#inchains

With an over-dramatic 'pop', you pull your wet finger from the warmth of your mouth, rolling it against one of your peddled nipples. Your back arching at the cool feel dancing along the burn of your skin.

Your other hand hovers over your slicked cunt, fingers twitching to run across your folds and rub on your clit. But, your eyes flick open, remembering your very pretty vibrator. The one with five settings, and which usually only has to be switched to the third before you're squelching and soaking anything beneath you.

The finger rolling against your nipple slips away, hand reaching for the toy. The hand over your cunt finally lowers, your index finger sliding through the slippery slit. Your folds swallowing the finger hungrily as your slick stains between your thighs and the spot under you.

Breathing heavily through your nose, your finger starts to slide up slowly. Gliding from the warmth of clenching hole up to the throb of your clit, your arousal painting your pretty finger before you add a second.

You shudder, eyes shutting. Your digits rubbing feather like circles against your clit. Light whimpers bouncing off the walls as your thighs start to close around your wrist. Your body wanting to curl forward as you push down on the bundle of nerves a little harder, hoping to add the help of an electronic to bring you over the edge. Your other hand clumsily trying to get ahold of the toy that's just a finger tip away.

You force your thighs open, hooking one of your legs across the arm rest with your shorts. Your hand reaching for the toy, giving up. Hooking under your thigh — keeping your cunt on full display for your fingers to rub, flick, and pump into your soaked core.

A moan quietly rips from your throat, your chin curling into your chest as you get a look of your fingers. Lifting them away from your clit, watching as strings of your arousal coat them. You keep your eyes peeled open, watching as they sink between your folds, a long glide from where your clit is pulsating down to where you're gushing.

Worrying your lip between your teeth, your fingers digging into the soft skin of your under thigh — your toes curl when you fingers slowly press into your clenched cunt. The tips of your digits stretching your tight hole, the warmth curling around them as you start to push in. Slick rushing down to your knuckles and staining the couch with a damp spot.

"Oh," you squeal, fingers feeling your walls flutter around them. "If only I had a cock to fill me up," you say, eyes flicking from your cunt swallowing your digits and up at the ceiling. Your hips slowly grinding against your curled fingers.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

Your heart beats against your chest, hand dropping from your leg scurrying to pull down your tank top. Your fingers brushing against your sensitive nipples, your cunt still clenching around your fingers.

BANG. BANG.

"One second," you yell, voice breathless. You pray that whoever is outside the door can't hear the whimpers you let out as your digits finally slip out of your cunt. Slicked stained fingers reaching for your shorts as you jump up, legs wobbly and shorts being rushed on.

Bare feet padding across the floor, you reach the handle of the door. Shaky hand wrapped the door knob as you forget just how disheveled you may look, the surprise of the knocks forcing you into overdrive. You feel your baby hair sticking to your temples, the back of your neck. Your thighs sticky with slick, chest still heaving where your plump tits stand taut and swollen. You won't be surprised if your face is flushed in some hue of pink, eyes glossed over.

You open the door, the cool air from the hallways wafting over you. Your nipples hardening once again through the thin material of your tank top. Outside your door stands two men — burly types, one towering over both you and the other. He stands there with pink hair, tattoos covering his tanned skin — crimson eyes immediately latching on to the way your tits bounce from the movement of swinging the door open. His seagreen uniform fits right, bunching at his pelvis. Next to him is a white haired man — tall, but lanky in comparison to his partner. The same color uniform a little too long on him, but still tight enough to show you the taut muscles of his thighs. His blue eyes racking over your bare legs, dropping from your clenched thighs down to your toes and slowly inching back up.

They both grin, as if they're in on joke that you're not aware of.

Fuck.

You forgot your apartment was sending plumbers today to fix that leak in your kitchen.

"Hi," you meekly whisper. Their hungry stares and curled up lips send a throb through your already slicked cunt. Your shorts clinging to the dampness coursing between your thighs.

You move to the side, inviting them in. Your own eyes landing on their bulges, mouth watering as you feel your arousal leak down the front of your shorts.

"We're here because of that," the one with the white hair steps in first, sunglasses perched in his hair. His eyes not leaving from your body even as his shoulders brush past to enter your home, "…leak." You hear the chuckle wrapped around his words.

"Just show us where the pipe needs to go," he continues, his partner following behind him. The warmth of the man tickling your chest as his thick arm brushes against your midsection.

He looks down at you, ruby irises flickering with a genuine interest causing warmth to pool the lining of your gut. He cocks his head, steps heavy and slow keeping his eyes locked on yours.

His partner has stepped full into your house, the tool box you seemed to look over catering on the marble of your counter.

"Sukuna," the pink haired mumbles. He looks away for a second, eyes tacked on his companion, "that's Gojo."

You nod, eyes narrowed on the way his adam's apple bobs in his throat and the tattoos stretch across his face so delicately.

He smirks, completely in your house following where Gojo is in your kitchen. His blue eyes roaming the open floor plan — hand braced on the counter as they bounce off the beams of your ceiling, following the walls to where your living room stands.

"So," Gojo starts again. You shut the front door, feet leading you to where the two men take up space in your kitchen. Your hip pressing into the hardness of your counter. "Wanna show us where that leak is coming from?"

You nod, feeling too hot to speak. Knowing your words will be mingled with slight gasps and honeyed moans. All you can do is shake your head in response and watch as their eyes continue to trail down your body.

Gojo chuckles to himself, walking around your island. Sukuna stays put, right by the cabinet of your sink — your legs brushing against his as you reach over to open it.

Your breath hitches, listening to Gojo's steps wandering into your living room. Breathing becoming a little harder as you look up at Sukuna, planting a smirk on your lips as you bend from your hips — ass high in the air, shorts molding around your puffy folds. Your fingers wrapped around the handles, opening up the under sink cabinet.

"It's he-," you are cut off, one of Sukuna's thick palms landing on your hip bone as he shuffles to stand behind you. His pelvis pressed against the fat of your ass, a moan almost ripping from your chest when you feel his hardness.

"Show me," he whispers, his head falling forward, making you feel the heat of his breath on your shoulder blade. "Is it a gentle drip? Or does it gush?"

You shudder under the weight of him pushing against you. Your head in the cabinet, fingers grasping into the metal pipe. "It gushes," you breath out.

Your ears are still trying to follow Gojo's footsteps, a snicker trailing the thud of his boots on the wood floors. "Sukuna," Gojo calls out, the man behind you pressing into you a little harder. A shaky breath falling for your lips. "Look at what was out for us to see," your eyes shoot open, teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you remember.

Your fucking vibrator was on the couch. The one that your fingers couldn't reach for. The one that should be on your throbbing clit right now, your pussy flooding at the thought of just the first setting.

Sukuna's hands tighten around your hips as you push back, your cunt trying to cling on to his clothed girth. "Did we interrupt something, miss?"

You weakly moan, your ass starting to grind against him. "Maybe."

The room is filled with both their chuckles, deep and thick. You turn your head, getting a look of Sukuna's thick legs pressed into yours. Gojo's slender body coming from around the island, one of his lithe hands grabbing the tent in between his legs through the material of his uniform.

You can feel Sukuna turning his head, facing his partner. "Dispatcher didn't tell us that we would be dealing with two leaks," he gruffly says. His hand is firm on your hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh — his pelvis driving into you, making you feel his shaft along your clothed cunt. Your body trembling from the heat that's coursing through your pussy and staining in between your thighs.

It was quick. Your shorts thrown over the counter you're currently laying on, back flushed against the coolness of the marble. Your cunt glistening with heat as your thighs are spread wide. The two men hungrily staring at the mess between your legs. Tongues rolling over their bottom lips, their fingers gripping into your skin.

One of your legs is thrown over Gojo's shoulder. His arm wrapped around your thigh as he keeps your leg open wide enough to try to fit both men between you. Sukuna presses your other leg down, your knee squished against your tit as your foot lays flat on his hard abdomen.

"Show us exactly what the pipe was doing," Gojo grins down at you, his eyes flickering to his partner. Sukuna's eyes are stuck in between your thighs, lip tucked between his teeth.

Without warning, two thick digits glide down your folds. A long stripe down from your quivering clit to your clenched entrance. Your back arches, breath hitching in your throat as you watch through lidded eyes. Chin tucked to your chest, teeth sinking into your bottom lip. Your hands grabbing at the fingers gripping your legs.

One of Gojo's hands start to roam on your chest, calloused palms roughly brushing against your hardened nipples. "Aren't you happy that we came just in time?" He asks, a smug smirk stretched on his face as he rolls one of your nipples between his pointer finger and thumb. The other hand grips deeper into your thigh, his fingers squeezing into the tender skin.

Your swallow a moan, your eyes bouncing from cerulean to crimson ones. A pale face to one sketched with tattoos. Your body folding into the heat of their bodies touching yours. Sukuna's fingers still slowly dragging along your labia — index and middle finger following the length of your lips and gathering slick whenever they meet at your entrance. Parting you wide enough that the cool air from the marble under you meets the heat of your sex. His fingers lubricated with enough of your juices that it feels like his digits belong against your cunt.

Sukuna's palm pushes your leg deeper, your knee presses against your beating chest. Your hips lifting in anticipation as his fingers start to drag a little harder, coming up and now pressing against your clit. Rough, slow, deliberate circles, each pass of his fingers feeling every twitch as you let out breathy moans. "I'll be happier if you two can fix my leak," you say, watching Sukuna's lips curl into a hungry grin.

A rough rub of your clit, your hips weakly lifting off the marble with the added weight of both men holding you down. Your pussy clenching as the pink haired one inches his fingers slowly to where you want him most, Gojo's hand is still groping at your perky tits. Teasing touches causing heat to roll in the bottom of your stomach, toes curling against Sukuna's chest and Gojo's broad shoulder.

"I think we have to ask," Gojo starts, his lips brushing chaste kisses against your calf. Sukuna's fingers gently circling your quivering entrance — the faux softness of their actions giving you a false sense of relaxation. "Did you remember we were coming?"

Before you can answer, shake your head no, a broken gasp leaves your lips. Eyes shutting as your hips buck up. Sukuna pushing not two, but three digits into your cunt — stretching you out until he's knuckle deep. Your hands rushing to grab onto something, whether it was his wrist or Gojo's hand still roaming your tits.

"Fuck," you croak out. Your legs spread open wider by the the two men in front of you. Your clenched sex swallowing Sukuna's fingers as he pumps them in and out, your hips angling higher as he curls whenever he's deep enough.

Your hands grabs at your own thighs, nails scratching at their hands holding you down. The sound of your pussy sloppily clamping down around every deep thrust, the pass of his fingers pressing just right making your thighs tremble and your mouth water. You hear the shuffle of the uniform and a click of a tongue. "Look at us," and you do, eyes slowly peeking opening. Sukuna's fingers still grinding against the warmth of you walls.

Next to his partner, Gojo hungrily takes in the sight of your flushed cheeks and heavy breathing. You didn't notice the absence of his hands, not squeezing and pulling at your taut tits anymore, your mind so focused on the curl of thick fingers against your gummy walls. The obscene sounds of your moans and the sloshing of thick fingers pumping into you rings loud — louder than the shuffling of your pink vibrator being pulled out of Gojo's pocket.

"Show us how you were going to use this."

Your fingers twitching as Gojo slides the toy into one of your palms, you let out a strangled moan, "you- fuck." Gojo's creeping back to pull at your pebbled nipple again. Your hips lifting and pushing down on Sukuna's thrusting fingers even more. Your slick leaking down your thighs and the palm of his hand. "You two want me to show you a lot."

Sukuna chuckles, his fingers bucking into you faster, harder, "we're visual learners, baby." Digits dragging along the mold of your walls, your cunt clamping down every time they curl. A pressure is building right in the bottom of your gut, each rub of his knuckles gliding in and out of your sloshing pussy intensifying the feeling.

Stuttering moans roll from your swollen lips, your fingers weakly pressing the one switch, setting the vibrator to its first setting. You were well aware that you were close from just the depth of the salmon haired man's fingers.

"I'll help you," a laugh slips from Gojo, his hands trailing from your tits once more, wrapping around your wrist. His grip is hard enough to be demanding as he guides your hand to your your trembling clit. The vibrating toy pressing to your bundle of nerves ripping a scream from your throat. "There we go," he coaxes, deft hand keeping your wrist still as the toy shudders against you, "you still have to show us that gush."

A hot flush raises from the expanse of your pussy up to your ears, your toes curling and long strings of loud moans and cries ripping from your chest. Your thighs trembling under the press of their bodies as you watch them eye the way your cunt leaks down on to your counter.

Your walls seize around Sukuna's fingers, the thick digits still grinding against your walls, each thrust fucking into you deeper. Your clit is throbbing under you and Gojo's hand, the pulsating rubber toy sending waves knock out even louder scream crawling from your chest.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," you yell out, hips trying to buck off the marble. Your legs wobbly as that burn in your gut blossoms right under Sukuna's curled fingers. And you feel it, your stomach tightening and walls clenching around his fingers even tighter. Clit throbbing as your head drives into the counter below you. "It's co-coming, fuck."

One more pump of his curled fingers, your pussy spasming around his fingers. A gush of liquid squirting out of your cunt, splashing against their blue uniforms and the tents in their pants. Slick leaking down your thighs, on his fingers, on the counter below you and even splashing on the floor near their boots.

Your moans are loud, breathy and harsh as you try to gather your breath. Vibrator still throbbing against your twitching clit making you see stars as your cunt flutters around Sukuna.

"Shit," Sukuna speaks lowly, deep. He pulls his fingers out, your pussy squelching around his knuckles sliding out. Chest heaving as you lift your head, eyes following every movement between your legs. You watch with baited breath, Sukuna bringing his slicked fingers up to the front of his face. "Looks like we have out work cut out for us," he chuckles and you feel it against your foot.

"Messy girl," he mumbles, tongue rolling over his bottom lip. Gojo watches with hungry eyes, his fingers digging into your thigh as he holds onto you like an anchor.

Gojo's hand drops from your wrist, grabbing Sukuna's tattooed one, bringing it closer to his own face. Pairs of eyes watching as his fingers glisten from your pussy. "Fuck," Gojo mutters, his grip tightening around Sukuna's wrist, "what a fucking mess." And despite Sukuna's furrowed brows, Gojo brings his fingers to his mouth. His lips wrapping around the thick digits as he bobs his head down, his cheeks hallowing around them, groaning as he swallows the taste of you.

Jittery fingers still hold on to the vibrating toy, tucking it into the side of your thigh as your body twitches from the aftershocks. Your foot that's been arched against Sukuna's chest slides down, settling softly on his girth. His eyes narrowing as they drop from Gojo's tongue lapping over his digits to where your foot is rubbing against his bulge.

"I wanna taste," you nod towards Gojo, his head pulling up with a pop as he removes his lips off of his associate's fingers. They stand thick, and wet with spit and your slick.

Gojo wastes no time, grabbing you from the tank top that's limp around your waist, pulling you further down the counter. Your legs dropping from their upper bodies as you lean up on your elbows. Watching them, watch you, through batted lashes and a flush inching up your face.

Blue eyes lean in, the heat of his breath fanning across your face as you feel his length press into your bare leg. He doesn't talk, just a smug grin and his index finger crawling up to tap you on your lips. Sukuna next to him watches quietly, wet fingers molding into your thigh.

You smile back, opening your mouth slightly. Gojo's hand weaving around your jaw as he forces you to open a little wider. A wad of warm spit hitting your tongue, your lips instantly closing as you let out a moan.

Before you can swallow, have the taste of your pussy wash down your throat — Sukuna pulls you up, hand wrapped around your neck as he leans in. Gojo is watching with a grin as he leans in as well. A clash of lips and tongues roll out as they meet in a kiss. Hands roaming down your chest, your soaked thighs. Your hands trailing down hard chests and even harder cocks. Teeth tugging on bottom lips, and tongues rolling against the warmth of another. Your hips grinding against the hardness of the counter, the vibrator falling to the ground as it slightly thumps against the tiles.

Sukuna pulls away first, eyes hooded and lustful. "This may be the best job we had all week."

Your knees are pressed into the cool tile of your kitchen. From the corner of your eye, the cabinet with your busted pipe stays open — no sign of any work happening to it. In front of of you, Sukuna stands kneeling — his cock freed out of the restraints of his uniform. You stare wide eyed and open mouthed at the thick length of his pretty dick — it stands long, hard and thick, a slight curve to the left and his bulbous tip dribbles with precum. One of his hands wraps around the base of his shaft, tufts of pinkish hair blooming from his fist.

Your eyes trail the protruding vein on the underside of his shaft, up to his chest still clad in that uniform, up to where he watches you with ruby irises and his tongue tucked into his cheek. "What a cock," you smile sweetly at him, pushing your hips back as you feel Gojo start to get comfortable between your legs. "Just what I asked for."

Behind you, Gojo's hands splay against your ass cheeks. Air rushing to the slick that's pooling at your cunt. "Was she tight?" he mumbles as you feel him shuffle, hips brushing against you as you feel the girth of his settling between your folds. Every inch of him pressed close, you can feel the drip of his precum as he slightly ruts against your core. His mushroom tip nudging between your puffy lips, as his hands firmly grip.

You let out a meek cry, you hips pushing back as you feel his hardness against your warmth. You want to throw your head back, give him a narrowed look and tell him to fuck you already — but your eyes on locked on the crimson ones in front of you, pussy dripping from the way his cock twitches near your wet lips.

"Can still feel her pussy gripping my fingers."

Your hands are laid flat on the floor, keeping yourself balanced between the two men. You lean forward, pressing a soft kiss to the head of his cock. Still staring at him through your lashes, his tongue still tucked in the inside of his cheek. The hand on his length moving up in a slightly jerking movement. You smile, placing another kiss, your swollen lips painted with the drip of his precum. Then, your tongue flattens against the underside of his cock feeling the pulse from his thick vein, earning you a sharp inhale from above.

"Damn," Sukuna groans, one of his hands reaching for the nape of your neck as you work your tongue along his shaft. He presses deep against the side of your neck, a gasp tumbling out your mouth before you move up. Your warm mouth wrapping around his leaking tip, sucking softly. Your tongue flicking his slit as his hips start to push forward. "Mouth is just as warm as your pussy."

With his hands still gripping your ass, you feel a wad of warm spit rolling down your ask crack to where you pussy leaks. "I'm about to feel just how warm it is myself," Gojo chuckles, your cunt clenching at the glob of spit rolling down to meet the slick staining his cock pressed against you.

You push back, you mouth still sucking on the tip of Sukuna's thick cock. You're not given any warning, just the stretch of your pussy as Gojo buries himself. Pushing you down, your mouth enveloping Sukuna's dick. Gojo's hands are still gripping your ass, spreading your cheeks far apart that you're sure he can see how your walls flutters around him when he pushes deeper into your slicked entrance. A groan ripping from his chest as he starts to pound into you.

The angle perfect, shaft thick and deep, slamming fast and rough. Your moans mumbled from the weight of Sukuna's cock on your tongue as you drool around him, tongue rolling around his tip whenever you pull back far enough to have it move from down your throat. Gojo's pelvis smacks into your tailbone, ass jiggling under his heavy grip. Each slam making you swallow more of Sukuna, pant a little heavier, arousal leaking down your thighs and onto his heavy balls clamping against your clit with every thrust.

"Lil' slut wanted her leak fixed," Sukuna grits out, the hand wrapped around the back of your neck holds your head in place. Gojo's thrusts doing all the work to push your warm mouth further down the thickness of his cock. "Looks like you'd be draining us instead." You look up with teary eyes, stomach twisting as you try to let out a strangled moan. Your mouth too stuffed with cock, your nose brushing against his hand that's still stroking along the area your mouth hasn't swallowed.

Your cunt clenches around the cock pumping into you. Gojo's hips snapping into you almost erratically, hard and punishing. "Fuck," he groans behind you, the hands gripping your ass move. One holding your hip tightly, the other one sliding softly against the underside of your ass. Fingers tickling as they tap along the bounce of your ass. "She's so fucking tight," one very rough buck of his hips sends your knees skidding slightly against the tile. Sukuna's cock hitting your gag reflex causing you to gurgle around his thickness. Drool dribbling from the sides of your mouth and spilling down your chin, chest, and his dick pressing against your tongue. "Think her asshole is just as tight?"

Your eyes shut, stomach rolling as you get stuffed from both holes. Your nipples hardening as you feel yourself gush around Gojo, creaming around the shaft of his cock as you swallow back the moans. Lips tautly wrapped around Sukuna, as his partner drills himself into you sloshing pussy — his thrusts becoming ever harder. You feel his free hand still roaming your ass, his fingers gliding down your wet crack. His spit acting as lubricant as his finger circles your clenching rim before stretching you open.

"Fuck, let me feel how she'd grip my cock," Sukuna's groans, one of his palms smacking the side of your face, the sting from his hand connecting on your skin as you moan around his length. Cheeks hallowing, spit pooling from your lips as Gojo's brutal thrust pushes you deeper, the tip of Sukuna's dick nudging at the back of your throat. He bucks his hips, the tears brimming at your lash line now falling as the new motion pushes you even further down his shaft. "Can you take two pipes at once?"

"I know a whore like her could," Gojo's hips slap against your ass. His hefty cock sliding along your walls as he pistons in and out — your cunt clenching around him as his balls slap against your clit every time he buries himself deeper into cunt. His hands curls into your hair and shoving you further down Sukuna's dick. The sounds of your slick sputtering around his cock and your throat gagging from the force of shaft lodged in your throat makes you almost cum, the burning feeling in your belly growing with each meet of skin on skin.

Then Gojo pulls out, a queef fluttering out of your slippery pussy. His hand in your hair pulling you off of Sukuna's dick, strings of saliva leaking down your chin and onto your tits. "Take us both," the man behind you demands arching your neck so that you staring right back at the man in front of you. His hand that was on your hip dips down, slapping your cunt causing you to shiver. "Let my partner feel just how tight that cunt is."

Gojo is below you, your back to him as you start to squat down. His hands holding your ass cheeks spread wide, as you lower yourself — asshole hovering over the thick tip of his cock. Your arms are behind you, hands flat on his chest as you slowly descend.

The pressures of his tip pressed against your clenched hole is different, new. Your cunt leaks at the thought of feeling it stretch you from behind, your hips dropping down a little quicker to finally feel him inside. With one hand on your hip, the other around the base of his cock — he helps guide you down. His cock pushing in as you drop with a long string of mewls and whimpers.

Your breath hitches as you feel himself bury into you, inch by inch. Your body falling forward as his length drives into your tight, fluttering hole. Your plush ass pressed against his pelvis as he bottoms out — both of you letting out strangled moans as your slick slips down to where his balls lay.

"Oh, f-fuck me," he blows out, long exhale steaming out of his nose as he gets used the tightness his cock is nestled in. Your eyes jump from between your legs to the quiet man standing just a few feet away. His eyes hungry following the way your tits raise with each baited breath, his hand wrapped around his cock as his thumb works over the slit. Sukuna using your spit to mix with his precum to keep his shaft slicked with wetness. "Lean back, baby," Gojo drags you from watching Sukuna's hand on his pretty cock, pale hands tapping your hips. "Show him just how wet you are."

You move your arms, bringing them around to hook under your thighs as you slowly lean back. The slow incline of your body making the stretch of Gojo's cock feel deeper, your head falling back on his shoulder with a breathy gasp. Your back flushed against his solid chest, your nails digging into the underside of your plush legs.

One of Gojo's hands snake around your jaw, holding your head still as he starts to pepper rough kisses down your sweat slicked skin. His hips slowly rolling up, burrowing his thick cock even deeper into your clenched asshole. The buck of his hips slow, but deep enough that you feel the throb of his tip with every inch your hole swallows.

"Jesus," you huff out, fingers biting into your legs. Head spinning from the press of his pelvis against your ass, his lips leaving burning kisses on your bare skin — your ears don't pick up on the heavy steps of Sukuna stalking over. You don't realize he has joined until you feel his own thick hands pressing into the fat of your legs. Your eyes flicking open to see him once again kneeling in front of you, his cock flushed against your folds as he lines himself up to your core. His tip brushing against your sensitive clit, making your hands almost fly off your legs and a yelp brush pass your lips.

"I don't think I could trust you," Sukuna starts muttering, his voice gravelly and wet. Gojo's hips are still slowly rolling into yours, your cunt dripping from the pleasure coursing through your body. "I'm going to hold your legs down myself." Sukuna continues, his large hands pressing into your thighs, pushing you down into Gojo's chest. The stretch of your thighs being held open wide burns, causing you to whimper.

"Sukuna," Gojo groans. His kisses becoming a little more rough, tongue rolling down the sweat that is drenching your body. "Fuck her before I cum."

You whimper something incoherent. Gojo's hips stopping their movements as his cock stays hard and deep within your ass. Sukuna looks down at you, all smug and lips curling into a grin. His dick pressing into your entrance, slowly stretching you out as your thighs start to spasm under his touch. Your slippery cunt clenching down as he fills you up inch by tortuous inch.

"Such a good girl taking us both," Sukuna chuckles before he pushes himself fully. Your honeyed walls rippling around his length as he starts to slowly gliding himself along your warmth. "All you needed was a new pipe and here you are taking fuckin' two," he drags his cock out slow — only to slam back in, deep and hard. sharper. crueler.

A moan gets stuck in your chest as his thumbs dig into you. His cock buried deep and he starts to pull out again, leaving only his throbbing tip swallowed by your clenched entrance. Your hands grab for his, nails digging into the tattoos wrapped around his wrist.

"Good thing," you pause, swallowing that knot in your throat. Gojo is letting out quiet groans, his hand hard around his jaw — keeping your head still to stare directly into the tattooed face of his partner. "I showed you guys that it gushes," Sukuna's lips curl and you feel his cock twitch at your entrance, his hips lightly bucking, pushing him in a little deeper. "So, you'd know what to do." You whisper, your pussy rushing with slickness as Sukuna's hips smacking into yours causes Gojo's cock to move as well.

His girth pushed in to the hilt, your cunt leaking down his shaft as his hips begin to grind. He pushes in deeper, making sure you feel every thick inch as your pussy pulses around him, soaking wet and overstimulated. Gojo below feeling the way your clenched hole spasms around him with every smack of his partner's strong hips into yours.

He continues to brutally rut into you, sweat dripping down the sides of his pink hair and onto his temples. The sounds of skin on skin on skin are loud and wet — your slopping core swallowing every inch that gets burrowed into your warmth.

Your moans are teetering on overdramatized screams, as you keep your eyes locked on the crimson ones above you. His balls smacking the plush on your ass with every singing thrust that he fucks into you, his grip on your thighs almost painful as you gush around his cock. Your slick warming up Gojo's dick that's grinding against the walls of your tight ass.

"I want to watch her when we cum."

You're tired, breathing hard as you stare up at the two men standing in front of you. One of your hands is playing with your tits, rolling and pulling at your hard nipples as you brush against them. Your other hand buried between your thighs as your thumb softly presses against your quivering clit, sliding side to side.

Their hands are wrapped around their cocks, wrists twisting as they jerk their slicked stained shafts towards you. Sukuna tugging his cock harshly, rolling his hand up and down, thumb stopping at his bulbous tip for a second to rub at his slit before he glides it back down his length. His chin is tucked into his chest, teeth biting into his bottom lip, eyes watching the way your thumb plays with your clit and the shock that it sends up your body. Making your tits bounce with the movement.

Gojo's head is thrown back, strong neck stained red as he beats his cock fast. Wrist moving up and down as his swollen, mushroom tip twitches from the need to explode. Balls taut below his shaft, swinging with each pass of his hand. "Fuck," he bites out. Feet shuffling closer as he angles the head of his cock go where your thumb and index finger is tugging on your left tit. One more jerk, and your chest is hit with the warmth of his seed. Warm, white strings of cum spilling down the valley of your breasts and onto your fingers. "Shit," he pants heavily, "perfect place to cum." He groans as his hand still ruts along his shaft, a gentle drip of cum still spilling out of his throbbing tip.

You rub your clit a little harder, short whimpers meeting the sounds of their groans and hands working against their cocks. You switch from watching Gojo's reddened neck and lithe fingers around his member to Sukuna. Crimson eyes watching the cum drip down to where your thumb is still rolling against your bundle of nerves, your back arching every time you rub a little too harshly.

"Come here," he hisses, his free hand grabbing your hair to bring your face closer to his thighs. "Going to bust on this pretty lil' face," he grumbles, his wrist twisting faster and harder. His cock twitching as you breath near the tip, the heat of his sex brushing against your flushed skin. "Going to bust right on this fucking fa-," he's cut off by the cum shooting from his dick right onto your face.

Your eyes shutting closed as you feel the thickness of his cum spill down from your eyebrow, past your lashes, and onto your flushed cheeks. You feel the air from his hand still jerking, cum continuing to rush down the side of your face.

"Fuck," he mumbles, the hand in your hair gripping a little tighter. Your eyes shooting open from the pain, only to be met with a smug grin and his cock still throbbing within eyesight. "Should we go fix that pipe for you now?"

"Cut."

The click of cameras turning off and bodies roaming around the set breaks into your heavy breathing. "Fuck, Kuna," eyes blinking away cum as you swallow down your final moans. You look up at him, eyes narrowed and slight annoyance wrapping around your shoulders. "I told you not near my lashes." He stays above you, grinning down as his fingers start to rub into the cum running down your cheek. Digits collecting enough of his thick seed, splaying it against your lips. Your tongue peeking out to taste the saltiness of his cum as you send him an eye roll.

Gojo's cum starts to dry on your tits, dripping slowly to where your knees press into the floor. You hear him step away. The swish of his uniform mingling with rush of the crew cleaning up behind you guys. "I knew you'd be good," he starts, his steps heavy as he walks towards the sink. "But, fuck. I don't think anyone has taken us both so well."

"He's not wrong," Sukuna mutters, fingers running along your bottom lip wanting to be let in. Your teeth nip at his fingers as you start to rub at the cum drying up on your chest.

The sound of the faucet rings into the little stare-off you're having with the burly man rubbing his cum into your skin, his cock still flushed and hard — ready to take you again at any moment. "You're annoying," you bat your lashes up at him, his grin growing.

"Shit," Gojo hisses, and everyone's head snaps to where he stands at the sink. Water sputtering out from the pipe, the open cabinet giving it the space to rush and pool at his feet. "I think you guys need to bring in real plumbers."

He's self aware of his position. He knows who he is. He likes who he is, for the most part. He doesn’t wish to be popular like Sukuna or a ladies’ man like Geto. He understands his role in this academic society, in this world — it’s been the role that has followed him since he entered primary school, since before he truly understood who he was.

Gojo Satoru, the loser, the virgin. The nerd who keeps his nose in books, glasses falling along the bridge of his nose. The guy who is tall, lanky, his limbs falling before him ungracefully, causing him to trip at times. The guy who speaks out of turn, sometimes getting ignored altogether — other times he’s on the receiving end of slow blinks.

The guy that girls, especially girls like you, don't pay attention to. Their eyes are always drifting past him with faux niceness. Their glossed lips pursed at his graphic teas and his bursts of physics equations rambling out his mouth.

He isn’t for everyone, and he knows that. He respects it to a fault. He doesn’t have to squeeze into a box for others to swallow him — they have already made one for him. Placing him there with a set of rules that he follows to a tee.

He watches Ted talks, and listens to NPR when he goes on nightly walks. He reads Charles Bukowski, annotating enough lines that he can make a shrine along his dorm room’s wall with a manuscript of whatever Bukowski thinks.

So, he feels that the world is slowly changing on its rotation. Rotating backwards on its axis to fuck with what is the status quo. To dangle what he knows isn’t meant for him in front of his face. Something that he knows is going to shred the image of who he is — or possibly grab whatever he has hidden under video essays and random literary quotes, out.

“You’re Gojo, right?”

His head is in a physics textbook, the bustle of students looking for free chairs is blurred by the equations he already memorized. 

He heard the question. He knows the voice. It’s in a couple of his classes, and it has never been directed towards him — so he knows that this must be a mistake now. 

His eyes don’t leave the book.

“Who is asking?” 

The words slip out before he can stop them, dry and bored — the tone he hears his roommate use on girls who ask to stay the night. He wants to cringe, his fingers gripping on to the book a little tighter — preparing to use it as a shield towards your recoil, laugh, or dismissal. 

Neither of those things come. Just the sounds of students mumbling and the pages of their textbooks flapping to the section that will help them pass the midterm season coming up. 

“I’m asking.” 

He forces himself to look up, his glasses slightly crooked. With a tilted head, and eyes scanning over every crevice of the area around him — you stare down at him. No faux niceness coloring your irises, but a look of curiosity. 

He feels the tips of his ears get hot, praying to whatever higher power that there isn’t a red hue brushing against his cheeks. 

He swallows, hoping the grin he’s trying to etch against his lips seems like a bold touch. A desirable counterpart — like the one he sees Geto throw on. It just seems easier for him. 

“That’s me,” he shrugs, his eyes falling from your face to your chest — the tank top you’re wearing putting your cleavage on full show. He knows for sure his cheeks are now stained red. “Smartest guy on campus here!” The pitch in his voice goes up just a notch higher, and he knows you notice from the way you flinch a bit. He ignores the dumb ass fucking thumb he threw up to point towards himself. 

In another world this would come off as charming, and you will laugh and he’ll relish in the fact that not only did you seek him out — but you enjoyed your time with him. 

But, that isn’t the case. 

You blink at him. Your glossed lips twitching at the ends, as if you’re not sure to laugh at him or be annoyed. He feels his stomach drop, his eyes retreating to the textbook — the safety of it calling him home and away from you. 

“…Right,” you say slowly, that slow blink that he sees from everyone else graces your face. “That’s good. I need your help, mister smartest guy on campus.” 

Help. 

The word sounds weird, especially coming from you. Help? No one ever needs him. 

The word rolls around in chest, vibrating around his ribs as his brain tries to catch up. 

He looks up again, not shielding away from your stare. He doesn’t try to be smooth, or charming. His only objective right now is to keep his voice steady. 

“Help with what?” 

He sits awkwardly at your desk, your knee banging into his. Pictures of you and friends scattered on your desk, laughing at him from the corner of his eye. 

He does not belong here. He wonders if you know that. 

“So, I really do not want to do that module for our class,” you sigh. You run your hand through your hair and he really tries to keep his eyes glued on the questions that he answered three weeks ago. The answers on the tip of his fingers, ready to be inputted in. “I know last year Nanami paid you to do his coursework, I thought it was worth the shot to ask for help.” 

He swallows down all the words that want to fly out of his mouth — he is trying to keep the failed charming persona going. Despite the sweaty palms he’s trying to wipe down his jeans, and the glasses that keep slipping down his nose whenever he stares too long at your lips. 

He can fit in. He can be around you and not embarrass himself. No he won’t ask if you watched Bill Gates Ted talk, or for your thoughts on NASA wanting to put a nuclear reactor on the moon. 

No. 

He is here to help. Well, get paid to help.

“How much are you willing to pay?” His voice comes out steady and he wants to give himself a high five. “I can do this module tonight. Are you looking for an exact grade to receive?” 

You shift a little closer, your knees pressing into his thigh. Your elbow on the desk, your chin on your palm as you look back at him. Your lashes falling against your cheeks with every small blink you make — he almost wants to time the blinks to know the amount of seconds your eyes were on him. 

You have this level of casualness that almost seems mocking. Every movement you make battles the awkwardness of his own. Your leg mushes against his, he becomes stiff — your movements flow a little easier. He stutters and you grin, your words coming out paced and smooth. He wipes sweaty palms down his jean clad thighs and you scoot a little closer. 

“I can get you any grade you’ll like,” his voice comes out rushed and he is aware a rambling session is about to roll out. “Actually I’m lying. I will not give you a F if that is what you wanted. Which I know you don’t want, because you asked me, the smartest -“

“The smartest guy on campus,” you finish for him. You send him a small smile and feels the rest of words that we’re going to rush past his lips, quiet down. His eyes rush back to your computer, the screen on sleep mode. His own reflection watching just how out of place he is. “Yeah, I asked you. A B is fine.” 

There’s a beat of silence between you two. Everything freezing, allowing Gojo to think for a minute. He hears the flip flops of students walking down the hall to the communal bathrooms. He smells marijuana slithering through your vents from the smoking corners in the basement. He thinks he could make out a bed creaking against the wall next to yours. 

He knows something is about to change. He feels it in his shoeless feet and by the way his snowy white seems to be standing at the ends. 

“Yeah, totally,” he breathes out. The clock on your desk ticks a little louder. Your leg searing into his. 

“I just have a little dilemma,” you free hand waves in the air, like you’re dusting away the final remnants of normalcy for him. “I was wondering if I can pay you with something other than money.”

Another beat of silence, music blasting from the quad below flows into the room. 

“Like cookies or something?” He looks down at your lips. “I really like sweets.”

Your eyebrows furrow and you stare at him. And for the first time ever, he finds this look to be pretty instead of judging. “…No,” you huff out. “But good to know… I guess?” 

“Oh.”

“Are you a virgin, Gojo?” 

He doesn’t answer, just blinks. The first time in a long time where he does not know how to answer a question. 

A shit earing grin grows on your lips and Gojo feels his stomach drop. “Of course you are,” you say it more to yourself than to him. 

“What does that mean?” The steadiness in his voice is gone. 

“That I can repay you by being the first girl that makes you cum.” 

You lean closer, your knee pressing harder against his. He freezes, the only moving and living thing is his heart — the organ beating against his chest so roughly, he’s sure you can make out each beat.

“You won’t be the first girl to make me cum,” his voice comes out in a croaked whisper, his eyes squeezing shut — all the porn videos of big tit women fucking even bigger dick men flashing before his eyes, like a film reel.

You bite down on your bottom lip, stifling a laugh. “Porn doesn’t count,” you shake your head. He feels your eyes trailing along the slope of his body, he is sure you're picking up on every nervous jitter that's shaking his bones and coursing through his bloodstream.

Cock tenting in his boxers, his thighs start to shiver from how much he's trying to hold back. “I take it back,” he forces out a breathless laugh, his eyes finally opening back up. Before looking at you, he looks back at the pictures on your desk — your friends are laughing, he's sure he hears it.

“Think of it as an exchange of goods,” you murmur, smirking. Your hand grips his thigh, the simple touch making his dick twitch. He almost doubles over, as if you punched him in the gut — but he knows he's just about to cum and make a mess in his jeans. "Not all of us attend school for free,” you let out a chuckle, a finger of yours trailing along the imprint of his hard on. He lets out a sigh that sounds more like a whimper. "So, this little business interaction is great practice for what happens in the real world."

His sweaty palms lay flat on your desk now, his fingers tapping lightly — like he’s counting something. He wants to say something, but he doesn’t trust his voice. The words are stuck in his throat, like it’s lined with the thickest honey the world could create. 

He stares straight head, the sleeping screen of your computer playing the scene with impeccable timing back to him. Your eyes trained in between his legs, your tongue tucked in your cheek, the shitty dorm room lamp coating you in this glean of light that seems almost … angelic.

Sweat beads at his hairline, pupils blown out as his glasses start to dip along the slope of his nose. The screen can make out every rattled breath he's taking, as if the pumping of his chest is almost unnatural … like the action that's happening right in front of his eyes.

In a blink of an eye — really, Satoru is sure that time is moving faster than he can ever scientifically explain — his cock springs free from the restraints from his jeans. And, it's your hand that's wrapped around him, not his, with a shitty porn video from twitter playing on loop in front of his textbook.

He sits straight up, fingers curled into fists on your desk now. The ends of frosty hair pricking up as he finds some strength to hold on to the sounds that want to escape his mouth.

Your fingers curled around the base of his cock, it's warm and much smaller than his own hand. You watch him through your lashes as you lean your face closer towards his thighs. You're so close, he thinks he can feel your breath fan over his dribbling tip.

"I need you to relax ,” you mumble, your hand slowly stroking upwards. Your grip tightening when you get to his mushroom tip, your thumb hovering over his slit. Satoru shuts his eyes, the taste of blood on his tongue from how hard he's biting down on his bottom lip. "You should watch.”

Then your fist is moving along the length of his shaft, your hand pumping his twitching cock harder. Your thumb pressing into his swollen tip every time your hand finds it way back. His breath stutters out in broken bursts, fogging his glasses — which are so far from where they should be, he could barely see.

He can't look at your sly smile, of the pictures on your desk, or your of your pretty hand working his cock for every thing he has. He can't keep looking at the computer screen showing him just how lovely you look and how out of place he looks, even with his cock twitching in your hand.

The most vulnerable part of him, quite literally in the palm of your hand.

After years of trying out different sock materials, scents of lotions, and going through an unhealthy amount of flashing videos of people fucking — Gojo Satoru could never imagine another human touching him.

He couldn't picture a girl, especially someone like… you, to ever willing be on the opposing side of offering him sexual gratification. He was sure he would've dealt with his own fist and when the time came, artificial intelligence to do that job.

"Fuck," the word falls from his lips like he's never said it before, clumsy and rushed. Your hand speeds up and it hits him — one, he's about to cum, hard. And two, nothing would ever compare to the warmth of your hand wrapped around him.

"Wh-what are your thoughts on nuc- shit, nuclear reactors?”

You hum, low and your grip tightens just enough to make his hips buck off the chair. "Do you think of nuclear," his knee knocks into yours, his lanky limbs completely out of his control. "… reactors to cum?"

It's something about hearing those words leave your lips that causes his toes to curl. Embarrassing, wet, little whines that he can't swallow down in time mixing with the soft tilt of a chuckle you're holding back. His chest hitches with every stroke, his hair falling flat on his forehead from how much sweat he's producing.

His brain jumps to the answers to a test he took in eleventh grade, a scene of a Bill Nye video follows behind, and then the measurements of how far this very spot is to the moon. Everything that his brain could offer to help him hold on a little longer, rushes in. Wanting to keep your hand around him for a moment longer, feeling the way your fingers grip so tenderly — the action not matching the way your eyes roll whenever he huffs out a breath little heavier than the last one.

And then he feels your breath fan the shell of his ear, your hand still working on his cock. Your movements are lazy, certain — like you already know how everything between you two, and maybe even the world, is going to unfold.

"You're close, aren't you?"

He feels everything in him unravel, his head nodding frantically.

You twist your wrist on the next stroke, your thumb finally coming down to swirl around his sensitive tip. His whole body seizes, thighs trembling and cock twitching under under your hand as he spills hot and messy across our fingers, his jeans, and even the hem of your desk. Low moans break out, choked and desperate.

He slumps forward immediately, his hands curling up into his hair, pulling slightly at the roots to give him some sense of normalcy. Like a wake up call from a dream he does not want to wake up from. His chest heaving as if he just ran a marathon.

You let go, wiping your hand down his thigh without much of a care. He twitches under the contact, shocked that your body is still touching his regardless of it just using him to discard his own mess.

"A B would be nice," you murmur, tone light.

Satoru turns his head to finally get a good look at you — his eyes wide, lips parted and still rushing out breaths. He can feel just how red his face is, the tips of his ears searing.

You… you're already leaning back, pulling your chair towards the desk like you're clocking into your office job. No attention paid to the man who's life was just changed.

He wants to hate himself for how easy it was for you to see him unravel. How cool you are, while his brain is editing the reel that was all porn videos to just clips of your hand wringing his cock.

With an ache in his chest, he knows that he'd never recover from this.

And, he doesn't want to.

It's been a couple weeks since your hand was wrapped around his cock, imprinting yourself on to every part of his very pathetic life.

He can hear the sounds of your chair scooting closer whenever he closes his eyes to sleep, or the rolling of your eyes when he's in the shower — cock in his hand as he tries to pump himself to a finish, despite his dick only wanting to fuck into your hand. The white, flash that punches him in the gut never coming.

You've offered more 'jobs' for him — online quizzes, your part of a project that was forty percent of your grade, random homework worksheets that you just didn't care about. Satoru running to your desk like a loyal dog, every time you texted or called for him.

The payments offering him new ways for your body to be meshed against his. Last week, you let him touch your tits (through your bra). His hands gripping and kneading, the lace of your bra tickling his palm. His eyes focused on the goosebumps trickling down your chest and your nipples hardening from the contact. His cock springing at the warmth of his hands on your body. As if his hands were meant to be there. Almost like you wanted them there.

You watched him with this air of experimental determination, like he was the one who was half naked at your desk. Holding back a laugh when his finger ran between your cleavage, a whimper slipping past his own lips. Instantly cumming, making a mess in his jeans as that quiz of yours blinked on your laptop.

Two weeks before that, you gave him his first kiss.

He can't really place what exactly was happening before your lips brushed his, your cherry flavored gloss becoming a permanent taste evading his taste buds.

It was a short kiss and Satoru can honestly say, he paid almost no attention to your tongue colliding with his, your teeth nibbling on his bottom lip. He couldn't, not when everything felt catastrophic. Not when your scent was flooding his air stream, that even after he walked dazedly out of your dorm, he still smelt it. As if a personal cloud of your scent followed him everywhere his feet shuffled.

He couldn't think of anything but how you… you, might just like In in all his pathetic glory.

That's why you're always calling him, asking for his help for the simplest of questions. The answers screaming in highlighted paragraphs in the textbook to your left, your hand stretched across his thigh as you laugh at him stumbling over his words.

You let him stay a little longer each time, tacking on an extra problem for him to figure out for you — sometimes for entirely different classes than the one you're 'paying' him for.

He tells himself it's because you want him to stay. You want him in your space just as much as he wants to live in it — leaning into the world that he always watched with a slacked jaw and faux confidence in his bright, blue eyes. The world that laughs at him when reaches his hand to answer another question in class. The world that trips him when he's walking past a group of people who have nothing better to do.

The world that doesn't offer space for opportunities where someone like you can like someone like him.

He gets a glimpse of this world from your Instagram. He found it during one of those searches he swore he'd never do — typing your name in the search bar as if it was second nature, just to see what will come up. Looking for something to hold on to that wasn't physical, but could still feel like it belonged to him.

And there you are. Very public account, reaching numbers in followers that he knows he'd never see.

There are pictures of you in parties, red solo cups in your hand as you pose with friends for a photo. The sound of your laughter frozen in time, his ears searching the pixels to get even a whisper of the sound. In another photo, someone's hand is splayed across your hip, the hand looking like its meant to fit there. Mocking, as if your own hand wasn't stretched around the girth of his cock the day before.

He stares at the photo until his screen goes black, his reflection staring back at him, wide eye and pathetic. His chest tightens, his fingers slippery with sweat as he forces himself to see that it's nothing. It's just the way things flow in your life.

Random hands touch your body, feel the warmth of your legs, smell the shampoo you wash your hair with. But, you call him. You let him touch you. You kissed him.

Those are the thoughts that rush in his head when the lights are turned down low, his head resting on the thin college pillow. Sounds of his roommate's bed bumping along the shared wall, moans of another girl he snuck in flowing with his thoughts and making him think of how you'd sound under him.

His hand slips under the waistband of his sweats, his other hand clutching his phone a little too tightly. The glow of the screen straining his eyes as his thumb hovers over your pictures, like you're too fragile to touch.

His other hand sliding down his cock slowly, trying to replicate how your hand fluttered around him sometime ago. His wrist twisting as he starts to jerk upward, his breathing hitching with every beat of his hand.

Every picture he swipes from feels like a reminder, that you exist in a world that moves without him — one where you drink, forget about your chemistry homework, and lean into other people's touches. A world where he'd always be a finger inch away, waiting for you to touch him again.

His hips start to jerk, wanting more friction. His fist tightening around himself as he slides up his length, squeezing his swollen tip to collect precum to wet his cock.

His breathes coming out in fast tufts, following hard bangs hitting against his wall from the other side. The sounds clashing with his imagination that's dragging reels of you whispering his name, of your chuckle, of you being soft. Feeling good with him, the way he feels good with you.

His hand pumps around his throbbing cock quick, harder. His toes curling under his quilt, as he forces his eyes to stay open and watch your pictures watch him spill strings of hot cum along his fingers.

The room becoming quiet enough that it feels like it's mocking him. Allowing invisible pockets of you to mesh into his world and slither along the mess on his hands.

His phone fades to black. Thigh twitching slightly as his hand stills. The warmth of his own skin somehow not enough anymore.

He's watching you. As he usually does. His eyes scouting you out easily, as if you're an answer for a physics question that has riddled everyone in the class, but him.

You don't notice, or you don't want to. Your eyes narrowed forward, following the people that live in your Instagram photos, who touch you in public, and who laugh at the jokes that Satoru can never get the punch line of.

The group of people you somehow found a home in, sits proudly at a cafeteria table. Limbs sprawled carelessly as some people sit on top of the table, others sitting on chairs. Loud booming voices inching up his spine, their old retorts swishing in his ear as he starts to walk towards you.

His roommate's shirt sits foreignly on his body. The smell of a party from last week etched into the threading and mixing with his nerves. The shame of digging into his roommate's hamper for this isn't as apparent as his want to catch your eye.

He remembers looking over you shoulder one of those days in your dorm, your laptop burning against his thigh as he rushed to get your homework done. Your shirtless back turned to him as you scrolled down your phone, your fingers pausing every couple seconds. Photos of people, men, dressed in a style that doesn't match the clothes of his that's scattered around his room floor.

Maybe you'd finally let him in, right here in the pinnacle of your world if he masked himself as a creature you'd look at. Someone's who Instagram post will blink on your screen for a millisecond longer than the last post. Someone who can look at you without the restraints of your dorm room closing in on him as you make him cum.

“What’s good?”

He's at the head of the table where everyone stops to crook their necks to stare at him. Confusion sketched on faces, eyes narrowing at the sudden invasion from an unknown/unwanted entity. A few menacingly snickers smacking across his chest as he stands too tall and straight — throwing on faux carelessness. His cerulean eyes only looking at you. 

You cock your head to the side, your eyes stopping at the awkward fitted shirt dressing over his body. "To eat?” Your voice is not as soft as it is when you're asking him answers in the safety of your dorm, but it's not cold either.

His shaky hands hide themselves behind his back.“No,” he shakes his head, making sure to keep the heat creeping up from his chest at bay. “With you?”

There's this eerie quiet around the table. Eyes still on him, lips snarled into scowls, and the smell of your shampoo drifting towards him like a siren call — pulling him to the depths of a sea that's going to spit him out over and over again.

You lean forward, your chin meeting your palm as you roll your eyes. It's not mean, more like a tired act. Like you're not sure what to do with a jittery boy in front of you who wants nothing more than your attention.

“If you’re asking how I am… I am fine, Gojo.”

Then, one the voices that rings loudly with disdain brings Satoru back. Reminding him that he's a bystander and even with your attention making his chest flutter, he's still not welcomed by everyone. “Since when do you talk to loserjo?”

Your eyes flick from him to Sukuna. You blink up at his crimson eyes, shaking your head. “Since I’ve been paying him to do my homework,” you shrug your shoulders, sighing. “Also don’t call him that, the kid is right here.” You point your thumb towards Satoru, your eyes flicking back to him just as quickly as they left him.

You don't laugh with the others when the nickname penetrates the air, or when Sukuna scoffs and narrows his eyes at him — a silent threat telling him that he should walk away.

No, you defend him.

He feels his cheeks heat up, rushing to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose so that the movement can shield the blush burning his face. He wants to smile, let out a chuckle… place his hand on your hip.

"It's cool," he rushes out, his voice cracking at the end. He wishes you can hear the cool tone he's trying throw on, like the one he forced when you first asked for help.

You narrow your eyes, the snickers and chuckles being thrown at him doesn't affect you. "You want to be called loserjo?”  

“Do you want to call me that?”

You blink at him. No smile, no look of concern. Actually, no emotion on your features. The perfect blank sheet, just letting Satoru tack whatever he wants to think on to you. “…No,” your eyebrows furrow, as if you're trying to quickly come up with an explanation as to why he's even here. As if your hands haven't lead him to places of pure ecstasy. “Are you okay? Did your npr podcast cancel or something?”

"'No," he feels the rambling episode speeding out his chest. "I just wanted to say hi," he points to the table, Sukuna's eyes taking over his shaky finger. "Well, you… I want to say hi to you." He nods and he feel his heart beating against his chest so harshly, he thinks he'd have to lay down for a couple hours after this. "But, no they don't get cancelled. There are fifteen minute audios posted daily," someone near you groans and he watches how you send them a smile, like you're thanking them for listening to him. " I listened to one today about the regi-, actually I listened to a couple I can send you a link on the one I think you'd enj-,"

"Hey," you cut him off, eyes wondering down and staring at frayed threads of his shirts. "Gojo, it's okay," you smile, lips softly tilt up at the ends. It does not reach your eyes. Your chin juts into your palm as if you're tired of holding your head up. "I need you to come over tonight. I need you to do a really big project for me."

Satoru swallows, nodding his head and watching as you look over at something else — ignoring that he was ever really there.

He's sitting on your bed, glasses pushed up as he pretends to be fully focused on instructions for this 'really big' project of yours. The words and the numbers jumbling together as he quickly looks over at you every time you make a move.

Your legs are bare, an oversized school tshirt draped over you body — he ignores the want to ask you who's shirt is it — he stares a little to long at the shirt brushing against your thigh. His eyes wander up, desperate to see what's under, if there is anything.

There is this headiness to the air tonight, like something is just within his palm and all he has to do it grasp it. He feels it in the way his skin prickles every time you hum a little too loudly, or the way his throat tightens when you lift your leg — bare skin flashing as he scurries to look away.

The feeling is so heavy, it feels like he could finally close his hands around you. Finally close the divide between public embarrassment and private sessions of his body reacting to yours.

You're quieter today, not scrolling on your phone or rushing to get dressed and leave him to visit people who'll get you drunk. No, you sit across from him — your eyes not leaving his body, like you're a predator tracing every step of her prey.

The lighting in your room sits on your skin a little differently — slower, a little softer. It clashes with the grin on your lips — like it's telling him that you know something that he doesn't. The one he typically sees from others when he's the punchline to a joke he doesn't get.

He tells himself that this means something, something big enough that a simple thought process still won't give him an answer.

That feeling he felt when you first approached him in the library creeps into your sheets, poking at his thighs from underneath. The feeling that right here, possibly right now, his life is going to change.

The axis that keeps himself and everything around him upright, is going to shift once more.

"You know," you finally breath the silence, your voice low enough that he believes he's the only person in the world who can hear it. "This project is really big." You shrug your shoulders. Just outside your door, he can hear people shuffling about in the hallways. Low whispers and loud bangs of doors echoing into the room. He blocks it out, just to make sure he can hear every dip of your voice. To make sure the only world that's available to him at the moment is this one, where your eyes are in his and he doesn't have to wear a dirty tshirt to impress you.

"You mentioned that," he says, his fingers hovering over the keyboard of your laptop. "Are you afraid about what grade you're going to get?" He wonders why you'd think that, as he is the one doing it.

You laugh at this. It's soft, and slightly a little high pitched — something he doesn't think he's ever heard from your usual cool tone sounds. And he stares back at you in utter awe. All of the blood that was rushing heat up his cheek m, instead rushes to his cock.

He shifts, hoping that you won't realize how a simple sound of yours made him hard.

You shake your head, your hair flowing with the movement with so much ease. Like the universe bends around you, trusting your every move — almost like a mirror of how he bends for you.

"No, I'm not afraid of my grade," your pointer finger pokes at your chin. He follows the movement, his eyes switching from the tapping, to the way your lips move to form words. "I'm just thinking of how I should pay you for this," you shrug as if you're talking about a measly twenty dollars.

"Oh," his dick twitches at the thought of your hand milking him. Brain flashing to how your lashes will bat against your cheek as he leans his body on your bed, all of his gratitude flowing into the sheets. He hopes you sleep knowing just how good you made him feel. "I-I don't mind how you pay me," his voice comes out watery, slightly breathless as he feels his thighs tense. Your eyes narrow at your laptop, that is quite literally over his hard on. A pretty smile stretching across your lips as your finger continues to tap your chin. "I also don't mind," his eyebrows furrow as he tries to have the words flow out naturally. "Us just hanging out could be a payment."

You stand up from your spot, walking over to him. Lips still selling that smile, the oversized shirt flowing with the movement as if you paid it to flow exactly like that. Your steps are slow and sure, leading you to exactly where you planned to be and where he thinks he deserves.

His breath hitches when he notices that you're walking towards him. His cock is so fucking hard it aches, he can't help but start to grind against the laptop. Trying to hide beneath the fabric of his pants.

Your phone rings on the desk behind you. The sound ignored as you keep heading towards him, a laugh evident in the way you tuck you tongue between your cheek when you stare at how your laptop is being used.

"What a poor little virgin," you tease, your thigh brushing the edge of your bed where his feet are hanging off. "I know just how I'm going to repay you," Satoru starts to feel the walls of this small ass dorm room close in, the laptop rubbing against his hard on even harder than a few seconds ago.

The bed dips, along with his furiously beating heart, as you climb up. Your knees pushing into the plushness of your feathery bed and fluffy quilt.

Leaning forward on your palms, ass pushed up on the air as you sway your hips along with every stuttery breath he huffs out — your lashes kissing your cheek as you stare up at him.

"I'm going to fuck you," you whisper so lowly, he almost couldn't hear it over the breaths he trying to keep in and the motor of your laptop vibrating over his cock. "… loserjo," the name flows off your tongue so smoothly, it curls through him like a promise he's unsure he'd never break.

Clothes are deliberately taken off. His digimon tshirt thrown safely over your headboard, the tshirt you had on is thrown behind you without much care. His eyes immediately checking to see what was under the tshirt and being greeted with nothing, his mouth watering as your bare body flashed in front of him.

You shimmied his jeans down his legs, his cock springing up and begging to be touched. Your hands ghost over it as you send him a smile, it's almost reassuring. As if he's been in this exact position with you multiple times. His cock hard against the heat of your sloshing cunt, the one he thinks is clenching specifically for him.

The sounds of the world moving outside of this room is loud, showers ringing from down the hall. Your cellphone buzzing with new notifications, your laptop whizzing as it dies down from the feeling of his cock twitching against it.

He can't do much… he doesn't want to do much. His head rests against your pillow — the smell of your shampoo so heavy, he groans to keep himself from cumming from that alone. His blue eyes watch from below, as you offer yourself to him. Your plush thighs caging yourself around his hips as he splays his hands over your hips — the touch warm and intoxicating. They stand still, solid — like they're afraid to move, as if they'd never be invited back to the fullness of your hips.

You lean forward, your tits brushing against his chest and he shivers from the contact. Your hands landing on either side of his head. Your lips near inches from his, and your eyes batting down as the heat of your pussy gushes around his aching cock — every power in the world stilling his hips and keeping him from pushing his tip through your slicked folds. Just to finally get a taste of heaven. To finally feel your body the way you've felt his.

"Just relax," you whisper, your lips against his. The blow of your breath causing a shiver to run down his spine and his hips to hilt softly, the tip of his boxed clad dick pressing into your heat. "Also," your hips grind down just a bit, a broken whimper slipping past his lips as he feels just how warm your pussy is. "Don't cum in me."

The thought of protection is thrown out the window when your lips meet his, his glasses bumping into the bridge of your nose. Your tongue running along his bottom lip, asking for permission. Your hands reaching into his hair, demanding that he gives it to you. And he gives it, trying his hardest to follow the mold of your lips and not cumming from the way your tongue rolls along his.

His jaw works along the movements, air coming up short as he only cares about the way your teeth nibble into the swell of his bottom lip and your hips beginning to roll along the shaft of his cock. Your hands tugging at the roots of his snowy hair, earning a groan to roll directly into your mouth.

He thinks he can die right here. Lose all will to breath, just to have your lips on his and your naked body pressing him into the sheets of your bed.

Tears prickle his lash line as he tries to keep up with where your hands are, one still tugging his hair and the other drifting in between the sweat glean of your bodies. Your lips still attached to his as your kiss becomes a little more aggressive, a little more demanding — Satoru believing it's just because you want every available part of his body. As if he wouldn't give it to you for free.

You pull back, your spit slicked lips matching his. His eyes dropping to the way your tongue runs along your own lip, as if you're lapping up the taste of his. You cock your head to the side, staring at him with this easiness that he fears he'd never be able to replicate. His dick twitches at the thought of just how easy it feels to be owned by you.

"I-," he shudders, as you lift your hips — the movement flowing under his palm. The hand that was crawling between your bodies is now wrapped around his cock, prodding it out of his boxers. "I like when you touch me," he says, voice weak and desperate.

You hum, squeezing the base of his cock as you stare down at him. Faux innocence in the tilt of your head. His eyes watch as you smile, letting out a big enough breath that he feels the rush of it brush against his lashes. Your tits raising and causing his eyes to drift to the goosebumps littering your chest.

His hands squeeze your hips, trying to anchor himself to you. You ignore his body movements, his touches, lining your slicked coated cunt above his cock that's aching in your palm as it did weeks ago. "And I like when you get me passing grades," he stiffens underneath you, his eyes wide as he stares at you. Stares at the admission that just crawled out of your naked body and fell into his bare chest.

Before he can fully register the displacement of your words, compare the tone to other times that you've just simply said his name, or even gather enough experimental I information on the way your eyes gleamed just a little brighter when you said that — your wet cunt stretches over his tip as you line yourself over his pulsating cock.

His thighs tense, eyes squeezing shut as he tries to think of what you just said — to keep him from cumming from just the tip feeling the stretch of your cunt.

Sweat beads his forehead, his frosty hair sticking to his hairline. With gritted teeth and short tufts of breath spilling from his lips, his hips jut up to meet the sweet heat of your pussy. "Relax, you loser," you mumble and he can hear the eye roll you've most likely sent his way. But then, you push down, clamping down on his cock.

"F-Fuck," the curse shoots straight from his chest, his hands rushing from your hips to run through his hair. Trying to ground himself right here, right on your bed. You don't give him much time to gather his senses before you're rolling your hips. Your slick running down the length of his dick and sliding between your thighs and his.

Someone slams their door outside, the sound rattling your doorframe. The movements not being given any thoughts as your finds swallow him into your cunt. "You're s-so fuckin' war-warm," he whispers, his voice hoarse and begging. You roll your hips again, quickening the pace as you watch the tears start to run down the side of his temples.

His balls are heavy and fell like they can explode right now, right at this minute. The previous warning about not cumming in you is hazy, along with everything else.

You shift, a wrecked moan leaving his lips and you stifle your own moan. Your feet laying flat on the bed, your hands pushing onto his flushed chest as you start to bounce along the length of his cock. "Anatomy classes don't teach you what a pussy feels like, huh?" Your pussy is squelching with every bounce, the sounds not loud enough to mesh out his whimpers and heavy groans. Your skin meeting his, balls smacking against the fat of your ass every time you clinched down and bottomed out. Your tits following the movements — so much going on, Satoru feels like this is an assault of his senses.

Your hands reach for his lanky arms, grabbing them out of his hair and placing his shaky hands on your bouncing tits. Your pebbled nipples rolling in between his fingers — his mind rushing to when he came from just touching you through your bra.

His own hips start to hit, finding a rhythm that you've established. His dick rutting into you as if he knows what to do. His cock burrowing deep, feeling your slick coat him as if you want to fuck him because you like him.

He feels it, he knows he's close. Nothing he can think of an hold off the way he needs to cum — no equations, no quotes from bullies, not even what you said to him earlier. The repeated drag of your warm, gummy walls sloppily clenching over his flushed cock, he can't stay in this position any longer.

He feels drunk, how he imagines you feel when you drink whatever is in those red solo cups when you attend parties. How you must feel when you use him to help you pass classes, using the sweet mold of your body to get whatever you want from him.

His hands still rolling against your chest. Your own moans lingering with the wrecked cries shamelessly rushing from his lips. You lift your hips high enough that just his tip feels the heat of your pussy, your eyes locking with his. "You're really pretty when you're crying over my pussy," and then you slam back down, grinding your hips once the your cunt is fluttering around the base of his cock.

And then, he sees that flash of white. Feeling it grown from the pit of his clenched abs, up past your hands pressed against his sweaty chest, and up his throat. His throat clenching, not allowing any warning or sound to escape his lips. The only thing spilling through is the strings of his warm, thick cum.

"Fuck, Gojo," you basically hiss. Your hands pushing off his chest, causing him to heave a little. Your pussy no longer clamping around his hard, hot cock — as it stands, slicked cum dribbling from the tip as he tries to catch his breath.

He wants to apologize. He wants to ask what you meant when you said you liked that he got you good grades. He wants to ask if he can burrow his cock into your cunt for the rest of his sad life.

But he can't talk. He can't even really blink. Rough breath racking his chest. Tears running down his face as he doesn't know if he wants to stay here forever, or run away and never look at you again.

He feels you shift in your bed, the warmth of your body feels close enough that he can make out how you're looking at him — head cocked with interest, as if you never met a virgin before.

"I'd need that project done before," you pause, the buzzing of your phone catching your attention. And then he's bright back to the fact that this was just for a passing grade. "Next Thursday," you huff out.

He nods, finally shutting his eyes and swallowing down the words on the tip of his tongue. Words he knows would not fit in your world, possibly even in your vocabulary.

So he keeps them. He'd say then when his hand is stretched across his cock and he's thinking about you pussy welcomed him with ease. Or his the nickname he hated, rolled off your lips with such a tilt — he'd go to the registrar and change it right now if he could.

"Sure," he whispers, feeling everything he thought he knew about himself seep into your bed.

“Maybe you’ll get all the answers the- sukuna!”

His tongue dips into your hole, curling, dragging back out before slipping back in — cutting you off completely. You clench around his tongue, your hips rocking forward instinctively. Chasing the friction. 

He chuckles. You groan. 

“What is the first question, smartass?” he smirks, kissing the inside of your thigh — soft and slow, it almost feels foreign. His fingers digging into you hard, your hips twitching from the enjoyed pain.

Your fingers shake as you try to remember how to read — the textbook feeling like cement from how heavy it is in your hands. 

“N- name the polic— god..” eyes squeezed shut, tears burning behind your lids. Slacked jaw, no sound coming out. Just Sukuna’s tongue finding its way back, lazily gliding through your fold — as if he has all the time in the world. As if he’s home.

Your hips roll in slow, desperate circles. Grinding against his face. His tongue speeding up just a bit. chasing after that pressure. wanting, needing more. Your orgasm is coiling hot and fast in your gut. Your taste inked on his taste buds.

You’re still trying to keep the textbook steady.

Slap!

Your thigh stings from where his hand just met it. His tongue gliding sweetly through your glistening folds — a stark contrast. 

Cheeks hot, breath hitched in your throat. “which made it illegal f-for any foreigners to enter jap-?”

“Sakoku,” he growls into your cunt — his lips immediately latching back on to your clit, tongue flicking hard and fast. 

Slurping from Sukuna, intelligible strings of words from you, and the thud from the textbook hitting his pillow (just shy from his head) are the only sounds that could be heard. 

Your, now, free hand reaches for the headboard — anchoring yourself on top of his face. Soft whimpers slipping from your lips, tears dripping from your behind your glasses.

He tightens his grip on your thighs, fingers heavy and hot and he guides your movement. Grinding your cunt down onto his warm mouth, tongue lapping up everything you’re offering him. His nose grazing your clit with each pass of your cunt against his face.

Your legs quiver, bottom lip being chewed on to the point of soreness and your pussy is throbbing your slick all over his face. And just then, all that tension snaps like a rubber band.

“C-c-correct,” you pant, completely wrecked. You’re trying not to fall over, hands digging into the headboard making you want to cry out in pain. Your orgasm rocking through you like how Sukuna tackles players on the field — hard, hot, and angry. 

“See?” he murmurs, “your pussy is a good teacher.” lips barely ghosting your folds, you feel the breeze of his breath blowing into your cunt. With a shiver that chatters your bones, all you could do is moan and squeeze your thighs around him, bringing him closer to your seeping core.

And then, he goes right back in — groaning into you, eating through your spasms, tongue still working like he’s trying to pull another one out of you. 

You’re a twitching mess — babbling and drooling. The answers for the test are long gone from your mind. You’re not sure you even know what day it is anymore.

Then he pulls back with a wet pop, spit and slick all over his chin and crooked nose. Smug grin on his face, all confident. All him.

“Next question, nerd,” he groans, voice muffled by your pussy as he pulls you back down. “You’re supposed to be helping me pass.”

might’ve saw this before….. it is not stolen it is MINE

The temperature of the day will be imprinted on your skin in permanent droplets of sweat if it was a muggy day in August. Or violent shivers that will rack your bones if it were a snowy day in December. Your body keeps you attached to the day when you finally grasped onto something that you knew would never slip away from you.

You believe there are a million instances, sometimes more, that you could mangle into one montage to describe what this is. If you let your brain take over and break down each interaction like a scene by scene movie screening, you'd be well within your adulthood, and your body will react just the same as it did when you were eighteen years old when you first heard him speak to you.

You have a person to thank — your fingers constantly wanting to reach for thank you cards at your nearest discount store. The need to thank your friend, Yuta Okkutsu, for asking you to take that English class with him freshman year, sits so heavily on your shoulders that you can't help but almost weep when you see him. Grab his cheeks and give him a kiss that he's always been so desperate to get from you.

But, you don't.

You can't.

He doesn't know about your feelings for the long haired professor who racks your brain every single moment of any given day. He can't know about the way you grip the essays given back to you, squeezing them between your thighs, hoping you'd feel a phantom touch — thinking about how softly his fingerprints brushed against your words. You can't make your friend aware of the eye contact you keep whenever he looks your way in class, his dark eyes taking in your body as you wither and shine under his glare.

So, you take your professor's words, rushed glances, and his scent that you've come to memorize — spending evenings at the mall to find the exact cologne he uses, gathering all the free mini samples you could fit in your purses, and keeping them hidden near your bedside table. Your hands mindlessly reaching for them when you're fighting sleep, bringing the tubes to your nose and envisioning that his body is squeezing next to yours on your twin bed.

Your eyes shutting closed as you drift off into that a state of sleep that only shows you images of him: his hands running through his hair as he reads off a line from a classic; or his back turned, muscles rippling underneath his button up as he writes the names of authors we should know; his eyes tracing your legs as you fiddle in your seat, quickly jumping from the tops of your thighs to where your ankles cross.

You keep these moments to yourself. Have them add up until it breaks the bank of your mind. Geto Suguru flashing against every curve and bump of your brain, easing his way into your nervous system and finding a home in your bloodstream.

He can live there, get comfortable enough to become infused with everything that you are and everything you'd ever be. Your final life goal to be everything to and for him.

But, you thank and let Yuta know about other things — things that still make their way back to your professor, but it's easier and more practical to give your faux gratefulness to him. That first class marks the moment you found your space in your future, finding what you know is meant for you.

The horror of starting college not knowing what to do, relying on the expectations of your parents and their heavy pockets, paying for your future career. The minute you left that first English 101 class, the late summer air dripped you in a sweat that matched the one that dripped between your shoulder blades when Professor Geto asked for your name — wetting your shirt as you dashed to your advisor — immediately changing your major from whatever your father had planned to English.

"Fiction," you sat with your pens perfectly aligned in their pouch. Your eyes take in your professor pacing the front of the class, his steps quiet but felt as if they kissed the floor with a degree of authority. "It is one of the few spaces in the world where a reader or a writer can be everything all at once." He smiled at his own words, and you felt yourself lean forward, ready to swallow whatever else he was about to offer the class, offer you. "You can feel everything, and no one can ever blame you for feeling those things."

Yuta sat to the right of you, his foot tapping in clashes of disorganized bursts. You can feel his boredom creeping from his pores, and on his desk, his need to break into a conversation is so hungry you can't help but get annoyed. You don't turn your head an inch his way, not submitting to his call of engagement — your body and mind captivated by the words flailing above your head and rushing into the ears of all other students in the lecture hall.

"Readers, as well as the artists, typically project meaning into the tiniest of movements," someone behind you lets out a wet cough, the sound echoing like a bullet in an empty room. Professor Geto ignores the sound, ignores the yawns that flutter by, and continues. "The blink of an eye. The curve of a smile. The way someone smells, and how the scent throws you into a moment in time where everything was okay, everything was yours."

"It is all up to us as the artists and the consumers to make it whatever we want it to be." His long hair waves behind him, a random gentle breeze following his steps like a flutter of an angel's wing. The fluorescent lights that usually give you a migraine, forcing you to truck it back to your dorm and sleep for six hours, warm his skin perfectly. Shining on his cheekbone, his chiseled jaw, his relaxed brows.

"Everyone reacts to these spaces differently than the person sitting to the right." Your eyes widen, a hurried sideways glance at your friend, who looked like he was about to doze off into a dreamless nap. "Or the left of you."

You started to feel warm, sweat filling in the gaps between your toes. The room was moving to the left as he walked to that side of the room — your pencils in your pouch, rolling with the new tilt of your world.

"It's why the fusion of obsession and love is such a popular concept in modern and classic writing. Obsession is taboo, but love is normal — it's reached for by every single person in the world regardless of where it may come from."

He pauses, as if he is rethinking his words or he's trying to grasp onto instances where his words seem true in his own life. And right at that moment, you wanted the room to empty and have him finish with only your ears as his witness.

"Do any of you have any examples of books that project obsession as equal to love and vice versa?"

Your hand shoots up before you could settle for an answer — so many books rummaging through your brain catalog. Words from the first books you hid under your bed in elementary school to the ones crowding your current day desk draw across your slow blinking eyelids.

He looks your way, and everything stops. You don't hear Yuta's foot tapping anymore, and you can't make out the heavy breathing of whoever is behind you. You can't even feel the hunger sound of your growling stomach. The only thing moving is your heart beating, faster than it's ever beat before, and his dark eyes that stare into yours.

"Lolita," you rushed out, a wave of lightheartedness rendering you almost unconscious. But you blink through it, keeping his eyes latched to yours and your brain categorizing this moment for a future day. "It's cliche, but-" you stop yourself, offering a halfhearted shrug.

"It's not." His pacing stopped, head tilted to the side as he stared at you. Narrowed eyes settling on your puckered lips and, in a fleeting dance, bouncing around the rest of your body that was visible to him. Goosebumps braised your arms as you watched him 'try' not to watch you.

You couldn't make out his exact emotion then, but later, when replaying this scene in your mind before sleep, his scent wrapped around you — you knew you had it figured out. You knew that he saw you the way you saw him.

He didn't move from your answer, silence, and his observing eye sat loudly in the room. It sat on your shoulders, on the projector behind him — displaying your wide eyes and erratically beating heart. It sat on the corner of his lips, tugging them to give you the smallest but most honest grin you think you ever saw.

It felt like the entire hour had passed by, the lecture coming to its inevitable end before he finally continued to talk.

"People label it as cliche because it's uncomfortable to sit with." He looks away, his attention pulled by someone shifting in their seat before looking at the ground. It's a quick look, like he's bracing his mind for the best words to feed you — words he knows that you'd hang onto.

You wonder if you're making it obvious enough.

"Most people," he paused again, his left hand sliding down the front of his shirt — your eyes trained on that fourth finger. No visible sign of a ring or a tan shaped of one. "Authors', I'm touching on — they usually dress obsession up as love, so that it's easier to accept."

"However, I personally believe that love should be uncomfortable." His voice lowers just a decibel, and you believe he is whispering a secret into your hair.

You shiver, sweat gathering at your hairline as you did a glance to your right — hoping to see that Yuta wasn't aware of the shattering of your earth. All of the pieces tumbling onto the floor and rearranging themselves into a replica of the dark haired man in front of you.

You shot your head back towards him, his eyes found yours again — bright and quick, gone just as fast as they came. His body moves across the front of the class again, jumping to talk about due dates and the syllabus.

But you caught it and found a meaning in it that gnaws on your bones every minute of every fucking day.

Rushed words run across his line of sight — crumpled corners of coffee stained papers and the smell of frat basements penetrates the room. His overused red pen crosses through run on sentences and adds question marks where he can tell the material was lost on the author of the paper. His eyes are dry from the excessive reading he's done this evening, the day slipping from him just as fast as a student's grade slips from them when they get into a new relationship.

He's sitting in his university office, the room tight with years of different interpretations of the words he's shared in the lecture hall a floor below and pleas for passing grades, despite the lackluster work that was handed in. The lights are dimmed, just a lamp over his head to give his eyes guidance to the papers crowding his desk.

He can hear professors shuffling by, dragging their tenure jobs to another night of grading and hoping to win the lottery. Their feet led them to loveless marriages and dreams of new jobs that offer unlimited funds and a great healthcare package. Nanami sighs, the sound weaving from his office just on the other side of the wall, his exhaustion rushing through the shared wall and landing on Suguru's aged shoulders. His button down shirt feels tethered and just as old as the building is.

He can make out the life of the average university student from his window — the distant boom of some presumptuous pop song blasting out of a ratty speaker. Whispered comments about which frat boy fucked who mingle with the notes, the common college qualms hitting his back from the cracked window.

He sighs, loud and long, before drifting back to the stack of papers in front of him. His pen jumping at the thrill of grading, his eyes screaming for a nap, and his knee bumping into the 'secret' cabinet that he has under his desk that homes his bottle of whiskey.

A breeze from the window flaps the pages of the next paper in the pile, the paper in pristine condition — no crumpled corners, a perfect header that consists of the name and class the paper is for. Your name is calling from the header, perfectly spaced and lined for him to read.

Professor Geto stiffens in his seat, hand reaching for the essay with a new speed that's been lost on him since he started grading hours ago. The tiredness that weighed on his eyelids and tacked itself on his broad shoulders eases a bit, his posture straightening as he delves into the ideas that he hopes you spent a night stewing over.

You are one of his most promising students. Your words are as eloquent as the glances you send his way when you think he isn't paying attention. Your slender arm is always up in the air to answer a question, running along your chest when you see that he's giving you his undivided attention to your words. Your essays are always written in the voice of someone wiser than the twenty-something year old he assumes you are. At times, it's as if you pushed your way into his brain and wrote exactly what he was thinking.

He often finds himself thinking back on conversations he has had in class, your thoughts merging with those of his students and saying exactly what he wants to hear — what he hopes that every student has gathered from his tedious lesson plans. He remembers almost all of your answers, and the gleam in your eyes that accompanies it whenever you make sure he's heard it.

There is no denying that Professor Geto Suguru thinks that you, his student for three years, are beautiful. The attraction a fast growing feat that he's learned to swallow down and spread in other ways — complimenting your papers, adding extra notes to your quizzes when he reads the well thought out answer he saw you thinking of on the spot, answering your emails about homework at any hour that your email comes his way.

Noticing that his taboo attraction to his young student might come off as slightly creepy, or in other words, unethical, he relaxed with his glances, making sure his eyes didn't rake over your legs more than twice each class session. Skipping over your raised hand and offering other students a chance to speak their thoughts. Keeping comments on paper minimal, offering you a "good job" every once in a while, and slipping his pen from your paper to his grade book.

But that didn't stop you. He couldn't stop you; he didn't really want to.

A breeze creeps in from the open window, hitting the goosebumps that have started to pebble on the back of his neck and his forearms. A light drip of sweat dusts his hairline, crowding his eyebrows as he starts to try to read whatever it is that you typed.

The words are all hazy, his eyes skipping over every other one, trying to find the actual meaning of them. Looking for your understanding of the simple task, the question that's been wrenching its way into every class conversation. Between books and daily everyday life interactions, it's a subject that he knows students of all ages gravitate to. It is what makes his job easy, as the details and meanings are all right there; they sew themselves in silly one night stands with "fratbros" or with lifelong high school sweethearts who believe that they have found the fountain of undying love.

What is obsession, if not love? Use books we've studied to support your answer!

Your usual hefty papers do not compare to this one floating in front of him. The sheet feels bare; if he wasn't gripping onto it, it might've slipped out of the window and down to the quad behind him. He breathes through his nose, huffing out a stream of confusion as well as untethered tension bubbling in his gut.

It takes him a minute, a long, grueling sixty seconds to realize, in his tired haze and giddy excitement of your words to come, that he's read the same sentence. Twice now.

Three times. Four times. Five times. One quick look, and each line down to the end of the page is the same six words over and over again.

In perfect unison, like you've decided to drop out of school and hunch over a dirty coffee shop table and work your life around these specific words:

Obsession becomes love when it’s seen.

A phone rings in an office near his, and he hears the sound so loudly, he wonders if it's you calling him personally — making sure the lines are delivered to his ear and his alone.

He shuffles in his seat, the chair creaking under his weight; back straightening, left hand gripping the flimsy essay a little too tightly, right hand flat on the desk with the red pen pressing under his palm.

He knows this is bait — your act of defiance acting as a dedication page in a bestselling novel he lazily reached for at his local bookstore. The usual paragraphs of gratitude to husbands and parents lie here as a buried love letter to him, Suguru Geto, Geto Suguru — the English professor at the declining university you just so happened to attend.

It is so obvious that he thinks that's the irony in it. He knows, but he also knows that it is wrong.

He is a man of power — years hovering over you in experience and life. A power of authority that he sometimes is a little too nonchalant with, but it is there, and he knows that you're aware of that. He frequently has to remind himself of it.

He never does forget his place with anyone else… only you. He keeps his voice firm and steady when telling a student crying over a due date that was three weeks ago. He keeps his eyes straight, looking into the eyes of the brains he's educating. He doesn't offer extra compliments on papers or finds himself reaching for their reused hands in a quest to dip into their brain.

But when it comes to you, and your favorite seat situated directly in front of his podium, he is constantly reminding himself of the world that you two live in. Him as your professor, a professional. And you are his student.

Even if you're his favorite one. His star pupil.

He swallows down the lump that has formed in his throat. You repeated the line sitting on his chest, but images of you flashed across his eyelids. A plethora of actions are happening all at once, and he almost forgets that he is in his office. The little office with the lock that doesn't lock and with papers from students from all his courses.

The deep sighs of his neighbor are muted, and the quad outside seems to settle into a quiet expanse of space.

The itch to complain and cross that red pen all over your paper, filling it with question marks and his inked confessions of understanding. His annoyance at your lack of thought, or the game you're trying to win, swings out the window along with the tired sighs and the smells that have accumulated in his room.

He can only focus on the image of your bare, stockingless legs folding over one another. The crotch area of his pants is becoming tighter, and his dick is throbbing in a silent plea to be released from his constraints.

"No," he huffs out firmly. His authority figure reaches out to put him in his place and halt the images of your plumped lips puckering around a pen when you're thinking too hard about an answer. "Fuck."

One glance at the six words again, and a stomach rolling with the heat of guilt and a sexual need that needs to be scratched immediately, his right hand rushes to his leather belt. The red pen rolled behind it and quietly dropped to the stained carpet below his creaky chair. His fingers hurriedly unbuckled his belt, hurried and shameful — as if he wanted everyone in his lectures to be aware of the moment happening right now. The window turns into a projector that plasters his dream of your half-naked body and sweet voice lulling him in with solid answers and shared opinions.

Mind boggling with nothing but your narrowed eyes and the voice screaming at him at how this is wrong, his hand weakly reaches for this hard length. Tip already wet with precum and his fingers finding their home around the girth of his base.

His ears are burning at the tips; he's sure they're as red as the polish you have on your nails. His eyes are bobbing from the doorknob that could be turned any moment, to the paper that started this all, to his hand wrapped around his thick cock. His knee bumps into the cabinet, spilling around his whiskey bottle, and he feels like he hears his morals swimming with the brown liquid. They're laughing at the weakened state of his ethical demise, at the man he claims to be.

"Suguru," his voice stutters as he tries to settle his running mind, the brain grooves leading back to you. His fist starts to twist around his shaft, a slow pace starting from his base, knuckles brushing against his heavy balls before twisting to his swollen tip. His thumb collecting the salty heat of his arousal.

His stomach tightens in anticipation, his release just a few pumps away, and your face inked in the back of his eyelids to help him cross over. But, with a shaky hand and the brewing of disgust festering in his bones, he pauses his movements on his aching cock.

Professor Geto ignores the realization that one, he'd have to fail you for this paper, and search for a reason as to why you’re struggling. And two, he may have crossed a boundary that he'll never be able to step back from.

As of lately, Professor Geto's eyes have been sweeping over you quickly before they divert to another student who mumbles a line straight from the book as an answer. His ears do not tint in color when you give a well thought out answer, reaching for an analytical conversation that would offer you a peek into his brain. His comments on your papers went from lengthy dissertations to single line statements that offer you nothing but proof that he read your name on the top left corner and gave you the grade you deserve.

You feel the world shift left every time you're given a crumb — the desk you sit in bobbing through the course like you're in a paper boat in rocky waters. Land nowhere in sight, your professor is the lighthouse that is calling you to safety — the promise of warmth and light and the stability of the firm ground below your feet.

The room is quiet; the usual clipped whispers from students behind you are muted. The day that shines bright outside the building and shines through the windows doesn't warm your skin the same way your Professor's dodging eyes burn on your skin. He walks away from your seat, walking slowly and gathering the words he is to share with the class — to educate the minds of the people who pay to learn.

You watch with hungry eyes, his back flexing with every step as your desk scoots towards him. Your thighs are on the chair as you try to move your body in any direction where his eyes follow. Body perking up when he turns towards you, walking the opposite way, and into your trap — your panties missing from your outfit and your skirt shorter than it's ever been before.

You had to find a way to get his attention back on you. You've done the well written essays. You've raised your hand with tales of classic literature that you re-read before class to impress him with. You matured yourself to be the woman you believe he needs, not the college student that he sometimes bats his lashes at and smiles too widely at. You find little ways to become a part of his psyche, the way that he's become a part of yours.

It's why you wrote those words in your essay a couple of nights back. Your brain was racking to find a way to call out for him, lure him to the area you know you will spend your life fighting to live in.

Obsession becomes love when it’s seen.

And right now, you're going to do everything in your power to be seen by Suguru Geto.

"We have read many books this semester," his voice oozes into the room, feeling like molten lava in the pit of your stomach. You smile, looking down at your knees before spreading your legs a little wide. The humidity of the room dips between your legs.

"Some focused on the consequences of love and the woes of inevitable damage of devotion."

He stops at his podium, his long hair draping over his shoulders. His eyes drop to your desk, quick and fleeting like he's running from a ghost.

"What is devotion?"

You don't raise your hand. You do not wait for another student to belt out an answer dipped in faux intelligence and remnants of an answer they picked up from Google.

You stare directly at him. "A fixation," your words fly out quickly, like a shooting star you want to wish upon. Sending out a silent ask to the galaxies and constellations for your professor's devotion back.

He finally looks at you, gracing your body with unadulterated attention. The bodies of the students around you become bright blurs, and your chest feels heavy and hollow. You breathe in, smelling his cologne that has wrapped around your sheets and lingers in your hair.

Hooded eyes clouded with an emotion you don't believe you've ever seen from him. His jaw tight, locked to keep his eyes on yours — no movement to inch down your chest to the smoothness of your thighs and the buckle of your knees.

"And from what book or definition are you grabbing this answer from?"

"Lolita," you nod at him, and he swallows. "And Wuthering Heights," you finish, smiling at yourself as you lead him astray.

You don't give him time to respond, to ask you any more questions. You straighten yourself in your seat; back straight, arms folded on your chest, giving your breasts a more plump look.

"Catherine doesn't love Heathcliff in a common sense." Your voice is steady, fingers shaky under your arms. You can feel your fingertips rub against the material of your thin shirt. " She becomes him. There isn't a line of separation between the definition of love and the definition of a fixation."

Someone coughs from the back of the class, bringing you back to the lecture hall. Your professor is staring at you from his perch at the front of the room. His eyes are still fighting every call to look down from your eyes to your body.

"However, I believe there is joy in it. There isn't a choice. Cathy lets herself be taken over by her emotions for her lover."

His eyes flicker, darken under the lights shining so brightly against the halo of his head. His hands grip the edges of the podium, knuckles turning white as if he is gripping the words that want to slip out of his mouth and into yours.

"And in Lolit-," he cuts you off.

"Do you still find it to be a cliche?"

And your world seems to be offering you grace and love. An answer that you gave him years ago is still on his mind, living in his opinions of you, as everything he does lives in you.

"No," you shake your head, teeth gnawing on your bottom lip as you try to hide the smile inching up your lips. "Didn't you state it's labeled a cliche because of the uncertainty of its nature?"

You lean forward, elbows now pressing into the desk. He breathes slowly out his nose, and you think you can feel the breeze dusting your knees like a gentle kiss.

"Shoko," he calls from his podium at the front of the class. Multiple pairs of eyes land on him, ready for him to continue. Finishing the little private lessons you squeezed out of him, however, he can only feel yours, feel your stare burn onto his face.

Suguru was well aware of what you were trying to do.

He likes to take pride in knowing that he's always a few feet ahead of the people he's dealing with. Prepared for what they might do, say, or react to him in whatever form he offers the space for them to do so.

From feet away, he senses the way you shift in your seat, purposefully. Your legs opening up in swift movement, your mini skirt inching up higher than what is deemed appropriate in a school setting.

His throat dries up, and he feels as if you two swapped ages. You're aged and experienced in making him crumble, and he's the kid who just crept out of his teenage years, who is still too scared of the world. The inexperienced adult who is trying to act older than he truly is.

"You'll lead the rest of class," he says, looking at his teaching assistant, her shoulders perpetually relaxed — no care in the world, no knowledge of the miniature battle of tension happening between her mentor and a student that's more her peer than his. "I have papers," his hand waves at the stack of already graded papers sitting high on the podium, "to grade, and-," his eyes flutter away from Shoko, finding their way back to you.

Grinning, almost shyly — as if you're trying to play coy in this undisclosed game. You keep eye contact, your pupils dilating under the too bright fluorescent lights above. A shimmer in them, as if you're aware of where you have placed him. As if you know what he did in his office a few days ago.

"Professor," you call out, your voice sweet but almost chilling. "Shoko is asking you a question."

"I heard," he lies. He hasn't heard a word from anyone but you. Your voice is living in the step of his feet and the swing of his arms. The faces of students morphing into different versions of you, your face in every corner he tries to turn to.

He can make out a mumble, a distorted sound that doesn't make any sense to him.

"So," your voice rings loud and clear. "Answer."

"Yes."

"Yes?" Shoko's voice finally clears into the space. "You want me to go over the classifications in which classics use physicality to make space for the confusion of obsession and love?"

"Sure,"

He's moving, hands reaching for the papers. The sheets felt heavy in his arms. His pants are feeling tight around his belt. His legs are leading him towards you, kind of like a pirate to a siren. His eyes slipped towards the shadows at the top of your thighs, the soft skin glistening under the light.

Behind him, Shoko is shuffling behind him to take his space. Students huffing out in boredom, their minds drifting to what party they can get drunk at later, not at the event happening in their faces.

Not looking at you, inches away from your desk, as he tries to make his way from you.

"See me after class," he whispers, sure that you've heard him. Sure that he'd find you where he wants you later.

You're standing in front of the oak door. Suguru Geto was engraved on the wood in perfect script. Your fingers almost shakily trace the letters to solidify this moment and be another thing that you'll feel when you're falling asleep with the smell under your nose and his name on your tongue.

Your knees bump into each other, the nerves of being alone in a closed off room with your obsession settle low in your gut. Your thighs pressing into each other, the absence of your panties acts almost as a saving grace from how hot you're feeling.

"You can come in," he calls from the other side of the door. Bodies of students running to other classes and meetings with advisors rush behind you. But it feels as if everything happening in front of you is moving in slow motion, that line that you're about to cross, throwing you into a forever — what you'd been hanging on to since this obsession started.

Softly, your fingers wrap around the doorknob, twisting ever so lightly before opening the door. You're greeted with your professor standing by his window, his arms folded against his thick chest. His eyes were low, staring at the door as if he had been in this exact position since he had asked you to come after class.

You steady your voice, swallowing down the lump of excitement in your throat. "Professor?" Shuffling in, having the heavy door shut behind you as you make quick steps into his space.

Books line the walls, old stories watching this moment unfold in real time. Papers litter his desk, red ink lining the words and definitions from your peers. The window behind him is cracked open, the sunlight creeping in and shining amongst his slender body and his firm stance.

You stand in front of his desk. A bag heavy on your shoulder, books from his lectures weighing you down. You currently do not know what to say; words are lost as you stare at the beautiful man in front of you.

"Are you okay?" He steps away from the window, a small step towards you. His scent is creeping into the small space between you two.

You tilt your head, watching him. Your bag is dropping onto the chair across from his at his desk. "Do I not seem okay?" You shrug, feeling the weight of the previous class discussion and the classics wiggle off your shoulder.

"Your latest essay seems to offer a different insight."

"I was trying something new."

"New?" A chuckle rumbles from his chest, and it shoots straight in between your thighs. "Or attention grabbing?" And at this moment, you are aware that he has been depriving you of his attention. He has been holding off on his extra long comments and his heavy stares that trace every movement you fluidly make for him to grab on to.

Your stomach rolls in a knot, knees hitting each other as you try to find the balance to stay standing tall and straight for his studious gaze. His lips ticked up in a gentle, but teasing grin — an action that doesn't match the heat that's growing in his eyes. He thinks this is funny, and you know that this is turning into something you will never turn from.

"Well," you walk just an inch closer. Your feet feel like you're floating instead of taking actual steps that kiss the stains on the carpet that is probably older than you. "Did it grab yours?"

You find the confidence to move even closer, get into his space, and make a home in the air that he is breathing in so easily. You circle his desk, body brushing his on your way over. A buzz of fire lightning in your arm that was able to touch him. You almost double over, feeling lightheaded and tired at the moment.

"I can fail you," he turns his head to the side to watch you, his hair moving in the movement of where you're leading him. He's still standing just a few feet away from you. His hands were still folded against his chest, catching the soft breaths he was breathing in and out.

"Oh," you perch yourself up on his desk. Your ass is sitting on the edge. Papers crumbling under your hands, the sound loud compared to your breathing. Some nervousness is creeping up your spine as you realize how they can affect your future, just how tricky this act is becoming.

"Unless," he hums. In one quick moment, he's in front of you. His steps are quiet and predatory as he stands tall, blinking down at you. His hands are gripping the head of his chair, slowly pulling it away from where your legs dangle. One of his hands brushes against your knee. His skin kisses yours, and slick slips between your folds and pools between your thighs. You wonder if it'll be enough to wet any of the papers crowding his desk.

"Unless?"

"What are you willing to do to not fail?"

"Anything you want me to do." You widen your thighs, mini skirt rolled up past the top of your thighs. Your bare cunt is wet with arousal that's been slipping between your lips since the class session some time ago. He lets out a stuttery breath, his eyes dropping from your face to the mess that's in between your legs.

"Show me," he pushes himself closer, his knees touching yours. One hand braced on the desk near your thigh, and the other balled up in a fist, balanced on your knee. His restraint is still holding on like a golden medal, but you know it's slipping. You know he wants you in all the ways that you want him. "Show me what I do to you," his voice is low, so low that you believe you two are the only people in the world at that moment.

You're nervous. The severity of the newfound freedom of having another man, your professor, be the one between your legs looking at your virgin sex rushes through you like a bullet. Your fingers quickly inch down the slope of your belly and hover over the heat of your cunt.

You swallow, long and hard. Your eyes jump from where his body presses into yours. Knees bucking into the skin of his slacks, his crotch is becoming tight — stretching against the thickness of his thighs, to where your index finger follows the line of your cunt and gets wet with your essence. Your slender finger pauses at the nub of your clit, feeling the throbbing of your tension and his stare.

"How long have you been waiting to do this?"

You sweep your index finger back down, fingertip tapping at your tight entrance that's gushing around the heat of the room. "I-," before you can offer him a solid answer, you slip your finger into your tight cunt, head falling back against your shoulders as you let out a mewl of surprise at the wetness you're feeling.

"Fuck," one fluid movement once more, and he's dropping to his knees. Face inches away from where your soaked cunt lies bare for him, your finger wiggling in your hole, back arched to offer him full view of your folds inked in arousal made by him.

Your elbow kisses the desk, head heavily rolled forward so you can stare down at him with hazy, wide eyes and your lips swollen from your teeth sinking into them. "Spread them for me," he whispers, face moving closer, your thighs awaking, starting to close, hiding away from the man, bringing his wet lips closer to your cunt. One of his hands grips your thigh. Keep your left leg wide enough to offer him enough space to move even closer. Your chest rising and falling rapidly, no words roaming in your brain to call out and send his way. Your finger, still in your cunt, your juices gushed around the intrusion. "My star pupil."

You moan, soft and breathy. Your finger slips out of your drenched pussy and meets your middle finger. Your two fingers are rubbing up between your folds and spreading your lips wide for him to peek at your cunt. His face is moving closer, the top of his head the only thing visible to you. His hand leaves his fingerprints on your thigh, his other hand missing between your bodies, fumbling where his cock kisses the zipper of his pants.

He moves your hands, placing them on your thighs. Your slick feeling cold on your hot thighs. You feel dizzy and like a brand new woman, your spirit watching you from above head as your professor leans forward and places his tongue right at your leaking entrance.

His warm tongue laps at the slick spilling from your cunt, a zap rushing from where his mouth meets your warmth. Your back arches, pushing you closer and causing his nose to bump into your folds.

"Professor," you whisper, your hands gripping at the papers under you, not knowing where to go. What to touch, how to react as he devours your cunt as if he's been starved for years.

He nods into you, his nose nudging your swollen clit. His tongue slipping from your clenching core and running up, flicking between your wet folds and suckling at your clit as it throbs his name in Morse code.

You're almost seeing white, head feeling airy and empty. Arms feeling loose like spaghetti, fingers clumsily feeling the words of essays on the lines of your palms. His head confined its movements, his mouth feasting upon your pussy.

You could die right here. Not only lose your right to breathe, drifting in the space between heaven and here, but you could also reincarnate into every living thing that Geto Suguru will ever come in contact with in his life.

You’ll be the birds that tweet sweet words when he’s drinking his morning coffee, you’ll be the plants in his bathroom, absorbing the humidity of the hot shower he stacks under as he pumps himself to release.

You hope to God that the image of him between your legs is the image that plays against his eyelids when he wraps his hand around his cock.

"I'm not teaching you anything," he mumbles against your folds. His chin is leaking with your slick, and his tongue is roaming every crevice of your cunt.

Your chin kisses your chest, eyes lasered on his rapid movements between your thighs. "G-geto," his tongue dips back into your entrance, your walls clamping around him as he curls to hit that sweet spot you were not aware of. "Oh, my God."

He lifts himself, hair slightly messy. Chin is dripping with a mix of your juices and his slavia. You stare at him, eyes tired but hungry to keep this very image of your professor locked in your brain for the rest of your life.

One of his hands is still gripping your hip, pulling you closer to his body. His chest pressing into yours, foreheads melting into each other as his wet mouth brushes against your swollen lips. "You taste just how imagined," he breathes into you. Your body, jerking from the heat of his words. His free hand fumbling between your bodies as he starts to unbuckle his pants, belt cold against your belly. "Open your mouth for me, little minx."

You do, no questions asked. Looking up at him from your damp lashes. Your tongue runs across your bottom lip. He leans forward, his mouth puckered. His mouth hanging above you, a thick, hot wad of spit falling from his mouth onto your flat tongue.

Your mouth closes immediately, throat swallowing the taste of you and him. Your chest is hot under the nastiness that's being thrust upon you, shyness out the window, and nothing but pure awe sent your professor's way.

You feel the hardness of his shaft pressing into your wet thigh. "Prof— Geto," you pull closer, body chasing after the heat you're sure to come. You don't look down, a chill dusting your shoulders as you don't want to see just how big he is. "Go slow?"

"You're a virgin?" He stops moving, his voice soft. Eyes locked on yours. His shirt disheveled, hair a mess, and his face shining so brightly you almost cover your eyes.

"I was waiting," you mumble, suddenly shy and tired. Looking away at where his hands wrap around the girth of his length and line up at your awaiting entrance. "For you."

"Fuck," he loses himself for a minute, the boyish nature that every man has slips out of him as he excitedly gets ready to mark his claim on the virgin in front of him. You shudder, eyes still following the stains on the carpet that lead their way to where the window lets in a gentle springtime breeze and the sounds of regular college students living the lives their parents expected them to. "I'll try to."

He's so close you can feel the sweat that's gathering under his button down shirt. The ends of his hair curl over your shoulder. The tip of his cock is kissing your entrance, getting wet from the amount gushing out of your cunt.

He stares at you, his face stretched with a dozen emotions floating from his chest. His restraint slips as his eagerness carries to a higher degree. He grips your waist, pulling you down as his cock plunges into your pussy — slowly, a burn growing in your gut.

Your mouth opens, but no sounds come out. Your hands reaching for his shoulders to grab him closer, pushing him deeper into your tight hole.

He shivers under your touch, his hands reaching from your hips and grabbing at your flimsy t-shirt — bunching it above your breasts in the process.

The room is filled to the brim with breathy whispers of each other's names, the slap of skin. The plashing of his dick thrusting into your gripping hole, mingles with the stomps of people running outside and students complaining about classes.

Every move of his hips, push of his cock, his swollen tip kissing your cervix whenever he pushed in to the hilt made you see stars, your thighs curling along his slacked pants.

"You're killing me," he moans, his voice wrecked. He almost didn't sound like himself. He grabs at one of your tits, palm stretched across your bra-clad breast. His hips are driving deeper into the slippery escape between your legs. "Your looks, these fuckin' skirts," he bucks into you pretty roughly, a saccharine moan slipping out of your mouth and fanning against his cheekbones.

"Do you think of me the way I think of you?" You whisper, voice breaking after every word. Your cunt clenching around him, making it harder for him to pull out whenever he tried to move in rhythm. His balls slapping the skin of your ass, cock crushing whenever you pushed closer to here the was fucking into you.

He doesn't offer you a verbal response. His gorans acting as his words as his body slaps into yours, his cock plunges in and out of your slippery cunt. Your slick staining your thighs, the red pen marks on the papers below you, smudging his thoughts and his morals. Your legs hook behind him to keep him closer, making you feel him as deeply as you always envisioned you'd feel him.

"I love you." You whisper, head falling in the crook of his neck. His body stiffening from the confession, a croak of a sound escaping from his lips before you feel the warmth of his cum shoot inside of you. Your heart is blooming from the closeness, this acts as, and his head is reeling from the thoughts that must be dancing in your head.

His hips move slowly, a whine following his movements. His hand balled on the paper slips between your conjoined bodies. His length slipping out of your heat, his tip smearing coats of thick white excess cum on your inner thighs. His chest still pressing into yours, his lips pressing rushed kisses on your shoulder blade.

You shiver from the loss of his stretch, his reaction not easy to figure out as you don't have any time to swallow away your moans. Two of his thick fingers immediately pump into your cunt, the squelch of his cum being pushed back into your sloppy cunt. Your eyes shut closed, hands wrapping around his neck as you try to pull your body into his, feeling the tiredness that's settling in his bones and the questions that he wants to rush out in your ear.

He is slow with his movements. His fingers curling whenver he pumps all the way in, knuckles grinding against your cum painted walls.

Your professor pulls back, shock drawn all over his features. His eyebrows almost touching his hairline, sweat dripping down his temples. You can feel the tone shift, the way his hand is gripping your thigh so tightly that you almost yelp into his ear. The fingers that were moving in your tight cunt pause, your walls fluttering around him like a butterfly kiss. You scoot your hips up, wanting his fingers to be deeper into your sopping hole.

"I don't think you do," his voice cracks, the sound loud in your right ear. His breath fanned across your shoulder blades and the top of your plump tits. "This is wrong," and it sounds like he is trying to convince himself more than he's trying to convince you.

Your fingers gently play with the ends of his hair, which is tickling your arm. A smile tugging at your lips, sweat slipping between the valley of your breast and down the navel of your belly. Landing where his fingers are still stretching you out, a thick coat of white rings around his thick digits. "Does it feel wrong?" Your voice has the same vibrato that you carry in class, the nervousness gone and trashed along with your virginity. "And if it did, would you stop?"

Drinks from past nights seeping into the soles of your shoes, mini waves of brown and clear liquor pushing against your feet. The bounce of the upbeat music adding an extra push with the ocean beneath your feet — you're standing perfectly still, but your body is waving with every tempo drop, every drip of liquid swimming under you.

You feel like a prop, one that means nothing to the long scheme of the plot. It's just there to look pretty. To bring life to a scene that's shrouded in darkness and the signs of death.

Your eyes weave through the crowd, just watching. Watching how people move on their own accord. The flow of bodies moving without merit. Flaying limbs aren't asking the rhythm for permission but rolling with it in a happy union. Your pupils dilating under the harshness of the strobe lights, zeroing on bodies grinding against each other in a married ceremony. The spotlights highlighting their noses brushing and jittery fingers gripping into sweat slicked skin.

Reddish hues burn your skin as it kisses you in a color show that you're sure everyone is watching. Despite eyes locked on pupils in front of them or into the never coming bottom of their shot glasses, you can't help but feel like you're being … stalked.

The weight of a heavy, hungry stare makes your chest rise and fall rapidly. Like the owner of the binoculars watching you is peering through the back screen of the camera, making sure every line you say comes off right. Every maneuver of your body is polished, flowing with the correct amount of emotion so that the viewers can feel what it is that you're portraying.

Sweat gathers at your hairline, baby hairs sticking to your temples. Your shaky hand comes up to brush them away. Your first movement of the night that wasn't done by the bumps of elbows and shoulder checks. Your bones creaking louder than the music drilling into your ear drums, but not louder than him.

You give in, not that you were fighting against him.

Not moving anything but your head, you move your eyes between the people you thought were watching you — swallowing their unsaid opinions on your performance and the critiques they're probably detailing in their notes app. You will work them into your routine later.

One tick of your head and you're met with, him.

Or more so, you finally let him envelope you in his presence — the one that taps against your shoulders on lonely nights and brush against your chapped lips when you're drinking a liquor you don't know the name of. It lives in your sheets, lining with your comforter as you try to find solace when tiredness renders you useless to the outside world. It grows on the black mold in your bathroom, poisoning the plaster when all you want to do is get clean.

But, it also lives in the flowers that decorate Central Park, the colors inviting enough to have you frolic in the rows. Your calves being kissed by the pastel colors inciting life through the soft soil. Your cheeks warm, his presence even warmer as he chases behind you. It lives in that tiny Italian restaurant where the meatballs burn the roof of your mouth but brings a warmth into your belly that keeps you coming back every Thursday. The smells are rich and homey, his hand on your thigh is comforting.

Your breathing slows down, your chest squeezing as you prepare for that hit that always causes you to stumble. When your bodies connect even when he's seemingly miles away. His soul reaching for yours and your soul swimming to his, in the choppiest of waters. Choppier than the sea still rushing under your feet.

You think you found him, when in reality, he always knew where you were.

Above you, a couple feet away from that specific corner booth that he uses as a miniature castle — where the people he wants enters and the people he finds no use of is banned — he stands. Tall, demeaning, taking the air and making it bend against his strong arms and hard face.

Tattooed face, pointing to where you're craning your neck to meet his stare. His tongue is tucked in his cheek, making his lips tick up in a snarl that you think holds no weight towards you — it's almost just natural. The easy grins and 'sweet' smiles coming off scarier, harsher than you think they're supposed to be received as.

You can't see his eyes, they're covered, as usual. The red hues of the strobe lights shining his crimson glare onto your skin as if he's staring at you with nothing in between. No glasses, no bodies, no clothes, no space. Just you, in his vision and in the light he's shined specifically for this set.

He leans on the banister that separates him and the little world that he controls under him. A beat drop causes arms to pump into the air, manicured nails and bold jewelry adding to the set dressing. His own arms are crossed against his hard chest, onyx ink decorating the girth of his arms like script lines you have memorized. You can recite the way they feel in your sleep, the mapping of the ink sketched against your eyelids.

Your feet feel heavier, floor sticker than before. Your eyes wander along the length of his body, blurring when you look at the sunglasses — a silent prayer being sent out with the explicit lyrics the dj is playing, you just want to see his eyes. See what he's thinking, you could almost feel it anyways.

It's so quick, you almost miss it. Still standing there, watching you cower from the ponderosity of his glare, he beckons you over. A quick crane of his neck as he invites you to his domain, his head tilting back to that little corner booth you have grown to dream about whenever you miss home.

Like Velcro being ripped from where it meets, your feet unstick themselves from the grit of the club's floor. Your legs breaking the fourth wall and moving onto the set without a call from the director. The setting adjoining to your improvisation act — the music going up one more decibel, the vibration of the speakers tickling your shins. Once attached bodies that were grinding against each other, separate. The Red Sea parting once again, but right here in the middle of New York City.

A stretch of a clear walk way being presented you as your body follows his silent call. Your breathing at its calmest it's been all night. The sweat that once dripped down your temples is cooling now, the stickiness of the heat a forgettable addition to the movie.

Sukuna, he watches.

Face still hard and unmoving. His crimson strobe lights lighting up each step for your heels to take, guiding you from above as if he's some angelic entity that offers you enlightenment in the form of dark corners and unseen pupils.

A weird sense of excitement and dread flips in your belly. You almost feel like a pig — the one who brings all of the spectors to the farm. It's robust body waddling unknowingly walking to the hands of the butcher. The signs of sharp saws and bloodied grounds goes ignored as it's just happy that it was picked once again. The ignorance of death and despair overpowered by the lust of longing and approval.

The tight mini black dress you're wearing sticks to your body like glue, swaying with your hips as you slowly inch up the stairs. Your head is still turned towards him, your body able to find him with your eyes closed.

Hurried strides and with your fingers grabbing at each other, you basically run to him. Passing by intoxicated people finding intimacy within the VIP booths that line the wall. Sounds of bodies conjoining and calls for God don't mix well with the smell of desperation that stains the velvet of the booths.

Your steps start to slow, body presenting itself to the man who has been waiting for you all night.

Breathing heavily as you look up, your eyes not having time to roam his face before one of his huge hands clasps around your wrist. Your eyes falling to where his fingers circle around the thinness of your arm, like a bracelet or a handcuff.

Your heart jitters, pulse erratically kissing the rough pads of his fingers. Your lashes fluttering as you breathe in everything around you — his strong musk, the cologne that fills your trailer when you're filming late. The whiskey he takes one glass of to start off the night, never mixing with any other liquor. You sometimes taste it on your tongue when you've drank nothing but water that day. Above all else, you just taste him.

Sukuna lodging himself on the back of your tongue as his inked hand pulls your body into the mass of his own. Your legs stumbling behind as he starts to take those few steps to his sanctuary.

Everything quiets back down, your ears only picking up on the heaviness of his steps and the way your thighs rub together. Your eyes watching how his legs walk with conviction, back muscles rippling under the tightness of his white tshirt — it's stiff, brand new on the warmth of his body. You're ignoring his club, the meshing bodies down below, the people swapping spit in those booths you just passed by.

You're so fixated on his body movements — the way his figure not only takes over spaces but flutters into areas with a certain prestige of disturbing tenderness. Steps heavy enough to leave an imprint, but soft enough for your heel to take place in it right after. Your feet not tripping out of his deepness, instead it creates a home that's snug enough for your quiet steps. His digits pressing into your skin, leaving pained bruises but pulling soft enough to lead you to a heaven you weren't aware was in the cards for you.

His hand slithers from around your wrist, his body squeezing into the airless booth. The velvet wrapped around the plush of the seats looks less inviting as it did days before. The firmness of the floor under you heels feels more so like jello, your knees wobbly as you enter without a second thought. His back still towards you as he scoots around the circular glass table, his knee brushing against the object as he makes his way to his spot. A Sukuna shaped dent painted into the fabric, right in the middle of the booth. Sinking into the actual corner, where he can hide his digs and watch every one from every side.

Standing at the entrance of the enclosure, your legs have stopped moving. The club behind you at full force, happy screams and shot glasses slamming on the marble of the bar rings like birdsongs.

You're watching him, watching how the booth bends around him. Your eyes flickering to the right side, you're almost sure you can make out a dent shaped like you. You shake your head, eyes flickering back to him — watching the way he sinks into the couch. His back pressed against the seat as he leans back, his thick thighs spreading wide enough that two of you can fit perfectly.

His hands run down his thighs as he stares at you. Your eyes following the way his thick fingers sweep across his body in a quiet rush, tattooed wrist glinting with a silver watch that he pays no mind to.

Head propped against the wall behind him, chin angled high as his eyes start from your feet, your heels clicking as you excitedly start to tap your left foot. His covered eyes lingering where your thighs clench from his intense stare, you can feel their burn and you watch his snarl tick up to that grin. The one that is supposed to be welcoming, one you'd shoot off as a greeting — his always coming off slightly untoward, a little more calculated than it is supposed to roll off.

"Reason why you're just standing, lil' dove?" The nickname rolls off his tongue easily. His stare creeping up from your thighs to where your breasts swell from the tightness of the dress, your heart stuttering as you keep your stance. Your eyes following the feeling of his stare. "C'mere," he says lowly, his index finger curling towards you and gesturing you towards his open thighs.

He is sober, currently.

You notice from how hard his words come off, an extra bite to the syllables. The tone of his voice matching the hardness of his jaw, that tick on the left side vibrating against his bone.

You voice breaks from your throat, rushing pass the the taste of Sukuna and directly into his orbit. "I'm not sure why I'm here," you shrug, feeling extra small in his booth tonight.

Your feet move, your body scooting around the same glass table. Your movements a little more cautious, nervous. Your knee almost banging into the edge, your eyebrows furrowing as you think about each step you're taking, counting just how far you are from him.

You opt out of sitting between his legs, noticing that he noticed your quick move — his eyelids twitching when you scoot in next to him. Your body pressing into his right side, bare legs feeling the warmth of his body that has seeped into the velvet.

Your eyes are downward, looking at your knees and the fleeting bruises that act as mementos from previous nights out. You feel him breathe next to you, everything coming out steady and calm — calmest you've probably ever been blessed to encounter.

A record scratch echos off the velvet, cheers and the sound of heavy jumps penetrating the sticky floor below run along your spine. A shiver rolling down your body and pooling right in the bottom of your gut. You subconsciously squeeze your thighs together, aware that he's watching every single body movement you're acting out in front of him.

He finally offers a response to your statement, a dry chuckle that's low enough to have come from the back of throat. His right hand reaching over and landing on top of your clenched thigh. His hand is hot, almost burning you.

"You know why you're here," he leans his head down, his breath pelting your shoulder. His tone is hard, final. As if the answers have been written by him and sent to you earlier, your failure of not knowing them causes a quiet anger to bubble under his skin.

You don't look at him yet, your eyes shifting from your legs and where his fingers are now painfully gripping into the softness of your thigh. Those bruises reflecting off his watch like Christmas lights on a bare shrub.

You swallow your wince, head turning to look out into the strobe lights and the partygoers — the corner so hidden, you can barely make out where people are, just following the sounds of their gulps and sweat tangled bodies.

Despite being buried in Sukuna's velvet home, you still feel like you're being watched. The performative eagerness gnawing on your rib cage as you ignore the need to yell from just how forcefully he's pressing into your thigh.

His other hand snakes around your jaw, your eyes shooting open from the contact. Your head jerked back towards him, being met with his crisp white shirt, his covered eyes, and that tick in his jaw that's beating a little more erratically. "You missed me?" he leans down, his nose brushing yours. The hand on your thigh dipping between your legs. Your core clenching as you feel your stomach flip, your lashes fluttering as you search for his pupils.

You weakly nod, hiding the way your face flushes under his observation. The booth becoming quiet enough where you only hear everything he thinks of you, everything you feel for him, and the slick pooling inches from where his fingers grip and prod on the skin of your inner thighs.

He sucks his teeth, the sound falling flat against your cheeks. "Nah," he loosens his grip on your jaw, fingers lightly tapping the beat of whatever song is playing on your chin, "let me hear you sing it, dovey." You blink at him. He blinks back, waiting.

"I missed you, 'Kuna."

He grins, a soft one where you feel it even though his face is inches away. You smile back at him, lips wobbly and inching up slowly as you wait for his next move, wait for the criticism he has lined for you to follow. Your job creating space between yourself and him, the emotions spreading thin — you feel them here, you can never quite master them on set.

His hand moves from your thigh, his other hand moving from your jaw. His index finger gliding down from your chin to your cleavage, pulling you from the hem of your dress — your breasts feeling the heat of the room and flushing under the roughness of his finger. Your body curling into itself as you keep your eyes on him, pink shaved hair dusting his head as he peers down your dress.

"Mhm," he hums, his digit pulling far back that when he unhooks it, the dresses slaps back against your chest. "I'm always missing you," you're the one to move closer to him, your thigh touching his knee as you just stare. Watch as his hands softly drum against his thighs again, tapping their way to his hips.

His fingers rummage through his pocket slots to pull out a treasure. "I miss that look in your eye whenever you're around me," he unceremoniously retrieves a little ziplock bag, his eyes focused on where his fingers are gripping. Your chest beating as fast as the beats flowing in the air down below. "Really gets me fuckin' going."

You swallow the lump in your throat, watching as he skillfully wiggles the baggie, making the chalky substance dance. "What look?" Your voice is low, meek. You know he hears it. Your eyes follow the movement of the dancing powder, his fingers toying with it from the outside.

The baggie crinkles between his fingers, the sound tickling the hair on the back of your neck. You scoot even closer, dress inching up as the velvet of the booth rubs against the material. Your leg completely pressed against his.

He delicately places the baggie on his left knee. Free hands reaching out for you once again, finding its way to burn your thigh once more. His thumb tapping secret messages that you'll decode later after the high has worn off and his skin isn't searing into yours.

"This one," he murmurs, carelessly. Sunglasses peering from down his sharp nose, your own eyes flicking up to see a shadow of your features through the lens.

Cheeks flushed, baby hairs still sticking to the now cooled sweat that showered the side of your face earlier. Your glossy bottom lip pulled between your teeth as your eyebrows raise, taking in exactly what's in front of you.

"You look at me as if I make the whole fuckin' world disappear."

The powder resting on his knee glows under the red lights, like it's to be christened between your body and his. He doesn't pay attention to what he's doing, he never has to — not when it comes to you or anything else for that matter. His scrutiny stays glued to the way your lips part and your shoulders tense, like you're waiting for someone to jump out and surprise you.

His hands move faster than your mind can follow, the baggie on its way to his lips. "Don't think you understand," he pauses, face still towards you. His canines tearing the baggie in this unhurried intrepidity. "Just how crazy that look makes me, baby."

He taps a neat, practiced line on to the back of his hand. His wrist flexing, ink shifting like it's alive and spiraling its way towards you.

"Here," he offers, raising his fist up to your face. Your tongue getting heavy and eyelids dropping as your eyes flick from your reflection to the warmth radiating off his body in front of you. The chalky powder laying against his tanned skin beautifully. You stare hard enough to paint the picture across your brain to remember later.

Your hands grip the hem of your dress as you squeeze your thighs together, missing the feeling of his calloused pads gripping messages against your skin. Your stomach in knots as you try to stall, make him move on to something else — only wanting to feel the phantom kiss of his eyes drifting across every crevice of your body.

You shake your head, eyes dropping to your hands. Shoulders so tense, they're almost brushing your ears.

He huffs, it's teasing. His free hand once again canvassing its way to your body, fingers gripping the nape of your neck as he pushes you closer to him and his favorite pastime.

"Don't act all shy now," he whispers, his breath kissing the corner of your mouth. His grip on your neck gets a little firmer, your pulse jumping against his thumb. Your knees thump into each other, those bruises dancing under a shiver, thigh trembling — but you don't move, you don't fight. You never intended to.

His hand doesn't lower. He keeps it there, right under your nose — you can smell the cologne he spritzed on his wrist earlier. Your eyes follow the line, the color white clashing with the reds of this club, this world.

You blink.

The line inching closer to your face.

Laid across the ink of his skin as if belongs there. Under your nose, like you belong here.

Your breath hitches, shoulders shuddering.

He hears it. Feels the rush of your body reacting to his.

Through your lashes, his mouth curling into that slow, tactical grin. The one that makes your stomach drop and warmth pool at the center of your panties.

"Attagirl," he whispers more so to himself, tapping your chin with one knuckle. "You know you wanna feel good. Feel good for me."

Your throat tightens. The velvet under you vibrates. Heat coils like a snake in your belly, disconcertment curling around it like barbed wire.

And you break.

You always break for him.

You lean in. Lashes kissing his wrist, one of your hands coming up to your face. Every movement acting out before your mind can catch up. Finger pinching one of your nostrils closed.

Then you inhale — sharp, quivery — your nose burning from the sensation. His fingers on the back of your neck flex, holding you stagnant, holding you against his heat and in his bubble.

The warmth hits you first.

Fast. Hungry. Exhilarating.

Rushing under your clammy skin like he set a flame to a pile of withered leaves.

You gasp, rushed and loud. Your hand flying from your face to his thick, denim clad thigh, your nails clawing into the rough material. Everything around you getting quiet — too quiet — the absence of the music thumping in the walls, your thighs rubbing together, Sukuna's waited breath.

Then everything drops at once, sound rushing into your head so harshly your head throws itself back, right against his heavy hand that's still wrapped around neck. The whole club living in your eardrums, heavy and loud, but rushing in and out like you're underwater and the music is pulsating down to your ribs.

Your lips part, no sound coming out.

Your eyes flutter, lashes blinking away the last of whatever stupid resignations you were holding back.

Stuttered breaths, matching the quick tempo of your heart beating against the material of your dress.

Sukuna, he watches. As he always does.

"Good girl," he purrs, thumb stroking the hairs on the back of your neck. Slowly. "Don't you feel good for me?"

You don't respond. You can't. Not at the moment.

His hands slither off of you, your body following the warmth of his. Your chin chasing the closeness of his fist, missing the way his knuckle bumped into you. But, Sukuna's attention is on the baggie — his fingers opening the tear to get his own fix.

You're seeing red, just dancing lights crawling against your legs and his ink stained arms — you don't realize he's pulling you, your own body moving with his rough handling as if it was made to. Made to be touched by him, used for whatever he might need it for.

Burly hand wrapped around your waist, guiding you to straddle his thigh that your leg was once melting in to. Your bare legs caging around him, dress scrunching up in the process allowing the heat emitting from his figure to brush against your bare core. Your hands landing on his shoulders as you bring your hips down.

His head drops down, chin pointing towards the sliver of skin peeking out of his shirt. "Of course you came to me like this," he chuckles, the sound huffing out of his nose. "Fuckin' bare," your sex throbs as you breathe in his intoxicating scent.

"How else did you want me to come?"

He grins, hands freeing from your body and returning to his substance before they can find solace back on you. Everything happening below is muted, only the sounds of your breathing and his can be heard once again.

Slightly shaky fingers fiddle with the baggie. "Push these up for me, my girl," he rasps, index finger tapping against the swell of your chest.

Quickly, your hands reach for your own body. Your back straightening as your stuttering fingers brush against the bottom of your tits, your palms cupping and pushing them up as you lean forward. Your swollen breasts right in his line of vision.

Precisely, he spills the powder on your left tit. The perfect line, straight and thick, drawn across your taut skin like the tattoos that mark his own. He almost purrs, letting out a content hum as his thumb brushes the goosebumps raising on your chest.

Your legs lock around his thigh as your chest rises slowly, everything happening in a blur. Your slick staining his jeans, your eyes watching the way his nose twitches and his tongue pokes out from the corner of his stretched lips.

His face meeting your chest, nose inhaling the powder in a blur of red, white, and pink — your very own flag waving above your conjoined bodies.

The baggie crinkles in his hand, dropping to the floor as his hands grip your hips hungrily — pulling you even closer to him. Your heartbeat slowly tapping against his face as he buries deeper into your chest. Nails digging into your skin as his face stays planted in your cleavage, his chaste lips roughly planting kisses against your sticky skin.

A boorish roll of his tongue causes your hands to drop from your own chest, gripping on to his. A small groan slipping past your lips as you softly drive your core down, trying to feel the rough drag of his denim against your drumming clit.

The drug invades his bloodstream, giving his tartness an extra leg up. Hands gripping tighter, almost painful. Words with a little more bite, teeth sinking down hard enough to elicit yelps and squeezed shut eyes from you.

One of his hands creeps up, softly rolling against your bare ass, up the bunching of your dress, drumming against your spine before tangling in your hair. His hand forming a fist with your colored hair, pulling you back slightly with a harsh yank.

"S-Sukuna," you stutter, his face inches from yours as he lifts his head up from your now wet chest.

You didn't expect a response.

His lips crash into yours, a battle of teeth, tongue, and saliva. He bites, sharp enough to make you gasp into his mouth, his tongue rolling against yours as he swallows everything you give him. Your hands curling into his shirt, keeping you anchored as his lips chase yours.

You think you can make out footsteps, right outside the corner you're drowning in. But, you're so focused on the way his tongue drags against the roof of your mouth, hot and greedy, tasting the remnants of what he just sniffed and the whiskey he must have had earlier. It makes that coil in your stomach start to burn. Inching its way down to your dripping sex, right where Sukuna's hand that was placed on your hip is now heading.

He pulls away, your lips trying to chase his again before he's pulling you back from your neck. "Go on," he whispers out of breath. The hand between your thighs is dangerously close to your soaked cunt. You shiver, trying to catch your own breath as you cling on to him. "Use me, baby," two of his thick fingers slip between your folds, dragging your slick up from your tight entrance to your perked clit.

You whine, your hips trembling as you start to slowly lug against the length of his fingers. Following his demand, your hips deliberately stuttering before you roll them against his thigh.

He sucks his teeth, lips tucked into a snarl before he's removing his fingers from the warmth of your cunt. The hand in your hair finds a place on your hips as his slicked covered fingers make their way towards your lips.

"Open," he demands, your mouth parting easily for him. His hand on your hip squeezes harsh enough for you to jerk forward, your thighs tensing as you feel yourself drip on to him. "Do what you do best and I'll do the rest."

His thick digits lay flat and heavy on your tongue, your lips closing around them as you taste just his wet you are for him. His hand clamps around your waist, dragging you down hard enough that you hum around him. Your tongue starting to swirl around the pads on his fingers and your cheeks hallowing as you suck him in.

The heat of his thigh punches against your clit, brutally. Sukuna immediately setting the pace, pulling you forward then back — it's fast, faster than the beat jumping at the bottom of your spine. Your hands grabbing onto his wrist, nails digging into his taut skin causing him to shove his fingers even deeper into your mouth.

Watery mouth gagging over him as you start to bob your head up and down. Tongue rolling over his knuckles and to the very tip of his digits. You can almost taste the shadow of the coke he fiddled with earlier, the substance inking into his body for you to get high from later.

"You're so damn desperate," he chuckles, your eyes fluttering closed as you continue to swallow him down. Even with your slick wetting his fingers, you mainly taste him. His body heat, his harshness. "It's almost sad," the hand on your waist holds on to you tighter, forcing your cunt to smear against his jeans.

He rolls your hips for you, your cunt feeling the muscles in his thigh as he slightly lifts his leg to meet every drag of your wet core. "But fuck, it makes you so much sweeter," he leans towards you, nose brushing against your jaw as your throat swallows his fingers.

He inhales deeply, a slight shiver running through his body. You feel it in his thigh pressed against you and his wrist that's locked between your hand. "A perfect star," his nose dragging down the column of your neck as he lets in deep inhales of your perfume.

Your dress hikes up higher, your hip trembling under his palm. He glides you, your clit catching as you moan from the pressure of him pressing against your slicked folds.

You slowly pull his fingers from your mouth, tongue flat as you start from the base of his fingers up to the tips. Your eyes on the way his smirk teases you before your teeth sink into the thin skin of his digits. A hiss ripping from him as your canines pinch into his fingers.

He drags you against his thigh again. Drool tickling down the sides of your mouth as you let out a honeyed moan. Your cunt soaking in between your thighs and his jeans below you.

"You smell so good," he groans against your neck. Your hands dropping from his wrist and onto his chest, feeling the beat of his heart. "Smell just how a good girl is supposed to smell," your eyes roll down his body, hands following the movement as your palms softly glide down to where his cock is pressing against the zipper of his jeans.

"You smell like me," another rough drag of your hip and you're falling forward. His face flushed against your skin, nose trailing every scent to have ever graced your body before. Your hand squeezing his girth, the jean barrier making it hard for you to feel him completely.

His spit slicked fingers meet your hip, two hands now clinging on to you as he continues to roughly grind you against the length of his thigh. The sound of your heavy breathing and wet pussy dragging against the harsh material mixes with his heavy inhales and stuttering exhales as he breathes his scent onto you.

Your hand stays firm between your bodies, feeling his hard cock. Manicured index finger flicking his zipper with every glide up his thigh. "Fuck, you're greedy," his voice is hoarse, sending shivers down your spine. Your hand still palming the tent in his jeans, confidently.

"You want me to fuck you right here?" He brings his face closer, pulling your hips so that your tits are directly under his nose again. "Right in the middle of my club, you greedy slut," the harshness in his tone goes unchecked, as his breath tickles your chest. A slight surprise before his teeth sink into your supple skin.

A gasp rips out of you. Sharp teeth scraping as his tongue flattens and drags greedily over the sting. Your hands shooting from his pelvis, running along his jaw as you keep him attached to your skin.

Your eyes rolling up as you drop your head back, your blood burning as the pain infuses with the high that's causing you to see red in a whole new light. Your body shivers, grinding down on him like your nerves are short circuiting.

Your fingers lock behind his neck, feeling the stubble of his buzzcut and the ends of the sunglasses he never takes off. Your head still thrown back, sweaty neck glistening as he continues to assault your chest.

You don't recognize your voice, it's low and sultry. Matching the booth and Sukuna's ego, not matching your character and the lines you're meant to be saying. The words that bounce around the booth act a bullet shooting into open air.

"Can you fuck your greedy slut already?"

His thigh under you tenses, hands on your hips digging into your skin as he lifts up. Your heels dragging as your toes search for solid ground, your hands clinging on to his neck as if your life depended on it.

Eyes wide, lips parted as he expertly flips you two. His legs knocking into that glass table as he kneels between you, this hands spreading your thighs open as your arousal seeps into his dent under you. The sound gets ignored, mixing with the other melodies your brain has no capacity to even pay attention to.

Your back presses into where he sinks into daily, Sukuna hovering over your body like a dangling necklace off someone's pale chest. Your eyes dropping from his face, hands still locked behind him bringing him close enough to where his warm breath fans across your face.

His sunglasses are still in perfect position.

You watch through hooded eyes, one of his hands fiddling between his erection and your dripping core as he wrestles with his belt buckle.

Everything is happening in the weird middle ground — he's moving too fast, belt bending awkwardly as he rips at it. You're moving too slow, your heels softly rubbing against the back of his thighs as you try to hook your legs around his waist — caging him between your legs and in your heightened glory.

Before you can see his cock spring free, watch his bulbous tip leak with proof that he wants you just as much as you need him — his hands shove your legs away.

Slicked thighs burning from the sudden stretch as he grabs at your calves, pulling your legs from around him and folding you without warning. Your knees press into your chest, hamstrings trembling and your cunt now feeling the sticky air of the booth and the heavy throb of his cock pressing against your slit.

Your hands drum against his thick neck, feeling every swallow he lets down. His tattooed jaw is directly above you as you watch him, casting a shadow of his face decked in red lights to shine over yours. His burly chest drops onto the back of your legs, fusing you into his body and the dent he lives in under you.

He lowers himself, a slight shift of weight — the blunt head of his cock catching at the slick drooling out of your entrance.

Under your meshing bodies, you hear the cheers of young adults partying, thanking the ghost of empty liquor bodies for a great semester. Their yells of grander stab into the room, hanging over your hitched breathing and words too long tumbling in your throat.

He doesn't wait. Not giving time for those cheers to dissipate and your lungs to be filled with air.

Sukuna drives his girthy member into your sloppy hole. Swollen, angry tip burrowing into your tight slit, an airless breath knocking out from the bottom of your chest.

Your back arches off the booth, body weakly pressing into his even more. Your nails dragging down the side of his neck as your cunt stretches out around him, cock tearing through you as he roughly pushes in, inch by filthy inch.

"Perfect," he mumbles, your slick splattering between your bodies. He pushes another inch in, cock halfway wrapped by your pussy before his hands twitch and you try your best to sink him into you, shuffling your hips down. Your body dragging down the angle of his length as a loud gasp echos from your throat. "This cunt swallows me perfectly."

One hand keeps your thigh folded, the other hand digging into the velvet right next to you. His strong arm in your peripheral, tattoos dark and calling. His hips buck forward — deep, heavy — until he's basically squatting, balls deep and his breath snarling against your cheek as he swallows down his own wretched groans.

Your hands pull at him harder, bringing him closer, if that is possible. Muscular arm that's barely holding him up buckles from the pressure. Your head rising to hide in the skin on his bicep as you prepare.

Your lips set hot kisses on his skin, you feel his hand scrunch in the velvet. His hips stuttering as he allows your pussy to wet his cock from the base to the tip kissing your cervix.

"Fuck me," you whisper into his arm, your hips twitching under him as you try to recreate some friction. Silently begging for the heavy tilt of his cock to be pulling and pushing against your slicked walls as he loses himself within your sex.

Then, he pulls out. Only his hips moving as his chest stays flushed against your legs, his tip trembling at the gate of your cunt before he slams back in.

Your eyes shoot open, as you cry out — your tongue catching the sweat that's inching its way down his arms. Your thighs stinging as your pussy flutters around him, trying to catch up and mend to his speed.

But, he doesn't give you any chance for reprieve. His hips snapping forward again, harder and messier. Knocking each breath out of you like it's a game he's came to learn to get out of you. "Squeezin' me so well, my girl," he pulls out, right at your rim, his fat head stretching your entrance. Then, he rams in so deeply, the booth rattles under you and your vision flashes white.

Your cunt tightens around him, clinging onto his girth. Sounds of wet suction and his heavy breathing beating against your ear drum. A sharp curve of his cock sliding against your warmth, a yell from you that gets lost on the way your mouth latches on to his bicep.

Your teeth sinking into his skin, taking your brain off the force of his body burrowing into yours. Your tongue rolling over his sweaty skin, canines stabbing black ink and passing pain back into his bloodstream.

He hisses, his breath fanning over your cheek as you turn your head to look up at his tattooed face. His face hard, jaw ticking as he gives his all into abusing your gushing pussy. His eyes still hidden, your fucked out eyes and swollen wet lips being the only thing you see back through his glasses. "Takin' me where anyone can see," you shudder, his next thrust specifically rough.

Every slap of skin rattles you further up your high — hitting a spark right under your ribs. His cock pushing into you and spreading heat from your folded legs and up the tip of your ears. His fingers bruising your thighs as he uses it to grip, giving him leverage to grind his cock relentlessly into your cunt.

"Fuck, you're going to kill me," he pushes himself down, hand fisting into your hair as his mouth attaches to yours. His hips still plummeting into yours. Foreheads meshed together, sweat and spit creating a cocktail that pairs with the urgency of his cock keeping you full.

His tongue rolls against your bottom lip, asking for permission, in which he doesn't wait for. Your mouth being invaded by the taste that's been embedded into his taste buds. Your hands keep his face close to yours, pulling at his taut skin trying to swallow anything he has to say.

"Cum in me," you groan into his mouth, tongues battling in an open mouth kiss as his hips brutally slap into the plush underside of your thighs. "Fill me u-."

You just keep spewing strangled lines and saccharine moans, the absence of protection is lost on you. One of Sukuna's kinks fueling every single one of your lithe demands. His face pulling back from yours as he inhales deeply.

"Don't pull out, fuc-" he bucks into you extra hard, your head bumping into the back of the booth. His cock dragging against your slippery walls, his thick tip kissing your cervix with each new deep stroke.

His hands squeeze your thighs tighter, thumb pressing into whatever beating pulse you have running under the skin of your legs. Sweat gathering on his forehead as he starts to lose himself even more between your legs — his hips bucking into you a little more sloppily, groans harsh and hungry falling against your own sweaty cheeks.

"You think I'm fuckin' stupid?" He mumbles, face falling forward once more. His lips are hot and heavy against yours. His chest pressed against your shivering legs causing your toes to curl from the ache burning between your thighs and through them. "I want my seed spilling down your legs for the rest of the fuckin' ni-night," he stutters, pelvis still meeting your plush ass in a violent kiss of bodies meeting.

The sounds of heavy breathing and skin slapping on each other causes your high to feel otherworldly. Your eyes tracking how his eyebrows raise, his lips swallowing the moans you're rolling into his mouth.

A scrunch of his nose and an especially long grunt, you feel his cock pulse before the warmth of his cum rushes into you. Thick, sticky ropes of his seed splatter against your walls. His length still grating against your tired walls.

Your hands pulls his head closer to yours, the added weight of his body pressing into yours intensifies how deep his cock pushes into you. Lashes fluttering against the frames of his sunglasses as you feel yourself let go — your vision flashing white, toes curling above his shoulder as your cunt squeezes around him.

"Shit," his hips still, his body still pressing into yours. His length still stretching you out, walls fluttering around him as you let out whimpery mewls.

"You're mine, fuck, you're mine," he whispers, like it's a prayer. One that only you know which God is supposed to answer to it. "You know that, lil' dove?"

You nod, head feeling heavier than it's ever been before. Blinking as you stare at yourself through the glasses that are still perched on his face. Your nose brushing against his as you breathe the last of whatever he's willing to give you for the night.

He pulls back, your high pulling away with him. And the club rushes back in. The loud sounds, the smell of the the sticky floors below. You can taste his cologne and the taut air of the booths you walked by.

The feeling of eyes and fleeting memories of lines you're supposed to have easily falling off your tongue hits you in your chest. The need to continue the scene burning hot as you try to find what to say to keep him in you a little longer.

The words never come. And Sukuna never stays — not the way you want him to.

“Fuck,” he hisses, leaning over a bit. His hands finding space near your hips and his dick pushing deeper into your mouth. Your eyes watering from the stretch and drool starting to dribble from the corners of your lips.

He starts a ‘gentle’ buck of his hips — his heavy balls smacking your forehead everytime he presses his tip to the back of your throat. Your jaw sore from how much space he takes in your mouth.

“Swallow when I cum,” he demands, voice low and greedy. Your fingers picking up speed as his hips matches the tempo. Index finger firmly circling on your clit, soaked from your own juices spilling out of you. Your mouth spilling just the same.

The sounds of your light gags and his cock squelching in your drool as he continues to fuck into your mouth rings loudly in the phone’s speaker.

A rough slap of his hips and his cock is throbbing before you feel the power of his gum shooting out. Thick and warm in your mouth making the tears finally slip from your eyes and a gag to erupt like a bullet out of your chest.

“Good girl, swallow every fuckin’ drop.”

The second video: you sit in between his legs, back against his solid chest and your feet planted on his thick thighs. The phone centered on the accent chair in the corner of the room. Zoomed on your glistening pussy that’s dripping on his slacks.

Your own slender fingers are wrapped around his tattooed wrists, too small to fully clasp around his strength. Three of his own fingers torturously pumping in and out of your slopping cunt as slowly as he seems is worthy.

“Who knew a pussy can get this wet?” He whispers in your hair, the sounds of your quivering breathing and squelching core is so loud you can’t pay attention to anything else.

His sticky fingers, calloused by experience, curls every time he pushes all the way in, the heel of his palm pressed firmly against your clit. “‘Kuna, p-please,” you beg, not sure what exactly you’re begging for. For your cunt to stop slicking onto his slacks or for him to push so deeply inside of you, you’d feel him until the next time you see him again.

“Please what? Let the camera hear ya,” his voice is mean, the grinding of his knuckles against your gummy walls even meaner. He starts to pick up the pace, his free hand wrapped around your hip painfully so — keeping you glued to his body, your thighs clenching and in complete pain from the pressure. “Let it hear just how much of me your cunt can take,” a wrecked cry ripping from your chest, your core gushing around his fingers as he thrusts deeper.

The third video: you’re spent, wrecked. Laying flat on the bed. Bare body sweaty and gleaming under the city lights that twinkle in from the shades. Your shaky thighs spread wide, sore.

Kneeling in front of you, the mattress pooling around his weight, Sukuna stares. Semi hard cock springing against his thick thighs with every shift he makes. His eyes running along your sweaty brows, closed eyes, and swollen lips that are still whispering his name — the phone in his left hand, camera set on his cum that’s dripping out of your pussy and onto the sheets below.

“You take me well, pet,” his voice is just as wrecked, each word heavy with his recent finish. The nickname curling low in your gut, sitting there as your brain reboots and body gets back into its regular programming.

“You can’t take anyone as well as you take me,” he’s talking more to himself, aware that you’re not of sound mind currently. The phones inches from your sloppy folds, a mixture of your slick and the cum that’s still dripping from his tip is spread all around.

You let out a tired moan, one that comes out slow but titters quickly to a sharp gasp when you feel his sticky fingers swipe roughly between your folds. “Such a pretty pussy,” he hums. His eyes still on your contorted face and the camera getting the show of his fingers messily spreading his cum around.

“No one sees these right?” Not giving you a chance to answer, his fingers slip into your clenched hole — almost digging out the cums that’s settled there before pushing it in.

Tears brimming your eyes, tiredness keeping you to withering on the bed in a ceaseless fight of pleasure, you shake your head weakly. A lie that you’re planning on keeping to yourself, one you can’t explain as he shoves his seed into your sopping cunt.

“Good,” he curls his fingers before dragging them slowly back out. “Smart girl.”

So now, when you’re missing your favorite dilf and you need to relieve the burn in between your thighs, you have enough material to look back on. Spreading your videos amongst your favorite tab, hoping and praying that Sukuna never comes across them.