The Impala was parked in a secluded spot off an old backroad, windows fogged up and the engine still ticking as it cooled down.
Dean had you in the passenger seat, seat pushed back as far as it would go, his mouth wrapped around your cock like it was his favorite thing in the world.
He was on his knees in the footwell, one hand braced on your thigh while the other stroked the base of your shaft in perfect time with his mouth. His lips were stretched wide, shiny and swollen as he bobbed his head, taking you deep into the wet heat of his throat.
“Fuck, Dean…” you groaned, fingers threading through his short hair.
He hummed around you, the vibration shooting straight through your cock. He pulled back just enough to swirl his tongue around the head, licking up the precum leaking from your slit before sinking down again, nose brushing against your stomach as he took you to the hilt.
Dean was a fucking pro at this. He sucked you with filthy enthusiasm, cheeks hollowing, throat working around your length as he swallowed you down. Spit dripped down his chin onto your balls, the wet, obscene sounds of his mouth filling the car.
He looked up at you through his lashes, green eyes dark with lust, clearly loving every second of having his mouth full of you. He pulled off with a wet pop, stroking you fast with his hand while he licked and sucked at your balls, tongue swirling around them before taking one into his mouth.
“Shit— you’re too good at this,” you groaned, hips twitching up into his hand.
Dean smirked, lips brushing against your cock as he spoke.
“Been thinking about this since we got in the car.” He licked a long stripe up the underside of your shaft before swallowing you down again, taking you deep and holding you there as his throat constricted around you.
He was relentless — sucking, licking, stroking, using every trick he had until your thighs were shaking and you were gripping his hair tighter.
Dean moaned around your cock when you finally came down his throat, swallowing every drop like he couldn’t get enough.
He pulled off slowly, licking his lips with a satisfied grin, voice rough as he looked up at you.
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summary; nerdji gets some much needed spice in his life. reader is a bit off putting but toji is right where he wants to be.
tags; light smut, top reader, male reader, dom male reader, non-sorcerer!reader, black reader, slight humiliation, mild cursing, jerking off, loser toji, dom!male!reader, nerd!toji, male!reader, gn!reader
wc; 3.1k
notes; so glad you guys liked the other one so much heres nerdjiiiii, def not enough nerdji fics catered to the male gaze so heres one for you all who was looking for one.
proofread by my baby @izanacult
art by @/syllysmot (dont know if they want tags)
high school was a breeze, you could get away with barely doing work and knowing just enough to pass the classes. college was an entirely different ballgame. you wouldn’t let it best you though, you somehow got whatever you wanted whenever you wanted, by any means necessary.
and if that meant a few extra marks then so be it, you’d just get a nerd to help you. offer them nothing but your amazing presence in return, and call it a day.
you made your way down to the library during study hall, obviously nerds hung out there, right? you’d just find one that seemed suitable enough to do exactly what you needed them to do. those virgins should be glad to even have someone like you in the same room with them.
you surveyed your surroundings, a lanky, loud mouth with white hair and blue eyes. ew. no, not him. too cocky and he just wouldn’t shut up about digimon.
a long, black haired individual who was giggling alongside him. he had a nice figure and skin looked so very soft and smooth. he was seemingly laughing at every word the white haired one said, giving him a look of adoration. god, no. it’d be better if they got a room.
you turned your head, and there sat a man on the hefty side, a scar on the side of his lips, eyes green in color. jet black hair, almost looks dyed but you were willing to bet it weren’t. he doesn’t seem like the type. looks a bit older compared to our peers and he was sitting alone to top it all off. each time his glasses slipped down his nose, he wasted no time pushing them up with two fingers. he appeared to be studying intently and didn’t wish to be bothered.
perfect. time to go bother him.
you walked over like you own the place, smug smile on your face like you had just won the nerd lottery with this guy. toji could feel your presence and refused to look in your direction, questioning all of his life choices in that very moment.
“hey there, man! how’s it going, with the studying and all?” you sat right next to him, peering into his book as if you knew the material you were reading.
toji was a standoffish, awkward guy. he looked very obviously uncomfortable as he glanced over at you. “uh, yeah.” his voice gruff and deep as he cleared his throat. “can i help you with somethin’?” he gave you a once over, hoping you would quickly leave him alone.
“as a matter of fact, you can.” you smiled at the question, “see, i need you to do me a couple of favors, i need to get my marks up and you seem like the perfect candidate to help me.”
toji blinked once at you, “are you kidding?” he gave a slight smirk, but when he saw that you were dead serious his smile dropped, “erm, no. i’m not doing your work for you.”
you looked at him, your smile dropping. no? you didn’t get told no, that word was foreign to you. “fuck you mean ‘no?’” you got closer to him, closing the distance between the two of you as much as you possibly could. “i don’t remember asking, see, it’s a favor.”
the close proximity was enough to make toji sweat, just a little bit. he took a deep breath, exhaling through his nose before he spoke, “i don’t gain anything from helping you, other than maybe a hard time.” toji’s eyes shifted somewhere other than you as he pushed his glasses up, he meant that both literally and figuratively.
“you’ll gain a friend or something, i don’t know. entertain me, please?” you looked at him, your fingers tracing along his back in a way that made his skin crawl. “just say yes.”
toji met your gaze, your eyes piercing into him made him feel like he was making a deal with the devil himself. the way you were looking at him though, it felt all too sweet to ignore. “okay.. maybe we could arrange some sort of deal,” he pauses with a heavy sigh, as if it were paining him, “just leave me alone and give me some time to think.” his voice was low as he went back to his studies, pushing his glasses up.
“i know where to find you.” you smiled, standing up and heading out of the library, hands in the pocket of your red windbreaker as you walked off.
toji watched as you walked off, “damn it, what have i gotten myself into this time..”
…
the chilly air was nipping at your skin, it wasn’t helping you were wearing a wife beater but you thought you looked sexy in it so braved it out for the sake of the fit. you were watching toji from afar, watching as he held out a research document with the dumbest grin on his face to a girl who was clearly using him.
much like you were but that’s not the point.
as soon as she walks away you make it your business to get in his, walking over there with the meanest faux attitude.
“so you have time to do other people’s work but not mine?” you raised a brow at him, looking at him as if he’d done a criminal offense. “you wanna be all buddy buddy with some girl when you have better things you could be doing. get it together man.”
“damn, am i not allowed to live my life?” toji scoffed and crossed his arms over his chest as he looked at you.
“you have no life, dweeb ass dude.”
toji scowled, pinching the bridge of his nose as you stared at him expectantly. “okay, you got it. you won. i’ll help you.”
“hell yeah, you wi—“
“on one condition, you actually study and spend the time to learn the material. why else would you be in college if you’re not actually trying to learn anything?” he looked at you as if he were expecting you to actually answer before realizing you were a lost cause. “do we have a deal?” he sighed
you blinked at toji as if he was speaking a language you didn’t understand, “uh, yeah, whatever. shake on it?” you didn’t wait for a response and instead took toji’s hand in yours and shook it. “good, we done now?”
“mm yep, see you.” toji started off, his backpack on both shoulders as he was off to probably go study or go off campus to work one of his many part time jobs. you weren’t satisfied yet though, so of course you followed him.
…
toji was not an idiot, he was one of the smartest people on campus and he also had a very keen awareness of his surroundings. he knew you were following him, hell, you weren’t as subtle as you thought. he was just waiting for the right moment to confront you about it. he found it when he went into the men’s locker room and you followed right in behind him like a dumbass.
“i’m assuming you’re not in here to take a leak.” he turned to face you, crossing his arms over his chest with an annoyed expression.
“no, i guess not. guess i just wanted to bother you a little, see what you could possibly be up to.” you walked up to him, you weren’t embarrassed that you were following him. what was he gonna do?
“that’s none of your concern, last i checked we aren’t friends. we’re just business associates, so why are you following me?” his voice was slightly stern, like that was supposed to scare you off.
“by my definition, we’re friends. friends with benefits.” your tone was the most casual thing in the world.
“i’m pretty sure that’s not what that means..” he gulped, pushing his glasses up as he peered into your curious eyes, your gaze was making him nervous. “look, i’ll let it slide just leave me—“
you silenced him with a kiss, you weren’t sure why you did it in the moment but you were both alone so it was fair game. his lips were dry, it made your eyebrow twitch with annoyance because chapstick is literally everywhere these days.
toji was inexperienced with kissing, he had only done it once or twice before. you were leading his lips like you were leading a choir. one of your hands on his hip and the other palming the locker behind toji for balance. you gave his lip a playful bite as you pulled back, looking into his eyes to study his expression.
“you’re ass at kissing, toji.” you looked at him with a bored expression on your face, but it was unnecessary malice because you didn’t mean it. wiping the corner of your mouth with your thumb then going to reapply the vaseline brand chapstick you favored so much.
“mm.. my fault for not expecting to be kissed, i guess.” toji looked down at you, his face resembling that of a pitiful puppy. he didn’t take his gaze off you, and he was truthfully too embarrassed to say anything else.
“yeah, your fault is right.” you grumbled, handing him your chapstick. “do you usually walk around with unnecessarily dry ass lips?” his cheeks and ears dusted a light shade of pink, extremely embarrassed. you were acting like you hadn’t even kissed him. he took the chapstick from you, unable to stand the eye contact any longer. you were too busy grumbling about dry ass lips to notice.
you took toji’s phone from his pocket, not missing the hardness in his pants. “what’s your pin?” you asked as you surveyed the phone.
“what do you need with my phone..?” he asked, his voice low and embarrassed as he took it from you and unlocked it, handing it back.
“we need to stay in contact, we’re in an agreement, right?” you looked up from his phone to him, taking in his flustered appearance and the fact that he was all fidgety. he looked timid almost, but also like he was trying to play it off.
“yeah..” he watched as you put your number in his phone and handed it back to him. he took it with slightly clammy hands and a pitiful frown that made his mind hard to read.
“i’ll actually see you around this time, no more surprises.” you checked your phone as you started to leave the locker room.
…
you and toji were having your first study session, you guys were at a cafe. you had offered to to buy him a strawberry shortcake and who was he to turn down anything free? you were still iffy about actually studying but your eagerness to pass was grander than your resistance to study.
it had been a couple of days since that mini locker room makeout but it never left toji’s mind. he didn’t want to think about that right now and instead focused on teaching you instead.
“right, and do you remember how i taught you to do this..?” he looked focus, biting the edge of his pen as he looked over the material for himself.
you looked at the page and then back at toji before back at the page again, “i guess.” your brows furrowed. you started scribbling away at your notebook, and toji watched intently. he took this stuff seriously, and he wanted you to take it seriously as well even if it was just for the moment.
after a bit the slice of cake arrived to the table and he took a break from his serious study mode to enjoy it. he made sure you were still working however. you couldn’t help but take a few glances at him, the way he was enjoying that cake like it was the best thing in the world. it made you want to devour his lips all over again, you didn’t know what was coming over you but you decided not to fight it.
as you continued with your studying, you slid a hand down to toji’s thigh. your hand rested there underneath the table and no one was aware of the burning touch except you and him. your hand gently massaged his thigh, toji didn’t make a word, his cheeks burning from how flustered he was.
“what are you doing..?” he spoke quietly, loud enough only for you to hear. he was finished with his cake by now, wiping his face with slightly shaking hands and pushing his glasses up. he was looking at you, but he didn’t move.
you continued to look down at your paper, “studying. you got a problem with that?” you answered as if it was an obvious one. the caresses still making his body hot.
“no problem..” he gulped, after a bit he started to get fidgety. “i think we should call it a day, hm? i just remembered i have to, um, take out my cat.” he blinked like an idiot, starting to stand and grab his things.
“i like cats. can i come over?” you started to pack your things as well, looking up at him from your seat with a big smile on your face.
toji gulped, he didn’t know how to take this, how to take you. he wanted to go home and try to forget the slightest touch you gave him and how it almost sent him into a frenzy but he couldn’t do that with you there playing with his lazy ass cat who definitely did not get out.
“yes, you can come.” he said with a slight sigh, “but we might as well continue our studying.” he spoke with the surest tone in his voice.
you guys left the cafe and got in your car so you could drive him home. it was a smooth ride, not much talking as you blasted rock music from the shitty stereo. eventually you guys got to his place, he was quiet as he got out of the car, not waiting for you, and going to unlock the door.
you got out the car, locking it up as you followed him inside his apartment. you didn’t spend much time looking around when you met eyes with his black cat. you fell in love, he didn’t seem like much of a cat guy.
“awww, awww, awww, kitty!” you scooped the cat up in your arms and ignored everything else. toji looked at you with crossed arms, allowing you to have a moment.
“cmon.. studying.” he spoke with his usual gruff tone, the flushed toji was left at the cafe.
“can’t we take a break? we were just studying, man.” you placed the cat on the floor, looking back at toji as you matched his pose.
he pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing. “alright, ten minutes.” he huffed out.
…
toji was on top of you, grinding against you in a needy manner as you had your tongue down his throat, dominating it. one of your arms were snaked around his back, the other caressing the back of his head. one of your legs in between his which was creating the friction he was craving as he ground against you.
toji moved away to breathe, his skin was tinted pink and it burned to touch. his glasses were slightly crooked on his face as he looked at you, panting with parted lips. “i’ve never.. mm..” he looked to the side, embarrassed.
“i’m not gonna fuck you.” you answered as you propped yourself up, looking at his pitiful expression. you felt how pathetic toji was under your touch and actively chose to torture him like this.
he fidgeted, still subconsciously grinding on you like a needy cat in heat. “ah, right.. yeah, i wasn’t—“
“good. wouldn’t wanna get your hopes up.” you stretched, leaning across the bed to grab your phone, checking the time. “it’s getting pretty late, i should get going. thanks for the study session.” you moved yourself from underneath toji, giving him one last playful nip on the neck before you did. it sent a shutter to his core, he couldn’t understand you for the life of him.
“no problem..” he spoke in a low tone, watching as you left but didn’t forget to pet his cat on your way out before you did. toji sighed into his hands after sitting up on his bed, what the hell was going on? what was this relationship you guys had and why is neither of you saying anything about it? as if it’s the most casual thing in the fucking world.
toji had no words, his mind mush. all he had was the ache between his legs and his heated, sweat ridden skin. “what the fuck.” he breathed out, palming himself. he never really thought about his sexuality or anything involving another person romantically, for that matter. sure, he knew he liked the way women stared at him, which is why he went to the gym in the first place. but men? he didn’t think he would be in cahoots with a man. or whatever this was.
toji undid his pants, slipping out of them. his breath shuddered at the extremely slight touch. he took his member out of his briefs, it was dripping with pre and slightly twitching. “what the fuck..” he repeated, his hands taking his own length as he began to stroke, panting already as he threw his head back. the memory of you encouraging his movements. he thought back to when you first met, the irritation in your tone and threatening gaze. safe to say, he didn’t last long before he came undone with a heavy shiver in his body.
he let out a low whimper, not being able to believe he just jerked off to the slightest thing from someone he barely even knew. “god, this is so embarrassing..” he looked down at himself, at his mess, and sighed. “fuck me.”
he got up and showered, mulling over everything that has taken place in the last three days. thinking about you, thinking about this new situation you guys were in. or maybe he was overthinking it and there was nothing to be thinking about in the first place.
he didn’t know, all he knew was that he wanted you. he wanted to keep this arrangement going and he wanted you to touch him all over. he didn’t mind what attention you gave him, as long as it was coming from you. he was a fucking mess and you had no idea.
Once you permit him to start being close to you again, he’s all over you. He’s learned to control the feral instinct of possessiveness and jealousy and mineminemine-
You elbow him, reminding him to control his expression. He obeys, stops scowling at the random person (classmate, but he couldn't care less, they were another thing in the way) you were talking to. They seem to relax a little, but not much because now they have to deal with uncomfortable staring. You couldn’t even have a normal conversation with other people.
That was another problem with him. Since you accepted him again, he’s following you everywhere, even though you put up boundaries. And if you try to refute him, he just does what he has to to get what he wants- getting on his knees, his eyes widening, lip jutting out into a pout, and ears drooping as he looks up at you. If you try to be more firm, he’ll just wrap his arms around you clinging to you and crying.
It was so embarrassing that you just agree to whatever he says, just, hurry and get up..! He’s beaming like he didn’t just manipulate you into doing what he wants. And after you give in once, it just seems so easy to keep getting you to do what he wants, and you can’t be so cruel and deny him, could you?
He’s somehow snuck into your home as well. Soon as you gave him the yes to be near you again, he follows you home, insisting on protecting you. You, unwilling to get into an argument, just give in. He just… stays in his car the entire night. Wakes you up with breakfast from a store.
And you feel bad, seeing his hulking form in the car outside the house, and it’d be so mean of you if you just let him sleep and suffer in his car while he’s protecting you, right? What led to, “You can sleep on the couch sometimes,” is now him brushing in your washroom and heating milk in your microwave with the mug you got for him. Yeah, he’s moved in and it's all thanks to him being so pitiful.
He tries to be less, well, pathetic, but he can’t help it. He knows that he can’t cross a certain line because it might result in you hating him again, and he couldn’t bear with that. But he teeters on that line dangerously close- he needs to have some sort of satisfaction with his dark, hungry desires. He tries his best not to show them.
There are times when he’s unintentionally too cute to resist.
He’s helpful by nature, and even more so with you around. With his tall stature, he’s able to get cats out of trees, cans off of shelves, and catch a balloon as it floats away. Immediately, he’s turning to you, expecting something. You know what it is by now, so you reach a hand out and he’s shoving his head under it, nuzzling into your limited and sparse affection. You huff of amusement, exasperatedly smiling at him. He’s blushing once he sees it.
When you guys hang out at any place that’s overbearing with smells, he’s always wrinkling his nose- naturally more perceptive of and sensitive to them. Then he’ll get closer to you, and rub his nose in your clothing, taking deep inhales. If you try to push him off out of embarrassment, he’ll whine and plead, please, you smell so nice and he can't bear that strong scent, please just let him keep his nose here for a lil, you won’t even know he’s there, promise.
So you have him leaning into your neck, walking with a heavy weight around. You can practically feel his tail wagging. He doesn’t whimper when your hand pats his head, he swears he didn’t.
His usual friendly demeanor is back, muddled along with his obsessive behaviour. He’ll bring you gifts and food and things you like- exactly when you want it. You wonder aloud how he knew you needed this. He pouts, ears drooping. You turn away to avoid hearing what he has to say and falling for another one of his ploys.
He loves to cuddle you. Wherever you’re sitting, he’s there, in your lap to snuggle up to you. His tail is whacking into you the entire time. And he’ll whine pathetically when you try to push him off. He’s like a koala- clinging to you tightly, burrowing into you. So you have to deal with it as your legs go numb getting sat on by his couple hundred pounds, refusing to get off.
When he attempts to, essentially, seduce you, he actually doesn’t resort to such petty tactics. He goes by a much more gentlemanly behaviour. Or well, as gentlemanly as he can get.
He sees you all worked up and sweating after a workout and in the locker room, he’s rubbing himself all over you, being whiny and pathetic. Grinding like a dog. He’ll apologize once you somehow hold him away at arm’s length. Says sorry over and over, his instincts took over, please just let him smell you at least.
One day, he approaches you, fiddling with his shirt, shoulders tense. “Hey… I’ve been really good lately, right?”
Weird, that’s coming out of nowhere. “I don’t…” You look at him, confused.
“I’ve been really good! Y’know, with other people, and stuff.”
You squint. “You mean not like, violently reacting to people I talk to? And jumping them? Harming them?”
He nods.
“Right… Thank you for doing the bare minimum.” You roll your eyes, exasperated.
“S-so, y’know, I was thinking…” He fidgets, looking at the floor. Then he’s looking up at you with large eyes, blinking expectantly.
“Wait… do you want something? What? You-” An abrupt laugh leaves your mouth. “You think I should reward you for having basic decency? You think you deserve something for it?”
He nods, eyes bright. His tail was slightly wagging. You’re appalled. “No, I’m not doing that.” His face falls and so does he. He slowly gets on two knees. Now, you’ve grown semi-resistant, so you turn away. Your visibility is perfect out of the corner of your eye, though. He’s crawling on his knees, shuffling forward awkwardly, hands clasped together, edging towards you, slowly.
You make the mistake of turning to him. His eyes are bigger than ever, slightly watery. His ears droop lower than they’ve been before. “Oh, fine, come here.” He jumps up and into your lap, wrapping his arms around your shoulders.
He watches you, a stupid grin on his face. That grin becomes flustered as you reach for his belt. “W-wait! No, what’s- what’re you doing?” He’s panicking, stopping your hand.
You look up at him, and he gulps at the view of your now irritated and bored face. “Isn’t this what you want?”
“Nooouhhh.” He pouts. “I was just hoping for a kiss, or something!” His face is adorably red. “Not… not that!”
You smirk, rolling your eyes. “Ok, well then…” You grab his face and peck his cheek. That peck holds a little longer than it should, and your tongue presses against his cheek, draggin upwards.
“Ok! Thanks!” His voice is a high squeak as he jumps out of your lap and dashes away stiffly. “Stop.” He halts. “Turn around.” He tugs his shirt low as he can, playing with the hem. It’s not enough to cover his bulge though.
“Aw, is poor puppy hard?” He blushes, turning his head away from you. “C’mere.” He obeys, stumbling over to you. He falls at his knees near the edge of the couch, looking up at you reverently. His hands and chin rest at your knees, and your own go to cup his face. He nuzzles into it, panting out slow, soft breaths like he’s scared breathing too hard will ruin it all.
“Need my help?” His ears shoot up along with his eyebrows. His tail wags rapidly.
“Really? Y-you’d do that for me?” At your nod, he moves to sit in your lap. He tugs off his pants, back on your chest, an arm of yours going to wrap around his waist. The other moves to gently rub at the more prominent bulge.
He’s trembling, and a quiet moan leaves his gritted teeth.”C’mon, not gonna be able to do this without you.”
He yanks off his boxers, never leaving your lap. It was quite the struggle as he shifted in your lap and all 200 pounds of him kept raising and dropping his hips.
You spread his legs despite his whines. “Wow, already so needy? I haven’t even done anything.” You chuckle, grab his thick cock and rub the slit. He bucks his hips the second you touch him. A grunt leaves his mouth.
“Stay still.” You murmur as you start to stroke him with his own pre, there was a lot that dripped down the sides and into your hands, serving as perfect lubrication. He’s letting out high whines the entire time and you can tell he’s trying to stay still, be good for you, so you speed up your caressing a little.
His breath is shaky as his head falls back and his hands gripping the couch grow stiffer. “You’re doing really good, puppy.” He keens at the name, legs squirming as he receives the best handjob he’s ever had. It doesn’t even take ten minutes for him to be squirming with urgency in your grasp.
Your arm is slightly tired but you’d never let up, not when you have him like this. “You close?”
“Yes…” He moans, eyes opening to look at you. They’re glazed and watery, mouth open as he pants, resembling a real dog. You kiss his nose and stroke faster until he seizes up, curling in on himself and his dick pulses in your hand. You watch in fascination as you see more cum than you ever have leave him and land on the floor.
He goes limp, collapsing into you. Your legs have long gone numb, so you just move to hold him. Burying his head in your shoulder, he mumbles a thanks.
He’s so pathetic you can't help but feel the need to take care of him. Or maybe he was just around you so much that you eventually fell for him. So despite your trying and initial reluctance, the two of you do end up dating. It’s a wild ride.
You thought for sure that his intense jealousy of other people would go down but no, if anything, he’s growling at everybody you step a bit too close to, like a guard dog. You’ve reprimanded him more than once, but it’s like he couldn’t care less- like he wants you all to himself.
Multiple times he’s begged you to just stay home, quit your job he’ll take care of you. Always starts sniffling when you refuse him. Either way, you do what you want despite his protests, and he’s always suspicious that the other person will pounce on you the second he’s gone.
Which leads to the current situation- The two of you were out, hanging. Your canine had rushed into a store because he saw something you’d like, leaving you standing alone for a while. He had come back to see a pretty little thing talking to you, fluttering their lashes up at you.
This little minx! He glances at you, and sees you reciprocating their happy expression. So, this person must matter to you? Well, he’ll see about that. He’s sulking as he pads over to you slowly, handing you something. You sigh of relief as you see him behaving, and continue talking with your ex.
“Is this your new boyfriend?” You’re surprised they’ve hit the nail on the head, but confirm it. You see your canine slightly perk up, his hand worming to grasp your fingers.
They don’t miss the movement. “Wow, never thought you’d go for the… uh, bigger type. Always swore you’d like pretty cute things like me, didn’t you?” You freeze, forcing yourself not to look at him.
“Well, it was nice seeing you,” Not, ”But we should get going.” You curse your ex internally as you grab your boyfriend’s hand and drag him to your car. He was frozen as well.
When you finally reached home, it seemed the spell was broken. “Who the hell was that..?” He looks at you, eyes literally red. “You…” He visibly droops, anger replaced by insecurity. He grabs you into a kiss, “Who the hell are they,” a kiss to your eye, your ear, your neck, your lips, “to say bullshit like that, mph.”
You open your mouth to meet his, allowing him to do as he pleases. You watch with half amusement and half tiredness as he drags you to the bed.
Now, you were above your canine, deep inside him, moving at the pace he liked. His face was a blushing mess, body scorching. His ears flopped as you thrust into him, his tail squashed underneath himself. His mouth is open, little whimpers leaving his mouth in response to the presses of his nipples. Slapping and wet sounds joined his in the air, along with grunts and praises from you.
You were covered in his bite marks, from when he nibbles on your shoulders and arms. He seemed pretty satisfied with them, leaning back with a lopsided smile, tail wagging.
Now, his usually bright eyes were dark with obsession, never leaving yours. Streaks of dried tears trail into his hair. “Wh-who was that?” He whines, still not having let go of the mall encounter.
You ignore his question, leaning in to kiss his neck, “Feel good?” He turns his head to yours, nuzzling your ear.
“Yes…” He whimpers out, long tongue darting out to lick your shoulder. “Feels really good. But-”
You pull back, interrupting him, “Mm, and you know you’re the only person I’m making feel good?”
“Y-yes, yes, but..!”
A tired sigh leaves you. “But nothing, there is no but, puppy, you’re the only one I’m fucking, you’re my boyfriend, and that’s all there is.” You pull back to your knees, running a hand through your hair, slowing to a stop.
He cries out, “I know, I know, but it’s not your fault! What if they find out how good you are and they try to take you from me, and you leave me for them, and- mmph…” You press a kiss to shut him up, because otherwise it’ll snowball into endless rambling.
He looks at you through wet lashes, starting to sniffle. You kiss his eyes as you move to cage him again, starting a slow pace. Filthy squelches fill the air again and he blushes a pretty red like he always does for you.
“And you’re so good for me, puppy. Why would I leave you, hm? Leave this?” You grab his currently useless cock, slowly stroking his dripping length. “You need to get others out of your head- even I’m not thinking about them, baby, why are you?”
He hiccupped as you pick up the pace with your stroking. “C-can’t help it. Ah- wait-” You watch him with dark eyes and it sends him to orgasm, along with the feeling of you filling him so well, still focusing on him and his pleasure. Having already cum for you multiple times, watery spurts leave him as his eyes close. He whines with overstimulation and pushes your hand away.
He was completely out of it, eyes glazed, looking at the ceiling, laying limp. You clasp your arms around him as you suck his neck, jerking your hips to help yourself release. A muffled grunt hits his neck as you still, releasing into him. No condom of course, he couldn’t allow your cum to end up anywhere else.
You lay there panting into his neck, heartbeat slowing as you calmed down. He pushes you up, and gets you to lay back, him on top. You watch with amusement as he lifts his hips to ride you.
A hand rests on his hip, “Ain’t you tired, baby?”
“One more, one more please. C-cause you’re mine, right? Right?” His hands curl into fists on your chest, nails dragging a slight path behind them. His eyes are less suspicious now, more secure, still loving, always obsessed.
“Yes,” You groan. “Yes, yours.” You grip his hips as he sucks your entire length in. Your head was thrown back, eyes closed. So you don’t see the deep, possessive glint of his eyes as he moans your name into the air, satisfied with his claim over you.
Omega Daeron having a one night stand drunk and he's knocked up but reader is his childhood "enemy" who secretly loved him 🤤
“I need to talk to you now”
“My prince, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”
Gods he hated you, you always made him feel stupid, made him feel small. No other lord or lady was able to do that but you were. Daeron grabbed your arm pulling you away from whoever you had been talking to. He pulled you into a secluded hallway, no one nearby to hear as he told you why he needed to speak to you, the person who he has hated since he was a child.
“It's about that night…”
“We both said we wouldn't talk about it.” you growled at him, making him want to back down. He couldn't though, he needed to tell you the truth.
“That was before! It has changed!”
“How has it changed, my prince? Don’t tell me you want more already~?”
“No! I’m…” the word got caught in his throat, the reality kicking in. He was pregnant, via the person he hated the most in the world. He would bare you a pup, one that would most likely not be claimed. His pup could be considered a bastard all because of one mistake, one bad decision while having too much to drink leading him to try and confront you. That confrontation had turned into him being spread open on your bed and fucked until he couldnt remember his own name.
He fought down the fear, the shame, before he muttered to you quietly, “I’m pregnant."
You looked at him with wide eyes, your eyes searching his face for a sense of if he was lying or not. You coughed into your fist before asking him back in the same quiet tone, “is-is it mine?”
“YES IT'S YOURS!”
He quickly covered his mouth, flipping around to ensure that no one was nearby to hear his yell. He pouted before looking at you again saying in a low tone, “I do not care if you do not want it. This is yours so you will have to play your part. Mate me so that the child is not a bastard.”
You blinked at him a few times, surprised at that. He’s a royal, he could get rid of the child if he wanted to. Instead he wanted to have your child, he wanted you to mate him, he wanted to be yours. And who were you to tell the pretty omega prince no? A smirk took over your face, you whispered back to him, “I refuse~.”
His eyes filled with fear, then anger, then sadness. Tears started to brim in his eyes, making your resolve break. Your omega was hurt. You need to fix it now. You stepped forward wrapping your arms around his body and pulling him into you. He buried his face in your neck, inhaling your scent calming himself down. His shoulders fell as he relaxed, his body letting go of the stress it was holding. You soothed down his hair, petting him softly. A purr rolling out of your throat as you held him.
“I’m sorry Daeron, I did not mean to upset you, it was a bad jest. Of course I will mate you.”
A sigh bullied its way out of him as you told him that, happy to know he wouldn’t suffer through this pregnancy and his father’s rage alone. Your hand was rubbing up and down his back comforting him while you held him. Daeron pulled his face away saying to you, “we need to mate now before people realize and put together that the child is not from a mated pair.”
You laughed then, your chest rumbling as you said to him, “so you do just want to get back in my bed.”
summary. you are the best thief in the country and leave a trail of stolen hearts wherever you go. gojo satoru knows everything about you – you name, your face, your modus operandi. he refuses to become just another pretty face you kiss and don't miss.
wc. 11.7k
tags. smut | top reader, bottom gojo, thief/curse user!reader, flirty!reader who's implied to get around + have several casual fwbs, occasional 'sir' kink (r. receiving). gojo basically drugs himself (purposely) w a cursed tool that amplifies emotions; he's pathetic & obsessive ("job-related" stalking). blowjob (r. receiving), deepthroat + facefucking, come swallowing, slight corruption (idk reader's a criminal & he likes it), taking photos during the act, boot riding/humping, untouched orgasm, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, praise + degradation, crying, fingering, bent over the desk, almost getting caught, coming on his ass/back, no aftercare
notes. god i wanna make fun of him so bad its not even funny anymore
"We want you to steal a cursed tool from the Gojo estate."
At the familiar deadpan voice behind you, the suave, flirty smile on your face freezes. You turn your head slowly, your hand tightening around a bottle of whiskey and a woman's empty glass. The woman in front of you – dark-haired, smoky-eyed, an absolute bombshell in a tight navy dress and heels sharp enough to kill – simply raises an eyebrow, less than pleased at the sudden interruption.
"Pass. I am currently indisposed," you drawl, and the woman's pink lips curve up into a satisfied smile. She leans closer to you across the bar, trailing stiletto nails up your hand and under your folded white sleeves.
Behind you, your boss stands in a pristine white suit, mouth twisting with its usual scowl when it comes to dealing with you. While you are constantly employee-of-the-month in terms of the prizes you ferry back to him, you are less than ideal in every other aspect. Lazy, arrogant, and flirtatious towards anything with a pretty face, you are everything except reliable. Conditioned by your good looks, perfectly-suited cursed technique, and staggering ability to never get caught, you have become something of a local star in your boss' underground bar. Everyone wanted a piece of you, and you welcomed it with open arms.
"This request is different," he reveals. "The payout's more than your last four customers combined."
That gets your attention – and the attention of everyone in hearing radius. Everyone's looking at you now.
The woman you were chatting up leans closer, switching her crossed legs. "More than the last four?" she whispers to you, and you tilt your head towards her. "That's, what, twenty million yen – at least?"
"You're the one who's good with numbers, honey," you reply. With a casual motion, you pour her whiskey on the rocks, and her fingers brush yours as you slide the glass over the countertop. "Mm... Stealin' from the Gojo clan. Not sure how much I want to risk fucking god himself noticing me where I shouldn't be."
"Aw, baby," she trails her fingers over your hand, lifting her glass and smirking behind it, "you scared?"
"Healthily, I think."
"Maybe slightly more than necessary," she teases.
"That blue-eyed bitch can spot a rat twitch from across the city," a patron shouts, probably one too many drinks in. Your other bartender, however, looks completely checked out of her job, probably nursing her own hangover. The man slams his beer down, making it slosh. "Don't fuckin' take it, buddy! You're our best guy – 'thout you, what'll the rest of us schmucks do? Scrape by, stealing wallets and watches? Pah!"
"Agreed," another patron chimes in, lifting her fruity cocktail. "The other Big Families are a walk in the park compared to the Gojo clan. You can't rely on its head being elsewhere for a set amount of time, nor can you fight your way out if you get caught – and you will be caught, it's Gojo fucking Satoru. Anyone who accepts is downright suicidal."
You hum, bobbing your head from side to side indecisively. "Oh, but twenty million yen... that number's absurd. Who'd even have that kinda cash lyin' around? You sure this ain't a trap, boss?"
"It came from a verified client. They've always been generous and the money is clean. It's real."
You whistle lowly. "Twenty million... for some hokey little toy? I can't say I'm not interested."
"No!"
"Baby, I was joking. You're not serious."
"C'mon, man, you'll fuckin' die!"
"You all shut it!" you bark, though there's no real heat behind it. The woman with the cocktail gives you the finger. "Listen, I came from goddamn nothing. If someone says my life is worth twenty million yen, even a loss is a gain. I've already made it far above my station." You turn to face your boss and toss your towel onto the counter, giving him a firm nod and a sharp smile. "Alright, big man. Walk me through it."
—
When you warp onto the high walls of the Gojo estate, it is disturbingly silent. The Zen'ins and Kamos had servants for every little thing, constantly working throughout the night even if it was just to fix the caulking or patch a scratched shoji door. Here, however, the only movement is the wind through the lantern-dotted engawas and the only sound is the trees rustling gently over the eaves.
Dressed in tight, dark tactical gear that's more fashion than function, you jump short distances by warping through space, an utterly silent pop of cursed energy splitting the air itself whenever you land. Even as you venture deeper into the estate, closer to the personal quarters of the clan's esteemed head, the grounds remain conspicuously, suspiciously empty.
Along the outer rings of the family home, you felt the cursed energy signatures of dozens of servants and unimportant clan members, huddled together and tense as bricks inside buildings. With each warp, you leave more and more of them behind, until the inner circle is completely deserted, a ghost town lit with swaying paper lanterns. Completely deserted...
Except for one.
You find the slender figure of the Gojo clan head resting against the edge of his desk, wearing dress slacks and a crisp white shirt even at midnight. The scene is like something straight out of a noir movie. The only light is from a tall lamp in the far corner of the room behind the desk, draping everything in a soft golden glow – the panels of the lamp cast sharp shadows that stretch across the ceiling. There's a prism in his hands, casually tossed from hand to hand and spun between his thin fingers. It's a twenty-sided icosahedron, bright white, with spikes on every vertex gilded brassy-gold.
It's the exact cursed tool you had been sent to retrieve, and it is sitting in Gojo Satoru's palms.
He tosses it into the air and catches it. Spins it like a basketball. He tilts his head in your direction – not enough to look, just enough for his voice to carry. "Took you long enough."
His voice is high, airy, careless. Playful.
"I call it being fashionably late." You step through his open doors and shut it behind you, your smirk widening as you rake your gaze appreciatively over his figure. Broad shoulders, tiny waist, legs that go on for miles. Now all that's missing is a pretty face – but, to your disappointment, he wears that infamous blindfold.
You lean against the solid wood doorframe. His quarters are built differently to the rest of the estate – here, the wood is darker, the walls heavier, the shoji doors patterned with gilded paint. It looks regal, distinguished, and completely, utterly boring.
"So," you chuckle, voice thick with amusement and a dark, drawling accent that no high-born descendant should ever like to hear. It speaks of common roots with a criminal twang. "You're my mysterious benefactor. What a strange turn of events this is, hm?"
"Not strange at all, really." Satoru stops playing with the cursed tool, turning around for the first time and setting the prism in the centre of the desk. "You're YN, right? You break into the other Families' warehouses, bedrooms – even their bathrooms, so I've heard. But never mine. Why is that?"
"Oh, you can call me whatever you like, pretty." You smile with an edge like a blade. "I never got paid for anything Gojo-related. Don't take it personally, sweetheart. You bought me for twenty million yen a few days ago and I accepted within ten minutes of hearing the offer. Not my fault nobody's brave enough to even ask about what you might have squirrelled away in this place."
You cross your arms over your chest, the black long-sleeve making your arms look huge. Same thing with those tactical pants and your thighs. His eyes are obscured by his blindfold, but by the way you snicker and lean back against the wall with a smug grin, something else must be showing.
"So, sweetheart, what was your plan? To let me steal that little toy and give it back to you later? I'm all for the easy money, don't get me wrong, but this just feels a little..." You waver a gloved hand mid-air. "You feel me?"
Satoru shrugs with an unreadable smile, idly pushing the cursed tool back and forth with the tip of his finger. "Word along the grapevine is that LN YN is handsome and debonair, with a strong moral compass. You don't kill anyone. The 'gentleman thief' made real."
You get the impression that he's watching your every move in razor-sharp clarity. His attention is almost suffocating, even through the blindfold. He tracks you like a wolf tracks a deer, every step you take measured and catalogued with a tiny twitch of his head.
You tilt your head and chuckle. "No, no. Ain't a gentleman, sir. I don't even think I have a birth certificate. And I certainly steal for myself, rather than for the thrill or with a Robin-Hood flair. Money makes the world go 'round, you know? Still..." You push off the wall and approach him with a lazy, cat-silent swagger. You hook your thumbs into your belt when you're directly next to him – on his side of the desk. "I like the rest of what you said. Now that you've seen me in the flesh, do I measure up to your dreams, Gojo Satoru?"
"Never said I believed what they said. Just that your reputation precedes you." He stiffens slightly at your proximity. He hadn't expected you to cross the implied boundary of the desk with such ease – now you are just a few inches away, smiling crookedly at him with a glint in your eye that promises trouble.
"You don't seem particularly worried about how you, as a curse user, are standing right next to me," he says, black blindfold giving nothing away. "You're not concerned about how I know your real name, either."
"Curse user, schmurse user. I like taking things that aren't mine – I'd be doing the same thing regardless of which side of the political world I'm on. If all I want is money, they give it far more generously than your side does, and without all the bureaucratic nonsense. Neither do they care for my history, which tends to be a bit of a job-stopper in polite society. " You wave a dismissive hand. "Anyway, I like it when you say my name – sounds much better coming from a mouth like that." Your smile widens as your eyes trail down his slender throat and his exposed, pale collarbone. "Mm. Closer up, you're a pretty little thing, aren't you? I could just eat you up."
His cheeks flush pink. He crosses his arms over his chest – protection, you realise with a grin. The golden light shimmers and bends around his figure, so it's not like you could genuinely do anything to him, but you realise with delight that you've made him self-conscious. What a brag this will be!
You decide to push a little more.
"Need a hand with something, clan leader? My skillset goes beyond petty theft, but I'm sure you already know that," you purr, playfully leaning closer. You reach out, as if to touch his waist, but all you do is roll the cursed tool beside him back and forth, spinning it like a top. "I would be a wonderful trophy husband – dashing, clever, appropriately egotistical. Plus, I'm great with kids. If you need an heir at your big age, I could help with that, too."
"Only if the kid commissions it. But that's only happened once." You pluck the white prism off the desk and inspect it casually, noting all the glowing runes etched into each bone-white face. You've never seen them before. "Now, if I take this, will you resist? My actions will change depending on your answer, so choose wisely, pretty."
His smile takes on a cocky edge. "What, you wanna fight me? You'll lose, you know."
"Maybe," you reply, tracing one of the runes. Your sharp gaze notices the way Satoru immediately shifts, as if jolted but playing it cool. "But not many can say they've seen Gojo Satoru fight and live to tell the tale."
"Who said you'd live?"
"Well, you've commissioned me in particular several times, according to my boss. You've never met me at any of the locations except this one, which, incidentally, is the one you've paid the most for." You step closer and continue:
"I don't think you want to intercept me or bring me in, or you'd have done that somewhere more... low-key, where I'd be both more likely to accept and less likely to suspect foul play. Showin' up in your estate's personal wing, offering me a number I can't refuse... Well, I feel a proposition incoming. One that is, perhaps..." You press your hand against the desk near his hip, twirling the cursed tool in your other hand and brushing the strange, glowing runes. He shifts his weight and his knuckles tense. "Related less to my professional expertise, and more to something personal."
You lift your gaze from the prism to his obscured features, a sharp smile spreading across your features. "Am I right, Satoru?"
He stares back at you, unreadable. You press harder against the runes, making them glow brighter, and you watch, fascinated, as he stiffens visibly, catching himself on the edge of the desk before his legs give out.
"Maybe you should take a seat, sweetheart. You don't look too good." You reach out, and you are absolutely delighted when your fingers touch the smooth cotton blend of his high-quality dress shirt. With a pointed shove, he collapses into the chair, jumping slightly as you slam your boot down on the seat in the space between his thighs. His legs jolt apart and he lifts his head quickly.
Your smile widens into something wicked. You lean down, bracing against your knee. "Wanna tell me what this cursed tool does, baby? You seem... very sensitive."
He stays silent, his chest rising and falling shallowly. His lower lip pushes out into a pink pout. "Don't call me 'baby'."
"Why not? Not your style?"
"You call everyone that." He pauses regretfully, then, as your amusement grows and reveals itself in your smile.
"Oh?" you say lowly, squeezing the prism and adjusting your boot closer until the steel toe presses against his crotch. He jerks and grabs your ankle, grip tightening as you lean down and intrude on his space. Your gaze flickers down to his parted lips. "Now… how do you know that, sweetheart?"
He swallows. You hum.
"Has someone been watching me?" you lilt. "What a surprise. The untouchable golden boy has a dark secret. The strongest of our time, the peak of sorcery... dabbles in stalking."
His teeth grit together. "It's not stalking," he argues. "I was – I was watching your whole group of curse users. Reconnaissance."
"Oh, I'm not one to laugh, so don't get so defensive. You can call it what it is without lying. A man's gotta have hobbies." You take his chin in your hand, lifting his face. His pronounced Adam's apple bobs, and you gently press your thumb against it, feeling it shift. "Reconnaissance... for the man who could erase half of Tokyo with a yawn. Sweetheart, you're not subtle at all."
Your grip tightens and you tug him closer until your lips nearly touch. You know where his eyes are – you can see his brow furrowing under the blindfold. You stare into the deep black cloth with half-lidded eyes and a lazy smirk.
"You want me, don't you?" you whisper, shifting your boot to dig into the front of his slacks. He sucks in a breath and your hand moves to the back of his head, stroking the short shaven hairs of his white undercut. His hair is silky. "You orchestrated all this over months, gave millions of yen to the criminals you're supposed to eradicate, all to get my attention... Maybe I should have worked at a host club," you tease, sliding your fingers through his cloud-white hair. "Pity I'm too set in my ways to change professions now."
You lift your other hand, and his luxury silver watch gleams in it, unlatched. The mechanisms within are silent, and the face is a deep, opulent emerald green. It's the sort of watch that's styled like a bracelet, with a rectangular face in line with the edge of the band and an understated logo. Only rich-rich people wear this sort of thing – most, when buying a high-end watch, want to show it off as a high-end watch, not let it vanish into their silhouettes.
You lick your lips. You just love it when wealthy people become infatuated with you.
You tuck the watch into your pocket and Satoru doesn't even fight. He noticed, of course, as a press on the edge of his mind, but he couldn't tear his gaze from your face to even acknowledge it consciously.
His head spins. You're looking at him. You're finally looking at him.
His tongue feels clumsy in his mouth. "You don't need to work. Steal. I can... I can sponsor you."
"Hm?"
"If you only align yourself with curse users for the money," he repeats, "I can sponsor you. Pay you more. As much as you want."
"Really? As much as I want...?" You trail off, and your eyes gleam wickedly. You don't stay quiet for long. "Thirty million yen instead of twenty. Then I'll think about it."
"Done," he replies instantly, and you reward him with a firmer press of your boot. He gasps, hips jerking. "Mmh—"
You chuckle and rock the toe of your boot against his clothed cock, leaning back slightly. "Good boy."
Satoru's grip tightens on your ankle – not pulling, just holding. His face flushes dark at the pet name, his lips parting, and he slides his hand up your calf, clutching your trousers. "Yes, fuck," he whispers, and it descends into a pathetic, whining keen as you step harder on his visible bulge, his knuckles going white. "Yeah..."
Oh, how adorable. The cutie has a thing for praise.
It's also hilarious. This guy is the one all your co-workers are deathly afraid of? The one you were afraid of? He's just a man. A man with a strange, misplaced obsession over little old you.
You feel like laughing, so you do. It's sharp, mocking. He looks up at you, teeth sinking into his lower lip, and you remove your foot from the chair, standing in front of him with folded arms. He sucks in a sharp breath when you relieve the friction on his cock.
"No, wait," he gasps, digging the heel of his palm into his bulge to mimic your boot. "I was—"
"What, close? Already? I didn't know Gojo Satoru was so fuckin' easy. Go on, then," you chuckle. "Take your cock out. Let me see if it's even worth my shoe."
Biting his lip hard, he fumbles with his belt, slipping his hand in his fly and wrapping his fingers around himself. He's stiff as rock, arousal and desire creating a wet spot inside his underwear, and he pauses with a sudden clarity of his actions, hesitantly glancing up. What is he doing...?
You just arch a brow at him. "Well? I don't have all night."
Biting his lip, he pulls himself out with a sharp breath as the cool air hits his hot skin. His loose fist bobs instinctively up and down his length.
He's slender here, too, though decently long, and his length is a sweet, dusky pink. The vein on the underside is the most visible, but he's otherwise quite smooth. His white curls are neatly trimmed, and as he tugs his dress shirt out of his waistband, you catch sight of a lovely white happy trail disappearing under the hem of his shirt.
"Ah," you purr, dropping your arms and grabbing the back of his chair, leaning down to inspect him. You're close enough that he can count your eyelashes, the press of your presence against his own like a physical, radiating heat. He's sharply aware of every move he makes. "How pretty. You're just so pretty, Satoru."
He bites his lip so hard he tastes blood. His cock trembles, a thick white bead bubbling at his slit and sliding down the underside. "Th-Thank you..."
And he's awkward. You laugh aloud again. His throat bobs. You reach up and clamp the edge of your glove between your teeth, tugging it off and tossing it onto the desk. You wrap your bare hand around his cock, your palm rougher than his, and he nearly knees you in the back of the leg with how hard he jolts.
"Easy, tiger," you murmur, beginning to stroke him slowly. His hand falls away and you take over, sliding teasingly from base to tip and back again. He gasps, sounding winded. "There we go. Like that, sweetheart?"
He bobs his head, gripping the edges of the chair. You rest a knee on the outer edge of the seat and he reaches automatically for it, hand gliding up your thigh and twisting in the tactical straps wrapped around your leg. These straps actually have a function – they hold up the sheath to a dagger, also clipped to your belt to spread the weight.
Is he trying to ground himself? Cute. You lean in and press your lips against his, relishing the sharp gasp he lets out as your lips meet. He grips your thigh tighter.
His hips jerk as you nip his lower lip, hard enough to snatch an involuntary noise out of his throat. You soothe over the spot with your tongue and push it between his teeth, smiling as he willingly lets you in with a wrecked moan. Your tongues slide together, wet and dirty. Your lips smack. He leans up into you, chasing you.
"Ever gonna tell me what this cursed tool is?" you murmur, pulling back slightly to glance down at his cock in your hand. It twitches under your attention, already slick and dripping. "I'd love to know how it makes you so... responsive to my touch."
He swallows, tongue darting out over his pink pout. His chest rises and falls quickly, and you can see the furrow of his brows in the shadows of his blindfold. "Why'd you stop...?"
"C'mon, tell me. I can keep a secret." You peck his lips. "I'll keep moving if you tell me."
He gulps, gnawing his lower lip as you press your thumb into his leaky slit. "I-It's, um..."
Hesitantly, he reaches up and yanks the mouth of his shirt open, unbuttoning it down the centre. He pulls it apart and stares up at you, his lips bitten and parted.
Seared into his chest is a circular sigil. Strange ancient kanji line the inside, three layers of them, and each old-fashioned stroke glows with a supernatural golden light. They're written in the sort of calligraphy you'd see in museum pieces where the dynasty gets progressively more and more 'artistic' until the ink strokes resemble black rivers more than anything else.
You stare at the characters etched into him, fascinated, as the glow ebbs and flows with his breaths.
Below the markings, he's lean – muscular the way a dancer is, a gymnast. Strength in motion, the kind that never stops until it meets an equal and opposite force. You trace the character for 'heaven' with a finger and his breath hitches violently, his cock jolting in your fist.
"Oh, you're naughty," you whisper, playful and dangerous all at once. "Emotion enhancer, huh? The Prism. I looked it up some three years ago when it still belonged to the Kamo clan. It's meant for manipulation, good for politics the same way poisons are. You, though... you're using it wrong."
"I-It's not wrong if it doesn't come with a stated purpose—"
You grab his cheeks, yanking his head to look at you and not the floor. Your eyes trace his pretty features, a smile spreading uncontrollably across your face. "You're using it to make yourself fuckin' horny. Ha! Its creator must be rolling in the grave right now – to think their magnum opus of political control is being used to overload your brain with pleasure." You shake him slightly by the jaw, fingers digging in until his lips are forced into a cute fishy pout. "Slut."
He whimpers.
Honest-to-god, he whimpers.
"Oh?" You coo, endeared. "You like it when I'm mean to you, sweetheart? How sweet..."
Your cock twitches in your pants. You lean back, palming your bulge, and Satoru tries to follow you. You shift, straddling him on the chair while standing. He slides his hands up your thighs, staring up at you, watching your every move.
He hooks a finger into your belt loops. "Hnn..."
You chuckle. "Yes? What do you want, sweet thing?"
He exhales harshly, reaching down to stroke his throbbing cock. His head rests against your stomach. His body twitches. "I want... I-It's not fair that I'm undressed and you're not."
"Fair? Hey, you lured me here with the promise of lifechanging money. That's not fair. Why should I be nice to you in return?"
He swallows, another finger hooking into your belt and tugging ineffectually. "C'mon, 'm paying you..."
"So I should do everything you say because you're desperate enough to pay me for my body?" You continue to lazily palm yourself, and Satoru gasps as you twist your hand in his hair and pull him forward into it. His fingers stutter up your body, gripping your hips. He strokes himself faster, to your amusement.
"No, I just—"
"If you want me to do something, beg for it." You pet his hair. "Maybe I'll go easy on you."
Gulping, burning with equal parts shame and desire, Satoru opens his mouth. He squeezes his length in his fist. "Please. Please let me see you. I-I'll suck your cock if you let me," he whispers. "Please."
Fuck, it's a thrill to have Gojo Satoru actively begging for you. He's a far cry from the untouchable god everyone makes him out to be. He actually seems more touch-starved than anything – he leans heavily into your palm as you stroke his hair, gripping your leg to keep you close. His pout is pink and glossy, often trapped between his teeth, and his cheeks redden when you look at him, even more visible on him than any other person.
Man. You've always been a sucker for pretty criers. You have a gut feeling Gojo Satoru is one of them.
"Alright," you agree, kind. "Go on, sweetheart."
His hands shoot up and he fumbles with your belt and tugs open your fly. His throat bobs roughly as he glances up at you, his palm pressed against the heat of your bulge. You offer an encouraging nod and his teeth sink into his lower lip as he reaches in and fishes you out.
His face is so close it almost smacks him in the cheek. He stares at it for a long moment – lips parted, throat bobbing repeatedly. Carefully, reverently, he wraps his fingers around your base, his other hand around his own.
His head spins. You're bigger. Heavier.
"Does it measure up to your fantasies, Satoru?" you ask, smirking. He nods, small and embarrassed, and you pet his hair before gripping it tight, tugging his head to slide your cock under his blindfold. He gasps, whimpering softly as your cock glides back and forth against his cheekbone, pinned by the blindfold.
"Got a dirty mouth on you." You drag his face towards you, your fat cockhead dripping into his pristine white hair as it pops out the top of his blindfold. You hold him there for a moment, letting him squirm and gasp at the heft and heat of you pressed firmly to his skin, before pulling back and reaching down, tapping your tip against his parted lips. "Open."
Obediently, he opens up. You feel him tense as you push your thick cock into his warm, wet mouth, filling all the space from behind his teeth to the back of his throat – he gags slightly when it brushes his uvula, but he quickly swallows to suppress the reflex, choking more of you down. You groan lowly at the feeling of his throat closing around you, letting him bob his head at his own pace.
His soft tongue swirls around your length, and saliva gathers in his mouth as he moans and squirms in the chair. He sits in this chair when his clan's elders come in to ask things of him or update him on family politics. But now, after three months of learning your name and... and monitoring you at a distance, he finally has you, and he's sucking you off in the same chair where he is formally petitioned for aid like some king.
A shudder runs through him. The thought bounces around in his head. He's sucking off a thief – he's touching himself while being used by a criminal. He nearly comes early.
He pops off with a wet slurp and a shaky exhale. Before you can say a word, he slides off the chair and kneels at your feet, grabbing your cock and opening his mouth to take it in again. You stop him with a slight tug of his hair.
"Aw, cute – I like your initiative. But if you're not going to sit in your fancy chair..." You step around him and drop into it as if it's a throne, a gleeful smile stretching across your face. You settle down and curl a finger in the air, beckoning. "Hm. Comfy."
His cheeks darken and he shuffles between your thighs, reaching for your glistening length, and lowers his head.
His lips, warm and soft, envelope your dick with more urgency. He savours the taste, masking the pause with needing time to adjust, and the salt of your skin tastes even better than he could have imagined. You're warm and hard and real and the joy almost makes him delirious.
He licks your shaft from base to tip and swallows it down again, two-thirds of your cock disappearing in one smooth motion. You groan in pleasure and tilt your head back, combing your fingers through his hair and widening your legs. Greedily, he takes advantage of the extra room to shift closer, bobbing his head and determinedly choking down your cock.
The sound is loud in his large room, though muffled by the woven tatami mats and natural wood that make up the larger part of it. In a more modern room of a similar size and layout, the hard surfaces would only make his sounds clearer.
You keep yourself relatively quiet just to hear Satoru's breathy noises whenever he lifts his head and rests your thick tip behind his lips. One of his hands is curled in your open fly, and the other shallowly strokes the base of your cock which he cannot fit. His pink tongue curls around your tip, sliding along the leaking slit with a wanton moan.
Shit, you never want to forget a sight like this.
"Hold still, sweetheart." You reach into a pouch strapped to your chest and pull out your phone, smirking as you unlock it and swipe to the camera app. You lift it. "Smile, pretty."
To your immense amusement, he does – he pops off your tip and presses your length to his cheek with a flushed, shaky grin, pink tongue peeking out.
The camera flashes.
You let out a low whistle as you lower your phone onto the desk, a smirk on your lips. "Worthy of a lockscreen, I think."
He lets out a sharp, shaky moan at the idea your fellow curse users might take a cursory glance at your phone and see him like this. He wraps his lips around your tip again. He balls his fists in your pants and bobs his head faster, deeper, desperately. One hand disappears between his legs, and you laugh at him as he jerks himself off like something piteous.
But you are nothing if not magnanimous.
You shift your leg between his thighs, slotting your boot under his weeping cock. He pops off with a stuttered breath, squeezing your ankle.
"Hump it," you order, voice low with husky amusement. "Don't touch yourself."
Muscles taut with desire, the restraint to hold himself back, Satoru gingerly shuffles closer, pressing his tip to the smooth leather of your shoe. It glides back and forth, the leather smooth and cold, and he lets out a trembling noise as his cock drags against the laces, catching and pulling. Shamelessly, he watches his pre drip into the rough cords, soaking into them. Unless you swap your laces you'll be carrying him around everywhere you go.
That thought makes him so fucking horny he gets dizzy. The markings on his chest gleam cruelly.
He rocks his hips messily against your combat boots, quick and needy. His moans hum on his tongue, making you groan at the vibration. In response, his sounds only pitch higher, more frequently, as if getting off on your unabashed groans alone.
You comb your fingers through his hair and pull him down firmly, swiftly, to the base of your cock. His bottom lip presses against your hot, heavy balls as he gags wetly, choking slightly. His shoulders tremble as his nails sink into your thighs, shoving his hips forward against your rough laces.
Your head tips back with a low, pleased rumble, slightly breathier than the previous ones. You shift, legs widening an inch, and your fingers tighten in his hair as his hot, tight throat convulses around you each time he swallows you down. Saliva drips from the corner of his lips, stretched white around your length.
He's basically limp when you grip his hair with both hands and begin to fuck his throat, one hand curled around the back of his neck.
His blush disappears under his blindfold. That thing is such a pain... You can't even tell where he's looking. You want to be able to look him in the eyes while he unravels.
Hey, aren't you're the best damn thief in the country? You always take what you want. This should be no different.
You tuck a finger beneath his blindfold and pull.
His hands fly up a second too late.
His eyes are blue – as blue as they say, though speckled with silver when the light catches just right on his thick white lashes. They are also slightly red and puffy, and his blush goes all the way up to his temples – the colour makes his eyes stand even more from proximity alone.
He covers his face with square yet slender hands, a loud whimper vibrating up and out of his chest. He's still got your cock in his mouth and you hiss in pleasure, dick throbbing hotly as he grips your hand holding his blindfold. You can feel him trembling in shock, his palms warm and soft.
"Aw, don't want me to look?" you coo sweetly, and he just moans. "You gonna cry, pretty thing?"
He shakes his head as well as he can with your fat tip stuffed in his mouth. His tongue presses against the underside, licking and tracing your veins with his tongue. Discreetly, he hooks his finger over the top of his blindfold and tries to slip it back down.
You grab his wrist. "Trying to distract me? You know, I'm disappointed you even thought that would work. What's so scary about showing me that pretty face, hm? Or are you just shy?"
He sniffles, pressing his hand lower over his eyes. Your brows shoot up and the laughter that escapes you is loud and mean. He curls into himself.
"Shit! Are you actually crying?"
He can't say anything with your cock in his mouth, and you feel him shuffle closer to your leg, rubbing against your boot with renewed vigour. Every stroke is long and lingers against its peak. It's desperate, and you can feel his hips jolting short and shallow like he's trembling. You can't help but coo at him as you twist your hands back into his hair.
"C'mon, sweetheart. I'll fuck you properly if you let me see your face." You lean closer to his ear, lips curved into a mischievous smile, and pet his hair like a puppy. "I'll make you come as many times as you want, however you want."
His hips jerk against your leg. A hitched breath, a staggered pause.
He lowers his hands.
It takes your breath away. His face flushes an even darker shade of red, and his eyes are glassy with unshed tears. He fists your pants tightly, his soft little moans travelling up your cock and settling in your lower stomach.
"Oh, Satoru."
What a fucking view. He blinks up at you, trembling, trying to make himself look small, and his eyes widen slightly as you twitch in his mouth and pull him all the way to the base of your cock in one sudden, ruthless motion.
His eyelashes flutter and the whites of his eyes show as he chokes on your cock, gagging and twitching as he nuzzles slightly deeper into the front of your pants, trying to fit more in even when there's very little left. Eager thing.
You begin to fuck his face again – or use him to fuck yourself, more like. You drag him back and forth, hands twisted firmly in his hair, and his moans grow louder, more desperate, as saliva drips from the corner of his stretched-white lips and sweat gathers at his temples and the small of his back. Your touch is electrifying, your low groans and muttered praise only serving as a positive feedback loop that makes him need more, more, more.
He struggles to think. Your cock just fills his throat so well, as if you're made for him! How can you be more perfect? You couldn't if you tried.
His saliva drips down your hot, thick cock and soaks into your clothes. He's so wet. He can't control it anymore. He can't control anything anymore.
You twitch in his mouth. "Gonna come, baby," you husk, voice low and rumbly. It's rougher than your usual syrupy purr, perhaps closer to your real voice, and Satoru's heart and cock throb so hard it hurts. "You're going to swallow it all."
He nods fervently, leaning in, relaxing his jaw even more. His dick is soaked in his own pre, and another spurt spatters your laces as you thrust up into his mouth. You grunt, sharp and hungry, and Satoru feels you twitch as you stuff his throat with your fat cock one last time.
Hot come bursts down his gullet. He lets out a loud, high-pitched moan, almost a cry, that's cut short as he works on gulping it down, gasping between each swallow. His throat convulses greedily, sucking you down, and his nails dig painfully into your thighs. You pull him close, his nose brushing against your stomach, and the tears finally begin to roll down his cheeks.
He's shaking so hard you can feel his tremors in your own bones. The markings on his chest glow in central, rapidly-pulsing patterns. His thighs clamp around your calf, grinding messily.
When you finally exhale, leaning back, Satoru stays put with your cock between his lips. He swallows, bobbing his head dazedly, and thick white come trickles from the corner of his slick mouth, glazing his lips with it. Tears track down his high, aristocratic cheekbones.
With a wicked smile, you pick up your phone again. You whistle and snap your fingers, and like clockwork, Satoru's glossy eyes trail up to the dark eye of the phone.
You don't have to say anything. He does it all himself, even lifting his hand in a shaky peace sign in a motion that seems thoughtless, automatic. Probably his go-to pose in front of a camera.
The camera flashes. He suckles on your cock slowly.
You look at the picture with a laugh, turning it around to show him with a smirk. "Shit, you look like a fuckin' slut, Gojo Satoru."
His hair is a mess, bangs pinned back by his blindfold. His face is deep pink, eyes dazed and pupils blown so wide there's only a sliver of blue left ringing them. There are tears on his cheeks and creamy come smeared on his lips – lips wrapped tight around a thick cock that looks pornographically big when contrasted against his fine, pretty features.
And the peace sign... Fucking hell. Satoru whimpers softly.
You pat your thigh lazily, turning away to lock your phone and pop it back into its little pouch. You don't even look at him when you speak, careless and casually cruel. "Pants off, then come here."
He obeys as if he was waiting for your order. He scrambles to shimmy out of his dress slacks and sit in your lap. After making sure your phone is secure, you finally raise your gaze to Satoru, who actually quivers when your eyes meet his. It makes you smile.
"Look at you," you murmur almost affectionately, reaching down to wrap your fingers around his cock. He jolts with a whimper. It's swollen and rubbed raw and red, almost painfully so, and coated in sticky warmth. You tilt your head with a growing smirk and pull him closer as you lean forward to look over his shoulder at your boot, almost hugging him.
Your boot is covered in come. The black leather gleams under the light, streaked with milky white. Your eyes gleam when you pull back to laugh in his flushed face. The sudden proximity of your bodies, the lack of space between them, had his head spinning, the indulgent scent of your cologne invading his brain. He presses his nose into your neck, gasping breaths inhaling your scent of leather oil and rich, almost chocolatey cologne.
You tug his hair playfully, making him moan. "You came from sucking me off, huh? Shit, you're even more pathetic than I thought! You can't get much lower than paying your enemy to spend time with you, but somehow, you managed to do it. Aren't you embarrassed, Satoru? Aren't you going to apologise for ruining my shoes like a fucking whore?"
He makes a choked sound like he's about to cry. You pull his hair warningly and he gasps sharply, pressing his hot face into the crook of your neck.
"'M sorry," he whines, voice high and shuddery, "I'm sorry! C-Couldn't help it, jus' felt too good—"
You slap him across the thigh with a sound like a gunshot. He flinches and moans your name. "Did I ask for excuses?"
"No," he blubbers, grinding his cock pathetically against yours. It leaks so much. "No, 'm sorry, 'm sorry..."
"Good," you praise, and Satoru shivers, fingers curling in your shirt. "Want me to make you feel even better?"
His eyes widen. He nods hard, swallowing and leaning closer as if to kiss you again. You indulge him, meeting him halfway, and he lets out a happy little moan that's so cute you almost squish his cheeks. You satisfy yourself with squeezing two handfuls of his smooth, firm ass.
You slide a hand lower, your middle finger gliding against his rim. You feel him clench around nothing as you circle his hole, letting him whine into your mouth as you tease him lazily.
He pulls back with a sharp gasp as your fingertip dips past his rim. Your finger pushes into him, slick with his own come, and he arches his back and presses down against your body, trying to get that perfect arch to get your fingers against that sensitive bundle of nerves.
Knowing what he's doing takes away much of the secrecy, though. You pull back when he arches, follow him when he grinds against you, and it isn't long before he dissolves into pitiful whines that go straight into your ear.
"No, no, c'mon, please," he whimpers, trembling when your stroke the markings glowing on his chest. Each line is hotter than the rest of him, as if heat had split him open along every brush stroke and oozed from him. It was so raw, so beautifully vulnerable. You like this version of Satoru a lot more.
You hum. "Why should I listen to you? Convince me."
He bites the inside of his cheek to mask his growing frustration. His dick is so hard it arcs up towards his stomach, drooling from the tip with every beat of his heart. Every time your thumb brushes his rim, it twitches.
"You need to s-stretch me for your cock," he whispers, the words foreign in his mouth and so sweetly humiliating. "You're too big. You need to... You need to prep me so you can fuck me as hard as you want. Please put your fingers in me. I won't come, I promise, sir, I won't – o-oh..."
His voice falls abruptly off a cliff as two fingers slide into his ass. His eyes roll back as they curl and push into him, stroking his hot, gummy walls experimentally. He clamps around them, his jerking, trying to fuck himself on them.
You grin, sleazy. "'Sir'? Oh, I like the sound of that. I'm not usually important enough to have a title like that."
You like it. You like it. Satoru files it away in the hot mush of his brain for later. For now, he tries to concentrate on not bursting early. It's easier said than done when you begin to grind against him, pushing your cocks together until his drooling tip leaks against yours, wet strings of pre joining his to yours.
He's so much wetter than you – not for your lack of arousal, but anything even close to normal pales in comparison to whatever he's going through. He's trembling on just two of your fingers, and when you add a third, he nearly sobs. His lower lip quivers and he gnaws on it to focus on the pain and not the pleasure of the burn, the stretch. You kiss his tears away and his head spins with syrupy desire.
"More," he croaks, gasping shakily as you pump your fingers in and out of him steadily. His hole squelches. "Please, more, more, gimme more so I can fit your cock inside me already," he nearly cries, fists bunching in the leather holster across your chest. He wiggles his hips messily against your thick cock, smacking them together. "I want it, I need it, please—"
"Yeah? How bad?" you tease in a low, husky voice, moaning as he slides his cock between your balls. It's delightfully filthy, and his tip spurts threateningly as you slap his pale thigh. "Answer me, slut."
"So bad!" he hiccups, body shaking as you tease your pinky finger against his tight hole. He pushes desperately against your knuckles. "I want it so bad, I want your cock, I want you – I've wanted it for months, please, I can't control it anymore, jus' need you to fuck me already," he moans, and his breath hitches violently as you press the first joint of your pinky inside him. He buries his face in your shoulder, hips rocking against you. It's like once he's started talking, he can't stop. "Yes, yes, yes, stretch me open for your cock, I-I'll make you come, you can come inside, i-if you want! Please, oh, fuck, y-you're stretching me...!" he gasps, hips jolting as you press four fingers inside him, curling and uncurling. Your fingers scrape his sensitive walls.
"You're so chatty," you chuckle, pressing your fingers in deep. He lets out a choked moan as you avoid that swollen button inside him that makes him come apart. His cock is throbbing hard, and you don't want him coming just yet. "And you talk like you're in a bad porno. You don't sleep around much, do you?"
Satoru whimpers. He doesn't respond, which is just as much of an answer as words would be.
You work him open steadily, though your hand quickens in the middle of your next sentence and leaves him gasping for air as his hole squelches loudly in the open bedroom. "That's okay – you must be a busy man, right? Not a lot of time to spend looking for connection." You curl your fingers, your palm slapping his skin with each gunshot-rapid pump of your wrist. He shoves his face into your neck, arms tightening around you.
You kiss his cheek absently, curling a hand in his hair. "That's the reason you're mixing business with pleasure, isn't it? You can't mingle with non-sorcerers 'cause of your Six Eyes. 'Babe, why do you wear sunglasses inside? Why do you wear a blindfold?' And that's not even mentioning exorcisms and your day job. 'If you're rich, you must have a good job, what do you do? Oh, it's old money? What's the family business, what's their name so I can google them, how'd they strike it rich?' If you can't answer all that, you'll just look like a yakuza with sensory deprivation and exhibitionist kinks."
He can't keep up with your words plus the hot sensation of your fingers pumping in and out of him. He moans.
"Funny that you chose me out of all people," you muse, relishing in the way he claws at your clothes like a desperate little puppy. "You could have your pick of sorcerers… yet you've decided the one you'll have is the criminal. Tsk-tsk-tsk. Naughty little thing."
"'S not my fault," he whines, hips jerking up with a stutter. He shifts higher on his knees and his hand flies to the nape of your neck as you dip your head and kiss his pink-flushed chest. You chuckle against his skin and run the flat of your tongue over his hardened nipple. His grip tightens. "Wait, n-not there—!"
You trace part of the sigil carved into his chest with your hot tongue. He drops his hips sharply and turns his face into his forearm as he bites down on it, muffling the cry that shakes through his frame. His body aches with a marrow-deep need, and he blinks back stinging tears. His chest heaves, every exhale punctuated by a breathy, pathetic noise.
You pull away from his nipple with a soft pop, licking your lips. You trail kisses up his collarbone and neck, ending up underneath his ear and making him shiver and lean into your embrace. He holds you close, cradling your head against his neck to keep you kissing right there. His skin tingles, and the harsh scrape of your teeth so close to his jugular vein turns his thoughts into static.
He barely reacts when you stand and lay him instead on his desk, pushing folders and unsigned reports aside. He parts his thighs and stares dazedly up at you as you lean down to kiss him – he props himself up on an elbow and wraps his legs around your waist, hooking his ankles over your ass. He whimpers, head tipping back, as you press your thick tip against his puckered hole.
"Please," he gasps against your lips, leaning up to chase your lips whenever you part for breath. His breathing is heavy, growing uneven when you tease his entrance with your tip – you never push in deep enough for it to pop past his rim, and his wet cock throbs with need, jerking against his stomach. "Please, I need it, sir, need it so bad, fuck me—"
In one firm motion, you slide your cock all the way inside him. Your balls press against his ass with a soft smack.
His lashes flutter. His lips part. His legs lock tightly around your hips.
His whole body jolts – once, twice, and then the first sound escapes him. It's tiny, broken – more of a hiccup than anything else. He buries his face in your shoulder.
He comes.
From the simple act of pushing your cock into him, he comes. You support the arch of his back, cooing condescendingly over him as his cock jerks and splatters thick ropes of white over his stomach, dripping down his sides in thick rivulets. It soaks into his white happy trail and he can barely speak, every inch of his brain imprinted with nothing but pleasure. It's like it's being carved into him.
"Oh my god," he whimpers, breathless as he presses his hand to his mouth. His legs tighten around you as you start to move, his leaky half-hard cock flopping onto his stomach. You flick the tip and his teeth nearly bite straight through his lip. "God! Fuck!"
"You can cry if you like," you chuckle, fucking him lazily. You shift your hands to rest on his hips, hiking his thighs higher whenever they slip. "I won't tell anyone. Promise."
The pictures are more damning than whispers that Gojo Satoru might cry during sex. Without proof it just sounds like jealousy or petty rumours, because why on earth would the big, strong, capable Gojo clan head cry at all? He's blessed.
Fuck, he can't imagine everyone's faces if they ever saw those photos. Him on his knees, happily sucking the dick of the criminal he's supposed to bring to justice. 'Justice' for curse users usually takes the form of immediate death, and Satoru is distraught at the idea that a cock like yours would go away just because you stole the elders' toys once or twice... a day.
Staring into your eyes, looking at those perfect kissable lips curved into a smirk, he promises himself that this is just to satiate his curiosity – and his need. One and done. With the addition of his little Prism, this single event could, theoretically, satisfy him for the next ten years – his memory's damn near perfect, so the mere recall of it would be like reliving a porno he starred in. Great!
Less great, however, is the fact that you're fucking him so deep that it's melting his brain, and he can't exactly remember something if there's nothing to put the memory in. He struggles to retain it all, the overstimulation even worse for someone like him. He's panting hard, clutching your shoulders, as you angle your hips and drag your cock against his prostate.
He makes an inhuman noise and his arm buckles under him. He slumps against his desk, arms swinging wide, scrambling for grip – and an ornate porcelain pen cup – probably a gift from some event he can't be bothered remembering – tips off the edge and shatters with a sound that cracks the sex-thick air like a whip. You cock plunges into him and he squeezes the edge of his desk, knuckles white as your thighs smack rhythmically against his ass.
"Why'd you go and do that, huh?" you pout, dragging your hands down his chest and stomach, caressing him. You run your hands down his thighs and hook them smoothly over your elbows, leaning forward. He moans sharply as you press into him at the new angle. "What a mess you've made."
You run a finger through the creamy glaze splattering his stomach. His cock jumps.
"Guess it just means I'm doing a good job, then," you hum, and he nods emphatically, his head feeling heavy and dumb. He whines, sniffling, as his body begins to feel the burn. When you glance down, leaning back, his rim is puffy and red, thoroughly fucked open. If he wasn't able to heal himself, he'd be walking funny for days.
"Feels good," he gasps, "feels so good..."
You look delighted. You lean down and kiss him deeply, and his moans grow louder, like wounded little whines, when you nibble a trail of hickeys down the side of his neck. His nails scratch stinging lines into your back as you grind your hips into him, letting him feel the entire length of you filling him up.
"Doing so well for me, sweetheart," you murmur as your cock twitches inside him, pressing against his slick, gummy walls. "Yeah, just relax. If you wanted pleasure, I can give you that."
Suddenly, Satoru's head lifts and he tries to prop himself up on an elbow, pushing at your chest. He tries to speak, but all that escapes are gasped little moans.
A knock at the door.
"Gojo-sama? Do you need anything?"
A servant. They must have heard the cup shatter.
Satoru nearly bites through his lip. He presses a shaking hand to his mouth, pushing more insistently at your chest, but you do not give – you slow your movements into something torturous, leaning down to whisper in his ear.
"Answer them, baby."
His brow furrows in adorable dissatisfaction at the petname – what he considers your 'default', if you will. He opens his mouth to refuse, but you knock his voice from his lungs and he instead lets out a tiny, swallowed squeak, legs tightening briefly before trying to get you to pull out.
He swallows roughly, nails digging into your skin as he meets your amused gaze, his face burning with heat.
"I'm fine," he calls back, his voice breathy but otherwise shockingly steady. "You can leave."
You lower your head back to his throat, pleased by his farce. You kiss along his jaw, beginning to move your hips again. His breath stutters in your ear.
"Are you certain...? I thought I heard something break."
You grab him by the waist and turn him over, bending him over the desk. He stares back at you, wide-eyed and pink-cheeked, as you slip your cock back in with a silent exhale. Relishing in each tight, silky stroke, you fuck into his ass slowly, making him slap a hand over his mouth and his grip turn white-knuckled on the edge of his big desk.
Another knock. "Gojo-sama?"
You pick up the pace, huffing softly as you press your palm to the small of his back – his pale, flushed skin shines with sweat. Life is so unfair – you would love to lick it off him, but you can't if you want to remain buried in his hot, tight hole.
"D-Don't worry about it!" he bites out, blue eyes fluttering shut when you kiss the nape of his damp neck. His thighs quiver as you use your body and press him into the wood, your dick sinking deep into his eager hole with a soft squelch. "I'll clean it up. Just go!"
You grab his wrists and pin them beside his head, making his eyes widen further. He shakes his head fervently, unable to swallow his sharp gasps each time your cock kisses his swollen prostate. He presses his thighs together and squirms, bucking back onto your cock. You chuckle quietly into the crook of his neck, nipping dark bruises into the thin skin.
"I can send for someone to clear it for you. Such a menial task does not befit you."
Tightening your grip on his wrists, you slam your cock in with a startling wet plap of skin-on-skin. You press him into the desk and he lets out a choked gasp, eyes rolling back as his knees buckle – he tries to catch himself but only manages to push himself deeper on your cock. His heart pounds like a war drum as his weak knees knock together with your thrusts, all too rough and hard when someone is right by the door.
Oh, god. Oh, god.
The floorboards creak as if they're stepping forward to open the door. Satoru flails slightly, hands groping for purchase – he only manages to make you bite his shoulder in punishment. He whimpers through kiss-swollen, pressed-together lips.
"Don't come in!" he shouts, panicked. "I – I have a migraine! Just leave."
"Gojo-sama—"
"Now!"
A pause, then hurried footsteps receding down the hall. As soon as they turn the corner at the end of the hall, Satoru lets out a cry and jolts forward, releasing a string of pained, relieved moans as copious amounts of come splatters the desk below him. His moans turn high and whiny as you pick up the pace, fucking him hard enough to shove his dick into the hard desk surface and smearing his spend all over himself.
"Y-You asshole," he sobs out as his bliss peaks, trembling as his eyes well up. He sniffles, hair bouncing with every thrust. "Oh, oh, oh – no, stop, 's too muh-much...!"
"The view from up here says it's not enough," you tease, and he moans in distress. "You did so well, sweetheart. Such a good boy f'me... so good at being pretty and quiet, hm?"
The praise goes straight to his dick. It spurts again, one thick distinct rope of white, and he starts to sniffle, quivering every time your cock bullies his prostate, your thick tip punching it relentlessly.
He can barely moan, let alone think. Your hot, velvety balls press against his skin, and he feels them twitch as you grind against the curve of his ass.
"C-Can't breathe," he whimpers, his cock drooling a puddle onto his desk. "'S too big – oh fuck, oh, fuck—! Sir!"
"What, am I gonna fuck you to death?" you laugh, groaning as he tightens around you. You grab the meat of his ass, slapping it cruelly, and curl a fist in his white hair to yank his head back. You wrap your hand around his bared throat, making his body arch prettily against you, his ass pressing higher. "Think you can come again?"
"No," he cries. "Ah, ah... Too much..."
You kiss him over his shoulder. His white lashes flutter as you pound him into the desk, his ass rippling obscenely. His back is a broad, flushed, sweat-slick canvas, defined muscles flexing beneath the skin. Blank – for now, you think, amused.
You slide your hand up his throat, gripping his jaw, forcing his spine to arch further. Every time your cock slams into him, his cock leaks and his glowing markings pulsate so deep it burns in his marrow. His moans are constant, breathy, hiccupped.
"I think you've got one more in you, sweetheart," you murmur as you lean down, voice rough with lust. His hand grasps blindly at your hip, nails digging into you. "I want you to come for me."
"I can't," he moans, creamy pale thighs shaking with every jolt of white-hot bliss you send up his spine. "'M done, nnh, I can't anymore—!"
"Aw. Your pretty little cock's running empty? You can do one more. Just one more," You pout and reach down to grab it, making him sob as you tighten your fist and begin to stroke it – up and down, up and down. He's a mess of precome and his creamy spend, splattered on his tummy and the grand desk below him. Tears glitter along his lashes as you pump his throbbing dick and fuck him deep at the same time, leaving him nowhere to run to escape. Forward into your fist, backwards onto your cock, and your warm lips on his. He squirms helplessly, the muscles of his defined back rippling with the effort to keep himself up.
His lips are swollen and sticky like a summer dream. He makes even this debauchery look pretty. When your finger slides down his slick slit and presses into the hole, he starts to cry.
It's not loud, like you'd expected. His shoulders shake as he gasps and moans your name, greedily pushing back onto your length and whining through his tears when his skin meets yours with a filthy obscene clapping. He's cute – trying to muffle his sobs, pressing his hand to his mouth as he blinks glassily up at you, brows furrowed in the sweetest little teary expression. You shift your hips and ram into his slick hole, and the way his slender fingers slip and part over his pink lips is something straight out of an art gallery. Tears run down his blazing cheeks.
You smirk. You were right. He is a pretty crier.
When your pace grows heavier, hungrier, he realises through a distant haze that you're close. His hole is raw and achy, so deliciously sensitive, and you groan against his skin, dipping your head to bruise the shape of your teeth into his red-flushed neck. The pleasure is pain, and the pain is pleasure. He sniffles weakly, punched-out little gasps and moans all that he can manage as the feeling engraves and buries itself directly across his snap-firing neurons.
His voice is slurred. "Mmgh – c-c'mming—"
He jolts against you as he spurts over your palm, fucking the wet hole of your fist. He's messy, greedy, dizzy, and you whisper husky praise into his ears that soothes the white-hot burn of overstimulation behind his teary eyes.
Those blue eyes roll back as you slam him into the table, letting out ragged groans that carve themselves a home in his consciousness. His arms buckle, and his fine wood desk is cold against his fiery cheek. Your panting is hot and sharp against his ear. He won't be forgetting these any time soon.
With a sharp, heavy succession of thrusts, he feels you pour inside him, thick and creamy and searing-hot. He can barely whimper before you pull out abruptly and spurt thick ropes over his ass and back, fisting your cock with the hand dirtied with his come. His puffy, abused hole winks up at you, his hips weakly canted up to display the stretch of him. A thin line of white dribbles from his rim, and he grips the edge of his desk to keep himself from collapsing as his knees give out without your hands to keep his hips up.
A wide, blissed-out smile stretches across Satoru's flushed, tear-streaked pretty face. Loose, lazy moans slip from his silky pink lips with every spurt of your cock across his ass and back, claiming him as yours. His chest heaves, his expression almost giddy as he lays his head on the cool wood, his body aching adoringly with the remnants of your affection.
He hears you rustle around behind him, fixing up your clothes. He lies there, spent, shaking, trying to remember how his tongue works in his mouth. He presses a trembling hand to his chest and smears the pine-soot ink off his chest, breaking the seal – with just a few rubs, the circle breaks and its entire molten-gold appearance sputters and flickers out like a snuffed candle. What remains is simple black ink, the sort used for calligraphy, painted onto his toned torso in the shape of each circle and rune.
"Fuck," he whispers hoarsely, every gasping inhale making his muscles tense. "Holy fuck…"
"Was it?" you tease, pressing yourself over the line of his body. You curl your fingers in his hair, tugging his head up to roll back against your shoulder, and Satoru's eyes glitter as you extend your phone in front of you. You kiss him deeply, making him let out a ragged moan as his tongue runs along the line of your teeth, and the phone camera lets out a cheerful snap. You let the kiss linger for a moment longer before you pull away, lips smacking with a wet, pornographic sound.
"You're just perfect, aren't you?" you whisper with a growing, fascinated smile, admiring him. He lets out a raspy laugh and kisses you again with a lovesick smile, reaching out to personally take a burst shot of photos on your phone.
"For posterity," he whispers, stroking your cheek. You kiss his neck with a chuckle and he lets you slide out of his grasp, his raised hand falling gently to the desk with a soft thump. He watches through half-lidded eyes as you fix your harness and slide your gloves back on, and you step into his blind spot, passing over his other side.
"Wait."
You pause a few steps away with the Prism in hand, almost perfectly composed except for your untucked shirt and kissed lips. "Yes, sweetheart?"
He pushes himself up, lazily draped over his desk. "Where are you taking that?"
You flash him a sharp smile. "Out. Quick vacation never hurt anything." You tap it gently with your knuckles. "I still have a contract to fulfill. It needs to travel from the Gojo estate into the hands of my client… and I do so love a personal hand-off." You wink and step backwards away from him, tossing the Prism over your shoulder and not bothering to catch it. A large violet portal opens up directly behind you on the floor and swallows it whole, vanishing with a soft burbling murmur.
You offer a lazy two-fingered salute, continuing to walk backwards until the heel of your boot tips over the abrupt ledge of the portal. "So don't worry, darling. I'll be seeing you around far sooner than you think."
With that, you tip backwards into your portal, and you vanish from sight with nary a whisper. The portal closes without so much as a ripple of cursed energy, and Satoru is left alone and naked in his quarters, another man's seed dripping from his hole and down the curve of his ass. Lazily, he sinks his teeth into his lower lip as he pulls his phone out of a drawer, turning it on to see a red dot residing in a downtown area of Tokyo, blinking slowly.
A soft, breathy laugh echoes in the traditional room. His eyes gleam with a silvered infatuation, his lashes fluttering as he presses the nail of his thumb against his rosy, kiss-swollen lower lip in a caricature of shyness. "Yes," he murmurs, his tender gaze sharpening into something like obsession as the dot blips four blocks over to a bar and restaurant street in a single pulse. "You will be."
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The mattress dipped under your weight, the springs groaning as you shifted above him. Bucky's wrists were pinned above his head — not because you were holding them there anymore, but because he'd left them there. His metal arm glinted in the low light, fingers curled loose against the headboard, and the flesh hand matched it perfectly. He was letting you. He was giving you this.
His legs were wrapped around your waist, ankles locked at the small of your back, and every time you rolled your hips forward he made a sound that turned your blood to fire. His head was thrown back, dark hair splayed across the pillow, and his skin — god, his skin was flushed. A deep, spreading pink that started at his chest and climbed up his throat, painted his cheekbones, crept to the tips of his ears. He was red all over, like he'd been dipped in heat.
You pulled back slow, watching the way your cock caught on the rim of his hole before sliding back in. The sight of it — the way his body opened for you, the way his thighs trembled against your ribs — sent a jolt straight through you. He was tight. Hot. Clenching around you with every inch you gave him.
"Look at you," you muttered, more to yourself than to him.
His eyes snapped open at the sound of your voice. Those blue eyes, hazy and unfocused, found yours. His lips parted, but nothing came out. He was past words. Past thought. Every thrust pushed him deeper into that space where language fell apart and all that was left was feeling.
You shifted your angle, searching. You knew you'd found it when his whole body seized. His back arched off the mattress, a broken sound tearing from his throat. His hands flew down from the headboard, fingers digging into your shoulders, nails biting into skin.
"Right there," he gasped, voice wrecked. "Fuck—right there—"
You didn't let up. You drove into that spot with every stroke, a steady rhythm that had him unraveling beneath you. His mouth hung open, breath coming in short, sharp bursts. His eyes rolled back, then closed, then opened again, like he couldn't decide which world he wanted to be in.
His cock was trapped between your stomachs, hard and leaking, smearing precum across your skin with every rock of your hips. You could feel it twitch against you, could feel the way his whole body tightened with every pass over that bundle of nerves inside him.
The sound of sex filled the room — wet and obscene, the slap of skin meeting skin, the creak of the bed frame, the ragged rhythm of two men breathing the same air. His metal hand found your hip, fingers pressing hard enough to bruise, and the contrast of cold vibranium against your heated skin made you shiver.
You leaned forward, changing the angle, and his legs hitched higher, ankles hooking behind your neck. You were folded over him now, chest to chest, and you could feel his heart hammering against your ribs. His skin was slick with sweat, damp hair clinging to his forehead, and that flush — that beautiful, spreading flush — had reached his chest now, a mottled pink that made him look like he'd been marked.
His flesh hand came up to your face, palm pressing against your cheek. His thumb traced across your lower lip, once, twice, like he was memorizing the shape of you. His eyes were glassy, pupils blown wide, and he looked at you like you were the only thing in the room. The only thing in the world.
You turned your head and bit down gently on his thumb, and his whole body shuddered. His cock jumped against your stomach, another bead of precum rolling down the shaft.
"Please," he breathed, and you didn't know what he was asking for. More? Faster? Deeper? All of it?
You gave him all of it.
You set a punishing pace, driving into him with everything you had. The bed slammed against the wall, a steady percussion that matched the pulse pounding in your ears. His head thrashed against the pillow, his mouth open in a silent cry, and his hands scrambled for purchase — one on your shoulder, one on the sheet, both holding on like you were the only solid thing in a world that had turned liquid.
His body was trembling. You could feel it in the way his thighs quaked against your hips, in the way his stomach muscles clenched and unclenched, in the way his hole gripped you tighter with every stroke. He was close. You could see it in the flush that had spread down to his collarbone, in the way his eyes lost focus, in the way his breathing turned to hiccups and gasps.
You reached down and wrapped your hand around his cock. The sound he made — high and desperate, almost pained — was the most beautiful thing you'd ever heard. You stroked him in time with your thrusts, thumb spreading the precum across the head, and his hips bucked into your fist.
"I'm gonna—" he started, but the sentence never finished.
His orgasm tore through him like a wave. His back bowed off the mattress, his head thrown back, throat exposed, and cum shot across his stomach in thick white ropes. His ass clenched around you, convulsing, pulling you deeper, and the sensation of him milking your cock sent you over the edge with him.
You buried yourself as deep as you could go, balls pressed against his ass, and you came inside him. Hot and thick, pulse after pulse, filling him. You could feel your own release, could feel the way his body accepted it, held it, kept it.
You stayed there, buried to the hilt, both of you breathing like you'd been pulled from water. The room was quiet now except for the rasp of air moving in and out of lungs. The fan above creaked. Somewhere down the hall, a door closed.
You pulled out slowly, and he winced. A thin trail of cum followed, sliding down his thigh, pooling on the sheet beneath him. He didn't move. His legs fell open, limp, and he stared at the ceiling with an expression you couldn't read.
His chest was still heaving. His skin was still flushed — that deep, spreading pink that made him look ruined in the most beautiful way. Cum cooling on his stomach. Sweat matting his hair to his forehead. His lips parted, still trying to catch breath.
You lay down beside him, close enough that your shoulders touched. He turned his head to look at you, and in the dim light, you could see the flush hadn't faded. It was still there, staining his cheeks, creeping down his neck. He looked at you like he was seeing you for the first time.
His metal hand found yours under the blanket. Cold fingers intertwined with warm ones. He squeezed once, and you squeezed back.
He didn't say anything. You didn't either. But in the quiet, in the dark, with the smell of sex thick in the air and his cum cooling on both your stomachs, he pressed his forehead against your shoulder and let out a breath that sounded like surrender.
You wrapped an arm around him, pulled him closer, felt the heat of his body against yours.The flush on his cheeks deepened, and he hid his face in the curve of your neck.
bruh i swear tumblr ate my request and now i dont even remember what i requested💔
but on another note can i request some toji x male reader with brat taming and gun play if you do it? reader is top obvi🥸
Trigger Happy
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synopsis: just guns
pairing: toji X top male reader
note: taking asks
warning: oral sex, begging, gun play, brat taming, face fucking, slightly messed up coming untouched
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The safehouse door slammed open with a heavy bang. Toji stepped in, still dripping with someone else’s blood, his black shirt clinging wetly to his massive frame. A wild, satisfied grin split his scarred lips as he rolled his shoulders and tossed his bloodied blade onto the table.
“Didn’t need your fuckin’ help after all,” He announced, voice cocky as hell. “Told you I could handle it alone. You just like babysitting me, huh?”
He’d been like this all week- pushing, testing, mouthing off every chance he got. But, by this point you've had enough.
Before he could take another step, you had him slammed against the concrete wall, forearm pressed to his throat. Your other hand already held the revolver, barrel still warm from the shots you’d fired earlier. You shoved the muzzle hard under his jaw, tilting his head back.
Toji’s green eyes flashed with dark amusement rather than fear.
“That supposed to scare me?” He rasped, smirking even with metal digging into his skin. You dragged the warm barrel slowly down his body: over his collarbone, across his blood-stained chest, down the hard ridges of his abs until it rested against the growing bulge in his pants.
“You’ve been a real fucking brat lately, Toji,” You growled. “Running your mouth, disobeying orders, acting like I won’t put you in your place. By the time I’m done, you’re gonna be crying for me to go easy on you.”
You stepped back just enough to free your cock which to the surprise of neither of you was already hard from the adrenaline and the sight of him like this defiant, and entirely too smug.
“On your knees.”
Toji scoffed, but dropped anyway, knees hitting the floor with a dull thud. The second your cock pushed past his lips he took you in deep, eyes locked on yours the entire time. That infuriating smirk was still there, even with his mouth stretched around your thick length.
You groaned at the wet heat, then spun the revolver’s cylinder with a loud click-click-click. You pressed the cold muzzle firmly to his forehead between lazy thrusts into his throat.
“Keep looking at me like that and I might just test my luck,” You warned, fucking his face harder. “You feel that? One pull and your brains paint the wall while my cock’s still down your throat.”
Toji moaned around you, your sick threat clearly turning him on, the vibration shooting straight to your balls. He didn’t look away though if anything, the challenge in his eyes sharpened as he hollowed his cheeks and sucked harder as if daring you.
You gripped his messy hair tighter and fucked harder into his throat. “Brat,” You hissed, voice rough with arousal. “We’re just getting started.”
You fucked his throat with punishing strokes, the revolver’s muzzle never leaving his forehead. Every time you bottomed out, his nose pressed against your pelvis and his throat convulsed around you. Toji’s eyes watered but he refused to break eye contact, that cocky glint still burning even as spit dripped down his chin.
You spun the cylinder again and laughed low.
“Still smirking? Even with my cock down your throat and a gun to your head?” You pulled out abruptly, strings of spit connecting his swollen lips to your cock. Before he could catch his breath, you pressed the warm barrel of the revolver between his lips, forcing it into his mouth.
“Suck.”
Toji obeyed with a muffled groan, hollowing his cheeks around the steel while staring straight up at you. The sight of the dangerous assassin sucking on your gun like a cock made heat flare in your gut. You rocked the barrel slowly in and out of his mouth, letting him taste the metal while you stroked yourself right in front of his face.
After a few moments you pulled the gun free with a wet pop and immediately shoved your cock back down his throat in one smooth thrust.
“Greedy fucking brat,” You growled and hauled him up. You dropped onto the old couch and dragged Toji between your legs. “Hands on my thighs. Don’t move them.”
Toji smirked, lips shiny. “You really think I need-”
You clicked the safety off and pressed the muzzle under his jaw again, tilting his head up. “I said don’t move.”
He stayed quiet after that, but his eyes still held annoyance. You grabbed the bottle of lube from the table top and poured a generous amount onto your fingers. Without warning, you reached behind him and pushed two thick fingers straight into his hole. Toji grunted, his back tensing, but he kept his hands on your thighs like ordered.
“Fuck…” He hissed through gritted teeth.
You scissored him open roughly, curling your fingers deep while the revolver stayed pressed under his jaw. His cock twitched hard against his stomach as you worked him.
“Thought you didn’t need prep, big guy?” You mocked, adding a third finger and stretching him wider. The wet, filthy sounds of lube and his greedy hole filled the room. “Yet you already look like you are about to die from 3 fingers"
Toji’s breath hitched. He tried to rock back onto your hand, but you clicked the safety again deliberately making him freeze.
You kept finger-fucking him mercilessly, brushing his prostate with every thrust until his thighs started shaking and low, broken groans slipped out despite his efforts to stay quiet.
By the time you added a fourth finger, Toji’s head had fallen forward against your shoulder, panting hotly against your neck. His hole was slick, stretched, and fluttering greedily around your fingers.
“Enough,” You said, pulling your fingers out. “Get up here and ride me. Slowly though.”
Toji straddled your lap, knees sinking into the couch on either side of your hips. His usual smirk was still there, but it was shaky now, his breathing ragged.
He lowered himself onto your cock, inch by inch, until his ass was flush against your thighs. A deep guttural groan tore from his chest at the full stretch.
The second he tried to slam down harder and take control, you pressed the revolver firmly against his temple.
“Slow!” You warned, voice dark. “You don’t get to fuck yourself until I say so. Understand?”
Toji’s jaw clenched, but he obeyed rolling his hips in slow, deep circles, taking every inch of you while the gun stayed glued to his head.
You let him ride you like that for a while, watching the assassin tremble and fight to keep his sanity while you controlled the pace with the threat of the gun.
Every time he tried to speed up, you clicked the safety and forced him to stop, making him whimper around the barrel when you eventually shoved it between his lips again.
By the time you finally gripped his hips and started thrusting up hard into his perfectly prepped hole, Toji was drooling messily around the gun, eyes glassy, pride crumbling fast.
“Fuck- please…” he mumbled desperately around the steel, voice completely wrecked. “Let me cum… I’ll be good- I swear”
“That’s more like it.”
You gripped Toji’s hips with bruising force and slammed up into him, burying your cock to the hilt in one brutal thrust. His prepped hole took every inch easily now, hot and slick around you, but the stretch still pulled a wrecked groan from deep in his chest.
“Fuuuck-” Toji’s head snapped back, mouth open around the revolver barrel you shoved between his lips again. His hands clutched at your shoulders, nails digging in as you set a merciless pace, fucking up into him like you were trying to split him open.
Every powerful snap of your hips made his thick cock slap wetly against his abs, smearing precum everywhere. The gun made it's way to his mouth, your thumb resting dangerously close to the trigger guard.
“Eyes on me,” You growled, punctuating each word with a deep thrust. “Look at who’s fucking that attitude out of you.”
Toji tried. His green eyes were glassy and unfocused. He hollowed his cheeks around the barrel and sucked on it mindlessly, drool running down his chin and onto him while you railed him.
You laughed darkly and flipped him over without pulling out, bending him over the arm of the couch. His ass was up, back arched, and you drove back in even harder from behind. The new angle made him choke on the gun as you hammered his prostate relentlessly.
You reached around and wrapped your hand around his leaking cock, stroking him in time with your thrusts. “This dick is throbbing. You love getting used like this, don’t you?”
Toji moaned loudly around the steel in his mouth, pushing back to meet every thrust despite the gun at his head. You fucked him faster, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing through the safehouse along with his muffled, broken noises.
You pulled the gun from his mouth just long enough to hear him gasp.
“Beg,” You demanded, slowing your hips to a torturous grind.
“Shit- please… harder,” He rasped, voice completely shot. “Fuck me harder- I need it fuck, I’m your slut, just don’t stop-”
You rewarded him by pounding him even deeper, the couch creaking dangerously under the force. You threw the gun somewhere hearing it clatter against the ground and reached down to spread his cheeks wider, watching your cock disappear into his greedy hole over and over.
Toji’s thighs started shaking. His moans turned into desperate, whimpering cries as you stroked him faster.
“You gonna cum again for me?” You taunted, angling your thrusts to abuse his prostate. “Go on. Cum for me like the pathetic brat you are.”
Toji came with a loud, guttural shout, his hole clamping down around your cock like a vice as thick ropes of cum splattered across the couch. His whole massive body convulsed, muscles flexing and trembling while you kept fucking him through it without mercy.
You pulled out, spun him onto his back again, threw his legs over your shoulders, and slid back inside in one smooth motion. The new position let you fold him in half fucking him even deeper.
“Look at you,” You cooed, pounding him into the cushions. “Big bad Toji Fushiguro, covered in blood and cum, getting his hole wrecked.”
Toji’s eyes rolled back, tears of overstimulation pricking at the corners as you used him mercilessly.
You buried yourself to the hilt and came hard, flooding his insides with a low groan. Even after you finished, you kept the gun pressed to his skin, grinding slowly through the aftershocks while he twitched and whimpered beneath you.
Toji was a complete mess- drooling, cum leaking from his abused hole, chest heaving, eyes hazy and submissive at last.
You leaned down and kissed his scarred lips, voice low and satisfied.
“Good boy. Maybe you’ll think twice before running your mouth next time.”
Hello! I just wanted to say that I absolutely love your writing and your characterization of the Batfamily, especially Jason. It’s chef’s kiss!
Can I request overstimulation with Jason? Where the reader just can’t get enough of him and keeps saying, “Okay, this is the last round,” only to promise the next round will really be the last. I love Jason, and you do him so much justice. Your characterization of him is amazing 😩
IT BURNS !!! CUT IT OUTTTTTT !!!
Warnings: Sub! Character, Dom! Reader, no pronouns are used for reader, handjob, established relationship. No use of y/n.
Note: Awwww, thank you so much !! Here you go !! (He's a crier, btw.)
!!————————————!!
Jason Todd does not have the largest libido around; actually, he's rather difficult to work up. He's the kind of guy who's satisfied with a little handjob and a kiss on the cheek; what else could someone want?
A lot, apparently.
"Are you done yet? Oh my god," Jason pants, one of his thick arms thrown over his eyes. His cock burns in your clammy hands, almost numb from it. His thighs are spread, with you between them. Sometimes you get handsy, restless, and Jason just lets you do what you want within reason. This feels like far beyond reason, though.
"Fuck!" He groans as you encapture his sensitive length once again. What's so fun about this? Jason doesn't get it. He just feels like his brain and pelvis are going to melt through his body and down into the floor. Lightly, he bats at you. Knees bucking in at your sides, but it's not enough for you to let up.
He hasn't uttered his safe word after all, and he isn't walking away either. So you're free to do what you want.
You've found that Jason rather enjoys being taken apart in your arms. Not dissected, just admired. Held in his entirety. Exposed for you to see. You love him, and Jason knows that. It's why he trusts you even in the midst of his discomfort. And lord, is he squirming.
In one hand, you pump him base to tip. In the other, you palm his balls. Everything's soaked in sweat, spit, pre, and cum. Jason can barely feel the divits of your fingers, only the hot pressure they provide. Your grip is tight, ever constant.
It's so annoying! Jason hates you! He hates you, he hates you! He's- about to cum!
"Hah...hah," He shudders, dragging his heavy limbs across himself. Jason curls, turning away from you. "No more, get off of me, you shit head."
You sigh, fine. But you'll surely have your fun licking him clean first. Yum!
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I would like to request a Jason Todd x male reader 🙂↕️!
reader is very much a party boy extrovert to Jason's guarded angsty vigilante thing he's got goin' on 😛 and there's many times where the batfam and co. are doing a bust at some sketchy club, and reader just happens to be there, livin' his best sloppy drunk life
it would also be great if you could kindly include reader being tipsy and craving to pound his super pathetic and cute boyfriends ass
I wholeheartedly believe you can write Jason in the most pathetic way possible because you are truly an amazing freaky writer
·˚ ༘ PARTAYYYYYY ⋆ˎˊ˗
Warning: Bottom Character, Drunk! Top AMAB male reader, anal penetration, established relationship. No use of (y/n).
Note: Oh...this...this is delicious. I've been eagerly sitting on this one, baby; this prompt is YUMMYYYY !!! Inspired by this (Fluffy Fem reader) piece by @ems-typewriter...the Jason part ofc.
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You're a party bro in a party world, every night a delicious oyster of your own making. It's dry shampoo, gaudy cologne, and body glitter with you. Jason wouldn't have it any other way, you god damn disco ball. He enjoys watching you in your element (all the while he's brooding at the bar). Your head will tilt this way before being thrown back over that way, your shoulders shake, and your hips will roll, both to the music and out of tune.
Jason certainly isn't a 'club' kind of guy, but he likes keeping an eye on you. It does wonders for his worrywart of a heart. Not out of any mistrust in your character; it just comes with the bat patch, the paranoia. Still, there are perks to your mingling nature other than just watching you be cute.
"Oh, is that-?" Dick smiles, craining his neck in an attempt to meet your gaze over the sea of people bumping about. He and Jason are dressed down to their civies, as casual as they can be in a stricter club like this. At least some people are dedicated to keeping the culture alive, so Dick can't hate.
"Just shut up, you do your thing, and I'll do mine, Dick-brain." Jason grunts, smacking the back of his hand against his brother's chest before migrating over to you. It takes more than a little effort (and even more so to ignore the wolf whistle the idiot himself sends) to traverse, but Jason manages. Sliding up behind you. It feels natural to subtly bump and grind. "Hey, you come here often?"
Jason smirks at your cheer, hugging you back as you latch onto him. You're all flushed and sweaty, absolutely gorgeous. It took Jason a while to get used to how much you drank, but you know how to control yourself and what your limits are, so it doesn't bug him as much as it used to. Lucky for you, since you always seem eager to lock lips after a shot or two. "You seen anything suspicious tonight, hot stuff? White guy, blondie, green eyes. Shitty grey shirt and jeans. Ring any bells?"
He murmurs it all into your ear under the guise of...well, the obvious. You are drunk, though, and this is a pretty dark club, so it's to be expected when you shake your head and shrug. Jason loiters, and his brother lets him. Your hands drift from his sculpted ass to his waist, to his nipples and back down again. Always so handsy. "Perv," Jason smirks.
It falls when your hands finally dip lower, skimming the edge of his briefs. What color are they? You pester, grinding closer, harder. It's been so long since you've seen him last; he can't really just show up like this and tease you, can he? Jason...Jason, Jason-
"Not now, okay?" His palm presses up against your puckered lips. "I know, I know. I'm terrible. Sue me." He offers a kiss to the edge of your mouth to pacify you for the time being. "Later, sweet thing. I got a job to do, gotta lay low." And dry humping the hottest man in the entire club certainly isn't that, as much as he kinda sorta wants to.
He draws out the process of dropping your hand. A step back, then two. Really digging his feet in as your fingers threaten to unlace. Jason's capturing your beauty under the flashing, dim lights. Your petulantly unsatisfied expression especially. You're way too cute. "Just have fun with your friends, yeah? I'll be around, but don't wait up, babe."
Your attention shifts before he's even out of view, and your easy smile returns. Jason appreciates that about you.
Now, for this bad guy. Man, with so many drunk people stumbling around, he's in for a long night.
The arrest is made, and Dick hauls the fucker off to the station just in time for Jason to glimpse you stumbling out of the club. A few friendly faces right behind. That's...good. Good. He thinks for a long moment as you all fight over who's calling a taxi. Well, he's already in his civies, isn't he? The family shouldn't need anything else from him tonight.
Jason clears his throat and puts on a face of bravado before approaching. "I got my bike around the block, babe. You ready to go?" Around you, your friends gasp and whine. How could you? But you feign ignorance, far too pleased to see your boyfriend sooner rather than later, like he had made you expect. You rush your goodbyes before running along hand in hand with your boyfriend. Laughing the whole way.
Now? Is he gonna let you fuck him now? You plead, crowding him against the motorcycle. "At home, hotshot. Jesus." He lets you have his helmet and jacket to cover up with, and drives just under the speed limit the whole way home. He's torn between batting your hands or just letting you have your fun as you grope him, but decides on the former since you're likely to fall off in the midst of your clouded judgement.
But seriously, you jerk, his chest is sensitive.
You practically drool the whole way into his back, but Jason guides you up to your apartment just fine. He's your old, good, reliable after all. You're on him the second the door closes, as expected. Jason closes his eyes as he leans into you, sinking into the feeling of your loving body hot against his own. He isn't nearly as...'easy' to work up as you are, but he's also not in the mood to turn you down.
Your tongue is persistent, as it is sloppy. Sliding both in and out of his mouth, wrapping around his own, mixing your saliva together. One of your hands makes its way down to his belt buckle, but at your drunk fumbling, he momentarily takes the reins. There's nothing awkward about it, and you take the time to strip yourself before you two find your way down onto the couch. Jason ditches just for a moment to grab some lube and the condom box (because he's allergic to doing it raw).
By the time that he's prepped and you're suited up, you find that the best position against your spinning head is just to have Jason ride you. His thick thighs slot over your own, and the moan you harmonize as he slides down your length is nothing short of melodic. His back is towards you, giving you ample space to knead and palm at his ass cheeks. Not only is it muscular and heavy, but it's also dimpled on both sides! Super cute, super sexy.
"Fuck..." Jason's eyes flutter. Blindly, he reaches backwards for stability. Straight posture with a cock deep in his ass- impressive. Jason moves slowly, both out of preference and your own comfort. Each roll of his hips is measured to take the same amount of your length as he did previously. You poke and prod at his rim, smiling to yourself as it puckers. "Here, touch here instead." Jason pants, pulling one of your wrists to his own front.
Your clammy hand around his base is heavenly, and Jason makes a game out of balancing between the two pleasures evenly. Who knew that a man so beefy could be so agile?
You're still out of it, though, so you don't hold out nearly as long as you typically do. Hell, you don't even give Jason a warning before you finish. Not totally unsuprising to the man, so he doesn't give you much hell for it, only scoffing slightly. Still, he keeps your hand on his cock, using it to jerk himself off while he sits on your softening one. "Hah, ah, ah, ah," He grunts a little more freely than he normally does too, knowing that you're far too dizzy to really tease him for it. Only murmuring about how beautiful he is.
Jason catches most of his seed in your palm before carefully standing off you. You're practically asleep already as he cleans, but that's fine. He supplies a soft kiss and a pat on the shoulder before you're out.
Jesus. He did not realize how much body glitter you had on. Jason's gonna be finding sparkles until Christmas.
I cant believe I missed tims birthday😣 But can we eat tims ass like a birthday cake to apologize😋
🎂 Birthday Cake !!
Warning: Sub/Bottom character, Dom/Top no-pronouned (disinterested) reader, rimjob/handjob, established relationship. No use of (y/n)
Note: Fucking fineeee omg!! Needy and spoiled, back I say! Back! /j
!!------------------------------------!!
”I have a cock that works perfectly well, you know.” Your boyfriend faux sighs, getting comfortable over where you have him bent over on the couch. Tim isn’t a big party person, surprising for a guy who likes to soak up being the center of attention. It just doesn’t feel earned, you know?
No, you don’t. Shut up, you tell him, swatting his lower cheeks softly.
"Hey! It is my birthday, you know."
Again, shut up, you mutter. Finally spreading his cheeks just enough to passively lick into his ass. Tim lets out a strangled grunt when your fingers likewise hook into the flesh of his cheeks. The sensation of being pulled open, combined with the sudden warm wet flick of your tongue, is electrifying. Tim's toes twitch in want, but he fights the urge to curl them.
"Mmmgh...fuck," He breathes out, his forehead dropping down against the plush cushion. Your casualness only adds to it all. He feels more like a toy you're indulging in rather than someone special you're rewarding. It's great.
As you continue licking Tim's hips begin to move instinctively. Slowly grinding in rhythmic circles, both back against your tongue whilst rubbing his cock at the same time. His length is fully erect now, thin and pulsing, slapping wetly against his stomach with every movement. With his ass spread wide open, he's so exposed, yet he's never felt more secure.
"You're so...so mean to me." Tim whimpers playfully, smiling to himself. For once, the arousal in his tone slips through unfiltered. Maybe that's the real present here. Blindly, he reaches back, his hands finding the back of your head to palm for better purchase. Closer, urging more contact. "Ah, but fuck, you're really good at this. Mh...yeah, get all in there, baby."
You hum, closing your eyes, nosing deep between his rim with your tongue. While your reach is deep, your pace is lazy. Teasing. Asshole.
The edge is quick to build, though, with the added sensation of Tim's cock grinding forward. "Keep going...keep going...eat me up, eat me up." He's sort of blubbering to himself, but you pay no mind.
Languidly, one of your hands reaches out to stroke him, though only the tip. Between your forefinger and thumb. Tim shivers at your pinch, his back arching with your touch. The contrast was driving him insane! The deep, wet, heavy pressure of your tongue inside his ass, and then the light, teasing, almost agonizingly careful stroke at the very tip of his cock. Mouth-watering.
"You're doing it on purpose, babe, c'mon, just ah...ah little more, squeeze me? Lick me? Harder." Tim whines. Your eyes roll, and you naturally ignore him. Simply working him over with your tongue and fist. When his load finally shoots out across the towel you've laid over the couch, you tsk. A line of spit connecting your glistening lips and his puckering rim. Gross.
● protected sex, love confession, fingering, hurt to comfort. Half Japanese reader who plays for Manchester City. Childhood bestfriend to lovers, slowburn? Angst
● word count: 7.997 words
“Jude…I don’t think this is right for me” you confessed. You have been telling him about how unfair you were treated among the team. For god’s sake, the coach benched you most of the time, you don’t think you are allowed to shine on the pitch.
Jude’s expression darkened immediately, his grip tightening around the water bottle. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes locked onto you with fierce protectiveness.
“Who?” he demanded—not loudly, but with a sharpness that cut through the locker room air. His voice was low and dangerous. “Tell me who’s been treating you like shit.” He didn’t wait for an answer before adding “Because if some coach or teammate is making you feel like this isn’t your place? They’re wrong. You just scored two fucking goals for England.”
“Look—no matter how well I did. They will never let me be on the pitch unless it was you who does the talking. I'm done, Jude”
That made Jude’s jaw clenched. He stood up abruptly, the bench screeching against the locker room floor. Without thinking, he closed the distance between them and grabbed your shoulders—hard—not to shake you, but to make you listen.
“Listen–” he growled “You don’t get to quit after one game. One fucking game where you were incredible.” His voice dropped lower, almost pleading now. “I fought for you today. If Ancelotti only let you in because of me—then I’ll keep talking to him if that’s what it takes.”
“That is not how it should work, Jude” you huffed, frustrated.
Jude exhaled sharply, frustration and worry warring in his expression. He ran a hand through his damp hair before sitting back down right in front of you, closer this time.
“Then tell me how it should work,” he said firmly. “Because I see someone with insane talent who got screwed over by idiots who don’t deserve to coach you.” A beat. His voice softened just a fraction. “You think the game’s fair? It’s not. But walking away now—letting them win—that’s worse than anything they’ve done.”
“Jude…” you let out a long sigh, the one you do when you’re done with it already. Jude reached out, hesitating for half a second before gently squeezing your forearm—a grounding touch. His thumb brushed over the fabric of your jersey, rough from sweat and grass stains.
“Talk to me,” he said quietly “Like actually talk. Not just… giving up.” He tilted his head slightly, studying your face—the exhaustion there wasn’t just physical, it was deeper. And Jude hated seeing it.
Jude’s breath hitched—his chest tightening like someone had just drop-kicked him. The thought of you leaving Madrid, of never lining up beside him again, made his stomach twist violently. His usual confident demeanor shattered in that second. His eyes—wide and desperate—betrayed everything he wasn’t saying out loud: Don’t go. Without thinking again, Jude reached out and grabbed your hand, squeezing it way too tight. His voice came out rougher than intended
“You can't… you can't seriously be considering this.”
“For two years…I tolerated this. Jude–they can’t keep treating me like this” you say as memories of being mistreated flash through your mind, how practices had you coming home drown in annoyance and anger, how you kept quiet because of Jude. You only do this for him and now…you’re done.
Jude’s face fell. Two years. Two fucking years of you enduring this bullshit—just because Jude had begged yoy to stay, just because they were good together on the pitch. A sick guilt gnawed at his stomach. He swallowed hard, his grip on your hand loosening slightly—not letting go, but gentler now. When he spoke again, it wasn’t defensive or angry, it was small and raw:
“…I didn’t know it was that bad.” And for once? He actually looked ashamed. Yeah, because you never told him about the times when the coach says something about your background, forget about you on purpose when it is supposed to be the whole team bonding, ect.
“My contract with Real Madrid ends soon. My manager and I were thinking…Manchester City can be a great start. Fresh.”
Jude’s entire body went rigid. Manchester City. The rival team—his direct competition in the league. For a split second, something ugly flashed across his face: betrayal, rivalry instinct kicking in hard. But then he remembered this wasn’t about football right now—it was about you leaving because of everything else. He exhaled slowly through his nose before speaking again, forcing calm into his voice: “…So that’s it? You’re just gone?” There was no anger there—just quiet disbelief.
“I’m sorry, Jude” you say, voice suddenly sounds quieter. Jude was the first person you tell about your leaving. Not parents, him.
Jude’s chest ached. He hated this—hated how quiet you sounded, like you were already mentally packing his bags for Manchester City. Without a word, Jude suddenly leaned forward and wrapped his arms around you in a tight hug—crushing you against his still-damp jersey. It wasn’t graceful or gentle, it was desperate. His face pressed into your shoulder as he muttered “Don’t be sorry… Just stay.” The words came out muffled but fierce—like if he held on hard enough, reality couldn't take you away.
“You know I can’t do that” you muttered. Throat hurts like it’s painful enough you have to say this to his face. Jude didn’t let go. His arms stayed locked around you, stubborn as hell—like a kid refusing to admit something painful.
“Why?” he pressed, voice muffled against your shoulder. “Give me one good reason that makes sense.” It wasn’t an angry demand—just pleading confusion. Jude had spent two years assuming you were happy here or at least tolerating it for him, and now the rug was being yanked out from under both of them.
“Jude—you will be fine. It won’t make a different” you say dismissively. The tone came out more defensive than you planned. Jude finally pulled back, but only far enough to glare at you—his expression torn between frustration and hurt. His brows furrowed.
“It will make a difference, Y/N” he snapped. “You think I’m just gonna find someone else who plays like you? Who gets me on the pitch like you do?” The second those words left his mouth, Jude realized how selfish they sounded. But he couldn’t take them back—because they were true.
“You will, Jude.” you said firmly. The last thing you wanted was letting Jude successfully convince you to stay. Again.
Jude’s jaw worked silently—chewing on your dismissal like it physically pained him. He wanted to argue, but the finality in your tone made his stomach drop. Instead of fighting more, he deflated slightly, shoulders slumping. His voice came out quieter now—not angry anymore, just resigned: “…When do you leave?” He already hated asking. Hated imagining the locker room without you there.
“December…” you say, the bitterness lingers in your mouth when you say it. You hated seeing Jude so sad. But what’s done is done. Jude nodded slowly, doing the math in his head—December wasn’t tomorrow, but it was close. Too damn close. A heavy silence stretched between them before Jude spoke again, forcing a steadier tone: “…Okay.” He rubbed his neck awkwardly, then suddenly stood up and grabbed his gym bag—avoiding your eyes. He needed to move, to do something with this restless energy building inside him. Because if he continues to look into your eyes, he is afraid something inside of him will snap.
The hotel’s gym was dimly lit, the hum of machines filling the quiet space. Jude pushed open the door, still wearing his sweatpants and a loose black tank top. He hadn’t expected to see you here either. For a second, he just stood there watching: you on one of the stationary bikes, headphones in as you pedaled steadily. The soft glow from overhead lights cast shadows over your focused expression. Jude hesitated before walking over quietly. Jude hopped onto the bike next to you, keeping a careful distance between them. He adjusted the seat quickly before putting his own headphones in—just background music, nothing loud. The two of them rode in silence: you focused ahead, Jude staring straight at the wall across from him. The only sounds were their steady pedaling and soft breath. Neither acknowledged each other’s presence… but neither left either.
Your grip on the handlebars tightened slightly, guilt pooling in your chest. You could feel Jude beside yoy—not just physically, but emotionally. The tension between them was thick even without words. After a few more minutes of silent riding, you finally glanced over at Jude out of the corner of your eye—studying his profile: jaw set, brows slightly furrowed with that familiar intensity. A pang shot through him. This might be one of their last gym sessions together as teammates… and they weren’t even talking.
Jude leaned back against the gym wall, his legs burning from pushing himself harder than necessary. Sweat dampened his hairline, and he dragged a hand down his face before exhaling sharply—part exhaustion, part frustration. The quiet stretched again as he caught his breath. The weight of everything unsaid between them felt heavier than any workout ever could. Without looking at you yet, Jude pulled off one headphone, signaling that maybe… just maybe… they should actually talk now.
“I’m sorry for earlier...I was being understanding toward your feelings” you say, sitting down next to Jude. He finally turned his head to look at you—really look at you—for the first time since they’d been in the gym. The apology caught him off guard, and for a second, he just blinked.
“…I was being an idiot,” he admitted quietly, “Yelling about you leaving like that.” He rubbed his thigh where it still ached from overworking out, then added more softly: “You didn’t do anything wrong. I know you had your reasons.”
Jude never brings water with him because he knows he can just drink from yours. It has been a deep rooted habit he developed over years together. Ever since your parents moved to the UK for work, mostly due to wanting you to gain exposure to good football coaches here. They made it through, all for your football career. There, 5-years old you met Jude and his brother. And y’all became best friends ever since. He always thought of you as a giant foreign kid who loves football. Sometimes he protects you at school when you get teased for having asian features and a heavy accent you were trying to fix. He has met your parents before at a playdate at your house, he admires your dad, who’s an ex-professional football player, super tall and your japanese model mom, who makes incredible meals for your trio.
Jude accepted the water bottle from you without hesitation—like it was second nature by now. He took a long swig, his throat dry from exertion, before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The gesture felt stupidly intimate in that moment: sharing a bottle like they always did after training or matches. It was such a small thing, but Jude hated how normal it still felt—when nothing else between them did right now. He handed it back to you wordlessly… then hesitated before speaking again.
Jude stared at the gym floor, suddenly dreading the thought of going back to his empty room. The hotel beds were too big and cold—no one to fill the space beside him, no familiar breathing to lull him asleep. The idea of showering alone, changing into pajamas alone… then lying there staring at the ceiling in silence? It sounded miserable.
Jude swallowed hard, his pulse picking up at the thought. He hadn’t planned on asking—it felt too vulnerable—but suddenly it was all he could focus on. He hops on your bed all the time and you let him, no big deals. So why so nervous now? Without overthinking it because if he did, he’d chicken out? Jude turned to you and blurted: “Do you… wanna come back to my room tonight? Just to sleep.” The words tumbled out in one breathless rush.
“That's weird. You always complain I hog blankets and take up most space" You snorted. Growing up together, they often have playdates and sleepovers. Jude’s lips twitched at the memories—almost a smile at your response. It was true, he always complained about the blanket wars and how you somehow managed to take up the entire bed like a starfish.
“Yeah, well…” he shrugged. “Still better than being alone right now.” The honesty slipped out before he could filter it. He quickly added, voice lighter: “And if you steal all the blankets again, I’ll just shove you onto the floor.” A weak joke—but an invitation anyway.
The suite was quiet except for the soft hum of the TV. Jude had found a bottle of expensive wine in the mini-fridge—probably left there by management for VIP guests—and he’d cracked it open without hesitation, drinking straight from it. You were sprawled on one side of the bed, scrolling through movie options while Jude sat cross-legged beside you, already tipsy after two big gulps. The alcohol burned going down but… he didn’t care tonight. They landed on some action movie—explosions and loud dialogue filling their silence. Then the smooth jazz from the club scene filled the room, low and sultry. Jude tipped the wine bottle back again—this time downing half of it in one go, his throat relaxing to the rich taste. By now, he was definitely buzzed, cheeks slightly flushed, movements looser than usual. He didn’t even care that this was probably stupidly expensive wine—he just liked how it made him feel warm.
“It’s getting late…I’m going to bed” you muttered in exhaustion. The movie really makes you relaxed. Or maybe it was Jude’s comforting presence alone.
Jude’s face fell the second you said that. The movie wasn’t even halfway done, and they’d only been hanging out for… what, an hour? Two? He scowled—childishly—and reached over to poke your arm. “No,” he protested, voice already a little slurred from the wine. “Stay up. It's not that late, Y/N.” The TV screen reflected in his eyes as he glared half-heartedly at you, like this was some huge betrayal.
“Jude…you’re drinking too much, you’re gonna have a horrible hangover tomorrow" you rolled your eyes at his childish tone.
Jude frowns—like a kid being scolded. He held the wine bottle tighter, stubbornly refusing to put it down.
“I don’t care about tomorrow,” he grumbled, “Tomorrow’s gonna suck anyway.” The words slipped out before he could stop them, revealing way more bitterness than he meant to show. But it was true: tomorrow would be another day closer to you leaving… So why not drink?
Eventually, Jude sets the bottle aside and scootches closer to you, straddling your hips as he stares into your eyes. The kiss was sudden—warm and wine-tinged. Jude leaned down, his lips meeting you with a clumsy but desperate intensity. The alcohol had loosened him up, made him bold in a way he normally wouldn’t be. His hands braced on either side of your shoulders as he deepened the kiss slightly—sloppy from drinking but full of pent-up emotion. It wasn’t romantic or smooth, it was messy and impulsive… just like Jude right now.
“What are you doing?” You say, stunned.
Jude didn’t pull away immediately—his lips lingered for a second longer, breath still mingling with yours. When he finally broke the kiss, his face was inches away, cheeks flushed from both alcohol and nerves.
“I dunno,” he admitted quietly, voice rough. Then, after a beat: “I wanted to.” His heart pounded like crazy. He hadn’t planned this at all—just acted on impulse—but now that he had? There was no taking it back.
“Jude…go to sleep, think you had enough?” You nudge him again.
Jude’s expression twisted—annoyance and frustration flashing across his face. He didn’t want to sleep. Sleep meant tomorrow would come faster, meaning you leaving would feel more real. Instead of listening, Jude pressed another kiss to your lips—softer this time but still insistent, lingering just a second too long before pulling back slightly.
“No,” he mumbled against your mouth, “Not tired.” His words were thick with wine and stubbornness.
“What can I do to get you to sleep, hm?” You rolled your eyes at his determined ass. Jude smirked—tipsy and smug—at your complaint. He tilted his head, considering the question like it was a game.
“…Keep kissing me,” he said without hesitation, voice low and teasing. Then, before you could protest or push him off, Jude leaned back in and captured your lips again—this kiss slower but just as determined. If this was the only way to stay awake with you right now? Fine by him.
“No” you scolded and peel Jude off you. He whined, and eventually fell asleep tangled with you on the bed, too tired and drunk to continue reasoning with you.
Jude’s training sessions became intense—almost aggressive. Every drill, every pass, he poured frustration into it. The new guy didn’t sync with him like you did, no instinctive give-and-go, no reading each other’s movements. It showed in matches too: Jude would break away down the wing… only to get a half-assed cross that sailed over the box or got intercepted because his teammate hadn’t followed up. The team noticed—the chemistry was off. And worse? Fans were comparing them to Jude and Y/N constantly… which just made everything sting more.
The loneliness crept in slowly—like a shadow under all the bright stadium lights. Without you beside him, matches felt… hollow. Even when Jude scored, the celebration lacked its usual fire. No jumping on your back because you’re the only one who can handle his aggressiveness. No inside joke glances during time-outs. Just teammates who were decent at best—not his person. The quiet ache of it followed him off the pitch too. Even his own teammates noticed how quieter Jude had gotten—less laughing in group chats, fewer impulsive jokes during downtime.
So the second Jude stepped onto the pitch and saw you in Manchester City blue, something sharp twisted in his gut. The smile on your face—relaxed, even happy—was a punch to the chest. You found the right club that respects you. They hadn’t spoken since you left. Jude forced himself to focus, but every time his eyes flicked toward you during warm-ups… that bitterness flared again: betrayal at no one, longing, frustration that this was their first match as opponents.
Jude was fuming every time the new guy ignored team plays—charging forward like a solo striker, ignoring calls for passes. It backfired constantly, his selfish shots went wide or got blocked. Meanwhile, you effortlessly picked him off—stealing the ball with smooth ease and turning defense into attack for Manchester City. The way he glided past the rookie looked almost playful… mocking even. Jude couldn’t stand it: watching his former teammate dismantle their whole strategy so casually while wearing another club’s colors.
Jude’s face scrunched into a full pout—cheeks flushed with frustration—as he barreled toward you during the next stoppage in play. Ignoring the referee’s glare, Jude got right up in his former teammate's space. The second they were within earshot, Jude jabbed a finger at your chest—not aggressively, but like an indignant kid demanding attention.
“You’re laughing” he accused through gritted teeth, “This isn’t funny.” Clearly you were having fun playing this match. No pressure at all.
“Don’t pout…you can fix this” you snorted again. Your voice was softer than Jude expected—gentle, almost coaxing. The smirk from earlier had faded now that they were face-to-face like this. Jude glared at you, still pouting because yeah, 2-0 sucked, but you weren't gloating anymore. You just looked… concerned? Like you genuinely wanted to fix it. Guess you still care about him and know how Jude’s world can collapse after a defeat.
A beat passed before Jude huffed and muttered, “How?” —defensive but open to whatever you suggested.
“I don’t know? Steal the ball from your own teammate?” You joke. That made Jude’s frown deepen—but then the suggestion hit him. Steal the ball from his own teammate? That rookie who’d been embarrassing them all game? A mischievous glint sparked in Jude’s eyes. It was risky… but if it meant getting back at you and helping his team, hell yeah. The next play, when their teammate got the ball again—Jude lunged with zero hesitation, only one thing in mind.
The ball rocketed off Jude’s boot—blazing past a defender like they were standing still. The strike was perfect: powerful, precise, and utterly ruthless. It slammed into the net before the keeper could even react. 2-1.
Jude didn’t celebrate with his teammates right away—he bolted straight for you instead. Without warning, he launched himself at the bigger man, tackling him into a bear hug mid-stride. The impact nearly knocked them both over—but Jude didn’t care. He buried his face against your shoulder, grinning wildly despite everything: the rivalry, the score… none of that mattered in this second.
The stadium cameras zoomed in immediately—catching the rare, raw moment between Jude and Y/N. The close-up broadcasted their embrace to millions watching live. Jude’s arms were still locked around you like he’d never let go. On screen, you could see every detail: Jude’s sweaty state from running, his wide grin pressed into your jersey… while you—surprised but not pushing him away—just stood there holding him back while the fellows Manchester City stared at you.
The final whistle blew, sealing Manchester City’s victory. Jude kicked the grass in frustration—his goal and lead hadn’t been enough to turn things around. He trudged off the pitch, avoiding eye contact with teammates and reporters alike. The scoreboard mocked him: 2-1. Close… but a loss. As he entered the locker room, his shoulders slumped under the weight of defeat—and worse? You would be celebrating on your side, not his. You promised you would give him whatever he wants if he wins, but guess not.
Jude lingered near the tunnel leading to the Manchester City locker room, spotting you through the half-open door. He hesitated for a second—then walked over. Leaning against the frame, Jude crossed his arms and forced a dry tone: “Guess I won’t get whatever you promised, huh? …You won. Congrats.” The bitterness in his voice was thinly veiled, he’d been looking forward to cashing that bet…
“Pouting still?” You chuckled. Jude’s bottom lip jutted out instinctively—still pouting, yeah. He wasn’t even trying to hide it anymore. The loss stung, you were winning, and now Jude had to face the fact that he’d never get whatever silly "whatever" prize they'd joked about.
“…You’re enjoying this,” he accused flatly, “Aren’t you?”
“I shouldn't.” you smirked. God he hated that. Jude rolled his eyes at your snort—because yeah, you shouldn’t be enjoying it… but of course you were. That stupid little smirk kept creeping back.
“You’re the worst,” Jude grumbled, “Rubbing it in my face like this.” He kicked a bottle on the floor, then peeked up at you through his lashes—half annoyed, half something softer. They hadn't talked properly in months… and now here they were again.
“I won, Jude. I can take whatever I want?” You giggled, poking at his side. Jude’s nose scrunched up at the teasing—you were loving this way too much. He narrowed his eyes, but there was no real heat behind it.
“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, “Gloat all you want.”
“Room 325. There's more I'd love to take.” you whispered before turning your back and joining your team again.
Jude’s pulse jumped at the implication—Room 325. He watched you walk away—shoulders relaxed, that chuckle still lingering in the air—and suddenly the loss didn’t feel so bad anymore. If this was part of "whatever"… Jude was all for it. He had a crush on you for so long, and he was no longer in the denials, ever since you two first joined Real Madrid. Without lingering, Jude headed straight for Real Madrid's locker room to shower and change fast—already counting down minutes until he could sneak out unnoticed later.
The suite was dimly lit—soft golden light spilling from the lamps. Jude stepped inside quietly, leaving the door slightly ajar behind him just in case. You weren’t immediately visible, maybe in the bathroom? Or on the balcony? The place smelled faintly of your cologne—something woodsy and clean. Jude kicked off his shoes and wandered further in, suddenly hyper-aware of how quiet it was… and what might happen next.
The bed dipped slightly under Jude’s weight as he stretched out, jacket discarded on a nearby chair. The sheets were cool against his skin—freshly changed, probably. He could hear the shower running in the bathroom, water hitting tile. The sound was rhythmic… relaxing even. Jude laced his fingers behind his head and stared at the ceiling, listening. A part of him wondered how long you would take—and if you'd walk out here still toweling off…
Jude propped himself up on his elbows the second he heard the bathroom door open. You stepped out—hair still damp, droplets clinging to your shoulders—and that towel was barely hanging on. The sight made Jude’s breath catch. Water had traced paths down your chest, every defined muscle was on display under the soft lighting.
The distance between them vanished in an instant. Jude surged forward, crashing his lips against yours—hungry and impatient. There was nothing soft about this kiss, it was all heat and months of pent-up longing. Usually he would avoid people after a loss but…he found a way to make it disappear fast. One hand tangled into your damp hair while the other gripped your bare shoulder, pulling you closer as if they couldn’t get enough contact fast enough. His palm felt warm as Jude kneaded your muscles with neediness.
Your strength made it effortless—you lifted Jude up and set him down on the sleek marble table without breaking the kiss. The cold surface contrasted with their burning skin. Jude wrapped his legs around your waist instinctively, arms clinging to your shoulders as they kissed deeper. There was no hesitation now—just hands roaming, lips locked, breaths mingling in messy harmony.
Jude’s fingers traced every ridge of your back—those broad, sculpted muscles that flexed under his touch. He mapped them like he was memorizing—a dip here, a ridge there—letting the pads of his thumbs press into the firmness. It felt incredible… and Jude couldn’t stop exploring. Meanwhile, you kept kissing him deeply, teeth grazing Jude's bottom lip before diving back in with renewed hunger.
Jude’s breath hitched as your lips traveled down—his jaw, his throat—the teasing nibbles on the Adam's apple sending shivers through him. “Still upset?” You muttered against his skin.
“No…” he admitted softly, tilting his head to give you better access. His hands stayed glued to those back muscles… squeezing lightly whenever a particularly good spot got kissed.
The weight of their past—more than 15 years as best friends—hung in the air between them. Jude searched your eyes, suddenly unsure. What were they now? Opponents? Ex-teammates? Just… this? He gently nudged you back to create a sliver of space, his hands still resting on your shoulders but no longer pulling you closer. A quiet question lingered unspoken: Is this just tonight because you won… or something more?
Jude’s heart hammered—loud enough that he was sure you could hear it. He swallowed hard, gathering courage. For the first time in years, maybe ever… Jude wanted to say it out loud. Not as a joke or a tease—just raw honesty. Or else he will never be able to play football with the same intense focus. He needed to get it off his chess.
“I…” His voice came out quieter than expected. He cleared his throat, “I think I’m in love with you.” The words hung there, fragile and huge all at once.
“You made that pretty obvious” you smirked at the confession. Yeah, it took Jude years to say it. Here he goes. And that’s your reaction?
Jude exhaled sharply—half-laugh, half-relief—when you teased him instead of answering properly. The tension in his shoulders eased just a little.
“Oh shut up,” he grumbled, shoving your shoulder lightly before surging forward to kiss you again. This time softer… less frantic, more affectionate. If you weren't going to take this seriously yet… Jude would just show you how he felt through actions instead of words for now.
“Just kidding…I love you too, Jude. Only you”
Jude’s entire face lit up at those words—you finally said it. A grin spread wide across his lips, bright and disbelieving for a second. Then he kissed you again—happy, giddy kisses all over your face: forehead, cheeks, nose… before landing back on your mouth properly. The 17-year best friend who became something more… Jude couldn’t stop smiling against your lips. This was perfect.
Jude deepened the kiss, pouring everything into it—the hope, the longing. When he finally pulled back just an inch, his voice was low and earnest:
“Come back to Real Madrid.”
No teasing this time. Just a direct plea—eyes locked on yours like Jude could make you say yes by staring. The thought of having you as both his teammate and lover again… it felt right in every way.
“You just have to say that every chance you get…” you complained. Jude rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it—because yeah, he would say it again and again if you let him. The guy had no chill when it came to this.
“You love hearing me say it.” he shot back with a smirk, poking your side playfully before kissing your cheek once more—quick and sweet. The banter was light… but beneath the teasing, Jude was radiating pure happiness. This—you loving him back? Best feeling ever.
“No, I don’t” you said firmly. It only made Jude laugh—bright and unguarded—as you rolled your eyes. The denial was weak.
“Liar.” Jude accused, grinning before diving back in to kiss you again. This time slower, lingering… savoring the fact that you were his now. The room felt warmer somehow, like the whole world had narrowed down to just them—no rivalries left between them anymore… just this.
“No. You come to Manchester City with me” you said. There’s no way you would go back to that hell hole unless they change the coach. Jude’s smile faltered for a second—you? suggesting he switch teams? To Manchester City? That was… not what he wanted at all.
“No.” he said immediately, voice firm but not angry. He cupped your face “I’m staying with Madrid. You come back to me.” he demands firmly. No nonsense. And yeah, happy spouse, happy house—or whatever they said.
“I just signed 3 years with Manchester City, Jude” you huffed. Jude’s entire face brightened—relief and excitement mixing together. 3 years wasn’t forever. He could wait.
“3 years?” He repeated, nodding quickly. “Yeah. That’s nothing.” Without hesitation, Jude kissed you again—this time sealing the promise between them. He’d be patient… because after that contract ended? You would be back where you belonged: with Jude at Madrid. It was easy to convince you. Too easy. But you made one thing clear—only Jude gets to do that. Only he gets to mess with you and come out of the room alive.
Jude shifted impatiently, his legs parting wider as you stood between them. The affectionate moment had passed—now Jude wanted action. Something to distract him from the defeat. Without breaking eye contact, he grabbed the hem of his own shirt and tugged it upward—silently demanding you to help him take it off. Then he bit his lip expectantly… waiting for you to close the distance.
You moved fast—no teasing left in you now. In seconds, Jude’s jeans unbuttoned and shoved down his legs. The cool air hit Jude’s skin briefly before you pressed close again. Fabric pooled on the floor around them. The towel finally gave up its fight… slipping to the ground as you kissed Jude hard again.
You raised an eyebrow when Jude grabs the lube and condom in Jude’s discarded jeans—clearly planned ahead. A slow smirk curled at your lips.
“Came prepared, huh?” you teased, voice dropping lower as you twist the cap of the lube. The fact that Jude had thought this far ahead was… kinda hot. Jude only rolls his eyes at your tone “Just in case” he said.
You trailed your lips down Jude’s torso—soft, appreciative kisses over each defined muscle. The ridges of his abs, the curve of his shoulders… every inch was worshipped with quiet admiration. It wasn’t rushed anymore, you took time to explore Jude like this was something sacred. Each kiss lingered—a contrast to their earlier urgency. The warmth of your mouth against bare skin sent little sparks through Jude… intimate in a whole new way.
Jude sank deeper into the cool marble, body pliant under your touch. The lube was cold for a split second before warming—then your finger pressed gently, circling his entrance. Simultaneously, you kissed down Jude’s chest—lips and tongue soothing over every inch of skin while those fingers worked slowly… teasingly… pushing in just the slightest bit more with each pass. The dual sensations were overwhelming: warmth above and careful pressure below.
Your fingers moved with practiced gentleness—stretching Jude slowly, curling just right to send waves of that delicious good pain down his spine. Each motion was deliberate, careful not to hurt. Jude breathed through it, back arching slightly off the table as pleasure mixed with the stretch. You watched his reactions closely—adjusting pressure or angle based on every twitch or gasp Jude made. The lube eased everything, no discomfort… just building heat and anticipation.
Jude arched beautifully against the marble—back curving, skin flushed under your hungry gaze. He felt exposed in the best way… like a meal laid out for you to feast upon. Every glance from you burned hotter than the cold surface beneath Jude. Your fingers kept working on him—slow but purposeful—as your other hand traced Jude’s hipbone, possessive without words… all while drinking in how responsive he was.
You slipped your fingers out carefully, then grabbed the condom—ripping the packet open with your teeth and quickly rolling it on. A few firm strokes helped him get fully hard, there was no rush now. You positioned yourself over Jude again, met Jude’s eyes one last time before leaning down to kiss him deeply—a silent check-in before moving further.
With slow precision, you started pushing in… giving Jude every chance to adjust while you pressed your cock into his clenching hole. The stretch was deliberate, no sudden movements. Each inch forward was careful—controlled by how well Jude handled it. Soon you found a pace to go.
You adjusted Jude’s legs, lifting them gently to rest on your shoulders—exposing him completely. The position was intimate in a new way, Jude squirmed under the vulnerability of it. His cheeks warmed slightly… but there was no hiding now. Every shift or tremble from his body would be visible like this. You kissed Jude’s leg softly—a small comfort—before settling into a slow rhythm, testing the depth and angle with careful thrusts.
You moved with deliberate control—each roll of your hips measured, testing the fit. The stretch was intense for Jude, he hadn’t expected you to feel this big inside him. A sharp inhale escaped Jude’s lips—his breath catching in surprise. It wasn’t painful… just overwhelming in a way that made his pulse spike.
It takes a while. As Jude relaxed into the sensation, you began moving with more rhythm—gentle but steady thrusts now. The initial fullness gave way to something smoother, each glide becoming easier. The table creaked faintly beneath them, but neither cared.
“Is it…supposed to feel this way?” Jude muttered, feeling weird in his stomach. He has never taken a man before.
“It gets better.” you murmured, brushing a thumb over Jude’s thigh reassuringly. Your next thrust was softer, more focused on pleasure than just the physical act. The initial overwhelming stretch would fade soon… replaced by something warmer, easier—if you kept going gently like this.
You discovered that spot almost immediately—some perfect angle where every thrust landed just right that you noticed drawing a small moan out of him. Jude’s breath hitched audibly, his back pressing harder into the table as pleasure spiked. Without hesitation, you kept targeting it—rhythm steady and deliberate now. The precision was addictive, each repetition drew out another soft sound from Jude.
The rhythmic clap of skin on skin filled the room—sloppy, wet sounds with every deep thrust. You loved how Jude squirmed beneath you, the way his body reacted to each rough pull almost all the way out before slamming back in. There was no gentleness now—just raw, heated friction once Jude gets used to the feeling and ease into it. The table rocked slightly from their movements… but neither cared about anything except this moment. Jude’s legs trembled where they rested on your shoulders—the sensation overwhelming but good in a dizzying way.
Jude’s toes curled involuntarily inside his socks—the fabric grounding him, helping the blood flow stay steady despite how intensely he was feeling everything. The pleasure was almost too much, overwhelming in its goodness. He whined under your relentless pace—not to stop you, but because there was nothing solid to grip onto. No nothing on the marble table… just air and sensation.
“Y/N—” he breathed out shakily, “There’s nothing… to hold onto.”
You slowed your movements, shifting effortlessly to scoop Jude up in your arms. The sudden change made Jude instinctively cling to you—arms locking around your neck, legs winding tight around your waist. Their bodies pressed together now as you moved until Jude’s back met the cool wall. Then you resumed rocking into him—steadier this time, deeper—but with just as much heat.
The second Jude’s fingers found your back—those broad, corded muscles flexing with every movement—he couldn’t help himself. His nails dug in lightly, not enough to hurt but just there, clinging. Moans spilled from Jude shamelessly now, the wall supported his weight perfectly, and having your body to grip made everything more intense. Every thrust sent vibrations through them both. You grunted at the sensation of those nails scraping down your skin… it only drove you deeper.
Your strength made carrying Jude effortless—your arms caging him against the wall with zero strain. Every rock of your hips was powerful, deliberate… bullying that tender spot inside Jude in the best way. The roughness wasn’t mean—just dominant. You knew exactly how much pressure to use, turning each movement into a deep, claiming thrust that left Jude breathless. Jude’s back slid slightly against the wall from their momentum… but you adjusted instantly to keep him steady.
Jude’s body instinctively tightened around you—muscles fluttering in waves of pleasure, milking your aching cock with each deliberate clench. It wasn’t on purpose… just his body reacting to the overwhelming sensations.
The sudden pressure drew a ragged groan from you—your rhythm stuttering for half a second before you growled and snapped your hips harder, chasing that feeling. The friction between them skyrocketed, Jude could feel every ridge of you through the thin condom now.
Jude bit down on your shoulder—teeth pressing just enough to leave a mark, not to hurt much. It was instinctive: a way to claim you and anchor himself as pleasure crested violently. The sting made you gasp… but you didn’t pull away. Instead, your arms tightened around Jude possessively, hips never stopping their relentless pace. A muffled sound escaped Jude between clenched teeth—the bite both an act of need and silent praise.
Jude’s nails raked down your back—leaving faint, stinging red lines in their wake. The sharp sensation made the bigger man gasp sharply through his nose. The pain wasn’t unpleasant, it blended with the pleasure, heightening everything. Your breath hitched as you adjusted to it… then responded by thrusting harder, driving Jude deeper into the wall. A low sound rumbled in your chest—not quite a growl but close—as your hips moved with renewed intensity.
Jude’s voice cracked with pleasure as he hurled insults—words like “asshole” and “fucking monster” tumbling out, but there was zero real anger behind them. Just heat. Each name came with a bitten-off moan or a sharp gasp, his body betraying how much he actually loved this rough treatment. You only smirked at the curses—unbothered. You knew Jude wasn’t actually mad… just overwhelmed and expressing it in the only way that made sense to him right now.
Your smirk widened—completely endeared by Jude’s tantrum. The bruising grip, the insults… it was all so him. You loved every second of this unfiltered, fiery passion. Jude kept clenching around your cock and cursing—“You’re such a fucking jerk”—but his hips rolled instinctively against yours with each word, chasing more friction despite himself. The contrast was adorable: rage in words but pure bliss in how their bodies moved together.
You crushed your lips against Jude’s—cutting off the next insult mid-sentence with a searing kiss. Your hips never slowed, pounding into him at that same rough, unforgiving pace. The kiss was messy and hungry—all teeth and tongue as you swallowed every insult Jude made. Then you broke the kiss to trail your lips down Jude’s neck—lingering over your pulse point before latching onto a sensitive spot just above his collarbone. Your mouth worked there hungrily, sucking and biting. A few vivid hickeys bloomed instantly—faint marks against Jude’s skin. Jude only tilted his head instinctively, giving you better access without even thinking.
Jude’s body tensed—pleasure cresting violently as his hips jerked in your grip. He shoved at your shoulders weakly, voice breaking as he cursed again: “Fuck—Y/N!”
The push wasn’t strong enough to actually move you, it was just Jude’s overwhelmed nerves reacting. His fingers trembled against your chest… not wanting space, just unable to handle the intensity. You felt Jude tightening around your cock and knew—they were both right on the edge now.
Jude came hard—body seizing up as pleasure ripped through him, completely unrestrained. The mess between them was undeniable, but you didn’t slow down for a second. Still chasing your own release, you kept thrusting—relentless and deep—as Jude trembled from oversensitivity. The stretch mixed with the aftershocks sent sparks shooting up Jude’s spine.
The hit on your chest from Jude had no real force behind it, just a desperate attempt to signal too much. Jude squirmed slightly, breath coming in short gasps—but you could feel how sensitive every nerve was right now.
Your hips jerked a few last times—sharp, uncontrolled thrusts—before you stilled completely. With a deep groan rumbling from your chest, you buried yourself fully inside Jude… spilling over the edge. The sensation was intense for both of them, you shuddering through it while Jude felt every pulse, even in his oversensitive state.
For a long moment afterward, neither moved—just breathing heavily against each other’s skin. The air between them was thick with the scent of sweat and shared intimacy. Both Jude and you were glistening—skin damp, chests rising and falling in sync as they caught their breath. Jude’s head lolled slightly against your shoulder—too spent to even think about moving yet.
You carefully lifted Jude—still cradled in your arms—and carried him the short distance to the bed. Gently, you lowered him onto the mattress, making sure Jude was comfortable. The sheets were cool against their heated skin. You hovered for a second before lying down beside him, one arm slipping under Jude’s neck like you’re his pillow as they settled together. For a moment, they get to relax.
Jude’s brow furrowed slightly as you sat up—disrupting the cozy position he’d been nestled into. The warmth of your bicep had been a perfect pillow, and now it was gone. He didn’t say anything, just blinked up at you with that small frown… silently asking why you moved without explanation.
You reached for the water bottle on the nightstand, twisting it open before taking a long swig. The cool liquid soothed your dry throat after everything. Without hesitation, you passed the half-full bottle to Jude—holding it out so he could drink too. Your eyes softened slightly as Jude took it, a small act of care after their intensity.
You snatched a nearby towel off the chair, still damp and gently wiping Jude’s skin clean. You started with his face—dabbing away sweat—then moved down to his chest and shoulders then lower.
“Season’s over. Got any plans for summer?” You asked casually. You stretched out beside Jude on the bed, turning your head toward him with a relaxed expression. He pondered for a second before answering.
“Dunno yet. Probably just chill… maybe travel somewhere.”
“Come back to my homeland then. We can hang out” Your voice was soft but hopeful. You suggested Japan—your mother’s homeland. The idea of Jude visiting there, seeing where you were born, living a normal summer together away from football… It excited him. Jude adores your mother, likes it when she tells him about baby Y/N back in Japan before moving to England. You turned onto your side to face Jude fully, waiting for his reaction. The country had beaches, mountains… and endless good food too.
A slow smile spread across Jude’s face as he nodded “Yeah. I’d love that.”
“Can we get in the hot tub now?” Jude groans impatiently. He has been waiting for you to tan since forever. Here you and him in Japan, you bought a penthouse there last year for vacation and family gathering, the bathtub was an addition you don’t really approve of but buying it anyway because your mother loves it. You’re more of an icebath person. You two spent time cooking, playing video games and exploring the cities. And now simply at the pool of your place.
“No…I’m tanning” you muttered.
Jude huffed dramatically, peeling himself off you like a clingy shadow. He padded barefoot to the edge of the pool, toes curling against cold tile.
without warning—splash!—he cannonballed right next to your lounge chair, sending a wave crashing over it and soaking your towel.
water dripped from your black as he surfaced with that stupidly handsome grin—the one that used to make half the team lose their minds during training camp.
“Oops,” he grinned, not sounding sorry at all. then louder: “c’monnn! hot tub’s awesome”
“Fine!” You groaned. Jude’s face lit up like he’d just scored the winning penalty in extra time. he scrambled out of the pool first, water sluicing off his toned frame as he grabbed two fluffy towels from the cabana bench—one tossing at you with a wet smack.
The hot tub starts bubbling softly after you turn the heat on and fill in water, steam curling into the air. without asking because when did Jude ever?, he kicked off his slipper and climbed in, stretching out with a satisfied groan.
“Ahhh… fuck yeah.” he moaned dramatically, sinking low until only his face was above water. then: “You coming or what? I'm not waiting forever.” His brown eyes gleamed playfully under the sun. Even if it’s hot or burning, Jude would still choose a hot tub.
The moment you slid into the hot tub, jude’s smug expression flickered. You took up way too much space—like a goddamn grizzly bear who’d been sculpted by Greek gods. water sloshed dangerously close to spilling over as you sank in.
“It’s hot…I’d choose an ice bath over this anyday” You complained.
Jude blinked at you like you'd just insulted his entire bloodline.
“Ice bath?!” he repeated, nose scrunching in disgust. “Why would you want to freeze your balls off?” that only earns a scold out of you.
The silence between them stretched, warm and heavy like the steam rising off the hot tub.
Another season is coming up soon. Then the World Cup. He’d be locked into that bubble again: Madrid's golden boy under scrutiny 24/7… expected to win… expected to perform flawlessly… The thought made his chest tighten slightly. Without looking up and voice quieter than it had ever been, Jude said:
Dean Winchester lay sprawled on the cheap motel sheets, legs hooked high over your shoulders, the blinds shut tight and the "Do Not Disturb" sign keeping the world out. Your thick cock drove into him in long, deliberate strokes, grinding straight against his prostate with every slow roll of your hips.
"Shit… you’re gonna break me," Dean groaned, voice hoarse and shaky. His freckled chest rose and fell fast, cock flushed dark and drooling steadily onto his stomach.
You had been teasing him for hours. Every time his breathing hitched and his thighs started to shake, you eased off the stroke on his cock, leaving him clenching and empty, orgasm slipping away. He whined, hips jerking, trying to fuck himself back onto you.
"You’re such a bastard," he panted, hole fluttering around your shaft.
You answered by circling your hips, pressing right on that swollen spot inside him while your fist stayed motionless around his leaking cock. "You love every second of it," you murmured against his throat, biting down just hard enough to make him shudder.
Dean’s moan cracked. His rim squeezed you tight. You started stroking him again—slow, focused on the slick head—while your cock hammered his prostate in short, brutal thrusts. The pressure built fast this time, different, deeper, almost too much.
His eyes rolled, thighs trembling hard against your shoulders. His cock jerked in your grip, and you didn’t stop. You kept fucking him through it, nailing that spot over and over.
Dean’s whole body locked up. A sudden, powerful jet of clear fluid erupted from his cock, splashing hot across his chest and abs. His hole clamped down hard, spasming as thick white ropes of cum followed, mixing with the clear squirt and painting his torso in messy streaks. He kept pulsing, hole milking your cock in rhythmic squeezes while you fucked him straight through every wave.
When it finally ebbed, Dean went limp, legs sliding off your shoulders, chest heaving, eyes glassy. His skin glistened on with the mix. You stayed buried inside his twitching hole and leaned down to kiss him slow and deep, tasting the wrecked little sounds he made against your tongue.
WHEW sorry for the long wait guys, being employed is no joke.
AMAB Reader/Mahoraga, smut, Intersex anatomy (Mahoraga has a P and a V), Reader is a Zen'in/tamed Mahoraga, can be read as M or GN reader.
Overview: After years and years of your predecessors failing to tame the beast that the Divine General Mahoraga is, you've successfully tamed the beast, and for a new, much more perverted reason too.
You could count the number of Zen’in clan members that had faced Mahoraga off your own hand, because after a certain number, they had given up.
The “untameable”, the dog that bites the hand that holds its leash. A great power nobody could wield.The greatest waste of talent, just floating around unclaimed within the 10 Shadows Technique.
Until you, of course.
Notably, there had been a few great tries. Some sorcerers had managed to get a gritty hold upon the beast before being inevitably flung off, and the Fushigurou boy had been smart enough to use its vicious and undefeatable presence as something other than a controllable weapon. And of course, before the fall of Sukuna, Mahoraga had been given a chance to feel the thrill of being handled and owned by a winnowed master. The greatest appeal of Mahoraga -demonstrated so destructively by Sukuna- was his adaptive technique. Anyone would die to get their hands on it, so much that it claimed the lives of several clan members who were greedy enough to try and have a taste.
A shame, you muse to yourself. The narrow-minded reach of the Zen’in’s astounded you. They really thought so little of the magnificent creature Mahoraga was. Bloodshed? Victory in combat? All great only if you were a mule of war and shallow ego. To your utter delight, you’ve found the shikigami has a knack for just about anything if you put him and his wheel to it.
You were the curious type, and it's a wonder you haven’t killed the cat with how much you’ve been toeing the line. Your body is burning, muscles taught and bruised all over from your previous tussle, but you had wrenched the genie’s lamp out of the devil's lair, and now was the time to enjoy your three wishes.
Perched so politely between your legs, on his knees, was none other than the hulking presence of Mahoraga himself.
The shikigami is two and a half times your size, a bulking mass of muscle and power, and he’s all yours to play with, as you had so successfully managed to tame him. As if he’s just a scolded dog, you nudge him at the cheek with your knee, enjoying the way he shivers a little.
When Mahoraga is tamed, he practically becomes one with its master, a deep and irreversible bond. He is you, and you are him. Of course, this explained why Sukuna was so successful in wielding him in combat, other than his own set of skills in jujutsu sorcery. And also why your sweet shikigami was acting so shy.
He knew, through your now unbreakable bond, exactly what you wanted to do with him.
Gently, you reach a hand out to cradle him by the jaw, tracing your pointer finger down the sharp outline and stopping close to his chin. Obediently, he follows your touch, leaning into it subtly and chasing after your fingertip.
You’re sure the many men who have tried to claim him would call him pathetic if they knew the state their most prized weapon was currently in, but to you? This was beyond any kind of physical prowess on the battlefield. Here, with Mahoraga kneeled and keening at your touch, you couldn’t possibly ask for a better reward.
The fight had been hell, but with the way Mahoraga watches your hand fall away from his face reluctantly, you feel the pain and strife was absolutely worth it.
Even without eyes, you can tell he’s watching you, trained on your movement, and he makes a sound when your hand finds his face again, this time playing with the sprouting wings at his sockets, distracting him gracefully as your foot moves to press between his legs.
He jolts at first, and all 10+ feet of shikigami twitch. His hands are around your waist, immediately clutching to support himself, but when you tut at him, he releases his hold on you reluctantly with a little whine. You’d been teasing him for a while now, little gentle touches here and there, and you’d even given him a little kiss, teeth against teeth, pulling away before he could really get a taste and watching with utter delight as you watch the Shikigami slowly unfold from arousal right in front of you.
The Zen’in’s couldn’t have possibly thought of using Mahoraga for anything other than useless dick-measuring contests against other sorcerers. You would be the first to actually experiment, and so far, your little creative idea has sprouted nothing but good results. As if eager to prove himself of his obedience, the Shikigami had tentatively rolled his hips forward, tensing up when you push the blunt of your foot down on the poor thing’s crotch, the contact making him tight like a ball of fresh yarn. As skilled and threatening of a Shikigami as he was, it still took time for the adaptation to kick in. It didn’t come from no-where, or else the Divine General would be a walking cheat book. Sukuna would’ve blown up the world in the few hours he had access to him with power like that. But you weren’t disappointed, no, quite the opposite. This would only mean you’d get to take all the time in the world training your sweet little pup.
You had already begun to unravel him, and with another purposely stroke of your foot, his hesitant rolls of his hips become more purposeful, more eager, and soon enough he’s breathing shakily, a damp spot wetting the fabric of your sock as he shamelessly humps you like an animal in heat. Those massive clawed hands are bundling up your bedsheets at the sides of your thighs, staying true to your action of commanding him not to touch you unprompted. You didn’t even need to say it, but Mahoraga already knew what you wanted. A little more, and you were sure he’d be perfectly in tune to give you just what you need.
You’ve been marvelling since you’ve had him under your control, from the moment you summoned him. It was almost a painful distraction, to not pop an embarrassing boner mid-battle from the sheer beauty of him finally real and in front of you. The tail-like appendage that sprouted from the back of his head curls around your ankle almost affectionately, and you wonder if he’s even conscious of how attached he’s starting to become to you, or if it’s that bond between you and him that has him acting like this without him entirely knowing.
How cute.
Using your hand to motion him to back away, you stand up from your bed, watching with amusement as Mahoraga sulks while he pulls away from you, clenching his legs together almost like he’s embarrassed. A stark contrast to how he’d been so eagerly chasing his arousal against your leg just seconds ago. You think maybe he’s too shy to continue, accidentally making a blushing virgin out of a dangerous Shikigami, but then you watch as he kneels back on the floor to reposition himself, one hand disappearing between his legs, and he looks up at you with an expression you swear is something pathetic as he starts to palm himself. The sound of the Shikigami’s shaky pants that are soon accompanied with a wet squelching of his fingers sinking into himself all go straight to your dick.
He’s preparing himself. For you.
“Now where’d you learn to do that?” You muse, taking the cue to start undressing, slipping off layers of robes until you’re bare, and Mahoraga whines at the sight of you.
Hypocritical really, when the pornographic view is clearly the Shikigami himself, who’s thighs are starting to shake from the pace his hand is going at between his thighs. He stops then, suddenly, sensing your desire, and slowly, he crawls towards you, on all fours, slick dripping down his thigh and leaving a wet trail in his wake.
Taking his hands into yours, you guide the massive creature to where your makeshift bed is, pushing him down to the spread of blankets and pillows you’ve made. You’re like a bird herding its mate to his nest, eager to press Mahoraga into it and breed him full with your seed. He sprawls awkwardly for a moment, arms out like a bit like a starfish and wings fluttering at the side of his head in a flustered movement, but then he parts his legs, tail-like appendage flicking towards you, almost like he’s beckoning you forward.
And it’s more than enough of the confirmation you need.
You’ve been restraining your patience for so long, trying to be a good role model for a Shikigami still learning how to take cock, but no more of that. As soon as you’re on top of him, you’re pressing another kiss to his mouth.
You kiss him like waves crashing against sea-rocks, abrasive and hungry and parting away only to come back for more, again and again. His fangs clash against yours in a messy fit, but as soon as he finds a rhythm against you, he’s learning, adapting, changing himself to suit you. Speaking of change, you’ve noticed that Mahoraga has quite a few assets for you to take advantage of. The Shikigami is huge, much like the rest of himself, thick cock tapping against his abdomen in full arousal the more you kiss and explore him with your hands. The girth would please you if it weren’t for the fact that you weren’t the type to be putting it to any use. Which Mahoraga didn’t seem to mind at all, as he eagerly guided your hands past his bobbing cock, and amidst your curiosity, you heard the resounding click of the wheel above his head turning in one motion. Gently, he presses your fingers against a warm and pulsing slit.
Adaptation was indeed his finest skill, and the Shikigami had chosen to hone it to craft an aching cunt for you to fill and breed.
He jolts when your fingers sink in, just two for now, dipping in to test the waters, and he makes a hoarse cry as you slowly stroke the entrance, pressing deep to play at sinking in, only to pull back. It doesn’t take long before his hot breath is fanning over your throat, clinging to you like he’ll die if he lets go and desperately rocking his hips down three of your fingers, soon to be four.
Your wrist movement is practiced, a repetitive stroke of how you’d imagined it in your mind ever since you had been bestowed the 10 shadows technique. Your ancestors would smite you down for defiling their most prized Shikigami, but you couldn’t give a lesser damn, not with the great Mahoraga whining for your cock, at your disposal on your bed.
You move him closer to you just slightly, letting his hips sit against your thighs so you can comfortably line up the tip of your cock to kiss his wet pussy lips, and he says a garbled mix of your name and “please” before you’re snapping your hips forward to thrust in.
Four fingers were nothing compared to your cock, but Mahoraga wasn’t exactly just any virgin. For a moment, his walls flutter and clench desperately, taking the intrusion shakily, and the shikigami’s back draws up into an arch, muscles twitching with tension, but then he’s slick and easy to slide into after a couple thrusts, and the wheel clicks again as you bottom out, fully sheathed in the tight embrace of Mahoraga’s cunt. He tightens around you. Arms and legs wrapping around you and even pressing his head to nuzzle against the top of your head before he tries to move, but you beat him to it. Your first full thrust is experimental, but when the Shikigami doesn’t falter from the rut of your hips, you pick up the pace, going from an eager fuck to a pounding rhythm.
His whiny pants turn to full blown moans, claws sinking into the meat of your back, threatening to tear. A particularly mean thrust that gets the tip of his cock rubbing between your abdomen and his clit pressed up against you has him keening, a pleased sob tearing its way out of his throat as his cunt tightens threateningly around you, close to an orgasm.
“Not yet.” You snarl, hands digging into the flesh of his hips, and you’re maneuvering him down to greet each thrust.
For such a big Shikigami, he seems so small against you like this, and you are handling him surprisingly well. He’s achingly vulnerable, grinding down to meet each time you fuck into him, and his mewls are becoming shaky, breathily higher in pitch, and as hard as he seems to be holding on for you, the poor thing is drastically close to orgasm.
Click.
Changing position, you push him down into the soft layering of blankets and pillows across the floor, and he follows you easily, a fluid motion. He calls your name between whines, wet folds clenching rapidly around you, and you switch the pace, brutal and animalistic like it’s your mission to have him bred, and it doesn't take long before he’s cumming instantly, wet slick gushing from his cunt and thick white ropes spurt from the tip of his cock simultaneously, coming untouched with a wail. The wings at his head are flared out and taught with pleasure, trembling through his orgasm and softly panting.
The wheel has turned several times but you’d not been counting at this point, burying your face into the crook of his neck just as your own cock bursts deep inside him, heavy thick seed spilling into his womb. Mahoraga shudders, clamping around both you and your cock, not wasting a drop of what you have to offer. Your back is scratched raw, dried blood crusting at the corners of some of the deeper wounds, and he almost seems apologetic with the way he traces the edges of them with a clawed finger.
It’s a gorgeous sight, looking down at the strongest thing your entire clan has slaved away to dominate, only for you to succeed and claim him like this. The Shikigami’s chest rises and falls heavily, taking in as much air as he can get, thighs fallen to the side and covered in slick and sweat. From his shoulders-up he’s a rosy flushed colour, wings pink at the tips and joints, and shyly folded, as if trying to cover his face.
Beautiful.
When you try to pull out however, instead of complying, his legs tighten suddenly around you, hands coming to paw at you almost pleadingly. His wings have unfolded slightly, and though eyeless, it’s like he’s peering at you.
“Again?” He pleads.
A/N: I have alwayssss considered Mahoraga as an option but no one's written it so I figured I'd be the first to step up. Never limit your freakiness my friends.
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● cybersex, dirty talk, jerk off, fluff, comfort. Norway team reader comfort Jude after losing against Argentina from afar.
●word count: 3.984 words.
The stadium buzzed with electricity—fans screaming, cameras flashing. The World Cup had arrived, and the entire football world was fixated on every move.
Practice sessions were intense: drills, tactics meetings, press conferences where reporters shouted questions too loudly. The team’s chemistry was being tested under pressure. And then… there was that match coming up—the one you had thought about, where you would face Jude. You in Norway fabric and Jude in England have made it this far.
The scoreboard glared: Nor 1 - Eng 2. Your frustration boiled over when your teammate ignored or may have missed your signal—dribbling past you and taking a selfish shot instead. The ball ricocheted off the crossbar… then straight into the opponent’s feet.
Their counterattack was fast, and you barely had time to react before Jude was sprinting downfield with possession again. You gritted your teeth, shooting a furious glare at the man—a clear message: We don’t play like that.
The final whistle blew—England had narrowly won, 2-1. You were furious… not just at the loss, but at how it happened. Your teammates’ selfishness cost them. Then you saw Jude—the star of England’s victory—running straight to his team with a wide grin, jumping into hugs and celebrations. You stood on the pitch alone for a moment… still sweaty and pissed off. But you felt proud because yeah…your boyfriend was the star of the night.
The reporter shoved a microphone in your face, her question cutting straight to the heart of your frustration about the missignal shoot. The camera lights burned as you exhaled sharply—still damp with sweat.
“Uhm. Communication is the key and I think we need to work more on that. It's about teamwork and—” you answered by trail off. The reporters erupted into murmurs and camera flashes as Jude suddenly broke away from his teammates—striding straight toward you through the chaos of the mixed zone. Your eyes locked onto him, momentarily forgetting your interview. The crowd around them buzzed, this was unexpected.
The reporter squeaked “Oh here comes Jude!” —before scrambling to get a better angle.
In front of everyone—reporters, cameras, fans—the crowd went silent for a split second. Then erupted. Jude had just kissed you on the cheek. Publicly. Without hesitation. The reporters lost their minds: microphones shot up higher, cameras flashed like lightning as the kiss was captured from every angle. You stood frozen… lips parted slightly… face burning red under the spotlight now completely on you.
You blinked, snapping out of your daze as Jude disappeared back into the crowd. The reporters were still shoving mics in your face—some grinning wildly, others wide-eyed. Clearing your throat, you straightened up and refocused on the interview question like nothing had just happened… though your ears were still quite pink.
“Right,” you said “Where was I?” —playing it cool despite the chaos around you.
The internet exploded overnight—not with anger, but with adoration. Your humble post-match interview—taking no shots at your teammates, just emphasizing teamwork—went viral. Clips of you saying, “We’ll learn from this,” and not pointing fingers spread everywhere. Fans praised you for maturity… especially after Jude’s public kiss softened the narrative completely.
Your offseason was peaceful—back in Norway, where your teammate aka close friend owned a cozy cottage for vacation and a fancy estate to stay. Often, you’d livestream with your teammate Haaland: the two of you grilling fish on the porch or playing FIFA inside. The streams were low-key—no big production. Just you in sweats, chatting naturally with viewers about football… or sometimes showing glimpses of your quiet life outside fame. Just chilling with bro.
On stream, you took a bite of your food—some traditional Norwegian dish Haaland had insisted you try—before grinning at the camera. He knew your dad was Norwegian, you probably tried it before but still.
“I’m hyped for Jude’s match against Argentina” you said casually “They’ve got Messi… but I think Jude can handle it.” Then, with that easygoing smile: “If you’re watching this somewhere out there… good luck, yeah?” —like you were talking directly to him through the screen.
After the loss, you and Haaland didn’t wallow—you two just rolled with it. No dramatic sulking. The next day, you two were already in an ice bath at the back ofHaaland’s house, soaking tired muscles. Later that evening, they hit up a cozy restaurant—ordering hearty dishes like salmon and lamb stew. Laughing over beers like football wasn’t even on their minds for once. The defeat hadn't shaken them… just made them hungry for good food and days off.
After the sauna, Haaland flopped onto his bed—still wrapped in a towel robe and FaceTimed his lady, chatting softly about their day. Meanwhile, you grabbed your phone and texted Jude. The conversation was easygoing at first—just checking in. But as they talked more, you picked up on the tension in Jude’s replies… the nervous energy about tomorrow’s big match against Argentina. You could tell something was weighing on him.
The match was brutal—physically intense. Jude got shoved, tripped, and even knocked to the ground multiple times by the opponents… Each reckless foul made Jude angrier. His jaw clenched every time he got up, pain shooting through his muscles. The final whistle blew—England lost 1-2. Jude stood on the pitch, shoulders slumped, face etched with frustration and hurt. The defeat stung… especially after such a tough match. He didn’t yell or throw anything—just exhaled sharply through his nose, kicking the grass lightly in silent anger before trudging off toward the locker room. France loomed next… another massive challenge just a few days away.
So when he got back, Jude flopped onto his hotel bed, immediately grabbed his phone. He opened the chat with you—fingers flying as he typed out a frustrated message. The disappointment bled through every word.
Jude stripped off his clothes, tossing them aside—still irritated from the match. Naked, he padded into the bathroom and turned on the shower… but paused to text you again. The message was simple:
| wanna facetime?
A quiet request—not demanding, just wanting to see you. Maybe talk through it more than typing could handle. Your reply came after a minute—probably because you’d had to walk back into the cottage from where your dad was fishing by the lake. Your dad bought a cottage for vacation years ago and he visited you here after the defeat. Father-son bonding time. The text read:
“Yeah, let me get inside… Wifi’s pretty bad out here.” A few seconds later, Jude’s phone screen lit up with an incoming FaceTime call. You appeared on camera—hair slightly windswept, wearing a loose sweater and sweatpants, glasses on. The sight of Jude in the bathroom, only visible from hips up, made you freeze.
Then you blurted out: “Jesus!—Are you giving me a show?”—half-laughing, half-startled. Your cheeks tinted pink instantly. The shower ran loudly behind Jude in the background.
The shower shut off abruptly, and Jude lathered soap over his arms—still visible on camera from the waist up. He didn’t seem bothered by your reaction… just focused on washing up. He finally responded, voice calm but a bit grumpy from the match earlier:
“What? You expected me to be dressed?” Bubbles slid down his shoulders as he scrubbed—completely unfazed by being half-naked in front of you. Why the surprise? You saw every inch of him already anyway.
You smirked, leaning back against the headboard with mock seriousness—playing up the gentleman act.
“I’m a decent gentleman” you corrected teasingly “I don’t just watch people shower on FaceTime, Jude.” The joke was light, but your eyes flicked over Jude’s soapy shoulders for half a second before you looked away—trying and failing to be polite about it. Your cheeks heat up at the sight.
Jude exhaled through his nose—still sulking over the loss—but your attempt to lighten the mood wasn’t completely ignored. He kept washing up, lathering shampoo to his lower body. His response was dry but not mean.
“Yeah, yeah… ‘decent gentleman’.” —said with a tiny eye-roll audible in his voice. The shower spray started again as he rinsed off… still on camera but less tense than before.
You softened your voice, tilting your head like you were trying to solve a puzzle. How could you help? Jude’s bad mood wasn’t something you could just kiss away… but maybe distract?
“C’mon don’t sulk…what can I do, hmm?” you sighed “Order you food?… talk shit about Argentina with you? Roast the ref?” A peace offering—something simple that might ease the tension still hanging over Jude.
The sulk in Jude’s expression didn’t fade—talking trash about the match wasn’t helping. Instead, a different kind of tension coiled in his body… one that had nothing to do with football. His eyes flicked over you on screen—the way the glasses fell on the bridge of your nose, how close they could be if not separated by miles. The unspoken thought hung heavy: maybe what he needed wasn't words. A beat passed… then Jude bit his lip subtly.
The camera angle adjusted—now showing more of Jude’s bare torso, the water still glistening on his skin. His voice was quiet, almost tender as he murmured.
“I missed you…” Then his warm palm slid down his own stomach—slow at first, exploring himself while you watched through the screen. No words now… just intent in every movement. You swallowed hard, fingers tightening slightly around your phone. Then he huffed “Take your shirt off, Y/N”
You didn’t hesitate—you grabbed the hem of your sweater and yanked it off over your head in one smooth motion, tossing it aside. The glasses fall on the bed with a soft thud along the movement. Your chest was bare now, still faintly glistening from earlier work. The camera caught every movement—the definition of your shoulders, the way you leaned back slightly as if giving Jude a full view.
“Glasses back on” Jude mutters, eyes drinking in the sight of you. The water from the spray fog up the bathroom’s glass, creating a steamy atmosphere.
You reached for your glasses—thin and slid them back on, pushing them up your nose with a quiet exhale. The effect was immediate—they framed your face perfectly, adding that familiar studious look Jude liked. His green eyes peered through the lenses… darker now with focus. Jude’s groan hadn’t gone unnoticed, you knew exactly what it did to him.
Jude’s eyes stayed locked on you—appreciating the way your glasses sat perfectly, how the dim light of your room softened everything. His hand moved lazily, stroking himself as he watched. He almost felt guilty because yeah, you look like the sweetest mandarin in the garden right now while he beats it to your nerdy face.
Then he spoke, voice low but firm: “Talk… say something.” Not a demand to flirt or tease yet… just anything. The sound of your voice right now would fill the quiet tension between them.
Your voice—deep and smooth with that subtle accent—wrapped around Jude like a physical touch. You spoke honestly, your accent curling slightly around certain words.
“I saw how they manhandled you out there… pissed me off at first. Dirty play.” A pause. “But then… seeing you all fired up after? Sweaty, furious?” you exhaled softly. “It’s kinda hot.” The confession was raw, unfiltered—you have been waiting to tell him that.
Jude’s breathing hitched—his strokes grew quicker, the water cascading over him as his frustration mounted. Your sweet words weren’t what he wanted right now… he craved something filthier. The silence stretched again, broken only by Jude’s quiet groans and the sound of running water. His expression darkened slightly—impatience creeping in.
Jude’s patience stuttered. With a low, impatient groan, he finally spoke—voice rougher than before.
“Y/N…” A pause—then clearer: “Talk dirty to me” He wanted you to say things. To describe what you were seeing… or tell him exactly what you’d do if they were together right now.
You finally caught the unspoken shift in Jude’s demeanor—the impatience, the faster strokes. Your brain clicked into place. Shyness lingers pink faint on your cheeks, but you go for it anyway, saying things you see on those heated American movies you saw. Just hope it works, hope it doesn’t sound weird coming from you.
“You look so good like that… all worked up. Wish I could touch you right now.” The words were deliberate, edged with heat.
A beat. Then you added “You ever think about my mouth on you? While I look up into those pretty eyes of yours?"
Jude’s breath hitched as your words sank in—each filthy sentence sending a jolt straight to his core. His hips gave an involuntary twitch, the subtle thrust into his palm betraying how much it affected him. The shower steam curled around him, and Jude bit down on his lip to stifle another sound… but failed when you mentioned your mouth. A shiver ran through him because damn, he missed that. He missed the way you worship him like the last time you did.
Jude’s breath came faster now—his strokes deliberate, close. The tension coiled tight in his stomach as he focused on your voice through the phone.
“Fuck…” he muttered before speaking up again, voice thick with need: “Tell me more. What you’d do to me right now.” The water was still warm around him, but it was nothing compared to the heat building under his skin.
The water droplets trailed down Jude’s skin, mixing with the heat already radiating from him. His cock twitched in his hand—pre leaking freely now as he pictured your words.
Your voice painted a vivid image: those hungry kisses on his neck, the sharp sting of bites… followed by deep, claiming thrusts. It was too much. A whimper escaped Jude this time—unplanned—as his hips jerked into his fist involuntarily.
The shower spray splashed droplets onto Jude’s phone—screen fogging slightly—but he didn’t care. His free hand braced against the tiled wall, knuckles whitening as he stroked himself faster. His eyes stayed glued to you through the screen: shirtless, glasses perched low on your nose… devastating. That combination—the spark in your gaze mixed with raw hunger—was doing things to Jude. A breathy moan slipped out as pleasure coiled tighter inside him. He didn’t bother muffling himself, just let you hear him.
“Y’know what? If you win France this sunday…I’ll let you ride my face” Your whisper was a promise—a reward dangled just out of reach. If Jude won against France on Saturday… you’d let him ride your face.
The mental image flashed: Jude straddling you, those glasses stayed on–Jude insisted, lips parted—as you worshipped him with your mouth. A shiver ran through Jude at the thought… motivation hitting hard right as pleasure crested dangerously close to the edge.
The orgasm hit Jude like a wave—sudden and overwhelming. His back arched slightly against the shower wall as pleasure crashed over him, his hand slowing to gentle pulses through the aftershocks.
Breathless, spent… he leaned forward for a second, forehead resting on his arm braced against the wall while he came down from the high. The water washed away everything else—the tension, frustration from earlier… all of it.
You had shifted onto your stomach, cheek squished against the pillow—your glasses slightly askew. You sounded relaxed, voice muffled but warm.
“Feeling better?” you asked softly, peeking one eye at the camera to check on Jude. The tension from earlier—the match loss and frustration—had dissolved completely for him too. Now it was just… quiet comfort between them. Jude exhaled slowly, his breathing still uneven as the guilt crept in. You were so sweet—gentle, considerate… and Jude had basically dragged you into talking dirty just for his own release. He felt a pang of something like shame—not because he enjoyed it—he definitely did, but because he knew you might not be used to that kind of talk… even if you’d done it willingly.
The contrast was there: here was you lying there innocently, while Jude felt a little selfish. He bit the inside of his cheek before replying honestly.
“Yeah… I feel better.” A pause. “Thanks.”
Your voice was soft, caring—genuinely happy that Jude felt better. You gave a simple reminder:
“Go dry off before it gets cold.” you said casually, shifting on his pillow. But Jude wasn’t relaxed yet. The guilt about using you for something so… intimate weighed on him. He wanted to apologize properly—not just brush it off.
Jude hesitated. That apology sat heavy in his chest… because how do you say I used you for sex talk and I feel bad without making it weird? The shower turned off behind him as he grabbed a towel, drying himself slowly while wrestling with the words.
Jude settled onto the bed, towel slung loosely around his hips as he lay like starfish. The call was still connected—your face visible on screen—and Jude took a steadying breath.
“I… wanted to say sorry” he started, voice quieter than usual. “For making you talk like that earlier. I know it’s not really your thing.”
You smiled faintly—your way of reassuring Jude that you wanted to help, even if talking dirty wasn’t your usual thing. You understood football losses… and how they usually made Jude pull away.
“You normally shut down after a bad game,” you explained softly “So yeah… I’m glad you called me. The least I could do was be here for you.” No bitterness—just warmth. You had always been the steady one in their relationship.
Your playful smirk returned—teasing but affectionate—as you adjusted your glasses with one finger. The mood was lighter now, the tension from earlier completely gone.
“And seeing you get off to my voice? Kinda hot.” you admitted with a soft chuckle, not so shy about it anymore. The compliment was lighthearted… a way to reassure Jude that you didn’t mind helping like that at all. If anything, you found it flattering.
Jude’s ears turned pink—your blunt compliment flustered him. He wasn’t used to being called hot so casually, especially after something intimate like that.
“Y/N.” he scolded half-heartedly, voice cracking slightly from embarrassment. His free hand came up to rub his face… hiding the stupid grin threatening to break through. The shower had cooled him off physically… but you were making his temperature spike again.
You tilted your head slightly, genuinely curious. Jude’s mom usually hovered around—always checking in on him, especially after big matches. So how had he just… showered and pleasured himself without her barging in? It didn’t add up to your knowledge of Jude’s usual life with his mother.
The question slipped out innocently: “Wait… isn’t your mom with you all the time?”
Jude shifted on the bed, his expression softening at your question. Since dating you secretly, Jude had started asserting more independence—cooking his own meals sometimes even if they were burnt, doing laundry… little things. He tried. At least.
His mom still checked on him constantly—but lately, she’d noticed he didn’t need her as much for daily stuff. It was subtle growth… influenced by you without even realizing it.
“She is around,” he admitted “But I try to handle my own stuff now.”
Your laugh was light but skeptical—you couldn’t picture Jude cooking without setting the kitchen on fire or doing his own laundry. The mental image of him standing over a stove, focused and responsible… it didn’t compute.
“Oh really?” you chuckled, teasing now. “You? Cooking your own meals?” The disbelief in your voice wasn't mean—just playful surprise. You genuinely wanted proof that this independence was real.
Jude rolled his eyes at your disbelief—how dare you doubt him? He had been trying, okay?! The scoff was loud and dramatic through the phone.
“Yeah, really.” he huffed “I made spaghetti last week. It wasn’t burnt.” A tiny brag… but one he stood by. Sure, it wasn’t gourmet—but progress was progress. His friend helped him a little with the spices, he’s still learning what are the purposes of each one. A part of it was because he saw you cooking on your instagram stories all the time, you visit the local farm market daily for fresh ingredients and most of the dishes you make look undeniably mouth-watering.
Your voice softened into pure warmth—proud, teasing, but genuinely happy for Jude. Even if he couldn’t fully believe the spaghetti miracle… you supported him anyway.
“Aww babe! So proud of you,” you cooed with a chuckle, “That’s my independent man.”
The way you hyped him up—sounds ridiculous and shameless, pure encouragement—was why Jude loved you. No judgment… just endless support. Even if you look silly doing it.
The camera stayed propped on the table as Jude dug into his dinner—shirtless, just a towel wrapping around his hips. A massive steak and a side salad sat in front of him, still steaming.
“They brought my food,” he said around a bite of meat, “Got this huge-ass steak. Needed it after today.” He didn’t bother dressing up for meals… comfort was key post-match.
Your eyes roll was dramatic—half-amused, half-possessive. The idea of Jude strutting through the hotel hallway just in a towel, shirtless, to get his food delivered… yeah, no.
“You went to grab food like that?” you deadpanned “With just a towel?”
Jude took another bite of steak, chewing defensively before swallowing.
“It’s fine” he said “There was no one in the hallway. Just grabbed it from the door.” Just matter-of-fact. He hadn’t thought about modesty—just convenience. The hotel corridors were empty anyway.
You chatted casually, filling the quiet between them with stories—chopping firewood earlier that day, helping your dad fish by the lake after he came all the way from England to be with you, then visiting a local barn to pick up fresh, raw honey and milk. Your voice was steady and warm… not performative or trying too hard. Just there. Like you were right next to Jude on the bed instead of miles away in Norway. The domestic details painted a peaceful picture—Just him and you relaxing on a phone call.
The camera sat propped on a nearby log, capturing the full scene—you shirtless in the crisp Norwegian air, muscles flexing with each swing of the axe. Wood chips flew as you split logs methodically. Gotta come back to working on these logs after pleasing your sad boyfriend right? You got priority right. Sweat glistened on your back under the afternoon sun. You worked steadily, focused effort and breathing… completely absorbed in physical labor. Jude watches you through the screen from his hotel bed.
Jude’s gaze stayed locked on the screen—your shirtless form, the quiet oof sounds you made with each axe swing, how your biceps tensed. It was a private show… but your dad was right there. The older man worked nearby—tying bundles of firewood into sacks without paying attention to them. He's a man of domestic life, he just enjoys doing it with his son too much. Jude couldn’t say anything filthy… not with your father within earshot. So he just watched silently… appreciating the view from afar.
The steady rhythm of you chopping wood—thunk, thunk—acted like a lullaby. Jude’s exhaustion finally caught up to him, his eyes grew heavy, the stress from the match fading with each breath. By unspoken agreement, you didn’t pause or say anything… just kept working peacefully in the background. Your presence alone had soothed Jude enough to drift off.
Jude’s body was heavy with contentment—full stomach from dinner, body throughoutly pleased, and utterly satisfied just watching you chop wood. Every detail about you right now was perfect: the way your muscles moved, the focus on your face… even how casually hot you looked doing manual labor.
A good sleep after a bad loss—your existence has fixed everything. This is enough, Jude thinks. Yeah, maybe this is just what he needs.
You’d been asking him for twenty minutes, shamelessly relentless, until Toji finally let out a heavy sigh and shifted over you. Even then, he refused to give you his full weight. He braced his knees on the mattress on either side of your head, his thick, scarred thighs framing your vision as he hovered just inches above your mouth.
"You're annoying, you know that?" he grumbled, his voice a low, gravelly vibration in the dark room.
You didn't answer, just tilted your chin up and caught him. The moment your tongue swiped firmly against his slick heat, the tension in Toji's heavy frame snapped. He didn't stay hovering for long. As you worked your tongue in broad, demanding strokes, his hips started to drop. He began grinding down against your mouth, a slow, desperate roll of his hips that forced you deeper against his center.
His breathing roughened, turning into sharp, jagged hitches. He gripped the headboard, his knuckles turning white as he chased the friction. You added two fingers, sliding them inside and hooking upward. Toji's breath hitched violently. He was practically riding your face now, his heavy muscles twitching with every frantic thrust of his hips as he ground down onto your tongue.
Then, without warning, his entire body stiffened up.
Toji let out a sharp, breathless gasp. His back arched, and a sudden, heavy rush of hot fluid sprayed directly across your mouth and cheeks. It wasn't just a leak; he was actively squirting, his internal muscles pulsing frantically around your fingers as the sheer volume of it coated your lower face.
The room went dead silent, save for the sound of his ragged breathing.
Toji froze completely. The strength gave out in his arms, and he dropped down, his knees taking his weight as he stared blindly at the wall. He looked down at you, his usually sharp green eyes blown wide in absolute, stunned disbelief. He was completely speechless, a dark flush rapidly climbing up his thick neck and spreading across his scarred chest. He just stared at the wet mess on your face, his mouth slightly parted, trying to process what his body had just done.
You pulled your fingers out slowly and swiped the back of your hand across your chin, catching the slick fluid. You looked up at his shocked, flushed face and smirked.
"Damn, Toji," you said, your voice low and cocky. "Didn't know I could work you out like that."
His jaw snapped shut. For a long, heavy second, he just stared at the wet mess covering your lower face. The deep red flush burned all the way to the tips of his ears.
"Shut up," he finally grated out, his voice a full octave lower than usual, completely raw. He dragged a heavy hand down his face, deliberately breaking eye contact. "Don't act like you did something special. I just... it's been a long week."
You didn't wipe the smirk off your face, letting your eyes drop meaningfully to where his thighs were still trembling against the mattress.
"Stop looking at me like that," he snapped, though the harshness of his tone was completely ruined by the way his breath caught at the end of the sentence. He shifted his weight, suddenly hyper-aware of his own body and the undeniable evidence he'd left all over you. He reached down, his large, calloused thumb aggressively wiping at your chin and cheek, trying to scrub away the proof. "Wipe your damn face. You look stupid grinning like that."
You chuckled, catching his wrist and leaning up to kiss the inside of his palm. He flinched, but he didn't pull his hand away.
"I'm serious," he warned, his chest still heaving as he finally forced himself to look back down at you. His green eyes were dark, defensive, but blown wide with lingering heat. "You utter a word of this to anyone, and I'm putting you through a wall. You just caught me off guard. Don't let it go to your head."
He let out a rough, shaky breath, trying to summon his usual intimidating aura, but he was still straddling you, completely laid bare and visibly shaken.
"Now are you gonna get up," he muttered, his voice dropping into a needy, impatient growl as his hips twitched involuntarily against you, "or are you just gonna lay there looking smug all night? Because I still have an ache you need to take care of."
You didn't argue. You just reached up, gripping the back of his thick neck, and pulled him down. He didn't resist, collapsing his heavy frame over yours. He caught your lips in a quick, rough kiss, tasting the salt and slick of himself on your mouth without a single complaint.
He broke the kiss just as fast, turning his head to bury his flushed face deep into the crook of your neck. He let out a long, heavy exhale, his massive chest expanding against yours as he snuggled closer, his solid weight pinning you to the mattress. He was still trembling slightly, his arms wrapping around your shoulders in a tight, grounding hold.
"Just shut up and touch me," he mumbled into your skin, the last of his fight completely drained out of him.
satoru .g
The sheets were a tangled wreck underneath you both. You were twisted up in a breathless 69, Satoru’s ridiculously long legs straddling your shoulders while his face hovered right over your hips. He had your cock in his hand, his lips parted to finally take you in, but the second your tongue swiped firmly against his slick heat, his jaw just slacked.
He was far too distracted by what you were doing to his pussy to actually focus on sucking your dick. He tried, ducking his head down, but as you dragged your tongue right over his most sensitive spot, he let out a sharp gasp and lost his grip entirely. He ended up just panting hot air against your thighs, his long fingers abandoning their task to twist deeply into your hair instead.
"Hold on, let me—ah!" Satoru gasped, a breathless, exhilarated laugh bubbling out of him as he failed to focus for the third time. "You’re doing that on purpose. You’re not even letting me start."
You didn't let up. You gripped his thighs, holding him steady as you worked your tongue in broad, demanding strokes. Satoru was incredibly vocal, his hips rolling eagerly and shamelessly against your mouth as he completely surrendered to the sensation. The room was filled with the wet, heavy sounds of the friction and his ragged breathing.
He arched his lower back, pushing himself deeper against your face. You took the invitation, sliding two fingers deep inside him and hooking upward to hit that internal sweet spot, keeping a relentless, punishing pace with your tongue.
Satoru’s breath hitched violently. He completely abandoned the idea of the 69, his head dropping back against the mattress as he practically rode your face. His long frame arched completely off the bed, his thighs trembling uncontrollably against your cheeks as the overstimulation built up higher and faster than he was ready for.
"Yeah, right there," he stuttered out, his voice pitching higher. "Don't stop, don't—fuck!"
A violent, full-body shudder ripped through his long frame as the last of his control completely broke.
Satoru let out a loud, sharp cry, his fingers pulling taut against your scalp. His hips buckled hard, and a sudden, heavy rush of hot fluid sprayed directly across your mouth, chin, and cheeks. He was shaking, his internal muscles clenching in frantic, wet waves around your fingers, completely coating your lower face.
He collapsed down onto your legs, his chest heaving as he gasped for air. For a split second, there was total silence in the room, except for the sound of the bed creaking.
Then, Satoru shot up. He pushed himself onto his hands, craning his neck to look down at your face. His bright blue eyes were blown incredibly wide, but there wasn't a single hint of embarrassment in them. Instead, a massive, thrilled grin broke out across his flushed face.
"Holy shit!" he laughed out loud, completely breathless and amazed. "Did I just do that?!"
You pulled your fingers out slowly, swiping the back of your hand across your slick chin. You looked up at his wide, excited eyes and smirked, your tone perfectly cocky and satisfied.
"Damn, Satoru," you teased, your voice low. "Didn't know I could make you flood like that. Look at the mess you made."
"Are you kidding?! That was incredible!" he beamed, completely unashamed of the sheer volume of slick covering your face.
He shifted his long frame immediately, abandoning the 69 entirely to slide his legs down and fully straddle your waist. He leaned down over you, practically vibrating with lingering adrenaline, and didn't even hesitate before pressing a wet, messy kiss right to your lips. He tasted himself on you without a second thought, his tongue swiping lazily at the corner of your mouth.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his flush deepening but his grin turning distinctly teasing. He reached out, tapping a finger right on your slick chin.
"You look really good wearing me, by the way," he hummed, his tone playfully arrogant. He let out a happy, exhausted sigh and dropped his weight, snuggling his face right into the crook of your neck. His heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against your chest, and his arms wrapped tight around your shoulders.
"You're an absolute genius," he murmured happily against your collarbone, his hips still twitching involuntarily against you. "But now I have to clean up my mess. So lay back, because it's my turn to focus... and I'm going to take my sweet time draining you completely dry."
choso. k
You had him pulled right to the edge of the mattress, his back flat against the sheets while you knelt on the floor between his legs. It was an incredibly vulnerable position, and Choso was visibly hesitant. His hands were gripping tightly at the bedsheets, his knuckles turning stark white, and every time you leaned in even an inch, his thighs would reflexively try to snap shut against your sides.
"Wait," he breathed, his voice tight and nervous. A dark, heavy blush was already dusting his pale cheeks, spreading down his neck and over his collarbones. "It's... I'm already too sensitive right now. Maybe we should just—"
You didn't let him finish. You reached out, gently but firmly catching his wrists, prying his fingers away from the bunched-up fabric of the sheets and pinning his hands flat to the mattress by his sides. Then, you slid your arms under his knees, hooking his pale legs securely over your shoulders. It opened him up completely to your view, leaving him entirely exposed.
Choso let out a shaky, embarrassed whine, turning his head sharply to the side so he wouldn't have to look at you. He squeezed his eyes shut, his chest rising and falling in shallow, nervous hitches.
"Just relax for me," you murmured, leaning in close enough that your breath fanned over his slick skin.
The moment your tongue traced a long, slow, deliberate path right over his center, Choso let out a startled, high-pitched gasp. His entire body jolted like he’d been struck by lightning. He was so incredibly pent-up and sensitive that even the lightest, teasing pressure felt like a massive shock to his system. He tried to squirm backward, instinctively trying to pull away from the overwhelming sensation, but your grip on his hips kept him anchored right at the edge of the bed.
"It's too much," he whimpered, tears immediately welling in his dark eyes and spilling over the bridge of his nose. "Please, I can't... I can't take it, it's too much..."
He was pleading, shaking his head against the pillows, but his body was completely betraying him. Even as he cried out for you to stop, his hips were instinctively bucking upward, his breathing turning into wet, ragged gasps as he chased the very friction he claimed was too intense.
You answered his frantic movements by sliding two fingers deep inside his soaking heat, curling them upward to hit a steady, rhythmic pace while your tongue worked him over without a single ounce of mercy.
Choso became a complete wreck. He was sobbing openly now, sweet, musical sounds of pure sensory overload leaving his lips. His head thrashed against the pillows, his dark hair a tangled, sweat-dampened mess. His stomach muscles jumped and twitched with every stroke of your tongue, the overstimulation rapidly pushing him past the point of rational thought.
"Please!" he sobbed out, his voice cracking as his toes curled so tight they cramped. "Ah! I'm—I'm gonna—!"
A violent, full-body shudder ripped through him as he finally shattered.
Choso let out a loud, ruined wail, his back arching off the mattress so hard he practically lifted himself into the air. A sudden, heavy rush of hot fluid sprayed directly across your face.
The heavy, intense rush of it left him completely drained. His body went limp, collapsing back onto the mattress with a heavy thud. His chest rose and fell in sharp, desperate gasps as the last of the tremors worked their way through his thighs.
All Choso could do was lay there and pant.
Then, Choso slowly opened his tear-filled eyes, peering down at you through his damp lashes, his chest still heaving. When he finally focused on your face—when he saw the sheer volume of slick dripping from your chin and painting your cheeks—his breath hitched violently in his throat.
He froze completely. A look of pure, unadulterated shock washed over his pale features, his lips parting in silent horror. The red flush on his face that seemed to consume him entirely.
You pulled your fingers out with a soft, wet pop, slowly swiping the back of your hand across your slick chin. You looked up at his horrified, flustered face, letting a slow, incredibly self-satisfied smirk cross your lips.
"And here you were begging me to wait," you teased, your voice low and perfectly cocky in the quiet room. "Look at the absolute mess you just made of my face. You must have really been dying for this."
A pathetic, utterly mortified squeak left his throat.
"I—I'm so sorry!" he stammered, his voice trembling with sheer panic, shame, and overwhelming embarrassment. He immediately scrambled upward, his shaking hands reaching out to frantically cup your jaw, his thumbs trying to wipe at your slick-covered cheeks. "I didn't mean to—I don't know what happened! I'm so sorry, you're covered in it, I ruined everything, I—"
You chuckled, catching his trembling wrists to stop his frantic, messy apologies. You leaned forward, tilting his chin up, and pressed a quick, wet kiss right to his trembling lips, tasting the salt and slick of him, shutting him up instantly.
Choso melted into the kiss the second your lips met his, a soft, needy whimper vibrating in the back of his throat. When you pulled back, his eyes were wide and beautifully dazed, his blind panic instantly replaced by a heavy, adoration-filled heat that he couldn't hide.
Before he could find his voice to start apologizing all over again, he just gave up. He slumped forward with a heavy sigh, sliding right off the pillows to wrap his arms tightly around your neck. He buried his burning, tear-stained face deep into the crook of your shoulder, absolutely desperate to hide from your cocky gaze.
"You're terrible," he mumbled into your skin, his voice muffled and shaky, though he was clinging to you like a lifeline, his bare thighs still trembling where they bracketed your waist. "Please don't look at me right now... just hold me for a second."
mahito
You had him hoisted up onto the edge of the heavy wooden desk, standing squarely between his legs. Mahito was leaning back on his hands, swinging his bare heels against the back of your thighs and giggling that manic, grating laugh of his. He was treating the whole thing like a game, his mismatched eyes bright with chaotic amusement as he looked down at you.
"Is this supposed to be intimidating?" he teased, a wide, stitched grin stretching across his face. He tilted his head, completely unbothered. "C'mon, you look so serious! Are you really going to just stare, or are you actually going to—ah!"
His mocking laughter was completely cut off the second you stepped in close and dragged your teeth lightly up the sensitive skin of his inner thigh. You didn't give him what he wanted right away. Instead, you took your time, deliberately teasing him. You mapped out the patchwork lines of his skin with slow, agonizingly light laps of your tongue, completely ignoring his slick center while hovering just inches away from it.
Mahito shifted on the hard wood of the desk, his grin faltering. "Hey. Stop messing around. That tickles."
You smirked against his skin and traced a slow circle just outside his heat, blowing a warm breath over him. Mahito’s breath hitched, a sudden, involuntary shiver running down his spine. His hands gripped the edge of the desk tighter.
"I said stop playing," he grumbled, his voice losing its playful edge, dipping into something much more impatient and needy. "Just do it already!"
"Impatient, aren't we?" you hummed.
Then, you finally gave it to him. You gripped his thighs, your fingers digging firmly into his pale skin to hold him in place, and buried your face against him. The second your tongue swiped firmly and relentlessly against his core, the change in him was instantaneous.
The playful arrogance melted entirely off his face, replaced by a look of wide-eyed, frantic overstimulation. He jerked backward, his spine snapping straight, but you didn't let him retreat. You worked your tongue in sharp, demanding strokes, refusing to let up the pressure. He wasn't used to being overwhelmed, usually twisting and reshaping himself out of any corner, but his body was completely betraying him.
"Wait, wait—stop!" he gasped out, his fingers tangling desperately into your hair. He tried to squirm away, letting out a series of high, breathless whines, but his hips were instinctively bucking forward against your mouth. "I can't—it feels too—!"
You answered his frantic movements by sliding two fingers deep inside his soaking heat, hooking upward to hit that deep, internal pulse.
Mahito’s entire body went completely rigid. His breath caught violently in his throat, his jaw dropping open in a silent scream as the sheer intensity of the overstimulation shattered his chaotic facade. His heels dug sharply into your lower back, his pale thighs trembling uncontrollably against your cheeks.
Then, the tension finally snapped.
A violent, full-body shudder ripped through him. Mahito let out a loud, high-pitched cry, his back arching off the desk as a sudden, splash of warm fluid sprayed onto you.
The heavy rush left him entirely drained. He collapsed forward, his chest heaving as he gasped for air, his forehead coming to rest heavily against the top of your head.
Mahito slowly pushed himself up, blinking rapidly as his dazed eyes finally focused on your face. When he saw the sheer volume of slick dripping from your chin and painting your shirt, his breath caught in his throat.
He froze completely. The manic, unhinged curse was rendered completely speechless. A look of pure, unadulterated shock washed over his patchwork features, his mouth falling open. A dark, violent flush erupted across his pale cheeks, burning right through the stitches on his face and spreading all the way down his neck.
You looked up at his horrified, flustered expression, letting a slow, incredibly cocky smirk cross your lips as you wiped his essence off you. You didn't wipe all of it away, letting him stare at exactly what he’d done.
"Well," you teased, your voice low and deeply satisfied in the quiet room. "That’s certainly one way to finally shut you up."
A pathetic, mortified squeak left his throat.
"You talk all that big game," you continued, stepping into the space between his thighs and crowding him against the edge of the desk. "But you completely flood the second I put a little effort in. Didn't know you had it in you to make such a massive mess of me. Look at you. You made a puddle."
"I—what?!" he stammered, his voice trembling with sheer panic and overwhelming embarrassment. He looked entirely stripped of his usual bravado, his shaking hands hovering in the air as if he didn't know what to do with them. "I didn't—I don't even know what just happened! You—you cheated! You did something weird to me, you must have used a cursed technique, I—!"
You chuckled, catching his trembling wrists to stop his frantic, messy excuses. You leaned forward, tilting his chin up, and pressed a quick, wet kiss right to his trembling lips, tasting the salt and slick of him, shutting his rambling up instantly.
Mahito melted into the kiss the second your lips met his, a soft, needy whimper vibrating in the back of his throat. All the fight left his body. When you pulled back, his eyes were wide and beautifully dazed, his panic instantly replaced by a heavy, pliant heat.
Before he could find his voice to start arguing again, he just gave up. He slumped forward with a heavy sigh, sliding right off the edge of the desk to wrap his arms tightly around your neck. He buried his burning, flushed face deep into the crook of your shoulder, his chaotic energy entirely snuffed out.
"You're so mean to me," he mumbled into your skin, his voice muffled and shaky, though he was clinging to you like a lifeline, his bare thighs wrapping securely around your waist to hold himself up against you. "Shut up... don't look at me right now... just carry me to the bed."
suguru. g
You had been begging him for weeks. Every time you backed him against a wall, cornered him in the kitchen, or tried to pull him down onto the bed, Suguru would just offer that perfectly serene, frustratingly composed smile of his. He’d brush a hand through your hair, gently kiss your forehead, and murmur, "Soon. I just want it to be the right time and place. We shouldn't rush these things."
He was incredibly private, highly protective of his own vulnerability, and utterly obsessed with maintaining total control over himself and his environment. He hated the idea of feeling exposed or caught off guard.
But tonight, his elegant little excuses had finally run out.
He was seated deep in the plush, dark velvet armchair in the corner of his dimly lit bedroom, his long, dark hair tied back loosely. You were kneeling on the floor right between his parted thighs. Even now, with his legs spread for you, he was trying so hard to maintain that aura of untouchable grace. He rested one elbow on the armrest, his chin propped on his knuckles as he looked down at you through half-lidded, heavy brown eyes.
"Satisfied?" he hummed, his voice smooth and incredibly patronizing. "You’ve been relentlessly impatient, and now you finally have me exactly where you want me. Just do try to be gentle, won't you? I'd prefer not to make a mess tonight."
His arrogant, perfectly constructed little speech died instantly in his throat the second you bypassed his thighs and buried your face directly against his soaking heat. He tried to quickly muffle the sharp gasp that escaped him, biting down hard on his lower lip, but you weren't going to let him stay composed. Not after making you wait this long.
You gripped his thighs, your thumbs pressing firmly into the muscle as you dragged your tongue in long, deliberate, punishing strokes over his center. Suguru tensed violently, his hips involuntarily jerking upward against your mouth as his lower back arched completely off the cushion.
He tried to recover his composure, forcing a shaky exhale through his nose. He reached a trembling hand down, his palm finding the top of your head in a soft, patronizing pat—a desperate attempt to pace you. "Ah... you certainly don't hold back, do you?" his voice wavered, entirely losing its smooth edge. "That's... slow down a little, sweetheart, I can't—"
But the gentle head pat immediately turned into a white-knuckled, bruising grip in your hair the second you slid two fingers deep inside him, hooking upward to find the deep, internal ache he’d been so desperately hiding.
Suguru’s facade entirely crumbled. His hips buckled, lifting completely off the velvet cushion as he tried to chase the angle of your fingers.
"Wait, please, you're—ah! God, fuck!" he choked out, his voice cracking into a high, ruined pitch.
He was completely overstimulated, his long, muscular legs trembling violently against your ribs. He tried to pull you closer by your hair and push your shoulders away at the exact same time, his body entirely confused by the sheer volume of pleasure. A ruined, desperate whine tore past his lips, his head throwing back against the chair as his toes curled into the carpet.
Then, the final, stubborn thread of his control snapped.
Suguru let out a loud, melodic cry. His entire body locked up tight, and a sudden, rush of hot fluid met your awaiting mouth, completely coating your tongue in the sudden.
The intense rush of it left him completely hollowed out. He slumped forward in the armchair, his chest heaving with ragged, wet gasps. His hands slipped out of your hair, falling limply into his lap as the last of the intense tremors wracked his frame.
For a long, heavy moment, the only sound in the quiet bedroom was his open-mouthed breathing.
"So this is why you've been avoiding me for weeks," you teased, your voice low and deeply satisfied in the quiet room. "You were terrified I'd make you completely lose your mind. I've never seen anyone drench a chair this fast. Look at what you did to my face."
A pathetic, utterly mortified groan escaped his throat.
"Have a little mercy..." Suguru rasped out, his usually eloquent vocabulary completely deserting him. He looked utterly stripped of his pride, his shaking hands coming up to frantically drag down his burning face. "I had no idea I was even capable of that. God, you're wearing half of it. Please, don't gloat, I'm already entirely humiliated."
You chuckled, catching his trembling wrists and gently pulling his hands away from his face, refusing to let him hide. You leaned forward, crowding into his space between his thighs, and pressed a quick, wet kiss right to his trembling lips.
Suguru melted the second your lips met his, a soft, needy whimper vibrating deep in his chest. All the tension drained out of his rigid posture. When you pulled back just an inch, his brown eyes were wide and beautifully dazed, his intense embarrassment entirely replaced by a heavy, pliant heat.
Before he could try to find his composure again, he just completely surrendered. He slid right off the edge of the armchair, his knees hitting the floor right in front of you as he wrapped his long arms tightly around your neck. He buried his burning, flushed face deep into the crook of your shoulder, his perfectly kept facade completely destroyed and abandoned.
His trembling hand came up, instinctively finding the back of your head to offer a soft, shaky pat—his usual comforting gesture, though right now, he was entirely the one who needed it.
"You win," he mumbled into your skin, his voice muffled and shaky, though he was clinging to you like a lifeline, his bare thighs bracketing your waist on the floor. "I severely underestimated you. Now just... hold me, and let me pretend this didn't happen."
naoya. z
The bedroom was stifling, the air heavy with the frantic, wet sounds of his undoing. Naoya was pinned against the headboard, his pale legs hooked over your shoulders and his ankles locked behind your neck in an involuntary, white-knuckled grip. His hair was a sweat-slicked mess, and his dark eyeliner was completely ruined, dragged across his cheekbones in jagged streaks by the tears he couldn’t stop.
"Stop... I said stop!" he choked out, his voice cracking. He tried to shove at your shoulders, but his arms were shaking so violently his hands just slid off.
You didn't listen. You gripped his thighs tighter, your fingers digging into his skin, and buried your face back into his soaking heat. While your tongue swirled in heavy, demanding circles over his center, you slid two fingers deep inside him, stretching him wide and hitting that internal sweet spot with a punishing pace.
The double assault was too much for his nerves. Naoya’s entire body spasmed, a sharp, broken cry tearing from his throat. His hips buckled, his muscles clenching greedily around your fingers even as he tried to pull away from the friction.
"Just one more, Naoya," you murmured against his skin, your voice a low vibration that made him sob.
"It’s not... ah!... how you won't stop! You're... ngh!"
He was completely overstimulated, his nerves frayed, yet he arched further into the touch. His toes curled, and his breath came in hitched, needy whines. You increased the pressure, your tongue flickering faster as your fingers worked him into a frenzy.
"One more," you repeated, your teeth grazing him lightly.
"No! No more, please—Aaaah!"
He went rigid, his back arching off the bed as the next wave hit him. His thighs twitched uncontrollably against your ears as his body finally gave up, then came the gush of slick, coating almost the entirety of your lower face.
He let out a ruined, melodic cry, his hands flying up to cover his face in shame. He was sobbing openly now, his frame vibrating with the force of the climax. You finally pulled back, tasting the salt of him on your lips as you looked at the state of him—the smeared makeup, the trembling limbs, and the soaking mess on the bed.
"You're such a pretty mess, baby," you murmured, reaching up to wipe a stray tear from his cheek. "Look at you. All that big talk, and you’re just a leaky little girl for me, aren't you?"
Naoya visibly cringed at the endearment, his lip curling in a sneer that was half-furious and half-shattered. A deep, frantic blush climbed all the way to the tips of his ears. He squinted at you through his glassy, tear-filled eyes, his face a brilliant, humiliated crimson.
"What are you looking at, idiot?" he snapped, though his voice was entirely too shaky to carry any real weight. He squinted at you through his glassy, tear-filled eyes, his face a brilliant, humiliated crimson. "Don't call me that... it's pathetic. I'm not some dumb woman or a bitch for you to talk down to."
"Funny," you teased, your tone perfectly cocky as you deliberately let a drop of his slick run down your chin. "Because you're the one on your back, drenching the sheets because you couldn't handle a little tongue. For someone who hates women so much, you sure do scream like a girl for me."
Naoya visibly recoiled, his lip curling in a sneer that was half-furious and half-shattered. "I do NOT—!"
"You do," you interrupted, leaning in until your nose brushed his. "You’re pouting like a bratty little princess just because I made you lose your mind. It’s cute, Naoya. Really."
"I am NOT cute!" he hissed, his voice cracking with indignity. He reached out with a trembling hand, grabbing your collar and tugging you upward with a weak, desperate jerk. "Wipe your face. You look disgusting. You're filthy, and it’s your fault I’m like this anyway."
Despite the insult, he didn't let go of your shirt. His legs remained wide, his heels digging into the mattress as he pulled you closer. His eyes darted to your zipper with a desperate, impatient hunger that betrayed every word of his bratty protest.
"Well?" he whispered, his voice dropping into a needy, demanding rasp. "Are you just going to stare at me and say stupid things all night, or are you actually going to finish this? I'm not waiting any longer. Hurry up and give it to me."
"Say please, then," you hummed. "Tell me you want it, pretty girl."
"Shut up!" he barked, though he immediately arched his hips back up against you, practically begging for the contact. "Just... just do it! Please, damn you!"
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