We aren't limited to one way of being great

i like to believe there’s a deep insecurity with in his thick skin that he rarely reveals. a fear he isn’t masculine enough, despite embodying every sense of the word. still afraid that he’s missing something- unrecognizable to anyone but the beast with whittled teeth that keeps biting the back of his neck. and the poor bloke isn’t the best with his words- so he offers the only bits of vulnerability in bed.

being taken care of is one thing, and don’t get him wrong, bending to fit your hand’s will or folding beneath the domestic dominance that has him by the neck is fun. and sometimes he needs it.

but there is something about the lull after he’s fucked you silly. about scanning the bruises he left on your hips before kissing them, the red marks perfectly the size of his hand on your chest and shoulders, the quivers the start at your pelvis and trail to your toes that secures him. reminds him he’s every bit of masculine now as he is when he lays in your arms while you scratch the nape of his neck in silent praises.

the sight of him on you- the marks and bruises and smells and smiles- is enough to quell the insecurities. and when they get loud again, he’ll crawl back to you.

it’s over the minute you start playing hide and seek.

johnny has a big family. his siblings have kids, his parents siblings have kids who also have kids, which means a holiday leave offers limited privacy and abundant chaos.

he’s learned to embrace it. adores it, even. kids stroke his ego like no other, and the more he can see his parents the less he pays attention to the new wrinkles and the reality he only has so much time to hold their hand. to be someone’s son.

but you? the sweet, unassuming bird who he met by happenstance, who’s the first person he’s brought home for an approaching decade? he winces as he grabs your bags from the trunk- already expecting the fawning- the embarrassing prattles they’ll throw your way.

he was not expecting you to navigate it though.

the adults love you. turns out all the same charms that had him whipped works fairly well with his relatives. three glasses of wine in and he can still hear his aunt laughing. genuinely. that’s a miracle.

and don’t even get him started with the nieces and nephews.

stole all his thunder and he isn’t even mad about it. watches as they chase you in the backyard, cartwheeling around while you catch your breath.

his sister nudges him in the side and he starts.

“how’d ye catch a bonnie like tat?”

you send him a lopesided smile from across bronzing grass. you’re glowing.

yeah, he’s a goner. “couldnae tell ye.”

the brute couldn't even wait a shower's hour to have you beneath him. couldn't shed months of grime and slaughter before shoving his cock into your slick, half asleep hole. oily, dirty, but above all- fucking hairy.

most of the time, they stay in their gear for days on end- which leaves very little time for extensive hygiene. hair grows like a virus while cigarette ash keeps them company. storming some dilapidated cement mess and bleeding on the furls of hair beneath bullet proof vests.

at least that the imagery you conjure when you think about where on earth your boyfriend is. it's a heroic fantasy, but the reality is-

"ow! fuck- johnny that hurts."

"promise 'm almost done bonnie, doing so well for me."

you're left with chaffing. collapsing the flat of his gut and chest directly on your spine as he ruts into you, and you don't have half your wits to stop him when he's so fucking deep and telling you- showing you just how much he missed his sweet girl.

but now, sober minded and loathing consequences, your boyfriend (who is absolutely biting back laughter, the bastard) rubs ointment on the rashes his stupid, hot, manly hair left behind.

"if't helps, ye look simply braw when yer all mes-"

"shut it johnny."

it adds insult to injury that he’s good.

bent over your childhood bed, drooling on nostalgia and the dust that collected after your absence while abroad. he’s no different, barely able to fit through your front door, shoulders taking the brunt force of the decade he’s been away.

that, and his cock.

palm swallowing your moans so your families don’t hear how he ruins your cunt with it, thick middle reshaping the gums of your walls. you can smell the holiday perfume and champagne melting off your neck as he sucks under your jaw. it’s snowing outside, but the the flakes look bleary behind the tears that boils your waterline.

“y’should see yerself, doll-“ grunts when you flatten your ass against his pelvis, rutting deeper until you bite at his callouses, “a braw mess. must regret not lettin’ me n’yer cunt sooner, mm?”

pushes on your shoulder blades until your throat is stuffed with the feathers in your pillows. fastens his fingers around your hips and angles you just right so he’s brushing against your womb.

dandelion fires light behind your eyes, and you remember how a younger johnny used to talk you through counting them when you looked at the sun too long.

things change fast.

“fuck- squeezin’ me dry, aren’t ye,” he pants, lowering himself until he’s next to your ear, “even yer body knew y’always wanted me. fuckin’ made for me, precious. dinnae why y’held out fer so long.”

“ah- johnny don’t-“

“what? cum inside?” he laughs, and you burry your face into pillow case cotton when he quickens the pace, “why nae make tis permanent, yeah? have meh whenever y’need.”

buries himself to the hilt, and you feel warm confliction fill your womb in ropes until your shaking in the aftermath of your own orgasm.

holds your lower back as he leads you downstairs. plays with the kids while you get water and talk with the mothers.

he sends you a look after picking one up and blowing a raspberry into their stomach, and suddenly you’re aware that this was always going to happen.

and now there’s no way back.

there’s just something about Johnny “ma didnae raise ah quitter” MacTavish that I find so compelling.

his stubborn attempts are ceaseless. pure determination confused as a blind hope.

ten seconds left on the bomb clock and he diffuses it in nine. covert cover got blown but he and simon manage to snipe five of seven operatives.

wins poker with a shit hand because he smiles when he’s losing and winning- so no one knows the difference until they fold with a king and he wins with a two and a seven.

waking up after being shot clean in the head.

it’s a disease he blames on the wide empty farmland of Scotland that fought tooth and nail for him to stay. on his mother that told him to fight back.

on the recent scar and the headaches he fights in the office.

so when he finds you, the new hire for the office who’s desperate to impress and doesn’t know she already has- assigned to help him through the tremors and brain fog- he’s ready to bite this new challenge with the canines sharpened by public doubt and circumstance.

and he can’t help the impulse. the need to prove that he can get anything that he sets his mind to. that if he thinks about you enough, the curve of your ass and the lilt of your voice, that eventually your ring finger will weigh down the rest of your hand. how good MacTavish would sound behind your name.

coming from your lips.

winning you over is slow. finds you frustrating because you’re just as stubborn but so polite about it. kind to a fault.

but like anything, he knows, watching you sort papers pretending like you don’t feel his eyes on you,

it’s only a matter of time.

That you start cooing over your precious baby for protecting you so fiercely, rather than over Johnny, doesn't help matters. Neither does the fact that the little fucker made him bleed, and he can already tell the bite is going to scar. He'd rather die than explain that one to Ghost...

That night, he ends up sleeping on the couch, because your toothy terror growls every time he gets near you. His ego is so bruised he almost considers giving you an ultimatum--him or the dog. But he knows who you'd choose, and the just the thought of you leaving him makes him break into a cold sweat, so he scraps that idea before it can even fully form.

He supposes he'll just have to stock up on your little shite's favorite treats and try to bribe his way back into its good graces.

(It works, eventually. And when Johnny's finally allowed back into the bedroom under the pup's watchful eye, he's careful to make sure it leaves before he rolls on top of you and starts rutting against you like the mutt he is).

Fan in the corner just pushes it around in lazy circles, useless. Your shirt clings to the soft swell of your belly, to the undersides of your breasts, dark patches blooming wherever fabric meets skin. Shorts have ridden up, cotton stuck to the backs of your thighs every time you shift. You’re liquid with it, slow ooze of heat between your legs, behind your knees, at the nape of your neck where sweat gathers and drips.

Johnny’s worse. Or better, depending how you look at it. Stripped down to thin grey briefs that do nothing to hide the heavy curve of his cock resting thick along his thigh, the fabric gone dark and clinging where sweat’s soaked through. He’s sprawled on the couch, doesn’t give a single fuck who sees, one leg hooked over the arm, head tipped back, throat working as he drains the last of a bottle of water. When he catches you staring he grins, crooked, boyish, dimples carving deep, teeth flashing sharp.

“Ach, look at ye,” he says. “Starin’ like ye want a taste even while yer meltin’. C’mon, doe. Got an idea.”

He disappears into the kitchen. You hear the freezer door yank open, the sharp crack of ice trays breaking free. When he comes back his big hands are full of cubes already weeping meltwater, dripping between his fingers onto the floorboards in little wet spots. “Floor’s cooler than that couch. On yer back for me.”

You go because the promise of cold is too much, and he guides you down with a palm between your shoulder blades, settling you on the rug over the tiles, floor kissing your overheated skin. He kneels between your spread thighs, one knee braced solid, and holds up a single cube between thumb and forefinger.

“Gonna cool ye down proper,” he murmurs, and the first touch lands at the hollow of your throat.

The shock punches the air from your lungs. Cold, so fucking cold against skin that’s been baking for hours. Drags it slow, deliberate, down the line of your throat, over your collarbones, the cube melting fast, rivulets chasing after it, soaking into the neckline of your shirt until the fabric goes translucent and clings. Your nipples tighten, stiff peaks dragging against the wet cotton, and he sees, grin widening, edges going sharp.

Tugs the shirt down with his free hand, baring your breast, circles the tight bud with the ice until you arch clean off the floor with a whine. Does the other the same, alternating until both nipples are aching, flushed dark, water running in cool trails down your ribs to pool under the small of your back. Makes your thighs twitch wider around his knee, makes the heat between your legs throb harder, slicker.

“Pretty thing,” he says, voice gone low and rough. “All pebbled up and drippin’ already. That for the cold or for me, hen?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. Just hooks his fingers in your shorts and underwear, drags them down and off. The air feels hotter against your exposed cunt, swollen and slick, and then the ice is there, right against your slit, dragged slow from entrance to clit and back again.

Rips a moan out of you, hips bucking up into the cold, and he holds you down with one broad palm on your belly while he works the shrinking cube in tight circles over your clit until it’s throbbing, until you’re dripping more than just meltwater down the cleft of your arse.

When the cube’s gone he replaces it with his mouth, tongue broad and flat, licking up everything the ice left behind, sucking your clit between his lips with a groan that vibrates straight through you.

Stubble scrapes the soft skin of your inner thighs. His hands keep you spread, thumbs digging into the give of your flesh, and you come like that, thighs clamping around his head while his name fractures on your tongue.

He pulls back with his mouth shiny, that sharp toothed grin still in place, and wipes his chin on the back of his wrist. “Yer turn, doe. Fair’s fair.”

He stretches out beside you on the rug, briefs tented now, the head of his cock straining dark against the fabric, a wet spot blooming where precome’s soaked through.

You push up on shaky arms, grab a fresh cube, and start at his throat, watch his head tip back, Adam’s apple bob as the cold hits. Drag it down over the flat planes of his chest, over the tight peaks of his nipples, feeling them pebble under the ice. He hisses, hips twitching, that thick cock jumping in his briefs.

Lower, following the dark trail of hair down his stomach. You tug the briefs down and his cock springs free, flushed, heavy, the head glistening.

Run the ice right over it, base to tip, and he curses sharp and filthy, hips lifting clean off the floor as the cold hits sensitive flesh. The cube melts fast against his heat, water running down over his balls, and you chase it with your tongue, lapping up the melt, then taking the head into your mouth, sucking slow and wet while another cube rolls over the tight skin of his sac.

He groans, one big hand fisting in your hair. “Fuck- yer mouth, hen. Gonnae make me spill if ye keep that up.”

You hum around him, the vibration making his thighs tense hard, and work the last of the ice lower, rolling it behind his balls until he’s cursing again, hips rolling up into your mouth in short, helpless thrusts.

When you pull off he flips you, settles his weight between your thighs, cock drags hot and heavy through against your cunt, the head catching at your entrance, and he pushes in slow, stretching you open inch by inch until he’s buried, hips flush to yours. The burn is sweet, perfect, and you clutch at his shoulders, nails biting into sweat slick skin as he starts to move- deep, rolling thrusts that grind the base of his cock against your clit with every stroke.

The heat’s still there, thick between your bodies, but he reaches for another cube, holds it right where he’s fucking you, lets it melt against your clit. Cold water mixes with the wet sounds of skin on skin, his cock sliding in and out of your dripping cunt, and your eyes roll back.

“That’s it,” he pants, words slurring with want, dimples flashing even now. “Take it, doe. Take all o’ me. Fuckin’ perfect- made for this, for me.”

You come again around him, walls fluttering and clenching tight, and he follows with a low groan, hips stuttering as he spills deep, hot pulses filling you while the last of the ice melts between you, water cooling the feverish skin.

He doesn’t pull out right away. Just stays buried, softening slow, forehead pressed to yours, breathing you in while sweat and meltwater cool between your bodies. His thumb strokes lazy circles on your hip.

“Still hot, hen?” he asks, voice lazy, teasing, crooked grin tugging at his mouth. “Or did we beat it?”

You laugh, breathless, fingers tracing the sweat at the nape of his neck. “Think we might need another round.”

In his line of work, where hypermasculinity is the norm and he can go months at a time without so much as speaking to another woman, (excepting Laswell, of course), gestures of affection are expectedly rare.

As a result, he’s gotten himself a reputation that’s weirded out more than a few soldiers in his years of service.

“MacTavish is…touchy,” one would whisper under his breath, looking around to make sure he was out of earshot.

“Yeah….Don’t get me wrong; nice bloke. But he’s always pulling me in for hugs or sitting real close. A tad weird if you ask me,” another would reason, fidgeting with his hands.

“You don’t think he’s…?” at third would ask, nervous to say the word.

“Definitely not; have you seen him at the clubs around base? He’s into women, mate, trust me,” a fourth would chime in, chuckling.

“So…what? He’s just, like, lonely?” the first would ask.

“Aren’t we all?” the second would sigh and all four would nod wistfully.

Unfortunately for him, he's wearing his dark scrubs, and you had flour all over you. When he gets to the hospital, everyone can see your full handprint on him, and no one has the heart to say anything.

Until Robby notices.

"Uh, brother, you've got something, uh, there," he nods.

"What?" Jack looks down, but sees nothing.

"Didja get a good kiss goodbye?" he raises his eyebrows, hoping Jack will take the hint.

He does. And he blanches immediately, excusing himself to go to the bathroom.

Are you out of your mind? He texts you later.

Yes. Absolutely. What are we talking about.

I'm walking around the emergency department with a handprint on my ass.

Not my fault. It's the perfect shape. You want me to start keeping my hands to myself?

dating nanami was still new. new enough that you still got butterflies whenever he reached for your hand. new enough that every kiss made you feel unreal.

new enough that you were standing by his front door at eleven thirty at night, wondering whether it was too soon to ask if he wanted you to stay.

so you didn't.

"i should probably get going" you say instead.

nanami looked up from where he had been cleaning the dishes from earlier dinner. "already?" he says quickly, sounding.. disappointed?

you both froze. you weren't exactly expecting that.

"i mean," he clears his throat. "it's late."

"it is." you say, frowning.

and as if he could read your thoughts, he asks.

"do you.. wanna stay the night? i don't want you to go."

he sounded vulnerable, unlike him. while you were all up in your mind, he had walked over to you. "hm?" he hums, his hand reaching for your cheek.

you were getting so red, his words alone made you so giddy, and his touch? oh god.

you finally let out a breath and smile, like you were hoping he says that for weeks. "yes, okay. i'll stay."

he smiles, tucking your hair behind your ear. "thank you, love." he leans down and kisses you. it's slow. gentle. the kind of kiss that makes your chest ache in the best way possible.

𝜗𝜚: satoru, suguru, nanami, choso, hiromi, toji

note: they are super needy for you ! previously archived set

warnings: sexual, suggestive, cursing, f!reader

I BLOCK MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS

bakugou katsuki knows why he is a virgin. it’s pretty simple really despite the fact he is surrounded by beautiful women often. socialites, the new buzzing influencers, actors and pro heroes like.

it’s because he’s obsessed with his job. always has been. since he was a child who was dreaming of becoming a hero, to his teenage years fighting wars to now in his twenties, working towards becoming number one.

women and mostly importantly, getting his dick wet, has never been number one on his list of priorities. sure when he’d go to film premiers for that hero franchise he loves, occasionally a gorgeous woman would talk to him.

but the thing about growing up uninterested in sex and the only women around him being his friends that share the same heroic goals… well bakugou has never been very good at flirting. which again, was mostly okay since he would just walk away when a woman was about to talk to him.

until he met you that is. the first woman to make him dream of more, that made him unable to get through a shower without tugging one out to the thought of you. that during patrols, he’d think about texting you. what are you up to? where are you? when the hell can he kiss you next?

anyone is experienced compared to bakugou. he’s kissed a girl once in his third year of ua. he’s made out with two in his early twenties.

but now at twenty six this is first time having a woman in his apartment, on his bed, on his lap. he feels like a rabid animal. unsure where to put his hands with the desperate need to touch everywhere so he leaves them on the globes of your ass, squeezing every few seconds when all the feelings inside of him gets intense.

he knows he’s flushed red. he knows his dick is hard and you can feel it through your leggings. but you’re so perfect, leading the moment, letting him react however the hell he wants.

bakugou releases a loud moan when you stick your tongue down his throat, breasts pressed against his chest like you want to live in his skin. he’s never felt a woman like this before, he feels as if the word virgin is in capital letters printed onto his forehead.

he hasn’t told you directly he is but he thinks you know.

“you’re so… fuck. this is so fucked up,” he breathes into your mouth and your fingers rake up into the hair on his nape.

your grin makes his heart skip a beat, falter slightly and he swears he gets winded.

you’re out of breath, chest heaving and your pussy is a centimetre away from sitting on his cock.

“why’s it fucked up? you okay?” you brush your nose against his softly, smoothing out his eyebrow with your thumb. “you look hot, do you want to take your top off?”

you’re being so sweet to him and he appreciates it, he does. but as soon as he knows what he’s doing he’s gonna treat you right. properly.

for now, he’s just worried he doesn’t have what it takes.

“oh, err, fuck. sorry, yeah i will,” he mumbles to you, yanking off his white tee from the neckline.

bakugou enjoys how your eyes glow, scanning his half naked body like it’s something you can eat. your hands immediately flatten against his chest. down his toned abdomen. up to his fat squishy pectorals. he’s never had someone touch him like this. he couldn’t be harder.

“you don’t have to apologise, you know. this is new for us both.”

“you’re not the fuckin’ virgin here.” he bites, “i’ve never even had a woman in my room.”

he can tell you like that idea. you inch closer to him on his lap, your hands are back on his shoulders. you brush your lips over his.

“i don’t know how. look at you.”

and you’re back to making out with him. slower this time. tasting all the flavour from his tongue.

you softly bite down on his bottom lip and like a ring of the doorbell, bakugou opens up to let you in. it’s wet peck after wet peck, tilting your head to taste more of him. he’s eager, too eager ducking closer to you, as to not waste any time with your lips off his. you can only think that if he kisses with this much passion, you’re dying to know how he’d fuck.

bakugou tightly grips your ass and without meaning to, he shoves you directly onto his cock.

you mewl like a cat, hips grinding down onto him like you can’t help it. “you feel so good, ‘tsuki.”

you feel good because of him. him.

your tongue sneaks into his mouth, twirls and brushes against his. he learns quickly, you’ll give him that. his tongue dances against yours, licking up everything you offer. you feel his body vibrate, his dick twitch. you begin sucking on his tongue and that’s when he releases a harsh grunt. you’re soaked.

“let me see it.” you palm his cock through his shorts, “let me see.”

bakugou opens his eyes, pulls away from your mouth for a moment.

“i… fuck.” he’s back to mumbling. then stupidly, he looks down at the lump in his fabric.

“you… you don’t have to?” you offer, unsure about his wide eyes, “we can keep kissing?”

“it’s just that… it’s just….,” bakugou looks up to the ceiling.

he’d love for you to touch him, do anything to him but nobodies seen his dick before. sure he’s seen some porn videos but he’s never seen a dick like his in them. he’s googled and nothing said there’s anything particularly wrong about his.

but what if you find it weird, what if it puts you off him completely?

“talk to me, baby,” you push, laying a kiss on his jaw. then making a line down his neck. “wanna make you feel good.”

he’d like that.

“listen. seriously.”

you pull off him at that, sitting up on his lap, your hands at his waist. he is stupidly gorgeous. puffy pink lips because of you. his long straight eyelashes. his beautiful cheekbones and that eyebrow slit.

“i’m listening. tell me anything.” you soften your tone, trying to get the horny out your eyes. your tits are basically spilling out your vest top and you don’t miss bakugou’s pupils darting to and from them every few seconds.

“i think…. i…”

you don’t speak.

katsuki takes a deep breath. he almost shouts without meaning to. “nobody has seen my dick before but me. right?”

you nod with a frown, unsure where this is going. “okay. nothing’s wrong with that.”

bakugou winces. he isn’t built for this. he’s always been attractive physically. his body works better than the average. can run at speed, stealthy, built for hero work. his quirk is best of the best and is only getting stronger by the day. but using his body for sex? that’s something he has no clue about.

“it might not be normal lookin’? like it works fine, i’ve never had any problems with it? but it might be odd for you.”

you’re immediately imagining the worst. it’s not small. you felt it a second ago between your legs. heck, you’ve seen it when he walks around in those stupid grey joggers. oddly coloured, oddly shaped? is it too big?

“what’s wrong?” you tilt your head.

his whole face is flushed. a beautiful pink to the apples of his cheeks. you would kiss them if he wasn’t so serious right now.

he closes his eyes, leans his head back on his headboard. his hands stay on your thighs. you tap his chest.

“c’mon tell me.”

he exhales sharply.

“my dick is fuckin’ curved. to the left. i don’t know why.” he blurts, embarrassment written all over him, “it’s always been like that.”

for him to be this stressed about it, it must be abnormal. is it like a hook? you’ve seen one like that on one of those medical reality shows. would it be able to go inside if you? you so badly want him inside of you.

you shrug. you can’t imagine anything about this man being less than perfect. “it can’t be that bad, baby.”

you rub his chest soothingly but his face doesn’t soothe you one bit.

“i’m fuckin’ sorry. i brought you here and we’re goin’ so well and—,”

“let me see. let me see your dick, c’mon,” you smile softly.

you sink your hand to touch his crotch again.

“you sure? i don’t want you to be put off me like i’m a freak—,”

“katsuki. come on.”

it’s in slow motion. your mouth immediately start salivating, his hands grip the elastic waistband of his shorts. he pulls it down in one go with his underwear.

“oh katsuki. baby…. honey.”

this man has nothing to worry about. bakugou katsuki has on him a cock that can rival your favourite dildos. it curves to the left, a smooth pleasing curve that you already know will hit your softest spots. you swallow your spit, your hands inching up his thighs. it’s darker at the base, twitching under your attention with two round balls (one a little larger than the other) at the bottom.

he is hefty. heavy. thick like a tree trunk with veins darting up the sides. you imagine the weight of it in your mouth. the deep pinkish purplish head on your tongue. most of all, you imagine it curved inside, pushing a sweet orgasm out of you.

of course, this big idiot didn’t know what he had on him. part of you wants to lie, never let him know how good he has it so he doesn’t go around sharing his goods. but you need to, it’s written all over your face.

“you must be joking, katsuki,” you hum, delighted. you run your finger down his shaft.

his hips jolt, eyes lazing slightly from your attention. he’s so hard it’s getting painful.

“what? what? spit it out.”

“you need to fuck me. doesn’t have to be now but someday. you have to.” you whine, “you don’t get it at all.”

“what? it’s not a problem? this okay with you?” he stutters, unable to keep a steady head as you sink down the bed to rest your chest on his legs. now you’ve got your face right in front of his dick, as if you’re measuring the curve by degrees.

you want to lick him.

“you’ve got a pornstar dick. a dick they base dildos off,” you breathe. the look in your eye is wild, untamed. “you’d feel amazing. even if you don’t know how to use it. you need let me bounce on it.”

bakugou blinks down at you. he doesn’t quite believe what he’s hearing, fuck, he doesn’t know what to do about you. not one bit did he think you’d even have this reaction.

“w-what… i know how to use my own dick.” is all he can manage but you shake your head.

you flick your eyes up to him, “we’re gonna learn together, okay? can i… can i…” you flatten your tongue against his shaft and give him one lick up.

bakugou’s sure he’s about to come any second now.

the atmosphere was calm, well as calm as it could be with sukuna there. 

you sat curled up in his lap while he yelled at toji through his headset for the nth time. you shifted slightly before slowly sliding out of sukuna's lap, he muttered a quick 

“where ya goin?” his eyes shifted towards you, now fully out of his grasp. 

“bathroom.” 

he let out a low hum and returned his hard gaze back to his monitor. 

-

“holy shit ryomen, yer washed.” toji snickered through the mic. 

“easy to talk when you pick OKC every fucking round.” sukuna snarled back.

“aye back to back dubs speaks for itself.” 

“its been two rounds already?” sukuna checked his phone, its been almost 2 hours since you left his lap. 

“two rounds of belt? yea bro.” a snort came out from sukunas headphones. 

“im hoppin off anyway to go out with my girl. cus i got other shit to do, like my girl. get it? cus i have a girlfriend.”  sukuna teased. 

“blah blah blah we get it asshat.” 

sukuna chuckled to himself before logging off and heading over to barge on you in the bathroom, which was locked? he lifted a heavy knuckle and tapped on the door twice. 

“babe, you takin’ a shit?” 

content: drabble, mentions of alcohol, sukuna’s an ass guy (rip readers ass), threats

Being with Sukuna isn’t for the weak. He’s not the most expressive person when it comes to his feelings, not even after an entire year of being in a relationship. He doesn’t do PDA, won’t partake in discussions when his friends start talking about the women they’re seeing, has a straight face the entire time whenever he does briefly talk about you.

But, everybody knows he loves you. Yourself included.

It’s in the way he keeps an eye on you in group settings, the way he’ll randomly come up to you with a new drink after noticing you’ve already finished the one you’ve been holding in your hand. Sukuna will be on his best behavior when you’re around, but will also lose his fucking mind if you are mildly inconvenienced.

“She asked for extra barbecue sauce 13 minutes ago,” he once snapped at a waiter. “Where the FUCK is it?” That was fucking embarrassing. In his defense, he refuses to start eating without you and you were waiting until they came back with it to touch your food.

At the end of the day, he simply wouldn’t have stayed this long if he didn’t hold any deeper feelings. They are there! He just has them hidden behind his god awful temper.

It’s not until he finds himself a little too drunk at a small party, when he randomly decides to be open and honest about how much he enjoys touching you.

And it starts with the resounding smack! of his palm as he cracked it against your ass cheek, followed by the yelp it pulled out of you, because it was the last thing you expected.

It reaches many people's ears, and when they turn to look towards the dining room table, they find you glaring at Sukuna. He looked fucking love struck with that glossy, faded look in his eyes as he sat back in his seat, rubbing the spot he decided to target while you were in the middle of looking for the lipgloss in your purse.

“That fucking hurt!” you hiss at him, swatting his hand away, only for it to go right back. “What is wrong with you?!”