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oreo-creampies · 5 months ago

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‘𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐲 𝐜𝐮𝐧𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐬’

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: everything the reader has consented to ahead of time! pure smut, monster fucking, role played breaking & entering, kidnapping (moving to a secondary location), masked ‘unknown’ robbers, established relationship with satoru, planned kinky event, knife play, blood, marking, name branding, biting, toys, hunting/chasing, some fear play, drugging, manhandling, blindfolding akak bag on head, some light bondage, begging, heavy degradation/some praise/taunting/teasing, dumbification/mind break, light cervix fucking, double dick!suguru, double dick!satoru, light semi-public nudity - you're carried to the car naked in the middle of the night (not caught), reader quickly loses all shame and just wants to be pounded and passed around, triple stuffing reader's cunt, anal, anal fingering, some anal prep, suguru has his tongue pierced, reader gets turned into a succubus, pussy slapping, they are mean but kind of sweet at times, one face slap

𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐡: 20 minutes - 5.7k

𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧: anything fucked up with geto, gojo, toji shiu?

A loud bang and the glass of your balcony door shattering jolts you awake. You barely have time to register how it happened a muscular masked man is pinning you to your bed, holding a knife to your neck. "Caught ya." Your heart pounds as he glides the knife’s tip to your collarbones. There's a cunt soaking thrill to the cool knife's sharp edge.

He croons, "Your little heart is beatin’ so loudly doll, ya scared?” He's massive, weighing heavily on your thighs.

Fighting the urge to writhe when he drags the blade across. Increasing the pressure till your skin splits and a bit of blood beads up along the wound. You're moaning, it's whiny and needy.

Grabbing his wrist, digging your nails in. His gaze drops to your lips. "Sounds like ya enjoyed that, moan like that again n' you'll get my cock hard." Trailing the knife up, towards your neck, tilting your head back into your puffy pillow.

The stinging pain is going straight to your cunt, making her tingle. You're barely able to shift your hips, or even close them. Keeping them spread apart, his clothed cockhead rubbing your clit.

He pulls his mask up, groaning. Your cunt clenches from the obscene deep sound. The moonlight shining through the broken window illumines a beautiful, scarred smirk. Your eyes widen as four sharp fangs emerge, stretching to their full length.

You want him to bite you. He lifts your short nightgown with the knife's tip. “Aw I found a pretty, dirty slut." Stopping beneath your breasts, giving you a short, shallow cut. "N' here I thought I was just gonna get some dinner then leave." He grinds his hips, rubbing your bare puff clit with his cock. "You're sweet ass has dessert for me."

His thin sweatpants barely separate his cock from your cunt. He's warm and thick. Rolling his hips, gliding his cock head along your slit. Biting your lip, holding back a moan. Fantasizing about how deep his fat cock could split you open.

He moans, "Lemme hear your pretty moans, don't be shy now when you're creamin' yourself over me.” Licking your wound, his tongue unnaturally cold. You shiver, grabbing his shirt and pulling him closer. Whimpering, lightly grinding your soaking cunt on his thick, hard cock. His weight on your thighs keeps you from freely moving.

Grazing your neck with the sharp tip of his fangs. Tilting your head to the side, eager for him to bite. "You're too easy, want me that badly already." Roughly biting down, his four fangs in your neck shouldn't feel so good.

Spreading your fingers, groping his hard pec. Digging in your nails, he whines roughly grinding his hips. Sliding your hand down his washboard abs, he flexes, the lines defining his abs deepening. "Beg n' I'll let you have my fat cock after I drink my fill." Leaning back, shifting to straddle your hips. Letting you grind your hips better.

Another man states, "Can smell her dripping wet cunt downstairs." The man turns on the overhead light, walking over to stand at the side of your bed. Your body flushes with heat at how you're found. Grinding your bare cunt on a masked intruder's clothed cock. With your nightgown halfway pulled up.

The white masked man croons, "Poor horny little slut, so desperate for some cock. Is Toji teasing you too much?" Toji holding the knife to your neck doesn't stop you from turning your head to look at the second intruder.

Admiring their sculpted, muscular pale chest, and beautiful v-line leaning into his dark gym shorts. His cock is hard, standing up straight, his gym shorts straining over his head. Fondling his cock, moaning, his veiny hands inked up to his mid-forearms. With an ancient language, you've seen pictures of inscribed stone stabs in history books.

He yanks your dress up over your breast. Toji dips his head. Sinking his fangs into your breast, flicking your nipple with a cold tongue. Groaning when your warm blood trickles into his mouth.

Grabbing a fistful of his dark hair, pressing your thighs together. Grinding your sloppy wet cunt, his cock head catches on your tight hole. At this angle, his thick cock head won't slip it. Whining, twisting your hips, reaching out to jerk the second masked intruder.

He steps out of your reach, slipping his gym shorts down. His cock pops out, standing up, long, pale, and veiny. Toji moves the knife, holding it next to your fast. Switching to your other breast, biting next to your nipple. Which he pinches to hear you whine.

When the other beautiful man comes closer you smear his pre-cum with a swirl of your thumb. You can feel his quick heartbeat in his puffy veins when you firmly squeeze his cock.

A third man gloats, "Told you she'd be a freaky slut." Standing on the other side of the bed. His long dark hair is in a messy bun. He looks down at you with condescending dark eyes making your body hot and your cunt wet.

Sneering, "Already she's grinding her needy cunt on his cock, when we just busted in." He takes the knife from Toji, who grabs his cock swiping your clit with his head. Tugging his hair, he pulls away, blood trickling from the corner of his lips.

Gathering your blood on your thumb, holding it to Toji's lips for him to lick clean. "Satoru she's not even questioning what we are, why we are here. What we are going to do with her." Toji slips your finger out of his mouth, leaning back. Stilling his hips, leaving his hard, veiny cock pressed to your soaking wet cunt, clenching.

Satoru croons, "Pretty pathetic little slut." Your cunt clenches around nothing when he lets out a breathy, needy whine. Jerking his hips, swirling your hand, pumping your hand faster. Swiping your fingers over his sensitive pale pink head.

Questioning them, "What of it?" The third man slides the knife beneath your chin, adding pressure. Roughly swallowing, biting back your attitude. "I'll be good, don't care what you are, we'll figure out how to put something in somewhere." Satoru snickers, sliding his cock out of your hand.

He tugs his shorts up and unfolds a dark cloth bag from his pocket. Toji grabs your wrists, quickly binding them together with rough rope. He moves to the side, yanking your body up by your bound wrists.

The bag is swiftly placed over your head, tightening it around your neck. Ripping an airhole for your nose and mouth. Nudging your lips, you open your mouth for someone's long thick fingers. Swirling your tongue around them till they glide them out.

Toji rips through your sleepwear grumbling, "Fuck your shitty nightgown." Roughly yanking you off the bed. Unexpecting the sudden tug and unable to see you stumble on your feet. Getting yourself thrown over a shoulder, and a rough smack on the ass.

Jerking, whining, "Harder! Please! I'm beggin' for it, want you to make my ass sore." Earning a painful, sharp smack, your cunt flutters. You're aching for more sweet stinging pain as it settles to a warm ache. You can make out the shape of his hand.

Carrying you down the stairs, turning towards the right. They are taking you towards the front door. You'll be outside naked and bound with a bag over your head. You're too horny to be embarrassed. Reasoning it's too late for anyone to be out.

Toji swears, "Damn Satoru you did a number on this door. Don't think any is left on the frame." Thinking twice about protesting over your apparently busted front door. Due to the precarious poition you in with these three men.

Shivering in the cool night air, you hear a car door open.

Satoru reasons, "It shouldn't have looked ugly." The car softly purrs, coming to life. Another car door, he slips you off their shoulder, roughly shoving you into the car. Like you're an object they're storing in the back.

Your face plants into the cold leather. Shifting in the seat, momentarily struggling with your hands to sit upright. When one grabs you by the bag on your head, tugging you up right. The ties keeping it secured on your head dig into your neck until he lets go.

Begging whoever, "Lemme choke on your cock." You hear them shifting in their seat. He pushes your head down moments later. A thick warm cock head nudging your lips. Opening your mouth, groaning around his head, swirling your tongue.

Laying your tongue flat, taking his fat head, thicker head than the one previously in your hand. Toji momentarily holds your head down, gagging you. You'd fondle his balls if your wrists weren't tied.

You hear the soft pulsing of a toy. Eager for Satoru to play with your soaking wet cunt you put your ass up in the air. Satoru spreads your lips with his fingers. "Dirty slut doesn't even care where she's bein' takin." Gliding a thin, pulsing dildo into your cunt. Its head is a small tip, gradually thickening.

Moaning around Toji's cock, clenching the toy. Its soft bumps on the bottom stroking your sweet spot. Satoru groans, "Suguru can we keep her? She has her pretty little glory holes in my face " He pumps the toy faster, purposefully angling it down. Ensuring to stroke your sweet spot to make your cunt fluster.

Trembling, folding your arms, propping yourself up on your bound clasped fists. Bobbing your head faster on Toji's cock. Suguru decides, "You'll have to turn her, vampire or incubus doesn't matter, otherwise you'll break her before the sun rises." You hear the car rev as he speeds up.

Satoru grabs your ass, digging in his nails, biting your other cheek. Toji's cock muffles your whine, he holds your head down. Forcing you to take every inch, burying his cock deep in your throat. Your eyes water, jaw aching from stretching so wide to take him.

Gliding his cock out, roughly breathing. Toji questions, "Whatya say, wanna be our pretty cock sleeve succubus live on taking our cum. Think it's fittin' with how quickly you started groping my tits n' grinding your sloppy cunt on my cock." He rips the hole in the bag wider, spitting on your lips.

Licking your lips clean, pleading with them, "Turn me into a pretty cock sucker you can keep around to stuff full of cum." Satoru pulls you onto his lap, the inhuman dildo pulsing in your cunt. Sitting in his lap keeping the toy stuffed in deep.

Your cunt spasming, clenching the toy. Satoru yanks your head back by the bag on your head. Biting underneath your collarbone, his fangs are shorter than Toji's. With only two on top, the sharp pain becomes a sweet tingle.

Your body becomes hotter, and the intensity of the heat concentrates between your legs. Soaking Satoru's gym shorts, rocking your hips, shifting the pulsing toy in your needy cunt. Pulling away, licking the drops of blood welling up from the small inflictions.

You moan, unable to think of anything as you're overcome by incomprehensible horniness. "Nng!" Satoru moves you to straddle his hips. Yanking you by your neck, arching your back, biting your breast by Toji's previous.

Crying from the short-lived searing pain, then an intense wave of pleasure akin to cumming has you trembling. "Aren't you giving her too much, don't wanna kill her before we have our fun." Satoru grabs the dildo, fucking your sloppy wet cunt,

Giving you a couple pumps before your overly sensitive cunt gushes. Soaking through Satoru's gym shorts. He groans, licking the wound, scraping your nipple with his fang, Biting beneath, injecting you with more venom.

Your eyes roll back, and your body quivers. You can feel your heartbeat in your cunt. Your slick trickling down your thighs. Satoru fucks your sloppy, sensitive cunt with the dildo faster. Licking up to your clit, suckling and groaning.

Pulling away with a pop, "She can take it like she's gonna take both my cocks." Satoru ribs the bag off your head, roughly kissing you. Slipping his tongue into your mouth when you moan. He tastes of blood and strawberry lollipops.

Suguru roughly pulls the car off the road, parking it. "Out. I'm not listening to both of you have fun while I get blue balls." Satoru pulls away, gliding the dildo out. Turning it off, holding it up your lips, ignoring Suguru's demand to get out of the car.

Licking it clean, wrapping your lips, gliding it deep into your mouth. Pumping past your lips, groaning, "You pretty lips are gonna look good wrapping around my cock." He slides it out of your mouth with a soft pop.

You hear two doors slam shut one after another, leaving Satoru and you in the car. He cradles your head, it's spinning. Resting your head in his large hand, your cunt drooling on his lap. Clenching around nothing, you want to cum again despite squirting.

Satoru urges you, "That warmth," another gentle kiss, "The horniness don't fight it. Let it take over, you can be my beautiful greedy little cock whore for centuries." He trails kisses along your neck.

Slowly sinking his fangs in, jolting, whining from another injection. Placing your bound wrists on his thick pecs. Wishing you could run your fingers through his soft-looking snow-white hair.

"Wanna be your favorite cocksleeve." Your gums momentarily ache, your teeth making room for a pair of sprouting fangs. Satoru pulls away, pushing your top lip up with his thumb, crooning, "Aw already getting fangs." He drops his hands to the rope around your wrist.

Without thinking you lurch forward, biting into Satoru's neck. The car door opens, and Toji sneers, "Some kidnapper you are, clinging to her while she sinkin' her fangs into ya neck." Satoru groans, holding the back of your head, fondling your squishy ass cheek.

He groans, "Nn harder." Biting his thick pec with the possessive intent of marking him. "Is it really kidnapping when the slut would've walked out the door with us if not for the bag on her head." Satoru's blood is sweet, filling your mouth. You should be repulsed but can't help but drink another mouthful.

Three men bust in shirtless, with beautifully muscular bodies and within seconds you were thinking with your needy cunt. He wasn't wrong. You'd happily let them carry you off to wherever and keep you for however long if you got your cunt pounded by them.

"Bet she wouldn't but still, she was only meant to pretty blood bag. N' we couldn't risk our pretty dinner knowing where she's at." Toji grabs your hair, pulling you off Satoru. His blood trickles down his chest, following the middle groove of his abs.

Smiling in a lustful daze, "She's too beautiful to let go." Thick black horns sprout from his head, contrasting his bright hair. They twist in a loop, pointing back. His features sharpen, eyes glowing similar to his tattoo. Which spreads up his arms, onto his pecs.

Toji pulls you back for Satoru to step out of the car, shutting the door behind himself. "We both bite each other, that means once I fill her sloppy cunt full of cum, I'll be hers'." The large pale moon in the skin illuminates Satoru's beautiful blushing face.

His smile is breathtaking, this beautiful incubus will be yours. You could taste his lust vanilla and honey. Toji lets go of your hair, dropping on your knees in front of Satoru. Looking up at him, pleading "I want to make you mine n' cum on your cocks. Wanna be yours." Satoru pushes his wet shorts down. He has two beautiful long, pale cocks, both of them standing up.

Suguru pulls you to your fist, slicing the rope, and freeing your hands. "I told Shiu we are hunting the slut we found." Twisting you around to face the spare woods. "By the time she finishes her head start he'll be here." Harshly slapping your ass, making you stumble forward. Leafs crunch beneath your feet.

The initial intense haze of the venom first affects level out. Helping you to latch onto their words with better clarity than before. Which your cunt throbbing with an unbearable neediness infringes upon.

You need to cum, it's borderline painful to not have one of them playing with your cunt. Slipping your fingers between your legs, rubbing your clit. Clenching your thighs together. Moaning, "Whoever gets me first decides who gets to go when! Don't make me wait too long!" Missing the stimulation, the second you stop touching yourself.

Darting into the woods, the trees pass you quicker than they should. You've seen bright full moons in the past, but this was unlike anything else. You could see the bark, moss, rocks, and branches clearly. Acutely feeling the leaves crunching and the damp earth.

Pushing yourself to run faster when you hear a thunderous crack of a tree splitting in two. It doesn't hit the ground until a few minutes later, knocking over several more trees.

Were they fighting each other to get to you? They might not be beyond throwing a few punches towards each other. At any moment one of them could show up, pin you to the tree and do what the wished. Whilst you'll beg them for more.

Struggling to stop, kicking up some dirt. Standing in front of you is a handsome man with a scruffy face, holding a cigarette. "So you're the pretty little thing we're playin' with. Shame to end the game now, run." Taking a step back, the wind picks up carrying the subtle scent of his lust.

It's similar to a bittersweet mixture of dark and milk chocolate, with a hint of sweet caramel. He's mouth-watering, his must be Shiu. He's making no move to catch you, admiring you in the moon light taking a puff off his cig.

"Run." His demand reminds you at any moment the other three could catch up. Taking off running past him, biting into your bottom lip. Hoping one of them would catch you soon and use your mouth and cunt.

Breaking out of the tree line into a wide clearing of tall yellow flowers. A cabin lies on the other side of a large glittering lake. Toji stands in the field's center, waiting for you. Taking off towards the right, the back of your neck tingles when he's about to grab it. Trusting your instinct and ducking, scrambling out of his reach.

Looking over your shoulder, Toji's still close, about to catch you. When you run into Satoru, who appears in front of you within seconds. Wrapping his arms around your waist, flapping white feathery wings. Flying out of Toji's reach.

"I win! Haha HA!" His pupils are wide. He's high off your previous bites. Your venom coursing through his muscular body. "You smell so fuckin' sweet." He grabs your hair, pulling your head to the side. "Your neck looks prettier covered in bitemarks." Whining from the sweet pain of Satoru puncturing Toji's bite.

Grabbing a handful of his soft white hair. Wrapping your legs around his waist. Digging your nails into his back between his wings. Grazing the base of his left wing. He whines, his wings shuttering, the two of you slightly dropping before he steadies himself.

Landing on his feet, pinning you to the closest tree. Pulling away from your neck, licking up the blood. "I can't go much longer without feeling her tight, sloppy wet cunt clenching my cocks together. Sug can help me break her before Shiu and your ass as a chance." Squeezing your neck with his long, thin fingers, tugging on your thigh.

Unwrapping your legs, and standing up, he pulls you away from the tree. Pinning you to Suguru's chest, he massages both your cheeks. His fingers getting closer to your sloppy cunt.

Toji points out, "Look at her, she'll still be begging for more after the two of you. Don't think you can satisfy a greedy whore like her when she's turning." Gliding your hand along Satoru's hard sculpted side. Trailing your fingers along his abs, grabbing one of his cocks.

Smearing his pre-cum by slowly swirling your thumb. He is dripping so much, swirling your hand halfway down his cock. "Please stuff my cunt, fingers, tongue or cock don't care. Need someone to play with my cunt it hurts." Suguru's thick fingers are so close to your puffy lips.

Shifting your hips, Suguru pulls his fingers away, lightly massaging your cheek. Satoru glides his cock out of your hands. "Play with my cunt it hurts, poor little slut." He smacks your cunt, twisting your hips back. "How this?" Suguru tightens his grasp making you take five punishing wet slaps.

Trembling, knee buckling, your clit and lips stinging, cunt quivering. Your eyes water, "Please, that's not what I meant." Satoru mockingly frowns. Grabbing both cocks, matching the pace of your hands. Swirling your hand around his pale pink tip, smearing his pre-smear along his long veiny cock.

"But you said you didn't care." Pinching your cheeks. "What's wrong?" Suguru kneels behind you, biting your squishy cheek. You cry, jerking your hips forward. Satoru pinches your clit, and you shove his chest, forcing him to stumble back, smirking.

Suguru chimes, "Whore is getting some feist to her!" Satoru grabs your hair, yanking your head back, forcing you to look up at him. Satoru roughly slaps you across the face, kissing your aching cheek.

You hear the slick sound of Toji stroking his cock. You can taste his lust. Shiu states, "Bet she'd be able to take it harder than our normal slut." Your soaking wet cunt clenches from his breathy groan.

Toji bemoans, "It's tirin' havin' to hold back 'cause a bitch can't handle how hard I'm fuckin' her." Suguru pulls you onto his beautiful face by your hips. Steadily stroking your puffy clit, grinding your hips, moaning. Getting off on the pressure of Suguru's barbell swiping over your clit.

Suguru smears his thick spit on your asshole. Dipping his finger in, curling it, lubing up your other hole. Flicking your clit, faster with your tongue. Satoru watches in admiration as your beautiful face contorts with an expression of pleasure.

Loudly moaning, "Thank you! Please let me cum again, his tongue feels so good." Suguru glides another finger in, stretching your other hole apart. "Nnn his stretching my ass. We don't have lube! Nn fuck it feels so good thouuuugh don't!" Fucking your ass faster with both his thick fingers.

Keeping his barbell stroking your clit just right. The pressure is too perfect, trembling, rocking your hips. Suguru squeezes your hips, keeping you still. Begging, "Don't stop, faster, please!" His spit is thicker than a normal human, making your other hole and your clit tingle with intense pleasure.

Satoru fondles your breasts, pinching your nipples. Tugging when you cry, arching your chest into his hand, he twists. "Don't worry, Suguru's spit is aphrodisiac-like and lubricate." Easing up on your nipples, gliding his cock out of your fist. Dipping down to kiss both nipples, sucking one into his mouth.

Soothing your aching nipple with his tongue, "Your little ass will be just fine." Suguru spreads his fingers apart, stretching your asshole. The sweet ache dulling with each pump of his finger. He groans on your clit.

Clenching Suguru's head, Shiu encourages, "Let me see you cum beautiful." Creaming on Suguru's tongue, pushing his head away. He groans, flicking his tongue faster. Whining, writhing from the intensity. You've never been this sensitive before.

"Whore moaning like she's never busted a nut before." Satoru lets your nipple go with a soft pop. Kissing the other one, when he stands up. You brace yourself on his thick pecs.

Crying when Suguru digs in his sharp claws to keep you from wiggling so much. Satoru bemuses, "Might as well feel like it, cumming while turning never stops feeling immensely pleasurable." Cupping Satoru's balls, sliding your hand over his abs, feeling him up.

He whines, "Beautiful little whore crying from cumming on his tongue." Your bitten breasts ache, the pain is sweet. His warm, soft fingers playing with your nipples, gently rubbing your nipples. You can feel each swipe in your cunt.

Suguru pulls away, adding a third finger. Whining jerking your hips away in an attempt to run from Suguru slowly finger fucking your asshole. He bites your slicked thigh so close to your cunt, his bites throb, a stinging pain shoots down your thigh, becoming a tingling numbness.

Your vision goes hazy, and your body becomes heavy. Seconds trickle by and the numbness fades. “After feigning concern over me giving her too much you drug her up like that. She’s going to break so quickly; our little whore is already so sensitive.” You can feel how deep his fangs are, how wide and sharp they are embedding into your soft thigh.

Toji croons, “Can our dumb slut speak?” Satoru grabs both wrists, looping your arms around his neck. Feebly clasping your hands, he grabs your waist holding your body up. Suguru licks your thigh with a loud groan. Pumping his fingers faster, spreading them out, stretching your asshole.

"Come on cock hungry whore tell them how your greedy cunt is aching to be stuffed full of Sug and I's cock." You can't register their words. Moaning, clenching Suguru's fingers.

Getting your ass prepped for his cock felt pleasure before. But as Suguru's venom takes into effect your ass has the sensitivity of getting your g spot fucked. When Satoru rubs your clit with his head, it is like your cumming instantly.

Your cunt spasming around nothing, slick dripping down your thigh. Immense, intoxicating pleasure consumes you. Leaving you a mindless, horny mess, wanting to cum on their cocks. Gently winding your fingers into Satoru's hair, Suguru grabs your neck with his clean hand.

Shiu bemoans, "We haven't even had a chance to fuck her stupid and she's a brain-dead slut already." Satoru slides his large hand over your hip, along your thigh. You struggle to lift your leg; he has to crouch to grab the backs of your knees.

He folds you in a mating press between his and Suguru's hard muscular chest. Helping Toji and Shiu watch him glide one of his cocks into you.

Suguru glides his fingers out of your ass, grabbing his cock, lining himself up. Groaning, watching his cock stretch your beautiful ass. You can't breathe enough to moan with Suguru's thick fingers crushing your neck.

One of Satoru's cocks is gliding along your clit. The second stretching your dripping wet, tight cunt, stroking your g-spot, hitting your cervix. Your toes curl as you cream on his cock. The lack of air makes your body tingle and adds to the mind-shattering ecstasy.

Satoru wonders, "That change makin' you that sensitive? I just put it in." Roughly fucking your sloppy wet, tight cunt. "Shiu you have a knife on you? I need to carve my initials into her beautiful tits. Mark her whore ass as mine." Shiu lets go of his thick cock, to get his knife out of his pants pockets. With his hand not coated in spit and pre-cum.

Tossing it to Satoru, who catches it without sparing a glance. He grabs one of your horns. "Did you even realize these have fully grown?" He trails his fingers up your horns to the tips, then back down to the base.

Shivering from his soft touch compared to his harsh thrust and the knife's tip trailing along your side. Suguru lets go of your neck, holding your cheek, fucking your sensitive ass faster. "Let me stuff my second cock in her other tight glory hole." Satoru pauses for Suguru to line his second cock up with your dripping cunt.

You clench both holes, loudly moaning. Suguru is thicker than Suguru's veiny cock. His head reaching just below Satoru's whose presses against your cervix with a greater pressure than before.

Satoru croons, "I think she can take another one in her greedy cunt. Her cunt won't break so quickly like she did, will it?" Satoru glides his cock out. Suguru grabs your other leg with his clean hand. Satoru holds his cocks together, lining them up. Slowly gliding them in.

You jolt, tensing up, scratching Satoru's chest. Your jaw dropping, crying your cunt stuffed too full of too many long, thick veiny cocks. The fourth on in your ass, making the thin strip of skin between both holes meaningless.

Toji groans, "Fuck dirty slut is taking so much!" Having to stop jerking his cock to keep himself from cumming before having his turn with you.

Satoru drags the knife along your aching breasts. Holding your head back by your horn. "I know you're too stupid to understand me but try your best to look me in the eyes." His too beautiful to look away from.

Dark horns poking out from his fluffy, messy white hair. Thin strands hang into his stunning glowing blue eyes. A cocky smirk on his kissable pale pink lips.

Satoru urges, "I want to see the beautiful look in your eyes when you cum on my cock." Shivering from the sharp edge of the knife on your nipple. Trapped between their broad, muscular chests, you can't squirm away.

You can taste Satoru's lust stronger than you can anyone else's. Faintly you can feel your own squishy cunt wrapping around his cock. Along with the pleasure that comes with having your soft, squishy cunt stroking his cocks.

Suguru and Satoru keep their pace even, triple stuffing your cunt. Whilst stuffing your tight ass. The pleasure is mounting with every sweet quick harsh stroke. "Nnng your lust tastes so fucking good. Only a perverted cock hungry brain-dead whore would get off on having her cunt stuffed this full." Satoru picks up his speed, with Suguru maintaining his.

Satoru's navel is rubbing your clit perfectly. Suguru groans, "Fuck dirty slut is stretched so wide yet so tight." Clenching their cocks, digging your nails into Satoru's chest.

Reaching back to slip your fingers into Suguru's silk, long dark hair. Until your reach the base of his horns. Wrapping your fingers around his sensitive horn’s base, he groans, passionate, raspy and deep.

Satoru whines, it's breathy, needy, making your cunt tingle. He croons, holding the knife to your neck. "I can feel how she's about to cum. Come on cock whore cream on ournnnng!" You're squirting before Satoru can finish. Thick, warm cum dripping down their balls.

Suguru's thick veiny cock in your ass, all three hard cocks in your sensitive cunt. You're a wreck, half their size, folded in half between them taking each thrust with a loud squelch from both holes.

"Shit I dont wanna cum this quickly!" Hot warm cum spurts from both heads. It's too much for your cunt to handle. "She feels so goddamn goooood! Cummin' so hard, nnnn fuck! fuck!" His thick cum is dripping out of your cock, making your stomach expand with a cum filled bulge.

You can feel Suguru's puffy veins pulse. "Nnn! Ahhh!" You still can't think, you're craving the addictive immense pleasure of cumming already. Their cocks pumping Satoru's cum deep into your stuffed, soaking wet cunt.

Fucking your tight ass and cum filled cunt faster. Suguru groans, "Moan louder dirty little whore! Pretty little sounds are getting me off, making my thick cocks throb." Satoru glides his overly sensitive, softening cocks out.

Satoru pushes on your stomach, and his cum spurts out like you squirting again. You're bouncing on Suguru's cock, a moaning, cock hungry mess. Clenching both holes Suguru's pace becomes sloppy. Rutting his cocks into your sloppy glory holes.

Suguru loudly groans, fucking his thick cum into your greedy cum. Quickly pulling out, letting some spurt onto your ass. They set you on your feet, and Satoru steadies you by your horn and hip.

Toji pips up, "Ready for more?" Your legs trembling, you're barely standing up. Your knees buckle and Satoru doesn't let you fall. Turning you around, pressing the night to your lower back. "I think the whore deserves a tramp stamp of my name instead." You don't have the energy to writhe when he carves a S into your back.

It's seconds without having one of them touch your cunt and your whining, "Please! Wanna cum!" Suguru smirks at you, slapping your cunt when Satoru finishes the first letter.

Pressing your thighs together, doubling over, Suguru switches out with Toji. He roughly grabs your horns, holding your head still. Lining his cock up, "Ya look starving for some cock" You wince when your fangs retract. Crying when Satoru carves an a into your lower back, Toji stuffs his cock into your mouth with a loud, deep groan.

Shiu grumbles, "Dirty fucking whore taking us all." He crouches next to you, stuffing four thick fingers into your sloppy cunt. Rubbing your clit with his thumb. He bites your outer thigh, his fangs have a slight curve to them, sinking in deep.

He groans as your blood fills his mouth, pumping his fingers fast. Finding your sweet spot, focusing on it. Pain and pleasure are becoming the same. Satoru smack your cum covered cheek. "Three more letters, and two more cocks to go." Moaning on Toji's cock, massaging his heavy balls.

Your cunt spasming around Shiu's relentless, quickly pumping fingers. Shiu doesn't bother to clean up the blood dripping down your thigh. Licking up your thigh, you slip your fingers into his short hair. "Cumming on my fingers that quickly?" Satoru quickly cuts the rest of his name into you.

Slipping his fingers in with Shiu's, matching his pace. "Once they finish with you, Sug and I are having another round. Have to test your new limits, see how much our pretty little succubus can handle." He gives your ass a rough smack and steps aside for Shiu to stand up behind you.

Gliding his fingers out of your cunt, grabbing your hips. Smearing your slick on his thick, veiny cock, lining himself up. Roughly slamming his cock into you, splitting your cunt open with no warning. "Perfect fuckin' glory hole you'd think she'd break after that but she's too tight 'round my cock." Toji groans gagging you with his cock, getting off on your neck squeezing his fat cock.

"I'm too big for her little throat. It almost hurts how she grippin' me. But it feels so good, sluts don't need to breathe right?" He shallowly pumps his hips, refusing to let you breathe. Grunting, "Stupid little succubus is gonna drain my balls dry with her pretty mouth."

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enhaflixer · 5 months ago

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HARD HOURS - Enhypens reaction when you ask them a sexual question

cw: Explicit mentions, choking, spanking, spitting, dirty talk, shower sex, anything else? wc 8.2K TL: @ziiao @beariegyu @naurwayyyyy @ijustwannareadstuff20 @somuchdard @ddolleri @jinnibug AN: HEY YALL KINDA CRAZY BUT THIS WHAT IM BACK WITH, my fav was jungwons for surrrreeee but pls lemme know who's you liked the most in the comments! this is the post to this ask!

𝐋𝐞𝐞 𝐇𝐞𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐮𝐧𝐠

Heeseung was sprawled out on the couch, completely locked into his game, fingers tapping furiously at the controller as the sounds of gunfire and explosions filled the room. His brows were furrowed, his jaw set in focus. You could tell by the way his leg bounced slightly that he was fully immersed—until you sat beside him and nudged his thigh.

“Hee?” you murmured sweetly.

“Mm-hmm,” he responded absently, eyes never leaving the screen.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure, babe. Just give me a sec,” he murmured, dodging an in-game attack and letting out a satisfied laugh when his opponent went down.

You crossed your arms, tilting your head. “It’s a deep question.”

“Okay,” he said, distracted, “Gimme one more—” He froze as soon as the words fully registered. His head turned slowly, one brow arching in mild suspicion. “Wait. What?”

“It’s a philosophical question,” you continued, fighting back a smile.

“Philosophical,” he repeated dryly. He paused the game, setting the controller on his lap as he gave you a long, unreadable look. “What kind of philosophical question? Like, the meaning of life or something?”

You bit your lip, doing your best to keep a straight face. “Not exactly. It’s about… choking.”

Heeseung blinked. His fingers twitched against the controller. “Choking,” he repeated, his voice suddenly much lower. “Like, uh… the kink?”

“Mhm,” you confirmed, stretching out your legs like this was a casual conversation. “I’ve been thinking about why people like it. Is it about trust? Control? Or maybe something more primal?”

Heeseung stared at you. Then he sighed, dragging a hand down his face before leaning back against the couch. “Are you serious?”

You shrugged. “I think it’s an interesting topic.”

“I was literally about to beat that level,” he muttered, pointing at the paused screen. “And you want me to sit here and analyze the philosophy of choking?”

“Well, you can still play,” you teased, nudging his arm. “I can talk while you game.”

He gave you a long, unimpressed look before picking up the controller again. “You’re insane,” he muttered.

“Think about it,” you continued, grinning at how flustered he was. “Why do we want to give up control like that? What does it say about our trust in each other?”

Heeseung groaned, pausing the game again and dropping the controller onto his lap. “You’re seriously not going to stop until I answer, are you?”

“Nope,” you said brightly, leaning closer to him.

His eyes closed briefly as he let out another sigh. When he opened them again, there was a glint of amusement in his gaze. “Fine,” he muttered, setting the controller aside completely. “If you want to talk about trust and control or whatever, I guess we can do that. But just remember—you brought this on yourself.”

The corners of his mouth twitched upward, and despite his initial exasperation, you could tell he was starting to enjoy this. He leaned toward you, resting his forearm on his knee, and smirked. “Alright, philosopher. Let’s hear it.”

You blinked, slightly taken aback by his sudden shift in attitude. “Wait—are you actually interested now?”

Heeseung’s smirk grew. “No,” he said flatly, crossing his arms, “but you’re clearly not gonna let this go. So go ahead, hit me with your big philosophical choking theory.”

You bit your lip, trying not to laugh at how serious he looked. “Okay, well, I think it’s not just about the physical act, you know? It’s about trust. You’re giving someone that much control over you, and you have to fully trust them not to hurt you. That’s kind of beautiful, don’t you think?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Beautiful?”

You shrugged. “Yeah. It’s like a dance—one person leads, the other follows, but only because they trust that the other person knows exactly when to stop. It’s not just primal. It’s… intimate.”

Heeseung snorted. “Intimate,” he repeated, shaking his head. “You’re really turning choking into some kind of love poem?”

“I’m just saying!” you protested, throwing up your hands. “It’s more than just physical. Don’t you ever think about why we’re into the things we’re into?”

He let out a short laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “No, not really. I just figured you liked it rough sometimes.”

You couldn’t help but grin at how casually he said it. “Well, yeah, but it’s not just that. It’s the trust. The dynamic. That feeling of giving up control in a safe way. Don’t you ever think about what that means?”

Heeseung looked at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with a dramatic groan, he reached for his controller again. “I think it means I’m never gonna get to finish this game if you keep talking.”

You laughed, lightly swatting his arm. “You’re such a dork.”

“And you’re overthinking everything,” he shot back, though there was no real bite in his tone. “But fine. If it means that much to you…” He paused, his gaze flickering down to your lips before he leaned in closer, just barely brushing against you. His voice dropped slightly as he added, “Maybe I’ll show you exactly what trust feels like later.”

Your breath hitched, the teasing smirk on his face making your pulse race.

He pulled back quickly, though, laughing as he turned back to his game. “But only if you let me beat this level first.”

Heeseung’s fingers lingered against your jaw, his thumb moving in slow, deliberate circles along your cheekbone. His eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, flickered over your face, lingering on your parted lips. He was watching—reading you—taking in every shaky breath, every nervous flick of your gaze, every small movement that gave you away.

“You like this, don’t you?” he murmured, his voice lower now, a velvety, teasing hum. His lips hovered just inches from yours, and you could feel his breath ghosting over your skin. Close, but not close enough.

Your pulse jumped. He wasn’t even touching you properly yet, and somehow, he had you completely at his mercy. “You’re the one making me wait,” you managed to whisper, though your voice lacked the teasing edge you intended.

Heeseung chuckled softly, the sound deep and knowing. His grip tightened slightly, his fingers sliding down the column of your neck, grazing your collarbone before settling just above your waist. He held you there, his touch grounding but unhurried—like he was savoring the anticipation, like he knew exactly how worked up you were and was in no rush to give you what you wanted.

“That’s because I like seeing you like this,” he admitted, his tone smooth and unbothered, yet threaded with something darker. “All needy. Barely keeping it together.” His thumb dipped slightly, brushing against the waistband of your shorts before retreating—just enough to make you twitch under his touch.

Your breath hitched, and his smirk grew.

“You keep talking about trust,” Heeseung continued, his fingers toying lazily with the fabric at your hip. His movements were slow, agonizingly slow, as if daring you to break first. “But you already know you trust me.”

Your body leaned into him instinctively, searching for more, but his grip tightened just enough to hold you still. “Then prove it,” he whispered against your jaw, his lips finally making contact. “Let me do everything.”

The words sent a shiver through you.

His mouth moved down, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses along your neck, his tongue tracing the faintest heat against your skin before he pulled back—leaving you aching for more. His other hand slid under the hem of your shirt, fingertips grazing over your ribs before drifting lower. Every touch was calculated, purposeful. Just enough to make your stomach tighten, just enough to make you want to beg.

But you didn’t. Not yet.

Instead, you dug your fingers into his shoulders, holding onto him as if he were the only thing tethering you to reality. Heeseung chuckled again, the sound vibrating against your throat.

“You’re holding on so tight,” he murmured, his voice dipping even lower. His lips hovered just beneath your ear. “Afraid I’ll let go?”

You swallowed hard. “No,” you whispered.

His teeth grazed the sensitive spot on your neck, just barely. “Then stop thinking,” he ordered softly. “Just let me take care of you.”

Your breath came quicker now, your body already burning with anticipation. And Heeseung—Heeseung could feel it.

His smirk deepened as he pulled back slightly, dark eyes flickering over your face. He was still taking his time, still making you wait. His fingers skimmed lower, trailing along the waistband of your shorts once more before slipping underneath.

You gasped softly, your fingers tightening against his skin.

Heeseung grinned, satisfied. “That’s better,” he murmured. “Now let’s see just how much you really trust me.”

And then, finally—finally—he gave you exactly what you needed.

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐉𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐠

Jay was so patient with you.

Your husband spoiled you endlessly, let you crawl into his lap whenever you wanted, kissed you lazily even when he was exhausted, and held you close like you were the only thing keeping him grounded. But tonight? Tonight, he was actually trying to work.

You should’ve let him.

But then, you didn’t.

Instead, you climbed into his lap without warning, straddling him like it was the most natural thing in the world. He froze immediately, hands still hovering over his MIDI keyboard, his body going stiff beneath you.

You could feel his exhale against your neck. Slow, steady, knowing.

“…Bored?” he asked finally, his voice warm but very clearly suspicious.

You hummed, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. “Not really. Just wanted to sit here.”

Jay let out a slow suffering sigh, but his hands settled on your waist instinctively. “Baby, you know I’m—”

“Can I ask you something?” you interrupted, tilting your head.

His fingers drummed absentmindedly against your back. “Okay…” He gave you a very skeptical look. “Is it normal?”

You pursed your lips, pretending to think. “I’d say so.”

Jay narrowed his eyes slightly, still not trusting you one bit. “Go on.”

You leaned in, brushing your lips against his jaw before whispering, “Why do you think I like sitting on your face so much?”

Jay’s entire body locked up.

His grip on your waist tightened immediately. His lips parted slightly, his pupils dilating as his brain fully shut down.He blinked once. Twice.

“…What?”

You smirked. “Do you think it’s about power? Like, I like being in control? Or do you think it’s more about trust?”

Jay just kept blinking.

You could see the exact moment his brain tried and failed to process what you had just said. His brows furrowed slightly, his jaw tensing.

“…Are we really having this conversation right now?”

You grinned. “Yes.”

Jay let out the deepest sigh, dragging a hand down his face. “I—what? Why?”

“Because it’s an interesting question.”

His hands slid down to your hips, gripping firmly. “Baby, I was literally working. And you just decided now was the best time to talk about why you like—”

“It’s psychology, Jay.” You lifted your hips slightly before settling back down, just enough to feel the way his breath hitched beneath you.

Jay’s fingers flexed, hard. His grip on you tightened instantly. His jaw clenched, visibly trying to keep it together.

“…You’re actually insane,” he muttered.

“But you love me,” you teased, shifting slightly again.

Jay inhaled sharply, his patience visibly wearing thin. “Okay,” he muttered, voice lower now. “You want an answer?”

You nodded, biting back a smirk.

His fingers traced slow, lazy circles against your hips. “I think,” he murmured, his tone dipping into something dangerous, “you like it because you know I’d stay there for hours if you let me.”

Your breath hitched.

Jay’s smirk deepened, his hands gripping tighter now. “Because you like having me at your mercy. Because you like seeing me fall apart underneath you.”

Your heartbeat thundered in your ears.

He leaned in, his lips just barely brushing against yours. “But if you wanna talk about trust,” he whispered, “then let’s test it.”

Before you could react, he rolled his hips up into you.

A sharp gasp left your lips as the friction sent a rush of heat straight to your stomach. Jay’s smirk didn’t fade. If anything, it grew as his hands guided you—slow, lazy movements, just enough to tease.

“Still wanna keep talking?” he asked, voice all silk and sin.

You barely managed to swallow. “I—”

He rolled up again, his grip tightening.

You whimpered.

Jay chuckled, leaning in until his lips brushed against your ear. “That’s what I thought.”

His hands guided you over him again, the friction sparking a dangerous kind of heat between your legs, your thighs trembling slightly as you gripped his shoulders. You could feel everything. The way he fit against you perfectly, the heat of his body radiating through the thin layers between you.

Jay’s lips brushed your jaw, his voice a low murmur. “I want you to feel it.”

You barely managed a reply before he rocked you down against him again, harder this time. A choked moan left your lips, your fingers digging into his shoulders, your body already burning.

Jay’s hands didn’t stop. Didn’t slow down.

His lips curled against your ear. “See?” he whispered. “You don’t even need my mouth to fall apart.”

You let out a desperate, broken noise, gripping onto him as your stomach coiled tighter and tighter, the slow, deliberate grind of his hips sending waves of heat through you.

“You wanted to talk about trust?” Jay muttered. “Then trust me. Let go.”

And then, he pushed up into you just right.

Your body gave in instantly, the sharp, overwhelming pleasure ripping through you too fast to stop. You trembled in his arms, your breath catching, your nails biting into his skin as you came right there, just from the way he moved you.

Jay let out a low groan, his hands gripping your waist as he kept you steady through it, watching you come undone in his lap.

And when you finally slumped against his chest, shaky and breathless, he just chuckled, his voice filled with pure satisfaction.

“That,” he murmured, lips pressing against your temple, “is the real answer to your question.”

𝐒𝐢𝐦 𝐉𝐚𝐞𝐲𝐮𝐧

Jake was completely at peace.

Sprawled across the couch, his laptop open in front of him, he was deep into some ridiculously long YouTube documentary about deep-sea fishing. His head was resting comfortably against the couch cushions, his arm draped lazily over the backrest, the other settled comfortably around your waist. You were leaning into his chest, tucked perfectly against him, the warmth of his body pressing into yours as he absentmindedly traced slow, light circles over your stomach.

It was comfortable. Domestic.

It was also about to be completely ruined.

He hadn’t even realized what he had done, how carelessly he had set himself up for failure, until it was far too late. Because when you walked in, when you settled so easily into his lap, nuzzling into him like you belonged there, he greeted you without thinking.

“Hi, my angel.”

The moment the words left his lips, his entire body tensed.

The realization hit him immediately.

A slow, creeping pause settled between you, as if even the air had stilled. His fingers froze mid-trace against your stomach. His breath hitched, sharp and slow, and you—you little menace—smiled. Sweetly.

Jake blinked once. Then twice. He swallowed hard, his grip on you tightening slightly. His brain was already trying to calculate how to undo his mistake, how to steer this moment back into something safe.

But it was too late.

His breath came slower now, more measured, more cautious. “Wait…” he murmured, his voice tinged with immediate regret.

You tilted your head up, still smiling. “Can I ask you something?”

Jake let out a slow, suffering sigh. “Oh, here we go.”

You ignored him, shifting slightly in his lap, settling in closer. “Why do you think dirty talk is so powerful?” you asked, your tone almost innocent. “Do you think it’s more about power dynamics? Or is it psychological?”

Jake’s entire body locked up.

Every single part of him—his hands, his breath, the subtle rise and fall of his chest—all of it stopped.

Like a deer caught in headlights, his fingers, which had been resting lazily on your stomach, stiffened completely. His jaw went tight. His chest barely moved.

Then, after a long, long moment of absolute silence, he sucked in a slow, sharp inhale.

His head tilted back against the couch, eyes fixed on the ceiling as if asking the universe why it had forsaken him.His hands dragged down his face, his frustration so tangible you could almost taste it.

“…What the fuck.”

You giggled. “It’s a valid question.”

Jake turned his head so slowly it was almost painful, his eyes narrowed in pure disbelief. “No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it’s fucking not.”

Jake exhaled sharply through his nose, gripping your waist like he was trying to ground himself. “Baby,” he said, his voice so strained, “I was watching a fishing video.”

“And now we’re talking about something even more interesting,” you chirped, shifting in his lap just slightly.

Jake’s fingers flexed instantly. His grip on your waist tightened.

He exhaled through his nose again, sharper this time. “You are actually the worst,” he muttered, his jaw clenching.

You grabbed his hand, lifting it to your lips.

Jake immediately stopped breathing.

You kissed his fingertips softly, the warmth of your lips pressing against his skin before slowly, purposefully, slipping two of them into your mouth.

Sucking.

Jake let out a low, shaky breath. His entire body tensed.

His hand, which had been resting casually on your stomach just seconds ago, was now twitching in your grasp, his fingers pressing lightly against your tongue, his pulse quickening beneath your fingertips.

“…What are you doing?” he asked, voice dangerously lower.

You pulled his fingers out with a soft pop, tilting your head. “Getting them wet.”

Jake’s pupils dilated instantly.

His breath hitched as he swallowed thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing. His entire system was malfunctioning.

“For what?” he finally croaked, voice hoarse.

You guided his hand back down, slipping it beneath your waistband.

Jake’s breath hitched violently.

“Oh, fuck.”

His fingers twitched, and his entire body went rigid.

You turned your head slightly, your lips brushing his jaw. “Go on, Jakey.”

Jake let out a low, shaky exhale. “You are—” He cut himself off, sucking in a breath.

Then, after a second of pure hesitation, his fingers finally moved.

A soft whimper escaped you, and Jake lost it.

His arm tightened around your waist, his lips brushing against your temple. “You wanna talk about power?” he whispered. “Let’s test it.”

His fingers pressed deeper, teasing, purposeful, unhurried. He was taking his time, dragging the moment out just to see how long you could last.

Your hips jerked slightly, seeking more, but Jake just chuckled darkly.

“Patience, angel,” he murmured, so smug. “Since you wanted a full analysis, I think it’s only fair I take my time.”

His fingers dipped lower, spreading you apart as he dragged his touch through your slick. His movements were infuriatingly slow, feather-light strokes that had your thighs tensing instantly.

Jake hummed, his breath warm against your ear. “Shit, baby. You’re already this wet? Just from that?”

You bit your lip, breathing uneven.

His fingers stilled. “Use your words.”

You swallowed hard. “Y-yeah, Jakey.”

Jake let out a low groan, his lips pressing to the side of your neck. “Fuck. I should’ve known. My needy girl just loves being talked to, huh?”

You nodded quickly.

Jake chuckled darkly, his fingers suddenly pressing deeper, rubbing slow, deliberate circles.

Your breath hitched, your legs tensing.

“You’re so easy to ruin,” he muttered, his tone filled with pure, filthy amusement.

His fingers picked up the pace, dipping inside you before pressing back up to rub exactly where you needed. Your hips jerked helplessly, a soft moan spilling from your lips as you gripped his arm for support.

Jake smirked. “Oh, you love this, don’t you?”

And then, he ruined you.

His fingers pressed deep, rubbing fast, relentless, filthy, perfect. His free hand tightened around your stomach, holding you down against him as you squirmed helplessly.

Jake groaned, his voice low and pleased. “That’s it, angel,” he murmured. “Just like that. Let me feel you.”

Your stomach tightened as the pleasure crashed over you too fast to stop.

And when it was over, when you were spent and shaking in his arms, Jake just smirked, bringing his fingers to his mouth, licking them clean.

“Philosophy lesson’s over, angel,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Now you’re just mine.”

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐒𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐧

Sunghoon had one simple goal: take a shower, relax, and get some goddamn peace.

But no. That was never an option when it came to you.

The second you waltzed into the bathroom, planted yourself on the closed toilet lid, and smirked up at him like you had something evil brewing in that brain of yours, he should’ve just turned around and walked straight out.

But instead, he sighed, rubbing a hand over his face as he peeled off his shirt, his sweatpants hanging low on his hips. He should’ve ignored you.

But then—

“Babe, have I told you that you look suuuuuuper sexy right now?”

His fingers froze mid-motion on the waistband of his sweatpants. His entire body stiffened. Slowly, too slowly, he turned to look at you, his jaw already clenching.

He squinted, suspicious. “What do you want?”

You gasped, so dramatically, placing a hand over your chest like you were some old-timey actress in distress. “Why do you assume I want something?”

Sunghoon exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple. He knew you. He knew exactly where this was going.

Your grin widened. “Can I ask you something?”

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “No.”

“You haven’t even heard it yet!” you pouted.

Another sigh. "Fine. What?"

You tilted your head, studying him like he was a puzzle you were trying to solve.

And then—you ruined his entire night.

"Why do you think I like it so much when you fuck me in the shower?"

Silence.

A long, painful, unbearable silence.

Sunghoon just stood there, blinking, processing, trying to comprehend the absolute nonsense you had just said.

Then, without a single word, he turned to the shower wall and banged his head against the tile.

"Are you fucking serious?"

You burst into laughter, delighted. "What? It's a valid question!"

His jaw clenched. His fists curled at his sides. He inhaled deeply, through his nose, struggling for self-restraint.

His patience was hanging by a thread.

“Why,” he muttered, voice painfully flat, "why the fuck would you ask me that right now?"

You shrugged, still grinning. “Just curious.”

His eyes narrowed. “No, you’re not. You’re trying to start shit.”

You giggled. “I’m not! I just think it’s interesting.”

Sunghoon dragged a hand through his hair, his muscles tensing, his biceps flexing slightly in frustration. “I hate you .”

"No, you don't," you chimed, voice way too smug.

Sunghoon tilted his head back against the tile, exhaling sharply, as if praying for patience.

And then, you made it worse.

You stretched, arching your back slightly, batting your lashes up at him, letting the steam from the running shower kiss your skin.

"You're so dense sometimes," you teased, voice syrupy-sweet, laced with pure mischief.

Sunghoon’s head snapped toward you instantly.

His eyes darkened. His fingers twitched.

You smirked. "Maybe I just want you to fuck me in the shower."

That was it.

That was the final straw.

Sunghoon full-body froze.

For a second, he didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t even breathe.

And then, his patience snapped.

In two quick strides, he was in front of you, gripping your wrist and yanking you up onto your feet. His other hand grasped the back of your neck, tilting your head up until your breath hitched.

His eyes? Dark. Sharp. Absolutely wrecked.

His thumb brushed along your jaw, teasing, firm, unforgiving.

"Say that again."

Your stomach flipped violently.

His grip on your waist tightened.

You smirked. "Maybe I just want you to f—"

You never got to finish your sentence.

Sunghoon grabbed you, lifted you effortlessly, and carried you straight into the shower.

Your scream of protest barely made it out before the water crashed over both of you, drenching you instantly.

And then—

"WAIT—LET ME TAKE MY BRA OFF FIRST!"

Sunghoon froze.

His grip on your thighs tightened slightly.

Then, slowly—so painfully slowly—he lifted his head, staring at you like you had just spoken a completely different language.

“…What the fuck is wrong with you?”

You whined, struggling in his grip, water dripping down your face. "Hoon, it's new! I don't wanna get it wet!"

Sunghoon let out the most exasperated laugh, shaking his head like he was physically restraining himself from throwing his head back in frustration.

"Baby. It’s just a bra.”

Your jaw dropped. "It is NOT just a bra!"

Sunghoon groaned, tilting his head back, breathing deeply like he was trying to find the strength to not completely combust.

Then, after a beat, his grip on you changed.

“I’ll buy you a new one,” he muttered, voice darker now, rougher, wrecked beyond belief.

Then, before you could even react, his mouth latched onto your collarbone, biting, teasing.

Your protest turned into a sharp gasp.

His hands slid up your soaked body, fingers hooking under the bra straps, dragging them down, his teeth grazing against your skin.

And then, he sucked.

Hard.

Your breath hitched violently, your back arching instinctively.

Sunghoon groaned against you, his tongue flicking over the sensitive bud, teasing, tugging. His grip tightened, pressing you further into the tile.

"You're whining about a bra, but you're already falling apart," he muttered against your skin.

Your fingers clawed at his shoulders, legs trembling in his grasp. "H-Hoon—"

He grinned against your skin, completely in control now, completely in his element.

He licked a slow stripe over your nipple, sucking it into his mouth again.

Then, with a groan that sent heat pooling between your thighs, he sighed against your skin.

His mouth was fixated on your chest, his hands squeezing, kneading, his lips sucking bruises into your soft skin. His teeth scraped lightly, tongue flicking, mouth warm and wet as he groaned against your body.

His grip on your thighs tightened, pressing you further into the cool tile, the contrast of heat and cold making your breath hitch. He was obsessed, hyper-focused, like he was trying to commit every inch of you to memory.

And then—you ruined him all over again.

Between sharp gasps and breathy whimpers, you let out a teasing, mock-thoughtful hum.

"Hoon… if you had to choose, my tits or me… which one?"

Sunghoon’s movements completely stopped.

His teeth grazed over your nipple, pausing mid-bite. His fingers flexed against your waist, gripping you tighter. His breath stalled.

Then—so, so slowly—he lifted his head.

Water dripped from his soaked hair, running down his sharp jaw, over his kiss-swollen lips, and down the defined slope of his collarbones. His eyes flickered up, meeting yours—dark, dazed, completely wrecked.

And then, he let out the most exasperated groan of his life.

"Are you actually insane?"

You giggled, wiggling slightly in his grasp. “It’s a simple question.”

Sunghoon’s jaw clenched. His fingers dug into your thighs, holding you in place. He tilted his head, narrowing his eyes.

And then—just to make you suffer, he exhaled slowly, dragging his hands over your curves, squeezing your waist, before moving right back up to your chest.

His thumb brushed over your nipple lazily, teasing, deliberate. Then, he leaned in again, mouth hovering right over your skin, his breath warm, smirking against you.

"Hmm," he murmured, mock considering. "That’s actually a really hard choice, baby…"

Your stomach flipped violently.

He tilted his head, exhaling sharply through his nose, like he was really thinking about it. "I mean," he continued, squeezing your breasts again, licking a slow, teasing stripe over the sensitive skin, "on one hand, your tits are literally perfect."

His tongue flicked over your nipple, making your breath stutter.

"So soft, so fucking pretty, fit right in my hands," he groaned, his voice dropping lower, hungrier.

Your fingers dug into his shoulders. "Hoon—"

"But," he interrupted, grinning against your skin, pressing another wet, open-mouthed kiss, his teeth nipping at the skin right above your breast.

"You’re also really cute."

You snorted, shoving at his shoulder. "Really cute? That’s the best you’ve got?"

Sunghoon grinned, squeezing your thighs tighter. "I’m literally worshiping you in the shower, and you’re worried about my choice of words?"

You huffed. "You didn’t answer the question."

Sunghoon pulled back slightly, tilting his head, mock-considering again. Then, with zero shame, he muttered, "Honestly? …I might have to choose the tits."

Your jaw dropped. “HOON!”

He broke instantly, laughing against your skin, his grip on you tightening as you squirmed against him.

"I’m kidding, I’m kidding!" he choked out between laughs, pressing hot, teasing kisses back over your chest, dragging his tongue across every inch of skin he could reach.

Then, as he pulled you even closer, mouth ghosting over your ear, voice dripping with amusement and something darker, something heavier, he murmured—

"Don’t worry, baby."

He nipped at your earlobe, grinning against your skin.

"I’d never survive without you."

And then, he sank back down, lips wrapping around your nipple again, sucking deep and slow, like he was tasting something addictive.

This time, he looked up while he did it.

His big, dark eyes locked onto yours, wide and intense, watching every tiny shift in your expression. The moment your lips parted on a shaky moan, his grip tightened on your waist, his tongue flicking deliberately against the peak before closing his lips around it again, sucking harder.

His eyes never left your face.

Every time you gasped, every time your brows furrowed slightly in pleasure, he noticed. His breath came out faster, rougher, his pupils blown wide as if he was getting off on watching you unravel.

He pulled off with a wet pop, lips pink and glossy, tongue swiping over them as he tilted his head.

“Fuck.”

His voice was wrecked. Raspy. So deep it sent a sharp pulse straight through your core.

“You look so pretty when I do that,” he murmured.

His mouth was right back on you, sucking even harder, his eyes heavy-lidded, unwavering.

His fingers kneaded your other breast, rolling the sensitive bud between his fingers, his hips pressing forward, pinning you completely against the tile.

The look on his face was pure hunger.

"I swear, I could do this forever, baby."

His voice was low, hoarse, slurred around his next breath. His thumb brushed over your nipple, teasingly slow. His lips pressed soft, wet kisses down the swell of your breast, dragging his teeth slightly as he went.

And then, as if the realization just hit him, he let out a soft groan, his head dropping briefly against your chest.

"God, I hate you," he muttered, his breath warm against your skin.

You let out a breathless laugh. "Yeah?"

Sunghoon lifted his head, grinning slightly, but his eyes were still dark, still drunk off you.

Then, with zero hesitation, he leaned down, kissing between your breasts, nipping lightly at your skin, before whispering—

"But I love your tits. I can’t live without them."

𝐊𝐢𝐦 𝐒𝐮𝐧𝐨𝐨

Sunoo was thrilled.

Not because of the movie playing on his laptop, not because he had finally gotten comfortable on the couch with his oversized blanket. No.

He was thrilled because you had just turned to him, eyes glinting with curiosity, and asked—

“Why do you think I like being praised so much?”

Sunoo blinked once.

Then, his entire face lit up.

“Oh, finally! A topic I actually care about!”

You snorted immediately. “What does that mean?”

Sunoo sat up straight, pulling the blanket off his shoulders like he was preparing for a TED Talk. “It means I have thoughts.”

Your lips twitched. “You’ve thought about this before?”

"Obviously." His tone was borderline offended. “Baby, do you realize how much you fish for compliments? If I don’t tell you you’re pretty at least three times a day, you start getting restless.”

You gasped, scandalized. “I do NOT!”

Sunoo arched a brow.

You pouted. “…Maybe a little.”

He grinned, smug. “See? And that’s why I already have a theory.”

You huffed, crossing your arms. “Alright, genius. Enlighten me.”

Sunoo’s eyes practically sparkled.

“It’s because you like validation, but not just any validation—you like earned validation.”

Your brows furrowed. “Go on.”

Sunoo tilted his head, clearly enjoying this way too much. “See, if I tell you you’re beautiful just because, you’ll accept it—but if I tell you that you’re beautiful because you just made me lose my mind in bed? That’s what gets you going.”

You froze.

Sunoo smirked immediately. “Ohhh, I’m right, aren’t I?”

You swallowed. “…Continue.”

He leaned in slightly, his voice turning softer, smoother. “You don’t just want to hear that you’re good at something—you want proof. You want me to tell you how good you are, how perfect you are, while I’m literally falling apart because of you.”

Your entire body felt like it was heating up.

Sunoo’s eyes gleamed. “You want to be the best. You want to feel like you’re irreplaceable.”

You bit your lip, suddenly very aware of how close he was getting.

And then, as if he was reading your mind, he smiled sweetly, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.

“You like being praised because you like knowing you’re ruining me.”

Your breath hitched.

And Sunoo caught it immediately.

His smirk turned positively sinful. “See? I told you I was right.”

You swallowed, trying to recover, but the knowing glint in his eyes had you spiraling. “Okay, fine. Maybe you have a point.”

Sunoo grinned, entirely too satisfied.

Then, just to push you further, he tilted his head, watching you closely. “Do you want me to prove it?”

Your entire body shivered.

And that was all the confirmation he needed.

Sunoo was still sitting, his posture perfectly relaxed, but his eyes? His eyes told a different story. They were dark, glinting with something sharp, something playful, something completely devastating.

And you?

You were fully spiraling.

Your breath hitched, barely noticeable, but Sunoo caught it immediately. His lips twitched into the softest smirk, like he was already celebrating his victory.

Then, with the slowest, most deliberate movement possible, he reached forward, his fingers brushing against your chin, tilting your face up slightly.

“You’re quiet all of a sudden,” he mused, voice velvety smooth, teasing.

Your heart slammed against your ribs. “I—I’m just…” You swallowed. “Thinking.”

Sunoo smirked. “Mm. Thinking.”

And then, without warning, he closed the space between you.

The first kiss was soft, teasing, just a hint of pressure. Just enough to make your breath stutter.

But then?

Then he tilted his head slightly, deepening it—just barely.

And that was your first mistake.

Because the second your body melted into him, the second your fingers gripped onto his sweater slightly, he smiled into the kiss—fully in control, fully aware of the power he had over you.

His hand slid up your jaw, fingers pressing lightly at the hinge, guiding you into the kiss the way he wanted.

Slow. Controlled. Completely devastating.

When he finally pulled back slightly, his lips were already kiss-swollen, his breath uneven.

But his eyes?

Smug. So, so smug.

“You like it when I take my time, don’t you?” he murmured, his thumb brushing over your cheek.

Your stomach flipped violently.

Sunoo grinned. “That’s what I thought.”

And then, before you could even respond, he was on you again.

This time, no hesitation, no teasing.

Just deep, soul-stealing kisses, his lips moving against yours slow and deliberate, as if he was savoring every second.

His free hand slid down, gripping your waist, pulling you closer, until you were practically pressed against him.

You let out a soft, breathless sound, and that was all it took.

Sunoo groaned softly against your lips, his fingers tightening on your waist as he tilted his head to deepen the kiss even further.

His tongue traced along your bottom lip, slow, unhurried, teasing, and when you gasped softly, he swallowed the sound immediately, taking full control of the kiss.

And just when you thought you couldn’t take any more, he pulled away—just barely, just enough to make you chase his lips.

His breath fanned against your mouth, his lips grazing yours as he whispered—

“See, baby?”

His fingers slid along your jaw, tilting your chin up slightly, forcing you to meet his eyes.

“You love it when I praise you.”

𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐠 𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐰𝐨𝐧

It had been one of those weeks. Jungwon was exhausted, and all he wanted was a night of uninterrupted sleep. But you had other plans.

You’d been tossing and turning beside him for nearly half an hour, sighing loudly, shifting closer and closer as if waiting for him to acknowledge you. He didn’t. He stayed still, kept his eyes shut, and prayed you’d get tired and fall asleep.

Instead, you whispered, “Jungwon?”

He ignored you.

“Jungwon,” you tried again, your voice sweet and teasing.

A sharp sigh escaped him, and finally, he muttered, “What.”

You smiled, pressing yourself closer. “Can we talk about something?”

“No,” he said flatly, eyes still closed.

“But it’s important.”

“It’s never important.” His voice was calm, but there was a sharp edge to it.

“You don’t even know what it is yet,” you said, undeterred.

Jungwon opened his eyes just enough to glare at you. His expression was entirely unamused, but the annoyance in his face was matched with a weariness that made his sharp tone almost flat. “Fine,” he muttered. “What is it?”

You bit your lip, trailing your fingers lightly over his stomach. “It’s about sex.”

He stilled, his hand twitching against the blanket. “…What about it.”

“I’ve been thinking,” you said, drawing out your words as you brushed your nails down his chest, “about why I always want you to fuck me until I cry.”

His jaw clenched, his body going rigid. For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Didn’t move. Then, with an exaggerated exhale, he rolled over and faced the wall.

You gasped. “Oh my God. You’re actually ignoring me?”

“Yes.”

“But I need you.”

“You always need me.”

“And you love it.”

Jungwon let out the heaviest sigh you’d ever heard. After another moment of silence, he rolled onto his back again, dragging a hand down his face. His eyes were half-lidded, heavy with exhaustion and exasperation.

“You have no self-control,” he muttered.

You grinned. “Mhm.”

He shook his head. “No, because let’s really talk about this. You’re constantly like this. Always touching me, always saying things like that. Do you have any idea how impossible you make my life?”

You giggled softly, your fingers moving lower. “I do.”

“That wasn’t a compliment,” he said, narrowing his eyes at you.

“But you love me.”

“…Unfortunately.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, his patience hanging by a thread. “I have been told I have a very high sex drive, but baby, I do not have the facilities to go three times a day. I have things to do. I need sleep. I need to—”

His voice cut off mid-sentence as he noticed where your hand had gone. His gaze dropped, and his lips parted slightly as he registered the slow, deliberate circles you were making against yourself.

“Are you seriously doing that right now?” he asked, his voice low and clipped.

You smirked, letting out a soft moan. “Mhm.”

Jungwon’s jaw tightened. His hand shot out, grabbing your wrist and pulling it away. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, his voice quiet and controlled. “You really have no shame, do you?”

His free hand trailed down to your thigh, pausing just at the edge of your hip. “You’ve made my life difficult every single day this week. And now you’re doing this.” His fingers brushed against you lightly, making you shiver. “Fine. If you’re going to be this much of a problem, then count every single time you’ve made things harder for me.”

“Count?” you repeated, your breath catching.

“Count,” he ordered, his voice calm but firm. He paused just long enough for you to hesitate before delivering a sharp slap against your center.

You gasped, your back arching slightly at the sudden sting.

“One,” you murmured, your voice unsteady.

Jungwon hummed softly, satisfied. “Good. Now keep going. Let’s start with Monday—when you woke me up two hours early because you were ‘bored.’ I told you to wait until I was actually awake, but you just wouldn’t stop until I gave in.”

Another slap.

“Two.”

“Tuesday,” he continued, his voice still low and even, though his grip on your wrist remained firm. “I had a meeting, and you climbed onto my lap, whispering in my ear, making it impossible to focus. You knew exactly what you were doing.”

The slap that followed was harder this time, the sharp sound echoing through the room.

“Three.”

He tilted his head slightly, his gaze steady on you. “Wednesday. I was trying to work, and you walked in wearing that shirt you know drives me insane. You didn’t even have a reason—just stood there, stretching, pretending not to notice what it did to me.”

Another slap, this one leaving you breathless.

“Four.”

“Thursday,” Jungwon continued, his tone remaining measured. “I came home late, exhausted, ready to collapse. But you were waiting in bed, saying you couldn’t sleep, that you missed me, that you needed me—like I didn’t have the right to rest after a long day.”

The next slap made you whimper, and you barely managed to whisper the number.

“Five.”

“And Friday,” he said, his voice calm and thoughtful, as though he were simply recounting facts. “You walked in while I was on the phone, saying the filthiest things in my ear, completely throwing me off.”

Another slap, another gasp, another quiet number.

“Six.”

Jungwon smirked faintly, his expression unreadable as he leaned down, his breath warm against your ear. “Six times,” he murmured. “Six times this week you’ve pushed me too far. I wonder how many more it’ll take before you finally learn.”

And then, without warning, he leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your neck before he parted them. A single strand of saliva dripped from his mouth, landing directly where his hand had just been. The warmth of it sent a shiver through you, and your thighs instinctively shifted.

Jungwon watched your reaction, his gaze dark. “You don’t listen,” he muttered, his thumb moving to spread the wetness over your heated skin. “But that’s fine. I’ll just have to remind you again.”

With that, he leaned down further, his mouth finding its way to your skin. His lips pressed lightly, his tongue dragging along the sensitive area. And when he finally took you in his mouth, the warmth, the pressure—it was too much. Your breathing quickened, your hands clenching the sheets as he worked, his actions slow, deliberate, and relentless.

Jungwon pulled back slightly, his tongue darting out to lick his lips. He glanced up at you, his expression still composed, though his eyes burned with intensity. “You’ll count properly next time,” he said quietly, his tone steady, “or we’ll just keep going until you do.”

𝐍𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐮𝐫𝐚 𝐑𝐢𝐤𝐢

The private court was quiet, except for the sound of sneakers skidding across the pavement, the steady rhythm of the basketball bouncing, and the occasional swoosh of a perfect shot hitting the net.

It was almost peaceful.

Almost.

Because you were bored out of your mind.

At first, you had been entertained—watching Riki drip with sweat, his muscles flexing subtly under his shirt, his jaw clenched in focus as he moved effortlessly across the court. You could’ve sat there for hours.

But now?

Now you were kicking at the pavement, sprawling yourself dramatically across the bench, watching him ignore you like it was his job.

You sighed loudly. "Ni-ki."

“Mmm.” He didn’t even glance at you, lining up another shot.

You huffed. "I’m bored."

“Okay,” he said, still not looking.

Your eye twitched. “That’s it?”

He smirked slightly, dribbling the ball lazily. “What do you want me to do? Call the circus to entertain you?”

“I don’t know,” you grumbled, watching as he effortlessly sunk another shot before catching the ball again.

Riki finally turned, spinning the ball in his hands, giving you the laziest grin. “You literally begged to come watch me play.”

“Yeah, because I thought you'd be entertaining,” you shot back, crossing your arms. “Instead, I’m just sitting here, staring at you running around in circles.”

He grinned. “So basically, you just like watching me be hot.”

You snorted. “I mean… yeah.”

Riki’s smirk widened. “I knew it.”

You rolled your eyes, but then, an idea hit you.

A terrible, wonderful, completely deranged idea.

“Actually,” you started, stretching your arms above your head, watching him carefully, “I have a question.”

Riki blinked, dribbling absently. "Why do I feel like this is about to be something weird?"

You ignored him. “Why do you think I like it so much when you spit in my mouth?”

Silence.

Riki’s hands literally stopped moving. The ball bounced off his foot and rolled away.

Very, very slowly, he turned to stare at you, expression completely blank.

“…I’m sorry?”

You grinned. “Like, psychologically. What do you think it means?”

His mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again.

Nothing came out.

You waited. Smiling. Expectant.

Riki exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. “What the actual fuck is wrong with you?”

You gasped, mock-offended. “That’s rude! It’s a normal question!”

“That is not a normal question!” He threw his hands up, fully spiraling now. “Who the hell sits courtside, watches their boyfriend play basketball, and then just—just casually wonders about the deeper meaning of spit kinks?!”

You shrugged, completely unbothered. “I just think it’s interesting.”

Riki rubbed his temples like you were giving him a migraine. “Jesus Christ.”

Then, after a long pause, he squinted at you. “…So, do you actually want an answer?”

You grinned. “Obviously.”

Riki groaned, shaking his head. "You're actually insane."

But then—he actually thought about it.

“…Okay, fine.” He crossed his arms, looking at you like you were a science experiment. "You like being spit in because you’re gross."

You rolled your eyes. "Okay, Mr. Psychology Degree."

He smirked. "No, seriously. It’s the ownership thing, isn’t it? It’s about control. You like it because it’s filthy and degrading, and that’s what gets you off."

Your stomach flipped violently.

Riki caught it immediately.

His grin widened. "Ohhh, that’s totally it."

You crossed your arms, trying to play it cool. “I—maybe. Continue.”

He tilted his head, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. “It’s primal, isn’t it? Something about me doing something so demeaning, but you still loving it. Like you’d take anything I give you.”

Your thighs pressed together involuntarily.

And of course, Riki saw.

His smirk turned wicked.

"You like it," he murmured, stepping forward, bouncing the basketball once before letting it roll away.

Your back straightened. “I never said that.”

"You didn’t have to," he said smoothly.

Then, before you could react, he grabbed your wrist, yanking you up from the bench effortlessly.

You let out a surprised squeak, your hands instinctively pressing against his chest.

"Riki—"

"Shh," he murmured, backing you up until your spine hit the court wall.

Your pulse skyrocketed.

His arms caged you in, his body pressed just barely against yours, not touching but close enough that you could feel his warmth.

"So," he mused, tilting his head, his eyes flicking between yours. "You like it when I’m in control, huh?"

Your breath caught.

Riki grinned, teasing. "What was that thing you said earlier? You like it when I spit in your mouth?"

Your face burned. "I didn’t say I liked it—"

"Oh, no, no, baby," he murmured, leaning in, lips ghosting over yours, breath hot and sweet. "You love it."

You whimpered.

Riki’s grin widened. "Should I prove it?"

Your stomach flipped so hard you nearly collapsed.

And before you could answer, his hand tilted your chin up, thumb brushing over your bottom lip.

His eyes darkened, lips parting slightly as he ran his thumb along your tongue.

"Open," he murmured.

And when you did?

He spat, slow, deliberate, watching with parted lips as it slid over your tongue.

And then, just to make it worse, he whispered—

"Swallow, baby."

Your head spun.

And before you could even process what was happening, his lips crashed against yours.

The kiss was hot, messy, completely unhinged.

His hands slid down, gripping your waist, pulling you flush against him, until you were trapped between his body and the cold wall of the private court.

You gasped softly, and Riki swallowed the sound immediately, deepening the kiss just enough to make your legs weak.

"See?" he muttered against your lips, his voice dripping with amusement.

"You just like letting me win."

Then, with zero hesitation, his hands slipped lower, gripping your thighs.

And before you could say another word, he lifted you effortlessly, pinning you against the wall completely.

The feeling of his hot breath against your neck, the firm press of his body against yours, the way he had you completely at his mercy. It all proved his

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tiramissyoucake · 4 months ago

Text

Self indulgent post, Mark being down bad

You were thankful you decided to stay home today, the storm was unrelenting outside as rain pattered down against surfaces like bullets, thunder and lightening exploding amidst the wind and rain. As ominous as it was, taking safety measures and remaining inside comforted you, you followed procedure, anything else is out of your hands.

A warm mug next to you as your favorite blanket draped over your legs, your laptop dimly playing videos of varying types. Everything was fully charged, your phone next to you, quiet as a mouse. You weren't going to move for a while...

A knock on the front door quickly stopped your train of thought, all appreciation dissipating.

Holding back a groan, you got up from the couch, adjusting your clothes as you made a beeline for the door— peephole be damned, who's crazy enough to be out in this weather?

Swinging the door open, you look up to a messy head of sopping wet black hair. You almost didn't recognize Mark since his hair is always out of his face. His eyes were swollen, and his lips tugged into a cross between a frown and a pout. This is the first time you've seen him since your break-up about a month ago.

"... Mark?"

"... Hi." He sounded glad, like he didn't expect you to answer. "... c-can I come in? I just- I need to talk to you, like REALLY need to."

"No." Your answer may have been cold, but your relationship ended on bad terms. "Go home, it's thundering outside."

His heart plummeted to his stomach seeing you close the door, his hand quickly reaching out as well as his foot to keep it open. "Wait— please. (Name), hear me out. Just hear me out and I'll go, I swear." His voice almost cracked as he begged you.

"Mark, it's over. I gave you back all your stuff and deleted your number, just move on—"

"I can't." He whimpered, "please, don't make me do this— I can't find anyone else like you." He sighed, unsure if it was shaky from the cold or the sob bubbling in his throat. "Don't leave me, please- just hear me out."

You grimaced, the door opening further by his hand. "(Name), you don't have to respond now, but please just... don't do this." Mark approached you, clothes soaked through his coat and hands hesitant to touch you. "I-I can't stop thinking about you, please baby—"

You looked away, wincing at the nickname. "I told you not to call me that."

"I'll call you whatever you want— fuck, (name), please—" you heard a thud, glancing back to him you found him on his knees, his arms caging around your legs. "Don't leave me, please- need you so bad.." he sniffled, a choked sob escaping him.

His rambling continued as he rubbed his cheek against your body. You're now mortified as your hands on his shoulders to balance yourself. "Mark. Get up. My neighbours will see—"

"Let them, I don't care." He huffed, the tears and sobbing returning tenfold. "Just take me back— I-I'll be good, I promise." Mark looked up at you with glossy eyes, the pink undertones of his skin now more evident from both the cold and the crying. "Please baby, lemme be your good boy again..! I'll be the best, I promise. I love you so much..!"

Your other hand landed on his head by mistake, he almost moaned at the feeling of you touching him in a way that slightly resembled affection, leaning up to your hand. "I know deep down you still love me too.." he huffed, that sentence was such a gamble.

"Let me in, let me show you how much I love you." He kissed your body wherever he could reach, causing you to yelp. "Mark!! What the hell?! I'm serious! Stop it!"

With renewed vigour, he looked up at you. "I'll stop when you let me in... please, baby.. it's so cold outside..."

#PATHETIC‼️ I WOULDNT EVEN KEEP YOU AS A LOVE INTEREST IN MY HAREM‼️#mark grayson x reader #invincible x reader

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alygator77 · 3 days ago

Text

࿐ vows of duty ── part 2

࿐pairing. arranged clanhead! satoru x fem! reader

࿐summary. the gojo clan is untouchable, and their new ruler, gojo satoru, is the most powerful sorcerer of his generation—unrivaled, unrestricted, and utterly uncontrollable. for years, he has defied the expectations of his clan, rejecting tradition, resisting the cage they built for him. but even the strongest must bow to duty. a deal struck, a marriage arranged. you, the daughter of a fallen clan, are chosen to stand at his side. not out of love, but because gojo satoru always gets what he wants. and if he's obligated to marry, fuck it, he wants you. though, you quickly learn that your place is not beside him—but beneath him. why? because gojo satoru doesn’t do love.

࿐tags/warnings. nsfw 18+, smut, angst (with eventual fluff), slight canon divergence, arranged marriage, satoru is emotionally detached, he's kinda a dick at times, breeding, breeding kink, praise kink, some degradation, loss of virginity, mentions of infidelity, mentions of a prior scandal (i'll update tags as i write more) » 【this part — wet dream, sex, masturbation, dry humping and making out, satoru is horny af and shameless with dirty talk. say hi to yuji, megumi and maki! also shoko and nanami. satoru is still a dick. BORDERLINE cheating behavior - so read at your own discretion. the angst is angsting.】

࿐wc. 20k (what is wrong with me?)

࿐a/n. it's back! oh man, i'm gonna go crawl under a rock after posting this, ahaha. i hope ya'll like it. as you can see, i can't stop yappin. like, clearly i can't write a story without making it super in depth 🙂‍↕️ with the traditional ceremonies, just know that i'm not japanese so if certain things are incorrect forgive me! also, there is definitely canon divergence in this fic. satoru is not officially a sensei at jujutsu high. his duty is to his clan. art by @/_3aem

previous part

“Mm… fuck. Look at this mess…”

His voice drips over your skin, all sugar and filth—slurred into something reverent. While he drags his cock through your soaked folds, the teasing mess smears up his throbbing dick.

“’t-toru… I-I—mnh…” You’re floating. Weightless beneath him, breath caught somewhere in your throat—not that you care to find it. Because he's everywhere. Pressed to you, over you, into you. Warming you from the inside out as the blunt head of his cock nudges your entrance—thick, leaking, spilling sticky precum between your thighs.

It’s a mess. It’s so fucking new. And god it’s everything.

A low chuckle hums in your ear—warm, cocky, curling down your spine. When your lashes flutter open, he’s already looking at you. That crooked little smirk carved into his lips. Blue eyes sharp and soft at once, like he’s reading you and writing you all in one breath.

“Already drippin’ all over me, huh?” he murmurs, grinding lazily against your clit like it’s just a game to him. “What’s got you so needy, baby?”

Snowy strands brush your cheeks. His hair falls wild in his face, casting soft shadows over those impossible eyes. And god—he’s beautiful. Too beautiful. So fucking beautiful it hurts to look at him. He feels like a wish granted too fast. Like something stolen from a dream. And he’s yours. That’s the part you keep trying to believe.

Looming over you, he plants a palm on the sheets by your head. The other traces down your thigh, slow and certain, spreading you open like you’re delicate. Like you’re special. Making your heart ache more.

“Gonna tell me what you want?” he pants, dragging himself back through your slick. “C’mon…” he hums, earning your gasp—hips lifting as he teases you. “Lemme hear it, pretty girl. Don’t be shy now.”

Your voice slips from your lips before your shame can catch it. Because right now, you feel like you could spill your entire heart to this man. Why?

“P-Please…”

“Please what?” he croons, abs tensing with every lazy rut of his cock. “Aww… what do you want, hm?”

And oh, it’s humiliating how badly you want him while the fat head of his dick rubs your clit. You ache for him in places you didn’t even know could ache. But the heat between your legs is nothing compared to the heat in your chest, your throat, your thoughts.

“I want you,” you whisper, heart cracking open. “Want you so bad…”

And how could you not?

He makes you feel like nothing else matters. Like no one’s watching. Like you’re allowed to want. To crave. To be touched. To take.

Free of expectation. Free of tradition.

And still—still there’s that voice in the back of your mind. The part that remembers the time in his private villa. The silence after. The way he didn’t hold you. Didn’t stay.

I got what I wanted. You had your fun, yeah?

You try not to think about it. Try not to let it matter. Because he said it like it meant nothing. But… this has to mean something. It has to. Right? Because how could someone touch you like this and not mean it? You’ve never felt like this before. Never even imagined you could feel this. Like you’ve always belonged here—under him, wrapped around him, lost in him.

His.

Exhaling, he cups your cheek—thumb brushing tenderly over your skin, like he doesn’t notice the war you’re losing beneath it. “That so?” he breathes, mouth so close it feels like a secret. “You want this cock, sweetheart?”

You nod. So hard it almost hurts.

“Want you to fuck me… please…” and that earns his groan. “Oh, you pretty thing…” and pressing forward—he’s lining himself up with a smirk and a low whisper. “Gonna make a mess of you…”

And then he’s pushing every inch of that flushed, angry cock into your tight little cunt. Slow. So slow it feels like it’s never going to end. Like he wants you to feel every inch as it splits you open, stretching you in a way you could only dream.

“Oh, fuuuuck…” his voice splinters as your legs fall open wider. “Shit… just fuckin’ meltin’ around me…” and your body gives, like it’s been waiting for this. Made for him.

“Satoru—” you gasp, clinging to his shoulders like you might fall through the floor. “Shhh…” his forehead falls to yours, and he doesn’t move at first. Just stays there. Inside you. Wrapped in your heat, your walls fluttering around him like you’re not sure if you’re ready or begging for more.

And that’s the thing—you don’t know. You don’t know anything right now. Just that it’s him. That it’s this. And it’s yours. A dream come true.

“You feel like a dream,” he whispers, hips twitching once, slow and deep. “Like I’ve waited forever for this…”

Dream.

Maybe you are dreaming. Are you? Is that why this feels so good? No, maybe it’s just him. Because suddenly he’s moving. A rhythm that starts with reverence—measured, deep, like he wants to memorize you. Every breath. Every arch. Every sound you make.

“Look at me,” he pants, lips brushing yours as he rocks languidly. “Keep your eyes on me while I fuck you, yeah?”

Your lashes flutter—dazed, drunk on him. And you do. You look. You stare into those vivid blue eyes like they’re the last thing tethering you to this goddamn earth. Eyes that are endless. Limitless.

A dream?

Yeah. That’s what this is. A dream come true. A dream spun from every ache you’ve buried—pulled from the softest, dirtiest corners of your aching little heart—where no one ever told you what to want, only that you shouldn’t. And now he’s here.

The man of your dreams, giving you everything you thought was out of reach.

Freedom. Pleasure. Love.

Love?

Love’s a strange thing. You’ve never been in love—never trusted it. And how could you if you’ve never seen it done right—watching your parents gut it and wear it like a lie. But one thing’s for sure—this is what it feels like to be wanted. Right?

So, you’ll be his. Whatever he wants. Whatever he needs. Always. If this is how he’ll make you feel—god, you’ll be his forever.

“Feels s’good,” you whisper, head tilting back as he fucks you deeper. “Oh yeah?” he grunts, dragging his cock out slow, then driving it back in with a wet slap. “You hear that?” he murmurs near your ear. “Fuckin’ soaked for me.”

Whining under him, your cunt coats his dick, wet and warm, dripping between your legs. His muscles tense above you, hands sliding down your body, gripping your hips.

“God, baby… greedy little pussy’s grippin’ me… shit,” he hisses through his teeth, fingers digging into skin. “Fine… take it—” and with a hard thrust, he buries himself to the hilt.

“Ahh! W-Wait—” you jolt, but the protest melts into a stream of filthy moans as he finds his rhythm—hips snapping forward, balls slapping against your ass.

“Mmm… that’s my girl…” he pants, cooing against your ear as he kisses the side of your neck. Slick, wet sounds echo through the room as he fucks your cunt in sharp, steady thrusts.

“Fuck, Satoru—" you gasp, choking on his name. And he groans—filthy, low—panting in your ear, lost in your heat as your pussy grips him just right.

“Shit… look at you,” he breathes, grinding deeper, breath hot against your cheek. “Yes… fuck yes… you gonna let me fill you up, baby?”

Your cunt is fluttering around him—soaking, tight. He's rolling every inch of that flushed cock in slow, devastating thrusts.

“So pretty… so fuckin’ pretty…” he murmurs, eyes half-lidded, fixed on your face. He's drinking every gasp straight from your lungs. “Gonna let me fuck this pussy every goddamn day, hm?” his cock drags out, only to slam it back in. “Nnngh… have you drippin’ down my cock, making a fuckin’ mess of yourself for me?”

God, you will. You’d do anything for him. You moan as his mouth finds your throat again—kisses that turn to bites, soft lips followed by sharp teeth. Gentle, then greedy as he continues to pump deeper.

“Let ‘em see,” he growls against your skin. “Let ‘em hear how good I fuck you—just take it.”

His rhythm shifts—harder, faster, meaner. Each thrust crashes into you with a wet slap, your cunt gushing around him. You’re gasping, breath breaking into ragged whimpers as the dripping head of his cock kisses your cervix—over and over again.

You don’t even know what you’re saying anymore—you’re just moaning, gasping, breaking.

“Well?” he snarls, pounding you harder. “C’mon… who do you belong to, sweetheart?”

He fucks you so hard the floor seems to shake. Your body’s sliding helpless beneath him, your mind scattering like shards of glass. You sob, "Y-You," and your fingers curl into his hair, clinging like you'll fall about without him. Because you will. “Yours—’toru—m’yours…”

That encourages him, he’s gasping, thrusting, moaning—wet slaps echoing.

“Good fuckin’ girl… f-fuck…” he groans, voice cracking as his cock pulses deep inside you, cum spilling hot. “Gonna—shit—gonna cum…”

And wrapping your legs around him, you feel him shudder. Warmth spills from your cunt, slick and slow, while your pussy flutters around him, milking every drop. His thrusts don't stop. They just slow—grinding in lazy, possessive circles. Rolling deeper, messier, like he wants to keep it all inside you. Like he needs you full.

“Mine,” he breathes, dick twitching inside you. “Fuck… all mine… my pretty wife…” he pants, teeth grazing your shoulder, “…my messy little slut—mine… mine…”

The words tumble from him in broken, breathless threads—a litany, hot and reverent—branding you from the inside out.

Mine.

Again.

Mine.

You’re gasping, falling. Everything blurs; his body wrapping around you, filling you, flooding every aching, empty part of you. And the room—it starts to feel…

Mine….

Soft?

Mine…

The kind of warmth that doesn’t feel real.

Almost like…

Mine…

Like a dream.

Mine…

Get up.

You blink.

Get. Up.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

“You’re still in bed?”

That voice. No warmth. Just clipped syllables slicing through the remnants of your dream.

“Get up.”

And just like that, the weight of him vanishes. The heat. The stretch. The sweetness. Gone.

Jolting up, your silk robe slips off your shoulder, and light stings your eyes as your lashes flutter open. But it’s not his breath you feel, it’s the bite of morning air against your sweat-slick skin—and your mother’s cold stare.

Oh. Right. A dream.

“Well?” Her voice cuts again, brisk and unforgiving. “You think the entire Gojo clan is going to wait for you to collect yourself?”

She’s already at the window, fingers ghosting over the wood frame. The shoji groans as it slides open, letting in a wash of cold that rushes over the tatami and blooms across your bare collarbone.

Flinching, you instinctively draw your robe tighter—but it’s too late. The ache between your legs is still slick, still pulsing like a secret you can’t scrub off. Shame burns hot in your chest.

A wet dream. You had a fucking wet dream.

Over him.

Cheeks burning, your knees lock tight. And by the curl of your mother’s lip—you must look exactly how you feel.

Filthy.

“You’re flushed,” she remarks, arching a brow. “And you’re shaking.”

“Oh… sorry,” you whisper, shutting your eyes like that might make you disappear. “I… didn’t sleep well.”

There’s a pause.

You brace for a reprimand. A sharp lesson, a stern lecture. But it doesn’t come—only the soft rustle of silk.

“Why? Are… you nervous about today?”

When your eyes flutter open, she’s kneeling before you. Her expression has softened, and there’s something quieter in her hands as they reach for your robe, brushing your collar with practiced care.

“That color suits you…” she murmurs, adjusting the fabric where it’s slipped from your shoulder, “…Ivory always did.”

You blink, lips parting, startled by the shift in her tone.

“You used to wear it constantly…” she adds, softer now. “Said it made you feel like a princess. Wouldn’t let me dress you in anything else.”

Adjusting the fold near your shoulder, her fingers linger, smoothing it flat with quiet care.

“I swear…” glancing up at you, her lips twitch, like the memory tastes bitter and sweet at once. “I hid that white yukata more times than I can count.”

Your own mouth curves, matching her smile.

“Yeah… but I always found it.”

“Tch. And stained it before noon!” She huffs, smiling, shaking her head. “Grass. Dirt. Ink from your calligraphy kit. You’d tear through the garden like a storm. Always barefoot. Always chasing your father, trying to mimic his stances.”

You still.

Because she said it—his name. And she never does. Not anymore. Not since the night he left.

Her hands move slower now, but her gaze drifts somewhere far beyond the room.

“Your father…” she echoes quietly, straightening a crease, “…he used to call you his little crane. Said you looked too delicate for martial arts… until you bloodied his lip.”

Her fingers hover at the fold of your robe, and for the first time in years, the silence between you feels fragile. Sacred. As if something hidden might surface—something she’s almost ready to hand you.

But the moment doesn’t last.

Drawing back, she stands in one fluid motion, sleeves whispering against her sides.

“Regardless… you’re not a child anymore,” her voice sharpens. “And we don’t get the luxury of mistakes, understood?”

You nod, and whatever had cracked in her seals shut again—her tenderness slipping away, folded back inside like silk tucked into a drawer.

“You have fifteen minutes before the stylists arrive…”

Then, the door slides shut with a soft click.

And you’re left alone with the scent of sandalwood fading in the air, a chill still clinging to your skin, a heat between your legs, and the ache of a mother’s love that always pulls back before it ever reaches your hands.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

Gentle fingers tilt your chin.

“Hold still, sweetheart. I don’t want to poke your eye out before the ceremony.”

The powder brush sweeps across your cheek in soft, fluttering strokes—light as breath, enough to chase the nerves from your skin.

“You really are a vision,” one of the stylists insists, a small, reverent sigh slipping past her lips. “He won’t be able to look away.”

“I doubt that…” you murmur, trying to smile—though it barely touches your eyes.

But the reflection staring back at you says otherwise. The perfect bride-to-be, composed and radiant.

Your kimono wraps tight around your ribs, layers of pale ivory and blooming crimson spreading like a painted fan across your body. Embroidered cranes glide up your sleeves in gold and silver threads—regal, serene. Their necks curve skyward, as though chasing something you can’t see.

“This must feel surreal,” the older stylist adds, stepping back to admire her work. She tilts your chin higher, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “The yuino ceremony… such an elegant tradition.”

You blink slowly, the weight of the moment sinking in.

The yuino—an engagement ritual where two families exchange gifts to formalize a union. Every offering means something: thread for longevity, sake for harmony, kelp for joy. It’s less about the couple, more about the bloodlines. A promise not just between people, but legacies.

“It’s definitely… traditional,” you admit.

“More like transactional…” the youngest mumbles, tugging at your obi with sharp, precise hands.

The elder hushes her with a look—not harsh, but warning—then turns back to you.

“My dear… tradition isn’t meant to trap us,” she assures, low and sincere. “It’s meant to carry us.”

Reaching up to adjust a pin in your hair, her touch is slow, almost motherly.

“All of this—the layers, the ritual—it’s not just for show. It’s a blessing. A beginning.” Her fingers pause at the side of your head before meeting your gaze in the mirror. “And if you let it… it can be something beautiful.”

Glancing at your reflection, there’s a quiet ache behind her words. Because you were raised to follow. To perform. To marry. And yet, somehow… her words echo, soft as silk.

It’s startling. Strange, even.

It should feel like a cage. Shouldn’t it? Every fold, every knot, every ornament arranged to present someone else’s idea of who you are. After all, with your family, marriage was always the destination. And yet, the weight pressing down on your shoulders feels lighter than it should.

Maybe it’s the way she said it. Or… maybe it’s because of him.

Satoru Gojo, with his messy grin and reckless freedom—he doesn’t bow to tradition. He lives like nothing owns him. Not his clan. Not his duty. Not even his legacy. He rewrites every rule with a smirk.

You haven’t stopped thinking about it. About him.

The wet dream had only sharpened it, made it vivid—too vivid. That stretch, that heat. It felt real. It felt like it mattered. Because despite everything—despite duty and expectation—you want him. Not just his hands or his mouth or the way he made you fall apart in that villa.

You want him to see you through all of this.

You want to be his.

Because maybe, as strange as it sounds, the stylist is right. Maybe this can be more than duty. Maybe this is a beginning. Not of obedience—but of something else. Something fragile and full of possibility.

God, you wish it to be so. You need it to be so.

The older stylist gives your shoulder a final pat, stepping back to admire you once more.

“I wonder what he’ll give you,” the youngest muses, voice airy, almost starstruck. “Someone like Gojo Satoru…” she hums. “I bet it’s something extravagant.”

“He’s like a storm in silk,” another sighs dreamily. “Whatever it is, it’ll be unforgettable.”

The eldest smiles, something softer flickering in her eyes. “Glamour fades,” she remarks. “But a gift that knows who you are… now that’s something you carry for life.”

A gift that knows who you are.

The words echo, soft and lingering. And suddenly, you’re not sure—does yours? Is it enough? Will he appreciate it?

Glancing towards the vanity, your gaze drops to the small black box, half-hidden among the combs and lacquered trays like a secret.

“Ah!” One of the stylists perks up, catching the direction of your eyes. “That’s for him?” she asks, nodding toward the box.

You hesitate for a breath, then nod. “It is,” and reaching for it, your fingers smooth over the velvet before curling around the edges. “It’s my gift.”

In the yuino, it’s customary for the groom’s family to present gifts first—then comes the bride’s turn. Something of worth. Something of value.

That part was never easy. Not when you had nothing to give but what little you could scrape together. Money is short, but you did it. Somehow. And you wonder—would he see that? Would he know what it cost you—the quiet sacrifices, the things you were forced to let go of—just to place something in his hands that felt like truth?

Your fingers slide beneath the satin ribbon, loosening it slowly, letting it fall open.

Inside, nestled in dark velvet, rests a pair of sunglasses. Sleek. Rectangular. Matte black with thin platinum accents at the temples. Understated, but undeniably expensive—a limited designer release you spent weeks searching for.

“Um…” the elder tilts her head, “…sunglasses?”

“Modern,” another hesitates, as if afraid to offend. “Not exactly… traditional.”

You watch the way the lenses catch the light—dark, smooth, almost defiant.

“No…” you admit, lips curving faintly. “But neither is he.”

“Tch.” A voice from the doorway cuts in. “That’s putting it mildly.”

Looking up, you already know who’s interrupted before setting eyes on her—the dry bite in her voice is unmistakable.

Maki Zenin.

Leaning against the doorway, green hair pulled back into a ponytail, there she is. Your sister in arms. The closest thing you have to a friend. Or maybe… a younger sister, if life had been kinder.

“Ah…” one of the stylists clears her throat, taking a careful step back. “And… you are…?”

“Relax,” she huffs. “I’m just the disgraced friend. I promise not to stain the upholstery.”

The eldest arches a brow, and you jump in quickly.

“She’s with me.”

The two of you go back years—back when your families still tolerated one another. Her clan managed stock, yours specialized in cursed weapon refinement. While the adults buried themselves in trade negotiations and formalities, you both were left to your own devices. Two girls, too young to matter, yet old enough to know it.

She was brash even back then—calling you “old” and “boring.” Daring you to sneak into the armory, challenging you to out-duel her with weapons twice her size. You were quieter, more reserved, raised on obedience and grace. But when Maki handed you a dull blade and grinned, your blood had thrummed with something you never had words for.

You were raised to bow. She was raised to bite. And somehow, you met in the middle. Now, years later, you still find her at your side. The only one who never abandoned you, never flinched when the world turned cold and your clan shut you out. Like hers did for her.

“I see,” the stylist straightens politely, smoothing her sleeves. “We’ll give you two a moment, then. I’ll prepare the fan offering for the ceremony.”

“And I’ll fetch the lacquer box!” Another chirps, already gathering her things.

They exit with soft murmurs and a shuffle of silk, bows and slippers brushing over tatami. The door slides shut behind them, sealing the room in a quieter hush.

Exhaling, your shoulders ease as your eyes meet Maki’s in the mirror.

“You’re here.”

“Yeah, well… I said I’d come, didn’t I?” she sighs, pushing off the doorframe with the kind of casual bravado that’s always been second nature to her. Her eyes sweep the room—to the silk shimmering across your collarbones, the ceremonial stillness. “So…” her brow lifts, “…you’re really going through with it, huh?”

“Yup. But don’t sound so surprised,” you hum, smoothing your kimono with a teasing lilt. “After all, one of us had to make it out of exile first.”

“Pfft.” Maki rolls her eyes, but her grin flickers with something almost proud. “I don’t want out. Fuck the Zenins. I’m not crawling back just to prove a point.”

You smile faintly.

“Still stubborn.”

“And you’re still too soft,” she quips, striding towards the vanity.

Leaning against it, her arms fold, eyes narrowing in a way that only pretends to be judgmental. But you know. Beneath it: worry. Loyalty. That particular kind of protectiveness that only someone who’s exiled knows how to wear.

“You… really want to do this?”

“Maybe…” you meet her eyes in the glass, hesitating. “He’s not like them, Maki…” you shrug, looking down, fidgeting with the sleeve of your kimono. “I mean… I dunno. Maybe it could be… different?”

She doesn’t answer right away. You’re older, but she’s always looked out for you in her own prickly way. And the fact that you didn’t volunteer for this, more like you were voluntold—it annoys the hell out of her.

Still, she huffs out a breath, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose.

“Yeah…” she admits finally, like it costs her. “I guess he’s not.”

Glancing at her sideways, she drops her hands into her pockets, mouth twitching into a grin.

“Y’know… he let me train in the middle of the damn courtyard,” she mutters. “Didn’t even ask what I was doing there. Just tossed me a staff and went, ‘don’t embarrass yourself.’”

You blink. “Wait—what?”

“Yup.” She shrugs, almost smug. “Snuck into Jujutsu High last week. Through the garden wall. Figured I’d get thrown out before I even touched a weapon. But he didn’t flinch. Didn’t tell the higher-ups either. Just… let me stay.”

Your lips part, but no words come right away. The thought of Gojo Satoru—maddening, brilliant, impossible Gojo Satoru—doing something so quietly kind? To someone you care for so deeply? It makes your chest warm. Maki’s been trying to get into Jujutsu High for months, but the system’s written her off like she’s disposable. Unfit. A mistake. But she’s more capable than half the sorcerers they’ve accepted. You’ve always known that.

And the fact that Satoru saw it too…

You feel it then—slow and steady—that hum beneath your skin. That ache of something soft unraveling inside you.

“I mean, damn,” Maki stretches, cracking her knuckles behind her head with a yawn. “You’d think someone that powerful would care about rules, right?”

“Yeah… he doesn’t,” you huff a breath, the smile pulling at your mouth before you can stop it. “That’s the problem.”

Or maybe… it’s exactly why you can’t stop thinking about him.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

Meanwhile, Satoru’s head is spinning—with you. His pretty little wife-to-be, the one who’ll keep the elders quiet and his cock wet.

He’s been in the shower far too long. Steam clings to the cedar walls, fogging the glass panels while the overhead spout hisses steadily against his skin. Water beads down his spine—but it’s not the heat that has him breathless. His hand pumps steadily over his sensitive dick—gliding and rolling over his fat heat as it drips messily onto the stone tile.

He should be getting ready for the ceremony, but here he is, fapping his stiff cock while milky drops spill down his pretty pink tip.

“Fffuck…” he groans, panting with each filthy slap of his fist, “Unngh… that’s it…”

Lewd images flash through his mind—'cause this is easier. Just muscle and heat. No feelings. No expectations. Just the illusion of your trembling thighs, your sweet little cunt sucking him in, soaking his fat dick as he slams into you, over and over.

He bites down a moan, head tipping back, soft white bangs soaked to his forehead. Those impossible eyes—half-lidded beneath snow-damp lashes—burn in the haze, glassy and low. Water rivulets track the slope of his abdomen, glinting over taut skin as his hand works faster, more desperate.

“Shit—yeah… jus’ like that…”

Breath hitching, his hand jerks harder, crude sounds echoing with the hiss of water while his thick shaft pulses in his grip. He can’t stop. Can’t help it. The image sharpens in his mind—your tits bouncing with every thrust, the soft slide of your sleeves slipping off your shoulders. He'd drive into you from behind, hand fisted in your hair.

God, he doesn’t want to be married. But he’d love to fuck the pretty little wife they’ve handed him—make you cry for it, ruin you slow, watch your sweet face twist when his cock drags deep through your dripping cunt.

“Mnh—take it…” he growls, one palm braced against the slick cedar wall, the other pumping hard and fast. His hips stutter, rocking into the heat of his fist, chest heaving as steam curls like breath around his ankles.

Fuck, he’s desperate for relief, and your name’s on the tip of his tongue—not that he’d say it. ‘Cause that’s not how this works. He needs relief. He needs a distraction. Just a little more. So close. So—

BANG. BANG. BANG.

“Oi! What the hell are you doing in there?”

Flinching, Satoru’s hand stills as the voice slams through his pleasure like a slap. The water beats down, dazed eyes fluttering open as he pants—and the moment he glances at the room’s wooden door, an agitated scowl curls across his lips. That voice is muffled, but unmistakable.

Fucking Megumi.

“Dude. You’re taking forever,” the kid gripes, banging again. “I mean… for fuck’s sake—at this rate you’re gonna be late to your own damn engagement party!”

Engagement party.

Right. The yuino.

“Oh, fuck me…” Satoru mutters under his breath, grip falling away with a wet, dejected slap. His cock bobs, still red, swollen—leaking in desperation.

Perfect. Just fucking perfect. Even this—this one private moment—can’t fucking belong to him. The mood’s gone; sucked dry by the obligation pounding at his door.

Great. Now he’s annoyed. Because he was supposed to be getting off, not thinking. But of fucking course, Megumi’s words are that lovely, blaring reminder that he’s about to become officially tied down tonight. About to lose whatever little bit of freedom he was barely clinging onto.

Sure, you’re pretty, you’re tempting—but you’re also part of this now, aren’t you? Part of the problem—despite how good you make his dick feel.

Marriage?

Duty?

He never wanted that shit.

Another knock breaks through the water pounding around him—and with a groan, Satoru’s jaw ticks. “Kid, do you mind?!” he snaps, dragging a hand over his face. “Fucking hell—some of us are trying to have a crisis in peace!”

“Yeah, well, your ‘crisis’ is way behind schedule.” Megumi fires back, tone dry as dust. “Get your shit together, old man.”

Oh, like it’s so simple. Sure. That’s what everyone expects of him.

Exhaling through his nose, Satoru’s eyes flutter shut, head tilting back under the stream. His cock twitches again, stubborn and sensitive, but already softening, the ache still lingering in his groin like a cruel echo.

Wait… why is he even fantasizing about you?! Great. Now he’s even more annoyed at himself. And as his irritation begins to simmer, another insistent knock breaks through the wooden door.

“Jesus Christ… Megumi!” Satoru grits, low and bitter, finally lifting his head. “Unless someone’s dying, just… walk the fuck away!”

“Well, I’m dying. From boredom. Hurry the fuck up.”

With a growl, Satoru twists the water off—steam hissing in protest while a silence finally settles—save for the drip of condensation tapping down the glass. His hands brace against the wall; muscles tense, breath ragged, cock twitching but neglected.

The moment’s gone. Stolen. Per usual.

And now he’s pissed the fuck off. Why the fuck does he keep thinking about your face when you cum?

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

“Eight minutes late,” Megumi notes. “Again.”

Strolling in barefoot, Satoru glides across the tatami, hair still damp, a towel slung around his neck. His inner kimono hangs loose over his frame, belt tied lazily at his hips, sleeves pushed up in carelessness.

“Oh?” he blinks, feigning surprise, raking the towel through his hair. “What’s this, hm? You timing me now?”

“Yaga is,” Megumi sighs, already looking back down at his phone. “Says you’re always late. Just not late enough to chastise.”

That earns a slow, smug grin from Satoru—crooked and boyish, like a secret he’s not going to share. Clicking his tongue, he tosses the towel over the back of the chair, reaching for the next layer of silk.

“Aww,” he hums, slipping into his outer kimono with an almost bored ease. “He’s still using that line? Sentimental old man.”

The linen is rich and textured, dark indigo, finely woven. Near the collar, stitched in silver so pale it borders on illusion, lies the Gojo family crest: Two dragonflies—wings outspread in mirror flight.

Curious creatures, dragonflies are. They say dragonflies can’t fly backward. Only forward. Relentlessly, instinctively—like time, or fate. No turning back.

…much like him after tonight.

Letting out a low breath, Satoru brushes the crest once over with his knuckles. Until—

Thunk!

He blinks, glancing toward the sound. Across the room, Yuji curses under his breath, a lacquered box falling to the floor, skittering across the tatami and landing near Megumi’s foot. As a silk ribbon flutters in Yuji’s hand like a white flag, Satoru immediately realizes what it is.

His gift—for you.

“Oi,” he calls, brow arching. “Is that my gift? Be careful with that.”

Freezing mid-reach, Yuji flinches—caught red-handed.

“Oh—shit. Sorry, Sensei!” he blurts, grabbing the box, fumbling quickly. Steadying it, his eyes flick up sheepishly. “I, um… didn’t mean to—uh—drop it.

Satoru’s eyes narrow, gaze dragging slowly over the box.

“Mmm… Yuji,” he drawls, tilting his head. “The ribbon’s untied.”

“Right. Uh…” Yuji hesitates, holding the ruined bow like it might defend him. “…it was already like that. Probably.”

Satoru snorts, fiddling with his kimono. “Uh-huh. Right. And I was born on a rice farm.”

Groaning in defeat, Yuji drops his shoulders.

“Okay—fine. But I didn’t mean to untie it. I just…” he rubs the back of his neck, eyes darting away. “Got curious.”

“Curious,” Satoru echoes, unimpressed.

“Yeah…” Yuji mutters, guilt settling in. “Wanted to see what you’re giving the future Mrs. Gojo.”

Pausing mid-adjustment, that title hangs in the air.

Mrs. Gojo.

How strange. Satoru’s called you his wife already… but why does it sound kinda weird hearing it out loud from someone else. Especially someone as pure as Yuji. Huh… maybe it’s easier to call you that when your legs are spread open for him.

Humming low in his throat, he smooths his sleeve with more tension than before.

“Mm.”

But Yuji brightens anyway, as if the mood hasn’t shifted.

“Don’t worry, Gojo-sensei!” he declares, lifting the ribbon like he’s already halfway redeemed. “I can fix it!”

Satoru lifts a brow. “Oh, I’m sure you can.”

Megumi doesn’t even look up. “No, he can’t.”

And just like that, the pink haired boy’s hunched over the low table again, brows drawn in tight concentration, the tip of his tongue poking from the corner of his mouth as Yuji—bless his heart—tries his best; wrestling that ceremonial silk into submission.

Megumi sighs. “It’s a box, Itadori. Not a curse.”

“Yeah, yeah…” Yuji grumbles. “Tch.” He gives the ribbon a final tug, and the knot bunches in on itself like it’s mocking him. A frustrated exhale pulls through his nose. “Kay, but… like, why is this harder than cursed energy manipulation?”

Strolling over, an amused expression pulls from Satoru’s face as he ties his sash with one hand carelessly. Then, peering over Yuji’s shoulder, his gaze drops to the disaster unfolding under the young boy’s hands.

“Eh?” he hums, cocking his head. “You’ve come a long way with your cursed energy control. But clearly, we skipped basic knot tying, Yuji.”

“Okay, but Sensei, this ribbon is cursed,” Yuji deadpans. “It’s mocking me. I swear. I just—ughhh!” He flops back onto the tatami with a groan, arms spread wide like a fallen soldier. “The hell? I’m not even the one getting married, and I’m sweating over this.”

Satoru chuckles, crouching with an easy grace. He plucks the lacquered box from the table with two fingers and spins it once in his palm.

“It’s ‘cause tradition is allergic to convenience,” he drawls, deftly untying the clumsy knot with a flick of his wrist. “It exists purely to make our lives harder.”

“Hey!” Yuji bolts upright, looking betrayed. “I almost had it, Gojo-sensei—!”

“Mhm.” Satoru ruffles his hair in passing, already walking back toward the mirror with the box in hand. “Sure, ya did~”

And then, without even looking, he smooths the ribbon out, looping and tucking it back into a clean, symmetrical knot—annoyingly perfect in a matter of seconds.

Yuji gapes. “How’d you do that so fast?”

A smirk tugs at Satoru’s lips. “Talent,” he sighs simply, setting the box down and reaching for his hakama pants.

Huffing, Yuji groans, flopping back on his elbows. “Y’know, Gojo-sensei—”

“Yuji,” Megumi cuts in, tone clipped. “That’s the fourth time. Watch yourself.”

Mid-gesture, Yuji blinks. “Huh?”

Glancing up at the mirror, Satoru doesn’t say anything—he’s stepping into his pants, folding the kimono in with quiet ease. Megumi just exhales—slow and tired, like he’s said this a dozen times before.

“Don’t forget where we’re going tonight.”

“Uh…” Yuji squints. “What, the party? What about it?”

“Seriously…?” Megumi finally looks up, brow arching with something between irritation and warning. “There’ll be elders. Councilmen. Clanheads,” he mutters, eyes dropping back to his phone. “Just… don’t slip and call him ‘sensei’ in front of them.”

“Oh...” realization hits fast—Yuji’s hand lowering, his grin slipping with it. “Right… sorry… I just…” he rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. “…still don’t get why it has to be a secret though,” he grumbles under his breath.

Across the room, Satoru’s hands go still—fingers curling around the edge of his obi. In the mirror’s reflection, his gaze flicks to Yuji, lingering a second too long. There’s something unreadable in his eyes—like he’s caught in the gravity of a memory he doesn’t want to chase, standing on the edge of a thought he might not survive. But if he says nothing, maybe it will pass.

“I mean… it’s dumb, right?” Yuji tries, voice soft but sincere, gathering his courage. “You’re already doing it. Teaching us. So… why can’t it just be official?”

The question hangs there, light but pointed—too honest to brush off. Too direct to ignore. Just honest.

Young.

Satoru could say it; could say it’s not that simple—that some doors don’t open without closing others behind you. That some names come with chains no one sees. That the one thing they’d make him do to earn the title of sensei would leave a scar too deep to walk back from.

But what would be the point?

Yuji means well. Of course he does. That’s not the problem.

The issue is the world they live in.

There are rules older than all of them, and games played by ghosts who never left the table. But they’re too young to understand. And they shouldn’t have to. Because at the end of the day, they’re just kids—holding the weight of things they shouldn’t have to carry.

And Satoru—he has no intention of handing them more. He’s good at pretending. He’s been doing it since before either of them were born. So, he doesn’t explain. Doesn’t let the shadows stretch across the room. He only laughs—low, dismissive, breezy in a way that doesn’t quite touch his eyes.

“Oh, Yuji…” he exhales, feigning exasperation. “C’mon now. You really think I wanna sit through boring faculty meetings?” he deflects, reaching for his haori—the final layer of silk—and slides it on like armor. Easy. Fluid. Just another layer to keep the truth out. “I mean… please. Wear a tie? Take attendance? Bleh. I’ve got enough on my plate keeping you dummies alive.”

Stretching his arms overhead, a lazy grunt slips from his throat as if that settles it—shaking off the conversation entirely.

“Becoming Nanami is not on my bingo card.” He drawls, a smirk returning—lazy, lopsided, familiar. “I mean, being tied down’s not my thing, y’know?”

Scoffing from the floor, Yuji shoots him a look.

“Yeah, sure. Says the guy giving her that.”

Satoru blinks, following Yuji’s nod to the lacquered box that cradles your gift.

“Uh… what’s that supposed to mean?”

“No offense, Gojo-sensei, but it’s kinda… romantic. For you.”

Satoru scowls, adjusting the fold of his sleeve.

“It’s a formality, Yuji.”

“Yup, we know,” Megumi mutters, not bothering to look up from his phone. “The custom-cut sapphire gave that away.”

Satoru exhales sharply through his nose, jaw ticking as a simmering heat lingers, creeping up the back of his neck.

“It belonged to my grandmother,” he mutters, adjusting the collar like it suddenly doesn’t sit right on his shoulders.

“Whoa,” Yuji blinks, sitting up straighter. “Heirloom tier?”

“Yeah… anyways,” Clearing his throat, Satoru slips the box into the inner fold of his robe with a bit more force than necessary. “Don’t make it a big deal.”

“You’re literally making it a big deal,” Megumi deadpans.

Something about that makes him snap—hot, brief, and immediate.

“I’m not!”

It comes out sharper than intended. Both boys blink, freezing—and Satoru’s hand tightens briefly around the edge of his haori.

Shit.

He didn’t mean to snap. Not like that. Not over a box. Not over you. What the fuck is wrong with him? Why is he suddenly so on edge? Is it ‘cause he didn’t get his release? Couldn’t finish what he started in the shower?

Yeah… must be. Get your shit together Satoru. This is what happens when he lets himself start thinking again. Lets himself linger too long on what tonight means.

Exhaling through his nose, he forces it all back down. Smooths his expression. Rebuilds the wall. Plays the part.

“Right then… anyways” he scoffs, reaching up to adjust his sleeves again, brushing away at nothing. “You’re the ones turning sapphires and heirlooms into some fairy tale proposal.”

The smirk that pulls at his lips is forced—thin, crooked, but convincing enough. He turns away from the mirror, shoulders squared like he’s fine. Like everything’s fine.

“It’s just a box,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “Just a fucking formality.”

There’s a brief, weighty silence—the tension in the air saying enough. The kind of quiet where everything feels a little too loud.

Fucking hell Satoru…

These kids? They’re not supposed to see him come apart. He has to get it together. So, he exhales—loud and exaggerated this time—exploding into motion.

“Alright, alright,” he declares loudly, a sudden brightness that feels almost theatrical. “Enough dramatics. I’m polished. I’m present. I’m fucking dazzling. Yeah?”

He spins on his heel like a performer hitting the cue. A shift so abrupt it somehow works.

Because yeah—the ensemble’s perfect. Layers of rich indigo, the silver-threaded cuffs gleaming faintly under the warm overhead light. The cut is sharp, the fit immaculate. The Gojo crest near the collar flashes like a brand. The fabric whispers against his skin—luxury draped like armor.

Inherited. Not chosen. But he wears it like it fits.

Behind him, Yuji elbows Megumi with a grin. “Wow… Gojo-sensei cleans up scary fast.”

Megumi sighs, dry as ever. “Still late, though.”

And leaning back on his hands, Yuji tilts his head, eyes following the sweep of Satoru’s robes. “Let’s see… I think…” he hums pondering. “Hmm… Gojo-sensei looks like he belongs on money. Or maybe… oh! A museum!!”

Those words are said with a laugh—a spark of awe, but they hit something deeper.

Because… Satoru remembers that line.

Not from Yuji—but from himself. Eighteen years old and ascending to power, tossing the joke to Suguru as they stood side-by-side in this very same room.

His eyes lift to the mirror—pale lashes framing a vivid, electric blue. And for a moment—just a blink—his reflection looks… tired.

Shit… was that the same tired expression Suguru wore that very night? Showing subtle signs of…

No.

No thinking.

The boys are laughing, Megumi rolling his eyes as he mutters to Yuji, “Itadori… you’re feeding his ego.”

And just like that, Satoru’s mask slips back on.

“Oi,” he smirks. “You two done narrating my life?”

And turning towards them in a sweep of silk and silver, the fabric settles around his shoulders like a mantle.

“Besides, Megumi” he drawls, slinging an arm around both boys with exaggerated flair, “m’not late enough to get chastised. That’s the trick, remember?”

Groaning, Megumi shoves him off with a well-placed elbow as Yuji laughs—bright, boyish, easy.

And Satoru?

Satoru walks forward like he isn’t about to hand over the last piece of himself. Like this isn’t the beginning of the end of the only freedom he ever had.

Like this is just another night. And you’re just another girl.

“C’mon, kids,” he hums, stepping out into the hallway. “Let’s go crash a party, yeah?”

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

“Why’s everyone looking at me like that…?” Yuji mutters, tugging at the collar of his formalwear. His steps hitch as they move through the main hall, voices dimming just enough to be noticeable.

Satoru doesn’t need to look to know what he means. He feels it too—eyes following, sticking like burrs, veiled judgment behind brittle smiles.

“Probably ‘cause you weren’t technically on my guest list,” he remarks casually, hands tucked into the wide sleeves of his haori.

Yuji blinks. “Wait, what?!”

Satoru huffs a laugh, soft and unbothered. “You’ve got a mass-murdering curse king riding shotgun in your gut, kid. Hard to ignore,” he hums, half amused. “I’d say it’s definitely a conversation starter.”

Yuji gapes, only for a beat. “Man, seriously?” he grumbles, scratching the back of his neck. “Jeez, they could’ve led with literally anything else…”

But Satoru’s attention is already drifting, sweeping the halls without really turning his head. This place is all muscle memory now. He could walk it blind. He knows every floorboard, every creak.

He’s bled in these corridors—trained, limped, laughed barefoot with split knuckles and scraped knees. He’s thrown punches, broken rules, kissed a girl for the first time just past the east wing when he was still dumb enough to think that means something.

And that’s the thing. He doesn’t hate the Gojo estate. Not when it’s empty. Not when it’s quiet. But tonight, it’s anything but—it doesn’t belong to him right now.

It belongs to them.

Shifting closer, Yuji’s shoulders tense, gaze flickering—not quite shrinking, but unsure. He knows he doesn’t belong, and he’s just now realizing how many eyes are on him.

Satoru glances sidelong at him, catching the flicker of discomfort.

“Hey,” he murmurs, tilting his head just enough to catch Yuji’s eye. A slow, casual smirk curls at his lips. “I wanted you here,” he says simply, like it costs him nothing. “Relax. They can fuck off.”

Yuji blinks at him, uncertain. “You’re not worried?”

“About them?” Satoru scoffs, shaking off the thought entirely. “Please. They’ve been giving me dirty looks since I learned how to walk. You think I give a shit what they think now?”

“Well, for what it’s worth,” Megumi’s voice trails from behind. “I think you managed to piss off half the room, and we just got here.”

Satoru hums, pleased. “Off to a good start, then.”

As they round the corner, the corridor widens—washed in warm lamplight, paper lanterns strung overhead like soft stars. The ceiling arches high, beams lacquered and dark with age, polished to a quiet shine. Satoru remembers tracing them as a kid, flat on his back after getting knocked on his ass. Sparring with Suguru. Laughing through the bruises.

Now, guests linger in quiet clusters, murmurs woven through the hush. Silk hems whisper across tatami. And just ahead, the ceremonial platform waits—elevated like a stage, dressed in folds of indigo and silver. Scrolls line the walls in sharp calligraphy. But it’s just dead men’s words. Legacy bullshit.

At the center, a single katana rests on black lacquer, gleaming under the lights. And there it is: two cushions sitting beneath it.

Right. Two.

Satoru steps up without pause, dropping onto his cushion with a pointed exhale. One knee bends, arm draped over it. His sleeves settle in loose, elegant folds—like he couldn’t be bothered to care, like this platform’s just another bench in Shibuya Station.

A throne he never asked for. So fuck it—if they’re going to put him here, he’ll make sure they choke on the view.

Yuji lingers at the bottom of the step—gaze drifting, distracted. Then, stopping, something catches his attention. Or rather, someone.

“Eh?!” he blurts, face lighting up. “Nanamin~!”

Heads turn at once—a few elders visibly stiffening from the outburst. One exhales sharply, another murmurs beneath their breath.

Across the room, Nanami Kento straightens in his seat, blinking like he’s already exhausted. Shoko, seated lazily beside him, lifts two fingers in a languid wave, unfazed.

“Yo!!” Yuji waves both arms like he’s hailing a taxi, practically glowing. “Na-na-min!! Na-na-min!! Over here!!”

Rolling his eyes, Megumi delivers a quick smack to the back of Yuji’s head.

“Oi. Inside voices, idiot.”

“Ow!” Yuji winces, rubbing the spot. “Rude!”

But Satoru only chuckles, cheek resting against his palm—watching Yuji bound across the floor with all the grace of a golden retriever. He makes his way towards both sorcerers as Megumi follows behind, and the elders start whispering again.

Eh. Let ‘em. He’s stopped caring a long time ago.

But then—something shifts in the room, murmurs bending, redirecting. One by one, heads turn. Not toward Yuji, nor towards him, but towards the entrance—landing on a figure stepping into view, directly beside an elder woman in plum silk.

You.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

Your steps are measured, your breath careful, but your heart won’t cooperate. It stutters, hummingbird-fast beneath the layered weight of your formalwear as you follow your mother into the hall.

But damnit, it’s not the room that makes you nervous.

It’s him.

His eyes lift, glacier-blue and impossibly clear. And for a moment, that sharp, unreadable stare softens, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth—subtle, slow. Like he knows something you don’t. And maybe he does.

Because the moment your eyes meet his, heat blooms beneath your skin. It coils up your spine, floods your chest, burns in your cheeks. Like dry kindling catching flame. Like a dirty secret you can’t ignore.

Your body—your treacherous, filthy body—remembers everything. Too fucking well. God. Who even are you? Thinking such things. Here?? Now?!

He’s just sitting there, and your mind is dragging you back to the villa—laying under him in your unraveled kimono, pretty blue eyes watching you, lips whispering filth. He read your body like a fucking scripture. And worse—

Your dream. That fucking wet dream.

A rustle of silk breaks your spiral, and suddenly—

Thwack!

Jolting forward, you gasp as your mother’s hand clamps firmly between your shoulder blades, pushing you down into a deep bow before the platform.

“What are you doing?” she hisses, voice tight and low. “Do not stand there gawking like a child.”

Flushed with embarrassment, you dip lower—automatically, like a switch had been flipped. Hands fold neatly over your lap, forehead hovering just above the tatami. You’re molten with shame and still shamefully warm in other places.

Wonderful.

First the dream, now this. What’s next—toppling into the ceremonial blade? A full descent into disgrace? Honestly, being swallowed by the floor wouldn’t be the worst thing.

Get it together.

Be poised. Be graceful. Good.

Inhaling, you peek up through the veil of your lashes, and of course—he’s watching. A lazy smirk tugging at his mouth, quiet and sure.

“Eyes up, sweetheart,” he drawls, patting the cushion beside him. “C’mon. Sit.”

Goddamn him.

Your mother’s glare is burning into the side of your skull, and so, you move. Carefully. Rising from your bow, stepping onto the platform with quiet precision. As you watch your mother drift back towards the elders, her presence fades like incense—but the heat in your chest doesn’t. Especially not when Satoru leans in, close enough to stir the fine hairs at your nape.

“Made quite the entrance,” he murmurs.

You exhale through your nose. “That obvious, huh?”

“Eh, it’s fine,” he shrugs, voice dipping low, curling at the edges. “Afterall… a lady of your caliber deserves the best seat in the house, right?”

Your gaze lifts before you can stop it, drawn to his like a thread pulled taut. Those shimmering blue eyes meet yours—bright, unreadable—a crooked grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Déjà vu.

Those words pull up memories like water from a well: his ascension, his 18th birthday—the night you first met, pulling you up from disgrace without blinking. You hadn’t known what to make of him then. You still don’t. But this time, the seat beside him isn’t offered as a favor. It’s yours. And that is what terrifies you most.

“I… shouldn’t have hesitated,” you whisper. “I can’t believe I forgot to bow…”

He clicks his tongue, mockingly gentle. “You really think I give a shit whether you bowed or not?”

You blink, startled.

“All this performance,” he adds, gesturing vaguely, “makes me want to claw my own fuckin’ eyes out.”

A small breath huffs from your nose—reluctant amusement warming you from the inside out. Because he doesn’t sound irritated. He sounds bored. Comfortable, even. Like none of this means anything at all. And for a moment, that loosens something in you. Your shoulders fall just slightly. Your heartbeat slows.

“If you lost those eyes,” you whisper, lips twitching, “they’d probably call it a national emergency…”

He scoffs. “Please. They’d just stuff me in a box and mourn the waste. Whispering prayers to what could’ve been.”

You giggle before you can stop yourself—an actual giggle, bubbling in your throat. It doesn’t belong in a room so silent and serious, and Satoru’s grin spreads instantly, smug with satisfaction.

Though just as warmth starts to bloom in your chest, your gaze strays.

Across the room, your mother sits poised, chin lifted, hands resting just so atop her knees. Her eyes are on you. Steady. Judgmental. And like that, your smile dims. Your hands return to your lap, fingers folding neatly—that old pressure settling heavy in your lungs again.

“…still,” you murmur, “I should’ve bowed. I’m to be your wife. I should carry myself with… grace.”

Satoru hums. “Grace, huh?” When you glance at him, his eyes are already on you. The blue of them softer now. Curious. “You don’t need to try for that, sweetheart. You’ve already got it. Beauty. Poise. The kind of elegance they spend their whole fucking lives faking.”

Blinking, you’re startled. Not just by the compliment but the way he says it. Like he means it. But just as a heat prickles up the base of your neck, he’s shifting, leaning in closer.

“But…” he whispers, voice dipping into something dark and amused, “if I’m being honest… you looked real fuckin’ pretty down there on your knees. M’sure I can think of a much better reason to put you there.”

You choke on air—something between a gasp and a whimper as your legs push together. He smirks immediately, and you’re blinking, glancing toward the elders, toward your mother.

They’re watching.

“I… um. I—” you start, but nothing coherent follows. Satoru’s voice is curling around you like smoke. “You’re blushing, sweetheart.” Then, glancing at your mother again, you see her shift. Watching. Always watching. “I’m… not,” you whisper, eyes fixing forward.

“Mmm.” His voice dips, smile sharpening. “You are.”

Drawing in a breath, you try to steady the riot in your chest—trying to focus on the hum of mingling conversation, the scent of incense. Literally, anything but the man beside you.

“…it’s just… hot,” you mumble. And his chuckle is low and dangerous. You feel it. Not just in your ears, but under your skin. “Aw… don’t be shy,” he purrs, lips grazing your ear now. “You were a lot louder at the villa, baby.”

Your head jerks slightly. “S-Satoru—” you hiss, mortified.

But he’s already looking away, perfectly unbothered, grinning smugly. His eyes are half-lidded, watching guests mingle and bow in front of you, and his hand rests across one knee, fingers idly toying with the edge of his sleeve. Relaxed, elegant—like he has all the time in the world.

Though his voice is wicked.

“Those pretty little gasps,” he says, low enough that only you can hear, “moaning my name like a good girl…” Your skin burns. “…all wet for me, yeah? So needy. So fuckin’ sweet.”

Your stomach flips. Your vision swims. The crowd moves like a dream around you—elders offering bows, dignitaries gliding in. And your mother—Still. Fucking. Watching.

Do they know?

Leaning in again, his breath tickles your ear.

“Though… next time,” he whispers, “I want that pretty little cunt in my mouth. Want you drippin’ for me. Want you shaking when you cum.”

You snap. “J-Just… shut up!” and the words are out before you even hear them leave you, making your blood run cold.

Because you said it. You told him—Satoru fucking Gojo—to shut up. The strongest sorcerer alive. The head of your clan. The man your entire life now orbitally depends on. You’ve never dared speak like that to anyone. Not your instructors. Not your elders. Certainly not to someone like him.

Eyes wide, panic swells in your chest.

“I mean—” you scramble, desperate to rewind. “I didn’t—um—I wasn’t—” But he’s fully looking at you now, already grinning. Slowly. Like a cat catching a bird mid-flutter. “Whoa,” he drawls, sounding delighted. “Did you just tell me to shut up?”

Yup. You want the floor to swallow you whole. No—burn you alive first, then bury the ashes beneath the floorboards. You want to disappear completely. Maybe reincarnate as a koi in the garden pond. Something small. Quiet. Unseen. Unhumiliated.

“I-I didn’t mean it like—” but he’s leaning in before you can finish, knuckle brushing your cheek in a touch far too soft for how much heat it sparks beneath your skin. “Mmm…” His eyes flick to your mouth—brief, but enough. “And here I thought you were the perfect little girl. The perfect little wife,” he muses, slow and silken. “Maybe I ought to punish you for that. Hm?”

Your breath stalls.

Because he says it like it’s a joke—but it lands like it’s half a threat, half a promise, and somehow, entirely an invitation. And the worst part? Your mind skips ahead before you can stop it, imagining exactly what kind of punishment he means.

No. Nope. Not today. Not when your thoughts are betraying you so loudly, you’re half-convinced he can hear them. You’re in formalwear. Surrounded by elders. With your mother somewhere in the crowd, probably chanting clan law in her head like a fucking Buddhist mantra.

“Ahem,” a throat clears—sharp, judgmental. “Gojo-sama,” an elder approaches.

Oh god. No. Someone heard. Everyone probably heard. You’re going to die here. Combust in real time. As panic swirls in your eyes, Satoru deflates, huffing an exaggerated sigh, eyes rolling as a stiff man draped in a stone gray kimono towers over you.

“Mm?” he hums, reclining back slightly. “What is it now?”

“There are those present,” the elder continues, tone brittle, “who feel certain guests might cast… an unfortunate shadow over the ceremony.”

You blink, confused, glancing toward the back of the hall where the elder’s gaze lands on a young boy with pink hair. So… it’s not about you.?

“And?”

Satoru’s expression is eerily cold, and the elder’s mouth pulls into a thin line. “He’s Sukuna’s vessel. A weapon. The boy’s presence is dangerous—insulting, even. You’ve seated him in a place of honor and—”

“That vessel,” Satoru cuts, “has a name. And I invited him.”

“With respect—”

“Oh, don’t bother.” He scoffs, rising to his feet with slow, liquid grace. “You people keep saying that like you mean it.”

Before you can move or think or brace yourself, his fingers are curling around your wrist—pulling you smoothly to your feet beside him.

“Come on,” he mutters under his breath, already guiding you away from the dais, towards the estate’s garden. “We’re done here.”

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

Stepping into the garden feels like slipping into a dream—your sandals clicking lightly along the stone path as Satoru pulls you through lantern-lit trees and hedges glazed with moonlight. Somewhere nearby, a wind chime stirs in the breeze, delicate as breath.

The world feels hushed. As you approach the pond glimmering ahead, koi ripple through the water in lazy spirals, their pale scales flashing like ghost light beneath the surface.

Satoru is dragging you insistently, fingers wrapped around your wrist, loose but unwavering. And though you barely know this man, it’s obvious there’s something simmering beneath that silence. Something sharp.

“Um… Satoru…?” you murmur, uncertain.

“Mm?”

“Are you… okay?”

“Yup,” he trudges forward, eyes ahead. “M’fine.”

“Oh… alright.”

But he doesn’t look fine. He looks like he’s trying not to snap. Not angry exactly—just… shut down. Like he’s closed a door inside himself, and you’re standing on the wrong side of it. Still, he doesn’t let go. Trailing behind—cherry blossom petals drift through the air like fallen wishes as he leads you to a wooden bench—nestled beside the pond’s edge, encompassed by flowering branches.

“Right then…” he sighs, dropping onto the bench. “Where were we?” And you stumble as he’s pulling you directly into his lap, catching yourself on his shoulders. “S-Satoru—!” he grins, “Shhh…”

And that’s the only warning you get. Because then he’s kissing you.

It’s not gentle. It’s not sweet. It’s all heat and breath and teeth, like something’s been splintering in his chest all night, and he’s trying to silence the whole fucking world with the shape of your mouth.

“Mnh…” you gasp, eyes fluttering shut as his hand slides low, gripping your ass, yanking you flush to his thigh. “’t-toru…” you whine as he forces you down onto the hard muscle of his leg, right against your wet, aching cunt.

“Fuck,” he groans, panting between each messy kiss. “There’s my little slut…” he palms your ass, squeezes your tit. “Mnh… tellin’ me to shut up in front of all those fuckin’ people…”

As his lips trail down your jaw, you whimper—shuddering. Your body begins. to move on its own.

“O-oh… fuck,” you whisper a moan, hips stuttering, rutting softly, shamefully against him. That delicious friction is too much and not enough, and you feel Satoru’s lips curl against your neck, grinning. “S’wrong, baby?” he croons, rocking your hips harder, the bench creaking beneath you. “Can’t help yourself?”

And God, you can’t. You don’t even recognize your own body. Everything is heat. Everything is him. He palms your ass with both hands now, guiding your hips with filthy easy, and you can feel it—your slick spreading, warm and messy, soaking through your delicate silk with every shameless roll of your hips.

“God, look at you…” he hisses, leaning back to watch, blue eyes hooded, glowing in the moonlight, “—so fuckin’ wet. So needy. This pussy’s soakin’ through your pretty little kimono.”

You choke on a moan, burying your face in his shoulder. Like it might muffle the shame—the filthy sounds of your own body. But nothing hides the mess between your legs. He’s right. And the worst part? You don’t want to stop.

“F-Fuck… m’sorry…” you whine, cunt clenching around nothing, dripping down your thighs. “Sorry?” he huffs a breathless laugh. “Shit… you’re not sorry. S’okay baby,” he purrs, rocking you again. “I know you wanted this. Little pussy missed me, hm?”

Fingers twisting into his hair, you nod—tugging, anchoring yourself. Honestly, you’re not sure if it’s shame or truth that’s guiding you anymore. “I want—” your voice cracks, words tangling, grinding down again, the sensation almost too much. “I want… I—fuck—”

“Hm?” he pants, nosing along your jaw, cocky and breathless. “Speak up, sweetheart. What do you want?”

The garden is too quiet. The moonlight too soft. The breeze shifts through the trees, rustling branches above you, and the soft ring of the wind chime cuts like a bell through fog. It all feels wrong for what’s spilling out of you—for how filthy you feel, how good you feel.

“Want you…” you whine, face burning, lashes fluttering shut. “Dreamt about you fucking me… woke up so wet.”

You don’t even know how you’re still speaking, but the words are tumbling out of your mouth while your hips move. As your pour out your filthy truth, a shameful slick drips from your cunt down the sharp line of his leg. You feel Satoru tense underneath you.

“Fuuuck,” he groans, hands gripping your hips. “Bad fuckin’ girl,” and you squeal as he’s suddenly lifting you like you’re nothing, repositioning, pulling you down onto the thick, swollen ridge of his cock, tenting beneath his robes. “There,” he mutters, breath ragged, rolling you against it, “That what you wanted?”

You nod, moaning again, hips already moving, cunt grinding slowly over the shape of him. Even through the silk, you can feel everything. The size. The heat. The pulse. He’s panting against your lips, vibrant blue eyes lidded, soft white hair slipping through your fingers as you eagerly roll needy circles over his length.

“I’ve been fuckin’ hard all day,” he growls, dick leaking at the tip, twitching, wetting the fabric right against your cunt. “Had to fuck my fist this mornin’, thinkin’ about pounding your sweet little pussy…”

His mouth is on yours again—teeth dragging over your lower lip, tongue swallowing your whimper as you continue to rock insistently. The kiss is filthy. Frantic. He spreads your thighs wider, grinding you down. Harder, deeper—cock throbbing beneath you, soaked with your slick, straining for friction. You’re right there; body flushed, rhythm building. But then—

Crunch

Footsteps on the gravel. The sound doesn’t register until the breeze stops. Until the wind chime stills. Until every nerve in your body suddenly goes entirely fucking cold.

“Oi!” You freeze. Everything freezes. “There you are. The elders are wondering where you—”

As your head slowly turns, you catch sight of a young boy with black hair, backlit by the faint lantern glow. Your eyes meet, and he blinks—seeing you, perched on Satoru’s lap, kimono askew, hitched around your waist, slick dripping down your thighs while his cock is under you. Somewhere in the distance, a koi splashes lazily in the pond, completely unbothered by your descent into personal hell.

“Oh…” His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. “Oh fuck.”

You feel your face turn fever-hot, and burying yourself forward, a strangled whimper escapes you, muffled in Satoru’s neck. Yup. You want to disappear. But Satoru just exhales, exhausted, head falling back against the bench.

“Megumi,” he says flatly. “…what the actual fuck.”

“W-What?” Megumi clears his throat, face visibly blanking. “I—” He blinks hard. Swallows. Then abruptly turns on his heel. “I didn’t see anything!” his voice cracks, already retreating. “Nope. Nothing. Not a thing.”

“Please, kill me…” you whimper again, but Satoru huffs. “Tch. I’m gonna kill him,” he grumbles, slumping back against the bench. His hand drags down his face. “Swear to fuckin’ god… this kid’s got a sixth sense for cockblocking.”

“Um… huh?” you peek up, still dazed.

But Megumi’s voice is already fading down the path. “For the record, Nanami sent me!” he shouts. “If you’re gonna kill someone, start with him!” And just like that, he’s gone.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

“Yo!! There you are!” Yuji’s voice rings out the second you and Satoru round the bend, loud and bright as he throws both hands in the air. “We were about to send a search party!”

You follow after Satoru, half a step behind, eyes flicking to him in quiet search. Maybe for a smile. A glance. Some thread of reassurance to hold onto. But he gives you nothing—just keeps walking, calm and composed, like you’re not unraveling quietly beside him.

“Mmm… Megumi beat you to it,” he hums, nodding toward the boy in question as you approach the group. You feel it before you even look—Megumi goes stiff like he’s just been yanked into a spotlight, his shoulders pulling tight.

“Huh?” Yuji turns, blinking at him. “You didn’t mention finding them.”

“I didn’t find anything,” Megumi mutters, clipped and quick—the tips of his ears blooming red. But Satoru just clicks his tongue and grins.

“Didn’t find anything, huh? Funny. Your face said otherwise.”

Scoffing, Megumi turns away sharply, already done with this conversation, while Yuji blinks between them, still trying to piece it together.

“Wait—what?”

“Ahhh… I see. That why you looked like you saw a ghost, Fushiguro?” a new voice chimes in as Shoko exhales a slow stream of smoke, leaning against the wall, cigarette in hand. “Makes sense now. You were white as a sheet,” she hums, ash tapping into a nearby tray.

“Can we not,” Megumi grumbles, glaring at a spot on the wall like he can will it to swallow him whole.

You get it. God, do you get it.

Megumi hasn’t looked at you once. Won’t even acknowledge you—and maybe that should make things easier. Maybe it’s a kindness. But still… something inside you prickles. Like if someone were painting this moment, you wouldn’t be in the frame. Just a blur in the background—a misplaced brushstroke someone meant to wipe away. Because the group is moving in sync around you—falling into a rhythm; a rhythm without you.

“Awww, that bad?” Satoru hums, folding his arms loosely over his chest. “Reminds me of Sapporo.”

Megumi stiffens. “Don’t.” But Satoru’s already grinning, eyes lit with mischief.

“Oh, come on,” he drawls. “That curse with the split-face, in the middle of a snowstorm, remember? You tried to give it directions—”

“Oh my god,” Megumi groans, dragging a hand down his face. “I hate you sometimes.”

Yuji perks up like he’s just been handed popcorn. “Wait, what? What happened in Sapporo?”

“It was beautiful,” Satoru deadpans, mock-serious. “Megumi thought the curse was just some lost old man. Actually bowed to it.”

Megumi snaps. “I was trying to be polite.”

“Ahhh… I remember now,” Shoko adds with a drag of her cigarette. “You were pale for a week.”

Yuji’s eyes widen. “Seriously?!”

“You should’ve seen his face when it hissed at him,” Satoru snickers. “I thought he was gonna pass out on the spot.”

They’re all laughing now, but you’re still sitting on the outside. Because they know each other—really know each other. There’s a shared language here; shorthand glances and stories etched into muscle memory. But you? You can’t fake your way into that.

Without thinking, you drift a little closer, just enough to feel the illusion of proximity. Maybe you’re hoping for Satoru to ground you. Introduce you. Anything. A gesture. A glance. A sign that you’re not entirely invisible to him.

But he doesn’t shift. Doesn’t glance your way. Doesn’t reach for you.

“If this comedy set is over,” Nanami sighs dryly, adjusting the sleeves of his kimono, “I’d like to suggest we return to the schedule.”

“Aww, don’t be like that, Nanamin.” Satoru tips back on his heels, grin curling. “You’re startin’ to sound like one of the elders. You sure you’re not secretly fifty?”

“At least I act my age,” Nanami deadpans.

Satoru scoffs, teeth flashing. “Can’t all be born with a stick up our ass, huh?” Then he turns toward Shoko, mock concern softening his voice. “Might need to get a medic to check that. You still licensed?”

She exhales, bored. “Only if it’s for your ego.”

They laugh again. You try to smile, to stay present, but it’s like watching the world through a window you’re not allowed to open. Their rhythm is effortless. You don’t even know the tempo.

Should you say something? Laugh along with them? Introduce yourself? Satoru hasn’t even spared you a glance. And though you’ve been trained your whole life to show up perfect, polished, gracious—there’s a difference between knowing how to perform and knowing where you belong.

And right now, you don’t belong.

Until Shoko’s eyes cut to you. Then back to Satoru.

“Uh… you gonna introduce us?” she murmurs, smoke curling from her mouth. “Or should we keep pretending we didn’t all clock the lipstick on your neck?”

The words hit like a slap—snapping you out of your haze before you even realize it. Because suddenly, you’re not invisible.

All eyes shift.

You’re not sure if you want to laugh or crawl under the nearest tatami mat. Shifting subtly, you straighten your kimono, tugging at the hem like it can somehow undo the fact that Satoru Gojo just made you grind your dripping cunt on his lap under the moonlight.

But Satoru just casually wipes his neck, lazily smearing the lipstick away with the pad of his thumb. “I was getting there…” he hums, rolling his shoulders. “This is…” he pauses, gesturing vaguely in your direction.

You glance up, confused. His grin is hitching, and though he’s finally looking at you again, why does it seem like he’s…

Hesitating?

“Uh…” he blinks, looking away from you and shrugging. “Her.”

Her?

Your stomach sinks. Heat creeps up your neck.

What does that even mean?

The silence stretches a second too long—enough for it to sting.

Nanami raises a brow. “…her?”

“Uhh… yeah?” Satoru clicks his tongue, like that’s clarification enough. “You know.”

More silence.

Finally, he huffs. “Jesus, the one who—”

“His wife!” Yuji cuts in brightly, grinning at you like you’re already one of them.

You blink, caught off guard by this boy now beaming at you—all wide-eyed sincerity, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. There’s something so disarmingly genuine in the way he says it. The tightness in your chest loosens, and the nerves that were building low in your stomach begin to simmer away.

“Well—technically, future wife,” Yuji amends with a sheepish grin, arms folding behind his head like it’s no big deal.

“Right,” Satoru mutters beside you, jaw ticking. “Guess that’s the word we’re using now…”

You shift, startled by the way it’s said. Glancing at him, he doesn’t meet your eye, but before you can sit with the sting of it, Yuji is already pulling your attention back to him. “

“I’m Itadori Yuji, by the way!” he beams, all sunshine. “It’s super nice to meet you.”

“It’s nice to meet you, too.” You bow, instinctive and polite, still trying to catch up with the feeling that’s been curling in your gut—but Yuji isn’t finished. “You’re really pretty, by the way!”

Blinking, a surprised smile tugs at your lips. This boy says it so plainly, so innocently, it catches you off guard.

“Oh—um… thank you?”

“Sure thing!” he nods, then adds seriously, “I mean—not that I thought you’d be ugly or anything, just—"

“Okaaaay…” Megumi interjects, already regretting the entire direction of the conversation. “We get it, Itadori.”

You glance Megumi’s way, half-expecting him to look annoyed, or maybe still mortified from earlier—but his arms are crossed and his expression is just… guarded, not unfriendly. Just Megumi.

“Name’s Fushiguro,” he says, giving a short nod. “Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, too.” The words come easier now. There’s a pause, a breath of quiet that—for once—doesn’t feel strained. Yuji tips his head, eyes curious. “Y’know… you’ve got a calm, almost graceful presence. It’s kinda… grounding?”

“Oh?” you tilt your head. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“Definitely good,” he replies without hesitation. “You seem like the type who’ll balance Gojo out.”

You smile, and for a moment, you don’t feel like a stranger. You feel… included. Until Satoru cuts in.

“Kay. Cool,” he says, coldly. “Glad everyone’s caught up. We done?”

It’s tossed out like a joke—but it doesn’t land like one. It lands with the dull thud of something meant to bruise. Glancing over, you see he’s already looking away, as if the moment wasn’t meant to include you at all. As if your presence is just something to get past.

Shoko raises an eyebrow, taking a long drag from her cigarette. “Ignore him,” she exhales. “I’m Shoko. I do most of the patchwork when Satoru gets his dumb ass injured.”

He rolls his eyes. “Once. That happened one time.”

“Twice,” Nanami interjects mildly. “And you nearly bled out the second time.”

Satoru scoffs. “I healed myself that time.” But Nanami doesn’t dignify that with an answer. Instead, he turns to you, dipping his head with calm precision.

“Kento Nanami. A pleasure.” You bow, a bit deeper this time. “Likewise. It’s an honor to meet you.”

Nanami straightens, and for a second, you think that’s all. But then his gaze flicks briefly to Satoru, who’s practically glaring, staring ahead—annoyed. Then Nanami’s eyes drag back to you.

“He’s a difficult man,” he states, matter-of-factly.

“Dude,” Satoru mutters. “I’m standing right here.”

“That you are.”

“Y’know I can hear you, yeah?”

“Yup. You were meant to.”

Glancing between them, you’re not quite sure if they’re joking or actually irritated with each other. It’s hard to tell. Because the mood has shifted again—warmer around the others, colder beside Satoru. There’s something else behind his smile now. Not amusement. Not ease. Something… distant.

“So…” Shoko drawls, attention shifting to you as she exhales another lazy plume of smoke. “You from one of the Kyoto clans?”

“Yes,” you nod, and despite everything, there’s a quiet thread of pride in your voice. “My family served in the western region for generations, mostly specializing in—”

“Excuse me.”

You blink—body stiffening instantly. The interruption is soft, but cutting. It silences you mid-sentence. And at the edge of the group, your mother steps into view. Elegant as ever in her perfectly pressed kimono. Not a single strand of hair out of place.

“Apologies, Gojo-sama,” she murmurs with a delicate bow. “I hope I’m not… interrupting.”

“Mm?” Satoru glances at her, then flicks his fingers lazily through the air. “S’fine,” he hums, as if it doesn’t matter either way. His gaze doesn’t follow you. Not once. And as your mother turns to you next, your stomach immediately drops.

“May I have a word?”

It’s not really a question.

You nod, feet already moving—trailing after her with the kind of obedience that was taught to you before you were ever allowed to speak your own name. The warmth you’d been tentatively gathering seems to drain from your chest instantly, bleeding out of you like ink in water. Because as the circle closes behind you, following her away—it’s like… you were never really part of it to begin with.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

“I shouldn’t have to remind you,” your mother begins, low, clipped, “that your appearance reflects not just on yourself—but on your family. On me.”

Behind her shoulder, the group still lingers in a loose semi-circle—smiling, relaxed, unreachable. A world you crave. A world where they belong. Satoru’s laughing at something Shoko says—head tipped back, fingers raking through his hair like the last twenty minutes never happened.

“They’re all watching,” she continues, scanning the room for witnesses, not even sparing you a glance. “And this is how you present yourself?”

“I…” you start, lips parting—but the words never quite come.

Because it did happen. Right? You’re so confused. You remember every second; his hands on your hips, his mouth on your skin, dragging you against him like he wanted you, needed you. And yet, here he is—making you feel like none of that meant anything. Like the second you stepped into his real world, the spell broke.

“Look at you,” your mother cuts back, finally turning that sharp, assessing gaze onto you. “Your lipstick is smudged. Your collar’s uneven. Your obi…” she clicks her tongue. “What were you doing?”

Your gaze snaps back at that question, eyes widening.

What were you doing?

You open your mouth to respond but, what the fuck are you supposed to say? That he touched you? That you let him? That you wanted it to mean something?

“Do you have any idea how many girls would kill to be in your place?” her eyes are sharp but her voice is maddeningly calm. “And you walk in here looking like you’ve just rolled out of someone’s bed. Like you’re begging to be replaced.”

Replaced.

The word lands like a slap. You blink, but the burn behind your eyes rises too quickly, no matter how tightly you try to hold it back. Your mother’s lectures are nothing new, but this one? It pulls at something that’s already been festering in your chest since after you left the garden with Satoru. No. Maybe even before. Perhaps since the villa.

Does he truly want you?

The moments you’ve shared, has he moved past them? Was it just heat and impulse? Maybe you were never anything more than a passing indulgence.

Just over your mother’s shoulder, you catch a last glimpse of his white hair before a wave of guests shuffle between you, blocking your view completely. You lose sight of him. And with it, any illusion of being tethered.

“I asked you a question.”

Your mother’s voice slices through your spiral like a blade. Blinking hard, you will the tears to not fall.

“W-What?”

She sighs. “Are you even listening?”

“I-I am,” you rush out, voice thinner than you want it to be. “I just… I’m sorry mother. I didn’t realize my appearance was that bad.”

Her gaze flattens, disappointed. “Didn’t realize,” she echoes, like the words offend her. “That’s not good enough.”

You try to hold her stare, but everything in you feels like it’s caving inward. You want to disappear. You want her to stop. You want to cry, but damnit, you know better.

“This world won’t make room for uncertainty,” she continues. “Not for someone standing beside him. If you look fragile, they’ll use it. If you look lost, they’ll pick you apart. You give them even an inch of doubt—” she narrows her eyes, “they’ll rip you to pieces.”

You swallow hard, gaze flicking to the crowd again, searching for his face. But he’s gone. Though you can’t get the sound of his laughter out of your head—a joy that you didn’t bring him.

“They are watching,” your mother murmurs, stepping in closer, voice lowering. “They’re whispering. Wondering what kind of girl the Gojo clan allowed through their gates.”

You don’t realize you’ve dropped your eyes until her hand lifts your chin—gentle, but firm. The way she’s always done. Like control dressed up as care.

“You want their respect?” her eyes narrow. “Then look like someone worth respecting. The Gojo name already eclipses your own. Don’t give them more reason to ask why you’re wearing it at all. The very least you can do is look like you belong.”

Belong.

You don’t even know what that means anymore.

Not when the people behind her were laughing like you’re not there. Not when Satoru won’t look at you. Not when your mother’s voice makes your chest feel hollow. Not when every inch of you feels like it’s wearing something borrowed.

“Go. Clean yourself up.”

Barely trusting your voice, you nod, shifting toward the estate’s restroom.

“Fix your collar,” she adds, turning slightly. “And for heaven’s sake, do something about your face.”

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

‘Hold your stance, my little crane. Even when you feel small. Especially then.’

Hearing your father’s voice echo in your mind, the burn behind your eyes sharpens. Don’t cry. Damnit. Don’t cry.

You can’t. Not here.

You just need a second. A moment alone. To gather yourself—pull all the unraveling parts back into something whole. Something worthy. The shape of a girl who belongs.

So, you’ll do just that. You’ll fix your collar. Reapply your lipstick. Walk back with your chin high, like none of it touched you. Like you deserve to stand beside Gojo Satoru and not shrink in his shadow.

Slipping down the hallway, your steps brisk. The paper screens cast soft shadows against the wooden floors, muffling the noise from the party behind you. As you reach the bathroom’s sliding door, it’s barely cracked, and without thinking to knock, you immediately slide it open and enter.

But your eyes blink as you see two figures, seated at the lacquered bench in the bathing room. At first, all you see is silk. Fabric gathered over pale skin. A shoulder bare where it shouldn’t be. The gentle creak of a bench as someone shifts. A low, languid sigh.

But then—white hair.

Satoru.

A girl is straddling him, her kimono hiked high along her thighs, her chest pressed against his. One hand in his hair. The other curled loosely around his shoulder.

“Mnh… missed you…” she’s murmuring between kisses. “You always make me wait too long…” and you hear his satisfied hum against her lips before breaking it. His hand slides slowly up the back of her thigh, fingers splayed. “You like it when I make you wait,” he breathes, lips grazing hers—teasing, not quite touching.

Giggling, her mouth chases his again. “I like it more when you follow through,” she whispers, hips shifting as she rolls into his lap in a slow, practiced grind. “C’mon, Gojo…” she whines, “don’t you ever miss me?”

He huffs—half-laugh, half-sigh—eyes still closed. “Miss your timing…” he mutters, the curve of a smirk playing at his lips. “You always know when to crawl into my lap.”

“Mmh, asshole,” she breathes, catching his mouth again—sloppier this time. Hungrier. “You never called me back…” she pouts, tugging his hair between kisses. “Thought maybe you forgot about me…”

“Been busy,” he murmurs, muffled between kisses, hands tightening along her waist. “Let’s make this quick, yeah?”

You don’t move. Don’t breathe. The air in your lungs lock up.

Because for a second, you think you must be mistaken. That this can’t be real. That your eyes are lying. That this is some sick trick of the lighting, the stress, the way your stomach’s been twisted into knots since you left the garden.

But no. It’s him. It’s her. It’s his hand curling over her thigh the same way it held your waist not even an hour ago. Satoru’s mouth finds hers with slow, practiced rhythm, and when he exhales against her skin, you feel it like a slap.

Not noticing you, she shifts in his lap, kissing down the line of his jaw, whispering something in his ear that makes him huff out a small, amused breath. His eyes open, heavy-lidded at first, then wider—startled.

Because now, he sees you.

Standing there in the doorway like an idiot—like some ghost caught between floors—here, at your fucking engagement ceremony. Still wearing the lipstick he smudged. Still tasting him on your tongue.

He’s blinking at you like he’s unsure you’re real, not moving, not stopping the girl as she continues to kiss the place where your mouth had just been.

“You’re so tense, baby…” she purrs, grinding slowly into him. “Need me to relax you?”

God, you want to run away.

The edge of your heel catches the corner of a decorative vase, perched on a stand beside the door. It wobbles, then—

Crash!

The ceramic splatters against the floor, immediately getting the girls’ attention, slicing through the room like a whip. She startles, glancing over her shoulder, lips pink and flushed, hair falling loose from her pin.

“Oh,” she laughs lightly, brushing a hand down her skirt. “Shit—um, sorry. Did we forget to lock the door?”

You’re not sure who breaks first—your voice, or your heart.

“…I didn’t know anyone was in here.”

It sounds ridiculous the second it leaves you. Like it’s you’re mistake. Like you’re the one intruding—you’re the one who doesn’t belong. Shifting, your eyes glance to the mirror, catching the way your lipstick’s smeared, the way your collars still crooked.

“Was just going to fix this…” you murmur, brushing at your mouth like it matters. Then a bitter laugh slips past your lips before you can stop it, “…didn’t realize it had already been replaced.”

You feel so fucking stupid. So fucking naïve.

Satoru is looking at you like he doesn’t know what to do with the pain he’s caused, but you refuse to look at him. The girl on his lap blinks, putting the pieces together.

“Wait… is she—?” she starts, glancing back at Satoru, confused, a frown tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Shit—um, is this—?”

“Hey. I—” he starts, ignoring her, sitting up straighter—but whatever he means to say dies on his tongue. Because you’re already backing away.

“I…uh… just needed a minute to breathe,” you whisper, more to yourself than anyone else. “Not to walk in and lose everything.”

Gripping the edge of the doorframe, you catch a glimpse of his brows knitting together, but you don’t wait for whatever comes next.

You’re already gone.

Because if you don’t get away now, you’ll fall apart in the middle of the hallway. And if there’s anything your mother taught you—it’s that you don’t let them see you fall.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

You don’t even feel your feet beneath you. Just grass brushing your ankles. The soft hush of wind threading through bamboo. You blink, not even remembering walking here, only remembering that the hallway swallowed you whole and your legs moved on their own, carrying you deeper into silence until it opened into starlight.

The garden.

Of course, it’s the garden—spilling out in front of you like a memory you weren’t ready to return to. You never chose this path, and yet… here you are. The one place you’d felt wanted tonight. The one place that now feels tainted.

The koi pond shimmers under the low lantern light, its surface undisturbed. Serene. Like it doesn’t remember how he kissed you here. Koi are sliding beneath the surface—flashes of copper and cream, rippling the water slightly.

Collapsing to your knees, you drop beside the pond’s edge, and looking down, your own reflection waves through their movements.

A mess.

Red-rimmed eyes. Your hair a disarray. Crooked collar. Lipstick smeared across your cheek like a fucking brand. A girl trying too hard to look like someone worth choosing.

‘You know why koi are special, little crane? Because they swim against the current. They never stop, no matter how long the river runs against them.’

Your father.

You used to love that story. Because while your mother’s discipline was perfection, his was protection. If you held your ground, no one could move you. But here you are. On the ground. Shaking. And though you did everything he said—still, you weren’t enough. Because, how could he abandon your mother? Abandon you? You’ll never be enough. Not for him, not for your mother, not for Satoru.

With trembling hands, you cover your mouth, but the sound pushes out anyway—soft, ugly, raw.

You cry like a child who never measured up. Like a girl who waited for her father to come home. Like a girl who was told to carry legacy on her back and make it look effortless. You cry for the silence you endured. For the weight of being perfect. For the softness he kissed and discarded like it didn’t matter.

For the fact that, deep down,you don’t even know who you are without trying to be what everyone wants.

The sound of footsteps doesn’t register at first. Just the soft press of soles against grass, slow and careful, stepping around you slowly. You don’t lift your head. You can’t. But the hem of her kimono drifts into view—embroidered cranes glinting gold in the lantern light, silk so pristine it seems untouched by the night.

She stops just across from you, and for a long moment, you stare at her feet. At the way her hands smooth the fabric over her thighs before folding neatly in her lap.

“What’s wrong?” your mother asks softly.

It’s such a simple question. And it destroys you. You squeeze your eyes shut, as if that might hold it in—but the tears keep spilling. Quiet, stubborn, relentless.

Though much to your surprise, she doesn’t scold. Doesn’t press her lips thin or huff with disappointment. She just watches. And then, without a word, she’s reaching forward—fixing the edge of your collar with gentle fingers, straightening the fabric, brushing a smudge from your cheek with her thumb. A small breath leaves her.

“…did he hurt you?”

Lips trembling, you nod. Just once. There’s a long pause—her gaze shifting to the pond beside you; watching the koi slide beneath the surface, silent ribbons of color weaving through dark water.

“I see…” she murmurs. “What happened?”

Where do you even begin? And how much should you really tell her?

“I… was just going to fix my lipstick,” the words come out thin and unsteady. You try to laugh, but it buckles halfway, folding into a sob. “God—I was so stupid,” and finally looking up, you blink past the blur of tears. “He looked me in the eye and let her keep kissing him.”

Your mother’s face remains still, unreadable—but her eyes flick once toward the garden gate. A flicker of caution. As if weighing how much time you have before someone else finds you like this. Then, without moving from her place, she reaches up again—adjusting your hair where it’s come undone, tucking strands behind your ear with a care she once gave you as a child.

“My dear… you are not stupid. Now you know,” Her eyes don’t flinch. “He is your husband in name. Not in heart. So, you act accordingly.”

“I… what?”

Blinking, the words barely leave your lips. Because her words don’t make sense—at least… not in the way you want them to. Or maybe they make too much sense. Either way, you’re left speechless.

As your mother’s eyes flick toward the garden’s edge again—faint footsteps pass just beyond the screen, reminding her, and you, that this world is always watching.

“Fate and tradition shape us,” she says quietly. “It isn’t always fair. But it is ours to uphold.”

There’s no sharpness in her tone. No heat. Just a calm, settled truth. And somehow, that makes it worse. It feels like a life sentence said with a lullaby. Like the ending has already been written—and you were the only one foolish enough to think you might rewrite it.

“I—” you try, but your throat catches. You shake your head once, like it might shake the grief loose. “I thought… I…” but you falter.

What is there to say?

That you believed this could be different? That you wouldn’t be tethered to the same quiet resignation you’ve watched around you your entire life. That you weren’t walking into a legacy of endurance, but something else—something that chose you back?

A breath trembles through you.

“I thought… being chosen meant I was wanted.”

Your mother doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t soften. “…I’m sure you did,” she replies. And somehow, that hurts more than if she’d scolded you. “But he is a man. A powerful one. And you are a woman of duty.”

The words carve through you—not for their cruelty, but because they were always waiting. Tucked into every lesson she ever gave you. Spoken or not, this was where it always led. A script she memorized long before you were old enough to understand.

“I don’t know what kind of life you imagined this would be,” she murmurs, reaching up, brushing her fingers through your hair, smoothing it gently. “But that man will not carry your dignity for you. If you don’t learn to do it yourself… no one will.”

So… that’s it then?

It’s like she’s repeating something she once told herself. But, living a life like that? Standing tall—though remaining complacent? Silent? What kind of life is that to live? You’ve never once spoken against her. Never even thought to. But now—

“Mother… I…” the words break before they’re even formed. “…I don’t know if I can do this.”

Her brow tightens.

“You can.”

“No—I…”

“You must…” she hushes, smoothing a wrinkle from your sleeve, as if she’s wrapping your words before they unravel too far, “…there is no future for us without this. Without this arrangement, we remain exiled. Forgotten. Disgraced. You understand that, don’t you?”

Your gaze drops. Because you do. You always have. That truth has lived in your bones since the day your father left. But knowing doesn’t make it easier to swallow.

“Your duty to him isn’t about love,” she continues, eyes sweeping your face. “It is about what is… necessary,” then, hesitating, you catch sight of her eyes, lifting just over your shoulder.

And that’s when you hear it. The grass bending beneath soft footsteps. The quiet hush of a new presence behind you. You tense, glancing over your shoulder, but of course, you already know who's there. And catching that glimpse of white hair through the dark confirms it.

Satoru.

“Hey… the ceremony’s starting,” he says quietly. “They’re waiting.”

It lands somewhere between casual and cautious. No apology. No explanation. Just a line dropped into the stillness like a stone. And when your mother speaks again, her voice is smooth, seamless—like he was always meant to hear it.

“Right then…” she smiles serenely, gripping your hands in a comforting squeeze. “We shouldn’t keep them waiting. Now that everything’s settled, come. You will walk beside him with grace, and you will fulfill your role as his wife—as the mother of his children.”

Blinking at her, you don’t find any words. Because you can’t believe that your own mother is really forcing you to go through with this. That you’re just supposed to pretend the bathroom didn’t just happen—pretend everything is fine? And of course, Satoru isn’t going to say anything of this, is he? Not here. Not now. Maybe not ever.

Stepping closer, Satoru extends his hand to you.

“I suppose… mother knows best, hm?”

The words cut.

Déjà vu.

Except… it feels like betrayal now.

Your eyes sting. Not just from the tears, but from how easily you were made the fool, and with a trembling breath, you lift your sleeve and dab at your cheeks, quick and practiced, erasing the worst of it.

Not because the tears are gone—but because they are no longer allowed to be seen. You refuse to go in there looking like a girl who begged to be loved and was told it wasn’t part of the arrangement.

“Of course,” you murmur—voice steadier, taking his hand, not looking at his expression. “I just need a minute. To fix my face.”

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

“Uh… you hunting something?”

Satoru quietly exhales, amused as you slip around the estate corners like you’re trespassing—even though you aren’t. Even though you’re the fucking bride-to-be. Even though this entire ceremony is built around you and him.

But you look like a mess, and damnit, you’re not going to let anyone know what the fuck happened tonight.

“I need a mirror…” you mutter, tugging open another shoji door. It glides back to reveal the usual: tatami floors, a low lacquered table, a delicate calligraphy scroll inked in stillness. Tranquil. Elegant.

Useless.

“There’s a perfectly good one in the bathroom,” he states flatly behind you.

Right. Of course there is. Like fucking hell you’re going back in that room.

Ignoring him, you keep moving, turning sharply down the next corridor. His footsteps follow—steady, unhurried; the soft whisper of his kimono a shadow just behind yours.

“…do you even know where you’re going?” he asks as you peer into another room. “Nope…” you exhale, letting the door fall shut with a quiet snap.

But you don’t stop. You can’t. Maybe because, if you keep going—room to room, door to door—this frantic motion will somehow piece your composure back together. That’s the only logic fueling you now. Though unfortunately, the next room is no better. Incense. Silk cushions. A painted folding screen.

No reflection. No relief.

“Huh,” Satoru muses dryly. “How many tea rooms does one clan really need. This has to be… what? Number six?”

“Yup…” you mutter dismissively, brushing past him with clipped breath. “You’d think a place this massive could spare at least one goddamn mirror…”

He only hums, content to trail behind like this is some game. Asshole. He probably knows where one is. He’s probably waiting for you to ask. But you won’t. Maybe out of pride. Maybe out of spite.

Or perhaps because… if you stop—if you look at him—you’ll break for real this time.

So, you press on—because the last thing you need is another pair of eyes watching you fall apart—which is exactly why it drives you fucking mad that you can feel his on you. That heavy blue gaze hasn’t left you since the moment he stepped into that garden. Quiet. Watching. Waiting.

You’re too terrified to look at him. Not after what he did to your heart. What expression is he even wearing?

Pity?

Amusement?

…nothing at all?

“…you’re not gonna find a mirror in a broom cupboard,” he adds as you slide open yet another useless door.

For a second, you truly consider slamming it shut—hard. Right in his fucking face. Just to hear it echo down the hallway and maybe shut him out with it.

“I’m well aware…” you grit, sliding it closed, fingers trembling at the seam. Then, shifting down the corridor, another door comes into view. Your hand lifts, reaching for it—before suddenly, you freeze—body stilling.

Because voices linger… muffled through paper-thin walls.

“…wonder what’s the hold up,” a woman sighs, bored.

“She’s still not out?”

“Nope. They’re stalling.”

“Think she’ll even show her face before the ceremony starts?” another muses.

“Honestly? Who knows. At this point, it’s just embarrassing.”

Blinking, your hand hovers inches from the handle. You feel Satoru still behind you.

“Mm. Not a great look for a bride, is it?”

“Well…” another voice drawls—sweet, venomous, “…her father cracked under pressure too, didn’t he?”

“Cracked?” another snorts. “More like he fucking shattered.”

Laughter.

It shivers through the paper like a breeze, but it hits you like a slap. Because that’s all it takes, isn’t it? To turn your life into a punchline. A passing footnote to joke about.

“Rumor has it that she ran off crying,” one whispers covertly.

“Wouldn’t be surprised,” someone adds breezily—footsteps shifting closer. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone from that family bailed when things got hard.”

A giggle. “Guess falling apart runs in their blood.”

You don’t even realize that you’re shaking until your hand falls away from the door—like your name, your shame, your father, your tears—is just something for them to stir into their tea.

Stumbling, you shuffle back, retreating from the hurt, the anguish. But your back immediately collides with something solid, or rather, someone.

Satoru.

His arms catch you before your mind can catch up—steadying you as your breath stutters out. You blink back more tears as your fingers curl into the sleeve of his kimono, curling into it like a lifeline.

He doesn’t speak, you don’t look at him. Their footsteps are drawing near—the tatami whispering beneath them, and with it, your panic only builds.

Oh god.

If they slide the door open and see your face like this—they’ll know they were right. You’re unraveling.

The shoji begins to slide open.

And in and instant—you’re gone.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

Your feet hit the polished floor with a soft scuff, hands still fisted in silk. And when you open your eyes, it’s there. Right in front of you.

A mirror.

That fucking mirror.

And behind you—arms still around you like he has any right—is the man who broke your heart in this very room.

“I didn’t want this mirror,” you snap, shoving him off, voice breaking halfway through. Satoru lets go, taking a single step back as you brace your hands on the sink. “A mirror’s a mirror,” he mutters, hands raising in lazy surrender. “Bathroom seemed like an upgrade, all things considered.”

You glare at the sink instead of answering, trying to breathe past the mess inside you.

…is this guy for real? Does he really not get it?

Is he that clueless to the hurt he caused you?

Clearly, you can’t catch a fucking break tonight. And despite how clueless he may be, you know he heard what those girls were saying out there—heard every word about you, your family. They laid your shame out for everyone like a fucking dinner course.

Shaking the thoughts away, you twist the faucet on, splashing cold water over your face. One handful. Then Another. Like it’ll rinse off their voices. Like it could strip away the sting of their laughter.

Like it could cleanse the memory of him from your skin.

You turn the water off with trembling fingers, gripping the counter tightly as you breathe. Because your reality is that you have to face him. Face this. Walk your ass back out there and smile. This is your life now.

Lifting your head, you look up into the mirror, and there he is—leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching you through the reflection like you’re some unsolvable thing. And that expression on his face is… strange.

Not pitying. Not cruel. But it’s not comfort either.

Just there.

Like… he sees you.

And for a moment, you almost wish he didn’t. Because that quiet—whatever it is—is worse. It’s the same kind of silence you’ve known your whole fucking life. The kind that says everything without saying a word. Cold meals. Cold rooms. Cold people. Conversations that never really started, let alone ended.

With a shuddering breath, you’re the one who looks away first. Because if you keep looking, you’re going to cry again. And you’re so fucking tired of crying. So instead, you reach for the compact hidden in your sleeve and snap it open.

Finally. Something to control. Powder. Liner. Blush.

Each motion is practiced, mechanical—building your face back up to dull the damage—stroke by stroke, until you look more like a bride and less like a breakdown.

“Hey…” Satoru mumbles, tilting his head. “That shit they said… about your family…”

Your fingers pause, hovering over the powder.

Of all the things to talk about, that’s what he chooses.

“Doesn’t matter,” you murmur, reflection hardening. As you reach for your lip color, he watches you smooth it on like war paint. “…you’re really gonna go back out there?” he asks, almost to himself. And capping the lipstick, you slide it back into your sleeve.

“I don’t have a choice.”

“You always have a choice.”

“…do I?”

You meet his eyes in the mirror. Briefly. Long enough to see the truth of it—that he knows what he’s saying isn’t fair. That he’s not offering you one.

And yet… he still says it.

That look on his face… it’s not indifference. But it’s not enough either. Just this frustrating stillness. That quiet, complicated way he’s always looked at you.

You almost wish he’d laugh. Or sneer. Or leave. Anything to make it easier. It would be easier if he acted cruel—acted like you meant nothing.

Instead, he says nothing at all.

“Come,” you say, turning from the sink. Chin lifted. Shoulders squared. “They’re waiting.”

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

“Today, we gather not only to honor a union between clans, but to witness the seat at Gojo-sama's side finally be filled.”

While you and Satoru ascend the dais, the hush of the hall is thick around you. You step with grace—smooth, poised—a perfect pace beside the man you’re meant to call husband. The man who doesn’t wait for you, doesn’t reach for you.

At the edge of the platform, Gojo Hajime is droning about lineage and honor—the union of households, the promise of an heir. The words blur into each other—because you’ve heard them all before.

Still, you smile. You bow. You perform.

Settling on the cushions laid before you, you lower yourself with care, but the platform is narrow, and Satoru takes up space like it’s owed to him. As you adjust, your thigh brushes his.

“Might wanna scoot…” he mutters under his breath, amused. His eyes flick to the seat just behind you both—Gojo Hajime’s cushion, looming in quiet judgment. “I mean… not that I’m complaining. But Hajime hates when people steal his precious throne.”

“Yes,” you murmur, smoothing your sleeve as you shift subtly away. Your eyes stay forward. “I remember.” And that earns the faintest shift in Satoru beside you. “…oh?” he hums. “What’s there to remember?”

Glancing at him, you see the lazy coolness still etched into every line of his body, but those blue eyes are fixed on you.

Focused. Curious.

You hate how much those eyes unravel you. How, despite everything, they still make your heart stutter.

“…how could I forget?” you shake the unease away, exhaling. “You made space for me that day. In a world I’ve been trying to fit into since the moment I was born.”

He shifts again. “…huh?” and you raise a brow—exhausted with him, exhausted with this conversation. “…what do you mean huh?”

You’re trying to pay attention to the ceremony. To perform. But Satoru keeps whispering above the hush of the hall while Hajime continues without pause—speaking like his words are carved into stone.

“For nearly a decade, the strongest has stood alone,” he declares. “But even power must be accompanied. The strongest must not only protect blood—but create it. A legacy. An heir. She will nurture the future of this clan. And with this duty, she will take her place not behind him, but beside him.”

Right… more like beneath him, it seems. Beneath his name. Beneath his body. And the worst part? Some small, broken part of you still aches for it. For him. For the feeling of being wanted, of being seen—even if only in the dark. Even if only for a moment.

“No fair,” Satoru mutters suddenly, like he’s trying to break the weight in the air. A slow smirk curls at his lips. “You pissed him off without me. Wish I could’ve seen his face.”

“…you did see it,” your gaze flicks to him briefly. Flat. “The way he nearly took my head off with a single glance.”

Your eyes lock, and Satoru’s blinking—looking at you with bewilderment. Huffing a soft laugh through his nose, he tries to play it off. But there’s a flicker of something behind it. A crack in the cool.

“Uh… the fuck are you talking about?”

Inhaling, your spine straightens, and you don’t turn this time. Instead, your gaze stays trained on the gift tray being carried forward—on the servant kneeling before it, hands delicate and practiced.

“Seven years ago…” you mutter. “When I sat in his seat by accident. During your ascension.”

…what?

Satoru’s gaze lingers on you longer than it should, your words slotting into place with a quiet click that echoes—like a key turning into a lock he didn’t even know was there. That itch—that nagging sense of familiarity when he saw your photo in the dossier—he brushed it off. Didn’t connect it. Didn’t care to.

Well—shit.

It rushes back with startling clarity, like a memory pulled from fog: a girl in formal wear too heavy for her frame. Beautiful, but young. Sitting where she shouldn’t have, swallowing her fear like glass. And him—half-bored, half-amused—tilting his head and letting you stay.

It was a brief moment. You were a brief moment; a moment he let pass, a flicker.

But…

‘You made space for me. In a world I’ve been trying to fit into since the moment I was born.’

He’s confused. You say it like it should matter. Why is he unsettled? Gojo Satoru doesn’t feel unsettled. Hell, Gojo Satoru doesn’t feel—period. Not for you. Not for anyone. He has a job. A clan.

Okay… fine. Maybe people assume he doesn’t give a fuck about everything—but the truth is, feelings complicate things. Make you vulnerable. Weak. Unpredictable. All he needs is strength. Strength should be enough… shouldn’t it?

Because he has hopes and dreams too. To teach. To raise something better. To burn the whole damn system down and rebuild it from the bones. And feelings? Those get in the way. That’s why the elders made their conditions clear. He knows what he has to do. If he wants to teach he—

No. Don’t think about it.

His eyes flick sideways, catching your profile in the corner of his vision as Hajime drones on. You sit with your spine poised, your expression perfectly arranged. But he remembers what you looked like a moment ago—that gloss in your eyes, silence stretching tight across your face.

He was a dick. He knows that. But so what? You’re not even married yet. Why does it matter? And even if you were…

His lips press into a thin line. He’s getting real fucking tired of questioning his morals over someone he barely knows. But for whatever fucking reason, you’re stirring something in him that should’ve been long dead—guilt, confusion, the dull ache of something dangerously close to remorse. Feelings he buried the day Suguru walked away from Jujutsu High.

Why?

“Let us begin with the gifts,” Hajime intones, and Satoru blinks—snapping out of his thoughts. You’re already looking at him, expression unreadable while Hajime waits. Everyone in this damn hall is waiting—watching.

Anyways. Right.

No feeling.

“So… uh…” he tilts his head slightly, slipping back into his usual nonchalance, shoulders loosening. “…I go first?”

Hajime nods. “It is customary for the groom to present his offerings to the bride.”

“Right…” Satoru mutters, dragging a breath through his nose. “Customs.”

There’s an easy tone in his voice, but tension pulls beneath it as his hand slips into the inner folds of his kimono. The silk rustles as he draws a small black box from the depths of his sleeve—catching faintly in the hush, wrapped in a silk bow.

It almost seems like he’s holding his breath as he unties it—for his hands are far too careful for someone who mocks tradition. Popping the box open, he sets it on the tray in front of you gently.

“For you.”

Inside: a kanzashi comb shaped like a dragonfly. Platinum, fine as breath. The wings unfurl in delicate filigree—spiraling patterns so precise they seem to shimmer when caught by the light. Along the slender body, deep-blue sapphires glint like midnight stars. The craftsmanship is meticulous. Elegant. And yet, the edges are gently worn—not from neglect, but from time. From touch. From memory. Places where fingers must’ve lingered, again and again.

It looks… loved.

Blinking, your breath stills as you stare at the comb. Of all things… especially after tonight, you’d been expecting money. Something impersonal. That’s what most men offer in these ceremonies—clean, transactional, easy to forget. A sum to be tallied, tossed across a lacquered tray without thought.

But an heirloom?

It feels like a contradiction: a man who mocks tradition, honoring it. A man who avoids meaning, offering something that feels like reverence. It’s almost like part of him understood what this gesture was—and still did it anyway.

“It’s… beautiful,” you manage softly, “Thank you.”

“Mm,” he hums. “You’ll look good in it.”

Your smile cracks, but you pull it back into place. This man confuses the hell out of you. You try not to linger on it too long, because you know—this man does not love you, does not want you. That much is clear. But something about that comb… makes you wonder if clarity is ever that simple.

Clearing your throat, you shift, sliding your hand into your sleeve. “I know your technique can be a little… draining,” and pulling out your gift to him, you begin unravelling the ribbon. “So, I figured these might help. And… well… they suit you.”

With careful hands, you lift the box open—setting it on the tray between you. Satoru blinks down at the sunglasses, then back at you, unreadable.

There’s a silence. He doesn’t say anything, and neither do you. But you can feel Hajime shift beside you. An observer in the crowd coughs in the audience. The air sharpens with awkward expectation.

Yup. You’re already regretting getting him this gift entirely. What the fuck were you thinking?

“This gift…” Hajime starts, tone already tight with disapproval. “It is—”

“Huh. You got me shades,” Satoru cuts in flatly, like saying it aloud will make it make sense.

Still, his hand moves toward them—lifting them from the box—turning them over slowly as he examines the weight, the curve, the ridiculous sincerity behind him.

No one ever sees him. Not really. Or rather, they see him for his purpose, not for who he is. And the fact that someone bothered to think of him not as a symbol, but as a man?

Great, now he feels… unsettled. Again.

So, he does what he’s always done. Deflects—sliding them on with a cocky grin. Hajime clears his throat, and Satoru looks up at him unapologetically.

“What?” he drawls. “She’s right, they suit me.”

A ripple of faint laughter stirs at the edges of the crowd, but it doesn’t reach the dais. You exhale slowly, heart pounding. Thank God. That’s probably the most untraditional gesture you’ve ever made. You can feel your mother’s eyes on you in the crowd—cutting, sharp—but you don’t look. You just sit straighter.

“Besides…” Satoru murmurs, vivid blue eyes glancing over the rim to you, “…she’s got good taste.”

Your breath catches, and the sunglasses certainly don’t help you make out that still unreadable expression he wears. Great. Now you’re guessing again. Reading between lines he never bothers to draw.

“Anyways…” he takes them off, folding them back into the box. “Uh… thanks…” he mumbles. “Sure…” you echo.

And with it, the tray rests between you, holding its mismatched offerings.

One comb.

One pair of sunglasses.

One tradition honored. One broken.

There’s a moment of stillness. Then—

“Come!” Hajime intones, rising from his cushion with all the slow gravity of ceremony. “Let us present the final offering. A token worn in promise—a symbol of union, where it may be seen, and remembered.”

The air shifts, and the change in Satoru is immediate. You feel it; something solemn threading back through the moment, like a red string of fate.

Exhaling through his nose, Satoru shifts his weight, reaching into his sleeve yet again—pulling out a small, lacquered ring box. You blink as he opens it.

Inside: a platinum engagement ring. The band curves in an elegant infinity twist, looping seamlessly between twin rows of diamonds and deep, midnight sapphires.

“Hand…” Satoru mumbles, barely above a whisper, his palm open in silent ask. “Oh—of course,” you breathe, hesitation flickering, then fading as you slip your hand into his.

His fingers wrap around yours, warm, steady. And when he slides the ring onto your finger, it fits like it was always meant to be there. Looking down at the flickers of silver, white and blue, your breath catches as it glitters softly—like stars trapped in metal. It’s gorgeously elegant, and the sapphires remind you of his eyes.

Though as your gaze lifts, his eyes hold the weight of something unspoken. He’s staring at the ring, and that vivid blue is suddenly… dimmed. Like something caught between elegance and meaning. Between promise and prison.

For the first time, it strikes you. The man beside you—who always seemed untouchable, unfazed, immune to the binds of tradition—is kneeling here, completing the ritual, bound by the same rules.

Maybe… he isn’t as free as he looks.

“Let it be seen,” Hajime declares, voice rising through the hush, “and remembered by all. Arise!”

The tray is lifted. The offering complete. And as Satoru straightens, you follow; shifting towards the crowd. Then—

Applause.

First a few. Then dozens. Then more.

Clapping…

Too loud. Too sharp.

Clapping…

It echoes off the walls like a warning—faces blurring in motion, smiles stretching too wide. The sound closes in like smoke—like something choking and hollow. Though, somewhere near the farthest end of the hall, lingering in the shadows, someone does not clap. They watch.

Because far from the estate, on the grounds of a forgotten shrine, ash stirs in the wind.

A candle gutters.

Another catches.

The world holds its breath.

And with the tilt of a match—

A curse begins to stir.

a/n. hello lovelies, i hope you enjoyed pt 2! 🥹💕 we're cooked. bc this was 20k and they aren't even married yet LOL. i kept telling myself that this fic wasn't going to be THIS long, but alas. i write what my heart tells me and my heart was yappin. i feel like a lot of arranged marriage fics jump straight to the marriage and i wanted to try something different and set some groundwork instead. plus, since tradition is a heavy theme in this fic, so bc of that, the traditional engagement ceremony just seemed right. there were a lot of callbacks i did with certain scenes from jjk, i wonder how many you can spot 🤔 both reader and satoru still have a lot of growing to do. anyways, there's more i could say but i am sleepy and posting this super late 🫠 so i'll leave it at that, and i'm excited to hear your thoughts on this chapter 🥰 thanks for reading. MUAH! -aly

taglist pt 1:

@forest-nymph420 @linabugaboo @enhasrii @indiewritesxoxo @yamagucji

@aerareads @devils-blackrose @starpachinko @sadmonke @sylussss7

@slutoru1207 @satoruxsc @sukunasunflower @reihimbo @madamechrissy

@sleepykittyenergy @artist1936 @eggrollforyou @nishloves @serenxtii

@lastsubstance @sarapherna1ia @7thsthings @merrydoe @earliergrave

@106-94 @propan-3-ol @oromanticism @chxllix @nonamebbsblog

@honeybunnnnie @beereadzzz @moonchhu @bunheadusa @atschii

@cherriee-ee @kiyoko182 @itsinherited @fairygardenprincessss @7haze

@hedgefundmeg @adreamingpendulum @etsuniiru @velvetyshu @genshingeeksworld

@waterfallu @haruhatake @schooki @magnificientscarlett @sukuxna0

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whimsicalwritersstuff · 24 days ago

Text

Drunk on her

Pairings: Oldman!Joel miller x fem!reader

Content warnings: Explicit sexual content 18+, oral sex (f!receiving), pussydrunk!joel, overstimulation, power dynamics, possessive!Joel, addiction, dirty talk, pussy pronouns.

Summary: Joel is very drunk tonight, but not on whiskey. On you.

Word count: 500

Joel wasn't drunk on whiskey tonight. Wasn't high off cigarettes or Texas heat.

No, he was drunk on her.

On the warm, velvet-slick sweetness between her thighs. His broad shoulders were locked between her legs, keeping her wide open while his stubble scratched and kissed the insides of her thighs, tongue lapping at her like she was made of fucking honey. You squirmed against the sheets, the back of your thighs sticky with sweat, your fingers tangled in his graying hair. "J-Joel," you gasped, breath stuttering.."Joel, baby- fuck, it's too much."

He just groaned into your cunt like a man denied water for years. His voice was gravel, his drawl thicker molasses. "You hush now, sugar. Lemme eat." His tongue dragged upward in a long, messy stripe, mouth latching onto your clit like he'd die without it. The man moaned against your pussy, lips swollen, beard soaked with your slick, hands pressing your hips down as you writhed beneath him.

"Shit, how the hell's it feel this good?" He slurred like he was drunk. "You tryin' to kill me, babygirl? Givin' me this sweet little thing like it's not addictive?"

Your legs trembled, breath catching as his tongue circled your clit over and over again..he wasn't gentle, he was hungry. Like he hadn't had a proper meal in days and you were it. Every swipe of his tongue, every mess sick, was greedy and shameless.

Joel fucking devoured you.

He pulled back for a split second, just long enough to look at your soaked pussy and grin like a man gone mad. "Goddamn," he drawled. "Look at this sweet fuckin' pussy. Drippin' all over my face like it missed me." You whined, hips twitching up toward him and he chuckled darkly. "Yeah, that's right. She missed me. Missed this tongue, didn't she?" He kissed your clit like it was his favorite goddamn thing in the world. "She knows who owns her."

Then he dove back in, no teasing this time, no breaks, just pure, sloppy, addicted attention. His nose pressed against your mound, tongue fucking info you as his fingers gripped your ass and pulled you in deeper like he couldn't get close enough.

"Mm, tastes like a fuckin' dream," he moaned, practically incoherent, eyes shut as if he could memorize the shape of you with just bis tongue.

He was pussy-drunk. Gone. Dazed. Ripped straight from reality and drowning in toy. You cried out, thighs shaking, voice breaking. "J-Joel- I'm gonna- fuck- gonna cum!-"

But he didn't stop. Didn't slow down. If anything, he held you harder, face buried even deeper, tongue flattening against your clit and pulsing as your orgasm crashed down on you like a wave of fire. You sobbed, back arching, legs trembled around his ears.

He groaned like your orgasm fed him, like the sound of your moans was his favorite damn song.

And even after you came, even after your thighs quivered from overstimulation, he kept going.

You whimpered, tried to pull back and he growled, a deep, primal sound. Gripping your hips tighter. "Ain't done yet. Don't you dare run from me. This pussy got more in her- I know she does."

You shivered, overwhelmed, but melting all over again. And when his fingers replaced his tongue, sliding insjde you slow and deep while he sucked your clit again, you knew the man wouldn't stop until you were passed the fuck out.

He was drunk on you. And there wasn't a rehab on earth that could fix him.

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sixeyesonathiel · 15 days ago

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satoru has appointed himself the official taste-tester of everything you cook. everything. you can’t even make toast without him appearing behind you, chin hooked over your shoulder, going “mm, smells good, lemme try.” he claims it’s quality control. it’s actually because he’s convinced that eating food you’ve touched is the closest thing to a religious experience he’s ever had, and he’s not about to miss out on a single bite.

you’re stirring pasta sauce at 7 pm on a tuesday. normal. peaceful. then suddenly there’s a whole man plastered to your back, arms caging you against the counter, his hair falling in wisps against your temple—soft like spun silk but unruly, defying gravity in that way that makes you want to tug it just to watch it bounce back. “babe. wife. love of my life. i need to make sure this isn’t poisoned.”

“get off me, you giant parasite.” your elbow finds his ribs but he just melts closer, humming against your neck like you’ve blessed him instead of bruised him.

“that’s husband parasite to you.” he’s already reaching around you with a spoon, fingers impossibly long and elegant even when he’s being a menace, completely ignoring the way you’re trying to swat him away. “just a little taste. for safety.”

you smack his hand away, your palm stinging from the contact. “it’s literally jar sauce with garlic.”

“exactly. could be expired. could be cursed. could be—oh my god.” he’s managed to steal a taste anyway and now he’s making these stupid little moaning sounds like you’ve just served him michelin-star cuisine—no, like you’ve done something obscene to his taste buds, his lashes fluttering closed, those impossible irises disappearing behind a veil of pure bliss. they’re the color of winter sky right before a storm—not quite blue, not quite gray, shifting like they can’t decide what they want to be. “mmm, fuck, this is incredible. you’re incredible. marry me.”

“we’re already married, idiot.” you turn in his arms, catch the way his pupils dilate when he looks at you, like you’re something precious he’s still not sure he’s allowed to keep.

“marry me again.” his voice drops to that breathy register that makes your stomach flip, the one that sounds like he’s sharing secrets meant only for you.

the worst part? he’s completely serious. you could heat up leftover takeout and he’d still hover around the microwave like a starving victorian child, those ridiculous eyes wide and hopeful, fingers drumming against his thigh in that restless way that means he’s trying not to touch you but failing spectacularly. “smells different when you make it,” he insists, which makes zero sense but he says it with such conviction that you almost believe him.

god forbid you actually cook something. the man turns into a whole circus. suddenly he’s everywhere—leaning against the counter with his hip cocked, sitting on the counter with his legs swinging like a child, trying to “help” by handing you ingredients you didn’t ask for, his movements too quick and eager, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he stops moving. “you need more salt,” he declares, having never cooked a real meal in his life, tongue darting out to catch a stray drop of sauce from his lip. “trust me, i’m a professional taster.”

“professional pain in my ass.” you’re glaring but your mouth twitches—he catches it immediately, grins like he’s won the lottery.

“that too.” shameless, always shameless, and he tries to dip his finger directly into the pan, those annoyingly perfect fingers moving with the precision of someone who’s used to getting exactly what he wants. you threaten him with a wooden spoon, brandishing it like a weapon. he dodges, laughing, that sound that bubbles up from his chest like champagne, but he’s back thirty seconds later like a persistent cat.

here’s the thing though. you let him. every single time. you grumble and complain and call him annoying, but you always make a little extra, always leave the spoon out for him to lick clean, always pretend you don’t notice when he sneaks bites straight from the pot when he thinks you’re not looking, his hair falling into his face as he bends down, making him look younger somehow, softer.

because satoru doesn’t just taste your food. he experiences it. closes his eyes, makes these soft little sounds of appreciation that belong in a bedroom not a kitchen, tells you it’s the best thing he’s ever had like he hasn’t said the exact same thing about your scrambled eggs, your sandwiches, your attempts at cookies that came out slightly burnt. his face goes slack with something that looks almost like worship, and you pretend your chest doesn’t get tight when he does that thing where he tilts his head back slightly, throat working as he swallows, a low “oh god” escaping his lips like he’s having a religious experience, like he’s trying to make it last forever.

the real kicker though? he’s started rating everything. out loud. with a whole scoring system he made up on the spot, gesturing wildly with his fork like he’s conducting an orchestra. “ooh, this pasta is giving me strong 9.2 vibes. excellent salt balance. beautiful al dente action. points deducted for insufficient cheese.”

“you literally watched me put a mountain of cheese on that.” you’re trying to sound annoyed but your voice comes out fond, exasperated in that way that means you’re completely gone for him.

“could’ve been a bigger mountain.” he’s doing this thing where he holds his fork up like a tiny microphone, his wrist cocked at that particular angle that somehow makes even eating look graceful. “and now, live from our kitchen, tonight’s toast receives a stunning 8.7 for optimal butter distribution and…” he takes another bite, closes his eyes dramatically, lashes casting shadows on his cheeks, “…yes, i’m getting notes of love and mild irritation from the chef.”

you throw a dish towel at his head. “you’re insane.” it hits him square in the face, mussing his hair even more, and he just sits there for a moment, towel draped over his head like a very attractive, very stupid ghost.

“insanely thorough.” he catches the towel, grins, and immediately goes back to his “professional” tasting, that grin stretching wide enough to show his canines. “the dish towel adds a nice rustic element to the dining experience. very authentic. 9.3.”

it gets worse. he starts leaving you reviews. actual written reviews, his handwriting surprisingly neat for someone who moves like controlled chaos. tucked into your coffee mug, taped to the fridge, slipped into your purse. “five stars – the wife’s leftover pizza reheating skills are unmatched. would definitely eat again. highly recommend the cook.” signed with a little heart and “your biggest fan.”

you find one in your coat pocket that just says “that sandwich you made tuesday was life-changing. i’m still thinking about it. call me.” with his own phone number written underneath like you don’t live together.

“satoru, what is this?” you wave the note at him, trying to look stern but failing when you catch sight of the little doodle he’s drawn in the margin—a stick figure with spiky hair giving a thumbs up.

“feedback! customer satisfaction is very important to me.” he’s perched on the kitchen island now, legs swinging, looking pleased with himself in that way that makes you want to kiss him and throttle him in equal measure.

“i’m not your customer, i’m your wife.” you move to stand between his knees, watch the way his breath catches slightly when you get close, pupils dilating again.

“even better. you’re stuck with me forever.” he’s already eyeing the cookies you’re pulling out of the oven, but his hands find your hips, thumbs tracing small circles through your shirt. “speaking of which, how’s my credit score with the management? because i’d like to request a loan.”

“what kind of loan?” you’re trying to focus on the cookies but he’s looking at you like you’re the only person in the world, head tilted slightly, that storm-sky gaze intense and soft all at once.

“cookie loan. i promise to pay you back with interest.” his voice drops to that whisper-soft register again, like he’s negotiating state secrets instead of baked goods.

you stare at him. he stares back, completely serious, already reaching for the spatula with those ridiculous fingers, the ones that are somehow both elegant and clumsy, graceful and endearing.

“…the interest better be good.” you’re already reaching for a cookie, still warm from the oven.

“the best. i’m talking back rubs, foot massages, me doing the dishes for a week…” he’s listing off promises on his fingers, and you notice the way his wedding ring catches the light, how it sits perfectly on his finger like it was always meant to be there.

you hand him a cookie. warm, chocolate chips still melting. his whole face lights up like christmas morning, like sunrise, like every good thing that’s ever happened to him all at once.

“10 out of 10,” he mumbles through a mouthful of cookie, crumbs catching on his lower lip, and then he makes this sound—low and breathy and completely inappropriate for cookie consumption—like you’ve just rocked his entire world with chocolate chips and butter. “would definitely marry the chef.”

“you already did, dummy.” you reach up to brush the crumbs away, and he catches your hand, brings it to his lips to press a kiss to your palm that’s so soft it makes your chest ache.

“best decision i ever made.” and the way he says it, voice rough with sincerity, eyes locked on yours like he’s trying to memorize this moment—you believe him.

#౨ৎ — gojossip #gojo satoru #gojo fluff #gojo x female reader #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x y/n #satoru gojo x reader #satoru gojo x you #satoru gojo x y/n #jjk fluff #jjk x reader fluff #jjk x reader

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lxnarphase · 2 years ago

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━━ ❝ come and put your name on it ❞

special treatment : lap edition

☾₊‧⁺...ft. : gojo satoru + geto suguru + nanami kento + fushiguro toji + hakari kinji

☾₊‧⁺...cw : cockwarming, somnophilia, dirty talk, grinding + dry humping, fingerfucking, overstimulation, praise kink, edging, oral fixation, satoru's silly pet names, suguru being smug, kento being a desperate man, toji being toji, kinji being a bully

✧ g. satoru : sometimes gojo knows he fucks you too good to the point you can't think after, something he brags about to you all the time. but when you snuggle up to him, still stuffed with his cock and warm with his cum, he can't help but run his hands all over you. and when he realizes you fell asleep on his dick, his heart squeezes and his cock throbs hard.

"pretty angel, did you fall asleep? oh, that's just precious...you're making my heart squeeze, i wish i had my phone, you look so cute like this." "did you say my name? dreaming about me? god, you're so precious, i could just fuck you like this...shit, don't fuckin' squeeze on me like that, are you having a wet dream right now? god, i love you so fucking much." "aww, my little mochi is so cute! look at youuu, you're gushin' all over the place. messy fucking pussy too small to keep my cock and all my cum inside you." "mm, fuck, pretty thing. you wakin' up? hi pretty girl...oooh, fuck, d-did you just cum? holy fuck, c'mon, baby, on your back, lemme fuck you, princess, let 'toru make you cum again, yeah?”

✧ g. suguru : suguru's softly cooing at you when you sleepily walk into the living room, whining to him that you had a dream and you wanted him to 'fix the problem he caused.' all he can do is just chuckle at how childish and bratty you can be as his hands are moving up and down your sides while he grinds up into you.

"you're such a brat, you know that right? always blaming me for your dreams. it's not my fault you can't stop thinking about how good i fuck you." "hmm? ooh, i see...you keep having dreams of me cumming inside you, hm? are you trying to say something, princess? d'you want me to start breeding you?" "i didn't say stop moving, did i? or do you need me to do all the work? heh, so spoiled, i've spoiled you absolutely rotten." "i know, but just cum once like this, won't you? if you do, i promise i'll fill your cute pussy with my cum, okay? mhm, promise, princess, i'll give you what you need."

✧ n. kento : nanami loves having you close to him, especially when you sit in his lap. it lets him nuzzle his nose into your neck, pressing little kisses where he can while your legs are spread over his strong thighs, his thick fingers leisurely pumping in and out of your needy hole, chuckling against your skin whenever you jolt.

"honey, have i mentioned how gorgeous you are? you look so beautiful like this...spread open and wanting, just for me." "you're sucking my fingers in so well. look at that...do you think you can take a third?" "it's so messy. look at what you've done to my fingers, honey, they're soaked. clean them off for me, i want you to taste yourself before i put them back in. maybe tonight we can make you squirt, hm? do you wanna try, darling?" "you think you're going to cum again? poor thing, your little cunt is so greedy, she just wants to cum over and over again on my fingers...is my cock not good enough for you, mm? aww, don't pout, i'm just teasing you, darling." "i know, i know, it's too much, but you can take it. be my good girl, just take it and keep cumming until you can't anymore."

✧ f. toji : sitting on toji's lap is, in his mind, an invitation for him to run his hands all over you. his cock is already hard in his sweats, but he's subdued the second you get comfortable and slowly grind against him, groaning when you press sweet kisses into his neck.

"tch, are you gonna let me fuck your thighs t'night? pretty please? yeah, that's right, i'm askin' nicely. why? don't play stupid, doll, you know what they do to me." "shit...keep moving those hips, sweetheart, you feel so fuckin' good like this." "god, i can feel that pretty pussy leaking through my sweats. big bad toji make you that fuckin' wet, mama? y'like grinding that clit on my dick through my pants? dirty fucking girl." "mmh, you keep tugging my hair like that and I'm not even gonna take you to the bedroom, i will fuck you into this damn couch, woman.” "listen here, wifey, I'll wreck your cunt until you can't think about anything but me inside you. hell, I'll ruin this stupid couch in the process, i don't give a fuck about stainin' it."

✧ h. kinji : when you sit on kinji's lap, it's when he's watching a fight on tv. you can tell it's not going how he wants it to go, the toothpick between his teeth being gnawed on. when you make eye contact with him, he just raises an eyebrow, one of his hands squeezing your hip.

"cupcake, do me a favor and get on my dick before i get up and give us a reason to get a new tv." "hey, hey, don't move yet, let me see if he lands this punch...don't whine like that before i put my fingers in that pretty little mouth t' shut you up." "you always squeeze so tight when i press down on your tongue like this...pretty thing likes that shit, doesn't she? go on, fuck yourself on my dick while you drool all on my fingers like a slut." "mm, shit, baby, i can't focus on that bullshit fight, lemme help you. yeah, thaaaat's it, let your boy fuck you nice and deep, make ya cream, juuuust like this."

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digitald0rk · 4 months ago

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TEAR YOU APART

pairing : sinister! mark grayson x afab! florist reader.

synopsis : in which mark discovers your dirty little secret and decides to help you recreate it in real time.

(18+) warnings : kidnapping. nasty petty perv mark. allusions to cannibalism. mention of kinda gory violence. hair pulling. biting. mean name calling duh. giving each other head. p in v unprotected sex. creampies. marathon sex as in multiple orgasms. squirting. overstimulation . . . ++ just really nasty smut lol [ all consentual though! you two are freaks like in capital FREAKS ]

w.c : 5.5k.

notes : erm. yeah idk what possessed me to write this but lemme know what you think ! it's my first time writing smut this long and detailed [ my search history is crazy rn lol ]. let's just say this takes place in sinister mark's universe before he starts acting like a murder machine and all, so yeah :] again interactions are always appreciated, also do let me know if you think there's any warning i should add!

taglist : @vm4879bb-blog [ for the others, i wasn't sure if you guys would be okay being tagged in a fic like this so i didn't, let me know if you wanna be added tho :p ]

now on ao3 too!

he's going to kill something, or someone.

“oh yeah this? my boyfriend got it for me!”

he hears you talk about him, your lover, everyday and it annoys him deeply, the subtle furrow of his eyebrows barely noticeable but definitely there — sometimes a twitch of his eye, clear cracks in his carefully constructed facade give away his irritation if you choose to look closely.

“that reminds me, this one time he-”

he loves that pretty voice of yours — dare he say, he's grown fond of it, but he wants to shut you up forever whenever your boyfriend's name leaves your lips.

mark wants his name to be on your tongue — to be said with the same love and fondness that accompanies the name of your lover.

he tried, he really did, to give you signs — a squeeze of your hand there, a stare that can practically undress you on its own. but it seems you're oblivious to it all, or you're playing hard to get, either way his patience is running thin.

he'll get what he wants. just you wait.

every time he visits your little shop, it smells like flowers mixed with your perfume, that sweet and sugary scent with just a hint of citrus — he had asked you about the perfume you wore during his third visit, bought it the same day so he could finally get off because his imagination wasn't enough at this point, that kept him somewhat satisfied for a bit, but it wasn't nearly enough.

so when he stopped by next time, not even buying flowers to play along with whatever this is, he asked you, “where do you buy your clothes?”

you blink a couple times, clearly taken aback back by the sudden question but nonetheless, answer him — although you're not quite sure what to make of his disheveled hair and blown out pupils.

here he is, acting like a feral dog in heat, buying anything and everything that he can at the shops you frequent that resembles your clothes. and when he's back at home, he's spraying them with the perfume you always wear, rutting like a madman into the mattress as he mouths at a pink shirt — the same one you own and the one you were wearing when he first saw you, his drool leaking and staining the shirt as he holds it close to his mouth and closing his eyes, your scent surrounding him as he suckles on the chest area of the shirt, imagining it's your chest instead which has him groaning and cumming in his pants. that keeps him going for another week or so.

next thing he knows, he's acting on pure instinct and his desires — snapping photos of your panties underneath your little skirts like a fucking pervert, looking them up online so he could order them and make a mess of them. and he does, he stains each and everyone of those panties with his hot, thick cum and sometimes his spit when he imagines eating your pretty pussy out. his desires however continue to only grow.

he visits your little shop, like he always does, mentally preparing himself to not grab your throat and shove you down to make you shut up if he hears about your stupid boyfriend again.

he's being nice, can't you see? you should be thankful.

mark sees a new ring on your finger, the small silver zircon on it shining underneath the sunlight, he wonders if it's another gift from your boyfriend.

the thought leaves a bitter taste behind, regardless, he maintains his usual aloof facade, waiting for you to finish wrapping up his bouquet that he's going to end up tossing away the next day — just like the other flowers he's bought from you, they don't compare to you or your beauty, he wants you, a flower that won't rot away once he's done playing with it.

surprisingly, you don't mention the name of a certain man who he wants dead and buried six feet deep but he doesn't comment on it, in fact, a small barely imperceptible smile tugs at his lips.

he's just about to leave your little flower heaven when he hears something that makes his heart, uncharacteristically skip a beat.

“yeah i heard, i’m so sorry,” a voice, which he recognizes as your friend speaks softly, sympathetically.

“yeah, i don't know what i was thinking,” you start, “the signs were there, i just never thought he'd cheat like that,” you blink away the forming tears, “i trusted him.”

he stops dead in his tracks. that bastard cheated on you? he'll make him pay for being the reason you cry, although your tears do make his cock twitch in his pants. he'll lick them off of your face if you let him, god he really wants to.

should he simply keep your boyfriend to torture? he's sure he could lure you in with it, after all you are way too sweet for your own good.

he'll slowly tear each of his limbs apart, making sure the man hears his bones cracking and skin ripping, he'll make that fucker bleed to death. hell, he'd even record those painful, agonizing sounds that your ex would cry out, he's sure you'd cry more if he lets you hear them, maybe he just wants to see you cry — though he's sure you'll do that when you choke on his cock.

he snaps out of his little fantasy when the bell rings, indicating the opening of the door — another customer in, he sighs. he's losing it, he's not sure how much he can withstand not having you with him. but he's trying, for you.

for the sweetest girl who he can't wait to devour.

with his restraint hanging on by a thread, he steps out of your shop, his hands clenching and unclenching into fists by his sides. he needs to have you.

and that restraint finally snaps the next day when he discovers that his favorite florist is a fucking freak.

as you're tending to customers — clearly overwhelmed by their number as valentine’s day is approaching and flowers are definitely a safe option for your partner, his eyes stay locked on your laptop's screen that you had put on one of the small tables, lid only half closed, his eyes frantically scan over some of the words as he fully opens the screen, trying to stay out of your vision.

he quickly decides to go somewhere where there aren't so many people so he could take a look inside his sweet girl's sick mind. and with that he skillfully slips outside — he feels awfully excited, sneaking into the small bathroom of some shop.

and with each click of the cursor and another tab opening, he learns your most depraved, disgusting fantasies — the kind of porn you're into, your kinks and fetishes, the smut you read, all of it.

he even stumbles upon a small blog you run, oh now we're talking. each lewd image or post you've reblogged, followed by some words of “wish that was me rn”, has him hard. and these date back before your break up, meaning your boyfriend was definitely not keeping you satisfied and that has him grinning like a maniac.

oh he'll give you what you want.

he shamelessly palms himself when he finds your dairy entry with his name, rambling about how you feel guilty fantasizing about him ruining you. he would've cum right then and there if it weren't for the knocking on the door, “hey man, you mind hurrying it up?”

oh right he's still in a bathroom and not in you, like he should be.

he manages to sneak your laptop back in, thanking the absurd amount of customers mentally which helped him go in and out without raising suspicion.

he can't take it anymore, it's only been a couple hours since he's discovered your filthy secret and also saw you tearing up earlier because of that asshole who broke your heart.

he knows he's a hypocrite — he doesn't care for your dumb feelings and your big heart, okay well maybe that's a lie.

it is a lie.

and there are definitely these feelings that he refuses to acknowledge but still, the only reason why you should be crying is because of him fucking your brains out.

and so he waits, like a predator waiting to pounce — he holds his breath, watching as the sun sets and you lock up your shop, ready to go home and get some sleep but your plans are interrupted as a hand sneaks up behind you with some sort of cloth, muffling your panicked noises and before you know it you're knocked out.

it takes you hours to gain your consciousness back, eyes all heavy and mind disoriented you blink, once. then twice, your eyes widen and your mouth suddenly feels too dry. you're all tied up to a cold hard metal chair, you're only in your bra and panties, the rope is too tight, it's constricting and will definitely leave behind angry marks on your skin.

standing before you is one of your regular customers, mark. you stare at him, dumbfounded — eyes darting around to look for an escape okay to see a single door, desk and some chairs, panic settles in your bones, the coldness of the room does nothing to soothe your nerves.

you mindlessly try to shift around, a desperate attempt that leaves you wincing in pain — the friction of the thick black rope burning against your skin.

you try to speak, but nothing comes out, only a small choked sob — looking at him with those wide eyes which are brimming with tears that are oh so close to spilling and staining your cheeks, you look utterly helpless. the sight alone makes him excited.

he takes a deep breath, he wants to take his time with you, savor you. but goddamnit, if you keep looking at him like that he's sure he'll end up doing the opposite of that.

“open your mouth,” he commands, leaving no room for argument and you hate the way it sends a shiver down your spine and a throb to your core.

you hesitantly open your mouth, with his back turned to you — doing god knows what, you try screaming for help, it is a weak attempt that makes him chuckle, “no one's going to hear you sweetheart,” he coos mockingly, “i suggest you play along if you wish to live.”

he's not joking, his voice makes it clear.

so you reluctantly keep your mouth opened, hot tears falling down — lucky for you, he's being nice, at least for now because he brings a glass of water, holding your jaw and pouring the water in your mouth, some of it spills, the coldness of it on your bare skin making you shiver — but you swallow all he gives hastily, hoping it really is just water.

you sputter a bit of the water out onto him in surprise when he licks a stream of you tears away, his tongue hot against your skin and his spit leaving a shiny trail on your cheek. scared, that he'll hurt you because of what you've just done, you close your eyes shut as if the mere action would actually rewind back time and do something for you.

he laughs, loudly.

god, you're adorable. he could just eat you up.

“are you scared of me?” he asks, knowing damn well it's a pointless question but the genuine fear in your eyes has him reeling with joy and a desire only you, his sweetheart, can fulfill.

he puts the now empty glass of water back on a small table, “you know, you look real pretty like this,” he starts, dragging a chair to sit across you, “but i bet you'd look real pretty without anything on.”

you don't answer, you don't know how to. your eyes are still looking around the big room for any exits, any openings — he smiles at your desperation, it's cute really.

“or maybe you'd look even prettier with some blood on you hm?” his tone although amused is firm enough to leave you unsure if he's being serious or not, he drags a finger across your belly, “what if i make a cut right here?”

you immediately shake your head, trying to speak but he shuts you up by pinching one of your hard nipples through your bra, your protests die down into a small whimper — the sound has him grinning from ear to ear.

his eyes glint with something sinister that has you both scared and turned on. “i know you want this slut,” he holds your jaw harshly.

shame settles in your bones as you realize he's right.

“don't play coy sweet girl i saw all of it,” when you give him a confused look, he continues, “that little blog of yours, that disgusting shit you're into.”

oh fuck.

he sees the look of absolute horror mixed with embarrassment on your face and he tuts like he's disappointed, “dirty girl,” like he isn't the one who literally kidnapped you here.

“i don't know what you're talking about,” you both know you're lying, but sure he'll play along if that's what you want — he's feeling good today.

he reaches for your bag and rips it open — a clear display of who's still in charge here and how he definitely could kill you in an instant.

mark opens your laptop and asks you the password. you don't tell him at first as if that would change anything.

“i asked you a simple question,” he walks closer to you, grips your shoulder hard enough to make you regret your words, “or do i need to rip something else for you to answer me hm?” his grip tightens and you know he's not playing around, your voice shakes as you give him the four number pin, breathing heavily when he lets go of his hard bruising grip on your shoulder.

“good girl,” fuck him, he's doing this on purpose now! and the smug look on his face only confirms your suspicions.

he shows you the deepest, filthiest fantasies of yours that you keep tucked in your laptop, away from the world.

“what's wrong? don't pretend you're not dripping wet right now.”

again, he's not wrong.

“why are you doing this?” you ask him, still struggling a bit against the ropes that bind you.

“i wanna give you what you want,” he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. he also wants to make you forget about your ex boyfriend, but he's not admitting that, jealousy is a weakness. and one that he suffers from immensely.

“you what-”

“drop the act,” he huffs, irritation visible in the way his eyebrows furrow. “just admit it already. you're a sick disgusting pervert who goes prancing around like she's not thinking of having her holes filled,” he tugs at your hair to keep your head up, his eyes dark with lust boring right into yours.

“are you crazy? you fucking kidnapped-”

he cuts you off again, “so you don't want this?”

silence.

“i’ll untie you right now and let you leave, just tell me you want to leave.”

silence, again.

you're not fooling anybody.

“yeah that's what i thought,” he let's go of your hair, “the safe word is-” he mutters your ex’s name and before you can even comment on the sheer absurdity of it all, he's ripping your panties away from your throbbing pussy, groaning at the sight of your glistening wet folds, all needy just for him.

he quickly pockets the ripped panties. pervert.

“look at this needy cunt, all for me hm?” he muses aloud, spreading your legs apart and breaking apart the ropes that tried to interfere with his ministrations. he shakily inhales when he sees your arousal slowly spill out — you're so fucking wet. his heated gaze leaving goosebumps on your skin.

he presses a chaste kiss to your folds, practically salivating as he breathes you in — he's gonna end up cumming in his pants, he's dreamt of this exact moment for so long.

he gathers a considerable amount of saliva in his mouth before spitting it onto your neglected cunt which twitches at the action, the sight is downright filthy and it makes you moan.

he wastes no time — getting on his knees, licking a strip up your slit before devouring your pussy like a man starved for days, shamelessly rutting into the chair you're sitting on at your taste. you taste so good, he wants to drown in it.

he's messy and loud, your hands are still tied behind your back so you can't push his head away and grip his hair when he attacks your clit with his tongue, sucking on it relentlessly. your hips lift up and buck into his face, your noises only getting louder as he fucks his tongue into your warm wet hole. he moans at the feeling of your thighs squeezing around his head and nearly suffocating him — your walls clenching around his tongue as you cry out his name in utter pleasure.

he shoves two of his thick fingers in without any warning — a surprised small squeal leaving your lips, while his tongue works in torturous circles around your sensitive bundle of nerves and eagerly licking between your folds. your pretty whimpers are music to his ears.

clearly overwhelmed with pleasure, you make a pathetic attempt to squirm away from his touch, which earns you a harsh smack to your thigh followed by a bite — his teeth dig into your flesh, leaving behind bruising marks that will sting for days, the line between pain and pleasure blurring.

a familiar feeling settles in your belly, it only builds up as he continues to go down on you. “mark! mark! i'm i’m-” you try warning him, but his fingers only speed up, he sucks harshly on your clit, holding your hips down when you cum — your body shaking, crying out his name oh so sweetly, he wants to hear it again and again, until the only word you know is his name.

he doesn't pull away from your cunt though, drinking up every bit of your release and arousal that you offer — holding you down and forcing you to submit to the relentless pleasure he's giving you, moaning into your pussy like he's having the best meal of his life.

he doesn't let you rest, inserting another finger in — easily massaging that sweet spot that you can't reach as easily as he does.

“oh fuck!” you whine out loud, when he keeps overstimulating your poor pussy, the squelching wet noises only increasing as he eats you out. he loves the way your brain is turning to mush, mindlessly babbling his name along with your sweet noises.

and when you cum again, he still doesn't stop.

you've lost count of how many orgasms you've had at this point, body too sensitive and shaking almost like a leaf.

with eyes brimming with seemingly never ending tears, vision practically blurry from the overwhelming sensations coursing through your body, it doesn't take him long to bring you to the edge again — except this time you end up squirting all over his pretty face, a surprised noise leaves your mouth as your body jolts hardly.

he finally pulls away. a small moan leaves your lips as you take in the sight in front of you.

mark grayson, on his knees, face all wet and drenched in your juices and his spit, breathing heavily — looking at you like he's going to eat you alive.

he's breathing really heavily, your dazed state makes it hard for you to comprehend things but you can clearly see the big wet spot on his pants. he came — from just eating you out.

“messy fucking slut,” he spanks your already oversensitive pussy making you hiss and cry out, body still quivering and twitching from that intense release.

he pushes your legs apart again, spreading your pussy open for him to see, he mutters a curse under his breath as he sees remnants of your release clinging onto the sensitive skin. he needs to get up before he ends up eating you out — as much as he would love to do that, he can't wait much longer, he needs to be buried inside that sweet cunt of yours and make you see stars.

he gets up from his knees. grabbing your hair, mark makes you lick his face clean, you taste yourself on his face and feel yourself getting worked up again. “good fucking girl, gonna put that mouth to better use, just you wait,” his hand reaches down to pinch your clit, laughing when you let out a small pained noise.

he hastily tears away your bra, the fabric discarded somewhere on the cold floor. he pinches and lightly grazes his nails against the perked up sensitive buds, making you squirm and let out small whimpers — it stings, but it also gets you insanely wet.

“look at that, pretty pussy’s practically begging to be fucked,” he bites down on your shoulder, a pained groan escapes your mouth and he bites harder, pulling away to admire the mark his teeth left.

you barely have time to look at the new addition of marks he's left on your body so far, before he's untying your hands behind your back, taking your wrists into his and pulling you down. you stumble a bit at the harsh tug — legs practically jelly from all those orgasms.

he draws you closer by your arms, manhandling you easily so you're sitting in between his open legs — the cold floor against your warm body.

“take it off,” he commands, gesturing to his pants. you hesitantly take them off, his ruined boxers coming into vision.

he's an impatient man, he always gets what he wants.

mark grabs a fistful of your hair and forces your head down onto his clothed — aching cock, making his impatience very clear.

“dumb bitch, can't do anything herself,” his tone demeaning, shutting up your protests by shoving his thumb in your mouth. he lifts his hips up to finally free himself of his boxers, his cock standing up — bobbing and leaking with pre. you gulp, eyes flitting back over to his face.

he lets out a small moan as you gather some of your saliva to spit on his hard cock, licking teasingly up his length over one of his prominent veins.

“don't be a fucking tease,” he takes ahold of your jaw harshly, tugging your tongue out before you can close your mouth — that he can't wait to be in and spits on your tongue, making you swallow it, before shoving you back a bit.

he pushes your hair out of your face so he could watch you better, the gesture so sweet and gentle — it makes you almost forget how mean he's been.

you slowly start pushing his length into your mouth, “thaaat's right, take it like the good slut you are,” his words die down into a groan as he feels your tongue swirl around his sensitive tip.

he's being nice for once, letting you take your time, your head bobs up and down as you suck him off while your hands jerk the rest of his cock that you can't fit in your mouth, tongue working against his sensitive spots.

but your mouth feels so good, so warm, so wet — his hips jerk up involuntarily, making you gag and tear up at the burn you feel at the back of your throat.

you look so pretty like this, those pretty lips wrapped around his cock, eyes glassy — don't blame him for wanting to ruin you when you look like that.

he pulls himself out of your mouth slightly — just to make sure he doesn't end up cumming too soon, before shoving himself back in, moaning in pleasure at the sensations he feels. you keep sucking, forcing all of him in your mouth, almost choking on his cock, some drool leaking out of the corners of your mouth, but it's worth it — worth those small whimpers and grunts he lets out, ones he can't hold back because of how good he feels right now, all because of you.

and when your hand reaches down to lightly toy with his balls, cupping them, he shivers and lets out a low moan of your name, without a proper warning his cock twitches in your mouth and he cums, hard — flooding your mouth with his thick salty release.

you try to swallow as much as you can but it's too much, however, mark being the fucking asshole he is, forces your head back down on his twitching cock and pinches your nose shut making it hard to breathe.

he breaks into a full blown laugh. oh how he loves the way your eyes water up — that panicked expression on your face as you struggle to breathe, some of his cum leaking out your pretty mouth, squirming and still trying to push him away. it only turns him on more, “it's rude to talk with your mouthful,” he quips, holding your gaze.

he lets you go finally and you pull him out of your mouth quickly, throat already feeling sore — you cough, wiping away his cum and your spit from your face with the back of your hand.

“you should've seen the look on your face,” he chuckles darkly — clearly pleased with himself, shifting closer to you to pin you down, wasting no time shoving his tongue in your mouth, messily kissing you. he lets you pull off his shirt, his hips buck a little when you start feeling him up.

he can taste himself on your tongue and god that only adds to his growing arousal.

he pulls away a little so he can start biting and sucking down your neck, his other hand sneaking down to tease your pussy — tracing circles onto your clit, he grinds against you, “gonna fucking ruin you for everyone else,” he bites your earlobe, tugging on it, his fingers moving to tease your other hole, “gonna make sure this fucking pussy is always full of me,” he slaps your pussy, making you cry out his name.

he quickly aligns himself with your wet entrance, taking a deep breath before nudging his tip in — shoving it all in one go, making you tremble in both pain and pleasure that'll build over time, “come on i know you can take it, isn't this what you wanted?” he coos mockingly, pressing sloppy wet kisses to your face, licking your face like some fucking dog, leaving your face covered in his spit.

as soon as your muscles relax the tiniest bit he's thrusting in and out of you like a madman — you yelp loudly, holding onto him for dear life, nails digging into his back.

“fuck- oh my god!”

the only sounds in the room are the fast wet sounds of him thrusting into you, your pussy squelching loudly at the action and your combined moans and whines.

your gummy walls clench around him harder with each thrust, his cock hitting that sweet spot so well it has you seeing stars, all you can think about is him.

“oh fuck,” he grunts into your ear when he feels you tighten around him, gripping him like a vice, “think she needs to be filled all nice and warm with my cum, don't you agree baby?” he accentuates each word with a harsh thrust, relishing the way your body writhes under him.

you nod mindlessly, desperate for that sweet release more than anything.

“aww what's wrong?” he leans down to suck on one of your nipples, pinching and toying with the other one — a choked out sob leaves your lips, you feel tears pooling in your eyes, you clench around him even harder, desperate to milk him for all he's worth. he lets out a whine when he sees the outline of his cock in your belly going in and out, fuck he's going to cum.

the movement his hips falter at the feeling of your pussy gripping him tightly, “oh fuck,” he breathes heavily, muscles tensing up a bit. he pulls out, moving you on your stomach, giving your ass an appreciative spank when you arch your back for him.

“guess she answered for you hm?”, he muses — pumping himself a few times before settling back into your warm needy cunt, “fucked too dumb to answer but can still arch your back like a needy whore? you're so fucking pathetic,” he licks over the opening of your little hole, an arm coming around to hold you in a headlock that has your vision blurry — in the best way possible. getting impatient, you try to fuck yourself back onto his length but he doesn't let you.

“nasty girl, i can feel you clenching around me” spank “you like it when i’m being mean hm?” spank “oh right you can't answer,” spank “not a thought behind those pretty eyes hm?” spank “don't worry, you don't have to think at all, you wouldn't have to, when i’m done with you.”

he starts rutting into you again, his filthy mouth doesn't stop as he dicks you down like his life depends on it. his arm around your neck — squeezing, leaving you dizzy as he pounds into you from behind like he's in heat, you've given up on trying to control your noises. he sneaks a hand down to pinch and toy with your clit — making your walls clench and toes curl and you cum for the nth time with almost a scream of his name, your body shakes vigorously as a result of your intense orgasm.

it doesn't take long for him to cum as well, especially with you screaming his name like that. with a few more sloppy thrusts he fills you up with his warm sticky white release, head thrown back as a soft whimper of your name is uttered out of his mouth.

breathing heavily, he makes sure to not waste a single drop — once again buries himself as deep as he can, admiring all the various marks that he has littered your skin with.

he pulls out after awhile, keeping your thighs apart with his rough calloused hands so he can see the sight of his cum mixed with yours leak out of your hole, shit, he's getting hard again.

he's honestly not sure if you can keep up — he doesn't want to end up hurting you- well you're his toy, nothing more than that he doesn't care if he hurts you, he really doesn't.

he wants to break you, ruin you. yeah, that's it.

his eyes definitely do not soften the slightest bit as he takes in your disheveled state, back still arched prettily for him, your ass red from all his spanking, skin battered with various marks, a proof of the intense passionate sex you two had.

but when you crane your head back, looking at him, “I can take it,” you're still trying to catch your breath, wincing a bit as you shift your body around, “give it to me mark,” you sound so sweet — swaying your hips side to side to make him give in and fill you up again.

you want him to break you.

and he does just that.

again and again, until he's sure your cunt remembers each vein and curve of his cock, stuffing your hole full to the brim each time.

so when your body finally gives out — almost passing out after another orgasm that he pulls out from you, lying on top of the only desk in the room as he drills into your cunt, he stops. pulling out and painting your tits with his release with a loud groan, his hair is sticking up in all different directions from the way you've kept pulling on it, body coated in a sheen layer of sweat — shaking as his chest heaves unevenly with each breath he takes just like yours.

he watches as your eyes close shut and you drift into a light slumber after a few minutes. his heart beating weirdly in an erratic manner, he chalks it up to the sex, although he has to admit he finds your sleepy face quite adorable, he may or may not want to hear that giggle again — the one you let out when he ended up cumming a little too fast when you praised him.

but he'll think about that when his face is not buried between your thighs, tongue sinking back into your folds — he can't get enough of you.

and with the way you whimper loudly, tugging on his hair oh so eagerly.

it seems like you can't get enough of him either.

so he'll indulge you to your heart’s content — maybe he'll save that video of him torturing your ex boyfriend and leaving him to die in a ditch for some other day.

#ㅤㅤ✶ㅤ digitald0rk's library !#DON'T LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT /jk #look im not me on my period okay #also i was kinda going for the whole “he keeps contradicting himself with how he feels”#like i said i wrote this with like sinister mark in mind but before he goes full on murder machine mode if that makes sense?#basically he's always been a little fucked up so no shit he turns out doing all that once he does go full evil #AM I MAKING SENSE #because he's still mark grayson you know?#so he will lose his shit if you praise him #IT'S THE LAW GUYS #all mark graysons are munches #invincible smut #invincible #invincible x reader #invincible x you #mark grayson #invincible fanfic #mark grayson x reader #mark grayson x you #mark grayson smut #sinister mark #sinister mark grayson #sinister mark x reader #sinister mark smut #sinister mark x you #invincible variants

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thecoochiefairy · 3 months ago

Text

short n’ sweet. onyankopon.

𑄽𑄺 warnings 𑄽𑄺 4.7K word count. blackfem!reader/original character, onyankopon, football player!onyankopon, sweet!onyakopon, dominant!onyankapon, arrogant!onyankopon, unprotected sex, vaginal penetration, lil bit of sweet talkin’, praising, LOTS of dirty talk, squirting, creaming, aggressive dirty talk, nasty sex chile, just a fine ass black man, minors aren’t welcome!

𝓐ᥫ᭡

𝒄𝙤𝒐𝙘𝒉𝙞𝒆𝙛𝒂𝙞𝒓𝙮 𝙩𝒉𝙤𝒖𝙜𝒉𝙩𝒔 .ᐟ guess who it is? yo’ favorite couple. now, lemme’ tell you. this is NOT the new fic, so look out for that in the next couple of days. this was just the nasty part of my mind wanting to put pen to paper—and i might’ve seen this video that reminded me of ole’ girl and ony real bad. so i suggest watching before reading ;) it’s nasty. sorry? kinda? not really. okay, bye.

𝓐ᥫ᭡:: your baby’s birthday is full of surprises.

visual.

STRAWBERRY SHORTCAKE HADN’T BEEN YOUR ONLY CHOICE. From Bratz, to Hello Kitty, the possibilities of a six month olds birthday party shouldn’t have been so complex—that was, if you weren’t dealing with your black ass family.

Driving from New Orleans to Mississippi wasn’t the issue. It was planning this party, having to take it three hours from your hometown, packing your children up for their first road trip, and making sure everything was set in stone by the time you arrived.

To top things off, you didn’t…feel well.

Once again, this was all the doing of your mother in law. You loved her, but her desires of doing everything to her perfection could be—suffocating.

It was an exciting time—your baby girl was turning six months old, and the entire family freaked out as if this weren’t you and Onyankopon’s second baby. You could appreciate everyone’s desire to celebrate—aunts, uncles, Onyankopon even had a couple of his teammates coming.

The idea of planning this whole thing was supposed to be fun. But it became less fun when you had the realization that you weren’t the one in charge. Onyankopon tried his best to tame his mother, but there wasn’t much he could do when she had her mind made up.

So you did what you always did—gave a smile, and tried not to fuss as much as you wanted to.

Strike one. You’d bought everything you wanted for your baby girl’s party to give Strawberry Shortcake down to her outfit—however, after already going over budget, you found out that your mother in law had gotten decorations professionally made, and she decided that your decorations were too “Boring.”

Strike two was when she decided to ship everything to your house and not hers, meaning that not only were you overflowing the car, but you had to pack your own stuff, your husbands, and two babies into Onyankopon’s G—Wagon.

Strike three—your breast ached from having to feed Sage within this three hour drive, you had the worst cramps on the planet—and you learned that Salem could become carsick. You stopped two times, having to change his clothes, hold him while holding Sage, and keep him from vomiting all over the seats.

When you finally made it to your mother in laws—all you wanted was a nap. Onyankopon had offered to take the kids downstairs as you slept, but Sage could be what you called a velcro baby—she’d lose her everlasting shit if you weren’t within arms reach.

You were tired, irritated, and sore more than usual. But you weren’t gonna cry.

It all led up to the day of your baby girl’s birthday—the morning was a little more chaotic than you hoped for, current focus along feeding Sage, while your mother in law ran rapidly around the house.

“Where are the cupcake toppers? Did you move them?”

Your eyes flick up to her, standing in a pale pink and red apron, looking like a mentally insane pastry chef.

Your voice is soft as you say, “Ony put everything in the garage like you asked him to, momma.”

She doesn’t waste a beat to rush out of the kitchen, leaving the scent of buttercream behind. You turn your attention down to Sage, the baby smacking her lips against your nipple as she continues to suckle.

You can’t even properly greet your husband as he enters the kitchen—not to mention, he was doing a great job of avoiding your irritation and his mother’s wrath. He’d camouflage into the wall if he could.

“Lil’ mama already lookin’ for yo’ titty this early?”

You release a soft breath, “I’m really thinkin’ about taking her off my nipple—put her on the bottle for good.”

Your eyes then narrow a bit, “And where have you been? Yo’ momma in here’ about to lose her mind because you moved the cupcake toppers.”

“That’s how you greet yo’ man? Don’t start trippin’ on me, girl. Forreal’.”

He pecks a kiss on your lips, leaning down to do the same with his baby’s forehead. Your irritation might’ve soothed a bit.

“I’m sorry,” you sigh, “I’m just—as little sleepy, is all. Good morning,” you pull him in for another soft peck on the lips, “Where’s Say-Say? Still sleep?”

“Yeah—lil’ nigga tried to swing on me earlier cause I told him to hand over that pacifier. But he ‘sleep—climbed his bad ass in Sage’s pack-n-play. The real question is—how you doin’?“

You can’t even answer the question. Onyankopon’s mother comes back into the kitchen as she questions, “Onyankopon—did you move the cake toppers? I told you not to touch them!”

Onyankopon raises an eyebrow, “And have you cuss’ me out? Hell nah’ I ain’t touch ‘em. They’ been in the garage since we got here.”

“Are you sure you didn’t hear me mention the attic, and that’s where you put them?”

The sound of opening and shutting doors echoes into the kitchen as she frantically pulls at the cabinets.

“Are you sure you ain’t lose em’?”

“I have a great memory!” she huffs, “If I can’t find them—the cupcakes are gonna be dull—they don’t look a lick of Strawberry Shortcake!—And y’all just sitting there, watching me freak out!”

She gives you no time to defend yourself, stomping out of the kitchen as she cusses. Your jaw is clenched a bit, turning back towards Onyankopon as you raise an eyebrow, “You wanna know how I’m doing? Forreal’? ‘Cause that might cause an argument.”

His eyes narrow, "C’mon, bro. Don’t start. You know how my momma be’."

“I ain’t even say nothing, Ony. You keep reminding me how yo’ momma acts—but you ain’t saying nothing to her.”

Your voice is a little sharp, pulling yourself back as Onyankopon tries to grab for Sage, “Stop—You know she’s gonna start crying.”

"If you 'bout to start somethin', can you do it after the party?" He takes note of your attitude, his voice more stern than usual, “We came all the way out here for lil’ mama—I ain’t about to let y’all make a scene.”

“I’m literally more calm than I should be,” you deadpan, “How you finna’ check me about my attitude but not yo’ momma? Your priorities are in the wrong place right now.”

Onyankopon smacks his lips, “I ain’t realized there was a manual on how to react when yo’ wife actin’ salty, and yo’ momma in the next room ‘bout to pop a blood vessel.”

“What you’ want me to do, Ony? How should I act?” You question, placing Sage against your shoulder, gently patting her back, even in the midst of your irritation.

“Just chill. I ain’t tryna’ click out on you and my momma.”

Onyankopon’s gaze is serious, not backing down despite your glare, “I’m so serious.”

“Oh?” You raise an eyebrow, “I’m sorry that me being irritated with the fact that we drove three hours—well, let’s wrap it up to five since Salem was car sick— not to mention that I was extremely uncomfortable since we had no room in the backseat with all the extra decorations your mom decided to buy when I already bought some! I’m running off twelve hours of sleep in the past two days, and somehow your momma still thinks I’m not doing enough. My fault—let me chill.”

Sage burps, babbling as she wraps her mouth along the end of your shoulder. Your arms are sore at this point. You sigh, “Take her,” as you lean your baby girl into his arms.

Sage continues babbling, wrapping her toothless gums on the end of your husbands t-shirt, rubbing her face into his chest.

“Aight,” He nods, hearing the frustration in your voice, “I’m sorry. You’ right.”

You don’t mean to be snappy—You don’t want to be. You hate when you get like this, another exhale blowing from your lips as you’re holding that urge to cry. God, your period was definitely coming. Not only are you emotional, but even being upset with your husband, you wanna be as close to him as possible. And—were you a little horny?

You rub the muscular bicep of his tattooed arm, “You mind getting her dressed while I take a quick nap?”

He nods, “Of course. I was gon’ do that anyways.”

He takes Sage onto his shoulder, “I’ll come wake you up so you got time to get ready—just focus on sleeping, aight? I’m ‘bout to get Say-Say dressed and go help my momma with these cupcakes before dressing Sage.”

You reach for his ear, rubbing affectionately as you hum, “You’re so sweet, Daddy. Thank you.”

Onyankopon’s serious gaze eases, a smirk growing on his face.

“Aight—you know ain’t no callin’ me that if you ain’t gon’ do all the rest,” He shakes your grip from his ear, pressing a kiss on your palm.

“C’mon, ‘fore you get me worked up.”

You roll your eyes, giggling softly as you begin making your way back upstairs—but you can’t help but listen to Onyankopon talking to your daughter—as he always did.

“Don’t worry, baby. All of us gon’ be back in NOLA soon, and yo’ momma gon’ be back to herself—You gon’ get to see aunties, uncles— whatchu think? A whole lotta Strawberry Shortcake, huh? What a life you’ blessed with, pretty mama…”

Getting some type of rest definitely puts you in a better headspace, and the true realization that you were celebrating your baby’s birthday couldn’t have made you any happier. Sage’s Strawberry Shortcake Party was in full swing.

Sweets and desserts scattered across the plaid picnic table for guests to choose from. Everyone was here—family, Onyankopon’s players, even you and your mother in law were now getting along—everyone was in adoration of your baby, the celebration being better than you expected it to ever be.

Your dress matched Sage’s strawberry covered bonnet, oversized along her dark curls, her dress fluffing out from its poofy frill. The sight had you snapping a thousand pictures— however, you’re a bit distracted.

You’d redone Onyankopon’s braids for him the night before, the olive green shirt he wears clinging to his muscular frame, complimenting his brown skin that mixes with all of his tattoos. It’s something about how much of a southern man he really was—being in between New Orleans and Mississippi—he’s sporting jeans, a hefty belt shining under the natural light coming into the house, cowboy boots heavy on his feet with each step. Facial hair, face tats, it all pulls together with the print hung under his belt that he can’t seem to tuck.

God.

But you’re no better—the mini halter dress you wear molds around your full hips and ass, lace trimming along the end of the pale pink material. Your matching woven sandals show off the French tip of your toes, dark curls framing around your curvy figure.

The sight of your husband—it’s becoming a problem. Your heart swells as you hold Salem in your arms, the tune of Happy Birthday echoing to your baby girl, Onyankopon holding her up towards the cake, allowing her to tear the dessert apart piece by piece. She’s giggling, and to see Onyankopon so soft with your daughter that you created together—it made you love him even more.

Back to the point of him being a problem— now, he’s being touchy.

Salem’s a bit more independent now, running around the yard with his cousins as he screams out in excitement. You have the perfect view of your family enjoying the celebration that your mother in law put so much time and effort into—you couldn’t help but thank her, despite your differences.

Back to the point again, Onyankopon being a problem. His fingers become hooked along the waist of your dress, his face pressed in the crook of your neck as he kisses on your skin, gently nipping and licking.

You knew your husband to be affectionate, so to him, this was just showing you love in a way that he felt was innocent. But with each kiss, each compliment, your clit throbbed.

Maybe he noticed. Maybe he didn’t.

The party was now close to ending—Sage and Salem being taken upstairs to bed, leaving the rest of the adults downstairs, drinking and catching up with each other. You leaned yourself against his shoulder as he talked to his teammates, lightly padding your fingers against his lower back in the softest way. Your palms travel, finding the warmth of his ear—you start rubbing there.

Onyankopon can always sense your change in temperature. Your hands wander aimlessly on his body at this point, still giving no reaction to your touch as he occasionally takes a long swig from the bottle of beer in his hand.

You’re looking at him— his legs spread against the chair, boots flat along the ground, bulge prominent as he continuously attempts to adjust himself. Your mind won’t stop fantasizing, and you can imagine yourself just—

Dishes. You needed to do the dishes.

The moment you say your goodbyes to everyone, you’re quiet as you wash off the ceramic plates into the sink. You can hear Onyankopon throwing things in the trash behind you, a sigh parting from your lips as you ask, “That was nice, wasn’t it?”

“Mhm.”

His palms slide up from behind, his arms enveloping your body as his hands gently rub circles along your stomach. Your body is pressed against his, warm and needy—but, was this the right time to speak up?

“My baby had a big day,” He says, his voice a low hum.

“I just wish she would be able to remember times like these, you know? She was so giggly and excited to smash her cake, and her outfit was adorable—those are times we’ll never get back with her. I’ll think about them a lot,” you softly smile, leaning yourself back against your husband's chest.

“She gon’ know how much we loved her,” He kisses on the side of your neck, “We do got’ a few more times like this before Salem hits three, so don’t beat yo’self up too much, aight? Our family is perfect.”

You press your lips together at that. Turning your head to face him, your brown eyes pool into his sight, hand reaching for his facial hair, scratching your fingers into the coils of it.

“Thank you for holding me together today. I was a little frustrated earlier—but everything turned out better than I ever thought it would. I was good, wasn’t I?”

“It’s nothing you gotta thank me for, baby. We do this as a team, aight? You was’ good, even when you had every reason to be upset. You my lil’ team player, forreal’.”

That makes you smile.

“You’ my big team player,” you softly giggle.

“I know that. C’mere.”

His hand cups the back of your head, locking your lips into a kiss, full lips overlapping yours. It removes the lip combo you wear, tongue deepening itself in your mouth.

“Yo’ ass was good today, Mama.”

You’re always ready to accept his kisses, but sometimes—between you and yourself—you couldn’t handle Onyankopon when he got like this. Not to mention that your body felt overly sensitive in the moment, so just from a kiss, you were trembling.

You’re shy within your giggle as you breathlessly muse, “T—Thank you, baby.”

“You already know I’m gon’ thank you some more in ‘bout two minutes. Take yo’ ass upstairs.”

Onyankopon was always a man of his word. Here you were now—body shuddering from his tongue previously nose deep in your pussy, heart rate pounding in your ears as you straddled your smaller frame atop of his. You loved riding him—but you loved seeing his face more, rather than facing the opposite way as you were now. On the other hand, Onyankopon loved this position just as much as seeing your pretty face— his eyes continuously traced over the ink tattooed along your back, the dark pink complimenting your caramel skin.

You whimper to him, “Wanna see you, Ony.”

His tip is already being engulfed by the pretty pink of your folds, puffy as they’re stretched by the girth of him.

Onyankopon takes a handful of your hair, giving it a tug—your body quivers the minute you feel his other palm smack your ass, “Yo’ shit too muhfuckin’ pretty, Mama. Lemme’ enjoy you like this.”

Your lashes brush against your freckled cheeks as you slowly lower your hips, every inch of him being sucked in by your pussy, the back of your thighs meeting his abdomen as you go down. The curls of your hair drape along your figure with the sway of your body dipping, your lips parting a bit, shakily gasping in the softest way.

Leaning yourself against his legs, your teeth lightly tug at your lower lip as you rock down, finding a rhythm within the angle, skin creating the tiniest clapping echo against his dick. You part a whimper from your lips.

“Goddamn, Mama—Who you doin’ allat for?”

A hand makes its way over the front of you, rubbing the middle of your stomach to feel your body shift. His touch has you arching, your soft cry of pleasure deafening to your own ears as your ass bounces on his hips. You never sounded like this so early.

“Ion’ know who you was tryna’ play,” Onyankopon grunts out—you’re like a pendulum, putting him in a trance with the way you wine your body. But that never stopped his mouth.

“A nigga gon’ know if you need him as soon as you walk inna’ room—allat’ attitude, touchin’ on me—That’s how you know a nigga love yo’ ass. You love me, huh?”

“Love you,” your voice is still soft, whimpering as you hold your ass in your own palms, spanking yourself, “Love you, Ony…”

Every time he mentions the word love, even indirectly—you’re like a puppy, willing to agree to anything that comes from his mouth. That’s how it’s always been.

“You a good lil’ bitch,” he grunts, “Keep fuckin’ me.”

His clasp at the end of your curls has your eyes rolling, your mouth pouting as he tugs you down to meet the sticky heat of your pussy becoming wetter. His palm lowers itself, gripping your ass, finding a hold there—you’re dropping, dropping, you’re groaning in the prettiest way, “Ughn, O—Ony…”

“Keep singin’, baby. Keep throwin’ that shit.”

His desire for you grew with each child, with each touch, with each word. But he would still give you the world.

Onyankopon always gave you an immense amount of pleasure—but when he wanted to reward you—god, you were lucky you weren’t a mental patient.

The positions are always dominated by him, now having you bent at the edge of the bed, body arched to perfection, legs tucked underneath his to keep you still. His fingers always find a hold of your hair, locking you in place as he’s sliding his tip up and down against your folds—slow, aching.

Your face is hidden beneath the sheets, palm finding a collection of the comforter beneath your fingers. Your pussy spreads as his tip sinks in—Onyankopon grounding his hips, allowing the weight of his dick to fill you in all one thrust.

Your mouth drops, “Damn, baby…”

It’s almost torturous—his tip goes from kissing at your folds, to the air within your chest leaving as you’re full in a milliseconds, dick curving into your walls, reaching for your cervix that eats a delicious pinch from his strokes. Again and again, the room fills with a sweet lullaby of the slaps his hips make against your ass. Each thrust is accompanied by a satisfying whine from your mouth.

“This them’ good girl strokes,” he grunts, stroking through his words, “Good ass fuckin’ girl.”

For the sake of your mother in law and children, you press your mouth into the sheets, eyes rolling as your whimpers muffle through the material—but Onyankopon could be the worst sometimes.

His favorite place to grasp—your curls, his fingers collect anything he can get his hands on, using it to drop you down in the slowest he’s ever given you a thrust, his balls rubbing against your clit, dick nearly reaching for your windpipe—he’s deep, deeper than he’s ever been before.

“Don’t fuckin’ move,” his voice is dark, “Imma’ keep you here. Let you feel this big ass dick.”

“Fuckkk.”

Your eyes roll as you gasp—your pussy was’ stuffed.

“Can’t f—feel you no more,” you whimper, trying to pull yourself together through the pleasurable tears that begin to collect in your eyes. You tremble, your mouth quivering a sob, “I’m too wet, baby. Oh my g—god…”

You don’t even realize you’re cumming—squirting for that matter—only able to hear the splat, splat of your arousal gushing in between your skin colliding together. Your thighs are trembling, the vibration traveling up to your throat as you groan.

“Don’t be fuckin’ lyin’ to me—you feel my shit.”

His fingers tightened around your curls, forcing you back onto his dick after a swift jerk, making your head tilt backwards for your throat to be exposed, your lower body going numb as he fucks you into an oblivious space.

He’s close, sliding his soaked tip out to see your cum glistening down the dick, to putting you back on him—again, again, again.

You’re brain is so fried, you begin bouncing yourself back on his dick, cumming, continuously cumming—you’re whining as you turn your head back towards him, “Dick so fuckin’ big, Daddy. Just taking your pussy. Just. Take…me….”

You’re talking through the strokes you provide for yourself, you’re drooling, almost in a bimbo like state. He always took you there.

Onyankopon’s body looms over yours as he finds a place of your throat to hold, pulling your face back to watch you. The sounds you made were identical to an angel crying, prettier than ever before. His dick finds the last crevice of space left inside you—his tip resting in between your cervix, “Make a mess on this bitch. Make. A. Fuckin’. Mess,” he emphasizes his words through every. Single. Thrust.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuckkk.”

It happens—you scream—Onyankopon moans as you squeeze around him, pulling himself out as he cums—but he’s more worried about you. He replaces his dick with his fingers, chaotically rubbing at your clit, fingers becoming drenched as you squirt again.

His hand holds you in place as you cry, legs trembling, having one of the most intense orgasms you’d had with him. There’s more tears in your eyes, your head knocking into the sheets, hiding your flushed face as you hadn’t expected your own reaction.

His voice grumbled into the shell of your ear, “There you go, baby. You did that shit for me. Did all that shit for me, huh?”

You only have to let out a shaky exhale in response to his words, too exhausted to argue otherwise.

That’s when you both hear a knock— it startles you so bad that your entire body jolts, Onyankopon cradling you beneath his hold protectively. His voice is low as he responds, “Yeah, momma. What you’ need?”

“I heard screaming—is everything alright?

You hide your face into his arm.

Onyankopon deepens his face into your neck, chuckling before he replies, “Yeah. She—uh, saw a big ass spider. We’ good.”

“Oh—I just wanted to check. Anyways , this baby lookin’ for yo’ wife’s nipple.“

You sigh, barely able to respond, nearly halfway asleep in the seconds they conversed with each other. Your voice is soft as you reply, “I’m comin’, momma—Just give lil’ mama her binky until then.”

The silence that fills the room confirms that she left, a quiet, soft laugh coming off Onyankopon’s lips.

“You know she ain’t stupid—she finna’ get my ass, lawd.”

“No,” you cover your reddened face with his arm, “That’s so embarrassing. God, please go get Sage so I don’t have to face that conversation.”

“You heard how bad my ass was lyin’?”

He continues chuckling, the rumble of it hitting your back as you huff, “Ony.”

“Aight, aight,” He laughs, “Let me clean up ‘fore I head up there.“

The heat of the moment begins to fade away as your sobriety washes over you. The moment he goes to leave—you stop him. Turning to face him, you wrap your arms around Onyankopon’s neck as you pucker your lips out for a kiss, “I love you. You love me?”

“With my life, shawty,” He leans forward, pressing his lips into yours for a quick peck that you’ve been seeking.

“You sure?”

You didn’t mean to have the question sound worrisome, but your voice was a little—hesitant. You were hesitant.

“Baby. That’s never gon’ change. What’s going on?” he frowns, “Why’ you feelin’ like this?”

Remember all the times you said you weren’t gonna cry today?

Too late for that.

Your hands quickly cover your face as you feel your body trembling— you softly sob, hiding your cries within your palms as you release all the emotions you’d been holding for the past couple of days.

“Aye—What’s goin’ on, baby? Hey,” he takes your face into the palms of his large hand, “You can cry, forreal’, but what got you feelin’ like this? Why’ you think I wouldn’t love you? Talk to me.”

Your tears run down your face, cheeks as red as your baby girls as you continue to cry. Your voice shakes as you whimper, “You’re gonna be upset with me…”

“Aight, aight, just—,” he shakes his head, cupping your face into his hands more as he tries to figure out what to say.

“—You know I can’t stand seeing you cry. I ain’t never gon’ be mad at you for that—just talk to me.”

You take a deep breath, “I’m sorry for being mean to you, baby. I just—I love you so much—and you told me that you wanted a big family—but we just had lil’ mama, and you’re about to get back on the field again—“

“Mama,” he cuts off, “Slow down. What you’ tryna say?—Are you pregnant again?”

“…I just—I wanted to try a new birth control because the IUD was giving me issues—and I forgot to take my pills—you probably don’t even want another baby.”

You’re crying even harder now, pressing your face into his chest.

“You—“

He sighs, not even attempting to mask his irritation, “You think I’d be upset that you’ pregnant again?”

His tone is low, “I don’t care if you get pregnant with ten of my kids. You my fuckin’ wife. We’ll have a whole muhfuckin’ football team if that’s what god blessed us with. I love you. That ain’t gon’ change.”

That makes your heart swell. You press your forehead to his, a tearful giggle falling from your lips.

“I didn’t mean to start crying,” you softly say, taking a deep breath as your fingers wrap around his necklace, “My period was supposed to be a week ago, but when I realized it was late—I thought I was being dramatic thinking I was pregnant again, so I didn’t even tell you—I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be talkin’ nonsense,” He mutters, “I told you when we first started this family that the number didn’t matter to me—As long as you happy.”

“I’m more than happy,” you say, pressing your lips back into his, “I love you and our babies so much.”

Onyankopon’s smile grows into a smirk, “I got a bunch of kids runnin’ around here anyway, Salem ‘bout two in one—I’m ready when you ready, baby.”

That makes more tears pour from your eyes. You tighten your arms around his neck as you softly cry, “I love you so much, Onyankopon.”

“I love you more, baby. Ain’t that why yo’ lil’ ass cryin’?” He chuckles, gently patting and rubbing on your back, “You gon’ be a mess if you keep goin’ like this. I’m finna’ go tell my momma—MOMMA!”

You giggle as he takes off—and at this point, you’re not entirely sure why you’re still crying. You’re just sensitive, okay?

You’re sobbing, but you’re so happy. You had no idea how lucky you truly were to have this man. Your heart flutters as you try to stop your tears, but the love for your family is making it difficult. The love for him made it all the more worse.

That was never gonna change.

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