pro slut

❀ sukuna was cursed to spend an eternity in your cheating husband's wedding band - except he's got other plans (that involve your pussy finally getting the princess treatment)

Ring!Sukuna hated your husband.

Useless bastard who barely had time for you. And when he did, the only thing he gave a shit about was sticking his dick in you for three minutes before cumming on your back without even touching your clit.

That pleasure was saved for Sukuna.

Even if he was stuck in the cold, metal reminder of your awful marriage. Cursed ages ago to watch the world pass by from inside a ring, unable to talk, to hold, to fuck the way he wanted to.

And if he had his body back?

The first thing he'd do was bend you over that crappy mattress you kept complaining about and bury his cock in that pretty pussy of yours until you couldn't even remember your husband's name.

But no, he just had to sit and stew in his rage while he listened to that moron talk to his mistress on the phone in hushed whispers while you were asleep.

Okay, perhaps the first thing he'd actually do was dispose of that dipshit's body.

"Do you think I look okay?" Your soft voice called out, fingers smoothing out the fabric of your dress. You looked good enough to devour.

That prick, however, barely even glanced at you, too busy typing away on his phone to bother with replying to your question. No, he was deleting messages from his mistress.

You sniffled.

Murmuring softly that you'd change then before shutting the door to the bathroom behind you. Faint sobs echoing through the thin door.

Sukuna snapped.

Or well, the ring binding him broke, shattered from sheer rage.

Your husband screamed. Shrieked really, still a pussy in his final moments as you threw the bathroom door open half-naked to find him strangling the man you had the misfortune of marrying.

"Do you want me to kill him?" He grunted, glaring at the useless waste of human body parts he was holding six inches off the ground as your mouth fell open, unsure where to look or what to do when a seven foot tall man with four arms seemingly spawned in your bedroom. "He's been cheating on you for a year."

Using one of his extra hands to snatch the phone from him and toss it to you, watching your face morph from fear to anger that matched his as you scrolled through all the messages he hadn't gotten around to deleting yet, discovering the extent of his betrayal.

"Can you do it in the backyard?"

He even buried the body.

You watched him do it, standing there with a water hose to spray off his hands afterwards, asking him the obvious questions with swollen eyes as he grumbled begrudging answers.

Who the fuck was he? How did he get inside your house? Why did he even care?

You didn't seem to believe that he was trapped inside the wedding band your husband picked up at a pawn shop, like any sane person, but you also didn't seem to care when your eyes kept skimming over the sweat dripping down his broad chest.

And in the end, all it actually took to take your husband's place in bed was the offer of a real orgasm.

His mouth latched around your clit, hungrily sucking on the sensitive bud while one set of his hands held onto your hips. A spare making quick work of your greedy pussy, groaning at the pretty sound you made when your walls so eagerly sucked his thick fingers in.

Insisting on you riding his face, your thighs squeezing down as he appreciated every little squirm and shudder he drew out of you. You were just as fucking delicious as he dreamed. Sweetness he savored, your body trembling and shaking when he dragged his tongue over that bundle of nerves, gripping you hard enough to leave prints.

"W-why are you so good at this?" You gasped, gripping his hair hard. Threatening to rip out chunks as you grinded down into his mouth.

Maybe because he'd spent every goddamn moment watching you and waiting for this right here.

To see you falling apart for him.

You finished on his tongue like it was the most natural thing in the world, gasping and whining without even knowing his name, letting out desperate little mewls for more as you chased your climax.

"Holy shit," you exhaled, sucking in a sharp little breath almost immediately as you ran your fingers through his hair, trying to shift off but too stuffed with his fingers to budge. "I haven't cum like that in forever."

"You wanna do it again?"

“get my fingers wet for me.”

nanami’s voice is calm, the same measured tone he uses when he’s explaining a mission report or asking you to pass the salt. except now he’s sitting fully clothed in the armchair, thighs spread, and you’re straddling them—naked, blindfolded, and wrists bound neatly behind your back with one of his silk ties.

your knees dig into the cushion on either side of his leg; the position forces your thighs wide, your cunt already slick and exposed to the cool air

you part your lips without hesitation and he presses two fingers past your lips. you close around them, sucking gently at first, then harder, hollowing your cheeks the way you know he likes when you take his cock down your throat.

you coat his fingers thoroughly, letting saliva pool until it drips down his knuckles when he slowly fucks them in and out of your mouth.

“good girl,” he murmurs. “that’s it. make them nice and wet.”

you whimper when he withdraws them, only to hold your breath when you feel his wet fingertips ghost over your collarbone, circle one already hard nipple, then continue lower, down your stomach—until he finally reaches your cunt.

he parts you with slick fingers and glide up and down between your legs—from your entrance to your clit, then back down again, circling your entrance, never quite pressing hard enough to give you what you need, only reminding you how empty you are, how wet, how ready.

“breathe,” he says quietly.

you do.

then he pushes in—deep and slow. the stretch is perfect; his thick fingers fill you completely, the fullness making your thighs quake. but he doesn’t move. he doesn’t thrust. he just holds them there, buried to the last knuckle, letting you feel every ridge, every slight pulse of his heartbeat inside you.

you need more. need him to move, to fuck you, to make you come. it’s maddening how controlled he is while you’re already a trembling mess in his lap. so you squirm—hips twitching forward, trying to chase friction. the tie around your wrists pulls tight as you strain against it; a frustrated whine escapes you.

“nanami—please—”

“behave.” his free hand slides up your spine, fingers curling around the nape of your neck—holding you still. “you’re going to sit here and take what i give you. or you get nothing tonight. do you understand?”

you whimper—higher, needier—but you nod frantically.

“words.”

“y-yes, sir,” you gasp. “i understand.”

“good.”

he stays motionless for what feels like forever. the only movement is the subtle flex of his fingers every few seconds—just enough to remind you they’re there, just enough to keep you teetering on the edge. your cunt clenches around him helplessly and slick drips down his wrist. and it takes everything not to grind down on him like you so desperately want to.

“please—” you whisper again. “please, nanami. i need you. i can’t—”

his grip on your neck tightens. “i said behave.”

you freeze. tears prick behind the blindfold; your whole body is shaking with the effort of staying still.

he waits another long moment—long enough that you’re nearly sobbing with need—then finally, finally, he curls his fingers upward. slow. deliberate. pressing hard against that spot inside you that makes you whimper embarrassingly.

“better?” he asks, still perfectly calm.

“yes—thank you—”

“then stay still.”

then he starts to move—slow, deep thrusts, barely pulling out before sinking back in, nearly kissing your cervix with every aggressive push. the wet, squelching sounds fill the quiet room, loud enough to make fresh tears sting behind the blindfold and heat flood your cheeks. you want to ride him, want to grind, want anything more, but his hand on your neck keeps you obedient.

and all you can do is whimper and squirm helplessly in his lap while he watches with a faint smile tugging at his lips and drinking in every desperate little sound you make.

“fuuuckk, that's my girl.” 𝓢 𝒂𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒖 groaned as you found your rightful place on his lap.

he's exhausted. blindfold still strewn over him as he crooks his head on the couch. slumped over from back-to-back missions and endless hours of teaching.

still, his big, shaky hands slipped around your waist. guiding his favourite girl down his tip and sinking you further on his cock. throbbing and sensitive from not feeling your warm, wet, welcoming pussy for weeks.

he clung to the fat of your ass. jaw slack and eyes droopy. seconds from passing out but still fully sober on your slick velvet fluttering on his underside vein.

“yeah— fuck, just like that.” he whimpered. gojo satoru, whimpering. because his girl's pussy was sucking him in so good. cause his tip's suffocated by your cervix. cause you're bouncing on his dick and letting him slump cause he had nothing left to offer you.

“suuuchhh a good girl,” his groan caught in his throat as you dragged his blindfold down. revealing glossy, bright blue eyes and endless devotion. “such a good girl. know just how to treat m'cock huh? love it so much?”

“love you more, satoru.”

“oh god.”

he whines. pitched and breathless as back arched and his cock throbbed hard. hips bundling his last bits of strength to buck up into your suffocating cunt. grinding needy and stuttery. as he fully melted beneath your soft thighs, your softer hands, your softest heart.

“love me, baby.” he whimpers, pitiful, pleading. “love me, love me, love me, love me please.”

college was supposed to be an unprecedented, amiable experience for you. ever since childhood, you had graphic visions of freedom due to yours being unfairly restricted. one where you were the dictator of your own choices. one where you called the shots. one where rumination centered around studies only— not on how to escape a hellhole of a living system.

college was supposed to be rigorous, yes, but in a masochistic sense of indulgence. like scraping away at an almost healed scab. like playing a loose tooth around with your tongue.

college was supposed to be the induction of a rebirth, a wash of sins and the start of repentance. college was supposed to vacate a head full of memories, especially of him.

so why were you still in the same place?

still getting relentlessly bullied by satoru, who at the same time, fucked you ceaselessly whenever he wished, to his heart’s content.

“yeah, c’mon– mmh” satoru obscenely groaned from behind you, one spread of his palm searing on the back of your feverish skin. the other was deliberately stretched over your mouth so you would not let out ignominious yet blissful moans of pleasure.

after all, he forced you to sneak in to the fraternity dorms, claiming if you didn’t then he would leak your face from last week’s video.

“yeah, f-fuckin’ hell, the way you’re squeezin’ me makes me think that, hm, you love me” his teeth clenched, definite sarcasm latched on to his tone, as he rammed his pre-cum smeared cockhead into the raw cervix of yours.

you still had the gel pen gripped, incoherent scribbles of black ink on his labelled assignment paper— his business paper. something related to marketing research. something that clearly was not within your forte. something that you had to finish regardless of your inadequacy.

“c’mon, do what you are here for” he grumbled from behind you, the scorching breath of his tickling your faintly blushing ears. his lips, dampened with his tongue, deliberately brushed against the outline of your cheeks, planting the gentlest kiss on it.

you saw yourself, him, vaguely reflected on to the darkened screen of his macbook. it was to be used as a research tool for his work but now, utilized as mirror showcasing a bully’s crude treatment of his favorite toy.

your cheeks were scorched with a hot torrent of tears escaping from your saturated eyes, eyes wide from heaps of pleasure, sensitive to even a sparse of light. and there was satoru. drafting out of low groans as he withheld a cold smirk.

“can’t, can you? of course you can’t. so drunk on my cock. like you love me”.

as if to prove the validity of his statement, your eyes obliviously rolled to the back of your head from the nearing of an euphoric orgasm.

your body had betrayed you again. it always did when it came to him. ever since the day he took your virginity in a dusty locked room of the campus’ building.

ever since his sneaky fingers incessantly rubbed you through those pale panties, beneath the desk during an ongoing class.

ever since he had made you squirt out twice on his face, to give him a ‘facial’ (at least that’s what he had said) and then cleaned you with the cutesy cinnamoroll towel you had gifted to him as a humorous attempt of embarrassing him on one of his birthdays.

ever since he had confessed he would moan out your name while he was inside other girls, saying they were ‘just not you’. didn’t kiss like you, didn’t moan like you, didn’t have a pussy like yours, walls shaped lewd enough to suck his soul.

your body always bowed down in front of him. a sinner’s footsteps binding to a shrine. a servant’s head lowered in front of an emperor.

white, thick, spit mixed cum hooped around the base of his purple-blue veiny, stretched cock. a shameful proof of you and him.

“shit— baby, grip me like that. ’m so close–” his restricting hand moved from the entrance of your mouth to your chin, holding it. cradling it. drool assembled into it.

his robust hips met with yours, faster, flesh on flesh sounds drowning out moans, bending you lower and lower on to his messy desk. and soon enough, a spurt of his thick cum filled into your raw cunt.

his cradling hand turned your head to the side, his lips meeting yours with a vigorous mania. slow yet torrid, tongue sliding beneath the constraints of your muted whines, intertwining with yours with a salivating desire.

he slipped out of you, coated wet with shared juices. you fell ahead, on to his papers, on to his desk. your eyes closed momentarily, body overcome by torpor.

a tender tracing of a scattered path done by his fingertips had somehow sent you off to a trance.

some part of you thought that maybe sukuna would be startled upon being caught red-handed (or... mouth-handed) like this. but as you lean against the doorway and drink in the lewd position you've walked in on him in, he just looks at you.

"no," you watch his palm pull up and off the tip of his cock, and the drooling mouth that you're sure was just sucking the soul out of himself seals up. he makes a point of closing his fist around the thick length of his cock and giving it a few rough strokes. "you see things that aren't there. you're odd."

you cross your arms. "well i'm not the one sucking my own dick."

"don't call it that. and you have no cock to suck," sukuna bites, hitting right where it hurts. a sudden reminder that you'll never be able to slip it into a warm and loving mouth like your own…

“shut the fuck up.”

you step into the room, ignoring the disgruntled noise he makes at your movement, and plop yourself down on the bed where he stretches out, stroking himself languidly.

"you're perverted," he tsks, ignoring your hungry eyes as he keeps pace. "go on, then. serve me with your mouth."

"i think you can do that well enough for yourself," you shrug.

"i should spank your ass raw, brat."

despite his sharp words, sukuna doesn't make much of an effort to stop you when you pull his hand from his cock and trace your finger over his palm. there's no mouth in sight, though his skin is covered in a sheen of what could either be precome or saliva. you aren't sure.

you give his open palm a soft kiss. "come on, kuna. i think it's hot, you know."

he doesn't reply, just bears his teeth a little as you guide his palm back to his leaking tip, pushing it gently against the in-tact skin. you aren't so sure how it works, his hand-mouth. the only glimpses you get of it are when he's using it to suck on your clit while he fucks you full of his cock.

it takes you reaching down with your free hand to give his balls a squeeze for him to finally relent and, with a groan, let the mouth on his palm manifest. you watch it latch on to the tip of his cock, collecting his beading pre on the tongue before you gently push his palm down a little, feeding sukuna's own cock to himself.

"can you taste it?" you ask, rolling his balls a little with your free hand.

"yes."

"do you like it?"

"keep asking questions and i'll replace this mouth with your own."

he's groaning his words out, rolling his hips up a little to push into his palm better. you don't listen to his threats, though you know they aren't empty.

"does it have a gag reflex?" you chime, taking sukuna's irritation as a chance to push his palm down even further, and watch in awe as he takes his own cock down to the base. "holy shit."

sukuna groans at the sudden engulfment, tipping his head back and bucking his hips up in rhythm with the push of your hand down on his own. he's in nirvana for all of five seconds before you laugh.

"it's like the fucking bag from mary poppins!"

"what the fuck is a—" sukuna cuts himself off, preferring to find his orgasm in peace than entertain the weird shit you say. his free hand comes up to the back of your head, and with a strained 'shut the fuck up', he pushes your head down to his balls.

you're easily occupied, smiling as you mouth over his sack with a kiss before starting on worshipping him properly. your warm mouth works in beautiful tandem with his, which takes his cock right down to the base.

you only chime up again when his balls tighten up, and you're met with the full force of his orgasm as he spills right into his mouth-hand with a chesty groan. you pull off his sack with a grin "ha, you just ate your own load."

chest heaving, sukuna growls. his hand pulls off his cock and shoots down to caress the side of your face, all too soft to be genuine. there's a stupid spark of amusement in his eyes that has your lips parting to ask what the fuck he has planned for you.

your question is answered before it can even leave your lips. pushing you backwards onto the bed and pressing himself in between your thighs, he doesn't give you a second to react before he's covering your mouth with his hand.

( mdni. cw: arranged marriage!au, hurt/comfort, age gap, size kink, praise kink, oral (f. rec), fingering, creampie )

you didn’t choose him.

and truthfully, neither did he.

your families had known each other for decades— tangled up in promises, contracts, and unpaid debts. it was never about love, or even choice. everything had already been decided long before you were old enough to understand what it meant. you weren’t even given time to mourn the death of your autonomy. no arguments, no bargaining. only your father’s voice, stern and tired, eyes dull with the weight of duty, saying, “he’ll protect you. you’ll be taken care of.”

those were the final words that sealed your fate.

and just like that, you became mrs. fushiguro.

the wedding passed in a haze of stiff silk and tense silence. you wore white, he wore black. no one smiled. at least, not in any way that felt genuine. even the photographer didn’t bother faking it. you recited your vows without ever meeting his eyes— the rings felt heavier than they should’ve. there was no kiss. just the sound of distant applause and the quiet, sinking feeling that nothing about this was truly yours.

choso swears he didn’t even give you that much—just a few slow hits from the pen, a bowl he cornered for you like he always does, and a tiny pull from the blunt when you begged for it. but you’re already gone, sinking back into his pillows like you’re melting into them, eyes glazed, legs loose and open without him even asking. you’re so high you don’t know where your body ends and his begins.

his room smells like him and weed and every bad decision you’ve ever wanted to make, and he’s sitting between your thighs like he owns the space, like he owns you. his fingers are already slick from you, his knuckles shiny with it, and you’re trembling beneath him, completely ruined.

“fuck, baby…” he murmurs, watching your thighs shake every time his thumb brushes your clit. “you’re so fucking sensitive when you’re high. look at you.”

you try. god, you try—but your eyes keep fluttering closed, head falling back, mouth dropping open on these helpless little breaths you can’t hold in. every touch is too much. every drag of his fingers over your swollen, wet pussy feels like it’s scraping your nerves raw. pleasure hits you fast and hard and messy, no warning, no buildup.

and choso sees it, sees your hips twitching, sees your hands scrambling for something to grab, sees your lips part like you’re about to cry. he smiles. “that’s it. don’t fight it.”

you whine—your back arching as his fingers move faster, then softer, then faster again, keeping you confused and craving and overstimmed all at once. he studies every reaction like he’s mapping you, learning you, memorizing exactly how fucked-up you get when he’s the one touching you.

your thighs snap shut once—pure instinct—but he pushes them gently apart again, his voice calm, even while he’s ruining you. “nah, don’t do that. let me see how messy you get.”

your whole body trembles when he circles your clit just right, not even hard, just consistent, just enough pressure to make you gasp and feel your orgasm rising too fast, too sharp.

“choso—” you gasp, grabbing at his wrist like you can slow him down.

he leans forward immediately, lips at your ear. “don’t run,” he whispers. “you’re high. let yourself feel it.”

your breath stutters like you’re drowning. then the pleasure breaks over you in a violent, warm rush, your hips jerking, your legs shaking, your whole body tightening around nothing—

but he doesn’t stop. his fingers keep moving, steady yet so cruel, rubbing your clit through your orgasm, forcing every twitch, every sob, every aftershock right out of you. you try to twist away but you’re too slow, too fucked-out, too high to do anything but cry out and clutch at his shirt.

“too much,” you gasp.

he kisses your jaw, soft, sweet, completely at odds with what he’s doing to you. “i know, baby. that’s the point.”

your body is shaking uncontrollably, thighs quivering, breath breaking apart in your chest as he keeps going, keeps rubbing that same sensitive spot over and over until your eyes roll back and your voice gives out.

“fuck— you’re so pretty like this,” he murmurs, stroking your cheek with his other hand while his fingers work you through another crest, another wave, another tearful, overwhelming orgasm. “so high… so sensitive… so easy to break.”

you try to speak but nothing comes out, just a raw, breathy sound that makes his cock twitch. and he smiles, watching you fall apart because of him and only him. “good girl. i’m not done yet.”

bulking-season him doesn’t just look different—he feels different. it’s in the weight of him when he lays on you, the way his chest seems broader overnight, how his thighs take up more space on the bed. his whole body feels denser, heavier, like he’s carrying an extra layer of warmth that only you get to touch. even his hugs change; he used to wrap his arms around you, now he engulfs you, pulling you into his chest until you can barely breathe, whispering, “missed you,” like it’s a confession.

you notice it first in the mornings. the way he stretches and his back looks huge—muscles thick and carved, delts rounded, veins standing out along his arms because he’s been lifting like a demon. when he grabs your hips, his hands feel bigger, rougher, more demanding. he picks you up without warning now, with this effortless strength that makes your stomach drop. you’ll squeal and yell at him to put you down, and he just laughs, voice still raspy from sleep, “can’t. i like carrying you.”

and oh god—the appetite. not just for food. bulking-season him fucks like he’s starving. like he’s been thinking about you all day, every rep, every set. he comes home already half-hard, chest pumped, smelling like sweat and something primal, and the second he sees you? it’s over. he doesn’t even take his shoes off sometimes—he crowds you into a wall with his newly heavy body, one big hand sliding under your shirt, the other grabbing your ass like he owns it.

he kisses you messy, urgent, teeth grazing your lower lip, and you can feel the extra weight behind every movement. he’s stronger. more grounded. when he presses you into the bed, you feel the difference—the solidness of him, the warmth that rolls off his skin, the way his thighs cage you in and you know there’s no moving him even if you tried.

and he gets feral when he’s inside you. something about the bulk makes him rut harder, deeper, like he can’t get close enough. he holds your hips still with those thick hands and fucks into you with this steady, overwhelming force that makes your vision blur. his groans are deeper, too—lower, almost animal-like—like the sound is coming from somewhere way down in his chest.

he’ll pin your wrists above your head, muscles flexing, veins popping along his forearms, and say shit like: “hold still. let me have you.”

“you can take it — c’mon, pretty girl.”

“fuck, you feel even tighter when i’m bigger.”

and when he gets close? he grabs your thighs and folds you so easily it scares you a little—not rough, just strong. the kind of strength that comes from weeks of training and eating like he’s preparing for hibernation. he buries his face in your neck, fucking into you harder, faster, chasing his release with this raw, hungry determination that makes you feel devoured.

afterwards, he’s still panting, still heavy on top of you, one big hand stroking your thigh like he’s calming himself down. then he grins—tired but still cocky, and murmurs, “round two in ten minutes. just need a snack first.”

and he means it. because bulking-season him isn’t just horny… he’s insatiable. he's stronger. heavier, hungrier—and every part of him feels made to ruin you.

we love big beefy men over here YUM

satoru gojo could level cities with a flick of his wrist, has proven time and time again he truly is the strongest without breaking a sweat, but the second you look up at him with those pretty eyes and that little pout, he’s fucking done for.

completely, utterly, embarrassingly weak.

he’ll be on an important call with the higher-ups, calm and cocky like always, and you just pad into his office in one of his button up shirts, thighs bare, no panties, climbing straight into his lap.

you straddle him slowly, palms sliding up his chest, lips brushing his ear while you whine, “satoru…come to bed, baby. i miss you. i need you inside me.”

and that’s it. just like that, his phone call forgotten. phone tossed on the desk. he’s carrying you down the hall before you finish the sentence, big hands gripping your ass, mouth already on your neck, muttering sweet nothings and filthy promises.

he spoils you rotten too. you want that new bag? done. you saw some pretty lingerie online and sent him the link with a single 'please?' it’s on the bed wrapped in a silky blue ribbon before he even gets home. you text him at three in the afternoon that you’re craving something from your favorite restaurant that's halfway across town? he’s there in ten minutes, swiping his card, bag of food in hand, grinning like an idiot in love.

it doesn’t matter if he just got done exorcising a special grade, doesn’t matter if his clothes are still dusted with ash—he’ll burn the world down if it makes you smile.

but the real weakness? when he finally gets you naked, spread out on the sheets, legs hooked over his shoulders, pussy already soaked and dripping just from him kissing down your stomach.

⋮⌗┆kinktober masterlist! ⋮⌗┆send me a request!

#synopsis. what happens when your boyfriend is a control freak, in more ways than one?

#tags. ALL CHARACTERS AGED UP, 18+ mdni, nsfw, not proof read, afab! reader (who is whiney and needy and just a lil clueless, lowk no backbone but in a for your man kind of way), sugu is kind of insane, baby trapping, public sex, breeding, controlling af

#count. 850

Controlling!Dom!Suguru who stands up for you whenever something goes wrong. A wrong order? He’s already talking to the manager and buying your favorite pastry when you guys drive home. Bad day? Your manager suddenly fixes his act up the next day, even giving you an extra fifteen minutes during lunch. Bad groupmate? Your paper is finished, color coded, tabbed—all thanks to him, despite your name decorating the title page.

Controlling!Dom!Suguru who drives you to and from everywhere. It doesn’t matter what his schedule is, he’ll make sure it works around your schedule. You’re his girl, you’re the most important person in his life. His car is littered with your favorite lip balms, lotions, lip glosses, powders, drinks, snacks, even your perfume (which he generously sprays on the car seats when you aren’t around, only to buy you a new bottle when he inevitably finished it) (you end up thinking you finish your perfumes much faster than you actually do).

Controlling!Dom!Suguru who has to be in control both in the bedroom and out of it.

“Sugu,” you whine, the fabric tight against your body. He was sat against the loveseat couch, legs spread like he owns the place (or at least plans on buying it). He has a glass of cold whiskey on his hand, swirling the amber liquid in the glass that costs more than people’s rent. His arms rest on the back of the couch, his eyes flicking over every curve of your body.

Suguru only lets out a non-committal hum.

“You look lovely in that dress,” Suguru says lowly, his eyes focused on how the dress makes your breasts spill over. You pout, tugging on the fabric.

“But—” “We’ll take one,” Suguru says, attention on the attendant who seems to be at Suguru's every beck and call. Every style of dress, every color, every adjustment and fabric he wants—they’d take care of it. "Suguru, it’s too tight,” you whine, frowning. Suguru's gaze rests back at you. “I know, princess. But it looks so good on you. Don’t worry your pretty little head, hm? Sugu knows best, remember?”

Controlling!Dom!Suguru who just has to have you whenever he pleases.

“Sugu!” You whine, the way you always do. His whiny little baby. So perfect, so obedient. It’s why you’re his favorite, why he’ll never take another woman—why he’ll make you his wife and the mother of his children one-day. You’ve ruined everyone else for him.

“Shh, I know, princess,” He whispers, planting open-mouthed kisses on your neck. They’re gentle, soft. His thrusts are another story, relentless and quick. He angles himself perfectly, making sure to hit the perfect spot hidden in those gummy walls of yourself. The spot he’s memorized since the first time he’s had you under him, since the first time he’s been obsessed.

“Someone is gonna see,” You whimper dumbly. He loves it when your words slur, when you go stupid on his cock. He watches as a ring of cream forms around his dick, a soft growl escaping his lips. Suguru has you on top of his car, your dress bunched up as your legs are spread on the hood. He doesn’t care that cars might pass, he doesn’t care that someone might see.

All he knows is that you teased him a little too much in the car and he had to stop—you left him with no choice.

Controlling!Dom!Suguru who takes pleasure in correcting your behavior, who made the brat you once were turn into an eager, pliant submissive girl.

“’m sorry!” You gasp, gripping the sheets. You can’t choke back the sob that leaves your lips when he spanks the fat of your ass. You’d given him a bit of cheek—not that it was your fault! The waitress was flirting with him! So what if you were pouting? So what if you were ignoring every word that left his lips? So what if you didn’t remove your panties when he told you to?

“That’s not enough,” he growls. “How many?”

You don’t respond, not immediately. It earns you another slap.

“Twe—twelve!” You whimper.

“Knew you had it in you,” he scoffs, rubbing the red of your cheek in hopes of soothing you.

It does.

Controlling!Dom!Suguru who learns every knot in existence to make sure you can tie you to any platform with any piece of fabric, cuffs, and what not.

Controlling!Dom!Suguru who refuses to wear a condom when he’s about to go in you. Who replaces your birth control pills with Tic Tacs, who just has to get you pregnant to show everyone you’re his.

“That’s it, baby. You take me so prettily, hm? Prettiest girl, hm? Can I make my pretty girl a momma? You gonna let me make you a momma?” Suguru asks, knowing full well that you can’t respond properly. Not when you’re so thoroughly fucked out of your mind, your legs shaking from the sheer amount of times he’s made you finish. Not that anything else matters. Suguru will always take good care of you and your baby—one way or another.

a/n: literally posting this from the fuckass mountains bc im in a retreat where i should be reflecting on my life instead im writing suguru fanfic