sadinator

sukuna enthusiast

—i especially love jjk and csm

give suggestions! i have no life

jjk college dorm au—seven minutes with choso

word count arounddd 2.5k

The dorms were stuffy with late-night warmth, the kind that stuck to your skin and made everyone just a little more lazy, a little more unhinged. Someone had cranked open the windows, but it did little to ease the heat. Fairy lights buzzed gently overhead, strung up with crooked thumbtacks, casting flickering shadows across the walls and the floor where half the group sat tangled in blankets, snacks, and each other’s personal space.

A half-empty bottle rolled across the floor. Nobara had prior dared Yuji to drink an entire packet of soy sauce, and the poor boy was still gagging on the couch while Todo patted his back dramatically.

It was supposed to be a chill night, but somehow things had spiraled. As they always did.

And now—now you were sitting on the floor, ankle brushing against the leg of Nobara’s jeans, while she held two hats in her lap.

“One for girls. One for boys,” she declared, lifting them with mock ceremony. “We’re playing Seven Minutes in Heaven, and if you chicken out, you have to drink Megumi’s mystery juice from the fridge.”

You heard Megumi mutter an annoyed “It’s just aloe water,” but no one acknowledged him.

Nobara grinned. “Okay, first up…”

Her hand dipped into the “girls” hat, rustling around for dramatic effect. She pulled out a folded paper, peeled it open, and let her grin widen.

“Y/N.”

You blinked. “Of course.”

“Come on,” she purred, waving you up like a magician’s assistant. “Let fate guide your loins.”

Groans and laughter bubbled around the room, but you smirked and stood up, dusting off your shorts.

Nobara held out the “boys” hat with two hands like it was the Holy Grail.

You reached in, fingers brushing against too many slips, some crumpled, some damp (Yuji, probably), and pulled one out.

Unfold.

Blink.

Choso.

The name hit a little harder than expected. The air shifted. Like a ripple across the room, you felt heads turn. Felt the collective curiosity sharpen.

You looked up and saw him.

Choso sat against the far wall, legs stretched out, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, a red solo cup sweating in his hand. His black bangs hung in his face, and his head tilted slightly like he couldn’t tell if this was a prank.

He looked stunned. Not annoyed. Not excited. Just—processing.

“Choso,” you repeated, with the barest laugh behind it.

Nobara grinned like the devil herself. “Ohhh. This is too good.”

Choso blinked slowly. “Me?”

“Unfortunately,” Megumi deadpanned.

Yuji, bless his hyper little soul, hollered, “Go get ‘em, bro!”

You turned to Choso, who still hadn’t moved. “You in?”

He swallowed. His eyes met yours, and something buzzed low in your gut. He nodded—hesitant, slow—but stood without a word. His drink was abandoned on the floor.

Someone pointed toward the coat closet at the end of the hallway.

“Seven minutes,” Nobara reminded sweetly. “And I will be timing.”

The closet was small—smaller than you expected. As Choso stepped in behind you, the door clicked shut, and all the light vanished. Not dim. Not low.

Black.

Total, suffocating black.

You blinked. Nothing changed.

“…Okay,” you murmured, your voice suddenly too loud in the silence. “I was not expecting it to be this dark.”

You could hear him breathing. Not heavily—just quietly. Carefully. Like he didn’t want to make a sound.

You shifted slightly, trying to find space, and your arm brushed against something solid. His chest, probably. He made a noise—soft, choked off, like a startled gasp he didn’t mean to let out.

“Sorry,” you said quickly, half-laughing.

“It’s fine,” Choso said, voice low and strangled.

He sounded like he was holding his breath. And failing.

You waited a beat, letting the silence hang. Your eyes strained to adjust, but there was nothing—not even a sliver of hallway light under the door. Just the two of you, trapped in body heat and darkness.

“…So,” you tried again, tone light, teasing, “seven minutes, huh?”

Choso didn’t respond.

You tilted your head toward where you thought he was. “Are you—okay?”

He cleared his throat. “Y-yeah. I’m fine.”

You raised an eyebrow, smirking in the dark. “You sound like you’re about to pass out.”

“I just—” He paused. You could hear the rustle of his sleeve as he rubbed the back of his neck. “This was… uncalled for.”

You blinked. “What, did you have someone else in mind?”

“No!” he said too fast. Then quieter: “I mean… I just didn’t think I’d get picked. I wasn’t even really paying attention. Yuji put my name in.”

You laughed under your breath, taking a step closer. You didn’t mean to bump into him again—but you didn’t pull away, either.

He was warm. Stiff.

Like every nerve in his body was screaming do not move do not move do not move.

You could practically feel him vibrating with tension.

“I mean,” you whispered, “you’re kinda just standing there like you’re about to die.”

“…I might,” he muttered.

You bit your lip. “Wow. Am I that terrifying?”

“No,” he said again, breathier this time. “You just… keep talking. And I can’t see anything. And I don’t know what you’re doing.”

You smirked, voice dipping a little. “You think I’m gonna bite you or something?”

Silence.

You felt him shift slightly, then mutter under his breath:

“…Wouldn’t mind.”

You paused.

“What was that?”

He groaned—quietly, like he regretted everything. “Forget that.”

Oh no. Absolutely not.

In the dark, with no one watching, you let yourself smile. Wide. Wicked.

You took one more step forward, until your chest just barely brushed his. He inhaled sharply. You felt it more than heard it.

“Choso,” you whispered.

“…Yeah?”

“Do you want me to?”

Another breath. Then—barely audible.

“…I don’t know.”

He sounded so unsure. So desperate not to say the wrong thing.

You leaned in, lips close to his ear, your voice sugar-sweet:

“I think you do.”

He didn’t respond with words.

But his hands—awkward and hesitant—hovered near your waist. Not touching. Just waiting. Like if he did reach out, he’d melt into the floor.

He whispered, almost pained:

“Can I…?”

You nodded—then realized he couldn’t see you.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “Yeah, you can touch me.”

And that was it. That single line.

His hands, warm and shaky, settled on your hips like he thought you might break. His forehead dropped gently to your shoulder, breath stuttering against your neck.

He whispered one last thing, voice muffled:

“…You’re really close.”

You laughed. “It’s a closet, Choso.”

His grip tightened—just a little.

“Yeah. I noticed.”

He didn’t move for a long time. Not really.

His forehead stayed against your shoulder, his breath unsteady, chest rising and falling in shaky little intervals that made you wonder if he was actually going to survive the next few minutes.

You could feel his fingers twitching against your sides. Not grabbing. Not exploring. Just barely existing.

Like touching you was the first time he’d ever touched anyone at all.

And maybe it was.

“Relax,” you whispered, smiling slightly. “I’m not gonna bite.”

He made a sound—half laugh, half strangled exhale.

You blinked, thrown for a second, then recalled his remark about you biting him earlier on.

You stifled a laugh.

“I’m not gonna forget that,” you teased. “Sorry.”

You felt him wilt.

“You’re evil,” he mumbled. His voice vibrated softly through your collarbone.

You slid your hands up, barely brushing his biceps. “So you’ve said.”

He stiffened at your touch—again. His arms tensed under your fingertips, like he wasn’t sure if he should hold you or raise them above his head and surrender.

“You’re really bad at this,” you murmured.

“I know,” he said immediately. Miserable. Pathetic.

You felt bad. Almost.

But also—he was kind of adorable.

“Okay,” you said, like you were speaking to a wounded animal. “Let’s just… start small.”

“…Start what?”

“Touching me,” you said plainly.

He stopped breathing.

“Choso.”

“Yeah?”

“Put your hands on my waist again.”

“They’re already there,” he whispered.

“Okay, then pull me closer.”

He hesitated so long you almost gave up.

Then, slowly—painfully slowly—his fingers curled tighter around your waist. He dragged you forward by like half an inch. If you weren’t already pressed to him, you wouldn’t have felt it.

“…That’s it?” you asked.

He made a broken little noise. “I’m trying.”

“Try harder.”

That got a reaction.

His fingers flexed. Not rough—just firmer. He guided you the rest of the way in, and this time your body fit snug against his. You could feel the rise of his chest against yours. The way his breath hitched every time yours exhaled.

And below that—

Definitely not just nerves.

You grinned in the dark. “Choso.”

“…Yeah?”

“I can feel that.”

He made a noise like he got shot.

“I—I wasn’t—” he rushed out. “I wasn’t even thinking about that—well, I was, obviously—but… fuck.”

You actually burst out laughing this time. He groaned, burying his face in the crook of your neck, like if he pushed his face far enough into your skin he could disappear entirely.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “This is so embarrassing.”

“It’s kinda cute,” you said, brushing your fingers up the back of his neck.

He shivered.

“Cute?” he echoed, muffled by your shoulder.

“Yeah.” You smirked. “Like a little perv.”

He groaned again—longer this time. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“You’d die happy.”

His voice was barely a whisper. “I think I already am.”

You felt the seconds ticking away in that cramped little closet, the heat building, the air thinning. Your thighs pressed together. His hands still on your waist, still frozen, like he wanted to move but didn’t know where to start.

So you took them.

You gently slid your hands down his arms, found his wrists, and guided them lower. Over your hips. Down to the small of your back.

“There,” you whispered. “Not so scary, right?”

He didn’t respond. Just gripped a little tighter. You could feel his forehead against your collarbone, his lips just barely brushing your skin.

Then: “Can I…?”

You tilted your head.

“Can you what?”

He swallowed. Hard.

“Can I kiss you?”

Your heart stuttered.

“…You wanna?”

He nodded against your neck. Quiet. Desperate.

You lifted your chin, letting your lips graze his ear.

“Then do it.”

And for once—

He did.

His lips ghosted over yours before he could commit.

So soft you weren’t even sure if it counted. Like he’d never done it before—like even the idea of kissing you made him feel unworthy. His hands were still trembling behind your back. Not pulling. Not pushing. Just holding.

As if he thought you might vanish.

“…That was it?” you teased gently, breath curling between your mouths.

You felt the air shift in front of you—embarrassment radiating off him in waves. You couldn’t see his face in the pitch black of the closet, but you knew exactly what it looked like: wide eyes, flushed cheeks, jaw locked in silent panic.

He pulled back a couple inches. “Sorry.”

You didn’t move.

Instead, you tilted your head just slightly, voice low and warm and careful:

“Look… we only have seven minutes in here.”

He didn’t respond right away. Just stood frozen, the air between your bodies trembling.

You swallowed gently and asked, “Are you serious about this?”

A beat of silence. Then:

“…Mhm.”

It was barely audible. Just the smallest, breathless hum.

You smiled. Not mocking. Not smug. Just kind. Not that he could see, anyways. “Okay.”

Your hands moved first. One slid up to the back of his neck, fingertips brushing under the loose tie of his hair. The other rested just beneath his ribs, steadying him.

“Let me help you out, then.”

His breath hitched like the concept of being helped through this was somehow more flustering than the kiss itself.

But he didn’t stop you.

You guided his face back down to yours, slow and soft. And this time, when you kissed him, he really kissed you back.

Still hesitant. Still a little shaky. But it wasn’t the same as before. His lips moved with yours now, following your lead, catching your rhythm—slow and open and warm. You could feel how hard he was trying. Not in a desperate way. Just in that earnest Choso way, like every second meant something.

You let your hand trail up into his hair, gently undoing the loose tie holding it together. The strands spilled down like black silk, and you felt him stiffen under your touch.

“…S-sorry,” he mumbled against your mouth, not even sure why.

“What for?”

He breathed unevenly. “I… don’t know what I’m doing.”

You smiled against him. “You’re doing just fine.”

The sound he made was pathetic. A muffled little groan into the corner of your mouth as if that alone might end him.

Your hands were patient. Calm. One combing through his hair, the other curled lightly around the side of his neck, thumb tracing his pulse. You could feel how fast his heart was going.

“Just breathe,” you whispered. “We still have time.”

Choso tried. He really did. But every time you kissed him again—slower, deeper, softer—he crumbled a little more. His hands were still hovering like he was scared to touch too much, but eventually, they found your waist. Tentative. Gentle. Like this was the real first kiss.

And maybe it was.

He leaned into you more. Let his forehead rest against yours again between breaths.

“…I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything this badly,” he whispered.

You blinked.

“Then stop holding back.”

You felt him swallow hard. And this time, when his lips met yours, there was no ghosting.

It was real.

Unfortunately…

The closet door creaked open, and the light pouring in felt offensive. You squinted, blinking against the warm lamp glow of the living room.

Choso didn’t move.

His hands were still on you—barely. Like he was afraid if he let go, none of it would’ve been real.

“Time’s up, lovebirds,” Nobara called, voice smug as hell.

You stepped back first. Carefully. Gently peeling yourself from him, and immediately missing the heat of his body. Choso followed, slow and rigid.

Everyone turned to look.

Yuji blinked from the couch. Maki raised a brow. Panda snickered.

Choso’s face was scarlet. He kept his eyes on the ground. His shoulders hunched like he was trying to shrink.

He didn’t say a word.

You cleared your throat, brushing past the group quickly and giving Nobara a glare that said “Don’t.”

She held her hands up, grinning. “I didn’t say anything!”

Choso followed after you instinctively.

The hallway was darker. Quieter. Safer.

You stopped when you reached a corner just far enough from the others’ eyes and turned to face him.

He looked lost.

Flushed, stiff. You weren’t sure he was breathing. His eyes met yours for a second—then darted away again.

His hands clenched at his sides. His voice was soft—hoarse from lack of use.

“I didn’t want it to end yet.”

You felt your chest twist a little.

You stepped closer. “Then don’t let it.”

He finally looked at you—really looked at you.

And something in his face crumbled.

You took his hand.

“Come with me,” you whispered.

He nodded.

word count arounddd 3.3k

Denji knew it was wrong.

He knew it the second he closed the door behind him and stepped into your room, heart hammering like he was about to rob a bank instead of just… borrowing something. Something small. Something soft.

It wasn’t like he planned on it. Not really. He was just looking for the charger he left in there last night—or that’s what he told himself, anyway. But the second he saw your laundry basket, half-full and a little messy, something short-circuited in his brain.

Because there it was.

Lacy. Black. Still warm, maybe. Definitely yours.

Denji stared for a full minute before he caved like the pathetic dog he was. He reached in, grabbed the pair with shaking hands, and held it to his nose.

Oh.

The scent was fucking intoxicating. Not perfume—just you. Skin. Warmth. He groaned before he even realized it, his free hand already slipping into the waistband of his sweats.

His knees hit the side of their bed. Fuck, it smelled like you too. Your sheets. Your pillow. Your everything. It wasn’t fair.

He’d been thinking about you for weeks now—dreaming about you sprawled out. All he got was stolen glances and dirty laundry.

And yet here he was, rutting against your goddamn comforter, your underwear pressed to his face like a pervert. Like a freak. Like the filth he was.

“Mmh—shit…” he muttered, low and desperate, hips stuttering.

And that’s exactly when the door creaked open.

Denji froze.

Wide-eyed. Caught mid-stroke, hand buried in his pants, mouth parted like a dog that just got kicked. Your voice hit his ears like a gunshot.

“…What the fuck are you doing?”

Time slowed. The underwear dropped from his hand. His brain screamed for a lie, but his dick? Still hard. Still out. Still very, very obvious.

He blinked.

“I swear, I—I was just—”

The silence was unbearable.

You just stood there. Looking at him.

Not yelling. Not… anything. Just looking.

His mouth opened, trying to spit out some kind of excuse—something, anything that made this seem less deranged.

But then your voice cut through the air, calm. Unnervingly cool.

“You just gonna stand there?”

His brain short-circuited. “What?”

You took a step closer, slow, deliberate.

“You made the mess. Clean it up.”

His eyes darted down, confused. He followed your gaze—oh. Shit. He’d definitely left a little something on the edge of the comforter.

He stumbled forward, still half-hard, heart racing.

“Right! Right, yeah—I-I got it, I’ll grab some tissues or like, a towel or something—”

“No.”

He stopped dead in his tracks.

You didn’t move, but your voice sharpened just slightly—commanding. You pointed at the bed.

Then at yourself.

Then—oh god. Then you pointed at your mouth.

Denji blinked.

Heart stopped.

Dick twitched.

“Wh—wha… with my mouth?”

You didn’t say a word.

Just looked him in the eye.

Denji’s brain was going haywire. He must’ve passed out and started hallucinating. There’s no way this was real. No way you were actually telling him to—?

“You want me to lick that up?” he asked, voice cracking somewhere between disbelief and raw, desperate arousal.

No answer.

Denji’s throat went dry.

He dropped to his knees without thinking.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “Okay. Shit. I’ll do it. I’ll fucking do anything.”

His face hovered just above the spot he’d marked, the scent of you mixed with him hitting his nose like a drug. Embarrassment and arousal tangled in his gut.

He looked up at you one last time, checking if this was a trap, a joke, anything.

But all he saw in your eyes was impatience. Expectation.

Denji licked his lips.

“You’re so fucking mean,” he whispered, before lowering his mouth to the stain.

His tongue dragged across the fabric, slow and unsure at first, like he was waiting for someone stop him.

Of course, no one did.

He glanced up. You were still standing there—arms crossed, one hip cocked, watching him like he was something beneath you. Like you were bored.

Or amused.

That made it worse. Made it better.

His cheeks were flushed, red creeping up his neck, hair sticking to his forehead from the heat building under his skin.

“You’re really making me do this, huh…” he mumbled, eyes flickering to yours.

Nothing. Not a word. Just a little tilt of your head. Like, keep going.

Denji swallowed hard and licked again. Sloppier this time. On purpose. Maybe you’d like it more. Maybe you’d touch him if he did it right.

He looked up, eyes wide and needy. “You’re so mean,” he whispered again, lower this time. Hoarse.

You leaned forward a little, finally speaking.

“You gonna cry?”

That nearly made him moan. The humiliation of it all. The way you said it so flat, like he was pathetic. Like he’d earned this.

And fuck, maybe he had.

His hand twitched toward his dick again, instinctual. He didn’t even realize he was touching himself until you spoke again—sharper, clipped.

“Ah ah. Don’t touch.”

He choked. “I’m gonna die.”

You didn’t care.

You just raised your foot and pressed it lightly to his shoulder, pushing him back down—back toward the mess.

“Then die begging.”

Denji whimpered.

He leaned forward again, mouth open, tongue back on the fabric like a dog trying to earn scraps.

His hips were twitching involuntarily now. He was humping the air like an animal, whimpering as he licked up his own cum off your sheets, still fully clothed, painfully hard, and completely fucking wrecked.

You were so calm. So still.

He hated it. He loved it.

“Are you… are you gonna touch me?” he asked, breathless. “Or am I just gonna keep licking like a loser?”

You tapped your finger on your chin, pretending to think.

Then—

“Might let you hump my leg if you do it better.”

Denji nearly blacked out on the spot.

He looked up, tongue still pressed against the spot on your sheets where he’d made the mess—his mess—and his brain short-circuited for the hundredth time that night.

“F-For real?” he stammered, lips wet, eyes already glassy.

You just shrugged.

Didn’t say yes. Didn’t say no.

Just raised your foot again, toe nudging his chin up like he was nothing but a needy little mutt waiting for a command.

“You look like you need it.”

God, he did. He really fucking did.

His whole body was buzzing, sweaty and hot and aching under the weight of how fucking turned on he was. His boxers were soaked through, his dick was drooling like it had a mind of its own, and his pride? Shattered. Burned. Gone.

He practically crawled to you like a dog—slow, shaking, eyes wide and pleading.

“Please,” he muttered, voice cracking. “Please, I’ll—I’ll be good. I’ll hump it real good, I swear.”

You rolled your eyes like he was pathetic. Because he was.

Then you stuck one leg out, planting your foot firmly on the floor. Your thigh, smooth and bare, waited like a throne he wasn’t good enough to sit on.

“Go ahead then,” you said, dry and cruel.

Denji nearly moaned.

He straddled your thigh, grinding against it with his whole body trembling. His clothed cock throbbed against the fabric of your skin, and he whined like he was about to lose his mind.

“Oh fuck—thank you—shit—” he babbled, rutting against your thigh like an animal, hips jerking in quick, pathetic thrusts. “You’re so—I’m gonna—please don’t stop me—”

But you didn’t move.

Didn’t help. Didn’t kiss him. Didn’t even touch him.

Just let him use your leg like a toy. Like he didn’t deserve more.

He kept going, humping harder, tongue hanging out of his mouth, sweat dripping off his chin. Your thigh flexed a little and he nearly lost it on the spot.

“Feels so good—feels so good—” he whined.

You finally looked down at him, eyes heavy with amusement.

“You’re making a mess on me.”

He choked on his breath.

“S-Sorry! I—I can clean it—again—”

“With what?” You asked, arching a brow.

He looked up, dazed. Dumb.

“M-My mouth again?”

“Good boy.”

That broke him.

His hips stuttered. His legs shook. His whole body collapsed forward, and he buried his face in the crook of your neck, whimpering, grinding out short, frantic little thrusts as he teetered on the edge.

“Can I—can I cum?” he asked, muffled against your skin. “Please lemme cum. I’ll lick it up, I swear—”

You tilted your head.

Casual. Calm. Amused.

“No.”

His breath caught.

You hadn’t even touched him. Hadn’t kissed him, hadn’t even spared him a single kind stroke. Just let him rut against you like a dog in heat while you barely reacted. That made it worse. That made it so much worse.

He whimpered again—high, strangled.

“I’ll do anything,” he panted. “Please—”

You smirked.

“Then stop.”

Denji blinked.

Stopped moving.

His body still pulsed with every heartbeat.

“Wha…?”

“I said stop.”

Your voice didn’t change. Still calm. Still amused.

He sat there, frozen, cock twitching in his pants, soaked through with his own pre, aching so bad it hurt to breathe. The pressure was unbearable.

“Don’t.”

The command hit him like a slap.

He clenched his fists, trembling all over. His whole body screamed to keep moving, to finish, to do anything for release—but you didn’t budge.

You just leaned back slightly in your seat and crossed your legs, the one he’d been humping shifting beneath him.

“You said you’d do anything,” you murmured, lips barely curled. “So be good. Be patient.”

Denji let out the softest whine. Almost a sob.

“Y-You’re so mean,” he choked. “You’re so fucking mean.”

You dragged your fingers slowly—lazily—across the edge of your thigh, right where he’d been a second ago. Teasing.

“Mean?” you said, blinking at him with mock offense. “But I let you hump me. You should be grateful.”

He nodded so fast. Like an idiot.

“I am! I’m grateful! I’m—I’d kiss your foot if you let me cum—please—”

“Aw,” you cooed. “But kissing my foot sounds like a reward. You’re not there yet.”

His soul left his body.

He stared at you with red, watery eyes, lips trembling, sweat dripping off his chin. He looked like a broken toy. A kicked puppy.

“Y/N…” he whispered.

You just sighed, bored, like you were watching a commercial you’d seen a hundred times.

“Lie down. On your back.”

Denji obeyed immediately, collapsing flat on the floor with his legs spread, dick straining in his sweats, eyes blown wide with hope. You stood over him, foot between his legs, looking down like he was nothing.

“Hands above your head.”

He obeyed.

“No touching.”

A whimper.

You stepped forward, pressing the tip of your shoe gently against his twitching cock.

Just barely.

“Now stay there. And beg me not to leave.”

Denji nearly cried.

His brain was fucking scrambled. All he could feel was the ache between his legs and the heat spreading across his face.

Your shoe finally, finally, pressed just a little harder between his legs.

He almost cried.

“You think you deserve it now?”

He nodded. Too fast. Too eager. His hips bucked upward.

“Yes. Yes, please, I’ve been so good—“

“No,” you cut in, expression hardening slightly. “Good boys don’t hump without asking.”

Denji’s whole body flinched as if you’d slapped him.

“I’ll beg—I’ll do anything.”

You crouched down over him now, finally touching him—but only with your hand under his chin, lifting his flushed face up to yours

“Anything?”

He nodded, frantic.

“Then open your mouth.”

He obeyed so fast it was embarrassing. Lips parted, tongue slightly out, eyes wide like he was waiting for a treat.

You smirked. Shifted forward.

And sat on his face.

Not fully—just enough that your heat hovered right over his mouth. Enough for him to feel you. Smell you. But not taste.

Denji let out a muffled groan beneath you.

“Nuh-uh,” you said, rocking your hips forward just enough to make him twitch. “No licking yet.”

He whimpered beneath you, hands still flat above his head, entire body tensed like a loaded spring.

“Fuckfuckfuck,” he muttered under his breath, muffled by your thighs. “I can’t—I’m gonna cum in my pants—”

You ground down just once, slowly, and his whole body spasmed. His hips bucked upward on instinct before he caught himself, biting back a whimper that vibrated against you.

You hummed, pleased.

“You’re so easy.”

Denji was shaking now, eyes rolling back slightly, tongue twitching as he tried not to move even an inch, terrified that if he did, you’d stop.

“Say thank you,” you whispered.

“T-Thank you—” he gasped. “Thank you thank you thank you—”

You lowered your hips slowly until your heat finally met his mouth, soft and wet and so warm, and he moaned like you’d blessed him. Tongue immediately working like a starving man, licking, trying to please you with every trembling breath he had left.

“That’s better,” you murmured, head tilted back. “Use that mouth.”

Denji moaned into you like it was a prayer.

And still—no touching. His cock throbbed in his pants, untouched, leaking, crying for friction. He was aching so bad it felt like punishment. But his mouth stayed locked on you like he was hypnotized, completely devoted, grinding out soft, broken whimpers into your skin.

You let him drown there.

“Don’t cum,” you warned. “Not ‘til I—“ A slight hesitation, a small gasp. “Not ‘til I say.”

He cried.

Denji was a mess beneath you—lips wet, eyes glassy, tongue still worshiping you with soft licks like you were the only thing keeping him alive.

You watched him squirm, riding that cute little mouth at your own pace, hips rolling slowly like you had all the time in the world. His arms were twitching above his head, his fists clenched like he was holding back an earthquake.

You looked down at him. Smiled.

“You’re kinda cute sometimes.”

That broke him.

His eyes fluttered. A whimper escaped his throat, muffled and pleading, like your words had physically hurt him.

You laughed, soft and breathy, and reached down to ruffle his messy blond hair, tugging it between your fingers like he was your pet.

“Wanna be my toy?”

He nodded fast. Eager. Mindless.

You didn’t move.

Your hand fisted his hair, just enough to make him whimper.

“Uh uh. Toys don’t move.”

Denji froze.

“Toys don’t nod. Toys don’t speak. Toys don’t cum.”

He let out the weakest little gasp under you, eyes wide like a kicked puppy, tongue still trembling against your heat.

You shifted forward again, smothering him just a little deeper, and he moaned like a man dying of thirst with water dripping into his mouth.

You moaned, soft and pleased, grinding down gently until your thighs trembled. And then—only then—did you tilt your hips back and let him breathe.

He gasped like he’d been underwater for minutes. His face was soaked. His lips were red. And his cock—oh god, it was pulsing through his sweats like it had a heartbeat of its own.

You reached down and ran your fingers lightly over his waistband.

“You’ve been good.”

He looked up at you, trembling.

“R-Really?”

“Mmhm. I mean, you’re still messy. But…”

You leaned in close, lips brushing his ear.

“Good enough for me.”

He shuddered. Almost came.

“So tell me,” you purred. “What do you want?”

Denji choked. His hands were shaking.

“Y-You. I want you. Please—”

You clicked your tongue.

He whimpered. Tears welled in his eyes.

You finally slipped your fingers into his waistband, pressing against the slick head of his cock through his boxers, and he arched like he was electrocuted.

“Shh,” you whispered. “Then be still.”

He froze.

And you stroked him once.

Slow.

Firm.

Unforgiving.

“You’re not cumming,” you warned. “You’re too cute when I tease you.”

Denji nodded—then immediately whimpered at himself and clamped down his whole body, remembering:

Toys don’t move.

He didn’t know how long he’d been laying there.

Time didn’t exist when you were above him like that, hands soft but commanding, voice low and syrupy like you knew you had him on a string.

Denji’s chest was heaving. His thighs twitched where they lay open. His arms had gone numb from holding them still, fists clenched like he was bracing for an explosion.

He whimpered—just enough to keep you happy. Not a word. Not a twitch. His mouth was parted, red and wet, chest rising like he’d run miles.

You smiled like you were proud of yourself. Or maybe of him. Or both.

You leaned over his lap again and dragged your fingers down the thick bulge in his pants—slow—and the noise he made was so high it didn’t even sound human. He was shaking. Hips twitching like his body was betraying him.

“Still leaking,” you said mockingly, fingers lifting to reveal his boxers had a dark, wet spot spreading across the front. “That’s, like, the third time. What a mess.”

Denji whimpered again, barely biting back a sob. He didn’t even care how pathetic he looked anymore. He just wanted your hands. Your praise. You.

But all you did was sit back on her heels, smug, and hum.

“I should just leave you like this.”

He jerked—eyes wide, stomach sinking.

“Toys don’t need to cum, right?” you teased, lips tugging into a cruel smile.

His head shook without thinking.

Your smile dropped. Slowly.

“…Did my toy just move?”

Denji froze in horror. He wanted to cry. He almost did.

“I—I didn’t mean to—I just—”

You put a finger to his lips.

“You’re lucky you’re so cute like this”

And then, finally, you leaned in close. Pressed your hand against the soaked bulge between his legs. And whispered:

“But I also like watching you fall apart.”

He whimpered like a kicked puppy. So desperate. So soft.

And you paused.

You watched him squirm for a moment, studied the way his eyes glistened, the way his lips trembled, the way his hips were practically vibrating with need—but still didn’t move.

And your heart… melted.

“…Oh, Denji. “

Your voice dropped to something gentle.

His head jerked up, confused.

“You really have been good,” you said, with a sudden warmth that didn’t feel like a tease.

He blinked.

Huh?

You leaned down. Kissed the corner of his mouth. Just once. Just soft enough to make his breath catch.

“Do whatever you want.”

He stared at you. Frozen.

“Go ahead,” you murmured. “I’m sorry for being mean. You’re just too cute. You’ve earned it.”

The silence stretched.

Then his body broke.

He lunged at you, desperate, mouth finding your neck, your chest, your lips, hands flying to your waist like he thought you’d disappear. He whined against your skin like he was starving. His hips rutted up without restraint, grinding shamelessly into your thigh.

You didn’t stop him. You just laughed—softly. Letting him crawl into your lap.

You stroked his hair gently while he trembled in your arms, wet and needy and moaning into your skin, grinding like he was going to cry from the pleasure.

And just when he looked up—eyes wide, cheeks flushed, lips swollen—you smiled at him and said:

“You’re such a good boy.”

Genuine. Soft. Proud.

And that was it.

Denji came in his boxers like he’d been waiting his whole life for that line.

He buried his face in your neck, crying and gasping, still rutting weakly even after the release left him twitching.

You looked down at the mess he’d made of his underwear, still for a moment. Then laughed. A genuine laugh.

Denji met your eyes after a moment, confused. Embarrassed. As if he were asking what was so funny.

“You didn’t even get inside of me before you came.” You lifted a hand to stroke his hair, still giggling. “Even after I’d given you permission.”

His dick hadn’t softened in the slightest post-orgasm. He didn’t think it ever would. “…Can I still…?”