The way Gojo's eyes darkened when he saw your flushed and fucked out face, how he scooped you up and hauled you to your room like you were his personal fucktoy to discipline. He fucked you hard, relentless, making you sob out apologies as he pounded into you, reminding you with every thrust that your pussy belonged to *them*, not some asshole who showed up uninvited. And then, when he was done painting your insides white, he just smirked and called Toji in like it was his turn at the buffet.

Toji didn't hold back either. He fucked you even rougher, his thick cock stretching you out while he gripped your hips hard enough to bruise, making you regret every second of letting Sukuna touch you.

Back-to-back like that, they railed you until you were a boneless, cum-stuffed mess, barely able to beg for mercy. But you did beg—afterward, when you could finally catch your breath, you pleaded with them not to tell Nanami or Geto. "Please," you'd whimpered, face buried in the pillows, "... don't tell them."

They agreed, but only on conditions. Nothing less than you spreading your legs open for them whenever they wanted, as if you weren't already their little fuckdoll on the regular.

But you know Satoru—he'd promise the moon with that cheeky grin, enjoy the benefits of it (like bending you over the kitchen counter for a "quick reminder"), but then do whatever the hell he pleased anyway.

And yeah, you were right. Later that same night, when you saw Geto in the hallway, he gave you this knowing look, all calm and cool, but his voice dipped low as he brushed past you.

"Heard you had a guest today, sweetheart. Hope you treated him nice." The way he said that made your stomach twist, heat flooding your cheeks because it was so damn obvious—he knew. Satoru, that idiot... you thought, fuming as you scurried back to your room.

************

It's been only a few days, and you haven't recovered from that day at all.

Not when they collectively tease you about it every chance they get, those indirect jabs that make your face burn and your thighs clench despite yourself.

Like right now, in the living room—everyone's sprawled out after lunch, the TV droning some mindless action flick in the background. You're curled up on the couch in your hoodie and shorts, trying to act normal, but Gojo's got that mischievous glint in his eye as he stretches out next to you, arm slung casually over the backrest, fingers brushing your shoulder.

"Hey, bunny," he starts, voice all playful and innocent, but you know better. "You been extra jumpy at the doorbell lately? Like, every time it rings, you freeze up. What's that about?"

You shoot him a glare, but your cheeks are already warming. "Shut up, Satoru. It's nothing."

Toji, lounging in the armchair across from you, chuckles low and rough, that aloof smirk tugging at his lips. "Nah, it's somethin'. Girl's probably worried she'll open the door and get more than she bargained for again."

Your eyes widen, and you bury your face in your hands, but Geto joins in as he glances up at you over his shoulder, dark eyes gleaming with amusement. "Mmm, true. Some visitors just know how to make an entrance, don't they?"

Nanami, bless him, is the only one out of the loop. He's at the end of the couch, flipping through a book with his usual gentlemanly composure, but he pauses now, brow furrowing as he looks up. "What are you all talking about? Did something happen..?"

Gojo bursts out laughing, clutching his stomach dramatically. "Oh, Nanami, you sweet summer child."

Toji snorts, taking a swig of his beer. You whimper, pulling your knees up to your chest. "Stop it, guys! It's not funny!"

Geto tilts his head back, smiling softly but with that edge to it. "Aw, come on, sweetheart. We're just joking."

Nanami sets his book down, looking genuinely confused. "Hold on. What actually happened—"

Your face is on fire now, and you can't take it anymore. "It's nothing nanamin!" you told him and turned to other ones. "That's it—no one's invited into my room today!" You pout hard, lips pursed, standing up with a huff and storming toward your bedroom door.

Gojo's reaction is immediate. He throws himself back on the couch dramatically, clutching his chest like he's been shot. "Whaaaat? Bunny, nooo! Come on, I was just playin'! Don't lock me out— Pleeease, I'll be good, I swear!"

Toji just smirks, unfazed, but there's a glint in his eye like he's already plotting how to barge in later. "Tch. Dramatic much? You'll be beggin' for company by midnight, doll."

Geto chuckles softly, watching you go with that calm gaze. "Sweet dreams, then. But if you change your mind... you know where to find us."

Nanami sighs, shaking his head. "I still don't understand what the hell happened, but... sleep well."

**********

You slam your door shut gently, because you're not *that* mad and flop onto your bed, face buried in the pillows while your cheeks burn.

God, they're impossible. Teasing you like that, infront of Nanamin. You toss and turn for a bit, but eventually, the exhaustion from the embarrassment wins out, and you drift off into a fitful nap.

When you wake up, the apartment's quiet, too quiet. You glance at your phone; it's been a couple hours. Stretching, you pad out to the living room, rubbing your eyes. No one's there.

Nanami must've gone out for his evening walk or to pick up groceries. Toji's probably crashed in his room, snoring away. And Geto and Gojo? Who knows—either holed up in their room playing video games, or more likely, doing some nasty shit behind closed doors, or maybe they snuck out to grab drinks again. You don't bother checking.

Instead, you head to the kitchen, grabbing a glass of water to cool down. The cool liquid helps a little, but as you're chugging it, the doorbell rings—sharp and unexpected. You pause, heart skipping a beat. Probably Nanami back already. Setting the glass down, you walk over and swing the door open without thinking twice.

And there he is.

**********

The same man you saw few days ago.

Pink hair spiked up messily, those piercing red eyes glowing faintly under the hallway light, tattoos curling over his massive arms like dark promises. He's towering there in a black tank that clings to every brutal muscle, jeans slung low on his hips, looking down at you like you're a meal, not a person. His gaze drags over you slow, your messy hair, the t-shirt that's slipped off one shoulder, those shorts that still don't hide much, and he whistles low, that cruel smirk curling his lips.

"There you are, baby slut," he rasps, voice like gravel and smoke, eyes darkening with that hungry amusement. "Missed me already? Or just hopin' I'd come back for seconds?"

You freeze, heart pounding, heat rushing back to your face in a flood. "W-What... what do you want?" you manage to stutter, gripping the door like it's a lifeline, but your voice comes out small, breathy.

Sukuna cocks a brow, leaning against the frame casually, but his body crowds the space, making you feel tiny. He then steps just a fraction closer, head tilting down, breath hot against your ear as he murmurs low and wicked.

"Ohhh, look at ya blushin'. Missed me that much, kid?"

You stand there like a deer in headlights, his red eyes locked on you with that predatory gleam. Your heart's hammering in your chest and you can feel the heat creeping up your neck, your tshirt suddenly too revealing even though it covers more than those shorts did last time.

What the hell is he doing here? And why does your body react like this from just his voice, his stare?

Before you can slam the door or stutter out something coherent, Toji's voice booms from the living room behind you.

"Yo, why the fuck are you here?"

You jump a little, glancing back to see Toji emerging from the hallway, shirtless and looking like he just woke up from a nap, his scar twisting with that aloof scowl. He's got that simmering intensity, like he's two seconds from throwing hands, but Sukuna just grins wider, not intimidated in the slightest.

"Come on, man," Sukuna drawls, that deep rasp sliding over you like a threat wrapped in silk. "I came to see you. Can't a guy check in on his dear friend?"

Toji crosses his arms, stepping closer, his bulk matching Sukuna's but with that threat aimed right at the intruder. "For what exactly? I paid your money back last day, asshole. We're square."

Sukuna chuckles low, holding up a sleek black bag you hadn't noticed before. He pulls out an expensive looking bottle of whiskey dark amber liquid sloshing inside, label screaming high-end shit. "Come on, is it just about the money between us, huh? Look, bought a really nice drink for ya. Figured we'd bury the hatchet over a glass or two."

Toji's eyes flick to the bottle, and you can see the hook set immediately, him softening just a fraction at the sight of free booze. He grunts, rubbing the back of his neck. "Fine, whatever. But don't think this means you're welcome anytime."

Sukuna's smile stretches vicious, all teeth and triumph, as he shoulders past you into the apartment without waiting for an invite.

"Thanks, man." He claps Toji on the shoulder hard enough to make the bigger man grunt, then saunters straight to the couch like he fucking lives here, dropping down with his legs spread wide, arms draped over the backrest. Those tattoos flex as he settles in, red eyes scanning the room before landing back on you with a wink. "Close the door, kid."

You swallow hard, face burning as you push the door shut with a soft click, still hovering awkwardly in the entryway.

What the hell are you supposed to do now? Run to your room? Hide in the kitchen? But before you can decide, voices erupt from the hallway—Gojo and Geto stumbling out of their room, both looking a little "messy". Whatever nasty shit they were up to in there, it's written all over them.

Gojo spots Sukuna first and freezes, that playfulness twisting into something sharper, more dangerous. "Why the fuck are you here?" he snaps, lunging forward in a blur, grabbing Sukuna's collar with both hands and yanking him up slightly. "If you so much as look at her wrong—"

Sukuna doesn't even flinch, just raises a brow, that smirk never fading. "Chill, pretty boy. Is this how you treat your guests? See, I bought this and all..." He gestures lazily to the bottle now on the coffee table, not bothering to push Gojo off. "Just here for a drink with Fushiguro. No need to get your panties in a twist."

Geto steps in smoothly, his hand clamping down on Gojo's shoulder and pulling him back with a firm tug. "Easy, Satoru," he murmurs, voice refined but laced with warning. He flashes Sukuna a polite—not so friendly smile, more like a veiled threat, dark eyes narrowing.

Gojo relents with a huff, shoving his hands into his pockets, but his glare doesn't let up, those bright eyes burning holes into Sukuna.

You're still standing there, shifting from foot to foot, not knowing whether to bolt or play hostess. The air's thick with tension, but Sukuna's not fazed, he pats the couch next to him, looking at Toji.

"Sit your ass down, man." Then his gaze slides to you again, slow and deliberate, raking over your body like he's imagining stripping that tshirt off. You catch those nasty glances, the way his tongue flicks over his lower lip, eyes dipping to your thighs before snapping back up. It makes your stomach flip, heat pooling low despite yourself.

Toji, meanwhile, has completely forgotten what a prick Sukuna is now that there's premium liquor involved. He's already plopped down, twisting the cap off the bottle and giving it a sniff, grunting in approval. "Shit, this is good stuff. Where'd you even get this?"

Sukuna leans back, smirking. "Got my ways. Now, hey kid," he calls out to you, voice dropping into that mocking rasp, "will you get us a few more glasses, yeah? Be a good girl."

You nod frantically—why the fuck are you nodding?—and scurry to the kitchen. Your hands shake a little as you grab the glasses from the cabinet, clinking them together accidentally.

By the time you come back, Toji and Sukuna are already pouring shots, clinking glasses with low laughs. Gojo and Geto have migrated to the other couch, Gojo still glaring daggers while Geto scrolls through his phone, pretending to mind his own business but stealing glances.

You set the glasses down on the table, trying not to make eye contact with anyone, but Sukuna's hand brushes yours as he takes one—deliberate, his fingers lingering. "Thanks, doll. Look at you, all helpful."

The compliment hits like a spark, your face going redder, eyes gleaming despite the embarrassment. You mumble something incoherent and back away, but Sukuna's not done.

A few minutes later, as they're sipping and chatting about some bullshit, he calls out again. "Hey, doll—grab some tissues f'me?"

You obey without thinking, fetching them like the obedient little pup you are. When you hand them over, he takes them slow, patting your head gently—big hand ruffling your hair like you're a pet. "Good girl. So eager to please."

Toji's too focused on the whiskey, pouring another round and grunting about how smooth it is, not noticing a damn thing. But Gojo and Geto? They're watching.

Gojo leans over to Geto, whispering low but not low enough you don't catch the edge of it. "Why the fuck is she blushing like that? Look at her runnin' around for that asshole like he's got her on a leash."

Geto hums, eyes flicking to you with that smirk of his.

You pretend not to hear, but it only makes you flush harder.

Sukuna keeps it up, though—doesn't forget you for a second. "Kid, water?" "Soda?" You serve him each time with a little smile, and he ruffles your hair again, thumb brushing your cheek this time. "You always this good, huh?"

By now, the tension's easing a bit, Sukuna waves the bottle at Gojo and Geto. "Come on, what's with the hostility? This shit's too good to waste on grudges. Join in, boys. Promise I won't bite...."

Gojo hesitates, still pissed, but Geto shrugs and stands, grabbing glasses. "Fine. But only 'cause it's free."

Gojo follows grudgingly, muttering under his breath, but soon they're all drinking, the stuff really is that good, smooth and burning just right.

**********

Laughter starts bubbling up, talk shifting to random crap, rounds after rounds, the whiskey keeps flowing like it's endless, the bottle getting lighter as Toji and Sukuna knock back shots, their low laughs filling the living room.

Gojo's trying to keep up, that never ending energy of his turning sloppy fast, he's giggling at nothing, slurring some dumb joke, he's such a lightweight; one too many pours and he's slumping against Geto, eyes glazing over. "Sugu... room's spinnin'..." he mumbles, head lolling back.

Geto just sighs, that calmness cracking with a hint of annoyance as he hooks an arm under Gojo's shoulders. "Excuse us," he says smoothly to the room, voice low and even, hauling the white-haired idiot up like a sack of potatoes. Gojo whines something incoherent, but Geto doesn't bother responding—just carries him down the hall to their bedroom, the door clicking shut behind them with a finality that says he's not coming back.

That leaves you, Toji, and Sukuna. The air feels thicker now, heavier with just the three of you—Toji and Sukuna diving into their gym stories, bullshitting about people, some asshole who dropped weights on his foot last week. They were in their own world.

You finally decide you've had enough of it, standing up quietly to slip off to your room. Maybe lock the door and bury yourself under the covers until this nightmare visitor leaves. But before you can take two steps, Sukuna's hand shoots out, grabbing your wrist—not hard, but firm enough to stop you dead.

"Come on, doll," he drawls, that wicked smirk curling his lips as he tugs you back. "Where are you runnin' off to? Keep me company, yeah? Sit that pretty ass down and have a drink or two. Don't be rude to your guest."

You freeze, heart thudding, but you nod because what else can you do? He pulls you onto the couch between them, closer to him than Toji, and pours you a small glass. "There. Sip it slow, kid. Wouldn't want you passin' out."

Toji grunts something, too buzzed to care, and you take a tiny sip, the burn hitting your throat while Sukuna's arm drapes casually over the backrest behind you, his fingers brushing your shoulder every now and then. Their stories keep going and you're just there, flushed and silent, the whiskey warming you from the inside out, making everything feel hazier, hotter.

That's when the front door clicks open. Nanami steps in, hands loaded with grocery bags—veggies peeking out the top. He pauses in the entryway, eyes scanning the scene: empty glasses scattered on the table, Toji slouched and tipsy, Sukuna sprawled like he owns the place, and you sandwiched between them on the couch, looking like a deer caught in the crossfire.

Nanami's jaw tightens, that hidden dominant side flickering behind his glasses as he glares straight at Toji. "Care to explain yourself?" he says, voice even but clipped, setting the bags down with a controlled thud.

Toji opens his mouth, but Sukuna cuts him off smooth as hell, leaning forward with that lazy grin. "Easy there, blondie. Name's Sukuna, Toji's friend—real close. Come on, sit down. I'll pour you one. Shit's premium; you look like you could use it."

Nanami's gaze hardens, arms crossing over his chest. "No, thank you." His eyes shift to you then, softening, mixed with something protective. He sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose, then heads to the kitchen without another word, unpacking the bags with precise movements.

You're about to breathe a sigh of relief when Nanami's voice calls from the kitchen, calm but insistent. "Sweetheart, could you come help me with dinner?"

You stand up quick—too quick, maybe, eager to escape Sukuna's orbit. But a big hand clamps down on your hand, stopping you mid-step. Sukuna's grip is warm, possessive, his red eyes locking on yours with that hungry amusement.

"Where you goin', doll?" he murmurs, thumb brushing your skin. "We were just gettin' comfortable."

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out—stuck in the heat of his touch flooding you. Before you can stammer an excuse, Nanami appears in the doorway, apron tied around his waist, expression unreadable but his voice steady as steel. "Any problem, mister?"

Sukuna holds Nanami's stare for a beat, that smirk never fading, then releases you with a low chuckle. "Nah, nothing." His hand slides away slow, deliberate, like he's savoring it.

You practically run to Nanami, heart pounding, and he ushers you into the kitchen, shutting the door behind you with a soft click. From the living room, you hear Sukuna's "tch", annoyed but amused, like he knows he'll get another shot.

**********

Inside, the kitchen feels like a safe haven—balcony door cracked for fresh air, counters clean and organized. Nanami turns to you, concern etched deeper now. "Are you fine?" he asks quietly, handing you a knife and some veggies.

You nod, even though you're not fine at all—your skin's still tingling where Sukuna grabbed you, your face hot, mind replaying the moments earlier. "Y-Yeah, I'm okay," you mumble, focusing on chopping carrots to hide the tremble in your hands.

Nanami doesn't push, just works beside you in comfortable silence, his presence steady and reassuring. You help with the stir-fry, the sizzle of veggies in the pan drowning out the muffled laughs from the living room.

Sometime later, Toji's voice cuts through—loud, slurred, and frustrated. "Oii, get up... come on, you prick... get up!"

You and Nanami exchange a glance, wiping your hands as you head back to the living room. There, Sukuna's passed out cold on the couch, massive body slumped, one tattooed arm dangling off the edge to the floor, mouth slightly open like he doesn't have a care in the world. Toji's poking at him, shaking his shoulder none too gently.

"Wake the fuck up, asshole. Ain't crashin' here all night."

Nanami crosses his arms, brow furrowing. "What's the matter?"

Toji straightens, scratching his scar with a grunt. "Bastard had too much and passed out. That motherfucker—acts all tough, then drops like a brick."

Nanami sighs, long and exasperated. "Then drop him at his home."

Toji blinks, like that's the dumbest idea. "Don't know where. Never been there."

"You said he's your friend," Nanami deadpans, voice rising just a touch with irritation. "And you don't even know where he lives?"

Toji scratches the back of his neck, looking anywhere but at Nanami. "Why the hell would I? We just work together and talk shit at the gym. Ain't like we're braidin' each other's hair."

Nanami pinches the bridge of his nose, muttering under his breath. "This house and these people never let me be in peace... Fine. What're we gonna do now? We can't just leave him like this."

Toji shrugs, already heading back to grab the last dregs of the bottle. "Well, let him be. He'll leave when he comes to his damn mind."

**********

Few hours later, you're sprawled out in your bed, stomach full from that tasty dinner Nanami whipped up. The shower after melted away the day's tension, hot water pounding your skin until you felt boneless, clean, and ready to crash. But it's 1 AM now, and sleep's being a bitch. You're scrolling through your phone, watching some dumb shit—cat videos, your thumb flicking mindlessly as the balcony breeze drifts in through the cracked door.

Then—a knock.

Soft but insistent. You frown, setting your phone down. Who is it at this time? Gotta be Satoru; that asshole's the only one who'd bug you at midnight for a "quick cuddle" or whatever bullshit excuse he uses to bury his cock in you.

You pad over in your tiny booty shorts and top, clinging to your tits, nipples poking through because who the hell wears a bra to bed?—and swing the door open without a second thought.

Before you can even blink, a massive hand clamps down over your mouth, muffling your gasp as you're shoved back into the room. The door clicks shut behind him, lock twisting with a final snick. Your eyes widen, heart slamming against your ribs—it's him. Sukuna. The same bastard who "passed out" (or so it seemed) on your couch hours ago, pink hair tousled, red eyes glowing in the dim light like he's fresh from hell. He's smirking, that cruel, wolfish grin splitting his face as he crowds you against the wall.

"Wh—what... why are you... Na—Nanami—" you try to stammer through his palm, but he presses harder, shutting you up, his body heat scorching even through your thin clothes.

"Shh, come on, doll," he rasps low, voice like gravel dragging over your nerves. "Don't make a scene. Couldn't really get you to myself... those roomies of yours are fuckin' cockblocks."

Your pulse races, thighs clenching despite the panic. "Why are you here? Don't touc—"

He doesn't listen—grabs your waist with his both hands, yanking you flush against him, pinning you to the wall with his hips. You feel him, hard and massive through his pants, grinding just enough to make you whimper into his palm.

"I thought you passed out... you were sleeping..."

Sukuna chuckles dark, breath hot against your ear. "Come on, doll, you think I'm a lightweight like that white-haired brat? Even the whole bottle ain't shit to me."

"Then why did you...?" You trail off, eyes wide, but he just grins wider, like he's got you right where he wants.

"You want me to say it? Fine—of course for this. To get this baby slut all for myself." His words slam straight to your cunt, heat flooding you, making you blush hard as your body betrays you with a fresh gush of slick.

His fingers snake down your body, slow and deliberate, tracing the curve of your hip.

"I couldn't properly ... do anything last time," he murmurs, voice dropping filthy. "That day? Barely scratched the itch. Been thinkin' about you ever since."

You grab his wrist tight, trying to stop him—fuck, you're trying—but he's too strong, his hand dipping lower anyway. His big palm cups your cunt right through the fabric, and he hisses, eyes darkening.

"Shit... no panties, no bra. As expected of the house whore. Walkin' around like a free-use fucktoy for those pricks."

"I... I was sleeping... that's why I didn't—" Your words cut off in a gasp as he slides the seam of your shorts aside, fingers grazing bare skin. Your mouth falls open when he rubs slow, right over your slick folds, the pad of his thumb circling your clit just enough to make your hips jerk.

"Fuck," he growls, pulling his hand back to inspect—strings of your arousal stretching between his fingers, glistening in the low light. "Leakin' like a cheap whore already. Look at this mess... you get this sloppy for every guy who shows up?"

"Noooo... I don't..." you whisper, shaking your head, but it's weak—your cunt's throbbing, clenching around nothing, begging for more even as your brain screams stop.

"Ohh, is that so?" Sukuna mocks, shoving his slick-coated fingers under your nose before smearing them across your lips. "Your mouth says no, but your cunt says yes?"

You shake your head again, but he just laughs low, scooping you up like you weigh nothing and tossing you onto the bed. You bounce once, shorts riding up your ass, tank slipping to expose the underside of your tits. Sukuna's on you in a second, settling between your legs, big hands shoving your thighs apart wide, pulling down your shorts and spreading you open like a filthy display.

"Look at this pretty pussy," he groans, thumbs parting your folds, exposing your swollen clit and the slick dripping from your hole. "All puffy and wet for me."

You whimper, face burning, but it makes you even wetter, your cunt clenching visibly as he stares. "S-Sukuna... stop..."

"Stop? Nah, doll. You love this shit." He dips a thick finger in, slow at first, curling up to hit that spot that makes your back arch. "See? Suckin' me right in. Y'know, I couldn't sleep that night—went home and jerked off so much my cock hurt. Pictured bendin' you over, stuffin' this sloppy hole full. Bet you'd love that, wouldn't ya? spreadin' for anyone with a fat dick."

He adds a second finger, scissoring them wide, stretching you with a wet squelch that echoes in the room. Your hips buck up involuntarily, chasing the burn, and he smirks, thumb pressing down on your clit hard. "Yeah, that's it. Fuck yourself, doll. They got you trained good—leakin' like a faucet. But I'm gonna ruin you for 'em. Make this cunt crave my cock instead."

You're moaning now, soft and broken, hands fisting the sheets as he pumps faster, fingers curling relentlessly. "... p... please..."

"Please what, baby?" His free hand yanks your tank up, exposing your tits, pinching a nipple rough until you cry out. "These fuckin' tits—bet they bounce so pretty when you're gettin' railed. Gonna mark 'em up, for your boys to see."

He keeps fingering you mercilessly, thick digits pumping in and out with wet, obscene squelches that fill the quiet room. Your hips jerk every time he curls them just right, hitting that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyes. Then his other hand yanks your top off roughly, freeing your tits completely. Big palm covers one, squeezing hard, thumb flicking over the stiff peak.

That’s when he really notices them—the faint red marks, little bruises blooming across the soft skin of your breasts. Bite marks. Hickeys that haven’t quite faded. His cock jumps visibly in his pants, a low, filthy groan rumbling out of his chest.

“Haa… fuckin’ shit,” he laughs under his breath, voice dark and thrilled. “They use you real good, huh? Markin’ you up like damn dogs. Whose are these, baby? Toji’s? Blondie’s? Or the boys? Come on, tell me and I’ll let you cum.”

It’s too much. Too embarrassing. Too hot. Your cunt clenches hard around his fingers, slick dripping down his wrist, and you’re shaking your head even as the words tumble out in a broken whisper.

“I… it’s… T-Toru… a-and… S-Suguru…”

Sukuna curses under his breath. “Fuck. Both of ’em? You take both of 'em at the same damn time? Shit… no wonder you’re such a trained little whore.”

You nod, mortified, cheeks burning hotter than ever. He pulls his fingers out abruptly, leaving you empty and clenching around nothing. Before you can whine, he hauls your legs up, folding you in half until your knees are pressed to your tits, spreading your pussy wide open for him. The position makes you feel obscene—completely exposed, dripping, helpless.

“Four fuckin’ cocks poundin’ this little pussy every damn day,” he growls, staring down at your soaked cunt like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen. “And she still went lookin’ for a fifth one, huh? Such greedy thing.”

“I… I didn’t—”

“Oh you definitely did,” he cuts you off, smirking. “Swayin’ that fat ass around in those tiny shorts right in front of me. Teasin’ like you wanted me to snap. Ahh… crap. Can’t hold back anymore.”

He reaches down and unzips his pants with one rough yank. Your eyes go wide as his cock springs free, thick, veined, flushed dark and already leaking like crazy. The tip is glistening, a fat bead of precum rolling down the shaft. He’s huge. Way bigger than you expected, even after feeling him grind against you earlier.

Sukuna notices your stare and pumps himself once, twice—milking out another thick string of precum that drips onto your mound.

“See this?” he rasps, voice smug. “Got me leakin’ like a fuckin’ loser. All your fault, baby. Look what you do to me. One look at this sloppy cunt and I’m droolin’ like a dog.”

He doesn’t give you a second to process. He lines himself up, fat head pressing against your entrance, sliding up and down your slit to tease your clit until you’re whimpering, hips twitching. Then he notches at your hole and pushes in—slow at first, just the head popping past your rim.

“Ah—shitttt… holy fuck,” he hisses, eyes rolling back for a second. “Can’t blame those motherfuckers… what a fuckin’ cunt.”

You’re scared—legitimately scared—of the sheer size splitting you open, but you slap a hand over your own mouth fast, muffling the high, broken moan that tries to escape. No way in hell are you letting anyone wake up to the sound of you moaning like a bitch in heat under a stranger. Not after last time.

He sinks in deeper, inch by brutal inch, stretching you so wide it burns in the best-worst way. Your walls flutter and suck around him, trying to adjust, but he just groans like he’s dying.

“Fuckin’ slut… you took me all in one go,” he breathes hard once he’s buried to the hilt, hips flush against yours. “Four cocks usin’ this pussy every single day and how the fuck are you still this tight? Just swallowin’ me up like it’s starved.”

Then he starts moving—slow, deep rolls at first, letting you feel every ridge, every vein dragging against your walls. Then harder. Faster. The bed creaks under the force, your tits bouncing with each thrust.

“Listen to that,” he growls, thumb finding your clit and rubbing messy circles. “Hear how filthy you sound? Bet you cream on every cock that fills you, don’t you?”

You’re crying behind your hand now—tears of pleasure and shame, cunt spasming every time he slams in deep.

“Bet you’d let me pass you around too if I asked, wouldn’t you? Let me call up some buddies, line ’em up, watch ’em use every hole till you’re leakin’ from all of ’em.”

His thrusts turn brutal—skin slapping skin, wet and loud despite your best efforts to stay quiet. He leans down, biting at your neck, adding another mark to the collection.

“Gonna cum,” he snarls against your skin. “Gonna fill this greedy pussy up. Hope you’re on the pill, baby… or you wouldn’t even know who the baby daddy is if you get knocked up. Could be any of us—right?”

The thought tips you over as your cunt clamps down hard, fluttering wildly as you cum around him, soaking his cock, thighs shaking. You bite your own hand to keep from screaming.

Sukuna doesn’t slow down. He fucks you through it, chasing his own release with punishing strokes.

“Fuckin'—take it, doll—”

He slams in one last time, burying himself balls-deep, and cums with a guttural groan. Hot, thick spurts flood your cunt, painting your walls, overflowing until you feel it leaking out around his shaft. He grinds slow, milking himself dry inside you, panting against your throat.

“Shit… good girl,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “Took it all like the perfect little cumdump you are.”

He stays buried for a long minute, cock twitching with aftershocks, before finally pulling out slow. A thick glob of his cum follows, dripping down your ass to the sheets. He smirks, dragging two fingers through the mess and shoving them back inside you, plugging it in. “Don’t waste it,” he rasps, patting your swollen cunt once and then drops down beside you on the mattress. His massive chest heaves, sweat slicking the tattoos across his skin, red eyes half-lidded as he stares down at the mess he made of you.

You’re a fucking disaster: legs still shaking, cum leaking slow and obscene out of your stretched hole, pooling on the sheets. Your face is flushed, lips swollen, eyes glassy with the aftershocks. He drinks it in like a man starved, that cruel smirk tugging at his mouth again.

“Fuckin’ look at you,” he rasps, voice wrecked from groaning. “So damn' pretty.”

Before you can even try to close your legs or cover up, he leans down, one big hand gripping your chin hard, fingers digging into your cheeks, forcing your mouth open. Then he crashes his lips against yours.

It’s not a kiss. It’s a fucking invasion.

All tongue and teeth, greedy and brutal. He shoves his tongue deep, licking into your mouth like he owns it. His teeth catch your bottom lip, biting down sharp enough to sting, then soothing it with a rough suck.

It’s too much—too wet, too deep, too possessive. Even Toji’s roughest kisses don’t feel this feral. Sukuna kisses like he’s trying to devour you whole, like he wants to crawl inside your skin and stay there.

The kiss drags on forever—well over five minutes, maybe more than that. He doesn’t let up, doesn’t give you air, just keeps taking, growling low into your mouth every time you whimper. Your hands scrabble uselessly at his shoulders, nails digging in, but he doesn’t care. He just angles your head harder, fucking your mouth with his tongue until you’re dizzy, lungs burning, head spinning.

When he finally pulls back, a thick string of spit connects your lips for a second before snapping. You’re gasping, trying desperately to drag in air. Your lips are puffy, chin slick with his spit, and your whole body feels like it’s been rewired.

Sukuna just grins—mean, satisfied—and gives your cheek a couple sharp slaps. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make your skin tingle, enough to make your cunt clench around the cum still leaking out.

“I’mma come back again, doll,” he says, voice low and filthy. “Haven’t had nearly enough of this cunt. You’re too fuckin’ good at takin’ dick to waste on just those four.”

You can barely process the words—brain still offline from the kiss,—but he’s already moving. He leans down again, mouth latching onto your right tit. Teeth scrape over the soft skin first, then he sucks hard—really hard—pulling the flesh between his lips until a dark, noticeable love bite blooms right above your nipple. You cry out, hands flying up to grip his pink strands for dear life, yanking as the sharp pleasure-pain shoots up.

He releases with a wet pop, admiring the fresh mark—purple-red and glaring against your skin.

“That’s so you don’t forget me,” he murmurs, thumb brushing over the bruise like he’s proud of it.

Then he’s up, zipping his pants, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like he just finished a meal. He gives your wrecked body one last slow, hungry look, smirks like the devil himself, and heads for the door.

“See you soon, baby slut.”

The door clicks shut behind him. Quiet. Too quiet.

You’re left there, legs still spread, cunt throbbing and leaking his cum, tit marked, lips bruised, chest still rising and falling like you ran a marathon. Your whole body feels used and ruined in the best-worst way. You’re sure as hell not gonna forget him after this. But at least no one woke up. No one found out. This time, you got away with it.

Or so you thought.

Is it because you're the villain in this story, the one wielding the knife? Or is it deeper, uglier—the fact that you simply can't bear to see him like that, broken and pleading, when you've shattered plenty of guys before without a second thought?

It's not the first time you've made a boy cry, is it? You've heard the playlist on repeat:

"Please, y/n,"

"Take me back,"

"What did I do wrong?"

"Please, I love you."

You've seen eyes begging, sobbing, desperate just to have you glance their way one more time. Guys on their knees, literally or figuratively, crumbling because you decided they weren't worth the air anymore.

It never fazed you. Never kept you up at night. You'd just get on with your life.

So why does this one sting like a fresh cut?

Why do the tears in those stupidly pretty eyes matter more than all the others combined?

Why does imagining Satoru with red-rimmed eyes and a trembling lip twist your gut like nothing else ever has?

No matter how much you deny it, no matter how hard you try to slam the door on this mess, trying to end it, trying to stay in control... yeah, when we talk about control, you sure has it.

Cause he'll do everything you say. Anything and everything. Jump through hoops, beg on command, give himself away for you like it's his goddamn purpose.

You always thought you had the reins, the power, the final say. And you do, of course—you could snap your fingers and watch him come running, tail wagging, dick hard and heart bleeding. But what you didn't know, what sneaks up on you like a shadow in the dark, is that you're not the only one pulling strings here.

You think he couldn't affect you? You think you don't give a single fuck about him beyond that precious, perfect dick of his? If that was true, if you were really the queen on the throne, untouchable and in charge, then why the hell is he lodged in your brain 24/7, like a song you can't skip?

The more you shove him out, the more he digs in. Telling yourself not to think about him is the same as "thinking " about him, isn't it?

A vicious loop you can't escape, where every "fuck him" turns into "fuck, him." You catch yourself wondering what he's doing right now, where's he?Staring at his phone? Crying sitting in a corner?

And what right do you have to treat him this way? To dangle him like a toy, then yank him away when it gets too real?

And it definitely hurts. Not in a dramatic way, but an ache that makes you want to punch a wall.

You tell yourself it's for his own good, or yours, or whatever bullshit excuse lets you sleep at night. But deep down, you know it's fear.

Fear of how easily he slipped under your skin, how he occupies your thoughts without permission, how one look from those eyes could unravel everything you've built—the detached girl who doesn't need anyone.

He's dangerous, for sure. He makes you want things you shouldn't and never wanted—stability, closeness, the kind of vulnerability that leaves you exposed and raw.

And that's terrifying. So you run. Or try to. But running from him feels like running from yourself, and no matter how fast you go, he's always there, waiting in the corners of your mind.

The bell rings again, sharp and intrusive, yanking you back to the present like a slap. You can't believe the day passed with nothing but him swirling in your skull—his face, his voice, his everything.

Lectures blurred into white noise, conversations with friends turned into half-heard echoes, your notes a mess of doodles and half-sentences because your brain wouldn't shut the fuck up about Satoru goddamn Gojo.

But the more you think about him, the more you want to bolt in the opposite direction. It's not even about the whole "public image" bullshit anymore, the whispers or the judgment or the risk of someone connecting the dots.

It's about how dangerous that boy is to you—how he can hijack your mind without trying, how he makes you question everything with just a glance. All day, all night, he's there, and you weren't fool enough to keep pretending it's just the dick. That ship sailed the second you started missing his clingy arms, his stupid pouts, his everything. But you're not brave enough to dig deeper, to unearth the real reason clawing at your chest. Because if he's just a loser, then what does that make you? A fucking coward, that's what. Hiding behind your walls, too scared to dig deep and face the obvious.

**********

"Hello, y/n, are you with me?" Your thought spiral shatters as Aira waves her hand in front of your face, nails flashing under the lights. Her brows are furrowed, half-amused, half-concerned, like she's caught you spacing out one too many times today.

You blink, forcing a nod, managing a weak "Yeah, sorry. What's up?"

She rolls her eyes but grins anyway, looping her arm through yours like she owns you. "Girl, you've been in la-la land all day. Anyway, let's hit my house first—get changed, freshen up, then head to Mark's. You look like you need a glow-up."

You hesitate, feet dragging for a split second. "Aira, I don't know—"

"Nope," she cuts you off, already tugging you toward the parking lot. "You already said yes, yeah? No backing out now. Besides, it'll be fun. You need this."

Since you already committed, there's no escape from her iron grip. You follow her to her car, steps automatic but mind still absent, drifting back to him like a bad habit. Your eyes scan the campus frantically without you even meaning to—searching for that familiar snow-white hair among the crowds of students spilling out.

Is he lingering somewhere? Waiting? Hoping for a glance? The thought makes your chest tighten, but you shove it down, tell yourself it's nothing. Just habit.

Aira's chattering about something—outfits, drinks, who might show up—but you don't catch half of it, nodding on autopilot while your gaze darts from face to face, corner to corner.

No white hair.

No tall frame slouching in a corner .

Relief and disappointment twist in your gut, a fucked-up cocktail you don't want to name.

"—and seriously, snap out of it," Aira says suddenly, stopping short and whirling on you with a hand on her hip. "What the hell are you daydreaming about? You've been zoned since class ended. Ohhh, wait—I get it. Is it Sukuna?"

You snap your head toward her, blinking hard. "What? No, it's not—nothing."

She laughs, that knowing, teasing cackle that always means trouble. "Oh, come on. Don't bullshit me. I knew he's always been special for you. Excited, yeah? You can meet him tonight. Relive some of those wild nights, huh? Bet he's been waiting for round two... or ten."

Her words hit like a cheap shot, stirring up memories you don't need right now—Sukuna's rough hands, his smirks, the way he'd pin you down and make you forget your own name. But it feels distant, faded, like an old Polaroid compared to the vivid, aching pull of Satoru.

You manage a smile, forced and thin, playing along because what else can you do? "Yeah... sure. Excited."

She winks, satisfied, and unlocks the car. You slide into the passenger seat, buckling up while the engine hums to life, but your mind's already wandering again— back to the boy you can't seem to escape, even when you're trying your hardest to run.

**********

Aira's room is a whirlwind of makeup palettes, discarded outfits, and that signature vanilla-scented chaos. But tonight, she's laser-focused on you, not herself, like you're her personal project.

She's got you perched on the edge of her bed, tilting your chin up while she spritzes some shimmery glow spray all over your exposed skin—your cleavage, your collarbones, your thighs peeking out from the short skirt she insisted you wear. It's like she's prepping you for a fucking runway, but you know the real goal: making you look irresistible, fuckable, specifically for Sukuna. After all, in her mind, you're about to get laid good tonight, and she's playing wingwoman like it's her goddamn duty.

"Come on, Aira, that's enough," you mutter, batting her hand away as the mist settles on your tits, making them glisten under her bedroom lights. "It's too much glow. I look like a disco ball hooked up with a highlighter."

She laughs, and grabs your wrist to hold you still, spritzing one more time for good measure. "Bitch, please. Too much? You need this. Sukuna's gonna eat you alive when he sees you sparkling like a snack. Remember last time? He had you on his shoulders before you even said hi."

You roll your eyes, but a faint heat creeps up your neck anyway. "Yeah, well, that was then. I'm not here for a repeat."

"Oh, sure," she smirks, capping the bottle and stepping back to admire her work. "That's why you let me dress you up like his personal wet dream. Admit it—you miss that rough shit he does."

"Shut up," you snap, but it's half-hearted, your mind already drifting elsewhere. Not to Sukuna, though. No, it's pulling you back to softer hands, softer eyes, softer voice. You shake it off, standing up and smoothing down the skirt. "Just hurry up. Let's get this over with."

Aira winks, tossing you a pair of heels. "Fine, fine. But if you end up bent over somewhere tonight, you're welcome."

**********

By the time the sky starts bruising into dusk, you're both pulling up to Mark's place. The house is already throbbing with bass, lights spilling out the windows like some low-budget rave. Your mind's split in half—part here, dodging the chaos, part stuck on Satoru, wondering if he's still spiraling, if those texts you ignored are piling up like unanswered prayers. Aira doesn't give you time to wallow; she grabs your arm and drags you inside, straight into the swarm of bodies and smoke.

Old faces light up when they spot you, clustering around like you owe them a reunion tour. "Hey, y/n! Haven't seen you in a while," one guy says, grinning too wide, like he thinks he's charming.

"Tell me about it," another chimes in, elbowing his buddy. "She just disappears after class nowadays. Strange, huh? What, you got a secret life or something?"

A third one laughs, leaning in too close with that beer-breath confidence. "Got a boyfriend or what, huh? Spill the tea. Who's the lucky guy keeping you locked up?"

The words hit like a cheap shot, twisting that knot in your chest tighter. Boyfriend? Locked up? As if. But the image of him flashes anyway. You snap before you can stop yourself. "Just shut the fuck up and get lost."

The group freezes, confusion rippling through them like a bad wave. Eyebrows shoot up, mouths hang open. "Whoa, y/n, chill—"

Even Aira blinks at you, her grip loosening on your arm. "Damn, girl. What's up your ass tonight?"

You don't answer. Don't bother explaining. You just shove through them, beelining for the drinks table like it's your lifeline. Grab a solo cup, fill it with whatever's strongest—something burning and bitter—and chug it down in one go, the heat blooming in your throat as you sink into a corner sofa.

The room spins a little, bodies grinding, laughter echoing, but you're already tuning it out. Handsome boys circle like sharks, sliding up with their smooth lines, trying to perch next to you, flashing smiles that used to work.

"Hey, gorgeous, mind if I—"

You don't even look. Just flip them the bird, middle finger high and steady, watching their faces fall as they slink away, muttering under their breath. Rejected.

This is the second time in this week Aira's dragged your ass to a place like this, somewhere you feel like you don't belong anymore. Or maybe it's not that—maybe you're just bored of it all. The same stale hookups, the same empty highs, the same mornings-after that leave you hollow.

And the obvious reason? Well, a particular boy with snow hair and ocean eyes. The one who makes you feel like nothing else is worth your time except being wrapped in his arms, in peace, just him, soft and desperate and yours.

The drink burns out too fast, leaving you restless. You don't even want more, not really. You get up, weaving through the crowd, hunting for an unoccupied room. It's harder than it should be—every door you crack open reveals tangled bodies, moans spilling out, the sharp slap of skin on skin, the filthy grind of people fucking like the world's ending.

One room's got a girl on her knees, throat working a dick like a pro; another's a messy threesome, limbs everywhere, slick sounds echoing. You slam them shut, irritation building, until you finally find a quiet one, empty, dim, leading out to a balcony.

You step outside, the cool night air hitting your face like a slap. Search for your phone out of habit—not to check if Gojo's texted or called again, or whatever floats your boat—and come up empty.

Shit. Probably left it in the car. Too much of a drag to go back down, weave through the bodies, fake smiles for the interactions, the "hey y/n, long time" bullshit conversations you'd have to endure.

Not worth it.

With a frustrated "tch," you scan the balcony, spot some guy's jacket slung over a chair, and swipe the lighter from his pocket along with a cigarette you pilfer without a second thought.

You light up, inhaling deep, the smoke curling into the moody sky. Beautiful out here—stars faintly pricking through the clouds, air thick like it's gonna rain soon, that heavy, electric promise hanging low.

Not a few puffs in, and you feel it: familiar strong arms caging you from behind, more like a possessive hug that pins you to the railing. His right hand dives straight down, cupping your pussy hard through your clothes, fingers pressing firm against your cunt like he owns it. His hot lips brush the most sensitive side of your neck, breath ghosting over your skin, sending a filthy shiver straight to your core.

You freeze, the cigarette tumbling from your fingers, forgotten. Heart slamming, you look down—those hands, inked with familiar but unique tattoos, the kind only one psycho in the world is crazy enough to have etched into his skin like a permanent fuck-you to normalcy.

"Missed me, doll?"

As if the hands weren't obvious enough, as if the bold-as-hell greeting by groping your cunt wasn't a dead giveaway... that fuckin' voice, rough and dripping with arrogance, and the nickname no one else ever dared to throw at you without getting their teeth knocked in.

Ryomen fuckin' Sukuna.

to be continued in the next chapter...

"C'mon, just one more!" he'd whine, latching onto you like a goddamn koala, refusing to let go until you gave in. That was Satoru. Clingy as fuck, but in a way that made you feel like the center of his damn universe.

But then puberty hit him like a freight train, and suddenly that touchy bullshit escalated. His hands lingered a little too long on your waist during those "friendly" hugs, his body pressing just a bit closer than necessary when you'd crash on the couch after a long day. Not that you'd complain outright—hell, being this close to a guy like Satoru Gojo? Other girls would kill for it.

They drooled over him, whispering in the halls about his stupidly perfect face, that cocky grin, those piercing blue eyes hidden behind his shades that could make anyone weak in the knees. But no, his gaze was always locked on you, like you were the only thing worth looking at in this whole world.

It was flattering, sure, but goddamn annoying too. The way he'd wrap his strong arms around you from behind while you were trying to study, his chin resting on your shoulder, breath hot against your ear as he murmured some bullshit excuse like, "I'm cold, warm me up." Or how he'd flop onto your bed uninvited, pulling you down with him for "cuddles" that felt less like friendship and more like foreplay you weren't ready to acknowledge.

Even though he played it all cute and innocent, batting those long lashes, pouting like a kicked puppy—there wasn't a single ounce of purity behind those pretty blue eyes.

You could see it, the way they'd darken just a fraction when his fingers brushed your skin, the subtle shift in his smirk when you'd shove him away half-heartedly.

Lately, it's gotten worse. He started showing up at your house whenever your parents were out, like he had some sixth sense for when you'd be alone.

"Just checking on my bestie," he'd say with that shit-eating grin, letting himself in without knocking. And before you knew it, he'd be all over you, cuddly as hell, arms draped around your shoulders, face nuzzling into your neck.

"Gimme a kiss on the cheek? For old times' sake?" he'd beg, voice all sugary sweet, like you were still kids trading playground pecks. You'd roll your eyes and give him a light slap on the arm, muttering, "Grow up, Satoru," but he'd just laugh, pulling you closer anyway, his body heat seeping through your clothes in a way that made your pulse stutter.

Today was no fucking different. Your parents had barely pulled out of the driveway before there was a knock—more like a rhythmic tap that you knew all too well. You opened the door, and there he was, Satoru in all his glory: tall, pretty and his white hair tousled like he'd just rolled out of bed, shades perched low on his nose so those electric blue eyes could peek over them and lock onto yours.

"Miss me?" he drawled, stepping inside without waiting for an invite, his shoulder brushing yours deliberately. God knows how he always found out when you were alone—who's spying on you?—but none of that mattered now. He kicked off his shoes, sauntered into the living room like he owned the place, and plopped down on the couch, patting the spot next to him.

"C'mere, we've got the whole house to ourselves. Perfect for some quality time."

You huffed, crossing your arms, but followed anyway because resisting Satoru was like trying to push back a tidal wave.

"Quality time? You mean you annoying the shit out of me?"

He just grinned wider, reaching out to tug you down beside him, his arm slinging over your shoulders possessively. For a while, it was the usual, him yapping about some game he'd crushed effortlessly, you half-listening while scrolling on your phone, his fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on your arm that sent unwelcome tingles down your spine.

But then the remote became the battlefield. You wanted to binge your favorite anime. But Satoru? Oh, he had other ideas.

"Nah, let's watch something real fun," he said, snatching the remote from your hand with that infuriating speed of his. You lunged for it, but he held it high, laughing as you climbed half onto him, your chest pressing against his in the scramble.

"Give it back, you asshole!" you growled, fingers clawing at his arm while he leaned back, remote dangling just out of reach. His free hand wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you could feel the hard lines of his body under that thin shirt—muscles honed from years of whatever boring sports he do.

"C'mon, don't be like that," he teased, voice dropping an octave, breath fanning over your ear. "You know you love it when we fight like this."

You slapped his chest lightly, but he just chuckled, low and throaty, his eyes gleaming with that not-so-innocent spark. He wasn't budging with that damn remote, holding it up like a trophy while you squirmed against him, your body unintentionally grinding against him in the struggle.

"Fine, you wanna play fair?" you snapped, breathless from the tussle, your heart pounding from more than just the fight. "Rock-paper-scissors. Best of five. Winner gets the remote."

Satoru's eyes lit up like you'd just handed him the keys to heaven, that predatory gleam flashing behind his shades. "Oh, you're on, baby. But you know I always win."

He finally lowered his arm, sits down on the couch with you, his free hand casually resting on your thigh like it belonged there. "Ready? Rock... paper... scissors—shoot!"

**********

Well, long story short, you lost. He wrapped you up easy.

"Told ya. I always win." He yanked you fully into his lap then, arranging you between his spread legs on the couch, your back flush against his chest, his chin hooking over your shoulder possessively.

"Now, be a good loser and pout all pretty for me while I pick."

You crossed your arms, lips jutting out in a genuine sulk as he flicked through channels, his body heat enveloping you like a cage you didn't hate being in.

Click, click—some old action flick, nah. Reality trash, skip. Then he landed on something, settling back with a satisfied hum. The title flashed: some low-budget rom-com you'd never heard of.

"What the hell even is this?" you protested, twisting to glare at him. "I've never seen this crap. Change it back, you cheat."

Satoru just chuckled, turning your face forward with a finger under your chin before leaning in and planting a wet, sloppy kiss right on your cheek—loud and obnoxious, his lips lingering a second too long.

"Shhh, just watch. You'll like it, promise." His voice was all mock-innocence, but the way his arms tightened around your waist said otherwise. You wiped your cheek with the back of your hand, grumbling, but stayed put, trapped in his hold.

**********

The movie rolled on, and god, it was cringe as fuck—dialogues that sounded like they were written by a horny teenager, acting so bad you wanted to vomit. The plot? Some bullshit about a guy chasing a girl in a big city, so much flirting and fake laughs.

"How the hell are you into this shit?" you said, sneaking a glance at Satoru, who was grinning like an idiot, his fingers idly drumming on your sides. "This is torture."

But then, a few minutes in, the vibe shifted. The guy and girl on screen started getting handsy, kissing turning heated, hands roaming under shirts, the camera panning suggestively.

"Ewwww, Satoru, change it," you whined, squirming in his lap. "What the fuck are they doing? This is gross."

He laughed, breath fanning your ear as he held you tighter. "Come on, don't be such a prude. It's just normal shit. What's the big deal? You've seen worse."

His voice dropped, teasing. "Or are you telling me you've never watched anything like this before?"

"Ugh, just stop it, Satoru." You dismissed him with an eyeroll.

The scenes ramped up, nasty and unfiltered, the guy pinning the girl against a wall, her moans echoing through the speakers as he sucked on her neck, hands yanking at clothes. Tongues tangling sloppily, hips grinding, the camera zooming in on her tits heaving under his grip.

You shifted uncomfortably, a tingle sparking between your legs, heat pooling in your core despite yourself. Fuck, why was this turning you on? And then—

Satoru's hands moved. He was still hugging you from behind, but now those long fingers slid down, settling on both of your thighs, squeezing the soft flesh before inching inward, gripping your inner thighs hard enough to make you gasp.

"T... Toru..." you stammered, voice shaky as his touch sent jolts straight to your pussy. "What're you doing?"

"Me? Nothing, just... getting comfy," he murmured, all innocent-like, but his palms were hot, fingers digging in possessively. And then you felt it—his cock, hard and throbbing, pressing insistently against your lower back through his pants. Thick, insistent, twitching slightly as you shifted.

"It's... y-your..." you whispered, cheeks burning, trying to wriggle free. "Let me go..." Your hands pushed at his wrists, but fuck, he was strong—unyielding, like trying to move a mountain.

"Just... don't mind that," he breathed, voice huskier now, his chin nuzzling into your shoulder. "It's nothing, really. Happens sometimes."

"Satoru... this is..." You trailed off, pulse racing, the movie's moans filling the room like background porn.

"Y/n..." He paused, lips brushing your ear. "Can I ask you for a favor? Please?"

"W-what?" you managed, voice barely above a whisper, your thighs clenching involuntarily under his grip.

"Can I... can I see it? Please?" His words hung there, bold as fuck.

"See what?" you echoed, thinking about all the possibilities this moron could've come up with, even as your heart hammered.

His hands wandered then, one sliding up your thigh, thumb pressing right over your pussy through your clothes—firm, deliberate, rubbing in a slow circle that made you bite your lip. "Here... wanna see it. Your pussy. Just a peek."

You couldn't believe the audacity, this cocky bastard asking straight out like that, but god, it made your core throb, heat flooding your panties, clit pulsing under his thumb. "Satoru, what the fuck? You better be joking, you fuckin' perv..."

"No, I'm not," he whined, shifting to pouty mode instantly, lips brushing your neck as he nuzzled closer. "I just wanna see it, I swear I won't do anything else. Please? I haven't seen one in real life, that's why. Come on, Y/n, don't be selfish—you love me, right? This is what best friends do, help eachother."

You scoffed, but your body betrayed you, hips twitching slightly into his touch. "Best friends don't ask to see each other's... fuck, Satoru, that's not normal."

He amped up the whine, getting all desperate and whiny, voice cracking like he was begging for his life. "Please, please, please, please, please, Y/n—I'm begging you. Just let me look. It'll be quick, I promise. You're my bestie, come on help me out. Don't make me suffer like this..."

All the while, his hand stayed between your legs, gently patting your pussy over the fabric, soft, rhythmic taps that had you soaking through your panties, the lewd squish almost audible in the quiet room.

You couldn't take it anymore, the pressure building, his hardness digging into your back, the movie's filthy sounds egging it on. "F... fine. Just looking. Nothing else."

He lit up like Christmas, rewarding you with a sloppy, wet kiss on your neck—tongue flicking out to taste your skin. "Ahhh, Y/n, I fuckin' love you. You're the best friend ever."

**********

You don't know what the fuck made you agree to this bullshit, but here you are, sprawled on the couch like a goddamn offering, knees hiked up to your tits, thighs spread wide open in a filthy V that leaves nothing to the imagination. Your shorts are tossed aside on the floor like forgotten trash, and your pussy—oh, it's throbbing, slick and desperate—clings to the thin, soaked fabric of your panties for dear life, the cotton molded to your folds like a second skin, outlining every swollen inch of your cunt.

Satoru's on his knees right between your legs, towering over you even like this, his blue eyes locked on your core with a hunger that makes your stomach twist. His Adam's apple bobs hard as he swallows, like he's starving and you're the meal.

"Y/n, please... come on, just one look," he begs, voice rough and needy, hands hovering but not quite touching yet.

"F... fine," you mutter, hooking your fingers into the waistband of your panties and tugging them down slowly, the cool air hitting your wet heat like a slap. But instinct kicks in, and you slap a hand over your exposed pussy, covering the slick lips as doubt floods you. "Satoru, no... this is... this won't happen—"

"No, no, no, Y/n, please don't say that," he whines, leaning in closer, his breath ghosting over your thighs, making your clit twitch under your palm. "You promised, come on..."

Well, fuck it—you were gonna show your fuckin' pussy to this maniac anyway, might as well get something out of it. "On a condition, then."

"What's it? What's the condition? I'll do anything," he blurts, eyes flicking up to yours, desperate and wild.

"Fine... uhm, buy me a new phone. The one like yours—the latest model."

"That's it? God, Y/n, I'll buy you ten phones like that, alright? I'll get you the whole damn store. Now just show me, please..." His voice cracks on the plea, and when you finally look at him—really look—you see it: eyes half-hooded with lust, those pretty blues glazed over, his grey sweatpants tented obscenely with his fat cock straining against the fabric, a dark damp spot blooming at the tip where he's already leaking pre-cum like a faucet. You swallow hard, throat dry, your own arousal spiking at the sight.

"Fine..." you breathe, heart pounding as you move your hand away, fingers parting your slick folds deliberately, spreading your pussy wide for your best friend—who's staring like he's seen god. Your clit peeks out, swollen and shiny, your hole clenching around nothing under his gaze.

"Damnn, Y/n... it's so pretty, fuckkk," he groans, voice dropping to a filthy rasp, leaning in so close you can feel the heat from his mouth.

"Look at that... it's so juicy— all soft and wet, did you get like this watching that shit on TV? Fuck, those puffy lips, spreading all nice... Godddd. You've got the prettiest pussy I've ever imagined. Makes my mouth water, baby."

You can't speak up, the weight of his stare pinning you down like a physical force, your breath hitching as heat floods your cheeks and your core. He's so blatant, so depraved, rattling off nasty shit like it's poetry, and it's making your thighs tremble.

He inches closer, nose almost brushing your folds. "Toru, nooo... I told you no touching—"

"No, I won't... it's just..." He inhales deeply, nostrils flaring as he breathes you in like a drug, eyes rolling back a fraction. "Smells so fuckin' good, Y/n... like sweet, musky honey. Bet you taste even better—fuck, I could bury my face in this wet slit all day."

He looks up at you then, pleading, lips parted. "Y/n... I... I'll give you my card—no limits, spend whatever the fuck you want on anything, clothes, stuff, whatever. Please, can I just touch it? Please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please..."

You finally subside, because shit, that's a hell of a bargain—who even turns down that? "O-okay... just... touch..."

He doesn't waste a second, one hand shooting forward gently, his fingers—long, calloused—brushing your slick folds, parting them with a slow drag that makes you moan loud and broken. "Ahh—Toru!"

"Fuck, yes... so soft and sloppy," he mutters, playing with it clumsily at first, like he's exploring uncharted territory—thumb circling your clit in messy, uneven rubs that send sparks shooting up your spine, fingers tracing your entrance without dipping in, just teasing the rim.

Your face twists in pleasure, mouth falling open as he smears your arousal around, making everything even wetter. "Ahhhh, Y/n... this pussy's a mess."

When you glance down, that motherfucker has his free hand shoved in his sweatpants, rubbing his cock shamelessly—stroking the thick length through the fabric, the damp spot growing as he leaks more. Real pervert shit, but you can't defend yourself, not when his touches are lighting you up like this, your hips bucking into his hand involuntarily.

He amps it up, fingers getting bolder, rubbing your clit in slow, messy circles that build the pressure agonizingly. "God, this cunt's so hot and looks so tight... how's it feel if I do this?" He presses a fingertip to your hole, testing, and you jolt.

"T-Toru, no—d-don't dip in... just... ahh—touch..."

"Sorry, baby, couldn't help it—your hole's winking at me, see." He pulls back to just the lips, spreading them wide again, dirty talk pouring out.

"Fuck, I wanna do this every day, play with your pussy. Been missing out a lot, Y/n... all those years, and I never got to see how wet you can get."

"Satoru, you---"

He cuts you off. "Wonder how it'll feel inside—bet it's like velvet, sucking me in deep, milking my cock dry. Shit, imagine my dick in here. . . Clenching so hard I can't pull out."

Your words come out half-cut, fractured from the intense pleasure coiling in your gut— "T-Toru... s-so... ahh—stop... c-can't... f-fuck..." —body arching as he rubs faster, clumsier, his thumb mashing your clit while he palms himself harder, groans mixing with yours.

"Is it good, Y/n... tell me it's good, fuckk... ahhh...." Satoru groans, his fingers still messing with your dripping cunt, rubbing those clumsy circles over your clit that have you seeing stars, his other hand fisting his cock tighter in his sweatpants. He's panting like a dog in heat, eyes locked on where he's touching you, thumb flicking your swollen nub just right.

Before you can gasp out a response—your words a jumbled mess of "y-yes... f-fuck... good..."—he yanks his hand out of his pants, freeing his cock with a wet slap against his abs. He pumps it slow and deliberate, the thick shaft glistening with pre-cum, veins bulging under his grip. "Y/n... you wanna see mine...??"

"Toru.. you... put it back in..." you stammer, but your eyes are glued to it now, his dick is massive, rock hard and curving slightly upward, the head flushed an angry red, leaking so much it's dribbling down his knuckles. It's thicker than you imagined, hot and heavy-looking, the kind that would stretch you to your limits, with a prominent vein running along the underside that pulses with every stroke.

He shifts up a bit on his knees, towering over you, cock bobbing in the air like a threat—or a promise.

"Please, just try holding it..." he begs, voice wrecked, pushing his hips forward so it's inches from your hand.

Crap... you didn't know it'd come to this, but shit, things have escalated this far anyway—why hold back?

Your pussy's aching, clenching at the sight of him, so you reach out, wrapping your fingers around his scorching length. It literally burns your palm, so hot and throbbing it's like holding a live wire, the skin silky smooth over steel-hard muscle, slick with his arousal.

Satoru moans like a cheap whore the second you touch him—head thrown back, mouth slack, a guttural "Ahhhh, Y/n... soo good..." ripping from his throat, hips bucking into your grip involuntarily.

"Hey, can you jerk it a little? Please..." He's whining again, that desperate edge back in his voice, blue eyes pleading through half-lids.

"Fi---fine."

Well, it's not like you were in any position to say no—your own hand betraying you, starting to move on its own, sliding up and down his fat cock in slow, twisting strokes, feeling it twitch and throb in your palm.

The scene is so fuckin' lewd, you sprawled with your legs spread, jerking off Satoru's massive dick while his fingers tease your sloppy pussy, rubbing your clit in messy figure-eights that make your toes curl. Both your faces are nasty as fuck—yours twisted in pleasure, lips parted on moans, cheeks flushed; his all blissed-out, eyes hooded and dark, biting his lip like he's trying his best not to cum already.

Then Satoru looks down—at his cock in your hand, then back at you, then fixating on your exposed cunt, spread wide and dripping. That's when it clicks for you, panic spiking. "Satoru, don't... don't you fuckin' dare—"

You couldn't finish whatever half-assed protest you had, because that motherfucking Satoru Gojo grabs his dick from your hand, lines it up, and presses the hot, leaking head right against your swollen, puffy pussy—smearing his pre-cum over your folds, the blunt tip nudging your clit.

The feeling hits like lightning: his cock so heavy and warm against your sensitive cunt, the ridges and veins dragging over your slick lips, making everything even messier, wetter. Your expression cracks, eyes widening, mouth dropping open in a shocked gasp, body arching up instinctively. His face? Pure filth—smirk twisting into a groan, eyes blazing with lust, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows hard, looking like he's about to devour you whole.

"You fuckin' perv... what're you— ahhh—" Your words catch in your throat, turning into a moan as he starts moving, rubbing himself up and down against you, his thick shaft sliding through your folds like a hot knife through butter, the head catching on your entrance before gliding up to mash against your clit.

"Fuck, Y/n, your pussy feels so good like this— all hot and sloppy, hugging my cock," he growls, voice rough, hips rocking steady as he grinds against you, the lewd squelch of your combined arousal filling the room.

You squirm under him, hands fisting the couch cushions, but he just pins you with one hand on your thigh, keeping you spread.

"Look at that—your cunt's kissing my cock. Been dreaming of this shit, rubbing my fat cock on your pretty pussy till we're both a mess."

"S-slow down... Toru, t-too much— ahh, f-fuck..." you whine, but your hips won't stop, grinding back against him, chasing the friction as his tip bullies your clit over and over, sending jolts through your core.

He laughs breathy, low and dirty, picking up the pace just to spite you. "Slow down? Why baby, you love it— Bet this slut hole wants him inside, but this is good too... rubbing like this, you soaking me. Ahhh shit, I'll cum soon."

"Satoru.... s-shut up." You're moaning incoherently unable to form words.

His massive cock is slotted between your puffy lips, sliding back and forth in filthy drags, your arousal coating him shiny, his balls slapping lightly against your ass with each thrust. Your body is trembling, pleasure building like a tidal wave, while he watches where you're connected, his mouth spilling nasty nonstop.

"God, Y/n, your pussy's perfect—soft and puffy. Imagine if I just slipped in...." He keeps it up, relentless, the rub turning frantic as he reaches his limits—breath hitching, abs tensing. Suddenly, he hooks one of your legs over his shoulder, opening you up even wider, angling his cock so the tip smashes directly into your clit with every brutal slide. "Fuck. . . I'mma cum. . . ."

The new angle destroys you, pressure coiling tight, your clit abused by his leaking head, and you shatter first—cumming with a broken scream, "Ahhh—Toru! M'cumming"—pussy clenching hard, gushing slick all over his cock, soaking his length and balls in your release, spasms wracking your body.

He's right behind, groaning deep—"Shit, Y/n—fuck, me too..."—hips stuttering as he unloads, hot ropes of cum shooting out hard and thick, painting your pussy, your thighs, even your stomach in messy spurts. It's so much, it won't stop for a while, his cock twitching with each pulse, milking out every last drop as he grinds through it, smearing his seed all over your folds like he's marking you.

**********

His hips haven’t stopped moving even after he’s blown his load—slow, messy thrusts that drag his still-hard cock through the slick mess he’s made of your pussy, spreading his thick cum all over your swollen folds like he’s painting you with it. Rope after rope of hot, sticky white painted your clit, your lips, dripping down to your ass.

You can’t believe it, but that fuckin’ maniac is already rock-hard again, veins pulsing, head flushed darker than before, like cumming once did nothing but make him hungrier.

“Satoru… you…” Your voice comes out wrecked, barely above a whisper, thighs trembling from the aftershocks.

“I’m sorry, it’s just—you’re so fuckin’ hot and… god…” He groans low, hips rolling lazy, smearing his spend deeper between your lips. “How ‘bout I put it in. You’ll like it, yeah? Please… just the tip, baby. I’ll go slow, promise.”

“No—no no no no, not happening, Toru. This is more than enough.” You shake your head frantically, hands pushing weakly at his chest, but your cunt clenches traitorously at the thought, fluttering around nothing like it’s begging for the stretch.

“Please, just—” He doesn’t finish.

Who are you kidding? As if Satoru Gojo has ever listened to anyone or anything when he wants something bad enough. He’s already pumping his dick again in that filthy, wet fist, lining the fat head up with your fluttering hole. The blunt tip nudges past your lips, dipping in just enough that you feel the stretch—the obscene burn of him starting to split you open—

—and then the sharp screech of tires on the driveway slices through the haze.

Crap. Mom and Dad.

You shove him hard—harder than you mean to—and he topples backward with a surprised grunt, landing flat on his back on the floor, cock still jutting obscenely from his sweatpants.

You scramble like your life depends on it, snatching your soaked panties and crumpled shorts off the floor, bolting for the bathroom down the hall. Your heart’s hammering so loud you swear they’ll hear it through the walls. Seeing their one and only precious daughter covered in the guy’s cum—the same guy they treat like a second son—is not a good look afterall.

Behind you, Satoru barely manages to tuck his dick back in, yanks his sweatpants up, and flops back onto the couch like nothing happened, snatching the remote and flicking the channel to some mindless sports recap just as the front door swings open.

“Heyy, kid!” your dad’s voice booms, warm and tired from whatever errand ran late. His eyes light up the second he spots Satoru sprawled there. “When did you get here?”

Mom’s right behind him, kicking off her shoes. “Oh, you’re here too? Good then—let’s all have dinner. This is from that place you like, Satoru.”

He flashes that trademark grin—cheeky, innocent, not a single trace of the fact that he was just humping their daughter raw on this very couch minutes ago. “Auntie, you’re the best. I was just keeping Y/n company while she sulked over losing the game. You know how dramatic she gets.”

Your mom laughs like it’s the funniest thing. “Where is she, anyway?”

“In the bathroom,” Satoru says smoothly, not missing a beat. He raises his voice, calling down the hall with that casual, teasing lilt. “Y/n! Come eat dinner, lazy ass!”

“Yeah—in a min!” you shout back, voice higher than normal as you scrub furiously at your inner thighs with a wad of toilet paper, washing and wiping away the sticky evidence of him. His cum is everywhere, thick globs clinging to your skin, drying in tacky patches. You splash cold water on your face, fix your hair, pull your shorts and panties back on and pray to whatever god is listening that you don’t look freshly fucked.

You step out, legs shaky, and walk to the dining table like you didn’t just have Satoru Gojo’s dick grinding against your pussy until you both came. He’s already seated, long legs stretched out, chatting with your parents about some match he “totally crushed” last week, making them laugh like he’s still the charming boy they’ve known forever.

You slide into the chair next to him close enough that your thigh brushes his under the table—and he doesn’t even flinch. Just reaches over, casual as fuck, and plops a piece of your favorite fried chicken onto your plate.

“Eat up,” he murmurs under his breath, only for you, lips barely moving. “Gotta keep your strength after all that.”

You shoot him a glare that could kill, but he just smirks wider, popping a bite into his mouth like the picture of innocence.

Dinner drags on in the most agonizing, surreal way imaginable. You’re barely tasting the food. You stare at your plate, cheeks burning, clit still swollen and sensitive, hoping—praying—this humiliating, dripping embarrassment is worth the brand-new phone and the unlimited card he promised.

Comment to get added to my permanent taglist.

Your mind won’t shut up. Him. His stupid face. His hands. The way he looks at you like you hung the damn moon. The things you did together— way too good for something that was supposed to mean nothing. It was nice. Too nice. Comfortable in a way that sneaks up on you and ruins your balance.

You flop onto the bed and stare at the ceiling again, jaw tight. No. This can’t go on like this. Somewhere along the way, he stopped being just a distraction and started becoming the main thing. Your routine. Your default. And that’s dangerous. You tell yourself that like it’s a fact, like repeating it will make it stick. It has to change. It has to end.

You scoff softly. Anyway, what’s so special about Gojo Satoru? Really. So what if he looks good. So what if he knows exactly how to get you all dumb. It’s not like you can’t find someone else. All you have to do is snap your fingers and men will line up, eager and willing and disposable. You’ve done it before. You can do it again.

Your phone buzzes again. You flip it face down this time and let it vibrate itself tired. You’re not replying. Not tonight. Not now. You crawl under the covers, forcing your eyes shut, and eventually sleep drags you under whether you want it or not.

*********

Across town, Satoru Gojo is losing his mind.

He’s pacing his room like it’s too small for him, running a hand through his hair, checking his phone every few minutes even though he already knows there’s nothing new. No reply. No call back. Just silence. He sits on the edge of the bed, stands again, walks a few steps, turns around. Over and over.

He tells himself you’re busy. That you’ll text later. That you didn’t mean to scare him like this. But his chest won’t stop tightening, and the longer it goes on, the worse it gets. He drops onto the bed, staring at the spot where you usually are. Your smell is still there. Your clothes are still draped over the chair like you never left. A stray hair on his pillow. A faint crease in the sheets where you curled up.

He picks up his phone again, scrolls through photos he shouldn’t have took and saved but can’t bring himself not to do. You laughing. You half-dressed. You sleeping besides him. His throat tightens. He presses his face into the pillow like that might help, like breathing you in will make this stop.

It’s only been one night. Just one. And Satoru Gojo is already a complete mess without you, spiraling in circles, waiting, hoping, terrified that he did something wrong and you’re gone for good.

And you, asleep miles away, tossing and turning in between like your body doesn’t know what it’s supposed to do without him in the background. Sleep comes in pieces—light, annoying, the kind that breaks the second you roll over. At least you sleep a little. Enough to function. Enough to lie to yourself that you’re fine.

Him, though?

Not really. He lies there staring at the ceiling, phone in his hand, screen lighting up his face every few minutes like it might magically change. He misses you so damn much it makes his chest ache, but there’s this stupid flicker of excitement tangled in with it too—because even if you didn’t come, even if you ignored him, tomorrow means class. Tomorrow means he gets to see you. Even if you don’t look at him. Even if you pretend he doesn’t exist. Seeing you is better than nothing. He clings to that thought like it’s oxygen.

***********

Morning comes. He’s early. Too early. Sitting in his seat, leg bouncing, eyes darting to the door every time it opens. He keeps telling himself to relax, that you’ll walk in any second, late like you always do, rolling your eyes, sliding into your seat like you own the place.

You don’t.

Five minutes pass. Then ten. Then the lecture starts. Your seat stays empty.

His excitement curdles into something heavier. Confusion. Then panic. He checks his phone under the desk, still nothing. No text. No “I’m skipping today.” Nothing. He tells himself maybe you overslept. Maybe you’re sick. Maybe—

Evening comes. This is usually when you show up. When his place feels less empty. When his whole day finally makes sense.

You don’t come.

He texts. Calls. Texts again. Too much. Way too much. Any sane person, anyone with a shred of dignity, would’ve stopped by now. But he doesn’t. Because it’s you. And when it’s you, all logic goes out the window.

The next day? Same thing.

No you in class. No you at night. Just silence.

By then he’s unraveling. He knows checking with your friends is a bad idea. He knows if you find out, you’ll be pissed. But he can’t keep doing this, existing in this half-alive state where he can’t see you, can’t talk to you, can’t touch you. It feels like he’s going to die if it keeps going.

He corners Aira after class, awkward and obvious, trying too hard to sound casual.

“Hey… um. Have you seen y/n?”

She squints at him, suspicious. “Why do you ask?”

He swallows. “Nothing, just.... she hasn’t been in class.”

Aira shrugs. “She’s fine.”

That’s all she says. That’s all he gets. And it’s nowhere near enough.

He goes home and sits on his bed, staring at the empty spot in his bed where you’re supposed to be, where you always are. Your smell’s still there. Your stupid little things are still there. And it kills him that he doesn’t know what he did wrong.

You, meanwhile, are nowhere near any of this.

You’re at your sister’s place. Safe. Quiet. Far enough that you don’t have to deal with the noise in your head or the mess you left behind. You told yourself you needed a few days. Space. Distance. Time to remember who you were before Satoru Gojo took over your routine, your nights, your thoughts.

You know he’s probably losing his mind. You know he’s spiraling. You knew he would.

But what he doesn’t know, what you haven’t admitted out loud is that you’re not particularly fine either. You’re just better at pretending.

********

Three days pass. Then four.

And still nothing.

Satoru doesn’t know what to do with himself anymore. He tries to study, really tries, but the words blur together, the pages turn without meaning. The top student, the one who never slips, now sitting there with messy notes and half-written formulas, all because of one girl.

Is this the price of falling in love with you?

He doesn’t even care. He’d pay it gladly. Pride, dignity, reputation—he’d burn it all if it meant you’d look at him again. Just once.

By the fourth day, lunchtime hits and he’s completely done. He’s slumped over his desk, head resting on his arm, pen moving aimlessly across his notebook. Scribbles. Nonsense. He hasn’t absorbed a single thing since morning.

Then—

“Y/n…! Aww, missed you, girl!”

Aira’s voice cuts through the room like a blade.

His head snaps up so fast his neck hurts.

And there you are.

Alive. Real. Walking into the classroom like you never disappeared. Hair done, outfit perfect, confidence wrapped around you like armor. Sexy without trying. Untouched by whatever hell he’s been living in for the past four days.

You smile at your friends, laugh softly, slide back into your place like nothing happened.

Satoru’s brain shuts off.

His body moves before he can stop it.

He’s on his feet, chair scraping loudly against the floor. He doesn’t even register the looks. He doesn’t hear the whispers. All he sees is you.

He reaches you in three long steps and grabs your wrist.

“Y/n—where did you go?” The words tumble out of him, rushed, breathless. “I texted… you—I called you, and—why did—”

You turn.

And the look you give him could burn him alive.

Cold. Sharp. Warning.

The room feels suddenly too quiet. Eyes on you. On him. On his hand around your wrist.

That’s when it hits him.

What he’s doing.

Where he is.

Who’s watching.

He releases you instantly, like he’s been burned, stepping back fast.

You look at him, slow and deliberate, eyes dragging over his face like he’s something inconvenient.

“What is it, Gojo?” you ask, voice flat.

He swallows hard. Panic floods in. He scrambles for something—anything—that won’t destroy what little control you’re giving him.

“I—uhm,” he stammers, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry. Just… the notes you took. I—I wanted them back. That’s it.”

A lie. A bad one. And both of you know it.

You hold his gaze for a second longer than necessary, making him squirm, making him feel small.

“Yeah,” you say finally. “Fine. I’ll give you later.”

You turn back to your friends like he doesn’t exist anymore.

He stands there for a moment, frozen, chest tight, heart hammering like it’s about to rip out of him. He’s embarrassed. Relieved. Still desperate. All at once.

He retreats to his seat, hands shaking, pretending to focus while his entire world has just snapped back into place and reminded him exactly where he stands.

Nowhere near you.

He walks back to his seat slowly, like every step weighs a ton. The room feels louder now, chairs scraping, people laughing, life continuing like nothing just happened. He sits down, shoulders hunched, eyes glued to his notebook even though he’s not reading a single word.

You, on the other hand, slide back into your group like it was just another normal day. You don’t look back. Not even once.

One of the guys leans toward you, smirking. “Damn, y/n. Since when are you getting friendly with these kinda guys?”

You laugh, light and easy, the same laugh you always use when you don’t want to explain yourself. “Just needed some notes. Gotta pass the class one way or another, right?”

A couple of them chuckle. Someone makes another joke. The conversation moves on.

Satoru hears all of it.

He sits there staring at the page in front of him, the lines blurring. His grip on the pen tightens until his fingers hurt. His eyes burn, wet, threatening to spill over if he blinks too hard. He keeps his head down, hoping no one notices, hoping he can just disappear into the desk.

He doesn’t understand why it hurts this much. You didn’t say anything cruel. You didn’t humiliate him outright. You just… brushed him off. Treated him like he was nothing more than a means to an end.

And somehow that hurts worse.

Because somewhere between those nights—between your body tangled in his sheets, between your hands on him, your voice in his ear—he let himself hope. Just a little. That maybe you liked him. Not loved him, not the way he already loves you, but liked him enough to see him as more than a loser you fuck in secret.

Satoru Gojo fell in love the very first time you came onto him. He doesn’t even try to deny it anymore. The way you looked at him, touched him, chose him—it wrecked him completely. And he never expected you to feel the same. He never asked for that. He would’ve settled for crumbs. For a smile. For a glance that meant something.

Instead, he’s sitting here with damp eyes and a breaking chest, realizing that whatever this is to you, it’s nowhere near what it is to him.

And that realization hurts more than anything you ever did or said to him.

You’re still sitting there with your friends, when someone drops it casually—

“Hey, are we going to Mark’s tonight or what?”

You blink. “Mark’s? What’s even there?”

A few of them laugh like you just told the dumbest joke. “What do you mean what’s there? Drinks. Drugs. Music. Same shit.”

Before you can shrug it off, Aira cuts in, all smug. “Come on. Y/n will be there. Why wouldn’t she be?”

You glance at her sideways. “Why are you talking like it’s a given?”

She grins. “Because Sukuna’s gonna be there.”

You don’t even react. Just lift an eyebrow. “Oh... So?”

“Ohhh, don’t act dumb, baby,” one of the girls snorts. “We all know you two fucked.”

You exhale slowly. “Yeah, well.”

“‘Yeah, well,’” another mimics. “You guys were freaky as hell. Everywhere, every time. Neighbours could hear you.”

Someone laughs. “I remember one night people were placing bets on how long you’d last.”

“Not long,” someone else adds. “But loud as fuck.”

You roll your eyes, unimpressed. “Y’all exaggerate.”

Aira nudges your arm. “Don’t pretend you don’t miss him. Come on. Just show up. You don’t even have to stay long.”

You hesitate, jaw tightening. You don’t want to go. Not really. But you also don’t want to sit alone overthinking everything again.

“…Fine,” you say finally. “Whatever.”

Not excited. Not eager. Just… fine.

Across the room, Satoru hears it all.

Every word lands like a punch. Sukuna. Parties. You. The way they talk about you like you’re a story everyone’s already read. Like you were never meant to be kept.

His hand curls into a fist on the desk, knuckles turning white. His throat tightens, chest burning with something ugly, jealousy, humiliation, anger, grief—all tangled together. He keeps his head down, but the words won’t stop echoing.

You didn’t sound bothered. And that hurts more than if you had.

He doesn’t say a word. He just gets up so abruptly that the chair screeches, the sound cutting through the chatter for half a second. No one really pays attention — why would they? — and he walks out like the room is on fire.

You catch it late. Just a glimpse.

His face isn’t angry. It isn’t dramatic. It’s worse than that, tight, hollow, like something finally gave up inside him. His jaw clenched too hard. His eyes glossy, unfocused, like he’s trying not to fall apart in front of people who don’t even matter.

Your chest dips. Just once. Sharp and stupid.

You look away immediately, like you didn’t see it. Like it doesn’t mean anything. You let the laughter around you fill the space, let the noise swallow the moment whole.

But for the rest of the class, your attention keeps drifting to the empty seat he left behind.

And you hate yourself a little for the very fuckin' reason being you.

to be continued in the next part

There’s a certain arrogance in the way he saunters up to the couch, rolls his sleeves with a casual flick, and plants his hands on the armrest like it’s a challenge. You fold your arms, unimpressed. “You’re gonna break your back.”

“Maybe I'll break yours tonight. Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

You groan. “Satoru, I’m serious—”

He lifts.

Like, actually lifts.

The massive sofa tilts up effortlessly, his arms flexing, veins cutting under pale skin as he drags it across the floor with zero struggle. His grin turns wolfish when he catches your slack jaw.

“What was that again?” he asks, setting it down exactly where you wanted it. “Something about calling someone?”

You blink, then laugh, hands flying to your mouth. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Admit it.” He’s close now, too close, chest brushing yours, sugar on his breath. “You’re impressed.”

“Mhmm,” you hum, drawing the sound out slow. “You’re really the strongest, Toru.”

He freezes for a beat, just long enough for his eyes to flicker, softening at the edges. Then he smirks, voice dipping low. “Is that so?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, a tiny smile tugging your lips.

His hand slides up the back of your neck, thumb tracing your jaw. “If I’m the strongest,” he murmurs, “then how come I am so weak for you?”

It hits like a pulse. The room goes still except for the thud of your heart and the faint hum of air conditioning. He’s not even teasing anymore, just looking at you like you’re the only thing in his universe worth breaking for.

You swallow, breath catching when his forehead touches yours. “That’s not fair,” you manage.

“Never said I play fair,” he says, grinning again, but his thumb stays soft on your skin. “Now, what else do you need moved before I start charging in kisses?”

You roll your eyes, even though your face feels too warm. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Mm. Agree.”

He doesn’t move away, and honestly, you don’t either. His fingers trail down your spine, settling at your waist like he can’t decide whether to keep it innocent or not. You can feel the heat of him—barely-there contact that makes your pulse jump.

“You’re staring,” he says, tilting his head.

“You’re asking for it.”

He laughs, quiet and pleased, then leans down to kiss you. It’s not deep—just enough to taste his smirk and the faint cherry from the candy. His lips ghost yours again, softer. “You’re dangerous when you look at me like that.”

You whisper against his mouth, “Guess we’re both weak, then.”

Gojo’s laugh is low this time, a rumble against your lips. “Guess we are.”

You didn’t even have time to fix your hair or change your damn top before there was a heavy knock on the door. Fast. Too fast. And when you opened it—

—there he was.

The man didn’t wait for an invitation. His eyes dragged over you slow, tight top, bare arms, the curve of your hips, the way you stood there like you’d forgotten how to breathe. A low whistle left his mouth, lazy and shameless, like he was already picturing things he shouldn’t.

The guy who just walked in makes your jaw drop. Broad shoulders, arms that could crush a watermelon, jeans tight enough to make you do a double take at the heaviness of his crotch. His shirt clings in all the right ways, like he knows exactly how much to show. You can feel your cheeks flush, your chest tightening like someone shoved a damn fist in there.

And he notices. Oh, he notices. His eyes roam, unapologetic, cocky as hell, slow as they travel over the curve of your chest, the way your leggings hug your ass. He’s not subtle. Not even a little. He leans against the doorframe, one eyebrow raised, and you feel your stomach drop.

“Need help, doll?” he asks, voice low, dripping with smirk and something nasty lurking underneath.

You clear your throat, trying to act cool, failing spectacularly. “Uh… yeah… I do.”

He strolls inside, and the air feels heavier, hotter. Every step deliberate, cocky, like he owns the floor you’re standing on. “Sure thing, doll,” he mutters, and there it is. That tiny flicker in your chest that makes you want to melt right where you stand.

You lead him to the kitchen, biting your lip because even walking near him is… something. He follows, slow, silent, taking in the sight of you like you’re the main course at a five-star restaurant.

“Show me where it’s leaking,” he says, voice teasing, rough.

You step near the broken pipe, trying not to tremble. “Here…” you say, pointing, heart hammering because he’s right behind you now. So close that you can feel the warmth radiating off him, the subtle weight of his body leaning closer than it needs to be.

He hums low, brushing past your ear in a way that sends shivers down your spine. “Huh… looks like trouble, huh?” His hand almost grazes your ass, just light enough to let you know he’s testing the waters. Testing you.

You bite your lip, trying to focus on the pipe instead of the way his body presses against yours. “Yeah… it is.”

The kitchen faucet dripped like a metronome counting down to something. You shifted your weight, maybe a weak attempt of brushing him off.

But his hips rolled forward, deliberate and slow, grinding the rigid line of his jeans against your ass. You didn’t move. Couldn’t move.

The rough denim dragged against the thin fabric of your leggings with each thrust. His calloused hand slid along your waist, fingers splaying possessively over your belly as he pressed closer.

“I'll help you, sweetheart,” he murmured, lips grazing the shell of your ear. You flinched, but his hips kept rolling in slow, grinding circles—denim against spandex, friction building with every thrust. Your breath caught when his other hand braced against the countertop, caging you in.

“You married, doll?” he asked, voice rough as gravel.

You nodded, swallowing hard. “Y-yes.”

His low chuckle vibrated against your spine. “What a fuckin’ waste.” His palm slid down to grip your hip, pulling you harder against him. “Where’s he at?”

“W-work,” you breathed out, arching back without meaning to.

“Perfect,” he growled, grinding harder now, his zipper teeth catching your thin pants. You felt his free hand fumble between your bodies, heard the rasp of his fly yanking down just far enough.

He didn’t warn you. Just hooked both thumbs under the waistband of your pants and tore them apart with a sharp, brutal rip. The sound—like fabric screaming—echoed off the tiles.

Cold air hit your skin a second before his cock—hot, thick, already leaking—slid against your ass and his rough palms slapped against your ass cheeks, spreading you wide open.

He hooked one hand under your knee, yanking your leg up onto the counter beside the sink with brutal efficiency. Your balance faltered, fingers scrabbling against the wet porcelain as he spread you wide open, his free hand clamping hard on your hip to hold you steady.

"Stay still for me, doll... lemme use you for a bit," Toji grunted, his voice thick and strained.

He didn't ask permission; he just rocked his hips forward, the blunt head of his cock dragging slick through your folds. A choked gasp tore from your throat—not fear, not protest, but raw, involuntary response to the sudden, shocking friction.

His cock slid against your clit with deliberate pressure, dragging a ragged moan from your throat. "Feel good, doll?"

Toji rasped, hips rolling in a filthy grind that made your thighs tremble. "Does that tight little pussy feel good rubbing on me?"

You arched back instinctively, meeting his thrusts, your hips moving in small, desperate circles against his hardness. "Y-yes," you gasped, the admission torn from you as his blunt tip caught your entrance, teasing.

He rolled his hips harder, grinding the thick ridge of his cock along your soaked slit.

"Bet that husband of yours ain't home much, huh?" Toji's voice was a low rumble against your ear, his breath hot and damp. "Busy man? Leaves this pretty pussy sittin' empty?"

You whimpered, your own hips rocking back against him, chasing the friction. When you didn't reply, he gave a punishing thrust to your folds. "Words, doll."

"S-sometimes," you gasped, the words spilling out. "He works late... a lot." Toji snorted, a harsh, derisive sound.

"Tch. What a fuckin' jerk." His hand tightened on your hip, fingers digging in as he pressed his cockhead firmly against your entrance, not pushing in yet, just applying pressure.

"Got a wife with a cunt like this beggin' to be stuffed," he growled, grinding slow and deliberate, "and he's out chasin' paychecks? Pathetic."

He kept grinding, that thick cockhead slicking through your folds like he owned your pussy. "Bet he don't do this to you, huh?" Toji's voice was pure filth, rough against your ear as his hips rolled slow and deliberate.

"Don't even know how to get this pussy drippin' just from talkin' to it." You whimpered agreement, your hips circling back against him, shameless now, grinding your puffy folds against his shaft.

"N-no," you gasped, the truth spilling out hot and needy. "He... he doesn't touch me much." Toji's low chuckle vibrated through your spine.

"Fuckin' idiot. Got this sweet cunt right here," his hand slid down, rough fingers spreading your lips open wide against his cock, "beggin' to be used, and he ignores it?" He spat the words like they tasted bad. "Waste of a good fuckhole."

Toji’s fingers dug into your hip, forcing your rhythm to match his slow, filthy grind. "So tell me," he rasped, the head of his cock catching your clit with each upward thrust, making your knees buckle,

"this needy little cunt feel good spreadin’ itself on my dick? Feel good gettin’ slicked up proper while your man’s out working his ass off?" You moaned, loud and shameless, hips rolling back to take more of that thick friction. "Y-yes. . .nghhh. .," you gasped, the word cracking open. "Feels so good—"

"Such a whore you are, doll," he growled, the blunt head of his cock dragging hard through your folds, bumping against your clit before grinding back down to your entrance.

"Look at this greedy hole. Openin’ up for me already." You whimpered, pushing back against him, your wetness smearing thick across his shaft. "Please," you breathed, not even sure what you were begging for.

"That so?" He pulled back for a bit and spread your cheeks wide with both palms, exposing you completely—wet and glistening, clit swollen tight under his gaze. "Look at that," he grunted, slapping his cock hard against your soaked folds. It burned with each slap, sharp sparks of pleasure-pain making you cry out.

You arched, pushing back against him, moans spilling out unchecked as his dick smeared your wetness everywhere—over your ass, your thighs.

"Fuckin' hell," he growled, grinding the head against your entrance so hard your knees shook. His palm cracked down on your ass cheek, sharp and stinging, as he forced your thighs wider.

"Stay fuckin' still," Toji snarled, his cock slapping wet and heavy against your spread pussy—not entering, just grinding the thick head over your folds, up and down to your entrance again and again.

"You got a condom?" he demanded, hips jerking in rough, shallow thrusts that left you gasping.

You shook your head frantically, cheek heated. "N-no... I don't..."

He cursed, low and vicious. "For fuck's sake." His grip tightened on your hips, holding you in place as he rutted against your slit, his cockhead catching your clit with each brutal pass. "Gonna cum on this pretty cunt then. Spread for me, doll."

You arched your back, hips lifting off the counter’s edge, presenting yourself shamelessly. "Spread it," Toji commanded, voice thick and ragged. "Show me that hungry hole."

Trembling, you reached back with one hand, fingers sinking into your own slick folds to pull yourself open—exposing the swollen, glistening wetness, the desperate clit throbbing under his gaze. He groaned, low and feral, his cock pulsing in his fist as he aimed it at your spread cunt. "Just like that, baby."

His first thick rope hit your cunt like molten wax, searing-hot and sudden. You cried out, thighs jerking as the shock of it—the sheer heat—unlocked something primal. Toji grunted, his cock pulsing violently in his hand, painting your spread-open pussy in creamy stripes. Each spurt landed with a wet slap: across your swollen lips, up your inner thighs, pooling thick and sticky where your fingers still held you open.

The last hot stripe splattered across, thick and viscous. Toji grunted, his cock jerking in his fist as he milked the final drops onto your spread-open cunt.

You stayed arched, trembling, feeling the heat bloom across your skin—so different from the barrier of your husband’s condoms. This was raw, primal and real.

The scent hit you first: salt and musk and something deeply male, sinking into your pores. You feel the heat of his cum seep into your folds where your fingers still held you open.

A choked sob escaped you—not regret, but raw relief. This. This filthy claiming was what you'd craved during all those silent nights waiting for a man who treated your body like a chore to be done with.

Toji's low groan vibrated against your spine as he smeared his release deeper with two rough fingers, working it into your swollen lips. "Fuckin' soaked now, ain't ya?" he rasped.

"That husband of yours never leaves you messy like this?" You shook your head, panting, too overwhelmed to speak. He was right. Your husband kept everything tidy, distant and safe. This was danger. This was alive.

His fingers worked deeper, smearing his cum into your wetness until the mixture dripped down your inner thighs. "Look at that," Toji grunted, dragging a thick glob along your slit with his thumb. "Your pretty little fuckhole’s suckin’ it right up. Like it’s starved."

You shuddered, biting back a moan as his touch lingered on your swollen clit—rough, possessive. He didn’t know your name. You didn’t know his. Yet here you were, letting this stranger paint your cunt with his seed, your husband’s ring a cold weight on your knuckles as you spread yourself wider for him.

"Look at that," Toji muttered again, his thumb circling your swollen entrance, playing with the mess he made.

"Man’s got a cunt this desperate sittin’ at home." He slapped on the mess, making you whine. "Should be fuckin’ you senseless every night. Stuffin’ you full." You whimpered, pushing back against his hand. His calloused palm cracked down on your ass—once, twice—the sharp sting making you gasp.

"Stay still, slut. Let me see it soak in." He watched, as your pulse fluttered under the sticky glaze. Your hips trembled. Not from shame. From hunger.

Then Toji pulled back abruptly, tucking his softening cock back into his jeans with a rough zip. "You can close your legs, doll. I'm done using it," he ordered, voice flat as he wiped his sticky fingers on your discarded pants.

You lowered your trembling leg from the counter, the sudden shift making your thighs ache as you tried to stand straight. "Wha... what about the p-pipe?" you stammered, gesturing weakly at the leak, your skin tacky with drying cum.

He glanced at his watch, the thing strapped to his thick wrist. "Can't. Got another work across town." Turning, he grabbed his toolbox, the metal clanking like a threat.

You shivered, exposed and dripping as he stepped close again, his shadow swallowing you whole. His breath was hot and sour against your ear when he leaned in, lips brushing your lobe.

"Tell you what," he murmured, low enough to raise goosebumps on your neck. "I'll swing by tonight. At 11. When that husband of yours is snorin'."

You stand there trembling, bare from the waist down, his cum cooling in sticky trails down your thighs. “Tonight,” he repeats, not a question but a command, his eyes raking over your exposed skin one last time.

“Leave the back door unlocked.”

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The one in the black lace lingerie he had bought you last month, the one you had reluctantly put on because he practically demanded it. You looked… divine. Like some sinful angel who knew exactly how to make him lose his goddamn mind.

His thumb zoomed in automatically, tracing the curves he knew too well. The swell of your breasts, the tips already begging for attention. The way your legs were spread just enough to tease, just enough to make him grind his hips in his chair.

He couldn’t help it. Not even close. His body betrayed him the second he saw it. His cock was straining in his boxers, hard and throbbing, needing attention. His hand twitched, itching to do something about it.

Gojo leaned back, groaning softly, eyes locked on you. He imagined sliding his hands over you, feeling the warmth of your skin, cupping your tits, tracing the slick between your thighs.

His mind was a mess of filthy images. He gritted his teeth, trying to focus, but it was hopeless. That image alone had him wrecked. One hand grabbed the edge of the desk for support, the other sliding down, over the waistband of his pants, teasing himself just by imagining you under him.

“Fuck…” he muttered under his breath, voice low and ragged.

He couldn’t stay there any longer. Sitting, scrolling, fantasizing—it wasn’t enough. His cock was screaming for attention.

Gojo didn’t even think. He fucking ran to the bathroom, slammed the door, yanked his dick out, and shoved the phone in front of his face. Zoomed in on you — tits full, nipples stiff, lace stretched over your soft skin, cunt teased and bare under his eyes.

His hand started moving on its own, sloppy, greedy, jerking that hard cock while he traced your body on the screen with his finger like he could fuck the photo.

He couldn’t help it. Had to see you. Had to hear you. So he tapped the call button on your contact as his fingers still working on his needy cock.

You hear the faint buzz of your phone on the counter, the screen lighting up with Satoru’s name. You freeze for a second, your heart skipping—why now?

Curiosity wins over hesitation. You swipe to answer, expecting a “Hey, where are you?” or some dumb tease—but what greets you is something else entirely.

Gojo’s face fills the screen, sweat glistening, pupils blown wide, chest rising fast. His hand is already wrapped around his cock, stroking hard and fast. Your stomach drops and heat coils low, pulse spiking.

“Satoru… what—” your voice cracks.

“Bunny,” he hisses, leaning closer to the camera. His grin is wicked, cock straining in his hand. “Miss me, yeah? Look at me… see?” He shifts the phone slightly, giving you the perfect view, his hips jerking into his hand.

Your lips part, breath catching as he tilts the camera, showing how hard he is, how desperate he looks.

“Miss you… so damn much. Need you…” His voice is rough, ragged with lust, and you shiver.

You bite your lip. “T… Toru… shouldn’t you be at work?”

“Can’t, bunny,” he growls. “Can’t stop thinking about you… just… wanna see it.”

“S-see what?” you whisper.

He leans closer, eyes smoldering. “Your pussy, bunny… just once. Please, bunny… a few minutes. Show me. Only for me.”

Your body tingles with heat, heart racing. You hesitate, then slowly nod, biting your lip as you obey.

Who could even say no to that face?

With shaking fingers, you move to sit comfortably on the bed, spreading your legs and hiking up your skirt. You positioned the phone correctly so he can see all of you.

Gojo’s grin widens. “That’s it… yes… spread more.” His hand jerks harder, slicking himself fast, eyes locked on your movements. “Yeah… just like that… god, you’re so fucking good for me, bunny…”

Your cheeks burn red as he praises and taunts you simultaneously. The sound of his breathy groans and low filthy mutters sends tremors down your spine. You can feel yourself dripping, slick coating your fingers, and you obey without thinking, spreading your pretty folds carefully, showing him exactly like he wants.

“Lower the camera a little… yeah, perfect,” he hisses. “Look at that little cunt… soaked, huh? You know I’d fuck you right now if I could, bunny… fill it up nicely. . .”

"Toruuuu. . ." Your fingers slide inside yourself, mimicking the motions he wants, and his eyes practically glow through the screen.

“God… I want you so bad… can see everything, all that pretty dripping… want it on my cock…”

He jerks harder, cursing under his breath, veins popping, cock pulsing with every stroke. “Keep spreading… god, bunny… you’re so fucking filthy… only for me…”

Your breaths are shallow, knees trembling, heart hammering, as he continues to whine and moan, jerking fast, every filthy comment like fire on your skin. “So hot… little bunny’s pussy… all mine, even when I can’t touch it… shit, look at you…”

The heat coils higher, body trembling as his praise and filthy talk push you further. Every eye roll of the camera, every thrust of his hand, every groan he hisses makes you more desperate, more obedient, until you’re soaking your own fingers, letting him see it all, listening to him groan in delight.

“Fuck, bunny… yes… just like that… want lick it up so bad…” His voice breaks through your haze as you shiver, pleasure wracking your body. You can see him jerking himself over the camera, moaning and desperate—and it makes you moan too, covering your mouth slightly, still obedient, still showing him everything he wants.

**********

The door clicks open and your heart jumps. You freeze, fingers still trembling as you hover over yourself, the phone screen illuminating Satoru’s wide, needy eyes.

“Tojii…” you whimper, panic rising as you try to cover yourself, “I—”

But Toji’s eyes are already on you. Fuck. That look. The way his gaze sharpens, dark and hungry, and your blood rushes low in response. You’re caught—helpless, exposed, every slick fingertip and filth he can see.

“The fuck you doing?” His voice is a growl, low and dangerous, and Satoru sputters on the other end of the video call.

“Wh-what, bunny… can… can't see you—” Satoru stammers through his moans and strokes.

Toji just smirks, with that knowing look and steps further into the room, jaw tight, nostrils flaring as he takes in every inch of you. “What do we have here…. Filthy girl… and you—” he jerks his head at Satoru, “—Care you to explain?”

Satoru groans, a mix of irritation and arousal, flustered. “Toji, what the hell—get out!”

Toji ignores him, steps closer, and snatches the phone off you with a grin that’s all teeth and menace. He lifts it, tilting the screen so he can see exactly what Satoru’s been doing. And he looks back at your flushed body on full display. His cock twitches in response, darkly amused.

“You think you can make her do these kinda shit, huh?” Toji growls, voice low and sharp. “Pervert. Always on heat. You ever leave her alone?”

Satoru shouts protests back, but Toji doesn’t care. His hand reaches for you curls around your waist, pulling you a little closer to him, the warmth of his body and the hardness pressing into your thigh making you shiver.

“Oh, she’s shaking… look at this little bunny,” Toji says with a low laugh, eyes darkening. “All wet, all fucked up, and you’re sitting there jerking off like an idiot.”

You bite your lip, covering your mouth, cheeks flushing as Satoru continues to protest from the phone. “Get out… Toji! What the hell, old man!”

Toji’s grin only widens like he thought about something to do just now. His hand slides lower, brushing over the curve of your hip, making you gasp softly. “Let’s see… maybe this pervert needs a lesson.”

Satoru’s protests are cut off by your small gasp as Toji’s fingers trace dangerously close to your soaked pussy, teasing through the folds. You’re a mess, the phone screen shaking in Toji’s grip, Satoru’s wide eyes locked on every movement, and Toji’s smirk grows darker.

“Likin' it, yeah?” Toji taunts, leaning in so his lips hover near your ear. “You think you can hide it from me? I see everything, baby… everything.”

Your moans are muffled against your hand, but Toji tilts his head, brushing his nose against your neck. “Oh, I don’t need to hear it… I can feel it.”

He glances at the phone, then back at you, and that grin… God, that dangerous, possessive grin that makes heat coil low.

Satoru huffs into the phone, voice shaky and incredulous, but Toji just chuckles, sliding a hand under your legs and brushing over your wet folds. “Looks like this pervert’s gonna get a show…,” he murmurs, fingers teasing, the contrast of your softness and the state you're in driving both him and Satoru wild.

Toji had no reason to wait a single second. His hand wrapped around himself, the slick heat coating his fingers as he slowly stroked, eyes glinting with that same dark, teasing fire you knew too well. Every drag of his palm made your stomach twist, every flick of his wrist echoed through the room like a challenge.

He set the phone down, angled it perfectly so Satoru could see the full scene—every inch of you flushed and exposed. His smirk was sharp as he looked at the screen.

“Gojo,” he said, voice low and teasing, “see what I’m gonna do with your bunny.”

Your heart raced, and Satoru’s voice was caught in your ear from the call, shaky, needy. “T… Toji… that’s…”

Toji didn’t care. He leaned in, sliding a hand between your legs, spreading them slowly, deliberately, rubbing the tip of his cock against your folds, coating himself in your slick. Every thrusting motion was precise, exposing every delicious detail to Satoru on the screen. You gasped, fingers clutching his shoulders, pressing into him, muffling little whines of disbelief.

Satoru’s voice came again, breathy, urgent. “Fuck… Toji… stop teasing… just put it in… .”

Toji tilted his head, eyes rolling back with that slow, mocking grin. “Oh yeah?” he said, voice deep and low. “You want me to just shove it in, Gojo? You sure?”

“Y-yeah… want to… fuck her, Toji…,” Satoru moaned, tone desperate, high and strained.

Toji chuckled, dark and sharp, brushing the tip of himself over your entrance one more time. “Hm… alright, bunny’s ready,” he murmured to you, leaning in so his lips hovered over your ear. “Right?”

You nodded, wet and trembling, hips instinctively lifting toward him. That was all the permission he needed.

Without any hesitation, he slid inside you, slow at first, stretching you, making sure every inch was perfectly aligned. You moaned, pressed against him, hands gripping his, nails digging in as he set a steady, teasing rhythm.

On the phone, Satoru was frantic, breathless. “Ahh…fuckin' hell… ”

Toji smirked, almost mockingly, leaning back to give Satoru a perfect view. “See that, Gojo? Watch it. That’s how I use your bunny.” His hips rolled, dragging every inch in and out, slow at first, then faster, giving Satoru a full, filthy show.

Your hands clutching him tighter, pressing your face into his neck. “T-Toji… please…”

He grinned, teasing, fingers brushing over your nipples, pinching lightly as he fucked into you, watching your reactions. “Mhm… that’s my doll.”

Satoru’s whines filled your ears through the call, pleading, desperate. Toji kept driving into you, hard, shameless, each thrust exposing you completely to Satoru on the screen. Your walls clenched around him, your moans muffled into his neck, hips rocking against his, helpless to stop yourself.

“Ahhh… nghh… Toji…” you gasped, every breath shaky, nails digging into him as he fucked you like he owned you—which he did.

He smirked, hand sliding down to pinch your clit roughly as he buried himself in you fully. “Look at you…showing yourself off… like a cheap whore…” he murmured, voice low and filthy. “I bet Gojo’s drooling right now, huh?”

Satoru’s voice cracked, breathy and loud from the phone. “F-fuck you… Toji… I… I can’t… Ahhh…”

Toji just chuckled, rolling his hips harder, fingers digging in, spreading you wider. “Can’t handle it, Gojo? That’s what happens when you leave me alone with her. You want a turn? Wish this was you? Huh?”

You gasped, arching against him, helpless

He didn’t stop. Instead, he leaned over you, lips brushing your ear as he whispered, low and rough, “I’m gonna fuck you till you can’t stand… till Gojo has to watch you scream… gonna make him choke on that pretty little whine of yours…”

Your thighs trembled, hands clawing at him as he set a relentless pace. Every thrust pushed you closer, every touch, every groan, building toward that heat pooling deep inside.

Satoru’s moans were frantic through the phone, jerking himself off furiously, voice tight, “Ahhh… fuck… god… bunnyyy…”

Toji smirked, spreading your legs more so Satoru could see it all, rubbing your clit with a thumb in wild, perfect circles. “That’s right, doll… show him how much you love this…”

Toji’s voice was a low growl as he slammed in one last, deep thrust, spilling himself, your gummy walls clenching around him, moans strangled and raw. “Come all over me… show me…”

You shuddered, white-hot, screaming into him as you came around him, body jerking, nails digging into him.

Toji didn’t stop, kept fucking you through your high, drawing it out, until your body finally collapsed weak against his, breathless, dripping with need.

Satoru’s frantic voice followed, breaking, “F-fuck… bunny… can’t… I’m… I’m c-coming…”

Toji rolled his hips once more, keeping you flush to him as Satoru reached his limit, his voice cracking with release. You could hear him panting and jerking himself off on the other end.

Toji murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple as you clung to him, soft and messy. “Perfect.”

You were utterly spent, while Toji leaned back, smirking down at you, hand sliding slowly over your body, watching Satoru on the screen catch his breath, panting like a fool, eyes glued to every inch.

Toji stayed buried in you for a second longer, just feeling the warmth, the slick cling of your walls, before slowly pulling out. The wet, dripping evidence of your pleasure slid down him, and he snatched the phone, flipping it toward the camera with a wicked smirk.

“See this, Gojo?” he said, voice low and teasing. “Pretty, ain’t it?” He spread your folds with one thumb, deliberately showing off every slick curve, every crease as his cum oozes out of your little hole. “Our bunny… look at her… leaking so much… it's all me...”

On the other end, Satoru groaned, voice strained and desperate. “F-fuck… I… I’m coming home… can’t survive a minute without her. I will die If I don't wet my cock with that pussy…”

Toji laughed, deep and mocking, pressing a kiss to your temple as he leaned down. “Fuck off, pervert… she ain’t gonna be here. I’m taking her out.” And with that, he cut the call.

Satoru’s whining voice faded, leaving you breathless and sticky, the aftershocks of your climax still wracking your body. Toji smirked, watching you, hands still sliding over your soft skin, teasing, tugging gently.

“Just kidding” he murmured, leaning down to press his lips to yours. “Gonna fuck another load into you…”

You whimpered, burying your face into his chest. “… Toji…”

He chuckled, hand threading into your hair, tilting your face up to meet his eyes. “That’s my good girl… always obedient, always mine. Don’t think that brat gets a say—he doesn’t. Not today, not ever.”

You heart raced at his words, body still sensitive, but the way he held you made you feel safe and owned, wrapped up in his heat and presence. He leaned back, letting you catch your breath, tracing slow circles over your arms, your thighs, leaving little trails of fire wherever he touched.

“And if that pervert blue-eyed brat ever dares to call again…” he whispered in your ear, voice rough, “you come to me, yeah? we’ll give him something worth watching.”

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He knew there was not a damn ounce of innocence behind those eyes.

And it amused the hell out of him—how you could just look at him and make his cock twitch in his boxers. Sometimes he swore his dick could recognize you before his brain did.

Tonight’s no different.

He comes home, body tired from work, and there you are—on the couch, bare legs out, his shirt hanging just low enough to cover your pussy… if you sat still. But you don’t. You keep shifting, letting the hem ride up, flashing the lace edge of your panties.

He stops dead.

“The fuck’s this, princess?”

You blink up like you’re confused. “Your shirt.”

“Yeah? Not much else though.”

He kicks off his shoes, eyes glued to the soft spread of your thighs. His cock gives a painful twitch, already pressing thick against his boxers.

**********

It’s never just tonight. You do this all the time.

Last week—you were making breakfast in the kitchen wearing shorts that could’ve been underwear. He walked up behind you, saw how the hem was swallowed between your ass cheeks, and lost every ounce of restraint.

Big hand shoved down the front—no panties. He fuckin' knew it. His cock was grinding into your ass before you could even set the spatula down. He bent you over the counter, fucked you slow and mean while your eggs burned.

A couple days ago, you wandered into the room in a robe, nothing under it. Bent over to “pick something up,” flashed him your bare pussy. He just came back from work and was mid-call with a friend, hung up without missing a beat, yanked you into his lap, cock out, bouncing you on him with one big hand on your hip.

“Can’t even give me ten fuckin’ minutes to breathe after work, huh?” His other hand’s tugging at your robe, baring more of your chest. “Gotta get my cock hard the second I walk in.”

**********

And now, tonigt, you were teasing him again. But he ain't having it.

Two steps and he’s in front of you, one hand grabbing your ankle and dragging your leg open. You start to close it—he grips your inner thigh so hard you gasp.

“Stay fuckin’ still.”

He pushes your shirt up until your tits spill free. No bra. Your nipples are already pebbled, begging for his mouth.

“Yeah. This is what you wanted, huh? Sit here, legs spread, wait for me to come home so you can make my cock hurt.”

He shoves his hand between your legs, rubbing you through the thin cotton. His thumb presses down on your clit, hard, until your hips jerk.

“You’re fuckin’ soaked,” he grunts, dragging the fabric to the side and sliding two thick fingers inside without warning. “Always dripping for me like a slut. You walk around the house like this thinkin’ I’m not gonna fuck you raw?”

You moan, clutching his forearm as he curls his fingers, hitting that spot that makes your knees go weak.

“Tight little hole… bet it’s hungry for my cock.”

He pulls his fingers out, shoves them in your mouth before you can catch your breath.

“Suck it. Taste yourself. That’s what I’m gonna be fucking later.”

You think he’s done, but he’s already unzipping, pulling his cock out—thick, heavy, flushed, the tip leaking. He doesn’t even take his pants off.

One rough grip to your hips and you’re flat on your back, the shirt riding up your ribs. He pushes into you slow, forcing every inch in until your mouth falls open around a choked sound.

“Yeah… stretch around it, baby. Take all of it.”

His pace starts deep and deliberate, hips slamming into yours, his balls smacking your ass. One hand’s on your throat, squeezing just enough to make your head swim.

“You feel that? That’s me, all the way inside. You keep teasing me, this is what you get, fucked until you can’t even close your legs.”

You’re already a mess, clinging to him, nails digging into his shoulders. He fucks you through it, grunting in your ear, sweat dripping from his temples.

“Gonna cum in you, leave you dripping down your thighs while you’re making dinner. You’ll smell like me all fuckin’ night.”

Later, your shorts are on, tank top barely covering your tits, and you’re at the stove trying to cook. He walks by, sees your ass jiggle with each step, and presses his still-half-hard cock against you from behind.

“Dinner can fuckin’ wait,” he growls, hand slipping down your shorts. “My dick can’t.”

And you already know, you’re not eating for a while.

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You’d accepted it though. Your life wasn’t meant to have a dilf arc. You’d just admire from afar and cry over fictional men with dad bods.

And then your mom went and got married.

To him.

Toji freakin’ Fushiguro.

Like, what cosmic joke is this? This man looks like he could ruin a marriage just by existing—and apparently, he did. Six foot something of pure bad decision energy, broad shoulders, smug grin, voice that sounds like gravel in honey. He’s got that kind of presence that fills the whole room, and you can’t decide whether to scream or faint. The kind of man every woman looks at once and thinks, "yeah, I’d risk it all."

And the best part? He’s now in your house. Living, breathing, occasionally shirtless miracle of a man.

You’re convinced God has favorites, and it’s definitely not your mom. She doesn’t even like him that much—it’s all petty revenge after your dad’s affair. She married Toji just to get back at him. You almost respect her pettiness.

Toji, on the other hand? He’s clearly in it for the lifestyle. Fancy house, expensive stuff, quiet mornings. You can’t even blame him. You’d marry your mom too if it meant lounging around in designer boxers.

But that doesn’t stop your brain from short-circuiting every time he walks by.

So, yeah. You’ve been trying to get closer. Trying being the key word.

Like that time when you hovered near the kitchen doorway, pretending to need help opening a jar.

“Toji, could you—uh—open this for me?”

He looked up from his phone, sighed, and popped the lid open in one go. “There.”

And left.

No smirk. No banter. Nothing.

You just stood there holding a jar of pickles, mentally screaming.

Or when you “accidentally” dropped a pen near him while he was watching TV.

You bent to grab it, slow, dramatic, perfect angle—and he just turned the volume up.

Once, you even tried sitting next to him on the couch while your mom was out. The man got up mid-episode, muttered something about needing to fix a shelf, and disappeared for the rest of the evening.

It’s like he’s immune to you. Or worse—he knows exactly what you’re doing and is choosing peace by pretending not to notice. You have fuckin' no idea what's even going on that stupidly attractive old man's head.

Still, you don’t quit. You linger when he’s in the kitchen, offer to “help” when he’s fixing something, steal glances every time he walks past in a towel. Not that you’d admit that last part out loud.

Your friends would never believe you anyway.

“Your mom’s husband?” they’d whisper. "Girl, what the hell?"

You’d just shrug, sipping your iced coffee like, yeah, and what about it?

They haven't seen him anyways. If they did, they would understand. Right?

Because really—how are you supposed to live normally when your mom’s petty revenge husband looks like a walking sin?

But it ain’t working. That man hasn’t budged. Not once. Not at all responsive. It's hard to say if he's playing hard to get or he's just that oblivious.

So naturally, you try another method — the oldest trick in the book, the one no man with functioning eyes could possibly resist.

Slutty Clothes.

You start with the little things. Tiny shorts that should honestly be classified as underwear. Tank tops that definitely weren’t made to contain. Sometimes you skip the bra altogether — y’know, for “laundry reasons.”

But of course, your grand plan doesn’t exactly go as intended.

Toji, the man himself, has the patience of Buddha and the awareness of a brick or it seems to be. The most you ever get from him is a furrowed brow and that annoyingly deep voice going—

“You’ll get cold walkin’ around like that.”

or

“Don’t go outside dressed like that, it’s fine in the house.”

Sir. Be serious.

You’re trying to make him your daddy, not your dad.

And yet somehow, every single thing he does only makes it worse. The way he talks, the way he moves around the kitchen with his stupid broad back showing through that compression shirt, veins popping out when he opens a jar for your mom like it’s no big deal. The audacity.

You swear, if the universe had a sense of humor, this is it. You spend years daydreaming about dilfs, and now the real thing is just out here existing — in your kitchen, using your favorite mug, scolding you about the air conditioner like he pays the bills.

It’s honestly infuriating. You’re trying to make him look at you, not act like your overprotective dad.

So yeah, maybe you’ve started getting bolder.

Brushing past him in the kitchen when there’s enough space not to.

Leaning a bit too close when you hand him something.

“Accidentally” losing your balance so your hand lands on his chest or arm, solid, warm, annoyingly steady.

And for a while, he plays it cool. Like nothing’s happening. Like you’re just clumsy.

But lately, you’ve started catching little cracks, the twitch in his jaw, the way he clears his throat, how his eyes don’t quite know where to look when your tank top’s a bit too low.

Then it happens.

He’s in the kitchen way past midnight, fridge door open, drinking straight from the bottle. You walk in quietly, pretending to rummage through a cabinet looking around.

Yeah, this is perfect, even though you're risking it all.

You slide between him and the open fridge, the cold air hitting your bare thighs under that tiny sleep short. You bend a little, pretending to look inside. Your ass presses firm against his crotch as you bend over, pretending to scan the bottom shelf.

That shameless man was wearing only a pair of boxers which you swear is see-through when looked at from specific angles. You feel the heat of his manhood through that piece of fabric.

You're just a girl. A girl who's obsessed with hunky older men, especially Toji fushiguro and the same man's cock is pressing up against your plump ass. A girl who's just so horny and wants to get dicked down for good.

You couldn't help but grind back slow, rolling your hips against the hardness of him. A low 'fuck" rumbles from his chest, vibrating through your spine. His hand grips on the door, but he doesn’t push you away.

His hips snap forward, grinding that thick bulge right against your ass. You feel every ridge, every pulse through the thin fabric of your shorts.

“Brat,” he growls, voice rough like gravel. “You playin’ with shit you don’t understand.”

His hands clamp down hard on your hips, fingers digging in. You keep rolling your hips, slow and deliberate, feeling him get impossibly harder. His groan vibrates against your back, low and hungry. He matches your rhythm, thrusting against you coordinating with the delicious rolls of your hips.

Toji fushiguro lost it when your hands slide back, fingers digging into the waistband of your shorts before slipping under to spread your ass cheeks wide. The thin cotton is all that separates you now, and you shove back hard, grinding that thick, pulsing bulge right against your slick heat.

"Fuckin' desperate little thing," he rasps, breath scalding your shoulder as his hips snap forward again.

You feel the exact moment he snaps—a ragged inhale, the tremor in his grip, the low animal noise ripped from his throat and then his calloused palm cups your bare cunt firmly, fingers pressing hard against your clit through the soaked fabric.

Then he lifts you like you weigh nothing—one arm hooked under your thighs, the other bracing your back and slams you down onto the cold kitchen counter. Your bare thighs hit the marble, sharp and shocking. He steps between your legs, forcing them wider with his hips, his boxers tented obscenely.

The fridge hums in the silence.

He yanks your shorts down your legs in one rough pull, the fabric tearing at the seams. Cool air hits your exposed cunt, making you shiver. His calloused thumb drags through your slick folds, spreading you open. "Look at you," he rasps, thumb circling your clit slowly. "All leakin' from humping me like a damn bitch in heat."

His other hand fists in your hair, holding your head back. You gasp, arching off the counter. His thumb presses hard against your clit, making you jerk against the counter.

"Do you even know what you're playing with, kid?" he rasps, eyes dropping to your bare cunt. "Slutty little cunny... were you that desperate for a cock that you decided to hump on your stepdad?" His voice is thick, mocking, but his hips grind forward, the heat of him branding you through his boxers.

You whimper as his thumb grinds slow circles on your clit, your hips lifting off the cold counter.

"Mmmhhmm, Toji," you pant, voice thick with need. "You've been... ignoring me...."

His thumb stops circling. "Fuck yes," he grunts, voice raw. "Cause I'm not dumb."

He leans down, his breath hot and heavy on your lips. "You think I don't see you? Walkin' around in scraps of fabric? Bending over just so?" His free hand slides up your inner thigh, rough calluses scraping your skin.

"Why not, Toji?" you gasp, hips bucking against his stilled hand. "Please... need you."

"Fucking whore," he growls, the word thick with heat, not insult. His fingers dig into the soft flesh of your thigh. "You know that's not what you wanna call me... right?" His eyes lock onto yours, intense and demanding. You can only nod frantically, the counter cold beneath your bare back, your cunt throbbing against his palm.

"Say it," he commands, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble. His thumb presses down hard on your clit, a sharp, delicious pressure that makes your vision blur. "Say it now, brat." His other hand tightens in your hair, pulling your head back further, forcing the word out.

"D...daddy," you whimper, the word thick and needy, echoing in the quiet kitchen. A dark, satisfied smirk twists his lips.

"What do you want from Daddy, huh?" he rasps, his voice rough velvet. Your hips buck uselessly against his hand.

"Wanna see it..." you pant, the admission raw and shameless.

"See what, brat?" he taunts, leaning closer, his breath hot on your face.

"Daddy's cock..." you gasp, "Please."

"Oh, that so?" A low chuckle rumbles in his chest.

In one fluid motion, he shoves his boxers down his hips. His cock springs free, thick and heavy, already leaking, the angry red head glistening under the dim kitchen light. He wraps his fist around the base, giving it a slow, deliberate pump, the veins standing out starkly. He taps the swollen head firmly against your soaked cunt, smearing pre-cum over your clit and swollen lips.

"This what you've been teasin' for, baby?" he growls, rubbing the hot, slick tip in tight circles against your aching entrance. "Fuck, you're soaked."

You couldn't believe it, but it’s finally happening. All that teasing and now he’s right here — too close, too real. You’ve imagined this a hundred times, but none of those daydreams hit like this.

This is it. This is what you’ve been waiting for. And god, the sheer size of him is making your cunt throb.

"Sooo big... daddy..." you gasp, arching your back off the cold counter, trying to fuck yourself on that thick head. Your hands scramble at his hips, nails digging into his skin.

"In me... please... inside.." Your voice is a high, desperate whine, every nerve ending screaming for him to fill you, to finally give you what you've been fantasizing about for weeks.

You feel stretched just from the pressure of him against your entrance. His eyes, dark and predatory, rake over your face.

"Who raised you to be such a whore, kid?" he rasps, his voice thick with a mix of disbelief and raw lust. He leans down, his lips brushing your ear.

"Shit... fuckin' soaked yourself just waitin' for this, huh?" His hips push forward slightly, the thick tip stretching your tight entrance, making you cry out.

"You're completely gone, aren't you?" He pulls back slightly, denying you that full penetration, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. "Come on... do it yourself... use Daddy as much as you want."

Your hand darts down, wrapping around the thick, hot length of him. It pulses violently in your grip, slick with your juices and his pre-cum. You pump him once, twice, the velvety skin sliding easily in your fist, before guiding him back to your entrance. You rub the swollen head firmly against your clit, grinding against it, a moan tearing from your throat as you feel the ridge catch against your sensitive nub. Then, with a desperate gasp, you angle him down and shove his cockhead hard against your soaked opening, forcing it past the tight ring of muscle. You sink down onto the first few inches with a choked cry, the stretch burning beautifully. At the same time, his big, calloused hands come up roughly, kneading your tits through the thin sleep shirt, pinching your nipples hard through the fabric, making you arch and gasp.

Fuckin' Finally.

"Move, move, Daddy!" you whimper, your voice high and frantic, your hips already rocking against him, trying to take more of that impossible thickness. He just chuckles, a low, dark sound that vibrates through your core where you're stretched around him. "Impatient little bitch," he rasps, his eyes gleaming with predatory amusement. Before you can beg again, his hands clamp onto your inner thighs, fingers digging in brutally. He forces your legs closed, trapping his cock tightly between your thighs and in your dripping cunt. Then, in one powerful motion, he hoists your legs up, draping them over his broad shoulders. Your hips are lifted clean off the counter, your back arching painfully. The new angle makes you feel impossibly tight around him.

"Fuck!" you cry out, the shift driving him impossibly deeper inside you, the thick ridge of his cockhead scraping against a spot that makes stars explode behind your eyes.

He doesn't wait. With your legs pinned over his shoulders, your cunt stretched wide around him, he starts fucking you.

Hard. Deep.

Each brutal thrust slams your ass back down onto the cold marble countertop with a sharp smack. His hips piston relentlessly, the thick shaft dragging against your walls, the swollen head pounding against your deepest spot. The wet, filthy sound of his cock plunging into your soaked cunt fills the kitchen, rhythmic and obscene.

"That's it," he grunts, his voice thick and strained, sweat dripping from his jaw onto your heaving chest. "Take it. Take Daddy's cock like the greedy slut you are." His eyes are locked on where you're joined, watching himself disappear inside you again and again, his expression feral with lust.

The stretch is almost too much, the relentless pounding overwhelming. You feel him everywhere – the thick heat filling you, the rough drag against your sensitive walls, the brutal grip on your thighs, the sting of your nipples where he pinched them.

"Daddy!" you scream, the word ripped from you as he hits that spot again, deeper and harder than before. Your vision whites out.

"Fuck, fuck! Right there! Don't stop!" You're babbling, completely lost to the sensation, your body tightening around him. He just grunts, his rhythm never slowing, driving into you as his own release building in the tense set of his jaw, the cords straining in his neck.

"Such a fuckin' whore," Toji grits out, his voice ragged, strained. He bites his lower lip hard enough to draw blood and the wet slap of skin against skin echoes off the tiles, a filthy counterpoint to your choked gasps and his harsh breathing.

"Daddy's cummin' baby. . . " he groans as he loses control – a guttural groan tears from his chest, raw and primal. His thrusts become erratic, frantic, slamming deep as his cock pulses violently inside you.

Hot cum floods your cunt in thick, pulsing jets, the sensation making you cry out as your own climax crashes over you, milking him desperately. Your walls clamp down hard, spasming around his length, trying to draw every last drop.

He doesn't stop. Even as his cock twitches, spilling the last of his release deep inside you, his hips keep moving. Slow, deliberate thrusts now, grinding his softening cock against your oversensitive walls, milking himself against your fluttering cunt. His eyes are heavy-lidded, fixed on where you're joined. His fingers dig into the soft flesh of your thighs, holding you open, forcing you to feel the wet slide of his spend mixed with your arousal.

He leans forward slightly, his breath hot against your ear. "Filled you up good, didn't I, brat?" he rasps, his voice vibrates through your core. "Came so much inside ya."

He finally pulls out. A thick, pearly stream of cum follows his cock, overflowing your swollen, gaping entrance and dripping down onto the cold marble counter beneath your ass. You gasp, looking down at the mess between your trembling thighs – your cunt glistening, stretched, leaking his seed onto the stark white surface.

Your mouth forms a shocked little "O". "Daddy..." you breathe, your voice trembling, "There's... so much..." Your eyes flicker up to his face, wide with a mix of awe and disbelief.

Toji just smirks, a dark, knowing curve of his lips as he looks down at his handiwork. He wipes the slick head of his cock roughly against your inner thigh, leaving a wet streak.

"Course there is," he grunts, his voice still rough but laced with a smug satisfaction. "Been testin' me for weeks, haven't ya? Showin' those tits, bendin' over, rubbin' that tight little ass on me..." He leans closer, his gaze intense.

"Got exactly what you were beggin' for. Every fuckin' drop." His thumb swipes through the mess on your thigh, then brings it to your lips, smearing the salty tang across your mouth.

"Mmhm, Daddy," you whimper, sucking his thumb clean instinctively, your eyes pleading. "Can we... do this everyday? Please? Need it."

A low chuckle escapes him.

"You'll fuckin' break if I keep poundin' this greedy little cunt everyday, brat," he says, his eyes roaming over your flushed, spent body. "Already look used up."

You arch your back slightly, pushing your tits out.

"Please," you beg, your voice thick with need, "Can't stop thinking about you... love you so much."

He just stares at you for a long moment, that smirk still playing on his lips. Then, without warning, he leans down and captures your mouth in a kiss. It's not gentle. It's deep, sloppy, wet – all tongue and teeth and possessive hunger, stealing your breath and leaving your head spinning. He pulls back, leaving your lips swollen and slick.

"What the hell am I gonna do with ya..." he mutters, shaking his head, a strange mix of affection and amusement in his eyes. He tucks his softening cock back into his boxers with a rough tug, the fabric straining.

"Clean this mess up," he orders, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous murmur. "And get your ass to bed. Now. Before your mom wakes up and finds her little girl lookin' like a well-used fuckdoll."

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The youngest son of that man. The one who didn’t even show up to his father’s wedding because he “had better things to do.”

He’s tall, smug, stupidly attractive, and knows it. Walks like he owns the oxygen in the room. Looks at you like you’re something that got delivered to the wrong address.

Every interaction is an insult wrapped in silk.

“Didn’t know charity cases came with plus ones,” he’d said once when you and your mom arrived with luggage that looked embarrassing next to his brand-name everything.

Or the morning you tried to make coffee in the kitchen and he walked in shirtless, hair a mess, yawning like he hadn’t slept in years. You froze for half a second—because, yeah, he’s a dick, but he’s also that good-looking—and he caught it. Of course, he did.

“Careful, sweetheart,” he’d said, lips twitching. “You’re staring. Not your fault, though—most people do.”

You told him to choke.

He laughed and actually said, “Tempting offer.”

Since then, you avoid him as much as possible. You eat at different times, use the other staircase, and pretend he doesn’t exist when he walks by in sweatpants and zero shame.

It’s a delicate system. You stay out of each other’s way, and the house stays quiet.

Until tonight.

The others went out—your mom and her husband doing whatever rich people do when they say “business dinner.” The staff had gone home hours ago. The house was dead silent, except for the hum of the AC and the faint noise of the TV upstairs.

You were sprawled on the couch, half-watching some random show, too lazy to go to your room. The glow from the screen flickered over the glass railing, throwing light on the expensive decor you still weren’t used to.

You weren’t thinking about Gojo.

You never try to think about him. He just shows up in your head like a song you hate but know every word to.

The guy’s too pretty for his own good. White hair, those ridiculous blue eyes, that kind of confidence that makes you want to punch him. You’ve caught yourself looking more times than you’ll admit, but you always end up annoyed after. All that beauty wasted on a prick like him.

Some people win the genetic lottery and still manage to act like jerks.

Somewhere between commercials, your eyes got heavy. The couch was warm, the blanket softer than it looked, and before you realized, your phone slipped from your hand, screen dimming out.

You were out cold.

And down the hall, Gojo’s door creaked open.

He stepped out, jacket slung over one shoulder, keys in hand, probably heading out to do whatever rich, bored men do on a Friday night. He was halfway down the hallway when he saw you.

Stopped dead.

He hadn’t expected you to be here.

You were sprawled on the leather couch, head tilted back, mouth slightly open. One arm dangled off the edge, fingers brushing the floor. Your tshirt had ridden down, twisted just enough to bare your left breast completely. The nipple was stiff in the AC’s chill, the curve heavy and full against your ribcage.

He’d never seen you like this—vulnerable, exposed, not the annoying girl he looked down for invading his space. His gaze locked on the swell of flesh, the way it spilled slightly under your arm.

Fuck.

He knew they were big, couldn’t miss it with those tight tops you wore—but seeing it like this, offered up? His cock throbbed hard against his zipper, a hot, insistent ache.

Satoru’s breath hitched. He took a step closer, the carpet muffling his movements. His fingers twitched at his sides—he’d meant to yank your shirt up, shove that fucking temptation out of sight. But his hand didn’t listen. It reached out, palm hovering inches above your bare tit. He could see the way your chest rises up and down softy as you breathe, the way your nipple tightened further as the cold air kissed it.

"Just cover her up" , that's what he kept telling himself. But his dick, strained against his slacks, hard and aching told another story. His thumb brushed the underside first—a feather-light touch, testing. Your skin was warm, impossibly soft. He swallowed hard, his other hand gripping armrest. Then he palmed the whole weight of it, fingers splaying wide. He squeezed gently, the soft flesh filling his hands. His thumb circled the stiff peak, rubbing slow, deliberate circles.

A low groan escaped him when you shifted slightly in sleep, arching your back just enough to push your tit deeper into his hand.

"Fuck, she’s responsive." He pinched the nipple between thumb and forefinger, rolling it. It pebbled tighter, and he felt his own pulse hammering in his throat.

His hand stayed, greedy. He cupped your breast fully now, the weight heavy and real in his palm. He massaged it slowly, thumb grinding rough circles around your nipple, feeling it stiffen impossibly harder under his fingers.

He wanted to pull back, *needed* to, but his fingers dug deeper instead, kneading the soft flesh, pulling it slightly away from your body.

The urge to feel more, taste it, was a fever in his blood. His eyes darted to the hallway – empty, silent. Swallowing hard, he sank to his knees beside the couch, the leather creaking softly under his shifting weight.

"Just one taste", he bargained with the tightening coil in his gut, "then I stop".

He leaned in and his tongue flicked out, a filthy wet stripe from the underside of your breast up to the peak.

A low sound escaped him – pure, desperate need. Then his mouth closed over your nipple, suckling it deep. He flicked the hard bud rapidly with his tongue, the sensation sharp and electric even through his haze. He suckled hard, pulling the flesh into the heat of his mouth, releasing it with a soft pop only to latch on again, harder, hungrier. His free hand, trembling slightly, gripped the neck of your tshirt and tugged it down, baring your other breast completely.

The sight – both of your soft slutty tits exposed, nipples glistening and hard – punched the air from his lungs

His free hand slid across your bare stomach as he reached your other breast. He grabbed it softly, fingers spreading wide to cradle the heavy weight—trying not to wake you, trying to pretend this wasn’t happening. But his thumb found your nipple instantly, rubbing tight, urgent circles over the stiff peak. He massaged both tits now, kneading them like dough, pulling and squeezing until your nipples were dark, swollen nubs under his hands.

He wanted to stop, "needed" to stop, but his hips ground against the couch edge, his cock making a sticky mess in his pants.

He couldn't hold it anymore. With a sharp tug, he ripped his slacks open, shoving the fabric down his thighs. His cock sprang free—thick, flushed red, and already leaking thick, sticky pre-cum from the slit. He wrapped his hand around it, groaning low as his fingers squeezed the shaft tight. He started stroking fast and filthy, his thumb smearing the wetness over the swollen head with every upward jerk. He leaned back down, sucking your nipple hard into his mouth again, tongue flicking the tip while his hand worked his cock in rough, desperate tugs.

The wet sounds filled the quiet room—his sucking, the slick slide of his fist, the ragged drag of his breath. His fist flew over his cock, skin slick with pre-cum and sweat. He sucked your nipple like he was starving—hard, wet pulls that made your breast bounce in his grip.

But it wasn’t enough. The greedy bastard wanted more. His mind clawed at the image of your cunt, wet and untouched. The thought alone made his balls tighten, a fresh pulse of pre-cum spilling over his knuckles. His fingers dug into your tit too hard, leaving angry red marks.

He froze, breath catching. "Shit. Did I wake her?" But you only shifted, turning your face into the couch cushions, your back arching toward him as you pulled away.

Fuck. His mouth lost its prize, your nipple slipping free from his grasp. His gaze snaked down the dip of your waist to where your shorts hugged the curve of your ass. Perfectly round, high, and begging to be used.

The fabric stretched taut over each cheek, outlining their fullness even as you lay on your side. A low, guttural sound escaped him.

Fuck. All this time?

The scene made his cock jump in his still-stroking fist. He needed to see it bare.

Now.

He leaned closer, fingers hooking into the waistband of your thin cotton shorts. The fabric slid down your hips with agonizing slowness, bunching at your knees to reveal twin globes of perfect flesh.

This was what he’d been dismissing? The arrogant prick in him recoiled, but the man—the one with a cock leaking onto his own thigh—groaned low. He needed to mark it, paint that plump flush with thick ropes of his cum until it dripped down your thighs.

He sighed as his thumbs dug into the plump swell of your ass, spreading the cheeks wide. There it was—your cunt, nestled tight and pretty between your thighs.

It was wet, glistening with slick arousal even in your sleep, a thin sheen coating the delicate folds. His cock jumped in his fist at the sight, thick pre-cum beading at the tip. He spread you wider, exposing more of that glistening folds, the sight punched him in the gut: that tight little hole, flushed and needy, clenching around nothing.

"Look at that," he muttered, mostly to himself as he whistles low.

His index finger slid through your drenched folds, gathering wetness before circling your clit with rough, deliberate pressure. You whimpered softly, hips shifting, grinding back against his invading touch.

His finger kept rubbing your pussy with intentional slides, the wetness coating his fingertip as it slid effortlessly over the mess. He could feel every pulse and throb, your cunt practically sucking at the air.

He bit his lip bloody holding back from shoving his dick into that tight little hole right fucking now. The urge to slam inside, to feel those walls clamp down on him, nearly buckled his knees. He groaned, pulling his finger back, a thick string of your slick connecting it to your pussy for a second before snapping.

Without hesitation, he shoved them into his mouth, sucking hard. The taste exploded on his tongue—musky, sweet, yours—and his eyes rolled back in pure, filthy ecstasy.

A ragged groan tore from his throat as his cock jerked violently, spilling thick ropes of pre-cum onto his knuckles. At that hell of a moment all he wanted was to bury himself in that dripping hole, slide in and out until your slick cunt milked him dry.

But the clock was ticking. He had somewhere he needs to be. Jaw clenched, he grabbed his aching dick, pumping it roughly in his fist, finally aiming it between your thighs.

The swollen head dragged through your soaked folds, smearing your arousal over his throbbing tip. He bit back a moan, teeth grinding as he rubbed himself against your clit, everything too much.

Heaven wasn’t some distant dream—it was right here, between your thighs, in your leaking cunt.

Satoru was already at his fucking limit. His cock slid through your soaked folds once, twice—and he swear he saw the gates of heaven.

The swollen head caught on your clit on the third thrust, rubbing hard against that swollen bud.

That was it.

Three slides of his cock on your folds and it was endgame for the mighty Satoru gojo.

Satoru covered his own mouth as his hips jerked forward uncontrollably. Thick, hot ropes of cum exploded from his cock, splattering across your bare cunt in thick, white stripes. It pulsed out of him in violent spurts, painting your glistening flesh with sticky streaks.

Satoru’s sat on his knees, chest heaving, eyes dark and smug, and yeah… he knows exactly what the fuck just happened.

Does he feel even a hint of guilt? Hell no. Not even a shred. And why would he? The bastard loved every second of it.

Hell, he even had the audacity to pull back your shorts like he was done using your hole, not even giving a damn what you’d think when you woke up.

That’s the fun part—letting you wake up, piecing it all together, maybe stumbling into him later, cheeks flushed, begging for it and even if you didn't, it doesn't matter cause he takes what he wants anyways.

And let’s be real… how could you even say no to that face? That cocky, impossible, infuriatingly perfect face? You can’t.

Nobody says no to Gojo Satoru.

Not then, not ever. He owns that. And he knows it.

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"One more condition. Non-negotiable."

You brace yourself.

"Free use. While you’re living here."

Confusion knots your stomach—free use? like sharing appliances? Wi-Fi? Sure, you barely own a coffee mug. In every angle, he's the one who getting the short end of the stick. Or that's what you thought atleast.

"Deal," you agree quickly, too tired to question it.

*********

The moving truck pulls away as you lug your last box into the shared apartment's dim hallway.

Sukuna leans against the doorframe of his room, arms crossed over a tight black t-shirt that strains against thick muscle. He doesn't offer help, just watches with hooded crimson eyes as you struggle past him.

"Kitchen rules," he states flatly. "Clean your shit immediately. My space stays untouched."

You nod, throat tight. His presence feels like a physical weight—heavy, territorial.

For two days, you tiptoe around him, microwaving dinners silently while he ignores you completely, sprawled on the couch scrolling his phone. The silence is suffocating, but at least the rent's paid.

The third morning, you're scrambling eggs when Sukuna strides into the kitchen shirtless, sweatpants riding low on his hips. He doesn't speak, just crowds you against the counter, his heat searing your back. One hand shoves aside your hair; his mouth lands on your neck—a wet, biting kiss that steals your breath.

"What—" you gasp, but his palm slides under your sleep shirt, rough fingers pinching your nipple hard.

Confusion floods you—*free use* wasn’t about appliances. You freeze, eggs burning as his other hand slips between your thighs. "Still fine with the deal?" he growls against your ear. You nod dumbly, the sizzle of the pan drowned by your pounding heart.

Sukuna’s laugh rumbles against your spine, dark and satisfied. "Good." He doesn’t ask permission—just shoves your pajama pants down your hips, letting them pool at your ankles. The cold granite counter bites into your palms as he bends you over it, one hand fisting in your hair while the other spreads you open. You gasp at the sudden intrusion, his thick fingers pushing inside without warning, rough and demanding. Eggs char black in the pan beside you, smoke curling toward the ceiling as he pumps his fingers deep, scissoring them until you’re slick and trembling. "Quiet," he orders when you whimper, slapping your ass hard enough to leave a stinging print. "Neighbours are nosy."

He flips you around, hoisting your legs over his shoulders like you weigh nothing. Your back arches off the counter, as he drives into you slow and calculated, letting you feel every inch of him. The stretch burns—he’s huge, unforgiving—and you choke on a scream.

Sukuna grins down at you, all sharp teeth and predatory hunger. "Tight little thing," he rasps, hips pistoning. Every snap of his pelvis slams you against the counter’s edge, the pain blurring with pleasure as he fucks you raw. You claw at his forearms, nails scraping ink-black tattoos as he uses you like a toy, relentless and efficient.

Smoke thickens the air, the ruined eggs forgotten. Your legs tremble around his neck, thighs slick with your own arousal and his sweat. He pins your wrists above your head, leaning close enough for you to taste his breath—hot and faintly metallic.

"Look at you," he snarls, thrusts turning jagged, deeper. "Best roomie ever."

You whimper, arching into each punishing stroke, the counter digging bruises into your spine. His rhythm stutters; a low groan tears from his throat as he spills inside you, filling you with pulsing heat. He holds you there, impaled, until the last shudder ripples through him.

He pulls out abruptly, leaving you dripping and trembling on the countertop. Sukuna doesn’t glance back as he grabs a towel to wipe himself off, the motion casual, like he’d just taken out the trash.

"Clean this up," he grunts, nodding at the sticky mess between your thighs and the charred pan still smoking on the stove.

You slide down, legs shaky as noodles, pajama pants still tangled around your ankles. The cold air hits your skin where his sweat had been, making you shiver. You fumble for a cloth, avoiding the smirk he throws over his shoulder before disappearing down the hall. The scent of sex and burnt eggs hangs thick in the air.

**********

The next few days blur into a rhythm dictated by Sukuna’s whims. You’re bent over the couch armrest during a streaming marathon, his calloused hand muffling your moans as he fucks you from behind—hard and fast, like he’s chasing a deadline. Later, he drags you into the shower, water sluicing over his tattoos while he pins you face-first against the tiles, fingers bruising your hips as he takes you again, steam and his growls filling the tiny space. You learn to keep lube in every room.

You don’t complain. Not when he wakes you at 3 AM by yanking your panties aside and sinking his teeth into your shoulder as he fills you. Not when he palms your cunt under the breakfast table while scrolling news on his phone, leaving you wet and throbbing as he walks away.

His rules are simple: be available, be quiet, take what he gives. And fuck, what he gives is good—rough palms dragging over your skin, the brutal stretch of him carving you open, the raw sounds he makes when he comes.

And you—stupid, needy, little mess that you are—don’t complain. You can’t. He’s Sukuna, and every filthy, shameless moment with him is intoxicating.

It’s clear now. That “free use” thing? He meant exactly what he said.

And you… you’ve stopped questioning it.

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