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@unsocialpixie04
new wallpaper oh em gee
find it right here
So fucking yummy omg.

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just saw your gojo twins x reader teaser omgggggggg your minddd🫡 im sooooo excited to read more!! 😝♥️ #amazing #incredible #iactuallyloveyourworksomuch
MUAH! MUAH! MUAH!!💋. Thank you so much for the support 🥹. I hope that I can do the twins justice I plan on making this one long and somewhat angsty 🤭. Don’t hate me I promise you’ll be “satisfied” by the end.
Summary: When you stop by the twins’ frat house for what should’ve been a harmless visit, you overhear a conversation that was never meant for your ears — a deal, your name, and the quiet, cutting words: “She wouldn’t know.” What starts as a deal between brothers turns into something far more volatile because curiosity burns, and twins share everything… don’t they?
A/N: guys I’m so proud of the banner I made 😭🤭 legit bought canva just for this so please hype it up 🤣🩷
(((THIS IS A TEASER!!!)))
You slow as you reach Sato’s door.
It’s cracked open just enough for light to spill into the hallway. You can hear their voices clearly. Low, tense, not playful the way they usually are.
“Sato this isnt just notes and tutoring. It’s identity Fraud. What if—“
Your hand freezes mid air.
You know that voice.
This voice is steady. Measured. Controlled.
Sato.
Your brows knit together slightly.
“What the fuck are they talking about.”
You don’t mean to listen.
You really don’t.
But your hand lowers slowly instead of knocking, fingers hovering uselessly near the wood as you lean a little closer.
“If what?” Toru says exasperated. “My grades are fucked man. Coach said if I bomb midterms I’m off the ice. No scholarships, no NHL, nothing.”
There’s a pause
You can picture Sato without even seeing him — standing straighter than he needs to, lip bitten, fingers worrying at the strap of his bag.
“Toru this is insane. His voice is softer, but strained. “You should’ve considered this before skipping half of your lectures.”
You’ve never heard Sato so worked up before. He’s sounds stressed…disappointed even.
It makes your chest tighten unexpectedly.
“My life is on the line man.” Toru snaps. “What could be more important than that? It’s just two weeks.” Toru continues. “Just go to my classes, sit where I sit, take the exams, it’s not like anyone can tell us apart”
“They can.” Sato says immediately.
That was fast.
Almost defensive.
Toru scoffs. “Stop overthinking it. We look exactly the same. Most people won’t even think twice. Just lose the glasses. Slouch less. Flash that pretty boy smile we both have. Easy.”
Your hear Sato sigh — long, heavy.
The hallway suddenly feels too narrow.
“He’s not actually considering this right?” You say softly.
Then— he speaks.
“What about her?”
Your breath catches so sharply it almost hurts.
There’s no name but you know who he means.
You.
Your ears start ringing, the air going thin and static around you.
Toru scoffs. “What about it?”
Your lips part slightly.
“What the fuck…”
You lean forward before you can stop yourself, peering through the small gap in the door..
There they were: identical white hair, identical sharp jawlines, identical blue eyes.
And yet.
Toru lounges on the bed like he’d already won, arms crossed, smirk lazy and wide. Like the world bends for him if he asks.
Sato stands rigid near the desk. Fingers twisting the strap of his backpack. Jaw tight enough to cut.
“You’re seeing her,” Sato adds carefully.
“I’m talking to her.”
“Is that not the same thing?” Sato asks, brows creasing.
“Bro,” Toru shrugs. “It’s not marriage. Relax.”
The air shifts.
It’s subtle
But you feel it
“This feels wrong man.” Sato says quietly. “She trusts you.”
The words hit you straight in the ribs.
Trusts you.
Your jaw tightens.
“Wrong would be me getting cut from the team and dragging us both down,” Toru replies. “Do this for me. For us. She never has to know.”
She never has to know.
Something inside your chest cracks a little at that.
Not shattered.
Just—
A clean, small fracture.
You notice everything. You always have.
The way Toru squeezes your waist a second longer when he’s jealous. The way Sato avoids your eyes when you laugh too close. The way their footsteps sound different in the hallway.
She won’t know.
The dismissal burns hotter than the betrayal.
There’s a long stretch of silence. You can hear your own pulse in your ears now.
He speaks.
“Fine. But only because your grades are tanking and I don’t want you to lose hockey.”
You flinch back from the door like you’ve touched a live wire. Toru had just sold you like spare equipment. And Sato—Sato, who once stayed after class to explain quantum mechanics because you said it “looked scary..”
Sato agreed.
Heat rushes up your neck.
Rage. Sharp. Bright.
Your nails press into your palm hard enough to sting. But beneath it Something else unfurls.
Slow.
Curious.
Sinful.
He said it felt wrong. He hesitated. And then he said yes. Why? For Toru? Or for something else?
Your breathing evens out slowly.
You smooth down your skirt with deliberate care. Adjust the flip of your curls over your shoulder. Roll your shoulders back.
The hallway smells faintly like detergent and cheap cologne.
You lift your chin.
“You wanna play…” you murmur under your breath.
A small smile curves your lips.
“…let’s play.”
You rearrange your face into something bright warm and harmless before lifting your hand and knocking gently.
Two soft knocks.
Silence inside.
Then quick movement. A chair scraping. A muttered curse.
The door swings open.
Toru is there all easy confidence, lazy grin already forming.
“Hey, pretty.”
He pulls you into him without hesitation, arm sliding around your waist like it belongs there.
He’s warm. Solid. Familiar.
You smile automatically dimples flashing.
“Miss me?” You asks teasingly.
“Always.”
Over his shoulder—
Sato.
He looks like someone just yanked the ground out from under him.
Posture too straight. Fingers flexing at his sides like he doesn’t know where to put them. His glasses slightly crooked. His breathing shallow enough that you can see the rise and fall of his chest from here.
His eyes fixate on you.
“You alright, Sato?” You ask sweetly.
Too sweet.
Toru’s arm is still warm around your waist, thumb resting lazily against your hip like it’s muscle memory. He smells like clean laundry and something sharp mint, maybe.
But you’re not looking at him.
You’re looking at Sato.
He blinks once.
Twice.
Like he’s rebooting.
“I’m fine,” he says, but it comes out a little thinner than usual. His voice is normally smooth. Grounded. Like it sits low in his chest and stays there. Right now it sounds like it climbed up his throat and lodged there.
You tilt your head just slightly.
“Are you sure?” you press, stepping out of Toru’s hold slowly not abruptly, just enough that the space shifts.
You don’t miss the way Sato’s eyes track the space torus hands leaves behind.
Not your face.
The absence of touch.
His fingers twitch.
“I didn’t know you were here,” he says instead.
There’s something careful about the way he says it. Like every word has to be inspected before it leaves his mouth.
“I didn’t know I needed an appointment,” you reply lightly.
Toru laughs.
“She doesn’t.”
You step further inside, letting the door click shut behind you.
The air feels different now.
Thicker.
The room smells like clean laundry, paper, and something distinctly boy.
“So,” you hum casually, though your pulse is anything but. “What were you guys talking about so intensely? Sounded serious.”
Sato stiffens.
Toru answers instantly. “Just school.”
“Mm?” you hum.
You walk over toward Torus desk casually, running your fingers along the wood like you belong there. Your skirt swishes softly against your thighs.
Sato swallows.
You step a little closer.
Close enough that he can probably smell your perfume now. Vanilla and something floral underneath. “You sure you’re okay?” you ask again, softer this time. Not teasing. Almost concerned.
His breath hitches.
Just barely.
Toru doesn’t catch it.
But you do.
“I’m fine,” Sato repeats.
His hands are clenched. Not tight enough to be obvious but Just enough that his knuckles pale slightly.
You glance down at them. Then back up at his face. His glasses are crooked. You reach up without thinking.
“Your glasses—”
Your fingers brush the frame to straighten them.
And he freezes.
Not dramatically.
Just—
Still.
Like every muscle in his body is suddenly hyperaware.
Your fingertips graze his temple.
Warm skin.
You feel his breath shift.
Behind you, Toru watches. Amused. He thinks this is harmless.
You step back slowly.
“There,” you smile. “Better.”
Sato nods once.
Too quick.
Toru drops back onto his bed, hands behind his head.
“You’re being weird,” he tells his brother lazily.
“Am not.”
“Are too.”
You giggle softly, but your eyes are studying.
Mapping. Comparing. You don’t know what game they’re playing yet. But you know one thing for sure—
You’re not collateral.
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fanfiction using characters from jujitsu kaisen (Toru and Sato are owned by their respective creators/studio). No copyright infringement is intended—this is purely for fun and non-profit. The original plot, reader character, and any new elements are mine (@unsocialpixie04). Please do not translate, or reproduce without permission. 18+ for eventual mature themes. 2026-2027
Thinking about writing a fic about the gojo twins and how they decide to prank fratjo’s girlfriend by having nerdjo pretend to be Y/N’s boyfriend but what they don’t know is that she overheard the two fools talking about it and now she’s going to give nerdjo the time of his life and maybe even try some things her and fratjo haven’t even had the chance too yet 🤭
Do you have a posting schedule? Coming back daily to check for DIA updates. You are so good at intensity 🖤
I actually don’t but I should definitely make one! I actually just started writing as a hobby to destress because of college and home life recently I wasn’t expecting my story to blow up at all 😭🙏🏾. It’s actually insane. Due to life being hectic currently I can’t exactly give you all a schedule yet but I can say with certainty I should have something new in 2 more days 🥹. Thank you so much for the love and support it truly means the world to me 😣💗 building tension is such an important thing to do before they actually get down to the business! It makes it hit that much harder.

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Oh my god I love your Simon fic...the way you write him is just soooo hot. Can't wait for more! You are hellah talented x
Tysm my love! 😭🫶🏾 I’m actually typing up part three as we speak. I’ve been slacking and working on other projects instead, but things will begin heating up in the next chapter hehe. I’ve literally been obsessed with him since the movie came out and it’s quickly become one of my comfort films. He’s just so baby boy, ugh I love him. I’m so grateful for your support! 🥰💗
𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚑𝚒𝚏𝚝
Summary: You’ve always been the third wheel—the “bro,” the girl who never learned how to be soft, growing up wild beside Sukuna and Toji. While you stayed the same in your own eyes, they noticed every way you changed. Familiarity turned charged, protection giving way to desire. You think nothing has changed; That they’re still your boys but something has already shifted.
Content warning: MDNI!!! Slow Burn, Jjk modern country AU, Pairings: Ryomen Sukuna x Toji Fushiguro x Black!reader, poly, threesome, asphyxiation, face fucking, anal, PinV, Double penetration, rimmjng, oral, fingering, squirting, overstim, praise/degredation, dubious consent, size difference, breeding kink (implied), nicknames (darling, doll, baby, etc)
WC: 10k+ (holy shit this is my longest one yet written for a lovely commenter of mine 🫶🏾💗 @sukuchohq happy early birthday!! I hope you love it 🥹)
☆・・・☆・・・☆ ・・・☆・・・☆・・・☆・・☆
The town of hollow creek sprawled out like a faded post card under the relentless southern sun—rows of of weathered shotgun houses with peeling paint, dirt roads that kicked up red dust clouds behind pick up trucks, and fields of cotton and corn stretching the horizon. It was the kind of place where time moved slow, like syrup in winter. Change came rare here, like rain in August, but when it hit it uprooted everything.
You, Sukuna, and Toji had grown up in this stifling bubble. Your paths crossing early and weaving tight. The three of you were inseparable—three feral kids running wild on the edge of town. You learned early how to work hard, speak plain, and mind your business unless it needed tending to.
You were 11, small but scrappy, solid in a way that came from work instead of sport—skin a deep umber tanned from summers spent working instead of resting, a head full curls you worse loose or pulled into puff without much thought. Usually fitted in hand me down overalls cut off at the knees and a faded tank top boots caked in mud. Clothes were chosen for comfort and longevity, not presentation. You cursed like the truckers who rolled through town, laughed with your whole body, and could outrun both boys across the pasture without breaking a sweat.
Sukuna was impossible to miss. Too big for his age at 13, all sharp smiles and reckless confidence, like the world existed to be conquered. His hair was pink; bright like the azaleas that bloomed every spring along the fence lines. Stubborn and out of place in a town that preferred things muted. Sukuna was anything but. Red eyes that burned with challenge and mischief, always daring someone to tell him no. If there was a bet, a dare, a stupid risk—he was in first, dragging you and Toji behind him like it was his birthright.
Toji was the opposite kind of striking. Quiet. Watchful. Raven hair that fell into his eyes no matter how often he pushed it back, emerald green gaze steady and unsettling in focus. He spoke rarely but when did, it mattered. He’d follow you and Sukuna into whatever dumb idea was brewing, silent until the last second, then drop a single dry comment that made you both crack up. Only you two ever got real words out of him; everyone else got grunts or that same penetrating stare.
You ran wild together, feral and unsupervised claiming the edges of hollow creek as your own. Rolling down hills inside rusted tractor tires until the world spun. Wading through creeks in the thick of summer, splashing water onto hot skin daring each other to go deeper. Sitting shoulder to shoulder on cracked concrete steps, sharing popsicles that stained your tongues bright colors, arguing over who deserves the last bite.
Being together was easy. Natural. Like gravity doing what it was meant to do. You guys never grew apart. You just grew up.
☆・・・☆・・・☆ ・・・☆・・・☆・・・☆・・☆
Hollow creek didn’t change much in the years that followed. Same red dirt roads, same fields bending under the sun; but the three of you did. Slowly. Quietly. In ways that crept up on you without asking permission.
Time worked on Sukuna and Toji the way it worked on the land—slow, unforgiving, and thorough.
Sukuna came back from boyhood like he’d been rebuilt from the ground up. Twenty-one and towering now, six-five thick with muscle. Broad shoulders, heavy chest, arms roped with strength earned under the sun and through sheer stubbornness.
His face told the rest of the story. An aquiline nose gave him a sharp predatory profile and one eye just one now burned red like blood in a fresh cut. The other he’d lost years back, bucked clean off a horse he’d been too stubborn to quit breaking, the kick catching him square in the face. It left him scarred and hollowed on one side, the damage doing nothing but deepen the menace in him.
Toji grew as well. Six three and lean, cut down to sinew and muscle like a blade sharpened too many times. His body was a map of old damage—scars scattered across his skin from fights, work, and things no one ever explained. There was a large cut splitting his top and lower lip, deep, permanent. When you asked once where it came from, he’d just smiled and said, “If I told you, I’d have to kill ya.”
His eyes were the same piercing green they’d always been, bright and unsettling against sun-kissed skin, watching everything without ever giving much back. A straight, perfect nose, plump lips that curved easily into that lazy smirk, like he knew how dangerous he looked and enjoyed letting people forget it for half a second. He moved relaxed, hands loose, posture easy—but it was the kind of ease that came from knowing he could handle whatever came next.
They were men now. Fully, undeniably so.
And then there was you.
By the time you were grown-eighteen and solid in a way that had nothing to do with softness anymore; your body filled out like it finally knew you were a girl. Thighs thick from long days on your feet, a waist that curved like an ice cold glass of cola, your chest no longer something you could ignore or flatten beneath loose shirts. Your mama kept buying you “lady clothes” flouncy skirts, blouses with buttons; but you’d hack them up the second her back was turned. You dressed the same. Lived the same. Moved through the world with the same unbothered confidence.
That was the problem.
Because Sukuna and Toji noticed.
Not all at once, not dramatically either. It started in fragments—half seconds that lingered too long, silences where there hadn’t been any before.
Hands that hesitated before touching her, then didn’t touch her at all.
That was new.
The summer deepened, thick and punishing. The afternoon sun beat down on the ranch like it was trying to bake the ground solid. It was one of those brutal late-summer days where the air felt thick enough to chew. You’d spent the morning hauling hay bales, sweat soaking through your faded white tank. By midday, you were done; sticky, miserable, and cranky as hell.
You’d dragged the old sprinkler out from behind the barn like you always had as kids. The hose coughed and sputtered before water finally burst free, arcing wild and bright in the sun.
“Finally” you muttered kicking off your muddied boots. You didn’t look back to see if they were following. You never did.
“C’mon,” you’d said, already sprinting into the spray. “Ain’t no reason to be sufferin’ like this.”
Cold water hit you hard, soaking through your white tank top in seconds. You gasped, then laughed, loud and full bodied spinning straight into the spray like you were nine again.
Your shirt clung to you immediately, heavy and darkened, fabric plastered to skin. Water ran down the slope of your shoulders, traced lines over your chest, your stomach, disappearing into the waistband of your shorts. the dark peaks of your nipples hardening instantly from the cold. They stood out stark against the wet white cotton—pebbled, obvious, impossible to miss.
You wiped your face with the back of your hand and turned to them. “Y’all comin’ or just standin’ there starin’ like fools?”
You ran through the water again, arms lifted curls slicking down against your neck. You wiped your face blinking the water away—and that’s when you noticed the quiet.
Too quiet.
Sukuna stood near the fence, hands braced on his hips, head tilted slightly like he was assessing something new. His grin was there, but it wasn’t playful. It was slower. Calculated.
Sukuna’s grin came a beat too late.
“Damn,” he drawled, dragging the word out lazy.
“Didn’t know the show was free.”
You snorted. “Please. Ain’t seen nothin’ you ain’t already.”
That was true—technically.
But it wasn’t the same anymore, and all three of you knew it.
Toji hadn’t moved at all.
He stood in the shade of the barn, broad shoulders still, green eyes locked on you with an intensity that made your laughter taper off. His gaze tracked the way the water ran down your chest, followed the dip of your waist, the flex of your thighs as you shifted your weight. When you caught him looking, his gaze didn’t dart away like it used to. He just held it. Steady. Heavy.
It made something twist low in your stomach, sharp and unfamiliar.
You frowned, glancing down at yourself, then back up at them. “What?” you asked. “Y’all actin’ like I grew a second head.”
Sukuna let out a low huff of a laugh. “Just didn’t expect you to start puttin’ on performances.”
You snorted, slightly puzzled. “Please. Ain’t nothin’ different.”
You turned back into the spray, dismissing the way your skin prickled under their attention.
Behind you, Sukuna’s jaw tightened.
That’s the problem, he thought. You really believe that.
You bent to adjust the sprinkler, water running down your spine, trickling down the smooth apex of your thighs. Continuing like nothing changed.
Toji shifted his stance, subtle, controlled but his body reacted anyway. Heat coiled low and sharp, unwelcome and undeniable twitching in his denim. He folded his arms tighter, like he could restrain himself through sheer force of will.
They looked away before they did something stupid.
It didn’t stop there.
Later that evening, the three of you sat on the porch steps like always, sweat still clinging to skin, the air finally cooling enough to breathe. You tore open a popsicle with your teeth and leaned back on your hands, dark legs stretched out.
Cherry.
“That old man has to be up to some shady shit, there’s no way—“
You sucked the melting ice down without thinking, plump lips closing around it slow, distracted. Juice ran down your wrist, wet, sticky, and bright against your skin.
Sakuna stopped talking mid sentence.
Toji’s eyes flicked to your mouth before he could stop himself.
You noticed the silence this time.
“….why are yall lookin’ at me like that?” You asked brows knit together in confusion.
Sukuna tilted his head, red eyes glinting. “Like what?”
Huffin in frustration you turned to Toji. “You too.”
He swallowed gaze dropping to your hand. “You’re making a mess.”
“So?” You lifted your wrist and licked it clean, quick and careless. “Ain’t your porch.”
Sukuna exhaled through his nose, something dark and amused curling in his chest. He leaned closer, elbows resting on his knees, invading your space just enough that you flinched.
“You do a lotta things,” he said lightly, “without thinkin’ how they look.”
You scoffed. “To who?”
His eyes met yours, sharp and unblinking. “Us.”
That… landed wrong.
You shifted, unease curling low in your stomach. “Since when do y’all care?”
Toji finally spoke, voice quiet but firm. “Since you stopped bein’ a kid.”
The words hit harder than they should have.
You laughed it off, too quick. “Y’all are ridiculous.”
But neither of them laughed with you.
Sukuna reached out then; slow, deliberate, and wiped his thumb along your wrist where juice still clung. His touch lingered half a second too long.
Your breath caught.
There it was.
That feeling.
Sharp. Clear. Wrong.
You pulled your hand back, staring at him. “The fuck was that?”
Sukuna smiled, all teeth and patience. “Relax. Just helpin’.”
Toji watched your reaction closely, memorizing it. The stiffening of your shoulders. The way your eyes searched their faces now, wary.
She’s startin’ to see it, he realized. Too late.
You stood abruptly, heart thudding. “I’m headin’ inside.”
Neither of them stopped you.
But as you walked away, you could feel it—two pairs of eyes on your back, heavy and intent, like hands you couldn’t shake.
For the first time in your life, being between them didn’t feel safe.
It felt inevitable.
☆・・・☆・・・☆ ・・・☆・・・☆・・・☆・・☆
Life went on the way it always had—work, heat, long evenings spent killing time on porches and tailgates. You kept dressing the same, moving the same, laughing loud and free like nothing had shifted beneath your feet.
But something had.
You needed to breathe.
So when Sukuna suggested the old drive-in one Friday night, you didn’t think twice.
The drive-in sat just past the edge of town, the screen cracked and ghostly against the sky, weeds creeping through the gravel like the place was being reclaimed inch by inch. Folks still came on weekends, Trucks lined up crooked, radios crackling with tinny sound.
It felt safe. Familiar.
Toji drove. His pickup rumbled steady beneath you, the cab warm even with the windows down. You sat in the middle, like you always had, knees brushing both of theirs when the road dipped. Sukuna lounged to your right, one arm slung lazily across the back of the seat. Toji’s presence pressed solid and quiet at your left.
You’d dressed different tonight.
A yellow babydoll dress—soft, light, catching the breeze. Ruffled straps sat on your shoulders, The square neckline dipped just enough to show the shape of you when you breathed. Your legs were bare, feet tucked up on the seat, shoes kicked off and forgotten somewhere in the truck bed. Your hair was slicked back into a low bun, edges neat, lip gloss catching the light when you smiled.
You felt good. Pretty, even.
They noticed immediately.
Sukuna’s eyes dragged over you slow and appreciative. “Well damn,” he said, amused. “Look at you.”
You rolled your eyes, but heat crept up your neck. “Shut up.”
Toji said nothing. He just adjusted his grip on the wheel, knuckles whitening briefly, jaw set.
She don’t dress like this, he thought.
She knew what she was doin’. Or maybe she didn’t.
That uncertainty dug under his skin worse than intention ever could.
The movie started, sound crackling through the speaker hooked to the window. The night was thick, humid, smelling like cut grass and gasoline. Fireflies blinked in the dark.
Sukuna shifted first.
His knee pressed into your thigh, deliberate but subtle. His hand followed, settling on your thigh like it belonged there. His thumb traced an absent circle, lazy, unbothered.
You stiffened.
Toji’s hand came up next—just a brush at first, fingers skimming the back of your neck where your hair left skin exposed. You sucked in a breath before you could stop yourself. It was light, almost thoughtless. Like he’d done a hundred times before.
Except he didn’t stop.
His touch lingered.
Warm. Anchoring.
Your heart kicked harder, heat crawling up your spine. The cab felt smaller, air thick and close, your skin suddenly too sensitive to every point of contact.
You glanced between them, “yall good?”
Sukuna chuckled, low. Hand still caressing your thigh. “Just gettin’ comfortable, doll.”
The word made something spark unpleasantly in your chest.
Toji’s hand slid from your neck, then without warning, curled there again, firmer this time. Not rough. Not gentle either. Just there. Possessive in a way that made your pulse jump.
He leaned in, close enough that his breath brushed your ear.
He said your name. “Y/N.” It came out deep gravelly curling somewhere deep.
Not teasing.
Not fond.
Serious. Grounded. Like he needed you to hear it.
You laughed, a little breathless, eyes dropping to the floorboard. “What?”
Your breath came shallow, uneven, chest rising too fast for the space you were in.
Toji’s hand was still at the nape of your neck when he spoke again.
“You know we want you,” he said.
Not a question.
The words landed low and heavy, sinking straight through you. Your body reacted before your mind could catch up—a full tremor running through you, sharp and involuntary. You felt a sharp, pulsing ache bloom between your thighs. Your fingers curled into the hem of your dress as if to anchor yourself.
You lifted your eyes to him.
Toji was looking at you like he’d already made peace with this moment. Green gaze steady, unflinching, pinned on you with a seriousness that made your stomach drop.
He wasn’t testing you.
He was telling you.
You swallowed hard, pulse roaring in your ears. “You—” A shaky laugh escaped you. “Y’all are messin’ with me.”
You squeezed your eyes shut for a second, feeling the way your pulse was thrumming in your throat, in your wrists, and deep in your belly. You felt slick, honey-heavy, and completely exposed.
Sukuna’s fingers tightened on your thigh. His thumb didn't just circle your thigh anymore; it hooked into the hem of your dress, his knuckles grazing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh.
“No,” he said softly. “We ain’t.”
The cab felt unbearably hot now. The vinyl seat stuck to your skin, the air thick with the sound of your breathing. Your heart hammered so hard it felt like it might give you away.
“Look at me and say it," Sukuna challenged, his voice a low, gravelly hum. Beneath the denim of his jeans, you could see the hard, unmistakable ridge of his arousal pressing against his fly—unyielding and hungry. "Tell us you don't feel it”
Toji leaned closer, forehead nearly touching yours. “You feel it,” he murmured. “Don’t lie.”
Your lips parted. No words came out.
The truth of it hit harder than anything else.
You did.
Toji didn't move his hand from your neck, but his thumb traced the line of your jaw, eyes staring into your soul. His own breathing was shallow, his broad chest rising and falling in a jagged rhythm. His jeans were strained, body wound tight like a spring.
Toji leaned in once more, breath hot against your ear. “Just say the word baby”
The silence stretched, thick and electric. Your body felt too awake, nerves buzzing, breath caught somewhere high in your chest.
You could still say no.
You knew that.
But the realization settled in with terrifying clarity—you didn’t want to.
Your voice came out quiet, shaky. “If I say yes…”
“…then we’re going to take you, tonight no running,” Toji finished. Calm. Certain.
Your heart suttered.
Once.
Twice.
You nodded.
Both of them reacted at once—Sukuna letting out a low, broken moan under his breath, Toji’s grip tightening like he needed something solid to hold onto.
Toji moved first.
His hand slid from your neck to your jaw, tilting your face up with unmistakable intent. He didn’t rush it. Gave you a heartbeat, just one, to pull away.
You didn’t.
His mouth met yours deep and unyielding, a kiss that swallowed the breath from your lungs. It wasn’t gentle. It was controlled, grounding, like he’d been holding this back for far too long.
You tasted the faint bitterness of cheap whiskey and the salt of his skin. His tongue swept into your mouth, deep and demanding, slick and hot as it tangled with yours. Your hands came up instinctively, clutching his shirt, the world narrowing down to heat and pressure and the way his presence filled you completely.
The sound of it was wet, obscene. The sliding of his tongue against yours and the messy, desperate suction of your tongue echoed loudly in the quiet cab.
You let out a muffled whimper into his mouth, your fingers digging into the muscle of his shoulders. You felt his body jump, a low growl vibrating from his chest into your own.
When he pulled back, your lips were swollen and slick breath ragged and hanging open as you fought for air.
Sukuna didn’t give you time to recover.
He cupped your face with both hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks, eyes burning with something dark and intense. “My turn.”
His kiss was different; Hungrier, all sharp edges and teasing pressure, mouth coaxing and claiming in equal measure. He nipped at your bottom lip, his tongue darting out to lick the sting away before plunging back in.
He tasted like heat. The way his tongue moved was deliberate, swirling against yours with a technique that made your toes curl and your head fall back against the seat. You melted into it despite yourself, a soft sound slipping from your throat before you could stop it.
When he finally pulled away, you were dizzy, pupils blown, heart racing, with skin on fire. He looked down at his own lap, cock straining against the material. "See what you do to us, Y/N?" he rasped, his voice breaking.
Toji reached out, his hand ghosting over the curve of your hip, his knuckles brushing the fabric of your dress. He didn't say another word. He just turned the key, the engine's roar vibrating through the floorboards.
Nothing was going to be the same after tonight.
☆・・・☆・・・☆ ・・・☆・・・☆・・・☆・・☆
The truck rumbled to a stop in front of Sukuna’s farmhouse, engine ticking as it cooled in the humid night air. The ride back had been silent—thick, electric silence broken only by the occasional bump in the road or the scrape of a shoe against the floorboard. No one spoke, no one needed to. The kisses at the drive-in had cracked something open, and now the tension sat heavy in your lap like a live wire.
Toji killed the engine. Sukuna swung his legs out first, boots hitting the dirt with a soft thud. Without a word, he rounded the truck, yanked open your door, and lifted you easily under the arms, like you weighed nothing at all. Your bare feet touched the cool ground, the hem of your dress fluttering in the warm night breeze.
Toji followed, locking the truck behind him, green eyes never leaving you.
They walked you to the front door, Sukuna’s arm snug around your waist, Toji’s hand resting at the small of your back. The porch light buzzed overhead, casting long shadows that stretched across the boards. The key slid into the lock with a soft click, the door swinging open.
Inside, the door shut behind you.
The air was cooler here, faintly scented with pine cleaner and the lingering smoke from Sukuna’s last cigarette. The living room was dark, only the pale glow of the moon filtering through the windows.
No lights, no noise—just the three of you.
You could feel them. The weight of Sukuna’s gaze on your side, Toji’s intensity pressing at your back. Your pulse hammered in your ears, shallow and uneven, as if the quiet itself had a pulse and it matched yours. You took a slow, deliberate breath, trying to steady yourself, but the air felt thick, warm, and heavy, like it carried the memory of the drive-in with it.
One heartbeat. Two.
Then they moved.
Sukuna was fast. His hands were on you before you could draw a full breath. His hands hooked under the hem of your baby doll dress, the soft yellow fabric bunching in his large calloused hands. In one fluid motion he flipped it up and over your head. The fabric caught briefly on your bun, then slid free, leaving you bare except for the soaked cotton panties clinging to your hips.
No bra. Your breasts spilled out heavy; dark nipples already tight from the cool air and the anticipation of what’s to come.
Sukuna’s single crimson eye drank you in like he was starving. “No bra,” he growled, voice low and reverent. “Knew it, Just waiting for us to see you.” Sukuna murmured, his voice a dark, satisfied purr.
Toji was already behind you, fingers hooking the waistband of your panties. He dragged them down slow, deliberate, letting the wet fabric peel away from your skin with a soft, sticky sound. The cotton was drenched, clinging to your folds before snapping free.
“God, Y/N,” Toji rasped, his voice vibrating against your core. “Soaked through, knew you were fucking dripping.”
You stood there naked, trembling, heart slamming against your ribs. The front hallway felt too small, too quiet, their presence filling every inch of space around you.
Sukuna stepped in close—6’5 of solid muscle pressed to your back, he filled his hands with your breasts, fingers sinking into the soft heavy weight of them. He began to massage them with a rhythmic, bruising pressure, thumbs flicking over your dark nipples until a sharp, needy ache radiated down to your core.
“These are perfect,” he said, voice almost reverent. “Heavy. Soft. Been dreamin’ about gettin’ my mouth on ’em since the day you grew ’em.”
He leaned down, sucking one nipple into his mouth. Hot, wet suction that made your knees buckle. His tongue swirled rough circles, teeth grazing just enough to sting. His other hand massaged the neglected breast, rolling the nipple between calloused fingers, pinching lightly, tugging. The dual sensation shot straight to your core, sharp, sweet, making your thighs clench and fresh slick drip down your inner thigh.
Toji’s fingers traced the curve of your belly, his rough callouses catching on your skin. He didn't go for the prize immediately. He kissed his way down your stomach, leaving hot, wet trails on your skin. He nipped at your hip bones, his teeth marking the soft flesh of your inner thighs, making you whimper and arch your back.
You were shaking overwhelmed, dizzy, every touch amplified by the beer haze and the years of tension finally snapping. Your hands flew to Sukuna’s pink tufts, fingers tugging gently, trying to steady yourself.
Sukuna groaned against your breast—deep, primal—before releasing it with a wet pop. his own arousal leaking a dark stain through his jeans as he watched Toji worship you. Sukuna swapped places with him, unable to contain himself. He kissed down your sternum, slow, deliberate open-mouthed, leaving a trail of heat. His hands slid to your hips, gripping hard enough to bruise. He dropped to his knees in front of you. 6’5 frame folding like he was worshipping at an altar.
He looked up at you single eye dark, glinting with something feral and revenant. “Fuck,” he breathed, voice hoarse. “Look at this pussy. Pretty. Swollen. Drippin’ for us.”
He spread you open with his thumbs gentle but firm; baring your clit and folds to the cool air. You whimpered, thighs trembling. He leaned in nose brushing your clit and inhaled deep, slow, like he was memorizing the scent. His groan was guttural, almost pained. “Smells so goddamn good,” he muttered. “So sweet, mine.”
Then he dove in.
His tongue was hot, flat, rough; dragging a long, slow stripe from your entrance to your clit. The texture was overwhelming a coarse drag over your oversensitive bud, making your hips jerk hard. He didn’t tease; he devoured. Lips sealed around your clit, sucking it into his mouth with firm, pulsing suction that made your vision white out. His tongue flicked fast underneath quick, merciless little lashes while he sucked harder, pulling the swollen pearl deeper.
Toji was right there, stepping back into your space, his hands moving to your breasts to continue where Sukuna left off. He pinched your nipples, rolling them between his fingers as he watched Sukuna work. You screamed raw and broken back bowing so violently Toji had to hold you up. It was too much, too intense, the suction bordering on pain, the pleasure so sharp it felt like it was ripping you open.
He added a finger thick, rough, pushing in slow alongside his tongue. The stretch was brutal your walls fluttering helplessly around him, still spasming from the earlier orgasm. You’d never had anything inside like this—his middle finger alone was longer than your own, thicker too, the calloused knuckle scraping gently against your walls as he pushed in to the first joint, then deeper.
Your nails dug into Toji’s bicep crescents biting deep into the hard muscle while your other hand flew to Sukuna’s hair, tugging hard at the pink strands. A broken gasp tore from your throat. “Wait—fuck—it’s too much—”
“Shhh,” Toji soothed against your temple, but there was no mercy in it. His mouth found your neck hot, open kisses trailing down to the hollow of your throat, then teeth grazing. He sucked hard pulling a bruise to the surface then bit down just enough to sting. Your back arched, pushing your breast further into his palm. He rewarded you with a slow lick over the mark.
The dual assault made your vision blur.
Sukuna’s finger curled inside you slow at first, testing, exploring then hooked upward with deliberate pressure. The pad of his finger pressed against a spongy, raised spot deep inside, one you’d never reached yourself. The sensation hit like lightning sharp, electric, making your whole body jolt. A loud, broken moan tore from your throat, his name spilling out in a slurred, desperate cry: “K-Kuna—ghh!”
Sukuna froze for a split second then his eye widened, glinting with something dark and triumphant. “Fuck,” he breathed, voice low and velvet. “That’s it, huh? Right there doll? That’s the spot?”
He didn't give you a second to answer. He curled his finger again relentless, precise. Rubbing that swollen ridge over and over, slow drags at first, then faster, harder, pressing in deep circles that made your walls spasm violently around him.
The pressure built fast too fast an intense, unfamiliar fullness low in your belly, like something was swelling, pushing, demanding release. It felt like you needed to pee, but deeper, hotter, more urgent. Your thighs shook, hips jerking away instinctively even as your pussy clenched harder around his finger.
“Stop—fuck—Kuna, stop,” you gasped, voice cracking with panic. “Somethin’s—somethin’s wrong—it feels funny—I can’t—”
Toji leaned in, his sweat-slicked forehead pressing against yours. His hands moved to your face, cupping your cheeks, forcing you to look into his steady, intense eyes.
“Don’t you dare stop,” Toji commanded, his voice a low, grounding rumble. He looked down at Sukuna, who was only working harder, his fingers buried deep and moving like a blur. Then Toji looked back at you. “It’s okay, baby. Don’t fight it. Just let go. Give it to us.
“Nah,” Sukuns growled “You’re gonna take it. Gonna make you feel every fuckin’ thing. Let it happen, darlin’.”
The pressure peaked. You felt your internal muscles seize around Sukuna’s fingers, a sharp, electric tension snapping through your entire body. You tried to pull away, but Toji held you firm, his thumbs stroking your jaw. Sukuna’s hair was fisted tight in your hand, pulling him closer even as you sobbed, “Please—stop—I’m gonna—fuck—”
“Let go, Y/N,” Toji whispered.
You broke.
A high, shattered cry tore from your throat as your body buckled. A hot, wet gush erupted squirting in forceful pulses, soaking Sukuna’s hand, face and chest as you squirted over his moving fingers. Your hips jerked uncontrollably, thighs shaking, vision spotting white as the release tore through you in wave after blinding wave. It wasn’t just an orgasm; it was a flood messy, uncontrollable, leaving you gasping, trembling, utterly wrecked.
Sukuna didn't pull away. He stayed there, licking every drop of you off his lips with a low, broken moan of triumph. “Fuck—yes. Look at that. Squirtin’ all over my fingers like a good girl. Knew you had it in ya.” He looked up, his face glistening, eyes burning with dark satisfaction.
Toji released your nipple with a wet pop, kissing up your neck to murmur against your ear. “That’s our girl. Makin’ such a mess for us. So fuckin’ pretty when you lose it.”
You were limp, sobbing, shaking, slick dripping down your thighs helpless under their hands.
And they weren’t done.
☆・・・☆・・・☆ ・・・☆・・・☆・・・☆・・☆
Sukuna didn’t give you a chance to find your feet as he began carrying you down the narrow hallway toward the master bedroom. He scooped you up like you weighed nothing, one arm under your knees, the other cradling your back, your bare body pressed flush against his clothed chest. Your arms looped instinctively around his neck, face buried in the crook of his neck , breathing in the scent of him: clean sweat, faint iron from the butcher shop, and something darker, smokier, like cedar and gunpowder. Your legs dangled, still trembling from the hallway, slick cooling on your inner thighs.
Toji followed close behind boots heavy on the hardwood locking the front door with a quiet click that felt final.
Sukuna carried you straight to his room at the end of the hall. The door was already half-open; he shouldered it wider and stepped inside.
The room smelled like him stronger here, concentrated. Old wood, sun-warmed linen, a faint trace of motor oil from the tools he kept on the dresser. The bed was unmade dark sheets rumpled, a single pillow shoved against the headboard. A cracked window let in the night breeze, carrying the scent of cut grass and distant hay.
The walls were bare except for a single shelf of old vinyl records and a faded poster of some vintage muscle car pinned above the dresser. No clutter. Just functional, lived-in, masculine in a way that made your stomach flip.
He lowered you onto the bed sheets your deep mahogany skin a stunning contrast against the charcoal linens. The bed was cool against your overheated skin as he stepped back.
You propped yourself on your elbows, chest heaving, eyes wide and glassy. They stood at the foot of the bed, silhouetted against the hallway light.
Sukuna went first. He peeled his shirt off, muscles flexing, tattoos rippling across his chest and arms. The black lines crawled over his pecs, wrapped his biceps, trailed down his ribs in jagged patterns ancient, brutal, beautiful. He was shredded, his muscles corded and hard, with a deep V-line that disappeared into his low-slung jeans.
He shoved those down next cock springing free, heavy and proud. Eight inches, thick from root to tip, uncircumcised foreskin pulled back slightly to reveal the plum-red head already glistening and weeping with a bead of pre-come. Veins stood out along the shaft, deep tan skin flushed darker with arousal. It bobbed with his heartbeat, curving slightly upward, intimidating in its size and readiness.
Your breath caught. Jesus. You’d seen him shirtless before, but never like this..never hard, never for you. Your mouth went dry, thighs pressing together instinctively as a fresh gush of slick leaked out.
Toji was slower; methodical. He tugged his shirt over his head, revealing a body built for violence: broad shoulders, stacked abs, happy trail of dark hair leading straight down from his navel. Scars crisscrossed his skin old knife wounds, bullet grazes, one long slash across his ribs.
He shoved his jeans down next cock springing free, and while slightly shorter at seven inches, he was terrifyingly thick; the girth of a beer can, stretching his skin tight. Circumcised head flushed pale pink against the thick shaft. Trimmed black hair at the base, heavy balls hanging low. It stood rigid, veins bulging, pre-cum already beading at the tip.
You stared heart hammering, mouth watering despite the fear twisting in your gut. They were massive. Beautiful. Terrifying.
Sukuna didn't wait. He climbed onto the bed, his weight making the mattress dip as he crawled toward your face. He grabbed your jaw, his thumb forcing your mouth open wide. “You’ve been staring at it since the truck, doll. Let’s see how that throat handles it.” Toji settled between your thighs, spreading you wide again.
Sukuna gripped your jaw gentle but firm tilting your face up. “Open,” he ordered, voice low and rough.
You did—lips parting, tongue tentative.
He slapped his cock against your tongue once, twice, three times; hot, heavy smacks that left pre-cum strings connecting your mouth to his tip. The scent was overwhelming musky, salty, thick with male arousal. He rutted against your face next dragging the length along your cheek, smearing pre-cum across your skin, groaning low at the sight. “Fuck—look at that. My dick on your pretty face. Been dreamin’ about this.”
Your cheeks burned humiliation and heat twisting together. Your cunt clenched empty, slick dripping onto the sheets.
“Open wide,” he growled.
You obeyed.
He pushed in slow head stretching your lips wide, salty taste flooding your mouth. He didn’t stop; inch by thick inch. You felt your throat stretching, the raw, biological urge to gag fighting against the desperate need to please him. He kept feeding you more until your nose pressed to his pubic bone, face flush against him. Your throat convulsed gagging hard, eyes watering instantly. The stretch was brutal jaw aching, throat burning, the size making it impossible to breathe.
Sukuna groaned deep jaw clenched, single eye squeezed shut, head tipped back in ecstasy. “Fuck—your throat. So tight n’ warm Takin’ me like a good little slut.”
He held you there nose buried in his trimmed hair, balls resting against your chin for long seconds. Your vision splotched, lungs burning, panic flaring as black spots danced at the edges. Your hands flew to his thighs, nails digging in, body jerking.
He loved it groaning louder, hips rutting shallowly. “That’s it—choke on it. Tears runnin’ down that pretty face, spit drippin’ all over them tits. Fuckin’ perfect doll.” He held you there, letting you feel the full weight and length of him. When he finally pulled back, you coughed and sputtered, a string of spit connecting your mouth to his cock. You heaved for air—chest rising and falling, tears streaming.
Ten seconds.
Then he was back thrusting full force, fucking your throat like he owned it. Gags turned wet and sloppy gurgling sounds filling the room, spit bubbling, running in rivers down your chest.
As Sukuna dominated your senses, Toji moved behind you. He grabbed your ankles, dragging you toward him until your hips were flush against him. His cock slick from pre rested heavy against your cunt hot and twitching. “Gonna fill you up, darlin’,” he murmured, voice low and wrecked. “Both of us. You ready for that?”
Toji leaned over you hands spreading your thighs wider, thumbs parting your folds again. He lined up plum-red tip nudging your entrance and pushed in slow. He didn't rush. the sheer girth of him making you let out a muffled whimper on Sukunas cock. You felt a sharp, stinging stretch, the sensation of being filled to the absolute limit.
“Easy, baby,” Toji rumbled, his voice a low vibration you felt in your bones. “Just breathe. I’ve got you.”
His girth was obscene thicker than Sukuna’s fingers, wider than anything you’d ever taken. He pushed deeper, his can-sized girth stretching your walls to the limit. Your walls fluttered desperately, trying to accommodate him. Inch by thick inch, he sank deeper slow, controlled, giving you time to adjust even as his jaw clenched with the effort of holding back. He reached the back, hitting your cervix with a dull thud that made your entire body jerk.
“God, you’re so warm.” Toji groaned, his eyes fluttering shut. “Feels s’good, fucking love this pussy.”
He began to move, a slow, agonizingly deep grind his length pressing against every sensitive spot. Every time he pulled back and pushed in, he hit that sweet spot Sukuna had found earlier. Your pussy fluttered helplessly, slick gushing around him, easing the way even as the stretch ached deep.
Toji bottomed out hips flush to yours, balls resting against your ass. He stilled letting you feel him throbbing hot and heavy inside you. “That’s it, sugar,” he rasped. “Takin’ me so good. Look at you—stretched wide around my cock. Fuckin’ perfect.”
Toji’s pace picked up. The slow grinds turned into heavy, rhythmic thrusts. He reached out and slapped your ass, the sound echoing as he drove himself into you. Toji’s thumb found your clit, rolling over it with a slow, agonizing pressure that sent sparks through your vision.
Sukuna, sensing the rhythm, began to fondle your breasts, pinching your nipples and pulling them upward as he continued to fuck your face. he was back thrusting full force, fucking your throat like he owned it. Your throat burned raw, stretched, convulsing around his length with every deep thrust. The scent of him musky, salty filled your nose every time he bottomed out. Terror twisted in your gut lowkey afraid he’d never let you breathe but your cunt gushed harder, thighs slick, body betraying you with every helpless spasm.
The room was a symphony of wet friction and heavy breathing. You were being pulled in two directions the base of your skull vibrating from Sukuna’s depth, and your core being utterly filled by Toji’s girth.
Toji’s thrusts deepened slow at first, letting you adjust, then harder hips snapping, balls slapping your ass with every stroke. pulling out almost to the tip, then sinking back in with deliberate, controlled thrusts. Each drag pulled a fresh gush of slick, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room. His girth dragged against every sensitive spot, the curved head bumping your g-spot with every stroke, the pressure building fast. “Feel that?” he growled. “How deep I am? Hittin’ that spot over and over. Gonna make you squirt again, sugar.”
The dual stimulation was brutal girth stretching you wide sending sparks up your spine. Your hips bucked chasing, retreating overwhelmed. Toes curled so hard your calves cramped.
Sukuna fondled your breasts squeezing, pinching, rolling your nipples while he fucked into you pre-cum dripping down your chin. “Look at her,” he murmured. “Takin’ Toji’s cock like she was born for it. Pussy grippin’ him so tight—bet she’s gonna come again soon.”
Toji’s hand was relentless on your clit, rolling it in tight circles. “Come for us,” he growled. “Come on my cock while he fucks your throat.”
You did.
The orgasm hit like a wavewalls clamping vise-tight around Toji’s girth, slick gushing in hot pulses as your body seized. Your screams muffled by Sukunas length taking your throat. Toji groaned hips stuttering thrusting deep one last time as he came hot spurts flooding you, leaking out around his cock in thick rivulets.
Sukuna followed hips stuttering. “Fuck—I’m gonna cum.”
He held you flush nose buried, balls tight against your chinas he came. Thick ropes shot down your throat hot, salty, endless. Your vision splotched again black spots dancing, lungs screaming but he didn’t let go until every pulse was spent.
“Swallow it,” Sukuna demanded, his voice a dark rasp. “Good girl. Take it all.
He pulled out slow cock glistening with spit and cum.
You gasped choking, coughing, heaving for air. Spit and cum dripped from your lips, running down your chin. You all collapsed to the bed in unison. Sukuna to the front Toji at your back
☆・・・☆・・・☆ ・・・☆・・・☆・・・☆・・☆
The room was dim, lit only by the low amber glow of the bedside lamp and the faint city light slipping through half-closed blinds. Your curls were already a wild halo around your head some strands sticking to your sweat-damp forehead, others bouncing softly every time your body jolted. Sukuna and Toji had you cradled between them on the king bed, skin against skin, no rush in their movements now that the frantic edge had dulled into something slower, heavier, more deliberate.
Sukunas cock rested hot against your inner thigh, the thick appendage bobbing back to life. He didn’t put it in. Not yet. Instead he dragged the velvety underside along your slick folds in long, lazy strokes, letting you feel every ridge, every vein, coating himself in you while he watched your face.
“You’re shaking already,” he murmured, voice low and almost gentle, one big hand cupping the back of your neck to keep your eyes on his. His thumb brushed over the tight coil of one curl, tugging lightly just to feel it spring back. “Breathe for me, baby. We’ve got all night.”
Toji was behind you, chest pressed to your back, thick arms caging you in without crushing. His cock now hot and heavy already leaking against the small of your back. He wasn’t in a hurry either. One hand splayed over your beast rolling a pebbled nipple. While the other slid down to part your folds for Sukuna’s slow teasing glides.
“Fuck, look how wet she is,” Sukuna rumbled against your ear, lips brushing the shell. Hands splayed on your waist dragging you steadily along his length. Hand around your neck as he squeezed the spot where your pulse hammered. “Fucking soaking my dick already.”
You whimpered, hips twitching forward into Sukuna’s cock and back against Toji’s at the same time caught in the middle, needy and overwhelmed in the best way. Sukuna finally notched himself at your entrance, just the fat head pressing in, stretching that first tight ring of muscle. He didn’t thrust just held there, letting you feel the slow, inexorable burn of him sinking in one careful inch at a time.
“Easy,” he breathed, kissing the corner of your mouth when you gasped. “Take me slow. Let your pussy open up for me.”
Toji’s hand slid lower, two thick fingers circling your clit in slow, slippery rings while Sukuna worked himself deeper halfway now, the stretch making your thighs tremble. Every time you clenched around him, Sukuna groaned low in his throat, hips rocking in tiny, shallow pulses to help you adjust. When he finally bottomed out, hips flush to yours, you could feel the blunt head pressed right up against your cervix, filling you so completely you couldn’t breathe.
“Good girl,” Sukuna praised, voice rough but warm. He kissed you then slow, deep, tongue sliding against yours while he stayed buried to the hilt, letting you adjust to the sheer girth splitting you open.
Toji shifted, guiding your leg up and over Sukuna’s hip so you were spread wider. Toji slid lower on the mattress, thick calloused hands spreading your ass cheeks apart without preamble. His tongue dragged a slow, filthy stripe from your dripping cunt up to your rim, circling the tight ring of muscle before pushing inside. You jolted, a broken whimper escaping as he ate you out from behind with obscene patience. Licking deep, sucking softly, then pressing the flat of his tongue until your hole started to soften and relax under the wet, insistent pressure.
“Fuck—Toji—” Your voice cracked.
He only hummed against you, the vibration making your hips buck. One thick finger joined his tongue, sliding in beside it, then a second, scissoring slowly while he kept licking. Stretching. Preparing. Every twist of his fingers made you clench, only for him to push deeper, opening you up with that deliberate, almost cruel leisure.
Sukuna watched the whole thing with predatory stillness, his thrusts halting as Toji prepped you. When Toji finally pulled back, your hole was flushed and slick, winking slightly from the stretch.
“Think she’s ready for both of us now?” Toji asked, voice rough with lust, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
Sukuna’s grin split wide. “She better be.”
Toji’s cock pressed hot and insistent against your rim still slick from when he’d spent long minutes eating you out back there, tongue and fingers working you open until you were soft and pliant. He didn’t push in yet. Instead he rubbed the thick head in slow circles over your hole, letting the precum smear and ease the way.
“Gonna take us both again,” Toji murmured, voice gravelly. “Nice and slow this time. Wanna feel every inch stretch you.”
When Toji finally started to sink inside, it was careful agonizingly so. He worked the fat head past that first ring, pausing when you whimpered at the stretch, kissing along your shoulder and whispering, “Breathe, pretty. Relax for me.” Sukuna stayed still, buried deep in your cunt, letting you feel the way Toji’s cock slid in alongside his rubbing together through that thin wall, the friction so intense your eyes rolled back.
“Fuck,” Sukuna hissed, forehead pressed to yours. “Feel that? Feel how tight you are around both of us?”
Toji bottomed out with a low groan, hips flush to your ass. For a long moment they just held there letting you feel the overwhelming fullness, the way their cocks pressed against each other inside you, every tiny shift sending sparks up your spine. Then they moved.
Not hard. Not brutal. Just deep, rolling thrusts. Sukuna pulling out while Toji pushed in, then switching, a slow, filthy seesaw that dragged against every sensitive spot at once. Your curls stuck to your damp cheeks; Sukuna brushed them back tenderly, kissing your temple, your jaw, murmuring soft filth against your skin.
“You’re doing so good,” he said, voice wrecked. “Taking us both so fucking perfectly.”
Sukunas big hand slid up to wrap loosely around your throat not squeezing, just holding, thumb stroking the underside of your jaw. Toji’s on the other hand slid between your legs, rubbing slow, firm circles over your clit in time with their thrusts.
Sukuna had hit that spongy spot deep inside the one that made your toes curl and your breath hitch he paused, grinding against it in a slow circle. It felt like electricity sparking from your core, a deep, throbbing pressure that built with each subtle shift.
“Fuck, right there," you gasped, your curls brushing against his tattooed shoulder as you clung to him. The dual pressure was insane: Sukuna's girth bullying that sweet spot in your cunt relentlessly, while Toji's thickness dragged against the sensitive walls of your ass, every vein and ridge creating sparks where they pressed together inside you. It was like being split open in the best way, every nerve ending alight, your body trembling from the overstimulation.
Tojis fingers continued their relentless assault on your clit. Pinching and rolling it through his fingers rubbing in firm, slow circles that matched their pace. "Feel us both in you?" he growled, eyes dark with hunger but softened by the way he watched your face. "Gonna make you squirt this time—drench us while we fuck you full."
"That's it, take it," he rasped, breath hot against your neck. Their thrusts picked up a fraction, still careful but deeper, the head of his cock nudging that spot in your ass until it felt like liquid fire spreading through your veins.
Your core tightened, a pressure building low in your belly like a dam about to burst. "I—fuck, it's too much—" you whimpered, body arching between them. Their thrusts turned brutal, long deep strokes knocking the back of you with every thrust. Your legs began to spasm loosing the ability to speak as they pounded you for all your worth.
"Let go," Sukuna commanded, his thrusts turning sharper, hitting your g-spot with to me curling precision while Toji’s fingers worked your clit faster. The dual assault pushed you over the edge.
The orgasm hit like a tidal wave. You squirted hard, clear fluid gushing around Sukuna's cock in rhythmic spurts, soaking his shaft and dripping down to where Toji was buried in your ass. The sensation was euphoric, your walls spasming wildly around both of them, milking them in violent contractions. Your vision blurred, a high-pitched cry tearing from your throat as the liquid splashed against their hips, the sheets, everything.
They groaned in unison, the tight, fluttering grip pushing them closer. Sukuna's rhythm faltered first he thrust deep one last time, burying himself to the hilt as he came, hot ropes of cum flooding your cunt in thick pulses. You could feel it: the warmth spreading, his cock twitching against your womb, emptying everything he had while your walls still clenched from the aftershocks.
Sukunas hand on your throat tightened just a fraction in his pleasure, then loosened as he rode it out with slow, grinding rolls.
Toji followed seconds later, hips slamming forward as he unloaded into your ass his release just as copious, the heat of it filling you up, seeping around his thickness. “Fucking take it—god baby.” Toji moaned brokenly into your neck biting down on your collar bone surely a bruise.
You collapsed between them, boneless and gasping, the overwhelming fullness lingering even as they softened inside you.
☆・・・☆・・・☆ ・・・☆・・・☆・・・☆・・☆
The room fell into a heavy, ringing silence, broken only by the rhythmic creak of the floorboards as the house settled and the ragged, synchronization of three sets of lungs fighting for air.
They had gathered you close, Sukunas arms wrapping around your waist while Toji pressed against your back, their hands stroking your sides, your curls, murmuring soft words of praise.
Toji cupped your face thumbs brushing your tears. “Good girl,” he murmured. “Took us so well.”
Sukuna leaned down kissing your forehead, almost gentle. “Ours now, sugar. All ours.”
The room fell into a heavy, ringing silence, broken only by the rhythmic creak of the floorboards as the house settled and the ragged, synchronization of three sets of lungs fighting for air.
Sukuna was the first to move, pulling out first slow, careful, cum leaking from your cunt in a thick trail followed by Toji, who kissed your shoulder as more spilled from your ass.
Sukuna sat up, the shadows of the room playing over the ink on his skin. He looked down at you, his expression stripped of its usual mocking edge, replaced by something dark, quiet, and intensely proprietary. He reached out, his thumb tucking a loose curl behind your ear with a tenderness that felt almost foreign coming from him.
"Look at you," Sukuna murmured, his voice a low, gravelly vibration. "Wrecked."
You couldn't find your voice yet. Your throat felt raw, and your body was humming with a lingering, low-voltage electricity. You just blinked up at him, your eyes still slightly glassy.
Toji shifted, reaching for a glass of water he’d left on the nightstand and holding it to your lip.
"Drink, Y/N. Slow."
The cool water felt like heaven against your parched throat. As you drank, Sukuna stood up, his massive, tattooed frame moving silently across the cedar floors. He returned a moment later with a basin of warm water and a soft cloth. He sat on the edge of the mattress, his presence grounding and heavy.
The aftercare was methodical and silent. Sukuna began to wash you, his large hands surprisingly careful as he wiped the traces of the night from your deep brown skin—the seed from your neck, the dampness from your breasts, and the evidence of both of them from your thighs. Toji didn't let go of you, his arm a solid weight across your waist, his thumb tracing absent circles on your hip.
It was a strange, beautiful contrast to the violence of the passion that had just occurred. Here, in the quiet of the farmhouse, with the crickets singing outside and the smell of pine and woodsmoke drifting through the window, the "shift" you had felt earlier finally made sense.
You okay, baby?" Toji asked, his voice a low rumble against your ear.
You finally found your breath, a small, tired smile tugging at your swollen lips. "Yeah," you whispered, the word scratchy but certain. "I'm okay."
Sukuna tossed the cloth aside and laid down on your other side, effectively sandwiching you between them. He pulled the charcoal comforter up over the three of you, his arm draping over Toji’s to lock you in.
"Good," Sukuna grunted, closing his eyes. "Because this wasn't a one-time thing. You're staying right here."
Toji didn't say anything, but the way he pulled you closer, his chin resting on the top of your head, was answer enough.
You closed your eyes, drifting off to the sound of two steady heartbeats, knowing that when the sun came up over the fields, nothing would be the same—and you wouldn't have it any other way.
☆・・・☆・・・☆ ・・・☆・・・☆・・・☆・・☆
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fanfiction using characters from jujitsu kaisen (sukuna and Toji are owned by their respective creators/studio). No copyright infringement is intended—this is purely for fun and non-profit. The original plot, reader character, and any new elements are mine (@unsocialpixie04). Please do not translate, or reproduce without permission. 18+ for eventual mature themes. 2025-2025
AN: I put my pixussy into this 🙂↔️🫶🏾 so you guys better love it. I’ve never written a trio before so the sex scenes are probably a bit sloppy but I tried my best 😣. Someone requested a fix with Toji and Sukuna and I wanted to do something I hadn’t seen before a slow burn friendship two best friends obsessed with their oblivious tomboy best friend. How could it get any better??? Plus I have a thing for cowboys so do me a favor and imagine them with a thick syrupy accent please 😋.
, XOXO pixie.
𝚁𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙸𝚗 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙳𝚎𝚎𝚙
Summary: Ryomen Sukuna, scarred and isolated, has spent years hiding his disfigured face and burning obsession with his quiet classmate Y/N. When a college biology field trip pairs them together at the beach, his carefully buried fantasies erupt in the privacy of her tent—raw, possessive, and unrelenting. What begins as a stolen touch becomes something dark, intense, and consuming.
Content: MDNIII, (DOM)Sukuna!! Black coded female reader. College AU, Characters 21+, dubious consent, non-con, fingering, prone bone, spread eagle, asphyxiation, overstim, creampie, praise, degradation. Dark romance.
Word count: 6k+ (I really went all out here lmaooo)
Ryomen Sukuna had learned from adolescence the cruelty of man. They glanced, recoiled, insulted or, worse, pretended they hadn’t seen anything at all. To them he was never a person deserving of love or care. He was a thing. A disfigured monster. A mistake.
The right half of his face was flawless: tall aquiline nose, high-set cheekbones, a jaw that could cut diamond. Full, rose-colored lips. Thick brows framing a single crimson eye; deep-set, piercing, almost luminous.
The left side was ruin. No eye. Just a sunken, scarred socket framed by keloid tissue that twisted like blackened roots clawing out of flesh. A birth defect, the doctors had called it, back when his mother still tried to explain him to strangers.
If it weren’t for that defect, he’d have been gorgeous. Women would have fallen at his feet, begging for a chance.
He used to mourn that truth.
Used to ask God why; had he committed some egregious sin in a past life? Slaughtered hundreds? Savored the taste of flesh? Was this penance? Or had he simply been too beautiful, and the Lord Himself knew he’d tumble into sin if left unchecked so He took a piece of him, literally and figuratively, to keep him humble?
Ryomen had let it go. In his own way, at least. He no longer detested God. He simply didn’t think of Him at all. The same way no one thought of Ryomen.
Hood up, sleeves pulled low, black wraps wound tight around the ruined half of his face he became a shadow. Invisible. Safe.
No one noticed.
But you did.
You sat one seat over in Bio 301, close enough that he caught the faint lemon gourmet scent of your shampoo when you leaned for a pen.
Short, curly hair dyed some fresh shade every few weeks; like embers one month, midnight the next. Right now it’s pink bright pink. It suits you sweet and inadmissible like those big dark eyes that never widened in pity, never darted away in disgust. You just… existed beside him. Asked about a missed slide once. Passed him your notes without fanfare. Treated him like he was ordinary.
It was the cruelest thing anyone had ever done to him.
Because ordinary was a lie, and now the lie had a face. A body. A soft laugh that lived in his head rent-free.
Ryomen Sukuna wasn’t normal.
He was twenty-one, still a virgin, still untouched in every way that mattered. Skin that had never known eager hands, mouth that had never tasted anything but his own bitter solitude. And every time you smiled, that small, polite curve of plump lips, soft and glossy like they were made to be bruised he felt something inside him tear open wider.
In the split second your mouth lifted, his thoughts turned depraved.
It pictured those lips stretched around him instead. Wide, struggling, spit-slick as he pushed past the resistance of your throat until your eyes watered and your throat fluttered around the thick length of him.
He imagined the way your big dark eyes would look up at him then: startled, pleading, but still so fucking pretty. He’d hold your curls in a fist those freshly dyed strands he’d memorized the scent of and fuck your face.
Slow at first, savoring the choked little sounds you’d make, then faster until tears streaked your round cheeks and you were gagging, helpless, perfect.
He thought about your petite body under his 5’1 against his 6’5, fragile enough that he could pin you with one hand and still have fingers left to bruise your hips.
He wanted to spread your thighs until the tendons strained, wanted to see that dark, glistening cunt he’d only ever glimpsed in stolen glances when your skirt rode up in lecture.
He’d lick into you like a man starved. Tongue flat and broad, then pointed and cruel against your clit until your back arched off whatever surface he’d taken you on and you were whimpering his name like a prayer you didn’t mean to say out loud.
That’s what your smile did to him.
Every polite little curve of those lips cracked him open and let the monster peek through.
He told himself it was just fantasy. Harmless.
Until the field trip.
The professor’s voice cut through the low hum of the room like a dull blade.
“Field trip next Saturday. Intertidal zone analysis at Jones Beach. You’ll work in assigned pairs: collect water and biological samples from designated tide pools, document habitat zones, salinity readings, species interactions. Data due the following Tuesday.”
A projector slide flipped. Names appeared in neat columns.
Sukuna’s eyes found his own first—because of course they did.
Sukuna, Ryomen
paired with
Y/N [Last Name]
His heart didn’t just skip. It slammed once, hard, then kept pounding like it was trying to break ribs. Heat crawled up his neck, under the wraps, prickling the scars like they were alive. He stared at the screen until the letters blurred, until the room’s noise faded to white static.
You.
All day.
All weekend.
You in a bathing suit—because it was a beach, because you’d have to wade in, because the universe had finally decided to hand him the rope he’d been begging to hang himself with.
He risked a glance sideways.
You were looking at the slide too. Your expression didn’t change much—just a small nod, the same one you gave when the TA announced extra office hours. Calm. Unbothered. Like being paired with the hooded freak who never spoke unless forced was no different from being paired with anyone else.
You turned your head slightly, caught his eye; the one visible eye; and gave that polite half-smile.
“Guess we’re partners,” you said softly, voice carrying just enough for him to hear over the chatter. No pity. No hesitation. Just fact.
His throat closed.
He managed a grunt. Barely more than a low rumble in his chest and jerked his chin in what might’ve passed for acknowledgment. Under the hoodie, his hands flexed, nails digging crescents into his palms.
Inside, though, he was unraveling.
You had no idea what that small sentence had done.
No idea that in the three seconds it took you to speak, his mind had already fast-forwarded to Saturday: you bent over a tide pool, ass curved in whatever scraps of fabric you called a swimsuit, water beading on your dark skin, curls frizzing in the salt air. Him standing behind you, close enough to smell you, close enough to touch if he lost the last thread of control he was clinging to.
He spent the rest of the lecture in a haze.
Notes forgotten.
Pen tapping a frantic rhythm against his notebook.
Every time you shifted, crossed your legs, tucked a curl behind your ear, sighed at the slide on zonation patterns; his cock twitched under the desk like it had a mind of its own.
When the bell rang, you packed up slowly, same as always.
He stayed seated until most of the room cleared, hood low, wraps itching, waiting for the pressure in his jeans to ease enough that he could stand without embarrassing himself.
You paused at the aisle, backpack slung over one shoulder.
“See you Saturday, then?”
Your voice was light. Casual.
Like this was nothing.
“Yeah,” he rasped. The word scraped out rougher than he meant.
You gave another small smile; those fucking lips; and walked out.
He waited until the door clicked shut behind you.
Then he let his head drop forward, forehead pressing to the cool edge of the desk, breathing hard through his nose.
Saturday couldn’t come fast enough.
The bus ride to the Beach had been hell.
Ryomen spent the whole hour staring out the window, hood up, wraps tight around the left side of his face like always. The fabric itched in the rising heat; salt air already seeping through the cracks of the windows but he didn’t dare loosen them. Not with thirty other students crammed in seats around him, laughing, scrolling phones, existing without a second thought about how visible they were.
You sat two rows ahead. He could see the back of your head curls bouncing slightly every time the bus hit a bump. You’d tied them up in a loose puff today, pretty face framed with slicked edges. He memorized the way the sunlight caught the fresh dye (fuchsia this time, almost red like his eyes). His fingers twitched in his lap.
When the group finally spilled onto the sand, the professor barked assignments: quadrants, tide pools, sample kits. Everyone scattered toward the waterline in swimsuits and rash guards, towels slung over shoulders.
Ryomen hung back. Hood still up. He’d changed into loose black trunks in the parking lot bathroom. Quick. private. But kept the hoodie and wraps on. The sun was brutal already, beating down like it wanted to peel him open.
You emerged from your pop-up tent last.
The little dome thing you’d brought was practical. Gray-green canvas, just big enough for one person to change or read in shade. You stepped out in that brown and yellow ruffled two-piece: low waisted bottoms that rode the curve of your hips, triangle top knotted tight behind your neck, fabric clinging to the soft swell of your breasts. Your dark skin glowed under the light, a faint sheen of sweat already starting at your collarbone.
Ryomen’s breath caught. Hard.
He watched you bend to grab your sample kit, ass rounding perfectly, thighs flexing as you straightened. His cock stirred instantly; thickening against the loose fabric of his trunks. He shifted his stance, crossed his arms low to hide it.
He was fucked.
Not metaphorically.
Literally.
Because the fantasy wasn’t safe anymore.
It was standing ten feet away, waving at him with a smile. completely oblivious to the way his single visible eye had gone dark and glassy with want.
The group waded in for the first round of collection. You and he were assigned the same shallow pool—knee-deep, ringed with barnacles and anemones. You knelt in the water without hesitation, scooping samples, chatting lightly about salinity levels like it was any other lab.
A rogue wave rolled in higher than expected.
It slammed against your legs first—then his. Cold saltwater surged up to mid-thigh, soaking his hoodie in seconds. The wraps darkened, clinging wet and heavy to his scars. Fabric sagged. The knot at the back of his head loosened just enough that one strip peeled away, exposing the edge of the sunken socket.
Panic hit like a fist.
“Shit,” he muttered, low and sharp. He turned away fast, back to the group, hands flying up to press the wraps back into place. Water dripped from his hood, cold trails running down his neck.
You noticed; of course you did.
“Hey,” you called softly, wading closer. Your voice was gentle, not prying. “You okay? That wave got you good.”
He didn’t answer right away. Just kept his head down, fingers fumbling to retie the knot. The wet fabric was stubborn now, sticking to keloid tissue.
You hesitated, then glanced around. The others were spread out twenty, thirty yards away, focused on their own pools. No one was looking.
“Your wraps are soaked,” you said quietly. “They’re gonna chafe like hell if you leave them like that. Come on, my tent’s right there. You can fix them inside. No one’ll see.”
Ryomen froze.
The offer hung between you like a live wire.
He should say no. Walk away. Drip dry in misery.
But your eyes; big, dark, steady—didn’t flinch. No curiosity. No disgust. Just concern.
His pulse roared in his ears.
“…Fine,” he rasped.
You led the way back up the sand. He followed at a distance, hood pulled as low as it would go, arms crossed tight over his chest. When you reached the tent, you unzipped the flap and ducked inside first, holding it open.
“Plenty of room,” you said, scooting to one side on the thin mat you’d laid down. “I’ve got extra towels if you need to dry off.” He hesitated at the entrance. 6’5 frame too big for the low door then ducked in, zipping the flap behind him the second his knees hit the blanket.
The space was small. Intimate. Sunlight filtered through the mesh top in dappled patches. It smelled like coconut sunscreen and the faint floral of whatever lotion you used. You sat cross-legged, sample kit pushed to the side, looking up at him expectantly.
Ryomen stayed on his knees, back straight, hands hovering near the wraps like he didn’t know where to start.
You tilted your head. “Want help? Or… privacy? I can turn around.”
He swallowed. The words scraped out rough.
“Don’t look.”
You nodded once; no questions and turned your back, facing the tent wall. Gave him space.
His fingers shook as he unwound the sodden fabric. Layer by layer peeled away. Cool air hit the scars. Raw, puckered keloid around the empty socket, twisted roots of tissue crawling toward his hairline. He hated how exposed it felt. Hated that you were inches away, even with your back turned.
He balled the wraps in his fist, set them aside. Pulled the soaked hoodie over his head too. Left in just black trunks now, broad shoulders bare, the flawless right side of his face stark against the ruin on the left.
Silence stretched.
You spoke first, still facing away. “Better?”
“…Yeah.”
A beat.
He exhaled roughly. “You can turn around if you want.” Voice low. Almost daring you to recoil.
You did, slowly.
Your eyes met his single crimson one first. Then drifted careful, deliberate to the scars. No gasp. No flinch. Just a soft exhale through parted lips.
You studied him for a long second, head tilted slightly.
But your attention didn’t stop at his face.
It slid lower. Over the broad span of his shoulders, the thick cords of muscle that ran down his arms and chest. He was built like something carved for violence: pecs heavy and defined, abs stacked in sharp ridges that flexed involuntarily under your stare.
A deep V-line cut from his hips, disappearing into the low waistband of his black trunks, framing the dark happy trail that started just below his navel and arrowed straight down. And the tattoos; black ink sprawling across his chest, shoulders, and arms in jagged, ancient-looking patterns: bands of sharp lines. They wrapped his torso like living shadows, accentuating every cut of muscle.
You lingered there a beat too long.
Your pupils dilated just a fraction. Your lips parted a little more. Something flickered in those big dark eyes. Not pity, not revulsion. Something hotter. Hungrier.
Lust?
Ryomen’s brain short-circuited.
No. Impossible.
You couldn’t be looking at this; at the monster half of his face, at the scars that made children cry and adults cross the street and feel anything but revulsion. The idea that you might want him, that your gaze could heat like that while staring at the ruin, felt like a fever dream. Like his own depraved fantasies bleeding into reality.
His cock throbbed harder against his trunks, the head already leaking, smearing wet against the fabric. He had to clench his jaw to keep from groaning out loud.
“…It’s kind of beautiful, actually,” you said quietly.
Ryomen’s entire body locked.
“What?” The word came out harsher than he meant—almost a growl.
You didn’t back down. Your gaze stayed steady on the left side of his face. “The way the scars move like roots, or lightning, or something carved. It’s not ugly. It’s… striking. Like art that hurts to look at, but you can’t stop.” You paused, then added softer, “And the contrast with the other side makes it even more intense. You’re kind of unreal.”
His heart slammed so hard he felt it in his throat.
No one had ever said anything like that. Not pity. Not horror. Not forced kindness.
Compliment.
Beautiful.
Striking.
His cock already half-hard from the wave, from seeing you in that suit jerked fully upright now, throbbing painfully against his trunks.
He stared at you, single eye wide and glassy.
You shifted a little, cheeks warming just a fraction. “Sorry if that was weird. I just… I’ve always thought it. Didn’t know how to say it without sounding stupid.”
He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe right.
You reached into your bag. Pulled out the sunscreen bottle. “I’m almost out of mine. This heat’s brutal. Mind if I…?” You gestured vaguely at your shoulders, already shying away.
Ryomen’s mouth went dry.
Here. In this tiny tent. You. Half-naked. Asking him to touch you. After calling his scars beautiful.
He took the bottle. Voice came out gravel-rough, wrecked. “Turn around.”
You did; presenting your back, curls swept over one shoulder.
He squeezed lotion into his palm. Warm from the sun. Rubbed his hands together.
Then slow, deliberate, placed both palms on your shoulders.
Your skin was soft. Warm. Supple under his calloused fingers.
He started rubbing in circles methodical at first. Professional.
But the tent was small. The air thick. Your breathing even but quickening just a fraction.
His hands drifted. Down the curve of your spine, thumbs brushing the sides of your ribs.
You didn’t pull away.
He leaned in closer. Chest almost to your back. Breath against your ear.
“Lift your arms a little,” he murmured. “Can’t miss spots.”
You did.
His hands slid forward under the edges of your bikini top. Palms cupping the undersides of your breasts. Thumbs grazing nipples through the thin fabric.
You gasped. Soft, startled.
He froze for half a second.
Then squeezed. Gently at first. Then harder.
“Ryomen—” your voice was a whisper. Half-warning, half-something else. “Wait… what are you..”
He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The compliment still echoed in his skull, twisting everything darker, hungrier.
One hand stayed on your breast pinching a nipple between thumb and forefinger, rolling it until it pebbled.
The other slid down; over your stomach, dipping under the waistband of your bottoms.
Fingers finding slick heat.
You were wet.
So fucking wet.
A low groan rumbled in his chest.
“Fuck,” he breathed against your neck. “Knew you’d feel like this.”
He pressed forward grinding the hard length of his cock against your ass through his trunks. Slow. Deliberate.
You whimpered.
He clapped a hand over your mouth scarred palm muffling the sound.
“Shh,” he whispered, voice dark and wrecked. “Don’t want them hearing how wet you are for the freak, do we?”
His fingers slipped between your folds circling your clit once, twice then pushing inside.
You arched. Muffled moan vibrating against his palm.
He was gone.
Completely fucking gone.
And the tent flap was zipped tight but thin enough that any loud sound would carry.
He didn’t care.
Not anymore.
His hand stayed clamped over your mouth firm, not bruising yet, but enough to swallow the soft, surprised sound that escaped you. The scarred palm pressed warm against your lips, the rough texture of keloid brushing your skin like a brand.
You tasted salt. Sunscreen. Him.
Ryomen’s other hand didn’t hesitate.
Two thick fingers pushed deeper inside you; slow at first, letting your walls flutter and adjust around the sudden stretch. You were so slick it was obscene; the wet sound of him curling them upward was loud in the tiny tent, even muffled by the crash of distant waves. Juices coated his knuckles, dripping down his palm as he pumped in and out, the squelch filthy and rhythmic.
“Fuck, listen to that” he rasped against your ear, voice wrecked and gravel-rough. “Listen to how wet you are, baby. Greedy little cunt sucking at my fingers like it’s starving. Been dreaming about this pussy for months. How tight you’d be, how you’d clench when I finally got inside. “It’s better than I ever imagined.”
You tried to shake your head, denial instinctive, but it only rubbed your lips against his palm. A muffled whimper escaped instead high, needy, betraying you.
He chuckled once; low, dangerous. “Liar. Your body’s begging for it.”
His thumb found your clit swollen, throbbing and circled it in tight, merciless circles while his fingers crooked deeper, dragging against that spot inside until your thighs shook. June’s leaked steadily now, pooling on the mat beneath you. The pressure built fast, too fast, your walls fluttering wildly dripping down his wrist. Your hips jerked forward before you could stop them, chasing the pressure.
He felt it.
Felt the way your body betrayed you.
“Good girl,” he murmured against your ear, breath hot. “That’s it. Let it happen. Ride my hand like the desperate slut you are. Show me how much you need this”
The hand over your mouth slid down just enough to let you breathe, fingers curling around your throat instead. Fingers tightened just enough to make your head swim, stars flickering at the edges of your vision. Not enough to hurt but enough to remind you who was in control.
You gasped in a shaky breath. “Ryomen… wait—”
“No.”
His voice was gravel. Final.
“You called me beautiful. Looked at me like you wanted me to devour you. You don’t get to take that back now.”
He thrust his fingers faster, deeper, palm slapping wetly against your mound with every pump. Your nails dug into the thin mat beneath you. Toes curled. The sounds were obscene: slick squelches, your choked whimpers rising in pitch. He squeezed your throat again in warning. “Quiet, or I’ll fuck you so hard the whole beach hears how soaked you get for a monster.”
You clenched around his fingers at the words hard, involuntary, your walls sucking him deeper. He groaned, low and pained. “Fuck—did that turn you on?” He leaned in closer, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Being called dirty? Being used by a fucking freak? Yeah, it did. Fuck You love this, love being my little secret slut.”
Another squeeze of your throat. Another curl of his fingers.
You were shaking now; overstimulated, close, so fucking close. The stretch burned sweet, his thick digits scissoring inside you, toying with your limits.
He pulled his fingers out abruptly.
You whined high and desperate hips chasing his hand. Your cunt clenched on nothing, aching, dripping onto the mat.
“Not yet,” he growled. “Want that pretty pussy on my cock when you come.”
His hand left your throat. Both palms hooked under your thighs, yanking you back against him until your ass was flush to his lap. He ground up hard. Cock so thick and hot even through the trunks you could feel every ridge dragging against you.
“Feel that?” he growled, voice dripping with dark possession. “That’s what you do to me. Every fucking class. Every smile. Every time you sit next to me like I’m normal. You’ve been teasing me without even knowing. Those short skirts, those plump lips. I’ve jerked off thinking about stuffing you full, marking you inside out.”
He shoved his trunks down. His cock sprang free heavy, flushed dark, the fat plum-red tip already slick with pre-cum. Eight thick inches, curved upward, veins standing out. He gripped your hip with one hand, bruising, and guided himself with the other—nudging the mushroom tip against your entrance.
He didn’t push it in. Not yet. Just sliding the length along your folds, coating himself in you, snagging your clit with every slow drag. Your juices smeared along his shaft, slick and shiny, mixing with his pre-cum until he glistened.
You shuddered. Tried to rock back. “Please…”
He pinned you harder. “Beg for it.”
Your voice came out small, wrecked. “Please… Ryomen, I need it. Need you inside.”
“Please what?” He leaned over you, chest to your back, mouth at your ear. “Say it. Tell me you want the scarred freak to fuck you stupid in this tent. Want me to stretch that pretty cunt until you’re ruined for anyone else.”
Your cheeks burned. But your hips rolled anyway seeking, clit throbbing. “I… I want it,” you whispered, voice breaking. “Want you to fuck me. Please—ruin me.”
Something snapped in him.
He thrust forward slow, deliberate but even with how wet you were, the sheer girth of him made it a struggle. The head popped in first; stretching your entrance wide, burning sweet as your lips parted around him. You gasped sharply, walls fluttering in protest. He shuddered hard whole body trembling as he sank deeper, inch by thick inch, the curve of his cock dragging against every ridge inside you.
“Fuck—s’tight,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “So fucking hot inside. Gripping me like you never want to let go. Look at you spreading open for me, taking every inch even though you’re shaking.”
For you, it was overwhelming. Fullness bordering on too much, pressure building in your core, low in your belly like he was rearranging you from the inside. The stretch ached, burned, but sparked pleasure so intense your vision blurred. Every inch felt like it hit deeper than possible, the curve nudging spots that made your toes curl, made you clench involuntarily.
He bottomed out—hips flush to your ass, balls pressed snug. Both of you trembled then—him from the vice of your heat enveloping him, you from the way he filled you so completely you could feel him in your throat, in your gut, pulsing hot and heavy.
He stayed buried a moment, breathing ragged against your shoulder. His hands roamed, squeezing your breasts roughly, pinching nipples until you arched and whined. “God…your tits… so soft, perfect in my hands. Gonna mark these too.”
Then he moved.
Slow at first pulling almost all the way out, watching the way your juices coated his shaft, leaving a glossy sheen and a faint milky ring at the base where your cream gathered. Squelches echoed with every retreat, wet and obscene. Then hard thrusts back in, deep and punishing, the curve bullying your g-spot relentlessly.
You bit your lip to keep quiet; teeth sinking in until you tasted copper. But the sounds slipped out anyway. Muffled sobs, whimpers that rose in pitch with every thrust.
His hand returned to your throat squeezing lightly, controlling your air just enough to heighten everything. “Breathe through it,” he ordered, voice strained. “Take it like a good girl. Feel how deep I am? Hitting that spot that makes you shake—yeah, right there.”
He picked up pace ruthless now. Skin slapping skin. Wet, filthy sounds filling the tent mingling with your choked moans and his guttural groans. The thin canvas walls did nothing to hide it; if anyone walked close enough…
He didn’t care.
One hand slid around to your chest yanking the bikini top aside completely. His Fingers find a nipple. It’s pinched, twisted, tugged until you arch and sob against his palm. Releasing your mouth the other dipped low. Thumb finding your clit, rubbing messy relentless circles while he fucked into you.
“Feel how deep I am?” he growled. “Hitting that spot that makes you shake. Gonna make you come so hard you forget your name.”
You were unraveling legs trembling, walls fluttering wildly around him. Overstimulated, aching, so full it hurt in the best way. For you, every thrust was ecstasy edged in pain. The girth spreading you wide, the curve bullying your g-spot relentlessly, fullness so intense it bordered on nausea, like he could make you puke from how deep he hit.
“Gonna come,” you gasped—voice cracking. “Ryomen—please—”
“Do it,” he snarled. “Come on my cock baby. Milk me with that greedy pussy.”
He angled deeper—hitting that spot relentlessly. thumb never leaving your clit. His free hand grabbed your cheeks, squishing them together roughly with his fingers as he twisted your face towards his.
His mouth crashed onto yours.
Sloppy. Desperate. Teeth clashing, tongues tangling in a mess of spit and heat. He kissed like he wanted to consume you whole. Biting your lower lip hard enough to draw blood, sucking it into his mouth with a groan.
You shattered.
Walls clamped down hard—pulsing, milking him. A muffled cry tore from your throat as your body seized, thighs quivering, vision whiting out. Juices gushed coating his shaft and balls, squelching louder with every brutal thrust.
He fucked you through it harder. Faster. Chasing his own edge. His thumb never left your clit rubbing through the overstimulation until you jerked and whimpered into his mouth.
“Fuck—fuck—take it,” he groaned against your lips. “Gonna fill you up. Mark you inside so you feel me for days. So full you’ll feel sick with it. One final, punishing thrust hips stuttering and he came.
Hot, thick ropes flooded you pulse after pulse, so much it leaked out around his cock, dripping down your thighs in milky rivulets. He bit down on your shoulder then teeth sinking in hard, leaving a bruise that would bloom purple. Another bite to your neck marking you as the last spurts emptied inside.
He held you there pinned, trembling while he emptied every last drop. His hands squeezed your breasts one last time thumbs flicking oversensitive nipples until you twitched.
Breathing ragged against your neck.
For a long moment, neither of you moved.
Then he pulled out slowly watching his cum leaked from your swollen cunt, mesmerized. He Scooped some with two fingers and pushed it back inside with a dark chuckle.
“Keep me in there, doll,” he murmured, voice low and possessive. “Don’t let a drop go to waste.”
You shivered still dazed, still full of him, body aching in the best-worst way.
The tent flap stayed zipped.
But the day wasn’t over.
And neither was he.
He didn’t give you time to catch your breath.
“Turn over, doll,” he ordered, voice rough and thick with fresh hunger. “Face down, ass up I want to see you take it like this.”
Your limbs felt heavy, boneless from the first orgasm, but the command in his tone made you move anyway. You rolled onto your stomach, knees spreading instinctively, cheek pressed to the thin mat. The tent smelled of sex now salt, coconut, musk and the thin canvas walls seemed to close in tighter.
“There we go,” he murmured, voice dark and approving. “No more holding yourself up, doll. Just take it.”
He shifted then truly prone now. His massive frame draped over yours like a cage: chest to your back, thighs bracketing your hips, knees pinning your legs wide. He slid back in with one long, unhurried thrust that bottomed him out in a single glide. The new position crushed the air from your lungs. The angle changed completely. Deeper, more possessive, no room for escape.
You gasped sharp and helpless face mashed sideways into the mat, curls sticking to your damp cheek. The curve of him pressed directly against your g-spot now, unrelenting, no reprieve. Every inch of him was seated so deep it felt like he was pressing against the back of your cervix, the fullness so intense it bordered on nausea.
He didn’t start thrusting right away.
He ground.
Slow, filthy circles; hips rolling in tight, deliberate motions that dragged the thick ridge along that swollen spot over and over. The friction was merciless; your walls spasmed around him instantly, trying to push him out and pull him deeper at the same time.
“Fuck—that it?” he growled low against your ear, breath hot and ragged. “Right there. That little spot that makes your legs shake. I’m gonna grind it until you can’t think straight.”
Your body reacted before your mind could catch up. Your legs kicked weakly heels drumming uselessly against the mat, thighs trembling and twitching as the overstimulation built to something unbearable. You squirmed under him small, frantic movements but his weight pinned you completely. There was nowhere to go. Only deeper.
“Shh,” he soothed mockingly, even as his bicep slid around the front of your throat. He hooked it under your chin, thick muscle flexing as he locked you in a rear choke; firm, controlled, cutting just enough air to make your head swim without blacking out. “No running, doll. You’re gonna take every inch. Until you come again like this pinned and helpless.”
He kept the rhythm slow, punishing rolls of his hips feeding that curved cock repeatedly against your g-spot. The pressure built in relentless waves: heat coiling low in your belly, thighs quivering uncontrollably, toes curling so hard they cramped. Your cunt clenched around him in violent pulses, slick gushing out with every grind, soaking his balls and the mat beneath you.
You tried to speak tried to beg but all that came out were broken, muffled sobs into the mat. Your arms stayed limp, useless; your whole body felt weak, boneless, reduced to trembling nerves from the overwhelming stretch of him inside you.
“That’s it,” he rasped, voice strained with his own building edge. “Squirm for me. Kick. Cry. It just makes you tighter. Fuck…you feel so good like this. So fucking wet. So full of me. Gonna make you come just from this nothing but my cock grinding that spot until you break.”
He sped up the circles harder now, hips snapping in short, brutal pulses that kept him buried to the hilt while bullying your g-spot without mercy. The chokehold tightened fractionally your vision spotting, head light, every sensation amplified tenfold.
Your body seized.
Another orgasm ripped through you violent, shattering, walls clamping down so hard around him it hurt. You kicked again legs jerking wildly, heels scraping the mat as fresh slick flooded out, soaking everything. A raw, choked cry tore from your throat, muffled against his bicep
He groaned deep, guttural feeling every pulse, every spasm.
“Fuckkkk yes, doll. Milk me. Come all over this cock while I choke you stupid.”
He didn’t stop grinding kept feeding it to you through the aftershocks, drawing out every tremor, every weak twitch of your hips until you were sobbing openly, oversensitive, wrecked.
Only then did he let himself follow.
One final, grinding thrust burying impossibly deeper and he came with a low, broken sound. Thick pulses flooded you again, hot and endless, leaking out around his base as he held you pinned, bicep still locked around your throat, hips flush and unmoving.
He stayed like that for a while breathing hard against your neck, teeth grazing the fresh bite mark on your shoulder. “Good girl,” he whispered, voice wrecked and possessive. “So fucking good for me.”
He finally eased the chokehold thumb stroking the column of your throat almost tenderly then slowly pulled out, watching the thick cream spill from your abused cunt.
You lay there limp, trembling, arms useless, legs still weakly twitching while his cum leaked slowly down your thighs.
The distant shout of the professor’s voice cut through the haze like a cold wave.
“Group! Wrap it up! Tide’s coming in—pack your samples and head back to the bus in ten!”
Ryomen stilled instantly. His breath was still ragged against your neck, cock softening. For a heartbeat neither of you moved—bodies locked together in the humid, sex-thick air of the tent.
Then reality slammed back.
He pulled away with a low, reluctant groan, watching the thick cream spill from your swollen cunt one last time before he forced himself to sit back on his heels. His single crimson eye flicked toward the zipped flap, listening to the crunch of footsteps and distant chatter growing closer.
“Shit,” he muttered, already reaching for the damp hoodie he’d discarded earlier. “Get dressed. Now.”
Your limbs felt like lead arms weak, thighs trembling, core still throbbing with the memory of him. You managed to push yourself up on shaky elbows, bikini bottoms twisted and soaked, top askew. Every movement sent fresh slick and his release dripping down your inner thighs; you could feel it pooling under you on the mat.
Ryomen moved fast clinical almost. He yanked his trunks back up, tugged the hoodie over his head (hood low, no wraps yet; he’d deal with the scars later), then grabbed your sample kit and shoved it toward you.
“Wipe up quick,” he said, voice rough but quieter now. “They’ll notice if you’re limping.”
You nodded numbly, grabbing a spare towel from your bag and pressing it between your legs. The fabric came away streaked white and clear; the sight made your cheeks burn even as your body clenched involuntarily at the reminder.
He watched you for a second eye dark, possessive then reached out and cupped your jaw, thumb brushing the swollen bite on your lower lip.
“You’re mine now,” he said, low enough that only you could hear. “Don’t forget that when we’re back on the bus. Don’t forget when you’re sitting next to me in lecture tomorrow. Every time you shift and feel me still leaking out of you, remember who put it there.”
Your breath hitched. You wanted to say something anything but the words wouldn’t come.
He leaned in, pressed one last bruising kiss to your mouth slow, claiming then pulled back just as someone called your names from outside.
“Coming!” you managed, voice higher than usual.
Ryomen zipped the flap open a crack, scanned the beach, then stepped out first. Hood up, posture casual, like nothing had happened. You followed a minute later, legs unsteady, curls a mess, cheeks warm. You kept your head down, focusing on the sand, praying no one noticed the slight wobble in your step or the way you pressed your thighs together every few paces.
The group gathered at the bus, laughing about rogue waves and lost vials. You slid into your usual seat near the back. Ryomen took the one beside you same as always hood low, arms crossed, silent.
But this time, when the bus lurched forward and your thigh brushed his, he didn’t flinch away.
His hand scarred, warm found yours under the seat, fingers lacing through yours in a grip that was almost gentle.
He didn’t speak.
He didn’t need to.
You felt him everywhere: the ache between your legs, the bruises blooming on your neck and shoulder (hidden under your cover-up for now), the sticky warmth still leaking into your bikini bottoms. Every bump in the road made you clench, made you remember.
And he knew.
Because when you finally dared to glance sideways, his single visible eye was already on you dark, satisfied, promising more.
The bus rolled toward campus.
The field trip was over.
But whatever this was between you—
it had only just started.
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fanfiction using characters from jujitsu kaisen (sukuna is owned by their respective creators/studio). No copyright infringement is intended—this is purely for fun and non-profit. The original plot, reader character, and any new elements are mine (@unsocialpixie04). Please do not translate, or reproduce without permission. 18+ for eventual mature themes. 2025-2025
AN: guys, I dead ass stayed up over 12 hours writing this I should’ve slept but I didn’t….the idea hit me at like 2am and I reached a flow state. It was literally just supposed to be me writing an into/teaser but my pen wouldn’t stop. 😭🙏🏾 I reallllly put my soul into this little baby right here I love Sukuna so much and wanted to stay unique to him but without it being too corny yk? Ugh I hope you guys love it 😣🖤. Also dividers by @dividers-are-us hehe.
AO3 appreciation post!! reblog if you love archive of our own
✧˖°.💣.˖°✧ 𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕟𝕒𝕕𝕖 ℍ𝕖𝕒𝕣𝕥𝕤
Summary: ʜɪɢʜ ꜱᴄʜᴏᴏʟ’ꜱ ᴀʟʀᴇᴀᴅʏ ꜱᴇɴꜱᴏʀʏ ʜᴇʟʟ, ꜰʟᴜᴏʀᴇꜱᴄᴇɴᴛ ʟɪɢʜᴛꜱ ʙᴜᴢᴢɪɴɢ, ᴄʀᴏᴡᴅꜱ ᴛᴏᴏ ᴄʟᴏꜱᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴛʀʏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴜʀᴠɪᴠᴇ ɪɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜰᴀᴅᴇᴅ ʙᴀɴᴅ ᴛᴇᴇꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ʙᴇᴀᴛ-ᴜᴘ ᴄᴏɴᴠᴇʀꜱᴇ. ᴛʜᴇɴ ꜱɪᴍᴏɴ ʜᴀᴘᴘᴇɴꜱ: ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴇᴀᴛʜᴇʀ-ᴊᴀᴄᴋᴇᴛᴇᴅ ᴅᴇʟɪɴQᴜᴇɴᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ꜱᴍᴜᴅɢᴇᴅ ɢᴜʏʟɪɴᴇʀ, ᴀ ᴘᴇʀᴍᴀɴᴇɴᴛ ꜱᴍɪʀᴋ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴀ ʀᴇᴘᴜᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ꜰᴏʀ Qᴜɪᴄᴋ, ɴᴏ-ꜱᴛʀɪɴɢꜱ ʜᴏᴏᴋᴜᴘꜱ ɪɴ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ᴇᴍᴘᴛʏ ꜱᴛᴀɪʀᴡᴇʟʟ. ʏᴏᴜ’ʀᴇ ᴘᴏʟᴀʀ ᴏᴘᴘᴏꜱɪᴛᴇꜱ. ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴛᴇ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ʜᴇ ꜱᴛᴀɴᴅꜱ ꜰᴏʀ. ᴜɴᴛɪʟ ᴄʜᴇᴍɪꜱᴛʀʏ ᴄʟᴀꜱꜱ ꜰᴏʀᴄᴇꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏɢᴇᴛʜᴇʀ… ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴘᴀʀᴋꜱ ᴀʀᴇɴ’ᴛ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴜɴꜱᴇɴ ʙᴜʀɴᴇʀ
Content: MDNI!!! 1.5k+words 😋 (Simon x Black!Fem! Autistic! Reader | Enemies to Lovers | Slow Burn) Mean! Simon, Smut, Fingering, Exhibitionism, Hard Dom! Simon, Soft Dom! Simon, Asphyxiation, Orgasm Denial, Cunnilingus, Oral, Male pining, (P in V), Face fucking, Pussy slapping, Degradation/Praise, dubious consent, and whole lot of shenanigans….and may include angst haven’t made up my mind yet.
Chapters: One Two
✧˖°.💣.˖°✧ Part 2 ✧˖°.💣.˖°✧
Partners. With him. For two weeks. Forty percent of my grade.
Mrs. Longbottom peers over her glasses. “No swaps miss [your last name], I don’t do favors not even for my top student. Sit.”
“But—I-…” my voice cracks desperate. “Anyone else literally anyone else. I’ll even do the entire project alone and he can get the credit”
She glances at Simon, his face smug as always lounging back with that irritating smirk. Then back to me with finality in her tone she says “No, besides Mr. Grant could use someone responsible like you. Might straighten him out a bit”
Straighten him out? I stand there slack-jawed, fingers twitching at my sides like they’re itching to yank every curl from my scalp. My chest feels too tight, lungs burning with the scream I swallow down. Bitter, metallic, threatening to spill if I open my mouth again.
I’m overwhelmed. Lights buzzing harder, leftover alarm echo in my ears, his smokey leather musky scent still clinging to my shirt from the hallway. Everything too much.
Defeated, I turn to stomp back to my desk.
The rest of the period passes in a haze of notes I don’t take and a stare I feel burning between my shoulder blades. When the bell finally rings, I’m the first one up, bag slung over my shoulder, ready to vanish.
Mrs. Longbottom’s voice stops me cold. “[Your Name]. A word.”
Great. Detention for begging? I trudge to her desk while the room empties, Simon’s heavy boots thudding out last. Of course he takes his time, brushing past me close enough that his jacket grazes my arm.
She waits until the door clicks shut.
“I meant what I said. No switches.” Her tone softens just a fraction. “You’re my best student. He’s… capable, when he bothers. This project could pull his grade up, or tank yours if you let him coast. Don’t let him coast.”
I nod numbly. “Yes, ma’am.”
Outside the hallways are already thinning. I make a beeline for the nearest exit. The side door by the parking lot that barely anyone uses. Head down, messenger bag bouncing against my hip, digging frantically for my keys. They’re buried somewhere under notebooks and that stupid MLP pencil I should’ve snapped in half. (Sorry pinkie pie >~<)
A sudden jerk on my bags strap sends me tumbling backwards, feet stumbling as my bag slips off my shoulder and I crash into something solid.
Not something. Someone.
Chest first. Firm and warm. “Mmm” I catch myself inhaling his scent for just a moment before I realize what hell I’m doing and who to. I try to scramble backwards but he’s got a firm hold on me.
I know who it is before I even look up.
He’s got one hand fisted in my strap,holding me firm. Towering over me—the world shrinks. His other arm braced against the wall above my head caging me in.
“If you don’t watch where you’re going little lamb, you’ll get devoured” he drawls his eyes—that piercing blue. Penetrating my soul locking me in place. His face smug like he planned this collision.
I freeze.
My brain short-circuits; too close, too tall, too much him. Heat radiating off his tanned skin in waves, his breath brushing my appled cheeks, the way his fingers are still tangled in my strap like he’s not planning to let go anytime soon. Words? Gone. Snark? Evaporated. All I can do is stare up at him, mouth parted, heart slamming so loud I swear he can hear it.
He tilts his head smirk deepening. “Cat got your tongue or you just like it when I touch you?”
“Gi-Give me my bag” I mange eyes squeezed shut avoiding all possible eye contact. My voice comes out smaller than I want. My hand encloses over his trying to pry him off of my bag. Static shock courses through me. It’s something worse.
“Relax doll, I’m just fucking with ya.” He laughs out breathily. Lips gently brushing my ear. There’s that shudder again.
“But nah not yet” he says “we’ve got business partner.”
The word drips with mockery. My stomach flips.
He finally releases the strap but doesn’t move back. Instead, he pulls out his phone, thumb hovering. “Number. Now.”
I shake my head, curls bouncing. “No.”
“Come on.” He leans in closer—God, why is he so big?—voice dropping. “Project’s two weeks. You gonna make me hunt you down every day? Or you wanna get this over with… maybe even enjoy it.”
His eyes flick down my face, lingering on my lips for a beat too long. Forward. Overwhelming. My knees feel like jelly; heat pools low, traitorous, making me shift uncomfortably.
God what the hell is happening to me. “Fine” I mumble, rattling off my number voice barely above a whisper.
He types it in slow, deliberately. “Good girlll, see that wasn’t so hard huh?”
Then he steps back, just enough for me to breathe and hands over my bag. Our fingers brush. Another spark.
“See you soon, horse girl.”
I bolt to my car, hands shaking as I jam the key in. Don’t look back. Don’t.
The rest of the drive home is a blur.
I grip the wheel so hard my knuckles ache, radio off because even Green Day is too loud right now. My mind won’t stop repeating what happened at school today. My thighs clench heat sitting low and unwelcome like a stone in my stomach. I hate it. I hate him.
Home. Finally home.
By the time I park and stumble inside, my curls are frizzy and more like cotton than coils from the Georgia humidity and my own stress sweat. I lock the door and kick off my converse dropping my bag along side it. I lean against the wall, sliding down until I’m sitting on the floor. Head in hands.
What the hell is wrong with me?
He’s an asshole. Crude, invasive, everything I hate.
But that closeness his voice in my ear, his smell everywhere, the way he just took space like it was his turned my brain to static. Made me feel things I refuse to name.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
Unknown number:
Home safe, horse girl? Bet you’re thinking about me already.
Another buzz.
Unknown number:
We’ll start “studying” tomorrow. You ready? You gonna bring that pony pencil Tomorrow too?
Buzz.
Unknown number:
Bet your panties match got cute little hearts or some shit. Cotton full coverage? I bet your dorky ass doesn’t even own any thongs huh? I’ll find out eventually.
I stare at the screen, thighs pressing together involuntarily.
God I hate that bastard.
My thumb hovers over the block button.
I don’t press it.
Instead I stare at the words until they blur, thighs pressing together again without permission. A full-body shudder rolls through me shame, anger, and something hotter I refuse to name. My free hand drifts to the hem of my shirt, fingers twisting the fabric. I can still feel where his jacket grazed my arm. Still smell faint leather and smoke on my sleeve like he branded me.
Maybe he did.
I type. Delete. Type again.
Me:
Fuck off. 🖕🏾
Three dots appear instantly.
Asshole:
Too late, doll. You already gave me the digits.
Asshole:
You’re thinking about it aren’t you? Me crowding you against the lockers? My mouth-
He sends a voice note.
I shouldn’t play it.
His voice fills the quiet living room-low and gravelly…amused.
“—Right here” he pauses for a moment before continuing. The sound ticking my ear like he’s right here whispering in my ear again. “Bet you thought about it all the way home. Bet you’re still shivering.”
He pauses once more before chuckling low.
“Yeah I noticed. Bet that little cunt of yours was just crying for some attention huh? Bet your dorky ass doesn’t even know how fuck your self properly huh?
My breath hitches and my skin turns molten his crude words slithering down my spine somewhere deeper. Forbidden.
He tsks tongue clicking like he’s disappointed.
“Don’t worry doll I’ll teach you properly I am your partner after all…right?” Then softer almost teasing “Tommorow, lab table 3. Don’t be late partner. I hate waiting.”
The voice memo clicks.
I stay frozen on the floor, the bitter chill from the floorboards no longer present as heat radiates from me in waves. I clutch my phone so tight my knuckles ache. My breathing is shallow, uneven, like I’ve been running even though I haven’t moved. Shame hits me immediately, hot and sharp, because no, I shouldn’t be reacting like this, Not to him. Not to that.
My free hand presses against my stomach, trying to push the feeling down. It doesn’t work. Every filthy syllable is replaying on a loop in my head:
“Bet that little cunt of yours was just crying for some attention huh?”
The word “cunt” lands like a slap even now, crude and deliberate, meant to shock. Meant to make me squirm. And God help me, it did. Still is. My clit throbs once, traitorously, and I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste copper.
I hate him.
I hate that he noticed the shiver in the hallway.
I hate that he said he noticed.
I hate that part of me is mortified… and another part is morbidly curious what “teaching me properly” would actually feel like.
My thumb hovers over the play button again. I almost press it…almost let his voice fill the room one more time.
I don’t.
Instead I stand up from the floor and head up to my bedroom.
My room is my sanctuary: The same soft pink haven it always is. curved ceiling glowing rose-gold from recessed lights, walls in delicate blush damask, fairy lights twinkling around the headboard. The massive tufted bed is a fluffy cloud of pastel comforter piled with Cinnamoroll and Hello Kitty pillows, a little pink bunny plush watching from the top. The vanity across the room is a Sanrio shrine. Gold-framed mirror, tiny figurines, glittery trinkets, and a diffuser puffing faint vanilla-lavender. Sheer lace curtains filter the city lights, turning everything hazy and safe.
I strip out of my school clothes in record time, kicking them into the hamper. The tank top and shorts come off; I tug on my favorite pajamas: oversized pastel-pink MLP sleep shirt (Pinkie Pie grinning with a cupcake on the front) and matching shorts with little confetti hearts and pony silhouettes scattered across them. Cute. Comforting. Ridiculous for an eighteen-year-old, maybe, but who’s here to judge?
I face-plant onto the bed with a dramatic whump, burying my face into melody. The fabric smells like lavender detergent and safety. I let out a long, heavy sigh chest deflating, shoulders dropping like I can exhale the entire day.
Then my phone buzzes next to me.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
I freeze. Lift my head just enough to glare at the glowing screen. No. Nope. Not tonight.
The phone buzzes again.
I flop onto my back, staring at the ceiling fan spinning lazily overhead.
I should block him.
I should delete the thread.
I should throw the phone across the room.
The notifications glare up at me:
Mommy:
Hey sweetie. I’m gonna be home late tonight so don’t wait up.
Mommy:
I left a gift for you on the dining room table. I’m sure you’ll love it.
Mommy:
I’m so sorry I couldn’t be there for you today my sweet girl. Happy birthday!!
Mommy:
I love you. So much. 💗
Oh.
It’s not him.
Relief crashes into me first. Sharp, almost painful. Followed immediately by a hollow ache in my chest. I snatch the pillow, press it over my face, and scream into it—full-throated, muffled, furious. The sound vibrates against my cheeks, hot and cathartic, lasting until my lungs burn and my throat aches. When I finally pull the pillow away, I’m panting, curls sticking to my sweaty forehead, eyes stinging.
I’m such an idiot. Am I crazy? Why did I think it was him? Did I want it to be? No. No fucking way. Uh-uh.
But the ache lingers.
Mom’s not here. Again.
Not that I blame her, she works doubles most nights just to keep the lights on but today… today was supposed to be different. Eighteen. Adult. And the house is still empty, the only sound the low hum of the ceiling fan and my own ragged breathing.
With everything going on..hot sauce disaster, fire alarm, Simon fucking Grant turning my brain into static I forgot today was even my birthday.
I sit up slowly, throat tight, and pad downstairs in my Pinkie Pie pajamas. The dining room table is dark except for one small lamp she left on. There’s a little gift bag in the center, Pink tissue paper peeking out, a handwritten card taped to the handle.
I open the card first.
Happy 18th, my sweet girl. I know I missed the day, but I hope this makes up for it. You deserve the world. Love you forever. —Mommy 💗
Inside the bag: two glossy tickets.
Front row.
Green Day.
The American Idiot 20th anniversary tour stop in Atlanta next month.
My hands shake as I pull them out. The paper feels real, the dates printed in bold black. Front row. Front row. I can already picture the crowd, the lights, Billie Joe’s voice shaking the floor, the grenade heart logo glowing huge on the screens.
I freak out for a full ten seconds. Quiet squeal, jumping in place, clutching the tickets to my chest like they might vanish.
Then reality crashes back.
I have no one to go with.
Mom’s working. My one friend from chem dropped out last semester. I don’t do crowds alone too loud, too bright, too many bodies pressing in. The tickets might as well be for a different planet.
I sink into the chair, tickets still clutched tight, and sigh so hard it hurts.
The phone buzzes again in my pocket one last time.
I pull it out, half-expecting Mom’s follow-up.
It’s not.
Asshole:
Happy birthday btw, horse girl. Don’t spend it thinking about me too much.
I stare at the screen.
How the hell does he know?
My stomach flips, cold dread mixing with that same unwanted heat from earlier. He’s lowkey a creep. Highkey a creep. Full on stalker vibes. Did he look up my birthday? Ask someone? Hack the school system? Or is he just guessing to fuck with me? Either way, the tickets feel heavier in my hand now.
I shove the phone back in my pocket without replying, turn off the lamp, and trudge back upstairs.
Tomorrow is lab table 3.
Simon.
Two weeks of this.
And now my birthday gift, the one thing that should’ve been pure joy feels tainted by his name popping up at the worst possible moment.
I crawl under the covers, pull the plush comforter over my head, and whisper into the dark:
“Happy fucking birthday to me.”
I close my eyes piercing blue irises the last thing I see before sleep takes me.
ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ˏˋ♡
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fanfiction using characters from Dinner in America (Simon/Patty dynamic owned by their respective creators/studio). No copyright infringement is intended—this is purely for fun and non-profit. The original plot, reader character, and any new elements are mine (@unsocialpixie04). Please do not translate, or reproduce without permission. 18+ for eventual mature themes. 2025-2025
AN: hiii guys ☺️ I’m sorry I’ve been gone for a while school and life kicks ass sometimes yk? But here is finally CHAPTER 2! I am currently halfway done with part 3 as well it’s an apology for the long wait! I should be putting that out in about 2 more days! I hope you guys loved this part! Hehe it’s a slow burn I knowwww but doesn’t it get ya all riled up? Awaiting what’s next? Our main girl is staring to feel things…but is it just attraction…human nature? Or is it something more hehe 🤭 I guess we’ll find out soon.

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Literally cannot emphasize enough that my #1 writing advice is to stop being afraid. Stop being afraid of sounding too cringe, or too stupid, or too horrifying, or too horny, or too weird, or too much, or too little, or too you. You need to put your entire pussy into your art. Sure, it won't be to everyone's tastes, but if you keep yourself to the blandest tamest safest roads possible you will be of no one's tastes, not even yours.
✧˖°.💣.˖°✧ 𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕟𝕒𝕕𝕖 ℍ𝕖𝕒𝕣𝕥𝕤
Summary: ʜɪɢʜ ꜱᴄʜᴏᴏʟ’ꜱ ᴀʟʀᴇᴀᴅʏ ꜱᴇɴꜱᴏʀʏ ʜᴇʟʟ, ꜰʟᴜᴏʀᴇꜱᴄᴇɴᴛ ʟɪɢʜᴛꜱ ʙᴜᴢᴢɪɴɢ, ᴄʀᴏᴡᴅꜱ ᴛᴏᴏ ᴄʟᴏꜱᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴛʀʏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴜʀᴠɪᴠᴇ ɪɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜰᴀᴅᴇᴅ ʙᴀɴᴅ ᴛᴇᴇꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ʙᴇᴀᴛ-ᴜᴘ ᴄᴏɴᴠᴇʀꜱᴇ. ᴛʜᴇɴ ꜱɪᴍᴏɴ ʜᴀᴘᴘᴇɴꜱ: ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴇᴀᴛʜᴇʀ-ᴊᴀᴄᴋᴇᴛᴇᴅ ᴅᴇʟɪɴQᴜᴇɴᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ꜱᴍᴜᴅɢᴇᴅ ɢᴜʏʟɪɴᴇʀ, ᴀ ᴘᴇʀᴍᴀɴᴇɴᴛ ꜱᴍɪʀᴋ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴀ ʀᴇᴘᴜᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ꜰᴏʀ Qᴜɪᴄᴋ, ɴᴏ-ꜱᴛʀɪɴɢꜱ ʜᴏᴏᴋᴜᴘꜱ ɪɴ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ᴇᴍᴘᴛʏ ꜱᴛᴀɪʀᴡᴇʟʟ. ʏᴏᴜ’ʀᴇ ᴘᴏʟᴀʀ ᴏᴘᴘᴏꜱɪᴛᴇꜱ. ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴛᴇ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ʜᴇ ꜱᴛᴀɴᴅꜱ ꜰᴏʀ. ᴜɴᴛɪʟ ᴄʜᴇᴍɪꜱᴛʀʏ ᴄʟᴀꜱꜱ ꜰᴏʀᴄᴇꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏɢᴇᴛʜᴇʀ… ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴘᴀʀᴋꜱ ᴀʀᴇɴ’ᴛ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴜɴꜱᴇɴ ʙᴜʀɴᴇʀ
Content: MDNI!!! 2k+words 😋 (Simon x Black!Fem! Autistic! Reader | Enemies to Lovers | Slow Burn) Mean! Simon, Smut, Fingering, Exhibitionism, Hard Dom! Simon, Soft Dom! Simon, Asphyxiation, Orgasm Denial, Cunnilingus, Oral, Male pining, (P in V), Face fucking, Pussy slapping, Degradation/Praise, dubious consent, and whole lot of shenanigans….and may include angst haven’t made up my mind yet.
✧˖°.💣.˖°✧ Part 1 ✧˖°.💣.˖°✧
Could today get any fucking worse? I stare down at my rare AND SIGNED!!! Green Day tee, the one I scored after scouring E-bay for months with Billie Joe’s actual scrawl across the chest.
Now it’s ruined: bright red hot sauce splattered everywhere, like Jason Voorhees decided to finger-paint a slasher scene just for me. The sauce is still warm, seeping into the faded black cotton, turning the iconic grenade heart into a bloody mess.
“Shit, shit, no, please—” My voice cracks as I yank the shirt over my head, curls bouncing free and probably frizzing from the stress. I sprint to the kitchen cabinet, bare feet slapping against the cold tile, tank top riding up as I dig for anything that might save it. Stain remover, dish soap, some vinegar and water concoction, and that sketchy Arm & Hammer spray Mom grabbed from the dollar store last week.
“I knew it. I fucking knew wearing this to school was a bad idea.” I mutter, filling the sink with cold water and drowning the shirt in a cloudy mix of whatever cleaners I can find. The fabric floats there like a corpse, the signature already blurring at the edges. “Should’ve just thrown on a hoodie like always. It’s not like anyone notices what I wear anyway.”
I slump into the nearest chair, knees pulled to my chest, cradling my face in my hands. My throat burns; not from the sauce fumes, but from the sting of tears I’m trying not to let fall. It’s my birthday. Eighteen today, and the universe decides to kick off with this? “Not exactly the vibe I was going for,” I whisper, glancing at the clock. School starts in twenty minutes.
Great.
The bell tolls like a funeral dirge, dragging me into another day in hell.
I mutter it under my breath as I push through the doors into the main corridor, immediately assaulted by that black-and-white linoleum stretching forever under the harsh fluorescents glare. God, those fucking lights flickering just enough to make my skin crawl and my stomach twist. They wash everything in this sickly pale glow, turning everyone’s faces ghostly and tired, like zombies shuffling to class. It’s too bright, too loud in that invisible way, drilling straight into my brain until I can feel the headache blooming behind my eyes already.
The air hits next: that stale cocktail of dead skin flakes, cheap Axe body spray clinging to sweaty hoodies, and industrial cleaning supplies trying (and failing) to mask it all. You know the smell. like cracking open your grandma’s attic once a year for the dusty Christmas decor, except there’s zero jolly here. Just pure dread. I’d rather get impaled by Rudolph’s antlers, skewered like some cursed offering to Krampus, than spend another seven hours in this shithole.
Bodies swarm past me loud laughs echoing off lockers, sneakers squeaking, backpacks thumping everything too much, too close. I hug my arms around my backup tee (some faded offspring Tee I grabbed in a panic this morning), eyes fixed on the floor to block out the worst of the lights. Deep breaths. Count the tiles. Anything to keep the overload from tipping me over before first period.
If you couldn’t tell, I hate this place with every fiber. I’m halfway down the corridor, head down counting tiles like a lifeline. “Two black, Two white, two black, two white”. When suddenly the sound of a fire alarm rips through the air. My hands fly to my ears on instinct, heart slamming in my chest. The sound was absolutely deafening as if the flickering fluorescents weren’t enough now it’s pure chaos.
Lockers slamming, shouts echoing, bodies smooshing like sardines packed in a too small can. “What the hell is going on! It’s 6 o’clock in the morning why the hell is there a drill happening right now” is what I say to myself as I press into the nearest Corner praying for this to be over soon. I close my eyes counting backwards from ten. “10, 9 ,8 ,7 ,…”
When I finally force my eyes open that’s when I see him….Cutting through the stampede like a man on a mission. Simon fucking Grant. The walking disaster everyone whispers about. Tall and bulky but wired tight, that messy blonde hair falling over predatory blue eyes smudged with guy-liner applied who knows when. Leather jacket over a ripped band tee pants sagging just enough to say “I dare you to fucking say something” heavy boots thudding slow and deliberate while everyone else’s in panic.
He’s grinning—that lecherous, shit-eating smirk like he just pulled off the heist of the century. If I were one of those brain-dead bimbos he keeps on rotation, maybe I’d find it hot.
Not. Even. Close.
A blunt dangles unlit from his lips (he must’ve stubbed the lit one the second before the alarm screamed). No backpack, no hurry, just pure smug satisfaction as he gives the handle one last dramatic yank for good measure.
“I knew that fucker did this,” I mutter under my breath.
Then our eyes lock—just half a second, but it’s enough. His eyes are this piercing, husky blue, sharp enough to cut through the chaos. Mine probably look like a deer caught in headlights, wide and frozen. He tilts his head, smirk stretching wider, and silently mouths “Dork” like he clocked my meltdown and found it hilarious.
Before I can even glare properly, he vanishes into the surge of bodies.
I hate him. Instantly. Completely.
The alarm keeps blaring, drilling into my skull.
Happy fucking birthday to me.
ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ˏˋ♡
𝕊𝕚𝕞𝕠𝕟𝕤 ℙ𝕆𝕍:
The alarms finally shut off, but the halls are still buzzing like a kicked hornets nest. Kids sprinting to their next lecture, teachers barking. Prime time to skip back in before anyone notices I was the one who pulled the damn thing.
I spot her first. The dweeb from earlier, still tucked in that alcove by the chem wing like she’s trying to melt into the architecture. I notice her T-shirt first. “Off spring…huh decent taste for a nobody”. Her coils spill everywhere dark and fluffy like a cloud. Her face is pinched I’m assuming she’s not very fond of loud noises.
“Dually noted”. Easy target. Haven’t had a good rattle in hours.
I saunter over combat boots heavy on the linoleum. I bump into her purposely so she has to look up at me. She does her large coal eyes widen for a split second before narrowing. Cute. Most girls blush or giggle when I crowd em like this.
“Yo” I drawl leaning one arm on the locker above her head, boxing her in. She smells of something warm and supple vanilla? Shea butter? I lean closer inhaling her scent invading her space. “Mmmn” I groan softly before pulling back. I smirk down waiting for the flush, the stammer, the bolt. Standard playbook.
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t squeak. Just blinks once, slow, like she’s processing whether this is her reality. Then her lips curl soft as a switch blade.
“I’m sure this works great on the brain dead bleach blondes who spread for your shitty tattoos but news flash asshole; I’m not one of them so kick rocks.” She hisses full of venom.
For half a second I stand there stunned. I bark a laugh, loud and mean, shoving off the Locker but not stepping back. I tuck a stray coil behind her ear before leaning in. I swear I saw her quiver breathe hitched. “Fiesty under all that nerd armor huh? Careful little girl. Might make me wanna test that mouth”. I snarl before pulling back.
She stands there stunned “10…9…8…7” I count languidly before she shoves me backwards making a bee line for her first period. “Hmmm.”
ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ˏˋ♡
𝕐𝕠𝕦𝕣 ℙ𝕆𝕍:
10….9…..8….7…
I shove him. Harder than I knew I could and Bolt.
My heart’s pounding in my chest, louder than the alarm ever did. Converse squeaking on the linoleum as I weave through the stragglers still trickling back inside. I don’t stop until I slam into the chem classroom and collapse into my usually seat in the back of class.
I drop my head into my folded arms on the desk curls spilling everywhere covering me like a shield. Deep breaths. Count the numbers on the periodic table, just focus on something that isn’t him.
Because what the actual fuck was that?!
Simon.
The walking red flag. The delinquent with an ego the size of a football field. The guy who smokes in stairwells and treats girls like disposable matches. Use once, toss.
And he just….CROWDED me?! Touched my hair literally fucking sniffed me. What is he a mutt?! And god I can still hear it his groan…guttural…and definitely disgusting. Did he expect me to melt or something?
I didn’t I snapped back. Words came out before my brain even processed them. And for one tiny terrifying moment when he tucked that curl behind my ear. His breath warm breath tickling my ear my body betrayed me. A full on quiver wracked my body like some cliche wattpad heroine.
NO. NOPE. ABSOLUTELY NOT.
he’s disgusting. Predatory eyes. Cigarette smoke baked into his jacket, that smirk like he owns every room he walks into. Everything about him screams stay away. And oh I will. I sigh exasperatedly and shake my head to clear my thoughts. Class is starting the jerk is gone and today is going to go great.
Just get through class.
Ignore the heat prickling under my skin where his fingers grazed.
Pretend my pulse wasn’t-isn’t racing for all the wrong reasons.
Finally safe.
Kind of.
The door bangs open. Heavy boots. That deliberate thud.
I spoke too soon. I don’t need to look up. I don’t. He’s here.
And I already know he’s going to make this hell.
ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ˏˋ♡
𝕊𝕚𝕞𝕠𝕟𝕤 ℙ𝕆𝕍:
“Late again Mr. Grant? See me after class”
The old hag we call Mrs. Long bottom sneers as I shoulder through the door. Chem. Whatever. I couldn’t give less of a shit about school, but if I ditch they’ll send the cops to swat me. Dragging me back to this shit hole. so fuck it I’ll sit here and rot.
“Yea yea,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. “Why don’t you just start class already huh? I’m here aren’t I?” waving a hand in dismissal.
I thud my boots harder than necessary down the aisle, just so everyone feels me coming. Especially you.
Miss Dork Diaries is already parked in the back row, head down, one foot tapping a frantic rhythm against the floor like a rabbit on adderall. Curls spilling everywhere, that faint vanilla warmth still hanging around her from the hallway.
I yank the chair right behind hers out with an ear-splitting screech, then drop into it heavy. Spread my legs wide, elbows on her desk back, crowding her space before I even say a word.
I kick the leg of her chair. Not hard. Just enough.
She jumps anyway. Spine straightening shoulders tensing like I shocked her. Doesn’t turn around though. Just grips her pencil harder.
I smirk.
Kick
This time harder. So hard she jolts forward and drops her….MLP pencil??? Pinkie pie or whatever grinning proudly on the side.
I cant hold it; a loud snort rips out of me. An 18 year old with a fucking pony pencil? Jesus Christ. Can you get any more pathetic.
She bends down to grab it; 3b hair barely grazing the floor. Perfect timing.
I learn forward, voice low and rough right by her ear. “That pencil mean you into horse cock too, horse girl? I could show you what a real once feels like.”
I watch her freeze mid stretch. The air goes thick. She stops breathing for a second.
Then she turns slow; coal eyes wide, mouth slightly ajar like she’s trying to determine if I’m real. Perturbed as hell.
Another beat. I wait for the gasp, the tears, the teacher run.
Instead she straightens, voice steady and venom sweet.
“I wouldn’t touch you with a ten foot pole.”
She snatches the pencil and turns back to her notes.
“Oh and by the way— guys who sag their pants? Usually advertises they like taking it up the ass. Didn’t know you swing that way”
She snides. Deadpan. No stutter. No blush.
I sit back slow, lighter flicking open and shut in my hand—click, click, click.
Didn’t run crying.
Didn’t tattle.
Just eviscerated me in front of the whole back row and went back to her periodic table like nothing happened.
A grin I can’t stop creeps across my face.
This might actually be interesting.
ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ˏˋ♡
𝕐𝕠𝕦𝕣 ℙ𝕆𝕍:
My hand is steady on the pencil.
My voice didn’t shake.
I just eviscerated Simon fucking Grant in front of half the class.
So why is my pulse hammering like I sprinted a mile?
Why is my face burning hotter than the Bunsen burner we haven’t even lit yet?
I can still feel his breath by my ear, that low rough whisper about horse cock and “taking a real one.” Disgusting. Invasive. Wrong on every level.
And yet…God, I hate this…there’s this stupid, traitorous heat pooling low in my stomach. A shiver I couldn’t suppress when his voice dropped like that. My thighs press together under the desk without permission.
No. Nope. Not happening.
He’s a walking STD risk with a god complex. I just told him out loud at that he looks like he takes it up the ass. I won.
So why does it feel like I’m the one who just got played?
Mrs. Longbottom claps her hands twice, sharp as gunshots, to shut up the lingering chatter.
“Settle down. Before you all bolt for lunch, I’m assigning your semester-long final projects. This is forty percent of your grade no extensions, no excuses. You’ll be designing, executing, and presenting a full organic synthesis experiment. Two weeks in-class lab time, plus outside work if you want an A. Partners are final.”
She starts rattling off names from her clipboard.
My stomach’s already knotted from the hallway and the pony-pencil disaster. I just need a quiet partner who won’t talk to me. Someone invisible.
“…Grant and—”
Please not him. Anyone but—
“[your Last name].” (She butchers my real name, but whatever.)
The room goes dead silent for half a second.
I feel the blood drain from my face.
No.
No no no no no.
I risk a glance back.
Simon’s already staring, that slow, lecherous smirk spreading wide like he just hit the jackpot twice in one day. He leans forward, draping one heavy arm over my shoulder from behind. Cigarette smoke and leather invading my space again. Fingers brushing the bare skin at my neck like he owns it.
“Oh man,” he murmurs, low and mocking right by my ear, breath warm. “I bet you’re positively livid right now, huh? Want me to kiss it better… partner?”
His voice drips with amusement. He’s having the time of his fucking life.
For a moment I swear to god my blood runs cold and my deep umber skin drains devoid of all color like some sick comic book panel.
I freeze, every nerve ending on fire; rage, panic, that stupid unwanted heat from earlier flaring back up.
Today has officially gotten worse.
ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ˏˋ♡
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fanfiction using characters from Dinner in America (Simon/Patty dynamic owned by their respective creators/studio). No copyright infringement is intended—this is purely for fun and non-profit. The original plot, reader character, and any new elements are mine (@unsocialpixie04). Please do not repost, translate, or reproduce without permission. 18+ for eventual mature themes. 2025-2026
AN: HIIII!! ☺️😁 this is my very first real fan fiction work I’ve been obsessing over Simon and dinner in America since I’ve watched it and I couldn’t find many fics especially with a black female MC so I took the leap and I made one myself. I struggle with autism so this may be a bit self indulgent 🤭 sorry guys. I notice there isn’t much representation for us neurodivergent “weird” black girls so I’m going to be the rep! Just because we’re on the spectrum doesn’t make us less worthy of love, care, respect, and admiration. I truly do hope you guys enjoys this fic as much as I did writing it and hopefully this gains enough traction so that we can all celebrate part 2 together soon. I took a leap of faith and was inspired by my fellow sisters. To write what I want to read and be bold. So I am. Gah! I love how this turned out and I absolutely cannot wait to flesh out my characters more. See you soon girls, guys, theys and thems ;)
✧˖°.💣.˖°✧ 𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕟𝕒𝕕𝕖 ℍ𝕖𝕒𝕣𝕥𝕤
Summary: ʜɪɢʜ ꜱᴄʜᴏᴏʟ’ꜱ ᴀʟʀᴇᴀᴅʏ ꜱᴇɴꜱᴏʀʏ ʜᴇʟʟ, ꜰʟᴜᴏʀᴇꜱᴄᴇɴᴛ ʟɪɢʜᴛꜱ ʙᴜᴢᴢɪɴɢ, ᴄʀᴏᴡᴅꜱ ᴛᴏᴏ ᴄʟᴏꜱᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴛʀʏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴜʀᴠɪᴠᴇ ɪɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜰᴀᴅᴇᴅ ʙᴀɴᴅ ᴛᴇᴇꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ʙᴇᴀᴛ-ᴜᴘ ᴄᴏɴᴠᴇʀꜱᴇ. ᴛʜᴇɴ ꜱɪᴍᴏɴ ʜᴀᴘᴘᴇɴꜱ: ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴇᴀᴛʜᴇʀ-ᴊᴀᴄᴋᴇᴛᴇᴅ ᴅᴇʟɪɴQᴜᴇɴᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ꜱᴍᴜᴅɢᴇᴅ ɢᴜʏʟɪɴᴇʀ, ᴀ ᴘᴇʀᴍᴀɴᴇɴᴛ ꜱᴍɪʀᴋ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴀ ʀᴇᴘᴜᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ꜰᴏʀ Qᴜɪᴄᴋ, ɴᴏ-ꜱᴛʀɪɴɢꜱ ʜᴏᴏᴋᴜᴘꜱ ɪɴ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ᴇᴍᴘᴛʏ ꜱᴛᴀɪʀᴡᴇʟʟ. ʏᴏᴜ’ʀᴇ ᴘᴏʟᴀʀ ᴏᴘᴘᴏꜱɪᴛᴇꜱ. ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴛᴇ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ʜᴇ ꜱᴛᴀɴᴅꜱ ꜰᴏʀ. ᴜɴᴛɪʟ ᴄʜᴇᴍɪꜱᴛʀʏ ᴄʟᴀꜱꜱ ꜰᴏʀᴄᴇꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏɢᴇᴛʜᴇʀ… ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴘᴀʀᴋꜱ ᴀʀᴇɴ’ᴛ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴜɴꜱᴇɴ ʙᴜʀɴᴇʀ.
Content: MDNI!!! (Simon x Black!Fem! Autistic! Reader | Enemies to Lovers | Slow Burn) Mean! Simon, Smut, Fingering, Exhibitionism, Hard Dom! Simon, Soft Dom! Simon, Asphyxiation, Orgasm Denial, Cunnilingus, Oral, Male pining, (P in V), Face fucking, Pussy slapping, Degradation/Praise, and whole lot of shenanigans….and may include angst haven’t made up my mind yet.
THIS IS ONLY A PREVIEW LMK IN THE COMMENTS IF YOU WANT ME TO MAKE A FULL FIC ☺️❤️🔥
˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗
Could today get any fucking worse?
I stare down at my rare AND SIGNED!!! Green Day tee, the one I scored after scouring E-bay for months with Billie Joe’s actual scrawl across the chest. Now it’s ruined: bright red hot sauce splattered everywhere, like Jason Voorhees decided to finger-paint a slasher scene just for me. The sauce is still warm, seeping into the faded black cotton, turning the iconic grenade heart into a bloody mess.
“Shit, shit, no, please—” My voice cracks as I yank the shirt over my head, curls bouncing free and probably frizzing from the stress. I sprint to the kitchen cabinet, bare feet slapping against the cold tile, tank top riding up as I dig for anything that might save it. Stain remover, dish soap, that sketchy Arm & Hammer spray Mom grabbed from the dollar store last week.
“I knew it. I fucking knew wearing this to school was a bad idea.” I mutter, filling the sink with cold water and drowning the shirt in a cloudy mix of whatever cleaners I can find. The fabric floats there like a corpse, the signature already blurring at the edges. “Should’ve just thrown on a hoodie like always. It’s not like anyone notices what I wear anyway.”
I slump into the nearest chair, knees pulled to my chest, cradling my face in my hands. My throat burns; not from the sauce fumes, but from the sting of tears I’m trying not to let fall. It’s my birthday. Eighteen today, and the universe decides to kick off with this?
“Not exactly the vibe I was going for,” I whisper, glancing at the clock. School starts in twenty minutes. Great. The bell tolls like a funeral dirge, dragging me into another day in hell.
I mutter it under my breath as I push through the doors into the main corridor, immediately assaulted by that black-and-white linoleum checkerboard stretching forever under the harsh fluorescent glare. God, those fucking lights flickering just enough to make my skin crawl and my stomach twist. They wash everything in this sickly pale glow, turning everyone’s faces ghostly and tired, like zombies shuffling to class. It’s too bright, too loud in that invisible way, drilling straight into my brain until I can feel the headache blooming behind my eyes already.
The air hits next: that stale cocktail of dead skin flakes, cheap Axe body spray clinging to sweaty hoodies, and industrial cleaning supplies trying (and failing) to mask it all. You know the smell. like cracking open your grandma’s attic once a year for the dusty Christmas decor, except there’s zero jolly here. Just pure dread. I’d rather get impaled by Rudolph’s antlers, skewered like some cursed offering to Krampus, than spend another seven hours in this shithole.
Bodies swarm past me loud laughs echoing off lockers, sneakers squeaking, backpacks thumping everything too much, too close. I hug my arms around my backup tee (some faded offspring Tee I grabbed in a panic this morning), eyes fixed on the floor to block out the worst of the lights. Deep breaths. Count the tiles. Anything to keep the overload from tipping me over before first period.
If you couldn’t tell, I hate this place with every fiber. I’m halfway down the corridor, head down counting tiles like a lifeline. “Two black, Two white, two black, two white”. When suddenly the sound of a fire alarm rips through the air. My hands fly to my ears on instinct, heart slamming in my chest. The sound was absolutely deafening as if the flickering fluorescents weren’t enough now it’s pure chaos.
Lockers slamming, shouts echoing, bodies smooshing like sardines packed in a too small can. “What the hell is going on! It’s 6 o’clock in the morning why the hell is there a drill happening right now” is what I say to myself as I press into the nearest Corner praying for this to be over soon. I close my eyes counting backwards from ten to one. “10, 9 ,8 ,7 ,…”
When I finally force my eyes open that’s when I see him….Cutting through the stampede like a man on a mission. Simon fucking Grant. The walking disaster everyone whispers about. Tall and bulky but wired tight, that messy blonde hair falling over predatory blue eyes smudged with guy-liner applied who knows when. Leather jacket over a ripped band tee pants sagging just enough to say “I dare you to fucking say something” heavy boots thudding slow and deliberate while everyone else’s in panic…..
Guys what the fuck it’s my first time ever posting and I’ve received over a 100 likes already thank you so much for the love 😭💗 my angels I love you. Yall are definitely getting the fic im dropping a pre-view soon 😋.
Think I’m going to write a fic about Simon from dinner in America I love him sm. And yes the MC will be a black woman. 🙂↕️💗

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ɪ ꜱᴡᴇᴀʀ ɪ’ᴍ ɴᴏᴛ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴇxʜɪʙɪᴛɪᴏɴɪꜱᴍ.
ɴᴏᴛ ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ.
ɴᴏᴛ ʏᴇᴛ.
ʙᴜᴛ ɪꜰ ᴀ ᴍᴀɴ; ᴛᴀʟʟ, ʙʀᴀᴡɴʏ, ꜰᴀᴄᴇ ᴄᴀʀᴠᴇᴅ ʟɪᴋᴇ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ɪ’ᴅ ᴘʀᴀʏ ᴛᴏ
ᴅʀᴏᴘᴘᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʜɪꜱ ᴋɴᴇᴇꜱ ʙᴇʜɪɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴀʟʟ ʀᴏᴄᴋꜱ,
ᴠᴏɪᴄᴇ ʟᴏᴡ ᴀɴᴅ ʙʀᴏᴋᴇɴ,
ʙᴇɢɢɪɴɢ ᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ʟᴇᴛ ʜɪᴍ ꜰᴜᴄᴋ ᴍᴇ
“ʙᴀʙʏ ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ, ꜰᴜᴄᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ʟᴏᴏᴋ ꜱᴏ ɢᴏʀɢᴇᴏᴜꜱ”
“ʟᴇᴛ ᴍᴇ ᴘᴜᴛ ɪᴛ ɪɴ, ᴘʀᴏᴍɪꜱᴇ ɪ’ʟʟ ʙᴇ ɢᴇɴᴛʟᴇ”
ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ʜᴇ’ꜱ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴀᴄʜɪɴɢ ꜱɪɴᴄᴇ ʜᴇ ꜱᴀᴡ ᴍᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜɪꜱ ʙɪᴋɪɴɪ,
ᴛʜʀᴏʙʙɪɴɢ, ʟᴇᴀᴋɪɴɢ, ʟᴏꜱɪɴɢ ʜɪꜱ ᴍɪɴᴅ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴡᴀɴᴛɪɴɢ—
ɪ’ᴅ ꜱᴀʏ ʏᴇꜱ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ʜᴇ ꜰɪɴɪꜱʜᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴇɴᴛᴇɴᴄᴇ.
ʜᴇʟʟ, ʜᴇ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅɴ’ᴛ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴀꜱᴋ.
ɪ’ᴅ ᴀʟʀᴇᴀᴅʏ ʙᴇ ᴡᴇᴛ.
ᴀʟʀᴇᴀᴅʏ ᴛʜɪɴᴋɪɴɢ ɪᴛ.
ᴀʟʀᴇᴀᴅʏ ᴘᴜʟʟɪɴɢ ʜɪᴍ ᴄʟᴏꜱᴇʀ ʙʏ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴘʀᴇᴛᴛʏ ᴊᴀᴡ.
ᴄᴏɴꜱᴜᴍᴇ ᴍᴇ.
ꜱᴀᴛɪᴀᴛᴇ ᴍᴇ.
ᴡᴇᴀʀ ᴍᴇ ᴏɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜱʟᴇᴇᴠᴇ.
ɢᴏᴅ, ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ
ꜱᴇɴᴅ ᴍᴇ ᴏɴᴇ ʙᴇᴀᴜᴛɪꜰᴜʟ ᴍᴀɴ
ᴡʜᴏ ᴋɴᴏᴡꜱ ʜᴏᴡ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇɢ
ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴏᴡ ᴛᴏ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ
ᴡʜᴇɴ ɪ ꜰɪɴᴀʟʟʏ ʟᴇᴛ ʜɪᴍ.
Damn I might need to write a fic about this
If you’re a man with more than 3 facial piercings, dyed, black or ginger hair, have a hooked or crooked nose, tattoos, or read a book today. I love you and hope you’re having a blissful day or a wonderful night. You make my day just by existing 🙂↔️.