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♡ summary: after two terrible days, all you want is to use your boyfriend as a mattress. unfortunately for you, gojo satoru is very easily distracted.
♡ warnings: 18+ mdni • explicit sexual content • established relationship • oral (f!receiving) • multiple orgasms • piv sex • praise • possessive language • dirty talk • creampie • fluff
♡ author’s note: this was inspired by a post from @silentlunarkiss based on this fanart 😭 i screenshotted it immediately because i knew i wanted to write it, then somehow lost the original post before i could tag them. finally found them again!! ♡
banner by @pixopix
The apartment is quiet when you finally drag yourself through the door, your work bag feeling like it weighs a thousand pounds. Your feet are killing you, your brain is fried, and all you want is to collapse into bed and not move for approximately twelve hours.
You kick off your shoes and shuffle down the hallway, already pulling your hair out of the bun you'd done up that morning, now mostly falling out on its own. The bedroom door is cracked open, and when you push it wider, you find exactly what you were hoping for.
Satoru is sprawled across the bed like a starfish, still wearing his teaching clothes—black pants and a rumpled button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His blindfold is tossed carelessly on the nightstand, and his white hair is an absolute disaster, sticking up in every direction like he's been running his hands through it all day. His eyes are closed, one arm thrown over his face.
He looks as exhausted as you feel.
"Rough day?" you ask, and he groans without moving.
"The first years tried to fight a curse three grades above their level because Yuji said it 'looked easy,'" he mumbles into his arm. "I had to bail them out. Again. Then Megumi and Nobara got into an argument about mission protocol that somehow turned into a full-blown screaming match about who ate whose leftovers from the fridge. I had to separate them like they were toddlers."
Despite your exhaustion, you snort. "Sounds about right."
"And then," he continues, finally moving his arm to peek at you with one brilliant blue eye, "Yaga cornered me about paperwork I was supposed to file last week. Do you know how much I hate paperwork?"
"I'm aware." You're already moving toward the bed, unbuttoning your work pants. "You complain about it literally every time."
"Because it's the worst. I'm the strongest sorcerer alive. I shouldn't have to file incident reports."
"Mm-hmm, very tragic." You shimmy out of your pants and leave them in a heap on the floor—a problem for future you. Your blouse follows, leaving you in just your bra and underwear. "My day was also shit, for the record."
"Yeah?" He's watching you now with lazy interest, too tired to even sit up but still tracking your movements.
"My boss is an idiot, the coffee machine broke, I had to sit through a two-hour meeting that could've been an email, and Janet from accounting passive-aggressively cc'd the entire department on an email about someone stealing her lunch. Which, for the record, I didn't do, but she definitely thinks I did based on the way she was glaring at me."
"Want me to hollow purple Janet from accounting?" he offers, completely serious.
"Tempting, but no." You crawl onto the bed and without ceremony, flop directly on top of him, your full weight pressing him into the mattress. You bury your face in his chest with a long, dramatic groan. "I'm dead. This is me, dead."
"Hi, dead. I'm also dead." His arms come around you automatically, wrapping you up even though you're both too tired to really move. "We're both corpses now. This is our life."
"Our death," you correct, muffled against his shirt.
"Our death," he agrees solemnly.
For a moment, you just lie there, breathing in sync. He smells like his cologne mixed with the faint scent of the training grounds—sweat and grass and something distinctly him. It's comforting in a way you can't quite articulate. This exhausted, collapsed-together moment feels like home.
His hand starts moving on your back, slow and gentle, rubbing up and down your spine. It feels incredible, and you make an embarrassing sound of contentment that you'll deny later.
"You're tense as hell," he murmurs, fingers working at a knot between your shoulder blades.
"You try dealing with Janet's accusatory emails and see how relaxed you are," you mumble, but you're already melting into his touch.
"I'd just block her."
"You can't block coworkers, Satoru."
"You can if you're powerful enough." His hand slides lower, still rubbing your back, and you feel some of the day's tension starting to ease. "This okay?"
"It's perfect. You're my favorite human pillow."
"Just human pillow? Not devastatingly handsome boyfriend who you're lucky to have?"
"That's implied," you say, but you're smiling against his chest.
His other hand joins the first, both of them working at your tired muscles, and you honest-to-god almost start purring. This is exactly what you needed. Just this—him, the quiet apartment, his hands on you, the weight of the day slowly lifting.
But then his hands start to wander.
It's subtle at first. His fingers drift from your back to your sides, tracing the curve of your waist. Then lower, skimming over your hips. And then—
He grabs your ass. Both hands, full handfuls, squeezing appreciatively.
"Really?" you ask, lifting your head to look at him. "We're both dead, remember? Corpses don't grope."
"I'm a very motivated corpse." He squeezes again, shameless, and there's a grin tugging at his lips now. "Can't help it. You're lying on top of me in your underwear. What did you expect?"
"Self-control? Restraint? Basic human decency?"
"Baby, you know me better than that." His hands are still kneading your ass, and despite your sass, you can feel heat starting to pool low in your belly. "Besides, you love it."
"I love that you can't even wait until we've recovered from our respective terrible days before getting handsy?"
"Exactly." He's fully grinning now, that cocky, insufferable grin that makes you want to kiss him and smack him at the same time. "Your ass is the best stress relief. It's science."
"That's not science, you idiot."
"It's my science."
You snort, but you're not moving away. His hands are warm and familiar, and honestly, after the day you've had, this isn't the worst thing in the world. You let your head drop back to his chest, eyes drifting closed.
"Comfortable?" he asks, voice softer now.
"Mmm," you hum in agreement. "Don't stop."
"Wasn't planning on it."
For a while, it's just quiet. His hands keep moving—sometimes squeezing, sometimes just resting there, thumbs drawing lazy circles. You can hear his heartbeat under your ear, steady and strong. The tension in your shoulders is almost completely gone now, replaced by a different kind of warmth, something slower and heavier.
You're half-asleep when you feel it—the unmistakable hardness pressing against your hip.
"Satoru," you mumble, not even opening your eyes.
"Hmm?"
"Are you seriously getting hard right now?"
There's a pause. Then he says, "...Maybe."
You lift your head to look at him, one eyebrow raised. He has the decency to look slightly sheepish, but there's heat in his eyes now, that familiar hunger that never really goes away when it comes to you.
"We were having a nice moment."
"We still are."
"You've got a boner."
"I do…That doesn't cancel the nice moment."
You stare at him for another second before letting out a laugh.
"Seriously?"
"What?"
"I come home exhausted, use you as a human mattress for ten minutes, and somehow I'm the problem?"
"You are absolutely the problem."
"I literally haven't done anything."
"You climbed on top of me, got all comfy, made that little happy humming noise, and then fell asleep on my chest."
"I hummed?"
"You hummed."
"I don't hum."
"You do when you're really comfortable."
You narrow your eyes. "I've never noticed that."
"I have."
You glare at him.
"…Baby." He exhales dramatically, like he's carrying the weight of the world. "You're makin' me so hard."
You snort. "You're unbelievable."
"I'm trying to be respectful."
"Are you?"
Silence.
"…No." He grins without an ounce of shame. "Not really."
Despite yourself, you laugh again, dropping your forehead back against his shoulder.
"You're ridiculous."
"I know."
His arms tighten around you just a little. "But you look so comfortable."
His voice is quieter now. "So happy."
You burrow your face further into his shoulder.
"…I like when you're like this."
You feel yourself smile before you can stop it. "You're such a sap."
"Only for you."
There's a comfortable silence. Then his hands drift just a little bit lower again.
"…Okay," you mumble. "Now you're definitely not being respectful."
"No." He gives your ass another shameless squeeze. "I'm definitely not."
Before you can respond, he's sitting up, keeping you in his lap, and capturing your mouth in a kiss that's hungry and demanding. You can taste his desperation, feel it in the way his hands grip you like he's afraid you're going to disappear.
When he pulls back, his lips are already swollen, his eyes are dark with want. "I need to taste you," he says, and it's not a request. "Get up here."
"Up where—"
But he's already moving, sliding down the bed and pulling you with him. "On my face. Come on."
"Satoru—"
"Please." And there it is, that needy edge that makes your stomach flip. "I've been thinking about this all day. About you sitting on my face, riding my tongue until you come. Please, baby. I need it."
How are you supposed to say no to that?
"You're ridiculous," you say, but you're already moving, letting him position you. He's lying flat on his back now, looking up at you with such raw want that it makes you shiver.
"Not ridiculous. Desperate." His hands come up to grip your thighs, pulling you forward. "Now stop stalling and sit on my face."
"Bossy," you mutter, but you're lowering yourself down, and then—
"Oh fuck," you gasp as his tongue makes contact, sliding through your folds in one long, deliberate stroke.
He groans under you, the vibration going straight to your core, and his hands tighten on your thighs. "That's it," he mumbles against you. "Right there. Don't move."
But you're already moving, you can't help it, grinding down against his mouth as he licks and sucks and devours you like a man starving. His grip on your thighs is almost bruising, holding you exactly where he wants you, and when you try to lift up, worried about suffocating him, about being too much—he just pulls you back down harder.
"Satoru—"
"Stay," he demands, voice muffled. He pulls his face back to look up at you. "Fuck my face. Come on, baby, I can take it. Give it to me." Then he lowers his mouth to you again.
It's obscene, the wet sounds of his mouth on you, the way he's completely lost in it. His tongue circles your clit, then dips inside you, then back to your clit, and you're already shaking, already so close.
"That's it," he encourages, and you can hear the smugness in his voice even now. "You're dripping, baby. such a mess on my face."
"Shut—up," you gasp, but there's no heat in it because he's right—you can feel how wet you are, can feel it on his chin, his lips, and it should be embarrassing but it's just hot.
"Make me," he challenges, and then he's sucking your clit into his mouth, hard, and you cry out.
Your hands fly to the headboard, gripping the edge to steady yourself as the pleasure intensifies. You start to really move now, riding his face with purpose, and he moans underneath you like this is exactly what he wanted all along.
"Fuck, yes," he groans against you, the vibration making you gasp. "Just like that. Use me, baby. Take what you need."
His hands guide your hips, encouraging the rhythm, and his tongue is relentless—circling, flicking, pressing flat against you in a way that makes your thighs shake. You can feel yourself getting closer, that coil of heat tightening in your belly.
"Satoru, I'm—fuck—"
"Do it," he demands, voice rough. "Come on my face.”
His tongue flicks rapidly over your clit, and that's all it takes. Your orgasm crashes through you in waves, pleasure rolling through your entire body. You're grinding down against his mouth, riding it out, and he's groaning underneath you like this is the best thing that's ever happened to him.
When you finally come down, shaking and oversensitive, you try to move off him, but his hands tighten on your thighs.
"Not yet," he mumbles, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs, your hip bones, anywhere he can reach. "Just—give me a second. You taste so fucking good."
"You're gonna kill me," you pant, but you're smiling.
But he's already diving back in, and you gasp as his tongue finds your clit again. Your whole body jolts at the sensitivity, but he doesn't let up—he's relentless, his hands gripping your thighs to keep you steady as he works you over. The pleasure is almost too much, bordering on overwhelming, and you're already moaning his name.
"Satoru—fuck—it's too much—"
"I know, baby," he groans against you, the vibration sending another wave through you. "But you can take it."
He's eating you out like he's starving, like he can't get enough, and your whole body is shaking. Your hands grip the headboard tighter, your hips moving against his mouth almost involuntarily. The pleasure is building again, impossibly fast, and you're gasping and moaning as he works you toward another orgasm.
"Oh god—Satoru—I'm gonna—"
"That's it," he encourages, his tongue flicking faster.
Your second orgasm hits you like a wave, even more intense than the first, and you're crying out as pleasure crashes through you. Your thighs are shaking so hard you can barely hold yourself up, and he's groaning underneath you, clearly getting off on how much he's affecting you.
When you finally collapse, completely spent and oversensitive, he finally releases you, and you fall onto the bed next to him, breathing hard and trembling.
"And I'm dramatic?" He's grinning like he just won the lottery, his face wet, his hair a complete disaster. "That was—fuck. I love you, baby."
"You're insane," you say, but you're pulling him in for a kiss, tasting yourself on his lips.
"About you? Absolutely." His hands are already roaming again, cupping your face, then sliding down your sides. "But I'm not done with you yet."
"Oh really?"
"Really." He's kissing you again, slower this time, deeper. When he pulls back, there's something vulnerable in his expression beneath all the confidence. "You have no idea what you do to me."
"Then show me," you challenge, and his eyes darken.
"Oh, baby."
He's fumbling with his pants, shoving them down along with his boxers, and his cock springs free—flushed and hard and already leaking. You reach for him, wrapping your hand around his length, and he hisses.
"Fuck, baby—"
"What?" You stroke him slowly, base to tip, and he's already trembling.
"Your hands—shit—they're so much smaller than mine. Look so good wrapped around my cock."
"Yeah?" you tease, giving him another slow stroke.
"Yeah." His voice is strained.
He gently removes your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm, and then he's pulling you against him. His arms wrap around you, one hand sliding up your back, the other gripping your hip possessively. You can feel him, hard and hot against your thigh, and he's just... holding you there.
"Satoru—"
"Give me a second," he murmurs, his voice already rough. His breathing is uneven against your neck, and you can feel the tension in his body—the way he's trying to maintain control. "Just—fuck—you feel so good.”
His hips shift slightly, and you feel the length of him drag against you—not entering, just the pressure of him sliding through your wetness. The friction makes you gasp, and he groans.
"There it is," he breathes. "That sound. The little gasp you make when I—" He does it again, a slow roll of his hips, grinding against you. "When I touch you just right."
"Satoru, please—"
"Please what?" His hand slides down to grip your ass, pulling you tighter against him. "Tell me what you want, baby."
"You know what I want."
"I do." Another slow grind, and you can feel how wet you are, how easily he slides against you. "But I wanna hear you say it. Love the way your voice gets all breathy when you're desperate for me."
"You're killing me—"
"Good." He's kissing your neck now, teeth grazing your pulse point. "You've been killing me all day. All week. Every time you look at me with those eyes, every time you smile at me like I'm the only person in the world—fuck, baby, you have no idea."
His voice is shaking now, and you realize he's not teasing anymore—he's barely holding on. The head of his cock catches at your entrance, and you both freeze.
"I can't—" His forehead drops to your shoulder. "I can't think straight around you. Can't control myself. You just—you exist, and I'm gone."
"Then stop trying to control it," you whisper, and you feel him shudder.
"Fuck." He shifts, lining himself up properly, and then he's pushing in—slowly, so slowly. The stretch is intense, pleasure edged with the sweetest hint of pressure as he fills you inch by inch. "Fuck, baby. You feel so good. So tight. So perfect."
"Satoru—"
"I know. I've got you." He's only halfway in, taking his time, letting you adjust. His forehead is still pressed to your shoulder, and you can feel how much restraint this is taking him—the way his muscles are tense, the way his breath comes in short gasps. "You're taking me so well. You always take me so well."
Finally, finally, he's fully seated inside you, and you both just breathe for a moment, adjusting to the feeling of being completely connected.
"Okay?" he asks, lifting his head to look at you.
"Yes baby," you manage. "You can move.”
"Thank fuck." He pulls out slowly, almost all the way, and then thrusts back in. The drag of his cock against your walls makes you gasp, and he groans. "That sound. Fuck, I love that sound."
He sets a steady rhythm, deep and deliberate, each thrust making you feel impossibly full. His hands are everywhere—cupping your face, tangling in your hair, gripping your hips—like he can't decide where he wants to touch you most.
"You're so beautiful like this," he murmurs, watching your face. "All flushed and breathless. The way your eyes get all hazy when I'm inside you—fuck, it drives me crazy."
"Satoru—"
"I love you so much." His voice is rough with emotion now, not just desire. "Love everything about you. The way you feel, the way you look at me, the way you let me have you like this—"
"I love you too," you gasp, and his hips stutter.
His eyes squeeze shut for a moment, and when he opens them again, there's something raw there.
"Say it again."
"I love you."
"Fuck." His pace falters, becomes less controlled. "You can't—you can't just say it like that when I'm inside you. You're gonna—shit—"
"You feel so good," you tell him, cupping his face. "So perfect. You always make me feel so good."
His breath catches, and suddenly he's kissing you desperately, his thrusts becoming harder, deeper, less measured.
"You're everything," he gasps against your mouth. "Everything to me. The way you trust me, the way you look at me like I'm—fuck, baby, I can't—"
"You are," you insist, and his composure cracks completely.
"Fuck—" He's moving faster now, hitting that spot inside you that makes you see stars. "Love how you fit around me. Like you were made for me. Like we were made for each other."
"We were," you gasp, and his eyes flash with something fierce and possessive.
"Damn right we were." He shifts slightly, changing the angle, and suddenly every thrust is devastating. "There it is. That's the spot, isn't it?"
"Yes—fuck—right there—"
"I know, baby. I know." His voice is breaking now, emotion and desire tangled together. "Gonna make you come again. Wanna watch your face when you—fuck—when you come because of me."
The pleasure is building so quickly you can barely breathe. Your hands clutch at his shoulders, his back, trying to anchor yourself as he drives into you again and again.
"That's it," he encourages, watching your face like he's memorizing it. "I can feel you getting tighter. You're close, aren't you? So fucking close."
"Don't stop—"
"Never." One of his hands slides between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing in tight circles. "Come for me, baby. Let me feel it. Let me see you."
The combination of his cock hitting that perfect spot and his thumb on your clit is too much. Your orgasm hits you hard, pleasure crashing through you in waves that make your whole body tense and shake. You're clenching around him, and he groans at the sensation.
"Fuck, yes," he breathes, still moving, fucking you through it. "That's it. That's my girl. You're so good. So beautiful. Fuck, I love you so much."
When you finally start to come down, gasping and trembling, you expect him to follow you over the edge. But instead, he slows his movements, pressing soft kisses to your face.
"Satoru—"
"Not done with you yet," he murmurs against your lips.
Before you can respond, he's pulling out and lifting your legs, draping them over his shoulders. The new position opens you up completely, and when he pushes back in, he's somehow even deeper than before.
"Oh fuck—" you gasp, and he groans.
"There we go." He starts moving again, and this angle is devastating. Every thrust feels impossibly deep, hitting places that make your toes curl. "How's that, baby? That good?"
"Yes—fuck—Satoru—"
"I love you so much," he says, his voice rough. "You know that? I'm never letting you go. You're mine. Always gonna be mine."
"Yours," you agree breathlessly, and something in his expression goes even more intense.
"That's right." His thrusts are harder now, more purposeful. "Gonna take care of you. Gonna make you feel so good. Gonna love you for the rest of my life."
His hand moves to your stomach, pressing down, and suddenly his eyes go wide. He can feel himself inside you, the bulge of his cock with each thrust, and something feral takes over his expression.
"Holy shit," he breathes, completely mesmerized. His hand traces the outline, feeling himself move in and out of you, and he starts fucking you even harder, unable to look away. "Look at that. Look at you taking me so deep."
You're already building toward another orgasm, the intensity of this angle and his words and the way he's looking at you like you're the most incredible thing he's ever seen—it's all too much.
He's transfixed, watching his cock disappear inside you again and again, feeling the movement under his palm. His breathing is ragged, his movements becoming more frantic.
"Can you feel that, baby?" he asks breathlessly, his voice completely wrecked. "Fuck—I'm so fucking deep—you feel that?"
You look up at him with half-shut glazed eyes, your mouth parted open, completely fucked out. "Yes—fuck—yes, Satoru, I feel it—"
He groans at the sight of you—at how thoroughly wrecked you look, at the way you're falling apart beneath him. "You're so hot. So fucking hot. The way you look right now—fuck—I'm obsessed with you."
He's fucking you harder now, more urgently, his hand still on your stomach feeling himself move inside you with each thrust. The visual seems to drive him wild, and his movements become almost desperate.
"Come for me again," he demands, his other hand finding your oversensitive clit. "I know you can. I know you've got one more in you. Come on, baby. Give it to me."
"Satoru—I can't—it's too much—"
"You can." His thumb presses harder, circling your clit. "You can, baby. I need you to.”
The pleasure is building impossibly fast, almost painful in its intensity. You're so sensitive from your first two orgasms that every thrust, every touch feels magnified.
"That's it," he encourages, watching your face. "I can see it. You're right there. Just let go, baby.”
His voice is breaking, his control completely shattered, and then something raw escapes from him.
"I want you—" His hips snap forward harder. "Fuck—want all of you.”
His composure finally snaps.
"They've been on my ass my whole life about the bloodline. About heirs. About duty." Another hard thrust, his voice is cracking. "And I never—fuck—never wanted it."
He's breathing hard, almost gasping between words.
"Not until you."
His forehead drops closer to yours, his movements becoming more frantic.
"Only you. Want to marry you—want to wake up to you every day—want to call you my wife and—ah—know you're mine—"
Your orgasm crashes through you even harder, triggered by his words, by the desperation in his voice, by the sight of him completely undone above you. You're clenching around him so tight he gasps, your whole body shaking with the intensity.
"Fuck, yes—" He's just… staring at you, still moving, still feeling himself inside you. "So beautiful—The way your face—the way you sound—fuck—"
The sight of you completely wrecked under him, the feeling of you clenching around him, the way you gasp his name—it pushes him over the edge.
"Ah—fuck—fuck—fuuckk—" He buries himself as deep as he can go and comes hard, spilling into you in hot pulses. His whole body shudders with the intensity of it, and you can feel him throbbing inside you, can feel the warmth spreading.
He collapses on top of you, careful not to crush you but clearly boneless. For a while, you just breathe together, sweaty and satisfied.
"Holy shit," you mumble.
"Yeah." He's pressing kisses all over your face—your forehead, your cheeks, your nose, your lips. He can’t seem to stop touching you, his hands running over your skin like he needs the contact. "You're amazing. Incredible. Best girlfriend in the entire world."
"Best girlfriend, or best pussy?" you tease, and he pulls back to look at you with mock offense.
"Both. Definitely both." He's grinning now, that soft, genuine smile that he only gives you. "But mostly you. I love you. Like, so much. An embarrassing amount."
"I love you too, you needy disaster."
"Your needy disaster," he corrects, and he's still touching you, hands running over your skin like he can't bear to stop. "Mine now. No takebacks."
"Wouldn't dream of it," you say softly, and you mean it.
He pulls you closer, tucking you against his chest, and you can hear his heartbeat starting to slow. The exhaustion from earlier is creeping back in, but it's different now—satisfied, content, the good kind of tired.
"We should probably shower," you murmur, but you're already half-asleep.
"Later," he mumbles into your hair. "Right now I just wanna hold you."
"Clingy."
"Yep." He doesn't even sound ashamed. "You're stuck with me. Forever. Hope you're ready for that."
"I think I can manage," you say, smiling against his chest.
And as you drift off in his arms, you think that yeah… you can definitely manage. This ridiculous, needy, perfect man is yours, and you wouldn't have it any other way.
⋮ ⌗ ┆ 𝗾𝘂𝗶𝗰𝗸 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲 ! | okay first off, WHY is this SO FUCKIN EMOTIONAL for no absolute reason. damn. consider this a 1000 follower special! likes & reblogs are appreciated!
NOTE: this is 𝐧𝐨𝐭 romanticising blindess if some of y'all didn't get that. quite the opposite, actually. from how i intended it, it's supposed to show that visual impairment is no issue, and love has no boundaries. 𖹭
[𝜗ৎ] 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁 : 2.9k
𝓜𝘼𝙎𝙏𝙀𝙍𝙇𝙄𝙎𝙏! / 𝗞𝗜𝗡𝗞𝗧𝗢𝗕𝗘𝗥 2026 𝗠𝗔𝗦𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧!
my husband hates me.
the thought settles deep in your chest like a stone, familiar and heavy, as you lie on the silk sheets of the massive bed.
your fingers trace the embroidered patterns on your robe—some floral design you can't see but can feel beneath your fingertips. the fabric is soft, expensive. everything here is expensive. everything here screams luxury and power and wealth.
but none of it screams love.
you hear nothing from his side of the bed.
the man is so impossibly quiet, it makes your skin prickle with unease. you've been here for three months now. three months as the wife of ryomen sukuna, the king of curses, the most feared ruler in all the lands. and in those three months, he has barely spoken a word to you.
at first, you thought it was a game.
some twisted test of patience. you were clever enough to know that political marriages were rarely about love. you'd been prepared for indifference, for coldness, for a husband who saw you as nothing more than a strategic alliance.
but this? this silent treatment that stretches night after night, this deliberate distance he keeps?
it cuts deeper than you expected.
your hand moves from your robe to your stomach, pressing against the plane of your belly. you're small. you know this. delicate in a way that makes people underestimate you. and blind. gods, the blindness. the one thing that has sent every single suitor running in the opposite direction.
princes would see your face first—the one they called ethereal, otherworldly, beautiful in a way that seemed impossible—and they'd fall to their knees.
they'd whisper sweet words, promises of devotion, declarations of love at first sight. and then you'd speak, and they'd realize your eyes didn't track their movements, didn't meet their gaze. and slowly, painfully, you'd listen to them pull away. hear the hesitation creep into their voices. feel the distance grow until they were gone.
you were used to it.
but sukuna? sukuna had looked at you once, for a single moment, and said yes. the entire empire had been shocked. the king of curses, the ruthless murderer, the emperor who had never shown interest in any woman, accepting a blind bride from a neighboring kingdom? it was scandalous. impossible.
and you'd felt hope.
you hate yourself for that hope now.
because three months of silence have taught you the truth. he doesn't want you. he tolerates you. and honestly? you'd almost prefer cruelty. at least cruelty would be a reaction. at least cruelty would mean he saw you as something worth acknowledging.
but this nothingness? this endless, suffocating nothingness?
it makes you feel like you've already disappeared.
the servants guide you through your days with practiced efficiency. they dress you, feed you, lead you through the palace halls. you've memorized the layout of your chambers, the path to the gardens, the number of steps from your room to the dining hall. you've learned to navigate this world without sight, just as you've always done.
but you can't navigate him.
you don't know where he sits at meals. you don't know if he watches you. you don't know if he even notices when you're in the same room. his presence is a void—a massive, oppressive absence of warmth that you can feel but never touch.
tonight was bad.
you'd been led to the gardens by a new servant, someone who didn't know your habits. she'd taken you left instead of right, and you'd walked straight into a hedge, thorns scratching your calves before she'd yanked you back with a flurry of apologies.
then you'd almost fallen down a staircase—the grand staircase with its uneven steps—your foot catching on the edge, your heart lurching into your throat as you'd pitched forward. a guard caught you just in time.
and the whispers.
you can't see their faces, but you can hear their voices. the concubines. the noblewomen. the servants who think you can't hear them.
"the blind empress."
"does he even notice her?"
"i heard he hasn't touched her once."
"what a waste of a pretty face."
"she must be so lonely."
"she must be so pathetic."
you'd smiled through all of it. kept your head high, your shoulders back, your voice steady. you learned long ago that showing weakness only invites more cruelty. so you'd walked through the halls with your practiced grace, your cane tapping against the marble floors, your face serene.
but inside, you were crumbling.
and now, lying in this massive bed, with your hair spread across a silk pillow and the scent of incense curling through the air, you can feel him beside you. he's so close. you know he's sitting up, his back probably against the headboard, his presence a heavy weight in the darkness.
does he ever sleep?
you've never heard him snore. never heard him shift in his sleep. he's so still, so silent, you sometimes wonder if he's even real.
a long, long time passes. the candles burn down. the incense fades. the night wraps around you like a shroud.
and you can't take it anymore.
"ryomen?"
your voice comes out soft, barely above a whisper. you hate how small you sound. how vulnerable. you'd wanted to sound strong, confident, demanding. instead, you sound like a child calling out in the dark.
silence.
you wait. count your heartbeats. one. two. three. four. five.
just when you're certain he's ignoring you, just when the familiar ache of rejection settles into your chest, a voice cuts through the darkness.
"what."
it's gruff. low. a single word that rumbles through the air like distant thunder. and it's the most he's said to you in days.
you swallow. your throat is dry. your fingers twist in the sheets.
"i...i want to ask you something."
more silence. you can feel him staring at you. you can't see it, but you can feel it—the weight of his gaze, heavy and unreadable.
"ask."
you take a shaky breath. this is it. this is the moment you've been building toward for three months. the question that's been eating you alive, consuming you from the inside out.
"do you hate me?"
the words hang in the air between you. they sound so small. so pathetic. you wish you could take them back, but it's too late. they're out there now, exposed and raw.
"hate you?" his voice is strange. almost...confused?
"because of...because i'm...y'know, blind." the words taste like ash in your mouth. "i know it's...i know i'm not what you expected. i know i'm not the best option. i know i'm—"
"stop."
the word is sharp, and you flinch. your breath catches in your throat. you brace yourself for anger, for cruelty, for him to finally confirm what you've suspected all along.
but instead of harsh words, you feel movement. the bed shifts. his weight moves closer.
and then, without warning, a hand wraps around your waist and pulls.
you let out a frightened shriek as you're yanked from your position, your body colliding with something solid and warm. your hands fly out, grasping at fabric, at skin, at anything. you're on his lap, straddling his thighs, your chest pressed against his. he's so big—so impossibly large—that you feel like a doll in his arms.
"ryomen!" your voice is high, panicked. "what—"
"quiet."
his hand settles on your thigh. it's huge. calloused. rough in a way that sends shivers down your spine. but the touch is gentle. impossibly gentle. he strokes your thigh once, twice, a soothing motion that slowly calms your racing heart.
"you really think," he says slowly, his voice rumbling against your chest, "that i hate you?"
you can't speak. your throat is too tight. you settle for shaking your head against his chest, even though it's a lie.
a low sound escapes him—not quite a growl, not quite a laugh. his hand slides from your thigh to your chin, tilting your face up. his thumb brushes across your lower lip, feather-light.
"open your eyes."
the command catches you off guard. "what?"
"your eyes. open them."
you blink, confused. your eyes are already open. you can't see anything, but they're open. you tell him as much.
"no." his voice is strange. softer. "i mean...look at me."
"i can't see you."
"i know." his thumb traces your jawline. "but i can see you. and i want to see your eyes. please."
please.
the word catches you off guard. the king of curses, saying please? to you?
you don't move. don't breathe. just let him hold your face in his massive hand, his touch devastatingly tender.
"i don't hate you," he says, and his voice cracks on the words. "gods, woman. i could never hate you."
your heart stutters. "then why—"
"because i'm fuckin' terrified."
you blink. "what?"
"do you know what i am?" his hand slides from your face to your hair, fingers threading through the strands. "i'm a killer. i've been killing for centuries. my hands are stained with blood i'll never wash clean. i'm rough, and violent, and i don't know how to be gentle."
"but—"
"but when i saw you..." he trails off. his fingers tighten in your hair, just barely. "when i saw you, i couldn't breathe. you were so beautiful. so small. so... perfect. and i thought, 'she's too good f'me.' , 'i'll break her.' , 'i'll hurt her.'"
his voice drops to a whisper.
"so i stayed away. because every time i look at you, i want to touch you. and every time i touch you, i'm afraid i'll destroy you."
tears prick at your eyes. you don't understand. you can't understand. this entire time, you thought he hated you. you thought he found you repulsive, broken, worthless.
but he was...
...afraid?
"you don't hate me?" you whisper.
"no." his forehead presses against yours. "i love you. i've loved you since the moment i saw you."
a sob escapes your throat. it's ugly and raw and you can't stop it.
"but you never—you never talked to me—"
"because i didn't trust myself." his other hand comes up to cup your cheek. "because i knew if i started, i wouldn't be able to stop."
"then don't stop."
the words leave your mouth before you can think. they hang in the air, bold and desperate.
"don't stop," you repeat. "please. i don't want you to stop."
sukuna goes still. so still that you wonder if he's stopped breathing.
"you don't know what you're asking."
"i do." you reach up, your fingers finding his face. you trace the planes of his cheeks, the sharp lines of his jaw, the curve of his lips. "you're my husband. i want you. all of you."
"i'll hurt you."
"i don't care."
"i'll break you."
"i don't care."
his breath hitches. and then, finally, finally, his lips crash against yours.
the kiss is desperate. hungry. it tastes like three months of longing, of confusion, of aching loneliness. his hand fists in your hair, pulling you closer, and you gasp against his mouth. his tongue slides against your lower lip, asking for entry, and you give it willingly.
he tastes like sake and power and something darker. something that makes your toes curl and your heart race.
he pulls back, breathless.
"tell me to stop, and i will."
"don't," you say immediately. "don't stop."
he groans. his hands slide down your back, gripping your hips, and he lays you down on the bed. you fall against the silk sheets, your hair spreading around you like a halo. you can't see him, but you can feel him—his weight on the bed, his heat surrounding you, his breath ghosting across your skin.
"m'gonna show you," he says, his voice low and rough. "m'gonna kiss every inch of your body. gonna taste you until you scream my name. i want to make you feel so good that you forget every single doubt you've ever had about yourself."
your breath catches. "ryomen—"
"let me." his lips brush against your neck. "let me show you how much i love you."
you nod, unable to speak.
his hands find the tie of your robe. he undoes it slowly, reverently, like he's unwrapping a gift he's been waiting centuries to open. the fabric falls away, cool air hitting your skin, and you shiver.
"beautiful," he breathes. "so fucking beautiful."
you feel his lips on your collarbone. soft. worshipful. he kisses down your chest, his tongue tracing a path between your breasts. his hands cup your breasts, thumbs brushing across your nipples, and you gasp.
"sensitive," he murmurs. "good. i'll remember that."
he takes one nipple into his mouth. his tongue circles the peak, slow and deliberate, and you arch into him with a desperate moan. he laves at you, sucking gently, nipping with his teeth until you're writhing beneath him.
"more," you gasp. "please—"
"patience." his voice is a dark promise. "i haven't even started with ya' yet."
he switches to the other breast, giving it the same attention. his hand slides down your stomach, fingers tracing patterns on your skin, until he reaches the apex of your thighs. you're already wet—embarrassingly wet—and he lets out a low growl when he feels it.
"fuck," he mutters against your skin. "you're soaked. f'me?"
"yes," you whimper. "only you."
he groans. his fingers slide through your folds, collecting your wetness, and you buck into his touch.
"tell me what you want."
"i want—" you gasp as his thumb circles your clit. "m'want your mouth."
his laugh is dark and breathless. "demanding little thing, aren't ya'?"
"please," you beg. "ryo, please—"
"shh." he kisses your stomach. "i'll give ya' what y'want."
he moves down your body, his lips leaving a trail of fire. he kisses your hips, your thighs, the inside of your knees. by the time he reaches your core, you're trembling, desperate, aching.
and then his tongue touches you.
you cry out, your hands flying to his hair. he laps at you like a man starved, his tongue sliding through your folds, circling your clit, dipping inside you. he moans against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your body.
"taste s'good," he mutters against your skin. "could eat ya' forever."
he sucks your clit into his mouth, and you scream. your hips buck against his face, but he holds you down, his massive hands gripping your thighs. he alternates between sucking and licking, building a rhythm that has you climbing higher and higher.
"that's it," he praises. "let go f'me...lemme taste ya'."
his fingers find your entrance, sliding inside you without warning. two fingers, thick and long, stretching you. he curls them, hitting a spot that makes you see stars, and you shatter.
you come with a scream of his name, your body convulsing as waves of pleasure crash through you. he doesn't stop. he laps at you through your orgasm, drawing it out until you're sobbing from the intensity.
when you finally come down, he crawls up your body, his lips finding yours. you taste yourself on his tongue, and it's the most intimate thing you've ever experienced.
"m-more," you whisper. "m'want more."
his eyes—you can feel them—search your face.
"are you sure? we can stop. we can—"
"i'm sure." you reach for him, your fingers finding his chest. "i want you...please."
he hesitates. you feel the tension in his muscles, the restraint he's barely holding onto.
"m'bigger than ya'," he says, matter of factly. "a lot bigger. and i have...i have two dicks, woman. i don't know if—"
"i don't care." you pull him closer. "i trust you."
he groans, pressing his forehead against yours.
"if it hurts too much, tell me. and i'll stop."
"okay."
"promise me."
"i promise."
he shifts above you, and you feel something heavy and thick press against your thigh. and then another. two cocks. the thought should terrify you, but instead, it sends a thrill through your body.
he aligns himself with your entrance, and you feel the tip pressing against you. he's huge—so much bigger than his fingers—and you wonder if you can actually take him.
"relax f'me," he murmurs. "breathe."
you inhale deeply, and he pushes in.
just the tip, and you gasp. he's stretching you in a way that's almost unbearable. it hurts. there's a burning sensation, a pressure that's too much and not enough.
"shh," he soothes. "you're doing s'well. so good f'me."
he pushes deeper, inch by agonizing inch. you feel your body struggling to accommodate him, your walls clenching around his length. and then—
a sharp pain.
fuck...you forgot.
you cry out, your nails digging into his shoulders. he stops immediately.
"did i hurt ya'?"
you can't answer. the pain is fading, replaced by a strange fullness. you feel something wet trickle down your thigh. warm. sticky.
blood.
his eyes slowly flicker down, and you can hear his breath stop. he's tense. too tense.
"fuck," he hisses. "you're—you're a fuckin' virgin?"
you nod weakly, biting your lip. your heart is pounding fast. loud. "is that...bad?"
"no." his voice is strained. "no, it's not bad. i just—fuck—i didn't know. i would have been more careful, woman."
"you are being careful," you whisper, fingers pressing into his shoulders "keep going."
"you're fuckin' bleeding."
"i don't care. please. i want to feel you." you sniffle. god, the pleasure is making you bold. too fucking bold.
he lets out a shaky breath. "you're going to kill me."
but he pushes deeper, slower this time. gentler. his lips find yours, kissing you softly as he sinks into you. the pain fades, replaced by a deep, aching fullness that makes you moan.
when he's fully sheathed, he stops. lets you adjust. his forehead presses against yours, his breath ragged.
"y'feel incredible," he breathes. "so tight. so...fuck...perfect."
"move," you beg. "please."
he pulls out slowly, then pushes back in. the friction is delicious, the stretch exquisite. he sets a rhythm—slow, deep, deliberate—each thrust hitting a spot that makes you see stars.
"ryomen," you gasp. "r-ryo—"
"i know," he murmurs. "i know, doll. feels s'good, doesn't it?"
"yes—yes—"
his hand slides down your stomach, pressing against the slight bulge where he's buried inside you. the feeling makes you moan.
"look at that," he says, awe in his voice. "you can feel me, can't ya'? right here."
he presses down, and you feel it—the outline of him inside you. it's obscene. it's incredible.
"more," you gasp. "harder—"
"y'sure?"
"yes—please—"
he obliges. his pace quickens, his thrusts becoming more urgent. the bed creaks beneath you, the sound mixing with your moans and his grunts.
"gonna come," he warns. "where do you want it?"
"inside," you gasp. "please—i want to feel you—"
he groans, his hips slamming into yours. and then he's coming, hot and thick, filling you so completely. you feel it—his release pouring into you, painting your walls, claiming you from the inside. his cum is already trickling down your thigh, oozing out of your cunt.
at the same time, he's stroking his other cock. you feel the wet spurts hit your stomach, warm and sticky.
he collapses on top of you, careful not to crush you. his face buries in your neck, and you feel his breath, ragged and uneven.
"i love you," he whispers, gruff. it's funny. you've always thought the word love doesn't exist in his vocabulary. but here he is, saying it over and over again. "i love you so much it terrifies me."
you wrap your arms around him, pulling him closer.
"i love you too."
a long moment passes. then another. and then—
"we're going to do that again."
you laugh, breathless.
"right now?"
"after i clean you up." he kisses your neck. "and then again. and again. and again. until ya' can't walk."
"promise?"
he pulls back, and even though you can't see him, you know he's smirking.
"promise."
you're already half asleep when he pulls you against his chest, his arms wrapped around you like he's afraid you'll disappear. his lips press against your hair, your forehead, your eyelids.
"my wife," he murmurs. "my perfect, beautiful wife."
when your husband is supposed to be the rational one, you don’t expect to find him standing at the foot of the bed with his cock in his hand.
but that’s where satoru ends up. tank top pushed halfway up his ribs, belt hanging from one loop, pants around his knees. his fist works up and down the fat length of his cock in rough strokes, spit and precum smeared down to his balls. he’s staring at you the whole time, at the curve of your hip under the sheets, the flutter of your lashes against your cheek. pregnant. glowing. carrying his baby.
and he’s rutting into his hand like some desperate virgin.
the panties he stole from the laundry basket are bunched in his other hand, pressed to his face. he inhales it, shuddering so hard that the flimsy fabric trembles against his nose.
“baby—” the words rip out of him, pitched high. “smell so good... oh fuck...”
his cock is obscene. flushed dark, veins raised under the skin, the head slick enough to shine in the faint glow of the bedside lamp. precum drips in heavy strings down his balls, thick enough to coat his knuckles. every stroke drags more slick out of him—schlick, schlick, schlick.
he sucks at the fabric like it could feed him, panting between licks, nose buried deep so he could breathe you in while his tongue works. “god, i'd eat you out for days if i just—mnhm!—if i just had the chance...”
his hips snap forward into his own fist, cock smacking his stomach with each thrust. precum splatters onto his tank top, dripping onto the hardwoods.
disgusting. a husband rutting into his fist because he’s too scared to touch his pregnant wife.
but satoru can’t stop. he’s babbling now, words spilling fast and needy. “want it so bad—i’d worship you, i'd never stop—”
he chokes on a sob as his balls tighten up, cock jerking violently in his grip. the sound he makes is straight up humiliating: a high and euphoric whine.
cum spurts out in heavy ropes, painting his stomach, his abs, fist, and the floor. lewd, thick jets that won’t stop, spilling like his body is trying to empty years of frustration at once. it drips down the backs of his fingers, strings across his knuckles, sprays his shirt. he gasps, still pumping through it, cock twitching violently.
“ahh—too much...” more cum leaks out, drooling down his cock, streaking his thighs. his knees buckle and he braces one hand on the nightstand, forehead dropping against the wood with a hollow thud.
when it’s finally over, when the spurts slow to tiny dribbles, he’s still shaking so hard he can barely breathe. his cock still pulses against his stomach, half-hard like it doesn’t know how to stop.
and you’re still asleep, lips parted beautifully while he stands there.
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toji came through the door, taking his gym shoes off immediately. you were on the couch, blanket pulled to your chin. as you heard his heavy footsteps, you looked over the arm of the couch, meeting his own dark, mischief filled eyes. “no.” you said, beginning to sit up. “no, toji. get back.” you smiled, putting a hand out to distance him. “you didn’t miss me?” he said, a sleazy smile on his face. he stalked closer to you, looking through his eyelashes at your form. “don’t run from it, baby. come feel on me.”
before you could protest, he braced both of his hands beside your head, and laid his body weight on you. you smiled, trying to push him away, but ultimately failing. “toji, you smell.” you said, pressing your hands against his chest. “oh, i missed you baby. mm.. couldn’t stop thinking of you.” he murmured against your neck. “i was doing hip thrusts today. i thrusted how much you weigh.” he said, rubbing himself against you, almost like a dog trying to put its scent on something. “that’s when i thought of you.”
you felt something poking your inner thigh, and you scoffed. “you’re nasty.” you said. “i want you.” he mumbled, sitting up between your thighs. he took your hand, and guided it to his heavy bulge. “i trained. just for you.” he said, his voice in a mockingly pleading tone. he moaned as your hand kneaded his bulge, and he looked down at it, watching as you did so. he looked back down at you, biting his lip. “aren’t you proud of me? trained hard as shit so you don’t have to do any work when we’re fucking.” he said, pushing his damp hair off of his forehead.
he grabbed your hips, pulling them closer, so your covered crotch was flush against his bulge. he gave one slow thrust, and smiled. “i know you feel that.” he said, looking down as he began to slowly grind against you. “you don’t have to do anything, yknow. i can do all the work. like i usually do.” he teased, putting wet kisses all over the side of your neck. he grabbed your waist, and effortlessly maneuvered you, so you were straddling him. “it’s okay, baby. you can act like you don’t want it, but i know you do.” he cooed, running his hand down your stomach. he smirked, biting his lip as he noticed you trying to be subtle, as you “adjusted” your position on him.
“see? that’s my girl, always wanting this dick. it’s okay, baby. you don’t have to hide it.”
not realizing you’re talking to your ex-boyfriend!sukuna while drunk !
you were way too drunk and the sigma chi house was spinning.
the music thumped through the walls and your head felt light and fuzzy, but you were smiling anyway, red cup dangling from your fingers as you leaned against the wall for balance. your friends had disappeared ages ago and you didn’t really mind.
that’s when you saw him.
tall. pink hair. tattoos crawling up his arms. he looked really familiar but your drunk brain couldn’t connect the dots. you just knew he was stupidly hot standing there by the stairs with his arms crossed.
you stumbled over with a bright smile.
“hi,” you said, voice soft and sweet. “you have the prettiest eyes. like… scary pretty.”
sukuna looked down at you and his eyebrow raised, but he didn’t move away. the corner of his mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile.
“yeah?” he asked, voice low.
you nodded, stepping closer until you were leaning into his space. he smelled so good. warm and a little sweet, just like someone you used to know.
“mhm. my ex had eyes like yours,” you mumbled, resting your forehead against his arm because the room wouldn’t stop tilting. “he was mean looking but really nice to me. i miss him a lot actually.”
sukuna stayed quiet, one big hand coming up to steady you by the waist so you wouldn’t fall.
you kept talking, words spilling out easily now that someone was listening.
“we broke up because i thought he didn’t care enough but… he used to do the sweetest things. like bringing me coffee before class or letting me play with his hair even when he acted all tough about it.” you sighed softly. “i think i messed up. i still wear his hoodie to sleep sometimes.”
his grip on your waist tightened just a little.
“you’re drunk,” he murmured.
“super drunk,” you agreed with a little laugh, tilting your head up to look at him again. “but i mean it. he was the best. made me feel safe even when he was quiet and scary. you kinda look like him, it’s weird.”
sukuna let out a quiet breath that sounded almost like a laugh. he guided you through the crowd with a hand on your lower back, taking you upstairs without saying much. you didn’t even question it. his room felt familiar but everything was blurry.
he sat you on the edge of his bed and grabbed a bottle of water, crouching down in front of you so you could drink it. his hand rested gently on your knee the whole time.
“you’re really nice,” you whispered, eyes half closed. “my ex was nice like this too. when nobody else was looking.”
he didn’t answer right away. just brushed some hair out of your face with careful fingers and helped you lie down. when you reached out and grabbed his hand he paused.
“stay?” you asked softly.
sukuna sighed, but it was the soft kind. he sat on the edge of the bed and let you keep holding his hand, thumb rubbing slow circles over your knuckles while you drifted off.
“yeah,” he said quietly, watching you fall asleep in his bed again. “i’m not going anywhere.”
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