baby.. are you okay?”
you nod softly, but he shushes you anyway.
“it’s alright,” he smiles, kissing the side of your neck. “you don’t gotta say anything. i got you.”
his hand rubs little circles over your hip bones with the other sliding up to hold your jaw with this gentle care no one would ever believe he’s capable of, ever. your tears dried a long while ago, but he still treats you like you’re a precious gem. he rocks you a little in his lap, soothing you like it’s instinct.
“you’re so beautiful, yknow that?” he whispers suddenly, voice hushed like he’s telling you a secret not meant for the rest of the world. “so damn beautiful and sweet and good. you’re… y/n, you’re so perfect.”
you feel your cheeks heat up and he smiles against your skin, just barely.
“i mean it,” he says again, burying his face into your shoulder. “you’re precious to me, baby. so precious i don’t even know what to do with myself sometimes.”
yeah, obviously.
you lean back into him a little more and your hands settle over his wrists. he squeezes you immediately like he’s scared he imagined the whole thing and he might be in some lucid dream still yelling at you.
his voice drops even lower, so soft you almost miss it.
“you’re it for me,” he murmurs. “you hear me? you’re it. i’m done with dating. i’m yours for the rest of my damn life.”
you blush deeply and hide your face in your hands at how bold he's being.
"ryo..."
“i’m never talking to you like that again,” he says quietly. “never yelling. never making you cry. i’m not losing you because i don’t know how to deal with my dumbass moods. you’re too important to me.”
your fingers slide over his hand, giving it the cutest squeeze and he just melts behind you. melts completely with his chest going all gooey and soft.
“you’re my girl,” he whispers against the shell of your ear. “forever, or for as long as you’ll have me, baby."
he rocks you gently again, humming in his throat while his hands smooth and stroke over you like he’s memorising the shape of you.
he presses one last kiss to your cheek.
“sleep, angel,” he breathes. “i’m not going anywhere.”
sukuna was used to dating brats, the ones who threw tantrums and screamed like banshees in his face, but now he had you. and he knew in his heart that this whole time he was missing out on the pure bliss that was a calm and sweet relationship, with you.
never in his life had sukuna shed a tear over a girl, but tonight he did. he let a few slip because he couldn't handle the thought of making precious little you feel any sort of negative emotion, and he wasn't even trying to hide it. that how much you meant to sukuna, how soft you'd turned him.
and he was damn well never going back.
A/N i took a break from studying to write ts for you chat that's how much i ❤️ u guys 🥀
sugardaddy!toji gets off when you spend his money ! ( ≧ᗜ≦)
toji’s office is cold and uninviting, a stark contrast to the heat trapped between your bodies as you recklessly bounce up, down, up, down on his cock.
“there’s my — hahh — good girl,” he grunts, one hand swirling whiskey in an expensive-looking glass while the other palms the fat of your ass. “always s’fuckin’ eager to ride me.”
you nod your head with drool staining his taut button down. his weeping tip affectionately kisses your cervix over and over in a lewd shlck! shlck! shlck! echoing throughout the bleak workspace.
suddenly, your attention is brought to something else: your brand new phone on the armrest, screen lit up with a following bzz! and much to toji’s dismay, the roll of your hips naturally slow down, curiously picking it up.
“oh my god!” you’re immediately squealing, arms wrapping back around his neck with your cunt still stuffed full, beaming with sudden excitement compared to how dumb you were going on his thick length just moments ago. “the package you bought me is being shipped today!”
the older man downed a swig of his whiskey and leaned closer to your earlobe. his hot breath fans over your skin and has you shuddering, tone becoming lower and dark.
“yeah?” he grunts, thrusting into you with twice as much force as before. “which one?”
just the idea of you spending every dime he had left, milking both his cock and his wallet, drove him insane. having you being so financially dependent on him, giving him all the control over everything you owned, had toji’s stamina increasing more than it would’ve with the likes of boner medication.
“t-the— fuck! — uhh,” you stutter, brain collecting fog with every snap of his frantic hips bucking into your gummy walls at such a meaner pace. your words were reduced to incoherent babbles as you grew closer to your high already.
“shh, y’don’t need to think, doll.” toji’s voice is dripping with a mixture of mockery and desire, grabbing and squeezing every inch of your smaller frame like you were an addictive drug. “jus’ go dumb on daddy’s dick like you’re s’posed to, mm?”
and you did, thick white ropes of cum spurting in a ring around his girthy cock without much of a warning. there’s nothing toji loved more than spoiling his little girl!
a/n thank u mimi @an9els for this idea i wanna bang u . . . i proofread for the first time who is proud of me ૮꒰ྀི∩´ ᵕ `∩꒱ྀིა
you’re still talking. you’re naked under him, legs spread over his thighs, panties hanging off one ankle because he couldn’t be bothered to take them all the way off—and you’re still talking.
“—and then i told her, like, ‘no babe, you can’t just steal someone’s lunch because you—’”
he thrusts up into you without warning. your voice cracks into a gasp, the sentence obliterated. your nails drag down his chest, but you’re already trying to keep talking through it, breath hitching, words breaking like glass.
“s-sukuna, i was—i was saying—”
“i know what you were saying,” he murmurs, hand sliding up your spine to grab the back of your neck, forcing you to look at him. “you haven’t stopped since you walked through the damn door.”
you wriggle in his lap like you’re offended, but you clench around him so tight he has to grit his teeth. “well—maybe if you didn’t grab me the second i got home—”
he thrusts again, deeper, just to shut you up. you moan, messy, the kind of sound neighbors complain about. his favorite.
“keep talking,” he says—taunts, really. “go on. tell me more about whatever useless shit you were rambling about.”
you try. god, you try. you open your mouth, brain full of words, but his hand is on your waist dragging you down, bouncing you on his cock like he’s using you to get himself off and letting you enjoy the ride.
“c’mon, sweetheart,” he groans into your ear, voice a low rough scrape. “you’re my little yapper, aren’t you? can’t go five minutes without running that mouth.”
you babble something—half a word, half a moan, nothing coherent. he laughs. “thought so.”
he flips you easily, your back hitting the mattress, his hand wrapping around your jaw, thumb pressing into your cheek so your mouth opens for him.
“that’s better,” he mutters, sliding in deeper, harder, the head of his cock hitting something that makes your eyes roll. “mouth open, nothing coming out. finally the way i want you.”
you whine, wet and so needy, and he leans down to kiss you, teeth scraping your bottom lip—before fucking you even harder, the bed slamming against the wall.
“you only get to talk,” he growls, thrust punctuating every word, “when you’re begging.”
your legs shake around him. you grab his wrist, nails digging in, trying to force out some kind of plea, but he’s already smirking because the only thing coming out of your mouth is soft, wrecked whimpers.
“yeah,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours. “that’s my girl. loud as hell when it doesn’t matter, but the second i get inside you? gone. brain empty.” he kisses you again, rough. his hand slips between your thighs to rub your clit, slow, cruel circles.
“go on then,” he murmurs. “beg for it. let me hear that mouth do something useful.”
you choke out his name so broken, and oh so breathless—and he groans like it’s the only thing he’s been waiting for.
“that’s it, baby. that’s the voice i want.”
you don’t stop moaning after that. you couldn’t, even if you tried.and he fucks you through every sound.
yousharknotpass
pixelskylines
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