gojo-supreme

[gojo-supreme]

the only drawback to making kento a father is the lack of 'alone time' you now get.

he was made to be a dad, there’s no doubt about it. he’s the perfect contender, stern but patient and understanding and so infatuated with fatherhood that you almost don’t mind the nightly interruptions.

almost. the sound of little padding footsteps leading up to your closed bedroom door gives you a trauma response now. how your husband can hold himself above you, inches away from dipping inside your sweet center, and still remain kind-eyed and cheery when your daughter starts banging on the shut door to be let in is beyond you.

he's a good man. you hate him for it.

maybe you just need sex. you've been deprived of your husband's body for so long that you're going stir crazy, in a sense. he did marry you with a vow of servitude, after all.

thank god for takuma and his wide eyes. he looks like a deer in headlights as he stands at your front door, a huge bag of toys and snacks and just-in-case diapers in one hand and your daughters tiny hand wrapped around two fingers of his other hand. she beams up at uncle ino, ready to spend a night away from home (and get unreasonably spoilt in the process).

"no snacks after her teeth are brushed. and she's developed a penchant for climbing—don't let her do that. and if she comes home with even a mark, ino, i will be breaking each and every last one of your bones, starting with the toes and moving upwards until i reach your—"

"i think he gets the point, love," you place a gentle hand on your husbands tense bicep. "please stop threatening to snap takuma's bones."

ino, who is probably going over his last will and testament in his head, forces a grin. "loud and clear, she's safe with me."

"mhm," your husband can only eye him for so long before your daughter is tugging uncle ino away and leaving the two of you in the foyer.

finally alone. just you, your husband, and his teething paranoia. he's darting to the front window and peeking through it like a yappy dog would as their owner leaves. it’s cute. you feel bad for the future-teenage version of your daughter, who will have to deal with a man like kento nanami as her father. but now she’s just a baby and in the safe (albeit shaky) care of uncle ino, and you are vying for an orgasm or six.

“ken, honey."

his eyes are stuck outside.

"kento."

still stuck. you never thought the other woman would be sporting butterfly clips and drool as a statement piece.

"oh my fucking god kento nanami if you do not fuck me right now i will take that little sword of yours and stick it so far up your— oh hi."

he's standing in front of you before you know it, with your face held firmly in his hands and an awfully stern look on his face.

"my love," he drags his thumb from your cheek, down to your bottom lip. "first of all, i have every intention of ravaging you until you're so full of me that you don't have the mind to beg for more. and second, it's more of a cleaver than a sword."

"okay nerd," you pull your man into a deep kiss, one much more intimate than you've been allowing yourself of late. kento takes the lead easily, slipping his tongue past your lips in a way he'd never dare to do over the breakfast table.

before you can register your movements, the two of you are stumbling like drunk teens up to your bedroom, a garment of clothing lost with each step to the door. you loosen your husbands tie and drop it to the ground, and he manages to unclasp your bra just as his back hits the bed and you're falling on top of him in a mess of gross kisses and shared laughter.

it's sweet, until kento tires of the homely teasing and flips you over to press his heavy body (and even heavier cock, it seems) against yourself. your legs part naturally, as they will ever do for the man you love, and kento trails kiss after kiss from your neck all the way down to the dripping mess of your cunt.

when he latches his lips to your clit you gasp and shoot your hand down to his hair. he loves it being pulled, admitted to you after a drink too many that he finds in degrading in a way that is only pleasurable coming from you: he's sensitive to that sort of stuff, so you tug lightly at his blond locks until your fingers snag against something hard.

"what's in your hair?" you manage between moans as ken savours his most favourite meal.

he pulls away for a second, resting his cheek against your parted (and already shaky) thigh as you comb through his hair with your fingers once more and pullout not one, but two hot pink butterfly clips that you were looking for only this morning.

"oh," your husband smiles when he sees them. "i got a princess makeover last night. i stopped her before she could go looking for makeup but she did manage to find those."

"they suit you," you smile, and clip them back into his hair. it look silly, but it keeps his hair from sticking to his forehead in the heat of things, so you look past the glitter. "you're a good dad, you know?"

kento presses a kiss to your clit, which has your breath hitch in your throat, before rising up to climb over you once again. his cock is heavy and pulsing with heat as it rests against you, but ken denies himself for a moment in favour of pressing a very sweet kiss to your lips. you can taste yourself on his smile.

"thank you for making me a dad," he kisses your cheek next, and then your forehead. "and thank you for everything else you have given me in our marriage."

"all those orgasms..." you muse, which earns you a small laugh from your lover.

"oh indeed," he reaches down and lines himself up with you. "you always know just how to set the mood. very sentimental, you are."

"it's what you married me for," you lift your hips a little to help your husband in. "isn't it? you just love the way i—oh god, ken."

he pushes into you niiice and slow, feeling the way you stretch around him. it's been a while, so the usual ache of accommodating his unfair size is more of a burn this time through, but kento's lips against your neck are a nice distraction. he's slow and sweet and so in love with you that you can feel it in the way he fills you up. or maybe you're just delusional from the dick.

"love the way you feel," he finishes your sentence. drawing his hips back only a little to get you used to his movements, he presses his next kiss to your shoulder. "love the way you look."

"you don't need to flatter me. you're already inside of me."

kento bites the skin of your shoulder and picks up the pace to really start fucking you. "love the way you can take a compliment without being a smartass about it."

"god, kento," you can only manage a few words before he's adjusting his thrusts to brush against your g spot with each movement in and out. "it's so much."

"i love how well you take me," he goes on. "i love your heart. and i love your body. and i love your idiotic jokes. and i love how you smell."

"ken..."

"and i love—" kento runs a hand down your left arm to take your hand in his, bringing your knuckles up to his lips before pressing a long kiss to your wedding band "—how i'm all yours."

not his, yours. he's made it very clear since your first date (which was more of a study-situation than anything, that he is all yours. your property. your lover. your shoulder to cry on and your life partner and the man who would burn down cities for you and your kid.

and the only man who could fill you this deep and still be romantic about it. he fucks you like that until your legs are locked around his waist and you're begging him to fill you up with his load.

and of course he obliges, because anything you ask for he will give you enthusiastically. he rubs your clit until you're blanking on your own name and cumming in beautiful synchronisation with him. kento spills deep inside of you with a breathy groan and even then still manages to fuck you through your orgasm until he's softening inside of you and you're trying ultra hard not to cry from the overwhelming love (and pleasure) you're feeling.

and as he holds himself over you, smiling down at you like he didn't just possibly breed you out again, all you can do is look up at him with teary eyes and laugh at the ridiculous pink butterfly clips on his head.

"you're so pretty," you giggle, reaching up between your sweaty bodies to tap on the clips. "my manly husband."

"god," he groans, dropping his head down to your chest. you laugh some more, now with an even better view of his accessories, until he steals your laughter altogether with a sharp bite to your nipple.

"ow, fuck! that is not how a princess behaves."

"you are going to be the death of me."

[gojo-supreme]

Oh, Suguru doesn’t let you sulk. Not for long, especially when you start tearing yourself apart.

You're standing in front of the full-length mirror, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, breathing sharp through your nose as you mutter under your breath about how nothing fits right, how everything feels off. Your shirt’s halfway over your head again, what is this, the fourth outfit? Fifth? You don’t even know anymore. And behind you, on the edge of the bed, Suguru’s been watching the whole thing unfold with quiet amusement. One leg crossed over the other, hair slightly damn still as it cascades down his shoulders, sleeves rolled up. Patient. Calm. Gorgeous.

You glance at him, lips pushed out in a frustrated pout, and ask without really asking, “Can I just wear one of your shirts?”

You think he’ll say yes. He usually does.

But not tonight.

Instead, you hear the soft rustle of fabric as he rises from the bed, footsteps slow as he comes up behind you. You barely register the way he slides one arm around your waist, the other drifting up to brush your hair aside. He leans in close - so close you can feel the warmth of his breath against your neck, the low, velvet murmur of his voice sliding down your spine.

“Why would I do that,” he whispers, lips grazing your cheek, violet eyes meeting yours in the mirror, “when you look so damn pretty like this?”

You try to scoff. Try to brush it off like you always do. But then he holds your gaze in the mirror. And something about the way he’s looking at you - lazy-lidded, smiling faintly - makes your throat go a little tight.

“I mean it,” he says, voice all honey and heat, hands trailing down the curve of your hips. “You know I do. So how about you tell yourself, huh? For me.”

Your eyes flicker down. You mumble, just under your breath.

He chuckles softly, chin resting on your shoulder now, eyes locked with yours in the mirror. “Not good enough, baby. You know better than that.” His voice dips lower. “Come on, pretty girl. Say it like you mean it. Look at her,” he murmurs, gesturing to your reflection with the tilt of his head. “She deserves to hear it.”

You try again. Louder. Still awkward and even a little shaky.

But he’s nodding, lips curling in satisfaction. “That’s my girl,” he murmurs. “Again.”

His hands slide across your stomach now, slow and purposeful, thumbs brushing that soft part he always lingers on. “Love this body,” he says. “Love this girl. Mine.”

Your smile creeps in slowly, until, he tickles your sides out of nowhere.

“Wish my pretty girl would love herself a little more,” he says through your squeals and laughter, his arms wrapping tight around you to keep you from escaping. “Think you can do that for me, baby?” he asks, voice right at your ear now before taking a small nip.

[gojo-supreme]

Just a donor.

Satoru gave something special to you and Suguru. Now he wants it back.

Sperm donor!Satoru Gojo x Fem, New mom!reader x Suguru Geto Triggering and very real topics, viewer discretion is advised, Established Relationship with Suguru (Married), Yandere! Behaviour, Manipulative behaviour, Post partum, Babies, Mentions of, Infertility/Childbirth, Implied breastfeeding, Physical abuse, Psychological abuse, Coercion, Blackmailing, Parental responsibility

<<< For more Satoru content, click this link to go back to the Masterlist! >>>

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When your daughter came into this world, Suguru’s name should have been on that birth certificate.

When your little girl came out with hair whiter than snow, things got complicated.

Well, Satoru Gojo got complicated. Growing and festering to the point of obsession, things got more than just complicated, they got downright dangerous.

At first, the entire thing was a misunderstanding, costing more in legal fees, court appearances and applications to family court with money you and Suguru just didn’t have. How could you have the energy to go through all that after giving birth and feeding a newborn every two hours?

So for the time being, you left it.

Despite your marriage to Suguru, you and he left it for now.

In legal circumstances, Satoru had parental responsibility over your daughter and not your husband. Satoru was understanding, almost embarrassed of the clerical error and offering money to amend it. In hindsight, you should have taken it, you should have had the issue taken care of so that it was put to bed.

In hindsight.

Suguru understood though heartbroken, it wasn’t his best friends doing. After all, Satoru gave you and Suguru the best gift of all, a beautiful and healthy daughter with the biggest set of lungs. 

You and Suguru eagerly discussed Satoru’s proposal to be the sperm donor, long nights agonising over the logistics and practicality of it all. The expenses were one thing, Satoru waived all of them. In honesty, you should have known then and there that he would bring trouble to your doorstep, a weighted presence after he started pushing to see your daughter more than casually and weekly visits evolved to two, or three days respectively.

And then, he started coming around the house when Suguru wasn’t home.

Now, Suguru wasn’t dismissive or wore rose tinted glasses in front of his best friend and wife. He knew there were problems, he just didn’t have the capacity to tackle them on his own with mounting work and that you just didn't want to burden him with more issues.

His mother was a candidate you took gladly so that you weren’t on your own with him. Satoru often played off your fears as instability due to postpartum and hormones. He kept up appearances around everyone who wasn’t you and for a time, Suguru’s mother was besotted with him.

‘Oh, isn’t he wonderful?! Such a good friend and uncle.’ She’d say, even encouraging you to hand your daughter off to him for ‘cuddles’ so she could clean the house and allow you time on your own to shower.

Well, Suguru’s mother’s stay at your house stopped short when she allowed Satoru to watch your daughter while she gardened. He rocked her to sleep and cooed indistinct words with precious forehead kisses.

Around other people, he referred to himself as Uncle Satoru. In only your daughter’s presence, it changed to 'Daddy'.

Suguru’s mother left that night, and things blew up after Suguru wearily took his mother home. The pressure was getting to him, torn between his wife and child, and his best friend who never fully manipulated him, the red flags were there though only subtly in the background. In plain sight but out of mind.

“Are you insane? Stop referring to yourself as her father- you aren’t.”

Satoru followed you up the stairs, teetering on the threshold into the bedroom, leaning so arrogantly that it made you want to rip your hair out more than you already did.

“Y’know, I can’t actually believe you’re still carrying on with this.” His eyes were lidded, more sunken than before like he’d finally given up on pretending.

You didn’t know what was more exhausting.

“I want you out of this house, and you are never to return, do you understand? I don’t care what Suguru will say to it, I don’t care what his mother could say to it- you are not my daughter's father and you never will be.”

“It hurts me every time you say that.”

He stepped through the doorway, you managed to hold your ground for all but five seconds as he skulked closer. You instinctively backed away towards the crib, never taking your eyes off of the predatory aura Satoru soon developed.

“It is true. She’s my baby. Suguru’s daughter-”

“She’s my child too. I’m a part of her- listen.” He moved so fast and snatched your hand, ignoring the reactive scream when he yanked you close, slapping your hand down firmly on his chest. “You feel that? My heartbeat, she has that too- my hair, my fucking eyes for christ's sake. I’m her father and I will be damned if I don’t fulfill that role.”

Your first instinct was to check she was still sleeping, breathing normally amidst your response. Thankfully, she was. “Satoru… we all agreed on this. You agreed that she’d never know who you really were, because all you did was donate your sperm.”

“We agreed that I’d be in her life.” His teeth gritted a fraction and then returned to normal. “But I did more than just jack off in a cup for you to use, I gave her life and you won’t take her away from me. She’ll know who her real father is and I’ll make sure she stays close.”

“We agreed-”

“Shoulda signed a contract, baby. Paperwork can be so finicky, don’t y’think?”

No… No fucking way. “It wasn’t just an error, was it- the birth certificate.”

You were still touching, hand pressed so tight it would cause a rash just pulling away. Satoru’s heartbeat increased right under your fingertips, he didn’t need to tell you to give his game away.

“You forged my signature, didn't you? I don't remember signing that thing. You- you made sure Suguru didn’t have any rights. It was all you.”

If he took your daughter, Suguru couldn’t do a thing. In the eyes of the justice system, he was essentially invisible. A man in her life with no say.

Satoru tilted his head to the side condescendingly enough to startle you. “N’arww, you only just figured it out? I knew you were gonna cut and run as soon as she was born, I needed some insurance. You were so exhausted after the birth, I took matters into my own hands.”

He studied you with a look only your husband gave you when you and he were alone. “You looked so beautiful then, hair stuck to your face and chest rising so quickly like you were terrified. What I loved most was that smile you had when she was born.”

Satoru looked down at your sleeping daughter and brushed her cheek delicately with the most loving smile the man could ever possess. “She has my hair, my eyes, but every time I look at her, she has something I can’t ever replicate. Your smile… She looks more like you than she could ever be like me and that’s what makes her special.”

“Please… Satoru. Leave us alone. I’ll call the police, Suguru won’t just let you do this.”

“Nah, he will. I’ve been breaking him down inch by inch the entire time, he’s pretty much checked out now.”

“What-What are you talking about?” This was when you started to try and pull away from him. “Satrou, what have you done?”

The bastard sounded so sure of himself, that little laugh you often admired before all this churned your stomach. “When he comes in, he’ll find the evidence of our relationship and leave you. I mean, he doesn’t even have a child with you, his ‘daughter’ is another man’s baby.”

“What are you talking about Satoru? There is no- get off of me.” You wanted to shout, scream and curse in his ear until it perforated his eardrum. 

But, your baby girl. Despite being as little as she was, you couldn’t traumatise her and drag her into the mess you had indirectly caused. Why the fuck did you let a close friend be the sperm donor for your baby? Idiotic and foolish. Though you couldn’t take it back now, could you?

“What evidence, there’s no evidence- Satoru, get off me.” 

You pulled again, his grip tightening until his arm was around you. He never moved despite your struggle, a brick wall with an agenda, he lugged you out of the room and covered your mouth.

“Shh, wouldn’t want to wake our precious baby girl now, would you?”

It stung like venom, an aggressive snake striking you over and over until it had dragged you down the stairs and pushed you into the living room. Your breast pump and pillow sat on the coffee table in preparation for feeding, a warm blanket and television remote placed strategically for optimal movement and an undisturbed child.

“What the hell are you doing!” Yanking your arm from his hand, you broke the connection and placed the coffee table between you as some sort of pathetic barricade.

If he wanted through, he was coming regardless.

“Just because we didn’t sleep together to make her, doesn't mean she isn’t mine… But for the next one, we can do it properly-”

“Next one?! I’m six weeks postpartum, you- I’d never let you come near me. Don’t you get it? I’m just not interested. I’m married and love my husband.”

The room couldn’t have been more deafening with throttled silence if you tried. You could hear your heart gush around your ears, too hypersensitive to the baby monitor on the fireplace.

“Do you?” 

Satoru stayed on the threshold again, his back to the hallway blocking your exit back to your daughter's room. How he stood there, like he’d hit a realisation, his shoulders slouched like he had something brewing on his mind.

“Do I what?” You said, thinking of ways to get past him.

The poker by the fireplace. No, he’d get to you faster than you could turn around, snatch it and throw it out the window. Maybe he’d use it on Suguru- no, he loved him despite your trepidations. No way would he go that far, surely? But look how far he has gone. Fuck, I’m an idiot!

“Do you really love him? Like really?” He took one step towards you and put you on a back footing, hitting your spine on the mantle.

What sort of question was that?

“Yes. I do. He’s the kindest person I’ve ever met, I want to spend the rest of my life-”

“Oh c’mon, Suguru can’t even get his wife pregnant, what makes you think he can actually protect you and our daughter?!”

His switch made you flinch, and then he was suddenly just one pace away from your face. “Those wee lil swimmers just aren’t strong enough, are they?”

The topic of Suguru’s fertility was never discussed, only between you and him. It was an unwritten rule. Not only with your health and everything on top, Suguru had questioned his own masculinity, his worthiness as your husband.

Hearing it out loud brought tears to your eyes. “Don’t talk about that-”

You screamed again when he slammed his fist down on the wall by your head, covering your mouth after to stop your sobs was useless. “Sweetie, I guarantee if I fucked you raw, I’d knock you up first try.”

“Satoru… please listen to me. I don’t want to have sex with you, and if I’ve ever given you the impression that I have, I’m sorry. But I do not want that.”

“I never knew why you chose to pursue him and not me… I’m better for you than Suguru, I have always been better for you. Yet you still chose him, even when he couldn’t perform, you never dropped him. It only made me double down.”

“Because I love him- I don’t want you.”

“Maybe not now, but you will eventually.”

It was probably the worst thing you could have said, but it came out so quickly, so confidently. So you ran with it. Your heart jumped when the baby monitor went off, so instinctively you moved without concern only for him to stop you again.

“She’ll be fine. It’s only a hiccup.”

“I still have to go and check on her- I can’t leave her. Please, Satoru.”

Satoru didn’t move at first, and when he did, it was as though he was just waiting for you to make a run for it. “Go, be quick.”

You stormed up the stairs under duress, skipping a step now and then and shot right into the bedroom. Your baby was just fine, only making a smacking sound she always did in her sleep. In one fit of self preservation, you weren’t sure how you moved across the bedroom so fast in reaction to Satoru’s footsteps climbing the stairs, but you did, locking the bedroom door.

The thing was, after having a baby, you sort of developed super hearing, picking up on different breathing patterns your baby went through, knowing when she was about to be overstimulated in public settings which would inevitably result in her crying for hours. You could tell when she was hungry, bored and just in that odd mood when she decided to be a little demon with her eyes closed.

Despite being related by blood and genetics, Satoru knew none of those things, Suguru did. Suguru may not have been able to get you pregnant, but his role as a father was more special than anything.

“Unlock the door.” Satoru banged his fist on the wood. "Unlock the door right now!"

“Get the fuck away from me and my daughter.” Your maternal strength returned. “I’m calling the police and you better be nowhere near here. You will never see her again, do you hear me?!”

Silence.

Nothing but an unsettling and sudden silence.

He must have already left, you still crawled over the bed to get the house phone from the bedside drawer, hands shaking from the adrenaline. A quick rummage before Suguru returned and you could explain everything to him.

One thing though, the phone, it was missing from its usually place. You had no fucking phone.

Satoru's voice oozed through the cracks of the door. "Looking for the phone? You might wanna think about opening the door. Suguru will be home soon."

DISCLAIMER - Crossposted from my AO3 - I do not own any of the characters or anything from the anime. This is a work of fan fiction and is absolutely not representative of the views or intentions of the original creator(s).

Also please don’t post any of my work without permission thank you!

[gojo-supreme]

──on the move

a/n. in honor of father's day, i wrote a short drabble for our favorite daddy fictional husband. here's some good 'ol dadjo fluff 🩵 this was a request, but it's also inspired by a scene from the romcom life as we know it.

cw. your daughter's first steps. humor. domestic fluff. dad! satoru. husband! satoru. also, satoru is just too stinkin' cute (isn't he always though?!).

Neither you nor Satoru were prepared for the day your daughter decided to walk.

She’d been going through another sleep regression—clingy, overtired, and endlessly fussy. The last few nights had been brutal for you both; nonstop crying, sleepless nights—hell, you barely remembered the last time you’d eaten something warm or sat down for more than five minutes without a tiny hand tugging at your shirt.

So today, when she finally settles, babbling to herself instead of wailing, Satoru doesn’t hesitate.

“You go clean up,” he says, already hoisting her up into his arms. “I got this.”

And you don’t argue. Because a hot shower and ten minutes to breathe feels like the most luxurious gift in the world.

Downstairs, Satoru sits leisurely, sinking onto the living room floor, one of your daughter’s stuffed toys shoved behind his back like a makeshift pillow. She sits a few feet in front of him, chewing thoughtfully on a rubber block like she’s solving some ancient puzzle.

As she babbles cheerfully, he nods along, blue eyes soft beneath the fall of snowy hair. One hand props up his chin as he listens intently, like he’s getting a full debriefing from a tiny general.

“I know, right?” he murmurs. “They really said no dessert before dinner. Criminal, honestly.”

An insistent string of nonsense syllables spills from her tiny lips, animated and loud, flapping one hand as to make a point.

“Exactly,” he hums, nodding solemnly. “It’s injustice. You and me—we should unionize.”

Then, without warning, she shifts—pushing herself up with both hands, wobbling slightly as she reaches for the coffee table. One tiny palm finds the edge. Then, slowly… she lets go.

Satoru blinks.

Standing. She’s standing. No hands. No support. Just two steady little feet on the rug.

All by herself.

“…no way,” he breathes, straightening instinctively. “Hey, uh—princess?” clearing his throat, his voice catches slightly. “Uhh… whatcha doin’, huh?”

And then she moves—one step. Wobbly. Uncertain.

Satoru's mouth falls open.

“No, no, no—wait—shit—uhhh… babe?!” his voice pitches as he springs to his feet, torn between staying and bolting for the stairs. “Hold on sweetheart—wait for mommy, wait—!”

Twisting towards the ascending hall, his voice booms.

“Babe! She’s walking!!”

Upstairs, the shower pounds steadily as you scrub shampoo from your hair. A voice echoes up the stairway. With a pause, you tilt your head slightly.

…is Satoru calling you?

“Huh?” you shout back, reaching for the knobs. “What was that ’toru?”

His voice echoes again—louder this time, unmistakable.

“SHE’S WALKING!”

“What?!” heart lurching, you move, fumbling out of the shower, slipping slightly on the mat as you grab for the nearest towel and yank it around your body. “Shit—okay—hang on—!”

But downstairs, equal chaos unfolds.

Your daughter takes another step, and Satoru's still at the bottom of the stairs, caught somewhere between panic and awe. He doesn’t want to move—can’t risk missing it. Can’t let you miss it.

“Okay—just—freeze,” he says, crouching slightly in front of her. “Hold it right there, little lady. Stay. Don’t advance. Mommy’s coming.”

But babbling back in defiance, her little eyes brighten with determination as she takes another wobbly step forward.

“Shit—fuck. Honey, I need you to hurry!” he shouts toward the stairs, voice cracking.

“Coming! I’m coming!” you call back breathlessly, hopping down the hall with one towel clutched around your chest and another half-heartedly blotting your dripping hair. “Just—stall her! I’ll be right there!”’

“Stall her?!” he echoes, eyes wide as she continues toward him, arms extended, smile wide—like he’s the finish line and she’s already won. “How the hell do I stall a baby?!”

Another leg plants itself on the rug, and Satoru scans the room in panic. No bottle. No snacks. No plan. No goddamn time.

“Okay—um, hey—look at me,” he says, dropping to his knees in her path. “Let’s do… let’s do clapping, yeah? You love clapping!”

And there he is, clapping with exaggerated enthusiasm, a desperate smile plastered on his face. But she doesn’t slow down. If anything, she picks up speed—giggling now, like this is all a game.

“Shit. Nonono. You are not following protocol…” he mutters, backing up a step. She’s almost at him. “Please princess… please… wait for mommy.”

He’s at a loss, and so, with nothing else to do, he reaches out—gentle, barely a touch—tapping her belly with two fingertips. But it’s just enough, because with little balance, she blinks—wobbling, plopping her butt onto the floor with a soft thud.

There’s a pause.

Then, in a matter of seconds, her face crumples, lip trembling as a tiny, heartbroken whine spills out of her.

Satoru's eyes widen in horror. “Aw, no—no, no, hey, it was just a loving little stall,” he says quickly, hands out. “A nudge. A tactical nudge. Fuck, don’t cry—”

And you’re bursting into the room just as the first real wail escapes her lips.

“What happened?!” you gasp, chest heaving, towel clinging to your damp skin as you rush over.

Looking up, Satoru's face is wide-eyed, painted with guilt.

“You… you said stall her,” he says helplessly. “So I… I gave her a little push.”

You blink. First at him. Then at her. Then back at him.

She’s hiccupping through a sob, hands balled up against her chest like she’s been personally wronged. Yet somehow, his face is more pitiful than hers.

“She was walking,” he adds weakly, looking down. “I… didn’t want you to miss it.”

Exhaling slowly, the panic bleeds out of you now, replaced by something warm and humorous—the edge of a smile tugging at your lips.

“Oh, ‘toru…”

He peeks up, sheepish. “I panicked.”

“Yeah,” you murmur, stepping closer, “I gathered.”

And sinking to your knees, you gather her into your arms. The second she’s pressed against you, the sobs dissolve into sniffles, cheek nuzzling into your collarbone like nothing ever happened.

“There we go,” you whisper, brushing your hand over her hair. “See? All better. She forgives you.”

“…you sure?” he looks doubtful. “Because she looked at me like I betrayed her entire damn bloodline.”

“Oh, shush.” Huffing a quiet laugh, you roll your eyes playfully, gently lowering her onto the rug in a seating position—pacified, for now.

Stepping closer, Satoru's gaze flicks between you and her.

“Five steps,” he says quietly, sliding his arms around your waist. “She took five real steps.”

“That’s incredible,” you whisper, arms looping around his neck. A slow smirk stretches across your lips. “Next time maybe just… record it, yeah?”

“Tch…” he huffs. “Right…”

And leaning in, his smile meets yours halfway—lips touching where laughter wants to begin. You kiss him, eyes fluttering, a hum rumbling through him.

But then—

pat-pat-pat.

Freezing, you pull away from that unmistakable sound. And turning, you’re left with the sight of your daughter tearing off down the hall with a delighted squeal, her bare feet smacking against the hardwood like she’s been walking her whole damn life.

“Oh.” Satoru's already straightening. “Oh shit.”

“Ohmygod…” you breathe in awe. “’toru… she’s walking!!”

“No,” he says grimly. “She’s running.”

And just like that—it begins.

Yeah. You’re never going to sit down again.

[gojo-supreme]

academic rival!satoru who starts pulling all-nighters and obsessively rewriting his notes not just to beat you—but to catch your attention. he tells himself it’s strategy, war, rival stuff. but deep down, he’s hoping you’ll finally look at him. not glare. look. and when you do—when your gaze sharpens like a blade and you hiss, “how the hell did you score higher than me?”—his heart flutters like it's prom night, like you proposed marriage with your rage. he circles the date on his planner. he writes a haiku about it in his margin. “her eyes could kill me / but in that moment, i’d die / a scholar in love.” he considers submitting it to the campus poetry zine. he doesn’t. but he thinks about it. constantly.

he didn’t mean to start this rivalry, but he absolutely doubled down on it once he realized you were finally taking him seriously. the first time you muttered “smug bastard” under your breath in class, he swore he saw the face of god and got addicted to the sound of your frustration. he spiraled that night. rewrote his planner in pen. made a color-coded timeline of “her fury levels vs my grades.” it’s posted on his wall like an artifact. so now he’s trying harder. not just studying. overstudying. outscoring you on every test, quiz, class poll, kahoot game, group project ranking, and even the stupid little brain break games professors throw in. he shows up with research articles printed and annotated just so he can leave them on your desk, post-it commentary signed with a heart. he calls it “scholarly banter.” his friends call it “a cry for help.”

everything he does is soaked in neon desperation and pastel affection. he's convinced every time your voice raises in exasperation, it’s basically flirting. he calls it “intellectual foreplay.” his friends call it „delusion with extra steps.” you once slammed your textbook shut mid-discussion and muttered something about transferring schools just to escape him. he marked that moment in his journal as “peak chemistry.”

he still steals your pens, but now he leaves behind new ones. personalized. glittery. cursed with horrible puns. your name spelled out in cursive on the cap. once he got one custom-made with your initials and a tiny heart, and when you used it during a test, he almost fainted. he says it's to maintain “balance in the rivalry.” really, he just wants to see you roll your eyes, maybe sigh in that way that means you’re exasperated but not homicidal. progress. baby steps. thesis-worthy milestones. he once emailed the campus stationery supplier to ask if they could make pens that smell like your favorite shampoo. they said no. he cried a little.

his GOOGLE DRIVE has twelve folders named after you: “rival data,” “her essays (aka masterpieces),” “evidence she’s smarter than me but i’m hotter probably,” and “her favorite snacks ranked by study mood.” he makes spreadsheets comparing your academic scores. one chart tracks your moods based on how many hours you spent in the library, cross-referenced with your spotify activity. it’s color-coded. he thinks it’s romantic. it looks like a CIA threat report. he once gave a presentation with you as a case study on academic excellence. you weren't in the class. he did it anyway. he said it was “practice for when we’re co-professors someday.”

you treat him like a nuisance. a threat. a very loud, very cerulean-eyed glitch in your academic routine. you work harder just to obliterate his smirk. you glare when he gets the top score, mutter insults when he raises his hand, scoff when he compliments your writing. he thinks it’s all part of the enemies-to-lovers pipeline. it is not. you hate him. you're convinced he's mocking you. and he’s too stupidly in love to realize his plan is imploding like a dying star. he writes motivational quotes on his mirror. they’re all just things you’ve yelled at him.

he thinks it’s banter. you think it’s war. he flirts through footnotes, you throw sharpened stares. he doodles hearts on your thesis draft, you circle them in red and write “grow up.” he writes fake references in his essays like “her eyes, personal observation, 2025” and wonders why you haven’t confessed yet. he once tried to footnote your handwriting as a primary source of inspiration. you reported it as academic misconduct. he thanked you for noticing. he still has the warning email. printed. framed.

he believes in your intellectual excellence like it’s gospel. once said, “she’s a walking academic citation,” and got choked up about it. when you won the department award, he clapped so hard he got a bruise. told everyone later he was clapping for the future mother of his academic children. you told him to shut up. he saved the moment anyway. printed the photo. it’s in his wallet. laminated. waterproof. just in case.

his grades are rising but his romantic odds are tanking. he’s winning tests and losing dignity. one time he scored 100%, looked at you for validation, and you said, “congrats, nerd.” he wrote a poem about it. it rhymed. poorly. he performed it at the campus open mic. people clapped. you left halfway through. he said it was symbolic. a metaphor for your metaphorical emotional walls. he made a mood board. labeled it “the walls she built, the man i became.”

to him, you're the rival-slash-muse of his dreams. to you, he’s that annoying guy who somehow has your cat doodle as his lock screen. how? why? you don’t know. you don’t want to know. he says it “inspires him to rise above academic mediocrity.” you tell him to get therapy. he writes that down. “note to self: look into couples therapy.” you threaten violence. he updates his will. adds a note: “to be read by her, preferably with tears in her eyes.”

he's convinced you're in the slow burn arc. you're convinced he’s an incurable idiot. he messages you late at night with things like, “what’s your stance on fate?” or “if we wrote a thesis together, what would the topic be?” you leave him on read. he screenshots it and stares for hours. once he printed out a message you sent—“we’re not friends”—and taped it above his desk like motivational hate mail. then made it his lock screen for a week.

of course you and him aren’t friends. don’t be ridiculous. you’re soulmates, silly. academic rivals to twin flames. enemies-to-lovers speedrun. he’s delusional, yes, but passionately.

his delusions are so loud they echo in the lecture hall. he sees you win a class debate and writes a 2,000-word reflection on intellectual passion. titles it “she spoke, and the earth wept.” submits it anonymously to the school literary mag. signs it with your initials and hopes you’ll take the hint. you do. you write a rebuttal titled “the earth weeps because you talk too much.” he hangs it next to his bed. says it’s proof of your connection. invites people over just to show them.

you once muttered, “you’re a walking distraction,” and he whispered “she noticed me” before fainting dramatically onto his desk. his friend had to fan him with a syllabus. he calls that day “the awakening.” he includes it on his personal timeline of academic enlightenment. writes a song. badly. uploads it to soundcloud under the name “midterm romeo.” it has 101 plays. 99 of them are him.

the only reason he joined the academic decathlon was because you signed up. when asked his motivation, he said “to defeat my nemesis and earn her begrudging respect.” you stared at him. he winked. you nearly punched him. he said, "was that a spark?" and held an ice pack to his cheek with a lovesick smile. wrote a limerick about it. no one laughed but him. he printed it on a mug.

he's tried subtle confessions, like changing his discord status to “she's my thesis.” no one knew who “she” was. except everyone did. the group chat roasted him for six hours. he left and rejoined under a new name: “GPA 4 HER.” it got worse. made a spotify playlist named: “studying her like a sacred text.” you blocked him on everything but email. he started ending all peer reviews with “ps: hi.”

at some point, your mutual friends start noticing. they ask if you two are dating. you respond with horror. he responds with “not yet.” you threaten violence. he updates his will again. adds a footnote: "if she cries at my funeral, i win." writes a powerpoint: “our enemies-to-lovers arc: a predictive analysis.” presents it to himself in his dorm at 2am. cries. adds transitions. makes a playlist.

you don’t know he wrote you into his valedictorian speech. he calls you “his greatest academic challenge and muse.” he practices it at night, staring at the mirror, pretending you're there in the crowd, not fuming—but finally, finally smiling at him. he’s rehearsed your nonexistent wedding vows more than his intro paragraph. sometimes he grades fake exams you never wrote and gives you 100 just to feel something. he once drafted a fictional university recommendation letter for you just to imagine what it’d be like to praise you publicly without you throwing a pen at his head.

and maybe, if he’s lucky, when the final grades are out and you tie for first place, you’ll look at him again. not with fury. not with confusion. but with something soft. maybe interest. maybe curiosity. maybe the beginning of something stupid. something sweet. something research paper-worthy.

strictly academic, of course. unless... extra credit?

[gojo-supreme]

Kiss The Fish

Based off of this little blurb I did a while back <3

Yandere Siren! Gojo x Blind! Reader

TW: Yandere, Monsterfucking (two of them? tentacle like?), Cream pie, dubcon/noncon, body horror, gore, open ending, drowning, power imbalance, Death, Dead Dove Do Not Eat.

WC: 6k

a/n: thank you @eevwrites for staying up late and yapping about this with me (and for playing minecraft while we yap <33) I hope you get the best sleepies in the world.

The last thing you remember before being swallowed whole by the icy Pacific was a push.

Not a stumble. Not some tragic misstep. A sharp, deliberate shove between your shoulder blades that sent you lurching forward into nothing.

Air was torn from your lungs before you even hit the water.

Your scream—high, broken, instinctual—shattered against the wind as you flailed, hands slicing through space. There was nothing to cling to. No railing. No mercy. Just the flutter of your ridiculous dress, too many ruffles, far too many bows, the weight of the fabric blooming outward like a funeral wreath as gravity dragged you down.

Down, down, down.

The water. It didn’t embrace you. Instead, it devoured you. Freezing and fast, it surged into every crevice—your nose, ears, mouth, anywhere it could reach. Your body convulsed from the shock, muscles seizing as icy tendrils coiled around your limbs, yanking you deeper into the obsidian belly of the ocean. There was no up or down. No light to orient yourself by. Just a cold so sharp it felt like knives against your skin.

You couldn’t see. You never could. But here, in the deep, it was different.

It wasn’t just darkness—it was nothingness.

Blindness on land meant familiarity. The warmth of your room. The soft echo of your breath. The subtle brush of breeze through the window.

 But this?

This was a vast, voiceless void. A pressure-cooked silence. A sensory grave. You didn’t know which way was the surface. Which way meant life?

Or which was meant to be death. 

You kicked, desperate. Clawed through water too thick to move in. Bubbles streamed from your lips like tiny screams, and still you sank. Panic howled inside your skull, thundering louder than the boat’s fading engine. You tried to remember how drowning worked - wasn’t there a moment where you blacked out? Where the pain stopped?

The cold chewed through your nerves. Your chest ached, lungs locked in an unbearable vice, a scream trapped behind clenched teeth. You thrashed, weightless and leaden all at once, your heartbeat a deafening war drum in your ears.

And then something touched you. 

Brushed against your ankle.

Too warm and sentient. It coiled around your leg like a serpent, slick and possessive.

Your mind screamed louder than your body ever could. Adrenaline surged in one final, useless wave: fight or flight. But you couldn’t fight, and you couldn’t flee. All you could do was feel.

Arms wrapped around you — solid, strong, inhuman.

Not cold. Not like the water. No, this was a heat that radiated into your bones, cradling you like a lover, lifting your limp body with agonizing gentleness. Hands - clawed, maybe - pressing you close to a chest that thrummed with something alien and melodic.

You were being carried.

Up. Or down. You couldn’t tell. You could never tell.

Were you still dying? Was this death? Were you hallucinating some mythical savior in your final moments? Something old and godlike from the sea?

You think you felt a tail. It curled and shimmered through the water like silk, bracing you tighter against something solid.

You suddenly felt something rough against your skin, sand, it scraped against your palms as you were laid down —  the shore, warm and coarse and real. You coughed violently, bile and salt and sea pouring from your lips in heaves. Your ribs burned. Your lungs clawed for air.

There were sounds now — real ones. Waves. Wind. The ragged sob of your breath. And something else.

Flapping.  Not wings. Fins? Something slick and heavy shifting just beside you.

You curled inward instinctively, salt-stiff dress sticking to your legs, the weight of it dragging at your limbs like seaweed. Your hands trembled as they tried to find purchase in the sand. Your mind reeled. Still blind and helpless. Still something’s prey.

But then — a touch.

Wet fingers grazed your cheek again. Long, reverent. A thumb ghosting under your eye, almost like it missed you. As if it had longed for you. A claw caught briefly on your skin — not enough to cut, but enough to remind you. It wasn’t human.

And neither, perhaps, were you anymore.

Warm breath fanned over your mouth. Close. So close. Your lips parted without thinking, tasting salt and something else. Something sweet and sea-born. Something his.

“...Thank you,” you rasped, voice nothing more than salt-burned air.

Silence followed.

And then finally, a hiss. Drawn out. Fragile. Starving. Not angry — at least, not yet. Just yearning.

And then it all shattered.

The thunder of boots on sand.  The crackle of dry seaweed under heavy feet. The roar of men cheering. A voice like rusted knives, thick with blood and fish oil and stale wine. Your father.

“The siren,” he breathed, awed. “You caught it.”

Caught?

Slender hands seized you next before you could think more on your father’s words. Delicate only in size, but not in touch. You knew her — one of the housemaids. She smelled like lavender soap and liniments used for scrubbing backs. Her fingers were cold, her grip clinical.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, dearie,” she murmured. Not unkind. But distant. Oblivious.

You were lifted roughly. Boneless in her arms, your soaked dress clinging like dead weight. Hair matted across your face. Lips split and slack. Your limbs swayed with every jarring step she took —  legs dangling, knees bumping against her hips.

And from the surf — he screamed.

A sound that did not belong on land. A noise that split open the air like lightning through rotted wood. Not pain or even fury. Something older. Hollow. Ancient.

And then came the metal. The rattle of chains. The dry hiss of nets. The guttural commands of armed men thick with salt and ego.  Shouts of strategy turned into panic.

“Harpoons — now!”

“Hold him down, he’s - he’s not —”

“Jesus Christ, what is that thing — ”

The air turned metallic. Heavy. The scent of copper and salt and him filled your nose like smoke before a firestorm.

Ripping.

You heard it. Felt it in your chest.  The wet, sickening tear of flesh split apart. The squelch of something soft and vital spilling onto the sand.

The maid’s hands clenched tighter. Her nails dug crescents into your skin. Her breath came faster. She started to run.

Those screams.

Not sharp anymore. But gargled. Choking. Drowning in their own blood.

And above it all, the low, keening hum of something monstrous. A sound no human throat could ever replicate. Beautiful. Terrifying. Your heart pounded like it might crack your ribs. Your breath caught in your throat. Your body knew before your mind could catch up —  something beautiful and horrific was behind you. Something not meant to be seen.

The maid hissed, as if realizing you were listening too hard.

“Be thankful you’re blind,” she whispered.

And for the first time in your life. 

You were.

Because you didn’t see the way he moved. Didn’t see the way his mouth unhinged. Didn’t see the bones he snapped like a twig or how the blood sprayed across the surf in thick, arterial arcs.

Didn’t see the smile.

But you sure felt it.

Every step the maid took trembled under the weight of it. You felt her flinch when something wet hit her back.  You heard a body collapse, still twitching, not far behind.

There, on the blood-soaked beach. He waited.  In the aftermath of the slaughter. In the salt-slick cradle of death.

Waiting. Watching. Wanting.

A small part of you had sunk inward long before you sank into the bath.

Now, half-limp in the scalding porcelain tub, you sat in silence while a new maid—young, quiet, smelling faintly of chamomile and starch—worked her fingers gently through your hair. Her hands were steady, but you could feel the tension in them, like she didn’t quite want to touch you.

You didn’t blame her.

The water had long since cooled from soothing to lukewarm, but you hadn’t moved. You let it swallow your body, inch by inch, up to your chin. Your fingertips had gone pruned. Your spine ached. Your throat still burned from salt and screaming.

The scent of blood clung to you, despite the scrubbing.

Despite everything.

Your father had come back.

Not quietly, and surely not clean.

You heard him retching in the next room. Heard the thick splatter of bile against tile, the wheezing gasps of a man whose stomach had turned itself inside out from guilt, grief, or perhaps just the stench of what he’d witnessed.

He didn’t say much when he staggered past the door — just offered a few garbled apologies. Maybe to you. Maybe to some half-forgotten god. Maybe to himself.

But at the end of it all, he lived.

He lived.

When twenty others didn’t. When blood soaked the beach like high tide. When something divine and dreadful rose from the surf and punished every hand that tried to pull you away.

You turned your face slightly toward the door, your voice still too hoarse to speak aloud.

Why him?

Why was he spared?

Out of everyone on that crew—strong, cruel, and desperate men—he was the only one left gasping on the shoreline. Shaking. Pale. Alive.

And you had a feeling. A terrible feeling. It wasn’t mercy. It was scent.

Yours.  

His.

You shared blood. Skin. Smell. Something primal. Maybe that was enough to keep your father breathing. Or perhaps, the creature in the water hadn’t spared your father out of grace. Maybe mercy had nothing to do with it.

It took nearly a month for things to return to a version of normal. Not true normal — not the warm, salty kind that clung to your skin after sunbathing, or the familiar creak of dockwood beneath your shoes — but something brittle. Fragile. Like a painting of normalcy stretched too thin over something dark and wet and unspeakable.

The beach was off-limits for weeks. You’d ask quietly, and your requests would be met with stammered refusals, soft curses, and sharp silences.

No walks. No wandering.  No tapping your cane along the pier. And certainly not alone.

Your father wouldn’t speak to you as much. Dinners were now quiet. His voice, once booming and sure, had dulled into a rasp. You could hear it catch in his throat like a hook when he thought you were asleep — prayers muttered to gods he hadn’t believed in before, hands shaking with what he claimed was fatigue but smelled like guilt.

When he returned from that cursed night, it was with blood crusted under his nails and a stench that clung to his skin for days. He brought no crew with him. Only the memory of the beach turned battlefield.

The authorities said there wasn’t enough evidence. The accounts were too conflicting. Too surreal.

Only one thing saved him: the maid.

The girl who dragged you off the shore, half-conscious, while the sea behind you boiled with screams. She testified. She lied. Beautifully. It was said that the storm had come in fast. Said the men panicked. That they’d drowned. That your father had saved you.

No one questioned her too deeply. No one wanted to know the truth.

And when the rumors cooled — when curiosity waned and fear became background noise — you were allowed to return.

Daylight only.

Never alone.

But you found a window. A moment. A lull in supervision.

The breeze was soft when you stepped onto the familiar path, cane in hand. The gentle tap-tap of its tip brushing the boardwalk comforted you, even as the stillness pressed in from all sides. The sand was warm beneath your soles. The breeze carried the same scent it always had — brine, distant saltweed, the breath of something old and watchful out beyond the rocks.

But something was missing.

No fishermen calling to one another or the creak of nets drawn tight with the morning’s catch. Not even the hum of boats lapping against the dock, thick with engine oil and fish blood.

Just silence. Thick, expectant silence. They were all out at sea, the rumors said. Hunting. Hoping to capture what your father failed to, or avenge those who never came back.

You found your way to the edge of the dock, your cane dipping once against the final plank before you lowered yourself to sit. Carefully. Cautiously.

Your dress bunched awkwardly at your hips. The hem hung limp, brushing the wooden slats. You let your legs dangle over the edge, the water licking just beneath your shoes.

And there, with the sun high and the shore silent, you felt it.

Not quite a touch or a sound, but the feeling of a presence. A weight that pressed against your back like the heat of a stare. The kind of attention that tightens your breath. That makes your throat dry. The kind that doesn’t feel threatening — not exactly. Just… knowing.

You stiffened. You gripped your cane tighter.

It could’ve been anxiety or even the wind. Perhaps, the memory of blood-soaked sand and the screams you never saw.

But it felt specific. Personal.

And then, without warning, the water beneath your feet shifted. Not violently. Not enough to splash. But enough to ripple. Enough to feel. A current brushed up against the dock post. A shiver licked across your ankle. Barely a whisper. Like a fingertip. Or perhaps a breath. 

And in the stillness, in that space between heartbeat and breath. 

You knew you weren’t alone.

The creature—your savior, your curse—had never left. Waiting.

You heard it first. A splash. Small. Intentional. Too precise to be the tide. Water stirred beneath your dangling feet, rippling gently, reverently, like the sea itself was exhaling just for you.

A hand, wet and cool, brushed against your ankle. The sensation made your breath catch. You didn’t recoil. You should have. But the contact was cautious, almost hesitant. Curious.

You could feel the texture of it: The webbing between long fingers. The faint resistance of slick skin. The subtle drag of scaled flesh against your calf, the way it clung like velvet soaked in salt.

And then—his voice. A sound so low and sorrowful it nearly unraveled you. “I missed you.” A whine, cracked at the edges. Yearnful. Soft. Like a child left out in the cold. Like something that didn’t know how to be anything other than lonely. His voice draped itself over your shoulders like a blanket of warm fog, soothing, silken, just a little too perfect.

You shivered. Not from cold. From the way his voice pulled at you.

That’s what sirens do, don’t they? Lure. Lull. Captivate.

Or so you’ve read.

Your knowledge was limited to what little information your fingers could find pressed into Braille pages. Most academic papers weren’t keen on accessibility. Myths don’t translate easily. Neither do monsters.

And yet — he did. Every syllable of his voice seemed designed to bypass logic. He didn’t speak so much as sing. A song without melody. A hum beneath his words that resonated somewhere deep in your ribs, like a forgotten chord being struck in your soul.

You opened your mouth, unsure if it was to scream or to respond. But no sound came.

Just the fragile press of breath against your lips. Just him, half in water, half in shadow.

You couldn’t see his face.

But you didn’t need to.

Not when you could feel the devotion in the way he touched you, like a man in prayer, reverent and trembling. His fingertips, half-wet, half-scaled, ghosted over your skin with the care of someone handling something sacred.

And you knew.

He hadn’t just missed you. He had ached.

“...You missed me?” you asked softly, breath catching in your throat.

There was a pause. Then the feeling of hair brushing against your calf, slick, heavy strands brushing against your leg as he leaned in, pressing the curve of his face against your calf like he was trying to memorize the shape of you all over again. A sigh left him content and broken.

Then came the kisses.

A trail of them. Quick, warm, damp down your shin, over your ankle, to the very tips of your toes. Little presses of lips, too eager, too desperate, like he didn’t care how strange or humiliating the act was.

You flinched, instinctively trying to pull back, only to feel a sharp pinch, a claw digging into your skin, just enough to stop you. Not enough to pierce — yet.

He didn’t lift his head.

“Mmm?” he hummed, a low vibration in your bones, amusement curling like smoke through every syllable. “You ask as if you don’t know.”

You could hear the smile in his voice. A wet, sticky joy.

“You torment me,” he whispered. “Bewitched me. How cruel of you… to make something like me weak.”

The last word hit like a bruise. But you wouldn’t use the word weak to describe him.

Never him.

Not when the sea had screamed for him.

Not when twenty men had died on the beach.

Not when your father still woke in the night, gasping your name and whispering his.

He wasn’t weak; instead, he was just starved.

For you.

“You’re confused,” was all you managed, the words small, almost a laugh—bitter at the edges. A weak protest. A failing defense.

“I’ve done nothing of the sort…”

But he didn’t like that.

The claw at your leg sank deeper, just enough to warn. Enough to draw a sharp sting, a gasp. You winced, your breath catching in your throat, and for a moment—just a moment—you wanted to plead. To yield. To give in to whatever he was, whatever spell he had woven in the deep.

But then he hummed. Low. Lulling. Almost sweet.

On the other hand, his free one came up to cradle your face, as gentle as the claw was cruel. Cold, wet skin pressed against your cheek, thumb brushing across your lip like he was trying to memorize the shape of your mouth by touch alone.

You felt the tremble in his fingers. The ache in his stillness.

And then he muttered, more to himself than to you: “How good would you taste…?”

The words were soft. Almost tender. Almost human. “If I dragged you to the bottom of the ocean, held you there until your lungs collapsed, until your breath stopped struggling in your chest, until my teeth sank into your skin…”

His thumb dipped into the corner of your mouth. Not forceful. Curious. Possessive. “…and tore your throat out.”

You froze. Your blood pulsed behind your eyes. Your lips parted, not in response but in terror. A pause. A sound caught in his throat—not a growl. A whine. Fragile. Desperate.

“I dream of that,” he whispered, voice cracking like driftwood splitting in the tide. “Every night. For you.”

Another breathless pause. The confession was too heavy for even him. “To die at my hands. For your flesh to stain my teeth. For you…”

The claw on your face jerked. You felt it. Sharp. Sudden. A slice blooming just beneath your cheekbone. Warm blood welled. Traced a slow line down your jaw.

And still, he held your face like it was the most precious thing in the world. “For you to love me… as much as I love you.”

His voice shattered on the last word. Not rage. Not a command. Just heartbreak.

The kind of love that doesn’t know how to be gentle. The kind that drowns what it can’t bear to lose.

You slapped his hand away. A sharp, wet smack as your palm struck skin, slippery and cold and too real.

Perhaps it was a stupid mistake, but you didn’t regret it. Not even as silence stretched thin between you.

He didn’t growl or retaliate. Instead, he laughed.

A sound, soft, and breathless. Delighted, amused, like wind catching the edge of a bell. A beautiful sound. Inhuman in its lightness. The kind of laugh that said: You’ve misunderstood everything.

“You don’t know what love is,” you said, barely above a whisper. Your voice is low, firm, trembling at the edges. “You murdered them.”

There was no accusation in your tone—just quiet, weary horror. You heard him shift in the water. Felt the slight pull at your ankle where his claw still curled. A gentle splash as he exhaled through his nose.

And then—a hum. Resonant. Thoughtful. Like he was rolling the word ‘murder’ over in his mouth, tasting it. Considering it like one might consider a foreign language or a flawed metaphor.

“Is it murder?” he mused, tone feather-soft. “They threw you in, did they not?”

You flinched.

The memory hit like cold water again. The push. The fall. The salt clawing at your lungs.

“You were to be my meal that night,” he continued, almost dreamily. “A gift. An offering. Dressed in white, ribboned like a feast. I would’ve eaten you whole.”

Another pause. A breath. His lips ghosted across your knee as he whispered: “I still might.”

He said it with such tenderness that it made your stomach twist. As though devouring you was the most romantic thing he could imagine. 

As though that was what love was—possession so complete it leaves nothing behind.

And yet, he let you go. You weren’t sure why.

Perhaps he heard the distant churn of engines—ships cutting across the sea, their steel hulls humming with human voices and guns. Perhaps the scent of strangers carried on the breeze. Perhaps he didn’t want to share you with witnesses.

But he didn’t speak another word.

All you heard was a soft chuckle, low and breathy, and then the strange sensation of his cheek resting against your calf—warm, tender, almost shy.

You flinched when you felt the skin damp—wet. Not from seawater. From blood. Yours. And still, he stayed like that. Nuzzled close. Like he didn’t want to move. Like letting you go took more from him than the killings ever did.

But he did.

And the next morning, you returned. You weren’t sure why. You told yourself it was curiosity. That it was unfinished questions. That it was part of healing. But each day, your feet found their way back to the edge of the dock. Each day, you dipped your toes in and waited. And each day, the sea answered.

Eventually, you gave up the dock entirely.

It was Satoru who had guided you to the rocks, flat and warm beneath your hands, bleached by sun and tide. He would circle you as you sat, humming low, half-submerged, his voice curling around your ankles like ribbons. You never felt him fully. Just fragments. The brush of a hand. The flick of a tail. The soft splash of him surfacing beside you to let his fingers trace your wrist like he was memorizing the weight of your pulse.

You learned his name.

Satoru.

He said it as if it were something unspoken, something soft, something only you were allowed to speak.

Sirens were meant to be lonely — your fingers had told you that much, searching across faded braille in myth-soaked pages. Loneliness made them dangerous. Starved. But some texts spoke of others. Of merfolk. Creatures not quite siren, not quite human. How they have mates.

One day, without thinking, you asked: “Do you have one? A mate?”

The question left your mouth before you could stop it.

You were perched on the smooth spine of a seaside rock, sun warming your back, the sea misting your face. He floated beside you, so close you could hear the water sliding across his skin.

You don’t remember how that started, when you let him bring you here. When you stopped resisting the pull.

A foolish mistake. But not one you remembered making. Not clearly.

There was a pause. A shift in the water.  Then a hum, low, laced with amusement.

“I’ll tell you…” A cheeky laugh left his lips, “If you come in.” The words were playful. Lilting. Teasing like a lullaby. And as always, followed by touch—his fingers dragging along your calf, just enough pressure to remind you that you belonged to him, that he'd been patient, so patient.

Your throat tightened. “I can’t swim,” you said quietly.

You expected mockery. Dismissal. But instead, he laughed again.  Light, musical, pleased. A sound that would’ve been lovely if it weren’t brushing up against your fear like velvet against raw skin.

“Obviously,” he said, with a grin you could hear. “But I can guide you.”

One hand settled on your thigh. The weight of it was gentle, but beneath the surface, you felt his claws held back, barely restrained. His skin was slick and cool, damp from the tide, and his thumb rubbed small, slow circles against your leg like he was soothing a trembling animal.

You hesitated.

Your fingers curled into the edge of the rock, nails scraping over lichen-slick stone.

This was a bad idea.

Everything about this was a bad idea. Your mind was racing. 

This was a bad idea. One that could end horribly. An image appeared in your mind, one you would not like to reflect on. 

“Just fully submerged,” he coaxed. His voice dropped to a whisper. “We won’t leave the rock.”

The promise hung in the air between you like a web. Sticky. Shimmering. False.

You could feel the water now, lapping just below your knees. You could feel him, shifting beneath the surface, his tail brushing against the rock like a current, coiling and uncurling like a waiting serpent.

And his voice—soothing, low, beautifully wrong—threaded through your thoughts, warm as blood in your ears.

“You trust me, don’t you?”

You’re not sure if you trust him or if you’re even sure it even matters anymore. Still, gently, cautiously, you slip deeper into the water. Your breath stutters. Your pulse flutters.

You’re an idiot.

His hands are already there to catch you. Guiding you.  Fingers curling around your wrists, pressing them to the slick surface of the rock. Anchoring you. Positioning you. His tail wraps around your legs next, slow and deliberate. The cool, scaled muscle coils up your thighs, tighter than it needs to be. You can feel every shimmer, every shift in his body as it glides over your skin. And then, his chest. Bare. Cold. Pressed flush against your back. You shudder. His breath ghosts over your shoulder, over your throat, thick with salt and something sweeter.

This is a mistake. You know it. Like prey entering the predator’s den. Because you can feel teeth. Just barely. Grazing. Waiting.

And yet, he speaks. “I suppose I owe you an answer,” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear, too calm for how tightly he’s holding you.  “It’s… complicated. There’s Suguru…”

Your brows knit. His tone is strange, bitter, breathless, threaded with something almost childishly resentful. As he speaks, one hand slips to your front, tracing the laces of your corset with idle curiosity.

Rrrrip. The fabric tears like paper in his claws. Your breath hitches. You go rigid in his hold. “But Suguru…” he sighs, soft and wistful. Pouting. You hear it in his voice, like a child denied something precious. “Suguru is a male.”

A simple statement, but full of meaning. A declaration. A boundary. A grievance.

Then, his soft lips on your neck. Soft, scattered kisses trailing downward. feather-light, open-mouthed, suckling gently like he’s soothing the places he wants to bite.

“Can’t have babies with a male, you know…” The words make your blood run cold. Your breath stutters.

His hands move again, greedy, unhurried. One cups your breast, his palm cold and slick, thumb brushing over your nipple as though curious how you'd react. The other slides downward, slipping beneath the ruined hem of your dress, fingers trailing heat and water in their wake. You remember hearing a snap earlier, like claws being clipped. 

The memory drifted away at the sound of another rip. Your tights. Then your panties. A mutter under his breath, “Useless things.”

He keeps you turned, body flush to the rock, your front pressed to sun-warmed stone, the rest of you buried in his hold. His tail tightens, muscles rippling beneath scaled flesh as he coils more tightly around your legs, locking you in place with a possessive firmness that trembles with restraint. 

The water churns around your waist, lapping against your hips like it’s breathing in time with him. His hands move like he’s sculpting you - mapping, claiming, memorizing. You can feel him everywhere. On your throat, your breasts, your thighs. Inside you.

And all you can do is hold on. Tremble as he explores your body, his hands tremble slightly. You guess not in fear, but rather in excitement.

“At first,” he murmurs, mouth dragging along your shoulder, his voice a purr of reverent confusion, “when I saw you, I thought it was mating season. I was a bit worried...”

Your breath hitched, then cracked into a silent scream as his teeth sank into the column of your throat. Sharp. Blunt. Too deep to be teasing. Pain bloomed across your skin, blooming hot and fast before it dissolved into something murky and unbearable.

He groaned—shuddered—like your blood, your taste, was a relief. “I was so confused,” he went on, voice hitching, breaking, as his hand dipped lower.

Between your thighs. 

Over your folds.

Inside you.

A moan punched through him, sudden and guttural, and he all but arched against your back, tail jerking with the force of his need.

“Fuck...” his breath trembled, lips trailing up your neck, nibbles against the skin, “you’re so warm, so fucking warm...” His fingers curled inside your core, slow and possessive, drawing wet sounds from your body like music only he was meant to hear.

“Because,” he gasped against your ear, voice raw with bewildered joy, “I’d already gotten rid of my eggs for the season. Guess we have to wait until the next.”

As if that meant something. As if that justified anything. You could feel the way he trembled behind you, his chest heaving, his cock hard and pressed against the small of your back, restrained only by the last thread of reverence still clinging to him.

“And yet—you, this soft little thing in the middle of the ocean—you ruined everything.”

He nuzzled against your cheek, pressing soft, wet kisses to the skin just above where your blood still trickled.

“My instincts told me to ignore you. But my soul—” he moaned again, thrusting his fingers deeper, spreading you open wider—“told me you were mine.”

You couldn’t do anything but moan—soft, broken, trembling—while he lapped at the blood trickling from your throat. Each stroke of his tongue was deliberate. Lingering. Worshipful.

You felt dizzy. Hollowed out. Heat curling in your belly like a fever that couldn’t break.

Then his fingers—still slick and buried deep—curled inside you with intent, spreading, stretching, preparing.

And that’s when you felt it. Something hard pressed against your back—thick, ridged, hot even through the water.

Not one. Two.

Your blood ran cold.

“There’s… two.” You whimpered out in between a moan, a sharp bite on your shoulder, and left your hands gripping the sun-kissed rocks for salvation.  The realization made your breath stutter in your chest, panic beginning to flicker beneath the haze.

He felt it.  Of course he did. He always felt everything. Immediately, his touch changed. Softer. His hands, once possessive and firm, became coaxing, stroking your face as he guided your chin toward his. A whisper of pressure. A kiss before the fall.

“Shhh,” he breathed, brushing your lips with his own, “It’s alright. You’re doing so good.”

His fingers slipped out of you, and one of his lengths took their place, pressing inside with a force that made your lungs seize.

The thrust was smooth. Deep. Too deep.

Your scream never made it past your mouth—his tongue was already there, swallowing it, muffling your panic with something wet and hot and hungry. His kiss was messy, teeth dragging across your lips, fangs nicking you just enough to remind you what he was.

Your hands scrambled against the stone. Your body fought to stretch, to fit around something it was never meant to take. As his other cock bounced against your clit, making the sensation so much more unbearable. 

He groaned—more a laugh than a sound of pleasure—as he sank deeper, letting you feel every inch, every twitch of his body moving inside yours.

“Hah…” he panted, voice thick with delight, “I’m not usually this gentle, you know…”

He gave a shallow thrust, just enough to make your body jerk forward. 

“You can ask Suguru when you meet him.” His voice dripped with amusement, cruel in its fondness “He’s always scolding me for being so — fuck — rough.”

You winced as the tip of him pressed up against your cervix, an ache blooming sharp and unforgiving somewhere behind your hips. The pain had teeth, hot and blossoming like fire underwater. And still, he kissed you again, lips wet and unrelenting, fangs dragging across the plush of your bottom lip like he was tasting you from the inside out.

“But with you…” he murmured, voice thick with wonder and ruin, a shudder rolling down his spine, “you’re worth savoring.”

You felt yourself begin to unravel, limp in his arms, breath shallow, nerves frayed like salt-wet lace. The drag of his cock was too much, too deep and consuming. His teeth mapped your skin with feverish precision, each bite sharper than the last, each one punctuating a devotion that veered far past human. The water churned around you, thick with heat and the iron-slick scent of blood.

He trembled behind you, groaning low and guttural as his hips pressed flush to yours, his body locking into place. You felt the full weight of him, the heat, the stretch, the sheer wrongness of it. And then, hot, sticky, release. A surge deep within you.

His moan, if you could call it that, was a high, pitchy, cracked thing. Like something old and lonely, remembering how to pray. Claws skimmed your belly and thighs, possessive, trembling. Holding you close. Ensuring every last drop stayed inside. 

Your hands slipped from the rock.  You didn’t remember letting go. He caught them easily—captured them—and pressed them flat to his chest, where something beat too fast, too shallow. Like a bird trapped beneath his ribs.

“S–Satoru,” you choked, voice thin and laced with salt, terror curling at the edges.

He pulled out of you, slowly or maybe those things, the lengths of him, were curling back into the shadow of his tail. You didn’t know. You couldn’t know. Siren biology wasn’t recorded in braille. No one thought it was worth transcribing. Or maybe you’re the only one who survived to tell the tale. 

“Shhh…” he whispered, soft as a lullaby, “just taking you with me.”

He laughed, breathless, light, euphoric. Like you’d given him the greatest gift without ever meaning to. As if dying for him would be enough. His hands slid down your back, down your thighs, holding you tight like a bride. 

The rock’s warmth faded behind you. The warmth of the sun was lost to the cool ocean waves.  He nuzzled against your throat again, lapped away the drying blood with reverent little swipes of his tongue, then trailed up to kiss your jaw, your lips, soft and slow, as though you weren’t drowning.

Down. 

Down. 

 Down.

Into the dark. Surrounded by pressure. The water surged past your ears. You tried to breathe. Tried to scream. Tried to do anything, but his mouth was already on yours again, swallowing every desperate sound, every last shudder of protest.

You felt your body go slack. Felt your lungs burn. Your thoughts began to scatter like bubbles rising too slow to reach the surface.

And just before the black took you. 

You thought, distantly,

If this is death…

…maybe it’s better to not be awake for it.

[gojo-supreme]

I really like to believe that if you were dating Suguru and Satoru, Satoru’s clinginess would rub off onto Suguru. But not as badly, but I think he’d have his days.

It’s just one of those nights where you wake up hot, sticky, and with the urge to piss. slowly climbing out of bed, careful not to wake up the two men who swore you needed to be sandwiched between them to be safe.

It takes about 30 seconds max for Suguru to shift in his sleep to realise you’re not there. His eyes are still closed, but he’s patting his hand on the bed like you’re the lost remote on the couch. He’s mumbling shit till he finally opens his eyes and sees you’re not there, and oh boy, he doesn’t like that. He hates the fact that when he woke up, you’re not there beside him with Satoru, sleeping peacefully.

you finish your business, rolling up your pants when you hear a sudden deep voice that scares the fuck out of you.

“babe?”

“fuck! suguru? why are you up?”

“why aren’t you in bed?”

He won’t admit it, but you and Satoru have seen it enough to know that Suguru whines. And he definitely pouts, but that’s only behind closed doors when he’s away from everyone and nothing else matters but you two.

“Go back to bed, I was just using the bathroom.” You answered, pushing past him to wash your hands. He leans against the wall next to the sink, not saying anything, just admiring you. His eyes are barely open, his hair is such a mess, and his clothes are wrinkled, sweats barely hanging on his hip (yummy), his arms crossed, and that shirt does nothing to help hide those ridiculous big biceps he has.

“Suguru? Y/n?” another voice calls out, and you groan. Satoru always had trouble sleeping, so the fact he was up during this hour meant it was going to take forever for him to sleep. “Here!” Suguru mumbled, and he opened the door to meet a somewhat arguable sleepier Satoru.

“Why aren’t you two in bed?”

“I had to piss.”

“They weren’t in bed.”

You sighed and grabbed their hands, walking to the bed. “OK, are we all good to go to bed now?” you asked them. They both nodded a yes and climbed into bed.

But if we’re going back to talk about Suguru, he does get clingy. He’s the first one to wrap his arm around your waist as you’re facing Satoru, who wraps his arm around your waist. Is it comfortable? Not really. Is it hot and really only works during winter? Yeah. But does it make you feel nice and loved? Yeah. It does.

[gojo-supreme]

goodnight n go

pairings- Satoru x Suguru x F!reader

warnings- Gojo and Geto kissing bc YES, they kinda like it but they'll deny it lmaoo, them both eating you out, fingering, blow jobs, cum swallowing, mentions of masturbation, they're being all bratty and competitive, explicit sex, them being greedy with you, SatoSugu but they love your coochie so much you're special </3 - WC 3k

This is for my baby @baepsays who got thrown in TUMBLR JAIL grr for no reason!!! It's based on the Challengers movie, specifically that hotel scene hehe <3

"So... are you two like... together?" you ask the two men sitting right in front of you, both wearing open kimonos that show far too much of their chiseled muscles. Satoru wears a deep blue, Suguru a pretty bright red, you have to keep your eyes from trailing down each of their bodies and act normal. You sip on a beer right with them, sitting on the old hotel carpet in the late hours of the night.

The ac has gone on the fritz, so the windows are wide open, blowing the still humid air into the room, as the two of them avidly watch you, they'd been staring at you for the entire game, the entire after party, clearly both enamored with you. The way you curve that ball had them both hard in the stands.

It was Suguru who mentioned it first, how sexy you were, hyping you all up - Satoru knew who you were by name, but never saw you - he was helplessly in love with himself and being the best. So when he did see you step out in that little tennis skirt, and see the way your pretty body looked in it, especially your ass and how it bounced underneath it? He was already hooked.

But nothing took them out more than how you played, how you danced around the court and fucking annihilated everyone. Satoru and Suguru were two of the top tennis players themselves, but they'd be lying if you didn't say you were better than them both.

Tennis is all you know, there was no dating or doing anything for you, it was all tennis all the time. Even just being here was on a whim, but how could you turn down their invitation?

Suguru's holding a blunt, passing it over to Satoru, the smoke lingering in the air, you smell its sweetness while he wraps his plump lips around it, both men glaring at your question as you giggle. You can't help but ask it, it's the notorious rumor of these two.

"Together?" Suguru blows the smoke up, leaned back on a pillow he'd snatched up from the bed, looking far too good as he eyes you, lidded gaze slipping up your bare thighs. "Why do you ask that?"

"Everyone thinks you two are," you take the blunt from Satoru's long fingers, looking at the two men carefully. "I think you two would be cute together."

"We're not together, why do people think that?" Satoru frowns, and Suguru chuckles, shoving at him. He rolls his eyes, and you pass Suguru the blunt, as you and Satoru go to sip your drinks. You feel a gentle cool breeze blow in for just a moment, tickling your skin as Satoru now runs his fingers across your ankle, the motion making you tense. It feels too good.

"You've never been together? No kissing, nothing?"

"Never!? well..." Satoru trails off, and Suguru smirks.

"Spill!" You're eagerly on your knees now, strap slipping off your shoulder, Suguru leans up to fix it, watching your nipples perk up under your tank at the action.

"You're bratty," Satoru murmurs, fingers running up your calf, leaving. goosebumps on your skin, Suguru inhales the blunt again, blowing it into your mouth now. At the contact of his lips you tremble, inhaling that smoke deep in your lungs, feeling lightheaded, tummy clenching at how good his lips feel.

"Tell me about the time you almost did something then," you tease, while Suguru brushes a thumb over your lower lip. They are both chuckling softly, Satoru is rubbing the back of his neck. "Did you all jerk each other off?"

"You're a freaky brat." Satoru says, glaring so cute at you.

"We didn't do that, but I did teach Satoru how to jerk his-"

"Suguru!" He shoves Suguru now, but you're all wide eyed with attention. "Shut up!"

"What, you didn't know how to." Satoru scoffs, shaking his head.

"Wait that's cute!" You are laughing so hard you're holding your tummy now, as the two pretty boys tell different sides of the same story.

"I was thinking about my girlfriend and started..." Suguru trails off, Satoru's blushing. "Well I thought he was asleep."

"Well I was you were loud," Satoru leans forward now, pressing a little kiss against your neck after brushing your hair back. "You really wanna hear about it?"

"It sounds so adorable." He rolls his pretty blue eyes.

"I asked him to tell me what he was doing, we were young. Then he just sort of told me - but under the blankets!"

"We didn't touch each other." Suguru confirms, snorting in laughter as you giggle at Satoru's embarrassed face burying against your neck now.

"Do you guys do that alot too?"

"Whatever no!" Satoru nips at your neck, making you tense at how good it feels. "We do cuddle."

"He cuddles me, I shove him off."

"The ship is going strong. I don't think I can stay here and ruin this, what would they say about me?" You stand up then, Suguru smirks as Satoru pouts, Satoru's cuteness and Suguru's prettiness are honestly a lot to handle.

"Don't leave us yet, we haven't even finished our drinks." Satoru watches as you brush his hair back, while he's on his knees, sighing a bit.

"All right then, as long as I don't ruin your love." They both scoff as you go to sit right on the edge of that bed, thighs pressing together - as much as you're kidding, you can't help but be excited by the two of them. You pat each side and they both jump next to you, earning your giggle. "Who do I kiss first..."

You look at Suguru, brushing his lips, he exhales and leans closer, but Satoru yanks you by your chin, slamming his lips on yours first. "She was gonna choose me."

"No way, mnh - cherry lip gloss." Satoru licks his lips as he pulls back, you're left breathless, Suguru is quick to kiss you after, his tongue slipping inside, dancing across your teeth, while their hands so huge take over your entire body slowly. Your breath comes quicker and quicker, trembling as they take over your senses.

You have just a bit of sweat dancing along your skin, they're lapping it up, Satoru kisses across one side of your neck, while Suguru kisses along the other. You gasp out, still so sore from the tennis game, their big hands grip each thigh and press in, as if massaging you, their breaths heavy and sensual against your ears.

"Do you all... do this a lot?" You murmur then, teasing as you look into Suguru’s violet eyes, while he slips his fingers higher. "Share girls?"

"Maybe a couple of times, but never with someone like you," he murmurs, while Satoru tilts your chin to him, bringing your gaze to his pouty lips.

"We can kick him out."

"We can kick him out." Suguru tilts your chin back over to him now, only making Satoru drag your thigh over his, opening your pussy wide for both of them to touch you.

"Mnh," your head leans back, the alcohol working through you, mixed with their addicting kisses along your neck, their fingers brushing against your pussy over your shorts. "Fuck..."

"You're so wet, need us to take care of you?" Satoru murmurs, pressing a kiss on your lips, only for Suguru to turn your head and kiss you brutally.

Suguru moans as his finger slip into your hole, while Satoru's roll along your clit, his tongue slipping up your neck as Suguru's is massaging the inside your mouth. You feel how wet you are, as the two of them making you a mess, which they seem to relish in, eyeing each other as they play you.

"So wet, wonder how you'll be when you cum? Squirt all over, or drip slowly?" Suguru's words fuck you up, where you felt in charge, when those dilated eyes hit you, you're trembling and gasping.

"Bet she's messy." Satoru murmurs those words hot and heavy against your skin, his free hand gripping your breast and squishing it.

Suguru's thick finger stretches you out, when Satoru kisses you again, tongue delving into your mouth a little more desperate. You hear his whimper when you touch his toned abdomen, slipping down, before touching Suguru's ribcage now, feeling how hot his skin is under your touch. Husky moans and little whimpers dance along your skin as you touch them.

You kiss Suguru again, then can't help but bring them together, bit by bit, kissing them quicker and quicker, until you drag their faces ever closer. They lose themselves in you, your cunt squelching loudly with how wet it is, you're throbbing around Suguru’s finger as your clit twitches against Satoru's, pressure building in your tummy. You're shifting your hips, arching for more as the wind blows gently against your overheated bodies.

You all three kiss then, together, with each tongue dance along each side of yours, as the three of you exhale and gasp, hands entangled now in your hair, you can't tell who's pulling it from each direction. That's when their own tongues meet, all while their skilled fingers are playing with your slutty, messy cunt, and you're losing yourself in them. One hand in silky black locks so long, the other carding through silly white hair.

You pull back just a bit curious, as you truly think these men must be together, everything about them screams it. Satoru and Suguru kiss each other in front of you, your heart races at the sight, of Suguru and Satoru moaning and still touching you, unrealized with their closed eyes that you've pulled back, smiling as you watch them.

"Okay I should.. go." You say after a long few moments when they blink and pull apart, a trail of saliva dripping between them, before they're scowling at each other, then at you as you giggle. "I can't break up a happy marriage." You say with a pout, getting up and tugging off their hands.

"You're a brat," Suguru huffs, pressing you down on the springy hotel bed then, Satoru kneels and slips your shorts down, while Suguru slips up your top, his lips dancing across each breast. "We aren't together."

"I don't know, I thought it was pretty hot." They both glare at you, Satoru sinks his teeth in your inner thigh, blue eyes vivid in their brightness. "I ship you two even more now."

"I like to eat pussy thank you very much," Gojo presses a kiss to your slick cunt then, making you whine out. "and I'm the best at it."

"That would be me," Suguru is down there too now, both men gripping a thigh, scowling at each other again, they're way too fucking hot and simultaneously cute. "Time we shut you up."

"Past time," Satoru licks a stripe up your slit while Suguru slips two fingers in your hole, you moan at it, at him pumping in and out while Satoru holds your hood up. He swirls the tip of his tongue on your slit, moaning. "Fuck I wanna be inside you."

"She's so tight," Suguru pulls his fingers out then, sucking you right off them, cheeks hollowing while Satoru slips impossibly longer fingers so deep, curling when Suguru's tongue slips against your twitchy little clit. "Mnh."

"She's so sweet here." Satoru's licking you right with Suguru, together they're working you, their tongues touching as they make out with your clit together. You can't help but grip them tightly, thighs shaking on either side of their heads.

"Ah! there, there," your eyes roll back, lost in them, hips raised up for more of their touch, while there lips brush just slightly together while they share your taste.

"Stop kissing me," Satoru's words make you laugh, breathless, even as the orgasm is approaching even closer.

M'not, you're taking all of it." Suguru is burying his face so greedy, tongue slipping into your hole now, you're so close you feel yourself about to fall apart, back and hips arching for more of them.

"S-satoru... S-suguru..."

"Said my name first," he's grinning and nudging Suguru with his shoulder, earning an eye roll, before your eyes roll back again in your skull, both of their fingers inside you.

"Ah!" You're gripping the cheap material of those flowery hotel blankets, while they find spots inside you didn't know you had, fingers in sync while they watch you.

"So pretty," is what one of them whispers, but your pulse is racing in your ears as they curl up simultaneously, hitting a spot that makes your cunt gush and spasm. "There it is."

You think they said it simultaneously, you can't really place where the voices are coming from when you're screaming like that, so loud you're for sure your teammates hear in the adjoining rooms. You can't say you care, while they moan and slurp you up, hungry messy sounds making you reach higher.

"Ngh!" You're shaking, breasts heaving up and down, slightly out in your top all askew. Two hands reach for them, while they share your taste together, moaning against you and vibrating your cunt.

"Who's gay now?" Satoru asks, leaning up and gripping your chin, you barely manage to focus on his pretty face

"I'll give you bi- ah!" Suguru smacks your cunt, it feels far too good, leaning over you too, both taking turns kissing you softly. "Fuck, okay, okay you two are insanely good."

"Who's better?" Suguru is met with a shove from Satoru, grinning all pretty and not budging.

"Equal talent, just like on the court." Your words are sincere, though different in their play styles, both men were fucking beasts on the court. They both blush a bit as you lean up and trail your fingers across their cheeks. Your breathing comes down as you share your taste between them.

You feel their touches getting harder, grips deeper, as you are pulled between them both, kissing each one over and over, losing yourself in them, they're both tugging at your thighs, pressing their cocks against you under their thin shorts.

"Wanna be inside first," Satoru practically whines, Suguru scoffs.

"No," he's shoved Satoru off the bed, you can't stop the little laugh at seeing the six foot four man careen off the springy bed with a bounce and thud to the floor. Suguru's on top of you, dark long locks falling against your skin. He's moaning into your lips, you're clinging to him as he presses against the slick mess your cunt has become. "Mmm..."

"No fair." Satoru shoves Suguru off you, turning you to your side facing him, his hands gripping your ass as he presses his cock against you now too, you're soaking his shorts, feeling hands from behind wrap you now. "I don't wanna share."

"Me either, go take a walk." You exhale, looking at each of them, before touching Suguru's cock behind you, his soft moan is met with Satoru's desperate whimper when you touch his.

"Be nice and share, you two." You chide them gently, they sigh and nod, both of your hands stroking them over their shorts, while they kiss along your back and chest.

Satoru's soon tugged his shorts off Suguru joins him, revealing thick pretty cocks, so veiny and leaking pearly precum. You're swallowing nervously at their lengths, unsure how you'd fit them, when they slip off the remnants of your clothes, both rubbing their tips along your pussy. Suguru's pressing against your hole, Satoru's tip is on your clit, rubbing back and forth, filthy sounds.

You're gripping Satoru and kissing him, whining out, Suguru tugs your leg up high, sinking his teeth against your neck. Their tips rub together, they won't admit that it doesn't bother them, they're far too absorbed in how good you feel, how pretty you are between them. They do share everything, but for you they felt a little greedy, each one wanting more.

Suguru's pressing inside your cunt first, groaning as his hand grips a thigh right with Satoru, leaving bruises on your skin. "Mnh!" You're whining out at the stretch, head falling back, to be wrapped with Satoru's fingers, as he keeps stroking your clit, you're filled so full you scream out.

"Fuck she's so tight," Suguru's groaning, Satoru exhales, while he pumps you deep, your tits jiggling perfectly for Satoru's eyes.

"Lemme feel her," Satoru whispers, like you're their little toy then, Suguru pulls out for a moment, leaving you empty and crying out, only for Satoru sink inside your cunt. You're stroking Suguru's cock behind you, slick with you, as Satoru's curved tip hits your spot, making you cum all over him. "Hah, came on my cock first."

"Because I filled her up so good," they're fucking into you a few pumps each turn, till Satoru gets greedy, yanking you on him as he lays on his back, shoving you right down on his cock and whimpering.

The angle is so deep, you feel him right on your cervix, Suguru's lifting you by the hips, behind you now, fucking up into your cunt instead, only for Satoru to yank you back down. You feel like a little doll they're playing with, cunt dripping down each of them, while you're trembling, letting Suguru have you cumming next.

Satoru rolls his finger on your clit while he does, both taking turns fucking your cunt until it's sore, tightening up on them and milking their cocks, their tongues lapping along each ear as they keep dragging you from one cock to the next. They tease your entrance together with their tips at one point, burning the skin there, they both groan as the rub together.

"Where do you want this cum?" Satoru asks softly, you look down, biting your lip then.

"Mouth." They're so eager for this it's amusing, you're on your knees while they take turns fucking your mouth, until you try to suck them both at once, only managing their tips.

"Ah, that's it, gonna cum so much more than you," Satoru murmurs, Suguru is too lost in how good your mouth feels to argue, as you look up at them so pretty, sucking each one and stroking with your hands, saliva dripping down the side of your mouth.

"Shut up, Satoru, God." Your giggle earns Satoru fucking your throat harder, not that you mind, you feel him yanking your hair as you keep stroking Suguru's thick length, choking on him and gagging. The sensations have you grinding against the bed.

"Gonna swallow all of me, huh sweetheart?" Satoru's whisper is met with your whine, while you do just that, swallowing all of his cum, he whimpers and leans his head back. "Baby... feels s'good..."

Your mouth is pulled right off him while he's still twitching, Suguru mercilessly plunging his own cock deep in your throat. "Swallow like a good girl, hmm?"

He's gently brushing your hair back as he fucks your throat so deep, cumming right inside it, filling you with both their flavors, drinking them down greedy. They're both moaning then, bending down to kiss you, tasting each other on your lips, tongues messy and desperate. You lean back and exhale, earning sweet little kisses and strokes from their hands.

"I have got to get sleep," You finally manage to grab your clothes, and the boys are devastated, cocks already hard again. "You just came!"

"I have the best stamina."

"No, that's me."

"I go the most rounds."

"I last longer-"

"Okay boys," you're shaking your head at the two bickering like a married couple. You pat their chests now. "I need some sleep before the match, and so do you."

"No fun, boring," Satoru is all pouty when he helps you up, both of then adjust your clothes, fixing your hair gently, you ease in the touch for a moment, cunt still throbbing from them, thighs shaky.

"Let me have your number." Suguru asks then, you eye him with a turn of your lips, Satoru steps in front of him, blocking your field of vision.

"Let me, pretty please?"

"Whoever wins tomorrow gets my number." You kiss each of them, leaving them whining as you brush your fingers on each of their cheeks.

"I'm gonna win." Suguru and Satoru say it at once, you laugh again, turning and walking to the door. You look at them then, shoving at each other, smiling a bit.

"If you jerk off together tonight-"

"We won't!"

"Film it?"

Their scowls urge you on, surely they don't stroke themselves helplessly thinking about you!

Ahaha this was just some silliness I hope you like it 🤭🤭🤭

perm tags- @alt--er--love @nanasukii28 @cuntphoric @loafteaw @n1vi @indiewritesxoxo @miizuzu @beachaddict48 @honeybunnnnie @re-tired-succubus @gojosukuna2268 @waterfal-ling @1brii @wise-fangirl @moncher-ire @orikixx @uhnosav @designerpvssy @orixxxana @airandyeah @nina-from-317 @evelynxxo @naammiii @soyokosuguru @espresso1patronum @tomboy-disaster @iam-souless @lanii-i @cristy-101 @doeeyestoji @cvixmei @mutsu422 @ivyvenus333 @g00seg1rl @suki91 @satoblue @fairygardenprincesss @theonlyjuggernaut @huntyhuntycunty @lovelockdownff @ibreathesmut @s777athv @twinklywinkly @akiii143 @squeezyvalkyrie @cookielovesbook-akie @oinksa @grignardsreagent @shokosbunny

[gojo-supreme]

you're bit too possessive toward your nerdྀི

the moment you spot them through the glass wall of the library study room, something primal inside you snaps.

your nerd. your sweet, tall, stuttering nerd.

and some other girl leaning all over him. all giggles and twirls of her stupid hair, looking up at him like he hung the stars. you can practically see the way her fingers brush “innocently” against his forearm. and gojo—this sweet, beautiful idiot gojo. he's just smiling, shyly pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, completely, utterly oblivious of the advances the girl is making.

you see red. not the cute, flirty kind of jealous. no. 

you see murder.

by the time you stomp into the study room, he lights up the second he sees you—like a golden retriever seeing its favorite person. “babyy!” he blurts, half-standing so fast he nearly knocks over the chair. his knees bang the table. his pen scatter. he's flushed pink already, hands fidgeting with the hem of his stupid neat sweater, beaming at you like you're the sun itself.

meanwhile, the girl beside him falters, confused as hell when you swoop in, grab a fistful of his collar and yank him down into a messy kiss—a possessive and mean one, kissing him like you're marking him, like you're making a fucking declaration.

gojo gasps against your mouth, stunned, but immediately melts, tilting his head to give you more. he kisses back with desperate little noises, afraid if he doesn't, you'll change your mind and leave. when you pull back, he's breathless, blinking at you all dazed and drunk, glasses slipping halway down his nose. “i missed you…” he whispers.

you don't answer him, to focusing on the other girl. staring straight at her awkward form peeking up her books, face pale. you tilt your head and smile—sharp, unfriendly, a predator showing teeth. she scurries away without a word.

gojo blinks between you and the empty chair, confusion pinching his brows. “she…left? we didn't end the explanations—”

you grab his jaw in one hand, squeezing his cheeks until his lips squish pouty. “you,” you hiss, leaning so close your breath fans his pink ears, “are so fucking stupid, satoru.” his wide, panicked eyes blink down at you. “i-i am?” he stutters, looking on the verge of tears just because you're mad at him. “i-i didn't even—i mean…i was j-just doing the private lesson…i-i told you about it!” he babbles, desperate. not understanding a thing.

you shake his head a little by the jaw, making his glasses slip down worse. “yeah, yeah. i agreed on a private lesson." you snarl, voice dripping poison-sweet. "not private fucking sex.” you yank his wrist, dragging him out of the little study room, ignoring the curious heads turning to you. 

satoru stumbles after you, tripping over his own feet—over himself just to keep up. “y-you're mad,” he whines, almost breathless, cheeks burning red. “w-what did i…i didn't—”

his voice gets smaller when you spin around, shoving him back hard against the nearest wall. his back thuds against the cold surface, and he freezes up, chest heaving. “you really don't get it, huh?” 

that dumb, pretty face of his—lips pink from your previous kiss and from him nervously chewing them, his glasses crooked, his hair all messed up—god, you could eat him alive. “you let that clingy bitch touch you like that?” you spit. “smile at her like that? let her giggle and bat her lashes like you didn't already have someone who should be the only thing you look at??”

satoru is practically vibrating in place, like a kicked puppy. his Adam's apple bobs hard when he swallows. “i-i didn't notice!” he chokes out. “i swear, angel, i didn't! i-i didn't even l-look at her. .” your nails scrape up his chest through his hoodie, making him whimper. “you're mine, aren't you, 'toru?” he nods so fast you think he might give himself whiplash. “y-yes!! yours! of c-course, only yours!”

your hand snakes lower, palming the half-chub tenting his sweats. poor thing :( so quick to get hard just from yelling at him. “you're lucky you're cute,” you snap, but your heart is hammering at how real the panic was in his voice. 

you squeeze him through the fabric. his hips jolt into your hand with a pathetic little gasp. you watch his pretty white lashes flutter, poor boy was genuinely confused why you're so pissed—poor sweet nerd who only ever wanted you :((

you click your tongue. “my pretty nerd,” you mock sweetly, squeezing his cock harder through his pants, making his knees buckle. “getting hard just ‘cause i’m scolding you? bet you'd cum just from me slapping your face.” 

“i-i could! i would, i-if that's what y-you—ah!—want,” his mouth works uselessly searching for words, his brain short-circuiting because your hand's still lazily stroking him through his sweats. you lean up, biting his jaw hard enough to make him whines. 

"you’re gonna make it up to me," you murmur against his skin, voice syrupy sweet. "gonna let me use you however I want. gonna be a good boy for me, huh, satoru?" he was towering over you but he was so, so submissive.

he nods so fast again his glasses damn near fall off. "a-anything," he breathes. "please. please let me—lemme be good—i'll be so good, promise!"

[gojo-supreme]

𓂃 toxic ex satoru fucking you on your wedding day.

implied cheating. public humiliation. relationship destruction. wall sex. hair pulling. toxic ex dynamic.

its your wedding day, hours from vows, yet the joy’s tainted when you glanced in the mirror and see him. satoru gojo, leaning against the doorframe. your toxic ex, the one you dumped years ago when his possessiveness, his need to control every move you made became too much.

he’s here, uninvited, in your private moment, and your stomach twisted. “fuck are you doing here, satoru?” you growl setting the fan down with a clatter, turning to face him, your hands balled into fists, he raises his hands mocking innocence.

“damn, i can’t visit the bride now?” he muttured stepping closer, his long frame casual but predatory. “thought you’d miss me, sweetheart.” you furrowed. “leave.” you snap, your voice low, serious, pointing at the door. “i don’t want you here.”

“leave?” he says feigning hurt, taking another step, his boots clicking on the floor. “im your guest.” his eyes flick over you, lingering on your dress, your bare shoulders, and you gulp. that old pull you swore you’d broken free from.

“you’re not my fucking guest.” you hiss, stepping back, your back brushing the vanity, your heart racing. “you’re here to mess with me, and im not letting that happen.” he tilts his head, shades slipping down, revealing those piercing blue eyes.

“mess with you?” he says, his voice softer, dangerous, closing the distance until he’s inches away, towering over you. “i just wanted to see you, one last time, all dressed up like this.”

you should have shouted, screamed at him, hit him, but the pull was unbearable, you still needed him. and now, it was too late.

he groans, his voice raw, lifting you onto the vanity, your dress bunching up, his hands sliding up your thighs, rough and needy. “satoru..” you gasp, your voice breaking as he pushes your dress higher, his fingers finding your panties, tugging them aside. “we shouldn’t—fuck...” you moan, his fingers brushing your clit, making you arch into him.

“tell me to stop.” he says his voice strained, pausing, his fingers hovering, giving you an out. “say it, and im gone.” you don’t say it, can’t, your hands pulling him closer, your lips on his neck, biting hard. “do it..” you mutter, your voice desperate.

“but make it quick.” he groans, low and raw, unbuttoning his pants, freeing his cock hard and thick, already leaking and lines up, thrusting into you in one deep, rough stroke, making you cry out, your nails digging into his shoulders.

“fuck, still so tight for me.” he growls, his voice breaking, his hips slamming into you, the vanity shaking, bottles clattering to the floor. “satoru, shit!” you moan, your legs wrapping around him, pulling him deeper, your body betraying you.

he grips your hips, thrusting hard, fast, each stroke hitting that spot that makes you see stars, your moans loud, reckless.

“you’re mine.” he mutters his hand tangling in your hair, pulling your head back, making you gasp. “always fuckin’ mine, no matter who you marry.”

you whined pulling his hair back and he groaned thrusting deeper, his hand sliding to your clit, circling fast, relentless. “cum for me, sweetheart. show me you still want this.”. “cum for me, sweetheart. show me you still want this.”

“fuck, satoru!” you cry your orgasm hitting, your body shaking, clenching tight around him, pleasure crashing through you, he groans, loud and raw, cumming with you, spilling inside, his hips stuttering, his face buried in your neck, panting.

you’re both still, breathless, the room quiet except for your gasps, the reality of what you’ve done sinking in.

your white dress feels heavy, stained with the memory of his hands hours ago in the bridal suite. you push it down, your heart pounding, as the officiant’s words blur, leading to the moment you’ve been dreading and craving. the kiss to seal your vows.

your husband leans in, smiling, and you force a smile, your lips trembling, inches from his, then, a sharp crackle cuts through the air, the big screen behind the altar flickering to life.

gasps ripple through the crowd, and your stomach drops, a sick premonition hitting as you turn. there, on the massive screen, is you moaning, legs wrapped around gojo, his hair unmistakable, his cock thrusting into you, the vanity shaking, your voice crying.

“satoru, fuck!” the audio’s loud, obscene, your face clear, flushed with pleasure, his hands gripping your hips. its the moment from hours ago, when you gave in, let him fuck you one last time, thinking it was private, a mistake you could bury.

“no...” you whisper, your voice breaking, stepping back, your hands shaking, the veil slipping from your hair, your husband freezes, his face paling, eyes wide as he stares at the screen, then at you, betrayal carving his features.

“what the fuck is this?!” he says trembling with shock and rage, stepping away, his hands clenched, the crowd’s murmuring, some turning away, others staring, horrified.

you feel naked, so exposed, your chest is tight and your tears are burning your eyes. “i—im sorry..” you stammer your voice small, turning to the crowd as if it could keep them away from the disgusting screen while you search for him, gojo.

he’s there at the back, leaning against a pillar, shades low, a smirk playing on his lips.

he meets your gaze, his unapologetic eyes glinting like he’s won something.

[gojo-supreme]

Sweetheart, You Dripped on the Carpet

Context: Your husband comes home after a long day of “work” to find you standing in the living room in nothing but a blood-splattered plastic apron. You’re completely naked underneath, your body on full display, plush, warm, and slick with crimson. A corpse lies at your feet, but he only has eyes for you.

Content Warnings: Murder & blood, dead body in scene, nudity & implied sexual content, blood kink themes, Serial killer romance, Dark humor, 18+ MDNI

The sun was long gone by the time he pulled into the driveway. Its pale light had bled out across the horizon hours ago, leaving behind a lazy half-moon and the hum of suburban silence. The porch light was off, which was unusual. She usually left it on for him, even though they both knew shadows suited them better.

He stepped out of the car, locking it with a lazy flick of his wrist. His shoulders ached. The body from earlier had taken longer to dismember than expected. Bone saws were efficient, but messy. The client would be pleased, though. He always left things clean.

His boots thudded up the front steps. He unlocked the door, pushed it open, and—

The scent hit first.

Metallic. Sharp. Fresh.

Not his kill.

He paused, nose twitching. His eyes narrowed slightly, but his body didn’t tense. Not quite. Instead, a slow smile curled the corner of his lips.

She’d been busy.

The living room was dim, lit only by the flickering amber glow of a corner lamp. Shadows stretched long and thin across the room, and at the center of it, barefoot, blood-soaked, and radiant, stood his wife.

She was calm, like she had all the time in the world. One hip jutted out with a relaxed defiance, a butcher’s knife dangling from one hand, tip still dripping. Her natural coils were puffed into a soft halo on top of her head, untouched by the violence splattered across the rest of her body.

And she wore nothing… nothing but a clear plastic apron.

The thing clung to her body, smeared with blood, fogged in places from heat, and sticking in streaks to her thick, plush frame. Her belly peeked from behind it, round and soft. Her breasts, full and heavy, pressed against the plastic, nipples dark and visible through the red-slick transparency.

His gaze dipped lower.

The apron ended just below her hips, and through the glossy, blood-speckled sheet, he could see the curve of her bare pussy, plump lips glistening, slightly parted from the warmth still rolling off her skin. No panties. No modesty.

Just his wife, naked and coated in crimson, standing over a body like a vision from a dream only a monster like him could conjure.

She blinked at him.

Wide brown eyes. Calm. Sweet.

Like she hadn’t just gutted someone in the living room.

Like she was waiting for him to ask how her day went.

“Hi, baby,” she said softly, voice honey-sweet, head tilted just a little to the side.

He stared. Then slowly, he shut the door behind him.

And he got hard, instantly.

Simon Riley, Sukuna Ryomen, Geto Suguru

[gojo-supreme]

"Do I still turn you on?"

Your stupid question came just after you kissed your husband good night, his silver brows furrowed while his hands rested on the band of his cotton pajamas. He had just pulled them up after drying himself from his bath, his bare torso still balmy and beaded with unwiped water.

"What kind of question is that?"

"Well, we've been married for this long now," your fingers playfully wiggled as you counted the number of anniversaries you've celebrated with him. "I'm just wondering if you still think I'm pretty and all..."

Satoru's lips pursed into a thin line, a small sigh escaping his mouth as he stomped over to your side of the bed and unceremoniously pulled down his pajamas right in front of your face.

"T-Toru! What the—!" You exclaimed, dropping your hairbrush in complete disbelief. His wide shadow loomed over you as you sat on the edge of your shared bed, as though hiding this sight from the rest of the world.

His boxers were tented uncomfortably, the kind he always teased you with whenever you were in close proximity. He'd grab you as soon as you were within an arm's length away and rub against you until you melted like putty and played into his hands.

He seized your wrist and brought your palm against his crotch, hard, throbbing, twitching almost painfully— and it made you swallow deep.

He had an erection.

Satoru watched your expression through his feathery lashes and lidded eyes, his hand moving to cup your chin. "What does it look like? Does this look like I'm not turned on by my wife?"

It was a stupid question, indeed, and the answer was there even before you aired it out loud.

You rubbed the tip of his cock with your warm palm, your fingers gently closing around his length as you stroked him, his expression softening as he saw how embarrassed you were— for even asking such a question.

A glint of mischief darkened your husband's baby blue eyes, a twinkle of adoration and desire lighting his features as he completely dropped his pajamas to the floor. "You better stop asking stupid questions because you're never gonna get any stupid answers from me, only real ones."

[gojo-supreme]

. ۫ ꣑ৎ . ❝ 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐊 𝐔𝐏, 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐘...❞

wc: 628. not proofread. anon.

you were not much of a talker. and you boyfriend suguru knew that. he understood that. and because of that, he learned that small actions were signals that you wanted something.

you would stare at something for way too long at the store and he knew you liked it. you wouldn't take your eyes off of it until he grabbed your attention. "you like it, baby", he would ask, his height towering over you and playing with your hair.

"yeah..."

"do you want it?", you only stare at him, not really wanting to say anything. you didn't want to be ungrateful. "it's okay I'll buy it for you", he flashed you a smile and gave you a small peck on the cheek before taking it off the shelf and paying for it.

when you want to cuddle, you would walk up to hin and grab his hand then lead him onto the bed or the couch. he would lay with you, your head resting on his chest listening to his heartbeat as he's caressing your thigh and kissing the top of your heard occasionally whispering sweet nothings.

sometimes you just sit on his lap when you want attention while he's either working or playing video games. he smiles and presses a soft kiss on your lips as you make yourself comfy. "you're gonna have all my attention when i'm done, cutie"

suguru almost always catches you staring at his food whenever you're out to eat. your boyfriend's food just looks so much more scrumptious. you try to make it subtle but he sees it. he picks some up with his fork/spoon/chopsticks and places it near your mouth. "say ahhhh....", he says and you open your mouth taking a bite of his food. it really was delicious.

"it's really good", you say and he smiles.

"mhmmm... if you want we can eat together", he pushes his plate between the both of you. you just can't help but think how sweet he is.

you always help suguru relax after he comes back from work. completely exhausted and all suguru can think of is enjoying a nice dinner and bath then cuddling with you on your shared bed.

although he understands that you're too shy to express yourself to him at times, that doesn't mean he's not gonna tease you.

you walk up to suguru and tug on his sleeve. he knows that means that you want a kiss, but he's gonna act clueless, just because he can. "what's the matter sweatheart?", he asks a stupid smirk on his face.

"uhh...", you're trying to come up with words but nothing. so you just stare at him and tug at his sleeve again, hoping he got the message this time.

"sweetie, i'm not just gonna understand you if you don't talk", he plays with the ends of your hair and you feel lile combusting. why was he doing this to you?

you sat in silence again but nothing. realizing that he really wasn't gonna do anything, you breathe out and gather your words. "i-i....want a...kiss", you say quietly.

"what's that? i didn't hear you. speak up pretty...", your heart is beating more rapidly now and your cheeks are getting warmer. but he's not showing signs of mercy.

frustrated you let it all out. "i want a kiss, suguru", he chuckles.

"you could've just said so", he pulls you by your waist, placing one hand behind your neck and placing a soft but passionate kiss on your awaiting lips. he pulls you impossibly closer to you, deepening the kiss only letting go to take in a breathe before tasting your addictive lips again.

suguru pulls away, the both of you breatheless, his forehead on yours. "that wasn't so hard now was it?..."

. ۫ ꣑ৎ . 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐃 © 𝐅𝐋𝐕𝐕𝐅𝐅𝐘

[gojo-supreme]

𓂃 kento x pregnant!reader

the first time your husband got serious mad at you was him cathing you carrying heavy things

kento’s at the grocery store, picking up ingredients for dinner—he’s been insistent on cooking lately, fussing over your nutrition like it’s his mission, you’re supposed to be resting, per his strict orders, but the nursery’s half finished, and the clutter’s driving you nuts.

a box of baby clothes sits by the door heavy with donations from friends, and you figure you can handle it, just one box, up the stairs, no big deal, you’re pregnant, not helpless.

you’re halfway up arms straining, the box wobbling, when the front door opens. “i’m back.” nanami calls but it cuts off sharp when he sees you, the grocery bags hit the floor with a thud and he’s at the stairs in two strides, his face a mask of disbelief.

“what the hell are you doing?” he snaps, his voice low, edged with something you’ve never heard.

you freeze, the box slipping, and he’s there, taking it from you, his hands firm but careful, setting it down with a heavy thump. “kento—” you start but he cuts you off, his voice rising, still controlled but trembling with restraint. “are you trying to hurt yourself?” he says, his words sharp, each one a blade.

“or the baby? because that’s what you’re doing, carrying this—this—up the damn stairs when i told you to rest.” he gestures at the box, his jaw clenched, his hands flexing like he’s holding back from shaking you or the world.

“im fine.” you say, defensive, stepping back, your hand on the railing. “It’s just a box, kento, im not fragile.” your voice is steady, but your heart’s racing, startled by his intensity, the way he’s looking at you like you’ve betrayed him.

“not fragile?” he repeats, his voice dropping. “you’re six months pregnant, and you’re hauling heavy shit like it’s nothing. do you have any idea what could happen? a fall? strain? you think im out here buying groceries for fun while you risk—” he stops, exhaling hard, running a hand through his hair, his composure cracking.

“you’re not fine. you’re reckless.” the word stings, and you bristle, your own anger flaring. “reckless?” you say, your voice rising. “im trying to help, kento. i can’t just sit around doing nothing while you treat me like im made of glass. im pregnant, not useless.”

his eyes narrow, and he steps closer, his presence towering, not threatening but overwhelming. “im not treating you like glass.” he says, his voice low, tight. “im trying to keep you safe, you and our kid. you think i want to come home and find you hurt? or worse?” his voice cracks on the last word, and you see it—the fear behind the anger, the way his hands tremble, the way he’s holding himself together.

you soften, your anger faltering, but you’re still stubborn, crossing your arms. “i didn’t think it was a big deal..” you say, quieter, looking away, your hand resting on your belly.

“i just… i wanted to do something.” nanami exhales, long and shaky, his shoulders sagging, and he steps closer, his voice dropping to a murmur. “its a big deal to me.” he says, his hand hovering near your arm, hesitant, like he’s not sure you’ll let him touch you.

“don’t do that to me again. please.” his forehead presses to yours, his breath warm, unsteady, and you feel the weight of his fear, his love, in that simple touch.

[gojo-supreme]

Sukuna who doesn’t like when you don’t follow his commands and listen to others.

After a long and annoying morning of telling his warriors what to do, killing off aristocrats and ordering servants around— the King of Curses expects to see you out in the garden playing with the stray kittens the King only keeps around for you or drawing in the paper hes given you, or better yet, napping. The sight of you enjoying yourself eases the annoyance, the stress of it all.

But when he doesn’t find you in the mere seconds it takes to scan the the yard with his four eyes, his voice booms across the open space, startling any servant near by. His voice is deep, dark, pronouncing every word slowly in an attempt to slow his irritation—

“Uraume, where. is. she?”

He could just sniff you out, he knows your smell so well now that it’s almost apart of him. Knows the smell of what lies inbetween your legs too, but he’d rather not use that. Not invade your space anymore than he usually does. He gracious like that.

His white haired servant is there in an instant, bowing his head, “[+] is at your room my lord.” They almost say it like a question, as if asking, ‘isn’t that where they’re supposed to be? A servant at their post?’

Well, no.

You do as your king orders you to do, and if that means you go and play instead of working until Sukuna calls for you, so fucking be it.

Sukuna finds you standing there in front of his chamber doors, arms behind your back, eyes low, waiting. like a good woman in waiting is supposed to do.

He calls to you like a sigh of relief, the God himself that never wavers, worried about his pet escaping him, something that would and never will happen, “Little human,”

Your eyes shoot up, your lashes flutter ever so beautifully, bowing your head, “Welcome back my lord.”

He doesn’t hesitate to tell you your wrong doings today, “You are meant to be in the yard before you feed me lunch, yes?”

You nod, “Yes my lord.”

“Then why is it you are here, watching the door when you know well I come to meet you there?”

You shift on your feet, eyes adverting his eyes while biting the inside of your lip. Adorable. You don’t want to get in trouble. His cute little thing. He lifts your chin with his finger, black nail at your throat. But you know it won’t hurt you.

Not his lovely pet.

Your big brown doe eyes stare up at him, he almost lets the matter go entirely— but you must understand your wrong to quickly fix it in the future.

“One of the servants told me I should be here, doing my job my lord. Not, -ehm- ‘wasting time.’ ” You mumble.

He raises a brow, he decides to test you, “So you listen to mere servants over your king?”

You’re sharp though, practically appalled that he’d suggested something like that, “I do not my lord! You are- you are-“

“I am, what?” 

“You are everything my lord.” You say it like it’s just. And he knows what you mean. He sees the way your gaze lingers longer and longer as the days pass, the way your heart beat sounds irregular when you’re near to him. How you long for his touch and approval, more than the ones who come to worship or pray to him. You see him as the moon, the stars and everything in between.

And oh, does Sukuna love it.

The pink haired god relishes in the feeling, his devilish grin appears on his face, he knows he has you. Always and forever and in the next life too.

“Then you will listen to your king and ‘waste time’ until I say otherwise, yes?” He scoffs. Whoever told you, you were wasting time was stupid. Humans need fun don’t they? His little one would get more than enough time.

You nod, replying those sweet words as you usually do when you listen ever so obediently. His loving pet.

“Good girl.” He caresses the apple of your cheek with his large hand, wishing to see the sunny glow on your brown skin. slipping it back in his arm back into his yukata.

“Come, let’s have lunch.”

And you quickly follow, always five feet behind. But Sukuna lifts you off your feet, holding you in one arm.

“M-my lord!” You gasp.

“You’ve worked long enough. Rest.”

most recent masterlist

[gojo-supreme]

Is Two Really Better Than One?

Summary: in which Nanami's wife gets hit with a curse and he comes home to two wives, not one... Warnings: smut, married couple/established relationship, f!reader, threesome, dom!nanami, mention of being used as a sex toy, cunnilingus, penetrative sex, spanking, paizuri, spitting, doggy, dual ride/double cowgirl position, cum eating, fingering, dirty talk, degradation, praise kink, slight size kink, slight yuri action, voyeurism/exhibitionism?, totally inaccurate use of the curse science or whatever, not proofread - like literally not at all sowwy Word Count: 4.5k

Nanami is flabbergasted. 

When he came back home after a long hard day’s work, he was impatiently waiting for his wife’s loving embrace and reviving kiss. There’s a routine you two follow and he upholds it like a knight pledging allegiance to the crown – arrive home at 6pm, you greet him, he takes a shower and changes into comfortable clothes whilst you prepare dinner, and then you dine together. He expected you to be at the front door with an excited grin and open arms, just as you did yesterday and the day before that.

What he wasn’t expecting, however, was two wives waiting for him. 

“Ken! Make her go away,” you scream. 

The other you snarls, “No, you go away.”

Apparently, you’ve been hit by a spirit splitting curse – it fragmented your soul into perfect halves. There is no ‘original wife,’ just two different parts of the same woman he loves. At least, that was how Shoko explained it on the phone. How long the effects will last is indeterminable, though Nanami’s simply glad it’s a harmless consequence and not something more disastrous.

“I want her ugly ass gone, Kento,” you growl.

And other you shrieks. “Excuse me? I am literally you. If I’m ugly, so are you, idiot.”

“Yeah? Well, somehow, I’m just prettier, so suck it.”

Sitting in the living room, he loosens his tie and stares up at the ceiling. He supposes it really was just too much to ask to have peace and quiet in his life, to be able to catch up on some rest and sleep, and have dinner with his wife, his only wife. Right now, the two of you are smacking throw pillows at each other’s faces, exchanging limp blows over his body, and insulting one another.

This animosity is unfounded. She is you and you are her. You are both his wife, with the exact same body, personality, past, hopes and dreams. And yet you’re at each other’s throats like there is a long feud between your warring families. Nanami sighs again. “Please, stop fighting. Let’s just get on with our evening and wait for the effects to subside.”

Both of you press close to him, taking a side each. You cling to his arm, cradling his bicep between your breasts, seeping warmth into his skin through his work shirt. Nanami clears his throat. You smell nice – always do – but right now, the scent of you is engulfing him from all sides. Other you pokes his chest. 

With an accusatory tone, you question, “Why aren’t you pushing her away, Kento?”

He leaves a kiss on your head, hoping to soothe your irritation. “I could never push away my wife, darling. I’d sooner die.”

“But I’m your wife.”

“No, I’m his wife.”

Nanami wraps his arms around the both of you, rubbing comforting circles on your backs; if he doesn’t do something, he might just come out of this with no wife. “You are both my wives. Just as beautiful as the other and just as ferocious. So, there’s no need to fight, alright?”

“Oh my god, what if we’re stuck like this forever? I can’t share you, Ken! I won’t. And! What if you start to like her more than me? I’ll kill myself.”

Gaze softening, he holds you tight. “That won’t happen, my love. It just wouldn’t. I’m confident things will go back to normal soon enough and you’ll be whole again. That’s our biggest concern, not ‘who will I prefer.’ That’s a silly thought; I love you in all the possible shapes and forms you come in. I could never choose just one side of you to love, it’s simply impossible.”

A moment of silence passes. 

“He is such a sweet talker, isn’t he?” You ask yourself.

You reply with a chortle. “The absolute sweetest. Thank god we put up with his grumpy ass before he fell for us.”

His heart swells. To watch you two get along fills him with so much pride and he can’t quite explain it. Perhaps it’s because he loves your smile, the way your cheeks get so plump with the force of it. Maybe it’s because he knows how long you’ve struggled to reconcile with the need to love yourself, truly, and how you find it torturous to confront yourself and see all those flaws he thinks creates your perfect soul. 

Maybe it’s simply because he loves you so much; there’s no need to question it.

“Ugh, get your hands off my husband!”

“No, you get your hands off my husband.”

And Nanami sighs again.

On and off, you two keep bickering, momentarily being quieted by his hushed commands to behave before starting up again shortly after. Slowly losing the will to fight, he accepts his indefinite reality. His house might never know peace again and he might never truly clock off work even once he returns home. It seems, outside of the office, he also has to manage stubborn individuals and rising tension. 

Still, it’s not so bad, he thinks. Having two of you is a blessing; he’s always encouraging you to eat more with the rationale of wanting more of you to love, after all.

But, his reasoning at this moment isn’t so pure.

The feeling of your plush bodies in his grasp is distracting. Two sets of your breasts are bouncing against his sides and in his face with every move you both make. Hands rove all over his body, staking their claim, and teasing the skin underneath his clothes. Nails scrape against his thighs, digging in when you try to control your anger, using him as the punching bag. He needs to keep his cool, to maintain control so he can ease your worries and dispel trouble at any time. But damn it if it isn’t taking a lot of effort to stand his ground. 

“Ken,” one of you whispers in his ear, lips brushing the shell, “you’re hard…”

Looking down, he comes face to face with solid evidence of your observation. How embarrassing – his wife was hurt and is facing an indubitably anxiety-provoking situation whereby she might never recover as whole from again, and despite that, he’s aroused. What kind of man is he?

What kind of terrible husband would be so self-centred?

“We can help… if you’d like.”

The kind that’d be married to you, apparently. 

Speechless, Nanami can do nothing but sit back and let his wife unbuckle his belt whilst the other unzips his trousers. One has a look of complete glee when she finds his hard cock already leaking and the other sports a focused expression, working her hand up and down his length. You really are his wife, split or not. No one could ever touch him so seductively, so enticingly, already threatening to shake his entire foundation with simple grazes. 

He should stop you both, should establish boundaries and get on with dinner. Instead of giving into baser instincts, he should lead by example and ensure your safety and wellbeing by being patient. But…how can he when your velvety palms play with his balls, fascinated by the weight of them?

“Come here, sweetheart,” he mutters, losing all grip on reason. He discards his glasses. “Come give Kento a kiss.” 

Two heads rush to his face. They collide with a bang. Hissing, you throw aggravated looks at each other. “He meant me.”

“Uh, no, he meant me.”

Tutting, he cradles both of your faces and brings one up to his lips. He lays a kiss where you bumped your head and then another to your mouth. Slowly and gently, he indulges in your taste, swallowing your breathy moans and teasing your tongue with his. Then, parting ways, he pushes your head down, eager to feel those juicy lips wrap around his throbbing cock. 

He meets your gaze. “You too, love.”

Mirroring the ministrations, he loses himself in the steamy kiss, groaning into your mouth when the you that’s licking his cock from the base to the very tip slides her wet tongue on the slit. Fuck, he needs more. He needs to feel you. 

A hand of his slides down your body, groping a breast, tweaking the nipple, before it ventures further down to between your legs. You’re soaked. Pussy lips swollen, he wastes no time in working two calloused digits inside. Wet, tight, and hot, he can’t get enough of how your cunt clenches around him. 

“Ah, Ken! So good. Thank you!”

The wife that’s drooling on his balls pouts. “Me too, Ken. Make me feel good too, please.”

He smiles. “My sweet wives, always so polite. Tilt your hips this way, darling, show me your pretty pussy. That’s it. And you, sweetheart, let me kiss your beautiful breasts.”

Now, both of his hands are being thoroughly coated in your wetness, squelching their way inside your pulsing canals. Mouth full of your breast, sucking and flicking your hard nipple, he lets himself be consumed by your scent, your warmth, your softness, and the wondrous sounds of your barely subdued whimpers and squeals. 

Being weighed down by your body, the reminder of your love and need for him, of which reflects his own for you, is the purest form of bliss he never would have thought he was deserving of. There is nothing more rewarding than drawing out your pleasure, than curling his fingers in just right against that gummy spot inside you that pushes out even more sloppy juices, and washing away your fears and worries. 

In this moment, as both of your hips are grinding down onto his hands, he wishes there was another of him. He can meet all your needs at once, overwhelm you with his body and drive you crazy. Then, there’d be no need to be jealous or possessive. Though…Nanami has a dark realisation that perhaps the sight of a cock that isn’t really his pushing its way inside your body would drive him to madness and not the pleasurable kind.

“Fuck, Ken! I’m gonna–”

“Cum!”

You orgasm at the same time as your other half, juices flying and soaking the sofa underneath your bodies. Speckles land on his creased trousers, drowning his hands and dribbling juices down his wrists. Nanami throbs, cock jolting in the cold air.

Slumped over his body, one of your heads perks up. “Hey, uglier me, wanna give him a boob job together?”

“I’m ignoring that insult, bitch, but yeah, whatever.” You roll your eyes and then land a peck on Nanami’s cheek, giving him a wink.

Getting down onto your knees, you force his legs to spread wide to accommodate yourselves. A little frazzled at seeing you two collude and leave him out of the decision making process, no word of complaint can manifest before he throws his head back, unable to stand the sight of impish joy all over your irresistible eyes doubled as you watch his cock bob once and twice. 

“Ugh, isn’t his dick so pretty?”

The kitten licks you leave on his frenulum are your answer. Then, you both wrap your breasts around his cock, nipples kissing each other and his sharp intake of breath elicits giggles. Up and down, you rub his heated length with your supple breasts. His fingers thread through your hair, unable to keep his hands off you. 

“Is it good, Ken? Do you like it?”

Nanami groans. “Y-yes, it feels amazing, sweetheart. You’re so good to me…always so good to your husband, aren’t you?”

Giggling again, you two exchange grins, feeling mighty proud of yourself, he supposes. And he knows he can cum just like this, that his cum will spurt all over your faces and breasts. It’ll coat your plump lips and you’ll be able to taste his salty spend. Lightheaded, he gasps for air, intent to get his bearings, to not let you two have your way with him, but then you surprise him one more time. 

Lips locked, you two make a big show of moaning into each other’s mouths, tongue twisting together in an obscene display that has his heart thumping faster and faster until he’s sure he’s losing his mind. 

You might never stop surprising him no matter how long he’s loved you. 

He can’t take it anymore. The smell of your sweetness, the evidence of your euphoria coating his skin, the doughy blanket of your breasts around his cock is driving him insane. He needs you and he needs you now. In agile haste, he stands and takes his clothes off all while you both watch. 

“I-I need to be inside you, darlings.” There isn’t enough space on the sofa for what he wants. So, with a grunt, he lifts you two and carries your bodies up, biting back a smile when you squeal and giggle, into the bedroom. You both bounce into each other’s embrace when he drops you off on the mattress. “Strip.”

Clumsily, you remove every article of clothing. Your arms get caught in your shirt and your panties get tangled around your ankles. “Ugh, Ken, help.”

“I’m here. I’m here.” He helps you two out, wrangling your clothes off. “There we go, honey. Upsi-daisy.”

Though he might never admit how pleased he gets when he’s needed, he’s sure you know. There’s no way you don’t. You feel the evidence of it when he pins you to the kitchen counter to fetch the plate you’re reaching for and you surely see the way his eyes darken as you place a foot on his lap, wordlessly asking him to clasp your heels on for you.

As soon as your clothes are off, he pounces – sloppily swallowing your wet moans, he devours you and then the other you, swapping and switching till he gets frustrated and gasps for air. 

“Oh, sweetheart. I love you so much. All of you. In every life, in every time. Always.” You’re lying so prettily for him. Whatever he has done to deserve you today, he hopes he’ll do it again and again so he may never part from you, not even in death. His hands don’t know where to stay, exploring, groping and squeezing and pinching wherever they please. There’s so much of you he wants to feel at once and it’s like an urge he can’t fight. The need to be with you, to please you, to immerse himself in your essence wholeheartedly is choking him up, calling forth tears in his eyes. “God, if only you could see yourself from my eyes.”

“Ken, I love when you get all emotional, I swear, but please just fuck me already.”

He gulps. “Yes, love. I will.”

“No, wait, fuck me first.”

“Wait your fricking turn, oh my god.”

Another fight breaks out. 

Nails are out, hands are flying, hair is being pulled. Kento huffs. He’s trying to get in between you two without using force, without accidentally hurting you, and just as he’s about to pull you apart, a resounding SLAP!echoes. It’s a grating noise that steals his breath. In a flash, he’s got you behind him and you pinned to the bed. 

“No.” Nanami growls. Breathing hard, he shakes off the sudden anger coursing through his veins. Wide eyed, you just watch him release his punishing hold on your neck that he didn’t even realise he had on you. The scolding fire in him doesn't disappear. “No one hurts my wife. Not even you. Understand?”

You nod frantically. 

“Good. You know I hate to punish you but you won’t disagree when I say you need to be reminded of the rules, would you?” You shake your head. “Use your big girl words.”

“I need to be punished, Ken. I need to be reminded of the rules.”

Satisfied, he leans back on his haunches and beckons the other you to his front. There’s a mark on your cheek and it makes his chest squeeze painfully. “Oh, look what you’ve done to your pretty face. My darling wife and her penchant for violence. You’re going to give me more grey hairs.”

“I hope so; you’ll be a silver fox. Yum.”   

A fruitless frustration builds inside – it’s akin to that cuteness aggression you claim overcomes you often, he thinks. Well, he won’t deny himself any longer. He tugs your neck and kisses you. It’s rough, it’s messy, it’s sloppy. And he does it all while keeping his eyes on the you that’s in near tears. “Why don’t you -hah- show my wife how to be a good girl? Show her the reward you deserve.”

“Okay, Ken.”

Leaning back into his firm, sturdy body, you hiss as the threatening stretch of his fat cockhead pushes through the tight ring of muscles at your entrance. Slowly but surely, he’s worming his way into your pulsing cunt. Nanami grunts when he finally bottoms out, balls constricting with the labour of keeping his cum in his balls and not in your pussy prematurely. This is all far too much for him. To be thrusting into you, holding you upright by your arms as you watch his cock shine with your juices, is an insane fantasy he never even dreamed of, but it is his reality and he damn sure will make the most of it. 

“Ngh, tell my wife h-how you’re feeling, sweetheart.”

Breathless, you try to talk despite the delirium-inducing pleasure he’s ramming into your tight cunt. “G-good. I feel good. Ken’s so big a-and I’m feeling so full. Fuck, Ken, fuck me harder.”

The sound of skin slapping, the squelching of your pussy, and the heady moans and grunts are all going straight to his head. Overstimulated, he clutches your breast for a tether, grounded by the weight and the softness. His pace quickens. “Like this? Hmm? You like this, darling?”

“Yes, Ken! Fuck, I’m close. More, Kento. Fuck me more.”

Over your shoulder, he watches you writhe and squirm on the bed, a hand squeezing your breast the way he is and fingers pumping inside your needy cunt at the pace his cock is working its way into your other half. Impatient, you whine. “Hurry, Ken. I want your cock too.”

He licks his lip. Sweaty, eyesight ever so slightly blurry, and growing closer and closer to his climax, urged on by the tight pulsing of your pussy, he continues thrusting inside. “Behave. Can’t you see I’m -ah, fuck- p-pleasuring my wife? Bad girls don’t get to touch, do they? They don’t get to have their cake. And. Eat. It. Ngh. Too!”

To highlight his point, he lets you slip through his grasp. You fall on top of yourself, bouncing breasts pressed tightly against each other. Your face is buried into the crook of your neck, uncaring about how loud your moans are. Nanami finds purchase against your slippery ass and holds it still as he fucks his cock into you, using you as a glorified cock sleeve. 

“Give me something. Anything, Ken. Please. Pleasepleaseplease.”

Nanami grunts. “Open up.”

A fat drop of his spit lands with a plop onto your awaiting tongue. You gulp it down eagerly. Your fingers work themselves inside your cunt even faster, unperturbed by the weight of yourself pinning you to the bed, sweaty and shaking. Dare your husband say, you rather like it. His cock pulses.

“Soon, honey. Just be patient, a-alright? And then I’ll -hah- fill you up. Just have to -ngh- make my wife cum first.” 

Expert hips grind into your tight pussy, cockhead hissing your g-spot and stretching out your gooey walls again and again. If he had it his way, he’d never leave your cunt, but he has a responsibility to make you both cum. He can’t be selfish.

“Ugh, hurry up, you whore,” you mutter into your ear. Then, he sees your mischievous hand trail down your other’s spine until it descends between your legs. When the moans get louder and the clenching of your pussy steals Nanami’s breath, he can only assume you’ve taken matters into your own hands.

You cum around his cock with a scream. 

Hips stuttering, his orgasm soon follows. “Ah, f-fuck! So tight. So fucking good.”

His choked groans are all that can be heard as you lay limp. He too falls to the bed, lying beside your bodies. That had to have been one of the strongest orgasms he had ever had. Never a dull day with you. Just when he thinks he’s got you all figured out, you prove him wrong. What a privilege it is to learn all about you every day for the rest of his life.

“Hey, my turn!”

Brushing back his blond locks, he chuckles to himself as he watches his cock throb back to life. It seems his body has adapted to be sure he can attend to his wife’s needs. Both of them. “Get up here, sweetheart. Take what you want.”

Excited, you shove your other half off and rush to straddle your husband’s hips. You don’t wait; his cock slides inside with ease from your juices. “Oh, god, yessss. Fuck, Ken, I can feel you in my lungs.”

Bracing himself by holding onto your thighs, he can do nothing else against the desperate bouncing of your ass. The pleats inside of your perfect pussy are attempting to wring him dry all over again and Nanami’s abs flex with the building pressure. His cock is still recovering and it’s sensitive but you don’t care. Now, he’s the one being used like a mere toy. 

“S-slow down, honey.” He hisses. “Hah, slow -hngh!- d-down.”

“Hmm, shit, Kento. Y-you’ve gotten so big…” Ignoring his pleas, you must be referring to the layer of fat that’s grown on his body, thanks to the delicious food you’ve been cooking for him. Wholly embracing married life by skipping visits to the gym in lieu of staying longer in bed with you, he’s realised that his clothes no longer fit as they did. It’s embarrassing for a man who prided himself in being fit and put together but it gets you so wet and so needy, he doesn’t dare change a thing. “I want to -ah ah ah fuuuuck- drown in you.”

His chuckle is punctuated by the grunts that your incessant bouncing is forcing out of him. “If it’ll make you happy, my love.”

You clench down. 

“Ah, don’t -oh fuck- squeeze so tight.” He reaches for your clit, thumbing at it. You yelp, hips bouncing faster. Looking so absolutely beautiful, he can’t keep his eyes off the recoiling breasts in his line of vision. Suddenly, his mouth is suffocated with something hot, wet, and delicious. “Hmmph!”

You’ve sat on his face, leaning forward on his stomach, clearly keen to be involved once more in the fun. Submerged in your scent and taste, he doesn’t hesitate to slurrrrrrp! up your juices. He can taste his cum too and it dribbles down his chin. Cunt wrapped around his cock and another leaking wetness right into his mouth, Nanami swears he’s in heaven, delirious with the devastating gratification of pleasuring his wife. “Ride me faster…my face…my cock…that’s it, dear…doing so -ngh- great for me…my -hah hah- perfect wife.”

Lapping up your juices, he throbs when you squeal on his tongue.

“Is that how I really sound when you eat me out? Ew.”

Other you growls. “And is that what I really look like when I ride you?”

SMACK!

SMACK!

“Don’t t-talk badly about yourself. I won’t have it.”

Rubbing your sore ass, you mumble, “Mmm, sorry, Ken.”

“Yeah, s-sorry.”

Soon, you three work back into a punishing rhythm. Nanami hates to be so strict, but he can’t bear to hear you be so mean to yourself. It makes the hairs on his arms stand. If his eyes aren’t rolling to the back of his head, he’d lecture you about the importance of loving yourself. Again. But he can’t string full sentences together. Not right now. Now when you’re all so close. 

Your clit is bumping against his nose whilst his tongue pierces your cunt and he wonders if you can both feel the specific kind of bliss the other is – a cock kissing your g-spot, filling you up, and your pussy being thoroughly ravished by his greedy mouth. 

“Yes, Ken, suck my clit…hmm, just like that… yes yes yessss.”

“Fuck, Ken, your cock feels so good. I love it! More more more. I need it.”

Whatever his wife wants, he’ll oblige. Planting his feet, he fucks up into you, jostling your body. You shriek. His pace is relentless, merciless, and they push you further and further until your climax nears. Off balance, your face falls in between other you’s breasts. Whatever you’re doing to those tits he loves so much is making his wife’s eyes roll to the back of her head too. 

Nanami’s nearing his end. He needs you to get there first. Always. “Come on, sweetheart. Make me –ah make Kento– proud, won’t you? Let me h-hear, feel a-and taste my darling wife -hah- cum.”

“Yes, Ken!” You both screech.

And soon after, your husband finds himself covered in a flood of your juices. 

“FUCK!” 

“SHIT!”

“OH GOD!”

Nails dig into his skin, scratching and stinging. The grip you have on his cock tightens until he’s robbed of his breath and forced over, hips pumping up into your scalding cunt. Your moans are muffled between your breasts when his searing cum paints your walls white. 

Clinging to each other, the three of you black out. 

Minutes or hours later, Nanami is the first to wake. Finally, the sight that greets him is not anomalous or extraordinary – it’s just his wife, singular and whole, draped naked across his lap and snoring. He’s trying to catch his breath, staring down at your sleeping form. “I’ve -hah- tired you out, huh? Poor thing.”

Just as he wanted, he’s covered in sweat and your juices, owned by you in every way possible. This is how he’d like to spend the rest of his life if he could: attending to your needs and drawing out a smile even in your sleep. He pets your head, a shaky smile on his lips. Your eyes flutter open. 

“There’s my beautiful wife. Hi. I’ve missed you, darling.”

Groggily, you ask, “Am I fixed now, Kenny?”

Bringing up your face to his, he skims his nose against the tip of yours. “You were never broken to begin with, my love.”

“That’s sweet…can we go eat now? I’m hungry.”

Petting your pussy and seeking out your heat as if his fingers are magnetised to it, he whispers against your lips, “You can take one more round, can’t you, honey? For me? For Kento?”

You both know it won’t stop at just one round. 

It never does. 

And thank fuck.

[gojo-supreme]

The girl is yours

What happens when Shiu falls in love with Toji's gf?Randomly had that in mind, enjoy! (I love angst so much hehe <3)

Toji x fem!reader, Shiu x fem!reader

warnings: angst, mentions of killing

word count: 834

Intense, passionate, transcendental.

That's how you would describe your relationship with Toji. You two were inseparably and irrevocably in love. Anyone could see it, especially your closest friend - or could you even call him that? - Shiu Kong.

It was true, you spent a lot of time together - the three of you. He was Toji's handler after all. Whenever Toji could take you with him on a mission, he would, protecting you and showing off at the same time. How crazy he was for you.

When he couldn't, because the mission was too dangerous and he had to fully concentrate on it, he left you with Shiu. He trusted him.

Even if Shiu refused at first - not wanting to play the babysitter for Toji's girl - he didn't really have a choice, so that whenever Toji was finished killing people (or whatever was his mission), the first thing he could see was you, the first thing he could do was kiss your pretty lips - hungrily, as if it's been years since he last had them on yours. And Shiu? He eventually grew used to your presence next to him.

He grew used to it so much that it was straight up torture for him whenever you weren't at his side for once and accompanied Toji on his missions. It wasn't long before he craved you and he knew he was doomed. Not only Toji was undeniably in love with you now, you managed to evoke the same feelings in Shiu.

But no one noticed, because he swore to himself he would never act on those hidden feelings, keeping them safe and secret from the outside of his rapid beating heart.

And Toji didn't notice - not until that one time when Shiu protected you from a sudden threat not even Toji would have been quick enough for to block. And when he hugged you after, Toji could see all the longing in his melancholic eyes, his emotions pouring out into the soft embrace of his strong arms around your much more fragile body.

But Toji didn't say anything, he didn't do anything, he just glanced back at him knowingly when you found your way back to him, sliding your arm around his, and bid goodbye by a simple nod upwards.

From then on, he noticed even more the feelings Shiu harbored for you and he couldn't believe he had been so blind to all of this before. But he didn't treat him differently from then on.

Because after all, he still trusted him.

And he almost felt bad for him if it wasn't you he liked, because you were so oblivious to the slight change in his behavior whenever you were around that no one would even take the possibility of him being infatuated with you into consideration if they didn't know of it beforehand.

Toji could see the hurt in his eyes when your gaze shifted from Shiu to him after coming back from another rough day, seeing how you immediately lit up in his company - your smile filled the heart of one and simultaneously broke the one of the other.

Shiu even helped you surprising Toji oftentimes while breaking on the inside because he knew he could never have you, that this side of you will never be dedicated to him, that you'd always be Toji's girl.

But that was only half true, because one day, Toji didn't make it, one day he didn't finish his mission. And Shiu knew it, because before Toji even went on this mission, he pulled him aside and had the talk with him.

To know Toji knew of his fondness towards you for so long shocked him less than the fact that he still let you around him after this revelation.

"I'm entrusting you with her safety. Love her for the both of us, 'cause I won't be able to anymore."

Those were his last words. And he promised him he would fulfill his last wish, even though he knew Toji didn't want to leave you with every fibre of his being, he just got himself too deep into dangerous affairs.

And Toji smiled, because after all, he still trusted him. Now more than ever.

And slowly, after a lot of time, he kept his promise. If out of hurt or out of comfort, you gradually started to let Shiu in. You let him console you with his love and eventually accepted him as a partner. But there was always a glimmer in your eyes, a glimmer of sadness that still made you cry yourself to sleep some nights - after so many years. He couldn't do anything. The loss broke you.

He was your partner, but not your lover.

And he knew that you'd never be able to truly love him. Not the way you loved and keep loving Toji. He is the love of your life and will continue to be.

Now he had you, but you were still Toji's girl.