#praise

He’s heir to the throne, after all. There exists a certain expectation of poise in whatever room he was in. But the pressure of duty and courtesy became quickly suffocating for people like you and your husband, who ruled the Stormlands as gentle and hedonistic leaders.

It felt like putting on a mask of collectedness and denied the relief of removing it until the prince mounted his horse and made it three miles from your keep. Like holding your breath for the handful of days he resided here. 

It was not that you disliked the prince. You only disliked his unending seriousness.

You roll onto your side and drape yourself across Lyonel. His big hands find the edge of your thigh immediately, like muscle memory as he pulls it higher up his waist. You thread your fingers through the messy curls at the top of his head and smile when he lets out a long sigh of relief. “How long is he staying?”

“Only for another day,” he answers. “He’s passing through. On his way to Summerhall. We’ll host a feast tomorrow and send him on his way the following morning.”

“Well, that’s not so terrible,” you say. “I expected worse, honestly.”

“As did I. It is not often a prince of the realm shows up to your home unannounced.” He turns slightly to look fully at you, his pretty mouth turned up at the corners. When he speaks again his voice is barely above an amused sort of whisper. Gossip meant only for the two of you. “Did you know that Baelor does not drink ale? Only strongwine. He says he does not like the taste. How…childish is that?”

Your laughter comes easily. “Only strongwine? Did you offer him from the barrel we’d gotten at that ale house in Dorne?”

With a nod he answers, “Yes, and he grimaced. Like I was serving him some pissfroth from the Eyrie or something.”

“What a delicate man,” you say, giggles falling from your mouth. 

“Yes, well—what more could you expect from a prince tucked away in a castle his whole life? Eating only the finest of cakes and drinking only the finest of wines?”

“You should offer him the fermented stuff we had brought here from Essos,” you joke. 

Lyonel snorts and shakes his head. “That drink is so strong I could hardly stomach it. I fear it may put the prince in an early grave.”

You smile easily and press a kiss to the hard line of his jaw, feeling the tension beneath your lips. You settle into quietness, tracing your fingers over the strong planes of his bare chest. “Will you go on a hunt tomorrow for the feast?”

“Yes,” he says. “I should like to take you with me, but the prince will be there as well and I fear I could not keep a handle on myself were he to look at you too long while in your riding leathers.”

With a snort, you roll your eyes. “I seriously doubt that, my love. A man so noble as him would cast his eyes on another man’s wife?”

“A delicate prince he may be, but he’s still only a man,” Lyonel explains. “And you are…Gods. You are so beautiful.”

He rests a hand on your cheek, thumb stroking soothingly across your temple. You feel yourself flush beneath his praise, always eager to receive it. But because you can’t ever seem to help yourself, you urge, “And what would you do, then? If he were to look in my direction too long?”

“Oh, sweetling,” he murmurs, palm sliding over the curve of your side, moving to the small of your back to pull you closer. 

The pressure of his thigh pressed hard between your legs is nothing short of heavenly, and your hips begin to rock out of sheer need for his touch. He leans in close, mouth ghosting across your ear.

His breath tickles as he asks, “Do you know the lengths I would go to keep you here with me?” Lyonel brings you even closer, encouraging your movement. You can feel his grin when a breathy sound leaves you. “I would kill him, my love.”

This time, your moan is fully formed. The friction of your small clothes makes you shiver, and in combination with the way he so easily threatens treason not for want of power but for love of you? Gods. It’s like nothing else. 

Lyonel slips his hand beneath the sheets, easily finding the edge of your dress to tug it upwards. “I would make an enemy of the crown,” he whispers, tilting your hips to press your bare cunt to his thigh now. “I would kill them all and take the throne for you. To sit a jeweled circlet on your pretty head and kneel at your feet.”

You arch your back, and he takes the open space you provide to lean in and lick a long, indulgent stripe up the column of your throat. He finds that spot you love with quick precision and bites gently, sharp canines scraping over your skin, stinging just enough to pull a gasp from the back of your mouth. 

“The kind of woman who deserves to be worshipped,” he continues. He nudges your legs apart with his knee and pushes you flat against your back, coming to rest between your thighs. Your husband is already naked—cock hanging hard and heavy between you. Blushed and leaking at the tip, just as desperate to be inside you as you are to be stretched by the thickness of him.

Lyonel is big and broad and heavy on top of you. He pulls you up with a calloused hand on the back of your neck and drags your nightdress up over your head, baring your body completely to him.

His hands are greedy and unapologetic as he feels you. Squeezing gently at the swells of your breasts, thumbs brushing over your hardened nipples. He moves further down, tracing your curves, massaging the supple flesh as if trying to commit the shape of you to memory. “You’re so very beautiful,” he mutters. “And so very mine. Say it.”

“M’yours,” you choke out, heart beating fast, blood rushing beneath his acute attention. “I’m all yours. Only yours. Please let me show you. Please.”

You pull back, just enough to tuck your legs beneath you and settle in front of him on your knees. Lyonel grins wickedly and smooths a hand affectionately over your jaw. “Sweet girl,” he muses, running his thumb across your parted lips. He pushes the digit inside, pressing down on your tongue. The cool metal of his golden, storm-forged ring clinks carefully against the back of your teeth. “Show me your tongue.”

Without hesitation, you do as he says. Sliding the wet muscle down his hand, tasting salt and sea and the essence of him underneath.

He takes his cock in his free hand, stroking it slow, only inches from your face. Your mouth begins to water and drool coats the tip of your tongue.

Lyonel chuckles low. “Look at you,” he mutters. “So perfect.”

Carefully, he guides your mouth to his cock, sliding it between your lips. It’s heavy on your tongue, but you swallow down as much as him as you can. Spread your spit to take just a little more of him into your mouth. 

You greedily lick the throbbing veins on the underside of his cock, spit bubbling at the corners of your lips. He gathers your hair at the nape of your neck and pulls your head all the way back. 

Strings of saliva snap against your chin as you look up at him, mouth still open and tongue still out. Even in the dark of night you can see that sordid desire on his face; pupils blown wide, a furrow in his brow, lips parted on a soft moan. “Fuck me,” he sighs. “You have the sweetest mouth. S’like it was made to swallow my cock. Like you were made all for me.”

Lyonel takes your wrists in his hand and sets them against his thighs. A signal, you know—that the things he’s about to do to you are a…different type of worship. One you love to take part in. A saccharine roughness you’d only ever entrust to him.

You hold yourself up with your fingers flat against the strong muscles of his legs, feeling his coarse hair beneath your palms.

He leans down just a little, enough to touch his forehead to yours and ask a single word of permission. Quietly, delicately. “Yeah?”

You smile and nod in answer, and only seconds later he’s tugging your hair hard and pulling your mouth back to him. This time, when he pushes his cock past your lips, there’s nothing gentle or delicate about it. 

He forces himself down your throat, head tilting back, groaning all the while. He uses the harsh grip he has on your hair to move your lips up and down his length, fucking your mouth the way he wants, the way he needs. All that pent up frustration, all that effort to be poise一none of it exists here now. It dissipates, freeing him of the burden.

Within you, he searches for peace. And only in the way you stare up at him with unending devotion does he find it.

You let him take and take and take. The thick layer of hair at the base of his cock tickles your nose with each pass of your tongue and saliva drips obscenely down your chin. You try to breathe between each thrust of his hips, taking in oxygen slowly through your nose, keeping your heart rate steady. 

His cock hits the back of your throat and you gag. But he doesn’t stop, and you know he won’t until you tell him to. Lyonel thrusts his hips in tandem with the hand on the back of your head, burying himself in your throat, releasing all of that built up pressure that has accumulated throughout the day. 

You can see it as you look up at him through your lashes. His shoulders relax and the tension in his jaw loosens. Freeing himself from the burden of duty that has weighed him down for hours. This is what he needs. 

So you take it for as long as you can. Let him fuck your mouth until you’re gasping for breath, until your vision blurs with unshed tears. 

All it takes is one tap of your hand on his thigh and Lyonel is pulling your head back. He’s breathing hard and smiling wide as he kneels in front of you, releasing his hold on your hair. He cradles your face between his big hands, thumbs stroking affectionately over your cheeks. “You’re okay, sweetling,” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours.

There’s so much love in his eyes that it makes you feel warm and fuzzy all over. He pours his adoration into you, murmuring all the while.

“You did so good,” he says. “Always so good for me. My perfect girl.” He presses his lips to yours, the spit on your chin making his beard look all shiny and wet. He licks into your mouth, his tongue tasting of smoke and ale, his low groans rumbling against your swollen lips.

Lyonel wraps a hand around your middle and pulls you to him. He leans back on his knees and sets you in his lap, his cock sliding through the slickness that's gathered between your legs. You whimper into his mouth and his name falls from your tongue.

“I know, I know,” he coos. “Shh. I’ve got you.” He nuzzles the side of your cheek with the tip of his nose. “Look at me, pretty girl. Open your eyes. Mhm, there you go. Breathe with me, yeah? Inhale slow.”

With your eyes locked on his, you follow his instruction. Your lungs expand in tandem, distracting you while he uses his free hand to reach his cock beneath you. You exhale the moment he does, the warmth of his breath fanning over your collar bones.

“Again,” he instructs, his bare chest lifting and pressing against your breasts as he breathes in deep. 

This time, on the exhale, you feel the head of his cock nudge at your entrance. And desperate as you are to feel him inside you, the stretch is still painful. A stinging pressure you know you’ll always feel the following day.

Your brows furrow and his hand on your waist grips hard enough to bruise. “Oh, Gods一”

“S’okay, you’re okay,” he promises. “Breathe with me, c’mon.”

This time, he doesn’t stop on the exhale. He keeps lifting his hips while pulling you down, until the hair at the base of his cock touches your clit. 

You wrap your hands around his neck and tug at his graying curls. “Lyonel, please—!”

“I know, I know. You can take it.” He kisses you hard, fingers finding your achy, swollen clit. When he begins to circle it with practiced ease, you turn quickly into a soft mess of a woman in his arms, just like you always do. 

You’re moaning against his tongue and he’s swallowing up the sounds, hips canting underneath you.

“Yeah, there you go. Good girl.”

It feels so full. He’s so big, holding you so tight, enveloping every one of your senses until all you can hear and smell and feel and think is him. Your big brute of a husband, delicate for you only. 

“Shit,” he hisses, thrusting into you. You’re so wet the sounds of your arousal echo in between the stone walls of your bedchamber. The head of his cock is buried so deep, you’d swear your body must have shifted to make room for him inside. “You feel that? Hm?”

You nod feverishly, brows furrowed, trying to breathe through the fog in your mind. “Feels so—hmm—so good.”

He finds steady rhythm, fucking up into you. When you bury your face in the crook of his neck, Lyonel hums and lays his cheek against the top of your head. 

“Oh—my sweet girl. I’ve got you,” he promises, and you know it’s true. No matter who disturbs the peace of your home, no matter who casts their eyes upon you, you’ll always be his.

Between the steady and relentless rhythm of his cock and the way his fingers stroke your clit so deliciously, your pleasure builds fast. Your muscles pull tight and your ears start to ring. “Don’t stop,” you whimper, tears brimming at the corners of your eyes. “Please, please, don’t stop—”

"Give it to me," he urges, keeping a steady pace. He nudges the side of your cheek with the tip of his nose, his beard ticking. "Look at me, pretty, look at me."

You do, tilting your head up just enough to catch his eyes only seconds before embers of light skitter up your spine. "Oh, Gods. I'm—!"

"Yeah, thaaat's it," he groans low in his chest, and you're held so close to him that you feel the sound vibrate through your sternum. "There you go."

The bliss of your release fills you like sunlight, eyes unfocused but still trained on his. He fucks you through it, the corners of his mouth turned up into that all-knowing smirk you adore so much.

Your skin buzzes and your head feels cloudy and every nerve ending feels like it's been lit aflame. Not by fire, but by electricity. Like the blue static of a storm.

His name leaves your mouth in a desperate whimper, and you feel his cock throb against your velvety walls in response, somehow taking up even more space inside of you. "Fuck. Fuck, I love you. I fucking—mm—love you so fucking much—"

Lyonel follows you off the edge in only seconds, his cock pulsing, spilling his seed right up against your cervix. He sings those saccharine praises all the while, love and adoration falling from his tongue.

You let him thrust his hips as long as he needs, long after you're a twitching, quivering mess in his arms, squeezing the back of his neck and peppering wet kisses across his cheeks.

The come down is slow, and you're both breathing hard, greedily drinking up the brisk night air that drifts in from the windows.

Only when you loosen your hold on him does he move. Pulling out of you gently, eyes glinting in the dark as he observes the mess he's made between your thighs.

You lean back into the lavish silks of your bed, watching him marvel at you, his big hands drifting admirably along the insides of your thighs. He touches you like you're something holy. Something cut from marble and forged by the gods themselves.

Eventually, Lyonel lets out a long breath and leans forward to press a heavy kiss right below your navel. And you know, without him even needing to speak the desire aloud, that he's hoping his seed takes root. Hoping in a few months time your belly will be all rounded with his child.

He takes his place at your side and spreads his arms open. Like muscle memory, you shift to move closer beside him, resting your head on his chest.

You can hear the steady beating of his strong heart just below your ear, and the sound soothes you half to sleep. But then he chuckles once. And then twice, and then he's laughing so hard you can't help but mirror his joy.

With your head tilted to look up at him, you ask through your own giggles, "What's so funny?"

"Westeros will one day be led by a man so delicate he cannot stomach a little ale," he says. "Gods. We're fucking doomed."

You shake your head. "Yes, well. A delicate king we may one day have, but the Stormlands will remain as strong as the fermented drinks of Essos."

His laughter slowly quiets, but the delight on his face remains. Lyonel kisses the top of your head and says, "You are what makes me strong."

There's no doubt in the words as he says them. No room for debate or discussion. His eyes are filled with tenderness, and it makes you feel like the most special woman to ever live.

But you only giggle and roll your eyes and say, "Get some rest now, my love. We have much to prepare on the morrow."

kento nanami was the man who taught you how to ride a bike. and he's also the same man teaching you how to ride his cock.

"shhh... i know it's alot. breathe baby. ive got you" and he always did. nearly your whole life, it was always nanami who was there for you. you trusted him. he knew you better than you knew yourself.

and that's why you can't bring yourself to feel regret. you love him and you know he loves you too. had you not walked in one night on your bio dad getting sucked off by your mom, maybe you wouldn't have pursued nanami.

he was the one, of course, to console you. your bio dad wouldn't ever show up for you when you needed him, yet he would show up for that? your mom not even caring she was actively cheating on nanami. her reasoning being "he worked and spoiled you too much." :(

nanami was devastated, but just like he was always there for you, you were there for him. that night you both found out, neither of you could stay in the same house as her — quickly checking into a hotel nearby kento's work.

there was only one bed, but it would be fine. you weren't sharing a bed with a stranger or anything; it was just your stepdad.

the only person to truly provide for you, protect you, love you... unconditionally.

you would quickly strip down to just your panties and a tshirt while nanami was in the shower, and slide under the covers with your teddy bears, feigning sleep.

it was only when nanami finally sat down on the bed, brushing the hair out of your face and whispered "you're everything im not supposed to want, yet here i am in bed with you," did you slowly blink your eyes open.

before nanami backed away, scared he was overstepping, did you pull him back towards you.

"you're everything i want too..." you whisper back. "we don't need her — she wasn't there for us anyways."

nanami softly patted your head, nodding. he agreed, but was still hurt by your mom's betrayal :(

you cuddled with him until you both fell asleep. that was, until you tossed and turned, over and over, waking yourself up at two am. you softly gasped when you realized there was something poking against you >.<

"dad?" you whisper, hoping he's still asleep.

he's not.

"s-sorry, princess" he says a little too quickly. "can't sleep?" you shake your head and scoot even closer to him. whatever was poking you before was definitely still there.

nanami tries to scoot away from you, but there wasn't too much space on this hotel bed.

"p-please, i don't think you should be near me right now..."

"why not?" you pout, crawling even closer. "do you not want me either?"

"of course i do, baby... it's just..." he trails off, closing his eyes with a heavy breath.

"you're hard..."

"yes," he admits. "im sorry. i work alot and your mother never wanted to."

your left hand slowly inches toward his chest then idly slides downward. "what if I helped you with that?"

"no, baby," he protests. gently holding your hand so you don't go down any further. "we can't."

"why not!"

"i'm your—"

"stepdad."

"i raised you."

"that just makes me love you more."

"princess, please don't make this harder than it already is."

you snatch your hand away from his, sliding down his chest to grip his length. "I think you're already pretty hard dad," you giggle, but continue to firmly grasp it like patrick star once instructed on your satruday morning cartoons.

"please, kento. dad. i want this and i want you. it's always been you. please"

your plead snuffed out the last of nanami's resistance. if his wife was going to cheat, it was only fair he did the same. right?

nanami tugs down his pj pants and boxers with your help. his hands find their way to your clothed pussy, slowly rubbing you through the fabric.

once your eyes feast upon nanami's full, throbbing cock, your eye's are immediately going wide.

"she didn't want this!? this fucking monster!"

"language, sweetie."

"sorry."

you tentaively grasp it again, going up and down it with your hand awkwardly.

he wraps his hand around yours, guiding you up and down his length. even in this fucked up situation, nanami was still there to teach you, guide you.

"sorry, im not experienced. i've never..."

"never? fuck. imgoingtohell"

"language, daddy!" you echo back to him with a smile. it actually calms his nerves.

"just follow my lead and if you want to stop-"

"i want this," you reassure him.

he continues to guide your much smaller hands up and down his cock. maybe if you only do this it won't be that much of a sin. if only....

without him instructing you, your tongue finds it's way around his tip. delicately licking as if it were a tootsie pop.

nanami doesn't stop you. in fact, he places his hand on the back of your head, helping you take more of him into your mouth.

"you sure you've never done this before?" he's throwing his head back. your taking more and more of him into your mouth. you shake your head but don't let up. "you're doing amazing, baby."

nanami is a man who loves to give praise and in his case he means every word. "look at you," he's brushing back some of your hair. "doing so well for me."

fuck, if it wasn't for the extreme lack of sex with your mother nanami probably could've lasted so much longer. you bob your head up and down a few more times until it's too much — nanami's lifting your head off of him and grabbing a nearby handkerchief. of course he has one on standby.

you almost wish he would've let you taste his seed. you imagine he would taste sweet, like pineapples.

"maybe we should stop" he suggests. there goes that polite conscience again.

"i want it to be you," you declare, straddling his hips before he can change his mind. "please. i want my first time with you."

he relents, flipping you over in a swift move. "if you insist." he kisses down your neck, large hands sliding down your sides. "i should make sure you're ready for me"

"but i—"

"shh," his long fingers shush you. "god, you're soaked."

he takes his fingers, rubbing you through your panties, circling that sensitive nub. he gives it a loving kiss, then another and another. until he's sliding your panties out of the way—marveling at his stepdaughters beautiful pussy for the first time.

nanami, with most things, likes to take his time — savor the moment. but it wasn't easy with your cute little whimpers and your hands on the back of his head, pressing him down til he was nearly suffocating in your fluids (not that he minded).

his warm tongue lapped at your clit, prasing, worshipping it. over and over, he feasted on you until you were a shaking mess. he carefully added a finger, stretching you out slowly. the last thing he wanted was to hurt you when he finally sunk himself inside you.

god. nanami kento could eat pussy for days.

"i want you inside," you begged. "please"

anything for his little girl. but not before he made you come on his face. he licked and sucked and devoured you even faster now — adding a second finger inside you. it wasn't until you completely lost control, squirting on his face did he stop. he lapped up your sweet taste, savoring the flavor of you.

he (begrudingly) left his spot between your legs to flip you back on top of him. "up here, princess."

and you're straddling him again, wet slick dripping down his cock.

"princess, are you absoultely sure?" nanami's eyes are locked onto yours, searching for any sign of doubt. any reason he shouldn't fill his stepdaughter to the brim.

the kiss to his lips gives him his answer. it wasn't like any previous kiss you had before — those were cute, innocent. this kiss was filled with passion, as if you were his lover, everything a dad-daughter kiss shouldn't be; yet you both loved it more than anything else.

he taps your entrance with the head of his angry cock. once, twice, god, it was agony — the teasing. he envelops the tip, covering it with your slick, hoping it'll make it go in easier.

"this might hurt, but, you're in control here" nanami's voice is low, soft, and controlled, as he always is. "take your time." you nod as his large, warm hands hold on to your sides, and he helps lower you down onto him.

it was heaven and hell.

hell because it fucking hurt. your tears were uncontrollable, freely flowing down your cheeks. it truly broke nanami's heart seeing you in pain like that. "breathe, breathe," he whispered. he didn't move an inch, and fuck, did he want to. it took everything within him not to flip you prone and fuck you like an animal in heat.

yet

it was heaven because your way-too-tight walls were clenching down hard on nanami's cock, it was almost painful for him. but the feeling was euphoric. and it wasn't just the fact he was in someone, but the fact that it was you.

the first person to text him happy birthday every year. the sole reason he celebrates father's day, despite not having any bio children. the person who counts on him to always be there for you. the only woman he would ever want to be inside from now on. his stepdaughter — the love of his life.

your sinking, down, down, slowly onto his cock with his guidance. fuck kento for being so damn big. he was borderline monster size. and it didn't help that he had two prominent veins running down his shaft, two veins you could feel inside.

he's wiping your tears with one of his hands. "shhh... i know it's alot. breathe baby. ive got you".

your holding on to him, adjusting to his enmorous size, and then finally, you move. awkwardly at first — it is your first time, but he won't rush you. in fact, he's giving you nothing but praise.

"that's it princess... just like that." fuck, you're so tight. "you're doing so well for me."

you found a good rhythm, bouncing up and down, like it was the best feeling in the world; and to nanami, it was.

"yes, baby girl," his grunts are vocal now. "that's so good. keep going just like that." and you do. up and down, up and down, up and down. you want to cry again, but this time not from pain. all you feel now is undeniable happiness and pleasure.

you don't know how much longer you can keep this up :(

you want to stay like this forever, but your hips, your legs, they're quickly getting sore.

and of course, nanami notices.

"you're okay sweetheart, you're safe. let me take care of everything."

and just like that, kento nanami has you on your back and he's between your legs again — missionary— his favorite position. call him old fashioned, but he never gets tired of hovering above his lover, looking into their eyes while he's pleasuring them. and the fact that it's you, his perfect stepdaughter? he almost came again the moment he slid back into you. he's surprised he hasn't already.

"you're so tight darling. f-fuck" nanami's panting. "too tight for me, aren't you?"

all you can do is nod in between your moans. you feel so fucking full. nanami, —the man who is usually so calm and controlled— was going feral. he was bucking into your hips, as if his life depended on it. he didn't want to hurt you, but he couldn't hold back anymore. not in this perfect, perfect pussy of yours.

he leans down to kiss you again and it's filled with every emotion neither of you can say aloud. your moans are music to his ears. when your bucking your hips up to him to meet his thrusts, his heart melts <3

he won't last much longer. he's fucking you soo deep into the bed. between your moans and nanami's praise and grunts, all he can focus on is how deep he is inside of you. and how fucking badly he wants to cum. your moans are so loud that you're covering your mouth from embarrassment.

"let me hear you, sweetheart." he reassures you. "let it out". and you do. every sound, every moan, all the pleasure you feel is because of nanami and you're gladly letting him know.

"dad, dad, dad" is all you can make out, as your fingers tangle in his hair and his heavy balls slap against your clit.

kento nanami is a responsible man. ideally he should pull out, cum literally anywhere else. but you've brainwashed him. your pussy was fucking magical and he can't bring himself to pul out.

"i know it's wrong, i know...." he wants to curse his conscience. "but you feel too good."

"it's okay, dad..." you're eyes are open, looking into his. "you can do it inside."

if nanami wasn't going to hell, this was surely the icing on the cake. he plunged into you, deeper and deeper, rutting into your perfect cunt — his cock kissing your cervix. you wrap your legs around him, kissing him.

with a grunt of your name, he spills into you. filling your pussy with everything that is him.

"such a needy little thing, huh? locking your legs around me" he's kissing you over and over and over, from your forehead to your chin, all over your face. <3 "you just wanted to be filled, didn't you?"

"uh-huh," is all you can muster out, and you smile — a happy, genuine smile.

he pulls out of you, rolling over for a moment to catch his breath. he's twice your age, but he's still got decent stamina (something he'll happily prove in the future).

as if it were routine, nanami is sliding out of bed, only to return with a hot towel. he's cleaning you up like it's second nature, and for him, it is. only difference is he isn't cleaning mud off of you from you playing outside in the rain when you were little, he's gently cleaning his cum and rubbing you with his utmost care.

it's truly confusing how your mom could ever cheat on him. he provided, he loved, he cared, he cooked, he cleaned, he fucked, he was perfect. if not for her, then absolutely for you.

your fingers slide down between your folds, scooping up some his seed that he missed. you bring it to your lips, humming when the taste reaches your lips. you were right. he does taste like pineapples :)

"you make the filthiest things feel so pure," he chuckles, sliding into bed with you. "what am I going to do with you?"

oops this got really long >.< i lost the plot again. omg im a freak :((

“I told you I'd stay with you tonight, didn't I?” There was a softness in his tone that he would murder any of his friends if they ever heard him right now. “That's what we agreed on for you coming tonight. Let me be with you.”

Your chest tightens, in that warm, embarrassing, fluttery way.

He stares at you for half a beat. “Still overwhelmed?”

“A little.”

“Then,” he dips his head slightly, lips brushing against your cheekbones, barely there, barely real, but it sends the butterflies in your stomach in a frenzy. “Stay with me. I'll handle everything tonight.”

You exhale, the previous tension slipping off your shoulders and being replaced with the new shy feeling you usually get around him.

“You're acting all sweet.”

He rolls his eyes, but his thumb strokes a small pattern on the top of your right hand where no one can see. “Don't get used to it.”

“Oh, I'm already used to it,” You say playfully. “You've been nothing but sweet to me since we started talking.”

He huffs, but you didn't miss the faint curve of his lips tilting upwards.

“Come,” he says, lacing his fingers with yours and tugging you gently. “Let's meet Gojo. He's loud and fucking weird, but you'd like him.”

His palm is warm and solid, and the moment his palm swallows yours, a little bit of panic unclenches in your chest. He leads you through the throne of bodies and sounds, pulling you closer to him and guiding you like he's cutting a path through all the drunken chaos that's so alien to you.

The living room spills into the kitchen, where the music dips just enough that people don't need to scream to be heard.

The first thing you notice is a white haired guy with sunglasses on despite him being indoors and being night time. Not because he's making a scene—he's really not. He's leaning against the counter, long legs crossed at his ankles, a drink in his hand and the other waving animatedly to the guy you notice in front of him.

Long dark hair pulled back loosely, relaxed posture, amused smile that looks like it never melts away. He listens with an easy patience, not minding the other guys rambling, occasionally humming and nodding, like he's indulging a familiar habit rather than enduring it.

They seem quite… normal? Not at all how Sukuna was trying to make them out to be.

And then you hear a snippet of their conversation.

“-and I'm, like, just saying,” the white haired man exclaims, dramatically flailing his hand in the air, “if you're going to commit to serving punch that tastes like lighter fluid and paint thinner, you might as well label it as a public health hazard.”

The dark haired guy snorts. “Yet, you've drunk three cups of it.”

“And I don't know why! It tastes like ass and dread!” He pours the liquid down in the sink next to him. “Suguru, go get me another drink.”

“Excuse you, I'm not a dog that answers to your beck and call.” He replies, though, he does reach over to grab a can of Sprite for him.

That earns a soft laugh from you before you could stop it.

Both of them glance up from the sound.

The white haired man's eyes brighten from behind his round sunglasses. “Oh, hey! Didn't think you were real."

What?

Sukuna groans. “Don't.”

“Pay up, Satoru.” The dark haired man, you infer is Suguru, puts his hand out and makes some sort of gesture that makes the other guys fish out some cash from his back pocket.

Sukuna drags a hand down his face like he's already regretting this entire introduction. “For the love of God, tell me you two didn't-”

Satoru beams up at him despite losing money. “I absolutely did. Odds were terrible by the way. No one believed you were actually consistently seeing the same girl.”

Suguru holds his hand out further, “pay up.”

Satoru slaps a couple of bills into his palm. “For the record,” he looks at you, “I did say you were definitely real—I mean, he wouldn't stop talking about you. I just didn't think Sukuna here knew how to keep someone around for so long.”

You blink slowly, ignoring his contradiction to his previous statement, then glance up at Sukuna. “Am I… a special cryptid?”

“More like an urban legend,” Suguru says, finally meeting your eyes with a polite smile. “Satoru thought Sukuna was exaggerating.”

The white haired man shrugs. “He lies about everything. His GPA, his height, his emotional availability. This felt on-brand.”

“You're such a dickhead.” Sukuna says flatly and Satoru quickly quips him with a “language” and “wow, you have no tact to please the ladies”

...Whatever that means.

“So,” he leans in, curiosity glinting behind his tinted sunglasses. “What made you stick around for so long?”

“Careful.” Sukuna warns flatly.

“He's good to me.” You say pleasantly with a smile. “Oh! He also buys me my favourite cakes from the patisserie downtown.”

“Ah, that explains it.” Suguru raises a brow.

“Yeah, that would make me stay too.”

“Don't make it weird.” Sukuna mutters, but his hand settles more securely at your waist.

Suguru reaches behind him and pours some Sprite and something clear into a red cup. “Vodka sprite. Light pour. Consider it a peace offering.”

You hesitate, then take it. One sip, then another. It’s sharp but manageable.

“That’ll make the music less… offensive.”

“It still sounds like construction noise,” you say.

“Exactly,” Satoru points. “You get it.”

He leans closer to you again. “So, just so we're clear, you are aware you're dating the human equivalent of a warning label.”

You take a careful sip of the vodka sprite, the alcohol warming your chest almost immediately. “I read the fine print.”

Sukuna huffs, glaring pointedly at his friends. “Why are you like this?”

Because,” he says cheerfully, “it's very funny to see you whipped for someone.”

“I am not-”

“I mean, it's not like you weren't sneaking her in at night and walking her out early in the morning because you didn't want anyone to see her.”

Satoru slaps his arm in agreement. “Yeah! You're not slick, idiot. We can hear you both.”

Sukuna freezes.

Slowly—very slowly, he turns head to face the two of them. “You two are on very thin ice.”

Suguru only hums, unfazed. “Walls are thin. It is an old house.”

“And you,” Satoru adds, pointing at you accusingly and grinning wide, “are very loud.”

You choke on your drink, face heating up in embarrassment. “Oh my God.”

Sukuna groans like he's physically in pain, his large hand leaving your waist to pat your back to let all your choked coughs out. “I hate it here.”

“That's not what you said last week Thursday at two-forty seven am.” Satoru teases helpfully.

“Stop talking or I'll drag you out by your stupid sunglasses.”

“Ooo,” he grins, playfully fanning himself. “Protective too? This keeps getting better.”

You laugh despite yourself, and Sukuna slides his hand back to your waist and tightens.

Not painful or aggressive at all.

“Alright,” he says, voice low and fed up by his friends. “That's enough.”

“Aw,” Satoru grins like he's won the lottery or something, “are we being dismissed?”

He doesn't dignify him with a response, just waits for you to finish your drink.

“Wait! We were just bonding!”

“Goonight.” Sukuna says flatly, turning your sharply so your back is to his chest, and large arm hooking around your middle like a fucking steel bar. You gasp, more startled than uncomfortable as he guides you away from the kitchen.

“You good?”

You nod, cheeks still warm. “Yeah.”

“Good,” he murmurs. “Because if they say one more word, I’m throwing them off the balcony.”

Behind you, Satoru’s voice carries. “Have fun upstairs!”

Sukuna flips him off without looking.

Sukuna steers you through the kitchen and toward the stairs, his grip never loosening. Every step, he adjusts. Hand firm at your waist, fingers digging in just enough to remind you he’s there, guiding you, grounding you.

Your heart’s doing something stupid in your chest.

“You're-” You glance back, halfway up the stairs. “Are you manhandling me?”

“Yeah,” he replies easily, tugging you closer as if you aren't already flush against him. “You’re walking too slow.”

Your breath stutters. “You don't usually complain.”

“That was before they started running their mouths.”

The corridor upstairs is quieter, the bass from downstairs reduced to a distant thrum that vibrates through the floorboards. Sukuna's hand stays firm around yours as he leads you past several closed doors, each one marked with different name plates and decorations before stopping at the door at the end of the corridor for his room.

He unlocks the door and guides you inside, flicking on a warm lamp he bought after you made a comment about the cool light fixtures he has in his room gives you a migraine. Because of course he uses cool light and instead of warm like a psychopath.

It's surprisingly clean for a frat house bedroom. A large bed with dark sheets, a desk actually organised, weights in the corner, some band posters on the walls. It smells good too, the intoxicating mix of cologne and something uniquely him.

The door clicks shut behind you, the sound small, almost insignificant, but it feels final in an odd way. Like the rest of the house just got muted.

Sukuna doesn't give you time to turn around.

His hand slides from your waist to your hip and pulls, firm and sudden, until your back hits the door behind you with a soft thud. Not hard. Just enough to steal the breath from your lungs.

“Hey-” you start, half a laugh, half a gasp.

He crowds into your space without hesitation, one arm planting itself beside your head while the other stays firm on your hip, thumb pressing in like a quiet reminder that you’re exactly where he wants you.

“You okay?” he asks low, eyes scanning your face for any discomfort.

You nod, a little breathless and jittery. “Yeah- just surprised.”

“Good.” His thumb presses into your hip, grounding and borderline possessive. “Because I’ve been holding back all night.”

Your stomach flips.

“Those idiots,” he mutters, forehead dropping to yours, voice rough with restraint. “Running their mouths. Watching you. Talking about you like you’re not standing right there.”

“They weren't being rude.”

His hand tightens once, just once, before easing. Controlled. Deliberate.

“And then you,” he adds quietly, “standing there smiling like that.”

You swallow. “Is that… bad?”

His lips twitch, but his eyes are dark. Focused.

“No,” he says. “That’s why we’re upstairs.”

He gives you a small smile and he looks so absolutely beautiful it hurts. “Are you nervous?”

“A little,” you admit, because lying to Sukuna is always futile.

He reaches out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ears, his fingers resting against the delicate line of your jaw. “Of me? Or of what you want me to do to you?”

Your breath catches. "Both."

His laugh is low, dark, appreciative. "At least you're honest." His thumb traces your bottom lip, and your mouth parts instinctively. "I've been thinking about this all night. Watching you in that little outfit, seeing other guys look at you, wanting to drag you up here and undo your dress."

"Sukuna..." His name comes out breathy, needy.

He doesn't say much for a little bit, still revelling in the sight of you pressed between him and his door. “God… I've been holding back since you walked in.”

The kiss hits you before you can process that sentence.

It’s not gentle exactly, but it’s not rough either. All confidence and heat, like he knows exactly where to place his mouth to make your knees threaten to go weak beneath your weight. His lips move against yours. Slow at first, testing, then deeper when you tilt into him without thinking. He hums low in his chest, the sound vibrating straight through you.

His other hand slides up from your waist to your jaw,cradling you as he angles your head just right. You gasp softly into the kiss, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt like you need something solid to hang onto.

“Fuck,” he mutters against your mouth, barely pulling back. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

He kisses you again, shorter this time, breathier, like he’s trying not to lose control completely. His forehead rests against yours for a second, both of you breathing hard.

Then he grips your hand.

“Come here.”

He doesn’t give you time to argue. Just tugs you away from the door, guiding you backward until your calves hit the edge of the bed. You stumble, laughing softly, and he follows you down without hesitation, hands bracketing your hips as you land against the mattress.

The bed dips under his weight as he leans over you, eyes searching your face one more time.

"You tell me if anything's too much," he murmurs against your lips, his hand sliding under the hem of your dress. "You say stop, we stop. Understand?"

You nod, but he pulls back, his expression serious.

"Words, baby. I need words."

"I understand," you breathe. "I'll tell you. I promise.”

"That's my girl." He rewards you with another searing kiss, his hands surprisingly gentle as he undresses you, like he's unwrapping something precious. When you're finally bare beneath him, he sits back just to look at you with an intensity that makes you a bit nervous.

“Don't,” he catches your wrist before they could fly up to cover your burning face. “Don't hide for me. You're fucking gorgeous.”

Heat floods your cheeks, but the way he's looking at you, like you're the only thing in the world that matters, makes you relax into the sheets.

He leans down, pressing kisses along your collarbone, down between your breasts, across your stomach. Each touch of his lips sends sparks skittering across your skin. "Gonna take my time with you," he murmurs against your hip. "Gonna make you feel so good. Is that okay?"

"Yes," you breathe, your fingers threading through the pink hues of his hair.

His mouth finds your breast, tongue circling your nipple before he takes it between his lips, sucking gently. The sensation makes you arch into him with a gasp, and you feel him smile against your skin.

"Sensitive here?" he asks, his hand coming up to palm your other breast, thumb brushing over the peak. "Good to know."

He pours attention on your chest until you're squirming beneath him, soft whimpers escaping your throat. Then he's kissing his way down your stomach, his hands spreading your thighs apart.

"Sukuna-" Your voice comes out shaky, nervous.

He pauses, looking up at you from between your legs, his expression softening. “Say the word,” he says, voice low. “I'll stop.”

"No, I just-" You bite down your bottom lip. "I'm nervous."

"I know." He presses a kiss to your inner thigh, the sharp points of canines grazes your skin as his hands stroke soothingly along your legs. “That’s why I’m right here.” He leans in, mouth brushing your thigh, not rushed, not hesitant either. When he speaks again, it’s closer, rougher, but sure. “Let me make you feel good."

When his mouth finally finds you, the first touch of his tongue makes you cry out, your hips twitching involuntarily. He holds you steady, one arm banded across your hips as he works you with his mouth. Licking, sucking, his tongue doing things that make your vision blur and your heart hammering against your ribs.

"Oh god," you whimper, your hands fisting in his hair. "Sukuna, that's-"

"That's it," he encourages, pulling back just enough to speak. “Don’t hold back. Let me hear it. I need to know what gets that reaction out of you.”

He seals his lips around your clit and sucks, and the sensation is so intense you nearly come apart right there. But he pulls back, keeping you on that edge, building the pleasure slowly.

"Doing so good for me," he praises, sliding a thick finger inside you, and the stretch makes you choke out a broken gasp. "So wet, so perfect. Think you can take another?"

"Yes," you manage, and he adds a second finger, curling them just right as his mouth returns to your clit. The dual sensation is overwhelming, pleasure coiling tighter and tighter.

"That's my girl," he murmurs, his fingers pumping steadily, stretching you, preparing you. "So fucking beautiful like this. Love watching you fall apart for me."

You love this version of Sukuna. The one that only ever shows up in the quiet and just with you.

Around company, he’s all sharp edges and indifference, posture loose like nothing ever really touches him. He doesn’t soften for anyone. Doesn’t bend. Doesn’t bother explaining himself. And you’ve always liked and kind of envied that about him. The way he exists so solidly in himself, unbothered by expectations or noise.

But here, with you bare and beneath him and his body close enough that you can feel the heat rolling off him, that edge turns into something else.

He’s still rough around the edges. Hands firm, grip sure, presence overwhelming in the best way, but there’s a quiet attentiveness threaded through it. The way he watches your face instead of your body. The way his hand presses at your hip like he’s grounding himself as much as you. The way his voice drops when he speaks to you, like the world doesn’t get to hear it.

You feel it most in the pauses too. The moments where he doesn’t rush, doesn’t take, doesn’t assume. Where he leans in just enough to make your breath hitch and then waits, eyes dark, like he wants to see if you’ll close the distance yourself.

He adds a third finger, and the stretch is more intense, but he works you patiently, his mouth never stopping its attention on your clit until you're trembling, right on the edge.

"Sukuna, please-" You're not even sure what you're begging for anymore.

"Come for me," he commands, his voice rough. "Come on my fingers, baby. Show me how good I make you feel."

His fingers curl against that sweet spot inside you, his tongue flicking smoothly, and you shatter with a cry, your body clenching around his fingers as waves of pleasure crash through you. He works you through it, gentling his touch as you come down, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs.

"So perfect," he murmurs, slowly withdrawing his fingers. “Always like this for me.” His hand stays firm, possessive. “Stay with me. I’m not done yet.”

You nod, still breathless, watching as he finally strips off his shirt and his jeans and his boxers. He's big—bigger than you expected when you first had sex with him—and the flutter of nervousness returns every time you see it.

He catches your expression and leans down to kiss you softly. "Easy,” he murmurs. “I’m not rushing this.” His hand stays firm, steady. “You’re ready, but I’m taking my time with you.”

"Okay," you whisper.

He reaches for a condom from his nightstand, rolling it on, and then he's positioning himself between your thighs, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance. "Look at me," he says softly. "I want your eyes on me.”

He pushes in slowly, and even with all the prep, the stretch is intense. Your fingers dig crescent moons into his shoulder blades as he fills you inch by inch, his jaw clenched with restraint.

"Breathe," he reminds you, pausing halfway. "You're doing so good. Taking me so well. Just breathe for me."

You do, and he slides in deeper, until he's fully seated inside you. The fullness is overwhelming, but not painful. Just intense, perfect.

"Fuck," he groans, his forehead dropping to yours. "You feel incredible. So tight, so perfect. You're okay?"

"Yes," you manage to whimper out. "You can move."

He starts with slow, deep rolls of his hips, letting you adjust to the feeling of him. "That's it," he praises. "Just like that, baby. You're taking my cock so well."

But slow isn't enough. You need more. "Harder," you beg. "Please, I can take it."

Something shifts in his expression, that careful control cracking. He pulls out almost completely, then drives back in with a thrust that makes you cry out and feel all dizzy and dazed. "Like that?"

He hooks your legs over his shoulders, folding you nearly in half, and the new angle makes him seep so much deeper. The position leaves you pinned beneath him, bodies locked together as his thrusts grow harder, deeper, impossible to not thoroughly feel.

"Is this what you need?" he asks, voice low and rough, and his pace relentless now. "Need me to fuck you properly? Need me to fill you up?"

"Yes-" the word tears from your throat as he drives into you, the bed frame creaking with each harsh thrust. "Oh God, yes-"

"That's it, take it," he praises, one hand gripping your thigh while the other braces beside your head. "Taking my cock so well, such a good fucking girl for me. You feel incredible, so perfect-"

His words make everything more intense, and you're already embarrassingly close again, your body wound tight. "Sukuna, I'm- I can't-"

"Yes you can," he encourages, his thumb finding your oversensitive clit and circling with just the right pressure. "Come on my cock, baby. Let me feel it. Let me feel you fall apart for me again."

The combination of his words, his touch, the relentless drive of his hips, it's too much. You shatter with a cry of his name, your body clenching around him as waves of pleasure crash through you, even more intense than the first time.

"Fuck, that's it, just like that," he groans, his rhythm faltering as your orgasm triggers his own. "So good, you're so fucking good-" He buries himself deep with a guttural moan, his body shuddering as he comes.

For a long moment, neither of you moves, both breathing hard, sweat-slicked and trembling. Then carefully, he lowers your legs and pulls out, disposing of the condom before collapsing beside you and immediately pulling you into his arms.

"You okay?" he murmurs, his mouth brushes your cheek with each word. "Did I push too far?”

You shift closer instinctively, still catching your breath. “No,” you say, steady despite how spent you feel. “It was good. Exactly right. Like usual.”

A quiet huff leaves him, not quite a laugh, not quite disbelief. His arm tightens around you, firm and anchoring. “Good,” he mutters. “That’s what I thought.”

His hand stays at your hip, thumb pressing in like a reminder, not gentle but not rough either. Possessive in that unmistakably Sukuna way, like he’s claiming space, not asking for it.

“Don’t get it twisted,” he adds after a beat, voice rough against your ear. “I don’t do this for just anyone.”

“I know,” You smile faintly against his chest. “I figured after talking to your friends downstairs.”

He flicks a finger against your forehead, barely hurting you. “Don't bring up other men just after I made you come twice, silly girl.”

There was no heat in his words, just the familiar bluntness you grew accustomed to like.

You huff a quiet laugh, face warm and glowing post-orgasm. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know,” His fingers, still wet with your slick, presses once at your hip again, grounding. “Just reminding you.”

You tilt your head back to look at him. He’s watching you through half-lidded eyes, expression lazy, satisfied, but alert in that way he always is, like he’s clocking every little movement you make.

You suddenly feel shy under the weight of it. “You’re staring.”

“Yeah,” he says simply. “You gonna live?”

You roll your eyes playfully, tucking your face into his chest. “Barely.”

A low huff rumbles out of him. Amused. “Dramatic.”

Downstairs, the noise swells, reminding you that you're at a New Years Eve party. Cheering, yelling, someone very off-key starting to count early and getting booed into silence.

You freeze. “Wait.”

His brow lifts. “What.”

You lift your head again, listening. “That’s the countdown. I think they’re about to start.”

“And?” His arm tightens slightly, like he already knows where this is going and isn’t impressed.

“You're…” You hesitate, then mumble, “You’re supposed to kiss at the start of the year.”

You shift, just a little, bracing a hand on his chest like you might sit up.

He doesn’t let you.

Sukuna’s arm bands around you and pulls you right back down, firm and unyielding, pressed flush to his chest. “Don’t move,” he mutters, voice low and certain.

“But-”

“Shh.”

The muffled counting reaches ten.

Nine.

Eight.

His hand slides up your side, not roaming, just holding you there, like he’s anchoring you exactly where he wants you.

Three.

Two.

One-

The cheer downstairs explodes.

At the same moment, he tilts your chin up and kisses you. Slow, sure, unhurried. No rush. No spectacle. Just his mouth on yours. Claiming the moment like it was always his to take, slightly tasting yourself from his tongue.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests briefly against yours.

“Happy New Year,” he says.

Your heart feels stupidly full and fluttery.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Happy New Year.”

I think im getting better at writing smut (funny tho as my libido is nowhere to be found siiighhhhh)

happy new year! may 2026 bring love and happiness to you<3