#misanoires

You’ve grown used to this routine. He games, you hang around—usually scrolling your phone, sometimes reading, other times just teasing him for fun.

Tonight, it starts with a stretch.

You’re curled up on the couch, wearing his hoodie and a pair of soft sleep shorts. You arch your back just a little, arms over your head. The hem of the hoodie lifts—exposing the smooth line of your stomach, a flash of your hip. You feel his eyes on you, quick and fleeting. He doesn’t say anything.

But when he dies in-game a few minutes later, you smirk to yourself.

“You okay over there, baby?” you say innocently, not even looking up from your phone.

He doesn’t answer.

You shift again—crossing your legs slowly, letting the fabric of your shorts slide higher.

Another death.

And this time, you hear it: the soft click of the controller hitting the floor. A quiet sigh. Then nothing.

You glance up—and he’s already moving toward you.

Headset off. Hoodie sleeves pushed up. He doesn’t speak, not yet. He just kneels in front of you, hands resting on your thighs, warm through the fabric.

“What’s wrong?” you ask sweetly, brushing a hand through his hair. “Did I distract you?”

He looks up at you. Calm, unreadable. His glasses have slipped down just a bit on his nose. His lips are slightly parted, breath slower than usual. Still not saying a word.

Then he leans forward—slowly—and presses a kiss just above your knee.

“Keep playing with me like that,” he murmurs, voice low and so quiet you almost miss it, “and I’m not gonna be able to stay calm.”

Your breath catches.

You try to tease again—“But I thought you liked it when I—”

He cuts you off with another kiss. Higher this time. His hands slide up, pushing your thighs apart with gentle insistence. When he speaks again, there’s something darker in his tone.

“Put the phone down.”

You do.

He slides his hands beneath the hoodie, fingertips grazing your skin, pulling you closer to the edge of the couch. He’s still quiet, still controlled—but you feel the tension in him. Like he’s holding something back. Like he’s been wanting this—wanting you—for longer than he’s willing to admit.

“You walk around like this,” he whispers, dragging his mouth up the inside of your thigh, “every day… act all sweet… make those little noises when you stretch, touch my hair when I’m trying to focus—”

You gasp when his tongue traces the edge of your shorts.

“—and I don’t say anything. I don’t do anything. But tonight…?”

He slides your shorts down in one smooth motion, gaze locked on yours.

“Tonight I’m done pretending I don’t notice.”

His mouth is warm, relentless. He takes his time—no rush, no distractions. You can feel how much he wants to savor every second, like he’s waited too long to have you like this. And he watches you the whole time—like your reactions are his favorite game.

Your hand finds his hair, fingers threading through the strands as you moan, soft and desperate. He groans into you, finally letting some of that quiet restraint break.

“Louder,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “Wanna hear you.”

You cry out, hips bucking, and that’s when he really loses it.

He stands, eyes dark and intense, and pulls the hoodie up over your head, tossing it aside. Then he leans over you, bracing one hand on the back of the couch as he kisses you—deep, messy, consuming. His lips are soft but his movements are anything but.

“Turn around,” he breathes against your mouth.

You obey, dizzy, bracing your hands on the couch cushions as he kneels behind you. His hands trail up your back, gentle, reverent. And when he finally sinks into you, it’s like a switch flips.

Every slow, careful touch becomes something more primal. His grip tightens. His hips snap harder. Still not much talking—just low groans, stifled curses, and your name whispered like a secret.

And when you start to tremble, crying out with every thrust, he leans forward, wrapping one arm around your waist, the other cradling your chest. Holding you close.

“Mine,” he says, voice barely more than a growl. “Say it.”

“Yours,” you moan, breathless. “I’m yours.”

w.c — 1.7k

You didn’t want to be here. You hated parties but Shoko thought that you shouldn’t spend your Friday studying law. It’s been hours of you standing alone, people trying to hit on you and you watching over Shoko to make sure she doesn’t get super drunk.

The music was deafening, the kind that vibrated through the floorboards and rattled in your chest. The party was packed, bodies pressed into every room, the air heavy with sweat, perfume, and cheap beer. You should’ve left twenty minutes ago, but the line to the bathroom was finally moving, and your drink had started to hit just enough to make everything soft around the edges.

You shoved past a couple making out in the hallway and stepped inside the first unlocked bathroom. Small, dimly lit. Grimy mirror, sticky counter. You turned the lock behind you with a sigh of relief, leaning over the sink to splash water on your face.

That’s when you heard the knock. Sharp. Low.

“Occupied,” you called, voice half-slurred.

Another knock. Then a voice—deep, smooth, calm. “Yeah, I know. Open up.”

You frowned, moving toward the door. “Uh… what?”

“I saw you slip in here,” the voice murmured, low like it was meant just for you. “You looked like you needed a breather. Or maybe something more than that.”

You hesitated. Your pulse was already starting to race. Something about the way he said it… slow, cocky, like he knew you. Or wanted to. You recognized him as the stranger who handled you a water bottle when he realized you were hot and thirsty — also because he noticed you weren’t drinking

And against your better judgment, you cracked the door open.

He slipped inside without waiting for permission, shutting and locking it behind him.

You stepped back.

Tall. A dark shirt stretched over a firm chest, tattoos running from his neck to his wrist, one hand running through his baby pink tousled hair like he didn’t even realize you were staring. He looked like sin in sneakers, some kind of fantasy conjured out of sweat, smoke, and midnight heat.

“You’re not supposed to be in here,” you said, but your voice lacked conviction.

He tilted his head, eyes dragging over you like he could already see what you’d look like beneath your clothes. “Maybe not,” he said. “But I couldn’t stop watching you. The way you moved out there… like you didn’t belong. Like you were waiting for someone to give you an excuse to leave.”

He took a step closer.

You didn’t move.

“Is this that excuse?” you asked, voice breathless.

He smiled, slow and devastating. “Only if you want it to be.”

Then his fingers brushed your waist, just barely, like he was testing your reaction. When you didn’t stop him—when you leaned into it—he didn’t hesitate.

He backed you into the sink, mouth capturing yours in a kiss that was everything—filthy and starved, like he’d waited all night for the taste of you. His hands slipped under your shirt like he had every right to, thumbs brushing bare skin, heat building between your thighs like a fuse being lit.

Your breath hitched when he hoisted you onto the counter, your back hitting the mirror, legs parting instinctively around his hips. You could feel how hard he was through his jeans already—he wasn’t shy about pressing in, grinding slowly against you until your fingers dug into his shoulders.

“This is crazy,” you breathed.

“Mm,” he murmured, lips on your neck, his hand sliding up your thigh. “But you’re not telling me to stop.”

“Don’t stop,” you whispered, hips lifting into him.

The sound he made was low and filthy, like it scraped straight from his chest. He tugged your panties aside with practiced ease, fingers finding you wet and eager. His eyes met yours, dark and knowing. “Goddamn,” he breathed. “You’re soaking.”

He slipped a finger inside you, then two, curling just right, drawing a whimper from your lips that he swallowed with another kiss. The counter creaked beneath you, the mirror fogged with your breath, the beat of the music pounding faintly outside the door while the real rhythm was building between your legs.

And then he knelt.

Right there in front of you, in that grimy little bathroom, like you were something sacred. Like he needed to taste you. Tongue sliding over you in deep, slow strokes until your thighs shook and your moans echoed off the tile.

“Fuck—please,” you gasped, fisting his hair, riding his face shamelessly.

When you came, it was with your head thrown back, back arching off the counter, his mouth relentless until you were trembling and breathless and completely undone.

He stood, lips glistening, a cocky smile on his face. “You want to return the favor?” he murmured, already unbuckling his belt. “Or should I bend you over the sink and ruin you all over again?”

Your thighs were still trembling, breath uneven as you tried to ground yourself against the fogged mirror behind you. But he didn’t give you long. His hands gripped your hips, dragging you forward on the counter until your legs dangled and your feet hit the cool tile floor.

“Turn around,” he said, voice low and dark, like he wasn’t asking—like he knew you would.

You obeyed.

Your palms braced against the edge of the sink, chest heaving. You caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror—flushed, hair messy, eyes wide. And behind you, him. Taller. Broader. The look on his face was something wicked, something starved.

He stepped closer, his chest pressing to your back as he pushed your skirt up, fingers yanking your panties down to your knees. You gasped when you felt the head of his cock drag slowly along your slick heat, teasing, not quite entering. The pressure made your knees weak.

“You feel that?” he muttered against your ear. “That’s how badly I need to be inside you.”

Then he pushed in—slow but deep, your walls stretching around him inch by thick inch. The moan that left your throat was helpless, broken, echoed by the low growl that rumbled from his chest.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groaned, gripping your waist like it was the only thing anchoring him.

He didn’t wait. Once he was fully seated inside you, he set a brutal rhythm, snapping his hips against yours, the sound of skin slapping filling the bathroom over the muffled beat of the party. The mirror shook with every thrust. Your hands scrambled for grip, your body rocking forward with each deep stroke.

You could barely hold yourself up.

“You like being fucked like this?” he growled. “Bent over some stranger’s sink with the door locked and people just feet away?”

“Yes,” you gasped. “God—yes, don’t stop.”

His hand slid around your throat, not tight—just enough to make you feel it. “Say it again.”

“I like it,” you panted. “I need it.”

He groaned, snapping his hips harder. “That’s it. Take every fucking inch.”

One hand came around to rub your clit, fast and filthy, the added pressure sending you spiraling. Your body clenched around him, thighs shaking as you came again—loud, uncontrollable, body arching back into him like you could take him even deeper.

He cursed under his breath, losing rhythm, thrusts getting sloppier.

“I’m close,” he grunted, biting down on your shoulder as he drove into you. “Where do you want it, baby?”

“Inside,” you breathed, not even thinking, not even caring. “Please.”

That was it.

With a deep growl and a brutal final thrust, he came—hot and thick, hips jerking against you as he buried himself deep, breath ragged in your ear. His fingers clung to your hips like he didn’t want to leave, like he needed just another second.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The bathroom was heavy with heat and sweat and the wild sound of your breathing.

Then, slowly, he pulled out, tucking himself away with a crooked smirk.

You reached for some toilet paper, still dizzy from the way your legs barely worked. He helped you steady yourself, eyes still dark and amused.

“I don’t even know your name,” you murmured.

He kissed your shoulder, teeth grazing skin. “Maybe I’ll tell you next time.”

Then he slipped out the door, leaving you breathless and ruined and smiling like you’d just been claimed by a ghost.

𝕻airing — Ryōmen Sukuna x Reader.

𝕾ummary — Your Gangster Ex-boyfriend shows up at your doorstep one day injured. You decide to let him in but there’s more than a wound you need to fix. Especially when there’s still a certain tension between you two.

𝕮ontent warnings — gangster!sukuna, porn with plot, raw sex, p in v, fem!reader, kinda dom!reader, sorta make-up sex, hair pulling, creampie, pet names ( ex. baby ) stab wound, blood, couch sex, sukuna lowkey down bad, hate sex lowkey (reader), hitting and quitting.

𝕰dit — This is my first long sorta fic thingy like I’m so proud of myself!! And Gangster Sukuna just makes me horny sorry not sorry.

𝖂ord count — 2.4k

part two >>

You should’ve known Ryōmen Sukuna was trouble. He had this aura about him that screamed red flags so you must’ve been color blind. Sukuna was rough looking ( also good looking ), the tattoos that started at his neck and down to ankles, the piercings on his face, the black fingernail polish — you should’ve seen it coming. Your friends had told you to stay away from him. Your family told you to stay away from him. But you couldn’t. You saw the softness that other people didn’t see.

So when he broke up with you wished you listened to everyone. You remember the day so perfectly. He wanted to meet up and he told you that he was bad for you and you deserved someone that won’t drag you down with them.

But you didn’t care.

You wanted Sukuna.

So when you heard knocking at your door it pulled you out of your thoughts. The knock was slow. Heavy. Measured. Like someone too tired to demand, but too desperate to wait. Something was telling you not to open the door.

You froze in the kitchen, clutching a glass of red wine you suddenly didn’t want. No one visited this late—not in this rain. You crept toward the door, your bare feet silent against the wood floor. One glance through the peephole, and your stomach dropped.

Him.

Ryōmen Sukuna.

Standing outside on your porch.

Drenched. Pale. Leaning against the doorframe like it was the only thing holding him up. His hoodie was soaked through and clung to his body, the dark fabric darker still where the blood had soaked through.

You didn’t think. You just opened the door.

“Hey, baby,” he rasped, mouth twitching into that cocky smile you hated yourself for missing. “Got a little… fucked up.”

“Sukuna. What are you doing—”

Before you could finish your sentence he collapsed into your arms.

You managed to catch him before he fell. You tossed his arm over your shoulder as you held onto him tightly. His skin burned against your hands as you dragged him inside, guiding his bigger body to the couch. The moment he hit the cushions, he groaned—low, guttural—and peeled the hoodie off with a wince. Your breath caught when you saw it.

A stab wound.

A jagged stab just under his ribs, fresh, angry and gushing out a crimson liquid.

“You need a hospital Sukuna.”

He caught your wrist before you could grab your phone. His grip was still strong, despite the blood loss.

“No hospitals.”

You stared at him, heart pounding fastly against your rib cage. “You’re insane.”

He smirked again, that cocky yet beautiful smirk you’ve been secretly longing to see. “You always liked that about me.”

You slapped gauze against his side, maybe harder than you needed to. He hissed—but didn’t let go of your wrist. You can feel him intensely staring at your face.

“So you just came here to die on my damn couch?”

“No.” His eyes burned into yours. “I came here because I knew you wouldn’t let me.”

That silence stretched, thick and tense, as you pressed your hand against the wound to slow the bleeding. His gaze dropped to your neckline—your tank top soaked slightly from the rain where he leaned into you. His breathing got heavier. Or maybe yours did.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” you whispered.

Sukuna grinned again, sharp and dangerous. “And yet, you’re touching me like you don’t want me to leave.”

You should’ve walked away. You should’ve told him to get out.

But instead, you straddled his lap.

His breath hitched as your thighs slid over his, careful not to press into his injury, but firm enough he could feel the heat between your legs.

“Do you still think I want you here?” you asked.

He looked up at you with low eyes, you seen a glimpse of mischief flash through them. “I think you want to punish me.”

Your hand slid up his chest, nails grazing the tattoos under his shirt. You leaned in, lips brushing his ear.

“I should let you bleed out.”

“But you won’t.” His hands found your hips, slow and possessive. “Because you missed me. Just like I fucking missed you.”

You didn’t kiss him gently. You kissed him like you hated him for leaving, for bleeding on your floor, for dragging you back into this mess. His mouth met yours with the same fire, teeth clashing, tongue demanding. His blood-slicked hand fisted in your hair. The other squeezed your ass hard enough to bruise.

He groaned into your mouth. “Careful, baby. I’m wounded.”

You rolled your hips, slow and deliberate. “Then lie back and take it.”

“Didn’t know you were still this mean,” he muttered, voice thick with lust.

“There’s a lot of things you don’t know.”

And then you ground down again, and he cursed beneath you, hips bucking despite the pain.

Your hips rolled down against his, slow and punishing, letting him feel the way your body ached for him even if your mouth was all bite and resentment. He hissed through his teeth, head tipping back against the couch as he gripped your waist tighter, like it hurt to be touched—but he couldn’t stop himself.

“I should be resting,” he rasped, but his voice was already heavy with want.

“You shouldn’t be here at all,” you said, nails dragging across his chest until you found the hem of his shirt. “But since you are…”

You yanked it up, exposing lean muscle, blood, and the edge of the scar you gave him once in a different kind of fight. You remembered your mouth on that skin. You remembered the way he tasted. Your teeth scraped along his jaw now, soft lips following after. His hands moved under your tank top, rough fingers grazing over your bare waist, traveling higher—he froze when he felt no bra.

His breath came hot against your neck. “You’re killing me.”

“You came to me half-dead.” You grabbed his wrist, shoving his hand to your chest. “Let me finish the job.”

He groaned at the feel of your bare breasts against his hand, and his thumb found your nipple instantly, circling slow. You arched into him without meaning to, heat flooding your core. The stab wound made him careful, but it didn’t stop him from palming you like he used to—like he owned you.

“You’re not gentle anymore,” he muttered, voice strained.

“Neither are you.”

Your hand slid between your bodies, finding the waistband of his sweatpants—he hadn’t even worn boxers under them.

Typical Sukuna.

You grabbed his cock, already hard despite everything, and his head dropped back again, jaw clenched. You stroked him slow, just enough to make him twitch against your palm, to make him curse under his breath.

“Still carrying that attitude,” he growled, hips jerking up into your hand. “But you’re wet already, aren’t you?”

You said nothing. Just pulled your panties to the side and guided him to your entrance, dragging his tip through your slick folds. His breath caught. You sank down, inch by inch, his hands gripping the couch until his knuckles went white.

“Fuck…” he groaned, biting his lip, sweat already beading on his forehead. “You’re—tight. Shit.”

You rocked your hips slowly, feeling the stretch, the heat, the way he filled you like he was made for it. His wound pulsed under your hand, but his eyes were on you now—wide, wild, worshipping and possessive all at once.

He grabbed your hips. “Ride me.”

“You’re gonna pass out.”

“Then let me die like this.” You rolled your eyes even though you felt a slight smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

You started slow, dragging your hips back before slamming them down again, his cock hitting deep. He groaned loud, his fingers digging into your skin hard enough to bruise. Every movement made his jaw tighten with pain—but the way he looked at you, like you were the last thing he’d ever see, made you move harder, faster.

You leaned down, breath hot against his lips. “You missed this?”

He bucked up into you, rough and desperate. “I fucking dreamt of this.”

Your name fell from his mouth like a prayer, a plea, as you rode him harder, thighs burning, your moans turning shameless. His hand came up and wrapped in your hair, dragging your mouth back to his—teeth, tongue, heat—until you were gasping against him.

“K-kuna..” He loved the way his name sounded leaving your mouth. He wished he saw you come undone all the time.

“Come on me,” he whispered, voice raw. “Wanna feel you soak me. Make a mess, baby. Let me feel you lose it.”

And you did—grinding down hard, nails raking down his chest as your climax hit, walls clenching around him, body shuddering in his lap. He groaned, hips stuttering once, twice—and then he came too, deep inside you, filling you with a low, guttural curse against your neck.

Afterward, you stayed there—both of you sweaty, shaking, soaked in blood and rain and everything that made you dangerous for each other. His head dropped to your shoulder, chest rising and falling fast.

You nuzzled your head against his neck and pressed a couple of kisses on it. You missed this. But of course you were gonna tell him that.

“…Still gonna kick me out?” he asked, voice muffled.

You exhaled.

“After I stitch you up.”

You stayed in his lap longer than you should’ve.

His heart was still racing beneath your palm, his breath slowing but shallow. You could feel the wet stick of sweat, blood, and cum between your thighs, but neither of you moved. For a moment, everything was still—just the soft hum of the rain against the windows and the weight of him inside you, twitching slightly as his body relaxed.

“I’m… i’m not proud of this,” you muttered into his neck.

He chuckled weakly even though your words stung. “What, letting me fuck you raw or the part where you let me in after I bled all over your doorstep?”

“Honestly both.”

He winced when you finally shifted off of him, your body aching and sticky, his now-soft cock slipping free. You hissed slightly at the soreness, and his hand caught your arm.

“Wait. Let me see you.”

You turned your face, expecting another one-liner, another grin that tried too hard. But his eyes were different now—soft, heavy-lidded, something real swimming under all that usual cocky bravado. Something that you’ve never seen before. He looked at you like he meant it this time.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” he said. “I was bleeding. I thought… if I was gonna die, it should be with you.”

“You’re not dying,” you said sharply. “Not in my damn house.”

You stood and grabbed the first towel you could find, pressing it between your legs with a wince before tossing another at him.

“Clean yourself up. You smell like blood and bullshit.”

He smirked. “Still bossy. I missed that.”

You didn’t respond. You headed to the bathroom, came back with a first-aid kit and antiseptic, and dropped to your knees in front of him—again—but this time with gloves on and your jaw tight. The stab wound had slowed its bleeding, but the edges were ugly. Deep. You’d seen worse. But not on him.

As you cleaned it, his fingers slipped into your hair again, but there was no heat behind it this time—just the need to touch you, to ground himself.

“Careful,” he muttered softly.

“You’re lucky I don’t pour vodka in this and call it a day.”

“Wouldn’t be the worst pain I’ve felt.”

You glanced up. “That a challenge?”

“No.” He leaned back, watching you. “That’s me saying I’m sorry.”

The words made your hands still for a second.

You didn’t look at him.

“You should’ve said that the night you disappeared.”

“I couldn’t. I thought leaving would protect you.”

“From what—your enemies or yourself?” He didn’t answer. That told you enough.

You stitched him slowly, carefully, even when the silence grew thick again. Every now and then, he’d flinch and curse, but not once did he stop you.

When it was over, you stood up, wiped your hands clean, and looked down at him, now bare-chested on your couch with a gauze-wrapped stomach, and that same haunted look in his eyes.

“Would…you want to stay here tonight?”

He blinked. “You’d let me?”

“No.” You crossed your arms. “But I’m not dragging your half-dead ass back out in the rain either.”

You started to walk away, but then paused in the doorway.

“Guest room’s made up. Towels are clean. Don’t touch anything.”

“Can I touch you again?”

You turned your head just enough for him to see your glare.

“…Sleep.”

You closed your eyes and sighed. 

“Please.”

He watched you go.

And for the first time in a long time, he listened.

—

The house was still when he got up.

Dim morning light filtered through the curtains, softening the edges of the bruises on his body. The guest room smelled like you — not directly, but faintly, like old shampoo, clean cotton, and warmth. He hadn’t slept. He’d stared at the ceiling most of the night, hand pressed to his stitched side, replaying the sound of your voice, your breath, the way you clenched around him when you came with his name on your tongue.

It would’ve been easier if you hadn’t held him after. If you hadn’t cleaned his blood with shaking hands and called him an idiot under your breath while brushing his hair off his forehead like you still gave a damn.

That was the problem. You still did.

He sat on the edge of the bed, fully dressed now—sweats, hoodie, boots laced in silence. The wound in his side pulled, a dull, pulsing reminder of how close he’d come to dying.

You’d saved him. Again.

He found a piece of paper from your desk drawer and scribbled something messy on it. He folded it once, twice, and left it on the kitchen counter where you’d find it but couldn’t stop him.

He looked toward your closed bedroom door.

He thought about going back in. Just to look at you one last time.

But he didn’t trust himself not to crawl into your bed. Not to kiss your forehead. Not to ask to stay.

He didn’t want to see your eyes when you realized he was leaving. Again.

So he slipped out the front door like a ghost. No sound. No word. Just the quiet creak of the lock behind him.

You found the note two hours later, half-awake and wrapped in yesterday’s regret.

It read:

Didn’t come here to stay. Just to survive. You made that happen. Still yours. Just not safe to be. From S.

You sat at the table in silence. You didn’t cry. You’d done that the last time. This time, you just stared at the paper for a long, long while.

Then you folded it neatly, placed it in the drawer beside your bed, and tried to pretend like you didn’t still check the door every night after that.

You could see the curiosity flicker in his eyes when you straddled him, pressing his shoulders back into the mattress. Usually, he’s the one who calls the shots, who pins you down and makes you give in. But not tonight. Tonight, you wanted him beneath you, helpless and hungry.

You pulled the soft pastel blue silk ties from behind your back and watched his smirk falter.

“You’re not serious,” he muttered, testing your grip on his wrist.

“Oh, I’m very serious,” you whispered, sliding the tie around his wrist and fastening it to the headboard. His chest rose sharply when you repeated the same with the other hand, leaving him stretched out and completely at your mercy.

The sight made the heat pulse low in your stomach. You dragged your nails down his chest, just lightly enough to make him twitch. His breath caught, and you leaned down, lips brushing the corner of his mouth. “How does it feel, baby? Knowing you can’t touch me unless I let you?”

He groaned, tugging uselessly at the restraints. “It’s driving me fucking insane already.”

Good. That was exactly what you wanted.

You took your time, grinding your hips against him through the thin fabric of his boxers, teasing him with slow rolls until he swore under his breath. Every little sound he made fed you, made you wetter, made you want to push him further. Your mouth wandered down his throat, teeth grazing just enough to make him hiss, before you pulled back to look into his eyes.

“I could keep you here all night Satoru,” you eased, running a fingertip along the waistband of his boxers. His whole body arched, desperate, but you sat back, keeping yourself just out of reach. “You’ll have to beg if you want more.”

The control thrummed through you, intoxicating. Seeing him restrained, panting, staring at you like you was the only thing in his world—God, it was addictive. And when he finally broke, when his voice cracked as he pleaded for you, you knew you had him exactly where you wanted him.

His wrists strained against the ties, muscles flexing, but he couldn’t get free. The frustration in his eyes made your lips curve into a slow smile. You slid down his body, deliberately dragging yourself over the hard length straining beneath his boxers.

“Fuck…” he growled, hips jerking up.

You pressed a hand to his stomach to pin him down. “Not until I say so.”

You got off of him and walked to your dresser. “Baby, please, what are you doing?” You didn't answer, instead you grabbed a hot pink vibrator. “I thought we could try something different, don't you think?” Satoru stares at you with wide eyes then begins to tug against the ties. You finally reach the bed–this time straddling his lower legs. You place the vibrator next to him then hook your fingers into his waistband, you tug his boxers down just enough to free him. The sound he made when the cool air hit him went straight to your core. You wrapped your hand around him, squeezing slow and deliberate, and he threw his head back against the pillow.

“You’re torturing me,” he groaned.

“Maybe,” you purred, leaning down to let your tongue swirl around his tip before taking him into your mouth. His whole body jolted, a low, desperate curse spilling from his lips. You kept the pace lazy, cruel almost, sucking just enough to make him twitch and beg, then pulling back to leave him aching.

When you finally climbed back up and hovered over him, his chest was heaving, eyes glazed with need. you dragged the tip of him against your slick entrance, just barely letting him feel it.

“Please,” he rasped, voice raw. “Baby, I need you.”

That was what you wanted—to hear him beg. With a slow, deliberate roll of your hips, you sank down onto him, taking him inch by inch until you were full, stretched around him. You both groaned in unison, the sound raw and hungry.

“Oh, fuck yes,” he breathed, trying to thrust, but the ties kept him pinned. You braced your hands against his chest and rode him, setting the pace yourself —slow at first, savoring the way he filled you, then harder, faster, slamming down onto him until the headboard rattled with the force of it.

“Satoru, you’re–fuck–doing so well.”

His baby blue eyes locked on you, dark and desperate, watching every bounce of your breasts, every twist of your face as the pleasure built. You dragged your nails down his chest again, leaving red trails as you moaned his name.

He was begging outright now, panting curses, pleading for you to let him touch, to untie him, to go faster. And God, the power of knowing he couldn’t do a thing except take it—except give you every broken sound—was intoxicating.

The knot in your stomach snapped first. Your body tightened around him, shuddering hard as you came, clawing at his chest as the waves rolled through you. He moaned your name, jerking beneath you, straining against the restraints as his own release hit, hot and pulsing inside you until we were both trembling.

You collapsed onto his chest, sweaty and breathless, listening to his heart pound against your ear. For a moment, all you could do was smile against his skin. He was so out of it he didn't even hear the vibrator switch on, immediately on the highest setting. You got off of him and felt his cum drip down your legs. He was pulled out of his trance when you placed the viberator right on his tip.

“Wait no–hmph,” He threw his head back against the pillow. Gojo was already flushed red from his ears to his neck. Seeing him trying to keep quiet by biting his lip did something to you. You shift the vibrator down his shaft and you begin to lick the pre-cum from his tip. “F-fuck! Baby I cant, I cant it’s too much.” 

You lifted your head up, “you can and you will. Right ? You're going to be good and take it?” As you move the vibrator back up to his flushed tip he shivers and his moans turn into whimpers. 

“Y-yes, I can take more.” The vibration’s merciless. Satoru swears he's starting to see stars, especially when he cums all over himself. Every pulse sends another ripple through his stomach, and it’s obscene how easily his body reacts. His hips tilt helplessly with every shuddering buzz, his dick was twitching like he's desperate for more. 

“Y/n please!” He chokes on his own sobs. The coil in his gut winds tighter and tighter and he arches upwards and cums for a third time. You stop the vibrator and stare at him as he closes his eyes. His breathing is uneven, snowy hair sticking to his face, and tears running down flushed face. 

Finally, you reached up to undo the ties. You take your hand and wipe it across his stomach and licked off the cum. He lets out a breathy laugh and his arms immediately wrapped tight around you, pulling you close.

“You’re fucking dangerous,” he murmured into your hair, still half-laughing, half-breathless.

“Maybe,” you whispered, kissing his jaw. “But you liked it.”

Toji stood at your door after midnight, hoodie unzipped, hair tousled, eyes dark. His voice was low — the way it always got when he was up to no good.

“You shouldn’t be here Toji, we are broken up. You can't show up out of the blue when you want to.” You said lowly—voice almost a harsh whisper.

“Was just in the neighborhood,” he said, like this was casual.

But it wasn’t casual. Not with how long you’d been dancing around each other. Not with how he was looking at you — like you were already undone beneath him.

You should’ve shut the door. Instead, you stepped back, heart pounding.

Toji walked in slow, gaze dragging over your sleep shirt — the thin one, the one you never wore around him on purpose. It barely hit your thighs. No bra. No shorts. Just you, nerves and a thick silence.

He didn’t sit this time. Just stood there, eyes roaming your body like he had every right to look.

“What are you doing here Toji?” You stood against the door with your arms crossed over your chest.

“Can’t sleep or something?” You whispered, voice unsteady.

He took a step closer. “Didn’t come here to sleep.”

You breath hitched.

Another step. Now he was right in front of you. Tall, warm, dangerous in the way only he could be — arrogant and beautiful and completely off-limits.

“You gonna make me leave?” he asked.

You didn’t answer. Your silence said everything.

Toji fingers brushed your jaw. Rough hands, calloused from the field, now cradling you like you might break. “Tell me no,” he murmured, voice like smoke. “Tell me to stop.”

You should’ve. But you didn’t.

He kissed you — hard. Lips claiming, tongue sliding past yours with no hesitation. You gasped, and he took advantage, deepening the kiss until you were breathless. His hands gripped your hips, dragging your flush against him.

You felt how hard he was already. Thick, demanding, pressed right against the heat of you through the cotton of your shirt.

“Oh my God,” you whispered against his mouth, half a whimper.

“Been thinkin’ about this for weeks,” he growled, kissing down your neck, biting softly at the curve of your shoulder. “The way you always act so damn sweet. Look at you now.”

You arched into him, thighs clenching. “Toji …”

“Say what you want,” he muttered, sliding his hands beneath your shirt, fingers grazing your bare skin. “Say you want me.”

“I want you,” you breathed, barely audible.

He yanked the shirt over your head, green eyes raking over your bare chest. “Fuck.”

He didn’t waste a second — mouth on your nipple, sucking hard while his other hand squeezed the other breast. You moaned, loud and needy.

Toji dropped to his knees in front of you, hands trailing down your waist. “These gotta go.”

Your panties slid down your thighs, slow and deliberate. He kissed the inside of your knee. Then your inner thigh. Then again, higher.

“Toji—wait—”

His tongue found your heat before you could finish. You cried out, grabbing his hair for balance, knees going weak. His mouth was merciless — licking, sucking, tongue circling your clit until you were shaking.

“Fuck,” you gasped, head tipped back. “I’m gonna—”

He didn’t stop until you came undone on his tongue, hips grinding against his face, mouth falling open in a broken moan.

Toji stood, licking his lips like he hadn’t just wrecked you.

You were trembling.

He kissed you again, this time with teeth, his fingers between your legs, rubbing slow circles over your still-sensitive clit. “Not done with you.”

“Please,” you whimpered. “I want—”

He didn’t wait. Pulled his sweats down just enough to free himself — thick, hard, already leaking at the tip. You stared, flushed and desperate.

“Gonna let me fuck you, Y/n?” he growled, teasing your entrance with the head of his cock. “Let me ruin you?”

“Yes,” you begged. “Please, Toji—”

He thrust in one hard, deep stroke.

You both moaned.

“God, you’re tight,” he groaned, jaw clenched. “Fuck.”

You clung to him, arms around his shoulders, moaning in his ear as he started to move. Slow at first, grinding into you with filthy precision, then harder — deep, punishing thrusts that made the wall rattle behind you.

“Say it,” he hissed, thrusting harder. “Say you wanted this.”

“I wanted it,” you cried. “I want you—Toji, I—”

He fucked you against the wall, hands gripping your thighs, holding you up like you weighed nothing. Every slam of his hips hit you just right. You were close again — you could feel it building, fast and hot.

“Come on, baby,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “Cum for me.”

You shattered. Clenching tight around him, sobbing his name as your orgasm crashed through you. That was all it took — he groaned loud, hips jerking, spilling inside you with a final thrust.

You stayed like that — panting, sweaty, shaking.

Toji kissed you — softer now, still possessive — then carried you to the bed without a word, laying you down gently. He collapsed beside you, dragging you close, his hand sliding over your bare hip like you belonged there.

You did.