#plugsukuna

“You droppin’ off or pickin’ up after?” The toothpick that seemed to be permanently lodged between Toji’s teeth bobbed up and down with every movement of his scarred mouth. 

Sukuna snorted lightly, before throwing his used towel over his shoulder. “You already know I’m droppin’ off. I told ya’ this morning - or is your brain already half-dead from all the shit you pocket?”

Toji grinned, his canines glinting under the dingy fluorescent lights of the locker room. 

“Just askin’,” he shrugged nonchalantly. “Was gonna ask if you needed help, but ‘guess not.”

“Why, so you can take a piece of my cut?” Sukuna looked at him pointedly, before tugging his shirt on. He winced quietly as the lip of it got caught on his snake bites. The two of them had just finished their usual workout, and had plans to head over to the old warehouse district tonight before their usual weekday delivery runs. It was the first Wednesday of the month: race day. 

Toji raised his hands in mock surrender, a chuckle rippling through his large chest. “I’m always down for more cash, and your clients are more loaded than mine,” Toji shook his head, his shaggy hair moving with him. “Plus, ‘got my woman knocked up and now she won’t stop fuckin’ eatin’ the whole goddamn pantry.” Though his words were crass, Sukuna saw the way the other man’s eyes softened as he mentioned his girl. 

“Whipped,” Sukuna muttered. 

And after a sharp shove by the beefy father-to-be, the two of them headed out to the parking lot. 

Around them, the summer breeze was cool and slightly damp, the glow of distant fireflies lazily flickering in the distance, and the light pollution of Los Angeles had enveloped the city skyline in a soft, glowing haze. 

The two men ended up splitting ways halfway through the semi-vacant lot, with Toji walking towards his beat-up Camaro, and Sukuna to his sleek, black Hellcat. 

“Race ya,” Toji called out, the sly grin on his face growing wider as he zoomed out of the lot. 

Now, Ryomen Sukuna was by no means a romantic, but he did hold a certain amount of reverence for the subtle beauties in his life. He reveled in the vibrations of the stick shift against his calloused palm, the rumbling purrrr of the engine around him, the electrifying breeze rushing through his open windows as he caught up to the other man (and not to mention the eight fat bands he kept hidden underneath his passenger seat) - he felt good; he felt invincible tonight. 

When they finally pulled up to the makeshift track amongst the abandoned warehouses, the crowds were already beginning to form. Music with heavy bass was thumping through the air, and he could see people beginning to point at his car in recognition as he rolled down the crowded runway. 

He was the reigning champ of the past five meetups across the West Coast. He had a notorious reputation for being an unrelenting monster on the track, a fact that was generally supplemented by his looming frame, intense features, sharp tongue, and withering stare.

He was absolutely feared by everyone that came within a 3-foot radius of him, and both veteran drivers and fresh-faced newbies alike could not outrace him, the King, especially today in his home domain. 

He could feel it already, the power of pushing 150mph tonight, the rush of a sweeping victory, and the feel of the cold hard winner’s cash in his tingling palms. 

The first 20 minutes passed by uneventfully, with his match ups being sweatless; just a bunch of clowns and greasers that he swiftly buried with practiced, predatorial ease. 

It was all going so perfectly until he heard the obnoxious, abrasive roars of a modded-up Supra pulling up next to him.

A challenger. 

The crowd that surrounded the track began to howl, flashes went off, and cash was being waved around for the bets. 

The tinted window of the car rolled down slowly to reveal a man with two-toned hair, studded ears, a feline smirk, and the most textbook prick-ish face Sukana has ever seen. 

And that, unfortunately, is when everything went south.

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The overhead lights cast a dirty, yellow glare over the weary, mid-morning commuters in Train Car #8. 

Ryomen Sukuna sat amongst this group, situated directly next to the automatic doors (a spot typically reserved for expecting mothers, the elderly, or the handicapped…) with his legs slouched wide enough to encroach onto the seat next to him, his brow lightly tensed, and his mouth set in its usual unamused frown. 

His large arms were crossed over his chest, his headphones jammed into his ear, his bag propped up against his restless leg, and his tattooed fists tucked into himself. 

Jesus, this was so fuckin’ lame.

He knocked his head back until his messy, pale pink hair hit the grimy, fingerprint-stained window behind him. 

He knew his stop was soon approaching, yet he let his tired eyes fall closed. He replayed his last ride in his head like a broken tape: the booming roars of his Hellcat as it tried to keep up with the lightning blue Supra, the cold sweat on his neck and the hairs that were raising as the other car pushed 160 mph, and the way that Sukuna, for the first time in almost half a year, could not keep up with his opponent. 

He blinked his eyes open, his mouth settling into a deeper frown, and a slight twitch of irritation flickering across his face. 

His massive (and bruised) ego quashed any sliver of sensibility he had that night. He shouldn’t have agreed to another race with that cheating Naoya fucker. He shouldn’t have played fair. He shouldn’t have followed the sly bastard off the track, and he definitely shouldn’t have been caught by that staged Zenin-buyout-ultra-dickface cop. And above all, he should not have agreed to the community service sentencing at his court hearing. 

He should’ve just paid the fuckin’ fine. 

Which is how he finds himself here, on a train heading towards some dead suburb, to work at some dead library, with 200 hours of community service to go before he could get his license unsuspended. 

Even thinking about it left an acrid taste on his split tongue.

The robotic voice coming from the speakers announced that they were now approaching his station. Sukuna indolently got up, dragging his feet on the way out.

The library itself was a large brick structure, with tall windows and small flower gardens by the entrance. He spit into a bed of chrysanthemums before he caught sight of himself in the window-reflection. His shirt was wrinkled and oil-stained. His hoodie had small holes along the cuffs, and his pants had mud splatters all over the hem. 

Whatever.

As he made his way inside, he found a bored-looking teen manning the front desk. Her glasses rested on the bridge of her nose, and a nametag that read “MAKI” was pinned to her fuzzy, purple sweater. 

Upon his footsteps, the girl quickly picked her head up, only for her eyes to widen in concern as she took in his appearance. 

He was unsurprised at the reaction. He would bet a gross amount of money on the fact that not many people that looked like him frequented this kind of establishment on the daily. And honestly? He didn’t really give a shit. He knew he didn’t necessarily “fit in”: his hair was fuckin’ pink, he had small, metallic spikes for piercings, his tongue was split in half, the black ink that cut across his nose was identical to the one that ran along his jaw, and not to mention the two small fish eyes that were tattooed underneath his real ones.  

He was used to this kind of reaction. Hell, he was accustomed to it. Accustomed to the way he always had space wherever he went in public (people generally flocked away from him rather than towards him), accustomed to the way he never had to demand for anything twice. 

He was rough, blunt, so overwhelmingly intense, and so very easily agitated. Sure, one could throw in “lonely” to that mix as well, but he had stacks of cash under his mattress - and that was more than enough to keep him content. 

“You’re late,” the girl, Maki, mumbled, her eyes not meeting his. 

And oh, he could’ve just snapped. First a shitty week, now a shitty morning going to a shitty gig, with an equally shitty brat as his soon-to-be “colleague”. Before he could mutter some of the colorful expletives he knew from his lengthy repertoire of curses, a smooth, elegant voice interjected. 

“Ryomen Sukuna,” 

He huffed through his nose, before taking an unhurried glance behind him at the call of his name. 

You stood tall and straight, a pencil tucked into the crook of your ear behind your large glasses, your hair neatly done, and your clothes clean and smart-looking. You were carrying a book with a stack of papers in one hand, and coffee in the other. Your eyes held his in a steady gaze: direct, warm, and probing in the kind of way that made him feel so… seen. 

His restless body stilled for the first time since his sentencing. 

“I’m glad to see you found your way this morning,” the ghost of a smile passed over your lips. He could hear the brat, Maki, lightly snort behind him. “I was beginning to think we lost you,” your words held a playful challenge in them, your eyes still gazing deeply into his own. 

And suddenly, his tongue felt heavy and occlusive, and his usually sneering mouth refused to move. The normal slew of sharp remarks that he normally had at the ready seemed to be lost to him now.

The fuck was going on with him? Was he having a heart attack?

He could only give a terse nod to you in greeting. 

You smiled politely at him. 

“Why don’t we walk and talk? I’ll show you your first assignment,” you shifted, your head tilting towards the hallway behind you. He took it as his cue to walk over, making sure to leave at least four feet of space between himself and your body. 

An indecipherable look flashed in your soft eyes. 

You began to introduce yourself, walking forward as he trailed a couple feet behind. You talked about your background, how you were working here as a librarian while also pursuing your PhD in Classical Literature from UC Irvine. You talked about your hobbies, your current reads, and the premise of your thesis work. He listened, his head tucked down, his normally racing mind oddly quiet. 

As you spoke you made it a point to slow your steps, your gate shortening, until your body was in line with his. 

The warmth of your proximity radiated onto his buzzing skin. 

You were so fuckin’ weird, he thought.

And yet, the tips of his ears were tinged pink. 

When you were done speaking, you looked up at him behind your large frames. “Gosh, that’s enough about me,” you flushed, growing shy at your ramblings. And surely something was wrong with his body, because he found himself not wanting you to stop. His throat uncharacteristically squeezed at the sight of your doe-eyes looking back up to him. “What about you? What brought you here?” You continued, your voice patient, gentle, and politely inquisitive. 

He swallowed. He almost felt too embarrassed to admit himself to you: you who were so clean and smart and accomplished. You who probably only ever stayed up late to study, while he stayed up to race, bet, and deal. 

He’s never felt like this before, but standing here next to you–with his dirty clothes and greasy hair and unwashed face–kind of made him feel like a complete and utter loser. 

He coughed awkwardly. “Uh, speeding, I guess,” he replied lamely, his fists rubbing hard against the lint in his tattered jean pockets. 

You offered him a quiet ahh, nodding your head like you understood, not a trace of judgment in your observing eyes, and the light, kind smile not once wavering on your soft lips. 

So unusual.

His heart was hammering in his chest.

The two of you finally made it to the back of the hallway, where a set of doors awaited. 

“To the left is the presentation room - we host movie nights every other week to raise interest for the library,” you turn. “And to the right is our stock room - we can start by having you put away the books people return. Once you get bored of that, come find me and we can work together to find you something else to do.” You playfully winked before giving him a toothy grin, and he could feel his face getting warmer. 

You showed him the stock room - a small space that housed the bins that collected the book returns, the carts that the staff could use to transport the paperbacks to their designated shelves, and explained what each of the colored stickers meant on the book bindings. 

And it was only after you finished giving him his introductory onboarding–showing him the different areas of the library, brushing close enough to him so that he could smell your shampoo, and answering all of his slow questions with unwavering earnestness and patience–that he finally took out his phone to shoot Toji a quick message.

RS (11:57am): pick me up later. might b getting a heart attack.

Toji Shithead (12:06pm): tf ??

Toji Shithead (12:41pm): give me $20 or u owe me. 

Toji Ultra Shithead Supreme (12:42pm): and lemme use ur car. gas is expensive. 

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A week passed, and then another; and Ryomen Sukuna was really, really fuckin’ confused. 

He only had to appear at the library on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Yet, on the days he didn’t have to go in, he found himself starting to think about it. His thoughts, once consumed by drop off points and profit margins and car specs, began to turn into thoughts about the new book orders that needed to be logged, the study rooms that needed new pencils, the overdue items that were holding up his cataloguing, and inevitably, always inevitably, you.

You, who would silently sit down across from him at his empty lunch table, doe-eyed and nose deep into a new book every time he saw you; you who had the neatest handwriting when making notes next to his sloppy ones, who left smiley faces next to his daily assignments, and who would bring in homemade treats for everyone on Wednesday mornings. 

And so what if he started reading the synopses of the books you read, or leaving you coffee at your desk (anonymously) on the Friday’s of your mock defenses (it wasn’t special, it was on your calendar!), or purposefully waiting for you to close up so he could walk behind you out the door so that maybe, just maybe you’d turn around and smile and tell him to have a good night. 

It's not like he liked you. 

He’s had countless, numerous, chicks rotate in and out of his passenger seat in the past (albeit briefly), long nails sliding up his tensed thigh as he sped down the track, smoke from a dying roach curling thickly around his car as he lapped his opponents with ease, and different types of lipstick stains marking his neck throughout the course of a singular night. 

Sure, he could admit you were kinda-unfortunately-really-fucking-annoyingly beautiful, with dark lashes and soft skin and lush lips and warm eyes. And sure, he could admit you were so intentionally thoughtful, always setting aside one of your bakes for him because he usually was one of the last people in. And sure, you were so knowledgeable about books and history and literature, yet so easygoing that he not once felt dumb or stupid when asking his questions. And yeah, you made it so easy for him to feel comfortable, to feel seen. And- 

Oh fuck.

Did he seriously have a fuckin’ crush on you right now?

He stopped mid-restock, his heart nearly falling to his ass. He rubbed a tattooed hand over his face. 

“Boo.” Like the devil, your head peeped up through the small opening in the bookshelf he was attending to. Playfulness gracing your elegant features. His hands tightened around the binding of the book he was holding, his Adam's apple bobbing in a hard swallow. 

“Jesus, you’re weird.” His words came out quickly, bluntly, and just a touch strained.

You grinned, and he found himself watching the way your pretty lips curved upward despite his awful attempt at socialization. 

“I need a new book - thought you might be hoarding some of the good ones over here,” you whispered teasingly.

He tried to match you–your light energy, your silly jabs–but the muscles in his face were not used to it, refusing to cooperate with him. His lips lifted up awkwardly, almost akin to a wince, before he replied, “I don’t read.” 

Your mouth fell in a soft “o” while your brows lifted, and you tsk’d him lightly. “What a shame, Ryomen Sukuna. You’re missing out!”

He hummed deeply in response. He really liked the sound of his name rolling off of your velvet tongue. “How so?” He rested his crossed arms on the shelf in front of him, his upper body leaning forward, and his face tilting to see you better through the gap in the books. 

You tilted your head to look at him as well, your whole world side-ways except for the man before you. “Because I believe every single person has existed on a page somewhere, written by a stranger who somehow understood them,” your eyes shone brightly as you looked at him. “How beautiful it is to be known like that,” your cheeks flushed rouge at your conviction, and your smile grew brighter. 

And, god, if he could paint he would’ve drawn your likeness in every face and in every body on every single canvas, because the image of you like this, so pretty and pure and earnest, would haunt him; will haunt him; does haunt him.

He could feel himself swallow thickly, a stone sliding slowly down his tight throat. His eyes softened ever so slightly as they probed yours. “And, er, are you looking for someone in particular?” He scratched the back of his flushed neck, “in your books, that is.”

His words came out choppy. His heart was in his mouth, and his blood roared impossibly loud in his red-tipped ears. 

You were just about to respond, your lips opening, when your eyes seemed to fall on something, someone behind him. He saw how your pupils widened with a look he had never seen on you before. 

You politely excused yourself, before quickly making your way over to the front foyer of the library where a handsome blonde man with round glasses and a smart-looking suit stood idling. 

Sukuna watched as you walked away from him, your hands becoming fidgety at your sides and your cheeks flushing a shade he’s never had the privilege of eliciting from you. 

You were tucking your hair behind your ear, almost nervously, and when you finally stood in front of the other man, your restless fingers were twisted together behind your back, and your feet slightly tip-toed as you rocked forward in greeting. 

The two of you exchanged some brief words, before you guided him down to the back study rooms of the library, softly closing the door behind the two of you. 

You did not return to Sukuna. In fact, he didn’t see you for the rest of the afternoon. 

The fuck was happening?!

The air felt cold and brittle in his nose, yet he could feel his skin beginning to prick with sweat. His large chest felt constricted as it rose and fell against his shirt, and his heart squeezed in a way it never once did before. 

RS (3:45pm): pick me up right now.

Toji Ultra Shithead Supreme (3:46pm): ur acc so fckn annoying. 

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Ryomen Sukuna was unsettled. No, he was agitated (“whipped” according to Toji Fushiguro).

He tried to wrap his head around it all week. You were so kind to him, so fuckin’ nice. You approached him like you knew him for years, you smiled at him like you didn’t see his inked face and menacing piercings and forked tongue, and you looked at him like he was a saint despite it all. 

And yet, and yet, here you were spending your Wednesday afternoons with some boring blonde freak with pompous glasses and ridiculous suits, instead of reading next to Sukuna during lunch break, or coming to talk to him during slow periods, or shooting him an easy smile whenever you caught him staring from across the main library floor. 

Get in fuckin’ line, pal.

And for all his anger and agitation, for all his pride and ego, he could feel his beating heart getting pulled from both ends until the fibers in the middle began to shear and splinter. Because deep down, underneath all his rough edges and outward callousness, he knew he wouldn’t win in this race. Hell, he couldn’t even compete.

It took much for him to feel jealous, but for some reason, with you it was so easy.   

Ryomen Sukuna didn’t go to college, and he almost dropped out before he could even get his high school diploma. He moved Choso’s crazy hybrid strains as a form of income, raced illegally to compensate for his lack of friends, looked like he picked fights for fun, and the only form of reading he did was from “Auto Digest”. You were miles, oceans, leagues beyond his grasp; so neat and kind and charming and intelligent. And here you were smiling next to someone who was from your world; someone who seemed equally as smart, equally as neat, supposedly as funny, and admittedly kind of handsome.

“Wow, didn’t realize you were such a coward,” Maki muttered from beside him.

His head snapped towards her. “The hell’d you just say to me?”

The teen rolled her eyes, her head resting on her palms as her elbow rested on the front counter. 

“You heard me,” she took her phone out and sent a text to someone. A moment passed. “The library movie night is tonight. Go cover for me.” 

“Now why the f-”

“Because she’ll be there.” The girl looked pointedly at your direction, where you sat quietly laughing at something the blonde man across from you said. 

The pencil in Sukuna’s clenched hand snapped cleanly in half.

Yeah. 

Yeah, ok. 

He'll be there tonight. He will most definitely be there tonight. 

He quickly texted Toji to not pick him up today (to which the other man replied that he wasn’t even planning on it) and tried to focus on watching the clock dip past 6, instead of the way you were acting happy with someone other than himself.

You glanced down at your watch, realizing the time. He saw you whisper something to the other man, probably some apologies for keeping him (if it were Sukuna he wouldn’t have let you apologize), and help straighten his stack of papers. Your face was lightly flushed as the two of you made your way over to the front desk of the library. 

“Sukuna!” you looked so happy, though he could not tell if it was from seeing him or spending the latter half of the day with your shitty nerd friend. Another bout of painful squeezes tugged at his chest. “It’s well past your hours, what are you still doing around?” 

His eyes flicked between you and the blonde man beside you, before settling on just you. “Coverin’ film night for Maki,” he crossed his inked arms over his chest, making sure to subtly flex under your gaze. 

“Oh, you’re wonderful,” your voice was like honey and butter, silken and deep. You gave him your prettiest smile. He could feel his breath stutter. You turned to the man next to you, and the two of you quietly exchanged your goodbyes. 

As the other man walked away, the words “boyfriend of yours?” slipped out from Sukuna’s pierced lips before he could even think it fully through.

You chuckle breathlessly, your pretty eyes crinkling like this was some sort of joke. 

“What makes you say that?” The two of you began to walk together, making your way down to the presentation room. There was something rippling underneath your playful tone, something he couldn’t quite read. 

He tried to shrug as noncommittally as possible. “You guys looked good together.” The words almost pulled bile into his mouth. 

You sighed exasperatedly, jokingly, “y’know, just because two people wear glasses doesn’t  always mean they need to be dating each other,” you poke Sukuna’s arm, your teasing tone trying to lighten the stiff air around him. 

Goosebumps sprouted where you had touched him. 

He huffed. “It’s not that.” He kept his eyes fixed to the end of the hallway, not daring to let himself look at you. “He looks like a smart guy, like he likes books ‘n shit. Just seemed like you two fit real nice. That’s all.” His cheeks felt warm. His eyes slightly strained. The muscles in his cut jaw ticked at the force of him clenching his teeth together.  

A quiet, contemplative look crossed your features, your smile slightly dimming as you mouthed a silent “ahh”. The two of you continued the rest of the walk in silence after that. 

And as you both quietly prepared the bean bags and chairs and microwaved popcorn and dusty VCR, he couldn’t help but study your face; your set brow, your unsmiling mouth, your tense movements. Did he say something wrong? 

The hour hand on the clock ticked to 7. In about 15 minutes, people would begin to filter in for the library’s showing of “Pride and Prejudice”. 

“His name is Kento Nanami, and he’s my PhD advisor,” you said the words quietly, your eyes fixed to the blank projector screen. 

Sukuna’s head snapped up at your words. 

“I am so close to a breakthrough, and he’s been helping me. He’s been my friend through all of this.” You slowly turn to look at Sukuna purposefully. “Just my friend.” And for some reason there is a look of brief sadness on your face. Your usually warm eyes were almost nebulous.

Bullshit. He wasn’t an idiot. 

He spoke before he could stop himself. “Sure he is. And I’m just the fuckin’ pope.”

You let out a heavy breath, shoulders sagging and your eyes flooding with exhaustion. Patience be damned, it looked like he finally broke your resolve. 

Minutes ticked by in silence, the air a heavy mix of anticipation and unease. 

When you finally spoke, your low voice was slow and clear, cleanly cutting through the stifling atmosphere.

“You know, all you’ve done since meeting me is put me in a box. You’re surprised when I am loud, you tell me I am weird when I am being playful, and I know you try not to stand next to me because for some reason you think it will hurt me.” You pause, your eyes getting slightly glassy, your low voice growing strong. He could feel a slight tremor run through his hands as they tightened around the back of the chair he was holding onto. “Being a librarian may be what I do, but is that all that I am to you? Do I have to be meek and soft and quiet? Can I not exist outside of those boundaries? Can I not act however I please? Like whomever I like? Do the clothes I wear and the way I look and my profession bind me to other people that are exactly like me? Is it truly such a barrier to liking someone like you?” 

And oh. 

Oh. 

Oh shit.

Your eyes widen at your own admission. 

Sukuna wonders if this was all a daydream.

The two of you stared at each other with wide eyes and parted lips. 

Before he could respond, the first wave of people came walking in through the doors, their idle chatter filling the thick air, completely oblivious to the way his heart was expanding past his ribs, how his blood was rushing loudly in his ears, and how his skin burned hotly around him: burning because of you - for you.

You looked away from him, embarrassment flooding your face. 

You began to fiddle with the tapes, the buttons of the remote, fretting over all the equipment in an attempt to ignore the heavy weight of Sukuna’s stares from across the room. When the clock finally, finally, hit 7:15, you gracefully (or, as graceful as you could manage at that moment) thanked everyone for supporting the library, gave your brief introduction, dimmed the lights and hit the play button. 

Sukuna was still frozen to his spot from earlier. But when he saw you quickly trying to make your escape through the double doors, his body moved before his mind could catch up, and he was hotly on your tail. 

He wouldn’t let you get away from him. He couldn’t. 

He was the 5x West Coast street racing champ, dethroned once by some bullshit calls and a conniving rook. But if there was one thing that still held true about him, it was that he would not let no one, no one try to outrun him. Especially you. Especially now, in this competition of the hearts. 

The hallway was empty at this point, the only stragglers being you and your quick feet as you tried to hurry away, and him, with his long legs and rippling muscles as he easily caught up to you, blocking your path. 

And for the first time since starting at the library, since meeting you, since falling so debilitatingly hard for you, he reached out to touch you.

He wondered if you could hear his erratic heart as he wrapped his warm, calloused palms around your soft wrists, his large fingers caressing your skin. 

“Please, please,” he was breathless, “I am so, so sorry.” He whispered it like a heavy truth, pleadingly and unpretending. The big, bad King of the track, left felled and surrendering.

After a moment of silence passed, with him gathering the courage to talk through his tight throat, he continued. “It was never you. You were never the barrier,” his voice shook lightly with conviction as his brow furrowed in earnestness. He couldn’t meet your eyes, his head cast down towards the floor, embarrassment coloring his features. 

You quietly shifted your arms out of his light grasp, before tenderly sliding your hands along his tattooed jaw, lifting up, letting his head rest and tilt in your hands. 

The tender melodies of “Dawn” floated down the hall. You both stood there, feeling the heat radiating from the other person like an embrace, the slight dampness that trickled from his eyes to your gentle fingers, his lips brushing against your palm, and the invisible walls around his heart crumbling with every sweep of your thumb along his burning face.

The soft creak of someone walking out of the presentation room door broke the silent trance that lingered in the air. They glanced curiously as they made their way to the restrooms, Sukuna’s face flushing harder as he tried to hide in your palms. 

Without a word, you slid your hand down into his larger one, leading him to the empty stock room, pulling him amongst the bookshelves. 

“Better?” 

He nodded, cornering you into the shelves filled with disorganized books, his hulking frame absolutely covering your body. 

His warm palms moved from yours to your hips: delicately and tenderly. He rested his forehead against yours, noses touching, lips hovering lips, breathing in each other’s air. 

“How do I,” he paused – large fingers fanning out, tips dipping under your shirt and touching your skin, holding you in place. “How does someone like me earn you?” He whispered it like it was one of the greatest mysteries: secretly, reverently, and perplexingly. 

Your fingers trace his jaw, thumbing his piercings softly, before sliding through his faded pink hair. “You already have.”

And then you’re leaning in, and his heart is pounding so traitorously loud that he wonders if you can hear it, if you can feel it, the rhythm that is buzzing against his skin, calling your name.

And when the two of you finally meet, it’s like the final remnants of his cage finally shatter: the air is fresher in his lungs, the world brighter where you stand. Sukuna kisses you gently at first, inquisitive and lingering. His lips were warm and soft, pressing against yours like it was a promise.

Your hands tighten in his hair, a breathy sigh and “Ryo,” escaping your pretty mouth. 

And oh, your little nickname makes him bite down possessively, instinctively, onto your lips. He groaned against your tongue, tugging you in closer, wanting to be yours – wanting to make you his. 

What once was soft and tender bubbled into something hot and desperate: teeth clashing against teeth, warm lips against warm lips, hard chest rubbing against soft tits. He could feel your nipples hardening through your thin shirt: you could feel his dick swelling in his jeans. 

You sigh out into his mouth as he ruts and rubs himself against you, the thickness of his semi making your legs clench together subconsciously. 

Before you know it, he pulls away ever so slightly, like he wouldn’t dare be parted from your lips for too long. He nodded to one of the security cameras nestled into the wall. “Those things real or are they just for show?” 

You shook your head, your hands sliding from his neck to his muscular chest. “They’re real,” your whisper was low, like warm honey and wine. “But I’m the one in charge of the footage…” He presses his growing cock harder into your thigh, and your legs clench even more, your heartbeat pulsing in your core as your panties slowly get soaked with your slick. 

You haven't even seen it but you already could tell he was absolutely packing. 

“Good, good,” he was mumbling to himself almost dazedly. 

“Why, you camera shy?” A daring grin broke out onto your flushed face, your lips bitten red, tits heaving up and down as they pressed against your shirt.

And he could feel it, the moment his sanity completely snapped.

He clutched your jaw firmly in one hand, while the other harshly rippped your blouse off, exposing your bra.

His nose teased yours. A wicked glint flashed in his red eyes. “When we’re done here–” he unhooks your bra, slowly bringing the satin straps down your arm, exposing your tits to the cool library air. “And you try to walk back to your desk without crawling–" he flicks your peaked nipples meanly, before roughly cupping the flesh. “You better make sure to give me a copy of those fuckin’ tapes.” 

And then he’s pushing your tits together into his face, his greedy mouth latching onto your nipples, split tongue lapping and swirling and sucking, setting a pace so mind numbing that your toes were curling below. 

And you can tell he loves it, craves it, finds sheer euphoria from the feeling of your body in his hands, your warm skin pressed against his, and the feeling of your tits suffocating his mouth. 

Sukuna moves one of his hands to your skirt, slowly inching up the fabric until it bunches at your waist, cool air knocking into your damp panties and spreading goosebumps across your thighs. 

He shifts slightly, one knee spreading your legs apart, lining up the ridiculous bulge in his pants with your aching core. 

And when he grinds his thick erection into your clothed cunt, you can’t even help it as your head knocks back against the bookshelves behind you, warm pleasure pooling at the bottom of your tummy at the delicious pressure he was feeding your pussy. You instinctively clenched at the feeling of being teased: at the feeling of being without.

You’re scrambling to get him unzipped, to pull him out of his briefs, to make him fuckin’ move and fuck you. 

And he's still suckling on your tits when his hands quickly wrap around your wrists, your fingertips just grazing the cool metal of his zipper. 

“Greedy, greedy girl” he chuckled humorlessly, before blowing air onto your raised nipple. “We’re not even close to that yet,” and he looked almost predatorial, like you just interrupted his meal and were about to face the harshest of consequences.

His palms your pussy with his hand, feeling how you soaked yourself through the lace. His heart was thumping in his chest. 

He was an intense man, it came with the nature of his hobbies. And he knew that one feel, one taste of your pussy would be his great undoing. 

And he was okay with that. 

With a thick swallow, he slowly, menacingly, torturously dipped his index between the hem of the fabric and your blazing skin. 

He runs his fingers through your wetness, slipping between your folds. 

Fuck.

“Look at you,” he groans against your ear. His dick lurched at the feeling of your sopping pussy, and he could feel himself twitching and leaking an embarrassing amount of pre just from seeing you, feeling you, like this.

His heart was pounding. He almost felt lightheaded with how much blood was rushing from his head to his dick. Nothing, in all of his wettest dreams about you, even came close to this reality. He breathed through his nose, before letting his thick finger get sucked and swallowed into your warmth. Your walls clench and squish against him and his mind goes positively dumb as a dreamy moan escapes your mouth. 

He can’t think straight, nor does he have patience to. So when you gasp the prettiest sound out because he greedily pumps another two fingers into your ungodly tight hole, he can’t even sympathize. He’s fucking his thick fingers inside you like this was some sick game, your cunt making the sweetest shlck, shlck, shhhlck! sounds, your wetness leaking out every time he pulled out, and your juices running down his wrists. 

“Thattaa girl,” he breathed. “Takin’ it so well.” He quickened his pace, his fingers pumping in and out, in and out in the most depraved way. And then he’s curling and rubbing against your gummy walls, fucking into the bundle of nerves that made you see white and had your ears ringing. 

He loved the sounds you made for him, and he grinned at your incoherence. He liked when your pretty lips blubbered nonsense against his wicked mouth. 

Sukuna softly bit down onto your lower lip, getting your attention. He nods to the cameras again. “Now, put on a show f’me.” 

He slowly kneels in front of you. 

He doesn’t even do you the honor of taking your panties off - he just pushes them to the side as he dips his split tongue against your sex. 

He licks up against each side of your folds at the same time, gathering your juices into his mouth, slurping filthily at all the excess that was dripping from you. He almost saw stars with how sweet you were, his angry dick throbbing in his pants, aching for a turn with your cunt. 

And when he finally, finally dips his tongue past your gushing lips, past the tight ring of your hole, with his nose pressed up and rubbing against your soaked clit, all he can do is let out a deep groan from the deepest part of his chest, one that vibrates all throughout the velvet walls of your pussy. 

Your eyes screwed shut, your lips bitten raw. Your hands were fisting his hair, trying to latch onto anything for support while your legs buckled and your thighs shaked. You were panting softly, trying not to squirm in his overwhelming grasp. 

Sukuna continues to fuck you with his forked tongue, bullying his way inside, licking against the velvet that was clenching down around him, silently aching for more, more, more. 

And honestly? He’s never been so hard while eating someone out before. He could feel the wet patch in his briefs where the creamy pre was leaking from his mushroomed cockhead, veins flaring with every gush of blood that mobilized to his dick. 

You don’t even realize it yet, but he was fucking you with his tongue so good, that he has you squirting onto his face, making an absolute mess of his mouth, spraying onto his tattooed skin like a fuckin’ artist. 

Could you get any hotter? 

The barest trace of a whimper escaped his muffled throat. 

He would beg to have this forever, if you’d let him. He would beg and pray and repent to deserve this, to deserve you. 

You look down at him, his eyes glazed and dilated, his skin flushed and glistening from your juices that splashed across his face and down his neck.

“I thought you wanted a show, Ryo.” You hiccuped it out, your eyes wild and searching. Despite the challenge in your voice, he could tell there was something deeper beneath it, something purely desperate. 

“Oh yeah, sweetheart?” His face was an absolute mess - skin glistening from your wetness as he flicked his tongue languidly against your throbbing clit. Back n’ forth, back n’ forth, to the same dumbifying rhythm. “N’ what would you suggest?” 

“Fuck me.” 

He paused his ministrations, before slowly standing up, towering over your frame. He leaned in, his soaked hands resting against the shelving by your hips, caging you in. He breathed against your ear, low and wicked. “Beg for it.” 

And Sukuna should’ve known by now that you weren't the type to back down against him, to do as he said. Because you turned your head, a daring glint in your glassy eyes. “Make me.”

He grinned meanly, oh you were so perfect.

“Aight.” 

He starts pulling your clothes off your body one by one: and when he finally slid your poor, ruined panties down your leg, a trail of your wetness followed in its wake. He quickly stuffed them in his back pocket. 

You were finally bare before him, soft skin radiating heat, hair undone, lips raw and red, tits raising up and down as you breathed deeply in anticipation. Your thighs were wet with your juices, and your pussy swollen, aching to be stuffed. 

“God damn” he mummured to himself. 

He stepped back slightly, slowly taking off his shirt, muscles rippling underneath. He can hear the small gasp as your eyes landed on his large chest and ripped abs. 

Your legs squeezed together, a fresh gush of wetness leaking between them, and your heartbeat thumping in your cunt.

He took off his pants, both of your clothes now laying in a forgotten pile on the floor of the restock room. And when he finally, finally, pulled himself from his briefs, all you could do was ogle at the sight of him. 

Holy shit. How the hell were you going to fit … What, all ten full inches of him?

His furious cock lowly thudded against him, too heavy and thick to even call it a “slap”. 

It was almost overwhelming to look at; the mushroomed head angry and leaking thick, creamy pre against his washboard abs, the prominent veins that ran down his shaft pulsing almost ominously, and his balls hanging low and heavy against his thighs. 

And - wait. 

Was that a fuckin’ frenum piercing?!

Your knees almost gave out. 

“Turn around,” his voice was low as he started jerking himself under your gaze. “And I won’t ask you twice.”

You silently obeyed. 

His large hands were on your hips almost immediately, pulling your plump ass towards him.

Before you know it, he’s slapping his heavy cock against your ass, before slowly moving to your  folds, slyly gliding his cool piercing against your swollen clit, and pulsing hotly against your skin. Your eyes almost roll to the back of your head, a whimper escaping your mouth at the feeling of his thickness putting pressure against your most sensitive spots. 

He was teasing you, and he loved it. 

“Pleeaase, Ryo,” you can’t even continue, your throat catching as the thickness of his cockhead almost dipped into your clenching pussy. Your mind was in a haywire. You were about to lose your sanity if he didn’t just fucking fuck you already. 

“What’d I say about begging, pretty girl?” His teeth bit lightly against the skin on your shoulders, before his soft mouth pressed open kisses in his wake. 

You cry out frustratedly. “Please put it inside,” you gasp out, arms leaning against the bookshelves in front of you.

“And?” He adjusts himself so that he’s just beginning to breach your hole, your greedy pussylips opening ever so slightly for his warm, heavy cock. 

“Please let me feel you,” your vision blurs as he reaches around to rub his fingers against your clit, pressing further inside you. 

“Annd–?” The tip of his mushroomed cockhead jerks just past the tight ring of your entrance, immediately enveloped by your gummy walls. 

The pressure building in between your legs was making you tremble and ache. 

“I just need yo–”

He cuts you off, pulling away from your cunt. It feels like a bomb might go off in your chest. You’re clenching down so hard around him as if to force him to stay. Your mind was delirious, and your aching pussy was insatiable.

He finally pulls out with a low grunt. “Please, please, please–” he mocks you lightly. “Forget about that. I want to know whose is it.”

You all but forget that the stockroom shares a wall with the presentation room. 

“It’s yours,” you sob it out loudly, choking on your words. You arch your back deliciously as you press your hips back to him, desperately trying to find his cock again. 

The wolfish grin that spreads onto his face was purely predatorial.

His two hands were warm against your hips, and you can feel him as he drags his heavy erection against your folds, messily, filthily smearing his pre around your lips, before lining himself back up to your hole. 

“Louder.”

And you obey, you must. Your eyes are glassy and your cheeks are flushed. You call out his name like it was a prayer, repeating it over and over as if it was the only word you knew. 

“That’s my girl,” he croons. 

He bucks into your cunt savagely, not allowing you a chance to adjust to his overwhelming size as his heavy girth immediately burrows inside of you in one long, deep thrust.

Your head knocks back as his own falls forward, the two of your hot breaths puffing into the heady air. 

“Holy shit–” he might actually pass out. 

And you were so warm, gripping around him like sin, and so fuckin’ wet around him that he’s choking for air. Your walls clung to him as you rolled your hips, stuffing yourself more on his fat cock. 

He watched, entranced, as his dick got swallowed by your stretched pussylips, how your walls were fluttering against him, how you were reaching down between your legs to feel his girth bully its way inside you, and how your ass jiggled every time he bottomed out. 

And then he’s snapping his hips. 

You feel his leaking tip making out with your womb, kissing and smearing his pre cum against it, and the veins on his dick pulsing against your gummy walls. He’s panting and grunting, forehead damp with sweat, his balls tensing as he feels how you convulse around him, squeezing tight against his meat like a fuckin’ vice.

You don’t even give him time to breathe, to even think, because you begin to bounce back onto him like a fuckin’ animal, like a goddamn pro. His name was on your tongue like a prayer, mixed with the lewd thwk thwk thwk! of his balls slapping against your ass, and the filthy sounds of his cock filling you up like it was ritual.

“Kuna,” you say his name like it was the only one you knew. He snapped his hips harder, his dick piercing fucking and rubbing into your g-spot savagely, ruthlessly, unforgivingly.

He wraps one hand firmly around your throat, the other around your mouth, using his inhuman strength to force you back onto his cock like a rag doll. 

His actions were getting clumsier: his breaths were stuttering, his hips rocking uncontrollably, and his dick fucking into you in a sharp, broken rythm. 

And for all your smart clothes and bright mind and superior intellect, you were absolutely dumbified when it came to his dick, and the feeling of his angry cockhead and cool piercing fucking into your womb again, and again, and again.

“Fuck, fuckfuckfuck–” his throat squeezed, his hands moving to grip your tits, your waist, at the same time as your velvet walls convulse and shake around him. 

And he can’t help it, really, not when your pussy feels like heaven, and your warmth squishes around all of his most sensitive areas. 

He breaks.

And you break around him. 

Your eyes roll to the back of your head at the feeling of the first hot, sticky ropes of his cum shooting out against your cervix, pooling inside your pussy, glueing to your walls, and scratching the insatiable itch that has been plaguing your body for weeks. 

He’s releasing so much of his thick, gooey cum inside you that it swells in your tummy. He watches as you squirt and spray and spasm around his base, fresh waves of wetness soaking the flushed expanse of skin between you both, dripping to his balls. 

He softly calls your name in your ringing ears. His skin was hot as he pressed himself to your back, inadvertently pushing deeper inside of you, warm cum filling any gap between you two, until you couldn’t tell where your body ended and his began.

He peppered kisses along the back of your shoulderblades, his hips lightly rutting inside you, catching the last waves of your peaks.

You look back at him, pretty eyes softening. 

He tenderly moved one of his hands to your belly, feeling how his release bloated your core, before moving to your hips, while the other softly trailed down to where the two of you were still joined. He slowly pulled his sensitive cock from your oversensitive pussy, before parting your lips quietly. One large gob of his cum lazily spurted out of your hole. Pretty girl. He gently plugged your entrance with two of his thick fingers, sealing his warm cum inside you. 

Oh, Kuna. Your delicate hands move to where his were laid on you.

“Tell me I’m yours, that you’ll keep me.” He was looking at you earnestly, eyes slightly wide and pleading. His fingers tightened around you. He won’t let you go - he can’t. 

And you repeat his words, your mouth moving before it can say the other three little words that were whispering in the background of your mind, dancing at the tip of your tongue. 

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁

The following weeks passed in a pleasant, dreamy haze. 

He smiled more, talked more, laughed more.

Lunch breaks resumed with you joining him at his table, but where it once was filled with lingering silence, it was now filled with the melodic sounds of your voices, woven together in lively conversation. You taught him about Epicurean Thought, and he taught you about compression ratios and boost controls. 

Book cataloging was now filled with playful glances, and book restocks always somehow ended up with you brushing against his dick, and him having to fist himself in the bathroom later. 

On the Wednesday of his last shift, with his 200 hours of community service finally completed and license finally unsuspended, the small crew of library staff held a going-away party for the pink-haired man. 

While Maki cut into the comedically pink cake she brought for him (“don’t get sentimental, freak”) you turned to him, smiling. “So, what are you gonna do with your new-found freedom, Mr. Sukuna?”

He shifted closer to you, a grin spreading easily onto his face. He leaned forward slightly, scanning you, your lips, before back up to your pretty eyes. He could smell the faint juniper of your perfume and he could see the small mole next to the slope of your nose. “Would you be upset if I were to tell you I planned to race tonight?”

You shook your head, a hypnotic laugh sliding out of your mouth. “Would you be upset if I were to ask if I could come watch?” A faint blush spread onto your cheeks. He wanted to kiss the path where it spread from. 

Were you an angel? Surely you must’ve been. “I would never stop you. Might even have a first-class seat available if you were interested,” he scratched the back of his burning neck, his fidgeting hands trying to find something, anything else to do.

“Then I’ll be your good luck charm,” and despite your playful tone, there was a touch of breathlessness in your words, and something faintly heady swimming in your irises. 

“Deal,” he whispered. 

Sukuna’s hands grazed yours, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear as he promised to pick you up in front of your apartment promptly at 11:30 pm.

Not long after, the library festivities began to wind down. He thanked everyone for their patience with him, for giving him a chance. Maki gave him a stiff hug. His hand lingered warmly as he touched your back on the way out.

With a final glance and a few lingering words, the two of you went your separate ways, each returning to your own apartments to get ready for the night ahead.

And when the clock finally hit 11:30 pm, he was there, standing at your front door, just as he’d promised.

He ran his ringed fingers through his gelled hair. He felt like he was going to the goddamn prom with the way he dressed up tonight; tulips sitting in the front passenger seat, cologne on his wrists and neck, a tight black Henley showing off his broad chest and muscled arms, and a new pair of black cargos to match. 

He was about to knock, when your front door quietly opened. 

And, holy shit. 

He felt his jaw slacken, his lips parting as he took in your appearance. Your hair, which was typically tied away from your face, was now down and softly framing it. Your cheeks were colored rouge, your lashes darkened with mascara, and your lips glossed so prettily he wondered what it would be like to sink in them. And your clothes - oh god your clothes. Your usual smart attire was replaced with a mini top, knee-high leather boots, and the smallest black skirt he’s ever seen in his life.

“Shall we?” You offer him a shy smile. The hallway light behind you casted a warm glow around your body. 

He couldn’t trust his voice, so he nodded instead, offering his muscular arm out to you. 

You took it, holding onto his bicep as you walked down the steps of your porch, warm fingers caressing him in a way that made something warm stir in his abdomen.

He opened the car door for you, suddenly shy in a way you hadn’t expected from him. And when you noticed the flowers resting on the passenger seat, a small gasp left your lips. He could feel heat rush to his face, which only deepened as you pressed a light kiss on his cheek, whispering a soft “thank you” against his skin. 

The normally long drive to the meetup spot felt easy with you. The warm wind poured through the opened windows and billowed in your hair, mixing with your laughs as Sukuna told you stories about his first race, how it was a shit show, his arm resting on the center console, and his hand carefully hovering over the skin of your warm thigh. 

When the two of you finally made it to the abandoned warehouses, with the familiar track unfurling in front of you both, Sukuna could see the nauseatingly garish colors of Naoya Zenin’s head bobbing next to his equally garish Supra, grumbling excessively amidst the loud crowds. 

The two-toned freak raised his arms in victory as he saw Sukuna’s infamous car rolling down the runway, a sly smirk cutting across his sinister face. 

Naoya pointed at them, before sliding his thumb horizontally across his throat.

“That's the guy you lost to?” You turned to face him, disbelief saturating your features. 

The tanned skin on Sukuna’s face drew taut, his jaw ticked, and his eyes set on the track in front of you both. He was so handsome, you thought. He nodded once, silently. 

You sat back, contemplative. “Well, at least you’ve got something he doesn’t have,” he turned to look at you as he let the car slowly roll towards the start line. You let your soft hand fall near his, the small gap between you feeling electrified. "You've got a good luck charm tonight.” The yellow haze of the fluorescent street lamps casted shadows along the bare strip of your legs, the exposed skin of your tits, and all across your face, concealing the mischievous glint that swam beneath the surface. 

In the distance, the flag girl of the night made her way down to the track, her heels clicking against the hot pavement. 

“Let me show you how good I can be,” you had leaned in, whispering against the shell of his reddened ear. The pads of your fingertips now rested on his muscular thighs, carefully mapping a path up, up up; slowly, teasingly, methodically. 

You brushed against the bulge that already formed between his legs (as it normally did when you were near). He turned his head, your nose softly brushing along his cheek, his lips ghosting yours. 

He would take this over anything else, every day, for the rest of his life if he could. 

“Show me what you got, then, pretty girl.” He breathed it against your lips, his snake bites rubbing against your skin. 

In the distance, the flag girl began the countdown, and the shouting from the raucous crowds grew louder with every passing moment.  

But here, in this car with you, it was like time was moving on its own: seconds turned into minutes, and minutes into hours. The boisterous noises outside the car faded to irrelevant muffles. And he realized, sitting next to you, that none of this shit mattered, not anymore, not to him. None of it aside from you, your hands, and your pretty lips as he closed the distance between your mouth and his. 

“10…9…”

Your plush lips molded against his immediately, a soft sight spilling from your mouth as his split tongue slid in with practiced ease.

“8…7…”

Teeth clashed against teeth. His tongue snaked into your throat, consuming. You felt him grow against your palm, his dick twitching just from the feel of your lips alone. 

“6…5…”

You pulled away, unzipping his pants and pulling at the band of his underwear. His scarred hand gripped onto the gear stick, his knuckles whitening, and his eyes trying not to look at the way your tits bounced with every movement.  

“4…3…”

His thick, long cock slapped against his hard abdomen with a heavy thud. He revved the engine, the vibrations so strong you could feel it in your seat.

“2…”

You leant over the console, your eyes wide and your lips just barely hovering his cock.

“1…!”

The car blazed forward so suddenly, so intensely, that you had no time to prepare, no time to even think, as his swollen cockhead bullied its way inside the velvety warmth of your mouth. 

He was so deep inside, filling you up so completely, and you were just so warm and soft and tight that he could feel his piercing against the back of your throat, your neck straining from the sheer size of him.  

He groaned loudly, unexpectedly, his jaw unhinged as your pretty lips stretched around his huge length, wet tongue lapping up against his dick, licking his piercing and making his mind go fuckin’ numb.

“Christ-”

He pushed the acceleration. 

The engine roared beneath you, and your pussy gushed from the shockwaves that the vibrations sent between your legs. 

You fervently licked him from base to tip, your tongue swirling around him, drawing along the pulsing veins that ran along his shaft. Your head bobbed so rhythmically, unrelentingly, addictingly, that the mushroomed head of his cock was an angry red, and the metal piercing that stuck out only made the skin there squeeze tighter. 

“You’re so big,” you whispered it against him, your pouting lips wet and rouged. Your words only seemed to make him swell even larger, shallowly pulsing with each rush of blood to the tip, spurts of thick pre leaking from the top. You grinned, pressing kisses against his leaking head, rubbing your lips in his salty release, moaning the prettiest sounds at the way he tasted. 

And he didn’t care if he looked stupid or lame or pathetic - his breathing was erratic, his chest puffing up and down, and his hands were clenched around the wheel, and yeah, so what if he was already near seconds away from fucking blowing a load out - your mouth, your tongue, was absolute sin and it was taking him all of his fucking willpower not to swerve off the track.  

He was so engrossed in the sensations of your pretty mouth surrounding him that he almost missed the finish line that was approaching in the distance. 

Sukuna glanced out his side window. His Hellcat was door-to-door with Naoya’s shitty Supra. 

He shifted gears, quickly taking his hand off the stick shift to run it through your hair, before bunching a fistfull of it and pulling you off of him; stern, dominant, and controlling. 

Your pussy gushed a fresh wave of slick into your soaked thong, and you almost whimpered at the loss of contact from his heavy cock. 

“Show me how good of a charm you are, princess.”

And in one swift motion, he has your head shoved back down onto him, his hand flying to 6th-gear, and his car roaring impossibly louder. 

The smell of smoke and asphalt burned through your nose as tears welled in your eyes. Sukuna was snapping his hips up to fuck his fat dick down, down, down your tight throat, all while he absolutely tore down the track pushing 180mph. 

And you? You were slobbering now, drool and spittle quickly dripping from your chin, messily mixing with his creamy pre and soaking him down the length of his cock.

He could feel his balls squeeze, the pressure building so hotly and fiercely in the heady air of the car. He just might cum. 

A choked groan escaped his throat as his car flew past the finish line, a decisive winner, with a gust of wind billowing amongst the cheering crowd in his wake. 

And where he normally would begin to slow down, make a U-turn, and head back for the cash prize and revelry, he continued on, blazing a path down past the abandoned buildings and empty parking lots, only petering off once the track and the people and the ugly face of Naoya Zenin were long behind. 

All the while your mouth was still working him hypnotically, sucking and licking and slurping, one hand massaging his balls, while the other twisted over whatever exposed length was left of him. 

It was only once you noticed the car slowing down to a stop when you paused and looked up at him. 

Your doe-eyes were glazed and glassy, your plush lips swollen red, with drool and pre spilling from the corners. His leaking dick rested against your flushed cheek.

His breath stuttered, his heart squeezing at how pretty you were. 

He ran a thumb across your skin, smearing the pre by your mouth almost as if to mark you, to claim you.

“Good girl,” he whispered it reverently. 

“Did you win?” You tilted your head cutely. 

He nodded with a soft smile, but something in his eyes said that it was more than just the race on his mind.

“Congrats, Ryo~” you kissed his swollen cockhead, your lips pressing deliciously on the slit, eyes still locked onto his. 

He mumbled something lowly, his eyes blown as he watched you slap his cock against your face. 

“What was that?” your brows furrowed.

“Get on the hood. We aren’t leaving ‘till I fuck a baby into ya.”

Oh. 

And it’s only when he’s balls deep inside your gummy pussy, gobs of ropey cum bloating your core, his seed oozing out of your hole and onto the warm metal of his car beneath you, that his phone (left forgotten on the back seat of his car) flashes with a text. 

Toji Ultra Shithead Supreme (1:22am): i modded ur car while u were in nerd hell. ur welcome.