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The entire Naoya Zenin estate had gone silent the moment the servant announced the results. A girl. You sat stiffly on the engawa outside Naoya’s room, hands resting protectively over your stomach while anxiety twisted painfully in your chest. Because the Zenin clan did not celebrate daughters.
Not unless they were useful. Not unless they inherited something valuable. And even then, women in the clan were treated as lesser. You already knew what people whispered about you behind closed doors.
At least she gave him sons first. Two boys had secured your position enough to survive. Your eldest already followed Naoya around with wide admiring eyes, while your second son had inherited your calmer nature entirely. But this child? A daughter. You had spent the entire morning preparing yourself for disappointment. For coldness. For Naoya’s irritation.
The sliding door suddenly opened behind you. Servants immediately lowered their heads as Naoya Zenin stepped outside. Beautiful. Arrogant. Dangerous. His sharp gaze settled on you instantly. Then drifted toward your stomach. You braced yourself. Instead.
“She healthy?”
You blinked.
“What?”
“The baby,” Naoya said impatiently. “Is she healthy?”
The question caught you so off guard that it took a second to answer.
“Yes. They said everything looks fine.”
A strange silence followed. Naoya crouched in front of you, one arm draped lazily over his knee as he stared at your stomach with unreadable eyes.
“A girl,” he muttered.
You swallowed nervously. “If you’re unhappy—”
“Who said that?”
His tone snapped hard enough to make you flinch. Naoya noticed immediately. And irritation crossed his face, not at you. At himself. He clicked his tongue softly before reaching out, resting a hand against your stomach. The gesture was awkward. Unpracticed.
“She’ll have my face,” he decided.
You stared at him.
“That’s your concern?”
“Obviously.”
A tiny smirk tugged at his lips then.
“And if she inherits your eyes too, the clan’s finished.”
You could only blink at him in confusion. Because this wasn’t the reaction you expected. Not from him. Naoya leaned closer suddenly, voice lowering.
“They’ll try to treat her differently.”
The amusement in his expression disappeared entirely.
“And they’ll regret it.”
Your breath caught. You had seen Naoya cruel. Mocking. Merciless. But this? This was protective. Possessive. Dangerously sincere.
“She’s my daughter,” he said simply, like that alone should terrify the entire clan. “Nobody touches what belongs to me.”
The words should not have made warmth bloom in your chest the way they did. But then his hand slid carefully over your stomach again, slower this time. Almost gentle. And for a brief moment, the infamous heir of the Zenin clan looked strangely soft.
“What if she hates this place?” you asked quietly.
Naoya snorted.
“She’ll fit right in then.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself. His eyes flicked toward you immediately at the sound, sharp features softening almost imperceptibly.
“You’ve been worried all day over this?”
“A little.”
“That’s stupid.”
You glared weakly. “Naoya.”
“I mean it.” He stood, then tilted your chin upward firmly. “Boy or girl, she’s still mine.”
His thumb brushed your cheek once.
“She’ll be spoiled rotten.”
From inside the estate, your two sons came sprinting down the hallway after overhearing the news.
“Father! Is it true?!”
“A sister?!”
Your youngest nearly tripped over his own feet trying to reach you first. Naoya caught him one-handed effortlessly before the child faceplanted into the wooden floor.
“A little dignity,” he muttered.
But there was no real bite to it. Your eldest looked horrified suddenly.
“Wait… does this mean she’ll cry a lot?”
Naoya immediately answered.
“Probably.”
“And break things?”
“Yes.”
“And steal my stuff?!”
“Definitely.”
The boys gasped in betrayal. You covered your mouth trying not to laugh while Naoya smirked faintly beside you. Then, quieter, low enough only you could hear.
your mother just died, and grief has a funny way of making strangers feel familiar. with no one else to turn to, you keep writing letters to the inmate who unexpectedly wrote back. he's attentive, patient, and the only person who never tells you how to grieve. if only you'd done a little research first—you might've discovered your mysterious pen pal is a convicted serial killer.
pairing: prisoner!serialkiller!toji x college!reader (18+)
cw: dark romance, mature content (18+), explicit language, violence, morally grey character, age gap (reader is 22 and toji is 34), prisoner!toji, serial killer!toji, pen pals, dark humor, hurt/comfort, grief, death of a parent, loss, emotional dependence, possessive behavior, reader has daddy issues, he’s only soft for her, updating tags soon
notes: i’ve read a few pen pal dark romance tropes, esp with the mc in prison and I guess i’m finally inspired to write mine. toji as a prisoner just does some things to me. hope u guys like this one, it’s my first time writing a dark romance type of fic. enjoy!
this work is fictional. the author does not condone real-life relationships with incarcerated individuals or violent offenders.
ageless blogs and minors: DNI!
masterlist
01
“I'm sorry,” someone claiming to be a dear friend of your mother’s patted your shoulder. You didn't care to turn to acknowledge her, just staring at the headstone where your mother's name was engraved. The longer you stared at it, the worse you felt as you recalled her being buried six feet deep into the ground.
You barely paid attention to the ceremony, and you didn't even try to give one last message. It was a funeral, for Christ's sake. Solemnity was the only thing that should matter. You weren’t going to bawl your eyes out because you've had enough of that at the hospital, where she died. The priest gave you a look that you hated — pity — when you refused to give a speech in front of the people who didn't even know your mother's favorite food.
What was pitying in not wanting to be transparent to strangers? That should stay between you and your mother, and you're not going to thank the people for attending her funeral. There's nothing to be thankful for.
As the few remaining people left, some of whom tried to pay their respects with a pat or a side hug, you didn't bother responding. An hour later, you were the only one left standing — dressed in all black, even holding a black umbrella, paired with a black coat, handkerchief, and shoes. It was like you were cosplaying. Cosplaying as someone who hid their feelings well underneath the monochrome clothing.
How could they take her away from you? She still had dreams at her age, and she wanted to travel more. At the hospital three days ago, she even told you she'd join a book club when she got discharged and tag you along, to which you rolled your eyes at. She was happy and full of energy… why did it end so quickly?
You remember dumping your coffee in the nearby trash and running to her room. They didn't even let you in, restraining you when you tried to pull away so you could get to her. But it was too late. Your chest tightened at the sound of the flatline. The sound haunted you so much that you could still hear it, even now.
Drifting back to reality, you gripped the flowers in your hand — lilies, to be exact — and bent down to lay them on her grave. You felt your throat tightening at her name on the tombstone. Scanning it, you brushed away some dirt then caressed it.
“I know you like lilies, so…” You set the bouquet against the headstone before stepping back. You could almost picture the smile she'd give you. In your current state, she'd probably tease you for spending money on flowers.
“Don't complain that they're expensive.” Your lips twitched, waiting for the familiar retort that never came.
You clicked your tongue.
“No complaints, huh? Yeah, figures.”
You stared at her polished stone, gripping the umbrella in your hand. It was ridiculous, really. Four days ago she'd been arguing with a nurse over hospital food, insisting she'd make better curry once she got home.
Now she was a name carved into granite.
You refused to believe it. Or even understand it.
The funeral had made one thing painfully obvious, and it was that everyone expected you to cry. They expected a sobbing daughter, one who would stand before them and pour her heart out for people who barely knew your mother.
Most of them were relatives you'd met once or twice in your life. The rest were her so-called dear friends—the same people who never visited her in the hospital, never called to ask how she was doing, and somehow still found the time to mourn her in public. They looked at you with pity when you refused to give a speech.
As if you were the strange one.
Screw that.
You shoved your right hand inside the pocket of your coat when you felt the urge to touch the stone again. You blew out a breath, chuckling without humor. "Who am I supposed to complain to now?" It came out harsher than intended.
The silence irritated you.
That wasn't her. It was just a piece of rock with her name carved on it.
So why were you still talking?
You took one last look at her before you turned slowly, making your way to your mom's car—which was now yours. The drive back to the house felt dreadfully long, but maybe it was because you drove too slowly. You could still feel her presence in the car, which made you grip the steering wheel tighter.
Once you made it there, you stayed inside the car for a few moments. With a sigh, you rested your forehead against the wheel.
How the hell are you going to stay inside the house? You'd lived with your mother until your freshman year of college. During the summer before your sophomore year, she insisted that you learn to live on your own. She didn't want you to be caged in your house, and she wanted you to explore life for yourself. That's why she made you move into a dorm.
You even tried to talk her out of it, but she stood her ground. “Stop it and do what I tell you. You're going to regret living with me until you're single and old,” she said.
And you did. You regretted leaving her, because if you hadn't, you would've been able to take care of her.
Ever since you were a toddler with no father in sight, you'd only ever grown comfortable with your mother's presence. For the first time in your life, you were miles away from her, so you'd often call whenever you were free and didn't have any coursework to do. It was a routine the two of you had. She was practically your best friend, since she knew almost everything that happened in your life.
You didn't have a best friend other than your mother. Well, you did once, but it didn't end well. It was the reason you had trust issues whenever someone tried to befriend you. The only person you could call a friend now was Faye, but you'd kept your guard up ever since the incident, so you never really tried to get any closer to her.
So, you had no one. It was just you and your mother, until she died.
Sitting in silence grew uncomfortable as moments passed, so you grabbed your things and got out of the car. Your steps felt heavier as you approached the front door. The last time you were here was this morning, when you had numbly dressed for the funeral. You hadn't had the time to dwell on your mother's absence.
Now that the ceremony was over, there was plenty of time to notice her absence. Her shoes in the corner, the flower vase on the coffee table, her keys hanging from the wall-mounted key rack, and her scent lingering in the air.
Stupid fucking disease.
You removed your coat and threw it on the sofa, not before picking it up again to hang it on the coat rack—as if your mother were there to scold you. The house was eerily quiet, so you made your way to your bedroom, one you hadn't slept in for a few months.
As you opened the door to your room, you were greeted by the stale scent caused by trapped air. Everything was exactly where you'd left it — which somehow made it worse. You inhaled deeply, memories flooding back, eyeing the bed that you once cried on when you and your mother had a fight. It was about your absent father — how you'd asked your mother about him, only for her to shrug off your curiosity. Now, you knew why she acted like that. She just didn't want to talk about the man who hurt you both.
You never asked about him after that.
Taking slow steps, your eyes roamed around your childhood room. A lump formed in your throat as your vision blurred at the edges before you forced it back, jaw clenched. You'd had enough of crying. You already did plenty of that this week, and you didn't want to lose your streak of not bawling your eyes out on the day of her funeral.
You sat on the edge of the bed, and caressed the flat sheets. She probably washed this every now and then while you were away. A small smile formed on your lips — before you caught yourself and let it fall. Habit, maybe. Old enough that it didn't need an audience anymore.
She was too good for this world, anyway.
It felt like hours before you decided to move and change out of your funeral-outfit cosplay. The bathroom was the only place where you could be yourself without expectant looks from others. You scrubbed your skin raw under the shower until it reddened, making you numb — as if the cold water could erase the feeling of solitude threatening to drown you. Everything was numb, even when you pinched yourself and rested your head against the wall.
A tear slid down your cheek, the water washing it down quickly. You didn't bother stopping it as it continuously flowed, letting yourself feel vulnerable, if only for a moment. A sound escaped you, something between a laugh and a sob. You didn't recognize your own voice.
Was this what everyone wanted from you today? To crumble, to sob, to prove you loved her? Screw them for wanting it. But here you were, alone, doing it anyway — just for yourself this time.
Well, you were human after all. Fuck the streak. Fuck cancer. Fuck everyone else.
A few hours later, drained of whatever that was in the shower, you found yourself in the kitchen — doing something you didn't even know you had a skill for: baking cookies. You didn't even know why your feet dragged you here. Maybe because the smell of her in the kitchen still lingered, or a distant memory of her teaching you how to bake.
Either way, you were going to bake cookies even if you could feel the exhaustion in your bones.
Kneading the dough with more force than necessary, you decided that the silence was deafening. You wiped your hands and went to your room to grab your phone. There were messages from Faye, from the nurse in the hospital, and others from distant relatives. You cleared all notifications and played a song that would distract your thoughts.
Finally, your attention was solely on the cookie you were attempting to bake. Tasting it, you tilted your head, unsure. You weren't an expert cookie baker, but at least Gordon Ramsay wasn't here to scold you for the mediocre batch. Eh, that was good enough for now.
After a few minutes of letting it sit inside the oven, you opened it and were met by how good it smelled. Guess that wasn't so bad, huh? The corner of your lips tipped, impressed by your work. You grabbed one cookie and blew on it before taking a small bite. Okay, that wasn't the best, but not the worst either.
You were suddenly motivated to bake more batches, not even thinking about how you were going to finish it all by yourself. Your neighbors probably knew you just came home from your mother's funeral, so you weren't planning on giving them cookies. They'd probably think it was poisoned, that you'd lost your mind, or that you were heartless for "celebrating."
A bowl filled with cookies and a cold juice in your hands, you decided to watch something. You decided to continue the series you were watching, Sex and the City. It was halfway through the episode when you finished your first batch of cookies. You kept watching, keeping yourself entertained, until you reached the episode where Miranda's mother died. What a coincidence.
She represented you in a way — wanting to put on a front, too damn stubborn to let her feelings out. The queen of suppression. Damn, was this episode written for you?
You decided you'd had enough of watching yourself on screen and turned it off. But the silence enveloping the room made you turn it on again, mindlessly flicking over the channels.
You landed on a news channel, the anchor's voice steady and practiced. You almost changed it, but something he mentioned made you pause.
“...and in tonight's special segment, we take a look at an initiative that's been gaining quiet attention across state correctional facilities — inmate pen-pal programs.”
You blinked at the screen, thumb hovering over the remote as your curiosity grew.
The screen cut to a woman being interviewed, her expression somewhere between hopeful and tired, judging by the circles under her eyes. “I never thought I'd be the one writing to a stranger in prison,” she said. “But he replies to every letter. Some of these men just don't have anyone left in their lives.”
The segment cut to file footage of rows of cells, hands gripping bars, a man sitting alone at a metal table with nothing but a pen and paper in front of him. The anchor's voiceover mentioned something about reduced reoffending rates, about isolation being one of the biggest challenges inside the system, about people who hadn't received a single letter in years.
At the bottom of the screen, a number scrolled by along with a website — some organization that matched volunteers with inmates who'd opted in to receive mail.
You didn't write it down. You didn't need to. Some prisons, the segment mentioned, accepted mail addressed simply to the facility, no name required, sorted and distributed among inmates who wanted correspondence. The woman’s words rang in your head, “Some of these men just don’t have anyone left in their lives.”
You sat there long after the segment ended, your juice forgotten as it left a moist ring on your coffee table.
Someone with no one left, huh.
The thought sat there, uninvited, refusing to leave. You bit your lower lip hard, staring into space. You told yourself it was stupid. You told yourself you'd forget about it by morning.
You didn't.
It was currently 2:00 AM, a tab open on your laptop, the search bar reading: how to send letters to prison. You told yourself it was crazy. You almost shut down your laptop and tucked yourself into bed to sleep, so you could forget the ridiculous idea forming in your head. But you kept staring at the pen and paper laying on your night table, as if it were teasing you.
“Shit,” you mumbled to yourself, gnawing your lower lip until it drew blood and woke you up.
After a quick debate with yourself, you gave in to the urge and snatched the paper and pen off the table. You exhaled deeply and closed your eyes for a moment. Were you really going to do this? Your eyes fell to the paper in your hand, staring at it as if it would disappear. It didn’t.
You took that as a sign to pull yourself out of bed, turned the lamp on your study table, then sat on the chair. Laid out before you were the paper and pen, and whatever was left of your pride. With shaky hands, you grabbed the pen… and started writing.
Surprisingly, you weren't nervous about the writing itself — the words came easier than expected. What made it nerve-wracking was knowing your dignity was on the line, but you poured your heart into the letter anyway. Without pausing, you wrote whatever you were feeling in the moment, letting it all spill onto the page.
Hi.
I don't know if anyone would read this, or if anyone in prison would even want a letter from a stranger who didn't ask for a name. I just needed to send it somewhere. So if this doesn't get burned or torn, I guess I'll try to make it worth reading.
My mother died two days ago. I don't think I'd ever really known grief until now. It was a weird feeling — loss. I just lost someone I loved, and here I am, baking cookies just to distract myself.
I wasn't someone who talked to people about my feelings, and I think this is the best way to let it out. Crazy and sad, but I didn't have anyone left. I lost everyone. Never had a father growing up, a couple of friends along the way, but they weren't the type to stay.
The last time I talked to her, I was excited to shop for a dress for my graduation. I'll be graduating in a week, but I can't bring myself to look forward to it. My mom was the only person I had, and she was supposed to be there.
Honestly, this was an impulsive decision — it's currently 2:34 AM. I couldn't sleep, and I didn't want to rely on sleeping pills. I love my mother, but I wasn't about to become a ghost story too by following her.
I just had to let this out. It's fine if no one reads this, or if you read this and think it's weird to receive a letter from a grieving 20-something. I'll be alright knowing I delivered it to the right address, because from what I've heard, it's boring in prison. Unless you gained pals there, well… good for you. 0 - me, 1 - you.
Thanks for reading this far, if you did.
Hope you’re having a great day there. You’re probably doing better than me.
Sincerely,
a girl who should be sleeping
Once you filled the whole paper with words you didn't know you'd say to someone, you scanned it thoroughly. A small part of you felt hopeful about the response, while the other felt pathetic and alone.
Were you that lonely, resorting to opening up to a prisoner by sending a letter about your mom's death? Someone who'd probably committed heinous crimes — or maybe hadn't, maybe they'd been wronged and didn't deserve to be there at all. Either way, someone locked up behind bars.
Reading it over and over again, you contemplated whether you'd send it or not.
What could go wrong? At this moment, you couldn't think of anything. It was a harmless letter, one that a prisoner would read and probably judge you by how you wrote it.
You folded the letter carefully, sliding it into the envelope before sealing it shut. Grabbing a pen, you hovered over the blank space meant for a return address.
Your hand stayed frozen there for a moment too long.
Did you actually want a stranger — a prisoner — to know where you lived? The thought alone made you pause, chewing the inside of your cheek. But then again, what were the odds he'd even reply? You were just some random name attached to a random letter, one of probably hundreds he'd never bother responding to.
Actually, scratch that. He wouldn't even know your name since you didn't write it.
You settled on writing just your address, leaving your name out of it entirely. If this whole thing turned out to be a mistake, at least you'd have that much control over it. Satisfied, you capped the pen and set the envelope on your desk, staring at it for a long moment before finally allowing yourself to exhale.
Tomorrow, you decided. You'd mail it tomorrow, once the sun was up and this 2 AM impulse didn't feel quite as insane as it probably was.
Sleep didn't take over. You barely slept — if you could even call it sleep, when it was just a nap.
Three hours of tossing and turning, you gave up and groaned. Sitting up, you rubbed your tired eyes, a yawn escaping your mouth. You were so tired, but apparently not tired enough to actually get any real sleep.
And you blamed it on the envelope sitting on your table.
Narrowing your eyes at it, you averted your gaze to ignore it and decided to wash your face. You stared at yourself in the mirror, noticing the dark circles under your eyes, fatigue evident on your features. Not wanting to be more depressed, you turned away from the mirror and made your way to the table.
You reached for the envelope that contained your feelings. The more you looked at it, the more the anxiety grew. It's just a simple letter, calm down, you told yourself. Yeah, a simple letter that would let a prisoner take a glimpse at your vulnerability.
Once you were done beating yourself up over some letter, you grabbed your keys, put on a hoodie, and left the house at six in the morning. You drove to the nearest post office, glancing at the envelope on the passenger seat every so often, as if making sure it hadn't disappeared.
Before you could talk yourself out of it, you stepped out of your car with the envelope in hand. The line was short, a few people ahead of you, each one making the wait feel unbearably long, the anxiety growing with every passing minute.
When it was finally your turn, you slid the envelope across the counter almost too quickly, as if speed would keep you from changing your mind.
“Just this one?” the clerk asked, barely looking up.
“Yeah,” you said quietly, fiddling with the sleeve of your hoodie. “Just this one.”
You watched it disappear into the outgoing mail bin, and something in your chest tightened.
There was no taking it back now.
next chapter
notes: there's a few SATC references in here because fun fact... I had this exact idea a few days ago while watching that specific episode where miranda's mother dies. I wanted to write prisoner!Toji and a pen-pal dark romance, and then, cherry on top, I was watching that SATC episode at the same time. which is also how the title "mama, I'm in love with a criminal" came to be. short rant over. hope you liked this one :) I'll try to update frequently!
credits to @angeliicide & @uzmacchiato for the dividers <3
your face bare for the first time on camera, and not just for anyone—for him.
sukuna.
the guy who'd pulled you upstairs at that party. the guy who'd made your skin burn with just a look. the guy who'd been obsessed with you online without knowing it was you.
and now he knew.
fuck.
your heart was pounding so hard you could hear it in your ears.
but then—
something shifted.
because the panic was fading, replaced by something else entirely.
adrenaline.
the kind that made your blood run hot. the kind that made you reckless.
you'd been caught.
fine.
but if you were going down, you were going down your way.
a slow smile spread across your face.
"so," you said, leaning back slightly, letting your hands trail down your sides. "you've been spending thousands of dollars on me."
s4d1st4u: and?
"and you didn't even know it was me." you laughed—sharp and a little mean. "how does that feel, baby?"
there was a pause.
then:
s4d1st4u: like i got exactly what i wanted
"oh yeah?" you tilted your head, your confidence building with every second. "and what's that?"
s4d1st4u: you
s4d1st4u: exactly like this
s4d1st4u: no mask. no hiding.
s4d1st4u: just you, looking at me like you want me to fuck you
your breath hitched.
because he wasn't wrong.
you did want him to fuck you.
you'd wanted it since that night in his room. since he'd looked at you like he was going to devour you whole.
but you weren't going to give him the satisfaction of admitting it.
not yet.
"big talk from a guy who's been jerking off to me for weeks," you said, your voice dripping with mock sweetness. "my little pay pig."
you watched the chat box.
waiting.
and then—
his camera flickered.
and turned on.
oh.
oh fuck.
he was shirtless.
you'd seen his chest before—during the last session—but this time it hit different.
broad shoulders. defined muscles. tattoos trailing down his arms and across his ribs.
and lower—
your eyes dropped.
he was hard.
so hard.
his hand was already wrapped around his cock, stroking slowly, and the sight of it made your thighs clench involuntarily.
"fuck," you breathed.
s4d1st4u: see something you like?
you swallowed hard, trying to keep your composure.
"maybe."
s4d1st4u: just maybe?
he stroked himself again, slow and deliberate, and you watched the way his abs flexed with the movement.
god.
"you're so fucking cocky," you said, but your voice came out breathier than you intended.
s4d1st4u: says the girl who just called me her pay pig
you grinned.
"well, aren't you?"
s4d1st4u: if that's what gets you off
s4d1st4u: then yeah
s4d1st4u: i'll be whatever you want
your pulse spiked.
because the way he said it—low and rough and honest—
it wasn't just dirty talk.
he meant it.
"prove it," you said, your confidence surging now. "show me how much you want me."
s4d1st4u: touch yourself
s4d1st4u: and i will
you bit your lip, your hand already sliding down your stomach.
"bossy."
s4d1st4u: you love it
and fuck, you did.
your fingers slipped beneath the lace of your panties, and you gasped softly at the contact.
you were soaked.
"jesus," you muttered.
s4d1st4u: let me see
you hesitated for half a second.
then you hooked your thumbs into the waistband and slid your panties down, kicking them off to the side.
his groan was audible through the speakers.
low and guttural and desperate.
"fuck, y/n."
hearing your actual name in his voice—not 'baby,' not 'sluttymommiee'—
it sent a shiver down your spine.
"say it again," you whispered.
"y/n."
god.
your fingers circled your clit, and you moaned softly, your head falling back.
"that's it," he said, his voice rough. "let me see you."
you spread your legs wider, angling yourself so he could see everything.
and you watched his reaction on screen.
the way his hand moved faster on his cock. the way his jaw clenched. the way his eyes were locked on you like you were the only thing in the world.
"you're so fucking wet," he said, almost in disbelief.
"your fault," you shot back, your fingers moving faster now.
s4d1st4u: good
s4d1st4u: i want you dripping
"greedy."
s4d1st4u: you have no idea
you laughed breathlessly, slipping two fingers inside yourself.
"oh fuck—"
s4d1st4u: that's it
s4d1st4u: fuck yourself for me
you obeyed, your fingers curling inside you, and the pleasure was sharp and immediate.
"sukuna—"
"say it again."
"sukuna," you moaned, louder this time.
and the sound he made—
fuck.
it was almost a growl.
"you have no idea how long i've wanted this," he said, his hand moving faster now, his breathing ragged. "how many times i've jerked off thinking about you."
"yeah?" you were panting now, your fingers moving in rhythm with his strokes. "thinking about what?"
"everything." his voice was strained. "your mouth. your tits. the way you'd sound when i made you come."
"and now you know," you said, your voice shaking. "was it worth all that money, pay pig?"
he laughed—dark and breathless.
"fuck yes."
you grinned, even as your orgasm started building.
"good," you said. "because you're going to keep paying."
s4d1st4u: whatever you want
s4d1st4u: i'll give you anything
and the way he said it—
desperate and honest and completely fucking gone—
it pushed you closer to the edge.
"i want you," you admitted, the words spilling out before you could stop them. "i want you to fuck me for real."
s4d1st4u: soon
s4d1st4u: but right now i want to watch you come
"sukuna—"
s4d1st4u: come for me, y/n
s4d1st4u: let me see it
your fingers moved faster, your other hand coming up to pinch your nipple, and the combination was too much.
"oh fuck—"
"that's it," he groaned. "fuck, you're so perfect."
"i'm—i'm gonna—"
"do it," he commanded. "come for me."
and you did.
your orgasm hit you like a wave, crashing over you so hard your vision blurred.
you cried out his name—his real name—and you watched him on screen as he stroked himself faster, his eyes locked on you.
"fuck, y/n—"
and then he came too.
his head fell back, his abs flexing, his hand moving in quick, desperate strokes as he spilled over his fist.
the sight of it made your aftershocks pulse harder.
god.
for a moment, neither of you moved.
just breathing.
just staring at each other through the screen.
and then you laughed.
breathless and a little disbelieving.
"well," you said, your voice hoarse. "that was—"
"overdue," he finished.
you grinned.
"yeah."
s4d1st4u: this changes things
"no shit."
s4d1st4u: i'm coming over
your heart stopped.
"what?"
s4d1st4u: you heard me
s4d1st4u: i'm done watching through a screen
s4d1st4u: i want the real thing
your pulse was racing again.
"sukuna—"
s4d1st4u: send me your address
you stared at the screen.
at him.
still shirtless. still flushed. still looking at you like he was going to ruin you.
and you realized—
you wanted him to.
"fine," you said, your voice steady despite the chaos in your chest. "but you're bringing food."
he laughed.
s4d1st4u: deal
s4d1st4u: see you soon, baby
the screen went dark.
and you sat there, alone in your room, your heart pounding and your body still trembling.
fuck.
this was really happening.
.
.
.
i have this story just recently posted on wattpad, my user is juststephieee. do not translate or post this anywhere without my permission.
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╰┈➤ "𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐀𝐌 𝐈"
You lived like any ordinary person, each day repeating like a loop. But everything changed the moment you woke up in a world you never dreamed of seeing.
"𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚜 𝚖𝚢 𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎? "
"𝚆𝚑𝚢 𝚖𝚎?"
"𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗'𝚝 𝚍𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜?!? "
"𝙿𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙!"
*𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍*
⋘ 𝚛𝚎𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐... ⋙
"𝙷-𝚑𝚞𝚑?"
If you're interested, check out my wattpad account : animefan4life22
Content: You’re his weak spot — the one he’d move mountains for. And when you’re not alright, he knows exactly how to fix it. But firstly, you get to meet his family.
Warnings: smut, fucking, hard fucking, he's calling you slut, confessions, rough fucking. different positions.
here's part 1 and part 3
Sukuna, who’s now your boyfriend.
He sees you a few times a week. Picks you up late. Takes you out to dinner. Long night drives with barely any music, just the hum of the road and his hand resting on your thigh. He comes over. Fucks you.
Perfect boyfriend, right?
Sukuna, who still texts you. Still sends “Good morning”, still asks “You home safe?” But the messages feel shorter. Dryer. And you thought they were already dry before.
You know he’s busy. That he’s never been the type to open up. But still—You crave more. More affection. More words. More softness. More of him. Even if you never say it out loud, it sits in your chest like a dull ache.
Sukuna, who finally invites you to his place. He doesn’t make a big deal out of it. Just texts:
“I’ll pick you up at 8.”
He arrives exactly on time, as always. Leans against his car, silent, nods when you step out. Doesn’t kiss you — just opens the door for you like he always does.
The ride is quiet. Not tense… just quiet. You arrive. He unlocks the door. His place. For the first time.
Sukuna, who brings you to his place — and straight into his world. You didn’t expect his brother and nephews to be there.
You barely had time to fix your hair in the mirror before the front door opened and suddenly you were being introduced.
“That's Jin,” he says dryly, motioning toward the man in the kitchen — older, similar build, mischievous grin.
“And those two idiots are his sons.”
“Hey,” says one of the nephews, 18-ish, tall, messy hair, oversized hoodie. He shoots you a grin. “You’re the girl, huh?”
“Be nice, yuji,” the second one (his older brother) says while chewing on something. “You’re scaring her.”
“Oh please,” yuji rolls his eyes. “She’s dating him. If she isn’t scared already, she won’t be.”
You laugh softly, even though your chest feels weirdly heavy.
They’re fun. Loud. Playful.
So unlike him.
His brother, choso, walks past and claps him on the shoulder. “Wow. Didn’t think I’d ever see you bring someone home.”
He raises his brows at you. “You sure about this guy? He looks tough but he’s soft as hell when he’s not pretending.”
Your boyfriend just shakes his head and mutters something under his breath, sitting down at the table without saying much.
You follow.
The dinner is… normal. That’s the thing. It’s warm, funny, loud — and he barely speaks.
Sukuna, who sits next to you. Eats quietly. Answers when someone asks him something. But doesn’t reach for your hand. Doesn’t look at you much. Doesn’t smile.
And the more comfortable you get with them, the more uncomfortable you feel with him.
You keep wondering: Is this just how he is? Or is it you?
The conversation fades into the background. You feel the weight in your chest grow heavier. Until suddenly—
He reaches for your hand. Not dramatically. Not for show. Just… slides his fingers into yours under the table.
And without a word, he gets up. You follow. He leads you down the hall. Opens the last door on the right. His room.
No one says anything. The voices from the kitchen still echo down the hall. But the moment the door shuts. It’s just the two of you again.
Sukuna, who asks you,
“What’s wrong?”
Of course he knows something’s off. He knows you so well — even when you try to play it cool, he sees right through you. That’s what you love about him. That’s what makes all of this so frustrating.
“I just… Fuck, I—”
Sukuna, who gently sits down on the edge of his bed, patting the spot beside him — a quiet gesture, but one that feels intimate in its own way. You sit down. No hesitation. Like your body is already tuned to follow his lead.
His hand lands softly on your thigh, warm and steady. His eyes fix on yours — focused, serious, unblinking. Not cold. Not soft. Just present. Completely. He’s listening.
And that alone makes your heart ache.
And yet, even now — with his hand resting so close, his face just inches away — you can’t stop thinking about how fucking hot he is.
His eyes, the way they hold you there like a weight. His fingers, casually pressing into your skin, just a breath away from your cunt. Your mind betrays you — flashing images of what those hands have done. What they could do right now.
Stop. Focus.
You try.
“I know that you’re really busy,” you say. “And I know you’re not… the affectionate type. Not with words. Not all the time. And I’ve been trying not to let it bother me, but—”
You pause. Swallow hard.
“I really need more.”
Sukuna, who understands you. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t scoff. He just nods slightly — once — like he already knew.
“More of me?” he says, voice quiet. “You need me to be more affectionate? With words?”
His hand moves, just barely, fingers tracing higher.
“Or with actions?”
Sukuna, whose hand slowly trails upward. So slow it’s agonizing. Purposeful. His fingertips brush the softest part of your inner thigh now — his touch featherlight, teasing. Your breath catches. Your eyes stay locked.
He knows exactly what he’s doing. His voice drops, deeper this time.
“You want me to show you how much I care?”
And fuck — you do.
Sukuna, who shows you everything — not with words, but with his touch. He leans in, finally, finally, pressing his lips to yours.
Slow at first. Controlled. But you feel it — the way his fingers tighten slightly on your thigh, the way he exhales against your mouth like he’s been holding something back for too long.
His kiss deepens. Urgent now. Like he’s pouring every unspoken word into it. Like this is how he says
I care about you. I missed you. I’m yours.
Sukuna, who doesn’t rush. He lifts you gently, your legs wrapping around his waist as he lays you back on the bed. His body presses down on yours, not crushing — just grounding. Keeping you there. With him.
“You need more of me?” he whispers against your neck.
“Then take it.”
His hands roam your body — firm, steady, reverent. Not just touching. Learning. His mouth leaves slow, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, down your chest, over the curve of your stomach.
He pulls your clothes off piece by piece. Not roughly. Not teasing. Just… focused. Like every part of you matters. Like he’s finally letting himself feel everything he’s been holding back.
And when he finally slides inside you — it’s not hard. It’s not fast. It’s deep. A slow, steady rhythm that says everything he never could.
Sukuna, who looks into your eyes the entire time. No dirty talk. No distractions. Just his breath mixing with yours, his fingers laced with yours, your bodies moving in sync like you’ve done this a thousand times.
Like he belongs here. Inside you. With you.
And when you whisper his name — quietly, shakily — his thrusts falter just for a second.
Then you feel it. His lips on your temple. His hand squeezing yours.
“I’ve never done this with anyone like this.”
It’s the only thing he says. But it’s everything.
And in that moment — you finally feel full. (Literally) Seen. Wanted. Loved. His.
You whisper it, barely audible —
“I need more… please.”
Sukuna, who hears your plea — and completely lets go. In a single fluid moment, he turns you over and puts you on all fours. No words. Only the sound of his breathing, heavier now.
His hands grip your hips, firmly, demandingly — and then you feel him again, deeper, harder.The rhythm changes. No more slow. No more soft. Just raw need.
His hips slam into you, each thrust a declaration:
"You want more? Take more."
Your body rocks with every movement. Skin on skin. The room echoing with the sound of it.
Sukuna, whose hand pushes your head into the pillows. Not to hurt — just to muffle your cries.
“Shhh…” he murmurs, voice rough against your ear.
“As much as I’d love to hear you scream, my family’s still downstairs.”
You whimper.
“Oh? You don’t care, do you?”
His pace gets even rougher.
“You want them to know, huh?”
Another sharp thrust.
“You want them to hear how this pussy sounds when it’s mine?”
Sukuna, who loses himself in you. Still fully in control — but letting the mask slip now. His voice no longer calm. His thrusts no longer steady. He’s breathing hard, groaning, low and broken.
“You drive me fucking crazy,” he growls.
“Look at you. Taking all of me. So fucking good for me.”
His hand slides up your spine, then grabs a fistful of your hair, pulling gently, just enough to tilt your head.
“You’re mine, you hear me?”
And you do. In every word. In every thrust. In every breath.
Sukuna, who’s not holding back anymore. His grip tightens. On your hips. On your waist. On you. He’s driving into you like he’s chasing something — like you’re the only thing that keeps him sane.
The sounds in the room? Filthy. Wet. Raw. Skin slapping, breath gasping, your whimpers mixing with his low, broken groans.
“You feel that?” he grunts, voice ragged.
“That’s me. All of me. Deep in your greedy little cunt.”
Sukuna, who completely snaps.
“Fuck. You like that?”
You moan, barely able to answer — your voice caught in your throat. But he doesn’t need your words. He knows your body.
Sukuna, who slams into you harder now — rough, relentless — your knees barely keeping you steady as your thighs shake.
"Take it. Take it all."
Another thrust. Deeper.
"You begged for it. So take it like the pretty little slut you are."
Your back arches. Your head falls. And he knows — you’re close.
Sukuna, who leans over you now. His chest pressed to your back, one hand gripping your jaw, turning your head just enough so you hear him.
“I don’t want anyone else seeing you like this.”
His breath hot against your ear.
“You’re mine. You understand me?”
And you do. Every nerve in your body is screaming yes. And when he growls your name — hoarse, low, possessive — it’s over.
You come, shaking, breaking apart underneath him. You collapse onto the bed, body trembling, chest rising and falling in sharp breaths. Your legs are weak. Your voice barely a whisper.
He stays behind you for a second, both hands gripping your waist — tight, possessive. You’re about to turn around, maybe curl into him, maybe melt into that warm silence after chaos—
But then—
Sukuna, who leans down, voice deep and low in your ear.
“I’m not done with you, my gorgeous, little slut.”
Fuck.
Before you can even respond, he pulls out — only to flip you over, easily, like you weigh nothing. Your back hits the sheets. He’s already between your thighs again, spreading them open, eyes dark and wild.
“Thought that was it?” he growls, smirking now — just a little. Just enough.
“You begged for more. I’m giving you more.”
Sukuna, who hooks your legs over his shoulders this time, folding you in half, pushing so deep you gasp. The angle? Brutal. Perfect.
He watches every reaction — the way your eyes flutter shut, the way your mouth drops open, the way your nails dig into the sheets.
"You gonna cry for me now, baby?"
Thrust.
“Too much?”
Another.
“Or just right?”
Your answer comes in moans — broken, breathless, needy.
"Yes. Fuck. I love it."
And he loves it too.
Sukuna, who fucks you like it’s the only way he knows how to say “I love you.” Fast. Hard. Deep. Real. His name falls from your lips like a prayer, and all he can do is give you more, more, more.
Sukuna, who doesn’t slow down. Your legs are still over his shoulders, your body already wrecked — but he’s deep in you again, dragging another wave out of you with every sharp, needy thrust.
You moan his name — and this time, he breaks. Not physically. Emotionally.
Sukuna, who finally lets it out. His voice low, but raw, shaking, broken.
“Fuck… I love you.”
You freeze. So does he. Only for a second. Then—
“So much. It hurts sometimes.”
His pace picks up again.
“The moment I see you getting out of the car. The moment I text you goodnight. The fact I can't have you every fucking second.”
Thrust. Harder.
“I love you so much, I can’t get you out of my head.”
Another thrust.
“You're always in my mind. And that pretty little pussy…”
He groans into your neck.
“Fuck. I can't help but jerk off at night just thinking about being inside her.”
Your hands clutch his back. Your body arching into his. His words hitting harder than his thrusts.
He pulls back — just enough to see your face. Your eyes. Your tears.
“I love you.”
You say it back without even thinking. It’s not a confession. It’s a truth that’s been living in you.
“I love you too.”
And then— your bodies move as one.
Spasms. Moans. Fingers digging. Mouths colliding. You both fall apart. Together. Loud. Messy. Completely undone.
Sukuna, who helps you get dressed again. Your legs are weak. Your body still buzzing. But he’s patient. Quiet. He pulls your shorts up gently, fixes your hair behind your ear, zips up your hoodie without a word. His fingers linger on your zipper. His eyes don’t look away from yours.
“Ready?”
You nod, even if your legs say otherwise. And just like always, he offers his hand. Steady. Solid. His way of saying he’s not letting go.
Sukuna, who walks back downstairs like nothing just happened. Like he didn’t just ruin you in the best way possible. The others look up — confused for a second, then amused.
“Took you long enough.”
Yuji smirks.
“Did you guys fall in or what?”
Choso laughs. His brother just lifts a brow.
“Bathroom run or secret honeymoon?”
You nearly choke on air trying not to laugh.
Sukuna, who doesn’t even blink. He just grabs a plate, sits down, and casually offers you a bite. Like nothing. Like everything.
And the rest of the dinner? Warm. Loud. Easy. Jokes flying around. You laughing. Him beside you, quiet but listening. Every now and then his hand grazes your thigh under the table.
He doesn’t say much — but you feel it. The calmness. The peace. The way he looks at you like you belong here.
Later. In his room. His bed. For the first time. You’re both quiet again. Tired. Heavy. He pulls his hoodie over your head — one that smells like him.
You sit on the edge of his bed, watching as he changes out of his shirt, then tosses it in the corner and slips under the sheets.
You follow. You lay next to him. Not touching.
Sukuna, who doesn’t cuddle. Of course he doesn’t. But you don’t take it personal. You understand. That’s just how he is. And you love him for it.
You're drifting off when— You feel it. Soft. Brief. Warm. A kiss. Right on your forehead.
You’re not even sure it really happened. But something in your chest tightens in the best way. You fall asleep smiling. Full. Safe. His.
Sukuna, who’s all over you when you wake up. One arm wrapped around your waist. The other under your head. His face buried in your neck. Your legs tangled. Your hearts… synced. You don’t move. Not like you could get out of his grip. And you don’t say anything.
Because for the first time — he’s holding you in his sleep.
Gojo would fall in love with a human full of life. Introverted or extroverted but just full of life. And willing to share it too; cooks at home and brings it over. Eats out only on special occasions so that it feels more “special”. Takes a moment to smell the roses and maybe push him into the bushes too. Sit at a bench and just admire the scenery. Help him enjoy life instead of blitz right through it; help him slow down in his untimely race to his death. His life is so fast paced, with so many things constantly around him; students, teachers, curses, that I feel like he forgets that he needs a minute sometimes. He’s not a machine and he can’t live like that. He’d love someone who teaches him how to live, even if he knows he can never truly learn it.
