Mxxn

Abt this account!!

This is a multi-fandom fanfic account. I do fanfics, oneshots, headcannons all the good stuff. There is some NSFW things here and there, for that MDNI!!

I am a fairly new writer, give me some grace😓 My requests are open and probably will stay that way for a long time, if you enjoy the fanfics dont be scared to drop a follow!

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Tags: NSFW MDNI, Very Needy Choso, Face Sitting, Cunnilingus, Dominate Female reader, Praise Kink, Begging, Smut, Submissive Choso

Kitora was the first to notice the shift in the room's atmosphere. The sleek black cat narrowed her eyes from her perch atop the bookshelf, letting out a soft, warning chuff. 

You didn’t look up from your laptop. Your hair was ruffled, a few stray strands falling over your forehead. Choso was staring again. 

He was seated on the edge of the bed, his usual stoicism completely dissolved into something soft and painfully desperate. It was a common occurrence; Choso, for all his lethal prowess as a Death Painting, was a man built for devotion. And you, who guarded your personal space like a fortress, was the only thing he wanted to worship.

“My love,” he murmured. His voice was a low rasp that usually made your skin prickle.

“I’m working, Choso.” You didn't look at him. Your eyes remained fixed on the screen. You didn't do 'touch' often. It was too loud, too demanding. 

But Choso was a master of silent pressure. He moved closer, crawling on his hands and knees until he was right between your legs, looking at you hungrily through hooded eyes. He didn't touch you yet — he knew the rules — but the heat radiating from him was palpable. 

“You’ve been working for hours,” he whispered, his large hands resting tentatively on the back of your laptop. “Please. Just a moment of your time.”

You finally sighed, snapping your laptop shut. You looked at him, your expression cool, though the slight glint in your pupils betrayed you. “You’re being particularly needy tonight.”

“I’m hungry for you,” Choso admitted, his eyes dark with an intensity that would have terrified anyone else. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against your shoulder, his breath hitching when you didn't pull away. “I want to be useful. I want to feel you.”

You reached up, your slender fingers brushing through his messy hair — a rare concession. “And what does ‘useful’ look like in that head of yours?”

Choso looked up, his gaze dropping to the silver bar in your tongue as you spoke, then lower to the toned line of your thighs beneath your large shirt. He swallowed hard. “I want to be beneath you. Truly beneath you. Please, my darling... let me... I want you to sit on my face.”

The bluntness of it made your eyebrows jump. “Choso.”

“Please,” he begged, his voice cracking. He shifted, sinking closer to you, his expression one filled with pure need and devotion. “I want to taste you. I want to hold the weight of you. I won’t move, I’ll just… I’ll just serve you. Please.”

You looked at him — at the raw, unchecked desperation on his face. You glanced at Kitora, who gave a slow blink of approval before turning her head. 

“You’re pathetic when you’re like this,” You said, though there was no heat in the insult. 

“I am,” Choso agreed immediately, his hands reaching up to catch the hem of your shirt, his fingers trembling slightly. “Anything you want to call me, as long as you let me.”

You stood up from the bed slowly, shedding your panties. Choso’s breath caught, his heart hammering against his ribs so loudly you could almost hear it. You moved to the edge of the bed and spread your legs slightly. You didn't say a word, just tapped the mattress below you.

Choso didn't need a second invitation. He scrambled onto the bed, his movements frantic yet careful not to crowd you. He laid himself flat between your thighs, looking up at you with those haunting eyes. 

You shifted, sliding down until you were hovering directly over him. “Don’t make me regret this,” you warned, your voice dropping an octave.

You lowered yourself.

Choso let out a choked, muffled sound of pure bliss as you settled her weight onto him. The scent of you — an earthy musk and something sweet — flooded his senses. He couldn't help it; his hands flew to your hips, his fingers digging into the firm, toned muscle of your waist, anchoring you to him.

You gasped, your back arching. The silver ball of your tongue piercing clicked against your teeth. “Choso—”

He didn't wait. He plunged his tongue into you, finding a rhythm with a desperation that was both feral and incredibly sweet. He was worshipful in his execution, his tongue swiping with broad, wet strokes that made your head throb. 

You weren't used to this much sensation. You usually preferred your autonomy, your quiet. But with Choso literally beneath you, bearing your entire weight and devouring you like his life depended on it, your independence felt less like a shield and more like a veil you were happy to tear.

“Choso, fuck,” you hissed, your fingers lacing into his dark hair, pulling hard. 

He groaned into you, the sound vibrating through your entire lower body. He was begging again, even with his mouth full—unintelligible sounds of devotion and need. He pushed his face deeper against you, his nose buried in your folds, breathing you in as he worked his tongue with a relentless, frantic pace. 

Stars spun in your vision. You looked down at him—the way his hands gripped your thighs, his knuckles white, the way he looked so utterly ruined by you. It was a power trip you hadn’t expected to enjoy this much.

“Again,” you commanded, your voice trembling. “Right there.”

Choso obeyed instantly. He was a creature of blood and instinct, and right now, every drop of his blood was dedicated to your pleasure. He used his fingers to spread you further, his tongue hitting your clit with a precision that sent a jolt of lightning straight to your toes.

Your breath came in ragged, short bursts. You felt the climax building—a supernova behind your eyes. You leaned back, your weight pressing harder into his face, nearly smothering him. Choso didn't pull back; he leaned *into* it, his hands sliding up to your breasts, his thumbs brushing over the peaks of your nipples, loving every inch of you.

“I’ve got you,” he seemed to mumble against your wetness. “I’ve got you, my love.”

You broke. 

Your body convulsed, a sharp cry tearing from your throat as you came. You clamped down on him, your muscles twitching in the aftershock of a release so intense it made your eyes water.

Choso took every bit of it. He stayed there, his tongue moving slower now, lapping up the remnants of you, his breath hot and ragged against your skin. He didn't pull away until you finally slumped forward, your strength spent.

When you finally shifted, Choso looked up at you, his face a mess, his hair disheveled, and his expression one of absolute, terrifying love. 

“Better?” he whispered.

You wiped your eyes, your hair a disaster, your pupils dilated so much it almost swallowed your irises whole. You looked at him, then at your own trembling hands. 

Choso wrapped his long arms around you, pulling your back into his chest. “Can I stay?” Choso asked, his voice muffled in the crook of your neck.

You sighed, closing your eyes and leaning into his heat. “Yeah,” you murmured, your voice drifting off. “Stay.”

Tags: Vampire AU, Smut, Blood Drinking, Neck Biting, Markings, Possession, Protective Levi, Rough Sex, Bloodplay, Clingy/Possessive Levi.

The velvet curtains of Levi’s study were drawn tight against the moonlight, leaving the room illuminated only by the flicker of low-burning candles and the dying embers in the hearth. The air here was always the same: it smelled of ancient parchment, expensive Earl Grey, and the sharp, metallic tang of copper that seemed to emanate from Levi’s very pores.

You stood in the center of the room, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs—a sound that, in this silence, was as loud as a drumbeat to the creature watching you.

Levi sat behind his mahogany desk, his posture perfect, his fingers laced together. He looked every bit the Victorian aristocrat, save for the unnatural stillness of his body and the way his steel-gray eyes glowed with a faint, predatory red in the shadows.

"You’re late," he rasped. His voice was a gravelly silk that made the hair on your arms stand up. "I told you to be back before the moon reached its peak."

"The market was crowded, Levi. I—"

In a blur of motion too fast for human eyes to track, he was in front of you. The air shifted as his cold, solid weight crowded into your space. One hand, pale and deceptively slender, shot out to grip your waist, while the other tilted your chin up. His touch was icy, but the possessive strength in his fingers made heat bloom in your belly.

"You smell of them," he hissed, his nose dragging along the pulse point of your neck. "Stale sweat and cheap cologne. You were talking to the baker's boy again."

"I was buying bread," you gasped, your head falling back as his grip tightened. "He’s just a boy, Levi."

Levi’s fangs nipped at the skin of your throat—a warning graze that sent a shiver straight to your core. "He looked at you as if you were something he could have. As if you aren't already spoken for. I don’t like other vermin sniffing around my things."

He leaned in closer, his tongue dragging a hot, wet stripe from the hollow of your throat to behind your ear. "You're mine. Every drop of blood in these veins belongs to me. Do you understand?"

"Yes," you whimpered, your fingers clutching the lapels of his heavy black coat. "Yes, Levi."

He didn’t answer with words. Instead, his hand slid from your chin to your nape, his fingers tangling in your hair to pull your head to the side, exposing the jugular. Levi didn't hesitate. He sank his fangs deep into the tender flesh.

You cried out, half-pain and half-searing ecstasy, as the intoxicating venom in his saliva flooded your system. It acted like a drug, making your limbs feel heavy and your mind haze over. You felt the rhythmic, powerful tug of him drinking—a visceral, intimate connection that left you weak.

Levi let out a low, vibrating growl of satisfaction. He didn't take much; he was never reckless with you. When he pulled away, he licked the puncture marks clean with obsessive care, ensuring not a single drop was wasted or allowed to stain your clothes.

But he was far from finished. The taste of you always flipped a switch in him—from the controlled, stoic captain to a ravenous, centuries-old beast.

He swept the tea set and books off his desk with a single, violent motion of his arm. He hoisted you up, seating you on the edge of the dark wood, and stepped between your thighs.

"I'm going to make sure that for the next week, the only thing you smell of is me," he muttered, his voice dropping an octave as he began to unlace your bodice with frantic, trembling fingers.

When he finally bared you to his sight, he stared at your chest with a hunger that had nothing to do with blood. He lowered his head, his mouth capturing your nipple, his tongue swirling and sucking until you were sobbing his name, your heels digging into his back.

Levi’s hands roamed over you with territorial fervor, marking every inch of your skin with hickeys and light teeth marks—bruising claims that would bloom like dark flowers by morning.

"Please, Levi," you begged, reaching for the buttons of his trousers.

He assisted you, his movements efficient even in his lust. When he was finally free, thick and pulsing with undead heat, he didn't give you a moment to adjust. He gripped your thighs, hiking them over his broad shoulders, and drove himself into you in one long, devastating thrust.

The breath was punched out of you. You felt entirely occupied, stretched to your absolute limit by his size. Levi let out a sharp, staccato groan, his forehead dropping against yours as he stayed still for a moment, savoring the tight, wet heat of you.

"Look at me," he commanded.

You forced your eyes open, meeting his burning red stare. He began to move then—a ruthless, pounding rhythm that shook the desk against the wall. He was powerful, his muscles working beneath his skin like coiled steel. Every snap of his hips was an assertion of ownership, a deep, bruising drive that sent sparks of white-hot pleasure through your nerves.

"Tell me," he rasped, his breath hot against your lips. "Whose are you?"

"Yours," you cried, your voice breaking as you felt the first ripples of your climax building. "Always yours, Levi."

He kissed you then—a messy, desperate clash of lips and teeth that tasted of your own blood and his desire. His pace became frenetic, a blur of motion that drove you toward the edge of a cliff.

When you broke, your body clenching around him in tight, rhythmic spasms, Levi let out a low, animalistic growl. He buried his face in your neck, his fangs grazing the skin again as he flooded you with his release.

For several minutes, the only sound in the room was your synchronized, heavy breathing. Levi didn't pull away immediately. He remained buried inside you, his arms wrapping around your torso to pull you flush against him. He hid his face in the crook of your neck, his lips pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the marks he’d left earlier.

"Mine," he whispered into your skin, his voice back to its usual soft, gravelly tone, but layered with a fierce, unwavering devotion.

He stayed that way, holding you in the quiet dark of the room, until the first hint of dawn began to touch the horizon. He would carry you to his bed, clean you with a damp silk cloth, and guard your sleep with the same terrifying intensity that he had claimed your body—a vampire king, and you, his only tether to the world of the living.

You groaned, your patience entirely evaporating as you turned on your heel and grabbed Naomi by the elbow. "We're leaving," you muttered, your raspy voice leaving absolutely no room for argument. "I'll explain in the car."

"Wait, my drink—!" Naomi protested, but you were already practically dragging her out, weaving through the sweaty bodies and spilling out into the crisp, mercifully cool night air. 

True to your word, once they were sealed inside the quiet sanctuary of your beat-up sedan, you told her everything. You recounted the kitchen encounter with a heavy scowl, detailing how obnoxiously arrogant Gojo had been, how close he had stepped, and the absolute audacity the frat king had to touch your face. 

You finished his rant and looked over, only to be met with a massive, shit-eating grin on Naomi’s face. 

"You mean to tell me he flirted with you?" she squealed, her hands slapping her knees in delight. 

You huffed, your ash-grey hair falling over your eyes as you shook your head aggressively. "That wasn't flirting—"

"As if you'd know that!" Naomi interrupted, pointing a manicured finger at your nose. "I'm the queen when it comes to flirting! That was flirting. Oh my god, Satoru Gojo wants to climb you like a tree."

You gripped the steering wheel so hard your knuckles turned stark white against the dark caramel of your skin. The thought sent an involuntary, horrifying jolt of heat straight to your groin, a sensation you violently forced down. "We're going home," you gritted out, shoving the key into the ignition. 

The next week was exactly as normal as you wanted it to be. 

you went to your classes, sat in the very back, and retreated straight to your dorm. Your only physical contact consisted of Kitora, your massive, fluffy Maine Coon mix, who spent hours draped over your chest, purring a heavy rhythm that usually grounded you. But this week, your mind was traitorous. 

While running your fingers through Kitora’s fur, your brain would suddenly supply the phantom scent of expensive bourbon and mint. When you looked in the mirror, your fingers would brush your septum ring, remembering the agonizingly slow way Gojo’s long fingers had flicked the metal. You pushed the thoughts down with a heavy, frustrated sigh, summing it up to you just being profoundly annoyed that someone had invaded your personal bubble. That was all. 

By Friday afternoon, the sun was blazing, and you and Naomi were out, walking across the bustling campus square to her favorite artisan ice cream spot. you was dressed down but still distinctly himself: a loose black muscle tee that dipped low, displaying the hard earned tonedness of your arms. your heavy silver chains clinked softly as you walked, your ash-grey mullet catching the sunlight. 

"I'm just saying, if you got the matcha flavor last time, you need to branch out," Naomi was saying, walking backward to face you. 

You rolled your eyes. "I like routine. Routine doesn't disappoint me."

you looked past her shoulder, and your breath instantly snagged in your throat. 

Walking down the opposite side of the promenade were Geto and Gojo, deeply engrossed in their own conversation. Gojo was impossible to miss. Even in a simple white tee and loose denim, he looked like a walking centerfold, his white hair gleaming practically blindingly in the sun. The stupid round sunglasses were still firmly perched on his nose. 

you grumbled under your breath, your jaw clenching tight enough to crack a molar. You averted your gaze, staring intensely at a nearby trash can, praying to whatever higher power existed that they would just walk past each other. 

But Gojo was a predator by nature. His radar pinged the second you entered his vicinity. 

Gojo stopped mid-sentence. From behind his dark lenses, his icy blue eyes locked onto the ash-grey mullet, tracing down to the exposed, toned arms. The memory of their kitchen standoff flooded back—the flash of the tongue piercing, the raspy, venomous voice, and the fact that you hadn't backed down an inch. That same electric spark from the party flared to life in Gojo’s chest, hot and demanding. 

Instead of walking past, Gojo aggressively altered his course, striding directly into your path. 

"Well, well, well," Gojo practically purred, forcing you to halt so abruptly that Naomi bumped into your back. "If it isn't the life of the party."

Your eyes narrowed into slits. The sheer proximity of the taller—well, equally tall—man made your skin prickle. "Get out of my way, Gojo."

Gojo just smirked, planting his feet and sliding his hands into his pockets. "And here I thought we were getting to be such good friends. You didn't even say goodbye last week." 

Geto caught up, offering Naomi a polite, somewhat apologetic smile before looking between the two men. The tension between them was so thick it was practically suffocating the sidewalk. 

"We're not friends," you snapped, your voice rough, dropping an octave. "And considering you look like a walking STD, I'd prefer to keep a ten-foot radius between us at all times."

Naomi gasped softly. Geto let out a bark of laughter, clearly enjoying the show. 

Gojo didn’t get mad. If anything, his grin widened, exposing straight white teeth. He took a deliberate step forward, closing the distance until the toes of their sneakers were touching. Once again, you refused to back down, lifting your chin so their eyes were perfectly level. 

"Is that so?" Gojo murmured, his voice dropping into a low, rumbling register that sent a dangerous shiver down your spine. The frat boy arrogance was laced with something deeply hungry. Gojo slowly lowered his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose, exposing those vivid, crystalline blue eyes. "Because from where I'm standing, you don't look like you want to be ten feet away from me at all."

Your heart hammered against your ribs. The touch-starved part of your brain screamed at the nearness, the sheer, radiant heat coming off Gojo's body. Your eyes flicked down to Gojo's lips before you caught yourself, snapping your gaze back up with a fierce scowl. 

"Move," you warned, your tone dark. "Before I make you."

"Oh, pretty boy," Gojo whispered, leaning in just a fraction of an inch closer, the scent of mint and musk washing over you. "I'd love to see you try."

Your tongue darted out, dragging over your bottom lip in a nervous tick, the silver ball of your piercing glinting in the sun. Gojo’s eyes immediately dropped to your mouth, tracking the movement like a starving man looking at a feast. 

Before you could throw the punch your muscles were winding up for, Naomi hooked her arm firmly through yours. 

"Ice cream, bub," she chirped brightly, entirely unfazed by the localized hurricane of sexual tension happening in front of her. "It's melting, let's go."

You held Gojo's intense stare for one second longer, the unsaid challenge hanging heavy in the air between them. Finally, you broke away, letting Naomi pull you past the two frat boys. As your shoulder brushed against Gojo's, a jolt of electricity zapped through your nerves, making your breath hitch audibly. 

Gojo definitely heard it. 

As you walked away, your skin burning where they had touched, Gojo turned his head to watch you leave.

Your jaw ticked, a muscle feathering rapidly in your cheek as you stared straight ahead. "Don't say a thing."

But Naomi never listened.

She held it in for exactly three seconds before she exploded into a fit of breathless laughter, slapping your arm. "I didn't even have to say a word! Your face is saying it all for me! You are practically glowing neon red."

"It's the sun," you ground out, walking faster, your combat boots hitting the pavement with heavy, aggressive thuds. "It's ninety degrees outside."

"Oh, please!" Naomi jogged a few steps to keep up with your long strides, your eyes dancing with wicked delight. "I am looking at a man who is two seconds away from hate-fucking the king of Sigma Alpha right there on the quad. The eye contact? The lip-staring? The shoulder brush? I thought you were going to tackle him!"

"I was going to tackle him. Out of self-defense." You shoved your hands into your pockets, your shoulders hunched up to your ears. you hated how betrayed you felt by your own body. Even now, a full block away, your skin was practically humming where Gojo’s arm had grazed yours.

It was pathetic. You was so incredibly starved for physical contact that a simple, accidental brush from an arrogant, overgrown frat boy was enough to send a shockwave of heat straight down to your toes. You wanted to peel your skin off. You wanted to go home, lock your door, and bury your face in Kitora’s grey fur until you forgot the exact shade of Satoru Gojo’s eyes.

"Self-defense, my ass," Naomi snorted as they finally reached the shaded awning of Sweet Chills, pushing the glass door open. "He wants to eat you alive. And honestly? I think you want to let him."

"If you don't shut up right now, I'm paying for my own cone and leaving you here to walk back," You threatened, though the raspy edge of your voice lacked its usual bite.

You stepped up to the counter, desperate for a distraction, and ordered a double scoop of dark chocolate cherry. You leaned your forearms against the cool marble of the counter, trying to let the chill seep into your overheated skin. You took a slow, deep breath, finally feeling your racing heart begin to settle.

And then, the little brass bell above the door chimed —

Burning The Embers Low ~ God Of War 3 Remastered

Tags: Smut, Rough Sex, Greek Mythology, God/Mortal Relationship (or God/God), Height Difference, Size Difference, Wall Sex, Short Praise (Very Gruff), Hair pulling, Throat grabbing.

The air on the peaks of Olympus was thin, smelling of ozone and the iron tang of spilled blood. Outside the chamber, the world was a cacophony of crumbling stone and divine lightning as the foundations of the Greek world bucked under Kratos’s fury.

Inside, the only sound was the heavy, rhythmic thrum of footsteps against marble.

You stood by the arched balcony, watching the storm, until the temperature in the room seemed to rise twenty degrees. You didn’t have to turn around to know he was there. The weight of his presence was an anchor.

“Kratos,” you breathed.

He came to a halt directly behind you. He didn’t touch you yet, but the heat radiating from his massive frame was a physical force. He was caked in the dust of ruins and the white, chalky ash that never left him. The crimson tattoo that snaked across his torso and over his eye seemed to pulse in the low light of the hearth.

“The cycle draws to a close,” his voice was a low, guttural vibration that you felt in your own chest. “The Olympians fall.”

“And you?” You turned slowly, meeting his steely, weary eyes. “What is left for the Ghost of Sparta when the world is ash?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, his large, scarred hand reached out, cupping your jaw. His thumb, thick and calloused, brushed over your lower lip. There was a desperate, hunger in his gaze — a need to be reminded that he was still made of flesh and bone, and not just vengeance and slaughter.

With a sudden, forceful movement, he crowded you back against the stone railing. You gasped as your lower back hit the marble, but his other arm was already around your waist, hauling you upward so your chests collided.

“Tonight,” he rasped, his forehead dropping to rest against yours, “there is only this.”

His mouth crashed against yours with the force of a tidal wave. It wasn't a soft kiss; it was a conquest. He tasted of bitterness and fire, his tongue seeking yours with a ravenous intent. Your hands flew to his shoulders, gripping the hard, corded muscle as he tasted you, his growl vibrating through your teeth.

Kratos broke the kiss to bury his face in the crook of your neck, his breathing heavy and ragged. He took a handful of your hair, tugging your head back to expose the line of your throat. His teeth grazed the skin there, biting down just hard enough to mark you—a Spartan’s claim.

“Kratos, please,” you whimpered, your nails scraping helplessly at his back.

He didn't wait. He caught the hem of your clothes and rent them with a single, sharp tug. He wasn't being cruel—he was just a man with no time for subtlety. When your skin was finally bared to the cool mountain air, he took a moment to look at you, his eyes dark with a worshipful kind of greed.

He stepped back just enough to free himself. He was monumental, a deity carved from stone and trauma, his heavy length pulsing and eager. He stepped back in, lifting you by your thighs as if you weighed nothing.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, your arms locked around his neck as he pinned you back against the temple pillar. The stone was cold, but Kratos was a furnace.

“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice cracking with the effort of restraint.

You opened your eyes, meeting that piercing, golden-brown stare. He waited until you were watching before he guided himself to your cunt. He pushed in slowly, his eyes never leaving yours, his jaw tight as he felt you stretch and give way to him.

You let out a broken cry, your head tossing back against the stone as the sheer, overwhelming fullness of him took root. He was too large, too much, yet exactly what you needed to feel alive.

“Good,” he grunted, the praise rough and blunt. “You take me so well.”

Then, the pace began.

He moved with the relentless rhythm of a battering ram. Every thrust was deep, authoritative, slamming your hips back against the pillar. The Blades of Exile jingled on his back with every snap of his hips. Kratos wasn't gentle; he pounded into you with a desperate urgency, as if he could fuck the rage out of his soul and replace it with the warmth of your body.

You were a mess of incoherent moans and scratches, your nails digging into the pale, ashy skin of his back. You felt the slick of his sweat drip and mix with your own, you didn't care, your mind focused only on the sheer force behind each thrust. You only wanted him deeper.

“Harder, Kratos!”

A dark, primal smirk touched his lips — the only shadow of a smile he ever wore. He adjusted his grip, one hand staying beneath your thigh while the other moved to the front of your throat. He didn’t squeeze, but the weight of his palm there grounded you, forced you to focus entirely on the friction between your thighs and the sight of his face above you.

The pleasure reached a fever pitch, a searing heat building in your core that made your toes curl and your back arch.

“Kratos—I’m—”

“I have you,” he growled, his thrusts becoming faster, more violent. A low, primal growl rumbling deep within his chest only brought you closer to that climax.

As you hit your peak, your body convulsing around him in tight, rhythmic ripples, Kratos let out a guttural roar. He buried his face in your shoulder, biting down hard to stifle his own shout as he finished deep inside you. It was a staggering amount of heat, a flooding sensation that made you feel like you were being filled with liquid gold.

He stayed there for a long time, his forehead pressed against your collarbone, his chest heaving as he slowly lowered you to your feet. His hands stayed on your waist, keeping you steady when your knees threatened to buckle.

Silence reclaimed the room, save for the crackle of the fire.

He stepped back, his expression returning to that stoic, haunted mask, but there was a softness in the way he reached out to wipe a stray tear from your cheek with his thumb.

He didn’t say he loved you. Kratos didn't have those words left in him. But he pulled you into his arms, wrapping his massive, scarred frame around your smaller one, and held you in the darkness as the gods died outside.

Character: Gojo Satoru x Male reader Tags: College/University AU, Frat Boy Gojo Satoru, Secret Friends with Benefits (Eventually), Touch-Starved, Snark and Banter, Sexual Tension, Heavy Smut to come.

The bass of the house music was a physical weight in the suffocating air of the Sigma Alpha fraternity house. The air smelled offensively of cheap vodka, stale weed, and expensive cologne. Kimizu hated every single molecule of it.

He wasn’t exactly a nerd by looks, but he was one nonetheless. A hyper-independent, fiercely introverted nerd who would much rather be back in his dorm, curled up in the quiet dark with his loyal cat, Kitora, resting on his chest. Yet, here he was, plastered against the sticky kitchen counter, accompanied by Naomi while she aggressively elbowed her way through the crowd to order them drinks.

"I shouldn't be here," You grumbled, your voice raspy and sharp, cutting through the heavy thump of the speakers.

Naomi slid a red Solo cup toward you, entirely unfazed by your sour mood. "You need to get out of your dorm and live! You can't spend your entire sophomore year talking to a cat."

You rolled your ash grey eyes, picking at a chipped nail. You looked wildly out of place, yet undeniably striking. Your long, ash-grey mullet framed a face that looked carved out of stone, your dark caramel skin beautifully illuminated by the overhead LED's. A septum ring caught the lights, matching the heavy silver hardware lining both of your ears. Beneath your misfits tee, your toned, lean muscles were tense, coiled tight as a spring.

"You look good tonight—" You started.

"Tonight?" Naomi interrupted, her eyes narrowing. "I look good all the time. This is why girls don't talk to you."

A dry chuckle rumbled deep in your chest. "No one talks to me, Naomi."

A faint, micro-millimeter of a smile tugged at your lips. You didn’t want people talking to you anyway. If anything, the fact that you and Naomi were as good friends as you were was simply because of her own stubborn, bulldozer-like behavior.

As Naomi wandered around the dance floor, chatting with randoms, you lingered around her, crossing your arms over his chest and shooting lethal glares at any frat guy that stared at her a bit too long.

You dodged a heavily intoxicated girl who stumbled into your personal space, your skin crawling at the near-contact. You was practically starved for touch, your body secretly aching for the grounding weight of another human being, but your mind rejected it violently. You found that keeping to yourself was simple, and safer.

Naomi finished her drink, her hips already swaying to the remix echoing from the living room. "I'd like to have a dance, if you don't mind, Mr. Bodyguard," she teased, gently shoving your arm.

Your jaw clenched, but you let her go. "Don't accept drinks from anyone holding a lacrosse stick," you called out dryly. She waved you off, disappearing into the sea of grinding bodies.

Left alone, you became a lighthouse of misery in a sea of partygoers. You politely but firmly turned down three different girls who approached you, your sharp glares doing the heavy lifting. You checked your phone. 11:45 PM. You would give Naomi exactly thirty more minutes before you dragged her out of here.

Suddenly, the energy in the room shifted. A ripple went through the crowd, parting the sweaty undergrads like the Red Sea.

Coming down the grand wooden staircase of the frat house was the unholy trinity of campus royalty: Suguru Geto, Shoko Ieiri, and the undisputed king of the house, Satoru Gojo.

Gojo looked exactly as insufferable as the rumors suggested. He wore a backward baseball cap over a mop of snow-white hair, a smug, arrogant grin plastered across his face, and a pair of dark sunglasses—indoors, like an absolute tool. Shoko immediately peeled off, muttering something about needing a cigarette as she vanished into the corner. Geto and Gojo roamed together, soaking up the attention, high-fiving brothers and winking at giggling sorority girls.

You watched them with supreme disinterest, right up until Gojo’s head snapped in your direction.

Even behind the dark lenses of Gojo's glasses, you could feel the weight of that stare. Gojo stopped mid-sentence, his head tilting slightly as he took your look in. The ash-grey hair, the striking caramel skin, the heavy hardware, the absolute disdain radiating from your posture.

Gojo tapped Geto on the shoulder, pointing a long finger in your direction. Geto smirked, and the two of them began to weave through the crowd, heading straight for the kitchen.

You groaned internally, shifting his weight. Great. Here they come. The classic frat boy alpha-male routine. They were going to pick on you, try to piss you off because you looked different, and like always - you knew exactly how this was going to end. You was going to get rude, someone was going to throw a punch, and you were gonna to get banned from a house you didn't even want to be in.

You squared his shoulders, preparing for the scuffle.

Gojo stopped right in front of you. When he stepped into your personal space, Gojo fully expected to loom over you—he was used to towering over everyone. But as they squared up, Gojo’s cocky grin faltered for a fraction of a second.

They were exactly the same height. Eye to eye. Chest to chest.

"Well, well," Gojo purred, breaking the silence. He pushed his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose, revealing striking, icy blue eyes that immediately locked onto your starry, ash-grey ones. "I know every face that walks into my house. But I don't know yours. Did you get lost on the way to a My Chemical Romance concert, or are you just crashing?"

You didn’t flinch nor step back. Instead, you looked Gojo up and down with an expression of pure, unfiltered disgust.

"I'm babysitting," You rasped, your voice dripping with venom. "And I usually try to avoid places that smell like unwashed ass and daddy's money, so don't worry. I won't make a habit of it."

Geto choked on a laugh, quickly covering his mouth with a cough.

Gojo blinked. Most people stuttered when he cornered them. Most people tripped over themselves to agree with him, or shrunk under his shadow. But you was glaring at him with a fiery defiance that made Gojo’s pulse kick up a bizarre, thrilling notch.

"Feisty," Gojo chuckled, taking a half-step closer. "You've got a lot of bark for a guy standing in my kitchen drinking my cheap vodka."

"I'm not drinking it," You snapped, practically tossing the red cup onto the counter behind you. "It tastes like hand sanitizer. I'd rather drink out of a puddle." As you spoke, his tongue darted out to wet his dry lips, catching the strobe light.

Gojo’s eyes instantly locked onto the flash of metal. A tongue piercing.

A heavy, sudden rush of heat pooled in Gojo's stomach. His gaze flicked from your lips, up to the septum ring, trailing over the beautiful contrast of dark caramel of your skin and the ash grey of your hair along your neck, down to the visible v-line disappearing into your jeans.

"Is that right?" Gojo murmured. The playful, frat-boy arrogance melted into something a lot darker, a lot more predatory. He leaned in, his voice dropping an octave, meant only for your ears. "You've got a pretty sharp tongue on you, man. I wonder what else you use it for besides insulting your hosts."

Involuntarily, your breath hitched, a sudden, foreign jolt of electricity shooting down your spine. The proximity was suffocating. Gojo smelled like mint, expensive bourbon, and a musky cologne that made your touch-starved brain short-circuit for a fatal second. You hated being touched, hated people being this close, but as Gojo's chest brushed yours, you didn't pull away.

"I use it to tell obnoxious, oversized trust-fund babies to back the fuck up," You whispered back, your usual steady and raspy voice trembling just slightly—out of anger, or something else entirely, you couldn't tell.

Gojo’s grin split into a massive, shit-eating smirk. Oh, he was fascinated. He was absolutely obsessed.

"Satoru," Geto warned gently from the side, sensing the explosive tension between the two identically tall men. "Let's not start a brawl in the kitchen. The pledges just mopped."

Gojo didn't look away from you. He reached out, his long fingers deliberately, agonizingly slow, and flicked the silver hardware of your septum ring.

You flinched hard, your hand shooting up to swat Gojo’s wrist away. "Don't touch me," you snarled.

"My bad," Gojo lied smoothly, taking a single step back, though his blue eyes remained blazing with a newfound, dangerous interest. "I'm Gojo. And you are?"

"Leaving," You spat. He turned on your heel, desperate to put distance between yourself and the terrifying gravity of Gojo Satoru. You needed to find Naomi and go to his dorm, the need to bury your face in Kitora's fur growing with each step.

"See you around, pretty boy!" Gojo called out over the music, watching the lean, toned muscles in your back flex as you pushed through the crowd.

Geto bumped Gojo’s shoulder. "You're an idiot. He looked like he wanted to stab you."

Gojo licked his lips, the phantom sting of your slap still tingling on his wrist. "Yeah," Gojo whispered, a dark, hungry smile spreading across his face. "He really did."

a/n: another ongoing story. i'll post pt2 if this part gets enough support - pt 2!!

Divine Appetite

Tags: NSFW MDNI, Ryomen Sukuna, True Form Sukuna, Heian Sukuna, Oral Sex, Facefucking, Throat Training, Gagging, Tears (Arousal/Discomfort), Power Dynamics, Size Difference, Praise, Degradation, Hair Pulling, Multiple Arms, Monster Romance, Overstimulation.

The King of Curses was a monument to divine excess.

Even in the relative quiet of his personal domain, Ryomen Sukuna radiated a pressure that made the very air heavy. His Heian-era form—massive, four-armed, and decorated in the jagged ink of his soul—loomed over you as he sat upon his throne of bone. He was a creature designed for consumption, for battle, and for the total subjugation of anything within his reach.

Currently, his reach was firmly established. Two of his four hands—the lower set, heavy and calloused—were buried in your hair, gripping the strands tight enough to force your head back. You were on your knees between his massive thighs, looking up at the four crimson eyes that regarded you with a mixture of dark amusement and hungry anticipation.

"Again," Sukuna commanded. His main mouth curled into a sneer, while the jagged second mouth at his stomach let out a low, vibrating hum of agreement that you felt in your very bones.

"I… I can't," you gasped, your throat raw and aching. Your face was flushed, and a stray tear—the involuntary byproduct of your previous attempts—was drying on your cheek.

Sukuna’s upper right hand reached down, his thick, claw-tipped finger tracing the line of your lower lip. "You can. You simply haven't learned to submit your body’s instincts to my will. An unacceptable oversight, don't you think?"

He shifted his weight, and the sight of him made your breath hitch. Sukuna in this form was… overwhelming. Everything was scaled for a god. He didn't ask; he simply presented. His thick, heavily veined length was already slick, weeping pre-come that glistened under the eerie light of the shrine.

"Open," he grunted, the grip in your hair tightening just a fraction to remind you of the stakes.

You obeyed. Your jaw was already beginning to ache, but you widened your mouth as far as it would go. Sukuna didn't wait for you to settle. He leaned forward, using his hands on your head to pull you forward while he guided himself in with his upper left hand.

The intrusion was immediate and total. Sukuna was thick enough to stretch your lips to their limit, and he moved with a slow, agonizing deliberation that was designed to test you. As the head of him pressed against the back of your throat, your body instinctively seized. Your hands flew to his thighs—broad as tree trunks and hot enough to burn—and you let out a muffled, choked sound of protest.

"Shh," Sukuna rumbled. One of his upper hands moved to the back of your neck, his large palm shielding you even as his fingers pushed your head down harder. "Relax the muscles. Don't fight me. If you let me in, it will be easier. If you resist, I’ll simply make you take it until you break."

He stayed there for a moment, letting you sit with the sensation of being completely occupied. You could feel his heartbeat vibrating through him, a steady, rhythmic thrumming against your tongue. Your eyes were watering again, blurred starred pupils looking up at his four glowing ones.

Sukuna began to move. It wasn't a gentle rhythm. It was a rhythmic, calculated assault.

Each thrust buried him deeper, forcing you to accommodate his immense size. His lower hands pulled your hair back, creating the straightest possible path for himself. He was 'training' you in the most literal sense—breaking down the reflexive barriers of your body through sheer, repeated force.

You let out a wet, strangled gag as his hips jerked forward, the base of him smacking against your chin. The sound only seemed to spur him on.

"Good," Sukuna praised, the word coming out as a dark, rough growl. "I want to hear you. I want to feel how tight your throat is when you're struggling to breathe."

The pace increased. He began to fuck your face with a predatory efficiency, his massive hips snapping forward with every drive. You were helpless in his grip, anchored by three of his four hands as the fourth came up to trace the shell of your ear, his nails lightly scratching your skin.

The sensory overload was absolute. The taste of him, the heat, the sound of his heavy, rhythmic breathing, and the way the air in the room seemed to vanish as your lungs struggled for space. Every time you tried to pull back, his fingers tightened in your hair, hauling you back onto him with a grunt of displeasure.

"Don't pull away," he hissed, his lower eyes narrowed. "Take it all. Be a good little pet and swallow every inch."

He was pushing you to your absolute limit. Your vision was beginning to swim with spots of light, your hands clutching his thighs desperately as he ruthlessly attacked your gag reflex. You were drooling now, the slickness running down his length and your chin, but Sukuna didn't care for mess. He relished it.

The jagged mouth on his stomach opened, and for a terrifying, exhilarating moment, both of his mouths were groaning in a discordant, echoing harmony. He was getting close. You could feel it in the way his muscles began to cord and the way his movements became more frantic and blunt.

"Look at me," Sukuna commanded, his voice sounding like a mountain cracking open.

You forced your stinging eyes open, meeting his gaze. All four eyes were pinned on you, radiating a dark, possessive heat that made you feel utterly small—and utterly his.

"That's it," he whispered, a sharp, savage smile crossing his face. "Hold still."

He gripped the back of your head with bruising force and slammed his hips forward one final, brutal time. You were buried as deep as physically possible, your face pressed against his pubic bone, unable to breathe or move. For several agonizing, ecstatic seconds, he held you there, and then he let go.

Sukuna groaned, a deep, primal sound that echoed through the domain as he pulsed heavily into the back of your throat. He flooded you, the sheer heat of him almost too much to bear. Your internal walls spasmed, and despite the lack of air, your own body responded to the total dominance, a messy, localized climax wracking your frame as you were forced to swallow and swallow until he was done.

Slowly, Sukuna withdrew. He sat back, his chest heaving, his four eyes glowing with satisfaction.

You slumped against his legs, panting, your jaw trembling, your face a mess of spit and tears. You felt completely unraveled, physically drained, and entirely conquered.

Sukuna reached down, his large hand gently cupping your jaw, his thumb wiping a stray drop of his release from your lip. He didn't offer a sweet apology. Instead, he pulled you up until you were leaning against his chest, his arms wrapping around you like iron bands.

"Not bad," he murmured, his second mouth letting out a low, content purr against your shoulder. "But tomorrow, we’ll see if you can hold me even longer."

You closed your eyes, too tired to argue, already knowing that under his watch, you wouldn't have a choice but to try.

an: im experimenting w the text to see if i like the big or small version better, also i need recs cs idk what to write 😓 also credits to miscellaneous-misty and kthice for the dividers

cw: NSFW mdni, Dom Levi, Praise kink, edging, bondage and brat taming

an: I made this for my Big daddy, yk who you are <33

A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex) Immaculate. You will not be allowed to sleep in a mess. The moment his breathing levels out, Levi is up. He draws a warm bath, gently carrying you to the tub to wash you himself. His hands, usually so calloused and firm, are impossibly gentle with a sponge. Clean sheets are a strict requirement. He’ll dry you off, dress you in one of his oversized, impeccably clean shirts, and pull you against his chest.

B = Body part (Their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s) His favorite part of himself is his hands; he knows exactly how to use his fingers to completely unravel you. His favorite part of you is your neck and nape. Call it a side effect of being the best Titan killer in the world, but he has an instinctual obsession with the nape of your neck. He loves to bite, suck, and leave claiming marks right where the collar of your uniform usually sits.

C = Cum (Anything to do with it) He prefers finishing inside you if you’re both clean and committed, holding you tight as he rides out his climax. However, because of his germaphobia, he’s extremely diligent about the clean-up. If he pulls out, he aims for your stomach or chest, completely mesmerized by the sight of you covered in him, before immediately reaching for the warm, damp towel he prepared beforehand.

D = Dirty Talk (What they say, how they say it) Levi isn't a poet, nor is he excessively loud. His dirty talk consists of low, raspy, gravelly commands whispered directly into your ear. "Look at me," "Take it," and "You're so fucking responsive for me." He uses a lot of blunt praise. Hearing a sharp "Good girl/boy" from him in that deep, authoritative tone is enough to make your knees buckle.

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?) He grew up in the Underground. Even if he wasn't partaking, he saw and heard enough to know exactly how the human body works. He approaches sex the same way he approaches combat: with absolute precision, efficiency, and a drive to completely dominate his objective. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

F = Favorite Position (This goes without saying) Doggy style, or any variation where he has you bent over—especially over his pristine mahogany office desk or the edge of the bed. Since he’s on the shorter side, it gives him perfect leverage to sink in as deep as possible while keeping a firm grip on your hips or pulling your hair. He loves the visual of your spine arching for him.

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous?) Deadly serious. There is absolutely nothing goofy about having sex with Levi Ackerman. However, if you make a particularly pathetic, high-pitched noise that you try to muffle, you might catch a rare, dark smirk pulling at the corner of his lips before he kisses it away.

H = Hair (How well groomed are they? Does the carpet match the drapes, etc.) Completely, flawlessly bare. He is a neat freak to his core. He shaves with the precision of a surgeon, and he expects you to maintain a high level of hygiene as well.

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment? Romantic babble?) The romance is in his actions, not his words. It’s in the way his intense, steely gray eyes never leave yours when he’s thrusting into you. It’s the way he laces his fingers with yours, pinning your wrists to the mattress, or the way he presses his forehead against yours as you both come.

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon) He rarely does it. Between the expeditions, paperwork, and training, he’s exhausted. But on those restless nights where his insomnia flares up and the tension is too high, he’ll take care of it quickly and efficiently in the shower. He closes his eyes, pictures the way you whine his name, and gets it over with in minutes.

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks) Mild bondage/restraint and a heavy praise kink (giving, not receiving). He loves the absolute surrender of having you pinned down where you can't move, entirely at his mercy. He also has a thing for sensory deprivation—specifically, blindfolding you with his cravat so you have to anticipate his every touch.

L = Location (Favorite places to do the do) His bed, purely because it’s the cleanest place in the headquarters. But if he’s been away on a long expedition and the adrenaline/lust is boiling over, he will absolutely lock his office door, sweep all his paperwork off the desk, and take you right there. (He will sanitize the desk thoroughly afterward).

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going) Disobedience. When you’re feeling a little bratty and talk back to him, his eyes darken instantly. The urge to discipline you and remind you exactly who is in charge is an immediate, undeniable trigger for him.

N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, their limits) Unwashed bodies. If you just came back from ODM training, sweating and covered in dirt, do not even think about touching his bed. You are getting in the shower first—though he is more than happy to join you and wash you himself.

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.) Levi is a god at giving oral. He sees it as a personal challenge to make you fall apart before he even takes his pants off. He’s meticulous, focused, and relentless, using his tongue and fingers to edge you until you are sobbing for him to stop. He loves the taste of you.

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual?) He starts agonizingly slow just to torture you, making you beg for more. But once you break, he shifts into a ruthless, pounding rhythm. His hips snap with terrifying speed and force. He wants you breathless, mindless, and completely overwhelmed.

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.) He appreciates efficiency. During brief lulls in expeditions or between long meetings with Erwin, pulling you into a supply closet and taking you hard and fast against the wall is an excellent stress reliever.

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.) He’s cautious by nature, so he always locks doors. But he secretly enjoys the thrill of someone being right outside. Having you under his desk, muffling your moans while Hange is rambling on the other side of the door? It makes his blood run hot.

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last) He is an Ackerman. His stamina borders on superhuman. He will outlast you every single time. He can go for hours, multiple rounds a night, and he will not let you sleep until he is thoroughly satisfied. Your thighs will be shaking the next morning.

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?) He doesn’t see the need for them. He’s highly confident in what his mouth, fingers, and cock can do. However, if he finds out a specific toy makes you lose your mind, he’ll weaponize it against you just to watch you squirm.

U = Unfair (How much they like to tease) The king of edging. He is notoriously unfair. He will bring you right to the absolute precipice of a climax, pull completely away, and just stare at you while you whine. "Did I say you could finish?" he’ll ask, forcing you to beg him for release.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make) He is quiet. Mostly it’s just the sound of skin slapping against skin, his heavy breathing, and deep, guttural grunts when he hits a particularly good spot. He demands that you be the loud one. He wants to hear every moan, gasp, and whimper he drags out of you.

W = Wild Card (A random headcanon for the character) When he’s thrusting deep into you and completely loses himself to the pleasure, he bites. He’ll latch onto your shoulder or collarbone—not hard enough to draw blood, but definitely hard enough to leave a dark, bruised ring of teeth marks that will last for a week.

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on under those clothes) He is incredibly compact and heavily muscled. His torso is covered in pale, faded scars from years of fighting, which he’s a bit self-conscious about until you kiss them. Down below, he’s definitely above average—thick, aesthetically flawless, and veiny, matching his intense, heavy-duty nature.

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?) His sex drive is extremely high, but his self-control is even higher. He can go weeks without it while out past the walls, compartmentalizing perfectly. But the second you are alone together behind closed doors, a switch flips, and he is absolutely ravenous.

Z = ZZZ (How quickly they fall asleep afterwards) Levi suffers from chronic insomnia and usually only sleeps 2-3 hours in a chair. But after exhausting himself (and you) thoroughly, lying in a clean bed with your bare, warm body curled against his chest, listening to your steady heartbeat… it's the only time his guard drops completely. It's the best sleep he ever gets.

A/n: credits to mieluno for divider!!

cw: NSFW mdni, old man leon, slight somnophilia mention, praise kink, heavy aftercare, primal/possessive instincts, desperate leon, veteran leon.

A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex) Thorough and incredibly tender. His day job is full of violence, so he treats your body like something sacred. He’ll bring a warm, damp towel to clean you up, tracing the bruises he might have left on your hips with a quiet apology. He needs skin-to-skin contact afterward to ground himself; he’ll pull you to his chest, wrapping his heavy arms around you, just listening to your heartbeat to remind himself that you’re safe and real.

B = Body part (Their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s) His favorite part of himself is his size and strength, purely because it means he can envelop you completely and keep you safe. His favorite part of you is your face. He loves cupping your cheeks with his large, calloused hands, wiping away stray tears or sweat, and just watching the expressions you make when he’s deep inside you.

C = Cum (Anything to do with it) He usually has a strict pull-out game. Bringing a child into his messed-up, bio-terror-filled world terrifies him. But if you’re safe, locked away in a secure location, and you whisper in his ear to just let go and fill you up? His control snaps. He groans like a dying man as he finishes deep inside you, holding you so tight it almost hurts.

D = Dirty Talk (What they say, how they say it) Leon’s dirty talk is less about degrading and more about desperate, filthy praise. It’s breathless, husky, and spoken right against your lips or your neck. "Fuck, sweetheart, you feel so good," "Take it all for me," and "You're mine, okay? Just mine." When he gets closer to the edge, it devolves into a string of breathless curses.

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?) Decades of it. He’s an older man now. He knows exactly how bodies work and exactly what it takes to make you fall apart. He reads your physiological responses—your breathing, your pulse, the hitch in your voice—the same way he reads a tactical situation, adjusting his angle and pace with devastating precision.

F = Favorite Position (This goes without saying) Missionary, or having you straddle his lap while he sits on the edge of the bed. He needs eye contact. He needs to see your chest rising and falling, needs to kiss you constantly. The world he lives in is cold and isolating; having you wrap your legs around his waist while he buries himself in you face-to-face is his ultimate comfort.

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous?) Mostly intense and emotional, but he’s still Leon S. Kennedy. If something awkward happens—like bumping heads or a loud, unsexy noise—that trademark dry humor slips out. He’ll crack a stupid, corny joke with a tired smirk, and hearing you laugh makes the tension instantly melt from his broad shoulders.

H = Hair (How well groomed are they? Does the carpet match the drapes, etc.) He’s a bit scruffier these days. He keeps his pubic hair trimmed and clean, but he’s definitely got a trail of hair leading down his stomach. He’s got some silver and gray coming in at his temples and through his messy blonde hair, which looks incredibly hot when it’s plastered to his forehead with sweat.

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment? Romantic babble?) Fiercely intimate. He is starved for affection. He presses his forehead against yours, laces his scarred fingers with yours, and kisses you with a desperation that suggests the world might end tomorrow. Every thrust is accompanied by a kiss, a touch, or a soft murmur of your name.

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon) He does it quickly in hotel or safehouse showers to burn off the adrenaline from a mission. He leans his head against the cold tile, closes his eyes, and thinks about the way you sounded the last time he had you pinned to the mattress.

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks) Marking and mild primal kinks. Leon suppresses a lot of his darker, more feral survivor instincts for his government job, but in bed, they come out. He loves biting (carefully) and leaving dark hickeys on your thighs, neck, and collarbones to silently declare you as his. He also loves it when you scratch his back.

L = Location (Favorite places to do the do) A secure location. He is highly paranoid. The doors must be locked, deadbolted, and the curtains drawn. He prefers a heavy, sturdy bed where he doesn’t have to worry about breaking the furniture, but if he just got back from a horrific mission and sees you waiting for him, he’ll take you right against the front door the second it locks.

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going) You initiating. He is so used to having to be the one taking charge, making decisions, and protecting everyone. When you push him back onto the bed, straddle his waist, and take control, telling him to just lie back and let you take care of him? It makes his brain short-circuit in the best way possible.

N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, their limits) Anything involving real pain, weapons, or bloodplay. He sees enough of that on the field. The bedroom is a sanctuary. If he thinks he’s genuinely hurting you, he will stop immediately, his heart dropping into his stomach until you reassure him.

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.) He is a god at giving. Older Leon takes immense pride in worshiping you. He’ll gladly spend an hour with his head between your thighs, using his mouth and fingers to edge you until you’re a sobbing, shaking mess. He loves the taste of you, and he’ll kiss you deeply afterward so you can taste yourself on his lips.

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual?) It fluctuates. When he’s feeling romantic and needs comfort, it’s agonizingly slow, deep, and sensual. But when the PTSD is flaring up or he’s riding the high of surviving a near-death encounter, he is completely feral—fast, incredibly rough, and pounding into you with a desperate, bruising rhythm.

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.) Not his favorite. He wants to take his time with you. However, if you visit him at a DSO facility and you slip into a private breakroom together, the danger of being caught by his superiors will have him hiking up your skirt and bending you over a desk in a heartbeat.

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.) Experimentation, yes. Risk-taking regarding location? No. Again, his threat assessment is always on high alert. He wants you naked, vulnerable, and safe, which means doing it in controlled environments.

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last) He’s older, so his joints ache a bit more the next day, but his stamina is still that of a highly trained bio-terrorism agent. He has incredible endurance. He can easily go three rounds a night, pacing himself perfectly so that he outlasts you every time.

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?) He doesn’t strictly need them, but he is open-minded. If he knows a vibrator will get you off faster or harder, he’ll hold it against your clit while he fucks you, watching with dark, hooded eyes as your back arches and you scream his name.

U = Unfair (How much they like to tease) He likes to pin your wrists above your head with one massive hand and hold your hips still with the other. He’ll thrust in shallow, maddeningly slow increments, refusing to let you grind against him no matter how much you beg, until you are practically crying for him to go deep.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make) Leon is vocal, but it’s mostly low, gravelly groans and heavy panting. When he finally hits his climax, it’s a deep, guttural sound from the back of his chest, accompanied by him burying his face into your neck and exhaling a shaky, drawn-out sigh.

W = Wild Card (A random headcanon for the character) His scars. By RE9, his body is a roadmap of trauma—Las Plagas scars, bullet wounds, claw marks. He’s self-conscious about them and feels like a monster sometimes. If you straddle him, trace those scars with your fingertips, and kiss them gently, this massive, lethal man will actually tear up.

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on under those clothes) Older Leon has a "dad-bod" built over a super-soldier frame. He’s thick, broad-shouldered, and heavy with muscle, but less lean than his 20s. Down beneath his tactical belt, he is extremely well-endowed—thick, heavy, and slightly curved upward, which hits your G-spot with ruthless precision.

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?) High, but deeply intertwined with his emotional state. Sex is how he processes his survival. When he comes back from a hellish mission, his yearning for you is visceral. He needs to be inside you to prove to himself that he’s still human and not just a weapon.

Z = ZZZ (How quickly they fall asleep afterwards) He struggles with horrific nightmares and insomnia, so falling asleep is hard. But after completely exhausting himself inside you, with your bare skin pressed to his side and your fingers playing with the graying hairs on his chest, he finally finds peace. It’s the only time he sleeps through the night without waking up screaming.

Characters : Megumi Fushiguro, Yuji Itadori, Nobara Kugisaki

Note : this is just like a preview to a story that i wanna try writing on AO3 but i wanna see how much attention it gets first.. lowkey my first fanfic that i post

The late afternoon sun was bleeding a bruised purple across the courtyard of Tokyo Jujutsu High, casting long, stretching shadows over the concrete. For Megumi Fushiguro, shadows had always been a second skin. They were quiet, reliable, and entirely his own.

Until you transferred in.

Megumi sat on the edge of the engawa, his knees drawn up, a book resting idle in his lap. A few feet away, you were sat perfectly still, your legs crossed, a whetstone rhythmically sliding against the curved, wicked blade of one of your dual scythes.

The silence between them wasn't heavy or suffocating. It was a rare, breathable thing.

Megumi found his gaze drifting from the pages of his book to her. It was hard not to look. You was a striking contradiction of sharp edges and soft hues. your short, ash-grey mullet framed a face defined by high cheekbones and striking dark caramel skin, beautifully marbled with patches of vitiligo that bloomed across your neck and the bridge of your nose. Silver glinted in the fading light—multiple hoops lined the shell of your ears, and a delicate septum ring rested above your cupid’s bow.

Lounging with her heavy head resting on your thigh was Kitora. The cursed lioness was massive, forged entirely of ink-black shadows that seemed to ripple like water. Megumi’s Divine Dog (White) was currently curled up near Kitora’s tail, the two shadow familiars completely at ease with one another.

"You're staring, Fushiguro," You murmured, not looking up. your voice was a low, smooth rasp.

Megumi didn't flinch, though a faint warmth pricked the tips of his ears. "Just wondering how long it takes you to sharpen those."

"As long as it needs to," you replied, finally lifting your head. Your ash-grey eyes met his, the uniquely starred pupils within them contracting slightly in the light.

Megumi knew your boundaries. Everyone did, though some respected them better than others. You kept a physical radius around yourself at all times. When Gojo tried to pat your head, you ducked. When Shoko offered a reassuring hand on your shoulder, you subtly shifted away. You hated physical contact. Or, at least, that’s what you projected. Megumi, observant to a fault, sometimes caught the way your hands twitched, or the way you instinctively leaned into Kitora’s fur when you thought no one was looking. It wasn't that you hated touch. you was terrified of it. Deprived of it.

Before Megumi could formulate a response, the serene quiet was shattered by the sound of rapid, heavy footsteps and loud bickering.

"I'm telling you, it was a cursed spirit! It looked just like a giant roach!" Yuji’s voice echoed across the courtyard as he rounded the corner, waving his arms frantically.

"And I'm telling you, you're an idiot who got jump-scared by an actual, regular roach!" Nobara marched behind him, hands on her hips, looking utterly exhausted. "I swear, I lose brain cells every time we go to a convenience store."

Megumi sighed, closing his book. Beside him, your shoulders tightened for a fraction of a second before relaxing. You didn't dislike Yuji and Nobara—in fact, you was fiercely protective of them—but their kinetic energy was a stark contrast to youir internal walls.

"Hey! Megumi! Y/n!" Yuji beamed, jogging over. He raised a hand for a high-five toward you.

You didn’t flinch, but smoothly stood up, grabbing the chain of your scythes and swinging them over your shoulder in one fluid motion, entirely bypassing Yuji's hand. "Hey, Itadori. Kugisaki."

Yuji dropped his hand, completely unfazed, already used to the dodge. "You guys wanna spar? Maki-senpai isn't here, and I've got way too much energy to just sit around!"

"When do you not?" Nobara grumbled, stretching her arms above her head. "Fine. But I'm not fighting the shadow twins over there. They're too depressing to fight at the same time."

"Shadow twins?" Megumi deadpanned, standing up and brushing the dust off his pants.

"Yeah. You and Y/n. You both brood, you both play with shadows, and you both look like you haven't slept since 2012," Nobara smirked. "I'll take Yuji. You two can fight each other."

Megumi looked over at you. You offered a slight, almost imperceptible nod.

They moved to the center of the training field. Megumi fell into his stance, dropping his center of gravity. Opposite him, you uncoiled the chains of her scythes. The heavy metal links clinked, a sharp, metallic sound that sent an involuntary shiver down Megumi’s spine. You was wearing a cropped, sleeveless training top, putting her incredibly toned arms and core on display.

"Don't hold back, Fushiguro," You warned, your starred eyes narrowing in focus.

"I never do," he shot back.

You moved first; You was blindingly fast, your shadows clinging to your heels to propel you forward. You swung your right arm, sending the chained scythe whistling through the air toward his shoulder.

Megumi ducked, feeling the wind of the blade ruffle his dark hair. He stepped into your guard, aiming a sweeping kick at your legs. You leapt over it with acrobatic grace, planting your hands on the dirt and using the momentum to flip backward, instantly re-establishing the space between them.

You hated being in close quarters. Megumi knew this.

He pressed the advantage, closing the distance again. Their sparring was always like this—a violent, beautiful dance of proximity and avoidance. When you exhaled sharply, throwing a punch that he narrowly deflected, Megumi caught a flash of silver—the piercing on her tongue. His breath hitched, a sudden, unfamiliar heat pooling in his chest.

Focus, he scolded himself, summoning Nue to strike from above.

You didn't miss a beat. You whistled—a sharp, piercing sound—and Kitora materialized from the shadows of the trees, leaping up to swat the bird-shikigami away in a clash of sparks and static.

You used the distraction to swing your chains, wrapping them around Megumi’s wrist. With a sharp yank, you pulled him forward, intent on throwing him off balance. But Megumi used the momentum, surging directly toward you. He ended up mere inches from your face, his free hand raised to strike your neck.

You froze, your eyes widening slightly at his proximity. He could smell peppermint and the ozone scent of cursed energy on you. He could see the exact pattern of the vitiligo dusting her cheeks. For a split second, neither of them moved. Her chest heaved. Megumi’s heart pounded wildly against his ribs, deafening in his own ears. It wasn't the adrenaline of the fight. It was you.

"Time out! Time out!"

The spell was broken. You instantly dropped the chain and took three rapid steps back, your walls slamming back into place. Megumi exhaled a shaky breath, rubbing his wrist, trying to ignore the sudden emptiness in the space you had just vacated.

They turned to look at the side of the field. Yuji was balancing on a wooden post on one leg, attempting what looked like a complicated martial arts crane stance.

"Look at this, Nobara! I saw it in a movie!" Yuji yelled, waving his arms.

"You look like a concussed flamingo," Nobara shouted from the sidelines, sipping a juice box.

"No, watch! I'm gonna transition into a backflip—"

Yuji pushed off the post. For a second, he looked majestic. Then, his foot caught the edge of the wood. His arms flailed like a windmill before gravity claimed him. He descended face-first, hitting the dirt with a loud, hollow thud that kicked up a cloud of dust.

Silence fell over the courtyard.

"Pfft."

Megumi snapped his head toward You.

You had a hand slapped over your mouth, but it wasn't enough to contain the sound. Another snort escaped you, and then the dam broke.

You, the most closed-off, untouchable person Megumi had ever met, threw your head back and laughed. It wasn't a polite chuckle. It was a full, unrestrained, childish belly-laugh. You crossed your arms over your chest as you bent forward, your shoulders shaking helplessly as Yuji groaned from the dirt. Your ash-grey eyes crinkled into crescents, a brilliant, blinding smile transforming your entire face.

Megumi felt his world stop spinning.

The air left his lungs. His heart, already beating fast from the spar, seemed to freeze entirely in his chest. The realization hit him with the force of a cursed technique, shattering the fragile glass of his denial.

Oh, he thought, his stomach dropping into an abyss. Oh, no.

He was falling for you.

It was terrifying. It was completely, utterly mind-breaking. Megumi had spent the last month categorizing the warmth in his chest as mutual respect. He had rationalized his hyper-awareness of your presence as mere tactical observation. He was a sorcerer; he had to be observant. But looking at you now, listening to the melodic, raspy sound of your genuine joy, he couldn't lie to himself anymore. He wanted to be the reason you laughed like that. He wanted to reach out, to bridge that untouchable gap, to trace the patterns on your skin.

"Oh my god," you gasped, wiping a tear from your eye as you caught your breath. You looked over at Megumi, your smile still lingering, soft and devastating. "Did you see his face?"

Megumi swallowed the lump in his throat. He forced his facial muscles to remain entirely impassive, locking down the absolute panic roaring in his mind.

"Yeah," Megumi managed to say, his voice perfectly level. "He’s an idiot."

Your smile faded a fraction, and you tilted your head, you starred eyes studying him closely. "You okay, Fushiguro? You look pale."

"I'm fine," he lied smoothly, turning away so you couldn't look into his eyes too deeply. "Just annoyed that he ruined a good spar."

You hummed, seemingly accepting the answer. "We'll finish it later."

"Right."

Megumi walked over to where Yuji was now sitting up, spitting dirt out of his mouth while Nobara pointed and laughed at him. As he walked, Megumi made a silent vow to himself.

You were oblivious. That much was painfully clear. You barely understood your own desires, let alone the romantic feelings of someone else. If Megumi pushed, if he showed even a fraction of what had just detonated inside his chest, you would bolt. You would close off, and he would lose the quiet solace they shared.

He couldn't risk that.

So, he would wait. Megumi Fushiguro was a patient man. He would bury this terrifying, all-consuming affection deep into the shadows. He would wait for you to figure yourself out, wait for you to lower your walls on your own terms. And if you never did… then he would wait until the feeling went away.

Even if, looking back at you out of the corner of his eye, he knew with agonizing certainty that it never would.