EPISODE ONE ⋮ EPISODE TWO ⋮ EPISODE THREE

You could see the curiosity flicker in his eyes when you straddled him, pressing his shoulders back into the mattress. Usually, he’s the one who calls the shots, who pins you down and makes you give in. But not tonight. Tonight, you wanted him beneath you, helpless and hungry.

You pulled the soft pastel blue silk ties from behind your back and watched his smirk falter.

“You’re not serious,” he muttered, testing your grip on his wrist.

“Oh, I’m very serious,” you whispered, sliding the tie around his wrist and fastening it to the headboard. His chest rose sharply when you repeated the same with the other hand, leaving him stretched out and completely at your mercy.

The sight made the heat pulse low in your stomach. You dragged your nails down his chest, just lightly enough to make him twitch. His breath caught, and you leaned down, lips brushing the corner of his mouth. “How does it feel, baby? Knowing you can’t touch me unless I let you?”

He groaned, tugging uselessly at the restraints. “It’s driving me fucking insane already.”

Good. That was exactly what you wanted.

You took your time, grinding your hips against him through the thin fabric of his boxers, teasing him with slow rolls until he swore under his breath. Every little sound he made fed you, made you wetter, made you want to push him further. Your mouth wandered down his throat, teeth grazing just enough to make him hiss, before you pulled back to look into his eyes.

“I could keep you here all night Satoru,” you eased, running a fingertip along the waistband of his boxers. His whole body arched, desperate, but you sat back, keeping yourself just out of reach. “You’ll have to beg if you want more.”

The control thrummed through you, intoxicating. Seeing him restrained, panting, staring at you like you was the only thing in his world—God, it was addictive. And when he finally broke, when his voice cracked as he pleaded for you, you knew you had him exactly where you wanted him.

His wrists strained against the ties, muscles flexing, but he couldn’t get free. The frustration in his eyes made your lips curve into a slow smile. You slid down his body, deliberately dragging yourself over the hard length straining beneath his boxers.

“Fuck…” he growled, hips jerking up.

You pressed a hand to his stomach to pin him down. “Not until I say so.”

You got off of him and walked to your dresser. “Baby, please, what are you doing?” You didn't answer, instead you grabbed a hot pink vibrator. “I thought we could try something different, don't you think?” Satoru stares at you with wide eyes then begins to tug against the ties. You finally reach the bed–this time straddling his lower legs. You place the vibrator next to him then hook your fingers into his waistband, you tug his boxers down just enough to free him. The sound he made when the cool air hit him went straight to your core. You wrapped your hand around him, squeezing slow and deliberate, and he threw his head back against the pillow.

“You’re torturing me,” he groaned.

“Maybe,” you purred, leaning down to let your tongue swirl around his tip before taking him into your mouth. His whole body jolted, a low, desperate curse spilling from his lips. You kept the pace lazy, cruel almost, sucking just enough to make him twitch and beg, then pulling back to leave him aching.

When you finally climbed back up and hovered over him, his chest was heaving, eyes glazed with need. you dragged the tip of him against your slick entrance, just barely letting him feel it.

“Please,” he rasped, voice raw. “Baby, I need you.”

That was what you wanted—to hear him beg. With a slow, deliberate roll of your hips, you sank down onto him, taking him inch by inch until you were full, stretched around him. You both groaned in unison, the sound raw and hungry.

“Oh, fuck yes,” he breathed, trying to thrust, but the ties kept him pinned. You braced your hands against his chest and rode him, setting the pace yourself —slow at first, savoring the way he filled you, then harder, faster, slamming down onto him until the headboard rattled with the force of it.

“Satoru, you’re–fuck–doing so well.”

His baby blue eyes locked on you, dark and desperate, watching every bounce of your breasts, every twist of your face as the pleasure built. You dragged your nails down his chest again, leaving red trails as you moaned his name.

He was begging outright now, panting curses, pleading for you to let him touch, to untie him, to go faster. And God, the power of knowing he couldn’t do a thing except take it—except give you every broken sound—was intoxicating.

The knot in your stomach snapped first. Your body tightened around him, shuddering hard as you came, clawing at his chest as the waves rolled through you. He moaned your name, jerking beneath you, straining against the restraints as his own release hit, hot and pulsing inside you until we were both trembling.

You collapsed onto his chest, sweaty and breathless, listening to his heart pound against your ear. For a moment, all you could do was smile against his skin. He was so out of it he didn't even hear the vibrator switch on, immediately on the highest setting. You got off of him and felt his cum drip down your legs. He was pulled out of his trance when you placed the viberator right on his tip.

“Wait no–hmph,” He threw his head back against the pillow. Gojo was already flushed red from his ears to his neck. Seeing him trying to keep quiet by biting his lip did something to you. You shift the vibrator down his shaft and you begin to lick the pre-cum from his tip. “F-fuck! Baby I cant, I cant it’s too much.” 

You lifted your head up, “you can and you will. Right ? You're going to be good and take it?” As you move the vibrator back up to his flushed tip he shivers and his moans turn into whimpers. 

“Y-yes, I can take more.” The vibration’s merciless. Satoru swears he's starting to see stars, especially when he cums all over himself. Every pulse sends another ripple through his stomach, and it’s obscene how easily his body reacts. His hips tilt helplessly with every shuddering buzz, his dick was twitching like he's desperate for more. 

“Y/n please!” He chokes on his own sobs. The coil in his gut winds tighter and tighter and he arches upwards and cums for a third time. You stop the vibrator and stare at him as he closes his eyes. His breathing is uneven, snowy hair sticking to his face, and tears running down flushed face. 

Finally, you reached up to undo the ties. You take your hand and wipe it across his stomach and licked off the cum. He lets out a breathy laugh and his arms immediately wrapped tight around you, pulling you close.

“You’re fucking dangerous,” he murmured into your hair, still half-laughing, half-breathless.

“Maybe,” you whispered, kissing his jaw. “But you liked it.”

making silly photos for my moots 6/???

w.c — 1.7k

You didn’t want to be here. You hated parties but Shoko thought that you shouldn’t spend your Friday studying law. It’s been hours of you standing alone, people trying to hit on you and you watching over Shoko to make sure she doesn’t get super drunk.

The music was deafening, the kind that vibrated through the floorboards and rattled in your chest. The party was packed, bodies pressed into every room, the air heavy with sweat, perfume, and cheap beer. You should’ve left twenty minutes ago, but the line to the bathroom was finally moving, and your drink had started to hit just enough to make everything soft around the edges.

You shoved past a couple making out in the hallway and stepped inside the first unlocked bathroom. Small, dimly lit. Grimy mirror, sticky counter. You turned the lock behind you with a sigh of relief, leaning over the sink to splash water on your face.

That’s when you heard the knock. Sharp. Low.

“Occupied,” you called, voice half-slurred.

Another knock. Then a voice—deep, smooth, calm. “Yeah, I know. Open up.”

You frowned, moving toward the door. “Uh… what?”

“I saw you slip in here,” the voice murmured, low like it was meant just for you. “You looked like you needed a breather. Or maybe something more than that.”

You hesitated. Your pulse was already starting to race. Something about the way he said it… slow, cocky, like he knew you. Or wanted to. You recognized him as the stranger who handled you a water bottle when he realized you were hot and thirsty — also because he noticed you weren’t drinking

And against your better judgment, you cracked the door open.

He slipped inside without waiting for permission, shutting and locking it behind him.

You stepped back.

Tall. A dark shirt stretched over a firm chest, tattoos running from his neck to his wrist, one hand running through his baby pink tousled hair like he didn’t even realize you were staring. He looked like sin in sneakers, some kind of fantasy conjured out of sweat, smoke, and midnight heat.

“You’re not supposed to be in here,” you said, but your voice lacked conviction.

He tilted his head, eyes dragging over you like he could already see what you’d look like beneath your clothes. “Maybe not,” he said. “But I couldn’t stop watching you. The way you moved out there… like you didn’t belong. Like you were waiting for someone to give you an excuse to leave.”

He took a step closer.

You didn’t move.

“Is this that excuse?” you asked, voice breathless.

He smiled, slow and devastating. “Only if you want it to be.”

Then his fingers brushed your waist, just barely, like he was testing your reaction. When you didn’t stop him—when you leaned into it—he didn’t hesitate.

He backed you into the sink, mouth capturing yours in a kiss that was everything—filthy and starved, like he’d waited all night for the taste of you. His hands slipped under your shirt like he had every right to, thumbs brushing bare skin, heat building between your thighs like a fuse being lit.

Your breath hitched when he hoisted you onto the counter, your back hitting the mirror, legs parting instinctively around his hips. You could feel how hard he was through his jeans already—he wasn’t shy about pressing in, grinding slowly against you until your fingers dug into his shoulders.

“This is crazy,” you breathed.

“Mm,” he murmured, lips on your neck, his hand sliding up your thigh. “But you’re not telling me to stop.”

“Don’t stop,” you whispered, hips lifting into him.

The sound he made was low and filthy, like it scraped straight from his chest. He tugged your panties aside with practiced ease, fingers finding you wet and eager. His eyes met yours, dark and knowing. “Goddamn,” he breathed. “You’re soaking.”

He slipped a finger inside you, then two, curling just right, drawing a whimper from your lips that he swallowed with another kiss. The counter creaked beneath you, the mirror fogged with your breath, the beat of the music pounding faintly outside the door while the real rhythm was building between your legs.

And then he knelt.

Right there in front of you, in that grimy little bathroom, like you were something sacred. Like he needed to taste you. Tongue sliding over you in deep, slow strokes until your thighs shook and your moans echoed off the tile.

“Fuck—please,” you gasped, fisting his hair, riding his face shamelessly.

When you came, it was with your head thrown back, back arching off the counter, his mouth relentless until you were trembling and breathless and completely undone.

He stood, lips glistening, a cocky smile on his face. “You want to return the favor?” he murmured, already unbuckling his belt. “Or should I bend you over the sink and ruin you all over again?”

Your thighs were still trembling, breath uneven as you tried to ground yourself against the fogged mirror behind you. But he didn’t give you long. His hands gripped your hips, dragging you forward on the counter until your legs dangled and your feet hit the cool tile floor.

“Turn around,” he said, voice low and dark, like he wasn’t asking—like he knew you would.

You obeyed.

Your palms braced against the edge of the sink, chest heaving. You caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror—flushed, hair messy, eyes wide. And behind you, him. Taller. Broader. The look on his face was something wicked, something starved.

He stepped closer, his chest pressing to your back as he pushed your skirt up, fingers yanking your panties down to your knees. You gasped when you felt the head of his cock drag slowly along your slick heat, teasing, not quite entering. The pressure made your knees weak.

“You feel that?” he muttered against your ear. “That’s how badly I need to be inside you.”

Then he pushed in—slow but deep, your walls stretching around him inch by thick inch. The moan that left your throat was helpless, broken, echoed by the low growl that rumbled from his chest.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groaned, gripping your waist like it was the only thing anchoring him.

He didn’t wait. Once he was fully seated inside you, he set a brutal rhythm, snapping his hips against yours, the sound of skin slapping filling the bathroom over the muffled beat of the party. The mirror shook with every thrust. Your hands scrambled for grip, your body rocking forward with each deep stroke.

You could barely hold yourself up.

“You like being fucked like this?” he growled. “Bent over some stranger’s sink with the door locked and people just feet away?”

“Yes,” you gasped. “God—yes, don’t stop.”

His hand slid around your throat, not tight—just enough to make you feel it. “Say it again.”

“I like it,” you panted. “I need it.”

He groaned, snapping his hips harder. “That’s it. Take every fucking inch.”

One hand came around to rub your clit, fast and filthy, the added pressure sending you spiraling. Your body clenched around him, thighs shaking as you came again—loud, uncontrollable, body arching back into him like you could take him even deeper.

He cursed under his breath, losing rhythm, thrusts getting sloppier.

“I’m close,” he grunted, biting down on your shoulder as he drove into you. “Where do you want it, baby?”

“Inside,” you breathed, not even thinking, not even caring. “Please.”

That was it.

With a deep growl and a brutal final thrust, he came—hot and thick, hips jerking against you as he buried himself deep, breath ragged in your ear. His fingers clung to your hips like he didn’t want to leave, like he needed just another second.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The bathroom was heavy with heat and sweat and the wild sound of your breathing.

Then, slowly, he pulled out, tucking himself away with a crooked smirk.

You reached for some toilet paper, still dizzy from the way your legs barely worked. He helped you steady yourself, eyes still dark and amused.

“I don’t even know your name,” you murmured.

He kissed your shoulder, teeth grazing skin. “Maybe I’ll tell you next time.”

Then he slipped out the door, leaving you breathless and ruined and smiling like you’d just been claimed by a ghost.

𝕻airing — Ryōmen Sukuna x Reader.

𝕾ummary — Your Gangster Ex-boyfriend shows up at your doorstep one day injured. You decide to let him in but there’s more than a wound you need to fix. Especially when there’s still a certain tension between you two.

𝕮ontent warnings — gangster!sukuna, porn with plot, raw sex, p in v, fem!reader, multiple rounds, creampies, make-up sex, hair pulling, pet names ( ex. baby ), trust issues, oral ( male and fem ), sukuna the eater, hitting it from behind, sukuna yearning baddd.

𝕰dit — again I’m a sucker for gangster kuna / tags: @blkkizzat @idontwannatalkrn1 @crispycatt 🫶🏼

𝖂ord count — 4.2k

part one >>

You’ve thought about Sukuna more times than you wanna admit. Of course you hated him. You hated him so much that you saved him from bleeding out and then fucked him afterwards. What? You never said you were perfect.

It was a quiet night — the kind that pressed against the windows with too much stillness. You were curled on the couch in an old sweatshirt, candles burning low, a glass of wine untouched beside you. You hadn’t touched the drawer where you kept his note. You didn’t have to. You remembered every word like it was engraved in your brain.

You didn’t expect the knock.

You didn’t want to expect it.

But when it came — soft, two taps, a pause, then one — your body knew before your mind did.

You stood slowly. No rush. No surprise. Just a sick sort of ache unraveling in your chest as you opened the door.

He stood there, dry this time. No blood, no storm. Just him. Hoodie. Hands in his pockets. That same look in his eyes — dark, tired, carved from something older than guilt.

“I wasn’t gonna come back,” he said as he ran a hand through his pastel pink locks.

“I know,” you said in a whisper.

Sukuna let out a deep sigh, “but I couldn’t stop thinking about your face when you read that note.”

You crossed your arms. “You weren’t here to see it. To see me. So stop acting like you care.”

He knows you have every right to hate him—but this certain harshness on your face made his stomach sink. “I didn’t need to be here to imagine it,” he said. “ It wrecked me just thinking about it.”

You stared at him, jaw tight. “What do you want, Ryomen?”

He looked at you for a long time. It felt like time had stopped when he looked at you with those soft—yet tired—red eyes. An emotion you haven’t seen in a while, years to be exact.

And then, quietly: “To try.”

That hit deeper than any wound he’d ever walked in with. You blinked, barely breathed. So many emotions and feelings were processing in your head.

“I don’t know if I believe you.”

“I don’t know if I deserve it.”

The silence stretched. He stepped forward once — just enough to close the space between the threshold and your heartbeat.

“I thought I was protecting you by staying gone,” he said. “But I realized all I did was leave you alone with everything I ran from.”

You didn’t stop the tears this time. You hated that they came. You hated that your body still leaned forward just slightly, like part of you had never unlearned the shape of him.

He noticed.

“I won’t touch you,” he said, voice hoarse. “Not unless you ask me too.”

You let the silence breathe between you. And then, quietly, you stepped back and opened the door wider.

“Come in.”

He hesitated like a man standing at the edge of something final.

But then he crossed the line.

—

When he finally stepped inside, it was quiet again.

He stood in your kitchen, same place he left his last goodbye. This time, you didn’t let him speak first.

“You broke me when you left.” You leaned against the kitchen counter.

His shoulders tensed. “I know.”

“And I let you back in once. You bled on me, came inside me, and then disappeared.”

He flinched slightly. But Sukuna didn't look away.

“You don’t get to do that again,” you said. “So if you’re here to fuck and vanish, get out now.”

“I’m not.”

“Prove it.”

He stepped forward. Slowly. Hands trembling slightly as they reached for you — and paused.

“Can I?” he asked.

You stared at him for a while then nodded.

And when he kissed you, it wasn’t rough. It wasn’t fast or desperate. It was slow. Messy in the way that someone kisses when they think it might be their last chance. You tasted guilt. Regret. Want. Love, maybe, buried under all of it.

You grabbed his hoodie, pulled him in harder. His hands slid up your sides, warm and familiar. Your bodies fit the same — like time hadn’t ruined the map of you.

He breathed against your mouth. “I want to stay.”

Your voice cracked when you whispered, “Then don’t leave me this time.”

The moment you whispered, don’t leave this time, it hit him deeper than any wound ever had. He didn’t answer with words. His hands did. His body did.

He kissed you like he’d starved for you — not the kind of hunger that devoured, but the kind that ached to taste again, to linger. His lips traced your mouth, your jaw, down your neck in reverent passes, like a man rediscovering sacred ground.

“I thought about this every day,” he whispered against your skin. “The way you smell. The way you sound when I touch you right here—”

His hand slid under your sweatshirt, palm splaying warm over your ribs before cupping your breast. He groaned softly, thumb brushing your nipple as it hardened beneath his touch.

“You’re not wearing anything under this,” he muttered. “Were you waiting for me?”

You didn’t answer, only leaned up and kissed him harder — enough to make him stumble back a step, his hands gripping your waist as you pulled the sweatshirt off over your head and tossed it aside. Sukuna’s eyes darkened as he stared at you, bare from the waist up, chest heaving, a storm waiting to break.

“I want to see you,” you breathed.

He stripped for you slowly, piece by piece — hoodie, shirt, sweatpants. When his body was bare, you saw the healing wound just under his ribs. It had scarred, the stitches rough but clean — your work. You ran your fingers along the edge of it.

“You still hurt?”

He caught your wrist, kissed the inside of it. “Not when I’m with you.”

You rolled your eyes, “still cheesy too.” Sukuna let out a little chuckle.

You guided him to the bed, laying back against the pillows as he settled between your legs. His weight pressed you into the mattress in the best way — grounding, possessive, overwhelming in the way only he could be.

He didn’t rush. His mouth found your chest again, tongue circling your nipple before sucking softly, then harder. His hand slid down your body, dipping into the waistband of your shorts.

“You’re soaked,” he whispered, fingers trailing through the slick heat between your legs. “You were wet for me the second I walked through the door.”

“You’re talking too much,” you gasped, hips bucking into his hand.

He chuckled low, dark. “Then let me put my mouth somewhere better.”

He stripped your shorts and panties off in one slow pull, dropping to his knees at the edge of the bed. You watched him from above, spread open and bare, as he dragged your thighs over his shoulders and buried his face between your legs.

You gasped, the first flick of his tongue making your back arch. He licked you long and slow, savoring every reaction, like he was memorizing what made you tremble. When he sucked your clit into his mouth, your hands flew to his hair, tangling tight.

“Fuck, please—”

“That’s it,” he growled against you. “Beg for it.”

His tongue circled you faster now, alternating pressure and speed, until your thighs trembled and your breath broke in gasps.

You came hard — a full-body, soul-deep climax that made you cry out, thighs clenching around his head as your hips lifted off the bed. He didn’t stop until your body shivered from overstimulation.

And then he crawled over you, his cock hard and heavy against your thigh.

“I need you,” he rasped. “Let me inside. Let me feel what I walked away from.”

You pulled him down and kissed him again — messy, needy — as he lined himself up and pushed inside you in one, slow thrust.

You both groaned.

He filled you so deeply it ached — in the best way. His arms braced on either side of your head as he began to move, slow and deep, grinding into you like he wanted to reach the parts no one else ever had.

“I forgot how tight you were,” he murmured. “How warm. How fucking perfect.”

Your nails dragged down his back, your legs wrapped around his waist, keeping him close.

“Don’t stop,” you whispered. “Don’t leave me again.”

“Never,” he breathed. “I swear to God, never.”

He thrust harder now, pace building, the bed creaking under your bodies as he moved — hips slamming into yours with deep, possessive strokes. His mouth kissed every part of you it could reach — your shoulder, your cheek, your collarbone.

“I want you to cum with me,” he groaned. “I want to feel you lose it all over me again.”

You did — stars bursting behind your eyes as your orgasm tore through you, your walls clenching around him so tight he gasped your name like a prayer.

And then he followed, groaning low in your ear as he spilled inside you, hips stuttering, arms shaking as he collapsed onto your chest.

Neither of you spoke for a long time. Only breath. Only heartbeat.

Only here.

—

The moonlight stretched across the bed, casting pale blue over both your bodies. He was still inside you, softening slowly, your legs tangled, his face pressed against your neck.

You carded your fingers through his hair gently, still catching your breath.

“Are you really staying?” you whispered.

He shifted, kissing your jaw.

“I don’t have anywhere else I want to be.”

You didn’t respond right away. You didn’t have to. You just wrapped your arms tighter around his back.

He reached down and pulled the comforter over both of you, shifting onto his side, pulling you against his chest. His fingers grazed lazy circles over your hip.

“I don’t know if I can forget what you did,” you whispered into the dark.

“You don’t have to,” he murmured. “I just want the chance to make new memories. Better ones. Ones that stay.”

You turned your face into his chest and let your eyes close.

And for the first time in a long time, sleep found you — not from exhaustion, or pain, or heartbreak.

But safety.

His heartbeat. His warmth.

His presence.

You weren’t sure what hit harder — the way he kissed you, or the way he didn’t let go.

His lips moved with intention, slow and firm, like he wasn’t just kissing you — he was making up for lost time. One hand cupped your cheek, the other slid up your body to your bare waist, and when his thumb traced the curve under your breast, you gasped into his mouth.

He smiled, breathless. “Still remember what drives you crazy.”

Your hands reached to brush his hair out of his eyes. “Then remind me.”

His eyes darkened — heat blooming behind them like something barely reined in.

He got in between your legs then reached for you again, warm palms on your bare skin. His hands weren’t trembling anymore. They were steady, reverent. Like he was afraid to rush. Like he needed to feel you — all of you — one inch at a time.

His lips dipped lower, trailing kisses along your collarbone. You let your head fall back, eyes fluttering shut as he kissed the top of your breast, then the other. His mouth wrapped around your nipple, tongue teasing, warm and wet and slow. You gasped, back arching off the bed, hand gripping the back of his neck.

“You’re still so sensitive,” he whispered. “I love that.”

You moaned when he pinched your other nipple between his fingers, switching sides. He didn’t stop kissing, sucking, teasing — and you didn’t stop writhing, already aching for more.

Then he slid lower. His kisses followed the path down your stomach, his fingers pushing your legs apart gently, like unwrapping something fragile.

He knelt between your thighs and hooked one leg over his shoulder. When he looked up at you, he was already breathless.

“God, baby… I missed this pussy.”

Then he leaned in and tasted you.

You cried out, one hand immediately flying to his hair, the other gripping the sheets. His tongue was slow, purposeful — dragging up your folds before circling your clit with a pressure that made your hips jerk.

“You’re already shaking,” he murmured. “I’ve barely started.”

He didn’t stop. He flattened his tongue and licked you broad and deep, then sucked your clit gently into his mouth. When he added a finger — then two — curling them inside you just right, you lost control.

“Su—sukuna keep going please.”

You cum unannounced with a loud moan, thighs trembling around his head, your voice breaking as you clung to him.

He didn’t pull away until your body went limp, your chest rising and falling in ragged waves.

Then he crawled up, mouth shiny, lips wet, and kissed you again — slow and deep. You tasted yourself on him. It made you moan into his mouth and grab his cock.

“You still talk too much,” you whispered. “Shut up and fuck me.”

“Say it again,” he said, voice low, head bowed against your forehead. “Please.”

You looked him in the eyes, “i want you to fuck me. Now.”

He groaned like it hurt, is dick thick, flushed, already leaking in your hand.

“I’m gonna take care of you this time,” he promised. “Not just fuck you. Love you.”

You guided him to your entrance, and when he pushed in — slow, deep, stretching you perfectly — both of you moaned like you’d waited forever for it.

He sank into you inch by inch, and when he bottomed out, he held there — buried inside you, forehead pressed to yours, hand cupping the back of your neck.

“You feel like fucking home,” he whispered. “I forgot what peace felt like.”

He began to move. Slow, deep thrusts that dragged against every sensitive inch inside you. His body moved like he was memorizing the feel of you from the inside out — like he wasn’t just inside you, but tied to you.

Your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper.

“I missed you so much it made me sick,” you gasped. “I hate you for it.”

“I hate myself,” he said through clenched teeth. “But I never stopped wanting this. Wanting you.”

His hand slid between your bodies, fingers finding your clit again, rubbing slow circles as his cock filled you. You bite your lip— trying to hold your moans in but there was no use. Your moans came out broken. The pressure built fast, overwhelming, and when you came again, it was harder than before — your moans high, breath hitching as your body spasmed around him.

“Fuck, you’re so tight when you come,” he groaned, hips stuttering. “Gonna lose it…”

You grabbed his face, forced him to look at you. “Cum inside me please.”

He whined — and gave in.

He buried himself to the hilt and came with a broken groan, cock twitching deep inside you, thick and warm. His whole body shook as he collapsed onto you, still joined, your legs tangled together.

You lay there for a long time.

Still sweaty. Still full of him.

His face pressed against your shoulder, his hand tracing slow, idle shapes on your stomach. His breathing calmed, but he didn’t pull away. Not even after his cock softened inside you.

“You’re still here,” you whispered, not trusting the stillness. “You didn’t run.”

“I won’t.”

You turned to look at him. He looked exhausted — but peaceful. His eyes searched yours.

“You want me to leave?” he asked quietly.

“No.” You touched his face. “I want you to mean what you said.”

“I do.”

Silence. Not heavy — just full.

“I’m scared,” you admitted. “Of believing you again.”

“I’ll earn it. One day at a time.”

You swallowed hard. “What if it’s not enough?”

He tucked your hair behind your ear, eyes gentle.

“Then I’ll try harder.”

He pulled out carefully, both of you wincing at the sensitivity, and you watched him as he stood, grabbed a towel, and cleaned you up gently — no teasing, no smug grin. Just quiet care. He helped you into a T-shirt. His. Then he crawled back into bed beside you.

You curled against his chest.

He didn’t say anything else. He just held you.

All night.

—

You woke to warmth.

Not just body heat — though his was everywhere: behind you, wrapped around you, one leg tangled with yours, arm draped over your stomach. It was more than that. A kind of warmth you hadn’t felt in years. Like your soul had been thawed.

Sukuna’s breath ghosted against the back of your neck in slow, steady waves. Still asleep. Still here.

You didn’t move.

You lay there for a long time, staring at the soft gray light leaking in through the curtains, letting yourself feel it: the weight of his arm. The slow rise and fall of his chest against your back. The slight soreness between your thighs. The ache in your heart you hadn’t realized had eased — just a little — overnight.

His fingers twitched, then slid lower, resting against the hem of your shirt. One of his shirts, oversized and still smelling like him.

You heard the rumble of his voice before you felt him shift.

“…You’re still here.”

You smiled without meaning to. “I live here.”

He chuckled low in your ear. “Right. Forgot I was the stray in this situation.”

You turned to face him. His hair was a mess, sticking up in every direction. His voice was sleep-rough. His eyes, half-lidded but warm.

He looked like he hadn’t slept that hard in weeks.

“You snore,” you said flatly.

He blinked, then grinned. “Do not.”

“Do.”

“That’s slander.” He reached for you, hand dragging down your waist, fingers toying with the hem of the shirt. “Sue me.”

You raised a brow. “You don’t want to play court metaphors. You’re a felon.”

He laughed, eyes closing for a moment as he leaned in and kissed your forehead — so soft, it almost didn’t happen. “You’re right. I’ll settle out of court.”

“You gonna settle here too?” you asked quietly.

The question sat between you like an open wound.

His hand stilled on your hip. His smile faded — not coldly, but carefully.

“I want to,” he said. “If you’ll let me.”

You searched his face for doubt — but all you found was quiet honesty. Still a little fear. But something steadier beneath it, too. Something real.

You nodded once. “Start by making coffee.”

He blinked. “…What?”

“You want to stay?” you asked, propping yourself up on your elbow. “Learn how I take my coffee.”

He stared at you. Then smiled — slow and wide and a little stunned.

“Bossy as ever.”

“Still talking.” You shoved the blankets off and padded to the door, glancing back at him once. “Come on, stray. Let’s see if you know how to use a damn machine.”

Kitchen. Ten minutes later.

You sat on the counter, still in his shirt, bare legs swinging. He stood at the coffee machine looking like he belonged there — even if he fumbled for the filters and cursed under his breath when he spilled the grounds.

You watched him. Quietly.

There was something about it — him shirtless, healing scar visible, making you coffee like it was the most normal thing in the world — that made your throat tighten.

He handed you a mug, finally, and leaned against the counter beside you.

“I didn’t come back expecting forgiveness,” he said.

You took a sip. “Good. Because you haven’t earned it yet.”

“I know.” He looked at you, solemn now. “But I came back to try.”

You nodded. “Then start with dishes.”

He laughed, the sound low and real.

And for the first time in a long time, morning didn’t feel heavy. Or haunted.

It just felt like… maybe.

His voice broke the silence, and way quieter now. “Can I stay tonight? Again?”

You hopped off the counter and placed your hand in his.

“Only if you mean it.”

“What if I do?”

You smiled faintly. “Then prove it to me.”

That got him.

The shift in his eyes was instant — hunger rising beneath all that guilt, all that shame. He stepped forward, his body crowding into yours like he needed to be inside your skin.

His lips brushed your ear.

“You sure you can handle me for the third time?”

“Try me.”

You didn’t make it to the bedroom.

The second you said “Try me,” something shifted behind his eyes — restraint snapped like a thread pulled too tight.

His mouth crashed onto yours — no hesitation, no teasing. Just heat. Teeth. Tongue. One hand cupped the back of your neck while the other gripped your waist, dragging you flush against him.

You barely had time to gasp before your back hit the wall. His hands were everywhere — pushing his your shirt up, sliding between your pies, gripping your ass like he was claiming it.

“You walk around like this,” he growled, mouth dragging down your throat, “no panties, my shirt, knowing what that does to me?”

You moaned, thighs parting instinctively, rolling your hips into the thick heat pressing against you.

“You were the one who left,” you gasped. “Now you’re mad I didn’t wait dressed like a nun?”

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes — something feral in his expression.

“I don’t want you dressed at all.”

He dropped to his knees.

Your breath caught as he yanked your shorts down and threw one of your legs over his shoulder.

Then his mouth was on you.

Hot. Wet. Filthy.

He devoured you — not like a man trying to earn forgiveness, but like a man staking a goddamn claim.

Your hands flew to his hair, tugging hard, but it only made him groan into your pussy, tongue moving faster, fingers spreading you wider, deeper.

You could barely think, barely breathe. Your head hit the wall with a dull thud, hips rocking against his face, chasing the rush that was already threatening to crash over you like a wave.

“F-fuck—keep going, don’t stop—”

He didn’t.

When you came, it was hard and sudden — your thighs trembling, your cries echoing down the hall, your entire body shuddering as he kept licking, slower now, easing you through it.

You were still panting when he stood.

His mouth glistened. His eyes were dark. His cock strained against his sweats, the tip already wet and angry-red.

You didn’t even wait.

You dropped to your knees, tugging his waistband down, watching his cock spring free.

“Open your mouth,” he rasped.

You did — gladly.

He slid in slow, letting you take him inch by inch until he hit the back of your throat. His fingers tangled in your hair, breath hitching as you started to move — slow at first, then faster, deeper, wetter. Your nose was pressed against the pink pubes. You bobbed your head, starting from the base all the way to his tip. You ran your tongue over his slit and you felt his grip on your hair tighten causing you to moan.

“You trying to kill me?” he groaned. “Fuck—your mouth…”

You hummed around him, loving the way his hips started to twitch, how his control cracked more with every pass of your tongue. He pulled out suddenly, chest heaving, dragging you up by the wrist. He whined when you latched your mouth onto his balls. “W-wait—” you attempt to chuckle when he let out the most loudest whine. He pulled your hair upwards towards his chest.

“Not like that. I want to finish inside you. Need to.”

He spun you around and bent you over the couch.

Pulled your hips back.

And slid in from behind with one deep, brutal thrust.

You cried out — a half-sob, half-moan — as he filled you, impossibly deep. His hand found your throat, the other your hip, anchoring you as he began to move.

“Say it,” he growled, teeth against your ear. “Say it’s mine.”

“Y-yours,” you gasped. “Yours—fuck, I’m yours—”

He pounded into you, pace unrelenting, like he needed the words as much as the friction. You could feel everything — his cock dragging against every nerve, your walls gripping him tight, his fingers leaving bruises on your skin.

“Take it,” he growled. “Take every inch. Every fucking drop.”

Your body tensed, the second orgasm building fast, blinding.

“I’m gonna—!”

He reached between your thighs, rubbed tight circles over your clit, and whispered:

“Cum on my cock.”

You shattered.

Your whole body convulsed, vision white, pussy squeezing him like a vice. You screamed his name, legs giving out — but he held you up, fucked you through it, until he groaned deep in his chest and came inside you with hard, jerking thrusts, emptying everything he had into you.

It took a long time to stop shaking.

He stayed buried inside you, forehead pressed to your shoulder, both of you gasping for air.

Eventually, he eased out of you, the stretch lingering, warmth dripping down your thighs.

He turned you gently, pulling you into his arms. You didn’t protest when he picked you up, carried you to the couch, and collapsed with you on top of him — tangled, sticky, breathless.

“I meant it,” he said softly, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You’re mine.”

You nuzzled into his neck, fingers tracing lazy circles over his chest.

“You’re still an asshole.”

“Yeah.” He kissed your hair. “But I’m your asshole.”

You snorted. “So romantic.”

“You’ll see.”

You fell asleep there, skin still flushed, his scent wrapped around you like a blanket.

And for now, there was no knock at the door. No blood. No guilt.

You’ve grown used to this routine. He games, you hang around—usually scrolling your phone, sometimes reading, other times just teasing him for fun.

Tonight, it starts with a stretch.

You’re curled up on the couch, wearing his hoodie and a pair of soft sleep shorts. You arch your back just a little, arms over your head. The hem of the hoodie lifts—exposing the smooth line of your stomach, a flash of your hip. You feel his eyes on you, quick and fleeting. He doesn’t say anything.

But when he dies in-game a few minutes later, you smirk to yourself.

“You okay over there, baby?” you say innocently, not even looking up from your phone.

He doesn’t answer.

You shift again—crossing your legs slowly, letting the fabric of your shorts slide higher.

Another death.

And this time, you hear it: the soft click of the controller hitting the floor. A quiet sigh. Then nothing.

You glance up—and he’s already moving toward you.

Headset off. Hoodie sleeves pushed up. He doesn’t speak, not yet. He just kneels in front of you, hands resting on your thighs, warm through the fabric.

“What’s wrong?” you ask sweetly, brushing a hand through his hair. “Did I distract you?”

He looks up at you. Calm, unreadable. His glasses have slipped down just a bit on his nose. His lips are slightly parted, breath slower than usual. Still not saying a word.

Then he leans forward—slowly—and presses a kiss just above your knee.

“Keep playing with me like that,” he murmurs, voice low and so quiet you almost miss it, “and I’m not gonna be able to stay calm.”

Your breath catches.

You try to tease again—“But I thought you liked it when I—”

He cuts you off with another kiss. Higher this time. His hands slide up, pushing your thighs apart with gentle insistence. When he speaks again, there’s something darker in his tone.

“Put the phone down.”

You do.

He slides his hands beneath the hoodie, fingertips grazing your skin, pulling you closer to the edge of the couch. He’s still quiet, still controlled—but you feel the tension in him. Like he’s holding something back. Like he’s been wanting this—wanting you—for longer than he’s willing to admit.

“You walk around like this,” he whispers, dragging his mouth up the inside of your thigh, “every day… act all sweet… make those little noises when you stretch, touch my hair when I’m trying to focus—”

You gasp when his tongue traces the edge of your shorts.

“—and I don’t say anything. I don’t do anything. But tonight…?”

He slides your shorts down in one smooth motion, gaze locked on yours.

“Tonight I’m done pretending I don’t notice.”

His mouth is warm, relentless. He takes his time—no rush, no distractions. You can feel how much he wants to savor every second, like he’s waited too long to have you like this. And he watches you the whole time—like your reactions are his favorite game.

Your hand finds his hair, fingers threading through the strands as you moan, soft and desperate. He groans into you, finally letting some of that quiet restraint break.

“Louder,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “Wanna hear you.”

You cry out, hips bucking, and that’s when he really loses it.

He stands, eyes dark and intense, and pulls the hoodie up over your head, tossing it aside. Then he leans over you, bracing one hand on the back of the couch as he kisses you—deep, messy, consuming. His lips are soft but his movements are anything but.

“Turn around,” he breathes against your mouth.

You obey, dizzy, bracing your hands on the couch cushions as he kneels behind you. His hands trail up your back, gentle, reverent. And when he finally sinks into you, it’s like a switch flips.

Every slow, careful touch becomes something more primal. His grip tightens. His hips snap harder. Still not much talking—just low groans, stifled curses, and your name whispered like a secret.

And when you start to tremble, crying out with every thrust, he leans forward, wrapping one arm around your waist, the other cradling your chest. Holding you close.

“Mine,” he says, voice barely more than a growl. “Say it.”

“Yours,” you moan, breathless. “I’m yours.”

It starts like every other night you end up in his bed — breathless kisses, clothes half-off in the hallway, the ache between your thighs building with every hungry groan that escapes his throat. He never takes his time, not with you — not when you both know what you came for.

Your back hits the mattress with a soft thud, his mouth already trailing down your body like he owns it. His grip is firm, greedy — thumbs pressed into your thighs to part them wide as he settles between them.

“Dripping already?” he mutters, more to himself than you, lips brushing over your inner thigh. “You want it that bad?”

You nod, fingers tangled in the sheets, every inch of you needing him.

He gives you no warning before sliding into you in one deep, smooth thrust — burying himself fully, making your mouth fall open in a wordless moan. The stretch is brutal and perfect. He’s always big, but tonight? Tonight he feels deeper.

Maybe it’s the way his hands cage you in, or the way his eyes pin you like you belong to him. Maybe it’s the way you’ve been thinking about it for days now — craving something more than this, something permanent.

He’s moving now, steady and thick, grinding into the spot that makes you cry out every time. He knows your body, every twitch and moan and gasp, and he uses it against you shamelessly. You’re already close — closer than you should be.

That’s when it slips out.

“Satoru I want a baby.”

You didn’t mean to say it out loud — not like that, not in the middle of it — but the words fall from your mouth like they’ve been building for months, raw and breathless.

He stops mid-thrust.

The look in his eyes changes instantly. Gone is the cocky heat. What replaces it is darker. Hungrier.

“What?” His voice is low, rough, stilling inside you completely. “Say that again.”

You swallow, eyes locked on his. There’s no backing out now.

“I want you to cum inside me,” you whisper. “I want you to make me pregnant.”

He stares for a second, breath ragged. Then he growls, and before you can blink, he grabs both of your wrists and pins them above your head, thrusting hard enough to make the headboard slam into the wall.

“You want that?” he snarls, his voice thick with something feral. “You want me to fuck a baby into you right now?”

“Yes,” you moan. “I want it so bad. I want you to cum in me. Stay in me. Make sure it takes—”

“Fuck,” he cuts you off, slamming into you harder, rougher, his breath hot against your ear. “No more pulling out. You hear me? You want this — you get it.”

His pace turns wild. You’re not even sure he’s thinking anymore — he’s acting on pure instinct now. Animal. Possessive. Claiming.

“Gonna make you mine,” he pants. “Gonna fuck you full until your belly’s round and tight with me.”

Your legs shake around his waist as you arch into him, every word sending you closer to the edge.

“Don’t stop. Please. Do it. Breed me.”

That’s the word that unravels him. “Say that again.”

“Breed me.”

He groans, something guttural and desperate, and then he grabs your hips with both hands, fucking you deep and hard, not stopping even when you scream his name. It’s rough. Messy. Perfect. And when your orgasm crashes over you — spine arching, walls clenching down — it pushes him right over the edge.

He slams in one final time and stays. Buried deep, pressed to the hilt, and then you feel it — that first hot pulse of him emptying into you. You moan loudly, almost crying from the intensity as he fills you up with everything he has.

And he doesn’t pull out.

Not even after the last twitch. Not even after he’s finished. He stays there, deep inside, breath fanning over your throat, both of you trembling from it.

There’s a long pause.

Then his voice comes — low and wrecked — against your ear.

“You think I’m gonna stop at once?” he murmurs. “Nah. I’m gonna keep you like this. Keep pumping you full until there’s no chance it won’t happen.”

Your body shivers under him.

“You want this?” he asks again. “Because once I give it to you, there’s no going back.”

You nod, hands running over his back, still aching with aftershocks. “I want all of it. I want you.”

He pulls back just far enough to look into your eyes. There’s something softer there now. Still intense, still possessive — but warm. A little amazed.

𝕻airing — Ryōmen Sukuna x Reader.

𝕾ummary — Your Gangster Ex-boyfriend shows up at your doorstep one day injured. You decide to let him in but there’s more than a wound you need to fix. Especially when there’s still a certain tension between you two.

𝕮ontent warnings — gangster!sukuna, porn with plot, raw sex, p in v, fem!reader, kinda dom!reader, sorta make-up sex, hair pulling, creampie, pet names ( ex. baby ) stab wound, blood, couch sex, sukuna lowkey down bad, hate sex lowkey (reader), hitting and quitting.

𝕰dit — This is my first long sorta fic thingy like I’m so proud of myself!! And Gangster Sukuna just makes me horny sorry not sorry.

𝖂ord count — 2.4k

part two >>

You should’ve known Ryōmen Sukuna was trouble. He had this aura about him that screamed red flags so you must’ve been color blind. Sukuna was rough looking ( also good looking ), the tattoos that started at his neck and down to ankles, the piercings on his face, the black fingernail polish — you should’ve seen it coming. Your friends had told you to stay away from him. Your family told you to stay away from him. But you couldn’t. You saw the softness that other people didn’t see.

So when he broke up with you wished you listened to everyone. You remember the day so perfectly. He wanted to meet up and he told you that he was bad for you and you deserved someone that won’t drag you down with them.

But you didn’t care.

You wanted Sukuna.

So when you heard knocking at your door it pulled you out of your thoughts. The knock was slow. Heavy. Measured. Like someone too tired to demand, but too desperate to wait. Something was telling you not to open the door.

You froze in the kitchen, clutching a glass of red wine you suddenly didn’t want. No one visited this late—not in this rain. You crept toward the door, your bare feet silent against the wood floor. One glance through the peephole, and your stomach dropped.

Him.

Ryōmen Sukuna.

Standing outside on your porch.

Drenched. Pale. Leaning against the doorframe like it was the only thing holding him up. His hoodie was soaked through and clung to his body, the dark fabric darker still where the blood had soaked through.

You didn’t think. You just opened the door.

“Hey, baby,” he rasped, mouth twitching into that cocky smile you hated yourself for missing. “Got a little… fucked up.”

“Sukuna. What are you doing—”

Before you could finish your sentence he collapsed into your arms.

You managed to catch him before he fell. You tossed his arm over your shoulder as you held onto him tightly. His skin burned against your hands as you dragged him inside, guiding his bigger body to the couch. The moment he hit the cushions, he groaned—low, guttural—and peeled the hoodie off with a wince. Your breath caught when you saw it.

A stab wound.

A jagged stab just under his ribs, fresh, angry and gushing out a crimson liquid.

“You need a hospital Sukuna.”

He caught your wrist before you could grab your phone. His grip was still strong, despite the blood loss.

“No hospitals.”

You stared at him, heart pounding fastly against your rib cage. “You’re insane.”

He smirked again, that cocky yet beautiful smirk you’ve been secretly longing to see. “You always liked that about me.”

You slapped gauze against his side, maybe harder than you needed to. He hissed—but didn’t let go of your wrist. You can feel him intensely staring at your face.

“So you just came here to die on my damn couch?”

“No.” His eyes burned into yours. “I came here because I knew you wouldn’t let me.”

That silence stretched, thick and tense, as you pressed your hand against the wound to slow the bleeding. His gaze dropped to your neckline—your tank top soaked slightly from the rain where he leaned into you. His breathing got heavier. Or maybe yours did.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” you whispered.

Sukuna grinned again, sharp and dangerous. “And yet, you’re touching me like you don’t want me to leave.”

You should’ve walked away. You should’ve told him to get out.

But instead, you straddled his lap.

His breath hitched as your thighs slid over his, careful not to press into his injury, but firm enough he could feel the heat between your legs.

“Do you still think I want you here?” you asked.

He looked up at you with low eyes, you seen a glimpse of mischief flash through them. “I think you want to punish me.”

Your hand slid up his chest, nails grazing the tattoos under his shirt. You leaned in, lips brushing his ear.

“I should let you bleed out.”

“But you won’t.” His hands found your hips, slow and possessive. “Because you missed me. Just like I fucking missed you.”

You didn’t kiss him gently. You kissed him like you hated him for leaving, for bleeding on your floor, for dragging you back into this mess. His mouth met yours with the same fire, teeth clashing, tongue demanding. His blood-slicked hand fisted in your hair. The other squeezed your ass hard enough to bruise.

He groaned into your mouth. “Careful, baby. I’m wounded.”

You rolled your hips, slow and deliberate. “Then lie back and take it.”

“Didn’t know you were still this mean,” he muttered, voice thick with lust.

“There’s a lot of things you don’t know.”

And then you ground down again, and he cursed beneath you, hips bucking despite the pain.

Your hips rolled down against his, slow and punishing, letting him feel the way your body ached for him even if your mouth was all bite and resentment. He hissed through his teeth, head tipping back against the couch as he gripped your waist tighter, like it hurt to be touched—but he couldn’t stop himself.

“I should be resting,” he rasped, but his voice was already heavy with want.

“You shouldn’t be here at all,” you said, nails dragging across his chest until you found the hem of his shirt. “But since you are…”

You yanked it up, exposing lean muscle, blood, and the edge of the scar you gave him once in a different kind of fight. You remembered your mouth on that skin. You remembered the way he tasted. Your teeth scraped along his jaw now, soft lips following after. His hands moved under your tank top, rough fingers grazing over your bare waist, traveling higher—he froze when he felt no bra.

His breath came hot against your neck. “You’re killing me.”

“You came to me half-dead.” You grabbed his wrist, shoving his hand to your chest. “Let me finish the job.”

He groaned at the feel of your bare breasts against his hand, and his thumb found your nipple instantly, circling slow. You arched into him without meaning to, heat flooding your core. The stab wound made him careful, but it didn’t stop him from palming you like he used to—like he owned you.

“You’re not gentle anymore,” he muttered, voice strained.

“Neither are you.”

Your hand slid between your bodies, finding the waistband of his sweatpants—he hadn’t even worn boxers under them.

Typical Sukuna.

You grabbed his cock, already hard despite everything, and his head dropped back again, jaw clenched. You stroked him slow, just enough to make him twitch against your palm, to make him curse under his breath.

“Still carrying that attitude,” he growled, hips jerking up into your hand. “But you’re wet already, aren’t you?”

You said nothing. Just pulled your panties to the side and guided him to your entrance, dragging his tip through your slick folds. His breath caught. You sank down, inch by inch, his hands gripping the couch until his knuckles went white.

“Fuck…” he groaned, biting his lip, sweat already beading on his forehead. “You’re—tight. Shit.”

You rocked your hips slowly, feeling the stretch, the heat, the way he filled you like he was made for it. His wound pulsed under your hand, but his eyes were on you now—wide, wild, worshipping and possessive all at once.

He grabbed your hips. “Ride me.”

“You’re gonna pass out.”

“Then let me die like this.” You rolled your eyes even though you felt a slight smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

You started slow, dragging your hips back before slamming them down again, his cock hitting deep. He groaned loud, his fingers digging into your skin hard enough to bruise. Every movement made his jaw tighten with pain—but the way he looked at you, like you were the last thing he’d ever see, made you move harder, faster.

You leaned down, breath hot against his lips. “You missed this?”

He bucked up into you, rough and desperate. “I fucking dreamt of this.”

Your name fell from his mouth like a prayer, a plea, as you rode him harder, thighs burning, your moans turning shameless. His hand came up and wrapped in your hair, dragging your mouth back to his—teeth, tongue, heat—until you were gasping against him.

“K-kuna..” He loved the way his name sounded leaving your mouth. He wished he saw you come undone all the time.

“Come on me,” he whispered, voice raw. “Wanna feel you soak me. Make a mess, baby. Let me feel you lose it.”

And you did—grinding down hard, nails raking down his chest as your climax hit, walls clenching around him, body shuddering in his lap. He groaned, hips stuttering once, twice—and then he came too, deep inside you, filling you with a low, guttural curse against your neck.

Afterward, you stayed there—both of you sweaty, shaking, soaked in blood and rain and everything that made you dangerous for each other. His head dropped to your shoulder, chest rising and falling fast.

You nuzzled your head against his neck and pressed a couple of kisses on it. You missed this. But of course you were gonna tell him that.

“…Still gonna kick me out?” he asked, voice muffled.

You exhaled.

“After I stitch you up.”

You stayed in his lap longer than you should’ve.

His heart was still racing beneath your palm, his breath slowing but shallow. You could feel the wet stick of sweat, blood, and cum between your thighs, but neither of you moved. For a moment, everything was still—just the soft hum of the rain against the windows and the weight of him inside you, twitching slightly as his body relaxed.

“I’m… i’m not proud of this,” you muttered into his neck.

He chuckled weakly even though your words stung. “What, letting me fuck you raw or the part where you let me in after I bled all over your doorstep?”

“Honestly both.”

He winced when you finally shifted off of him, your body aching and sticky, his now-soft cock slipping free. You hissed slightly at the soreness, and his hand caught your arm.

“Wait. Let me see you.”

You turned your face, expecting another one-liner, another grin that tried too hard. But his eyes were different now—soft, heavy-lidded, something real swimming under all that usual cocky bravado. Something that you’ve never seen before. He looked at you like he meant it this time.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” he said. “I was bleeding. I thought… if I was gonna die, it should be with you.”

“You’re not dying,” you said sharply. “Not in my damn house.”

You stood and grabbed the first towel you could find, pressing it between your legs with a wince before tossing another at him.

“Clean yourself up. You smell like blood and bullshit.”

He smirked. “Still bossy. I missed that.”

You didn’t respond. You headed to the bathroom, came back with a first-aid kit and antiseptic, and dropped to your knees in front of him—again—but this time with gloves on and your jaw tight. The stab wound had slowed its bleeding, but the edges were ugly. Deep. You’d seen worse. But not on him.

As you cleaned it, his fingers slipped into your hair again, but there was no heat behind it this time—just the need to touch you, to ground himself.

“Careful,” he muttered softly.

“You’re lucky I don’t pour vodka in this and call it a day.”

“Wouldn’t be the worst pain I’ve felt.”

You glanced up. “That a challenge?”

“No.” He leaned back, watching you. “That’s me saying I’m sorry.”

The words made your hands still for a second.

You didn’t look at him.

“You should’ve said that the night you disappeared.”

“I couldn’t. I thought leaving would protect you.”

“From what—your enemies or yourself?” He didn’t answer. That told you enough.

You stitched him slowly, carefully, even when the silence grew thick again. Every now and then, he’d flinch and curse, but not once did he stop you.

When it was over, you stood up, wiped your hands clean, and looked down at him, now bare-chested on your couch with a gauze-wrapped stomach, and that same haunted look in his eyes.

“Would…you want to stay here tonight?”

He blinked. “You’d let me?”

“No.” You crossed your arms. “But I’m not dragging your half-dead ass back out in the rain either.”

You started to walk away, but then paused in the doorway.

“Guest room’s made up. Towels are clean. Don’t touch anything.”

“Can I touch you again?”

You turned your head just enough for him to see your glare.

“…Sleep.”

You closed your eyes and sighed. 

“Please.”

He watched you go.

And for the first time in a long time, he listened.

—

The house was still when he got up.

Dim morning light filtered through the curtains, softening the edges of the bruises on his body. The guest room smelled like you — not directly, but faintly, like old shampoo, clean cotton, and warmth. He hadn’t slept. He’d stared at the ceiling most of the night, hand pressed to his stitched side, replaying the sound of your voice, your breath, the way you clenched around him when you came with his name on your tongue.

It would’ve been easier if you hadn’t held him after. If you hadn’t cleaned his blood with shaking hands and called him an idiot under your breath while brushing his hair off his forehead like you still gave a damn.

That was the problem. You still did.

He sat on the edge of the bed, fully dressed now—sweats, hoodie, boots laced in silence. The wound in his side pulled, a dull, pulsing reminder of how close he’d come to dying.

You’d saved him. Again.

He found a piece of paper from your desk drawer and scribbled something messy on it. He folded it once, twice, and left it on the kitchen counter where you’d find it but couldn’t stop him.

He looked toward your closed bedroom door.

He thought about going back in. Just to look at you one last time.

But he didn’t trust himself not to crawl into your bed. Not to kiss your forehead. Not to ask to stay.

He didn’t want to see your eyes when you realized he was leaving. Again.

So he slipped out the front door like a ghost. No sound. No word. Just the quiet creak of the lock behind him.

You found the note two hours later, half-awake and wrapped in yesterday’s regret.

It read:

Didn’t come here to stay. Just to survive. You made that happen. Still yours. Just not safe to be. From S.

You sat at the table in silence. You didn’t cry. You’d done that the last time. This time, you just stared at the paper for a long, long while.

Then you folded it neatly, placed it in the drawer beside your bed, and tried to pretend like you didn’t still check the door every night after that.

Toji stood at your door after midnight, hoodie unzipped, hair tousled, eyes dark. His voice was low — the way it always got when he was up to no good.

“You shouldn’t be here Toji, we are broken up. You can't show up out of the blue when you want to.” You said lowly—voice almost a harsh whisper.

“Was just in the neighborhood,” he said, like this was casual.

But it wasn’t casual. Not with how long you’d been dancing around each other. Not with how he was looking at you — like you were already undone beneath him.

You should’ve shut the door. Instead, you stepped back, heart pounding.

Toji walked in slow, gaze dragging over your sleep shirt — the thin one, the one you never wore around him on purpose. It barely hit your thighs. No bra. No shorts. Just you, nerves and a thick silence.

He didn’t sit this time. Just stood there, eyes roaming your body like he had every right to look.

“What are you doing here Toji?” You stood against the door with your arms crossed over your chest.

“Can’t sleep or something?” You whispered, voice unsteady.

He took a step closer. “Didn’t come here to sleep.”

You breath hitched.

Another step. Now he was right in front of you. Tall, warm, dangerous in the way only he could be — arrogant and beautiful and completely off-limits.

“You gonna make me leave?” he asked.

You didn’t answer. Your silence said everything.

Toji fingers brushed your jaw. Rough hands, calloused from the field, now cradling you like you might break. “Tell me no,” he murmured, voice like smoke. “Tell me to stop.”

You should’ve. But you didn’t.

He kissed you — hard. Lips claiming, tongue sliding past yours with no hesitation. You gasped, and he took advantage, deepening the kiss until you were breathless. His hands gripped your hips, dragging your flush against him.

You felt how hard he was already. Thick, demanding, pressed right against the heat of you through the cotton of your shirt.

“Oh my God,” you whispered against his mouth, half a whimper.

“Been thinkin’ about this for weeks,” he growled, kissing down your neck, biting softly at the curve of your shoulder. “The way you always act so damn sweet. Look at you now.”

You arched into him, thighs clenching. “Toji …”

“Say what you want,” he muttered, sliding his hands beneath your shirt, fingers grazing your bare skin. “Say you want me.”

“I want you,” you breathed, barely audible.

He yanked the shirt over your head, green eyes raking over your bare chest. “Fuck.”

He didn’t waste a second — mouth on your nipple, sucking hard while his other hand squeezed the other breast. You moaned, loud and needy.

Toji dropped to his knees in front of you, hands trailing down your waist. “These gotta go.”

Your panties slid down your thighs, slow and deliberate. He kissed the inside of your knee. Then your inner thigh. Then again, higher.

“Toji—wait—”

His tongue found your heat before you could finish. You cried out, grabbing his hair for balance, knees going weak. His mouth was merciless — licking, sucking, tongue circling your clit until you were shaking.

“Fuck,” you gasped, head tipped back. “I’m gonna—”

He didn’t stop until you came undone on his tongue, hips grinding against his face, mouth falling open in a broken moan.

Toji stood, licking his lips like he hadn’t just wrecked you.

You were trembling.

He kissed you again, this time with teeth, his fingers between your legs, rubbing slow circles over your still-sensitive clit. “Not done with you.”

“Please,” you whimpered. “I want—”

He didn’t wait. Pulled his sweats down just enough to free himself — thick, hard, already leaking at the tip. You stared, flushed and desperate.

“Gonna let me fuck you, Y/n?” he growled, teasing your entrance with the head of his cock. “Let me ruin you?”

“Yes,” you begged. “Please, Toji—”

He thrust in one hard, deep stroke.

You both moaned.

“God, you’re tight,” he groaned, jaw clenched. “Fuck.”

You clung to him, arms around his shoulders, moaning in his ear as he started to move. Slow at first, grinding into you with filthy precision, then harder — deep, punishing thrusts that made the wall rattle behind you.

“Say it,” he hissed, thrusting harder. “Say you wanted this.”

“I wanted it,” you cried. “I want you—Toji, I—”

He fucked you against the wall, hands gripping your thighs, holding you up like you weighed nothing. Every slam of his hips hit you just right. You were close again — you could feel it building, fast and hot.

“Come on, baby,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “Cum for me.”

You shattered. Clenching tight around him, sobbing his name as your orgasm crashed through you. That was all it took — he groaned loud, hips jerking, spilling inside you with a final thrust.

You stayed like that — panting, sweaty, shaking.

Toji kissed you — softer now, still possessive — then carried you to the bed without a word, laying you down gently. He collapsed beside you, dragging you close, his hand sliding over your bare hip like you belonged there.

You did.

✦ RYOMEN SUKUNA ⋮ criminal love ﾉ bathroom

✦ TOJI FUSHIGURO ⋮ make me leave

✦ SUGURU GETO ⋮ none listed

✦ KENTO NANAMI ⋮ none listed

✦ SATORU GOJO ⋮ breeding you ﾉ blue silk ties

✦ CHOSO KAMO ⋮ gamer boyfriend

✦ SHIU KONG ⋮ none listed

to start of the rules, #erycore ⭑ is my personal tag for everything under this blog and for my works. i’m a very forgetful person so master list won’t be updated right away but please believe they will get updated eventually.

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please know that there’s only one person running this blog and that makes it hard to keep track of everything. specifically requests, so sometimes I’ll run on queue and also im a slow writer since I’m busy but trust I WILL get stuff done !!

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