luka

“I know,” Satoru eyes the girl getting dressed, something feels utterly hollow about only hearing your voice from the phone.

What if it were you picking out his tie, you sleeping in his bed? As if you’d ever give his dumbass the chance for shit.

“Listen, I’ll make it up to you. Promise.”

“You certainly say that a lot.”

“The boat tonight, remember? It will be so fun – also I didn’t fuck Erica, you can even ask her. Erica, come here.”

“I don’t want to talk to her, you idiot! I don’t care or want to know.”

“I really didn’t. Erica…”

“Jesus fuck,” you start to get dressed, putting the phone on speaker, viscerally cursing under your breath at your idiot boss as he gets the girl on the phone.

“It’s Gojo’s assistant, oh my gosh! Hi!”

“Hey Erica,” You start to rake a brush through your messy hair as she starts giggling and babbling on.

“We actually did not have sex!”

“Oh no? No blowjobs?”

“Nope!” You raise your brows in actual surprise at your slutty CEO. “Mr. Gojo just snorted coke off my ass and-”

“Erica!” You hear his panicked voice in the background, you can’t stop fucking snorting in laughter, shaking your head and wondering just how the fuck this is your life now.

“Well, you did!”

“Erica!?!” You hear the break in his voice and burst into even more laughter, how the fuck can he sound like a prepubescent teen at almost thirty?

“Well, we just partied. He seemed kinda stressed. He talked about you a lot, said you’re-”

“That’s enough!” Gojo snatches up the phone, you’re still snickering as you dab concealer under your eyes.

“No, put her back on the line, I like her,” you hear him sigh on the other line, and then the bubbly girl is back on the phone. “Erica, you seem sweet.”

“Oh, thank you so much!”

“Mhm, why don’t you find a guy who doesn’t act like a fifteen-year-old dick and snort coke off your ass at age thirty. One that can find his own tie, a nice guy maybe – someone who’d take you out on a date and kiss your hand or something. Yeah?”

There is a pause, then suddenly Erica glares right at Satoru, making him wonder just what the fuck you said.

“Hmm… you know, you’re right! You are smart!” You grin. “Mr. Gojo, I’m gone. Pick your own tie out!” You hear stomping and the door slamming, and you laugh deviously.

“You’re such an evil little fucking demon to me!”

“Oh, a demon hmm?” You glare at that phone. “Then good luck on your own, you little shit.”

“No! I’ll give you two days off!”

“You’re the fucking demon.”

“But like… I didn’t even fuck her!?”

“What do I care? I believe in Erica, she’s got this.”

Satoru sighs, shutting his eyes and leaning back against the wall. “You’re so fucking evil, I swear I hate you.”

“Same, I hate you even fucking more.”

“Do you hate me sweetheart?”

“Yes,” you two sigh simultaneously, like two angry little kids, when you say fuck it – it’s not like you’ll be working here much longer. “Okay I’ll do it – but you fucking owe me, Satoru.”

“That’s my girl! Anything you want  – you’re a lifesaver.”

“Yeah whatever.”

“I’ll be riding with Kiyotaka and come get you.”

“I can drive–”

“Nah. Quicker this way,” ugh as if you wanna be in the back of his fucking car after the other night. “Be there in twenty, wear something hot.”

“What? Why?”

“Sukuna will get distracted – lemme guess, you’re in some old nineteen fifties looking business suit.” You scowl at your reflection in the mirror –  he was spot the fuck on. “Oh! With  outdated shoulder pads I bet, and a tiny skinny belt.”

“What the fuck,  are you spying?” He chuckles as you yank off the peach colored jacket, just a white dress blouse and the business skirt. You pop open a couple of buttons. “Okay… looking less like a nineteen fifties prude, I guess.”

“Perfect. See you soon.”

***

You stand there that afternoon with your makeshift presentation on the little whiteboard in Gojo’s lavish boardroom. Sukuna is sitting there with his assistants, smirking up at you with a devious fucking grin, Gojo still has his sunglasses on, thank god, considering his eyes were bloodshot. He just grins and nods as you lay the proposal out.

Just sit there and look pretty.

You had literally told him that on the way

You think I’m pretty? Aww!

Gojo was a fucking idiot.

“I absolutely love this idea, it’s perfect for our marketing campaign.” Sukuna peers up at you, a dangerous smirk on his tanned face. He was very handsome but also pretty intimidating in a way, shoulders so broad the man could scarcely fit in his suit. His little assistants had puppy eyes for him, nodding on every sentence, and he relishes in that shit.

“Thank you, Mr. Sukuna,” you smile, and he tilts his head, ruby eyes just darting down to your cleavage, you weren’t showing too much but just enough that it got his attention.

Shit, Gojo had been right about something.

“I know this is all you and not Satoru,” he says then, shrugging a broad shoulder, grinning at Gojo.

Satoru’s hair was falling over his forehead, long and silky today versus the usual spiked up look, it makes him look all boyish and innocent, like he’s not a fucking deviant. His full lips tense just a bit as he leans back in the gray leather office chair.

“Mr. Gojo and I went over ideas together, but I did put it all in a presentation, that’s kind of my kink.”

Fuck, you said that!?

Sukuna bursts out laughing, and Gojo is chuckling then – you realize you’re kind of losing it, slamming a hand over your mouth in a panic.

“Is it now?” Sukuna stands and heads toward you, looking down all tall – fuck he’s even taller than Satoru if that was possible. His eyes were also more lewd than Gojo’s could have ever been, shameless with how they dance across your collarbones.

“I’m so sorry,” you mumble, sighing and fiddling nervously with your hands. “I have had a hell of a night. It was my birthday.”

“Oh, I see,” he brushes your hair back, Satoru about cuts his fucking hands off which is nonsense – he doesn’t have some claim over you.

Does he?

No, he doesn’t… yet.

Fuck.

“No worries, I actually enjoy someone being real with me, not sucking up to me and shit. That's why I work with Gojo and Geto.” Sukuna wraps an arm around Gojo’s shoulder then, smirking at him. “They don’t bullshit me – and fuck if Gojo doesn’t have good taste in pretty assistants.”

“I do have good taste.” Gojo stands, coming far too close to you, shoulder to shoulder damn near. You feel the high energies of both tall men – they seem to constantly battle, who is better at this, who is better at that – at one meeting they’d literally had an arm wrestling match.

Men.

“Let’s have a drink and celebrate. Your office, Satoru?” Gojo nods, leading the way as you gather your materials, hoping to head home – wanting a nap desperately, but Sukuna pauses, watching you intently.

“Quit eye fucking my damn assistant, Sukuna,” Gojo hisses those words, the audacious pink haired fucking man just grins.

“She’s too good to work here,” he flicks his ruby gaze back to yours. “If you ever get tired of this asshole, you know I’ll hire you.”

Gojo stiffens, fists clenching at his side, sliding down his shades and scowling at Sukuna with his pretty blue eyes bright as fuck, his blood pressure rising as the man just looks at your body like it could ever be his. It couldn’t, right? Not when you so clearly belong to him.

You take a little breath, before smiling and holding your composure, addressing Sukuna then. “I appreciate that, but I am very happy.”

Lies. Maybe – but you sure wouldn’t let Sukuna make Gojo look bad, even if you can’t stand him right now.

“Too fuckin’ bad,” Sukuna sighs, leaning close, a hand on your own. He takes it and places a kiss on the back of your knuckles, earning Gojo’s scowl. “Always a pleasure.”

“Likewise,” you smile as the two shove into the hallway – there was so much masculinity in there it had been hard to breathe.

You just can’t wait to get a nap before this boat ride.

***

The boat rocks gently beneath you later that evening, the warm breeze rustling through your hair as you gaze out at the ocean – the setting sun was painting the waves that were a brilliant shade of crimson and orange in the sky, reflecting on the water. Satoru is nearby, his broad shoulders hunched over the steering wheel of the boat as he expertly navigates through the choppy waters with ease.

All while having a joint hanging from his lips, smoking with a lit cherry.

He was quite the damn sight, if you admitted it – you watch him curiously as he talks to the captain, Gojo’s boat was elaborate and gorgeous, little white fairy lights illuminating every inch of it. It was just the two of you and two men aboard who helped Gojo with the mechanics of things, it was honestly peaceful on the water.

The faint scent of salt and seaweed drifts through the air, mixing with the taste of the sweet, fruity drink you are sipping. You can feel the alcohol rushing through you –  that delicious, buzzing warmth spreading through your veins. It makes your head spin just a little, and heat shoots down to your core.

The sight of Gojo driving a boat also just does things to you…

“Are you feeling good, sweetheart?” He is next to you in a flash. You nod, leaning your arms back on the railing, tilting your head back and looking up at the pretty pink clouds.

“Very fucking good, hmm,” your words slur just a bit.

“Want a hit? Or too much of a goody good?” He holds the joint, and you take a hit from it as he holds it to your lips – much to his surprise. You suck it in, letting the smoke fill your lungs, before gently exhaling it out in a puffy cloud, making Satoru’s white eyebrows raise.”

“What,” you cover a little cough with your hand. “Do you think I’ve never smoked weed?”

“Honestly? No, you seem so…”

“Goody Goody.”

“Yeah that.” Gojo takes another hit now, joint between those lips – leaning on the rails, flicking the little tip of the ashes out.

“I am not cool with coke, no, but weed is okay.”

“You’ve surprised me a lot lately,” he admits softly.

“I’m just so full of surprises,” you grin all pretty and fucking heartbreaking, the golden hour just gleaming on your pretty skin, making him ache to kiss every inch of it.

What if he wasn’t such a fucking idiot?

Could he ever have a girl like you?

He watches as you lean back again, your body half off the railing now, the cool spray of the ocean against your skin. “Careful, now,” he murmurs, gently holding your waist as the boat rocks, jostling you just a bit.

Your hands land on Gojo’s chest, clutching the open dress shirt, eyeing his bare chest, strong, lean, muscled…

“You’re stupidly hot,” you mumble the words, and her laughs, chest moving against your skin, rising up and down – the boat sways a bit as you look up at his unfairly pretty face.

“Oh? Just how fucking buzzed are you, my pretty little assistant?” Satoru errantly plays with a lock of your hair, destroying you with every breath.

“Very buzzed, buzz buzz buzz.” You start buzzing like a cute little bee, leaning back against the railing again, making him fucking ache as he sees the curve of your body, wondering if you’d arch like that underneath him.

“I’ve never seen you drunk, this is hilarious. Thought you’d be too stiff.” He brings your body upright to face him, lost in just how the sun is reflecting in your eyes.

God he knew you were pretty but what the fuck is this? How does he handle anything casually or even sexually when you’re so pretty he’s ruined?

“I have a drink after work kind of frequently, but usually just one,” you hold up your pointer finger, swaying again, steadied by those big hands, earning your cheeks flushing. “Then I just pass the fuck out like whoo!”

Satoru’s lips curve up, his snowy lashes lowering. “I drive you to drink, do I?”

“Sure…. Sure fucking… do.  Mmm. Buzz Buzz.” You’re giggling at some joke your buzzed brain tells you, humming and turning, shimmying against this tall gorgeous jerk of a man with your ass against his muscled thighs.

Satoru tenses, it takes everything not to start rutting against your ass with his cock like he’s some fucking animal in heat, not Satoru Gojo.

“You… good baby girl?” He murmurs faintly, you hate that the words send these damn signals straight to your pussy, making you pulse around nothin’.

“I’m not good in general, but I’m good now,” you lean forward, deliberately pressing your ass against Gojo’s hardness, eliciting a hiss from him and a grip on you tightly on your hips, hands hot against you.

“Why hide this nice ass in your baggy work suits? It’s a whole fucking crime,” Satoru’s hand slides down the curve of your ass, making you giggle.

“Oh, would you be able to focus, Sir?” You look over your shoulder, biting your lower lip as you feel him squeeze harder, his length making you ache for him to be buried deep.

“Fuck no, but now I know it’s there, and that will just make me mad,” you wiggle your ass again and he tenses, yanking you up and standing you straight, cupping your chin and tilting it to face him. “Are you teasing me, fucking brat?”

“Teasing Mr. Gojo, the notorious womanizer!? Imagine! I’m a whole fucking femme fetale,” you turn – just a little dizzy, leaning back against the railing and unbuttoning your blouse just one, drawing his blue eyes are there in an instant. “How could I? You’re so, so experienced! Me, a whole nun.”

“Maybe I think nuns are fucking hot,” Gojo’s hands tighten on your waist, and you pop another button. “Very hot.”

“Oh, so is that your kink, Satoru? Nun fucking?”

You pop one more, making your cute tits spill out just enough, your hand trailing along your collarbone. You had no clue what you were doing, you had never seduced or really even flirted much. You did not care if you looked silly though. It was too fun, and the alcohol has stripped any of your inhibitions away.

Gojo stands there holding his breath, tongue sliding along his lower lip. “You’re playing with fire, sweetheart.... You know that right?”

“You’re so fucking edgy! Oooh, Daddy Gojo! Please punish me!” You’re giggling all pretty and cute, Satoru Gojo holds you, bending over your body to plant a hot kiss on your exposed throat. You gasp against better judgment, crying out softly when he bites at the delicate skin, damn near breaking it with those sharp canines.

His whimper is muffled against your neck thank god, imagine Satoru Gojo of all people whimpering from just a peck on your skin, feeling you shiver in his arms. He’s consumed by your scent, the taste of your skin mingling with the little bit of sea salt that’s sprayed on it, kissing even higher and feeling your body pressed against his.

You’re in just as deep, feeling heady and dizzy off his lips, his scent, his touch… you had to wonder just how he tasted.

“Look at that, I found out how to make you sweet,” he kisses down across those collarbones that are begging for his attention, your hands entwined in those silky white locks of hair, sucking in a breath through your teeth. “Shut you right up.”

“You… you shut up,” you feel his breathy laugh against you.

“You’re such a little brat, mmm… I bet she’s wet already,” a finger slides down your tummy, under the waistband of your jeans, popping the little button there. “You’re way too easy for me, aren’t you?”

“It’s… it’s not wet. Nope, it’s l-like the Sahara fucking desert,” he snorts at that, lips kissing higher, unzipping your jeans just a little, centimeter by centimeter, excruciating. You ache for him in ways you’ve never felt, wanting his touch so badly, not that you’d fucking say it to his conceited ass.

“A desert, hmm? I’m so terrified,” he murmurs, sliding one of his long fingers further, where the cute little hood of your pussy was, barely grazing your puffy lips, torturous and teasing.

“You should be. Snakes and shit in the Sahara. Like… mmm…” Your lashes flutter, he pulls back to watch you hungrily.

“Oh? Cat got your tongue again?” he’s a breath from your lips now.

How have you not kissed him yet? How did you make it over two years without giving in? Even if the man is a coke snorting, nepo baby slut, it’s not like you don’t want him, and if you quit what is the harm of trying those sinful lips once? That’s how you rationalize it in your head, as you lean forward, pulling him to you by his collar.

Your lips part as his fingertip grazes your twitchy lil clit, pressing up and running the pad of it on her, he moans in this slutty fucking way as he touches you, cheeks flushed this pretty pink. Satoru’s glittering blue eyes darken as he looks down at you, drinking you in.

“Fuck…” that’s all he manages, looking at how goddamn pretty you are – he could literally cum from touching your slick, moving his fingertip in a pretty pattern to watch you fall apart.

Satoru closes the distance in moments, his lips were damn near on yours just a breath away, your noses touching. Your heart pounds in your chest so rapidly you’re dizzy, but he doesn’t kiss you, even as his fingers slide under your panties, already stuck with strings of your slick as he pulls them.

He kisses the corners of your mouth, each side, then just below your lower lip as the rough pad of one of his finger tips finds your entrance, swirling in your wetness and teasing, his lashes casting shadows on his cheeks.

“Fuck you’re beautiful,” his murmured words ruin you, making you whine rather pitifully in your opinion. “God you’re so fucking wet already. Do you want me to kiss you, baby girl? Want me to get you off?”

“I…” You gulp, seeing his smirk now. Shit, he’s gonna gloat forever over this. “Ugh… yes, okay?”

“Yes, please, Daddy.”

“You fucking wish – hell no, just kiss me, dick.” You try to yank him to you but he pulls back, grinning like a devious shit.

“Ask me nicely.”

“No.” You shake your head, knowing the power he was trying to take.

Satoru tuts his lips, yanking his hand away and making you whine out in frustration, he leans over you, tilting his head. “Say ‘Please’ you stubborn little brat.”

His lips brush against your cheeks as he tortures you over your panties again, your hands clutch his dress shirt.

“Say it and I’ll get your needy lil cunt off, hmm?”

“Fuck…” He stays there watching you with a raised brow, killing you to get you to admit it, to say it. “Please.”

Gojo’s lips slam into yours, the sensation annihilating any willpower you have left about you. Your whines drank by his soft lips, back arching as you tip toe to get even more of his kisses, his tongue sliding expertly against your own. Too expertly in fact – you’re mad anyone kissed him before.

What nonsense.

Satoru’s got you ridiculously wet against your jeans from a damn kiss of all things, his hand sliding back down, trembling ever so slightly as it explores your dripping wet cunt, running up and down your already messy slit. You’re trembling and gasping from the pleasure as hot need hits your core.

Satoru damn near fucks right into you, you’re utterly consuming everything around him, your scent, the curves of your body against him, how wet you goddamn are, everything about you. You just consume him, to the point he can’t even remember another name but yours in his head, with every soft gasp, every bit of your wetness that drools on his fingers.

They swirl in aching little circles on your swollen bundle of nerves, eliciting breathy little cries from your pretty lips, his other hand slides up, dipping under your blouse, finding your tit in his hand with ease and cupping it. The peak pebbles right up, hard against his hot palm, like she’s begging for his mouth instead, which he’s more than ready to give you.

He pinches that nipple with two fingers as the other hand plays with your needy little cunt, you’re so lost you can’t even think, all you know is you want more than that teasing fingertip. You want all of him. To feel that initial stretch as he pulls back and looks down at you.

“Satoru…” You whisper against his lips, your hips grinding for more of his touches, thighs spread, Satoru looks at you with those beautiful blue eyes, shadows of his handsome face with the setting sun… “I want-”

The ship rocks then suddenly, and you scream as you’re thrown off the goddamn rails and fly into the water.

Well, shit.

Cockblocked by the fucking ocean!?

Satoru is shouting out your name, and you sputter as the chilly water hits you, soaking your clothes, and the current starts to drag you down. You fight to doggie paddle, trying to tread water as best as you could, cursing yourself for not throwing on the life jacket like he suggested.

“Hang on, shit!” He throws the jacket and you glare up at him, clinging to it and narrowing your eyes. “Put it on!”

“You fucking idiot, how!? I’m going to drown,” he starts slipping off his fancy ass dress shoes that are thousands of dollars, hopping on one leg and throwing you a tube then instead, half inflated. “Satoru are you serious!?”

“Well these can’t get wet – hold on!”

“Fuck it let me drown,” you hold onto the tube as you look at him slipping off his dress shirt. “You’re a selfish little shit.”

“I’m coming okay!? God you’re always so impatient!”

“You’re a… f-fucking… ah, idiot!” Satoru leans over the rails and scowls at you.

“You’re calling me an idiot and expecting me to save you?”

“Don’t then! At least I won’t have to fucking work for your dumbass. Your Gucci shoes go fuck yourself.”

“You’re such a bitch!”

“You’re a stupid dick!” He curses, panic setting in when you sputter around even with his generous help with the floats, and in a flash Gojo dives off the boat, right when you’re sputtering, going under once more, holding your breath.

Satoru grabs you in his strong arms for a moment, treading water as he holds you, you come back up and start coughing, water burning your throat and nostrils, tears slipping down your cheeks.

“Fuck you…” You’re shaking and he sighs now, his heart breaking as he realizes the actual danger you were in, sobering him right up.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs then, swimming back toward the boat. “Hang on to me, okay?” His voice was breaking in the middle, and suddenly you’re thankful for this damn idiot and his strong swimming ability.

You nod, clinging to his wet, muscled form tightly, linking around the neck, your legs wrapped around him. You all make it back and Gojo helps you climb the little pull out ladder quickly, picking you up so you don’t have to do the work, your limbs trembling. You collapse on the deck of his boat, chest heaving, so thankful you could kiss the damn deck

“Th-thank you.” You whisper finally, he shushes you, helping you up.

“I have plenty of clothes here, okay? Let’s get you out of these.” You nod, looking at him then, soaked head to toe, every inch of his toned body on display, the shirt being off is like a cruel joke.

He’s an idiot, but he’s pretty.

“Y-yes.”

You let Gojo lead you under down the stairs, to the little bedroom inside the boat, you noticed errantly how pretty and clean it was as you shiver, cold to the bone.

“Ya know, when I said get wet for me, I didn’t mean this wet,” Gojo dodges your smack, grinning as he grabs towels and clothes out of the slate gray dresser.

“You… ugh, I can’t…” You sigh, bursting out into a snort of laughter then. “I can’t fucking stand you, throwing a deflated floatie? God you’re dumb.”

“I know,” he admits as you’re laughing softly now, at the ridiculous situation, struggling with cold, shaky hands to unbutton your top. Gojo wraps a towel around your shoulders quickly, and you see he’d already gotten naked somehow. You avert your eyes with a blush. “Let me.”

He unbuttons and unzips your clothes quickly, and you two pause then, your breasts taut, nipples rock hard from the cold, rising and falling in the see through blouse, now open. He swallows but says nothing, though you expect some ridiculous lewd comment, instead he helps you slide it off, quickly wrapping you with the white fluffy towel.

“Thank you,” you whisper, suddenly a bit shy as you’re pulling your jeans off, grimacing at the heavy soaking feeling as they stick around your ankles. You yank them off fully, then, noticing that Gojo had a towel on his waist now, bare aside from that.

HIs body was chiseled within every inch of your life, long muscled legs, every bit of him toned, your damn throat goes dry.

“You’re… okay?” You nod, snuggling into the towel, he wraps a blanket around you as well, pretty eyes drinking you in. “Can I say something?”

“Yes, of course you can. You kind of just saved my ass, sort of… after almost letting me die, I guess?” And he had, without hesitation saved you, even if he was a little bit slow at it, he tried. It made you think…

Did he care about you?

Do you want him to?

“What is it, Satoru?”

“You’re…really beautiful,” his voice is husky, and you melt at that, warmth sliding back through your body until you were shivering for an entirely different reason than the cold water – desire.

“You don’t have to say that,” he tucks some of your damp hair behind your face, clearing his throat, before catching your gaze again.

“You are. Like some mermaid, or something stupid corny that I can’t even believe I’m thinking,” a thumb slides over your lower lip, rough across the sensitive flesh, making you ache. You kiss the thumb before thinking better, nibbling it, not putting much thought into the action, it just felt… good. “Fuck.”

He breathes out that word, leaning forward. “I-You’re beautiful.”

He smirks just a bit. “You’re being too nice, must be drunk.”

“Not now, that water really sobered me up,” you sigh, shutting your eyes for a morning. “I am confused about literally everything though. I was so sure of things, even this morning, I was like yeah I’m done. Now you confuse me.”

You wanted his hands on you, the ones cupping your face and caressing your jaw line. You wanted Gojo’s body on you in the worst possible way. His lips all over your skin – but did him being beautiful and charming really excuse all of the past couple years? Did it change anything?

“I’m confused too, I thought you were…” He trails off, shaking his head then. “I don’t know what I thought. When you fell… I…” his voice breaks, as if that were something he did not want to delve into, sighing and looking away.

“Yes?” You urge him on a bit, but he just laughs, a little dark, the sound making you tense.

“These will be way too long since you’re way shorter, but here.” He turns and then hands you some gym shorts and a black top. You take them, ever curious about what he had wanted to say.

“Thank you, they're perfectly fine – anything is better than that.” You look at your soaked clothes in disgust.

“Yeah… our clothes are hopeless. I’ll get dressed too. Wanna crash here or should I have Kiyotaka drive you later?”

You turn, starting to slip on Gojo’s clothes, feeling his gaze on your back when your towel falls. The feeling of his eyes was thrilling, as if that gaze was caressing you, making you just a little bold as you peek over your shoulder.

“No, I won’t make the poor man work more.”

The moonlight was glowing now as the sun has fully set through the window, Satoru watches as it makes your luminous skin glow, his gaze tracing your supple curves hungrily. You slide on his shorts, and the thought of you naked against his clothes made him hard all over again, nearly as hard as when he’d been pressed against you, feeling your wetness, kissing you…

Fuck it takes everything not to bend you right over that bed and slide his cock inside your needy cunt, to leave handprints on your ass.

He fucked up earlier, he is sort of dumb sometimes, but you wearing his clothes makes him utterly feral, hardly able to control it when you turn back to him, smiling, baggy shirt and shorts on now, tying the shorts into a tight little knot.

“These are super comfy!”

He smiles a bit, tilting his head and studying you. “Yeah? Well, you look cute in them.”

You blush furiously, though he’d just seen you naked, just touched you… but somehow this was so intimate. “So…”

“Hmm?”

“What… What's going on exactly? With us I mean.”

He rubs the back of his neck, looking to the side, the other hand casually in one of the pockets of his gray sweats. Of course he’d wear those slutty fucking things, his dick print glaringly apparent. Ugh… you try to not look, instead focusing on his face, his lips parted just a bit.

“I don’t know. I used to be so scared of you, y’know?”

“Oh jesus,” you roll your eyes. “Just stop it there.”

“Look, he sighs and cups your face. “You’re mean, yeah? Like you’re just a little powerhouse at things, a perfectionist. Now… I also see that you can be sweet, and god… you’re like also really fucking hot?”

“Poetic,” You grimace and look at this idiot – what had you expected? Gojo sighs, coming up to you, tilting your chin up a bit.

“Words aren’t my strong suit, sweetheart.”

You pretend to gasp. “Gojo Satoru admits he has a weakness? I’m going to faint from the shock.”

“Shut that cute little mouth,” he kisses you then, again, more aggressive this time than before, hand entangled in your damp locks, you glare and push at him a bit, breaking the kiss. He smirks down at you. “This is more my lane.”

“I see,” you sigh, shaking your head. “What am I even doing?”

“Getting wet for me, in many ways tonight.” He winks with a shit eating grin, and you scowl.

“Oh god, don’t even start.”

“I… swept you off your feet! Literally! Haha! Ha! I’m amazing!” Gojo smacked his thighs, laughing loudly, and you try to hold it in – you really do, until you can’t hold it in, snorting and joining his laughter.

“You’re an idiot!” He tugs you against him as you’re laughing, head falling on his hard chest, smelling the clean fresh scent he had, feeling the heat of him, craving more than you should.

“I had to! It was golden, baby. Golden. I got Miss stuck up brat to laugh.”

“I am so not stuck up, you have to stop with that. You’re the conceited little shithead here.”

“Nah, you are, but you’re loosening up some. I wonder… are you super tight here too?” Gojo yanks you by the waistband of his shorts, eyes bright blue, your lips quirk up as you smack his hand and lean back.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” His gaze gets lidded, conceited little grin on his face.

“I’ll wait till you beg for that, too,” he pats you on the head, then, turning away and walking a bit.

“I did not beg you!” You protest, following him back up to the deck. He snatcheds up two bottles of water, handing you one.

“Sure did. Please, please!” You wanted to fall into a hole, cheeks heating furiously. “You know when you blush, it’s your tits too.”

“What!? You fucking pervert!”

“Hmm, I wonder if it’s all over.”

“Ugh!” You sip the water with shaky hands, rolling your eyes. “I didn’t beg you at all, I was polite.”

You’re so goddamn cute he can’t help the dopey grin on his face. “Uh huh.”

“Yep.”

“Then I’ll wait for you to really beg for my touch, if that was only politeness,” he murmurs, you raise a brow.

“I won’t beg, ever, so don’t hold your breath.”

“I don’t even get a kiss for saving you? You really are ungrateful,” he was back in front of you, popping up like some annoying pest.

“You make no goddamn sound when you walk, the hell?”

“You don’t pay enough attention. Too wrapped up thinking about me,” he shoots you a wink.

“You wish. And I already kissed you!”

“Uh uh,” he taps your nose, making it scrunch up. “I kissed you. You kiss me now, as a thank you.” He crosses his arms, leaning back against the little black round table where the waters sit.

“Fine, fair is fair.” You put your hands against his chest, sliding one against it softly, paying attention to the catch of his breath. Your eyes hit him as your arms slid around his neck, lips are just a breath away, and one of his hands clutches the curve of your waist. “Hmm… maybe you should beg for it.”

“Mean little brat,” you pull his own moves, a kiss on each corner of his lips, then one on the bottom, hovering.

“Say please, Mr. Boss man,” your tongue slides against his lower lip then, his grip tightens painfully, pressing into your ribcage as he struggles to focus.

“No way.”

“Then, good night,” you spin quickly, and he grips your wrist, scowling right at you, especially when he sees your grin.

“You’re the worst, ugh,” Satoru leans down, but you back off, playing his game and making him grimace in frustration. “I’m not begging, baby girl, I’m Satoru fucking Gojo. You have it the wrong way, here.”

“Then no kiss for you, poor baby,” you tap his pink lips with your finger, smirking at him. You too could play this game.

“You’re such a brat, y’know ya want me,” he kisses down your neck, but you pull away before he could go too far.

“Ahem,” you clear your throat and look at his dilated eyes. “I get the bed, right?”

“We’ll share. I’m an expert cuddler,” he wiggles his brows,earning your eyes rolling back in your skull.

“One of your strong suits hmm?”

“Absolutely it is.”

“Weird because usually the girls I get Ubers for don’t look like they get cuddled, fucked maybe.”

“Maybe I didn’t want to cuddle anyone,” he glares now. “You should be so honored, fucking brat that you are.”

“I am such a special ‘brat’, huh?” You tease but Satoru actually looks a little serious as he studies your face, eyes narrowing a tad.

“You’re something that’s for sure,” he swallows down what he really wants to say, smirking instead. “Fucking crazy.”

“Says you!”

“Mmhmm. Cuddles or no? Has anyone ever cuddled you?”

“I…” You pause, frowning.

“That’s a no.”

“I have been! Um. Yeah totally cuddled, I think… Well, shit.”

“That’s another reason you’re so mean, no cuddles. We add that to no orgasms and you finally make sense,” he taps your nose again, chuckling when you try to smack at him. “I’ll be a perfect gentleman. Promise.”

He holds up two of his long fingers, and you hate your own brain – It’s just pure horny.

Why are they so thick, ugh!

“Unless, you don’t trust yourself! Would you take advantage of me!?” He puts a hand to his chest, gasping, you snort.

“You’re such an idiot, I won’t take advantage of you. In your dreams, maybe.”

“In my nightmares you just tape me down and make me go to your Ted Talks about law and finance,” he fakes a shiver. “It’s scary!”

“Fuck off,” you cover your amusement with a yawn. “Okay, let’s crash, and if you get handsy you’ll be going for the next swim.”

Gojo gives you a salute. “Ay ay Captain.”

You are going to cuddle with your boss…

Your boss you really wanna punch… who threw a floatie at you and had to take off his damn dress shoes. A complete idiot cokehead, who takes you for granted, but tonight something… something got you, when he tugs you in his arms and you both lay down together.

You want Satoru Gojo.

This idiot is starting to fucking get you.

he's so dumb lmao I cackled rewriting that boat scene

Criminal!Sukuna who lights up in the most feral way whenever your name comes up. Won’t admit it, of course. But it’s obvious how he stops pacing when the mail comes. He snatches your envelopes out of the stack like a territorial dog, scowling at anyone who looks over.

Criminal!Sukuna who sits in his cell reading pages upon pages of you calling him a brain-dead brute with no sense of decorum. Threats piling up saying you’ll break things off completely if he doesn’t clean up his act when he gets out.

He smiles anyway. Because the letters smell like your perfume. Lips splitting wide in that creepy, clinically unwell way that has Gojo surmising Sukuna must have stockholm-syndromed his way into his relationship somehow.

Criminal!Sukuna who writes back instantaneously. Pencil scritching against paper like he’s got a vendetta – and perhaps he does, because he writes venomous, downright heinous shit. All watch your tone and you won’t find a better fuck, signed with a little sketch of his dick. For good measure, of course.

𓀐𓂺 𓀐𓂸

Criminal!Sukuna who spends half his sentence arguing with you through busted-up phone receivers and glass partitions. Sometimes you’ll be face to face at the visitation area, nary a word spoken. Once, you threaten to “start seeing someone normal”, and he slams the counter so hard the whole thing jostles.

There’s something special in the way you speak to him. Like he’s an exceptionally stupid man, and not a dangerous bastard with an egregiously extensive crime record.

“Do you want to get out of prison,” you hiss, enunciating each syllable with a finger jabbed hard at the glass, “or do you want to buttfuck your cellmate?”

Sukuna’s sprawled in his chair, massive arms folded with a sleazy grin, eyes glimmering with mirth. He leans closer.

“Depends. You gonna dump me if I do?”

“Maybe.”

The phone receiver slams against the cradle on his side so hard the inmate six seats down flinches. Sukuna stands to full height, chair scraping back loud across the floor. Hunched over the counter.

“You try it,” he sneers. “See what happens.”

A normal person would back down right about now. Think: hey, this probably isn’t a healthy or sustainable relationship! I should end things right here!

You do not. Instead, you stand and collect your things, a vein pulsing at your forehead as you muster a sweet smile. “Maybe I will.”

He stares ahead three long seconds after you leave, then drops back into his chair, muttering curses beneath his breath as a reprimanding guard draws near.

Criminal!Sukuna who finally gets that long-awaited conjugal visit slot after years of good behavior (read: not slamming anyone’s head into a wall for about a week and a half). And lucky him, you’ve requested special accommodations! – a little trailer just off prison grounds. 

He would’ve been fine fucking you for all to hear, too, but he digresses.

He’s half-hard just from the walk out the confine, veins prominent as his cuff-clad hands twist together. Too busy thinking to bother snarking at the guards who trail behind him.

He wonders what he’ll do when he sees you first. Maybe he’ll smirk, make a snide comment. Or maybe instinct’ll take over, and he’ll bury his face in your hair and his dick in your pussy. Who’s to say?

He’s excited. Very. In many ways.

Criminal!Sukuna who’s one foot into the trailer when he freezes up. The guards have to push him through, slamming the door behind him as his system reboots.

Something tambourines across his ribcage as his eyes meet yours, pounding, pounding– fuck. There you are.

God, he’s missed you.

“You’re staring.”

“..you’re breathing.”

“Yes, that tends to happen.”

His fingers twitch, a soft exhale escaping.

He can’t even find it in himself to be pissed. You’re so pretty. Especially when you’re mad. The angrier you get and the sharper you snap back, the brighter that little gleam in your eyes burns.

Sukuna likes it. He likes it a lot.

He likes you a lot.

The sole reason he even bothered to behave long enough to earn this visit was so he could see that exact frown on your lips once more.

Criminal!Sukuna who’s snapped out of his reverie with the telltale warning of your fingers threading through his hair.

Then those exact lips slam against his with a hiss, your teeth clashing, biting and pulling at his bottom lip as if punishing him for all the time you’ve lost.

His hands – still restrained – press into your waist.

He can’t be bothered to care.

He’s on a sugar high for the first time in months, swallowing down your sativa taste until he’s lightheaded and preening, the outline of kuna junior™ peeking out his orange garb to wave hello.

Your grip on his hair tightens, tugging when his metal cuffs digs into you. In the way. You shoot him a glare, and he snarls beneath his breath.

“Hold still, woman.”

“I am holding still, you dolt–”

There’s a sharp crack!

All you see is the flex of his forearms before the cuffs give way, steel snapping like cheap jewelry and skewing across the trailer floor.

Criminal!Sukuna who hauls you up by your thighs, slamming your back against the flimsy trailer wall so hard a framed motivational poster clatters to the floor. His mouth’s on your throat, kissing tattoos into your skin while he grinds his aching length against the warmth of your clothed cunt.

Criminal!Sukuna who swipes your panties to the side instead of bothering to take them off. There’s a wet spot where he’s been grinding that has his smile spreading mean, two fingers rubbing at your clit before dipping in and crooking up.

“No one’s been spreading you right, huh? Miss me that bad?”

“Missed the dick. Didn’t miss the mouth.”

He snorts at that. Mutters “brat” beneath his breath as he drags his fingers out, slow and glistening, smearing slick along your folds before pushing them back in deep. “Lucky the mouth missed you.”

Criminal!Sukuna who drops to his knees. More collapse than kneel, weight falling hard as he plants himself to the floor, thighs spread wide, hands gripping at your ass to pull you closer. Then he smiles up, tongue running along his molars in anticipation.

Criminal!Sukuna who eats you out like he’s starved. Who dives in with no preamble, mouth sealing over your cunt, tongue flat and broad and greedy as he drags it from your entrance up in one long, lewd-sounding swipe. He takes a moment to grin against your clit, tongue swirling messy circles as his nose presses to the warmth of your skin. Then he’s enveloping the puffy nub between his lips and sucking hard enough to make your hips jerk, humming low when his fingers swipe through your folds and meet a gush of arousal. You buck into the feeling with a whine his name, nails scraping through his scalp, and he practically groans, a hand dropping down to unzip and jerk himself off.

Criminal!Sukuna who gets slower when he’s about to insert himself. Who brushes his tip through your folds, kissing gently at your clit before going back down to gather slick. Then he notches himself at your entrance and thrusts in, agonizingly unrushed, grunting as he sinks into your warmth.

It’s been a while, but his dick still recognizes the feeling like a soldier coming home from war. The fluttering, the way you suck him in like you never forgot him at all – like you waited for him just like he waited for you and worried for him wholly more.

The stretch aches. Your nails rake bloody reality down his back. A groan escapes unbidden – guttural and painstricken and all the more relieved that he’s here, and you’re here, and you’re his.

Criminal!Sukuna who fucks you mean. At first. Sharp and punishing, hips snapping like he’s trying to escape by rocking the trailer to nirvana. Each thrust has a gasp slipping out of your pretty lips, of which he drinks down with fervor, tongue swirling and coaxing yours to muffle the sounds so the guards outside don’t get a free audio show. His balls slap wet against your skin, swollen from months of nothing but his own fist and your perfume-stained letters.

Criminal!Sukuna who slows down when your legs lock tighter around him and your teeth find the side of his neck. He’s still buried to the hilt. His hips rolling in filthy circles, grinding his length against that sweet spot that makes your toes curl and your vision go blurry.

His forehead drops to yours, sweat-slick hair sticking to skin as his voice lowers.

“..say you love me.”

Criminal!Sukuna who lets out a tch when you don’t answer fast enough. Who pulls almost all the way out, letting you feel the drag of every veiny inch, then slams back in so deep your mouth opens in a silent cry.

“Say it. Tell me you’re mine, tell me you– fuuuuuck. Been thinking ‘bout you. Dreaming ‘bout you, every night. Jerked off so much I thought my dick would fall off.. c’mon, baby. Say it. C’mon.”

Criminal!Sukuna who starts begging when your walls pulse around him. Not pretty begging, either – pissed-off. Hoarse.

“Don’t do this to me, please– fuck– just say it. Say you love your piece-of-shit boyfriend. Say you’ll wait. I’ll be good, I swear– only you, just for you, I’ll get out– so say it. Say it. I need you.”

His thrusts turn erratic. Sloppy. He’s close, and he’s trying not to be, trying to drag it out as long as possible before the moment fades into steel bars and white walls of nothing.

Criminal!Sukuna who shivers when you finally card your fingers through his hair, yanking his head back so you can look him in the eye.

You’re pretty. Always pretty, but especially pretty like this, lips swollen and tears pooling at your eyes out of overstimulation.

“I love you, you stupid, stupid man.”

Criminal!Sukuna whose whole body locks up. Whose cock pulses violently inside you – once, twice – and then he’s cumming with a strangled groan, doubling over to hold you tight as he fills you up. He keeps grinding, encouraged by the way your walls milk his length, cum leaking out in a frothy little ring that has his chest preening.

Criminal!Sukuna who doesn’t pull out after. Just stays seated inside, trembling, face buried in the crook of your neck and arms wrapped around you like you might disappear. Who mumbles against your skin, barely audible –

“..missed this pussy.”

He’s still half-hard, twitching every time your walls clench around his oversensitive length. Already thinking about round two.

But despite his perverted words, and his overeager dick, you know exactly what he’s trying to say.

Criminal!Sukuna who spends the rest of your visit inside you in some capacity – fucking, eating you out with your thighs locked around his head, making you ride him on the tiny bed ‘til the frame creaks dangerously. Every time he cums, he begs to hear you say you love him again, hissing it back at you like a promise.

When the guards finally bang on the door to collect him, he snarls “five more minutes” and shoves his tongue back in your mouth. Trying to swallow you whole and take you with him.

Criminal!Sukuna who leaves the trailer with his shoulders loosened, lips swollen, fresh bite marks ringed around his throat and oh-so visible with his head held high. The dopiest, most lovesick grin painted fond across his lips.

He’s gonna get out of here. And when he does, his girl’s gonna be waiting.

––––

Criminal!Sukuna who gets released on parole after god knows how long. The guards walk him out, and the world feels a little different. The air is clearer. And his woman–

.

Where the hell are you?

Criminal!Sukuna who’s a little disappointed when his parole officer is the one to escort him home. But he can’t be too upset about it. You must’ve had it hard, too. He’ll make it up to you.

Criminal!Sukuna who almost breaks down the door on his way in.

DAAAARLING. GUESS WHO’S BACK FROM JAIIIIIIL–

You’re sitting on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, remote in one hand. Unimpressed.

“Hi,” you sniff.

His eye twitches.

“Woman.”

“Yes?”

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Sitting.”

He drops his duffel bag with a heavy thud. “Yeah. I can see that.”

Criminal!Sukuna who starts prowling around the apartment like a bloodhound. He checks the kitchen and the hallway and the bathroom and the bedroom – including the closet, the door to which he swings open so hard it bangs against the wall.

Bathtub. Bed. Under the bed. Back out again.

He stands silent for a long moment before storming back into the living room, planting himself in front of the couch and looming over you with a scowl.

“You told me you were seeing someone.”

You lean a little to the left so he doesn’t block your view of the TV, ignoring the freshly released menace like you haven’t been yearning for his presence for the past four years. Serves him right. “I told you maybe.”

“Maybe means yes.”

“No,” you reply, calm, “Maybe means maybe.”

“Maybe means there could be some guy sitting in my apartment right now.”

“Our apartment.”

“Same difference.”

You don’t respond, and he feels the panic set in.

Sukuna trusts you. He knows you waited, and he knows you didn’t have to.

What he’s more uncomfortable with is the memory of all those nights in his cell staring at the ceiling wondering if he would come back changed.

It’s not like he’d know if or when that would happen. It’s not like you’re blind to that possibility. You’ve probably spent just as much time wondering the same thing – if the man who came home would still be the one you loved, or just some asshole you’d have to learn to live with until your lease was up.

And if you did anticipate that, and you did move on, and there is some other guy? What then? What useless method of intimidation or blackmail or torture could possibly earn back your heart if he had already lost it somewhere along the way?

You glance up after a bit. A wry smile blooms across your lips when you see the worried set of his brow.

“There is no guy,” you snort.

“You sure about that?”

“Yes.”

“Then why didn’t you pick me up?”

“You know where the apartment is.”

“..would’ve liked balloons, at least.”

You register the little quiver in his voice with a hum.

It’s kind of funny, because when he first got into prison four years ago, he was the one who tried to cut things off. Said he didn’t know you at first – assumed you wouldn’t want to associate with a convict. And now here he is, asking for welcome-home balloons.

“Wow,” you muse, pausing your show, “prison really softened you.”

He glares down at you. You smile back.

And then he lets out a long, aggravated exhale, drags a hand down his face, and plops down onto the couch. The whole thing dips under his weight.

“Missed you,” he murmurs.

You laugh and let him pull you into his arms.

“You big baby.”

Criminal!Sukuna who’s “reformed”. On paper. Ankle monitor long gone and patrol officer off his case. He’s even scored a legitimate (albeit mundane) part-time mechanic gig, which you’re 90% sure he got solely because the owner of the shop used to joyride with him. Some big burly guy named Toji who overcharges his clients and busts all his earnings in a casino at 4am, no doubt.

Still, the itch never leaves.

Criminal!Sukuna who can’t quite give up that pesky little habit of his. He’ll steal anything he can. Snatching your lacey panties right out the hamper just to shove them in the washer four hours later after jerking off until the fabric is soaked. And if ever you ask, he’ll just shrug and feign innocence.

“Dunno. Maybe they ran away from your stank ass pu–”

You don’t let him fuck you for the next two weeks, and from the desperate look on his face when you pass by, it isn’t difficult to assume he’s in just as much agony as he was when he was behind bars.

Criminal!Sukuna who “borrows” your car keys and drives off. He doesn’t have anywhere particularly important to be, but the jingle in his palm and the roar of the engine give him that good ol’ dopamine hit. He goes down three blocks to the gas station just to buy the same energy drink you already have three packs of in the fridge, then comes back home and acts like he wasn’t just driving on a suspended license.

Criminal!Sukuna who’s reintegrated into society. And yet he’ll never truly get rid of the urge – the whisper that he could do something, and he could probably get away with it, too.

But he won’t. He’d kill himself before getting locked up again.

Scratch that – his girl would, first.

❪ boxer! toji ❫ loathes conferences after his matches. All he wanted to do was pack up and go home for a long shower, then rest for the day. He's had a bloody match— it ended in a tie, and it made his mood sour; now, he had to show up to a conference, all bruised and sweaty. Hell, he hasn't even had the time to chug down on his water yet.

The questions were boring. They all revolved on how his feeling was regarding the tie and what he would have done to make the match turn to his favor. Well, guess what? The match had already ended, it ended in none of his favor nor his opponent's favor at all.

"Don't get what you want me to say, it didn't go the way I wanted, I feel annoyed that I didn't win," he sighs for the umpteenth time of the night since the conference started.

Then comes down to the last three questions of the night, his team did all the picking, so all he had to do was answer them. His eyes went to a person in the back, who had just stood up. You. Toji's eyes stared you down, waiting for your question, "Mister Fushiguro," the clear tremble on your voice showed him a lot, he just knew that this must be your first time on the line. Your fingers clutched onto the crumpled paper so tightly that he smirked at the sight of it.

"My name is (Name)(Last Name) from The Fit Collective," this was the first time he's heard that team, he sat still and listened nonetheless. Your inhale was caught in the microphone, "I had a lot of fun watching the match, it was nerve wrecking. I'd like to ask you out of curiosity, what sacrifices did you make to make it to this point of your career?"

Toji knew that this question was odd. You made it yourself unlike the others swarming around you, the casted odd looks from them made Toji laugh loudly, shaking his head. Oh, that just brought back his mood, alright.

"Did your boss make that question?"

You shook your head. Knew it, he chanted in his mind, "Uh, that's a good question. What have I sacrificed? A lot. Can't describe everything, but a lot. This career impacted my mental health, can't lie. So, I had to sacrifice my emotions for this— and body," he pointed to his bruises, showcasing the cauliflower ear he has.

"Oh, okay. Thank you so much for answering my question," the smile on your face contradicted to the faces of other journalists whose chances you stripped away just for that odd question. When you sat back down, Toji eyed you closely. The way you high-fived your camera man, and the way you tucked down the crumpled paper into the top pocket of your suit, he thought you were cute.

❪ boxer! toji ❫ searched your name on Google but found no traces of you. However, he does manage to find a LinkedIn page after a few scroll. In all honesty, he's never bothered building one, he gets money from punching people, he said it's a win.

Funny, he created a LinkedIn account under the name of Ijot. No profile picture, no information, nothing. He wasn't stupid enough to not know that LinkedIn informs you of who had been stalking your account, what good would it do if you were to be informed that Toji Fushiguro had been lounging by your . . . online CV, practically.

Hence, you wondered who this "Ijot" is.

❪ boxer! toji ❫ finds himself reacting to every single post you made on LinkedIn, and he was speechless when a mutual friend of his questioned about the LinkedIn notification.

"Are you finding work right now?"

"The hell?" Toji muttered, wiping his sweat filled face, "Why the hell would I find work?"

His friend shrugs, "Saw a LinkedIn notif."

Turn LinkedIn notifications off, got it. He whisper to himself the whole training session. At first, he thought that his friend might have meant he had received a message from you— but no, it was just a mere reminder of "Social Media Specialist" positions around his area. Hey, he didn't even remember he set it up as that.

❪ boxer! toji ❫ followed your LinkedIn after three weeks of stalking. He doesn't message you, his account stays empty. Hence, it was a surprise to see a LinkedIn notification from an actual account besides notifications regarding social media specialists hiring. And from you, nonetheless. The cute journalist asking a very odd question and getting dirty looks.

(Name)(Last Name): Are you a hater? You've been stalking my account for 3 weeks now

Ijot: No

(Name)(Last Name): Then?

Ijot: I'm Ijot?

(Name)(Last Name): More like idiot, get it get it? No?

Ijot: No

(Name)(Last Name): Ijot sounds like idiot, I'm making a pun

Ijot: Oh

Toji doesn't understand young people logic.

❪ boxer! toji ❫ meets you the second time after his match 4 months later, he wasn't expecting to see you. But, he did. And all of a sudden, the press conference just got more interesting than ever— he was thankful that his team just managed to pick your eager hand again, and you stood up. Judging by the groans from other journalists, it was clear that they thought you might be a waste of actual "information".

"I'm (Na—"

"(Name)(Last Name) from The Fit Collective, remember," Toji cuts you off with a confident smirk, shrugging his shoulders. He's been in a great mood, his match ended up in an easy victory.

He was sure that was making to his highlight of the year. He saw your face contort into one of surprise as your name rolled out of his tongue, but you composed yourself and cleared your throat. It was clear as day that you were way more confident than the other time, "Yes! That's me, I have a question for you Mr. Fushiguro. My team and I had a really great time sitting on first row in the match. First of all, congratulations on that very beautiful knockout you did and . . . on the win, of course. I was just wondering what animal best represents you today based on your match? But, wait . . . no, no actually, what animal represents you?"

Toji barks out laughing loudly, "You kidding?"

You shook your head, "Real."

"Panther, probably," Toji replied, still laughing.

You 'ooo'ed at the mic, "I can definitely see that. Thank you for telling me, that's all for my question."

❪ boxer! toji ❫ made it headlines with you because of his reaction. These people were telling him he was in love— he calls it bullshit, he finds you funny. Like a jester kind of funny in his violent world. He shuts the rumor down with a single story on Instagram, that he needed help from his manager to post. Your team got a lot of attention from that rumor, no complaints there, these people practically paid your bills for you because of that rumor.

"Dude, look at the engagement off this article . . ." It's funny how his fans were practically blowing up articles, the hate doesn't matter, it puts food in your mouth, "I'm rich now."

Toji scrolled through our Instagram account that he found during a doomscroll moment on another app. They just happened to have a screenshot of your account, and here he was. He had went through your highlights at least 3 times, there were different pictures and videos of you from years ago that he'd laugh at because you looked absolutely stupid in them.

He's always been a solid guy, if he likes, he asks. If he doesn't, he makes it clear. But, this time, he found himself hesitating. He doesn't even know you, he just knows you as . . . the journalist who asks him stupid questions.

❪ boxer! toji ❫ meets you an hour before his match during a trip to the toilet. He has his own private toilet, for some reason, his guts tells him to go outside and he listened— he never listens. And, he was visibly annoyed when you bumped into his chest, spilling water on him. However, one look and his furrowed brows ceased, "(Name)(Last Name) from The Fit Collective," he smirks.

You look up and gushed, "Toji Fushiguro, oh my gosh. I heard you have a private restroom and private everything, do you have people fanning your face when you feel hot and tired?"

"When I ask."

"Oh my gosh, that's so cool. It's so nice to meet you, can I please have a picture?" You clapped your hands. In most times, he would decline and walk away.

But, this is (Name)(Last Name) from The Fit Collective, he thought. He shrugs lightly, "Make it quick, got a match to fight," he muttered out. Toji doesn't pose, he stood there as you snapped a couple of pictures, "you comin' to the conference?"

You nodded, "Mhm. I got stupid questions. More of them. Seriously though, I have filed complaints sent to me from other teams, it was funny," Toji hummed, "well, good luck on your match!"

❪ boxer! toji ❫ of course, won with such ease that his opponent tried to do a little hit in the back while he was walking to his area. It was funny to see him act smug about it— Toji walked into the conference area, looking forward to meet you.

Much to his dismay, his team doesn't point at you today. And his mood has gone shitty in a second, answering questions like he was forced to. He doesn't miss the expression on your face, the way your shoulders sagged when the last question of the day finished. Toji exits the conference room in annoyance. He won, yet it felt like he lost the game.

He kicks a bench in anger, "What's up with you? You won."

"Told ya' I can't stand these dicks asking the same question with different format," Toji muttered, peeling a banana.

❪ boxer! toji ❫ started pointing out to people in the conference room— his finger always lands on you. Hand raised up like the question you were about to ask was the most important thing in the world.

Whether it being "what's your favorite combo for a clean knockout?" or "what do you think is the best thing to do to spend your day after a match?" or even "are you the type to chase or be chased?", Toji answers it with a straight face.

He found out you were a big fan of him when he saw the custom made acrylic keychain of his face with . . . A cat filter dangled on your bag. Toji caught a glimpse of it as you bundled out to run out of the conference area, he thought you were just being nice.

He didn't know whether to be offended at the sight of a stupid cat filter on him or the fact that you didn't realize your keychain dropped right by your feet. Toji grabbed it at the end when nobody realized.

❪ boxer! toji ❫ hung your keychain on top of his messy desk. Yes, he has a desk, filled with pictures and files of his stats. His opponent's stats, every medical check up, everything related to his body, practically.

It was funny to stare at his face with a cat filter. He's seen those edits, he hates them with all his heart and wished people would stop making him look weak— though, he'll let you off this time (and maybe later, and later again, forever maybe).

❪ boxer! toji ❫ has never felt distracted before. Maybe he'll get you to fuck him and then leave like always, that's probably what he wanted . . . A good time together, right?

So, when the next time comes. And he bumps into you right in front of the restroom (again) at his match venue. He took his chance to ask you head on, "You're cute, do you do one night stands?"

You were surprised when he asked you that. Sure, you've seen articles about him being a womanizer, hanging out with different women every week, caught on camera. But, you wouldn't expect him to ask that, "Um, sorry?"

"I said, do you do one night stands?"

"No, what an odd thing to ask," you raised a brow, already feeling the ick washing in. The more you stare at him, the more you feel annoyed , "disgusting."

❪ boxer! toji ❫ watched you walk away, your face disgusted. He breathes out softly. All his life, he's never had a woman say that to his face— he asks, they say yes, he leaves with them, then walks away after. Never has he ever been rejected like that.

And it was thrilling. Toji was exhilarated, he won with ease. His body trembled with excitement to see you in the conference room, but to his annoyance. You were not sitting on your assigned seat, even your camera man wasn't there. The two spots left for you and him left empty.

All of a sudden, his mood was shit and everyone had to know about it.

❪ boxer! toji ❫ noticed how you stopped coming over to his matches. And it angered him to no end. He realized how it must have been his question that drove you away from seeing him— hell, you must have blocked him everywhere now because of his sudden question. However, he doesn't care about that. He waited, patiently.

And Toji is never patient.

When you showed up after a while, he couldn't help but feel relieved. His finger pointed at your raised hand, but you had a serious look on your face, never like before, "(Name)(Last Name) from The Fit Collective. Mr. Fushiguro, at a certain point during the match, you were receiving more hits from your opponent. However, you'd manage to turn the wave around the next round, what was going through your mind? What were your thoughts and emotions to overcome your opponent?"

His brow twitched. No stupid questions? Toji grunted, "No stupid questions today?"

You cast your eyes down briefly, " . . . No."

"Got no thoughts besides winning. Next."

❪ boxer! toji ❫ messaged you as Ijot. He tried to make conversation about himself, if he couldn't get close to you as Toji— he could try Ijot.

Ijot: i saw your presscon stuff about toji

(Name)(Last Name): hello

Ijot: what do you think about toji?

(Name)(Last Name): he's a disgusting pig

Ijot: ...

Ijot: why?

(Name)(Last Name): you won't believe me because i have no proof, ijot.

Ijot: not like i got someone to talk to anyways

Ijot: just curious, he's been the stuff.. don't get what's so good about him

(Name)(Last Name): he asked if i did one night stands. HOW DISGUSTING OF HIM. I SWEAR IF I HAD THE RECORDING I'D RAT HIM OUT. AND TO THINK THAT I WAS A BIG FAN TOO OMG???

Ijot: oo

(Name)(Last Name): WHAT AN ODD THING TO SAY

Ijot: people would say yes

(Name)(Last Name): you would?

Ijot: no

(Name)(Last Name): so, who's 'people'? i just thought it was disrespectful to ask to someone he doesn't even know personally.

Ijot: you could've just fucked him and take advantage of him

(Name)(Last Name): i'm a big fan, i'm not shallow enough to have sex with my biggest idol just because he said he wanted to... that's stupid... he's stupid!

Ijot: oh

Toji found the whole texting thing hard especially when he hated texting. He prefers calling someone, but this was LinkedIn. It was odd that you'd tell someone you don't know either, but one thing he got was that: you have officially succeeded in making his heart race.

You were a challenge. Toji loves challenges.

❪ boxer! toji ❫ noticed how you'd probably deleted (almost) everything about him from your collection of articles. He's annoyed, he's confused, everything all at once, actually.

Toji found out about it an hour before his match— no sights of you anywhere, he discreetly tried to make his way to the restroom and expected to bump into you. But, you weren't there. This just annoyed him even more, especially with the fact that you were deliberately avoiding him. He didn't know where the problem was, he was just questioning you if you were up for it, no disrespect at all.

To him at least it doesn't sound disrespectful.

"Get your head in the game."

"Shut your fucking mouth," he spat out, letting the cold water linger on his hair, most of the droplets sliding down onto the floor. People massaged his back harshly in the fleeting minute of break right before the bell rings again, "I know what the fuck I'm doing, don't tell me what the fuck to do."

Ultimately, the loss was a big blow to his ego and win streak. How could he let a measly journalist get to him just because she got offended at his question?

❪ boxer! toji ❫ gets even more annoyed at the fact that you didn't show up at his conference. Your presence was changed by another girl, who asked questions as stupid as you did— only the fact that this was not you angered him. So, when it all ended, he followed your camera man and grabbed him by his collar into a sharp corner.

"Where?"

The male looked confused (and scared), but kept his composure, " . . . Mr. Fushiguro—"

"Your friend. (Name)(Last Name) from The Fit Collective?"

Your camera man finally realized that this was about you, he immediately fumbled with his phone, "Um, she took a short leave. She hasn't been in the office since last week, but I can hand her phone number if you're interested . . ."

Toji took it.

❪ boxer! toji ❫ didn't even bother with the whole texting, he straight up called you right after your camera man left in a haste, his shirt now a little loose right on the back. The call connected right at the third ring, third time's the charm, no?

"Hello?"

"(Name)(Last Name) from The Fit Collective."

"Depends on who's asking."

"Toji."

"Yeah, right—"

Toji scoffed, "You took a leave just because I asked you if you did one night stands?"

"It is you," you muttered out in disbelief at the fact that he actually found your number and gave you a call like he did nothing, "how did you find my number? Did you hire someone to do it? Mind you, you're speaking like you didn't do anything wrong. Pig!"

"I'm not a pig, you were being dramatic."

"Congratulations on your loss, you deserve it," you grumbled under your breath.

For some reason, Toji doesn't find it offensive. In fact, he finds it utterly adorable— he hummed out softly, leaning on the wall inside his apartment, "Was just questioning if you wanted to get laid, what's got your panties in a twist?"

You yelled out, "You're disgusting!"

"I'm disgusting?"

"Yes, and I hope you go on a lose streak."

❪ boxer! toji ❫ finds the joy in making you lose your patience. The funny thing was that you didn't even block him up to this point, which made him think that you actually want this in the first place. Twisted mindset. He doesn't text, he gives no heads up, whether it's 6 AM or 3 AM, he gives you a call just to rile you up.

"Hey."

"No."

Toji got on his bed, his joints aching from the hours of training, "You picked up."

"You spam called."

"Could've blocked me."

"You're right, I'll do it right now," you mutter out, half-awake. The anger bubbling up right after you hear the low chuckle from the opposite line, "I'm not looking to get laid. Listen, you're cool, I like your fights, but I don't like how you asked me that."

"So, explain what's got you all riled up."

You took a deep breath, "Fuck off."

❪ boxer! toji ❫ never talks to his manager about anything, but he decides to ask and his manager concluded he's in love. Also, twisted mindset from his manager.

"You asked her if she does one night stands?" His manager muttered in disbelief, wiping his face as he eyed Toji in disappointment, "In my era, you'd get a heel to the face . . ."

"What's so bad about asking that?"

"It's like asking if . . . if you'd like to give me that phone for free. Hypothetically, it's like you asking her if she's willing to fuck you just because you're a little handsome and famous, which is . . . pretty offensive if you ask me," Toji pressed on the juice box he was sipping out of, rolling his eyes in annoyance, "you should say sorry."

❪ boxer! toji ❫ doesn't do apologies. He hates saying sorry to anyone. Most of the time, he doesn't think he's wrong— even if he is. He calls you again tonight, a bit more quiet. If he apologizes today, does that mean you'll come back and watch him again?

"Oh my God—"

"Sorry," he said it quick, like he doesn't want you to hear it at all, but he does. He wanted to resolve this quickly and got you back on track, he doesn't know why.

Your line was quiet for a bit, but you muster something out, "What did you just say?"

"I don't repeat stuff."

You huffed, "Just say you don't mean it and you want to fuck me and leave."

He seethes out, "I said, I was sorry."

"For? If you want to apologize, I need you to specify what it's for," you were dragging it out, Toji was sure. He could sense the smile forming on your face as you sing the words out.

"I'm sorry for asking you if you did one night stands," Toji specified, muffling his words into his palm like he hates the thought of this. He does hate it, but . . . he hated to admit that he hates the thought of you not showing up anymore if he doesn't apologize, "it was offensive and rude to ask you about it," he followed the script he had written down messily on the crumpled paper with his manager.

"Holy fuck, say that again? I need to record—"

"Fuck this."

❪ boxer! toji ❫ doesn't expect to see you in his match after that night. He stopped calling out of embarrassment, but there you were, sitting right on your spot with a stupid smile on his face like this conference means everything to you.

Toji, pointed at you, looking down to suppress a smile, "(Name)(Last Name) from The Fit Collective," he mumbled into the mic.

You nodded, "That's me. It's good to be back here, Mr. Fushiguro. I wanted to ask if you were a bird, what kind of bird would you be? And I mean generally, in general what kind of bird would you be?" He smirked at the question, giving it a good thought.

"Probably an owl."

"I could see you as a shoebill stork."

"What the fuck is that?"

"You, but a bird."

It was good to have you back here.

❪ boxer! toji ❫ stopped getting drunk and spending his wins fucking random girls who latch themselves onto him in the party. He excuses himself and drives home sober, like never before. Once, he gets home, he sends you a heads up . . . five seconds before he pressed the call button.

"A heads up seconds before you give me a call, how thoughtful," Toji scoffed at your sarcastic words, "you're supposed to be celebrating your win."

"Nah."

"Nah, what?"

"Nah, it's boring. They were trying to get me to lay down with a model, didn't want it," he explained, setting his duffel bag down. His custom made gloves were strewn aside, landing on the coffee table with a soft thud, "I think I like this better."

"You're getting soft."

"You're right. I don't fit this shit."

❪ boxer! toji ❫ hates admitting how you'd manage to slowly break his walls down. How he starts trusting you more than he initially wanted. How he lets you in his apartment like you actually mean everything. He's never let anyone into his safe haven— besides his manager who has an extra access card in case Toji goes MIA.

"I got wine . . . or water, I got water too."

"Water is fine."

He was like a socially awkward person. Toji's never like this before, and it was odd. He brands himself as someone who's never scared of anything, but here he was acting like a boy in love. Which if you force it out of him, he is in love. He just didn't want to admit the fact because he doesn't think he deserves this kind of love.

"I ordered . . . um, I don't know. They said it's good stuff . . ." he pokes the plastic around awkwardly.

❪ boxer! toji ❫ was finally caught with you after snooping around late nights, spending dinners inside his sports car like fugitives. A fan had caught him getting inside his car with a mysterious woman and the news spread like wildfire— people expect him to be a womanizer, Toji doesn't look like someone who'd settle down, and that was why he managed to shook the entertainment world by clarifying that you were his significant other.

Some people believed that's what he wanted all of them to believe, some were happy about it. Some were saying how you didn't fit him, and some were just . . . okay with it, no hard feelings. And frankly, Toji doesn't give a fuck about their opinions, he had you, so what else could he ask for?

❪ boxer! toji ❫ never spoke about 'Ijot' to you. The fact just naturally made its way to you when he left his phone unsupervised during movie night, the flash of his screen attracted your attention.

"Ijot, here are 20+ Social Media Specialist positions around your area"

You weren't mad. Just embarrassed at the fact that you called your now boyfriend a disgusting pig to your past idol, whom you got angry at. In your defense, he wasn't even using his name, "You're Ijot?"

" . . . Yeah."

"More like idiot."

"Fair."

❪ boxer! toji ❫ banters with you during conferences, sure this was your boyfriend, but you needed to stay professional during your line of work. Toji respected that and continued answering you like before this relationship worked out.

Now, everything he does had a little sprinkle of you in the side. The extra (favorite color) toothbrush sitting by his black colored one in his bathroom. The extra (favorite towel) laying neatly in his dresser in case you wanted to stay over. The extra (favorite color) custom made boxing gloves he made for your birthday because you told him you wanted to train for fun.

"One," he jabbed the air, "two," he jabbed once more, "punch," he uppercuts, "your turn."

"One, two, punch. One, two, punch."

"Natural, I see."

"I'm just talented."

❪ boxer! toji ❫ was knocked out of breath, literally the first time you both played fight. The "one, two, punch" method he taught you with ease has became your go-to method of self-defense— and today, it just seemed that he was your victim.

"Jesus."

"I'm so sorry, I didn't think I hit that hard," you mutter, massaging his tummy, "at least I thought . . . but, I could have . . . I'm so sorry."

"Nah, it's fine."

❪ boxer! toji ❫ tries not to get involved in drama related to cheating, especially with models trying to get him to leave you for them. It was annoying, any second of the day a media tries to drag him down, he clarified that he was still in a relationship with you.

AND going strong. He needed to put that in with a picture of you as a cherry on top.

❪ boxer! toji ❫ eventually gets tired of the drama and asks you to marry him just to spite his haters and these people craving for drama.

"Don't care. Don't bother. Just here to make my wife happy," he said to the mic anytime he wins, apparently you got him wrapped around your finger now.

Bristling, he pins you to the wall, gripping your jaw in one hand and shoving a thigh between your legs, hulking body blocking your view of everything else but him.

“Hasn't anyone told you to watch your mouth? Could get you in a lot of trouble,” he murmurs in a low, threatening voice, crimson eyes raking over your unfazed face.

The only thing you can't control is the warmth of your clothed pussy against his jean-clad leg. Contrary to popular belief, you do like being manhandled and scolded like this and unfortunately, you've fantasized about him finally manning up to approach you for a while now.

“Actually, I've found that my mouth gets me out of trouble more times than into it.”

His eyes flare at that, hand sliding up from your jaw to cup your chin, the pad of his thumb pressing into the plush of your bottom lip and pushing in.

Instinctively, you part your lips and he slides it in, settling it on your tongue.

“Is that right?”

Nodding, you wrap your lips around his thumb, all fluttering lashes and doe eyes. He hums in approval and that's when the obedient act drops, eyes narrowing and teeth sinking into his digit, biting down on the bone.

Sucking in air through his teeth in a pained hiss, he glares at you, drawing back his abused thumb and smearing your saliva on your chin.

“Bet you cry when you're fucked, brat,” he muses darkly, pupils blown.

“Only one way to find out,” you reply easily which has his irises lighting up with excitement.

It's either that or he finally felt your clenching cunt on the muscle of his thigh, clit flickering at an unsteady beat.

Retaliating for the bite, he yanks your hair with the other hand sharply and you moan from the painful bite as he steps back.

“Guess I'll have to find out then,” he says smugly as he releases you. “Until then, brat,” he greets and leaves, whistling without a care in the word.

You're left there, heart pounding, pussy fluttering and breaths choppy. But you grin because he has no idea what he just agreed to.

Later, Sukuna eats his words up and swallows them, Adam's apple bobbing as you shove him onto the bed, headboard thudding from the impact of his weight and rip his clothes off like a woman possessed.

“Whoa, what the fuck?”

“Shush, you wanted to see, right?” The grin on your face is maniacal.

He's thrown off completely, usually the one leading in the bedroom, folding up girls like pretzels and fucking them until they're crying, mocking their moans and leaving them spent, not even bothering with aftercare or goodbye as he dips.

So imagine his utter fucking surprise when you're the one about to fold him under you—with a startling amount of force.

Most sex positions have women bending into strange positions, doing gymnastics while the man gets to be all comfortable and just rut into her, so you figured why not turn the tables?

The air in the room is thick, charged with the kind of static that only gathers when you decide to stop playing fair. You watch the big, scary tattooed man from the edge of the bed, a slow, predatory smile tugging at your lips.

“On your back,” you command, your voice a low, velvet rasp as you strip down. “I want you wide open.”

Hell, Sukuna was almost certain a strap was going to be involved, glancing around your bedroom for anything that looks suspiciously big, fat cock-shaped. Maybe something glittery and pastel.

“Now,” you bark, your smile falling into an unhappy scowl.

Jolting like a skittish cat, Sukuna doesn't hesitate as he assumes the position. The thrill of your control is a hook in his chest. He settles onto the mattress, but before he can get comfortable, you are crawling over him, an intoxicating scent dizzying him as your hair tickles his face. You don't just straddle him, you conquer him.

With a strength that catches him off guard, you hook your hands under his knees, dragging his legs up and back until they are pinned near his shoulders. Good thing he's flexible or that would have hurt.

Not that you seem to care right now.

“Look at you,” you purr, leaning forward so your hair brushes his heated skin. “The big, bad hockey player folded up like a gift just for me. You look so small from up here. Should I put a bow on it?”

Clenching his jaw, his blood sizzles from your mockery but he says nothing, curious to see what you're doing.

Squatting over him, resting your weight on his thighs, you grasp his thick, leaking cock and ease onto it. Swirling your hips, you bat his hand away when he tries to rub your clit, doing it yourself until you sink all the way down, his pelvis kissing your slippery folds.

Then you begin to move, a slow, torturous grind that forces a gasp from his lungs. Every time he tries to buck upward, to find some purchase or rhythm, you press your palms into his chest, pinning him flat.

“Did I give you permission to move?” you ask coldly, your eyes flashing with a wicked glint. A breathless, heady giggle flutters past your lips, dark and satisfied.

“You’re pathetic, honestly. Just a mess of nerves and desperate breathing after all that fucking talk. Look how much you’re shaking just because I’m taking what I want.”

You bend down, your lips ghosting over his ear. “So weak for me. It’s almost embarrassing how easily you break. Thought you were supposed to be a womanizer?”

His cock shamefully throbs at your taunts, a long drawn-out moan pouring from his mouth, face twisted in pleasure, tattoos crinkling at his eyes as his glassy gaze, half-lidded and dazed is peering up at you.

“Fuck off—Shit,” he sucks in a breath when you clamp down on his cock, gummy walls suctioning around his shaft when you lift up so he's stuck and can't slip out and relaxing when you drop down again, but still so smothering.

Your hips rolling in a slow, agonizing grind then slick, sharp bounces. You use his legs as leverage, pushing off his shins to drive yourself down harder, deeper, hands sliding down to his ankles when you're grounding down in circles.

Sukuna’s breath hitches. His inked hands clutch at the bedding, his knuckles turning white as he fights the urge to flip you over, put you on your back and pound into you instead. He knows you won't appreciate that and he'd be lying if he said this wasn't good even if it threw him off.

“Oh, you like this, don't you? Hate that you like it?” you tease, leaning forward to brush your nipples against his chest, before pulling back out of reach. “Seeing me take what I want?”

Sukuna lets out a choked sound, his hips bucking upward again instinctively. You push his knees further back, pinning him in place and slapping his thigh, muscle jumping beneath your palm. “I said still.”

“Ngh, sorry,” he apologises, surprising himself.

Humming, you arch a brow. “Sorry who?”

His jaw ticks. “Sorry, ma'am.”

A flash of approval sparks in your eyes at that. Your quads tensing with every slow, deep rise and fall.

Sukuna’s breath comes in jagged shudders. From his vantage point, you look like a goddess of old, framed by the dim amber light of the bedside lamp. He reaches up, his fingers tracing the taut muscles of your arms, the curve of your waist, then sliding down to grip your hips, trying to help anchor you.

He watches the way the warm glow catches the sweat glistening on your chest, dripping between the valley of your breasts and the fierce, concentrated look in your eyes. Every time you surge upward and sink back down, the depth of the connection feels visceral. His fingers trace the line of your spine, anchoring himself as his vision tunnels to the friction and the heat.

The friction is intense, a white-hot spark that travels from the base of his spine to the tips of his toes, tingling all along the length of his cock. In this folded position, there is no room for distance, every inch of skin is pressurized, every heartbeat felt in his ears.

The sight of the scary man on campus, pinned beneath you and gasping for air is more thrilling than any addictive substance. Your snug cunt is clenching around him with an insatiable greed, milking his pulsing cock as it rubs all your spongy swells deliciously at this deep angle.

Your pace quickens, your movements becoming more fluid as you find the sweet spot you'd been hunting for, his big body bouncing on the bed. He wraps his feet behind your back, pulling you even tighter into the weld of your bodies.

It pulls a laugh out of you, all high and breathy as you look down, hair curtaining your face. “Are you trying to get yourself pregnant? Locking your legs around me like a bitch trying to baby trap.”

“That's not even, anhh—” you can't knock him up but the thought boggles him, his mind already scrambled from your fucking. “I could get on top of you at any time and fuhh fuck one into you—”

Sukuna gasps, his head hitting the pillow as you slam down on his cock harder, the filthy, sloppy squelch loud as you're all he can concentrate on. His eyes roll back, his jaw tight as he tries to hold back his release. He looks up at you with a mixture of fury and absolute adoration.

“Fuuuuuck, baby. Shit, feels so good,” he slurs, so far gone that he doesn't care for stubbornness, admitting to the pleasure he feels.

You toss your head back with a mewl, your body an arch of pure sensation, breasts bouncing as you ride him toward the finish.

When the first orgasm hits, it's a mutual, violent crash. You slump onto his chest, your heart echoing his, as he wraps his arms around you, holding you so tight it hurts as sticky, warm come spills up inside you. That is until you recovered only five minutes later and mounted him again.

Then, a shift. Just as the sting of your relentless demeaning words begins to bruise, you soften your touch, tracing the line of his jaw with a delicate finger.

“But you’re doing so well, aren't you?” you coo, your voice suddenly dripping with honeyed approval. “Such a good boy for me, staying right where I want you. I love how you look when you're taking me like this. Nowhere to go, nothing to do but feel me.”

"Mhmmm."

The juxtaposition is dizzying. One moment you're mocking his lack of control, the next, you're worshipping the way he surrenders it to you. You pick up the pace, your movements becoming more demanding, your breath hitching in sync with his.

“That's it,” you hiss, your bounces unwavering even as your own composure began to fray. “Take it. Every bit of it. You were made to be right here, under me. Atta boy.”

You watch his expression shift from focused intensity to a blurred, blissful surrender. In this position, you could see every micro-expression of his pleasure, a map of his undoing laid out right beneath you.

Your muscles burn—a satisfying, grounding ache—as you push through the final stretch. His lower stomach visibly shivers and caves, the tremors running all the way from the crackling sparks in his groin to his curling toes.

Sukuna can only manage a wrecked sound, a mix of a plea and a thank you. He's lost in the rhythm you dictated, trapped in the cage of his own legs and your absolute authority. As you reach the peak of your orgasm, you lean down one last time, your eyes locking onto him.

"Good boy," you breathe, a final, lethal bit of praise before you let the waves take you both.

Sukuna lets out a low, guttural sound as the world narrows down to the point where you're joined. As the tension bleeds out of the room, you collapse onto his chest, both of you breathless and trembling.

He laughs in amazement, raking his fingers through his hair like he just discovered something about himself. When he registers the hot liquid sliding down his cheeks, he realises that he is the one who ended up crying while being fucked.

Though he can't say he's embarrassed about it when you lick up the salty tears and press a kiss to his cheek.

note: figured i'd post...what this is. had @bluukive, @yenayaps and @liliklei in mind while writing it lmao

“what’s going on with you?”

the drawer rasps as you open it and he hopes it’s a coincidence you happen to take out a knife so soon after the question.

“huh?” your brow arches, but you still don’t look up. it has him bristling.

“you’ve been in a mood all day,” that draws your eyes to his and even when they narrow at the edges, he doesn’t stop talking, “i’m not a fuckin’ mind reader. if something’s wrong, you better come out with it.”

a nerve under your eye twitches.

“i’m sorry,” he has a feeling you’re not sorry at all. but finally that nonchalant front is cracking, and along with it, a frown follows its path, setting deep lines around your mouth. “is coming home to a clean house and me slaving over a hot stove not good enough for you?”

the fuck?

his jaw to tightens. “i never said that.”

“then what are you saying?” you throw back so fast it almost feels like he’s been shot.

toji pauses. he takes stock of you from head to toe and really allows himself to take his time as he does so.

the man reasons that your body always told him what your stubborn mouth never seems to be able to so maybe, just maybe, he would be able to sniff something out.

your hair falls to your shoulders, messy as if you ran your hands through it a few more times than you should have. eyes a little too bright and tracking as they stay fixed on him.

his sudden appraisal is anything but subtle, and whatever cutting remark you throw his way at the fact is completely ignored.

instead, he focuses on how your pulse jumps in your neck, ticking fast within the delicate column of skin. the way it always did that when you were angry, or when you were—

oh.

dark eyes light up like a christmas tree when it finally hits him.

“i see what this is about.” toji starts with the barest hint of amusement colouring his tone. his gaze flickers south just to make sure, and yes. the longer he stares at your tits, the more your nipples pebble under your sleep shirt. they perk up so hard he’s surprised they haven’t torn through the fabric yet. “baby, we've been together three years and you're still too shy to tell me what you want?”

your back straightens. caught. “what are you even talking about?”

he merely raises a brow at you, because you knew exactly what he was talking about. and slowly but surely, a warm flush touches your cheeks. embarrassment has you throwing the knife back into the drawer—as if you forgot what you wanted to use it for in the first place.

“you know what? fuck this,” you turn the stove off and step away. “make your own damn food.”

but toji wasn’t hungry anymore. not for food anyway.

his hand latches around your wrist before you get two steps in, and your head whips to him. lips part to no doubt curse him out, so he sharply yanks you into his chest.

the pull happens so quickly it knocks the air out of your lungs and before you can take a second to breathe, his mouth is on you to steal even more.

strong hands cup the undersides of your arms, lifting then setting you down on the edge of the counter and a shiver runs up your spine as cool marble hits skin.

toji grips the plush flesh of your thighs, forcing them apart then winding them around his body.

the speed of it all and the rush of having him between your legs, all snug and muscular, has your hips subtly pitching against his…or at least you thought it was subtle until he pulls away.

“oh, my poor baby,” he huffs against your mouth. “missed me a little more this time, didn’t you?”

your lips purse in response, and when you look away with your nose turned up, a soft chuckle is exhaled over your jaw.

you don’t have to answer for him to know the truth.

swift hands grab your shorts, almost tearing them clean off in his rush to get you bare for him, and once you were, his eyes go impossibly dark as they settle between your thighs.

“fuck, look at you,” a sexy grin tugs at his scarred lips. “so soaked for me and i’ve barely touched you.”

your chin tips up. “what makes you think it’s because of you?”

smack!

his palm promptly cracks over your cunt and the sharp bite of pain coupled with the wet squelch that echoes through the apartment afterwards, has you mewling.

“shit—!”

“keep being a brat, and i’ll leave you like this,” he tuts.

both of you knew that was a lie, but you still bit your tongue. mostly because the sight of him lowering himself to his knees steals away any snark you hoped to make.

once settled between your legs, middle and pointer fingers part your folds open, smearing the glittery wetness of your slick over your clit. then thumping over it in two sharp taps that have you grunting.

thick fingers slide down to press over your entrance and he croons when he feels you quiver. desperate and painfully empty.

“toji,” you complain between a moan and it makes his cock stir. your hips lift, seeking a trace of friction, only to get the soft press of his lips over your thigh instead.

the kiss was almost sweet and you hated it. hated him, because since when was toji ever soft?

he’s clearly teasing you.

“hm, you want something?” he murmurs so close to your cunt you can feel the heat of his breath on it. “told you i’m not a mind reader.”

he glances up at you and just knows you’re calling him every name but his own in your head. the way your lip curls tells him as much, but it only has him smiling wider.

“your mouth.” you manage between uneven pants, and a low hum follows.

“what about it?”

jesus christ.

you throw your head back in frustration, and he simply waits you out.

waits until you swallow your pride and get bold enough to tell him what you want.

it takes some time for your eyes to meet again.

“need it,” he frowns with faux empathy. so mocking it would have made you stand up and leave if you weren't so pent up. you ignore that it makes you a little wetter too.

“where?” he whispers, then thinking better of it, he tilts his head to the side. “show me.”

with a sigh, you let your legs part some more, fingers bumping against his as you circle your clit. he leans down and you nearly slap him when he presses another tender kiss to your inner thigh instead of where you wanted him most. where you literally just showed him to go.

“you sure you don’t want it here?” your head shakes and kisses continue to trail up your skin until he reaches your cunt. each peck he delivers is soft and gentle and devastatingly disarming, so when you start to relax, his lips part and sinful lick is dragged all the way up your slit.

you gasp. brokenly and all too loud, and he meets it with an answering groan against you.

“there’s my sweet girl,” toji doesn't give you time to adjust. “sweeter fucking pussy.” doesn't start slow.

his tongue laps at your sensitive clit, fat tip flicking it teasingly, before going to slurp the slick dripping down your folds. he sucks sensitive flesh into his mouth, sharp teeth scraping until you squirm under him. your hips shift back only to be pulled forward again.

“uh-uh, you wanted this. don't hide her from me.”

toji cups the tops of your legs, holding you down and open as he forces his tongue into your cunt. you flutter around the muscle, and it only makes him plunge deeper. swirling, thrusting, searching.

calloused hands grow rougher when you try to wiggle away again, moving to the backs of your thighs to push your legs, up, up, until your knees nearly touch your ears.

his mouth unrelenting as he eats you out like he means to break you. sloppy open-mouth kisses smacking onto pussy until your legs tremble in his hold.

“toji—oh, fuck please—” you don’t even know what you’re begging for as you grip his broad shoulders.

manicured nails dig into his skin, and it hurts, but it also has his cock throbbing harder. each pulse beats in time with your clit twitching under his tongue, and he groans when you cum and balmy sweetness washes over it in a thick heady rush.

“shit, there you go baby. let it out.”

the man doesn't stop even when you're a blabbing mess under him, and he moans into your pussy, free hand fisting his length through the rough fabric of his jeans.

you fall back against the counter, its coldness and hardness not even registering as you convulse all over and only then does he finally pull away.

“been gone for fourteen days,” he starts while your bleary eyes stare up at the ceiling. “guess i have to make you cum that many times to make it up to you?”

your eyes go round and you look down at him.

there’s no way he could do that. there was no way you could do that.

but as two fingers are pushed deep into your cunt, hooking up juuust right, you have a feeling the maniac is going to find a way regardless and god did you love him for it.

of course you fucking missed him.

art by @/hunnismokah

note: self indulgent because this was me a few days ago, minus you know, toji…..anyway first jjk drabble yay (?)

🏷️: @stberrypuss, @cheriefrosting, @indom-itus, @rambld, @ehcilhc @blueglitterwalet, @magicalpeenpoo, @sonotkiki, @mieleism, @deartoru, @sugusplaything, @maxxthefan, @kingraspberry12-blog, @21-princess, @peonysecret , @jiyuspassion, @sluttyangel04, @shannonigans1029

subject: urgent assignment submission

from: [email protected]

to: [email protected]

hey prof higuruma,

just attached the draft for the criminal procedure essay like you asked—reworked the section on miranda rights based on your feedback from last office hours. let me know if it still needs more case citations or if i’m overcomplicating the exclusionary rule again

thanks for staying late to look it over again, you’re saving my gpa here!

talk soon,

[your name]

(attachment: Criminal_Procedure_Essay_Draft_v3.docx)

tuesday lecture comes and you get there early this time. you sit in back row, legs crossed tight. he walks in five minutes before start wearing his usual black suit, sleeves already rolled. briefcase hits the podium hard. he doesn’t bother looking around before he starts.

“entrapment. page 231. we’re covering it today.”

he paces. voice low and tired like always. “entrapment defense requires government inducement that would cause a normally law-abiding person to commit the crime. it’s not just opportunity. it’s active persuasion, pressure, temptation that overrides free will.”

he stops, leaning on the podium. eyes scan the room slow looking at your section longer than others.

“consider seduction as a tactic. undercover officer poses as a romantic interest. they builds trust, uses flirtation, compliments, physical proximity, promises of intimacy. the target eventually agrees to sell drugs or whatever the crime is because the seduction makes refusal feel impossible. courts have ruled both ways. some say it’s legitimate police work. others say when it crosses into sexual manipulation it becomes entrapment per se.”

he keeps going, he describes cases. like how a female officer in a bar is wearing a low-cut dress touching the suspect’s arm. whispering how much she wants him. leading him to the deal. male officer doing the same to a female suspect. lingering looks, suggestive comments. “let me take care of you.” he lists factors courts weigh: intensity of the advances. repetition. whether the target initiated or resisted. how long the seduction lasted before the crime occurred.

the whole lecture his tone stays flat. no glances your way. he talks about “arousal as leverage” like it’s just another legal element. “when sexual desire is weaponized to lower inhibitions, the line between persuasion and coercion blurs. but the test remains objective: would the average person succumb?”

you feel his stare when he asks the question like he’s personally talking to you.

when class ends, he leaves fast.

wednesday night you send your second one.

subject: revised entrapment section – attached

from: [email protected]

to: [email protected]

prof,

added the entrapment cases you referenced in lecture. focused on the seduction hypotheticals and court splits. let me know if the analysis is on track.

[your name]

(attachment: Entrapment_Analysis_Revised.pdf)

again, no reply.

thursday you spot him at the faculty coffee stand outside the law building. the line’s short and he’s in front. pays with exact change as he takes his black coffee. when he turns, your eyes meet. you’re three feet away. he pauses and looks straight through you. he doesn't bother acknowledging you, then he steps around you, walking away.

your hands shake holding your own cup.

friday night comes and you promise yourself that this will be your last attempt.

subject: entrapment follow-up questions – example attached

from: [email protected]

to: [email protected]

hi prof,

had a couple questions on the objective test for seduction-based entrapment. attached a quick example i wrote up to clarify my thinking. appreciate any notes.

thanks,

[your name]

(attachment: Seduction_Entrapment_Example.docx.)

saturday morning your inbox lights up.

subject: re: entrapment follow-up questions – example attached

from: [email protected]

to: [email protected]

that’s the third nude you sent this week.

monday 5:30 pm. my office.

h. higuruma

you arrive at his office door at exactly 5:30 pm on monday, heart pounding like it's about to burst out of your chest. the law building is mostly empty this late–classes wrapped up hours ago, and the few lingering students are buried in the library or grabbing takeout from the food trucks outside. his door is cracked open, a sliver of warm lamplight spilling into the dim hallway. you knock lightly, his voice cuts through immediately.

"come in."

you push the door open, stepping inside. the office is what you'd expect from your professor.

stacks of case files on the desk, bookshelves crammed with legal tomes, a single window overlooking the campus quad. he's seated behind his desk, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up to his elbows like always, exposing those forearms you've caught yourself staring at during lectures more times than you'd admit. his eyes flick up from a pile of papers, dark and unreadable, pinning you in place.

"close the door," he says, it’s not a request too. when you do, the click of the latch echoing too loudly in the quiet room. "lock it."

your fingers fumble on the knob, but you manage. when you turn back, he's already standing, rounding the desk with slow steps. he doesn't say anything at first, just leans against the edge of the desk, arms crossed over his chest, watching you. the silence stretches, it was awkward until you can't take it anymore.

"professor, i—about the attachments, they were accidents. i swear, i meant to send the essays, but my files got mixed up, and—"

"accidents," he repeats, he uncrosses his arms, picking up a folder from his desk—your emails printed out, you realize with a flush of heat to your face. he flips through them casually, as if reviewing a student's brief. "three times in one week. each one more... explicit than the last."

your cheeks burn. the first had been a simple nude, you in front of your mirror, lace panties and nothing else, snapped for your own confidence boost after a rough day. the second? you'd been bolder, sprawled on your bed, hand between your thighs, capturing the arch of your back. and the third... god, the third had been you on all fours, ass up, looking over your shoulder with a smirk that screamed invitation. you'd meant them for a situationship that fizzled out, but in your late-night haze of studying and scrolling, you'd attached the wrong files. or had you? the thought nags at you now, but you push it down.

"i didn't mean for you to see them," you whisper. his gaze drops to your lips, then lower, tracing the way your blouse clings to your curves under your cardigan, the skirt that's maybe an inch too short for a professional setting like this.

he sets the folder down, stepping closer. close enough that you can smell his cologne–too strong for your liking. "and yet, here we are." his hand lifts, fingers brushing your jaw, tilting your chin up so you're forced to meet his eyes. they're darker now, pupils blown wide. "you didn't delete them. didn't send a frantic follow-up apologizing. just kept sending more."

before you can stammer another excuse, his thumb presses against your lower lip, parting it slightly. "on your knees."

you drop without thinking, carpet rough against your bare knees. he doesn't rush when unbuckles his belt, zipper dragged down loud in the quiet office. when he frees himself he's already hard, thick in his hand as he jerks himself watching your face the whole time.

"open."

he guides the head past your lips, you taste him as he slides deeper, filling your mouth inch by inch until he hits the back of your throat. your eyes water instantly. he groans low, one hand cupping the back of your head, the other braced on the desk behind him.

"that's it," he mutters. "take it."

he starts to move slowly letting you adjust, then faster. shallow thrusts turn deeper, until he's fucking your throat in earnest. you gag around him, saliva pooling at the corners of your mouth, dripping down your chin, but he doesn't stop. his grip tightens in your hair, holding you steady as he uses your mouth like it's his to take. every time you choke he pauses just long enough for you to breathe through your nose, then pushes back in, deeper, until your nose brushes his pelvis.

"look at me," he orders when your eyes flutter shut.

you force them open. his expression is almost detached but the way his hips continuously move faster betrays him. he's close. you can feel it in the way he twitches against your tongue, the way his breathing turns ragged. one more deep thrust and he holds himself there, releasing down your throat without a warning. you swallow reflexively, choking a little, but he doesn't pull out until he's finished, until you've taken every drop.

when he finally pulls out, a string of spit connects your swollen lips to the tip. he tucks himself away, zips up then he scoops you up by the waist like you weigh nothing. your legs dangle for a second before he sets you on the edge of his desk, papers crinkling under you. he pushes your thighs apart with his knee, settling between them, his hands gripping your hips to hold you in place.

"touch yourself," he says quietly.

he wants you to what…?

heat floods your face anew. "w-what? here? that's... embarrassing."

his lips twitch into something almost like a smirk, he leans in closer, breath hot against your ear. "you weren't embarrassed when you sent those nudes. all sprawled out, hand between your legs, begging for attention." his fingers trail up your thigh, pushing your skirt higher, but stopping just short. "show me now or was that all an act?"

shame and desire twist in your gut, but your hand moves anyway, slipping under the lace of your panties. you're soaked already—from the way he used your mouth.. fingers glide over your clit, circling slow at first, and a soft whimper escapes you. he watches, unblinking, one hand still on your thigh.

you pick up speed, hips rocking into your touch, breaths coming faster. but it's not enough—his stare is too intense like he's analyzing you. "please," you whisper, free hand reaching for him, but he catches your wrist, pinning it to the desk.

"no. keep going." his voice is low, commanding. "let me see you fall apart like in that second photo, that was my favorite one you know.”

your fingers start dipping lower, thrusting shallowly. the edge in you builds but just as you're teetering, he pulls your hand away. you whine in protest, but he silences you with a look.

"not yet." he drops to his knees then, surprising you, hands shoving your thighs wider. he drags your panties aside, not bothering to remove them, and leans in. his breath ghosts over you first, making you clench around nothing. then his mouth is on you—tongue warm and broad, licking a slow stripe from entrance to clit.

you gasp, hands flying to his hair, gripping tight. he groans against you, he eats you out like he's starving. his fingers dig into your thighs, holding you open as you squirm, the desk creaking under your shifting weight.

"hiromi—fuck," you moan, head falling back. he sucks your clit between his lips. one hand leaves your thigh, two fingers sliding inside you easily, curling to hit that spot that makes your vision blur. he pumps them in time with his tongue, building you back to the edge faster than before.

it crashes over you without warning, thighs clamping around his head as you come undone, crying out his name. he doesn't stop, lapping through it until you're oversensitive and shaking, pushing weakly at his shoulders.

only then does he pull back, lips shiny, eyes filled with satisfaction. he stands, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, then reaches between your legs again. he tugs your panties down your thighs, you lift your hips to help. he balls them in his fist, slips them into his pocket like a trophy.

"that's enough," he says stepping back.

you blink, still dazed, legs dangling off the desk. "what?"

"go home."

"but—" you start, voice small and wrecked, glancing down at the obvious bulge in his slacks. "you didn't—i want to—"

"i will." he steps closer one last time, brushes a stray tear from your cheek with his thumb. "when i decide. you'll get an email when i want you back here.”

he leans in, lips brushing your ear. "and next time, wear something easier to take off."

he steps back, opens a drawer, pulls out a tissue packet and sets it on the desk beside you. then he sits again, picks up a pen, and starts marking papers like you aren't still perched there, dripping because of him.

you slide off the desk on unsteady legs, fix your skirt, wipe your face. he doesn't look up as you unlock the door and slip out into the hallway.

you still haven't processed what happened but you know you’re going to check your inbox obsessively from now on.

you’ve been ghosting his class for almost two weeks.

not on purpose…at least, that’s what you tell yourself. it started innocently enough when midterms starts, three back-to-back exams in four days was hell. then the cold came, a scratchy throat turning into fever. you told yourself you’d catch up once the fog cleared but even after the fever broke, you didn’t go back.

a stupid group project drama piled on next. one groupmate ghosted entirely, another argued over every citation, and the third kept rewriting your sections without asking. you spent nights in the library staring at shared google docs, highlighter bleeding through pages you weren’t reading, mind drifting somewhere else entirely.

and underneath all of it was the real reason.

the humiliating, pulsing truth you couldn’t admit out loud even to yourself.

every time you pictured walking into that lecture hall, sliding into your usual seat, you felt his eyes on you again. the one he gave you that monday evening in his office when the door was locked and your knees were on carpet and his hand was fisted in your hair.

the memory played on cruel repeat, you could still taste him—still feel the stretch of your throat when he fucked it.

you tried to study criminal intent the way you always had: highlighters, flashcards, color-coded notes. but every time the mens rea slides appeared in your mind, you saw him at the podium instead. black marker in hand, diagramming voluntary manslaughter like it was nothing, his voice never failing to sound low and tired.

you imagined him turning to the board and writing your name in the margin next to “reckless disregard.” imagined him underlining “guilty mind” twice, then looking back at you over his shoulder with that unreadable stare.

your stomach would knot. your thighs would press together under whatever table you were hiding at. heat would crawl up your neck and settle low in your belly until you had to excuse yourself to the bathroom just to breathe.

so you skipped.

there’s no way you could focus anyway.

one lecture became two. two became four. by the sixth absence you were submitting everything online. you polished every pdfs attached to curt emails with subject lines like “week 7 reading response” and “torts ii problem set.” you were still doing the work. still getting As on the assignments he graded without comment. no one could say you weren’t keeping up.

but he noticed.

higuruma hiromi doesn’t chase students. he doesn’t send gentle “concerned professor” emails with smiley faces or pull anyone aside after class with a hand on the shoulder and a murmured “is everything alright?” he isn’t built that way. he marks absences in neat red ink on the roster. 

so you knew he’d seen it. knew because the last assignment you submitted came back with feedback that was longer than usual.

“strong analysis of actus reus, but your discussion of mens rea lacks depth. consider the subjective vs objective standard more carefully. office hours are still available if clarification is needed.” 

was that an invitation? you don’t know.

you deleted the email without replying. closed your laptop. buried your face in your pillow and tried not to think about how badly you wanted to walk into his office again.

instead you stayed away.

it’s a thursday evening and the sky is already dark by 5:30, rain hammering the campus like it’s trying to wash the whole place clean. you’re huddled under the inadequate bus shelter outside the law building. you opened your phone for the third time to check the ETA, the next bus kept getting pushed back.

your fingers are numb on the screen. the cold seeps through your hoodie, makes your teeth chatter in small, embarrassing bursts.

you keep thinking about how stupid this is—standing here freezing when you could have easily just stayed in your apartment with the heater on and another excuse not to face him.

you only came here cause you needed air.

you needed it because every time you close your eyes all you see is him.

the tired lines around his eyes that made him look older and sharper. the way his jaw tightened right before he told you to open your mouth. the low rasp in his voice when he said “that’s it” while he pushed deeper, like he was grading your ability to take him.

it's making you insane.

it makes your chest ache now. it’s not just want, you actually need him. shame mixed with this stupid, gnawing need to know if he thinks about it too. if he replays the way you looked up at him with tears in your eyes, or the sound you made when he finally let you breathe. you hate how much space he takes up in your head.

headlights cut through the downpour suddenly. a black sedan slows, pulls right up to the curb in front of the shelter. the passenger window slides down with a quiet hum.

“get in.”

his voice slices through the rain noise.

you stare for a second. higuruma is behind the wheel, his face is half-shadowed, but you can see the faint crease between his brows.

you hesitate.

“i’m not waiting,” he says. “the bus is delayed. you’ll be here another half hour at least.”

you feel your pulse jump in your throat. it’s really him, sitting there in the driver’s seat with the same rolled sleeves and the same tired expression you’ve been replaying for weeks. part of you wants to stay right where you are under the shelter and keep pretending none of this exists, because getting in the car means facing whatever this is head-on. but the cold is biting through your hoodie, your jeans are soaked at the bottom, and the thought of waiting out here alone while he drives away makes your chest tighten. you already know you’re going to regret it either way, but standing here freezing feels worse than whatever happens next.

your feet move before you decide. you duck out from under the shelter, yank the door open, slide inside. the door thuds shut and suddenly the world is muffled…everything else gone quiet except your own heartbeat thumping loud in your ears.

higuruma doesn’t look at you right away. just checks the mirrors, pulls away from the curb smooth and controlled.

silence stretches awkwardly for a few minutes.

“address,” he says finally.

you rattle off your off-campus place a few miles away. he nods while he inputs it into the gps without comment. the screen glows blue on the dash … then more silence. the wipers sweep steady as you steal glances at him, his hands on the wheel look steady, veins standing out against his skin. 

“six absences,” he says out of nowhere. “consistent, aren’t you?”

“i submitted everything on time.”

“i know.” he flicks the turn signal, merges left. “your work is fine. better than fine but you’re not in the room. that’s still a problem.”

you swallow, “i’ve been busy. you know midterms…group stuff, also got sick for a bit.”

“convenient timing.” he chuckles as heat floods your face. 

“it’s not like that.”

“isn’t it?” he glances over. “you avoid the lecture hall, avoid my eyes. but you still send polished assignments like nothing happened.”

“i didn’t know what else to do.”

“you could have come to office hours.” his tone is even, you almost hear boredom in it. “asked for clarification on mens rea like i suggested in the feedback. like a normal student.”

but that’s the thing, there’s nothing normal about this.

“i didn’t think you meant it,” you mumble.

“i don’t say things i don’t mean.”

the car fills with quiet again. 

“where do you live?” you ask suddenly, desperate to change the subject, to make this feel normal.

he raises an eyebrow. “why?”

“just curious. i mean you know where i live now.”

“apartment near the courthouse district. walking distance, it’s convenient.”

“do you… drive students home often?” 

“no.”

another turn, the surroundings are familiar now. your complex is coming up soon.

“you’ve been thinking about it,” he says. 

“about what?” you play dumb.

“monday.” he doesn’t elaborate, he doesn’t need to.

you press your thighs together, try to ignore the pulse between them. “yeah.”

“and?”

“and it’s hard to sit in class pretending it didn’t happen.”

he pulls into the loading zone in front of your building. you hear the engine idles, rain drums on the roof. he finally turns to look at you—like really look. eyes dark and unreadable, but you want to believe that there’s something under the tiredness. hunger, maybe. or just patience wearing thin.

“then stop pretending,” he says quietly.

you stare at him. 

“come inside,” you whisper. “just… to get out of the rain.”

he studies you for a long second. then reaches for the keys, kills the engine.

the sudden quiet is deafening.

he gets out first, circles around, opens your door like it’s nothing. you step out into the downpour again, colder now after the heater. he doesn’t offer an umbrella…he probably doesn’t have one. just waits while you fumble for your keys, both of you getting soaked in the short walk to the entrance.

inside the stairwell it’s warmer, but your clothes are heavy with rain and dripping onto the concrete steps. you lead the way up, feeling him right behind you—close enough that you can hear the soft squeak of his shoes on each stair, feel the faint heat coming off him even through the damp air. 

your hands shake a little when you unlock the door. it swings open into the small entryway, string lights from the living room spilling faint yellow across the floor.

you step inside first, kick off your soaked sneakers by the mat. he follows closing the door, he doesn’t take off his shoes right away, he stands there observing your place. he takes a mental note of it, looking at the stack of textbooks on the coffee table, the open laptop with his class portal still pulled up, the half-empty mug of tea.

you turn the lamp on higher, then head to the kitchenette to grab towels. anything to keep moving. “i’ll get something to dry off with,” you mutter, mostly to fill the quiet.

when you come back with two towels, he’s already peeled off his wet jacket and hung it over the back of a chair. his shirt is clinging in places—white fabric turned semi-transparent over his chest and shoulders, sleeves still rolled up, forearms flexing when he takes the towel from you. 

he dries his hair roughly, then his face, eyes never leaving yours.

you try to focus on drying your own arms, but your gaze keeps dropping to the way the wet shirt outlines the lines of his body—the faint definition of muscle under the fabric, the dark trail of hair visible through the damp material where it sticks to his stomach. your mouth goes dry. you remember exactly how that skin felt under your palms last time, how his abs tensed when you swallowed around him.

he notices it. 

“you’re still shivering,” he says, voice low. he steps closer, takes the towel from your hands, and starts drying your hair himself. fingers brushing your scalp through the fabric. it’s so gentle that you froze.

“take the hoodie off,” he says after a moment.

your fingers fumble with the hem. the wet fabric peels away from your skin with a cold suck, leaving you in just your thin t-shirt and bra underneath. the shirt is clinging too, nipples hard from the chill and from him watching. you cross your arms instinctively.

he drops the towel on the floor. reaches out, hooks two fingers under the hem of your t-shirt, and tugs it up slowly. you lift your arms without thinking. the shirt comes off, lands somewhere behind you. his eyes drop to your chest, then back to your face.

“still cold?” he asks.

you shake your head. you’re burning now.

he steps in until your back hits the wall by the entryway. one hand plants beside your head, the other slides down your side, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through the bra making you inhale sharply.

“tell me to stop,” he says quietly.

you don’t.

you don’t want him to stop.

his mouth finds yours—harder than the first time he kissed you in your memory. there’s no buildup, just pure hunger. his tongue pushes in immediately and you moan into it, hands scrambling up his wet shirt, fingers digging into the fabric over his chest. he groans low against your lips, presses his hips forward so you feel how hard he already is through his slacks.

your fingers curl into the wet cotton of his shirt, pulling him closer even though there’s already no space left between you.

he breaks the kiss first, just enough to speak against your lips. “kitchen counter now.”

you nod, legs shaky as you lead him the few steps into the narrow kitchenette. he doesn’t give you time to think. his hands find your waist, lift you onto the counter in one smooth motion like you weigh nothing. the cold granite bites into the backs of your thighs through your damp jeans. you gasp at the temperature difference.

“these need to come off,” he mutters, fingers already working the button of your jeans. you lift your hips when he tugs, helping him peel the soaked denim down your legs along with your underwear. 

you’re bare from the waist down now, legs dangling off the edge, thighs trembling slightly from the chill and anticipation. his eyes tracing the curve of your hips, the soft skin of your inner thighs, the way you’re already glistening for him.

“spread wider,” he says.

his palms slide up the insides of your thighs, thumbs brushing close but not quite touching where you want him most. you desperately shift forward, chasing his hands; he presses one palm flat to your lower stomach, holding you still.

“patience,” he murmurs. “you’ve been avoiding me for two weeks. you can wait a little longer.”

“hey i told you i wasn’t–”

“ah yes, right… you were busy, right pretty?”

his thumb finally grazes your clit and your hips jerk. he does it again, slower, watching your face the whole time. your breath comes in short pants. he circles then collects wetness on his fingers before bringing them back up to rub slowly.

“you’re soaked,” he continues, “been like this the whole ride?”

“since you pulled up,” you admit, which makes him hum in approval. two fingers slide inside you without warning, stretching you open. you moan, head tipping back against the cabinets.

“look at me,” he says.

you force your eyes open. his expression is focused, almost clinical, but his pupils are blown wide and there’s a flush high on his cheekbones. 

he’s affected too.

he adds a third finger, stretching you further. the slight burn only makes it better. 

“good,” he mutters. “just like that.”

his free hand comes up to cup the back of your neck, pulling you into another kiss. his tongue fucking into your mouth in time with his fingers. you’re rocking against his hand now, chasing the pressure, little whimpers escaping between kisses.

“mhm…so good.”

he pulls his fingers out right when you’re teetering on the edge which you whine in protest.

“not yet,” he says against your mouth. “want you to come on my tongue first.”

he drops to his knees between your spread legs. the sight of him there, kneeling on your kitchen floor, hair damp and messy from the rain—it does so much things to you. he hooks your legs over his shoulders, hands gripping your thighs to hold you open.

he doesn’t tease this time. just leans in and licks a long, slow stripe from your entrance to your clit. you cry out, hands flying to his hair. you feel him groan against you. his tongue is relentless, pointed flicks over your clit, then sucking it between his lips. he alternates, never letting you settle into one sensation long enough to predict it.

“hiromi—” his name comes out broken.

he pulls back just enough to speak. “you can go louder, right? wanna to hear it.”

“hiromi,” you moan again, louder this time. he rewards you by sucking hard on your clit while two fingers slide back inside, curling ruthlessly against that spot.

you’re dangerously close. your thighs start to shake around his head. he doesn’t let up, he keeps the same steady rhythm, tongue and fingers working in perfect tandem.

“come,” he orders, voice muffled against you. “now.”

your whole body tensing as you come apart on his tongue. you cry out his name, fingers tightening in his hair, hips grinding against his face. he doesn’t stop until you’re whimpering from overstimulation.

he finally pulls back, his lips and chin all shiny. he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, stands slowly. his erection is straining against his slacks now.

it’s obvious and thick.

you reach for his belt with shaky hands. he lets you undo it, lets you push his slacks and boxers down just enough to free him. he’s heavy in your hand, hot and hard, precum beading at the tip. you start to stroke him making him hiss through his teeth.

“enough,” he says, catching your wrist. “want inside you.”

he lifts you off the counter, hands under your thighs again. he turns, carries you a few steps into the living room, and drops down onto the couch with you straddling his lap. the cushions sink under your combined weight. 

his cock is still hard, pressed up against your stomach now. he lifts you just enough to line himself up. you feel the blunt head nudge at your entrance…thick and insistent.

“relax,” he says, “breathe, won’t you? let me in.”

you try. you really do. but the stretch is already intense just from the tip pressing in, and your body tenses instinctively. you bite your lip, hands braced on his shoulders.

“i’m trying…” you mutter, half-laugh, half-whine. “...you’re big.”

he huffs a quiet laugh against your collarbone, the sound rough and amused. “i know but you took it fine with your mouth before, this should be easier. just relax those hips for me.”

his thumbs rub slow circles over your hipbones, coaxing. you exhale shakily, try to loosen up, but when he starts pushing in harder.

your breath hitches and your nails dig into his shoulders.

“easy,” he murmurs. “why’re you fighting me?”

“hey i-im trying,” you repeat pouting. “but y-you’re stretching me so much.”

he pauses halfway in, lets you adjust. his hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts, then back down to your ass. he squeezes gently, spreads you a little more.

“there you go,” he says. “good girl. feel that? you’re opening up for me already.”

you can feel every inch of him...too thick and hot, it burns in the best way, that full, almost-too-much pressure that makes your thighs shake. inside, he feels heavy like he’s pressing right up against every sensitive spot at once. 

“fuck,” he mutters, forehead dropping to your shoulder for a second. “you feel—shit…so tight. like you’re trying to keep me out and pull me in at the same time.”

you both groan at the same time when he pushes all the way inside.

“you okay?” he asks, one hand to come up to brush damp hair off your forehead.

“yeah,” you whisper. “just really full. you feel huge like this.”

“good,” he says. “you want me to move?”

you nod fast, breath coming in short bursts. “yes please.”

“then tell me properly. use your words. what do you want, hm?”

you swallow feeling slightly embarrassed. he’s looking right at you, eyes half-lidded but sharp, waiting. 

“i want you to fuck me,” you mumble.

he tilts his head, one eyebrow lifting. “that’s cute but i said properly baby.”

your thighs twitch around his hips. he’s still buried all the way inside, the fullness is driving you insane. you can feel every vein, every slight shift when he breathes.

“hiromi…” you whine, rocking your hips a little.

he tightens his grip, holding you still. “nuh-uh. no cheating. say it like you mean it. you’ve been hiding from me for two weeks—least you can do is ask nicely.”

you bite your lip, embarrassment and need twisting together until it hurts. “i want you to fuck me hard,” you say, louder this time, “pleasee…i-i need it.”

he smirks again, feeling satisfied. the corner of his mouth tilting up just enough to show he likes hearing you beg.

“there we go,” he says quietly, “that wasn’t hard, was it?” his hands slide to your ass, fingers digging in as he lifts you a couple inches, then drops you back down hard onto his cock. the sudden thrust makes you yelp.

“o-oh hiromi-"

he doesn’t let you catch your breath. starts fucking up into you. each thrust is deep enough to make your whole body jolt while the couch groans under you both, springs protesting every time he bottoms out.

“does this turn you on?” he asks, “fucking your professor on your shitty little couch? hm?”

you moan louder than you mean to, head tipping back,

“thought so.” he thrusts harder, one hand sliding up to grip the back of your neck, keeping your face close to his. “been skipping my class, sending me perfect little assignments like nothing’s wrong, but every time you typed my name you were probably dripping thinking about this. about me splitting you open just like this.”

you can only moan in return too gone to comprehend what he’s saying. he curses under his breath when he feels you clench, pace turning rougher. the wet slap of skin on skin is loud in the quiet apartment, mixing with your gasps and his heavy breathing.

“look at you,” he mutters, eyes locked on where you’re taking him. “taking it so well. my good little student, finally getting what she’s been aching for.”

he shifts his angle slightly, tilting his hips so every thrust drags right against that spot inside you. your eyes flutter shut, mouth falling open on a broken moan.

his face is flushed, hair falling into his eyes, jaw tight with restraint. but he’s watching you like he’s memorizing every twitch. like this won’t happen again.

“tell me,” he says, voice dropping lower. “tell me whose cock is making you feel this good right now.”

“yours,” you gasp. “ah hiromi’s! only yours—”

he rewards you with a particularly deep grind, rolling his hips so the base presses hard against your clit. “that’s right,” he murmurs. “and you’re gonna come on it again. gonna soak my lap like the needy little slut you are for me.”

his hand slips between you, fingers finding your clit, rubbing fast, firm circles that match the brutal rhythm of his hips. your stomach tightens, thighs trembling uncontrollably.

“puh...please i’m close.”

“i know,” he says, voice strained now. “can feel you fluttering around me. go on come. make a mess…it’s yours anyway.”

it hits fast and hard. your whole body locks up, back arching, cry ripping out of your throat as you come apart.

“fuck—good girl—fuck—”

he keeps fucking you through it, drawing it out until you’re shaking, until his thrusts turn sloppy. 

“where do you want it?”

“inside,” you gasp immediately. “please inside.”

that’s all it takes. he grinds deep as he comes, filling you up. he groans long and low against your neck, arms wrapping tight around your waist, holding you down on him while he rides it out.

for a long minute neither of you moves. all heavy breathing, sticky skin, the faint patter of rain still outside. you can feel him softening slowly.

he kisses your shoulder, then your jaw, then the corner of your mouth.

“you good?” he asks quietly.

you nod against his chest, still catching your breath. “yeah. really good.”

he huffs a small laugh, hand stroking slow down your back. “what do you wanna do?”

you’re still straddling him. the living room smells like rain and sex. your forehead is pressed to his shoulder.

“stay,” you mumble into his neck. “stay like this a little longer.”

his fingers keep tracing lazy lines up and down your spine, from the nape of your neck all the way to the small of your back, then back up again. it’s soothing in a way that makes your eyelids heavy.

his gaze drifts past your shoulder, landing on the open laptop still glowing faintly on the coffee table. the screen’s dimmed but not off since his class portal is still pulled up from earlier.

“this where you took one of the photos?” he asks casually.

your stomach drops and flips at the same time. heat rushes back to your face so fast it makes you dizzy.

“what?” you whisper, even though you know exactly what he means.

he nods toward the couch. “right here on this cushion. ass up, looking back over your shoulder. the third one you sent. background looked familiar, same string lights in the corner, same throw blanket bunched up like that.” his hand pats the cushion beside you. “thought it might’ve been the bedroom at first but no kitchen light’s wrong for that angle. had to be here.”

you bury your face deeper into his neck, mortified. “hiromi…”

“what?” he sounds genuinely amused now, the low rumble vibrating through his chest. “you’re the one who attached it to an entrapment analysis. i had to look closely.”

you groan, half-laugh half-embarrassed whimper. “i didn’t mean for you to—i mean, i didn’t plan—”

“sure,” he cuts in gently, fingers sliding into your hair, scratching lightly at your scalp. “but you didn’t delete it either.”

you lift your head just enough to peek at him.

“you kept them?” you ask quietly.

he doesn’t hesitate. “yeah, all three. printed them out, remember? filed them under ‘supplemental materials.’” he pauses, thumb brushing your cheek. “don't get me wrong, it's not for grading, it's more for...reference...?"

“reference for what?”

“for nights when i’m grading papers at 2 a.m. and wondering why a certain student keeps disappearing from my lecture hall.” he continues, “or for when i need to remember exactly how you looked when you were trying to tempt me into breaking every rule in the faculty handbook.”

“and… did it work?”

he looks at you for a long second, then leans in and kisses you, a simple one. when he pulls back his forehead rests against yours.

“obviously,” he mutters. “look where we are.”

“shower soon,” he says again. “then bed. and tomorrow—”

“i’ll be in class,” you finish for him.

“get a better seat,” he adds. “where i can see you properly.”

you smile into his skin. “yes, professor.”

“brat.”