🧡MrsBakugou🖤

You should’ve known something was up when he specifically bought only two first-class tickets to Las Vegas and your flight was at midnight. He’d insisted the two of you sneak out of the Kyoto Jujutsu Tech compound where you’d stayed for the duration of his visit to the Gojo clan, and hadn’t bothered to inform Shoko or Utahime or Yaga.

And so, again, you reiterate firmly and resolutely: none of this is your fault.

Your predicament—standing in a parking lot behind a Denny’s at nine in the night with a small fire going in a trash can nearby—is entirely, absolutely, positively Gojo Satoru’s fault.

“I want a divorce,” you tell him.

“We’ve been married for forty-seven minutes.”

“Forty-seven minutes too long.”

“You’re burning our wedding certificate!” Satoru says. “How are we supposed to file for divorce if there’s no proof we even got married?”

“I’ll figure it out,” you say, poking at the certificate with a stick you found on the ground. The corner of it curls and blackens satisfyingly. “I’m very resourceful.”

“You’re committing a crime is what you’re doing,” he says.

“You committed a crime first.”

“Getting married isn’t a crime—”

“Fraud is.”

Satoru opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again, at a loss for words. This is a rare and precious occurrence—Gojo Satoru, speechless! You would be savouring it more if you weren’t currently a married woman in a Denny’s parking lot in Las Vegas at eleven o’clock in the night.

Satoru had told you it was a vacation. He’d shown up at your room in the Kyoto compound at half-past ten with a bag tucked under his arm and said, simply, “Come on. We’re leaving.”

“Leaving where?” you’d asked.

“Somewhere that isn’t here,” was his cryptic reply.

You’d been in Kyoto for six days. Six days of watching Satoru navigate the Gojo clan and their elders with their careful smiles and careful words. Nearly a week of watching something tight and unhappy lodge itself behind Satoru’s eyes while he pretended, convincingly, that everything was fine. You knew he wasn’t; you’d watched him perfect his act for years, after all.

So, you went. You told yourself it was because you’d never been to Las Vegas. This, at least, is true.

You’d grabbed your bag and followed him out through a side entrance of the compound at nine forty-five, and you didn’t inform any of your friends or superiors. Because of this, your phone has been periodically buzzing in your pocket for the last several hours and you’ve been ignoring it, which is a problem that is also, for the record, Satoru’s fault.

The flight was actually wonderful. First-class seats entailed warm socks and warm food and a window seat, because Satoru had graciously sat by the aisle. When you were flying over the Pacific, he’d fallen asleep with his head tipped back and his sunglasses still on. He looked younger when he was sleeping, you’d thought. More like the version of him you’d met when you were both too young and foolish to understand what being a sorcerer actually meant.

After you landed, Satoru took you to a casino and then to a fancy place for lunch, and then to another two casinos—if he wasn’t careful, he’d turn into a gambling addict soon—and then he took you to a chapel on the Strip with fake flowers zip-tied to the pews and an officiant named Francis who had red hair and smelled like cigarettes and convenience store chewing gum.

Francis had cried a little during the vows, dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief. Satoru had found this enormously gratifying. You, however, had been in something of a dissociative state.

“It’s not fraud,” Satoru says now, in the parking lot, watching you cremate your marriage certificate. “We did actually get married. Francis witnessed it. There are photos.”

“There are photos?”

“Francis had a camera.”

“What?”

“I think it’s just something he keeps on him professionally.”

You stare at him. He has the grace to look slightly sheepish. His sunglasses are still on. His suit jacket is open, and his tie, which had been done up neatly for the ceremony (clearly he’d planned far enough ahead to wear a nice tie) is now loosened and slightly crooked. The cheap gold ring on his finger—wrong hand; he’d fumbled it in the moment and jammed it on before either of you could correct it—catches the light from the parking lot fluorescents.

“That’s it!” you say, snapping your fingers at him. “That’s our proof to file for divorce! Take me back to the wedding chapel, Satoru.”

“No way,” he says. “I’m taking you to dinner first. We need to commemorate our first night of being married.”

“We’re behind a Denny’s,” you point out.

“I know,” Satoru says. “Denny’s is a perfectly acceptable dining establishment, but I meant somewhere nice. There’s a steakhouse on the Strip that has a three-month waitlist.”

“Then we can’t go there.”

“I called ahead.”

You gape at him. “Three months ago?”

“No,” he says. “I called ahead on the plane. You were asleep.”

“I wasn’t asleep for that long—”

“Yeah, you were asleep for, like, four hours. You even snored a little.”

“I did not—that’s not the point! The point is, you planned this. You planned all of it, the chapel, the restaurant, the—” You gesture at the ring on his finger, the ring on yours, the dying fire in the trash can—“everything.”

“Not everything. I didn’t plan for you to burn our wedding certificate in a fit of rage.”

“That’s your fault by proximity.”

“That’s not a legal standard.”

“I’m making it one.”

Satoru smiles, quick and bright. You have a long and storied history of making Gojo Satoru laugh when he isn’t expecting to, and it used to feel like winning something. It still does, if you’re being honest.

“Come on,” Satoru says, nodding towards the street. “Dinner first, Francis later. We can get the photos after and then you can file for divorce. I won’t stop you.”

“You’d better not,” you say.

“I said I won’t.” He holds his hands up, the picture of innocence. “I’m a man of my word.”

“You’re really not.”

“I’m a man of some of my word,” he amends.

The steakhouse is situated on the upper floor of one of the larger casinos on the Strip, lined with dark wood and low, hushed lighting. You are seated by a window. The Strip sprawls below you in every direction, extravagant and relentless, all that light going nowhere at tremendous speed.

“Were you really that confident I’d say yes?” you ask once the menus have been set in front of you.

“I was… hopeful,” Satoru says. It’s not a word you can recall him ever applying to himself before, in all the years you’ve known him; it sounds odd. You pick up your own menu and look at it without reading it.

What you’ve learnt about Satoru and what most people tend to miss is that underneath all the grinning and grandstanding and carelessness, there is someone who wants things very badly and has learned not to show it. You’ve known this for years. You’ve watched him want things, and watched him bury it under layers of grandiosity until it’s almost invisible. Almost.

“The elders have been at it for two years,” he says finally, without looking up from the menu. “The meetings, the candidates. They’re all very suitable women from very respectable families. Good for the clan’s interests.”

“You never told me it’d been going on for that long.”

“Didn’t want to make it a thing.”

“Satoru—”

“It’s fine. It’s just—” He sets the menu down and looks out at the Strip, all that light below. “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life performing for someone who sees me as a resource. I do enough of that already. I knew it was going to happen eventually and that they were going to stop asking and start insisting. So. Vegas.”

“Vegas,” you echo.

“You were the obvious answer,” he says matter-of-factly. “You already know what you’re getting into with me. You don’t have any illusions. You—you’re my best friend. There isn’t anyone I’d rather be stuck with.”

“Stuck with,” you repeat. “Incredibly romantic.”

“I said what I said.”

The waiter arrives and Satoru orders for the two of you. You look down at the ring on your finger and think about how it came from the little rotating display by the chapel door, five dollars American. It fits almost perfectly except for being on the wrong hand.

“Er. You fumbled the ring,” you say.

“I was nervous,” he says.

Gojo Satoru, nervous. Gojo Satoru, who treats most of human experience as something happening at a slight remove, who has never, to your knowledge, shown up to anything in his life uncertain of the outcome—nervous!

“Were you,” you say.

“Briefly,” Satoru says, with great dignity. “It passed.”

“Of course.”

“It won’t happen again.”

“Of course.”

The fountains in front of the Bellagio are in the middle of their routine, water arcing up in great pale columns against the dark. The light from them moves across the window in slow, repeating patterns. Satoru’s eyes catch the shifting light. You swallow hard.

“We’re not arguing about the divorce, by the way,” you tell him.

“We’ll see.”

“Satoru.”

“We’ll see,” he says again pleasantly. You’re going to say something else, something firm and unambiguous, but he’s already put his cutlery down and is walking out, and you’re already following.

WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, ITEM #2 – BREAKING AND ENTERING.

The supposed 24/7 active wedding chapel has a sign tacked onto the front door when you arrive later, which reads, Under maintenance. We apologise for the inconvenience!

“Fuck,” you groan.

“Language,” Satoru says. “Maintenance at midnight. Huh. That’s strange.”

“That’s what I’m focusing on right now, yes, thank you.”

You press your face briefly against the chapel door’s small window. The lights inside are off. Through the glass you can just make out the shape of the pews, the flowers zip-tied to their ends, and the little altar at the front where Francis had stood several hours ago and wept openly into his handkerchief. How are you supposed to get the photographs of your husband—you are using that word provisionally under extreme protest—looking at you like you’re the only fixed point in the room?

“He might live here,” Satoru says.

“Francis?”

“Some of these places have a back apartment for the officiant. We could knock.”

“We’re not knocking on a man’s door at midnight,” you say.

“It’s nearly one.”

“That makes it worse!” You step back from the door and look at the sign again. There’s a narrow alley running along the left side of the chapel, squeezed between the chapel building and the 24-hour tattoo parlour next door. You only notice it because Satoru’s already walking towards it. “What are you doing?”

“Recon,” Satoru says. “Just looking.”

He disappears around the corner. You stand on the pavement with your hands on your hips before deciding to follow him. The alley is cramped and smells stale. There’s a dumpster and a stack of plastic chairs leaning against the chapel wall. Satoru stands with his hands in his pockets, looking upward with his head tilted back.

“No,” you say.

“There’s a window.”

“I see that.”

“It’s open!”

It appears to be a casement window on the chapel’s ground floor, propped out at an angle, about eight feet off the ground and just wide enough for a person to fit through.

“That could be a bathroom window,” you say. “We’d be breaking and entering.”

“The window’s already open,” Satoru says. “Technically we’d just be entering. The photos Francis took are currently somewhere in that chapel developing in a back room, unattended.”

“If we get arrested,” you say, “I’m blaming you entirely.”

“Obviously.”

“I will give a statement to the police and it will contain your full name and a detailed account of everything that’s happened tonight, starting with the chapel and working backwards to Kyoto.”

“Sure. Boost or be boosted?” Satoru asks, turning to the chairs. “I’d say I’ll boost you, but I want it to be on record that I think you’d make a better lookout.”

“I’m not being a lookout.”

“You just said—”

“I’m coming with you.”

He pauses, glancing at you, his expression softening just a little bit. Warm and amused—gone before you can fix it in place.

“Obviously,” he says, smiling, and starts stacking chairs.

The window is, in fact, not a bathroom window. It opens into a small storage room at the back of the chapel, with folding tables against one wall, boxes of artificial flowers stacked against the other, and a mop in a bucket in the corner. Through a door on the far side, you can see the chapel proper. The dripping you can hear means the maintenance situation is a ceiling problem, probably towards the front.

“There’s a whole back operation,” Satoru says, impressed.

“We need to find the darkroom,” you whisper.

“Why are you whispering?”

“Because we’re trespassing.”

“Right, yes,” he says, lowering his voice. “The darkroom will need ventilation, so it’s probably towards the back.”

“How do you know anything about darkrooms?” you ask.

“I went through a photography phase in my second year of middle school. It was a whole thing.” He opens the storage room door and peers through into the chapel. “All clear.”

You follow him through. The chapel at night, empty and dim, is a different place entirely from what it was several hours ago. Smaller, somehow. Without Francis and the lights, it’s just a room with cheap flowers and worn carpet.

“Back room’s through here,” Satoru says softly; he’s already at the door behind the altar. You cross the chapel quickly, not looking at the pews or the aisle, not doing anything so foolish as standing in the dark and sentimentalising about a five-dollar ring and a laminated vow card.

The back room is small and smells sharply of chemicals—developer and fixer, mostly. There’s a red safelight along the wall that Francis has left running, bathing everything in a dim glow. A long workbench runs along one wall, and on it, clipped to a line strung above the bench, are your photographs.

Four of them, hanging in a row, damp and gleaming slightly under the monochromatic light. Even from across the room, you can make out the chapel and the altar. Neither of you says anything for a moment, until Satoru walks to the bench and stands in front of the photographs. You make your way and stand beside him.

The first one is mid-ceremony. You’re both facing Francis, and you can see Satoru in profile—head tilted, shoulders set. The second one is the ring exchange; you can see immediately why it’s blurry. You’d both been laughing, actually, you remember that now, because Satoru had fumbled the ring and said something under his breath, and you’d bitten down on a laugh and not entirely succeeded. Francis had captured exactly that, the two of you with your heads slightly bent towards each other.

In the third one, Francis had asked you to face each other for a photo, and while you’re looking at the camera, Satoru’s looking at you. You look—Francis had said surprised, and yes, there is that, but there’s also something else, something you would rather not name.

Satoru is looking at you the way he was looking at you in the chapel, the way he’s been looking at you in these odd unguarded moments all evening.

“We look like idiots,” Satoru says.

“Francis was right,” you say. “We both look surprised.”

“Were you?” he asks.

“Yes. Were you?”

“No,” he says, then adds quietly, “Maybe. About—about other things.”

In the fourth photograph, you are outside the chapel, looking at the ring on your hand, and Satoru is looking at you looking at the ring. Francis had captured the angle so cleanly that you can see Satoru’s full expression, soft in a way his face almost never is in front of other people, private. You realise you’re holding your breath.

“We should take them,” Satoru says.

“We can’t just take them,” you say. “They’re developing.”

“They look pretty developed to me.”

“Satoru, they’re damp—”

“They’ll dry.” He’s already carefully unclipping the first photograph from the line. “Francis has the negatives. He can print more.”

“You don’t know that Francis has the negatives, and besides, we’re stealing from him.”

“We’re borrowing from Francis.” Satoru holds the first photograph carefully by its edge and looks at it in the red light before setting it down on the workbench. “Hand me something to put these in. There should be a folder or an envelope on the bench somewhere.”

There’s a paper envelope at the end of the bench, brown and flat. You pick it up and hold it open. Satoru slides the photographs in one by one.

“We need to leave Francis a note,” you say, “and money. For the printing. For—everything.”

“How much do you think midnight darkroom theft runs these days?”

“What?”

“I’m asking genuinely.”

“A lot,” you say. “Leave a lot.”

You find a notepad on the workbench next to a jar of pens. Francis, you write. We’re sorry for the unauthorised visit. We needed the photos tonight, so please print yourself copies. Enclosed is payment for the developing, the breaking-in, the trouble, and your time. Thank you for everything. It was a beautiful ceremony.

You fold the note and put it on the workbench. Satoru takes his wallet out, removes a quantity of cash that makes your eyebrows go up, and weighs it down with the jar of pens.

You go back through the chapel and through the storage room and back out the window into the alley. Satoru drops down behind you and lands easily on the ground. The night air is warm, and the Strip is still brightly lit not thirty feet away. You hold the envelope against your chest. The photographs inside are still slightly damp.

“For the record,” you say, “this is also your fault.”

“The chapel was closed,” Satoru says reasonably. “I didn’t plan that part. Plus, we have the photos, so. Seems like it worked out.”

You look at him with his loosened tie and ruffled hair and think, He’s going to be completely insufferable about this for years. You are going to have to hear about the Vegas chapel break-in for the rest of your natural life and possibly longer.

“Come on,” you say. “You said the hotel’s three blocks away.”

WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, ITEM #3 – VANDALISM.

There is only one bed. It’s not, on its own, an unusual situation. You’ve shared sleeping arrangements with Satoru before—field missions and overnight calls that left two sorcerers and one room. You’d use a pillow wall, most of the time.

The difference is that you are currently married to him.

“You booked a room with one bed?” you ask.

“They may have assumed, given that I made the reservation under a recently married couple’s names, that we would want,” Satoru says, gesturing at the bed, “the one bed.”

The bed in question is enormous, dressed in white linen and piled with decorative pillows. There’s a bowl of strawberries on the bedside table. The whole room smells faintly of roses.

“Did you request the honeymoon setup?” you say.

“The woman on the phone seemed very enthusiastic about it.”

“That’s not an answer!” You look around the room, hands on your hips. “Well, there’s a couch. You can use that.”

It’s one of those small, decorative couches present in hotel rooms to fill a corner, hold throw pillows, and look tasteful in photographs, but not to sleep on.

“I’m not going to sleep on it, but noted,” Satoru says, striding towards the minibar, shrugging his jacket off and draping it over the back of the chair by the window. “Whiskey or gin?”

“Whiskey,” you say. “We can put a pillow wall down the middle.”

“We’re married,” he says, crossing the room with two small bottles. He sits down on the other side of the bed. “It seems a bit prudish.”

You take the whiskey from him and twist the cap off. Satoru has his own bottle balanced between both hands, still unopened, and he’s looking out the window at the city below. You’ve spent enough years watching him, but it doesn’t seem to change anything; the flutter in your heart remains the same, as does the contentment you feel in your chest.

“I want to see them again,” you announce.

Satoru looks at you. “The photos?”

You reach for the envelope on the nightstand and slide the pictures out carefully, holding them by the edges. They’re drying, stiffening slightly. You hold them in your lap and he leans in slightly.

“You should’ve warned me,” you say quietly.

“About which part?”

“All of it.” You tap the third photograph’s edge, gently. “This.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “If I’d warned you, you’d have said no.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know you,” he says, not unkindly. “You’d have thought about it too long and decided it was too complicated, and then you’d have spent months being strange about it, and then we’d have gone back to normal, and—” He stops, turning the bottle in his hands. “…I didn’t want to go back to normal.”

“It’s still a bad idea,” you mumble.

“Probably,” he agrees. His hand shifts on the duvet between you, the tip of his little finger coming to rest against the back of yours. “Hasn’t stopped being true, though. Whatever it is. You know what I mean.”

You do. That’s the problem: you’ve always known what he means, even when he’s being deliberately oblique about it. You’ve known him too long and too well for any of it to not make sense anymore. Which means, you understand now, that you’ve also known you’re in love with him for longer than you thought.

You look at the fourth photograph—Satoru, standing outside the chapel, watching you look at the ring on your hand.

“You could’ve just said something,” you tell him. “At any point. Like a normal person.”

“I took you to Las Vegas and married you,” he says. “That’s me saying something directly.”

His hand turns over and covers yours, warm and assuaging, and whatever reservations you’d been carefully maintaining for years simply crumble.

You close the remaining distance. Satoru’s free hand comes up to your face before you’ve fully moved, which means he was thinking about it too—has been thinking about it, probably, for longer than tonight, longer than Vegas—and he’s kissing you.

He kisses you decisively. There’s a certainty to it that shouldn’t surprise you—this is Satoru, who does nothing halfway—but it does, a little. But what surprises you more is how easy it is. How it doesn’t feel like a change in anything so much as a long-overdue acknowledgement of something that’s been there all along.

When you pull back, his forehead drops to yours. His sunglasses are still pushed up on his head, and you reach up and take them off without asking. He lets you.

“Hi,” Satoru says.

“You’re still wearing your sunglasses indoors at midnight,” you chide.

“I said hi.”

“Hi,” you say.

He smiles; it reaches his eyes. “So,” he starts.

“Do not say ‘I told you so.’”

“I wasn’t going to. Probably.”

“Insufferable,” you say, and kiss him again, which is both a rebuke and a surrender but mostly just because you want to. He makes a sound against your mouth that might be a laugh, and his arms come around you properly this time.

The decorative pillows go first. There are seven of them, and they go in ones and twos without either of you paying much attention—one knocked off when his arm comes around you properly, two more when you shift closer, the rest sliding off the edge in a soft succession of thuds. One of the small whiskey bottles, empty now, rolls off the mattress and lands on the carpet. You don’t notice any of it; you’re somewhat preoccupied by Satoru taking your face in his hands and tilting it and kissing you until you forget what you were arguing about.

You suspect that he’s thought about this for a long time, the same way you have.

“You’re thinking,” Satoru says against your mouth.

“I’m not.”

“You are. I can tell. You get this little—” He pulls back just enough to look at you, and traces something between your brows with one finger. “Here.”

You stare at him. “I hate that you know that.”

“No, you don’t,” he says. He’s right, and you hate that too, so you tell him so by pulling him back down by the front of his shirt.

He lets you tug at him willingly—more than willingly, with an enthusiasm that sends you back against the pillows and makes you laugh, briefly, before his mouth finds your jaw, your throat, your collarbone, and the laugh turns into a gasp. His hands are at your waist, warm through the fabric.

His tie joins the pillows on the floor; you get the knot loose while he’s working on the matter of your buttons. His shirt is untucked and you run your hands on his waist, his ribs, the warm plane of his stomach. Satoru groans against the side of your neck, and you shiver. He tosses your shirt aside, too, and his eyes darken when his gaze lands on your chest. He takes his time with your nipples, rolling them around with his thumbs, before taking one of them in his mouth.

He moves lower, pressing kisses to the underside of your breasts, moving down to your navel. When he reaches the waistband of your jeans, he looks up, pupils blown wide and asks, “May I?”

“Yes, yes, please.” You nod frantically, helping him pull your jeans and panties off when he unbuttons it. You’re already wet and needy.

“You’re so beautiful,” Satoru says, gazing up at you before littering kisses on your inner thighs, so close to where you want him. 

“Satoru, please,” you say. “I need you.”

He blows on your wet core, making you shiver. “Need me to what?”

“I need you to, hah, just—”

Satoru latches onto your clit, sucking and swirling his tongue around the bud. You moan, your hands flying to his hair and gripping the silver-white strands. He alternates between quick flicks and long, broad strokes, keeping your folds spread apart with two fingers while his other hand traces patterns along the underside of your thigh.

“Fuck, fuck—” You curse when his tongue moves in a circle right around your clenching hole. Satoru doesn’t stop. If anything, the sound of your voice breaking, the way you curse his name, only spurs him on. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you. He’s always known how to push your buttons. But this is different; this isn’t a playful tease during a mission.

He dives back in, his tongue flattening out to lap at you with broad, wet strokes that cover everything from your clit down to your opening. You arch your back, your hips lifting off the mattress instinctively, trying to press yourself harder against his mouth.

“Satoru… please, I’m—”

“You’re what?” he mumbles against your skin. He doesn’t wait for an answer, sliding two fingers deep inside you. You let out a strangled cry, your toes curling. His fingers are thick and warm, and he curls them, hooking them upward to find that sensitive spot that makes your vision blur. His thumb remains locked into your clit, rubbing circles on the engorged bud.

The sensation is overwhelming. It’s too much and yet not nearly enough. You can feel the tension building in your lower belly, a tight, simmering coil that winds tighter and tighter with every second.

“Right there,” you moan, your fingers knotting into his hair. “Right there, Satoru, don’t stop, please don’t stop.”

Your breath comes out in short, jagged gasps, your chest heaving. Just as you are about to orgasm, Satoru stops. He doesn’t just slow down; he pulls his fingers out of you with a sudden, wet pop and removes his mouth from your heat entirely. You freeze, your eyes snapping open. “Satoru, what the hell—”

He’s hovering over you, braced on his elbows, his hair messy and falling over his forehead. A slow, smug smile spreads across his lips, though his breathing is just as heavy as yours.

“Not yet,” he whispers.

“I hate you,” you groan, your hips twitching involuntarily, searching for the friction he just stole from you. “I actually hate you so much.”

“Liars don’t get to come,” Satoru teases, though his hand reaches down to gently stroke the skin of your inner thigh. 

He shifts, moving upward to kiss you. He tastes like you, and you moan into his mouth, before he pulls away just an inch, his gaze dropping to your drenched core. “I want to feel you,” he murmurs. “I want to feel how tight you are around me.”

Satoru slides backward, just enough to strip off his trousers and underwear in one hurried motion. His cock springs out, thick and flushed. Your mouth waters simply looking at it, while he pumps it once, twice, thumb circling the tip. He doesn’t lie back down. Instead, he sits up, leaning his back against the headboard of the enormous bed, his legs spread wide. He reaches out, grabbing your waist with those large, strong hands and pulling you forward until you are hovering over him.

“Ride me?” he asks.

The need for friction, for fullness, for him overrides any lingering frustration. You shift your weight, guiding his cock to your entrance. As you slowly lower yourself down, the feeling of his cock filling you, stretching you open, sends a fresh wave of pleasure through you. You let out a long, shuddering moan as you sink down completely, inch by inch, your pelvis flushing against his. Satoru lets out a choked sound, his head hitting the headboard with a thud, his eyes screwing shut.

“Fuck,” he moans. “You’re—you’re so tight. I can’t—”

“Shut up,” you whisper, though there’s no heat in it.

You begin to move, a slow, grinding rotation of your hips. You watch his face—the way his jaw clenches and his nostrils flare, the way he looks at you with warmth and wonder. You quicken your movements, bouncing on his cock. Satoru’s hands move from your waist to your hips, fingers digging into your skin, helping you ride him. He thrusts upwards, tilting his hips and dragging his cock against your walls.

“Look at me,” he groans. You look down, your eyes locking onto his. “I love you,” he says.

You feel the coil in your belly snap. Your orgasm washes over you as you clench around his cock, milking him. Satoru moans, his back arching off the bed as he thrusts upwards one last time. “I’m going to come,” he says. “Let me—”

You slide off his cock and he comes, his release spurting onto his stomach, a little bit on your thighs. You collapse against his chest. He wraps his arms around you tightly, pulling you into the crook of his neck.

For a long time, neither of you speaks. Eventually, Satoru shifts slightly, kissing the top of your head.

“So,” he whispers. “Shower?”

You lift your head slightly, looking at him with tired, happy eyes. “Already?” you say with faux innocence. “I thought you’d want to fuck me on that stupid couch first.”

WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, ITEM #4 – EMBEZZLEMENT.

Hopefully Satoru didn’t mind you swiping his credit card from his wallet while he was fast asleep, one arm thrown over his face while the other was stretched out beside him. You’d wriggled out of his grasp carefully, pressing a gentle, barely-there kiss to the tip of his nose, before digging through his jacket’s pockets for his wallet and pulling out his black card.

It’s for a good purpose, you console yourself, hurrying through the streets of Las Vegas with a jewellery shop’s location pulled up on your phone. 

Las Vegas in the early morning is a different city entirely from the one that had swallowed you whole last night. It’s not quiet, exactly—it’s never quiet, you suspect—but it’s quieter, the frenetic energy of the Strip mellowed into something slower. The crowds have thinned, at least.

You walk with your hands in your pockets, Satoru’s black card tucked safely between two fingers. The morning air is warm and dry, and the sky above the glow of the Strip is beginning to lighten from black to the deep bruised blue that comes just before dawn.

The jewellery shop is three blocks from the hotel, according to your phone. It’s a small, well-lit place that stays open through the night, catering to those Las Vegas visitors who find themselves in need of jewellery at unusual hours, which you now understand is a larger demographic than you’d previously considered.

You walk and think about the rings. The ones currently on your fingers are not adequate. They’re soft metal, the gold already slightly scuffed from one night of existence, and they’ll tarnish in a week. You’d noticed this morning, while Satoru was still asleep: the way your rings sat a little loose, the way it had already lost some of its shine. It’s more of a placeholder than anything else.

The thought of replacing them had arrived while you’d lain in Satoru’s arms, listening to him breathe and looking at the ring.

You aren’t scared, though you’d expected to be. You’d expected to wake up this morning with the full weight of what’s happened landing on you like a dropped beam, and to spend the subsequent hours dealing with the considerable wreckage of your own panic. It seemed like a reasonable response to having been married to your best friend in Las Vegas by a crying man named Francis and then having the matter become rather more settled than a marriage certificate alone would suggest.

But when you’d woken up with Satoru’s arm around you and the photographs on the nightstand, what you’d felt was something almost irritatingly simple: you’d felt like yourself.

The jewellery shop is small and bright, jewellery arranged in lit display cases along the walls, a pudgy man behind the counter. He looks up when you come in, takes in the look of you—your clothes from last night, slightly slept-in, your hair not fully combed—and nods pleasantly.

“Morning,” he says. “What are you looking for?”

“Wedding rings,” you say. “Two of them, please. Something that’ll last for a long time.”

He nods again. “Do you know the other person’s size?”

You think about Satoru’s hands—the ring sliding onto his finger in the chapel, his hand covering yours on the duvet last night, the warmth of his arm around this morning. “I can estimate,” you say.

He shows you to a case along the left wall. The rings inside are simple, for the most part—plain bands in gold and silver and white gold, some with small details, most without. You find two plain bands in white gold, clean-lined and unornamented, substantial enough to last. 

“These,” you tell the man behind the counter.

He nods. You produce Satoru’s black card and spend a figure that makes you wince slightly but not reconsider, because the point isn’t the cost and you’re sure Satoru will agree with you about this when he wakes up and finds both you and his credit card gone. You leave the ship with the rings in a small white box and stand on the pavement outside for a moment in the warming air.

You pull your phone out and type in the search bar, Chapel of Eternal Love, and punch in the number attached. 

“Hello, Chapel of Eternal Love, Francis speaking—”

“Francis,” you say, smiling. “I have a favour to ask.”

WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, ITEM #5 – MARRIAGE.

Francis, it turns out, is delighted. He’d gone quiet for a moment when you explained what you were asking, and then said, Give me an hour, and hung up before you could confirm the details. 

You make your way back to the hotel with your ring box in your pocket and the morning brightening steadily around you. The casino lobbies you pass are still going—slot machines, a scattering of determined gamblers, staff moving between stations—but the Strip itself is relatively peaceful, the night’s crowd entirely dissolved and the day’s not yet arrived. You have the pavement to yourself. It’s a strange and pleasant feeling, Las Vegas in the interstitial hour.

Satoru is awake when you get back, sitting up in bed with his hair in complete disarray and the duvet bunched around his waist. When you open the door he looks at you blankly.

“Morning,” you say.

“My credit card,” he says.

“Is fine.” You cross the room and hold it out. He takes it without looking at it, still watching you. “I needed it for a purchase.”

“What kind of purchase requires you to leave the hotel room at—” he glances at the clock on the nightstand—“six forty-seven in the morning?”

“The important kind.” You sit down on the edge of the bed and take the white box out of your pocket, setting it on the duvet between you.

Satoru picks the box up and opens it, and doesn’t say anything at all, which is the loudest thing Gojo Satoru can do. “You stole my credit card,” he says finally, “to buy us wedding rings.”

“I borrowed it,” you say. “To replace the ones we got from a spinning display rack for five dollars each.”

“I liked those rings.”

“They were tarnishing,” you say. “There’s more, by the way.”

You tell him about Francis. He looks surprised at first, and then warm, so utterly warm when he tugs you closer to him and kisses you again, and again, and once more for good measure. Satoru closes the ring box and holds it in both hands, the way he’d held the whiskey bottle last night before he’d covered your hand with his. 

“I thought you wanted a divorce last night, and now you’ve stolen my credit card and called Francis.”

“Yep.”

He looks at you for a long moment. The morning light filters through the curtains and he looks extraordinarily, unfairly beautiful, even just woken up.

“Okay,” he says.

“Okay?”

“Yeah.” Satoru sets the ring box on the nightstand, next to the photographs. “Okay.”

Francis has decorated the chapel when you arrive. You’re not entirely sure when he found the time—it’s been barely two hours since your phone call—but the maintenance issue has apparently been resolved, because the lights are on when you arrive. The door is unlocked; when you step inside you find that Francis has replaced the zip-tied artificial flowers on the pews with fresh ones, white and small. There are candles lit along the windowsills. The worn carpet, in the warm light, looks less worn somehow, or perhaps you’re simply disposed to see it differently today.

Francis himself is standing at the altar in a clean shirt, his red hair combed and his camera in his hands. “You came back,” he says.

“We came back,” you confirm.

Francis looks at the two of you—Satoru in a fresh shirt with his tie done up neatly again, you in the best thing you could assemble from your bag on short notice—and grins. “The rings, did you—”

You produce the white box.

“Right,” Francis says. “Right, yes. Let’s—shall we?”

Here is what you think about, standing at the altar of the Chapel of Eternal Love for the second time in less than twenty-four hours:

You think about the first time, yesterday, and how you’d stood here in something close to a dissociative state, your brain running through the situation at high speed. You think about the parking lot behind the Denny’s and the small fire in the trash can. You’d meant it when you said you wanted a divorce, though you realise now that you were frightened of what being married to your best friend entailed.

Satoru had let you burn it, too. He hadn’t argued because he’d known you’d come around. Not from arrogance, but because he knew you, the same way you knew him, all the way down to the things you didn’t say aloud.

You think about the darkroom, the four photographs drying on the line in the red light. Climbing back out through the chapel window into the warm Las Vegas night and holding the envelope against your chest, the photographs still damp inside it. You think about the rings in the spinning display by the door—you can still see them from where you’re standing, the little rack with the remaining rings. They were the beginning, it turns out.

You turn to look back at Satoru. He’s smiling at you.

Francis clears his throat gently. “Shall we begin?”

The vows are the same ones from the laminated card. Francis offers alternatives—he has a small binder with options—but Satoru shrugs, so you use the same ones. When Francis gets to the rings you open the white box yourself. You take Satoru’s ring out and hold it; he holds out his right hand out of habit before catching himself and switching to his left, and you both laugh helplessly. Francis gulps and pulls out his handkerchief. You put the ring on the correct hand this time.

Satoru takes yours from the box and looks up at you—there’s that expression, the one from the photographs, the one you have a name for now. He slides the ring onto the correct finger and holds your hand for a moment after.

Francis is fully crying now. He dabs at his eyes without embarrassment and beams at the two of you over his handkerchief with radiant approval.

“I’ve never had anyone come back,” he tells you. “In twelve years, you’re the first.”

“We forgot something the first time,” you say.

Francis tucks his handkerchief away and straightens up. Smiling, he announces, “You may now kiss,” and so you do.

Sukuna stares at the ceiling, a dizzying mix of admiration and genuine shock washing over him. He had given you everything he had—seven rounds that would have sidelined most people for a week—and you're in the next room, effectively topping off your tank because he’d run out of gas.

He can't sleep now, deciding to go shower himself in one of the other bathrooms and change the bedding before you get back. And somehow, you're still in there when he's done.

When the water finally stops, you emerge wrapped in a towel, looking radiant and utterly satisfied. You climb back into bed, smelling of jasmine and steam, and tuck yourself under the duvet.

“All good now?” Sukuna asks, his voice filled with a mixture of awe and playful defeat.

“Perfect,” you hum, snuggling into his chest. “You’re the best, Ryo. Seriously. Sleep now.”

He wraps a heavy arm around your, feeling your heartbeat steady and calm against his. He's definitely going to need to start doubling his cardio sessions if he wants to survive the month.

The flickering blue light of the television illuminates the darkened living room as the muffled roar of a stadium crowd fills the air.

Sukuna's sunk deep into the sofa, his eyes glued to the screen during the final quarter of a high-stakes game. He's focused on his favorite team and the ball, but he isn't ignoring the weight of you.

You're straddling his thigh, your hips rolling slow and deliberate grinds against the muscular limb. This has been going on for about twenty minutes, your hands gripping his shoulders as you try to find the right angle, the right pressure.

Your boyfriend, ever the team player, had reached down a while ago with his free hand, his fingers working rhythmically under the hem of your silk shorts to help you along. Pumping in and out of the puddle of slick that's pooling at your hole in tacky squelches.

He's trying to be present, but his body is still recovering from your fuck this morning that carried well into the afternoon. Still, he's a good sport and wants to help even if it means multitasking while watching the match.

“Ryo,” you huff, your voice strained and brows knotted as you buck against his hand for more, grinding your aching clit against his rough palm.

“I've got you, baby,” he assures you, pressing the heel of his palm closer as he fucks you on his fingers faster, letting you ride them.

Shifting, you bounce on them, trying to use them to reach your elusive orgasm. Your breathing is shallow, hitched with a desperation that's starting to border on frantic.

Sukuna doubles his efforts, his fingers moving with practiced precision, but he can feel the tension in your legs isn't the good kind—it is the kind born of mounting frustration.

Suddenly, you halt. You don't collapse against him in a post-climax haze. You sit bolt upright, your chest heaving, and shove his hand away.

“I can't,” you snap, sharp enough to make him finally look away from the TV.

“What? Did I do something wrong?” your boyfriend asks, genuinely concerned as you shimmy out of your shorts with a grumble. “I thought we were getting there.”

“We’re 'getting there' for a normal person, Sukuna, but I’m not getting there,” you retort, gesturing vaguely to your body.

You look genuinely frazzled, your hair wild and your eyes bright with unspent nervous energy. “Your fingers are great, you’re great, but it’s like trying to put out a forest fire with a garden hose. I’m vibrating under my skin and it’s actually starting to hurt because it’s not enough.”

And you have tried, really tried to solely rely on him for your pleasure since your relationship got serious, not wanting to hurt his feelings by using your toys. But you can't take it anymore, not when your body is burning for more.

You are after all a sexual creature and you'd prefer not to drain your boyfriend of his energy like some insatiable succubus.

Sukuna blinks, ink on his face stretching as m his jaw drops slightly. “I thought... I mean, we've been at this for a while. You didn't finish?”

“I finished twice, but it didn't stick,” you whine, sliding off him and standing up. There's a mix of apology and raw need on your face when you look at him then. “I love you, but I can't do this manual labor anymore. I need heavy machinery. I'm going to the bedroom.”

“The toys?” Sukuna asks, dumbfounded as you kiss his forehead.

He feels like a handyman who had just been told his entire toolbox was obsolete and been replaced by a robot.

“The toys,” you confirm, already halfway down the hall. “Enjoy the game, okay?”

You disappear into the bedroom and shut the door. A moment later, even through the heavy wood and the sound of the sports commentator, Sukuna hears a low thrumming start up.

He slumps back on the couch, the remote forgotten in his hand. He looks down at his glistening fingers, then at the door, then back at the TV. For the first time in his life, he feels completely outmatched.

The muffled, rhythmic thump-thump-thump from the bedroom is a taunting buzzing now—a mockery of his failure.

Sukuna sits on the sofa, the sports commentator’s voice fading into background noise as a prickly, hot sensation crawls up his neck. It isn't just male ego but a sudden, sharp sense of displacement. He is a man who prides himself on being able to handle anything, yet he feels like he’d been benched for a machine.

“Fuck this,” he curses as he stands up, the remote clattering onto the coffee table, and marches down the hallway, not bothering to knock as he barges in.

The sight that greets him makes his blood pressure spike.

You're sprawled in your ergonomic office chair, your head lolling against the top of it with your face cast in a dewy glow, lips parted and your eyes droopy, brows scrunched in that almost worried look of pleasure.

A sleek, powerful piston-style machine is suctioned to the mahogany desk your legs are draped over, the silicon, realistic cock driving in and out of you with relentless precision. It's lined with ridges and veins you're surely feeling rubbing back and forth inside you as you squirt some lube over the length of it as if your pussy isn't drooling enough already.

Sweat-slicked skin is bare, the only part of you clothed being your socked feet that bow when your toes curl, your supple tits wobble in circles on your chest as your soft tummy dips and dives with each sloppy thrust of the dildo between your thighs.

The noises spilling out of you—the sharp, high-pitched hitches in your breath and the low, raspy moans—are the exact ones he’d spent the last hour trying to coax out of you. Seeing a piece of hardware do effortlessly what he’d sweat through his shirt to achieve feels like a slap in the face.

"Are you fucking serious right now?" Sukuna barks, startling you.

Your half-lidded eyes snap open, dilated and glazed with heat. “Ryo! I told you, I just needed—”

“You need me,” he cuts in, crossing the room and slapping the power switch on the machine. The whirring dies instantly, leaving a deafening silence in the room.

“Hey!” you protest, voice shaky like it tends to get when you're on the brink of coming as you reach for the toy. “I was almost—”

“Change of plans,” Sukuna drawls, not looking offended anymore, just determined.

Scooping you out of the chair, ignoring your surprised squeal, he carries you a few feet to the bed. Then he tosses you onto the mattress, stripping hastily and following you down before you can even find your breath.

“You think a toy can do it better?” he growls, his hands pinning your wrists above your head. “Watch this.”

Heavy pumps of blood rush to his aching cock, fattening it until it's flushed an angry red, bobbing between his thighs. Spreading your legs, he all but shoves it inside you, eye twitching at how there's little to no resistance after that damn toy but he's bigger so a bit of a stretch is needed.

That does nothing to soothe his battered and bruised pride as he pulls all the way back, reveling in how you buck and lift your hips to try and get more of him in you like the glutton you are.

“Greedy whore, nothing's ever enough of you, is it?”

A fussy, needy whine comes from you as your brows bow and your lips purse. “Ryo, don't be a dick. You took away the toy, the least you could do is—Ah!”

Slamming his hips back down, his cock punches you in the stomach, kicking a wrecked moan out of your lungs as your pussy convulses at the unexpected intrusion, slick seeping out of you and pooling on the sheets. The force of the thrust pushes you further up on the bed and you can't even grip onto anything because he's got your hands in his.

A grin full of sharp teeth graces you though it's more like a sneer as his crimson gaze bores in yours with every intent to repossess your soul. The man is far gone, no longer the caring, attentive one who's always putting your pleasure first.

No, he's going to fuck you through the mattress and your stomach is swooping at the thought.

Freeing your hands, his big palms slam down on your sides, groping and kneading your plush flesh as he hums. “You're a fucking nymph so I'll give you exactly what you want.”

Then he's ramming into you, thick shaft spearing your insides as he fucks you hard and fast, your body bouncing helplessly beneath him, shaky cries and sobs of pleasure ripping from your throat.

“Hnngh, Ryo,” you moan, parting your legs further for more.

Animalistic grunts and groans rumble through his chest as the erotic, filthy slap of skin on skin fills the room, headboard bashing against the wall and rattling the nightstands, the pillows cushioning each thud of your head against it.

“Hah, can't talk much now, can ya?”

“Shuddup,” you breathe.

Large, calloused hands grab you by the hips and drag you back and forth on his cock in slick, shlucks, the squelches of your slobbering pussy deafening as you gasp out moans and high-pitched whimpers.

Gruff snarls exhale from him, his muscles bunching as he uses you like a toy, his personal fleshlight to throw around and fold into whatever shape he wants. Tears stream down your face in pearlescent streaks that he licks away, tongue slipping into your mouth as his teeth click against yours and you can barely kiss back with how he's pounding into you.

He's not holding back. This isn't the version of your boyfriend who asks if the pace is okay; this is the man who knows every inch of your body and is intent on reclaiming his territory. He uses his heavy weight to crush you into the mattress, his strength to bend and toss you around, and relentless thrusts that mimic the machine but add the heat of skin and the friction of muscle.

“Look at you, all spaced out,” he coos, nipping at your cheek, grinning against your skin when it makes you flutter around him. “Should do this more often.”

“Yeah,” you slur.

Sukuna stays focused, his movements powerful and unwavering. Every time you try to catch your breath, he shifts, finding a deeper angle, a sharper sensation, refusing to let the tension break until you crumble. Your protests for a break melt into desperate pleas, your fingers digging into his back as you come again and again and again—a deep, full-body shudder that leaves you sobbing for air.

Webs of milky, sticky slick stretch in glimmering strings between his drenched cock and your swollen pussy, smearing on your thighs and his. Hot, wet pants condense on your collarbone as he ruts into you like an animal in heat, sweat dripping from his chin.

“So messy, baby,” he hums, glancing down at the ring of frothy cream at his base. “Getting me all sticky. How cute.”

Toasty and stuffy, the air in the room is thick and hard to breathe as his body blankets you from behind, damp chest plastered to your back when he pushes in again, moans leaving you both.

A beefy arm curls around your neck this time, smothering you in his warm masculine musk and the scent of his cologne. It's dizzying or maybe it's because he's slightly choking you in the crook of his elbow but your cunt clamps down on his cock like a vice for more.

Growling, he fucks into you, shaft pummeling your insides until the gooey, gummy walls remember nothing but the shape of him. Whiny, wanton mewls and gasps are driven out of your chest as he slams into you, pumping you full of his cock over and over again.

Manicured nails claw at his forearm in red streaks as you babble and blabber broken syllables of his name and beg for nothing in particular. The well of liquid heat in your belly swells again, coiling tight, your pitch getting higher.

“Ryo, I'm gonna c-come,” you pant out.

His bicep tightens as he chuckles a husky sound that has you shuddering beneath him. “Yeah, can feel your pussy squeezing me.”

“Please, I can't—”

Clicking his tongue, he snaps his hips rather harshly. “Go on then, come.”

“Ah-ahh-hah, hold me,” you plead.

“I am, woman—”

“Tighter, tighter, please!” You're pawing at his arm.

Conceding, he brings his other arm up, wrapping it around your neck too, engulfing your head in a meaty embrace as his rhythm grows frantic and feral, the smack of his thighs against the backs of yours shaking the entire bedframe, bottles of water tumbling from the nightstand.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—” you gasp out before your voice is stolen by your most violent orgasm yet, your nails drawing blood from his bulky arms as your pussy spasms and milks him.

Sukuna knows that coming now would be inevitable. He'd already pulled out each time he was close to finishing prior to this and ate you out instead so he'd be able to draw countless orgasms from you without tiring himself.

This method was going to be one he used often from now on as he finally felt like he could keep up with your nymphomaniac ass.

Now he's rolling his hips into you in a staggering rhythm that has your legs kicking out and your body writhing under him with each shove of his cock that feels deeper than the last.

Drawing back, he pushes forward again, faster and sharper, groaning into your hair as he presses kisses into your strands. His cock pulses and throbs inside you and he pushes in harder, tip kissing your cervix until he reaches the end of you and stills.

With a mind-melting groan, thick, hot ropes of cum splatter your insides, spilling everything as he grinds against your plump ass in slow, deep strokes, the headlock he has you in loosening.

He doesn't stop until your legs go limp and your head falls forward, your eyes rolling back in sheer exhaustion. For the first time since you'd met, you're well and truly fucked-out.

Lazy kisses dot your sweaty back, neck and face before he rolls off you and sprawls out beside you with a heavy sigh, his own chest heaving, sweat dripping off his jaw.

“Love you,” you mumble.

He looks over at you, satisfaction pooling behind his ribs at the sight of your drowsy face already drifting, your breathing deep and even, your body still.

“Love you too, brat.”

A slow, smug grin curls on his mouth. He folds his arms behind his head, staring at the ceiling with the quiet triumph of a champion.

“Machine: zero. Sukuna: one,” he snickers to himself childishly, basking in the peace and quiet of the blissful afterglow.

note: what if i disappear until i'm out of tumblr jail? 👀

Your teeth sink into the side of his neck a little harder and the cock you have stuffed inside you hardens back up immediately.

Then your tongue laps over the area you just bit him in and you pull back a little, "Mhm," You hum, rocking your hips forward again just for his hands to clasp onto you tighter—nails digging into your skin. "And did you just whine, 'Kuna?"

"I did no such thing." He denies.

"You did." You argue as your tongue slicks down along his neck before you begin kissing at his tensing skin, "You liked that, didn't you?"

"Perhaps," Sukuna mutters honestly.

How could he possibly lie to his precious wife when you’re like this?

Right then, you maneuver all the way upright and as he looks up, he’s reminded of why he married you in the first place. You’re a beautiful mess of his touches—imprints of his nails strung out across all areas of your body, skin slick in areas where he’d licked earlier, and marks of biting left in the most obscene of places.

As if to surprise him further and give him yet another reason to experience love in his heart for you, your hand greets his neck and you use whatever strength you have in you to force him further down against the silks below.

"Mmgh-, choking me now?" Sukuna husks, cock jolting inside you with a nasty twitch, his eyes going wide, and breath threatening to stutter in his lungs. Then he smiles wickedly, "Come now, wife. If you want more from me like you so claim, squeeze harder."

And squeeze harder you do, earning a sharp buck of his hips that even Sukuna himself wasn't expecting. His eyes flutter back a little and he grunts, sharp teeth flaring for a moment with the way his mouth opens all beast-like.

You can feel how erratically his dick is twitching inside you, aching to fuck something all the more sinful into you. All whilst his second cock is felt throbbing in between your asscheeks, silently pleading to enter you once more.

You’d already spent the past however many hours switching back ‘n forth between both of his lengths, draining each for all their worth, and even stuffing both into that greedy cunt of yours just to suck an impossible amount of his cum into you.

Sukuna’s massive body shifts a bit, as if to escape you for a moment so he can catch his breath, but your grip on his throat gets tighter and his brows furrow.

Noticing his attempt at escaping you, your head tilts and you scoff, “Give me an heir if you wish to breathe.”

The irony of your words—as if he hadn’t already stuffed you to the brim with his seed already—is almost enough to make him laugh.

“O-Oh,” Sukuna stammers for the first time—possibly in his life—his eyes fluttering further back into his skull as he finds himself so fully in awe of you. “Fuuck,” The curse flies out his throat as if pained but a big smile sprawls out across his kiss-swollen lips. “Take.. hahh… take the heir from me, wife. Fuck one out of me.”

Those magic words seem to do it for you as your hips return with momentum, rocking ‘n bouncing on his cock within the next few seconds as he relishes in the feel of you using him.

“Mnh! Sukuna,” You’re moaning again, the sound a sweet melody to his ears as his smile remains up until you add a pretty, “You feel s’good inside me.”

“Do not praise me, woman.” Sukuna’s brows scrunch up again and he groans. “I am still your king—“ The last word hardly falls from his tongue before he’s met with a sharp pain flying across his cheek, the feeling earning a feral thrust of his hips up into yours.

His brain sputters for a moment as he processes what the hell you just did. Never in all his years has a human ever had the audacity to hit him in such a way.

And fuck if it doesn’t drive him absolutely insane.

His head is slow to turn as he blinks, “…Did you just slap me?”

You’re visibly nervous, holding your hand near yourself as you gulp, “I-I’m sorry, I just..”

His hands lock onto your body to keep you in place and you merely blink once or twice before he’s moving. One of his other hands move down and he’s glaring at you whilst steadily adjusting his second—now fully erect—cock into you. The stretch of both his dicks inside you again has your body spasming forward as you shudder in pleasure.

Then his face twists up—cheeks pink with blush—and his jaw falls open to display his shock from prior as he huffs, “Again, wife. Hnngh-, please slap me again.”

Your head shakes, “Sukuna, I cannot—“

“I command it.” Your husband grits out all brat-like.

You hit him again, a little harder than the first time, and there’s yet another thiiiiick load of cum gushing out of his sweltering cockheads into your pussy. The sudden burst has his seed spurting out everywhere from where you’re stuffed—splashing up against his abdomen and leaking all down his twitching balls.

You finally feel as though that was enough to breed you like you’d wanted and Sukuna’s half lucid with how much he’d just emptied into you.

With a pleased grin on your face, you soon look down and let your brows shoot up in surprise as you catch the way his stomach mouth laps at a bit of his cum.

“Sukuna,” You snicker, “Are you tasting yourself?”

His eyes are shut now but he manages to frown, “Silence from you, woman.”

Your smile widens, “Does it taste good?”

“Keep-, hah… Keep talking and I’ll make you lick this entire mess clean.”

perm sukuna tags (1/2):

@cupidstrace @iiakithegoat @hellodeeyanna @navyllll @grignardsreagent @kingofpiratesiguess @aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa444 @etsuniiru @starsryi @not-a-glad-gladiator

@audiblez @2kool4skoolll @bbfawns @elliescumtubeslut @daxphoriax @gorouenjoyer @oookore @whore4hobie @blubearxy @wonderfullymickey

@iaintblockinnobody @anothergojostan @kitassecretgf @iam-souless @nanamitiddiechomper @ohreallyfriend @kunababy @withersworld @lilacsforveins @suguphile

@megottheswaskikacooooke @kvsqkiii @yourlocalcatscammer @lucy-lulu @sukubusss @sweetieelilii @lisabelhyhn @bellesiy @serenadesvt @simp4idk

but it seems like it’s not just bad things that will have him crying. you realize that he cries when he’s overwhelmed, too.

the first time choso cries in bed is when you’re riding him into the mattress, hands holding each of his bigger ones beside his head so he doesn’t grab you and flip you onto your back. it’s hard to tell who’s moaning louder; what with how he’s squirming underneath you and crying out each time your pussy swallows every inch of him.

he clings onto you, overstimulated by your pussy milking his cock. he’s already cum inside you since he couldn’t hold it, not with how good you feel around him, and you’re making a mess, your hole spreading his cream along the length of his dick. his cock is so sensitive from recently cumming and he’s not allowed to touch… hes just feeling so much at once and he can’t do anything but cry.

“shh cho, what’s wrong?” you fuss, slowing down the bouncing of your hips so you can focus on him.

he hiccups, cock pulsing inside you and leaking out more cum as you stay firm in place. “i… i wanna be closer,” he pleads through a hiccup, and lets out a noise of relief when you release his hands.

strong arms bracket around you and his forehead presses to yours so he can ensure the deepest eye contact possible while rutting up into you. you moan when his tip hits a soft sweet spot inside you, the new angle allowing his cock to press in deeper. "mm fuck-" you slur, hands curling in his hair while your mouth meets his in a sloppy kiss, both of you going in tongue first with nothing in your heads but making each other cum.

"ah- right there, baby..." he moans into your mouth, holding you tighter against him. "oh my gosh, i'm gonna..." choso pushes his mouth greedily back onto yours, his hands grabbing your ass and spreading them, giving him more room for him to shove his cock into you, pressing the tip to your womb when he bottoms out. you can feel him and all the cum pooling out of his dick flooding your stomach.

he lets out a fresh load, pulling you down so you it floods you. excess pools out from where the two of you are joined, and he helps you grind into his pelvis, rolling your clit into the thick patch of hair above his cock while your folds glide against his body. you cum quickly after, your orgasm causing you to tighten around him and wring more cum out of his dick. he's whining, whimpering and crying all throughout your shared orgasm, hugging you to him so you can't see the pathetic, pussydrunk look on his face.

you just make him so happy.

see more in my jjk masterlist

every little thing you did chipped at him. the way you waved from your balcony in the mornings wearing nothing but a thin tank top and no bra, nipples stiff from the cool air. the way you asked him once, all sweet and shy, if he knew how to fix a leaking faucet and stood too close while he worked, soft focused grunts leaving is chest and his rolled-up sleeve. after that night he jerked off twice before he could even get his jeans off, coming so hard he had to brace one hand on the shower tile just to stay upright.

he hated how easily you affected him. hated that a girl barely old enough to rent her own apartment could make a man like him, a man who prided himself on control, feel like some desperate teenager again. his sex life used to be something he managed. now it was just quiet frustration and the occasional guilty stroke while he thought about how small you would look under him, how tight you would feel, how pretty you would sound moaning his name.

then came the router. you knocked on his door at nine-thirty one random night, voice small and embarrassed over the phone first, then in person when he opened up still dressed in his white button-up and black jeans.

nanami stands at your doorway with one hand already in his pocket, the other holding the small toolbox he keeps for these exact random neighbor emergencies all ready, and he tells himself for the tenth time that this is nothing. just a quick fix.

your voice is soft and a little embarrassed over he’s not surprised. “sorry to bother you, nanami-san, but my wifi router just died and i have no idea what i’m doing with these things.” he had sighed, told you he would be right over, and now here he is, hating every single second because the moment you open the door he feels it again. that pull. that stupid, inconvenient heat low in his gut that has been creeping up on him since the day you moved in.

you are wearing your famous oversized t-shirt that slips off one shoulder and tiny sleep shorts that ride up when you shift your weight, bare feet on the hardwood, skin glazed with a thin layer of sweat like you had been lounging on the couch all evening.

you smile at him, grateful and a little shy, and nanami’s jaw tightens. he is forty, a divorced but settled, a man who likes order and quiet and routines that do not include getting half-hard at the sight of his much younger neighbor’s collarbones. yet here he is, eyes dragging down the line of your neck before he forces them back up.

“thank you so much for coming,” you say, stepping aside to let him in. your voice is warm, a little breathy from the relief of not having to deal with it alone. the apartment smells faintly of vanilla and whatever takeout you had for dinner.

nanami nods once, polite as always, and follows you toward the corner where the router sits on a low shelf. he can feel the weight of his own body, the clean but lived-in scent of his white button-up clinging slightly to his skin after a long day, black jeans sitting snug on his hips. he is musty in that grown-man way, soap and faint cologne mixed with the faint trace of office air and the walk over, nothing overpowering but undeniably male. he knows it. he hopes you do not notice how it fills the small space between you.

you hover close while he crouches down to look at the router, your thigh brushing his shoulder as you point at the blinking lights. “it just stopped working out of nowhere. i tried restarting it but…” your words trail off when he glances up.

his eyes catch on the way your t-shirt hangs loose, the soft swell of your tits visible at the neckline, the smooth skin of your legs right there at eye level. he should look away yet nanami does not. instead his gaze lingers, slow and heavy, tracing the curve of your hip, the way the hem of those shorts digs into the flesh of your thigh. he feels his cock twitch in his jeans, thickening against the zipper before he can stop it.

fuck.

he shifts his weight, trying to hide the growing bulge, but the movement only makes the fabric pull tighter.

“let me see,” he mutters, voice lower than he intends, rough around the edges. his fingers work the cables, checking connections, but his mind is not on the router. it is on you. on how you smell like warm skin and faint lotion, on how you keep biting your lip while you watch him, on how easily he could reach out and slide his palm up the back of your thigh.

he has been trying to ignore it for weeks. it takes him back to the way you wave at him from your balcony in the mornings, the sound of your laugh carrying through the thin walls when you are on the phone with friends, the soft thump of your music when you cook.

every little thing has been chipping away at his carefully built restraint. he is older. he should know better. but his body does not care about should.

he stands up slowly, taller than you by a good amount, and when he does his chest brushes your shoulder. you do not step back and the air between you feels thick, charged, and nanami’s eyes drop again, this time to your mouth, then lower to where your nipples have tightened under the thin shirt.

he swallows hard. his cock is fully hard now, pressing insistently against the front of his black jeans, the outline obvious if you were to look down. he turns slightly, pretending to fiddle with the router settings on his phone, but the movement only highlights the bulge.

he can feel the heat of it, the way it throbs when you lean in closer to see what he is doing, your breath ghosting over his forearm.

“is it the cable?” you ask, voice quieter now, like you have noticed the shift too. your eyes flick to his face, then down, then back up, and nanami sees the faint flush creeping up your neck. good. at least he is not suffering alone. he clears his throat, forcing his attention back to the device, but his free hand flexes at his side, knuckles whitening. he wants to touch you. wants to back you against the wall and slide those tiny shorts down your legs, wants to feel how wet you already are because he can smell it, that sweet faint arousal mixing with your usual scent.

his mind supplies the image without permission: you bent over the couch, his cock buried deep while he grips your hips and fucks the whimpers out of you. he exhales sharply through his nose.

“try it now,” he says, stepping back just enough to give you space, but not enough to hide anything. the router lights flicker green. you pull out your phone to test the connection and let out a small happy sound that goes straight to his dick.

“it works! oh my god, thank you, nanami-san.” you turn to him fully, eyes bright, and for a second he lets himself look. really look. at the way your chest rises with each breath, at the bare stretch of thigh, at how your lips part when you realize he is staring.

he does not smile. his expression stays bland, almost stern, but his eyes are dark and hungry, eye-fucking you so openly now that there is no pretending. his cock strains harder against the denim, a small wet spot forming where he is leaking, and he makes no move to hide it.

he is half heartedly relieved you do not notice. your gaze still stuck on your phone screen, lashes fluttering, and when you look back up, you read there is something new in his expression, something needy and waiting to be unleashed.

nanami’s voice comes out rougher than he means. “you should get a better router. this one is outdated.” it is the most neutral thing he can think of, but it does not matter.

the tension is already there, thick and undeniable, wrapping around both of you in the half-unpacked living room. he can feel his pulse in his cock, the heavy ache of it, the way his balls feel tight just from standing this close to you. he wants to hate how easily you affect him.

he does hate it. but he cannot stop the slow drag of his eyes over your body one more time, imagining exactly how you would look spread open on his bed, taking every inch while he tells you how long he has been fighting this.

you shift on your feet, thighs pressing together, and nanami catches the tiny movement. his jaw clenches. he should leave. he should say goodnight and go back to his quiet apartment and jerk off to the memory like he has done more nights than he cares to admit.

your heartbeat picks up its rate, your finger tips sweaty. you feel the air thickening already, noticing the print of your neighbors dick without even looking down.

“so maybe you could stay and i could make you some te–” your proposal is short lived.

“i’ve fixed what you’ve called me to help for. goodnight.” his stern voice catches you off guard, watching him collect and grab the toolbox on the floor that was forgotten seconds ago. you try to say something but stay frozen when he pushes past you, his neck veins slightly showing on his skin.

nanami strides out fast. because right now, with his cock hard and obvious and his control fraying at the edges, he is not sure he has the strength to stay in the same room with you.

and so he leaves you standing in the middle of your apartment with your wifi fixed and a pile of notifications ‘ding-ing’ every seconds.

+

a week drags by in thick, unspoken tension that sits heavy between the thin apartment walls like smoke that refuses to clear.

nanami wakes each morning with the same stern resolution burning behind his eyes: keep the distance, lock it down, pretend the night you called him over for the router never happened. he leaves for the office before the sun fully rises, comes home long after the hallway lights have dimmed, and when he passes your door he keeps his gaze fixed on the scuffed floorboards like they hold the answers to every moral question he has been asking himself since he first felt that inconvenient throb in his jeans. but the memory refuses to fade.

it lingers in the shower when hot water runs down his chest and his hand wraps around his cock without permission, stroking slow and frustrated while your freshly known name slips out between gritted teeth like a confession he wishes he could swallow back.

it follows him into bed at night, where he lies stiff on his back and remembers the exact shade of flush that crept up your neck when his eyes dragged too long over your body.

he hates it. hates how easily a girl barely out of her early twenties can unravel the careful, quiet life he has built for himself. he is older, disciplined, a man who values order and restraint above almost everything, yet here he is, reduced to stolen glances through the balcony railing and late-night strokes that leave him emptier than before.

you do not make any of it easier. you still wave at him from across the narrow gap between your balconies in the mornings, soft smile curving your lips like you know exactly what you are doing to him. you leave polite little notes taped to his door about shared packages or the new recycling bins downstairs, your handwriting neat and looping in a way that makes his fingers tighten around the paper every time.

each accidental brush of your fingers when you hand him mail in the hallway sends a spark straight down his spine, and every polite “good morning, nanami-san” you offer chips away at the walls he keeps trying to reinforce. he catches the sound of your laugh through the thin wall sometimes when you are on the phone with people… your age, light and warm, and his cock thickens in his slacks before he can stop it.

he tells himself it is nothing. just proximity. just the natural reaction of a man who has been alone too long. but deep down he knows the truth: you have gotten under his skin, and the more he tries to push it away the harder it pulls.

tonight the last thread of his restraint finally frays and snaps.

the familiar knock comes at exactly the time he wishes it to, soft but insistent, cutting through the quiet of his evening like a hook sinking into flesh.

nanami opens the door still dressed from the office, white button-up with the sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows, black jeans sitting low on his hips, the faint musty-clean scent of him drifting out into the hallway, clean and faint cologne and the long day clinging to his skin.

you stand there in another oversized t-shirt that slips off one shoulder and those same tiny sleep shorts that have been haunting him, hair not perfect like you had been caught up in something… private, cheeks already carrying that telltale pink flush. it’s as if last week was repeating itself.

“the router again,” you say, voice small and breathy, but your eyes are not on any imaginary problem. they trace the open collar of his shirt, the broad line of his shoulders, the way his chest fills the doorway. “it keeps dropping signal. i tried everything you showed me last time but… i think i need your help again.”

he should tell you no. should suggest you call the building manager in the morning this time and close the door before the air between you thickens any further. instead he exhales slowly through his nose, jaw tight, and reaches for the small toolbox he keeps by the door without saying a word.

he follows you next door, the faint click of the lock behind him sounding louder than it should. the moment you are both inside the living room the atmosphere shifts, warmer and heavier, like the space itself is holding its breath. you lead him to the same corner shelf where the router sits, but this time you do not hover at a polite distance.

you stand close enough that your bare arm brushes his rough skin when he crouches down to look. the lights on the router are steady green. he knows it is working fine the second he glances at it. and most definitely you know it.

the excuse is paper-thin and neither of you bothers to pretend otherwise.

nanami rises slowly, turning to face you fully, his tall frame casting a shadow over you in the soft lamplight. his eyes do the same slow, solemn drag they did the week before, only heavier now, sharpened by seven long days of fighting the memory of your body.

he watches the way your nipples have already tightened under the thin fabric of your shirt, the subtle press of your thighs together like the ache between them is already building. his cock responds immediately, swelling thick and heavy inside his black jeans, the thick ridge becoming obvious as it presses against the denim. he’s sure a faint damp spot is beginning to form, but he does not try to hide it this time. he lets you see. lets the weight of his stare settle on you like a touch.

“the router is working fine,” he says, voice low and rough, carrying that same stern tone he always uses, like he is delivering a verdict in court rather than standing in your living room with a hard-on he cannot will away. “you know that as well as i do. why did you really call me over here?”

you swallow visibly, eyes flicking down to the clear outline of his cock straining against his jeans before rising back to his face.

your chest rises and falls with a heavier breath, lips parting slightly, but instead of answering you take one slow step back. then another. your hands move to the waistband of your sleep shorts, fingers hooking under the fabric, and you bend forward just enough to slide them down your legs in one smooth motion.

the shorts pool at your ankles and you step out of them, leaving you in nothing but a pair of grey lace panties with delicate pink ribbons threaded along the edges. the soft fabric clings to the curve of your pussy, the faint outline of your folds visible through the thin material, and nanami’s right leg twitches involuntarily, his cock jerking hard inside his jeans at the sight.

his brows draw together in a quick pretend of frown, serious expression tightening. “what are you doing?” he asks, voice dropping even lower, a clear warning threaded through the words. but you do not stop. your fingers catch the hem of your oversized t-shirt next, lifting it slowly, inch by inch, revealing the soft skin of your stomach, the delicate dip of your waist, the underside of your breasts.

you pull the shirt up and over your head, letting it drop to the floor beside the shorts, and now you stand there in only the grey lace panties, tits bare, nipples stiff in the cool air of the room. nanami’s breath catches, his hands flexing hard at his sides, the long fingers curling into fists as he fights the urge to reach for you.

he says your name then, low and rough, the syllables heavy with warning. “don’t.” but you only smile, small and soft and knowing, and continue. your thumbs hook into the waistband of the panties, sliding them down your hips with agonizing slowness, the lace catching briefly on the swell of your ass before you let them fall.

you step out of them completely, now fully naked in front of him, skin flushed warm under his heavy gaze. you walk toward him, bare feet quiet on the floor, hips swaying just enough to make your tits move softly with each step. when you are close enough that he can feel the heat radiating from your body, when his mouth opens to speak again, you lift one finger and press it gently to his lips, shushing him.

nanami lets out a small, broken sound, half whimper, half groan, the noise slipping out before he can stop it. his cock throbs visibly in his jeans, another bead of pre-cum soaking into the fabric as the tension coils tighter in the narrow space between your bodies.

he exhales shakily against your finger, eyes dark and conflicted, thick needy lines deepening on his face. “you’re a very young girl…” he trails off, voice rough and strained, the words carrying the weight of every reason he has been telling himself to stay away.

you pull your finger back just enough to speak, voice soft but steady. “i’m legal.”

“barely,” he counters immediately, the word clipped, his gaze dropping despite himself to the bare curve of your breasts, it taught him to squeeze on them and make you feel good, the soft swell of your hips, the smooth skin between your thighs where he can already see the faint shine of arousal. “you’re barely twenty-something. i’m more than twice your age. this… this is not appropriate.”

you tilt your head slightly, still standing naked and unashamed in front of him, the tension so thick it feels like the air itself has weight. “and yet you’re standing here with your cock so hard i can see it twitching through your jeans,” you murmur, eyes flicking down pointedly to the obvious bulge. “you’ve been avoiding me all week, nanami-san, but you still came over the second i knocked. tell me again how inappropriate this is.”

caught him red handed. fuck you.

he lets out another low groan, the sound vibrating in his chest, his hand coming up like he might push you away but instead hovering just above your waist, fingers trembling with restraint. “you have no idea what you’re asking for,” he says, voice quieter now, almost pained. “i’m not some young man who can just… give in without consequences. you deserve better than an older neighbor who can’t keep his eyes off you.”

the banter stretches, slow and heavy, every word laced with the electric pull between you. you step even closer, your bare breasts brushing the front of his white shirt, nipples dragging against the fabric, and nanami’s breath hitches sharply. “then why does it feel like you’ve been thinking about this as much as i have?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper. “why do you look at me like you want to bend me over every time we pass in the hall?”

his jaw clenches, the muscle ticking visibly, but his eyes stay locked on yours even as his cock continues to throb between you.

“because i do,” he admits finally, the words dragged out like they cost him something. “i want to. more than i should. but you’re young. barely out of college. and i’m… this.” he gestures vaguely at himself, the musty yet cleaned scent of his body stronger now with the heat rising off his skin, the faint sweat dampening the collar of his shirt. “a tired man who should know better.”

you smile again, softer this time, and reach up to trace one finger along the line of his jaw. “then stop fighting it for one night,” you whisper. “just let yourself have me. i want you, nanami. i’ve wanted you since the first time you fixed my router and looked at me like you were starving.”

the silence stretches again, thick and humming with tension, his breath coming heavier now, chest rising and falling against yours. his hand finally settles on your waist, large palm warm and slightly rough against your bare skin, thumb stroking once, slow and deliberate.

he does not pull you closer yet, but he does not push you away either. the battle is still there in his eyes, solemn and conflicted, but the hunger is winning, inch by aching inch, as the minutes tick by in the quiet room and his cock continues to strain painfully against his jeans, waiting for the moment his restraint finally gives out completely.

nanami’s hand tightens on your waist, fingers spanning wide enough to nearly wrap around the curve of it, and the last of his resistance crumbles like dry paper under the heat of your bare skin against his palm.

he exhales once, long and shaky, eyes still calculated but dark now with the kind of hunger he has been trying to bury for weeks, and then he is moving, guiding you backward until the backs of your knees hit the couch and you sink down onto the cushions. he follows without a word, dropping to his knees between your spread thighs like a man who has finally stopped pretending he can walk away.

his broad shoulders push your legs wider, the white button-up stretching tight across his chest as he leans in, breath hot against the inside of your thigh. he looks up at you one last time, jaw set, like he is giving you one final chance to tell him no, but you only slide your fingers into his neatly combed hair and tug him closer. that is all it takes.

his mouth finds your pussy like he has been starving for it, lips parting to drag a slow, broad stripe up your folds, tongue flat and heavy as he tastes you properly for the first time. the groan that vibrates out of his chest is low and rough, almost pained, because you are already soaked, slick coating his tongue in a way that makes his cock jerk hard inside his jeans.

he licks again, slower this time, savoring the way your thighs tremble on either side of his head, then seals his mouth around your clit and sucks gently, tongue flicking in tight little circles that have your back arching off the couch. one of his huge hands slides up your stomach, palm pressing flat just below your navel, and he pushes down with just enough pressure to make your pussy clench around nothing.

the size of his hand there is obscene, fingers spread wide so his pinky rests near the base of your ribs and his thumb brushes the top of your mound, the sheer scale of him against your smaller frame making everything feel tighter, hotter, more overwhelming.

nanami eats you out like he has all night and nothing else matters, tongue sliding deep between your folds before circling back up to your clit, sucking and licking in a rhythm that builds slow and relentless. his free hand grips your thigh, spreading you even wider, thumb digging into the soft flesh while he buries his face deeper, nose pressing against your mound as he drinks down every drop of you. the wet sounds fill the quiet room, wet and loud, his groans mixing with the slick slide of his tongue and the shaky breaths you keep letting out.

he keeps that steady pressure on your lower belly the whole time, palm rubbing slow circles that make your insides twist and flutter, the tummy bullying so deliberate it feels like he is trying to feel exactly where his mouth is working from the inside. your hips twitch, trying to ride his face, but he holds you down with that big hand, keeping you exactly where he wants you while he pushes you closer and closer to the edge.

when you come it hits hard and sudden, pussy pulsing against his tongue as your thighs clamp around his head and a broken moan spills out of you. nanami does not stop. he keeps licking you through it, slower now but just as thorough, tongue dragging over your oversensitive clit until your whole body jerks and you try to squirm away from the intensity.

he only presses his palm firmer against your stomach, holding you in place, the slight overstimulation making your eyes water and your voice crack on his name. “nanami…plea– fuck, it’s too much,” you whimper, but he just hums against you, the vibration sending another sharp spark through your core, and slides two thick fingers into your still-clenching pussy without warning. they stretch you wide, the size of them so much bigger than your own that you feel every knuckle, every ridge, as he curls them deep and starts pumping slow and steady.

he lifts his head just enough to watch his fingers disappear inside you, eyes dark and tempting, lips shiny with your slick. “look at how well you take them,” he murmurs, voice gravel-rough, the praise low and almost reverent as he presses down on your belly again with his other hand, feeling the way his fingers create a very faint bulge against your walls from the outside.

the pressure makes everything tighter, more intense, and you clench hard around him, another wave of overstimulation crashing through you while he keeps fingering you through the aftershocks. his thumb finds your clit, rubbing slow circles that have you shaking, the combination of his thick fingers stretching you open and the firm press on your tummy turning every breath into a broken little sob.

he does not rush. he just keeps working you, long fingers dragging along that perfect spot inside while his palm rubs steady circles on your stomach, bullying that soft lower belly until you are dripping down his wrist and whimpering his name like it will make it better than it already is.

only when your thighs are trembling uncontrollably and your pussy is fluttering helplessly around his fingers does he finally ease up, sliding them out slow and careful, bringing them to his mouth to lick clean with a low groan that makes your stomach flip.

he stays on his knees between your legs for a long moment, forehead resting against your thigh, breathing hard while his cock strains painfully against his jeans, the front of the fabric dark with pre-cum. when he finally looks up at you his eyes are still determined, still carrying that quiet conflict, but the hunger has won completely now, and the way he stares at your flushed, marked body makes it clear he is nowhere near done with you tonight.

nanami stays on his knees between your spread thighs for another long, heavy breath, forehead pressed to the soft skin just above your knee while his chest rises and falls like he is trying to steady something inside himself that already broke minutes ago. his fingers are still shiny with you, the faint scent of his skin mixed with the sharp sweetness of your pussy hanging thick in the air.

when he finally moves it is slow and deliberate, like every motion costs him something. he rises to his full height, towering over you on the couch, white button-up wrinkled and damp at the collar from the heat rolling off both of you. his hands, large and steady, slide under your thighs and around your back in one smooth motion, scooping you up off the cushions like you weigh nothing at all.

your legs wrap around his slim waist on instinct, heels digging into the firm muscle of his lower back, and the sudden shift leaves you gasping against his shoulder because he lifts you so easily, strong arms locking you against his chest while your bare pussy hovers right above the heavy bulge still trapped in his jeans.

he does not give you time to look down. one arm stays banded tight under your ass, holding your weight like it is effortless, while his free hand works between your bodies to unbuckle his belt with a quiet metallic clink. the zipper follows, the sound loud in the quiet room, and he shoves both jeans and briefs down just enough to free himself.

you feel the thick, heavy length spring up against your inner thigh, hot and velvet-smooth, the blunt mushroom head already slick and leaking. before you can even tilt your head to catch a glimpse he shifts you higher in his arms, pressing your back against the nearest wall for leverage, and uses that same free hand to guide the fat head of his cock right to your dripping entrance.

the broad tip nudges through your folds, rubbing slow and deliberate, coating himself in your slick while he watches your face with those solemn dark eyes, brows knitted tight like he is still fighting the last scraps of restraint.

“breathe,” he mutters, voice low and rough, the single word almost gentle even as his hips tilt forward. he helps you sink down, one thick inch at a time, the stretch burning so good it makes your jaw go slack and your eyes flutter half-shut.

he is big, thicker than anything you have taken, the veined shaft dragging along your walls as he lowers you steadily until your ass meets his hips and he is buried to the hilt. a quiet groan tears from his throat when he bottoms out, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours, and for a long second he just holds you there, letting you feel every inch of him pulsing deep inside your smaller body.

you’re pressed and folded in an awkward position, and it only makes the size difference feel more obscene, your soft curves dwarfed by his tall, solid frame.

nanami does not wait long. his hands grip your ass harder, fingers digging into the soft flesh, and he starts to move, lifting you up and dropping you back down onto his cock with controlled, powerful strokes that hammer into you deep enough to punch the air from your lungs. each thrust makes your whole body jolt in his arms, tits bouncing under nothing. bare and free for him to watch, back sliding against the wall while he fucks up into you like he has been imagining it for weeks.

his height towers over you completely, shoulders broad enough to block out the room, white shirt straining across his chest with every roll of his hips.

the mushroom head of his cock drags perfectly along that spot inside you on every downstroke, the sheer size of him making your belly bulge slightly every time he bottoms out, a faint outline visible under your skin if you looked down, but he keeps your face buried against his neck so you cannot.

he keeps that steady, punishing rhythm, hips snapping up hard while his arms hold you suspended like you are weightless, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing louder with every thrust. sweat beads along his hairline, dampening the collar of his shirt, and his breath comes in hot, measured pants against your ear.

“too big for you?” he asks, voice strained but still carrying that solemn edge, even as he grinds deep and holds you there for a heartbeat, letting you feel how completely he fills you.

your only answer is a broken moan and loled nod, nails digging into his shoulders through his shirt, legs tightening around his waist as another wave of overstimulation starts building fast. he does not slow down. he just keeps lifting and dropping you onto every thick inch, eyebrows still knitted in concentration, eyes flicking between your slack mouth and the way your body takes him so greedily.

his shirt keeps getting in the way, bunching up between both of you, so he shifts his grip, one hand sliding up to yank the fabric higher until it is completely off of him, exposing his sweaty chest completely to the cool air and your half-focused stare.

now there is nothing between you but sweat-slick skin and the relentless drag of his cock stretching you open. he leans in, mouth finding your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin while he hammers into you harder, the angle shifting so the head of his cock bullies that perfect spot with every upward thrust. your smaller frame jolts in his arms with each powerful stroke, pussy clenching tight around the thick length splitting you apart, and nanami groans low and deep, the sound rumbling through his chest as he feels you start to flutter around him again.

he keeps you pinned against the wall like that, towering over you, strong arms never tiring as he fucks you deep and steady, the size difference so stark it makes your head spin. every time he bottoms out his hips grind against your clit, the pressure on your lower belly from the inside making everything feel tighter, fuller, more overwhelming.

you are already close again, thighs shaking around his waist, voice cracking on his name, and nanami just holds you there, determined eyes locked on your face while he drives you closer to the edge with every heavy thrust, determined to feel you come around his cock before he lets himself follow.

nanami’s rhythm starts to falter just a little, hips snapping up with shorter, more desperate strokes while his breath comes hot and ragged against the side of your neck. he can feel it building fast, that tight coil low in his gut, his heavy balls drawing up tight and aching as your pussy flutters and squeezes around every thick inch of him.

but he refuses to let go first. he is older, more controlled, and right now that control means making sure you fall apart completely before he does.

with a low grunt he shifts his grip, one big hand sliding under your ass to tilt your hips forward while the other presses flat against your lower back, forcing your spine into a deep arch that pushes your pelvis out and opens you up even more obscenely. the new angle is nasty, almost cruel, your body folded and suspended in his arms so your clit grinds hard against the base of his cock on every upward thrust and the fat head of him drags directly into that spongy spot inside you at a brutal upward curve.

your legs dangle wider, heels kicking uselessly against his lower back, the sheer size difference making you feel like you are being split open and rearranged from the inside while he holds you like a toy.

he starts hammering into you with that filthy new angle, cock bullying that spot over and over until your eyes roll back and broken sobs start spilling from your slack mouth.

the overstimulation crashes in hard and fast, your already sensitive pussy clenching and spasming around him while tears prick at the corners of your eyes and start to slip down your flushed cheeks.

your hand flies down between your bodies on instinct, palm pushing weakly at his lower stomach like you can stop the relentless drag of his cock, fingers scrabbling against the damp fabric of his white shirt. nanami’s eyes narrow, jaw tightening, and he leans in close, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he hisses the words low and dark, “do that again and i’ll fucking hurt you good.”

the threat hits you like a live wire. your whole body seizes, a choked cry tearing from your throat, and then you are squirting hard around his cock, hot fluid gushing out in messy pulses that soak his jeans, drip down his balls, and splatter onto the floor beneath you.

nanami groans deep and filthy at the feeling, the wet heat flooding around him making his cock twitch violently inside you. he does not slow down. if anything he fucks you harder, hips snapping up with wet, punishing slaps while his free hand slides between your bodies and starts tracing tight, relentless infinity signs over your swollen clit with two thick fingers. the pressure is mean and perfect, circling and dragging in that figure-eight pattern while he keeps pounding into that nasty folded angle, cock bullying your g-spot and his fingers never letting up on your overstimulated clit.

“i know, baby, i know,” he rasps against your ear, voice hoarse and strained, the words almost soothing even as he wrecks you. “you can take it. just let it happen.” your legs shake violently around his waist, tears streaming freely now, little hiccuping sobs mixing with the wet squelch of your pussy taking every brutal thrust.

nanami keeps that freaky rhythm going, hips rolling deep, fingers drawing those endless infinity loops over your clit until your vision whites out and another shattering orgasm rips through you, pussy clamping down so hard it almost forces him out. he hisses through his teeth, sweat dripping from his brow onto your chest, but he powers through it, fucking you straight through the peak and into the trembling aftershocks.

his own control finally snaps. his balls tighten almost painfully, cock swelling even thicker inside your fluttering walls as he buries himself to the hilt one last time, grinding deep while thick, hot ropes of cum flood you. he comes with a low, broken groan that vibrates through his chest, pulsing hard and endless, filling you so full that it starts leaking out around his cock in creamy white streaks every time he gives one last shallow thrust.

the mess is everywhere, your squirt and his cum dripping down your thighs, soaking the front of his jeans and pooling on the floor, the obscene wet sounds slowly fading as he keeps you pinned against the wall, still buried deep, both of you heaving for air.

nanami’s forehead drops to your shoulder, breathing hard, the last energy well spent, showing of with both of your sweat-soaked body mixing with the sharp smell of sex filling the room. his arms stay locked around you, holding your smaller frame effortlessly even as his cock twitches with the last weak spurts inside you.

for a long moment the only sounds are your shaky sobs and his ragged breathing, bodies trembling together in the aftermath, messy and spent and still connected. he does not pull out yet. he just keeps you there, suspended in his arms, the quiet weight of everything that just happened settling heavy between you while his cum continues to leak slowly out around where he is still buried deep.

nanami stays buried inside you for what feels like forever, thick cock still twitching with the last lazy pulses while warm cum slowly leaks out around where your bodies are joined, dripping down your thighs and onto the floor in messy little trails.

your legs are still wrapped around his waist, trembling, heels digging weakly into his lower back like you cannot quite let go yet, and he keeps holding you up without any effort, strong arms locked under your ass, keeping your smaller frame suspended against the wall like it is the most natural thing in the world. your shaky little sobs eventually quiet into soft, hiccuping breaths, tears drying on your cheeks, but the overstimulation still makes your pussy flutter weakly around him every few seconds, milking out another thin trickle of his cum.

finally he shifts, a low groan rumbling in his chest as he carefully pulls out, the wet sound loud and obscene in the quiet room.

a thick glob of his cum follows immediately, sliding out of your swollen, puffy pussy and running down to join the mess already pooled beneath you. he lowers you gently until your feet touch the floor, but your legs are too shaky to hold you, so he keeps one arm banded around your waist, steadying you against his chest while his other hand tucks himself back into his briefs and jeans with a quiet zip.

the white button-up is wrinkled and damp with sweat when he puts it back on, black jeans dark at the front from your squirt, but he still looks put-together in that quiet, solemn way of his, even now.

he does not say anything at first. just looks down at you with those dark, heavy eyes, thumb brushing slow circles on your bare hip like he cannot quite stop touching you. then he exhales, long and tired, and rests his forehead against yours for a brief second.

“this…” his voice comes out rough, low, almost reluctant. “this can’t happen again.”

the words hang between you, simple and final, even as his hand lingers on your skin and his cum continues to drip slowly down the inside of your thigh.

he presses one last, almost gentle kiss to your temple, the kind of kiss that feels heavier than any promise, before he steps back. his fingers flex once at his sides like he is fighting the urge to pull you close again, then he turns toward the door, shoulders straight, footsteps quiet on the floor.

“get some rest,” he murmurs without looking back, the manly scent of him still clinging to your skin. “and… call the building manager about the router next time.”

the door clicks shut behind him, leaving you standing there naked and trembling in the middle of your living room, thighs sticky, pussy aching and full of him, the quiet weight of what just happened settling deep in your chest. you know he means it. you also know, deep down, that neither of you really believes it.

Hiromi had the girl pinned gently against the desk, his tie loosened, fingers tracing her jaw as he kissed her slow and deep. When he pulled back, she leaned in again, lips brushing his collarbone before trailing down to press open-mouthed kisses along the defined lines of his abs. Soft, appreciative little sounds escaped her—nothing scripted, just genuine. Nanami, waiting his turn in the scene, watched with that steady gaze of his, then stepped in seamlessly, one large hand cupping the back of her neck as he guided her mouth lower. She kissed his stomach with the same unhurried affection, fingers tracing the sharp V-lines like she was memorizing them.

You didn’t say a word. Just nodded once to the cameraman for a tighter shot on the kisses. The chemistry was effortless. No barked orders needed.

From the side of the set, Satoru Gojo was watching the monitors like they’d personally betrayed him. White hair tousled under his cap, arms folded tight across his chest, blue eyes narrowed behind his usual shades (which he refused to take off even indoors). Suguru lounged beside him, looking amused as ever.

“...They’re kissing their abs,” Satoru muttered, voice pitched low but dripping with disbelief. “Actual kissing. Not just a quick peck and straight to the money shot. She’s down there like it’s a fucking buffet and they’re the main course.”

Suguru snorted softly, not taking his eyes off the scene. “Jealous, Satoru? Thought you were the pretty one.”

“I am the pretty one,” Satoru hissed, gesturing vaguely at the monitor. “But apparently ‘pretty’ doesn’t get spontaneous stomach worship anymore. When’s the last time a girl did that to me without you directing her to ‘make it look passionate’?”

You caught the tail end of that, glancing over your shoulder with a raised brow. Your smile widened just a fraction sharp and knowing. Satoru noticed. Of course he did.

“Don’t even start,” he warned, pointing a finger at you. “I see that evil little smirk, director. You’re enjoying this.”

“Enjoying professional work? Guilty,” you replied lightly, turning back to the monitors as Nanami delivered a low, rumbling line that made the actress visibly shiver. “They read the brief. Slow build. Foreplay that sells the fantasy. You should try it sometime instead of pouting.”

Satoru made a dramatic noise of offense, clutching his chest. “Pouting? This is righteous indignation. My abs are legendary. Olympic-level. People write fanfiction about these things.”

“Fanfiction doesn’t pay the lighting bill,” Suguru deadpanned, patting Satoru’s shoulder. “Relax. Next scene’s yours. Maybe they’ll kiss yours too if you stop sulking like a kicked puppy.”

“Next scene better have worship,” Satoru grumbled, but his eyes kept flicking back to the monitor where the girl was now trailing her lips along Higuruma’s side, looking genuinely into it.

The scene wrapped smoothly—two takes max. You called cut with genuine praise. “Beautiful work. That’s the energy. Natural, connected. Great job, everyone.”

The actress, still a little flushed, didn’t immediately bolt for her robe like usual. Instead she laughed softly at something Nanami said, reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead with surprising gentleness. Higuruma offered her a water bottle with a quiet smile, murmuring thanks for the chemistry. She touched his arm in return, lingering just a second longer than necessary. Real affection. Post-scene glow that wasn’t faked for tips.

Satoru’s jaw actually dropped a little.

“What the actual fuck,” he whispered. “She’s petting them. Like house cats. When’s the last time anyone petted me after a scene? I get ‘good job, Gojo’ and a high-five if I’m lucky.”

Suguru leaned in, voice teasing and low. “Aw, baby. I’ll kiss your abs next time if it makes you feel better.” He winked exaggeratedly, puckering his lips in mock seduction.

Satoru shoved him away with a laugh that sounded a little forced. “Not helping, Suguru. Not helping.”

You shook your head, already moving on to notes for the next setup. “Gojo, you’re up in fifteen. Try not to scare the new girl with your sudden need for validation.”

He opened his mouth for a retort, but you were already walking off, clipboard in hand.

…

Later, after wrap, the studio had mostly cleared out. You were in your small office-adjacent room reviewing footage when you heard the familiar sound of someone muttering to themselves. Curiosity won. You poked your head into the adjacent dressing area.

There was Satoru, shirt lifted up to his chest, standing in front of the full-length mirror. He was poking at his own abs with a critical finger, turning side to side like he was inspecting a used car.

“...Still defined,” he was saying under his breath. “Six-pack? Check. Obliques? Sharp. Why the hell were they getting kissed like—"

You couldn’t help it. A snort escaped.

Satoru whipped around, shirt dropping like he’d been caught stealing. “Hey! Privacy!”

“You’re standing in the middle of the studio lounge area staring at your own stomach like it betrayed you,” you pointed out, leaning against the doorframe. “Not exactly private. And yeah… you’re not serious right now, Gojo. Omg.”

“I am deadly serious,” he declared, lifting the shirt again defiantly. “Look at this. This is prime real estate. Abs for days. I do crunches in my sleep. Why am I not getting spontaneous make-out sessions with my midsection on set? Those two walk in looking like tax attorneys who hit the gym and suddenly it’s abs-kissing hour.”

You stepped closer, arms crossed, trying (and failing) to keep a straight face. “Because they didn’t spend the first five minutes of their scene complaining about ‘emotional thrusting’ or trying to turn every take into a comedy bit. They listened. They delivered slow, sensual foreplay. The girls respond to that. Chemistry isn’t just thrusting harder—it’s the vibe.”

Satoru dropped his shirt, running a hand through his hair with a groan. “Vibe. Great. Now I’m losing to vibe. Next you’ll tell me I need to start meditating or some shit before scenes.”

“Wouldn’t hurt,” you shrugged, smirking. “Or you could just stop treating every shoot like it’s a race to the cum shot and actually enjoy the build-up. Shocking concept, I know.”

He narrowed his eyes at you, but there was no real heat—mostly that dramatic Gojo flair mixed with something almost vulnerable. “You’re enjoying my crisis way too much, director.”

“Little bit,” you admitted, tapping your clipboard against your thigh. “It’s cute. Big bad Satoru Gojo having an inferiority complex because someone else’s abs got kissed. Adorable.”

“Not cute. Tragic,” he corrected, flopping dramatically onto the nearby couch. “I’m gonna start a petition. ‘Justice for Gojo’s Abs.’ Suguru already offered to kiss them. That’s how low we’ve sunk.”

From the doorway, Suguru’s voice floated in, lazy and amused. “I stand by my offer, Satoru. One free abs-kiss. No tongue though—union rules.”

Satoru threw a pillow at him. “Traitor.”

You laughed outright, the sound cutting through the room. “Alright, drama king. Save the crisis for after you hit the gym. Maybe if you show up next week looking like you actually care about more than just showing up and looking pretty, the girls will start kissing your stomach too. Or better yet—earn it by not whining between takes.”

He sat up, pointing at you with mock betrayal. “You’re supposed to be on my side. Director’s pet or something.”

“I’m on the side of good footage,” you shot back with a quick wink. “And right now, your abs are fine. The attitude? Needs work. Fix that and maybe you’ll get the spontaneous worship.”

Satoru huffed, but a reluctant grin tugged at his lips. “Fine. But if Higuruma and Nanami get another abs-kissing scene next month, I’m filing a complaint. With HR. Which is you. So be nice to me.”

“Be nice to the script and the girls first,” you countered, already turning to leave. “Then we’ll talk about your precious midsection.”

As you walked out, you heard him mutter to Suguru, “She’s evil. Hot, but evil.”

Suguru’s reply was immediate: “Told you. Now stop staring at your own abs and let’s get food before Toji eats everything.”

…

Weeks later, the studio energy had shifted again.

Satoru showed up to the next big group prep day looking… different. Sharper. The usual lean, pretty-boy build had been replaced by noticeably more defined muscle—shoulders broader, arms cut, and when he casually stripped off his shirt for a quick costume change, the abs were still there but now framed by deeper cuts and a tighter waist. His thighs, always long and strong, looked like they could crush watermelons. Days at the gym, clearly. No one missed it.

Toji whistled low as Satoru walked past. “Damn, pretty boy. You trying to out-abs the new guys or what?”

Satoru flexed dramatically, striking a pose. “Just maintaining the brand. Can’t let the tax lawyers steal all the glory.”

You were reviewing call sheets nearby and didn’t even look up at first. “Gym paying off, Gojo?”

He sauntered over, lifting the hem of his shirt just enough to show the new definition. “See? Prime real estate, upgraded. Tell the girls they can start lining up for kisses. I accept payment in spontaneous affection and compliments.”

You finally glanced over, one brow arched, fighting a smile. “Impressive. You didn’t die doing extra sets?”

“Almost. But worth it. No more inferiority complex. I’m back on top.” He grinned, all cocky confidence again. “Next scene, I want slow foreplay too. Abs-kissing mandatory. Director’s orders?”

You tapped your pen against your lips, pretending to consider. “We’ll see if you can deliver the vibe without turning it into a comedy routine. Earn the kisses, Gojo. Don’t demand them.”

Suguru wandered over, slinging an arm around Satoru’s shoulders. “Look at him. All toned up. I might have to kiss those abs myself now. For morale.”

Satoru shoved him off with a laugh. “Back off, my abs are for the ladies. And maybe one very mean director if she behaves.”

You rolled your eyes, but the smirk was back. “Behave during the scene and we’ll talk. Now go warm up—Nanami and Higuruma are already on set delivering another flawless slow scene. Try not to cry if the girl kisses their abs again.”

“Evil,” Satoru called after you as you walked away, but there was genuine laughter in his voice this time. “You’re still evil!”

From across the room, Toji’s deep chuckle rumbled. “Let the kid have his moment, director. At least he stopped moping and started lifting.”

You didn’t reply, just raised a hand in acknowledgment as you headed toward the monitors.

Another day, another round of chaos.

Satoru’s new thighs caught the light as he moved, and you had to admit—the effort showed.

Maybe, just maybe, the next scene would finally get those spontaneous kisses.

Or at least fewer complaints about them.

© torusbabe 2026.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. DO NOT COPY OR USE.

so when you’d told satoru you were ready to start dating again, he thought you were bluffing. how could you want to date anyone else when he was right in front of you? when he’s constantly on top of you? when he always finds himself inside of you? you and him are practically dating. you go out and do couple-y things, you just lack the label. 

and that’s because while both of you have been addicted to each other since that night, neither of you are bold enough to admit that you have feelings for each other. feelings beyond carnal desire.

you’d simply come to the conclusion that your best friend wanted nothing more from you than just sex and you wanted more. now lines are beginning to blur and you wanted to move on before things got messier than they already were.

now that you are moving on– now that you’re going on a date with some fucker who probably doesn’t even deserve you– he’s upset. beyond upset, actually. he’s livid. 

that’s why he bent you over your bathroom’s vanity, pushed your dress up and makeup products to the ground and thought to prove himself to you.

now his hand tugs at your hair, essentially forcing you to stare at yourself in the mirror while he reduces you to a mess like he does every time his cock is inside of you. 

“mmh, could he make you feel as good as i do, huh? you think he knows how to make this pretty pussy feel good?” the question comes through gritted teeth and it finally clicks in your dumb little brain. “i don’t fucking think so.”

“are you j-jealous or something?” you’re able to ask, though it’s choked. his reply never comes, but his thrusts get harsher– merciless– and you take it as a wordless admission, crying out your next words, “me ‘n you are jus’ friends, t-toru!”

he tugs at your hair harder and the other hand that resides on your waist squeezes your skin gratingly. “we’re not just friends and you fucking know it.” he replies, voice hushed and raw with emotion. 

you do. you know it. you and satoru are glued at the hip both figuratively and literally. there’s no one on the earth that makes you feel a quarter of what you feel for him. and you also know there isn’t a single man who could fuck you as well as satoru does. that was the bet that started this after all. 

but when you told him you wanted to start dating again, he brushed you off with a “yeah, right,” and it made you believe that there wasn’t a chance with him. you figured that the idea of you and satoru being together was simply a dream that would never happen.

though, you’re not so sure anymore because he’s spewing out possessive words faster than you can comprehend while his cock stirs you up. 

the reality is, you’ve always had satoru in the palm of your hand. he was whipped. wrapped around your finger. he doesn’t want to share you– he never has and he can’t believe you’ve been this oblivious. 

“he’s never gonna make you feel this good,” he confidently states. “no one is ever gonna make you feel this good– you’re made for me.” 

“fuck!” you cry, tightening around his cock at the affirmation. “satoru, please!”

“that’s it, pretty, say my fuckin’ name.” he moans, sloppily thrusting into you as his mind runs away from him. “look at me and tell me how much you like it.”

your eyes nearly cross as they try to find his in the mirror, but when they finally land on those baby blue orbs that you truly adore, you feel yourself grow even hotter. “love it. i love it, toru.”

he smiles triumphantly like he’s won the lottery. he’s sure that this is better, though. you? admitting to the fact that you love the way he fucks you? fucking priceless. 

“yeah? you love my cock?” he asks, cockily, yet he knows the answer. 

you give him a broken sob with a nod, “so much!”

“then why don’t you cum for me, baby. cum all over this cock ‘n show me how much you love it.” he coaxes breathily, continuing to fuck you into oblivion. “it’s yours. i’m fucking yours.”

you can’t stop yourself as soon as you hear his request. the tight coil in the pit of your tummy comes undone as you sob out his name. you trap his twitching cock between his spasming cunt all the while he fucks you through your blinding orgasm. every second feels more euphoric than the last, more tears running down your face at the pleasure. 

satoru isn’t far behind you with the way you grip him so heavenly. he’s quickly pulling out, the hand in your hair coming to wrap around his cock. you whine at the loss of his warmth, but you’re pleasantly surprised when you hear the lewd noise of his hand vigorously pumping himself and the sounds of his pretty groans. 

he lets out a string of curses, hand moving quicker before his body jerks and his ribbons of his cum spurt out. some of it lands on your bare ass, but the majority ends up on your date outfit. he can’t help but smile at the fact that he’s ruined your pretty outfit. one meant for someone who isn’t him. 

“you know what? i think you should cancel your date.” he pants out. “‘n be sure to tell him that you’re taken now.”

he watches the way you nod with a dazed smile and he can’t help but feel proud of himself. you’re finally his and he’s finally yours. 

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