hiatus

you write like you’re possessed, hunched over your laptop in the blue glow of your desk lamp, sweatshirt pulled over your knees, blanket draped across your shoulders like it can protect you from the flush still crawling under your skin.

you write until the sun rises. until your eyes burn. until your thighs ache.

you don’t even remember what you titled the document. probably something stupid. maybe project_draft_v6_FINALfinal. maybe just fuck. you don’t check.

you save it. slam the laptop shut.

then you drag yourself through a shower like that’ll fix anything. you drag yourself to class like you’re not still hearing him in your head. you drag your pen across your notebook like any of this matters anymore.

he made you say pussy out loud. how embarrassing.

you’re never recovering.

you zone out for the whole lecture, still playing back how his breath felt against your ear, how still he was behind you, like he was in control of his pulse and yours. he never rushed. he never touched you there. he didn’t have to.

he made you ask.

and you did.

you don’t remember what class it was. maybe sociology. maybe statistics. you nod when people speak to you, blink when the professor says “good job,” pack your bag with mechanical motions and drift out into the daylight like a ghost.

your body feels separate from you. everything’s too loud. too bright.

you walk two blocks before realizing you’ve been clutching your laptop like a bible.

by the time you settle into your usual spot at the campus café—corner seat, outlet by your ankle, iced coffee sweating on the table—you’re back in the document again. rereading. tweaking. rereading. questioning whether the sentences are true enough. if he’d approve.

you bite the inside of your cheek. fix a comma.

your cursor’s blinking in the middle of a line about how he made her wait—how he touched everywhere but—when your phone lights up and rings.

you blink.

you stare.

sukuna incoming call

your stomach flips, like violently.

you scramble, nearly knock over your iced coffee trying to answer, your voice catching halfway out your throat. “...hello?”

“hey,” he says.

you freeze.

he sounds... casual. like he didn’t just ruin your life last night and leave you panting on your bedroom floor like a discarded experiment.

you swallow. “hi.”

there’s a rustle on his end. fabric, maybe. movement. then, “i’m back on campus. parents came home early.”

your breath stutters. “oh.”

“you free tonight?” he asks. “i’ll pick you up. pack a bag and bring your laptop.”

you blink. your mind blanks. the world goes muffled around the edges.

“...yeah,” you say. “yeah, okay.”

he hums like that’s what he expected. “eight. side entrance.”

the line clicks off before you can say anything else.

you sit there, dazed, phone still pressed to your ear like it might explain what just happened.

and then—

“what’s got you looking like you just saw a ghost?”

you flinch so hard your elbow knocks into the table, ice clinking sharp in your cup. you whip your head around.

yuji’s already halfway into the chair across from you, backpack slung off one shoulder, hoodie sleeves pushed up, looking annoyingly alive and normal.

“jesus—” you breathe. “don’t do that.”

he squints at you. “you okay? you look… weird.”

“i’m fine,” you say too fast, lowering your phone and locking the screen like it’s incriminating evidence. “just—tired.”

“uh-huh.” he leans back, eyes flicking from your face to the laptop in front of you. open. cursor blinking. a paragraph half-highlighted like you froze mid-thought. “you’ve been tired for like two days straight.”

you close the laptop a beat too late.

he clocks it anyway.

“wait,” he says, leaning forward, interest sparking. “were you writing?”

“no.”

he grins. “that was the fastest lie i’ve ever heard.”

“yuji—”

he’s already reaching, hand sliding the laptop back toward him. “come on, i won’t judge. unless it’s bad.”

“it’s not bad,” you snap, then immediately regret how that sounds. “i mean—stop—”

he flips it open.

reads.

his eyebrows climb.

then climb higher.

“…holy shit,” he says.

your stomach drops straight through the floor.

“give it back.”

“wait, wait—” he squints, scrolling just a little. “when did you get like… good?”

“yuji.”

“no, seriously,” he laughs, stunned. “this is—this is insane. this is not ‘deadline panic.’ this is, like… motivation.”

you lunge. he dodges.

“it’s almost like,” he says slowly, eyes sparkling with mischief, “you had sex and became a sex god overnight.”

“i’m going to kill you.”

he finally shuts the laptop, still grinning, and slides it back to you. “okay, okay. sorry. but you gotta admit—that doesn’t come from nowhere.”

you pull the laptop into your chest like a shield, heart hammering.

“drop it.”

you nod. “yeah. just—busy.”

he hums, unconvinced, but lets it go. for now.

“anyway,” he says, stretching. “you heading back to the dorms?”

you think of the call. eight o’clock. bring your laptop.

your pulse kicks again.

“yeah,” you say. “i should—i’ve got stuff to do.”

“oooh,” he sings. “stuff.”

you flip him off, standing. “don’t read my things.”

“no promises,” he grins.

you sling your bag over your shoulder and walk away before he can say anything else, before your face gives you away.

and you already know tonight isn’t going to just be about writing anymore.

—

you don’t remember the walk back.

maybe it was fifteen minutes. maybe it was five. you’re not sure. your phone’s still warm from the call, and your hands feel hollow without it, like you’re supposed to be holding onto something and forgot what.

your coffee’s half-melted when you throw it away. your laptop’s heavy in your tote. your legs don’t stop moving even though your brain’s still parked back at the café table, back at the part where his voice dropped when he said bring your laptop.

you go to the library because you don’t know what else to do.

you sit at one of the tables near the third-floor windows, where no one really talks and the late-afternoon light comes in all soft and golden. you open a textbook you won’t remember reading. you scroll through half an assignment without answering a single prompt.

a group of students sits down at the table beside you. they’re laughing about something. you flinch at the volume, then realize it’s not even loud.

you’re just jumpy.

too much adrenaline. not enough sleep.

your whole body feels like it’s in the middle of a sentence he hasn’t finished.

you give up after an hour. go back to your dorm. try to clean. pick up a pair of socks. wipe down your desk. fold one towel. stare at your mirror too long. shower. get out. shower again because you forgot to actually wash your hair.

your phone buzzes twice while you’re toweling off.

first: don't forget your laptop.

second: i’ll text when i’m outside.

you stare at the screen like it’s written in another language.

your reflection looks… flushed. nervous. soft at the edges, like a sketch not fully inked in.

you pick out something to wear. something stupid. plain tank, zip hoodie, sleep pants. you put it on. you take it off. you change again. you wipe down your desk one more time. you light the same candle as before, then blow it out, then light it again.

you glance at the time. it’s not even that late.

but it feels like midnight already.

like something irreversible is about to happen.

like tonight, if you’re not careful, you’re gonna find out exactly how far this little project is going to go.

and how deep you already are.

your fingers twitch around the zipper of your tote.

he didn’t say for how long. he didn’t say what to wear.

you pack anyway.

first the laptop. then your charger. then a notebook you probably won’t use.

then—just in case—clean underwear. a change of clothes. a soft t-shirt that smells like your favorite detergent. a pair of sleep shorts you never wear in front of anyone but somehow fold on top of everything else like you’re not hoping he’ll see them.

you hesitate before zipping it up.

you add your toothbrush.

then stare at it like you’ve just exposed yourself.

like he’ll unzip the bag later and laugh at what he finds.

your pulse skips.

you check the mirror again. fix your hair for the third time. smear a little tinted balm across your lips and then wipe it off like it was a mistake.

you open your phone.

no text yet.

you sit on the edge of your bed. your candle flickers low.

the silence crawls under your skin.

you wonder if this is how he felt when you texted him—frantic, impatient, desperate for the next step. for confirmation.

you close your eyes.

you wait and then your phone finally buzzes once, soft.

sukuna: here.

you grab your tote—sling it over your shoulder, check the mirror again, check yourself again, like you’re expecting to be caught. like he’ll know you changed your bra. like he’ll notice you shaved your thighs.

you text back coming, but your fingers are shaking.

his car’s parked off-campus near the corner, engine idling low.

he leans against the passenger side door, hoodie loose around his frame, hood half-up like he only cares when it looks good. he glances at you once as you approach—eyes flicking down, then back up, mouth twitching like he wants to say something cruel and can’t decide which version of it to go with.

he opens the door for you. doesn’t say anything until you’re buckled in.

“took you long enough.”

you shoot him a look. “you didn’t give me a time.”

“that sounds like a you problem.”

you turn toward the window, pulse already climbing.

he drives like he doesn’t care if you like the ride—sharp turns, fast merges, one wrist limp over the wheel while the other fiddles with the volume knob on the console, flipping through stations like none of them are worth his time.

you sit stiff beside him, bag in your lap, thighs pressed together, trying not to let the air between you collapse.

finally, his mouth twitches.

“you dress like that for me?” he says casually, eyes still on the road.

you look down—hoodie, shorts, tank top visible beneath it. normal.

“what?” you blink. “this? i threw it on.”

“mm,” he hums. “could’ve fooled me.”

you glance over. “i wasn’t trying to impress you.”

“sure,” he says, turning the wheel lazily with one hand. “just thought you’d flash a little thigh and roll up your sleeves for yourself, huh?”

you stiffen. “this is what i always wear.”

“mm. funny how it looks different tonight.”

you look at him. really look. the faint smirk, the relaxed posture, the way his hand shifts on the gear like he knows you’re watching.

“you’re imagining things,” you say.

he glances over, finally—one quick sweep of your legs, your profile, your hand clutching your bag a little too tight.

“if you say so.”

the silence stretches. thick. weighted.

then—

“so what’s in the bag?” he asks, voice too casual.

you hesitate. “…laptop.”

“just the laptop?”

“yes.”

a beat. he grins. “damn. was hoping you brought something more fun.”

your stomach flips. “like what?”

he shrugs. “notes. diagrams. diagrams on you.”

“you’re unbelievable.”

“and you’re blushing.”

you whip your head toward the window again. “shut up.”

he laughs, soft and smug. it bubbles in his throat like something easy, something practiced—like teasing you is just instinct by now. and somehow it’s worse that he doesn’t force it. that he makes you come to him. that you keep doing it.

you clear your throat. “do you always harass your students?”

“only the promising ones.”

you roll your eyes so hard it gives you a headache. “i’m not your student.”

“sure you are,” he says, pulling into the campus lot, parking with one smooth motion. “you just haven't figured out what the test is yet.”

he turns the engine off. leans back. glances at you again.

“you ready?”

your hand’s already on the door handle. “for what?”

“extra credit,” he says, with that sharp little smile that splits his face like it’s a secret he already knows you’re gonna beg for.

the lights from the lot cast gold shadows across his cheekbones. his hood’s still up, but it’s slipping back a little, showing more of that dark pink hair, that thick scar at his brow, those eyes—heavy-lidded, slow, dragging.

you hate the way he looks like he’s already undressing the night.

you hate more how warm you feel.

“you don’t need to be such a dick, sukuna,” you say under your breath as you step out of the car.

he doesn’t even look at you when he closes his door.

“mm,” he hums. “i guess you’re right.”

but his smirk deepens.

and the walk to his dorm is quiet—but not peaceful. not when your hands are sweating. not when your skin’s buzzing. not when his shoulder brushes yours just enough to short-circuit your spine.

it’s dark. quieter than usual. the air smells like pine needles and cheap weed, the kind that hangs near the freshman dorms. your bag’s starting to dig into your shoulder, but you don’t readjust it. you don’t want to draw attention to yourself.

not when he’s this close.

he doesn’t speak as he leads the way through the dorm lobby, just gives a lazy nod to the kid behind the desk, hoodie half-up like a veil, gait loose and easy like he belongs here more than anyone else.

you trail behind him, nerves rattling, bag clutched like it might anchor you.

you step into the elevator. he doesn’t press the button. he looks at you, waiting.

the ride’s silent. tense. you can feel him beside you—warm, tall, unbothered. he rocks slightly with the motion of the lift, fingers drumming once against the metal bar behind him. it’s casual. bored. but it’s so him it makes your lungs stutter.

you don’t speak again until you’re outside his door.

he unlocks it with a little flick of his wrist, pushes it open, steps aside.

you hesitate.

“you gonna stand there all night?” he says, voice low. teasing.

you step in.

the door shuts behind you.

you don’t turn around. you just stand there, blinking into the dim of his room, still warm from the day, dusk bleeding in through the half-cracked window, blinds tilted like they don’t know what to make of this either.

you feel him behind you.

not touching. just there.

like gravity. like tension. like the kind of storm you don’t realize you’ve been walking into until the air starts to taste metallic and your skin prickles like a warning.

“so,” he says, voice low, still teasing. “you gonna drop your bag or keep hugging it like a teddy bear?”

you exhale—shaky. move on autopilot. set your bag down by his desk like you’ve rehearsed it in your head.

your pulse doesn’t slow.

his room is neater than you expected. not clean, but lived-in. bed messy. hoodie tossed over the chair. open textbooks on the desk, some highlighted, some dog-eared, one flipped upside down like he got bored halfway through and wandered off to do something more interesting. a single candle half-melted on the window ledge. no photos. no posters. no proof of anyone else.

just him.

and now you.

you cross your arms like that’ll help.

he moves past you—slow, close, unnecessary—and you don’t even flinch. just hold your breath, eyes forward, trying not to notice how good he smells or how fucking tall he feels when he walks by like that, like you’re a piece of furniture and he already knows how much space you take up.

he flops into the desk chair again, one thigh spread obnoxiously wide, the other bent up just enough to make you look away when you catch a flash of skin above his waistband.

his voice drags across the room. “does yuji know you’re here?”

you don’t answer fast enough.

he tilts his head. watches you. sharp.

“what?” he says, faux-innocent. “he doesn’t? damn. that’s crazy.”

you don’t rise to it. not fast enough, anyway. your mouth opens, then closes, the sound caught somewhere between excuse and admission, like maybe if you don’t say it, it won’t count. like maybe if you breathe slow enough, he won’t notice the way your shoulders inch higher with every second of silence.

he notices.

of course he fucking does.

“hm,” he hums, quiet. “bold of you.”

he’s already pulling his hoodie over his head. the black cotton bunches around his arms for a second before it slips free, revealing bare skin underneath, lean and cut and just soft enough to make your brain stutter.

and then the shirt comes off, too.

just because you’re watching now and he knows it.

he stretches a little when he tosses it aside. like it’s casual. like it’s comfortable here, in his room, with you standing five feet away and trying not to look.

you fail.

he sees it in your eyes, the flick, the stutter, the catch in your throat that betrays you even before your knees shift.

he doesn’t say anything about it.

not yet.

just leans back into his chair again—bare chest on full display, muscles relaxed, neck loose, legs spread—and crooks a finger like you’re on the clock now.

“come here.”

your pulse spikes. “what?”

he jerks his chin toward his lap. “you heard me.”

you hesitate.

“don’t worry,” he murmurs, voice dry, low, just teasing enough to curl heat down your spine, “i’m not gonna bite unless you beg.”

your breath catches.

he tilts his head again. “unless that’s what you came here for.”

you’re not sure when the air got so thick.

you take one step. then another.

and he just watches you come. every inch. every second. like he’s already figured out the ending and he’s letting you waste time pretending you have a choice in it.

his hands don’t move.

but yours do.

your fingers twitch by your sides, awkward and restless, until you’re standing in front of him, knees nearly brushing his, heat pouring off your skin like a confession.

his gaze drags up, up, up your body—slow and mean.

and then he murmurs, softer this time.

“sit.”

and you do.

the second you settle onto his lap, everything goes quiet in a way that’s not quiet at all.

his thigh is solid under you. too solid. warm, unmoving, like he decided this was where you belonged and your body agreed before your brain could catch up. you sit there stiff, perched wrong, unsure where your weight is supposed to go, hands hovering uselessly like you forgot how arms work.

he exhales through his nose, amused.

“relax,” he murmurs. “you’re gonna give yourself away like that.”

before you can respond, his hands come up—not grabbing, not yanking—just there. one slides to your waist, thumb pressing into the dip above your hip like he’s mapping it. the other drifts up your side, fingers splaying over your ribs, feeling the way your breath stutters under his touch.

you suck in a sharp inhale.

he feels it immediately.

his thumb presses a little firmer. not possessive. not gentle either. just enough to remind you he’s there.

“nervous?” he asks, voice low, right against your jaw.

you nod before you remember you’re supposed to answer.

he chuckles. quiet. pleased. “yeah. figured.”

his fingers trail higher, brushing the underside of your chest—not quite touching where you want him, just enough to make your skin prickle, to make your nipples ache with awareness.

“look at me,” he says.

you hesitate.

his hand shifts—two fingers under your chin, lifting, not forcing, just guiding until your eyes meet his.

he holds you there.

close enough that you can see the little notch in his brow when he’s concentrating. close enough that his pupils look darker than they should.

“good,” he murmurs. “now stay.”

your pulse is everywhere. throat. chest. thighs. it’s embarrassing how fast your body gives you away.

his hand returns to your waist, thumb tracing slow, lazy circles like he’s soothing a skittish animal.

“learn anything so far?” he asks.

your mouth opens. nothing comes out.

his brow lifts. “no?”

“i—” you swallow. “i think so.”

“think,” he repeats, unimpressed. “that’s not an answer.”

you scramble. “i—i learned that it’s not about rushing. that—” your voice wobbles, and his thumb pauses, attention sharpening instantly. “that waiting makes it worse. better. i don’t know.”

his mouth curves.

“better,” he corrects calmly. “for me.”

heat blooms low in your stomach.

his hand drifts again, this time slipping just enough to cup the side of your chest, thumb brushing over fabric, pressure light but unmistakable. you gasp, soft and unguarded.

he doesn’t stop.

“mm,” he hums. “yeah. you’re learning.”

you squirm without meaning to, hips shifting, and his grip tightens just a fraction—anchoring you in place.

“easy,” he murmurs. “don’t get greedy.”

your face burns.

there’s a beat. then he says, casually, “what do you say?”

you blink. “…what?”

his eyes flick up to yours again. sharp. expectant.

“what do you say,” he repeats, slower this time, “when someone offers to help you.”

oh.

your throat goes dry.

“um.” you swallow. “thank… you?”

your heart pounds. “thank you, sukuna.”

he hums, satisfied, fingers squeezing your waist like a reward. “there you go.”

then, like it’s nothing—like he didn’t just unravel you with two words and a look—he leans back slightly, voice easy, almost amused.

“of course,” he says. “that’s what friends are for. right?”

and somehow, that’s the part that wrecks you the most.

his mouth trails back to yours like he’s starving and you’re just what’s on the menu tonight—slow drag of lips, plush and warm, like he’s enjoying the process of softening you up.

your chest presses into his, your tank half-ridden, your thighs still loose around his hips. he kisses you deep, but not fast. not greedy. he takes his time, and somehow that’s worse. every flick of his tongue feels like a promise he doesn’t intend to keep.

you sigh into it. melt a little. let yourself fall.

then he pulls back.

“get your laptop.”

you blink. “huh?”

he nods toward your bag. “go on.”

“…now?”

his smirk is already back. “you hearing another voice in here?”

you scramble, half-confused, skin still flushed and tingling. when you return to him—laptop in hand—he doesn’t even pretend to make space. he pats his thigh. “c’mon.”

you hesitate. then obey, settling back into his lap with your laptop between you, your breath shaky again, hands clammy as they hover over the keyboard.

“why?” you ask quietly, like maybe it won’t count if you don’t say it out loud.

his voice brushes your ear. “open it.”

your stomach lurches.

but you do.

the file’s still there. the same one you stayed up all night revising. you pull it up slowly, praying the screen is dim enough that he won’t read it too fast.

“now read it to me,” he says, like he’s asking about the weather. casual. cruel.

your head whips toward him. “w-what?”

he’s already leaning back a little, arms around your waist, chin grazing your shoulder. “i’m grading your work.”

“but—you could read it later,” you protest, weak. “why do i have to—?”

“you embarrassed?”

“i—” your voice catches. “yeah?”

he hums. “good.”

you squeeze your thighs together, pulse climbing too fast.

“go on,” he says, tone dipping lower, smug as sin. “read it. out loud. and don’t skip the parts that made you wet.”

so you do.

you don’t even realize how close he’s gotten until the backs of his fingers skim your belly, right under the hem of your tank top, like he’s measuring your tension. like he’s feeling for how hard you’re trying not to squirm.

and then—nothing.

no warning. no threat. he just moves.

hands under your thighs, grip warm and steady, lifting you like it’s nothing. like you’re his project now, and this is part of the assignment. your laptop wobbles in your grip as he carries you the few steps back to the bed and sits you on the edge, mattress dipping, his knees between yours.

you’re breathless. strung out. staring at him like he just unplugged your brain.

“keep reading,” he says, casual as ever. like he’s not the reason you can’t remember what words are.

you blink. “what—?”

he leans in, his mouth at your cheek. “don’t stop now.”

your pulse skips. your hands tighten around the laptop.

but you try. you try. you find your place again, voice already shaking.

“his—his hand—dragged up her thigh, slow, like—like he was teasing something—”

you don’t even get to the next line before he hooks his thumbs into your waistband.

“these come off now,” he says, soft and amused.

you nod, too fast.

he pulls your shorts down with a practiced ease, slow and unbothered, dragging the fabric over your thighs until your panties are all that’s left.

he pauses.

then grins, head tilting slightly.

“you always wear cute shit like this, or is it just for me?”

you start to answer—something defensive, probably, something stupid like they’re just normal—but he’s already shifting again, crouching slightly, dragging his gaze down like he’s studying how wet you’ve already gotten through the fabric.

and then—he exhales. soft. warm.

“mm,” he hums. “starting to think you like me.”

you open your mouth. no sound comes out.

“go on,” he says, voice darker now, hunger creeping around the edges. “read.”

your lips move. you force out the next line. something about tension winding too tight. about her stomach flipping under his breath.

and that’s when his mouth presses against the damp crotch of your panties.

you gasp.

he doesn’t pull them aside. doesn’t ask for permission. just licks—long and lazy, tongue broad and deliberate through the fabric, dragging from the bottom seam to the top, like he’s savoring the way your hips jerk, the way your voice catches mid-word.

you whimper. your hands clutch the laptop tighter.

“keep going,” he murmurs, words muffled against the heat of you. “don’t stop.”

you try. god, you try.

“sh-she—she arched into it—didn’t mean to—but—” your sentence melts off as he flattens his tongue and presses hard.

you choke.

his hands tighten around your thighs. he doesn’t lift his mouth. just hums into you, slow and steady, like he’s not done making you forget how to think.

“what’s the next line?” he asks, barely lifting his head.

you blink down at him, flushed and dazed.

he smirks. “don’t tell me you forgot already.”

you stammer. something about control. you think. about how she stopped caring if she was being too loud.

he grins. “then stop caring.”

and then he pulls your panties aside and kisses your clit.

the second his mouth leaves you, the silence is deafening.

no tongue. no breath. no pressure. just the hollow echo of what was and the sharp awareness of how exposed you are now, panties tugged aside, thighs still spread by his hands like he hasn’t decided what to do with you next.

you gasp, confused. wrecked. “w—why did you—”

he looks up at you, eyes dark, mouth wet, expression almost bored.

“you stopped reading,” he says simply.

your stomach drops.

“that’s not fair,” you breathe.

he shrugs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like he’s got all the time in the world. “grading criteria’s clear.”

and then he waits.

just sits back on his heels between your legs, hands resting easy on your thighs, thumbs tracing idle, maddening little half-circles like he’s soothing you away from the edge instead of pushing you toward it.

you swallow. your hands are shaking around the laptop.

your clit is aching. pulsing. so sensitive it almost hurts, like it’s been abandoned mid-sentence.

you drag in a breath and force your eyes back to the screen.

“o—okay,” you whisper. “okay.”

he raises a brow. “whenever you’re ready.”

you start reading again, voice thin, breathy, betraying you with every word.

“she—she couldn’t think straight anymore. every thought kept slipping—kept breaking—because he wouldn’t—”

his mouth is back on you before you finish the line.

hot. open. devouring.

you cry out, a sharp, broken sound that punches out of you before you can stop it, thighs snapping shut instinctively—and his hands are there instantly, forcing them apart again.

“ah-ah,” he murmurs into you, tongue flattening against your clit. “keep them open.”

your back arches off the bed. your fingers claw into the sheets. you forget the laptop entirely for half a second—until his mouth stills again.

gone.

you sob, actually sob. “i—i’m sorry—”

“read,” he says calmly.

you’re shaking now. desperate. your clit feels swollen and angry, every nerve screaming.

you force the words out, voice cracking.

“he kept stopping—kept pulling away—every time she lost focus—”

his tongue flicks out again, sharp and precise, right over your clit like punctuation.

you scream.

then he sucks.

harder this time. deeper. lips sealing around you, tongue working with purpose now, like he’s decided you’ve earned at least a little mercy.

your hips buck uncontrollably. your thighs tremble.

you barely manage to keep reading, voice dissolving into breathy fragments between gasps.

“she—she couldn’t—couldn’t tell if it was punishment or—”

he pulls away.

you choke on the rest of the sentence.

“don’t,” you whimper. “please—”

he looks up again, mouth glossy, eyes sharp. “finish the thought.”

you’re crying now. not sad—overloaded. overstimulated. your body teetering right on the edge with nowhere to go.

“or—reward,” you gasp. “she couldn’t tell if it was—meant to teach her—or break her—”

he dives back in.

no warning this time.

no teasing.

his tongue moves fast and firm now, relentless, circling your clit with purpose, sucking and flicking like he’s undoing you sentence by sentence. his hands grip your thighs hard enough to bruise, holding you open while your body tries to escape what it wants too badly.

you scream his name.

you don’t even realize you’ve dropped the laptop until it hits the mattress beside you with a soft thud.

his mouth stills instantly.

he pulls back, breath heavy now, jaw tight.

“where’s the rest?” he asks, cool as ice.

you sob. “i—i dropped it—”

he straightens, hands leaving you completely.

your body aches without him. feels wrong. unfinished.

“then pick it up,” he says.

your legs are shaking so hard you nearly slide off the bed, but you grab the laptop, hands slick with sweat, eyes blurry with tears and need.

you don’t even read anymore—you recite, voice breaking as you scramble for the next paragraph.

“she—she realized—too late—that every time he stopped—it only made her want it more—made her beg—”

his mouth is back, and this time he doesn’t slow down.

he eats you out like he’s been waiting for permission to ruin you, tongue relentless, lips tight, sucking so hard your vision goes white around the edges. your hips slam down into his face, helpless, desperate, body completely gone.

“f-fuck—i’m—i’m gonna—” you choke.

he groans into you, the vibration ripping through your clit like a live wire.

“keep reading,” he growls.

your voice is nothing now. pure sound. pure plea.

“p-please—she—she begged—she couldn’t—couldn’t hold it—”

your body locks up.

your thighs clamp around his head. your back bows. your mouth opens in a silent scream as your orgasm tears through you, violent and overwhelming, your clit pulsing against his tongue as he doesn’t stop, riding it out with you, drinking every broken sound like it’s proof.

he pulls away slowly, wiping his mouth again, eyes still on you like he’s watching the aftermath of something he set in motion on purpose.

“good,” he murmurs.

your chest is still heaving. your legs feel useless. your mind is blank.

“now,” he says softly, almost kind, “we can write the ending.”

you start to say something—some shaky postmortem, some half-sentence about being done, about how embarrassing that was, about how you can’t believe you just read your porn scene out loud while he touched you through your panties like it was a listening exercise.

but then he kisses you.

long. deep. no more teasing.

your breath hitches on contact. your thighs twitch, your mouth falls open under his like your body’s more honest than your brain, and suddenly it’s all heat—tongue, teeth, a low noise caught in his throat that rumbles through your chest.

you don’t even realize you’re grabbing at him until your fingers are curling into his shoulders, his body everywhere. you think, stupidly, oh. he tastes like me. and it makes you gasp harder. makes you want more.

you chase the kiss without thinking. open-mouthed, desperate. your laptop slips off your lap and lands somewhere forgotten on the bed. he barely glances—his hands are already on your hips, pulling you closer to the edge like you’re his, like he gets to move you now. he kisses like he’s rewarding you for finishing a final. like he’s about to assign extra credit.

you moan into his mouth.

it startles you a little. you didn't mean to—didn’t even realize you were holding that sound in—but he catches it like a prize and presses closer, hips slotted between your knees, one hand sliding down, down, gripping your thigh like a warning.

and then he pulls back, just barely, lips still brushing yours.

you blink at him, wrecked.

his smirk is slow. sharp. almost fond.

“look at you,” he murmurs. “you read for me, now you wanna kiss me like you mean it.”

your mouth opens to say something—anything—but the words never make it out.

because you don’t answer him with your voice.

you answer him by moving.

it’s not graceful. not confident in the way porn pretends it is. you just… slide closer to the edge of the bed, palms bracing behind you for a second before you shift your weight forward and drop down off the mattress.

knees hit the carpet.

soft. quiet.

the sound of it makes his breath hitch.

you don’t look up right away. you can’t. your heart’s beating too hard, your ears buzzing, your body still humming from his mouth on you like every nerve’s been left exposed and rewired.

he’s standing in front of you now.

shirtless. bare chest still flushed, skin warm and slightly damp, stomach tight when he inhales slow like he’s bracing himself. his hands hang at his sides for half a second—like he’s letting you choose this. like he’s giving you the space to back out.

you don’t.

your fingers reach for his waistband instead.

his jaw tightens.

“you sure?” he asks, voice low, not teasing this time—testing.

you nod, still not looking up. “i wanna try.”

that’s all it takes.

he exhales hard as you tug his sweats down, helping him step out of them, and when you finally look up—

fuck.

he’s already hard. fully. thick and heavy against his stomach, tip flushed, a faint sheen catching the low light like he’s been ready for this longer than you have.

your mouth goes dry.

he watches your face closely, eyes dark, sharp, reading every micro-expression like this is still part of the lesson.

“don’t stare too long,” he murmurs. “you’ll psych yourself out.”

you swallow. “…okay.”

you wrap your hand around him.

and he groans.

it’s not quiet. not controlled. it punches straight out of him like his body forgot how to filter.

“fuck—” he mutters, head tipping back just slightly before he catches himself. his hand comes down to the back of your head—not pushing. just resting there. grounding. “that’s it. slow.”

your grip tightens instinctively. you feel the weight of him in your hand, the heat, the way he twitches when your thumb brushes the head.

your breath shudders.

you lean in and lick.

just once. flat tongue. experimental.

he sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth. “jesus.”

that reaction alone almost does you in.

you lick again. slower. this time letting your tongue drag along the underside, following the vein like you’re tracing it on purpose.

his hand tightens in your hair now. still not forcing. just… there.

“good,” he murmurs. “yeah. like that.”

you take the tip into your mouth.

just the tip.

your lips stretch around him, warm and soft, and you hum without meaning to—more nerves than confidence—and the sound vibrates straight into him.

his hips jerk.

“fuck—okay,” he says quickly, breath breaking. “don’t rush. use your hands.”

you do.

both hands now. slow strokes. one following the other, like he told you, like you’re trying to memorize how it feels. how he reacts. how sensitive he is right at the head, how his stomach tenses when you twist your wrist just a little.

you suck again. deeper this time.

his thighs flex.

his hand slides from your hair to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek like he’s steadying you instead of stopping you.

“look at you,” he murmurs. “on your knees for me. pretty thing.”

your stomach flips.

you open your mouth wider and take him in a little more, lips stretching, tongue flattening as you go, and the sound he makes this time is low. rough. barely held back.

“that’s it,” he says. “just like that. slow. breathe.”

you pull back slightly, catching your breath, spit stringing between your mouth and him—and he watches that too, eyes flicking down like he’s cataloging the image.

“don’t be shy,” he adds quietly. “use it.”

you spit into your hand.

your face burns.

but when you wrap your slick palm around him again and stroke, the noise he makes is instant and unfiltered.

“fuck. yeah. that.”

you smile around him this time when you take him back into your mouth—still shallow, still learning—but more confident now. more deliberate. your tongue moves how you want it to. your hands set the pace.

he lets you.

lets you explore.

lets you feel the way he starts to lose control.

his breathing’s heavier now. uneven. his fingers flex at his sides like he’s fighting the urge to grab you harder.

“don’t rush,” he murmurs again, but his voice is strained now. “you’re doing… really fucking good.”

you look up at him, cheeks flushed, mouth still full.

his eyes meet yours.

and something shifts.

“shit,” he mutters. “careful with that look.”

you pull off slowly, lips wet and swollen. “what look?”

“that one,” he says. “the one that makes me forget i’m supposed to be patient.”

his hand slides back into your hair, this time firmer.

not pushing yet.

just warning you what he could do next.

but he doesn’t warn you.

he just steps back and pulls you up by your arms like you’re weightless. like you’re not already trembling from the way he sounds when you suck him off slow. like you didn’t just make him forget he was supposed to be teaching. your knees lift off the floor before your brain catches up.

“up,” he murmurs, already guiding you.

your hands find his shoulders instinctively. he’s shirtless. hot and solid under your palms. you blink, breath stuttering, confused for a half-second—but his grip is steady. sure. he shifts one arm under your thighs and lifts. again. like it’s nothing. like you’re meant to be carried. like this is just a new page in the textbook.

you gasp, reflexively clinging tighter, legs folding as he manhandles you upward—and then you feel it.

his mouth on you.

wet.

open.

already licking.

you jolt in his hold. your spine snaps straight. your moan cracks raw out of your throat before you can even process the heat of his tongue sliding through your folds, the way he tilts you, angles you, buries his face so deep you can feel the curve of his nose drag against your clit.

“fuck,” he growls into you, muffled but clear. “knew you’d taste good.”

your hips twitch, legs locking around his neck on instinct.

you’re upside down now. straddling his face. his arms cradling you under your thighs like a trophy. he’s holding you up while standing. while licking. while groaning like he doesn’t even care if you suck him off anymore because this is better, this is the real payoff—your cunt dripping into his mouth while you squirm in midair.

but you do care.

because he’s still hard.

right there.

right in front of your face.

you’re dangling over it—flushed, slick, messy—watching his cock twitch every time your moans get louder. and you can feel it pulsing. leaking. begging. his hips jerk the closer your mouth gets, like he’s daring you to try it again while you’re shaking like this.

so you do.

you wrap your lips around him again. upside down. slower now. messier. spit runs down your chin immediately, and he groans—into you—so hard you almost drop him from your mouth again.

“two hands,” he grits. “stroke what you can’t take. make it messy.”

you do.

slick and sloppy and shameless, your hands twisting at the base while your lips suck around the head, spit trailing down your chin, your thighs clenched around his face as he groans into your cunt like he’s losing it.

you rock your hips on him without meaning to. grind into his tongue. he moans louder. his grip tightens.

“fuck—you taste so good,” he rasps, voice muffled under you. “ride my face, pretty girl—don’t stop.”

you try not to.

you try to keep sucking even as your body spasms again, hips jerking, thighs clenching, mouth flooding with slick and sweat and salt. his cock pulses in your throat. your cunt pulses against his tongue.

everything is too much. too wet. too loud.

and still—not enough.

his tongue flicks your clit at the same time.

you whimper. moan around his cock.

“shit,” he grunts, pulling you tighter against his mouth. “don’t stop.”

you can’t. even if you wanted to. his hands are digging into the backs of your thighs now, holding you exactly where he wants you, spreading you open over his face like you’re dessert and he skipped dinner. and you—you’re sucking him off like you’re trying to make up for the sounds you’re making. for the way you keep twitching. for how close you already are.

he starts rocking into your mouth now. slow, shallow thrusts. letting you take him deeper each time. your jaw aches. your hands tremble. your throat burns.

but he doesn’t stop eating you out.

his mouth gets greedier. tongue rougher. lips sucking your clit like he wants to see how fast he can break you in this position. and it’s working. god, it’s working too well. your thighs start to shake. your mouth falters around him. your moans go soft and slurred, desperate little whines that vibrate through his cock every time he groans into your cunt like this is heaven and he’s earned it.

“that’s it,” he pants, hips jerking. “suck. cum. gimme both.”

you choke on it. can’t help it. you’re right there—so close you can’t see straight, the pressure curling behind your ribs, your legs locking, his tongue driving you insane with every goddamn flick.

“don’t hold back,” he growls. “let it go.”

and you do.

you fall apart on his face. mouth wide around his cock. whole body shuddering as you come with a sob, toes curling, hands gripping his shoulders like he’s the only thing keeping you upright. which—he is. literally. he holds you steady while you shake. keeps fucking your mouth with slow thrusts, gentle now, careful, like you’re fragile. even though you just came on his face with no warning.

even though he’s still hard.

still hungry.

still standing.

he pulls back slowly from your cunt, slick and panting, and lowers you to your knees like he’s putting his favorite toy away for now. your lips are puffy. chin wet. eyes dazed.

he strokes your cheek with the back of his hand.

“lesson’s nowhere near over.”

he doesn’t rush you after that.

that’s the thing that fucks with you most.

he guides you up onto the bed instead—hands firm but unhurried, like he’s resetting the room before the next part of the lesson. you end up on your back, knees bent, feet planted awkwardly in the mattress like you’re not sure where they’re supposed to go yet.

he notices.

of course he does.

“relax,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb over your knee until it drops open a little more. “you’re not doing anything wrong.”

your chest tightens at that. you nod anyway. swallow.

he climbs over you slowly, bracing himself on his forearms so he’s not putting his weight on you yet. he’s close enough that you can feel the heat of him, the way his cock presses warm and insistent against your lower stomach, slick from your mouth, flushed and heavy.

you glance down.

then immediately look away.

he catches it.

“hey,” he says quietly, tipping your chin back up with two fingers. “look at me.”

you do.

his expression’s different now. still intense. still hungry. but focused. grounded. like he’s flipped into a different headspace entirely.

“this part matters,” he says. “i need you with me. okay?”

“…okay.”

he nods once, like that’s all he needed.

one hand slides down between your thighs, fingers spreading you open again—not to tease this time, not to make you melt—but to check you. his thumb presses lightly at your entrance and you gasp, whole body tensing.

“breathe,” he says immediately. “don’t fight it.”

you inhale shakily. exhale. your muscles loosen just a fraction.

“good,” he murmurs. “you’re already wet. that helps. but it’s still gonna feel… different.”

your stomach flips. “…is it gonna hurt?”

he doesn’t lie.

“maybe,” he says. “a little. at first. i won’t push past you.”

the way he says it makes your throat burn.

he lines himself up slowly, guiding you with one hand, the other braced beside your head. you feel the head of him press against you and the sensation alone makes you gasp, sharp and startled, because it’s so much—thick, insistent, impossible to ignore.

“tell me when,” he says.

you hesitate. heart hammering. then nod.

“…okay.”

he presses forward just a little.

the stretch is immediate. unfamiliar. tight in a way you’ve never felt before. you cry out softly, hands flying to his arms.

he freezes.

“hey,” he murmurs. “i’ve got you. stay with me.”

you breathe. nod again. your eyes sting but you don’t pull away.

“that’s it,” he says, easing back just a fraction, then forward again—slow, patient, letting your body adjust inch by inch. “you’re doing good. i know it’s a lot.”

you feel the burn. the pressure. the way your body resists him at first, instinctively, like it doesn’t know what to do with something this big. tears slip from the corners of your eyes and he leans down immediately, forehead resting against yours.

“look at me,” he whispers. “you okay?”

“…yeah,” you breathe. “just—don’t stop.”

something flashes in his eyes at that. dark. reverent. controlled.

“fuck,” he mutters. “okay.”

he pushes a little deeper. slower than slow. waiting for you to relax around him, to stop clenching. his hand strokes your thigh, grounding, steady.

and then—

he’s in.

not all the way. not yet. but enough that you feel it. enough that your breath stutters and your body goes still, stunned by the fullness, the ache, the intimacy of it.

he doesn’t move.

just stays there. lets you adjust. lets the moment settle.

“that’s the hardest part,” he says softly. “you did it.”

your chest rises and falls. “…it still kinda hurts.”

“yeah,” he says. “it will. give it a second.”

he shifts his hips just a little, barely a motion, testing how you respond. it aches—but there’s something else under it now. warmth. pressure that’s not unpleasant anymore.

“tell me if it’s too much,” he says.

you shake your head.

“…no. i want to keep going.”

his jaw tightens.

“you’re sure?”

you nod. “teach me, professor.”

and that’s the exact moment his whole expression changes.

his brows lift slowly, mouth curving into something smug, and his hips roll forward without warning—just once, just enough to make your breath catch, enough to make your cunt clench down around him like your body’s trying to adjust too fast.

“yeah?” he mutters, voice lower now, crueler. “that what you want, sweetheart?”

you gasp, hands tightening on his arms.

he rocks in again—slow but deeper, intentional, dragging the weight of him through your already sensitive walls like he’s trying to imprint the stretch in your memory.

“want your first time to be a fucking lesson?”

you nod, then shake your head, then nod again—eyes wide and glassy.

“i—i just want—”

“no, you wanna learn, right?” he cuts you off, grinning down at you like he already knows the answer. “wanna be a good little student. show me how fast you pick shit up.”

your stomach twists.

his hand slips under your knee, pushes your leg up higher, and fuck—you feel it. deeper now. sharper. you gasp again, the burn still there but fading, dulled by the heavy pulse of something needier.

“of course it is,” he murmurs. “never had anything in this pretty pussy, huh?”

you shake your head, breath hitching when his hips roll forward again, slow and deliberate, dragging the length of him through you like he wants you to feel every inch, every stretch.

“yeah,” he says quietly. “i can tell.”

“…sukuna—” you gasp, fingers digging into the sheets when he pulls back and presses in again, deeper this time. it still aches, still burns a little, but there’s something else there now—heat, pressure, a building want that makes your thighs tremble.

“stay with me,” he says, voice steady. “tell me what you’re feeling.”

“it—it hurts a little,” you admit, breathless. “but it feels good too. like… full.”

his mouth curves. “that’s what i wanna hear.”

he keeps moving. slow thrusts. controlled. every time he pushes back in, you feel him stretch you again, your body slowly learning how to take him, how to relax instead of fighting it.

“okay,” he says after a moment. “new rule.”

your heart jumps. “what?”

“i wanna see how you touch yourself,” he says, still fucking you, still watching your face. “show me.”

your breath stutters. “…right now?”

“yeah,” he says easily. “right now. while i’m inside you.”

you hesitate, overwhelmed by how much there already is—him, the bed, the feeling of being split open.

he notices immediately.

“hey,” he says, softer for half a second. “you can do it. i’ve got you.”

then his hips snap forward just a little harder, just enough to remind you who’s in control.

“go on,” he adds. “hand between your legs.”

your fingers slide down slowly, past your stomach, past the place where you can feel him moving inside you every time he thrusts. when you touch your clit, the sensation is almost too much—oversensitive, buzzing, raw.

you whimper.

“that’s it,” he murmurs. “how do you do it?”

“…i—i rub,” you say quietly.

“how.”

you start moving your fingers in tight circles, careful at first, matching the rhythm of his thrusts without even meaning to. every time he pushes in, your fingers drag just a little firmer.

your back arches.

“fuck,” he groans. “yeah. just like that.”

he speeds up slightly, thrusts getting a little deeper now, the wet sounds between you louder, messier.

“you always do it like that?” he asks.

you nod. “slow at first.”

“good,” he says. “don’t rush it.”

your circles tighten. the pleasure starts to build fast now, way faster than it ever has before, because he’s inside you, because every thrust sends a ripple through your whole body.

“tell me when it changes,” he says. “when it starts feelin’ different.”

“…it’s—it’s getting really good,” you breathe. “i’m getting close.”

he smirks. “already?”

you flush. “i can’t help it—”

“i know,” he says, cutting you off. “you’re sensitive. first time always hits harder.”

his hand comes down over yours suddenly, pressing your fingers more firmly against your clit, guiding the motion.

“like this,” he murmurs. “you don’t need to be gentle.”

you cry out, hips jerking. “oh—fuck—”

“yeah,” he says, thrusting a little harder now. “that’s it. keep those circles tight.”

your body starts to shake. your walls flutter around him, clenching without permission, and he groans low in his throat.

“feel that?” he asks. “that’s you squeezin’ me. that’s your body learnin’.”

you nod frantically, breath breaking. “i’m close—i’m really close—”

“good,” he says. “cum for me.”

he keeps moving, steady and deep, every thrust lining up perfectly with the way his hand guides yours, pressure building and building until you can’t think straight anymore.

“don’t stop,” you whimper. “please—”

“i won’t,” he promises, voice rough. “let it happen.”

your fingers move faster, circles tightening, and then you break—cumming hard around him with a cry, body arching, thighs trembling, walls clamping down around his cock like they’re trying to pull him deeper.

“fuck,” he groans, thrusting through it. “that’s it. good girl.”

he doesn’t stop moving until you’re shaking, until your hand falls away, overstimulated and breathless, chest heaving beneath him.

he leans down, mouth close to your ear.

“see?” he murmurs. “you learn fast.”

you’re still shaking, chest rising in shallow, uneven breaths, your hand limp on your stomach, too overstimulated to move, thighs trembling from how hard that just hit—but he doesn’t let you come down from it.

he stays inside you.

still hard.

still moving.

just slow now, lazy, like he’s not ready to stop yet. like you finishing didn’t count.

you gasp when his hips roll again, the friction too sharp on your raw clit, your whole body twitching.

“s-sukuna—”

“shh,” he says, lips brushing your cheek. “you can take it.”

your muscles clench at that—of course they do—and he fucking grins, pulls back a little and thrusts again, slow and deep, deeper than before, like he’s testing what you can handle now that he’s opened you up properly.

you whimper. your legs twitch.

“don’t go all soft on me now,” he mutters, voice low, rough. “you said you wanted to learn.”

you nod—barely.

“so let’s change the position.”

your eyes fly open, dazed. “what?”

he’s already pulling out, slow and slick, your walls fluttering at the loss—and then his hands are on your hips, flipping you with no effort, guiding your knees up under you, pushing your chest down to the sheets with one firm palm.

“want you like this,” he says. “on your hands and knees. want to see what this angle does to you.”

you freeze, face buried in the sheets, body still buzzing.

“…i’ve never—”

“yeah,” he cuts in. “i know.”

his hand strokes your spine once, then down between your legs, two fingers sliding through the mess dripping from you.

“you’re wet enough for it now,” he says, casual. clinical. “you’ll be fine.”

you shiver. “…is it gonna hurt more?”

“might feel deeper,” he says, and then leans in, voice right behind your ear. “but you liked that last time, didn’t you?”

you flinch when he lines up again, the head of him nudging your entrance from behind, already too big, already too much—but your body gives easier this time, like it remembers him now, like it knows what to do.

he pushes in slow.

you choke on a gasp. your back arches.

“fuuuck,” he groans. “this angle’s even tighter.”

his hands grip your hips, not rough—but firm, controlling. he slides in deeper, slower than before, every inch pushing you forward into the mattress.

“that okay?” he asks, voice different now—lower. hoarser.

“…y-yeah,” you stammer. “it’s a lot—but—it feels good.”

he pulls back and thrusts again—deeper this time, dragging a whine out of your throat.

“jesus,” you breathe.

“mm,” he hums, fucking you slow, steady, grinding in at the end like he’s trying to make a point. “what’s that? not gonna call me ‘professor’ now?”

your arms shake. you reach for the sheets. “you’re so annoying—”

“but you’re taking it,” he says. “so well. first time and you’re already arching back for it.”

his hand slides down your back again, to your ass, thumb dragging down the curve as he keeps thrusting.

“you feel how deep this goes?”

you nod. “yes—oh my god—i can’t—”

“yeah,” he says. “there. right there.”

“sukuna—”

“talk to me.”

“it’s too much—” you cry. “but it’s good—i don’t wanna stop—”

his fingers dig into your hips now, pulling you back onto him harder, fucking you in slow, punishing strokes while you sob into the mattress, overwhelmed but addicted, ruined but desperate for more.

and then—

“arch more,” he mutters, breath ragged. “deeper if you arch.”

you try—arms shaking, thighs quivering, back bending in a desperate curve—but it’s not enough. not to him. not for him. his palm lands flat against your lower back, pressing down until your spine dips and your ass tilts higher, and the next thrust makes you cry out, high and raw, cheek mashed to the sheets.

“there,” he grits. “right fucking there. stay like that.”

you nod, mouth open but useless, trying to breathe, trying to stay still when your body keeps jerking from how deep he’s hitting now, each stroke heavier than the last, his pace never fast but somehow more brutal, more exact, like he’s fucking the lesson into you.

“fucking tight,” he hisses. “keep squeezing me like that and i’m not gonna last.”

you whimper. broken. soaking. your knees slipping in the sheets.

he leans over you again, chest warm against your back, mouth brushing your ear, and his voice is lower this time—meaner. teasing again.

“hands.”

you blink, dazed. “what—?”

“reach back,” he growls. “spread 'em”

your stomach drops.

“sukuna—”

“don’t make me ask twice.”

you whimper, but you do it, shoulders trembling as you shift forward just enough to plant your elbows down and reach back, palms clumsy, fingers digging into your own skin to spread yourself open for him.

“good fucking girl,” he breathes.

the angle changes again. you feel everything. the stretch, the drag, the way his cock glides through your soaked cunt and punches into something deeper now that you’re holding yourself open for it—so exposed like this, so filthy, and he knows it. god, he knows it.

“hold it,” he murmurs, fucking into you deeper, slower. “keep holdin’ it like that.”

you choke on a moan, head tipping back, shoulders burning, and that’s when he says it—

“look at me.”

you freeze.

“look. back.”

you do. you turn your head, messy hair clinging to your cheek, and meet his eyes over your shoulder—and he looks wrecked, flushed and sweat-damp and grinning like he’s never seen anything better in his life.

“fuck,” he mutters. “look at you. holding yourself open for your best friend’s brother while he ruins your pussy.”

you whimper, breath shattering. “s-stop saying shit like that—”

he slams in, once, and you scream.

“why?” he pants. “too fucking true?”

your voice cracks. “yes—fuck, yes—”

his eyes burn through you. his thrusts get harder. meaner. steadier.

and you just stay there—knees wide, ass up, hands spreading yourself for every stroke, every inch, every filthy word he drops like it’s a reward.

“you were made for this,” he growls. “look at you taking it. dripping on my cock. first time and you’re already fucking addicted.”

your arms give out. your back arches harder.

“sukuna—i can’t—i can’t—”

“yes you can,” he snaps. “don’t look away. stay right there. lemme see your face while i fuck you dumb.”

you do. you hold his gaze, lips parted, eyes glassy, cheeks flushed and wet from tears you didn’t know were falling, and the second you lock onto him like that he growls—like you lit a fuse in his chest. his thrusts turn ragged, heavier now, faster, like he’s chasing something. chasing you.

and you—you moan. loudly. no filter, no control, every sound high and desperate and sugar-slick with pleasure, because it’s too much,

it’s all too much—his cock punching into you again and again, his voice in your ear, the sting of your own fingers still digging into your ass to keep you open for him like a good girl, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, and the way he keeps groaning with every thrust like he’s trying not to break apart.

“listen to you,” he pants, voice barely holding. “all those pretty fuckin’ sounds. you hear that?”

you do. it’s obscene. loud and perfect, the slap of his hips meeting your ass, the drip of slick every time he drags out, the thick, broken grunt he lets out when you squeeze down around him without warning.

“shit—just like that,” he gasps. “do that again.”

you whimper. “i can’t—it’s too good—sukuna—i’m—i think i’m—”

“you gonna cum again?” he growls, not stopping, not even slowing down. “fuck—now?”

“yes—fuck—yes—”

“don’t hold back,” he snaps. “give it to me. make a mess all over this dick.”

your voice cracks on a sob as you start to cum again, tighter this time, faster—your orgasm slamming into you without mercy, your body locking up, your back arching so hard it hurts, and you scream, loud and wrecked and ruined, soaking the base of his cock, thighs trembling, whole body pulsing around him.

“fuck,” he snarls, hips jerking, pace falling apart. “that’s it—fuck—you’re squeezing me so tight—i’m gonna—”

his head drops back, jaw clenched, muscles flexing over you like he’s trying to hold it back—but he can’t. he slams in one last time, deep, buried to the base, and groans, loud and rough and raw as he spills inside you.

you feel it.

hot. thick. endless.

your body jolts with every pulse, cunt fluttering around him, milking him while he empties himself deep, deep, so fucking deep you swear you can feel it in your stomach, and he stays there, grinding through the aftershocks, dragging the orgasm out until you’re both shaking.

he moans your name—and collapses forward, weight braced on his arms, forehead against your spine, both of you gasping for breath in the silence that follows.

the room smells like sex and sweat and heat. your knees are sore. your arms are numb. you’re still spread open, still full of him, still twitching.

and he’s still inside you.

“fuck,” he mutters after a minute, voice hoarse. “look what i did to you.”

you don’t answer. you can’t. your breath’s still gone, dragged out of your lungs and left somewhere in the mess between your thighs, where his mouth just was, where the ache still pulses so hot and deep you swear it’s rewiring your brain chemistry. your spine’s barely functioning. your muscles feel like someone unplugged them. and your face, god, your face is on fire, sticky with sweat and disbelief and whatever he didn’t clean off his tongue.

he’s still crouched there, naked and flushed, the sweat at his temple catching in the overhead glow. your panties are still off to the side, soaked, your laptop somewhere in the pillows, screen dimmed like it knows you forgot how to be a student.

he grins. smug. mean. indulgent.

“so,” he says, voice rough but teasing, “was that… educational?”

you blink up at him like you don’t speak the language.

he brushes his thumb up the inside of your thigh. barely-there touch. just enough to make your muscles flinch like you’re still being eaten alive.

“what,” you croak.

his smirk grows. “you said you needed to learn, right? for the assignment. for the scene.”

your stomach flips.

“that wasn’t the scene,” you say too fast. “i mean—that’s not the kind i was writing—”

“no?” his head tilts. his hands drag a little higher, warm palms settling at your hips like he owns them now. “that wasn’t ‘slow burn’ enough for you?”

you open your mouth. no argument arrives.

“what’d you learn?” he asks again, quieter this time. mock-serious. like it’s a real discussion section. like you’re supposed to defend a thesis on what it means to get your brains fucked out and still hit your word count.

you stammer, “i—i don’t—”

he tuts. “c’mon. you’re a writer. words, baby. what’d you feel?”

your whole face burns.

“pressure,” you manage. “um. build-up. delayed gratification. sensory overload—”

“mmhm.” he nods slowly. “pacing. rhythm. repetition.”

you swallow. “tension.”

“yeah?” he leans in. kisses the inside of your thigh once, quick. “where?”

you choke. “what—what do you mean—”

“be specific,” he says, already dragging his mouth higher. “describe it.”

you breathe uneven. “every time you stopped—it—it got worse—”

“better,” he corrects. “you meant better.”

your brain glitches. your tank is damp. your thighs are still sticky.

“sukuna—”

“shh.” he presses his lips to your hipbone. “you’re still being graded.”

you hesitate before asking it, because part of you already knows the answer and part of you is scared of how much you want to hear it anyway.

“what would you write?” you ask, voice rough, honest in a way you didn’t plan. “if it were… from your side.”

he stills.

then he laughs under his breath. low. disbelieving. like you just handed him something sharp and told him to use it.

“you sure?” he asks. “you’re already wrecked.”

you nod anyway. your legs feel heavy. your body’s still humming, oversensitive, sticky in ways you’re very aware of. you’re open. not just physically—mentally. raw.

he looks at you for a long second. really looks. the mess of you. flushed skin, parted lips, the way you’re still trying to catch your breath like you ran instead of came.

“fine,” he says. “but you asked.”

he steps closer. not touching yet. which somehow makes it worse.

“i’d write,” he starts, voice slow, like he’s dictating, “about how she kept pretending she was in control right up until she wasn’t.”

your stomach flips.

“how she talked a big game,” he continues, eyes dropping, dragging, “but the second i had her spread out like that, she couldn’t keep her voice steady.”

you squeeze your thighs together without meaning to.

he notices. of course he does.

“i’d write about how she tried to focus on words while she was begging me not to stop,” he says quietly. “how she kept saying she was fine and then cried the second i pulled away.”

your face burns. your pulse spikes.

“i’d write about how pretty she looked when she finally gave up,” he adds. “when she stopped worrying about sounding stupid and just let herself ask for it.”

you swallow hard.

he tilts his head, watching you like he’s checking your reaction against his own memory.

“and i’d definitely write about how she came,” he says, softer now. “how her whole body locked up like she wasn’t ready for it, like she didn’t believe she was allowed to feel that good.”

your breath catches.

silence stretches. thick. charged.

then he exhales through his nose, slow, like he’s reconsidering something.

“actually,” he says, almost to himself, “yeah. no.”

you look up. confused. “no?”

he meets your eyes again, that familiar sharp glint back in place.

“you haven’t learned enough from tonight alone,” he says plainly. not unkind. not teasing. matter‑of‑fact. “you got the theory. you felt the edge.”

his hand settles on your hip. grounding. claiming.

“but you still think it ends there.”

your chest tightens.

“maybe,” he continues, thumb pressing in just enough to make you shiver, “you need another round to knock some sense into you.”

your mouth opens.

no words come out.

“for research,” he adds, like an afterthought.

—

the document is still open.

not empty anymore.

thirty thousand words, give or take. some of it readable. most of it humiliating. your fingers are stiff, your thighs are numb, and you don’t remember how long you’ve been hunched over like this—but the heat’s still rising up your neck and your laptop’s still warm against your legs, and your brain feels like it just crawled back from a different dimension.

you don’t move.

you don’t breathe.

you just stare at the final line—for research—like it might catch fire if you blink too loud.

“you good?” yuji asks without looking over, eyes on his phone, sprawled out like a cat beside you. “you’ve been dead silent for, like, twenty minutes.”

you blink. your chest is tight. your fingers twitch over the keyboard like you might keep going.

“yeah,” you say. your voice sounds like it belongs to someone else. “just… got in the zone.”

he hums. “cool. proud of you.”

you don’t answer.

the document’s still open, right there on your screen. the words still warm, still echoing in your head like they happened. like you felt them. you scroll up, skim past the part where he lifts you onto the bed, where you choke on his cock, where his tongue spells sentences into your cunt.

your stomach flips.

you almost laugh.

none of it happened.

not the lesson. not the kiss. not the lap. not the part where you begged.

you’ve never even kissed anyone like that. never sucked anyone off. definitely never sat on a face and came so hard you cried. you’ve never sat in sukuna’s lap. you’ve barely even spoken to him lately. and even if you had—he’d never look at you like that.

it was all just writing.

just a story.

just a thought experiment that got out of hand. that’s what you’ll tell yourself later, when the heat fades and your hands stop shaking.

you’re still scrolling when the door opens.

sukuna walks in—hoodie half-zipped, yawning, eyes still foggy from sleep. his hair’s a mess, his chain’s tucked beneath the collar, his sweatpants are loose enough to make you look away too fast.

he scratches the back of his neck. “yo.”

you freeze.

your laptop is open. your cheeks are burning.

yuji waves from the bed. “sup.”

sukuna barely glances at you as he grabs a water bottle from the desk. “you still working on that paper?”

your breath catches.

“uh—yeah,” you say, too fast, like your voice forgot how to lie casually. “just finished.”

“cool,” he says. “good luck or whatever.”

and then he’s gone.

the door clicks shut behind him.

yuji yawns. “you okay?”

you nod. “mhm.”

he stretches and rolls over.

and you stare down at the words you wrote like they belong to somebody else. like they aren’t yours at all.

maybe that’s the fun of it. maybe that’s why you needed to write it. maybe it’s easier to pretend it’s not about him if he never sees it.

you close the document.

you don’t hit save.

but you’ll remember all of it anyway.

hello friends... @st4rlightisa @softtashoney @nishinoya-senpaai

he props himself up on his elbows and squints at you like he’s trying to work through a problem set. “you’ve kissed people.”

“that does not count,” you say. “that’s like saying i can write a crime novel because i’ve watched csi.”

he laughs, the sound filling the room and doing that familiar thing where it loosens something in your chest without you realizing it needed loosening. this is why he’s your best friend. this is why he’s safe. this is why he’s absolutely not an option.

“okay, okay,” he says. “what about that guy from your econ class? the one who’s always asking to borrow a pen.”

“no.” you wrinkle your nose without even thinking. “too dorky.”

“too dorky?” he snorts. “oh, and you’re not?”

“shut up,” you say, shoving his shoulder.

he grabs your wrist and suddenly you’re both laughing, shoving, the mattress bouncing under you, the same stupid routine you’ve been doing since you were kids, elbows and knees familiarity, until you flop back onto the bed in unison staring at the ceiling fan as it ticks around.

“i just need,” you say, breathless, “like… an idea. a miracle. someone who actually knows what they’re doing to walk through that door and save me.”

the door opens.

“can you two shut the hell up?” sukuna’s voice cuts in, low and rough with sleep. “some of us are trying to rest.”

you sit up too fast.

he’s standing there shirtless, hair a mess, eyes half-lidded, sweats hanging low on his hips like they’ve given up on decency altogether, and your brain does something traitorous and stupid where it just stalls out for half a second.

“y—yeah, sorry,” you say automatically, words tumbling out before you can stop them.

yuji groans. “we weren’t even that loud.”

“you were,” sukuna says, dragging a hand down his face. his gaze flicks to you—then back to his brother. “keep it down.”

the door shuts. the room doesn’t go back to normal.

you glance at yuji. “wait—what is he doing here?”

yuji yawns. “oh. he just stopped by earlier to grab some stuff from the garage but then he, like, crashed on the couch and didn’t move. don’t mind him. you know how he always is.”

you don’t answer right away. because no, actually. you don’t. not recently.

you haven’t seen sukuna in months. not like this—not at home, not post-nap and shirtless. he goes to school on the other side of town. he doesn’t hang around.

sometimes he’ll show up for holidays or birthdays or the occasional guilt-trip dinner, but that’s it. lately it’s been like he only exists on instagram stories and through yuji’s complaints about him stealing snacks or dodging calls from their mom.

so why the hell is he here now?

and why does it feel like the air got thinner just from the sound of his voice?

you stare at the closed door for a second too long.

your brain tries to fill in the blanks—how many times you used to see him slumped in that doorway growing up, how he was always there in the background, grumpy and mean, lowkey a bully. always had something smart to say. always had to win.

but then he’d turn around and walk you home when it got dark. scare off anyone who tried to mess with you. defend you before you ever learned how to do it yourself. he’d deny it if you ever brought it up, but you remember. you remember all of it.

you remember the way he used to look at you like you were just there, something annoying and permanent.

so why did that look just now feel different?

you shake your head, hard, and look back at yuji, at your laptop, at the blinking cursor.

“anyway,” you say quickly, “that’s definitely not happening.”

“what’s not happening?” he asks.

“nothing,” you say. “ignore me. i’ll figure it out.”

you don’t look at the door again.

—-

you leave yuji’s room later with your laptop tucked under your arm and the same empty document burned into the backs of your eyes, cursor still blinking behind your eyelids like it followed you out just to be petty, like it wants you to know you didn’t escape anything by standing up and walking away.

nothing written. not even a sentence you can pretend you’ll fix later. just white space and that stupid blinking line, waiting.

you walk across campus alone, the air colder than you expected, hands shoved into your sleeves, dorm lights glowing in other people’s windows like proof that everyone else has somewhere to be, something figured out.

but friday is tomorrow.

and fridays are automatic. fridays are routine. fridays are yuji’s place and takeout and sitting around too long and staying later than you mean to. fridays are something you don’t have to plan for—you just show up.

which means you may have the chance to see sukuna again.

and then, because your brain hates you, it does the worst possible thing and starts filling in blanks you didn’t ask it to.

you think about what it would be like if it were him—his hands on you, like when he’s shown you how to do things before, the way he never rushes, the way he explains without making you feel stupid, like teaching is just another thing he’s good at.

you imagine his voice, telling you where to put your hands, what actually matters, what doesn’t, correcting you when you get it wrong without ever raising his voice.

you picture the way he stood in the doorway earlier, loose gray sweats hanging low on his hips, fabric doing absolutely nothing to hide the fact that there’s very little left to the imagination there, like your brain clocked it before you could stop it, it catalogued the shape and weight of it without asking for permission.

you think about what’s under them and hate how easily the thought settles, how it slots into place like it always belonged there.

stop.

your pace stutters, heart kicking hard against your ribs, and you squeeze your eyes shut like that might help.

this isn’t you. this isn’t something you think about. not about him. he’s yuji’s brother. he’s always been around. he’s annoying and familiar and not someone your brain is supposed to go quiet over. you’re just stressed. you’re just spiraling. you’re just projecting because you want answers, and he sounds like one.

that’s all this is.

you force yourself to breathe, to keep walking, to shove the image back where it came from, but it lingers anyway—his hands, his voice, the certainty of him knowing exactly what to do and exactly how to explain it to you.

stop, you tell yourself again, more firmly this time.

why now?

why him?

you’ve known him forever. he’s always been there—nothing about him has changed. so why does it suddenly feel different, like something tilted when you weren’t looking? like your chest tightened for no good reason, like you noticed his voice in a way you never have before?

you walk down the path thinking anyone but him over and over, like if you repeat it enough it’ll stick, like it’ll reroute your brain onto a safer track. anyone else. a stranger.

a nameless body you don’t have to think about tomorrow. a version of yourself that isn’t behind everyone else, that didn’t somehow make it to college without picking up whatever experience everyone else seems to talk about so casually.

you hate how childish it makes you feel. how small. how behind. how late.

this would be easier if i wasn’t like this.

the thought sits heavy as you reach your dorm, key sliding into the lock, because it doesn’t come with an answer — just the quiet promise that tomorrow, after classes, after you run out of excuses, you’ll have to come back.

and the cursor will still be blinking.

—

you wake up tired, drag yourself through classes, stare at people who sound like they have their lives together and nod like you understand what any of this is building toward.

you try not to think about last night, but your brain does that thing where it replays the one part you didn’t want it to save, and now you can’t stop seeing it—sukuna in the doorway, shirtless and irritated, gaze flicking over you like he’d already figured it out. the shape of him.

you shake it off, shove it down, swear it meant nothing.

it doesn’t help.

because now it’s dark out and you’re walking back to yuji’s place like you always do, like you haven’t been dreading it all day. it’s autopilot. friday night. takeout and whatever’s playing on netflix. you knock once before letting yourself in like you live there.

yuji’s already yelling from the couch. “you’re late!”

“you’re early,” you shoot back.

he grins when you round the corner, arms sprawled out, socks half-off, hair sticking up like he fought gravity and lost. “i ordered your favorite, so you’re not allowed to complain.”

“i never complain.”

he snorts. “you only complain.”

you drop your bag by the door, kick your shoes off, and try to act like your eyes didn’t just flick toward the other end of the couch. like you didn’t already know he’d be there.

except… you kind of didn’t.

because sukuna’s never here. not during movie nights. not when it’s just you and yuji doing the same dumb shit you’ve been doing since high school. he usually avoids this whole thing like it’s contagious—claims you’re too loud, that the movies are trash, that being around the two of you lowers his iq.

so what the hell is he doing here now?

you hover by the entryway a second longer than you mean to, caught off-guard, gaze dragging across the way he’s slouched into the couch—hoodie half-zipped, sleeves pushed to his elbows, grey sweats dangerously low on his hips, drink in hand, legs spread like he’s claiming the entire fucking house.

he glances up. meets your eyes. nods. “you’re late.”

you blink. “…you’re here.”

he smirks, slow. “sharp as ever.”

you frown, stepping further in. “why?”

he smirks, lazy. “you say that like you thought i’d be gone.”

“i did,” you say honestly. “you usually ghost the second we show up.”

“yeah, well,” he says, raising his drink a little like a toast, “mom and dad are out of town.”

you narrow your eyes. “don’t you have a dorm?”

“yeah,” he shrugs, “but why would i suffer in that shoebox when i can have hot water, real snacks, and a couch that doesn’t smell like mildew?”

you make a face. “gross.”

“truthful.”

you cross your arms. “i thought you hated being here.”

“i hate being here when they’re here,” he says. “every time i sit down, it’s either—‘have you heard back from that grad program?’ or ‘do you need help updating your resume?’” he mimics his mom’s voice a little too well. “it’s like a career fair with emotional baggage.”

you snort, despite yourself. “so this is… what? a staycation?”

“something like that,” he says, sinking deeper into the cushions. “i figure i’ll use up the free amenities while the guilt trips are on pause.”

your stomach does something weird and warm.

he’s not supposed to be here.

he’s choosing to be here.

you look away first.

you barely have time to sit with the weirdness of him being here before yuji’s voice cuts in again, louder this time, coming from the kitchen.

“can you unfold the table?” he calls. “i got dumplings and the good noodles.”

you cross the living room, bend to grab the scratched-up plastic folding table from behind the couch, and pop it open with one foot while yuji drags over the bags, hands full of sauce containers and those cheap paper napkins that never absorb anything. he’s already talking while sorting food, chopsticks stuck behind one ear like a pencil.

“you want the chili oil or no?”

“obviously.”

he tosses the packet toward you. you catch it.

you glance toward the couch—sukuna hasn’t moved. same position, same drink, same hoodie-and-sweats combo, like this is his house and you’re the one visiting.

“you’re not eating?” you ask.

he shrugs. “already did.”

yuji waves a hand. “he’s lying. he just mooched the egg rolls before you got here.”

“they were getting cold,” sukuna says, unapologetic.

you end up next to him on the couch, tray table between your knees, dumplings steaming in front of you. you try not to fidget.

yuji settles on your other side—except he’s yuji, so he sprawls. knee to your thigh, elbow jabbing as he adjusts, plate in his lap like a feral raccoon.

“you’re in my space,” you tell him.

“no such thing,” he grins, and gives you a shove—not hard, just enough to bump you right up against sukuna’s side.

you blink. feel the heat of him immediately, stretched out like he hasn’t even registered you’re touching. like he doesn’t care. like you’re not even—

don’t think about it.

you try to watch the movie. you do. it’s some dumb action flick yuji picked out of nostalgia, one you’ve both seen a million times. the plot doesn’t matter. you know every beat. you’re not watching the screen anyway.

you’re aware of the way sukuna’s thigh stays right there against yours. the shape of his wrist where it rests on the couch arm. how his hoodie rides up when he shifts to drink from the glass in his hand, dragging the fabric tight across his stomach. the clean line of muscle just under the hem, the peek of ink at his ribs. the curve of his mouth when he smirks at something the actor says, even though he’s not really watching either.

you imagine those hands on your hips. your throat. your thighs. his voice behind you, in your ear, telling you what to do and how to do it. correcting you. teaching you. like it’d be the easiest thing in the world for him. like he already knows you’d listen.

you cross your legs and shift away an inch.

he doesn’t react. doesn’t even look.

what is wrong with you.

“uhhh, bathroom,” yuji says suddenly, half-standing and holding his stomach. “that shrimp was a mistake.”

you don’t even register it until he’s gone, footsteps down the hall, door clicking shut behind him.

and then it’s just you.

and him.

and the credits rolling.

and the sound of him setting his glass down soft on the coaster.

“so,” sukuna says, and your whole body freezes, “how’s the little writing project?”

your head snaps toward him. “what.”

his mouth twitches. “yuji said you were stuck.”

“he told you?” your voice spikes, mortified.

“mm,” he hums, noncommittal.

“oh my god.”

“what?” he says, like it’s funny. “you asked for a miracle. you got me.”

you stare at him, open-mouthed, like you’re not sure whether to hit him or die on the spot.

he raises a brow, lazy. “cat got your tongue?”

“don’t flatter yourself,” you mutter, finally remembering how to speak.

“too late.” he stretches out like he’s settling in, wrist draped over the back of the couch, his whole frame angling toward you now. “so. what’s the issue? you trying to write something hot and you’ve never even been touched?”

you blink. hard. “excuse me?”

he shrugs, annoyingly casual. “not a judgment. just sounds like that’s the problem.”

“yuji told you that?” you hiss, heat crawling up your neck.

“you’d be surprised how much your bestie overshares when he thinks i’m not listening.”

you want to combust. spontaneously. immediately. your chopsticks freeze midair.

he watches you for a beat, head tilted, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek like he’s holding back a laugh. then—

“look, i’m just saying,” he says, almost bored, “you don’t need to fuck someone to write about fucking someone. you just need to know what people actually notice. what feels fake. what kills the mood.”

you blink. again. your brain’s lagging, like your wi-fi just cut.

“i could help,” he says. “if you’re not too chicken.”

you laugh—nervous, defensive, too loud. “you’re joking.”

“am i?”

he doesn't blink.

your heart does this weird sideways lurch, and for a split second your imagination does something very stupid—throws up a flash of what that might look like: his voice behind you, telling you what sounds real. his breath against your ear. one hand in your hair. one on your hip. that same voice, smug and low, saying yeah, that. write that down.

“jesus,” you mutter, shaking your head like that’ll knock it loose. “you’re yuji’s brother.”

“and?”

“and that’s insane.”

he smirks again, cocky this time. “then keep writing about symbolic peaches.”

you open your mouth to say something back—something scathing, probably—but yuji yells from the hallway before you can.

“i think i’m dying!” he shouts from behind the bathroom door.

you flinch, the spell broken.

sukuna just snorts, leans back, and reaches for his drink again like he didn’t just detonate a bomb in your brain.

—

you don’t stay late.

you make up something about homework. about being behind. about getting a head start on your readings before monday even though it’s friday and everyone knows you don’t touch shit until sunday night.

yuji doesn’t question it, just clutches his stomach dramatically and says the shrimp’s still trying to kill him, tells you to take leftovers, offers a weak thumbs up from where he’s curled under a throw blanket like he’s on his deathbed.

you wave him off, mutter something about texting later, and slip out the door.

sukuna doesn’t say anything when you leave.

but you can feel his eyes on your back the whole way to the hallway.

you walk faster than usual, keys clutched in your hand, cold night air biting at your cheeks as you cut through campus toward your dorm. your brain won’t stop spinning—like it’s buffering. like it’s stuck between tabs.

you asked for help.

not like that. not really.

except now you can’t stop imagining it. not just the suggestion, but what it would look like. feel like. his mouth near your ear, his fingers tracing your wrist, that stupid low voice explaining the difference between pornographic and believable like he’s grading you.

you swallow and push your dorm door open.

kick off your shoes. shed your coat. go straight for your bed and your laptop, like maybe forcing yourself into motion will fix it.

the document’s still open.

cursor still blinking.

you pull the covers over your lap, fold your legs under you, rest your fingers on the keys.

nothing.

not a word.

not a single honest sentence.

you type, slowly: she kissed him like she’d done it before.

you stare at it. backspace.

he touches her like he owns the moment.

backspace. you close your eyes.

and see him.

you asked for a miracle. you got me.

his smirk. the slow way he said it. the way his eyes didn’t move, didn’t flick, didn’t waver—like he already knew what you’d do with the thought. like he planted it.

and now you can’t stop thinking about what he’d say if you let him get close enough to correct you. to guide you. to show you the kind of heat that doesn’t need metaphor.

you drag a hand down your face, cheeks hot, heart weird and jumpy.

this is yuji’s brother.

you don’t even like him.

he’s smug. infuriating. mean. he barely talks to you unless it’s to be a dick about something. he’s a problem. he’s always been a problem.

and still—your fingers twitch.

you type, again: he touches her like he’s teaching her something she’ll never forget.

you stare at it.

you don’t delete it.

not yet.

you fall asleep like that. laptop still open. sentence still glowing on the screen like it knows it’s crossed a line.

you don’t dream. or if you do, you don’t remember it.

just wake up groggy and uneven, mouth dry, skin clammy, that same heat from last night clinging to the back of your neck like a warning. like you left something unfinished.

you shower. make coffee. sit at your desk and stare at your notes like they’re in a different language.

by noon, you’ve refreshed the same three apps fourteen times and rewritten the same paragraph twice with no new words added. your phone buzzes. it’s yuji.

yuji: shrimp poisoning update: i’m still dying. plz come over yuji: bring electrolytes or vibes or both idk yuji: sukuna’s literally useless. he’s just making toast and watching me suffer :(

you blink.

toast?

you hesitate. because you weren’t planning on going back today. you told yourself you’d take space. get perspective. delete the sentence. reset the mood.

but yuji’s asking. and he’s your best friend. and he’s sick. and… you’re already grabbing your keys.

—

the front door’s unlocked when you get there.

“back from the dead?” you call as you toe your shoes off.

yuji’s voice comes from the couch, muffled under a pile of blankets. “barely.”

you head straight to the kitchen, drop your bag on the counter, pull two gatorades from your tote.

and that’s when you see him.

sukuna. leaned against the fridge, plate in hand, wearing a tank top that’s doing absolutely nothing to distract from the fact that he’s half muscle and no shame, sweatpants hung loose on his hips, jaw working slow as he takes a bite of cinnamon toast like the world owes him nothing and he owes it even less.

“wow,” you say flatly, “what a beacon of brotherly support.”

he shrugs, mouth full. “he’s not dying.”

“he thinks he is.”

“he’s dramatic.”

you toss him a look as you move past him. you do not look at his arms. or the way his neck flexes when he swallows. you do not think about last night. or the sentence. or the way his voice is somehow the same in person as it was in your imagination—just rough enough to scrape against your ribs.

you do not.

“here,” you say, handing yuji the drink once you reach the couch.

he lights up like you’ve performed a miracle. “my savior.”

“your savior brought you electrolytes,” you say, plopping down next to him. “and she’s staying just long enough to make sure you don’t vomit on the carpet.”

"give me some kinda good news." he hums a little between sips, then glances up at you. “you make any progress on your writing?”

you go still.

“…not really,” you say as you sit criss-cross on the floor beside him.

he makes a face, the same one he always makes when you don’t want to talk about something—not annoyed, not pushy, just curious in that sweet stupid way that makes you want to confess things you shouldn’t. “what’s stopping you? still stuck on the scene?”

you nod, slowly.

he sits up more, leans on his elbow like it helps him think. “can’t you just, like… watch porn or something?”

your head whips toward him. “what?”

he shrugs. “i mean, if you need ideas.”

“porn,” you echo, flat. “yuji.”

“what?” he says, defensive now. “i’m just saying. it’s not like there’s a shortage of material out there.”

you stare at him, then drag a hand down your face. “oh my god.”

and behind you—

clink.

you freeze.

slowly glance over your shoulder.

sukuna’s standing in the kitchen again, rinsing his plate in the sink, but there’s something about his posture—the lazy slouch of his shoulders, the way he shakes the water from his hands—that makes it feel like he heard every word. like he was waiting for the right one to land before reacting.

you catch his eye.

he doesn’t blink. just tilts his head, real slow, mouth tugging into the kind of smirk that says that’s what you’re working with?

and suddenly your whole body burns.

you snap your gaze back to the tv, ears on fire, pulse stuttering.

yuji keeps talking—something about storyboarding a sex scene like a fight scene—but you don’t hear it. all you can think about is the way sukuna looked at you, like he knew exactly what part of that conversation wasn’t just academic. like he’d seen the little flash of panic behind your eyes, caught it, catalogued it, kept it.

fuck.

you sit rigid for the next few minutes, barely breathing, and when yuji finally excuses himself to go upstairs—“i think the shrimp’s staging a comeback tour, be right back”—you almost bolt.

but you don’t.

because you feel it before it happens.

sukuna’s steps behind you.

the subtle shift of the couch as he drops into yuji’s spot.

his arm brushes yours.

and his voice—that voice—slides in low and warm like it belongs there.

“porn, huh?”

you jolt. “oh my god.”

“relax,” he says, clearly enjoying himself now. “just thought it was funny.”

“you would think that’s funny.”

he leans in a little, elbow on the back of the couch. “what, not your thing?”

you flinch like it was an accusation. “excuse me?”

he shrugs one shoulder, lazy. “porn.”

“jesus,” you mutter under your breath.

“just curious,” he says, like he’s not enjoying the way your voice pitched. “you watch it or not?”

“why the fuck would i tell you that?”

he grins, sharp teeth and a twitch of his jaw like he’s won something. “so that’s a yes.”

you open your mouth—shut it.

he tilts his head, eyes narrowing just enough to track the way your throat bobs.

“what’s your type?” he asks, soft. cruel. “you like the soft, fake moaning kinda shit? studio lighting, vanilla choreography, lots of uh-uh-uh baby please?” he mimics it in a falsetto that makes your whole body light up in mortification.

“shut up,” you hiss, face burning.

he ignores you.

“or do you skip to the rough stuff? choking. hands. crying. that why you can’t write it down? ‘cause you want someone to make you feel it first?”

but he’s just sitting there like he didn’t say anything obscene at all, pinky tracing a slow circle into the armrest like he’s bored, like he hasn’t just undone you down to the bone with a single sentence and a look that’s far too pleased.

“i’m just saying,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to your mouth, “if you’re gonna do research, might as well use a source you can ask questions.”

your stomach swoops.

you freeze for half a second—heat curling up your spine, shame trying to dig its little claws in—but you don’t let it win. not this time.

you smile.

“yeah?” you say, cocking your head just a little, voice light but your pulse pounding. “what kind of porn do you watch, sukuna?”

that gets him.

not much—just a flick of his eyes, a slow shift in his posture, like you surprised him. like you scored a point he wasn’t expecting you to take.

“you look like you’re into some freaky shit,” you add, and there’s something proud in it, something satisfying, because even though you’re flustered, you’re not folding. not for him. not yet.

he smiles.

wide. teeth. slow as syrup.

“freaky,” he repeats, voice dropping a little. “you say that like it’s a bad thing.”

you roll your eyes—not because you’re annoyed, but because you have to do something with your face or he’ll see it all over you.

“please,” you mutter, grabbing a throw pillow and shoving it into your lap like it might deflect the heat. “you give off big uses the tags ‘brat tamer’ unironically energy.”

he laughs. deep in his chest. low and amused and just a little too delighted.

“and what, you’ve been scrolling?” he asks, leaning in again, elbow braced on the couch, close enough that you can feel the pull of him, gravity bending in his direction. “studying my digital footprint?”

“no,” you shoot back, too quick. “i just—” you flounder. recover. “i’ve met you.”

his eyes flash with something sharp.

“guess that makes you the expert,” he says. “so tell me, then. what am i into?”

you blink.

he’s baiting you. obviously. you can feel it in the slow, smug curl of his mouth, the way his voice drags just enough to make your pulse trip, the way he’s watching you like he’s already heard the answer in your head and is just waiting for you to say it out loud.

you square your shoulders, pretend you don’t feel backed into a corner.

“dumb girls,” you say.

his brow arches, amused. “yeah?”

“yeah,” you sniff, deflecting, heat crawling up your neck. “dumb girls who fall for the whole broody asshole thing. you probably like it when they call you ‘sir’ and pretend to struggle when you pin their wrists.”

his mouth twitches.

“mm. that’s cute,” he says, low. “you rehearsed that for me?”

“i rehearsed it for my own dignity,” you snap. “you’re not the first guy to act like a walking red flag.”

he hums. lets the words hang. then—“but i’m the one you’re thinking about.”

you roll your eyes. “in your dreams.”

“you sure?” he murmurs. “’cause you’ve been thinking a lot lately.”

your stomach flips.

“i haven’t—”

“you have.” his voice is a little quieter now. “last night. in bed. alone. you tried to write, didn’t you?”

your mouth goes dry.

“i’m just guessing,” he says, like it’s no big deal. “but that look on your face says i’m right.”

you stare at him.

your mouth opens. nothing comes out. your brain is still trying to catch up to how easily he said that, how casually he put it on the table like it’s a shared observation instead of a private, humiliating thought you didn’t consent to anyone noticing.

he watches you for another second.

then he moves.

he doesn’t loom. doesn’t crowd. he just shifts, slides off the couch and down to the floor where you’re sitting cross‑legged, close enough that your knees almost brush, close enough that you can feel the heat of him without him touching you yet.

he settles there like it’s nothing. like he belongs.

“relax,” he murmurs, when you stiffen. “i’m not gonna bite.”

his knee nudges yours. barely there. accidental if anyone else were watching.

his fingers trail against the carpet, then brush your ankle like he didn’t even mean to do it—light, lazy, testing. you swear you feel it all the way up your spine.

“you’re thinking too loud,” he says quietly.

you swallow. “you’re projecting.”

he hums, amused, and tilts his head to look up at you from where he’s sitting. the angle is wrong in a way that makes your stomach flip—his eyes level with your mouth now, lashes casting shadows you absolutely do not need to be noticing.

“maybe,” he says. “or maybe i’m just good at reading people.”

his fingers shift again, knuckle grazing your calf this time, lingering for half a beat too long to be an accident.

“i bet you even thought about touching yourself to me,” he adds, voice low, almost conversational. “just once. just to see if it’d help.”

your breath stutters.

“that’s—” you start, but he cuts in gently.

“i didn’t say you did,” he says. “i said i’d bet.”

he watches your reaction like he’s collecting data.

then, because he’s cruel, because he can, he continues.

“you wanna know what i watch?” he asks, like he’s offering trivia. “since you asked ever so nicely, princess.”

you don’t answer. you can’t.

he smiles anyway.

“i like girls who don’t know they’re already gone,” he says. “girls who overthink until their bodies give them away. girls who act tough and pretend they’re judging, when really they’re wondering what it’d feel like to be handled by someone who knows exactly what they’re doing.”

his fingers tap your ankle once. twice.

“girls like you.”

the words land soft and heavy all at once.

he stands.

just like that.

no follow‑up. no pressure to respond.

he dusts his hands on his thighs, glances toward the hallway like he’s remembered something unimportant, and adds over his shoulder:

“anyway. think about it. or don’t.”

then he walks away, footsteps unhurried, leaving you sitting there with your pulse in your ears, skin buzzing where he barely touched you, mind screaming what the fuck just happened.

and worse—how easily it made sense.

—

you end up leaving yuji's later than you meant to.

not because yuji needs anything—he’s finally asleep, curled into the corner of the couch like a crime scene chalk outline, snoring softly under three layers of mismatched blankets—but because you kept thinking maybe he’d show up again.

that sukuna would walk through the kitchen for a snack, or pass behind the couch on his way to the bathroom, or offer some lazy comment just to hear himself talk.

but he doesn’t.

he disappears the way he always does—suddenly, thoroughly, like it was never about you in the first place. like he didn’t lean close, voice rough in your ear, and say things he had no business knowing.

and you? you just… keep stalling.

hovering in the kitchen too long. picking at leftover rice like it’s suddenly fascinating. checking your phone even though no one texts you except your group chat asking for notes. all the dumb little things people do when they’re trying not to seem obvious about waiting.

but eventually, you run out of reasons to stay.

so you slip your shoes back on, grab your bag, scribble a dumb little sticky note for yuji (“don’t die. hydrate. stop ordering shrimp. love u.”), and let yourself out.

the night is cold. the streetlights flicker. the walk back is too quiet and your thoughts are too loud.

you’re not even frustrated with him—not really.

you’re frustrated with yourself.

because it wasn’t supposed to get under your skin like this. it wasn’t supposed to turn you into some wound-up mess who’s too horny to function and too proud to do anything about it. he’s not even flirting—he’s just being sukuna. smug. sharp. obnoxious. too perceptive for his own good.

and now you’re stuck with the aftermath, walking briskly back to your dorm with your jaw tight and your fists jammed in your jacket pockets, brain circling the drain of every shitty fantasy you’ve accidentally conjured in the last twenty-four hours.

him on the floor beside you. the scrape of his voice. the way he looked at your mouth.

you groan. out loud. to the night air.

“ugh.”

you hate this. you hate him. you hate how easily he slips under your skin like it’s muscle memory. like you’ve always been like this—some girl with a secret soft spot for the worst possible option. except it’s not soft. it’s raw. exposed. stupid.

by the time you get to your dorm, you’re exhausted. not even from the walk. from the noise in your own head.

you drop your bag. lock the door. shed your hoodie like it’s too heavy to keep wearing.

and then you just stand there. in the middle of the room. staring at nothing.

you want—something. someone. a fix. a release.

instead, you’re alone with a blinking cursor again.

and you’re mad at the idea of touching yourself, because it feels like giving him power he doesn’t deserve. like he’d know. like he’d smirk if he ever found out.

like maybe that’s exactly what he wants.

this is stupid. you’re not doing this for him. you’re just—relieved. blowing off steam. resetting. that’s all.

you don’t even argue with yourself anymore.

you peel your jeans off, kick them aside, tug your shirt over your head and swap it for an old tank that hangs loose against your ribs.

you crawl into bed and flop onto your back, staring at the ceiling, arms thrown over your head like surrender.

for a minute, you just breathe.

then you grab your phone.

twitter loads. immediately annoying. loud. fake. you scroll anyway, irritated, thumb flicking too fast, skipping past everything that feels wrong. too polished. too forced. too obviously not him.

your brain narrows the search without asking you.

dark hair. broad shoulders. a voice that’s rough instead of performative. guys who look like they’d sit too close and talk too quietly just to see what you’d do.

it takes longer than it should, but eventually you find one that’s… close enough.

you don’t turn the volume all the way up.

you don’t really watch.

you just listen.

your free hand slips under the blanket, fingers brushing over your chest through the thin fabric of your tank. you suck in a breath when you feel how hard your nipples already are, thumb circling one, then the other, sharper this time like you’re annoyed with yourself for how easy it is.

your other hand hesitates at your waistband.

slow.

careful.

like if you go too fast you’ll have to confront what you’re doing.

“fuck,” you whisper.

you’re already wet. of course you are. slick and warm, your fingers gliding instead of dragging, your hips shifting without permission like your body’s been waiting for this all night.

you close your eyes.

it’s not the video you see.

it’s sukuna on the floor beside you. elbow on the couch. that look in his eyes when he clocked you. the way his voice dropped when he said girls like you like he knew exactly where to aim it.

your fingers press harder. move faster.

you bite your lip to keep quiet, breath breaking anyway, one hand squeezing your chest while the other works between your thighs like it knows exactly what to do even if you pretend you don’t.

“sukuna,” you breathe.

the name slips out before you can stop it.

you freeze.

eyes snapping open. heart slamming so hard it almost hurts.

did i just—

shock hits you, sharp and dizzying, embarrassment crawling up your neck. your fingers still, hovering, like you might pull away and pretend this never happened.

your thighs tremble.

you hesitate.

then—fuck it.

you keep going.

angrier now. needier. like you’re daring yourself to finish what you started. like stopping would somehow be worse. your fingers curl just right, pressure building fast, your body tensing like it recognizes the path even if your brain doesn’t want to.

you cum with a muffled gasp, face turned into your pillow, pleasure ripping through you too quick and too intense to soften. your back arches, toes curling, breath shuddering as it crests and breaks, leaving you shaking and oversensitive and stunned.

you lie there afterward, chest heaving, phone forgotten somewhere near your hip.

“what the fuck,” you whisper again.

but this time it sounds quieter. tired.

you turn the phone screen off without looking at it, tug the blanket up around you, curl onto your side like you’re trying to contain the mess of yourself.

sleep takes you fast.

before you can think too hard.

before you can decide what it means.

before you can admit that this—whatever it is—has already started.

—

his mouth is hot.

that’s the first thing you register. heat and pressure and the slow grind of his tongue as he sucks at the soft flesh just below your jaw, dragging his teeth down the column of your throat like he wants to leave something behind. a mark. a memory. ownership.

you exhale too sharp, hips jolting like he’s shocked something inside you, like the friction between your legs is suddenly the only thing tethering you to the bed. your hands find his shoulders—and you mean to push him off, to say something halfway coherent, but then—

“still with me?” sukuna murmurs, voice low, voice smug, voice so close it curls under your skin.

you nod without thinking.

“use your words, princess.”

“y-yeah,” you breathe.

his mouth twitches against your skin like he’s smiling. then he’s dragging his palm up your thigh, under your shirt, across your stomach—like he’s touching you to prove a point.

his fingers hook in the waistband of your shorts.

“we doing this?” he asks, barely a whisper.

you don’t answer fast enough.

his hand moves lower.

your breath catches.

“fuck,” you hiss, hips jerking when his fingers slide over your underwear, right where you’re warmest. “sukuna—”

“mm?” he hums, nose brushing your cheek, his thumb pressing down, circling once.

you whimper. actually whimper.

his lips graze yours.

“so fucking wet already. cute.”

his fingers slide under the waistband like they belong there.

no hesitation, no asking again, just that confident hook of his knuckles tugging your underwear down your thighs until cool air hits skin that’s already too hot, too sensitive, like your body’s been waiting longer than you have. he doesn’t rush it. of course he doesn’t. sukuna never rushes anything he knows he has control over.

“look at you,” he murmurs, thumb dragging slow and deliberate through slick heat, spreading it like he wants to see how bad it’s gotten. “barely touched and you’re already like this.”

you try to argue. it comes out as a broken sound instead.

his hand cups you fully now, palm warm, fingers long and sure, pressing just enough that your hips lift without permission, chasing it, begging without words. he clicks his tongue softly, amused.

“that’s it,” he says. “don’t think. just feel, princess.”

one finger slips in.

you gasp, sharp and helpless, back arching off the bed as the stretch punches the breath from your lungs. he waits—just a second—lets you adjust around him, lets your body realize what’s happening, how deep, how real.

then he moves.

slow at first, curling his finger just right, finding something inside you that makes your vision blur instantly, that has your thighs trembling and your hands clawing at the sheets like you might disappear if you don’t hold onto something.

“there,” he says quietly. “that’s the part you’re supposed to write about.”

you sob his name.

his second finger slides in easily, obscene in how natural it feels, how full you are, how your body opens for him like it’s muscle memory instead of fantasy. he sets a rhythm that’s cruelly unhurried, fingers working you open, thumb circling your clit in lazy, exact strokes that make your legs shake uncontrollably.

you can’t breathe. you can’t think. every sound you make feels too loud, too needy, but he doesn’t stop — just watches you fall apart under his hand like this is the lesson, like this is what he’s been trying to teach you all along.

“close,” he murmurs, voice right in your ear now. “i can feel it. don’t fight it.”

you shatter.

it rolls through you all at once—tight and overwhelming and white-hot—your body clenching hard around his fingers as you cry out, back bowing, pleasure ripping through you so fast and so intensely it leaves you dizzy, ruined, shaking.

his fingers keep moving through it, slow and deep, drawing it out until your legs give out completely.

“good,” he says softly.

and you wake up with a gasp.

heart pounding. sheets twisted around your legs. underwear damp and unmistakable, heat still throbbing between your thighs like your body hasn’t caught up yet.

your dorm room is dark. silent. empty.

no sukuna. no weight beside you. no voice in your ear.

just the hum of the radiator. the glow of your phone on the nightstand. and the horrifying realization settling in all at once.

oh my god.

you press the heels of your hands to your face, mortified, pulse still racing, slick evidence cooling against your skin.

and worse—much, much worse —your body is still aching for him.

you lie there for a second too long, staring at the ceiling like it might scold you into sanity, heart still kicking hard, your phone buzzes once on the nightstand—nothing important, just a notification—but it snaps something in you anyway.

before you can talk yourself out of it, you grab it.

it reads sunday, 12:23 am.

your fingers hover over his name.

don’t, you think.

why would you do that.

you do it anyway.

you: are you still at yuji’s?

the typing bubble doesn’t appear right away, and that somehow makes it worse. your stomach churns. you toss the phone onto the bed like it burned you, then immediately snatch it back up again, pacing the narrow strip of floor between your desk and the door.

why did i ask that.

what am i even doing.

the phone buzzes.

sukuna: yea. why?

two words. calm. unbothered.

you swallow hard, pulse spiking all over again like your body doesn’t understand the difference between dream and reality yet. your thumbs fly, backspace, hover.

you: just wondering you: didn’t know if you went back to your dorm

you stare at the screen, mortified by how obvious that sounds. he doesn’t respond immediately this time, and the silence stretches, loud and humiliating.

your skin still feels too tight. too warm. like the night clung to you and didn’t let go.

shower, your brain supplies, desperate. now.

you drop the phone face-down on the bed, grab a towel from the hook behind the door, yank your shower caddy off the shelf with a little more force than necessary. shampoo clatters, loofah tangles around your wrist. you don’t care.

as you head down the hall, your phone buzzes again.

sukuna: nah. told you i'm staying the night.

you freeze for half a second, fingers tightening around the towel.

of course he is.

you don’t reply.

you just keep walking, push into the bathroom, lock the door behind you like that might lock the thoughts out too. you turn the water on hot—too hot—steam already starting to curl up toward the ceiling as you strip and step under it, shoulders sagging the second it hits.

you let the water run over you, over your face, your hair, like you can wash the night away. like you can rinse the image of his hands, his voice, the way your body reacted, right out of your system.

it doesn’t work.

you’re still in the shower when you cave.

steam thick in the air, water beating down on your neck, your leg propped awkwardly against the tile wall as you shave like you’re training for the olympics, hands moving fast, razor slipping dangerously close to uneven territory. your breath’s coming too fast to blame on the temperature alone.

your phone’s on the counter, screen lit up, mist curling around the edges.

you lunge for it, still wet, fingers fumbling.

you: i changed my mind you: i’ll take you up on that offer

the second you hit send, your stomach turns over on itself.

a moment later:

sukuna: thought you might sukuna: send the addy

you hesitate.

then:

you: here’s my address you: just knock

you stare at it for a beat. three dots flicker at the bottom, disappear.

you brace both hands on the sink and take a breath like you’re about to dive underwater. everything’s too hot. too real. too fast.

you wipe the fog from the mirror.

look at yourself—damp towel slung across your chest, bare skin flushed from heat and adrenaline, water still dripping from your collarbones.

your pulse thrums low in your stomach, relentless.

why does this feel like it matters.

you rinse fast, too fast. nearly trip getting out, towel half-tucked and slipping, legs damp and goosebumped. you moisturize like you’re trying to erase every imperfection, swipe deodorant like he’s gonna be under your arms, shii he might tug on a loose tank and shorts with a matching set underneath and immediately regret both.

you light a candle. you fluff the pillows. you curse yourself out under your breath.

then you sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the door like you’ll be able to hear his footsteps from the stairs.

your phone buzzes.

sukuna: on my way

you don’t respond.

you asked.

he’s coming.

and you don’t know what’s about to happen.

you try sitting.

you really do.

you sit on the edge of your bed, legs crossed like you’re calm, like you’re centered, like you didn’t just text sukuna in the middle of the night and invite him over like a fucking lunatic. you rest your hands in your lap. you stare at the candle.

ten seconds.

then you’re up again.

you pace to the door. check the lock. double check. you twist the knob and relock it just to make sure. you wipe your palms on your shorts. you glance in the mirror. turn sideways. frown. adjust your top. fix your hair. unfix your hair. tug the neckline lower. regret it.

you check your phone.

nothing new.

you open the window for air.

you close it immediately when it makes the candle flicker too hard.

you practice what you’ll say.

“thanks for coming, this won’t take long.”

“i just want clarity, nothing else.”

“this is for the project, nothing more.”

you say them out loud. again. and again.

you try not to think about his hands. his mouth. the way he looked half-asleep and annoyed and hot for no reason.

you try not to think about the dream. the part where he said you were wet. the part where he wasn’t wrong.

you try not to picture how this could go. where it could go. how it might go if you just stop pretending you're normal.

you press your knuckles to your mouth and whisper: what am i doing.

and then—a heavy knock.

you freeze.

you stare at the door like it’s a fucking ghost.

he knocks again. two slower taps this time.

you grab your phone and check the screen like it might offer a reason not to open it. no new texts.

you swallow hard.

then cross the room—step by slow step—and place your hand on the knob.

your heart hammers.

you invited this.

you twist.

and open the door.

he sees everything in one sweep: the dim glow, the towel still damp on the rack, the nervous way you're standing like you forgot how posture works. the smell of whatever you used in the shower clings to the air—sweet, soft, flustered.

his gaze slides over you.

you forget how to breathe for half a second.

“huh,” he says, smirking like he’s already solved the whole puzzle. “romantic.”

you flush instantly. “i wasn’t trying to—i mean—”

“sure,” he says, like he’s humoring you, stepping inside only once you move aside.

you hover, awkward, near the desk while he takes his time scanning your space like he’s evaluating it—picking it apart. then he sinks into your desk chair like it was always meant for him, legs spreading wide, thighs draped in those same loose sweats, forearms resting on the arms of the chair like he’s claiming territory.

he looks up at you, smug. “well?”

you swallow. “i had some—questions. notes. i thought maybe—”

you falter. it sounds fucking stupid now. everything you rehearsed in your head twenty times, all the clever ways you were gonna make it sound academic, detached, like this wasn’t weird—

“is this weird?” you blurt. “i feel like it’s weird. it is weird, right?”

his brow ticks up. that smirk stays.

“you’re the one who invited me, sweetheart,” he says, tone light. “i was minding my business.”

“i know, i just—” you fidget with the hem of your tank. “it’s just a project, but it’s not a project, and now you’re here and you’re sitting like that and it’s just—i don’t know, maybe this was dumb.”

he exhales through his nose. gets up slow, like he’s giving you a chance to walk it back.

“if you’re not ready, fine,” he says. “i can go.”

he looks down at your grip. your fingers on his skin. then back up at you.

you let go too fast. step back like you’re embarrassed. he doesn’t laugh.

just nods, like that’s all he needed.

“then stop wasting time,” he says. “sit.”

you blink. “sit?”

he tilts his head, gestures to the rug between his legs. “on the floor.”

“…why?”

“because i said so.”

you obey before you even think about it, slipping to your knees on the soft rug. the heat from his body hits you like a wall, his legs bracketing you from behind as he leans forward, his breath ghosting the back of your neck.

“close your eyes,” he murmurs.

you do.

“if you were writing this,” he says, voice low and right at your ear, “where would he touch her first?”

you hesitate. “her face?”

his hand ghosts your jaw. barely there.

“boring,” he murmurs.

you bite your lip. “her—her waist?”

his palm brushes your ribs. then withdraws. “warmer.”

you breathe uneven. “her.. neck?”

a low sound hums from his chest. not quite agreement. not quite praise.

just noted.

and then—his knuckles graze the slope of your throat, light as a whisper, slow as a secret.

you jerk, not from fear, but from how exposed it makes you feel. how easily he could tighten his fingers. how quickly he could tip your chin and make you look at him.

how easily you’d let him.

“sensitive, huh,” he murmurs behind you, and you can hear the shape of his smirk in the way the words curl at the edges.

like he’s already writing this scene for you. like you’re just here to confirm it.

your heart knocks hard behind your ribs. you want to play it cool.

but his voice—it’s so soft. like he’s in no rush. like he enjoys this part.

“tell me why,” he says, still close to your ear. “why would a guy touch her here first?”

you try to find your voice. it sticks. your mouth is too dry.

“because it’s…intimate,” you say, quiet.

his thumb presses—just barely—at the hollow of your throat.

you swear you stop breathing altogether.

“that all?” he asks, like he’s testing you.

you scramble for more. “it’s—it’s not sexual, not right away. it builds tension. it’s suggestive. it makes her aware of her whole body.”

there’s a pause.

then, low and pleased: “good girl.”

you swallow like it burns. your thighs clench.

“what next?” he asks.

your brain short-circuits. you can’t think of words, only feelings. only the place his hand used to be. only the way your nipples have gone stiff under your tank, how your skin feels too tight everywhere.

“…her legs,” you say.

“where?” he prompts.

“her thighs.”

“too vague.”

your breath stutters. your chest lifts with it, and the air feels different now, heavier.

you try again. “the inside of her thighs.”

a beat. then—

“getting there.”

his palm ghosts over your knee. slides up, slow, until the heat of it hovers just shy of where you’re starting to throb, and that’s where he pauses—just rests it there.

“why?”

you swallow, hard. “because—because it’s close but not—”

“not what?”

“not where she wants it.”

you can hear the smile in his voice. “and where does she want it?”

your mouth opens. nothing comes out.

he leans in.

“say it.”

you flinch. “between her legs.”

“where?”

you shake your head, whispering, “i can’t—”

his breath skims your ear. “sure you can. you’re the writer, right?”

he waits.

“her—her pussy.”

and god, it burns, saying it out loud like that, but he hums like it pleases him, like he’s filing that sound away somewhere dark.

“good girl,” he says, and it shoots straight through you like lightning.

you gasp, and his hand curls tighter on your thigh like he heard it. like it confirms something.

“but,” he murmurs, tone dipping softer, more dangerous, “he doesn’t go there yet.”

you’re panting now. still kneeling. your thighs tense, your hips tilted ever so slightly toward him without meaning to.

“he wants her desperate,” sukuna goes on, and his other hand slides around your waist—light pressure, anchoring you there. “wants her to ask.”

you nod, barely.

he smirks. “and you? what do you want?”

your voice cracks. “i don’t know.”

he brushes your rib again. still not touching your chest. still ignoring the way your nipples are aching under your tank. you hate him. you want him to stop. you want him to never stop.

“that’s a lie,” he says, calm as ever. “try again.”

you’re shaking. “i want—i want more.”

he smiles like you said exactly what he wanted. but he doesn’t give you anything. just shifts a little behind you, one leg bracketing your hip, body like heat, like gravity, like ruin.

“and if you were writing this,” he breathes into your neck, “what would she say when he makes her wait?”

you shut your eyes. try not to whimper. try not to beg.

you say, soft, “please.”

he exhales through his nose. satisfied.

his hand trails up your thigh again, slow, torturous, stopping right at the seam of your panties—and you swear your whole body flinches forward just to chase it. but he doesn’t move. doesn’t press.

just leaves his hand there, over the heat of you.

then—he shifts behind you. one arm sliding around your waist, the other bracing beneath your thighs—and before you can react, he lifts you. not like you’re heavy. like you’re inevitable.

you gasp, breath catching, hands flying up to anchor against his chest as he pulls you into his lap and sets you there, knees straddling his thighs, heat pooling where your body meets his.

“eyes on me,” he says, low, like it’s a favor. like it’s a command.

you obey before you even think about it.

his face is so close now. his hand rests light on your hip. his other fingers skim your spine, tracing lazy half-circles like he’s not already drawing full-body answers from you.

“you know how to kiss?” he asks, like it’s a real question. like it’s on the syllabus.

your breath stutters. “y-yeah.”

his mouth curves. “you sure?”

you stiffen slightly. “i’ve done it before.”

“that’s not what i asked.”

your mouth parts, but no defense comes out.

his thumb lifts to your chin, tilts your face. he studies you—every little twitch, every skip in your pulse like he can read it through your skin. his voice lowers.

“you want me to show you?”

your heart’s in your throat. your chest tightens like it can’t hold all this in. “i…”

his nose almost brushes yours. his breath fans against your lips.

“you can’t write it if you don’t know how it feels,” he murmurs.

you nod, barely. and that’s all it takes.

his hand at your jaw tilts, lifts. your nose brushes his. your mouth parts before you even mean to—like instinct, like muscle memory, like something in you’s already decided. your breath stutters when his thumb grazes your lower lip.

he watches your hesitation like it’s cute.

and then he kisses you.

not deep, not yet—just a soft drag, a test, his mouth slipping slow over yours like he’s trying to prove something, like he’s showing you how it’s supposed to feel when it’s not performative, not desperate, not trying to win anything—just there.

and when you shift like you’re not sure where to put your hands, he grabs your wrists and guides them up—pulls them around his neck, like this, here, hold on.

you do.

you melt into him.

your fingers knot in the hair at his nape just as his lips part against yours, deepening it—wet now, warmer, his tongue teasing slow, like he’s got time to savor how fast you’re unraveling. your hips squirm before you can stop them,

and that’s when his hands move—down your sides, over your hips, firm and dragging, until they’re settled at your ass, holding, gripping, manipulating—and you realize a second too late what he’s doing.

he rolls you against him.

and he’s hard.

not fully, not all the way—but growing, thick under the soft barrier of his sweats, and you feel it when he shifts again, dragging your clothed heat over the shape of him like he knows what it’s doing to you. like he wants to make sure you know, too.

you gasp into his mouth.

he doesn’t stop kissing you.

just swallows the sound. tightens his grip. rocks you again, slow.

and fuck, you’re already wet.

your tank top’s half-ridden up. your thighs ache from tension. your mouth is slick and buzzing and open under his and you can’t even tell if you’re kissing him back right anymore or if he’s just kissing you until your brain gives up and lets your body want.

he pulls back barely, breath hot against your lips.

“not bad,” he murmurs, cocky. “but you’re still thinking too much.”

and then he kisses you again before you can answer. deeper. dirtier. wetter.

like he’s fixing it himself.

and you don’t know what makes you do it—somewhere between humiliation and adrenaline, between his voice in your ear and the weight of his hands still holding you like he wants something more from you—you lurch forward before he can kiss you again and catch his bottom lip between your teeth.

soft, at first.

then a little harder.

his breath hitches like he didn’t expect it.

you suck lightly, just enough to make him feel it, just enough to taste the gasp he doesn’t let out, and then you slip your tongue into his mouth—confident, slick, matching his rhythm from earlier but slower, dirtier, wet in the way that makes your thighs twitch and your chest tighten and your brain shut off for real this time.

he lets you.

lets you take it.

moans—actually moans—into your mouth when your hips shift forward, grinding down against him on instinct, like your body’s just figured out what it wants and decided to go after it.

you feel him twitch under you. feel him respond.

and when he exhales into your mouth—tight, ragged, like fuck, okay—his hands flex at your hips, then slide down in one long pull, dragging over your ass like he needs something to hold on to, and pushes up into you, slow and hard, meeting your grind with the kind of pressure that makes your breath catch and your cunt clench.

he’s hard now.

not just getting there—there.

and it makes something click in you. makes you bolder. makes you whimper a little into the kiss and tilt your hips again, chasing that friction like it might give you answers, like it might finish what the last night started.

your tank top’s half-ridden up. your thighs ache from tension. your mouth is slick and buzzing and open under his, and you can’t even tell if you’re leading anymore or if you just unlocked something he’d been waiting to release—because now he’s kissing you back rougher, hungrier, teeth catching yours, tongue stroking deeper like he’s reclaiming it.

he breaks the kiss for a second—just enough to pant against your mouth.

“…didn’t know you had that in you.”

he doesn’t break the kiss when he stands.

that’s the thing that gets you—the way his mouth stays on yours even as his hands tighten on your hips, even as the floor disappears under your feet and you make a startled sound into his mouth that he swallows immediately, tongue pressing in like quiet, like i’ve got you.

you barely have time to register it before he lifts you fully, solid and effortless, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he carries you across the room like this is obvious, like this is where you were always headed.

the bed hits the back of your knees.

then the mattress.

he drops you down and follows you immediately, palms bracketing your head as he hovers over you, body a heat-heavy presence between your thighs, mouth still on yours, still kissing you like he’s proving a point.

he doesn’t break the kiss when he stands.

that’s the thing that gets you—the way his mouth stays on yours even as his hands tighten on your hips, even as the floor disappears under your feet and you make a startled sound into his mouth that he swallows immediately, tongue pressing in like quiet, like i’ve got you.

you barely have time to register it before he lifts you fully, solid and effortless, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he carries you across the room like this is obvious, like this is where you were always headed.

the bed hits the back of your knees.

then the mattress.

he drops you down—not rough, but decisive—and follows you immediately, palms bracketing your head as he hovers over you, body a heat-heavy presence between your thighs, mouth still on yours, still kissing you like he’s proving a point.

your hands are everywhere. his shoulders. his neck. his back. you feel the flex of muscle under your fingers, the way his weight shifts to keep from crushing you while still making you feel it.

his kisses turn slower. wetter. open-mouthed and tongue dragging against yours like he’s tasting instead of taking now, like he’s savoring the way you sound when you gasp.

his mouth leaves yours just long enough to trail down your jaw, your throat, teeth scraping lightly where your pulse jumps hardest.

“fuck,” you breathe, barely realizing you said it out loud.

his hands slide down your sides, thumbs brushing under your tank, fingers spreading over your ribs, your waist, your hips—grounding, claiming, mapping you like he’s memorizing the shape of you under his palms.

your body moves before your brain catches up.

maybe it’s instinct. maybe it’s frustration. maybe it’s the way he’s everywhere except where you need him.

you reach down.

your fingers brush him through his sweats—hot, hard, there—and you curl your hand around him without thinking, without planning, without permission.

his groan is immediate. low. rough. it vibrates straight through you.

“—fuck.”

for half a second, you think you’ve done it. you think you crossed the line and he’s going to let you have it.

then his hand closes around your wrist.

firm. not angry. not panicked.

“no,” he says, voice tight now, restraint threading through it like steel. he pulls your hand away from him and pins it beside your head, fingers lacing with yours just to make the point stick. “not yet.”

your chest heaves. your legs shift under him, needy, aching.

“why—” you start, breathless.

he dips his head, forehead brushing yours, nose nudging your cheek, voice dropping back into that maddening calm.

“because,” he murmurs, “you’re grabbing for the ending.”

his thumb strokes once over your knuckles, almost gentle. almost affectionate.

“and i’m still teaching you the middle.”

his free hand slides up your stomach—palm broad and warm and maddening—until it rests under the swell of your chest, not quite cupping. just waiting. like he’s listening to your heartbeat there.

“you keep getting shy,” he murmurs. “but you’ve got all these ideas, don’t you?”

your lips part. your throat’s dry. “i…”

his head tilts. he studies your face like a text he’s annotating. like every glance is a margin note you’ll have to answer for later.

“what do you like?” he asks, simple as a quiz. like it’s an easy question. like there’s a right answer and he already knows it.

you freeze. “i—i don’t know.”

he hums, skeptical. “sure you do.”

his hand trails higher, up to the hem of your tank, fingers dipping under like he’s flipping a page. your breath hitches again.

“you liked that earlier,” he murmurs, brushing your ribs, “when i touched here.”

you nod, barely.

“and here,” he adds, palm spreading over your waist again, squeezing, slow and firm.

you nod again.

he leans down, lips near your throat. “what about this?” his thumb brushes the side of your breast, not quite touching your nipple. just teasing. just hovering like it’s a privilege.

you make a noise in your throat. embarrassed. startled. needy.

“hm?” he prompts, voice darker. “you like your tits played with?”

you flinch. “i—i don’t know. i haven’t—”

he pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. “haven’t what?”

you whisper, “no one’s ever done it like that before.”

he grins slow. wicked. fucking delighted.

“no?” his voice dips like it’s velvet dragging across skin. “want me to try?”

your lips part. “i—yeah. okay.”

“okay,” he echoes, already dragging your tank top down with both hands, peeling it under your tits so they spill out, flushed and stiff, nipples peaked from cold and contact and god knows what else. “that’s cute.”

he palms one softly, then both—squeezes just enough to make your hips jerk under him, then thumbs over your nipples like he’s testing pressure, testing reaction, testing how fast he can get you to writhe.

your head tilts back with a whimper. he watches the whole thing, like a study in cause and effect.

“sensitive,” he murmurs, again, almost fond this time. “look at you.”

you do, barely—eyes half-lidded, throat exposed, chest heaving under his hands—and he leans down and mouths over one nipple, wet and sudden and warm, and fuck, it’s worse than you imagined. better. softer. hotter.

he licks slow, then sucks.

you gasp.

your back arches into his mouth before you can stop it.

his hand is still around your wrist, keeping you from grabbing him again, but his other palm strokes down your waist as he sucks your tit into his mouth and hums like he could stay there forever. like he enjoys this more than he should.

you whine. legs tightening. core clenching.

and all he says is, “yeah… you like this,” with your nipple still wet between his teeth.

and then he does it again. harder. longer.

and you nearly sob.

he licks and sucks his way back up—tongue warm against the curve of your breast, mouth dragging heat straight across your chest, up your sternum, wet and unhurried, like he’s claiming everything you are one inch at a time. like you’re something sweet he can’t stop tasting.

his hands don’t rush. they stay low, supportive. one cradling your lower back. the other stroking over your side, fingers grazing the slope of your waist like he’s petting down a shiver.

you breathe, ragged. you feel everything.

then he reaches your neck—and fuck, you thought his mouth was sinful on your tits but here, it’s worse. better. his teeth scrape under your jaw and you gasp, hips jerking into his lap on instinct.

“still nervous?” he murmurs against your pulse, voice sticky and smug.

you try to speak. it comes out a breath. “no.”

he hums, not convinced, and then sinks his teeth in gently—not hard enough to bruise, but enough to jolt something warm and dangerous straight down your spine. you moan, barely, just a sound from the back of your throat, and he chases it immediately with his tongue, soothing the bite with lazy licks, sucking the spot once, twice, before trailing higher.

then your ear—he doesn’t skip it. doesn’t ignore the way you tense the second his breath hits the shell of it. he drags his lips up the curve, then down behind it, tongue soft. teasing. slow.

you let out something between a whimper and a curse.

his voice is soft there, right against your skin. “you always this sensitive?”

“not—normally,” you whisper.

he grins against your ear. “guess you just needed the right study partner.”

you barely have time to respond before he’s kissing you again.

sloppy. hot. tongue-first. not patient anymore—like he’s been holding back and now he’s tasting how wrecked you are. your hands scramble for his shoulders, clumsy, needy, fingers fisting in the back of his shirt like you’re afraid you’ll fall right through him.

and he lets you. lets you take it.

but while your mouth is opening for him again—while your thighs are twitching and your stomach’s fluttering and your body’s starting to catch on to just how deeply he’s unraveling you—his hand moves again.

low.

lower.

his fingers brush over your pussy through your shorts.

barely. just a pass.

but it’s enough to steal every thought out of your skull.

you break the kiss on a gasp. he doesn’t let you go far. just chases your lips with his own, nipping the bottom one as his fingers drag over you again, slow, like he’s learning the shape of the heat there. like he’s checking to see if it’s real.

you can’t stop the way you whimper. or the way your hips try to press down.

his smile is fucking audible. “already?”

your breath stutters.

“thought you were gonna be a good girl and wait for instruction,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of your mouth, “but look at you. grinding like you need it.”

you shake your head weakly. “i’m not—i wasn’t—”

he strokes the seam of your shorts again, firmer this time, right over your clit.

you cry out softly. your nails dig into his shoulders.

he groans, low, satisfied. “mm. that’s more like it.”

“can i take these off?”

you nod, too fast. “yeah.”

your voice is high, wrecked. you sound too eager. you don’t care.

he shifts, slides the waistband down slow, thumbs hooking into the sides like he wants to make a scene of it, like it’s important he gets the angle right. your hips lift for him instinctively, and he hums a little like he likes that, like he noticed you offering yourself up without even thinking.

when the fabric drags down your thighs—slow, teasing, heat-sticky—he pauses.

his eyes drop.

and he actually stops breathing for a second.

“…fuck,” he mutters.

you freeze. “what?”

“these,” he says, thumbing the lace, “are ridiculous.”

they’re not. they’re cute. pale and soft, trimmed with little bows.

but he looks at you like you just stepped out of a fantasy he didn’t know he had.

his fingers brush the waistband again, lighter this time. “you always wear shit like this under your writing hoodie?”

you try to sit up, suddenly flustered. “i didn’t know you were gonna—”

he cuts you off with a grin, soft and smug. “i didn’t say i didn’t like them.”

his knuckle grazes the tiny bow at the center. “they’re pretty.”

your stomach flips.

“too pretty,” he adds, dragging the panties down the rest of the way. “almost a shame.”

“almost?” you whisper.

he brushes his nose right up the inside of your thigh, breath hot against your skin, like he’s following the heat of you.

his eyes flick back up—hungry, warm. “i’m not gonna feel bad if they get a little ruined.”

his hands slide up your legs, thumbs grazing the crease where your thighs meet your hips, settling just beneath the fabric. and for a second, he doesn’t do anything. just looks at you from down there—like he’s cataloging, committing, planning. like this isn’t just curiosity. it’s fucking reconnaissance.

you shift. inhale. exhale. it doesn't help.

his fingers press into your thighs, spreading them wider, tugging you closer to the edge of the bed, until you’re practically tilted forward and gasping already, your tank top bunched under your arms, your stomach tight, your pulse wild.

then—

his tongue presses through the fabric.

and it’s filthy. hot and slick and entirely too much even though you’re still covered, his mouth working slowly like he’s trying to taste you through the lace, open-mouthed licks dragging up the center seam while his hands squeeze your thighs like he’s got you locked in place.

you whimper. bite down on the sound. his eyes flash.

“don’t hold back,” he murmurs into you. “i want to hear it.”

your hips stutter forward, chasing him. he pulls back just enough to breathe, lips slick, smirk blooming wide across his face.

“yeah,” he says, voice gone hoarse, “you’re definitely a writer. dramatic little thing.”

he licks you again. slower. this time, the pressure rolls over your clit with enough heat to make your legs jump. and you can’t stay quiet—can’t stay still—you arch up, one hand shooting out behind you to brace on the sheets, the other fisting in the hem of your shirt like it’s the only thing anchoring you.

he groans, soft, like he likes the way you move. the way you shake. the way you’re already this wet for him and he hasn’t even taken them off yet.

then he does.

hooking his thumbs in the waistband, he drags them down slow—teasing, watching your face the whole time like he’s studying what embarrassment looks like when it hits your cheeks, your collarbone, the curve of your bare, glistening pussy in the cold air of his room.

“fuck,” he says, low and reverent. “look at you.”

you can’t.

you can barely breathe.

“spread wider,” he murmurs, voice low, like it’s for the room more than for you.

you’re already panting. already slick and wrecked, thighs trembling on either side of his shoulders, but you do it—you obey without thinking, feet dragging wider over the sheets, knees bent up, nothing covering you now, not even the panties he’d peeled off like wrapping paper.

“fuck—look at you,” he mutters again, more to himself, like he’s taking notes. “pretty pussy already fluttering and i haven’t even touched your clit yet.”

“you did—” you gasp, sharp—“you did earlier—”

he laughs. laughs, mouth warm and wet where it’s already hovering over you, breath ghosting the slick mess of your cunt like a warning. “that was nothing,” he says, dragging his tongue up the center seam just once, slow, all tease, no pressure, “that was a warm-up.”

you flinch. your head tips back. your hips jerk forward—need before thought.

his fingers press down into your thighs. “keep still.”

“i’m trying—”

“try harder,” he says, like he’s teaching you how to hold a pen properly.

you breathe like it hurts. you feel hot, head spinning, mouth open to moan but it’s all breath, no sound. his tongue traces your folds again—no hurry, no rhythm, just methodical, exploratory strokes like he’s figuring out what parts make you jolt and twitch, what spots make your breathing shift and your hands scramble up the bed like you’re trying to run away from the feeling.

you moan. “sukuna—”

he hums against you. your back arches.

“tell me what that felt like,” he says, pulling back, mouth slick, voice serious. “right now. describe it.”

you blink through haze. “it was—it was—fuck—it felt—”

he slides two fingers up your slit, slow, parting you open. “you’re a writer, aren’t you?”

you sob. “warm,” you manage. “and slow. and—wet. deep.”

he nods, satisfied. “good.”

then—his mouth’s on you for real.

you scream, basically, or whimper like something feral, one hand flying to cover your mouth while the other fists the sheets. your hips roll. your thighs clamp. your chest rises like you’re choking on heat and sensation.

he moans into your cunt—on purpose, loud—and it sends a shock through your body so hard you nearly sob.

“s-stop—” you gasp, but you don’t mean it, and he knows it.

“no you don’t,” he mumbles against you.

his fingers slide in.

thick.

slow.

the stretch of it nearly takes you apart, two of them pumping steady while his mouth circles your clit and you’re losing it, like completely. no plan. no dignity. no plot left in your head at all.

“what do you say when it feels that good?” he asks, not even lifting his head.

you pant. “i—thank you?”

he laughs again. “no,” he says, curling his fingers just right, making you choke, “you ask.”

“ask—?”

he licks you again. sucks again.

you cry out. “please—!”

“hm?” he pulls back. “please what?”

your voice cracks. “please let me—please let me cum—”

“why?”

you blink at him, glazed. “w-what?”

“tell me why you deserve it.”

“i don’t—i—i can’t—fuck—” your thighs twitch, trying to close again. he pushes them back apart.

he curls his fingers deeper, tongue flicking again, faster.

“you’re gonna cum anyway,” he murmurs, amused. “might as well earn it.”

“because—” you sob, high-pitched, “because i want it—because i need it, i swear—please—”

his mouth closes over you again, and this time he doesn’t stop.

doesn’t pull back.

doesn’t tease.

just devours you.

his fingers never falter, fucking you open while his tongue presses your clit into a constant throb, and you’re not even breathing anymore, you’re gasping, you’re grinding your hips into his face now, you’re whining like an animal, like a slut, like a student who finally gave up and admitted she wants to be taught—

—and when you cum, it’s like everything stops.

it’s so wet, you can hear it.

it’s so hot, you forget how to move.

your legs lock up around his head. your hips buck once. your back arches off the bed as your mouth drops open, a long, broken moan falling from it like confession.

and he stays there, tongue softening, licking through the aftershocks like dessert, until your thighs shake and your pussy pulses and you push at his shoulder, begging him—begging—for a break.

when he pulls back, his mouth is glossy. flushed. still smirking.

“good girl,” he says, wiping his thumb over your slit one last time.

you twitch. you gasp.

you don’t know who you are anymore.

you’re still twitching when he shifts down.

still trying to catch your breath.

your legs part instinctively—an offering, a warning, an invitation you couldn’t take back if you tried.

“relax,” he murmurs, voice a rasp against your inner thigh. “not gonna make you cum again.”

you whimper. “i—i can’t—”

“i know.”

his hands anchor you open again anyway, firm on the backs of your thighs, keeping you spread, keeping you honest, and his mouth dips one more time, down, down, down—

—and kisses your clit.

just once. just a kiss.

a wet, closed-mouth press that turns your whole body to glass, that makes your hips jump and your thighs tremble and your breath hitch like you know he did it just to see if you’d beg for more.

you almost do.

you feel it for a lifetime.

“mm,” he hums against you, and the vibration shoots through your cunt like a punishment. “still twitchy.”

your voice breaks. “that was—”

“what?” he murmurs, glancing up with that gleam in his eye. “too much?”

you swallow. “too good.”

he grins. kisses it again.

lighter. shorter. more like a thank you than a threat.

you moan before you can stop it.

he breathes out a laugh.

“still so sensitive,” he says. “guess we’ll save the rest for next time.”

then he drags his mouth back up your body—slow, wet kisses over your hipbone, your ribs, the curve of your breast, the underside of your jaw. he sucks your skin like he’s tasting a story he wrote first.

“n-next time?”

when his mouth finds yours again, you’re still slick and open and ruined.

and you kiss him back like it’s the only thing keeping you alive.

you whimper.

then he stands.

and it’s ridiculous, the way your whole body feels it, like pressure dropping from the ceiling, like heat pulling away from your skin all at once. like something just got taken away before you even had it.

you’re flushed. trembling. panting like you just ran a mile, thighs aching, nerves shot, breath hitching every time his scent brushes the back of your throat.

your chest rises and falls like a warning. your core pulses like an afterthought.

his gaze drags over you once, then dips lower.

“rewrite the scene,” he says. “send it to me.”

your mouth is open, but no sound comes out.

he turns.

the door swings open.

he doesn’t look back.

his scent lingers. his voice lingers worse.

the silence rushes in like a wave.

you don’t move. not for a long time.

you don’t know how.

you’re still on your back, legs numb, lips parted and swollen, pulse still caught in that place just below your bellybutton where everything feels wrong and raw and so, so ready for more.

you close your eyes. you breathe in slow. you try to ground yourself.

but there’s no coming back from this.

no neutral after that.

the cursor’s still blinking on your laptop.

you reach for it like you’re in a trance, fingers trembling, breath shuddering as you drag the computer onto your lap, still kneeling, still sticky, still wearing nothing but the throb between your thighs.

you know exactly what you’re gonna write next.

“that what you call this?” he murmurs, voice all silk and static. “hovering like a coward with your cunt drooling all over me?”

you flinch.

he laughs.

“sit, woman.”

and you do. or—you try to. you lower down, slow, slower, heart pounding in your throat and your thighs already quivering from holding yourself up too long.

and the second your cunt touches the heat of his tongue, you jerk, whole body twitching like you’ve been electrocuted, because it’s so wet, so hot, so textured, and the barbell presses right against your clit before you even meant to line up and you gasp, loud, pathetic, and he huffs like he’s disappointed.

“can’t even take it yet and you’re already shaking,” he mutters, arms still behind his head like he doesn’t have a care in the fucking world. “what happened to all that begging? thought you were gonna ride it. thought you were gonna use me.”

you grind once, just to prove a point, just to shut him up, just to feel it—slick muscle flexing up against you, barbell dragging across your folds like a hot wire, the mouth below groaning so loud your spine rattles—and he moans, loud and layered, from the stomach and from the head and from every mouth on his body.

“yeah,” he exhales, lower now, darker. “that’s it. use it. rub that nasty little clit on my tongue like you mean it. you wanted this, didn’t you? you asked for it.”

you nod, too fast, too hard, and he clicks his tongue—his tongue, up top—disappointed again.

“use your words.”

“yes,” you breathe, “i wanted it—fuck, i wanted it so bad—”

“then show me.”

so you start riding.

slow at first, just the drag of your soaked cunt against the piercing, the fat of his tongue curling up into your folds like it’s starving. it groans every time you shift your hips, every time your clit catches the edge of that barbell and sparks shoot down your spine, every time your thighs twitch like you’re going to cum and then stop, because you’re trying to hold it back, trying to be good, trying not to fall apart too fast.

and he watches. of course he does. eyes half-lidded, mouth curved in a slow smirk like he’s winning some game you didn’t know you were playing, like he wants you to cum fast so he can ruin you again, like the way you stutter and whimper and claw at his abs just to stay upright is entertaining, not flattering, not hot, not desperate—it’s funny to him.

“you close already?” he drawls, mocking, one eye lazily rolling over the wet mess you’re making on his stomach. “you gonna squirt on my tongue like a dumb little brat? gonna make a mess just from grinding?”

“fuck,” you whisper, breath catching. “fuck, don’t stop—”

but you don’t get to finish the thought because two of his hands are on your hips before the words even leave your mouth, slamming you down hard on his tongue, grinding you over the barbell with such brutal pressure that your legs spasm.

your voice breaks on a scream, and another hand—his third—grabs your jaw like he’s bored of hearing you talk and shoves two fingers into your mouth without warning, deep, past your tongue, knuckles pressed against your lips like he’s plugging you with them just to hear the way your moan turns to a gag. just to keep you quiet while your cunt gushes down his stomach like he fucking earned it.

and the fourth hand—because of course there’s a fourth—is already in your hair, yanking your head back like he wants to see everything, the twitch of your eyes, the flush of your cheeks, the tears starting to pool from the pressure, overstimulation, and the humiliating wet sounds of your pussy squelching against that hot, pierced tongue every time he drags your hips forward like you're just a toy with one function.

“there we go,” he mutters, watching your face like he’s studying a slow death. “that’s what i like. make a mess. cry about it.”

you try to breathe but it’s too much—his tongue still grinding against your clit, the barbell catching right at the edge where it’s all nerve endings and no mercy. your cunt's already so swollen it hurts, his fingers in your mouth pressing down on your tongue until drool spills down your chin, and your own fucking hips still twitching like a traitor, chasing every slow, wet roll of that tongue like you’re starving and feral.

his hand in your hair softens. not much. just enough to stroke your cheek, just enough to tilt your head back and make you look at him, just enough to see the way your lashes flutter and your pupils blow and your lips part around his fingers like you were made to take him.

“don’t look away,” he murmurs. “you wanted to ride it, remember? wanted to feel it. wanted to cum all over me with no self-control—so show me.”

you moan. not a word. not a sentence. just a sound, and he smiles, that awful slow grin that spreads across his top face and echoes in the twist of his stomach mouth, tongue flicking up again, hard, once, twice, with the piercing catching your clit like a snare. you twitch so violently you almost fall forward.

“ah-ah,” he coos, catching you. “sit up. take it right. yeah… that’s it. good girl.”

“f-fuck,” you gasp, trying to lift yourself but it’s too much, too wet, too slippery, and the moment you tense your thighs, the tongue moves again, faster now, faster and deeper, curling up inside while still lashing your clit and the pressure spikes so high so fast you scream around his fingers.

and he fucking moans underneath you.

groans like he’s the one cumming.

like your pussy squirting all over his chest is the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

“good fucking girl,” he growls, hand cradling your jaw now, thumb brushing your wet cheek while your body jerks and shudders and releases all over him. “look at that. look at how fucking messy you are.”

you sob—really sob this time, mouth full, cunt clenched, thighs shaking, slick pouring down his stomach in thick, hot gushes, your clit spasming against the piercing like it’s begging for mercy while the rest of you grinds harder, chasing a high you’re not even sure you can survive.

“please—” you whimper around his fingers.

“please what?” he asks, like he’s confused. like he’s not the one holding you down and dragging you across his tongue like a fucktoy.

“can’t—can’t cum again—”

“yes, you can,” he whispers, sweet now. so sweet. hand still petting your face like you’re something fragile while your cunt paints his stomach in slick. “you’re doing so good. look at me. that’s it. just one more.”

he leans in.

“give it to me.”

and you do.

screaming. gushing. twitching all over.

squirting so hard it splashes, so hard it hurts, so hard your body locks up, and still he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, doesn’t let you stop until your hips collapse forward and your forehead drops to his chest and you’re drooling all over him, moaning like something broken.

“fuck,” he breathes, licking his bottom lip.

and he strokes your hair again—gentle now.

last time it was rose petals. the time before that, champagne on ice. this time it’s cherries. purple and cold and split in half like he knew you’d complain about the seeds. there’s a gold tray floating nearby, embossed with little star motifs that glow faintly when the steam rolls over them.

“open,” he says, and of course you fucking do.

the bath is hot enough to sting. the steam’s curling your hair at the edges. your face is tight with that honey-clay-fancy-shit mask he special ordered from the capital, some absurd royal apothecary with a logo shaped like a mushroom crown, and there are cucumbers on your eyes that you didn’t ask for but now can’t remove without effort, so here you are.

dripping wet. blind. mouth open. being hand-fed by the most dangerous man in the empire. again.

this isn’t a rescue mission. it’s a spa day.

there’s a small brass bell by the tub, too. he told you it was decorative. you rang it once. servants appeared instantly. you’ve never touched it again.

and yet—if satoru gojo kicks down the castle door one more time while you’re soaking in a three-foot-deep lavender salt bath, you are going to commit an act of treason yourself.

“chew princess,” sukuna says lazily, and you chew, because arguing while topless in cucumber-blindness never works out in your favor. his fingers graze your lips. cold and wet. it doesn’t feel like a fruit offering. it feels like a game. a game you’re pretty sure he keeps winning on purpose.

“i should lock the door this time,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “fucking idiot’s probably already scaling the south wall.”

you snort. inelegant. a sound unbecoming of a captive princess. “you say that every time.”

“and every time, you let him ruin our date.”

you flick one cucumber slice off. barely crack an eye. he’s sprawled by the edge of the bath, arm balanced on the porcelain, hair up, chest bare, tattoos coiling, like this is his personal brothel and you’re the treat he summoned.

there’s a throne in the corner of the room you’ve never seen him sit on. he prefers this instead. he pops a cherry into his own mouth and chews like he invented the concept of pleasure. he probably thinks he did.

“i wouldn’t call it a date,” you mutter, and he tilts his head.

“you’re naked. i’m feeding you. he’s jealous. feels like a date.”

somewhere far below, a pipe groans as magic reroutes through the castle, like it’s bracing for impact.

you roll your eyes and sink deeper, the water sloshing over your collarbones. the tub is too big. the room is too warm. the air smells like fruit and whatever spell he always sneaks in when he thinks you’re not paying attention—the one that makes your legs feel floaty and your mouth dry. the one that makes you stay.

“he’s not jealous,” you lie.

sukuna laughs like you’re adorable. or pathetic. you’re not sure which one is worse.

you hear the splash before you realize he’s serious.

one thick leg, then the other. the water sloshes violently like the bath itself is trying to escape, and you almost lose one of the cucumbers off your eye again, but you don’t move—won’t give him the satisfaction. you lay there, blank-faced, toes wrinkling, cucumber-blind and bath-drunk while the warlord of five provinces and serial homewrecker of your peace slides into the tub like he fucking owns it.

because he does. because this castle was built to keep people out, and redesigned to keep you in.

“you have no boundaries,” you mumble, voice thick from heat and honey-mask goo and emotional exhaustion.

he hums. does not disagree. doesn’t say anything at all, actually—just settles in at the foot of the tub, lounging like it’s a throne, arms spread along the rim like he’s posing for a painting, and stares at you like he’s about to ruin something again.

you’re pretty sure this is how he waits between boss fights.

"this was supposed to be me time,” you mutter. more for yourself than him.

“it is,” he says, “i’m here.”

like that helps.

somewhere, a distant alarm chimes once. not loud. not urgent. just enough to say someone has entered the level.

you feel him hook one finger under your ankle and drag your leg toward him slow, indulgent, like he’s hauling in a catch, like your foot is a prize he won. the water parts, slick against your skin, and suddenly it’s his lap your heel’s resting in. he starts. thumb to arch. palm to sole. pressure applied just shy of pain. and you hate him for how good it is immediately.

"relax," he says, all fake-softness and amused mockery, "you act like i’ve never touched you before."

“you’ve never touched my feet before.”

he squeezes the ball of your foot just right and makes you groan through gritted teeth. “maybe that’s your problem. ungrateful. high-strung. too busy pretending you don’t love it here to let yourself enjoy anything.”

"i enjoy silence."

"never met a brat who didn’t lie for sport."

you hate that he's good at this. hate that you didn't know he could be good at this. hate that you’re not stopping him. that the bath is still hot, that his hands are still rough, that your other foot is already twitching in anticipation and he hasn't even touched it yet.

“yeah,” he mutters, low and satisfied, “there it is.”

"if you're gonna rub my feet like this every time, you should just kidnap me more often," you mutter, trying to sound bored and failing spectacularly.

"princess," he says, digging his thumbs in deeper, "you say that like you're not the one who keeps showing up."

his hands drift.

not immediately. he massages your other foot like he’s not planning anything—like he’s just being generous, like the ache melting from your calves isn’t calculated, like the bath isn’t a trap he set and walked straight into with a hard-on and a god complex.

but then his thumbs start creeping up. past your ankles. into your shins. up the backs of your calves where your skin’s the most sensitive. and you're still laid out, stretched and floaty, letting it happen. he's rubbing slow, like he has all night, like no one's coming to save you.

which they aren’t.

not yet.

you’ve been here enough to know the stages: the soak. the rubdown. the corruption. the bonus round.

his hands slide higher. up to your knees. your thighs. a palm braces against the bend of one leg and eases it open under the water, like that’s normal, like this is a trust exercise and not the prelude to filth. your cunt clenches like it knows what’s coming and wants to pregame the panic.

"i don't think this is in the massage manual," you say, voice dry, throat hotter than the bathwater.

he doesn’t answer. just leans forward. plants one lazy kiss on the inside of your knee like you’re something worshipped. like you’re a feast. like he’s already decided how you’ll taste.

and you—god help you—you don’t stop him.

you should. you know that. you should sit up and slap him and demand to be returned to your kingdom of overpriced skincare and mediocre royal suitors. but instead you let your legs fall a little wider. let him shift forward in the water. let him hook your knees over his shoulders like he’s done this before—has done this before—and let him drag you down the sloped edge of the bath until your ass is half out of the water and his mouth is hovering right there.

"say please,” he says, because of course he does. “go on. be cute for me.”

he grins, and then—boom.

the door slams open with enough force to shake steam off the walls.

the lock was enchanted. doesn’t matter. the hero always finds a way.

“GET YOUR HANDS OFF HER—!”

you don’t even lift your head. just sigh, high and long and put-upon, like your favorite face mask just got interrupted by a meteor. again.

“hello, satoru,” you say flatly. “nice of you to warp in after the cherries this time.”

there’s a faint squelch behind him as the castle seals the pipe he must’ve dropped out of. the scent of ash and ozone lingers in the air.

sukuna laughs. satoru is already halfway into the bath chamber with his stupid sword glowing and his white hair damp from rain and his eyes wide and horrified like he just walked in on a war crime.

and to be fair, he kind of did.

your legs are still over sukuna’s shoulders. your throat is still tight. your cunt is still pulsing like a fire alarm. and sukuna doesn’t even flinch. doesn’t retreat. just flicks his tongue out once, once, against the softest, most humiliating spot of you—as punctuation.

“oh,” he says, lazily. “you’re early.”

“you kidnapped her again,” satoru snaps, storming fully into the room like he pays the rent here, like he didn’t just walk in on you spread open in a royal bath.

“i invited her,” sukuna says.

“you never asked—”

“she never says no.”

“he’s got you under a spell,” satoru gasps, like this isn’t the eighth fucking time. “he’s—he’s doing something to you. you would never stay here willingly—”

“she asked for a refill,” sukuna says, not even glancing up from your inner thigh. “and a massage.”

“that’s not what this looks like.”

you bolt upright, peel the other cucumber slice off your face, dripping and humiliated and pissed off in five different directions now.

“oh my god,” you mutter, voice raw from heat and water and the whiplash of almost getting your pussy eaten into the astral plane. “both of you—shut the fuck up.”

sukuna doesn’t move. still lounging. big and broad like a final boss screen, steam curling around his tattooed chest like smoke from a fire-breath trigger, gold rings glinting at his fingers like coins from a chest you weren’t supposed to open. his shoulders are sharp. his jaw sharper. there’s something beast-shaped about the way he takes up space—even wet and lazy in the bath, he looks like he could wreck half the kingdom if you gave him a reason.

you shove sukuna off and stand. the bathwater crashes back into place. you step out, dripping, glistening, glowing with leftover soap and fresh vengeance, and snatch your robe off the heated hook like you’re the only adult in this cursed castle.

“you’re not rescuing me,” you snap at gojo, tying the sash. “you’re not corrupting me,” you shoot at sukuna. “you’re both just horny and dramatic and in love with the sound of your own arguments.”

satoru sputters. “i—i care about you—”

“you want to win me,” you correct. “like a sword duel or a fucking cake contest.”

“not everything is about your pussy,” sukuna drawls from the water, licking your taste off his lips like a challenge.

his tongue is sharp when it flicks out, forked at the tip like some kind of demon king parody of affection. his eyes glow just slightly—red and cruel—like he’s gearing up for his next form. like if you say the wrong thing, he’ll shift. claws, maybe. a shell. something ancient that drags you into him no matter how many times you run.

the castle hums again, and for a second, you swear the tub jets pulse in sync with your heartbeat.

“but you always make it about that,” you bite back. “so what’s the truth, huh? one of you wants to save me. the other wants to ruin me. but both of you are stuck in this dumb, pathetic tug-of-war and i’m the only one smart enough to say it.”

they’re both quiet now. dripping. wet. steaming in different ways.

you cross your arms.

“you don’t want to fight over me.”

you pause. drop your voice.

“you want to share.”

the silence is heavy.

you step forward, slow. drip across the floor. eyes locked on satoru first, then sukuna. neither of them flinch. neither of them breathe.

“and maybe if you two would stop acting like enemies and admit what you really want,” you murmur, “you’d both get to cum.”

sukuna stands.

and god, it’s a final boss animation.

he rises from the bath like he was spawned, not born—huge and horned at the shoulders with muscle and menace, black tattoos flaring like molten paths across his chest, glowing faintly gold under the water like lava veins. his aura crackles. the air bends. if he roared, you’d flinch. if he laughed, you’d cum. his dick is out like it belongs on a pedestal, and you’re not entirely convinced it doesn’t breathe fire.

you stare. satoru stares harder.

"what the fuck are you doing," satoru blurts, instinctively taking a step back like the sheer audacity is contagious.

“what’s it look like?” sukuna shrugs, climbing out completely, no towel, no shame, not even a flicker of modesty. he walks across the marble like he was born to stalk enemies and lovers barefoot and naked in his own castle. “i’m giving the lady what she asked for.”

he even leaves scorch marks in the water where he stood. not literal ones. just hot enough that your skin remembers them.

“she said kiss,” satoru says, face full panic, eyes full don’t make this real. “not—whatever this is.”

“you scared?” sukuna smirks. “it’s not gay if it’s for her.”

“that’s literally the most gay justification I’ve ever—”

“do you want to fuck her or not?” sukuna snaps, suddenly louder, stepping into his space, wet and steaming and mean. “because if we’re gonna fuck her, we’re doing it my way.”

he’s close enough now to smell like fire. not smoke. fire. heat from the source. it clings to him like sweat, like magic, like a dragon-shaped threat that decided it wanted you instead of treasure.

satoru's mouth opens. closes. twitches at the corners like he’s trying to glitch out of the conversation entirely. like if he blinks fast enough, he’ll wake up in a normal situation where he hasn’t just been pressured into gay chicken by the demon lord of wet arrogance.

"this is coercion," satoru mutters.

"this is teamwork," sukuna corrects.

you lean against the wall. robe loose. "tick-tock," you sing, "someone kiss someone or i’m going back in the bath, alone."

sukuna doesn’t break eye contact.

he steps in closer.

his hand curls around the back of satoru's neck, slow and tight like a threat dressed in silk. satoru flinches. exhales. and stares at sukuna’s mouth like it’s a moving target.

“just a kiss,” sukuna murmurs, voice low. “then you can pretend you hated it.”

his fangs flash. not cute little vampire points. canine. beast. prehistoric.

you’ve seen him bite before. once, during a sparring match, a rival ended up with puncture marks through enchanted armor. that rival never came back.

satoru doesn’t mean to do it. that’s what he’ll tell himself later. he didn’t want to. didn’t plan to. didn’t lean in.

sukuna did. sukuna always does.

but his mouth is right there—wet and hot from the bath, and his hand’s already on satoru’s neck like he owns it, like he could snap it or kiss it or both—and there’s something about the way he says just a kiss that makes it feel like a dare.

so satoru folds.

he doesn’t tilt his head, doesn’t breathe, just stands there frozen while sukuna leans in—and kisses him like he’s trying to win something.

and fuck, does he.

it’s not sweet. not gentle. not curious.

it’s filthy.

it’s tongues first, lips second. teeth clacking, spit everywhere, heat rolling off both of them like a second bath was summoned just from the sheer friction of hate-fucking a kiss into place. satoru grunts, shocked and breathless and already grabbing at sukuna’s arm like he’s going to shove him off, like he should, but his hand stays. fingers digging into wet muscle, other hand on sukuna’s hip like maybe he needs to keep him steady, like maybe he wants more leverage.

sukuna groans into it. obscene. hands everywhere—cupping satoru’s jaw, dragging down his ribs, gripping his waist and pulling like he wants to fuse them. he kisses like it’s combat. like he’s breaking satoru’s mouth in. like he wants you to watch.

and you do.

robe open. chest heaving. eyes wide and wet and locked on the way satoru’s knees are buckling slightly, the way he breathes like he forgot how to, the way he moans when sukuna sucks his tongue just to be mean.

satoru gasps. sukuna doesn’t let him go.

hand in his hair now. tongue deep in his mouth. hips angled forward like if this keeps up he’s going to grind on him, and maybe he is, maybe that’s the point, maybe he wants to be rutting up against his rival’s thigh while you stand there wet and smug and choosing which one of them you’re gonna ride first.

when sukuna finally pulls back—strings of spit between them, both of them flushed and panting and glassy-eyed like they just got head in a thunderstorm—he laughs.

"see?" he pants, mouth red. “teamwork.”

satoru stares at him. you stare at them. no one says anything for a second.

“again,” you say, eyes bright, mouth sticky-sweet with command. “this time—on my bed. chop chop.”

you clap your hands once, like they’re stable boys and you’re the duchess of debauchery, and then turn on your heel like you expect to be followed.

they do. of course they do.

sukuna grabs a towel off the bath hook like it’s a weapon and slings it low over his hips, still smirking, still red in the mouth like he just fed on something divine. the towel looks absurdly small on him. more like a concession than coverage. like if he flexed wrong it’d be gone.

sukuna follows last. heavy footsteps that make the stone beneath the rugs shift like the castle’s recalibrating for his weight. every torch along the corridor flares brighter as he passes, flames bending inward like they recognize their source. the air stays warmer behind him, heat lingering like a warning sign you ignore on purpose.

you lead them barefoot through the hallway, robe swinging open, dripping water on the tile floors of the castle like a trail of sins you dare someone to mop up. the room you step into is ridiculous. all blush pink and soft textures and filigree mirrors. a bed so fluffy it looks like it would absorb a body whole. silk pillows with lace trim. a plush throw with your initials embroidered in gold thread.

sukuna scoffs. satoru blinks. you climb up onto the mattress like a throne.

“both of you,” you say, voice light, like you’re calling dogs to heel. “on your knees.”

they hesitate. for half a second. then obey.

sukuna throws the towel. satoru swallows like his soul’s leaving his body. and then they’re there—crawling up the edge of the bed, one on each side, eyes locked on your legs like they’re being drawn in by gravity.

you spread them.

you don’t even have to say it. they both move at the same time.

sukuna’s mouth goes to your inner thigh, tongue dragging slow and cruel up the softest skin, teeth brushing just enough to make you jolt. satoru kisses the other side, open-mouthed and reverent, like he’s trying to cancel out every filthy thing sukuna’s ever done to you with sweetness.

but it’s not about balance. it’s about devastation.

their mouths meet in the middle.

tongues brushing. lips sticky. spit mixing against your cunt like you’re the altar and they’re fighting for prayer rights. one sucks your clit. the other fucks you with his tongue. and then they switch. again and again. passing you back and forth like a dare, like a game, like if one of them makes you cum first it means something bigger than it should.

sukuna groans when you grab his hair. satoru moans when your thighs twitch around his ears. neither of them can breathe and neither of them care. they’re loud. messy. competitive. syncing up without meaning to.

you whimper. they grunt. you twitch. they dig in deeper.

you are dripping. soaking the sheets. arching into both of them like a spoiled royal, and they like it. they want it. they want to make you cum while staring at each other across your cunt just to prove they can do it better.

and you? you let them.

of course you do.

they’re exactly where they belong.

it hits you all at once, the way you’re being devoured, the way their tongues never stop, the way sukuna grips your thighs like he’s trying to carve his name into the bones underneath while satoru makes these fucking noises like he’s praying into your cunt. they don’t stop. they don’t breathe. they act like this is the final round of a competition neither of them wants to lose.

and you let them go until your hips stutter, until your fingers clutch the sheets, until your voice breaks in that perfect little way that makes them both glance up like they just heard the bell ring.

“switch,” you gasp.

they blink.

“want both of you,” you breathe, dragging one arm behind you, looking over your shoulder, “in me. now.”

it’s not a request. it’s a fact.

and god, do they scramble.

sukuna grabs your hips first. of course he does. palms you like he’s measuring the curve for fit, like he’s already imagining the drag of his cock inside you. satoru moves to the front, eyes wide and stunned and already hard like he knew this was coming and still wasn’t ready.

“on your knees,” you murmur, breath shallow, voice fucked-out and full of authority you didn’t earn but own anyway. “both of you.”

you turn over. press your face into the pillows. arch your back like an offering.

you feel sukuna’s cock drag through your folds first—slow, like he wants you to remember every inch. and satoru’s in front of you now, hand in your hair, cock flushed and leaking and twitching under your breath.

"open up, sweetheart,” he murmurs, just before you do. and then his cock is pushing past your lips, warm and salty and soaked, like he’s been ready to fuck your throat since the moment you told them to kiss.

sukuna sinks in at the same time.

you choke around satoru’s cock the moment sukuna bottoms out.

both of them groan. like your body was built for this. like they’ve been waiting their whole lives to ruin you together.

you can’t breathe.

you don’t want to.

there’s no rhythm, just need. sukuna’s hips slap against your ass, unforgiving, relentless, fucking you deep like he owns you. satoru holds your head like he’s afraid he’ll fall apart if he lets go, fucking your mouth with this desperate, whimpering pace like he’s sorry but also not stopping.

it’s spit. and heat. and suction. it’s tears down your face and drool down your chin and the brutal, gorgeous fullness of being used by both of them at once. your hands grip the sheets. sukuna’s fingers dig into your waist. satoru moans when you gag, tells you you’re doing so good, so fucking good, fuck—just like that.

you are choking. soaking.

and you never want it to end.

you can feel them in stereo.

sukuna buried in your cunt, hips snapping like a weapon, groaning every time you clench down like your pussy’s trying to keep him. satoru fucking your throat in short, desperate thrusts, hand curled tight in your hair, saying your name like a prayer he’s breaking on.

you’re dripping. crying. choking. perfect.

you don’t even have to look up to know they’re watching each other. you can feel it—the tension, the breathless, biting rivalry still simmering under all the moaning. they’re trying to pretend this isn’t what it is.

you ruin it.

you pull your mouth off satoru’s cock with a wet gasp, drool stringing from your lip to the head of him, your voice wrecked and raw and still smug when you gasp:

“kiss again.”

satoru blinks. panting. flushed to his ears.

sukuna doesn’t stop fucking you.

“she likes it,” he pants, slamming into you harder. “go on. be a good boy. give her a show.”

satoru groans. confused. humiliated. hard as fuck.

“what, you don’t want to kiss me when your dick’s in her throat?”

you swallow him again on instinct, just to watch him twitch. he gasps.

“you’re such an asshole,” satoru pants.

“then kiss me like you mean it.”

and he does. god, he does.

it’s brutal. hot. confusing and primal and way too much spit, but their mouths crash together over your body like it’s a battlefield, like they’re using each other’s tongues to claim you without saying it out loud.

you’re drooling around satoru’s cock again, the moan in your throat vibrating against him as sukuna fucks into you harder, deeper, one hand tangled in satoru’s white hair now, pulling him in to keep the kiss going.

they’re kissing over you while you’re getting fucked within an inch of your life.

spit and teeth and groans, tongues sliding, lips parted, their bodies rutting into yours at perfect opposite angles and still finding the time to moan into each other’s mouths like it’s a contest.

your cunt is clenching so tight it makes sukuna swear, low and hot, like he’s about to break.

and you? you’re soaking the sheets.

you wanted this. all of it.

and now you’re watching them fall apart for you. together.

you pull off satoru’s cock again with a gasp—spit trailing down your chin, your cunt dripping down your thighs, breathless and soaked and ready to be worshipped—and you look up at him like you’re about to give him his final test.

but before you can say a word, sukuna speaks behind you.

“lay down.”

and satoru does.

no hesitation. no backtalk. just drops back onto the mattress like his bones dissolved, like the command short-circuited something in his brain. his cock bounces against his stomach, red and wet and aching, and he looks up at you like he’s scared you’ll disappear if he blinks.

sukuna catches your wrist. leans in close.

“sit on his face.”

he says it like it’s nothing. like it’s inevitable.

and you move like you were waiting to be told.

satoru blinks up at you, already sprawled on the mattress, already halfway gone, cock flushed and twitching, lips wet from the last time he kissed sukuna like he forgot how to hate him.

“wait,” he breathes. “what are you—”

you crawl up. your knees land on either side of his head, and you hover—just long enough for him to look right at your pussy, glistening and dripping and open for him, so close he could lick it without moving.

“what are you…” he tries again, voice cracking now. “what are you doing—”

and then you sit.

his tongue doesn’t even wait.

it lunges.

like he can’t help it. like you just landed on a pressure point and released something primal. he groans—loud—mouth already open, tongue licking up your slit like he’s parched, like he’s sorry, like he’ll make up for every mistake he’s ever made if you just keep grinding down like that.

you moan. roll your hips. grab the headboard for balance.

and in front of you—you hear sukuna laugh.

a hand wraps around your waist. the other grabs satoru by the hip.

“don’t stop licking,” sukuna mutters again. “or i stop fucking.”

“wait—what—” satoru tries, voice muffled under your pussy, tongue still twitching, mouth still moving, breath already shaking.

sukuna doesn’t wait.

he never does.

sukuna grabs a fistful of satoru’s ass like he owns it. spreads him open. wide. rough. mean. just enough to make satoru twitch under you like he knows what’s coming and it’s already too much.

“you wanna eat her out so bad?” sukuna growls, breath hot across your spine. “do it with my cock in you.”

you hear it more than you see it.

the spit.

wet. thick. dragged right from the back of his throat and hawked down directly onto satoru’s hole like it’s a claim. loud and disrespectful, like he’s not even trying to be subtle about it, like this hole was made for him, and he’s just taking back what was already his.

it lands with a wet splat, stringy and hot.

satoru moans into your pussy. like it turned him on. like he hates that it did.

“fucking tight,” sukuna mutters, spreading his cheeks wider with both hands now, spit glistening on that perfect pink ring, watching it flex like it’s trying to run and take at the same time.

you don’t stop grinding. your thighs are shaking. your cunt’s soaked. satoru’s tongue keeps twitching under you like he can’t focus, like he’s trying to eat you out while processing the spit sliding down his crack, pooling where he’s already so sensitive it hurts.

sukuna spits again. harder.

watches it drip down. watches it stick.

then he lines himself up.

no warning.

just one filthy, stretched-out second of silence—then the slick, press of the head of his cock right against that spit-slick hole.

satoru gasps. tries to lift his hips. can’t. you’re on his face. sukuna’s got his ass spread wide like a fucking offering plate.

then sukuna starts to push.

you feel the way satoru shakes beneath you. feel the tremble in his hands on your thighs. feel the moan rip out of his chest and into your cunt, his tongue fluttering against your clit like he doesn’t know if he’s overwhelmed or about to cum untouched or both.

sukuna hisses through his teeth. forces himself deeper. grabs satoru’s hips and pulls him down onto his cock like he’s shoving the last piece of something perfect into place.

“fuck,” sukuna grits. “you feel that, princess? this tight little bitch clenching around me while he eats you out?”

you moan. it’s not a word anymore. not even a sound with meaning. just a shudder dragged from your ribs because satoru won’t stop licking, won’t stop moaning into your pussy while sukuna ruins him from behind like he was made for it.

sukuna leans in.

his hand comes up your spine, slow and steady, and then across your chest, fingers rough and wet from satoru’s skin, trailing up to your jaw to pull your mouth to his. he’s panting. flushed. still thrusting into satoru in long, brutal strokes. and then he kisses you.

wet. loud. hungry.

he kisses you like he owns the air between your teeth. like he wants to eat the sounds right out of your throat. you kiss him back with your whole body—mouth sticky, tongue filthy, your hips grinding harder on satoru’s face because you want him to feel it while sukuna devours your mouth.

“look at him,” sukuna growls, breaking the kiss, voice wrecked. “fuck, look.”

he grabs your chin. turns your head down.

and you do.

satoru’s face is soaked in your slick. lips swollen. nose shiny. tongue still out. his eyes are wet, desperate, fluttering like he’s already on the edge. you can feel his moans inside you, against you, vibrating straight up your spine.

“he’s gonna fucking cry,” sukuna mutters, grinning. “and he’s still hard.”

you slide off his mouth slowly. his lips chase you for a second—instinct—but you’re already shifting down, dragging your cunt over his chest, your hands planted on either side of his face. sukuna keeps fucking him, cock slamming in deeper, rhythm rougher now that you’re watching.

you lean in.

satoru gasps, eyes wide, and you kiss him.

you kiss him like he’s already lost, like the only thing left is how thoroughly. your mouth is still wet from him, from sukuna, from everything, and when your tongue slides in he makes this broken little sound in his throat like he didn’t expect you to want him after all that.

you do.

your hand slips down between your bodies. wraps around his length. he’s hot and slick and so hard it’s almost embarrassing, like he’s been holding himself together on sheer adrenaline and your approval alone. you jerk him slow at first, thumb brushing the slit just to feel him twitch.

he moans into your mouth.

and that’s when his hands come up—hesitant for half a second, like he’s checking if he’s allowed—and then he pinches your nipples between his fingers, not mean. not gentle. just enough to make you gasp against his lips and grind your hips down without realizing you did it.

“fuck,” you breathe, breaking the kiss just long enough to look at him.

he looks wrecked. pupils blown. mouth open. chest heaving. still being fucked, sukuna’s hips snapping in a rhythm that never stops, never slows, like a reminder that satoru doesn’t get to forget where he is or what he’s being used for.

you jerk him harder now. faster. wrist flexing. spit-slick sounds filling the room. he whines—actually whines—and pinches you again, thumbs rolling like he’s trying to hold onto something, like the sensation is the only thing anchoring him.

“don’t stop,” he says, voice cracked, stupid, desperate.

you smile.

“i wasn’t planning to.”

you kiss him again, messy and open-mouthed, teeth bumping, tongues sliding, your hand working him steadily while sukuna fucks him deep enough to make his whole body rock. he’s trapped between it all—your mouth, your hand, sukuna’s cock—and it shows. his breathing is wrecked. his hips keep trying to thrust up into your grip even though he can’t go anywhere.

you pull back just enough to look at him again.

then you shift.

not fully. not yet. just enough to line yourself up, to let the head of him brush against you, to feel that hot, stupid pressure that makes his breath catch and his fingers dig in harder.

“look at you,” you murmur. “so fucked out already.”

his eyes flutter.

and you start to climb.

you do it like it’s yours to take. like his cock belongs to you, and you’re just coming back for it. you slide up and over him, knees planted firm on either side of his hips, one hand braced on his chest, the other still slick and wrapped around his shaft. you line him up. tease. not because he needs it—but because he can’t do anything about it.

you’re dripping.

you’re still open from earlier, still twitching, still needy, and the second the head of his cock catches on your entrance, you feel him twitch under you.

“fuck—” satoru pants, voice high. “please—i—”

you cut him off with a moan of your own.

and then you sink.

slow. tight. wet.

you feel every inch. you make him feel it. the way you clench down just to see his jaw lock. the way his breath stops in his throat halfway through. he tries to lift his hips—instinct—but he’s still full of sukuna, still being fucked, still being used, and he can’t do shit except take it.

you bottom out.

his eyes roll back.

you sit fully on him, hands planted on his chest, the weight of your body and the stretch of his cock and sukuna’s cock inside him making him shake like he’s about to cum untouched.

and sukuna—he grunts behind you, still buried in his ass, pace faltering just slightly.

“fuck, look at him,” he growls. “he’s gonna cum just from this.”

you roll your hips. slow.

satoru chokes on a moan.

“you like that, huh?” you murmur, leaning in close, your cunt pulsing around him. “being split open, used like a toy.”

he nods. once. quick. like he’s ashamed to admit it out loud. like it’ll make it worse if he says yes and you believe him.

his mouth opens. nothing comes out.

sukuna fucks into him harder.

your whole body jolts from the force of it, your hips sliding down, satoru’s cock pressing deeper inside you just as he lets out this little choked-off gasp against your mouth, like he doesn’t know how to hold it anymore. his hands are trembling where they cling to your waist, his chest rising too fast under yours, his eyes wide and wet and full of it—heat and pressure and disbelief. he’s shaking. so are you.

you kiss him again. open-mouthed and soaking in it, tongue messy, noses bumping, the two of you completely unraveling against each other while sukuna ruins him from behind.

“he’s gonna cum,” sukuna grits out from somewhere close, the sound of skin on skin louder now, sharper, his hand gripping your waist again, fucking into satoru like he can’t stop even if he wanted to. “he’s gonna fucking cum like this. you feel him?”

you do.

you feel everything. the way satoru’s cock kicks inside you, leaking and twitching, every muscle in his stomach flexing like he’s trying not to lose it too fast. the way his moans have gone quiet now—small, desperate, breathless little exhalations against your cheek like he can’t catch a full one anymore. he’s crying a little. you think. or sweating. or just overwhelmed. it doesn’t matter. he’s close. you can feel it in your spine.

you grind down on him harder. not even bouncing anymore—just moving in slow, tight circles, keeping him deep, dragging out the friction, letting the rhythm build slow and cruel and perfect while sukuna keeps fucking into his ass like he owns it.

your voice breaks before you mean it to.

“cum,” you whisper. not loud. not sweet. just necessary. like a spell you know will work.

and he does.

so hard it punches a sound out of him that he’s never made before. his whole body spasms under you, legs shaking, back arching off the bed like he’s trying to crawl out of his own skin. his cock throbs inside you, hot and thick, spilling deep while you’re still pulsing around him, still grinding down, still clenching like you need it to keep going just a second longer.

it’s enough.

your orgasm hits like a wave slamming into concrete.

you shake. full-body. your mouth open but no sound coming out now, not really, not when you’re gushing around him, cunt fluttering, thighs locking up around his waist like you’re trying to drown him in it. your head drops to his shoulder. you don’t even know if you’re breathing.

behind you, sukuna groans. it’s low. fucked-out. the sound of a man hitting the edge with no brakes.

he grabs your hips—hard—and drives into satoru one last time, deep enough to shove satoru back up into you, your body jolting on top of him as sukuna growls and spills inside him with a hiss.

you can feel it. the way satoru flinches. the heat. the mess. the way he groans through it, lips brushing your jaw, body still twitching.

nobody moves.

sukuna stays there, cock still buried in satoru’s ass, chest pressed against your back, breath ragged. satoru is wrecked beneath you, chest heaving, eyes fluttering shut, lips wet and open. your body’s still twitching. your cunt still fluttering every time he shifts under you, too sensitive now, too full.

you don’t say anything.

you just stay like that.

you roll your hips once more. slow. indulgent. squeeze him just to feel him twitch. sukuna hasn’t pulled out yet. satoru’s cock is soft inside you now, slick with his own cum and sweat and whatever’s still leaking out of him from behind. everyone’s breathing hard. everyone’s quiet.

you blink down at him. stretch your spine. adjust your hips like you’re just getting comfortable.

“you’re both so easy it’s disgusting.”

satoru twitches. sukuna snorts.

“the fuck does that mean,” satoru wheezes, voice cracked, hands still shaking on your thighs. “i just got spitroasted for like an hour—”

“and you liked it,” you mutter, already reaching for the nearest towel. “you fucking loved it.”

“she’s not wrong,” sukuna grins, pulling out of him slow, messy, mean, one hand dragging down your spine like he knows he’s about to say something that’ll start another fight. “you were moaning like a little bitch the whole time.”

“you kissed me first,” satoru snaps.

“you came while i kissed you,” sukuna snaps back.

satoru’s whole body jerks like someone slapped him with a wet cloth. “i came because she was riding me—”

“with my cock inside you,” sukuna interrupts, smug. “say it slower.”

“that’s not—no—that’s not what happened, you manipulated the timing—”

“oh my god,” you groan, flopping back against the mattress. “are you seriously arguing about whether or not that was gay now?”

“it wasn’t,” satoru insists immediately. “it was about her.”

“you tongue-fucked me.”

“you grabbed my face.”

you blink at the ceiling. “you literally moaned into each other’s mouths while i came. like.”

“okay but that’s not gay, that’s—” satoru starts, voice a little too high.

“—collaborative,” sukuna finishes, grinning. “a shared project.”

you roll off him.

“oh my god,” you mutter, flat on your back now, towel draped over your stomach, one hand over your eyes. “can you both shut the fuck up.”

they don’t.

you know they won’t.

satoru’s already gesturing with one limp arm, trying to make a point about tongue placement and emotional sabotage. sukuna’s flexing like he didn’t almost fall over two minutes ago. you’re pretty sure there’s still cum drying on the sheets. no one’s moving.

“guess we have to go through this again.”

the room goes quiet.

you peek through your fingers.

they’re both staring at you.

satoru’s mouth is open like he forgot how to argue. sukuna tilts his head, eyes already darkening again.

“totally kidding guys.”

you’re not.