Vamp Vamp

Even more gorgeous than you’d been during those brief formal interviews, between clans and council members who nudged each other at the fact that he had finally chosen a bride. 

You’d swapped out your wedding robes for an actual robe that was much…riskier. Stuck to your skin, glistening in the faint candlelight. You were semi-sprawled comfortably across the bed, having patiently waited for their ‘team meeting’ to have finished. 

And Sukuna would’ve yelled at any of them for gaping stupidly from the doorway, he should have - if he wasn’t gaping stupidly himself, that is. Lips parted, crimson eyes bulging. 

This was the clan leader rumored by some to be a monster, and rumored by others to fight like a monster: now fully frozen at the sight of you. 

It takes about seven different council members and Itadori Wasuke poking Sukuna’s muscular back with his wooden cane to make him move. “Ryo-” Jin hisses in slight concern, fingers starting to itch towards his phone, namely in the sequence of the emergency number he’d memorized for tonight. “Ryo move- you- oaf-” 

Respect for the head of the household be damned, they were deadset on bullying him inside the romantically-decorated room. Finally making him move one foot. Two. 

As soon as he staggers through the entrance, the towering mahogany doors then slam shut behind him. Somewhat snapping Sukuna out of his little reverie - somewhat. He shakes his head free of that vision of you, gaze dropping to the floor- anywhere but where you were sitting, so beautiful and unbothered. 

An heir.

Right, an heir. What was that nonsense about six heirs? Right now, he felt he’d be lucky to get to not faint.

“I uh-” You lean closer with a smile when he starts to sputter out, and the act itself nearly makes him take a step back. Heart rushing to the surface of his tattooed skin, “Ah, I mean-”

He gulps. And almost as if they were sensing the tension inside the bedroom, the group outside abruptly starts up the distant saxophone of a George Michael. It filters through the slight gaps of the doorway and into the thick silence inside. 

You were looking at him with a raised brow, clearly waiting for him to speak first with his interesting reaction.

Which is exactly what Ryomen Sukuna does - exactly why he clears his throat gravely. All seven feet of his figure straightening, toned chest puffing out. Jin had told him to smile before he smoldered, and right now Sukuna does neither. Only asking in grim seriousness-

“So are you uh…open-minded?”

“What?”

“What?”

BANG!

He’d removed himself from the honeymoon suite before you could even blink. 

And as you sat up on the bed in genuine confusion, the clan leader outside - your husband - was crouched against the now-closed bedroom doors. Knees to his pecs, all four palms coming up to cover his face- though, they do nothing to hide the scorching red flushed at the tips of his ears. 

The elders can only gawk; they’d known Sukuna since birth, and never had he acted in this manner. Never had he been so flustered, blushed so bright that it looked like he was steaming from his very skin. Flinching at the touch of his brother, he groans once the older one starts punting him with questions.

Jin squawks, “Is your wife okay- are you okay?”

“Yes- no.”

“Do I need to call the fire department?”

“No.”

“The exorcist-”

“No no no- fuck! She was just so…” Sukuna finally manages to string together more than one coherent syllable, running his hefty fingers down his features, like he wanted to scrub the embarrassment off of him. And the tail end of his response rings out as nothing but a whisper. So small, so shy. “…beautiful.”

He looks up at the circle surrounding him like he was pleading, “So, so beautiful.” Baritone dropping into an even lower volume, he scratches the back of his head like a child recounting a crush. “And she- she smiled at me, heh. What’d I do to end up with a wife like her?”

The elders and family members look at each other. 

Silence.

At least, as much silence as you could get in the Itadori Estate. Because, before long, Wasuke clutches his aged heart and gasps, “No!” Only once every pair of eyes has turned to look at him- “My son has no game.”

The emergency services were called that night. 

Though, it’s more for a health check on his father’s heart than for anything gone wrong with your honeymoon. And Jin thinks that’s pointedly to do with the fact that you don’t have a wedding night - at least, not in the sense of the word. 

After he’d offered Sukuna a general health check-up too (he’d vehemently denied) and a heart check-up in particular (he’d considered) you’d finally ended up walking out of the bedroom. Barely getting through one word of their overlapping explanations before you’d held up a hand. 

“It…actually might be better if I don’t know.” You’d sagely remarked, and quite smartly. Before turning to your new husband, who’d all but cowered at your gaze, “But you need to get some sleep, mister. Don’t think I don’t know about how cranky you get otherwise.”

“Hell yeah, ma’am. So true, ma’am.”

And Sukuna had sauntered back into the marital suite of his own accord, for a night of sleep. Nothing but sleep - though, Jin thinks he caught Sukuna fist pumping in celebration when you insisted he didn’t have to sleep on the couch.

There seemed to be no hope for an heir that night. Or, ever, at this rate.

And the trusty council of elders that were present would later retell the story in the morning after, with varying degrees of humor - some cackling about the fearsome head’s one weakness, others grieving the lack of heirs that the Itadori clan shall now have.

But most had been left with quite a different impression. They eyed each other during breakfast, when you’d come down with no marks, no signs of lost sleep. Surely, there was no other explanation - Ryomen Sukuna was impotent. 

He might not be the sweetest clan leader, or the most empathetic, or clearly the most savvy with the ladies, but he was their leader nonetheless. 

And they had to do everything in their power to help.

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.

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“-and then the ol’ man starts playing fuckin- I mean, freaking ‘Careless Whisper’ and then I make a fool of myself-”

“Mhm.”

“-but she was oh-so-sweet about it. Which makes no sense, how can one be beautiful and sweet? I mean, look at me- I’m a right bastard-”

“Mhm.”

“-not that I’m complaining. And then when we shared the bed, heh, she told me ‘goodnight.’ Can you believe that? Goodnight? Obviously, she’s into me.”

“Mhm.” Five-year-old Itadori Yuji looks up from where he’d been playing with blocks on the archery dojo, “Uncle Kuna, can we go play hide-and-seek now?”

But the older man lets go the taut, tough string of his bow- hitting the bullseye of his target dead-on. “You’re right! She’s totally into me- heh, ten points for Sukuna.” It was already nearing sundown, and he’d been cooped up in the Estate’s dojo for hours after the fiasco that was his wedding night a few days ago. 

Nothing else had occurred between the two of you since. For which he was equally as grateful as he was disappointed - obviously you didn’t want to spook him. And obviously he wanted you.

But it wasn’t his fault he’d been trained in the arts of commandeering rather than communication. 

Which is how he found himself with that lil’ nephew of his as a therapist, shooting away arrows with the specialized bow designed for Sukuna’s four beefy arms, and fourfold strength. As if that would help ease the tension.

The clan leader opens his mouth again and it’s enough to make Itadori throw himself back onto the polished wooden floor. Starting off- “And did I tell you that when she told me ‘goodnight’ it was in a tone of like-”

“Ahem.”

If there was anything that could make big, bad Sukuna quieten down, then it certainly wasn’t his advisors, or his older brother, or anything else but you. 

And all you had to do was clear your throat once to signal your intrusion, having wandered your way through the massively sprawling Estate. You’d somehow led yourself straight to him.

You bow politely, “I hope I’m not disrupting.”

“C-course not.” To your surprise, your husband speaks first. “We were just-”

“Talking about you-” You giggle as Itadori instantly runs to cling onto your arms. Excitedly squealing at a mile a minute, “Uncle Kuna says that- that he has a huuuuge crush on you and-”

“No!” Sukuna interjects in panic- that traitor. 

“And- and he liked the way you say ‘goodnight’ and-” 

“Itadori Yuji, I will pay you to stop talking.” 

You’re watching the situation like a tennis match, and Yuji does stop - for about three seconds, that is. Until his voice drops into a conspiratorially low whisper, hands cupping his mouth- “Did you know he also called an exorcist-”

“What the f- I did not?” Husky bass damn near cracking, he rips the little boy away from you. “Scram, gremlin.”

Pushing at his back to make the toddler waddle away and give the two of you some space, Sukuna hastens to straighten up and puff his chest out. Making sure that the loose fabrics of his training yukata would slip aside to flash you with a sliver of his toned pecs, glistened with a thin layer of sweat. 

And when - only when - he catches your eyes dipping downwards, he clears his throat—smooth, Ryomen Sukuna. You’ve made people disappear, you can do smooth- “H-hi.”

His vocals crack.

Nearly passing out from the shame - but you don’t seem to mind. “Hi to you, too. I see you’re working hard?”

“Yeah- I mean no.” As you raise a brow, “Who needs ta work hard when you’re just good?”

“Is that so?” It’s a blatant brag, but one that didn’t go unsubstantiated. Your eyes drift to the side to where targets had been lined along the distant wall, each of them punctured right through the middle with a sharp arrow. “Oh, that’s impressive. I don’t think I could ever-”

“Would ya like to try?”

You’re nearly as shocked as Sukuna at the words that escape his mouth, before he can mull and chew over them first. But that swiftly melts into a look of eagerness once you nod- being handed his hefty bow.

“It’s heavier than normal.” Before you know it, he’s sidled up behind you. Leaned down so close that his warm breath blankets your neck- pointed chin hitting somewhere by your temple, tense core pushed up against you. 

So close. Easily, two of Sukuna’s hands help you hold the weight of his massive bow, and another two fall down to your waist to guide you. “Easy there, mama.”

“Th-thank you-” You’re find yourself stammering from the pure intimacy. And it was just so unfair how pliable he found you - heart racing, mind spinning at the thought - angling you bodily to face the targets. “So I just pull and release, then?”

“Mhm. You pull reeeal hard.” Deep, throaty. You’re noticing just how warm his hands were when they’re on yours, helping you pull, pull, pull back on the feathery edge. “Breathe in reeeeal slow.” You do, and you feel him match yours. “Position it.”

His honed strength helps you find the target, and his hands- oh, but his hands were nearly making you lose sight of the bullseye. “Aaand-” Two of his rough palms draaaagging down your sides for stability for him to tower over you, and then two more gently rubbing over your hands for reassurance as you- “-shoot.”

Schwing–!

It lands dead-center in the bullseye.

He grins, “Hell yeah.” 

“Yes!” You’re hissing, bow still in your arms as you leap into Sukuna’s. It was a brief embrace, just the quickest few seconds - but your husband nearly melts.

With your face tucked into the crook of his neck- his eyes nearly bulge out of his sockets, four massive palms hovering in the air like he didn’t know what to do with himself. In a flash, you’re reaching ‘round your body to let him rest them on your back, and he gasps, “O-oh-”

“Oh?” With a slight chuckle, you pull back, and he nearly whines in agony. But this was the Ryomen Sukuna, of course he can hold it back…to merely a slight grunt of pain. “Thank you for teaching me.”

“Thank you for being my wife-”

“Pardon?”

“Nevermind- I uh-” All four palms come up to cover his face in utter horror- it had been going so well if it wasn’t for the clan leader’s big mouth. Everyday was seemingly an unfortunate reminder that he was related to the blabbermouths that were Jin, Yuji, and…

Speaking of, where was Yuji?

Little did he know that a certain pink-haired toddler was holding a certain group of elders hostage behind the screens that led to the dojo’s entrance. Their bodies, formerly leaned over the doorway to spy on the couple, were now crouched on the floor. 

Disappointed- how could their revered clan leader not take the bait? Impotency strikes again.

But, right now, the masterminds were slightly more occupied with something else. Fingers to mouths, voices in whispers- begging the little boy standing in front of them to remain quiet.

But Yuji only smiles, standing proudly in front of them. He whispers, “Do you wanna play hide and seek?”

The council of the greatest minds in the household look at each other, “Uh…no?” Unsure of what else to say to the boy.

Before their ears are pierced by the most noisy child-like shriek of Sukuna’s name—“Uncle Kunaaaaa—it’s the exorcists!”

An arrow shoots their way. And by the way it strikes precisely into the wooden panels between the elders’ heads, precisely where it didn’t harm anything but their motivations, their egos, and perhaps slightly their heart conditions - they’re guessing it was their loving clan leader that shot it.

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.

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Sukuna always did hate stuffy clan meetings.

The ones where documents were piled into columns taller than himself, council men and women spoke over each other to try and earn his attention, and he had to act for hours like he actually tolerated the guest invited that day. All in the name of ah- politics, or whatever. 

And today was much the same - except for one shocking, sudden surprise. You. 

You, seated directly opposite him on the large round table now that you were officially part of the clan. You, perfectly positioned for him to take in every pretty inch of you. You, who he’d give anything just to have beside him and chatting his ear off, or helping with his papers.

And, honestly, with a view like that he wouldn’t even complain about being forced to discuss- what was it again-

“The socioeconomic impacts of clan bonding activities and how they-” Choso - who’d recently started attending for education on the clan - drones in such tired monotone, shrugging at their two-toned guest, Zenin Naoya, without looking up from where he was doodling on some contract. “-could really benefit from those.”

“Tch- don’t talk like I didn’t know that, brat.” Sukuna narrows his eyes down at his eldest nephew.

Only to get a withering eyebrow raise in return, “Well, did you?”

“Yes…” No-

And almost as if he could read the pure lie on his uncle’s face, the middle-schooler has the audacity to put his pencil down and grin. More interested in the happenings of the meeting than he had been in four hours now. “Oh really? Well then, dear uncle of mine, would you care to explain to your nephew who comes up with these bonding activities?”

“The fuck do I look like? Stupid? It’s…Jin.” It was a guess, no one else would do something like that. He turns his face away from Choso and towards you. Politely laughing at something that the person next to you had said-

“And why is it important?”

He grumbles, this damn kid. Absent-mindedly- because oh, how was he expected to focus when your lips move to talk so prettily. As if in slow motion, like in those sappy movies Jin loved. “Uh, socio-something or the other-”

“And what do we hope to get out of today?”

“Erm-” Furrowing his brows, laser-focused on wracking his brain when- you turn his way. All you have to do is look at him for Sukuna to blurt- “Six kids, a summer house, and pets of her choice.” 

In stunned silence, Choso only gravely draws a tally count. 

You: 3

Sukuna: -478

“Oi- I’m at least in the double digits-”

“I think you have bigger things to worry about.” He muters, jabbing a pencil in your direction. “Your wife’s about to get stolen.”

And oh.

Ryomen Sukuna didn’t take kindly to snapping his head over and recognizing that slight glint in Naoya’s eyes; the way his mouth curled up meanly, body leaning just a tad closer to yours whenever you pulled back. Not kindly at all. 

Worst of all, he’d just been hit with the realization that it was that rat bastard who’d been making you laugh while he’d been stuck with duties. 

Simply on opposite ends of the room, and yet, it feels like an eternity until the hulking clan leader rises from his seat. Feet pounding their way over to where you were, your eyes raise instantly-

“Oh, there you are.” You start to smile - only for it to falter, coldly, at the shadowed expression on Sukuna’s face. He looked like he’d just seen a raging ghost, and his expression was downturned as such. 

You couldn’t pinpoint whether it had been the stress or the fact that the future heir to the Zenin clan couldn’t take a hint. But you’re trying to soothe him, “You looked quite busy-”

“I was, ah-” He was always weak to anything you said, “-bonding…activities…socioeconomics.”

Sarcastically, “How riveting.”

“No need to worry, I kept her company, though.” An annoying, grating voice bursts through your bubble. And before you can do anything to stop him, Naoya has his arm thrown ‘round the back of your seat. Around the room, one by one, the elders were starting to turn in their own chairs. Discussions dropping to whisper- “And my father always does commend my networking skills, clan leader Sukuna.”

And you think Sukuna might burst. You think he might just rip into him-

But, no. Instead, he breaks out into a smile, “Ah, young master Zenin, huh? Didn’t notice ya there.” A smile that was just slightly jarring, slightly…dangerous. “I see you have met my wife. Quite charming, isn’t she?”

“Yes yes, quite beautiful.” Naoya waves off with a chuckle, elbowing the taller man where he could reach. Huffing, “Though, I must say, it’s quite smart to let the wife inside a clan meeting. Gives you something to look at, at least.”

You seethe, brows furrowing, “Pardon-” But your husband already has a hand signalling you to seat yourself back down comfortably. A commotion was starting to stir by now, and if anyone was going to make a mess of clan politics and reap the consequences, it would be him.

He could and would take the fall for you.

“Young master Naoya.” He declares in a booming voice, “The Itadori clan has decided that we would so ah- love to indulge you in a practical example of our very own bonding activities.”

As you tilt your head in slight confusion - this certainly wasn’t part of the meeting agenda, and the council seemed to notice it, too, Naoya hums. “Oh?”

“Right now. You’re welcome.”

“What? Now? But-” 

As the lanky man scrambles in his seat, Sukuna grasps the very back and topples Naoya right out of it. “No no, let me.” And all it takes is one hand to lift their guest straight into midair and march him out of the room. 

The door slams shut behind the duo.

And you didn’t need to hear the yelps, or the punches, or the begs for mercy to know exactly what your husband had in mind as a ‘bonding activity.’ 

It seemed the member of the Zenin clan would be leaving here bruised for his words, and it seemed that the elders were strangely…excited at the notion? Buzzing impatiently, tittering to each other. 

It only increases twofold as Sukuna re-enters the meeting hall - knuckles suspiciously bruised, and notably without a pompous heir behind him - and you find yourself fighting back a smile. Muttering some half-hearted lecture about treating guests well, which he seems to lap every word of, you end it off by reaching upwards and kissing the side of Sukuna’s cheek. 

Fleeting and innocent.

But the elders gasp-

“Oh my god- oh my god, it’s happening—”

“My money’s on a girl child being the firstborn-”

“-maybe he’s only half-impotent-”

Keen eardrums catching the whispers and congratulations, you only have the time to catch the tips of his cheekbones smearing bright red - before the clan leader stumbles back out of the meeting room.

“Oh, I think I jinxed it-”

Choso, meanwhile, crinkles his nose and reaches for his eraser and pencil once more. 

Sukuna: -477

“Gnarly.”

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.

.

“Uncle Kuna—-!” It was inevitable that every single person inside of Yuji’s cute lil’ kindergarten would end up knowing when his father wouldn’t be able to pick him up, and his uncle would arrive instead.

For one, it was all he would talk about the day beforehand. And two, they’d all hear his shrill squeal- except, most students and teachers used to this little ritual were probably shocked at the scream that followed after. “Mama—!”

And you were just as caught off-guard. 

Somewhere, in the distant bushes at the very end of the kindergarten playground, a few elders and Itadori Jin fistbump one another. All those lessons, not gone to waste!

“Ah- Yuji?” You’re fighting the way your voice wobbles in surprise, and it felt like a tiny cannonball had been shot at you with the way he runs straight to you. “What did you say, baby?”

Somewhat confused, two large eyes peak up at you. And his voice is tiny, “Mama?”

Ruffling the curly pink locks of Yuji’s hair, you just-so-happen to glance at the boy’s uncle. Your husband. Who was currently steaming from his ears and flushed bright crimson, veins bulging at his forehead, mouth opening and closing stupidly. “I- you- who-”

He was speechless.

Barely even breathing- honestly, you’re hit with the slight urge to reach forwards and feel for Sukuna’s pulse before a calm voice breaks through. “Ah! I see Yuji’s favorite uncle is here today.” A soft, bowl-cut man claps his hands as he walks up. Your eyes drop down to his nametag and read ‘Haibara.’ “And you must be-”

“My wife-” Sukuna spits out, before another word can leave Haibara’s mouth. “My wife, Jin could never pull anyone like-”

“Excuse my husband.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

With yourself properly introduced - this time with names - you find yourself laughing along to one of Haibara’s anecdotes of Yuji, something to do with a dare and attempting to eat a terribly finger-shaped stick. He smiles breezily at you and hums, “He’s a good kid, and seems to be very fond of you. You should come visit more often.”

“Well, I hope to.” Grinning right back, you squeeze Yuji’s squirming body as Sukuna takes off his tiny back-pack. And you can’t help but think that it all felt so…domestic. 

Evidently, the cozy atmosphere had been obvious. Haibara ponders out loud, “Forgive me for asking, but do the two of you plan on having children soon? You seem like you’d be wonderful parents.”

Oh, you look at Sukuna. And Sukuna doesn’t meet your eyes, though, with his face turned straight ahead- what you could see was the way the tips of his ears were slowly starting to redden.

It seems like ages, it seems like he was waiting for your answer just as Haibara innocently was. And your mouth opens-

“Mister Haibawa, Yuji’s uncle can’t be a parent, he’s already an exorcist.” What the f—the trio of adults snapped their heads down to see that a black-haired boy - another Zenin, confound it - had just tugged on his teacher’s sweater. Butting into the conversation- Sukuna thinks he could recall this boy’s name, something Gummy? Megumi?

“Oh?” Then it wasn’t an orange-haired girl on his other side, “My mommy says he’s unemployed.”

“That, too.”

Somewhere, in the distant bushes at the very end of the kindergarten playground, a few elders and Itadori Jin facepalm. All those lessons, gone to waste!

“Well I don’t think he can be a parent because he looks stupid.” This time, one burly boy with a buzzcut enters the scene. And he was sparing no punches, both metaphorically and literally - he knocks out a good few backhands against Sukuna’s core. 

“That, too.”

“He doesn’t look stupid, Todo.” His nephew whines at him- that’s his boy! 

Sukuna could almost shed a tear, oh, how proud he was. So proud, in fact, that he’s hoisting the babbling boy over his shoulders without a second thought. 

Maybe Jin hadn’t completely failed as a father, after all. Maybe the boy wasn’t a hopeless case and had actually come to appreciate the strong, kind parental figure that was his uncle- “He just looks sorta stupid when he thinks he’ll embarrass himself in front of his wife. Because he does that a lot. That’s all.”

“Like the time with the exorcist.” Megumi nods, sagely.

“Like the time with the exorcist.” Yuji agrees, smacking the top of Sukuna’s head. 

“There- there was no time with the exorcist.” The clan leader tries to clarify to an extremely confused Haibara. 

And the girl - Nobara, according to the nametag on her glittery back-pack - points up at him, accusing. “I like his hair. He also can’t be a parent because he wears wigs.”

Sukuna growls, “You’re just jealous, bob-cut-”

You furrow your brows, “Do you wear wigs?”

“No.”

Yuji giggles, “Will you wear wigs?”

“No-”

“When will you wear wigs?” 

“Never!” Honestly, children these days. He damn near pounces on Haibara, who’d asked that last question.

Megumi - honestly what was this kid’s problem - seems to pipe up for the sake of piping up, “And he steals candy from babies.”

“That was one time-”

“Hey hey-” Without warning, Todo was tugging on Sukuna’s trousers to gain his attention. Snickering as the older man looks down with the most weary face in existence, “You wanna learn how to actually impress fine shyt?”

“What is…fine sh-”

“That’s enough for today. I think.” Their teacher claps his hands, “And Todo Aoi what have I told you about using certain words? Don’t think I won’t have a talk with your guardian again, young man.” Flustered, he throws an apologetic look your way before corralling his tiny students inside. “Now- inside!”

You can finally breathe a sigh of relief - finally, finally. 

Though, you don’t know what bewilders you more - the fact that they listen, or the fact that Todo was the only one that didn’t. And it was all because of the fact that he had Ryomen Sukuna kneeled down to match his height, mouth snarling, but head nodding intently to whatever Todo was whispering in his ear. You look at Haibara, and he shrugs just as helplessly.

“Umm…mister Haibara?” Another one. The pink-haired man’s soul damn near leaves his body as another teeny, toddling monster starts pulling on the teacher’s sweater. 

Likely expecting an encore of the chaos just prior, his smile stretches thin. “Yes, Toge?” And you, too, start praying that it wasn’t any more love advice, or choice words about Sukuna’s character.

Pale hair cut into severe bangs, the boy mumbles in a small voice, “There’s some old men in the bushes.”

Ryomen Sukuna has never run up to a bush to kick it so fast. 

And, later, with Jin left explaining to the teachers and the elders still walking off their bruises, he found himself walking down a softly sunlit road with you. Yuji now fast asleep on his shoulders, and you by his side.

It was a perfect day. Made only more perfect by the gentle tugging of your husband’s fingers towards yours, in midair. In all his years, it’s perhaps the scariest thing he’s done. They hesitate, and then they reach - the slow curves of his digits gliding down your wrist, before interlocking with yours. Warm. Firm. And yet, softer than his palms have ever felt. 

He thinks he catches you smiling, and Sukuna thinks Todo’s advice might not have been so bad after all. 

And from a nearby bush, Itadori Jin pumps his fist in success. Impotency or not, not a complete waste, then.

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One night a week later, the elders decide, push should come to shove.

Literally; cold towels were thrust into your hands before you’d been shoved through the damp wooden gates of the Itadori household’s bathroom. It was the largest one, special in the way a large portion of the room was occupied by a steaming hot spring.

And from your position at the very edge of the humid chamber, you could see the toned shoulders of Ryomen Sukuna. Back turned to the door, just the upper half of his body was peaking out of the water. Glistened with dampness, deltoids flexed as he leans his elbows back against the floor.

You’re semi-glancing behind you at the members of the council that had all but thrown you inside- something about ‘marital bonding.’ Which was really just a way for them to take care of their head’s little ah…rumored problem. 

To them, it was perfect - your gorgeous wife comes up to you in a hot spring and…helps. What more could he want? After all, there’s nothing wrong with impotency - there was just something wrong with their clan leader.

You’re game either way.

And you gently knock against the wall to denote your entrance, before walking up to where Sukuna was gawking from now. “Wh-what are you doing here?”

“Helping.” You reply simply, wringing the towels before folding them over his heated forehead. “Do you wish for me to leave-”

“N-no!”

It comes out faster than he’d have liked, more hitched than he would have liked. Honestly, the sentence barely even leaves your lips before Sukuna sits up straighter. Letting sploshes of scalding water drip down his abs, he leans further back against your touch. “I mean- stay.”

“Mhm, I heard you had a long day.”

“The worst, mama.” And part of his response is half-grunted with the way you’ve now situated yourself properly behind him. With your lap now a bed for his damp head, fingers weaving through those coral pink locks. “Had to refurbish the dojo, then take care of the problem with that damn Zenin brat…then donate to Yuji’s…kindergarten, then…promote a few elders… and one I had to…” Heavier and heavier, he was sinking into you with each nimble movement of your fingertips. “-fuck.”

“You fucked an elder before you fucked me?” You raise a brow in humor.

“Huh- no!” He’s growling, steam curling from the water. And as you’d briefly halted your ministrations to tease him, he guides your hands back to move. “I would never…eugh. Shit, can’t even imagine doing somethin’ like that with anyone but you.”

Suddenly, it’s silent. Except for the slow curdle of the water, and the soft grunts that Sukuna was oh-so-desperately trying to bite back. 

Fuck, he was so handsome.

Such naturally chiselled muscles, and dark circular tattoos on just about every joint he had. 

You massage his burning temples, slipping down into the longish length of his hair. “Oh, is that so? And do you imagine it often with me, clan leader Sukuna?”

“Stop being such a fuckin’ tease.” Hissing, Sukuna’s prominent Adam’s apple bobs as he practically begs. And he looked so pretty when he was begging; brows upturned, mouth unintentionally pouty. “How can I help myself?”

“And am I doing anything to stop that?”

“Yes-” Forgoing the massage, Sukuna now stops your right hand. Holding it tightly as he turns his head and presses a kiss to the tender inside of your wrist, hot with water and his blush. “Just existing is enough.”

“Sukuna…”

Your mouth parts, and it’s like a string being drawn- your lips are on his. It’s messy, with the way he’d angled himself from upside down, tilted up just to sliiide the plushness of his mouth across yours. It’s light, like he was holding himself back.

And you knew what he was capable of.

Which was likely what made you reach for the back of his head, pulling him in to deepen the kiss. Gasping, your mouth just barely parts for his hungry maw to clasp ‘round your sugary tongue. Sucking—before-

Before a button clicks, and suddenly the bathroom walls are trembling with lyrics singing ‘I just had sex—’

You could’ve caught whiplash with how fast you’re both staring at the entrance: meeting with the sight of the several elders, Wasuke, and a ridiculously large boombox. Piled onto an embarrassing heap on the floor, they’d seemingly fallen over- likely from their spying over one corner of the door. 

‘And it felt so good—’

“Wrong one dammit- this is what Wasuke was on music.” You’re catching one of them murmur. Just about the only thing they have time for before scurrying away - leaving the boombox very, very behind. And you don’t have to look behind you to know that Ryomen Sukuna was likely seething enough to make the spring water itself bubble. 

Sukuna growls, “Fucking George Michael.”

“Actually I think that’s Akon.”

Sukuna slams his open palm against the edge of the pool, and you have to open up your palms to stop yourself from being splashed. He murmurs, more to himself, “All because I didn’t wanna fuckin’ scare you- not that they’d-”

“Wait, why’d you think you’d scare me?” You ask in confusion.

To which he looks at you in genuine bewilderment, as if that wasn’t even worthy to be a question. “You’re beautiful.” He states, like there were no truer words. 

Before gesturing at himself- those naturally rosy locks, the four arms, the faint slash across his abs where they said his second mouth was to be. Cursed with strength, cursed with power, cursed with looks that defined him as something more than human. “Look at me- just fuckin’ look at me. And that’s not all- how shall I be expected to live a normal marriage when I’ve been cursed from birth? I only ask for forgiveness that I’d been selfish with my choice of you, my wife-”

“Well, I don’t forgive you.” 

It’s silence, and he looks torn between hanging his head in understanding, and taking your words head on.

“Because I think you’re beautiful, too.” You say it honestly. “My beautiful husband.”

And, for not the last time that night, the big, bad cursed Sukuna blushes.

‘Felt so good~’

.

.

.

“Sh-shit—” Your back arches lewdly, allll the way back until your naked, puffy core could reach as much of Sukuna’s mouth as possible. “Think I like it better when you’re like- ngh, this.”

Just a few minutes and one rapid trip to your bedroom later found you with your previous clothes in a heap across Sukuna’s bedroom floor. Your thighs shakin’, hips bucking wildly as you straddled his mouth—no, not his first. 

You were riding his second mouth.

The wildly monstrous one slashed across the middle of his stomach, large and hungry. He’d gaped it open immediately once you’d clamored up his washboard abs, letting the curled tip of his second tongue slide deftly between your inner thighs.

Playfully flickering in patterns straight up to the target of your cunt-

“Haaah, so you’ve decided you like- mmm, this mouth more than me?” One of his four hands teasingly dips downwards to grace your pussy with a solid spank. 

So loud, so wet that it makes his cursed mouth lick its lips in greed. “Really not gonna talk t’me now then? Not even through these lips?” Another one. And it’s letting off the rawest slurp that muffles your own squeal- “Though, I think she disagrees, huh, baby?”

Through gritted teeth, you somehow manage to force out, “Shut up-”

“Alright alriiiight.” Sukuna trails off, seemingly back to focusing on the ministrations of his tongue. 

Your eyes are dangerously on the verge of criss-crossing as he glissades it up every bead of slick escaping you. Laid flat n’ draaaaagging across every inch of skin he could reach, the flexible tip of his tastebuds were just barely touching your treacly folds when-

Spank!

Even harder this time. And your mind whirls stupidly at the stinging sensation that just felt so good- “N-ngh, fuck–”

You were bending so cutely on top of him, and Sukuna can’t help but lean his hulking figure further down the king-sized mattress. “Atta girl.” Bucking up so that you’re fully seated on top of his second mouth now, slick dribbling all down his obliques, his cursed tongue glued to your clit. 

Sticking between your folds, his pinkish tastebuds rover ‘round and ‘round that fat nub where you were most sensitive. Just barely gurgling out, “And here I th-thought you were shy-” 

“And here I thought you were dumbified, hmpf.” With a roll of his eyes, your husband chuckles. “Guess not yet.”

It was as much a warning as he would give you - and it wasn’t a warning at all.

Before the fat girth of his finger is rudely pryin’ apart your pussylips and shoving the first few inches inside. Until you’re being spearheaded by him, he’s trying to scope every inch of you. He’s trying to snake his muscle in until he’s probed into every nook n’ cranny.

“F-fuuuuuck—” Sukuna groans out, watching through half-lidded peripherals at the way your tight hole was trying to suck him up. So thick, he can count every throb of your walls around him, one-two-three-four- “Are we sure yer not dumbified- hah, already? Look how fucking wet ya are, mama.”

“N-ngh, Kuna—”

Your whines are botched with pants, after each time his finger is swabbing its way inside. Fitting in two- moving in the slightest half-ruts just to fit inside- again. And again and again.

Each passing second had him probin’ into a new corner of your pussy - and yet, it still wasn’t enough for the clan leader. Which is why Sukuna finds his tongue slithering back and forth your folds, pushing them apart until he was given a front row seat to your depravity. “See? A damn- fuck- waterpark. Are ya always like this or m’I just special, huh?”

“You’re not gonna be special if you- mmpf, talk so- ngh, much-” The stretch is so incredible that you’re forced to bite down on the gummy insides of your cheek. A necessity if you didn’t want to wake the entire house up tonight.

But Sukuna had other plans.

Rose brows raising in slight surprise, “Ohhhh? That good, huh?” The edges of his sleazy grin twitch once he’s tuggin’ on your dripping wet entrance even further, pumping in the expanse of a third lengthy finger. “M’just gonna take that as a sign m’special~”

“Kuna-”

Oh, you were just so pretty huffin’ and puffin’ atop him like this. It’s enough to make his second mouth slobber with greed, edging dangerously towards the circle of your stuffed hole. “Alright alriiight. Brace yourself, baby.”

“Brace m- wha- oh.”

Before you know it, his fat fingerpads are pushed oh-so-deeply inside. So deep that you think he’s filling out every drivelling orifice, pumping furiously. 

Sukuna fucks you with his fingers like he’s trying to make you remember. Like he’s trying to hook into all of your sweetest spots, the ridges of his joints brush up slightly against your g-spot. You mewl, “It’s so- oh, I’ve never felt so full-”

“Yeahhhh- those fingers of yours can’t do this, huh? Poor thing.” Fauxly cooing, he’s rovering you so open. Your husband’s fingers were so big that he didn’t even have to try to leave you trembling- to leave you whimpering as he pulls out in a quick split-second.

Wordlessly despite your disappointed cries, you crack your teary eyelids open to find that Sukuna was slipping off the silver metal wedding ring off of one of his left hands. And pushing it down onto his slick-glazed right hand- before thoroughly thrusting. “S’gonna be a stretch- gonna be a biiig stretch. You can take it, mama.”

“C-can I?” Your thighs twitch stupidly at the frigid feeling of his ring scraping your soft insides. 

This way, you could pinpoint the exact way he was moving inside of you: in and out in and out, curling to hit your g-spot. 

And Sukuna can tell the exact moment his stirrin’ fingers target your most sensitive spot- because you’re panting, you’re bucking. You’re throwing your head back once he plunges his slick-glazed fingers out to do it all over again and again, until his knuckles hit your pussylips raw. “Hell yeah, ya can. How’re you gonna, mmm, take all of me if you can’t even- oh, take these, hm?”

You’re pouting, “I-I can…”

“What’s that?”

In an effort to prove it to him, you bounce your hips right back into his sloppy cadence. “I can-” And it only makes your cunt squelch even louder the closer you are to his slippery tongue. 

“You can?”

“Y-”

His hips jerk upwards roughly, grazing that ridged texture of his tastebuds from the very bottom of your pussy, up, up, up to the tip of your slope. And it’s loud. “You can?” Your heart races, it’s only then that you realize he wasn’t talking to you - he was talking to your other pair of lips. “Then take it- take- ngh.”

Harder and harder. His probin’ mess was reaching a fever point and you’re rubbing yourself pathetically on the prolonged muscle of his tongue. 

And the more ravenous his cursed mouth became - edging his globular tip nearer n’ nearer to your stretched-out hole - the more ruined he was becoming. Bucking himself up animalistically, two hands of his control the grindin’ of your hips- manhandling you down just enough so that the wetness of your cunt just barely touches his rock-hard cocks. 

“F-fuck!” You’re whining at the feeling of two thick mushroomy tips touching your skin. 

And Sukuna doesn’t touch himself- no matter how many hands he has. Having you on top of him like this would be a sure-fire way to cream himself in his pants before he even started. His pretty lips wobbling, eyes scrunching closer the harder his aching erections throbbed. 

He was so sexy. And you can’t stop yourself from staring- something he notices even when he’s in this state. “Wh-what?” Flinching at the sheer intensity, “The fuck are ya looking at, huh?”

“I’m just th-thinking…” And you have to stop yourself from moaning as he pulls out his plump fingers in punishment. They were glistening, dripping with so much of your juicy sap that Sukuna sucks clean in front of you. 

Before slipping back in—“That I’d- oh- love to make you, mmm, shut up.”

Rolling his crimson eyes, “Oh, you’d love to make me shut up, huh?” And he was so smug. So sure of himself…until the leader catches onto the way you’d been rutting against his second mouth. Riding. And, slowly, those hazy peripherals of his widen- “Fuck…don’t tell me-”

You only nod.

“-you seriously wanna be fucked by my cursed mouth?”

Nodding drunkenly again-

“O-oh.” His head falls back into the satin pillows as you’re slipping it in, the slimy tendril of his tongue finally scouring into where he’d wanted to for so long now. 

It feels incredible. 

Finally hooking ‘round your tight entrance to push in, in, in—he’s just so big that once Sukuna’s unfurling his greedy tongue, it feels damn near never-ending. And you felt so tight pulsing around him, squeezing him inside once, twice, thrice. “Ya- ya really are gonna be the death of me- fuck!”

You start to ride him and it makes the big, bad Ryomen Sukuna mooooan, twitching his way inside of you. Since you were already softened up by his fingers, it was easy work for him to pull out and immediately replace himself with those rude tastebuds of his. 

Straightened out so he can probe around your walls, the length of his cursed tongue was pumping n’ pumping.

You’d never felt anything like this before. And you swear you see the mouth on his belly chuckle darkly as he fucks you like he would with his cocks. Salivating. Sploshing your poor insides until you have him memorized. 

Sukuna’s tongue swerves along your walls until he brushes the very back of your cervix, softly mushing it in. Again. And again. And again—“Fuh-fuuuuck—” You’re gurgling out, wet wads of saliva dribbling down each side of your lips. “Who’s the one dumbified now?”

“Wh-what- ngh-” His eardrums were popped from the pure pressure, barely able to make out your words.

And through the constant rams of his tongue, you manage to string together- “I-I said, who’s the- oh, dumbified one n- oh!”

“You.” In that very moment, he has his bumpy tastebuds glued to your g-spot, his hips arching right off the tense bedsprings, core tensed. Sukuna slashes his cursed mouth into your favorite area and grooooans, “Still you.”

Mouth prattling nonsensically, “Th-that’s cheating-”

“Nuh uh.”

He squeezes your perked clit with the tips of his rude fingers, still with the ring on one of them. And the backs of your eyes explode with white-hot pleasure at the dual pleasure - his tongue fucking you ferally, his digits teasing your clit. “Yes it is- hngh, because it’s gonna make me…”

Cum.

You were so close, you could feel it in each swab of his tongue. Gaped open even wider for the most maximum movements, each thrash is angled just right against your g-spot.

Just right to stretch out your glistening walls until they’re taking the shape of him. And he hums, “Yeahhhhh— all over.” Your clingy slick is drenching his abs by now, like a waterfall that he’s scooping up with a fourth hand. 

One on your clit, two on your hips to move you pliably up n’ down his length, and his final one getting absolutely soaked. Sukuna brings them up to his primary mouth to suck off the layers of candied slick, smearing it all over his lips like some delicacy. “Yeah, allll over now, mama. Make a hah- mess of me.”

Your jaw unfastens as you watch him clean himself off, every single drop. “Oh my…hngh.”

“What? Mmm, jealous?” Ruder, harder. It was just so sloppy how his mouth rovered all over your cunt, slippin’ and slidin’ back and forth at a constant pace. “Maybe if you were, hah, patient, you could’ve gotten that.”

“As if I’d want that…” You’re huffing, stubborn.

“My wife, you’re just- about- to cum- on me.” The space between each word is slashed with a push of his rovering fat tip, and a thorough squeeze on your clit.

To which you’re shooting back- “And you were about to cum- ngh, untouched.”

And you think he’ll tease you back. You think he’ll bully you until you’re driven mad - but Ryomen Sukuna was moaning in agreement.

Speeding up the pace of his velvety tongue, he’s slithering it with a deep bash against your g-spot. Grunting, “Can you blame me?” Harder. Something at the back of his throat cracks. He begs, “Such a pretty, oh, fuckin’ wife like you and- and I’m expected to stay calm?”

Hiccuping, “I- I don’t- Kuna, I’m not gonna last-”

Faster. “M’expected not to get pussydrunk? Expected to not fucking- lose it. F-fuck-” Sloppier. 

And you don’t get to hear what the tail end of his sentence might have been. Because with a few more vulgar strokes, you’re breaking apart—cumming. 

Lids cracking with tears, lips wobbling out whines.

His name, over and over again. Your cute noises are so loud that he has half the mind to wonder whether those damn elders will hear, “Cum—ing-” You announce, belatedly. Body shaking with each peak of your high, “Feels so- so good, oh.”

“Does it, now?” He babbles away, drunk on your honeyed pussy. The sheer primal clench of your walls almost made it hard for him to fuck you through your wave of bliss. “Good- good, atta girl, cream all down my t-tongue now.”

The curvaceous tip of his tongue was constantly pricking your g-spot, and it only drags out your orgasm even further. Until you were nothing but a sobbing mess, “Am- oh, I am.”

“Mhmmm— go ahead.” Your thighs twitch, head dropping backwards as the last few dredges of your high are pounded away. “Go ahead- take it. Take it all out on me.” With a few twinges of electricity that zap down your spine, you can finally manage to crack open your eyes. 

But you notice that just as you’ve reached your high, Sukuna did, too. 

Or, at least, he was trying oh-so-desperately not to.

As your pace lazes, his two hands on your waist glide down to his plump, aching erections. Both sets of thumbs rover on top of his leaking orifices, squeezing just so he won’t leak out in cum. Stopping himself from cumming untouched. 

And that makes you huff, “Kuna…” Your newfound nickname for him makes him flush, and you instantly swat away his hands. “Want it now.”

“Cheh-” Those hazy, blood-red eyes of his narrow, and somewhere in the distance, you can hear the tight snap of his underwear being pulled. “What a spoiled lil’ wife…”

But that wouldn’t stop him from indulging you, of course.

Sukuna breathes in heavy puffs, and you barely even have the time to catch yours before he’s immediately clawing onto the right side of your ass cheek with one hand.

Usin’ that sinful leverage to manhandle you straight down onto one of his plush tips, the thick circumference of his shaft throbs against your hole and you moan. Head snapping down- “Fuck.”

Oh, fuck.

He was so…big.

And that was being humble- you’d come to learn that not only was Sukuna gifted with extra height and limbs, he was gifted with extra size too. 

Two fat, veiny lengths laid between two meaty thighs, they were colored the prettiest tan flush on their tips. Dribbling down heaps of precum that puddled between the two of you. By now, the curly pink hairs at the bottom of his bases were already drenched, and his ballsack was so tight with need. 

 Sukuna was so hard that every throb was visible. So big that it made your thighs squeeze together.

Mentally, you’re calculating just how it might be possible for him to fit inside you. Before his rough tone cuts off your thoughts, “Ah ah- we can count together, mama. Say it w’me now-” 

“Wha- one!” Almost laughable, he’s then bullying in just the thickened front of one cock. They were stacked vertically, and as you get pierced by the lower one, his upper one was rubbin’ primally on your front. 

Sukuna’s mean fingers draw an invisible line from up your treacly slit, measuring. “Mmm- s’more like two inches.”

“Two-” You blabber, “Then how much more-”

“Guess we’ll just have to find out, heh~”

And he meant it.

Before long, Sukuna was fucking up into you furiously. Ferally. Thrust after half-thrusts just to fit his incredible size inside, “Tha’s about four…mmm, more three.” He’s drunk on your pussy, counting away how many solid, sopping inches managed to be squeezed in each time. In a split-second, your poor pussy’s being spanked. “You too, baby.”

“It’s just so- ngh—” Your head throws back for the nth time tonight, singing in synchronization with the creaks of the bed. 

It’s like he was jackhammerin’ you, mazing your slick-filled insides with the globe of his cockhead. Sukuna was so long that it was easy to massage your every sweet spot- again and again. “Whaaaat? Can’t take it? Fuck, wee’re only about-” On your tummy, he measures out how far he’d slid inside by now. “S-six inches, still. About halfway?”

Your eyes bulge—halfway?

It’s a shock so large that the rest of your body loosens up, weakened. Just perfect for him to grab onto your hips, your thighs, one hand on your neck to jostle your cute body up n’ down his cock.

“S’it too much for my, mmm, good wife?” Mercilessly, he’s spitting between your ajar mouth. “Took my tongue but you can’t even take one of my cocks- aw, c’mon now, mama.”

“I-I-”

“I-I-I- whaaaat?” Octaves higher. Your husband leans in until his heated breath burns the shell of your ear, whispering, “Gonna hafta speak up, y’know? Unless ya want me to- fuck- it out- of you-”

And you always did surprise him. Because where the head of the Itadori clan expected to be met with a few sobs, a few pleas, you’re only straddling his toned hips tighter. 

Swervin’ your hips down in a dizzying figure-eight to help him stuff your cunt full of him. And even though it still wasn’t enough to bottom out completely, you look up at him through teary lashes. “I want both, Kuna.”

Sukuna’s pink lashes flutter, his breath catches. “Wh-what?” And he stutters. Oh, you’d made him stutter - just as nervous and awestruck as he was on your wedding night.

“Both.” You can only repeat the word.

Because at that very second– before your response has even graced his very ears, he’s rutting up into you like an animal. Like a dog in heat, Sukuna’s crushing your front to his abs and his cocks to your cunt.

Pap!

“Fuck…” He hisses at the sting of flesh slamming on flesh, “Eleven. What was that?”

And you’re being dumbified by the sheer stretch, not only had he started kissin’ your puckered pussylips with his second cock - he was starting to press inside. No hesitation, no waiting around for you to get used to the stretch. Sukuna was hungry. 

You somehow choke through wads of your own spit, “More- both- oh fuck!”

“What? S-say it again-” He’s like a broken record at this point, and so were his plunging cocks. Deeper n’ deeper. Your drivelling entrance was now stretched out so widely over the circumferences of his bases, sobbing just as much as you were. 

“Bo-”

“Twelve- again.”

It was a damn wonder that he could still spit out coherent words. Stammering. Heaving.

The hand of Sukuna’s that’d been caressing your front was now slithering down to cup both his shafts. Guiding them upwards to press in—“Gonna have ya take it a-all until here-” You snap your head down to see what he was talking about - only to catch a lil’ you’d missed in your observations of his size before. 

Those two ring tattoos at the base ends of his cocks.

The sight itself is so lecherous that it has you moaning- “Oh, yes- both.”

“Yeah? So sit pretty and take it, baby.” They were glistening with your sultry sap, nearly kissing your folds by now. “Allll the way until m’tattoos- got it, girl? Alllll the way until…” Stupidly, you’re nodding. And he can only breathe through clenched teeth, “Fuh-fuck! Thirteen.”

Thirteen.

Thirteen entire inches - each.

You’d finally reached the tattoos. And they were stuffed pretty n’ puffily inside you. Throb-throb-throbbing away against your every tiny orifice, Sukuna didn’t even have to try to mold your gooey cunt to him. 

As you open your mouth to demand him to move, he plunges in two of his thick fingers. Messily dragging himself towards the back of your throat, “Tch- such a dangerous fuckin’ mouth. M’gonna hafta fuck that outta ya.”

You’re whimpering, your jaw dangling agape perfectly for him to spit inside. And then his second mouth—targetting your pussy with a thick glue of spittle.

At least he was nice enough to give you an actual semi-warning this time.

Because before long, two hands are clawing at your sides. Pinning you down so that his two shafts can prick your cervix neatly, bottomed out and yet still trying to go deeper.

When he finds that futile, Sukuna bodily bounces you up n’ down his upright erections. “Oh my god- o-oh my god.” One of his angular shafts was bashing in your sponged cervix, and the other was just below n’ cutely rubbing on your g-spot. “Fuck it just feels so- good!”

“Aaaaatta girl, enjoy it.” With a hand on your throat, he bends you back into an arch. 

The pressure is almost too much - so much. You find your body naturally torn between running away and yearning for more, more, more. Though, luckily, the clan leader’s there to help you make that decision. “Nuh uh, no runnin’, baby. Put your back into it- taaaake it, you see how much she likes it?”

“Can- can hear-”

“Mhm—”

And truly, your overfilling pussy was so loud. Every splatter of precum inside you made the most primal squelches- and the volume? 

The sheer sploshes of his gooey translucent sap was enough to bloat your pussy. But now with two plump, vein-covered cocks of his probin’ your innards, he was fucking a tummy bulge into you. You gasp at the feeling, “I d-didn’t even know that was- hck! possible-”

“Heh, course it is—And y’know how to make that cute lil’ tummy bulge of yours even bigger?” Sukuna beckons you closer, like he’s about to tell you a secret.

Even though, really, he’s manhandling you like a ragdoll. Reeling you in until his scorched hot lips were grazing your own, murmuring. “I just…hafta…fuck a baby into you, my wife.”

Almost on cue - like a little preparation - both of his strawberry-red divots stream out a few beads of precum. Splattered against your walls, they drip n’ cream down the sides of your pussy and make you see stars. “I would like that- oh, I would- I would like that.”

“Mmm— and what about you?”

Evidently, your needy cunt’s in agreement, too. Because the wettest noises suddenly let off from between your legs- and only later do you realize that it wasn’t just because of how damp your pussy was. No, it was because of his second mouth.

Tonguing down the shimmery sheen of slick upon each of your thighs, he licks up every drop of juice you were leaking. Flicking the curly end of his tongue at your clit-

“Ah ah- focus on me.” Sukuna snaps you out of your high with a light spank on your slope, and a literal click of his fingers. 

“B-but how can I when it feels so goood—”

“So goooood, huh?” He drags it out purposefully, pressing his thumping veins against the roof of your channel. 

Sukuna knew the effect he had on you. He knew how to target your favorite spot in strikes so precise that it left your toes curling, vision flashing with white. “Tell me-” Right now, he had one hand smearing apart your folds to better let his tongue slip between them. Another two hands clung onto your waist to help you move, and the fourth and final was grabbing your face. Pushing your cheeks together pathetically, “Can’t focus? Awww, my poor wife. Are that- oh, useless at focusing on anything that isn’t my two c-cocks right now?”

“N-ngh, Kuna—” Cute. How cute. Your dilated pupils were swirlin’ in circles inside the whites of your eyes, comically pounded stupid after each stroke upon stroke.

“S’that the case, huh? Is that why my mouthy girl is so- oh, fuck- quiet now?” He’s almost snickering- it’s so ruthless. 

Heavy hips pressuring up into you. He was pounding you in rough thrusts, all the way from the mazing curve of his cockheads to those tickling tufts of pink at his very bottom. And Sukuna has the audacity to spit—“Fuck, mama. Do you even know your name right now?”

Your brain was too hazy, merely sparking with twitches of pleasure. You’re left blubbering nonsensically for a few seconds, until his tongue slaps your buttony clit. Startling you into answering, “I-I…”

“Heh, do you even know mine?”

“K-Kuna—” You might not remember your own name by now, but screaming Sukuna’s over n’ over had permanently branded his into your mind. 

And so you look up at your husband’s handsome, leering features for any recognition. Only to find him tutting, “Now now, how disa- oh, disappointing. I thought you’d most importantly know who I am, at least.”

“Then…clan leader?”

“Nuh uh.”

Pouting, “B-but ”

“B-b-b-but-” He’s mocking, buttery tongue now rubbin’ your nub raw. You felt overstimulated enough to press your chin between his puffy pecs, like cushions. Sheening out drool all over his skin- “Say my title before you cum, baby.” You listen with bated breath, “M’your husband. And m’always gonna be your husband.”

“M-my husband?” Your mouth drops - and you’re unsure whether it’s because of his words, or the sudden increase of his tempo. Hot and hard.

His twin, rock-hard crowns plummet all the way until you swear you can feel him poke your lungs. Throbbing at a thunderous staccato, he breathes—“Gonna be your husband that fucks you like th-thiiiis—” Punctuated by a few sloppy drags of his vein-decorated lengths, “Gonna be your husband that eats you out like m’starved.” A few hearts that he’s drawin’ on your clit with his extra prolonged tongue.

“Fuck- fuck I’m gonna—”

As your sobs break off, his roughened hand dips from your throat to the slick n’ precum dripping down your thighs. And you faintly notice the way he’s using the moisture to write out his own name—

Ryomen Sukuna. 

Signed off with a little heart on your skin, “And m’gonna be your husband that…” And a second heart right above where your womb was, where he was jackhammering into your womb like no other. Flooding it with copious knots of cum like he was practising for something else soon. 

Sukuna leans down sweetly so that his lips trace your earlobe, whispering. “-breeds this pretty pussy alllll full.” Tapping the front of your pussy, like he was just imagining it.

And that does it for you. That does it.

Before long your head falls into the crook of his neck with a dull thud, so utterly dumbified on your sudden orgasm that you can only blabber. “Kuna- Kuna—!” 

Your thighs were shaking, cunt fluttering with each spasm of pleasure.

And if Sukuna was going to fuck you through your high, he was going to fuck you through your high. Every probe of his rovering cocks increased your bliss tenfold, exact hits to your g-spot. 

Sobbing, “Please-” You can only hold onto his flexed, tattooed deltoids for dear life. Clawing down his skin due to the constant stimulation, you bow your spine backwards and meet his ferocious thrusts. Riding out the euphoria- spark after spark that made your toes curl.

Grunting, he just felt so used right now. And he loved it. “Yes yes yes- let this entire house know. Let that whole council ngh- hear how good of a husband I am to you.”

It lasts until you’re gurgling on your own whines, zaps of electricity still shooting from your cunt. “Let them-” And Sukuna dares to smush your tear-wettened cheeks together to coo, “Fuck, what’s that–? What’s that pretty mouth hafta- hngh, say t’me?”

And you somehow manage out, “I-inside.” A shaky hand of yours snakes down to part your pussylips wider, helping his roverin’ tongue. “My husband…”

Ryomen Sukuna’s eyes widen, his kiss-bitten lips part.

You could almost hear the deep, trembling gasp that he’s inhaling. Letting out only five words—“I l-love you, my wife.”

You aren’t granted the time to formulate a response- before his thick, battered cockheads start spilling out. Flooding your cunt in mere seconds, you’re just dripping down your thighs in thick clumps of his seed.

And his cursed mouth is more than happy to indulge in all the miry ribbons of sap, lickin’ all upwards until a thin, ivory gloss coats its lips. Sukuna looks down and groans, “Oh fuck- oh fuck fuck fuck fuck-”

His flush was scorching, face scrunched in pleasure. You’re purring, “You’re so pretty, baby—”

“Ah, m’so glad I married ya.” He can’t stop the lil’ confession that leaves his mouth. Heart too full- your cunt too full. And if you saw one of the strongest, most vicious clan leaders in existence smile through a fiery blush n’ his pussydrunk tears, then you mercifully don’t comment.

“M’glad I married you too, Kuna—” 

And you’d felt nothing like this before. Having his gluey cum splosh around inside of you, both of his lengths were shoved in so deeply that they were constantly coating your cervix in white. Your womb.

Your deepest orifices that leak out as Sukuna plants a hand on your tummy and presses, watching with bated breath as his seed gushes out of you like a waterfall. “Fuck- didn’t think it would be like th-this, ngh.” He was hypnotized, making an even bigger mess of you. “Didn’t think that it would be s-so…” Addictive.

He doesn’t finish his sentence. For now.

Red eyes teary, Adam’s apple gulping. You’d completely sucked him dry by the time that Sukuna was pulling out of you. The matching mushroom tips of his shafts twitching, reddened and sensitive. 

He hisses as they bob in the air for a few seconds, before-

“Kuna- oh, fuck.”

Before you were flipped over and pressed deep into the mattress. Your legs on his shoulders, your knees near your tits—and his mouth over your overstimulated cunt. 

Letting you cream all down his chin, Sukuna has to swat away his cursed mouth just to get a taste of you himself. And the moment his plush lips touch your glazed folds- you’re trying to run away. Failing. 

“Now now, my wife.” Being draaaaagged back down by all four of his big, beefy arms. Sukuna pecks exactly six open-mouthed kisses on your sloppy hole, his lengthy pinkish tongue coming out to sluuurp—“I remember something about…six heirs?”

Oh. 

.

.

.

“Y’know, there’s really nothing wrong with impotency.”

Wasuke grunts, a few elders nod. “Agreed.”

“But maybe he’s taken a vow of celibacy-”

“Maybe his dicks fell off.”

“Choso Kamo!” It was never too early in the morning for Itadori Jin to squawk at his sons, especially when they were in the middle of what was undoubtedly an exceptionally important subject of conversation - the two of you. 

He wags his butter knife like a weapon, “We do not say those words in front of Yuji, and especially not in front of our toast.” Before reality sets in and he drags a hand down his face, “But yes…that is possible…”

Wasuke deems it to be the perfect time to chime in, “Bah! I don’t care if they fell off or if they multiplied- I just want grandkids.”

“Father, might I remind you that it was you who decided to interrupt their little moment last night?” A vein pops out beside Jin’s temple, and in his periphery can see the other guilty elders shift in their seats. 

The old man does, too, but still in denial. “Slander! That is propaganda that I will not be falling for-”

“Father, we have multiple eye witnesses. I am an eye witness.”

“And what were you doing spying with us?”

“…”

As Itadori Wasuke rests his case, the winding table falls into perhaps the first quiet of the morning. Somewhat tense. Somewhat anticipating. That is, until an oblivious Yuji nearly upturns his bowl of cereal to chime in—“Exorcist-”

“What? Choso, did you let him watch your-” Jin starts- and then stops. Because then he’s seeing exactly what his youngest son was looking at - you and Sukuna.

Well, more like you in Sukuna’s arms. It seemed that you were having some trouble waddling down the Estate’s multiple flights of stairs, painstakingly taking it one at a time to enter the dining room. And he has half the mind to nearly ask what’s wrong, perhaps even get up and help you himself- until he sees it.

Oh, it was hard to miss.

He sees it, and so does everyone else within a five mile radius: the bite marks, the bruises, the slight weariness in both your eyes from lack of sleep. It almost looked as if you two had been thrown to the wolves.

And his younger brother often did forgo a shirt for breakfast, but now he’d haphazardly thrown on a yukata. One that showed off such feral scratches disappearing down his back, his neck, fuck- maybe even his thighs?

Jin drops his butter knife, Choso exits the table, and Wasuke…was he even breathing? Hell, Jin was sure that a few of the surrounding elders had honest-to-heavens fainted right then and there.

Nearly everyone knew what happened.

Except for a beaming Itadori who was the first to gain your dual attentions, squealing out a “G’morning–!” that you both reciprocate in hushed, hoarse voices. Fuck, he even swears he heard Sukuna’s gruff baritone crack.

No one comments, of course, for the dark glint in their clan leader’s eyes promised sure death if they did. Though, Jin does roll his eyes at a few of the whispering council members—

“What a glorious, wonderful day it is. I truly do believe in miracles-”

“My bets are on a girl- but a boy would also be-”

“Akon worked?”

He doesn’t think he can judge, though. Not when he’s immediately pulling out his phone to text Yuji’s teacher, Haibara, about the salacious new updates. Ah, can you blame him? You two would make the prettiest lil’ babies. 

Finally, you and Sukuna finally take your seats at the clan table. Grinning. And by the looks on your faces, Ryomen Sukuna wasn’t impotent. Not at all. 

Though, it wouldn’t have mattered anyway.

The Itadori family sips their tea.

A/N. *Also sips tea* Hope you have a lovely week!

Suguru had sat you down on a Sunday, which you had thought was cruel timing. Sunday mornings used to be yours, slow and warm, coffee and his records and the particular blue light that came through the windows of his apartment on the Shimokitazawa side of the city. He had used that gentleness of his—the kind that had hooked you in the first place, the kind that made you feel like he was doing you a favor when he broke something in you.

"I feel like I'm suffocating you," he had said, which you both knew was not quite what he meant. You're suffocating me. He was too kind to say it plainly.

You had held it together long enough to get out the door.

That had been seven months ago.

You have, in those seven months, become a person you do not entirely recognize. You are aware of this. You are a fashion student, after all—you are trained to observe, to analyze, to understand aesthetics and composition and the way things are put together and taken apart. You apply this skill now to Geto Suguru's life in your absence from it.

It started small. The way these things always do.

You had kept his Instagram followed, of course. His main—@suguru.ink—which he kept public for his work. Clean grids of tattoo photos, the occasional candid shot from a coffee shop or a bar. Easy enough. You didn't even have to try.

But then he'd switched his personal account to private.

@its.suguru. One hundred and twelve followers. A lock icon.

You had made the alt before the thought had fully formed. It took you maybe twenty minutes: a new email, a new account, four weeks of posting photos stolen from Pinterest—aesthetic city shots, some food, a carefully curated collection of jazz album covers—and then a follow request sent to his personal from @mn.archives, a faceless account that looked like any other twenty-something whose personality lived entirely in film photography and good coffee. Two hundred and sixteen followers, because a number too low looks suspicious.

He accepted within a day.

You tell yourself this is just so you know he's okay. That it's concern, residual and tender, the way you might still check the weather in a city you used to live in. You scroll through his grid at eleven PM with your knees pulled to your chest and you look at the photo he posted last Thursday—some bar you recognize, neon light catching the silver of his earrings, Haibara's arm slung around his shoulder—and you feel something so complicated you can't name it. Not grief exactly. Not quite anger.

Want, maybe. Plain and embarrassing.

The tattoo was not your best idea. You will admit that freely, in the privacy of your own thoughts.

You had passed by his work plcea approximately forty-seven times in seven months, which you know because you have routes home that all bend toward this specific block on purpose. You had a habit of slowing down outside the window—frosted glass, the clean black font of the shop name, sometimes the amber glow of light inside—and telling yourself you were just walking. Just passing through. Just appreciating good signage, actually, as a design student.

The appointment you booked under a fake name—Watanabe Mika, which you chose because it felt forgettable—was a small floral piece. Lower back. Simple. Classic. Something you could attribute to a late-night Pinterest spiral rather than the slow, spectacular unraveling of your dignity.

There is one flaw in this plan, one thing you had somehow managed not to factor in.

You are terrified of needles.

You sat in the chair and stared at the ceiling and told yourself it was fine, it was fine, it was—

"Breathe."

His voice, right behind you. Low and unbothered, the way it always was.

You had not accounted, in all your meticulous planning, for the fact that you would have to talk to him. That the fake name would crumble the second he walked into the room and said it like he'd never heard it before in his life.

"Watanabe-san?"

You had turned, and his expression had done something complicated for exactly one second before settling back into professional neutrality. His hair was up—messy bun, a few strands loose around his face—and he had new ink on his forearm, something geometric you didn't recognize. Which meant he'd had it done after you. The thought sat in your chest like a splinter.

"Hi," you said. Brilliant.

"Hi." A pause. "Small piece?"

"Lower back. Florals. I have a reference."

He had nodded and reached for his gloves and you had spent the next forty minutes lying face-down on the table with your back exposed and his hands steady on your skin and tried very hard not to make a sound that wasn't about the needle.

You managed. Barely.

The tattoo healed beautifully. Sometimes you twist in front of your mirror just to look at it.

His favorite coffee shop is a place called Kōhī to Yoru—coffee and night—that operates out of a narrow building near the university. He started going there maybe three months into your relationship, the two of you sharing a corner table and his headphones, and you have continued going there with the particular audacity of someone who has decided they were there first, actually, in some cosmic sense, even if that is not strictly true.

You go on Tuesday mornings and Thursday afternoons, which are the days his alt account has, on multiple occasions, shown him holding an iced coffee that matches the shop's specific shade of pale green cup.

You bring your sketchbook. You work on your thesis collection. You sit with your back to the door and wait for the sound of it opening—the particular way the bell above it chimes—and when he comes in, which he does, not every time but often enough, you feel your whole body go still and warm and stupid. You look down at your paper and draw the same seam line you have been drawing for six minutes without noticing.

He always orders the same thing. You know his order the way you know the smell of his apartment, the exact pressure of his hands, the specific timbre of his voice when he's half asleep.

You don't look up.

You're very good at not looking up.

The club situation, in retrospect, requires more explanation.

There is a bar-club hybrid in the entertainment district called Sable that Suguru frequents. You know this because Satoru has a fully public account and zero impulse control regarding location tags, which means you have a near-perfect record of their Saturday nights without ever having to try very hard. You don't follow Satoru. You don't need to. His posts are public and his captions are aggressive and he documents everything.

You do not go to Sable every Saturday. You're not insane.

You go maybe twice a month. On weekends you've verified—through Satoru's stories, through a brief and agonizing scan of his tagged photos—that Suguru will be there. You get ready carefully, the way you used to when you were going to see him, and you tell your friends, who know nothing, that you just feel like going out. That you love this place. That the DJ is good.

The thing is, you're not lying about the DJ. The DJ genuinely is good.

And you are, by any objective measure, devastating when you make the effort.

You keep your distance. That's the important part, the part that keeps this justifiable. You don't go near him—too obvious, too much—and you have what's left of your pride to protect. You position yourself well, and you dance, and you drink, and you exist in the same airspace, and you watch, peripherally, the way you've gotten very good at watching things peripherally.

What you also do—and this is the part where you stop being able to fully justify yourself—is notice the women.

There are always women. Suguru is—you don't need to describe him to yourself. You know exactly what he looks like in a room, what he does to it without meaning to, that particular quality of his presence that functions like gravity. You know because it pulled you in and kept you there for sixteen months and you have not yet figured out how to get far enough away that it stops working on you.

So. The women.

You don't interfere directly. That would be messy, obvious, humiliating. What you do is more surgical than that. A girl drifts toward him at the bar—you're there first, materializing at his elbow under the pretense of ordering, smiling at the bartender, turning just enough that your body language reads as occupied space. A group approaches the table where he and Satoru are sitting—you're walking past right then, somehow, and you catch Gojo's eye (Gojo who knows you, Gojo who looks at you with an expression you have learned not to examine) and you smile like you ran into him by coincidence, and the moment breaks before it can start.

You are very good at this.

You have gotten very good at this.

You think you're slick.

This is perhaps the most important thing to understand about the last seven months: you have constructed, in meticulous and loving detail, the story of yourself as someone who is merely adjacent to Geto Suguru's life. Someone who passes through the same spaces by coincidence, drawn there by taste and habit and not by anything more embarrassing than that. Someone who has moved on cleanly and simply no longer intersects with him—except in these small moments that don't count, that you are careful to keep deniable.

You believe this story.

You are, perhaps, the only one who does.

Geto Suguru notices everything.

This is not vanity—it's fact, the baseline condition of someone who has spent years being precisely observed and has therefore learned to observe in return. He notices patterns. He notices the particular quality of attention a room gives a person. He notices when something stops being coincidence and starts being something else entirely.

The first time he saw you at Kōhī to Yoru, he thought: oh.

Not with surprise. With something more like recognition. Like finding a word he'd been looking for in a language he already spoke.

You had your sketchbook open and your head down and the line of your shoulders had that specific tension you always got when you were pretending to concentrate on something other than what was in front of you. He had ordered his coffee and taken the table by the window—not your corner, deliberately not your corner—and watched you not look at him for eleven minutes straight. And he had felt something settle in his chest like the click of a lock finding its latch.

There she is.

He had not broken up with you because he stopped wanting you. He needs to be clear about this, at least to himself, in the space where honesty costs nothing. He had broken up with you because wanting you and watching you want him back had started to feel like too much weight in a place he didn't know how to hold. He is—he will say this plainly—not good at being needed. Something in him retreats when it feels cornered by someone else's love, some reflex toward distance that he's never fully understood and never fully fought. He had watched you learn his rhythms and bend yourself around them and he had known, somewhere underneath the warmth of it, that he was shaping you into something that orbited him, and you deserved better than a center like him.

He had thought, in the careful logical part of his mind, that breaking up would free you. That you'd pull yourself out and go build something that didn't require making yourself small.

He had not, apparently, accounted for yoy.

@/mn.archives had followed him about two months after the breakup. He noticed because he got the notification at 2 AM on a Tuesday, which was exactly when you used to lose sleep to your phone.

He had looked at the profile for a long time.

The photos were too curated. Jazz records and film photography and that particular aesthetic that looked like a constructed personality rather than an actual one—assembled from the outside in, like a mood board rather than a life. No face. No name. mn.archives. He had scrolled back through their last few conversations once—just once, he told himself—and found a message you'd sent months before the end, mentioning a vintage archive account you'd been thinking about making.

He had accepted the follow request.

He still posts to that account knowing you're watching. Sometimes he tags places he's about to go, just to see if youll show up. You always do.

The tattoo appointment had required real effort not to laugh.

Watanabe Mika. He'd seen the name in the book when he was reviewing the day's schedule and he had known before he walked into the room. He doesn't know exactly how he knew—maybe the handwriting, you always pressed too hard with pens, like you were trying to leave a mark on whatever you touched—but he had known, and when he said the name and watched you face do that thing where you're trying to hold it perfectly still, he had felt something he'd classify, if he were being honest, as pure delight.

Forty minutes. His hands on your back. The way you'd gone absolutely rigid when the needle started and then forced yourself still through what he knew, because he knows you, was genuine fear. You hadn't made a sound. He'd been almost proud of you.

He wanted to say: you don't have to do this.

He wanted to say: I already know.

He said neither. Because there is something he enjoys—something he is not proud of but does not particularly want to stop—about watching you work this hard. About being watched this carefully. About being the thing someone builds an entire architecture of ordinary life around.

The club thing is his favorite.

He sees yoy every time. He spotted you the third Saturday you came to Sable—across the room, dancing with that particular careless ease you put on when you're trying to look like you're not paying attention to anything—and he had taken a slow drink and thought about how long you'd been doing this without knowing he saw. He had done a rough calculation. Yiu'd been at it for months.

The girls you redirects: he lets you. It would be simple enough to close the gap, to make himself reachable, to let someone else in just to see what you'd do. He doesn't.

Satoru, who is not an idiot and has never pretended to be, had said once, watching you materialize near the bar at precisely the right moment: "You know she's here."

"I know," Suguru had said.

Satoru had looked at him for a long moment. "And you're just going to let her keep doing this."

It hadn't been a question. Suguru hadn't answered it anyway. Satoru had made the face he made when he thought Suguru was being spectacular and specific kind of idiot, which was fair. Satoru was usually right about these things.

He still has your key.

This is the part he doesn't examine too closely, doesn't turn over in his hands and look at straight on. He still has the key you gave him fourteen months into their relationship—the little silver one with the small scratch near the head from when you'd dropped your keychain down a flight of stairs and laughed so hard you couldn't breathe, had grabbed his arm for balance and left half-moon marks in his jacket. He had kept it after the breakup, which he had told himself was oversight. He'd meant to return it. The moment had never arrived, and the key had stayed on his ring, and here they are.

He goes, sometimes, when he knows your out.

He knows your schedule the way he's always known things about you—not through tracking, not through architecture and alt accounts, but through the simple accumulating weight of attention. He knows you have studio hours Monday and Wednesday evenings. He knows you go to your mother's on Sunday afternoons and usually doesn't come back until after seven.

He lets himself in quietly. He moves through the apartment and he moves things—small things, careful things. A mug shifted slightly on the counter. Your desk chair at a different angle. The throw blanket refolded. Nothing you could be certain about, nothing that couldn't be chalked up to your own distracted hands in a busy week. He just wants you to feel it, in some wordless way you can't name. He wants to leave a shape in your space.

He also takes things. He is aware this is not something he can justify cleanly. Small things—a note torn from your sketchbook, a hair tie from the bathroom counter, once a grocery list written in your handwriting that he'd found tucked under a bottle of wine. Things you might not notice. Things you'd never be sure about.

The first time he went to the drawer beside the bed—just to look, he'd told himself—he had found his hoodie. The charcoal one you used to steal, folded near the bottom like you'd put it somewhere you didn't have to see every day but couldn't bring yourself to throw away. And underneath a novel you was reading: a photo strip from a machine in Harajuku. The two of you, making faces, the particular light of that afternoon still somehow caught in the paper.

You hadn't thrown any of it away.

He had stood there for a moment and felt something so complicated that he hadn't tried to name it. He had taken the photo strip. Replaced it with a different photo—same machine, earlier in the same day, just you, mid-laugh, caught without knowing—so the space wouldn't feel empty if you looked.

He keeps the photo strip in his wallet.

He does not call this obsession. He doesn't call it anything.

It's a Thursday night when he finally goes back, and this time he doesn't have a reason.

Not to rearrange anything. Not to take something. No careful justification assembled in advance. He doesn't know what that means and he has, tonight, decided to stop caring.

The city is quiet the way it gets past midnight, that particular held-breath stillness. His key makes no sound against her lock—he knows the angle by now, the specific lift-and-turn that keeps the mechanism from clicking too loud. The door swings open onto darkness and the particular smell of her apartment, warm and layered, something floral and underneath it something that is just you, unchanged across seven months, the thing that had always made the back of his mind go quiet.

He moves through the space without turning on a light. He knows it better than you might expect. He knows the creak of the second floorboard from the hallway and steps around it. He knows to angle left around the ottoman you perpetually fail to put back in the right place. He knows the bedroom door sticks slightly at the top corner and needs gentle pressure to open without a sound.

It gives way.

You're asleep. He can tell from the doorway—the slow, even rise and fall of you breathing, your hair against the pillow, one hand curled loosely near your face. The window lets in just enough city light to see you by. Gold and still.

He leans against the doorframe.

He watches you breathe.

There is something terrible about this moment. Something tender underneath the terrible. He knows that. He is not without self-awareness—he has spent years being precisely, painfully self-aware, and it has never once made him behave better. You have been watching him for seven months from what you believed is a safe distance. He has been watching you from what he knows is not one. And maybe that says something about both of you, about the particular shape of whatever this is, two people who were never going to fall cleanly out of each other's gravity no matter how carefully he tried to cut the line.

You shift in your sleep. A small sound, something that almost forms a word and dissolves before it arrives.

He is still there.

There she is.

He stays until his shoulder starts to ache from the doorframe, and then he stays a little longer.

The city light filters through the half-open blinds in thin silver bars across your bed. Suguru stands in the doorway a moment longer, letting the quiet settle into his bones. Your breathing is deep, slow, the kind that only comes after exhaustion has finally won. He crosses the room without sound, shedding his jacket onto the chair by your desk. The hoodie you still keep is visible when he glances at the open drawer—charcoal, folded like a secret.

He sits on the edge of the mattress. The shift of weight makes you stir, but you don’t wake. Good. He wants this part slow.

His hand finds your ankle first, thumb brushing up the bare skin of your calf. You’re wearing an oversized t-shirt—his, he realizes with a low pulse of satisfaction—and nothing else. The hem has ridden up to the curve of your ass. He traces higher, palm warm against the back of your thigh, then slips under the fabric to rest at the small of your back, right over the fresh ink he put there himself. The skin is still slightly raised, healed but sensitive. He presses lightly.

You make a soft, wordless sound, shifting onto your stomach more fully. Your face stays buried in the pillow.

“Suguru…?” The name is barely shaped, thick with sleep, more breath than voice.

He doesn’t answer. Instead he leans down, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Shh. Go back to sleep if you want.”

His hand slides lower, between your legs, finding you already slick. A low hum leaves his throat. Even asleep, your body knows him. He circles your clit with two fingers, unhurried, coaxing. Your hips twitch once, instinctive, pushing back against his hand.

You whimper into the pillow, still half-gone, thighs parting just enough to let him in. He takes the invitation, pressing one finger inside you, then two, curling gently. The wet sound is obscene in the quiet room. Your breathing changes—shallower, quicker—but your eyes stay closed, lashes fluttering against your cheeks.

He works you open like that for long minutes, slow thrusts of his fingers, thumb stroking your clit in lazy circles. Every time you clench around him he feels it in his own cock, already straining against his jeans. When you start rocking back against his hand in tiny, unconscious movements, he withdraws, ignoring the protesting noise you make.

Clothes off. He doesn’t rush. The belt buckle clicks softly; the zipper sounds louder than it should. He strokes himself once, twice, spreading the bead of pre-cum over the head before lining up behind you.

You’re on your stomach, legs spread, t-shirt bunched at your waist. Perfect.

He pushes in slow, one long glide until he’s buried to the hilt. The stretch makes you gasp, eyes flying open for a heartbeat before they flutter shut again. Your walls flutter around him, hot and tight and so fucking wet.

“Fuck,” he breathes against your nape, staying still for a moment, letting you adjust. Or not. He doesn’t ask.

He starts moving—deep, measured rolls of his hips that press you harder into the mattress. Each thrust drags against that spot inside you that makes your toes curl. You moan, low and broken, still sounding half-asleep, face turned to the side now so he can see the flush on your cheek.

One of his hands slides under you, finding your clit again, rubbing in tight circles while he fucks you. The other braces beside your head, caging you in. He drops his weight more fully onto your back, lips at your shoulder, teeth grazing skin.

You push back against him, needy even in your drowsiness. “Suguru…” His name again, softer this time, wrecked with pleasure. Your hand reaches back blindly, fingers brushing his hip, urging him deeper.

He gives it to you. Harder now, the slap of skin on skin filling the room. He angles his hips until every thrust makes you cry out—short, breathy sounds that go straight to his cock. Your pussy clenches rhythmically around him, fluttering, pulling him in.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “Let me feel you.”

He fucks you like he’s memorizing you all over again—slow drags followed by sharp snaps of his hips, grinding deep when he bottoms out. Your breathing turns into soft, desperate pants. You’re dripping down his cock, onto the sheets. He reaches down and spreads your ass with both hands so he can watch himself disappear inside you, the obscene shine of your arousal coating him.

You come without warning, sudden and shuddering, a broken moan muffled by the pillow as your walls clamp down hard. He doesn’t stop, fucking you through it, drawing it out until your thighs shake.

Only then does he pull out, flipping you onto your back with easy strength. Your eyes are open now, heavy-lidded and dark, but still hazy with sleep and orgasm. You look at him like you’re not entirely sure he’s real.

He doesn’t give you time to wake up fully. He hooks your legs over his elbows and slides back in, folding you nearly in half. The new angle makes you keen, nails digging into his shoulders. He sets a punishing rhythm—deep, relentless, the headboard knocking softly against the wall.

Your t-shirt is pushed up to your collarbones. He bends his head and takes one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, tongue flicking. You arch into him, gasping. The other hand finds your clit again, rubbing fast and firm.

“Come on,” he growls against your skin. “Again. Want to feel it.”

You do. The second orgasm hits you harder, back bowing, a sharp cry tearing from your throat as you pulse around his cock. He fucks you through every wave, hips stuttering only when your nails rake down his back hard enough to leave marks.

He pulls out at the last second, stroking himself roughly over your stomach. Thick ropes of cum paint your skin, your tits, the underside of your chin. You watch with dazed, half-lidded eyes, lips parted.

For a long moment the only sound is both of you breathing.

He leans down and kisses you—slow, deep, tasting sleep and sex and the faint salt of your sweat. You kiss him back like muscle memory, one hand sliding into his hair, holding him there. When he finally pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours.

You don’t speak. Neither does he.

He reaches for the t-shirt you’re wearing—his t-shirt—and uses the hem to wipe his spend from your skin with surprising gentleness. Then he tosses it aside, pulls the blanket over both of you, and tucks you against his chest like no time has passed at all.

Your breathing evens out again within minutes, slipping back toward sleep. He stays awake longer, fingers tracing idle patterns over the floral ink on your lower back, feeling the steady beat of your heart against his ribs.

Outside, the city keeps breathing. Inside, the two of you fit back together in the dark like pieces that were never meant to stay apart.

And it’s something that plagues your mind over and over even by the time your make-up is finally perfected, and your reception robes brushed down for non-existent dust. 

“Beautiful.” your attendants breathe, gracing you with a synchronized bow so low that it almost looked painful. And with a few more appreciative nods, they’re guiding you out of the sweetly-perfumed dressing room, wordlessly leading you into the uproarious traditional meeting hall. 

“You’re not following?” you turn to ask, once you had almost one foot stepped cautiously into the room. 

At this, the woman stood at the very middle of your entourage flushes. A bright, blinding red that matches the way her lips sputter helplessly, “I- I’m honored, madam. But this is er- as far as I can go.”

Strange. 

And with that, the sliding mahogany doors shut. 

Despite what you may think about the council of elders, you had to begrudgingly admit that they’d decorated the chamber lavishly. Fit for a king - or, more likely, fit for the new leaders of the household, after your marriage today.

Dimly-lit with lanterns, and already heady with the smell of expensive sake, your eyes dart around the seated upon seated of clan leaders, elders, and prominent officials you couldn’t even name. All positioned around a long table encircling a strangely raised platform in the middle - as if a stage - it seemed that everyone and anyone was here to assess the new Madam of the Gojo household.

To watch. To wait. 

And at the head of it all - your husband.

Gojo Satoru was known by none to be a soft man, not even by those foolish enough to claim themselves close to him. More accurately fabled as the most vicious young clan leader in history; an angel of death that you’d be lucky to so much as even snatch a glimpse of before you never can once more. 

Yet, the way he beams once his summer blue eyes lock on yours made him seem like anything but. 

“Ah- my wife. My wife is here.” Gojo’s deep baritone sounded so reverent - out-of-breath, like he’d been whispering those very words to himself like a mantra all night. In the middle of it all, you hadn’t even noticed the way the hall had quieted deafeningly - not until his words echo throughout your ears. Rich blue yukata rippling when he’s patting softly at his chair, and you notice with a jolt that there’s no seat next to him. 

Damn elders. 

“Hah? Elder Tanaka really did it!”

“You know I never wanted the riffraff to sit at the table- not a place for-”

“Well what else? A madam should be as a madam is.”

You’re gritting your teeth, making determined strides past all the withering stares and hushed whispers. Stepping closer and closer up to your shifting husband-

“Take-”

And then you sit. 

Plopping yourself down unceremoniously onto the clan leader’s lap - from behind you, you’re hearing Gojo suck in a feverish breath. Panting. You’re washed over with his piney, syrupy sweet scent when his strong forearms immediately wrap around your waist to steady yourself comfortably onto his large, manspread lap. 

And in front of you, you stare defiantly back into every wizened snarl shot your way. If looks could kill, then this would be a massacre. 

It takes him a few gulps to regain his senses - hell, it takes you a few more. And Gojo was so warm, practically burning when he whispers in a rasping voice against your ear, “I was going to tell you to take my seat but…whatever my wife wants, hm?”

“The look on their faces,” you try to hold back what would be deemed an utterly unlady-like smirk. Back pressing up against every hardened curve and ridge down Gojo’s washboard abs through his clothes. “But, I-I’m sorry if-”

His arms around you tighten. “Why would you ever be sorry?”

CLAP! CLAP!

“The reception shall now commence.”

Perhaps it was to stop your quiet muttering, but soon enough your vision is promptly being filled with delicacies that make your mouth water. 

“I would advise you not to drink the sake, pretty.” Gojo waves off an attendant that offers another chair, starting to sift around the steaming contents of his own plate. And despite how you seemed to be the main scrutiny tonight, you let him feed you tiny bites, anyway - all for the haughty council to scoff at. Their master being so happily used by his wife “Seems we’ve been gifted with something special to drink for the initiation tonight.”

Something about his tone was strained. It makes you bat your lashes up at him in a way that has Gojo adjusting his lower robes with a gulp. “Something special? Is it poisoned?”

He chuckles out, “No- even worse-” Lowering. And you jolt when his gleamingly sharp canines sink into your earlobe. Dangerous. “-one sip of that for both of us and I’ll be showing this scum here exactly how you’re mine.”

Oh.

Oh. 

Shit, your spine sits ramrod straight at that purring little undercurrent in his tone - the implications. And just that slight jostle of your hips makes Gojo urgently dig one set of his slender fingers into your waist. It makes him hunch over, it makes him gasp, “O-or we might not even need that sake, heh-”

Eyes drifting to the platform, “I want to, though.”

And for just a second, the entire meeting hall stills. 

Every figure around the table barely even bothering to hide their blatant staring right now, some covering their gaping mouths - because the infamous leader of the Gojo clan was smiling. 

Smiling. A humorless, crazed little smile directed at you. “Then…” Barely drifting an inch even when his own free digits clasp around a tiny sake bowl, he cheers his sake cup with yours. Echoing over the twinkling clink! “-whatever my wife wants.”

And yet, you feel nothing out of the ordinary in the first few minutes - nothing but those billowing stares and Gojo’s warm proximity to you. Huffing out tiny bouts of laughter that tickle the crook of your neck, and your face burns at the stray peck or two he’s leaving down your exposed skin.

Not even in the first hour.

Or the second, and you’re half-wondering whether this initiation was nothing but a hoax. 

But veering into the third-

It happens. 

Something snaps. 

“S-Satoru?” you breathe out unsteadily when he’s suddenly growing quiet. Head craning to take in just how pretty Gojo looked right about now - robes hanging off his sculpted deltoids. A sweet strawberry blush taking over his high cheekbones, his collarbones, down further. “Are you okay?”

Of course, he wasn’t. Right now, Gojo Satoru felt so ruined he thinks he could faint. 

“Shit-” Gojo hisses from above you, snowy brows knitting together. You can’t even react before his muscular thighs bounce ever-so-slightly, shifting you just a degree higher on his lap. Just enough for him to seat you prettily by the edge of something big. Curved. Rock-hard. “Shit- shit shit- m’- m’feeling so-”

Gojo’s chopsticks clatter onto the tatami mats with a soft thud! And those fingers find themselves latching onto you. 

You, you, you - burning down the curves of your waist, sliding up your trembly thighs and just below where your robes were hiking up. He couldn’t get enough. 

“Sa-toru-” your words come out wobbly. Clutching at the slight opening of your yukata to drag in a useless attempt to drink in some cooler air. You felt like you were melting, and so were your words now. “Toru, I feel so-”

“What did you say?”

It takes you a few syrupy moments to even realize that it’s your husband speaking - because Gojo’s voice was several octaves higher than usual. Husky, like he was on the verge of shattering into a million pieces. Spitting a pained, “What did you say, honey?”

You bat your teary lashes - shit, when did you even get so stimulated - up at the thoroughly drunken elders that were sneaking peeks at the two of you.

Just for a split-second - barely enough to catch anything.

But enough for Gojo to curl the thick pads of his fingers around your throat, pulling in a roughened tug to have your back hugged even more flush against him. “Hey hey hey- look at me, pretty. Look at your husband.” Flexing his powerful back muscles in a drool-worthy way, bowing over in two to practically shove you into the cool surface of the table when he puffs up against your ear. “S-say that again?”

You’re pinned on top of the mahogany with his full body weight - and you can barely breath, barely even think before uttering out. “T-Toru?” 

And that makes Gojo Satoru shiver. 

Entire body wracking so violently, his nose buries into the tender column of your neck. Not just breathing you in - basking in you. 

Muffling out, “Again.”

“Toru.”

“Again.”

“Toru–”

It makes the strongest snap his glassy, cerulean eyes almost-comically open in a flash - winking his droopy gaze through molasses once, twice at the platform right in front of him. 

And Gojo’s barely even in control of his limbs when the mountains of his palms glide hurriedly underneath your thighs. In only a split-second, you’re carried in his arms in the easiest princess carry - but Gojo doesn’t stop there. 

No, he doesn’t simply walk out of the room like you’d expected him to - he does the complete opposite. 

Every widened eye in the room can only watch as the clan leader steps swiftly upon the now cleared-out table and onto the raised platform in only two treads. Splaying you out gently onto the firm tatami, you’re gazing up at a heaving Gojo.

Because despite the rich dinner tonight, Gojo was starving. 

The soft yolky glow of the lanterns overhead illuminates that greedy glint in his eyes - the way that his lips glisten with the slightest trail of translucent drool at the very ends of his parted, rosy pink lips. 

He’s never looked more ruined. 

“Please.” 

And it’s all but whimpered out into your mouth - pathetic and raw. 

You’re gasping sharp heavals of air when his candied lips attack yours, and through that delicious thumping between your legs that you could feel in even your ears - you hear the gasps. With a sweet, sweet whine you’re blinking your eyes open enough, “Th-they’re watching.”

“Oh.” But Gojo’s more worried about losing contact with the heaven that was your lips, chasing after to press wet peck after French peck. “S’what? You wan’ me to kill them all?”

The room drops a few chilling degrees in temperature for everyone but the two of you.

He could - he would. If you hadn’t shaken your pretty head frantically, that is, not quite ready for a bloodbath on your wedding night. Yet, you needed him so bad.

“Then- m’only gonna show them who ya belong to- who I belong to.” Calloused, rounded tips of his fingers bearing down your yukata, Gojo’s slipping in one of his cold digits between your robe to snap! snickering at your low keen. “And you’ve made it so oh- easy f’me to.”

He was so greedy. 

Stealing little spying looks down at the way your legs were splayed out, Gojo utters out a guttural, “Open- open up f’me, my wife. Show them how wet your husband’s made ya.”

And shit, you didn’t know whether it was that sake acting out on behalf of your limbs, or whether it was the way that you were so needy right now. But you could feel your thighs jittering open as soon as those humming syllables were out of Gojo’s mouth. 

“S-so embarrassing-” you whine, one hand swiping away your thin layers to show him that glistening wet plump of your pussy. Drenched. Seeping through the useless fabric of your panties to wink up at him- and oh, that makes Gojo groan.

It makes him throw his head back with a hiss - for only a split-second, as if he couldn’t take it. Before drunkenly shifting back to your pretty cunt no matter what. 

“Oh, shit.”

THUD!

The body of the one such rowdy clan heir that’d dared speak up right now hits the ground faster than your eyes hit their target. 

Fuck, you didn’t even see Gojo pull out one of his famed daggers from beneath his sleeves - but the thought of what more might hide underneath made your thighs clench. 

And Gojo notices - of course, he did. Why the fuck wouldn’t he?

“F-fuck. What a naughty pussy gettin’ drenched from just that.” he shrills - before bursting out in a bout of laughter. Laughter, humorless and feral. “Gonna be the death of me- f-fuck- you’re gonna-” For a second, you feel your skin burn in embarrassment, and your legs cross. Only for his eyes to glow a burning blue in disagreement, tutting out a low, “Tell me- hah- tell me what you want.” He’s burning up with every slow kiss down the edge of your mouth, thumbing open your glossy maw further to wrap his lips around your tongue and suck. “Anything- I’ll get ya anything.”

You’re pretty sure that everyone is gaping at the worshiped leader of the Gojo clan on his knees and begging. 

But you didn’t care - not when his solid index was drawing a slow line down the middle of your sopping slit. Bucking your hip up into an arch off the platform that makes Gojo’s achy cock twitch, and the aphrodisiac rush back to him with full force. Mewling, “Wan’ y-you, Toru-”

Eyes twinkling, “Me what, honey? The madam’s gonna hafta use m-more hah- big girl words than that.”

You want him.

You need him now. 

“So mean.” you’re huffing and puffing, yet Gojo only grins at the way he can feel your sloppily wet lips down there kiss him even wetter. Dribbling a soaking sheen down to his wrist, “Want you t-to touch me- p-”

You don’t get to say that magical word “please” because Gojo Satoru would never have you say it. 

He’s plunging out his long digits to hold up to the attractively dim lighting - yet, they’re already dazzling with the slick coating from your pre-soaked cunt. And he’s looking at a few elders right in their downturned bows as Gojo sticks his long, tender tongue out and licks. “W-whatever the madam wants. Dontcha think, elder Tanaka?”

You were the madam, and you’d be treated as such.

And shit, what that old man’s response was - whether he even responded - Gojo doesn’t give a shit. 

Because just one ounce of your sweet, sweet juices on Gojo’s tongue shoots his eyes rolling to the back of his head. Hips bucking up with a low moan, a few slurring swears falling from his lips when he feels his achy cock gush-

“Need you-” he’s gasping wetly, shuffling urgently down the expanse of the platform. Moves frantic - needy. Down, down, down until you feel his hot pants down at your cunt. “Need to- wanna- gimme a lil’ peck, m’kay?”

The syrupy ends of his sentence are slurped up down a long glide of the very edges of Gojo’s tastebuds down your swollen folds. Through your panties.

Barely even shifting them even an inch to the side when he lets your glissading juices down his tongue, drawing a sultry circle. He’s letting his eyes droop half-closed, murmuring a little growl at the very back of his throat. “Just one more-” Gojo’s voice cracks, two sets of nails pressing crescents down into your thighs with just how hard he pulls. Kisses. “-and me more-” And another. “J-jus’ one more- oh-” Another. 

And you’re barely even realizing it before Gojo’s latching his pretty lips with yours, squelching wet noises ringing in your ears and throughout all four corners of the room. 

“Th-tha’s” you manage to scoff, fingers threading into his cloudy locks and pulling. But not even that’s enough to get Gojo to part even a millimeter, in-fact he’s pushing himself even more nose-deep, rolling his tongue down your slit - like he’s trying to push through your panties. “-more than one.”

And fuck - he titters out a pussydrunk giggle down into the edges of your sloppy hole. Teasing tongue dipping just barely to circle around the very edge and then-

“Can you blame me?” Gojo smiles with his rubbed-raw lips. So fucked-out that you hear yourself gasp. Your slick was already drip! drip! dripping down his curved chin, smearing a wet gloss that sits all prettily on his features. “M’gettin’ practice to do this fer the rest of our lives.”

And everyone could see just how addicted the clan leader was. 

Everyone.

Slack-jawed and moving like he was mindlessly drawn to your pretty cunt, you’re being faced with a wet drawl of his lips down your sodden folds. Pressing the pointed tip of his nose against your plump clit he’s breathing you in all filthily. 

“Could get used ta th-this-” he spits. Once. And then literally, salivating down a wet glob right inside your snug cunt that makes you shiver. “-heh, fuck that- s’too heavenly to. I need-”

And then you’re flipped.

So fast - so sudden that you barely even register what’s happening before you’ve got Gojo Satoru smushed onto the tatami platform. Bleary eyes gazing up at you and fixating right onto your pretty face, your hips sat shamelessly on his face. 

“Toru what-”

“T-take those- off f’me, honey- please-” He couldn’t even bear to specify right now. You looked so unfairly pretty on top of him like that, even prettier when your soft, luxury robes are hitting the floor. Well, everything except those panties-

“Toru, those are gonna rip-” you yelp when you feel the stinging clench of his teeth biting down the plush of your thighs. Resting onto the sopping wet fabric of your underwear, it smears down a wet glide at his cheek. “-they’re so expensive.”

RIP!

Gojo spits back the tatters of your flimsy excuse of panties beside him - and then another saturated wad of saliva up into your cunt. “Have ya forgot that you’re the ah- madam now?” He’s snickering, curved fingertips swatting a wet smack! onto your ass, cold wedding band branding. “-jus’ use my black card ta buy the whole fuckin’ store. Dip into the hah- council’s funds fer all I care.”

And for those shocked elders snapping their eyes up - they’re met with the most obscene sight of Gojo’s gleaming tongue spreading your puffy pussy lips wide and proudly open. 

“Shit-” he’s bursting out in whiny keens. Spitting and sloshing the wet waves of every pearlescent slick that beads of you - and there’s so much of it. “Gonna get my face s-so soaked heh-” So much that Gojo was utterly ready to feed with his sliding tongue, swirling past your wet rim of muscle and fucking up into you languidly. “-didn’t even need a fuck- ch-chair, anyway.”

Your cunt sloshes all around his tongue, dragging up and down up and down up and- Thoroughly done teasing out your hole pliant, he’s dragging his lips up to suck around your peaked clit - before pinching it in a light bite. 

“Oh!” you yelp. Searing a grip into his scalp, “S-so mean-”

“Mhm— m’your big, bad mean husband- fuck-” Such syrupy, desperate whines that Gojo really can’t help but babble - over and over. “-that sake…feels like m’burning- m’dying-” He can’t stop, won’t stop, roughly attaching a hand onto the globes of your ass to help you ride. “-n’ m’fuckin’ addicted- so won’t ya toy with this hah- p-pretty pussy a lil’ n’ get even wetter for me? Please?”

God, it’s so subconscious the way that your fingers toy over your clit - tight, pressurized circles just the way you like it. 

“Like this?”

“Ohhh, yeah, wifey- let it all down m’tongue-” And Gojo’s in a hypnotic trance at how much more of your honeyed glosses of precum that soak and travel down his tongue. It works. Even more. More and more. Maddeningly. 

Until he just can’t fucking take it-

“S-stop that f’me. None of that t-touchin’ anymore oh-” he gruffs out, throat dry. “Let me-” Fucking jealous of you that he’s pushing his fucking sanity to gritting through his teeth. Gojo meanly slaps away your hand before taking it over with his own. Absolutely no warning before feeding your drooling pussy with inch after inch of his fingers. 

Two at a time. 

Three. 

Your gooey depths are clinging to him so tight, taking him like a fuckin’ champ when they’re curling at the very knuckles to press deeply. “Oh yeah- makes me w-wonder jus’ how nicely you’ll take my fuckin’ cock, too, hm?”

You’re barely able to even babble out a few incoherent moans before the very tips of his digits brush up against the bulging bullseye of your g-spot. Hard. 

“There-” you gasp. You all but cry. “R-right there, Toru-”

Swat!

“I love you, honey- oh, I love you- but right now…” Gojo’s petering his voice away, too in a heady trance with the sight of that rapidly thumping pulse at your cunt to focus on stringing any sentences together right now. And he’s licking back into your snugly-filled entrance, squeezing past the jostlie of his thickened digits to doubly penetrate you. “...jus’ wanna hear this c-cute cunt speak.”

It’s like Gojo couldn’t decide where he wanted to be next - licking up every wet dredge of your juices smearing down his wrist, hollowing his cheeks out when he sucks on your neglected clit, or drawing out the prettiest moans when he joins back in to fuck your quivering hole ragged. 

Every movement bruising - claiming. 

They’re cold inside your toasty walls. Reaching mushy nooks and crannies inside you that you didn’t even know were possible, rolling his tongue into your tight channel to drape your gummy walls with a sheen of his spit. His six-inch fingers pressing harsh against your sweet spots, you could scream-

“Oh she’s real talkative- s-so cute-” But your swashing cunt was doing all the talking for you, wringing out drippingly wet slurps and squelches that Gojo nods along drunkenly to. Maybe it was the aphrodisiac, maybe it was the way he was squeezed oh-so-tightly between your thighs - a lightheaded way to go that Gojo definitely wouldn’t mind. Because he was agreeing. “Mhm- I agree- hah- oh, I agree with ya, cutie-” Thick, white lashes bat innocently up at you, “-my wife would look s-so pretty when she cums, hm?”

And he’s right.

Drunken. 

Because when you do, the sight is so pretty that Gojo himself thinks that he could cum right there and right now in his boxers - the only thing holding him back being the stabbing need to cum inside you more than anything.

Your thighs are desperately attempting to close around his ravenous head, greedily slurping up every bit of your juices. Every bead, every splatter, every slow gush with your mess of an orgasm.

“D-didn’t even ngh- see it-” you whimper, wave after wave of white-hot pleasure flashing behind your eyes and making your spine arch in such a slutty way. “-didn’t even think I’d- oh-”

“S’quite alright-” he’s murmuring wetly. Head lolling all the way back to let you fuck your high on Gojo’s pretty face, convulsing cunt slobbering a translucent pathway all down the middle of his face. “Heheh- could never get mad- c-could never- oh fuck- use me.”

You’re gasping over distantly shocked mutters, “W-what?”

“Use me-” Gojo’s crying out, hips rutting up into the air like an animal. And he’s dangling helplessly onto the curve of your hips, jostling you desperately to fasten your vice-like grip on his hair. To ride him faster. To use him. “M’begging, my wife- fuck- let em’ see- let these fuckers see the way you u-use me.”

Voice breaking pathetically, eyes fighting not to scrunch shut, gasping and gulping for you to grind your dribbling pussy in smooth, sultry gyrations down rougher across his mouth.

And when you do, Gojo thinks he could faint. 

He’s letting out a rasping ah! ah! ah! curdle at the very back of his throat with every jolt of your hips, with every push of your cunt down his mouth that has him gasping for air. Every drawn circle making his fat head swell even girthier. It’s everything he’s ever wanted. 

It’s everything he could ever think about even when your high evolves into mere tingles, when the twitches of your legs slow down, and you find yourself lifting ever-so-slightly off of Gojo’s red, red flushed face. 

He looks so wrecked underneath - happily, so.

Flashing a brilliant smile that was dripping with all the coatings of your sloshing wet slick towards that little audience that you’d even forgotten you had. “Heh, next time my madam wants a hah- s-seat, she’ll have one. One way or the other.”

“T-Toru–” you’re whining, clamoring off to seat yourself down on his painfully hard lap. “-think they got the ngh- point.”

But, oh, the very moment your glossed pussy lips were meeting the thick bump of Gojo’s angry head through his clothes, you feel the syrupy rush of the aphrodisiac boil through your veins once more. You couldn’t even imagine how Gojo felt right now without even cumming once. 

Slotting over to resound a damp schwf! of skin on fabric. Barely giving you a moment to even recollect before you need him. You want to ruin him.

Purring lowly, “Toru…”

And the strongest gulps - Gojo Satoru gulps - a shiver thrumming down his hulking body and onto his gushing cock. It twitches up in a sodden little perk underneath you, and Gojo’s fingers attach themselves to your waist. “Y-yes, ma’am?”

“Really wanna taste you-” your lips drag across his and he keens with a slow suck on your bottom lip. “-wanna see if the r-rest of you is just as sweet?”

“Fuck!” You bounce up precariously when Gojo bucks up wildly, like he’d rip through his wedding robes and fuck you right now if he could. “Such filth from such a s-sweet mouth- ya really are gonna be the fuckin’ death of me.”

And to hear the most notorious clan leader admit shamelessly like this. To hastily untie his yukata and let it fall to the side, hear him break out in a sullen whimper when you kiss your way down his toned body, down, down, down his bulging pecs, his heaving abs, all the way to those soaked tufts of white at his pelvis-

“D-don’t tease-” 

Gojo just gasps at the hit of cool air when you’re shuffling down his stickily wet boxers in a fluid, sudden pull. Head throwing back before meeting your own widened ones - he was so big. 

You don’t think you’d ever get used to the sight, to the way that his swelling hot girth expands up a few sizes fatter at the hot puff of your feverish breath. Thumping veins prominent and blushing strawberry pink in flavor. Reddened and bulbous tip already slick with a gleam of precum, and one swipe with your thumb makes him gush out in a stringy gush of more and more-

“Shit-” 

Gojo’s letting his pathetically drooling lips sag open, eyes widening when your deft digits circle around that creamy white ring down Gojo’s length - down his underwear. 

He didn’t even realize. 

Curling his fingers around his thick base to glide over your lips like he was painting it in a pretty white lipstain. Letting your open lips drool and make a syrupy mess with his excess ribbons of cum. “Fuck- look what you do to me-”

You’re gasping with the realization that Gojo Satoru had cum in his pants from just eating your pretty pussy out - and it makes you grin. 

Pressing a sweet, sweet peck onto one remnant of his thick dredges of his slightly salty seed, it makes him rut at each of your kittenish peck after peck on his weepy head. Circular and hot. “Ya are sweet.”

And then you can’t speak anymore - because Gojo didn’t want you to speak anymore. Doesn’t think he could manage it without his hefty balls clenching dangerously once more - it was his first time, after all. 

“Handle- ah, handle me delicately, m’kay? Never done this b-before-” Biting down on his swollen lower lip when he’s watching your mouth stretch. Bulging out through your cheeks with the solid inches he was feeding you - throbbing length disappearing into your plushy mouth. 

Gojo’s so ridiculously big when the rotund ends of his cock kiss wetly against the very back of your throat. Branding a bittersweet bruise. You were sure that had it not been for just how needy you were with the sake, it would have been physically impossible to milk the entirety of his fucking soul out of him like the way you were right now. 

“O-oh-” he gasps - he pants. Chest caving it at how swelteringly hot you were inside, hugging around his sensitive cock so hard that Gojo sees stars. “Is- is this what it feels like?”

You’ve never seen the great Gojo Satoru’s voice shiver just this way, you’ve never seen him so broken. Bouncing off the elders that see their precious leader this defiled. 

Thighs juddering up and flexing in a way that makes you salivate to lock around your neck. He’s practically headlocking you - whimpering out tiny pleas as if you could answer. “Can’t believe you’ve been holding out- can’t ah- A lil’ deeper- please? Please I know you can-” Shifting his hips up in a slow gyration of back and forths until your tongue was flattening to slide over every vein down his underside. Twirling over particularly sensitive spots at the jagged crevices that make Gojo whine. “-aww, tha’s right. My good girl- my good fuckin’ wife.”

He’s never felt like this before. 

And when you hollow out your cheeks and suck - oh, it has him hunching over rapidly. Shoving your nose up against that neat white happy trail, you’re breathing in his addictively masculine musk.

Moaning out a throaty, “Mmpf-”

“Shhh shh sh-” Gojo massages his finger down your neck, sneaking greedy feels for the outline of his thick cock down your throat. “Jus’ take it- fuck fuck fuck- don’ hafta do anything else, lemme take care of it, pretty.”

He didn’t even know what - he didn’t know how. 

But fuck-

You swirl your tongue over and underneath the sensitive bump of his slit, lathering it in a slow glissade of your salivating tongue that makes him jump. And he feels like he’s already seeing cloud nine and the pearly gates itself by the time you steady yourself into sultry, sucking bobs. 

Dancing a hand up to rub over his tight, cum-filled balls - and maybe it was the aphrodisiac, maybe it was just him - but it felt like he was about to burst already.

He was going to.

A slight hiss - not from you, not from him - manages to emanate its way into his melty mind, and Gojo’s finding it in himself to let his head throw back with a sudden laugh. Glassy eyes barely even focusing on the jaw-dropped figures around the table, “Y-your madam’s hgnh- taking me so well, isn’t she?” Head tilting drunkenly back at you, “Wontcha say she’s doin’ a damn good job-”

Only a few mutters - a few scoffs. 

And Gojo’s finding his digits twirling tightly to latch onto your scalp, hissing through clenched teeth. “Say it.”

A unanimous, humiliating “yes” echoes from all sides of the platform. 

And one from your wrecked husband right in front of you - “Yes- hahah-” he giggles. Brushing over the splattered mix of precum and cum that drips down the side of your thoroughly open mouth when you suck all his fat inches. Popping it into his mouth to taste. “-doin’ so well f’me I think- hngh- think I might-”

Of course, at this, you’re speeding up your greedy bounces. Fucking Gojo so heavenly with his mouth that he thinks he’s memorized every curve and twist of your tongue, every single tastebud-

“Naughty girl-” You’re being gifted with another smack! on your ass, and he’s having to haul you off of his reddened, angry cock with a tightened grip around your throat. With one, two slow pumps right in front of your face. And then up, up, up enough for him to hum into your mouth in an attacking French kiss. “-I like that.”

Gojo’s bulging biceps ripple when he seats you all prettily on his lap - just like earlier on tonight. Except, this time, you were facing him - and feeding your drooling cunt all angry inch by inch of his rock-hard cock.

“O-open up those hngh- pretty legs.” he murmurs in a heaving hot breath into your ear. Eyes blaring down at the way your squirmy legs were adjusting and readjusting around slender hips. “Open ‘em and t-take me-”

The way you do makes him gape, makes him gasp, makes him impatiently wrap two arms around the small of your back to fuck up past that tight little ring of resistence and into your walls depravedly. 

Just hitting the very back of your spongy cervix with the upwards curved tip of his head before gushing out thick, wet splatters of cum. The gripping cling of your cunt too good, the way you were sucking him up still fresh. 

And perhaps because of the aphrodisiac, but he was cumming so much. 

Such voluminous loads of seed that dump out into your gooey insides, it sloshes all around him and makes such squelches that reaches his ears. Drooling through the very edges of your sopping wet slit-

“S-see what happens?” Gojo’s whimpering in a way that a clan leader decidedly was not known for. Being the strongest, too. Driving a thumb along your bulging slit, he’s taking the opportunity to smear your pussy lips even wider to swallow more of him. To plug his cum back in. To show off. “See how ah- see what you do to me? Let everyone see-” 

And Gojo sounded so desperate, gasping out little utterances and praises into your mouth while he’s shoveling his swollen cock upwards into you. Taking the lewd advantages of years of combat to pummel every recoiling wall of yours with punishing, pressurized thrusts. 

“Wh-what do I do to ya, Toru?” you hum curiously, half-delirious. 

“Drive me fuck- insane, tha’s what-” he’s hissing, sparks behind his eyes. Swiping down to where he could feel the drilling nudge of his weepy cock, pressing down- hard. He’s mushing over the sensitive slit of his cock accidentally, “Oh- makes me wanna do this forever-” He’s nosing down the crook of your neck now, hiding away that innocent blush of his. “-to fuck you, make love to you, to breed you.”

You sputter out a sudden clench that has Gojo falling back down onto his elbows. Back hitting the tatami mats, your hands hitting his cushiony pecs. “Y-you wan’ to breed me? Hngh- you w-want an heir, Toru?”

An heir - an heir. 

An heir, an heir, an heir. God, it’s thundering throughout his mind and syrupy slowly turning into just about all he can think about.

“M-me? Want an heir?” He’s shuddering out, massive palms splaying out on the two globes of your ass to stretch your taut pussy further down his cock. “What makes you think- oh- what-” Until your perky lips were kissing his heated pelvis, your pulsing clit scratching deliciously down his tufts of white. And at this very second, peering up at you through hooded eyes, gaze half-curtained with his hair, drunken - all that Gojo can imagine is how pretty you are. And how much prettier you’d be as a mama. “C-can I get you hngh- p-pregnant- please, ma’am?”

Mere seconds of his thrumming shaft stretching you open pass as he looks dazedly to the side, “After all- s’what th-this initiation is for, right?”

And then you feel like you’re being spearheaded all the way to your lungs with all of Gojo’s girth. 

“Toru-” you whine, nails dragging little red lines down his broad neck and all over his shoulders. “-deeper. More please- it feels so-”

“More?” Gojo chuckles, hysterical. “You want m-more?”

He’s barely even answering his own question - let alone allowing you to answer. 

Because Gojo’s taking this as the cue to restrain your two wrists behind your back with one of his own, forcing you to whine and shudder out little sobs when your thighs strain to meet his jackhammering cadence. 

Ass stinging at the bruising slap! of his sharp hip bones, the way his heated cunt was swirling around your sweet spots so right. It felt like you were burning from the inside out-

“Ah ah-” Gojo tuts, snapping you out of your woozy reverie. Free hand coming to knock away one of your trembly palms snaking down to your neglected clit - when did you even start that? “Can’t ask me for m-more n’ do this. Move that hand so I can f-fuck you proper, honey-”

You barely even have the time to whine about it before he’s spitting a streaming waterfall of saliva onto his fingers, pinching at your clit. 

“Heh, don’t think I f-forgot about ya-” You whine at the way he was drawing dizzying circles, the cool burn of his matching wedding band. “Th-they say ya needa have the hngh- mother cum, too, ta make kids.”

Plural. 

“K-kids?” you muse. 

“Mhm-” he’s nodding like he doesn’t even realize. “How about- six-”

Maybe from the shock, maybe from the way that he was filthily spearing against your g-spot so good, you collapse readily onto your elbows. Feeling every slick and slide of Gojo’s abs rubbing up against you.

Each singular thrash into your cervix has Gojo’s babbles running more nonsensical - more pussydrunk. “Thinkin’ wh-whatever ya want- hngh- to fill ya up- Have you all r-round and ha- glowing.” Like it pained for him to even say, like it hurt with every sloppily wet thwack! of his heavy balls on your ass. “Have you be m-my madam- the mother of my kids- hngh- all with your pretty eyes-” he’s sobbing now. Swirling around his rounded tip till it hits sweets spots you didn’t even know you had. “-n’ my hair and hah- your personality- c-can’t imagine fighting over them for ya- wh-what do you think, cutie?” 

But as soon as you’re cracking your mouth open to fervently agree - at least, as much as your hazy mind could at this point, Gojo’s raising his right hand to palm over it. 

With a drunken smirk, “M’askin’ her, my wife- dontcha w-worry-” Nuzzling your cheek, “-haven’t forgotten about the mother of my kids.” 

And the saccharine-sweet sloshing is enough to ring throughout Gojo’s ears like his favorite melody - and he’s memorized every note. Pumping out more and more spurts of hot precum to stain your insides and dribble uproariously. Sleazing a grin your way, “Almost there- almost- but first-”

Every single elder he’s glaring upon jumps when Gojo graces them with one of his looks - even as barely-lucid and fucked-out as he was. He leers, “How about it? Heh, wanted a-an heir so bad n’ now you’re gonna get it. Happy now?”

As expected, no answer. 

But Gojo didn’t need one anyway - not when your ringing slurps as you swallow up his cock thunder across his ears. “O-oh, she’s tellin’ me something-”

“Wh-what is she sayin’, Toru-” you whine, lips wobbling uncontrollably in much the same way that your pussy folds were right now. 

“She’s sayin—” Gojo’s voice takes on a whimpering lilt, and he has absolutely no idea how you haven’t noticed that determined clenching of your gummy walls, the breathless pants of yours. So he only smiles, teeth sinking playfully into your ear lobe, “-that my gorgeous wife’s about to cum.”

Stars flurrying behind your lids, your toes curl and hips slam with enough force to rock the platform rickety. 

But if you didn’t notice your high - then Gojo certainly didn’t notice his, either.

Too caught-up, too busy rutting up in solid strides into your dripping cunt to notice that he was splattering your squeezing walls to be sopping wet with oozes of cum. There are so many gushes of it that Gojo feels dizzy, he feels like he’s about to break. 

“Wait- wait wait m’cumming again-” he gasps. Pinching your clit with two fingers to feel the way that jittery convulsion has Gojo’s potent seed coating his cock a glistening white. Something marshmallow creamy that makes him swallow. “D-didn’t even know I could hngh- c-cum again-”

Didn’t know if he even wanted to but- but of course, he did. 

He’s hissing at the dredges of wispy white that drip from between your slit, the very sight itself tipping Gojo over to sprinkle out a few more velvety ribbons that knock at your womb.

“Heheh- think this t-took?” Those mere words feel so sinful on his tongue, and Gojo’s ears flush a ruby red. But he can’t find himself stopping when he plugs out of your snug cunt, whimpering at the sensitive cling of your cunt as if she didn’t want to part ways. “Whoops-”

You whine at the warmly wet gush of your still-convulsing cunt, “Don’t think it t-took if you’re pulling out-”

SLAM!

You don’t know who’s actually gasping - the elders, Gojo, or you. Still reeling from the way you’re immediately flipped over onto all fours, cheeks smushed against the tatami mat so hard that Gojo wonders whether it’ll leave a mark for tomorrow. 

Assuming the two of you get out of this alive, that is. 

“Let them see-” he’s hissing, cupping your pussy to leave a few wet smacks that smear your abundance of his cum down onto the platform. So much of it. “-let them see how th-their heir is made since they wanna hah- see so badly.”

And god, the sight was supposed to taunt those in the fucking audience - but it has Gojo’s slick-sheening cock twitching up in interest once more. Barely even knowing what he’s doing before spreading open your pussy lips with one swipe of his bawling tip, and then inside-

“You d-didn’t think we were done, ngh, did you, my wife?”

As if you could ever be done with him.

Pound after pound. 

Gojo was so painfully hard right now he felt like he was going to explode - and he wanted- no, needed to be deeper than he ever has inside of you. 

Which is what found him placing an unapologetic foot on top of your head, the slight jostle in angle making him swoon in a probing push against the very ends of your cervix. And every shaky thrust too hard made you feel like he was going to fuck an heir right into your awaiting womb.

“M’sorry-” he gasps, tearily. Wet splatters of the salty substance hitting the side of your shoulder as Gojo bends - and folds and folds you pliantly right along with him. “Don’t mean to- hngh- didn’t- fuck but I need it so badly- s-so deeply- don’t think I’ve bred this cute cunt ‘nough.”

Pushing you down with his utterly full bodyweight, you’re pinned to the platform. For every eye to see the snapping, creamy strings that connect his glossy cock to your overfilled cunt. It sprinkles across your ass and down your legs, and he’s eyeing down at the glossy pool of mess sticking between your two sweat-sheened bodies from before. 

So badly. 

It’s so much - too much.

Placing kiss after gliding kiss of his syrupy precum down the very bottom of your pussy, whining at the slight recoil that has him pushing back from the elastic depths of your cunt. Such a splitting stretch that bullies you wordless. 

And it could’ve been hours - it could’ve been minutes until all that you can manage is a tiny huff that leaves your pouty lips with every wet squelch, and only makes his fat cock bludgeon even harder. He’s fucking you thoroughly, almost as if he hates you. 

Yet, sounding so badly apologetic that you can’t help but crack a smile - at least, as much as you could when your sweet insides were being ravaged by him. “S’all f-for an heir, isn’t it, Toru–?”

God- and then he’s cumming. 

Embarrassingly, almost-painfully - but still so needily.

It’s splattering and overfilling you so much that you feel your elastic walls pull taut at the sheer inflation, making you strangle out a sudden moan. Splat! splat! splattering a thin sheen down your inner thighs, the wet pumps have him fucking it even harsher to coat your spongy womb with his cum, knocking- begging for any sort of entrance.

Messy. So fucking messy that you feel your skin burn.

He can’t help it - oh, he can’t control himself when he’s pulling out for just a split-second to shuffle downwards and press his face right into your sopping folds. Latching his spit-slicked lips around your sensitive nub of a clit. Humming, sucking-

And through it all - you can just barely make out Gojo’s voice. Raw, broken. “D-don’t think it took…don’t think my h-heir took.”

“...”

It slowly evolves into Gojo’s own personal little manga - the very same that he gasps out over and over into your open mouth on the third round. Just a few more tears, a few more of his sloppy strokes in a prone bone that his aching body can barely even hold up.

Now well past the aphrodisiacs, and the allotted time for your initiation. But your audience was still seated, and the fatigue setting into both of you as you both cum with strangled cries - and Gojo’s stream of sweltering hot seed now noticeably wispier than usual. 

But still - still it wasn’t enough.

And by the fourth round, you’re wondering how the hell it was that neither of you had broken any bones, yet. Especially considering the sloppy full nelson that your greedy husband had somehow managed to wrangle you into.

Slipping and sliding across one another in a way that had Gojo crying out in frustration, drool dripping down the side of his lips  - all he really wanted to do was stuff his angry cock into you again. 

The fifth and sixth rounds start before the previous one had even ended, you think. And you’re riding on a constant wave of high while Gojo’s weepy cock sobs out a few more spurts of seed all throughout. 

Teeth clacking against your own in a mess of a kiss, voice dragging in tiny breaks at the very end of his throat. Gojo doesn’t even realize he’s crying until the rounded divot at the end of his overstimulated cock shivers out nothing. 

And Gojo knows he should be cumming - he feels like he should be cumming. 

But all his poor, half-softening cock can do is let out a gush of nothingness. Big, fat tears glistening down Gojo’s cheeks when he cums dry in the meanest mating press possible for both your tired bodies. Yet, still fucking you like he was with his cum again and again-

“You all-” Everyone jumps at the sudden, hoarse voice coming from the leader, having resigned himself to mere whimpers of your name and “heirs” by now. And the elders can’t even hold his droopy, barely-there gaze. Dangerous. “Bow. Bow to your new madam.”

A/N. Hope you all have a lovelyyy day.

Even with your highest heels on, the pink-haired leader of Curses Epsilon (Curses ε, the most sought-after fraternity on campus) seemed to loom above you. Crimson eyes narrowed. Smile predatory. Signature black t-shirt tight.

He always had caught your eye, you had to admit.

C’mon, it was impossible for him not to: a few heads taller than most of the student body, more sculptured, more attractive. You’d heard a rumor that he did modelling down in Shibuya sometimes and you didn’t doubt it. He walked around this very university like he owned it. He probably did.

Sukuna pushes back his cotton-candy locks, and you’re seeing the roots of reddish brown where his undercut was.

The shade was so at odds with the utterly devilish look those tattoos gave him. Even now you could see the ink peaking out at his wrists, his collarbones, his nose bridge. They snaked all over his body. Sensual. And when he slowly dips his head down to kiss the underside of your jaw, you start to wonder just how far those patterns went…

“Oh.” You gasp, grabbing onto his well-built shoulders.

They flex through his thin t-shirt when he’s leaning even closer, and you’re suddenly remembering that he was here on a scholarship for wrestling. The infamous leader of his weight class on your university team. The King of the Court. At least that explained his irresistible build - you wonder whether he was a semi heavyweight? A heavyweight? Did they even have those?

You couldn’t think.

You’re tipping your neck further to the side, and from the edges of your peripheral vision you see the way that Sukuna raises one pink brow- before draaaaagging a line of soft kisses down the side of your throat. Filthy. Fleeting. 

You’ve seen that look on him before - it’s the one he’d shoot at admirers that dared to stare too long. That sort of ‘if you want it come and get it’ look. That sort of challenge. Prowling through campus corridors that seemed to shrink whenever his figure waded through, sports bag slung over his shoulder, hair still wet from his shower, you could expect the sports superstar to throw at least ten at a time. 

Though you couldn’t really blame them! You suspected that about half the student body - and perhaps even some professors - held a burning fire for Ryomen Sukuna, and the other half simply wouldn’t admit to it.

And just as long as his list of admirers was his roster.

Or so the whispers claimed…‘His latest catch is actually the mother of-’ ‘They say he has five girls at once and they know about it but stay-’ ‘He swings both ways so what I’d give for a chance-’ ‘His longest relationship was two days and that’s because they begged him-’ ‘Stay away.’ ‘Stay away.’ ‘Stay away.’

Stay away.

You didn’t have to be told that to know. 

It was an unspoken rule on campus, the lay of the land.

Quite the dichotomy, wasn’t it? Stay away from Ryomen Sukuna, unless he’s the one that approaches you first and then it’ll be like your wildest fever dream, your wettest, and when he finally leaves- well, weren’t you told to stay away?

That’s the way things were. And all any heartbroken ex-companion would get is a few soothing words by the very same people who would turn around and make an example out of you.

‘Didn’t you see what happened to so and so…? Stay away.’

He was like a guilty pleasure that most people knew better of, knew would become an addiction. However, still indulged in anyway.

And so here you were. Cooped up in some dimly-lit frat party, cramped until every breath felt like it was singed with the copious amounts of alcohol around you, surrounded by booming beats and bellowing boys. In nothing but the most sinful dress you’d stowed away for a night just like this. Though you had to give yourself some credit- you didn’t wear this just for Sukuna, that’d only happened to be a happy accident!

In fact, you hadn’t even been expecting to meet him here.

Sure, it was the fraternity that he was the leader of, but Sukuna was always quite the…busy man. To put it lightly.

No—when your friends had urged you into this very party, you’d worn it with the thought of another man in mind. None other than your two-timing, two-toned, two-inched ex Zenin Naoya.

Your relationship was never meant for a happy marriage with two kids and a house that had a picket fence, but the straw that surely broke the camel’s back was about a week ago when you’d sneakily scrolled through his social media likes. And say whatever you want about privacy, but the multiple other girls he was entertaining and the deplorable podcasts about women he’d been secretly listening to let you say whatever you wanted.

And your first words to Naoya afterwards had been that you wanted to break up. Your second had been cussing him out.

Which was why, when Utahime had told you that he’d be attending (likely to try and pick up another poor girl), you’d immediately rifled through your closet for this skimpy dress you knew he’d hate. And still jerk off to later.

Speaking of…how ironic was it that you’d run from one red flag and straight into the arms of another.

The thought mulls lazily in your brain, before it’s quickly overtaken by the feeling of Sukuna resting his hands just over the small of your back. Something stirs carnally at the pit of your stomach, and you don’t think you’ve felt this way for a long time - not even when you were still with your ex. 

“Prove it.” You blurt out before you can stop yourself.

He stops, raising those brows of his again.

And you don’t hesitate a single second before looping both arms around Sukuna’s neck and bringing him closer to you. And the hulking man lets you manhandle him as you please, lets your lips whisper just a breath’s distance away from his. In the distance you think you can hear a few gasps, feel a few stares. “Prove that I want you. Badly.”

And Ryomen Sukuna’s realizing that he didn’t need the alcohol, not really.

Not when he was already drunk on you.

His lips are on yours before you can say anything else.

Your first time meeting Ryomen Sukuna ended up with you pushed into the bedroom at his frat house and holding onto the headboard so that it won’t break against the wall. Bang-bang-bang. He’d lifted your trembling hands off of them, eventually, and placed them between your legs to roll over your clit. You don’t think he cared for a single sultry moment if any of his frat brothers happened to hear.

In fact, with the way that he’d been plunging his massive girth between your legs (the rumors really hadn’t exaggerated!) you’d almost wondered if he wanted them to hear. You wouldn’t be surprised.

Sukuna fucked hard, fast.

He made you stupid on his cock and chased his high like an absolute madman- though, that’s not to say he was a selfish lover. No—perhaps for his own ego, you were made to cum at least thrice on his fat, throbbing length.

And after the deed was done he’d rolled over to the side of the bed and tugged off the sticky condom. Discarding of it into the nearby trashcan, Sukuna rifled through his bedside cabinet for some wet wipes. 

Ryomen Sukuna wasn’t the type of after-sex cuddles and aftercare, you’d come to learn. As he’d handed them over to you gruffly, and flicked at his lighter to burn up a cigarette.

Taking a deeeep drag of it, he turns towards you and brings his lips so close that you think he might just kiss you—only to puff out a smoky cloud in your face. “Inhale.” You do as he says, and let the fumes burn your throat. The side of his lips were quirking up in a smirk, “Mmm, good.” Sukuna gestures at his walk-in closet, one that you’d been eyeing for the sheer luxury of it when you’d first entered. “Might wanna find a t-shirt in there, your dress is a little…”

You looked at the sad heap of silky fabric on the carpet - torn now. “And whose fault is that?”

“Heh, just go get yourself a t-shirt, girlie.” Sukuna sits back on the headboard, and you’re appreciatively eyeing his half-naked figure. Prominent pecs. Ladder-like abs. Tattoos that stand out against his golden, tannish skin. He’d tugged on a pair of black boxers by now that did nothing to hide the happy trail of dark pink hair that you had your nose pressed up to minute ago. “Or don’t.” He looks at you with a sleazy smile- shit, he’d caught you staring. “I don’t mind.”

“S-sure ya don’t.” You’re managing out, tight.

And almost robotically, you manage to pull yourself onto your wobbly legs and take one step—Sukuna chuckles to himself as you stumble.

With a glare thrown over your shoulder, you walk into his closet. About as large as your entire dorm. Rows upon rows. Shelves upon shelves. Clothes upon designer clothes that made you wonder just how loaded a future professional wrestler is.

There were brands on his shelves that you couldn’t even recognize but knew were high-end simply from looking at their logo. Gawking, you flip past a few hangers - Versace, Burberry, Burberry, Gucci, Loro Piana, Dior, Dior, Dior, Dior-

Eventually, you simply give up to snatch the (hopefully) least expensive thing you could find: a wrestling hoodie with colorful logos on its front and ‘Sukuna’ emblazoned across the back. 

The fabric was oh-so-soft in your hands, made of pure cotton that tempted you to tug it on your body as soon as possible. Oh, you’re marveling at the way the ending hem of it reaches well past your torso, engulfing you like some sort of blanket. Experimentally, you’re pulling the hoodie flap over your head and giggling at the way it droops down all the way to your nose. Unable to help yourself, you tug the sleeves up to where your wrists were and press the pink fabric to your nose.

Strawberries.

What a smell for such a guy.

“Fuck-” You’re whispering into the fabric, slightly muffled. The rush you were feeling gets dampened down a bit as you remember where you are, “I’m getting way too ahead of myself.”

When you’re finally walking out of the closet, Sukuna was lounging on his king-sized bed and scrolling through his phone. You take a moment to admire him like this- his long limbs stretched across the mattress, hair still sex-ruffled, your nail marks prominent down his shoulders, hands hugging a pillow to his chest.

He looked as if he was carved by the heavens themselves. Though he fucked like the devil.

He’s flicking his eyes casually your way, eyebrows slightly raising as he takes in your attire. “Nice choice.” Sukuna hums, voice deep with sex. “Didn’t think ya had it in you.”

And then he’s patting the empty side of the bed once more.

More, his eyes said. He wants you even more.

You almost instinctively take a step forwards before-

“Actually-” You start, fighting to keep your words steady. You keep yourself rooted in front of his closet and fidget with your fingers. “Before we do anything more, I wanted to make some things clear.”

“Mn.” He’s turning his phone off with a slight sigh, placing his hand atop his head. 

Sukuna says nothing more, and you take it as a signal for you to continue. Taking a deep inhale, “I don’t really do this one-night stand thing often- not that there’s anything wrong with that!” Heartbeat quickening at the way his lazy smile grows, you don’t know why he made you feel the need to explain yourself. “But since we’re-”

“And who says we’re a one-night stand?”

Your heart does something funny with its tempo, “Wh-what?”

He tilts his head as if analyzing you, almost feline with his movement. Sukuna’s pinkish tongue darts out to wet his lips, still sweet with the taste of your pussy. “What if I want two nights? Three? Four? What’re you gonna do then, girlie?”

“Th-then-” You’re clenching your fists—fuck, it made it so hard when he was looking at you like that. “Then you’d have to get tested.”

And that…seems to make him pause.

“What?”

“Then you’d have to get tested, duh.” You’re crossing your arms in front of your chest - oh, it was quite amusing to watch the Ryomen Sukuna scramble for words. And you can’t help the spike of satisfaction, as he so-very-obviously didn’t expect that. “And we’d have to set boundaries. And share schedules. And you’d have to tell me if you meet up with another one of your ‘friends’ so that we can get tested again.”

“…”

“…”

Without warning, he bursts out laughing. “Thorough, aren’t ya?” 

He wipes away a tear of mirth from the right side of his face and- c’mon! You honestly didn’t think it was that funny! Sure, you hadn’t had any…arrangements like this before but you couldn’t have been too far off for the requirements?

“What are you-” But as you start to protest Sukuna only guffaws even louder.

“Alright, alright-” He’s raising up a hand as if to tell you to stop before his (well-toned) sides start to split. It’s only once you take a step back and huff n’ puff yourself into silence that the man finally starts to calm down. Looking down at his lap, “Damn- fuck, I’ve never had my boner killed so fast.”

“It’s just the requirements.” You’re grumbling.

“Girl, I might as well cut off all my ah- ‘friends’ as you so-nicely put it and marry you.” Quite dramatic, but alright. You notice that he doesn’t push back against your boundaries, however. Sukuna stares you down, eyes twinkling with something that you couldn’t quite discern. “And what exactly would you like to call our little relationship then?”

“Friends-with-benefits, what else?”

“Mm, I like it.”

“And nothing more- no marrying any time soon.” You shudder when you think of your last failed relationship.

Sukuna grins, “Keh- don’t have to worry about that.”

.

.

.

“Okay-” Utahime slams! all one-thousand pages of Shoko’s anatomy textbook down on the cafeteria table, rattling your trays and making the surrounding students glance at your trio. You’re watching as her glass of orange juice splashes precariously around the rim and inches one watery hand towards the pages of the book. “-spill.”

You’re startling at her sudden interrogation, “What?”

And to your horror, even Shoko puts aside her medical notes to pay full attention to the commotion between her friends. Both of them staring—squarely at you.

“You heard me.” Utahime crosses her arms, “Something’s up with you these days- and we want to know what.”

Shoko nods, sighing the way she did whenever she was assigned a particularly difficult medical case to discern. “Sudden glow about you- likely a mix of estrogen and dopamine boosts, slightly dazed look in your eyes, increased screen time, unconscious smiles, unexplained disappearances at odd times of night.” She taps her pen on her chin, “Science says you have a boyfriend.”

Utahime gasps, “And we haven’t heard about it?” Throwing an arm around a deadpan Shoko, who says nothing when the other girl shakes her to and fro. “We- we, your very best friends since freshman year, haven’t heard about him.”

“So who is it? I’m curious.” Shoko probes.

“Tell us or I cry-”

“It’s no one.” You’re finally managing a choke out, to which you’re met with the most dramatic groans from both your friends. This time, they’re loud enough to garner the attention of over half this section of the cafeteria- and in your peripheral vision, you swear you could feel the intensity of two crimson eyes…

Your eyes flick to the side - and there’s your first mistake.

Utahime gasps, kneeling on the bench to look over Shoko’s head. “He’s there-” Above your frantic pleas for her to just settle down, “Don’t lie, I saw your eyes move! He’s there I just know it-”

You grab onto her dress and start tugging, “Uta, for heaven’s sake just sit- down-”

“Hmmm, the only ones there are Professor Yaga- no. Todo- no. That PhD student, Higuruma- maybe.” As her options dwindle, she sweeps her eyes. “Ijichi- no, eugh. No offense, my dear, it’d just get so troubling to have to peg him all the time.”

You don’t know whether to laugh or cry. “U-Utahime, oh my god!” Even Shoko simply lets it happen in amusement.

Until finally, her eyes waft over the group of fraternity brothers that sat tall amongst the rest of the students. She wrinkles her nose at them, “One of the Curses Epsilon boys- no way, you’re smarter than that.”

They were such a boisterous bunch. Murmuring what were most likely innuendos with each other, clapping each other on the backs with guffaws. Almost handsomely stupid the way they kept looking to their pink-haired leader for approval. Occasionally, someone from a neighboring table would walk up to them in an attempt to talk to Sukuna - and the entire table would fall over themselves to erupt in wolf howls. 

You were almost thankful for the way Utahime had given you the excuse to stare right at him. The way he’d wave off whichever newcomer, the way he’d roll his eyes at his friends’ antics. You’re realizing that his group was mostly composed of athletes, evidenced by the team jerseys and the trays upon trays of food were wolfing down.

Sukuna, noticeably, wasn’t wearing his wrestling hoodie.

The thought makes something shift at the pit of your stomach.

“Oh my god, it’s one of them-” Utahime’s following your line of sight with something akin to horror, and even Shoko seems to be rapt with an attention that she didn’t ever have in her classes.

Both of them had easily let their eyes slip past the boys, it seems. And it’s only once they saw your lingering gaze, only once they saw that familiar smile across your face, that they’re realizing.

Widened eyes slipping back to the rambunctious table.

You snap your eyes to your purple-haired friend once you register her words, “N-no, wait-”

“You stuttered!” She squeals, and you don’t know whether it’s out of excitement at the gossip or sheer fear. She turns to Shoko, “She stuttered, right? I’m not dreaming? She stuttered?”

Shoko nods, “She stuttered.”

Utahime whirls back to face you, “You didn’t even stutter when you told off that asshole Naoya- thank you for that recording by the way, it was quite the pleasure to listen to.” Shaking her head as if to make herself get back on topic, “Either way, are you or are you not dating one of the Curses Epsilon boys?”

“I am…” You pause, “-not.”

They both groan at your response. Utahime even reaches over the table to shake you by the shoulders, “Tell us- I can- tell- when- you- lie-”

“No- no listen!” You’re defending yourself, swatting away her grabby hands. “I’m really not dating one of them, promise! It’s just…”

Shoko asks, “Just?”

You sigh, there was no getting out of this now. “Remember that party we went to at their house a few weeks ago?” Continuing as they nod, your heartbeat starts to accelerate as you realize you’re getting to the meat of the story. “Right- and remember how I disappeared halfway through the night and told you that Akari dragged me off somewhere?”

Utahime gasps, “I have connected the dots.”

Shoko frowns, “You haven’t connected shit.”

“I’ve connected them.” She replies, “I always assumed you ended up hooking up with someone that night and didn’t think much of it. Now you’re telling me that it was one of them-”

“Keep your voice down!” You plead, “But yes, it was…and the thing is that one night turned into two, two turned into three.” Your skin starts to heat up as you remember just last night when you’d snuck out to be let in through the back door of Curses Epsilon. To be pressed onto all fours and ruthlessly ploughed into- “But look, the point is that now we’re kinda…sorta…friends-with benefits.”

They gasp in unison.

Utahime’s all but standing on the bench once more, “Who is it-”

“Whose dick do I need to cut off.” And Shoko is, too.

You put your face into your hands with a groan as they start listing off names.

“No.”

“Choso?”

“No.”

“Larue?”

“No.”

“Kenjaku?”

“No.”

“It surely can’t be fucking Sukuna-” Both of them look at you, look at the impression on your face. And they turn to each other with serious expressions, “She’s fucking Sukuna.”

There was no use in telling them to keep their volumes down now - people turned their heads your way and started to whisper. You could only imagine what the rumor mill was conjuring up now. Hell, even Sukuna himself casually flicked his head your way in interest.

And you wished you could sink even deeper into your seat.

“Did you see that-” Utahime hisses.

“I saw.” Shoko replies.

And the purple-haired girl reaches over to clasp your hands, “He was giving you that look- oh my god. He looked like he was about to eat you up—” And you think that Utahime is perhaps the only one who’d look over and glare at Ryomen Sukuna the way she did just then, “You know what they say about him, right?”

“I’m well aware.” You breeze off, “It’s nothing serious- just no-strings-attached fun, promise. I could break it off at any time and not feel a thing, and I know the same goes for him.”

“Well, that’s good.” Shoko crosses her arms, “And you’re getting tested, right?” 

“Of course.”

Utahime scoffs, “Yeah but it’s not like he’s seeing you that often, right?” A pause. “Right?”

“Well…”

You’d been saved in that very instance by a bzzzz—! in your pocket: a text from the man of the conversation himself. And with a quick apology to your friends (you loved them, you really did, but you supposed that was enough interrogation for the day) and a glance at your calendar to make sure you didn’t have any more classes for the day—you were racing out of the cafeteria.

Followed suspiciously closely by a certain pink-haired wrestling superstar.

You didn’t quite care who saw what or thought what, because a few hours later found you back in your single dorm room.

Fucked stupid.

Sex still hung in the air.

You were sprawled out across your humble single bed, heaving as if you’d just ran a marathon. Head sinking into the pillows. Cunt all drooling with your splashin’ slick. Still reeling from the aftershocks of your multiple highs.

With Sukuna’s athletic stamina, however, he seemed to be barely affected. Taking a light drag of his cigarette (you’re sure the building had a no smoking policy…), he looks over your dorm room with faint interest. Much smaller than his but also much…cozier, you had to admit.

Lived in.

He takes in the polaroids of you and your friends, all the cutesy lights, the columns of books. Sukuna stares hard at one of the pictures above your headboard—it was one of you, Utahime, and Shoko after shotgunning a few beers. On the verge of throwing up.

“Cute- the dorm, I mean. S’nice.” He says, blowing out a streamline of smoke at the photograph. “This purple-haired one s’the one that was screamin’ about us in the cafeteria today?”

“You heard that?” You exclaim.

“Girl, the entire cafeteria and Gakuganji’s senile ass heard y’all.” He rolls his eyes with a grin, “Dunno whether you’re louder then or…” Such a devilish, devilish grin. “-here.”

“Shut up.”

“You certainly didn’t-”

“They threatened to cut off your balls if you broke my heart, y’know.” You don’t quite know why you’re telling him - Sukuna was probably used to the threats of his love interests by this point. You’re turning to your side and facing him, trying not to shiver at the way his eyes glide appreciatively down your exposed body. “Not that there’s gonna be anything at stake to break.”

“Of course.”

“Of course.”

“And what if?” He asks you, to which you only look at him in confusion. Sukuna takes his sweet time puffin’ on his cigarette once more before satiating your curiosity, “What if I break your heart?”

You think about it for a little bit, “I won’t cut off your balls.”

“Oh?”

“I’ll cut off your entire dick and feed it to you myself.”

The cigarette falls from his hands and onto your carpeted floor- which Sukuna hastens to put out with an uncharacteristic yelp. You guessed wrestling scholarships didn’t cover burnt-down dorm rooms, and you have to stifle a giggle at his actions.

“You-” He pants out, finally looking up after picking the scorched nub between his fingers and throwing it into your trashcan. Almost glaring those rosy eyes down at you, “You think you’re soooo funny, huh, mama?”

You chuckle, “I do.”

“Well, yer lucky you’re cute.” He grumbles to himself, at least- you think that’s what he grumbles to himself. Because the moment you’re looking at Sukuna in slight surprise, he turns his head.

You see nothing but the sharp edge of his jawline, those high cheekbones, the tips of his ears that were flushed with…the sex? Surely? Almost as if he knew what you were thinking, Sukuna brings a hand up to cover them under the pretense of scratching his sweaty undercut. “Never met anyone with this much fuckin’ audacity.”

You yelp, “H-hey!”

“Hey yerself.” And then he’s heaving himself up and digging underneath your own fucking bed as if it was his. How strange, this familiarity. The two of you had only known each other for a few weeks (though you had to admit you had spent considerable hours together) and here Sukuna was rifling through your room like nothing - you just wasn’t sure whether that was a him thing or…He’s finally pulling out—

“That- that’s my rose toy?!”

“Yeah, let’s give ‘er a spin.”

.

.

.

“I don’t know, I don’t know!” Itadori Jin’s voice echoed out from the other line, almost reaching a fever pitch in defensiveness. 

Sukuna rolls his blush-red eyes, he’d been standing outside this godforsaken café on a call with his brother for what felt like hours now. With you inside and waiting. All warm. All…fucked-out—anyway! The point was that you were inside all comfortable, and he was a hulking figure looming outside some frilly café grumbling profanities underneath his breath. 

In his defense, it was after one of your ‘hangouts’, alright! 

It was just another day with you. After he’d pumped deep into your lungs, Sukuna just-so-happened to hear your stomach rumble in hunger. And he was the one to have suggested taking a stroll down to the lil’ café down the block. It was packed with college students, and he didn’t really care who saw - besides, bearing through the gaudy interior theme and re-play of music certainly not his taste was almost bearable for the pleasant surprise in your ears.

And the refueling, of course. The main reason he was taking you here was because (surprise, surprise!) a house full of college men didn’t quite have the nutrition needed to last a few more rounds. And Ryomen Sukuna wasn’t done with you just yet.

He just didn’t expect to have been assaulted by a phone call from his older brother the very second he’d taken a step inside. And Sukuna had told you to find a seat for the two of you, deciding to take the call outside. He knew his brother wouldn’t give up if he declined the call.

They always were alike, Sukuna and Jin.

Sure, maybe not in personality - Jin was always a bit of a goody-two-shoes, though he could hold his own in a fight. Sukuna was the one everyone said they had to watch out for.

The one that didn’t get invited to birthday parties by fearful parents, the one picked last during team sports because they said he’d start a brawl, the one visited only by his brother and his father the first time he’d ended up in the ER after a fight, the one who only had those two to cheer at his wrestling matches. Only ever those two.

Whatever. 

Same rosy hair.

Same features (for the most part, at least. Sukuna’s constant trips to the gym and the ER had resulted in him having a rather more rugged look than his twin).

Same stubbornness.

They’d ended up going to different universities, with Jin attaining a scholarship for marine biology a few hours away. Which meant that family functions weren’t quite as frequent as they used to be, but he could still hear it in the man’s voice - that stubbornness.

It made the younger of the two brothers feel the heat creeping up on the back of his neck, slightly squirming as Jin admonished him—“I’m just saying that you sound happier than usual-”

“Jin.”

“And that’s a good thing!” He could practically envision the bespectacled man throwing his hands in the air, trying to hold back his smile. “Hell- Ryo, it’s a wonderful thing! You finally have someone making you happy! You’ve finally met someone special! You finally have someone in your life-”

“I don’t have trouble getting around.” He grumbles, and—well. Ryomen Sukuna isn’t quite the type to explain himself, but with his brother…

“Ryo.”

“Alright, alright!” Sukuna bursts out, and a mother nearby grabs her child by the hand and speedwalks away. “Alright, I haven’t met up with anyone else! I’ve cut off all of my ah- friends, for lack of a better word.” He could hear the smug hum of his brother, “But that’s not because it’s special or anything, it’s just because…”

Jin urges, “Go on…?”

“Because s’just convenient, alright?” He’s finally answering, “S’too much of a hassle to get fuckin’ tested after each one, so I might as well only have her in my life- ah wait, fuck, I didn’t mean it like that-”

“I knew it.” Comes the squeal, “Listen, Ryo, I just don’t want your stubbornness to get in the way of something special-”

“And I don’t want to hear yer voice- goodbye, old man.”

The ringing tone to denote that the call has ended is much more soothing than his brother’s voice, he decides. And he takes a few deep breaths before tucking his phone back in his pocket- turning it on silent mode.

He turns around to step inside and—there you are.

Dressed in that hoodie of his that he’d forgotten to take back from you. The air of someone that’d just been properly fucked. Through the glass, he sees you staring at the other people outside. He strays his gaze himself to see what you see- you’re chuckling at that little boy who skips along the pavement, you gasp at the delivery driver with a stack of boxes who almost trips, you coo at the elderly couple walking their dog. Hand-in-hand.

Sukuna looks down at his own empty hands.

Scarred and calloused. 

Before he’s reaching his dominant one upwards and pushing open the swinging café doors. You look up from the booth you’d chosen for yourselves as he enters, waving him in the right direction. It was one by the window, he notices, though in the very corner of the place as if you’d wanted to hide yourself away.

Perhaps hide the two of you away.

Hm…Sukuna thinks, rubbing at his chest. And thrusting both hands into his pockets, he’s sauntering right up to you.

He’s not blind to the stares he garners from some of the other customers, and though any other time he might have thrown a stray wink or two - and honestly, nothing was stopping him now - he simply sides into the seat opposite you. “Sorry ‘bout that, mama- emergency calls.”

“Emergency?” You raise your brows in amusement, peering at the man opposite you as if you were analyzing every inch of him. And he almost couldn’t believe that just a few minutes ago, you’d been shaking and whining underneath him. “I don’t know anyone named ‘Emergency’ at our school.”

“Goes to another school.” He quips, knees bumping against yours as he stretches them out underneath the table. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous, girlie~”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

In almost no time, the waitress is bounding up to your table and jotting down your orders. He orders his coffee black, no sugar—and you roll your eyes at him. 

The older woman then coos down at the little interaction, “Oh, you know we’ve got a special offer just this week in honor of our upcoming fifth anniversary? 100% off on all desserts for couples!” Her eyes wrinkle beautifully at the edges, “Would you two perhaps be…”

You open your mouth, “Oh, we’re actually-”

“Completely in love.” Sukuna interrupts you casually, his large hand settling over yours on top of the table. “Maddeningly. We’ll take one of everything for the lady and a strawberry shortcake for me, thanks.”

“Oho, you two.” She chuckles, walking off. “Ah, young love~”

You watch as she leaves—and snap your head towards Sukuna so fast that you think you may have gotten whiplash. “You-”

“It’s for the offer, don’t overthink it.” He lets go of your hand and crosses his arms. You almost miss the heat of it - was the air conditioning in this place too high? You’re sinking your hands into the sleeves of your- his hoodie, and Sukuna’s slouching in his seat. “Take it home- all the desserts, share it with your friend or whatever. It’s for you, anyway.”

“Right.” You’re not quite sure what to say- “Thank you?”

It’s a rather long and awkward silence that follows.

You attempt to break it by grasping for some shred of conversation, “So ah- is everything alright?”

He raises a pink brow in question.

And you don’t know how he manages to do it - how he manages to make your veins bubble and bolt inside of you with just a single look. “The ah- the call, I mean.” You’re squirming in your seat at his half-lidded gaze, so intense. He always looked at you with this certain fire, whether in bed or…here. “You were just out there for so long, I hope it wasn’t anything serious.”

He rests his chin on one hand and tilts his head, “Not worried about me, are you? If it was anything serious?”

“And if I was?”

“You shouldn’t.”

To which you furrow your brows in confusion, “What do you mean? Of course I’d care if something bad happened to you.”

Sukuna only holds your gaze, his expression unreadable.

He reaches a hand down his chest - right over his heart - and lightly rubs that spot. Finally looking away from you, the frat leader answers. “No- no, it’s nothing serious. Just a…friend.”

“I see.” You still.

“You said I could still have ‘friends’, right?” He asks, a note in his voice that was imperceptible. Sukuna looks at you with a meaning that you didn’t fully understand, and you’re realizing that the two of you had been leaning over the table for quite some time. “Or has that changed?”

It seems like an age before you break his eye contact, “Nothing has changed.”

Sukuna leans back in his seat, “I see.” There’s silence between you both once he reaches into his pocket and starts scrolling absent-mindedly through his phone. “Then yeah- it was a friend that called. I’ll get tested afterwards though, don’t you worry that pretty head of yours over it.”

“Good.”

A few more minutes of silence.

He can’t bear it. “Lemme eat you out in the bathroom as an appetizer before our food?”

“Be quick.”

.

.

.

“Truth or dare! Truth or dare! Truth or dare!” Utahime chants, jovial words slurring into a nearly-incomprehensible mess as she claps her hands. Messily, she’s pulling you and a few others into a haphazard circle on her bedroom floor.

All cooped up in a room that was decidedly not designed to hold this many people. The air dimmed with LED lights and cheap alcohol. Bass thumping throughout the bones of her apartment - it was a small get-together that’d turned into a large get-together that’d turned into friends of friends of friends both invited and uninvited 

You swear you’d seen a few graduates sneak themselves onto the living-room-turned-dance-floor before you were being pulled into her room by your inebriated friend. One who, as the host, was deciding what the game of the night would be. “Truth or dare!” 

Pronouncing, more like.

Shoko rolls her eyes, “Your ability to turn into a twelve-year-old when you’re drunk both fascinates and abhors me.”

“Jokes on you I don’t know what that word means.” Utahime sticks her tongue out, to which most of the group giggles. 

“But seriously- are we twelve?”

“Fine…” Utahime grumbles, and clicks her fingers as if happening across a sudden epiphany. “Dare or drink, then!” She’s peering towards Shoko with a smug smirk, “How’s that for all adult and mature, hm?”

“That’s almost worse.”

You’re taking the opportunity to sweep a look at the (likely) players: some more of your friends, Ijichi, Haibara, Higuruma from the PhD students, a few sweet sorority girls, some strangers, one Curses Epsilon member-

Your eyes widen as you take in the long-haired man—Choso, you believe his name was.

He catches you staring and smiles at you shyly, an expression that you hope you’re returning without it looking too much like a shocked grimace. 

You’d seen this very man around Sukuna sometimes, and he seemed to be one of the quieter amongst the bunch. Below Sukuna in terms of rank, certainly, they seemed to have an almost brotherly relationship that stood out to you when you looked at the group. And, listen! It’s not that you didn’t realize a member of his fraternity could attend parties - in fact, Curses Epsilon was synonymous with parties. 

So you should have expected this. So you should have been prepared for this.

But the fact that he was here…a part of you couldn’t help but wonder whether that meant Sukuna was here, too…

What that meant he was doing…

Who…

You’re startled out of your little reverie by a call of your name- and to your horror, you’re realizing that you’d been staring right at Choso. The man was squirming before you, his ears tinged just the slightest rosy shade.

Heart thundering at your throat, you look away and turn back to Utahime. Slightly breathless, “Wh-what?”

“You’re up first!” 

She’s pointing down at the carpeted floor, which had a glinting vodka bottle in the middle that’d been spun, it seems. Its transparent circular nozzle stares you down in an almost-accusing way and makes you shift uncomfortably—you didn’t even know that they’d begun spinning bottles yet. And whoever was to fall victim to the end of its vermicular spine was the first up for their dares.

And it just-so-happened to be you. 

You gape, “I-I…”

“C’mon, c’mon! You can’t back out now-” Utahime taps her chin and pretends to think, “I dare you to—”

“Fucking hell…” You already know that this wasn’t going to end up well for you.

And just as you expected, her eyes slide over to meet another pair of eyes—dark, doe-like eyes that had been fixated on you ever since you’d been fixated on them. Subconsciously or not. She smiles as she drinks in the sheer intensity that Choso had been staring at you with, “I dare you to make out with the person sitting opposite you for ten seconds.”

Your brows furrow, “Sitting opposite…” Eyes lifting up to meet—his. “Oh.”

“Oh.” Choso’s pink lips part, the tips of his ears furiously red.

And there’s a few seconds of silence- between you two, but not the drunken students that surround you two. They erupt into cheers and wolf whistles, ribbing at a quiet Choso Kamo to get on with it. 

As you stare, stunned, he peeks up at you through his long lashes. “W-would you mind?” His quiet voice was almost inaudible.

“I…don’t.” You find yourself answering, mouth moving faster than your brain can compute. 

And before you know it, you’re rising to your feet and making your way to the middle of the circle. Those dark eyes widen as you draw nearer- so different from the red ones that you were used to.

Something in your stomach clenches, and you feel a strange buzz zing! throughout your entire body. You’re not sure whether you like it or not.

Choso himself starts to get closer to you, and your pulse quickens at his closing proximity. His eyes turn half-lidded as they flick to your lips and back up to your face, like he was making sure that you were okay with this. Tentative. Almost…shy. You’re admiring the tousled look of his hair, that tremble of his lips, and the way his eyeliner makes him look so soft. 

You wanted to run. You wanted to kiss someone. You wanted to run. “I- I really don’t.”

Choso kisses you.

For a beat. Two.

One of his ringed hands snake upwards to grip the column of your throat, and you’re parting your lips with a moan! Fuck, you were getting wet. Just in time for him to slip in his tongue and-

CRASH! THUD!

You’re wincing at the rush of light that assaults your retinas, and as you slowly blink back your vision- you realize that there were tears in them. Because of what, you’re not too sure. But you chalk it up to the harshness of the light as your eyesight clears back up.

And then you’re seeing—oh, it couldn’t have been a figment of your imagination.

You’d never mistake that cotton-candy hair anywhere.

Sukuna was on Choso, with the other man sprawled out on the ground and the rugged wrestler on top of him. Chest heaving. Skin flushed. A vein throbbing at his neck. His entire body was rigid and honed for a fight that he knew he was going to win. He had one tattooed hand gripping the front of Choso’s shirt, and the other pulled back mid-punch.

A punch that he was frozen in.

A punch that clearly hadn’t landed yet.

From what you’re surmising of the situation, Sukuna had pulled the other man off of you by his collar. From what you’re surmising of the situation, he was all but about to attack the other man just because he was kissing—

“Ryo.” You’re starting, a hand reaching out as if to stop the fight yourself. 

Any and all floatiness from the liquor had now completely dissipated from your body, and you were only left coiling in thick, unyielding tension. Surprisingly, your voice doesn’t waver. “Don’t do anything fucking stupid or god help me-”

Almost as if jolted to life by the sound of your voice, Sukuna lets go of Choso in a single, jerky movement.

Though he doesn’t speak - and you’re almost thankful for it, you don’t know what you’d say to him. Instead you’re breaking out of your little trance and pushing aside Sukuna—yes, pushing him to the side so that you can get to Choso.

Stunned, he lets you move him.

He always has.

With both hands gently placed upon either side of Choso’s handsome face, you’re inspecting him for any injuries. He flushes slightly at your touch. And - tactfully - no one nearby says a single word about it. “I’m- I’m alright.” Choso says, his tone slightly hoarse.

But you don’t give up until you’re completely and utterly sure that he’s okay. “Hm, well alright.” Finally letting up, you start to move yourself- and only then do you realize that you’d been straddling Choso’s hips. Hurrying to scramble off, “O-on behalf of him, I apologize.”

You’re lightly bowing and he stops you with a hand at your shoulder- only to glance at Sukuna and let you go as if you burned. “No, no! It’s my fault for not knowing-”

“Don’t worry.” You spare a glance at Sukuna, who had his eyes downcast and his expression revealing nothing. “There’s nothing to know.”

And that…that makes the Ryomen Sukuna flinch—

As if he’d just been stabbed.

As if the temperature in the room had dropped to freezing.

As if you’d plunged your hand right through his ribcage and torn out his heart.

But you couldn’t find it in yourself to care at his point. “Again- I’m so sorry.” Turning back to Choso, who’d been watching the exchange with side eyes - right along with half of the party that’d turned up from the living room now at the whispers of a commotion here. Especially one with the wrestling star—and over a girl at that! “And about that ah…” You gesture at his hips…the ones you’d been straddling.

Choso blushes even deeper, waving his hands in front of him frantically. “No- no, I didn’t mind! I mean- I mean, it’s alright and you don’t need to apologize! But you didn’t need to apologize anyway because I didn’t-”

“Man.” Shoko rests a hand on his shoulder, “Stop talking.”

He immediately clicks his jaw shut.

The next thing you’re doing, you don’t even know if you even fully thought it through. Because one second you’re standing up—and the next you’ve got your hand wrapped around Sukuna’s waist—and the next you’re dragging him through the packed party—

Through the crowd that turns their head to look at your unlikely duo, that turns their head to watch the gruff leader of the wrestling team be led out as if he was a naughty child.

Sukuna lets you take a few steps out of the apartment’s front door, before he’s halting in his tracks and gripping onto your waist instead. Not hard enough that it hurts, not gentle enough for you to be diverted anywhere but his one-track destination to…well, you weren’t quite sure.

“Ryo- I mean, Sukuna—” You squeal as your heels click-clack! down the stairs. You don’t pull yourself free from him, because you know he would let you. “Sukuna, I demand to know where we’re going-”

“There’s nothing to know.”

Your stomach drops.

It’s the last thing he says. The only.

And you can only follow as Sukuna draaaags you out into the night-lit street, cars lining the pavements like the straps of lingerie on a faceless body. An outstretched. A ready. 

You’re recognizing the gleaming black body of his new Audi in an instant - you would anywhere, to be honest. It took up about half the street. Imposing, just like him. It always did make your heart skip a beat to see it parked outside whatever rager you were attending for the night. Just as soon as you’re registering the car, you’re having your back pushed up against it-

“What are you-” You gasp out, before his lips are on yours.

Furious. Feral. Fighting to open them roughly with his own mouth, he’s taking a single look at your prettily parted lips and spiiiiitting straight onto your tongue- before stuffin’ it with his own tastebuds, just in the way that Choso was about to mere minutes early.

You muffle out, “M-mmpf- Sukuna!”

“Ryo.” He rasps, blindly unlocking the door and pushing you into the spacious backseat. “You know m’always your Ryo.”

That night he fucks you harder, faster than any time before.

As if he was claiming every inch of you.

And you don’t end up going home for the night—no, you end up at Sukuna’s instead. And if he made you moan his name even louder than usual, well, it’s only in the morning that you realize that Choso’s bedroom was right next door.

.

.

.

Ryomen Sukuna had flowers—

An entire bouquet of red roses that he’s sure the florist ripped him off for - surely something grown out of the dirt couldn’t be that expensive?! But he did have to admit that it looked wonderful taking up more than half of his backseat—the very same backseat he’d fucked you senseless in not too many nights ago.

The two of you hadn’t seen each other properly since Utahime’s party.

What with his wrestling practices for the upcoming tournaments, and your finals rounding the corner. It’s honestly by sheer miracle that Coach Kashimo had cancelled today’s training for some reason or the other (he honestly didn’t look too closely, merely glancing at the email before driving to the nearest florist whilst texting you to ask whether you were free). And, well, here he was…

So fucking pathetic in his excitement to meet you that he’d forgotten the damned flowers in his car!

Sukuna hopes that they weren’t wilted as he struggles to put on his ripped jeans, discarded on your bedroom floor right along with the rest of his clothes. He’s looking around frantically for his t-shirt, when you glance over at him from the bed.

And he doesn’t see the flicker of hurt in your eyes.

“Leaving so soon, Ryo?”

“Uh huh.” He’s absent-mindedly responding—where the fuck where his socks? Did he even need socks just to go down to his car-

You bite down on the inside of your cheek, “Another appointment?” Another person, is what you really wanted to ask, but…

“Something important that I forgot.” Sukuna replies, looking underneath your bed and ah- there they were. He feels you sitting up on the bed, blanket clutched to your naked chest, as he sits on the mattress with his back turned and finishes dressing up. “Fuckin’ hell, can’t believe I even came up here forgetting-”

“Right.” Your tone was clipped.

“Should’ve gone down the second I remembered but-”

“Should have.”

“Because it’s mad urgent-”

“More than me.”

“I just got a little distracted, y’know?” The pink-haired man glances over his shoulder with a teasing smirk, slightly frowning at the way you turn your head away from him. Hm…he attempts to lighten the mood, “S’all your fault, girlie~”

“Sukuna.”

And that makes him slightly wither in on himself. That tone. That name. Trying to get a good look at your face, he leans towards you. “What’s wrong…?”

“I think we should end this.”

Everything.

Everything was wrong.

Ryomen Sukuna doesn’t fight your decision, Ryomen Sukuna doesn’t try to get you to explain. He lets your words sink into his being like a pebble cast out in the vast and unceasing Blue—and he lets them fester within him just as mysteriously.

He’s walking out of your dorm a hollow man.

Right up to his car, he’s taking automatic steps. Where he flings the door open and grips the bundle of stems of those- of those fucking roses.

He wants to destroy them.

Sukuna’s hand trembles as he raises them high in the air to chuck- before his peripheral vision features two familiar faces. Unbreathing, he’s turning his head jerkily to the side and staring at them—matching crows’ feet, a slow hobble, the slightly hoarse laughter between a whispered conversation. A vision so private that he almost wants to look away, he didn’t know how you did it.

It scares him how quickly he recognizes the elderly couple to be the exact same one you’d been admiring from afar that one day at the café.

It scares him.

Ryomen Sukuna doesn’t know why he hands his heartbreak bouquet to the old couple that day. But he does remember one thing - the delighted smiles on both their faces, the way the old man had so-clearly wanted to hold the blushing, beautiful flowers. But he’d given them to his wife anyway.

Seeing the young man staring, the old man had winked. 

A knowing smile on his face.

“Oh dear, oh dear.” To which the sweetly older woman had reached down to pluck! two blossoms from the bouquet. And without hesitating, she’d tucked one behind her husband’s ear—and then beckoned Sukuna to lean down to tuck the last one behind his. Rosy red against lovely pink.

His eyes widen as her slightly roughened hands cup his cheek.

Humming with a smile, “You are so easy to love, my dear.”

Something in him breaks a little at that very moment.

And Ryomen Sukuna drives the entire four hours it takes him to drive to Itadori Jin’s university, to damn-near bang down his apartment door.

KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK—!

“I’m coming, I’m coming! Jeez…” His older brother’s familiar voice - stubborn, so stubborn just like his calls out from inside the apartment. He doesn’t care that it’s 2AM and Jin’s neighbors would be complaining, right now he just…really needed his big brother.

He can hear the footsteps get even closer. “Who the hell is it at this time- I swear if it’s rent then I already paid it two weeks ag-”

The door clicks open.

Jin’s face freezes in surprise—before it’s dropping at the look on Sukuna’s face.

“Oh, Ryo.”

His arms are around the taller man’s instantly.

And if Itadori Jin felt his sweater drench where Sukuna’s face rested, then he doesn’t say a word about it.

“What did I tell you about keeping your someone special, Ryo?”

.

.

.

It’s the next day when you’re waking up to an incessant knocking at your door.

It pounds like the headache you’d been sporting all night.

And you’re getting up, your eyes swollen - not just from sleep (in fact, you don’t think you slept a single wink all night) - and your movements all sluggish. Looking down, you realize that your pyjamas- Sukuna’s wrestling hoodie, was still drenched in tears. Your blinks were heavy. You felt a mess.

You barely even wanted to get out of your bed, and you don’t think you would have had it not been for the sheer ferocity of the knocks. 

Were they trying to break down your damn door?!

“C-coming!” You’re coughing out, sure you had a doorbell that was going unused. Disgruntled, you’re unlocking the door and reaching for the doorknob. “Jeez, Uta, I swear this isn’t really a good time if you’re going to-”

The first thing you see is red.

Red.

Red.

Red roses.

Bouquets of it lined every inch of your dorm’s corridor, as far as your eye could see, some even piled on top of each other, the largest held between Ryomen Sukuna’s trembling hands.

And the second thing you see is, well, red again.

The blush that dusts his handsome face, rivalling his pinkish locks. Sukuna takes a half-step forwards- before he seems to think better of it and lurches right back. His thick brows furrow in sincerity, as if he just wanted to make you feel his words— “I love you.” He pants, as if he’d just run here. And it feels like all the breath has been knocked out of your lungs. “I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you-”

“Oh, Ryo.”

And it’s all the confirmation Sukuna needs to let the bouquet in his hands drop down to the floor. Rustling. Letting the blossoms be replaced with something that is, to him, far more beautiful.

He crushes you so tightly into his embrace that you almost can’t breathe - nothing but the soft strawberry scent that engulfs you whole. And you almost don’t think you need to. Not right now. “I love you.”

“You idiot.” You choke out, “You idiot- you’re so- fucking- stupid.” You punctuate your words with punches to his chest, which makes it rumble with a chuckle. “And I’m even more stupid because I…”

“Yes?” Breathless.

“I love you even more, Ryo.”

He sighs with his entire soul and collapses in on his world—you.

A few minutes later.

What feels like absolutely no time later.

You’re finding your back laid flatly against your single bed - a humble compartment in your dorm room. But now it had you sprawled out across it and reaching for your rickety headboard to hang onto dear life, Sukuna kneeled at the foot of the bed and clawing at your tear-stained sweatpants.

Pulling at it.

Tearing through it.

Your whines intermingle with the rip-rip-riiiip of fabric once he’s exposing your naked legs. You were wearing nothing underneath it, and Sukuna’s fucking groaning as he opens up your thighs to take the heavenly sight in-between.

“Fuh-fuck…” You swear you see a line of glittering drool fall down the side of his mouth, one that Sukuna’s gulping back as soon as it comes. “Holy fuck, sweetheart, how do you look even tastier every time I see ya?”

You’re huffing, unable to stop yourself. “Maybe you’re just mixing me up with-”

“Don’t say that.” And though his voice was quiet, it was stern. It meant every word he was saying, “Never say that.”

Gliding his roughened hands down the tender inner parts of your thighs- you’re shivering as you feel every line and callus from his palms. Remnants of wrestling. The softness of holding you. It makes something in your heart lurch, “I-I just-”

“You don’t need to explain yourself.” Sukuna looks away with a light blush as he cuts you off, “But I do. We have much to talk about…but the one thing I need you to know is that ever since I met you, I have never, and will never, so much as look at anyone else.”

“Ryo—” You whimper, feeling the thick crowned edges of his thumbs inch towards your drippin’ core.

“And I want you to know that m’yours.” He nudges his handsome head closer, until he could breathe in the sultry scent of your pussy. You could feel the cold breeze of his inhale- “Soul…and body.”

And then he’s lavishing his loooong tongue out to lick a wet stripe at your clothed pussy.

Sluuuuuurp—! Such a greedy taste of your cunt. Before Sukuna’s drawing his muscle back in just to do it all over again - flick after flick where you were most tender. With the tip of his tastebuds he’s outlining your glistening crevice, and pinpointing them right where the knob of your clit was located.

You’re twitching as you feel him enter his lengthy tongue juuuust underneath the drenched fabric of your panties, before fishing it back out whenever he feels he got too close to your pussy. 

“P-please-” You’re grabbing onto Sukuna’s head of pink hair, trying to move him even closer. “Want you even closer- stop teasing now.”

He rolls his eyes rudely, “Teasing? You think this is me teasing, sweetheart?” And before you can register it, he’s reeling his tongue all the way back into his mouth. Leaving your poor cunt all throbbing and completely untouched. “This is me teasing.” As you buck your hips pathetically with the desire for his ridged texture, “What I was doin’ earlier was just savoring, mama.”

You throat was thick with need, “But- but what is there to savor-”

“What the fuck are ya talking about?” One of his pink brows raise.

“I mean-” You hasten to explain, your entire body radiating pure heat and need. “You’ve already had me like this before-”

“Oh—” And suddenly, the most lecherous smile plasters across his attractive face - already slicked with copious amounts of wadded slick that sticks to him like some sort of adhesive. “Girlie, you don’t even know the half of what m’capable of.”

And before you know it—Sukuna’s rugged fingers come down to spank! right on top of your pussylips. 

Before you know it, he’s clasping the side of your ass cheeks and flipping you right over as if you weighed nothing more than a feather. With one finger hooking onto your panties- you can distinctly sense when the wrestler seems to think better of it and instead bites his pearly white canines down on your soaked underwear.

You’re muffling out with your face pushed into your pillows, “Wh-what are you-”

Before he’s teeeeeeearing your panties right down with nothing but his mouth.

Exposing your quivering pussy all for him to see, smearin’ apart your folds with both his thumbs. He takes a few seconds to admire the slick that splashes out of your entrance, before spitting vertically down your slit.

Simply to add onto the mess.

It’s the only warning you’re getting before Sukuna completely surges in and shoves himself nose-deep between your puffy folds. Just the tip of his nose drags down the middle of your cunt from behind, and before you know it- his tongue is zig-zagging at your hole wiiiiiildly—

He’s like a madman. He’s like a man starved.

Gulping at the excess of your leaking sap and then munching himself even close to lap at the dewdrops of slick just about to fall out of you. They don’t even have to be pouring out of you for your greedy Sukuna to be gluing himself to your cunt.

Shovelling his tongue even deeper. 

And when your tight orifice can’t take any more of him, he’s grunting out into your cunt and spitting.

“Fuck.”—He’s clenching his jaw and spitting out once more at the slight resistance of your hole. Just the way that Sukuna’s wet muscle was oh-so-thick, and he kept having to pry apart your pussy folds even further just to inch inside. Until you’re shivering at the feeling of his knobbly tastebuds dragging down your walls, “C’mon c’mon c’mon- just fucking take it my girl, I know you want to.”

“I swear your tongue got even bigger, Ryo-”

Your velvety walls close in on him, keeping his slippery tongue hostage while he only tries to ebb even deeper. He’s clenching his jaw at the slight resistance of your tight hole. “S’only been a day and she’s forgotten me this much?”

Fisting at the pillows, “I didn’t, it’s just you’re too big.”

“Appreciate the flattery, mama.” You could feel his grin against your softened flesh. “But it’s my fault.”

Instinctually, you’re raising your head off of the spit-drenched pillows to ask just what he meant-

“But I guess I hafta eat her out so she remembers this time, hm?”

But you didn’t have to ask for the answer.

You didn’t even have to think—honestly, you don’t think you can even, well, think by the time he’s got a hold of you.

Because Ryomen Sukuna was going to do well on his promise—Ryomen Sukuna was going to do well on all his promises.

He was latching one ruthless hand onto the side of your hips and manhandling your hips to start gyratin’ down onto his open maw. Angling you in just the right position so that his swollen lips can latch onto your throbbing clit-

“Bet’cha didn’t know that m’a good multitasker.” He’s gurgling out, wads of slick n’ spittle clogging up his throat. And the thing was—Sukuna didn’t care how much he had to suffocate on your pussy, he fucking loved that shit.

“I-I don’t think I did.” You’re replying.

“And bet’cha didn’t know that I- fuck, I can reach in so deeeeeep.” The large muscle of his tongue swipes in so deeply inside of you- you can’t even fully comprehend whether he’d plunged inside all the way up to his chin because of how dumb he was fucking you.

Rough, hard strikes at all your most delicate spots inside.

Finishing off with the most sinful noises - it’s like the deeper he gets, the louder those noises get. “Bet’cha didn’t know that I r-reach yer- hah, g-spot this fast, hm?”

You’re furrowing your brows. Sure, you were slowly getting more and more dazed on his cock - but surely you weren’t that mindless that you wouldn’t notice? “Wait, but I don’t think you ever actually—oh.”

And then you’re feeling it.

And you’re realizing that Sukuna had timed it precisely for the middle of your sentence, when he can hear the effects of you stumbling and falling apart on his very tongue.

Mazing all the way inside as if searching for treasure, his thorough inches are spreading out your walls so well. Not leaving a single crevice unturned, a single drivelling orifice, a single bundle of nerves- that he’s honing in on and darting straight against.

Pushing down on the area of your g-spot, you’re suddenly jolted by the electricity of your pleasure. He snickers, “There it is.”

Crying out, “Th-that’s just mean, Ryo.”

“Th-th-that’s just mean.” Mocking, in a lilting pitch that was most certainly not reminiscent of your own. With a tough roll of his eyes, he’s only unfastened his maw to take you even deeper from behind. “Bet’cha didn’t know that I could be meeeeean—fuckin’ meaner than you even even thought.”

“I-I think I know too well.” Or so you claim - but shit, Sukuna had never eaten you out like this before.

With his pointed chin jutting against the base of your treacly cunt, and his nose curving against your slit. Sukuna isn’t just thrusting his tongue inside you, he’s also making sure to flick and linger his tastebuds into any orifice he knew you were fragile at.

Again. Probing.

Again and again and again.

And with a smug chuckle, Sukuna claims. “Bet’cha didn’t know that I could go reeeeeal fast.” Until you’re hanging your head down to stare between your slick-sheened legs and all you could see was a pink blur intruding at your folds. “Or reeeeeeal slow.”

“F-fuck, that feels so good.” Your back arches into the perfect curvature when his velveteen tongue starts slowing down into an agonizing pace.

It was just so slow that you could feel each line and crevice of his rows of tastebuds, and just so thorough that speckles of your syrup were darting from your orifice and splattering! down onto the mattress. It starts forming a puddle on the sheets beneath you- one that Sukuna was certain not to go to waste.

His free hand skids down the insides of your thighs, layering his fingers in a thin glaze of your pussy’s slick. And whence his fingertips were all done and coated, the pink-haired man was raising them up to his mouth and sucking the sweetness off.

Not. A. Single. Drop. Wasted.

With a groan, he’s not letting his time go to waste, either. And he’s back funneling your snug channel with his tongue—in and out, in and out, in and out. “Take yer pick- s’all for you, mama.”

“Sh-shit, but I like both.” You didn’t even know whether he was talking to you or your pussy by this point - but you were too gone on his tongue to even care. Slightly bucking your hips into his mouth, “But I- ngh, do like it a bit better when you go…faster…”

A sudden spank down on your clit once more, “Atta girl.”

Nose pressed up against your slit, tongue lashing ruthlessly inside.

Ruthlessly.

If you thought you were ruined on the movements of his tongue just earlier, then this sudden sloppy cadence has you seeing fucking stars. 

The gooey end of his tongue swabs against every tender spot at your innards, somehow forking at your luscious g-spot and attempting to reach even deeper. Perhaps your cervix. Perhaps your womb. And Sukuna’s permanently patterning his tastebuds against your walls. Swirling and swirling and swirling right on time with the caresses at your clit.

He didn’t care how much you bucked and trembled at the sheer pleasure of it, the frat leader’s fingernails dig deep into your flesh every time you lurch away.

“Ah ah-” Only to be hauled back down in mere seconds by one of his strong arms. Back and forth, back and forth, baaaack and forth. With an unceremonious squelch! your pussy’s being plastered back down onto his mouth. And Sukuna tongues your folds back open to start jutting in between your lips, “Don’t- haaaah, fuck, don’t fucking run away…how m’I supposed to eat out my girl’s pussy if yer fucking running away?”

“I don’t know, you’ve never- hck!” Before you can open your mouth with your next few words, Sukuna’s showing you what it means to be his girl.

To have his knobbly fingertips pinch at your clit and start drawing—“H-heh…can ya spell it?” He rovers his thumb even harder on top of it like a button, “Bet’cha didn’t know I could do that. Spell it. Or are ya fucked dumb on m’mouth already?”

You’re replying crossly, “M’not fucked-”

“Then spell it.”

With a pitiful moan, you’re throwing your head in a downward direction to try and see exactly what he was-

Smack!

Yet another mean swatting on top of your puffy pussylips, and Sukuna’s tutting against them. It was as if his lips were glued to your pussy using the slick adhesive of your juices, and he didn’t want to detach himself even to speak—even to speak. “Ah ah- no cheating now, mama. Noooo cheating.”

“Fuh-fuck—” He angles his fingertips as if he was about to strike you once more. “Fine- I meant fine! The first letter is, mmm…”

“Yeeeees?” Drawling out.

And your pupils are swirling in time with the sultry motions of his digits. It was a pattern that makes every hair on your body stand on end - too curly to be a particularly pointy letter like ‘A’ or ‘K’ and yet not even half as curly to have been an ‘S’ that might mean his name. “Is it…R?”

“Atta girl.” Yet he plants another slamming of his fingertips that makes you throw your head back and whine, “Whoops- accident, sweetheart, accident.”

“F-fu—” Fuck you, is what you meant to say.

But Sukuna’s roughly bashin’ away at your sweetest orifice a few more times, leaving a big bruise against the side of your walls with his tongue. And it simply leaves you speechless, “Mmmm, nope! The next letter isn’t ‘F’, try again.”

“Y—!” You’re bawling out, your jaw falling agape at the sheer incredible speed at which he was drawing out all those whines and noises. It was simply unbearable in the best way. Unbearable. 

You could tell that he had so-very-clearly been holding back at your previous…hangouts. And you could feel the burning sensation of bliss start up at the pit of your stomach, “And is the rest of the word ‘Ryomen’?”

“Mmm, three correct.” He answers, to which your hazy mind guesses that the first letters were R-Y-O…“Quite the sneaky lil’ thing, aren’t you? And ah- here’s a little hint, this next one’s an apostrophe.”

“Fuuuuuck, m’close.” You’re whimpering out in response- and his response, he’s only slashing at your g-spot at a faster rhythm. Only plucking at your tender clit—“S, and the next letter is- ngh, P.”

“Good, goooood—”

“U.” You gulp, and you’re unsure whether it was because of your oncoming high or because a lecherous part of you already suspected what the rest of what he was writing may be. “S…S…” Your entire body shivers, limbs unravelling - and you’re not quite sure whether you’d make it until the end of-

“Final letter.”

“Y!”

“And wha’s that spell—?” Sukuna grins out, “Her pretty lil’ name.”

Your lips wobble as you try to enunciate, “Ryo’s pussy…”

“That’s my girl.”

You’re seeing a split-second of flashing lights before you’re suddenly pushed onto your high - hard, overtaking waves of pleasure that leave you all boneless against Sukuna’s eating mouth. But that worked just alright for him- he’d simply white-knuckle onto the side of your hips and lavish your tight entrance with his entire tongue.

Probing, again and again.

The cushy edge of his tongue swipes forwards to strike your g-spot right on time with the peaks of your euphoria. Like a perfect button for him to press on and increase your pleasure until you were simply shaking, “And my girl feels so goooood on her Ryomen’s mouth, doesn’t she?” He pants, fingers pinching your clit now and rolling between the roughened pads of his index and thumb. “Feels so nice cumming on Ryo’s tongue- bet’cha didn’t know it could feel this good, huh, sweetheart?”

Furiously shaking your head, “Didn’t- didn’t know- hck!”

And with a few more moans you’re just splashin’ your clingy wads all down Sukuna’s throat, all across his handsome lower half. “Ooooo- aaaaaatta girl—”

“C-can’t stop cumming.” You shake, tears sparkling at the edges of your eyes. “It just feels so good-”

“Leave some for m’cock, alright?”

But he was the one that wasn’t leaving anything, that wasn’t showing you any mercy.

Even once the sparks of your startling orgasm have bated, he’s plunging his wide tongue in and out. Scouring the inside and outside of your treacly pussy. Licking up every single ounce of slick sploshed down your front. 

Dripping wet.

Only once you’re well and thoroughly overstimulated does Sukuna actually falter his movements, “Mmmm, there ya go, girlie~” He’s pulling his prolonged muscle out of your hole with a sloppy squeeeeeelch! He looks down at your mindlessly clenching pussy and admires his handy-work. “And now for the real deal.”

“Th-that wasn’t the real deal?” You’re asking through a whimper.

“That? That was just my appetizer, y’know?” The pink-haired man snickers at his own joke - though it really didn’t sound like a joke to you.

You attempt to flip yourself over- but Sukuna keeps you firmly in place with a hand at your hips. “Ah ah- don’t you think of running from me. Not now. Not ever.” And while you’re still draped across your front on the bed like this, Sukuna’s starting to tug off your hoodie—

Before he realizes just which one it is - his, his name on the back - and he stops immediately. 

“Actually…” Sukuna stands, and you know that tone of voice didn’t bode anything good for you. “Why don’tcha keep it on, hm?”

Instead, he’s the one that’s stripping now.

That skin-tight shirt.

Those baggy pants.

Those boxers that were—oh.

Your eyes widen, “Is it just me or did…grow even bigger since last time, Ryo?”

“Mmm- why don’t we ask my pussy about it later, hm?”

And with that said, you’re getting to turn around and admire all of Ryomen Sukuna’s toned, tanned muscles. They ripple as he discards his clothes somewhere over his shoulder, making those tattoos of his look as though they were moving by themselves.

Greedily, your eyes follow the circles on either of his deltoids. The snake-like patterns down his pecs. The rings around his beefy biceps. The rings around his wrists. All the way down to the rings around either of his meaty thighs.

Shyly, you’re realizing that you’d skipped over one spot in particular.

And you drift your eyes back up—Sukuna’s erection was hard and hot between his legs. The most furious red at his mushroom tip that made him look as though he was so achingly needy he might as well fall off.

That you might as well count each one of his throbs.

Biting down on your lower lip, you’re impatient as you follow a bead of milky pre that dollops on top of his thick tip. Smearing just a bit. Travelling down, down, dooooown the veiny length of his shaft- until it ends up at the unruly tufts of pink at his base.

His tattooed base.

One more ring around his hilt, and next to that—you gasp.

“Oh…oh my god.” Without a second thought, you’re leaning in to get a closer look at that irritated patch of skin next to Sukuna’s v-line. And if your eyes weren’t deceiving you - that part of his skin had a swirling black calligraphy of none other than your fucking name on him. “Don’t tell me you’ve-”

“I did.”

You gape up at him, “Ryomen Sukuna, you’re fucking crazy-”

“I know.” He shivers as you reach out to touch it. Sukuna was fully unclothed now and prowling towards you on the bed, like a predator closing in on his prey. “But I couldn’t just name that pussy of yours ‘Ryo’s pussy’ and not contribute my part, too, could I? I had to show my dedication too, mama.”

“But putting it permanently on your skin-”

“Is the best decision I’ve ever made.”

You knew there was no talking him out of it, and Sukuna’s eagerly smoothing his calloused palm on top of your stomach. Caressing you. Drinking you in with his eyes.

Flipping you onto your stomach once more-

“Now face down, ass up- I wanna fuck my girl right.”

You’re barely managing to let your sweaty scalp hit your pillow before Sukuna suddenly has his obtuse tip squeezed between your pussylips and pushing and pushing—

“Oh—”  Your eyes are scrunching as tight as they could close, and the only thing you can do is utterly melt into Sukuna’s carnal desire. You don’t think you’d ever get used to his sheer size. “Oh my god- oh my fucking- ngh, I always love h-how you feel-”

“For now-” And it’s a damn miracle that the man could speak - especially when your tender walls were squeezing him like that. “F-for now just pretend it’s the first time.”

Did he just stutter? What was he even…“Wh-what- oh.” You’re being shut up by Sukuna’s rugged, ravenous tip once more. He’s swabbing every treacly spot of your insides without even trying - simply just attempting to fit and fit and fit—

“Just- hah- just pretend s’the first time.” He kisses his lips to his teeth, both clammy hands plastered onto the side of your hips to help him funnel his massive cock inside.

His flared slit lodges against the roof of your cunt, and you’re arching just so beautifully into him- that he can’t help but lean down and bite at the side of your throat. Humming in satisfaction at the way the marking is just covered by his hoodie, it gives him the courage he needs to say those next few words. “Pretend s’just you and I. Pretend s’our first time- ngh.”

“You mean to say—oh.” You’re dizzy on the way his honed tip was perfectly opening up your hidden spots, and every time he’s reeling his hips back it’s just a constant back and forth. “Don’t think I even knew I had a spot there…”

“Good- good, jus’ like that.” He grunts out, holding you even tighter to his muscular body. “Pretend s’like we’ve never fucked before. You’re my girl- always have been. M’your Ryo- always have been. Always will be.”

“A-always will be-”

“And right now s’our first time, I’ve never fucked you before- oh, forget about all those fucking times in my room and in the car.” He whispers out, something desperate cracking primally at the back of his throat as he eases his way inside. “S’our time now—and I get to finally, finally fuck you as mine.”

All his.

And you’re finding that when Sukuna’s fucking you as just his…it means he’s so much more ravenous than you’ve ever known him to be.

So much more ruined.

So much more out-of-control—

It’s like he’s truly realized his full potential. “Since yer mine I get to- hah! stop you from running from my cock whenever I like.” Hauling you down like a ragdoll with both hands on your waist, you shrill at the slamming contact of his hips against your hips. His thighs against the backs of your thighs. His large cockhead against your ready cunt. “I get to fuck you raw for the first time. I get to fuck you so much- s-so fucking much n’ I don’t even have to worry about the marks I leave.”

“What marks?”

A slam so hard that you swear you can feel the globular end of his shaft right near your throat—“These marks.”

And you’re almost about to repeat your question in search of an answer once more- before you’re realizing what exactly Sukuna means.

Marks.

The marks he was leaving on every gooey orifice inside your cunt, on the globes of your ass being pummeled by his hips, on the sides of your body under the mercy of his grip.

Using that very same grip, he’s folding you on all fours underneath him. Tighter and tighter. Closer and closer to his hulking body. Before your muddled brain can register it, Sukuna’s reaching over his meaty right leg to plant right on top of your sweaty scalp.

Yes—on top.

The heel of his foot ends up on your head, and your eyes snap open in- perhaps shock, perhaps at the sheer audacity of him. You jolt.

“Ah ah-” The only thing you hear before one of his hands clasp ‘round the cottony fabric of your hoodie and tugs it down - it seems that your sudden lurching movement had made his uniform bunch up by your head. 

And the famed wrestler wasn’t just bringing it down to take a good look at your pretty self. No—he was also bringing it down to read the name - his name - emblazoned across your back and jostling to and fro while you were being fucked by his ruthless hips. “Theeeeere we go, gotta rep the name, mama. Especially the first time.”

“Rep the set? You’re already fucking me- ngh, senseless.”

“And yet I already get to have you- fuck, wear this f’me. My girl. My lovely, lovely girl.” His toned figure leans down and he’s sloppily kissing at the name. 

His name—fuck, how he loved this position. That was why he’d purposefully chosen it, to have his name peak up at him as he ploughed himself into you like a madman. Grunting out once your sopping lips squeeze him at the stretch, “The girl with my- hck! last name-”

“Ryo!”

“Whoops- too soon?” He doesn’t even sound the least bit regretful. And you can’t even answer, because then he’s only fucking your surprised whines out of you, “Mmm, and don’t forget that I also get to do- heh, this.” And as if it was even possible, his vicious hips accelerate their tempo against you. “I get to do whaaaatever I want with my girl’s pretty pussy- ah, apologies, my pretty pussy just to fit my thick cock inside.”

“I-inside-” You mindlessly babble out, “Want it inside-”

“Yeah? Want it all the way until my tattoo? Never been fucked like this before, have ya?”

Well, he has fucked you like this before. But that coherent part of you realizes that that wasn’t exactly the answer that Sukuna wanted right now—“No- no, never. You’re the first to fuck me like this, Ryo, mmm.”

“Good.”

Whether he was praising you for keeping up with his conversation - or whether he was praising you for taking his cock until he’s bottoming out - you’re not quite sure. Either way, the curly pink hairs at his base finally reach your folds—and they scritch-scratch at your pussy in such a carnal way you never knew you needed.

As he’s fully inside of you, the wrestling superstar hunches his entire body over and shivers. And pants. And throbs his entire length deeply inside of you in a way that makes your head pound with a rapid ba-thump! Ba-thump! Ba-thump!

“H-here….” One of his hands lifts off of your hip to caress down the front of your stomach. Sukuna feels for where his swollen tip was pulsating against your womb, and presses doooown against that lil’ bump. “S’my first time kissin’ my girl over here, isn’t it?”

“It- it is—”

And Sukuna truly is fucking you like it’s the first time - he’s fucking you like he’s angrier he didn’t have you earlier, he’s fucking you like he’s making up for all the lost time.

Just roughened, piercing bashes against your g-spot- he doesn’t even have to try to locate that bruised n’ battered little area on your channel. The rounded orifice of it gets pummeled by his shaft, and you’re seeing stars due to the sheer pressure of him. “It feels so- ngh- fuck.” You could barely even string together a sentence, head feeling all airy. 

“Feels soooo—?”

“I don’t- I don’t even…” He doesn’t even have to be fully inside to let his curvaceous tip poke into your cervix. Purposefully angling his hips, Sukuna’s rub-a-dubbing the door to your womb with his puckered tip. “Th-think m’cockdrunk, Ryo.”

And if you were in any better state of mind, maybe you’d have noticed the way that his rude cadence seemed to stutter. “C-cockdrunk?”

Nodding through your tears, “I am, I am—oh.”

But of course, never let Ryomen Sukuna be known as the man that doesn’t take care of his cockdrunk partner. 

Never. 

Because in a split-second, he’s lifting his rude foot off of your head and you jolt at the sudden rush of blood to your scalp. “Oh- oh my…”

Only mere moments of mercy before you feel your entire limp body be hoisted off of the mattress.

Your eyes damn-near bulge out of your scalp, and you’re flailing at the feeling before- “Shhh, shh sh- be a good girl f’me before you make me put that foot atop your head again, mama.” Sukuna grunts, and suddenly you’re feeling one of his strong arms look around your neck.

You could feel all those developed biceps of his bulging against your throat once Sukuna cradles your neck and squeeeeezes. Spittle flowing out of you and down his veiny forearm like a fountain, “D-did you just put me in a fucking- ngh, headlock?!”

“Mhm.” He shows absolutely no remorse, “And I don’t hear her complaining.”

In fact, he could only hear the most sopping wet squelches emanating from your cunt.

And so Sukuna keeps holding you in this treacherous headlock whilst he’s pummeling you from behind. All those veiny inches of his cock being slurped right up between your pussy lips. Again. And again. And again and again and again—

It feels like hours have passed before you’re jolting at the sudden feeling of Sukuna’s warm fingertips slithering down between your sheeny legs once more. Your clit throbs like it’d missed his touch- and never one to leave you wanting more anymore, he’s twisting his rugged fingers on the nub.

Letting the patterned edges of his digits start twistin’ and turning that swollen knob in his hand. Your cunt squelches out a wet splash of slick at the sudden pleasure, “I-it just feels so good-”

“I know.” Sukuna hums, all smug with himself. “She’s told me- heh, think about thaaaat—I get ta speak with her for the first time tonight.” Before you can say anything else, he dips his head down to look at your cunt from underneath you and coos. “Hey, girlie, how are ya~?”

“Y-you’re unbelievable-” And yet he’s rovering his thumb all over your clit in a way that just has you gasping for more, and your cunt squelching out even louder.

“Mmm, m’doing good, thanks for asking.” He continues…a fucking conversation with your pussy. And at your widened stare, he shrugs. “What? M’only having a chat with- hah, my pussy. Wha’s wrong with that?”

“N-nothing…” You suppose.

“Exactly.” And then he times the ministrations of his thick thumb just right to roll over your clit in synchronization with his cock. You’re feeling one incredible thud! at your g-spot, and then you’re feeling another drag on your clit. This time…a pattern that you’re finding strangely familiar- “Can you spell, mama?”

“Are you asking—” Smack! A rude spank on your cunt, “F-fuck…”

“Apologies ‘bout that. S’my first time with you, remember? And I hafta get to know you. Get to do this.” He hums, and it’s not to you anymore. He’s completely and utterly devoted to keeping all his concentration on giving your pussy the utmost pleasure possible - from two different places of origin. “So about that spelling—”

“Fuck, Ryo, what are you trying to…”

This time, he’s not cutting you off. This time you’re trailing off out of your own volition, your ears listening for the sequences of letters that Sukuna calls out.

A sequence that sounds oddly familiar.

A sequence that spelled out your name.

He drag-drag-draaaaags your clit and it lets out a particularly loud lecherous sound that the larger man beams at, “Mmm, exactly. Perfect pronunciation and all- now let’s see if you can spell the rest.” And without further ado, Sukuna’s expert fingertips start outlining a different set of letters on your throbbing clit.

Making you shake with pleasure, “W-wait that spells…” Silently mouthing along.

S—he’s accelerating the thumps all the way at the back of your cervix, until you’re feeling dizzy.U—K—just the sheer amount of tears that streamed down your cheeks already told you that you were getting close to your high. U—

Your eyes widen, “Y-you’re not seriously-”

“Shhhh.”

N—but oh, he was. As if he was reading off of that sports hoodie on your back. And he was letting you tremble uncontrollably in the aftermath of his constant strikes and thumps at your greedy orifice, drilling into you with a hunger that never satiates. A hunger that tells you he’s wanted to do this for a long, long time. A—

You whisper what exactly it spelled out.

Your name, with the last name of-

“-Sukuna.” The man himself finishes off, before leaning down to leer at your drivelling cunt. The very same that was slurping and squelching away maddeningly at your gushing slick—“S’gonna be your name very soon, my girl.”

You don’t quite know which one of you he’s talking to - you or your pussy.

But you don’t quite care at this moment, either. Because in almost no time, you’re bursting into your nth high of the night - it’s no longer simply your second anymore.

Because as soon as you’re crashing into the white-hot wave of your second, you’re plummeting into your third. Your fourth. Your fifth. Seemingly dragged out of you as if it was oh-so-easy by none other than Sukuna’s ruthless cock.

You shake as it explodes through you, harder than any other orgasm you’ve experienced in your entire life.

Toes curling.

Lashes staining with tears.

The only thing you can do is arch your back into Sukuna’s sculptured one and let him thoroughly bash you through your zaps of euphoria. Over and over.

He lets his veiny shaft glide down your gooey insides, caressing every inch of you that seemed to explode with pleasure any time he was pistoning into you. “Yeah-” He grunts, feeling you uncontrollably clench around him. “Yeah, yeah, yeah- cum around my cock, sweetheart. Only around my cock—” His headlock on you tightens, “-got it?”

“Got it-” You babble out stupidly, your cheek slipping along the sheen of saliva you’d created on his forearm. “I got it, I got it- but…”

One pink brow raises, “But…?”

“But I also want you to do o-one thing f’me.”

He nuzzles the crook of your neck, “Anything.”

“Cum inside?”

And, well, Sukuna did say ‘anything’—didn’t he?

Because with a few more vulgar thrusts, the infamous frat leader is tipping his head back and emptying himself out inside you. You could feel the way that his thiiick balls clench from behind you, each of those wadded webs of ivory sap being poured out into you.

Each and every single one.

Stuffed and stuffed inside of you.

Your eyes roll to the back of your head as you take in the second skin that he’s layering on top of your insides. Something so warm and filthy feeling heavy inside of your orifice—fuck, you’re discovering that a primal part of you loved the feeling.

It sploshes! out into your deepest depths and create a lil’ puddle that you can feel even at your cervix. Just swirled around by his thickened tip, “C-cumming—” The man rasps out, voice botched with a primal sort of hoarseness. He stutters as he cums. He shakes as he cums. Crimson eyes shuttering at the most blissful feeling in the world, spurting his seed inside your needy pussy. “And then there’s that- hah! I get to cum inside you for the f-first time…”

And it really was the first time he was filling you up like this. All the way up to the brim and fucking those pearly beads of cum right back inside you, “Kinda- ngh, always wan’ you to cum inside me.”

He pecks the side of your temple, hips still shifting filthily. “Hey then we’re gonna have a- mmm, mini-Sukuna before you’re even Mrs. Sukuna, girlie.”

“M-maybe I don’t mind…” Bucking your hips back into his for more friction.

“Talkin’ outta that pussy, I see.”

With yet another sudden spank! on top of your sultry folds, you’re being flipped over once more and stuffed right back up to your womb with Sukuna’s thickened inches. All of them shoved right up until you can feel them at your very throat- “We might have to dumbify her too, I’m afraid.”

“S’gonna be a long night.” You’re commenting with a shiver.

Sukuna grins, “How’d you spell ‘the first of many’?”

.

.

.

The tournament was in an uproar by the time you’re running into the stands.

Well, more bowing and apologizing as you scramble to your seat past rows of other supporters- but you stand by it nonetheless. You’re letting out a pant of relief as you finally plop unceremoniously down onto the only empty chair in the stands, placing down your bag and pulling on the collar of Sukuna’s wrestling hoodie in an attempt to fan yourself. 

“You’re late, my dear.” Utahime hisses from the row behind you, flipping off the middle-aged man that grumbles at her.

“I know, I’m sorry!” You whisper back - ah, so that’s where they were. A few more rows behind her were some of the Curses Epsilon brothers - including Choso - that you had been starting to get to know, little by little. They wave happily at you and you wave back with a grin. You’d been wanting to get seats next to all of them, but it seems they’d filled up faster than you’d hoped.

At the very least you were lucky to have your friends so close by you, and you’re shooting them an apologetic smile - after all, you were the one that’d bugged your two best friends to join you watching Sukuna’s wrestling match. You mouth, “Whole story. Explain later.”

“Traffic?” Shoko asks from next to your purple-haired friend, looking up from her anatomy textbook. For what reason she had that, you weren’t quite sure…and you weren’t brave enough to ask, either.

Choosing the short story, you’re nodding at her suggestion.

You’d run all the way here, truth be told.

Sukuna was already halfway through his final match of the tournament, one more and he’d win this collegiate title. And though a part of you was upset that you’d missed out on so much (sure, you could watch them later on the recordings, but it was the principal that counted!), it made you so-very-proud to see so many of the recruiters with their eyes locked on Sukuna and Sukuna only.

Your boyfriend of just shy of a month.

You couldn’t blame them—fuck, you just wished you hadn’t had to wait so long at the dry cleaner’s! Apparently there had been some sort of mix-up that’d resulted in you being quite delayed while you actually waited to claim the hoodie you knew and loved too much.

Sure, it’d been slightly stained from some of last nights…activties (somewhat of a good luck ritual, he claimed, though you knew what he really wanted to do was fuck you in the hoodie with his name), but beloved nonetheless! 

Anyways—after falling behind your schedule, you’d been hit by traffic, and then there was the issue of actually trying to navigate the stadium, and then- well, here you were!

Evidently, it seems that Sukuna is sensing the same thing.

Because in the middle of an ankle lock, Sukuna’s crimson eyes flick upwards towards the stands- and they’re meeting yours instantly.

A charged tension only the two of you could feel.

Squirming slightly in your seat at the intensity of his stare, his realization, you give him a wave.

In mere split-seconds, Sukuna has the other man slammed down onto the floor and his sweaty body struggling to even move. You cheer, that had to have at least been two points.

“We’re lucky you’re here, my dear.” Utahime leans down to whisper to you. “You won’t believe what that boyfriend of yours was like before the game- moping around, calling you, staring longingly at his phone wallpaper of you—eugh! I didn’t even know that a man of that size and strength could act like a lost puppy.” She shudders.

Shoko states plainly, “What she means to say is that your boyfriend missed you.”

And you’re just about to open your mouth to answer- when right beside you, a jittery voice speaks up.

“P-pardon me.” The three of you turn your heads in the direction of the man that’d been seated to your left, you hadn’t paid much attention to him considering the frantic state you’d been in when you first got here. “Did you say ‘boyfriend’?”

And now, you almost wished you did.

Because the man beside you looked exactly like Sukuna only…softer. Quieter. Calmer. With an air about him that told you that perhaps he was the type that grew up with quite a bit of responsibility. He wore a sweater with the shapes of some marine animals sewn into it. He didn’t have any of Sukuna’s tattoos or the chiselled look of a recent athlete or the gruffness he wore like a cloak - but the resemblance was uncanny. 

The bespectacled man adjusts his glasses and your jaw drops—this must be his older brother that he told you so much about! “You must be his girlfriend that he’s told me so much about.”

“Y-yes!” You snap out of your little reverie at his words, and you’re immediately reaching out your hand for a handshake. “You must be his older brother, Jin?”

Jin pulls you in for a hug, sighing out against you. “Thank you so much for taking care of him.”

“No- not at all! The pleasure’s all mine, and he’s the one that takes care of me most of the time.” You’re sheepishly admitting, “Thank you for taking care of him all this time, I know he looks up at you so much.”

The other pink-haired man blushes, scratching behind his neck. “W-well I wouldn’t say that…” He glances to his left, “Oh! And silly me- I forgot to introduce you to our father.”

You’re beaming at the gruff old man seated next to Jin, a furrow between his brows that you could’ve recognized anywhere on his younger son. “It’s a pleasure to meet you!”

The introductions between you and Sukuna’s family go swimmingly (if there was a wrestling alternative then you’d have said it), and you’re finding that they were the absolute sweetest. Jin was soft and compassionate, the polar opposite of Sukuna and yet so similar to him at his deepest core. Wasuke was more like Sukuna on the outside, and you swear you could feel your sides splitting at the quips he’d comment about his son while you all watched the match.

Eventually, the three of you along with your friends in the latter rows are chatting up so much of a storm that you almost don’t notice—“He’s about to win.”

At the sound of your voice, the rest of your group looks over at the ringed boundaries of the match.

Instantly, you’re all up on your feet and cheering at the top of your lungs. 

All of you.

Jin and Wasuke.

Shoko and Utahime.

The Curses Epsilon boys.

You.

And when Ryomen Sukuna finally defeats his tough opponent, you can’t decide which one of you cheered the loudest.

But what you do know is that he’s sauntering up past the boundary the minute his win is announced - all sweat-streaked and spitting out his mouth guard, all panting and toned with his muscles, all uncaring whether or not his coach is talking to him right now.

He doesn’t care

He doesn’t care.

Sukuna’s breaking into a sprint once he sees you getting off the stands—and scoops you into his arms whilst you yelp in delight. 

You knew you must look such a sight, you and this hulking man.

You feel him bury his face into the crook of your neck, whispering. “Could you all have been any louder?” And you could feel the way his face burns against your skin.

“What- the King of the Court fan club?” You’re innocently questioning, “Yes, that is our name and you can thank Jin for that. And no, we don’t show signs of stopping any time soon- we actually plan on expanding to the rest of the campus by the end of semester-”

He peeks up at the group behind you, here just for him - his brother and father, your friends, his fraternity brothers - and groans. And you can only laugh.

“You all are insufferable.” Sukuna says, baritone dramatically pained. “Especially you.”

“You’re obsessed with me.”

He presses his lips to yours, “That, I am.”

A/N. A MAN WHO YEARNS IS A MAN WHO WHAT??

"Aren't you going to say hi back?" She snaps, you blink a bit, and Satoru clears his throat.

"She's shy," he says, smiling affectionately at you and patting your head, like you're a little puppy. "How have you been? I miss you."

"I miss you too, um..." you hold your clarinet with both hands, nervously pressing on the little silver buttons. "I'm sorry, my head is in outer space. It's lovely to meet you too."

She smiles, this cold one that doesn't quite meet her eyes, before clinging to Satoru tightly, kissing his cheek, he wraps an arm around her, and the sight of his big hand on her waist almost makes you sick. Why?

You've seen Gojo with several girls over the years, he was very popular once he got to about junior year of high school, but you stayed very much the 'nerd' friend. That was okay though, with Gojo you just could be her, you could be the girl playing clarinet versions of pokemon songs as he played his guitar terribly, until you both made such a ruckus your parents yelled at you all.

He was just a little different with her, you see his tense smile as she trails her hand up his jersey right in front of you, showcasing a hint of sculpted abdominals that makes your heart race. You avert your eyes, but Gojo grips her wrist, pausing her touches quickly.

“Hey,” he murmurs softly in her ear. “Not here.”

“Why?” She giggles, usually Gojo enjoys her touches of course, but it’s just rude to do it especially in front of a friend he hasn’t gotten to hardly see in months.

God you look cute too, in this little blue band uniform and an insanely tall black hat that clips around your chin. You have a new pair of glasses he notices, you’re about as blind as he is, though Gojo wears contacts due to the football playing, he still has his own glasses at night. They’re a cute blue, bringing out all the shades in your eyes.

Your cast down eyes, currently. He suddenly feels a longing to know how you’ve been, he’s been shit at keeping up with you back home. Studies, football, friends and endless frat events, it all has been too much, sometimes he barely gets time to do the little things you and him used to do, to enjoy his time.

Her touch hits again, so he firmly removes her hand, kissing it and smiling. She was clingy as fuck lately, but if he didn’t give her attention she just tended to be so spiteful and mean, he tried to keep up with it.

“You’re so cute,” she giggles now to him. “You all knew each other for years?”

“Mhm,” you say softly, eyeing their hands now, averting your gaze again. “Since we were in pull ups.”

“You remember that picture where you’re wearing pull ups on your head?”

“Hah, that was you!”

“Nope,” Gojo is grinning and so are you, his girlfriend tugs away, glaring right in your direction, making you freeze up.

“You two are awfully close,” she says now, scoffing as she studies you up and down. “What could you have in common?”

“Um…” You aren’t used to this, someone scrutinizing you – you are socially awkward at times, but your friend group is diverse. “We have a lot in common.”

“In what world?”

“Sarah,” Gojo says softly. “You’re not being very friendly.”

“Well you don’t need to hang out with girls at all,” Gojo blinks a bit, white brows drawing in confusion. “I’m sorry, but you don’t.”

“You have plenty of male friends.”

“Not ones who eye fuck me.”

You gasp, blinking back tears and stepping back then. “Seriously!?”

“Well she is,” you feel tears slip down your cheeks now, and she laughs just a bit. “Aw, are you crying?”

“You’re just very rude,” you manage to say then, sniffling a bit. “I don’t even know what ‘eye fuck’ means, but I wouldn’t disrespect a relationship. I need to finish practicing, good to see you Gojo.”

You run off and Sarah is all over him again, arms wrapped on his neck – what was once attractive feels suffocating, he glares down at her. “The fuck is that, aren’t you miss popularity? I’ve never seen you be mean to a girl.”

“She clearly has it bad for you, and I don’t like competition,” she says with a shrug, but then pouts. “Are you mad at me, Satoru?”

“I’m irritated,” her eyes fill with tears then. “You should just trust me.”

“I do! I don’t trust her, she just looks at you like… like she’s in love,” he sighs, shaking his head. “She does.”

“She’s important to me, I want you to get along with her, okay?”

Sarah glares a bit then, trailing her fingers down Satoru’s chest. “Oh? I should get along with her?”

“It means a lot, she’s very close to me,” he eyes you then and wants to disentangle himself, to hug you. It’s been months and he was so excited for you to join his school, only for your first impression to be terrible.

But Sarah is his girlfriend and it’s been a year together. He usually thought she hung the fucking stars in the sky, he’s never seen a side of her like this.

“I can’t help but be jealous, baby,” she says, lips against his ear. “How can I not be, when I have the hottest guy in school?”

“Uh huh,” her teeth nip his ear as you catch his gaze, eyes unreadable, quickly focusing on setting up your music book and stand. It topples over and crashes, a couple people help you, but Sarah laughs.

“She’s a clumsy thing, huh?”

You are, but it’s cute. The amount of times he’d cleaned up your cuts and helped your bruises was hard to count, but you just were that way – uncoordinated, where Satoru was the picture of coordination. It always balanced itself out, he’d catch you before you’d just careen over something, and you were a little better at school, you’d always helped him study.

A big reason he got university was his family of course, but also the grades you helped him get. You not being able to go immediately had hurt him, he can’t think of all the nights he missed you – he’d spend time away from the frat parties just to text you in his room, smiling.

If Gojo admits it to himself, he used to have a terrible crush on you, so bad in fact it was hard to even date other girls, without comparing it to his best friend. But he never wanted to ruin what both of you had, so he never acted on it. He still can feel it, the way his heart raced when he saw you again, how happy he fucking was, but that made him feel terrible.

He was dating Sarah after all.

A fact he was happy about until she was not nice to you.

“I didn’t tell you, I started taking the pill,” Satoru blushes at her bold comment in the middle of a fucking full field.

“Okay… um…”

“We could not use protection tonight, there’s an after party,” she giggles again, and he pulls back. “You’re blushing!”

“You’re talking about that right here? We can talk about that later, okay?” He tilts her chin up now. “After party, huh? You really wanna go, I was hoping to catch that movie before it’s over.”

“The Digimon movie? Gojo, you can’t be serious.”

You overhear a bit of their conversation as you’re cleaning your instrument, preparing the reed, your friend Shoko is setting up her sax, smiling at you. “Baby, you good?”

“I think so,” you murmur, looking back where Gojo is. “Do you know his girlfriend well?”

“She’s a bitch,” Utahime snorts in laughter right next to her. “She is!”

“You’re savage,” Utahime says, prepping her instrument as Nanami looks at them with a raised brow. “Do you like Sarah, Nanami?”

“No, but bitch is rather… crude,” he mumbles, smiling at you then. “How have you been? We missed you.”

“I’m doing really good, I’m so excited to be back with you guys,” he ruffles your hair like Gojo did, it’s how they treat you, like the cute little best friend. “Nanami, you're playing drums now?”

“Mhm, I still play the sax a bit though.”

“He taught me a lot,” Shoko blows into it a bit, and you swoon.

“Oh that’s sexy!”

They all laugh a bit, and Gojo hears it, looking longingly at his group of friends that everyone considers ‘band geeks’ and of course Shoko and Hime are very ‘theater kid’ as well. Gojo at times doesn’t feel like he fits into the ‘jock/frat’ thing aside from his friend Geto on the team with him. He loves sports but of course his parents really were the reason he got into it.

They’re at every game, so excited, he can’t break their hearts and not do it, plus Gojo really does enjoy football, and the thrill of being the best at it.

Yet part of him wishes he was over there at that moment.

“Please come to the party? We’ll even invite your little friend!” Gojo frowns a bit at that. “I’ll apologize, okay?”

“Please,” she kisses his lips, pressing her breasts against his chest. “Mmm… I like that perfume.”

“I bought it for you,” she giggles and then bounces off. “Let me make it right!”

Geto comes up to Gojo then, tossing him a foot ball, Gojo catches it with one hand, letting it fly back – the bright lights kick on as the dusk sets, tonight is the big game and they’re all trying to get a little practice in. “You see she’s here, right?”

“She is,” Gojo smiles. “I missed her.”

“Me too,” Geto tosses it back in the air with a whirl, Gojo catches it despite looking at you again. “So… I think I might ask her out.”

“Huh!?” Gojo misses the next catch, landing right in his face. “Shit!”

“That was an easy toss, you good?” Suguru runs over, Gojo winces and touches his nose. “Distracted much?”

“I guess,” his heart hammers in his chest, at the thought of anyone really with you but especially his other best friend. “What do you mean, ask her out?”

“I have always liked her,” Geto admits, rubbing the back of his neck and smiling at you, earning a cute wave of your fingers and a smile. “I never asked her back in the day because I was so convinced you were in love with her.”

“I… huh!? You… I…” Satoru can’t say a word then, just focusing on you, trying to hear what Sarah is saying.

“So I’m sorry I came off so rude, I just love Satoru so much,” she says, you  look down. “I didn’t realize you’re just his friend. Like a sister to him and all!”

Kill me now.

It’s all you can think as she talks, and your friends around you tense. “It’s so obvious now he doesn’t like you that way, I was just being silly.”

“Uh huh,” you bite down on your lower lip, looking back at the pretty girl who’s bent down, hands on her thighs, eyeing Nanami.

“Hey there Ken.”

“It’s not Ken,” he mumbles, she just giggles, flirtatious as fuck, surprising you considering she has fucking Gojo. 

“Why’d you quit football, hmm?”

“Interfered with my studies more than band,” he ignores her now, you can’t help but smile as she glares at him. “Don’t you have cheer to do?”

“Well I am the captain, so I decide when we do anything,” she giggles again. “Two captains together, isn’t it romantic?”

“Like a shitty 2000’s romcom,” Shoko chimes in, Sarah glares, but Shoko just smiles at her. “What are you doing over at the ‘band geeks’ as you call us?”

“You’re nasty as always,” she crosses her arms, stepping too close to you as you sit on the bleachers. “Anyway, I want you to come to the party tonight, as a show of my amazing good will and all.”

Everyone snorts in laughter.

“Um, nothing to apologize for,” you say softly, eyeing Gojo, who has his gaze affixed on you both. Surely he’s just looking at Sarah, and you’re being foolish. You have to get along with her, if she’s important to Gojo, you can’t let dumb feelings make you act up. “I’ll be glad to go tonight.”

“Yay!” She claps her hands, grinning all pretty. “Oh I’m so excited to get to know you, girl to girl. You can spill details about young Satoru hehe.”

You smile, attempting to be friendly, but something about her gives you a terrible feeling. You hope it’s not just your jealousy. “I’ll see you there, then.”

“Perfect, bye losers, by Ken.”

“Not fucking Ken,” he glares as she blows him a kiss, running off, Shoko rolls her eyes.

“That’s Satoru’s girlfriend, huh?” You ask softly, they all sigh and nod. “It just seems nothing like him?”

“He’s changed,” Shoko says. “Not inside – he’s still a nerdy little shit, but outwardly he’s… just different.”

“I see,” you murmur, watching as he talks with Geto, but Sarah throws herself into his arms, legs literally wrapping his hips. He almost stumbles back, catching her with his long fingers pressing into toned thighs. “They’re very um…”

“Gross?”

“Affectionate,” Nanami snorts a bit. “They seem cute together.”

“Uh huh.” Clearly, Sarah is not popular with them, but you see Geto run up then, looking handsome in his uniform, you stand and he hugs you tightly.

“Suguru!”

“It’s been forever,” his amethyst eyes light up a bit as he smiles at you. “How have you been? You look great.”

“Oh! You’re so sweet,” you flush, wondering how Gojo thought you did look, he didn’t say of course. But with a girl like Sarah all over him, you’re sure he doesn’t see you as anything but a ‘sister. It stung, but she was right. “You look great too. I can’t believe you and Satoru are football stars.”

“He’s definitely more the star, but I can’t wait to see you perform.”

“Aww!” You grin all pretty at him now, pushing up your glasses a bit. “I am excited to see you both play.”

“Are you going to the party?”

“I am, I’ve never even been to one so I’m nervous. Will you be there?”

“Mhm,” he kisses your cheek, it warms underneath his lips, making your tummy fill with butterflies for a moment. “All right, see you there then.”

It’s quiet, but Shoko is smoking a ciggy, ignoring the band directors scowl at her. “He likes you.”

“Me!? No way…” Geto waves as if on cue, Gojo is trying to disentangle Sarah off of him. “He’s single?”

“He is,” Utahime chimes in. “And he does totally like you. Honestly, I thought Gojo did forever.”

“No, we’re just friends…” You feel it then, blue eyes taking you in from across the field, you tremble a bit when your eyes lock, and he gives you a small smile.

Just friends, that’s all you two were.

It was a dumb thought that you’d magically come see him and you’d both fall for each other, as if he’d see that you were the girl for him, the one who has always been there. Yet now you see he’s moved on so much, you’re not sure how you and Gojo can even be friends like you were ever again, let alone the entire love confession you’ve written fifteen different times that’s sitting in your bag.

Of course he has a life, you didn’t even know about his girlfriend probably because you don’t do social media, considering you catch her taking a selfie with him and throwing the peace sign while she kisses his cheek. A little spark of envy hits, but you shove it down.

You have to be happy for him.

****

The game went amazing, of course Gojo got the last minute touchdown and everyone is cheering his name when he steps into the frat party, they’re all chugging beers and jumping up and down, dancing in a sea of bodies underneath flashing lights. At first this sort of thing overwhelmed Satoru but he eventually got used to it, though there were moments he’d just dip out and seek quiet.

Sarah is every bit the life of the party, everyone – aside from his friends – loves her, she lights up the room when she spins in, cheering for Gojo. “Look at my man, of course he won!”

“Gojo, Gojo, Gojo!”

He smiles but a bit of the attention gets to him, he can’t help but search for you in the crowd, curious if you came, his heart hammering when he sees you alone by the kitchen, sipping on a drink. You’re just wearing a little shirt and jeans but you’re so fucking cute, just the way the jeans hug your body makes him realize you’ve really changed since you were younger.

He shouldn’t be just staring at you, he looks up and smiles, waving then, earning your little wave back, and Sarah’s scowl.

“Satoru baby,” she leans up and kisses him, earning the oohs and ahhs of the entire party. “Don’t make me jealous.”

“I was saying hi,” she pouts now. “I thought you were gonna try to get to know her?”

“Well of course I am, she’s so… quaint.” She snickers and so do her little group of friends. “Isn’t she cute wearing… are those sneakers? Aww!”

“She’s precious,” her friend agrees. “We should all say hi.”

“Yeah no, she’s too shy to talk to that many people,” he says, earning a look from his girlfriend again. “Seriously, be nice to her.”

“You’re very protective, it’s all cute – like a big brother.” Sarah kisses his cheek, her hand slipping under his shirt, touching his back. “You’re gonna be the cutest dad, aren’t you?”

“Dad?” Her friends giggle more.

“She’s gonna make you a daddy.”

“Don’t call him that, bitch,” she shoves one of her friends as Satoru just frowns, eyeing you again, wanting to talk to you so badly. “Come on, let’s take shots!”

“I’ll be a minute,” he murmurs. “You all go ahead.”

Sarah and them run off, and he finally makes his way over to you, standing over in a corner nervously looking around, but your face lights up so pretty when you see him, so pretty his heart stops for a moment. Were you always this gorgeous, this effortlessly pretty?

Of course you were, but maybe he didn’t always notice.

“Satoru!” You hug him then pause. “Shit sorry…”

“No, please it’s okay,” he hugs you back against him, but you feel eyes all over you, especially his girlfriend and her group, even though the hug is friendly you feel too much pressed against him. “How are you, sweetheart?”

“You shouldn’t call me that,” you murmur, pulling back and looking at him. “She’ll get mad.”

“That’s what I always called you,” he sighs then, shaking his head. “I’m so sorry I’ve lost touch, I meant so many times to call you.”

“You’re just really busy, it’s okay,” you realize how close you are, you can inhale that familiar scent of him, the cologne filling your senses. It felt too good, that brief moment in his arms. “You’re so good at football, it was insane to see. I’m so proud of you.”

He pauses.

Fuck that feels good.

People expect him to be good at everything, but here you are, little tendrils falling out of your pony tail that he aches to curl around his fingers, your eyes lighting up behind those lenses. You always were proud of him though, whether it was him getting an A or him horribly playing guitar.

Perhaps you were his original cheerleader.

“I bet you killed the clarinet too,” he says, smiling down at you. “I know you always did so well in high school.”

“Thanks, I um… I missed you…” You trail off, sipping the rest of your drink, wincing a bit.

“Strong huh? Want anymore?”

“Yes please,” he takes your cup and you follow him over, the music blaring and pulsing through your body, a little lightheaded from the alcohol. “Anything yummier?”

“I’ll make you something sweet,” he smiles, inclining his head for you to follow him, he leans down and snatches up bottles then. “I remember you like cherry.”

“I do! Do I get a special drink?” He winks, far too charming then, mixing you up something in your red solo cup, slipping into the fridge to grab some cherries.

“I hate that jungle juice shit as much as anyone, I never drink it,” his fingers brush yours when he hands you the cup, making you both pause for a moment. He clears his throat then, rubbing the back of his neck. “Try it.”

“Okay,” you let the sweetness hit your tongue, just a hint of warmth from the alcohol he’d put in. “Oh, it’s yummy!”

You pull back and have a little drop of cherry red on your lips, he swipes it off with his thumb before thinking, making sure it doesn’t stain that white tee shirt. But the moment he does, you both falter, the soft touch of calloused fingers on soft skin – you step a little closer, and so does he, like something magnetic drawing you both.

“It was gonna spill,” he murmurs softly, your nipples press up underneath your shirt, he struggles not to notice, not to slip his finger into your mouth and watch you suck it. “You still wear the same gloss.”

“Y-yeah,” he swipes your lips with his thumb, making your heart pound in your chest, warmth spreading all over, before someone stumbles in, and he quickly drops it, gulping his drink down.

What the fuck was that feeling?

You’d hugged Gojo a million times, and of course as you got older you felt those butterflies, you felt this longing when he kissed your cheek for more, yet nothing compared to that moment in the kitchen. Like all that noise faded, and it was just you and Satoru.

Versions of you that existed long ago.

“I am sorry she was rude,” he says softly, you shake your head. “She was, and I won’t have anyone being rude to you, even my own girlfriend. Okay?”

“It’s not your fault,” you look down at the liquid in your cup, avoiding those pretty baby blues, lest you get lost in them. “She’s beautiful.”

So are you.

He almost says it, but hates himself for the thought, feeling horribly unloyal, he didn’t realize the moment he laid eyes on you again it would all come flooding back. But even worse than before.

“Yeah,” he doesn’t know what to say then, awkwardly standing next to the girl he’d shared his life with. “You look… you’re… um you…”

“I… what?”

“You’re very… since you…” What the fuck is wrong, why can’t he just say that you look good? It wouldn’t even be wrong to say, it’d be too little really, you’re always so fucking pretty since he could remember. Your pretty smile and your little head tilt, but now with you biting on that lip?

He shouldn’t say it then because it’s not good enough.

He can’t think all this shit, no wonder Sarah is mad. Maybe she knows just looking at him the feelings he had.

“You’re very… I…” He can’t say shit then, stuttering when he sees Sarah dancing, and giggling around with one of the men on the team. He pauses then, frowning.

“I’m what?” Your words aren’t heard then, Gojo excuses himself, leaving you to turn and look curiously.

“The fuck are you dancing with him for?”

“Well you seemed occupied,” she says, smiling all mean. “I figured I’d have some fun too.”

“I was talking.”

“You were staring, not paying attention to me,” he scoffs and walks off then, making her run after him. “Satoru!”

“She’s a bitch,” you hear Suguru’s voice then, you turn and laugh a bit. “Sorry, that's a derogatory term. She’s an evil bitch.”

“Much better I guess,” you giggle, and Suguru holds out his hand then.

“Wanna dance?”

“Satoru, come back!” Sarah’s chasing Satoru out front, she always plays this sort of game with him, upsetting him by flirting, and then making it up. “Seriously, I was just upset, okay?”

“You always do this shit,” she turns him and tugs him down for a kiss, but he pauses, pulling back. “Seriously, it’s fucked. I was catching up with a friend of twenty years and you’re grinding on someone?”

“I just got so jealous! You look at her like… you don’t look at me that way!” He scoffs, shaking his head, making her yank him down again. “Satoru, can you blame me? I love you so much, I just get so angry when you ignore me. And then it makes me act that way.”

“You’re blaming me?”

“No, I just want you to understand,” she slips her hands up his chest, tears filling her eyes. “I love you so much, and I want you to love me the same.”

“I do love you, but you hurt me like this all the time? The fuck, it needs to stop okay?”

“It will, I promise,” she blinks back tears, making him feel terrible then. “You just make me act so crazy, that’s all. I can’t help it!”

He sighs, she’s kissing him, over and over.

“Please forgive me baby, I’ll make it up to you.”

“Right,” he usually falls at this point – it’s a cycle. Sarah does something fucked up, makes him feel responsible, then bad, then he’s trying to make her feel better. Although Suguru has tried to warn him, it still has its effect. “Sarah don’t cry, I was just upset, yeah?”

“Oh thank goodness,” she’s smiling now, all brightly like she’s happy as fuck again. “Let’s dance together, okay! Just us.”

“I…”

She’s dragging him in, but he comes to see you in Suguru’s arms, awkwardly attempting a dance, you’re fucking adorable as you try. Suguru’s guiding you a bit, his hand on your waist, but you hopelessly have no rhythm. He’s not sure what it is, but the sight of his friend’s hand on you, and the way you smile at him? Something bites him about that.

But it can’t.

Sarah’s all over him, making a spectacle as she does, and you just give him a sad little smile across the smoky, crowded room, one he returns, before she can catch him and lose her shit again.

“She seems mean to him,” you say to Suguru softly, blushing a bit when your ass brushes against his thighs, and he wraps an arm around your waist.

“Yeah, she’s fucking horrible,” he murmurs, arm wrapping you tighter. “It’s not just you she’s mean to. But especially him.”

“So why does he stay with her? When she acts like that?” Suguru sighs, you turn a bit in his arms, facing him now.

“I don’t know, he could have whoever he wants,” he frowns and shakes his head a bit. “He’s changed a lot this year being with her, it’s like he doesn’t smile the same way anymore. It’s fucked up, but what can you do, telling him to leave her just makes him more defensive.”

“I see,” you turn your gaze off Gojo now. “He does seem different. Is he still… is he still our Gojo?”

“He is, somewhere in there,” he muses softly, dipping you and making you giggle. “Look, you do have some rhythm.”

“Barely any!”

You have fun that night in Suguru’s arms, laughing and losing yourself, trying to ignore how badly you wish you could hug Satoru, seeing him so miserable with her.

But it wasn’t your place.

“Oh my god, good night girl!” Sarah waves as you and Suguru head out the door, coming to you and kissing your cheek.

“Oh, good night Sarah.”

“Stay the fuck away from him,” she whispers so quietly, you still, frowning as she pulls back with a grin. “Gojo loved seeing you!”

“Uh huh,” Satoru walks up and hugs you then, tugging you a little close, his entire demeanor just down, it breaks your heart. “Toru…”

He almost breaks down in that moment, just burying his face in your neck, inhaling that scent so soft and sweet, memories flooding his mind, a thousand things blurring at once. He hugs you a little too long, like you’re the only comfort there is, before pulling back, looking at Suguru who has his hand on the small of your back.

Why does he hate that so much?

Why wouldn’t he want his two best friends to get together? Not like there was anyone good enough for you other than Suguru really.

“Let’s all like do a double date,” Sarah chimes in, you tense, Satoru sees it clear as day. “It could let you two catch up! I mean you’re almost siblings, right?”

You look down, Sarah’s clinging to Gojo again.

“I’m down for a date,” Suguru says, you smile thankfully at him. “Are you?”

“Yeah, that may be fun,” what a lie. Sarah is fucking terrible and seeing your best friend Satoru like this hurts. But you do want to be near him. “Let’s plan something.”

When Suguru takes you home, you can’t help but enjoy the warmth of his hand on your thigh, and the sweet kiss he plants on your cheek. You also can’t help but think of that look on Satoru’s face when Sarah danced with someone like that, and the expression when he came back in.

You look at the love note you wrote him, tears falling and blurring the ink.

Toru,

I’ve waited my whole life to tell you three simple words, ones that just never came out right, and now I worry it’s too late. We’ve drifted apart so much, but I want you to know that I…

I love you.

Those are the words, the brutal ones stuck in my heart, the ones I’ve said as a friend so many times, we both said it, right? ‘I love you’ before we went to bed, staring at each other through our windows and laughing. Little kisses and hugs good night after studying together, hugging you tightly during a scary movie.

None of those felt like ‘friendship’ to me, and I wonder if you feel the same, or if I’m fucking it all up. I don’t know if I’m making any sense, because when it comes to my feelings for you, it’s like it all gets thrown out of the window. Words don’t form correctly, not when I can’t stop rambling about the million things that make you so special.

It’s everything about you.

I miss you, I miss us, and I love you. I love all of you, Satoru Gojo, and if this ruins it all I’m sorry, but I can’t go another day without you knowing.

You fold it back up, tossing it on the desk of your dorm, the brand new one you’re not used to, you miss home, you miss Gojo, you miss everything how it was.

You miss dreaming that there was a world he could be yours.

Satoru that night keeps thinking of calling you, texting you, apologizing for barely spending time the first time he sees you in months, but he doesn’t get much time. Sarah is all over him in every sense of the word, from sucking his cock like she has no gag reflex, to riding him, to whispering all sorts of things in his ear.

Something doesn’t feel exciting about it tonight, and he descends further into a guilt that he’s not even really present during sex. She seems to still enjoy it, Satoru’s not going to have her not get off, it’s not who he is, but his mind is all over. When she’s laid in his bed curled up, sweat slicked on her skin, all he can think of his you – the girl with her clarinet smiling shyly.

His best friend.

and then sukuna left.

not dramatically. not with some sentimental goodbye. he just packed up after graduation and went off to college out of state—far, far away—leaving you and yuji to finish growing up without him.

you didn’t think about him much after that. or at least you told yourself you didn’t.

until today.

you walk into yuji’s house the same way you always do—kicking off your shoes, calling out that you brought notes for the class he skipped again—and then you freeze.

because someone else is standing at the end of the hallway.

sukuna's home.

and looking at you like the past few years didn’t exist at all—like he just stepped out for a minute instead of vanishing into adulthood and coming back built like a warning sign.

you freeze.

because he isn’t the same person who left. not even close.

he’s taller now—like he grew an extra inch or two just to spite you. broad shoulders filling out the doorway, chest built in the intimidating way that says hours in the gym, not a single selfie to prove it. his hoodie clings to his arms in a way it never used to, sleeves shoved up to reveal thick forearms covered in black ink that wasn’t there before. sharp lines trailing up his veins and disappearing beneath cotton.

and his face—god.

there’s a new weight to it. a grown-man kind of sharpness. jawline hard enough to cut your breath in half. cheekbones more defined. his mouth softer than it should be on someone who looks like this.

plus the metal.

an eyebrow piercing splits the dark line above his left eye—subtle, but impossible to ignore. a thin silver hoop sits snug on his bottom lip, glinting every time he shifts his expression. a couple more studs line his ear, climbing the curve of cartilage in a way that draws your eyes before you can stop yourself.

he went from “yuji’s older brother who never talks” to “the man you’d cross the street for, just to look at again.”

he doesn’t say hi. doesn’t smile.

he just tilts his head a fraction, eyes dragging over you in one slow pass that feels too intimate to be accidental—like he’s comparing you to old versions in his head and finding the differences one by one.

“you got taller,” he mutters, voice deeper now, rougher around the edges.

your pulse spikes. “no i didn’t,” you say too quickly, heat crawling up your throat.

his tongue pushes against the inside of his cheek, right behind the silver hoop in his lip, and the faint sound he makes could be a laugh or a warning. you can’t tell which.

he steps closer. slowly.

the hallway shrinks around him like the walls are trying to pull away first. he’s buffer now—thick chest, defined arms, long legs moving with that confidence he never had when he was younger. his presence alone makes the air feel heavier.

“sure you didn’t,” he says, voice dropping into something low enough to curl at the base of your spine. “go on and lie to me.”

you swallow hard. “is... yuji inside?”

his eyes don’t leave yours—not even for a second. “kitchen. he’s been whining that you’re late.”

you try to step past him, but sukuna doesn’t move.

not an inch.

he stands there like a wall you’re meant to run into. like he’s doing it on purpose. like he wants to feel you brush against him, just to see what you’d do.

he’s always been like this—annoyingly still, annoyingly composed, annoyingly aware of how much space he takes up.

but now?

he’s all that, plus the tattoos, plus the muscle, plus the piercings, plus the kind of grown-man weight that makes your breath hitch.

you barely manage to slip past sukuna—your shoulder brushing his chest as you squeeze through the hallway. he doesn’t move, doesn’t step aside, doesn’t even pretend to give you space. he just watches you go, silent and heavy-eyed, like he’s cataloguing the way your breath stutters when you pass him.

you pretend you don’t notice. you pretend a lot of things. you step into the kitchen with a too-bright smile, dropping your bag onto the counter.

“ok,” you exhale, forcing lightness into your voice, “lecture notes time.”

yuji lights up like you just handed him free money. “finally! dude, this professor hates me, i swear.”

you snort. “he doesn’t hate you, he just knows you don’t shut up in class.”

yuji splutters, offended, and launches into a rant about how the classroom was “way too quiet” without him and how he’s basically “providing a public service.” you roll your eyes. you’ve missed this.

you spread out your notebooks on the table, walking him through everything he missed—slides, examples, the weird tangent your professor went on about life choices and statistics. yuji listens, nodding furiously, asking questions in the loudest voice anyone has ever used in a kitchen.

it’s normal. comfortable. easy.

but your head?

not easy. not comfortable.

because you can’t stop thinking about the man standing in the hallway.

the way sukuna looked at you like he was trying to match this version of you to the one he left behind.

the way he took up the entire hallway without trying. the way the metal in his lip caught the light. the tattoos. the build. the voice.

you try focusing on the material. you really do.

but yuji is halfway through copying something when you completely lose your train of thought, brain short-circuiting at the memory of sukuna stepping closer, the hallway shrinking around him, his arm brushing yours.

“uh… hello?” yuji waves a hand in front of your face. “earth to braincell.”

you blink. “sorry, i—just tired.”

“you should be! bro, you’ve been explaining this for like an hour.” yuji glances at the clock. “holy crap, it’s actually been an hour.”

you laugh, rubbing your eyes. it has gotten later than you thought. the sun’s gone down, the kitchen’s dimmer, warmer. the house feels too quiet.

yuji scratches his cheek and looks sheepish. “hey… uh… you wanna stay for dinner? i was gonna make something anyway, and it’s already late.”

stay.

the word sinks in. you open your mouth out of habit to decline—because you always do, because you have homework, because you’re busy—but you don’t say no.

because you know who else is here. who else you’ll end up near. who else is still lingering somewhere in this house with a pierced lip and a stare that won’t get out of your head.

you swallow. “yeah. sure. i can stay.”

yuji brightens again. “sweet! i’ll throw something together.”

you nod, biting back a smile as he rummages through the fridge.

you tell yourself it’s just dinner. just catching up. just a normal night. but your pulse tells a different story.

you don’t know what game sukuna’s playing now that he’s home…

…but you’re pretty sure he expects you to play it too.

yuji is humming to himself as he cooks—off-key, loud, cheerful in the way only he can be. pans clatter, spices get overused, something sizzles a little too aggressively, but it’s comforting.

you sit at the kitchen table, chin resting on your hand, pretending to scroll your phone. pretending to be normal.

but your ears are tuned to the hallway.

and when you hear slow, heavy footsteps approaching, your breath catches in your throat before you can stop it.

you don’t need to look to know who it is.

sukuna enters the kitchen like he owns the space—tall, broad, tattooed arms visible where he shoved his sleeves up again. his lip ring catches the warm kitchen light as he presses his tongue against it, like he’s distracting himself from saying something.

or from staring.

he doesn’t say anything right away. he just pulls out a chair. right across from you, of course.

your heartbeat jumps. you’re grateful yuji is too busy murdering whatever’s in the frying pan to notice anything weird.

sukuna sits slowly, legs spread under the table like he’s claiming territory. his posture is relaxed—leaned back, arms loose—but his eyes?

fixed on you.

not soft nor nostalgic—but assessing and curious in a way that makes goosebumps rise on your arms.

you try to look away first. you don’t succeed.

he breaks the silence with a low, too-casual, “he’s really makin’ you do his classwork for him?”

you blink. “i’m not—i’m just helping him catch up.”

he hums under his breath, that amusement back in his voice, coating every syllable in something mocking. “helpin’ him, huh. you always were too nice.”

“am not,” you mutter.

“yeah,” he says, leaning forward just a little. “you are.”

your stomach flips in a way you refuse to acknowledge.

before you can snap back, yuji turns around with triumph in his eyes and a plate in each hand.

“dinner is SERVED,” he declares proudly.

you and sukuna both watch the plate hit the table with a little too much force.

“you didn’t burn anything this time,” sukuna notes.

“shut up, bro,” yuji grins.

bro.

right. they’re brothers. the kind with the same house and the same history but completely different worlds carved out inside them.

yuji sits beside you—your usual seating arrangement—leaving sukuna directly across from you.

it’s torture.

you try to focus on dinner, but the food tastes like nothing. you’re too aware of the man in front of you. of the way his hand dwarfs his fork. of the tattoos that crawl up his veins, ink meeting sinew. of the metal on his face catching light every time he shifts. of the quiet way he eats—unlike yuji, who practically inhales his food.

at some point, sukuna leans back, eyes still on you, elbow resting on the back of his chair. he doesn’t speak. doesn’t interrupt yuji’s excited retelling of a stupid class story.

he just watches you. until you squirm.

you hate that he sees it. you drop your gaze to your plate.

but then, under the table—something brushes your ankle. you jolt subtly, knee bumping the underside of the table.

yuji doesn’t notice, but sukuna smiles. a slow smile that feels like it’s meant to unravel you one string at a time.

he doesn’t pull away.

his foot stays there—resting against yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

you try to move your foot back. he follows. pressing gently.

your breath stutters. your fork pauses mid-air.

“you okay?” yuji asks through a mouthful of food.

“fine,” you choke.

sukuna’s eyes drop to your throat, watching it move as you swallow. then he tilts his head and mouths something silently—so only you can see it.

don’t run.

your heart slams. you force yourself to finish your meal, though you don’t taste a damn thing.

yuji finally exhales loudly, rubbing his stomach. “okay, i’m gonna grab the drinks—don’t eat my dessert while i’m gone.”

he gets up and disappears into the fridge.

the moment he’s out of earshot, the tension in the room snaps tight.

sukuna leans forward just slightly, voice low enough that it feels like a touch on your skin.

“you’re real bad at hiding shit,” he murmurs.

you grip your fork. “hiding what?”

he raises a brow. “the way you’ve been lookin’ at me since you walked in.”

your breath falters.

he smiles. “didn’t look at me like that when i left.”

you want to deny it. you want to throw something at him. you want to run.

instead, all you manage is a tiny, pathetic, “…shut up.”

his eyes soften for half a second—amusement, victory, something else you can’t name—and then he drags his foot lightly up your calf under the table.

your pulse jumps.

yuji returns a moment later, completely oblivious, carrying three drinks like he’s hosting a banquet.

“okay! i got—hey, why are you two so quiet?”

you choke. “no reason.”

sukuna doesn’t even try to hide his smirk.

yuji doesn’t even make it to dessert.

one minute he’s talking through a mouthful of food, and the next he’s curled sideways on the couch in the living room, face pressed into a pillow, snoring softly like someone unplugged him mid-sentence.

you stare at him for a second and sigh. “…he lasted longer than usual.”

from behind you, sukuna’s voice is low and way too entertained. “don’t give him that much credit.”

you ignore the way your stomach flutters and start clearing the plates, stacking yours on top of yuji’s, gathering forks, pushing crumbs into your palm. it feels safer to have your hands busy—something to do besides think about sukuna or how his eyes followed you all dinner.

the kitchen is dimmer now, warm under the stove light. quiet except for the clink of dishes. yuji’s muffled snoring drifts in from the living room. the air feels thick, heavy with end-of-night softness.

you bend over to load the dishwasher, reaching for a plate on the bottom rack…

…and that’s when you hear them.

slow footsteps behind you.

you feel him before he speaks—heat at your back, the faint brush of air as he exhales, the subtle shift of the room around someone as big as him.

“you really doing the dishes?” he says, voice low enough to curl behind your ear. “yuji’s not even awake to witness it.”

you roll your eyes at the plate in your hand. “i’m being nice.”

“you always were.”

your stomach dips.

you reach farther into the dishwasher, bending a little more, muttering, “it’s fine, i don’t mind—”

that’s when it happens.

you feel it—a slow nudge at your backside. a hip bump. not subtle. nowhere near being accidental. you gasp and straighten halfway before you even think about it.

“the fuck—?”

you turn, and sukuna is standing right behind you, way too close, one eyebrow piercing lifting as he drags his hips back a couple inches… only to roll them forward again—slow, exaggerated, mocking in the rudest possible way.

a fucking air-hump. right into your ass.

you choke on your own breath. “what—what are you doing?” you hiss, eyes wide, hands still gripping a fork like you’re about to duel him with it.

“correcting your form,” he says casually, gesturing at the dishwasher. “you’re bendin’ like you want attention.”

“i was not bending like that,” you whisper harshly.

he steps forward half an inch—just enough to feel the heat of him against your back.

“you kinda were,” he murmurs.

your pulse hits dangerous levels.

you turn to shove him away—at least that’s the plan—but he catches your wrist, grip firm but not tight, eyes dropping to your mouth for a split second before flicking back up like he didn’t mean to.

“relax,” he says, voice dropping into something warm, amused, and infuriatingly soft. “if i wanted to actually fuck with you, sweetheart… you’d know.”

your knees nearly give out. you pretend they don’t.

you rip your hand back. “yuji’s in the next room.”

sukuna lifts a brow. “and?”

you glare. “so don’t be an asshole.”

“can’t help it.” he leans closer, voice brushing your neck. “you bring it outta me.”

you swallow hard, turning back to the dishwasher because looking at him is dangerous.

he watches you for a moment with a silent, heavy gaze, dragging across your back as you finish stacking plates.

then you feel his breath near your ear again. “finish up,” he murmurs, something darker slipping into his tone. “i’m not done with you.”

you grip the dishwasher door until your knuckles ache. and yuji keeps snoring, completely unaware that his older brother is behind you, smirking like he knows exactly how fast your heart is pounding.

you wipe your hands on the dish towel, fingers still slightly trembling from whatever the hell that “airhump” was supposed to be. you tell yourself it was stupid, meaningless, not worth thinking about—and then your stomach twists, proving you wrong immediately.

yuji is passed out on the couch, one arm over his face, snores muffled by the pillow he stole from your house. his soft breathing fills the otherwise quiet house, the kind of nighttime silence that makes everything else feel louder. heavier.

you sling your bag over your shoulder, take a steadying breath, and tell yourself you’re fine. you survived dinner. you survived sukuna staring at you like he was trying to decide whether to devour you or laugh at you. you can survive saying a polite goodnight.

you move down the hallway, footsteps soft on the carpet. you pass the bathroom, the closet, the familiar creak in the floorboard near yuji’s door, and then—you reach sukuna’s room.

you only mean to look in. just a glance. just a “later” or a “bye.”

you don’t even get that far.

a hand wraps around your wrist and yanks—not painfully, but efficiently, like he’s practiced the motion a thousand times. you stumble forward, and before you can catch your balance, he pulls you into his room and shuts the door with a quiet, final click.

your back hits the wall. not hard. just enough that you gasp, the shock traveling all the way to your knees. when you blink up, sukuna is standing inches from you, one hand braced beside your head, the other still loosely around your wrist as if waiting to see if you’ll run.

his room smells like soap and darker elements—cedar, smoke, warm skin. it hits you all at once, settling under your ribs, making it far too hard to breathe normally.

“you were really gonna leave without saying anything to me?” he asks, voice almost amused.

“i—i didn’t wanna wake yuji,” you manage, even though you’re suddenly very aware of the fact that you can’t look him in the eyes without feeling too much.

“that so?” he murmurs, leaning in just slightly. “’cause you walked past my door real fast. almost like you were trying to escape.”

you try to step to the side, but he shifts with you, blocking the one direction you might’ve slipped away. his body doesn’t press into you, but it hangs close enough that you feel the heat of him, the quiet intensity that wasn’t there when he was younger. everything about him feels deliberate now. intentional.

“i wasn’t escaping,” you say softly. “i was leaving.”

“mm.” he tilts his head just a little, eyes dragging over your face. “and here i thought you’d at least say bye before running.”

“i wasn’t runni—”

“you were.” the faintest smile tugs at the corner of his mouth before he adds, “you still do that.”

you swallow hard. “do what?”

sukuna’s gaze slides from your eyes to your lips, lingering there for a heartbeat too long. “get shy.”

the breath you take isn’t steady. not even close. he notices—of course he notices—and his fingers release your wrist only to settle at your waist instead, warm and sending a rush of awareness straight through your core.

“i’m not shy,” you whisper, even though your whole body betrays you.

his smile grows—not cocky, but like he just solved some puzzle that only he was working on. “yeah,” he says, voice dropping, lips brushing the edge of your cheekbone as he speaks, “you are.”

his hand slides up your hip, light but purposeful, guiding you just the slightest bit closer until his chest nearly touches yours. only an inch of air separates your bodies, and it’s unbearable.

“you didn’t look at me like that when i left,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your jaw.

“like what?” it comes out barely audible.

“like you want me to kiss you.”

your stomach drops. your face heats. your throat tightens with something impossible to name. you almost deny it—you should deny it—but the words won’t come.

and something in your silence tells him everything.

sukuna’s thumb traces the line of your jaw, slow enough to make your breath catch. “say it,” he whispers.

you shake your head. your heart is pounding too fast to speak.

“didn’t think so,” he says, eyes half-lidded. “good thing i don’t need you to.”

before you can react, he closes the distance—letting you feel every second of it. his mouth brushes yours once, soft, testing. your breath rises sharply. he waits, like he’s giving you a chance to pull away.

you don’t.

your fingers curl into the front of his hoodie, pulling him closer without thinking, and that’s all it takes. sukuna kisses you fully then—deep, warm, devastatingly slow. the kind of kiss that feels like it’s been many years overdue. the kind that steals your breath so quietly you don’t notice until you’re gasping into him.

he hums against your mouth, one hand sliding to the back of your neck, tipping your head the way he wants, his lips moving against yours with ease that makes your knees weak.

when he finally breaks the kiss, he stays close, forehead brushing yours, breaths mingling. “there you go,” he murmurs, voice roughened by restraint. “finally got you to stop pretending.”

your eyes flutter open.

his are already on you, hungry for the next bite.

“you should’ve said goodbye earlier,” he adds softly. “i wouldn’t have let you leave.”

the first kiss is nothing compared to the second.

the moment he hears your breath hitch right against his mouth—sukuna cups the side of your neck, fingers sliding under your jaw, and pulls you back into him. no hesitation this time. no testing. he kisses you like he’s been denying himself the thought of it for years and finally gave in.

your back presses harder into the wall as his mouth moves against yours—slow at first, savoring, learning every tiny sound you make. his lips part just enough to taste you, and when your tongue brushes his, something low and electric shoots through both of you.

he makes a quiet sound in the back of his throat. you feel it more than hear it.

his free hand slides to your waist, then your hip, then down to the curve of your thigh, gripping just enough to pull you up into his kiss. your hands rise on instinct, fists curling in the fabric of his hoodie, anchoring yourself to him like you’re afraid you’ll fall.

you don’t even realize you’re trembling until he notices.

“easy,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice low, impossibly gentle for someone who looks like him. “breathe.”

you try. you fail.

and he clearly likes it.

he catches your wrists when you try to pull him closer, fingers wrapping around both, guiding your hands up over your head and pressing them into the wall above you. the movement is slow, controlled, the kind you could fight if you wanted to… but you don’t.

you let him pin you there, wrists held in one of his hands, bodies flush, heat rolling between you in waves.

“that’s better,” he whispers, lips brushing your cheekbone as he drags a kiss down to your jaw. “keep ’em there.”

your breath stutters again, a soft, pathetic little exhale you can’t swallow down fast enough. he hears it. he smiles against your skin.

“knew you’d be like this,” he whispers. “knew it.”

he kisses your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your mouth—then dips lower, to the side of your neck. his lips are warm at first, barely pressure, barely there… and then he sucks.

your knees threaten to buckle. he feels it, and pushes his thigh between yours—not hard, just enough to keep you standing, enough to drag a shaky breath out of you.

“still shy?” he asks against your throat.

you shake your head, even though you definitely are.

he laughs quietly, the sound rumbling into your skin, before kissing lower—along the line of your neck, down your shoulder, back up again like he’s mapping you with his mouth.

your hands flex uselessly against the wall, wrists pinned in his grip. you can’t touch him. can’t pull him closer. can’t do anything except feel him.

and he takes full advantage.

he kisses up the column of your neck, slow and unhurried, until he reaches your ear.

his breath is warm when he speaks. “come here.”

he lets go of your wrists only so he can slip his hands around your waist and lift you—not fully off the ground, just enough that your balance shatters. he turns you easily, guiding you away from the wall and toward the bed behind him.

your back hits the mattress before you fully process the movement. sukuna stands over you for a moment, chest rising and falling, eyes dark, pupils blown.

you’ve never seen him look at anything the way he’s looking at you now. he leans down, bracing one knee on the bed, caging you in with his body.

“been thinkin’ about this all night,” he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair off your cheek before kissing you again—deeper this time, slower. “the way you looked at me… the way you kept pretending you weren’t.”

your fingers finally find his hoodie, grabbing it, pulling him down until he’s almost on top of you.

his hand slides up your thigh, over your hip, across your stomach, leaving heat everywhere he touches.

your breath is shaky, your heart out of control.

“just say it,” he whispers against your mouth. “say you want me.”

you don’t say it, but you kiss him like you do. and he takes that as an answer.

his hoodie comes off first.

you don’t even realize you’re tugging at it until he shifts, helping you peel it up over his head, revealing a solid, cut chest inked in black—tattoos wrapping his torso like armor, crawling up his sides and disappearing into the shadows of his collarbone.

he looks unreal in the low light, all sharp lines and sculpted heat, muscle flexing as he braces his hands on either side of you.

your eyes trail down without permission. the slope of his chest, the flex in his abs when he exhales, the deep cut of his hips narrowing into the waistband of his sweats. his lip glints when he smiles—barely there, cocky, knowing.

“that look better than you imagined?”

your breath catches. “shut up.”

his smile widens. “you didn’t say no.”

he leans down again—kisses you slow. your hands map over his chest now, feeling the warmth of him, the weight, the way he moves under your palms. he groans low when your nails scrape lightly across his abs.

“you tryna kill me, sweetheart?”

you grin against his mouth. “maybe.”

he chuckles. he kisses you again, this time harder, his tongue sliding against yours until you’re gasping. then his mouth moves down—neck, collarbone, sternum—lips dragging over skin like he’s starving for every inch.

his hands find the hem of your shirt. “this comes off,” he says, already tugging it up.

you arch slightly to help him. the shirt lands somewhere behind you. his eyes rake over your chest, and you swear he breathes deeper just looking at you.

“fuck,” he murmurs, mouth already lowering. “i missed a lot.”

he wraps his lips around the swell of your breast, tongue flicking once before he sucks. you jolt, hips twitching, a gasp spilling out of you before you can stop it. his teeth graze, soft but suggestive, before he switches sides—mouth worshiping, hands roaming your waist and hips like he’s trying to memorize you by touch alone.

“kuna—” your voice cracks. “s-stop teasing.”

he laughs against your skin. “thought you were shy.”

you shove at his shoulder. “not that shy.”

his eyes flash. “good.”

his hand slips down—under your waistband, fingers pressing between your thighs through your underwear. his touch is warm, rough, perfect.

you jolt. “oh my—”

“that’s more like it,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours again as he starts to rub slow circles over the damp fabric. “been wondering how you’d sound.”

your fingers dig into his arm, your hips lifting instinctively, chasing the rhythm of his hand. he watches you—fascinated, like he’s trying to sear the image into memory.

he drags the fabric aside and sinks a finger in. your mouth drops open, a soft, choked sound escaping. he groans low in his chest, eyes darkening.

“fuck, you’re soaked.”

you can’t answer. can’t think. can barely breathe.

he pumps his finger slow, then adds another—stretching you just enough to burn, just enough to make you whimper and clutch the sheets.

“that’s it,” he murmurs. “take it. knew you could.”

your hips stutter. he curls his fingers, and your whole body lights up.

“kuna—please—”

“what do you want, baby?” his mouth is at your ear again, tongue flicking the shell before he nips at it. “want me to keep playing with you? want more?”

you nod frantically. “yes—yes, more, i want—”

“say it.”

you whine, breathless. “i want you.”

he pulls his fingers out and licks them clean, eyes locked on yours. “good girl.”

he shifts lower like he’s been waiting all night to get between your thighs.

your breath catches when he drags your pants down alongside your underwear, slow enough to make you feel every inch of the fabric leaving your skin. he tosses them somewhere behind him without looking—eyes locked, laser-focused, hungry in a way that makes your whole body throb.

he spreads your knees with two fingers hooked behind them, guiding you open until you feel exposed in a way that isn’t embarrassing—just intimate. like he’s letting you know he wants all of you, every inch, every tremble, every breath.

“look at you,” he whispers, voice dark with awe that he’d never say out loud. “fuck.”

his thumb drags up your inner thigh, slow, reverent, as if he’s got all the time in the world and he’s choosing to spend every second right here.

you feel the heat of his breath first—right where you want him—before you feel his mouth.

he kisses the inside of your thigh, once, twice, lips warm, breath shaky like he’s the one barely holding it together. his fingers press into your skin like he’s steadying himself.

“been thinking about this,” he murmurs, kissing closer, “since dinner.”

your toes curl. “k-kuna…”

“shh.” he smiles against your skin. “i’m getting there.”

he moves in slowly, purposefully, hands sliding under your thighs to pull you closer to the edge of the bed. the motion is smooth, easy—he’s strong enough that he barely has to try. your breath skips.

his thumbs spread you open. his eyes drop.

he groans. audibly. “fuck… you’re perfect.”

and then he lowers his head.

his tongue slides through your folds in a slow, deliberate lick that makes your whole body jolt off the bed. your hand flies to his hair without permission, fingers threading through the soft strands as you gasp.

he groans again, deeper this time, like the taste of you just punched the air out of his lungs.

“shit, sweetheart,” he mumbles against you, voice muffled. “no wonder you were actin’ shy.”

he licks again—long, slow, savoring every inch—and you swear your vision fades at the edges.

you’re shaking. your thighs tense around his head instinctively, but he just smirks against you and presses them wider.

“keep ‘em open,” he murmurs, tongue dipping lower. “lemme eat.”

and then—then he really gets into it.

his mouth latches onto your clit, sucking gently, tongue flicking in a rhythm that feels too good too fast—your back arches, hands flying to the sheets.

“kuna—fuck—”

he moans like your voice is feeding him. the vibration makes your hips jerk.

he slides two fingers back inside you at the same time his tongue circles your clit—slow, curling right against that spot that makes your stomach twist.

your gasp turns into a broken whine.

“yeah,” he grunts softly, pumping his fingers deeper, “right there, huh? that’s where you start shaking?”

you whimper. that’s all it takes. he chuckles into you—a hot, smug, god of a sound—and curls his fingers harder.

your thighs tremble. “i’m—i’m gonna—”

“good,” he growls, dragging his tongue up before sucking your clit into his mouth again. “give it to me.”

your hand clamps around his hair. your whole body goes tight, and then you break.

your orgasm crashes through you so violently you cry out, thighs shaking uncontrollably around his head. sukuna doesn’t pull away. he holds you there, mouth working you through every wave, swallowing every sound you make.

“that’s it,” he whispers when you finally slump back, breathless, shaky. “good fuckin’ girl.”

you’re panting, still trembling as he kisses the inside of your thigh again, slow and soft now, letting you come down.

but he doesn’t move away. he crawls up your body, mouth warm, breath hot, chest brushing yours as he hovers above you.

he grabs your jaw gently, thumb rubbing your lower lip as he leans in, lips ghosting yours but not kissing yet.

“think you’re done?” he murmurs.

you stare at him, flushed, breath shallow. “i—i don’t know—”

his mouth curls into a slow grin. “you’re nowhere fuckin’ close.”

he kisses you finally—letting you taste yourself on his tongue, letting you feel exactly what he plans to do to you next. his hand wraps around your thigh, dragging it up around his hip.

you feel him—hard and heavy against you through his sweats. your skin burns with it. he doesn’t even have to move and you’re already clenching around nothing.

“‘m not stopping,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice low enough to vibrate in your chest. “til you beg.”

he catches your stare, eyes narrowing slightly like he knows exactly what you’re thinking. then he shifts back onto his heels and leans against the wall beside the bed, thighs spread wide, hand dragging down the front of his sweats.

your breath catches. he palms himself slow, watching you.

“c’mere,” he says, nodding down. “if you’re gonna be a brat about it, least you can do is put that mouth to use.”

your stomach flips.

you slide down to the floor, onto your knees between his legs, palms resting on his thighs. he watches you with heavy-lidded eyes, pupils blown wide, jaw tense like he’s holding himself back from saying something filthy.

you hook your fingers in the waistband of his sweats and pull them down just enough to free him.

your mouth parts.

he’s thick. flushed and heavy at the tip, veins trailing up the length, a glisten of precum already beading at the head. He wraps a hand around the base and gives it one lazy stroke before tapping it against your lips.

“open up.”

you do. immediately.

you wrap your lips around the tip and suck—slow, dragging your tongue over the underside. his groan is immediate,.

“fuck, that’s it,” he grits. “take it slow—lemme feel that tongue.”

you do.

you move down, inch by inch, working him deeper. spit pools at the corner of your mouth, his cock stretching your lips, pressing hot against your tongue. your hand wraps around what you can’t fit, stroking in time with your mouth.

his hand slides into your hair, not forcing—just holding, thumb brushing your cheekbone every time you take him a little deeper.

“you’re so fuckin’ pretty like this,” he mutters, voice ragged. “mouth full of cock, eyes all glassy—shit.”

you moan around him, and he bucks, hips twitching.

“you like that, huh?” he pants. “like suckin’ me while your pussy’s still throbbing from bein’ teased?”

you nod, tongue flicking over the tip when you come up for air. your lips are swollen, your chin wet, your breath shallow.

he grunts, tightening his fist in your hair. “shit—gonna cum if you keep that up—” and then he pulls you off, panting.

you blink, confused, lips parted.

“no,” he rasps. “not yet.”

he drags you up by your arms, effortlessly. his mouth already finding yours again as he pushes you back onto the bed. his cock, still slick with your spit, presses against your inner thigh.

“wanna cum inside you,” he murmurs between kisses, “wanna watch your face when i do.”

your breath stutters.

he parts your thighs with both hands, wide and greedy, and settles between them, cock dragging over your entrance—just once, just enough to make you gasp.

then he pushes in. stretching you open inch by inch until he bottoms out, forehead pressed to yours, breath ragged in your ear.

your back arches off the bed. your nails dig into his biceps. he’s so deep.

“fuck,” he groans. “this pussy—always meant to be mine.”

you gasp, hands scrambling to hold him closer.

his hand catches your jaw, tilting your head just slightly so he can see every shift in your expression.

“eyes on me,” he whispers. “wanna see you fall apart.”

and then he starts to move. his hips roll into yours with control that makes your toes curl—his cock dragging against every spot inside you, his mouth brushing yours every time he thrusts in.

“look at you,” he pants, kissing your cheek, your jaw, your mouth. “already fucked out and i haven’t even gotten started.”

you whimper, thighs shaking around his hips. “kuna—”

he hushes you with a kiss, and keeps fucking you through it, one hand curling around your waist, the other tangling in your hair.

“wanna see you cum like this,” he breathes. “right here, lookin’ at me. fallin’ apart on my cock.”

you’re already close. he knows.

his hips drag back just enough to make you whimper, then roll forward again, deep and heavy, grinding the base of his cock against your clit each time.

“you feel that?” he murmurs against your mouth. “feel how deep i am?”

you can’t answer. your eyes flutter. your thighs twitch. your breath keeps catching somewhere between your ribs and your throat.

he dips his head lower—kisses along your jaw, down your neck, tongue dragging lazily over your pulse.

“don’t go quiet now,” he growls. “wasn’t so shy with my cock in your mouth.”

your cheeks flush hotter. your hips buck up instinctively, chasing friction. he groans at the way you clench around him, hips stuttering.

“goddamn,” he mutters, pulling back to look at you. “you’re gonna cum just from this, huh? from me fuckin’ you slow and talkin’ to you?”

you nod, frantic, desperate, gasping when he changes the angle just slightly—grinding deeper, bottoming out again, your walls fluttering around him.

his hand slides down your side, firm and possessive. he grabs your thigh and pushes it up, folding you open even more, cock slipping in deeper than before.

your moan breaks right against his mouth.

“there,” he says—almost to himself. “that’s it. that’s where you like it.”

your hands clutch at his back, fingers sliding over warm skin, over shifting muscle, nails digging in when he thrusts just right again.

you feel it building. it coils low and hot, right behind your navel, pulsing with every drag of his cock, every filthy sound he makes in your ear.

he sees it too. his eyes lock on yours, dark and full of something you’ve never seen from him before—raw.

“close?” he asks, breathless.

you nod. “kuna—please—don’t stop—”

his forehead presses to yours, and he fucks you harder—still deep, but less controlled now, pace picking up.

“you gonna cum for me, baby?” he pants. “cum on my cock like a good girl?”

you nod again—choked, messy, right on the edge.

“look at me,” he growls. “when you cum, look at me.”

you do. and when he slams in one last time, angle perfect, pressure perfect—your whole body locks up.

the orgasm hits hard. your mouth falls open, breath shattering, eyes wide and glassy as you squeeze around him, wet and pulsing and uncontrollable.

“fuck—fuck,” he groans, losing rhythm. “that’s it—fuckin’ perfect—look at you—”

you cry out again, grabbing at him, trying to breathe, trying to stay conscious. he doesn’t stop moving—not until he’s right there with you.

“gonna cum inside you,” he mutters against your mouth. “want you full, dripping—”

you whimper, too far gone to answer. he thrusts once, twice—then buries himself deep and groans, low and animal, as he spills inside you.

he stays there, deep and still—chest heaving, arms shaking with the effort to keep himself from collapsing on top of you. your hands trail up his back, shaky and slow, fingertips ghosting over the ink there.

you’re both silent for a moment. just breathing. just existing. and then— “you really weren’t gonna say hi to me?” he whispers, nose brushing yours.

you blink up at him, lips swollen, voice nearly gone. “you didn’t say hi either.”

his mouth twitches. he kisses you again—softer now, longer. like he wants to keep tasting what he missed.

then he pulls out slowly, careful—and groans at the mess you’ve both made. his cum spills out of you, sticky and warm against your thighs.

he watches it. a little too long.

you shift beneath him, flushed and spent, and mumble, “you’re being weird.”

he doesn’t even look up. “you’re leaking. my work here is done.”

you slap his chest. weakly. “stop staring.”

“stop leaking.”

“kuna.”

he finally lifts his head, grinning—messy hair, flushed cheeks, smug as all hell. “don’t look at me like it’s my fault you can’t hold it in.”

you gape at him, mouth falling open. “i just got rearranged like damn ikea furniture—maybe give me five minutes?”

he laughs, head dropping to your shoulder. “you’re so dramatic,” he murmurs into your neck. “you loved it.”

you try to smack him again, but your arm flops back down instead. “shut up. i’m sore.”

“you’re gonna be more sore tomorrow.” he sounds pleased about it.

you groan, tossing your head back into the pillow. “you’re the worst.”

he hums. “mm. you came so hard you forgot your name. i think i’m the best.”

you glance down at him, raising a brow. “i did not forget my name.”

“you whimpered,” he says, kissing your collarbone. “like five times.”

“not the same thing.”

he snorts. “sounded like you were glitching.”

“i hate you.”

“you sucked my soul out through my dick twenty minutes ago.”

“okay first of all—”

“it was an honor,” he says, hand rubbing slow circles into your hip. “salute.”

you burst into laughter, and so does he.

he collapses beside you, both of you a mess—sweaty, flushed, glowing in the aftershocks and still tangled in the sheets. the room smells like sex and sweat.

his hand finds yours between the blankets.

you go quiet for a moment. breathing. existing. then—

“…so do we tell yuji or just make it weird forever?”

he groans and throws a pillow over his face. “my god, just kill me now.”

“Regal,” Bohyung murmured, holding the door open like the perfect gentleman he was. “Very Grace Kelly meets city vermin.”

You flipped him off with manicured precision. Se-hoo followed behind, barefoot and holding her heels in one hand, her updo slightly unraveling. Now her hair was blonde. “This is how the Roman Empire ended, you know. Arugula soufflé at midnight, then fries at dawn.”

“Good,” you muttered. “Let it burn.”

Inside, the place was blissfully empty except for one kid asleep at a table and a cashier who blinked twice before realizing three severely overdressed adults had entered his domain.

“Table for three, darling,” Bohyung said, with a wink. “And a round of hash browns, keep ‘em coming.”

Of course, you didn’t need a host to take you to your table. Your friend was just kidding. So when you finish ordering, the three of you took a seat next to the window to sit comfortably and wait for the food. You wanted to take out your shoes and take a pill to sleep until next week. The night had been exhausting, too many uncomfortable situations to handle, even for you. Luckily, the food didn’t took too much to be done. And Bohyung went to get it for all of you.

You didn’t speak until your Diet Coke arrived. “If my mother mentions my posture one more time I’m legally changing my name and joining a cult.”

“She does have a thing for shoulders,” Bohyung nodded. “It’s almost… sexual.”

Se-hoo made a face, poking at her McMuffin. “Let’s not unpack that. Ever.”

The three of you sat in the corner booth, sleeves rolled up, zippers slightly undone, glittering jewelry catching the faint buzz of fluorescent light. Around you, the world was quiet. Street cleaners, the occasional bus. Somewhere a cab honked, but it felt far away. You three were in that strange, suspended hour where time didn’t really exist.

“So,” your blonde friend said, unwrapping a cheeseburger with disturbing elegance. “Tonight was… what? A six out of ten?”

“Generous,” you said. “I’d say a four. The wine was warm. The speeches were endless. And did you see my cousin talking to that crypto guy like she was pitching a Netflix deal?”

Bohyung snorted. “I was more concerned with your aunt whispering to everyone that you’re ‘still young, still beautiful, there’s still time.’ Like a fertility countdown.”

“She’s obsessed with wombs,” Se-hoo deadpanned. “I think she thinks if you don’t use it, it shrivels.”

“Let it shrivel,” you said, raising your cup. “I’ll donate it to science and go on a yacht.”

You clinked your drinks together, laughing.

Then Bohyung leaned forward. “Hey, are you still going to see Rosa’s next week?”

Your smile softened, just slightly. “Yeah. Wednesday, probably. I couldn’t see her last week and I already feel like I want to cry about it.”

“She’s been okay?”

“As okay as she can be. She forgets sometimes. Some days she thinks I’m still twelve.”

Se-hoo reached across the table and touched your hand briefly. “Want company?”

You shook your head. “No. It’s fine. She’d probably try to feed you both soup and yell at your bad Italian.”

“She always liked Jungwoo,” Bohyung said casually, sipping his coffee.

You looked away, but the silence was warm, not heavy. “Yeah,” you said softly. “He always went with me.”

They didn’t push. Just let the moment pass, like you all always did. It wasn’t that Jungwoo was a delicate subject. After all, you both ended the relationship in good terms, but it was always a little spine when talking about ex’s. Specially one who was planned to be your forever. But now it was a subject that was already finished. You both had moved on.

Suddenly you phone buzzed on the table. You picked it up and saw the name. A little confused on why someone would text you that early if your office opened at eight.

Jungkook: Hey, are you busy tonight?

You raised an eyebrow. “Subtle.”

Bohyung leaned over. “Is that your tattooed dilf?”

You didn’t answer. Just typed:

Y/n: I’m out. Free now if you’re down

Jungkook: Come over then

You grinned.

“Oh my God,” he said. “You’re going.”

“You never do the post-event hookup,” Se-hoo added, delighted. “You’re always in full-body Spanx and Clonax mode.”

“Well,” you said, standing, smoothing your dress like you were about to strut a runway, “I’m not staying to listen to you both psychoanalyze my uterus.”

Bohyung cackled. “Tell him to hide the Legos.”

“Or the kid,” Se-hoo added.

“She’s with her mother, probably asleep,” you said, grabbing your purse. “Which is the exact state I like children in. Silent. Horizontal. Preferably unconscious.”

They laughed and booed you, Bohyung threw a fry at your back as you walked to the door. “Be safe!” he called.

“Don’t get emotionally attached!”

You flipped them both off behind your back and waved for a cab.

Outside, the city was just starting to stir, that strange early hush before the chaos. And for a second— a short, strange second— you thought about the fact that you used to go home with Jungwoo after these things. That you’d take off your fancy clothes and sit on the kitchen floor with wine and leftover cake, talking about the day or politics or people you hated… Now you were going somewhere else. To someone else… But that someone else wasn’t him, and that someone else wasn’t serious.

You smirked at the thought. No strings. Just fun. You didn’t like kids. You didn’t do emotional complications when you weren’t looking for a relationship. You liked clean exits and smart men and good sex. And Jungkook? He we was exactly that. And he was just a chapter…

It didn’t take you too long to arrive at his house. Probably 20 minutes ride before you were ringing his doorbell and a second before he opened it for you. He was wearing some sweatpants and a compress shirt that embraced him in all the right places. You smiled slightly and he looked at you from your head to your toes, an expression you knew very well from men.

“Wow,” Jungkook let out a breath.

“I know. Don’t get too close, though. I smell like Mcdonald’s.”

“You dress like this to go to McDo?” he smirked. “You look amazing… Should I always make you come over at five in the morning?.”

You snorted before walking in, pushing your body to his and closing the door with your heel. “Why don’t you make me come first?.”

He smirked. “I can do that.”

“Show me then.”

Jungkook grabbed you by the head and kissed you hard. His lips were moving slow, but the kiss felt desperate. Two people looking to kill some stress out of their system. And one thing you really like about him was how he always seemed to want you in such a desperate way, even if he was taking control of the situation.

His hands slowly moved down to your waist, pressing you against his body. Your hands slid down to his hair, your fingers sinking into his hair so you could pull him closer to you, if it was even possible. Jungkook moved forward until he hit you against the door. A small gasp escaped your lips as your back hit the cold wood. His lips moved to your chin and slowly moved down to your neck, gently biting your skin.

You let out a sigh as Jungkook’s hands found the straps of your dress, his fingers delicately trailing down them off your shoulders. His lips met yours again, kissing you slowly before parting slightly so he could look you in the eyes.

“You look breathtaking with that dress,” he kissed you on the mouth one more time. “But even better without it.”

Jungkook’s fingers trailed the dress down until it dropped to your feet, taking your Spanx with it. You let a breathy laugh before kissing him again.

You could feel how hot you were for him. The way his hands were running over your body, the way he touched you. He made you feel great, he made you lose your mind a little bit. He made you not think about anything else and that was something you loved. And you liked the way he touched you, the way he always showed you how much he wanted to pleasure you. There was always something in his touch, like he had been waiting for you. Like he liked having you this way, so vulnerable in his hands.

Jungkook took his right hand down your body, the tip of his fingers tracing your skin from your shoulder to your hip before going down to your right tight, slowly grabbing the back so he could put it around his waist. You hold it there. He pressed his hips to yours, making you feel his bulge in your core. You press your lips trying not to make a sound when he start humping you slowly. You could feel his hard over his sweatpants, your panties getting wet for the way he was touching you there.

Your left hand travelled from his hair to his sweatpants, trying to take them off. He took your hand immediately. Smiling slightly over your lips.

“Relax, pretty. I want you to soaked my fingers first.”

Jungkook gave you a peck before leaving your hand in his cheek. He got apart a little, enough to move his hands to your core. His fingers moved down to your center, his thumb starting to rub your clit on top of your underwear. When his fingers started getting wet and your panties soaked, he pull away his fingers, leaving a wet spot in your underwear. Jungkook took two fingers to his mouth, licking them slowly before looking at you.

“Sweet. I wanna taste you.”

“Why don’t you fuck me first.”

You grabbed his hair to kiss him again. His mouth met yours in a deep and hard kiss. It was slow and full of purpose, like he wanted to map every inch of you with the taste of it. His hand slid down your back, anchoring you to him, and you melted, reluctantly, hungrily, against him. You moaned on his mouth when he presses you harder against him, his hard and clothed cock pressing against your cunt.

Your hands move to Jungkook's hair to grip down on the soft locks and when you tug a little harder than you meant to, you're meet with a low moan coming from him. When his slick muscle of his tongue slips into with mouth to find yours a whine slips from your throat, he was tasting you. Every part of it. Your eyes flutter for a second, you can almost feel the throb of his cock as the only barrier on was your panties and his thin sweatpants. It was almost too much. You were soaking his pants.

Jungkook's hand slide down, large palm gripping onto your bare thigh to keep it around his waist, he lowered a little to hit you perfectly. He took an experimental thrust of his hips, both of you shuddering from the feeling of it.

“But this isn’t enough, huh. You want a real fuck?” Jungkook voice was low. His breath on your mouth. You let out a rush nod, lips seeking his out when he grinds down a little harder. “Of course you do. Always greedy— But you will take what I give you. You’ll take anything I give yo— Shit, uh, right, baby?.”

You can feel your own slick against your core and inner thighs as Jungkook keeps his pace, hard and slow. His fingers gripping your tight hard, almost leaving a mark. His other hand grabbed your jaw, making you stay in the place he wanted. You throw your head back when he leans down, mouthing at your collar bone, his wet, wet tongue leaving trails when he licks up your skin, biting a little bit. Your breath hitches when he bites down a little hard. You let out a pitiful moan when his hips pick up a rougher movement, thrusting hard into yours. His chest pressed against yours, his hands grabbing at your hips roughly and his face buried into your neck.

Jungkook thrusts his hips upwards, the new angle hitting your clit perfectly. You can feel the outline of his cock perfectly even through the pants… And you have enough. You want him to fill you up, you want him to fuck you hard.

So you push him, a little hard so he can look at you. “Jungkook. Please, fuck me already.”

He stop, almost freezing. And you don’t know exactly the reason why until his eyes look at you and a slow smirk starts growing on his face.

“You want me to fuck you?” he whispers before making you jump on him. Your legs wrapped around his thin waist. Jungkook looks at you, eyes dark and wild. “Say please again, baby.”

“Shut up.” You said while he walks you to his bedroom, his smirk not leaving his face.

“Nah, uh. Say it again.” He pushes you down on the bed and sits upon his knees, taking your panties with roughness. You look at him, holding you up with your elbows. Jungkook. He pushes his pants down with one hand, the other one lowering himself to kiss your lips with a hard peck. “Beg a little for me.” he quickly grabs a condom of his nightstand before going back to the same position. “Say ‘please’, baby.”

“Jungkook—”

“You want me or no?” before you could blink up at him, you feel the slide of his hot thick cock against your folds. Your breath hitches and his hands find your tights, gripping them hard to pull you closer to him.

Jungkook hums in appreciation and drags his cock against your cunt, letting your slick coat his thick length. You moaned in his mouth when he drags his tip a little slower over your clit, the hood pulling back and the swollen little button gains more fraction.

“I swear—”

“Beg,” his voice is rough, and he cocks his head as he gives a hard drag of his cock against your clit.

“Okay— shit,” you sigh, too hot to even be bothered to say the words again. “Please, fuck me.”

“Again. Louder.”

“Please, fuck me.”

“You can do better.” He pouts, mocking.

“Fuck. Please, Jungkook!.”

“That’s better.” His wide eyes watch your face as he grips down on your hips and thrusts into you as hard as he can.

Your back arches, and you let a moan scape out of your lips. And he loves the way you feel around him. He falls a little into you, his chest touching yours, one hands pressing hard against the mattress and the other one grabbing your thigh with strength. Your legs wrapping around his waist to pull him closer as possible.

“Ugh, Shit— Jungkook.”

“Scream louder for me, baby," he demands to you and drags his cock out of you, just until the tip is the only thing in, before slamming back into you. A choked moan escapes your lips as he repeats the action, harder. “Shit, you feel so good. So good— Fuck, do you like it?. Am I making you feel good?…”

“Stop talking” you groaned, “fuck me harder.”

You were going to be the dead of him.

Jungkook does as you wish. He fuck you, he slams his hips harder into you. The sound of skin slapping against yours is pure filth. Your bodies pressed together so tight and his face buried into your neck, biting down to hear you again. He looks at where your bodies met and a filthy thought of filling you with his cum swims on his mind. He groans, imagining how you would feel raw.

He snaps his hips harder against yours. Again, again, and again.

You could feel the ache blooming low in your lower stomach, the fluttering pulse of wanting—of needing something that was coming. And Jungkook noticed. He notices the way you wrapped around him, the way your eyes roll back, the way you tighten around his dick. He tugs at your hair until you're looking up at him, he presses himself, flush against you and rolls his hips into yours, all while his hooded eyes stare down at you.

“Yeah?. Come for me, pretty.” He whispers in your mouth. “Look at me, come around me…”

Your nails scratched his back, digging into the toned muscle and you know there's going to be red marks all over later. Jungkook lets out a groan when your walls squeezed his length so tightly that his eyes roll to the back of his head for a moment.

You come. And it doesn’t take too long for him to do so too. Jungkook rolls to the side until his back hits the bed, taking you with him so you can collapse on top.

Sweat dripping down his body and yours. Breathing too heavy. He’s still inside you. And it takes you two some minutes to calm down. His fingers creasing the small of your back, your head against his chest. It felt good, coming from the high. Both taking the time to recover from such an intense act. It always felt good, even the aftercare.

After some minutes you move to the other side of the bed. Sighing tiredly before looking at him.

“I think I need a shower.”

Jungkook snorts before smiling, looking at you. “Use my bathroom, I’ll use the other one.”

“Deal.”

It wasn't the first time you used Jungkook's shower. There had already been several occasions when you took a bath before going home, especially when you two got together with time. Specially those week. However, this time you didn’t have a clothes change or anything and you realized about it when you finish your shower, looking around with his towel around you to look for your dress again. Knowing you weren’t going to home with your dirty panties.

You opened the door to tell him about maybe borrow some of his but chuckled when you found some clothes over his bed ready for you. Your dress nowhere in sight. You were one hundred percent sure that he had put your dress and underwear to wash already. You put the clothes and tried to dry your hair with the towel as much as you could before throwing it to the dirty basket.

You stretched, a little sore. Before walking to out of the room.

The room was quiet except for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the old pipes in the walls. You padded barefoot across the hardwood floor, wearing nothing but an oversized black T-shirt and a pair of thin cotton underwear— his boxers— that had started to slip as you reached for the glass. You didn’t care. Not here. Not with him.

You filled two glasses from the filtered pitcher and glanced at the dim light of the kitchen clock. It was almost 7 a.m. The city outside was still rubbing its eyes. Jungkook walked into the kitchen a moment later, hair a wet mess, T-shirt clinging to his chest, grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips. A small towel in his hand. He looked like something out of a Calvin Klein ad, except warmer. More real.

“You’re already stealing my water,” he said, voice gravel-thick.

You held out one of the glasses. “You were literally just inside me. I think the water’s fair game.”

He took it, smiling. “Can’t argue with that logic.”

You two leaned against opposite counters, quiet for a moment as you sipped the water. The air between you two was lazy now, comfortable. Your bodies relaxed, your skin still faintly warm.

Jungkook ran the towel through his hair and nodded toward you. “Why the hell were you awake at five in the morning? Or did you just never go to sleep?”

“Gala,” you said, with a sigh. “My parents throw one every spring. It’s this ridiculous charity auction-slash-brand showcase thing. Everyone’s overdressed and pretending they care about public housing while drinking champagne worth more than their monthly rent.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Sounds classy.”

“Oh, it’s hideous. But the canapés were decent.”

He chuckled. “So you left a black-tie gala to eat McNuggets and then come here?”

“Technically I had a cheeseburger,” you corrected. “But yes. That’s the summary.”

Jungkook tilted his head, leaving the towel over his right shoulder. “You always do that? Fancy event followed by post-party hookup?”

“No,” you said honestly, looking down at your glass. You thought about Jungwoo for a second. “Usually I just go home, take off the Spanx, and sleep for ten hours. This was… spontaneous.”

He studied you, quiet for a beat. “I like spontaneous.”

You glanced up at him. “You seem like someone who plans his grocery trips three weeks in advance.”

“I do,” he said without shame. “I’ve got a kid. My life runs on calendars and fruit snacks. But… spontaneity has its charm.”

You two smiled at each other, then fell into another lull. The kind that didn’t feel heavy. Just… real.

“So why were you up?” you asked, breaking the silence.

Jungkook leaned his head against the cabinet behind him. “Couldn’t sleep. Too much going on in my head. Shop stuff. Sunni stuff. Life.”

You nodded, thoughtful. “Isn’t it weird how you can be dead tired and still feel like your brain’s at a rave?”

“Exactly.”

You two stood there, sipping water like two slightly feral adults who had no intention of pretending to be normal right now. You turned and hopped onto the kitchen counter. You had an average height, but the countertop made your legs dangle slightly, which annoyed you a little bit. Jungkook leaned against the opposite side, watching you.

You squinted. “Okay. Be honest. What’s the dumbest tattoo idea someone’s ever come in with?”

He laughed, hard. “Oh man. Where do I start? The guy who wanted a ‘live, laugh, lube’ tramp stamp?”

You choked on your water. “Shut up.”

“I wish I could. Or the girl who wanted an infinity symbol made of spaghetti.”

“Wait” you paused, very deep in thought. “That’s kind of brilliant.”

“I told her it was existential. She cried.”

You giggled, swinging your legs. “God, people are insane.”

“But also kind of great,” Jungkook said, still smiling. “The stories, the weird moments, they make it worth it.”

You nodded. “Yeah. I guess when people care too much about looking cool, they stop being interesting.”

He raised an eyebrow, impressed. “That’s a good one. Write that down.”

“I will,” you said, half-joking. “Put it on a tote bag and everything.”

Jungkook walked a little closer, glass still in hand, watching you with something softer in his eyes now. “You’re smart,” he said, without thinking.

You blinked. “I know.”

He smiled. “No, like, I mean, I knew you were clever. But you’re… quietly smart. You see things.”

You tilted your head, wary. A little confused what comment of yours made him said that. “Are you flirting with my intellect?”

“Guilty.”

“That’s dangerously close to intimacy.”

He grinned. “Relax. I’ll be emotionally unavailable by breakfast.”

You both laughed, and something in the room shifted. Not in a heavy way, but like a puzzle piece had just quietly slid into place. Neither of you pointed it out. But it was there. You jumped down from the counter, walked past him, and set your glass in the sink. He followed you back to the bedroom. You didn’t have sex again. You just climbed into the bed and lay there, both of you on your backs, quietly breathing in the stillness of early morning. You thought yourself you were waiting for your clothes to dry out to leave. You realized it was the first morning you were spending with him after agreeing of the casual sex arrangement. But you didn’t give that thought too much mind.

You turned your head toward him. “Do you ever think about what you’d be doing if you didn’t have a kid?”

Jungkook looked up at the ceiling. “Sure. But I never imagine it better. Just different.”

You nodded. “I like that answer.”

He turned to look at you, his hand resting just a few inches from yours. “What about you? Ever think about the version of yourself who went corporate law instead of restaurants?”

“All the time,” you whispered. “She’s probably divorced with a ski house in Aspen and a drinking problem.”

Jungkook smiled in the dark. “Sounds boring.”

“Painfully,” you agreed. A pause. Then you murmured, “You know, you’re kind of great at this.”

He glanced over. “At what?”

“Just talking.”

He huffed a laugh. “That’s not what you said earlier.”

You rolled your eyes. “That was me being horny, not a formal review.” He chuckled. And then, after a minute, you added, quieter, “I mean it, though. You’re good at making people feel safe,” you smiled tiredly. “I guess it comes in your Dad profile.”

He didn’t say anything right away. Just reached over, touched your fingers lightly. It wasn’t a grab, just a trace… and then let his hand rest between you two.

You both fell asleep like that. Nothing said. Nothing declared. But something… slightly shifted. And neither of you could unfeel it. And it was the first time you slept over after declaring it was just an arrangement of casual sex. The first time the blur of casual was happening.

———

The day was warm in a way that made you resent spring. Not hot enough to sweat, but just humid enough to turn your blouse into a sauna and your hair into a delicate halo of expensive chaos. You stood outside the restaurant’s loading dock entrance in four-inch heels, barking into your phone with your sunglasses pushed up your forehead like a crown of passive aggression.

“No, I don’t care if the mushroom guy swears he sent us shiitakes—he sent button mushrooms, Vince, and if you think I’m putting that on the primavera, you’ve lost your mind and your palate.” A pause. “No. Send them back. He can climb into his little mushroom van and cry all the way home, but I’m not serving mediocrity”

You hung up before he could whine.

Inside, the kitchen staff moved like clockwork. Organized chaos, clatter and steam, the music on low and the scent of garlic and herbs threading through the air like a symphony. You walked through like you were born in motion, offering sharp, kind greetings as you passed. You were glad the AC was always on in the place.

“Antonio, the garlic confit looks stunning, thank you.”

“Maya, did your kid win the spelling bee? You promised me updates.”

“Bomgyu, I told you to not wear those damn earrings with the uniform. You look fifteen.”

And then you stopped short in the hallway between the wine cellar and the manager office. There was a familiar vase of flowers on the table. White ranunculus, blue thistle, tiny orange roses. You blinked, a little caught off guard. You turned to your new assistant, a twitchy twenty-something named Lila who idolized you and kept a spreadsheet of everyone’s birthdays, even from the people who worked in the restaurants.

“You remembered my Nonna’s flowers,” you said, a little too surprised.

Lila beamed. “You mention one time she always said the orange ones brought good luck. I figured you had a long day coming.”

You stared at the arrangement for a moment, then smiled. “You’re good.”

“I’m underpaid.”

“That too.” You pointed at her. “I like you.”

By late afternoon, you were sliding into the passenger seat of Bohyung’s matte black convertible with a coffee in one hand and your phone in the other. Your sunglasses were sliding off so you tuck them in your purse, your blouse tucked neatly into high-waisted pants, and you looked—as always— like you belonged on the cover of some aggressively chic magazine titled Dominate. Bohyung looked like trouble in linen. Hair perfectly styled, watch glinting in the sun, an iced tea sweating in the cupholder— and another drink for you—. He handed you a pair of heart-shaped sunglasses from the dashboard.

“I’m not wearing that shit.”

“They match your attitude.”

You put them on. “Bitch.”

“Princess.”

You pulled out into traffic, the breeze light and the city loud as always.

“So,” you asked, crossing one leg over the other, “what are we looking for exactly? Minimalist loft? Sleek mid-century penthouse? Or are you finally going full cottagecore and getting a lemon tree field?”

“I’m torn between ‘man of taste’ and ‘man of trauma,’” he replied, flicking his turn signal. “But honestly? I just want a place where I don’t hear my upstairs neighbor doing Zumba at midnight.”

“Sounds personal.”

“It’s spiritual warfare. She’s seventy. I think she has tap shoes.”

You laughed, tossing you hair back. “You know you’ll end up somewhere with exposed brick and one sad fern you keep forgetting to water.”

“Excuse you, Fernie is thriving.”

“He’s dead, Bohyung.”

“A little crispy. There’s a difference.”

You cruised through the city, turning down quieter streets. The light was soft now, golden and slanting sideways across storefronts and balconies.

After a moment, your friend spoke again. “I met someone.”

Your eyebrows rose slightly. “Define ‘met.’”

“She almost hit me with her Prius.”

“Romantic.”

“She was parallel parking and I was texting. Honestly, it was kind of my fault. But she jumped out of the car in this huge scarf, like something out of a French noir, and immediately started yelling at me in a British accent.”

“I’m listening.”

“We ended up having coffee while waiting for my heart rate to stabilize. Her name’s Margot. She teaches film history. Has opinions about Truffaut and refuses to drink iced coffee after October.”

You blinked. “Is she…real?”

“I think so. She poked me to check.”

There was a quiet beat. Then you smiled. “You like her.”

“I might,” Bohyung admitted, adjusting the rearview mirror. “She’s weird in the right ways. And she called me ‘aesthetic poison’ with that weird accent which, frankly, it kinda turned me on.”

You snorted. “You’re such a freak.”

“You love me.”

“Unfortunately.”

You both pulled up in front of a narrow building with modern lines and too many plants on the balcony. Bohyung killed the engine but didn’t get out right away.

“You ever think about it?” he asked suddenly.

“About what?”

“Moving. Starting over. New apartment, new vibe, new view.”

You leaned your head back against the seat. “I don’t know. I like my place, it feels like a museum. Or like—an airport lounge that became sentient but it’s mine.”

He looked over at you. “You’ve had the same place since Jungwoo.”

“I know.” Another quiet moment. You looked out the window. “But it was always mine— or at least it’s mine now. I like my routine. I like knowing where the mugs are. Where the creaky floorboard is. I like the silence.”

“Yeah,” Bohyung said softly. “But sometimes silence isn’t peace. It’s just noise you’re used to.”

You didn’t respond right away. Just stared out at the street, then finally turned to him and smiled. “You’ve been reading poetry again, haven’t you?” you raised an eyebrow. “Your new girl got you reading again?.”

He grinned. “Shut up.”

You climbed out of the car, laughing again. You adjusted your sunglasses and looked up at the building. “Alright. Let’s judge some real estate.”

The real estate agent was fifteen minutes late. Bohyung had already knocked twice on the glass front door like a polite criminal before giving up and declaring, “We’re breaking and entering. If I go to jail, you’re posting bail and picking the mugshot.”

You leaned against the building’s sandstone façade, sipping your lukewarm iced coffee. “If you go to jail, I’m starting a GoFundMe and telling everyone it was insider trading.”

“Better than tax fraud.”

“We both know it wouldn’t be fraud. You’re too obsessive. You file before the fiscal year starts.”

“Okay, fair.”

The agent finally arrived, breathless, apologetic, wearing a blazer two sizes too big and a permanent smile that made your skin crawl. Bohyung was unfazed. He’d already pulled up the unit’s tax history and HOA fees on his phone before you two even walked in.

“I have a feeling you’ll love this space,” the agent chirped, unlocking the front door.

Your friend didn’t even glance at her. “Don’t oversell it, Stacey. Let the poor walls speak for themselves. I already know this game.”

You stifled a laugh and followed him in. The unit was on the third floor, high enough to avoid street noise, low enough that Bohyung wouldn’t “accidentally die” hauling groceries. It opened into a spacious living area with tall ceilings, exposed brick on one wall, and arched windows that poured in buttery sunlight.

“Oh,” you said, impressed despite yourself. “It’s giving… adult man who has his life together and also maybe cries to jazz sometimes.”

“Exactly what I’m going for,” he said, stepping inside like he was already king of the castle. “I want it to say, ‘I own linen napkins’ but also ‘I’ve emotionally healed.’”

“You’ll need a rug,” you said, eyeing the hardwood floors. “The acoustics in here are going to sound like an AA meeting for ghosts.”

Bohyung wandered into the open kitchen. Modern, sleek, matte black cabinetry and brass fixtures. He ran a hand across the marble countertop and whistled. “I’ve made worse decisions for less square footage,” he murmured.

You opened a cabinet. “Soft-close. You could throw a tantrum in here and still be elegant.”

He shot you a look. “We don’t all throw tantrums in kitchens, my love.”

“One time. I threw one plate. And I was twenty-three.”

“It was a Versace charger.”

“It was chipped.”

“It was Jungwoo’s favorite.”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t psychoanalyze my crockery choices.” You moved into the hallway, past a small office nook and two bedrooms. The master had a walk-in closet that you immediately stepped into and spun around, arms wide. “This is bigger than my first dorm room,” you declared.

Bohyung leaned against the doorway. “That dorm room was disgusting.”

“We had charm.”

“You had mold.”

“Whatever. You still snuck in through the fire escape every other night.”

He smirked. “Because I couldn’t stand my roommate. He played acoustic guitar at 3 a.m. and said things like ‘capitalism is a prison but also my dad owns a yacht.’”

You laughed, loud and full, the kind of laugh that cracked the glossy topcoat of your usual poise. You two sat down on the marble floor. No furniture yet, just sunlight and the soft echo of space.

“So,” Bohyung said, after a pause. “What do you think?”

“I think it suits you,” you said honestly. “It’s warm. It’s clean. It has personality. And you won’t be woken up by tap shoes.”

“I’m gonna have to fix it a lot, The floor, the walls…” He exhaled, his expression softening. “But I’m ready for something new.”

You looked at him. “You really are.”

A quiet moment passed between you two. Then he leaned in and nudged your shoulder. “You know, when we were sixteen, I always thought we’d end up living in the same apartment building. You in a penthouse, me in the garden unit, trading lovers like vinyl records.”

“Please. My lesbian phase was over the third month and you’d have stolen all my conditioner.”

“Your lesbian phase was iconic and I did steal your conditioner.”

“Never dating a lesbian fem again. Some nights I still think about her,” you smiled before touching his hair with your fingers. “ And you still smell like honey and cashmere.”

He winked. “Only for you.”

“You’re only for me.”

You two smiled before standing up and wandered back to the living room, where the agent was nervously scrolling through her tablet like a Sim whose needs weren’t being met.

Bohyung clapped his hands together. “I’ll take it.”

The agent’s face lit up. “Just like that?”

You, arms crossed, smiled slowly. “He knows what he wants. And also, he already pulled your building records and spoke to the HOA president on LinkedIn. This tour was theater.”

Bohyung grinned. “We’re dramatic like that.”

As you two stepped outside again, the sun had shifted to its late-afternoon slant, warm and golden on the pavement.

“You gonna help me move in?” he asked.

“I’ll supervise,” you said. “With champagne. And judgment.”

He laughed. “I wasn’t expecting more.” You stood on the sidewalk a moment longer, easy in the silence. Then he said, “You know… you’ve been different lately.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Define different.”

“I don’t know. Softer. Calmer. Less likely to throw cutlery.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Are you implying I’ve become… reasonable?”

He smirked. “No. Just calmer, less tense.”

“Uhm,” you shrugged. “Sex is good.”

He snorted. “Of course, the dilf.”

“Shut up and let’s go eat something. I’m starving.”

Bohyung rolled his eyes before nodding. “Come one, I’ll take you to a high-elegant, five start restaurant.”

Half an hour later you arrived at the place.

The restaurant was one of those too-cool places in Downtown. All warm lighting, exposed wood, hand-thrown ceramic plates, and wine menus written in cursive so delicate it might’ve been penned by angels. Bohyung had chosen it, of course. “It’s not even on Google Maps yet,” he’d joked, pushing the door open like he owned it. “Very exclusive, very sustainable. Everyone who eats here is either very rich, or pretending to be.” You laughed at his jokes, knowing how he liked to joked about your work like he didn’t know the places when he had been the one to help you choose where to build them and like he hadn’t eat there over a thousand times already.

You followed behind him like a cat being led by someone you secretly liked. The day had run long, your head was still full of floor plans and color palettes and HOA fees, and all you really wanted was a glass of red wine and three different kinds of carbs.

You were halfway to your table when Bohyung stopped short, turning around with a surprised smile. “Well, look who’s not doing Zumba tonight.”

You blinked, following his gaze. And there, at a table by the window, sat Jungkook and another man you hadn’t met. Jungkook looked up from the wine list, eyebrows arching in something between amusement and disbelief. He looked like he always did: relaxed, clean but a little rumpled, his tattooed arm exposed in a simple henley, a silver ring on his thumb catching the light as he raised his glass. The man across from him— his friend, presumably— had the kind of lazy charm that came with being both too attractive and too comfortable with that fact.

You were caught off guard, but not unpleasantly. You tucked your hair behind your ear, then stepped forward.

“Small world,” Jungkook said, voice low and amused.

“We were just coming in for dinner,” you said casually.

Jungkook stood and leaned forward slightly, gesturing between you and his friend. “Jimin, this is Y/n.”

Jimin’s eyebrows lifted just slightly before stretching his hand to you. A smile forming in his plump and red lips “Nice to meet you”

“Likewise.”

Your friend. stepped in. “I’m Bohyung, best friend and estate acquisitions if you’re looking for something new to buy.”

Jimin grinned. “Park Jimin, broke tattoo whisperer and unwilling babysitter.”

“And Bohyung, this is Jungkook.”

“Nice to met you” your friend pretend he hadn’t seen the guy weeks ago in that bar. Hot enough for him to recognize after all that time.

“Nice to meet you too.”

The two men shook hands, and then there was a brief moment, the kind of social micro-glitch, where everyone realized this could be awkward, or funny, or both.

Jungkook broke it. “You two want to join us?”

You blinked. “Are you sure? We don’t want to bother.”

Your friend shrugged, already sliding into the seat across from Jimin. “Well now we have to say yes or look like snobs.”

“Which we absolutely are,” your muttered under your breath, but followed him anyway.

The waiter appeared as you two settled, and Bohyun— ever the host, even at a table that wasn’t his— waved toward the wine. “We’ll take another bottle of what these two are drinking. Unless you’re drinking something horrifying like chilled red.”

Jungkook raised his glass. “White Rioja. You’ll live.”

You leaned back, studying him for a beat. “Your taste surprises me.”

“I get that a lot,” he said, smiling.

You shook your head before looking at the waiter. “We’ll take a bottle of Masseto Toscana” you said.

“Yea, ma’am.”

The two men in front of you tried not to made an obvious face of the wine you order. Not when ten minutes ago they were laughing about never ordering that wine because it was too expensive, specially when it had the same effect that all wines had. You clearly didn’t have the same mindset.

The waiter left after taking yours and Bohyung’s order, and the table found a quiet rhythm, initial discomfort smoothing into something slower, more curious. You were four very different people, like someone had taken two different movie casts and dropped them into the same restaurant scene without warning.

“So,” Bohyung said, “how do you two know each other?” he pretended not to know.

You and Jungkook exchanged a glance. It wasn’t scandalous just… charged. The wine quickly arrived, Jungkook was quick to purred you a glass.

“Bar,” you said.

Jimin snorted. You had an idea that maybe he already knew too.

Your friend raised an eyebrow. “How Victorian.”

“We had drinks,” Jungkook added casually. “Then more drinks. And then… drinks.”

Bohyung looked at you, you sipped your wine and smiled. Jimin grinned like he was thinking of something, pointing his fork at you. “So you’re the woman Jungkook’s been refusing to tell us about.”

“I wasn’t refusing,” he said. “I was… maintaining privacy.”

“You were suspiciously vague,” his friend replied.

Bohyung nodded sagely. “That’s how one know it’s real.”

You laughed. “It’s just sex and banter.”

“Which,” your friend added, “is your love language.”

“You’re not wrong,” you said.

Jungkook realized, it wasn’t just you. It was your friend too. Maybe all your inner circle. The way you all shamelessly talk about things that could be so scandalous for other people. Jungkook was glad he wasn’t one to get scandalized easily, and Jimin much less. So you all laughed, and the food arrived. Plates of heirloom tomato salad, gnocchi bolognese, spaghetti carbonara and some pizza, something foamy and unidentifiable that Jimin immediately inhaled.

Conversation turned. As you four ate, you began swapping stories, the way people do when they’re warming into each other, half-guarded and half-trying to impress. Jimin told a story about a woman who got a tattoo of her boyfriend’s Snapchat handle on her collarbone and came back two weeks later to have it covered with a butterfly. Bohyung recounted an unhinged brunch in Mykonos that ended with someone’s prosthetic leg getting thrown into the Aegean Sea. Jungkook and you both listened, amused, like you were witnessing each other in parallel universes.

“So,” Jimin said, wiping his mouth, “what do you do, Y/n? Besides terrify waitstaff with your heart-shaped glasses.”

“I run a group of restaurants,” you replied, picking at the prosciutto pizza. “Italian-focused. Mostly in Korea but now I’m extending the name to Europe, Spain first.”

“Extending?” Jungkook looked over, realizing you were talking about running a chain of restaurants. “You never told me that.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You never asked.”

Bohyung smirked. “She’s modest about it. But also not.”

“I’m brilliant,” you said calmly. “But it’s tasteless to brag about it in front of the poor.” Jimin howled. Jungkook choked on his wine. “Don’t worry,” you added with a faint smile. “You’re all in middle class. You’re safe.”

Jungkook leaned back, watching you like he was seeing something new. “You ever slow down?”

You tilted your head. “Why would I?”

There was a beat. Jimin and Bohyung had wandered into a side conversation about wine regions, but Jungkook kept watching you.

“Just curious,” he said.

“Don’t be. It’s dangerous.”

You kept eating. The sun dipped lower, casting golden streaks across the tabletops. Conversation drifted to childhood memories… Jimin growing up in a weirdly talented family, Bohyung going to boarding school in Switzerland for some months with a boy who later became a YouTube magician, Jungkook mentioning the first time he ever got detention for tattooing his best friend’s ankle with a pen lid.

“You were probably a nightmare,” you said, grinning.

“I was the good kind of nightmare,” Jungkook replied. “The one with potential.”

“Still are.”

At the end of the meal, the waiter dropped off a paper and Jungkook reached for his wallet automatically.

“I got it,” he said.

You stopped him, raising a hand. “It’s okay. Really.”

He gave you a look. “What, you picking up dinner for four now?”

But before you could reply, the waiter returned. This time not with a paper, but with a carefully packed white paper box. “Y/n,” he said politely, “your tiramisù. From Alessandro. He says you should stop coming if you’re not going to drink his new coffee mix.”

You snorted. “Thank you, Hwan. But tell him I won’t stop by anymore.” You grabbed the paper he left behind, a note. “And tell him to stop sending notes about espresso ideas. I already hate them all.”

The waiter laughed nervously, grabbing the paper. “He made me do it, ma’am.” He said something like a goodbye before leaving to attend other clients.

Jungkook blinked, looking at you still. “This… this is your restaurant? You run Mariani’s food?

You smiled, tucking the box into your purse. “I own Mariani. So yes, this is one of them.”

Jimin stared for a second, then let out a low whistle. “Well, shit. That is insane,” Jimin was grinning now. “Oh, this is so good. You got played, man.”

Bohyung lifted his glass. “To being casually dominated by powerful women.”

They toasted. The plates were cleared. The wine was finished. And you four said goodbye. And as you walked out into the warm Seoul evening a little fuller, a little looser, a little more intrigued… it was clear something had changed. Nothing dramatic. Nothing declared. But there it was again, that shift. You were no longer strangers in orbit. You were circling each other now.

The street was quiet in the way cities get just after midnight… not dead, but dreamy. Shop signs dimmed, terraces cleared, the distant hum of a scooter somewhere down the block. Jungkook shoved his hands into his jacket pockets as they walked, the night air cool against his skin. Jimin, beside him, was chewing on a toothpick he definitely hadn’t had at the restaurant, talking with the lazy rhythm of someone who’d three glasses of wine and was feeling chatty.

“That was fun,” his friend said, side-eyeing him. “Different. But fun.”

Jungkook let out a little huff of a laugh. “You’re shocked I know people with social skills and high class?”

“I’m shocked you’re sleeping with a Bond villain.”

He smirked. “She’s not a villain.”

“Kook. She got a dessert to-go from her own restaurant like a mafia Don. I think I actually heard the waiter salute her before talking to her.”

“She’s just confident.”

“She’s a one-woman boardroom,” Jimin said, turning to face him as they paused at a crosswalk. “And hot. In a scary way.”

“She is hot,” Jungkook nodded.

“And scary.”

“A little,” he admitted.

They crossed the street, the soles of their shoes tapping against the pavement. Jungkook’s apartment was fifteen minutes away. Long enough for Jimin to keep going.

“So,” the older continued, “you been seeing her since that night at the bar? I thought it was only from last month.”

Jungkook shrugged. “Off and on. Late nights, quick texts. Nothing… labeled.”

Jimin whistled. “And you like that?”

“I like her,” Jungkook said, and it came out easy. But slower, like it surprised him even a little.

His friend stopped walking. “Hold up.” He turned back. “You like like her,” Jimin repeated, squinting at him. “Since when?”

Jungkook scratched the back of his neck, suddenly a little self-conscious. “I don’t know. Since… now? Since she order without shame a bottle of $900 wine in clothes that cost the double of my rent, acting like a brat, and then proceeded to charm the entire table without trying?”

“She didn’t charm me.”

“You almost came in your pants when she threatened to have your tattoo license revoked.”

Jimin grinned. “It was sexy.” Jungkook laughed again, deeper this time. They walked a few more steps in silence. “You ever bring her home when Sunni’s there?”

Jungkook shook his head. “She doesn’t want that.”

“And you’re fine with it?”

Jungkook paused. “Yeah.”

Jimin gave him a look. “Liar.”

He sighed. “I don’t need her to meet Sunni. I’m not trying to… build something. It’s just casual.”

“Mm-hm.”

“But—”

“There it is.”

Jungkook frowned, like he finally realized something. He stopped in his tracks. “But it’s not just casual. I mean… I don’t think about casual people this much. You know what I mean?”

Jimin nodded slowly. “You’re wondering if she’d ever be cool with… your life.”

“I’m not trying to merge our schedules or introduce her to PTA moms. But… I like talking to her. I like the way her brain works. I definitely sleeping with her… And when I’m with her, I’m not thinking about anything else. That’s rare.”

“You sure she’s not just hot?”

“She’s not just anything.”

Jimin whistled again, low and slow. “Wow. So now you’re out here catching feelings.”

Jungkook chuckled, but didn’t deny it.

They passed a bakery closed for the night, shutters down and a chalkboard sign still out front: Fresh madeleines tomorrow, 8am. He barely noticed. His thoughts were somewhere else.

“She’s got this thing,” he said finally. “Like she’s been surviving on instinct and ambition for so long, she doesn’t know how to do soft. But then she says something about her life, or corrects your grammar mid-sentence, and it’s like… she feels more than she lets on.”

The older nodded. “And you like the challenge.”

“It’s not a challenge.”

“It’s totally a challenge.”

“Okay, maybe.” Jungkook smirked. “I like working for things, especially if it might become into something worthy.”

A few more steps, and his building came into view. A familiar doorway, the light in the lobby still on. But he didn’t go in yet. Jimin slowed beside him.

“So,” Park said, hands in his pockets. “Where’s this headed?”

Jungkook looked up at the sky, faint stars fighting with city haze. “I don’t know.”

“You want to know?”

He hesitated. “I’m not sure I want to ask that question yet.”

Jimin clapped him on the back. “Then don’t. Just keep walking. See where it goes.”

The younger smiled. “For a guy with two expired parking tickets and a Pikachu tattoo on his ass, you’re oddly wise.”

“I contain multitudes.”

Jungkook laughed, the kind that felt like exhale. They said goodnight, and Jungkook watched his friend head down the block. Then he stepped inside, past the quiet lobby, into the elevator, up to the soft hum of the home he’d made. In the hallway, he checked his phone. No new messages from you. No reason to expect one.

But still, he smiled. He liked not knowing. He liked wondering what might come next.

———

The nursing home was tucked into the edge of the city, just far enough to feel removed from it. All soft lawns, wide windows, and the dull hum of distant traffic. You hated the silence of it, the way the air felt padded, like every sound was being swallowed in real time. Still, you came. You always came. Your heels clicked against the polished floor as you walked through the hall, waving politely at the receptionist, who knew your name by now. Third floor. Room 312. Rosa had been moved here after the last fall, nothing dramatic, just enough to scare them both into admitting she needed more help than you alone could offer.

You slowed near the door. Took a breath. Composed your face.

Inside, the curtains were half-drawn, light spilling in across the pale blue sheets and the floral chair by the window. A small pot of pansies sat on the sill. You had brought them the week before. Rosa was sitting up in bed, her grey hair pulled into a soft bun, thick glasses perched low on her nose. She was reading, naturally. Some tattered old Italian novel that smelled like dust and secrets.

You knocked gently and let yourself in.

“Ciao, nonna,” you said softly.

Rosa looked up, and her face lit like a sunrise. “Ma che bella sorpresa, la mia ragazza!”

You smiled. “I told you I was coming.”

“You always say that. But sometimes you’re late.”

“I’m early.”

“Exactly.” You leaned in and kissed her on both cheeks, breathing in that familiar scent that felt like home. “You look thin,” Rosa said immediately, peering at you. “Have you been eating?”

“I eat…” she gave you a look. “Sometimes.”

“Sometimes is not enough. You think wine and money keep you warm in the winter?”

“They help.”

Rosa swatted at you with a tissue. “You look tired.”

“I am tired.”

“Well, sit. Come talk to me.”

You settled into the chair by the bed. You crossed your legs, brushed an invisible thread off your slacks, and folded your hands. For a moment, you just looked at each other, the old woman with her sharp eyes, and then you who grew up in her gaze.

“I missed you,” you said, and it came out a little softer than you intended.

Rosa’s expression gentled. “And I missed you. But I see your face everywhere. In the paper. On the website. On the restaurant menu.”

“I put your name to the restaurant, and you’re complaining about seeing me everywhere?” you said with a little grin.

“You should’ve put my first name, not the last.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You’re stubborn.”

You shared a smile, and for a moment, it was just the two of you, like it had been for years, in kitchens and backseats and long evenings when you had no one else to talk to but the sharp-tongued, iron-spined woman who’d raised you better than your own parents ever had.

You talked for a while, about normal things. Food. The weather. A nurse Rosa hated. A neighbor who coughed too loud.

“You should visit more,” Rosa said.

“I come every week.”

“Yes, but I’m old. I forget. You could lie and say it’s every day.”

“I could,” you nodded, “but you’d call me out.”

“Exactly.” There was a pause. Rosa adjusted the blanket over her knees and looked at you sideways “And the boy?” she asked.

You blinked. “What boy?”

“The one who bought you that ring. The one with the careful hair and the too-nice shoes.”

You exhaled. Of course. It was the tenth time she asked about him, the tenth time you were telling her it was over. The tenth time she wasn’t able to remember him, even after calling him a ‘soon’ one day.

“Oh,” you said lightly, “Jungwoo’s fine.”

“You still see him?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“It just… didn’t work.”

Rosa studied you. “He was a good boy.”

“He was.”

“Did he break your heart?”

“No.”

“Why are you lying?”

You looked down at your hands. “I’m not lying. We just weren’t… right. That’s all.”

Rosa didn’t press. She just nodded, once, like someone folding a letter and tucking it away. “You’ll find someone,” she said. “Someone who sees you. All of you. Even the parts you hide.”

“I hide nothing,” you muttered. Rosa gave you a look.“Okay, I hide a lot.”

“But you love hard, cara mia,” Rosa said gently. “Even when you pretend not to.”

You felt a sudden tightness in your chest, something like grief and comfort braided together. Someone who knew you like nobody and was forgetting that day by day. You reached over and took Rosa’s hand, just for a moment, and you two sat like that for a while, watching the light fade through the curtains. Eventually, Rosa started nodding off, her head slipping slightly to one side. You stood, quietly, smoothing the blanket, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“Ti voglio bene,” you whispered.

Outside, in the corridor, you leaned against the wall and pulled out your phone. You scrolled through your contacts, thumb hovering over a name you hadn’t tapped in months. Jungwoo Lee. You hadn’t spoken to him in weeks. Maybe more. But today… seeing Rosa, thinking about how he used to come with you, hold Rosa’s arm, smile and ask her about her old days in Italy… it stirred something. Not love. But remembrance. A gentleness you’d once felt for him. A part of you still wanted to share this day with him, even if it was just one small message.

You typed quickly:

Just saw Rosa. She asked about you. Said you were a good boy. I told her you were fine. Hope you are.

You paused. Stared at the screen. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t even emotional. It was just real. Your thumb hovered over “Send.” The… a buzz. A new message.

Jungkook: Are you free tonight? I was thinking pizza and maybe a bad movie.

You stared at it for a second. Your thumb wavered. You weren’t the type to see a movie and eat with a guy you were only fucking. You were just having casual sex not hanging out like friends. But then… you did what you didn’t expect. You backspaced the message to Jungwoo. All of it. Every word. You didn’t delete his number, you knew you never would, but you let the screen go dark and reopened the new thread.

Y/n: I’m free. But if the movie sucks, I’m leaving. With the pizza.

Jungkook: Deal. You just bring your cute ass, I’ll bring the pizza from the best restaurant in town

Y/n: Mine?

Jungkook: of course

You locked your phone. Slipped it into your bag. And walked out into the cooling evening, your heels echoing softly down the corridor. Rosa was right. Maybe you did love hard, even when you didn’t mean to.

When you drive to the road, you had already made up your mind about this arrangement again. It was becoming too neutral. You weren’t friends with benefits. You were people who knew each other at a bar and decided to keep fucking after one night stand. But now it was becoming a little blurry, like you were slowly becoming friends. And that wasn’t something you wanted from him. You had enough friends. And you didn’t fuck them, you didn’t want to. And if you wanted to keep fucking him you knew you had to make things clearer.

Maybe it was normal for Jungkook to be-friend his hookups but not for you. So, after deciding you weren’t going for a movie night that end up in sex, you made your mind in only going for sex and nothing else. You didn’t need a build up. You didn’t need something to want him or make small talk. You both knew what you wanted— and that was only sex.

By the time you reached Jungkook’s front door, your coat was already half undone and your thoughts were speeding past you. You weren’t sure what the night was. You didn’t want to know. You’d told yourself, clearly, after the text— pizza and a bad movie— that this was just another night of not dating. Not talking. Not thinking. Just fucking and going home. Clean and easy.

He opened the door before you could knock, like he’d been waiting.

“Y/n.”

“Hi,” you said, stepping past him before he could say anything else. The house smelled warm. Cedar, laundry, and the hot oil of pizza recently put out of the oven. His hoodie sleeves were pushed up to his elbows. There was a quiet hum of music playing from the kitchen. You ignored all of it.

You turned, pressed your hands to his chest, and kissed him. Hard. Jungkook leaned into it without hesitation, one hand gripping your waist, the other sliding up to the back of your neck. He kissed you like he meant it, like he always did, with heat and certainty and just enough gentleness to make your nerves ache. You pulled at his shirt and walked him backward toward his bedroom without a word.

No talking tonight. You didn’t want talking.

You two stumbled through the hallway, mouths never parting, until you hit the bed in a tangle of clothes and breathless, impatient hands. You climbed on top like you were making a point, like you were keeping control. And he let you. He always let you take control when you wanted to... But he never let you forget that he could take it back any time.

It was slow and fast, sweet and filthy. The kind of sex that lived somewhere in the middle. Not soft, not rough, just full. Like something had been building quietly and needed somewhere to go.

And after, you two lay tangled in the sheets, your skin still warm, breath still not all the way back. you stared at the ceiling. Jungkook shifted beside you, one arm thrown casually over his head.

“You ever go five minutes without trying to distract yourself?” he asked softly.

You turned your head. “Excuse me?”

“You came in like your mouth was on fire.”

You gave a lazy smile. “Would you prefer small talk?”

He turned his head too. “No. But I’d like to take you out.”

Your smile faded, just a little. But it was noticeable the way you froze for a second, he caught you out of guard for the first time and it make Jungkook feel a little amused that he made it.

“What?”

He shrugged, still catching his breath. “A date. Real one. Dinner. Somewhere that doesn’t involve you walking in like you’re trying to set me on fire.”

You sat up slightly, brushing your hair back. “Jungkook…”

“I’m not proposing,” he said calmly. “I just want to sit across from you in a place with chairs. Where we talk more. Where I don’t have to guess what version of you I’m gonna get just in bed.”

You blinked. “Why?”

“Because I like you.”

You looked at him like that word didn’t compute. “Jungkook.”

“What?” he said, propping himself on one elbow. “We’ve been doing this for a while now. You like me. I know you do. I like you, I know that.”

“I’m not… looking for something.”

“I didn’t ask you to be.”

“Then why—”

“Because I’m not seventeen,” he said simply. “Because I like seeing your face when you’re not trying to be clever. Because I think if we slowed down five percent, you’d actually enjoy us both more.” You let out a breath and looked away. The silence stretched. “Look,” he said, voice lower, steadier. “You can say no. You don’t owe me anything. But I’m telling you this… when I want something, I ask for it. I want to take you out. Like an adult. Not as a game. Not as a performance. Just us. Real.”

You were quiet for a long time. Then: “And if I say yes?”

“Then I’ll pick you up. Open your door. Probably insult your outfit in a charming way. Feed you something good. And we’ll talk. I enjoy talking to you, I’ll probably do more if I can do it for more than ten minutes after sex.”

You glanced over. “And if I say no?”

He smiled. “Then I’ll see you the next time you come over and pretend I didn’t care about the rejection.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. He was calm. Not cocky. Not trying to win. Just… standing there, emotionally and physically naked, still half-wrapped in the sheets, telling you what he wanted.

And he looked so fucking good doing it. So manly, so hot.

You pulled the sheet tighter around yourself, heart thudding a little faster now, but not from nerves. From something else. Something more dangerous.

“You’re not playing fair,” you murmured, not sure.

“I’m not playing at all.”

Another silence. And you thought he was the hottest when he was being clear and direct like that.

“Fine.”

Jungkook arched a brow. “Fine?”

“One date,” you said, holding up a finger. “If you call it anything else, I’m leaving mid-appetizer.”

He smiled, slow and warm. “Deal.”

You rolled your eyes and flopped back onto the bed. “You’re such a dad.”

He laughed. “And yet, you keep coming back.”

“Shut up.”

“Just saying…”

“Jungkook.”

“Yes?”

You turned your head toward him again. “You better take me somewhere good. I have big standards.”

He grinned. “Already made the reservation.”

SKJEIISJAJZJSSNS second chapter here!! guys thank u so much for ur sweet msg on the first chapter, they made me so happy >_< //€./‘ thank u hehe,, let me know how you liked this chapter too

also GUYS THIS IS THE SECOSN CHAPTERR,,, like u have NOOOO idea what’s about to come, just look how many chapter this fic has 🤭🤭🤭

so anyway tell me if you’re liking it so far;:; btw i had to tag so many people, i had to repost with the rest of them>_<<< thank u my children

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satoru hunched at the edge of the room, trying to fold six-foot-something of himself into invisibility. his long frame bent awkwardly, one hand wrapped around a glass of something he wasn’t drinking, the other shoved deep into his pocket. he stared into the alcohol like it was the most complex equation he’d ever seen, as if enough focus could rewrite reality and teleport him back home.

he could already imagine the voices of his colleagues.

professor gojo? out? on a friday night? in public? with other human beings?

they’d laugh until they choked.

and honestly, he couldn’t even fault them. his idea of “wild” was alphabetizing his bookcase differently. sweater vests weren’t ironic—they were his uniform. his hair was a perpetual disaster. his glasses had never once been clean.

yet somehow, impossibly, people wanted him. women. men. hell, even the terrifying librarian with the sharp nails had once slipped her number into his pocket and scratched his palm on purpose.

but none of it mattered. because his cock wanted no one.

months of failure—years, if he stopped lying to himself. soft, useless, unresponsive. like a bored student passed out in the back of a lecture hall. hands, mouths, bodies, toys, pills, even guided breathing exercises he found on youtube. nothing worked. he’d tried so hard.

a doctor had once patted his knee, offered him a kind smile, and said it was probably psychological. probably. as if that helped.

so here he was. in hell. in a nightclub. chasing some faint ghost of arousal he barely remembered, desperate enough to gamble on noise and neon fixing something pills couldn’t.

he swirled the liquid in his glass, watching the ice clink against the sides. his palms were sweating, napkin damp and tearing in his grip. the sticky spill on his vest itched. everyone else here looked poured into leather and lace, bodies slick with heat, moving like choreography. he looked like somebody’s lost chaperone.

he was going to leave. he could already hear the excuses forming. you tried. you showed up. that counts. go home, put on jeopardy reruns, pretend this never happened.

and then—

his eyes caught on the bar.

his chest locked tight.

because there, bathed in neon haze, was you.

his student.

quiet. diligent. always front row. notebooks filled with neat handwriting, margins full of smart little questions that made his chest ache with pride. the kind of student who turned assignments in early. who lingered after class to double-check things with a polite smile.

and now—

now you were lit up in violent flashes of pink and blue. straps biting into your thighs, a glittering body chain sparking under the strobe. lipstick dark and wet, dangerous. you moved behind the bar with practiced ease, bottles flashing in your hands, wrists flexing with the same precision you used to balance equations.

someone—holy fuck—slipped a bill into your thigh strap. and you only smirked. unbothered.

satoru’s breath hitched.

this wasn’t real. it couldn’t be real. you weren’t supposed to look like this. you weren’t supposed to look like you’d stepped out of his most private, most shameful late-night fantasies—except sharper, alive, intentional.

and then it happened.

a twitch. a stirring. a pulse low in his gut.

satoru almost dropped his glass.

because his cock—his stubborn, traitorous, useless cock—was waking up. not halfheartedly. not maybe-if-you-squint. no, it was real hard. straining against his slacks, throbbing like it had been shocked back from the dead.

his face burned. no. no no no. this was unethical. wrong. god, illegal. he should turn around and leave, sprint home, bury himself under blankets until the shame killed him.

but his feet betrayed him.

like gravity had shifted, like he’d been caught in some perverse orbit, he drifted toward the bar, clutching his glass like a talisman.

“oh—uh, h-hi,” he croaked, throat bone-dry, voice cracking.

your smile was small at first, the kind bartenders give when they’re humoring some sad man too out of place for the room. but then it curved, sharpened, and oh god, it was aimed right at him.

satoru’s stomach dropped like an elevator.

“professor?” you said, like you couldn’t quite believe it. your voice cut through the bass, familiar in a way that made his ears burn. “what are you doing here?”

his mouth opened. nothing came out. he tried again, fumbling like a freshman caught cheating. “i—uh—research?”

oh god.

research?!

he wanted to bite his own tongue off.

you arched a brow, wiping the bar with a rag, unimpressed. “research. in a club?”

“anthropology,” he blurted, then immediately winced. “sociology. human… behavior.”

you snorted, and the sound went straight to his cock. fuck. since when did laughter make him hard?

“you’re terrible at lying,” you said, leaning on the counter. your body chain dipped, catching the light, and he swore he almost passed out. “so. try again, professor. why are you here?”

his glasses slipped down his nose. he pushed them up with a shaky hand, fingers clammy against the frames. “i… i don’t know.”

and it was true. he didn’t know. he’d come chasing some hopeless spark, some phantom memory of desire. but now, faced with you—his quietest student dressed like a nightmare dressed like a dream—he had no words, no excuse, nothing.

you tilted your head, studying him the way you did in class when he went off on tangents about wave-particle duality. except now your eyes were darker, sharper, and satoru felt pinned like a bug.

“hm,” you said, and that little sound nearly undid him.

he scrambled for composure. “shouldn’t you, uh… be studying? not, um…” his hand flailed vaguely at your outfit, at the neon, at the woman trying to squeeze past with three shots in each hand. “…this?”

you laughed again. “oh, professor. i can multitask.”

his cock twitched. hard. jesus christ.

you slid a glass toward him. whiskey, neat. the kind of drink that burned going down, exactly what he deserved.

“here,” you said, lips quirking. “on the house. unless you want me to put it on your… tuition.”

satoru choked. literally choked. coughs tore out of him while his face went scarlet. you watched with undisguised amusement, not moving to help.

“you’re enjoying this,” he accused weakly, wiping at his mouth with a napkin that dissolved instantly in condensation.

“maybe.” your smirk widened. “you look cute when you’re flustered.”

his brain short-circuited. cute. you called him cute. his cock pressed insistently against his slacks, proof of his betrayal.

“i—i’m not—” he stammered, but you cut him off with a lazy wave.

“don’t bother. you’re blushing so hard i can see it even under these lights.”

he dropped his gaze to the drink. amber liquid swirled, reflecting neon. he wished he could sink into it and drown.

“so,” you said casually, like you weren’t dismantling his entire sense of self, “what’s a professor doing all alone at a club, looking like someone’s lost dad?”

“that’s—harsh,” he muttered.

“accurate,” you shot back, grin quick and sharp.

he couldn’t look at you. couldn’t look at your mouth, your chain, the way you leaned just far enough forward that every inch of skin caught the light. his throat worked uselessly.

“i shouldn’t be here,” he whispered, more to himself than to you.

“and yet.” your voice was smooth, merciless. “here you are.”

satoru downed the whiskey in one gulp. it scorched his throat, burned all the way down, but it didn’t steady his hands. didn’t stop the ache building in his cock, thick and heavy, a sensation he hadn’t felt in too long.

“i should leave,” he tried again, pushing his glasses up.

“you won’t.”

he blinked. “i—what?”

“you won’t,” you repeated, smirk back in place. “because you’re curious.” you leaned closer, so close he could smell your perfume, heady and dangerous. “aren’t you?”

satoru told himself he could leave at any moment.

he’d finish the whiskey, set the glass down, mutter some excuse about “an early lecture tomorrow,” and walk out. back to his apartment. back to his alphabetized bookshelves and his disappointing bed.

but he didn’t move.

the bass thrummed through the soles of his shoes, through his bones, like it was mocking the rhythm of his pulse. sweat prickled down his back beneath his sweater vest. every time he risked a glance at you, he swore the room shifted, tilting on some new axis, as if you were its center.

and you weren’t even doing anything. just working. mixing drinks with methodical precision, slipping straws between lacquered lips to taste-test before sliding them across to strangers. laughing at some offhand joke from another bartender. leaning forward just enough that the chain across your chest glittered and dipped, pulling his gaze like a lodestone.

it was unbearable. he wasn’t built for this.

your laugh was too loud in his head. his name sounded different on your tongue—professor—but stretched into something teasing, indulgent, like you were tasting it. he kept replaying it, again and again, like an idiot listening to a broken record.

he thought of the classroom. you, hunched over neat notes. the quiet hum you made when something clicked in your head. the way your eyes brightened when he explained concepts no one else bothered to ask about. safe. simple. untouchable.

and now—this.

what was worse? that you looked like sin personified, or that his body responded to you instantly, violently, in a way it hadn’t responded to anyone in months.

his cock pressed hard against the zipper of his slacks, an ache he’d half-convinced himself he’d never feel again. humiliating. exhilarating. he wanted to crawl out of his own skin.

he barely realized you were speaking until your words cut clean through his haze.

“so what’s the real reason you’re here, professor?”

his heart jolted.

“i—i told you—”

“research?” your smirk slanted, ruthless. “you’ve been staring at me like i’m the experiment.”

he flinched. too obvious. he was too obvious.

“i wasn’t—”

“you were.” your voice was low, amused. “so what’s the hypothesis? what are you testing?”

he wanted to melt into the bar. vanish between the floorboards. die instantly, do not collect two hundred dollars.

“i shouldn’t—” he started, but his throat closed. he swallowed, the burn of whiskey still sharp. “…be here.”

“and yet.” your gaze held his. “here you are.”

he hated how your words stuck. how they rang truer than anything he could summon.

you slid closer along the bar, slow, deliberate, until he could smell you. not perfume, not entirely—something warmer, like sweat, leather, faint sugar from spilled drinks. dizzying. he was suddenly hyperaware of the glasses sliding down his nose, the sweat on his palms, the way his knees pressed awkwardly together like a teenager.

“want me to guess?” you asked.

he couldn’t speak. he nodded.

you leaned in, lips nearly brushing the rim of his ear, and his entire body went rigid.

“you came here because you’re desperate.”

his cock throbbed. shame twisted in his chest, but his body betrayed him.

“no—i’m not—”

“you are.” you didn’t even let him finish. “you’ve got this reputation, right? handsome professor, women fawning over you, colleagues jealous. but you look miserable.” a pause. a smirk in your tone. “like a man who can’t get it up.”

the air vanished from his lungs.

he stared at the counter, vision blurring. if there had been any mercy in the universe, the floor would have opened up beneath him.

“h-how—”

“i can tell,” you said easily, like you were pointing out the weather. “the way you’re sitting. the way you drink like it’ll save you. the way you’re staring at me like you don’t know whether to beg or bolt.”

a whimper caught in his throat. he clamped his lips shut, horrified.

your grin was sharp enough to wound.

“don’t worry, professor,” you murmured, leaning back, stretching like a cat. “i think it’s cute.”

cute. there it was again. his entire face was burning. his body was a live wire, buzzing, too much input all at once.

he tried to swallow words that didn’t form. tried to breathe. tried not to reach for himself under the bar like a pathetic man.

and then you tilted your head, watching him squirm, and said the words that broke him:

“want me to help you?”

his head snapped up. his throat bobbed, working uselessly around sounds.

“i—i can’t—this is wrong—”

“wrong?” you interrupted, lips quirking. “look around, professor.”

he did.

the club pulsed and writhed with bodies, couples grinding, strangers pressed against walls, mouths and hands everywhere. people moaning into each other’s necks, slipping fingers under clothes, lost in their own hunger. no one cared. no one noticed him.

except you.

you leaned closer, gaze bright in the dark. “so. what’s it gonna be? back to your little apartment, back to boring physics theories and untouched cock…” your hand brushed his knee under the bar, light as static. “or let me show you what it feels like to want again?”

satoru’s pulse roared in his ears.

his cock strained hard, insistent. his brain was sludge, torn between flight and surrender.

he should leave. he should.

instead, his lips parted, voice shaky, cracked, humiliating:

“…please.”

your smile was triumphant. the wicked, malicious kind.

“good boy.”

the words sank into him slow.

"good boy."

his chest seized. his cock twitched, painful against the zipper. no one had ever called him that in his thirty-nine years of life, not like this, not with a voice that dripped command and amusement and warmth all at once.

his glasses slid down his nose, blurred neon smears swimming in his vision, but he couldn’t lift a hand to fix them. he was frozen. small. wide-eyed.

you tilted your head, smile sharp. “come on, professor. up.”

he blinked. “w-what?”

“up.” your hand closed around his wrist, cool metal from your rings pressing against his skin, and before he could resist—before he could think—you were tugging him off the barstool.

his legs wobbled. he nearly tripped, muttering an apology even though you didn’t stumble. the crowd pressed in on every side, bodies slick and shameless, but all he could feel was your hand guiding him, sure and steady, threading through the chaos.

“w-wait,” he stammered, trying to plant his heels. “where—where are we—”

“somewhere better.”

he wanted to ask what that meant. he wanted to protest, to point out the ethical violations, the sheer impossibility of this. he wanted to run.

instead, his cock throbbed harder.

the crowd swallowed you both whole. neon washed over faces twisted in pleasure, mouths open, eyes closed. no one looked. no one cared. satoru’s chest heaved, panic and arousal choking him, and still you dragged him deeper, until you found an empty couch pushed up against the wall.

you shoved him down onto it with terrifying ease.

satoru sat stiff, knees locked together, sweater vest damp with sweat. his glasses fogged instantly.

“breathe,” you said, standing over him, hands sliding down your own body like you knew exactly how to keep his eyes glued. “you look like you’re gonna faint.”

he swallowed hard, throat bobbing. “i—I just—this is—”

“shh.” you climbed into his lap, straddling him like you’d done it a thousand times, like his body had always been your seat. the shift of your weight pressed him deeper into the cracked leather couch, and his breath left him in a strangled wheeze, the kind that clawed its way up from his chest without permission.

his cock lurched violently against the too-tight confines of his slacks, the swollen head straining against the damp fabric where precum had already bled through.

his hands flailed uselessly at his sides before gripping the cushions like a lifeline, knuckles bleaching white, fingers trembling. he was terrified to touch you, because what if he ruined it? what if he crossed a line? 

but he was equally terrified not to, because every inch of him screamed to hold you, to clutch at your hips, to pull you closer. caught between the two, he clung to the couch as though it might ground him while his entire world tilted off its axis.

“shit,” he whispered, voice cracking so badly it almost wasn’t a word. “this is—fuck, this is—”

your body chain caught the strobing light as you leaned in, the flash of silver burning his retinas before your lips brushed the shell of his ear. he flinched at the ghost of your breath, chest heaving like you’d branded him.

“relax, professor,” you murmured, voice low and cruelly soothing. “i’ll take care of you.”

his hips jerked helplessly before he could stop them, rutting up against you like he had no control left. the motion dragged a shocked gasp out of him, and heat rushed to his face so fast it burned.

“i’m sorry—I didn’t mean—fuck, i can’t—” the words tumbled out of him in a flood, every syllable stammered, desperate to cover his shame.

“stop apologizing,” you ordered, rolling your hips slow and deliberate against the thick ridge in his pants. the drag of your body over his cock stole the air straight from his lungs. a raw sound ripped free of his throat, high and broken, somewhere between a whimper and a groan.

“just feel.”

and he did. his whole body bowed under the order. every nerve lit up sharp and electric, too much at once, like his skin was too thin for what you were doing to him. his cock strained painfully, the pressure unbearable, every throb slicking his boxers wetter. he’d been empty for months—years, really—living in silence, shutting down, failing every time he tried. now it all came roaring back with a vengeance, violent in its intensity.

“f-fuck, wait, i—i think—” his head tipped back against the couch so hard the frame rattled, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose until the neon lights fractured through the skewed lenses. “i can’t, i can’t—”

you caught his chin, grip firm, forcing his gaze back up to you. the bass rattled his ribs, but your voice cut clean through it. your eyes burned, merciless, bright with the kind of authority that stripped him bare.

“you can,” you said. every word sharp as a blade. “and you will. i’m not stopping until you’re wrecked.”

something inside him cracked wide open at that—some fragile wall he’d been clutching tight for years.

a choked whimper tore up from his throat, humiliating in its pitch, loud enough that it vanished into the club’s bassline before anyone could catch it. his cock pulsed, aching, straining so hard against the soaked fabric he thought he might spill untouched, just from the relentless grind of your hips, the heat of your body, and the way you looked at him like he was already yours.

your head tilted, lashes heavy, hands resting deliberate on his chest, nails grazing the knit of his sweater vest like you were testing the weave. “so tense,” you murmured, and the way your breath ghosted across his face made his cock lurch violently against his thigh. “doesn’t anyone ever touch you?”

the question sliced him straight open.

his throat bobbed hard. “n-no. i mean— not like this—oh fuck—”

your grin was wicked, slow, sharpened with intent. and then you rolled your hips down, devastating friction sparking white behind his eyes, and he choked on a sound that didn’t belong to him, too high, too desperate, too filthy.

“please,” he gasped, already spiraling into humiliation, voice cracking. “i—I can’t, i’ll—”

“you’ll what?” your voice was silk, smooth and cruel, unhurried, like you had all the time in the world to watch him unravel.

his head dropped back against the couch, glasses sliding down his nose, hair sticking to his damp forehead. “i’ll c-cum—” the words broke as his body jolted, thighs trembling, because you ground down again, heat and pressure tearing through him like he was on fire.

your eyes glinted, unbothered, like this had always been inevitable. “then cum.”

two words. and he broke instantly.

his hips bucked helpless, desperate, and then he was spilling in his slacks with a raw, humiliating cry that punched out of his chest before he could choke it down. hot wetness flooded the fabric, cock twitching helplessly under you as you held him there, forcing him to rut into the mess while the club roared around you.

the sound that ripped out of him was loud, cracked, raw enough that a few heads actually turned—but no one cared, everyone too busy moaning, grinding, fucking against the walls. his face burned like it was on fire, shame and bliss strangling each other in his chest, and then he collapsed back against the couch, glasses crooked, chest heaving, sweat gluing his shirt to his skin.

“oh my god,” he stammered, voice breaking, hands trembling like they didn’t know where to go. “i—I’m sorry, i didn’t mean to, i couldn’t—”

“shhh.” your palm dragged deliberately across the wet patch spreading thick across his slacks. he jolted like you had electrocuted him. “wait—n-no, too much, i just—”

“you’re still hard,” you observed, voice calm, amused, a scientist noting a phenomenon.

his breath caught hard. because you were right—his cock was still rock-hard, twitching in the sticky mess, throbbing under your palm, desperate and disobedient. betrayal, unbearable shame, and molten pleasure all crashed through him until he couldn’t breathe.

“look at you,” you murmured, pressing firmer, stroking him through the soaked fabric. “your body doesn’t want to stop.”

he shook his head, thighs trembling, voice cracking. “i c-can’t—it’s too much, i can’t—”

“you can.”

his vision blurred, the world a haze of neon and bass and strangers fucking in every direction, but all of it faded into white noise compared to the heat of your hand on his ruined cock.

the sharp rasp of his zipper being pulled down cut through everything. his stomach dropped, a pit opening.

“n-no, wait—”

but you were already freeing him, dragging his cock out, and it sprang up against his stomach, fat and flushed dark, wet with his own cum. it slapped heavy against his shirt, drool-thick strings clinging to the fabric, veins pulsing down the obscene length.

his whine cracked in the back of his throat. “please, please, it’s too sensitive, i just—”

“exactly,” you purred, sweeping your thumb slow over the leaking head, and satoru almost screamed.

his hips jerked like he was trying to both push closer and pull away at the same time, and his mouth just poured nonsense, cracked babbles of: “i can’t—fuck, oh god—don’t, don’t, i’ll—please—”

you ignored him, stroking steady and merciless, fingers wrapping tight around the slick shaft, twisting just enough to make him writhe.

every stroke wrung another wrecked sound out of him—strangled moans, breathless apologies, gasps that made his face burn hotter than the neon.

“so sensitive,” you murmured, almost admiring, watching his cock pulse in your fist. “and you’re still leaking. fucking unbelievable.”

he tried, half-sobbing. “i—it’s embarrassing, i don’t—” but his protest cut off with a choked cry when your wrist twisted, dragging cum and slick in a perfect glide. “please, it’s too much—”

“you’re doing fine.”

and then, before his brain could catch up, you shifted off his lap, sliding down to your knees in front of him.

satoru’s stomach flipped so hard it felt like he might be sick. “w-wait, no, you don’t—don’t have to, you shouldn’t—”

but then your mouth closed over his cock and the world ripped out from under him.

a sharp, humiliating cry tore out of his throat, lost to the pounding bass, his glasses sliding down his nose as his whole body convulsed. “oh god, oh fuck, your—your mouth—too warm—too much—!”

heat seared through every nerve ending, your tongue flattening against the thick vein under his shaft, your lips stretching tight around his girth as you sank down. he tried to push at your shoulders, terrified, babbling broken apologies between sobs of pleasure—“i’m sorry, i can’t, i’ll cum, i can’t hold it, please, i’m gonna, please stop, i can’t—”

your nails dug into his thighs, pinning him to the couch. no escape.

he sobbed, full-bodied, chest heaving, his whole world reduced to the wet drag of your throat and the unbearable pull of being forced to endure it. every suction, every glide, every obscene slurp had him arching off the seat like you were shocking him straight through the spine.

“please—please—i’m gonna—”

and then you hummed around him, and the vibration detonated through his nerves.

he broke. his cock jerked helplessly down your throat, hot cum spilling in thick spurts, gagging him on his own cry. it ripped the breath from his lungs, left him shaking violently, glasses fogged uselessly, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. the kind of sob that clawed out of him wasn’t meant for anyone else’s ears, high and raw, the sound of a man unraveling past recognition.

when you finally pulled off, his cock was still hard, still twitching, still drooling cum down the swollen length like it didn’t know the meaning of release.

you looked up at him through lashes wet with club-light, lips shining with spit and cum, a lazy smirk curling. “two.”

the word made his stomach drop through the floor.

“oh god,” he whispered, voice shredded, chest heaving like he had been drowned and dragged up again. “i can’t—i can’t, no more, it’s too much, i’m sorry—”

“look at you.” your hand wrapped him again, stroking slow, ignoring how he flinched, how his hips bucked despite his desperate pleas. “still hard. your body doesn’t know how to quit.”

he whimpered, mortified, his hands fisting so tight into the couch cushions the fabric threatened to rip.

you grabbed his chin, forced him to meet your eyes through the blur of tears. “you made a mess,” you murmured, rolling your hips so his cock twitched weakly inside you. “now it’s your turn.”

he stared, breath caught. “m-my… my turn?”

“yeah.” your smirk cut him open. “don’t you think you should take care of me too?”

the words short-circuited him. he stared like you had just rewritten physics in front of him, babbling, “w-wait, i—I’ve never—”

“exactly.” you guided his trembling hand down between your thighs, dragged his fingers straight into the slick heat, obscene and dripping.

his pupils blew wide, throat locking, a sound like prayer clawing out of him. you were soaked. his knuckles shone, drenched instantly, and the poor man nearly fainted.

“oh my god,” he croaked, voice breaking. “you’re—you’re really—fuck, you’re so wet—”

“don’t just stare.” you ground against his hand, coating his fingers more. “touch me.”

he looked wrecked, like he might cry from the pressure, but he obeyed, shaking fingers brushing tentative over your folds, clumsy and too soft. the tiny contact made your hips twitch, and his gasp was wild, like he had discovered fire.

“s-sorry! i don’t—i don’t know what i’m doing, i’ll mess it up—”

“then learn.”

and it detonated in him.

his fingers hovered like they were trespassing, trembling against the soaked heat of your cunt as though one wrong move might make you vanish. every nerve in his body screamed that he shouldn’t, couldn’t, but you were dragging him closer, guiding his hand like it was yours to command.

he swallowed hard, adam’s apple bobbing, breath wrecked and shaky. “i—i’ll mess it up,” he whispered, and the way his voice cracked on the words only made your thighs twitch around his wrist.

“then mess it up,” you said. “just do it.”

the smallest whimper broke out of him, almost inaudible, before he slid one finger in, too careful, too shallow. it wasn’t even enough to stretch you properly, but the slick heat that swallowed him down nearly knocked the breath out of his lungs.

“fuck.. oh god, you’re—” he bit the words off, glasses sliding down his nose as his eyes glued to the sight of his knuckle vanishing inside you. “you’re so warm, i can feel.”

he pushed a little deeper, unsteady, like he was afraid you’d burn him. his fingertip brushed that tender spot inside, purely by accident, and the way your hips jolted made his cock jerk so violently he almost came again untouched.

“did i—did i hurt you?” he stammered, terrified, but the noise you made—a broken, needy sound—set his ears ringing.

you grabbed his wrist and pressed him deeper, until the base of his finger was buried inside you. he choked, a wrecked sound clawing out of him as your walls squeezed around him. “holy fuck. holy fuck. you’re… you’re gripping me so tight.”

his hand was shaking so badly it made the movement jerky, awkward. he tried curling his finger, the way he must have read somewhere online, but it was too stiff, too hesitant, more trial-and-error than skill. still, each clumsy drag scraped over that sensitive spot again, and your breath hitched.

he froze. “that—was that good? i—fuck, tell me it was good—”

your laugh came broken, sharp with arousal. “keep going.”

so he did. one finger turned into two, a shaky stretch that had his forehead beading with sweat, because the snug heat clamped down like it was refusing to let him go. he pushed them in with a choked groan, as though your cunt was swallowing him whole instead of just his fingers.

“oh my god—oh my god—you’re so wet, it’s dripping down my hand—” he babbled, staring wide-eyed as slick glistened across his knuckles. “fuck, you’re—your body’s sucking me in, it’s—”

he thrust clumsily, too fast, then slowed to almost nothing, lost in the rhythm, like his brain couldn’t decide between frantic and reverent. every twitch of your walls had him gasping like he was the one being fucked, his hips jerking helplessly in the air, cock smearing more cum across his ruined shirt.

and when he tried curling them again, clumsy and off-angle, he still managed to rub over that perfect spot enough to make you arch. the sight of your head falling back, lips parted, sent him spiraling.

“oh, fuck, you like that—you like my fingers—fuck, i can’t believe. i can’t believe it’s me doing this—” his voice was breaking into frantic little gasps, humiliation and awe knotted tight together. “you’re squeezing so tight, i can feel every—every flutter—fuck, i feel like i'm gonna die...”

he pumped harder, wrist slick, two fingers scissoring inside you with messy, desperate insistence. he didn’t have finesse, didn’t know how to pace himself—but he had raw need, and it showed in every frantic drag, every shuddering whimper spilling out of him as he watched you come apart.

his breath rasped in your ear, hot and frantic. “i—I don’t know if it’s right—oh god, you’re clenching so hard—I can’t tell—” his words broke into a whine when your nails dug into his shoulder.

“keep going,” you ordered.

he obeyed instantly, fumbling faster, the sloppy rhythm making obscene squelches that filled the neon-drenched air. your slick coated his knuckles, running down to his wrist, dripping onto his ruined slacks. every time he realized how wet you were, his head shook like he couldn’t believe it.

“god, it’s everywhere—you’re dripping on me—fuck, fuck, it’s so hot—” he was babbling again, voice pitched high, cock twitching helplessly against his stomach. “i don’t deserve this.”

he tried curling his fingers like before, but the angle was wrong, too shallow. he groaned in frustration, muttering, “shit, no, wait, let me—” and pulled them almost all the way out before shoving them back in, too hard, making you jolt.

your gasp made him panic. “d-did I hurt you? oh god, I hurt you, I’m sorry—”

“shut up and do it again,” you snapped, hips bucking down to meet his hand.

his eyes rolled back, a wrecked sound clawing out of him. “fuck, you’re unreal...”

he started thrusting harder, less finesse, more instinct. the blunt force of his fingers wasn’t precise, but it was relentless, pumping fast enough that your thighs quivered against his wrist. he stared down, fascinated and horrified, at the way your slick gushed around him, his hand disappearing into the mess of your cunt.

“oh god, you’re soaking me—fuck, I can hear it, it’s so loud.”

the wet squelches spurred him on, and even when his pace faltered, his desperation filled the gaps. his palm slapped clumsily against your clit once, making you jolt with a sharp cry, and the sound broke him.

“there? was that—oh fuck, I did something right, didn’t I?”

he pressed again, rubbing his palm awkwardly over your clit while still driving his fingers inside. the angle was messy, his hand shaking too much, but the added friction made your hips grind against him without thinking.

your body betrayed you first, tightening hard around his fingers, the wet clutch of your cunt dragging him deeper. his eyes went wide, lips parting in shock. “you’re—oh my god, you’re close...”

his voice cracked into a whimper as he worked you harder, clumsy but relentless, pumping fast enough that your slick sprayed his wrist, coating his hand in shine. your nails raked down his back, and he sobbed, hips bucking into the air like he could fuck the phantom of your pleasure.

“please—please cum, I need it—oh god, g-give it to me...”

and when it finally hit, when your cunt fluttered and clamped tight around his fingers, he nearly screamed with you. your orgasm tore through you, soaking his hand, milking his clumsy thrusts as your back arched. the wet sounds doubled, tripled, until it was all you could hear under the bass.

“ohhh fuck—you’re cumming on me—on my fingers—holy shit, I’m making you—” his words spiraled into hysterics, forehead pressing to your chest as he panted. “you’re squeezing me so tight—I can feel everything... you’re so beautiful like this.”

your thighs trembled, cunt pulsing around the fingers still stuffed inside, and he looked ruined, wrecked, trembling like he was the one undone. cum smeared his shirt from his earlier release, but his cock still twitched angrily against his stomach, fat and flushed and desperate.

and still, his hand didn’t stop moving, fingers writhing inside you, like he was terrified to let you go.

“you’re still squeezing me,” he whispered, voice cracking. “it feels so good, I can’t… I don’t know how to stop.”

your body twitched under him, nerves raw, clit throbbing with every accidental brush of his palm. overstimulation began to crawl up your spine, that unbearable mix of ache and need that had your thighs clamping tight around his wrist. you tried to twist away, but he followed, his mouth hanging open, eyes glazed as he watched his fingers vanish into your dripping heat again and again.

“you’re dripping all over me,” he babbled, almost hysterical, his cheeks flushed scarlet. “it’s everywhere… you can cum again, right? you can, I know you can. your body feels like it wants to.”

the sloppy pressure of his palm ground over your clit again, and your back arched helplessly. a broken sound tore out of you, and that was all the encouragement he needed.

“yes, yes, there, that’s it,” he gasped, tears beading the corners of his eyes. “you feel so good on my fingers, I’ll do anything, just cum for me again, please.”

your walls clenched down brutally, and the orgasm ripped through you a second time, shorter, sharper, leaving your thighs shaking against his shoulders. you could hear the slick gush around his fingers, feel the mess smeared down his wrist.

satoru almost sobbed. “you really did… you came again on me. I can feel you everywhere. you’re perfect.”

he finally slowed, dragging his fingers out and staring in awe at how drenched they were, cum and slick coating him up to the knuckles. his cock twitched violently against his ruined shirt, leaking like he hadn’t already spilled earlier.

he looked up at you then, wrecked and trembling, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. his glasses were sliding down his nose, crooked, making him look even more like the flustered professor you knew.

“I… I want more,” he admitted, voice low and raw. “I want to be inside. please. I need it.”

the confession hit like a blow, his tone frantic but sincere, eyes wide with a kind of fear that came from desperation rather than doubt. he looked at you like you were his last chance at salvation.

“you want to fuck me here? in the club?” you teased, dragging your slick fingers down his chest.

his head bobbed in a shaky nod. “yes. I don’t care if they watch. I don’t care about anything. I need you. I’ve never—” his throat caught, and he forced the words out, trembling. “I’ve never wanted anything this much in my life.”

his cock pressed heavy and flushed against your stomach, twitching, leaking, obscenely hard in spite of everything. he wrapped a hand around the base like he was trying to steady it, but it only made it look bigger, angrier, every vein standing out against the flushed skin.

he met your eyes, broken and pleading. “tell me how. tell me what to do. I’ll try, I promise.”

satoru lined himself up with both hands, knuckles white, the fat weight of his cock slapping heavy against your stomach as he tried to steady it. his glasses had slid so far down his nose they were practically useless, but he didn’t dare push them back up—he needed both palms just to keep himself in place.

“god, it’s—fuck—it’s huge, it won’t…” his voice cracked, shaking apart as the flushed head dragged through your slick folds. every pass caught on your entrance, smearing cum and spit everywhere, and his hips jerked like a nervous tic. “I can feel the heat, I can feel you pulling me in already—I’m not gonna last if I even—if I just—”

you reached down and wrapped your hand around him, guiding the tip exactly where you wanted it. his whole body jolted like you’d stuck a live wire to his skin.

“wait—no, don’t, don’t guide me, I’ll lose it if you—ahh—” the words dissolved into a sharp, humiliating cry as you pushed him forward, the swollen head breaching your cunt with a brutal stretch.

his glasses fogged instantly, his jaw dropping open. “oh, fffuck, I’m in—I’m really—oh god, you’re strangling me, I can’t, it’s too tight—”

the stretch bordered on unbearable, your walls aching around him as he struggled to sink deeper. his chest heaved, every muscle straining, like he was trying to hold himself back but couldn’t.

“you’re so hot—so hot and wet—oh fuck, it hurts, but it’s good, it’s so good—I don’t deserve this, professors don’t—don’t belong inside—students—oh god—”

you dug your nails into his ass and dragged him down. he sobbed out loud, high-pitched and broken, as inch after inch forced its way inside, until his hips finally slammed flush with yours.

your stomach bulged with the shape of him, the obscene outline of his cock stretching you open, pulsing, twitching.

satoru collapsed against you, forehead pressed to your shoulder, shaking all over. “I—I can’t breathe. you’re so full, you’re choking me—I mean, you’re choking my cock—your walls are squeezing like you’ll never let go. I’m gonna cum, I’ll cum just from this, I swear—”

he pulled out clumsily, only a few inches, then drove back in with no rhythm. the couch squeaked, your ass slapping wetly against his thighs.

“sorry—sorry, I can’t slow down—I’m trying, I swear, but it feels too good, too good, I’ll die if I stop—”

his thrusts were messy, frantic, slamming deep one moment and grinding crooked the next. every push punched air from your lungs, every drag scraped your clit against his pelvis in ragged bursts of friction.

his face above you was wrecked, flushed crimson, mouth hanging open, glasses sliding halfway down his nose. “you’re—so beautiful—so filthy—under me—oh god, don’t kick me out, please don’t—I’ll do anything—”

then his cockhead clipped something inside you, that raw spot that made your hips jolt. his breath caught like he’d heard the sound of a miracle.

“there—oh fuck, I hit it, didn’t I?—that little jump, that was it—I’ll do it again, I’ll keep hitting it, I’ll make you cum, I’ll make sure—”

he hammered in with wild urgency, aiming clumsy but determined. the couch banged against the floor, his heavy balls smacking wet against your ass, every sound swallowed by the roar of the club around you.

“you’re gripping me so hard—I can’t think—I’m gonna cum, I’m already there, I can’t stop it, I can’t—oh god, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

your cunt swallowed him greedily, obscene squelches rising up each time his hips slammed flush against yours. every thrust ground the fat head of his cock against your cervix, a bruising battering that made your toes curl and your belly clench, and satoru couldn’t stop babbling through it.

“oh fuck, it’s so deep—you’re letting me fuck your womb, I can feel the way you’re choking me from the inside out—I shouldn’t be here, you shouldn’t let me...”

you dug your nails into his back, dragging red streaks down his pale skin, and the sound that ripped out of him was high and shattered. when his head dropped against your neck, you caught him by the chin, forcing his tear-streaked face up toward you.

“look at me,” you ordered, tightening your thighs around his waist until he shuddered. “look at how pathetic you are.”

his eyes were wet, lashes clumped, glasses hanging useless on the edge of his nose. he tried to nod, but your hand suddenly wrapped around his throat, squeezing just enough to cut his breath.

he choked, a ragged, broken sob spilling out of his chest, hips bucking violently forward as if the denial of air short-circuited every nerve in him.

“you like that?” you hissed, your grip firm on his throat as your other hand fisted in his hair, holding him still. “you like being choked while you fuck me?”

his answer was a garbled, desperate moan, body trembling, cock twitching inside you as if it wanted to cum from the grip alone. tears spilled hot down his cheeks, streaking his flushed skin, and you licked the salt off his jaw before slapping his face lightly, just enough to make him whine.

“fuck, you’re gonna make me cum again,” you hissed, nails biting into his scalp, dragging him down into a bruising kiss. your cunt squeezed him tighter, wringing him, dragging him to the edge with you.

he whimpered against your lips, babbling, “please  cum with me—need you to cum, need to feel it...”

your body arched, shuddering, as you broke on him, the world collapsing into white heat, your cunt clamping down hard enough to make his cock jerk violently inside you. the wet spasm milked him, and he screamed into your mouth, a guttural, broken sound, cock spilling hot, thick cum straight into your womb.

it was endless—pulse after pulse flooding you, until it leaked out around the thick shaft still stuffing you full. your stomach bulged under the sheer stretch of him, throbbing with every twitch, every shudder.

and then, finally, his body faltered. his thrusts lost rhythm, stuttering weakly before slowing to nothing. his cock softened inside you, still dripping, still plugged deep in your cunt even as his chest collapsed against yours.

the overstimulation left him raw, twitching, tears drying sticky on his cheeks. his hands clutched at you like he was drowning, sobbing quietly against your collarbone.

when you finally lifted your hips and slid off him, his cock slipped free with a wet, humiliating squelch, soft but still leaking thick ropes of cum that spilled down his thighs and yours, soaking the couch beneath you.

he whimpered at the loss of your heat, face burning, unable to meet your eyes.

and you just sat back, catching your breath, watching his ruined cock twitch feebly against his stomach, cum still drooling from the slit.

“look at you,” you said, voice low and sharp. “you did cum with me. barely.”

satoru sobbed once, a raw, involuntary sound that seemed to tear itself straight out of his chest. he looked wrecked, utterly destroyed, glasses crooked and fogged, sweat dampening the pale hair that clung to his forehead. cum still streaked across his lap, staining the fabric of his slacks, sticking to his ruined shirt, obscene evidence of what he’d been reduced to. professor, mentor, supposed genius—nothing but a trembling mess sprawled out under your control.

his mouth moved before his mind caught up, words spilling unfiltered, sharp with shame. “fuck, I… I ruined you. ruined everything. I couldn’t even—couldn’t even finish right.” his throat worked hard around the confession, bobbing visibly, his eyes glossing with frustrated tears as they darted away from yours. “what kind of man does that?”

you didn’t let him spiral. your hand rose, steady and deliberate, cupping his jaw, dragging his flushed face back toward you until there was nowhere else for him to look. the heat of his skin pulsed under your palm, damp with sweat and spit, his cheek slick from where tears had already carved tracks.

around you the club was chaos—moans tearing through the air, wet slaps of bodies colliding, a burst of laughter that faded into the heavy pulse of bass. the sounds were relentless, every one a reminder of the filth you were drowning in, but it all blurred into meaningless noise compared to the fragile way he breathed in your hand.

“you didn’t ruin me,” you said, voice calm, cutting straight through his panic. your thumb dragged slow across his cheekbone, catching on the salt-slick there. “you made me cum. twice. you fucked me until your body gave out. that’s more than most men manage on their best night.”

his lips parted like he meant to protest, to deny, but nothing came out. only the faintest stammer of breath, a tremor of disbelief. below, his cock twitched feebly against his thigh, pitiful in its soft state, but still dribbling a last thread of cum onto his lap like it hadn’t learned the word surrender.

“look at me, professor.”

your command sliced through him, sharper than the bass, sharper than his own shame, and his head snapped up without thought. his eyes met yours—wet, wide, drowning in their own storm.

“you did fine,” you murmured, low and steady, letting the words settle into him like weight on his chest. “better than fine. you gave me everything you had.”

the praise landed like a strike. he broke under it in a way he hadn’t under overstimulation or pressure or even your hand at his throat. his shoulders shuddered hard, tremors rippling down his long frame, his lips pressing tight like he was holding something back. for a moment you thought he might collapse fully, burst into sobs right there in your hands.

instead, with a clumsy desperation, he reached for you. his big, shaking hand grabbed yours and dragged it to his chest, pressing it flat over the rapid, chaotic beat of his heart. it stuttered and jumped against your palm, frantic, like it was trying to leap free from his ribs.

“i—thank you,” he whispered, voice shredded, trembling so badly it was almost inaudible under the music.

“thank you for… for letting me—” his words cracked, splintered. he couldn’t force the last part out, couldn’t say the word fuck, not when his voice was already breaking like prayer, like confession.

behind you, a girl moaned loud against the wall, the guttural sound drowned in the brutal rhythm of her partner’s hips slamming into her. another man stumbled past, cock already out, jerking frantically into his fist as though the world outside this neon blur didn’t exist.

satoru’s hands shook as he reached for you, as if instinct alone was dragging him forward. his palm brushed your thigh, slick and trembling, trying to swipe away the mess he’d left. but his fingers only smeared it further, dragging cum across your skin in wet streaks.

“i should—” his voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. “i should clean you up. i can’t just leave you like this. i—fuck, i made such a mess.”

you caught his wrist before he could fumble further, his knuckles shining with your slick. his pale lashes fluttered, frantic, like he expected you to scold him.

“relax,” you said, tone steady. “this isn’t your problem.”

his lips parted. “it is—”

“no, satoru.” you pressed, and the firmness in your voice made him flinch. “i work here. this is my job. the mess, the neon, the moans, the way people look at me—this is all mine. not yours to fix.”

his throat bobbed hard, adam’s apple jerking as he looked at you like the ground had just opened under his feet. he wanted to argue—god, every nerve in him screamed to argue—but nothing came out.

instead, he pulled back his hand slowly, staring at the shine of cum and spit coating his skin, at the sticky threads clinging between his fingers. his cock gave a feeble twitch, soft but still too heavy against his thigh, betraying him even in shame.

you leaned in, brushing his glasses back onto his face, straightening them where they’d slid crooked. “go home, professor. get some rest.”

something in the way you said it—gentle, final—cut straight through him.

he nodded, small, shaky. “right. yes. of course.”

he tried to stand, but his knees nearly buckled under his own weight, and he had to grab the couch to steady himself. his sweater vest clung damp to his chest, stained with sweat and cum.

he fumbled with his slacks, hands clumsy and shaking as he tried to shove his cock back inside. the length was soft now, heavy and sticky against his palm, smeared with spit and dripping the last of his release down his wrist. every brush of fabric dragged a shiver out of him, too sensitive, too raw, until he hissed through his teeth. 

he finally managed to tuck himself away, the wet patch blooming darker over his crotch, his obscene girth still bulging obvious through the ruined fabric. shame burned through him—anyone who looked would know exactly what had happened.

satoru glanced at you once more, words forming and dying on his tongue. he wanted to tell you how beautiful you’d looked, how you’d ruined him in ways he didn’t know he could be ruined, how every moan you’d wrung out of him would haunt him for the rest of his life.

but he only managed a strangled, “i'll see you at school,” before he turned away.

the bass swallowed him as he slipped toward the exit, shoulders hunched, shame and guilt and unspent desire burning a hole in his chest.

behind him, you stayed perched on the ruined couch, legs still sticky with his cum, eyes glinting in the neon haze.

satoru didn't look back.

Your head didn’t ache. Your limbs didn’t feel heavy. There was no immediate rush of regret flooding your chest. Instead, there was quiet. You turned your face into the pillow, let out a breath, and muttered to no one, “Okay.” Time to face the uncomfortable talk after sex.

You sat up and took in the room. Simple. Masculine. Clean lines, warm colors, nothing flashy but nothing lazy either. There were books on the nightstand — actual books, not decorative ones —, a leather jacket slung over the back of a chair and some paintings around the drawers. On the dresser: a watch, a set of keys, and a single photograph of a little girl with messy hair and a missing tooth smile, holding a glitter-covered rock like it was treasure. You stared for a second and then looked away.

You found your dress draped neatly over the foot of the bed. Your heels were lined up side-by-side. Your phone was plugged in. He had plugged in your phone.

Jungkook was already annoying.

You uncomfortable put the dress on and wandered barefoot into the apartment, your shoes and bag in one hand. The smell of coffee led you to the kitchen, where you stopped. It looked like a catalog ad. Sleek counters. Stainless steel. A French press on the counter, half-full. And Jungkook — standing at the stove, shirtless, in grey sweatpants, flipping something in a pan like this was a Tuesday. You could see all his tattoos better now in daylight.

“Morning,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “Hope you like eggs.”

“Are they poisoned?” you asked, voice scratchy with sleep.

“Only slightly,” he said. “I didn’t want you getting attached.”

You smirked, leaning against the wall. “You cook breakfast for all your one-night stands?”

“Only the ones who snore like they pay rent.”

“I don’t snore.”

He shrugged. “You snore pretty.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled.

There was something infuriating about how comfortable he looked. Like your presence didn’t throw him at all. Like he’d been cooking for someone his whole life and had learned the art of giving without asking. He handed you a mug of coffee without being prompted.

You took a sip. “Okay, fine. This is good.”

“Roasted it myself,” he said. You narrowed your eyes. He raised a brow. “What? You think tattoo artists can’t have hobbies?”

“No, I think you’re trying too hard to be impressive.”

“I’m really not,” he said, plate in hand now. “You’re just easily impressed.”

You followed him to the kitchen island, sliding onto the stool while he set down two plates — eggs, toast, avocado. Clean, unfussy, hot.

“You know,” you said between bites, “I was expecting more… chaos.”

“Because I have tattoos?”

“Because you have a child.”

Jungkook nodded, chewing thoughtfully. “Fair. But I like things in order. When you’ve got a seven-year-old who believes glitter is a personality trait, you need to carve out the calm somewhere.” You paused mid-chew. He caught it. “Yeah, you saw the picture.”

“I saw a glitter rock,” you said carefully.

“Suni’s masterpiece,” he said. “It lives in my glove compartment now. She made me promise to take it with me ‘in case the car gets sad.’” You blinked, and for the first time that morning, something twisted slightly behind your ribs. Jungkook reached for the pepper grinder. “Relax. She’s with her mom this week. You don’t have to run screaming just yet.”

Now you knew his daughter’s name. You needed to leave that place as soon as possible.

“I’m not running.”

“Yet.”

You tilted your head. “You’re older than me, aren’t you?”

He smirked. “What gave it away? The bad jokes or the emotional regulation?”

“Both,” you said. “How old?”

“Thirty-three.”

“Shit.”

“You?”

“Twenty-six.”

“Seven years,” he said, sipping his coffee. “Not bad.”

“Debatable.”

“Oh, come on. That just means I had a flip phone while you were still wearing glitter lip gloss.”

You gave him a long look. “It was Dior glitter lip gloss, thank you.”

Jungkook chuckled. “Of course it was.”

You two ate in a companionable silence for a moment. The kind that only came when both people knew exactly what this was and weren’t pretending otherwise.

“You live alone?” you asked.

“Most of the time. Sunni’s here on weekends and some weeknights. Her mom’s got a career that eats up a lot of travel.” You nodded, impressed by how easily he said it. No drama. No resentment. “And you?” he asked. “What do you do when you’re not scaring men in bars?”

“I run a company.”

“What kind of company?”

“Some Italian restaurants” you shrugged.

Jungkook blinked. “You don’t look like a woman who tolerates gluten.”

“I don’t,” you said, joking. “But I respect the culture.”

He smiled. “You’re funny.”

“I know.”

There was a pause. He leaned back, watching you now. Not ogling, but observing. Calm. Focused. The kind of gaze that made most men look like they were fidgeting.

“You’re smart,” he said. Not like a pickup line but just a fact.

You didn’t hesitated. “I am.”

“Went to school for it?”

“Law. Worked in a firm for three months and then I got bored.”

“Of course you did,” he said. “You’ve got that ‘I will destroy you with precedent and poise’ energy.”

You laughed again. Goddammit. Jungkook reached for something on the counter — a pen, a sticky note — and scribbled quickly. Then slid it toward you across the granite like it was a contract.

“My number,” he said. “In case you ever want to feel in control again.”

You stared at it for a second, amused. “You giving this to all your hook-ups?”

“No,” he said. “You’re the first one who’s tried to negotiate my egg seasoning.”

You folded the note, sliding it into your bag. “This doesn’t mean anything.”

“Didn’t say it did.”

“I’m not looking for anything serious.”

“Neither am I.”

You two locked eyes for a beat too long. Then you stood, brushed invisible lint off your dress, and said, “Well. This was surprisingly pleasant.”

Jungkook leaned on the counter, smiling like a man who had nothing to prove. “You say that like it’s a threat.” You didn’t reply. He watched you slip on your heels, toss your hair over one shoulder, and head toward the door. “Hey, Y/n,” he called out as you opened it.

You turned. “Huh?”

“You left your phone” he said, holding it up.

You crossed back, snatched it from his hand, and paused. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

You left. And Jungkook… shirtless, with two empty plates and the smell of coffee still warm in the air, just stood there for a second. Then he smiled to himself, shook his head once and thought softly, “Trouble.”

———

The Mariani office didn’t look like a restaurant headquarters. It looked like a magazine spread — clean marble surfaces, white oak floors, carefully curated vases that changed weekly, and coffee that somehow tasted like it had flown first class. You stood at the far end of the long glass conference table, arms crossed, legs sharp under a tailored navy suit dress that made people listen harder. The sunlight hit your hair just right, enough to not make you more annoyed that you already were.

You weren’t yelling. You never needed to yell. You just asked one question, the kind of question that made three department heads rethink their career choices.

“Why,” you said, tapping your finger once on the printout, “are there plastic menus in a space with velvet chairs and hand-painted walls?”

The woman across the table, Marisa, Events Director, blinked once. “They’re temporary. Just for the soft launch. We thought—”

“No. You didn’t think. You assumed,” you said, calm as possible. “Do you know what assumption tastes like, Marisa?”

The woman swallowed. “…cheap.”

“Exactly.”

You turned, walking toward the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the street below. Your office was just the penthouse floor of a restored building full of different offices in the heart of the city. Elegant but not flashy. Just like you. The newest Mariani location was three blocks away, still about to finish some last touches but the soft launch was already sending out invitations to critics and investors who had the collective power to destroy or elevate a brand in one dinner.

“Look, I’m not being difficult for sport,” you added, softer now. “We’re selling an experience, not just spaghetti and rigatoni. That means everything, from the plates to the fucking bathroom soap, tells the story of who we are. And we are expensive.”

There was silence. Then murmurs of agreement. You didn’t gloat. You just sipped your cold espresso and moved on when everyone agreed that it needed to be changed immediately.

Later that morning, you stepped into your personal office, shut the door with a firm click, and let yourself exhale. The new espresso cup you had was stale. You didn’t care. You hated interruptions when you were working, and this place - this bubble you’d built of quiet control - was the only space that ever felt fully yours.

You sat behind your desk and opened your laptop. Three dozen emails. Menu revisions from the Spain team. Budget approvals for Valencia. A note from the lawyer about a new licensing regulation. You moved through it fast, efficient, razor-sharp, completely in command. You weren’t just pretty or rich or terrifyingly well-dressed— you were brilliant. The kind of person who caught the missing zero in a spreadsheet before the finance guy noticed. Who remembered the name of the pastry chef’s dog and the exact shade of red the director had painted their front door.

And yet, despite your ruthless control, there was something fragile beneath it. Something you kept buried.

Halfway through responding to an investor memo, your phone lit up with a notification from the nursing home. You stared at it. Then clicked.

Rosa Mariani - Medical Update Available.

Rosa had been the only person who ever told you “no” and meant it. She had raised you between revolving door babysitters and parents who treated affection like a tax write-off. Rosa, with her gruff voice and soft hands. With her biscotti that could break teeth and the gentlest lullabies in Italian you had ever heard.

Now she was fading. Slowly, stubbornly, but definitely fading.

You sat back in your chair and ran a finger along the edge of your espresso cup. You didn’t cry. You never cried at work. Instead, you picked up your phone, dialed the facility, and asked for an update in that same composed, expensive voice you used with investors. After a few minutes of reassurance and politeness, you hung up.

Then you sat there for a moment, just breathing.

No one in the office would know that you were two seconds from driving to the other side of the city to sit at a bedside and beg a woman with Alzheimer’s to remember your name. No one would see that the CEO of and Italian chain food, a rich egocentric girl, was still the twelve-year-old girl who once clung to an apron and begged for another bedtime story in Italian.

You straightened. Pulled your jacket tight. And got back to work. Because vulnerability was not part of your brand. You decided to walk it off. Going to see the next thing in your list of duties of the day.

The new photos of the new - at least, about to be- Mariani location in Spain was a construction site dressed in potential. You were sure it smelled like sawdust and cement dust, but you could already picture the finished space in perfect detail: soft warm lighting, high arches, the curve of the host stand, the brass cutlery that would feel cool in a diner’s hand. You could see it like memory— because you’d built it in your mind a hundred times. You were ready to invest in that place. A step closer to Italy.

With a better mood, you decided to visit the new location in Seoul. The one that was about to launch soon and was just some streets away from the office.

You moved through the site in Louboutins, naturally. Your team… architects, designers, the head chef, a frazzled assistant named Gina with three iPads and a mild caffeine addiction, swarmed around you like bees trying to keep up.

“This wall was supposed to be Venetian plaster,” you said, voice calm, pointing at a freshly primed panel. “That’s drywall. Fix it.”

“Noted,” the contractor muttered, scribbling.

“And the sconces?” you asked, turning toward the entryway.

“Delayed. Backordered,” Gina jumped in, already scrolling.

“Find alternates. Hand-blown, amber glass, minimum three inches in diameter. If you show me anything that looks like it belongs in a Marriott I will walk into traffic.”

“Yes, boss.”

You turned on your heel, barely glancing at your tablet. “And where’s the espresso machine?”

“We change it for the bigger one you wanted. Shipping tomorrow,” one of the kitchen leads said. “Alessandro said he’d handle the calibration once it lands.”

“Good. Alessandro likes the pressure at 9 bars, not 11. It messes with the crema. And it actually makes the cortado taste better.”

There was a pause. “How do you know that?” Gina asked, blinking.

You looked at her. “He’s always bitching about it”

You knew the effect you had in people. The scary boss, the annoying CEO. The hateful manager. You knew what most people thought about you the first time they met you. Annoying, only cares for money and her business. It was true, in part.

You never smiled for effect. Never performed softness. But you remembered birthdays and food allergies. You caught mistakes before they became issues. You knew which chef refused to work under fluorescent lighting and which server got anxious before inspections. You expected excellence but you rewarded loyalty. And most people would rather disappoint a god than disappoint you. So you let the hate happened, because your team knew you by now. Specially when the pressure got you.

This, the life you had worked for. It was something that made you happy.

———

Your apartment sat like a crown atop the building — two floors of steel, glass, and unapologetic luxury. The kind of place people only saw in movies or real estate porn. High ceilings, dark marble floors, a spiral staircase that curved up like sculpture. Every detail was intentional. The lighting was soft, the art minimalist but personal — a giant abstract canvas from an artist Bohyung had once drunkenly hooked up with in Berlin, a few framed black-and-white photos from a trip the three of you had taken to Tokyo five years ago. The penthouse smelled like fresh basil and roasted tomatoes, the aftermath of your very rare decision to cook. Not that you couldn’t cook, because you definitely could. But it usually meant taking time for it — and you couldn’t waste seconds when you were running a big company— so you just preferred not to, unless you were showing off or trying to forget something.

Tonight was neither. Tonight was routine. Tuesday night dinner. An unspoken tradition between your two best friends and you, no matter how busy or jetlagged or generally dramatic your lives got.

Bohyung was already barefoot on the couch, swirling wine in one hand like a bored nobleman. His linen shirt was half-buttoned, his hair messily perfect. He worked in luxury estate acquisitions aka convincing rich people to buy even more properties they’d never live in. He had a gift for languages, for diplomacy, and for saying devastatingly rude things with a charming smile. Se-hoo sat across from him, legs crossed, sipping slowly from a glass of Barolo she’d brought. She ran a private consulting firm for high-profile rebrands — politicians, CEOs, scandals waiting to happen. She had a mind like a scalpel and the emotional range of a Russian novelist. Beautiful, deliberate, and cool as ice — except when she laughed, which was rare but honest.

You and Bohyung had been friends since kindergarten— trauma bonded over ballet recitals and broken curfews. Se-hoo arrived later, in your second year of university, transferring in after a semester scandal involving someone else’s fiancé and a shattered Baccarat tumbler. You two hated her for a week, then fell in love with her for life.

“You used real garlic,” Se-hoo said, tasting the pasta like she was judging it for a Michelin star.

You poured yourself a glass of wine. “I’m not a monster.”

“I mean, you are,” your other friend said, “but a monster with taste.”

“Thank you,” you said, pleased.

The three of you sat around the open-plan kitchen island, warm lighting and an already half-finished bottle of wine in the centre. The three of you ate, the three of you bitched. The three of you gossiped. And eventually, after the pasta had been cleared and the gelato opened, Bohyung struck.

“So,” he said casually, “how was mystery man?”

You rolled you eyes. “There is no mystery. He was just… you know.”

“Oh,” he said, lips twitching. “Just a fuck.”

“Exactly.”

Se-hoo raised an eyebrow. “A nameless fuck?”

“Jungkook,” you muttered.

“That sounds hot. He was hot.” she pointed out