You Cryin?

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐈𝐓𝐒𝐊𝐈 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒

[thexmistress]

WELCOME TO MY WASHING MACHINE HEART(ಡ‸ಡ)

🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮

🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮

↝𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙴𝚇 𝙶𝙵 𝙾𝙵 𝚂𝙰𝚂𝚄𝙺𝙴 𝚄𝙲𝙷𝙸𝙷𝙰, 𝚃𝙾𝙹𝙸 𝙵𝚄𝚂𝙷𝙸𝙶𝚄𝚁𝙾 & 𝙱𝙴𝙾𝙼 𝚃𝙰𝙴-𝙷𝙰

↝𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙱𝙰𝙱𝚈𝙼𝙰𝙼𝙰 𝙾𝙵 𝚂𝙴𝚂𝚂𝙷𝙾𝙼𝙰𝚁𝚄 & 𝙶𝙾𝙹𝙾 𝚂𝙰𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙾

↝𝙲𝚄𝚁𝚁𝙴𝙽𝚃𝙻𝚈 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙼𝙸𝚂𝚃𝚁𝙴𝚂𝚂 𝙾𝙵 𝚂𝚄𝙺𝚄𝙽𝙰

🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮

ʕ •ᴥ•ʔ 𝖬𝖸 𝖶𝖮𝖱𝖪𝖲 ʕ ·ᴥʔ

↝𝙷𝙰𝙿𝙿𝚈 𝙰𝙽𝙽𝙸𝚅𝙴𝚁𝚂𝙰𝚁𝚈 ᵖᵗ.¹ ⁻ ᵖᵗ.²╎ 𝚈/𝙽 𝚇 𝙶𝙾𝙹𝙾

↝𝙿𝙰𝙽𝙳𝙴𝙼𝙾𝙽𝙸𝚄𝙼 ╎ 𝙶𝙾𝙹𝙾 𝚇 𝚈/𝙽 𝚇 𝙽𝙰𝙽𝙰𝙼𝙸

↝𝙼𝙾𝚅𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙾𝙽 ╎ 𝚈/𝙽 𝚇 𝚃𝙾𝙹𝙸

↝𝚂𝙴𝚅𝙴𝚁𝙴𝙳 𝙱𝙾𝙽𝙳𝚂 ╎ 𝚂𝚄𝙺𝚄𝙽𝙰 𝚇 𝚈/𝙽 𝚇 𝙶𝙾𝙹𝙾

↝ 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙳𝙸𝙻𝙴𝙼𝙼𝙰 ᵖᵗ.¹ ⁻ ᵖᵗ.² ╎ 𝚂𝚄𝙺𝚄𝙽𝙰 𝚇 𝚈/𝙽 𝚇 𝙶𝙾𝙹𝙾

🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮

I͜͡ ͜͡D͜͡O͜͡ ͜͡N͜͡O͜͡T͜͡ ͜͡W͜͡R͜͡I͜͡T͜͡E͜͡ ͜͡S͜͡M͜͡U͜͡T͜͡ __〆(￣ー￣ )

Buttttttttttt

I͜͡ T͜͡A͜͡K͜͡E͜͡ R͜͡E͜͡Q͜͡U͜͡E͜͡S͜͡T͜͡S͜͡!͜͡!͜͡!͜͡ ٩(◕‿◕｡)۶

[lumpyspacequinn]

how i feel searching for hours for angst fics but all i can find is y/n sucking their soul out of their dick.

Please recommend good angst fics

[bambismoon]

apocalypse - masterlist

undergroundboxer!kuna x reader [soulmate au]

series synopsis - in a world where soulmates were real, fate ties you to ryomen sukuna like some cruel and twisted joke. where people felt their soulmates in soft touches and quiet comfort, all you’ve ever known was phantom pain, sleepless nights, and a violent rage that didn’t belong to you. by the time you finally meet the man ruining your nervous system, the city already knew him as its most feared underground boxer. how would you survive? [mdni 18+]

chapters

⚡︎ ⋆.˚ prologue

⚡︎ ⋆.˚ one - coming soon

⚡︎ ⋆.˚ two - tbd

⚡︎ ⋆.˚ three - tbd

⚡︎ ⋆.˚ four - tbd

⚡︎ ⋆.˚ five - tbd

⚡︎ ⋆.˚ six - tbd

i haven’t decided if there’s going to be a taglist, i’ll let you know if there is one!

[delavegaaaaa]

“You can’t fix him” I don’t wanna fix him! I wanna FUCK him! I’m a pervert not a psychologist!

[thexmistress]

Yall I need a good Sukuna x reader series or Toji x reader series plssssssss

[thexmistress]

In the Wake of Blue

Jujutsu Kaisen | Gojo Satoru x Reader | Angst AU. This is not a love story It’s what’s left after love dies And how you learn to keep living anyway

The first thing you noticed was the cold.

Not the kind that settles in your bones after a long winter. Not even the kind that creeps into the empty spaces of a too-large bed. No—this cold lived deeper. It was marrow-deep. A quiet, permanent frost that had taken root in your chest the moment Satoru Gojo stopped breathing.

It never thawed.

You had cried, of course. At the funeral, surrounded by faces that blurred into black fabric and muffled condolences, you cried until your ribs ached. But even then, you’d known it wasn’t just grief gnawing at you. It was betrayal. A shame too raw to speak aloud, even to yourself. Because when they lowered him into the ground, you weren’t just mourning the man you loved.

You were mourning the illusion he built around you.

He died a hero. Japan’s strongest. The pride of Jujutsu society. But to you—he died a liar. A coward. A man who whispered I love you while building a second life behind your back.

You hadn’t found out until weeks before his death.

You remembered the moment clearly: the text that wasn’t meant for you, his silence when you confronted him, the vacant guilt in his expression as he confessed. And then the final, unforgivable truth—

“She’s pregnant.”

You had screamed. Cursed him until your throat was raw and your vision blurred with tears. And he stood there, not with remorse or panic, but a sadness that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“It wasn’t supposed to happen like this,” he said. As if that somehow made it better.

But you stayed. Not out of forgiveness. But because you were too tired to leave. And maybe, deep down, because a small part of you had hoped he wouldn’t die. That if he lived, you could leave him. Make him watch you walk away. Let him suffer the consequences.

But he died.

So there was no justice. No closure. Just an apology echoing in your ears as they zipped him into a body bag.

That was a year ago.

Now, the apartment is too quiet. Your world is too still. And the ache you carry isn’t something you can cry out anymore—it’s woven into your routine, stitched between your breaths.

You thought the worst had passed.

Until the knock

It came on a Tuesday morning. You were still in your robe, barely awake, coffee cooling untouched on the counter. You weren’t expecting anyone.

The knock came again—sharp, hurried.

You opened the door.

And your world tilted.

At first, you didn’t understand what you were looking at. A basket? No—a baby carrier. A blanket. A small, squirming form nestled inside it.

Then you saw the note.

Your fingers shook as you unfolded it.

“I can’t do this. You were always better than me. Please raise her. She’s yours now.”

— R.

You didn’t have to guess who R was.

You looked down at the baby.

Blue eyes stared back. Not just blue—his blue. Bright and sharp, like a cursed blade made of sky.

And suddenly, your hands went numb.

You didn’t scream. Didn’t cry. You just stood there, heartbeat thundering in your ears, as the chill in your chest sharpened into something else.

Hatred.

⸻

The baby—Sora, you called her, because you refused to name her after her mother—cried constantly. You fed her, changed her, held her when she screamed, but everything felt mechanical. Distant. Like caring for a stranger’s child.

You told no one.

There would be questions. Accusations. Pity. You didn’t want pity.

You could barely look at her for more than a few seconds without wanting to scream. Every time she blinked, every time her tiny hand curled around your finger, you saw him. And it made your skin crawl.

Worse, it made you cry.

Because she was innocent. You knew that. She didn’t ask to be born. Didn’t choose to be the product of betrayal. But logic couldn’t dull emotion. You wanted to love her—but your grief was louder.

Sometimes you stared at her in the middle of the night, rocking her back and forth in the dark, wondering if she would grow to be like him. Arrogant. Blinding. Untouchable.

Would she laugh like him? Smile like him? Make the same mistakes?

The thought made you feel sick.

So you distanced yourself.

You fed her, changed her, kept her clean and warm and safe—but you never kissed her. Never whispered soft words or lullabies. You did your duty like a soldier tending to a war wound.

She cried a lot those first few months. Like she knew she was unwanted. Like she missed a mother who didn’t love her and a father who was long dead.

There were nights you’d sit on the bathroom floor, hands over your ears, as she wailed from the crib in your bedroom. You’d scream into a towel. Cry until your chest hurt.

And then you’d go to her. Always.

Because you weren’t heartless.

Just broken.

⸻

One day, she smiled.

It was small. Toothless. Barely a twitch of her mouth.

But it hit you like a gut punch.

Because she looked just like him when she did.

You almost dropped her.

You set her down in her crib, heart pounding, hands shaking. You stared at her until the smile faded, replaced by soft coos and drowsy blinks.

You didn’t sleep that night.

⸻

Weeks turned into months.

Slowly—reluctantly—you adjusted.

You started talking to her, just to fill the silence. Not sweet things, not at first. Just whatever you were thinking.

“I hated your father,” you’d whisper while washing her bottles. “I still do.”

Sometimes, you’d cry while holding her. Other times, you’d stare at her and wonder if she would remember this coldness. If the distance would scar her the way her existence scarred you.

But she grew. She laughed. She reached for you when she was scared. And over time, you stopped flinching when she did.

One night, while feeding her, she reached up and touched your cheek.

Soft. Curious. Her fingers tiny and warm.

You froze.

And for the first time, you didn’t pull away.

[allthingsniya]

We don’t talk abt this man’s face card enough 😩

[saja-55]

Everything changed the day Amira was born. The world outside was collapsing — bombs, dust, screams, and fear. Yet inside a small room, by the dim light of a single candle, a new life began. While others were running for shelter, I was holding my newborn daughter, trembling, crying, trying to believe that something so pure could still exist in a place like Gaza. I named her Amira, because I wanted her to feel like a child of life —not a child of war.

  A year has passed since that night, but nothing has really changed Our house is still rubble, our streets still carry the smell of smoke, and the sky still echoes with sounds that make Amira flinch in her sleep. She has just turned one. She’s learning to walk, holding my finger with her tiny hand, laughing at the smallest things — as if she doesn’t see the destruction around her. She doesn’t know the word “loss.” She never met her father, but when she smiles, I see him there. Sometimes I watch her sleeping, and I wonder what kind of world she will grow up in — whether she will ever know what peace feels like, what home smells like. And yet, when she opens her eyes in the morning and says “mama,” everything becomes bearable again. I want to rebuild our home. Not just for the walls — but for her future. For Amira to have a small room, a safe place to dream, a life that belongs to her, not to war. I’m not asking for much. Only for a chance to give her a beginning filled with warmth instead of fear

Help Saja Rebuild a Life After Everything Fell Apart

My name is Saja. I am a mother, a wife, and just one of many women in Gaza trying to hold on — to hope, to my family, and to a life that no

 A Mother’s Message

To everyone reading this — thank you for listening to our story. Your kindness means more than words. Every share, every message, every donation — it all helps me rebuild not just a house, but a future for Amira. From the heart of Gaza, from a mother learning to hope again — we will live. And I will make sure my daughter grows up in a world that knows love more than war.

[thexmistress]

Yall I’ve been feeling so lonely and depressed. Any good fanfic recommendations that isn’t just smut? I want to get my mind off of things

I mainly read jujutsu Kaisen fanfics but any is fine

[dangermousie]

Why aren't you guys discussing SHE RAN AWAY WITH NO WARNING FOR SEVEN MONTHS first and foremost like...

this should be number one topic before ANYTHING

I realize that people are different and I should not be imposing my own standards on others but how do you even trust and have a functional relationship with someone who can just randomly run and peace out at any time? YOU CAN'T. You need to work it out first and get some sort of believable confirmation that the tendency got fixed.

Not oh love love love love loooooooooove

sorry, I will stop ranting. But I am so disappointed. I had zero issue with her actions but his reactions to those actions are driving me mad.

[bamboobumblebee]

*big, existential sigh* I knew they wouldn’t handle this right. I just fucking knew it.

Because there is no way you neatly tie up the whole WYF running away to Hong Kong plot point in however many episodes we have left without SY just deciding to let it be bygones. I know WYF has trauma, don’t think I don’t adore WYF, but does that mean she doesn’t have to answer for the way her actions have affected the people she loves, and who love her?

Apparently, yes, that is exactly what it means. Which really irks me for many reasons, not the least of which is that accountability is part of healing.

If you are Sang Yan, you have nothing but future expectations of her running away again sometime in the future. HOW DO YOU TRUST THAT PERSON?? Especially after his whole “how can I give myself to you again” scene earlier in the drama? Are we just going to overlook that insecurity of his??

[dangermousie]

EXACTLY!!!!

This is SUCH a mess.

The last time I saw a pitch perfect drama fall apart so badly by the end and violate the basics of the story and the characters and the narrative as set up was Tender Light. Ooooof.

[bamboobumblebee]

This sucks. From a pacing standpoint, if they were going to do the HK storyline, they should have done it earlier. Or they need to figure out a way to give us another time jump where we see that SY and WYF took that time to idfk go to therapy or something.

Now this all feels rushed and emotionally insignificant, as if WYF is a five-year old who packed a little backpack with some Barbies and told SY she is running away from home. This is a BIG DEAL and needs BIG DEAL CONSEQUENCES.

I read on here where someone said that WYF doesn’t owe SY anything just because he loves her and I agree with that—but in relationships you do owe your partner things. Things like respect, trust, communication, dependability. And Sang Yan deserves all those things because he has consistently given them to WYF. Also, Sang Yan needs them because of how badly WYF emotionally worked him over from their first breakup.

This is weird enabling behavior on Sang Yan’s part, but you know what? Maybe they throw a Hail Mary in an episode or so that makes this all better somehow.

[dangermousie]

Yes yes yes! I don't care what actions and dynamics we see on screen as long as they make sense for the characters as written previously and as long as the narrative attitude towards them is the same as mine (ie you can show the most fucked up thing as long as you don't tell me it's healthy or vice versa, and as long as it makes sense.)

And the thing is, here we are hit with a double whammy.

There is NO reason why Sang Yan would be all 'eh nbd' about her doing what she did - he will love her sure he will yearn for her sure he will feel pity and understanding and rage for her past sure. But he, as written, should not just shrug the seven month stunt off without even a moment of bitterness, of questioning, of insecurity. No character should unless they've established they are so desperate for any scrap of anything due to e.g., their insane trauma that their reaction makes sense - once again bringing TTEOTM here or, if we are talking moderns, Song Weilong character from Go Ahead. And there, as he demonstrated the degree of his self-abnegation, of subsuming himself into her, of devotion not in any rational way proportional (if you were married when you came back I'd just take care of your children!!!!), her reaction was an appropriately horrified (loving but horrified and pitying) "how did I not know you were so sick" and the drama addressed it - addressed all the insecurities and traumas and reasons why. But there is no such background, explanation or attitude here and I am going BWUH WHAT

I think my frustration is because he has ceased to make sense to me as a character and as a person and I watch this gaping writing hole and it's driving me crazy the narrative does not share my take (to a lesser extent I have a problem with her too - she apologizes for high school but not this? Is she utterly lacking in self awareness? Five minutes of writing, ten lines of dialogue could fix it! So easy!) but it's his character that really drives me up the bend.

A narrative has to work very hard to make me invested and make me feel I know these people and that they make sense within their world. But one moment can break that immersion and then it's impossible for me to get back into it.

[bamboobumblebee]

YES.

People on here yesterday were saying that some people were assassinating WYF’s character to prop up SY’s but I think today’s episode proves that nope, that wasn’t what they were doing. They were pointing out that Sang Yan has been written to be a shadow of his former self, nothing more than a plot device to give the story it’s happy ending—because nothing less than a happy idiot would fly all over China to play Miss Marple on his ex-girlfriend’s backstory AND be cool with how this is all going down. Insta-forgiveness! now brought to you by Twue Wuve!

I despise a sad ending when I have reasonable expectation of a happy one, but at this point, narratively, I think a neutral-ish ending would make the most sense. With, what, five? episodes left and CX and the family to still deal with, I have no idea how you deal with that clusterfuck while also doing the repair and healing work needed to get SY and WYF romantically back on track— let alone moving forward. Unless, that is, you shoot Sang Yan’s previous characterization between the eyes.

*shakes the bars of my cage* THIS DOESN’T MAKE SENSE!!!

[dangermousie]

Yes yes yes to every word!

I am a sucker for ride or die couples, for codependent couples, for MLs who cannot function without their FLs but it has to make sense. They have to be able to exist in some universe.

I don't think I've seen a drama this badly fumble its characters and demonstrate such utter lack of understanding of its own story since the online ending of Tender Light (the CCTV one was fine.)

I can't remember if you watched The White Olive Tree but that is a great example of how to make the dynamic consistent and one that makes sense throughout from beginning to end.

We actually had the heroine freak out in the middle of a relationship and break it up but everything made sense - not just her reaction (because I actually think WYF's reaction of running away here makes sense well enough) but all the aftermath - both ML understanding but refusing to now make the first move of any kind (she is the one who now chases him) but also why he wants her still/takes her back - because her actions demonstrate why the past freak out won't recur but also because his own demons have quieted enough that he thinks they will never be in a situation where she'd have to make a choice she did before (date him and risk losing him or break up with him) AND he is shown as a very very damaged man and she's the one who quiets the demons in his head (and yet, he still expects more in a relationship and from a partner than supposedly functional SY.)

Side note - Olive also hits something that TFF forgets which is it's not a good thing when ML is so codependent he will take anything or need FL to breathe or w/e - no healthy person should/could be like that. By the end of that narrative, he cannot function without her sure but it's not a glorious thing, it's because he has extreme PTSD! It's portrayed as a tragedy! Why is SY not able to apparently function without WYF to such a degree he will overlook anything? He's not a torture and war zone survivor like...give me an explanation that makes sense!!!! He wasn't even like that earlier in the drama!

Actually, perhaps an even better comparison is Derailment - where once again we have a pair of high school sweethearts and then she peaces out on him seemingly for no reason and they reconnect years later. And ML loves her so utterly (and honestly it makes more sense for him - she was the one bright spot in high school and the reason he wasn't freaking homeless and starving!) but while he's helping her very much, he still wants to know WHY he gets ANGRY he has a life with friends of his own etc etc. And when he finds out about her trauma and the twists, he's distraught for her but he's also distraught for them. He's allowed his negative emotions, his own inner life. That relationship sometimes got dysfunctional and angry and because of that it made sense, the happy ending made sense.

In real life, no matter how much you love somebody, YOU are the center of your story, you see everything through that lens. You may feel you shouldn't express your anger or disappointment or talk it out (though it's healthy to do so and if you don't the narrative better explain why) but you should FEEL it at least.

The thing that drives me extra insane is that all of this is so easily fixed. They just needed a few more minutes and some additional conversation.

[thexmistress]

What show is this?

[rainedravens]

"holy shit they finally confessed, what comes next--"

[hazedrat]

CROSS OVER ! - R. SUKUNA X FEM! READER

Pairings - ghost! r. sukuna x fem! reader

summary - your husband—who had now been dead a year, won't cross over, and it's getting harder for him to go to the light. You need to help him finish his business, so he can wait for you in the light. Oh yeah, you can see ghosts by the way.

words - 3.5 k

a/n -art by @/ kcokaine on X

"I'll ruin you," he promised against her neck, voice all sin and shadow. "Slowly."

She should have shoved him away. Said something righteous. But when his mouth ghosted over her collarbone, her only answer was the sound of her breath catching.

"Say stop," he whispered, fangs grazing her skin. "And I'll pretend to be human again."

But she didn't.

She couldn't.

You hummed, quiet and distracted, flipping the page with a soft flick. A calm smile played at your lips — the kind you wore when you were trying not to react. Trying not to feel anything at all.

Flick.

The lamp beside you turned on.

Flick.

It turned off again.

You let out a loud, deliberate sigh, eyes still on the page. "Sukuna."

His voice came from the other side of the room, too casual. Too smug. "So now you decide to talk to me."

You didn't answer right away. Just turned another page. Slow. Measured. You weren't really reading — hadn't been for the last few chapters — but it gave your hands something to do.

"Don't act like I'm doing it for no reason," you said eventually.

Sukuna shifted on the couch, the leather creaking under his weight. He made himself comfortable — because of course he did. Like this was still his house. His life.

"I haven't done anything," he said.

You finally looked over at him.

He was exactly where you'd left him — sprawled out, one arm draped along the back of the couch, the other resting on his knee. He looked like death warmed over, which made sense. Given the circumstances.

"If by 'haven't done anything' you mean 'haven't crossed over,'" you said, "then yeah. You're right. You haven't done a goddamn thing."

He didn't flinch. Just smiled. That lazy, dead-eyed expression he used to wear when he knew he'd already won the argument.

"I like it here."

You sighed. "Well you don't belong here—not anymore."

"Maybe I'm still here because you want me to be."

You stared at the book, unblinking. "That's not how hauntings work."

"It's exactly how they work."

"No, it isn't—I've been seeing ghosts since I was five, Sukuna. I knew what a haunting was long before you died."

"Yeah? Well, I am dead. That makes me the expert now."

You flipped to the next page of your book, the paper sharp between your fingers. "Just... go. You're dead. I didn't ask for that. And I definitely didn't ask for you to stick around and haunt me like some unfinished project."

He didn't leave. Of course he didn't. His voice was smooth, amused, almost fond.

"Still wearing my ring, though."

A pause.

"Not yours. Mine. Wedding and engagement."

You said nothing.

He drifted closer, or maybe you just felt him closer. The air pulled tight.

"Like you don't want to admit I'm gone. Like some part of you wants me to stay."

You shut the book.

"No," you said, carefully. "I'm grieving. I'm furious that you're gone.but I know what's right, that it's your turn to cross over into the light."

He exhaled — not quite a sigh, not quite a scoff. "But I don't want to," he said. "I can't."

You looked at him then. For real. The way the lamplight passed through his outline made him look half-finished, like he was fading already.

"But you can see the light?" you asked quietly.

He nodded, eyes flicking to the corner of the room. "Yeah. Right over there." He pointed to the left. You followed his gaze but saw nothing.

"Then go. Just go." You stood up. "I can't deal with you, not when I know I can't touch you, hold you, nothing! You're just there, like a piece of furniture." You exclaimed.

He chuckled.

Then he stood. Slow. Gentle. The way he never was when he was alive.

"Alright," he said softly. "I'll go. Just... go to sleep."

You tried to smile. You even managed half of one.

He turned toward the corner.

Took one step.

Then another.

And by the third, he was gone.

—

"This one's from the Heian era," you said, lifting the lacquered relic with practiced care. Your fingertips brushed the worn edge, reverent, steady. "Came in just yesterday. Beautiful condition, considering its age."

The woman leaned in, breath catching. "It's... stunning."

You nodded, lips curling into a soft smile. Five years of owning this shop, and that reaction never got old.

It had started after Sukuna. After the vows, after the chaos of loving someone like him — you needed something slower. Something solid. Something with a past that didn't whisper back at you.

Antiques gave you that.

Every item in your shop had already survived centuries. Breakage, loss, war, abandonment — and still, here they were. Still standing.

Much like you.

"I've always had a thing for the past," you added quietly, tracing a worn pattern in the gold. "The stories behind these things. What they've seen. Who they belonged to."

The woman glanced around, caught in the quiet spell of the shop — the soft light, the scent of old paper and polished wood, the air thick with quiet memory.

You placed the piece gently back on the velvet-lined stand and smiled. "So, what do you think? This one... or are you still thinking about the Kaidō-era incense burner?"

She hesitated, eyes flicking between the two — torn, enchanted, almost reverent.

"I'll take the heian piece."

You smiled clasping your hands together. "I'm very pleased!"

She smiled as you tucked the small jar of koso into the paper bag, wrapping it neatly even though you both knew she'd tear it open before she got home. Still, habits like that—soft hands, careful folding—had a way of making you feel human again.

"That'll be... 2,567 yen," you said, voice gentle but detached, like it had been rehearsed a thousand times before.

She didn't flinch at the total, already counting the coins from her purse with practiced ease. Then she placed the money on the counter, each clink of metal unusually loud in the quiet shop.

"Thank you very much," she said, taking the bag. She paused for a heartbeat. "Such a sweet woman."

You gave her a noncommittal hum, more acknowledgment than gratitude. She didn't seem to notice.

The bell above the door jingled as she walked out, the soft chime echoing for a beat too long. Then silence returned, thick and familiar.

You counted the coins again anyway, out of habit. Sorted them into neat piles. Slid the drawer of the till shut. The shop felt colder now. Not physically, but in that subtle way silence sometimes scratches at the back of your mind, just before—

"Hey there."

You screamed.

The sound tore out of you without warning, a raw, startled sound that echoed against the dusty walls. You spun around, breath caught in your chest, stomach already sinking before your eyes even landed on him.

And there he was.

Of course.

Sukuna.

Smirking, hands in the pockets of a coat he wasn't wearing when he died. Standing like the rules of reality had never applied to him.

You frowned, wiping a hand over your face. "Are you actually serious right now?"

He tilted his head, that lazy smirk growing. "Look at my pretty wife, working so hard. Don't you get tired being this adorable all day?"

You stared at him, jaw clenched. "Why haven't you crossed over?"

He shrugged. "Never said I would."

"You did last night! You said you would!"

He looked unconcerned. "I said, 'I'll go.' I never said, 'Yes dear, I'll go cross over for you.'"

"Same thing!"

"Nope." He stepped closer. His voice dropped just a little, almost soft. "I'm not going. I'm not leaving you."

Your hands curled into fists. "You have to go, Sukuna. You can't keep doing this—just showing up like nothing happened. I buried you."

"I know," he said quietly. "I was there, remember? Front row."

"Don't joke."

"I'm not." His expression faltered for a split second—long enough to catch it. "I just don't want to leave. Not yet."

"You have to!" Your voice cracked, sharper than before. "You're dead, Sukuna. This—whatever this is—it's not fair. It's not real. You're not supposed to be here anymore."

He didn't move. Just stood there, watching you fall apart like you always did when he pushed you too far.

You took a shaky breath. "Cross over... or I swear to God, I'll stop loving you. I'll never forgive you for this."

That finally made him blink.

He stepped back, but not far enough. His voice was quiet now. "That won't be the case. You'll always love me. You know that."

"I—" You faltered, words knotted in your throat. "Shut up. Just... shut up and leave me alone."

You turned your back on him, closing your eyes like that might undo it, erase him, pull you back into a world that made sense.

A breath passed. Then another.

He sighed—loud, theatrical, familiar. Like he always did when you won a fight and he let you pretend it was your idea.

"See you later," he said.

And then he was gone.

Again.

Just like always.

—

It had been five days.

Not a long time, really. Barely a blip in the grand stretch of a calendar.

But it mattered.

Because Sukuna hadn't come back.

Five full days of silence. Not just the usual quiet that filled your home when the shop closed and the lights dimmed—this was different. This silence felt unnatural. Hollow. A space where something used to be. Where he used to be.

And maybe... maybe he'd crossed over.

That was good, wasn't it? You told him to go. Begged him, really. Shouted it at him like an ultimatum you never truly meant.

So he listened. And left.

You should be happy. At peace. That's what people say—you helped him move on, as if that's some kind of achievement. As if you're a stronger person for letting go.

But were you really happy?

No. Of course not.

You sat in the silence, waiting. Pretending not to. Convincing yourself you didn't still glance over your shoulder, flinch at the sound of your own breath in the hallway, freeze every time the front door creaked—hoping, stupidly, that it was him.

It'd be selfish to want him back. He was probably at peace now. Maybe even happy, finally. Waiting for you. Watching from the light, like people in books and movies always do.

Still.

Your six-year anniversary was coming up.

That was the part that caught you in the ribs.

You used to joke about it—how he remembered the day down to the hour, even if he pretended to forget. How he'd scowl and roll his eyes when you brought it up, but still always showed up with flowers and your favorite wine. How he'd call you "ridiculously sentimental" while pressing a kiss to your wrist and pulling you close.

But this year, there was nothing.

No knock on the window. No voice behind you. No smirk in the mirror. No ghost.

Just silence.

You sighed and turned toward your mirror, pausing to look at your reflection. The room behind you was still, like it was holding its breath.

You wore the dress. The one he bought you three years ago on a whim because it was "too damn perfect not to." The one you wore when he proposed to you on the rooftop. The one he tugged off later that night, fingers reverent and teasing all at once.

It was the dress you realized you loved him in. Not just loved. Chose him. Completely.

And now, you were wearing it again. Alone.

You didn't even know why you put it on. Maybe you were trying to summon him, like a ritual. Maybe you just needed to feel something other than aching emptiness.

You reached for your bag, fingers trembling slightly as you grabbed your keys.

You knew where you'd go.

~

You stood at the edge of the rooftop, the city stretching out beneath you in dull glimmers and distant noise. The wind pulled gently at your dress, lifting the hem like invisible fingers still curious about you. The night air was cool, but not cold. Comfortable, if not a little lonely.

You set the old boombox down by your foot with a soft thud, the plastic casing scuffed from years of being dragged around—picnics, road trips, impromptu dance parties in your cramped living room. It still worked, barely. The rewind button was jammed and the volume dial crackled if you touched it too fast.

But it worked.

You clicked play.

The opening synth of Hungry Eyes bled into the night, too loud, too romantic, too specific. And perfect.

It was always this song. Always.

You set the bottle of wine beside it—a red, the expensive kind he used to complain about because "no one with working taste buds needs to spend that much on fermented grapes," but he always bought it anyway. The cork popped a little too early. You poured a glass anyway.

Tonight was going to be perfect.

Not in a dramatic, Instagram-worthy, movie-ending kind of way. But your kind of perfect.

You sat on the edge of the rooftop, dress pooling around your hips, heels kicked off somewhere behind you. Your legs dangled off the side like you were sixteen again, like gravity didn't apply as long as you didn't look down.

Your glass trembled slightly in your hand. You blamed the wind.

You looked out over the city. Some couples were probably slow dancing in their kitchens. Some were fighting over whose turn it was to take out the trash. Some were in love. Some were leaving each other.

You were doing none of those things.

Just sitting.

Just listening.

Just waiting.

The chorus hit

You closed your eyes. Let the song wash over you, bubble up all the memories you'd been trying to lock down for five days straight. The dance in your old apartment with the flickering lights.

The way his hand slipped onto your hip, warm and casual, like it belonged there. The grin that split his face when he saw you try to twirl and nearly fell into the bookshelf. The quiet after.

His breath near your ear, and the whisper: "You're it for me, you know that?"

You took a sip of wine. It didn't burn enough.

The city didn't stop for you. No one knew this was the night he asked you to marry him. No one knew what the dress meant, what the song meant, what this rooftop meant.

It was your secret shrine. Your grief. Your anniversary.

You didn't even know if he'd come.

Maybe he wouldn't. Maybe this was the real goodbye, and five days of silence was all you were going to get. Maybe the universe had finally listened to you—for once—and taken him away properly. Permanently.

You wiped your cheek before the tears could fall far enough to be real.

"Happy anniversary," you whispered into the wind.

Your voice sounded too small, too fragile—like it might break apart before the wind could carry it anywhere. But you said it anyway.

And then you waited.

Because no matter how many times you told yourself it was over—

Some quiet, unreasonable part of you still believed he might answer.

Then:

"Thought you'd be here."

You turned at once.

Sukuna.

He stood at the edge of the rooftop, bathed in that soft twilight glow that made everything feel like memory. Like dream. His hands in his pockets, that crooked, knowing smile you hadn't seen in so long.

You stumbled to your feet, breath caught in your throat as you ran to him. "I... I didn't think—"

Your hand hovered near his chest. You wanted to touch him, but the ache of what wasn't real, of what you couldn't hold, was already pulling at your ribs.

But then he reached first.

His fingers curled around yours—solid, warm. Like it used to be.

You looked up at him, disbelieving.

You could touch him, feel him. And he could feel the same.

"I had to give it time," he said quietly, raising your hand to his cheek. "I'm sorry I left like that. But I had to come back for this—for you. For our anniversary. To dance. To see my wife one last time."

Tears blurred your vision. His skin felt real. His voice sounded real. And that made it hurt more.

"Y/n" he murmured, "dance with me?"

You nodded, barely able to breathe, and let him draw you close. One arm around your waist, the other holding your hand. He took the first step, slow and steady, guiding you as if music filled the air—even though there was none. Just the wind, the faint hum of the city below, and the sound of your own trembling breath.

You moved together in silence, his movements careful and sure, yours unsteady at first. But muscle memory, that old rhythm, came back.

He pressed his forehead to yours. "You changed me," he said softly. "I used to be—"

"An asshole," you whispered, a soft laugh breaking through your tears.

He smiled. "Yeah. That. But with you... God, it wasn't even about your body, or what people saw. It was you. The way you looked at me. The way you never backed down, even when I was awful."

You clung to him tighter, swaying with him across the rooftop. It didn't matter that there was no music. You remembered the song from your wedding night. He must have remembered too—because he began to hum it.

It was off-key, low and gravelly, but it made your heart twist in your chest.

"I didn't deserve you," he said, brushing your hair from your face. "But you still gave me everything. And then I died."

More tears fell. He wiped them gently away, his thumb soft against your cheek.

"It wasn't your fault," he said firmly. "The crash, the road—it was me. I was distracted, reckless. But I would've done it all again. I would've driven through storms and fire for you."

"I can't accept that," you choked. "If I hadn't called you... If I hadn't made you come all that way—"

"Don't." He stopped, holding your face between his hands. "Don't carry that. I never blamed you. I never could. You were the reason I lived in the first place. For once, I had something worth everything."

The music in your head swelled again—memories of an old song and an old life. You kept dancing.

His hand pressed to your back, holding you steady, close. Your bodies moved like a memory, the kind that visits just before sleep. He spun you gently, then pulled you back in, arms wrapping around you tightly.

"I would've done anything for you," he said, voice thick. "And that night? It was enough. I had already been given more than I deserved."

You rested your head on his chest, listening for a heartbeat that wasn't there. And still, you swore you could hear it.

He whispered into your hair, "Will you be alright when I go?"

You hesitated. "No one will ever be you. But I'll be alright. I know what's right. You have to go, and I have to stay."

You looked up at him and smiled through your tears. "But you'll wait for me, won't you? You won't find anyone in heaven, right?"

He chuckled low. "Never. Never," he said, eyes shining. "I wouldn't dare."

He spun you once more—slow and tender, the kind of dance made for goodbye. Then he leaned in, brushing your lips with his.

Soft. Familiar. Home.

"I'll be waiting," he said.

And then he stepped back.

The light behind him had grown. It bled gold across the rooftop, casting him in something ethereal and whole.

"It's brighter now," he murmured, looking over his shoulder. "It's... beautiful." He laughed—just once, and it sounded like it used to, rich and full of life.

Then he looked at you one last time.

"Happy anniversary, I love you."

And then—

He was gone.

Not far. Not away.

Just... gone.

But you know he'll wait.

He always will.

And you love him for that.

a/n - watcha think for my first oneshot / post

[jamzbug]

[thexmistress]

Sooooooo…… I spent literally a month writing a COMPLETE story AND sequel. Imma drop the entire first part of the story (Book 1) tonight and the entire sequel tomorrow night. I think I might be on to something with this binge writing ngllll!

Also the first part of the story is angst. Like pathetic angst! But the sequel gives hope and shows the strength reader has to overcome challenges <3 sooo as an angst lover I know how too much angst can be too much so I balanced it out in the sequel. Buttt I’m excited and can’t wait to share ^.^

Title of the story (Book 1): Ink-Stained Ruin

Sukuna x Reader | Tattoo Artist AU | 2nd Person | NSFW (smut toward the end) | Cheating | Emotional neglect

[thexmistress]

In the Wake of Blue

Jujutsu Kaisen | Gojo Satoru x Reader | Angst AU. This is not a love story It’s what’s left after love dies And how you learn to keep living anyway

The first thing you noticed was the cold.

Not the kind that settles in your bones after a long winter. Not even the kind that creeps into the empty spaces of a too-large bed. No—this cold lived deeper. It was marrow-deep. A quiet, permanent frost that had taken root in your chest the moment Satoru Gojo stopped breathing.

It never thawed.

You had cried, of course. At the funeral, surrounded by faces that blurred into black fabric and muffled condolences, you cried until your ribs ached. But even then, you’d known it wasn’t just grief gnawing at you. It was betrayal. A shame too raw to speak aloud, even to yourself. Because when they lowered him into the ground, you weren’t just mourning the man you loved.

You were mourning the illusion he built around you.

He died a hero. Japan’s strongest. The pride of Jujutsu society. But to you—he died a liar. A coward. A man who whispered I love you while building a second life behind your back.

You hadn’t found out until weeks before his death.

You remembered the moment clearly: the text that wasn’t meant for you, his silence when you confronted him, the vacant guilt in his expression as he confessed. And then the final, unforgivable truth—

“She’s pregnant.”

You had screamed. Cursed him until your throat was raw and your vision blurred with tears. And he stood there, not with remorse or panic, but a sadness that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“It wasn’t supposed to happen like this,” he said. As if that somehow made it better.

But you stayed. Not out of forgiveness. But because you were too tired to leave. And maybe, deep down, because a small part of you had hoped he wouldn’t die. That if he lived, you could leave him. Make him watch you walk away. Let him suffer the consequences.

But he died.

So there was no justice. No closure. Just an apology echoing in your ears as they zipped him into a body bag.

That was a year ago.

Now, the apartment is too quiet. Your world is too still. And the ache you carry isn’t something you can cry out anymore—it’s woven into your routine, stitched between your breaths.

You thought the worst had passed.

Until the knock

It came on a Tuesday morning. You were still in your robe, barely awake, coffee cooling untouched on the counter. You weren’t expecting anyone.

The knock came again—sharp, hurried.

You opened the door.

And your world tilted.

At first, you didn’t understand what you were looking at. A basket? No—a baby carrier. A blanket. A small, squirming form nestled inside it.

Then you saw the note.

Your fingers shook as you unfolded it.

“I can’t do this. You were always better than me. Please raise her. She’s yours now.”

— R.

You didn’t have to guess who R was.

You looked down at the baby.

Blue eyes stared back. Not just blue—his blue. Bright and sharp, like a cursed blade made of sky.

And suddenly, your hands went numb.

You didn’t scream. Didn’t cry. You just stood there, heartbeat thundering in your ears, as the chill in your chest sharpened into something else.

Hatred.

⸻

The baby—Sora, you called her, because you refused to name her after her mother—cried constantly. You fed her, changed her, held her when she screamed, but everything felt mechanical. Distant. Like caring for a stranger’s child.

You told no one.

There would be questions. Accusations. Pity. You didn’t want pity.

You could barely look at her for more than a few seconds without wanting to scream. Every time she blinked, every time her tiny hand curled around your finger, you saw him. And it made your skin crawl.

Worse, it made you cry.

Because she was innocent. You knew that. She didn’t ask to be born. Didn’t choose to be the product of betrayal. But logic couldn’t dull emotion. You wanted to love her—but your grief was louder.

Sometimes you stared at her in the middle of the night, rocking her back and forth in the dark, wondering if she would grow to be like him. Arrogant. Blinding. Untouchable.

Would she laugh like him? Smile like him? Make the same mistakes?

The thought made you feel sick.

So you distanced yourself.

You fed her, changed her, kept her clean and warm and safe—but you never kissed her. Never whispered soft words or lullabies. You did your duty like a soldier tending to a war wound.

She cried a lot those first few months. Like she knew she was unwanted. Like she missed a mother who didn’t love her and a father who was long dead.

There were nights you’d sit on the bathroom floor, hands over your ears, as she wailed from the crib in your bedroom. You’d scream into a towel. Cry until your chest hurt.

And then you’d go to her. Always.

Because you weren’t heartless.

Just broken.

⸻

One day, she smiled.

It was small. Toothless. Barely a twitch of her mouth.

But it hit you like a gut punch.

Because she looked just like him when she did.

You almost dropped her.

You set her down in her crib, heart pounding, hands shaking. You stared at her until the smile faded, replaced by soft coos and drowsy blinks.

You didn’t sleep that night.

⸻

Weeks turned into months.

Slowly—reluctantly—you adjusted.

You started talking to her, just to fill the silence. Not sweet things, not at first. Just whatever you were thinking.

“I hated your father,” you’d whisper while washing her bottles. “I still do.”

Sometimes, you’d cry while holding her. Other times, you’d stare at her and wonder if she would remember this coldness. If the distance would scar her the way her existence scarred you.

But she grew. She laughed. She reached for you when she was scared. And over time, you stopped flinching when she did.

One night, while feeding her, she reached up and touched your cheek.

Soft. Curious. Her fingers tiny and warm.

You froze.

And for the first time, you didn’t pull away.

[thexmistress]

In the Wake of Blue

Jujutsu Kaisen | Gojo Satoru x Reader | Angst AU. This is not a love story It’s what’s left after love dies And how you learn to keep living anyway

The first thing you noticed was the cold.

Not the kind that settles in your bones after a long winter. Not even the kind that creeps into the empty spaces of a too-large bed. No—this cold lived deeper. It was marrow-deep. A quiet, permanent frost that had taken root in your chest the moment Satoru Gojo stopped breathing.

It never thawed.

You had cried, of course. At the funeral, surrounded by faces that blurred into black fabric and muffled condolences, you cried until your ribs ached. But even then, you’d known it wasn’t just grief gnawing at you. It was betrayal. A shame too raw to speak aloud, even to yourself. Because when they lowered him into the ground, you weren’t just mourning the man you loved.

You were mourning the illusion he built around you.

He died a hero. Japan’s strongest. The pride of Jujutsu society. But to you—he died a liar. A coward. A man who whispered I love you while building a second life behind your back.

You hadn’t found out until weeks before his death.

You remembered the moment clearly: the text that wasn’t meant for you, his silence when you confronted him, the vacant guilt in his expression as he confessed. And then the final, unforgivable truth—

“She’s pregnant.”

You had screamed. Cursed him until your throat was raw and your vision blurred with tears. And he stood there, not with remorse or panic, but a sadness that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“It wasn’t supposed to happen like this,” he said. As if that somehow made it better.

But you stayed. Not out of forgiveness. But because you were too tired to leave. And maybe, deep down, because a small part of you had hoped he wouldn’t die. That if he lived, you could leave him. Make him watch you walk away. Let him suffer the consequences.

But he died.

So there was no justice. No closure. Just an apology echoing in your ears as they zipped him into a body bag.

That was a year ago.

Now, the apartment is too quiet. Your world is too still. And the ache you carry isn’t something you can cry out anymore—it’s woven into your routine, stitched between your breaths.

You thought the worst had passed.

Until the knock

It came on a Tuesday morning. You were still in your robe, barely awake, coffee cooling untouched on the counter. You weren’t expecting anyone.

The knock came again—sharp, hurried.

You opened the door.

And your world tilted.

At first, you didn’t understand what you were looking at. A basket? No—a baby carrier. A blanket. A small, squirming form nestled inside it.

Then you saw the note.

Your fingers shook as you unfolded it.

“I can’t do this. You were always better than me. Please raise her. She’s yours now.”

— R.

You didn’t have to guess who R was.

You looked down at the baby.

Blue eyes stared back. Not just blue—his blue. Bright and sharp, like a cursed blade made of sky.

And suddenly, your hands went numb.

You didn’t scream. Didn’t cry. You just stood there, heartbeat thundering in your ears, as the chill in your chest sharpened into something else.

Hatred.

⸻

The baby—Sora, you called her, because you refused to name her after her mother—cried constantly. You fed her, changed her, held her when she screamed, but everything felt mechanical. Distant. Like caring for a stranger’s child.

You told no one.

There would be questions. Accusations. Pity. You didn’t want pity.

You could barely look at her for more than a few seconds without wanting to scream. Every time she blinked, every time her tiny hand curled around your finger, you saw him. And it made your skin crawl.

Worse, it made you cry.

Because she was innocent. You knew that. She didn’t ask to be born. Didn’t choose to be the product of betrayal. But logic couldn’t dull emotion. You wanted to love her—but your grief was louder.

Sometimes you stared at her in the middle of the night, rocking her back and forth in the dark, wondering if she would grow to be like him. Arrogant. Blinding. Untouchable.

Would she laugh like him? Smile like him? Make the same mistakes?

The thought made you feel sick.

So you distanced yourself.

You fed her, changed her, kept her clean and warm and safe—but you never kissed her. Never whispered soft words or lullabies. You did your duty like a soldier tending to a war wound.

She cried a lot those first few months. Like she knew she was unwanted. Like she missed a mother who didn’t love her and a father who was long dead.

There were nights you’d sit on the bathroom floor, hands over your ears, as she wailed from the crib in your bedroom. You’d scream into a towel. Cry until your chest hurt.

And then you’d go to her. Always.

Because you weren’t heartless.

Just broken.

⸻

One day, she smiled.

It was small. Toothless. Barely a twitch of her mouth.

But it hit you like a gut punch.

Because she looked just like him when she did.

You almost dropped her.

You set her down in her crib, heart pounding, hands shaking. You stared at her until the smile faded, replaced by soft coos and drowsy blinks.

You didn’t sleep that night.

⸻

Weeks turned into months.

Slowly—reluctantly—you adjusted.

You started talking to her, just to fill the silence. Not sweet things, not at first. Just whatever you were thinking.

“I hated your father,” you’d whisper while washing her bottles. “I still do.”

Sometimes, you’d cry while holding her. Other times, you’d stare at her and wonder if she would remember this coldness. If the distance would scar her the way her existence scarred you.

But she grew. She laughed. She reached for you when she was scared. And over time, you stopped flinching when she did.

One night, while feeding her, she reached up and touched your cheek.

Soft. Curious. Her fingers tiny and warm.

You froze.

And for the first time, you didn’t pull away.

[mononijikayu]

aphrodisiac — geto suguru.

WARNING/TAGS: afab! reader, one shot, smut, r–18, romance, sexual acts, public sex, bathroom sex, oral sex (f! receiving), fingering (f! receiving), multiple orgasms, bodily fluids, creampie, clothed sex, profanity, cursing, ruining of underwear, accidental drinking of aphrodisiac, mention of aphrodisiacs and effects, mention of profanity, mention of sexual acts, depiction of sexual acts, depiction of aphrodisiacs and igs effects, profanity, boyfriend! suguru, girlfriend! reader;

NOTE: no other notice except that i was profane and horny and i needed to get it out my system. in short this is a day dream, its a short r–18 blurb, an unadulterated smut between two adults. read at your peril.

THIS WAS DEFINITELY BAD. Geto Suguru's heart raced as he felt the effects of the unknown substance coursing through his veins.

His skin flushed, his breath came in short gasps, and an overwhelming urge to touch, to be touched, consumed him. He grabbed your arm, his fingers digging into your skin.

"We need to go, baby." He urged, his voice strained. "Now."

He dragged you towards the bathroom, ignoring the many curious glances from the other partygoers. Once inside, Suguru locked the door and turned to you, his purple eyes eyes wild with desire at you.

"Someone put something in your drink, baby…..I didn’t want you to deal with that." he gasped, his hands shaking as he unbuckled his belt. "It's an aphrodisiac. I can't... I need..."

He didn't finish the sentence, instead pulling you flush against him, his lips crashing onto yours in a desperate, hungry kiss. Suguru's hands roamed your body frantically, his touch leaving trails of fire in their wake.

He lifted you onto the bathroom counter, stepping between your legs and pressing his hardness against you. He was feeling his skin sear with endless heat.

"I'm sorry…." he panted against your neck, his teeth grazing your skin. "I can't control it. I need you. Now."

His fingers fumbled with the zipper of your dress, tugging it down impatiently. Suguru's mouth followed, kissing and biting his way down your chest, pushing the fabric aside to expose your breasts.

He took one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, while his hand slid under your skirt, pushing your panties aside to delve into your wet heat.

"So wet, baby….." he groaned, his fingers pumping in and out of you. "You want this too, don't you? You want me to fuck you right here, where anyone could walk in and see."

"Yes, fuck….yessssss….." you gasped, your head falling back against the mirror. "God, yes."

You allowed your hips to be bucked against his hand, seeking more friction. You groaned against him, setting a steady rhythm. You could feel Suguru's fingers curling inside you, hitting that spot that made your toes curl.

Suguru's eyes flashed with desire at your words. He withdrew his fingers, bringing them to his mouth and sucking them clean. "Mmm, you taste so good, baby." he murmured, his voice husky with arousal.

“You’re so good, ‘guru.” You whisper to him. “Your fingers are so good…..”

“I know, baby.” He cooes to you, but he was having a hard time trying to keep himself calm because of the aphrodisiac. “But I gotta….I gotta make you feel better first. Lean against the wall.”

Suguru dropped to his knees in front of you as you leaned against the wall. He grabbed your hips, lifting your skirt, pulling you back against his face. He marveled a little bit before letting his tongue delve between your folds, licking a long, slow stripe up your center.

"Fuck, you taste amazing, baby. So so fucking tasty." he groaned against your flesh.

Suguru's tongue circled your clit, flicking the sensitive bud back and forth. He sucked it into his mouth, applying gentle pressure as he thrust two fingers inside you. His fingers curled, stroking your inner walls as he ate you out with fervor.

Suguru's eyes were wild, his pupils dilated with the effects of the aphrodisiac. He gripped your hips tightly, his fingers digging into your flesh as he buried his face between your thighs.

His tongue was relentless, licking and sucking at your clit with a fervor that bordered on desperation. He thrust his tongue inside you, fucking you with it as his fingers teased your entrance.

Suguru's other hand reached up, tearing at your dress, exposing your breasts to the cool air of the bathroom. He pinched your nipples roughly, sending jolts of pleasure–pain straight to your core.

His movements were frantic, almost violent in their intensity. Suguru was consumed by his need, driven by the aphrodisiac coursing through his veins. He ate you out like a man possessed, determined to make you come undone beneath his mouth.

You gasped as more of Suguru's fingers plunged into your dripping core, stretching you wider than you thought possible. His other hand continued to tease your clit, rubbing it in tight circles as he pumped his fingers in and out of you. The pleasure was intense, bordering on painful, but you didn't want him to stop.

You couldn't believe how much he could fit inside you, his fingers curling and twisting, hitting spots you didn't even know existed. Suguru's mouth found your nipple, sucking hard as he fingered you relentlessly. He added a third finger, then a fourth, his hand disappearing inside you completely.

You screamed, your back arching off the counter as an orgasm ripped through you, your inner walls clamping down on his fist. But Suguru didn't stop. He continued to fist you through your orgasm, his hand moving in and out, prolonging your pleasure until you were begging him to stop.

Your fucked out face felt hotter by the second, back and front, your juices trickling from your legs as your boyfriend moved away, licking the juice on his face. He was getting hotter than you, even though he was not dugged into the wall. He starts to look at you, just as fucked out as you.

“You’re crazy…..You ruined my underwear.” You say, looking at your wet underwear. “You’re buying me a new one.”

Suguru's eyes darkened with desire at your words. He leans in again, kissing your neck. His hand palming your breasts. “As many as you want, baby. Lace, silk. I don’t care. I’ll buy you all you want.”

You groaned at him. “You’re just saying this because you want to keep it for yourself.”

He laughs. “How’d you know?”

“Cause even without aphrodisiacs, you’re a perv!”

He gripped your hips, positioning himself at your entrance once more. "You're sure about this?" he asked, his voice low and husky. "I don't know if I can be gentle. I can fist myself to calm down.”

You bit your lip, nodding eagerly. "I don't want you to be gentle, baby." you whispered. "I want you. All of you."

He unbuckled his belt with shaking hands, unzipping his pants and freeing his erection. Suguru's cock was thick and hard, the tip glistening with pre–cum. "Turn around, baby." he ordered, his voice firm. "Hands on the mirror."

You hesitated for a moment, but the look in his purple eyes, the commanding tone of his voice, made you comply. You turned, pressing your palms against the cool glass. Suguru lifted your dress skirt, exposing your bare bottom even more.

"Wrap your legs around me." He commanded, his voice rough with need. You obeyed, locking your ankles behind his back. Geto Suguru gripped your hips, positioning himself at your entrance.

"Look at me, baby." He said, his eyes boring into yours. "I want to see your face when I take you."

And with that, he thrust into you, filling you completely in one powerful stroke. Suguru's hips snapped forward, driving into you with a force that made the mirror shake.

The sound of flesh hitting flesh echoed off the bathroom walls, mingling with your moans and his grunts. He gripped your hips tightly, his fingers digging into your skin as he set a brutal pace.

"Fuck, you're so tight." he growled, his forehead resting against yours. "So perfect. My pretty baby."

Your legs tightened around him, pulling him deeper with each thrust. Suguru's mouth found yours, swallowing your cries as he fucked you against the mirror. He reached between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing in tight circles.

Suguru's eyes were wild, his pupils dilated with the effects of the aphrodisiac. He gripped your hips tightly, his fingers digging into your flesh hard enough to leave bruises. His thrusts became erratic, almost violent in their intensity.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" he chanted, his voice a guttural growl. "You're mine, do you hear me? Mine!"

He bit down on your shoulder, hard enough to break the skin. The pain mixed with pleasure, pushing you closer to the edge. Suddenly, Suguru pulled out, flipping you over onto your stomach. He kicked your legs apart, exposing you fully.

Without warning, he plunged back into you, his hips slamming against your ass with a force that made you cry out. Suguru's hand tangled in your hair, yanking your head back as he fucked you mercilessly.

"Say it!" he snarled."Say you're mine!"

"I'm yours!" you screamed, tears streaming down your face."I'm yours, Suguru! Only yours!"

Your words seemed to snap something inside him. Suguru's movements became frenzied, his thrusts losing their rhythm as he chased his release. He came with a roar, his cock pulsing inside you as he filled you with his seed.

But even as he emptied himself into you, Suguru didn't stop. He continued to thrust, his movements slower now but no less intense, as if he were trying to brand you with his touch, to imprint himself onto your very soul.

"Never forget it, baby." he panted, his breath hot against your ear. "Never forget who you belong to."

His words sent a shiver down your spine, a mix of fear and something darker, something you refused to acknowledge.

Suguru's hand slid around your throat, his fingers wrapping around your neck possessively. "I'll never let you go, never." he whispered, his voice low and dangerous. "I'll kill anyone who tries to take you away from me."

His grip tightened slightly, just enough to make you gasp for air. Suguru's other hand slid down your body, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing in rough, demanding circles. You couldn’t stop mewling and drooling in the heaviness of pleasure all over your body.

"Come for me, baby." he commanded, his voice low and dangerous. "Come on my cock like the good little slut you are."

His words, his touch, the lack of oxygen – it all combined to push you over the edge. You came with a strangled cry, your body convulsing as pleasure mixed with pain. Suguru rode out your climax, his hips jerking erratically as he emptied the last of his seed into you.

He collapsed on top of you, his weight crushing you into the surface beneath you.You gasped for air, your lungs burning, your body aching.Suguru's hand slid from your throat, his fingers trailing down your chest possessively.

Suguru's grip on you tightened, his fingers digging into your flesh possessively. He nuzzled into your neck, inhaling deeply. "You smell so good, baby. " he murmured, his voice husky with desire. "I could fuck you forever."

His hips pressed against your backside, his hardness evident even in his semi-erect state.You gasped, your body still sensitive from the previous encounters. "Suguru, please, babe." you whispered, exhaustion evident in your voice."I can't...I need a break."

He chuckled a bit darkly, the sound sending shivers down your spine."A break?" he echoed, his hand sliding down to grip your thigh. "Baby, the night is still young. And I'm far from done with you."

His fingers tightened, pulling your leg back over his hip. You could feel him, hot and hard, pressing against your entrance. Geto Suguru's teeth grazed your earlobe, his breath hot against your skin.

"Don't you want more?" he whispered, his voice low and seductive. "Don't you want to feel me inside you again?"

His hips rolled, his tip sliding through your folds, coating itself in your juices. "You're so wet, baby." he groaned, his voice strained with need. "So ready for me."

Suguru's hand slid up your body, cupping your breast and squeezing gently. "Let me make you feel good…." he murmured, his thumb brushing over your nipple. "Let me fuck you until you can't walk straight."

His words, his touch, the lingering effects of the aphrodisiac — it all combined to stir the embers of desire within you. Your body responded instinctively, your hips arching back against him. Geto Suguru took that as permission, his hand tightening on your thigh as he began to push into you slowly.

"That's it, baby." he praised, his voice a low growl. "Take my cock like a good girl."

Suguru's movements were slow and deliberate, savoring every inch as he slid deeper into your welcoming heat. He filled you completely, his thickness stretching you deliciously. He began to move, his hips rolling in a gentle rhythm that built with each thrust.

"You feel so good, so so good…." he murmured, his lips brushing against your neck. "So tight, so perfect."

His hand on your breast squeezed gently, his thumb and forefinger pinching your nipple lightly.The combination of sensations was overwhelming, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. Suguru's other hand slid down, his fingers finding your clit and circling it in slow, teasing motions.

"Come for me again, baby." he commanded softly, his voice a low rumble against your ear. "Come on my cock, baby. Let me feel you."

"Fuck, yes!" he groaned, his hips snapping forward as he rode out your climax. "That's it, milk my cock."

Suguru's movements became more urgent, his thrusts faster and harder as he chased his own release. He bit down on your shoulder, marking you as his as he fucked you through the aftershocks of your orgasm.

Your body was limp, spent, but Suguru showed no signs of stopping. He flipped you onto your back, spreading your legs wide and driving into you with renewed vigor.

"I'm going to fill you up, baby." he promised, his voice strained. "I'm going to pump you full of my cum again and again and mark you as mine."

His words, his actions, the sheer intensity of the moment — it was all too much. The bathroom door swung open, and Suguru froze, buried deep inside you. But he didn't pull out. Instead, his grip on your hips tightened, his fingers digging into your flesh possessively.

"Get out, you fuck." he snarled, his voice low and dangerous. He didn't turn to look at the intruder, his gaze locked onto yours, his eyes blazing with a fierce intensity. "Now."

The person in the doorway was flustered red and was too stunned. They hesitated, no doubt taken aback by the scene before them. But Suguru's tone left no room for argument.

They muttered an apology and retreated, the door slamming shut behind them. Suguru's attention returned to you, his hips beginning to move again, his thrusts slow and deliberate.

"Where were we?" he murmured, his lips curling into a wicked smile. "Oh, right. I was about to fill you up."