#elsietopia

. ✦ ݁ ˖ SUMMARY - Your exhausted lawyer boyfriend comes home past midnight and finds you in the bath—turns out he's never too tired to remind you exactly who you belong to.

⤷ higuruma x fem!reader | 18+ MDNI ✦

CW: explicit sexual content, bathtub sex, dom!higuruma, praise kink, soft dom energy, gentle degradation, established relationship, he's tired but never too tired for you, body worship, breeding kink mentions, unprotected sex, creampie, cockwarming, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, dirty talk, possessive behavior

It's past midnight when you hear the front door open.

You're already in the bath—have been for twenty minutes, letting the hot water and lavender bath salts ease the tension from your own long day. The bathroom is dim, just candles flickering, and you'd almost dozed off when you hear his footsteps in the hallway.

"In here," you call softly.

The door opens and Hiromi appears, still in his work clothes—shirt wrinkled, tie loosened and hanging askew, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His dark hair is messier than usual, falling across his forehead, and there are shadows under his eyes that speak of too many hours and not enough sleep.

But when he sees you in the bath, something in his expression softens.

"Hi," he says, voice rough with exhaustion.

"Hi yourself." You sit up slightly, water sloshing. "Long day?"

"The longest." He leans against the doorframe, just looking at you for a moment. "I had a client meeting that ran three hours over, then had to prep for tomorrow's hearing, then Nanami called with a brief that needs reviewing by 8 AM."

"Have you eaten?"

A pause. "I had coffee."

"Hiromi—"

"I know, I know." He pushes off the doorframe, starts unbuttoning his shirt. "I'll eat something after I shower. I just need—" He stops, watching the way the candlelight plays across your skin, the water just barely covering your breasts. "—need to decompress."

"Want to join me?" You gesture to the admittedly large bathtub—one of the reasons you both fell in love with this apartment. "Water's still hot."

He doesn't need to be asked twice.

You watch as he strips—shirt first, revealing lean muscle and pale skin. Then his pants, his boxer briefs, until he's standing there naked and exhausted and somehow still the most attractive man you've ever seen.

"Move forward," he says, and you do.

He slides in behind you with a groan that's almost obscene, his long legs bracketing yours, and immediately pulls you back against his chest. For a moment, he just holds you, face buried in your neck, breathing you in.

"Fuck," he mutters. "This is exactly what I needed."

"Me or the bath?"

"Both." His arms tighten around you. "Definitely both."

You let him hold you, let the water and the warmth and your presence ease some of the tension from his body. His hands are idle on your stomach, just resting, and you can feel his heartbeat against your back.

"Tell me about your day," you say softly. "The real version."

So he does. Tells you about the difficult client, the opposing counsel who was being deliberately obstinate, the judge who seemed determined to make everything harder than it needed to be. His voice is low and tired, but there's something cathartic about the telling, like he's releasing the stress with every word.

You listen, occasionally asking questions, your hands tracing patterns on his forearms. And slowly, gradually, you feel him relax.

"What about you?" he asks eventually. "How was your day?"

"Better now that you're home."

"Charmer." But you can hear the smile in his voice.

His hands start to move then—less idle, more purposeful. Sliding up from your stomach to just beneath your breasts, thumbs stroking the underside with clear intent.

"Hiromi—"

"Mm?" He's kissing your neck now, lips finding that spot just below your ear that makes you shiver. "What is it, baby?"

"You're tired. You should rest—"

"I'm never too tired for this." His hands cup your breasts properly now, thumbs circling your nipples until they peak. "For you."

You arch back into him, and that's when you feel it—his cock, already half-hard, pressing against your lower back.

"See?" His voice drops lower, takes on that commanding edge that never fails to make you clench. "My body knows what it wants. And what it wants is you."

"Hiromi—" It comes out breathier than intended.

"Tell me no." His teeth graze your earlobe. "Tell me you're too tired, that you want to just sleep, and I'll let you go. We'll get out, dry off, go to bed."

"And if I don't tell you no?"

"Then I'm going to make you come in this bath." One hand slides down your stomach, between your thighs. "Going to remind you exactly who you belong to. Going to take out every frustration from today on this perfect body until neither of us can think straight."

His fingers find your clit, circling with practiced precision, and you gasp.

"So what's it going to be?" He's relentless now, fingers working you expertly. "Yes or no, sweetheart. Use your words."

"Yes," you breathe. "Yes, please—"

"Good girl." The praise makes you clench around nothing, and he chuckles darkly. "Love how responsive you are. How eager. Been waiting for me all night, haven't you?"

"Yes—" You're already squirming against his hand.

"I know you have." He bites down on your shoulder, soothing it with his tongue. "My good girl, waiting so patiently. Going to reward you for that. Going to make you feel so good you forget your own name."

His fingers slide lower, teasing your entrance, and you whimper.

"Even in all this water, I can feel how ready you are for me." His voice is pure sin."Your body knows exactly what it wants, doesn't it, sweetheart?" "Yes—" You try to press down on his fingers, but he pulls back slightly, teasing. "Patience." It's a command, firm but not harsh. "You'll take what I give you, when I give it to you. Understood?"

"Yes—"

"Yes what?"

"Yes, Hiromi—"

"Good." He slides one finger inside you, slow and deliberate, and you moan. "That's my girl. Taking me so well already."

He works you with that single finger, curling it expertly, finding that spot inside that makes your thighs tremble. The water sloshes gently with your movements as you try to grind down on his hand.

"Greedy," he mutters, but there's affection in his voice. "Always so greedy for more. What do you want, baby? Tell me."

"More—please—need more—"

"Need more what? My fingers?" He adds a second, stretching you, and you cry out. "This what you want? Want me to fuck you with my fingers until you come?"

"Yes—oh god, yes—"

"Then stay still." His other hand presses down on your stomach, holding you in place. "Let me work. Let me take care of you."

And he does. His fingers work inside you with methodical precision, curling and stroking and hitting every spot that makes you gasp. His thumb finds your clit, circling with just the right pressure, and you're already embarrassingly close.

"That's it," he mutters against your neck. "Feel you getting tighter. Your body tells me everything, you know that? Tells me exactly what you need, exactly when you're close."

"Hiromi—I'm—"

"Not yet." He slows his fingers, keeping you right on the edge. "You don't come until I tell you to. Understand?"

You whimper in frustration, and he chuckles.

"I know, baby. I know it's hard. But you can do it. You can be good for me." He speeds up again, pushing you back toward that edge. "Want to make this last. Want to feel you trembling and desperate and so fucking needy that when I finally let you come, it ruins you."

"Please—" You're begging now, shameless. "Please let me come—"

"Why should I?" His voice is teasing, cruel in the best way. "Give me a good reason."

"Because I need it—because I've been good—because I've been waiting for you—"

"Such good reasons." He adds a third finger and you sob. "But I think you can wait a little longer. Think you can take a little more."

He's relentless, keeping you right on that edge, and you're shaking now, desperate and overwhelmed and so turned on you might actually die.

"Look at you," he breathes. "Falling apart on my fingers. So beautiful like this. So perfect. All mine."

"Yours—all yours—please—"

"Please what?"

"Please let me come—I can't—I need—"

"Shh." He kisses your temple, surprisingly gentle. "I've got you. You've been so good, so patient. You can come now. Come for me, sweetheart."

Permission granted, you shatter. The orgasm crashes through you, intense and overwhelming, and you clench around his fingers so hard it almost hurts. He works you through it, fingers never stopping, drawing it out until you're sobbing with oversensitivity.

"Perfect," he mutters. "So fucking perfect. But we're not done yet."

Before you've fully recovered, he's pulling his fingers out and lifting you. "Turn around. Face me. Knees on either side."

You manage it on shaky legs, the water sloshing dangerously, and suddenly you're straddling him. His cock is hard and flushed between you, pressed against your stomach, and the sight of him makes you clench.

"Look at me," he orders, and you do.

His eyes are dark with desire, exhaustion completely replaced by hunger. He looks at you like you're the only thing in the world that matters, like every frustrating moment of his day was worth it because it led him back to this. To you.

"I love you," he says, surprisingly soft given the intensity of his gaze. "You know that, right?"

"I know." You cup his face, thumb stroking his cheekbone. "I love you too."

"Good." He reaches between you, gripping his cock, lining himself up with your entrance. "Now I'm going to show you just how much."

He pulls you down as he thrusts up, and the stretch is immediate and intense. You gasp, hands flying to his shoulders for balance.

"Fuck," he grits out. "Every time. Every fucking time you're so tight. So perfect. Made for me."

"Hiromi—" You're trying to adjust, trying to breathe, because he's big and the angle is intense and it's almost too much.

"Breathe," he orders, hands gripping your hips, holding you still. "Relax. Let me in. You can take it. You always take it so well."

You do breathe, focusing on relaxing, and slowly you sink down further until he's fully seated inside you.

"There we go." His voice is strained. "Good girl. Taking all of me. How does it feel?"

"Full—so full—"

"Yeah?" He rolls his hips experimentally and you moan. "Like feeling me this deep? Like knowing you're completely filled with my cock?"

"Yes—oh god, yes—"

"Then move." His grip tightens on your hips. "Ride me. Show me how much you missed me today. Show me what this pussy does best."

You start to move, rising and falling in a rhythm that has you both groaning. The water sloshes around you, some of it spilling over the sides, but neither of you care.

"That's it," he encourages, watching where you're joined with dark, intense eyes. "Look at you, taking me so well. Look at how perfectly you stretch around my cock."

You look down and the sight is obscene—his cock disappearing inside you, wet and hard, your body taking him again and again. It makes you clench, makes you move faster.

"Fuck—" His head falls back against the tub. "Just like that. Don't stop. Don't you dare fucking stop."

You don't. You ride him harder, finding an angle that has you both gasping, and his hands are everywhere—your hips, your ass, your breasts. He pinches your nipples and you cry out, clenching around him.

"Sensitive," he mutters, doing it again just to watch you react. "Love how responsive you are. How every little touch makes you tighter around me."

"Hiromi—I'm getting close—"

"Already?" He sounds pleased. "My girl loves being fucked, doesn't she? Loves having my cock inside her, filling her up, making her feel good."

"Yes—love it—love you—"

"I know you do." He sits up slightly, changing the angle, and suddenly he's hitting that spot inside you that makes you see stars. "Love you too. Love this body. Love this perfect pussy that's all mine."

He takes over then, hands gripping your hips tight enough to bruise, guiding you harder, faster. His hips thrust up to meet yours and the force of it makes you sob.

"That's it," he growls. "Take it. Take everything I give you."

"Too much—it's too much—"

"It's not too much. You can handle it." His thumb finds your clit, rubbing circles. "You can take it. You will take it. Because you're my good girl and you do what I tell you."

The combination of his cock hitting that spot inside you and his thumb on your clit pushes you over the edge. You come with a sharp cry, clenching around him so hard he curses.

"Fuck—that's it—milk my cock—" He's still moving, fucking you through your orgasm, prolonging it until you're shaking. "Gonna make you come again. Gonna make you come until you can't remember anything but my name."

"I can't—I can't come again—"

"Yes, you can." He's relentless, thumb still working your oversensitive clit. "You're going to come again because I want you to. Because you're mine and your pleasure is mine. Understand?"

You're sobbing now, overwhelmed, oversensitive, but he's right—you can feel another orgasm building, impossible but inevitable.

"Hiromi—please—I can't—"

"You can." His voice is firm, commanding. "You will. Now be a good girl and come for me again."

It hits you like a freight train, more intense than the first two combined. You convulse around him, nails digging into his shoulders, and you actually scream.

"Perfect—fuck—perfect—" His rhythm falters. "Gonna come. Gonna fill this tight little pussy. Where do you want it?"

"Inside—" You're barely coherent. "Inside, please—"

"Yeah? Want me to fill you up? Want to feel my cum dripping out of you?"

"Yes—please—want it—"

"Fuck—" Three more hard thrusts and he buries himself deep, coming with a rough groan of your name. You feel him pulse inside you, warmth flooding you, and it draws out your own orgasm.

For a long moment, you just stay like that—connected, breathing hard, the water slowly settling around you. You're collapsed against his chest, completely boneless, and his arms are wrapped around you.

SUMMARY - Divorce lawyer Hiromi Higuruma takes one look at his client's wife in that black dress and makes the most unethical decision of his career: dropping the husband as a client so he can represent her instead (and eventually fuck her on his desk).

⤷ divorce lawyer!higuruma x client's wife!reader | 18+ MDNI

CW: explicit sexual content, divorce lawyer AU, lawyer/client relationship (VERY unethical), power dynamics, she's technically still married during first encounter, desk sex, office sex, semi-public sex, possessive behavior, unprotected sex, creampie, he breaks every ethics rule for her, professional misconduct, they don't care, mutual seduction, she wore that dress on purpose, confident/busty reader, hourglass figure appreciation, breast worship

Hiromi Higuruma has been a divorce lawyer for eight years and he's seen it all. Cheaters, liars, gold diggers, bitter exes. He prides himself on being completely professional, completely detached. Never gets emotionally involved. Never takes sides beyond his client's.

Until she walks into his office.

His client's wife. Soon to be ex wife, technically, but the papers aren't signed yet. Her husband, some hedge fund asshole named Takeshi, sits in the chair across from Hiromi's desk looking smug. And she...

She's standing by the window in a black dress that should be illegal. Tailored, fitted, a V neckline that draws his eyes exactly where they shouldn't go, three quarter sleeves with turned up cuffs. The dress hugs every curve, creates an hourglass silhouette that makes his mouth go dry. Midi length, professional, powerful.

She looks like she could run a Fortune 500 company or destroy a man with a single glance. Possibly both.

"Mr. Higuruma," Takeshi says, pulling his attention back. "As I was saying, the prenup is very clear. She gets nothing."

"I see." Hiromi hasn't looked at the prenup yet. Can't stop looking at her. She's gorgeous, confident, hasn't said a word but her presence fills the room. "And Mrs.—"

"[Y/N]," she says, finally turning from the window. Her voice is smooth, controlled. "Just [Y/N] is fine."

Their eyes meet and something electric passes between them. Her lips curve slightly, like she knows exactly what he's thinking.

This is bad. This is so bad.

"The prenup," Takeshi continues, oblivious, "states that in the event of divorce, she receives no alimony, no portion of assets acquired during the marriage, and—"

"That prenup was signed under duress," she interrupts, voice cutting. "I was pregnant, emotional, and you told me you'd call off the wedding if I didn't sign."

"That's not—"

"It is." She looks at Hiromi. "I have emails. Text messages. Witnesses who heard him threaten to leave me at the altar."

Hiromi's professional interest sparks. "Do you have legal representation?"

"Not yet. My lawyer dropped me last week. Conflict of interest, apparently my husband's family does business with his firm."

Of course they do. Takeshi's family has money, influence. They'd make sure she couldn't find decent representation.

"I can recommend someone," Hiromi hears himself say. "Several excellent lawyers who—"

"I want you."

The words hang in the air. Takeshi laughs.

"He's MY lawyer. He represents ME."

"Then I'll find someone better." She gathers her purse, and Hiromi notices it's designer. Everything about her screams expensive, refined, powerful. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Higuruma."

She walks out, and Hiromi can't stop watching her go. The way she moves, confident and graceful. The door closes behind her and Takeshi is still talking but Hiromi isn't listening.

He's thinking about ethics violations. About professional responsibility. About the fact that he's never wanted to drop a client faster in his entire career.

Three days later, he does exactly that.

Sends Takeshi a formal letter terminating their professional relationship, citing irreconcilable differences in legal strategy. It's professional enough that Takeshi can't sue, vague enough that he can't prove anything.

Then he calls her.

"This is highly unusual," he says when she answers.

"What is?" She sounds amused.

"I dropped your husband as a client. If you still want representation, I'm available."

Silence. Then: "Why would you do that?"

"Because that prenup is garbage and he's an asshole and you deserve better representation."

"And it has nothing to do with the fact that you couldn't stop staring at me in your office?"

His face heats. "That was... I apologize if I made you uncomfortable—"

"You didn't." Her voice is smooth, confident. "I wore that dress specifically to make you stare. Worked better than I expected."

He should hang up. Should refer her to someone else. Should maintain professional boundaries.

"My office. Tomorrow. 9 AM. We'll discuss your case."

"Looking forward to it, Mr. Higuruma."

She hangs up and Hiromi sits there, staring at his phone, wondering what the hell he's gotten himself into.

Three months of working together and Hiromi is losing his mind.

She comes to every meeting dressed like sin. Pencil skirts, fitted blouses, dresses that hug every curve. She's brilliant too, sharp, remembers every detail of her case. Helps him build an airtight argument for why that prenup is invalid.

They're winning. Her husband's lawyers are scrambling. And Hiromi is falling for his client which is possibly the most unethical thing he's ever done.

"We should celebrate," she says after a particularly good deposition. They're in his office, evening light streaming through the windows. "The look on his lawyer's face when you brought up those emails was priceless."

"It's not over yet."

"But we're close." She stands, walks around his desk. Perches on the edge right in front of him. "You've been amazing, Hiromi. I don't know how to thank you."

"You don't need to thank me. It's my job."

"Is it just a job?" She leans forward slightly and he can see down her blouse, the curve of her breasts, black lace. He forces his eyes up. "Because sometimes the way you look at me feels like more than professional interest."

"[Y/N]—" His voice is rough. "You're still married. Technically. And you're my client. There are ethics rules—"

"Ethics." She smiles, slides off the desk into his lap. Straddles him in his office chair and his hands go to her hips automatically. "Tell me to stop and I will."

He should. He absolutely should.

"I can't," he breathes. "I can't tell you to stop when I've been thinking about this for three months."

"Good." She kisses him, and it's not soft or tentative. It's fierce, claiming, her hands in his hair and her tongue sliding against his. "Because I've been thinking about it too."

He kisses her back desperately, professionally be damned. His hands slide up her thighs, under her skirt, and she gasps against his mouth.

"We shouldn't—" He's trying to be rational but she's grinding against him and he's already hard. "Not until the divorce is final—"

"He's been fucking his secretary for two years," she breathes. "I think I'm allowed this."

That's all the permission he needs. He stands, lifting her with him, and she wraps her legs around his waist. Walks her to his desk, sweeps papers aside, lays her out like an offering.

"You're so beautiful," he mutters, working on the buttons of her blouse. "So fucking beautiful. Been driving me crazy."

"Good." She's working on his belt, his zipper. "That was the plan. Wanted to see how long you'd last before you broke."

"You're evil."

"You love it." She's not wrong.

He gets her blouse open and groans at the sight. Black lace bra, breasts spilling out, and he can't help himself. Leans down, kisses the swell of her chest, and she arches into him.

"Hiromi—" Her hands are in his hair again. "Please—"

He slides her skirt up, finds she's wearing matching black lace panties, and the sight makes him harder. Hooks his fingers in the lace, pulls them aside.

"Tell me you want this." He needs to hear it.

"I want this. Want you. Have wanted you since that first meeting." She pulls him down into another kiss. "Now stop being a lawyer and fuck me already."

He does. Slides into her in one smooth thrust and they both groan. She's perfect, tight and wet and warm, and he has to pause just to breathe.

"Move," she demands, nails digging into his shoulders. "Hiromi, move—"

He does, setting a rhythm that's deep and thorough and has her gasping his name. The desk creaks beneath them, papers falling to the floor, but neither of them care.

"So good," she's muttering. "Feels so good—better than I imagined—"

"You imagined this?" He's breathless, trying to maintain some control.

"Every night." She clenches around him deliberately. "Every meeting. Imagined you bending me over this desk. Making me scream your name."

"Fuck—" Her words push him closer to the edge. "You're going to make me—"

"Then come." She pulls him down, kisses him hard. "Come inside me. Want to feel it."

He does, with a rough groan muffled against her neck, and she follows seconds later, clenching around him.

For a moment they just stay like that, breathing hard, tangled together on his desk.

"That was—" He can't find words.

"Highly unethical?" She's smiling, looking thoroughly satisfied. "Probably going to get you disbarred?"

"Worth it." He kisses her softly. "Completely worth it."

"Good." She's working on his tie, loosening it. "Because I'm not done with you yet."

"Your divorce isn't final—"

"Then we better win quickly." She pulls him back down. "Because I want to do this in your bed next time. Properly."

He should say no. Should maintain boundaries. Should wait until everything is legal and proper.

Instead he kisses her again and decides ethics can wait until morning.

Six months later, the divorce is final. The prenup is thrown out. She gets half of everything, alimony, and the satisfaction of watching her ex husband's face when the judge rules in her favor.

Hiromi takes her to dinner that night. Then home. Then makes good on her request to do this properly in his bed.

"Still think I'm worth the ethics violation?" she asks afterward, curled against his chest.

"Every single one." He kisses her hair. "Though maybe let's not tell the bar association about our timeline."

"Our secret." She smiles. "Besides, you're my lawyer. Attorney client privilege."

"That's not how that works."

"It is now." She kisses him. "Now stop lawyering and take me again."

He does. Multiple times. And when they finally sleep, she's wearing his shirt and he's thinking about how he broke every professional rule for her.

Best decision he ever made.

✦ ݁ ˖ SUMMARY - You and Toji Fushiguro have been friends with benefits for three months—no strings, no feelings, just sex. Except it stopped being "just sex" about two months ago and you're both in denial. When his teammate Sukuna flirts with you at the team's victory party, Toji snaps. Drags you upstairs, fucks you against the wall hard enough that the whole party probably hears, makes you say you're his, and then—still inside you—asks you to be his girlfriend.

⤷ hockey player!toji x fem!reader | 18+ MDNI ✦

CW: explicit sexual content, hockey AU, college setting, FWB to lovers, jealous!toji, possessive behavior, rough sex, wall sex, size kink, size difference, manhandling, degradation, praise kink, unprotected sex, creampie, breeding kink mentions, marking/biting, mild choking, he's FERAL, semi-public sex (party upstairs), "you're mine" energy, overstimulation

The party is already raging by the time you arrive.

The hockey house is packed—wall-to-wall bodies, music so loud you can feel it in your chest, the air thick with sweat and alcohol and victory. The team won the championship tonight, which means this party is going to be absolutely insane.

You push through the crowd, looking for familiar faces. Nobara said she'd be here, and Maki, but you haven't spotted them yet.

What you do spot—immediately, because he's impossible to miss—is Toji Fushiguro.

He's in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a beer in hand, still in his postgame fit—black baggy jeans, team jackect and fitted t-shirt underneath. His dark hair is messy, scar cutting across his lip in a way that should be off-putting but somehow just makes him hotter.

He's talking to Gojo—the team captain, all white hair and obnoxious confidence—but his eyes find you across the room like he's got some kind of radar.

Your stomach flips.

Three months. You've been doing this thing with Toji for three months. It started after a party just like this one—too much alcohol, too much proximity, and a "fuck it, why not?" that led to the best sex of your life in his bedroom upstairs.

The next morning, you'd both agreed: just sex. No feelings. No expectations. Just fun.

Except somewhere around week six, it stopped being just fun.

Now it's 2 AM texts that aren't booty calls, they're just "you up? can't sleep." It's him buying your specific brand of coffee creamer and keeping it in his fridge. It's the way he touches you after—soft, careful, like you're something precious instead of just a convenient fuck.

It's the way your heart does that stupid flutter thing every time you see him.

But you're both pretending. Pretending it's still casual. Still just physical. Because acknowledging it means risking everything, and neither of you knows how to do that.

Toji raises his beer slightly in greeting, that lazy smirk on his face. You roll your eyes and turn away, heading for the drinks table.

"Well, well. Look who showed up."

You turn to find Ryomen Sukuna leaning against the wall, red solo cup in hand, looking like sin personified. He's the team's center—tattooed, pink-haired, cocky as hell, and objectively hot in that dangerous way.

"Sukuna," you acknowledge, grabbing a beer. "Good game."

"Thanks, sweetheart." He moves closer, and you catch the scent of his cologne—expensive, probably. "You look good tonight. That dress new?"

It is new. And you definitely wore it hoping Toji would notice.

"Maybe," you say noncommittally.

"It's working." His eyes drag over you slowly. "Whoever you wore it for is a lucky bastard."

You don't miss the way his gaze flicks briefly toward the kitchen. Toward Toji.

Oh. So that's what this is.

Sukuna knows. Probably the whole team knows. You and Toji aren't exactly subtle—you leave his room at 3 AM with sex hair and his bite marks on your neck. But you've never confirmed it, never made it official.

"I wore it for me," you say.

"Even better." He leans in slightly. "You know, I've been meaning to ask—you ever get tired of whatever you've got going on, you should let me take you to dinner."

"Is that so?"

"Yeah. I promise I'd treat you right. Take you somewhere nice. Show you off."

There's a challenge in his voice. He's not actually interested—he's poking the bear. Seeing if Toji will react.

And oh, Toji is reacting.

You can feel his eyes on you from across the room. Can practically feel the tension radiating off him.

"That's sweet, Sukuna. But I'm not really looking for—"

"You're not looking for what?"

Toji's voice comes from right behind you, low and dangerous.

You turn. He's close—too close for someone who's supposed to be just a casual fuck. His jaw is tight, eyes dark.

"Just telling her she looks good," Sukuna says, grinning like the asshole he is. "And that if she ever wants to go out with someone who'll actually commit, she should hit me up."

Toji's hand finds your hip. The touch is possessive, claiming.

"She's busy," he says flatly.

"Is she?" Sukuna's grin widens. "Didn't realize you two were official. My bad, man."

"We're not—" you start.

"We're busy," Toji repeats, cutting you off. His grip tightens. "Come on. Need to talk to you."

"Toji—"

But he's already steering you away from Sukuna, through the crowd, toward the stairs.

"That was rude," you say as he pulls you up the steps.

"Don't care."

"He was just—"

"Flirting with you. I know. I saw." He practically drags you down the hallway to his room, pushing open the door and pulling you inside.

The door slams shut.

You cross your arms. "What's your problem?"

"My problem?" He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "My problem is watching Sukuna eye-fuck you in the middle of the party."

"He wasn't—"

"He was. And you were letting him."

"I was being polite!"

"You were flirting back."

"I was not!" You throw your hands up. "And even if I was—we're not together, Toji. You made that very clear. 'Just sex, no strings,' remember?"

Something flashes in his eyes. "Yeah. I remember."

"So why do you care if Sukuna flirts with me?"

"Because—" He stops. Jaw clenching. "Fuck."

"Because what?"

"Because you're mine," he bites out. "Okay? You're mine. And I don't like other guys touching what's mine."

Your heart stops. "I'm yours?"

"Yeah." He moves closer, backing you toward the wall. "You've been mine since the first time I fucked you. Since the first time you said my name. You think I let just anyone keep a toothbrush at my place? Keep clothes in my drawers?"

"That's—that's just practical—"

"Bullshit." He cages you in, hands on either side of your head. "You know what it is. We both know. We've just been too fucking scared to say it."

"Toji—"

"I see you with other guys and I want to break something. I see you laugh at someone else's jokes and I want to remind you who makes you laugh harder. I see you in that fucking dress and all I can think about is ripping it off and making sure you remember exactly who you belong to."

Your breathing is ragged. "We said no feelings."

"Fuck what we said." His hand cups your jaw. "I have feelings. I've had feelings. And I'm done pretending I don't."

"Why now?"

"Because watching Sukuna put his hands on you made me realize I'd rather risk this—risk us—than keep pretending I don't want you to be mine for real."

Your heart is hammering. "Toji—"

He kisses you.

It's not gentle. It's desperate, claiming, three months of pent-up emotion pouring into it. His hands are everywhere—your face, your waist, sliding up your thighs under your dress.

"Tell me," he growls against your mouth. "Tell me you're mine."

"I—"

"Say it." His hand wraps around your throat, not squeezing, just holding. "Say you're mine or I swear to god I'll make you."

"How?"

His smile is dark. "By fucking you so hard you can't remember your own name, let alone anyone else's."

Heat pools between your legs. "Toji—"

"Last chance." His thumb strokes your pulse point. "Say it."

You stare at him—at the dark eyes, the scar, the desperation barely hidden under all that aggression.

"Make me," you breathe.

His eyes flash. "Wrong answer."

He spins you around, pressing you face-first against the wall. His body covers yours, so much bigger, so much stronger. You can feel every hard line of him against your back.

"You want to play games?" His voice is rough in your ear. "Fine. Let's play."

His hands yank your dress up, bunching it around your waist. Cool air hits your ass, then his palm comes down hard.

You gasp.

"That's for flirting back," he says. Another slap. "That's for letting him think he had a chance." Another. "And that's for making me jealous."

"I didn't—ah—"

"You did." His fingers hook in your underwear, yanking them down. "You knew exactly what you were doing. Wearing this dress. Talking to him. Trying to make me snap."

"Maybe I wanted you to—"

"Yeah?" He kicks your legs apart, one hand between your shoulder blades keeping you against the wall. "Wanted me to claim you? Show everyone who you belong to?"

"Yes—"

"Should've just asked, baby." You hear his belt buckle, the rasp of his zipper. "I'd have fucked you right there in the kitchen if that's what you needed."

He lines himself up and pushes in with one brutal thrust.

You cry out, hands scrabbling against the wall. He's so thick, the angle so deep, and he didn't prep you—didn't use his fingers or his mouth, just shoved inside like he owns you.

"Fuck," he groans. "Still so tight. You'd think after three months of me stretching this pussy it'd be easier. But you just keep gripping me like you never want to let go."

"Toji—"

"What?" He pulls almost all the way out, then slams back in. "Too much? Can't take it?"

"I can—"

"Then prove it." He sets a brutal pace, hips snapping against your ass, the sound of skin on skin obscene. "Take this cock like a good girl. Show me you can handle it."

You're trying to stay quiet—there's a party downstairs, people everywhere—but it's impossible. He's so deep, hitting that spot with every thrust, and you can't stop the moans spilling out.

"That's it," he encourages. "Let them hear. Let everyone know who's making you feel this good."

"The party—"

"Can fucking listen." His hand fists in your hair, pulling your head back. "Let them know you're mine. That this pussy belongs to me."

"Oh god—"

"Not god, baby. Just me." He reaches around, fingers finding your clit. "Just me making you fall apart. Just me who knows exactly how you like it."

He circles your clit in time with his thrusts and you're already close, embarrassingly close.

"Gonna come already?" He sounds smug. "That's my girl. So responsive. So perfect for me."

"Yes—fuck—yes—"

"Then come. Come on my cock. Show me who you belong to."

You shatter, clenching around him, and he groans.

"Fuck, that's perfect. Love feeling you come. Love knowing I'm the one who does this to you."

He doesn't stop. Just keeps fucking you through it, chasing his own release.

"Say it," he demands. "Say you're mine."

"I—"

His hand tightens in your hair. "Say it or I'll stop right now. Leave you empty and aching."

"Don't—"

"Then. Say. It."

"I'm yours!" It bursts out of you. "I'm yours, okay? I'm yours—"

"Fuck yes." He slams in deep, grinding against you. "Again."

"I'm yours—"

"Louder."

"I'm yours!" You're crying now, overwhelmed. "I'm yours, Toji, I'm—"

He comes with a groan, buried as deep as possible, and you feel the hot pulse of him filling you up. He keeps grinding, making sure every drop stays inside.

"Mine," he mutters into your shoulder. "Mine, mine, mine."

For a long moment neither of you moves. Just breathing hard, tangled together, his body covering yours protectively.

Then—still inside you—he turns your head to kiss you.

It's soft. Gentle. Nothing like the brutal way he just fucked you.

"Be my girlfriend," he says against your lips.

You blink. "What?"

"You heard me." He pulls back enough to look at you, and his eyes are vulnerable in a way you've never seen. "Be my girlfriend. For real. Not just—not just this. Everything."

"Toji—"

"I know we said no strings. I know we agreed to keep it casual. But I can't anymore. I don't want casual. I want you. All of you. Officially."

Your heart is so full it might burst. "You're asking me to be your girlfriend while you're still inside me?"

"Yeah. Problem?"

You laugh, breathless. "That's so—"

"I don't care if it's weird. I needed you to know now. Needed you to know I'm serious. That this isn't just—" He gestures vaguely. "—jealousy or possessiveness or whatever. It's real."

You turn in his arms as much as you can, and he's still hard inside you, but you don't care.

"I have feelings too," you admit quietly. "Have for a while."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I just—I didn't want to ruin what we had. Didn't want to be the one who caught feelings and made it weird."

"You didn't make it weird. We both did." He kisses you again. "So what do you say? Want to make this official?"

You pretend to think about it. "Depends. Do I get a victory fuck every time you win a game?"

"Baby, you get victory fucks even when we lose."

You grin. "Then yes. I'll be your girlfriend."

"Thank fuck." He starts moving again, slow rolls of his hips. "Now let me fuck my girlfriend properly. Against the wall wasn't enough. Need you in my bed."

"Toji, the party—"

"Can wait." He pulls out, and you feel his cum start to drip down your thighs. His fingers push it back in. "Everyone already knows what we're doing up here anyway. Might as well make it worth it."

He picks you up—literally just scoops you up like you weigh nothing—and carries you to his bed.

"Round two?" you ask as he lays you down.

"Round two, three, and four." He strips off his shirt, then his pants, and climbs over you. "I've got three months of pretending to make up for. Gonna fuck you until you can't walk. Until everyone who sees you tomorrow knows exactly what happened."

"Possessive much?"

"You have no idea." He spreads your legs, settling between them. "Now be a good girlfriend and take this cock again. We've got all night."

And he's right.

You do have all night.

✦ ݁ ˖ SUMMARY - You get on your knees and suck off your gamer boyfriend while he's in the middle of a raid with his friends—his mic is on and he's trying so hard not to whimper. (He fails.)

⤷ choso x fem!reader | 18+ MDNI ✦

CW: explicit sexual content, oral sex (m!receiving), sub!choso, whimpering, begging, gaming while receiving head, slight exhibitionism (his mic is on and his friends hear), teasing, praise kink, overstimulation, cum swallowing, reader is a menace, choso is mortified, secondhand embarrassment, established relationship

It's 11 PM on a Friday and Choso's been gaming for three hours straight.

You're not mad about it—he works hard all week, he deserves to unwind with his friends. And honestly, watching him game is kind of hot. The way he focuses, the little furrow between his brows when he's concentrating, the rare smile when his team wins.

But you're also bored. And maybe a little needy. And definitely feeling like causing problems.

He's at his desk, headset on, completely absorbed in whatever raid or dungeon or match he's doing. The RGB lights from his setup cast colors across his face—purple, blue, pink. He's wearing that black compression shirt that shows off his arms, grey sweatpants (your weakness), hair down, messy and wet from his shower.

He looks good. Too good to be ignoring you.

"Choso," you say from the doorway.

"Mm?" He doesn't look away from the screen, fingers flying over the keyboard. "Yeah, babe?"

"How much longer?"

"Just this match. Maybe thirty minutes." He glances at you quickly, apologetically. "Sorry, we're so close to clearing this raid. I promise I'll be done soon."

Thirty minutes. You can work with thirty minutes.

You pad into the room quietly, and he's already refocused on the game. You can hear his teammates through the headset—Yuji's enthusiastic shouting, Todo's booming laugh, someone else (maybe Megumi?) giving tactical instructions.

"Yeah, I see him," Choso says into his mic. "Going left— fuck, he's got backup—"

You drop to your knees beside his gaming chair.

He doesn't notice at first. Too focused on the screen, on the game, on whatever's happening. You rest your hands on his thighs—still nothing.

So you slide your hands higher. Up his thighs, over the soft fabric of his sweatpants, and that's when he notices.

His character on screen stutters to a stop.

"Babe—" He looks down at you, eyes wide. "What are you—"

"Keep playing," you say innocently, fingers tracing the outline of him through his sweatpants. He's already half-hard, because of course he is. "Don't mind me."

"I can't—" His voice cracks when you palm him properly. "I'm in the middle of a raid—"

"Choso, you good?" Yuji's voice crackles through the headset. "Why'd you stop moving?"

"I'm fine!" His voice comes out higher than normal. He clears his throat, shoots you a desperate look. "Just— lag. Bad lag."

"Your ping looks fine," someone else says.

"Must be on my end." He's trying to keep his voice steady, but his hips shift forward into your touch involuntarily. "Keep going, I'm good."

You smile up at him sweetly and hook your fingers in his waistband. "Lift up," you whisper.

"No—" But it comes out weak, unconvincing.

"Lift up," you repeat, firmer this time. "Or I'll stop."

He makes a sound that's almost a whimper and lifts his hips just enough for you to pull his sweatpants and boxers down. His cock springs free, already hard, flushed and pretty, and you hear him inhale sharply.

"Fuck," he breathes, so quiet you almost don't hear it.

"What was that?" Todo's voice.

"Nothing! Just—" Another sharp inhale as you wrap your hand around him. "—just thought I saw something. I'm good. I'm fine. Totally fine."

He's not fine. He's already trembling, one hand white-knuckling his mouse, the other gripping the armrest of his chair.

You stroke him slowly, base to tip, and his character on screen walks directly into a wall.

"Dude, where are you going?" Yuji laughs. "The boss is the other way!"

"I know! I know, sorry—" He's trying to focus, trying to play, but his hips are shifting, seeking more of your touch. "Just— give me a second—"

"We don't have a second, the boss is at 30%!"

"I'm coming!" Wrong choice of words. His face flushes darker. "I mean— I'm on my way— fuck—"

That last word comes out strangled because you've leaned forward and licked a stripe up the underside of his cock.

"You okay, man?" Megumi now, sounding concerned. "You sound weird."

"I'm FINE." He's not fine. His free hand has moved to your hair, not pushing, just holding on like you're his anchor. "Just focus on the boss, I'll—" His breath hitches as you swirl your tongue around his tip. "—I'll handle adds."

You take him into your mouth properly, and the sound he makes is unholy. A high, broken whimper that he tries desperately to muffle.

"What the fuck was that?" Todo.

"Nothing!" Choso's voice is wrecked. "Cat! That was the cat!"

"You don't have a cat."

"Neighbor's cat. Outside. Very loud cat." He's babbling now, trying to maintain some semblance of normalcy while you're taking him deeper. "Can we please just— focus on the boss—"

You hollow your cheeks and suck, and his hips jerk up involuntarily, pushing deeper into your mouth. The hand in your hair tightens.

"Sorry—" He gasps, whether to you or his teammates, you're not sure. "Sorry, I didn't mean—"

You pull off just long enough to whisper, "It's okay. Use my mouth. Just try to be quiet."

His eyes go wide, pupils blown, and he makes another one of those broken whimpering sounds that goes straight to your core.

"Choso, your character is just standing there," Yuji says. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yes!" Too emphatic. He tries to modulate his tone. "Yes, I'm— I'm good, just— strategizing—"

You take him back in your mouth, deeper this time, and you feel more than hear the moan he swallows down. His mouse hand is shaking, his character on screen moving erratically.

"Your strategizing looks like having a seizure," Megumi comments dryly.

"I'm FINE— oh fuck—" That last part comes out as you take him as deep as you can, nose nearly touching his pelvis. "—fine, I'm fine, boss is at 20%, let's just—"

He's trying so hard to focus on the game, to play properly, but you're making it impossible. You bob your head, taking him deep over and over, and his thighs are trembling on either side of you.

"Babe—" He gasps, voice barely above a whisper. "Babe, please— I can't— they're gonna know—"

You pull off, hand still stroking him. "Then you better be quiet."

"I can't be quiet when you're— oh fuck—" You've taken him back in, tongue doing something that makes his back arch. "—when you're doing that—"

"Doing what?" Yuji asks innocently.

"Nothing! Talking to— to my girlfriend—" His voice breaks on the last word as you suck harder. "She's— she's asking about dinner— fuck—"

"It's 11 PM," Megumi points out.

"Late dinner! We eat late! Can everyone just— focus on the boss please—" He's begging now, whether for them to focus or for you to have mercy, you're not sure.

His cock is leaking steadily now, and you can tell he's getting close. His breathing is ragged, his character on screen completely stationary, and the hand in your hair is shaking.

"Choso, you're literally not doing anything," Todo sounds amused. "What's going on over there?"

"Nothing!" High-pitched, desperate. "Everything's fine! Everything's— oh god—"

You've taken him deep again, swallowing around him, and the sound he makes is beyond words. A high, broken whimper that he can't quite muffle.

"...Did you just whimper?" Yuji.

"NO! No, I just— something in my throat— I'm fine—"

"You sound like you're dying," Megumi says flatly.

"I'm NOT dying, I'm just—" You do something with your tongue and he nearly sobs. "—just really focused— on the game— fuck fuck fuck—"

"Boss is at 5%!" Yuji shouts. "Everyone DPS!"

Choso is desperately trying to function, clicking his mouse randomly, but you can feel him getting closer. His cock is twitching in your mouth, his breathing coming in sharp gasps, and he's biting his lip so hard you're worried he'll draw blood.

"Baby—" He whispers, so quiet only you can hear. "Baby, please— I'm so close— I can't— they're gonna hear—"

You look up at him, making eye contact, and take him as deep as you can. The look on his face is desperate, pleading, beautiful.

"Boss is almost dead!". "Choso, are you even playing?"

"Yes!" It comes out strangled. "Yes, I'm— I'm playing— I'm—"

His whole body goes taut. You feel him pulse in your mouth, and he makes this sound—a high, keening whimper that he tries desperately to muffle behind his hand. It's too late though. You know his teammates heard it.

"...Choso?" Yuji sounds concerned and amused in equal measure.

"I'm fine!" Voice absolutely wrecked. "Totally fine! Did we— did we get the boss?"

"Yeah, we got it." Megumi's tone is dry. "You contributed nothing but weird noises, but we got it."

"Great! That's great!" Too enthusiastic. He's still coming down, still twitching in your mouth as you swallow everything he gives you. "Good job team! I need to— I need to go—"

"We're doing another run—"

"CAN'T! Have to— have to go— girlfriend needs— something— BYE!"

He rips off his headset, completely ignoring the protests of his teammates, and looks down at you with wide, dazed eyes.

You pull off him slowly, making a show of licking your lips, and his whole body shudders.

"You—" His voice is hoarse. "You're evil. You're actually evil."

"You loved it."

"That's not the point!" But he's pulling you up into his lap, kissing you desperately despite the taste of himself on your tongue. "They definitely heard. They're never going to let me live this down."

"Probably not."

"Yuji's probably already texting everyone—"

His phone buzzes. Then again. And again.

He looks at it, groans, and drops his forehead to your shoulder. "I'm never going to hear the end of this."

You pull up the messages and— yep.

Yuji: DUDE

Yuji: DUDE

Yuji: DID YOUR GIRLFRIEND JUST

Todo: That was the most obvious head I've ever heard someone receive

Megumi: I'm scarred. I'm actually scarred.

Yuji: THE WHIMPERING THO

Yuji: BRO

Yuji: I'M CRINE

"I'm blocking all of them," Choso mutters against your shoulder. "I'm changing my number. I'm moving to another country."

"Don't be dramatic."

"I WHIMPERED. They heard me WHIMPER."

"It was cute."

"It was HUMILIATING—"

You kiss him, cutting off his mortification. "It was hot. You're hot. And if it makes you feel better, I'm extremely turned on right now."

He pulls back, eyes darkening despite his embarrassment. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You roll your hips against him and he's already getting hard again. "Turns out making you fall apart while you try to stay quiet is really doing it for me."

"You're insane." But he's kissing your neck now, hands sliding under your shirt. "My friends are going to mock me forever."

"Probably."

"I'm never going to live this down."

"Definitely not."

"Worth it though." He picks you up easily, carrying you toward the bedroom. "Totally worth it. But now it's my turn."

"Your turn?"

"To make you whimper." His smile is wicked. "And I don't care who hears."

He does make you whimper. Multiple times. Loud enough that you're pretty sure the neighbors hear.

But that's okay. Turnabout is fair play.

SUMMARY - At the barbershop, Ryomen Sukuna notices you instantly—like nothing else matters.He calls you and your son over, smooth and shameless, flirting without hesitation. One minute he’s making your son laugh, the next he’s looking at you like he’s already decided something.Not just interested—serious.Like he could step in, treat you better… and be the man your son actually deserves.

⤷ barber!sukuna x single mom!reader | SFW✦

(based of this tiktok)

The bell above the door chimes as you push into the barbershop, your four-year-old son's hand gripped firmly in yours.

"Mama, I don't wanna haircut," Kaito whines, dragging his feet.

"Baby, your hair is getting in your eyes. You need a trim." You squeeze his hand reassuringly. "I promise it won't take long."

The shop is buzzing with activity—clippers humming, music playing low, the smell of aftershave and hair products in the air. Several barbers work their stations, but your attention is immediately drawn to the one in the back corner.

He's covered in tattoos—intricate designs that wind up both arms, disappear under his black t-shirt, and reappear at his neck. Pink hair styled back, sharp features, an eyebrow piercing that catches the light. He's focused on his current client, electric clippers moving with practiced precision.

Then he looks up.

His eyes—dark, intense—lock onto yours immediately. You watch his gaze travel down your body in a slow, deliberate sweep that should probably offend you but somehow doesn't. You're wearing jeans that hug your curves, a fitted jacket, your natural hair styled in a way that took way too long this morning.

When his eyes meet yours again, he's smirking.

"Yo, Marcus," he calls to another barber without breaking eye contact with you. "I got this one."

"Man, you got a client right there—"

"I said I got it." He finishes the fade he's working on with quick, efficient movements, brushing off his client and accepting payment. The whole time, his eyes keep flicking back to you.

Your son tugs your hand. "Mama, that man has drawings."

"Tattoos, baby. And it's not polite to stare."

"You're staring too," Kaito points out with the brutal honesty only a four-year-old can deliver.

You are. You're absolutely staring.

The tattooed barber—his name tag reads "SUKUNA"—beckons you over with two fingers, that smirk still firmly in place.

"Come here, beautiful. Bring the little man."

You hesitate for only a second before walking over. Something about the way he's looking at you—interested but not creepy, appreciative but respectful—makes you feel seen in a way you haven't felt in a long time.

"First time here?" he asks as you approach, his voice deep and smooth.

"Yeah. We just moved to the neighborhood." You place your hands on Kaito's shoulders. "He needs a trim."

"I can see that." Sukuna crouches down to Kaito's level, which immediately earns him points. "What's your name, little man?"

Kaito shrinks back against your legs. "Kaito."

"Kaito. That's a strong name. I'm Sukuna." He offers his fist for a bump. After a moment's hesitation, Kaito bumps it. "You nervous about the haircut?"

Kaito nods.

"That's cool. That's fair. But check it out—" Sukuna points to a jar of lollipops on his station. "You sit still for me, you get two of those. Deal?"

"Two?" Kaito's eyes widen.

"Two. But you gotta be brave for me. Can you do that?"

Another nod, more enthusiastic this time.

Sukuna stands, and you're reminded of exactly how tall he is. Has to be at least 6'2", broad-shouldered, built like someone who doesn't skip the gym.

"And you are?" He's looking at you again with that same intense focus.

You give him your name, trying to ignore the way your heart rate picks up.

"Pretty name for a pretty woman." He says it easily, confidently, like he compliments women every day. He probably does. "Have a seat right here, Kaito. Let's make you look fresh."

He lifts your son into the chair with surprising gentleness, draping the cape around him. As he works—spraying water, combing through Kaito's hair—he keeps talking.

"So, new to the neighborhood. Where'd you move from?"

"Across town. Needed a fresh start."

His eyes flick to your left hand. No ring. No tan line. His expression shifts slightly—something satisfied in it.

"Fresh start's good. This is a good area. Good schools around here if that's what you're looking for." The clippers buzz to life. "Kaito, you gonna stay still for me, champ?"

"Uh-huh."

"That's what I like to hear."

You watch as Sukuna works, and you're struck by how naturally he interacts with your son. Keeps up a steady stream of conversation, asking about Kaito's favorite cartoons, what he wants to be when he grows up (firefighter, apparently), if he likes dinosaurs (yes, very much).

"You're good with kids," you observe.

"Got nieces and nephews. Plus, I like kids. They're honest. No bullshit—" He catches himself. "No nonsense. They tell you exactly what they're thinking."

"That's true." You smile. "Sometimes too honest."

"Best kind of honest." He's shaping up the sides now, and you can already see the difference. Your son actually looks like he has a proper haircut instead of the shaggy mess he'd been sporting. "So, Kaito's dad. He around?"

The question is casual, but you don't miss the interest behind it.

"No," you say simply.

"His loss." Sukuna says it with such certainty that you almost believe him. "Man's gotta be crazy to walk away from a woman like you."

"You don't even know me."

"I know enough." He moves around to the front, tilting Kaito's chin up to check his work. "I know you're a good mom—moved your whole life to give your son a better start. I know you take care of yourself—that doesn't happen by accident. And I know—" His eyes meet yours in the mirror. "—you deserve better than whatever situation had you packing up and leaving."

You don't know what to say to that. It's too accurate, too perceptive for someone you met ten minutes ago.

"You married?" you ask, deflecting.

"Nah. Was engaged once. Didn't work out." He shrugs like it doesn't matter. "Wasn't right. When it's right, you know."

"And how do you know?"

"When you meet someone and immediately start thinking about how to fit them into your life instead of how to fit into theirs." He's looking at you again, and there's no mistaking his meaning. "When you see a beautiful woman walk in with her son and your first thought is 'how do I make her stay?'"

Your breath catches.

"That's real smooth," you manage.

"I'm not trying to be smooth. I'm trying to be honest." He finishes with Kaito's hair, brushing off his neck and removing the cape. "There you go, little man. Looking fresh."

Kaito twists in the chair to see himself in the mirror. His face lights up. "Mama, look!"

"I see, baby! You look so handsome!"

Sukuna lifts him down from the chair, and true to his word, pulls out two lollipops. "You held still like a champ. Proud of you."

"Thank you!" Kaito clutches the lollipops like treasure.

"You're welcome. Now go show your mama that fresh cut."

While Kaito bounces around showing off his new haircut, Sukuna starts cleaning his station. You pull out your wallet.

"How much?"

"First cut's on me."

"I can't let you—"

"You can, and you will." He leans against his station, arms crossed, biceps flexing. "Call it a welcome-to-the-neighborhood gift."

"That's—"

"Not negotiable." His smirk returns. "But if you feel bad about it, you could let me take you to dinner sometime."

There it is.

"You don't waste time, do you?"

"I'm thirty-two years old. Too old to play games." He straightens up, pulling a business card from his pocket and a pen. He writes something on the back and hands it to you. "That's my personal number. The shop number's on the front if you want to bring Kaito back—which you should, I do good work. But the back—" He taps it. "—that's if you want to grab coffee. Or dinner. Or just talk."

You look at the card, then at him. At the tattoos and the piercings and the confidence that should be cocky but somehow isn't. At the way he's looking at you like you're the most interesting thing he's seen all week.

At the way he treated your son with patience and kindness and respect.

"I have a four-year-old," you say. "And baggage. And a deadbeat ex who doesn't pay child support or show up for birthdays."

"I have tattoos, a demanding job, and commitment issues I've been working through in therapy." He shrugs. "We've all got shit. Question is whether we want to deal with our shit alone or find someone worth dealing with it together."

"That's very philosophical for a barber."

"I'm a man of many depths." He winks. "So what do you say? Coffee? No pressure. Just two adults getting to know each other."

You should say no. Should focus on settling into your new place, getting Kaito enrolled in his new preschool, building your life without depending on anyone.

But the way he's looking at you—like you're not just a pretty face, not just a body, but a whole person worth knowing—makes you want to say yes.

"Coffee," you agree. "But somewhere Kaito-friendly. He's part of the package."

"I wouldn't want it any other way." Sukuna's smile is genuine now, no smirk, just warmth. "I'll text you. We'll set something up."

"Okay."

"Okay." He crouches down to Kaito again. "You take care of your mama, yeah? She's special."

"I know," Kaito says seriously. "She's the best mama."

"I believe it." Sukuna stands, his eyes meeting yours one more time. "I'll see you soon."

"Yeah. Soon."

. ✦ ݁ ˖ SUMMARY - Fourth time bailing deadbeat baby daddy Suguru out of jail. Fourth time spending money meant for your daughter's diapers on his bail. Fourth time he's ghosted you for weeks then suddenly needs you.

CW: ╰┈➤ explicit sexual content, toxic relationship dynamic, baby daddy drama, criminal behavior, manipulation, angry sex, degradation, praise kink, breeding kink, possessive behavior, choking, rough sex, unprotected sex, creampie, toxic!geto, this is messy and unhealthy ゛ ˎˊ˗

The police station smells the same as it always does—stale coffee, industrial cleaner, and disappointment.

You're sitting in the hard plastic chair in the waiting area, your two-year-old daughter asleep in her stroller beside you, and you're trying to remember why you keep doing this. Why you keep answering the calls. Why you keep coming down here with bail money you can't afford to spend.

"Ms. L/N?" The officer at the desk calls your name.

You stand, carefully walking around the stroller. "That's me."

"He's being processed now. Should be about ten more minutes."

"Thank you." You sit back down, checking your phone.

Three weeks. Three weeks since Suguru had shown up at your apartment at 2 AM, had slipped into your bed like he still had the right, had whispered promises about changing, about being there for you and Akari, about finally getting his shit together.

Three weeks since he'd left the next morning while you were in the shower, taking two hundred dollars from your purse and disappearing.

No calls. No texts. Nothing.

Until the phone call from the police station an hour ago.

"Yeah, hi, this is Suguru Geto. I get one call and—baby, listen, I need you to come get me—"

You should've hung up. Should've blocked his number for the hundredth time. Should've let him sit in jail and figure out his own mess.

But then you'd thought about Akari, about how she'd asked about "Dada" yesterday, about how she has his eyes and his smile, about how despite everything, she deserves to know her father.

So here you are. Again.

The door buzzes and he walks out, and you hate that your stomach still flips when you see him.

Suguru Geto looks exactly the same—6'3" with long black hair pulled into a half up and down messy bun, sharp features that border on beautiful, piercings in his ears, tattoos visible on his neck and creeping down his arms. He's wearing the same clothes from three weeks ago—black baggy jeans, leather jacket, boots that have seen better days.

He sees you and his whole face lights up. "Baby—"

"Don't." You stand, grabbing the stroller. "Let's just go."

His expression falters, but he follows you out to the parking lot. You can feel him watching you as you carefully transfer Akari from the stroller to her car seat, buckling her in with practiced efficiency while she sleeps on, completely oblivious.

You fold the stroller, put it in the trunk, and get in the driver's seat. Suguru slides into the passenger side.

The silence is heavy as you pull out of the parking lot.

"So—" he starts.

"What was it this time?" you cut him off. "Drugs? Assault? Grand theft auto?"

"Possession with intent to distribute," he says quietly. "But it was a misunderstanding—"

"It's always a misunderstanding." Your hands tighten on the steering wheel. "How much was bail?"

"Five thousand."

"Five thousand dollars." You laugh, but there's no humor in it. "Do you know how many shifts I had to pick up to save that? Do you know what I had to do to get that money together in an hour?"

"I'll pay you back—"

"With what money, Suguru?" You glance at him. "You don't have a job. You don't have an apartment. You're dealing drugs and getting arrested every other month. What exactly are you going to pay me back with?"

"I'm working on something—"

"You're always working on something!" Your voice rises and Akari stirs in the backseat. You lower your voice, but the anger is still there. "You're always about to get clean, always about to get a real job, always about to be the father she deserves. But you never do. You just keep disappointing us."

"That's not fair—"

"What's not fair?" You pull up to a red light and turn to face him fully. "That I'm raising our daughter alone? That I'm working two jobs to afford our apartment while you're out doing god knows what? That every time I start to move on, you show up and promise me it'll be different, and I believe you like an idiot?"

"Baby—" He reaches for your hand and you pull away.

"Don't call me that. Don't—" You swallow hard. "I can't keep doing this, Suguru. I can't keep bailing you out, literally and figuratively. Akari deserves better. I deserve better."

"I know." His voice is rough. "I know you do. I'm sorry—"

"Sorry doesn't pay rent. Sorry doesn't show up for her birthday. Sorry doesn't mean anything when you keep doing the same shit over and over."

The light turns green. You drive in silence for a few blocks.

"Where am I taking you?" you ask finally.

"I don't—" He pauses. "Can I stay with you? Just for tonight. I'll figure something out tomorrow."

"No."

"Please. I have nowhere else to go. They kicked me out of the last place and—"

"That's not my problem."

"She's my daughter too." His voice takes on an edge. "I have a right to see her."

"You have a right?" Your laugh is bitter. "You've seen her maybe five times in two years. You missed her first steps. Her first words. Her first birthday. You don't get to pull the father card when it's convenient."

"I know I fucked up—"

"You didn't fuck up, Suguru. Fucking up is forgetting to buy milk. What you did—what you keep doing—is abandonment. It's choosing drugs and crime and whatever the fuck else over your own daughter."

"That's not—" His jaw clenches. "You don't understand what it's like—"

"What what's like? Being an adult? Having responsibilities? Because I understand that perfectly. I do it every single day."

"Must be nice," he says, and there's an edge to it now. "Being so perfect. So responsible. Looking down on me from your high horse—"

"Are you serious right now?" You almost swerve. "You're really going to make yourself the victim here?"

"I'm not—"

"You are!" You pull into a parking lot—a closed grocery store—and throw the car in park. Akari's still sleeping in the back. "You always do this. Every time I try to hold you accountable, you twist it around like I'm attacking you. Like I'm the bad guy for expecting you to be a father."

"I am trying—"

"Trying?" You unbuckle your seatbelt, turning to face him fully. "You stole two hundred dollars from me three weeks ago! You said you were going to buy diapers and groceries and instead you disappeared for three weeks! That's not trying, that's—"

"I had a debt to pay off—"

"You had a daughter to feed!"

"Don't you think I know that?" His voice rises to match yours. "Don't you think I hate myself for it? Don't you think I wish I could be what you need? What she needs?"

"Then why don't you?" Your voice breaks. "Why do you keep choosing everything else over us?"

"Because I'm fucking terrified!" He's yelling now too, and you're both too angry to care about waking Akari. "Because every time I look at her, I see how much I'm fucking up. How much I'm like my own deadbeat father. How much I'm going to ruin her the way he ruined me."

"So your solution is to abandon her completely? That makes it better?"

"I don't know what else to do!" His hands fist in his hair. "I'm not good at this. I'm not good at being responsible or stable or whatever the fuck you need me to be. I'm good at dealing and fighting and getting arrested. That's it. That's all I know."

"That's bullshit and you know it." You're crying now, angry tears streaming down your face. "You're smart. You're capable. You could be anything you wanted if you just—"

"What? Tried harder? Wanted it more?" He laughs bitterly. "You think I don't want to be better? You think I like being the fuck-up?"

"I think you like having an excuse." Your voice is quiet now, deadly. "I think you like being able to say 'this is just who I am' so you don't have to actually change."

The silence that follows is suffocating.

Then Suguru moves.

He unbuckles his seatbelt, reaches across the console, and kisses you.

You should push him away. Should slap him. Should do literally anything except what you do—which is kiss him back.

It's angry and desperate and tastes like three years of unresolved everything. His hand fists in your hair, pulling you closer, and you bite his lip hard enough that he groans.

"Fuck," he breathes against your mouth. "I missed you. Missed this."

"Shut up." You kiss him harder, not wanting words, not wanting promises he won't keep. Just wanting—needing—something that isn't this constant ache.

His hand slides down your neck, your collarbone, palming your breast through your shirt. "Baby—"

"I said shut up." You pull back, breathing hard. Akari's still asleep in the back—she sleeps like the dead, thank god. "We're not doing this here."

"Your place?"

You should say no. Should tell him to get out and figure out his own shit.

Instead you put the car in drive. "One night. That's it. And you're gone in the morning."

"Whatever you say."

The drive to your apartment is tense and charged. His hand rests on your thigh, inching higher, and you don't stop him even though you should.

When you pull into your parking spot, you carefully get Akari out—still asleep, miracle of miracles—and carry her inside. Suguru follows with the diaper bag.

Your apartment is small—one bedroom, barely enough space for you and Akari, definitely not enough for Suguru's chaos. But it's yours. Clean and organized and covered in toys and photos of Akari's milestones that he missed.

You put Akari in her crib, turn on the monitor, and close the door softly.

When you turn around, Suguru is right there.

"We shouldn't—" you start.

"Probably not." His hand cups your face. "But we're going to anyway, aren't we?"

"This doesn't fix anything."

"I know." He leans down, lips brushing yours. "But right now, I don't care. Right now, I just need you."

You should have more self-respect. Should tell him to sleep on the couch and deal with this in the morning with clear heads.

Instead you grab his jacket and pull him toward your bedroom.

The door barely closes before you're on each other.

He pushes you against it, mouth hot and demanding on yours, hands everywhere at once. You pull at his jacket, his shirt, needing skin.

"Missed you," he mutters between kisses. "Missed your body, missed your smell, missed the way you taste—"

"Stop talking." You bite his neck, hard enough to leave a mark, and he groans.

"Fuck, I love when you're mean to me." His hands slide under your shirt, palming your breasts. "Love when you're angry. Gets me so fucking hard."

You can feel it—the thick line of his cock pressing against your stomach through his jeans. As toxic as this is, as much as you hate him right now, your body remembers. Remembers how good he feels, how well he fits, how he's the only one who's ever made you completely lose control.

"This is so fucked up," you breathe as he pulls your shirt over your head.

"Yeah." He unhooks your bra with one hand—practice from three years together. "It is. We're fucked up. This whole thing is fucked up. But I don't care right now."

His mouth finds your breast, tongue circling your nipple, and you arch into him. Your hands work at his belt, popping the button on his jeans.

"Bed," you manage. "Now."

He walks you backward until your knees hit the mattress. You fall back and he follows, covering your body with his. He's so much bigger than you—6'3" to your 5'5", broad and muscular despite his lifestyle. The size difference has always done something to both of you.

"Look at you," he murmurs, hands sliding down your sides. "Still so fucking perfect. Can't believe you had my baby. Can't believe this body—"

"Suguru." It comes out as a warning. "If you're about to get sentimental, I will kick you out right now."

"Not sentimental." He pulls your leggings and underwear off in one motion. "Just appreciative. There's a difference."

He settles between your legs, and when his fingers slide through your wetness, you both groan.

"Fuck, you're soaked." He circles your clit with just enough pressure to make you squirm. "This all for me? Even though you hate me right now?"

"I do hate you," you gasp as he pushes two fingers inside you.

"I know." He curls them, finding that spot that makes you see stars. "But you still want me. Still get wet for me. Still let me touch you like this."

"Shut—up—" It comes out broken as he works his fingers faster.

"Make me." His thumb finds your clit and the combination is devastating.

You reach down, palming him through his jeans, and he chokes. "You want my mouth shut? Give me something better to do with it."

His eyes darken. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You push at his shoulders. "On your back."

He complies, and you work his jeans and boxer briefs down his legs. His cock springs free—long and thick and already leaking.

You don't waste time. You wrap your hand around the base and take him in your mouth.

"Fuck—" His hand immediately goes to your hair, fisting in it. "Fuck, baby, just like that—"

You take him deeper, relaxing your throat, remembering exactly how he likes it. He's big enough that you can't take all of him, but you work what doesn't fit with your hand.

"So good," he's babbling now. "So good at this, so perfect, missed this mouth, missed the way you—fuck—"

You pull off with an obscene pop. "Still want me to shut up?"

"Get up here." It's a command, rough and desperate. "Need to fuck you. Need to be inside you right now."

You climb up his body and sink down on him in one smooth motion.

The stretch is intense—it's been three weeks since he disappeared, longer since you've been with anyone else (because who has time for dating when you're a single mom?), and he's big enough that it always takes adjustment.

"Oh fuck," you both say at the same time.

"So tight," he groans, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. "How are you so tight? It's like your pussy is trying to strangle my cock."

"Maybe it is." You start moving, rolling your hips. "Maybe it wants to punish you."

"Punish me?" His laugh is strained. "Baby, this is a reward."

You lift up and slam back down, hard, and he chokes. "Does that feel like a reward?"

"Yes—fuck yes—do it again—"

You set a brutal pace, riding him hard and angry, channeling three weeks of hurt and anger into every movement. He matches you thrust for thrust, hips snapping up to meet you.

"That's it," he encourages. "Use me. Take what you need. Fuck me like you hate me."

"I do hate you—" You're breathless now, thighs burning. "Hate you so much—"

"Then why—" He sits up suddenly, changing the angle, and you cry out. "—why does this pussy keep coming back to me? Why does it grip me like it never wants to let go?"

"Because I'm an idiot—"

"No." His hand wraps around your throat—not squeezing, just holding. "Because we're good together. Because no matter how much we fuck up everything else, this is always right. Isn't it?"

You can't argue because it's true. Whatever else is broken between you, this has always worked. The sex has always been intense, overwhelming, perfect.

"Say it," he demands, thumb pressing against your pulse. "Say I'm right."

"You're right—" It comes out strangled. "This is—it's always—"

"Always perfect." He flips you suddenly—he's on top now, your legs over his shoulders, and the new angle has him impossibly deeper. "This pussy is mine. Doesn't matter how long I'm gone. Doesn't matter who else you try to be with. It's mine."

"Possessive asshole—"

"Your possessive asshole." He starts fucking you in earnest now—deep, hard strokes that have the headboard hitting the wall. "The father of your baby. The only man who's ever made you come like this."

"Suguru—" You're close, can feel it building. "I'm—"

"I know." His hand slides between your bodies, finding your clit. "Can feel you getting tighter. You're gonna come all over my cock like a good girl, aren't you?"

"Don't—don't call me that—"

"Why not? You are good. So fucking good. Too good for me." He circles your clit faster. "But you're gonna come for me anyway. Gonna let me make you feel good even though you shouldn't."

"Fuck you—"

"You are, baby. You're fucking me so well." His rhythm is getting sloppy, losing control. "Gonna come too. Gonna fill up this pretty pussy. Would you like that? Want me to fill you up again?"

"Don't you dare—" But your body betrays you, clenching at his words.

"Oh, you do." His grin is wicked. "You want it. Want me to come inside you. Want me to mark you from the inside out. Maybe knock you up again—"

"Suguru—"

"Imagine that. Another baby. Another piece of me you can't get rid of—"

You come with a cry that you barely manage to muffle, clenching around him so hard he groans. He fucks you through it, chasing his own release.

"Where—" He gasps. "Where do you want it—"

"Pull out—" You manage. "Can't risk—"

But he's already too far gone. He buries himself deep and comes with a broken groan of your name, spilling inside you.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. Just breathing hard, sweat-slicked, tangled together.

Then reality crashes back.

"Fuck," you breathe. "You didn't pull out."

"I'm sorry—" He doesn't sound sorry. "I tried, I just—"

"Just like last time." You push at his chest and he pulls out, rolling onto his back. "That's how we got Akari."

"Would that really be so bad?" His voice is quiet. "Another one?"

You sit up, staring at him. "Are you insane? I can barely afford one kid. I'm doing everything alone. And you want to—" You stand, grabbing tissues. "Get out."

"Baby—"

"Don't." You clean yourself up with shaking hands. "Don't 'baby' me. Don't act like this was anything more than—" You gesture vaguely. "Just don't."

He sits up, and for the first time tonight, he looks genuinely hurt. "It was more than that. You know it was."

"Do I?" You pull on your underwear, your shirt. "Because from where I'm standing, you just used me. Again. Said pretty words you don't mean. Again. Made promises you won't keep. Again."

"That's not fair—"

"Nothing about this is fair!" Your voice rises and you immediately lower it, remembering Akari sleeping in the next room. "Nothing about loving someone who keeps breaking your heart is fair. Nothing about raising a child alone while their father chooses drugs over them is fair."

"I choose you—"

"No, you don't." Your voice breaks. "If you chose us, you'd get clean. You'd get a real job. You'd show up when you say you will. You'd stop breaking into my life whenever it's convenient and disappearing when it's not."

He's quiet for a long moment. Then: "What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to leave."

"That's not what you want."

"Yes, it is." You're crying now, and you hate it. "I want you to leave and I want to move on and I want to stop bailing you out—literally and figuratively. I want to stop loving someone who's never going to love me back the same way."

"I do love you—"

"Love isn't enough!" The words explode out of you. "Love doesn't pay rent or raise babies or show up when it matters. Love is just—it's just words when you don't back it up with actions."

He stands, starts getting dressed. "So that's it? I just leave? Never see Akari again?"

"You can see her." Your voice is tired now. "But on my terms. Supervised visits. Regular times. And if you miss one—if you disappoint her even once—you're done. I'll get a lawyer. I'll file for full custody. I'll do whatever I have to do to protect her from this."

"From me, you mean."

"From this." You gesture between you. "This toxic back-and-forth. This cycle we keep repeating. She deserves stability. She deserves a father who shows up. And if you can't be that, then she deserves to not have hope that you will be."

He finishes dressing, and for a moment, he just looks at you. Really looks at you.

"I'm sorry," he says finally. "For all of it. For not being what you need. For disappointing you. For—" His voice catches. "For not being strong enough to stay away but not strong enough to really stay."

"Me too," you whisper.

He moves toward you, and you think he's going to kiss you. Instead, he just presses his forehead to yours.

"I'll try," he says quietly. "I'll really try this time. I'll get clean. I'll get a job. I'll be there for her. For both of you."

"I've heard that before."

"I know." He pulls back. "But I mean it this time."

"Then prove it." You step away. "Don't tell me. Show me. Be the father she deserves. Be the man I fell in love with. Or let us go."

He nods once, then heads for the door.

"Suguru?" you call when he reaches it.

He turns back.

"Don't call me to bail you out again. Next time, you sit in jail until you figure out your own shit."

Something like respect flashes in his eyes. "Fair enough."

And then he's gone.

You stand there for a long moment, listening to his footsteps fade, the front door close, his bike start up outside.

Then you go check on Akari. She's still sleeping peacefully, completely unaware of the mess her parents just made.

"I'm sorry, baby girl," you whisper, smoothing her hair. "I'm sorry your dad is—I'm sorry for all of it. But I promise, I'm going to do better. I'm going to be stronger. For you."

✦ ݁ ˖ SUMMARY - Satoru Gojo, president of Alpha Sigma Ligma and campus golden boy, has exactly one weakness: his girlfriend's tits. Everyone knows it. His frat brothers joke about it. You—the mean girl of campus—pretend to be annoyed by it. But secretly? You love how obsessed he is. Tonight, after he's been extra good, you reward him by riding him with your tits in his face while he loses his mind.

⤷ frat boy!gojo x mean girl!reader | 18+ MDNI ✦

CW: explicit sexual content, established relationship, frat/college AU, body worship, tit worship, he literally cannot keep his hands off them, obsessive behavior (affectionate), groping (consensual and constant), possessive!gojo, golden retriever boyfriend energy, mean girl girlfriend, riding, praise kink, he's pussy drunk, slight mommy kink if you squint, unprotected sex, creampie, he's down ASTRONOMICALLY bad, "you're mine" energy, public displays of affection, he's a simp and proud, soft dom vibes, worshipful sex, they're in love your honor

Satoru Gojo—president of Alpha Sigma Ligma, campus golden boy, heir to the Gojo fortune—is absolutely, shamelessly, down-bad obsessed with his girlfriend's tits. And everyone knows it.

✦ You're the mean girl of campus. President of the most exclusive sorority, always dressed in designer, sharp tongue that could cut glass. You've made grown men cry with a single look. Everyone's terrified of you. Everyone except Satoru, who looks at you like you hung the fucking moon and personally gets hard when you insult people.

✦ The obsession started the night you met at a mixer. You were wearing a low-cut black dress that should've been illegal, and he walked directly into a wall while staring. You called him "pathetic" and he said "yes ma'am" immediately. Been together ever since. His frat brothers still can't figure out how it happened.

✦ He's SHAMELESS about it. You'll be sitting in the library studying and his hand just migrates to your chest like a magnet. You slap it away. He pouts. Five minutes later it's back. "Satoru, we're in PUBLIC." "I know, isn't it great?" Security has asked you both to leave three times this semester.

✦ He talks about them like they're separate entities. "How are the girls today?" "Satoru, they're attached to me." "I know, but they deserve individual attention." He's insane. You're in love with him.

✦ His home screen is you flipping off the camera in a bikini. His lock screen is you at formal in a dress with the most insane cleavage. He shows these to people unprompted. "That's my girlfriend. See her? She's mean as fuck and so hot I could die. Wanna see another picture?"

✦ He's so annoying about it during sex. "Fuck, look at these." "They're perfect." "All mine." "Can't believe you're real." Like sir, we're in the middle of something, can you focus? But then he'll put his mouth on them and suddenly you don't care about his running commentary.

✦ Sometimes you'll catch him just... staring. You'll be doing homework, wearing a normal shirt, nothing special, and you'll look up to find him gazing at your chest with this dopey smile. "What?" "Nothing. Just appreciating the view." "You're such a simp." "Your simp, baby."

✦ After parties, when you're both drunk and stumbling back to his room, he gets even worse. Handsy doesn't begin to cover it. You've had to swat his hands away in the Uber more times than you can count. The drivers have definitely seen things. You tip extra out of embarrassment. Satoru tips extra because he's "grateful for the driver's discretion."

✦ You wore a push-up bra to his game once (he plays club basketball). He missed EVERY SHOT in the first quarter because he couldn't stop staring at you in the stands. Coach benched him. He didn't care. "Worth it. Did you SEE her? In that top? I'm just a man."

✦ His frat brothers have a tally of how many times he's mentioned your tits in casual conversation. They stopped counting at 57 in one week. Suguru has threatened to beat him to death. Satoru just shrugs. "If I die thinking about her tits, I die happy."

✦ You use it against him constantly. Need him to do something? Wear a low-cut shirt. Want him to agree to something? Lean forward. One time you got him to do your entire statistics homework by wearing a lacy bralette under a see-through tank top. He didn't even realize what happened until you were already gone.

✦ He's gotten into TWO fights this semester because guys were staring. Not even cat-calling, just looking. Some sophomore made eye contact with your chest for too long at a party and Satoru had him in a headlock within seconds. You had to drag him off. "He was LOOKING!" "Everyone looks, you psycho!"

✦ His hands are always cold and he uses it as an excuse. "Baby, my hands are cold." "Then put on gloves." "Or I could warm them up..." Already reaching for your chest. You let him. Every time. Because his hands ARE always cold and honestly, it's kind of nice.

✦ He bought you lingerie for your birthday. Expensive, beautiful, completely impractical lingerie that's basically just strategic lace. Makes you model every piece. Takes pictures (for his personal collection, he promises, and you believe him because he's possessive enough that he'd never share). Gets hard immediately every time.

✦ You sent him ONE picture—ONE—of you in his frat t-shirt with no bra while he was in class. He left immediately. Just stood up in the middle of his econ lecture and left. Showed up at your sorority house fifteen minutes later. You didn't leave your room for three hours.

✦ He's a biter. Leaves marks all over your chest where no one can see them. Except you know they're there and he knows they're there and that's enough. You wore a high-neck dress to formal once to hide them and he spent the whole night pouting. "What's the point of my hard work if no one knows?"

✦ The way he looks at you when you wear anything remotely low-cut is OBSCENE. Like a starving man looking at a feast. You've gotten kicked out of two restaurants because the waiter saw his face and decided you needed to "get a room." You did. You always do.

✦ His dream is to fuck your tits. He's mentioned it approximately 400 times. You keep saying no just to watch him beg. "Please baby please I'll do anything I'll buy you that bag you want I'll do your homework for a month please—" You'll give in eventually. Maybe. If he's good.

✦ He falls asleep with his face in your chest at MINIMUM three times a week. Just completely motorboats himself into unconsciousness. You're reading, watching TV, doing homework—doesn't matter. He's face-first in your tits, out cold. It's actually kind of cute. You won't admit that out loud.

✦ He's gotten so good at unhooking your bra one-handed that it's genuinely impressive. You've tested him. Drunk, sober, distracted, in the dark—doesn't matter. Three seconds flat every time. It's his only practical skill and he's incredibly proud of it.

✦ Tonight, after the latest frat party (where his hands barely left your body for three straight hours), you're going to reward him for his devotion. He's been so good lately—aced his finals, planned an amazing date, dealt with your attitude when you were stressed about sorority drama. He deserves a treat.

"Baby," Satoru whines, sprawled across his bed in just his boxer briefs, hair messy from your fingers, lips swollen from kissing. "Come here."

"So needy," you tease, but you're already climbing onto the bed, straddling his lap. You're wearing one of the sets he bought you—baby blue lace that he swears was made for you.

His hands immediately go to your waist, sliding up to cup your chest through the lace. "Fuck, you're so perfect."

"Yeah?" You roll your hips, feeling him already hard beneath you. "You've only told me about fifty times tonight."

"I'll tell you fifty more." His thumbs brush over your nipples through the fabric and you shiver. "Could stare at these all day. Could touch them all day. Actually—" He grins up at you. "—I basically do."

"You're obsessed."

"Guilty." He sits up, bringing his mouth to your chest, kissing through the lace. "Can't help it. They're perfect. You're perfect."

You reach behind yourself, unclasping the bra and letting it fall away. His eyes go wide, pupils blown.

"Jesus Christ," he breathes. "I'm the luckiest man alive."

"You're also the horniest man alive."

"That too." He leans forward, taking a nipple into his mouth, and you gasp, fingers threading into his hair.

"Fuck, Satoru—"

"Love hearing you say my name," he mumbles against your skin. "Love the way you taste. Love—" He switches sides. "—everything about you."

His hands are everywhere—cupping, squeezing, appreciating. He's genuinely worshipful about it, like he's been granted access to something holy.

"Need you inside me," you breathe, grinding down on him.

"Yeah? Can't wait?" His hands slide down to your hips, helping you lift up while he shoves his boxer briefs down just enough to free himself. "Need me that bad?"

"Don't get cocky—"

"Too late." He grins, lining himself up. "I'm always cocky when it comes to you."

You sink down slowly, both of you groaning. He's big enough that even after six months, the stretch is intense.

"Fuck," he gasps, head falling back. "Always so tight. Always so perfect for me."

You start moving, finding a rhythm, and his hands immediately return to your chest. Like a homing beacon. Like he can't help himself.

"There they are," he says happily, watching them move with each roll of your hips. "My girls."

"You're ridiculous—"

"I'm in love." He sits up, wrapping his arms around you, face pressed between your breasts. "In love with you. In love with these. In love with the way you feel around my cock—"

"Satoru—" You're already close, the angle hitting perfectly, his hands and mouth on your chest driving you crazy.

"That's it, baby." He's babbling now, drunk on you. "Ride me just like that. Use me. Take what you need."

"Touch me," you demand, even though he already is.

"Where?" His hands squeeze. "Here? Or—" One hand slides down between your bodies, finding your clit. "Here?"

"Both—fuck—both—"

"Greedy girl." But he sounds delighted about it. "Love when you're greedy for me. Love when you use me like this."

The combination of his cock, his fingers, his mouth on your chest—it's overwhelming. You're riding him harder now, chasing your release.

"Gonna come," you gasp. "Gonna—"

"Do it." His teeth graze your nipple and you shatter. "Come for me, baby. Wanna feel it."

You clench around him, crying out, and he groans.

"Fuck, yes, just like that—so good—you're so good—"

He's still rock hard inside you when you come down, and you realize he hasn't finished.

"Your turn," you breathe, starting to move again.

"Wait—" His hands grip your hips. "Stay just like this. Need—" He buries his face in your chest again. "Need this."

You ride him slowly, deliberately, keeping your chest at face-level. He's in heaven—moaning against your skin, hands gripping your ass, helping you move.

"So good," he's mumbling. "So perfect. All mine. Can't believe you're mine—"

"All yours," you confirm, because you know it drives him crazy.

"Yeah?" He thrusts up to meet you. "These are mine? This pussy is mine? You're mine?"

"Yes—fuck—yes—"

"Gonna come—" His voice is strangled. "Gonna fill you up—"

"Do it." You grind down hard. "Come for me, baby."

He does—buried deep, face pressed against your chest, your name falling from his lips like a prayer. You feel him pulsing inside you, warm and perfect.

. ✦ ݁ ˖ SUMMARY - Nanami doesn’t mind spending money on you—in fact, he likes it. Every impulsive purchase, every designer bag, every “just because” swipe of his card reminds him exactly who you belong to. You call it spoiling; he calls it investment. As long as you’re wearing his taste, living in his world, and coming back to him at the end of the day, he’ll keep the card unlimited—and you even more so.

CW: explicit sexual content, sugar daddy dynamic, age gap (reader is 20s, Nanami is late 30s), size kink, financial domination, brat taming, rough sex, degradation, praise kink, breeding kink undertones, creampie, possessive behavior, daddy kink, unprotected sex, overstimulation

The notification makes your phone buzz against the marble countertop of the Chanel boutique.

N.K: Did you find something you like?

You glance down at the three shopping bags already at your feet—Hermès, Cartier, Louis Vuitton—then back at the sales associate who's carefully wrapping the black quilted handbag you'd been eyeing.

Maybe 👀

N.K: Maybe isn't an answer, sweetheart.

Fine. Yes. I found several things.

N.K: Good girl. Don't hold back. That's what the card is for.

You bite your lip, heat pooling low in your stomach at those two words. Good girl. He knows exactly what that does to you.

The sales associate hands you the bag with a practiced smile. "Will there be anything else, Miss?"

You glance at the display of jewelry near the register—delicate chains, diamond pendants, things that cost more than most people's monthly rent.

There might be one more thing...

N.K: Stop teasing and buy it.

You don't even know what it is.

N.K: I don't need to. If you want it, it's yours. Everything is yours.

Your stomach flips. Three months. You've been doing this thing with Nanami Kento for three months, and you still haven't gotten used to it—the casual way he spends money on you, the platinum card he'd given you with your name embossed on it, the way he seems to get off on seeing you dripping in things he's bought you.

You'd met him at a gallery opening. You'd been there for your art history class, trying to get extra credit. He'd been there because he apparently collected pieces from emerging artists. When he'd approached you, asked your opinion on a particular sculpture, you'd been honest—told him you thought it was pretentious trash trying too hard to be profound.

He'd laughed. Actually laughed. Then asked if you wanted to get coffee and critique the rest of the gallery with him.

One coffee turned into dinner. Dinner turned into drinks. Drinks turned into him asking, very directly, if you'd be interested in an arrangement.

"I'm not looking for a relationship," he'd said, his voice smooth and direct in that way you'd come to learn was just how he operated. "I'm too busy for the complications. But I am looking for companionship. Someone intelligent, beautiful, who isn't afraid to speak their mind. Someone I can spoil."

You should've said no. Should've been insulted, maybe. But there was something about him—the sharp cut of his jaw, the way his expensive suit fit perfectly, the tired edge to his eyes that spoke of long hours and too much stress. The way he looked at you like he was already imagining all the ways he could take care of you.

"Spoil how?" you'd asked.

"However you want. Clothes, jewelry, shoes, bags. Tuition, if you need it. Rent. A nicer apartment. A car." He'd leaned forward. "Anything you want, it's yours. All I ask is that you make time for me. Dinner a few times a week. Events when I need a date. And—" His eyes had darkened. "—other things, if you're interested."

You'd been interested.

Very interested.

Now, standing in Chanel with four shopping bags and counting, you select a delicate gold necklace with a small diamond pendant.

"This one too," you tell the associate.

Okay I'm done. For now.

N.K: For now?

I haven't hit Prada yet 😇

N.K: Brat.

N.K: My driver will pick you up at 7. Wear something I bought you.

Which thing? You've bought me like 50 things.

N.K: Surprise me. But make it easy to take off.

Bossy.

N.K: You like it when I'm bossy.

You do. God, you really do.

7:00 PM - Nanami's Penthouse

The driver drops you off at the building—all glass and steel and obscene wealth in the heart of the city. The doorman knows you by name now, just waves you through to the private elevator that goes straight to the penthouse.

You're wearing the black silk dress he'd bought you last week—Valentino, ridiculously expensive, and it fits like it was made for you. It probably was; he'd had them take your measurements. The new Cartier necklace sits delicate against your collarbone, and you're carrying the Hermès bag from today.

The evidence of his money is all over you, and you know exactly what that's going to do to him.

The elevator opens directly into his apartment—minimalist, modern, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. And there he is, standing by the windows with a glass of whiskey, still in his work clothes. Suit jacket discarded, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, tie loosened.

He's 38 but could pass for younger if not for the silver threading through his blonde hair, the tired set to his shoulders that speaks of too many late nights at the office. He's handsome in that refined, elegant way—sharp features, strong jaw, eyes that miss nothing.

Those eyes drag over you now, slow and assessing, and you watch his grip tighten on his glass.

"Well?" You do a slow turn, letting him see the whole outfit. "Do I pass inspection?"

"Come here," he says, voice already rough.

You cross to him, heels clicking on the hardwood, and stop just out of reach. "Is that any way to greet me? I spent all day shopping for you."

"For me?" His eyebrow raises. "I thought you were shopping for yourself."

"Same thing, isn't it? You get off on it either way."

His eyes flash. "Careful."

"Or what?" You step closer, tilting your head up to meet his gaze. Even in heels, he's taller—6'0" to your 5'4", and the size difference does something to both of you. "You'll stop giving me your credit card? We both know you won't."

"No," he agrees, setting down his glass. His hand comes up to the necklace, fingers trailing over the delicate chain. "I won't. Do you know why?"

"Because you like seeing me in expensive things?"

"Because I like seeing you in things I've bought you." His fingers trace lower, skimming your collarbone. "I like everyone knowing that someone takes care of you. That you're mine to spoil. That every time someone compliments this necklace or that bag, you'll think of me."

Your breath hitches. "Possessive."

"Extremely." His hand slides to your waist, pulling you flush against him. You can already feel him hard against your stomach. "How much did you spend today?"

"I don't know. A lot?"

"Sweetheart." His tone is warning. "How much?"

You pull out your phone, checking the notifications from his card. "Um. Around... forty thousand?"

The noise he makes is almost pained. His hand tightens on your waist. "Forty thousand dollars."

"You said not to hold back!" You're trying to sound defensive but it comes out breathy because his other hand is sliding up your thigh, bunching the silk of your dress.

"I did say that." His fingers find the edge of your underwear—La Perla, also his money. "And you listened so well. Such a good girl, spending my money. Did it feel good?"

"Yes," you admit.

"Did you think about me?" His fingers slip beneath the lace. "Every time you handed over that card with my name on it, did you think about what I'd do to you later?"

"Yes—" It comes out as a gasp because his fingers are sliding through your wetness.

"You're soaked." He sounds pleased and dark. "Does spending my money turn you on? Does being my perfect little spoiled brat make this pretty pussy wet?"

"Fuck—yes—"

"Yes what?" His fingers circle your clit, not enough pressure to satisfy.

"Yes, Daddy," you breathe, and feel him twitch against you.

That word. You'd discovered by accident that he likes it—loves it, actually. Likes the way it sounds in your mouth, likes the dynamic it implies. Likes being the older man who takes care of you in every way.

"That's better." He pulls his fingers away and you whimper at the loss. "Bedroom. Now. And take off the dress slowly. I want to see everything I paid for."

You walk to the bedroom—all black sheets and modern furniture and windows that overlook the glittering city. You can see your reflection in them, see him following behind you, predatory and patient.

You reach for the zipper of your dress.

"Slower," he commands, sitting on the edge of the bed. "I've been thinking about this all day. Don't rush it."

You slow down, drawing out the zip, letting the dress slip off your shoulders inch by inch. You're wearing the full set he'd bought you—black lace bra and panties, La Perla, ridiculously expensive and completely impractical.

"The bra too," he says, eyes dark.

You unclasp it, let it fall. His gaze drops to your breasts, heavy and appreciative.

"Perfect." He crooks a finger. "Come here."

You cross to him and he pulls you between his spread legs, hands spanning your waist. His thumbs brush the undersides of your breasts.

"Do you have any idea what you do to me?" he asks quietly. "Walking around in things I've bought you, spending my money without hesitation, trusting me to take care of you?"

"Tell me," you challenge.

Instead of answering, he pulls you down onto his lap, and the height difference is even more pronounced like this—you feel small, delicate, completely overwhelmed by him. His hands slide to your ass, gripping hard enough to make you gasp.

"It makes me want to fuck you until you can't remember your own name," he says against your neck. "Makes me want to mark you up so everyone knows you're taken. Makes me want to fill you up and send you out into the world dripping with my cum and covered in my diamonds."

"Then do it," you breathe.

His control snaps.

He flips you onto the bed, covers your body with his, and his mouth is on yours—demanding, consuming. His hands are everywhere, relearning your body, and you're already pulling at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin.

He pulls back just long enough to strip—shirt, belt, pants, boxer briefs—and then he's back, naked and hard and perfect. He's built lean and strong under those expensive suits, with subtle muscle that speaks of disciplined gym sessions and good genetics.

And his cock—fuck, his cock. Long and thick, the kind of size that takes preparation, that makes you feel full and stretched and perfectly used.

"Look at you," he murmurs, hands sliding up your thighs, spreading them wide. "Look at this pretty pussy. Already so wet for me. Did you touch yourself thinking about me today?"

"Maybe," you hedge.

His hand comes down on your inner thigh—not hard, but sharp enough to make you gasp. "Don't lie to me, sweetheart. Did you touch yourself?"

"Yes!" you admit. "In the dressing room at Hermès, I—I couldn't help it—"

"Fuck." He groans, fingers sliding through your wetness. "You're going to kill me. My perfect little slut, getting herself off in a dressing room while spending my money."

He pushes two fingers inside you and you arch off the bed. He's always been good with his hands—patient, methodical, the same precision he applies to everything else in his life.

"Still so tight," he observes, working his fingers deeper. "How are you going to take my cock, sweetheart? How are you going to fit all of me in this tight little cunt?"

"I always do," you gasp out.

"Yes, you do." He adds a third finger and the stretch makes you whimper. "You take me so well. Take everything I give you. My money, my cock, my cum. Such a good girl for Daddy."

"Please—" You're already close, can feel it building. "Please, I need—"

"What do you need?" He curls his fingers, hitting that spot that makes you see stars. "Use your words."

"Your cock—please—need you inside me—"

"Not yet." He pulls his fingers out and you nearly sob. "First, you're going to come on my tongue."

He shifts down your body and his mouth is on you before you can process. His tongue works your clit while his fingers push back inside, and the combination is devastating.

"Oh god—Daddy—fuck—"

He's relentless, methodical, working you up with the same focused intensity he applies to everything. When you come, it's hard and sudden, your thighs clamping around his head as you cry out.

He works you through it, only pulling back when you're pushing at his head, oversensitive.

"Good girl," he praises, crawling back up your body. "So pretty when you come. Now—" He lines himself up, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance. "—are you ready for me?"

"Yes—please—"

He pushes in slowly, and even prepared, the stretch is intense. He's so big, so thick, and you feel every inch as he works himself deeper.

"Breathe," he instructs, one hand on your hip, the other braced beside your head. "That's it. Take it. Take Daddy's cock like the good girl you are."

"So big—" You're babbling now. "So full—"

"I know." He bottoms out and pauses, giving you time to adjust. "But you can take it. You always take it so well. My perfect girl with her perfect tight pussy."

He starts moving—slow, deep strokes that have you feeling every inch of him. One of his hands finds yours, pinning it beside your head, fingers threading through yours. The intimacy of it contrasts with the filthy slide of his cock inside you.

"Fuck, you feel good," he groans. "So tight. So wet. All for me. My spoiled little brat with my cock inside her."

"Yours—" You clench around him deliberately and he curses. "All yours—"

"That's right." His pace picks up, harder now, the headboard starting to hit the wall. "Mine. Mine to spoil. Mine to fuck. Mine to fill up."

His hand slides between your bodies, finding your clit, and the added stimulation makes you cry out.

"You're going to come again," he says, not a question. "Going to come on my cock while I fill you up. Going to be such a good girl for Daddy."

"Yes—please—so close—"

"What do you need?" His thumb circles your clit faster. "Tell Daddy what you need."

"Harder—" You're shameless now, desperate. "Fuck me harder—want to feel it tomorrow—"

Something dark flashes in his eyes. He pulls out completely, flips you over onto your hands and knees, and slams back in. The new angle has him impossibly deeper, and you nearly scream.

"Like this?" He grips your hips hard enough to bruise, setting a brutal pace. "This what you need? Need Daddy to fuck you hard? Remind you who you belong to?"

"Yes—fuck—yes—"

One hand leaves your hip, sliding up your spine to grip your hair, pulling your head back. The arch it creates has him hitting that perfect spot with every thrust.

"Look." He turns your head toward the windows, where you can see your reflection—him behind you, so much bigger, covering you completely. "Look at how well you take me. Look at how perfect you look getting fucked."

You can see it—the way his cock disappears inside you, the way your body rocks with each thrust, the way his hand looks spanning your waist. The size difference is even more obvious like this.

"So small," he mutters, almost to himself. "So fucking small compared to me. How do you even fit all of me? How does this tight little pussy take my cock so perfectly?"

"Made for you—" You're incoherent now. "Made for Daddy's cock—"

"Fuck—" His rhythm stutters. "You can't say things like that—"

"Why not?" You push back against him, meeting his thrusts. "It's true—love your cock—love how big you are—love that I'm the only one who gets to have you like this—"

His hand slides from your hair to your throat—not squeezing, just holding, possessive. "You are. The only one. Haven't touched anyone else since I met you. Don't want anyone else. Just you. Just my perfect spoiled girl."

"Gonna come—" You can feel it building again. "Daddy, please—"

His other hand slides around to your clit. "Come for me. Come on my cock. Show me who this pussy belongs to."

You shatter, clenching around him so hard he groans. He fucks you through it, chasing his own release, and when you hear him start to pull out—

"Inside," you gasp. "Want it inside—want you to fill me up—"

"Fuck—you sure—"

"Yes—please—need to feel it—"

He buries himself deep and comes with a groan of your name, and you can feel him pulsing, filling you, marking you from the inside. He grinds deeper, making sure every drop stays inside, before finally stilling.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. Just breathing hard, sweat-slicked, trembling.

Then he carefully pulls out, and you feel his cum start to leak out immediately. His fingers push it back in, possessive and deliberate.

"Mine," he mutters. "All of this is mine."

He helps you lie down properly, then disappears into the bathroom. Returns with a warm washcloth and cleans you up with gentle efficiency that makes your heart ache.

"You okay?" he asks softly, lying beside you and pulling you into his arms.

"More than okay." You settle against his chest. "That was..."

"I know." His fingers trace patterns on your shoulder. "You drive me insane, you know that? Walking around in things I've bought you, spending my money like it's nothing, looking at me with those eyes like you know exactly what it does to me."

"I do know," you admit. "That's why I do it."

He laughs, the sound rumbling in his chest. "Brat."

"Your brat."

"Yes." He presses a kiss to your forehead. "My brat. My spoiled, perfect, expensive brat."

You tilt your head up to look at him. "So... about that Prada store..."

His eyes darken again, and you feel him twitch against your thigh. "You're going to be the death of me."

"But what a way to go."

He kisses you, slow and deep and possessive. "Go tomorrow. Buy whatever you want. Then come back here and model it for me."

"All of it?"

"All of it." His hand slides down your side. "And then I'll fuck you in every piece until you can't remember which designer is which."

"Is that a promise?"

"It's a guarantee." He rolls on top of you, already hard again. "But first, I'm not done with you yet."

"Again?" You're already breathless. "You're 38, how do you—"

"What can I say?" He grins, and it's the most relaxed you've ever seen him. "You're very inspiring. Now be a good girl and spread your legs. Daddy's not finished spoiling you yet."

And as he pushes inside you again, as you wrap your legs around his waist and let him take you apart piece by piece, you think that maybe this arrangement is the best investment either of you has ever made.

The Next Morning

You wake up to a notification on your phone.

BANK ALERT: $100,000 deposited into your account.

Below it, a text from Nanami:

N.K: For Prada. And whatever else catches your eye.

N.K: Don't hold back.

N.K: I want to see every purchase when you come over tonight.

You bite your lip, already planning your shopping route.

You're insatiable.

N.K: Only for you, sweetheart.

N.K: Now go spend my money like a good girl. I'll be thinking about you all day.

You definitely could get used to this.