He smirks, blue eyes flashing like a dare. “Make me.”

You try, God, you try—but your body is betraying you, shivering under every thrust, slick soaking down your thighs as he ruins you all over again.

“You said we’re over,” he growls in your ear, “but your pussy’s saying otherwise. And honestly? I’m inclined to believe her.”

His hand snakes between your bodies, fingers rubbing your clit in tight, mean circles. The kind that sends your legs trembling, your mouth falling open.

“Gonna cum already?” he teases, voice infuriatingly sweet. “That’s so cute. Did you miss me that much?”

You claw at his back, anything to distract you and delay your impending orgasm. “You’re a fucking asshole.”

“Uh-huh,” he hums, kissing your cheek. “And you’re still letting me fuck you raw. So what does that say about you, princess?”

It says that you’re still his, no matter what you tell yourself. You hate how good it feels, and you hate that he knows it as well as you do. He leans back just enough to spit in your mouth, unprompted and messy, eyes locking with yours as he does it.

“Swallow. ‘Atta girl.”

You do. Of course you do. And when your orgasm hits, Satoru leans back down and kisses you breathless, swallowing your moans. Satoru smiles into the kiss as your body jerks beneath him. It’s all teeth and tongue and hunger, like he needs to mark you from the inside out. A mix of your saliva drips down both of your chins.

“Tell me no one else gets to have you like this,” he whispers against your lips. “Tell me this is mine.”

You hesitate.

He fucks you harder, lips brushing your ear as he speaks again, lower and more impatient.

“Say it.”

“…It’s yours,” you admit, barely able to breathe.

“There we go,” he grins. “So fucking pretty when you admit you’re mine.”

You fall apart again seconds later, cumming hard around him, clenching and gasping as your body gives out. And he keeps going. You push at his hips, weak and shaking, a pathetic attempt to give your body a break. 

“You know the safeword,” Satoru gives you time to speak up, but you don’t. “I’m gonna make you cum ‘til you forget why you left.”

“Ngh! Wait—fuck,” you babble, completely fucked out, body going limp as he uses you. 

Satoru coos at the pitiful sight beneath him. His heart swells with pride, possession, and something dangerously close to devotion. Your fragile state, entrusted to him, even after everything. He wants to give you the whole world, but for now, he’ll start with his cum.  

“Gonna give you every drop,” he groans, holding you still as he pushes himself in as deeply as possible. 

When he finally cums, it’s with a long, guttural moan. His hips stutter as his hand grips your jaw to make you look him in the eyes as he fills you up. He stays there for a moment, forehead resting against yours, both of you panting, your chest still heaving beneath him.m

Without a single ounce of shame, Satoru rolls off the bed and grabs the hoodie you’d come to return. He slips it back over his head, looks at you, ruined and blinking on the mattress, and smiles.

SUGURU

He left you a voicemail: “You left your necklace. Might drop it off, might keep it. Might wear it while I jerk off thinking about you.”

The second you walk into his place, Suguru raises an eyebrow, leaning back on the couch with the kind of smirk that makes you want to slap him (or ride him, but you wouldn’t admit that).

“What happened, baby?” he says smoothly. “Get tired of pretending you can stay away?”

You glare. “Do you have amnesia? You called me. This is ”

“Mm. I might recall that.” He pats his lap. “Now come here and lie to me again.”

“I can’t stand you.”

“Then sit,” he says simply. “On my face.” 

That was all it took for you to find yourself on top of your ex-boyfriend.

“Still tight,” Suguru murmurs against your inner thigh, stopping just short of where you want him. He inhales deeply. “Still smells so sweet. ”

“Fuckin’ do something,” you demand, pushing your hips towards his face.

His teeth graze your clit before he dives in. 

You arch, panting. “Suguru—”

He doesn’t stop. He speeds up, and your words melt into moans. Then he pulls his mouth away and spits on your clit, rubbing it in with his thumb as you squirm.

“I should block you just to humble you,” he says casually over the wet sounds. “But then who’d fuck you like this? Your poor pussy would be miserable without me.”

You slap his shoulder. He laughs, genuinely delighted.

“You want someone boring?” he goads, flipping you under him. “Someone soft? Respectful?”

He drags the head of his cock through your slick folds, taking delight in how soaked you are for him. He leans down until your noses almost touch, voice dipping into a whisper:

“Or do you want me—the one who knows how to split you open and make you thank me for it?”

Your hips try to move, but he holds them down. 

“Beg for it.”

“Fuck you,” you spit out, your tone as malicious as your pussy is wet.

Suguru grins wickedly. “Fine.” 

And he pushes in with one long, slow thrust, groaning in your ear as your walls clench around him. You gasp, nails digging into his back.

“Ohh, fuck—Suguru!”

“Yeah, I know, baby.” He kisses you hard, deep, possessive. “You missed me.”

He fucks you with a calm, brutal rhythm. There’s no rush, no hesitation. Just deep, hard, confident strokes that make you feel like you’re unraveling inch by inch.

“Still pretending this means nothing?” he murmurs, brushing your hair out of your face.

You nod weakly.

He laughs again, low and mean this time. “That’s okay. I’ll fuck the truth out of you.”

You try to keep quiet, but the pleasure is blinding. He grabs your throat, gently tilting your chin up so your eyes stay locked with his.

“Are you ready to come back yet?” he asks, breath hot against your lips. “Or should I just keep making you cum instead?”

You whimper. He grins.

“I’ll take that as keep going.”

He fucks you harder, mouth latched to your throat, praising you through every twitch and cry and broken moan.

“Such a good girl for me,” he pants. “Still mine. Still fucking mine.”

You cum around him a second time, legs shaking, vision white. He cums deep inside you, groaning your name like a brand, gripping your hips as he fills you like a promise he has no intention of breaking.

Afterward, he doesn’t even pull out. He stays right there, cock twitching inside you, knuckles stroking your cheek like you’re already home.

“You can stay the night,” he says lightly, kissing your collarbone. “Or move back in. Your call, baby.”

You roll your eyes.

Suguru’s smirk deepens. “Just trying to be a good ex-boyfriend.”

KENTO

“Tell me to stop,” Kento growls, breath ragged against your neck. “I’ll stop if you say it.”

You don’t. Instead, you pull him closer, digging your nails into his shoulder like you’ll die if he lets go. He groans, carrying you effortlessly to the bedroom. His tie comes off with a violent tug, the silk slipping to the floor. The dress shirt stays on, sleeves rolled up, because he knows what it does to you. 

His slacks hang open as he bends you over the bed and pushes two thick fingers into your dripping core. His movements are deliberate and unforgiving, like he wants you to feel every twitch of his fingers. Every motion, meticulously calculated. You gasp, hips jerking as he curls them inside you.

“Already soaking,” he mutters, breath hot against your spine. “You walked in here knowing exactly what you wanted, didn’t you?”

You try to deny it and hold your ground, but the sound that escapes you betrays everything. He adds a third finger, and your knees nearly buckle.

“Say it,” he demands, voice low and rough. “Say it so we don’t have to pretend this isn’t exactly where you want to be.”

You cry out his name, blindly reaching for him behind you. That’s all it takes for him to pull his fingers out and replace them with the thick, aching length of his cock. He pushes in from behind—no teasing, no mercy, just a stretch so deep that it knocks the wind out of you.

“Fuck,” he pants, gripping your hips. “Feels like you were made for me, angel.”

You cry out, white-knuckled on the sheets, body already shaking as he rocks into you with ruthless precision. He leans over you, body draped along yours, one hand sliding up your chest to wrap around your throat. It’s not choking, but enough pressure to make your heart and pussy stutter as he meets your eyes

“I haven’t touched anyone else,” he growls, voice hoarse. “No one else could get close. Couldn’t even kiss someone else without wanting to tear my skin off.”

You whimper, shove your hips back against him in desperation. “Me neither,” you whisper. “C-couldn’t. Didn’t want to.”

He curses under his breath like your admission breaks him. His hand moves to your jaw, turning your face toward him, and he kisses you from the side—messy and frantic—like he needs to taste you to breathe. Then he flips you over and pins you flat to the bed, gaze burning as he stares. For a moment, he just stares, drinking in every detail. You’re not sure if he’s remembering this feeling or trying to store it for the future.

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” he mutters, before he fucks you like he wants to erase the space that ever existed between you. 

It’s obsessive and borderline feral with how deep he hits. Kento’s hands won’t stop moving—stroking, gripping, holding you open like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you. But never careless. Kento’s not clumsy in his desperation, he’s deliberate and measured. Precise. Like a man who’s gone mad with longing but still knows exactly how to break you down.

“You were always mine,” he snarls, thrusts growing sharper. “Even when you hated me. You belonged to me the second I laid eyes on you.”

You look at him through blurry eyes as tears roll down your cheeks. From the unbearable way he’s holding your hand, fingers interlaced, anchoring you while he fucks you senseless. From the way he kisses your temple like it’s a farewell.

“Never hated you,” you gasp. “Love you too much.”

“I love you,” he breathes against your skin, “even if I can’t have you.”

His words break something in you. You fall apart on him, whining his name as your orgasm tears through you. Kento fucks you through it, never slowing, until his own release takes over him with a low, guttural moan. He spills deep inside you, face buried in your neck.

You're both trembling when it's over—sweaty and breathless. Then he lets out a long exhale and mutters against your skin, “Well. That was deeply irresponsible.”

“It was,” you agree, idly running a hand up and down his back. “We should try it more often.”

TOJI

You came to get your stuff, all the pieces of yourself that still lingered in the mess of his apartment after the breakup. But the second Toji opened the door, sweatpants slung low on those hips and half-lidded eyes raking over you like meat, you knew you’d lost before the fight even started. Again.

You don’t remember how you got to the bed. Just the way he grabbed your throat and kissed you like he was pissed you ever left. Like he wanted to punish you for walking away. Now you’re on top of him, straddling his hips, riding him with shaky thighs while his hands rest behind his head like this is routine. As if he’s letting you get it out of your system. You wish you could wipe the smug look off of his face, but his cock’s buried so deep inside you that it’s hard to think. 

“We’re still done,” you spit through gritted teeth, taking him deeper with each bounce.

Toji laughs, low and dark, before delivering a loud smack to your ass.

“Then why are you dripping all over me? Try again, ma.”

You glare, but your hands press to his chest for leverage as your pace quickens. His cock drags perfectly against your walls, hitting that spot that makes your breath stutter and your resolve crumble.

“Keep running your mouth,” you pant. “See where it gets you.”

“Gets me here, doesn’t it?” Toji says with a sickening laugh, gripping your hips now. “Every fucking time.”

He plants his feet flat on the bed and starts thrusting up into you, taking control even while you’re on top. The rhythm turns punishing, filling the room with vulgar noises. Toji fucks you loud and nasty, the mattress creaking under you both. You collapse forward with a moan, forearms braced on his chest as your body clenches around him.

“You break up with me every week,” he pants against your jaw. “Still come back to this dick like it’s rehab.”

Your lips part in a moan that’s half denial and half surrender as his cock drives into you like he’s trying to reach your fucking soul. You fight for your life not to moan his name.

“You like this?” he taunts. “This is all you needed, huh? Some sense fucked back into you?”

You tighten around him on instinct, and he grins—that filthy, cocky grin that used to piss you off so much you’d ride him just to shut him up. His hand wraps lightly around your throat, thumb brushing your pulse. Just enough pressure to make your head swim.

“I should’ve never let you leave,” he growls. “You’re mine.”

“F-fuck, Toji!!”

“C’mon, mamas. Say it.”

“All yours,” you moan out, voice raising an octave as your pleasure comes to a peak. 

Toji’s emerald eyes light up, and he rewards your confession with a mean pinch to your clit. You shatter on him, orgasm bursting from your core and radiating through your body as you ride it out helplessly. He fucks you through it, filthy and relentless, until his thrusts turn erratic and his hips are twitching against yours.

“Tell me where you want it.”

“Inside,” you whine shamelessly. 

For once, Toji listens to you. He bites your shoulder as he lets go, breathlessly groaning into your skin. He stays like that for a second—still buried in you, breathing hard against your shoulder—until his cock stops twitching.

Then he leans over, grabs the half-crushed cigarette off the nightstand, and lights it like nothing happened. Toji takes a drag, smirks at your limp body on the sheets, and exhales smoke from the corner of his mouth.

“Should I move back in now?”

You glare at him, chest still heaving, legs sticky with both of your cum.

“This doesn’t mean anything.”

“Sure it doesn’t,” he mutters, guiding your naked body under him. Your eyes drop to his cock—he’s already hard.

He shrugs, smiling with the cigarette in his mouth. “Still got a lot to say. Thought I’d let my dick finish the conversation.”

SUKUNA

Walking back into the throne room destroys the last of your dignity.

“Came crawling back again, eh?” Sukuna gloats, red eyes glowing with amusement. “I’d call it cute, but it’s really just pathetic.” 

Your chin tilts up, masking shame with bite. “Not as pathetic as how easy you’ll give it to me.”

That earns a laugh, and the sound is bone-chilling. Cruel. And somewhere underneath, excited.

“Stupid girl,” he growls in your ear, gripping your hair and yanking you to your knees. “You belong to me. There is no leaving.”

Sukuna’s fingers press into your throat before he forces your mouth open and shoves his fingers in, eyes locked on yours. He drags you to the floor like prey, strips you without gentleness, and folds your body beneath him like you were made to break. He doesn’t warm you up—doesn’t need to. You’re soaked already, shamefully so.

“Fucking knew you’d come back. You need this, don’t you?” he taunts, grinding into you, teasing his bulbous tip against your folds before slamming in hard enough to knock the air from your lungs.

Your gasp is lost beneath a strangled moan. He fills you like he owns every inch, as if he’s branding you from the inside.

“You always say you’re done,” he chuckles, voice thick with venom and heat, “then come crawling back with your needy little cunt dripping for me.”

You claw at the floor, unable to answer as he fucks you mercilessly. Every stroke is brutal and precise. But that’s not enough for him. With a sneer, he plants one foot on the side of your head, pressing your cheek to the floor as your cries echo against the walls. 

“That’s it. Cry for me. Let them all hear who you belong to.”

Tears smear down your face, not from pain, but from the overwhelming fullness, the humiliation, the twisted pleasure of it all.

“S-Sukuna—”

“Shut up,” he growls, slapping your ass so hard it stings. “Just take it.”

He doesn’t let up, not until your thighs are shaking and you’re begging for mercy he’ll never give. Not until your body gives out and he holds your hips up anyway, forcing you to take everything he gives, even when you’re sobbing incoherently.

“You’ll never leave,” he pants against your neck, fucking you through your second orgasm. “Because no one else can fuck the brat out of you like your king can.”

You lose track of time as Sukuna uses you. Position after position, he bends and breaks you as he pleases. You’re barely alert after your fifth orgasm when he finally cums inside you. He watches your eyes come back into focus when he bites your shoulder as your weeping pussy milks every drop out of him.

You don’t move even after he’s done. You just lie there, used and full, heart thudding with something that feels too much like belonging. He strokes your hair mockingly, almost like you’re a pet. 

“Cute little thing,” he hums. “You can crawl back to your chambers. I’ll see you next time you feel like lying to yourself.”

CHOSO

You show up at his door, arms crossed, trying to act like this isn’t what it looks like.

“You going to let me in, or just keep staring at me like a sad puppy?”

Choso blinks once. Twice. Then he grins.

“Oh, you wanna fuck.”

You feign offense with a scoff. “I—”

“Don’t worry, baby. I do too,” he hums, tugging you inside and kicking the door shut with one smooth move.

“You broke up with me,” he says, mock-hurt. “You don’t get to be mean and horny.”

“Oh, I can be both,” you challenge, and he groans into your neck like he’s obsessed.

Choso can’t even wait to get to bed. He turns you around and pushes you against the door, already dropping his sweats. He swipes at your pussy, immediately finding your slick dripping down your thighs. The second he inserts a finger, the teasing stops—just for a moment. Because fuck, you’re tight and warm and familiar in a way that sucks the air from his lungs. Choso moans, deep and breathy, burying his face in your neck.

“God, I missed this. Missed you,” he admits, adding a finger to aid his punishing rhythm. 

You claw against the door, breath stuttering. “Don’t get sappy on me now.”

“I’m gonna make you cry in five minutes,” he growls. “And then I’ll get sappy.”

He replaces his fingers with his cock and starts slowly, savoring the stretch. It’s sweet, almost romantic. But that doesn’t last. As soon as Choso bottoms out, the head of his cock kissing your cervix, he loses it. He starts grinding into you deeper, faster, desperate to feel you fall apart, hear you whimper his name in that way that always made him break.

“You still take me so good,” he pants. “You didn’t let anyone else fuck you, did you?”

You roll your eyes even though he can’t see it. “What if I did?”

He slams into you, cock twitching.

“You didn’t.”

“…I didn’t.”

“Yeah,” he grunts into your ear. “Didn’t think so. You’re still mine.”

Choso drags you to the bedroom in a blink of an eye, throwing you onto the bed and entering you once more. You arch under him with a moan, and his mouth is on yours, kissing you hard, licking into your mouth like he’s trying to mark his territory.

“You’re gonna cum for me,” he mutters, reaching down to rub your clit. “Gonna soak me like you always do. Be good and let me make you feel perfect again.” 

And you do. There are stars behind your eyes as your back arches off the bed, and Choso doesn’t stop once. Your legs are trembling, chest heaving as you lie flat on your back. Choso hasn’t moved far—just leaned over, brushing kisses down your collarbone, hands trailing gently over your skin like he’s trying to memorize it all over again.

You groan. “You’re staring.”

“You’re pretty,” he says simply, nuzzling your jaw. “I haven’t seen you like this in a while.”

“Naked?”

Choso laughs into your neck. “No. Relaxed.”

You roll your eyes, but the smile tugs at your lips anyway. You gasp softly as Choso licks at one of your nipples, pinching and tugging at the other one.  This time when he pushes in, it’s not a rough snap of hips—it’s slow. Deliberate. Deep enough that you both sigh at the same time.

You blink up at him, and he looks so soft in the moonlight. Heavy-lidded, sweat-slick, eyes locked on yours like he wants to watch every second.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of this,” he murmurs, rolling his hips into you with an almost lazy rhythm. “Of you.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, body pulsing with heat again. “Any other sappy confessions?”

He smirks. “I won’t tell you, I’ll show you.”

Choso moves slowly, letting you feel every inch of him. Even as you whine for him to speed up, he relishes the friction of every thrust. His hands grip your thighs, spreading you wider so he can watch your bodies move in tandem. 

“Missed how you sound under me,” he says, voice low. 

You grin, tipping your hips up to meet his thrusts, breath hitching when he brushes that spot deep inside you.

“Choso…” Your voice is far more needy than you’d like, but you can’t help it.

He cups your face, thumb brushing your bottom lip. “There it is.”

It’s easy to fall into this rhythm with Choso. Bodies rocking together in sync, breath ragged and warm. You cling to him when the pleasure crests, face buried in his neck. He groans right in your ear, something about how he can feel how much you still want him.

When he cums, his voice cracks, but it’s quiet—intimate. Just a broken moan as he presses his forehead to yours and lets it all go. He stays inside you this time, body slumped over yours, his arms wrapped around your waist like he’s scared you’ll disappear.

“So,” he says, breathing hard. “Are we still broken up?”

You stretch under him, muscles sore but satisfied. “You gonna let me go this time?”

Choso pulls back just enough to meet your gaze. “You can go if you’d like.”

You don’t answer, but you make no move to leave. He grins, laying his head back down on you. 

⭑.ᐟ reblogs + ur thoughts n feelings are so appreciated!!

“Did you hear that? I’ll say it again and again. I don’t care that the Jujutsu boys are… you know. Do. Not. Engage.” 

You turn to Yuki. “Is this necessary?” 

She doesn’t answer right away, just lifts her phone and shows you the Jujutsu roster online. Pictured on the screen is their captain and point guard, Satoru Gojo, grinning like he owns the planet. 

You blink. “I guess I understand the hype.”

“Please,” Yuki says, “You should see their shooting guard. He’s Gojo’s right hand man and every girl’s wet dream.”

Before she can swipe to his photo, your captain disbands the meeting. 

“Get to stretching. And remember ladies, keep it tight, keep it classy, and keep your drama out of the locker room!”

-

The pep band blares. The crowd roars. You’re adjusting your ponytail when the arena lights dim, signaling the arrival of the visiting team. Jujutsu University enters like they’ve done this a hundred times. The entire student section rises to their feet to boo, and yet somehow, it sounds more like worship.

Gojo’s the first one in, of course. He blows a kiss to someone in the bleachers and points finger guns at your mascot like he’s flirting with a cartoon. You roll your eyes. And then he walks in, and you immediately know he’s the one Yuki was talking about. Suguru Geto. 

His jersey has a number 3 on the back, and his sharp eyes look like they’ve seen too much and care too little. He’s not showy like Gojo. He doesn’t need to be. He walks with the quiet confidence of someone who knows he can drop thirty points without cracking a smile. His hair is tied back in a low bun, ink trailing down one arm, and a black compression sleeve on the other.

The world doesn’t exactly stop, but you swear it tilts on its axis. It’s not even lust at first, not really. It’s curiosity with teeth. Sharp, intrusive, and a little unhinged.

Yuki nudges you. “Told you.”

You say nothing, still staring as Suguru jogs to half court, gives Gojo a low five, and eyes the place like he’s ready to destroy it.  Just when your gaze flicks to his face again, he looks right at you.

It’s only a glance. Just long enough to make your stomach drop and your skin burn and your body suddenly very aware of itself in your uniform. He doesn’t smile. Just tips his chin up a little, like he’s clocked you, and he’s made a note of something he likes. He turns away just as fast. 

Yuki’s already smirking at you.

“Oh,” you say, trying to sound unimpressed. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Yuki scoffs. “That man is the reason this entire campus is foaming at the mouth. Gojo might run his mouth, but Geto? He ruins people. Quietly.”

You shake your head and turn away, but it’s too late. You’re curious. And that curiosity only festers when game time comes and the court turns electric.

-

When the second quarter ends, your squad breaks for water before the big halftime performance. The gym is loud, thundering with the noise of two frenzied student bodies. The score’s tight, and everyone knows the second half is going to get bloody. 

You wipe sweat from your brow, trying to focus on your breathing, on your formation for the next routine. But your attention is shot. Suguru hasn’t looked at you again since that first glance. And somehow, that’s worse than the way his eye contact affects you.

You’re standing just off-court near an exit, waiting for the rest of your squad to return, when a shadow passes into your peripheral vision. Coming off the court alone, towel slung over his shoulder, jersey clinging to him in all the right places. You freeze, rooted to the floor like you’ve been caught doing something you shouldn’t, even though you haven’t done anything but smile and wave your pom-poms.

Suguru doesn’t say anything as he approaches. Doesn’t smile, doesn’t slow down. Just as he passes you, close enough that your arms almost brush, he tilts his head down and murmurs, voice low enough that no one else could hear:

“You shouldn’t stare so much. People might think you want something.”

Then he’s gone. You don’t turn around. Your thighs are clenched, your pulse is racing, and there’s no doubt in your mind now. You do want something. And if the look in his eyes said anything, he already knows what it is.

-

The rest of the game is a blur of sweat, sneakers, and chants. You know enough about basketball to follow along, but even someone who’s never watched a game could tell that Suguru Geto was good. A fight nearly breaks out when Suguru dunks on your captain, causing him to fall over. Suguru just walks away as his teammates stop your own team from chasing him down. 

It’s the fourth quarter, and the score is tied with three seconds left. Someone passes the ball to Suguru, and everything slows. Silence falls among the crowd. There’s no rush, no panic. He plants his feet, looks at you, and shoots. He sinks the three-pointer and it’s chaos all over again. 

The buzzer goes off as the crowd goes wild, and your squad disbands in every direction. Bodies brush too close in a storm of adrenaline and frustration. You should react, but all you can feel is the heat of his stare still burning on your skin, long after he’s turned away. It takes you a moment before you snap back into it. If you’re going to get what you want, now’s your only chance.

The Jujutsu team is already on their way out, but you spot Suguru looking over his shoulder at you. He tilts his head ever so slightly, and even though he can’t see you, you smile as your feet start moving automatically.

-

The visitor’s locker room is quiet, with only the hum of fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead. Your sneakers squeak against the tile as you step inside, heart hammering in your throat.

There he is. Sitting on a bench, legs spread wide, his jersey peeled off and tossed to the side. His skin glistens with sweat, chest rising and falling slow and deep. A single strand of hair clings to his temple. The rest falls loose around his shoulders, like he tugged the hair tie out without thinking.

He doesn’t look surprised to see you. He just drags his gaze up your body, slow and deliberate, and lets it settle on your eyes. You feel it like a touch. It's like being pinned in place.

“Lost?” he asks, voice low and lazy. 

You open your mouth to respond, but the look in his eyes shuts down every excuse you had rehearsed. It’s reckless. It’s probably against three different rules in the Cheer Bible.

“I figured you’d come,” he continues. 

“Are you always this cocky?”

“You followed me,” Suguru replies, mouth curved into the faintest smirk. “Why?”

Your throat is dry. “You looked at me.”

He chuckles, quiet and wicked. “So I did.”

He leans forward, rising to his feet slowly. He walks toward you with a confidence that steals air from the room. Each step measured, heavy, controlled.

And when he stops just in front of you, his hand comes up to brush a strand of hair from your face. His fingers linger at your jaw, his thumb ghosting the corner of your mouth.

“What do you want?” he asks you.

“Like you don’t already know,” you retort, trying not to roll your eyes. 

“I want to hear it, pretty girl,” Suguru responds. 

“I want you,” you confess, voice barely above a whisper. “Happy now?”

His eyes darken at your admission. “Getting there.’

Instead, you grab the front of his shorts and pull him into you as your lips crash into his. Suguru catches your waist instantly, pressing you back into the row of lockers with a low grunt, like he’s been holding back all night. His kiss is rough but unhurried, all control. His hands travel down your thighs, gripping them with purpose, lifting you like it’s nothing. You wrap your legs around him as your back hits the lockers.

“Knew you wanted it the second I stepped on that court,” he breathes against your mouth. 

You drag your fingers through his hair and tug just enough to make him hiss.

“You’re not the only one who knows how to win,” you joke.

He laughs, deep and dark, then walks the two of you toward the bench behind him. He sits, spreading his legs wide, dragging you with him. You straddle him, your skirt already bunched up, breath shaky as he palms your ass through your spandex.

“You gonna ride me like your school pride depends on it?” he murmurs, voice gravel thick.

You press your forehead to his and whisper, “If you ask nicely.”

Suguru looks at you like you’re being ridiculous. “Didn’t I earn this?”

The only response you give him is your hips rolling against his hardening member. He groans under his breath, grip tightening on your hips as your body grinds against him. There's heat in every part of your body, tension stretched taut like a pulled rubber band about to snap.

"Keep that up," he warns, voice low, lips brushing your jaw, "and I won't be gentle."

You grind down again, slower this time, relishing the twitch of his muscles beneath you. “I don’t think you wanted me because I looked gentle.”

Suguru leans back slightly, just enough to look at you. His dark eyes are amused. “You’re dangerous,” he murmurs.

“You looked at me first,” you remind him, breath brushing over his lips.

He tilts his head, runs his hands up the line of your waist, thumbs grazing under your top. “Yeah,” he admits, voice softer now. “I looked. Couldn’t help it.”

You kiss him again, less messy this time, and so much more deliberate. You want him to feel the intention behind it. Suguru cups the back of your neck just as his tongue enters your mouth, like he’s trying to memorize your taste. His hand finally slides under your top, large palm hot against your spine.

“You gonna keep teasing me,” he murmurs, voice thick, “or are you gonna show me what those legs can really do?”

“Tell me you want it.”

He exhales, and you can see his control thinning.

“I want it,” he says, voice gravelly. “I want you.”

You pull your skirt off with haste, tossing it behind you. The look on his face when you pull his cock out of his shorts and line yourself up is almost reverent. 

“No foreplay?” he asks cautiously.

“Been wet the whole game,” you confess. “I can’t wait any longer.”

“You’re gonna regret that,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t make a move to stop you. “Take a breath.”

You do, and then he pushes in. Your mouth falls open instantly. Your fingers clutch his broad shoulders as the stretch steals the breath from your lungs. It’s thick, slow, impossible to ignore. Every inch of his hardened member drags against you like he’s trying to leave a permanent impression inside your body.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, eyes fluttering. “You’re… you’re big—”

Suguru grins at that, eyes blown with lust. His hands tighten just slightly around your waist, dragging you down the rest of the way.

“You’re a cheerleader, ” he taunts. “Aren’t you used to stretching by now?”

You whimper something incoherent against his neck, nails digging into his skin as your hips sink the last inch, fully taking him in. Suguru groans at the feeling, head dropping to your shoulder.

“Fuck,” he mutters against your skin. 

He stays still for a moment, letting you adjust, allowing the full sensation to sink in. Then he pulls back just slightly—just enough to make you whine— and snaps his hips up once, slow and deep.

“Still think I’m cocky?” he whispers, dragging his mouth along your jaw.

You press a finger to his lips. “Don’t waste your breath,” you whisper, breathless yourself. “You’ll need it.”

You plant your feet wide on each side of the bench, sliding into the kind of practiced split your body knows by muscle memory. Suguru swears under his breath like a prayer. A sound escapes him, low and guttural, as his grip on your thighs becomes a silent plea.

“Show-off,” he mutters, breath ragged as he grips your hips tighter, guiding your rhythm.

“Maybe,” you pant, “But you like it.”

“Yeah,” he growls, tugging on your hair at the scalp. “I do.”

You move together like you’ve done this before in another life, frantic but fluid. His hands slip beneath your top while your teeth graze his neck. Sweat builds, your thighs start to shake, and he leans back just slightly, admiring the sight of you split wide open on top of him, owning it.

With his hands firm at your hips, he guides you down onto him—slow, deliberate, watching every twitch of your face like it’s gospel. Each thrust steals the breath from your lungs. You cling to his shoulders, moaning quietly into his ear.

Suguru’s jaw is clenched, eyes half-lidded. “Fuck… look at you. Even the sounds you make are pretty.”

Your movements lose control as you chase your high, using him for your pleasure. When you start to unravel, he pulls you flush to him, burying his face in your neck. 

“Ngh, Suguru—” you gasp out incoherently.

“I know, baby. I know,” he says into your skin. “Cum on my cock, pretty girl.” 

When you clench around him, vision going white and body seizing with pleasure, the feeling pulls a groan from deep in his chest that he muffles against the curve of your neck. You're still catching your breath when his hands tighten around you. His lips drag along your shoulder before he pulls back, breath hot against your skin.

“Turn around,” he murmurs.

You blink at him with watery eyes, still dazed. “What?”

He stands, towering over you now, the heat radiating off him like a furnace. 

“You heard me.”

Your body obeys before your brain catches up. He helps you down, steadying you as your knees shake slightly. Then he turns you until your chest presses against the cool metal of the locker. The contrast between the chill of the surface and the heat of his body behind you makes you shiver. One of his hands flattens against your lower back. The other traces up your spine and slides into your hair, gently gathering it to the side.

“You feel that?” Suguru murmurs, pressing close, his voice a low rumble. “How bad I want you?”

You nod, lips parted, cheek resting against the locker. Even after such a strong orgasm, you’re already rutting your hips back against his cock.

“Use your words, pretty.”

“I feel it,” you whisper. “I feel everything.”

He hums, low and pleased. “Good.”

Suguru’s mouth grazes the curve of your neck as he enters you again, pulling the neediest moan from you. Your hands brace the lockers as his rhythm builds. His grip never falters. Every breathless sound you make only seems to push him further.

“Was I cocky?” he asks. “Or was I just honest?”

You try to answer, but your voice catches. It’s too much— his control, the pressure, the way he knows exactly how to push you to the edge without letting you fall.

“I’ll take that as a no,” he says, voice wicked.

Each motion leaves you shaking, boneless, lips parted against cold steel. And when your knees nearly give out beneath you, Suguru holds you steady, murmuring something you barely catch. 

“You with me?” Suguru asks again. 

All you can do is nod.

“I asked where you want me to cum,” he repeats.

You whimper, constricting around him absentmindedly. “Inside,” you plead.

“Fuck, baby, are you sure?” 

All you can do is nod against the locker. “Need you to fill me up.” 

Suguru cums the way he plays—silent, but explosively controlled. There’s no wasted breath, no dramatics, just a low grunt with a clenched jaw. You moan at the feeling of his cum spurting inside of you, mixing together with your overflowing wetness. His arms lock tight around your waist like he’s holding himself together with sheer force. His orgasm rolls through him like a wave, powerful and controlled, but you can feel it in every part of his body.

His chest heaves against your back, and he presses a kiss to your shoulder, almost like an apology for how hard he took you, for how badly he needed it. For a long moment, neither of you moves. His hands stay on your hips, thumbs brushing gently now, as if grounding himself in the aftermath. As the haze clears and your breathing slows, he presses a final kiss to your shoulder, then leans back with a lazy, satisfied grin.

You let out a breathy laugh and glance at him over your shoulder. Then, quietly, like he just remembered where you are, he chuckles.

“Your squad’s gonna kill me.”

“That’s only if they find out,” you tell him simply.

He brushes a strand of hair from your face. “Worth it.”

Suguru grins, all lazy and beautiful, eyes dragging over your face like he wants to memorize the way you look wrecked and flushed.

Then he reaches for the towel in his duffel bag. It’s already a little damp from wiping sweat during the game, but he uses the clean corner anyway. You flinch at first, sensitive, but he moves slowly and with a gentle touch. He brushes your inner thigh with his knuckles as he works, and his voice drops low.

“Didn’t think you’d really follow me.”

“I didn’t think I would either,” you admit, catching your breath. “This never happened.”

He hums, throwing the towel towards a trash can across the locker room. It lands inside. “Or it can happen again during my home game.”

You start to shift, but he tightens his hand on your waist. Suguru reaches up, eyes locked on yours, and removes the cheer bow from your hair.

“What are you doing?” you ask, half amused, half dazed.

He twirls it around one finger before stuffing it in the pocket of his bag.

“Souvenir,” he says with a wink.

You gape at him. “You’re stealing my bow?”

“Borrowing,” he says. “You can come get it back.”

You give him a look. “That’s not how borrowing works.”

“It is with me.”

You shake your head, finally managing to stand, though your legs are a little shaky and you absolutely hate that he notices.

Suguru sits back on the bench, admiring the view as you fix your uniform and tighten your ponytail.

“Still staring?” you tease.

He licks his lips, not bothering to deny it. “Yeah. And?”

You toss him a look over your shoulder as you head toward the door. “So arrogant for someone who barely won.”

“Mm,” he calls after you. “You didn’t seem too mad about it when you were bouncing on—”

“Bye, Suguru.”

He laughs, full and unbothered, as the door swings shut behind you.

Your heart is still racing. Your skin still tingles. And deep in your bag, your phone buzzes with new messages from your squad wondering where the hell you are. You’re definitely looking forward to next month, when your school will travel to play his. You know you’re not done with Suguru, not even close. 

“Do you need something?” you ask, trying to sound annoyed despite the way your pulse quickens. 

His blue eyes rake over you, slowly and shamelessly. “So you were thinking about me while getting railed by some loser.”

You groan, already closing the door when he wedges his foot in. 

“I’ll break your foot,” you threaten, but both of you know it’s an empty promise. 

“And I could break your back just how you like it if you let me in,” Satoru says with his shit-eating grin.

“I told you it was a mistake.”

“Yeah?” He leans in, voice dropping low. “Look me in the eyes and say that again.”

Your breath catches. He would know if you’re lying, no matter how hard you try. The man knows the exact pitch your moan hits when you’re about to fall apart. He knows which spot behind your ear sends shivers down your spine, and he knows that you bite your lip when you’re trying not to give in, like you’re doing right now. Satoru sees right through you, just like how he knows your body inside and out. 

It hadn’t always been this way. When you first met him through mutual friends, you immediately pegged him as the jester of the group. You rolled your eyes at his jokes and told him he was annoying, no matter how attractive he was. Satoru had teased you the way he teased every one of your friends, so much so that you didn’t take him seriously when he first tried to make a move on you. He would flirt, you would brush it off and laugh, and both of you would move on. You thought things would end there, until one random Sunday night. 

It started with a dumb conversation over text that turned into something riskier. Satoru called you after texting back and forth for an hour. You’d had a bad day, and for once, his voice, usually so obnoxious, felt like a lifeline. One joke turned into a compliment. It was subtle at first, just one offhand comment in a flirtier tone. But then he said something that made you pause:

"Bet you’d sound even prettier whining for me."

You laughed it off, told him he was disgusting. He didn’t apologize.

"Come on," he said, voice low now, softer. "You ever just wanna let go a little? Just try something with me."

You didn’t answer right away, conflicted about ruining the friendship. But you knew how his voice made your stomach twist, how you were warm even though you were alone. How safe he somehow made you feel, promising your friends wouldn’t know if you didn’t want them to. And when you finally gave in and followed his voice, he didn’t laugh or gloat. And before you could stop it, Satoru’s raspy voice was in your ear telling you all the ways he could make you feel good.

He praised you in all the ways you needed. Told you how pretty you sounded. How good you were for him. How long he’d wanted to hear you like this. Satoru never once asked for pictures or rushed you. Just talked you through every wave, his voice low and steady, like he was right there with you. Like he could see you.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything, that it was a one-time thing. But after that, you couldn’t unhear all the filthy things he promised. Couldn’t forget how easily he unraveled you with nothing but words. Satoru’s voice lived in your head. The way he moaned your name and called you a good girl, his good girl.

His words would echo through your thoughts at work, while folding laundry. Even while out with friends, someone would say something innocent and suddenly you were back to that night, thighs pressed together, hearing Satoru growl "Can’t wait to have you sit on my face."

You wanted to forget. But Gojo Satoru left his fingerprints on your mind. And he wasn’t going anywhere. You both acted normal after that night. He still sent you memes at 2 a.m., still poked fun at your taste in music, still made dumb comments in the group chat that had you rolling your eyes.

But something had changed. Every time his name lit up your screen, your stomach flipped. You thought about how he’d sounded, breathless and low, like he was holding himself back just for you. You remembered what he said right before you came, how gently he told you to let go.

But Satoru? He was just waiting like he knew it was only a matter of time. And he was right. It happened two weeks later on another late night. You’d both been drinking, not enough to be drunk, just enough to feel bold. He offered to walk you home. You told him he didn’t need to, but he did anyway.

The second the door closed behind you, the air changed. He didn’t make a move right away. Just leaned against the wall, watching you fumble with your keys like he wasn’t imagining what you would look like coming apart underneath him.

"You think about it too, right?" he asked.

You didn’t answer, didn’t need to.

You kissed him first. Pulled him in like you’d been waiting to do it for years, and maybe you had. Satoru took his time like he had something to prove, like he wanted to make sure you’d never forget the difference between what you imagined and what it actually felt like to have him inside you. After that night, you couldn’t. Satoru made sure of that. 

That’s how you ended up here, trying to get over Satoru’s hold on you by getting under someone else. But it backfired, and now Satoru’s in your home, bending you over the arm of your sofa. His fingers are rubbing your pussy while he leans down and whispers in your ear.

“Tell me the truth, baby,” he demands. “If you do, I’ll fuck you the way you wished that guy had.”

“It wasn’t an accident,” you confess, shame and heat twisting in your gut. 

If both of you were clothed or in public, you simply would’ve told him to fuck off. But your body listened to Satoru more than it did to you, and you would do anything to relieve the throbbing ache in your core. 

“Good girl,” Satoru coos. 

His tone is sweet but his touch isn’t. He circles your clit in taunting swipes, just enough to make you rock your hips toward him. Your hips twitch under his hand, desperate for more, but he pulls away slightly, just enough to make you whimper.

"Tch. So needy now, huh?" he murmurs, dragging the pads of his fingers down your soaked folds but never dipping in. "How do you think I felt after you sent me that filthy little message? Walking around all morning, hard as fuck, knowing some loser got to take my place. Think it’s funny to tease me?"

You open your mouth to argue, but he hushes you with a firm grip around your throat, not choking, just a warning.

"Nah, sweetheart." His lips brush your ear. "You really gave this pussy to someone else. That earns you a little lesson, don’t you think?"

He slaps your pussy, and you jolt forward with a gasp. “I’m sorry,” you whisper.

"Count if you wanna come tonight," Satoru commands.

“One,” you breathe, and his fingers slide through your slick, comforting your weeping entrance.

But they’re gone again before you can feel relief.

"Two," you whisper after the next one, thighs squeezing together.

Satoru chuckles darkly behind you. “So polite all of a sudden."

By five, you’re shaking and he’s grinning against your neck.

"That’s enough." His tone softens, just a bit. "I don’t wanna ruin you just yet."

Satoru grabs your hips and yanks you back against him, and you feel the hard line of his cock through his sweats. Your mouth goes dry.

"You want it raw?" he asks, as if you two have ever used a condom.

You nod frantically. "Yes! Please, ‘Toru."

“Beg prettier.” He pushes just the tip in, enough to make you moan, then pulls back. “Or I’ll make you watch me jerk off all over this pretty ass instead.”

Your dignity is long gone, and Satoru never fails to make you melt with his touch and words.

“Please, Satoru, I’ll be good! Need you to fuck me, fill me—”

"That’s better," he says with a chuckle. And then he’s pushing inside you and the last of your composure shatters as he fills you in one slow, punishing thrust. 

“Oh, fuck!” you cry out, intoxicated with the feeling of him stretching out your cunt. 

Satoru’s not doing much better than you. “God, baby, fucking love this pussy,” he groans.

He bottoms out in one long thrust, the stretch burning just enough to make you cry out. But it’s his groan that unravels you. That low, desperate sound in your ear like he’s the one being ruined.

"You feel that?" Satoru breathes, voice shaking. "This pussy knows who it belongs to."

His fingers dig into your hips, holding you still while he grinds his cock as deep as he can go, like he’s trying to carve himself into your body. Like he’s mad you even tried to forget him.

"You think that guy could fuck you like this?" he scoffs, snapping his hips forward, making you choke on a moan. "You think he could make you scream like I do?"

You’re already shaking, drool slicking your bottom lip, eyes rolling back as he sets a brutal pace fucking you into the arm of the couch like he’s trying to punish you and himself at the same time.

"No," you gasp. "Only you, Toru, I swear—"

He grabs your hair, yanking your head back so he can hear every moan and filthy little cry. "Say it again."

"Yours," you whimper. "I’m yours—nngh, fuck!"

He lets out a ragged laugh, more unhinged than cocky now. "That’s right, baby. Mine. Always been mine. Quit lying to yourself."

The wet sounds of your bodies crashing together echo through the room, shameless and obscene. He’s not holding back anymore, fucking you like he means to break you open, like he needs you to feel it every time you sit down tomorrow. Your legs give out and he catches you by the waist, not slowing down, not letting up. He’s breathing harsh against your shoulder now, sweat dripping onto your back.

"Wanted to be gentle," Satoru pants. "But you—fuck, you make me crazy."

And you love it. You love that the one man who pretended not to care is fucking you like he’d die if he couldn’t. He bends down to trail kisses down your spine, and somewhere in the back of your fucked-out mind, you melt.

"Tell me why you sent that text," he says before biting into the crook of your neck. 

“Wanted you,” you admit between gasps. “Needed you again.”

Satoru bites down harder, and you can feel his smug expression against your skin. “Thought so. Pretty girl wanted my cum again? You’ll take all of it.” 

You’re already close, body spasming under him, and the thought of him filling you up does you in. The way he says it like a threat sends you spiraling. You cry out as your orgasm hits, clenching down around him so tight he curses and nearly folds over you.

He fucks you through it, brutal and hungry, ignoring your overstimulated cries. Then he groans, a deep, raw sound, and buries himself to the hilt as he spills inside you. Satoru fucks you through it until he’s twitching from sensitivity and you’ve taken everything, heat flooding deep. You both stay like that for a second— bent over the couch, his chest pressed to your back, your legs trembling, and your breath still trying to catch up with you. 

“Messy girl,” he mutters, dragging his hand through his snowy hair. “You sure that text wasn’t meant for someone else? ’Cause that sounded like a girl who missed me.”

You groan into the couch cushion. “You’re literally still inside me, and you’re talking shit. Get off, I can’t breathe.”

“You love it.”

He pulls out slowly, then smacks your ass lightly before walking off like he owns the place. You stand up on wobbly legs, trying to gather whatever scraps of dignity are left on your living room floor. When he comes back, he tosses you a water bottle and flops onto your couch like he lives there.

“So,” Satoru says, like he didn’t just fuck you stupid two minutes ago, “what’s this guy’s name? The one you used to fantasize about me?”

You throw a pillow at him. He catches it easily, laughing.

“Don’t worry,” he says, propping it behind his head. “I forgive you. But next time just come straight to the source, yeah?”

a/n: this was inspired by an old situationship who i actually sent that first text to word for word lmaoo

Week One: Maldives

It starts in an overwater villa with glass floors and no neighbors in sight. The sheets barely stay dry, the windows never stay closed, and Satoru’s face is basically glued between your thighs. He eats you out like it’s his first meal of the day and you’re also dessert. 

Always slow at first—kissing down your inner thighs, teasing your folds, whispering, “You sound so cute like this,” whenever you whimper for more.

Satoru doesn’t even touch himself most mornings. He just grinds his hard cock into the mattress while he makes you cum again and again, like edging himself for you is his favorite act of worship.

“One more, sweetheart. Look at me when you let go, mhm, there she is. That’s my wife.”

By the time you’re finally eating breakfast—sore, glowing, and satisfied—he’s already planning round two.

He eats you out from the back on a jet ski while you’re in the middle of the ocean. The salt spray mixes with your slick, and he comes in his swim trunks without even touching himself because you sobbed his name so sweetly.

Satoru takes you to a private island and fucks you against a palm tree while the tide rolls in. “Told you I’d give you the world,” he whispers, biting your neck, “but it’s not enough. I need the world to see you’re mine.”

Week Two: Amalfi Coast

In Italy, Satoru doesn’t let you wear any of the underwear you packed. 

“No need,” he insists, slipping his hand between your thighs at dinner like you’re just a toy for him to play with. And you are. His favorite toy, his one and only. 

You ride him on the balcony of your hotel as the sunset casts a golden halo around your silhouettes. The Mediterranean breeze is warm, and he’s got your sundress bunched around your waist while Satoru leans back like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

“Come on, baby. Let ‘em hear how good I fuck you. You married the strongest, remember?”

You do almost get caught. An elderly couple walking by glances up, and Gojo just tilts his head, grinning lazily as your pace stutters. He slaps your ass to keep you moving. “Shy now? Thought you liked putting on a show.” 

The whiniest moans spill out of your mouth when you cum, body quaking with pleasure as Satoru smiles.

Later, he buys you gelato with the same fingers he fucked you with. Still sticky. Still smug. He licks the melting treat off your lips and says, “Sweet, but not as sweet as you taste when you cum for me.”

Week Three: Dubrovnik

You walk the city hand in hand. He’s smiling, chatting with locals, but his sunglasses hide the way his eyes stay on you. Obsessed. The same man who bought the plane tickets mid-orgasm because you mentioned that you’d never been to Croatia while lazily riding him.

In the mornings, he kisses your ring finger like it’s sacred. At night, he spoons you on satin sheets and plays with your pussy like he’s drunk off it. 

Says things like, “I could live in this moment forever. You and me, just like this. You’d let me ruin you every night, wouldn’t you, baby? It’s what you signed up for.”

Sometimes it’s slow. Reverent. Sometimes he’s unhinged—pushing your face into the hotel balcony railing and fucking you like he owns you. 

You try to protest, and he just laughs, “Shouldn’t have said ‘I do’ if you couldn’t handle the strongest.”

Before he comes, he pulls out and brings you to your knees. Satoru lets his cum paint your face, moaning how pretty you are, all for him.

Week Four: Macau

A high-rise suite, blackout curtains, and mirrors on the ceiling—because Satoru insisted. You stay in all day and only go out to enjoy the nightlife.

These days are more intense. Less playful. There’s a fever in his touch, a new kind of obsession brewing under the luxury. He fucks you with your legs thrown over his shoulders, watching your face contort in the mirror above. Presses a hand to your lower stomach and groans when he feels himself through you. 

“Would ya look at that. So deep in this pussy that was made for me.”

He ties your hands with silk and takes his time. Sometimes, you ride him with a hand around his neck, watching his pretty blue eyes gloss over. There’s one night he lends you his blindfold and teases you all night. Touch and go, kiss and retreat, until you’re crying from how badly you need him. 

He coos, kissing your tears away, “I just love how much you need me. Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere. Ever.”

By the end of most nights, all you can say is “Toru” and “I love you.” 

And he always finishes inside. Always. Satoru never fails to hold you after, whispering, “I love every part of you. All I am is yours.”

By the end of the month, your body aches in the best ways. Your skin’s tanned, your throat sore from laughter and moaning, and your heart is full.

Satoru tucks you under his arm on the flight home and tells you, “If we don’t find out you’re pregnant soon, we’re going on another honeymoon.” 

You laugh against his chest, legs stretched across the plush leather seat, cozy in one of his hoodies. “I think you just like an excuse to keep me locked away.”

“Bingo,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple. “You’re so smart, baby. That’s why you’re my wife.”

He’s so warm. So calm. But there’s a shift in his voice, low and coaxing, and you know that tone—it always means he’s about to do something. His hand slides up your bare thigh, pushing your hoodie higher, knuckles grazing your inner skin like he’s testing just how much you’ll let him get away with.

“Satoru,” you murmur, quiet, warning, a little breathless already. “There’s a pilot—”

“Who knows not to disturb me,” he cuts you off, grinning as he kisses down your jaw. “And a privacy button.” He presses something on the side of the seat. The glass partition between the cockpit and the cabin begins to slide up.

“Oh my God.”

“Oh my husband,” he corrects smugly, slipping between your legs as he kisses you. “C’mon, baby. We didn’t break in the plane yet.”

You’re already melting by the time he tugs your panties aside, fingers teasing your folds. The low hum of the engines masks your gasp as he rubs slow circles over your clit, thumb firm, knowing. He watches your face like it’s his favorite movie, lips parted when he sinks two fingers inside you.

“You’re so wet,” he groans, fucking you slow with his fingers. “Is this ‘cause I said I’d get you pregnant? Or ‘cause you love my plane?”

“Shut up—”

He pulls back just enough to yank your panties down and get his cock out, already hard from the way you moan into his mouth. He flips you into his lap like you weigh nothing, settling you on top of him with your knees straddling the leather.

Your body sinks onto his with ease, and both of you groan at the feeling—tight, full, hot.

“Oh fuck,” he hisses into your neck. “You’re squeezing me so good. God, I missed this. Missed you.”

“We just fucked yesterday—”

“Still not enough,” he breathes, thrusting up into you with slow, decadent strokes. “Never is.”

His grip tightens on your hips, grounding you as he moves. The cabin lights are low, the sky outside an endless blur, and you’re bouncing in his lap with your hoodie still on and nothing else. His hands push it up to see your chest, and he latches his mouth onto your nipple, groaning against your skin.

“You’re gonna get me pregnant right now, on this stupid plane,” you pant, forehead pressed to his.

“Damn right I am,” he growls, kissing you again, his pace getting rougher. “My baby—our baby, fuck. I want that. I want you.”

You come with a desperate cry, gripping his shoulders as your whole body locks up, then shudders. Satoru doesn’t stop, fucking you through it until he’s right there with you, choking on a moan as gives you all his cum.

After, he holds you in his lap, still inside you, stroking your back and pressing kisses to your shoulder.

“Think it worked?” he mumbles against your skin.

“I think you’re crazy.”

“Let’s call it obsessed.”

You’re too blissed out to answer. Eyes heavy, body boneless, you drift off right there in his arms, lulled by the hum of the jet and the warmth of him around you. Later, you’ll wake to find he’s buckled you into the seat, blanket tucked around you, and his hand on your belly like he’s already claiming it.

SUGURU

The destination was decided the moment he proposed—Bali. A peaceful escape carved into jungle hills, rice terraces, and the low hum of nature. Suguru secures a private villa with an infinity pool and open-air living space, where the warm breeze slips through sheer curtains and time seems to slow just for the two of you.

Every morning, he wakes you with soft kisses along your shoulder and collarbone before handing you a tray of fresh fruit and warm tea. He lets you eat in bed, sprawled beneath linen sheets, your legs tangled, the birds singing just outside. It’s a rhythm he could live in forever.

You walk barefoot through ancient temple grounds, explore artisan markets hand-in-hand, pausing to buy incense or admire a painter stroking the sea into canvas. He takes you to museums tucked behind hidden sanctuaries, and you spend lazy hours in quiet cafés, reading and people-watching in shared silence.

At night, you stroll dimly-lit paths lined with shrines and lanterns, his hand wrapped securely around yours. Then he brings you home to candlelit baths filled with flower petals. He sinks in behind you, warm water lapping at your skin as he kisses the back of your neck and hums something soft into your ear.

Suguru treats the honeymoon like a sacred ritual, a spiritual bond renewed night after night. Every touch deliberate, every glance a promise. At every opportunity, he worships your body like a temple. He spends hours between your thighs, murmuring praises into your skin, taking his time until your voice breaks from moaning. His eyes stay locked to yours, even when your head tries to loll back. He catches your chin, kisses your temple, and whispers, “Eyes on me. Say it. You’re mine, wife.”

And when you do? He groans like he’s praying.

Some nights he undresses you like baring your skin is an act of devotion. He kisses every inch from your ankles to your knees and ribs until you’re flushed and trembling, body arching off the bed, mind going soft. When he moves over you, it’s not just physical. His presence sinks into you like gravity. Suguru’s hands roam but never rush. He cups your jaw and makes you look at him as he slides his fingers between your thighs, working slow, steady circles over your clit.

“Forever, right?” he asks, even though he already knows.

It’s the easiest confession you’ve ever made. “Yours, Suguru. Always.”

And he leans in to kiss you deep and sweet, all tongue and soft groans, before lining himself up and pressing into you with intention. Slowly, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you around him. He doesn’t move right away. Just stays there, buried to the hilt, forehead pressed to yours, breath hot on your lips. You clench around him and his eyes flutter shut.

“Fuck… you’re so warm like this. Could stay here forever.”

Then he starts to move. Deep, rolling thrusts that steals the air from your lungs. His body never leaves yours, his hands never let go. When your wedding rings touch, they catch the lantern light and gleam like another promise.

Suguru fucks you like it’s a vow. Like he’s carving your name into every part of himself. He kisses the tears before they fall. Cups your cheek as your back arches and you come around him, full and aching and utterly undone.

Only then does he let go. His thrusts grow erratic, voice breaking on your name as he fills you, sweat slicking the space where your skin meets his. Even afterward, he doesn’t leave you. Just stays inside you, arms wrapped tight around your waist, breath warm against your neck like he’s afraid this could end.

With your legs tangled and your bodies warm, all he says is “Don’t fall asleep yet. I’m not done loving you.”

KENTO

Kento goes all out with your honeymoon, as he does with everything involving you. Its the perfect blend of both your dreams: an elegant, slow-moving escape across three countries that feel like a glimpse of the life he’s always wanted to give you.

It begins in Switzerland, your shared dream destination. You stay in a chalet nestled in the Alps, snow dusting the windows while a fire crackles beside you. Most evenings are spent curled up under thick wool blankets, sipping wine while he reads aloud from an antique book he found in a tucked-away shop. Kento keeps you close, fingers intertwined, murmuring, “This is how life should always be.”

You take day trips to Lake Geneva, boarding private boats that glide across the still, glassy water, the mountains rising around you like ancient guardians. One morning, you ask, half-teasing, why he even rented the boat when neither of you has any experience. Kento quietly admits he got a boating license months in advance.

And that’s how you end up riding him under the Swiss sun, legs shaking as he grips your hips from beneath. He’s still wearing his captain’s hat. You try to laugh, but his cock is so deep and steady that all you can do is moan as he holds you flush against him.

“Keep your balance, sweetheart,” he says, breath ragged, voice low against your ear. “If you fall, I’ll follow you in and fuck you right here in open water.”

Then comes the Côte d’Azur, France, your pick. A glamorous, sun-drenched stretch of paradise. You stroll Nice’s Promenade des Anglais at sunset, heels in your hand, his jacket draped over your shoulders. In Saint-Tropez, he watches you glow beneath the harbor lights, mingling with people as if you were born for it. And you were. 

He books five-star hotels, treats you to Michelin-star meals, but he’s never more satisfied than when your eyes sparkle across a candlelit table and you call him husband. That word undoes him every time.

And later, when he has you pinned against the glass window of your hotel suite, overlooking the Riviera, it’s the only word you can remember when you’re gasping it into the crook of his neck as he rocks into you, slow and deep.

“Say it again,” he whispers. “Say it until you forget everything else.”

Finally, you land in Kuantan, Malaysia. Kento’s dream vacation. No itinerary, no pressure. Just quiet mornings and indulgent nights. He lets you sleep in every day, but the second you stir, he’s on you—kissing your neck, sliding his hand between your thighs, waking you up with slow, sleepy thrusts until your fingers are tangled in his hair and you’re breathlessly grinding back.

“I need you like this,” Kento admits with a groan, “every morning for the rest of my life.”

At night, he runs you a bath and massages your shoulders while you sit on his lap, water sloshing out of the tub as you sink down on him. You moan into his mouth, and he exhales like it’s a relief, whispering your name like a vow.

But when he takes you to bed, that’s when he falls apart. Kento lays you out like you’re something sacred. Kisses your stomach, your inner thighs, the backs of your knees. His hands never stop moving, brushing over your skin like he’s memorizing every inch. He goes down on you with slow, thorough focus, eyes never leaving your face as you fall apart. He holds your hips down when you squirm, murmuring, “ “Look at you. So beautiful… made to be mine.”

And then, when you’re breathless, wrecked, he presses into you with reverent force. One hand grips the headboard; the other anchors your thigh open. He fucks you slowly, deliberately, until your eyes are glassy and your voice is gone.

“Be still,” he murmurs, voice ragged with restraint. “Let me take care of you.”

But then you call him husband again, and the dam breaks. His rhythm shifts to something more urgent. His control slips with every thrust, every gasp, every whimper you make.

“So pretty like this,” he groans into your neck. “Mine. My wife. Don’t you dare forget it.”

Your honeymoon isn’t just a trip. It’s the beginning of a life where Kento, after years of restraint and duty, finally chooses joy and pleasure. And he chooses to pursue it with you.

TOJI

Three marriages later, Toji still doesn’t understand the concept of a romantic honeymoon. What he does get is this: a week off the grid, your thighs spread across his lap, the adrenaline of almost dying on a hike, and your throat stuffed full by nightfall. So naturally, he books a wild trip to New Zealand, filled with rugged trails, volcanic springs, and as little clothing as possible. But by the end of the week? He sees the appeal. 

The second you check into the room, he’s got you pinned. Your luggage is thrown around haphazardly as Toji latches onto your neck. 

“Been waiting all day to fuck my wife,” he growls.

You swear he’s trying to breed you every time. His hands on your hips, his voice low and growling. “Gonna keep it in this time. Want ‘ya round and full, just like that.”

And everytime, you take it.

You’re constantly on the move at Hell’s Gate, Rotorua. Steaming sulfur pools. Mud baths. Brutal hikes that make your thighs ache in the best way. He’s behind you the whole time, not saying a word, just watching your ass bounce as his palms twitch like they’re begging for a handful.

That night, you're soaking together in a geothermal spring, steam curling around your shoulders like fog. His voice cuts through it, low and smug. “Bet no one’s ever fucked you in a place like this.”

And then he proves it. He’s got you bent over a slippery rock, the mineral water scalding around your calves and his cock even hotter inside you. One hand on your hip, the other covering your mouth when you whimper his name. His wedding ring flashes in the moonlight, pressed to your skin.

“Don’t run from it, sweetheart. You married this. You married me.”

It’s day three when you're mid-way through a remote hiking trail, stopping for water when a passing guide gives you one too many glances. Toji notices. He always notices.

His arm snakes around your waist, pulling you in close. He doesn’t say anything, just stares the guy down until he stumbles off, red-faced and muttering. 

Later, when you ask him if he’s jealous, Toji just scoffs. “Jealous? Nah. I just don’t like when people forget you’re fuckin’ mine.”

He ruins you in your cramped little camping tent, the flimsy material barely holding back your cries. He’s got your knees pressed to your chest, his body heavy over yours, fucking you into the nylon like he wants to brand the memory into your bones. You fall asleep sore all over, pinned under the weight of his chest.

The ATV tour was your idea. Toji speeds through the jungle paths with a devilish grin. You’re screaming and laughing behind him, clinging to his waist while he yells back:

“Don’t fall off, wife. I’m not pulling over!”

You don’t fall, but your composure does. Later, you’re in the backseat of the rental car, thighs sticky with sweat, your pulse still racing. He’s sprawled out like a king—shirtless, cock heavy on his thigh, when you climb over the console and drop to your knees.

You’re slobbering all over him. Lips messy. Hands trembling. Spit sliding down to his balls. He groans, fingers in your hair, watching you with the kind of reverence that makes your gut twist.

“So fuckin’ good,” he pants. “What’d I do to deserve this?”

You pull off with a smirk, a string of drool clinging between your lips and his cock. Voice sweet, lethal.

“You took my last name.”

It wrecks him. You feel it in the twitch of his cock, the way his jaw flexes, the almost-growl he lets out as he yanks you back onto him.

The rest of the trip is a blur of tangled limbs, high altitudes, low moans in high places. He fucks you in waterfalls. In a cave. On top of a cliff. Sometimes slow, mostly not. He’s rough, reverent, and definitely addicted.

He fucks you with your hands splayed against wet stone. Takes you raw in the back of a tour boat when no one’s looking. Makes you ride him in the tent until your knees give out and you’re begging for a break. Sometimes it’s slow, like he’s savoring you. But mostly? It’s not.

And when the week’s finally winding down, your lips puffy, your thighs bruised, your whole body humming with the aftermath, he tugs you into his lap to zip his hoodie around your naked frame. He presses a kiss to your jaw and looks at you with emerald eyes.

“Next honeymoon, we’re doing Antarctica,” he mutters. “I wanna see you ride me in the snow.”

You blink at him, dazed from the orgasms. “That’s not how honeymoons work…”

To which he just grins, sharp and smug. “Yeah? Well good thing this marriage will.”

SUKUNA

He chooses somewhere ancient. Alive. A place with heat in the air and spice on your tongue. It’s thrumming with energy, just like him. There’s a sprawling riad with carved archways and silk-canopied beds, and he books the entire palace out so you won’t be disturbed. 

The bed is a California king, but you never sleep apart. You’re wrapped around each other every night, his hand gripping your thigh, your face pressed to his chest. He likes the size for two reasons: so he can toss you around and still have room to avoid the stains you two leave behind.

The trip is full of silk robes, hand-fed fruit, gold jewelry he bought for you but only puts on himself. He refuses to let you carry your own bags and inspects every outfit you pack, every hem and button. “You don’t wear anything unless I’ve seen how fast I can take it off you.”

He lets you be looked at. Adored. Worshipped by strangers, because they’ll never know what it means to have you. Sukuna’s ego grows at the thought that they’ll never know what it’s like to hear you beg. And when you get back to your room, he fucks you like it’s a rite. Not just sex, but a ritual. A claim. A bond carved again and again into your trembling body.

“I could destroy everything,” he says one night, voice low, “but I’d rather build a world just for you. And set it on fire if we can’t have it together.”

He leaves bite marks on your thighs, bruises on your hips. Smirks down at you, red eyes glowing, like he’s seen your soul and made a home in it. He fucks you to tears until you forget your own name and only remember his. Then he makes you ask for more.

“What’s that, wife? Use your words. Or should I teach you again?”

One night, he pulls a collar from his suitcase. Thick leather. Heavy. He buckles it around your neck and drags his thumb over the tag. 

“Do me the honor, will you?” He looks at you with unprecedented adoration. “My pretty pet, my wife.”

You cum hard that night, so hard your vision disappears. Sukuna only shushes you, kissing your wet cheeks, licking tears from your skin with joy. He makes you beg to cum, then pulls out just to hear you sob. Cruel, yes. But when it’s over? The way he holds you afterward? That’s what ruins you more than anything.

Sukuna doesn’t talk much. But his love speaks through the way he kisses the back of your neck and threads your fingers together while you sleep. Neither of you feel the need to vocalize that you’re the one thing he didn’t take by force.

And every night ends the same way, his voice against your skin. “You cried loud enough for the heavens to hear. Only I need to know the depths of your love for me.”

CHOSO

Your honeymoon is tucked away in a remote part of Iceland. It’s just the two of you, wrapped in warmth while the world outside glows cold and otherworldly. You stay in a heated glass igloo, skin-to-skin beneath thick blankets, with the Northern Lights dancing above you in ribbons of green and gold. It’s quiet, almost sacred. Every night feels like a dream suspended in frost.

The first time he sees the aurora borealis reflected in your eyes, Choso cries. Not loudly or in a way he wants you to see. But the tears come anyway, quiet and reverent, as he murmurs, “Nothing compares to this. Not even close.”

The honeymoon is low-key, peaceful. Cuddling by the fire, cooking simple meals together, watching old movies in bed with your fingers tangled. You hold hands in gloves during your long, scenic walks, and he blushes every single time you call him your husband.

He brings his film camera and takes soft, candid photos of you doing nothing. He captures you staring out the window, making tea, laughing to yourself. He thinks you’re the most beautiful like that, tenderly unguarded and fully his.

But the way you look when you’re sucking his dick like your life depends on it… it’s a close second. It’s late into the night, firelight flickering across the walls, your cheeks flushed from wine and the weight of his gaze. You crawl into his lap without a word, kneel between his legs, and pull his cock out of his sweats like it’s yours to take. 

Choso just watches you with hooded eyes and parted lips as you stroke him once, slow, like a tease. Then your mouth is on him, warm and wet, kissing his tip before dragging your lips down his shaft. His breath catches, low in his chest, and he grabs a fistful of your hair as you sink deeper.

You’re filthy with it. Drooling all over him, moaning around his cock, looking up at him with glassy eyes while you choke just to take him further. He lets out a broken groan when you swallow around him, one hand tightening in your hair as the other strokes your jaw. 

He doesn’t last long, not when you’re looking up at him like you’d die happy with him on your tongue. When he cums, it’s with a grunt and your name falling from his lips like a prayer. You swallow every drop and then kiss him sweetly.

The way Choso makes love is like saying thank you. He’s so gentle at first, overwhelmed by how much he loves you. But the second you moan his name like you need him? Something in him unravels. His mouth gets filthy, and his rhythm deepens. You’ll end up in his lap, bouncing on his cock as he grips your hips and growls about how pretty your wedding dress was, how perfect you looked saying “I do.”

He fucks you all through the night, stroking your thighs every time you cum and shake on his cock. But Choso never stops, like he’s starved for you. 

“So good,” you tell him on the brink of tears. “Always so good to me.”

His voice roughens as he holds you down, eyes wild with love and possession.

“Mine. My wife. My everything,” Choso moans. “You don’t get to walk tomorrow.”

 “Won’t need to,” you reply. 

And you don’t, because he carries you everywhere. Holds you close like he’s never letting go. Both of you know he never intends to. 

a/n: posted this on my old blog and re-edited before posting again here... i was getting sick of reading this so i hope y'all enjoyed!!

“Mmh! Shut up,” you gasp, hands clawing at the sheets. “You’re the one always—fuck! —begging for a quickie.”

He lifts a leg onto his shoulder and grinds real deep and slow into you, hitting the spot that makes you see stars. His other hand is busy rubbing tight, merciless circles over your swollen clit. “Not before dinner with your parents.” 

Your head falls to the side, unable to even look straight anymore as Satoru pounds into you. The angle has your breath catching, the coil in your belly tightening so fast it’s humiliating. 

“Uh-uh,” he tuts, grabbing your face. “Wanna look my dirty girl in the eyes when I make her gush all over me like a whore.” 

When you don’t respond, too fucked out to form words, Satoru squeezes your cheeks in his hand. “Gonna come all over my cock before dinner? You wanna sit in that restaurant full of my cum, don’tcha?” 

You’re drooling now, lipstick as fucked up as you. Satoru’s grin is feral, his blue eyes wild at the sight. 

“So sweet and polite while I’m using this messy little cunt,” he groans, thumbing your clit harder. “Gonna give you so much cum you’ll stain those Michelin-star seats.”

SUGURU

You try to glare at him, but it’s useless. Your eyes are teary, drooping, lips parted from the effort of just enduring it. He kisses you again anyway. Wet and possessive, lips dragging across yours like you’re his favorite indulgence.

“You asked for this, you take it,” Suguru says with a hint of amusement as he thrusts into you, splitting you open with every pump.

He’s got you on your stomach, his chest pressed to your back, one large hand holding your wrists together. The other snakes under your body, gripping your throat—not tight, just enough to hold you still as his mouth hovers right beside your ear.

“Too much,” you whine, voice wrecked and airy. Your thighs are shaking and your poor cunt is raw from already cumming twice. “Only wanted—mmmh!— a quickie.”

“That’s funny, baby,” Suguru laughs, releasing your neck just to grab you by your jaw. His hair brushes along your cheek as he leans in, dizzying you with his scent. 

He plants a wet kiss on your lips. “You know it’s never quick with me. ‘Specially when your greedy lil hole milks me like its starving for my cum.” 

Suguru’s pace doesn’t slow. If anything, it gets rougher, sharper, until your whole body jerks with each thrust. He’s obsessed with watching your ass ripple from the force of his movements.

“You said we had time,” you moan, voice warbling through clenched teeth.

“We did,” Suguru murmurs, kissing your temple now. “You’re the one who came twice in ten minutes.”

“You made me!”

He grins, unrepentant, loving that you’re ruined. “I know, sweetheart. And you’re still not done.”

The hand around your wrists moves to your ass, gripping the flesh before spreading you wider, drilling into you with a growl low in his throat. “Not ‘til I say. And I won’t say so until I’ve bred this cunt full.”

You try to look at the clock, blinking through the blur. Suguru doesn’t care. He kisses the side of your face, slow and sweet and devastatingly gentle in contrast to the way he’s fucking you into the mattress.

“Next time you ask for a quickie,” he purrs, “remember how this ends.”

KENTO

“You know I hate being late, darling,” Kento sighs as you unzip his dress pants. 

Your smile is sickeningly sweet. “But you hate saying no to me more. Especially when I’m absolutely dripping for you.” 

He can only watch, defeated, as you take him into your mouth. You moan around his thick length, tongue swirling around it greedily.

“Oh, baby. So fucking needy you have to ruin the reservation I made,” he groans breathlessly.

“You really think five minutes is enough?” he continues, fucking your mouth deeper. “You’re going to make me show up late to a restaurant full of people who booked a month in advance—just because you couldn’t keep your hands off me?”

You pull back for just a second, spit-slick lips curling into a smirk. “Can’t help it. You know how I get.”

His hand tangles in your hair, gentle but commanding. “Don’t talk with your mouth full, darling, or I’ll make you choke on it until you cry. It’s rude.”

Then he presses your mouth back down, because despite the watch ticking behind him, despite the fact that he loathes being even a minute late—he can’t bring himself to stop you. 

By the time he bends you over the table, you’re breathless and soaking. The brand new dress he bought you just for tonight is wrinkled and hiked up around your waist.

The table creaks. Your thighs shake. Your phone buzzes with a text from the restaurant:

Reminder: Your table is ready. We will hold your reservation for 10 minutes.

Kento sees it and lets out a sigh—but he doesn’t stop. He pulls your hips toward him, loving the sound of his skin meeting yours, wet and obscene as his cock spears you open.

“They can wait,” he mutters, leaning down to kiss the back of your neck while you squirm. “I have something far more important to finish.”

TOJI

“Better make it worth it, girl. I’ve been craving that lobster all night long,” Toji grunts against your neck, hands under your thighs as he bounces you on his lap in the backseat of the car. 

His suit jacket’s on the floor, shirt untucked, belt undone and hanging useless from a belt loop. You hadn’t even made it inside the restaurant before you dragged him back into the car.

He’s trying to make you cum quick.

You’re straddling him in that little black dress he told you not to wear unless you wanted trouble—and look at you now. Moaning, eyes glassy, lipstick smudged from sucking him off in the parking lot before whining for more.

“You’re the one who couldn’t wait,” you pant, clenching around him as he drives up into you harder. “Said I looked good enough to eat.”

“And I meant that,” Toji grins, all teeth and grit. “But I also meant the lobster.”

His hand wraps around your ass, palm smacking it hard enough to make you jolt. He groans as you clench tighter in response, belly bulging with every thrust.

“Shit,” he hisses. “You better cum fast, princess. If I miss my goddamn steak and lobster special ‘cause this pussy can’t get off quick enough—”

You shut him up with a moan, leaning forward to kiss his jaw, arms tight around his shoulders. “Then maybe you shouldn’t fuck me like you wanna miss it.”

He laughs, low and filthy, and slams you down harder, the entire car creaking beneath you. The windows are fogged up, the smell of sex is thick in the air, and your mixed arousal is soaking his pants.

“Little brat,” he mutters, slapping your clit just to punish you. “You like ruining my plans, huh? Wanna be the reason I’m late to an expensive dinner?”

You look him dead in the eye. “Pull out then.”

“I’m hungry,” he grits out through his teeth, rutting into you deeper. “Not an animal.”

You toss your head back, laugh breathlessly, and grind down harder just to be spiteful. “Could’ve fooled me.”

SUKUNA

“Woman,” Sukuna grits out, jaw clenched, “If I don’t get my fucking steak in the next hour—”

“Be quick, then,” you say with a smirk, meeting his eyes in the mirror.

“Better be worth it,” he mutters, voice low, dangerous. “I’ve been looking forward to that ribeye all week.”

You roll your hips slowly, just to be bratty. “Then eat fast.”

That’s all it takes. Sukuna growls behind you, hand wrapped around your throat from behind, pinning you against the mirror as he shoves your panties to the side. You gasp, barely able to breathe from the way he presses you flat to the cold glass, hardened nipples aching from the chill.

“Say please,” Sukuna growls, already rubbing the thick head of his cock along your slick entrance.

“Please,” you moan, already melting and pushing your hips back, humping him like a bitch in heat.

“You’re so fucking easy,” he snarls, pushing in slow, cruel. “Acting like you can tell me what to do, like I don’t own this pussy. Like I won’t use it whenever and wherever I want.”

You claw at the mirror as he starts fucking you rough and deep, your own ruined reflection taunting you with every thrust. Sukuna admires the view of your tits bouncing against the glass, mouth open in a silent scream, tongue lolling out.

“My makeup,” you whimper helplessly.

He laughs mockingly.  “You should’ve thought about that before walking around here with your ass out like a little slut,” he hisses, pulling your hair back so you can watch yourself come undone. “Go on. Watch how dumb you get just from my cock.”

Your thighs are shaking, mascara smudged from the way your eyes won’t stop tearing. You reach back for him, but Sukuna grabs both wrists in one massive hand and pins them to the mirror above your head.

“Nuh-uh,” he growls, biting at your shoulder hard enough to bruise. “You started this. Now take it like a good girl, because I decide when it ends.”

You’re already cumming, cunt gushing onto the floor, but he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down. The mirror fogs with every panting breath as he fucks you through it. He’s brutal, relentless, and overstimulating you to the point of stupidity.

He smirks, smacking your ass. “You better fix that makeup quick when I’m done with you. I’m not taking you anywhere looking like my freshly used cumdump.”

CHOSO

He tried to say no. Really, he did. But the moment you pulled up your dress and showed him how wet you were—nothing underneath, slick shining between your thighs—he knew he couldn’t ignore his duty to satisfy you as your lover.

“You’re gonna make us late,” he murmured, even as you climbed onto his lap and sank down on his throbbing cock with a wet squelch.

“I’ll make it worth it,” you promised between moans.

Now you’re riding him on the couch, purse thrown aside. He’s got his head tilted up, mouth latched onto your tits while you're bouncing on his cock like you can’t get enough. The only thing he loves more than you is sucking on your tits whenever you’re on top. Choso’s addicted to marking them with hickies like his personal canvas, drawing yelps from you with each bite.

“So pretty,” he mumbles against your skin, sucking soft bruises into your chest. “Always so pretty for me.”

“Choso,” you whine, trying not to fall apart too fast. His hands grip your ass, helping you move, his touch always firm but worshipful.

And then, for no reason at all except that he’s fucking weird and in love with you—he licks up the side of your face. From jaw to cheekbone, slow and messy. You freeze.

“Choso!” you gasp, smacking his arm. “My makeup!”

He blinks at you, wide-eyed and too honest. His cock twitches inside of you, getting harder from your scolding. “You still look beautiful.”

You groan, burying your face in his neck, but your hips don’t stop. Neither does his dick. He wraps his arms around you tighter and kisses the corner of your mouth.

“I’ll fix it after, I promise. But first I have to pump you full of my cum and watch it drip out.”

And he does. He holds your bag while you reapply your lipstick, offers you his sleeve to blot the smudges. Choso tells you you're perfect even with mascara running under your eyes and his cum dripping down your legs.

Still, the crowd presses in again, and your patience thins. You tell Shoko you’re heading out, but she stops you mid-turn.

“Well, he’s coming this way,” she says quickly. “If you leave with him—or by yourself—text me when you’re home!”

And before you can protest, she vanishes into the mass of bodies, leaving you stranded just as the white-haired man comes to a stop in front of you. He gestures toward the little black outfit beneath your cape.

“Lemme guess,” he says, amused, “a vampire… of some sort?”

You flash him your fake fangs. “And you?”

“The same.” He mirrors your smile, his teeth catching the light—sharper than you expected.

“What kind of vampire has blue eyes?” you ask, tilting your head.

He scoffs softly. “What kind of vampire wears a cape?”

“The Volturi, duh.”

He blinks. “Twilight?”

“What, don’t tell me you’ve never seen it.”

“I have,” he admits, mouth curving into a smirk. “Didn’t think anyone took it this seriously.”

“You’re one to talk,” you tease, nodding toward his mouth. “You’re really committing to the bit. Those fangs look way too real. Where’d you get them?”

“Custom-made.” His grin widens. “What’s your name?”

You tell him, and he repeats it slowly, rolling it off his tongue like he’s savoring the taste.

“Pretty name for a pretty girl,” he says, stepping closer. “You look good enough to eat tonight.”

You huff a laugh, heat rising to your face despite yourself.

“I’m Satoru,” he adds.

The room feels smaller all of a sudden. You glance toward the exit. “Well, Satoru, you caught me at a bad time. I was just leaving.”

He frowns, fangs barely jutting out. “Already? The night’s still young.”

“I was gonna head home before my cape gets baptized in beer.”

“Tragic,” he says, his smile softening. “You could always get some air. There’s less of a crowd outside.”

There’s something so casual about the offer, but the glint in his eyes sends a little shiver down your spine.

“Outside, huh?” you say. “You planning to walk me out, or drag me into an alley for a midnight snack?”

He laughs, low and warm. “Depends how good you taste.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “Cheeky.”

“And you haven’t left yet.”

For a second, neither of you moves. The lights flash, washing his face in color. His grin is lazy, confident, and against your better judgement, you trust him.

Then his hand brushes the small of your back, and you let him guide you through the crowd.

Outside, the air is cold and crisp, the thump of music muffled behind you. He leads you down the street, talking easily, teasing you about your cape and your “commitment to lore.” You find yourself laughing more than you mean to.

When he said his apartment was close, you never would’ve imagined a top-floor penthouse. The elevator opens to a wide expanse of glass and city lights spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Everything is sleek and clean, the kind of expensive that doesn’t have to try.

You turn in slow awe. “What kind of job do you have to afford this place?”

He smirks. “The kind you stay in for a very… long time.”

You turn in slow awe, eyes wide as the city stretches out in glass and shadow before you. The room is all clean lines and quiet luxury—black marble counters, soft lighting, a view that could make anyone feel small.

“What kind of job do you have to afford this place?” you ask, still turning in a slow circle.

He smirks, slipping his hands into his pockets. “The kind you stay in for a very… long time.”

You laugh, the sound awkward in the vast quiet. “What, like finance?”

But when you look back at him, the joke dies on your tongue. His expression hasn’t changed, but his eyes catch the city lights in a way that makes them glow—unnaturally bright, almost reflective. The same intensity from the party is still there, sharper now that you two are alone. Before you can say anything, he’s in front of you. Close enough that you can see the faint reflection of yourself in those impossible blue eyes, every line of his face carved in the soft light.

He leans down, lips brushing the side of your jaw in something that could almost be a test of your heartbeat. That’s when you realize: he never took the fangs off.

They glint, too perfect, too sharp.

“Satoru,” you whisper, half teasing, half uncertain.

He smiles against your skin, voice a low hum. “You still think they’re fake?”

Your laugh catches somewhere between disbelief and nerves. “What, are you gonna prove it?”

He only tilts his head, studying you like he’s deciding something. Then, wordlessly, he steps back and gestures toward the kitchen.

You follow, curious despite the quiet alarm curling in your stomach. The fridge hums when he opens it, bright light spilling over stainless steel, reflecting off neat rows of sealed bags stacked on every shelf.

Blood. Bags of blood, dozens of them. Each labeled in tidy black ink.

You catch glimpses of the words before your mind can process them: O+ — 29 / F B-  — 43 / M AB+ — 34 / F

Each one dated and organized like some kind of… collection.

He looks over his shoulder at you, expression unreadable. “Is this where you run?”

Your throat goes dry. Every rational part of you screams that you should. But his tone isn’t threatening. It’s quiet, almost curious, like he’s wondering what you’ll choose.

You meet his eyes again. There’s no red glow, no monstrous shift. Just that same calm, amused face. The same man who smiled at you across a crowded room. Maybe he’s joking. Maybe it’s some kind of weird Halloween prop, or some sick prank. Or maybe…

Satoru grabs your hand gently, drawing you from your thoughts. He lifts a finger to his fangs slowly, giving you time to pull away if you want to. You don’t. 

He presses your finger against his fang, breaking the skin, blood beading on your finger tip. Without breaking eye contact, he closes his mouth around your finger, sucking gently. Satoru moans at the taste, blue eyes glowing faintly. You swallow as he releases your hand. 

“Ball’s in your court, babe,” He says, licking his lips.

Despite your pounding heart and your better judgement, you close the distance. Your lips meet his, and he tastes like copper and something darker that makes your head spin. His hands find your waist, pulling you closer until there's no space left between you. 

"Are you sure?" he whispers against your mouth, fangs grazing your bottom lip. 

You answer by tugging at his shirt, and his laugh is breathless as he lifts you onto the marble counter. The city lights blur behind your closed eyes as his mouth traces down your throat, lingering at your pulse point like he's memorizing the rhythm. 

“Wanted to fold you in half since I saw you at the party,” he admits, kissing your neck.

“Mmmh, then fucking do it,” you tell him with a tug of his hair. He looks up at you, baring his fangs with a wide smile.

“Wanna taste this pussy first,” Satoru says, removing your clothes and throwing them across the kitchen. “Bet she tastes as good as your blood.”

He doesn’t hesitate to kneel on the floor, spreading your thighs with large hands. Satoru doesn’t hesitate to dive in, licking a stripe up your dripping pussy. 

“Fuck, that’s good,” he mutters to himself.

You pull his head back in, and he gets to work on your clit, sucking hard and grazing it with his teeth. Satoru’s messy with it, not minding at all that a mixture of his saliva and your juices are dripping down his chin onto his kitchen floor. He doesn’t mind that one of your hands is tugging his hair, the other gripping his kitchen counter for dear life.

His tongue enters your weeping hole, pushing it in as far as he can. You're nearly riding his face in response, eyes tearing up. Satoru never falters, shaking his face between your legs, not wanting to let a drop of your precious slick go to waste. 

“‘M gonna c-cum,” you whimper, losing your mind with each flicker of Satoru’s tongue. 

“Do it, baby,” he commands, voice against your cunt. 

He sucks once, twice on your clit before you’re moaning his name, hips stuttering while he tries to hold you in place. Satoru doesn’t stop, he keeps sucking on your clit while you writhe under him. 

“Fuck, Satoru! Too much-” You try, but he cuts you off by inserting two fingers into your dripping pussy, immediately pumping in and out of you. 

Squelch! Squelch! Your pussy echoes obscenely in his kitchen.

“How nasty, baby,” Satoru says, standing up. “She’s so wet and loud for me. Knew you’d have great pussy when I saw you.”

His words fall on deaf ears as you lay back on his kitchen counter, unable to keep yourself up anymore. Satoru takes advantage of this, leaning over you to suck on your nipples. His free hand plays with the other one, tugging and pinching.

“Please,” you moan, looking up at him with tear-stained, pleading eyes. 

“What is it, baby?” Satoru asks, fingers never stopping inside of you.

“F-fuck me, already. Need you inside-oh! Inside of me,” you plead, hands grabbing at the bulge in his pants. 

He withdraws his fingers and licks them clean. “How could I say no when you asked so nicely?”

With one arm, he scoops you up and carries you to his bedroom. Somewhere in the back of your hazy mind, you’re in awe of his strength and the lavishness of his room. You’re thrown onto silk sheets before being flipped onto your stomach. You hear him strip before his weight is on you. 

“Ready, baby?” he asks, teasing the thick head of his cock at your entrance. 

Instinctively, your hips push back, trying to catch the tip and fuck yourself on him.

Satoru laughs at you. “So needy. Relax, we have all night.”

And then he’s pushing into you, feeling your gummy walls resist despite his preparation. You both moan at the same time as Satoru inserts inch by inch. Your face drops into his sheets, lips parted in pain and pleasure. 

Satoru grabs your chin, turning your face to the side. “Don’t suffocate on me, baby. I’m just getting started.”

When his hips are finally flush with the swell of your ass, he pulls out all the way and waits until you whine to thrust back in. 

“Fuck!” he groans, leaning down to lick a stripe up your spine. “Feels too good.”

“Please, Satoru, more,” you beg, as he picks up the pace. 

Every thrust knocks the wind out of you, his dick reaching your cervix effortlessly. You claw at his bedsheets while he grips your waist, pulling you toward him as he pushes forward. The room is filled with the sound of skin slapping and both of your moans. 

“So good, ‘Toru, don’t stop,” you whine, lifting your hips as you try to match his pace.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, sweetheart,” he replies, planting one foot on the bed next to you just so he could thrust harder. 

His hands are all over you, tugging on your hair, slapping your ass, grabbing your face so he can watch it contort with pleasure. That’s when he decides he wants to see all of it, every expression you make while he fucks you. Satoru flips you over, grabbing the backs of your thighs and fucking into you again. 

“Wanna bite you so bad,” he admits, leaning down to kiss you. 

When he opens his eyes, your wide ones look back at him. Fuck, you’re so pretty.

“It won’t hurt,” he murmurs breathlessly. “Unless you want it to.”

Satoru doesn’t miss the look on your face when he says that, your eyes lighting up at the thought.

“Dirty girl,” he growls, gripping your face while he ruts into you. “Tell me what you want.”

“Ngh! Bite me,” you beg, gripping his arm.

He leans down, finding your artery without hesitation and licking along it. He opens his mouth to bite and then there’s a sharp pain as his fangs pierce your neck. You stiffen for a moment, until the pain turns to pleasure and your back is arching off the bed. You feel high, mind fuzzy at the edges as a tingling sensation floats through your body, converging at your core. There’s no time to warn him, suddenly your pussy is squeezing his cock as you cum, gasping and moaning at the overwhelming pleasure. 

The taste of your blood and the way you’re clenching and spasming around his cock has Satoru going over the edge. He groans against your neck, riding out his orgasm as he pumps you full of his cum. His hips stutter, driving every last drop inside you.

Both of you are breathless for a moment, still on cloud nine. He licks the trailing blood from your neck before kissing you deeply.

“I’m not going to turn into a vampire, am I?” You break the silence.

“Nah,” he replies, out of breath. “It doesn’t work like that.”

“Okay, good,” you say in relief. “But I might just let you turn me if it meant I’d get eternity with this dick.”

He laughs. “That’s the orgasm talking. But I’ll give you a trial run tonight.”

Satoru meant every word. He shows you his balcony where he bends you over the railing and fucks you until you can’t differentiate the stars in the sky from the ones behind your eyes. His neighbors downstairs probably hear you moaning his name, but neither of you care. And when he takes you into the shower, you drop to your knees and suck him off until he’s pulling you up just to bury his cock inside you again. The hot water beats down on you both as he fucks you against the glass, one of your legs hooked over his arm while he hits that spot that has your tears mixing with the water. 

When you finally make it back to bed, you ride him until all he can say is your name and his hands grip your ass hard enough to bruise while you bounce on his cock. He watches you with a fucked-out expression, half-lidded eyes mesmerized by your tits boucing in his face. You let him drink your blood again, and he’s careful not to take too much. You don’t even know what time it is when you finally pass out, curled up next to him, thoroughly sore and satisfied.

It’s still dark when you wake up, and you think it might still be night time. Until you roll over, and see the windows are opaque, blacked out to block the sunlight. Satoru’s awake next to you, laying on his stomach with his feet kicking in the air behind him. 

“You’re finally awake,” he says with a grin, fangs and all. “Wanna know how accurate Twilight is?”