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indispensablephantompower · 1 month ago

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college!freader suddenly gets a tidal wave of jealousy 😋

a/n: buckle up, reader is delusional

pairing: dilf!satoru x collegestudent!freader (can i really still call her a college student??)

cw: degradation, mommy kink mentioned, public teasing, size kink, creampie, oral (f receiving), dacryphilia, power imbalance, mild exhibitionism, possessiveness, praise kink, dirty talk, dubcon-ish dynamics, age gap, brat reader, overstimulation, aftercare, marriage proposals??

the juice box is warm. probably because yuuji’s been clutching it like it’s a security blanket for the last hour instead of drinking it. he’s currently climbing you like a jungle gym, tiny hands gripping your hoodie as he uses your lap as a launch pad to go chase a duck.

“mommy, look!” he shouts, beaming. “that duck’s walking like nanamin!”

you snort. “he does not walk like that.”

“he does too!” yuuji says, dead serious, arms flapping like the duck. “like he’s got a stick up his—”

“okay, okay,” satoru cuts in, reaching out to scoop him up before he finishes the sentence. “let’s not compare your uncle to waterfowl with attitude problems.”

yuuji giggles and goes limp in his arms, fully trusting his dad to catch him, like always. like gravity doesn’t apply when satoru’s nearby.

you just lean back against the tree, watching them with your chin on your knees.

it should be weird, right? that yuuji calls you mommy now. the first time it happened you almost had a stroke, literally turned around like “who, me?” while satoru smirked into his coffee. but then it kept happening — casually, instinctively — and somewhere along the line, you stopped correcting him.

because it didn’t feel wrong.

because no one else was there, doing the morning cereal and brushing the tangles out of his hair and making sure his spider-man socks matched.

and satoru never corrected him either.

“you two are gross,” you say, watching them roll around in the grass like overgrown puppies.

“you’re gross,” satoru throws back, grinning. “your socks don’t match and your hair looks like a bird nest.”

“and who's fault is that?” you challenge, “considering you came in my mouth this morning.”

he makes a wheezing sound and yuuji, blessedly oblivious, runs off again shouting about frogs.

satoru falls back onto the grass next to you and groans, scrubbing a hand over his face. “i’m gonna have to atone for that one.”

“probably,” you say, reaching over to flick his temple.

but then he grabs your wrist and holds it against his cheek. just… keeps it there. like he needs the contact to ground himself.

you glance down at him.

he’s so goddamn beautiful like this. sunglasses slipped down the bridge of his nose. lashes curled, jaw slack, completely at ease in a way he never used to be. you’ve seen him in his worst moments — hair damp with sweat, mouth twisted in pain, spine curled around the weight of being needed by too many people.

but this version?

this is rare.

the soft, sunny, domestic version. the version that whispers about getting a house one day and swears he’s saving up for it, even though he could afford one yesterday. the version that kisses your ring finger when he thinks you’re asleep.

you lean over him, brushing a thumb against his temple.

that’s when you see it.

one little grey hair. tucked in among all the white.

then another.

and another.

“oh my god,” you whisper, scandalized. “you’re aging.”

he squints one eye open at you. “excuse me?”

“you’re going grey. like… naturally. like a dad. like a man who uses coupons and says things like ‘i’m not sleeping, i’m just resting my eyes.’”

“i am a dad.”

“yeah, but you’re not supposed to look like one.”

he grabs you and yanks you into his lap. “keep talking, baby. i’ll remind you exactly how not old i am when we get home.”

you roll your eyes but your cheeks are burning. you let yourself fall against him, fingers curling into his shirt, and you pretend you’re not thinking about the word home and how easily he says it. like it belongs to both of you. like you belong to both of them.

it’s perfect.

until it isn’t.

until a woman walks up with her ugly little dog and a fake little smile and says—

“oh! you've got your daughter with you today?”

satoru tenses beneath you.

you don’t even flinch, waiting for him to say it. to clarify. to introduce you properly.

instead, he laughs.

“something like that,” he says.

and then the woman keeps going, because of course she does.

“she’s adorable. god, you must've had her so young.”

the world tilts.

your vision blurs at the edges.

you look at him.

he says nothing.

you turn to the woman, smiling so wide it hurts your cheeks. “actually,” you say, sweetly. “i’m his fucking girlfriend.”

the lady stares. eyes wide. mouth slightly open.

“oh…” she stammers. “oh! sorry, i just—”

“yeah.” you bite out.

she stumbles off, dog in tow.

you feel satoru move behind you, maybe about to say something, but it’s too late. the damage is done. you’re already pulling away, standing up, brushing grass from your thighs like it’ll somehow wipe off the humiliation clinging to your skin.

you look down at him — at this man who fucks you raw and holds you at night and lets his kid call you mommy — and you can’t even speak.

so you turn and walk back to the car before the tears start.

. . .

you're shaking when you shut the door behind you.

yuuji's down for his nap, the house is quiet, and you're standing in the middle of the living room with your arms crossed like you might actually swing at him.

“why the fuck do you call me ‘kid’ all the time?”

satoru blinks, confused on why that’s the thing you’re fixating on right now.

you laugh—sharp and bitter. “do you wanna be a dad that bad? huh? is that your kink or something?”

his mouth opens, then closes.

“‘kid,’” you spit, mocking his voice. “like you didn’t have me crying into your pillow last night. like you didn’t say i was gonna look so pretty all swollen and full of your baby.”

“that’s just—i don’t mean it like that, it’s just something i say—”

“well stop fucking saying it,” you snap. “because i’m not a kid, satoru. i’m your girlfriend. your live-in whore. your little secret. i don’t fucking know but pick one. stop calling me some cute little nickname that makes it easier for you to play house.”

you stalk toward him with slow, angry steps. “you wanna pretend we’re just some sweet little family in the park? you wanna flirt with women your age while i hold your son’s hand like a glorified nanny?”

“baby, i didn’t—”

you shove him.

hard.

“you’re gonna stop calling me ‘kid,’ and you’re gonna start calling me yours.”

he stares at you like he might drop to his knees and beg.

“…what do you want me to call you?” he asks quietly.

you smile.

but there’s nothing sweet about it.

“call me your girlfriend.” you grab his wrist and drag his hand to your waist, fingers skating under the hem of your shirt. “call me your slut. call me the reason you haven’t jacked off in months. call me your next baby mama. your controversially aged wife.”

he exhales shakily and something dark glints in his eyes.

he kisses you like he’s starving.

no pretense, no teasing, no lazy smirks — just handsy, desperate. his palms are all over you, gripping your ass, your waist, your thighs like you’ll disappear if he doesn’t feel you under every fingertip.

he backs you into the wall and breathes it into your mouth: “wanna make it up to you, baby. gotta fuck you like you belong to me.”

you scoff against his lips, grinding up into the thick line of his cock through his sweats. “you already do. that’s the problem.”

he groans. “i know, i know. i fucked up, baby. let me fix it.”

you hiss when he bites at your collarbone, tongue soothing the sting a second later. “then stop talking and prove i’m not just your plaything.”

his grip tightens. “not my plaything,” he growls, dragging your shorts down like they offended him. “you’re my fucking girlfriend. my girl. my girl, my girl, my girl.”

your panties are soaked and he barely registers it before he’s sinking to his knees. he doesn’t even drag them off — just hooks your thigh over his shoulder and pulls them aside with his teeth.

you shiver. “fuck—”

“look at this pussy,” he groans like it’s a prayer, like he could cry into it. “fuck, baby, it’s mine. no one else gets this sloppy over me. no one else tastes like this.”

you slap your hand against the wall behind you when he moans into your cunt — tongue lapping messily through your folds, nose nudging your clit on every pass like he knows just how to ruin you.

“you gonna cum for your daddy?” he mutters against you, voice thick and sinful. “or should i say your boyfriend, huh? this old man who fucks you stupid every night while his kid sleeps across the hall?”

your legs shake.

he feels it — and grins.

that smug bastard grin you wanna slap off his face and then ride until you can’t remember your own name.

but before you can even finish the thought, he’s up again — lips glossy with your slick, hands already tugging his cock out like he’s been waiting all day to fuck you full.

“turn around,” he pants. “put your hands on the wall.”

you do.

because you’re furious.

because you’re wet.

because you want to feel it.

he drags the thick head of his cock through your folds and groans when you arch back into him.

and then—he stops.

“say it.”

you blink, already whining. “what?”

“say you’re mine.”

you clench.

hard.

he chuckles darkly against your neck. “c’mon, baby. say it.”

“…i’m yours.”

he pushes in slow. you moan so loud you swear the neighbors probably heard.

“say it again,” he pants, bottoming out with one long stroke.

“i’m —fuck—i’m yours, i’m all yours.”

he snaps his hips forward.

“that’s fucking right.”

the pace he sets is brutal. mean. the kind of rhythm that leaves you breathless, sagging into the wall with your cheek pressed to the drywall, crying out every time his cock slams home.

and he’s talking, god he’s talking—

“all fucking mine. this tight little pussy. these tits. that bratty little mouth. you think i could ever see you as anything but the woman who drives me fucking insane? you think i don’t ache for you every goddamn second?”

you whimper, fingers digging into the wall for purchase.

“i’ll say it in front of the whole fucking neighborhood next time,” he grits out, hand reaching around to rub your clit in tight circles. “you think i’m ashamed of you? i wanna get you pregnant, baby. i wanna put a ring on your finger and a collar around your neck and dare anyone to call you anything but mine.”

“satoru—!”

your orgasm hits you like a truck.

white-hot and blinding and so much, you nearly collapse, legs trembling, cunt spasming around him until he curses and finishes with a shudder, ropes of cum painting your insides, hips jerking like the sight of you coming undone is too much for him.

when he finally pulls you into his arms, you’re breathless.

boneless.

your hands are shaking, lips swollen, hair a mess, and there’s cum leaking down between you two, but you’re not done.

“you want me to be your wife so bad?” you pant, voice rising into something unhinged. “then act like it. tell that dusty bitch in the park i’m your girl. the one who knows what your cum tastes like at seven in the morning. the one who’s been swallowing your kids all fucking summer.”

satoru is standing there with his mouth slightly open, pupils blown so wide there’s barely any blue left.

you smear his release across your inner thigh with two fingers, and suck them clean.

he groans like you punched him in the stomach.

“you think i’m gonna let anyone else look at you like they could have you? you think i’d let you flirt with some old hag while i’m standing there in your kid’s spit, wiping dirt off your son’s face like we don’t share a bed, a life, a mouthguard i literally chewed through last week because you fucked me unconscious?”

he chokes on a laugh. “jesus—”

“i would kill for you,” you snarl. “but i will also kill you if you ever let someone look at me like i’m your daughter again. i am not some innocent babysitter anymore. i’m your wife. i’m the only person who’s allowed to touch your laundry, your dick, and your child.”

satoru is rock hard again.

he just stands there, dick out, chest heaving, and you can see it in his face—he’s proud. he’s turned on. he’s completely feral for you right now.

he grins like a man about to commit a crime.

“ i’m gonna eat you out right there on the floor until you're screaming my name loud enough the neighbors file a noise complaint. and when you’re done crying and coming all over my face, i’m gonna bend you over the table and fuck a ring pop on your finger until we can get the real thing tomorrow.”

“romantic,” you mutter, eyes glinting.

his grin gets sharper.

“i’m gonna marry the craziest little girl alive.”

you tilt your head. “you’re gonna marry the future mother of your kids.”

he’s on you in seconds.

#mmmm i didnt like how gojo played that off but reader definitely got hers #postredevainilla #satoru smut #jjk smut

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indispensablephantompower · 1 month ago

Text

— clinically curious;

“wanna write up a case study together?” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “title it: how to absolutely ruin a brilliant young doctor in two orgasms or less.”

synopsis: it’s a good day to be acquainted with doctor gojo because he is always willing to explain everything to you. so when you get clinically curious about how squirting works, doctor gojo is ready to give you a hands on demonstration that won’t leave you with any questions about how female anatomy works!

cw: 18+, doctor!satoru gojo, fem!reader, flirtation, sexual tension, explicit smut, fingering, squirting, oral(gojo kinda eats it from the back), anatomy talk, use of “good girl”, aftercare, satoru being smug and soft, confessions heh wc: ~3.8. art on the header belongs to @/umikochannart

miyan’s notes: using my extensive medical knowledge to write smut, never thought i’d rock this hard.

you’ve been working under doctor satoru gojo for exactly two months, twelve days, and— not that you’re counting— give or take four hours.

not that you’re counting.

and definitely not because you’re secretly obsessed.

it’s just that he’s… hard to ignore.

he’s brilliant. no doubt about it. diagnoses come to him like second nature— like he doesn’t even think, just knows. he’ll flip through a chart once, then toss it down like a paperback and mutter something absurdly specific: “early-stage takotsubo. run an echo, just to be cute.” and then he’ll be right.

he’s the kind of doctor who speaks at international conferences in unpressed scrubs with a lollipop in his mouth and still manages to hold the room like gravity. patients adore him. his colleagues tolerate his antics because he’s too damn good at what he does. residents are starstruck around him. nurses flirt with him. interns imitate him.

and you—

you mostly just try not to bite your tongue bloody every time he calls you “doc-in-training.”

he’s also infuriating. casually late to every meeting he himself scheduled. somehow always just narrowly out of dress code. his clipboard usually has a doodle of a cat on it and an alarming number of strawberry candy wrappers tucked into the corners. and worst of all— he’s everywhere.

it’s like no matter where you turn in this damn hospital, satoru’s there.

sometimes standing too close. sometimes watching you from down the hall with a knowing little smile that makes your stomach flutter in a way you refuse to acknowledge. sometimes reading your reports over your shoulder while eating donuts, powdered sugar dusting the front of his scrub top like it’s nothing, licking his fingers without looking away.

and when he brushes past you in the hall—

when his hand rests at the small of your back just to squeeze by—

when his voice dips lower than it needs to be when he says your name—

your heart skips.

it shouldn’t. it’s just proximity. hormones. exhaustion. you’re overworked, overstimulated, under-caffeinated— it’s not real. he’s objectively attractive, sure. white hair, absurd height, eyes like the sky on a clear day. but that doesn’t mean anything. you’re a professional. you’ve survived worse.

you told yourself the crush would fade.

you lied.

because still, even now, as he leans over your desk—

one arm braced against the side of your monitor, his face dangerously close—

you feel it again. that slow, warm thrum beneath your skin.

“you’ve got the case backwards, y’know,” he murmurs, pointing at your screen like he owns it. “the renal markers were elevated before the blood pressure tanked. so the hypovolemia is a result, not the cause.”

you sit back, arms crossed tightly over your chest. “i knew that,” you say, trying to sound annoyed and not flustered. “i just… had the chart open in the wrong order.”

his grin spreads slow and smug. he doesn’t move away. “mm. sure. no shame in being a little flustered around me.”

you whip around to glare at him, face heating. “i’m not—! you’re just annoying.”

he finally straightens, stretching like a cat, spine arching with a pop as he towers over your desk. his scrubs ride up just enough to show a sliver of toned skin above the waistband. you do not look. not directly.

“and charming,” he adds casually, stepping back. “don’t forget charming.”

you hate that he’s right.

you hate more that your lips twitch like they want to smile— that you have to fight it.

and you really hate that when he finally strolls away, hands in his pockets, humming something cheerful under his breath, your body misses the heat of his presence.

your desk feels colder.

your screen seems blurrier.

and you’re suddenly, desperately annoyed at your own heartbeat.

you sigh and drag a hand down your face.

two months, twelve days, and counting.

you are so, so doomed.

—

you stare at your screen, pretending to focus on the case notes, but your thoughts keep drifting back to him. the way his voice sounds just low enough to make your skin prickle. the way his fingers had casually pointed at your monitor—so close, so sure.

you can almost still feel the faint brush of his sleeve against your arm, though you both know he was “just leaning in.”

you’re both still in your white coats.

the evening shift has long passed, and the hospital’s halls are quieter now — just the soft hum of overhead lights and the occasional squeak of rubber soles against polished tile. the clinic room you’re in smells like antiseptic and warm paper, a few charts still open on the desk beside you.

“you’re staring,” satoru says without looking up, voice too smug for someone “reading” lab reports upside down.

you jolt in your chair, cheeks flushing. “i wasn’t— i mean— you left your buttons undone.”

he glances down at the top of his coat. the unfairly deep vee of his baby blue scrub top is visible beneath the unfastened collar of his white coat. “oh?” he says, innocent. “you mean this?”

“stop it,” you mutter, flustered, turning back to your tablet.

but he’s already leaning across the desk, grin sharp and teasing. “you know, if you ever want to examine me, all you have to do is ask. strictly educational, of course.”

you roll your eyes. “i’m here to learn medicine, not anatomy through flirting.”

“what a shame,” he sighs dramatically. “my anatomy is fascinating.”

he’s incorrigible — but you can’t deny the way your stomach flips when he looks at you like that, voice all velvet and wicked promises.

you’re reviewing a case together, something that had initially puzzled the attending physicians: a young woman experiencing involuntary ejaculation during routine pelvic exams. the file had gone around the department with discreet but obvious fascination.

satoru leans against the edge of the desk with his arms crossed, a cocky little smile twitching on his lips as he glances at you.

“so?” he drawls. “what’s your diagnosis, rookie?”

you shift in your seat, adjusting your glasses and flipping back through the notes. “anatomically, it lines up with paraurethral gland stimulation. likely female ejaculation. but—” you glance at him. “i’ve never… seen it in person.”

he raises a brow. “never?”

you shake your head. “no. not during exams. not personally, either.” it’s not shame in your voice — more academic curiosity.

gojo hums, dragging his fingers through the white-blond mess of his hair. “you know,” he says, pushing off the desk, “you’re not the only one.”

your brows lift. “really?”

he shrugs, already closing the chart with a snap of his fingers. “people think it’s common, but physiologically? it needs the right conditions. psychological comfort. direct g-spot stimulation, usually. sometimes bladder pressure. and patience.”

he looks at you then — really looks at you. his gaze trails slow and knowing down your frame, his hands slipping into the pockets of his lab coat.

you swallow, curiosity dominating you before you can think your words over. “and you’ve… caused it before?”

his grin turns wicked. “more than a few times.”

“i just— it’s confusing, okay? there’s so much misinformation online and no one ever really explains it. and i figured you’d know. medically.”

he nods slowly, something shifting behind those pale eyes. “medically,” he echoes. “you want a demonstration?”

you choke. “no! i mean— not unless— wait, what?”

he laughs, warm and real this time. “kidding. mostly. but if you’re serious…” he tilts his head. “i could show you. clinically.”

the air feels heavier suddenly, too warm under the coat. the words come out before you can think better of them:

“could you, really… show me?”

his pale lashes flutter once, then he lets out a low laugh — delighted, dangerous. “you asking me clinically? or personally, doctor?”

your face warms, but your tone stays even. “is there a difference?”

gojo steps closer, his voice low, coaxing. “if i show you clinically, you’ll be on the table.”

your mouth goes dry. “satoru.”

“only if you’re comfortable,” he says, voice suddenly lower, gentler. “we’d set boundaries. stop whenever. no pressure. i just think… it might be easier to understand if you felt it for yourself.”

his hand brushes the inside of your wrist, feather-light. “we’ll walk through every step. pressure points. angle. the texture change in the anterior vaginal wall. i’ll explain the nerve clusters and the buildup. and then…” he tilts his head, blue eyes sharp, “you’ll see exactly how it works.”

your breath catches, heart thumping.

he lets the silence stretch, his fingers curling slowly around your wrist, warm and firm. “say the word,” he murmurs. “i’ll lock the door. dim the lights. fold your coat on the chair so it doesn’t wrinkle.”

you stare up at him, skin prickling with anticipation, throat dry.

he isn’t teasing anymore.

“okay,” you whisper.

his smile softens. “okay.”

—

gojo locks the door with a soft click.

he does fold your coat neatly over the back of the chair — oddly tender, like he’s preparing you for something sacred. the door clicks shut and locks behind him. fluorescent lights buzz overhead, harsh and too clinical, until he dials them down with a thumb on the dimmer. softer now. more intimate.

you sit on the edge of the exam table, paper crinkling beneath you, heart hammering. his hands are warm when they settle on your knees — not rushing, just resting there.

“still sure?” he asks, voice low.

you nod, and he leans in, brushing his nose against your cheek before whispering, “then i’ll teach you properly, sweetheart.”

he pushes your knees apart just slightly, knuckles dragging along the inner seam of your scrub bottoms as he glances up through white lashes. “you know what’s curious?” he says, lips close to your jaw. “porn makes it look too easy, i’d say. too animalistic, and it takes a lot more than desire to get someone to let go that much.”

you breathe in, sharp and shallow.

his mouth quirks up. “but we’ll get there. slowly.”

he peels your pants down first, deliberate, then hooks his fingers into your underwear. you lift your hips without being asked — it’s instinct now. he hums, pleased.

“god, you’re already warm.” he kneels between your thighs, voice smooth and academic, even as he mouths at your skin. “we’ll want to relax the pelvic floor first. get some blood flowing. reduce any tension.”

his lips find the crease where thigh meets core. he kisses there — gently, reverently — before glancing up at you.

“okay?”

you nod, breathless. “i’m good.”

gojo gives another pleased hum. “good girl.”

your body reacts instantly — your breath catches, your thighs squeeze together on reflex.

“interesting,” he chuckles. “so verbal praise works on you. keep that in mind for later evaluations.”

you resist the urge to glare, but the warmth in your cheeks betrays you.

he parts your thighs farther with firm, steady hands, dragging his gloved fingers gently along your inner thighs. “before we start the demonstration, let’s review.” his fingers pause at your entrance, but he doesn’t push in — just rests them there. “where are the paraurethral glands?”

“around the urethra,” you manage, voice shaky, “at the anterior vaginal wall.”

“mm.” he nods. “and what else lives there?”

“the g-spot.”

he grins. “bingo.”

he slowly slips a single finger inside, curling upward immediately, his eyes watching your face with terrifying precision. “feel that? the slight ridged texture, like the roof of your mouth?”

you whimper, your hips twitching slightly. “y-yeah.”

you twitch under him, hips rolling without meaning to. he smiles against you.

“told you,” he murmurs. “it’s not just about rubbing randomly. you feel that?” he curls his finger just slightly, pressing against a spongier patch inside you. your breath hitches. “that’s it. that’s your g-spot. swollen already.”

you moan softly, one hand bracing against the wall beside the table. he grins, kissing the inside of your thigh.

“now… most textbooks say it takes consistent, firm pressure — usually with fingers. penetration alone doesn’t always do the trick.”

his movements stay slow, deliberate. a second finger joins the first, and he begins to massage the spongy spot inside you in a steady rhythm. your hands twist into the paper on either side of your hips.

“you’re already getting puffy,” he murmurs, breath warm as he leans over to speak just beside your ear. “good sign. means we’re hitting the right place.”

he goes back to it, deeper this time — two fingers inside, curling, testing different angles. every so often, he murmurs something low: “right there? or—no, here?” like a man fine-tuning a machine, except you’re the machine, and you’re trembling, gasping, drowning in his voice and his mouth.

and when your thighs start shaking, when your muscles clench and he feels that flood of tension coiling inside you—

he slows again. deliberately.

you whimper.

he smirks against your core. “not yet,” he says. “i want you to feel it. the release. the rush. it’s not just pleasure — it’s a reaction. like a reflex. involuntary.”

he presses in deeper, curling his fingers up while using his thumb to lazily circle your clit. it’s too much and not enough all at once.

“notice the feeling in your bladder?” he murmurs.

you nod, panting softly. “yeah… but—”

“don’t fight it,” he says, voice low and coaxing. “that pressure means we’re close. it’s not pee. you’ll want to hold it in, but don’t. just let go. that’s the secret.”

his fingers speed up, curling, dragging against that ridged wall with practiced ease. the wet sounds between your thighs are obscene, but gojo looks completely unfazed — clinical, calm, but eyes dark with focus.

“you’re close,” he whispers, his free hand pressing flat on your lower belly. “i can feel it building. just breathe, baby. let it happen.”

you moan, body twitching. your thighs tremble and try to close, but he keeps them wide with his hands and elbows, firm but not forceful. “satoru— i can’t— it’s—”

“yes, you can,” he says, curling deep. “you’re doing perfect. show me. let me see.”

and then it hits.

your hips jerk violently, back arching off the table as warmth floods from you in a sudden rush. gojo’s fingers don’t stop, even as a clear gush soaks the exam paper beneath you. it’s wet. messy. your muscles spasm around his hand, your thighs shaking.

“fuck, there it is,” he groans, utterly delighted. “that’s what i wanted. perfect.”

you’re gasping, vision swimming, stars behind your eyelids as you ride the aftershocks. gojo slowly eases his fingers out, careful, deliberate — like a man who knows just how fragile this moment is. he holds them up between you, dripping with a mix of slick and ejaculate, examining it in the light with smug pride.

“hydration’s good,” he teases, tossing the glove in the biohazard bin. “i’m impressed. you might be a prodigy.”

you let out a breathless laugh. “you’re insufferable.”

he helps you sit up, smoothing your hair back from your face. “you’re glowing.”

“shut up.”

“you asked me to teach you, doctor.” his lips curve. “and i never half-ass a demonstration.”

you’re still trying to catch your breath. thighs twitching, chest heaving, paper bunched up in your fists beneath you.

gojo rises slowly from between your legs, pushing his hair back — his fingers glisten with slick, and his mouth is red and wet, but it’s the look on his face that makes your stomach flip.

not cocky. not teasing anymore.

determined.

“you okay?” he asks softly, but there’s a dangerous edge to it — like he’s already ten steps ahead of whatever answer you’ll give.

you nod, barely.

he cups your cheek with one clean hand, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. “that was beautiful,” he murmurs, kissing your temple. “but i think we both know that wasn’t the peak.”

you blink up at him, dazed. “it felt—”

“yeah, yeah.” he grins. “you squirted. gorgeous. but you were holding back.”

you freeze. “i—what?”

he tilts his head, voice gentle but pointed. “you were clenching your thighs the whole time. trying to stop it. still too polite.” his fingers trail down your side. “what if you didn’t hold back this time?”

you swallow.

“and what if,” he says slowly, undoing his lab coat buttons, letting it slide off onto the chair, “i made sure you couldn’t?”

your breath hitches as he grabs the pillow from the exam table and sets it down beside you, guiding you gently to roll over onto your stomach.

“hands up near the headrest,” he murmurs. “arch your back. good girl.”

his voice drops lower, firmer. “i want you to stay like this. not for me — for you. for your body. no pressure. no hiding. if you need to cry, moan, fall apart — do it. let it happen.”

you’re trembling already as he spreads your thighs gently, placing one knee up just slightly to give him better access. the cool air between your legs is a stark contrast to the heat of his breath when he leans in again, tongue dragging through your folds.

“still so sensitive,” he hums, almost reverent.

but this time, there’s no warm-up. he goes in confidently, two fingers sinking into you with practiced ease, curling immediately into the same spot that made you unravel the first time. his free hand strokes your lower back, grounding you.

you gasp — the angle is different like this. deeper. hotter. your hips jerk instinctively, but his palm presses firm against your tailbone, holding you down.

“don’t run from it,” he murmurs. “that’s your body trying to let go. let it.”

his fingers thrust with rhythmic precision, the pads dragging along your g-spot over and over again, no hesitation this time.

when he lowers his mouth onto you, you cry out — everything’s already too much. it’s overwhelming, slick noises echoing in the small room, wet and obscene and fast.

and he knows it.

“there it is,” he pants, licking into you with more fervour. “just like that. your pussy’s already fluttering. so fucking responsive.”

your moans grow louder, sharper — you’re right there, straining, shaking.

he sucks around your clit, hard, one time, then again and again and again until you’re whining, brainless and breathless, wondering how is he good at everything including something like this — though, there was never any doubt on your mind.

“give it to me,” he growls, tongue flicking fast, fingers pounding deep. “don’t fight it. don’t hold back.”

and this time?

you don’t.

the orgasm crashes through you with a violence that steals the breath from your lungs — your whole body seizes, liquid gushing from you again, soaking the paper, dripping down your thighs. you cry out, raw and broken and unfiltered, hips jerking helplessly under his unrelenting mouth.

he doesn’t stop until you push at his shoulder weakly, half-sobbing, overstimulated.

gojo finally lifts his head, breathing hard, face flushed and glistening. he drags a hand through his soaked hair and looks at the mess beneath you with pride.

“see that?” he murmurs, voice thick with awe and lust. “that’s what happens when you stop holding back.”

you’re boneless, trembling, tears at the corners of your eyes. he gently helps you turn onto your back, brushing your hair from your face, slipping his coat beneath your head like a pillow.

and then, of course, he grins.

“wanna write up a case study together?” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “title it: how to absolutely ruin a brilliant young doctor in two orgasms or less.”

you slap a hand over his mouth and look down to hide your own smile.

—

you’re still lying on the exam table, legs too shaky to move, vision hazy. the paper beneath you is a mess — wrinkled, soaked through — but you’re too spent to care. muscles loose, eyelids heavy. your pulse is starting to settle, but your brain hasn’t caught up. not fully.

gojo doesn’t rush you. doesn’t speak, either, not at first.

he moves with quiet efficiency now — all that sharp, cocky energy softened into something… gentler. you hear the sound of water running in the nearby sink. the rustle of cabinets opening. his shoes on the tile.

then warmth.

he’s back beside you, wiping you down carefully with a damp, warm cloth. gentle strokes, slow and respectful. he murmurs a quiet, “just relax, i got you,” when you flinch a little from the sensitivity.

your eyes open to find him kneeling again, still between your legs, still shirtless under his scrubs. his expression isn’t smug anymore. it’s focused. almost reverent.

“you okay?” he asks.

your voice is hoarse. “yeah. i’m just…”

“wrung out?” he finishes for you, smirking faintly. “yeah. you’re allowed.”

you breathe a small laugh, and he grins, but doesn’t let it linger. instead, he helps you sit up, drapes his white coat around your shoulders, then starts straightening your clothes.

not rushed. not clinical. like he wants to do it.

he pulls your underwear up gently, brushing your hips like they’re something fragile. helps you step into your pants one leg at a time, smoothing them back into place, tightening them at the waist for you. your hands are still trembling slightly, and he notices. doesn’t say anything — just fixes the hem of your tunic, too.

“you don’t have to—” you start.

“i want to,” he interrupts, soft but firm.

you look up at him, heart hiccuping at how careful he is. not a trace of arrogance now. just steady, deliberate tenderness.

he cups your jaw with one hand and strokes your cheek with his thumb.

“you were amazing,” he says. “and brave. and curious. and you trusted me with something intimate, and i—” he exhales, looking away for just a second. “i don’t take that lightly.”

you blink. surprised by the sudden sincerity.

his thumb lingers at your cheekbone. “i joked around a lot tonight. but none of that was a game to me.”

you swallow, your voice barely above a whisper. “then what was it?”

he leans in, forehead touching yours. “honestly? an excuse.”

your brows knit together. “an excuse?”

“to touch you. to see you like this. to…” he chuckles under his breath. “to show you how much i’ve wanted you without ruining the whole mentor dynamic we’ve got going.”

you laugh softly, incredulously. “you’re really confessing after you made me squirt on an examination table?”

he grins. “figured it was on-brand.”

you tilt your head, suddenly bold enough to brush your lips against his. it’s a soft kiss — not hungry or rushed — just a quiet thanks. a promise.

when you pull back, he brushes your hair behind your ear and whispers, “hey.”

you hum.

“you know this wasn’t just a one-time thing, right?”

you look at him — serious now, heart skipping.

he smiles, slow and genuine. “not unless you want it to be.”

and then he kisses you again, softer than the last. slower. like you’re something precious he gets to rediscover every time.

like maybe this wasn’t about anatomy at all.

#very rare instance of me liking a gojo who has the upperhand #but he is doing all the work and getting nothing in return #i dont knooowwww.... approved!#good shit #bjlipss #satoru smut #jjk smut

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indispensablephantompower · 1 month ago

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before you and nanami started dating, you thought you had him all figured out.

quiet. composed. polite to a fault. the kind of man who holds the door open for strangers and tips too well. the kind of man who never interrupts, never forgets birthdays, never texts past ten unless it’s an emergency.

you thought you knew what kind of lover he’d be. careful. respectful. maybe even a little restrained.

you were so wrong.

because nanami kento is the definition of “gentleman in the streets and freak in the sheets.” not the loud kind. not the messy, aggressive kind. he doesn’t degrade. doesn’t spit unless you ask. doesn’t choke unless you beg. and even then, he makes you say please.

but he knows how to ruin you. with quiet control. with devastating precision.

he learns you like a language. reads you like scripture. he notices the smallest things. the shift in your breathing when his hand rests on your thigh, the way your hips tilt slightly when you want more. he catalogs it all. stores it away. and when you’re under him, you feel it. every inch of that studied, focused attention.

he fucks like he’s solving a problem he already knows the answer to. his fingers are experts. his mouth is lethal.

and the worst part? he says the filthiest things in the gentlest tone, like he’s giving a lecture. like it’s all just matter-of-fact.

“you’re soaking,” he’ll murmur, two fingers teasing your entrance. “i’ve barely touched you.”

“there it is,” he’ll say when he finds that spot inside you, the one that makes your back arch and your thighs tremble. “i thought so.” “you can take more, can’t you? i know you can.”

he never loses composure. he doesn’t need to. he’s in control, always. he’ll have you shaking, begging, gripping the sheets like you’re drowning, and he’ll still be fully clothed, sleeves rolled up, watch ticking on his wrist.

he praises you like it’s a prayer. “good girl. just like that.” “you’re being so patient for me.” “look at you. you’re so gorgeous when you fall apart.”

and when he finally fucks you, it’s deep and slow and ruthless in its restraint. like he’s savoring every drag, every clench, every sound you make. he doesn’t just chase his own pleasure. he chases yours. insists on it. he’ll edge you until you’re crying, then kiss the tears from your cheeks and ask, softly, “do you want to cum now?” as if he hasn’t earned the right to decide for you. as if it’s still your choice.

he’ll hold your face in one hand while he pushes into you, thumb resting at your jaw. not to grip. not to control. just to feel you. to anchor you.

you’ve never been so exposed. so undone. and he never rushes. never gets sloppy. even when he’s close, even when he’s quiet and tense and thrusting just a little harder, a little deeper. he still holds your gaze. still whispers, “breathe.” “you’re okay.” “i’ve got you.”

and when it’s over, when you’re limp and dazed and boneless beneath him, he pulls you into his chest and strokes your spine like you’re something delicate. something treasured. he doesn’t gloat. doesn’t tease. he just kisses your forehead and says, “you needed that.” like he planned it. like he’s known for days.

you thought you knew him. but the truth is, nanami’s the kind of man who thanks you after eating you out for half an hour, who ruins you with his hands and then helps you into the shower. he’ll say “may i?” like he’s asking permission to wreck your entire evening. and when you say yes, he will. completely. beautifully. quietly.a freak. but always polite. always in control. always him.

#mmmmm love me a man who worships #mw00nie #nanami smut #jjk smut

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indispensablephantompower · 1 month ago

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could I interest you in puppygirl!hybrid having to be trained to not use penis as squeaky toy

TW: Hybrid AU, Pet Play, Dub/Non con Blowjobs, CBT???? (satoru being a freak as usual)

BARK BARK BARK AWWOOO.

Tbh, I wasn't a big fan of hybrid AUs for a long time. Unfortunately miss angel here and @elsecrytt have ruined me so now I have to dodge the furry allegations...

Generally I would advise against chomping on either of satosugus dicks. The repercussions might be different depending on who's dick your gnawing, either way It won't end well.

While Satoru and Suguru are technically both your owners, Suguru is your primary handler. He feeds you, bathes you, makes sure you get the proper enrichment and, of course, he painstakingly trained you into a sweet, obedient puppy. (Satoru kinda just provides kisses and cuddles)

The moment he feels the first hint of teeth he'd yank you off his cock straight away, snapping at you for being a very, very bad girl. Good girls do not bite. That was one of the first things he taught you when they brought you home! If you're going to act like an unruly stray then he's going to have to train you again...

You lose all "good girl privileges" for the entire week. No sleeping on the bed, bad puppy's sleep in the crate, and no eating at the table, doggies eat on the floor. You need to be reminded that you are a pet, they are your owners.

Additionally, you'll be called into his room for an hour or so everyday for "training." He makes you wear a ring gag while he fucks your throat, cooing that this is how good puppies suck cock, no teeth. Correcting your posture and technique as you go. Once he's cum down your throat, he'll have you do it again without the gag to help you, and if he feels you so much as graze his cock you repeat the process all over again.

You'll get your privileges back once the week is over, along with an abundance of affection from Suguru. He doesn't like treating his sweet little puppy so harshly, you just needed to learn a lesson. Be a good girl from now on so he doesn't have to punish you, ok? He'll also make sure to always have squeaky toys (and a bone gag) on hand from now on, just in case you need something to nibble on.

If you do it to Satoru it could go one of two ways. If Suguru is around when you do it you'll receive the same treatment as when you did it to him. They're both your masters and they deserve equal amounts of respect. But if it's just Satoru...

He'll love it.

He'll buck up into your mouth, groaning like a porn star and demanding for you to do it again. He's such a masochistic slut that he'd love being the house pets chew toy. Take him in your mouth and chomp to your hearts content. Play with it, shake your head, he doesn't care. It hurts so so good. Suguru probably wouldn't like for him to be encouraging it, but you're just a puppy, you don't know any better, right?

He'll start sneaking in the bedroom while Suguru isn't around, giddily pulling his dick out of his pants, ready to be brutalized. Tbh, it's kinda uncomfortable watching him moan and whimper as you nibble on his balls, but if you tried to stop he'd just drag you back. Pouting, saying that he still wants to play.

If Suguru catches you two Satorus also getting crate training. It doesn't matter that he's a human, bad boys need to be punished <3

#dont look at me while i reblog this #NO I WONT EXPLAIN MYSELF YOU CANT MAKE ME #im a freak and i dont care #eevwrites #satoru smut #suguru smut #satosugu smut #jjk smut

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indispensablephantompower · 1 month ago

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sloppy seconds | s. getou + s. gojo

✮ tags ; afab +fem!reader, weird relationship dynamics, polyamory if you squint, mild obsession, overstimulation + unprotected sex, wet and messy, dubcon (gojo references passing out on readers end but its all consensual) 18+

✮ wc ; 2.3k

✮ a/n ; nonsensensically horny about this idk

Suguru doesn’t mind sharing. Not with Satoru.

Never with Satoru.

It’s easy to mistake that willingness for benevolence, and for a lesser sorcerer - fear. But it’s neither, nothing so complex. Nothing worth philosophizing over, something Suguru loves to do. Suguru just doesn’t mind sharing with Satoru for anything.

If he has to explain himself - it’s like this. Satoru is an extension of Suguru himself. A part of him, ingrained in him, grown into him. Not like ivy vines, but a flower pushing through concrete, a stubborn spectacle of Suguru’s gray matter. Satoru is the bluebell that refuses to be plucked, to die, to be anything but involved.

That and Satoru is not good at not coveting all things Suguru owns. He’s even worse at try to pretend he doesn’t want them. It's pitiful and frequent enough to make Suguru wince every time. A boy born into God doesn’t know how to play fair, even when his best efforts are made to do so.

When Satoru longs for something, his whole body has to whine for it. His eyes will flutter and he’ll slow himself down like a sloth, laugh less. When he really, really tries - he almost becomes a shell of himself. A shell of a shell, a masquerading puppet.

He’s not equipped for it. Suguru finds the whole display pathetic.

Well, Suguru likes appeasing him, too. That’s part of it. He’s not so dishonest that he can’t recognize that he enjoys seeing the way Satoru breaks the things Suguru gives him. There’s a novelty in that display, like a child crying for a toy and playing too rough. Suguru fixes them, sees if Satoru learns from his mistakes and he never does. Satoru likes things that are shiny, things he can’t have. Discards them and loses interest when it’s already his.

Suguru never gives Satoru something unless he’s certain he doesn’t mind it being broken, or being used, or being a little messy. If there is any apprehension, Suguru won’t do it. Won’t let Satoru cry his way into it either.

He also likes the chase. Satoru does. Like an overgrown dog. Likes begging and pleading, making a big show. He can be manipulative too, if it’s something that has to be taken, but he’ll heel if Suguru puts his foot down.

Most of all, Suguru enjoys cleaning up after Satoru’s messes. It makes him feel important. There’s always an undercurrent of amusement and warmth when Suguru picks up after Satoru. The strongest is uncharacteristically sloppy, and doesn’t know how to indulge in things without getting sick of them instantly.

Their relationship is like this - Suguru is the hand that feeds, and Satoru is the thing that bites. Suguru sighs and clicks his teeth, but the scars in his fingers and all the bite marks prove that he doesn’t really care about Satoru learning his lesson. He just likes to feed, likes to watch Satoru eat off his hand for a while before Satoru gives up on being good and uses his mouth to devour. Suguru watches this happen idly, lets the whole thing roll off of his sleeve and laughs. Because that’s just Satoru, after all.

For all reasons above and then some, Satoru's interest in you doesn't shock him at all.

Suguru loves you. Maybe in some twisted way, but it’s love. You’re rather obstinate. He suspects he might have a type, but he likes you so much for it. When Suguru pushes your buttons - you’re not the kind to sit back and take it. And for how much Suguru gets on your nerves, Satoru gets on yours worse. Between them, only Suguru only saw the best in you. Satoru didn't understand that part of you is what makes you so special. Only you could refuse him so often and keep Suguru wrapped around your fingers, unable to ignore you or keep his hands off of you.

(He’s a good enough man to you just to make you melt since he knows if you really got mad you'd leave. He knows how to smile and sorry until you lay in his arms and hit him soft because you claim to still be mad.)

The decision to share you is one Suguru makes lightly. It’s featherlight and simple. Satoru will indefinitely break you in some way. Will rip at you like the ill-mannered man he is. Suguru will bask in it like he always does. Satoru is only so keen on having you because Suguru so utterly adores you. Of course he knows that. But curiosity always wins Suguru over. He couldn't help but want to know what exactly Satoru will do with you once he had you.

It surprises him after, but Satoru doesn’t lose interest in you as fast as Suguru expects. Or at all. Maybe he should’ve predicted that, since he knows best you’re not so easy to break.

But Satoru tries. God, does he try to just do that.

Suguru glances back towards Satoru. He has a lot more energy than him. Enough to fuck you utterly dumbstruck

He watches on as he does it now, with the same mild fondness. Something stirs seeing you like that of course, but it’s not so distracting he can’t do other things.

Satoru has you in his bed with your legs pinned up against your ears. Impatience makes an interesting image of Satoru. His sweatpants are pulled over the meat of his thigh, covered in cum and sweat since he refuses to take them off. His shirt is still on in much the same condition, though the black fabric masks some of it. Still it sticks unmistakably to his abdomen, clings tight to the lines of his abs.

Satoru himself seems keen on making himself sick on you. His hands are folded underneath your knees with his face against yours - warm, wet and sloppy kisses making the entire room sound sticky. The air of his apartment is so thick with lust, Suguru’s sure he could slash through it with a knife and still not make it to fresh air.

Suguru is a little used to it. So he’s horny, but he’s not there yet. He approaches the bed with a smooth and familiar demeanor, the mattress dipping underneath his weight as he sits next to you. Your eyes are tear stained and wet as you blink, sensing his presence even amidst your delirium.

You try to reach your hand out for him but Satoru is quick to shut it down. Suguru tsks.

“Don’t get greedy,” Suguru reprimands, and Satoru only shoots him a frown. His focus in fucking you open doesn’t cease for even a minute. “Missed me did you?”

Your mouth forms around his name. It tries, but the words are muffled by Satoru’s own lips again. Suguru laughs a little louder this time, but doesn’t stop Satoru in any way. When he pulls away from you, your eyes are glazed over. Mouth open, tongue sticking out and covered in spit. Bitten to hell and pink with someone else's saliva. Suguru reaches towards your face and wipes your mouth, his back facing Satoru. You whine, letting your face curl against his hand. Desperate, so desperate for him despite being fucked out of your mind.

“So greedy,” Suguru teases, because you are - because he’s made you that way so perfectly in his image. “Satoru isn’t doing a good job?”

Satoru grumbles with possession he’s hardly earned, but again - this is of no concern to him. He watches Satoru ratchet his hips a little more, watches him fuck you on his cock even deeper than before. Your eyes roll back and your jaw goes slack, and from this angle - Suguru can see the way all the loads his best friend has pumped in you have gathered at the base of his cock. A thick, creamy ring of white making your pussy deliciously sloppy. Your cum drips down your sex, paints your ass white as he keeps fucking him into you with all that stamina.

That’s what gets him, he finds. All that energy, all that mess. Suguru feels a shiver roll through him as Satoru fucks his loads into you deeper. He’s longer where Suguru is thicker so Suguru imagines how far that really goes. How hot it must be inside of you, fucked so ruthlessly you’ve gone completely stupid in bliss. Satoru can fuck like an animal just like he eats like one, and god don’t you look so pretty being ripped apart in front of him.

Satoru bottoms out and stays there this last thrust, so hard the bed shakes. His thighs stick to yours as he grinds his hips up, pulsing against your gspot - reaching right into your womb. You moan brokenly, whimper as you get fucked. Suguru knows it now - that it means Satoru is about to cum in your greedy little cunt for umpenteenth time unconcerned with the consequences.

Satoru shivers, riding out his high as he pumps whatever he has left into you before he pulls away. Thick strings of arousal keep you two together before Satoru inevitably manages to get off of you. He sits on the back of his legs, admiring his work - his hands going to smack your puffy cunt - pleased and finally relieved. You yelp, completely worn out.

“You didn’t pass out this time,” He says, pleased and completely different than he was before “Good girl.”

You let out a pained whine, and Suguru coos.

Satoru gets off the bed and looks for a water bottle to drink, peeling his shirt off when he finds it and rehydrating himself. He has the courtesy to come back and let you have some when he returns. You swallow it as best you can when you’re laying down and drinking it from his lips.

“You gonna have your way with her now, Suguru? How cruel.” Satoru says.

Suguru ignores him. “Go wash up and order dinner.”

Satoru hums noncommittally and disappears, leaving you alone together. When Suguru replaces Satoru’s weight in the bed - your reaction is immediate. You close your legs, but Suguru forces them back apart as he gets a good look at your sore, abused cunt.

Satoru can be so brutal when he wants to, but thats what he likes most to see. You’re in a sorry state. He uses nimble fingers to open you up - looking with a wicked grin as your cunt opens up for him. Nearly gapes from how stretched it is, how much Satoru has fucked you. You’re still soft and sticky inside, your clit hard and swollen. Full to the brim with Satorus seed, heady with his scent.

He tsks at Satoru’s unprofessionalism, wonders if he’s been as dexterous as he should’ve been.

The questions answered when Suguru touches your pussy and you pull away - skittish and helpless as he pinches the hard bundle of nerves. He whistles at how easily you’re stimulated, and then groans at the way Satoru’s cum starts to drip out of your hole. He uses his pointer finger to collect it back up - pushing it back where he wants it. You cry out - for Suguru mostly.

Suguru hums delicately as he picks up after Satoru’s mess.

He unclothes you properly first. Takes off your shirt and dirty shorts before he undresses himself. You like skin to skin, so his shirt comes off as his pants lay low on his hips. When he’s like that, you reach your arms around his neck like you know what’s coming. Suguru chuckles at how instinctual it is, lets you reach out for him - your sticky body adhering to his skin.

“Messy little pussy. Going to let me fuck you some more? Fuck another load into you, huh beautiful?”

You nod stupidly. He kisses the side of your head. Of course you will.

It never fails to send pure electricity up Suguru’s spine when he fucks you like this. Never fails to make him so hard he’s lightheaded, feeling how soft and wet and sloppy you are. Your cunt doesn’t resist him in the slightest. He slides his thick, heavy cock right into your pussy with unbelievable ease and feels everything. Feels your walls pulse with tremors of orgasms, overstimulation making you dizzy with need.

Suguru groans. You feel incredible like this. Feel perfect, so stretched open, so delirious, full of his best friends cum. He’s never felt a single thing so euphoric as this.

He ducks his head down to give you the proper care. The best part of all of it for him. His mouth latches on your tender tits and his hand goes between your bodies - thumb circling your clit as he bottoms out easily into your pussy and stays there.

It’d be a waste to fuck you hard, everything dripping out where Satoru has worked so hard to fill. Suguru opts instead to lay you out on your spine and grind into you. Your legs weakly wrap around his waist as the head of his cock bullies your gspot, pushing into you and rubbing against the sensitive spongy area. Silky walls soggy as they cling to him while you cry out again.

With Satoru, you mostly keep to yourself. Bratty and firm. But with him, you’re so needy. You whimper his name and beg for his attention and ask for something you aren’t sure of because you trust Suguru so completely. You forget your obstinance as you beg him for a proper orgasm, not one that happened to get rung out of you because Satoru can’t help himself.

Suguru can never last long like this, but he lasts long enough to fulfill your wishes. He relishes in the weakened pulses of your pussy, spasming around him for the last time. Your nails dig into his biceps, as he hums against your tits and lets you ride out your continued high.

Only once it’s over does he let himself cum. Buries himself as deep as he can go and gives you his own load, grunting into the crook of your neck as he shakes - his abs tightening before going soft inside of you. Thick white ropes of cum filling you even deeper. Sloppy fucking pussy for his pretty. perfect girl.

“Suguru,” You whine, your hands gripping onto him for life - usual personality evaporated to mush. “Suguru I love you,”

He laughs to himself. See? No issues. Suguru always knows how to put you back together.

“I love you too, baby.”

#smut wise i love this so much #emotionally im a liiiitle uneasy about the dynamic #im a sensitive gal #the satosugu love each other more than you is not my cup of tea #this is borderline i thiiiinnkkkk #but god its written so well and i love it #prettyboykatsuki-moved #suguru smut #satoru smut #satosugu smut #jjk smut

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indispensablephantompower · 1 month ago

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DADDY WILL KISS (fuck!) IT ALL BETTER!

pairing: ex-best friend’s dad!sukuna x bitter!reader content tags/warnings: smut! minors dni, cheating (reader gets cheated on by her boyfriend), age gap- reader is in her early 20’s and sukuna is in his late 30’s/early 40’s, sukuna is uraume’s bio dad, uraume’s a shithead in this- oops, taboo, cunnilingus, overstimulation, praise, light degradation (just sukuna calling the reader brat and a history of him being an ass), female reader, piv sex, rough, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it, kiddos!), dilf!kuna, size kink/difference, huge cock, daddy use/daddy kink, choking, hair-pulling, thumb sucking/biting, light dumbification, sukuna gets fuckin pussydrunkkkkksummary: after you make a surprise visit to your boyfriend, hakari's, apartment, you catch him balls deep inside your best friend, uraume, and leave before they catch you. later on, you decide to confront uraume, only to end up disappointed when only sukuna is home, and uraume is still off, busy fucking your boyfriend. but it’s fine. uraume can have your boyfriend. you’ll just have to keep yourself busy getting stuffed by their dad instead!author’s note: i always see dilf!nanami with yuji and dilf!toji with megumi and this that and the other thing… but how about dilf!sukuna with uraume? under-represented! so, as a thank you for so much love on my last sukuna work… instead of great dad sukuna, here’s a nice one shot of sukuna being a… well, not so great dad, kinda, haha. but hey! barely anything else matters (in fiction!!!) when there’s cock to be had, yeah? anyways, enjoy!!! word count: 4k words

—————

to say you were angry was an understatement. you were seething. you were pissed. your fists were shaking so violently as you slammed your car door shut and marched up to your ex-best friend’s front door, that it was a highly possibility the next thing you touch might cause a whole fucking earthquake from how strong the vibrations of your rage were. it was too much for you. it was too much to feel so suddenly. too much time wasted on a little boy who couldn’t appreciate you. too much time wasted on a nobody.

and to make matters worst? it was with your best friend.

you never thought uraume would betray you so deeply, much less with your boyfriend. the two of you had been through thick and thin together. friends since childhood.

well, until you stopped by your boyfriend’s apartment to drop off soup and medicine for him since he’d cancelled your date night because he was “sick”... only to see uraume’s car in the lot… and then hear your boyfriend balls-deep inside uraume, very clearly not sick like he’d claimed he was.

they didn’t know you saw them. you didn’t say a word. you just left. and cried. for hours. and then you’d decided to go to uraume’s house to question them. you were ten times hurt by their betrayal than your stupid boyfriend’s. boys came and went. weren’t friends supposed to be forever?

as you banged on the front door, your fist slamming over and over on the door like it’d been the one to fuck your boyfriend, your face was red. it was raining, dripping outside, causing your hoodie to drench and cling to your skin, your boots squishing slightly in the puddle at the front door of uraume’s house.

you didn’t expect uraume’s father, sukuna, to open the front door with a scowl on his face. tears were dripping down on your face at the point, and maybe to anyone else, it would’ve just looked like your face was wet from the rain, but ryomen sukuna wasn’t a fucking moron. he could tell right away. you were crying. you weren’t just crying, even. you were angry sobbing.

“why the fuck are you banging on my door, brat?” sukuna’s gruff voice came out, harsh and raspy, like you’d just woken him up from his sleep. his attire, a black wife-beater shirt that exposed his massive biceps and ink-stained skin, and a set of red and black plaid pajama pants with black socks padded over his big feet, supported your theory.

you were shaking. you’d never quite gotten along with uraume’s father. when the two of you were children, he was tolerable. he’d never gotten along with his wife, you noticed, well aware that he’d only accidentally knocked up the woman and wouldn’t even consider marrying her, until she finally left both him and uraume and never looked back. and then he was just worse. especially as you got older, constantly making comments about why you would wear the things you did and why you were so fucking loud and why you were always in his house… but he’d never ask you to leave. and when you even insinuated it? he’d always just shut up, grumble incoherent obscenities under his breath, before eventually just trudging back off to his room and leaving both you and uraume be.

“i don’t have the energy to deal with your fucking attitude, sukuna. where is uraume?” you snapped, your entire body shaking now, your fast twisting in rage. a flash of lightning snapped across the sky, wind whipping your hair behind you, causing you to quickly brush your hair out of your face with an aggressive huff, the rain only pouring harder.

clearly, sukuna could tell by the expression on your face and the way you spoke, that you hadn’t been joking. instead of answering, sukuna just stepped to the side with a grunt, opening the door a little more. “just come in the fucking house before you get struck by lightning or swept away by the wind.” he grumbled.

without missing a beat, you stormed right into the house. sukuna watched you storm past without another word. he let out a low grumble as you went right up the stairs, making him huff in annoyance. “you’re tracking mud throughout my house, brat. take your shoes off.”

you stopped at the top of the stairs. you looked down, before you unlaced your boots. sukuna walked halfway up the stairs, furrowing his eyebrows as he watched you, before he finally spoke up. “i know you’re not expecting me to bring your fucking shoes at the door-”

“URAUME, YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE!” you didn’t even let sukuna finish, bringing your foot up, before you kicked in uraume’s bedroom door, caving it in and sending it flying right open, slamming against the wall next to it with a hard thud. you walked into uraume’s room, raising the boots like you were going to throw them right at uraume, but you paused after you turned the bedroom light on… uraume was gone.

and then you felt a gruff of confusion and annoyance behind you. sukuna leaned in the doorway behind you, arms crossed, before he reached up and calmly snatched your boots right out of your raised hand. he placed them in his hands, about to turn and bring your shoes downstairs (even though he said he wouldn’t), when he lowly grumbled, “uraume’s not home. they’ve been at a friend’s all day. why are you so pissed at them anyway? they steal your hairbrush or something?”

sukuna was not expecting you to suddenly fall to your knees, shaking, and release a loud, devastated, unbearably broken sob. sukuna paused in the hallway, turning back, looking at you when he heard the thud of your knees hitting the ground. he furrowed his eyebrows in confusion, watching your head hang low as you cried, your tears dripping down your cheeks and off your face, onto your already soaked jeans. sukuna furrowed his eyebrows, pausing, before he lowered your shoes. he just sighed. he used his free hand to open the door a little more, looking down at you, furrowing his eyebrows.

he’d never ever seen you cry before, in all the years he knew you. he’d seen his kid cry. even as an adult. and you were always there. but he had never seen you cry. what the hell did his kid do?

“hey,” sukuna said after a moment, his voice slightly softening, not quite a bark but not moreso with sternness and concern. “what’s going on?”

after a moment, you bring your hand up. you sniffle, defeated, wiping your cheeks and your eyes with the hells of one of your hands as you let out a soft whimper, feeling nothing but defeated. the rage had left your system, now draining out of you, your heart shattered and in millions of pieces all over uraume’s floor. you sniffle, trying to collect yourself, before you push yourself up off the ground with a soft, weak grunt. “nothing.” you whisper, your face barely above a whisper. “i’m sorry.”

as you reach forward to take your boots from sukuna, so you can just leave and go home and cry, sukuna suddenly pulls his hand back, his eyebrows furrowed as he looks down at you. immediately, you look up at him, your fingers outstretched. you timidly pull your hand back, looking up at sukuna, your face softening as you feel a weak throb in your chest.

“you nearly punched my front door to bits, kicked my kid’s door in, and assaulted them with… these.” sukuna held up your heavy and worn black boots still dripping with mud and rainwater from the outdoors, looking at them and scrunching his face a bit, before looking down at you. “clearly, it’s not nothing. and i think you owe me an explanation because this is my house you just barged into and busted.” he said, before gesturing to uraume’s bedroom door, then down to you.

you looked back, looking at uraume’s bedroom door, which was now just barely hanging on by one of the hinges, before you looked back up at sukuna, and then down. “i’m sorry.” you murmur, the realization of your rage hitting you, before you reached up to grab your shoes. “i wasn’t thinking. i’ll leave now. and i’ll pay to fix uraume’s door.” you murmur, only for sukuna to hold the boots back up higher now, dangling them over your face. sukuna was much taller than you were, but then again, he was taller than everyone, staggering at over seven feet tall and beefy. uraume was taller than you, as well, but it was clear that they inherited their height from their normally-sized mother.

“i didn’t ask for an apology or reimbursement. i asked you what the hell is the matter with you.” sukuna insisted, furrowing his eyebrows. “you gonna answer me or not?”

you looked up at sukuna, lowering your hand down again, letting out a small, weak breath. you looked at him, at your shoes, back at uraume’s door, and then at the ground by your feet. “...i caught uraume fucking hakari.” you murmur weakly, your voice barely above your breath.

sukuna’s eyebrows furrow, and he lowers your boots a bit, though he doesn’t release them or let you take them yet. “your little boyfriend?”

you nod your head weakly, staring down at your feet. sukuna falls silent. and so do you.

after a moment, sukuna lets out a small breath. “...you got any clothes in uraume’s drawers or anything?”

“no.” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “any of my belongings i have here, uraume can keep though. i don’t care anymore.”

“i was asking because you’re drenched in rain water and i don’t want you getting it all over my house.” sukuna comments back with a gruff huff, before he turns, keeping your boots in his grasp. “go take a shower. i’ll bring you a change of clothes. i’m ordering chinese.”

———

while you didn’t expect to end up in your soon-to-be ex best friend’s dad’s bed, empty chinese containers clattered n the ground, sheets tangled and in nothing but his oversized black t-shirt, your thighs spread and a much older man with his head between your thighs, devouring you between your legs like a pussydrunk beast…. you weren’t exactly unhappy about it.

you gasped, your back arching off the bed as sukuna pushed two of his fingers between your gaping, empty hole. your knees bucked, your heels digging into ryomen sukuna’s bare back, your thighs squeezing his head mercilessly as he shoved his thick fingers deep inside your walls, his tongue repeatedly lapping as your clit like a starved man. “stupid fucking boy.” he murmured into your overstimulated bud, sore from your repeated orgasms. you’d lost count at five, and that’d been a long while ago.

you let out a loud cry, your thighs shaking as you felt another orgasm crashing over you, our fluids squirting and splashing onto sukuna’s fingers as he pumped them in and out of you, your mind lost in a daze. “r-r-ryo-” you sobbed, your tears dripping down your face as sukuna’s fingers dug into your g-spot over and over again, finger-fucking you through your orgasm as he tongue licked up and down your pussy, sucking on your folds so he could devour every last bit of your flavoring. “ahhhh! can’t… can’t take anymore!” you sobbed out, your fingers digging at his disheveled pink hair, which you’d been tugging at for over an hour now.

suddenly, after coming down from your orgasm, you felt your sore legs shift, your legs pushing up so your knees were now flat, your legs up, your ankles just barely brushing against sukuna’s broad shoulders as he looked down at you, his face soaked with your fluids. he leaned down, immediately crashing his lips into yours, one of his hands resting next to your head while the other kept your face, holding your cheek and cradling it as if it was the most precious thing in the world. his tongue swirled around your mouth as you parted your lips, granting him access, your body shaking as you eased your fingers in his hair, smoothly rubbing the nape of his neck, before he pulled away.

“been wanting this pussy for too long now.” sukuna murmured in your ear, before he began to kiss your neck, your jaw, your ear, biting, nibbling, tugging, pulling, kissing and licking, sucking on your skin like he was trying not to devour you whole.

“r-r-really?” you panted, your voice trembling softly, your fingers shaking as you looked up at the ceiling, before you gasped as sukuna bucked his hips up into yours, his bulge hitting right against your hips, your soaked fluids and sukuna’s saliva on your pussy immediately wetting the fabric that was snug so tightly to sukuna’s throbbing cock.

sukuna nodded his head into your neck, rolling his hips forward, causing a needy whimper to escape your lips as your toes curled, your feet threatening to fold inward as you attempted to arch your back off the bed again from the pressure of him directly up against you. okay, so maybe you could take a little more- scratch that! you needed it.

“mhm. four summers ago.” he answered, panting, his own voice slurred from just how absolutely wrecked he was after devouring your cunt for almost two hours straight. “walking around my backyard in that string you called a swimsuit.” he grunted, rolling his hips up against your pussy again, causing you to gasp again with need. one of your hands moved down, fumbling to try and push his pajama pants down so he could just fuck you already, your fingers trembling and pushing at him to try and free him to no avail as he kept speaking. “and then you saw yuji fall in the deep end of the pool and you jumped right in and saved him.”

your eyes widened a bit, your heart thumping at the memory. it was clear as day. uraume had a big pool in their backyard, and their family would often host barbecues during the summer, sukuna’s side of the family stopping by to join them- you were always the only non-family member who was got invited, apart from yuji’s older brother choso’s girlfriend, Yuki, who was his wife at this point and so was now actually family.

you and uraume had been by the pool, tanning in the beach chairs after eating, when you heard a sudden splash. nobody had even noticed it or had been paying attention, even the boy’s father- jin- who was always usually watching his son like a hawk. but you’d seen it. the little splash of sudden pink, and then watching it float down to the bottom of the deep-end, the little boy struggling. you were diving into the water and carrying him back up to the top moments later, dragging you both out of the pool and sitting on a beach chair as uraume rushed to grab towels and the rest of the family rushed over to the little boy who was shaking and crying and clinging to you like his life depended on it (and he’d clung to you ever since).

“spent too many nights up thinking about how i wished it was my face stuffed into your chest instead of his,” sukuna grunted after a moment, before he reached down, lifting your (his) shirt up just rough to expose your heaving, bouncing breasts as he swatted your hand away from his pants, desperate to take his time with you. sukuna leaned down, pushing his face between your chest, letting your tits hug his face as he began to kiss down the valley of your breasts, before beginning to bite down into the plushy flesh, marking up your skin as he murmured into you, “i think i prefer doing it this way, though.”

you gasp, arching your back, whining as your pussy throbs, desperate for more of him, your legs shaking. “r-r-ryo! need you!” you cry out, moving your hands back to his hair, before feeling him reach down to his pajama pants and push them down, feeling the violent thwack! of his cock springing up, slapping your ass and overstimulated pussy, before hitting his stomach, some of his pre-cum splattering down onto you.

immediately, you look down, your eyes growing wide as you look at him, watching as his cock twitches and pulses, big enough to poke out above his own belly button, thick and hard and violently red, dripping with pre-cum and what you soon make out as cum, your cheeks turning red at the realization that he’d cum while eating you out, making sukuna chuckle as he grabbed your face with one hands, pinching your cheeks and redirecting your gaze up at him.

“see something you like?” sukuna chuckled, before pushing his thumb into your mouth as his hand cups and squishes your cheeks, his other hand pumping his cock a few times as he preps himself to stuff your needy cunt full of him. “you gonna be a good girl and take daddy’s cock, yeah?” he snickers down at you, watching as you weakly nod, your pussy throbbing at the word daddy, your stomach doing backflips as it becomes invaded by perverted butterflies.

sukuna leans down, pressing his lips gently to your forehead, before he tilts your chin up, making you look him in the eyes and keeping your gaze up on him. “good girl. keep your eyes on daddy, okay? wanna see the look on your face when i fuck you stupid.” he murmurs, before watching as your eyes grow wide as he pushed the tip into you, your hips bucking up, a scream from the sting escaping your lips, muffled by sukuna’s thumb and his grip on your chin. “aw, i know, brat… daddy’s big, isn’t he? it’ll be okay. just suck on daddy’s thumb. bite down on it if you have to. daddy’s gonna go nice and slow for his needy little thing, okay?” he hummed down at you.

you weakly nod your head, the tears flooding out of our eyes and down your cheeks no longer a signal of pain and betrayal from your best friend and your boyfriend, but rather by the pain and pleasure of fucking your best friend’s sexy father and adjusting to such a big cock that was borderline inhuman. you whine, feeling as sukuna pushes a little more into you, stretching your walls open, and yet you can’t help but want to push and buck your hips up into him, desperate for him to fill you even more.

“keep your hips down and be patient, brat. you are going to take all of me, don’t worry.” sukuna grunts as he lets go of his cock, moving his hands to shove your hips down into the bed as he pushes himself deeper into you, causing you to see stars as he stretches your raw pussy open. you can feel his heartbeat with each throb, each curve of his pulsing veins, and every little drip of cum and pre-cum spilling into your pussy as he pushes himself into you, before finally he bottoms out, his head pressed snug against your deepest and most sensitive areas, before he ruts his hips, a sudden flooding feeling exploding inside of you as he cums the moment he bottoms out, a low groan erupting from his throat.

you gasp, sucking on his thumb as you feel how angrily and needily his cock pulses inside you as he fills you up, his fluids already dripping out of your bright red, straining hole. sukuna leans down, kissing your tears off your face, cooing down at you before he pulls his hips back slightly, only to push deeper into you. his hand swaps from your hips to your stomach, pressing down on your stomach- and the bulge he’s creating in it from his cock pushing so deeply into you- causing him to chuckle as he twists his hand just enough for his fingers to spread out across your swollen tummy and his thumb to press right up against your clit, rubbing circles on your needly bud as you suck harder on his thumb, biting down harshly on it when he starts to fuck himself into you, his thrusts growing meaner and more brutal as he speeds up his face, his bright red eyes growing wider and his pupils dilating as he pants slightly, chuckling to himself, his muscles sensing and squeezing and bulging from his arms and his hand as he loss himself in lust, staring down at where your bodies are so intimately intertwined.

“fuck, baby- such a filthy, tight fucking pussy you have for daddy,” he growls out, his hand

holding your face tensing as he begins tp pummell his cock in and out of you, thrusting and slamming his hips against yours as your ankles manage to finally hook over his shoulders a bit, your feet turning so that they lock around the back of his neck and on the back of his head. “bastard’s a fucking idiot for missing out on this- fuck, you are squeezing me so tight, brat. this pretty pussy deserves so much better, baby… she doesn’t want a boy. no, she needs a man.” sukuna grumbles to himself, pushing himself deeper into you now, causing you to see stars as you cry and pant, sucking and biting on his thumb as your muffled moans and screams fill the room, your heart pounding as you feel your innards practically explode from how hard you cum on sukuna’s cock, your legs shaking as you sob, feeling him spill inside you again, pumping you full with yet another load of his thick, creamy cum.

as he pulls out of you, you pant, your head spinning from your intense orgasms, before you gasp, your body suddenly flipping as sukuna tosses you over so you’re laying flat on your stomach. one of his hands wraps around your throat from behind, squeezing onto you and restricting your air for a moment, making you see stars as you babble incoherently while he pushes back inside of you, his free hand snaking between your legs as he lifts you just enough for his second hand to return to its previous position, rubbing your clit with his thumb as his fingers and his palm take in just how deep inside of you he is while he brutally fucks up your guts with his insatiable cock.

“don’t give up on me yet, brat. i’m not even close to done with you.”

———

the next morning, the sun gently peeks into sukuna’s dark bedroom, his bedroom door just barely cracked open. sukuna’s bed is a mess, and you’re long out cold, covered in hickeys and bruises and handprints, your hair an untamed mess from sukuna tugging and pulling on it, your neck slathered in his marks, your entire unconscious body sore as sukuna spoons you from behind, clinging to you as the two of you sleep, tangled together after the night you spent together.

uraume, wearing far less markings than you with a tired face, drained and displeased from a night of unsatisfactory sex and then getting dumped since hakari can’t sneak around anymore and bought a ring for you and needed to be an honest man and settle down, walks up the stairs, pausing when they see their door hanging on barely by the hinges. they pause, walking past the bathroom, noticing clothes in the laundry hamper that are half-soaked and definitely belong to you, before uraume finally stops when they see your boots, coated in dried-mud, sitting right outside their father’s door…

uraume picks the boots up off the floor, huffing and grimacing, before they push open the rest of sukuna’s door, looking down at them, “dad, why are my best friend’s things there?! was she here last nig-”

uraume freezes, looking up as sukuna’s red eyes stare right in uraume’s own, your bare, sleeping body curled up into sukuna’s, still deep in a fucked-out sleep. sukuna just huffs, rolling his eyes, before he simply grumbles, “since you and her ex boyfriend are apparently so close, you can let hakari know not to worry. she’s in much better hands now.”

—————

masterlist! not proofread. please do not copy, steal, repost, and/or translate. copyright protected by blitziwitchwrites.

#dont ask me how many times ive read this #its absolutely nobodys business #blitziwitchwrites #sukuna smut #jjk smut

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indispensablephantompower · 1 month ago

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Cannot for the life of me get out of my head the idea that if for whatever reason reader was temporarily shrunken to fit in the palm of a hand that all Suguru wants to do is cum all over you

#sick freak #he’d be all like cmon baby just close your eyes and lemme do it once #that’s my man and I’ll stick beside him #it’s a possessive thing for sure #suguru smut #phantom thoughts #JJK smut

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indispensablephantompower · 1 month ago

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pornstar!suguru’s fucking another pornstar, but his eyes are glued to you, his camerawoman. the set’s hot, the actress moaning loud, and you’re behind the camera, lens steady, but your hands shake, his dark gaze burning through you, ignoring the woman beneath him. “harder,” the director calls, but suguru’s focus is you—your flushed cheeks, the way you bite your lip, trying to stay professional.

he’s gorgeous, sweat slicking his long hair, muscles flexing with each roll of his hips, and you’re wet, thighs pressed together, trying to focus on the shot. you’ve filmed him dozens of times, but lately, it’s different—his stares linger, like he’s fucking you in his head. the actress gasps, scripted, but suguru’s eyes don’t waver, locked on yours.

“closer,” the director says, and you step forward. suguru’s hand moves, reaching for yours on the grip. before you can pull back, he intertwines his fingers with yours, tight, warm, and keeps fucking the actress, not missing a beat. you freeze, pulse racing, but he smiles, his thumb brushing your knuckles.

“suguru,” you whisper, barely audible, and his grin widens, cock twitching inside the actress as he holds your hand, wishing it was you he was fucking instead.

the actress doesn’t notice, lost in her performance, but you’re losing it, heat pooling low, your panties soaked as you keep filming, his hand lingering ‘til the director yells, “cut!” he pulls back, still hard, ignoring the actress as she flounces off.

suguru steps closer, towering over you. “keep looking at me like that,” he murmurs, brushing your wrist again, “and i’m gonna want more than your hand next time.”

#hey wtf i love this so much and need it to be a million times longer #gojosconsort #suguru smut #jjk smut

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indispensablephantompower · 1 month ago

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heheheeeeeeeee sex with husband!suguru cuz his pregnants wifes libido is literally over the roof with these raging hormones. she is like a dog in heat.

𓂃୨ৎ mdni. pregnancy, riding, creampie, breeding kink, body insecurity (related to pregnancy weight), multiple rounds of sex, aftercare, domestic fluff

the house is quiet, late afternoon sun filtering through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the living room. suguru’s sprawled on the couch, one arm draped over the back, watching you shuffle around in nothing but his oversized shirt, the fabric stretching tight over your swollen belly. seven months pregnant, and you’re a vision—curves fuller, skin glowing, but there’s a restlessness in you, a hunger that’s been there since the hormones kicked into overdrive. you’re like a dog in heat, insatiable, craving him morning, noon, and night, and fuck, he loves it. loves you. loves the way you’re both animals now, rutting like you can’t get enough.

you catch his gaze, pausing mid-step, and he sees it—the glint in your eyes, the way your thighs press together. “suguru,” you whine, voice thick with need, and he’s already hard, cock twitching in his sweats at the sound. you’ve fucked three times today already—once in the shower, water slicking your skin as he pinned you against the tiles; once in the kitchen, bending you over the counter; and now you want more. he grins, lazy and predatory, spreading his legs wider. “c’mere, baby,” he says, low and rough. “you’re gonna kill me, but i’m not complaining.”

you’re on him in seconds, straddling his lap, hands fumbling with his waistband. your belly presses against him, heavy and warm, and you hesitate, a flicker of shyness crossing your face. “i’m so… big,” you mutter, cheeks flushing, hands hovering over your stomach. “what if it’s too much?” suguru’s heart twists—he hates when you doubt yourself, especially now, when you’re carrying his kid, looking like a fucking goddess. he grabs your hips, firm, pulling you closer. “you’re perfect,” he growls, eyes dark with want. “and i want you so bad it hurts. let me fuck you ‘til you can’t think.”

his words light you up, shyness melting under the heat of his desire. you free his cock, thick and leaking, and he groans as you stroke him, your hands shaky with eagerness. “ride me,” he says, voice almost a command, but there’s pleading in it too. “i love watching you fuck yourself on me.” you whimper, nodding, but your movements are slower now, the weight of your belly making it harder. he sees the struggle and helps, hands guiding your hips, lifting you slightly as you line him up.

you sink down, slow at first, and fuck, it’s heaven. he’s deep, stretching you wide, and you both moan, raw and loud, as you take him fully. “so tight,” he rasps, hands roaming your thighs, your ass, gripping hard enough to bruise. “every time, baby, you feel like a dream.” you’re hesitant, trying to find your rhythm, but the hormones have you desperate, hips rocking before you can stop yourself. he helps, lifting you, letting you bounce, and the sight—god, the sight. your tits, fuller now, straining against his shirt; your belly, round and heavy; your face, flushed and needy, lips parted as you pant. he’s obsessed, wants to burn this into his brain forever.

“suguru,” you gasp, hands braced on his chest, nails digging in. “s’too much, but i need it.” you’re a mess, grinding down, chasing the friction, and he loves how wild you are, how you’re both reduced to this—animals, clawing at each other. he thrusts up, meeting your movements, and you cry out, head tipping back, the sound driving him feral. “that’s it,” he grunts, hands sliding to your ass, spanking you lightly, just enough to make you jolt. “fuck yourself on my cock, baby. cum. for me.”

you try, bouncing harder, but the weight slows you, frustration flashing in your eyes. he senses it, takes over, lifting you effortlessly, slamming you down in time with his thrusts. “let me help,” he murmurs, but there’s a mean edge to it, a teasing lilt. “can’t even ride me proper with that belly, huh? good thing i’m here to fuck you right.” you whimper, clinging to him, and he loves it—loves how you need him, how you give yourself over completely.

he’s deep, so deep, each thrust hitting that spot that makes you see stars, and you’re loud, moans spilling out, unfiltered. “more,” you beg, voice breaking, and he gives it, relentless, fucking up into you like he’s trying to plant another baby right now. “fuck, i want another one,” he groans, hands cupping your belly, imagining it swollen again, full of him. “gonna keep you like this, always.” you shudder, turned on by his words, by the idea, and he feels you clench, milking him, pulling him closer to the edge.

“suguru, i’m—” you don’t finish, orgasm hitting hard, ripping through you. you scream, body shaking, and he holds you through it, thrusting harder, chasing his own release. “fuck, you’re gorgeous,” he pants, watching you fall apart, loving how you drench him, how you’re his. he comes seconds later, spilling deep inside, groaning as he fills you, the thought of breeding you again making it that much sweeter. you collapse against him, panting, sweaty, and he wraps his arms around you, kissing your temple, your hair, your shoulder.

you’re still trembling, and he shifts, careful not to jostle you too much, laying you back on the couch. “one more?” you mumble, half-joking, but there’s that glint in your eye, the hormones still raging. he laughs, soft but wicked, already hard again at the thought. “you’re insatiable,” he says, climbing over you, but his touch is gentle now, hands stroking your sides, your belly. “gimme a minute, baby. let me take care of you first.”

he grabs a glass of water from the kitchen, helping you sip, wiping sweat from your brow with a cool cloth. “you feeling okay?” he asks, eyes searching yours, checking for any discomfort. your weight’s been on your mind lately, and he knows it, so he leans down, kissing your stomach, murmuring, “you’re the most beautiful thing i’ve ever seen.” you smile, shy but warm, and he kisses you properly, slow and deep, pouring all his love into it.

“i love you like this,” he says, settling beside you, one hand resting on your belly, feeling the faint kick of your baby. “all needy, all mine. and fuck, when you ride me?” he grins, teasing, but there’s awe there too. “it’s the hottest thing. you’re perfect, baby.” you laugh, swatting him weakly, but you’re glowing, the insecurity fading under his praise.

“again soon?” you ask, voice soft, and he chuckles, pulling you close, already planning the next round. “soon as you want,” he promises, mean edge creeping back, but it’s wrapped in devotion. “i’m keeping you pregnant forever if it means this.” you roll your eyes, but you’re smiling, curling into him, and he knows—he’s never loved you more than now, wild and wanting, carrying his child, his life.

he stays there, holding you ‘til you drift off, his hand never leaving your belly, already dreaming of the next time he’ll have you bouncing on him, fucking like animals, building a family one hot night at a time.

#yes yes yes yes yes yes yes #i LOVE this its making me feral im gnawing on it as we speak #gojosconsort #suguru smut #jjk smut

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indispensablephantompower · 1 month ago

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“You Forgive Me Like This?”

You’re pinned beneath him, breathless.

Gojo’s body is hot—fever-hot. All tension and tremble. His forehead rests against yours, damp hair falling over the band of his blindfold, lips brushing your cheek like he doesn’t deserve to kiss you yet.

“You hate me right now, don’t you?” he murmurs, voice low and hoarse. “But you’re still shaking for me.”

You are. Every inch of you burns—anger, want, regret, need—it’s all tangled up in the way his fingers grip your thighs, spreading you open like he’s begging you to let him back in. Not just into your body, but into your trust.

Your voice breaks on a moan as his hips press against yours, slow, deliberate.

“Satoru—”

“I know, baby. I know.”

He mouths along your collarbone, open-mouthed and messy. Licks. Kisses. Sucks. The sounds wet and obscene, echoing in the quiet apartment like confession.

“I shouldn’t have said any of that shit earlier,” he groans, grinding into you with a sharp snap of his hips that makes your back arch. “But fuck—don’t tell me I lost this. You.”

You gasp—sharp, high—when he presses his fingers inside you without warning, curling slow, deep, just to feel you clench around him. The squelch of it makes his breath hitch.

“You’re soaked. Dripping.” He pants into your neck, voice wrecked. “You gonna tell me you don’t want this?”

Your nails scrape down his back. Your hips roll. You can’t help it.

“Satoru—please,” you whimper, voice trembling.

He groans like he’s unraveling, dragging his fingers out just to push back in—sloppier, wetter—fucking you open with nothing but his hand and his pride on the line.

“I’ll make it right,” he swears, tongue flicking against your nipple as he takes it into his mouth with a groan. “Let me make it right. Let me make you come until you forget everything but me.”

The rhythm gets faster. Slicker. His fingers curl just right and you sob his name, thighs trembling around his shoulders now, legs thrown over his back like you can’t bear a single inch of distance.

And when you finally fall apart under him—moaning, crying out, so messy and soaked you’re sure he’s ruined the couch—he doesn’t stop. Just presses his forehead to yours again, breath stuttering, hard cock pressed against your thigh, his voice a broken whisper:

“You still hate me, baby?”

You smile weakly, dragging him down into another kiss.

“Only a little.”

His mouth finds yours again—wet, possessive, starved. He kisses you like he’s still apologizing, like he needs to feel every inch of your forgiveness poured into his mouth.

Then—

He pushes in.

Not slow. Not patient. Just one long, deep thrust that fills you so suddenly your whole body jerks beneath him.

You cry out—loud, choked, back arching as your walls clench around him.

“Shit—fuck, baby…” he gasps against your lips, voice wrecked. “You’re so damn tight. Still mad at me?”

You can’t answer—not with the way he’s moving. Not with the way his hips are already snapping into you like he’s been dying for it.

He slams into you again—wet, deep, hard—and your moan comes out strangled, your hands clutching at his back like you’re drowning.

Every thrust is a punishment and a plea. Loud, slick, and brutal. The slap of skin fills the room, tangled with his grunts, your breathless cries, the soft creak of the couch beneath your bodies.

“Say it,” he pants, biting at your shoulder. “Tell me you’re mine. Say it while I’m this deep inside you.”

You sob his name. Again. Again. Your voice breaks on every syllable.

His pace falters for a split second—he buries his face in your neck, groaning like he’s unraveling.

Then he flips you.

You yelp as he manhandles you onto your hands and knees, ass in the air, your cheek pressed against the cushion before you can blink.

“Satoru—!”

“You didn’t think we were done, did you?” he growls behind you, voice low and dripping with lust. “Nah, baby. Not until I’m so deep you can’t think straight.”

He slaps your ass—hard. The sound echoes. The sting blooms. You whimper as he grabs your hips, pulls you back onto him, and thrusts so deep your toes curl.

He’s grunting now—low, raw, filthy.

“Listen to how wet you are,” he hisses, snapping his hips against yours. “You’re making a fucking mess, baby. Ruined my pants, ruined this couch—gonna ruin me next?”

You’re so far gone, all you can do is whimper, eyes rolling back.

He leans over your back, lips brushing your ear as he growls:

“I’m gonna come so deep you’ll still be leaking in the morning.”

And with one last hard thrust, he buries himself to the hilt—grinding, groaning, hand clamped over your mouth as you both come together, soaking, shaking, breathless and ruined.

You’re still twitching when he pulls out.

His cock slips free with a wet, filthy sound—one that makes both of you groan. You’re dripping down your thighs, warm and sticky, and his hand is already back between your legs, spreading your folds to watch it leak out of you.

“God, look at that,” he groans, voice half-lost in his throat. “All of it. Mine.”

You whimper as his fingers smear the mess back up, rubbing it into your folds, circling your clit just to make you jolt. Your thighs are weak. Your cheek’s still pressed into the cushion. But he doesn’t give you time to recover.

He fists his cock, still hard, flushed and throbbing with need.

“You think we’re done?” he rasps. “I barely even started.”

He presses the tip back in—slow, this time. Cruel. You feel it inching in, stretching you out all over again. The squelch is obscene, your own slick coating him too perfectly. He hisses through his teeth, eyes glued to where you take him.

“You’re fucking soaked, baby. It’s like you want me to drown in you.”

He bottoms out and stays there—deep, unmoving.

You moan, voice cracking.

“Satoru…”

“Yeah?” He leans over, biting your shoulder gently. “Tell me what you need. Tell me how bad you want me to break you.”

Then he moves.

Hard.

Not rhythmic—just raw, erratic slamming, his hips snapping against your ass, your name pouring out of his mouth like a prayer and a curse all at once.

Slap. Slap. Slap.

The sound is brutal—wet skin, breathless cries, the couch squeaking beneath you like it can’t take the pressure.

Your moans are wrecked. Desperate. You feel every ridge of him, every vein, as he pistons in and out, ruining you from the inside.

“Shh,” he pants, pushing your head down with one hand, fingers knotted in your hair. “Just take it. Be good and take it. That’s my girl…”

You sob as another orgasm tears through you without warning, your body locking up around him—milking him—and his groan breaks into something near feral.

“Shit—fuck, baby—I’m gonna come again—”

And he does, hard, buried deep, cock twitching as he fills you a second time, spilling everything inside with a ragged gasp of your name.

You collapse. He falls with you, both of you sticky and shaking and still somehow tangled together.

His hand comes up, brushing sweaty hair from your temple.

“Still mad?” he whispers.

You can’t even speak.

“Thought so,” he smirks, breathless. “Good. Maybe I’ll apologize again in the shower.”

#i love to see this man NOT have the upper hand #purinbunnii #satoru smut #jjk smut

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indispensablephantompower · 1 month ago

Text

HALFCRAZY!

───✦ GETO X READER

♡ summary: you had a cvs receipt long list of reasons to resent him; too bad your body only cared about one.

♡ wc: 10k

♡ content warnings: fem! reader, ta! geto, teasing, body shots, drinking, enemies to fwb, p in v, protected, big dick geto, praise, making up, facesitting, swéaring, pet names, oral f receiving, threats of violence.

♡ a/n: this was pure indulgence ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა

Suguru Geto, the head TA, had a reputation as an exceptional teacher, patient, insightful, and the kind of person students adored. At least, that’s what you’d heard. Too bad you got stuck with the real version: a merciless, condescending prick.

Delegating tasks was where your cordiality ended. At first, you tried to be nice, letting whatever insult in your head stay in your throat, or else he would stick unnecessary work onto you. If you said anything close to the word no, he would come up with some ludicrous counterpoint, “If we don't keep accurate and up-to-date notes, how else is the professor we are doing our work?”

He was psychological torture; whatever sins you have committed seemed to conjure this demon into your life. At times, you imagine his regrettably gorgeous and proportional bone structure as a soccer ball that you could kick.

Or using his long, luscious hair to choke him.

You step into the office, and there he is, leaning back in his chair, eyes already flicking toward you like he has been waiting for this. A stack of student essays sits in front of him, perfectly aligned, as if even his paperwork knows better than to stray out of order.

“Finally,” he says, without looking up. “I was starting to think you’d decided to make this a half-day.”

You grit your teeth, resisting the urge to slam the papers on his head, rather than setting them carefully on your desk. “Just making sure every answer gets a fair evaluation,” you reply, forcing a steady tone. “Not everyone likes to rush through feedback.”

He makes a small, dismissive noise, more of a low hum, and leans back, fingers tapping rhythmically against the desk. “Oh, I get it. You take your time because this is all you have, right? No sense in rushing when you don’t have anywhere else to be.”

Bitch.

The comment hits harder than you care to admit, but you keep your face blank, refusing to rise to the bait. You know he thrives on finding the cracks, the little weaknesses he can pry open.

“I have a life outside of this,” you shoot back, sharper than you’d intended. “I just don’t let it compromise my work.”

He raises an eyebrow, finally looking up, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Of course,” he says, voice dripping with false understanding. “But if you spent a little less time ‘perfecting’ every paper, maybe you could enjoy that life of yours a bit more.”

You clenched your jaw, the urge to snap at him building with every word. He knows exactly what he is doing, testing your patience with that same patronizing tone he uses with rude first-year students.

“Maybe I just cared a little more about the quality of my work, so I wouldn’t have to offload my mistakes onto someone else,” fire back, keeping your tone even despite the heat creeping up your neck.

For a split second, his eyes narrow, and you feel a flicker of satisfaction, like a minor victory in a long, grinding war. But then he just lets out a chuckle, low and condescending, like you are the one missing something obvious. You were certain he had something loose in that pretty head of his.

“Touchy,” he says, straightening his stack of papers with a deliberate, practiced motion. “I’m just saying, if you want to avoid burnout, you might want to work on your efficiency. I’d hate to see you get buried under all that ‘thorough’ grading.”

You bite down on your retort, fingers flexing around your pen, imagining it was his neck instead. He is the head TA. One offhand comment from him to the professor, and you’ll find yourself buried in the most tedious, time-consuming tasks for the rest of the semester.

Instead, you force a tight, professional smile, even as your pulse pounds in your ears. “Thanks for the concern,” you say, turning back to your stack, already mentally calculating the hours of grading ahead. “I’ll manage.”

You hear him exhale, a quiet, self-satisfied sound, before the clack of his keyboard fills the tense silence. You typed quickly, deliberately clicking the keyboard louder just enough to irritate him, while not getting any comment from him. If you couldn't retaliate in the way you wanted, this was the alternative to let out the frustration.

Like any student, you found a way to let out your frustrations and ultimately find an ounce of freedom. Letting your friends drag you away to any party to put your focus on anything that doesn't contain Suguru’s fingerprints.

Catwoman, the shiny black leather gripping your curves in the best way. It was last year's Halloween costume, it was too cute to only wear once. It even came with a matching eye mask. Perfect for tonight's costume party.

The bass thumps through the walls, vibrating in your bones as you step into the crowded living room. The air is heavy with a mix of perfume, sweat, and cheap liquor, the flashing lights making every sequined costume and plastic prop gleam like something out of a neon fever dream.

You adjust the black leather straps hugging your shoulders, your Catwoman costume clinging a little more tightly than you’d planned, the slick material catching the light with every step. You resist the urge to tug at the hem of your skirt. No point in being self-conscious now.

The party is in full swing, a chaotic blur of clinking glasses and too-loud laughter. You slip through the crowd, offering polite nods to a few familiar faces, careful to keep your mask in place. The bit of anonymity is freeing, a welcome break from the usual cautiousness that comes with campus life.

You pause near the kitchen, reaching for a red Solo cup, when a tall figure sidles up beside you. He’s draped in a black robe, a hood pulled low over his face, and a white, ghostly mask covering his features. Ghostface. You glance up, mildly impressed at how he manages to loom even in the tight crush of bodies.

“Catwoman, huh?” His voice is slightly muffled through the mask but still low and smooth, with a hint of amusement. “Bold choice.”

You tilt your head, letting your eyes trail over his broad frame, trying to get a sense of him beneath the costume. “Ghostface,” you reply, lifting your cup in a mock toast. “Classic. I take it you have a thing for horror?”

He chuckles, leaning in a little, his mask catching the flashing lights. “I appreciate a little suspense,” he replies, his tone warm despite the chilling face he wears. “But I have to say, you wear the suit well. Not everyone can pull off leather.”

You feel a flicker of warmth spread from your chest to your cheeks, the compliment landing a little harder than you expected. Blame it on the pregame tequila from earlier. “And you wear the cloak well,” you counter, tilting your chin up. “Mysterious, intimidating. I assume that was the goal?”

He steps a bit closer, and you catch the faint scent of something surprisingly clean beneath the alcohol and sweat, like fresh pine or crisp soap. It throws you off for a second; it smelt strangely familiar, making you wonder who he is beneath the mask.

“Intimidating, maybe,” he says, his gloved hand brushing lightly against your arm as he leans in. “But I like to think I have a softer side.”

You huff a laugh, taking a sip from your cup. “Soft, huh? I doubt that.”

He cocks his head, the blank eyes of the mask fixed on you. “Oh, really?” His tone shifts, playful, challenging. “Care to test that theory?”

Before you can respond, a chant rises from the corner of the room, and a group of your friends is crowded around a table. You catch snippets of “shots” and “bodies,” and a wicked idea sparks in your mind.

You glance back at him, your confidence boosted by the mask and the alcohol. “Alright, Ghostface,” you say, tipping your head toward the growing circle of rowdy partygoers. “Want to join me?”

“What is it?”

“Body shots,” you respond with your lips curved into a smile. He hesitates for a heartbeat, then gives a small, almost imperceptible nod. You weave through the crowd, his dark form a steady presence just behind you until you reach the table, already littered with limes, salt, and half-empty bottles of tequila.

One of your friends spots you and cheers, the others quickly picking up the call. Before you can second-guess yourself, you push onto the table, stretching out with a confidence you hope you project better than you feel. The cold, sticky surface presses against the bare skin of your back, the exposed curves of your thighs, the tight straps of your costume.

Ghostface steps up, one gloved hand reaching for the salt as the crowd whistles and whoops around you. He lowered his head, his breath searing your skin as his tongue traced the salt with agonizing slowness. The crowd’s cheers faded to white noise, your world narrowing to the heat of his mouth and the pulse between your thighs.

You bite your lip as he pulls back, lifting his mask just enough to reveal a defined jawline and the pink flesh of his lips. You catch a flash of long, dark lashes before he reaches for the lime, gripping it between two fingers.

He leans down, breath warm against your skin, and without breaking eye contact, drags his tongue slowly over the line of salt, the rough heat of it pulling a quiet gasp from your lips. The room erupts in cheers and whistles, but you barely hear it, your pulse roaring in your ears.

Before you can fully process the sensation, he tips the shot back, head thrown back for a second, before leaning in to press the lime between your lips. His fingers linger against your mouth, just for a moment, before he pulls back, letting his mask fall into place again.

You push yourself up, breathless, eyes locked on his as you swipe a thumb over your lips, tasting salt and citrus. “Not bad,” you murmur, brushing past him as the crowd breaks into another round of shouts, already searching for their next victim.

He catches your wrist for a fraction of a second, just enough to send a fresh jolt of adrenaline through you. “Careful, Catwoman,” he says, voice low and edged with something dark and thrilling. “You keep teasing me like that, and you might find out just how soft I can be.”

You flash a grin, pulling your arm free as you slip back into the chaos of the dance floor, your skin still tingling where his breath touched it. You don’t bother looking back.

You slip back into the crowd, your pulse still racing from the body shot. The tight press of bodies, the flashing lights, the deep, thumping bass — it all seems more intense, like your senses are on high alert. You can still feel the remnants of salt on your abdomen, the ghost of his tongue lingering on your skin.

You lose yourself in the music for a while, letting the rhythm distract you, but every so often, you catch a flicker of movement out of the corner of your eye. That black-robed figure, the harsh white of his mask cutting through the chaos, always in your peripheral vision.

You pretend not to notice, but the awareness of him pulls at you, a subtle, thrilling tension that refuses to fade. At one point, you catch him leaning against the kitchen doorway, mask turned your way as he spoke to some guy dressed in a Freddy Kruger costume, and you hold his gaze for a long second before looking away.

Eventually, you duck into the hallway for a breather, leaning against the cool wall and letting your eyes drift shut for a moment. The air here is slightly fresher, tinged with the faint scent of someone’s spilled beer and cheap cologne.

You barely have a chance to catch your breath before a solid form collides with you, a gloved hand catching your arm to steady you. You look up, your heart skipping a beat as you meet the blank, unblinking stare of Ghostface.

He tilts his head, the gesture almost amused, as if he meant to bump into you on purpose. “Getting tired already, kitten?” he teases, his voice a low, playful rumble beneath the mask. “Don’t tell me you’re tapping out.”

You scoff, slipping free of his grasp and straightening your shoulders. “Please,” you shoot back, smoothing your hands over your costume. “I could outlast you in my sleep.”

He chuckles, the sound surprisingly rich and genuine even through the muffling of the mask. “Bold words,” he says, stepping closer, the dark fabric of his cloak brushing your bare thigh. “Care to prove it?”

Your heart races, a wild thrill sparking in your chest as he leans in, his mask just inches from your face. You catch a hint of his cologne again, clean and sharp, cutting through the haze of sweat and alcohol around you.

“I don’t dance with masked strangers,” you lie, letting your lips curve into a slow, taunting smile. “Too risky.”

He laughs, low and dark, the sound sending a pleasant shiver down your spine. “But you do body shots with them?” he counters, his head tilting in mock confusion. “Interesting boundaries.”

You roll your eyes, pushing off the wall and brushing past him, letting your hip brush his thigh as you slip back toward the crowded living room. You don’t look back, but you feel him follow, his presence a steady, electric pressure against your back.

The music pulses louder as you push onto the dance floor, the crush of bodies closing around you. You let the beat take over, swaying your hips in time with the rhythm, your hands drifting up to your hair, the leather straps of your costume pressing against your skin with each twist and turn.

You sense him behind you before you feel his hands, one sliding over your hip, the other settling at your waist. He leans in, his mask pressing against your ear as he speaks. “You sure you can keep up?”

You smirk, arching your back slightly, pressing into him just enough to feel the heat of his body through his cloak. “I should be asking you that,” you purr, letting your head tilt back against his shoulder.

He tightens his grip, his fingers flexing against your bare waist, pulling you closer until his chest is flush against your back. The music pounds around you, drowning out everything but the rapid, reckless beat of your pulse.

You let yourself sink into it, the thrill of moving against a stranger, the rush of not caring about tomorrow or assignments or deadlines. Just the warmth of his touch, the intoxicating press of his body against yours.

You turn in his arms, your hands sliding up his chest, feeling the hard lines of muscle beneath the thin fabric of his costume. You catch a hint of his jawline beneath the edge of the mask, a sliver of clean skin, and the urge to see more flares hot and insistent in your chest.

Without overthinking it, you hook a finger under the edge of his hood, pulling him down just enough to press your lips against the exposed corner of his jaw, tasting salt and heat.

He tenses, a sharp intake of breath cutting through the noise, and then his hands are on you again, gripping your waist, pulling you in so tightly you can barely breathe. His mask presses against your cheek, his breath hot and rapid against your ear.

“Careful,” he murmurs, his voice rough, almost strained. “You keep doing that, and we’ll end up somewhere a lot quieter.”

You meet his eyes through the dark, hollow sockets of the mask, your own breath coming in short, heated bursts. “Maybe I like the sound of that,” you whisper back loud enough to be heard over the music but quiet enough only for him to hear, tightening your grip on his shoulders.

For a moment, you’re sure he’s going to kiss you or as close to it as the mask will allow, but then someone jostles you from behind, a burst of shrill laughter cutting through the moment, and you both pull back slightly, the spell momentarily broken.

You catch his hand, lacing your fingers with his as you start to back away, pulling him toward a doorway. His grip tightens, a silent agreement, and the two of you sneak through the crowd, everyone is too drunk or wrapped in their head to notice.

As you weave through the crowded living room, the heat and press of bodies becoming too much, you go past a corner to an empty hallway, the thumping bass of the music muted slightly by the thin walls. The air is cooler here. The shadows stretch long and thin, broken only by the occasional flicker of neon light from the party beyond.

He tilts his head, the gesture almost amused, as if he had been waiting for this. You press back against the cold, chipped paint of the hallway wall, your breath coming in short, heated bursts, your heart still pounding in your chest.

Slowly, he reaches up, his gloved hands finding the edges of his mask. You watch, pulse racing, as he lifts it just enough to reveal his jawline, the curve of full lips, and the faint shadow of his nose in the flickering light.

Before you can fully process the sight of him, he closes the distance between you, one hand bracing the wall beside your head, the other finding your hip, fingers flexing against the glossy leather. His mouth crushes against yours, rough and urgent, his breath hot against your lips.

You respond in kind, your hands sliding up his chest, feeling the rapid rise and fall of his breathing beneath your fingertips, the hard, defined lines of muscle hidden beneath the thin fabric of his costume. You dig your nails in slightly, drawing a low, guttural sound from him that sends a fresh wave of heat pulsing through you.

He deepens the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours in a heated, hungry rhythm, the taste of salt, lime, and tequila still lingering faintly between you. His fingers tighten on your hip, pulling you closer until there is nothing but the thin press of leather and fabric separating your bodies.

You arch into him, one hand sliding up his shoulders, grasping his robe, fingers curling around the soft material. He responds immediately, his teeth grazing your lower lip before pulling back just enough to meet your gaze.

For a moment, he hesitates, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts, his hand slipping from the wall to cradle your jaw, his thumb brushing lightly over your cheek. The small, almost tender gesture catches you off guard, the sudden, intense intimacy of it contrasting sharply with the rough, desperate way he had kissed you just moments before.

You meet his gaze, your own breathing just as unsteady, your skin still tingling from the rough press of his mouth. For a second, the world narrows to just the two of you, the distant thump of music fading into a dull, meaningless echo, the wall at your back a biting reminder of the reality beyond the warmth of his touch.

Then, without another word, he leans in again, his lips finding yours with a renewed, desperate intensity, his hands slipping down to your waist, pulling you against him until you can feel every defined line of his body through the thin layers separating you. You let yourself melt into the kiss, your hands sliding down to grip his shoulders, your body arching into his as the slightly sticky wall presses against your back, a thrilling contrast to the warmth of his touch.

You lose track of time, the minutes blurring together into a heated, frantic haze, the intoxicating taste of him filling your senses, the low, muffled sounds he makes against your mouth sending fresh waves of heat pooling in your stomach.

Eventually, he pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath coming in short, harsh bursts, his hands still gripping your waist, holding you close as if afraid to let go. You meet his gaze, your own chest heaving, your pulse, a drumbeat in your ears.

For a moment, neither of you speaks, the cool wall at your back grounding you, the distant sounds of the party a faint, forgotten echo. Then, slowly, he leans in again, his lips brushing lightly against yours in a soft, lingering kiss, his thumb tracing a gentle line along your jaw.

When he finally pulls back, his eyes still dark and intense behind the edge of his mask, you can’t help but smile, your own lips still tingling from the rough, desperate press of his mouth. His fingers slipping down your waist, almost like they are questioning your boundaries and how far you wanted to take this.

Although you couldn't see his face, his body and the way he talked were a good giveaway that he was hot. You were willing to play along. It's been a while since you got laid, anyway, nothing wrong with going with the flow.

“Cat got your tongue?” you quipped, your arms wrapped around his shoulders. Your fingers lightly pull at the elastic of his mask, letting it snap back onto his scalp.

“Nah, just wondering if you could get any prettier under that mask.” His lips trail down the line of your jaw, teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below your ear. You gasp, your head tipping back against the wall, fingers tightening in the fabric of his cloak. He pauses for a moment, his breath warm against your neck, before he sucks lightly at the curve of your shoulder, lips sucking in just enough to leave a small hickey.

“Was thinking the same thing.” Your breath catches, a soft, involuntary sound slipping from your lips as he laves his tongue over the spot, soothing the brief ache with a slow, deliberate motion. He pulls back, the faintest hint of satisfaction in the curve of his mouth, his eyes catching the low, flickering light as he looks down at you.

You blink up at him, your pulse still thundering in your ears, the distant bass of the party a dull, meaningless thrum against the heat coiling in your chest. Your mind spins, caught between the reckless thrill of the moment and the sudden, keen awareness of how far this has already gone.

Slowly, he lifts his hand to the edge of his hood, fingers slipping beneath the fabric. He hesitates for a second, his eyes locked on yours, as if waiting for some silent, final permission before he pulls it back. Shrugging, you slipped your mask down, allowing it to sit atop your hair.

The hood pulled over his head, and you find yourself staring up into a face you know all too well the intense, amethyst monolid eyes, the faint, infuriating curve of a smirk.

Suguru fucking Geto.

The realization hits you like a cold shock, the heat in your veins turning to ice in an instant. The buzz from the alcohol faded promptly. You freeze, your mind scrambling to process the sudden, jarring shift from breathless, reckless desire to biting horror. Even under the dim light, you couldn't mistake those eyes for anyone else.

For what feels like forever, you just stare at each other, the once cool slightly stale air of the hallway suddenly feeling suffocating, the lingering press of his hands on your waist a burning, unwelcome weight.

“What the hell,” you whisper, your voice coming out more breathless and unsteady than you intended, your pulse still racing. Your body caught in the treacherous aftershocks of the kiss you now wish you could take back, no matter how good it felt.

He blinks, his own eyes widening fractionally, the faintest flicker of shock breaking through his usually impenetrable calm. He drops his hand from your waist, the warmth of his touch suddenly feeling like a brand against your skin, a mark you can’t quite shake.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he mutters, his voice strained and rough, his brows knitting together in a disbelieving line. His tongue darts out, the same one down your throat moments ago, catching the faintest hint of your lingering taste, and you catch the way his jaw clenches, the brief, involuntary tightening of his grip on the edge of his cloak.

You reach up, trembling fingers brushing over the slight sting on your neck where his mouth had sucked at your skin, the small, unmistakable mark already beginning to bloom beneath your touch. You purse your lips, your chest heaving with a mix of adrenaline, embarrassment, and sudden, sharpened anger.

Without another word, you push past him, your shoulder clipping his as you storm back toward the crowded, chaotic pulse of the living room, the heat of his gaze burning into your back as you disappear into the crush of bodies, your mind a wild, chaotic blur of conflicting emotions.

The following week, you can’t quite shake the memory of that night, the ghost of his touch, the taste of his kiss, the humiliating sting of realizing just who had stolen those breathless, frenzied moments from you.

In lectures, his gaze lingered on the hickey beneath your collar—a silent taunt. You refused to flinch, even as your skin burned under his scrutiny. His jaw set in that same, infuriatingly calm line, as if he had already decided to pretend it never happened.

Part of you wishes you could do the same, to shove the memory to the back of your mind and pretend it was just another faceless, nameless stranger in a dark hallway, but every time your fingers brush over the faint, fading mark on your neck, your poor blood vessels. The sharp, humiliating reminder of his touch flares hot and insistent beneath your skin.

You thought you could avoid him. Really, you tried. You planned your office hours carefully, choosing the quieter times when the likelihood of him showing up was slim. You took the long way around the library, ducked into side halls, and even slipped out early from the shared TA meetings whenever you could.

But it’s impossible to fully escape him, especially when your shared responsibilities practically demand you work together.

It's 2 days later, and you’re sitting at your usual desk in the TA office, red pen poised over a half-marked stack of essays, the fluorescent lights casting a harsh, unforgiving glow over the papers spread out before you. You’re halfway through scrawling a pointed note about thesis clarity when the door creaks open behind you, the familiar, quiet scrape of worn hinges making your stomach clench instinctively.

You glance up, your pulse kicking into a nervous rhythm as Suguru steps inside, his dark eyes already flicking toward you. He pauses for a second, his gaze lingering on you for a fraction too long before he moves to his own desk, the air between you crackling with a tense, unspoken awareness.

He doesn’t say a word as he drops into his chair, the leather creaking softly beneath his weight. You force your eyes back to the paper in front of you, your pen hovering over the page, the sharp, biting smell of ink suddenly too strong, too suffocating in the enclosed space.

You can still feel the phantom press of his hands on your waist, the rough scrape of his teeth against your neck, the sharp, dizzying heat of his mouth against yours. The memory flares bright and unwanted behind your eyes, and you clench your jaw, your grip tightening around the pen until your knuckles ache. If only you could have your memory wiped like in Men in Black, and finally be free from the humiliation that plagued your mind.

For a while, the only sound is the faint, rhythmic tapping of his fingers against the edge of his desk, a quiet, steady beat that grates against your nerves, every click of his finger against wood a painful, unwanted reminder of the night you can’t quite shake.

Eventually, he clears his throat, the sudden, jarring sound cutting through the tense, suffocating silence. You flinch, your pen slipping against the paper, leaving a jagged, angry line across the margin.

You glance up, your pulse still racing, and catch the way his eyes flick toward the faint, barely visible mark still lingering at the edge of your neck, the small, faintly bruised line hidden just beneath your collar. His jaw tightens, his fingers flexing once against the desk before he forces his gaze away, his lips pressing into a thin, unreadable line.

“Did you finish grading the midterms?” he asks, his voice a little shy and flat, his tone carefully, deliberately neutral.

You swallow, your throat suddenly dry, the taste of salt and lime still clinging faintly to your memory. “Almost,” you reply, forcing a steadiness into your voice that you don’t quite feel, your hand tightening around the pen until the plastic creaks beneath your grip. “Just a few left.”

He gives a short, almost perfunctory nod, his eyes still averted. He doesn’t press further, doesn’t try to provoke you like he usually would, and for a second, the unfamiliar, unsettling silence between you feels almost worse than his usual, condescending remarks.

You force yourself to focus, your pen scratching harshly against the paper as you scrawl another pointed comment in the margin, the words blurring slightly at the edges as your mind drifts back to the heat of his mouth, the rough, desperate press of his body against yours, the small, humiliating sting of the mark still lingering against your skin.

The uneasy truce between you and Suguru holds for exactly three days before it starts to fray at the edges. At first, it’s just the small things, the tiny, thoughtless habits of two people forced into a space they can barely stand to share. The way he taps his pen against his desk, the faint, rhythmic click-click-click of plastic against wood, setting your teeth on edge. The way you pointedly slide his stacks of paper out of the perfectly straight, orderly rows after he leaves the room, just to spite him.

You both pretend not to notice, each small, passive-aggressive act adding a new, silent tally to the unspoken scoreboard that has always existed between you.

By the end of the week, the tension is a living, breathing thing, thick and stifling in the small, cluttered TA office, the air too heavy with the bitter, choking weight of unspoken words and barely restrained frustration.

It all comes to a head on a quiet Thursday afternoon, the pale, watery light filtering through the narrow, dust-streaked windows casting long, tired shadows across the floor. You’re leaning over a stack of essays, red pen poised over a particularly incoherent paragraph, when the door creaks open behind you, the now painfully familiar scrape of worn hinges making your shoulders tense.

You don’t bother looking up, your lips pressed shut in anticipation, the memory of his mouth still an unwanted ache at the back of your mind.

He steps inside, his footsteps a soft, measured rhythm against the linoleum, and you feel the faint, irritating prickle of his gaze settling on the back of your neck, the small, barely perceptible hairs there standing on end.

For a long, breathless moment, neither of you speaks, the quiet, muffled sounds of distant conversation filtering in from the hallway the only thing breaking the tense, suffocating silence.

For a while, the only sound is the faint, rhythmic tapping of his fingers against the edge of his desk, that same, maddening click-click-click that has been driving you slowly insane for days.

You grit your teeth, the sharp, sudden flash of irritation cutting through the tense, uncomfortable haze settling over your mind. You’re two seconds away from snapping at him, your pen digging into the paper hard enough to leave a faint, angry groove, when he finally, mercifully, stops.

You glance up, half-expecting some smug, infuriating remark, but he just stares at you, his dark eyes sharp and unreadable, his jaw set in that same, stubborn line that has been grating on your nerves for days.

“How long are you going to keep this up?” he asks, his tone monotone, with just a hint of carefully controlled frustration beneath the calm, even surface.

You freeze, your pen pausing mid-stroke, the sudden directness of his words cutting through the tense, uncomfortable silence like a knife.

You blink, your mind scrambling for a response, your pulse a wild, erratic drumbeat in your ears. You open your mouth, then close it again, your throat suddenly dry, the faint, bitter taste of salt and lime still clinging to the back of your tongue.

“What?” you manage, your voice coming out a little sharper than you intended, your fingers tightening around your pen until the plastic creaks beneath your grip.

His eyes narrow, his jaw flexing, a muscle ticking just beneath the sharp line of his cheekbone. “Don’t play dumb,” he snaps, his tone dropping a few degrees, his fingers tightening around the edge of his desk. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

You stare at him, your mind whirling, a sharp, biting retort already forming at the edge of your tongue. For a second, you consider just brushing him off, turning your attention back to your stack of papers and pretending he doesn’t exist, like you have been for the past week.

But something in his tone, in the sharp, irritated line of his jaw, makes the sharp, bitter words catch in your throat, the small, humiliating sting of the mark still lingering against your skin, a painful, unwanted reminder of the night you have been desperately trying to forget.

“I’m not ignoring you,” you shoot back, your tone a little too defensive, a little too sharp, the words slipping out before you can fully consider them. “I’m just trying to focus on my work, which, by the way, you keep interrupting.”

His eyes flash, a small, sharp flicker of something dark and irritated cutting through his carefully controlled expression. “Oh, I’m interrupting?” he snaps, his voice rising a fraction, his fingers flexing against the edge of his desk. “You’re the one acting like a sullen teenager every time I walk into a room. Grow up.”

The words hit harder than you care to admit, a sharp, humiliating sting cutting through the thin, fragile veneer of your composure.

You slam your pen down, the sharp, echoing crack cutting through the tense silence like a gunshot, and push to your feet, your pulse a wild, reckless drumbeat in your ears.

“Maybe I wouldn’t act like this if you didn’t walk around like you own the place,” you snap, your voice rising to match his, the sharp, breathless heat of your frustration spilling over into the small, cluttered office, your hands curling into tight, shaking fists at your sides. “News flash, Suguru, the world doesn’t revolve around you.”

He pushes to his feet, his chair scraping harshly against the ground, his jaw tight, his dark eyes flashing with barely restrained irritation. He takes a step closer, the small, narrow space between your desks shrinking to a suffocating distance, the sharp, bitter taste of old resentment hanging thick in the air between you.

“You always have a problem with everything, have you ever tried shutting up?” he fires back, his voice low and dangerous, his breath warm against your cheek, his fingers flexing at his sides like he is two seconds away from grabbing you, from pinning you against the nearest wall.

“Don't know you didn't seem to mind when I had on that Catwoman costume.” The words fell out before you could stop them.

“It was the alcohol, and to be fair, I didn't even know it was you,” he said, his voice shaking slightly. You rolled your eyes, even with the little light you could see, it was him.

“Bullshit, you approached me first and it was just an eye mask you could see the rest of my face.” There was no going back now, you might as well dig deep. Suguru’s jaw clenches, the sharp, furious line of his mouth drawing your attention for a dizzying, breathless second. You stand in front of your desk, not letting him try and intimidate you further with his height. He steps closer, the faint, musky scent of his cologne mingling with the faint, bitter bite of old coffee and cheap classroom disinfectant.

“Oh, so now you’re an expert on my eyesight?” he snarls, his breath ghosting against your lips, his dark eyes narrowed, his pupils blown wide with a mix of anger and something far more dangerous, far more intoxicating. “Maybe you should take my advice and get your hearing checked.”

Your heart stutters, your pulse a wild, erratic drumbeat in your ears, and for a split second, you consider backing down, forcing yourself to take a step back, to breathe, to remember the thin, fragile line you have drawn between you and the man standing a mere breath away from you, your fingers twitching at your sides like you're seconds away from throttling him.

But you are too far gone, the sharp, reckless edge of your temper cutting through the thin, fragile thread of your self-control, your blood boiling with a wild fervency that leaves your mind spinning, your skin tingling with the sharp, dangerous kick of confrontation.

“And you say I never shut up, look at you still talking.” You laugh, your voice impudent and breathless,

“What are you going to do? Make me?” he rolls his eyes, you couldn't help but catch the shiny glint of the lights reflecting off his long raven hair. Quickly turning your attention back on him and not on his appearance, that's exactly what got you in this predicament in the first place.

“Maybe I will, I've wanted to shut you up for so long.” The words slipping out before you can fully consider the implications, the small, rash part of you that has been simmering just beneath the surface, finally breaking free.

“Fantasizing about me now, too?”

“You know what, yeah, all the time wondering what the hell I did to get stuck here with you.” Your hands wrapping around an imaginary neck in the air, letting out a long sigh of frustration.

For a split second, he just stares at you, his eyes wide, his jaw flexing, his chest heaving with sharp, ragged breaths, the small, narrow space between you crackling with barely restrained tension.

Then, before you can take the words back, before you can fully register the dangerous, reckless path you have just set yourself on, his hand snaps out, his fingers curling around your wrist in a tight, bruising grip, the sharp, sudden warmth of his touch sending a shock of electricity through your veins.

You barely have time to gasp, your eyes widening, your pulse a wild, erratic drumbeat against the tight, calloused press of his palm, before you lean closer, your mouths crashing against each others with a wild, furious intensity that steals the breath from your lungs, his fingers digging into your wrist hard enough to leave faint, crescent-shaped bruises against your skin.

Your mind goes blank, the sharp, bitter taste of resentment and unspoken desire mixing with the faint, metallic tang of adrenaline on your tongue, your free hand coming up to tangle in the front of his shirt, your nails digging into the thin, soft fabric as his other hand slides around your waist, his fingers splaying against the small of your back with a rough, possessive force that leaves your knees weak, your pulse racing.

The edge of your desk digs into the back of your thighs as he backs you up against it, his mouth moving against yours with a feverish heat, his teeth catching on your bottom lip hard enough to draw a sharp, breathless gasp from your throat, the faint, metallic taste of blood lingering on your tongue.

You should push him away, you know you should, your mind screaming at you to stop, to break free, to remember the sharp, bitter resentment that has always simmered between you, the long, painful months of rivalry and frustration that have built up into this.

But you can’t, your body refusing to obey the frantic, panicked signals your mind is sending, your fingers tangling in his hair, your nails scraping against his scalp as he deepens the kiss, his tongue slipping past your parted lips with a low, frustrated growl that vibrates against your chest, the sharp, electric thrill of his touch sending a fresh wave of heat rushing through your veins.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he tears his mouth from yours, his chest heaving, his breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps, his forehead pressing against yours as he stares down at you, his dark eyes blown wide, his pupils swallowing the faint ring of color around the edges.

You stare back, your own breath coming in short, uneven bursts, your pulse a wild, erratic drumbeat against your ribs, the sharp, dizzying heat of his body pressed against yours leaving your mind spinning, your skin tingling with the sharp, dangerous thrill of his touch.

“Why would you do that?” you gasp, your voice shaking, your fingers still tangled in the front of his shirt, the thin, soft fabric wrinkled beneath your grip.

“Me?!” he snaps, his voice low and accusatory, his fingers tightening against your waist, his dark eyes flashing with a mix of anger and something far more dangerous, far more intoxicating. “You’re the one who leaned in.”

“Oh, so this is my fault?” you fire back, your own voice rising, your fingers tightening in the front of his shirt, your pulse still racing, your mind still spinning with the sharp, bitter taste of his tongue lingering on yours.

He just stares at you, his jaw tight, his dark eyes narrowed, his breath warm against your cheek, the small, narrow space between you crackling with barely restrained tension.

“It sure as hell isn't mine,” he growls, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble that sends a fresh wave of heat rushing through your veins.

Neither of you moves, neither of you speaks, the small, narrow office suddenly feeling far too small, far too hot, the sharp, suffocating weight of your shared, unspoken frustration pressing down on your shoulders like a heavy, suffocating blanket.

“It was just…pent-up frustration,” he says finally, his voice low, rough, his eyes still locked on yours, his chest still rising and falling with sharp, uneven breaths. “A mistake.”

Perhaps in this singular moment you could agree with the highly disagreeable Suguru Geto. It's not your faults your mouths happen to like the taste of the others. It was out of your control, the body does what it wants, right?

You nod, your fingers uncurling from the tight fist at your sides, “Right,” you agree, your voice strained, your pulse still racing, your heart still slamming against your ribs with a sharp, breathless intensity that leaves you feeling dizzy, your skin tingling with fervor that you can’t quite seem to shake. “Just…pent-up frustration. It happens all the time.”

For a moment, he just stares at you, like you could almost see the gears turning in his head at your statement. His purplish mauve eyes unreadable, his fingers still twitching at his sides like he is two seconds away from reaching for you again, from dragging you back against his chest, from crashing his mouth against yours with the same wild, furious intensity that had left you breathless and dizzy just a few moments ago.

Then, finally, he steps back, the small, narrow space between you widening just enough for you to suck in a shaky, uneven breath, your mind still spinning, your skin still tingling with the sharp, electric thrill of his touch.

“Good,” he says, his voice low, rough, his gaze still locked on yours, his jaw clenched, his chest still heaving with sharp, ragged breaths. “Then we’re on the same page.”

You nod again, your throat tight, your pulse still racing, your mind still spinning with the sharp, bitter taste of his kiss lingering on your tongue, your fingers still tingling with the phantom warmth of his chest beneath your palms.

“Yeah,” you manage, your voice weak, unsure, your heart still slamming against your ribs with a wild, erratic drumbeat that leaves you feeling lightheaded, unsteady, like you are standing on the edge of a steep, dangerous precipice with nothing to hold on to, nothing to keep you from tumbling over the edge. “It won't happen again.”

Without another word, he turns on his heel, his long, confident strides carrying him to his desk, his shoulders relaxed. As he sits in his chair, his purple eyes glued to the screen of his computer. You stare at your papers for a long, breathless moment, your pulse slowing down, bitter taste of his kiss lingering on your tongue, your skin still tingling with the phantom warmth of his touch, the sharp, electric thrill of his fingers still curled around your waist, his teeth still catching on your bottom lip, his breath still warm against your cheek.

It won’t happen again, you tell yourself, your mind clinging desperately to move forward from this incident. It can’t happen again.

To be fair, you lasted two weeks before it happened again. It’s the middle of the week, a Wednesday, the rain coming down in sharp, icy sheets outside the narrow, half-fogged windows of the office, the faint, metallic hum of the overhead lights only serving to heighten the tense, suffocating weight of the moment as you find yourself backed against the hard, unyielding edge of his desk, his long, calloused fingers digging into your hips, his breath warm against your neck, his teeth catching on the soft, sensitive skin just below your jaw.

“We are never speaking of this,” you gasp, your fingers tangling in his hair, your pulse racing, your heart slamming against your ribs with a wild, reckless intensity that leaves you dizzy, your mind spinning, your skin tingling with a wild, breathless heat that you can’t quite seem to shake.

“Agreed,” he mutters, his voice low, rough, his breath warm against your ear, his teeth grazing your earlobe, his fingers tightening their grip on your hips like he is two seconds away from lifting you onto the edge of his desk, from crushing his mouth against yours with the same wild, furious intensity that had stolen the breath from your lungs the first time this happened, that had left you feeling dizzy and breathless and alive in a way you hadn’t felt in years.

You tell yourself it’s just a fluke, a one-time thing, a momentary lapse in judgment that you will never repeat, a mistake that you will never make again.

But then it happens again. And again.

The second time, you blame it on the fact that he wore that stupid, perfectly tailored black button-down that hugs his shoulders just right, the sharp, crisp lines of the fabric pulling tight across his chest every time he reaches for a file or leans over his desk to sign a document, his long, calloused fingers curling around the edge of the desk with a sharp, possessive force that makes your pulse quicken, your skin tingle with the sharp, electric thrill of anticipation.

The third time, you blame it on the fact that he was the only one in the office when you came in late, your clothes clinging to your damp, rain-soaked skin, water from your curls dripping onto the polished, wooden floor, the faint, bitter scent of his cologne that you have become all too familiar with lingering in the air as he turned to look at you, his dark eyes flashing with a sharp, your heart slam against your chest, your breath catch in your throat.

The fourth time, you blame it on the fact that he had the audacity to wear his hair tied back, the long, dark strands pulled into a loose, slightly messy bun at the nape of his neck, the sharp, angular lines of his jaw and the faint, silver glint of his earrings catching the harsh, fluorescent light just right, the sharp, eager thrill of his fingers curling around the back of your neck, his teeth catching on your bottom lip, his breath warm against your cheek, leaving you flushed.

When the possibility of you liking him popped up in your head as you tried coming up with an explanation you laughed, there was no way you could like him, just weeks ago you were flipping a coin for if you should kick him in the balls if he said some slick shit to you again. Love? That's impossible at best, lust.

You lose count after that, the taste of his mouth becoming a regular, almost expected part of your weekly routine, the breathless thrill of his fingers curling around your waist, his teeth catching on your bottom lip, his breath warm against your cheek becoming an addiction. A habit, an addictive one that you can’t quite seem to break; no matter how hard you try, no matter how many times you tell yourself that this is the last time, that you won’t let it happen again.

It’s just pent-up frustration, and definitely not the way your eyes linger on him more than they should or how your heart flutters every time he pushes you up against the nearest wall, his breath warm against your neck, his fingers digging into your hips, his teeth catching on your bottom lip.

Just stress. Just a temporary lapse in judgment. Just a mistake.

The routine argument in the office is sharp, cutting, a rapid-fire exchange of barbed words and thinly veiled insults that leaves you irritated, your pulse racing, your heart slamming against your ribs. But this time, it doesn’t end with his hands in your hair, his teeth on your neck, his breath warm against your ear.

This time, you manage to walk away, your head held high, your spine straight, your hands trembling slightly at your sides as you make your way down the long, narrow hallway toward the exit, the bitter taste of unspoken insults lingering on your throat, the faint, electric thrill of his gaze burning into the back of your neck making your skin tingle, your breath catch in your throat.

For the first time in weeks, you feel almost free, like you’ve finally managed to break the chains that have been holding you in place, the sharp, breathless intensity of your secret, reckless encounters with him nothing more than a distant, half-forgotten memory, a blunder that you have finally managed to put behind you.

You make it through the rest of the day without seeing him, without so much as a passing glimpse of his sharp, angular jaw or the dark, unreadable vigor of his eyes. And by the time you make it back to your apartment, your shoulders aching, your feet sore, your mind blissfully, blissfully numb, you almost believe that you’ve finally managed to shake him. To free yourself from the chokehold that he has over you.

Almost.

But then you see him again, standing at the end of the long hallway that leads to your apartment, his dark hair in a neat half-up half half-down, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his baggy sweatpants. You freeze, your breath catching in your throat. “What are you doing here?” you manage to choke out, your voice surprised and more breathless than you intended.

“None of your business,” he fires back, his eyes narrowing slightly, his shoulders tensing.

“Oh, so you just happened to be on my floor for no reason?” you snap. He steps closer, standing a foot away from you as you lean against your apartment door.

“I have a friend who lives here,” he mutters, shrugging his shoulders. He didn't seem particularly surprised to see you either, or at least not as surprised as you were.

You snort, your head tilting back slightly, your lips curling into a sharp, bitter smile as you take a step back. Your spine pressing against the hard, unyielding edge of your apartment door, your fingers trembling slightly as you fumble for your keys, the sharp, metallic clink of metal on metal echoing in the narrow hallway.

“Right. Because you’re not obsessed with me or anything,” you mutter, your voice low, it was a joke. You were being a little hypocritical, especially after you've stalked his Instagram page more times than you'd like to admit.

“Trust me, if I were obsessed with you, you’d know,” he fires back, however, there was no dispute. You swallow, your throat tight, thinking of the possibility that the aching feeling in your chest was shared.

“Is that so?” you whisper, your breath catching in your throat, your fingers fumbling with your keys.

“Yeah,” he mutters, his eyes peering down at you. You let the wristlet holding your keys swing on your wrist. Both of you stare knowingly, maybe it was fate, inevitable and unpreventable. Picking through the metal keys and selecting the cutely decorated one, turning it into the lock. Opening the door a little wider than needed, similar to an invitation.

You expected him to walk away and pick up on the impulsive action of opening your door for him. Instead, he shook his head, and that mischievous smile pulled at his plump lips. It was routine at this point.

You held your shirt up with your mouth, forming a damp patch on the fabric, letting moans fall from your lips as his tongue swirled around your clit, hands firmly cupping your ass. Your back arched into his other hand, holding your lower back, letting your hips rock lightly against his lips.

The satisfaction of finally getting him to shut up was almost as pleasurable as his mouth on your cunt. “I think I like you better like this,” you groaned, feeling his mouth make a low vibration on your lips. “Quiet and finally using that mouth of yours for something good,” you smiled, relishing in the defiant look in his eye as he glared up at you, even though he was eating you out like his life depended on it. Your fingers gripped the cushions soft moan falling from your lips.

Your eyes glanced over to the discarded clothing left scattered on the floor. Long strokes of his tongue, your eyes fluttering, trying to hold on just a little longer. It's not many times you get to see the great Suguru Geto beneath you. The sounds coming from his lips were sinful, loudly slurping up your juices, pressing small kisses on your hole.

“R-right there,” obediently he followed your order continuing his ministrations on your pussy. Your eyes watered slightly, letting the long-overdue orgasm take over, shuddering over him.

Suguru lifted your body to his torso, your mind still a little hazy. You gave his cock a small stroke watching the clear fluid dribble out. Just looking at it made your mouth water, your hole clenched around nothing at the thought of it inside of you. You heard the sound of a wrapper as he ripped open a golden packet, pulling out the latex in the wrapping. At least one of you is thinking of protection.

“You always keep one on you?” you asked, the likelihood that he kept it on him for you itched a part in your brain that you wish didn't or else that thought would bloom in a way you couldn't control.

“Have to stay protected, sweetheart.” he rolled the condom over his girth unhurriedly, watching your expressions, your patience wearing thin. Whenever he would whisper little nicknames under his breath, sucking marks around your skin on any area he could put his mouth on. You clung onto them with the hope that he only used them with you. Chuckling he unraveled the rest pulling you by the hips, his cock touching your stomach as he stared like he was measuring. Your finger dragged up the base to the tip, pressing your thumb on the top.

Lifting your hips just above him before slowly sinking down his cock deliciously stretching your cunt. Pressing your hands on his chest to keep your body steady as you took him in inch by inch. Your chest heaved as you tried to control your breathing.

All the times you dared to fantasize about him, fingers thrusting aimlessly, imagining it was him instead, didn't even compare to the real thing. “Can't believe I waited this long-” he gasped, your hips lifting and slamming back down your clit finding friction at the stubble hair at the base. “Thought about you constantly, so cute watching you come up with all these excuses.” his hands found your ass forcing your body down more frantically.

All you could let was a small what before his cock started pounding into your walls, his thumb rubbing quick circles on your clit. “I stopped after the fourth time; it was never an accident, baby.” His voice was airy but reassuring. “No more excuses,” he whispered in your ear, low and deep as your walls gripped desperately around him.

“Told you if I was obsessed, you'd know.” Your mind went blank as he flipped you on your side dragging his cock slowly in and out in deliberate strokes making sure you felt every inch.

Your face sank into the couch cushions, he held your leg to make sure it stayed in the air. “Good girl, see how easy it is to accept that I was right?” he stared down at you, admiring the drool dripping onto the couch. You chanted out a series of yeses or his name, eyes rolling into the back of your head, focusing on the pleasure filling your being.

“You're so, so right, Suguru,” you moaned, smiling up at him in satisfaction. Maybe just this once, you'll let him keep the last word.

His long hair fell to the sides of his face, he looked ethereal. There was no way you could go back to the way things were, and honestly, you didn't want to. He hit every spot so accurately, like everything he does, meticulously. You came easily, absorbed in the feeling, relishing in the sound of your combined moans and shared fluids. Fuck writing hate notes in your journal this was a much better method.

His pace became messy and rough, the white ring forming around the condom, turning him on even more. “Cum on me,” you demanded, arching your back to give him every inch of your skin. His groan was raw as he obeyed.

Quickly pulling out and pulling the condom off the elastic wet and slimy from my cunt. He gave his cock a few strokes directed right above your cleavage, his cum splattering over your breast like a claim over you. You swiped a finger over one of the areas, placing the fluid on your tongue.

“What's your excuse this time?” he sneered, tying the condom neatly. You rolled your eyes, locking your legs around him.

“You're just so obsessed with me, you weren't satisfied with just kisses.” You smiled smugly watching his cock harden again as you wiped the remaining seed off the tip. “Maybe you can keep up with me, Ghostface.”

“Whatever you say, kitten.”

#not a particular an of enemies to lovers but this was sooooooooo good #gojopied #suguru smut #jjk smut

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indispensablephantompower · 1 month ago

Text

۶ৎ nanami kento: ride him pretty

☆ lia yaps: nanami comes home exhausted from overtime. usually calm and gentle, he doesn’t expect his sweet innocent gf!reader to take the lead and be his stress relief. she’s eager and a filthy, just for him.

☆ warnings: hints of age gap, softdom!nanami, hints of subby!nanami, p in v, oral, praise, dirty talk, gentle overstim

he came home late again. tie loosened, shoulders tight. you glance towards him, your soft eyes already reading him. you didn’t ask how work went. you could see it in the way he dropped his briefcase, like it hurt to hold on to anything.

“rough night?” you asked gently, hands already reaching to slip the jacket from his shoulders. he gave a soft grunt in response, but didn’t stop you. he let you undress him bit by bit like your daily ritual.

you pressed a kiss to his sternum through the fabric of his shirt, and felt the tension through his heated skin.

“let me make you feel good,” you said quietly, barely above a whisper.

he blinked at you, caught off guard, brows pulling together like he didn’t quite understand.

“what… like tea?” he asked, voice scratchy.

you smiled, a little amused. “not exactly.”

and then your fingers moved to his tie. slow, teasing. you loosened it with practiced ease, tugging it free while holding his gaze, and something shifted in his expression. something warmer. hungrier. still hesitant.

“you’re always taking care of me,” you said, voice low as you slipped the tie from around his neck. “but tonight… let me be good for you.”

he watched you with that quiet reverence you’d come to know so well, but there was something else beneath it now. something uncertain, something shy. maybe even guilt.

“i don’t want to use you like that,” he murmured. “you’re too precious.”

you stepped closer, guiding his hands to your hips, brushing your lips along the curve of his jaw.

“then don’t think of it like using me,” you whispered. “think of it like letting me show you how much i am grateful for you.”

he exhaled, like he couldn’t hold it in any longer.

his fingers tensed on your hips and he was trying to stay composed. trying to protect you from the roughness of his exhaustion.

“you’re too sweet for this,” he murmured again, brows furrowed as he looked down at you. “i don’t want to be rough with you just because i had a bad day.”

you tilted your head, thumb brushing the line of his jaw. “then don’t be rough,” you whispered. “just let yourself feel. you don’t always have to carry everything.”

his breath hitched, and you could see the hesitation flicker in his eyes. your lips grazed his throat, and you gently pulled him toward the couch by the loosened tie, his body following like instinct.

you guided him down, straddling him with soft pressure, letting your skirt slide up as you settled into his lap. he swallowed hard, his hands hovering just above your thighs, his usual gentleness transforming into hesitation.

“you’ve taken care of me so many times,” you said, voice soft and slow as you rocked your hips over the growing heat between you. “it’s my turn. let me help you fall apart a little.”

he let out a shaky breath, hands finally settling on your waist. his hands are big, warm, veined and strong, but still hesitant.

“princess…” he whispered, all breathy and half-wrecked.

you smiled at the nickname, and slid your lips down to his neck. the grind of your body against his was subtle but persistent, enough to pull a low sound from his throat. a whimper he would typically try to swallow down.

his grip tightened, and you could feel the heat rolling off him, could feel how hard he was already beneath you.

“i shouldn’t,” he said, voice tight. “you’re being so good. you’re so pure, i should have more control.”

you cupped his face, made him look at you. “being good doesn’t mean holding back,” you said. “it means giving my man what he needs.”

his head fell back against the couch with a soft, frustrated groan. you kissed down his chest as you slowly undid the buttons of his shirt.

he watched you from beneath heavy lids, shirt half open, chest rising with unsteady breath as you slid down between his knees. something instinctive and protective was triggered at that sight, but he didn’t stop you. not when you looked up at him like that, wide-eyed and eager, hands resting gently on his thighs.

you were already so warm, so happy to please. your little fingers worked open his belt with careful slowness.

“you don’t have to…” he started, voice rough, but cut off when your lips pressed to his hipbone. “princess…”

your eyes fluttered up to meet his, lashes wet already from emotion. he could barely breathe. you looked so sweet, kneeling between his legs like that, fingers curled around the waistband of his pants with a softness that felt almost holy.

“i want to,” you whispered. “you’ve been holding so much in. let me help.”

he reached forward, his hand slipping into your hair gently. “you’re so good,” he murmured, thumb stroking the side of your face. “such a good little one for me.”

his voice broke a little on it, like the pleasure was already too much from just watching. you freed his cock, hard and aching in your hand, as he let out a soft groan. his eyes fluttering shut for a second as his head dropped back.

the contrast of your small hand, your warm breath, your lips so plush and delicate as they wrapped around the head of his cock. it drove him insane.

“god,” he breathed, hips twitching before he caught himself. “slow…”

but you didn’t stop.

you let your tongue glide along the vein on his underside, took him deeper in soft, wet pulses, the stretch making your eyes water. and you just kept going, that sweet little whimper in your throat turning him inside out.

he looked down at the sight of you having your mouth full of him, tears gathering in your lashes and one hand between your thighs like you couldn’t help yourself. it nearly pushed him to the edge.

“you’re really not shy today,” he groaned, a broken little laugh escaping. “look at you… you like being good like this, don’t you?”

you nodded, lips wrapped around him, humming softly in response.

his hands tightened in your hair, every vein in his arms straining as he fought not to buck into your mouth. but when he felt that hot warmth low in his stomach, the one he knew would snap too fast, he gasped, “wait, wait. come here. i want to feel you. need to feel you.”

and when you climbed into his lap, flushed and slick and smiling through your own need, he whispered against your lips, “ride me, princess.”

you settled into his lap again, your bare thighs brushing against the rough fabric of his slacks as your knees framed his hips. your breath hitched when you felt the weight of him beneath you, hot and hard and twitching against your soaked cunt.

he leaned in, kissed your shoulder. his voice was low, wrecked.

“you’re already so wet for me,” his hands sliding down to your waist and tightening. “you were touching yourself while your mouth was on me, weren’t you? so eager to please. my sweet little one.”

you nodded, hips shifting instinctively, the tip of him catching at your entrance, making both of you gasp.

“let me,” he whispered, guiding you carefully. “want to feel you slow, want to feel everything.”

your breath caught in your throat as he aligned you, his cock sliding just barely into your soft needy cunt, stretching you with an ache that felt like delicious.

his forehead pressed to yours, his grip almost trembling.

“fuck, you feel like heaven,” he groaned, the sound pulled from the deepest part of him.

you whimpered softly, grabbing onto his shoulders and letting yourself sink down inch by inch. your walls fluttering around his thick cock as you took him in. he was heavy and hot inside you, and the stretch made your toes curl. the way he held you, the way he praised you through it, made the pleasure overflow.

“you’re doing so well for me,” he rasped, voice cracking as your hips settled fully against his. “look at you, taking me so perfectly. my good girl.”

you shivered, his praise lighting up every nerve. his hands were gripping your waist to stay composed. his jaw tight, lips parted.

“move for me, princess,” he gently instructed. “show me how good you can make me feel.”

you rocked your hips slowly and softly, each motion pressing his cock deeper, slick and hot. your breath hitching every time he brushed that sweet spot inside you that your kento knows so well.

he watched every twitch of your lashes, every bite of your lip, like you were something unreal.

“fuck, you’re beautiful,” he groaned. “so sweet for me… i don’t deserve how good you are.”

you leaned in, kissed him slow. “you do,” you whispered, riding him deeper until his cock repeatedly kisses your cervix. “and i’ll keep being good, just for you.”

he let out a strangled sound, fingers digging into your skin as he rocked up into you, meeting your rhythm. his control was slipping, hips stuttering and head tilting back as he moaned for you.

“gonna come so fast if you keep this up,” he warned through clenched teeth. “you feel too good. fuck, you’re too good.”

you trembled as the friction grew unbearable. every roll of your hips sent heated sparks through your core, and you could feel your walls fluttering around him, overstimulated and achingly full. your breath came in broken gasps, lips parting in soft whimpers, but still you moved, grinding down on him to give him exactly what he needed.

kento’s hands might leave soft bruises on your skin by now, knuckles whitening as he guided you with rough little shifts. each push of your cunt against his cock drew a needy groan from his throat. you felt his length pulse inside you, felt the way his hips stuttered beneath your weight.

“princess, please…” he whimpered, voice thick, head falling back again. “you’re so good, so wet, fuck…”

you nodded, tears gathering at the corners of your eyes from the pleasure, but you didn’t stop. you leaned forward, pressing your breasts against his chest, mindlessly grazing your palms over his broad shoulders for balance. your own core trembled around him.

“don’t stop kento, you need more…” you pathetically begged.

he cried out, short and broken, as you increased your pace. soft at first, then harder, driving yourself down on him with each thrust. your cunt clenched him in tight, fluttering pulses that threatened to send you both over the edge.

“god, you’re killing me,” he gasped, voice cracking as his hands slid up to hold your face, thumb brushing over your lower lip. “so good, so fucking perfect…”

your eyes met his. you saw the raw need, the whimpers escaping him. you rode him harder, letting the overstimulation spark through.

“i love you, i love how you make me feel.” he rasped, holding you firmly as you rode out your own tremors, his cock throbbing happily inside your sweet welcoming cunt.

with one final grind, your cunt clenched and your walls fluttered. his hips snapping tightly into you, and you collapsed forward, pressing your forehead to his. waves of pleasure rolled through you both, your bodies pulsing together in the aftermath.

you clung to him, a sweet sheen of sweat covering your soft skin. kento’s arms wrapped around you tight. your hearts are both still racing as you both came down from your high together, utterly spent.

you were still trembling when his cock slipped out with a wet sound that made you blush. the aftershocks lingered, tiny twitches in your thighs, your cunt clenching at nothing, still too tender. his hands were already soothing over your skin, grounding you.

“my girl did so well for me,” he murmured, pressing kisses to your temple, your cheek, your jaw. “i can’t believe how good you are to me.”

you smiled, dazed and glowing, eyes fluttering shut as you nuzzled into his chest. he chuckled softly at your usual shyness returning, and he tucked your hair behind your ear.

“when you said you’d take care of me, i thought you meant tea. a bath, maybe or some food.”

you giggled sleepily, letting your fingers trace lazy patterns over his chest. you shifted, wincing from the dull ache between your legs.

“easy…” he whispered, eyes searching your face. “are you alright?”

you nodded, still flushed. “a little sore. but… it’s a good sore.”

he exhaled through his nose, brushing his lips over your collarbone. “let me clean you up, my love.”

you blinked up at him, your heart somehow swelling even more. he always took care of you.

☆ ☆ ☆

🏷️ @blitziwitch @vanillapinkrose @albeitz @imamistake420 @labadabadee @sharkfan05 @nasangel @sillygirlnat @shirosaurus

#this man deserves to be taken care of #liafics #nanami smut #jjk smut

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indispensablephantompower · 1 month ago

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puppy chronicles

02. the obedient puppy | geto x reader

The JJK men are gifted a hybrid puppy. ...wait, that kind of puppy? alpha!human!jjk men x omega!hybrid!reader

warnings: 18+, MDNI, f!reader, hybrid!au, omegaverse, hybrid!reader, omega!reader, cult leader!geto, pet play, collars/leashes, previous abuse, smut, heat/rut, knots, oral (m! & f! receiving)

word count: 5.4k next: the playful puppy | nanami x reader

masterlist | link to ao3

notes: hiii, here is geto's part of the puppy chronicles! next up is our man nanami!

There are two types of monkeys that Suguru associates with: money-collecting monkeys and curse-collecting monkeys.

Today was a day for the money-collecting monkeys.

Suguru looks bored as he listens to the overdramatic praises the short, portly man sings as he enters the room. Suguru stretches his legs, hoping this doesn’t take too long before he can get back to more important things than dealing with non-sorcerers. His chin is propped up in his palm, his fingers tapping his cheek restlessly as he listens to the investor before him drone on and on about profits and donations and how much he’ll get from the team.

Suguru honestly couldn’t care less.

It’s not until the old man claps his hands together, signaling that the conversation is over, that Suguru is called back to the present. He stands and plasters on a charming, animated smile, leading the investor towards the front door. “It was lovely to meet with you,” he says, gesturing with one hand to the door. “Next time, come and we’ll have tea–”

The investor holds out his own hand, stopping Suguru in his tracks. “One more thing,” he says, smiling gently before gesturing towards the door. “A gift, given in good grace for what you’re doing here.”

Suguru has to fight to not let his expression drop in annoyance; he just wants this man to leave so he can get back to what’s important. But he keeps the smile on his face, turning to follow the man’s gaze as a burly man comes forward holding a thick, silver chain. Suguru stiffens slightly, wondering if this monkey was seriously going to fight him, and his eyes nearly light up at the idea of painting the surrounding walls with his blood– but then he follows the chain down, down, towards the floor to where you are crawling forward on all fours, dressed in a lacy bodysuit – violet, like his eyes, which widen at the sight of you. Fluffy ears poke out from your hair, and a long, furry tail hangs between your thighs.

Suguru’s lips part to speak, but no sound comes out. He promptly closes his mouth again, staring down at you.

Your eyes are downcast in deference.

“She’s an obedient pup,” the investor says with a curl of his mouth. “Took her out for a test drive, so to speak, and she handles like a dream, this one.” He gives Suguru a knowing grin, and Suguru has to fight to keep the disgust off of his face. The thought of this man touching the sweet girl at his feet makes an irrational wave of rage wash over him. “She’s perfectly trained. I’m sure she’ll be to your liking.”

Suguru grits his teeth, but tries to play it off like a stiff smile. By the sudden disquiet on the investor’s face, he’s not sure it worked. “I’m not sure what to say,” he strains, “besides… thank you.”

The investor offers a wobbly smile and nods, and he hands over the silver chain leash before stepping back and bowing his head slightly. “Thank you, for all you do. Enjoy your new toy.” And with that, he turns and leaves.

If Suguru wasn’t in need of the money, he thinks he probably would’ve killed that man.

In the following silence, Suguru’s violet eyes slowly shift from the investor’s back to you, still seated on your heels, palms resting lightly on your thighs. Your eyes are on the floor in front of you, unmoving even as he takes a slow step closer, the soft click of his sandals resonant across the wooden floors.

You don’t move.

Suguru takes the opportunity to look at you, tracing his eyes from the crown of your head to the soles of your bare feet. Your lashes cast shadows onto your cheeks as you continue to gaze down at the floor, your lips so perfectly curved, the delicate column of your throat… and then, damn, that bodysuit… The way the violet lace hugs every curve and dip of your body….

He feels himself growing harder at the sight.

But he can’t help but think about the investor touching you, putting his hands on you in any way. So, he asks, “Did that man hurt you?”

You shake your head, hair fluttering around your face with the movement. Eyes still lowered.

He steps forward once more, and he reaches forward, his hand carding into your hair, thumb gently tracing your cheekbone. “Are you sure?” he asks, examining your lowered eyes, your submission, your unwavering obedience.

He wonders where it comes from, fear or respect?

You nod again.

The way your eyes are still averted is starting to frustrate him; he wants to see you, wants you to see him. He moves his hand to grip your chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting your face up towards him. Your hair falls away from your face, and when he says, “Look at me,” it’s not a request.

At the tone of his command, your eyes finally shift from the floor in front of you to look up at him. His breath catches at the expression in your pretty, glittering eyes – the respect, the obedience.

God, the sight makes his cock twitch.

His hand tightens around the chain leash, metal clinking together as he does. “What did he do to you?” he asks, because he can’t help it, he has to know what that man did to take you for a “test drive;” it was driving him insane thinking about the possibilities, that the investor defiled Suguru’s rightful belonging–

You purse your lips slightly, and Suguru frowns. It takes him a moment to realize that you must be asking for permission to speak. His eyes soften. “You can talk,” he says, hand letting up on your chin so he can stroke your face with his thumb again. “You can always speak here; you’re safe.”

And so you part your lips, those pretty lips he can’t stop staring at, and tell him, “My mouth.”

Fury alights in his chest, and he wants to send scores of curses to go tear apart the investor, to soak his blood into the earth. Instead, he taps his thumb on your lower lip. “Open.”

You do, the motion immediate and unquestioning. Suguru looks and, there, right at the back of your throat – his puppy’s throat – is a forming bruise. He grits his teeth and lets go of you.

You sit there with your mouth open, head tilted up towards him, until he tells you to close.

It’s clear to him that, no matter how much he wants to, he can’t entertain himself with his new puppy today. You’re bruised by another man, and he won’t hurt you.

No puppy deserves that.

It’s not until days later that he touches you again.

He’s taken good care of you; offered you warm soup for your aching throat as it slowly heals. It’s really nothing, you’ve told him when he asks; you’ve had far worse bruises from your puppy training, when you learned how to take the paddle without giving in with your safe word or how to breathe through someone fucking you dry.

He doesn’t care; he still takes care of you, waiting until your throat is healed to even consider touching you.

He’s pretending to be a holy man, after all. It’s the least he can do.

He gives you a bedroom, a bare, monastery-like room without personal belongings. You came with nothing except your collar, leash, and the lingerie on your body, so he had some monkeys donate clothes, toiletries, and other necessities.

It’s not until you’re comfortable and settled that he approaches you again.

You still walk around with your collar on – he’s far too selfish to let you take it off – but he’s let the leash sit unused on his dresser since you’re so well-behaved. You’re curled up in your bed with your nose in a book, and when you look up to see him standing in the doorway, you can’t help the way your tail wags a little.

He’s one of the first people to ever take care of you; seeing him makes you happy.

He sees your fluffy tail tapping against the sheets, and he offers a soft smile as he walks into your bedroom. You put down your book and sit at attention, but even then your little tail keeps wagging back and forth as you wait for him to speak.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

Your tail wags a little faster at the sound of his voice. “Good,” you say simply. Never better.

And it’s true. You like being here; you like being with him. You’ve never had the freedom to just do what you want, as long as you behave. You’ve never been given books to read, clothes to wear.

You’ve never been given a home.

You tell him as such.

He slowly steps into your room, into your space, and your breath catches in your throat. But he doesn’t do anything more than gently touch your cheek, his knuckles stroking your soft skin. “Such a grateful puppy,” he murmurs, and your tail goes wild at the contact, beating into the mattress with a frenzy. You gaze up at him with such trusting eyes, like you know he’ll take care of you, even when he’s ravaging you into your mattress.

Use me, you silently beg him. It’s what I was made for.

But instead your new master takes a step back, dropping his hand from your face, and you have to hold back a soft whine of protest.

After all, you’re supposed to be an obedient puppy.

He takes a steadying breath through his mouth, trying to avoid your soft scent, but he can practically taste you on the air. It’s addicting, you’re addicting, and he’s not sure how he’s going to survive you without disrespecting you and your perfect body.

And so he tries to walk away, taking another step backwards. Because he doesn’t want to hurt you.

You stare after him in disappointment, because isn’t this what you were trained for, raised for? You were made to be his puppy, made to be taken and to willingly give all you have to him in supplication.

So while he tries to remain respectful, you make it your mission to make him want you.

You lower yourself onto the floor at his feet, and you hear his sharp intake of breath as you do. His violet eyes watch your every move, as you sink first to your knees, then down to your heels as you lean back on them, palms planted firmly on the floor. Your eyes are lowered, just like they were when you were first given to him, and your fluffy ears are pinned back in submission.

“Please,” you whisper, and he can hear the slightest whine behind your words, “haven’t I been a good girl for you?”

And oh, it almost breaks him, the way you ask him that. The way you assume that it’s some slight on you that he’s not touching you, not giving you what you both so desperately want.

But, god, he doesn’t want to break you.

Because he thinks he will. He thinks as soon as he touches you, really touches you, he’ll go feral, go into a rut and need to take you like the animal he tries so hard to pretend he’s not.

“Pretty girl,” he breathes, nearly tossing his head back in frustration with how badly he wants to claim you, “I… I shouldn’t…”

You repeat yourself, lowering yourself further to the floor, prostrating yourself onto your belly with your cheek against the hardwood. This time you can’t hold back the whine. “Haven’t I been good? Haven’t I earned whatever you wish to give me? Otherwise, tell me how I might earn it, because I need it; I’m desperate, I’m burning with it, I-I-I–”

Suguru grits his teeth, hands clenched into fists at his sides. He’s still holding himself back; he can’t hurt you, can’t treat you with anything but the utmost care, but he’s not sure he can once he starts, not when you’re being this good, when you’ve been this obedient–

So when all you say next is a whispered, broken plea, Suguru lets out a heavy breath and steps forward, reaching down for your hands and helping you up from the floor.

You think he’s about to let you down gently, to reject your offer one more time. Your ears pin back against your skull in remorse for your needy actions. You’re almost convinced he’s about to punish you, to get the paddle and spank you for being such a naughty girl.

The thought makes your stomach clench; you haven’t been called a bad girl in a very long time.

But he doesn’t shout, or spank you, or punish you in any way. Instead he helps you up onto your knees and then brushes his hand against your cheek in that same gentle, reverential way as before.

“Are you sure you want this?” he asks, fingers playing with tresses of your hair. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

You gaze up at him with stars in your eyes. “I’m a good puppy,” is all you say, because you know that, whatever he throws at you, you can take it.

His thumb brushes your lower lip, feeling the plush flesh there give way as he takes a deep breath. Then, “Open.”

You do, immediately, your jaw dropping open so he can feel the wet heat of your mouth against this finger. He slides his thumb inside, pressing down gently on your tongue.

You don’t move until he tells you to. “Close.”

Your lips wrap around his thumb, the contact nearly burning him as he feels his cock twitch at the sensation. You sit there with his finger in your mouth, unmoving, simply gazing up at him, silently waiting for his next command.

Instead of speaking, he pulls his hand away, staying quiet as he pushes aside his robes.

You try to stay still, but you can’t help the excited pricking of your ears at the sight of him disrobing. You’ve been aching for him for days, ever since you realized how doting he was for you, and now he’s giving you exactly what he wants.

He doesn’t even take his clothes all the way off before his cock is in his hand. He’s just as desperate for you as you are for him, and he can’t wait before he pulls his dick out and swipes the slit with his thumb, smearing precum along the sensitive, ruby-red head.

“Open,” he demands again, and you’re even quicker to respond this time.

He stares at your mouth for a long moment, taking in the sight of himself lined up with your perfect lips, your hot, pink tongue poking out in anticipation. “Wider, sweetheart,” he says, watching as you obey.

Then he pushes his hips forward, the tip just barely brushing past your lips.

You stay, unmoving, as you watch him. Waiting for instruction.

His chest aches at how good you are, how patient, how fucking obedient. Part of him wishes you’d take your own initiative to use your mouth on him, that you’d want him bad enough to break from your training, but he’s sure it’s not that easy for you to just ignore what you’ve been taught for so long. So he gives you grace as you take his cock between your lips.

“Close,” he says, and you do.

Then, “Suck.”

And oh fuck, you do.

Your cheeks hollow, softly sucking before you lean forward, just a little, welcoming him into the snug heat of your mouth. Your tongue swirls slowly, sensually, around the head of his pretty fucking dick, and you sink even lower, lashes fluttering as he nudges the back of your mouth. You pull back until your lips are only wrapped around the head, then push forward again, nestling him even further down your throat.

He groans, the sound loud and guttural. “Fuck, pretty girl, just like that.”

So, encouraged by his praises, you keep going, repeating the motion over again. Your hands remain obediently rested on your thighs as your mouth strokes him up and down, and as you do, his hips cant forward to meet you, slipping that much further until he’s hitting the back of your throat again.

You don’t gag; you’ve far out-trained your own gag reflex. That just makes him moan louder.

His hand comes down to grip your hair, because he can’t hold himself back anymore, and he starts guiding your head down even further onto his cock, gently forcing you to take him even deeper. Drool starts dripping past your lips, onto the hardwood floor beneath, pooling between your knees. And there’s a mirroring pool of heat between your thighs as you gaze up at him, watching him toss his head back, long dark hair cascading down as his lashes flutter closed and he keens…

Just for you.

The thought nearly makes your own eyes roll back in pleasure, and your tail – against your will – wags back and forth against the hardwood floor.

Your loud, slurping noises echo in the small, undecorated bedroom, pornographic in their volume and enthusiasm. Just the sight of you obeying his every command makes him want to take you over and over again, to see how far he can push you, see how much you can take before you finally give in and ask for reprieve–

But he doesn’t do that, because he’s learned to care about his pretty little puppy.

His shoulders start to heave, his breaths coming faster and harder, and he groans before tightening his grip on your hair before taking his other hand and gripping the base of his blushing, weeping dick. “Fuck,” he grits through his teeth, giving it a squeeze. “Gonna cum, pretty girl. Where do you want it?”

You don’t answer; it’s clear that this is his choice, that you’ll obey whatever command he gives you even now.

That thought, mixed with your lips still wrapped around his length, working him up and down, is what makes him cum while still buried in your mouth.

He moans, a quiet needy sound that turns you on even more, and part of him wants to apologize because he didn’t even mean to, you’re just so fucking good–

You just gaze up at him with those wide, pretty eyes, your nose pressed into his pubic bone as you swallow it down, the heat of your throat closing down around him as you do.

That almost makes him bust again.

Slowly, shoulders still rising and falling with every heavy breath, he pulls himself from between your lips. It’s silent between you for one long moment, two. Then he grabs you by the arms and hauls you up from the floor, pulling you onto the bed with him.

His hands are feverish on you, desperate as he undresses you. You don’t fight him, and for the first time, you want this; you want him to touch you, want him to take you for all you’re worth and use you until you’re just a broken little toy.

Because that’s all you know: how to be used and broken and put back together just to be used all over again.

But as he sheds your clothes, tossing them to the floor, his hands are soft and gentle, despite how badly he needs you. He doesn’t want to break you, and that’s clear by how he eases you back onto the bed, how he looks down at you like you’re a precious gift and not a worthless toy.

He looks at you like he wants to give back for what you’ve just done for him.

He gently strokes your cheek, fingertips running along warm, soft skin. He leans down, brushing his lips against yours, and his other hand moves to your waist. Then he speaks against your mouth. “What do you like, pretty girl?” He strokes your ribs, up and down, feather light.

“I dunno,” you whisper simply, curling up into his body, burrowing close.

His hand pauses on your side. “What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I just dunno. I’ve… never been asked before.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. Then he whispers, “Sweetheart…” and his voice is filled with what sounds like disappointment for you. You squirm under his gaze, not wanting to be pitied. But he just continues, “You know that’s not how it’s supposed to be, right?”

You shrug a little, the slightest upwards movement of one shoulder. “I’m just a puppy.”

He grips your jaw in his hand, forcing you to meet his eyes. His voice is firm when he speaks. “You are not just anything. You’re beautiful, and smart, and so goddamn precious. You deserve to be treated well, pretty girl.”

You whisper, “I’m made to be used.”

He looks at you, jaw clenching. Your ears are pinned back, betraying how upset you really are.

Because of course you are. You want to be valued, to be taken care of, just like any other person wants. You never asked to be this, never asked to be a novelty toy, a collector’s item to be played with and broken until the next one comes along.

You never asked to be used and abused.

And so Suguru presses a very soft kiss to the corner of your mouth. Then he kisses your cheek, and your jaw, trailing down, down, down your neck. He finds your pulse and licks against the thrumming beat before biting down gently. Then he kisses his way back up, up, up, towards your ear.

He murmurs, “Ever been eaten out before?”

Your heart beats a little faster at his words. You shake your head.

He groans softly, nipping lightly at your earlobe. He’s panting when he asks, “Can I be the first?”

You want no one else.

You nod, breathless, and he groans again before returning his mouth to your neck, biting down once more at your pulse point. He sucks a hickey into the skin there before pulling back, kissing further down towards your shoulder, then over your chest. He licks and sucks at your breasts before moving lower yet, over your tummy towards your core. Then, at the last moment before his mouth is on you, he diverts his attention towards your thighs, kissing and nipping at the sensitive skin there.

Your breath hitches at his patient treatment of you. No one’s ever touched you like this, valued you, worshiped you. You think you might get addicted to it.

Suguru puts his hand under your thighs and pushes until your knees hit your chest, bending you in half under him. You squirm, feeling exposed and vulnerable under his gaze, but he doesn’t let up; instead he leans in and spits on your cunt, a mouthful of hot saliva landing on your entrance. It quivers and clenches at the sensation, and he lets out a low, pleased growl at the sight. “Good girl,” he praises, and then he leans down, and his mouth is on you.

You let out a soft yelp at the sensation; he’s making out with your pussy, the wet, lewd sounds filling your ears as your head drops back against the pillows. Your hips try to buck against his face, but he just pins you down more efficiently into the mattress, your body still crunched in half beneath him. His tongue swirls around your clit before darting away, licking the junction between your thigh and hip, kissing lower down your thigh until he reaches a spot he wants to mark. He bites down and sucks, leaving a hickey on your inner thigh that makes you gasp and writhe against his mouth.

He just holds you more tightly, forcing you to stay still as he leaves his mark.

When he’s done, he kisses his way back up, placing a messy kiss right on your quivering cunt. He groans before diving deeper, his nose bumping your clit as he licks a stripe up your petal-like pussy.

“So sweet,” he murmurs, tilting his chin to run the flat of his tongue over your swollen clit. Your hips buck again. “Taste so fucking good, sweetheart. Dunno why I didn’t do this sooner.”

You shiver at his words, whimpering under him. Your hands are curled into fists on your chest, fingers spasming with every gasp of pleasure you let out. You’ve never felt this good in your entire life; your own hand could never match up to what he’s doing to you, his hot tongue laving against your cunt with practiced precision.

For a spiritual man, he’s taking you apart like a proper sinner.

“Let yourself go,” he whispers into your pussy, one hand reaching up to take your hand and bring it to his long hair. “Relax, pretty girl. You don’t have to be scared of me.”

You whimper, fingers tightening into the long strands of black hair at the crown of his head. “Not scared of you.”

He smiles, tongue licking at your clit and lapping sensually at it. “Good. Then just relax, baby. Let me make you feel good.”

So you take a deep breath and close your eyes, trying to relax into the mattress and just feel.

And, god, you’ve never felt better.

His tongue is heavenly, working you beautifully towards your climax. His violet eyes gaze up at you from between your legs, watching your every loud, open reaction to learn what you like and what you don’t with an almost supernatural attention to detail. He takes you apart with practiced ease, and before you even know what’s happening, you’re cumming, crying out and bucking your hips against his mouth.

You’re almost afraid he’ll punish you for being lax enough to orgasm under his ministrations. But, of course, he doesn’t; instead, he just pulls you closer and soothes you, licking your slick from his lips.

He rolls the both of you over so you’re splayed across his chest, your body willing and pliant on top of his as he runs one hand through your hair, the other rubbing soothing circles on your back.

As you lay there in the afterglow, curled up on his chest and letting your breathing gradually slow, a saccharine scent starts to rise from you, and Suguru buries his face in your neck, groaning. “Sweetheart,” he mumbles into your shoulder, the sound of his voice muffled, “I think you just started your heat.”

You don’t need him to tell you that; you already feel the fires in your belly, tracking slowly lower to burn in your core. You whine softly, ears flattening back against your skull and tail wagging so vigorously that your entire body wiggles back and forth.

He smiles and chuckles softly, rolling over so he’s pressed against your back. His lips press against your shoulder, kissing his way down your back along each process of your spine. “Pretty girl,” he whispers, hands gripping your hips as he moves lower. “Pretty, precious girl. I’ll take care of you, yeah? That okay? Give you my knot, my puppies?”

You shiver at the idea. You nod.

He shakes his head. “Not gonna work like that, sweet girl. You have to say it. Say it.”

“Suguru,” you whimper, nodding desperately, “I want your puppies.”

That nearly breaks him.

He grabs your hips and rolls you over onto your back so he can watch your expression as he gives you exactly what you’re asking for. He grips your thighs and hitches them to his hips, and you bury your face in the crook of his neck.

His musky scent grows slowly stronger, more intoxicating, until you feel like you’re drunk on it. You moan at the smell, writhing beneath him as your nose sniffs and pinpoints the origin to the scent glands at the juncture between his neck and shoulder. You lick that spot, and Suguru’s entire body stiffens and arches into yours as he groans, head falling back. “Sweet girl,” he breathes, fingers tightening into fists around the sheets.

You lap at his scent glands again, shivering at the gesture. He makes another guttural noise, but this one comes out as more of a growl than a moan. His hips start grinding against yours impatiently, his cock sliding between your lips, drenching in sweet slick. He pushes inside you once more, sinking slowly into your drooling cunt, and you moan so loudly he’s sure half the neighborhood can hear you.

He pulls back out before shallowly thrusting in, keeping up that pattern as he teases you.

You moan again into his shoulder, nipping at his scent gland. You whine, “Wanna mate with you.”

He growls, rutting a little harder into you. “Don’t just say things like that,” he pants, and it sounds like he’s scolding you, and he sort of is, because as you mention it, he now wants it more than anything, and if you’re just babbling through your heat, he doesn’t want to force you into something you don’t truly want.

But you just whine again, ears swiveling at the top of your head. “Please,” you whimper.

And that’s what breaks him.

He grabs your hair and tilts your head to the side, revealing the smooth curve of your neck and shoulder. He lets out a low groan, and then he leans in and bites down, almost hard enough to break skin as he tastes your cloying scent on his tongue.

Your eyes roll back with a cry, your body arching into his as he continues to fuck you slowly through the mating bite. Then, with another groan, he lets you go, panting as he looks down at the imprints of his teeth in your skin. You gaze up at him with hazy eyes, and then he uses his grip on your hair to lead you to the crook of his neck.

By instinct, you bite down, mating him back.

He moans, tossing his head back as he practically whines, his hips rutting into yours as he grits his teeth. “Yes, baby,” he pants, picking up his pace as you latch onto his shoulder. “Be mine, baby, ‘cause I’m yours.”

You whimper and let him go, licking at the deep bite mark to soothe the discomfort. You tilt your hips into his with every thrust, burying him even deeper into your dripping cunt. You can feel the base of his shaft swelling against you, stretching you open with a delicious ache, and you whine, ears pinning back as you clutch at his back, nails digging into his muscles. Suguru groans, and he fucks you faster, harder, messier, until you’re practically wailing into his neck, holding on for dear life.

“Suguru!” you cry, nails scratching down the length of his back.

He groans loudly, throwing his head back at the intoxicating mixture of pain and pleasure. “Fuck, sweetheart,” he moans, his voice dragging against ground glass, “so fucking good.” Then he reaches one hand down and starts drawing tight little circles on your clit with his thumb. “Cum for me, baby.”

You whimper, back arching with overstimulation. You cry his name again, but he just redoubles his efforts, pining you beneath his hips as he fucks you higher and higher and higher–

And then you crash and tumble over the edge, walls quivering around his swelling length, and you orgasm so hard your vision flashes white.

He groans again, hand in your hair yanking your head back so he can lavish your neck with loving attention over your new mating mark. And as he does, he cums hard, deep inside you, against the cushy heat of your cervix.

As he does, his knot swells to plug you full, and he paints your insides with ropes of white seed, giving you everything you asked for: his puppies.

You whimper at the extensive stretch of his knot, and he peppers your face and neck and shoulders with kisses. You giggle softly at the attention, and he can’t help but smile, glad he could distract you from the discomfort of his swollen knot.

And as you’re linked in the most intimate way, he presses one last loving kiss to the corner of your mouth and whispers, “My precious girl.” He smiles wryly at you and says, “Next time, you’ll be in charge.”

You dissolve into a fit of giggles. Little do you know, he’s not joking in the slightest.

thanks for reading! -luna link to ao3 | next: the playful puppy

#hmmm yesss i like this quite a bit #itslunanoel #suguru smut #jjk smut

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