Chapter 3 ''Devotion'' (NSFW)

Sukuna stops fighting. No more nights spent in the concubines' wing, no more pretending his feelings for you are fleeting. When he comes to you this time, it's with purpose—to claim what's his.

WC: 3,154 ───〃★ masterlist

You hadn't seen Sukuna in four days.

Not since the night he'd kissed you and left in confusion. Four days of silence. Four days of him nowhere in the palace—rumors said he was in the war room with his generals, handling some distant uprising that demanded his attention.

Danielle and Haerin didn't mention it, but you caught them exchanging worried glances.

Ningning, however, you heard about constantly. The servants whispered that she'd been summoned to his chambers three nights running. That she'd emerged with messy hair and swollen lips, looking triumphant.

You tended your garden and said nothing. But at night, alone in your bed, you wondered if he'd already forgotten you. If the kiss meant nothing. If the connection you'd felt was one-sided.

The camellia was blooming fuller now, its petals opening to the spring sun that was finally—finally—beginning to warm the palace grounds. New flowers were emerging from the soil you'd prepared: plum blossoms in soft pink, early chrysanthemums, jasmine vines that climbed the walls like they were searching for something.

Hope, you supposed. They were all searching for hope.

"My lady, you should rest," Haerin said gently, noticing how you'd been out in the garden since dawn. "You've been working too hard."

"I'm fine," you assured her, though your back ached slightly and you were more tired than usual. Probably just the stress of Sukuna's distance. Your body responded to emotions in strange ways.

The sun was setting when he came.

You were in your chambers, changing into your evening robe, when you sensed him. Not heard him—Sukuna moved like smoke when he wanted to. But you felt his presence the way you felt the change in air before a storm.

"Leave us," he commanded from the doorway, his voice low and rough.

Haerin and Danielle scrambled to obey, bowing so low their foreheads nearly touched the ground before they disappeared through the side entrance.

He stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the corridor light. He looked different tonight. Raw. Like something inside him had finally snapped.

"Sukuna," you greeted, keeping your voice steady despite your racing heart. "I wasn't expecting—"

"Don't," he interrupted, stepping inside and closing the door behind him with deliberate slowness. The sound of the latch clicking shut echoed through the room. "Don't pretend you didn't know I was coming."

"I didn't—"

"You felt it." He moved toward you with that predatory grace, each step deliberate and measured. "The same way I felt you, every moment I was away from this place. Every moment I was somewhere else, with someone else, and all I could think about was you."

Your breath caught. Your stomach twisted with nerves and anticipation.

"Sukuna—"

"I'm done," he said flatly, coming to stand directly in front of you. "Done pretending. Done running. Done lying to myself about what this is."

He reached out slowly, giving you time to pull away. When you didn't, his massive hands cupped your face with surprising gentleness. His thumbs brushed your cheekbones, and you felt the calluses on his skin—evidence of centuries of violence.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, and then he kissed you.

This kiss was nothing like the others. It wasn't searching or confused. It was a declaration. A claiming. A surrender and a conquest all at once.

You melted into it, rising on your toes to meet him, your hands coming up to fist in the fabric of his robes. He tasted like sandalwood and something darker—something entirely him. His lips moved against yours with desperate hunger, like he was trying to memorize the feel of you, the taste of you.

When he pulled back slightly, his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing heavily.

"I've been in the war room for four days telling myself I was thinking about strategy," he murmured against your lips, and you could hear the raw honesty in his voice. "I was thinking about you. Every single moment."

you running your fingers down his chest, feeling his heart racing beneath the fabric.

"I've spent the last three nights in Ningning's bed." His voice was almost angry—at himself, you realized. "Trying to remember why I preferred her. Trying to make the confusion go away. Trying to convince myself that what I feel for you is just..." he trailed off, frustration evident in every line of his body.

You didn't say anything. Just waited, your fingers still tracing patterns on his chest.

"It didn't work," he continued, pulling back to look at you properly, and there was something almost devastated in his expression. "Nothing worked. Because she's not you. She'll never be you. Her touch doesn't make me feel like I'm drowning and flying at the same time."

"Sukuna—"

"I don't know how to do this," he said, something vulnerable breaking through his usual composure. "I don't know how to have something I care about. Everything I touch, I destroy."

"Then we'll figure it out together," you said, reaching up to touch his face. Your fingers traced one of his tattoos, following the pattern with reverent attention, and you felt him shudder slightly at the contact. "I trust you."

Something broke in his expression. "You shouldn't."

"But I do," you said firmly. "Completely."

He kissed you again, and this time it was slower, deeper. His tongue brushed against yours, and you made a small sound of pleasure that seemed to drive him wild. His hands moved from your face down your sides, leaving trails of heat in their wake.

Your robe suddenly felt too warm, too restrictive.

"I need you," he breathed against your neck, his lips finding the sensitive spot where your jaw met your throat. "God, I need you so badly it's killing me."

A shiver ran down your spine at the intensity in his voice. You'd never heard him sound like this—desperate, almost broken.

His hands reached for the tie of your robe, and he paused, his eyes meeting yours. The question was there, unspoken but clear.

"Yes," you said before he could even ask. "Yes to everything."

He untied it slowly, like he was unwrapping something precious. The fabric fell away, and then your sleeping shift followed, leaving you bare before him in the fading sunlight.

For a long moment, he just looked at you. Really looked at you. His eyes—all four of them—traced every curve of your body with an intensity that made you feel like the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

"You're perfect," he whispered, reaching out to touch you. His fingers trailed down your collarbone, across your shoulder, following the line of your ribs. Goosebumps erupted across your skin at his touch. "How are you this perfect?"

"Your curse," you teased breathlessly. "You're surrounded by beautiful women."

"They're not you," he repeated, like it was the only truth that mattered in the world. "They could never be you."

He pulled you against him, one hand splayed across your lower back, pressing you into his body, while the other tangled in your hair. He was still fully clothed, and the rough fabric of his robes against your bare skin sent electric jolts of pleasure through you.

You gasped, tilting your head back, and he took advantage of the exposed line of your throat. His lips found the sensitive skin, kissing, licking, and then gently sucking. You felt a surge of heat between your thighs at the sensation.

"Tell me if you want me to stop," he said, and you could hear how much control this was costing him. How much he was holding back, trying to be careful with you.

"Don't stop," you breathed, your fingers gripping his shoulders. "Don't ever stop."

He made a sound low in his throat—something between a groan and a growl—and carried you to your bed with surprising gentleness. He laid you down on the silk cushions like you were made of glass, then stepped back.

You watched, your breath coming faster, as he removed his clothes. First his outer robe, letting it fall to the floor. Then the undershirt, revealing the powerful expanse of his chest. The tattoos covered more of his skin than you'd realized—intricate patterns that seemed to move in the candlelight.

He was a work of art. Terrifying and beautiful in equal measure.

His hands went to the tie of his pants, and he held your gaze as he untied them, letting them fall away. He was fully aroused, and the sight made your mouth go dry. He was large everywhere, intimidating, but instead of fear, you only felt desire.

"Come here," you whispered, reaching for him, and he settled over you with the care of someone handling something infinitely precious.

He kissed you again—deeper this time, slower. His hands mapped your body with reverent attention, learning every curve, every sensitive spot. When his fingers found the inside of your wrist and traced small circles there, you gasped at how erotic such a simple touch could be.

His lips moved down your neck, across your collarbone, and you felt your body responding, heat pooling low in your belly. Your skin was hypersensitive to every touch, every breath he exhaled against you.

"I'm going to mark you," he murmured against your skin, his voice rough with desire. "So everyone knows you're mine. So there's no question about who you belong to."

The possessiveness in his voice should have bothered you. Instead, it thrilled you. "Yes," you breathed. "Do it."

He kissed and sucked at the delicate skin of your neck, your shoulder, the curve where neck met collarbone. You knew it would leave bruises—dark marks that would be visible to everyone in the palace. The thought made you shiver with anticipation and need.

His hands moved lower, tracing the curve of your waist, the swell of your hip, and then between your thighs. You gasped at the intimacy of his touch, at how vulnerable you felt laid bare beneath him.

He was unhurried, almost reverent, learning what made you tremble and moan. His fingers found the sensitive bundle of nerves and stroked it slowly, deliberately, watching your face as pleasure rippled through you.

"That's it," he murmured. "Let me see how you respond to me. Let me know what makes you feel good."

His fingers dipped lower, and he groaned when he felt how wet you were. "All for me?" he asked, and there was such raw satisfaction in his voice.

"Only for you," you gasped, your hips moving against his hand. "Always only for you."

He kissed you again, his tongue mimicking the movements of his fingers, and the dual sensation was almost overwhelming. Your hands gripped his shoulders, your nails digging slightly into his skin, and he hissed in pleasure.

"I want to taste you," he said, pulling away. "Will you let me?"

Your breath caught. You'd never—no one had ever—

"Yes," you whispered, nodding eagerly.

He kissed his way down your body, his lips mapping every inch of your skin. When he reached the apex of your thighs, he paused, looking up at you with an expression of reverent hunger.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered. "So perfect. I'm going to make you feel so good, sweetheart."

And then his mouth was on you, and stars exploded behind your eyes.

It was overwhelming—the intimacy of it, the pleasure of it. His tongue worked against you with devastating precision, finding exactly the right pressure, the right rhythm. Your hands tangled in his hair, and you couldn't help the broken moans that escaped your lips.

"Sukuna," you gasped, your body tightening as pleasure built inside you. "Sukuna, I'm—"

"I know," he murmured against you. "Let go. Come for me. I want to feel it."

One more stroke of his tongue and you shattered, pleasure crashing through you in waves. You cried out his name, your entire body convulsing with the intensity of it. He held you through it, continuing his ministrations until you were completely undone.

When he finally pulled back, his lips glistened, and he looked incredibly pleased with himself.

"I could spend hours doing that," he said, kissing his way back up your body. "Hours just tasting you, learning you, making you come for me again and again."

"Sukuna," you breathed, your whole body still trembling. "I need you. Inside me. Please."

He settled between your thighs, his hardness pressing against your entrance. He moved slowly, giving your body time to adjust to him, and it was the most exquisite torture.

"Relax," he murmured against your ear, his voice impossibly gentle given the tension you could feel coiled in his body. "I've got you. Just relax and let me in."

You took a deep breath and felt him push deeper. He was large, and there was a moment of discomfort, but then he was fully inside you, and the sensation was indescribable. Full. Complete. Right.

"Oh god," you gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders.

"Are you okay?" he asked, and you heard the concern in his voice. "Does it hurt?"

"No," you breathed. "It's perfect. You're perfect. Just... give me a second."

He kissed your forehead, your cheeks, your lips, while you adjusted. His hands stroked your sides soothingly, and you felt yourself relaxing into him.

"Okay," you whispered. "Move."

He started slowly, carefully, like he was afraid of hurting you. But as your body responded, moving with his, his control began to slip.

"You feel incredible," he groaned, his movements becoming deeper, more purposeful. "So tight. So perfect. You're made for me, aren't you? This is exactly where you're supposed to be."

"Yes," you gasped, meeting his thrusts. "Yes, I'm yours. Only yours."

"Damn right you are," he growled, and there was something primal in the way he said it that sent heat spiraling through you again.

He changed his angle slightly, and suddenly he was hitting something inside you that made your vision blur with pleasure. You cried out, your back arching off the bed.

"That's it," he murmured, finding that spot again and again. "Right there. I've got you."

You were close again, the pleasure building rapidly. His movements were becoming less controlled now, more desperate, and you could feel him losing himself in you.

"Come with me," he commanded, his voice rough. "Look at me and come with me."

You opened your eyes and met his gaze, and the intensity in his expression was almost too much. There was nothing held back now—no walls, no guards. Just raw emotion and raw need.

"I love you," he breathed. "I love you so much it's destroying me."

"I love you too," you gasped, and then pleasure overtook everything.

You came hard, your body clenching around him, and he followed moments later, burying himself as deep as he could go before spilling inside you. He groaned your name like a prayer, his entire body rigid with the force of his climax.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Just breathed. Just existed in the aftermath of what had just happened.

He rolled to the side, pulling you with him, keeping you pressed against his chest. His heart was racing beneath your ear, gradually slowing to a normal rhythm. His hands stroked your hair, your back, in soothing circles.

"I love you," he said into the darkness, the words soft but absolute. "I'm terrified of that love, but I love you completely."

The words hung there, shocking in their simplicity and their depth.

You tilted your head back to look at him. "You don't have to say that because of what just happened."

"I'm not," he said, his eyes deadly serious. "I've known for days. Maybe longer. I was just too terrified to admit it. Too afraid that you'd reject me, or that I'd hurt you, or that I'd destroy something beautiful like I destroy everything else."

You reached up, touching his face gently, tracing the line of his jaw. "I love you too. I've been waiting for you to stop running."

"How?" he asked, something almost agonized in his voice. "How can you love me? After everything I am, everything I've done—"

"Because you're more than that," you said simply. "Because underneath all the power and violence, there's someone worth loving. Someone I choose to love, every single day."

He kissed you again, softer this time. More tender. Like he was trying to pour all his emotion into the contact.

"I'm going to ruin you," he murmured against your lips. "My life, my enemies—there's danger everywhere around me."

"Then I'll face it with you," you replied. "We're partners now. Not empress and emperor. Not wife and husband. Partners."

He held you through the night, and every time you shifted slightly, he pulled you closer, like he was afraid you'd disappear. You fell asleep to the sound of his heartbeat, feeling safer and more loved than you'd ever felt in your life.

Morning came too soon.

You woke to find him already awake, watching you sleep. The first rays of sunlight filtered through the screens, painting everything in shades of gold and amber. His arm was still around your waist, and his eyes were soft as they traced your face.

"Hi," you murmured sleepily, stretching against him. The movement brought you into contact with his aroused length, and you felt heat bloom across your cheeks.

"Hi," he replied, and there was something almost shy in his voice. Like he didn't know how to be tender in daylight. "Did I hurt you?"

"Not even a little," you assured him, running your fingers across his chest. "I'm fine. Better than fine."

He leaned down and kissed you softly, and you felt it all over again—that flutter of butterflies, that sense of rightness.

"Everyone in the palace is going to know exactly what happened between us," he murmured, pulling back to look at you. His eyes traveled over your neck, your shoulders, and you followed his gaze to the mirror across the room.

You gasped. Your neck and shoulders were covered in marks—dark bruises in the shape of his lips and teeth. There were at least a dozen visible, and you had no doubt there were more hidden beneath your shift.

"Oh my gods," you breathed.

He looked absolutely smug. "Good. Let them talk."

"Ningning will have a fit," you said, and it was meant to be joking, but there was an edge of concern beneath it.

His expression hardened immediately, all the softness vanishing. "Ningning is no longer my concern. You are. Only you. From this moment forward, there is no one else. No concubine, no past lover, no one. Just you."

There was something possessive and primal in the way he said it, something that should have bothered you but instead thrilled you to your core.

"Promise me," you whispered.

"I promise," he said, kissing your forehead. "With everything I am."

By noon, the entire palace knew.

Servants whispered about it as they passed in corridors. The other concubines eyed you with new respect and new resentment when you walked through the halls. And Ningning...

Ningning locked herself in her chambers, refusing all visitors.

But in the darkness, as she stared at nothing, her hands clenched into fists so tight her nails drew blood.

Two years. Two years of careful cultivation. Two years of perfecting herself, of learning his preferences, of being exactly what she thought he wanted.

And it had all been for nothing.

A gentle woman with dirt under her fingernails and kindness in her eyes had stolen what Ningning had thought was hers forever.

She looked at her reflection in the mirror and made a decision.

If the Empress thought her victory was secure, she was a fool.

Ningning was many things, but she was not a quitter.

And she had absolutely nothing left to lose.

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Chapter 2: The Softening

The impossible garden grows, and so does Sukuna's interest in his third wife. But confusion clouds his desire—he seeks comfort in familiar arms while drawn to your chambers. Ningning watches his divided attention with growing desperation. In a palace where love is a weapon, you offer something far more dangerous: genuine acceptance.

WC: 2,838───〃★ masterlist

The camellia became a conversation piece.

Within a week, the entire palace knew about it—the impossible flower blooming in the dead of winter, a gift from an emperor who'd never given gifts before. Servants whispered about it in corridors. Concubines eyed it with barely concealed jealousy when they passed your garden.

You simply tended it with the same gentle care you showed everything else.

"It's beautiful, my lady," Haerin said softly one morning, kneeling beside you as you checked the soil moisture. She'd grown bolder over the past week, speaking without prompting, even smiling occasionally. "The petals are so delicate."

"Like snow," Danielle added, carefully watering the seedlings you'd planted nearby. "But warmer somehow."

You touched one pale pink petal, marveling at its softness. "Camellias symbolize devotion," you murmured. "And eternal love in some cultures."

Both girls went very still.

"Do you think..." Haerin started, then stopped, biting her lip.

"Do I think what?"

"Do you think the Emperor meant it that way?" she finished in a rush, her cheeks flushing. "Or was it just... a whim?"

You considered the question carefully. In the week since Sukuna's midnight visit, you'd seen him only twice—once from a distance as he walked through the palace grounds with his advisors, and once when he'd passed by your garden, pausing just long enough to ensure the camellia still lived before continuing on without a word.

But you'd heard things. Whispers from servants about where he spent his nights.

The concubines' wing.

"I think," you said slowly, "that even whims can mean something. And I think that a man who's spent his life destroying things doesn't accidentally create beauty."

Danielle's eyes went soft. "You like him."

It wasn't a question.

"I don't know him well enough to like or dislike him," you replied honestly. "But I'm... curious about him. About who he is when he's not being the monster everyone expects."

"The second empress was terrified of him," Haerin whispered. "She used to have nightmares."

"And the first?"

"Angry," Danielle said. "Always angry. She hated that he had concubines, hated that he wouldn't give them up for her. She made everyone miserable until he finally sent her away."

You hummed thoughtfully, returning your attention to the camellia. "Fear and anger. Both are exhausting emotions to maintain. Maybe that's why neither marriage lasted."

"And you, my lady?" Haerin asked. "What emotion do you feel toward him?"

You smiled. "Hope, I suppose. Hope that under all that power and violence, there's something worth knowing."

A voice like dark honey interrupted: "Careful, little empress. Hope is dangerous in a place like this."

You looked up to find Ningning standing at the garden entrance, wrapped in furs despite the braziers warming the space. She looked immaculate as always—her hair perfectly arranged, her robes the deep red that Sukuna reportedly favored. But there was something sharper in her expression today. Something almost... hungry.

"Ningning," you greeted warmly. Danielle and Haerin immediately bowed, but you gestured for them to continue working. "You're welcome to join us, if you'd like. We're planning the spring layout."

"In winter," she said, echoing her words from before. But this time there was less mockery in her tone and more assessment. Her eyes lingered on the camellia with an expression you couldn't quite read. "You really believe spring will come, don't you?"

"It always does," you replied simply. "Even after the longest winters."

She studied you for a long moment, then surprised you by actually stepping into the garden, kneeling across from you with practiced grace. Up close, you noticed the faint shadows under her eyes, the tightness around her mouth.

"The other concubines think you're playing a game," she said. "Being sweet and gentle to manipulate him."

"And what do you think?"

"I think," Ningning said slowly, her fingers trailing over the frozen earth, "that you're either the smartest woman I've ever met, or the most genuine. I haven't decided which is more dangerous."

You laughed softly. "Can't I be both?"

Despite herself, Ningning smiled. But it didn't reach her eyes. "Maybe." She reached out, touching the camellia with careful fingers—too careful, like she wanted to crush it but was restraining herself. "He's never given any of us flowers. In two years, he's never... created anything for me."

There was something raw in her voice. Something that spoke of long nights waiting, of hope repeatedly crushed.

"Perhaps he didn't know how," you offered gently. "Some people spend so long being weapons that they forget they can be anything else."

Ningning's eyes snapped to yours, sharp and assessing. "You're trying to see him as human."

"Isn't he?"

"That's what the first wife thought. And the second. They both tried to find humanity in him." Her expression softened slightly, but there was something brittle in it. "They both failed."

"Maybe they were looking in the wrong places," you said. "Or maybe they were trying to create something that wasn't there instead of nurturing what was."

Haerin and Danielle had stopped working entirely, listening with rapt attention.

Ningning stood, brushing dirt from her robes with deliberate movements. "You're strange," she said, echoing Sukuna's words. "But I'm beginning to think that's not a bad thing." She paused at the garden entrance, and when she looked back, there was something almost wistful in her expression. "He came to me last night. After he visited you."

Your hands stilled on the soil.

"He does that sometimes," she continued, her voice carefully neutral. "Seeks comfort in familiar places when something... confuses him." Her smile was sharp. "I know his body better than anyone in this palace, little empress. Every scar, every preference, every sound he makes when he—"

"Ningning," you interrupted gently, not unkindly. "I'm not competing with you."

That seemed to surprise her. "You're his wife."

"And you're someone he trusts enough to be vulnerable with," you replied. "That's not nothing. That's... actually quite significant."

She stared at you like you'd spoken a foreign language. "You're not angry?"

"Why would I be angry? I've been married to him for barely two weeks. You've known him for two years." You smiled softly. "I'd be a fool to expect him to change his entire life for someone he barely knows."

Something flickered across Ningning's face—confusion, maybe respect, maybe something darker. "You really are different from the others."

"So I've been told."

After she left, Danielle leaned closer to you, her voice worried. "My lady... was that wise? She basically told you she's sleeping with your husband."

"She told me she's sleeping with the Emperor," you corrected. "There's a difference. One is a political position. The other is... something that has to be earned."

Haerin bit her lip. "But doesn't it hurt? Knowing he's with her?"

You considered the question honestly. "A little," you admitted. "But I'd rather know the truth than live in ignorance. And I'd rather build something real, slowly, than demand something false immediately."

What you didn't tell them was that Ningning's revelation had actually solidified something in your mind: Sukuna was searching for something. And whatever it was, he hadn't found it yet—not in Ningning's practiced seduction, not in the first wife's demands, not in the second wife's shallow devotion.

But maybe, just maybe, he might find it in your patient companionship.

You didn't see Sukuna for several more days.

But you heard about him.

The servants whispered about his increased visits to the concubines' wing. Three nights in a row, he'd spent hours there—with Ningning mostly, but occasionally with others. It was unusual, they said. He typically visited once, maybe twice a week, and never stayed long.

Now he was there almost every night.

"He's running," Haerin said quietly one evening as she brushed your hair. "From whatever he felt when he gave you that flower."

"Let him run," you replied calmly, though your heart ached slightly. "He'll stop when he's ready."

"And if he doesn't?"

"Then I'll have a beautiful garden and two wonderful attendants," you said, squeezing her hand. "That's more than many people have."

But that night, alone in your chambers, you stood by the window and looked at the camellia blooming in the moonlight. You touched the glass, breath fogging it.

"Take your time," you whispered to the night, to him, to yourself. "I'm not going anywhere."

Sukuna came to you on the tenth night.

You were reading by candlelight—a book of poetry Danielle had found in the palace library—when his presence filled the doorway. This time, you didn't startle. You'd almost been expecting him.

"Sukuna," you greeted, setting down your book. "It's late."

"It's my palace," he replied, stepping inside. "I go where I please, when I please."

He smelled like jasmine and something muskier. Ningning's perfume, you realized. He'd come straight from her chambers to yours.

You didn't comment on it.

"Of course." You gestured to the cushion across from you. "Would you like to sit? I was just reading."

He stared at the offered seat like it was a trap. "The others never invited me to sit."

"Did they invite you to do anything?"

"The second one invited me to her bed often enough," he said bluntly, watching for your reaction.

You didn't flinch. "And the first?"

"Screamed at me, mostly. About how I was neglecting her for the concubines. About how I was a terrible husband." He moved closer, but didn't sit. Instead, he prowled around your chambers like a caged beast, taking in the small changes you'd made—books stacked neatly on shelves, a vase of winter branches on the table, your garden visible through the open screen despite the cold.

"You've made this place..." he paused, searching for words. "Softer."

"Is that bad?"

"It's different." He stopped in front of the garden screen, staring at the camellia he'd created. "You haven't asked about where I've been."

"I know where you've been," you said simply. "The servants talk."

He turned to face you, something dangerous in his expression. "And?"

"And what?"

"You're not angry? Not going to weep and wail about how I'm betraying you?"

"Are you betraying me?" you asked calmly. "We barely know each other, Sukuna. You owe me nothing beyond the basic courtesy of our arrangement."

He moved toward you with predatory speed, looming over you. "You should be jealous. Furious. You're my wife."

"I am," you agreed, setting your book aside and standing to face him. You had to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. "But you're not mine yet. Not really. That's something that has to be built, not demanded."

"Ningning said you weren't competing with her."

"I'm not."

"Why not?" His voice was almost angry now. "She's beautiful. Experienced. She knows exactly how to—"

"Because I don't want to win you like a prize," you interrupted softly. "I want you to choose me. When you're ready. If you're ever ready." You reached up, touching his face gently. He froze at the contact. "I want you to come to me not because I'm your wife, but because I'm the person you want to be with."

His jaw clenched under your palm. "You're infuriating."

"I've been told that before."

"Ningning is obsessed with me," he said suddenly, brutally honest. "Has been since I first took her to bed. She watches me constantly. Arranges herself to catch my attention. Perfects herself to be exactly what she thinks I want."

"That sounds exhausting."

"It is," he admitted. "But it's also... familiar. Easy. I know what she wants from me."

"And what do I want from you?"

He stared at you for a long moment. "I don't know. That's what terrifies me."

Your heart squeezed. "I want you to be yourself," you said gently. "Monster, emperor, man—all of it. I want honesty more than perfection. Companionship more than passion. Though," you smiled slightly, "I wouldn't say no to passion eventually."

He made a sound low in his throat—not quite a laugh, not quite a growl. "You're dangerous."

"How so?"

"Because you make me want things I gave up on centuries ago." His hand came up to cover yours, still pressed against his face. "Hope. Companionship. Something that isn't just power and conquest and fleeting pleasure."

"Is that so terrible?"

"It is when I don't know how to have it without destroying it." He pulled your hand away but didn't release it. "I'm not a good man."

"I know."

"I killed three people today. Slowly. Because they annoyed me."

"I know."

"I'll probably kill more tomorrow."

"I know," you repeated patiently. "You're an emperor. A curse. A monster. You've told me this already."

"And it doesn't bother you?"

You considered your words carefully. "It bothers me that killing is necessary in your world. But I also understand that you're who you are—you've survived this long by being exactly this. I'm not asking you to change, Sukuna. I'm just asking you to let me see all of who you are—the violence and the flowers. The monster and the man."

He was quiet for so long you wondered if you'd said the wrong thing. Then: "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why do you want to see all of me? Most people prefer the monster—at least that's predictable."

You stepped closer, close enough that you had to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact. "Because I think the man is far more interesting than the monster. And because everyone deserves to be seen for who they really are, not just what they can do."

His other hand came up to cup your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone. "I spent last night with Ningning. And the night before. And the night before that."

"I know."

"She does this thing with her tongue—"

"Sukuna," you interrupted gently, "I don't need the details."

"You should," he insisted, something almost desperate in his voice. "You should be disgusted. Angry. You should hate me for it."

"Why do you want me to hate you?"

The question seemed to break something in him. "Because that would be easier. Because I know how to handle hate. I don't know how to handle... this."

"This?"

"You," he said roughly. "Your patience. Your gentleness. Your complete refusal to be what I expect." He leaned down, his breath warm against your lips. "You terrify me."

"Good," you whispered. "You terrify me too. I think that means we're even."

He kissed you then.

It wasn't gentle—Sukuna didn't know how to be gentle. But it was different from what you'd expected. There was desperation in it, yes, but also something like wonder. Like he was trying to understand you through touch since words kept failing.

You kissed him back, rising on your toes to meet him, your free hand coming up to rest against his chest. Under your palm, you could feel his heart racing.

When he pulled back, his eyes were wild. "I don't understand you."

"You don't have to understand me," you said, slightly breathless. "You just have to trust that I'm not going anywhere."

"Everyone goes somewhere eventually."

There was something haunted in his voice. Something that spoke of abandonment and loss and too many people who'd feared or hated or tried to use him.

"Then I'll be here until I can't be," you said firmly. "And while I'm here, I'm yours. Completely."

He made a sound low in his throat—not quite a growl, not quite a groan. "You shouldn't promise things like that."

"Why not?"

"Because I'll hold you to it." His grip tightened slightly. "I don't let go of what's mine."

"Good," you said simply. "Neither do I."

He stared at you for another long moment, then released you, stepping back. "I should go."

"You don't have to."

"I do." He moved toward the door, then paused. "The garden. Plant whatever you want. I'll make sure it grows."

Your breath caught. "Sukuna—"

"And your servants," he continued, not looking back. "Haerin and Danielle. They're yours now. Permanently. Anyone who bothers them answers to me."

Warmth flooded your chest. "Thank you."

He left without another word, but you noticed his steps were slower. Less certain.

Like maybe, just maybe, he didn't actually want to leave.

The next morning, the garden had transformed.

Not just your small plot—the entire courtyard outside your chambers. Winter flowers bloomed in impossible profusion: camellias in white and pink, winter jasmine trailing up the walls, early plum blossoms scenting the air with delicate sweetness.

Haerin and Danielle found you standing in the center of it all, tears streaming down your face.

"My lady!" Danielle rushed forward. "Are you alright? Are you hurt?"

"No," you laughed, wiping your eyes. "No, I'm... this is beautiful. He did this. For me."

Haerin turned in a slow circle, taking it all in. "The entire palace is talking about it. They're saying the Emperor has gone mad."

"Let them talk," you said softly, touching a plum blossom with reverent fingers.

What you didn't see was Ningning, watching from a distant window.

Her hands clenched on the windowsill, knuckles white.

He'd never made flowers bloom for her. Never created anything beautiful in her name. She'd spent two years perfecting herself for him—learning his preferences, anticipating his needs, being everything she thought he wanted.

And this... this quiet, gentle woman had received more from him in two weeks than Ningning had in two years.

"My lady?" her own servant asked quietly. "Are you well?"

Ningning's smile was sharp. Dangerous. "Perfectly well. Just... admiring the Empress's garden."

But inside, something dark and desperate was taking root.

She'd had his attention first. She'd been the one he returned to, night after night. She'd been special.

And she'd be damned if she let some outsider take that away from her.

"Prepare my evening attire," she told her servant. "The red silk. The one he likes best."

If the Emperor was confused, she'd remind him exactly what he'd be giving up if he chose his wife over his favorite concubine.

And if that didn't work...

Well.

Ningning had survived this long by being adaptable.

And she wasn't above ensuring her competition faced... complications.

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Chapter 1: "The Third Wife"

You arrive at Sukuna's palace as his third wife—a political offering, nothing more. Unlike your predecessors, you don't arrive with expectations of love or power. You arrive with seeds for a dead garden and kindness for forgotten servants. In a palace built on fear, you plant hope. And the Emperor notices.

WC: 2,891 ───〃★ masterlist

The cherry blossoms had long since fallen.

Winter gripped the palace grounds in skeletal fingers, leaving behind bare branches and frozen earth. It was fitting, you thought, for a place like this—a palace ruled by a man they called a monster, a curse, a demon in human skin.

Ryomen Sukuna.

Your husband, as of three hours ago.

The wedding ceremony had been efficient. Cold. You'd been dressed in the finest silk—crimson and gold, colors that complemented the tattoos you'd glimpsed on his skin—and led through corridors that seemed to stretch endlessly. The few servants you'd passed had kept their eyes down, their footsteps hurried, as if lingering too long in these halls might invite catastrophe.

You didn't blame them.

You'd heard the stories. Everyone had. The Emperor who'd conquered lands with nothing but his cursed energy and ruthlessness. The man who'd taken a first wife and cast her aside when her jealousy became tiresome. A second wife who'd lasted even less time—too vapid, too eager to please, ultimately too boring to keep his interest.

Now there was you.

The third wife.

A treaty offering from your father's province, a political band-aid for a conflict your family couldn't hope to win. You'd accepted your fate with the same quiet grace you'd accepted everything else in life—with steady hands and a calm heart, even when your mother had wept.

"Someone will show you to your chambers," the officiant had said after the ceremony, and then you'd been alone.

Not entirely alone, you supposed. Somewhere in this sprawling palace, Sukuna's concubines resided. You'd seen a few during the ceremony—beautiful women dripping in jewels, their eyes sharp as they assessed the new wife. You'd met their gazes evenly, offering a small nod of acknowledgment.

You weren't here to make enemies. You weren't naive enough to think you could make friends either.

The shoji door slid open, and two young women entered—both looking no older than yourself. They bowed in perfect unison, their movements practiced but stiff with nervousness.

"Empress," the first one said, her voice barely above a whisper. She had gentle brown eyes and her hands trembled slightly. "I am Danielle. This is Haerin. We've been assigned to attend to you."

The second girl—Haerin—kept her eyes downcast, her posture rigid with fear. She was as pretty as Danielle, with delicate features and long lashes, but she looked like she wanted to disappear into the floor.

"Thank you, Danielle. Haerin." You kept your voice soft, gentle, and watched as both girls' eyes widened in surprise. "I appreciate your help. This palace is... quite large. I'm afraid I'll get lost without guidance."

Danielle blinked rapidly, as if kindness was unexpected. Perhaps it was, in a place like this. "Y-yes, Empress. Your chambers have been prepared. If you'll follow us?"

They led you through more corridors, these ones slightly warmer, touched by braziers that cast dancing shadows on the walls. You noticed how they walked—Hana slightly ahead, Haerin trailing behind, both of them glancing nervously at closed doors as if expecting something terrible to emerge.

Your chambers, when you finally reached them, were surprisingly beautiful—spacious, with painted screens depicting cranes in flight, and a small garden visible through the windows.

A dead garden, you noted. Winter-killed and abandoned.

"Will there be anything else, Empress?" Danielle asked, while Haerin began arranging your few belongings with quick, efficient movements.

You turned to them both, offering a small smile. "Please, when we're alone, you can call me by my name if you'd like. And yes—do you know if there are gardening tools available? Seeds, perhaps?"

Both girls froze. Haerin's hands stilled on the silk robe she'd been folding.

"G-gardening tools, my lady?" Danielle stammered.

"The garden outside." You gestured to the window. "It seems a shame to leave it barren. I'd like to plant winter camellias. And perhaps some early plum blossoms, if the soil can support them."

Haerin finally spoke, her voice soft and uncertain. "But my lady... it's winter. Nothing will grow until—"

"Spring," you finished gently. "I know. But seeds need time to root, even in the cold. And hope needs something to tend to."

The two girls exchanged glances, something unspoken passing between them. Then Danielle straightened her shoulders. "I... I'll inquire about the tools, my lady. We should have such things in storage."

"Thank you, Danielle." You looked at Haerin, who was still staring at you with wide, uncertain eyes. "And Haerin, if you're not too busy tomorrow, would you help me plan the garden layout? I'd appreciate another perspective."

The girl's mouth opened, closed, then opened again. "M-me, my lady?"

"Yes, you. I imagine you know this palace better than I do. You'd know where the sun hits, where the shadows fall."

A faint blush colored Haerin's cheeks. "I... yes, my lady. I would be honored."

You didn't see Sukuna for three days.

It didn't surprise you. Political marriages rarely involved actual interaction, and you imagined an emperor had better things to do than visit a wife he'd been forced to take.

So you kept yourself occupied.

The garden became your first project. You worked alongside Danielle and Harin—much to their shock—kneeling in the cold earth with your sleeves tied back, planting camellia seeds with careful hands.

"My lady, please," Danielle had protested on the first day, looking genuinely distressed. "This isn't proper. If the Emperor sees—"

"Then he sees," you'd said simply, patting soil over a seed. "My mother always said that anything worth having is worth working for. Besides, I like the feel of earth under my fingernails. It reminds me that I'm alive."

Haerin had knelt beside you then, hesitantly at first, then with growing confidence. "My grandmother used to garden," she'd said softly. "Before she passed. She said that plants were like people—they needed patience and care to thrive."

"Your grandmother sounds wise," you'd replied, and the smile Haerin gave you was like sunlight breaking through clouds.

Word spread quickly through the palace. The new empress, kneeling in the dirt like a common servant. The new empress, who spoke gently to her attendants and worked alongside them. The new empress, who didn't demand or throw tantrums or weep dramatically like the others.

You pretended not to notice the whispers, but you noticed how Danielle and Haerin began to relax around you. How Danielle started humming while she worked. How Haerin laughed—actually laughed—when you made a joke about your dirt-stained hands.

On the fourth day, you encountered your first concubine.

She was beautiful—of course she was—with long dark hair and sharp, calculating eyes. She found you in the garden again, wrapped in a thick cloak against the winter wind, sketching plans for a stone path while Danielle and Haerinarranged tools nearby.

"So you're the new one," she said without preamble.

You looked up, setting down your charcoal. Danielle and Haerin immediately tensed, bowing low. You gestured for them to rise. "I am. And you're...?"

"Ningning." She tilted her head, studying you like a cat studies a mouse. Her gaze flickered to your attendants dismissively before returning to you. "I've been here two years. Longer than either of your predecessors."

"Then you must be very special," you said simply, without irony.

That seemed to throw her. Her eyes narrowed. "You're not what I expected."

"I'm sorry to disappoint."

"I didn't say I was disappointed." She crouched down, her fine robes pooling around her, seemingly unconcerned about the dirt. "The first wife was a shrew. The second was a fool. What are you?"

You considered the question, then smiled. "A gardener, apparently."

Despite herself, Ningning laughed. It was a surprised sound, quickly stifled. "You're planting flowers in winter. That makes you a fool too."

"Perhaps," you agreed. "But even fools can hope for spring."

She studied you for another long moment, then stood. "He'll break you," she said, not unkindly. "Sukuna breaks everything eventually. It's his nature."

"Maybe," you said softly. "Or maybe some things are strong enough to bend instead of break."

Ningning left without another word, but you thought you saw something like respect in her eyes.

After she was gone, Haerin leaned closer to you. "My lady... you weren't afraid of her."

"Should I have been?"

"The second empress was," Danielle said quietly. "She used to cry after the concubines visited. Said they were cruel to her."

You looked at both girls thoughtfully. "Did you know the second empress well?"

They exchanged glances. "We didn't serve her," Haerin admitted. "We worked in the kitchens usually. But we heard things."

"She screamed at the servants," Danielle added, her voice barely a whisper. "Threw things when she was angry. We were... surprised when we were assigned to you. We thought..."

"You thought I'd be the same," you finished gently.

Both girls looked down, ashamed.

"It's alright," you said, reaching out to squeeze Danielle's hand briefly. "You can't be blamed for expecting the worst. But I promise you both—I'm not here to make anyone's life harder. We're all just trying to survive in our own ways."

Haerin's eyes glistened with unshed tears. "Thank you, my lady," she whispered.

You met Sukuna on the fifth night.

You'd been preparing for bed, braiding your hair by candlelight, when the door opened without warning. Danielle and Haerin had left for the evening—you'd insisted they rest, that you could manage alone—so when his massive frame filled the doorway, you were alone.

Completely alone.

With the man they called a monster.

He was... larger than you'd expected. Taller. The tattoos you'd glimpsed during the ceremony covered more of his skin—intricate patterns that seemed to move in the flickering light. His eyes, all four of them, fixed on you with an intensity that would have made lesser women tremble.

You set down your brush and stood, bowing respectfully. "Emperor."

"Sukuna," he corrected, his voice like gravel and silk. "You're my wife. Use my name."

"Sukuna," you repeated softly.

He moved into the room with predatory grace, and you noticed he was studying you the same way Ningning had—like he was trying to solve a puzzle. His eyes traveled from your simple sleeping robe to your bare feet, to the loose braid draped over your shoulder.

"You're not afraid," he observed.

"Should I be?"

"Most people are."

You met his gaze steadily. "Most people haven't been raised by a father who negotiated with warlords since childhood. I learned early that fear is only useful if it keeps you alive. Otherwise, it's just... exhausting."

Something flickered in his expression. Amusement? Curiosity?

He moved closer, and you caught his scent—sandalwood and something darker, like smoke and steel. He reached out, and you held perfectly still as he caught your braid between his fingers, testing its weight.

"You've been gardening," he said.

Not a question. A statement.

"Yes."

"In winter."

"Yes."

"Why?"

You considered how to answer. Honesty, you decided, was probably safest with a man who could smell lies. "Because the garden was dead, and I don't like looking at dead things. Because even in winter, there's potential for growth—you just have to be patient enough to wait for it. And because..." you paused, then continued softly, "because I needed something beautiful to tend to."

His eyes—all of them—focused on you with unnerving intensity. "You think you can make something beautiful here? In my palace?"

"I think," you said carefully, "that beauty exists everywhere, if you're willing to look for it. Even in unlikely places."

For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled—a sharp, dangerous thing that should have terrified you.

It didn't.

"The others tried to change me," he said, releasing your braid. "The first wife wept and begged me to send away my concubines. The second tried to seduce me into compliance, thinking her body was enough to hold my attention."

"I have no intention of changing you," you replied. "You are who you are. An emperor. A force of nature. I'd have better luck trying to convince winter to become spring ahead of schedule."

"And yet you plant flowers."

"I plant flowers," you agreed, "because that's who I am. Not to change the winter, but to be ready when spring comes on its own."

He stared at you for so long you wondered if you'd said something wrong. Then he turned and walked to the door.

"The servants say you work alongside them," he said without looking back. "That you learn their names and ask about their families."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because they're people," you said simply. "And people deserve to be seen."

He paused in the doorway, his massive frame silhouetted against the corridor light. "You're strange."

"I've been told that before."

"I haven't decided yet," he said, "if you're wise or foolish."

"Perhaps I'm both," you offered. "Most interesting people are."

You could have sworn you heard him laugh—a low, rumbling sound—before he disappeared into the darkness.

Sleep came surprisingly easily that night.

The next morning, you found something waiting in your garden.

A single winter camellia, already in bloom, planted in the center of the space you'd been preparing. Its petals were the palest pink, almost white, delicate against the frozen earth.

Impossible. Camellias from seed took years to bloom.

But there it was.

Danielle and Haerin found you staring at it, your fingers pressed to your lips.

"The Emperor's work," Danielle whispered, her eyes wide. "His cursed energy can manipulate growth. Force life from death." She hesitated. "He's never used it for flowers before. Only for... other purposes."

Haerin clutched your arm gently. "My lady... what does it mean?"

You knelt beside the camellia, touching its petals with reverent fingers. They were real. Alive. Beautiful.

"Even monsters," you whispered, "can create something gentle."

Behind you, your two attendants exchanged hopeful glances.

And high above, unseen and unheard, Sukuna watched from a window.

He told himself it was a whim. A momentary curiosity about the strange woman who'd invaded his palace with her quiet voice and dirt-stained hands.

He told himself it meant nothing.

He was a liar.

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Ryomen Sukuna, the feared Emperor of curses, had discarded two wives before you arrived at his palace—offered as a treaty, expected to be just another ornament in his collection. But unlike the others, you didn't fear him. You didn't try to change him. You simply existed beside him with a quiet grace that began to transform everything you touched.

The gardens bloomed brighter. The servants smiled wider. And somehow, impossibly, the monster himself began to feel human.

They say even emperors can fall in love. But some lessons come with a price.

Pairing: Emperor Ryomen Sukuna x Empress Wife Female Reader (Y/N)

Rating: Mature/Explicit (18+)

Genre: Historical AU, Romance, Angst

Warnings: Explicit sexual content (Chapter 3), mentions of concubines/polygamy, heavy angst

ℳASTERLIST જ⁀➴

Chapter 1: "The Third Wife"

Chapter 2: "The Softening"

Chapter 3: "Devotion" (NSFW)

Chapter 4: "Spring Arrives"

Chapter 5: "The Beginning of the End"

𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝗂𝖾 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝗒𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗂𝗀𝗇𝗈𝗋𝖾. ─── 1323

𝖢𝖶: 𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉, 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽𝗒!𝗃𝖺𝗄𝖾, 𝗈𝗋𝖺𝗅 (𝖿!𝗋𝖾𝖼𝖾𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀), 𝗉𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗄, 𝖻𝖾𝗀𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖽𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗒, 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝗑𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗎𝗍, 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁𝗒!𝗃𝖺𝗄𝖾, 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇

Movie nights with Jake had become a ritual since you both started college—a way to unwind after endless lectures, assignments, and the general chaos of university life. Tonight was supposed to be no different: your dorm room, dim lighting, snacks scattered across the bed, and whatever movie Jake had picked on Netflix.

"This one's supposed to be really good," Jake says as he settles beside you on the bed, remote in hand. He's wearing that oversized hoodie you love, the one that makes him look soft and boyfriend-shaped, his dark hair still slightly damp from the shower he took after basketball practice.

"You said that about the last three movies," you tease, stealing a piece of popcorn from the bowl balanced on his lap.

"Hey! I have great taste in movies," he protests, but he's grinning, that boyish smile that made you fall for him in the first place.

The movie starts—some indie film that Jake swore had great reviews—and for the first twenty minutes, you're both actually watching. You're curled into his side, his arm around your shoulders, thumb drawing absent-minded circles on your arm. It's comfortable, familiar, perfect.

Then his hand starts wandering.

It's subtle at first. His fingers trailing from your shoulder down your arm, then to your waist. His touch is light, almost teasing, like he's testing boundaries he's already crossed a hundred times before. You don't think much of it—Jake's always been tactile, touchy in a way that makes you feel wanted and cherished.

"You comfortable?" he murmurs, lips close to your ear.

"Mhm," you respond, eyes still on the screen even though you're becoming increasingly aware of his touch.

His hand slides under the hem of your (his) t-shirt, palm warm against your skin. Still innocent enough, still casual. But then his fingers start tracing patterns on your stomach, dipping just slightly lower with each pass, and you feel your breath catch.

"Jake," you whisper, and you can hear the smile in his voice when he responds.

"Hmm?"

"Are you even watching the movie?"

"Movie?" His hand slides higher, fingers brushing just below your breast. "Oh. Yeah. Totally watching."

You turn your head to look at him and find him already staring at you, eyes dark with want. The movie is completely forgotten, just flickering light and background noise at this point.

"You're such a liar," you breathe, but you're smiling.

"Can't help it," he admits, shifting so he's facing you more directly. "You're so much more interesting than whatever's on screen." His hand cups your face, thumb brushing your cheek. "You're so beautiful. Have I told you that today?"

"Like three times," you laugh softly, but your heart still flutters.

"Not enough then." He leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss that starts sweet but quickly deepens. His tongue traces your bottom lip, asking for entrance, and you grant it willingly. The taste of him—popcorn and mint from the gum he'd been chewing earlier—is familiar and intoxicating.

His hands are everywhere now, one tangled in your hair, the other sliding down your side, grabbing your hip, pulling you closer. The movie is definitely abandoned at this point, the plot completely lost as Jake kisses you like he's been starving for it.

"Missed you," he mumbles against your lips, which is ridiculous because you literally saw each other this morning.

"I'm right here," you point out, but he shakes his head.

"Not close enough. Never close enough." His lips trail from your mouth to your jaw, down your neck, finding that spot that makes you gasp. "Can I... can we...?"

He's always so polite about it, always asking even though you've been together for months, even though the answer is always yes. It's one of the things you love about him—how he never assumes, never takes.

"Yes," you breathe, and you feel him smile against your skin.

He shifts, gently laying you back against the pillows, his body hovering over yours. The movie casts flickering shadows across his face as he looks down at you, and god, he's so beautiful it almost hurts. Dark eyes full of want, lips kiss-swollen, hair falling into his eyes.

"You're so perfect," he says softly, reverently, like he can't quite believe you're real. His hands slide under your shirt, pushing it up slowly, giving you plenty of time to stop him if you want. You don't want to stop him. You never want him to stop touching you.

"Jake," you whimper as his lips find your collarbone, kissing, sucking, definitely leaving marks that you'll have to cover up tomorrow.

"Love the sounds you make," he murmurs against your skin. "Could listen to you all day."

His hands are working at your shorts now, fingers hooking into the waistband. He looks up at you, eyes seeking permission even though his fingers are literally trembling with want.

"Please," you say, lifting your hips to help him, and the groan he makes is absolutely sinful.

"So eager for me," he says, and there's something almost awed in his voice as he pulls your shorts and underwear down in one smooth motion. "So pretty."

He settles between your legs, hands on your thighs, and just looks at you for a moment. The intensity of his gaze makes you squirm, makes you want to close your legs, but his grip keeps them open.

"Don't hide from me," he says softly. "Want to see all of you."

"Jake, please—" You're not even sure what you're asking for, just that you need more, need him closer, need his mouth on you.

"I've got you, baby," he promises, and then his mouth is on your inner thigh, kissing, biting gently, working his way up with agonizing slowness. "Gonna take care of you."

When his mouth finally reaches where you need him most, the first touch of his tongue makes you gasp, hands flying to his hair. He groans against you, the vibration making you whimper.

"Taste so good," he mumbles, and then he's diving in like a man starved, tongue working you with single-minded focus. He's always been enthusiastic about this, always acted like getting you off is his favorite activity, and the way he's moaning against you makes it clear he's enjoying this as much as you are.

Your fingers tighten in his hair, and he groans again, the sound muffled but desperate. One of his hands grips your thigh, keeping you open for him, while the other slides up to interlace with yours, grounding you both.

"Jake—fuck—right there—" Your words dissolve into incoherent sounds as he focuses on your clit, alternating between broad strokes with his tongue and focused attention that has you seeing stars.

He pulls back just enough to speak, chin glistening. "You're so responsive for me. So perfect. Love making you feel good." Then he's back, adding a finger alongside his tongue, and the combination has you arching off the bed.

"That's it," he encourages between movements. "Let me hear you. Don't hold back."

You couldn't hold back if you tried. Every movement of his tongue, every curl of his fingers inside you draws sounds from your throat that should probably be embarrassing but you're too far gone to care. The movie is still playing in the background, completely ignored, just white noise compared to the sounds Jake is pulling from you.

"So close," you gasp, and you feel him smile against you.

"I know, baby. I can feel it. Come for me. Want to taste you." His fingers curl inside you, finding that spot that makes you cry out, and his tongue focuses on your clit with determined precision.

The combination sends you over the edge, pleasure crashing through you in waves that have you gasping his name like a prayer. He works you through it, tongue gentle now, fingers slowing but not stopping until you're pulling at his hair, too sensitive for more.

He presses a final kiss to your inner thigh before crawling back up your body, face flushed, lips swollen, eyes bright with satisfaction. When he kisses you, you can taste yourself on his tongue, and it should probably be weird but it's just hot.

─── 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽 ───

733 .ᐟ 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝗑𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖿𝗐𝖻 𝖽𝗒𝗇𝖺𝗆𝗂𝖼 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗌 𝖽𝗈𝗀𝗀𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗒𝗅𝖾 𝗁𝖾'𝗌 𝗈𝖻𝗌𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗉𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗎𝗇𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝗑 𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗆𝗉𝗂𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗍 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗃𝖾𝗐𝖾𝗅𝗋𝗒 ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

this whole thing with riki started three months ago.

friends with benefits. no strings. just stress relief when you both needed it.

except somewhere along the way it stopped being just casual. the way he texts you at 2am not for a hookup but because he can't sleep. the way he brings you food when you mention you haven't eaten. the way he looks at you sometimes like—

you're not thinking about that right now.

right now you're in his apartment, face down on his bed while he kisses down your spine, and you're very aware that he's about to see something you haven't mentioned.

"you're tense," he murmurs against your shoulder blade. "relax."

"i am relaxed."

"liar." his hands slide down your sides. "what's wrong?"

"nothing's wrong."

he pauses. you can feel him looking.

"what—" his voice changes. "what are these?"

fuck.

"dermals," you say into the pillow. "back dermals."

"since when?"

"got them a few weeks ago.."

silence. then his fingers trace over them—four small titanium posts down your lower back, each topped with a tiny gem. delicate. pretty. you'd gotten them on impulse after a particularly bad week.

"why didn't you tell me?" he asks quietly.

"didn't think it mattered. it's just jewelry."

"just jewelry," he repeats. his fingers are still tracing them, almost reverent. "you have fucking diamonds on your back and you thought it didn't matter?"

"they're not diamonds, they're—"

he interrupts you by kissing the top right. then the left. then the bottom ones.

"riki—"

"these are so fucking hot." his voice has dropped lower. "do you know how hot these are?"

"they're just piercings—"

"they're not just anything." he's kissing down your spine again, paying special attention to each dermal. "they're fucking perfect. you're fucking perfect."

you can feel how hard he is against your thigh.

"you're really into this," you observe.

"i'm losing my mind over this." he bites your shoulder gently. "how am i supposed to be normal knowing you have these?"

"it's literally just jewelry—"

"stop saying that." he grabs your hips, pulling them up. "on your knees."

"bossy—"

"now."

you comply, rising onto your hands and knees, and hear him swear under his breath.

"fuck. look at you." his hands slide up your thighs. "look at these. catching the light. so pretty."

"riki—"

"i need to fuck you like this." his hand slides between your legs, finding you already wet. "need to watch these while i'm inside you. can i?"

"yes—"

he's already reaching for a condom, ripping it open with his teeth. you hear the snap of latex, then feel him line himself up.

"ready?" he asks, and there's a roughness to his voice that makes you shiver.

"yes—"

he pushes in slowly, both of you groaning at the sensation. from this angle he feels even bigger, the stretch intense.

"okay?" he asks, hands gripping your hips.

"more than okay. move."

he does, starting with slow, deep thrusts. but his eyes are fixed on your back, on the foursmall gems catching the light with each movement.

"so fucking pretty," he mutters. "can't stop looking at them. at you."

"they're just—"

"stop." he thrusts harder, making you gasp. "stop calling them 'just' anything. they're fucking art. you're fucking art."

he picks up the pace, one hand sliding up your lower back to trace over the dermals again. the touch is gentle, reverent, completely at odds with the way he's fucking you.

"i'm obsessed with these," he admits. "gonna think about them every time i see you now. gonna imagine them under your clothes."

"that's—ah—inappropriate—"

"we're literally fucking. i think we're past inappropriate." he leans over you, changing the angle, and hits that perfect spot. "besides, you like it. can feel how you clench when i touch them."

he's right. every time his fingers brush over the dermals, you tighten around him involuntarily.

"that's it," he encourages. "so good. taking me so well."

his hand slides around to find your clit, circling it in time with his thrusts.

"riki—i'm close—"

"yeah? gonna come for me?" he speeds up slightly. "want to feel it. want to watch these pretty little gems sparkle while you fall apart on my cock."

the combination of his words, his fingers, the angle—it's too much. you come with a broken moan, face pressed into the pillow, and he groans.

"fuck, yes—just like that—so perfect—"

he thrusts a few more times before following, grip tight on your hips, and you feel him pulse inside you.

for a moment neither of you moves, just breathing hard. then he pulls out carefully, disposing of the condom before collapsing beside you.

"that was—" you start.

idol!ni-ki x stylist!female reader

(니키) ─── 𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝗂𝖾𝖼𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗒 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖿𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾'𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗏𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗅𝖽.

─── 964 .ᐟ 𝗌𝗎𝗀𝗀𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗇𝗈𝗈𝗇𝖺 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗁𝖾'𝗌 𝖺 𝖻𝗋𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝖻𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋 𝗅𝗈𝖼𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗄𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗈𝗋 ♬𝄞.ᐟ

you're in the dressing room backstage at golden disc awards and you're about to lose your mind.

"riki. nishimura riki." you're using his full name which means you're serious. "did you or did you not promise me you'd be careful with the stage outfit?"

he's sitting in the styling chair looking way too relaxed for someone who just ripped a custom prada jacket during rehearsal. that little half-smirk is already forming and you want to wipe it off his face.

"it was an accident, noona."

"an accident. right." you're pacing now, holding the torn fabric. "this is a custom piece. do you know how much this costs? do you know how long it took to source?"

"i'll be more careful—"

"you said that last week! and the week before!" you whirl on him. "i swear to god, riki, you do this on purpose just to—why are you looking at me like that?"

he's leaning back in the chair, long legs stretched out, and that smirk is getting wider. "like what?"

"like—" you stop. notice the way his eyes are tracking your movements. the way he's very deliberately not looking away. "are you even taking this seriously?"

"very seriously." his voice has dropped lower and oh. oh no.

"riki."

"noona." he says it in that tone that makes your stomach flip. the one that's all innocence on the surface but absolutely not innocent underneath.

"we're at work."

"i know." he stands up, and you're reminded that he's gotten tall. really tall. towers over you even though you're in heels. "you're mad at me."

"yes, i'm mad at you! you keep ruining—"

"you're cute when you're mad." he takes a step closer and you take a step back, hitting the costume rack behind you.

"i'm not trying to be cute, i'm trying to do my job!" but your voice comes out less firm than you intended because he's close now. close enough that you can smell his cologne.

"i know. that's what makes it cute." he's got that lazy confidence that drives you insane. "you get all worked up and start using my full name and your voice gets higher—"

"my voice does not get higher—"

"and you pace." he's definitely smirking now. "and you do that thing where you run your hands through your hair when you're frustrated."

"i don't—" you stop because you were literally about to do exactly that. "that's not the point."

"what is the point?" he leans one hand on the rack beside your head, caging you in. not touching, but close. so close.

"the point is you need to stop destroying my work!"

"mm." he's looking at your lips now. "you're right. i should be more careful."

"then why do you sound like you're not going to be?"

"because watching you yell at me is way more interesting than being careful." he's completely shameless about it. "do it more."

"do what more?"

"yell at me. you're hot when you're bossy."

"riki—" you're trying to sound stern but it comes out breathy. "we're at work. anyone could walk in."

"doors locked." he says it so casually. "told the members i needed emergency styling fixes. we have twenty minutes before i have to be back."

"twenty minutes is not enough time to—wait. why did you lock the door?"

"because i knew you'd be mad about the jacket." that smirk is infuriating. "and i wanted you all to myself when you yelled at me about it."

"you're insane."

"probably." he's even closer now, if that's possible. "but you like it."

"i don't—"

"you do." his hand comes up, brushes a strand of hair behind your ear. "you like that i'm tall now. that i don't back down when you get all stern and professional. that i think you're hottest when you're mad at me."

your breath catches because he's not wrong and you both know it.

"this is so inappropriate," you manage.

"you keep saying that." his thumb traces your jaw. "but you're not pushing me away."

"someone could—"

"no one's coming. i made sure." he leans in, lips almost brushing your ear. "so you can keep yelling at me if you want. or—"

"or what?"

"or you can let me apologize properly." his voice is low, teasing. "for ruining your hard work. for being careless. for making noona so angry."

the way he says noona makes your knees weak and he knows it. absolutely knows it and uses it against you.

"you're not sorry at all," you accuse.

"not even a little bit." he pulls back to look at you, eyes dark. "but i could be. if you want me to be."

"riki—"

"i love when you say my name like that." his fingers are playing with the hem of your shirt now. "all breathless and frustrated. do it again."

"we don't have time—"

"we have seventeen minutes." he checks his phone without moving away from you. "more than enough time for me to—"

a knock on the door makes you both freeze.

"ni-ki! five minute call!" it's one of the managers.

"got it!" he calls back, then looks at you with the most annoying smile. "guess we'll have to continue this later."

"there's nothing to continue—"

"noona." he backs away, fixing his stage outfit. "you're a terrible liar. especially when you're still looking at me like that."

"like what?"

"like you're trying to decide if you want to kill me or kiss me." he's at the door now, unlocking it. "for the record, i'm hoping for the second one."

"you're impossible."

"see you after the show?" it's a question but also not really a question.

"someone has to fix that jacket."

"right. the jacket." his smile is wicked. "that's definitely the only reason you'll be in my dressing room later."

"riki—"

"i'll be good, noona. promise." he's out the door before you can respond, throwing a wink over his shoulder.

you stand there for a solid minute, trying to collect yourself, very aware that your face is burning and your heart is racing and you're absolutely going to his dressing room after the show.

and he knows it.

that's the worst part.

SUMMARY - Divorce lawyer Hiromi Higuruma takes one look at his client's wife in that black dress and makes the most unethical decision of his career: dropping the husband as a client so he can represent her instead (and eventually fuck her on his desk).

⤷ divorce lawyer!higuruma x client's wife!reader | 18+ MDNI

CW: explicit sexual content, divorce lawyer AU, lawyer/client relationship (VERY unethical), power dynamics, she's technically still married during first encounter, desk sex, office sex, semi-public sex, possessive behavior, unprotected sex, creampie, he breaks every ethics rule for her, professional misconduct, they don't care, mutual seduction, she wore that dress on purpose, confident/busty reader, hourglass figure appreciation, breast worship

Hiromi Higuruma has been a divorce lawyer for eight years and he's seen it all. Cheaters, liars, gold diggers, bitter exes. He prides himself on being completely professional, completely detached. Never gets emotionally involved. Never takes sides beyond his client's.

Until she walks into his office.

His client's wife. Soon to be ex wife, technically, but the papers aren't signed yet. Her husband, some hedge fund asshole named Takeshi, sits in the chair across from Hiromi's desk looking smug. And she...

She's standing by the window in a black dress that should be illegal. Tailored, fitted, a V neckline that draws his eyes exactly where they shouldn't go, three quarter sleeves with turned up cuffs. The dress hugs every curve, creates an hourglass silhouette that makes his mouth go dry. Midi length, professional, powerful.

She looks like she could run a Fortune 500 company or destroy a man with a single glance. Possibly both.

"Mr. Higuruma," Takeshi says, pulling his attention back. "As I was saying, the prenup is very clear. She gets nothing."

"I see." Hiromi hasn't looked at the prenup yet. Can't stop looking at her. She's gorgeous, confident, hasn't said a word but her presence fills the room. "And Mrs.—"

"[Y/N]," she says, finally turning from the window. Her voice is smooth, controlled. "Just [Y/N] is fine."

Their eyes meet and something electric passes between them. Her lips curve slightly, like she knows exactly what he's thinking.

This is bad. This is so bad.

"The prenup," Takeshi continues, oblivious, "states that in the event of divorce, she receives no alimony, no portion of assets acquired during the marriage, and—"

"That prenup was signed under duress," she interrupts, voice cutting. "I was pregnant, emotional, and you told me you'd call off the wedding if I didn't sign."

"That's not—"

"It is." She looks at Hiromi. "I have emails. Text messages. Witnesses who heard him threaten to leave me at the altar."

Hiromi's professional interest sparks. "Do you have legal representation?"

"Not yet. My lawyer dropped me last week. Conflict of interest, apparently my husband's family does business with his firm."

Of course they do. Takeshi's family has money, influence. They'd make sure she couldn't find decent representation.

"I can recommend someone," Hiromi hears himself say. "Several excellent lawyers who—"

"I want you."

The words hang in the air. Takeshi laughs.

"He's MY lawyer. He represents ME."

"Then I'll find someone better." She gathers her purse, and Hiromi notices it's designer. Everything about her screams expensive, refined, powerful. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Higuruma."

She walks out, and Hiromi can't stop watching her go. The way she moves, confident and graceful. The door closes behind her and Takeshi is still talking but Hiromi isn't listening.

He's thinking about ethics violations. About professional responsibility. About the fact that he's never wanted to drop a client faster in his entire career.

Three days later, he does exactly that.

Sends Takeshi a formal letter terminating their professional relationship, citing irreconcilable differences in legal strategy. It's professional enough that Takeshi can't sue, vague enough that he can't prove anything.

Then he calls her.

"This is highly unusual," he says when she answers.

"What is?" She sounds amused.

"I dropped your husband as a client. If you still want representation, I'm available."

Silence. Then: "Why would you do that?"

"Because that prenup is garbage and he's an asshole and you deserve better representation."

"And it has nothing to do with the fact that you couldn't stop staring at me in your office?"

His face heats. "That was... I apologize if I made you uncomfortable—"

"You didn't." Her voice is smooth, confident. "I wore that dress specifically to make you stare. Worked better than I expected."

He should hang up. Should refer her to someone else. Should maintain professional boundaries.

"My office. Tomorrow. 9 AM. We'll discuss your case."

"Looking forward to it, Mr. Higuruma."

She hangs up and Hiromi sits there, staring at his phone, wondering what the hell he's gotten himself into.

Three months of working together and Hiromi is losing his mind.

She comes to every meeting dressed like sin. Pencil skirts, fitted blouses, dresses that hug every curve. She's brilliant too, sharp, remembers every detail of her case. Helps him build an airtight argument for why that prenup is invalid.

They're winning. Her husband's lawyers are scrambling. And Hiromi is falling for his client which is possibly the most unethical thing he's ever done.

"We should celebrate," she says after a particularly good deposition. They're in his office, evening light streaming through the windows. "The look on his lawyer's face when you brought up those emails was priceless."

"It's not over yet."

"But we're close." She stands, walks around his desk. Perches on the edge right in front of him. "You've been amazing, Hiromi. I don't know how to thank you."

"You don't need to thank me. It's my job."

"Is it just a job?" She leans forward slightly and he can see down her blouse, the curve of her breasts, black lace. He forces his eyes up. "Because sometimes the way you look at me feels like more than professional interest."

"[Y/N]—" His voice is rough. "You're still married. Technically. And you're my client. There are ethics rules—"

"Ethics." She smiles, slides off the desk into his lap. Straddles him in his office chair and his hands go to her hips automatically. "Tell me to stop and I will."

He should. He absolutely should.

"I can't," he breathes. "I can't tell you to stop when I've been thinking about this for three months."

"Good." She kisses him, and it's not soft or tentative. It's fierce, claiming, her hands in his hair and her tongue sliding against his. "Because I've been thinking about it too."

He kisses her back desperately, professionally be damned. His hands slide up her thighs, under her skirt, and she gasps against his mouth.

"We shouldn't—" He's trying to be rational but she's grinding against him and he's already hard. "Not until the divorce is final—"

"He's been fucking his secretary for two years," she breathes. "I think I'm allowed this."

That's all the permission he needs. He stands, lifting her with him, and she wraps her legs around his waist. Walks her to his desk, sweeps papers aside, lays her out like an offering.

"You're so beautiful," he mutters, working on the buttons of her blouse. "So fucking beautiful. Been driving me crazy."

"Good." She's working on his belt, his zipper. "That was the plan. Wanted to see how long you'd last before you broke."

"You're evil."

"You love it." She's not wrong.

He gets her blouse open and groans at the sight. Black lace bra, breasts spilling out, and he can't help himself. Leans down, kisses the swell of her chest, and she arches into him.

"Hiromi—" Her hands are in his hair again. "Please—"

He slides her skirt up, finds she's wearing matching black lace panties, and the sight makes him harder. Hooks his fingers in the lace, pulls them aside.

"Tell me you want this." He needs to hear it.

"I want this. Want you. Have wanted you since that first meeting." She pulls him down into another kiss. "Now stop being a lawyer and fuck me already."

He does. Slides into her in one smooth thrust and they both groan. She's perfect, tight and wet and warm, and he has to pause just to breathe.

"Move," she demands, nails digging into his shoulders. "Hiromi, move—"

He does, setting a rhythm that's deep and thorough and has her gasping his name. The desk creaks beneath them, papers falling to the floor, but neither of them care.

"So good," she's muttering. "Feels so good—better than I imagined—"

"You imagined this?" He's breathless, trying to maintain some control.

"Every night." She clenches around him deliberately. "Every meeting. Imagined you bending me over this desk. Making me scream your name."

"Fuck—" Her words push him closer to the edge. "You're going to make me—"

"Then come." She pulls him down, kisses him hard. "Come inside me. Want to feel it."

He does, with a rough groan muffled against her neck, and she follows seconds later, clenching around him.

For a moment they just stay like that, breathing hard, tangled together on his desk.

"That was—" He can't find words.

"Highly unethical?" She's smiling, looking thoroughly satisfied. "Probably going to get you disbarred?"

"Worth it." He kisses her softly. "Completely worth it."

"Good." She's working on his tie, loosening it. "Because I'm not done with you yet."

"Your divorce isn't final—"

"Then we better win quickly." She pulls him back down. "Because I want to do this in your bed next time. Properly."

He should say no. Should maintain boundaries. Should wait until everything is legal and proper.

Instead he kisses her again and decides ethics can wait until morning.

Six months later, the divorce is final. The prenup is thrown out. She gets half of everything, alimony, and the satisfaction of watching her ex husband's face when the judge rules in her favor.

Hiromi takes her to dinner that night. Then home. Then makes good on her request to do this properly in his bed.

"Still think I'm worth the ethics violation?" she asks afterward, curled against his chest.

"Every single one." He kisses her hair. "Though maybe let's not tell the bar association about our timeline."

"Our secret." She smiles. "Besides, you're my lawyer. Attorney client privilege."

"That's not how that works."

"It is now." She kisses him. "Now stop lawyering and take me again."

He does. Multiple times. And when they finally sleep, she's wearing his shirt and he's thinking about how he broke every professional rule for her.

Best decision he ever made.

SUMMARY - At the barbershop, Ryomen Sukuna notices you instantly—like nothing else matters.He calls you and your son over, smooth and shameless, flirting without hesitation. One minute he’s making your son laugh, the next he’s looking at you like he’s already decided something.Not just interested—serious.Like he could step in, treat you better… and be the man your son actually deserves.

⤷ barber!sukuna x single mom!reader | SFW✦

(based of this tiktok)

The bell above the door chimes as you push into the barbershop, your four-year-old son's hand gripped firmly in yours.

"Mama, I don't wanna haircut," Kaito whines, dragging his feet.

"Baby, your hair is getting in your eyes. You need a trim." You squeeze his hand reassuringly. "I promise it won't take long."

The shop is buzzing with activity—clippers humming, music playing low, the smell of aftershave and hair products in the air. Several barbers work their stations, but your attention is immediately drawn to the one in the back corner.

He's covered in tattoos—intricate designs that wind up both arms, disappear under his black t-shirt, and reappear at his neck. Pink hair styled back, sharp features, an eyebrow piercing that catches the light. He's focused on his current client, electric clippers moving with practiced precision.

Then he looks up.

His eyes—dark, intense—lock onto yours immediately. You watch his gaze travel down your body in a slow, deliberate sweep that should probably offend you but somehow doesn't. You're wearing jeans that hug your curves, a fitted jacket, your natural hair styled in a way that took way too long this morning.

When his eyes meet yours again, he's smirking.

"Yo, Marcus," he calls to another barber without breaking eye contact with you. "I got this one."

"Man, you got a client right there—"

"I said I got it." He finishes the fade he's working on with quick, efficient movements, brushing off his client and accepting payment. The whole time, his eyes keep flicking back to you.

Your son tugs your hand. "Mama, that man has drawings."

"Tattoos, baby. And it's not polite to stare."

"You're staring too," Kaito points out with the brutal honesty only a four-year-old can deliver.

You are. You're absolutely staring.

The tattooed barber—his name tag reads "SUKUNA"—beckons you over with two fingers, that smirk still firmly in place.

"Come here, beautiful. Bring the little man."

You hesitate for only a second before walking over. Something about the way he's looking at you—interested but not creepy, appreciative but respectful—makes you feel seen in a way you haven't felt in a long time.

"First time here?" he asks as you approach, his voice deep and smooth.

"Yeah. We just moved to the neighborhood." You place your hands on Kaito's shoulders. "He needs a trim."

"I can see that." Sukuna crouches down to Kaito's level, which immediately earns him points. "What's your name, little man?"

Kaito shrinks back against your legs. "Kaito."

"Kaito. That's a strong name. I'm Sukuna." He offers his fist for a bump. After a moment's hesitation, Kaito bumps it. "You nervous about the haircut?"

Kaito nods.

"That's cool. That's fair. But check it out—" Sukuna points to a jar of lollipops on his station. "You sit still for me, you get two of those. Deal?"

"Two?" Kaito's eyes widen.

"Two. But you gotta be brave for me. Can you do that?"

Another nod, more enthusiastic this time.

Sukuna stands, and you're reminded of exactly how tall he is. Has to be at least 6'2", broad-shouldered, built like someone who doesn't skip the gym.

"And you are?" He's looking at you again with that same intense focus.

You give him your name, trying to ignore the way your heart rate picks up.

"Pretty name for a pretty woman." He says it easily, confidently, like he compliments women every day. He probably does. "Have a seat right here, Kaito. Let's make you look fresh."

He lifts your son into the chair with surprising gentleness, draping the cape around him. As he works—spraying water, combing through Kaito's hair—he keeps talking.

"So, new to the neighborhood. Where'd you move from?"

"Across town. Needed a fresh start."

His eyes flick to your left hand. No ring. No tan line. His expression shifts slightly—something satisfied in it.

"Fresh start's good. This is a good area. Good schools around here if that's what you're looking for." The clippers buzz to life. "Kaito, you gonna stay still for me, champ?"

"Uh-huh."

"That's what I like to hear."

You watch as Sukuna works, and you're struck by how naturally he interacts with your son. Keeps up a steady stream of conversation, asking about Kaito's favorite cartoons, what he wants to be when he grows up (firefighter, apparently), if he likes dinosaurs (yes, very much).

"You're good with kids," you observe.

"Got nieces and nephews. Plus, I like kids. They're honest. No bullshit—" He catches himself. "No nonsense. They tell you exactly what they're thinking."

"That's true." You smile. "Sometimes too honest."

"Best kind of honest." He's shaping up the sides now, and you can already see the difference. Your son actually looks like he has a proper haircut instead of the shaggy mess he'd been sporting. "So, Kaito's dad. He around?"

The question is casual, but you don't miss the interest behind it.

"No," you say simply.

"His loss." Sukuna says it with such certainty that you almost believe him. "Man's gotta be crazy to walk away from a woman like you."

"You don't even know me."

"I know enough." He moves around to the front, tilting Kaito's chin up to check his work. "I know you're a good mom—moved your whole life to give your son a better start. I know you take care of yourself—that doesn't happen by accident. And I know—" His eyes meet yours in the mirror. "—you deserve better than whatever situation had you packing up and leaving."

You don't know what to say to that. It's too accurate, too perceptive for someone you met ten minutes ago.

"You married?" you ask, deflecting.

"Nah. Was engaged once. Didn't work out." He shrugs like it doesn't matter. "Wasn't right. When it's right, you know."

"And how do you know?"

"When you meet someone and immediately start thinking about how to fit them into your life instead of how to fit into theirs." He's looking at you again, and there's no mistaking his meaning. "When you see a beautiful woman walk in with her son and your first thought is 'how do I make her stay?'"

Your breath catches.

"That's real smooth," you manage.

"I'm not trying to be smooth. I'm trying to be honest." He finishes with Kaito's hair, brushing off his neck and removing the cape. "There you go, little man. Looking fresh."

Kaito twists in the chair to see himself in the mirror. His face lights up. "Mama, look!"

"I see, baby! You look so handsome!"

Sukuna lifts him down from the chair, and true to his word, pulls out two lollipops. "You held still like a champ. Proud of you."

"Thank you!" Kaito clutches the lollipops like treasure.

"You're welcome. Now go show your mama that fresh cut."

While Kaito bounces around showing off his new haircut, Sukuna starts cleaning his station. You pull out your wallet.

"How much?"

"First cut's on me."

"I can't let you—"

"You can, and you will." He leans against his station, arms crossed, biceps flexing. "Call it a welcome-to-the-neighborhood gift."

"That's—"

"Not negotiable." His smirk returns. "But if you feel bad about it, you could let me take you to dinner sometime."

There it is.

"You don't waste time, do you?"

"I'm thirty-two years old. Too old to play games." He straightens up, pulling a business card from his pocket and a pen. He writes something on the back and hands it to you. "That's my personal number. The shop number's on the front if you want to bring Kaito back—which you should, I do good work. But the back—" He taps it. "—that's if you want to grab coffee. Or dinner. Or just talk."

You look at the card, then at him. At the tattoos and the piercings and the confidence that should be cocky but somehow isn't. At the way he's looking at you like you're the most interesting thing he's seen all week.

At the way he treated your son with patience and kindness and respect.

"I have a four-year-old," you say. "And baggage. And a deadbeat ex who doesn't pay child support or show up for birthdays."

"I have tattoos, a demanding job, and commitment issues I've been working through in therapy." He shrugs. "We've all got shit. Question is whether we want to deal with our shit alone or find someone worth dealing with it together."

"That's very philosophical for a barber."

"I'm a man of many depths." He winks. "So what do you say? Coffee? No pressure. Just two adults getting to know each other."

You should say no. Should focus on settling into your new place, getting Kaito enrolled in his new preschool, building your life without depending on anyone.

But the way he's looking at you—like you're not just a pretty face, not just a body, but a whole person worth knowing—makes you want to say yes.

"Coffee," you agree. "But somewhere Kaito-friendly. He's part of the package."

"I wouldn't want it any other way." Sukuna's smile is genuine now, no smirk, just warmth. "I'll text you. We'll set something up."

"Okay."

"Okay." He crouches down to Kaito again. "You take care of your mama, yeah? She's special."

"I know," Kaito says seriously. "She's the best mama."

"I believe it." Sukuna stands, his eyes meeting yours one more time. "I'll see you soon."

"Yeah. Soon."

✦ ݁ ˖ SUMMARY - Satoru Gojo, president of Alpha Sigma Ligma and campus golden boy, has exactly one weakness: his girlfriend's tits. Everyone knows it. His frat brothers joke about it. You—the mean girl of campus—pretend to be annoyed by it. But secretly? You love how obsessed he is. Tonight, after he's been extra good, you reward him by riding him with your tits in his face while he loses his mind.

⤷ frat boy!gojo x mean girl!reader | 18+ MDNI ✦

CW: explicit sexual content, established relationship, frat/college AU, body worship, tit worship, he literally cannot keep his hands off them, obsessive behavior (affectionate), groping (consensual and constant), possessive!gojo, golden retriever boyfriend energy, mean girl girlfriend, riding, praise kink, he's pussy drunk, slight mommy kink if you squint, unprotected sex, creampie, he's down ASTRONOMICALLY bad, "you're mine" energy, public displays of affection, he's a simp and proud, soft dom vibes, worshipful sex, they're in love your honor

Satoru Gojo—president of Alpha Sigma Ligma, campus golden boy, heir to the Gojo fortune—is absolutely, shamelessly, down-bad obsessed with his girlfriend's tits. And everyone knows it.

✦ You're the mean girl of campus. President of the most exclusive sorority, always dressed in designer, sharp tongue that could cut glass. You've made grown men cry with a single look. Everyone's terrified of you. Everyone except Satoru, who looks at you like you hung the fucking moon and personally gets hard when you insult people.

✦ The obsession started the night you met at a mixer. You were wearing a low-cut black dress that should've been illegal, and he walked directly into a wall while staring. You called him "pathetic" and he said "yes ma'am" immediately. Been together ever since. His frat brothers still can't figure out how it happened.

✦ He's SHAMELESS about it. You'll be sitting in the library studying and his hand just migrates to your chest like a magnet. You slap it away. He pouts. Five minutes later it's back. "Satoru, we're in PUBLIC." "I know, isn't it great?" Security has asked you both to leave three times this semester.

✦ He talks about them like they're separate entities. "How are the girls today?" "Satoru, they're attached to me." "I know, but they deserve individual attention." He's insane. You're in love with him.

✦ His home screen is you flipping off the camera in a bikini. His lock screen is you at formal in a dress with the most insane cleavage. He shows these to people unprompted. "That's my girlfriend. See her? She's mean as fuck and so hot I could die. Wanna see another picture?"

✦ He's so annoying about it during sex. "Fuck, look at these." "They're perfect." "All mine." "Can't believe you're real." Like sir, we're in the middle of something, can you focus? But then he'll put his mouth on them and suddenly you don't care about his running commentary.

✦ Sometimes you'll catch him just... staring. You'll be doing homework, wearing a normal shirt, nothing special, and you'll look up to find him gazing at your chest with this dopey smile. "What?" "Nothing. Just appreciating the view." "You're such a simp." "Your simp, baby."

✦ After parties, when you're both drunk and stumbling back to his room, he gets even worse. Handsy doesn't begin to cover it. You've had to swat his hands away in the Uber more times than you can count. The drivers have definitely seen things. You tip extra out of embarrassment. Satoru tips extra because he's "grateful for the driver's discretion."

✦ You wore a push-up bra to his game once (he plays club basketball). He missed EVERY SHOT in the first quarter because he couldn't stop staring at you in the stands. Coach benched him. He didn't care. "Worth it. Did you SEE her? In that top? I'm just a man."

✦ His frat brothers have a tally of how many times he's mentioned your tits in casual conversation. They stopped counting at 57 in one week. Suguru has threatened to beat him to death. Satoru just shrugs. "If I die thinking about her tits, I die happy."

✦ You use it against him constantly. Need him to do something? Wear a low-cut shirt. Want him to agree to something? Lean forward. One time you got him to do your entire statistics homework by wearing a lacy bralette under a see-through tank top. He didn't even realize what happened until you were already gone.

✦ He's gotten into TWO fights this semester because guys were staring. Not even cat-calling, just looking. Some sophomore made eye contact with your chest for too long at a party and Satoru had him in a headlock within seconds. You had to drag him off. "He was LOOKING!" "Everyone looks, you psycho!"

✦ His hands are always cold and he uses it as an excuse. "Baby, my hands are cold." "Then put on gloves." "Or I could warm them up..." Already reaching for your chest. You let him. Every time. Because his hands ARE always cold and honestly, it's kind of nice.

✦ He bought you lingerie for your birthday. Expensive, beautiful, completely impractical lingerie that's basically just strategic lace. Makes you model every piece. Takes pictures (for his personal collection, he promises, and you believe him because he's possessive enough that he'd never share). Gets hard immediately every time.

✦ You sent him ONE picture—ONE—of you in his frat t-shirt with no bra while he was in class. He left immediately. Just stood up in the middle of his econ lecture and left. Showed up at your sorority house fifteen minutes later. You didn't leave your room for three hours.

✦ He's a biter. Leaves marks all over your chest where no one can see them. Except you know they're there and he knows they're there and that's enough. You wore a high-neck dress to formal once to hide them and he spent the whole night pouting. "What's the point of my hard work if no one knows?"

✦ The way he looks at you when you wear anything remotely low-cut is OBSCENE. Like a starving man looking at a feast. You've gotten kicked out of two restaurants because the waiter saw his face and decided you needed to "get a room." You did. You always do.

✦ His dream is to fuck your tits. He's mentioned it approximately 400 times. You keep saying no just to watch him beg. "Please baby please I'll do anything I'll buy you that bag you want I'll do your homework for a month please—" You'll give in eventually. Maybe. If he's good.

✦ He falls asleep with his face in your chest at MINIMUM three times a week. Just completely motorboats himself into unconsciousness. You're reading, watching TV, doing homework—doesn't matter. He's face-first in your tits, out cold. It's actually kind of cute. You won't admit that out loud.

✦ He's gotten so good at unhooking your bra one-handed that it's genuinely impressive. You've tested him. Drunk, sober, distracted, in the dark—doesn't matter. Three seconds flat every time. It's his only practical skill and he's incredibly proud of it.

✦ Tonight, after the latest frat party (where his hands barely left your body for three straight hours), you're going to reward him for his devotion. He's been so good lately—aced his finals, planned an amazing date, dealt with your attitude when you were stressed about sorority drama. He deserves a treat.

"Baby," Satoru whines, sprawled across his bed in just his boxer briefs, hair messy from your fingers, lips swollen from kissing. "Come here."

"So needy," you tease, but you're already climbing onto the bed, straddling his lap. You're wearing one of the sets he bought you—baby blue lace that he swears was made for you.

His hands immediately go to your waist, sliding up to cup your chest through the lace. "Fuck, you're so perfect."

"Yeah?" You roll your hips, feeling him already hard beneath you. "You've only told me about fifty times tonight."

"I'll tell you fifty more." His thumbs brush over your nipples through the fabric and you shiver. "Could stare at these all day. Could touch them all day. Actually—" He grins up at you. "—I basically do."

"You're obsessed."

"Guilty." He sits up, bringing his mouth to your chest, kissing through the lace. "Can't help it. They're perfect. You're perfect."

You reach behind yourself, unclasping the bra and letting it fall away. His eyes go wide, pupils blown.

"Jesus Christ," he breathes. "I'm the luckiest man alive."

"You're also the horniest man alive."

"That too." He leans forward, taking a nipple into his mouth, and you gasp, fingers threading into his hair.

"Fuck, Satoru—"

"Love hearing you say my name," he mumbles against your skin. "Love the way you taste. Love—" He switches sides. "—everything about you."

His hands are everywhere—cupping, squeezing, appreciating. He's genuinely worshipful about it, like he's been granted access to something holy.

"Need you inside me," you breathe, grinding down on him.

"Yeah? Can't wait?" His hands slide down to your hips, helping you lift up while he shoves his boxer briefs down just enough to free himself. "Need me that bad?"

"Don't get cocky—"

"Too late." He grins, lining himself up. "I'm always cocky when it comes to you."

You sink down slowly, both of you groaning. He's big enough that even after six months, the stretch is intense.

"Fuck," he gasps, head falling back. "Always so tight. Always so perfect for me."

You start moving, finding a rhythm, and his hands immediately return to your chest. Like a homing beacon. Like he can't help himself.

"There they are," he says happily, watching them move with each roll of your hips. "My girls."

"You're ridiculous—"

"I'm in love." He sits up, wrapping his arms around you, face pressed between your breasts. "In love with you. In love with these. In love with the way you feel around my cock—"

"Satoru—" You're already close, the angle hitting perfectly, his hands and mouth on your chest driving you crazy.

"That's it, baby." He's babbling now, drunk on you. "Ride me just like that. Use me. Take what you need."

"Touch me," you demand, even though he already is.

"Where?" His hands squeeze. "Here? Or—" One hand slides down between your bodies, finding your clit. "Here?"

"Both—fuck—both—"

"Greedy girl." But he sounds delighted about it. "Love when you're greedy for me. Love when you use me like this."

The combination of his cock, his fingers, his mouth on your chest—it's overwhelming. You're riding him harder now, chasing your release.

"Gonna come," you gasp. "Gonna—"

"Do it." His teeth graze your nipple and you shatter. "Come for me, baby. Wanna feel it."

You clench around him, crying out, and he groans.

"Fuck, yes, just like that—so good—you're so good—"

He's still rock hard inside you when you come down, and you realize he hasn't finished.

"Your turn," you breathe, starting to move again.

"Wait—" His hands grip your hips. "Stay just like this. Need—" He buries his face in your chest again. "Need this."

You ride him slowly, deliberately, keeping your chest at face-level. He's in heaven—moaning against your skin, hands gripping your ass, helping you move.

"So good," he's mumbling. "So perfect. All mine. Can't believe you're mine—"

"All yours," you confirm, because you know it drives him crazy.

"Yeah?" He thrusts up to meet you. "These are mine? This pussy is mine? You're mine?"

"Yes—fuck—yes—"

"Gonna come—" His voice is strangled. "Gonna fill you up—"

"Do it." You grind down hard. "Come for me, baby."

He does—buried deep, face pressed against your chest, your name falling from his lips like a prayer. You feel him pulsing inside you, warm and perfect.

✦ ݁ ˖ SUMMARY - You and Toji Fushiguro have been friends with benefits for three months—no strings, no feelings, just sex. Except it stopped being "just sex" about two months ago and you're both in denial. When his teammate Sukuna flirts with you at the team's victory party, Toji snaps. Drags you upstairs, fucks you against the wall hard enough that the whole party probably hears, makes you say you're his, and then—still inside you—asks you to be his girlfriend.

⤷ hockey player!toji x fem!reader | 18+ MDNI ✦

CW: explicit sexual content, hockey AU, college setting, FWB to lovers, jealous!toji, possessive behavior, rough sex, wall sex, size kink, size difference, manhandling, degradation, praise kink, unprotected sex, creampie, breeding kink mentions, marking/biting, mild choking, he's FERAL, semi-public sex (party upstairs), "you're mine" energy, overstimulation

The party is already raging by the time you arrive.

The hockey house is packed—wall-to-wall bodies, music so loud you can feel it in your chest, the air thick with sweat and alcohol and victory. The team won the championship tonight, which means this party is going to be absolutely insane.

You push through the crowd, looking for familiar faces. Nobara said she'd be here, and Maki, but you haven't spotted them yet.

What you do spot—immediately, because he's impossible to miss—is Toji Fushiguro.

He's in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a beer in hand, still in his postgame fit—black baggy jeans, team jackect and fitted t-shirt underneath. His dark hair is messy, scar cutting across his lip in a way that should be off-putting but somehow just makes him hotter.

He's talking to Gojo—the team captain, all white hair and obnoxious confidence—but his eyes find you across the room like he's got some kind of radar.

Your stomach flips.

Three months. You've been doing this thing with Toji for three months. It started after a party just like this one—too much alcohol, too much proximity, and a "fuck it, why not?" that led to the best sex of your life in his bedroom upstairs.

The next morning, you'd both agreed: just sex. No feelings. No expectations. Just fun.

Except somewhere around week six, it stopped being just fun.

Now it's 2 AM texts that aren't booty calls, they're just "you up? can't sleep." It's him buying your specific brand of coffee creamer and keeping it in his fridge. It's the way he touches you after—soft, careful, like you're something precious instead of just a convenient fuck.

It's the way your heart does that stupid flutter thing every time you see him.

But you're both pretending. Pretending it's still casual. Still just physical. Because acknowledging it means risking everything, and neither of you knows how to do that.

Toji raises his beer slightly in greeting, that lazy smirk on his face. You roll your eyes and turn away, heading for the drinks table.

"Well, well. Look who showed up."

You turn to find Ryomen Sukuna leaning against the wall, red solo cup in hand, looking like sin personified. He's the team's center—tattooed, pink-haired, cocky as hell, and objectively hot in that dangerous way.

"Sukuna," you acknowledge, grabbing a beer. "Good game."

"Thanks, sweetheart." He moves closer, and you catch the scent of his cologne—expensive, probably. "You look good tonight. That dress new?"

It is new. And you definitely wore it hoping Toji would notice.

"Maybe," you say noncommittally.

"It's working." His eyes drag over you slowly. "Whoever you wore it for is a lucky bastard."

You don't miss the way his gaze flicks briefly toward the kitchen. Toward Toji.

Oh. So that's what this is.

Sukuna knows. Probably the whole team knows. You and Toji aren't exactly subtle—you leave his room at 3 AM with sex hair and his bite marks on your neck. But you've never confirmed it, never made it official.

"I wore it for me," you say.

"Even better." He leans in slightly. "You know, I've been meaning to ask—you ever get tired of whatever you've got going on, you should let me take you to dinner."

"Is that so?"

"Yeah. I promise I'd treat you right. Take you somewhere nice. Show you off."

There's a challenge in his voice. He's not actually interested—he's poking the bear. Seeing if Toji will react.

And oh, Toji is reacting.

You can feel his eyes on you from across the room. Can practically feel the tension radiating off him.

"That's sweet, Sukuna. But I'm not really looking for—"

"You're not looking for what?"

Toji's voice comes from right behind you, low and dangerous.

You turn. He's close—too close for someone who's supposed to be just a casual fuck. His jaw is tight, eyes dark.

"Just telling her she looks good," Sukuna says, grinning like the asshole he is. "And that if she ever wants to go out with someone who'll actually commit, she should hit me up."

Toji's hand finds your hip. The touch is possessive, claiming.

"She's busy," he says flatly.

"Is she?" Sukuna's grin widens. "Didn't realize you two were official. My bad, man."

"We're not—" you start.

"We're busy," Toji repeats, cutting you off. His grip tightens. "Come on. Need to talk to you."

"Toji—"

But he's already steering you away from Sukuna, through the crowd, toward the stairs.

"That was rude," you say as he pulls you up the steps.

"Don't care."

"He was just—"

"Flirting with you. I know. I saw." He practically drags you down the hallway to his room, pushing open the door and pulling you inside.

The door slams shut.

You cross your arms. "What's your problem?"

"My problem?" He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "My problem is watching Sukuna eye-fuck you in the middle of the party."

"He wasn't—"

"He was. And you were letting him."

"I was being polite!"

"You were flirting back."

"I was not!" You throw your hands up. "And even if I was—we're not together, Toji. You made that very clear. 'Just sex, no strings,' remember?"

Something flashes in his eyes. "Yeah. I remember."

"So why do you care if Sukuna flirts with me?"

"Because—" He stops. Jaw clenching. "Fuck."

"Because what?"

"Because you're mine," he bites out. "Okay? You're mine. And I don't like other guys touching what's mine."

Your heart stops. "I'm yours?"

"Yeah." He moves closer, backing you toward the wall. "You've been mine since the first time I fucked you. Since the first time you said my name. You think I let just anyone keep a toothbrush at my place? Keep clothes in my drawers?"

"That's—that's just practical—"

"Bullshit." He cages you in, hands on either side of your head. "You know what it is. We both know. We've just been too fucking scared to say it."

"Toji—"

"I see you with other guys and I want to break something. I see you laugh at someone else's jokes and I want to remind you who makes you laugh harder. I see you in that fucking dress and all I can think about is ripping it off and making sure you remember exactly who you belong to."

Your breathing is ragged. "We said no feelings."

"Fuck what we said." His hand cups your jaw. "I have feelings. I've had feelings. And I'm done pretending I don't."

"Why now?"

"Because watching Sukuna put his hands on you made me realize I'd rather risk this—risk us—than keep pretending I don't want you to be mine for real."

Your heart is hammering. "Toji—"

He kisses you.

It's not gentle. It's desperate, claiming, three months of pent-up emotion pouring into it. His hands are everywhere—your face, your waist, sliding up your thighs under your dress.

"Tell me," he growls against your mouth. "Tell me you're mine."

"I—"

"Say it." His hand wraps around your throat, not squeezing, just holding. "Say you're mine or I swear to god I'll make you."

"How?"

His smile is dark. "By fucking you so hard you can't remember your own name, let alone anyone else's."

Heat pools between your legs. "Toji—"

"Last chance." His thumb strokes your pulse point. "Say it."

You stare at him—at the dark eyes, the scar, the desperation barely hidden under all that aggression.

"Make me," you breathe.

His eyes flash. "Wrong answer."

He spins you around, pressing you face-first against the wall. His body covers yours, so much bigger, so much stronger. You can feel every hard line of him against your back.

"You want to play games?" His voice is rough in your ear. "Fine. Let's play."

His hands yank your dress up, bunching it around your waist. Cool air hits your ass, then his palm comes down hard.

You gasp.

"That's for flirting back," he says. Another slap. "That's for letting him think he had a chance." Another. "And that's for making me jealous."

"I didn't—ah—"

"You did." His fingers hook in your underwear, yanking them down. "You knew exactly what you were doing. Wearing this dress. Talking to him. Trying to make me snap."

"Maybe I wanted you to—"

"Yeah?" He kicks your legs apart, one hand between your shoulder blades keeping you against the wall. "Wanted me to claim you? Show everyone who you belong to?"

"Yes—"

"Should've just asked, baby." You hear his belt buckle, the rasp of his zipper. "I'd have fucked you right there in the kitchen if that's what you needed."

He lines himself up and pushes in with one brutal thrust.

You cry out, hands scrabbling against the wall. He's so thick, the angle so deep, and he didn't prep you—didn't use his fingers or his mouth, just shoved inside like he owns you.

"Fuck," he groans. "Still so tight. You'd think after three months of me stretching this pussy it'd be easier. But you just keep gripping me like you never want to let go."

"Toji—"

"What?" He pulls almost all the way out, then slams back in. "Too much? Can't take it?"

"I can—"

"Then prove it." He sets a brutal pace, hips snapping against your ass, the sound of skin on skin obscene. "Take this cock like a good girl. Show me you can handle it."

You're trying to stay quiet—there's a party downstairs, people everywhere—but it's impossible. He's so deep, hitting that spot with every thrust, and you can't stop the moans spilling out.

"That's it," he encourages. "Let them hear. Let everyone know who's making you feel this good."

"The party—"

"Can fucking listen." His hand fists in your hair, pulling your head back. "Let them know you're mine. That this pussy belongs to me."

"Oh god—"

"Not god, baby. Just me." He reaches around, fingers finding your clit. "Just me making you fall apart. Just me who knows exactly how you like it."

He circles your clit in time with his thrusts and you're already close, embarrassingly close.

"Gonna come already?" He sounds smug. "That's my girl. So responsive. So perfect for me."

"Yes—fuck—yes—"

"Then come. Come on my cock. Show me who you belong to."

You shatter, clenching around him, and he groans.

"Fuck, that's perfect. Love feeling you come. Love knowing I'm the one who does this to you."

He doesn't stop. Just keeps fucking you through it, chasing his own release.

"Say it," he demands. "Say you're mine."

"I—"

His hand tightens in your hair. "Say it or I'll stop right now. Leave you empty and aching."

"Don't—"

"Then. Say. It."

"I'm yours!" It bursts out of you. "I'm yours, okay? I'm yours—"

"Fuck yes." He slams in deep, grinding against you. "Again."

"I'm yours—"

"Louder."

"I'm yours!" You're crying now, overwhelmed. "I'm yours, Toji, I'm—"

He comes with a groan, buried as deep as possible, and you feel the hot pulse of him filling you up. He keeps grinding, making sure every drop stays inside.

"Mine," he mutters into your shoulder. "Mine, mine, mine."

For a long moment neither of you moves. Just breathing hard, tangled together, his body covering yours protectively.

Then—still inside you—he turns your head to kiss you.

It's soft. Gentle. Nothing like the brutal way he just fucked you.

"Be my girlfriend," he says against your lips.

You blink. "What?"

"You heard me." He pulls back enough to look at you, and his eyes are vulnerable in a way you've never seen. "Be my girlfriend. For real. Not just—not just this. Everything."

"Toji—"

"I know we said no strings. I know we agreed to keep it casual. But I can't anymore. I don't want casual. I want you. All of you. Officially."

Your heart is so full it might burst. "You're asking me to be your girlfriend while you're still inside me?"

"Yeah. Problem?"

You laugh, breathless. "That's so—"

"I don't care if it's weird. I needed you to know now. Needed you to know I'm serious. That this isn't just—" He gestures vaguely. "—jealousy or possessiveness or whatever. It's real."

You turn in his arms as much as you can, and he's still hard inside you, but you don't care.

"I have feelings too," you admit quietly. "Have for a while."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I just—I didn't want to ruin what we had. Didn't want to be the one who caught feelings and made it weird."

"You didn't make it weird. We both did." He kisses you again. "So what do you say? Want to make this official?"

You pretend to think about it. "Depends. Do I get a victory fuck every time you win a game?"

"Baby, you get victory fucks even when we lose."

You grin. "Then yes. I'll be your girlfriend."

"Thank fuck." He starts moving again, slow rolls of his hips. "Now let me fuck my girlfriend properly. Against the wall wasn't enough. Need you in my bed."

"Toji, the party—"

"Can wait." He pulls out, and you feel his cum start to drip down your thighs. His fingers push it back in. "Everyone already knows what we're doing up here anyway. Might as well make it worth it."

He picks you up—literally just scoops you up like you weigh nothing—and carries you to his bed.

"Round two?" you ask as he lays you down.

"Round two, three, and four." He strips off his shirt, then his pants, and climbs over you. "I've got three months of pretending to make up for. Gonna fuck you until you can't walk. Until everyone who sees you tomorrow knows exactly what happened."

"Possessive much?"

"You have no idea." He spreads your legs, settling between them. "Now be a good girlfriend and take this cock again. We've got all night."

And he's right.

You do have all night.

✦ ݁ ˖ SUMMARY - You get on your knees and suck off your gamer boyfriend while he's in the middle of a raid with his friends—his mic is on and he's trying so hard not to whimper. (He fails.)

⤷ choso x fem!reader | 18+ MDNI ✦

CW: explicit sexual content, oral sex (m!receiving), sub!choso, whimpering, begging, gaming while receiving head, slight exhibitionism (his mic is on and his friends hear), teasing, praise kink, overstimulation, cum swallowing, reader is a menace, choso is mortified, secondhand embarrassment, established relationship

It's 11 PM on a Friday and Choso's been gaming for three hours straight.

You're not mad about it—he works hard all week, he deserves to unwind with his friends. And honestly, watching him game is kind of hot. The way he focuses, the little furrow between his brows when he's concentrating, the rare smile when his team wins.

But you're also bored. And maybe a little needy. And definitely feeling like causing problems.

He's at his desk, headset on, completely absorbed in whatever raid or dungeon or match he's doing. The RGB lights from his setup cast colors across his face—purple, blue, pink. He's wearing that black compression shirt that shows off his arms, grey sweatpants (your weakness), hair down, messy and wet from his shower.

He looks good. Too good to be ignoring you.

"Choso," you say from the doorway.

"Mm?" He doesn't look away from the screen, fingers flying over the keyboard. "Yeah, babe?"

"How much longer?"

"Just this match. Maybe thirty minutes." He glances at you quickly, apologetically. "Sorry, we're so close to clearing this raid. I promise I'll be done soon."

Thirty minutes. You can work with thirty minutes.

You pad into the room quietly, and he's already refocused on the game. You can hear his teammates through the headset—Yuji's enthusiastic shouting, Todo's booming laugh, someone else (maybe Megumi?) giving tactical instructions.

"Yeah, I see him," Choso says into his mic. "Going left— fuck, he's got backup—"

You drop to your knees beside his gaming chair.

He doesn't notice at first. Too focused on the screen, on the game, on whatever's happening. You rest your hands on his thighs—still nothing.

So you slide your hands higher. Up his thighs, over the soft fabric of his sweatpants, and that's when he notices.

His character on screen stutters to a stop.

"Babe—" He looks down at you, eyes wide. "What are you—"

"Keep playing," you say innocently, fingers tracing the outline of him through his sweatpants. He's already half-hard, because of course he is. "Don't mind me."

"I can't—" His voice cracks when you palm him properly. "I'm in the middle of a raid—"

"Choso, you good?" Yuji's voice crackles through the headset. "Why'd you stop moving?"

"I'm fine!" His voice comes out higher than normal. He clears his throat, shoots you a desperate look. "Just— lag. Bad lag."

"Your ping looks fine," someone else says.

"Must be on my end." He's trying to keep his voice steady, but his hips shift forward into your touch involuntarily. "Keep going, I'm good."

You smile up at him sweetly and hook your fingers in his waistband. "Lift up," you whisper.

"No—" But it comes out weak, unconvincing.

"Lift up," you repeat, firmer this time. "Or I'll stop."

He makes a sound that's almost a whimper and lifts his hips just enough for you to pull his sweatpants and boxers down. His cock springs free, already hard, flushed and pretty, and you hear him inhale sharply.

"Fuck," he breathes, so quiet you almost don't hear it.

"What was that?" Todo's voice.

"Nothing! Just—" Another sharp inhale as you wrap your hand around him. "—just thought I saw something. I'm good. I'm fine. Totally fine."

He's not fine. He's already trembling, one hand white-knuckling his mouse, the other gripping the armrest of his chair.

You stroke him slowly, base to tip, and his character on screen walks directly into a wall.

"Dude, where are you going?" Yuji laughs. "The boss is the other way!"

"I know! I know, sorry—" He's trying to focus, trying to play, but his hips are shifting, seeking more of your touch. "Just— give me a second—"

"We don't have a second, the boss is at 30%!"

"I'm coming!" Wrong choice of words. His face flushes darker. "I mean— I'm on my way— fuck—"

That last word comes out strangled because you've leaned forward and licked a stripe up the underside of his cock.

"You okay, man?" Megumi now, sounding concerned. "You sound weird."

"I'm FINE." He's not fine. His free hand has moved to your hair, not pushing, just holding on like you're his anchor. "Just focus on the boss, I'll—" His breath hitches as you swirl your tongue around his tip. "—I'll handle adds."

You take him into your mouth properly, and the sound he makes is unholy. A high, broken whimper that he tries desperately to muffle.

"What the fuck was that?" Todo.

"Nothing!" Choso's voice is wrecked. "Cat! That was the cat!"

"You don't have a cat."

"Neighbor's cat. Outside. Very loud cat." He's babbling now, trying to maintain some semblance of normalcy while you're taking him deeper. "Can we please just— focus on the boss—"

You hollow your cheeks and suck, and his hips jerk up involuntarily, pushing deeper into your mouth. The hand in your hair tightens.

"Sorry—" He gasps, whether to you or his teammates, you're not sure. "Sorry, I didn't mean—"

You pull off just long enough to whisper, "It's okay. Use my mouth. Just try to be quiet."

His eyes go wide, pupils blown, and he makes another one of those broken whimpering sounds that goes straight to your core.

"Choso, your character is just standing there," Yuji says. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yes!" Too emphatic. He tries to modulate his tone. "Yes, I'm— I'm good, just— strategizing—"

You take him back in your mouth, deeper this time, and you feel more than hear the moan he swallows down. His mouse hand is shaking, his character on screen moving erratically.

"Your strategizing looks like having a seizure," Megumi comments dryly.

"I'm FINE— oh fuck—" That last part comes out as you take him as deep as you can, nose nearly touching his pelvis. "—fine, I'm fine, boss is at 20%, let's just—"

He's trying so hard to focus on the game, to play properly, but you're making it impossible. You bob your head, taking him deep over and over, and his thighs are trembling on either side of you.

"Babe—" He gasps, voice barely above a whisper. "Babe, please— I can't— they're gonna know—"

You pull off, hand still stroking him. "Then you better be quiet."

"I can't be quiet when you're— oh fuck—" You've taken him back in, tongue doing something that makes his back arch. "—when you're doing that—"

"Doing what?" Yuji asks innocently.

"Nothing! Talking to— to my girlfriend—" His voice breaks on the last word as you suck harder. "She's— she's asking about dinner— fuck—"

"It's 11 PM," Megumi points out.

"Late dinner! We eat late! Can everyone just— focus on the boss please—" He's begging now, whether for them to focus or for you to have mercy, you're not sure.

His cock is leaking steadily now, and you can tell he's getting close. His breathing is ragged, his character on screen completely stationary, and the hand in your hair is shaking.

"Choso, you're literally not doing anything," Todo sounds amused. "What's going on over there?"

"Nothing!" High-pitched, desperate. "Everything's fine! Everything's— oh god—"

You've taken him deep again, swallowing around him, and the sound he makes is beyond words. A high, broken whimper that he can't quite muffle.

"...Did you just whimper?" Yuji.

"NO! No, I just— something in my throat— I'm fine—"

"You sound like you're dying," Megumi says flatly.

"I'm NOT dying, I'm just—" You do something with your tongue and he nearly sobs. "—just really focused— on the game— fuck fuck fuck—"

"Boss is at 5%!" Yuji shouts. "Everyone DPS!"

Choso is desperately trying to function, clicking his mouse randomly, but you can feel him getting closer. His cock is twitching in your mouth, his breathing coming in sharp gasps, and he's biting his lip so hard you're worried he'll draw blood.

"Baby—" He whispers, so quiet only you can hear. "Baby, please— I'm so close— I can't— they're gonna hear—"

You look up at him, making eye contact, and take him as deep as you can. The look on his face is desperate, pleading, beautiful.

"Boss is almost dead!". "Choso, are you even playing?"

"Yes!" It comes out strangled. "Yes, I'm— I'm playing— I'm—"

His whole body goes taut. You feel him pulse in your mouth, and he makes this sound—a high, keening whimper that he tries desperately to muffle behind his hand. It's too late though. You know his teammates heard it.

"...Choso?" Yuji sounds concerned and amused in equal measure.

"I'm fine!" Voice absolutely wrecked. "Totally fine! Did we— did we get the boss?"

"Yeah, we got it." Megumi's tone is dry. "You contributed nothing but weird noises, but we got it."

"Great! That's great!" Too enthusiastic. He's still coming down, still twitching in your mouth as you swallow everything he gives you. "Good job team! I need to— I need to go—"

"We're doing another run—"

"CAN'T! Have to— have to go— girlfriend needs— something— BYE!"

He rips off his headset, completely ignoring the protests of his teammates, and looks down at you with wide, dazed eyes.

You pull off him slowly, making a show of licking your lips, and his whole body shudders.

"You—" His voice is hoarse. "You're evil. You're actually evil."

"You loved it."

"That's not the point!" But he's pulling you up into his lap, kissing you desperately despite the taste of himself on your tongue. "They definitely heard. They're never going to let me live this down."

"Probably not."

"Yuji's probably already texting everyone—"

His phone buzzes. Then again. And again.

He looks at it, groans, and drops his forehead to your shoulder. "I'm never going to hear the end of this."

You pull up the messages and— yep.

Yuji: DUDE

Yuji: DUDE

Yuji: DID YOUR GIRLFRIEND JUST

Todo: That was the most obvious head I've ever heard someone receive

Megumi: I'm scarred. I'm actually scarred.

Yuji: THE WHIMPERING THO

Yuji: BRO

Yuji: I'M CRINE

"I'm blocking all of them," Choso mutters against your shoulder. "I'm changing my number. I'm moving to another country."

"Don't be dramatic."

"I WHIMPERED. They heard me WHIMPER."

"It was cute."

"It was HUMILIATING—"

You kiss him, cutting off his mortification. "It was hot. You're hot. And if it makes you feel better, I'm extremely turned on right now."

He pulls back, eyes darkening despite his embarrassment. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You roll your hips against him and he's already getting hard again. "Turns out making you fall apart while you try to stay quiet is really doing it for me."

"You're insane." But he's kissing your neck now, hands sliding under your shirt. "My friends are going to mock me forever."

"Probably."

"I'm never going to live this down."

"Definitely not."

"Worth it though." He picks you up easily, carrying you toward the bedroom. "Totally worth it. But now it's my turn."

"Your turn?"

"To make you whimper." His smile is wicked. "And I don't care who hears."

He does make you whimper. Multiple times. Loud enough that you're pretty sure the neighbors hear.

But that's okay. Turnabout is fair play.

. ✦ ݁ ˖ SUMMARY - Your exhausted lawyer boyfriend comes home past midnight and finds you in the bath—turns out he's never too tired to remind you exactly who you belong to.

⤷ higuruma x fem!reader | 18+ MDNI ✦

CW: explicit sexual content, bathtub sex, dom!higuruma, praise kink, soft dom energy, gentle degradation, established relationship, he's tired but never too tired for you, body worship, breeding kink mentions, unprotected sex, creampie, cockwarming, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, dirty talk, possessive behavior

It's past midnight when you hear the front door open.

You're already in the bath—have been for twenty minutes, letting the hot water and lavender bath salts ease the tension from your own long day. The bathroom is dim, just candles flickering, and you'd almost dozed off when you hear his footsteps in the hallway.

"In here," you call softly.

The door opens and Hiromi appears, still in his work clothes—shirt wrinkled, tie loosened and hanging askew, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His dark hair is messier than usual, falling across his forehead, and there are shadows under his eyes that speak of too many hours and not enough sleep.

But when he sees you in the bath, something in his expression softens.

"Hi," he says, voice rough with exhaustion.

"Hi yourself." You sit up slightly, water sloshing. "Long day?"

"The longest." He leans against the doorframe, just looking at you for a moment. "I had a client meeting that ran three hours over, then had to prep for tomorrow's hearing, then Nanami called with a brief that needs reviewing by 8 AM."

"Have you eaten?"

A pause. "I had coffee."

"Hiromi—"

"I know, I know." He pushes off the doorframe, starts unbuttoning his shirt. "I'll eat something after I shower. I just need—" He stops, watching the way the candlelight plays across your skin, the water just barely covering your breasts. "—need to decompress."

"Want to join me?" You gesture to the admittedly large bathtub—one of the reasons you both fell in love with this apartment. "Water's still hot."

He doesn't need to be asked twice.

You watch as he strips—shirt first, revealing lean muscle and pale skin. Then his pants, his boxer briefs, until he's standing there naked and exhausted and somehow still the most attractive man you've ever seen.

"Move forward," he says, and you do.

He slides in behind you with a groan that's almost obscene, his long legs bracketing yours, and immediately pulls you back against his chest. For a moment, he just holds you, face buried in your neck, breathing you in.

"Fuck," he mutters. "This is exactly what I needed."

"Me or the bath?"

"Both." His arms tighten around you. "Definitely both."

You let him hold you, let the water and the warmth and your presence ease some of the tension from his body. His hands are idle on your stomach, just resting, and you can feel his heartbeat against your back.

"Tell me about your day," you say softly. "The real version."

So he does. Tells you about the difficult client, the opposing counsel who was being deliberately obstinate, the judge who seemed determined to make everything harder than it needed to be. His voice is low and tired, but there's something cathartic about the telling, like he's releasing the stress with every word.

You listen, occasionally asking questions, your hands tracing patterns on his forearms. And slowly, gradually, you feel him relax.

"What about you?" he asks eventually. "How was your day?"

"Better now that you're home."

"Charmer." But you can hear the smile in his voice.

His hands start to move then—less idle, more purposeful. Sliding up from your stomach to just beneath your breasts, thumbs stroking the underside with clear intent.

"Hiromi—"

"Mm?" He's kissing your neck now, lips finding that spot just below your ear that makes you shiver. "What is it, baby?"

"You're tired. You should rest—"

"I'm never too tired for this." His hands cup your breasts properly now, thumbs circling your nipples until they peak. "For you."

You arch back into him, and that's when you feel it—his cock, already half-hard, pressing against your lower back.

"See?" His voice drops lower, takes on that commanding edge that never fails to make you clench. "My body knows what it wants. And what it wants is you."

"Hiromi—" It comes out breathier than intended.

"Tell me no." His teeth graze your earlobe. "Tell me you're too tired, that you want to just sleep, and I'll let you go. We'll get out, dry off, go to bed."

"And if I don't tell you no?"

"Then I'm going to make you come in this bath." One hand slides down your stomach, between your thighs. "Going to remind you exactly who you belong to. Going to take out every frustration from today on this perfect body until neither of us can think straight."

His fingers find your clit, circling with practiced precision, and you gasp.

"So what's it going to be?" He's relentless now, fingers working you expertly. "Yes or no, sweetheart. Use your words."

"Yes," you breathe. "Yes, please—"

"Good girl." The praise makes you clench around nothing, and he chuckles darkly. "Love how responsive you are. How eager. Been waiting for me all night, haven't you?"

"Yes—" You're already squirming against his hand.

"I know you have." He bites down on your shoulder, soothing it with his tongue. "My good girl, waiting so patiently. Going to reward you for that. Going to make you feel so good you forget your own name."

His fingers slide lower, teasing your entrance, and you whimper.

"Even in all this water, I can feel how ready you are for me." His voice is pure sin."Your body knows exactly what it wants, doesn't it, sweetheart?" "Yes—" You try to press down on his fingers, but he pulls back slightly, teasing. "Patience." It's a command, firm but not harsh. "You'll take what I give you, when I give it to you. Understood?"

"Yes—"

"Yes what?"

"Yes, Hiromi—"

"Good." He slides one finger inside you, slow and deliberate, and you moan. "That's my girl. Taking me so well already."

He works you with that single finger, curling it expertly, finding that spot inside that makes your thighs tremble. The water sloshes gently with your movements as you try to grind down on his hand.

"Greedy," he mutters, but there's affection in his voice. "Always so greedy for more. What do you want, baby? Tell me."

"More—please—need more—"

"Need more what? My fingers?" He adds a second, stretching you, and you cry out. "This what you want? Want me to fuck you with my fingers until you come?"

"Yes—oh god, yes—"

"Then stay still." His other hand presses down on your stomach, holding you in place. "Let me work. Let me take care of you."

And he does. His fingers work inside you with methodical precision, curling and stroking and hitting every spot that makes you gasp. His thumb finds your clit, circling with just the right pressure, and you're already embarrassingly close.

"That's it," he mutters against your neck. "Feel you getting tighter. Your body tells me everything, you know that? Tells me exactly what you need, exactly when you're close."

"Hiromi—I'm—"

"Not yet." He slows his fingers, keeping you right on the edge. "You don't come until I tell you to. Understand?"

You whimper in frustration, and he chuckles.

"I know, baby. I know it's hard. But you can do it. You can be good for me." He speeds up again, pushing you back toward that edge. "Want to make this last. Want to feel you trembling and desperate and so fucking needy that when I finally let you come, it ruins you."

"Please—" You're begging now, shameless. "Please let me come—"

"Why should I?" His voice is teasing, cruel in the best way. "Give me a good reason."

"Because I need it—because I've been good—because I've been waiting for you—"

"Such good reasons." He adds a third finger and you sob. "But I think you can wait a little longer. Think you can take a little more."

He's relentless, keeping you right on that edge, and you're shaking now, desperate and overwhelmed and so turned on you might actually die.

"Look at you," he breathes. "Falling apart on my fingers. So beautiful like this. So perfect. All mine."

"Yours—all yours—please—"

"Please what?"

"Please let me come—I can't—I need—"

"Shh." He kisses your temple, surprisingly gentle. "I've got you. You've been so good, so patient. You can come now. Come for me, sweetheart."

Permission granted, you shatter. The orgasm crashes through you, intense and overwhelming, and you clench around his fingers so hard it almost hurts. He works you through it, fingers never stopping, drawing it out until you're sobbing with oversensitivity.

"Perfect," he mutters. "So fucking perfect. But we're not done yet."

Before you've fully recovered, he's pulling his fingers out and lifting you. "Turn around. Face me. Knees on either side."

You manage it on shaky legs, the water sloshing dangerously, and suddenly you're straddling him. His cock is hard and flushed between you, pressed against your stomach, and the sight of him makes you clench.

"Look at me," he orders, and you do.

His eyes are dark with desire, exhaustion completely replaced by hunger. He looks at you like you're the only thing in the world that matters, like every frustrating moment of his day was worth it because it led him back to this. To you.

"I love you," he says, surprisingly soft given the intensity of his gaze. "You know that, right?"

"I know." You cup his face, thumb stroking his cheekbone. "I love you too."

"Good." He reaches between you, gripping his cock, lining himself up with your entrance. "Now I'm going to show you just how much."

He pulls you down as he thrusts up, and the stretch is immediate and intense. You gasp, hands flying to his shoulders for balance.

"Fuck," he grits out. "Every time. Every fucking time you're so tight. So perfect. Made for me."

"Hiromi—" You're trying to adjust, trying to breathe, because he's big and the angle is intense and it's almost too much.

"Breathe," he orders, hands gripping your hips, holding you still. "Relax. Let me in. You can take it. You always take it so well."

You do breathe, focusing on relaxing, and slowly you sink down further until he's fully seated inside you.

"There we go." His voice is strained. "Good girl. Taking all of me. How does it feel?"

"Full—so full—"

"Yeah?" He rolls his hips experimentally and you moan. "Like feeling me this deep? Like knowing you're completely filled with my cock?"

"Yes—oh god, yes—"

"Then move." His grip tightens on your hips. "Ride me. Show me how much you missed me today. Show me what this pussy does best."

You start to move, rising and falling in a rhythm that has you both groaning. The water sloshes around you, some of it spilling over the sides, but neither of you care.

"That's it," he encourages, watching where you're joined with dark, intense eyes. "Look at you, taking me so well. Look at how perfectly you stretch around my cock."

You look down and the sight is obscene—his cock disappearing inside you, wet and hard, your body taking him again and again. It makes you clench, makes you move faster.

"Fuck—" His head falls back against the tub. "Just like that. Don't stop. Don't you dare fucking stop."

You don't. You ride him harder, finding an angle that has you both gasping, and his hands are everywhere—your hips, your ass, your breasts. He pinches your nipples and you cry out, clenching around him.

"Sensitive," he mutters, doing it again just to watch you react. "Love how responsive you are. How every little touch makes you tighter around me."

"Hiromi—I'm getting close—"

"Already?" He sounds pleased. "My girl loves being fucked, doesn't she? Loves having my cock inside her, filling her up, making her feel good."

"Yes—love it—love you—"

"I know you do." He sits up slightly, changing the angle, and suddenly he's hitting that spot inside you that makes you see stars. "Love you too. Love this body. Love this perfect pussy that's all mine."

He takes over then, hands gripping your hips tight enough to bruise, guiding you harder, faster. His hips thrust up to meet yours and the force of it makes you sob.

"That's it," he growls. "Take it. Take everything I give you."

"Too much—it's too much—"

"It's not too much. You can handle it." His thumb finds your clit, rubbing circles. "You can take it. You will take it. Because you're my good girl and you do what I tell you."

The combination of his cock hitting that spot inside you and his thumb on your clit pushes you over the edge. You come with a sharp cry, clenching around him so hard he curses.

"Fuck—that's it—milk my cock—" He's still moving, fucking you through your orgasm, prolonging it until you're shaking. "Gonna make you come again. Gonna make you come until you can't remember anything but my name."

"I can't—I can't come again—"

"Yes, you can." He's relentless, thumb still working your oversensitive clit. "You're going to come again because I want you to. Because you're mine and your pleasure is mine. Understand?"

You're sobbing now, overwhelmed, oversensitive, but he's right—you can feel another orgasm building, impossible but inevitable.

"Hiromi—please—I can't—"

"You can." His voice is firm, commanding. "You will. Now be a good girl and come for me again."

It hits you like a freight train, more intense than the first two combined. You convulse around him, nails digging into his shoulders, and you actually scream.

"Perfect—fuck—perfect—" His rhythm falters. "Gonna come. Gonna fill this tight little pussy. Where do you want it?"

"Inside—" You're barely coherent. "Inside, please—"

"Yeah? Want me to fill you up? Want to feel my cum dripping out of you?"

"Yes—please—want it—"

"Fuck—" Three more hard thrusts and he buries himself deep, coming with a rough groan of your name. You feel him pulse inside you, warmth flooding you, and it draws out your own orgasm.

For a long moment, you just stay like that—connected, breathing hard, the water slowly settling around you. You're collapsed against his chest, completely boneless, and his arms are wrapped around you.

. ✦ ݁ ˖ SUMMARY - Fourth time bailing deadbeat baby daddy Suguru out of jail. Fourth time spending money meant for your daughter's diapers on his bail. Fourth time he's ghosted you for weeks then suddenly needs you.

CW: ╰┈➤ explicit sexual content, toxic relationship dynamic, baby daddy drama, criminal behavior, manipulation, angry sex, degradation, praise kink, breeding kink, possessive behavior, choking, rough sex, unprotected sex, creampie, toxic!geto, this is messy and unhealthy ゛ ˎˊ˗

The police station smells the same as it always does—stale coffee, industrial cleaner, and disappointment.

You're sitting in the hard plastic chair in the waiting area, your two-year-old daughter asleep in her stroller beside you, and you're trying to remember why you keep doing this. Why you keep answering the calls. Why you keep coming down here with bail money you can't afford to spend.

"Ms. L/N?" The officer at the desk calls your name.

You stand, carefully walking around the stroller. "That's me."

"He's being processed now. Should be about ten more minutes."

"Thank you." You sit back down, checking your phone.

Three weeks. Three weeks since Suguru had shown up at your apartment at 2 AM, had slipped into your bed like he still had the right, had whispered promises about changing, about being there for you and Akari, about finally getting his shit together.

Three weeks since he'd left the next morning while you were in the shower, taking two hundred dollars from your purse and disappearing.

No calls. No texts. Nothing.

Until the phone call from the police station an hour ago.

"Yeah, hi, this is Suguru Geto. I get one call and—baby, listen, I need you to come get me—"

You should've hung up. Should've blocked his number for the hundredth time. Should've let him sit in jail and figure out his own mess.

But then you'd thought about Akari, about how she'd asked about "Dada" yesterday, about how she has his eyes and his smile, about how despite everything, she deserves to know her father.

So here you are. Again.

The door buzzes and he walks out, and you hate that your stomach still flips when you see him.

Suguru Geto looks exactly the same—6'3" with long black hair pulled into a half up and down messy bun, sharp features that border on beautiful, piercings in his ears, tattoos visible on his neck and creeping down his arms. He's wearing the same clothes from three weeks ago—black baggy jeans, leather jacket, boots that have seen better days.

He sees you and his whole face lights up. "Baby—"

"Don't." You stand, grabbing the stroller. "Let's just go."

His expression falters, but he follows you out to the parking lot. You can feel him watching you as you carefully transfer Akari from the stroller to her car seat, buckling her in with practiced efficiency while she sleeps on, completely oblivious.

You fold the stroller, put it in the trunk, and get in the driver's seat. Suguru slides into the passenger side.

The silence is heavy as you pull out of the parking lot.

"So—" he starts.

"What was it this time?" you cut him off. "Drugs? Assault? Grand theft auto?"

"Possession with intent to distribute," he says quietly. "But it was a misunderstanding—"

"It's always a misunderstanding." Your hands tighten on the steering wheel. "How much was bail?"

"Five thousand."

"Five thousand dollars." You laugh, but there's no humor in it. "Do you know how many shifts I had to pick up to save that? Do you know what I had to do to get that money together in an hour?"

"I'll pay you back—"

"With what money, Suguru?" You glance at him. "You don't have a job. You don't have an apartment. You're dealing drugs and getting arrested every other month. What exactly are you going to pay me back with?"

"I'm working on something—"

"You're always working on something!" Your voice rises and Akari stirs in the backseat. You lower your voice, but the anger is still there. "You're always about to get clean, always about to get a real job, always about to be the father she deserves. But you never do. You just keep disappointing us."

"That's not fair—"

"What's not fair?" You pull up to a red light and turn to face him fully. "That I'm raising our daughter alone? That I'm working two jobs to afford our apartment while you're out doing god knows what? That every time I start to move on, you show up and promise me it'll be different, and I believe you like an idiot?"

"Baby—" He reaches for your hand and you pull away.

"Don't call me that. Don't—" You swallow hard. "I can't keep doing this, Suguru. I can't keep bailing you out, literally and figuratively. Akari deserves better. I deserve better."

"I know." His voice is rough. "I know you do. I'm sorry—"

"Sorry doesn't pay rent. Sorry doesn't show up for her birthday. Sorry doesn't mean anything when you keep doing the same shit over and over."

The light turns green. You drive in silence for a few blocks.

"Where am I taking you?" you ask finally.

"I don't—" He pauses. "Can I stay with you? Just for tonight. I'll figure something out tomorrow."

"No."

"Please. I have nowhere else to go. They kicked me out of the last place and—"

"That's not my problem."

"She's my daughter too." His voice takes on an edge. "I have a right to see her."

"You have a right?" Your laugh is bitter. "You've seen her maybe five times in two years. You missed her first steps. Her first words. Her first birthday. You don't get to pull the father card when it's convenient."

"I know I fucked up—"

"You didn't fuck up, Suguru. Fucking up is forgetting to buy milk. What you did—what you keep doing—is abandonment. It's choosing drugs and crime and whatever the fuck else over your own daughter."

"That's not—" His jaw clenches. "You don't understand what it's like—"

"What what's like? Being an adult? Having responsibilities? Because I understand that perfectly. I do it every single day."

"Must be nice," he says, and there's an edge to it now. "Being so perfect. So responsible. Looking down on me from your high horse—"

"Are you serious right now?" You almost swerve. "You're really going to make yourself the victim here?"

"I'm not—"

"You are!" You pull into a parking lot—a closed grocery store—and throw the car in park. Akari's still sleeping in the back. "You always do this. Every time I try to hold you accountable, you twist it around like I'm attacking you. Like I'm the bad guy for expecting you to be a father."

"I am trying—"

"Trying?" You unbuckle your seatbelt, turning to face him fully. "You stole two hundred dollars from me three weeks ago! You said you were going to buy diapers and groceries and instead you disappeared for three weeks! That's not trying, that's—"

"I had a debt to pay off—"

"You had a daughter to feed!"

"Don't you think I know that?" His voice rises to match yours. "Don't you think I hate myself for it? Don't you think I wish I could be what you need? What she needs?"

"Then why don't you?" Your voice breaks. "Why do you keep choosing everything else over us?"

"Because I'm fucking terrified!" He's yelling now too, and you're both too angry to care about waking Akari. "Because every time I look at her, I see how much I'm fucking up. How much I'm like my own deadbeat father. How much I'm going to ruin her the way he ruined me."

"So your solution is to abandon her completely? That makes it better?"

"I don't know what else to do!" His hands fist in his hair. "I'm not good at this. I'm not good at being responsible or stable or whatever the fuck you need me to be. I'm good at dealing and fighting and getting arrested. That's it. That's all I know."

"That's bullshit and you know it." You're crying now, angry tears streaming down your face. "You're smart. You're capable. You could be anything you wanted if you just—"

"What? Tried harder? Wanted it more?" He laughs bitterly. "You think I don't want to be better? You think I like being the fuck-up?"

"I think you like having an excuse." Your voice is quiet now, deadly. "I think you like being able to say 'this is just who I am' so you don't have to actually change."

The silence that follows is suffocating.

Then Suguru moves.

He unbuckles his seatbelt, reaches across the console, and kisses you.

You should push him away. Should slap him. Should do literally anything except what you do—which is kiss him back.

It's angry and desperate and tastes like three years of unresolved everything. His hand fists in your hair, pulling you closer, and you bite his lip hard enough that he groans.

"Fuck," he breathes against your mouth. "I missed you. Missed this."

"Shut up." You kiss him harder, not wanting words, not wanting promises he won't keep. Just wanting—needing—something that isn't this constant ache.

His hand slides down your neck, your collarbone, palming your breast through your shirt. "Baby—"

"I said shut up." You pull back, breathing hard. Akari's still asleep in the back—she sleeps like the dead, thank god. "We're not doing this here."

"Your place?"

You should say no. Should tell him to get out and figure out his own shit.

Instead you put the car in drive. "One night. That's it. And you're gone in the morning."

"Whatever you say."

The drive to your apartment is tense and charged. His hand rests on your thigh, inching higher, and you don't stop him even though you should.

When you pull into your parking spot, you carefully get Akari out—still asleep, miracle of miracles—and carry her inside. Suguru follows with the diaper bag.

Your apartment is small—one bedroom, barely enough space for you and Akari, definitely not enough for Suguru's chaos. But it's yours. Clean and organized and covered in toys and photos of Akari's milestones that he missed.

You put Akari in her crib, turn on the monitor, and close the door softly.

When you turn around, Suguru is right there.

"We shouldn't—" you start.

"Probably not." His hand cups your face. "But we're going to anyway, aren't we?"

"This doesn't fix anything."

"I know." He leans down, lips brushing yours. "But right now, I don't care. Right now, I just need you."

You should have more self-respect. Should tell him to sleep on the couch and deal with this in the morning with clear heads.

Instead you grab his jacket and pull him toward your bedroom.

The door barely closes before you're on each other.

He pushes you against it, mouth hot and demanding on yours, hands everywhere at once. You pull at his jacket, his shirt, needing skin.

"Missed you," he mutters between kisses. "Missed your body, missed your smell, missed the way you taste—"

"Stop talking." You bite his neck, hard enough to leave a mark, and he groans.

"Fuck, I love when you're mean to me." His hands slide under your shirt, palming your breasts. "Love when you're angry. Gets me so fucking hard."

You can feel it—the thick line of his cock pressing against your stomach through his jeans. As toxic as this is, as much as you hate him right now, your body remembers. Remembers how good he feels, how well he fits, how he's the only one who's ever made you completely lose control.

"This is so fucked up," you breathe as he pulls your shirt over your head.

"Yeah." He unhooks your bra with one hand—practice from three years together. "It is. We're fucked up. This whole thing is fucked up. But I don't care right now."

His mouth finds your breast, tongue circling your nipple, and you arch into him. Your hands work at his belt, popping the button on his jeans.

"Bed," you manage. "Now."

He walks you backward until your knees hit the mattress. You fall back and he follows, covering your body with his. He's so much bigger than you—6'3" to your 5'5", broad and muscular despite his lifestyle. The size difference has always done something to both of you.

"Look at you," he murmurs, hands sliding down your sides. "Still so fucking perfect. Can't believe you had my baby. Can't believe this body—"

"Suguru." It comes out as a warning. "If you're about to get sentimental, I will kick you out right now."

"Not sentimental." He pulls your leggings and underwear off in one motion. "Just appreciative. There's a difference."

He settles between your legs, and when his fingers slide through your wetness, you both groan.

"Fuck, you're soaked." He circles your clit with just enough pressure to make you squirm. "This all for me? Even though you hate me right now?"

"I do hate you," you gasp as he pushes two fingers inside you.

"I know." He curls them, finding that spot that makes you see stars. "But you still want me. Still get wet for me. Still let me touch you like this."

"Shut—up—" It comes out broken as he works his fingers faster.

"Make me." His thumb finds your clit and the combination is devastating.

You reach down, palming him through his jeans, and he chokes. "You want my mouth shut? Give me something better to do with it."

His eyes darken. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You push at his shoulders. "On your back."

He complies, and you work his jeans and boxer briefs down his legs. His cock springs free—long and thick and already leaking.

You don't waste time. You wrap your hand around the base and take him in your mouth.

"Fuck—" His hand immediately goes to your hair, fisting in it. "Fuck, baby, just like that—"

You take him deeper, relaxing your throat, remembering exactly how he likes it. He's big enough that you can't take all of him, but you work what doesn't fit with your hand.

"So good," he's babbling now. "So good at this, so perfect, missed this mouth, missed the way you—fuck—"

You pull off with an obscene pop. "Still want me to shut up?"

"Get up here." It's a command, rough and desperate. "Need to fuck you. Need to be inside you right now."

You climb up his body and sink down on him in one smooth motion.

The stretch is intense—it's been three weeks since he disappeared, longer since you've been with anyone else (because who has time for dating when you're a single mom?), and he's big enough that it always takes adjustment.

"Oh fuck," you both say at the same time.

"So tight," he groans, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. "How are you so tight? It's like your pussy is trying to strangle my cock."

"Maybe it is." You start moving, rolling your hips. "Maybe it wants to punish you."

"Punish me?" His laugh is strained. "Baby, this is a reward."

You lift up and slam back down, hard, and he chokes. "Does that feel like a reward?"

"Yes—fuck yes—do it again—"

You set a brutal pace, riding him hard and angry, channeling three weeks of hurt and anger into every movement. He matches you thrust for thrust, hips snapping up to meet you.

"That's it," he encourages. "Use me. Take what you need. Fuck me like you hate me."

"I do hate you—" You're breathless now, thighs burning. "Hate you so much—"

"Then why—" He sits up suddenly, changing the angle, and you cry out. "—why does this pussy keep coming back to me? Why does it grip me like it never wants to let go?"

"Because I'm an idiot—"

"No." His hand wraps around your throat—not squeezing, just holding. "Because we're good together. Because no matter how much we fuck up everything else, this is always right. Isn't it?"

You can't argue because it's true. Whatever else is broken between you, this has always worked. The sex has always been intense, overwhelming, perfect.

"Say it," he demands, thumb pressing against your pulse. "Say I'm right."

"You're right—" It comes out strangled. "This is—it's always—"

"Always perfect." He flips you suddenly—he's on top now, your legs over his shoulders, and the new angle has him impossibly deeper. "This pussy is mine. Doesn't matter how long I'm gone. Doesn't matter who else you try to be with. It's mine."

"Possessive asshole—"

"Your possessive asshole." He starts fucking you in earnest now—deep, hard strokes that have the headboard hitting the wall. "The father of your baby. The only man who's ever made you come like this."

"Suguru—" You're close, can feel it building. "I'm—"

"I know." His hand slides between your bodies, finding your clit. "Can feel you getting tighter. You're gonna come all over my cock like a good girl, aren't you?"

"Don't—don't call me that—"

"Why not? You are good. So fucking good. Too good for me." He circles your clit faster. "But you're gonna come for me anyway. Gonna let me make you feel good even though you shouldn't."

"Fuck you—"

"You are, baby. You're fucking me so well." His rhythm is getting sloppy, losing control. "Gonna come too. Gonna fill up this pretty pussy. Would you like that? Want me to fill you up again?"

"Don't you dare—" But your body betrays you, clenching at his words.

"Oh, you do." His grin is wicked. "You want it. Want me to come inside you. Want me to mark you from the inside out. Maybe knock you up again—"

"Suguru—"

"Imagine that. Another baby. Another piece of me you can't get rid of—"

You come with a cry that you barely manage to muffle, clenching around him so hard he groans. He fucks you through it, chasing his own release.

"Where—" He gasps. "Where do you want it—"

"Pull out—" You manage. "Can't risk—"

But he's already too far gone. He buries himself deep and comes with a broken groan of your name, spilling inside you.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. Just breathing hard, sweat-slicked, tangled together.

Then reality crashes back.

"Fuck," you breathe. "You didn't pull out."

"I'm sorry—" He doesn't sound sorry. "I tried, I just—"

"Just like last time." You push at his chest and he pulls out, rolling onto his back. "That's how we got Akari."

"Would that really be so bad?" His voice is quiet. "Another one?"

You sit up, staring at him. "Are you insane? I can barely afford one kid. I'm doing everything alone. And you want to—" You stand, grabbing tissues. "Get out."

"Baby—"

"Don't." You clean yourself up with shaking hands. "Don't 'baby' me. Don't act like this was anything more than—" You gesture vaguely. "Just don't."

He sits up, and for the first time tonight, he looks genuinely hurt. "It was more than that. You know it was."

"Do I?" You pull on your underwear, your shirt. "Because from where I'm standing, you just used me. Again. Said pretty words you don't mean. Again. Made promises you won't keep. Again."

"That's not fair—"

"Nothing about this is fair!" Your voice rises and you immediately lower it, remembering Akari sleeping in the next room. "Nothing about loving someone who keeps breaking your heart is fair. Nothing about raising a child alone while their father chooses drugs over them is fair."

"I choose you—"

"No, you don't." Your voice breaks. "If you chose us, you'd get clean. You'd get a real job. You'd show up when you say you will. You'd stop breaking into my life whenever it's convenient and disappearing when it's not."

He's quiet for a long moment. Then: "What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to leave."

"That's not what you want."

"Yes, it is." You're crying now, and you hate it. "I want you to leave and I want to move on and I want to stop bailing you out—literally and figuratively. I want to stop loving someone who's never going to love me back the same way."

"I do love you—"

"Love isn't enough!" The words explode out of you. "Love doesn't pay rent or raise babies or show up when it matters. Love is just—it's just words when you don't back it up with actions."

He stands, starts getting dressed. "So that's it? I just leave? Never see Akari again?"

"You can see her." Your voice is tired now. "But on my terms. Supervised visits. Regular times. And if you miss one—if you disappoint her even once—you're done. I'll get a lawyer. I'll file for full custody. I'll do whatever I have to do to protect her from this."

"From me, you mean."

"From this." You gesture between you. "This toxic back-and-forth. This cycle we keep repeating. She deserves stability. She deserves a father who shows up. And if you can't be that, then she deserves to not have hope that you will be."

He finishes dressing, and for a moment, he just looks at you. Really looks at you.

"I'm sorry," he says finally. "For all of it. For not being what you need. For disappointing you. For—" His voice catches. "For not being strong enough to stay away but not strong enough to really stay."

"Me too," you whisper.

He moves toward you, and you think he's going to kiss you. Instead, he just presses his forehead to yours.

"I'll try," he says quietly. "I'll really try this time. I'll get clean. I'll get a job. I'll be there for her. For both of you."

"I've heard that before."

"I know." He pulls back. "But I mean it this time."

"Then prove it." You step away. "Don't tell me. Show me. Be the father she deserves. Be the man I fell in love with. Or let us go."

He nods once, then heads for the door.

"Suguru?" you call when he reaches it.

He turns back.

"Don't call me to bail you out again. Next time, you sit in jail until you figure out your own shit."

Something like respect flashes in his eyes. "Fair enough."

And then he's gone.

You stand there for a long moment, listening to his footsteps fade, the front door close, his bike start up outside.

Then you go check on Akari. She's still sleeping peacefully, completely unaware of the mess her parents just made.

"I'm sorry, baby girl," you whisper, smoothing her hair. "I'm sorry your dad is—I'm sorry for all of it. But I promise, I'm going to do better. I'm going to be stronger. For you."

. ✦ ݁ ˖ SUMMARY - Nanami doesn’t mind spending money on you—in fact, he likes it. Every impulsive purchase, every designer bag, every “just because” swipe of his card reminds him exactly who you belong to. You call it spoiling; he calls it investment. As long as you’re wearing his taste, living in his world, and coming back to him at the end of the day, he’ll keep the card unlimited—and you even more so.

CW: explicit sexual content, sugar daddy dynamic, age gap (reader is 20s, Nanami is late 30s), size kink, financial domination, brat taming, rough sex, degradation, praise kink, breeding kink undertones, creampie, possessive behavior, daddy kink, unprotected sex, overstimulation

The notification makes your phone buzz against the marble countertop of the Chanel boutique.

N.K: Did you find something you like?

You glance down at the three shopping bags already at your feet—Hermès, Cartier, Louis Vuitton—then back at the sales associate who's carefully wrapping the black quilted handbag you'd been eyeing.

Maybe 👀

N.K: Maybe isn't an answer, sweetheart.

Fine. Yes. I found several things.

N.K: Good girl. Don't hold back. That's what the card is for.

You bite your lip, heat pooling low in your stomach at those two words. Good girl. He knows exactly what that does to you.

The sales associate hands you the bag with a practiced smile. "Will there be anything else, Miss?"

You glance at the display of jewelry near the register—delicate chains, diamond pendants, things that cost more than most people's monthly rent.

There might be one more thing...

N.K: Stop teasing and buy it.

You don't even know what it is.

N.K: I don't need to. If you want it, it's yours. Everything is yours.

Your stomach flips. Three months. You've been doing this thing with Nanami Kento for three months, and you still haven't gotten used to it—the casual way he spends money on you, the platinum card he'd given you with your name embossed on it, the way he seems to get off on seeing you dripping in things he's bought you.

You'd met him at a gallery opening. You'd been there for your art history class, trying to get extra credit. He'd been there because he apparently collected pieces from emerging artists. When he'd approached you, asked your opinion on a particular sculpture, you'd been honest—told him you thought it was pretentious trash trying too hard to be profound.

He'd laughed. Actually laughed. Then asked if you wanted to get coffee and critique the rest of the gallery with him.

One coffee turned into dinner. Dinner turned into drinks. Drinks turned into him asking, very directly, if you'd be interested in an arrangement.

"I'm not looking for a relationship," he'd said, his voice smooth and direct in that way you'd come to learn was just how he operated. "I'm too busy for the complications. But I am looking for companionship. Someone intelligent, beautiful, who isn't afraid to speak their mind. Someone I can spoil."

You should've said no. Should've been insulted, maybe. But there was something about him—the sharp cut of his jaw, the way his expensive suit fit perfectly, the tired edge to his eyes that spoke of long hours and too much stress. The way he looked at you like he was already imagining all the ways he could take care of you.

"Spoil how?" you'd asked.

"However you want. Clothes, jewelry, shoes, bags. Tuition, if you need it. Rent. A nicer apartment. A car." He'd leaned forward. "Anything you want, it's yours. All I ask is that you make time for me. Dinner a few times a week. Events when I need a date. And—" His eyes had darkened. "—other things, if you're interested."

You'd been interested.

Very interested.

Now, standing in Chanel with four shopping bags and counting, you select a delicate gold necklace with a small diamond pendant.

"This one too," you tell the associate.

Okay I'm done. For now.

N.K: For now?

I haven't hit Prada yet 😇

N.K: Brat.

N.K: My driver will pick you up at 7. Wear something I bought you.

Which thing? You've bought me like 50 things.

N.K: Surprise me. But make it easy to take off.

Bossy.

N.K: You like it when I'm bossy.

You do. God, you really do.

7:00 PM - Nanami's Penthouse

The driver drops you off at the building—all glass and steel and obscene wealth in the heart of the city. The doorman knows you by name now, just waves you through to the private elevator that goes straight to the penthouse.

You're wearing the black silk dress he'd bought you last week—Valentino, ridiculously expensive, and it fits like it was made for you. It probably was; he'd had them take your measurements. The new Cartier necklace sits delicate against your collarbone, and you're carrying the Hermès bag from today.

The evidence of his money is all over you, and you know exactly what that's going to do to him.

The elevator opens directly into his apartment—minimalist, modern, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. And there he is, standing by the windows with a glass of whiskey, still in his work clothes. Suit jacket discarded, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, tie loosened.

He's 38 but could pass for younger if not for the silver threading through his blonde hair, the tired set to his shoulders that speaks of too many late nights at the office. He's handsome in that refined, elegant way—sharp features, strong jaw, eyes that miss nothing.

Those eyes drag over you now, slow and assessing, and you watch his grip tighten on his glass.

"Well?" You do a slow turn, letting him see the whole outfit. "Do I pass inspection?"

"Come here," he says, voice already rough.

You cross to him, heels clicking on the hardwood, and stop just out of reach. "Is that any way to greet me? I spent all day shopping for you."

"For me?" His eyebrow raises. "I thought you were shopping for yourself."

"Same thing, isn't it? You get off on it either way."

His eyes flash. "Careful."

"Or what?" You step closer, tilting your head up to meet his gaze. Even in heels, he's taller—6'0" to your 5'4", and the size difference does something to both of you. "You'll stop giving me your credit card? We both know you won't."

"No," he agrees, setting down his glass. His hand comes up to the necklace, fingers trailing over the delicate chain. "I won't. Do you know why?"

"Because you like seeing me in expensive things?"

"Because I like seeing you in things I've bought you." His fingers trace lower, skimming your collarbone. "I like everyone knowing that someone takes care of you. That you're mine to spoil. That every time someone compliments this necklace or that bag, you'll think of me."

Your breath hitches. "Possessive."

"Extremely." His hand slides to your waist, pulling you flush against him. You can already feel him hard against your stomach. "How much did you spend today?"

"I don't know. A lot?"

"Sweetheart." His tone is warning. "How much?"

You pull out your phone, checking the notifications from his card. "Um. Around... forty thousand?"

The noise he makes is almost pained. His hand tightens on your waist. "Forty thousand dollars."

"You said not to hold back!" You're trying to sound defensive but it comes out breathy because his other hand is sliding up your thigh, bunching the silk of your dress.

"I did say that." His fingers find the edge of your underwear—La Perla, also his money. "And you listened so well. Such a good girl, spending my money. Did it feel good?"

"Yes," you admit.

"Did you think about me?" His fingers slip beneath the lace. "Every time you handed over that card with my name on it, did you think about what I'd do to you later?"

"Yes—" It comes out as a gasp because his fingers are sliding through your wetness.

"You're soaked." He sounds pleased and dark. "Does spending my money turn you on? Does being my perfect little spoiled brat make this pretty pussy wet?"

"Fuck—yes—"

"Yes what?" His fingers circle your clit, not enough pressure to satisfy.

"Yes, Daddy," you breathe, and feel him twitch against you.

That word. You'd discovered by accident that he likes it—loves it, actually. Likes the way it sounds in your mouth, likes the dynamic it implies. Likes being the older man who takes care of you in every way.

"That's better." He pulls his fingers away and you whimper at the loss. "Bedroom. Now. And take off the dress slowly. I want to see everything I paid for."

You walk to the bedroom—all black sheets and modern furniture and windows that overlook the glittering city. You can see your reflection in them, see him following behind you, predatory and patient.

You reach for the zipper of your dress.

"Slower," he commands, sitting on the edge of the bed. "I've been thinking about this all day. Don't rush it."

You slow down, drawing out the zip, letting the dress slip off your shoulders inch by inch. You're wearing the full set he'd bought you—black lace bra and panties, La Perla, ridiculously expensive and completely impractical.

"The bra too," he says, eyes dark.

You unclasp it, let it fall. His gaze drops to your breasts, heavy and appreciative.

"Perfect." He crooks a finger. "Come here."

You cross to him and he pulls you between his spread legs, hands spanning your waist. His thumbs brush the undersides of your breasts.

"Do you have any idea what you do to me?" he asks quietly. "Walking around in things I've bought you, spending my money without hesitation, trusting me to take care of you?"

"Tell me," you challenge.

Instead of answering, he pulls you down onto his lap, and the height difference is even more pronounced like this—you feel small, delicate, completely overwhelmed by him. His hands slide to your ass, gripping hard enough to make you gasp.

"It makes me want to fuck you until you can't remember your own name," he says against your neck. "Makes me want to mark you up so everyone knows you're taken. Makes me want to fill you up and send you out into the world dripping with my cum and covered in my diamonds."

"Then do it," you breathe.

His control snaps.

He flips you onto the bed, covers your body with his, and his mouth is on yours—demanding, consuming. His hands are everywhere, relearning your body, and you're already pulling at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin.

He pulls back just long enough to strip—shirt, belt, pants, boxer briefs—and then he's back, naked and hard and perfect. He's built lean and strong under those expensive suits, with subtle muscle that speaks of disciplined gym sessions and good genetics.

And his cock—fuck, his cock. Long and thick, the kind of size that takes preparation, that makes you feel full and stretched and perfectly used.

"Look at you," he murmurs, hands sliding up your thighs, spreading them wide. "Look at this pretty pussy. Already so wet for me. Did you touch yourself thinking about me today?"

"Maybe," you hedge.

His hand comes down on your inner thigh—not hard, but sharp enough to make you gasp. "Don't lie to me, sweetheart. Did you touch yourself?"

"Yes!" you admit. "In the dressing room at Hermès, I—I couldn't help it—"

"Fuck." He groans, fingers sliding through your wetness. "You're going to kill me. My perfect little slut, getting herself off in a dressing room while spending my money."

He pushes two fingers inside you and you arch off the bed. He's always been good with his hands—patient, methodical, the same precision he applies to everything else in his life.

"Still so tight," he observes, working his fingers deeper. "How are you going to take my cock, sweetheart? How are you going to fit all of me in this tight little cunt?"

"I always do," you gasp out.

"Yes, you do." He adds a third finger and the stretch makes you whimper. "You take me so well. Take everything I give you. My money, my cock, my cum. Such a good girl for Daddy."

"Please—" You're already close, can feel it building. "Please, I need—"

"What do you need?" He curls his fingers, hitting that spot that makes you see stars. "Use your words."

"Your cock—please—need you inside me—"

"Not yet." He pulls his fingers out and you nearly sob. "First, you're going to come on my tongue."

He shifts down your body and his mouth is on you before you can process. His tongue works your clit while his fingers push back inside, and the combination is devastating.

"Oh god—Daddy—fuck—"

He's relentless, methodical, working you up with the same focused intensity he applies to everything. When you come, it's hard and sudden, your thighs clamping around his head as you cry out.

He works you through it, only pulling back when you're pushing at his head, oversensitive.

"Good girl," he praises, crawling back up your body. "So pretty when you come. Now—" He lines himself up, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance. "—are you ready for me?"

"Yes—please—"

He pushes in slowly, and even prepared, the stretch is intense. He's so big, so thick, and you feel every inch as he works himself deeper.

"Breathe," he instructs, one hand on your hip, the other braced beside your head. "That's it. Take it. Take Daddy's cock like the good girl you are."

"So big—" You're babbling now. "So full—"

"I know." He bottoms out and pauses, giving you time to adjust. "But you can take it. You always take it so well. My perfect girl with her perfect tight pussy."

He starts moving—slow, deep strokes that have you feeling every inch of him. One of his hands finds yours, pinning it beside your head, fingers threading through yours. The intimacy of it contrasts with the filthy slide of his cock inside you.

"Fuck, you feel good," he groans. "So tight. So wet. All for me. My spoiled little brat with my cock inside her."

"Yours—" You clench around him deliberately and he curses. "All yours—"

"That's right." His pace picks up, harder now, the headboard starting to hit the wall. "Mine. Mine to spoil. Mine to fuck. Mine to fill up."

His hand slides between your bodies, finding your clit, and the added stimulation makes you cry out.

"You're going to come again," he says, not a question. "Going to come on my cock while I fill you up. Going to be such a good girl for Daddy."

"Yes—please—so close—"

"What do you need?" His thumb circles your clit faster. "Tell Daddy what you need."

"Harder—" You're shameless now, desperate. "Fuck me harder—want to feel it tomorrow—"

Something dark flashes in his eyes. He pulls out completely, flips you over onto your hands and knees, and slams back in. The new angle has him impossibly deeper, and you nearly scream.

"Like this?" He grips your hips hard enough to bruise, setting a brutal pace. "This what you need? Need Daddy to fuck you hard? Remind you who you belong to?"

"Yes—fuck—yes—"

One hand leaves your hip, sliding up your spine to grip your hair, pulling your head back. The arch it creates has him hitting that perfect spot with every thrust.

"Look." He turns your head toward the windows, where you can see your reflection—him behind you, so much bigger, covering you completely. "Look at how well you take me. Look at how perfect you look getting fucked."

You can see it—the way his cock disappears inside you, the way your body rocks with each thrust, the way his hand looks spanning your waist. The size difference is even more obvious like this.

"So small," he mutters, almost to himself. "So fucking small compared to me. How do you even fit all of me? How does this tight little pussy take my cock so perfectly?"

"Made for you—" You're incoherent now. "Made for Daddy's cock—"

"Fuck—" His rhythm stutters. "You can't say things like that—"

"Why not?" You push back against him, meeting his thrusts. "It's true—love your cock—love how big you are—love that I'm the only one who gets to have you like this—"

His hand slides from your hair to your throat—not squeezing, just holding, possessive. "You are. The only one. Haven't touched anyone else since I met you. Don't want anyone else. Just you. Just my perfect spoiled girl."

"Gonna come—" You can feel it building again. "Daddy, please—"

His other hand slides around to your clit. "Come for me. Come on my cock. Show me who this pussy belongs to."

You shatter, clenching around him so hard he groans. He fucks you through it, chasing his own release, and when you hear him start to pull out—

"Inside," you gasp. "Want it inside—want you to fill me up—"

"Fuck—you sure—"

"Yes—please—need to feel it—"

He buries himself deep and comes with a groan of your name, and you can feel him pulsing, filling you, marking you from the inside. He grinds deeper, making sure every drop stays inside, before finally stilling.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. Just breathing hard, sweat-slicked, trembling.

Then he carefully pulls out, and you feel his cum start to leak out immediately. His fingers push it back in, possessive and deliberate.

"Mine," he mutters. "All of this is mine."

He helps you lie down properly, then disappears into the bathroom. Returns with a warm washcloth and cleans you up with gentle efficiency that makes your heart ache.

"You okay?" he asks softly, lying beside you and pulling you into his arms.

"More than okay." You settle against his chest. "That was..."

"I know." His fingers trace patterns on your shoulder. "You drive me insane, you know that? Walking around in things I've bought you, spending my money like it's nothing, looking at me with those eyes like you know exactly what it does to me."

"I do know," you admit. "That's why I do it."

He laughs, the sound rumbling in his chest. "Brat."

"Your brat."

"Yes." He presses a kiss to your forehead. "My brat. My spoiled, perfect, expensive brat."

You tilt your head up to look at him. "So... about that Prada store..."

His eyes darken again, and you feel him twitch against your thigh. "You're going to be the death of me."

"But what a way to go."

He kisses you, slow and deep and possessive. "Go tomorrow. Buy whatever you want. Then come back here and model it for me."

"All of it?"

"All of it." His hand slides down your side. "And then I'll fuck you in every piece until you can't remember which designer is which."

"Is that a promise?"

"It's a guarantee." He rolls on top of you, already hard again. "But first, I'm not done with you yet."

"Again?" You're already breathless. "You're 38, how do you—"

"What can I say?" He grins, and it's the most relaxed you've ever seen him. "You're very inspiring. Now be a good girl and spread your legs. Daddy's not finished spoiling you yet."

And as he pushes inside you again, as you wrap your legs around his waist and let him take you apart piece by piece, you think that maybe this arrangement is the best investment either of you has ever made.

The Next Morning

You wake up to a notification on your phone.

BANK ALERT: $100,000 deposited into your account.

Below it, a text from Nanami:

N.K: For Prada. And whatever else catches your eye.

N.K: Don't hold back.

N.K: I want to see every purchase when you come over tonight.

You bite your lip, already planning your shopping route.

You're insatiable.

N.K: Only for you, sweetheart.

N.K: Now go spend my money like a good girl. I'll be thinking about you all day.

You definitely could get used to this.

. ✦ ݁ ˖ SUMMARY - The student council president and the dropout dealer: a combination that shouldn't work but does, especially in the backseat of his car at 2 AM.

CW: explicit sexual content, drug dealer AU (marijuana), popular girl x dealer trope, semi-public sex, car sex, praise kink, soft dom!choso, loss of virginity (choso's), inexperienced!choso, corruption kink (mutual), dry humping, oral sex (both receiving), unprotected sex, creampie, possessive behavior, good girl goes bad, social class differences, secret relationship

You don't usually do this.

You're the girl with the perfect GPA, the one who's never missed a day of class, who's president of three clubs and has college recruiters calling your parents. You're the girl everyone knows—popular, pretty, pristine.

Which is exactly why you're terrified as you pull into the empty parking lot behind the old arcade at 11 PM on a Tuesday.

Your friends told you to text "Choso" if you wanted to buy. Said he was reliable, discreet, and didn't ask questions. You need all three because if anyone found out that you—student council president, future valedictorian—were buying weed, your reputation would be destroyed.

A black car pulls up beside yours, and your heart hammers. The window rolls down and you see him for the first time.

Dark hair pulled into two messy space buns, a tired look in his eyes like he hasn't slept in days, wearing a hoodie and sweats. There's a mark across his nose—you'll later learn it's a tattoo, a family thing—and when his eyes meet yours, they widen slightly.

"You're—" He stops himself. "Uh. You texted about wanting to buy?"

You recognize him vaguely. He's a year ahead of you, barely comes to school, definitely not in your social circle. You nod, trying to look more confident than you feel. "Yes. I—um. I don't really know how this works."

Something softens in his expression. "First time?"

"Is it that obvious?"

A small smile tugs at his lips. "Little bit. It's okay. What are you looking for?"

You have no idea. "Something... not too strong? I just want to relax. Finals are killing me and I—" You stop. Why are you explaining yourself to your drug dealer?

But he just nods like he understands. "I've got something perfect. Mellow high, good for stress. You smoke before?"

"No."

"Okay. I'll give you a pre-roll so you don't have to worry about rolling it yourself. Just light it and inhale slow, okay? Don't try to be a hero." He's already reaching into his center console, pulling out a small bag. "This is an eighth. Should last you a while if you're just smoking on weekends."

"How much?"

He names a price that sounds reasonable, though you have no reference point. You hand over cash with slightly shaking hands and he passes you the bag. His fingers brush yours and you notice they're calloused, warm.

"You good to drive home?" he asks. "You seem nervous."

"I'm fine. Just... paranoid about getting caught."

"No one knows you're here. And I don't talk." His eyes are kind despite the tired edge to them. "You'll be fine. Text me if you have questions. Or if it's not what you need—I'll swap it out."

"You do customer service?" It comes out more teasing than you intended.

His smile widens slightly. "For you? Yeah."

There's something in the way he says it that makes your stomach flip. You take the bag, hide it in your purse. "Thanks. I... yeah. Thanks."

"Anytime." He's still watching you. "Be careful, okay? Start slow."

You nod and drive away, heart racing for entirely different reasons now.

You text him again two weeks later. And then again. And again.

It becomes a routine—you text, he responds within minutes with a time and place, you meet up and make the exchange. Sometimes it's parking lots, sometimes behind the school, once at a park at midnight.

And every time, you talk a little longer.

You learn he's taking care of his younger brothers. That he deals to pay rent because their parents are gone and he dropped out to work full-time. That he's tired all the time but won't complain because "someone's gotta do it."

He learns you're not as perfect as everyone thinks. That the pressure is crushing you. That you started smoking to sleep because your anxiety got so bad you were having panic attacks before tests.

"You should talk to someone," he says one night, leaning against your car window. "Like, a professional."

"Can't. My parents would freak out. They think I'm handling everything perfectly."

His jaw tightens. "That's a lot of pressure."

"I'm used to it." You shrug, but he's looking at you like he sees through it.

"You shouldn't have to be."

It's the kindness that breaks you. You end up crying in your car while Choso stands there awkwardly, eventually reaching through the window to pat your shoulder with a gentleness that makes you cry harder.

"Sorry—" You wipe your eyes. "God, this is embarrassing—"

"It's not." He pulls his hand back. "You're allowed to not be okay."

"Everyone thinks I am."

"I don't."

You look up at him and something shifts. He's not just your dealer anymore. He's... something else.

"You wanna smoke?" he asks. "With me? Might help."

"Right now?"

"Why not? Unless you have somewhere to be."

You don't. So you end up in his car—cleaner than you expected, smells like cologne and faintly like weed—while he rolls a joint with practiced ease.

"You're good at that," you observe.

"Had a lot of practice." He lights it, takes a hit, then passes it to you. "Slow inhale. Hold it. Let it out."

You follow his instructions. The smoke burns slightly but not as bad as you expected. After a few passes back and forth, you feel the tension in your shoulders ease.

"Better?" he asks.

"Yeah." You lean back in the passenger seat. "This is nice. The car thing. Better than parking lots."

"We can do this more if you want. Safer than you smoking alone when you don't know what you're doing."

"You worried about me, Choso?"

He looks over, and there's something unguarded in his expression. "Yeah. I am."

Your heart does that flip thing again. "Why?"

"Because you're—" He stops, shakes his head. "You seem like you need someone to worry about you. Everyone expects so much from you. No one asks if you're okay."

"You just did."

"Yeah. Well." He takes another hit. "I guess I care what the answer is."

The air in the car feels charged. You're close enough to see the tired smudges under his eyes, the small scar on his jaw.

"Can I ask you something?" Your voice is quieter now, softer.

"Why do you always meet me? Like, immediately. No matter when I text."

He's quiet for a moment. "Honestly?"

"Yeah."

"Because when you text, I drop everything." He meets your eyes. "Every time. I tell myself it's business but... it's not. Not anymore."

"What is it then?"

"I don't know." But the way he's looking at you says he knows exactly what it is.

You should leave. Should maintain boundaries. He's your dealer, you're the popular girl, this doesn't make sense.

Instead you lean closer. "Choso—"

"You should go home." His voice is rough. "Before I do something stupid."

"Like what?"

"Like kiss you." He says it plain, honest. "Like ask you to stay. Like fuck up your life by associating with me."

Your breath catches. "What if I want you to?"

"Want me to what?" His eyes are dark now, focused entirely on you.

"All of it."

The joint gets stubbed out in the ashtray. And then his hand is cupping your face, thumb stroking your cheek, giving you every chance to pull away.

You don't.

When he kisses you, it's soft at first—tentative, like he's afraid you'll disappear. You kiss back harder, hands fisting in his hoodie, pulling him closer over the center console.

He groans into your mouth, and the sound does something to you. Makes you bolder. You climb over the console into his lap and his hands land on your waist, gripping tight.

"Fuck—" He pulls back, breathing hard. "We shouldn't—you're—"

"I'm what?" You roll your hips experimentally and he chokes.

"You're too good for this. For me."

"Let me decide that." You kiss him again and this time he doesn't hold back.

It becomes a thing. A secret thing.

You still text him for weed, but now you also text him just to talk. He picks you up after student council meetings and you smoke in his car. You start learning his little brothers' names, their schedules, why he looks so tired all the time.

You're in his car again—this is becoming your spot—and the making out has gotten particularly heated. You're in his lap, his hands under your shirt, your hips grinding against him in a way that's making you both crazy.

The windows are already starting to fog up, the streetlight outside casting everything in a hazy orange glow. His hoodie is somewhere in the backseat, your jacket long forgotten. All that matters is the heat between you, the way his hands feel on your skin, the way he keeps making these small desperate sounds into your mouth.

"Babe—" The pet name slipped out a week ago and stuck. "—we should stop."

"Why?" You bite his neck and he groans, his hips bucking up involuntarily.

"Because if we don't stop, I'm gonna—" He cuts himself off, breathing hard.

"Gonna what?" You pull back to look at him. His lips are swollen from kissing, eyes dark and dilated—though whether that's from the weed you smoked earlier or pure want, you're not sure. His hair is falling out of the space buns, messy and perfect.

"Gonna fuck you in my car like some kind of—" He stops, jaw clenching. "You deserve better than this."

"What if I don't want better?" Your hand slides down between your bodies, palming him through his sweats. He's hard, has been since you climbed into his lap fifteen minutes ago. The feel of him—thick and hot even through the fabric—makes your mouth water. "What if I want this? Want you?"

"Jesus—" His hips buck up involuntarily, pressing into your hand. "Are you—have you—"

"Yes." You know what he's asking. "I have. I'm not—this wouldn't be my first time."

Something like relief crosses his face, followed immediately by hunger. His hands tighten on your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks. "Have you thought about it? About us?"

"Every day," you admit, your hand still stroking him slowly through his sweats. You can feel him twitch under your palm. "Every time I see you, I think about it. When I'm alone at night. When I'm supposed to be studying. When you text me and I know I'm about to see you."

His eyes darken further, pupils blown so wide you can barely see the brown. "Fuck. What do you think about?"

"This." You squeeze him gently and he groans. "Your hands on me. Your mouth. What you'd feel like inside me. What sounds you'd make. If you'd be rough or gentle or—"

"Both," he interrupts, voice rough. "I think about both. Think about taking my time with you, making you feel good, but also—" His hips thrust up again. "—also fucking you hard enough that you feel it the next day. Think about marking you up so everyone knows you're mine even if they don't know it's me."

Your breath catches. "Choso—"

"I think about it too. All the fucking time." His hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts. "Think about how you'd feel, how tight you'd be, how you'd sound, if you'd say my name like you do when I make you laugh—" He leans in, lips brushing your jaw. "—if you'd let me make you come over and over until you can't think straight."

"Yes," you breathe. "Yes to all of it."

He pulls back, searching your face. "You're sure? We can wait, we can—"

"I don't want to wait." You kiss him hard, desperate. "I've been waiting. I want you. Here. Now. I don't care that it's your car, I don't care if it's not perfect—"

"Fuck—" He's already shifting, hands moving to your waist. "Backseat. More room."

You both practically tumble into the back, limbs tangling, laughing breathlessly as you try to navigate the small space. He sits in the middle seat and pulls you back into his lap, and the new position has you pressed even closer together.

"Better?" he asks, hands already sliding under your shirt again.

"Better," you confirm, grinding down on him. "Now stop being a gentleman and touch me."

He groans, and then his hands are everywhere—sliding your shirt up and over your head, unhooking your bra with surprising dexterity, palming your breasts with callused hands that feel perfect against your skin.

"So pretty," he murmurs, ducking his head to take a nipple into his mouth. "So fucking pretty."

You arch into him, hands fisting in his hair, tugging the rest of it free from the buns. It falls around his face, messy and dark, and he looks up at you while his tongue circles your nipple and—

"Fuck," you gasp. "That's—keep doing that—"

He does, switching between breasts, using his teeth just enough to make you squirm. His hands slide down to your leggings, fingers hooking in the waistband.

"Can I?" he asks, pulling back slightly.

"Please."

He helps you out of your leggings and underwear, his hands shaking slightly as he slides them down your legs. When you're bare from the waist down, straddling him in just the dim light filtering through the fogged windows, he just stares.

"What?" You're suddenly self-conscious, resisting the urge to cover yourself.

"You're perfect," he says simply. "I've imagined this so many times and—you're better than anything I imagined."

His hand slides between your legs tentatively, fingers brushing through your wetness, and you both gasp.

"You're so wet," he breathes, circling your clit with gentle pressure. "Is this all for me?"

"Yes—" It comes out as a moan. "All for you. Always for you."

He works you slowly, carefully, watching your face as he figures out what makes you gasp, what makes you grind down on his fingers. When he pushes one inside you, you both groan.

"So tight," he mutters, working his finger in and out. "Fuck, you're so tight. How are you gonna—"

"I will," you assure him breathlessly. "I can take it. Add another."

He does, and the stretch is good, perfect, but not enough. You need more. Need him.

"Choso—" You reach for his waistband. "I need—"

"Yeah, okay, fuck—" He's already helping you push down his sweats and boxer briefs with his free hand, awkward in the cramped space but desperate. When he springs free, hard and flushed and leaking, your mouth goes dry.

He's big. Thick. The kind of size that makes your core clench in anticipation.

"Is it—" He looks uncertain suddenly, vulnerable. "Is it okay?"

"It's perfect." You wrap your hand around him and he chokes on a moan. "You're perfect."

You stroke him slowly, base to tip, and he's already leaking more, hips thrusting into your fist.

"Wait—" He catches your wrist, breathing hard. "I need to tell you something."

"Okay?"

He won't meet your eyes. "I've never—" He stops, jaw clenching. "This is my first time. I didn't want to say anything before because I thought you'd think it was weird but you should know—"

Your heart melts. "Choso." You cup his face, making him look at you. "That's not weird. That's—" You kiss him softly. "—really sweet, actually."

"Yeah?" He looks so vulnerable it hurts.

"Yeah." You grind against him, his cock sliding through your wetness, and you both gasp at the sensation. "We'll go slow. You tell me if it's too much, okay?"

"That's supposed to be my line—" But it ends in a groan as you grind against him again, the head of his cock catching on your clit.

"We'll take care of each other," you murmur, reaching between you to line him up. "Ready?"

"Yes. Fuck, yes."

You sink down slowly, and the stretch is immediate and intense. He's bigger than his fingers, bigger than you expected, and you have to pause halfway, breathing through it.

"You okay?" His hands are on your hips, grip almost painful. "Does it hurt? Should we stop?"

"No—" You lean forward, kissing him. "No, don't stop. Just—give me a second."

He holds still, letting you adjust, one hand coming up to stroke your hair, your face, anything he can reach. When you're ready, you sink down further, inch by inch, until finally—finally—you're fully seated.

"Oh fuck—" His head falls back against the seat, throat working as he swallows hard. "Oh fuck, oh fuck, you feel—that's—I can't—"

"Good?" You're adjusting to the fullness, the feeling of him inside you, stretching you perfectly.

"Good doesn't—" He laughs breathlessly, almost delirious. "—that's not adequate. You feel perfect. So fucking perfect. So tight and warm and—fuck, I'm not gonna last, this is embarrassing—"

"Hey." You make him look at you. "It's okay. We have all night. We can go again. As many times as you want."

Something like awe crosses his face. "Really?"

"Really." You roll your hips experimentally and he chokes. "Now stop overthinking and fuck me."

That snaps something in him. His hands tighten on your hips, and he starts guiding you, helping you rise and fall, finding a rhythm together. The angle has him hitting something devastating inside you with every stroke.

"That's it," you breathe, hands bracing on his shoulders. "Just like that—"

He's a quick learner. Matches your rhythm, starts thrusting up to meet you, and soon you're both chasing something desperate and necessary. The car rocks with your movements, the windows completely fogged now, the air thick and hot.

"You're so—" He's rambling now, lost in it, and it's the hottest thing you've ever heard. "—so beautiful, feel so good, can't believe this is real, can't believe you're here, can't believe you want me—"

"I do—" You kiss him between words, messy and desperate. "I want you—so much—think about you all the time—"

His hands slide up your back, pulling you closer, and the new angle has him even deeper. You gasp, nails digging into his shoulders.

"Right there?" he asks, doing it again.

"Yes—fuck yes—right there—"

He focuses on that spot, that angle, his hands guiding your hips as you ride him. One hand slides between you, thumb finding your clit, and you nearly sob at the added sensation.

"Want you to come," he pants. "Need to feel it. Please, baby, need to feel you come on my cock—"

"Close—" You can feel it building, that familiar tightening in your core. "So close, just—don't stop—"

"Never stopping—" He circles your clit faster, thrusts up harder. "Never gonna stop, gonna give you everything, gonna make you feel so good—"

You come with a cry of his name, clenching around him, and the sensation is so intense you see stars. He fucks you through it, prolonging it, his own rhythm getting sloppy.

"Where—" He gasps. "Where do you want it? I'm gonna—I can't—"

"Inside—" You're beyond caring, still riding the waves of your orgasm. "I'm on birth control, just—please, Choso, come inside me—"

That's all he needs. He thrusts up hard one last time and comes with a broken groan of your name, spilling inside you. You can feel him pulsing, filling you, and it triggers another small aftershock that has you both gasping.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. Just breathing hard, tangled together in the backseat, him still inside you, your face buried in his neck.

"That was—" He finally speaks, voice completely wrecked. "—was that normal? Is it always like that?"

You laugh breathlessly, still trying to catch your breath. "I don't think so. I think that was just us."

"Good." His arms wrap around you, holding you close. "Because if that's normal, I've been missing out."

"How do you feel?" you ask, pulling back to look at him. His hair is a complete mess, lips swollen, eyes soft and satisfied. "For your first time?"

"Like I finally understand what all the fuss is about." He grins, then it softens into something more vulnerable. "That was the best thing that's ever happened to me. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me."

Your heart squeezes. "Choso—"

"I know we're—" He gestures vaguely. "—different. You're this perfect girl with the perfect life and I'm just the guy who deals weed to pay rent. But I—" He takes a breath. "I really like you. More than I should. More than makes sense."

"It makes sense to me." You kiss him softly. "I really like you too. Have since the first time you sold to me and asked if I was okay to drive home."

"Really?"

"Really." You settle against his chest, and he's still inside you, softening but not pulling out yet. "Everyone sees me as this perfect thing. You see me as a person. That means everything."

His arms tighten around you. "You are a person. A really fucking amazing person who deserves better than car sex with her dealer."

"You're not just my dealer."

"No?"

"No. You're—" You try to find the words. "—you're the person I want to text at 5 AM. The person who makes me feel like I can breathe. The person I—" You pause. "—the person I'm falling for."

The sound he makes is almost pained. "You can't say things like that."

"Why not?"

"Because it makes me want things I shouldn't want. Like keeping you. Like being with you for real, not just in secret. Like—" He shifts slightly, and you realize he's getting hard again. "—like doing this again. Right now."

You pull back to look at him, surprised. "Already?"

"Sorry, I—" He looks embarrassed. "I can't help it. You feel too good. And now that I know what it's like, I—" He thrusts up slightly, experimental, and you both gasp. "—I want more."

"Then take more." You roll your hips, and he's definitely getting harder. "I told you, we have all night."

"Fuck, really?"

"Really." You kiss him again, deeper this time. "I want you to fuck me until I can't walk tomorrow. Want to feel you for days. Want everyone to wonder why I'm walking weird and only we know why."

He groans, hands gripping your hips harder. "You're trying to kill me."

"No, I'm trying to make your second time as good as your first." You start moving, slow rolls of your hips. "Think you can handle it?"

"I'll do my best." His hands slide to your ass, gripping, guiding. "But I should warn you—now that I know how good this feels, I might not ever let you go."

"Good," you breathe. "Don't."

Round Two - 6:07 AM

The car is absolutely wrecked at this point. The windows are completely fogged, there's condensation dripping down them. Your clothes are scattered everywhere—your shirt hanging from the rearview mirror, his hoodie balled up under your head as a makeshift pillow, both your pants somewhere in the front seat.

You've lost count of the positions. After that second time—slower, more exploratory, with you guiding his hands to where you wanted them, teaching him what you liked—you'd both been insatiable.

The third time, he'd laid you down across the backseat, your legs over his shoulders, and fucked you deep and slow while watching his cock disappear inside you with fascination.

"You take me so well," he'd murmured, almost reverent. "Look at you. So pretty taking my cock. Can see how wet you are, how stretched. You like it? Like being full of me?"

"Yes—" You'd been so sensitive by then, already oversensitive from coming twice. "Love it—love feeling you—"

He'd made you come like that, his thumb on your clit while he watched you fall apart, and the look in his eyes—possessive, awed, hungry—had made it so intense you'd actually cried a little.

Now it's the fourth time, and you're both exhausted but can't seem to stop. You're on your side, him behind you, one leg hitched up over his hip as he fucks into you slow and deep.

"You feel different like this," he murmurs into your ear, one hand palming your breast, the other between your legs. "Tighter. Deeper. Fuck, I love this. Love every position. Want to try them all with you."

"We will," you promise breathlessly. "We'll try everything. Whatever you want."

"I want everything." He bites your shoulder gently. "Want to learn your body. Want to know every spot that makes you gasp, every touch that makes you wet, every word that makes you clench around me like—fuck—like that."

"Choso—" You're so close again, your body strung tight. "I can't—I'm gonna—"

"Do it." His fingers work faster. "Come for me again. One more, baby. Give me one more."

"I don't think I can—"

"You can." He angles his hips, hitting that spot, and you keen. "That's it. Feel that? That's me, deep inside you, right where I belong. Now come. Come on my cock like a good girl."

You shatter—again—this orgasm somehow more intense despite being exhausted. Your whole body trembles, clenching around him rhythmically, and he groans into your neck.

"That's perfect—" His rhythm stutters. "You're perfect—gonna come—where—"

"Inside—" You reach back, hand fisting in his hair. "Always inside. Want to feel it. Want to be full of you."

He comes with a strangled sound, hips jerking erratically as he spills inside you for the fourth time tonight. You can feel it—hot and wet, mixing with everything from before, and some distant part of your brain notes that you're going to be a mess when you finally leave this car.

You don't care.

He doesn't pull out immediately this time, just holds you close, both of you breathing hard, sweat-slicked and satisfied.

"I think you broke me," he says after a moment, and you can hear the smile in his voice. "Pretty sure I'm not gonna walk right either."

You laugh, still trying to catch your breath. "Good. We'll hobble around campus together and pretend we don't know why."

"Or—" His hand splays over your stomach, possessive. "—or we stop pretending. Let everyone know you're mine."

Your heart stops. "Choso—"

"I know it's complicated. I know your life is—" He pauses. "—I'm not good enough for you. I know that. But I don't care anymore. I want you. For real. Not just in secret."

You turn in his arms—a feat in the cramped space—and cup his face. "You are good enough. You're better than anyone I've ever been with. Better than anyone who only sees the perfect version of me."

"Your friends—"

"Will deal with it or they're not really my friends."

"Your parents—"

"Don't get a say in who I care about." You kiss him softly. "I'm scared too. But I'm more scared of losing this. Losing you."

His eyes search yours. "You mean that?"

"I mean it." You thread your fingers through his hair. "I'm all in if you are."

"I've been all in since you first texted me," he admits. "Since you cried in your car and I realized I'd do anything to make you smile. Since the first time you laughed at one of my stupid jokes. Since—" He pulls you closer. "—since before I even realized it was happening."

"So what do we do?"

"We figure it out." He kisses your forehead, your nose, your lips. "Together. Starting with getting you home before someone notices you've been gone all night."

You check your phone—dead. "Shit. What time is it?"

He checks his. "Almost 7. You have a curfew?"

"Not officially, but if my roommate wakes up—"

"Okay." He carefully pulls out, both of you wincing at the sensitivity. "Let's get you dressed."

The process of finding all your clothes in the dark, cramped car is almost comical. You're both laughing by the time you're somewhat presentable, though your hair is a disaster and you definitely smell like sex and weed.

"Walk of shame?" you ask as he starts the car.

"Walk of pride," he corrects, pulling you in for another kiss. "Nothing shameful about this. Best night of my life."

"Mine too," you admit against his lips. "Even if I'm not going to be able to sit properly in class tomorrow."

He grins, that cocky edge you're starting to love making an appearance. "Good. Want you thinking about me every time you move."

"Trust me," you say, settling into the passenger seat as he drives toward campus. "I won't be able to think about anything else."

And when he drops you off, kisses you one more time like he can't help himself, and watches to make sure you get inside safely, you know this is just the beginning.

Whatever comes next—the complications, the judgment, the complications—you'll face it together.

Because some things are worth fighting for.

And this—him—is definitely one of them.

⚠️CW: dynamics, married!reader, unprotected sex, breeding kink, possessive behavior, marking, oral sex, praise kink, ownership dynamics, jealousy, emotional manipulation, guilt themes, forbidden romance, risky behavior, love confessions, morally grey themes, may be triggering re: cheating, 18+ MDNI

[affair au • secret lover!gojo x married!reader • forbidden romance • he wants you to leave your husband • morally grey • possessive gojo • hotel room meetings • risk and danger • "choose me" energy • breeding kink elements • 18+ MDNI]

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THE RITZ-CARLTON, 9:47 PM

Your phone buzzes on the hotel nightstand.

Husband: Working late again. Don't wait up.

You should feel guilty. Should feel something other than relief. Instead, you text back a supportive message and turn your phone face-down, redirecting your attention to the man currently pouring champagne in nothing but unbuttoned slacks.

Satoru Gojo. Six-foot-three of crystalline blue eyes, white hair, and complete disregard for the sanctity of marriage. Specifically, your marriage.

"He's working late?" Gojo doesn't even look at you, but somehow he knows. He always knows.

"Yes."

"Good." He crosses the penthouse suite—because of course he booked the penthouse—and hands you a glass. "Means I can take my time with you tonight."

You accept the champagne, very aware that you're wearing only his shirt from earlier, still smelling like his cologne and sex. "Satoru—"

"Don't." He cuts you off, sitting beside you on the bed. "Don't say his name when you're wearing my clothes."

"These are your clothes."

"Exactly." His hand slides up your bare thigh, possessive and warm. "And you look better in them than he ever made you look in anything he bought you."

You should defend your husband. Should say something about the ten years you've been together, the vows you took, the life you built. Instead, you set down your champagne and kiss him.

Gojo responds immediately, always hungry for you, always ready. His hand cups the back of your neck as he deepens the kiss, tasting like expensive champagne and bad decisions.

"Missed you," he murmurs against your lips. "It's been four days."

"I know."

"Four days too long." He's already unbuttoning his shirt on you, sliding it off your shoulders. "Four days of you in bed with him while I'm here alone thinking about all the ways I want to fuck you."

"Satoru—" Your protest dies when his mouth finds your neck, kissing and biting a path to your collarbone.

"Does he still touch you?" The question is muffled against your skin, but the possession in his tone is clear. "When you go home after being with me, does he notice you're different? Does he taste me on your skin?"

"No." The truth is bitter. "He doesn't notice anything anymore."

Gojo pulls back to look at you, and something dark flashes in those blue eyes. "Good. Means more of you for me."

He lays you back on the bed, settling between your legs, and you're already wet just from kissing him. From being in his presence. From the wrongness of it all that somehow feels so right.

"Gonna mark you up tonight," he promises, kissing down your stomach. "Gonna make you so sore you feel me for days. Every time you sit down, every time you move, you'll remember my cock inside you."

"Please—" You're already begging and he's barely touched you.

"Please what, baby?" His breath ghosts over your inner thigh. "Tell me what you want."

"You. I want you."

"You have me." His tongue traces a path dangerously close to where you need him. "But I want to hear you say it. Say what you want me to do."

Your face flushes, but you've played this game before. "I want—want your mouth on me."

"Where?" He's teasing now, kissing everywhere except where you need him.

"You know where."

"Say it." His eyes meet yours, challenging. "Say it or I'll stop right now, leave you aching, send you home to him wet and wanting."

"My pussy," you gasp out. "I want your mouth on my pussy. Please, Satoru."

His smile is absolutely sinful. "Good girl. So polite for me." Then his mouth is on you, and coherent thought evaporates.

He eats you out like a man starving, like he's been thinking about this for four days and needs to make up for lost time. His tongue finds your clit, circling and sucking, while his fingers slide inside you.

"So wet already," he groans against you. "Always so ready for me. Does he make you this wet?"

You can't answer, can only arch against his mouth as he works you expertly. He knows your body better than anyone—better than your husband ever did, if you're honest. Knows exactly how to curl his fingers, where to apply pressure, when to slow down and when to speed up.

"Satoru—I'm close—"

"Not yet." He pulls back, and you whimper at the loss. "Not until I'm inside you. Want to feel you come on my cock."

He strips off his pants, and God, you'll never get used to the sight of him—all lean muscle and perfect proportions, cock hard and already leaking. He reaches for a condom from the nightstand, but you stop him.

"Don't."

He freezes. "What?"

"I said don't." Your heart is racing. "I want to feel you. All of you."

"Baby—" His voice is strained. "That's dangerous. If you get pregnant—"

"I know." You pull him down to you. "I don't care. I want you. Just you. No barriers."

Something primal flashes across his face. "You're going to kill me. You know that?"

"Then die happy." You wrap your legs around his waist. "Fuck me, Satoru. Make me forget I belong to anyone else."

He sinks into you with a groan, and you both freeze at the sensation—skin to skin, nothing between you, so intimate it's almost overwhelming.

"Fuck," he breathes. "You feel so—" He can't finish, just drops his forehead to yours. "So perfect. So mine."

"Yours," you agree, and maybe it's wrong but in this moment it feels true. "I'm yours."

He starts moving, and it's different without the condom—more intense, more intimate, more dangerous in every way. Each thrust feels like a claim, like he's marking you from the inside out.

"This is what you needed," he groans, picking up the pace. "Needed me bare inside you. Needed to feel owned."

"Yes—" You're clinging to him, nails digging into his back. "Yes, Satoru, please—"

"Please what? Want me to fill you up?" His hand slides down to press against your lower stomach. "Want me to come inside you, risk putting a baby in you? Mark you in a way he can't deny?"

The thought should terrify you. Instead it makes you clench around him, and he groans at the sensation.

"Fuck, you like that idea." He's fucking you harder now, deeper. "Like the idea of carrying my baby. Of everyone knowing you're mine."

"Satoru—" You're so close, teetering on the edge.

"Say my name when you come." His thumb finds your clit, circling. "Say my name and remember who you really belong to."

You shatter with his name on your lips, clenching around him so hard he follows immediately, spilling inside you with a groan that sounds like a prayer and a curse combined.

He collapses on top of you, both of you breathing hard, and the weight of what you just did starts to sink in.

"I should—" You start, but he silences you with a kiss.

"Don't." He rolls to the side, pulling you into his arms. "Don't regret it. Don't apologize. Not for this."

"Satoru, that was reckless—"

"I know." He kisses your forehead. "I don't care. Let me be reckless with you."

You should get up. Should shower, get dressed, go home to your husband and your life and your lies. Instead you curl into Gojo's chest, feeling him still leaking out of you, and let yourself pretend.

Pretend this is your real life. That you wake up next to him every morning. That the ring on your finger is from him instead of a man who stopped seeing you years ago.

"Leave him." Gojo's voice is quiet but firm. "Leave him and be with me. Properly."

"You know I can't—"

"Can't or won't?" He tilts your face up to his. "Baby, I'm in love with you. Not just in lust, not just playing around. I'm in love with you and I want you. All of you. Not just stolen hours in hotel rooms."

Your breath catches. "Satoru—"

"You don't have to say it back. Not yet." He kisses you softly. "But think about it. Think about what we could have if you were brave enough to choose it."

"And if I can't be that brave?"

"Then I'll take what I can get." His arms tighten around you. "I'll take every stolen moment, every secret meeting, every lie you have to tell. Because having you like this is better than not having you at all."

You should tell him that's not healthy. That this needs to end. That someone's going to get hurt.

Instead you kiss him again, and he makes love to you slower this time—tender and thorough, like he's trying to memorize every inch of you.

Later, much later, you're getting dressed to leave. Back in your own clothes, wedding ring back in place, constructing your alibi for why you're getting home so late.

Gojo watches from the bed, still naked, looking like a god who's decided to care about one mortal woman way too much.

"Same time Thursday?" He asks, trying for casual and missing.

"If I can get away."

"You'll find a way." It's not arrogance, just knowledge. You always find a way back to him. "You always do."

You finish buttoning your blouse, check your appearance in the mirror. Erasing evidence of him from your body even though you can still feel him inside you.

"Satoru—"

"I know." He stands, crosses to you, pulls you into one last kiss. "Go home. Be safe. Text me when you get there."

"I will."

At the door, you pause. Look back at him standing in the middle of the penthouse suite, looking at you like you're the only thing in the world that matters.

"Thursday," you confirm.

His smile is sad and hopeful at once. "Thursday."

You leave before you can change your mind. Before you can do something stupid like actually choose him over safety, over stability, over ten years of a life that stopped fitting years ago.

In the elevator down, you check your phone.

Husband: Still at office. Probably another hour.

Satoru: Miss you already. Meant what I said. Think about it.

You delete Satoru's message, respond to your husband, and step out into the night.

The Ritz doorman gets you a cab. You give your address. Settle into the backseat and watch the city lights blur past.

You can still feel Gojo inside you. Can still smell him on your skin beneath the perfume you reapplied. Can still hear his voice saying I'm in love with you.

Your phone buzzes.

Satoru: You're mine. Even if you go home to him. You're mine.

You should delete it. Should block his number. Should end this before it destroys everything.

Instead you save the message and text back:

You: Thursday. Room 2512. Don't be late.

His response is immediate:

Satoru: Wouldn't miss it for the world, baby. You're worth every risk.

The cab pulls up to your house. Lights on in the living room. Husband home early after all.

You pay the driver, walk up the path, unlock the door to your life.

And try not to think about how the man waiting inside doesn't look at you the way Satoru does. Doesn't touch you the way Satoru does. Doesn't love you the way Satoru does.

Try not to think about Thursday, and Room 2512, and decisions you're too much of a coward to make.

Try. Fail. Count down the days until you can be his again, even if it's just for a few stolen hours.