armins’cumstainedglasses

The three of you are lying in the bed. You’re seated between them, or more precisely, on them. Your head rests comfortably on Geto’s lap while your thighs lie on top of Gojo’s own. They’re both sat up, back against the wall and legs stretched out.

You’re currently fixated on Geto. There’s something so relaxing in the way he slowly draws smoke into his lungs, holds it in for exactly two seconds, and then exhales it from his nose like a sort of divine Kōryū.

When he’s done with his puffs, he looks down at you only to find you already staring; a couple strands of raven hair fall in front of his face as he does, those sharp eyes of his hanging low as a lazy smile approaches his lips. Even in your hazy state, it occurs to you that you’ve never found him more alluring than you do now, under the drug’s effect. There’s a calm to him so palpable that it feels like you could reach out and touch it; a calm that does not exist on any other regular day, when you’re not smoking weed and hanging casually.

You’ve always thought of Suguru as being like a quiet storm. Inaudibly tormented.

“You seem out of it,” he murmurs, and instead of passing you the burning joint, he parts your lips with his ring finger and places it between them. You inhale, then smile back as you catch the joint between your fingers and blow the smoke away from his face.

“I’m fine.”

Beside Geto, Satoru yawns soundly before letting his head flop onto his shoulder.

“This is starting to make me sleepy,” he mumbles, and you give him a light shove in the hip with your knee in response.

“Don’t. You literally promised you wouldn’t fall asleep like you did last time.”

A playful smile tugs at the corner of his lip as he looks over at you, the crystalline sea in his eyes glowing charmingly in the light coming from the buildings outside. “Promises are meant to be broken.”

Geto huffs a laugh from his nose as he wriggles his shoulder lightly, jerking Gojo’s head a little.

“Could be the smartest thing you’ve ever said.”

They inevitably start bantering after Suguru’s witty remark, low voices and giggling playing out like sounds of a distant radio in your fogged-up head.

As cheesy as it may sound, you’re glad you’re here: between them, smoking, saying stupid shit and laughing when there’s nothing to laugh about. It feels like you belong to them in the same way you belong to a certain place—like that particular spot you’ve always cherished as a kid, even though you were never able to pinpoint what made it so special in your heart.

You’re about to say something as your eyes flutter open (when did you even close them?) and you sit up, only to see Gojo and Geto with their lips intertwined. Any trace of thought is wiped clean from your mind.

The slowness and touchiness of it all suggest that this is definitely not their first time doing this.

One of Geto’s hands is cupping Gojo’s cheek while the other makes its way up and through his white locks. The gesture itself is almost as intimate as the kiss they’re sharing.

If weed had already begun to dry out your mouth, you’re now certain that said dryness comes from an entirely different feeling.

It’s when one of them hums something close to a soft moan into the other’s mouth that your stomach curls and tightens and suddenly you’re way too aware of your own labored breathing.

Have you smoked too much…? Maybe you’re hallucinating and this isn’t real.

But what if it is real? Are you supposed to leave them alone? You feel like you shouldn’t be witnessing this. There are so many emotions swirling inside of you that it’s impossible to discern which is which.

You put the joint down in the ashtray between you three, deciding that it’s best if you just go drink some water and maybe when you’ll be back you’ll see that none of it happened and that it was all made up by your intoxicated imagination.

That was the plan until you felt a hand on your thigh—that being Satoru’s. When you turn to look at him, he looks beautifully disheveled in the same way organized chaos is, like in those apocalyptic paintings of the nineteenth century.

“Stay,” is all he says. It’s not exactly a plead, but it’s definitely not a command either. As if he knew you’d comply either way.

Before you can muster up any sort of response, another hand—Suguru’s—crawls up the back of your neck and pulls you in. You don’t even try to resist since you already know that you just can’t. They’ve always felt ‘magnetic’ in a way, as if some unnamed force of sorts kept on tugging you towards their orbit: once you’re in its epicenter, there’s no way out. Not that you ever tried to find one.

In a much similar way, you yield to their touch and let them draw your body between their pleasingly warm ones. You feel fuzzy and tingly all over, unsure if it’s because of the drug working up your system or if it’s because of them simultaneously sinking their heads in the sides of your neck. Their breaths are warm and their lips wet as they pepper open-mouthed kisses and the occasional gentle bite up and down your feverish skin; you can do nothing but melt into them, arms slowly coming up to wrap around their shoulders as you sigh.

You should be wondering if they were casually making out just because they’re high (that can happen, right?) or if they have a ‘thing’ going on—and if they do, why didn’t they tell you? You should also be asking yourself why they made you stay, and even more so, why they’re kissing you now.

You really, really should.

But reality is, whatever this is feels too good to be questioned.

You force yourself to keep your eyes open, suddenly afraid that once the drug’s effect is over you won’t be able to remember any of this. You need to commit every single second to memory. You need to know that this is real and tangible.

Maybe that’s why you pull on Gojo’s hair. Not roughly, but definitely hard enough to make him feel something, given how he hums against you. He glances up at you, then traces his mouth all the way up your cheek in a damp trail of scattered kisses until he takes an unexpected turn towards your lips instead.

Satoru’s tongue is in your mouth before your body even reacts to the sudden intrusion. He tugs at your t-shirt, drawing you closer until you’re facing each other completely. He shifts to sit on his knees without breaking the kiss and so do you. His arms naturally find purchase around your waist, like you’ve done this a hundred times before. He grips you tighter for a brief moment and scoops you up so you’re settled in his lap, each knee beside his hips.

He spills languid moans into your mouth, forcing you to drink them in, making your stomach do weird flips with every noise. He’s all but gentle with it—he’s slow and sensual but increasingly intense and sloppy, as if he’s getting impatient. It’s the kind of pace difficult to keep up with when you’re high. You wonder if he’s as messy when sober.

When your senses become so overwhelmed that your ears begin to ring, you feel Suguru’s chest lean against your back. He applies enough pressure for you to press tighter against Satoru; he’s holding you together to make sure you don’t melt away. He works lingering kisses behind your ear, earning a shiver out of you.

Your hands instinctively come up to hold onto Gojo’s shoulders as you pull away from his lips to catch your breath, a single string of spit being the only thing connecting you two before it inevitably snaps. His chest rises and falls heavily with every breath, forehead dipping to rest against your shoulder.

One of Geto’s hands reaches up to run its fingers through his silky hair just to tug at it the next second, making him look up.

There’s something punishing in the way Geto catches his lips next, crushing you between their bodies with the force with which he leans in. Something primordial and raw that you’re not part of, and aren’t meant to be.

You can hear Gojo’s moans muffled by Geto’s mouth when his hips start bucking up against yours.

That’s when you see it for how it truly is: they’re ruining each other through you.

As of now, you’re a tool to them.

You don’t know if it should, but it indeed turns you on.

Your mouth finds Gojo’s neck to kiss and suckle on as your hips move in tandem with his, making your ass bump against Geto at the same time, who soon catches the rhythm. They’re both hard—you can feel it—and it’s driving you insane, almost as much as the sounds they make. Your brain could melt out of your ears at any moment at this rate.

After they break their kiss, they both lean onto you, panting and seemingly exhausted if it weren’t for their hips still incessantly rolling up into you. You bite down your lip to suppress any obscene sound threatening to spill out, but Geto grabs you by the chin with a firm hand, turns your head towards his, and presses his lips to yours.

His kiss is searing, even vicious in a way. He’s relishing the way you taste and the way Satoru tastes on you, that much you can tell. However, deep inside, your gut tells you that he wants you to know that Satoru tastes better on him.

You involuntarily let out a whimper as your lips part further, allowing full entrance to his tongue. You meet him halfway, letting the wet smacking noises echo in your ears.

You’ve rarely witnessed anything so primal from Geto, and even then it probably wouldn’t compare.

When he lets you go with a huff, leaving you with numb lips and out of breath yet again, he draws away from you and you let yourself peel off of Gojo in turn. In that brief instant, their eyes meet: a midnight sky clashes with a midday one. They share a look—a specific one: the kind that says things too heavy for words to hold. Yet, it remains undecipherable to you. It’s exclusive to them.

You can only sit alone with the conclusion that yes, you do belong to them, but they’re not yours.

They’re each other’s.

So here you are. 1:34AM. Snuggled up in your bed, lights off, blackout curtains drawn, and laptop open at full brightness as you scrolled YouTube, bleary-eyed and annoyed. The only light in the room is the faint blue glow of YouTube’s homepage and your will to academically succeed (read: suffer). 

You typed “bond angles” into the search bar. Hit enter, and scrolled. Then a thumbnail caught your eye.

“Predicting Bond Angles – (VSEPR Theory but not boring)” Channel: Mecha Senku Runtime: 5:28

And then you heard it.

That voice. you practically drooled at your screen. It was soft and deep, yet raspy, like he talked too much—which he did—or didn’t care if he wore out his throat explaining the same concept fifteen times. And when he rambled? Oh god. When he got caught up on a tangent about orbital hybridization—when his voice cracked just slightly because his brain was going faster than his mouth?

Yeah, you were soaked.

Kidding.

...Maybe.

You pulled your blanket tighter around your shoulders like that would protect you. Like you weren’t voluntarily listening to this man monologue about VSEPR models like it was foreplay.

You tried to focus on the science. Really, you did. He even had good diagrams—clean visuals, clear examples, actual accuracy. It was kind of annoying how helpful it was, actually. Like, did he have to sound hot while also being smart?

You watched the entire thing.

Then another.

Then another.

Before you knew it, you were five videos deep. At 2:11AM.

Your poor, old, worn-down laptop was probably overheating from the sheer amount of your spiraling. You didn’t even care.

And then… there was that video.

A short one. Barely three minutes.

“Iodine Clock Reaction – Visual Chemistry in Real Time”

You clicked on it like you were possessed.

It was simple—two clear liquids, a few drops of starch, and a timer. You knew the experiment already. You’d seen it done a dozen times in lab. You’d even done it yourself. But somehow, when he did it, it was a cinematic masterpiece.

The camera was angled just right—focused tight on his gloved hands, the faint clink of glass, the gentle pour of the liquid. His voice low, casual, like he was walking you through a magic trick instead of an actual chemical reaction.

And then—the clamps.

He adjusted the glassware with the same energy you imagined he’d use to unbutton his lab coat (which you have no idea why your thoughts immediately ran there)—methodical, focused, and totally unaware of the damage he was doing to your sanity. Forearms flexing, veins shifting, wrist angled just slightly—You blinked. Rewound ten seconds. Then watched it again.

Something dark and sinister bloomed in your chest. Something carnal. Unholy. You buried half your face in your pillow and made a sound that can only be described as a blowdryer on max output immediately followed by a deep, guttural moan. Like your soul was trying to evacuate your body in protest—but got stuck halfway out, sobbing.

You didn’t even know you had a thing for forearms.

Yet here you are. You were a mess. A high-functioning, academically driven, chemically confused mess, replaying a three-minute video about reaction rates like it was an award winning movie. Like it wasn’t educational.

“This is fine. I’m still learning.” You whispered to yourself

You weren’t.

At least, not about chemistry.

Extra notes about mecha senku!

Certified yapper; it gets so bad he just add timestamps to when he gets back on topic

Always says that stupid little catchphrase— “this is exhilarating, get excited” he can’t help himself, its like second nature

While editing his experiment videos, he add little text boxes that say “*item* acquired” ( like in the anime)

That comes in handy later

⋆.⌬ ˚𒉭 ⋆

At first, it was a side project. Something to kill time between lectures, experiments, and tutoring sessions with students who couldn’t tell a mole from a molecule if their GPA depended on it. He kept the uploads short. Clean. No face, no fluff. Just experiments and explanations—combustion, osmosis, acid-base reactions. The basic building blocks of chemistry and physics, broken down in that signature tone of his: concise, confident, and just slightly condescending.

Naturally, people loved it.

Especially college students. Especially the ones who’d seen too many dead-eyed professors stumble through half-baked PowerPoints  that they repurposed over the past 5 decades and somehow still made them boring.

He didn’t need gimmicks. Just science.

And, apparently, his voice.

The comments were... something. He ignored them, mostly. Or at least, tried to.

But even he had limits.

@lo1itado11: FLASH US!!! @freakwy: ong WE all cracking Username: i will combust and it won’t be a controlled reaction. Anotherusername: i can literally get off to his voice rn bro omg…

He sighed, deeply. Then dragged a hand through his loosely tied-up hair, fingers threading through strands that refused to stay neat. He didn’t even bother hiding the twitch in his left eye.

Degenerates. All of them.

Still, every new upload got thousands of views in under an hour. Every deep dive request was more unhinged than the last. And while he could ignore the thirst comments, he couldn’t deny the numbers.

His channel was growing. Fast. And if someone asked him to demonstrate a specific experiment?

Well.

He was a scientist.

And who was he to deny a request in the name of scientific curiosity?

⋆.⌬ ˚𒉭 ⋆

Now, Senku wasn’t exactly an avid social media user.

Sure, he had all the apps downloaded—after relentless badgering from Gen and Ryusui, who had both made it their mission to pressure him into being “normal” for once. Senku used Instagram occasionally, mostly to lurk. To like Taiju’s blurry gym selfies. To comment “inaccurate” under Chrome’s chaotic science photo dumps—half of which somehow included a blurry photo of him. 

Nothing on his own feed, though. His personal account was private, untouched, maxed out at like 26 followers—half of which were probably bots, and one was definitely just Ryusui’s alt.

However, he was used to getting notifications on his side account. His real one. The one that mattered.

@/mecha.senku.

So when he got a ping from TikTok, he didn’t think much of it. Just a red-and-white flash in the corner of his screen as he walked past a group of undergrads in the quad, huddled around a phone, laughing. Loudly.

Then it happened again. Another ping. Then another. 

People tagging him in the same comment section. Spamming him.

Weird.

It wasn’t until after his lecture, holed up in the farthest corner of the campus library, headphones in, laptop open, coffee cooling rapidly at his elbow, half-forgotten.

The notification trail led to a single video.

At first glance, it was just a cake.

A badly decorated one at that—a war crime in the form of buttercream—uneven icing, no symmetry, and piped text that looked like it was written mid-seizure. He could’ve done better blindfolded. He was about to swipe away.

Until he saw the video thumbnail again.

He squinted. Froze. Looked closer.

It was you.

Holding a handful of what looked like paper-taped sticks. Your fingers curled delicately around them, like you’d spent time choosing each one. The video hadn’t even started yet and it was already climbing in views, the likes ticking like a metronome. The top comment had nearly eighty thousand likes.

@/semioli: “I KNEW YOU’D PUT HIM FIRST OMFG”

Senku blinked. Then, almost reluctantly, pressed play.

“Okay, so this is my ‘Hear Me Out’ cake,” you said with a breathless little laugh, voice rich with amusement and just the right touch of self-deprecation. “Please don’t judge…”

You laughed nervously at the camera, your voice familiar in the way ambient noise becomes addictive. He knew you—kind of. You were popular, at least on campus. Friendly with everyone. Smart. You asked questions in class that weren’t dumb, which was rare. People actually listened when you talked.

But he never—not once—imagined you listened to him.

Until the moment your fingers—painted nails and all—planted the first stick dead center into the cake. His channel logo. Bright. Unmistakable. Front and center.

Senku sat still. Very still. His breath caught somewhere in the back of his throat.

“I don’t know what it is about him,” you went on, eyes wide and glittering like you couldn’t believe what you were admitting, “but I feel a carnal type of desire whenever I hear his voice.”

Silence.

Real, gut-wrenching silence.

Senku just stared at the screen. One brow lifted. Lips parted slightly. Blinking. Nothing.

“…What.”

It wasn’t like he hadn’t heard shit like that before. He had. The comments under his videos were riddled with deranged confessionals and late-night voice-induced breakdowns. He’d seen them. Sighed at them. Maybe rolled his eyes on occasion.

But something about hearing you say that—out loud—while staring directly into the camera, shoving his logo into a cake like it was the most natural thing in the world…Now he’s reading the rest of the comments, most of which you had liked.

“his voice scratches my brain in just the right spot i can’t explain it.” “if he ever does a face reveal it’s over for all of us.” “whoever he is irl i hope he’s single bc i’m mentally married to him already.” “i can’t even watch his videos in public anymore istg.”

A laugh, airy and sharp, passed out through his nose.

It was barely even a sound, just air. His head tilted back slowly against the chair, bones creaking lazily. One hand reached up, dragging through his hair—half-loose from the shitty tie job he’d done earlier. He didn’t even realize he was smirking. Eyes narrowed. Lashes lowered. Something wicked curled across his face, subtle but steeped in ego.

So.

You were into him.

And you didn’t even know that he sat two rows behind you in lecture. That the guy scribbling thermodynamic equations while you twirled your pen and tapped your knee was the same voice that apparently haunted your dreams.

Interesting.

Very, very interesting.

Senku closed the tab. Then reopened it not even ten seconds later, still somehow thinking his sleep deprivation was finally catching up to him. Big mistake.

You were still there—smiling at the camera, laughing like you hadn’t just shoved a stick into a cake bearing his logo and said you felt a “carnal desire” whenever you heard his voice. 

He stared at the screen like it personally offended him. It didn’t. Not really. The offense was fake—just a weak cover for something worse, something much more humiliating.

You were attractive. That much had always been obvious.

He had eyes, didn’t he?

He wasn’t blind. He noticed things. Like the way you always had some elaborate doodle in the margins of your notebook that changed depending on your current hyperfixation. Like how you spoke with your hands, too fast sometimes, expressive. Like how your voice always had a bit of a lilt when you were excited about something, like you were trying not to talk over yourself. Like how you liked sitting near the window in lecture, even if it made it harder to see the board.

He noticed everything.

Which was the problem.

Because now he couldn’t stop noticing.

Your face. Your voice. Your laugh. 

And the worst part?

You were smart.

Not smart like “gets good grades.” That wasn’t hard. No—smart like engaged. Curious. Your own brand of chaotic genius that showed up in how you argued with professors and picked at theories like they were complex puzzles meant for your hands alone.

You were confident. Passionate. Sharp.

You were…

Fuck.

He sat back in his chair and rubbed his face with both hands, groaning.

He didn’t do this. He didn’t get… distracted. He didn’t get flustered. Romance wasn’t even on the table. It was too messy. Too emotional. Too inefficient. He had research. He had goals. The last thing he needed was—

Another notification.

He glanced over. More tags. More people replying to your video.

More people joking, “@mecha.senku bro SAY SOMETHING!!! WE KNOW YOU SEE THIS.”

He hovered. His cursor blinking over the comment section.

He shouldn’t. There was no reason to. There was no benefit. No scientific purpose. No—He cracked his knuckles once. Took a slow breath. And typed.

@mecha.senku: Just a hear me out huh?

He pressed enter, then shut the laptop.

And immediately regretted everything.

Because within 30 seconds, the comment had over 2 thousand likes. The reply threads birthing entire romance novels in real time. 

“OH MY GOD HE COMMENTED OH MY GOD OH MY—” “HE KNOWS. HE FUCKING KNOWS. “NAH??? THE MAN HIMSELF??? NO WAY” “@y/n GIRL U NEED TO WAKE UP RN”

Every five seconds, your phone buzzes.

Buzz.

Buzz.

BuzzBuzzBuzz.

It starts slow—innocent. A like here. A tag there. Then, as if the universe pulled a lever, it turns into an avalanche. Your screen lights up like it’s trying to melt in your hand. TikTok. Twitter. Instagram. Even people from your group project in history are texting you like girl what the actual fuck did you DO?

You’re sitting cross-legged on your bed, charger barely keeping up, blanket wrapped around your shoulders like it can protect you from the moment. Your face is hot. Your jaw is slack. Your soul? Practically nonexistent.

You stare at the screen in disbelief.

Right there, in the comments, bolded like the laws of physics decided to write you a personalized romance book:

@/mecha.senku: just a hear me out huh

You blinked once. Then twice. Rubbed your eyes. Because—no. No way.

There’s absolutely no way that the literal voice of your academic downfall and emotional spiral just casually acknowledged the fact that you want to climb him like a fucking molecular structure.

Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out. You double-tap your phone by accident. Scroll. Scroll again. Scroll back. It's still there. You suck in a breath like it's going to help. It doesn't.

Your room spins a little—not in a dizzy way, more like the fabric of reality is reconfiguring around your phone screen. Like you’ve accidentally made a deal with a god and now the god is texting you back. Casually. In lowercase.

Your body chooses to react the only way it knows how—by laughing. Not normal laughing. That kind of panicked, unhinged, screeching laugh that sounds like it’s being wrung out of you like a wet rag. A noise clawing its way up your throat as you slowly tip sideways, dramatic as hell, into the mattress.

“Wow,” you say out loud to your empty room, chest rising and falling, heart jackhammering somewhere behind your ribs. “No way. This is such a crazy-ass dream…” Your voice cracks at the end. You sound borderline delirious.

But the comment is still there. Pinned by the original creator. Which is you.

You just close your eyes. Face-down into your pillow.

Your dignity? Gone.

Your supposed  crush? Apparently omniscient.

Your life? Ruined. Maybe. Probably.

But your phone’s still vibrating under your thigh like it’s trying to combust.

And yeah. You’re never going to be normal about this again.

⋆.⌬ ˚𒉭 ⋆

It’s a few days later when you finally have biochem again.

Your professor had sent out an email at the end of last class—something about paying attention to the partner list for the next lab. You hadn’t even looked. Too busy hyperventilating over the Mecha Senku situation. Too busy swiping through your phone at 1 a.m., rereading that comment like it might suddenly disappear, or—worse—turn into something more incriminating.

You didn’t sleep much. Or at all. You just kinda laid there, vibrating at a frequency only dogs could decipher, while mentally reviewing every second of that video and every stupid thing you’d ever said about his voice.

So when your professor calls out your name and tells you to head to the back bench to meet your assigned partner, you’re still in a daze. You adjust your lab coat, swipe lip balm on with hands that are definitely not still shaking, and make your way to the station with the dull dread of someone walking to their own execution.

And then you see him.

Senku Ishigami.

Hair pulled into that slightly messy half-up style he always wears. Safety goggles already on, sleeves rolled up, already gloved. He doesn’t look up at first—he’s swabbing the inside of a petri dish with a level of focus you reserve only for exams and existential dissociations. Then he glances at you, just a quick flick of the eyes.

“Hey,” he says, voice low, casual. A little rough around the edges, like he just got over a cold or hadn’t talked to anyone in hours.

Your spine locks. You blink. Hard.

“Hi,” you manage, but it comes out thinner than you mean it to—stretched at the edges, fraying like an old thread. “You’re… my partner?”

He glances at the roster sheet clipped to the bench as if just now confirming something he already knew. “Looks like it.” There’s the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth—barely a smirk, more like a thought trying to become one. “Hope you’re decent with a microscope.”

You nod. Too fast. Too eager. Like your neck forgot how to move naturally. You try to smile like this is fine. Like this is normal. Like this isn’t currently short-circuiting every neuron in your academic-functioning brain.

You’ve never really spoken to Senku Ishigami before. Not really. Maybe a passing nod in the hallway. A blink-and-you-miss-it smile between lecture shifts. A polite “excuse me” when your bags bumped in the lab supply room once. But that was it. That was the whole sum of your direct interactions.

Everything else was observation. Safe distance admiration. Seeing him carry entire study groups with nothing but a half-dry marker and that ever-focused look in his eye. Taking note of how he argued with professors—calm, surgical, relentless—and somehow still walked out of every debate not only correct, but respected.

You admired him from afar. Kinda academically. Kinda not. (mostly not.)

But you’re a girl dedicated to her degree. A girl with goals, with caffeine basically in your bloodstream and deadlines stitched into the fabric of your week. You don’t get distracted. Not by things like this. Not by people like him. Or at least you didn’t. Until now.

Because working with him shouldn’t be this bad. Shouldn’t feel like the center of gravity shifted slightly under your feet, like the air got thinner and thicker all at once.

Except he rolls his sleeves up higher. Forearms peaking out. The lean muscle dusted in faint freckles, veins running like undercurrents

And then—God. The way he adjusts the microscope. Methodical. Controlled. His fingers moving like he’s done this a thousand times and still treats the equipment like it’s breakable—which it is, so you have no idea why him treating it as such is doing something to you—it all starts to blur together in your head. 

You blink again. Swallow hard. And then you start to think back.

His voice.

That same voice. The cadence is exact. Steady and sharp with a rasp that scrapes along your spine in the worst/best way. A quiet breathless ramble as he explains the agar base—like the information is too much to simply stay in his head, like he forgets other people are listening. That subtle catch on certain consonants. That dry, low huff of amusement when your glove doesn’t go on right and you curse under your breath.

And then his hands.

Long fingers. Familiar motions. The way he handles the petri dish with practiced ease, adjusts the swabs like he’s composing something. You know those hands. You’ve seen them before. Over and over. In reaction videos. In slow motion clips, 0.25x speed. In the YouTube comments people timestamp for “scientific purposes.”

You freeze.

Fully. Completely paralyzed in real time like someone hit pause on your central nervous system. The classroom noise goes muffled. Muted. The hum of fluorescent lights above you turns sharp and migraine inducing bright. Your pulse is in your mouth now—behind your eyes, in your fingertips.

Because you’re looking at him. Really looking.

And it hits you like a truck doing 90 in a 60.

That’s him.

That’s him.

Your biochem lab partner. Senku Ishigami.

Is Mecha Senku. The, Mecha Senku.

And he knows. Oh, he knows.

He’s not even looking at you right now, but you swear—swear—there’s the faintest curve at the edge of his mouth. A smirk barely there, as he slides a sample onto the tray like he didn’t just casually detonate your grasp on reality.

“Oh my god,” you breathe. Not loud. But not quiet, either.

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t react. Doesn’t so much as flinch. But you feel it. The moment it registers. The moment he knows that you know. Because the corner of his mouth twitches higher. Just a little. Just enough to catch onto. And then—still not looking at you, still pretending to be invested in his perfectly aligned swab placement, voice smooth and clinical like this is just another lab session—he says,

“Something wrong?”

You want to bang your head on the table. 

Instead, you choke, swallow whatever dignity you had left, and squeak out,

“No. Nope. All good. Just… thinking.”

He hums, low and amused, like he already knows what you’re thinking about.

You're going to die here. Right next to your science tutor YouTuber crush who is also your real-life lab partner crush—for completely unrelated reasons—who has definitely, 1000% seen the video where you said hearing his voice makes you feel like your guts are being spiritually rearranged.

God.

You are so unbelievably, irreparably screwed.

 ⋆.⌬ ˚𒉭 ⋆

It doesn’t happen right away.

In fact, it almost doesn’t happen at all.

Because after the Mecha Senku revelation, after the comment, after the lab, after the video—you basically short-circuit. You try to act normal in the days that follow. You show up to class. Try to pretend like it’s no big deal that your anonymous science tutor crush is also your lab partner who is also your mutual…acquaintence? Friend? You didn't know which term you fell under in this situation. You tell yourself it’s fine. It’s not weird. You’re being mature about this.

And then he likes one of your posts. One of your older ones. A video from 3 months ago where you’re ranting about a series that you were into at the time while getting ready for the day. It was a stupid, pointless video. One which he had no reason to like. But he did. 

That’s when you panic.

Not in public. But you lie in bed again at 2AM, staring at your screen like it might suddenly catch on fire. He’s watching your content. On purpose. He’s scrolling. Deep enough to find something from weeks ago, which means he’s either curious, bored, or—God forbid—interested.

You stop posting for three days.

Not out of pride. Not even out of posting strategy. Just fear. Raw, buzzing fear that anything you say or do will somehow make this whole situation worse. You delete a draft. Then another. Then six more. Your camera roll becomes a graveyard of half-filmed attempts at being funny or cute or sweet or not on the verge of a breakdown. But nothing feels right.

And meanwhile, Senku is being maddeningly normal.

He shows up to lab on time. Speaks when necessary. Makes the occasional snide remark when a burner malfunctions or a pH test fails. He doesn’t bring up the video. Doesn’t mention the TikTok. Doesn’t acknowledge the fact that you both know that this is like some weird fucked up romcom scenario that immediately got put on Tubi for its low budget. He just acts like… himself. Detached, sharp-tongued, observant, and unbothered. You, on the other hand, are barely holding it together every time he passes you a report sheet.

The dam doesn’t break until two weeks later.

You’re walking out of lecture, halfway through stuffing your notes into your bag with a granola bar half-eaten in your mouth when you hear someone fall into step beside you. Quietly synced with your rhythm, like they’d been waiting for the right second to align.

You glance over.

Senku.

Of course it’s Senku. His sweater sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Satchel strap slung lazy across his chest, and a half drunk energy drink swished in his hand. His expression is unreadable, somewhere between tired and calculating, but the fact that he’s here, walking beside you unprompted, is enough to make you question every single one of your life choices.

You’re not sure if you should say something first. Or if you should pretend not to notice the way your posture stiffens whenever he's in your general vicinity. You take another glance at him through your peripheral vision.

He still has that same unreadable expression on his face—bored, maybe. Or focused. Or just better at masking than you are. He doesn’t say anything right away, and you’re half-preparing yourself for some comment about glycolysis pathways or the upcoming quiz that you’ve been dreading over.

But then he exhales through his nose and says, “I’ve been thinking.”

Which is a terrifying sentence coming from someone who does more thinking in one day than most people do in an entire semester.

Your gaze doesn’t stray but you raise an eyebrow. “About…?”

He pauses for a beat. A way too long beat. Long enough to make your stomach drop. Then, casually: “A collab.”

You blink. “What?”

“A video,” he clarifies, like this is something completely normal that happens all the time. “A joint one. On your account. Or mine, doesn't matter to me. Mutually beneficial, wider audience reach, strategic engagement—pick whatever reason you want.”

You stop walking. He doesn’t.

“Wait,” you say, catching up. “You mean, like… a TikTok?”

He shrugs. “Sure. That’s your area. Whatever gets views. I figure if everyone is already suspecting something, I might as well do a face reveal while I’m at it.”

Silence. Pure, deafening silence. You can’t even think of what to say. Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

Because it’s not just the words—it’s the way he says them. Like it’s no big deal. Like the internet hasn’t been begging for a glimpse of his face since his third viral video. Like he hasn’t been a literal science cryptid for the past three years and now he’s just… casually deciding to unmask like it’s just something to check off on his bucket list.

“Why now?” you ask, finally. Your voice sounds weird in your own throat.

Senku lifts a shoulder, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth like he’s trying to suppress it.

“Felt like the right time,” he says, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. “Besides, you’ve already done the hard part.”

You blink. “The hard part?”

He hums, nodding once. “Making me realize it’s not that deep.”

You blink again, brain buffering like it just hit a patch of missing code. “Wait… what?”

He shrugs again, like it’s nothing. Like this isn’t the culmination of literal years of silence and mystery and curated anonymity. “People’ve been asking for a face reveal since the beginning. I always told myself it wasn’t worth it. Kept saying it didn’t matter, that it’d just mess things up. But then you…” He pauses, and there’s this barely-there curve at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile—something quieter. More dangerous. “You made it feel kind of… harmless.”

Your pulse stutters. Your stomach flips. You don’t even have time to brace for what’s next.

“I mean, it’s not every day someone from your school logs online just to say she practically gets off to—”

You don’t let him finish. You physically can’t. Your hands are already flying up, face buried before your brain fully catches up, a sound of absolute mortification ripping out of your throat.

“Oh my God,” you groan, fingers pressing into your temples like you can massage the memory out of existence. “Please don’t say it like that. This is already, embarrassing enough as it is, The whole video was like a public humiliation ritual”

He lets out a chuckle at that. Way too satisfied with your reaction. Like he predicted it. When you don’t continue further he decides to speak up again.

“Think about it,” he says before splitting off toward his next class. “You pick the trend. I’ll show up.”

And just like that, he’s gone.

⋆.⌬ ˚𒉭 ⋆

You kind of forget about the whole thing.

Not on purpose, of course. It’s just that coursework piles up, assignments stack on top of quizzes that stack on top of projects, and somewhere between stressing over due dates and wanting to evaporate from existence after another surprise pop lab, the entire conversation with Senku slips to the back burner. Not in a “never doing that” way, but more like… “I will emotionally process this after midterms or death, whichever comes first.” kind of way.

There’s just never a good moment to circle back and be like, “Hey… remember that video idea you volunteered for? Wanna hang out and pretend we’re not both chronically online and know what we’re doing?”

Yeah, no. No way.

But then the first break in your schedule opens up—a blessed, random Sunday with no looming assignments due at 11:59, no labs, no back-to-back lectures sucking the soul from your body—and before you can talk yourself out of it, you’re typing a text.

It’s short, simple, and only took you about seven drafts before you finally sent it.

hey, i got a day off and i saw this new exhibit at the museum. thought it’d be nice.

You follow it up fast, like too fast:

for the collab that is!

Smooth. Very smooth.

He replies six minutes later.

sure. what day?

That’s it. That’s the whole text. Dry. Short. And so to the point it makes you start to question if he even wants to go, but you’ll take your chances. You send him the info—location, hours, all that—and hope for the best. Hope you don’t show up alone. Hope you don’t sit around pretending not to be stood up for a date that isn’t a date but still kind of feels like one.

But of course, who would Senku Ishigami be if not maddeningly consistent? If not a man ruthlessly punctual, stubbornly dependable, and irritatingly true to his word?

He’s already there when you arrive.

Not just there— but early. Waiting outside like it’s the most natural thing in the world, casually leaned against a concrete planter with one hand in his pocket and the other scrolling aimlessly on his phone. He’s not dressed up, exactly, but there’s something about his fit that feels intentional. Dark gray-beige slacks. Cream button-up shirt, top button undone. Black cardigan layered over it. Loose tie slung around his neck—totally optional, probably just for the aesthetic. Hair half-up in that signature man-bun style, the front strands framing his face.

You stop short a few paces away, your brain stalling mid-thought as your gaze continues to flicker up and down his form.

Because you? You are wearing a plaid skirt, a ruffled cream blouse, stockings, and boots that are way too tall to pretend you didn’t also plan your outfit, and a tote bag that’s got absolutely nothing useful inside besides your phone, wallet, lip gloss, and an emotional support water bottle.

Which is exactly when you notice it.

The colors. The textures. The vibe.

Oh my god.

You blurt it out before you can stop yourself, stepping the last few feet toward him like you weren’t just frozen in place two seconds ago. “We’re kind of matching.”

Senku glances up, and there it is. That thing he does. The slow, calculated glance from the hem of your skirt to your blouse to the edge of your bag and back up again, all while maintaining that unreadable expression. Like he’s gathering data. Like your outfit’s a puzzle he’s solving in real-time. His mouth twitches, just slightly, into something that toes the line between smug and genuinely amused.

“Yeah, I guess so…” He shifts his weight, pocketing his phone. “You look nice.”

You blink. Buffering. “You—uh. You too! I mean, not that I was—uh, yeah, thanks. You look good too.” You internally wince. Recover. “I hope you weren’t waiting out here long?”

He shakes his head, “Not really. Got here early on purpose.”

You nod, awkward and a little breathless, trying desperately not to read too much into it. You glance toward the entrance, mostly just to distract yourself in something that’s not his facial structure or the way the light catches on the slope of his nose.

“Should we… go in?” you ask, gesturing toward the doors. He hums, a quiet sound, like he's still mildly amused, and nods, stepping in beside you. Not ahead. Not behind. Right beside. 

You scan your tickets at the entrance, hands just barely steady, and try not to overanalyze the exact distance between your shoulders. You try not to notice the faint smell of something clean and earthy—maybe his shampoo? Maybe something herbal?—that drifts off of him every time he turns to speak. You try, in vain, to be normal.

The museum’s quiet. Dim lighting. Cool air. Echoes of hushed conversations and soft-soled shoes against the polished floors. The first exhibit is drowned in amber lighting and filled with fossils in glass cases. You both drift to the same one without speaking, reading the plaque in tandem, standing so close your elbows almost brush.

He speaks first. 

“Cretaceous, huh,” he says, voice low and a little warm, like he’s half-talking to himself. “Not exactly cutting edge, but still cool.”

You blink at him. “Are you—are you seriously judging the dinosaur bones right now?”

He glances at you. “Just saying, there’s been more interesting finds. I’d rather see a well-preserved stromatolite, personally.”

You snort. Actually snort, and he grins, which is possibly the worst thing he could do because now you’re staring at his lips and—

“God, you’re such a nerd,” you mutter, grinning before you can help it.

“And you’re not?” He raises an eyebrow, tilting his head slightly as if daring you to lie.

You scoff, turning back to the plaque like you can hide behind a block of educational text. “Yeah, okay, fair. But at least I pretend to be normal in public.”

“Mm. Is that what this is?” he says, and he doesn’t even try to hide the smile this time. It’s subtle, just a twitch at the corners of his mouth, but it makes your stomach do a little flip anyway.

You don’t answer. Not right away. You’re too busy trying not to combust.

You keep walking, slowly, drifting from case to case. The exhibits start to blur together after a while—early mammals, glacial imprints, fossilized flora—because your brain is short-circuiting every time his voice dips a little lower to point something out, or his hand lifts to gesture near your shoulder, or his sleeve brushes your arm.

You can tell he knows it, too. Maybe not the full extent of your internal spiral, but enough to sadistically enjoy how flustered you get. He’s not smug about it, nor cruel. Just quietly observant. Like he’s keeping a mental note every time your breath hitches a little or you laugh a beat too fast.

Somewhere between the meteorite collection and the preserved taxidermy wing (which he naturally had opinions about), you start filming. Nothing extravagant. Just quick clips on your phone—soft pans over the displays. He doesn’t comment, doesn’t shy away when the camera catches his shoulder or the back of his hand. Just lets you do your thing.

You’re halfway through the museum when your feet start to ache (your fault for wearing boots with no sole support) and your stomach lets out the saddest, weakest little growl. Senku hears it, of course. He doesn’t say anything—just jerks his chin toward the small, in-museum café tucked into the corner past the rotating exhibit, and heads that way without needing a response.

You order something simple. He does the same, and somehow, magically beats you to pulling out your wallet and paying. And then you both end up at a tiny table tucked near the window, warm afternoon light refracting through the glass and shining just right. You’re pulling your phone out again before you can really think about it.

He raises an eyebrow when he sees you tying—and failing—to discretely smile at your phone.

“I know that face,” he says, stirring his coffee. “What are you scheming?”

You grin, wide and sweet and a little mischievous. “You said I could pick the trend.”

“Unfortunately,” he mutters, setting down his cup.

You show him the audio.

He watches the sample once. Then again. Then nods. “Got it.”

You give him a quick breakdown anyway—“Ok so basically we just shake hands. So you would film me first to ‘My name is Pink, and I’m really glad to meet you.’ Then you do ‘You’re recommended to me by some people.’ Then back to me: ‘Hey, ooh, is this illegal?’ And you finish it: ‘Hey, ooh, it feels illegal?’ You got that? ”

Senku just gives you that flat, unimpressed look, the one that makes it impossible to tell if he’s judging you or already planning your execution in terrifying detail.

“Simple enough,” he says. “Let’s get it over with.”

You record it in pieces. The lighting’s good, the cafe’s not too crowded, and somehow, despite the secondhand embarrassment threatening to combust your entire being, you pull it off. You film each other, trade off holding the phone, and try your hardest not to start laughing as you record Senku's deadpan face. By the time it’s done, your face hurts from holding back a smile, and Senku looks a little too smug for someone who just debuted on the internet via meme format.

You save the clips to your phone, already planning how to edit it later.

You both take your time finishing your drinks after that—talking more now. About the exhibit, about the parts you skipped, about other museums you like. The vibe’s different. It’s looser, comfortable in a way you didn’t fully expect to get this quickly. He’s still sarcastic, still has that flat tone and know-it-all quips, but now he says your name a little softer. Looks at you a little longer when you talk.

Eventually, you both stand, a little reluctant but you both know you should leave before it gets too dark. The sun’s setting once you step outside the museum, casting everything in that amber-gold glow again, and it makes his profile look unfairly cinematic as he stretches.

“You’re surprisingly tolerable company,” he says as you walk out together.

You scoff. “Wow. Thanks. I’ll be sure to put that in my LinkedIn endorsements.”

“I’m just saying,” he replies, glancing at you, “You’re not as obnoxious as most people.”

You bump your shoulder into his. “Aw, you like me.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You implied it.”

He doesn’t argue with that, which might be worse.

The walk back is slow. Neither of you really rushing, just sort of drifting through the early evening like you're trying to stretch out the time you have together. Somewhere between chatting about your favorite childhood shows and bickering over whose major has more long-term debt attached to it (his argument: “You can’t put a price on revolutionizing orbital propulsion”), it hits you how easy this is.

And more dangerously—how fun. You can’t remember the last time someone made you feel this keyed-in without even trying. Like your brains are constantly sparking against each other like flint and steel.

Then he says something offhanded. Something completely innocent. He’s explaining something about a propulsion system prototype—specifically, fluid resistance and force ratios.

“It’s all about tension and release,” he says, absently adjusting his sleeves as he walks. “That’s how you maintain velocity without risking collapse.”

You glance at him sideways, smile sinisterly curling at the corners. “Mm. I’ve got some tension I’m sure you could release.”

He stops. Stops walking. Like his operating system just force-quit.

“…What?” 

You keep walking a few paces before turning to look back at him, mock-innocent. “What? I’m just being honest. You should be more careful with that mouth of yours, Ishigami. You’ll feed into the online delusions.”

He blinks once. Twice. Visibly buffering. You can see it—like the gears in his big science brain just misfired, unable to reconcile engineering terminology with whatever the hell that was. His ears go a little pink—barely there, but enough to clock if you’re looking for it. Which, obviously, you are.

He clears his throat, and mutters something under his breath about “not being responsible for your interpretations.”

But he keeps talking after that. He can't help it now. Neither of you can. The conversation never drops again, not even as you split off at the corner of campus, your fingers still curled around your phone like it's holding the rest of the evening in its little glowing blue-light screen.

You go home buzzing. Not from the caffeine. Not even from the TikTok you’re already editing. But from him.

Because if there’s one thing that’s true about you—it’s that once you start liking someone?

Oh, they never get to rest.

Extra notes time again! || Sorry I really didn't feel like writing out the trend and like the comments and stuff again… I physically cant think like that anymore

Anyway! Both your respective fans go crazy when the initial collab drops

Comments and dm’s begging you guys to post together more—and I mean, who are you to deny the fans?

You make appearances in all of his videos where he “needs” an extra pair of hands

And he’s always seen in your “what i do in a day” videos or weekly vlogs

The tension on camera is undeniable and everyone is always asking if there's something going on, but neither of you ever respond.

⋆.⌬ ˚𒉭 ⋆

After that, you two just… keep hanging out. Off campus, mostly. Call them dates, call them… whatever—no one’s really labeling it, but they keep happening. Even in a group, you and Senku have your own orbit. It starts with subtle things. Shared glances, half-smirks, a sarcastic “oh really?” muttered under your breath every time he says something too smug. He always responds with a coy, “Don’t look at me like that unless you want something,” and you always raise a brow and say, “Maybe I do.”

You’re both like that.

Witty. Sharp. Teasing.

During stargazing, you’re lying side-by-side on a scratchy old blanket, staring up at the sky when he starts pointing out constellations, spouting off facts like an open textbook. You interrupt mid-sentence with, “Is this your way of seducing me? Because it’s working.” 

He glances at you sideways. Doesn’t even pause. “You’re the one lying next to me under the stars. I’d say the seduction’s mutual.”

And at the beach? The energy’s dialed up even more.

You’re in a bikini under his oversized button-up, hair still damp from taking a dunk in the ocean, when you say something cheeky like, “You’ve been watching me all day. Just admit it.”

He doesn’t even blink, much less looks at you. “I’m studying gravitational pull in action.”

“Oh?” you hum sweetly. “Like, my body’s gravitational pull?”

“I meant the tide,” he deadpans. “But your ego has its own orbit, so sure.”

You throw a handful of sand at him. He dodges. Barely. And then throws a precise, infuriatingly accurate clump right at your ankle.

Even when your schedules are packed, you somehow always find time to circle back to each other.

There’s never been a conversation about what it is between you, but neither of you need one. You’ve both carved a little space into each other’s lives now—distinct, irreplaceable, and entirely yours. No one else quite fits the shape.

So it’s no surprise that you spend a lot of time in each other’s dorm—or in this case, Senku’s off-campus apartment. Sometimes for studying when the library’s full, but mostly just to hang out in the comfort of each other's presence.

You’re dressed in low-rise sweats and a tank top, now buried beneath one of Senku’s old sweaters. The one he threw at your head earlier after you started loudly complaining about the cold. The sleeves cover your hands, and the collar’s stretched from years of wear. It smells like detergent and something vaguely medicinal—like tea tree or menthol or maybe him.

He’s at his desk, deep into some spreadsheet or CAD model, muttering to himself about air resistance. You’re flat on his bed, legs swinging, phone held above your face as you scroll through TikTok with the sound barely audible. Every now and then you giggle. Sometimes you send him one. Sometimes he looks away from his screen to actually watch it.

The silence isn’t awkward. It never is with him. Just the quiet clack of his keyboard, the soft hum of his laptop fan, and whatever sound bytes your phone decides to throw at you next. It’s routine by now. Domestic, in a weird way.

He leans back in his chair eventually, spinning halfway to glance at you. “Hey,” he says, like he didn’t just finish modeling an entire turbine blade. “In class the other day—when Takahashi brought up reward pathways—you didn’t say anything. You disagree with the textbook stuff?”

You glance over your phone, one brow raised. “What, the dopamine bit?”

He nods. “And the serotonin model. You looked like you were biting your tongue.”

You shift onto your side, propping yourself up on your elbow. “I mean, yeah. Kinda. The textbook oversimplifies it. Dopamine’s not just a ‘pleasure’ chemical. It’s tied to motivation, reinforcement, emotional memory—like, the anticipation of reward, not just the reward itself.”

He’s still watching you. “Go on.”

And that’s all the permission you need. You sit up straighter, words spilling out like second nature. You talk with your hands, tangents spiraling into other tangents—sliding effortlessly into a topic you’ve buried yourself in for years. Limbic circuitry, behavioral loops, cortisol inhibition. You explain how physical touch spikes oxytocin and drops heart rate variability, how endorphins are natural painkillers, how the brain is wired to crave proximity.

Senku’s not even pretending to work anymore. His laptop’s still open, screen glowing against the side of his face, but his eyes are all on you—sharp, focused, borderline amused.

He hums. “So… theoretically,” he says, tapping his pen against his lip, “if someone were, say, stressed. Touch could help regulate that.”

“Yeah,” you nod, without hesitation. “That’s why hugging works. Holding hands, even brief skin contact; it’s all connected to emotional regulation. Even something like—”

You pause. Shouldn’t say it. But do anyway.

“—making out.”

There’s a pause. One beat. Two.

You glance at him. He’s still watching you, face unreadable. “Making out?” he repeats slowly.

You shrug, casual. “I’m just saying. High dopamine, high oxytocin, a little adrenaline from the novelty? Basically a neurochemical cocktail.”

His head tilts, expression unreadable. Then, like it’s the most normal thing in the world:

“Wanna try it?”

Your brain blanks. “What?”

“You’re the one who brought it up.” He says it flatly. Almost  like he’s bored. But there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth, and his eyes haven’t moved from yours once. “For science. Of course.”

You stare at him. “You’re not serious.”

He shifts to stand, lazy and unbothered. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

And then he’s walking over, bracing a knee on the mattress beside you. You stay frozen. Your heart is in your throat. Or maybe your stomach. It’s hard to tell with the way it’s pounding. He leans in just enough that you can feel his breath, hovering, giving you a chance to pull away.

You don’t.

And that’s all it takes.

The kiss is warm. Careful at first. Testing. You breathe out against his mouth, one hand finding the front of his hoodie and fisting it without thinking. He shifts, deeper into it, his weight pressing into the mattress as he moves over you. Still careful, but less hesitant now. Focused. Like he's calculating every angle, and still surprised by the result.

His hand finds your waist. Yours slide up to his neck.

You’re not sure when it stopped feeling like a joke. But it doesn’t feel like one now.

He shifts again, weight fully settling over you, a knee anchoring beside your hip as he deepens the kiss. His hands are warm—calloused in the way only someone who spends too long with tools and lab equipment can be—sliding up beneath the hem of his own sweater draped over you. Fingers brushing your bare skin tentatively, like he’s cataloging each reaction, each hitch in your breath.

Your arms move to curl up around his neck, pulling him closer, and your fingers find his hair. Tugging gently, then a little harder. He exhales into your mouth like it startled him. 

You smile into the kiss—just a little. And he kisses you harder.

There’s something methodical in the way he touches you, like he’s studying even now. Testing reactions. Adjusting accordingly. But it’s not the detached, cold type of analyzing. It’s quiet intention, attentive hunger. The kind that says he doesn’t let himself want things often. But he wants this.

Wants you.

The sweater slips slightly off your shoulder. His palm follows the curve of your spine like it’s a path he’s memorizing. You’re already pulling him back down the moment he shifts to rise, needing more—needing him. He goes willingly. He always does.

His lips hover near your neck, and when he finally presses them there, it’s with purpose. A mark, claiming. You feel the heat it brings you all the way down to your core.

“You react so easily,” he murmurs, voice low and smooth, like he’s more fascinated than surprised. “Like your body’s just waiting for me to touch it.”

You hate how right he is. Or maybe you don’t. Not when his hands are gliding down, lower and lower, caressing the skin of your ribs to your hips.

⋆.⌬ ˚𒉭 ⋆

Senku almost feels bad for baiting you with that question earlier. Almost. If it weren't for the way you were staring up at him, all teary eyed, lips swollen and neck marked—courtesy of him, of course—he’d probably apologize. But he has you exactly where he's been wanting you, and you’re definitely not complaining, if the way you're squeezing around his fingers have any say in the matter. 

“Fuck… you're tightening up. Are you close already?” he’s cooing down at you, eyes gleaming with a sort of sadistic look, his lips curled into a smirk.

You can't even respond, it's pathetic really, your brain is already turned to mush and he's barely even touched you. You tear your gaze away from him. Your legs are shaking, twitching uselessly at your sides, and you can feel just how wet you are, can hear it every time his fingers sink deeper into you. 

Why did he have to be so good at this?

“You’re really that sensitive, huh?” he mummers, dragging his thumb just barely over your clit and he chuckles when your body jerks forward. Your thighs try to close but he’s already in between them, his other hand prying them open, keeping you exposed and needy under his touch.

He’s transfixed on the sight of you. Watching every twitch of your hips, every spasm in your thighs, every time your walls clench around his fingers, the way your eyes roll back when his fingers prod at a particularly sensitive spot. And, of course, the way you bite down on the back of your hand in an attempt to muffle the sounds spilling out of your mouth. 

God, it turned him on in more ways than he possibly imagined. 

Senku leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, just to watch the way you squirm. “C'mon,” he breathes, his voice barely above a whisper, “don’t hide from me. I want to hear everything.” 

You whimper at that—a soft, choked sound, and he feels it all the way down. His cock throbs in his pants, neglected, untouched, but he doesn’t care about that right now. Now when this is happening. Not when you’re this responsive, this wrecked just from his fingers. And so… Senku moans. Deep and guttural like your reaction does something to him. Like watching you get off is more satisfying than touching himself could ever be. 

The way your body moves against his hand is erratic now, your hips shifting up to match the pace of his thrusts, trembling on the edge. He can feel it in the way your walls flutter around him, can see it in the way your lashes are soaked with tears, the way you jerk with each slow curl of his fingers.

You’re close. So, so close.

So he gives it to you—just the right rhythm, the right amount of pressure, and that voice again, like a switch flipped inside of him:

“Go on, baby, it’s okay. Be a good girl and come for me.”

And you do. Practically sobbing into the sheets as your body shudders around him. Your muscles tighten,back arching off the bed, and breath hitching in your throat before it spills out in a loud, desperate moan. And Senku swears he almost loses it just watching you. Watching what he did to you.

“Fuck, that's it… just like that.” He’s a little breathless now, still working you through it, fingers moving gently as you shake and throb beneath him, blissed-out and absolutely ruined. Even as he pulls his digits out, and licks them clean, your body still hasn't stopped twitching.

You're sprawled out beneath him, brain soft and heavy, your thighs sticky, your chest heaving. There's a buzz under your skin you can't seem to shake—like your body hasn't figured out the comedown yet. Like you're still coiled tight, waiting to snap again.

Senku's still above you, propped on one elbow, eyes dragging slowly over your face like he's trying to memorize the exact expression you're wearing—ruined, flushed, lips parted, still trying to catch your breath. 

And when he speaks again, his voice is low and rough, the edge of smugness barely masking the heat beneath it. "You should see yourself right now." He leans closer, nose brushing yours, lips just barely hovering. "You came so hard, baby."

You should roll your eyes. Should say something back. But instead, you kiss him. It's clumsy at first—your hands reaching for him, fisting into the front of his shirt, dragging him down with more desperation than you meant to show. But he goes down willingly, groaning into your mouth like he's been waiting for it, like he's starving for you. 

His lips are warm and soft, and when his tongue brushes against yours, something in you snaps. You moan into it, tugging him down even closer, legs shifting to wrap around him until he’s fully on top of you, pressed chest to chest.

The kiss turns filthy fast. Sloppy. Hungry. You taste yourself on his tongue, feel his teeth graze your bottom lip, and when you break apart for air, there's a thin string of saliva still connecting the two of you. 

Senku stares down at you, his lips pink and wet, eyes dark with an unmistakable desire. But you don’t say anything. You just drag him back down and kiss him again. And this time, you take control.

You find the strength to gently shove his shoulder. A silent request for him to switch positions, this time with you on top. Your hands slip between your bodies, fingers tugging at his waistband, undoing buttons and zippers with trembling precision. You don't rush it, you don’t even speak. You just stare down at him, eyes locked on his, and you let your palm glide over the front of his boxers—feel how hard he is. How long he’s been holding back.

"You didn't touch yourself," you whispered against his jaw, lips ghosting down to his neck. You kiss the column of his throat. You can feel his adam's apple bob under your mouth. "You just... watched me."

Senku shudders, eyes fluttering shut as he hisses through his teeth. "Of course I did," he says, voice low, breath hitching when your hand dips beneath the fabric and wraps around him. "You think I could look away from you like that?"

You smile into his skin, lips dragging over his pulse point, before licking a small stripe against it, warm and possessive. "Then you're gonna let me return the favor."

He tries to say something, probably a snarky comment, or some teasing remark, but it dies in his throat the second you stroke him. Thumb pressing over the tip, spreading the pre-cum, watching his face go soft and slack and honest. His cock twitches in your hand, and he groans-deep and low, like he's trying to keep quiet and failing.

"You're so responsive,” you murmur, voice dipped in faux sweetness. "Bet I could make you come just like this—barely even touching you."

His head rolls back as he nods.

"You'd let me?"

"F-fuck," he breathes, biting down on a groan as your pace picks up, "I'd let you do anything right now."

And there it is-that crack in his composure. The unraveling. You've got him now, pinned under you. Your hands, your voice, your mouth ghosting back up to kiss him again while you work him with steady, torturous strokes. And you swear he looks like he's about to lose it just from that.

"You're close," you whisper, forehead pressed to his, your hand never stopping. "Aren't you?"

He nods again, faster this time, eyes wide, and dazed. You find him beautiful like this. 

“it’s okay,” you whisper, kissing the corner of his mouth, “Come for me, and don't look away."

He doesn't.

You watch each other the whole time-while his body tenses, his breath catches, and he spills into your hand with a whine—it’s with your name on his lips. And even after, when he's still trembling, breath ragged, forehead resting against yours, he kisses you again.

It’s softer now. Slower, more sensual. Like he’s trying to catch up to everything that just happened.

You climb up to adjust your position, shifting in his lap to properly straddle him, and feel him twitch beneath you. The air thickens again. You start to move—slow, subtle grind that makes both of you gasp.

“Is this okay?” you murmur, lips brushing his. “We don’t have to…”

His hands find your hips, tentative, but firm enough to tell you he doesn’t want you to stop. “Y-yeah,” he swallows hard. “Just—condom. They’re in the nightstand.” he adds, voice barely above a rasp.

You pause, looking down at him, your hair falling into his face as your lips curl in a slow, nervous smile. “I kind of just want to feel you,” you say softly. “Just you.”

His breath catches, and his grip on your hips tighten. “You’re gonna ruin me,” he mutters, tone somewhere between a joke and the truth.

“I’m on the pill,” you say, brushing your thumb along his cheek. “And I haven’t been with anyone. Not since we started hanging out…”

His gaze locks with yours—surprised, a little shy. “Me neither.”

There’s a beat. Neither of you says it—what this means, or where it’s going—but you don’t need to. Not right now.

You lean in and kiss him again, deeper this time, while he lets you settle over him fully. And when he finally lets go of whatever he’s been holding back, it’s not a fall. It’s a full body surrender.

You shift your hips, sliding your hand between your bodies. Senku watches you, wide eyed and panting, as your fingers wrap around him once more. He’s still hard, heavy and warm in your hand, and the sound he makes when you stroke him again makes your head spin. 

His hands tense on your thighs. "God," he whispers, barely holding on. "You-you don't have to—"

"I know," you say softly, guiding him to where you want him. "I want to."

You angle yourself, breath catching as you line him up. He sucks in a sharp breath, eyes locked on where your bodies meet, like he can't believe this is happening. 

And when you start to sink down—inch by inch, taking your time—his head falls back against the pillow, lips parted, throat working like he's trying to remember how to breathe.

You stop halfway, adjusting your hips, one hand braced against his chest. He feels so good stretching you open like this. You look down at him.

He nods, frantic, his voice almost breaking.

"Yeah. Just—don't stop. Please."

You don't.

You ease down the rest of the way, and when you're fully seated, hips flush to his, both of you just stay there for a second, gasping, trembling, overwhelmed. And when you finally start to move; the slow, steady rolls of your hips—his hands come up to grip your waist like he's afraid he might actually fall apart under you.

At first, it’s easy to stay in control. You set the pace, savor the friction, chase the tension building in your belly.

But it doesn’t last.

Your thighs start to burn, trembling with the effort, barely cooperating anymore. Every bounce turns sluggish, your movements dragged down by the growing heat in your limbs—but you're still moving. Still trying. Because he's looking at you like that.

Senku's laid out beneath you, hair a mess, lips kiss-bitten, and pupils blown so wide there’s barely a sliver of red left. And he’s watching you. His gaze is steady, and intense—like he sees everything. Like he’s not the one unraveling here. You are.

And through the fog in your head, it hits you that he’s smiling.

Not mockingly, just this small, breathless grin, like you’re an experiment he doesn’t want to stop testing. And the way he says your name, low, and rough, like he’s been holding in his mouth for months, sends heat crashing right through your core.

You try to keep moving, but your body stutters. Your breath shudders.

He doesn’t move. He doesn’t have to.

He just says, “You're falling apart, aren’t you?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. And then he speaks again, a little more sure this time.

"That's it, baby. You're doing so good for me... just like that."

His voice—God, his voice. It's low and thick and soaked in wonder, like he can’t believe this is real. Like he can’t believe it’s you. You nearly fold right there.

The noise you make is somewhere between a sob and a moan, your hands scrambling against his chest like you need something to anchor you, or maybe just him. Your whole body pulses at his words like they hit deeper than anything else, heat unraveling inside you faster than you can hold it together.

"F-Fuck, Senku..." you whimper, blinking through tears, hips faltering as you try to keep the rhythm. "I c-can't—"

"Yes, you can," he murmurs, fingers tightening just a little on your thighs, just enough to remind you he's there, guiding you, grounding. Not pushing—never pushing. Just wanting. "You're already doing it.”

His voice dips again, breathless. “Look at you..."

It’s awe. Pure, undiluted pleasure. Every word that falls from his lips sounds like it’s unraveling him as much as it is you. And somehow, that’s what undoes you more than anything

You bury your face into his neck, because if you look at him again you'll crumble-and maybe that's the point. Maybe that's what he wants. To break you down, piece by piece, until you're too far gone to think about anything but how good he makes you feel.

And God, he is breaking you.

He drags one hand up your back, fingers threading through your hair, just to keep you close. He needs you close. Needs you to feel how much he's coming apart beneath you. He's grounding you, ruining you, worshipping you with every tremble in his touch.

"Just one more," he whispers, lips brushing your ear. His voice is strained, like he's barely holding on. “Just give me one more…”

He's losing control fast. Your soft, whiny little sounds are killing him. Every breathy moan, every gasp, every whimper—you're driving him insane, and maybe, just maybe, that's what gives him away.

The way his voice breaks when he speaks again.

"God-you feel so good," he chokes out, hips stuttering beneath you. "You're so—fuck, you're perfect around me, I can't—"

He whines-actually whines—a raw, desperate sound ripped straight from his throat, like he doesn't know how to hold it back anymore.

"I c-can't stop," he breathes, hips twitching up into you without rhythm now. "You're—you're making me crazy—how are you so fucking—tight—?”

You make another sound—desperate and broken—and he feels it. The way you clench around him, the way your whole body answers before your mind can even catch up.

And then, softer-almost pleading:

"Let me hear you when you come, yeah?"

You whine—God, you whine—and he groans, like the sound physically does something to him. His hands are shaking now, trying to hold you steady while everything inside him unravels. 

The way you look, the way you sound, the way you're still trying to ride it out, still trying to give him what he wants even as you fall apart on top of him. It's too much.

And he wants more.

Your name falls from his lips again-raw, reverent, broken at the edges-and it hits you deeper than anything else has all night.

You try to keep moving, but your body betrays you. Your hips falter, your thighs tremble, and your forehead presses against his collarbone, like hiding might save you—but it doesn't. He's still looking right at you, and God, he's still talking.

"Just like that... you're so—fuck, you're so perfect like this."

His voice is breathless, thick with disbelief and need. "I can feel you... every time you move, I-shit—"

And maybe you don't mean to do it. Maybe you're just grabbing onto something—anything—to stay grounded. But your fingers slide up into his hair, tugging just a little. And he moans.

Full-bodied. High-pitched, desperate, absolutely shameless. His eyes slam shut. His hips jerk up into you with no rhythm, just want. "Shit–do that again—" he gasps, voice cracking. "Please–fuck—!"

So you do.

You fist your hand in the mess of his pale strands and pull.

He falls apart.

"God—I'm–fuck, I'm coming—" The words are slurred, ruined, his face pressed into your hair as he bucks into you once, twice, and then spills inside you with a choked-off moan. His hands fly to your hips, gripping tight, like he's trying to keep you locked to him, like if he lets go for even a second he'll die.

You're already shaking, breath stolen out of your lungs, your own release crashing through you. You sob into his hair, overwhelmed, while he trembles beneath you, hands still gripping, body still twitching.

When you finally still, everything is quiet. Just your breathing, his heartbeat, frantic against your chest. Your fingers are still tangled in his hair. And he hasn't stopped shaking. 

You don’t move for a long moment. You just melt into him, limp and boneless, your forehead pressed to his shoulder, your chest rising and falling against his. He’s still inside you, still warm, still twitching faintly with aftershocks. And even though your muscles are shaking and your skin is flushed and sticky, all you can do is breathe.

Senku doesn’t speak right away either. He wraps his arms around you, his hold is loose at first—like he’s not sure he’s allowed—and then tighter, like he can’t help it. Like letting go now would undo him. His voice is hoarse when he finally whispers, “You okay?”

You nod into his neck, barely moving. “Yeah. You?”

He lets out a shaky breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. “I think I’m still alive.” He says. “But barely.”

You smile, eyes closed, cheek pressed to his skin. “Was that…?”

“Yes,” he says instantly, like you needing to ask the question is absurd. “Don’t even finish that sentence.”

You laugh softly and feel him grin against your temple. There’s a pause—comfortable, heavy with the weight of what just happened—and then he shifts, brushing your hair gently away from your face.

“I didn’t… hurt you, or anything?”

“No,” you murmur. “You were perfect. Seriously.”

You finally lift your head, just enough to look at him. His hair’s a mess, his cheeks are still flushed, and his eyes are glassy—but he’s smiling. Soft. Uncertain. Happy. And for a moment, he’s not the genius, not the scientist, not the voice behind a screen. 

He’s just a boy, flushed and messy, still a little out of breath, and completely, irreversibly gone for you.

You lean down and kiss him once—just a press of lips. Nothing more. Then you collapse on top of him again with a soft groan.

“We should probably clean up,” you mumble into his chest.

He hums. “Eventually.”

Neither of you moves.

⋆.⌬ ˚𒉭 ⋆

Later, you do get up—clean up, change, all that boring post-mindblowing-sex routine—but it’s quiet. Natural. And once you're both back in bed, it’s like gravity pulls you together again without even trying.

The room’s quiet, warm, filled with the soft hum of your joined breathing. Your legs are tangled beneath the sheets, and your head is tucked under his chin, chest rising and falling against his.

Senku’s still. His hand hasn’t moved from your back, fingers lazily tracing the curve of your spine like he doesn’t know how to not be touching you now.

And then, without looking at you, he says quietly:

“…So is this the part where we pretend that never happened?”

You blink. “…Do you want to pretend that never happened?”

He’s silent for a moment too long.

“No,” he admits. “Not even a little.”

You shift just enough to look up at him. His hair’s still messy, cheeks still faintly pink,and there's a light trace of sweat on his temple, but his eyes are sharp, focused on you now in a way that makes your breath hitch.

“I’m not exactly…” He hesitates, frowning slightly. “Good at this stuff.”

You smile. “Sex?”

“No. Well—” His ears go red. “That too. But I meant… this. Whatever this is. Relationships. Wanting someone this much. Letting them in.”

You don’t say anything right away. Just reach up, gently brushing some of his hair out of his face.

“Senku,” you murmur, soft and certain, “you don’t have to be good at it. We’re figuring it out together.”

He swallows, throat tight. “…You’re not gonna run when you realize I’m not exactly the most conventional partner?”

You blink, lips twitching. “After what just happened? I’m definitely not running. I can barely walk.”

He huffs—almost a laugh. Then finally, finally, he meets your eyes again. Really meets them.

“And besides,” you add softly, “I knew how you were before all of this. I’m your friend first, always. I love you just the way you are.”

“I didn’t mean to fall for you,” he says, blunt in that way only Senku can be. You were just… there. Constant. Loud. Infuriatingly smart. Always messing with my things, always in my space.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re digging a really deep hole right now.”

He exhales—short, almost a laugh. “Yeah, well. Then one day I realized I didn’t want any of it to stop. I didn’t want you to stop. I think that scared me more than anything.”

Your lips twitch. “You call that romantic?”

“I’m a scientist,” he deadpans. “Not a poet.”

You grin, pushing up slightly so you can lean over him, your hands braced on either side of his head.

“Well,” you murmur, eyes soft, “guess I’ll have to be the romantic one.”

His eyes flicker to your lips, then back to your gaze.

“You always were.” 

You lean in and kiss him—slow, like it’s not a first or a second or a tenth, but something you’ve always had the right to do. He kisses back like he’s finally letting himself want you out loud. When you pull away, you rest your forehead against his again, noses brushing. His hands drift to your waist under the blanket, not trying anything, just holding.

“…So,” you say softly. “What do we call this now?”

He hums thoughtfully. “An unplanned but highly successful chemical reaction?”

You snort. “Try again, scientist.”

His mouth quirks. “Girlfriend acquired?”

You blink. “Did you just say that like you unlocked an achievement?”

“I say that every time I make something new in the lab,” he says, matter-of-factly. “Why would this be any different?”

You roll your eyes, but your heart is doing dangerous things in your chest. “God, you’re such a dork.”He shrugs under you. “Yeah. But I’m your dork now. Apparently.”

Ignore the lowk OOC last line… genuinely couldn't find another way to end this quickly

ANYWAY BACK TO THE EXTRA NOTES!

You guys both go kind of MIA for a while; one second you’re posting like normal, sometimes popping up on each other's page, then just… radio silence. 

Fans lost their minds, and during your time away, they start making these crazy long theories trying to explain what they think happened to the both of you to fill the void.

Literally ranging from, "He's secretly a serial killer and she was the last victim so he deleted his digital footprint to evade capture.”

“They eloped in the mountains. She’s pregnant. They’re living off the grid with goats.”

“She accidentally killed him during an experiment and is covering it up.”

All of these are objectively incorrect.

In reality? You’re working through your first relationship, and when you’re ready, you’ll both be back. 

an: can't blame anyone but yk I gotta be rude to my kitten whiskers bella... already tagged her though so sigh... anyways this was supposed be DAYS ago but I kept adding more stuff. this is the cycle of my life , I can not shut up for the life of me.

I also haven't written smut in a while (can you tell?) so if its bad.. yeah, I tried my best fr. lowk a closeted freak ONG do not leave me in a room with Senku he WILL end up pregnant.

ok that's it, until next time!

taglist: @lovingyeet

"Ah, baby, that was nice," your boyfriend exhaled, his chest heaving as he rolled off you and stared blindly up at the ceiling. His arm now resting behind his head. You stared at the exact same ceiling, feeling entirely numb.

Sex with him was always a scripted and very hollow routine. He would crawl over you with barely a scrap of foreplay, thrust his hips a handful of times, and declare himself satisfied. Just like this. 

No passion.  No consuming warmth.  No lingering intimacy.

And you craved more. You wanted more. You wanted to feel like you were wanted in this relationship instead of feeling like just a toy. On your best days, if you completely detached your mind and truly concentrated, you could sometimes coax a tremor out of your own body from the clumsy, rushed way his fingers grazed your sensitive cluster of nerves. But it was never enough. You didn’t feel whole, you didn’t feel satisfied.

You lie there, the cool night air settling into the empty space between your bodies on the mattress. Your relationship had been perfectly normal so far, but entirely devoid of high thrills. He wasn't malicious; he was just the absolute pinnacle of the bare minimum. He remembered to text you back eventually. He brought you takeout, but usually only because he was already hungry and passing the food stall anyway, or had eaten on his way home and brought you the leftovers.

He would sit beside you and nod while you spoke, but his eyes were always glued to whatever scroll or game was in his hands. It was the kind of mundane, low-effort companionship that made you question if you were simply expecting too much from romance. You knew that sex wasn’t everything in a relationship, of course not. But how could you be happy if your needs were not being tended to in all areas when you had always gone above and beyond for him?

You pulled the rumpled sheet up to your chest and sat up, your gaze dropping to your hands resting in your lap. You gathered whatever courage you had left to finally bridge the gap.

"Hey, I wanted to talk to you about something. I actually went to a medical-nin the other day." He shifted, propping himself up on one elbow, his brow furrowing. "Are you sick?"

"No, no, I'm healthy," you reassured quickly, chewing on the inside of your cheek. "It’s just... I haven't been able to... finish. From penetration. And I thought maybe something was physically wrong with me, but the medic said everything is completely fine. So, I was thinking... maybe we could try something different? Switch things up a bit?"

The air in the room instantly soured. The easygoing, post-coital haze vanished from his face, entirely replaced by a defensive line. "Try something different?" he echoed in a completely flat tone. "Are you saying there's something wrong with how I do it?" "What? No, that's not what I said at all," you backpedaled, you could feel your chest tightening. You wanted to avoid confrontation; this was never your end goal here.

"I'm just saying my body needs something else to get there." He let out a humorless scoff, throwing the sheets off his legs and standing up. He reached for his clothes scattered across the floor. "Right. So I'm the problem. I've never had a girl complain before, so if it's not working for you, I don't know what to tell you."

"Are you seriously getting mad right now?" you asked, stunned, watching him strap his weapons pouch to his thigh. You were fortunate enough to be able to get him to spare some time for you after he came back from his latest mission, which, now, looking at him dressing up, you wondered how he even made it out of the academy with passing grades.

Konoha must be REALLY in need of shinobi!

"I'm not mad. You’re being overly emotional with this shit! I'm just not going to sit here and be told I'm bad in bed just because your body can't figure it out," he muttered, grabbing his green vest. He didn't even look at you as he walked toward the door. "If sex is going to be this complicated, maybe we shouldn't force it. Let's just call it quits. See ya."

See ya?

See. Ya.

What the hell just happened?

Did he…?

Did he just….?

The click of the door closing echoed in the agonizingly suffocating room. It wasn't the breakup that hurt; it was the sheer audacity.

Five months of dating had ended in a five-minute conversation simply because you dared to ask for more. You were left sitting alone in the dark, half-broken and half-stunned, a sickening realization settling in your gut.

He had never added anything to your life. He had only ever been using you for your body so far.

The sounds of Konoha usually offered a comforting white noise, but today they just felt like an annoying reminder that the world was moving on while you were stuck in a humiliating standstill—like your body didn’t even belong to your own desires anymore.

It had been three days since your ex walked out. Three days. Three stupid days. Three days of replaying that pathetic, five-minute conversation until your pride was completely raw, like you needed to kneel on the dirt to scrape it back.

You hadn't realized your feet had carried you toward the quieter shaded outskirts of the Uchiha compound until the scent of brewing tea grounded your wandering mind. Surely enough, Mikoto was brewing one of your favorites, and it brought a feeling of comfort to you. You’ve always felt cozy when stepping into the Uchiha side of the village.

"You are walking with the posture of someone carrying a very heavy burden." You winced, snapping your head up to look at the owner of that voice. Itachi stood near the edge of his family's engawa. He wasn't wearing his standard flak jacket, just a simple blue yukata that made him look incredibly domestic, probably on one of his almost non-existent days off. His dark eyes analyzed the exhausted shadows under your eyes and the unyielding tension completely locking up your shoulders.

“Oh, hi, Itachi. Just... lost in thought, I guess.” You tried to force a polite smile. It completely failed. “Is your mom at home? I really need to talk to her, if she’s available.”

"I’m afraid not. She left just a few minutes ago and should return before nightfall.” “I see… well, alright then.” And you simply stood there, thinking about your next steps.

Who could be the other person to help you navigate this terrible moment of insecurity and uncertainty that surrounded you completely? You needed a new lifeline.

Itachi didn't push. He simply scooted to the side, gesturing toward the polished wooden deck. “But her tea is freshly brewed. Come. Sit with me."

You shouldn't have.

You knew you shouldn’t, because your mind was simply not there at all. But at this point, you might as well just burn your bridges to your childhood friend.

All of them.

You were a chaotic mess. But the quiet safety radiating from him was a gravity you couldn't resist. You slipped off your sandals and sank onto the wood by his side, letting the tranquil rustle of the wind through the willow trees soothe your edgy nerves.

He poured the tea with meticulous care. The ceramic clinked softly against the saucer. He didn't demand answers, allowing the ambient sounds of the koi pond in front of you to do the heavy lifting. He gave your mind the exact space it needed to unravel. And unravel it did.

You hadn't planned on telling him. Why would you? Your friendship with Itachi was a completely normal one, and you had never shared any deep secrets like this. But staring into the swirling green liquid in your cup, the humiliating truth started to spill right out of your lungs.

You told him about your clinic visit, the vulnerability of asking for a change, and the immediate shattering of an ego and the pathetic, indifferent dismissal that followed. Itachi listened attentively. He didn't interrupt or offer empty platitudes. And he didn’t seem surprised at all. Or at least that’s what you thought, because you couldn’t really read his expressions. Ever. At all.

"Sometimes these things happen," he murmured finally. His gaze remained fixed on the water of the koi pond, his profile perfectly sculpted and entirely unreadable. "Everyone's body is different, and everyone's body reacts differently."

You expected him to leave it at that, not say anything else or offer any sort of comfort. Itachi’s personality was far from that, and you knew it. You knew better than to sulk in front of him. The last time you did, you were kids, and he literally poked - gently - your forehead before smiling and leaving.

He shifted his weight, preparing to stand, but his eyes suddenly cut back to yours as you turned to face him. The intensity in his stare practically pinned you to the floorboards, leaving you unable to move, to follow his movements, to stand up and leave.

"Or maybe," the words slipped out with seriousness. "He simply did not know how to take care of you properly. How to satisfy your body's needs."

He simply did not know how to take care of you properly.

You stared at him, completely in awe, with a glow of heat rushing straight to your cheeks. But Itachi merely adjusted the collar of his yukata, his expression smoothing back into its stoic mask, as if he hadn't just dropped a bomb on your lap.

"I promised to train with Sasuke," he excused himself, brushing past you with the fluid elegance of a ghost only he carried with such grace. “You’re welcome to stay and take all the time you need here. Drink the tea before it gets cold." And just like that, he vanished into the trees, leaving you entirely alone with a realization that set your blood absolutely on fire.

What you didn't see was how he stopped the absolute second he was out of your sight. You didn't hear the exhale that escaped his lungs, or see the way he closed his eyes, fighting to maintain his self-control. He had just intentionally crossed a line he had spent a lifetime protecting, practically begging you to look at him as a man with desires instead of just a safe, untouchable friend.

He had planted the seed. Now, all he could do was wait to see if it would grow.

His words had haunted you ever since you left his family’s house. They echoed in the quiet of your room for who knows how many agonizing days, rewriting everything you thought you knew about your own body, until the sheer weight of your intrusive thoughts finally drove you out of the house.

You had known Itachi Uchiha for almost your entire life. Growing up in the same village, with parents who had known each other for what seemed like ages, your friendship had always been a steady constant. Not awkward nor strained. You had shared countless conversations, sitting in the clearings or walking the market streets when your paths crossed. Itachi was the perfect example of a low-maintenance friendship, and you were completely fine with that.

You knew his habits. You knew his quiet quirks.

And now you even stood outside the bakery around the corner from his clan’s compound for ten solid minutes, totally paralyzed. You debated whether to buy a skewer of tricolor dango or a sweet red bean bun before coming to see him, hoping his favorite sugar rush might somehow soften the inappropriate conversation burning in your throat.

But you walked away empty-handed because no amount of dango could change the fundamental truth about him, about how he was notoriously vague, how he was a closed-off, untouchable golden child who kept his private life locked behind an impenetrable fortress, which was exactly why you were currently making a complete fool of yourself.

What am I even THINKING?

You were on your fifth frantic lap around the perimeter of his estate, entirely unable to force your feet to step onto the actual property. You were beating around the bush, completely terrified of ruining a lifelong friendship, regardless of how close you two were. Your treacherous mind simply wouldn't let go of his voice, of his damn words.

Well, it’s not like I don’t have other friends, right? If he ditches our friendship, I’ll be just fine. Yes, I WILL be fine!

What if Mikoto finds out? She might think I’m one of those women and ban me from ever seeing them again.

Shit, shit, SHIT!

You were so lost in your own panic that you didn't even hear his footsteps approach. The only warning you received was the weight of his long fingers wrapping around your wrist. You froze as his thumb rested perfectly over your racing pulse point, feeling the frenzied rhythm of your heart.

"How many more times do you plan on walking the radious of my home?" Itachi's voice was a soothing buzz that vibrated straight down your spine.

Had his voice always sounded so good before?  When did admiration turn into desire? Control yourself, seriously!

He didn't sound angry or impatient, or even slightly annoyed. He was just observant, his gaze, always intense, pinning you exactly where you stood. "Are you looking for something? My mom should be home toda—"

"No, I'm not...not looking for your mother," you blurted out, the words tumbling past your lips before your common sense could stop them. "Actually...I-I was wondering if we could talk? Over some tea?" He didn't hesitate, though he seemed surprised, offering a formal nod as he guided you inside the house.

The low table felt like an executioner's block as a bead of sweat threatened to drop from your temple. You sat rigidly on the cushion, watching him serve the tea with the same fluid elegance he applied to everything. Or, at least, you hoped that it was to everything.

"I was thinking about what you said the other day," you started, your voice sounding entirely too small for the stifling silence of the room. "About...body needs." He took a slow sip of his tea, nodding once. “May I ask you a personal question, Itachi?”

He nodded again, his eyebrow curving just a bit. You forced the words out in a single breath, asking him if he had ever made a woman feel good under him. The ceramic rim stalled a millimeter from his lips.

Why is the clock on the wall sounding so loud all of a sudden?

"I'm so sorry, Itachi, I shouldn't have—"

"I suppose I cannot discuss any private matters I have had with past lovers," he interrupted softly, resting his teacup back onto the table. His dark eyes held your panicked stare, but not enough to fully ground you in the moment. "But I have never received a complaint. Let us put it like that."

"I see," you whispered, feeling the heat in your cheeks burning absolutely out of control. The silence stretched thickly between you again. But Itachi was not dumb, and you’d be even dumber to think he could not see deep into your soul, with or without his Sharingan.

"I believe it is time for you to truly say what you have been wanting to say since you were pacing nervously outside.” You were the one who nearly choked on your tea this time. You set the cup down with an ungraceful clatter, staring at the wooden table as if it were the most interesting thing in the room to avoid his gaze.

"Itachi... how long have we known each other?"

"Almost our whole lives, I would say."

You swallowed the thick lump that formed in your throat for the second time, your pride completely abandoning you as you asked him the ultimate question. “Do you think you, maybe you…Perhaps we can…But only if—” You closed your eyes and took it as your turn to drop the bomb right back at him. “Do you think you could help me practice more and discover my body’s needs? Just once. To try different positions so I can finally find a release.”

Itachi went entirely, utterly, completely still. The only betrayal of his composure was the microscopic tremor of his pinky finger resting against his cup.

Had you just managed to break down his composure with your words?

His silence became a physical weight, the anxiety violently clawing at your throat. "I'm sorry," you gasped, scrambling to your feet and almost falling down when standing up. You grabbed whatever was left of your dignity while bowing your head in absolute shame. "This is terribly inappropriate. Please forgive me. I shouldn’t have come. I’ll get going now.”

You didn't give him a single second to respond before you practically ran from the room. You fled back into the safety of your house, knowing well enough that this conversation would randomly keep you awake at 3 AM forever.

But you weren't the only one about to lose your sleep.

Back in the quiet of his house, Itachi remained entirely frozen where you had left him. He stared at the empty cushion you left behind, his Sharingan bleeding into his eyes in the room purely on instinct as his blood roared violently in his ears. You had just handed him the exact weapon he needed to claim you after so many years, and the restraint it took not to follow you home right then and there nearly ate him alive.

You avoided him like the plague for an entire week. And you planned to keep it that way for as long as necessary.

Your daily routine became a masterclass in evasion. At this point, you could easily become a covert shinobi, and you had never even set foot inside the academy.

You walked strictly to and from work, kept your head down, avoiding the usual streets that would make you and Itachi cross paths on the street. You avoided the clearings you knew he favored, and even had to deny Mikoto’s invitation to dinner when she saw you at your workplace. You practically sprinted through the market whenever you needed groceries.

Most importantly, you completely abandoned the bakery on that corner. The mere thought of accidentally bumping into him while he bought his favorite sweets was enough to send your heart into a nauseating spiral.

If I never see him again, I will literally never have to explain myself.

It was a flawless, if cowardly, plan. Right up until it wasn't.

You didn't know that your absence was driving him absolutely feral. You thought you were being slick by dodging him in the market, but Itachi was not stupid. He had known you his entire life. He knew your routines, the corners you favored, the alleys you used to cut through the village, and the exact minute your shift ended, even if you had overtime.

He let you play your little game of hide-and-seek, giving you exactly one week to panic and process the tension snapping between you two. Because at the end of the day, you could avoid his paths all you wanted, but he knew exactly where to find you when the time came.

You had just returned home from an exhausting shift, kicking off your sandals with a heavy sigh of relief. The only good part of your day was the beautiful sunset hue that seemed to embrace you while you walked back to the comfort of your place. The absolute second the door clicked shut behind you, a melodic knock echoed through the wood. You froze, very aware that you were not expecting any visitors or deliveries. Another knock. Patient. Unyielding.

Your hands felt entirely too cold, slick with a sudden sweat, as if your body intrinsically knew exactly who was behind that door. 

Maybe, just maybe, if I stay perfectly still, the person will go away, right?

Wrong.

Another knock.

Gathering what little courage you still had, somehow, you pulled the door open, completely (un)prepared for the sight waiting on your porch. Itachi stood cloaked in the evening shadows as the sunset gave away the space to the dark night sky. In his right hand, he held a small, dark silk pouch, his long fingers wrapped loosely around the drawstrings. "Hello."Your lungs instantly forgot how to function.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Not him!

"I-Itachi, h-hi," you stammered, your knuckles turning white as you gripped the doorframe for dear life. "Uhm, can I help you?"

"You ran quite fast last week," he stated, stepping over your threshold without really waiting for an invitation, effectively trapping you in the entryway. "You did not give me the chance to deepen our conversation. I felt like I had no say in it." You swallowed hard as his intoxicating scent completely invaded your personal space, your home.

"I thought about your offer for the entire week," he continued with his voice dropping into a hypnotic cadence. "I am deeply honored that you trust me with such a delicate vulnerability. Though I kept thinking if our bond would deepen after such an offer, or break entirely.”

He stopped mere inches from you, using the back of his heel to slowly push the door shut behind him. "But I need you to know," he added, completely serious. "Regardless of the outcome today, there is absolutely nothing wrong with you." You stared at the small silk pouch dangling from his fingers, your mind entirely blanking out.

Outcome of today? What is… Wait, what?

"Wait... what do you mean, the outcome of today?"

"You came to me asking for help," his gaze dropping briefly to your lips before locking back onto your eyes. "What kind of friend would I be to deny you your personal struggles? To abandon you in a predicament like this."

Your brain completely short-circuited. You stood frozen in your own entryway, acutely aware of the massive heat radiating from his large frame. "Right," you squeaked, your voice jumping a pathetic octave. "So... where do we... uhm, what do we..."

Itachi watched your agitated stammering with an unreadable expression, though amusement seemed to swim in his eyes. "For starters, we can relocate to your bedroom," his tone as smooth as glass with no signs of nervousness whatsoever. "If you are comfortable. If you still want this."

"Right. No, I want this," you babbled. "My room. Okay! Right."

He tilted his head just a bit, his gaze lazily drifting over your shoulder toward the small living room. "Unless you would prefer I take you right there on your couch." Your breath completely stopped.

"What?"

"What?" Itachi echoed. You opened your mouth to argue, but no sound came out. You spun on your heel instead, marching down the short hallway and past your living room toward your bedroom, purely to escape the weight of his stare. He followed silently behind you, his quiet footsteps a terrifying reminder of exactly what you had just invited into your house.

Danger.

The second you crossed the threshold of your bedroom, the reality of the situation crashed directly into your spine. This was your sanctuary, and Itachi Uchiha was standing right in the middle of it. You stood entirely too rigid at the edge of the mattress. Your hands were trembling so badly that you had to clasp them together on top of your thighs.

He didn't miss the movement. He didn't miss anything. "You are nervous,” he observed, setting the silky pouch onto your nightstand.

"Well," a borderline hysterical little laugh escaped your mouth. "I've never exactly had an appointment to have sex before." A low puff of genuine amusement escaped his chest. He crossed the small distance between you, his hands coming up to gently cup the sides of your flushed face. But as his dark eyes searched yours, the carefully constructed mask of 'the stoic best friend' finally slipped.

For a fraction of a second, you saw a raw devotion burning in his gaze, like a silent admission of exactly how hard it had been for him to stand by and watch you doubt yourself because of somebody else.

"I would call it a walk-in, if you will,” he purred, stepping closer to you. His thumbs brushed soothing circles against your cheekbones, melting the tension straight out of your muscles. “But it is just practice."

You hadn’t realized what Itachi was doing until now, but the moment his touch found your face, you knew his game was on. He was building the pace, slowly setting the tone and the vibe in ways that your body was not used to. Tonight, Itachi would give you what no one else could, and you really weren’t ready for it.

The bedroom felt too small with Itachi standing in it. Your hands were still clasped tightly on your thighs, your knuckles white, your eyes squeezed shut as if darkness could somehow rewind time and take back the foolish offer you had made.

"You are doing it again."

"Doing what?"

“You’re nervous, overthinking. Trying to force your body to feel something through willpower only.” His thumbs brushed your cheekbones again, slower this time. "Let go. You don't need to try so hard."

A shaky exhale left your lungs. It was exactly what you had always demanded from yourself ever since you had started dating your ex 5 months ago —just relax, just try harder, what's wrong with you?

But Itachi was offering some kind of peace of mind to you like a gift.

"I can't just turn it off, Itachi," you whispered. “After the breakup, that conversation made me feel like I was...broken."

"You are not broken," his tone left absolutely no room for argument. "You have simply never been taken care of properly. We’ve already covered this part, didn't we?”

His hands slid from your face, his long fingers finding the hem of your shirt. "May I?" You nodded, and Itachi leaned in. His mouth covered yours. It wasn't rushed or demanding like you had previously experienced; it was more of a ruinous yet soft claiming that completely silenced the racing of your mind.

You let out a tiny gasp, and he swallowed the sound, his tongue sliding effortlessly past your lips to taste you for the very first time that night.

The kiss was a physical tether, melting the rigid tension straight out of your muscles as he guided your back down against the sheets. You went willingly, melting into the bed as the heavy dip of his weight followed you down. He didn't break the kiss as his hands gripped the hem of your shirt, only removing his mouth from yours when pulling the fabric up and over your head before tossing it to the floor.

His bare palms settled warmly against your waist. The contrast of his touch sent a delicious shiver straight down your spine as he positioned himself completely into the V of your thighs. That immediately made your cunt pulse.

He caged you in with his arms, hovering just inches above your chest like a heavy blanket of night-blooming florals and adamant focus. Your upper body was completely exposed, only the delicate fabric of your bra holding your breasts as they practically begged to be set free, to finally feel his touch.

Itachi slowly pulled back from the kiss, his lips slick and his breathing slightly heavier. "Look at me," he rasped, his hot breath grazing your collarbone. The deep sound of his voice now becoming a sweet melody in your ears.

You forced your eyes up to meet his, drowning in the pure intensity of his gaze as it mapped every inch of your exposed skin. He wasn't looking at you like an object, or an obligation, or a chore to be rushed through, but like you were a prayer he had no right to whisper, but every intention of answering.

His gaze dragged over the swell of your breasts barely contained by the thin fabric, the rapid flutter of your pulse at the base of your throat betraying your panic. You felt entirely too seen, stripped bare in a way that had nothing to do with the clothes you were shedding.

Was this really a good idea?

His palms traced a worshipping path up your ribcage, his calloused thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts through the lace. A cracked sound escaped your throat before you could trap it. Your eyes squeezed shut on instinct—that desperate need to force your body to warm up and feel something, like you had to do all the work, to concentrate, to wring out the pleasure you had been told you were incapable of feeling.

“My eyes are right here, sweetheart,” Itachi whispered close to your mouth. “I am the one holding you tonight. And I intend to treat you exactly how you were always meant to be treated.” You opened your eyes, promising yourself you’d not close them anymore unless you were feeling too much pleasure; that was the only exception.

His right hand moved to the clasp of your bra, the fabric gave way, and he slid the straps down your shoulders, tossing the lace aside to join your shirt on the floor. The cool air of the room kissed your skin, but Itachi was right there to warm it, his palms settling heavily over your breasts. He didn't maul or grab; he weighed them in his hands, his thumbs teasing lazily over your tight and hardened peaks, coaxing a ragged moan from your throat.

“Does it feel good?” He asked, and you nodded. “What about now?” His mouth dropped to one of your breasts and closed on it.

The shock of his wet heat against the sensitive peak was a lightning strike that arched your back off the mattress, a broken cry tearing from your lips before you could stifle it. He didn't rush; his tongue swirled in slow circles that seemed to pull the tension right from your marrow and replace it with a liquid heat that pooled heavy and demanding between your thighs.

Your fingers found their way into his hair, the dark silken strands sliding against your skin, anchoring you to that moment as he alternated between gentle, teasing flicks and the firm, suctioning pressure that made your toes curl. It was unlike anything you had ever felt— not the mechanical fumbling you were used to.

It was focused.

"So responsive," he cooed against your skin, the vibration of his words humming straight into your blood. "I have barely touched you, and I have a feeling that you are already soaking wet." His mouth strayed to your other breast, sucking and slowly nibbling your nipple.

Your hips rocking up and down, trying to glue onto his. The embarrassment should have burned you, but his voice was dripping with such genuine reverence that it only fanned the flames.

His mouth began a descent, pressing open-mouthed kisses down the center of your ribs, over the soft plane of your stomach, dipping teasingly into your navel. Every inch of skin he claimed felt worshipped, marked by a concentration that terrified you as much as it thrilled you.

When his fingers hooked into the waistband of your pants, you instinctively tensed, whispering that this was the moment the disappointment would set in.

“You have nothing to prove here," he cooed again, sensing the spike in your heartbeat. He slid the fabric down your legs, taking your underwear with it in one fluid motion, leaving you bared to him completely. The heat of his gaze searing into your exposed cunt was absolute fire.

He settled himself between your thighs, his shoulders pushing your legs wider, wider, until you were completely splayed open for him, settling his broad shoulders between your thighs. He pressed a kiss to your inner thigh, then another higher up, his hot breath fanning over your dampening folds.

"Itachi—" you gasped, your hands flying back to his dark hair."It's okay," he whispered against your skin. "I got you," his eyes locking onto yours from his vantage point, looking like a dark angel ready to devour you whole. He lowered his head, and the first slow drag of his flat tongue against your folds obliterated every coherent thought in your mind.

You wrapped your legs around his heavy head and let his tongue swim toward salvation.

Your fingers tangling desperately in his hair as he began to work you with a patience that promised to ruin you. He consumed every part of his act. His tongue painted long stripes through your folds, gathering your slick before circling your clit with so much care that it made your vision blur. The movements of his muscle made you roll your eyes every time its warmth pooled over your cunt again.

His mouth blew a breeze of cool air on your clit, and that alone made you squeeze his head between your thighs.

"Oh, fuck. Itachi, do that again, please..." You cried out between a moan, you could feel his smile as he blew again, before sucking on your clit ferociously. But it was the slow intrusion of his finger that shattered you. He pressed it deep, crooking upward in a beckoning motion that hit a spot inside you that felt foreign—too sensitive, too raw.

You gasped, your hips jerking away instinctively, but his free arm spread out heavily across your pelvis, locking you in place against the mattress.

"No, stay with me," Itachi commanded, his voice muffled against your cunt and stripped of the gentleness he had when he first took you in his arms. He added a second finger, the stretch making your breath hitch, and began a relentless scissoring motion that opened you up, thrusting in tandem with the rhythm of his mouth.

You had never experienced anything so delicious like this, even after the countless sex nights you had with your ex. You didn't need to focus now on trying to feel the pleasure because it was consuming every inch of you.

The pressure built rapidly with a tightening coil in your lower belly that felt close to pain but infinitely better. This specific sensation, a deep, throbbing need to release something that felt dangerous, like holding back a tidal wave with a crumbling dam, was new.

"A-ah—'tachi," the nickname slipping out unbidden as your fingers tightened desperately in his hair, trying to pull him away. The sound of his name—his name, falling from your lips—sent a jolt straight to his core. He had spent years listening to you talk about so many things, your life, your work, your relationships, but the absolute high of hearing you sob for him made his jaw clench with a possessive need.

His free hand held your wrist, removing it from his hair. Only his eyes were visible, the rest of him hiding under your wet folds. "Unless you want me to fully stop, I suggest you don't try to take me away from this sweet cunt."

You whispered a "right," almost embarrassed, and he went back to work, sucking your clit into his mouth just as his fingers curled ruthlessly against that spongy patch inside you. His movements picking up a faster pace, like he knew you were only a few seconds away from coming undone for the first time in the night.

A quivering heat swelled in your belly, your muscles contracting tighter with every wet suck of his mouth, with every thrust of his fingers. You felt yourself clenching desperately around him, the wet sounds filling the quiet room.

"Itachi, wait, I feel like I'm going to—something is—"His tongue struck your sensitive clit, and the coil snapped. Your back bowed off the bed, a moan tearing from your throat as a gush of liquid heat surged from you, soaking his hand and chin. It was violent, overwhelming, a crashing wave that wiped out every memory of shame and replaced it with pure ecstasy. You pulsed around his fingers, your cunt fluttering wildly as the pleasure tore through you in spasms that left you boneless.

Itachi didn't pull away; he worked you through it, prolonging the aftershocks with gentle laps of his tongue, swallowing your every drop until you were a trembling gasping mess beneath him. When he finally lifted his head, his face was glistening with your essence, his eyes burning with a possessive pride that made your heart stutter. For the past few days, you thought you’d never meet a soul who could speak your body’s language, until there was Itachi.

Itachi, fluent in you.

You stared up at him, chest heaving, trying to piece together the shattered fragments of your mind. The wetness beneath you was undeniable, the evidence of your pleasure painting his skin. "I... I didn't know I could..." You swallowed with a wrecked and barely audible voice. "Can you... do that again?" you asked breathless, entirely stunned by your own body. A small laugh escaped his chest—the most beautiful and unguarded sound you had ever heard from him. "I can do it as many times as you need."

He immediately obliged, his mouth descending onto you again. He coaxed a second, softer climax from you with just his tongue, his hands holding your hips down so you couldn't squirm away from the overwhelming sensation. When he finally pulled away and stood, you pushed yourself up on trembling arms.

"My turn," you said reaching for him as you sat on the bed, knees so wide open your cunt almost touched the sheets. He let you unbuckle his pants, set his cock free as he removes his black shirt, let you wrap your fingers around his thick, heavy length. But as you moved to take him into your mouth, his hand caught your chin.

"You do not have to perform for me."

"I want to make you feel good too," you argued. He smiled and took your hand, the same one that was touching him, on his. "Come," He moved to sit on the bed with his back touching the headboard. With a simple gesture, he called you over. "Let me touch yourself while you do it. I want to know you are feeling good, too." He guided you onto your side so that when your head would go down to suck him, your ass would go up.

You wrapped your lips around the head of his cock, taking him deep into the wet heat of your mouth, and his hand slipped between your thighs. He cupped your soaked mound, his middle finger gliding lazily through your slick folds, alternating between gently circling your oversensitive clit and pushing a finger inside you.

squelch.

squelch.

squelch.

A muffled moan vibrated around his shaft. You stroked what you couldn't take of him with your hand, falling into a synchronized rhythm. The dual sensation of pleasing him while he played with your throbbing flesh left you completely electrified.

"Good," Itachi praised, his voice strained for the first time. His hips snapping forward to chase the slick heat of your mouth, a desperate curse falling from his lips. His hips twitched, pushing himself a bit deeper into your mouth. "Just like that, baby— fuck, you feel so good." You whimpered around him, sucking harder, your own hips grinding against his palm.

The wet sounds of your mouth on him and his fingers on you were not the only sounds echoed through the room. As you sucked Itachi's balls, he moaned your name loudly. It was messy, sensual, and unhinged, and yet, you felt safer in this vulnerable position than you ever had before. You were growing wetter every second next to him.

Itachi pulled away before he could finish, lifting your head so he could see you, your mouth full of his juices. You looked so hot right now that if the goal wasn't to help you out, he could easily claim you as his right there, making your cunt sore. He was breathing heavily, his posture cracked, his chest heaving while he craved more of your touch, but knew he needed to save all of this energy for what was about to happen.

He reached for the dark silk pouch on the nightstand, the one you were curious about when you saw him holding it, but forgot about. He opened it, pulling out a small gray foil packet.

A condom.

Of course, he came prepared.

He tore it open with his fingers and rolled the latex down his thick length with practiced ease. It made you think how many times he had done it before. "Let me make you feel good now," you crawled over to him, as he guided you to straddle his lap, your knees bracketing his hips. The broad pink head of his cock nudged your entrance, and you froze, your eyes wandering down to his chest. What if it didn't work? What if you still couldn't—

"Keep your eyes on mine." His hands settled on your hips, stilling your trembling. "I'm here for you, for your needs.” His hand brushed your jaw, his fingers grabbing your chin to make you focus on him. Your eyes found his gaze waiting for you, your arms around his shoulders, and your face came closer to his. He analyzed every single feature. Your eyes, your nose, your lips. Everything.

Taking a deep breath, you slowly sank down. The stretch was a fulfilling pressure as he glided into you inch by inch. You stopped when he was fully seated inside you, adjusting to the fullness. Slowly, you began to roll your hips, twerking on his cock. Itachi leaned forward, his mouth finding your collarbone as his thumb found your clit. He rubbed the swollen nub in tight circles, matching the grinding cadence of your hips.

"That's it. Such a good girl. See how well you are taking me?" The friction was different. Deeper. The angle pushed his length directly against that pleasant spot inside you, while his thumb sent electric shocks rocketing through your nervous system.

You rolled your hips faster, chasing the sensation. “I-Itachi—" you moaned, feeling every nerve on your body, every sensation, every inch being consumed by him. Itachi leaned his head back against the headboard, his jaw clenched, his breathing ragged, looking at you like you were both his salvation and his downfall.

You kept going, your second orgasm collapsing over you as his fingers played with your nerve bundle. But still, he knew this was not the one you were craving, not the feeling you were chasing after.

“C’mere,” he rasped, his hands tightening on your hips. He shifted, turning your bodies so now you were the one under him. His hands shoved your thighs up until they touched your belly, your kneecaps close to your nipples. He sank right back, leaning forward as his hands supported his body. This angle was even deeper.

"Slower this time,” he growled, his voice thick with pulsing need. "Feel where I am inside you. Feel how your body responds."

"You feel s'good inside of me right now."

"Good, I want to feel your cunt clenching around my cock until you can't take it anymore," he breathed, reaching one of his hands to cup one of your breasts. Itachi's dirty talk game was different, full of praise for you and you only. You could literally cum just by being overwhelmed by his words.

Instead, you gasped, pleading for more, and he let out a hissed curse through his teeth.He began to thrust into you.

Deep. Unrelenting.

"Ah—'tachi please, keep going," you mewled, your hips writhing to capture every inch of him. Because of the angle, his cock dragged continuously against your G-spot with every stroke. The pressure was building again, that same wave from before, but this time it was intensified by the feeling of him moving inside you.

"Itachi—" you whimpered, your nails digging into the forearm close to your waist. “too much— Oh, ’ts too deep.” Hearing you beg for him, moan his name, completely wrecked him. You weren't thinking about your ex, or your insecurities, or your brokenness. You were only thinking about him. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his hips thrusting with an incessant force, hopelessly addicted to the sweet sound of his name on your tongue.

"You can take it," he smiled, looking down right at you. "Let me make you whole, baby." He didn't stop, didn't slow down, his hips snapping up into yours with a wet, slapping sound that echoed obscenely in the room.

Sluck.

Sluck.

Sluck.

You were almost quivering around his cock buried deep into your spongy walls when he burst you out of your pleasure bubble. “On your stomach for me,” he said, stopping the thrusts and helping you sit down. You scrambled to comply, positioning yourself on the mattress. He moved behind you, his large hands smoothing over the curve of your spine, down to your hips. He grabbed your ass, pulling it up, while one hand sat on your back, gently forcing it to lower down, your face against the bed.

He pressed into you again, slowly this time, sinking to the hilt until his hips were aligned against your ass. He was so deep, so fucking impossibly deep, that the pressure against your front wall felt perfect. He started slowly but hard. Each thrust was a plunging punch of pleasure that rattled your bones. The intensity was too much, unlike anything you had ever felt during penetration.

The pleasure was building from the inside out, fusing with the throbbing ache in your clit, creating a feedback loop of sensation that threatened to shatter your mind. To make you fall apart in a matter of seconds.

"Faster," you begged, dropping your chest lower to the mattress, your fingers clawing at the sheets. "Please, Itachi, deeper, faster. I need to feel your cock pounding on me—"

A low snarl vibrated through his chest. He was helping you, but still, there was just so much he could do to hold himself back during a moment like this, while he's making you take every inch of his cock inside your sweet cunt.

He obliged instantly, his grip on your hips turning bruising as he picked up the pace. He slammed into you with primal urgency, his hips meeting your ass with a wet slap.

Plap.

Plap.

Plap.

"Look at you," he panted, his voice rough, his hands taking a fistful of your hair and pulling it back. "Taking me so beautifully. Feeling so good. Do not fight it."

"Nnnngh...Itachi, I can feel every inch of your cock."

"Am I making you feel good, baby?"

"So good, 'tachi. I feel like I'm ready to—" you couldn't even form a proper cohesive sentence at this rate. The storm inside you was winding tighter than ever before, a physical pressure that bordered on pain but felt like transcendence. Itachi's cock was buried in your cunt, hitting your g-spot, making you feel like this topped any other form of pleasure known to a man.

Every thrust knocked the breath out of your lungs, his heavy balls slapping against your clit with each stroke, sending jolts of pure pleasure up your spine.

"Yeah, sweet girl?" You let out a soft moan, agreeing. "I will leave such an imprint on you, deep on your body, that anyone you entertain after me will have to know me in order to understand you, to savor you."

His words were your undoing.

With a final deep thrust that pressed you flat into the mattress, the coil snapped again. You screamed his name, you cursed loudly, your vision blurring white as the most intense climax of your life ripped through you. It started deep inside your womb and radiated outward to the tips of your fingers and toes, forming a beautiful wave of unadulterated pleasure.

As your body kept trembling, calling out his name, Itachi groaned yours like a prayer, his hips stuttering as he buried himself to the hilt, filling the condom with his release. He pulsed inside you, his whole body shuddering with his own climax.

Itachi did not collapse on top of you like a lazy man would. Even as the final tremors of his release wracked his frame, completely undone, his control held perfectly. He stayed kneeling on the mattress right behind you, his large hands keeping an anchoring grip on your hips to steady you both. He simply held you there, letting you catch your breath against the sheets as you lay completely unraveled and utterly remade.​

Only when your coarse breathing finally started to slow did he move.​ He withdrew from inside of you, the sudden loss of his heat drawing a low whine from your throat, your hips dropping fully to the mattress as you melted into the bed.​

You heard and felt him leave the bed, making his way to your bathroom to ditch the condom full of his white, almost transparent seed. When he returned to you, he stretched his large frame out on the mattress right behind you. His strong arm closed in around your waist, cradling you gently backward until your spine was pressed against his chest. 

He pulled the heavy duvet over your bare shoulders, tucking you in as his face buried into the crook of your neck.​ His right hand stroking your hair.

"Are you alright?" he asked eventually, his deep voice a whisper, music to your ears.

​"Better than alright," you turned around to face him, your fingers leaving the comfort of the duvet to trace the chaos lines on his face. He closed his eyes, feeling your touch. "I think I'm fixed. Thank you, Itachi."

​"You were never broken," he corrected, his mouth pressing a kiss to your palm. "Let me keep proving it to you!" 

(omg my first divider <3)

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Everything was happening much too fast.

The man whom you’ve been diligently serving for the past few years was requesting your consent to touch you intimately so suddenly that you felt as though you were dreaming.

It’s not like you haven’t imagined it before—hell, look at him! Everyone in the Fire Nation has indulged in a fantasy or two, it’d be strange if they didn’t. Especially if they were in your shoes, being so close to him at nearly every waking hour and getting to know him on levels beyond regolness.

So when his lordship humbly requested that you sit yourself on his throne and let him give you a nice feel of what your purpose is to him, it was only natural that you succumbed to the years of not-so-hidden need that has been weighing itself on your shoulders.

Heart pounding in your chest, none of your imaginations of the past could ever quite compare to the real thing of watching the fire lord lower himself down to his knees, bring his hands to your legs, and steadily part them open whilst constantly whispering gentle confessions in hopes of insuring you're entirely comfortable with this.

Truth be told, he'd always had a bit of a crush on you—having taken quite the liking to you from the day he'd chose you to be his royal advisor.

It was an odd sensation for you to find yourself seated where Zuko typically commands the nation, especially with the way he'd loomed before you with a hint of delectable saliva building up at the corners of his mouth. You barely caught on to the way he'd asked you to undress yourself before him—to bare your body for his greedy eyes to take in—before his hands were virtually everywhere.

There was a sense of heat felt from his faintly shaking palms, as if this were the most nerve-wracking act he'd ever participated in. You were steady in your undressing, considering you needed some sort of moment to prepare yourself for what was to come.

By the time you found yourself naked—regal, advisory robes splayed out against his throne as your body sat all prettily perched upon it—Zuko was all but drooling. You'd seen his lordship make many expressions over the years but this—this was unlike anything you'd ever seen before.

And it was all for you.

In the next instance, Zuko was gripping onto your knees, letting his fingers touch with a certain firmness as he spread your legs apart. Your limbs felt mushy under his skin and you already felt your lungs struggling to maintain a steady flow of oxygen. You had an arm coming up to hide your flushing face before he'd even gotten anywhere with you and he couldn't help but crack a cheeky smile at the display.

Who knew his dutiful advisor—who'd just threatened to leave him mere moments ago, mind you—could make such cute expressions from the slightest of touches?

"Relax," Zuko cooed gently, leaning forward to lightly kiss at your inner thigh, "I'm only trying to help you understand your purpose."

Breath hitching, "My lord, I really don't think-"

His tongue rolls out along the inside of your leg and you flinch as if you'd never been touched before. This was the Fire Lord, after all. Having him like this-, watching him do something so obscene...

"You don't need to think," He hushes out to you, the curve in his lips felt right against your tensed skin, "Not now, anyway. Just feel. Can you do that for me?" It took you a few seconds but, eventually, you nodded your head. To which he cracks a smile, "Atta' girl."

Then his head traveled further up and you held eye contact with him whilst his mouth slipped over to cup the soaking lips of your cunt. Those same fiery amber-shaded eyes of his roll back almost instantaneously, a rumbling groan pouring out from deep within the pit of his stomach in reaction to the taste of you on his tongue.

And you expected him to let this go? As if.

You clasped your lip tightly in between your teeth, your hands moving out to grip onto the arms of the throne as you braced yourself, hips jerking forwards ever so slightly to meet the feel of Zuko's hot tongue. A sloppy trail of saliva is left in the wake of every flick from his oral muscle, the hum he lets out against you enough to have your legs squirming around under his touch.

There's a smooth sound of schliiiick that rings out though the throne room, the noise surely loud enough for someone beyond its large walls to hear. Not that you or him seem to care, though.

Whines 'n moans are easily pulled from somewhere in your throat as his mouth maneuvers suavely to capture the entirety of your saccharine taste onto the center of his tongue.

Your back soon slumps against the throne, leaving you to stare in awe at the starving lord of a man who's cravings could only be satisfied through the taste of your sloppy cunt. There's a feeling of paranoia haunting you from somewhere within your gut that at any moment now a person could knock on the throne room doors or simply burst right in with an urgent matter but, ask Zuko if he cares!

Spoiler alert: he doesn't.

The tips of his tongue dive and dip all around the very ends 'n ins of your pussy, lapping out the most provocative of gushes form deep within you. You're a blissed-out mess of moans before he even thinks to pull himself up for a moment to breathe. And by then, your hands have buried themself into his long lushes locks of hair, tugging and pulling at his head as your teeth tatter against themself in an honest attempt at maintaining even the slightest fracture of your composure.

Then Zuko's body shifts forward and suddenly his tongue his snaking its looong self past your folds, wetly spreading you open on it. Your back arches almost immediately and you think your eyes cross just as your fingers scrape over his scalp.

Zuko's head tilts ever so slightly to lick at your insides at a circularly different angle, tongue plucking itself in and out of your gushy entrance simply to have your arousal leaking all down the expanse of his jawline.

When the man tugs himself away to gasp, he's only diving back in half a second later to kiss over your clit and then smear the tip of his tongue around it—showcasing to you that his skills go beyond mere fire bending and that his tongue has learned how to bend the feel of a new element to you.

Something raw jumps out of your throat and you pant out his name whilst he shakes his head into you and then proceeds to respond to your calls by spelling his name out around your clit.

Then come his fingers—and fuck if they aren't farrr thicker than you were prepared for, initially prodding at your drooling hole, and then carefully pushing into you after a mere tease to that clingy ring of resistance he's met with.

Your lower lip pushes out and you moan just past it, earning his attention for the first time in a while as his eyes come up to find your lewdly-set expression.

"Ah," Using a free hand to wipe some of the slick from his mouth, Zuko moves up towards you and keeps his fingers working your insides, "Don't pout. You can take this much," He encourages, a second digit carefully slipping into you. "See? Two of my fingers, buried so deep inside you like that..." His words earn a particularly filthy squelch. "Shit, you should feel honored by this, sweetheart."

You manage a huff at that, nails chafing into the arm of the throne again, "Y-You and that damn-, ngh, honor..."

He snickers, his thumb poking forward to plumply round your clit, "Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me you don't feel honored to have me this devoted to you."

"Zuko," You moan instead of answering correctly.

Letting it slide due to his soft spot for you, he merely sighs. "Please understand that this is your purpose to me, not abandoning me to go whisper in the ears of Earth Kingdom fools." Zuko explains to you, voice coming out in warm waves against the crown of your ear, "Understood?"

You nod, "Y-Yes, Zuko."

His head cocks to the side, fingers jolting up against your slicked walls to curl, "You address me so formally any other time but now..." He pulls away a few inches to cast his eyes over your expression, fully appreciating how gorgeously you fall apart on just two of his fingers.

He can only begin to imagine how satisfying it would be to see you do the same on his cock. Fuck, you probably wouldn't even be able to handle that, would you?

No, but you'd damn sure try if he let you...

Meeting his gaze, "Yes, my lord." You correct in a short whisper.

For the first time ever, Zuko realizes the title doesn't sound so bad coming from you.

At least, not in this context since his cock promptly hardens through his robes in reaction to that sweet, sweet tone of yours.

He would've spelt his name out into your cunt and split you open on his fingers a long time ago if he knew this would be the result!

A smirk splays out across his wet mouth and he leans in, his breath mingling with your own, "Cum for me, my advisor. Show me where your loyalties lie."

That quickly sends you right over the edge, your cunt clenching and twitching all around his fingers as one of your hands move out to clutch onto his royal clothing.

Breathlessly puffing, "F-Fuuck.."

Zuko watches you closely the entire time, loving the way your thighs quiver, and how good your pussy feels releasing onto his hand.

Only leaning away as you're done to murmur, "See? Now, tell me again about leaving?"

(not proofread, GULP) || banner art by Rororogi Mogera || tags:

@stardewplz @muddiedlove @rain-market @mayashoee @kayxox123 @yoshinorecommends @whimsynojai @blcknebula @sukubusss @iiakithegoat 

@1ana22 @miss-f0rtun3 @helloxkittylo @p-plenitude @bunbun812 @cuffiescariche @ily24 @neoroneo88 @taemfvante @gracewinston

you wanted to go home.

painfully sobering up, sat on a dingy couch - satoru bouncing around the room to mingle - not keeping his promise that he would stay with you if you came to another one of his parties.

but he was your ride back home, and your phone was almost dead.

you knew most of his frat brothers relatively well, all except for one, the ryomen sukuna.

truthfully, you thought all the talks about him being scary and mean and an overall douchebag was just sorority slander after one too many lookalikes tried to sleep with him.

in what world could one man, a fraternity brother at a pretty decent university (it's no harvard, okay, but still), really be that bad?

you'd never seen him around, only painting some broken picture from word of mouth and blurry photos.

knocked out of your thoughts, a weight sat next to you, filling the air with dark cologne and the strongest weed you'd ever inhaled.

speak of the goddamn fucking devil.

"princess leave you stranded?" he settled in a little too comfortable, arm on the back of the couch near you.

"excuse me?" you cocked your head to the side, taken aback by his casual nature, as if he'd known you for years.

"satoru. he left you, didn't he?" a long inhale on the perfect blunt between his lips as he awaited your answer.

"yeah, and what's it to you?" you shifted to look at him, pulling a knee up and resting your forearm on it.

"chill out, mama. here," he leaned forward, pulling the blunt from his lips and handing it to you, "just looked lonely over here,".

like he read your mind, you really did need to chill the fuck out, defensive for no damn reason.

and you were lonely, but like hell you were gonna admit that.

it hit you like a fucking train, far too long of an inhale for your shitty lungs, coughing into your arm for an eternity while handing it back to him.

immediately your shoulders relaxed, pinched brows settling down.

"atta girl," he hummed, eyes glued to you. studying you. watching every flicker of your eyes.

you refused to acknowledge the heat crawling up your neck as he said it, trying your best to act casual, to mimic him.

he didn't seem mean. just, awfully straight to the point.

"what brings you out of hiding, hm?"

"fuck you mean by that?" he scoffed a little, pressing his tongue to the inside of his cheek.

"i have known satoru for 5 years and i was convinced you were one of those ghosts he makes up," you shrugged, "just surprised to see you…out,".

"you could've just knocked on my door," all he did was shrug before handing you the blunt back. "wait- ghosts?"

you knew you probably shouldn't take it, far too late and you eventually needed to make it back home, but really who were you to say no to a free smoke?

"ew no, that's weird," you shook your head, cringing at the thought of knocking on a stranger's door. "and i don't know, half the shit he says cannot be true,".

he let it settle for a moment, humming as he scanned the room, letting his eyes fall right back on you, cocking his head to the side just a little and huffing a faint laugh through his nose.

"satoru always said you were pretty, first time he's been right about something,".

you were half stunned, blaming it on the weed, but did the ryomen sukuna just call you pretty?

"straight to the point, aren't we?" trying your best to brush it off, to not be another girl just fawning over a fraction of his attention.

even if you definitely were.

"problem, doll?" he raised a brow with a half-assed smirk, eyes a little glazed over and canine peeking out, sharp and catching on the hazy lights.

"no," you shrugged, "i like it,".

"good," he stood from the sofa, putting his hand out for you. "c'mon, this couch fucking sucks and satoru is mackin' on some girl again,".

your body moved a hell of a lot faster than your brain did, taking his hand to get off the cracked leather couch.

he didn't let go of you, dragging you behind him as he walked out the side door, both of you sighing in relief at the cool air that wasn't clouded over in a dingy haze.

"fuckin' hate that shit," he sighed, nodding for you to keep following as he dropped your hand.

"what, the parties?" you kept your eyes down, watching each step catch up to his on the sidewalk.

awkwardly rubbing your wrist, convincing yourself that the buzzing in those fingertips was from the weed, and not the warmth of his hand now stripped away.

you didn't know where you were going, or why he wanted you to come with.

or why the hell you agreed, why your steps were matching his down a dimly lit sidewalk.

"yeah, just doesn't sit right with me," he shrugged, "plus i hate the beer they get,".

"hating the two most critical traits of being in a frat, doing a great job at being poster boy," you laughed at your own attempt at a joke, barely audible under your breath.

"oh fuck off," he nudged your side, looking at you hugging your arms, midnight breeze getting the better of you. "shit, here,".

before you could protest he was pulling his hoodie over his head, handing it to you like it was no big deal.

it really wasn't, but to your clouded brain the act was a little too sweet for such a supposed hardass.

it totally didn't make you choke on your own spit, the first time a man had done something so quickly for you, not even asking just giving.

it took everything you had in you to act normal, cursing yourself out behind bloodshot eyes for your heart betraying you, fluttering behind your ribcage.

you pulled his jacket on as if it were nothing, messing up your hair as you swam in the damn thing.

6'4 and the kind of muscular that makes your knees weak, all the more apparent now that he was just in a t-shirt, chest wide and waist tapering off enough to make you nearly trip over nothing.

tattoos trailing down his arms and wrists, streetlamps catching on his snakebites and nose ring.

his scent now all fucking consuming, sticking to you like glue.

you couldn't think straight if your goddamn life depended on it.

"you didn't have to do that," you shoved your hands in the front pocket, "but thank you,".

"i drug you out here, didn't realize how cold it was," he didn't look in your direction, head down and hair falling in his face.

"why did you drag me out here, hm?" you looked over at him for a second in time, hands shoved in his front pockets of his jeans and tracing the cracked concrete under the soles of his shoes.

"you're too pretty to be in that shithole, plus i was walking out anyways,". he would rather die than let you see the flush on his face, choking down whatever was making his mouth run dry.

"you keep calling me pretty," you really did try to play it off, brush it aside, didn't want to fall into the classic lines to get into your pants.

not like you would let him, anyways. you didn't know what the fuck you were doing in that respect, and at this point you were embarrassed about it.

"you are," he kicked a pebble down the sidewalk, cars driving by.

what the fuck were you supposed to say to that? thanks man, are you just trying to fuck me?

"thanks- uh- i guess?" you wouldn't dare let him see the smile that you couldn't fully swallow. even if he didn't mean it, it still made you feel all warm inside.

all he offered was a shrug, acting like he was talking about the weather while your fingers twitched in tune with the butterflies in your chest.

"if you hate all this shit, why do you stay? in the frat, i mean?"

the silence sat heavy. he never really thought about that. it just, was. besides having a customer base for drugs and a place to stay, he didn't give a shit about any of it.

no one ever gave him the time of day, just looking in his direction and whispering around him, a quick thanks and a pass of cash the peak of most conversations.

it was all superficial shit, a pissing contest with the brothers, or some daddy's money stage 5 clinger who didn't understand what personal space meant.

either way, no one ever took legitimate interest in him. just what his hardass demeanor showed. they could start more rumors about him for all he cared. none of it was true.

no one ever bothered to ask why he was such a hardass, jaded and broken in so many ways he didn't even know where to start.

so he just kept it that way.

"just used to it, i guess. place to stay, keeps me kind of in check," you caught the slight falter in his voice, the hint of distaste simmering in his throat.

"i guess that makes sense," you hummed, picking at your fingers still hidden in the pocket of his jacket. "if you ever need a place my apartment is open. my roommate dropped out so there's a spare room if you need it,".

who are you? you've known this man for 45 minutes max and you're inviting him to your apartment. alone?

you heard him laugh a little under his breath, shaking his head. "thanks, doll. i'll uh- i'll have to take you up on that,".

you felt like a teenager again, butterflies swirling in your stomach while walking through a poorly lit neighborhood, that fluttering silence a little too eager.

taking his hand from his pocket, he gestured you to turn the corner, smack dab in front of the gas station you always avoided because it was always too busy.

"we're getting icees," he looked at you, not up for debate.

he was stiff, still lost in thought, stunned.

"you get to pick the flavors then,". he opened the door for you, acting like his mouth didn't run dry again at the sight of you swimming in his jacket.

at the back of the store, you pulled two cups out from their container, handing both of them to him.

"lids," his hand held out, very obviously having a process to this that you would be learning whether you wanted to or not.

you watched him as he mixed the cherry and blue raspberry, a little bit from each until both cups were full. grabbing two straws, you led the way to the register, him insisting that you would not be walking behind him at any point in time.

you went to pull out your debit card from behind your phone, and he gently swatted your hand away before handing the cashier a $10, telling him to keep the change.

mouths now occupied with frozen corn syrup and food dyes, the silence didn't feel so bad. your high was slowly dwindling, mostly back to ground zero, realizing that you were in fact not making all of this up, and that sukuna was in fact real.

and not as much of an asshole as everyone made him out to be. at least not to you, anyways.

—

"hang tight," he opened the car door for you, shutting it once you were inside.

slithering past sweaty bodies, sukuna hurried up to his room- sliding a different key into all three locks he installed despite the rules on the resident paperwork- pulling out his duffle bag from the closet.

some clothes, some weed, and his little case of papers, and a quick swipe of his normal stuff, he rushed out- locking those same three bolts behind him.

before any watchful eyes could catch him, he slid back outside and scared you straight when he opened the drivers side door, throwing his bag in the backseat.

his car was nice, all leather interior and spotless, a red lighter in one of the cup holders.

music hummed low, just enough to meet the awkward silence as he realized he didn't have a clue where he was going. you pulled up the maps on your phone, setting it in the empty holder facing him.

a quick drive, you fumbled with your keys as he parked next to your car - obviously a tax bracket below his.

"it's nothing special," you mumbled while unlocking your front door, flipping the light switch that illuminated the open space, bulbs changed from harsh LEDs to warmer tones, easier on the eyes and far less clinical.

"it's comfy. i like it," he toed off his shoes, lining them up beside the front door, placing them right beside yours.

"i'll be right back, just gonna change real quick," with hurried steps towards your bedroom, sukuna didn't have any idea what to do with himself. he didn't want to assume anything, you didn't say he could sit down on the couch, so he just…stood there.

he wasn't used to being in someone else's space, especially one that wasn't a frat or some run down shithole meant for cutting lines and counting bills.

he rested his back against the kitchen counter, looking around the apartment, a slew of lamps and books, blankets littered on every chair, the soft hum of a diffuser filling the air with a hint of jasmine, your laptop and papers strewn about over the small kitchen table.

"you can sit down you know," you leaned against your doorframe, still clad in his sweatshirt, switching your jeans for some pajama pants.

you swore his eyes softened for a split second at the sight of you, blinking it back rapidly as he registered your words.

"didn't wanna mess anything up," he fiddled with the strap of his bag, still waiting for you to give him directions.

for the first time in forever, he felt embarrassed.

he was used to feeling out of place, taking up too much space, not being welcome.

he didn't know how to process being welcomed, being treated with normalcy coated in lamplight and softened edges.

laughing a little as you looked at the floor, you walked across the room, opening the spare room and turning the light on.

"this room is yours, don't worry about it. then come sit with me, 'kay?" you ushered him in, half joking but also taken aback by how… polite he was?

a little too stiff with it, but endearing nonetheless.

"do you like wine?"

"it's not bad," he tipped his head a little, taking his shirt off and throwing it on the bed.

"woa- i'll let you change," your face was hot. burning you alive, actually.

all muscles and tattoos under the cotton, a v-line so perfect you swore you were imagining it, nearly stumbling over your own feet as you rushed out and busied yourself with wine and glasses.

except you couldn't get the goddamn bottle open.

taking it with you to the couch, both stemless glasses in hand, you placed them on the coffee table, picking up the tv remote and sitting down, tucking your legs under you.

switching on some music to play low, you grabbed your phone to text gojo before he texted you after the last incident.

you did not need to console him again for thinking that you went missing when you called an uber once the body shots came out.

| hey, got a ride home. all good :) gn

not bothering to wait for a response that probably wouldn't come, you set it down on the table as well, anxiously looking over at the spare room, waiting for him to come out.

you prayed he brought more weed, your mind racing a million fucking miles an hour, heartbeat loud in your ears and restless.

finally, in a baggy shirt and sweatpants, you had to make the conscious effort not to drool at the sight.

setting his things on the table next to the wine, he looked over once, waiting for your approval to open the jar.

"when you're done, um," you looked down at your lap, playing with the strings on your pajama pants, "can you open that bottle? i couldn't get it-"

before you could even finish your sentence, he had the bottle in his hand, one twist and it was cracked free - too broke for the real bottles with fancy foil and corks- handing it to you without judgment.

"thank you," you hummed, a little anxious at his silence. pouring heavy in both glasses, you set down the bottle between them, pretending that you didn't usually just pull from it to save time.

it was mesmerizing, watching him roll. so precise, a blueprint imprinted behind those crimson eyes, fingers working by feel alone.

a long swipe of his tongue to seal the edge, handing it to you.

"c'mere," he flicked his lighter, forcing you to lean forward, eyes glued to his as he lit the joint for you, smirking as you inhaled.

it was far too intimate for your body to handle, practically short circuiting and dropping your eyes first, blowing the smoke away from his face and handing it to him.

"fuck your shit is the best i've had in a long fuckin' time," you leaned into your side, adjusting to face him.

"yeah?" the question slightly muffled under his exhale.

"my last dealer ghosted so, been shit outta luck and depending on satoru," you can't help but roll your eyes, a long sip to stain your lips. "which means i've been on an involuntary tolerance break for a month,".

"don't need to worry about that anymore, doll," he handed it back to you, turning to roll another. "keep it,".

you didn't realize just how high you were, mixed with the tinge of wine on your tongue, eyes hazy and dry, the clock on the wall forgotten.

"so," you push his bicep a little, unsure if you hid the tug on your lower lip at the warmth he radiated. "treat all your girls like this?"

"what do you mean?" less like a question and more of a statement, genuinely confused by what you meant.

"oh, uh," your throat closed with the worst case of embarrassment in the history of the universe. fucking dumbass. "i just assumed you had girls all over you, y'know?"

"no, i don't care for that shit," he was so stoic, tone not faltering for a second, almost devoid of feeling.

and of course, that made you squirm a little, the inside of your cheek bleeding with how hard you were biting it.

"really? i think you're the first guy i've-" another swig of wine for good luck, "ever heard say that,".

"just how i see it," he shrugs, finishing off his blunt with a final inhale.

"i like that," you offer a soft smile, blinking slow. "you're a good guy, 'kuna,".

you did a double take, the tips of his ears and bridge of his nose turning red, cracking his knuckles as a final grasp at composure.

"say that again,".

"what, 'kuna?"

"i like that,".

—

you woke up tangled in your blankets, not even sure what time it was or how you got to bed, lights down low and door cracked open.

water bottle on your nightstand and phone plugged in, stuffed animal tucked under your arm.

rolling out of bed still half asleep, you drug your feet to the kitchen to get a pot of coffee started, second nature by this point.

damn near giving yourself a heart attack, sukuna was already up, starting the machine for you.

you jumped straight out of your skin, before you clutched your chest and laughed a little, voice still groggy and sleep still stuck in your eyes.

"shit woman, are you good?" he stood there with his hands glued to the coffee pot, water shut off when you jumped.

"yeah, yeah i'm fine," you turned around, grabbing the coffee grounds and filter from the cabinet, setting them next to the machine that was practically older than you.

"you sure?" he moved next to you, flipping up the plastic lid and placing the filter in, followed by a few spoonfuls of coffee grounds and pouring the water in after in a gentle spiral.

"mhm," you nodded, reaching up to grab two mugs, mismatched and a decade old. "did you sleep okay? are you hungry?"

"yeah, i did,". he leaned into the counter, watching you open your fridge and holding back half a grin as you pinched your brows together when you realized you had absolutely fuck all in there. "and ye-"

"ooookay well i will be right back because i apparently don't know what a grocery store is," trying your best to cover up your embarrassment again, knowing you were really just broke as hell and made do with whatever you could half the time.

"let me get dressed then," he shrugged, palms pushing himself off the counter.

"no no, you stay put you're a guest here and i'm being a terrible host," you followed his steps towards the guest room, hardwood cold on your feet, rambling on trying to convince him you had it handled.

throwing a sweatshirt on and ruffling his hair in the mirror, he let you keep talking his ear off with a panicked jitteriness smushing all your words together with a single breath, digging around in his bag for his cologne, spraying it a few times haphazardly.

"hey, relax," he grabbed both your shoulders, leaning down to be eye level with you. "you're fine. go get dressed, ain't letting you go somewhere alone on my behalf,".

he spun you around, gently pushing you out towards your room, shutting down any rebuttals you tried to conjure up.

your face was burning, heat crawling up the sides of your neck making you itch, brain fried and scrambled.

you tugged on some jeans and a hoodie, trying to fix your hair and look half presentable all at the same time.

nearly sweating as you grabbed your phone off the nightstand, you caught a glimpse of him standing stiff at the kitchen counter again, a mirror image to what he was doing when he first entered.

"okay, shit, sorry-" you grabbed your keys, bending over to put your shoes on and sliding his over to him.

slipping his on, he opened the door for you, locking the handle from the inside.

"okay, um, where to?" you were nearly out of breath, too flustered to look up at him all the way.

"this way,".

—

a few blocks over, a coffee shop sat tucked behind a tattoo parlor, hidden just enough to go unnoticed at first glance.

he ordered for the both of you, blocking the card reader entirely when you tried to pay without him noticing.

sitting at a table in the corner, the image was almost laughable.

two college kids, eyes still puffy with sleep and remnants of smoke, unable to look each other in the eye and fidgeting with their fingers.

stealing glances between stares out the window, the brick pathway outside suddenly the most interesting thing you'd ever laid eyes on.

you couldn't get over the fact that all of it felt domestic. it almost felt like a date.

you watched him grab your pastries and coffees from the counter, shrugging his shoulders to adjust the seams of his jacket and shaking out his sleeves once.

his hair a little messy, hands restless.

your throat closed, breath hitching as your heart stammered a few times over.

barely able to swallow, you mumbled a small 'thank you' as he sat back down across from you.

the third sip of coffee melted the ice between you.

he told you about the first time he came here, cling wrap stuck to his chest with paper tape after staying at the tattoo shop out front all night getting his chest and neck done all in one session, body fighting shock and barely able to stand.

about his brothers, about how the youngest looks just like him.

you let him ramble on for nearly an hour, soaking up every coffee-stained laugh and crimson eye roll.

conversation drifted back and forth, carrying your steps back to his car next to yours, taking control of your actions and following him around while running mind-numbing errands, far more enjoyable when enthralled with every exhale.

your face ached from too many smiles, dry humor pulling out child-like laughter, far too loud for the cereal isle at the grocery store.

bickering like life-long friends as he refused to let you carry any of the bags, only letting you carry the stuffed kitty you looked at for a second too long, him running back to grab it before the cashier could read out the total.

you fought him on it, insisting you didn't need it, but you knew he wouldn't take no for an answer - met with a 'just take it, woman' before hiding the flash of pink on the tips of his ears.

icees perched in the cup holders, radio humming low as you talked about everything and nothing all of the same time, vocal cords hoarse with overuse.

—

"can i, stay? a little longer?" he looked up at the clock on your wall, realizing it'd been more than 24 hours since you let him inside, internally sighing at the thought of going back to the frat house - knowing they'd have some sort of something going on.

"of course, room's yours now," you shrugged, cutting up fruit in the kitchen.

"this is your place, though," he looked over at you, water droplets on your shirt from your shower still drying, placing each piece on a tray with a little too much precision.

"you don't like the frat house and you haven't killed me yet," you shrugged again, half a smile on your lips. "it's the least i can do after you paid for all my shit and let me smoke your stuff,".

rinsing the knife and cutting board off in the sink, you brought the tray over to the couch, setting it on the coffee table that you pulled closer, not wanting to reach as far.

"you don't owe me anything, honey,". he looked almost offended, brow furrowed like he was trying to figure out if you were joking or not.

"yeah okay sure," rolling your eyes, you picked up a strawberry from the tray and sat back into the cushions, body turned towards him. "whatever you say,".

"you're ridiculous," he scoffed, grabbing one as well, tossing you the remote and shaking his head, trying his hardest not to let the corners of his mouth curve up towards a hint of a smile.

"whatever," you couldn't bite back yours, directing your attention to the tv screen in a last ditch effort to avoid his eyes.

after scrolling through everything, you turned back to him, thinking a little too hard.

"alright, what's your favorite movie series?" you tucked your legs under you, holding out the remote for him.

"you sure?" he took the remote from you, hesitating.

"'kuna," you drew it out, queuing the dramatics in feigned annoyance.

"okay, okay, damn," his laugh was like fucking heroin, settling in your bloodstream with a warmth you never knew you needed.

you expected some sort of stereotypical college boy movies or shitty overplayed horror films, not, batman?

specifically batman begins.

nor did you expect to be up until the sun rose watching the next two, pausing frequently, listening to the sheer amount of lore he knew.

how there were at least 900 individual comics, the first one published before the second world war, explaining how there were multiple eras with varying storytelling - yet somehow all intertwining, different timelines occasionally intersecting.

how he loved the christopher nolan movies the best but despises him for ruining robin's entire story without even blinking.

how he's been building his collection of paperback comics since he was 12, spending any change he could at the bookstore down the street from his childhood home for every edition.

how he managed to get signed posters, completed arkham knight 8 times over.

that his first crush was of course the animated catwoman from the 90's, that he was batman for 6 consecutive halloweens until his father forced him to be something else.

that he had a stick 'n poke tattoo of the classic symbol done courtesy of toji that healed terribly, that physical copies of nearly every movie and animated episode filled bookshelves in his old bedroom.

you let him ramble on, a certain light flashing in his eyes when you settled in closer so your full attention was to him, cracking open two energy drinks and handing him one to ensure the night didn't end.

keeping your eyes on him as you stumbled around the kitchen, piecing together some sort of dinner, your chest felt tight, too full of feelings you didn't dare acknowledge.

for the first time, you felt at ease.

—

the only problem was that gojo could not know.

anytime you were with him, he threw daggers at any man who even thought about looking in your direction.

all his frat brothers had an unspoken rule: you were off limits.

apparently, sukuna never got that memo. or, didn't care.

meeting sukuna that night was some strike of luck you didn't even know you had, gojo too distracted with getting the girl of the night up to his room.

aka : he wasn't keeping eyes on you.

he always started the night with you. arm over your shoulders, getting your drinks for you, dragging you around with him like some sort accessory.

by the third beer and fourth tequila shot the energy always shifted.

he would get caught in conversation, slipping away for 'just a minute', leaving you high and fucking dry every time.

not to mention around campus, walking with you when he could, begging you to 'help' with his homework, promising to make it up to you.

did he ever?

no.

and you never put the goddamn pieces together.

gojo wanted you. but didn't want to commit to you.

maybe you were too blind to see it, or you lied to yourself every time to keep the peace and not lose every friend you had, all tying back to him in some way.

"hey, so," you tossed your phone down, pressing your fingers into your temples. "satoru can't know about this,".

"huh?"

"he'll lose his shit, he gets, weird about me hanging out with guys. i don't even want to know what would happen if he found out about you like, living here,".

"what do you mean 'lose his shit'?" you felt his energy shift, eyes narrower, pierced lips settling into a scowl.

"he'll just make a whole scene and he'll be clingy, well clingier than he already is but, i don't know i just don't want to deal with it," you were rambling, talking far too fast for a normal person to keep up with.

"the fuck? he's not your dad, and even then you're allowed to do whatever the fuck-"

"'kuna, it's fine. i'm used to it. i just don't want this to fuck anything up for you," you couldn't look him in the eye, heartbeat rattling your ribcage you swore he could hear the cracking of your bones.

"that daddy's money arrogant brat," he was muttering under his breath, head in his hands. "who the fuck does he think he is?"

"just, please don't make a big deal out of it? for now, at least?" he saw the way you were wincing, closing in on yourself, timid.

held breaths and grating teeth were the only thing filling the silence, ears ringing and twitches of panic.

"fine. for now,".

you knew you'd need to handle it, that you would inevitably have to swallow satoru's dramatics and subsequent alcoholic binge.

that he would get clingy all over, suffocating you and doing anything he could to ruin the man at fault.

you wanted to keep this little fraction of serenity to yourself, safe and sound within the chipped paint and rusted hinges you called home. for now, at least.

—

things fell into routine. a sickeningly domestic routine.

slowly moving his comics to your place, rearranging your shelves and adding new ones to allow plenty of space for each and every one, your apartment slowly meshing into a place to really call home.

his console sat next to yours on the entertainment center, controllers resting side by side as they charged.

mismatched picture frames on the wall meshed together, posters and pictures of his brothers next to your prints and polaroids.

his water bottles next to yours on top of the fridge, shoes next to yours by the door.

shared dinners most nights, whoever cooked dinner relieved of dish duties. even if you were nose deep in your textbooks, he would sit with you the whole time, not leaving until you finished eating at minimum, pestering you until you told him all about your day.

helping him with whatever assignment he couldn't figure out, him quizzing you for hours without you needing to ask.

his toothbrush next to yours in the bathroom, cologne placed beside your perfume.

if anyone came in, they would immediately second guess the whole 'just friends' notion you hid behind.

both of you writing on the calendar by the door, learning how to decipher his frantic handwriting when he remembered a birthday two weeks beforehand.

red lighter on his end table, chapstick on yours.

drawings from his younger brother on the fridge with multicolor magnets.

walking to classes together when satoru wasn't around, sharing notes and bitching about professors.

memorizing his coffee order, his shirt size.

washing your face while he fixed his hair, folding his laundry with yours.

cleaning the floors on thursday mornings, getting groceries on monday evenings after class.

on the days he had 'frat obligations' you felt weird. no longer comfortable in the silence you used to adore so deeply, leaving on some sort of music or replaying 90's reruns of that series he knew every line to, hoping you would absorb a little more of it each time.

you shared locations, mostly so he could pick you up from classes when he had the time, but you kept it open on those days, aware that his obligations really didn't last that long, nor that they required him to jump around town, knowing how he got his money, always fighting down the urge to check in on him when he was on another shady block.

the apartment no longer smelling like just your perfume and jasmine, the air now mixed with his cologne and shampoo and a hint of weed lingering in the floorboards.

he softened every now and then, falling asleep on the couch within hours of coming back from his nights at the frat house, dark circles slowly fading the longer he stayed with you.

you refused to acknowledge the butterflies in your chest when he held the blunt for you, under the guise of not wanting to ruin the nails he paid for you to get done after mentioning you'd never had them done professionally in passing.

you refused to believe that this was anything more than friendship, a crossing of paths with mutual benefits.

you told yourself that his eyes flickering to your lips when you talked was just his way of avoiding eye contact, that him patting your stuffed animals on the head when putting them back in place and remembering their names was just him mimicking you even if he thought you weren't looking.

each night spent watching him play his favorite video games and explaining the story, letting you put your legs on his lap and handing you the controller when after the enemies were defeated to let you run around while laughing at you getting lost again, filled you with a foreign comfort you never knew you needed.

—

while running errands one morning, grabbing a few bottles of wine and new dish towels while he was 'working', you stumbled upon a pair of matching pajama pants hung next to each other on the rack.

one pair in your size, one pair in his, matching batman symbols printed in the fleece. you didn't know what made you grab them, not even bothering to look at the price tags.

you doubted he would ever wear them, but the thought that he might had you swallowing a smile. all hard edges, thick black lines coating his skin, a permanent line between his brows and scars littered all over, wearing fleece pajama pants was something you had to try and see, even if it was just once.

running them on a quick wash cycle, you placed them on his bed, putting yours on after your shower.

he didn't say anything when he got back, always showering before he did anything else after his runs, then coming to see if you'd eaten yet.

except this time, he had the goddamn pants on.

"we match!" you kicked your leg up to show yours over the back of the couch, committing his smile he tried to hide with a few shakes of his head to memory.

"you're cute," he opened the fridge, pulling out a beer he did like, grabbing the half finished bottle of wine and a glass for you.

"whatever," you huffed, biting down on the inside of your cheek.

settling in to the all familiar routine, matching fleece added to the list of things blurring the lines between friendship and something more, something you refused to stomach.

for now, it was just, home.

—

| where are you.

| trying to peel satoru off me one sec

| coming.

you really were trying to get gojo off of you, just tipsy enough for him to confess his love to all of his friends, a speech you've heard a hundred times. endearing, but his arm around your neck was heavy, and you had better plans than waiting for him to spill beer on you.

you didn't want to be at another party, but you also didn't want to hear gojo plead again, that this one was important.

you weren't sure how a frat party could really be important, but it snuffed out his questioning and dozens of texts for the time being.

a few taps on gojo's shoulder has him spinning his head back, yanking you with him in the process.

"get your arm off her," sukuna's grip on his shoulder was bruising, forcing attention and making his arm go numb. his thumb pressing against the edge of his shoulder blade, arm around you falling and beer spilling on the floor.

"look who's finally out! guys- dude what the fuck?"

"i said get your arm off her," he grabbed your hand, pulling you with him out the door.

"the fuck is he doing?" gojo looked at his group of friends, half of them holding back a laugh and the others watching you leave.

suguru shrugged, hiding his smirk behind his red solo cup. "thought you knew,".

"no? she didn't tell me- don't tell me they're- fuck man," he threw his hands up in dramatic defeat, jealousy seeping through his fingertips.

"get over it, man, you'll have some chick in your bed by the end of the night anyways- look they're already drooling over you," toji threw a ping pong ball right at his face, hitting him square in the forehead.

no one else had a problem with it, keeping their mouths shut for your sake, and theirs.

truthfully, they were more scared of sukuna's threats to keep his arrangement with you a secret than anything gojo had shoved down their throats before.

meanwhile, sukuna had his fingers interlaced with yours, footsteps much faster than you could keep up with, opening up the car door for you and looking behind him before he closed it.

the car was already warm, watching him slide into the drivers seat with jealousy thick enough to taste not helping the case.

"sorry. didn't like his hands on you," he peeled out of the parking space, headed down to that same gas station you'd frequented a couple days a week with him by now.

"it's okay, not a big deal, he's… usually like that," you shrugged, chewing on your bottom lip.

"not anymore, i'm sick of him treating you like you're some fucking toy he gets to show off,". he pulled into an empty spot, telling you to 'wait right here. lock the doors' and disappearing inside.

you picked at the sides of your fingers resting in your lap, eyes wide as you kept an eye on each person that walked by, anxiously waiting for him to come back.

you felt safer, around him.

unlocking the door for him when he finally came back, you let go of the breath you didn't even know you were holding.

two icees, mixed perfectly, just like all the times before.

"i need to talk to you," breaking the silence as he reversed out, driving down a road you didn't know.

"o-okay," your breath was held again, worried you were breathing too loud, existing too loud, taking up too much space.

the air was so heavy, all you could hear was your devastated heart racing in your ears.

full blown panic, in the middle of fucking nowhere and he 'needs to talk', totally ideal.

parking the car at the edge of a lookout, one you didn't even know existed, he turned to look at you, eyes steadfast and burning holes in your shaking flesh.

"you know i deal, yes?" his whole body turned towards you, fidgeting with the bright red straw in his cup.

"i put two and two together," you were taken aback by him just now asking, paying for everything even when you refused, leaving at weird hours and location drifting across town in quick stints, always having weed on him without ever running out.

"i don't only deal weed," his sigh was heavy, free hand rubbing his face as to hide his guilt.

"okay," you figured as much, college kids always wanted more, wanted real party drugs. hell, even satoru tried to get you to roll molly with him on more than one occasion.

you remember toji doing lines off some girls stomach on the coffee table at the beginning of the semester, just to have to fight him for his keys because he was convinced it 'sobered him up' from 9 beers and 3 shots on a half empty stomach, forcing you to get suguru involved as he dangled them over your head.

you couldn't blame them too much, though.

you also knew that the market was bigger than just flower, your university built right in the middle of a city, enough to second guess walking home alone each time.

you knew there were territory lines between families or gangs or whatever else ran the city these days, sending out their weakest links to do their bidding, all about cash flow, missing bodies, and whatever they could get their hands on.

"that… doesn't bother you?" his eyes were wide, hands freezing, expecting you to lash out at him or scold him, dreading the inevitability that you would look at him different, or pull away from him entirely.

"no, not really," you shrugged, knowing it paid the bills and he couldn't exactly stop out of nowhere even if he wanted to. "what else do you deal?"

"coke, molly, shrooms. sometimes special orders - look what i'm trying to say is i'm not exactly safe to be around,". he couldn't even meet your eyes, the words straining his vocal cords as he tried so desperately not to crack at the seams, not wanting to lose the one person who made him feel alive again.

"you make me feel safe, though," you mumbled through it, heat crawling up your neck in embarrassment at the admission.

"i just - fuck - i need to drop you off at our place for a bit, i have a deal in an hour and it'll pay the rent for the next 6 months and then some," he shook his head, trying not to fumble under the weight of your statement, to not show how much it broke his heart to think that. "then i'll come back home, that cool?"

to think that someone like him, a drug dealer who carried a loaded 9mm in his waistband at all times, someone who had tattoos on their face and scars on their hands, someone who didn't know how to hold things without breaking them, made you feel safe, was fucking beyond him.

that you, the girl who bitched him out but still gave him a chance five minutes later, the girl who opened her home to a stranger and let him call it home, the girl who valued her education and found joy in the smallest of things, found safety in a walking felony like him.

"i don't mind, i'll stay in the car," you ducked your head to try and meet his eyes, huffing out a frustrated sigh when he didn't budge.

"i don't want you to get hurt," the admission faint but still audible, too scared to accidentally raise his voice or potentially come off cold, opting to almost not speak instead. vulnerability too foreign for him to stomach, uncomfortable letting the walls begin to crack.

you sighed again, setting your icee down, putting your hands on either side of his face to try to get his attention.

they were cold from holding that comically large cup, startling him enough for his face to run hot and eyes to shoot wide open.

pulling his face a little closer to yours, you tried your goddamn hardest to get his full attention, praying he felt even an ounce of the fear you stomached every time he went out.

"what happens if you get hurt? i don't-" you were grasping at straws, trying to get him to see the flip side.

"that doesn't matter-"

"it does to me," you dropped your hands from his face, hoping it would get through his head that you cared about him.

you understood why he didn't want you to go, and that was the worst part. it was dangerous, point blank. was it stupid? yes. but why would you let him do it alone then?

you knew it had to be a big transaction if what he was saying was true, and it didn't sit right with you. too much was on the line for this to be like a normal drop, his voice too low, hands too shaky, knowing he would've done the drop without say if he thought it would be fine.

there had to be a reason why he was telling you all this on a fucking whim, right?

there was no way in fucking hell he would be going alone, whether he liked it or not. you hadn't been truly stubborn with him before, only playfully when he asked if you were going to admit defeat during a video game or insisting you would do the dishes when he was damn near falling asleep on the couch.

"i-" your voice cracking for a second, not confident in finding the right way to phrase it and not sound like an overbearing mother. "you matter more than a couple grand. and i refuse to let you put yourself in that much danger by yourself. you can be mad at me all you want but i'm not budging on this, 'kuna,".

you watched his jaw tense, a sharp inhale through his nose, closing his eyes for a few seconds.

your heart sank, cursing at yourself for being too pushy, for thinking you had the right to say anything about what he did for a living.

shaming yourself for being too forward, for letting a sliver of your emotions come out, voice a little too loud and tone a little too stern.

you turned back in your seat, eyes glued to your shoes on the floorboard, trying your best not to cry.

the last thing you ever wanted was for him to be upset with you, to be mad at you, to pull himself away from you because you couldn't keep yourself in check, couldn't swallow your own pride for once.

the silence hung heavy, taking all the oxygen in the car away from you and forcing you to feel the ache in your chest.

it sat for too long. you felt your eyes well up, forcing yourself to look out the window to blink away the blur.

"you familiar with handguns?" your breath hitched, your nervous spiral brought to a screeching halt at the normalcy in his voice.

no anger, no hints at frustration, just asking you like you were talking about what to have for dinner.

"yeah, grew up with them," you forced yourself to look at him again, his jaw a little less tense than it was before.

you did grow up with them, your father having them in the house since before you were born, teaching you everything you needed to know as soon as he felt comfortable.

everyone you knew had the same logic - if they were going to be in the house, everyone needed to know how to handle them and have every safe handling skill known to man branded into their being.

how to aim, to hold, to drop the mag, to never ever point it at anyone unless you planned on pulling the trigger.

how to manage a safety lock, to rack and clear, how to disassemble and clean, making sure accidents would never happen.

it had been a while, you had to admit, but it wasn't something foreign to you.

"here," he sighed, reaching back and grabbing his jacket from the backseat, a heavy-duty carhartt zip up, insulated and everything.

then, he handed you his backup handgun.

serial number scratched off, compensator on the barrel.

unbuckling your seatbelt, you slid his jacket on, way too big but pockets large enough to slip the gun inside somehow.

thankful you wouldn't need to situate a holster, to have it wide out in the open due to the top you had on.

"just in case, better to not need it than not have it,".

you watched him adjust the one in his waistband, pressed hard against his abs.

"17 rounds in mine, 13 in yours, okay?" you nodded, praying to whoever was out there that 30 rounds would be more than enough regardless of the situation, that you wouldn't need any of them, for that matter.

"you don't have to do this, you know," he busied himself, fixing the jacket hood around your neck to hide the twitches in his hands, to quell the fear bubbling in him.

"i know," a soft smile rested on your lips, stained faintly purple by the icee, trying to convince him you were okay.

the drive felt like forever, gun heavy in your pocket.

surely, surely you wouldn't need it. right? it would be fine. just a normal deal. right?

but you couldn't ignore the pounding of your heart echoing in your ears, how clammy your hands were all of a sudden, or how badly you wanted to bounce your leg up and down like a restless kid stuck in a lecture to let out some of the nerves.

in a run down part of town, one you never felt all that safe in and avoided after watching the news for all of five minutes, he pulled into the parking lot of some condemned housing, another car already there.

you didn't dare show him the fear creeping up your legs and settling in your spine, dim lighting and lingering unease making your throat close up entirely.

that car, a murdered porsche, sat parked against a fence, out of direct sight from the road, engine rumbling with all the lights off to not draw any unnecessary attention.

you didn't like the way his brow furrowed, the way he adjusted his hips in his seat to make sure nothing was in the way of his 9mm under his jacket, or the way his jaw was so tight his molars were begging for relief.

you didn't dare show him any of that, though. you chose to show up, you fought him to show up, but you would be fucking damned if you let him go alone and he got hurt. or god forbid something worse.

"stay in the car, and do not move," his words were low, heavy, sharp. cutting into you until you complied, nodding once as he opened the door. walking to the trunk, he pulled it up, grabbed a handle, and shut the latch- small briefcase now in hand.

you loaded the gun, just in case. none of this felt right.

two men exited the car in trained unison, black button downs and gold belt buckles, dress shoes scuffing on the loose bits of pavement.

they both stood a step behind him, subtly caging him on either side.

he flicked his eyes up to you for a split second, wide and screaming 'this isn't right, do not fucking move' with everything he could in that single motion.

on the hood, he had the case open, proving he had what was promised. the man closest to him set theirs down next, confirming they were still on.

sukuna checked the cash, making sure the bills weren't fake, mentally calculating the stacks of bills to ensure it met the final price.

in half a second the entire trajectory of every breath swiveled sideways, a gun pushed against his temple.

his hands held behind his back, forcing him in place, stuck under the cold iron bruising the soft spot by his eye.

he tried to look at you, trying to say something, anything, panicking for the first time in years.

before you could even move, before you could even double check that the doors were locked or jump into the drivers seat, the passenger door was swung open, scarred hands dragging you out.

comply, do whatever they want, don't fucking hurt him.

"who's this pretty little thing, ryomen? surely you won't mind if we take her back for a bit," an arm was slung around your neck tight, thankfully able to tuck your chin enough so he couldn't immediately choke you out if he felt like it.

he smelled like a dingy strip club, spraying more cologne on instead of cleaning himself up afterwards, huffing the remnants of scotch and cheap cigars on your cheek.

you closed your eyes for a second, digging your heels into the ground and debating on trying to squirm free - opting not to just in case the man pressing a gun to sukuna's temple got trigger happy.

"get your filthy fucking hands off her," you had never heard his voice so deep, so deadly, trying his best to break his hands free, only to be met with the barrel of the gun shoved deeper into his temple, forcing him to his knees on the fucked up pavement.

"we just wanna have our fun, y'know how it is man. give us the shit and an hour with her and you'll have your life, no big deal," the man having the audacity to squeeze you tighter, taunting sukuna like you were some toy.

you felt a blade push against your side, a warning to comply, forcing your body still. your eyes ran wide, flickering between the gun on sukuna's temple, the man holding it, and sukuna's horrified stare.

"i'll fucking skin you alive, get your goddamn hands off her or i'll cut them off myself you fucking bastard," he was yelling now, so close to taking the gamble on his life to maybe save you, looking at you for answers.

you should have been crying, pleading for your life. but that look in sukuna's eyes kicked your adrenaline impossibly higher, snaking your hand to the pocket of that jacket-disguised as a futile attempt to squirm free, jaw locked and vision tunneling.

you flickered your eyes to tell him to stop moving, to wait to get out of the way, to look at where your hand was. to not fuck around with a barrel almost breaking his skin under the pressure.

the only thing you could think of getting out of this, of maybe saving him, was to play the part of the scared little girlfriend, them feeding off your fear.

"'kuna, please," your whine falsified, playing into this bit, one that was never rehearsed. trying your best to sound like a damsel in distress, another heartbroken girl too stupid for her own good, to make you seem like less of a threat.

you hoped he caught on, that this wasn't actually you, that you were playing in to the dramatics they wanted.

over and over in your head, you begged for them to take the bait, praying that sukuna could hear you pleading to him, 'play along 'kuna c'mon' repeating like a broken record.

sukuna put his hands up. "okay, fine, fucking - god damn it all - just take it," he moved to stand, the man removing the bruising iron, aiming towards the sky, finger off the trigger.

closing up the case, man behind him going on some rant about how much he was going to make off this, how quickly sukuna complied, turning towards you with a sick smile on his face.

the man holding you tracing the knife up and down your side under the jacket, tearing your shirt in a single drag. you held back your urge to shut down, the urge to run cold and drop the damsel act, not wanting to raise suspicion when tensions were still high.

instead you pretended to sob, pretended that you were devastated, selling it with everything you had.

thanking your intuition for racking before they got you, your finger clicking off the safety - the sound hidden under your fake cries.

shifting just enough to tighten your grip, to steady your finger on the trigger, you widened your eyes towards sukuna, taking in a fake deep breath.

sukuna clocked it instantly, stepping back half a step to clear your line, disguised as him just backing off.

the man had placed his gun on the hood of sukuna's car between the cases, locking them shut while he continued droning on and on about how proud his boss was going to be, how they finally got sukuna to fall under the pressure, how stupid he was for bringing 'his girl' along but thanking him for the 'bonus' anyways.

as soon as the man holding you loosened his grip a fraction of an inch, you pulled the pistol from your pocket, cutting the speech short with a muffled shot to his leg, falling to the ground, another to his hand reaching for sukuna, a slew of profanities and groans of pain. you could handle being stabbed a hell of a lot more than being shot, and you'd rather it be you than him.

sukuna immediately drew his, already racked and safety off before you could blink.

he shot the man holding you twice in the leg, the furthest thing from you, wincing as he fired rounds so close to you.

he dropped his arm from around your neck, knife in your side cutting into you deeper than you would like to admit, barely feeling the sting through the ringing in your ears ruining your eardrums, the adrenaline replacing your blood, covered up by the jacket as you ripped the knife out of his hand.

wordlessly, you fucking sprinted, grabbing one of the cases while he grabbed the other, alongside the gun still resting on the hood, throwing it all in the backseat, peeling out before doors were fully closed.

your body didn't recognize the pain, didn't know what the word panic even was, the only thing swarming you was the adrenaline rush and the euphoria of it all. that you worked so seamlessly together, like you'd done this a thousand times before, checking the rear view and side mirrors for any headlights until you were 5 blocks over.

his knuckles were white, getting the two of you the hell out of there without another question, gun hot against your hand.

"are you okay?" you break the silence first, wincing at the blood dripping down your side under your torn shirt and soaking into his jacket, heartbeat trying to come down to normal.

"i'm so sorry- fuck i shouldn't have let you come i'm so so-" he hit his steering wheel, looking over at you with the most broken look on his face, still flushed from the heat of it all.

"if i hadn't been there you'd be a dead man 'kuna," you tried to hide the cut on your side. shifting towards him, turning the ac on and angling one of the vents toward him.

you watched the traffic lights change colors on his face, the stoplight only making his eyes that much more red, the reality of it setting in.

he would have been dead, knowing his stubborn ass would have tried to fight until that bullet tore through his skull.

if he was lucky, he may have made it out, only to be met with the consequences of losing all that product with no cash to show for it.

you saved him, and he fucking hated that it got to that point.

he should have known better, should've had toji come with him or something, should've never done a deal on that side of town, should've never had a fraction of his back towards them, should have never brought you.

but fuck, you were right.

a long inhale, he rested his head back on the headrest, eyes still glued to you as the light turned green.

"yeah, i'm okay. are you?"

"um," you felt guilty, you didn't want to tell him, but also didn't know how the hell you were going to hide it. "he got my side after you shot him,".

"are you fucking kidding me," you'd never heard him so panicked, even with a gun pointed at his head, eyes tracking every inch of your body until he caught a glimpse of the tear, a glimpse of the red staining your fingers.

"i'll clean it up at home no big deal," you tried to play it off, just wanting to get home before he turned back and actually killed them, or tried to take you to the hospital, unsure as to how the fuck were you supposed to explain that to a whole team of doctors.

"fuck," he looked like he was about to cry, trembling in a pool of anger and guilt and full blown panic. "fuck fuck fuck i'm so sorry god damn it,".

"shhhhh," you applied a little more pressure, trying to slow your breathing and stay calm while he barely kept his shit together. "just get us home, we can handle it there, i'll be okay,".

he nodded, a mumbled 'okay, okay yeah', breaking every traffic law like he didn't have a briefcase full of blow and unregistered firearms in the car, pulling up to your apartment in record time.

you couldn't even blink before he was at your side, lifting you out of your seat bridal style.

—

"jesus fucking christ," he shook his head, gently pulling the now ruined shirt over your head, eyes focused on the slice still trickling blood.

you didn't care that you were sitting there in a bra and bloodstained jeans, trying to keep your posture steady enough for him to inspect you.

sitting on the closed lid of your toilet with the shirt staining the bathtub, you tried to steady your breathing and not focus on how much clean up you would have to do later.

leaving you alone for just a moment, he came back with his first aid kit, kept inside his duffel bag for as long as he could remember.

he washed his hands, scrubbing them three times over, drying them with a deep breath.

"this is gonna suck, i'm so sorry," he dropped to his knees, opening the kit on the floor.

he grabbed a rag from under the sink, reaching over and wetting it with warm water, ringing out the extra and waiting for the green light before touching you.

"that's fine, do what you need," you looked up at the ceiling, praying it would hurt a little less if you didn't look at what he was doing.

his hands were gentle, wiping away the dried blood on your ribs and stomach, pausing every few seconds to look up at you and see how you were doing.

he tossed the rag in the tub with your shirt, ripping open a few of the antiseptic wipes before taking another deep breath and hesitating.

"gotta disinfect it, do whatever you gotta do to get through this, can you do that?" his eyes were glued to yours as soon as your craned your head back down, nodding as you grit your teeth.

clenching your fists, one on the edge of the counter and one on your opposite leg, it took everything in you not to pull away from the burn.

sucking in air through your teeth, tapping your foot as much as you could, knuckles white and choking down sobs, you teetered on the edge of passing out.

"doing so good, doing so so good sweetheart, just a little longer," he tried to work quicker, stomach turning at the fact that he was causing you more pain, even though knew he had to do it. "so proud of you, so so proud of you, we'll go get you something nice once you're all better yeah?"

a small 'mhm' as you forced yourself to breathe, a few tears slipping down your cheek as you barely kept yourself together.

tossing the used ones on the floor as soon as they were used, switching to the next, you focused on his gentle praises as a broken whimpers reverberated in your throat.

"doing okay?" he paused, letting go of the breath he didn't even know he was holding, resting his forearms on your thighs.

"fuck i hate this," you hissed, nursing your bottom lip between your teeth so hard it bled.

"i know doll, i'm so sorry," he watched as more blood tried to trickle out, pinching his eyes shut.

he had to fucking stitch you up.

"'kuna if you apologize to me one more time i'm going to hit you upside the head," wiping the tears off your face with the back of your hand, you looked down as he fumbled around with the stitch kit.

"don't tempt me with a good time," he couldn't hold back a smile, heart skipping beats when you finally laughed a little, coated in the remnants of your tears.

"oh whatever," you rolled your eyes, the sting wearing off just a smidge, just for your mouth to run dry at the needle and surgical thread between his fingers. "stitches?"

"just a couple, you've already gotten through the worst of it," he bit back another apology, leaning in towards the wound. "i'll take care of you, 'kay? just gotta stay still for a little longer doll,".

you nodded, resuming your position with pinched eyes and nails indenting your palms.

it stung like a bitch, each puncture and pull burning your already fucked up wound, repeating to yourself that it was better this way, it would heal faster this way, that it was almost over.

"okay, all done," his exhale heavy, letting his hands rest on your knees, trying to bring you back down to earth. "you should probably shower, filthy motherfucker has his hands all over you,".

you shivered at the reminder, wanting to scrub your skin to oblivion and then some. moving your arm off the counter, your face burning with the realization that you were going to need help if you didn't want your stitches to rupture right away.

that he was going to have to help you.

"not to make this weird but um," you fumbled over your words, picking imaginary lint off your jeans, "but i uh-"

"shit, um, can i call someone? i don't want you to be unco-"

all your friends were probably drunk as fuck back at the frat house, kicking back shots and missing half their throws at beer pong.

"no uh, it's okay, i just might need help with my hair and getting dressed and i'm still a little woozy so uh-"

the tips of his ears were red, burning with a new kind of embarrassment he couldn't even name. yeah, he'd seen naked women before, but this was…different.

"no yeah, um, i'll stay out of the way, just let me know what you need?"

"yeah, yeah, for sure," you felt like some teenager, flustered and nervous like he hadn't just been face to face with your tits, like his hands hadn't been all over you for the last thirty minutes.

letting him help you up, he grabbed the shirt and rag out of the tub, starting the shower for you. while he was turned around and cleaning up the aftermath of his makeshift hospital, you undressed, attempting to kick your ruined clothes into the corner.

through baby steps and a few silent curses, you pulled the curtain shut, heart rate slowing by a few beats, turning your back to the water as to avoid as much direct contact with your cut as possible.

doing what you could to nearly scrub your skin raw, listening to the rustling of wrappers and the clicks on the kit, feeling a bit better after washing the dirt down the drain.

"fuck," you hissed, wincing when you tried to wash your hair like normal.

"you okay?" he froze, staring at the floor.

"yeah, yeah, can you uh, help? with my hair?" pinching your eyes shut, you swallowed your pride this time around, accepting your already mortifying fate.

"uh - yeah, um you'll just have to walk me through it," he was so goddamn flustered, the intimacy of it all closing his airways. not the fact that you were bare, but the fact that you were asking him for help, that you were asking him to do something so gentle.

he helped you sit on the shower floor with your back to the water, pulling the shower head down and handing it you so you wouldn't get cold.

walking through each step as you told him, confused by why there were so many steps but keeping his thoughts to himself, noting to read all the damn bottles the next time he was in there.

"you're one hell of an actor, y'know that?" he rinsed your hair with such a surgical precision, panicking the entire time, trying so desperately to teach his hands to be soft, to unlearn the harshness each nerve was written with. "even had me fooled for a second,".

"eh, was the only thing i could think of,". brushing off the compliment before you let it fully register, hoping he would leave it at that.

"thank you," he kept rinsing like the water would somehow give him the right words to say, to not fuck this up. "for saving my ass,".

"you don't have to thank me," you shook your head, biting down the smile creeping up your lips. "but you're welcome,".

he let your voice settle into his bone marrow, the lack of hesitation in your admission, the fact that you felt like you didn't deserve praise when you grit your teeth and bled for him.

"alright, all done," he put one hand on your shoulder, the other holding the shower head on you to keep you warm.

you nodded, about to sit yourself up when his grip on your shoulder made you hesitate, not wanting to be face to face with him in such a vulnerable state.

shutting the water off, he grabbed your towel off the hook, opening it up as a makeshift cover, lifting you up at the same time.

wrapping it around you with clumsy hands, he helped you step out, sitting you back down where he had stitched you, grabbing your other towel to dry your hair.

"gonna grab you some clothes, be right back,". he patted the top of your head, exhaling a shaky breath as he realized he didn't have a clue how you organized your clothes.

pulling open dresser drawers, he found a pair of shorts and the hoodie he gave you that very first night, fingertips twitching as he debated on the morality of going through your underwear drawer.

he didn't want you to think he was being some sort of pervert, taking the chance to rummage through your intimates without explicitly asking, but he knew he had to.

despite all his efforts, despite every single thing he tried to think of other than the drawer in front of him, his mouth still went dry when he saw bits of lace mixed in with printed cotton, different cuts all haphazardly thrown in there, a small 'fucking hell' slipping out before he could catch it.

forcing himself to blink, he grabbed the first pair he found, guessing they were comfortable enough given they were at the top, before closing the drawer with a little too much force.

cursing at himself over and over, he rushed back to you, relieved that you looked okay, waiting for him to return.

through a fumbled mess of trying to hide and not split yourself open, letting the sleeves hang over your hands, exhaustion began seeping into your chest, standing up too much of an effort for your heavy eyelids.

"can we," blinking up at him, his eyes already glued to yours, "just go sit down?"

"yeah," he nodded, biting down on the inside of his cheek. "c'mon,".

—

with the adrenaline long gone and pain seeping into your side, you rested your head on sukuna's shoulder and let the silence seep in.

"you okay?" he hummed, gently tapping your thigh.

"mhm, just tired now, and you're comfy,".

"okay, just checking,". he scrolled on his phone for a minute, stifling a laugh at the stupid shit toji would send him throughout the day as to not accidentally nudge you.

7 heavy knocks pounded on your door, startling you out of your skin, jolting you straight up. your cut instantly throbbed, looking at sukuna with a mix of fear and dread and pain - three things he never ever wanted to see on your face, let alone twice in one night.

"'kuna what the fuck is going on,".

"i have no clue, stay right here," he gently settled you back onto the couch, slipping away and approaching the door, looking through the peephole.

did someone see what happened? did they trail us? did those fucks turn us in?

no, just the people's-princess himself.

debating it for a second, you looked back at him - letting him mouth 'its gojo' to you, only to be met with you rolling your eyes and sighing before nodding - stuck with the fact that you couldn't avoid it anymore. not after sukuna physically pulled you away from him.

he unlocked the door, only to be met with a very, very drunk gojo.

"what the fuck do you want, gojo," sukuna sighed, pinching the space between his brows, so incredibly over him always finding a way to ruin the peace.

"why the hell are you here? trying to get in her fucking pants? how dare you," his words were slurred, swaying a little as he stood in your doorway.

"what? don't accuse me of shit you insolent brat, the fuck?"

"i need to- fuck i need to talk to her, get the fuck out of the way," he tried to push past sukuna, met with the brick wall of a man blocking him entirely.

"satoru gojo what the ever loving fuck is your deal right now, it's 2 in the goddamn morning and i'm going to get another noise complaint,". you winced as you pushed yourself up off the couch, holding your side as you made your way over, leaning into sukuna as you looked at his disheveled state.

"just let me in, fucking hell,". he grit his teeth, rolling his eyes and shooting sukuna the dirtiest look known to man.

"'kuna, call suguru please," you were so done with this shit, not wanting to pay another fine for noise at gojo's expense. suguru was the only one who knew how to deal with him when he was like this, the only one who would be sober enough at this hour to take you seriously.

you grabbed his shirt collar and drug him inside, sitting him at the kitchen table.

"you have 5 minutes to explain why the fuck you're drunk, on my porch, yelling at me with some girls lipstick on your neck, at 2 in the goddamn fucking morning,". you were seething, desperately wanting to go to sleep, to sit back down, to not be looking at him right now.

"can you calm the fuck down? jesus christ it's not that big of a deal," he scoffed like you were the one making a big deal out of all this, that you were being irrational.

"last time you did this bullshit i had to pay $300 in fines and bake all my neighbors cookies for a month are you fucking kidding me right now? and don't you dare fucking tell me to calm down. you're lucky i don't call the cops on your dumbass right now,". the only thing holding you back was the amount of paraphernalia sitting inside, even if it was tucked away in odd spaces, knowing you hadn't cleaned prints off anything, that there was an off chance they could recognize sukuna's car, too may liabilities to stomach.

"why the hell are you with him? why the fuck are you wasting time with that fucking degenerate?" he sat forward, eyes wide like you were so stupid you thought the earth was flat.

"excuse me?" all you could do was scoff, tongue in cheek, hands in fists. "the only 'degenerate' here is you right now, dickhead,".

"oh come on, don't tell me you think he's a 'good guy' and isn't just trying to fuck you. are you that dense?" leaning back and man-spreading, you couldn't believe the words coming out of his mouth.

if sukuna only wanted to fuck you, he would've done it weeks ago.

"what's it to you? in case you missed it, i can do whatever the fuck i want, believe it or not. crazy how that works!" you were laughing in shock, trying to figure out if this was just some sick prank he was pulling in a drunken state.

"after everything i've done for you, this is how you repay me? were you just using me? huh? is that what this is?"

sukuna was seeing red. hanging up the phone as suguru turned down your street, he stood behind you, letting you know he was there, but that he wouldn't take your fight from you if you didn't want him to.

even if he really just wanted to kill him.

"you haven't done a goddamn thing for me last i checked!" you were appalled by his slurred claims, like you owed him something.

"bullshit, that's fucking bullshit," rolling his eyes, laughing at you in his own sense of disbelief.

but that was the truth, he hadn't done shit for you. ever.

"i am so close to actually beating the shit out of you, for the love of all things holy just tell me why the fuck you're here right now,".

you were biting through the pain, anger fueled adrenaline curing most of it but the yelling wasn't helping. pointing your finger in his face, you practically caged him in on the wooden chair.

"oh my god you're soooo fuckingggg dramaticccc," he tipped his head back, groaning like he was the one being inconvenienced in all this.

you snapped.

grabbing his jaw and forcing him to look at you, you slapped the shit out of him. twice.

sukuna had to cover his mouth to not laugh at the stunned look on gojo's face with how hard you hit him.

"you do not. get to come to my fucking house. off your ass. yelling at me. and tell me i'm the fucking problem. this is your last fucking chance,".

suguru practically shoved your door open, in his pajamas, hair untied, and pissed.

"dude what the ever loving fuck is your problem? how did you even get here?"

"that's what i've been trying to get him to spit out this whole time," you let go of his jaw, stifling a laugh at the hand print you left on his face.

"gojo are you going to tell her or are you going to be a fucking bitch about it and make me do it," you'd never seen suguru so pissed off, voice two octaves deeper and jaw fighting for its life.

"uggghhhhhhh," satoru put his head in his hands, pushing the heels of his palms into his eyes.

"oh my god," suguru turned towards you, sighing and raising a brow at your hand snaking back to clutch your side.

sukuna had since drifted between you and gojo, forcing him to look up with a hand squeezing the back of his neck as suguru bit the bullet never meant for him.

"this fucking bitch has wanted you since senior year. but someone," he glared over at him, laughing once in disbelief, "someone decided that they couldn't 'settle down' since he wanted the 'college experience', so he was trying to keep you on his side so you would want him after we graduated,".

the back of your throat burned, acid turning over in your stomach.

feet glued to the hardwood, ribcage shattering and puncturing your lungs.

"what?"

"he forced all of us to stay away from you, threatened to fuckin' kick us out of the house entirely if we tried some shit," he ran both hands down his face, laughing at the absurdity of it all.

the reality of it barely settled, a mix between hate and humiliation and betrayal all smashed together in your goddamn kitchen.

"what kind of fuckass logic is that? who do you take me for, gojo?"

"we all like you, as like, a person, genuinely," suguru looked over at sukuna, who looked almost as pissed as he did once the deal started going south. "i'm sorry we couldn't tell you, i-we kicked him out for the night like an hour after you left because he started screaming at people for no good reason and downed about 12 shots back to back before we could stop him,". suguru looked genuinely devastated, trying so hard to keep it together for your sake.

he'd tried to tell you so many times before, tongue holding back in fear of his own life falling apart and ending back up in the grasp of his parents.

he hated it. he felt worthless, disgusted.

he had all the time in the world to tear gojo apart after this, not right now as you filtered through every word shared over the years.

"just, just get him out of my fucking house, please," you didn't have the energy to process this any more than you already had, and you couldn't bare to look at satoru without hitting him again. "thanks, suguru. i'm not- i'm not mad at you," another pained sigh shook out of you, "just, need to process this,".

"of course, i'm really sorry," he grabbed satoru's collar, looking up at sukuna again. "take care of her, ryomen,"

"will do," he nodded once, begrudgingly letting go of satoru's neck, shoving him out of the chair.

suguru drug him out the front door, sukuna locking it behind them and looking back at you, eyes caught between rage and heartbreak.

"c'mon, let's get you to bed,".

you were too tired to cry, too stunned to lash out. it just, hurt.

5 years of so called friendship left to rot on a friday night all because you left a party you barely wanted to be at.

all because he wanted to fuck you.

sukuna helped you in to bed, making sure you were still stitched up and your blankets were just right.

"did you know?" you looked up at him, eyes a little glassy, tearing the skin off your lower lip.

"no, no i didn't,". he sat next to you on the edge of the bed, brushing a stray hair out of your face. "would've beat the shit out of him a long time ago if i did,".

you nodded, a little relief in the notion that at least he wasn't keeping secrets. you let the silence sit heavy, stomach uneasy and head throbbing.

"will you stay?"

"i mean, i basically live here now so yes of cour-,".

"no like in here. with me. i don't," you picked at the sides of your fingers, wishing you never said anything, too late to back out now. "i don't want to be alone right now,".

sukuna felt like a fucking moron, seeing your nervous hands struggle against each other as you refused to meet his eyes.

hours ago you had a gun in your hand, taken a blade to the side for him, and made sure to get his product and cash back like it was nothing.

now you looked shattered, unsure what to do with your hands or your body or your brain at all, really.

"yeah, yeah of course," he walked to the other side of your bed, untouched and table empty. "want me to stay on top of the covers?" he pulled his sweatshirt off, adjusting his tshirt and refusing to settle in until you gave him an answer.

"you can come under them, it's okay," you turned towards him, sitting up a little, wanting nothing more than to settle up against him, praying to whoever was out there that no more bullshit would happen the rest of the night.

he looked flustered, ears and cheeks pink, barely noticeable in the lamplight. eyes half hazy, you let him settle in, curling up against him with your head on his chest and arm around him.

you could hear how fast his heart was beating, the wavering of his breath as you rested a leg over him, too tired to fully recognize what you were doing to him.

he was so, so, so fucked.

—

you were softening him at the edges with every slow blink, every small 'thank you', every laugh you gave so freely.

he tried his best to take care of you, despite your constant refusal. despite not really knowing how.

he was the reason you were stitched up, the reason your tile still had a few blood stains that wouldn't come out.

he didn't knock gojo's teeth out after the first knocks on the door, didn't make him apologize to you, it all felt like his fault.

he didn't let you lift a finger.

helped you stand, helped you sit, brought you anything and everything you needed before you even asked.

he stayed home with you.

carried your backpack to your classes for you.

he didn't go back to the frat after grabbing the rest of his things, courtesy of suguru making sure gojo was nowhere near when the boxes were packed.

nobody was mad at him.

just like you told him.

he still held your blunts for you, never letting you open a bottle of wine on your own.

you were getting better, stitches falling out in their own, scar beginning to form, but he liked taking care of you.

you could see it in the way his brow furrowed a bit when you tried to cook dinner, picking you up and sitting you on the counter as he took the spoon from your hand.

it was obvious when he carried you to bed after you fell asleep on him on the couch time and time again, plugging in your phone with your water bottle full, ensuring your stuffed animal was tucked against your chest.

you gave him purpose.

it ate him alive.

his hands were softening, trembling each time.

his jaw settled down when you gave him that look, putting your hand on his thigh to knock him out of the misery swimming behind his eyes.

he didn't take sketchy deals anymore, and took toji with him every time you asked.

he'd bring back icees every time.

you made him care about his grades, not just sliding by. you knew he was smart like no other, he just didn't know how to be anything other than stone.

you felt like home.

you were his home.

—

three knocks on your door.

three you weren't expecting, coursework strewn about and damn near losing your mind, startling you out of your skin once again.

rising slowly, ensuring gentle footsteps as you peeked through the peep-hole in your door, a sigh when you were met with a glimpse of pink hair.

unsure why he didn't just open the door himself, you didn't hesitate to unlock the door and swing it open.

there he was, hands full, one hand holding flowers, the other holding a paper grocery bag awkwardly.

"uh- hi," your face was hot, unable to string together a coherent thought. still casual, a hoodie and jeans suitable for all events in his eyes, trying to figure out what the fuck was going on.

"scooch, woman," he stepped forward, your body moving out of his way before you could even tell it to.

with a soft click and two locks, you saw him move around your kitchen with comfort, no longer alarmingly stiff and holding his breath like he was over a month ago.

two bottles of wine, the same one you always drank- takeout boxes from that restaurant you mentioned in passing.

"what's all this?" you swallowed your confusion, sauntering over like it was normal.

"dinner," he avoided your eyes, and you swore a blush tinted his nose and the tips of his ears.

"quit bein' cryptic, use your words," he poured you a glass, hoping it would shut you up. "you're up to something,".

didn't work.

"fine," he looked at the counter like it was giving him instructions, fighting to find the words in the fake granite.

pouring a glass for himself, chugging it down and placing the glass on the counter.

"are you okay?" the flutter of your lashes nearly killed him, his heart doing that damn thing again, hands starting to feel a little clammy.

"will you - fuck how do i say this -," he still wouldn't look at you, your insides doing cartwheels at the sight.

he was nervous.

never, ever did you think the man in front of you was capable of that, let alone did you think it would be around you, or that he would show it so blatantly.

the air was heavy enough to choke on, tension pulling your shoulders tight.

a mix of cologne and weed and racing blood, enough to make your head spin and thoughts jumble into a mess of mismatched letters and manual breathing.

"will you go out with me, like, date or whatever," he tried to play it off, tapping the heel of his shoe on the tip of the other.

"you want me to-" you shook your head in shock, never expecting him to ask you, the part of you too afraid of rejection to ever say anything always holding you back. "be your girlfriend?"

"yes," he gathered enough courage to look at you, taken aback by the look on your face.

something between disbelief and joy and hesitation, testing to see if it was a joke, waiting for him to destroy you.

"okay," you nodded, tugging on your bottom lip to hide a smile. "i think i can work with that,".

"oh thank fucking god,".

he finally let the tension fall, crushing it under his feet as he stepped forward, embracing you hard enough to almost knock the wind out of you.

his chin rested on the top of your head, one arm hooked around you tight, one hand holding the back of your skull.

"you're ridiculous," you huffed a laugh under your breath, shaking your head while hiding the biggest fucking grin on your face.

"and you're gonna be the death of me," he held you impossibly tighter, as if a loss of contact would prove this to all be a dream, a joke, something other than real.

"alright drama queen," you squeezed him back, well, tried your best to, finally exhaling as he pulled you away, looking down at you like you hung the moon and stars.

your blood felt like fire, nerves electric and trying to keep even a sliver of control over your body.

he kissed you, hesitant and fragile at first, pouring out his heart and soul and everything in between into you as soon as you pulled him by his shirt collar, deep enough to fill your lungs and make the earth stand still.

it was more than you could've dreamed of, all those nights tearing apart your heart while he slept across the way, when you smoked a little too much and nearly caved in.

hands on either side of your face, warm and aching, the nerves finally calming under his skin.

the hours passed like minutes.

two bottles, three joints, and and a re-watch of half the batman movies, you caught him staring at you- his eyes glinting with a hint of hunger, a hint of something more.

"y'know, i can feel you starin' at me," you nudged him a little with your foot, your other leg on his lap.

"i like looking at you," he shrugged, eyes barely blinking. "c'mere," he tugged your legs, pulling you closer.

shifting to sit on his lap, hands falling on your waist before you even settled, firm but restrained.

"so pretty," he hummed, tracing your cheek with his fingertips before cupping your face.

"shut up," rolling your eyes, gentle compliments still hard for you to absorb, brushing off your rattling nerves.

"gonna have to make me," the smirk on his lips was nothing short of devious, cocky.

"you're so difficult," your words more of a mumble, leaning in and kissing him soft, trying your very best not to choke on your own heartbeat.

he pulled you in deeper this time, stealing any air you may have had left in you, filling you back up with unsaid feelings and heartfelt promises.

thighs spread over his, your body betrayed your innocence, hips rolling into him once as you caught his bottom lip between your teeth.

a low moan vibrated in his chest, stirring something inside of you that made your hips move again. and again. and again.

hands gripping your hips tighter, pushing them ever so slowly, matching your rhythm but pushing you down just a smidge more, a shiver crackling up his spine when your breath hitched between now sloppy kisses, lips bitten and swollen and still so needy.

toying with the waistband of your shorts, a faint smile creeping up as he felt goosebumps riddle your skin under such a slight touch.

"hey," he pressed his forehead into yours, "i don't want you getting uncomfortable. you tell me to stop, i stop. 'kay?"

"okay," you nodded once, biting your lip as something stirred inside you, aching for something you couldn't quite place.

leash let loose, desire kicked into hunger, tugging on your shorts.

an awkward adjustment to get them off, settling back on his lap, a whine when your pretty little cunt rubbed against the denim restraining his cock.

lifting his hips with you still on him like it was nothing, he unbuttoned his jeans and slid them down, damn near moaning when he felt your slick soak through his boxers in record time.

"fuck you're soaked," he mumbled into the crook of your neck, peppering kisses down your shoulder.

"want you," you pressed into him a little harder, swimming in nothing but your own lust and suffocating need.

"yeah? want my fingers pretty girl?" he retraced the steps his lips left on your shoulder, crawling up the column of your neck and sucking a bruise that would be impossible to cover, teeth nipping and biting to crack your blood vessels underneath, whining at the loss of contact as he pulled away.

"want…more," your face was scalding, embarrassed to actually say what you wanted him to do to you - to ruin you.

"yeah? you sure?" his hands stopped your hips for a moment, making sure you actually meant it, not just feeling like you had to.

"mhm," you nodded with a little to much enthusiasm, tired of just thinking about it.

then it hit your fuzzy brain, that you were still painfully a virgin.

"wait i- i'm still-" you froze, eyes wide and nearly trembling.

"still what, doll?" he cocked his head to the side, a wave of guilt drowning him.

"i- i've never done this before," your eyes were blurry, unfocused as you looking down at nothing in particular, mumbling the words barely loud enough to hear.

"we don't have to do this, you know that," his hands trailed to your thighs, backing off but still holding contact.

"i want to," you were so painfully embarrassed, feeling like you ruined the moment, fidgeting with your fingernails.

"well i'm not taking your virginity on the damn couch so," he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you both up and letting your legs wrap around him.

you couldn't help the light giggles that took over, burying your face in his neck and peppering kisses in between breaths.

kicking the door shut behind him, he laid you down, caging you in with arms on either side of your head.

"hi," you were nervous, not sure what the hell to do with your hands, how to handle the heat of his pupils that had swallowed up his irises.

"hi," he shook his head, heartbeat fluttering at your nerves, the shy smile you couldn't bite down, the way your hips betrayed you with every desperate rut into him.

he leaned down, gravity pulling his lips back into you, letting one hand trail down your body and slipping his tongue past your lips.

he shoved the hem of your shirt up, not ready to part from your mouth, drunk off the taste of your chapstick and wine stained lips mixing with his.

his fingers pawed at your chest, another low groan as the way your breath hitched, the way you whimpered slightly at his kneading.

you were dripping, cunt begging for any sense of relief, tummy fluttering as you felt his fingers part from your chest and tickle your stomach.

letting his middle finger swipe between your slit once, you couldn't help but whine into his increasingly messy kisses, hips twitching as he traced featherweight circles on your throbbing clit, swearing he could feel your heartbeat on the bundle of nerves.

your eyes had rolled to the back of your head behind your closed lids already, letting one of your hands grip his forearm, the other resting on the nape of his hair, nails digging in to his undercut.

so desperate to feel his fingers inside you, you pushed his hand away from your clit and shoved his finger in before he could fight it, a sickly sweet moan of satisfaction caught in your throat.

"fuck, needy girl aren't you baby," mumbling against your lips, he pumped his finger slow, heel of his palm pressing against your clit every time.

"'s-shut up," you didn't want to admit it, but you really were, already using up all your courage to ask him to fuck you to verbalize what you wanted.

"don't go bratty on me now, babydoll," his smirk was deadly, a thrill spinning around in his bloodstream at the idea he would get to tame that one day.

you furrowed your brow, ready to open your mouth again before he slipped another finger inside, nails digging into his forearm as he curled his fingers just enough to send jolts of electricity up your spine, jaw running slack.

"fuck 'kuna," your head kicked back into the mattress, grinding into his hand with labored breaths.

pumping his fingers a little faster, your legs began to shake, too high off the feeling of his lips on your neck and the spasming of your walls to realize you were already cumming.

"oh baby," he nipped your earlobe, slowing his fingers just a hair, reveling in the way you twitched with each slowed drag.

"'kuna please," you were restless, cunt aching for so much more than just his fingers.

you wanted so desperately to watch him fall apart for you, to watch his restraint slip, to feel him in your throat.

"please what, angel?" he pulled his fingers from you, bringing them to his lips and sucking your slick off them, "fucking hell,".

swallowing your embarrassment, you huffed out your nerves, grabbing both sides of his face.

"please fuck me already,".

he froze for a brief second, not expecting you to actually admit it so quickly, to look him dead in the eyes and beg.

blinking hard, he was quick to shove down his jeans and boxers, still damp from your arousal and copious amounts of his precum.

you pulled your shirt over your head, tossing it on the floor.

even in the shower nearly three weeks ago, you didn't feel this exposed. now you felt on display, gripping the sheets to force yourself to not cover up.

"god you're so perfect," he looked lovesick, jaw slack and eyes tracing hearts up and down every inch of your skin.

pumping his cock a few times, your mouth watered. of course it's pretty. everything about this motherfucker is pretty.

"you're.. huge.." you panicked for a split second, fully recognizing the fact that it was a lot bigger than two of his fingers, and quite frankly had no fucking clue how that was supposed to fit.

"'s okay angel, you tell me if it's too much and we stop, remember?" he pressed his leaking tip against your swollen cunt, coating himself in the remnants of your orgasm and the new wave of syrup pooling out of you, biting down on his lower lip as your heat made his knees weak.

before he let his dick take over, he lifted you closer to the headboard, your head resting on the pillows, his frame blocking out the light.

"ready?" he lined himself up, eyes flickering between yours and your lips, holding his breath.

you nodded, batting your lashes up at him, gripping the sheets again for any sort of stability.

"use your words, swear to me,".

"y-yes please 'kuna,".

he immediately made you feel full, cockhead barely making it past your weeping hole, entire body buzzing.

"oh my god," the stretch stung, quickly snuffed out by the pleasure of it all as he slowly rutted into you, working himself in inch by aching inch.

"holy fuck woman," his eyes were glued to the sight of your cunt sucking him in, swollen and struggling against his sheer size, so tight he thought he might die. "try 'n relax, fuck you're so tight my god,".

"'m tryin'," your voice was broken, already cock drunk and he was only halfway in.

pulling his eyes away from your pussy, he couldn't hold back, kissing you hard.

it was messy, slow enough to keep you yearning for more, but dizzying.

his tongue against yours relaxed your cunt enough for his ruts to get a little longer, a little harder.

tugging your bottom lip between his teeth for a moment, he rested his forehead against yours and bottomed out.

"oh my god, sssh-it," your everything was twitching, nerves on fire. fluttering around him, your maw practically pinned open, seconds away from drooling,

"god you're fucking unreal," he was breathless, your cunt was so warm, so fucking wet, holding back from cumming on the spot. "you okay?" he hummed against your ear, fighting every urge he had to fuck you stupid to make sure you were okay.

he didn't know that you wanted him to fuck you straight into the mattress within an inch of your life.

"mhm," you nodded, so high on just feeling full. "wan' you t' move,".

he was a goner after that.

pulling his hips back, he thrust into you, eyes half lidded and destroyed.

over and over, nearly pulling out entirely before slamming back into you, forcing your cervix to learn his name.

you were babbling, a kind of euphoria you didn't know existed, feeling every vein, every twitch, everything.

a jumbled mess of profanities and choked moans, nearly tuned out by the sound of his cock drilling into you.

almost pornographic in nature, slick dripping onto the blankets as you soaked him, wrapping your legs around his waist.

"fuck you're so perfect oh my god," tumbled out of his mouth over and over, panting as he slowly sped up, your nails digging into his shoulder blades and breaking skin.

"so good 'kuna," you nearly hiccuped, vision blurry as he tied the knot settling in your core into a pretty little bow, so close to unraveling it entirely. "'m close- fuck 'm close," tears were pooling on your lash line, legs trembling around him.

"yeah? my girl gonna cum all over me?" you could hear the smile on his lips, canines glinting, one hand moving down to toy with your clit.

"fuck! ohhh- oh my g-god," he sucked another bite into your neck, sending you over in seconds, fucked absolutely stupid already.

"atta girl, fuck you're strangling me how are you real," he grabbed one leg and threw it over his shoulder, doing the same with the other and pushing your knees to your chest before you could breathe.

a choked sob was all you could muster, not even sure if you had come down from your orgasm before he was drilling himself into your lungs.

"could fuck you for hours, so pretty when you're cryin' for me baby," his efforts at sounding composed fell flat, voice cracking and breathless.

you looked ethereal to him, teary eyes leaving hearts all over his face, bottom lip trembling, falling apart in his hands and bodies merging in the closest way possible.

"'s t' much," your sobs only stirring his cock deeper, harder, faster.

he couldn't get enough of you, even if he ate your heart and injected your blood straight into his veins, it wouldn't satiate the pulses of his nerves, the hunger bubbling inside him, to never ever let you slip away from him.

"you- you can take it, can't you baby? i know you've got another in ya," he was barely holding on, so close to spilling, tensing every muscle he could to draw one more orgasm out of you, to feel you spasm around his cock one more time.

somehow folding you in half further, angling his cock a smidge to the left, you were seeing white.

the neighbors probably hated you by now, but you didn't fucking care. nails raking down his arms, head tipped so far back he could see your pulse, drool coating the corners of your mouth.

sweat beaded on your hairline, the ringing in your ears was deafening, entire being trembling.

you weren't even sure if you were real, floating on ecstasy coated in the color of his eyes.

his fingers pressing bruises on your thighs, hips stuttering as he stumbled over his own high, spilling so much cum into you it wept out, only for him to fuck it back in with his last few strokes.

"oh," he could barely catch his breath, pulling out of you slowly. "my god,".

he let your legs down gently, your hips silently thanking him for the room to breathe, your chest rising and falling with heavy breaths.

you brought you hands to you face, covering the absolute mess you were, laughing in disbelief.

"nuh uh, no hiding," he pulled your hands away slowly, letting them rest on your chest.

he wiped away the stray tears with his thumb, cradling your cheek with the other, a fondness in his eyes that nearly made you cry again.

"you're fucking unreal, woman," kissing your forehead, you leaned into his palm like it was the only thing keeping you tethered to earth. "you doing okay?"

"mhm, tired," your body felt calm, every muscle relaxed for the first time in your goddamn life. "and sticky," a stupid little smile on your face made his heart skip a few beats, forcing one out of him too.

"jesus," he laughed, of course you would make a joke after he fucked you to oblivion, and god did he love it. "gimme two seconds and we'll get you cleaned up and into bed, yeah?"

you nodded, a small whine almost slipping out when his warmth slipped away.

rubbing your face, you couldn't get rid of the lovesick smile on your lips, chest light and mind only full of him him him.

you were happy.

"what are you smiling about," he half-startled you, juggling a shirt, a rag, and a bottle of water in his hands, crawling back to you.

"nothin'," he was making you nervous all over again, despite literally being inside you not even 5 minutes ago.

"mhm sure," he hummed, sitting you up a little bit against the headboard.

he wiped you down with the warm rag, eyes going wide at the little tinge of blood on the inside of your thighs.

"don't freak out," he paused for a moment, waiting for your attention. "you're bleeding a little bit. just popped your cherry, nothing to worry about,".

you nodded, sipping on the water he gave you, not even fully registering his comment.

it filled him with a dirty sense of pride, stealing a little bit more of your innocence and keeping it all to himself. you were his, your heart, soul, and purity.

pulling one of his shirts over you, he carried you to the bed in his room, your sheets absolutely ruined.

you were clingy, pulling him under the covers with you and laying on his chest, leg over his waist and arm around his side.

he kissed the top of your head, mumbling something to you as you fell asleep almost instantly.

—

he started sleeping in 'your' bed every night, arms around you and shirt long discarded.

the guest room shifted into an office, a jumbled mess of his things and yours, lock boxes disguised and the rest of his things decorating the walls.

toji and suguru came by frequently, joint dinners and study sessions, making fun of sukuna for going 'soft', but still willing to take a bullet for him all the same.

with snow falling outside, he got a call from his father, asking for a last minute babysitter as he had to catch the next flight out for an urgent business meeting, knowing he wasn't living in the frat house anymore.

he was hesitant, looking over at you in the kitchen, nodding your head with that same heartfelt smile on your face that he just couldn't get enough of.

"i'll run to the store, you go grab him before the weather gets too bad," you rinsed the knife you were using in the sink, wiping your hands on the dish towel hanging off the stove.

he still never liked you going places alone, but you did have a point. your pantry not very toddler friendly, his dad was basically already at the airport, and you had next to nothing for him.

he put some cash on the counter, slipping a jacket on and kissing you three times over, spinning his keys around on his fingers.

you were giddy, finally able to meet the kid with the same color hair, a mini-me of sukuna who held nearly a dozen photos around the house.

pulling your coat and shoes on, you locked the door behind you and realized you didn't have a clue what to get, what size clothes he wore, nothing.

calling sukuna, he knew everything, listing things off faster than you could remember.

likes batman just like his brother.

prefers orange juice over apple juice.

which brand of chicken nuggets he preferred.

pants size, shirt size, all of it.

your cart was filled with more than you needed, a rushed mess of just about anything you could find. three stuffed animals, too many books and four sets of crayons, enough clothes for a week and enough food for a damn party.

passing by the toys one last time, two lego sets caught your eye.

each a different era of batmobiles, one much more kid friendly, and one for sukuna.

second guessing yourself at checkout, did he even like legos? what if i got the wrong one?

snapped out of your spiral by the clerk telling you your total, wincing despite sukuna shoving more than enough at you, guilty every time regardless.

your phone buzzed in your purse as you loaded the bags in the trunk of your car, only checking it when your doors were locked and engine was running.

a picture of sukuna and his mini me, all strapped into his car seat with the biggest smile on his face. your heart melted into your hands, sukuna actually smiling for a picture, one that you only saw behind closed doors with him. a real one, light in his eyes and everything.

miraculously getting home before them, you haphazardly tossed the bags inside, rushing around in a piss-poor attempt to childproof the house.

lighters tucked away in locked cabinets, glass put on higher shelves. plants moved out of his reach, triple checking that no drugs were out anywhere, knives were pushed to the very far edge of the counter.

you heard them before the door was even open, yuji squealing with hurried footsteps, sukuna laughing at him the whole way from the car.

sukuna opened the door, yuji sprinting inside, looking around and eyes lighting up as soon as he saw you putting the frozen food into the freezer.

"eeee!" he stumbled over his steps, catching himself as you got on your knees to meet him at eye level. "im yuji!" he didn't even give you time to respond before tackling you in a hug, like he'd done this a thousand times before.

he was chaos incarnate. the house was a mess, sukuna building him a pillow fort while reruns played on the tv, snow falling heavy in the windows.

you wouldn't have it any other way.

the three of you sitting criss-cross on the floor, an assortment of snacks on the coffee table as you tried to wipe ketchup off the side of yuji's mouth.

holding on to the paw of the stuffed black cat, one of the three you haphazardly chose in your frantic state, announcing it's name as 'gumi', sukuna shrugging with no idea where the name came from.

as evening settled in, sukuna left to change into comfier clothes, yuji scooched closer to you.

"can we have ice cweam?" he begged as quietly as a toddler could, toes wiggling under his socks in excitement.

"duh," you laughed at him, picking him up and resting him on your hip.

" this is the bestest day ever!" he squealed, squirming around and wrapping his little arms around you, your heart turning to mush in his tiny hands.

"guess what we can do after ice cream?" you opened the freezer with your free hand, grabbing the pint from the frozen shelf.

three bowls, three spoons, setting him on the counter as you let him help you scoop messy spoonfuls.

"ummm i dunno!" his giggle was contagious, your cheeks sore from smiling.

"do you like legos?" you let him lick the spoon as you fixed his messy hair.

"mhm!" he nodded with ice cream already on the corners of his mouth, feet swinging.

"i got you a super cool box of them we can do with your brother," you couldn't help how warm your soul felt as he buzzed with excitement, trying to wiggle off the counter and failing when you grabbed him, settling him back on your hip and handing him his little bowl.

"he tawks about you allllll the time," the little one rambled on, dramatics in full swing and half muffled through spoonfuls of ice cream. "awe you gonna get mawied?"

"married? you'll have to ask him about that, buddy," wiping an eyelash off his cheek, you couldn't help but smile at the thought that sukuna talked about you when you weren't around.

setting him back in his pillow fort, you caught sukuna resting against the doorframe, arms folded and a fondness you'd never seen him wear plastered all over.

he looked soft.

walking back to the kitchen, you grabbed the last two bowls, handing one to sukuna with a kiss to his cheek, following your steps back to the sugar-filled boy, before he made too much of a mess.

"he just asked when we're gonna get married," you nudged him, unable to peel the smirk of your face.

"whenever you want, doll," he kissed your temple, statement floating around in your head, trying to convince yourself that he was just joking around.

even if it made your heart stutter all over again.

you found yuji sipping on his water, bowl already cleared, anxiously waiting for the promised legos.

sifting through one of the last bags on the floor, you pulled out both sets, setting on in front of yuji, and the other in front of sukuna.

"woah!" yuji shook the box, flipping it back and forth to look at the pictures.

"holy…how'd you…" sukuna bit back his language, trying so desperately not to curse in front of his brother, or kiss you hard enough to bruise right then and there.

"is that one okay?" you helped open the box for yuji, little bags flying all over the place.

"this is," he mirrored yuji, flipping the box over again and again. "this is my favorite one,".

"well it's all yours," you offered a soft smile, unsure how else to process such a soft side of him, convinced you might actually die from how mushy your bones were.

"mama can you help me?" yuji shoved the little instruction book into your hands, the air circulating halting at the name.

panicked, you turned to sukuna, eyes wide and face frozen, words caught in your throat.

sukuna looked like he was about cry.

you knew their mom wasn't in the picture, never pressing the matter, letting the conversation come when the time felt right for him.

yuji didn't know what having a motherly figure was like, didn't know what having a woman sharing his space meant.

and he called you mama like it was nothing.

"um, yes," you coughed, trying to convince him that you weren't on the brink of a panic attack, that you weren't spiraling ten ways from sunday. "yes of course honey,".

yuji took that as invitation to crawl into your lap, settling his spine against your chest, humming gleefully as if nothing had happened.

sukuna had never felt more in love. sickening, all consuming adoration and heart fuller than he could handle, lips parted and eyes glassy as he committed the scene to memory.

trying to catch his breath, he opened the box he still held like it was the only thing tethering him to earth, a poor attempt to act normal.

halfway through yuji's build, he fell asleep in your arms, snuggling in close to you as the sugar high ran off.

rocking him ever so slightly, some maternal second nature, sukuna set his down and brushed a stray hair out of your face.

"hey," his voice quiet, still gathering your attention.

"hm?" you titled your head a little, falling victim to the exhaustion knocking the kid straight out.

"i love you," his admittance was barely audible, face red and heart beating straight out of his chest.

all this time together, both of you too scared to admit it, finally breaking through the fear that kept those three words locked away.

your mouth ran dry instantly, never expecting him to be the one to admit it first, nor that it would happen on the floor of your messy living room on a random weekday.

"i love you too, 'kuna," your eyes were watery, crumbling entirely at the admission, holding it back for god knows how long, hands shaky and itching to hold him.

he rose as gently as he could, slowly lifting yuji from your now half-asleep arms, kissing you gently on the forehead before carrying him off to the spare bedroom and tucking him in.

you couldn't stop smiling, busying your hands to convince yourself all of this was actually real.

his arms wrapped around you, half startled before you settled back into him, resting your head against his shoulder as he buried his face in your neck.

"missed you," he hummed, swaying you side to side ever so gently. "little shit stole you away from me all day,".

"missed you too," your sleepy smile laced in your mumbled words, holding back a laugh at him being jealous at a 3 year old.

you let him lead you to bed, helping you change out of the shirt now covered in remnants of ice cream and the little bits of drool from yuji, crawling in to bed and collapsing in sukuna's arms, not realizing how much you'd missed his touch for the few hours spent without it.

"hey," he mumbled, laced with that exhaustion you couldn't fight no matter how hard you tried.

"hm?" half asleep, you couldn't will yourself to move to face him, too comfortable against the warmth he radiated.

"if the kid keeps calling you mama, swear i'm gonna make you one,".

your face ran hot, completely caught off guard, heat pooling in your stomach at the idea.

"yeah?" a sleep-coated laugh against his chest, feeling his grip tighten around you.

"think i'm jokin'?" he reached over enough to turn the lamp off.

all you could do was shake your head, thoughts spinning on how bad you wanted him after a single admission.

warm in his arms, skin on skin, you wouldn't change a thing for the goddamn world.

taglist: @slvtforsvkvna @arminsfuckassbob @justwolosers pls lmk if you'd liken to be added!

"Hurry, Ken," you tittered, spreading your legs wide without an ounce of shame. "I want to feel it get hard inside of me."

Nanami inhaled sharply through his nose, screwing his eyes shut and willing for his cock to stay limp. The sight of you spread out so sinfully before him, pussy glistening, was enough to have his cock jerking in his fist. "A moment, darling."

An impatient noise left you. You had taken it upon yourself to prep without your husband, knowing he'd get hard during the process. All he had to do was put it in, but even that seemed too demanding of a task for poor Nanami.

Propping yourself on your elbow, you nudged at his knee with your foot. "If you get hard, it'll only take longer to do what I want."

He muttered something unintelligible as you lied back down, making quick work of slipping inside of you.

Your lashes fluttered, and the way your pussy quivered at the intrusion was enough to have Nanami's knuckles whitening as he pushed in. The gradual warmth that engulfed his flaccid cock was unbearable, and his ability to hold back was soon dwindling its way into nothing.

"Just let it get h-hard, that's it. You don't need to fuck me yet."

"That's the problem," he rasped, "I want to make love to you."

You shook your head and tried to ignore the way you needed your husband to plough into you and make the bed shake. Your voice was shaky when you replied, pussy squeezing periodically — which certainly made the task that much more difficult for both of you. "Stay still."

Nanami braced his arms on either side of your head, sweat already beading against his hairline. His pulse had quickened considerably, thudding in time with yours as the blood slowly rushed down to his groin. "S-shit—"

"I can feel it, Ken," you laughed breathily, running your fingers up Nanami's forearms, until you were holding onto his tense biceps. "It's getting so big."

Cursed with a filthy wife with an even filthier tongue, it appeared.

Your husband was a gentleman, and he didn't want to do anything that'd compromise your safety. Yet with the sight of you laying under him, hair splayed out and cheeks flushed — all Nanami wanted to do was fold you in half and have his way with you.

Luckily for him, he was fully hard. You felt it all, watching with lidded eyes as the vein on his temple throbbed with each twitch of him inside of you. Then came the precum. a slight ticklish feeling as Nanami began leaking his arousal into you.

"Please tell me I can move now, my love. I-I don't think I can handle—"

"Move, Ken," you murmured coquettishly, palm on your stomach from where Nanami had stuffed you to the brim. Nanami was well-endowed soft, but now that he was hard? You were glad that you had prepared yourself beforehand.

And so Nanami did what you asked, driving his hips forward with a guttural groan in a way that'd had your legs shaky for days to come.

► Gojo Satoru

When Satoru said he wanted a hotdog, you didn't think he meant this — your shorts shucked down to your knees as you laid on your stomach, ass spread by two large hands and a soft cock nestled in between.

"Genuinely, what the fuck are you doing?"

Satoru shrugged, digging his long fingers into your rippling flesh after mounting you. "Said I wanted a hotdog. Now I have a hotdog."

You breathed in. You breathed out. Looking over your shoulder, you glared at your boyfriend — who was currently interrupting your self-care time. A nail file was idle between your fingers as you tried to comprehend where Satoru got the audacity from. "So you're just going to sit on me. Like that. Dick between my ass?"

"Yeah, nice 'n warm between here."

"So is an oven," you muttered dryly, prompting Satoru to slap your ass.

"An oven can't feel me get hard between its cheeks," he retorted playfully, wiggling his eyebrows. So that was what it was all about. He wanted you to feel him get hard against you? Odd but alas, in character. So you went back to filing your nails, seemingly not caring as to what Satoru did next.

He placed two large hands on the side of each rounded asscheek, pressed them inwards until the pressure around his cock intensified. Satoru couldn't hold back the plethora of breathy groans and curses that left him, too busy indulging in the way your ass seemed to mould to the shape of him.

"Really enjoying yourself there, huh?" You mumbled, unable to stop yourself from feeling a spark of arousal at the desperation of your boyfriend. He was pathetic — and a large part of you enjoyed that.

Satoru whimpered, nodding even though you couldn't see. Experimentally, he rolled his hips once, hissed at the dry friction, and felt his cock chub up at the same time.

You felt it too, the way the weight between your ass grew heavier with each frantic thrust. Had Satoru not been preoccupied with fucking the seam of your rear, he would've seen the way your pussy was slick with a steady gathering of your wetness.

But alas, Satoru was an ass man — and nothing was going to stop him from dry humping your butt and glazing them with a thick sheen of his cum.

"G-gosh, you're disgusting," you stammered out, almost panting in time with Satoru as he spat down to make the glide more wet. He ignored the way you jolted at the warm feeling, too busy lost in the wet plaps of his balls against the curve of your ass. "Like a rabid mutt."

"Y-yeaah, this mutt's gonna blow a load over your ass any second," Satoru chuckled, half crazed. You cursed, gripping onto the sheets and body rocking in time with his. It was obvious his orgasm was coming any second, and you had no time to warn him not to cum on you but—

SPURT

Satoru came — thick, messy ropes that shot out from between your ass, all over the small of your back and halfway up your silk camisole.

…

"Oops."

"You're licking that up, by the way. Asshole."

► Ryomen Sukuna

"Ryo. Ryomen. Sukun—ah!"

"Out with it, brat," he snarled, swatting you on the rear and planting you onto his lap. The King of Curses was sprawled out on his throne, his beloved bride making it her mission to make his life hell yet again. You grinned at him, giving his stomach mouth an affectionate nudge with your fingers.

"Was just wondering…"

"Nothing good ever comes out of that."

You slapped at one of his meaty biceps, tutting at his words. "Shut up. I was just wondering which one of your cocks get hard first."

…

"I do not know," Sukuna muttered, his brows furrowed in thought. Usually, he did not care about such trivial matters. At the end of the day, both would end up inside of you eventually, and noting which one stood at attention first was nothing short of necessary. Yet he found himself wondering…

"Are you suggesting we find out?

You nodded. "I'll hold them both and we can see."

Sukuna tutted at that, his two lower hands coming down to squeeze at your waist. "Do you really think that would be enough to turn me on?"

"Of course!" you cooed, poking your brute of a husband's nose. "Was it not only yesterday you grew hard at the sight of me in your robes?"

There was no arguing with that — your words were true, and as much as Sukuna liked to play the role of an aloof husband, there was a certain allure that you had that brought you two together in the first place, eventually leading to your marriage.

"Fine. You may try."

With a celebratory cheer, you reached down and parted Sukuna's robes. He didn't bother with undergarments, seeing as though it was appropriate to assert his dominance whenever he could (even if it meant scaring his servants with the two weighty cocks that swung between his legs like a pendulum).

Immediately, your left hand found his lower cock, and the right found the upper one. Even when he was soft, Sukuna was inhumanly large. It was the reason why prep with you could last hours. Seeing you writhe from consecutive orgasms was pleasing to the curse, but had he not been thorough with you — you would certainly not be able to take him.

Your fingers barely met as you held his flaccid cocks, marvelling at how daunting they were outside of you. Sukuna watched with his four lazy eyes, ignoring the way the tips of his ears burned at the feeling of his wife holding him like it was nothing. Then, the lower cock twitched first. Once, twice, three times.

"Oh, my," you whispered, watching as the upper cock began quivering too. Sukuna was quickly becoming aroused, eyes averted as he rested his chin on a fist. The scowl on his face was weak as you maintained your grip on him, so carefully attentive. You didn't want to miss it — which cock was able to stand at attention first at the simple feeling of your palm cradling his cocks.

"Not a word," he grunted. But his thighs situated themselves further apart, a lazy manspread that gave you more room to admire him. The plump veins snaking down his cocks were deepening in hue, much like his twin tips that were oozing out translucent precum.

Until the lower cock stood stiff first, the one above following not long after — true to biology. Sukuna snarled when you let out an astounded noise. "I suppose that makes sense. After all, the bottom cock is the easiest to get to… maybe…"

"Stop your rambling and fix this, woman. You started it, so you must deal with the aftermath."

"Gladly."

► Toji Fushiguro

Having an oral fixation was a bummer when there was no one around to satiate it. Fortunately for you, Toji had picked up on your little quirk as he liked to call it. The two of you quickly came to a little arrangement, where he was willing to let you use him whenever you saw fit in exchange for a pair of your underwear every week. You didn't even need to ask.

An expensive arrangement, but it was worth it.

Toji had a drawer full of frilly panties ready to be ruined, and you had a way to keep your mouth occupied.

Like right now.

Your head was on your housemates lap, his lazy attention to the shitty movie playing out before you. The realisation was slow at first, but you could feel the emptiness in your mouth becoming more prominent as the minutes went by. It was all so overwhelming, causing you to fidget and swallow around nothing and stirring Toji in the process.

"You good down there?" He grunted, passing a large hand over your head to ruffle your hair somewhat affectionately.

You nodded — but your answer couldn't be further from the truth. Then, you sat up, eyeing Toji's crotch. Even while he was soft, there was a prominent curve of where his dick sat. It made your mouth water, and his previous words came back to you.

Whenever you deemed fit, use him.

Usually, you'd ask before helping yourself to what you needed. But right now? Words were failing you and Toji wasn't offering. So you gently tugged out his limp cock after lifting the elastic waistband of his shorts and laid closer to the man.

The word 'pretty' wasn't often used when it came to Toji. But there was something about Toji's cock that made you fawn ever so slightly. It was slightly tan, deepening in colour as you came closer to his plump tip. The girth was obscene, decorated in fat veins that you loved to prod at with your tongue whenever you had the chance to.

You pressed forward, giving it a small yet audible smooch before opening your mouth. The man grunted above you, still not getting hard as you slowly enveloped more of him into your throat. He wasn't small, coaxing you into relaxing as much as you could before you inevitably let out a gag.

The gentle sounds of sucking filled the room, your lips pursed and tongue lolled out, flat against the underside of Toji's weighty cock.

All you could think about was Toji, Toji, Toji — his scent musky and clouding your brain with the beginnings of arousal. Saliva built up steadily in the heat of your mouth, coating the length in a thin sheen.

"Shit— easy now."

Until your sucking grew frantic. Your thighs pressed together in a poor attempt to alleviate your need to get absolutely railed by the older man.

A harsh jerk of Toji's cock in your mouth caught your attention, and the salty taste of precum bloomed over your taste buds. Only then did your spit begin to bubble out from the corner of your lips, your suckling having grown far too sloppy to not elicit a boner.

Toji listened in as you breathed heavily out of your nose, balls tense with the urge to cum at the forefront of his mind. You were a mess when he looked down, seeing your eyes watery and webbed strings of spit and cum gluing your chin to his crotch.

You shook your head, throat gurgling wetly as you swallowed around him — around the cock that bulged your throat and kissed against the back of it. With each descent of your head, seeing as though you had started giving Toji a blowjob, he grew more erect.

Not only that, he was bigger too, until your hollow cheeks lost their shape and rounded the more he filled the empty space inside you.

"Nasty girl, bet you're wet down there. Aren't you?"

Toji knew you couldn't answer — after all, it was bad manners to talk when your mouth was full. He opted to lean over on his side, sliding a large hand under the waistband of your shorts and copping a feel instead.

Lo and behold, your wetness met his fingers, and the grin that lifted the scarred corner of Toji's lips was nothing short of hungry.

You sit perched on the edge of Itachi’s desk while he reads a scroll, his face relaxed as he goes over each word. You kick your legs aimlessly as you study him, your head slightly tilted, bottom lip tucked beneath your front teeth. He paid you no mind, your presence a constant at his side, almost as if you were attached at the hip.

Leaning back on your palms, your knee brushes his elbow on the armrest, and his gaze flickers to your form at the brief contact.

Once his eyes meet yours, he pauses before setting the scroll down and leaning back, the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. “You look lost in thought,” he remarked plainly, but playfully hinted underneath.

“Perhaps I am,” you lean over and whisper seductively with a coy smile. You relish the way his cheeks immediately flush and the way his throat bobs as he swallows. “Surely I’m more entertaining than a scroll.”

“Perhaps you are,” he echoes as the pink moves down his cheeks and neck, moving below the collar of his black shirt.

His expression is controlled, but you can tell in the way his hand flexes that he is holding something back. So you press him, scooting over to directly in front of him and knocking the scroll to the side, you hook your legs on either side of his hips, bringing your hands to his chest as you lean over him.

“Then perhaps,” your lips ghost over his as he appears stunned by your assertion, “you should start acting like it.”

His breath hitches when you plant yourself in his lap, and your arms travel up and around his neck, your weight pressing firmly against him. Left with nowhere to escape, his spine pressed against the back of the chair.

You could practically taste the air that he choked.

Easing on him gently, you place your lips on his. He initially tenses, but a heartbeat later, he relaxes, letting you slowly begin to consume him. As your hands tightened in his hair and pulled him closer, his apprehensive hands rested on the tops of your thighs, gripping the flesh tightly.

You open your mouth against his and push your tongue between his lips lightly as he opens up. His tongue is tentative at first, but soft, eager, and incredibly warm. You hum and drag your hips along his lap, the friction sending a shiver down your own spine. You part from him for a moment, breathless, leaving a thin, wet string between your mouths as you roll your hips again, slower this time, the pressure building between your legs.

Itachi’s grip migrates from your thighs to your waist, hands splayed, fingers digging in as if to ground himself. He’s breathing harder now, the blush on his face more pronounced, bleeding into the tips of his ears. He’s trying to keep his composure, but the subtle tremor in his hands gives him away.

You smirk, savoring his unraveling. “Do you like that?” You murmur, letting your lips trail down his jaw, pressing a flutter of soft, nipping kisses at his pulse.

He chokes on a breath, nods. “Y-yes,” he manages, and you reward him by grinding down, feeling him hard and hot through the thin cotton of his pants.

You let your hands wander, sliding up his shirt and down his sides, nails scraping just enough to make him squirm. He’s so responsive, so sensitive, you can’t help but wonder how much more he can take. Your hand slips between your bodies, palm cupping the bulge beneath his waistband. He jolts, a strangled gasp escaping him, the noise desperate and involuntary in a way that makes your core throb.

You rub your palm against his cock, slow and deliberate; he bites his lip, eyes fluttering closed. You lean in, lips grazing the shell of his ear. “Tell me, Itachi, have you thought about this before?” You whisper in question, stroking him through the fabric as he shudders.

“Yes,” he breathes. “T-too much— too often.”

Your heart hammers at that, that he’s as honest as he is helpless. You slide your hand inside his pants—he’s so hard, you wonder if it’s painful. You pull him out: flushed, dark, and wet at the tip. You watch how his jaw clenches at the exposure, how his Adam’s apple bobs as you wrap your fingers around him. You stroke his length, slow and tight, thumb teasing the sensitive underside. He juts his hips up into your fist, unable to help himself.

You press your mouth to his again, deep and hungry, swallowing the sounds he makes as your wrist works him. His hands find your hips, gripping hard, pulling you closer until there isn’t a breath between you. You break the kiss, breath mingling, and meet his eyes— black and blown wide, pleading with you.

His hand suddenly grips your wrist, halting your movement. You glance up, surprised by the abruptness, but Itachi’s gaze is fixed somewhere over your shoulder— his breathing harsh, his composure fraying. You can see in the tremble of his jaw that he’s wrestling something dark and vulnerable.

“Wait,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I—” His eyes search the wall, then dart down to where your hand still wraps around him, then back to your face. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

You blink, not expecting a confession. For once, there’s no mask, no shield of stoic nonchalance— just wary honesty. You feel your heart tighten with a fierce delight as you smile up at your shy lover.

“Who cares?” You murmur, squeezing his length gently, thumb circling the head of his cock, drawing a low, involuntary noise from his throat. “I bet you’ll figure it out fast.”

His mouth quirks slightly, a nervous, helpless smirk. You lean in and kiss him again, slow and soft, letting him set the pace. This time, his tongue is bolder, tracing your lower lip, the contact more explorative as your hand continues to jerk his dick between your bodies.

“You’re—hn— you’re not making this easy,” he manages, hips when you give his dick a light squeeze.

You nip at the soft skin under his jaw, greedy for more of those ragged, involuntary noises. You jerk him slow, then quick, changing rhythm until his breath hitches and his spine arches tight beneath you. He’s close, so close, you can hear it in the way his voice wavers.

“Please—” he whispers, not sure if it’s a plea for mercy or more.

You reward him with another kiss at his pulse. “You’re doing so good, Itachi.” The words drag a shudder from his chest, his hands shaking as he clutches the arms of the chair.

“Feel good?” You murmur, lips barely touching his ear. “So pretty when you blush for me.” You feel him tense, a sharp tremor running the length of his body. There’s pride in you, wicked and bright, at how easily you unravel him.

You bite his earlobe, gentle but firm, and he gasps— a sound so desperate you think he might break apart if you let up.

So you don’t.

His head tips back, his throat long and bared, eyes squeezed shut. You stroke him harder, thumb catching on the sensitive spot just under the head. He whimpers— a sound both mortified and hungry— and you realize you want to wreck him a little, want to see how much he can take before his composure fractures entirely.

“I—don’t—” he stutters, voice thin. “I won’t— c-can’t—”

You slow your grip, teasing him further. “Can’t what?” His cheeks burn deeper, crimson to the tips of his ears.

“Please, hn— I’ll—” He doesn’t finish; instead, you watch him tense up further.

You grin against his skin before letting go. “Then wait,” you murmur, and with a swift, deft motion, you push the chair back from the desk, dropping to your knees between his parted legs. The movement is so sudden he gasps, but you don’t give him a chance to recover— you shove his pants lower with one hand, exposing more of him, flushed and leaking.

You lick up the underside of his cock, slow and deliberate, and he wheels his head back up, lips parted, eyes wild and glassy with shock. He breathes your name like a confession when you take him in your mouth. You hollow your cheeks, working him with your tongue, twirling it along the sensitive vein; when you flick the tip, he almost yelps, hands flying up to knot in your hair, desperate for purchase.

He fucks up into your mouth, tentative at first, then with a shuddering abandon. You hum and squeeze the base with your hand, and that’s all it takes— he breaks, cuming with a long, trembling gasp, fingers gripping your hair almost painfully.

Honestly, you’re surprised he lasted this long, but it’s just another testament to the Uchiha might.

You let him ride out his orgasm as you swallow every pulse, not stopping until he’s twitching and oversensitive, panting like he’s just run a marathon. When you finally pull away, you look up at him through your lashes, smirking, and let a thin strand of spit and cum break from your lip.

Itachi’s face is ruined— dark hair glued to his temple, eyes half-lidded, lips parted and slick. He catches his breath with a huff, and you watch as the tips of his ears pulse pink, mortified by the wreckage you’ve made of him.

You wipe your mouth, still on your knees, and level him with a look. “Think you’ve got another one in you?” You ask playfully.

His tongue wets his lip, still dazed. “I—” He blinks, gathers himself with his stubborn dignity. “Yes.”

“Good,” you hum, rising to your feet and tugging your own pants down with a slow, teasing roll of your hips. You’re already soaked, your pussy clinging to the cotton of your panties— leaving an obscene, dark patch over your center. His eyes drop, and you feel the tremor of want that runs through him, even as he tries to compose himself.

You straddle his lap as his hands go instinctively to your hips, palms hot on your skin. You tug your shirt over your head and toss it to the floor, baring your chest to him. Even in the dim light of his room, he can see your nipples are taut, pebbled in the chill and anticipation.

He stares, stunned, and his hands hesitate before skimming up your sides. You guide his palms to your breasts, and he cups them gently. “Don’t be afraid,” you murmur, nuzzling his nose with yours. “You can touch me however you want.”

He kisses you then, slow at first, then with a rising hunger. His thumbs brush your nipples, a feather-light touch that makes you gasp into his mouth. When he does it again, you arch into his hands, grinding your cunt onto his pelvis and feeling his length twitch beneath you.

You break the kiss and dip your head to his ear. “You learn quick,” you say, nipping the soft skin just below the lobe. His cock jumps at the praise, and you press down, grinding harder, chasing the friction as you roll your hips against him.

Itachi, emboldened, leans in and kisses down your neck, sucking marks into your skin, his hands never leaving your breasts. When you tangle your fingers in his hair and gently tug, he groans, the sound vibrating through your whole body.

You guide his head with both hands, lowering his mouth to your chest. He hesitates, then licks over your nipple, his hot breath fanning over the wetness. You shudder, and he does it again— then takes it in his mouth, sucking gently. The sensation sends a jolt straight through you, and you keen, clutching his shoulders for support.

“Yes,” you moan, “just like that—” and the praise drives him wild. His hand rolls your other nipple between his fingers, and you whimper, rutting against the thick heat of him, and you feel his dick stir beneath you again.

He moves his mouth to your other breast, giving it the same reverence, the same aching attention, and you realize he’s memorizing you—cataloging every shiver, every gasp, every little sound you make. He pulls off you with a soft pop, the noise obscene, and when he looks up, his eyes are lidded and hungry and focused.

“I want to taste you,” he says abruptly. His voice cracks, but he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t retreat from the vulnerability. “May I?”

For all his soft-spoken deference, there’s a possessive edge in the way he asks—like he’s desperate to prove himself worthy. You smirk, drag your fingers through his hair, and lean in, brushing your lips over the arch of his cheekbone.

“Only if you beg,” you whisper, letting your breath tickle the shell of his ear.

He inhales sharply. “Please, I—I—” But you don’t savor the moment; instead, you cut him off with a hard kiss on his lips, running your tongue over his.

Then you push off his lap and stand, facing him. Slowly, you hook your thumbs under your panties, sliding them down your thighs, letting the dark, dampened patch stretch and peel away from your dripping pussy. You don’t break eye contact as you step free, tossing the sodden scrap onto the floor. You settle your ass on the edge of his desk, legs spreading in a slow, deliberate show. The cool air licks at the heat between your thighs, and you watch his throat work as he takes in the full lascivious view of you.

“Come here,” you command.

He moves the chair forward, knees bumping the desk, and you rest your feet on the arms of the chair, bracing him with your calves on either side of his body. He’s caged, trapped by your legs, helpless to do anything but stare at the place where you’re slick and swollen, desperate for him.

He runs a hand up your thigh, fingertips soft as satin. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t fumble; instead, he traces the outline of your lips, then dips two fingers between them, sliding through your slick and spreading you open. The touch is careful, and you see him exhale in awe as your folds part under his touch.

You bit your bottom lip, spreading yourself wider, baring every secret inch to his reverent gaze. “You’re not scared, are you?” You tease, letting your tone drip with challenge.

His mouth crooks in answer, dark eyes flashing. “Should I be?” The lazy cadence of his voice dares you to break him, but you feel the tremor in his fingers as he drags them back through your folds, gathering the slick on his fingertips. He leans forward, letting his lips brush your inner thigh, soft and almost chaste, before his tongue darts out and licks a single, searing stripe through the center of you.

You clench, toes curling on the chair arms, and whine, breathless, at the sheer, electric heat of it. Itachi pauses, watching for your reaction, noting every twitch of your hips. When you lock your fingers in his hair, he closes his eyes and buries his mouth in your cunt.

He eats your pussy with pious focus, tongue rolling over every slick contour, learning you in real-time. When he finds your clit, swollen and throbbing, he circles it softly, then harder, then draws it between his lips until you gasp, the sound shattering the hush of his room. He chuckles against you, and the vibration nearly ruins your control.

You fist his hair, grinding your hips against his mouth, and he lets you, eager for the way you tremble, how you lose yourself. You look down, desperate for the sight, and meet his gaze—Sharingan active, swirling at the edges of his irises—a violent red flash, hungry and beautiful. He smirks, the movement subtle, and moves to plunge a single finger inside you, thick and stretching.

You lurch and nearly shriek, savoring the wet noise as he drags the pads of his fingers along your walls before adding another. He’s methodical, and when he hooks his fingers just right, a shiver detonates in your spine, raw and electric.

“There?” He asks, voice muffled, and it’s not really a question, more a taunt, because he already knows.

“Yes, fuck—there—” you cry, and you see the crimson of his fade to black, tongue flicking your clit in time with the curl of his fingers. Your brain whites out, every nerve drawn tight, and he doubles down, his mouth greedy.

You cum so hard you nearly black out, your nails digging into his scalp as you ride the wave, every muscle gone taut. The sound you make is wild and unhinged, ripped straight from your core. Even as you tremble, legs locking around his head, Itachi doesn’t stop until you collapse, boneless and buzzing, back against the desk.

Your vision is slow to return, but as you drag your gaze up, you find him watching you, his lips raw and glistening, his hair in wild disarray. Heat licks at your flesh, but you’re greedy for more— as you curl your hand into his shirt and pull him between your thighs, tugging it over his head. The kiss you steal is lazy, but his mouth moves with a hunger that says he’s already forgotten the boundaries he clung to moments ago. Your hand roams over his newly uncovered skin, muscles hard and hot beneath your fingers. You moan into him, feeling the rigid press of his cock—now fully resurrected—nestled between the slick mess of your thighs.

Your fingers skate over the ridge of him, tracing the curve, the feverish pulse beneath your palm. His hips jerk at your touch, a gasp shuddering in his throat, and you swallow the sound. You move against him, slick heat meeting the desperate strain of his erection, and the friction draws a low, unguarded groan from him. You lap at his bottom lip and then pull back just enough to watch the desperation war with discipline on his beautiful, ruined face.

“Do you want to fuck me?” You murmur coyly, grinning as you grind your hips into him. He tries to answer, but the words catch. His pupils are blown wide, burning with a hunger that’s almost animal.

Finally, he nods.

“Say it,” you order, voice sultry and sweet. “Just once.”

He licks his lips, breath trembling as he obeys. “I want to be inside you.” The words burn, and your pulse stutters with feral delight. “Please.” It’s a whisper, but you feel it everywhere.

You guide the head of his cock between your legs, letting the tip drag through the wet, swollen folds until you feel him twitch and throb, desperate to take more. You tease him, circling your hips until he gasps, and then, with a wicked smile, you tilt just so, pressing him inside, inch by inch.

He can’t keep from jerking, hips stammering forward as you draw him deeper, the stretch delicious. He buries his face in the curve of your neck, shuddering, the heat of his breath matching the wild rhythm of his pulse under your fingers.

You don’t let him move— not yet. You grip his hair tight at the roots, holding him there, savoring the way his cock twitches inside you as you clench around him. You wait, just long enough for him to nearly lose himself, before you let go, giving him permission with a single, hungry roll of your hips.

He fucks you deep and deliberate at first, each thrust measured with that same ruthless control he brings to everything. But you can feel the restraint fraying at the edges, can taste the unraveling on his tongue as he kisses you between broken breaths. You moan, raking your nails down his back, and he hisses, rutting into you a tad harder. The desk rattles beneath you, and you can feel it in the way his thighs tremble, the way his hands fist in your hair and on your skin.

He’s holding on by a thread, and you want to see it snap.

You lock your ankles behind his back, slam your heels down, and pull him flush—daring him closer, deeper, harder. “Don’t hold back,” you whisper, biting the edge of his jaw. “Fuck me like you mean it.”

The words break him. He growls— a sound you’ve never coaxed from him before, low and guttural, laced in pure want. He slams into you, urgency eclipsing technique, the rhythm frantic and desperate. You arch, spine bowed, nails scraping new lines down his back as you meet each thrust, the collision of bodies thunderous.

He’s never let go like this, not for anyone; you see it in the wild flash of his eyes, the way his features break apart, sweat slicking his hair to his brow. He’s beautiful, wild, red-cheeked, and desperate, and every time he slams inside you, it blots out any thought.

You have to cling to him, or you’ll break apart. You tangle your hands in his hair, pull him down for a bruising kiss, and he devours your mouth with a matched hunger. Each thrust drives you higher, pleasure spiking at a dangerous, dizzying pitch.

He hits a place inside you that makes you see stars, and you break away from the kiss, gasping. “There—right there, fuck, Itachi—” and him just hearing his name like this, ruined and needy, makes him shiver violently in your arms.

You press your lips to his ear, panting. “You feel so fucking good, don’t you dare stop—” and the praise undoes him, makes his hips stutter once again. He mutters something hoarse and filthy in return, words lost in the haze as he holds you tighter, pulsing inside you.

You snake a hand between your bodies, fingers finding your clit. You rub in time with his thrusts, grinding down, chasing the heat rising through your gut. He sees what you’re doing, and instead of faltering, he moans—open, and so goddamn eager for you. “Please—let me—” he stammers, hand sliding down to cover yours, guiding your touch with his own.

“I want you to cum with me,” you breathe, hot and urgent against his jaw. “Can you do that for me, Itachi?”

He trembles, whole body gone taut. “I—” He gasps with a nod, barely able to speak. He’s shaky, sweat sliding down his temple to drip onto your skin. “Trying—” but the words trail off, replaced by a helpless, keening sound as the tension winds tighter and tighter.

You circle your clit harder, panting, fully on the verge yourself. “Cum with me, please—now—I need to feel you—” and that’s all it takes. He breaks, slamming into you with a feral snap, groaning as he spills inside you, thick and hot.

The sensation burns wild through your whole body, your orgasm detonating around him. You clench down, rigid and convulsing, every pulse wrung out by the force of his cock as he pumps you full. You’re gasping, both of you, your legs trembling so hard you lose your grip on the desk and almost fall backward—he catches you, arms bracketing your body.

For a few seconds, there’s just the sound of your ragged breaths, the obscene scene of your bodies pressed together, and the overload of Itachi buried deep inside you, shaking from the aftermath. He collapses forward, face in your neck, ruining your skin with sweat and the hot, slow drag of his breath. You feel him soften inside you as he shudders, his arms going slack and heavy. Your thighs spasm, gripping his hips as though you want to keep him there forever.

You stroke his hair, wild and tangled against your chest, and he doesn’t move, just pants into the hollow below your ear. His body sprawls over you, heavy and inert, and you savor the weight— how solid and real he feels, how his usual detachment has gone to ruin. You press a breathless kiss to his temple, feeling the fever of his skin, and rest your forehead against his.

His eyes are closed, lashes glued together with sweat, but you can tell he’s still there, present and alive in a way you’ve never seen. A slow, lazy smile carves your lips. “You alive?” You tease, fingers brushing the nape of his neck. He doesn’t open his eyes, but his mouth tugs up at one corner.

“I should be the one asking you that,” he murmurs, voice so hoarse and spent that it hardly sounds like him.

Your laugh is warm and fuzzy, muffled in his hair. You’re about to say something clever, something biting and affectionate, when the moment is shattered by a violent, repetitive pounding at the door.

“For fucks sake, we can hear you in the hallway!” Comes Hidan’s voice, muffled by the thick wood but still braying as ever. “Some of us don’t want to listen to you two blowing your loads all over god damn the place!”

Itachi sighs, peeling himself upwards, as if jarred back to the real world.