meet the author! ash, eighteen, she/her, enfp, writing + personal blog, jjk/bkg-centred, wannabe charlotte york (but a carrie bradshaw at heart), katsuki’s wife and sukuna’s woman ( ˆ𐃷ˆ) .ᐟ.ᐟ
before you follow: multi-fandom (jjk, mha, bllk mostly + kny, csm, genshin impact, aot), not spoiler-free, nsfw blog, minors, ageless blogs dni
tags: #ashblogs for personal journaling, #ashwrites for my written works, #ashsmaus for my smau’s #ashrecs for works that i recommend
A/N: i apologize for the inaccuracies i am NAWTTT a stem girly.. this is me and @satorupi btw
Satoru's sprawled across the couch like a corpse that forgot to die.
His lab coat’s half-on half-off, a single sleeve dangling like a sad white flag. Hair an alabaster disaster – strands sticking up every which way – the kind of mess that only happens when he’s been hunched over a fume hood for six hours straight, goggles leaving red indents across his nose. He carries the scent of ethanol and burnt sugar and the faint metallic tang of whatever the hell he was titrating today.
You’re in the kitchen, stirring something that smells awfully close to salvation, when you hear the soft thump of his head hitting the armrest.
Again.
Like he’s trying to knock himself unconscious.
“Baby,” Satoru croaks, voice cracked from disuse and one can too much carbonated liquid, “if I don’t get skin-to-skin contact in the next thirty seconds, I may wither away.”
You snort. But he’s already dragging himself across the floor like a zombie with separation anxiety, collapsing at your feet. His arms wrap around your thighs, face pressing into the soft cotton of your (his) hoodie like it’s a lifeline.
“Hi,” he mumbles into your hip.
“Hi, Satoru.”
“Missed you. Missed your smell. S’like.. home, and food, and warm pussy, and fuck, baby, I’m so tired I could cry–”
You flick his forehead. “You’re disgusting.”
“Mmhm. Disgustingly in love.”
He nuzzles closer, hands slipping up your hoodie to rest at the small of your back. “Remember when we first met?”
You hum, half-distracted, spoon still swirling through the pot. “You mean when you almost blew up the chem lab?”
He tilts his head. Grins up at you, eyes glazed over with exhaustion and something much softer. “Yeah, but that wasn’t the first time we met-met. That was just me noticing my future wife.”
You raise a brow. “Oh? Then when was it, dork?”
He perks up a little. Like he’s been waiting for you to ask.
“The day with the beetle. You were sitting outside, eating those sad little vending machine noodles, and there was that gorgeous viridescent rhinoceros beetle crawling up your leg. You were–”
“–about to scream,” you finish, shuddering.
“Exactly!” Satoru’s laugh rings out triumphant. “And who came to your rescue? Me. Your knight in oversized lab goggles.”
“You caught it with your bare hands,” you remind him. “Then got freaked out when it vibrated, dropped it, and let it escape.”
“No, I freed it! That’s what matters. I released it into the wild to find its tiny bug dreams.”
“It wasn’t tiny–”
“Semantics,” he huffs, waving a hand lazily. “Point is, I saved your life. Imagine what a disaster life would be like if I wasn’t the one dealing with the cockroaches.”
“You are a disaster.”
“I am.”
You roll your eyes, but your smile gives you away.
Satoru’s ridiculous. Always has been.
And yet – somehow – the ridiculousness always ends the same way. With him clinging to you like he needs you to breathe. Like if he lets go, he might just float away – and now, with midterms piling up and research deadlines and whatever the hell his professor has him typing up at 3am, it’s worse.
You set the spoon down and turn the stove off before meeting his puppy-eyed gaze.
“C’mere,” you murmur, reaching down to cup his face.
His skin’s warm, smile dimpling beneath your thumbs.
“You’re gonna crash, Satoru.”
“Only if I crash into you.”
He stands – wobbly, all 6’3” of him – and scoops you up like you weigh nothing. Carries you to the bedroom with the kind of single-minded focus he usually reserves for staring at a paper. Drops you on the bed and crawls over, shedding clothes like they’ve personally offended him.
His mouth is on yours before you can blink. Soft, at first – all sleepy and sweet – then deeper, tongue darting out to swirl with yours. His hands are everywhere. Sliding up your stomach and palming at your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples until you arch into him with a gasp.
“Missed this,” he breathes. “Missed you– fuuuuck, I’ve been hard since Tuesday. Couldn’t even focus– kept thinking ‘bout your cunt. How warm you are. How wet you get, how you clench when I–”
He cuts himself off with a groan, cock grinding down against the plush of your thigh through the fabric of his boxers. You whimper, leaning into his warmth, and he takes it as permission – yanking your shorts and panties down in one impatient tug.
Then he freezes. Stares at your pussy like he wants to burn the image into his brain, wetting his bottom lip with a slow drag of his tongue.
Two thumbs spread your folds open, his breath hot and teasing.
And oh, he’s sloppy. Diving in, tongue lapping broad, trying to taste every inch of you at once. He groans into your pussy – the sound vibrating through your body as his nose nudges your clit – then slurps, just to smile when you jolt and flush at the obscenity of it all.
“Shiiit, taste so good,” he slurs, tongue darting inside to lap at you, all messy and desperate. “Been dreaming ‘bout this. Jerked off in the bathroom tw– twice, today, thinking ‘bout your cunt squeezing me. Pathetic, right? Couldn’t even wait.”
You whine, bucking up for more friction, and he pins you down – thumbs digging into your inner thighs, big hands keeping you open so he can tongue-fuck you deeper. He pulls back just to swirl and lave against your clit until your legs shake, then slides two fingers in without warning. Crooks them juuust right, bullying against a spot that has you seeing stars, bucking into his hold and babbling his name.
He groans at that. Grinding against the sheets, hips rocking in uneven, desperate jerks. Chasing something he can’t quite reach. His mouth doesn’t let up – tongue still swirling through your syrupy folds, fingers pumping steady, curling oh-so cruel. And he’s whimpering – whimpering – high and needy, sound muffled against your cunt.
Satoru’s pathetic. In the best way possible. Completely, wholly overwhelmed by you, unraveling between your thighs without so much as a drop of attention to his dick.
“Fuuuuck,” he groans, voice breaking as his hips stutter against the bed. His cock’s trapped in his boxers, pre leaking through the fabric – every drag against the sheets sending a shudder up his spine. He’s not even touching himself. Just rutting like a dog in heat, chasing friction while he drowns in you. His fingers twist, scissoring, stretching you just enough for your pussy to clench around him, and he whines again – louder, shakier, like he might just cry from how good it feels. “So good, baby, so– shiiiit, s’so wet.. gonna– gonna make you cum soo hard–”
You’re teetering, thighs trembling under his grip. His lips seal over your clit, tongue flicking up, down, swirling, sucking – then he pulls off with a wet pop! to lap down your folds. Spits on your clit and flashes a teasing grin as the glob slides down your cunt. His fingers curl sharper, relentless – and then he pulls out to deliver a quick, sharp slap to your pussy, the wet smack echoing through your room.
“‘Toru!” you gasp, body buzzing from the sting.
“C’mon,” he coos, “please? Cum f’me. Need it, need you, awwh, baby–”
Your hands tighten in his hair, pulling hard, and his eyes roll back with a broken, greedy sound. Lips curled in the cruelest smile.
And then he delivers another slap – lighter, precise, fast – fingers dipping into your cunt as his palm meets your clit, grinding down.
“Gimme it.”
Your high hits you like a freight train. Crashing over you, a white-hot wave that has your toes curling and your back arching off the bed, a choked cry spilling from your throat. Your cunt spasms around his fingers, soaking them, gushing all over the sheets – and Satoru moans like he’s the one cumming. Hips grinding down frantic.
And still, he doesn’t stop. Just keeps licking, keeps pumping, dragging out every shudder and pulse until you’re sobbing, oversensitive, tugging at his hair to pull him away.
He’s lost in it. Eyes half-lidded and glassy, tongue still chasing the taste of you like he’s starved.
“‘Toru,” you whimper, voice cracking.
And finally – finally – he lifts his head up. Lips glistening, pupils blown wide.
His fingers slow. But they don’t stop, still moving languidly inside you, rough knuckles brushing your oversensitive walls. He’s panting, cheeks flushed – and then you notice the way his hips still. The damp spot spreading across his boxers.
He came. From humping the bed. From tasting you. From feeling you clench around his fingers.
The realization makes your cunt flutter again, and he groans, eyes fluttering shut like he feels it too.
“Fuck, baby,” he rasps, voice raw. Pulling his fingers out slowly, watching the way your slick clings to them with rapture.
He brings them to his mouth. Sucks the digits clean with a shameless hum. You’re too fucked out to do anything but watch – and when he sees your dumb little stare, he bursts out into laughter.
“You.. you kill me,” Satoru sighs contentedly, collapsing onto your side and dragging you into his chest. “Fuck. I love you so much.”
You’re both a mess – sweaty and sticky and so, so tired, hearts hammering in tandem. His arms wrap around you, heavy and warm. He buries his face in your hair and inhales like you’re oxygen.
“I’m dead,” Satoru mumbles. “Deceased. Gone to the great lab in the sky. Tell my professor I died happy.”
You snort, swatting his chest, and he laughs – all boyish and bright, like he didn’t just make you squirt in the span of ten minutes and then cum untouched right after. “Drama queen.”
“I’m so serious. I think I just saw the light.”
“Don’t go toward it.”
“I know,” Satoru laughs, rolling off of you and sprawling out across the sheets starfish-style. “Also, we’re out of ice cream. I ate it all while crying over my lab report.”
“Okay. I’ll buy more.”
“Okay. I love you.”
“I love you more.”
“Yay.”
“Dork.”
–––
chem lab ; friday, 11:47 pm
Satoru’s hunched over the table, goggles fogged, pipetting the last of the reagent with the precision of a man fueled by spite and caffeine. Suguru’s packing up across the room, rolling his shoulders with a sigh.
“Drinks?” Suguru hums, slinging his bag over one shoulder. “You look like you need one. Or ten.”
Satoru doesn’t even look up. Just caps the vial, labels it with shaky scrawl, and peels off his gloves.
“Nah. If I don’t go home and see my girl soon, I'll die.”
you’re curled up on the couch, bowl of cherries balanced on your knees, minding your own business. the movie’s on, but you’re not really watching. mostly just enjoying the peace. until gojo flops down beside you with his full six-foot-whatever like gravity doesn’t apply to him and promptly steals a cherry like it belongs to him.
you glare but he grins.
“you didn’t even ask.”
he just plucks the stem off, pops the cherry in his mouth, and talks around it. “i never ask.”
you roll your eyes and nudge him with your knee. “i was saving that one.”
he swirls the pit around, tongue moving lazily behind his teeth. “you can have the next one.” then he reaches into the bowl again, fingers brushing yours like it’s an accident, and pulls out another.
but this time, he doesn’t eat it right away.
he pops it in. chews, swallows. and then—
his tongue starts working the stem.
he doesn’t look at you. doesn’t say anything. just leans back, jaw shifting a little, tongue moving behind his lips. you catch the faintest flicker of concentration in his brow. lazy, confident, completely infuriating.
then he sticks out his tongue. the cherry stem is tied. tight. neat. looped perfectly.
your mouth goes dry.
he looks at you finally, bright-eyed, smug as hell. “impressed?”
you blink. “you practiced that.”
he shrugs. “maybe once or twice. for educational purposes.”
he leans in, real close, voice dropping to a purr. “wanna see what else i’m good at with my mouth?”
you throw a pillow at him but he dodges, still laughing, still leaning in way too close.
“what? you started it,” he says, flashing teeth, tossing the tied stem into your lap like it’s some kind of trophy.
you glare at it then back at him, but his grin only widens.
“keep it,” he says, winking. “something to remember me by when i’m not blowing your mind.”
he gets another pillow to the face for that one—but you keep the stem.
note: can any of u guys do this too, i can hehe !! and also i'm still sick i have 0 motivation to write soo tadaaaa this is all i have (ᗒᗣᗕ)՞
when you first notice how sukuna brings his hand to his mouth absentmindedly while you lay in your shared bed together, you think nothing of it.
that faint little scrape of teeth against his nail when he’s bored or irritated.
you don’t even say anything the first few times because the last thing you want is to get those teeth turned on you for mouthing off about something so small.
but then you catch him again.
sitting at the edge of the bed, shirtless and frowning at nothing, thumb half in his mouth as he gnaws absentmindedly.
you can’t help it. you laugh and call him out. “you bite your nails?”
he looks up slow. the glare is instant. “what.”
“you bite your nails,” you repeat, dragging it out. smiling, you test how much you can push him before he snaps at you and pins you down on the bed for being a brat. “what are you, stressed? anxious? should i get you a fidget spinner, kuna?”
his eyes narrow as he slowly lowers his hand, the marked cheeks flushing. you’ve flustered him. the second you see the scowl and his clear embarrassment, you burst into laughter at him.
“stop it,” he grumbles warningly.
you only giggle harder. “oh my god, you do it all the time, don’t you? you do. my big scary boyfriend chews his nails!”
“i said stop, woman.”
“like a nervous little-”
he’s got you on your back before you can finish your sentence. one huge hand grabs your wrists and holds them over your head, while the other wraps loosely around your throat.
you’re still laughing, a little breathless now. “what? gonna bite me instead?”
he does. he leans down and drags his teeth onto your jaw, nipping on the sensitive spot below your chin while ensuring his canines don’t break skin. he does wrap his lips around your flesh and suck hard enough to bruise, though.
“you think you’re funny,” he mutters, voice muffled against your flesh, “mocking me like that.”
“yeah i am,” you say, trying not to let your voice shake when his teeth press deeper, not enough to hurt, just enough to make your eyes flutter in pleasure.
he bites again; a little harder when you gasp. “maybe i do it because i like the feeling,” he says between nips, “because i need something in my mouth to focus on.”
you shiver. “that’s disgusting,” you whisper, but you don’t sound disgusted.
“then make yourself useful,” he hums against your skin, hot breath spilling over the mark he’s just made. “and keep my mouth busy another way.”
“you have an oral fixation,” you mumble, squirming under him as he moves his hand off your neck to run his tongue along the column of your throat
“and you’re loud.” another playful bite, right at the curve of your jaw. he licks over the fresh indentations on your skin, gaze hooded and smug. “i just have to train my mouth on something sweeter.”
and that’s how you end up with a boyfriend who still has a terrible habit, though it’s redirected. he still busies his mouth when he’s restless or irritated, only now it’s on you. shoulders, neck, thighs, the flesh of your chest and ass - anywhere he can sink his teeth into until he calms down.
your daughter's first word is "dada!" - r. sukuna ☆
the competition starts off as a joke. mostly.
you’re lying on the floor one afternoon, baby between you and sukuna, all squirmy limbs and drooly grins. she’s nearly one now — chubby cheeks, curls in every direction, her favorite hobby is throwing expensive things off tables and laughing like she’s done something groundbreaking. she’s also been babbling nonstop for weeks: ba ba ba, ga ga, ahh!
“any day now,” you say, wiggling your fingers in front of her face. “come on, sweetheart. say mama. you know you love me more.”
sukuna snorts from the other side of her, one hand propped under his chin. “in your dreams. she’s daddy’s girl. always has been.”
“she literally bit your finger this morning and laughed.”
“because she’s my daughter. feral and mighty.”
you roll your eyes, but your heart’s too full to argue. especially when your daughter blinks up at you both, fists curled tight, mouth opening and closing like she’s almost got it.
from that day on, the war begins.
it’s ridiculous. every spare second, one of you is whispering sweet nothings into her ears like she’s a tiny, impressionable oracle.
“mama,” you say sweetly as you rock her to sleep. “say ma-ma, baby. you can do it. ignore the big scary man.”
“dada,” sukuna whispers like it’s sacred, holding her in one arm while pouring juice with the other. “you wanna say dada, don’t you? you love your old man.”
he even cheats — you catch him once holding her favorite stuffed animal hostage until she says something even vaguely “da”-adjacent. she just smacks him in the face with it and shrieks.
score: baby 1, sukuna 0.
but then—one lazy sunday morning—everything changes.
you’re in the kitchen, humming to yourself, trying to pour cereal with one hand and not burn toast with the other. your daughter is sitting in her high chair, hair wild, cheeks puffed out like a tiny chipmunk, watching sukuna pace around the room shirtless and still half-asleep.
he stops to lean against the counter, eyes still heavy-lidded, and yawns out, “hey, gremlin, what do you want? you hungry?”
and then—
“dada!”
the spoon in your hand clatters into the sink.
sukuna blinks. straightens. turns to her like she’s just summoned a divine prophecy.
“…what did you say?”
“dada!” she squeals again, tiny hands smacking the tray. “dada dada dada—!”
and sukuna — sukuna, the king of curses, the war god with enough arrogance to swallow cities — makes the most inhuman noise in the back of his throat. and you see him smile like never before.
he grabs her from the high chair, lifts her high into the air like she’s made of gold and sunlight. “say it again,” he begs, spinning her in a circle as she giggles, squeals, clutches at his face. “again, princess. say it again for dada!”
“dada!” she shrieks, absolutely thrilled with herself.
“that’s my girl,” he breathes, cradling her close and pressing his forehead to hers. “that’s my girl!!”
you’re watching from the doorway, arms crossed, heart squeezing painfully.
you should be annoyed. you should tease him, remind him how smug he’s going to be for the next forty years. but you can’t. not when he looks like that — glowing, flustered, borderline emotional. his hands are so gentle. his voice is just a whisper.
he turns and sees you watching. freezes.
“…don’t,” he says quickly, brows furrowed. “don’t make that face.”
“what face?”
“that face.”
you smile. “not my fault you’re a big softie.”
“shut up, woman.”
“you’re blushing.”
“it’s warm in here.”
he’s still holding her like she’s the world’s most precious artifact. she’s started chewing on his shoulder now, drooling through his shirt.
“dada,” she says again, this time softer. like a secret.
and you swear you see his throat bob.
“…you win,” you admit quietly, walking over to kiss the top of her head. “but only because that was the cutest thing i’ve ever seen.”
“damn right i win,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her tiny knuckles. “she knows what’s up.”
“guess we both do.”
you press a kiss to his cheek this time, and his ears go pink.
it’s basically in your blood to mess with your dear explosive— easily rage baited and lovely husband. so while maybe it wasn’t the smartest prank to execute especially on him of all people, you never claimed to be wise and well the consequences honestly has never really stopped you.
so during his office hour break you sent him a quick text claiming a handyman offered to help fix up the sink.
messages
you: hey
you: a maintenance technician just came by
you: asked if there was anything that needed fixing
you texted, sending an ai photo generated of a guy standing outside the door with eeiry eyes and an off putting smile. then giggling to yourself at the instantaneous response he sent.
messages
dynamine: what the fuck?
dynamine: tell him hell no and slam the door on his face.
you: but what about the dishwasher leak?
dynamine: I told you I’ll do it.
you: but you haven’t
dynamine: you only told me last night?!!!
you: well it’s already too late
as you sent that you waited for a few minutes to go by but during it you could see him pinging your phone multiple times, lightly laughing to yourself at his panicked state.
messages
dynamine: hello???
dynamine: are you there?
*dyanmine is calling*
*dyanmine is calling*
dynamine: answer your phone.
dynamine: I’m serious.
you: yeah he’s already working 🤷♀️🤷♀️
dynamine: you aren’t stupid.
dynamine: I know you aren’t.
dynamine: what are you doing?
then again you sent him another photo. this time with you in it throwing a thumbs up with the ‘handyman’ at the back. usually he’s pretty sharp but it’s been a long week and he had and actually is still dealing with an infinite amount of paperwork.
messages
dynamine: get him out the house???????
*dyanmine is calling*
*dyanmine is calling*
*dyanmine is calling*
*dyanmine is calling*
dynamine: WOMAN
dynamine: ANSWDFE THE PHSODNE
but instead of answering you instead texted him a photo of the man in your shared bed, peacefully sleeping without a care.
for awhile there was long drawn silence as you sat there steady. staring worriedly at your mute phone, then suddenly almost ominously.
messages
dynamine: be there in 20
that’s impossible, it takes at least an hour from here to his agency. there’s no way, right?
