#stepteam

Stepper!Sukuna x Reader

Wc; 2.3k

Content notes: explicit sex; praise + light degradation; choking; hair pulling; oral (f receiving); fingering; creampie; breeding talk; overstimulation; voice/tempo/cadence kink; possessive behavior

“Girl, are you even listening to me?” Maya asks.

Truth? Not even a little. Your mind’s still cuffed to last night.

A certain pink-haired menace texted after step practice, whining about counts and a busted song choice, then told you to unlock the door because he “sleeps better next to his girl.” And somehow, after an hour of “run it again” and “from the top,” Sukuna still had the nerve and the energy to fold you in half like you were a warm-up.

Broad shoulders pinning your calves to your chest, legs open for him. Thick, heavy cock driving you into the mattress, that addictive drag and press so deep you were sure his tip was kissing your cervix. His hand warm and snug at your throat, his voice low against your ear: “I couldn’t think about anything but this pretty pussy,” he basically growled. When he noticed you trying to fuck back, hips rolling up to meet his ungodly thrusts, he pinned your hips in place and ground down on the spot that blew your vision hot and white at the edges. You came so hard you forgot your name, and remembered it in the second round when he groaned he was going to nut deep into your drooling cunt and all you could do was nod like prayer, because coherent words were so far out that window.

“Hello?” Maya snaps her fingers in front of your face. “The step team party? Theme? Are you coming, or just daydreaming about that man’s shoulders all seminar?”

“What man??” You finally blink back into the conversation.

“Don’t act dumb. You’ve got post-sex glow, dumbass.”

You simply roll your eyes, “What is the theme of this dumbass party y’all are dragging me to?”

Maya’s already rolling her eyes. “Blackout & Sneakers. No heels, no glitter. Zaria says bring cash because the bar hates card readers.”

“Bless their analog hearts,” you mutter, digging for lip balm you do not need.

Your phone buzzes.

You do NOT look at it because you know what it’ll do if it’s who you think it is.

You absolutely do look at it.

Sukuna: Your friends are loud asf

Sukuna: Sneak off to my dorm?

Maya squints at you like she’s about to file a report. “You got somewhere to be?”

“No,” you lie, already standing.

Zaria finally looks up from her laptop, eyes narrowing. “If you say ‘bathroom’ and come back with bite marks again, I’m reporting you to the dean.”

“First of all, mind your business,” you snap, shoving your notebook into your tote like it personally offended you. “Second of all, y’all don’t even understand the spiritual warfare I’m going through.”

Maya’s grin turns wicked. “Spiritual warfare,” she repeats. “That’s what we’re calling dick now?”

You roll your eyes so hard you nearly see last night again. “Text me the address. I’m coming.”

“Uh-huh,” Maya says, voice sweet as poison. “And you’re leaving because?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Because your phone buzzes again.

Sukuna: come now. i’m bored.

Sukuna: i’ll be good.

You know that’s a lie.

Your throat goes tight for the stupidest reason: the casual certainty. Like you belong to him by schedule.

You swallow, tuck your phone away like it’s not burning a hole through your pocket. “I gotta go.”

“You didn’t even answer the damn question,” Maya calls after you.

“Step party,” you throw over your shoulder. “Theme. Sneakers. Whatever. Text it to me.”

Zaria’s laughter follows you out like a warning siren.

⸻

The hallway smells like expensive cologne and campus coffee. You walk fast like you’re late to something important, and you are, technically, because if you let yourself think too long you’ll talk yourself out of it. You’ll remember how he looked last night, head tipped back, sweat dark at his collar, voice low in your ear while he fucked you like your soul had somewhere else to be. You’ll remember how he held you after, palm stroking your spine like he couldn’t decide if he wanted you ruined or safe.

Your phone buzzes again.

Sukuna: door’s open.

You should be annoyed. You are annoyed.

You still change direction.

⸻

His dorm building is louder than it should be for a Wednesday. Someone’s yelling down the hall, music bleeding through thin doors. You try to keep your face, because you refuse to be the girl who looks like she’s walking into a bad decision.

You knock.

The door opens before your knuckles can hit a second time.

Sukuna fills the frame in sweats and a black tee, hair messy like he dragged his fingers through it too many times. He looks you over slow, unapologetic, gaze dipping to your mouth like he remembers exactly what it sounded like.

“You took long,” he says.

“I was in class,” you shoot back, stepping past him. “Some of us attempt education.”

He shuts the door behind you.

“Your friends,” he says, like it’s a curse. “They’re loud as fuck.”

You drop your tote on the chair and face him, arms folding automatically. “Maya and Zaria are my best friends. You don’t get to complain about them.”

He stalks closer. His eyes cut over your face like he’s checking for something.

“I listened,” he says.

“To what?”

He leans down, mouth brushing your ear like it’s nothing. “To you pretending you weren’t thinking about me.”

Heat crawls up your neck, annoying and embarrassingly immediate. “I wasn’t pretending.”

His hand slides up your neck, fingers tightening and pulling you closer. “Liar.”

Your pulse trips. You hate him for being right.

“You texted me to sneak off,” you say, trying for sharp. It comes out breathy. “So… what. You want another round before your little party?”

His palm cups the back of your neck, guiding you closer until you’re forced to tilt your chin up. “Not another round,” he says, voice low enough to vibrate. “A correction.”

“A correction,” you repeat, flat. “You’re so dramatic.”

He hums. “You’re off count.”

You let out a shaky laugh, short and disbelieving. “I’m off count?”

“Mm.” He turns you with a gentle shove, backing you toward his bed like he’s moving furniture. “Always rush when you want something.”

“I don’t rush,” you argue, but your knees hit the mattress and your sentence dies.

He stands between your legs, hands braced on both sides of you, and looks down at you.

Your eyes trail over his face, his fire-red eyes a shade darker, his bulge looking painfully snug in his pants.

“What you staring at, mama?”

Your stomach flips. You shake your head.

Then he’s kissing you, and it’s not sweet. It’s hungry. Claiming. Like he’s been thinking about you through lecture and practice and every stupid count he pretended mattered more than you.

Your hands slide up his chest, fingers curling into his shirt. You tug. He doesn’t move.

He pulls back just enough to look at you. “Sneakers,” he says, glancing down. “No heels.”

You glare, breathless. “Shut up.”

His grin is quick and sharp. “Make me.”

You grab him and kiss him again, harder, and he makes a sound in his throat that goes straight between your legs.

He breaks the kiss and drags his mouth down your jaw, your throat, right where your pulse is betraying you. His hand returns to your neck, warm and steady, snug and cocky.

“Breathe,” he says.

You do.

“Count,” he adds.

You blink, dazed. “Are you serious?”

He lifts his head, eyes dark. “One,” he says, and his fingers slide under your shirt, palm flattening to your stomach. “Two,” and he pulls you closer by the hips until you feel exactly how hard his cock is through his sweats.

Your thighs part on instinct.

His mouth curves. “There you go. See? You can follow directions.”

You make a noise that is not dignified. He kisses you again like he’s rewarding you, then drops to his knees between your legs.

Your brain stutters.

“Sukuna…”

He looks up, calm. “You want me here?”

You nod too fast.

“Say it,” he murmurs, not cruel, just steady.

“Yes,” you breathe. “Please, please”

His hands slide to your thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft inside. He kisses the inside of your knee first, slow enough to make you squirm, and then glances up again, watching your eyes flutter.

“Still off count,” he says, and the smirk in his voice is pure sin. “I’ll fix it.”

He kisses the inside of your knee again and then higher. He bites the plush of your thigh. His thumbs press outward, opening you, and his mouth lands on your slick and aching pussy.

You jolt. His laugh is low rumble against your cunt. “Count.”

“Please,” you manage.

“Count,” he repeats, firmer.

You swallow. “One.” His tongue drags up along your folds, unhurried, like he’s tasting a secret. “Two.” He seals his mouth around your clit and sucks, gentle first, then mean. His tongue flicking and circling your sensitive bud. Your hips try to lift; his forearm pins them down. “Three,” you gasp, and he hums praise, the vibration turning your spine to jelly. “Four—oh—”

He stays with you, tongue steady, a rhythm that makes your vision pulse at the edges. When your hands fly to his hair he lets you guide once, grinding down pathetically, then catches your wrist and lays your palm flat on the mattress. “Stay,” he says, mouth glistening, eyes heavy. “I’ve got you.”

You do not stay. You tremble, thighs twitching, and he eats that too, greedy and wild, two fingers slipping inside your gummy walls, crooking until your breath breaks and you clench around them. He watches your face for every twitch and twist, and when you whisper “Suku—don’t stop,” he answers with a quiet, “stop squirming then”

The first orgasm hits like a heel striking wood. You clamp around his fingers, choked sound caught behind your teeth. He rides you through it, easing pressure when your thighs shake too hard, then building again until you whine for mercy and more in the same breath.

“Good girl,” he murmurs into you. “Again.”

He doesn’t ask; he tells your body what to do, and it does. The second crests faster, sharp and high; you’re already boneless when he kisses up your stomach, your ribs, your throat. His hand returns to your neck, warm and steady. You smile, dazed, and he kisses you slow, letting you taste yourself.

“More,” you get out, breath shivery.

“So needy,” he says, voice rough. “You sure you can give another one?”

“Yes.” Your fingers curl in his shirt. “I can be good.”

He strips just enough to get where he wants, sweats low on his hips, hand wrapped around the base of his heavy cock and lines up, mushroom tip nudging slick at your entrance. The stretch steals your breath, a deep, delicious ache that makes your toes curl. He pushes in inch by inch, watching every twitch you give him like it’s the beat he’s setting to. When he bottoms out, both of you just breathe for a second, forehead against yours.

“Look at me,” he says, and you do, because he’s so damn pretty when he’s trying not to fall apart.

He pulls back and thrusts, slow and thick, the drag obscene. You arch, a helpless sound falling out of you, and he finds the angle that makes your brain fail. “There,” he mutters, mouth at your jaw. “That’s the spot.” His pace builds, hips snapping, the chain at his throat tapping his collar with every hard breath. You try to meet him and he locks your hips down, grinding until your eyes roll, until you’re babbling please and more and right there.

“Count,” he orders again, low.

You choke on a laugh that isn’t a laugh. “I can’t—”

“You can.” His hand tightens just enough to remind you where you are. “One.”

“…One.” He drives in, perfect, precise.

“Two.”

“Two.” Your voice breaks.

“Three.” He doesn’t wait for you to say it; he’s already ramming inside you.

“Four—” you sob, and it unravels you, pleasure building bright and hot, your whole body clenching around him while he groans into your mouth.

His pace becomes ruthless, hitting the angle that slams straight into that sweet spot over and over.

You become a puddle, hand over his wrist thats on your neck, clawing at it to stay grounded has he slams his fat cock into you.

“Good girl,” he says, voice gone wrecked. “Good fucking girl. That’s it. Gonna let me fill you?” You nod, desperate, heels locked at his back. He buries deep and holds, a raw curse against your cheek, and you feel him nut, thick and warm ropes, him pulsing with each one, the aftershocks dragging you into little tremors he kisses away.

For a while there’s only breath. His hand eases from your throat to your jaw, thumb stroking, grounding. “You good?”

You nod again, softer this time.

Then he tugs his tee over your head and onto you like it’s a law. A kiss to your forehead. Another to your wrist. He looks annoyingly pleased, and you want to be mad about it, but you’re busy reassembling bones.

Your phone buzzes on the chair.

Maya: where tf you at

Maya: bring your sneaks and your sin, we rolling at 9

"Believing in someone plays a huge role in confidence + performance + the outcome of the common goal, which for us, was to go to college."